#and a yellowing clacking keyboard

[doctorsiren]

had a very productive morning so here’s Phoenix doing the same

[gold-onthe-inside]

pair programming

A software development technique in which two programmers work together at one workstation. One, the driver, writes code while the other, the observer or navigator, reviews each line of code as it is typed in.

part one: driver

who? spencer reid (s1) x analyst!reader what? prequel to greylist; you invite yourself onto a case to help penelope after an unsub runs a blackhat operation onto her set-up, getting to know your best friend's team in the process. word count: 3.9k (sort of turned into a case-fic) content warnings: elle's shooting is mentioned, reference to SA a/n: this got seriously long, i'm so sorry, i hope you all like it, and part two will be coming - based on when penelope gets shot

“What kind of MIT graduate is a technophobe?” you asked, even as you were plugged in next to Penelope's workstation. Your eyes are glued to the screen, parsing through each line of code as Penelope wrote it. It was rare for you to get this attached to someone, but Penelope's hard not to let in with her funky earrings and sparkly glasses and chunky bracelets.

"The kind with three PhDs, apparently," she replied, before cursing softly as she notices you correct her code.

"Ugh, that sounds insufferable," you mutter, curling your upper lip, rubbing the small ache that was growing in the back of your neck. You've been at this for hours, helping Penelope develop software that can identify the tiniest detail from CCTV footage, invasion of privacy damned. You knew it's an ethical line you have to blur in counterintelligence. But you've found your groove and if you lose track now, who knows when you'll both get a chance to sit and write again?

"He's not that bad, actually," Penelope said, blue eyes watching her screen intently, manicured nails clacking over her keyboard, chewing the same gum she had popped in when you'd both started. "He's not exactly a looker, not like my darling Morgan. Did I tell you he called me baby girl?"

"How romantic," you said dryly, reaching for the packet of Twizzlers you were both sharing. "He didn't know your name."

"You haven't seen him," Penelope said, her voice dreamy. "He's beautiful, the Adonis to my Aphrodite--"

"You know Adonis died, right?" you asked her, raising a brow and she tossed a Malteser at you.

"Stop ruining my fantasies!" she cried and you snickered under your breath.

"I'm not picking that up. Anyway, more importantly, what's Agent Greenaway like?"

And so it goes for another hour, until you both swap roles, and you're complete focus and drive and determination as you get these codes out, and Spencer Reid is nothing more than a name picked up in conversation.

You're good at your job; clean, organised, a hard worker with an eye for detail and little else in your social life, and so when Penelope's picked for the BAU, you're working your way up in counterintelligence, surrounded by more testosterone than Penelope. She's unorthodox, hasn't come up the way you have; you were astonished when you found out that she taught herself to code, dropping out of CalTech a year after she joined. It's why you offered to be her navigator, and you only really stay at your desk if you're working with privileged information. Otherwise, you're spending off-time with her, writing programs and algorithms, helping her multi-task when there's an overwhelming amount of information to track.

"My co-workers never get me flowers," you said, walking in with your laptop under your arm, a hand going to the yellow flowers arranged in a bouquet by her station and she spun in her chair, grinning giddily.

 "They're from Gideon," she gushed and you raise a brow as you smell the daffodils.

“You know I don’t judge age gaps, but isn’t he starting to bald?” you asked and Penelope was already rolling her eyes as you picked up the card to read it.

“It’s not like that,” she insisted, watching you frown at the neat printed writing. “What is it?”

“Agent Gideon doesn’t write like this,” you said, wrinkling your brow, showing her the handwriting and Penelope shrugged.

“Maybe he wanted it to look nice.”

"I know I can be challenging, but your work is appreciated. J. Gideon?” you read out skeptically. “A) he’s not self-aware enough to call himself challenging, and B) he doesn’t sign off on messages like that. I’ve seen your Christmas present from last year.”

“You don’t know that,” Penelope retorted and you cock your head at her. “He-He was apologising for last week, when he was on crutches and—”

“Was being a total pain in your ass?” you asked with a chuckle, sitting down and opening your laptop. “What’s the going rate for daffodils these days? 10, 20 dollars?”

“What are you doing?” Penelope asked, then looking horrified as you’d already hacked your way into peeking at Gideon’s recent debit and credit purchases.

“No florists here,” you declared, showing her. “Although, he goes to the Smithsonian a lot.”

“He likes the bird exhibits, what are you guys doing?” came a confused voice from behind the both of you, and your eyes fall on a gangly, tall man, with a very unflattering yellow shirt with beige lines that matched his tie and trousers, brown hair tucked tightly behind his ears.

Penelope quickly slammed your laptop shut with a quick “Nothing!” and he furrowed his brow, spindly fingers fidgeting in front of him. You glanced at Penelope, trying to follow her cue.

“Yeah, what’s it to you?” you asked, the kind of tone you’d use with your own co-workers who linger around your desk, trying to copy your programs.

“Considering Gideon’s my boss, I’d like to know why you’re investigating his finances,” Spencer said, doing his best to exude confidence, but he didn’t quite manage it, his hands going to his pockets, and your cool stare makes him swallow. Oh, he’s going to be fun to play with.

“We’re just evaluating whether Gideon’s gonna ask Penelope here on a date,” you said, just to mess with him and keeping a straight face even as she shoved your shoulder, and he choked, his neck flushing red. “Oh, maybe he’ll take you to his cabin,” you add, looking at Penelope excitedly. “A couple glasses of wine, a nice dinner, light some candles—”

“I’m gonna shove this keyboard so far down your throat, all that’s going to come out are bit strings!” she cried, trying to clap a hand over your mouth as you laugh and by the time you look back at the door, he’s gone. “I think you’ve scarred him for life,” Penelope sighed, exasperated, smacking your shoulder hard and making you wince.

“Ow, no sense of humour, any of you,” you grumbled, rubbing your shoulder, and actually getting down to do the work you’re supposed to be doing. You like Penelope’s company, more than the kind of guys you’re surrounded by in counterintelligence.

You’re supposed to be parsing through online communication on a website potentially linked to a terrorist organisation in Somalia, waiting for your decryption program to finish running it, walking into Penelope’s den to find her pulling her apart her CPU, muttering to herself. “All work and no play?” she demanded at her array of screens, “All work and no play, huh? You just wait till I’m through with you!”

“Um… you good?” You asked, leaning against her doorway. You haven’t seen Penelope this angry since she’d been called into work the night they had tickets to the Pixies’ reunion tour.

“Someone had the nerve to run a blackhat op into my computers!” she cried, looking at you, red streaks in her crinkle-cut hair. “They hacked me, okay? But you can bet your sweet ass, I will find them. I've got honey pot farms hidden behind UML kernel data packets and a first generation honeynet I personally programmed. My snort logs list every visitor, every server request, every keystroke on this entire network. If I have to back-hack his I.P. all the way to the frickin'stone age, I will find this son of a bitch, okay?” As angry as she sounded, her blue eyes were welling up and Somalia was forgotten as you pulled your own chair up.

“What can I do?” you asked and her phone rang, Penelope groaning as she stood up, jamming the answer button with the back of her screwdriver.

“What?” she demanded irritably.

“I need a rundown on a guy,” Morgan said and you frowned — as far as you knew, the rest of the team was on vacation, what with him telling everyone on the floor, including yours, about all fun he was gonna have at some Jamaican resort in Montego Bay.

“No,” Penelope said, shortly.

“No?” he asked and your hand came up to Penelope’s elbow.

“I can take care of this,” you offer and it seemed to take some steam off of your best friend. “Talk to me, Morgan,” you said, rolling your chair over and setting up on your own laptop. “What do you need?”

“Run a Frank Giles for me, would you, sweet thing?” Morgan asked and you huff, pulling up your deep background check program to run his name.

“Call me sweet thing again and I’ll feed your fingers to Clooney,” you replied, hearing him chuckle over the landline.

“My bad,” he said. “What do you have for me?”

“Hey, I’m working on a CPU half my usual size, gimme a minute, will you?” you replied.

“You’re a hard woman to please.”

“No fun in making it easy, is it?” you quip back as your results get back to you. “Frank Giles left Jamaica last night on the red eye. He flew to Florida, then got onto another flight to Virginia,” you relay to him.

“He’s from Virginia?” Morgan asked, confused.

“He’s got an address in Arlington,” you continued. “Long criminal record too; murder, robbery, sexual assault.”

“A guy was murdered in the resort here, head was cut off,” Morgan explained to you. “What are the chances you can find him for me?”

“Please, this stuff is child’s play,” you retorted, glancing down at Penelope on the floor. “This is what you do all day? Look people up?”

Penelope looked up from the floor at you. “Hey, I’m in a very vulnerable position right now!” You suppress a snort, working on ID’ing the victim.

“The room’s rented to a man named—”

“Marty Harris,” you said. “Also classic bad guy, fetish burglar and registered child sex offender. TSA flagged him, he was travelling with Giles.” You flex your fingers, cracking your knuckles, your blood not quite up.

“Alright, thanks, mama,” he said before hanging up and you scrunch your nose at being called that. Derek liked to flirt, and despite your best efforts, he’s not averse to being threatened. You spend the rest of the day backhacking the guy, Frank Giles on the back of you mind.

“How’d he get in, anyway?” you asked, frowning at your laptop. It’s not as well-kitted as your cubicle downstairs, but you can’t leave Penelope in the lurch like this.

“I don’t know,” Penelope cried, “all I know is I was in Camelot with Sir Kneighf again—”

“At work?” you asked, looking up instantly and the colour leeched from Penelope’s face. “Pen, no!”

“It was my personal laptop, I didn’t think—”

“Your laptop doesn’t have the same security, Pen, Christ!”

“I know that!” she yelled, her face fierce. “God, you don’t think I feel horrible enough already, and I can already see Hotch’s face when he finds out—”

“Hey, no, I’m sorry, listen,” you say automatically, scooting forward to comfort her. “Listen, it’s gonna be okay, alright? Whoever this guy is, he took advantage of you, alright? That’s what these guys do. They wait around until they find the weak link and strike.”

“I’m the weak link!” Penelope cried and you tutted, putting your laptop away and hugging her.

“Hey, no, you’re not,” you insisted, taking her glasses off so they wouldn’t get in the way. “You know how many cases these guys have solved because of you? How many lives they could’ve lost if you hadn’t found the right guy or the right address in time? Don’t beat yourself up over one mistake.”

And that’s exactly how clear you make yourself when you hear Gideon call her stupid — standing right by her side when she tells the entire team the truth. You’re not part of the team, Gideon’s not your supervisor, and it’s the first time you’ve met most of them face to face really, which makes it easier to stand your ground.

“You’d all be lost without Garcia’s technical skills, and you know it,” you said, defending your friend. “So, yeah, she made a mistake and the hacker got into your personnel files. It doesn’t explain how he knows all the other details of your life. It doesn’t explain how he knew about Morgan and Greenaway going to Jamaica, or your appreciation of the Chicago White Sox , who, by the way, haven’t won a championship since 1959 until last year.” There’s a moment of silence where Gideon just blinks at you, Elle suddenly very interested in her fist as her brow raised, and Aaron’s gaze bored into you. Spencer didn’t know whether to look at you or Gideon; you with your firm gaze and fingers curled around Penelope’s, or Gideon with his worn out expression.

“So, how did he find all this out?” Aaron said eventually, and the heat passes as they all move on. You glanced at Penelope, nodding subtly as she mouthed a ‘thank you’. Elle caught your gaze as you started to leave the profilers to their work, dimples forming on her sleepy face as she tried not to smile.

You have your own work pending, writing up a program to feed the decrypted communication through that would flag recurring keywords, in Penelope’s den still. This close to evening, your supervisor wouldn’t care anyway. The hours you put in excuse you from actually having to sit in your cubicle. With the only two seats in the den occupied, Spencer was pacing behind Penelope who was busy backhacking Sir Kneighf.

“The card we got of Nellie Fox was from 1963,” he was saying to noone in particular, and you had the feeling he just didn’t want to be in that conference room alone, but his pacing was starting to get on your nerves. “But the team that Gideon’s fond of is actually the 1959 team.” You shared a glance at Penelope, slipping into telepathy.

“Can’t we get rid of him?”

“Not without making a mess,” she said with her face and you repressed a sigh as he kept going.

“So the code has to be from a book from 1963,” he said, twisting on his heel to face Penelope. “Is there a database that lists all the books published in a given year?”

“Individual publishers have lists, I don't think there's anything like a master one,” Penelope answered him. “Plus it would depend upon the year, because the further back you go, the less likely there'll be any database at all.

“And definitely not for 1963,” you piped up, Penelope nodding along and Spencer looked at you with a furrowed brow, then back to Penelope, leaning over her shoulder.

“Could you do me a favor? Type something into a search engine for me?” Spencer asked and Penelope scowled at him.

“I’m kind of in the middle of something,” she replied and as if you could tell the work would be shifted onto you, you attempted to surreptitiously leave, but Penelope’s hand latched around your wrist. “Weren’t you just wishing you had something to do?”

“No,” you tried in vain, “No, my program’ll be done in a couple of—” Neither of them were falling for it and Spencer was starting to pull out this puppy-faced look and you groaned. How did you keep getting in these situations? “Fine, put your face away,” you said irritably, sitting back down. “What am I Yahoo-ing?”

"Never would it be night, but always clear day to any man's sight,” Spencer recited, watching you type rapidly.

“It’s from ‘The Parliament of—”

“Fowls!” Spencer exclaimed, “I knew I’d heard it somewhere.” It was too late in the day for you to handle his excitement with any kind of grace, sharing a look with Penelope who simply shrugged, like he was always like this. “Yeah, yeah, Chaucer, my… My mom used to read it to me,” he said, not quite meeting anyone’s gaze… like he was ashamed of something. “It’s widely considered the world’s first Valentine’s poem.”

“Your mom read you Valentine's poems? Hello, therapy,” Penelope muttered under her breath and you smacked her arm playfully, Spencer too deep in thought to see it.

“The poem’s not long enough for it to be the book,” he said, still looking puzzled. “The code we got referred to it having at least 283 pages—”

“And it’s not from 1963, either,” you added dryly.

“Something published in 1963. A butterfly indigenous to Great Britain, so something from Great Britain,” he said to himself and you furrow your brow.

“Fowles,” you said, and it was like everything made sense. “With an e, Fowles. He wrote a book, The Collector, in the 60s,” you kept going, Penelope looking at you with an impressed gaze, Spencer hanging onto your every word. “It kind of matches your case. This lonely young man kidnaps a young art student and holds her in his cellar at his farmhouse, keeps her there for years, and she assumes he’s going to torture her or sexually assault her, but he’s waiting for her to fall in love with him, and he’s convinced she will, and by the end, she falls ill and dies. When he finds her, he wants to commit suicide, but he reads her diary and realises she never loved him so he buries her and the book ends with him thinking about abducting another girl.”

“Oh my God,” Penelope gasped, looking horrified.

“Yeah, it wasn’t great,” you replied, frowning and scrunching your nose. “The whole thing was in first person. It was weird to read.”

“Right, that’s the icky part,” Penelope said, dryly.

“We need to check it with the code, and it has to be the exact edition he has,” Spencer interrupted before either of you got side-tracked and you rolled your eyes, going into your bag to pull out your e-reader, connecting it to your laptop. Spencer hovered right above your shoulder, so close you could hear his breathing, feeling warmth flutter against your cheek, and you cleared your throat.

“Ever heard of personal space?” you asked irritably, turning to look at him and he looked back down at you, barely an inch between you two, and then he stammered out an apology as he stepped back, all while Penelope smirked at the two of you. While the book transferred, you worked on quickly creating an algorithm that would search and flag the given word on a given line, on a given page, and despite yourself, you’re a little impressed when Spencer recites each number from the code that the unsub had sent Haley.

“Show off,” you muttered under your breath as he quickly wrote the resulting poem onto a legal pad in chicken scratch writing.

The path to the end began at his start. To find her, first calm her long broken heart. She sits in a window, with secrets from her knight.

“Well, that isn’t medieval,” you said and Spencer frowned at it, scanning it over and over again. Without another word, he darted out of the office, leaving both of you bewildered. “You were right, he is an odd duck,” you murmured, staring at the open door.

“Should we follow him?” Penelope asked, looking at you.

“I’ve put off my own work long enough,” you said, shaking her head and Penelope nodded, understanding.

“Thanks. For sticking around,” she said softly and you smiled at her faintly.

“Always.”

You should go home. Shower. Sleep. But Elle’s been shot and you can’t leave, not in good conscience. You hate yourself for being this sentimental, this soft but that’s what Penelope does to you. She softens you, makes you kinder, makes you laugh. If it had been you who had lost a teammate, Penelope would have been glued to your side.

So you stick around, blinking sleep out of your eyes, settled in the BAU’s kitchen with a cup of coffee and a bagel, both stale, looking for coded messages. Not for the first time, you think about where you could be. Coding for Apple, or Microsoft. Developing software in Silicon Valley. They don’t have stale bagels in Silicon Valley.

You stretched uncomfortably in your chair, gaze flitting up to the conference room, the bullpen stretched out between you and the BAU. You’re not a people person, or you weren’t before you met Penelope. You preferred the solitude of your cubicle, or you thought you had. The very virtue of your profession had left you without other female friends, and the ones you had before this job had drifted away. Counter-intelligence was by its very nature an isolating field, and Penelope was one of the few who didn’t mind your secrets. But seeing this team rally, even if Gideon had yelled at her, seeing them work together, as irritating as it had felt in the moment, filled you with a sense of loneliness. All you had was Penelope, but you weren’t the only one she had. Far from it.

