#being unphased by anything and everything that comes at her

[ruthlesslistener]

thank you for the well-wishes. I don't feel like I'll ever process this grief or get over how I'll never see her again, but I know it's a process that takes time. I just can't believe she won't be there for me when I come home again

[thekitsunesiren]

Dc x Dp Prompt #29

Okay! I have seen plenty of prompts on both tumblr and Ao3 to think of one of biggest misunderstandings that I could think of for Dc x Dp.

Amity Park being mistaken for a base camp for training child soldiers.

Because think of it!

Mr. Lancer's class all going to Gotham and being unphased by everything that was happening. In fact, some of them seemed even excited at the possibility of interacting with a rogue or possibly fighting them. And teacher did nothing but give them light warnings about causing too much trouble.

Of course it was thought to be big talk from outsiders who didn't know how dangerous Gotham truly was. Once they dealt with their first villain, they'd see how much trouble they really were in for.

But the thing was, they didn't.

Oh, they dealt with a criminal alright. It was the Penguin. He held up one of the museums the class was touring for some priceless item that he wanted.

Of course, Penguin thought that the group of newcomers were going to cow under the sight of the criminal and his goons. But standing there, he immediately found out of wrong he was.

The group didn't look scared. No. They looked excited at the sight of him and his goons.

A few of the teens were brimming with excitement at the sight of the criminal, though a few did look a bit disappointed. Not afraid-disappointed! He heard a few whispers of how upset that "the Joker wasn't the one to show" or "how they expected someone else to show up". Those words were enough to make his blood boil.

You know what? Screw these kids! He was going to show them that The Penguin wasn't someone you just go around and make fun of. So, he orders a few goons to put the kids in their place. Confident that once they were thrown around a bit, they'd know what kind of trouble they're in for when they come to Gotham.

But they. Don't. Get. Scared!

Not even a little bit. Not even a small flinch. He swore that he saw a few of them yawn! If the threat of roughening up wasn't going to do anything, then some action would definitely was. A goon thought this as they reached out to try and grab one of the students. Unfortunately, that student he grabbed was Valerie Gray, and she didn't take well to some stranger trying to grab her like that. Well, one shoulder throw lead to a brawl between gangsters and a bunch a teens that were touring around. And, to the horror of both the Penguin and all Gothamites watching, the teens won. All goons were seen on the floor either groaning or unconscious, the teens above them looking satisfied with their work, and their teacher on the sidelines looking irritated of the whole thing. Thankfully, the police arrived not too soon after that to arrest the goons and the penguins themselves; leaving all Gothamites confused about what just happened.

And it didn't stop there.

All over Gotham, both civilians and rogues alike would experience the oddity that would be the Amity bunch.

A barista witnessed Paulina stop a robbery with a well practiced kick in her high heels, all while the girl muttered about her morning coffee before going back to her order like nothing happened.

An old woman was saved from a mugging by a group of jocks. Though seeing as one stopped it by grabbing the mugger by the scruff of his neck, she supposed that the blond was the only one that she needed. And multiple civilians all over Gotham took note of a black haired and blue eyed kid that walked around with a goth girl and a boy with a red beanie. If he wasn't mistaken as a Wayne kid, he was causing havoc that had him on the news either way. Already the kid was caught fighting the Joker twice on purpose! As if he didn't seem crazy enough.

Strength, not scared by any of the rogues, even openly fighting the rouges? This class was continuing to grow on the "do not mess with" the longer they're in Gotham with everything they do.

And if you were to ask their teacher, he would simply sigh and say "There's so much he could do to control those hellions." It wasn't long before the Wayne family caught onto their arrival, and became immediately suspicious. A group of teens with abilities like that and fighting both rogues and goons as if they were nothing wasn't a mere coincidence. And from a place called Amity Park that's supposed to be the most "Haunted Place on Earth", there's no way something fishy going on.

Bruce, Tim, and Damian are the first to believe that they are all child soldiers of some sort. The youngest pointing out that Danny was one possibly meant to infiltrate their family for an unknown reason. The rest of the family are still cautious, but still don't know what they are here for.

Now they just had to get close enough to find out the reason the class was really here without setting off any alarms the possible assassins could have.

But they didn't take account the total weirdness they might face in infiltrating the class.

[vampyrsm]

‣‣ COR UNUM: CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE | SARUTAHIKO ŌKAMI

‣‣ Synopsis: Misogi; the ritual to cleanse one's body. Would a body still be purified even when doused in the blood of her enemies? Our tale continues with a heart that no longer beats and a declaration that will change the course of a life.

‣‣ Main Masterlist | AO3 ‣‣ Pairing: Sukuna x Reader ‣‣ Word Count: est. 6.8k ‣‣ Warnings: Blank blogs & Minors DNI. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Set in the Early-Heian Period, trueform!Sukuna, female reader, blood, cannibalism, blood kink/blood play, smut, self-inflicted wounds, blood-drinking, starts in Sukuna's POV.

His heart was racing.

Such an odd, strange sensation for a man who was otherwise unphased by anything. He’d fought and won countless battles, torn men apart with his own bare hands and yet that was not enough to make his heart actually race. It beats so harshly against the protective cage of his bones, brings heat to his already warm flesh and it’s all because of you.

You, who is kneeling before him. You, who had just murdered a woman with her own weapon and then ordered Uraume to slice her up for dinner. Sukuna can only watch down the ridge of his nose as you kneel there, Yorozu’s blood no doubt soaking through your silky furisode and staining your skin beneath. He wonders if you’d look good soaked in the crimson red, from head to toe. Yes, he concludes, you would look very good.

Maybe for another time. Maybe he’ll get you into the pool of blood just off to his side. 

For now, though, he’ll have his fun with what’s being presented to him. His eyes wander across your face, taking in your features—features he could paint if he had the time or inclination to do so. You were a work of art, a bloody work of art, but art nonetheless. Beautiful, truly. It was a… peculiar thought, not something Sukuna would’ve ever imagined to flit into his mind. But he finds he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care that it may open him to weaknesses. 

“Take it off.” He languidly pulls at the edge of the furisode opening, not enough to do it for you but enough to get his message across. His heart races again when you do so without complaint. 

It thrilled him to no end. You were strong, unbelievably so. Not just in power but your will, your mind, everything—you were undoubtedly strong. And yet still, you kneeled to him. You did as he commanded. You were his. His eyes watch through half-lids when you tug at the opening of your furisode until he can see flesh, unmarked except for the only thing that shows you as his. The scar is enough to make his cocks twitch beneath the loose material of his hakama.

It’s not long until you’re bare before him, kneeling in a pool of blood and clothing discarded to the side. You look so vulnerable, sitting there waiting on your knees until he gives his next command. However, Sukuna knows you are anything but vulnerable. You were a force to be reckoned with, a force of nature that only he could contest with, that only he could hold and touch and come out unscathed.

You don’t move an inch when two of his hands come down to the top of his trousers, tugging at the obi belt holding them tight to his waist. His eyes are nearly glazed over with his own lust, yet he sees the way your hands curl into fists against the tops of your thighs, itching to disobey his demands and touch him. In truth, Sukuna doesn’t think he’d stop you—if anything, he’s itching to be touched by you too. 

Your eyes don’t leave his even when he kicks away the material of his trousers, not even when his hand curls easily around both of his cocks.

“Open.” His command is adhered to immediately, your mouth falling open and tongue out on display. His chest rumbles with a deep groan, his feet wading through the pool of blood to step closer to you. You keep your gaze locked onto his when the tip of his secondary cock presses against your tongue, the salty pre-cum earning him a small kitten lick. 

His hand continues to feed you more of his cock until it sits comfortably on your tongue, stuffed deep into your mouth until saliva pools and drips from your bottom lip. It’s filthy, the way you look up at him with his cock in your mouth and the other being stroked just inches from your face. His knuckles brush against your nose every stroke, your breaths coming out in even measured puffs against the back of his hand. 

“Look at you,” he sneers but there’s no heat behind it, it’s lust that curls his lip and furrows his brows. His hand squeezes tighter around the head of his cock not occupied by your mouth, forcing more pre-cum to pearl at the slit. “Even with a cock in your mouth, you still look beautiful.” 

His hips most subtly, almost gently at first, testing the waters to see just how much you could take before you inevitably choked. His stomach aches with how tight it grows when he feels your tongue moving beneath the heavy weight of his cock, feeling against the throbbing veins—if he was a lesser man, he’d be spilling himself all over the back of your throat already.

Sukuna presumes he has the upper hand until one of the hands that should’ve been resting in your lap finds itself snaking its way up the length of his thigh. He can feel you grasping and groping at the thick muscle there, tracing over the thick black line of the tattoos that you’ve come to intimately know.

He’s unable to stop the deep groan that rumbles in his throat when your hand cups his sack, feeling the weight of it in your palm before you give him a squeeze—and it’s not a gentle one. It has his feet planting themselves firmer against the floor, lest he slips in the blood beneath him when his knees threaten to give out. 

His hand strokes more fluidly, quicker and with more of a tight grip when he lets you take over the pacing of sucking his cock. His hips still, and naturally a hand comes up to the side of your head. He threads his long fingers through your hair hastily, grasping onto what he can without a care as to how hard he’s pulling.

But it doesn’t seem to bother you, not when you force more of his cock down your throat until he can feel the muscles restrict and contract in protest, your nose is nearly buried in the thicket of hair at the base of his cocks. He almost wants to praise you for doing so well on your first try to take the full length of his cock down your throat.

Instead, Sukuna pulls back completely from your mouth. Letting you pant and gasp into the open air, strings of saliva connecting you to the tip of his cock that now looks painfully red from the effort to not cum down your throat and ruin his plans. 

“Lay down.” He orders next, a large hand languidly stroking both of his cocks as he watches you. You don’t hesitate in the way you slide onto your back, blood soaking into your skin and sullying your hair. 

You drag your hands through the blood, playing with it he realises. You truly were a monster now, one he had made with his own hands—a bloodthirsty monster who he was eager to please. 

Sukuna lowers himself down onto his knees, slipping in the blood when he leans his weight over you to get closer to your face. You smile so beautifully at him, biting your spit-swollen lip in anticipation. The hand you drag up along his stomach is cold with the quickly cooling blood, sticky with how it starts to coagulate. 

He leans back just enough to watch you paint Yorozu’s blood into his skin, patterns and hand prints that claim him as yours. Always yours. And he finds himself doing the same to you, he drags his bloodied hands over your body. Over your nipples, along the dip of your sternum until he finds your belly button.

His fingers dip into your stomach, pressing just hard enough to feel your muscles flinch. Then with a glance up to your face, to see you still biting your lip in an attempt to stop the panting breaths he can see your chest struggling with—

He dips down. His tongue is hot and flat against your stomach, the blood rich and tangy against his tongue but it’s nothing new to him. If anything he savours the taste, so rare to find a blood rich with cursed energy of this calibre. He wonders briefly what your blood would taste like if he were to rip you apart with his teeth. 

Sukuna follows the trail up along your body, taking his time to circle his tongue around your hardened nipples before sucking them into his mouth. Then, and only then does your resolve crumble. Your moans are some of the sweetest things he had ever heard, no poem or song could ever capture the beauty of what it feels like to hear you sing your pleasure. 

His trail ends between your collarbones, near the hollow of your throat. Near his mark on your skin. Like a shark to blood, he finds his red-stained lips dragging along the scar tissue. His mouth opening to graze his fangs along the indents of his sharpened teeth, it’d be so easy to taste your blood. 