That’s what prompts you to approach the older woman sitting alone in the conference room with her journal. Sitting by the window. “Hi,” you said meekly, stepping into the room, clocking the visitor’s badge on the woman’s sweater. She’s wearing a pale flowery dress, her bag sandwiched between her side and elbow. Her hair was short, like a boy’s, and blonde, and yet, something about her painfully reminds you of Spencer. Something around the eyes and the shape of her face.

“Is it lunch time yet?” she asked without looking up and you frowned, looking out the window to see the sprawl of Quantico blanketed in the dark blue of the night.

“Uh, no, not yet,” you said, sounding lame even to yourself. God, this was such a mistake.

“I'm lecturing everyone in Tristan and Iseult. They're all gathering in my room after lunch.” the woman said, looking up at you, and you offered a smile.

“Which version?” you asked, pulling up a chair as the woman gave you an impressed look.

“Malory’s. Beroul’s seemed too long to assign. You’ve read it?” she asked and you shook your head.

“Not in its entirety,” you replied somberly. “Not a lot of downtime with my job. But I know the gist of it.”

“Shame,” the woman said, letting out a sigh. “I always say, the best way to read a book is to listen to someone read it.”

That’s when Reid rushes in, relaxed until he sees you sitting in front of his mother, his temple creasing, and you raised your hand, waving it at him with a sheepish smile. “We uh, we found Rebecca,” he said, looking between you and his mom, two worlds colliding sooner than he would’ve liked. “You saved her life, Mom,” he said softly.

“Who’s Rebecca?” she asked and his smile evaporated, glancing at you for explanation but you shake you head.

“She’s not lucid,” you murmured, watching him swallow, his cheer dissipating.

“Oh,” he said quietly, blinking as he processed it, looking at Diana as she continued to write, and you stood up to leave. “Thanks,” he murmured to you as you walked off.

“I didn’t do anything,” you said, brow creasing and he looked at you with a boyishness that stops your breath.

“Thanks anyway,” he insisted and you nodded curtly.

“Elle okay?” you asked.

“She will be.” So you pat his arm and leave him with his mom, shaking off the fondness you’d started to feel for him.

[simplygojo]

Friend-Of-A-Friend ⸺ Chapter Nine

author's note ⸺ HEY Y'ALL I LIED LAST WEEK SORRYYYY!! Here is chapter nine...Sorry for the delayyy I am planning a trip to ASia for a wedding <3 LOVE U PLS GUYS LMK UR THOUGHTS ON THIS I LOVE THE DRAMAAA pairing ⸺ Suguru Geto x Reader content ⸺ corporate-worker!reader, emotional tension, modern au, the good-ole-days trope, reader uses female pronouns, smoking mentioned(weed + cigs), themes of substance abuse, taglist at end, 4k, this is an 18+ series - mdni

divider credit: @/toastray ୨୧ art credit: @/juziluohai

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**Monday, 10:03 a.m.**

“… and if we can get those decks consolidated by end-of-day, we’ll be in a good place for the client check-in on Wednesday.”

Click. Click. Click.

The sound of a mouse somewhere near your left ear. 

A bulky early-2000s style keyboard clacking distantly to your right. 

The gentle, yet oh so persistent hum of the conference room's overhead light—just enough to give you a headache without actually qualifying as a noise complaint.

You blinked slowly at the screen in front of you. A slideshow you did not make. Fonts you did not choose. Bullet points someone definitely wrote with way too much enthusiasm for phrases like "brand narrative integrity" and "consumer-forward visibility."

The meeting had technically started four minutes ago, but the pace of it had already gone syrup-slow. Everyone pretending to care about the quarterly roadmap. Everyone nodding a little too earnestly.

Your eyes darted to the bottom of your screen.

Slide 3 of 37.

Ughhh.

“…thinking we could pivot to something more user-centric. Thoughts?”

You weren’t sure who had said that or what it was in reference to. You watched the mouse cursor drift lazily across the shared screen, circling a graph that didn’t matter. Your eyes glazed over.

Your camera was off, thank god. You were slumped half-sideways in your chair, the lopsided croissant you’d eaten on the train still threatening mutiny somewhere in your chest. 

The coffee in your paper to-go cup had already gone tepid. You took a sip anyway, taking into consideration how exhausted you felt—Regretted it immediately.

“…if we could circle back on the Q2 assets sometime this week—maybe a quick sync before close of business Thursday?”

A brief silence. Then a chorus of agreeable hums. Someone said, “Yeah, totally.” Another voice chirped, “Sounds good.”

You felt a laugh bubble somewhere behind your ribs—not real amusement, just a small, spiralling hysteria at the sheer cliché of it all.

You closed your eyes for one half-second too long.

And there it was—uninvited but not unwelcome.

The memory arrived all at once.

The door. The rain. Him.

He had just stood there for a second—on the other side of your doorway. Rain still clinging to his coat, hair down and heavy with water, dark strands stuck to the curve of his cheek.

The hallway behind him had been cold and dim. But the light from your apartment had spilled forward into it, warm and low, and when it hit him like that—

God—That image of him felt like it was plastered onto your retinas.

The rain had soaked through everything, clinging to him in a way that felt indecent. 

The more you thought about it, the more you’d come to a simple conclusion—he’d looked good like that. Rain-damp and quiet, his voice a soft hey that had settled low in your stomach and stayed there.

You hadn’t expected to notice it. The flush on his face, the way he’d touched the back of his neck, the slow drag of the towel through his hair.

Coat open. Hair heavy and wet, that slow way he blinked, like the light took a second too long to register. Water dripping from his collarbone to the fabric below.

Back in the walls of your cubicle, someone said, “Can we flag that for the legal branch before sending up? Just to be safe on any future liability issues.”

A few murmured yeahs followed—some yellow ‘thumbs-up’ emojis flew around the screen, you decided to send a thumbs up too, what the hell, why not.

You reached for your coffee again. This time, pinching your nose with one hand and taking it like a shot to avoid tasting how awful it was.

Thank god weed doesn’t give you hangovers, or you’d be absolutely screwed.

Still, there was something off about your composure this morning. Not tired, not hungover. 

You had made a promise to yourself, after everything that went down in school, that you would stop smoking—initially, you meant mostly the weed, you just decided you may as well throw the cigs in there too, start a new ‘era’. 

Well…you ended that era last night. 

By the time he had even lit it, you’d already committed to the lie. No turning back.

Your thumb brushed his knuckles as you took it from him, smoke curling into the dark—and behind your eyes, that slow, familiar warmth had already begun to gather.

Not that it mattered now. What’s one night? One shared filter, one familiar haze. An old habit, quietly resurrected under city light and the kind of silence you didn’t want to break.

You shifted slightly in your chair, hoping that shifting your body might shake him loose from your thoughts.

It didn’t.

The air in the office felt stale, over-warmed from too many bodies and not enough ventilation. Somewhere nearby, a coworker was chewing with their mic still on—wet, deliberate bites that made your eye twitch.

Your phone buzzed once on the desk. Then again.

You flipped it over, glancing down just in time to catch:

Gojo: So. Gojo: Suguru’s texted me three times already this morning

Buzz.

Gojo: Direct quote “went over to her’s. smoked. felt like old times.” Absolutely no follow-up. He’s so dramatic

Buzz.

Gojo: Anyway Gojo: We’re smoking again now??

Buzz.

Gojo: Thought you came over to my side?? Gojo: Clean lungs? moral superiority?? Green juice and judgment???

You exhaled slowly through your nose, thumb hovering.

You: It really is not that deep.

Gojo: That’s what they all say before they’re bumming lighters and talking about “missing the ritual” Gojo: Seen it a thousand times You: K. Well I don’t think this is something you need to lose sleep over Gojo…I’m at work attempting to pay attention You: So bye bye!

You swiped downward on your screen and quickly turning on DND mode before you could be bothered by his texting habits. 

The black screen caught your reflection—eyes tired, jaw tight, the faintest trace of a smirk still lingering at the edge of your mouth. You set the phone down. Shifted your focus back to the meeting. 

Well—Tried to.

And—yeah. You did kind of miss the ritual.

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

**Monday, 6:07 p.m.**

The subway car was too hot.

Your coat stuck awkwardly to one side of your body, and someone’s elbow was wedged with absolute conviction against your ribs. 

The car jolted. You swayed along with it. 

Someone’s tote bag kept hitting the back of your knee with each sway of the train, and the guy next to you was breathing way too confidently for someone who obviously hadn’t brushed their teeth today.

You did not have it in you to judge. Not today.

The air was thick with collective resignation. Monday exhaustion. The kind that pressed in from all sides, like wet cotton. 

Your forehead itched, but you couldn’t raise your arm to scratch it without elbowing the woman scrolling TikTok behind you. Instead, you shifted your weight, pressed your shoulder harder into the metal pole, and tried not to sigh audibly.

You had been a little bummed today. Nothing tragic—just one of those dumb, tiny disappointments that shouldn’t matter and yet somehow did. 

One of your coworkers had been out sick, which meant no homemade bread on the corner of the office kitchen island. No little Ziploc bags of sourdough or rye to take home, all lovingly baked and evenly sliced. No absurdly good focaccia with salt crystals big enough to break a molar.

You had spent the first half of the day thinking about that bread. And then the second half of the day, realizing it wasn’t coming.

A tragic arc, honestly. A true Shakespearean fall.

The subway lurched again and a collective sway passed through the car like a wave. You closed your eyes, let your head bob with the jolts of the commute. The movement outside blurred into smears of white light, tinny station announcements rising and falling in the distance like some garbled chorus.

Your phone buzzed once in your pocket. Then again.

You didn’t reach for it. You didn’t need to. You already knew.

Gojo had probably sent another unsolicited monologue about lung purity and self-betterment.

You’d let him rot in DND purgatory. At least for now. Till you had the energy for him

Your reflection in the dark subway glass stared back at you—tired, vaguely wilted. Your eyeliner had migrated slightly southward. 

The train hissed and stuttered to a stop. A voice over the PA said something unintelligible. The doors opened, and half the car shifted like a living thing, bodies brushing past each other with silent, city-trained apathy.

You moved with them.

Out onto the platform. Up the stairs. Into the strange blue air of early evening—where everything smelled like oil and wet concrete and someone’s cheap cologne.

It wasn’t until you turned the corner onto your block that you let yourself fish out your phone. A few texts from Gojo, exactly as expected. You ignored them.

And then, below those—

One new message.

Geto: [Spotify link]

Just that. 

A blue hyperlink tucked beneath his name.

The cooler evening air caught the collar of your coat. Wind pressed lightly against one side of your face. Despite the weather finally starting to warm up, that lakefront breeze was persistent.

You kept walking, thumb hovering over the message for a beat too long before tapping.

The app lagged. 

A black screen. The little wheel spinning – evidence of your shitty data plan.

You adjusted your grip on the phone. Slipped it into your palm with more care than necessary. The sound of your shoes echoed faintly off the concrete walls of the narrow side street—quick, metered steps. A soft gust carried the scent of someone’s dinner from a cracked apartment window overhead. 

The playlist loaded slowly. 

Cover image first: that old blurry photo you'd used years ago—some grainy snapshot of a rainy street corner you thought looked poetic in college. And then the title. Still there. Still lowercase, still pretentious. Songs you’d rearranged a dozen times over the years.

It played automatically, the first song of the playlist playing softly in your headphones, the familiar warm, looping guitar, steady drums that you played around your apartment.

Confused, you slowed your pace, causing the man behind you to passively-aggressively walk past you while shaking his head in frustration. 

Before you had any time to think, his name was at the top of your screen.

Underneath it, the second message:

Geto: Thought I recognized last night's playlist…

No emoji. No follow-up. Just that.

Your fingers froze around the phone and you stopped in your tracks. 

A strange pressure gathered behind your ribs as you put two-and-two together.

He actually listened to that playlist?

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

**2 Years and 5 Months Ago: Gojo & Geto’s House  1:37 am**

The party had started loud.

Someone had spilled beer on the welcome mat. Someone else had duct-taped glowsticks to the ceiling fan, which you kind of liked.

Gojo was already shirtless in the kitchen for some reason no one had asked about, he always got like this when he and Suguru hosted parties — the little attention seeker.

You liked house parties. 

People handed you drinks with way too much vodka. The couch never cost you ten dollars to sit on. And at 3 a.m., you could order pad thai without judgment. 

Way better than the bars.

It must’ve been after 1 a.m. by the time you ended up on the living room couch—your usual post, worn-in and sagging at the center. 

The room was dim, lit mostly by string lights sagging in the corners. A bassline thudded through the drywall, probably coming from the Bluetooth speaker Gojo kept threatening to take into the shower with him.

Geto sat to your right, one knee drawn up on the cushion. The joint balanced between his fingers glowed faintly, orange and steady. He passed it to you without looking.

Outside the window, the sky had gone ink-black. Inside, someone was playing a drinking game too loudly in the kitchen.

Geto leaned back a little, socked foot nudging the coffee table.

“Is this your music?” He asked, after a long moment.

You nodded, exhaling a refreshing cloud of smoke. “I think Gojo gave me the aux without realizing it.”

“Makes sense,” he said. “Didn’t sound like his usual headache-inducing mix.”

You smiled, tipping ash into a mug that wasn’t technically an ashtray but had seen worse.

Geto shifted slightly, leaned his elbow on the back of the couch. His voice stayed even, and carried a casual tone. “You have a playlist, or do you just shuffle by vibe?”

You let the question settle between you. A warm beat passed, the joint still resting between your fingers.

“I have a few playlists.”

“Mhm.”

Your head turned slightly toward him, eyes narrowing just enough to catch his profile in the dim light. “Why?”

“Send me one,” he said. 

His gaze stayed forward, attention seemingly on nothing. One hand draped loosely across his knee, fingers curled like he couldn’t be bothered to tense them. “I want to listen later.”

You scoffed, sharp and instinctive. “No.”

His brow lifted in quiet surprise at your quick reaction, the corner of his mouth tugging faintly. 

“C’mon. One. Just one.”

You pulled your feet up on the couch cushion, crossed them beneath you, and tucked your cold feet under your knee. “Nope.”

A soft laugh rumbled low in his chest—short, almost self-contained. It barely broke the air between you, but you felt it anyway. The sound of it made the room slightly warmer.

“Seriously?”

“I don’t share those,” you said, pinching the joint between thumb and index, then tipping the ash into the mug beside the couch. The ember flared as you took another hit, your fingers twitching slightly to adjust for heat.

“Says who?”

“Says me.” You paused, voice thinning with something not quite defensiveness. “They’re personal.”

His leg shifted. The knee nearest yours bumped gently into your shin, casual but deliberate. A light contact. 

“Oh, so personal,” he said, feigning gravity. “What, are they all, like, secret love ballads?”

You exhaled, smoke leaving your lips in a slow ribbon. “Hmm, wouldn’t you like to know?” You said, your voice long and shaped by the drag you’d just taken.

His grin broke then, easy and bright. This one cracked his face open fully—teeth and all. A flash of something fond in it. He turned to you properly now, the space between your knees barely there.

“Don’t be greedy,” he murmured, lazy in his seat.

Your eyes stayed forward, locked on the mess of red solo cups littering the floor across the room, but the corner of your lip tugged. “I’m not being greedy.”

He leaned back a little deeper into the couch, spine melting into the threadbare cushions like he belonged there. Which he kind of did. 

His hand draped loose over the backrest, fingers dangling near the top of your shoulder, the distance between them and your skin a live wire. He smelled faintly like weed and clove and something older—familiar.

“Yeah?” He exhaled smoke through his nose, grin tugging wider. “Could’ve fooled me.”

His hand flexed a little behind your shoulder, arm still draped lazily over the couch. The look he gave you was all teeth and warmth, just bordering on cocky.

“C’mon,” he said, voice dipping just under the music—huskier now, scratched faint at the edges like the smoke had caught somewhere in his throat. “You gonna pretend we don’t know each other like that?”

There wasn’t enough air between you. 

Not with the way the couch dipped. Not with the way his voice scratched low from smoke, but still came out smooth.

Your gaze flicked up—just once. Just enough to catch the weight of his eyes on you, heavy and patient. Then dropped again.

You blinked once, slowly.

A flicker of something moved through your chest—tight and inconvenient. You swallowed it down. Turned toward him slightly.

Your lips parted. The joint burned low between your fingers, forgotten for a moment. Your thigh brushed his when you shifted, but he didn’t move. If anything, he angled closer.

You inhaled. Letting the smoke linger in your lungs before speaking. “It’s not about that.”

“No?” His smile was soft now, barely there. “What’s it about?”

Your voice came quieter this time. “It’s just…y’know…you build your music collection throughout your whole entire life. Like, your whole life. It’s not just songs that you like. Each playlist is a collection of memories. Stuff you never intended to share.”

A beat passed. 

The joint burned low between your fingers. You held it out toward him, offering it to him rather than saying anything else, but his eyes weren’t on the joint.

They lingered instead—on the way your leg had started to lean into his, just slightly. The way you hadn’t moved. 

That look of his—half-lidded, lazy, but pinned so squarely on you it felt like a touch. His head tilted faintly to one side, hair falling in front of his cheekbone, and when he grinned this time, it was full—slow and real. A little lopsided. Something that wasn’t a common expression of his.

That grin had no business being on a face so calm.

“Fine.” You said, finally giving in as you tugged your phone from the pocket of your jeans. 

The screen lit your face faintly blue as you thumbed through your music app, already knowing which one you’d send.

He didn’t say anything. Just watched. And that might’ve been the first time you noticed the quiet gravity of his gaze—how present it made him feel, even without words.

A second later, his own phone buzzed in his lap. He glanced down at the notification.