Would it taste richer now that you were bound to him? Would he taste his own cursed energy mixed deliciously with your own? His jaw aches with the need. The need to devour you whole. 

But it’s your gentle hand in his hair that guides him away, until he’s face to face with you. You look so small beneath him and yet you hold as much power as he does with the way you meet his gaze. Silently demanding. 

He bends easily under your gaze, his stained lips find yours. And it’s you who moans at the copper taste that spreads across your tongue, his own stomach tightens at the sound and the cocks resting against your thigh twitch eagerly. When you pull back from the kiss, he finds himself with the odd feeling of needing to chase you; to plant his lips against yours again. 

But he’s frozen in place when a warm wet hand comes up to the side of his face. You smear the blood along the tattoo lining his jaw, following it down until you reach his chin. And then you slowly drag your fingers along his lips until they’re saturated in blood, it has his heart racing away in his chest when that rich scent hits his nose. 

You're just as fascinated with the blood as he was.

Sukuna opens his mouth easily, accepting the pads of your fingers against the flat of his tongue before he licks you clean of the blood staining your fingers. He can see your breath stutter, how your chest expands in excitement and he can’t help but grin at the look on your face. His hand comes back up from its place next to you, painted freshly in dripping crimson.

“Hold still.” He speaks lowly, spreading the blood on his teeth with his words. You do as he says, remaining still on the floor as he brings his blood-stained thumb up to your forehead. He moves it in practised strikes, careful consideration for each swipe of his thumb. His fingers move on from your forehead, down towards the bridge of your nose to swipe a clean stripe across it. 

Then just beneath both of your eyes, he draws a connecting line that leads down along either side of your jaw. His fingers break from your skin to draw two lines along your chin before he leans back from your space to observe his word. Perfection, marked with blood in the design of his own tattoos. 

His hand slips down from your face to find itself wrapped around your throat, sharp nails digging into the flesh until he smells the fresh tinge of copper. It makes his stomach growl in anticipation. 

“I would do anything for you.” He finds himself admitting, breathing the words easily when they would’ve never formed on his tongue all those months ago when he was alone.

“I know.” You whisper over the tight grip around your throat, words said with a smile that has Sukuna seeing fire and blood in tribute to you. He’d truly do anything for you; including ripping apart the world if you so wished for it. 

It has his nostrils flaring, muscles bunching up in his shoulders before he thrusts his hips forward harshly. The movement has your mouth open in a wordless scream, your eyes wide with unshed tears that blend with the painted blood beneath your eyes. You stare at him with such a wide-eyed look that he almost feels bad for impaling you on his cock… almost.

The pace he sets is anything but gentle, it’s dominating, commanding. He wants to own every last inch of you, inside and out. If he could, he would tear out your heart and eat it, feast on your flesh and bones until there was nothing left of you except for the part of you that lived on within him. But he couldn’t do that to you, not when he knew your teeth were as sharp as his own and you could devour him first.

His hips slap against your own with an extra added wetness, the blood grows tacky between the both of you whilst aiding in how quickly he can thrust into you. His lower set of hands clamp down around your waist, holding you still in the pool of blood that continues to soak into your body whilst he fucks you harder, deeper.

Your pussy has always felt divine to him. The way your walls clamp down around him in vain to try and stop him from ruining you, but he knows you too well. You’d never stop him from ruining you, you were made to be ruined by him. Your walls were designed and crafted by him, to mould around the thickness of his cock—or both. 

His unattended cock ruts over your mound with each thrust, the tip of his cock leaking against your belly button and smearing the blood that he had earlier painted you with. The sight has him growling, teeth bared and a renewed vigour to fuck you as hard as he can. 

The sight of you with a knife embedded in your chest has his stomach tensing. It was a sight no man would ever want to see with the woman he was bound to, to see his wife on the brink of death—open arms and a mean grin to accompany her. It had him hard from that alone, you looked beautiful. His very own Angel of Death, or perhaps more of a Harbinger of Death. You had a death grin that would put his to shame. 

But the thing that had sealed his need to fuck you senseless was the act of murder itself. He hadn’t expected you to kill Yorozu, at least not in the manner that you did. He had assumed you’d torture her, flay her alive and eat her innards whilst she was still alive; to hear her begging and crying for mercy. But instead, you sliced her throat and bled her like a pig.

Now that, that was beautiful. You treated Yorozu as she was, nothing but a filthy pig who had come from nothing and would die as nothing. It has his blood singing in his veins, heating him from the inside out as he fucked you harder at the image of you standing there with a knife of Yorozu’s own making and the aforementioned girl crumbling to her knees. 

Forget Angel of Death or Harbinger. You were a Goddess, a Queen that was above the rest. And that has Sukuna’s claws clamping down on you, his jaw aching with the need to widen until he can bite down on your flesh and taste you. What would divine blood taste like? Your flesh was delicate, yet he had never tasted your organs. Your heart is what he desired, would it be tainted just as his own?

His spiralling thoughts have his head fuzzy, eyes narrowing in determination to tear you apart. Until your hand comes up to cup his jaw, he hadn’t even realised he had hunched back down over you to effectively fold you in half beneath him. Your bloodied fingers slide along his jaw until you find the back of his head, your fingers grabbing ahold of the pink strands.

Sukuna succumbs to your pull, letting his forehead press to your own harshly to force your head back against the bloodied stone beneath you. A deep groan rumbles through his chest when he feels the hot wetness of your tongue against his chin, curling the tip just underneath before dragging it up along the blood he knew had started to dry there. Your lips find his own soon after, the tangy coppery taste mixes with the exchanged saliva until it becomes too messy; a sloppy mixture of blood and spit that drips from your lips when he pulls back.

The hands at your waist take hold of you suddenly, shifting you with his movements until you are sat atop him. Your knees slide in the blood, forcing you to take every last inch of Sukuna’s cock until it is pressed painfully deep inside of you. He can see the way your eyes roll back in pure delirium, the pleasure hazing your mind and opening your mouth to gift him the beautiful harmony that was your moans. He doesn’t hurry you to ride him; however, his hands settle on either side of your thighs whilst he watches you.

You were fascinating to watch. Looking up at the ceiling to allow yourself this moment of unadulterated pleasure, your hands are pressed dangerously close to the mouth on his stomach. He can’t help but allow him the moment to open that second mouth, to let your fingers graze along the sharp teeth and large tongue that lolls out eagerly to lap at the blood that was sullying your hands.

You look down at him when you feel it, a sultry look in your eye when you smile at him. Bravely you drag your fingers along the tips of those elongated canines, pressing hard enough that he knows will break your skin—and it does. Your eyes are alight with the pain that mixes deliciously with the pleasure you feel when you start to roll your hips daringly. 

His cock is buried so deep inside of you that he’s certain he can feel the way your lungs expand with each breath, can feel the very beat of your heart when your walls pulse rhythmically around him. The rich fresh scent of blood has his eyes snapping down to look at the hand that was previously toying with the mouth on his stomach. He can see the large gash on the palm of your hand, dripping fresh blood on the eagerly awaiting tongue. 

Sukuna groans audibly, his mouth falling open and hips bucking up involuntarily into your own. You jerk with the movement but it doesn’t stop you from pouring your blood into his stomach mouth, drowning him in the thickness of it—he was right. Your cursed energy has changed the potency of your blood, he can taste the raw power of it. 

He can’t help it—he lashes out before you can react, seizing your wrist in one large hand before curling his upper body upwards to meet you halfway. His tongue laves over the wound in slow drags, groaning deeply in turn when that coppery-thickness stains the back of his throat. Sukuna drinks down your blood effortlessly, eyes locked with your own when he sees you growing uncomfortable with the stinging sensation in your hand.

With closer proximity, he wraps two of his unoccupied arms around your body to secure you against his chest before he lowers himself back down onto the floor. You’re forced to be chest-to-chest with him, looking down at him with a look on your face that tells him you like the shift of his cock deep inside.

Unable to deny himself any longer, he plants his feet against the floor and begins to fuck up into you—hard. His tongue all the while continues to wash over your palm until his lips pucker to suck on the wound, earning him a moan that tapers off into a pained hiss. He doesn’t stop despite your evident pain, not when he can feel your walls clamping tighter and the wetness that grows between your thighs is making it easier for his cock to slide in and out of you.

The cock wedged between the both of you twitches as much as it can, an indicator that he was growing closer and closer to his peak. Sukuna growls like a feral animal against your palm, releasing you finally to show his bloodied lips and canines dripping with your blood. You seem to be in a trance when you look down at him; mouth open with each and every moan that slips out.

You don’t move when he shifts his hand up to your mouth, covering your lips—not to silence you, no, his eyebrows raised in expectation. And it comes to you so naturally, to open your mouth for him and clamp down on his palm. Your teeth sink into the fatty flesh of where his thumb resides, biting down until Sukuna can see rivers of red curling around his forearm. The feeling of your teeth in his flesh has his hips stuttering, and stomach tensing quickly. 

Sukuna himself falls into his own lust-fuelled trance when he watches you detach from his hand with a wet pop, only to drag your tongue along the bite mark that would’ve maimed a lesser man. His blood mixes into the dried blood on your skin, coating it in a fresher layer. He can’t deny you look good like this, covered in blood that doesn’t belong to you.

It drips and curls around your nipples, painting a pathway down along the curves of your body. A large hand comes up to grope at your breast, squeezing at the hardened bud of your nipple to pull a muffled moan against the palm of his hand. He shifts you again, grabbing at your open-wounded hand with his own to entwine his fingers with your own. 

He lets that hand fall flat on the ground next to his head, your free hand curls through his blood-matted hair and you cling for dear life when you finally succumb to the urge to cum, his cock hammering harshly against that spongy spot deep inside. His palm tingles at the sensation of being pressed to your own, the blood that was singing with untamed cursed energy roaring to life when you crest and orgasm so beautifully for him.

Sukuna can only do his part and follow after you, his teeth bared and gums on display when his lip curls into a vicious snarl. He growls through his orgasm, hips throwing themselves against your own in a heavy rhythm that would no doubt leave you sore and bruised for days. Both of his cocks twitch harshly before he releases all he has, his hips slam up into your own to keep you plugged tight whilst he pours each and every last drop inside.

You’re both left panting in close proximity, your eyes closed and Sukuna can only watch you; admire you in your post-sex heaven. A hand skates itself along your back, brushing through the tacky mixture of sweat and blood. You shift on top of him, turning your head until your lips brush against the corner of his own, you’re so close that he can feel the rapid beat of your heart against his chest.

“I would do anything for you too,” you whisper against his skin, raspy from the strenuous activity. And your words bring a smile to Sukuna’s face, his eyes fluttering to a close to enjoy your closeness. 

The pair of you lay there for some time until the blood grows cold and the wounds on your palms have closed with a fresh layer of skin to replace what was lost. You don’t fight him when he scoops you up on his chest, walking out of the throne room and towards the hotspring the both of you have become quite fond of.

It isn’t until much later that you find yourself truly at rest. The turbulence of your own soul finally settled, sated. Reconnected with your other half, the half that slumbered in the depths of a man who held the key to your heart. The silence in your head is loud, yet welcome, it has you closing your eyes as you rest at the window looking out to the courtyard. Sukuna had returned you to your shared bedroom, and this time he had stayed.

The man himself was on the other side of the room, crossed-legged and hunched over a small writing table—the table was actually normal-sized, Sukuna just made everything look as if it were designed for a child. You listen to the drags of the brush on the paper with each delicate letter he writes, and the crackle of the hearth snaps in the background. 