You lifted your eyes, deadpan. “And don’t get all weird about it. It’s like...not even a sliver of my soul. Practically a crumb.”

Geto huffed a laugh, crooked and pleased, thumb still hovering over the screen. “Oh, just a crumb? That’s all I get?”

You nodded confidently, “Mhm, one’s more than enough.”

He grinned, the kind that pulled deliberately at one side of his mouth. “You really know how to make a guy feel special.”

“I do,” you said, exhaling smoke toward the sagging lights. “And I’m not using any of those skills right now.”

He leaned back again, face tilted toward the ceiling like he might laugh, but didn’t. Just smiled—quiet and real and a little tired around the edges.

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

**Present Day**

Your thumb hovered above the screen again. Not moving. Just… resting there.

The song played on—its chorus quiet but insistent, winding its way through your earbuds like it knew something you didn’t.

You looked up absently, eyes catching on nothing in particular: a wet glint on the sidewalk, a flickering lamplight across the street, your own faint reflection in the glass window of the laundromat. 

The world felt off-center suddenly, like someone had rotated it a few degrees clockwise while you weren’t looking.

You remembered sharing your playlist with him that one night. You were both so crossed—in your usual spot together on the couch. You protested, but despite all of your best efforts, you sent him the link to one of the playlists.

And then—he’d never said anything. Not really. 

Maybe a polite “thanks,” some comment about the song titles being cryptic. You’d assumed he hadn’t listened. Or if he had, not more than once. Maybe not even all the way through.

But now…

Now you couldn’t stop thinking about him hearing it again. Recognizing it.

Of all the songs you played. Of all the nights.

It had taken you hours to curate that playlist. You'd aimed for something lowkey—comfort music, stuff you knew inside out, the kind of songs that felt like woodgrain and soft light and a warm couch you could sink into.

Not something you expected him to notice. Not something to place so easily. 

And most definitely not something he would remember over two years later.

Suddenly your whole chest felt… out of sync. Too hot, too tight. You started walking again, slower this time, even though you were less than a minute away, you were in no rush.

You hadn’t realized you were still holding the phone until the screen dimmed in your palm. You tapped it back awake. Then stared.

Geto: Thought I recognized last night’s playlist…

There was a part of you—an unhelpful, fluttering part—that wanted to write back:

MY playlist?? How many times have you listened to it? You never even brought it up again after I shared it?????

But you didn’t.

Instead, you slipped your phone back into your coat pocket, let your fingers curl around it. Like that might settle something in you. Like it might slow the strange, quiet tremble that had started under your skin.

The music played on, and you let it.

Same guitar loop. Same steady drums. But your thoughts did not flow with the music as usual, no, they were stuck on Suguru.

After a few moments of overthinking, your feet brought you to your apartment.

The door clicked open beneath your hand, hinges sighing the way they always did. A slow breath passed through your lips as you stepped inside, the soft shuffle of your shoes against the mat filling the silence.

The music still played—muffled now, one earbud still tucked in, the other hanging limp against your collar. A gentle guitar loop unfurled through the wires, slipping into the apartment with you like something remembered.

You didn’t bother turning on the lights. 

The early evening gloom had settled in—soft and blue, the kind that bled into the corners of rooms and made everything feel like it belonged in a dream. Or maybe just the part after waking.

Coat still on, you walked toward the kitchen. No purpose at first—just movement. Just something to do with your limbs. But then your eyes landed on the sink.

Those two damn space animal mugs, sitting exactly where you'd left them the night before byv the sink. 

They weren’t remarkable, not in shape or colour. But they now, for some reason, evoked a different reaction in you.

Your chest gave the faintest ache. Not sharp. Just a weight, settling in beneath the ribs like a familiar guest.

The music threaded on, drums steady. The chords moved in slow circles. You’d chosen this playlist for comfort. But now it felt like carried too much. 

Your fingers moved to the tap, as if that might help.

Warm water, soft foam. The sponge moved on instinct. One mug. Then the other. But your body felt distant from the motion—like it was happening a few steps outside of yourself.

His voice lingered in your ears—not in the music, but beneath it. Not a word-for-word memory. 

More like the frequency of his speech. The vibration of his words. That low, amused tone he used when something caught him off guard—in a good way.

Your chest pulled tighter.

It didn’t make sense, how many ways the past twenty-four hours had folded themselves around you. How easily he slipped into all the quiet parts of the day. The parts that used to feel yours alone. 

Your eyes glanced to the balcony door.

The sheer curtain stirred faintly in its frame, catching a breeze you couldn’t feel from where you stood.

Outside, the city smudged against the glass—dull orange streetlights, a shifting silhouette of branches, a flicker of someone else’s life a few floors down.

The track was ending—fading into the brief silence between songs. You stood in it, feeling the way it clung to your skin.

And then the thought came, uninvited but unmistakable.

“God,” you muttered, barely above a breath. “I could really use a sesh right now.”

The words hung in the air for a moment—half a joke, half a prayer—and then you turned, the tile cool beneath your socks as you padded down the hallway, the music still playing quietly behind you, like it knew exactly what kind of night this was becoming.

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[azsazz]

Over Ice (Part 9)

Hockey!Rhysand x Reader

Summary: Anon Req: She’s walking around Campus and BOOM right smack dab into Broody McBrooder!! She THEN finds out he’s the tutor for one of her hardest courses (personally Psych would be a good one) and they become super duper close with him and the team!!!

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 3178

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8)

Notes: ughhhh. i don't like this part. fml

_________________________________________

Annoyance courses through your veins when Rhys’ phone buzzes against the tabletop again. The devilish device has been blowing up with messages since before your tutoring session had even begun, as soon as Rhys walked into the room with a mumbled greeting, fully immersed in the device.

Each vibration has slowly chipped away at your feeble concentration. You quickly lost focus on studying, and you’ve had to re-read the same paragraph three times over, restarting every single time he received a new message. Not a single fact has clicked in your head, and the urge to collapse in defeat is all too tempting right now.

Rhysand is in no way phased by your unpleasant aura and blatant glares. His laptop is open, eyes glued to the screen as his fingertips fly across the keyboard. He has a paper due at nine in the morning, and although he’s known about it since the end of last week, between tutoring you, the Halloween party, hockey practices, and games, he’s up to his ears busy.

But he wanted to see you.

He’d spent all week thinking about you. During practice, he’d found himself glancing up into the bleachers, looking for you, hoping he’d catch a peek of you in that sinfully butchered jersey of his. That reminds him, he needs to get you a new one because you’re more than distracting in that scrap of fabric.

He’d searched for you the same way at the away game the Bat’s had this week, even though he knew you weren’t in the building at all, weren’t even in the same city.

And psychology is fucking ruined for him. He thinks about you the most when he’s sitting in class, staring at the lecture slides he should be copying down. It’s a good thing that the information comes so easily to him, otherwise he’s pretty sure he’d be fucked with the amount of time spent daydreaming about how your lips felt on his, soft, shy, intimate.

“You know, if I’m keeping you from something,” you finally say, snapping Rhys from his paper. It’s hard to keep the annoyance out of your tone but the surprise on his face, the way his brows knit together in confusion has a pang of guilt stabbing you in the chest. Clutching your pen in your grasp only helps a little. “We don’t have to do this tonight.”

You refrain from admitting that you really do need his help tonight due to the quiz you have coming up later this week. It’s the only night he’s available to tutor you, with his hectic schedule. Right now, his presence is more distracting than it is helpful, and from where you sit across the table, you can tell that he’s stressed.

It’s in the way that he runs his fingers through his jet-black hair, tugging on the roots when whatever he’s typed doesn’t make sense. You know this is his tell because it’s followed by the prominent clicks of the backspace key for each letter he removes. Clack. Clack. Clack.

You can fully see the exhaustion written on his face, the circles beneath his violet eyes, and how every so often you’ve caught him rubbing his fists into his eyes. The bruise on his jaw looks better than it had the last time you saw him, splotches of yellow-green dust the area instead of the deep purple coloring it was when the injury was fresh.

He must see your frustration on your face because his shoulders drop in shame.

“What? No, I’m here,” he insists, shoving his computer away from him. Yeah, maybe a break is what he needs. Shame crawls up his throat. He’s supposed to be your tutor, and he’s been so caught up in his own work that he forgot that he’s supposed to be helping you.

Rhys frowns when his phone jolts against the desk again. You take a calming breath, closing your eyes, but they still prickle with frustration. You’re just as frazzled as he is. If you don’t pass this quiz, you’re not sure there’s hope of salvaging your grade.

You’re arguably just as exhausted as Rhys. Your other classes are also on the verge of kicking your ass, and you can only blame it on the fact that you actually have a semblance of a social life this year and aren’t holed up in your dorm room 24/7 outside of your classes, studying your ass off. No, you’re hanging out with your roommates more, meeting new people, going to hockey games and parties, both of which are things you never thought you’d be into.

And trying to keep up this façade as Rhysand’s fake girlfriend isn’t easy. Amarantha seems like she’s everywhere. You can barely count the number of times last week Rhys messaged you about her. You meet up with him when you’re close and able, in the commons, the food halls, you even met him between the stacks of bookshelves in the library while she pretended to peruse the non-fictions, but you can’t be everywhere at once. It’s a lot. Just last night, Amarantha was at the hockey house when Rhys arrived home. She had sunken her blood-red claws into one of the freshmen who’d been invited over for a few beers with a small group of players. Azriel had warned him of the devil under their roof, and Rhys had showed up at your dorm with a sheepish smile and a box of cookies from the convenience store he passed on the way over.

If he didn’t have those sweets in hand—and if your roommates hadn’t gone to a movie that you wanted to see but couldn’t because of the amount of studying you had to do—you would have slammed the door in his face.

You spent the night studying alright, but it wasn’t the words in your psych textbook. You couldn’t help but examine Rhysand, who sat across from you on your couch, the way that his hair fell from his brow when his chin tilted down to his own work. The way that he held the chocolate chip cookie in his mouth between his teeth as he wrote in his notebook. The zip of excitement you felt when your fingers brushed against his rough ones in the cookie box.

Your cheeks warm at the memory. You swear you can still feel his touch, the sheepish smile he gave you when he pulled his hand away, letting you pick whichever cookie you preferred. You wanted to lean over and taste that soft smile against your lips. You managed to find the restraint, offering him a gentle smile in return before stuffing a bite of the chocolatey goodness in your mouth as you ripped your gaze from his.

“No, really,” you try to insist politely. “If you need to go, you should. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.” It’s difficult to hide your cringe. You really do need his help.

Rhysand stares. He doesn’t know what he’s done wrong, and when he opens his mouth to ask what has you so on edge tonight, his phone pings with another message, and realization sets in like a boulder in the pit of his stomach at the way your gaze drops back to your book.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, snagging his phone from the table. It’s Cassian, again. His roommate won’t let the fuck up in the group chat, demanding mandatory attendance from every single member on the team at the party he’s hosting at the hockey house the night before team plays the Springview Wolves.

Rhys would be worried about the potential jinxing Cassian’s text puts into the universe if he didn’t know that this is the one superstition his defenseman has. The past two years, the entire hockey team had attended one of Cassian’s pre-celebration parties. It was the last party before their meet with the Wolves, who they’d then slaughtered in a 6-2 game. The following year, they’d beat them in nail-biting overtime with a snapshot that could’ve broken the plexiglass had Azriel missed. Safe to say that this party has become as much as a tradition as it is a superstition, and Rhysand needs to be there.

But right now, he needs to be here, focusing on you and the psych class you’re bombing.

“Look, if you’re too busy to tutor me I’d rather you tell me now so that I might have a chance at finding a new tutor before this quiz.” It’s difficult to mask the disheartened etch to your voice. Who are you kidding? There’s no way you’ll be able to find a tutor when the quiz is two days away.

Yep, you’re officially screwed.

“I’m not,” Rhys protests, shaking his head. Something about the idea of another person tutoring you has annoyance flaring in his veins. He silences his phone, something he should have done as soon as he walked over the threshold of the study room. “It’s just Cassian, anyway.” Rhys slides his chair around the corner of his table so close that your knees knock into each other. The touch sends a shockwave up your thigh and you try not to recoil at the surprising feeling. “Sorry. I’m done texting. Remind me what you’re working through, and I can help with any questions you have.”

You’re apprehensive to let this tutoring continue. It’s become very clear that Rhys has other priorities. He’s the captain of the hockey team for fuck’s sake; he probably has more on his plate than you think he does.

At your hesitation, he questions, “What?”

You shrug, feeling completely defeated. All you want right now is to crawl home with your tail between your legs and curl into a ball in your bed. You’ve pretty much accepted that you’re going to fail this class, tutor or not. There’s no way you’re going to admit any of this to Mor’s cousin right now, so you deflect, lamely. “I don’t know Cassian that well, but he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy that likes to be ignored.”

Rhys rolls his eyes, and your breath hitches as the corners of his mouth twitch in amusement. Sadly, a grin doesn’t break through, but it lights a fire under your ass. You want to see that smile, and you’ll do just about anything to make it happen.

It’s sad, almost, how much effort you’d put into earning that grin, but not apply that same energy toward studying.

“He’s going through our roster in the group chat, calling every single person out by name to make sure their schedules are cleared for the party we’re throwing this weekend.”

You catch yourself before your eyes roll into the back of your head in what might possibly be the most dramatic, epic eyeroll ever.

“Wow,” you feign an amused laugh. “That sounds dramatic.”

“That’s Cass for you,” Rhys says, amused. He crosses his arms and places them on the table. It takes effort not to watch the way his muscles pop beneath his t-shirt as he leans in closer. You’re only a foot away from each other. If you wanted to recreate the kiss you shared on Halloween, all you’d have to do is angle forward, tilt your head, and his lips would be on yours. You wonder for a fleeting moment if Rhys was as thrown over the kiss that night as you were. If he still thinks about it, can still feel the phantom sensation of your lips pressed together.

You remember that you shouldn’t be thinking about the kiss at all, and you sit back in your chair.

“You know,” Rhys starts, and you don’t like the telltale signs of a scheme that lines his tone. You almost groan out loud but settle on shooting him a warning look. “Since you’re my girlfriend—”

“Fake girlfriend,” you correct instantly.

Rhys rolls his eyes and tips back onto the back legs of his chair. “Fine. Fake girlfriend,” he mimics and you toss your pencil at him. He catches it against his chest and the smile you’ve been waiting to see finally cracks his face. Fuck, he’s gorgeous when he does that. You’re even gifted those pearly white, straight teeth of his. You’d keel over in your chair like one of his many conquests if it wouldn’t give him an ego. You almost miss the end of Rhys request with how entranced you are. “You should probably make an appearance at the party.”

“Yeah,” you sigh. Realization strikes you like a fist. Rhys all but preens in his seat. You blink as his words settle, frows knitting together. “Wait, no, I can’t.” His face immediately falls. Rhys’ face scrunches adorably and you’d really like to reach out and smooth the crease between his brows right now.

There are more than a handful of reasons that you should not show your face at the hockey house party, the most prominent being that you’re his cousin’s best. She doesn’t want you anywhere near him, and you can’t break that promise even more than you already have.

Well, I won’t tell anyone if you won’t. His words echo in your head and you shove them away as quickly as they arrive.

The second reason you shouldn’t be going to his party is that you’re barely even friends, you’ve somehow been sucked into a mess of a situation, pretending to be his girlfriend in exchange for tutoring. Tutoring that right now isn’t helping improve your grade at all.

“Why not?” He challenges. “What if Amarantha shows up?”

“Because I have other plans,” you answer plainly. You don’t need to give him a reason. You press, “I can’t be your buffer between Amarantha forever, Rhys. You’re a big boy; you can fight your own battles.”

He looks awfully like he doesn’t want to fight his own battles, with his lips pressed into a pout. If you thought that he was distracting before, this is an entirely new level of diversion. A much better kind, to be honest.

“You’re seriously not coming to the party?”

“No,” you respond, packing up your things.

“But what if she corners me and tries to kiss me or give me a hand job or something?” He asks.

Your eyes almost bug out of your head. “Then you tell her no, Rhys,” you state. “It’s really that simple. And don’t guys enjoy hand jobs? When was the last time—” He opens his mouth and you shake your head. “No, nope, I don’t even want to know.” You glare until he shuts his mouth, but the amusement lingers in his eyes.

He huffs. “Those nails are sharp,” is all he offers.

You wince. Amarantha does keep her nails long and pointed at the tips, crimson red, like blood. You almost look down to admire your own hands but catch yourself at the last second. You do not need to be thinking about how your fingers might look like wrapped around Rhys’ eight inches.

Your cheeks burn and Rhysand raises a brow in question.

He must read the plea on your face because he thankfully changes the subject. “What could you possibly have going on that’s better than free booze, good music, and seeing yours truly?”

“Wow, Rhys,” you scoff. “Your ego is unbearably suffocating tonight. Did you get your dick sucked recently?” You ask sweetly, then busy yourself by turning to a fresh page in your notebook.

His answering grin is fucking smug.

The muscle of your jaw twitches with how tightly you clamp it shut.

“Hoping it happens at the party,” he answers, suggestively.

You fake gag. “No way.”

“Didn’t say it was going to be from you,” he teases. “But if you want to, you’ll know exactly where I’ll be.”

Gods, this boy and his fucking filthy mind. You certainly haven’t forgotten that he’s your best friend’s cousin, but the fact that you’re his cousin’s best friend has either slipped his mind, or he doesn’t care.

Either way, this isn’t a good situation to be in.

You divert, pulling your focus back to the books splayed out on the desk. Studying. Right, that’s what you need to be doing instead of whatever…this is.

“I told you; I can’t go.” You try and reach for your pen that’s in Rhys’ grasp but he pulls it out of reach, ignoring the glare you send his way. Fine. You search your backpack for a backup but come up empty. Ugh.