Peace. You felt at peace.

It was nearing the evening, the sky painted in pinks as the sun bid its goodbyes and sank to allow its counterpart to paint the lands in its white light. Dinner no doubt would be served soon, and with that, so would Yorozu’s heart. You had plans for her heart, plans that had a ghost of a smile resting on your lips. Sukuna would find it humorous, at least.

“We’re to head to the Hida province in the coming week.” Sukuna eventually shatters the quiet of the room, drawing your gaze over to him. He’s still perched over his parchment paper, black ink sweeping across the paper. 

Hida. It wasn’t too far from where you were, you assumed. If your lessons as a child held up, you were somewhere in the north—where it was cold, and out of reach of the Emperor and the late Shogun. But it was much closer to Heian-Kyo than you’d like, the home of the Emperor and his many armies. 

“And why’s that?” You question, waiting to see if Sukuna would raise his eyes to see the challenge in your eye.

Instead, he grins to himself. Putting the inked brush into its pot before he meets your gaze, his face fails to hide his amusement. “They fear me, us. They apparently wish to appease us, to have us come to their province and attend their festival. Wish them good luck with the upcoming season.” 

Immediately you crinkle your nose, frowning at the absurdity of it all. Sukuna seems to think the same, as he laughs lowly at your reaction. You had attended such festivals as a child, albeit it was more just for the people in your father's fief to have the chance to prove themselves to the almighty Shogun. You had witnessed plenty of blessings of upcoming children destined to be nothing but his foot soldiers once they were of age. 

“And you wish to go?” 

“Why not? It’s an opportunity to meet with the Lords, they often have information they’re willing to hand over for the right price.” Sukuna shrugs, and you frown once again—he’d never give anyone anything for information, he’d simply take it. 

“That doesn’t sound like you.” You raise an eyebrow in question, and Sukuna gives you a very rare smile; genuine and impressed all in one package. It’s beautiful as much as it is deadly. It has the hairs on your arms rising despite the thick kimono you had been bundled in to fight off the chill in the air.

“Ever the observant one.” He comments offhandedly, and you watch as he plucks up a block of wood that had been carved to serve as a stamp. You’ve never asked him who he corresponds with, who might be worthy enough to have the King of Curses himself sign off his letters. “I won’t be the one handing something over.”

Immediately, you know what’s going to come from his mouth—

“It’ll be you.”

“Me? I have nothing to give.” You argue half-heartedly, and Sukuna’s gaze grows intense when he recognises the flicker of a flame in your voice; a challenge. “What do you expect of me this time?”

Instead of answering you, he drops his attention to the pile of scrolls he had previously opened and left to the side once he was done. He picks through them for a moment before he finds the one he wants, and then he offers it to you. His eyes meet your own expectantly, giving just a wave of the perfectly folded paper when you return his gaze with a silent question. 

“Take it, and read it.” He prompts you again, and it has you getting up from your perch at the window. Your feet are quiet on the tatami mats, your hands curling into the material of your kimono to ensure you didn’t trip over the excessively long material—you wanted to ask Uraume if they knew where you could get it tailored to fit.

Once in the presence of Sukuna, you feel your stomach flutter and your heart tighten. His aura alone was overwhelming, even if you were of the same ilk as he was now. Your blood was as dark and tainted as his. You pluck the scroll from his fingers, and he drops his hand back into his lap where he adjusts his position so he can lounge whilst watching you read through the scroll. 

The paper is smooth against your fingers, not rough like you’d expect if it were a letter from someone of low standing. That revelation alone has your heart beating just a little faster; the person who sent this was someone of power in Japan, even if they were a minor lord. 

You skim quickly over the introduction, confirming your suspicions that this is a lord. But not just any; a Daimyo, a feudal lord who had worked under your father and later your uncle. Immediately, you feel the palms of your hands grow sweaty with anticipation as to what he could have to say. It’s not addressed to Sukuna, or anyone in particular, which meant that it was an announcement.

‘Following the death of the Shogun, Jien Zen’in, it has come to the decision that we are to be in a period of time where a Shogun does not rule us. Instead, I and the other Daimyo of the surrounding provinces will form a council. The Emperor has approved of this notion.’

“A council?” You frown at the words before you, re-reading the neatly painted letters before you flick your gaze up to Sukuna. “But a council won’t work. My father tried to gather the Lords, but they refused to work together, they–”

“You’ll find people are very easy to persuade for the right price.” Sukuna takes the scroll back from you when you hand it in his direction, just for it to be dropped on the pile. “But it isn’t their unwillingness to work together that should worry you.”

Your eyebrows come together in thought. Sukuna’s right. These men were nothing but greedy lordlings, men who had been promoted from their rank as Samurai to be lavished in riches and falsely placed power. They were never truly in power, just as the Shogun had never had true control. It was—

“The Emperor.” You breathe the words, and Sukuna nods once. “He has control of the most influential people in the country, his hand in every pot. He’s going to continue on his crusade to kill anyone who opposes him, whilst killing the non-sorcerers.” 

Sukuna scoffs, a disbelieving sound when he leans back on two hands. It exposes his chest completely, and the mouth at his stomach is in a deep frown too. “It’s just a very long-winded plan to get to me, and now you. Weed out the weak until they offer us up on a platter.” 

Your mind races. The Emperor was going to wipe out a portion of the country, only to restrict those with the power to overthrow a tyrant. It was barbaric, almost impossible to believe but you’d seen what he had ordered of the past Shogun—of your father. He had convinced a man to kill his own daughter. You couldn’t stop the growing anxiety in your stomach, such a foreign feeling after you’d been in the arms of Sukuna for so long. 

The tips of your fingers feel like ice, and the strum of your pulse in your throat tightens with each passing second. You were being backed into a corner, forced to act. The Emperor was a smart man, he knew how to play the game better than most. He blindsided you every moment he could and always remained unscathed. It was infuriating. 

There were only a few limited ways to stop him, to put an end to everything. 

The first, and most obvious, would be to kill him — but it would never be that simple, Kenjaku had told you of the people the Emperor surrounded himself with. He’s too well protected, it’d end in failure. The second option would be to offer yourself up to stop the mass killing that would be taking place, and immediately you shut that idea down. No, you would not go out like that. 

And third…

“I’ll do it.” You drop your hands to your sides, glancing at Sukuna who tilts his head in return with a raised eyebrow. “I’ll become the next Shogun.”

And finally, Sukuna breaks into his praising grin. “Very good.”

You open your mouth to speak more but a knock on the shoji door has you turning your attention there instead. It slides open at Sukuna’s approval, the aforementioned man placing down whatever he was reading to glance towards Uraume who is kneeling at the entryway with their head bowed low. 

“Dinner, my Lord, my Lady.” Uraume addresses you both with a nod of their head, glancing up when Sukuna huffs—a sign that he’s accepting the meal, and Uraume enters his room. Uraume slides the large tray into the room, before sliding along their knees to sharply close the door behind them and get to preparing food for the both of you.

You watch quietly as they do their job, setting up individual dishes and heated pots of food that are covered with a lid. You can smell it as clear as day, that meaty scent. Human flesh. Once upon a time, it would’ve made you feel ill at the idea of eating it, but now you can feel the saliva building on your tongue. You were ravenous. 

“For you.” Uraume bows deeply, before offering up a cold large china dish. It has a lid on top, and your eyebrows raise quickly with a smile growing on your face. Just what you wanted. 

“Thank you, Uraume. You did a wonderful job.” You smile down at them when they bow again at your thanks, turning to do the same to Sukuna before abruptly leaving the room. You can only watch the frost that grows on the frame before it vanishes too. 

“You flustered Uraume, well done.” Sukuna chuckles, watching you from his spot across the room before you decide to approach. “It takes a lot to do that to someone so cold.”

“I’ll have to apologise.” You smile sheepishly, you hadn’t wanted to fluster the monk into fleeing the room but you had meant your praise; Uraume always went above and beyond in preparing meals. They were delicious.

Sukuna watches you as you kneel on the floor next to him, placing the china dish to one side and conveniently out of his grasp. You settle down with a content smile on your face, head tilting as you glance up at Sukuna to see him already glancing over the food before taking his pick of what he wants.

You follow after he starts, taking a small bowl of rice and a thinly sliced strip of meat. It smelled beautiful, bathed in herbs and spices that you weren’t too sure of. The meal is quiet, the both of you enjoying something that you had killed—Yorozu. Her flesh makes great food, the richness of it and its low amount of fat was a bonus. 

“When we find our way to Hida, what should we expect upon our arrival?” You speak eventually, setting down your empty bowls in favour of the warm sake cup. You cradle it in two hands whilst you observe Sukuna finishing off the heftier chunks of meat.

“A look people often point my way; disgust, and horror. But they’ll appease us regardless. They’ll bow, they’ll give their pleasantries—all because it’s demanded of them.” Sukuna comments plainly, a distaste for his words. “The Lord that will be welcoming us is old. No doubt he’ll find a way to humiliate us, one way or another.”

Your nose crinkles at the thought, before you take a short sip of your sake. You still didn’t want to go to Hida, it was an opening for anyone to strike. And if they did strike, you’d be forced to act and potentially play directly into the awaiting palm of the Emperor. 

“I’m sure we’ll have the chance to return the favour.” You smile, turning your attention downwards to the awaiting cold white dish at your side. You take it in both hands, twisting in your seat next to Sukuna until you are facing him sideways. 

His head turns in interest when you present the china bowl to him. “And what’s this?” 

“A gift. Open it.” You bow your head with a knowing smile on your face, and Sukuna matches it easily. 

His fingers move to the top of the lid, carefully bringing away the fine china to show what was inside the bowl. His smile blossoms into a grin, two eyes darting towards you when you huff out an amused sound from your nose. 

“Do you like it?” You grin wolfishly too now, looking up at the man as he grabs a hold of what was inside of the dish. “It’s Yorozu’s.” 

“You’re a cruel woman. Did you know that?” Sukuna laughs, fingers squeezing around the heart in his hand—not enough to crush it, but enough to have blood curling around his fingers. “Is this payback for what I did to your husband?”

“Not at all,” you shake your head, you’d never get revenge for him doing you a favour; even if you didn’t see it as such at first. “It’s a reminder that no one will ever come between us.” 

Your words have an immediate effect on Sukuna, his eyes all focus on your face and you can see the devotion in every single one. You shuffle a little closer, your knees pressed into his thigh and you tilt your head to look at the heart in his hand before a smile as gentle as first snow spreads on your face.

“Eat it.” Sukuna raises an eyebrow at the command before moving the heart lower, however, you grab his forearm. “No, with your mouth.” 

His nostrils flare in amusement before he brings the heart up to his face, you can only watch in a daze when his mouth opens to show sharp teeth and then he clamps down on the muscle. You can hear the muscle rip and tear easily, not nearly as difficult as when you had been forced to eat your husband's heart. But of course, this wasn’t Sukuna’s first heart.

He takes another bite, a larger one that has blood spilling down along his chin and smearing across his cheeks. All the while, his eyes don’t leave your own. No doubt he can see the excitement that blossoms in your chest at the fact he was eating Yorozu’s heart; the heart that had tried so valiantly to love a man who was unloveable. 

Sukuna finishes it much easier, and quicker than you did. His hands are bloodied but he swoops down to grab at your face regardless, his fingers sink into your flesh and he pulls you up so you can smell the copper on his face. He grins at you, a mean grin that’s laced with arousal. 