“Can’t, or won’t?” He shoots back.

“Both,” you sigh, checking the time on your phone. It’s well past nine o’clock in the evening, and you really thought that you’d be back at the dorms already, curled up on your bed with your laptop overheating on the sheets as it played a movie. “Can we get back to studying?”

“In a second,” Rhys assures. Why does he want you to come to the party so badly? Besides the obvious. Amarantha surely can’t be that much trouble. She is a little bit of a nightmare and you could see how Rhys wants her to take the hint that he’s moved on, but if he’s that worried about her in the first place, why doesn’t he tell her that she’s uninvited? Or make the hockey team aware that she’s not allowed in the party? Why is flaunting you around the only answer? “What if I said please?”

“That wouldn’t magically cancel my plans.”

“What plans?” You frown. You wonder why he’s pushing this so hard.

Studying for this quiz is going to be impossible. You and Rhys might as well pack up and vacate the room so that people who are actually trying to study can use it. You’re almost positive that the group lingering by an overcrowded area of the library keep shooting you scathing looks every time you open your mouth.

“Gwyn is turning twenty-one and since Mor and I don’t turn twenty-one until next year, we’re planning on ordering in and getting a little tipsy at the dorms.” Rhys gives you that seriously? look that makes you glare. “Not that I care about your opinion, like, at all, but is there something wrong with that?”

“Only the fact that you’re ditching a party whose halls aren’t patrolled by snitches?” He explains, and he would think that the resident assistants live for getting college kids in trouble. “It’s the dorms! How freshman of you.”

“Whatever, Rhys. Some people don’t want to drink until they can’t see straight in front of a bunch of strangers.”

“I’d be your eyes for you,” he winks, as if what he said was comparable to a knight in shining armor defending a princess.

“Good,” you retort. “Because I’m about three seconds away from gouging them out if you keep hassling me about this. Come on, I really need to study.”

Luckily, Rhys relents. His shoulders fall and the feet of his chair meet earth again.

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” he says, and cranes his neck to see what you’re reading about. “Let’s get you nice and ready for your quiz.”

_________________________________________

Over Ice Taglist:

@saltedcoffeescotch @acourtofbatboydreams @mrsjna @velarisdusk @bionic-donut @tenshis-cake @eleganttravelercloud @lilah-asteria @serena05 @bwormie @soph1644 @house-husband-of-castlemurdock @tothestarsandwhateverend @topaz125 @judig92 @se7enteen--black-blog @thecraziestcrayon @cherry-cin @itsinherited @justafictionalnerd @bookishbroadwaybish @405rry @w0nderw0manly @bbykaixx @marina468 @taechvita @marigold-morelli @esahintzkanen @miakxn @ssmay123 @webvics

[x-reader-theater]

Secret Messages from a Lover

summary: While you're streaming, your boyfriend sends you a message.

pairing: Corpse Husband x Gender Neutral Reader (no pronouns are used.)

word count: 670

warnings: none.

a/n: i really just needed to write something so self-indulgent because god i want this so bad. i figured others want it too. i've been so depressed lately that I just need a little fantasy, you know? my requests are open, and you can find my request rules here.

“God, that video is so fucking funny,” you say, pulling your blanket around your shoulders tighter with one hand while the other brings your patterned tumbler with the sparkly straw up to your mouth, so you can drink your water. Your knees pull further up to your chest, which is easily done in your very spacious gaming chair. “OTV never fucking misses.”

You press a button on your stream deck, switching from the video you were just watching to your face, with chat scrolling in the top left-hand corner. You take another sip from your tumbler and pick out one of the comments passing by, scrolling to stop it from moving as you read it aloud.

“Were you on the newest Fear& episode? I was. QT, Hasan, Will, and I just kinda chatted for a bit. That was a good fucking episode, though,” you say with a grin. “Love those guys. QT especially, she’s fucking hilarious. She makes me laugh so fucking hard whenever I talk to her, even if we disagree on Taylor Swift.”

You keep scrolling back down, so you can keep seeing the comments when another one jumps out at you. “Are you gonna keep streaming? Yeah, chatter, I actually just started before that OTV video. I think Toast is gonna invite me to some Pico Park today? If not, I’ll just play some Valorant or something to pass the time. I gotta git good if I wanna beat, well, anyone,” you admit with a laugh, hiding your shame by taking another drink of water.

You see your phone light up in front of you. It’s a Discord notification, which you quickly check on your second monitor, assuming it’s Toast inviting you to the Discord call.

It’s not. It’s your boyfriend, Corpse.

“You look so cute today babe. You look so cosy wrapped up in your blanket and your smile is so bright. I'll never get tired of seeing it. I love you and have a good stream 🖤”

You feel your cheeks heat up at that, and you take a sip of your water to try and hide your reaction. You haven’t told anyone you're dating Corpse yet, and you have no plans on it any time soon, but he makes you so happy you find it hard not to blurt it out whenever you can.

You send back a bunch of yellow hearts and an “I love you too!!!!!!! 💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛”, biting your lip as you type on your very satisfying, clack-y keyboard.

That’s when you get the notification from Toast to join the shared call.

“Ah! Toast’s calling!” you exclaim for the benefit of your audience.

You quickly join the call, the connection sound filling you comfortable, over the ear headphones.

“Hey! What’s up!” you say into the call, getting a couple of “Hey!”’s and “Hello!”’s back.

Then you hear a familiar voice say, “What’s up.”

“Corpse!” You’re grinning at this point as you continue, “I didn't know you were gonna be playing!”

“Uh, yeah. Toast invited me last minute. Surprise?” he says like it’s a bad thing.

“We haven’t played anything together in a while and I saw him online and thought, ‘Fuck it,’ yaknow?” Toast asks and you chuckle.

“Well, it’s good to talk to you again, Corpse,” you say, setting your tumbler down on your desk. He got you that tumbler for your birthday not long ago, and it’s your favourite thing you own. He also got you the blanket that’s wrapped around your shoulders for your six-month anniversary, and it’s the warmest blanket in your house. You always wear it when you stream because the A/C is always blasting.

“It’s good to talk to you too,” you say, shivering as your heart hammers at his words.

You begin loading up Pico Park, just listening to everyone talk to each other, when you get another notification on Discord.

“I love you 🖤” it says.

“I love you too 💛” you reply, smiling into the camera for just a moment, just for him.

[moonlight-prose]

the build a fic prompt list is so fun! for eddie:

dialogue: "i say this with all the love in my heart, but you look like shit."

emotion: fondness

place: at work, far later than you should be

petals on the moon

a/n: the new york boyfriend is back! honestly i can't think of anyone better to have adventures in new york with. i tried to stick with it being singularly at the workplace, but he's a menace and it's incredibly self indulgent. besides the song petals on the moon is the biggest inspiration. so i stuck with that vibe. i hope you enjoy it babes!

summary: the night hours at work were hours of the steady clack of his keyboard, the scent of burnt coffee from lunch, and yellowed lamps that needed an upgrade. you were the ghost that haunted halls of chipped paint and to do lists scrawled on extra pieces of paper. it might just take a miracle to bring you back to life, but thankfully eddie alden had a bit of magic on his side.

word count: 3.5k+

pairing: eddie alden x reader

warnings: fluff, romance, yearning + pining, eddie alden has a massive crush and is a dork about it, late night adventures, early 2000s romcom vibes, alcohol consumption, smoking, deep philosophical thoughts, smattering of angst.

Monotonous. Boring. Hours of wasted time, minutes of paperwork that dragged, seconds of stale air and ballpoint pens that always seemed to run out of ink.

Work was the last place you wanted to spend your free time—an endless loop of empty hallways you paced and rooms you haunted. Somehow at the end of each day you agreed to complete others tasks without hesitation. Others would claim that made you an idiot, you liked to say it made you the first in line for a promotion.

Really you did this to yourself. Cut off from the city beyond these cracked walls. Away from the possibility of adventures, from groups of strangers that could become your friends and allies. Isolation shouldn’t have crept up behind you, yet within moments you were trapped in its trap. Strung along webs of duties and responsibilities not of your own making.

Shuffling the stack of papers off your desk, you tried to lose yourself in the structure. This was your dream position, in a city you longed to remain in. A path you built with intent written in each brick.

So why were you so unhappy?

A notebook hit the floor with a bang, the noise filling the empty space of your office with ease. You flinched, reaching for the black moleskin with a sigh. The clock ticked above you, mocking the time you spent glued to a desk chair that held barely any support to keep you upright. Although you knew that in two hours time you would once again find yourself asleep against scratched wood and crinkled papers.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were a ghost.”

Surprise once etched your features at the sight of the office playboy staying late, but as the months went by you saw him for what he was. A man who valued his job more than anything else. He worked twice as hard for the same fucking pay. And a part of you wanted to hate him for it…if you weren’t exactly the same way.

“I am,” you said, balancing the journal atop an already precarious stack. “I died three years ago and apparently my unfinished business is still fucking paperwork.”

His laugh flipped a switch at the back of your mind, flooding the dormant body you’d grown used to with light. He woke you up like a shot of perfectly brewed espresso.

“Seems you got the shitty end of the deal in purgatory.”

“And yet here you are visiting me,” you retorted, biting back a smile large enough to ache. “So what kind of shitty deal did they offer you?”

Arms with a trail of veins you tried to ignore found a spot of clean space on your desk to rest on—his long body folding to collapse in your extra chair. “I was stupid enough to help create a new prime time segment.”

“Ah. Your first mistake was taking on more work. Even I could have told you that.”

He grinned, slightly overgrown hair curling towards his forehead. “Next time I’ll ask you. That is…if you’re still alive.”

“You know something I don’t Alden?”

“That’s classified.”

“Dick,” you scoffed.

“There is something I can say. Which I say this with all the love in my heart, but you look like shit."

Weeks spent alone in the office together gave you enough time to grow accustomed to his humor. The snide remarks and quips that held a reverence when said in the rasp of his voice. He shouted half the day, corralling people, fixing mistakes, but at night the glow of his brown eyes were lit with fondness. The low light of your office shadowed his face, drawing lines that weren’t there in his boyish charm. But you supposed that was the trick.

He gave the office—the world—what they yearned to see. A man who wrote off attachment. Alone in a world that seemed determined to breed solitude in beings who craved kinship.

Your brow raised, teeth finding a space on your cheek to mar. “Is this you being kind?”

The sigh lingered in the air—thick with worry and stress and the cynical words of a man who could barely fathom their taste. “This is me making you an offer.”

“Hopefully better than the crap they tried to sell me in purgatory.”

He laughed; your heart skipped. “Do you want to get outta here?”

“And go where?” you exclaimed. “This paperwork isn’t doing itself Alden.”

His groan rumbled from the bottom of his chest, his form hunched and brows knit. “Fuck the paperwork. We do enough for this shit hole anyways. They won’t care if we take one night off.” The desk shook as he surged to his feet, hand stretched—-eyes glimmering with something akin to hope. “Come with me.”

“Eddie I can’t just leave.”

“Come. With. Me.”

The paper would remain there haphazardly organized on a desk that shrunk by the day. What little space you had left vanished the longer you sat there hunched over meaningless periods and commas stuck in the wrong spot. Day by day you grew transparent to the eyes of your coworkers. A myth that roamed the halls, half a person in the eyes of those who got the chance to live.

What harm would there be in taking a night off?

“If I do this…”

“You won’t regret it,” he pressed. “I promise.”

His hand was warm, calloused beneath a thumb and forefinger that held pens far too tight and gripped equipment with the severity of a job that called for too much. A scar lined the side of his palm. Jagged and lined with a bump you could feel beneath your fingertips.

Scattered along every portion of his body existed pieces of his history. You longed to ask him about each mark. Each wound that once healed on the youthful body of a boy that still lingered underneath the outline of the man you knew.

In the harsh lights of an empty office that wouldn’t see life until dawn, you caught glimpses of that young twenty year old. The teenager who ran through his neighborhood with friends. The college kid dancing at frat parties he helped set up out of the kindness of his own heart (and free beer).

Eddie dragged you behind him with a boisterous laugh you could hear echo down empty hallways and vacant offices of your colleagues. “Are we going to roam the city?”

“Better,” he tossed over his shoulder. “You have yet to see the best view in the city.”

“I’ve been to the Empire State Building Eddie.”

He scoffed. “That’s a tourist spot.”

“And it was beautiful.”

“Sure if you’re a tourist.”

“I was a tourist-”

Whirling around you nearly slammed into his chest, his lips curled tight enough to crinkle the eyes that glowed even in the dim fluorescents of a stairwell. “That explains your lack of adventure.”

“Fuck you Alden.”

His teeth—that were far too straight and much too white—dug into his bottom lip, his cheek rounding. “I mean…we’ve got time.”

The swing of your fist thumped lazy and muted against his arm as he snorted laughed. His cheeks turned red, your body warmed beneath his gaze, and the definition of tonight changed thirty times in your head. Whether this was born out of friendship or tension you couldn’t discern, you enjoyed it nonetheless. Maybe you didn’t need to define this.

Maybe this would remain a silent memory shared between two lone souls both in need of connection.

“So what’s this supposed best view?” you asked, pushing the topic beyond what it would inevitably land on.

“You ever been to the roof?”

“The roof?” Your face dropped, humor dwindling as he unlatched the metal door you avoided on the daily. “That’s where we’re going on our grand adventure?”

He sighed, kicking it open with his boot. “Would you trust me?”

“You’re asking a lot of me tonight Alden. I might have to start taking note of all this trust.”

The groan you were rewarded with felt like victory in your eyes. “Just shut up and follow me.”

Following the command with ease, you clambered the last few stairs that entered to a dingy roof you’d only seen once before. During the daytime smog coated the sky, the sun glowed harsh and bruising along your long sleeved button down, and the scent of stale cigarettes had your nose scrunching before you could dart back inside.

At night the lights of New York flared to life with the brilliance of a New Years Eve display. Ordinary people living ordinary lives. Yet from a distance they resembled fireflies in the country—filling a darkened sky with hope and endless dreams you could practically hear shouted in the air. The scent of smoke dimmed with the view of humanity on display with all its wonders.

“Seven wonders forgot to include this,” he said with a smile, awe spilling past a grin you filed in the back of your mind.

“Is that…”

“You’re so called best view the Empire State?”

The towering building—the north star of the city—glowed with the light of all you came to this place for. “Holy shit. This is…incredible.”

“One thing about being at the Empire State is that you don’t get to see it in the view. That’s the whole point. Getting to see that beauty in the night sky.” He shuffled back, tugging something free from within a metal box that you knew belonged to the building’s super. “I swiped some wine from someone’s office earlier.”

“Eddie you can’t take shit-”

“Relax dove,” he cut in. “You’ll still make it to heaven.”

“I’m not religious.”

His head cocked to the right and for a moment you couldn’t rid yourself of the image of a puppy just learning to view their own reflection. “Well guess you learn somethin’ new everyday. Wine?”

There were no cups, no fancy acts of a rooftop meal that might inherently be viewed as romance, but you’d never been one for silly displays. He pulled the cork out with a shitty wine opener—using his teeth halfway through with a grunt of frustration—and passed you the bottle with a smile. Two souls lost to the depths of a late night job. To dedications that asked for far too much from people who deserved more than they were ever given.

You weren’t friends. You weren’t strangers.

But something tied the both of you together, looping around beating hearts and knotting in between rib-cages.

“I hate to say it. But you’re right Eddie.”

His head whipped to the side, lips pulling up high enough to blind you with his spectacular Eddie Alden smile. No wonder women fell so hard for his tricks. “Oh…say it again. Please.”

“Sorry. That’s a one time only deal,” you laughed, gulping down enough wine to burn the back of your throat. It filled your stomach with warmth, countering the chill that washed across bare arms and fresh faces.

“Mind if I smoke?” he asked, a cigarette already finding a home between his lips—his body leaning against the brick edging.

“Your territory. By all means.”

The snort echoed in your chest, ricocheting with intent. “My territory huh dove?”

“I figure you bring everyone you romance up here.”

“Is that what we’re doing here?” His brow quirked, lips still curled in that infuriating crooked shape of glee you could practically see a mile away. “Am I romancing you?”

You sipped at the bottle—avoidance tainting the moment. In the hopes that if you let him linger on the question a bit more he’d realize the absurd nature of his words. You weren’t his person. The other half of what seemed to be an overly filled soul. You were you and he was himself and there was no balance in that. No equilibrium within the chaos that was your lives.

Tonight was always bound to happen. Two people trapped with nowhere to go.

So where else was there to go but up?

You found the question leaving your mouth before it filtered through your mind. “Are you from here?”

“No,” he replied quickly. “Grew up in a smaller area than this.”

“Midwest?”

“East coast.”

“Learn something new every day,” you hummed.

Wine flowed with ease as you settled atop a stack of heavy boxes left out as storage. The city a backdrop you were already used to—drinking it down with each sip of that red liquid you felt wash down your throat.

Eddie leaned back with a trail of smoke curling around his head, eyes drooped with the buzz of a night spent in good company. “What about you? Why’d you come to New York?”

With a shrug, you took a gulp that nearly choked you—the burn of cool alcohol sliding down your throat. “Same reason most people come here. I had a dream to be working in films and L.A. felt too pretentious.”

“And this city isn’t?” The deadpan echo of his tone wasn’t lost on you even through the haze of alcohol.

“This city is whole. Do you know what I mean? It’s got different blocks that vary wildly in differences, but that’s the fun of it. You don’t know what’s coming, even if you’ve prepared for it.”