“A cruel woman who holds my own heart in her very hands, would you make me eat that too?” His words are a whisper against your lips, his forehead pressing against your own harshly. 

“Never. It belongs to me.” Your own voice is hushed, and Sukuna’s smile grows again. Your fingers press against his chest, digging into the muscle that protects him from you. “Just as mine belongs to you.”

He closes the gap quickly, his lips harsh and wet. He kisses you with a tinge of violence, a consumption that has you desperately trying to keep up. Your tongue laps at the blood on his, sweeping across his lips when you suck a lip into his mouth. He groans, breaking apart the kiss before he grins. “Good.”

‣‣ Main Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[moongumi]

⁀➷ ∵  ❝ just a human ❞

⟶ neteyam x fem!human!reader

⟶ he should've never fallen for a human

⟶ cw. rough drabble ⭒ headcanons ⭒ jealousy ⭒ angsty ⭒ aged up ⭒ BREAKUP ⭒ interspecies relationship ⭒ alien x human ⭒ established situation-ship

⟶ note. i've never tried to write something like this before, but i was feelin angsty. lmk what you think, i dont really know what style this is but i guess its a drabble/hc kinda thing?? it's fun! not edited or anything really

⭒ it wasn't obvious when things started to change, but slowly it became more and more noticeable the way you were being treated.

⭒ he'd leave early in the day before you'd even wake up, when he'd come back he'd say that he was in a rush and didn't think.

"i didn't mean to okay?" he said, bluntly. he moves past you rather quickly. "you wouldn't have been up yet, anyway."

your eyebrows are stitched together, feeling that odd feeling inside your chest as if something was wrong. it felt like a bad time to press matters, even if it hurts to keep those feelings in.

"you could've still asked, i would've gone with you."

neteyam sighs, putting away his bow. his eyes can't meet yours, darting anywhere but at them. "yea, i know."

⭒ you can't pinpoint the reason for his coldness. inside the lab, everyone could feel it. you weren't good at hiding your feelings but neither was he.

⭒ kiri likes to visit her mom, bring lo'ak and neteyam who's body stiffens the seconds he sees you. it wasn't just him though, they all seemed to be acting differently. only kiri remained truly nice to you.

"hey!" kiri waves her hand at you as if there wasn't a huge chill in the room from the tension.

you smiled at her from your desk, continuing with your daily reports without uttering a word.

⭒ neteyam can't keep his feelings off his face, it was obvious. his coldness was within reason, it was out of his control even if he hates it.

⭒ it hurts him to see you that way. alone most of the day, no one really your age since you were closer in range with them. most were far beyond adulthood and nothing much to really talk to about.

⭒ you were the closest to kiri, and well kiri couldn't help it but talk to you. he notices the way you've been avoiding her now, because of him.

⭒ it wasn't until the day that neteyam noticed you weren't in the lab, that his heart leaps and feels that surging feeling of impending doom.

"she went out in the morning," one of the lab guys said. neteyam rushes to your desk, the same one you've always sat at and looks through piles of sticky notes and journals. his large hands practically destroying everything in it's path.

a gasp from behind him was heard, "what are you doing neteyam, she's going to be so pissed you decided to ruin her stuff."

kiri didn't seem to feel that awful gut feeling he felt. he turns to her with a frantic look on his face, finally looking over at the monitor to find a sticky note with your small handwriting, 'out for the day, i think it's hunting season but don't worry, i'll be back later.'

"she's not stupid," kiri said, following her brother as he gathers his weapons and ionar. he was on a mission, his lips are in the tight line.

neteyam shakes his head, going towards the edge of the cliffs where his ikran rests, "i know, but right now she's really stupid–she knows it's hunting season why would she go?"

"i'm sure she's fine."

⭒ you were indeed fine. but neteyam was not.

⭒ neteyam rushes off his ikran with a mission. angry rushes through his bones as he pushes himself through the vegetation to spot you with a boy, a na'vi boy.

"what are you doing?"

you seemed unphased by him. not even bothering to reply. this seemed to make his blood boil by the second. the na'vi boy looks awkwardly been the two of you.

"and what are you doing here?"

the na'vi boy stutters, unable to say a word to the first born son of the clan leader.

your voice was flat, lacking emotion, "he gave me a ride." you get up off the ground, hands filled with bags of random plants and rocks.

⭒ he's never been so annoyed. he didn't think he'd get jealous easily, he thought things like this wouldn't bother him.

⭒ lo'ak always bothered him, pointing out his mood which doesn't make it any better.

"just talk to her man, she'll hate you forever if you don't."

⭒ he did. he talked to you, he stood there. the boy you liked, stands there telling you how he couldn't be with you. he was scared, of his feelings and what others would think.

you scoff, angrily you shoved him. pointing at him, "you of all people, i didn't think would care so much of what people think."

"i don't, i–look, my mother doesn't like humans, she hates spider–he's like my brother and she never sees him," he explains. feeling the moisture in his eyes gather, he wipes them off quickly. his eyes trail the ground at your feet.

you look away, "so it's your mom?"

"it's everyone," he kicks the ground, "i should've never fallen for a human."

"is that what you see us as?"

his eyebrows are stitched together, unable to form words as his mind is frazzled.

"aliens, i am just a human to you–not anything more." it hurts, it really does.

⭒ it was then that you listed the possibilities of what was wrong with you. what didn't you have that he wanted. you didn't want to believe that he would let that affect him, what others think or see.

⭒ he's lying to himself, he kicks himself after being reminded of how much of a skxawng he was.

⭒ tuk found out what he did, she was really angry. she really liked you, you always took her places with you. everytime she'd see neteyam she'd hiss at him.

"hah, she hates you," kiri sings. she's also not his biggest fan after finding out from the source how much of his asshole her brother was.

⭒ it was then, they needed to leave. to save the tribe–to save everyone. neteyam and his family had to leave.