“The city of dreamers,” he mumbled, too fixated on the skyline to see how you trailed your gaze along his face. The curve of his jaw that lights played off, the curl of his lips wrapped around the butt of his half smoked cigarette.

You weren’t sure how it happened. Where two strangers suddenly found themselves in the territory of friendship, but half a bottle of wine and three cigarettes later you held loose tongues willing to spill just about anything. He handed over the cigarette without question, hazel eyes drinking in the way you sucked in the smoke with relief. As if you’d been waiting all day for someone to find this missing piece you didn’t know could exist.

“Alright I’ll go.” The cigarette tasted like him, the curve of his mouth and tip of his tongue. “What makes you cry? And just answer off the top of your head.”

He huffed. “Billy Joel’s song Piano Man.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

“I’m really not. It’s the first song I heard after I got the news I’d get to work here. Heard it in a bar where I grew up and even though the actual piano man was fucked up on scotch. He played it perfectly.”

“I guess that’s the power of Billy Joel.”

Eddie laughed, swallowing enough wine to spill past his lips, staining his throat with a red line you tracked breathlessly. “Maybe he possessed the guy.”

“Meh. I wouldn’t put it past Billy.”

“Yeah? You know somethin’ I don’t dove?”

“Wouldn’t you love to know Alden.”

Another puff and he stole it back, his fingers dragging along your chapped lips with a grin. “I guess it’s my turn. Alright…hm…if you could choose falling in love and you were guaranteed a lifetime of joy or the perfect career. Which would you go with?”

The answer surged to the forefront of your mind long before he finished the question. You knew what life had in store for you—a career, success beyond your wildest imagination. But the words stuck to the back of your throat. Sliding like acid along the soft tissue of your esophagus. You knew what you wanted. What you deserved. Yet dreams always found a way of making themselves known; a truth not even you were prepared for.

So it jarred you when you found yourself whispering love.

His eyebrows raised, cigarette poised along parted lips as if he couldn’t believe you would admit something like that. An unwritten rule of all New Yorkers who moved for their career. That allowing something else to interfere was a sin. The highest treason of dreamers who clawed their way to the top.

Suddenly meeting his eyes stirred something unknown in your stomach. A roiling storm that thundered in the base of your heart.

“I don’t know why,” you muttered.

“I do.”

Scoffing, you yanked a new cigarette from his pack and lit it with a shaky click. “Oh do enlighten me Eddie.”

“You want to be happy. And a career might satisfy that…competitive streak in your body, but it wouldn’t give you what you really want.” A shaky breath dragged your gaze back to the man who dug far too deep into your mind, yanking the thread of hopes and dreams out before you could beg him to stop. “You want what everyone hopes to have dove. A pathetic passionate love that has the chance to rip you a part.”

“Speaking from experience?”

He huffed, lips twisted into a wry grin. “At one point I would have thought so, but now… Listen you’re not the first to want love. You won’t be the last. Ain’t that what this whole thing is about?”

“What?”

“This.” He gestured to the city, the flickering lights that sparked with life. “Humanity wouldn’t have gotten this far if not for love.”

You wanted to kiss him. It wasn’t an entirely new revelation, nor a thought you never had before. You supposed everyone in the office thought about kissing Eddie Alden at some point, but few got the chance to grab his attention. But there he sat a few inches away, smoking lazily as if he hadn’t begun to rip you open with an unwarranted autopsy. You didn’t just want to kiss him—somewhere in the back of your mind you understood this would happen.

How long could strangers go on in the permanence of the unknown?

“Why did you invite me up here tonight Eddie?”

He paused, exhaling enough smoke to cloud his face for a brief second. “I like you dove. You’re…different.”

“Aw shucks I bet you say that to all the girls in the office.”

“They aren’t much for conversations at midnight.”

“Is it really midnight?”

“It’s really midnight,” he said with such simplicity.

Silence perforated the space between you, giving you a chance to breathe before he was shifting his long body closer. His cigarette was stamped out on the metal box, leaving a mark alongside hundreds more exactly like it. A fluid movement of second nature you longed to see again. When he cupped your chin you didn’t say anything, opting to find his gaze in the darkness of the roof—a place permanently etched with the memory of strangers becoming something more.

“Is it cliche to say let’s pretend it’s New Years?”

You smiled, fingers finally tangling in the hair at the base of his skull. “I don’t mind the cliches.”

“Hm,” he grinned. “You learn something new every day.”

“Are you gonna talk or are you actually going to kiss me-”

The taste of wine and menthol became an addiction off his tongue, his lips just as chapped as yours. Eddie didn’t kiss with overwhelming lust. Though he was capable—this you were sure of—he kissed you with a sigh. The release of all he ached for now spreading up and into the back of your throat. His lips molded over yours, tongue sliding deep, and you grew dizzy with it.

His taste, his touch. They dragged you through a dance your own dreams couldn’t imagine.

Maybe this was it. That lingering ache you searched high and low for all throughout New York. Maybe all you had to do was finally give yourself over to the man you least expected to want you. Eddie moaned into your mouth, a wet broken sound you burned into the back of your mind. You’d replay it over and over on the way home.

Licking into his mouth, you pulled him close enough to nearly tip over the edge of the boxes. The clatter of the wine bottle falling forced you to break away for a gasp of cold air. Only for his mouth to find a home at the base of your jaw.

“Happy New Year,” you smiled, shivering at the heat of his breath along your cold skin.

“Got a few months to go dove,” he mumbled, nipping hard enough to draw a yelp.

“Well…then we’ve got time to practice.”

He laughed, hands latching onto your hips to keep you from falling; you never wanted to go back downstairs again. “Practice huh?”

“I hear it makes things perfect.”

“Insufferable,” he groaned. “If only I’d have known.”

“Then you would have picked someone else?”

The brush of his lips silenced killed the humor at the back of your throat—a needy ache spreading down to the tips of your fingers. “Wouldn’t dream of it baby.”

Noise echoed in the background as he drew you into another round, but everything shone just a bit brighter in the hue of his love. You didn’t need the career, the success. Shit you barely even needed to find joy in this job. You were always searching for the one thing Eddie couldn’t bring himself to admit—someone to confess your dreams to.

The words were there, unspoken yet loud enough to ring in your ears. The truth of finally getting what you wanted.

You needed a dreamer like him, just as he did.

[sorrowfulrosebud]

I need to punish Denki so bad. Imagine working from home, clacking away at your keyboard as you complete your task before the deadline. Everything was going as smooth as possible.

Until your blonde boyfriend decided his growing cock needed you.

(Dom/sub themes and toys hehe)

“Baaaaaaaaabe?” He draws out, slinking his way into your office. You smile at him as you continue to work.

“Hi angel, anything I can help with?” Your eyes flicker between the two of you. Kaminari huffs as he slides near your computer.

“You’ve been working alllllll day,” he whines, nestling his head into your neck and pressing small, open mouthed kisses to the soft flesh. He was naked above the waist, his waist looking so grabbable.

“I’m bored master, come play with me,” he murmurs seductively into your ear. You were suddenly very aware of the tinkle of the bell on his collar that we wore when he was in the horniest of moods; the days when you had full permission to ravage him.

Your hands reach behind you to play with his hair. He snuggles closer to you.

“I’m sorry sweetpea, I have to work a bit more. Be a good boy and wait for me, then I’ll play with you allll you want,” you promise him, releasing his locks as you continue to type.

Kaminari huffs slightly, grumpy you were ‘prioritising your work over your sub’. A cheeky grin crosses his face as he leans down and presses more kisses to your cheeks.

“Denki, I’m not kidding. I have a deadline. You can be good and wait, I’m sure,” you say more firmly. Kaminari grins, seeing you already fall for his plans. His slender arms wrap around your waist as he plonks his head against yours.

“Can’t I at least sit on your lap as you work? I just want to be close to you,” he pouts and mumbles, rubbing his cheeks against yours. An annoyed huff leaves you as you glare at him.

“Fine, you can come sit on my lap. Any funny business, or rule breaking, will be punished,” you said firmly. You shifted your chair to make room for him.

I’m counting on it, Kaminari giggled internally.

He slunk his body around you, comfortably spooning you as you worked. You had to admit; the soft breathing and gentle weight of your sub provided comfort during this stressful work. Your hand found refuge in the small of his back, right near the dimples that pinched his lower spine.

Despite being strict before, you did occasionally reward Denki with a soft kiss to his head, and the soft petting of his electric yellow locks. Denki wasn’t going to admit any time soon that he was beginning to lose sight of his original plan as he nosed your neck and let out sleepy sighs.

He allows a contented giggle to leave him, nuzzling into you as he rocks his hips slightly. His smile falters as your grip becomes tighter.

“Denki. Don’t.” The order was firm and harsh as he whined.

“Sorry master, I just wanted to get comfy,” he pouts sleepily. You nod suspiciously, rubbing the small of his back as you focus again. He buries his head into your neck, breaths slowing again. He had to be methodical.

He waited a few minutes between each rolling of the hips. Your grip tightened after each roll, but you allowed him to continue humping you. Denki’s whines were quiet at first; soft pants in your ear as his leaky cock rutted against your tummy. He could hear your sigh of disappointment, before you clutched his hips close to you.

“Get it out of your system,” you say blankly. Frankly, Denki was too horny to care about your empty voice. He took your invitation with great pleasure. He whimpered and hiccuped at every rut, precum ruining your shirt.

“Masterrr, hurtssss,” he whined, holding you as tightly as he could. He finished against you with a high pitched moan. Cum was sprayed over the fabric of your shirt as he huffed and puffed next to you. Amber eyes flicked to you, immediately getting nervous when he sees your disappointed glare.

“I um-” he started, holding your shirt as he excused himself. You stop him with a sharp slap to the ass, making him squeak in pain.

“No no no brat, you wanted master to play? Fine. Get on the bed,” you command lowly, squeezing his hips to prove your point. Denki whimpered a little, his cock elevating again.

He presented himself on the bed, sat on his knees with his hands in his lap as you rootle in the drawers.

“Close your eyes and turn around,” you snap, closing the drawer. Denki obeys excitedly as he feels you pull his arms behind his back.

Low moans are let out as he recognises the familiar grit of the rope you have. It wraps prettily around his upper arms, then wrists. You wrap a few loops around his sensitive chest, smacking his thigh when he whines too loud.

A thick blindfold is wrapped around his head, secured tightly to him. He shook his head experimentally, grinning in delight when he couldn’t shake it off.

“Turn around,” you said, digging into the drawer again. Denki obeys immediately. He shuddered at your cold hands pawing at his thighs. He felt you pause at the sight of the garters around his slender legs, jumping when you slap them.

“Spread your legs, pet. Keep them spread for master,” you coo, rubbing his sensitive nipples through his shirt. Denki had to swallow, Adam’s Apple bobbing. His legs part, cock leaking immense precum.

More rope is tied. You start at the top of his legs, securing the rope from his thigh to his ankle. You repeated the process from one leg to another as Denki moaned slightly. He was effectively frog-tied now, whimpering and mumbling your name.

“You were such a bad little pet, weren’t you Denki? You just wanted master’s attention, didn’t you,” you coo pathetically at him. He couldn’t help the tears in his eyes as sub space makes his eyes go glossy.

“Mhm! Jus- just wanted your attention master!” He whines, rubbing the ropes off his body. You tut at him, holding a few more toys.

“Colour, pet,” you demand. Denki grins slightly wobbly, pleasure making him giddy.

“Green,” he giggles.

“Excellent.” You held up the dildo ball gag, rubbing the tip on his wet lips. His tongue immediately makes its way around the tip, running it along the underside and suckling the tip. You allow him to get used to the girth, considering how long he would be wearing it.

Slowly, you push each inch in. You monitor his hands behind you, making sure he didn’t signify the safe symbol. At the sight of his dormant hands, you push the rest of the silicone in. He gags at first, his throat game slightly rusty since it’s been a while.

You coo praises at him, pushing the ball behind his teeth as you buckle the back. His muffled whines amplify as you let out a few experimental smacks to his chest and thighs. His cock quivered at the smacks, the tip releasing pearly droplets of precum.

“Such a good little cock slut, aren’t you Denki?” You praise him, slowly turning him so that he was lying on his tummy. The sub moaned and whined in return as he felt your fingers gently trace his taint.

Denki couldn’t help the squeal that left him as you ripped open his shorts to reveal a glinting butt plug twinkling back at you.

“Such a good boy. You prepped yourself for me?” You praise him, slapping his ass cheeks. Denki sobbed and whined as you shushed him gently, rubbing his reddened cheeks with care. You circle the butt plug with a feather light touch, before slowly inching it out. His hole gaped afterwards as he sobbed in relief. Little did he know, the vibrating bunny that was going to be slid into his tight little cunt.

You tease his hole with the toy, slowly sliding it along his balls and cock. He whimpers and chokes on his gag, arching his back. You coo at him again, before pressing the tip to his tight hole.

He gasps as loud as he could as the tip sliiiiides right through his cunt, making him choke on the dildo sitting snug in his throat. You soothe his whimpers by rubbing his ass cheeks, until the toy finally bottomed out in him.

Your pillow was drenched in his drool, the breathing from his nose being one of the few sounds. You praise your sub for taking it so well, kissing his neck as you grabbed for more rope.

You fashioned a loop that wrapped around his cock to the toy, then straddling it to his leg. The bunny came just between his balls, uncomfortably prodding at his cock as he finally understood what was happening.

A low buzzing filled the room as you clicked the toy to the lowest setting, delighted in hearing your sub’s whimpers of pleasure. His head was spinning at the feeling of the cock in his throat, and the buzzing toy up his ass. He struggled against the rope as he moaned, spreading drool all over himself.

He felt you sit near his head as you stroked his locks and kissed his cheek.

“Now, be a good boy and wait here while master finishes that work,” you murmur, laughing at his confused muffle before he struggles more in protest. You shut that up immediately by increasing the power of the toy, melting the poor sub into the bedsheets.

His muffled cries went straight to your core, making you throb as you felt a tiny inkling of guilt. This wasn’t a new punishment; there had been many a time you had to tie him up to keep him from bothering you (fully consensual of course). You fumbled in the drawer for the last toy; a heavy set of noise cancelling headphones.

“Remember our safety signal, pet?” You ask him seriously, rubbing your fingers down his spine. He sniffles pathetically before nodding with a squeaky moan. Small sparks of electricity popped off of his body into the air, before stopping.

“Good boy. I am going to be checking on you every once in a while, but for now, you must be punished. Do you understand me?” You stand up, making Denki chase your warmth.

He, again, sniffs and nods before arching his back when the toy brushes his prostate.

“That’s my bratty sub. Now, lift your head up,” you coo at him, snapping the headphones on him. He was left to his own pleasure, swarmed in darkness as he could only focus on the brushing of his prostate and the dildo lodged in his throat.

You pressed one final kiss to his sweaty head, a sharp slap to his ass and sat down to your computer to type once again.

[arget-star]

The first time you meet Kiryu, you have no clue who he is.

A half-healed cut bisects his bottom lip. The fading bruise beneath his right eye tints the skin yellow, and he carries himself with the relaxed confidence of someone utterly content with his place in life.

In hindsight, the piercings and pink hair should have given it away, but you’re far too distracted by the injuries and the fact that he’s wearing a suit jacket that’s a size too big. Not a terrible look, all things considered, but you still eye him a bit warily as you claim a seat in the lobby. Growing up in a town like Makochi instills a certain innate caution.

You adjust the papers in your hands, crossing your legs primly as you settle in your chair before stealing another glance at the beat-up man. He catches you looking, offering a lazy smile in return. You flush, quickly looking away, hoping he won’t take your shameless staring as an invitation to start something. He doesn’t give you the impression of a sleazy creep. Maybe he’s here to interview as well and merely got caught in the crosshairs of some gang fight. Not an uncommon occurrence—at your last job, your well-meaning but nonfighter of a coworker earned a black eye for his efforts trying to distract a group of delinquents from chasing after another highschooler.

Honestly, you should know better. You shake your head and fold your hands in your lap, focusing on the paintings decorating the far wall. The overlapping geometric shapes are painted in a riot of colors that add to the cheery feeling of the room. Floor to ceiling windows dominate the opposite wall; morning sunlight spills in and stripes the tiled floor.

The receptionist you’d first spoken with types away on her keyboard. A melodic chime breaks the rhythmic clacking. Against your better judgement, you glance up at your lobby-mate, who now has his phone in hand, thumbs tapping furiously against the screen. The corners of his lips turn down in disappointment at whatever he sees.

Again, he catches you watching him. His eyebrow piercing crinkles as he smiles. “Too loud? I forgot my earbuds,” he sighs, absently swiping a pointer finger across the phone screen.

His voice is lighter than you’d expect. Everything about this boy catches you off guard. The game chimes again and it brings you out of your thoughts. “No, I don’t mind.”

He tilts his head, a row of ear piercings glinting in the light. “Are you here for the interview?”

If he’s a fellow candidate, there’s really no harm in mentioning you’re competing for the same spot, right? “I am,” you reply, unconsciously flicking your gaze to his injuries. The man notices, then laughs, turning his phone off and letting it plop into his lap.

You don’t know why his laugh makes heat creep up the back of your neck.

“This isn’t so bad. Looks worse than it feels. Though now I have to wait to get my lip pierced.” A lithe, long fingered hand comes up and gingerly taps his bottom lip, presumably in the place he wants the jewelry. The sleeve of his jacket covers half his palm.

Your brows furrow. Are so many facial piercings allowed at a place like this?

He’s about to say something when distant voices draw your attention. The man stands in one fluid motion, phone slipping into his pants pocket. “I’m just waiting for my sister,” he says, unprompted. “Good luck in there! I think they’ll like you.”

What—? Your lips part in confusion. Or surprise. He talks like he knows the interviewers intimately. “Who…thank you,” you manage, recovering the last of your professionalism.

“Oh! I never did introduce myself. Kiryu Mitsuki.”

And now you feel stupid for not making the connection earlier. Everyone’s heard of the wayward son from Mitsuki Enterprises. A delinquent, a kid who eschewed everything his parents stood for. But he doesn’t act like someone who is estranged from his family; in fact, he seems rather loved, if the way he mentioned his sister is anything to go by.

The corner of his lips tilt as he watches whatever flits across your expression. Automatic, you give your own name in return. “A pleasure to meet you, Kiryu-san.”

The voices grow closer. “See you around,” he says, turning around and lifting his hand in a wave.

You wave at his retreating back and hope his words ring true.

[chickenkurage]

(TAWW!Week) DAY 6: SLEEP DEPRIVATION

Teen Alan AU

Summary: Second wakes up to find Alan is still awake, he worries.

Tags: Comfort no Hurt

It was rare for Second to wake up to any kind of noise. Not because he was a deep sleeper—far from it—but living with the Color Gang had effectively desensitized him to most sounds. They were loud, chaotic, and utterly unpredictable, but he’d learned to tune them out. Survival instincts, probably.

Still, as he cracked one eye open, the clock above his bed glowed 4:00 AM. And yet, there it was—that faint, incessant click-clack of a keyboard, piercing through the silence. He groaned, tempted to kick the wall dividing his room from Yellow’s. Why does he type so damn loud?

Yellow was either a nocturnal maniac or just suicidal. Second was honestly leaning toward the latter because, as far as he could tell, the guy never slept. Always hunched over his laptop, obsessively typing away. And now, at a most ungodly hour, that rhythmic tapping was starting to grate on Second’s nerves.

Not that Second didn’t love the gang. He really did. He didn’t even care when they raved at 3 AM or when Green decided to set things on fire for no reason. But sometimes… sometimes, he worried about their well-being. Did they sleep? Did they eat? Did they even breathe half the time?

With a sigh, Second sat up on his bed. His legs dangled awkwardly over the edge—curse these stupid Minecraft-sized beds—his knees pulled up to his chest every night just to fit. One of these days, he told himself, he’d build a bigger bed. But not today. Today, he had to deal with Yellow.

Getting to his feet, he stretched lazily, his joints popping faintly in the silence as he shuffled out of his room. The hallway was dark, the torches removed—Blue’s doing, no doubt. Second stifled a yawn and trudged toward Yellow’s room, the persistent keyboard clacking still ringing in his ears.

But as he approached Yellow’s door, he paused. The sound wasn’t coming from there. Still, for good measure, he cracked the door open.

Yellow was curled up in his bed, his laptop hugged tightly to his chest, blanket kicked halfway off the mattress. Even in sleep, the guy couldn’t let go of his precious laptop. Second sighed, stepping inside to pull the blanket over Yellow’s shoulders. The other stirred briefly but soon settled, his breathing steady and deep once more.

Second exhaled softly, relieved, and tiptoed out of the room, closing the door with care. But the tapping noise still lingered, echoing faintly in the quiet house.

If it’s not Yellow, then who?

He checked Green’s room next. Nothing. Green was snoring softly, sprawled across his bed like a starfish.

Blue’s room? Also a no. Blue didn’t even own a laptop, and Second doubted he’d ever touch one.

Finally, he peeked into Red’s room. Red was fast asleep, curled up with Reuben, the pig snoring loudly beside him.

Scratching his head, Second stood in the dark living room, baffled. His brain, still foggy with sleep, struggled to piece it together. 

His brain is still fogged with sleep, and all he wants is to crawl back into bed and drift off again. But that incessant tapping noise isn't helping, and lack of sleep has always made him easily irritable.

Who's making that noise? The thought nags at him as he drags himself toward the door, his steps sluggish. He cracks it open slightly, only to wince as a blinding flash of white light hits him right in the face. A Google tab is open, set to Light Mode, and the harsh glow stings his eyes. He quickly shuts the door, rubbing his face in confusion.

Everyone else should be asleep by now. It’s late—no, early. Too early. Which means there’s only one possible culprit.

Alan.

Alan must have forgotten to mute his mic again.

Second mutters under his breath, still groggy as he pulls the door open once more and steps out. The glow feels even brighter now, and he squints, focusing on the scene ahead. Sure enough, it’s Alan. The teen is hunched over his desk, tapping away at something.

What on earth is he doing at this hour?

Second crosses the desktop, his irritation giving way to curiosity. It’s 4 in the morning—no kid should be awake at this time, let alone working on something.

“Alan?” Second calls, his voice sharp enough to startle the teen. Alan jerks upright, his head snapping toward Second, his face pale in the light of the monitor.

“S-Second? Why are you still up?” Alan stammers, his eyes wide.

Second tilts his head, arms crossed like a disapproving parent. His foot taps rhythmically against the desk. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

Alan winces under Second’s gaze, his hand flying to the back of his neck as he rubs it awkwardly. Now that Second’s eyes have adjusted to the brightness, he notices the dark circles under Alan’s eyes. They’re heavy, like bruises, evidence of more than just one sleepless night.

When was the last time this kid even slept properly?

Second tilts his head. He doesn’t know much about school, not firsthand anyway. Between everyone in this computer, Red is the only one who’s experienced it—and even then, it was monster school, which Second doubts is remotely the same. But he does know this: school shouldn’t push someone to the point of exhaustion.

“What’s got you so stressed that you’re still awake at four in the morning?” Second asks, his tone softer now. He hops onto the google tab to peer over on what Alan is looking at. A few landscape images are open in separate tabs, scenic views of mountains, beaches, and forests.

Alan’s face darkens, his shoulders slumping under the weight of Second’s question. “A-Ah… how did you know?” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. He buries his face in his hands, his words muffled as he continues. “We have this project for school… We’re supposed to illustrate a place that holds our best memory.”

Second waits for him to talk again. He doesn’t interrupt, letting Alan explain.

“But…” Alan hesitates, his voice cracking slightly. “I don’t really have a place like that. I’ve never been anywhere that meant something to me. So I’ve been… searching for pictures. I thought maybe I could… I don’t know… fake it.” His cheeks flush with shame as he admits it, his fingers fidgeting nervously in his lap.

“Oh… Does it have to be somewhere outside?” Second asked, his gaze flicking between the images on the screen—pictures of forests, beaches, and other scenic outdoor locations. There was a distinct pattern.

Alan tilted his head, seeming to consider the question. “Ah, well… She didn’t explicitly say it had to be outdoors,” he admitted, his voice tinged with hesitation. “But I kind of assumed it would be.”

Second snorted, shaking his head. “If she didn’t explicitly say it, then why not draw something different? Like, I don’t know… the interior of your house?”

Alan fell silent at that, rubbing his forehead as if the idea hadn’t even crossed his mind. “That’s true… But what if I get it wrong?”

Second sighed. “You said yourself that she didn’t say anything about it having to be outside. So, let me ask you this: what’s a place you really like?”

Alan hummed thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. “I guess… home? I mean, Mom is here, you guys are always around, and DJ drops by more often than not.”

Second chuckled, leaning forward and smirking. “Then there’s your answer. You don’t need all this,” he said, standing up and closing the images Alan had been browsing.

Alan blinked, then let out a small laugh, his shoulders visibly relaxing as if a weight had just been lifted. “Ah… You’re so right, Second,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck while adjusting the glasses on his face. His tone carried a mix of relief and embarrassment.

Second raised a hand, cutting him off before he could say more. “But first,” he said, voice firm, “you need to go to sleep.”

Alan froze, blinking in surprise before blushing. “I guess… I was overthinking it a little too much,” he admitted, his voice shaky as he scratched his cheek in embarrassment.

“You don’t say,” Second replied dryly, tilting his head.

Alan giggled softly, covering his smile with his fist. “Good night, Sec.”

“Good night, Al,” Second said with a fond sigh, waving him off. “And go to sleep right away—it’s already four in the morning.”

Alan gave him a sheepish thumbs-up as he stood from his chair. “Sleep well,” he added as he moved to his bed on the far side of the room. Second watched as Alan straightened his blankets and lay down, finally reaching for the lamp beside him and switching it off. The room dimmed, leaving the faint glow of the computer screen.

Second allowed himself a small smile. “Mission: Make Alan sleep—success,” he whispered, pumping his fist in triumph. He felt a flicker of pride in his chest.

But the moment didn’t last long.

“What are you doing?” a groggy voice asked behind him.

Second let out an undignified shriek, spinning around to see Red standing in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. Reuben, nestled in Red’s arms, let out a loud, snorting yawn.

Caught red-handed, Second froze, his face heating up. “…Nothing.”

Red stares at him, unimpressed.

[hannahssimblr]

Dublin is blanketed in white when I land, weary from the flight. It is evening, after sunset, when mom picks me up at the terminal. Eight inches of snow perched on top of her Audi, heated seats on full. Weird sensation, sitting on them, I’ve always thought. Like being transported back in time. The childhood sensation of having pissed oneself. 

“You look different,” I say as she pecks my cheek. “Were you at the clinic recently?”

“It’s not polite to point something like that out.”

“Oh, right. Well, it looks good. Whatever you’ve done.”

A thin smile, and her eyes and forehead don’t move. As we drive, I wonder absently how much my mother’s face is worth. Her clothes, too, the specific shade of her hair, blonder now than before and the yellow gold bracelet watch fastened to her wrist. Manicured nails on fingers, curled around the leather bound wheel. I suppose in some way I once thought of her—dad too, as walking, talking, great bursting wallets of money, but it’s jarring to see it so clearly, to feel confronted by it upon returning.

I rest my head on the window, forehead rattling against the glass as the car sinks into the port tunnel, perfect darkness, cat eyes illuminated by the headlights, then we emerge and swoosh into suburbia. A strange stillness about it under the snow. Squat little hedges of the council houses capped with it, golden glow of the streetlights illuminating drifts swirling in the air. Lazy curls of smoke from chimneys. Entering Clontarf, then, with its arrogant beauty. The manicured lawn by the seafront now a perfect white expanse. The odd runner still out there in their gore tex, jogging beneath brittle trees, obsessed with being seen doing it. Always upholding that insane pressure to keep busy, to prove their worth to other people, even when the world has paused. 

Tyres crunch on the stones in the driveway as we pull in. The snow’s all shovelled from the steps, a neat pile by the flower beds. TV is on inside, flickering pictures and a warm glow pour from the window onto the ground. Weird how inviting it is, giving the house an allure it never really had. This place I’d sort of dread after a day at school now looks warm. I remember how many steps it is from the gate to the door. Fourteen. Counting down toward the worst portion of my day, fantasizing about the future, when I would live somewhere else instead. 

The underfloor heating is on, and the stove in the dining room, though the facade of perfection fades as soon as I enter. Piles of laundry on the stairs, fingerprints on the mirror and bits of dust and lint on the rug. In the kitchen, too, dishes have piled in the sink, coffee stains on the counter, Ivy’s school things fanned out over the table along with a half-empty mug of hot chocolate. I frown.

“The cleaner hasn’t been able to come,” mom says, before I can ask. “The trains and busses have stopped on account of the snow. She didn’t feel it was appropriate to come to work this week.”

“Ah, I see. I actually didn’t realise she did so much.”

“Yes, well. We all have our own things to do.”

“I see that.” Glancing then down the hallway, the muffled sound of the television from the living room, faint keyboard clacking from Dad’s study. Still in there, like a hermit. I used to think he noticed everything in this house, that nothing could escape his scrutiny, a cushion out of place, a cup left in the sink. Once, the cleaner spilled rinse-aid inside the cupboard, and he spent the next morning making passive-aggressive comments about it to her, all of us cringing in silence around the breakfast table. Funny how far he’s let it go now when she’s away. Almost like it wasn’t about the rinse-aid at all. 

“Is Ivy home?”

“Of course.”

“She hasn’t shown herself.”

“I suppose she’s doing her own thing.”

Her own thing? Yeah, fine. It’s just I am used to her being the first person I see when I come home. Waiting on the doorstep, bounding down the stairs to fling herself at my legs, but this time I haven’t heard a peep. 

Gingerly, I push into the living room, where she’s on the couch, playing Temple Run with her feet up on the seats.

“Ivy?”

She glances around. “Hi.”

“Hi.” She is different. Her face is changing—growing out of its childishness. Longer, less round, and I see she’s taller, too. I notice changes like this more easily now. Not seeing her for stretches of months at a time makes it possible to see how fast things are happening. How a year ago, when she was ten, we made friendship bracelets from a kit she got for Christmas, and now, she’s playing games on an iPhone. 

“C’mere, I’m home,” I say, and she looks up. The temple runner strides off the edge of the path and into the water as she loses the game. She purses her lips, thumb hesitates on the continue? button, then lays the phone on the cushion. Our hug is awkward, a bit. I suppose she’s becoming that, too. The embarrassment of pre-teen existence is starting to creep in on her. I remember the pain of it, but don’t recall being so young when it was me. Eleven. What was I doing at her age? Eleven replays like a series of random, uncomfortable events. The agony of being caught between one stage and the next. Repeating another thing I heard without knowing the meaning. Someone from school asking me who I fancied before I had those feelings. Another humiliating conversation with dad.

The Temple Run game-over screen music drums repetitively from the couch, and I glance at it, thick, pink, silicone cover. Taking her arms to look at her. She’s not so soft now. Lean muscle, like she’s stretching toward adolescence. “That’s not your phone, is it?”

“Yeah,” she says, small shrug of one shoulder, and I huff out a laugh at the reality of it as much as her curated nonchalance. “Mom got you an iPhone?”

“A few of the girls at her school got one for Christmas,” that’s mom, in the doorway. “We thought she should have one, too.”

“That’s cool, yeah. I think I was thirteen when I finally got that Nokia.”

“Yes, well. Things are different now.” 

I pull a face at Ivy that mom cannot see. No need to be defensive, kind of look. My sister gives me a wry smile then returns to her phone, swiping through the level, sounds of those shrieking monkeys looping, the rhythmic huh-uh of the runner. Mom goes to the kitchen and I take a seat, half-watching the television, feeling like a stranger who has wandered in from the street. Outside, the snow keeps falling, heavier now, covering the tyre tracks on the road, the driveway, the steps, the neat pile by the flowerbeds. By morning, it will all be buried again. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[qwimblenorrisstan]

tw: death, suicide, implied child abuse, theconstantconcernofbecomingyourevilparent(trademark), self hatred, symbolism idk man

Alex Mason had died five minutes ago.

Frank Woods knew this to be true.

His ashen, cold skin, his lifeless body, paling lips, but god, it was the eyes that gave it away. Those cold, misted-over eyes, missing something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something integral.

Frank had held him. Cradled him. As if the very affection would bring him back, nurture him to life through acts of love he’d never had the bravery to show before.

Foolish, thinking back on it.

It didn’t work, of course. Alex Mason stayed dead.

His death hadn’t been something big or grand. Simply a blunt statement. The clack of a keyboard. The thud of a mallet.

Disappointing, really.

He’d carried so much life. His hands a white-hot brand on Woods, his words, actions, personality, his every living breathing moment made a mosaic of who Frank Woods was, who he could have comfort in being during the quiet moments in his head, when the yelling and the shattering of glass, soot staining the walls, the yellow of cigarette smoke thickly building on old, peeling wallpaper, when it grew too much.

He wasn’t scrubbing it away, scraping at it, erasing what was beneath. No, he’d simply plastered the holes, filling what he could from what little he’d owned, selfless in those quiet moments, and built up from there.

The soot would never leave those walls. An ugly reminder of the truth, who he was, who he would always be, whether it was in the dirt and blood of an unknown soldier beneath his fingernails, or his charcoal-colored hair all too reminiscent of pictures hanging on walls, he’d been doomed for it from the start.

He was a soldier. He followed orders. Did what he was told.

However, as he wrapped his dirtied hand around Mason’s dog tag, dirtying it, always failing to notice the dents already in it, the caked-up mud already there, he allowed himself a tug.

Selfish. That’s what he was.

He’d had his cookie-cutter from the beginning, but had took and took, knowing what it would amount to from the start. He couldn’t break the mold.

The metallic taste of blood and iron flooded his dulled senses as he slipped the dog tag between his lips, biting down on it, putting a final dent there.

A brand. A sign he was there.

And maybe, as his numb hand wrapped around the handle of a gun, cocked back the hammer with a click his mother would recognize, he wanted that sign to be there just for the comfort of not being forgotten.

Selfish.

Or maybe it was because he wanted to show that he wasn’t his father. Wouldn’t be able to break the mold, but would be able to stop the metal from cooling.

Stupid.

The metal of the dog tag was malleable under his teeth, canine and molars leaving an imprint, not too unlike one he’d left on a warm, still-alive Alex’s body a few hours ago.

Spoiled.

Or maybe, he mused, as he slid the gun beneath his chin, aimed up, sky high to the heavens, a place he knew he wouldn’t be going, it was simply because he wanted to die with a shred of dignity, the name of an honorable man imprinted on his tongue, a man he could’ve owned, kept to himself, safe from war, staining him through and through with his filth until he’d understand.

A coward’s way out. But he hadn’t gone to war as a willing man.

Taking one long, last look into his friend, comrade, lover, and partner’s eyes, he cherished the last remnants of the sight, knowing as he pulled the trigger, that there wouldn’t be much green to remind him, not where he was headed.

[goodolddumbbanana]

TO BE A MIRROR [7]

Summary: Sun was dead (sort of). It wasn't anyone's fault (it was Nexus's fault), but anyway that poor boy was in a deep coma, too weak to get out of his own head.

Nexus had no regrets. But for some reason, recently, he had hallucinations of Sun.

*** Warning: kinda nonsense, unrelied narative. I am not actually like this chap. It feels like no matter what I try, I couldn't interpret good enough. Anyway, maybe write it again later.

The lab was silent, save for Nexus, who was still working. The sky was a heavy, burning orange, casting soft yellow streaks back onto his desk. There was the rustling of papers, and the clacking of keyboards. Nexus's crimson eyes stared up at the projection screen, the specs and energy levels of the Wither Storm fragments so large and so difficult to understand that they fascinated Nexus, like a puzzle he was eager to solve.

‘So this is what you did after killing me, brother?’

The high-pitched, shrill voice rang out from behind Nexus, so suddenly that his steady typing speed suddenly stopped.

At the corner of Nexus’s eyes, a yellow animatronic appeared. In the cold white of the lab and the oppressive black of the machines, their yellow silhouettes seemed to glow brightly, warming the room.

‘How filthy, I thought when you had your own robots, you would keep the room cleaner.’

The smile that stretched across Nexus’s face twisted a bit. He ignored its presence, trying to focus on the new discovery he had made about the Wither Storms.

Hallucinations were nothing new to Nexus, and he didn’t care if he had another one either.

It's not like he regretted what he did. Especially when he doesn't have much time left.

Continuing to look through the papers, Nexus’s ears twitched as he heard a loud noise behind him. The bells jingled irritatingly, the familiar whistling of cleaning was seared into Nexus’s memories. He knew exactly what they were touching, and their clumsy hands would inevitably drop something—

‘Look at this room… It’s so dirty, messy… Guess you and Moon are no different—’

“THAT CREATURE AND ME ARE NOTHING LIKE THIS!!!”

Nexus screamed. He jumped out of his chair, twisting to face the nuisance, but suddenly, he couldn't say any words. There was no sound to escape his voice box.

Sun…

The ghost of the man he had coldly murdered looked as cheerful as ever.

‘Oh, and so now you notice me?’

Silence gave way to an answer.

‘Do you like what you see?’

The sun-themed face, stained in soot. The milky white eyes, now glinting with the color of Wither shards, squinted into a smile. Their entire bodies were drenched in a black, shiny oil, dripping with every step they took. The smell of burnt cloth and tar wafted to Nexus’s nose, making him want to vomit…

The energy of magic and star power filled the air. The expression was pained and exhausted, the eyes flashed with unbridled anger in a body that was about to shatter into pieces. The words were like poison that escaped Sun’s mouth like a ghost in Nexus’s ears, but he was too busy laughing, too busy enjoying the horrified look on Moon’s face, that he couldn’t care about the consequences he had caused.

‘Are you satisfied now, Nexus?’

Sun's lavender eyes smiled dully. There was oil around Sun's face, his body always kept shiny, now smelled horribly of negative star power and stained with dirt. 

For the first time since Nexus had discarded his soul, he felt a tinge of guilt.

***

When Nexus first saw Sun, he thought…

‘That guy is truly a poor wretch.’

They looked as if they had just stepped out of the pit of hell, and were constantly shaking like leaves. Their shoulders were stiff, their joints were too tense, their hands were about to tear the already tattered ribbons wrapped around their wrists.

They almost nestled into Earth, their milky eyes frozen like a fawn when he entered. The pain in those eyes was so intense that the code of ‘Moon’ bounced nonstop, urging him to move closer, instinctively hugging the yellow animatronic to his chest.

But they immediately lowered their eyes, their incomprehensible body language both warning him to stay away from them and begging him to come closer.

A not-so-light confusion was felt by the newborn moon animatronic, and a vague feeling of pain rose in his chest from where he saw the person who was called his ‘twin’, reluctantly avoiding him.

‘What did I do wrong? ’

It was a naive question. Later, while looking through the channel, with a sickly feeling in his throat, Nexus learned that he had done a lot wrong.

Especially for this person he so claimed he loved him.

What a sick twisted monster. He thought gloomily, the reflective surface of the screen still imprinted the image of Sun's cracked face.

***

“What are you doing here? Don’t you have a family to haunt?!”

Nexus was grumpy. He knew it was all in his head, but he was still drawn into these illusions. He thought that after pulling out that bastard’s chip or burning all his emotions in negative star power, all his guilt would disappear away.

And for a while, they did.

“It seems like I have stuck with you.” Sun whistled, his voice stuttering happily. “Though, there’s no way I’m missing my favorite brother, right?”

“Especially seeing how you don’t take care of yourself at all.”

“Moon, you shouldn’t stay up so late like that.”

Everything is wrong. Sun was dead, broken, comatose, what-so-ever. And Sun had never called him ‘brother’ so cheerfully like that. And there was no way the real one would look at him with anything other than disappointment and exhaustion.

“I love you, but I can’t forgive you, Nexus.”

“Brother?”

“Shut up! Just let me think, dammit!” Nexus closed his eyes and frowned. Nexus never hated feeling lonely more than right now, at least Ruin’s nagging was annoying at times, but it also kept him from being distracted.

‘Oh? Moon, you look stressed. Do you want me to do something for you? Let’s play a game? Or eat something, you do still like sushi, right?’

Sun’s distorted form was filled with concern, even the way Sun’s hand usually waved in the air, it was exactly the same.

Nexus didn’t understand what was going on.

“I killed you. I killed you, and I don’t regret it at all! Why are you still here?” Nexus screams, he never feels more exhausted than that.

The rays of light shrank, the head tilted to the side in a curious and incomprehensible way. The positive energy from before disappeared, ‘Sun’s’ voice, returning to the timid and anxious one he was used to knowing.

“Aren’t you the one who knows best?”

***

“Moon!” The animatronic image disappeared into the darkness, to a place Nexus couldn’t find. He shouted until his voice was hoarse, but his twin's figure was still nowhere to be seen.

"Sun!"

Moon opened his eyes abruptly. He jumped up, his whole body covered in sweat, which should have been impossible since they were both machines. His hands were shaking non-stop, and his optics could see nothing but the hazy darkness.

"Moon!! What's wrong?"

A yellow figure ran over in panic. His brother's face showed concern, their clumsy hand touched his shoulder and shook him gently.

Oh... Nothing happened. It was just a nightmare.

The chilling feeling was still there, making Nexus restless. Sun was still here, his brother was still here. Nothing happened, Creator didn't catch his brother, Bloodmoon didn't catch his brother.

His brother was fine.

They were still together.

He was fine.

"Moon..? Moon..? Is something wrong? Why are you holding my hand so tightly like that?"

Sun asked softly, moving closer to him. They sat in the dark, only hearing the sound of each other's gears running.

"I'm fine... Sun... It was just a nightmare..." Nexus answered with a smile, his voice box seemed to have an error. He couldn't breathe, it was painful and frustrating, and he didn't understand where that feeling came from.

Bloodmoon's malicious smile still rang in Nexus's ears, and the cold feeling of losing Sun still made Nexus feel scared, so scared to the point that he wanted to tear the charger plugged into his head, wanted to burn everything that was making him feel uncomfortable right now to the point of overload.

"Do you want us to do something? We can play games together? Do you want me to call Earth, or Solar?"

"No!" Nexus blurted out. He didn't want anyone else to see him like this, weak and confused. Not even Solar, especially Solar. The orange animatronic has too many things to worry about, and it feels weak to let Solar know that he is not strong, not reliable like other Moon. Having Sun was enough, he just needed Sun. His brother is the only one he feels safe with, the only one he knows they will never leave him. Not in any state.

Nexus slowly clung to Sun like a drowning man clutching a stake. His head was so foggy, so foggy that he was panicking, unable to think about what was happening.

A clumsy hand rested on his back. A soft sigh, full of the helplessness of someone who was used to not being able to help no matter how hard he tried.

“Okay, then we’ll sit here together. It’s okay Moon, I’m fine. It’s okay Moon, you are safe…”

He wanted to say, the one who wasn’t safe here was you.

He wanted to say, why do you keep slipping through my fingers every time I try to hold you, why could I never keep you safe?

He wanted to say, I need you, I need you to be mine, I need you to see me and not think about someone who is already dead.

But all that came out of his mouth were the empty words: “I think I watched too many movies last night Sun. I’m fine now.”

***

His footsteps echoed down the hallway. The cold white was replaced by darker shades of the gothic designs of Dark Sun's castle, with the ghostly blue will-o'-the-wisp flickering with every step he took, like eyes watching Nexus's every move.

Once again, he stood there but couldn't enter. Dark Sun had made sure of that, with a sharp warning of the consequences he would face if Nexus decided to pull anything stupid.

The two-way mirror reflected the other end, revealing the bleak form of a yellow animatronic.

Sun…

They lay motionless on the couch, with thick tentacle-like wires attached to their heads and midsections. The screens were a jumble of ones and zeros, with an incomprehensible purple glowing red across the screens.

They looked peaceful, almost as if they were sleeping, as if they had run out of battery from overwork.

Not at all like the people who had been murdered in cold blood by his hands.

‘Oh, look at me. ’ ‘Sun’ laughed nervously. ‘I look terrible.’

‘Yes.’ Nexus signed.

‘Brother, who do you think looks worse, me or that other guy?’

The stench of oil and broken metal pieces sprouted from Sun's chest.

Nexus stays silent. He doesn’t want to say anything, he doesn’t want to look at Sun or ‘Sun’, hearing their voice in his ears anymore. 

They are not worse like Moon, or Solar hallucinations before, making him instantly in guilt and doubt. But they…

He hates them. Why are they not gone for good?

‘Sun’ pointed to his torn chest, and then to the lifeless robot lying inside. 

‘Wish you didn't kill me, am I right?’

‘I don’t know…’ Nexus whispered back.

***

That night, while Sun was sleeping, he walked in and sat next to Sun. His brother was charging, silent and oblivious as always. Clumsily and furtively, Nexus’s hand grabbed the soft tendrils clinging to Sun’s waist, holding it in his palm, as if trying to feel its warmth.

Like an alone child deepest inside is so desperately want the comfort of his older brother, but couldn't have the courage to doing so because he doesn't want them think he is needy, he is weak.

‘Why do you feel so far away when you're right next to me, Sun??’

[cosmicaces]

hello, uh, i wrote something for my chicken/subsumption au! if you're interested in learning more about it, you can check out my tag for it or you can send an ask my way ^-^

The detective greeted him with a warm smile and a wave. "Hello. Ready to go?" He forced a smile back. "Ready as I'll ever be."

The waiting room was quiet, save for the occasional cough and clack of a keyboard. Artificial light rained down from the ceiling, gleaming waves of white reflecting from the tiled floor. The only notable colors to be found were from the baby blue material of the seat cushions and the green of the dangling leaves from a potted plant.

Rody sunk into his seat, tapping his finger against his upper arm. He glanced over at the magazine rack next to him, raising a brow before reaching over and selecting one at random. A woman was on the cover, four, purple claws covering the right side of her face. She wore a red dress, piercing yellow eyes lit up for the camera. She was advertising something in a bottle. He didn't know what it was supposed to be; he couldn't read what that was written.

He sighed, absently thumbing through the pages. The detective — Rody couldn't remember his name — had said that he would be here to pick him up. However, he didn't specify when. A passing glance at the clock made him hope that it was to be no later than noon. He didn't think he could handle waiting another hour.

Rody was pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of automatic doors.

"Whaddya know, complaining works," he muttered to no one, straightening himself up.

The detective greeted him with a warm smile and a wave. "Hello. Ready to go?"

He forced a smile back. "Ready as I'll ever be."

Rody couldn't remember the last time he was in the back seat of a car, staring out the window at an unfamiliar city. Now that he was thinking about it… he didn't think there ever was a time.

He didn't think he had ever seen so much vehicle traffic in one place, either. Jams weren't uncommon on the bridge back home but the congestion here was on some whole other level.

Rody slumped against his seat, absently toying with the hairtie around his wrist. His eyes flitted over to the detective. The man hadn't uttered a word since they got on the road. Rody didn't care much for small talk but here, well, he found himself wishing for it. Anything to dissolve the air of unease that had crawled into the silence between them.

But there wasn't anything for either of them to say. There was only business.

Rody huffed out a quiet breath of air as he leaned against the window, his seatbelt pressing tight into his shoulder. Every passing second was making the dread in his stomach bury itself deeper. He could only hope that they'd get there soon.

Excessive was the first thought that popped into Rody's mind when he first saw the school, giant towers of reflective windows shining like a beacon admist a sea of trees. He had read online that this was a prestigious school, but actually seeing it in person highlighted how ridiculous it was. All of this for the next generation of heroes… yeesh. It was an issue back home, too; he'd heard about how schools that offered hero courses would receive more funding than schools that didn't. Stupid.

For a school as critically acclaimed as this, Rody certainly wasn't expecting to be met by a disheveled man dressed in black and some kind of animal mascot. The detective was entirely unphased.

"Hello!" the animal said. He definitely wasn't expecting the animal to talk. "My name is Nezu, the one who could be a dog or a mouse or a bear, but, more importantly, I am the principal of this school! Welcome!" Nezu held his paw out in greeting. "You must be Rody, correct?"

"Uh, yeah." Principal? Rody took his paw and Nezu gave his hand a firm shake. Not the most bizarre interaction he's had but it was definitely up there. "Charmed."

The… principal looked up at him with a friendly-enough smile, black beady eyes shining in the light of the sun. "Accompanying me is one of our teachers." He gestured to the man next to him.

If the teacher was a hero, well, he certainly didn't look the part. The man had messy, black hair which, combined with his bloodshot eyes, made him look as though he had just rolled out of bed. A scar cut underneath his right eye. He wore a baggy black suit with the pant legs tucked into matching black boots and some kind of utility belt around his waist. The most notable thing was a thin, silvery scarf wrapped around his neck and shoulders. Unlike Nezu, the man simply gave him a half-hearted wave.

"I am Shota Aizawa," he greeted, voice flat. "Greetings."

Nezu gave a friendly nod in his direction before turning back towards Rody. "Detective Tsukaichi has already filled me in on the details regarding your situation and we are currently in the process of relaying that information to our staff and students. We hope to make your stay here with us as comfortable as possible. Follow me, please! The dormitories are right this way." He snapped around, folding his arms behind his back before continuing down a path that lead behind the main building.

Rody tugged at his hairtie, focusing on the feeling of it pulled taut against his wrist before taking a step forward. A nervous ball of energy coiled in his stomach and knotted it tight, a lump forming at the base of his throat. He didn't like being surrounded like this, Nezu in front with the teacher and detective to either side. He was supposed to be safe here, but Rody couldn't help but feel caged in.

"So, uh…" he cleared his throat, "what's the deal? Am I supposed to stay cooped up in a building all day or…"

Nezu hummed. "I'm sorry to say that we are still figuring that out ourselves. As you are a guest here, we unfortunately cannot allow you free reign of the campus. Should you find that you need anything, please do not hesitate to ask one of our staff members for assistance. They can escort you to where you need to be. If you have any concerns about your needs, I can assure you that we will do what we can to make sure that they are met. Food, clothing, enrichment, it will all be taken care of."

The use of the word enrichment made Rody raise a brow but he thought better than to question it.

The teacher — Shota? — cleared his throat. "What has been decided is that you are to see the school nurse on a weekly basis. You aren't going to be poked and prodded; it's only to monitor how you're recovering," he added plainly. Rody didn't realize he visibly tensed.

"That's right," Nezu nodded. "It's your decision as to whether or not you want us to look into what happened with your quirk. Any actions to be taken will need to be done with your permission." His tone was soft yet firm. This seemed to mean a lot to him. "Ah! Here we are."

Looming before them was one of many near-identical buildings, the only difference being the print on the front. This one was clearly labeled 'STAFF.'

Rody had hardly finished gawking when he realized that the principal was already up the steps.

"Right this way, please!" Nezu gestured for him to follow.

His initial thought of excessive still rang true. Unlike the tight spaces he was accustomed to, the common area was wide open. There were tables, couches, and tvs to either side of the room. The kitchen and accompanying dining area was to the left. He was told that he was welcome to anything in the cupboards. Laundry facilities were in the back in addition to a bathroom. Be respectful, keep things tidy. Duh.

The tour brought them to a spare room on the second floor of the left wing. Rody couldn't help but feel relieved, knowing that he didn't have to walk up multiple flights of stairs to get to sleep every night. There wasn't much for him to note about it. The curtains were drawn, revealing a small balcony behind sliding doors. A bed was pushed into the corner of the room. A dresser stood across from it. On one side, a small wastebasket. On the other, a desk with a swivel chair neatly tucked into the legspace. There was a closet door to his right. Behind him, another door that connected to a personal bathroom.

It was… odd, having this space to himself.

A pang of guilt thumped in Rody's chest. It wasn't fair for him to experience a luxury like this without his siblings. He should be bunked up in some cheap hotel, not in a place like this.

"It isn't much, but we hope that you can find this arrangement suitable," Nezu chirped. "If you have any requests regarding changes to your room, please do not hestitate to ask."

"Can I put in a request right now?"

"Certainly!"

"Can I have a bookshelf?"

The principal's eyes lit up. "Of course! We'll bring one in later today. For books, we have an on-site library. If nothing there is of any interest, we can have either a staff member or student accompany you to the shops."

"I need a chaperone off school grounds, too?!" Rody didn't even try to hide his disbelief.

"It's for your own safety," the teacher stated. "According to the incident report we received, the involved villain wasn't exactly keen on your escape. Going out in public would immediately put a target on your back." He stopped, observing him carefully. It seemed like there was more he wanted to say. Not that he needed to; the subtle edge to his gaze said it for him.

So… they don't fully trust me. Rody relaxed. That was something he was familiar with.

Nezu cleared his throat. "I know it isn't ideal, but I hope you can understand why we're taking such precautionary measures."

"Yeah, I get it, don't worry." He paused. "I bet the same goes for clothes shopping too, huh?"

The principal gave a sympathetic nod before gesturing to the dresser. "We have provided you with an assortment of different clothes based on what you told Detective Tsukaichi. I hope you find them to your liking."

Rody looked off to the side, recalling the conversation. So that's why he asked. "I'm not picky." He pressed his lips together, rubbing his arm. "… Thanks. For all of this."

"It isn't any trouble. You are our responsibility for the time being, after all." Nezu smiled up at him. It didn't make him feel any better.

Tsukaichi cast a sympathetic glance his way. "I would like to offer another apology to you, Rody. I am truly sorry that you are unable to go home, but I promise you that your case is our top priority." Just as he opened his mouth to say more, his pocket vibrated with the unmistakable buzz of a phone. He sighed. "I wish I could offer you more reassurance than that."

Nezu nodded in agreement. "For now, all that we can ask is that you try to make yourself comfortable. Once more, please do not hesitate to reach out to one of our staff members if you need anything."

"Got it."

And, just like that, they were gone.

And, just like that, he was alone.

Rody took a deep breath as he looked around the room again. It was made clear that this was meant to be his space but… there was nothing they could've said that would've chased away the feeling of being in a stranger's home.

He glanced towards the sliding door before walking over, careful to not glimpse his reflection as he poked his head outside. The sun had barely moved from its position in the sky, the school's windows catching its light with a brilliant glare. He furrowed his brow, sliding back inside and pulling the curtains shut.

Somewhere in that building was Deku. It had almost been a year since they'd last seen each other. They managed to keep in touch via email but now, seeing his school, being in his dormitories, the weight of it all suddenly came crashing down.

Rody dropped down onto the bed, wiping his hands down his damp face. The exposed skin on his arms and legs burned with an intense ferocity, calling for the bite of his nails. A weighted coil of anxiety twisted his stomach, his chest suddenly feeling too tight and his body feeling so wrong.

"Goddammit."

He didn't want to be seen like this. He couldn't be seen like this. But… deep down, Rody knew that it was inevitable. There was no way he could avoid it.

But… he had to try.

He had to try.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Cause of Action 2

Warnings: dark elements, noncon, age gap, other dark elements. Proceed with caution.

Note: thank you for waiting! Please let me know what you think as it helps me a lot with ideas and I love interacting with you all.

Part of The Club AU

Your first week is tame. Boring, even. Your desk mates are quiet and cold. They barely even talk to each other. You suppose they have a lot of work to do, a lot more serious work than you. Your own tasks are rather tedious but menial nonetheless.

You find your sight blurring as you scroll through a case brief. You have your elbow on your desk, cupping your chin at your mindless perusal. The subtle click of the mechanism slips through your trance but doesn’t quite register. It isn’t until a dark shape stands in your peripheral that you finally break your near-comatose state.

“Mr. Barber,” you greet, barely able to conceal your surprise, “hi.”

“Just checking in,” he says as he rests his hand on the cubicle wall, “and I had a favour to ask you.”

“Uh, sure,” you keep your hand on your mouse, tapping the wheel nervously.

“Think you could start late tomorrow? You’ll see in the calendar there’s a late meeting and I won’t be in until noon anyway,” he explains, his free hand hooks on his belt. He does that, he stands like a disapproving dad and it makes your bones rattle.

“Right, uh, yeah, I can do that.”

“Great,” he smacks the cubicle wall and it shakes just a little, “you grab a donut from the break room?”

“Donut?” You pique at the mention of sugar, “oh, well… I’m tryna cut back.”

“That’s too bad. I got ‘em from this place about a block down. They’re great. I love the boston creams but the crullers aren’t bad either.”

“Hmmm, maybe at lunch,” you shrug, “thanks, Mr. Barber.”

“No problem, just a little pick me up for the office,” he looks around as the office drones continue on without acknowledgement. “I’ll let you get back to it then.”

“Alright,” you smile and swivel back to your screen.

He lingers for a moment before he strides off. You glance over as he enters the break room. The smell of coffee soon stirs in the air and makes your stomach grumble.

“Eh, could use another cup,” Marnie sighs but makes no move to fulfill her wishes.

You ponder a second coffee but think better of it. Caffeine usually has you addled and you’re already restless sitting around at a computer. You refocus on the case brief as Mr. Barber’s shadow approaches the door.

It’s strange. He seems so nice but the rest of this place is so miserable. Well, it is work.

📓

The late start to your day throws everything off. By the time you get to the office, you’re exhausted already. You couldn’t sleep in despite your efforts so much of your morning was spent in anticipation of starting work.

As you get to work Marnie is on her lunch and Taylor is huffing at his phone screen. He tends to be on that more than his computer. Mr. Barber greets you in passing as he appears with a cup of coffee. He retreats to his office as you settle in at your desk. There’s a small container waiting for you with a note.

‘Hope it’s not stale.’

You flick the post-it and tilt the container to see through the clear plastic. A donut dressed up with graham crumble and what appears to be strawberry jam. It looks delicious and dangerously high in calories. Still, a nice gesture. You would feel bad to reject it.

You get started, the day dragging by as usual. You pick away at the donut, trying hard not to get any crumbs or gooeyness on your keyboard. You get a few messages from Mr. Barber about new tasks but he’s mostly cloistered in his office, explaining that he’s on calls all day.

Marnie packs up first, then Taylor. Once they’re gone, the office takes on an eerie hue with the dimming sky outside. The tinted yellow bulbs do little to ease the ambiance. You clack on keys ambivalently, all caught up and anxious.

The door clicks and you spin to face your boss. You have no chill left.

“Oh, hi,” he buttons his jacket, “uh, you ready?”

“Ready? I thought the meeting was here?”

“No, uh, my client changed his plans,” he checks his watch, “you’ll get overtime for the extra hours.”

“Um, alright,” you stand up and stretch out your legs. Mr. Barber nears as you grab your purse and swipe up your phone from the top of your desk. “That’s fine, I guess.”

“Sorry, I know it’s weird hours but the guy’s not exactly a negotiator. Hence why he hired me.”

“No problem. I signed up for it, right?”

“I like that attitude,” he grins, “so, you like the donut?”

He peeks over at the empty container forgotten beside your monitor. You push your shoulders up and bite the inside of your lip.

“Yeah, very sweet,” you say, “thanks.”

“I’ve never had the strawberry so I’ll take your word for it,” he gestures you ahead of him towards the door, “better get going.”

“Sure.”

You lead the way and he locks the door behind him. He follows you down the narrow stairs as you cling to the banister. Your heels make the descent treacherous.

As you come out under the greying sky, Andy exhales heavily and checks his watch again. “I’ll drive.”

“Oh, uh, thanks, Mr. Barber,” you utter. You assumed it might have been just down the block. The mystery of it all is frustrating. You should’ve checked the calendar.

“Andy’s fine,” he corrects, “for tonight. Oh and a bit of advice, you don’t have to put up with my client. He says anything untoward, you let me know.”

He guides you down to a dark car parked by a meter. You near the passenger’s side and watch him come up the other.

“Should I be worried?” You ask.

“No, but he can be… direct.”

“Ah, right,” you nod, “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Nice girl like you, I’m sure it will be,” he agrees as the locks slide back noisily.

He opens his door and sits in the driver’s seat. You get in and buckle up as he checks his mirrors and fiddles with a few switches. He seems almost more anxious than you.

“I won’t feel so out of place with you around,” he remarks as he puts his signal on and looks over his shoulder.

“Oh?”

“You’ll see,” he girds as he pulls out.

You wish he would just tell you where you’re going but you’re too embarrassed to ask. If he knew you didn’t even bother to check the calendar, it might not look so good on you. And you need him to give you a glowing reference. You can’t have the only experience on your resume be tainted by your own carelessness.

[scientistservant]

“Kururu-sama~!”

Tsukuku’s voice echoed off the concave walls of the Sergeant Major’s lab as she searched for him.

Her ear-like horns perked up as she saw the glow of multiple screens, the yellow Keronian typing away at his chair.

“Ah! There you are!”

“What do you want, Surgeon General? I’m busy.”

Unbothered by him not looking at her, Tsukuku pulled out a small tray.

“I made rice balls for everyone in the Platoon. Would you like one?”

As the purple Keronian waited patiently for an answer, her eyes trailed to Kururu’s hands typing furiously. The humming of technology around her, the clacking of the keyboard, how smooth the Sergeant Major’s hands went from key to key—

“Surgeon General.”

“Eh?” Tsukuku blinked out of her trance to see Kururu staring at her (at least, she assumed he was, he was looking in her direction) and his right arm resting lazily on the keyboard’s edge.

“I said, what’s in them?” He pointed at the rice balls on the tray Tsukuku was holding.

“O-Oh! W-well, they’re all different. For instance, Keroro’s has squid and sesame sauce, and Tamama’s is actually a type of dessert called tang yuan! Yours is right here,”

She pointed to three golden-yellow onigiri.

The scent was unmistakable as he was handed one, yet Kururu examined it nonchalantly in his hand.

“I know how messy curry can be, so I thought this might be a nice substitute for you to eat while you work!”

Tsukuku’s words drifted away as the Sergeant Major inhaled the familiar smell once more.

And then he took a bite.

Kururu swore his mouth had exploded.

How did he not think of this before?

The little bits of beef, potato, carrot. The sweet, the spice, the heat; this pack of flavour all in a convenient little ball of rice.

It was curry in the palm of his hand.

Kururu noisily ate, and while his spiralled glasses hid his expression, the small bits of rice on his face and the yellow stains on his yellow fingers showed that he was certainly happy indeed.

Kururu took the last of his onigiri from the tray, one in each hand.

“Tsukuku,” Spiralled glasses gleaming, the Sergeant Major looked at her again, her name a laugh in his mouth.

“You’re a genius, daze.”

[wuahae]

CONGRATS AGAIN MY LOVELY SHING STAR BFF TWINSTER 4LYFER CAT!!!! im forever proud of u my lovely <333

hopefully i can send a little request of jacob (sorry i am in my crazy cobster feelings) + 8:24 pm + a library!!

(suggestive; minors dni!)

[20:24] / library

-

“jacob.”

there’s the distinct noise of your clothes rustling, wooden chair creaking as jacob leans over more, breathing in your scent as he nuzzles into the nape of your neck. “hmm?”

“jacob, not here.” a beat of silence, and then nothing. he shifts lower—higher, if you account for his hand on your thigh. you try again, voice wavering. “jacob.”

“yes, my love?”

“don’t ‘my love’ me!” you hiss, smacking him lightly. “we could get caught!”

he hums again, leisurely, innocently. “by who?”

it’s times like these you really wonder how you end up in situations like this. the only reason you were in this godforsaken (you can only hope god isn’t watching) library in the first place on a friday night was because you had this cursed essay due at midnight, and by the time you’d arrived at the library in the afternoon, you hadn’t even started. jacob had joined you around six pm with the promise of dinner together, but as the minutes ticked by and the essay wasn’t exactly writing itself, that promise seemed more futile by the second.

(“let’s go,” he’d said, tucking his chin on your shoulder as he looked over at your laptop. “you can take a little break to go eat.”

“i can’t,” you bemoaned, fingers clacking away at your keyboard, 15 separate tabs opened on your browser along with multiple other windows. “this is life or death.”

well, it might as well have been. this damn thing was worth 15% of your grade.

jacob then drawled out your name slowly, sweetly, and instinctively, you tensed. the cursor blinked on your screen, halfway through typing a word. a chill ran up your spine—you’ve known him long enough to sense danger before it came.)

and that was how the situation escalated to this, secluded in the stacks of the library, completely at your boyfriend’s mercy.

“we’re going to get banned from the library,” you manage to make out through breathless puffs of air and restrained whines as jacob inches his fingers higher up your inner thigh, tracing little shapes onto the sensitive skin. he sucks on the thin skin of your throat once, like a point of emphasis, before letting go to murmur.

“don’t worry,” he assures. “no one’s coming by here at this hour. and besides—” jacob makes his first bold move, his thumb moving up and brushing slightly over your underwear. “even if we did get caught, we wouldn’t get banned. the librarian loves me.”

he gives a little more pressure, a soft tug at the nape of your neck, and a soft moan passes by your lips before you slap your hand over your mouth, squeaking out whatever was left. “jacob!”

“so you do want to get caught,” jacob muses, warm breath twisting your stomach into knots. “i’m okay with that too, but you should have just said so from the beginning. we could have chosen a much more conspicuous—” he strokes you again, harder, and your legs spread involuntarily “—spot.”

“th…that’s not what i—” you try to say, but it all comes out jumbled from your cotton-heavy tongue, brain foggy as the ugly yellow library lights clash with the blue light emitting from the computer screen, half-written document staring right back at you. “you know i have to get this done.”

“you can spare a few moments to go eat, love.” it must be a talent of his, the ability to sound so sweet and kind even as he watches you dissolve away in his palm like wet tissue paper. no wonder no one ever believes you when you tell them of your jacob-inflicted woes. “you haven’t had anything since breakfast.”

“i had a—ah—a protein bar.”

jacob tilts your chin towards him with his other hand, a disapproving look. “now we both know that isn’t a meal.”

you choke back a frustrated cry, squeezing your eyes shut. “jacob—”

“why are you calling me that?”

“what?”

“my name,” jacob says, thumbing the edge of your underwear aside. your gut twists again, breath catching as he ghosts a finger over you, fully bared for him. satisfaction seeps and settles into him, even as he tries to keep up the innocent charade, the way he smiles knowing he has you right where he wants you. he knows exactly what to expect when he starts these kinds of things with you, having done so too many times before; this time is no different. “call me cobie, like you always do.”

this is it. this truly is the end for you. everything feels so loud—your restrained moans, the rumble of the air conditioning, the slip of his finger against you that only gets more obscene as he mouths at you. cobie is for when he’s normal, when he’s kind and gentle and the textbook definition of the perfect boyfriend, not when he’s like this, when he’s trying to unmake you until he’s left with only your want. it’s why you try your luck again, consequences be damned. (maybe out of spite, maybe to gain back some sense of control in the midst of his molding.) “jacob, i really don’t think that’s what we should be—”

“cobie,” he corrects, insistent. “say it with me. co—“ he draws out the syllables, sweet and melodic, hand slipping completely underneath your panties and pinching your clit “—bie.”

the surprised yelp that escapes you is unrestrained, unfiltered, the embarrassment rushing through your veins somehow just making the burning in your core grow hotter. “come on, say it,” jacob probes, and you’re fumbling to hold onto anything that can ground you: the chair edge, the table, the toned arm between your legs, flexing as he slowly drags you to a high.

“can you feel that?” he asks softly, palm pressed firm against you, slick and wet and desperate. he drags his fingers (the second is a new addition; he doesn’t miss the way your breath hitches) and lets them catch at your opening. your head spins, his fingers teasing around and never in. “looks like your body is honest even when you don’t want to be.” 

jacob lingers, pauses his ministrations for a moment too long, and you let out a questioning whine in response. it’s pleading, it’s instinctive, it’s downright humiliating, but it pales in comparison to the way you feel yourself clench around nothing, the way your hips twitch and jerk, rutting against anything he’s willing to give you.

“p—please—”

jacob grinds his hand down, sucking at a spot beneath your jaw that has you clenching again, words incomprehensible and slurred and almost piteous with how much you beg. he runs a hand along your jaw and guides your face to him once again, his eyes patient and giving, the meaning you know of far too well. he’ll give you what you need, if you give him what he wants. and he stills. “‘please,’ what?”

fuck it all. fuck propriety and what’s left of your dignity and fuck that goddamn assignment. you've had your grave dug—you have for a long time. all you needed to do now is lie in it. blood pounds in your ears, white noise buzzing through your body; the defeat forms heavy on your tongue, your mind hazy and scrabbling for something. anything. (desire is a potent thing, and jacob has always known just where to press to make you crumble.) “please…cobie.”

jacob’s hand traces your cheek gently, lovingly, as if you were the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on (you are. you always have been), and smiles. “that’s my girl. that wasn’t so hard, now was it?”

he pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist as his fingers beneath you draw nearer once more, ready to plunge in and claim what’s his for the taking—

a notification pops up in the corner of your laptop, the little jingle signifying a new email sounding through the empty library. lolling your head against his shoulder, you move to catch a glimpse of what could possibly be sent to you at eight in the evening, only to see an announcement that makes you forget everything that was happening prior: good evening class. due to unforeseen circumstances, the essay final draft due date will be changed to monday midnight. hope you’re all doing well. happy weekend!

you both blink at the screen, frozen. jacob pulls his hand away from you, scooching his chair back to its regular place, but you’re still reading the email over and over again to make sure you aren’t hallucinating in a fit of hysteria.

“i’m not imagining it, right?” you ask jacob dumbly, pointing at the screen. “he really posted an extension?”

“yup!” jacob grins back. “isn’t this great? now we can finally go home.”

you shut your laptop, a sigh of relief heaving from your chest as you move to slip it back into your backpack. “thank god, cause even without what you were trying to pull, i really was not going to make it in time for—what are you doing?”

hand on the edge of your chair, jacob’s pushed you out slightly from underneath the table, kneeling to slip into the gap before pulling you back in. he places one hand on each of your knees, a distinct glint in his eyes. “well, we have to finish what we started, don’t we?”

fear. dread. a strange, twisted sense of arousal. “i thought you wanted to go get dinner?”

“i do,” jacob smiles, mischievous and teasing as he spreads your legs. pliant. “dinner’s right here.”