⭒ the weather was awful that day, as if even eywa knew. he's completely covered in rainwater, head to toe trying to find you.

⭒ you're saying bye to kiri and tuk.

"you're not coming?" it was the first words he'd spoken to you since, almost a month ago. it wasn't like he didn't try, his mouth always tried to say something but the moment you'd spot him–felt his energy, you were gone, avoiding him like the plague.

kiri took tuk away, knowing that this was about to get dirty. you shrugged, watching the way the water fell from his pretty face after not really getting a look at him all this time, "what do you mean?"

"since you're saying bye, i assume you know–but you're not going with us? but you're my fa–"

an ironic laugh leaves your lips, interrupting him, "i'm just a human, neteyam, i know my place."

⭒ neteyam never had felt heartbreak before, not before today. irony, your heart broke a month ago. he'd not only lost his home, but he lost...his true home.

end note. if you made it this far I HAVE A TAGLIST, if you wanna be tagged that is <;3

© moongumi 2023. all rights reserved, do not copy and publish my writing anywhere else.

[contentloadingandstuff]

Nilou, Kujou Sara & Hu Tao Seeing Their Stoic S/O Smile

A/N: It's been some time, hasn't it? Enjoy!

Your disposition is both puzzling and impressive to Nilou. Somehow, no matter how stressful or anger-inducing the situation is, you remain unphased. It’s comforting for her, knowing that you’ll be able to endure anything and be a steady pillar for her to lean on if things get rough. Still, being stoic means that you don’t give in to positive emotions as well, which is a great shame. Would Nilou love to see you smile? Obviously! But she won’t force you to change - she accepts and loves you for who you are.

“I have something important to tell you~!” Nilou’s voice trails off. Your eyes grow soft at her clenched hands and the big smile plastered across her lips. 

You nod. “I can tell it's something good. Don't keep me waiting, honey bee.” 

She nods in return, taking a deep breath. 

“The theater is going to stay!”

Nilou squeals and hops up in glee, her red hair swinging in the air. She twirls around, making your heart throb. The sight… it's too much for you to bear. 

She dashes up to you and grabs your hands. “The city bought most of the shares! Do you know what that mea- Oh!”

You can't stop your hands as they grab her hips and hoist her up to your height. Your lips pepper her features with kiss after kiss, your arms squeezing the absolute daylights out of her petite frame. 

“Amazing! Oh Archons, for a moment there I thought it was over!” You burst out, hugging her tightly. “I’m so glad everything is okay!”

“H-hey, slow down a little! You'll squish me like a pancake, baby…” 

Mumbling a quick apology, you hold her up a bit looser. She opens her mouth to speak again, but Nilou's interrupted by a gasp. 

“Nilou? Is..” The feeling of her small hands on your cheeks causes you to trail off. You watch as her face quickly lights up even further. 

“You're smiling!”

At this revelation, a sudden wave of embarrassment floods you. A slight blush blossoms on your face as you clear your throat. 

“Oh… Well… I mean, it's no wonder - your joy is absolutely infectious, my love.” You don't bother to thwart the expression. Your girl gently caresses your bright red cheeks, taking in the image and surely committing it to memory. 

“You're very handsome when you smile, do you realize that?” Nilou speaks, looking you directly in the eyes, hers overflowing with giddiness. “Very handsome~ You should definitely do that a little more often. Please?”

“Thanks for the feedback. I’ll t-try my best.”

You use a kiss to distract her from your flustered self, and put her down. Nilou returns the gesture and grabs your hands. 

“Come on now - let's get ice cream! We have something to celebrate after all~” - we have something to celebrate~”

You and Sara are soulmates, both mature, responsible and stoic. There is no challenge that you two can’t overcome, whether it be a problem in the relationship or something external. You have each other’s back and push on towards your goals, never wavering or falling behind. Still, everybody needs some downtime once in a while, even her. Surely you could use some guard-lowering as well. Sara understands that expressing emotions might be difficult - she is somewhat of an expert herself - so the Tengu will never force you to relax, and will take things slowly as you learn how to be in a relationship.

The click of the front door surprises Sara, making her heart drop. So soon already? She hastens her movements, fingers fumbling with the silk kimono. 

“Sara? Are you home?” You speak out, and the answer arrives shortly. “Take a seat, Y/N! I’ll be there in a moment.”

She straightens the fabric and looks up at the tall mirror again. Her hair is orderly, the red Tengu mask now replaced with a white lily braided in. Although rudimentary - mainly due to her inexperience in these matters - the makeup highlights her eyes and contrasts nicely with the gold of Sara’s irises. Despite the long journey she walked with the kimono adorning her body, she still misses the heaviness of armor on her skin, but even she can’t dispute the elegance of the outfit. The majority of the silk is dyed black, vines with cherry blossoms tracing her sides and sleeves, all white as snow. Her obi belt is black as well with various feather shapes embroidered in white thread. 

Sara takes a deep breath to strengthen herself. You can do this. She walks out the door and steps into the corridor, right into your field of view. 

You freeze in place upon seeing her. Your eyes dart around the sight in front of you before landing on hers. She blushes and looks down, her hands finding each other and dropping down to her belly. 

“... do you like it…?” Sara asks shyly, her eyes switching between you and everything but. You blink a few times and nod your head. 

“Of course I do, Sara… You look positively stunning…” You try to avert your eyes, but fail. “Is there a special occasion?”

She grabs her forearm. “Well, no… I just wanted to surprise you. You said I would look great in something like this, so-”

“Wait, you remember that?” You approach her in a fair bit of disbelief. “And this pattern, these colors… Did you…?”

Sara nods. “Yes, my love. I picked them out specifically for you.”

Your lips curl into a huge, dumb smile - just like that of a little boy. “Oh Sara…” 

Her eyes wide with surprise. Did you just smile? 

Before she can have a second thought you kiss her lips, Sara welcoming the affection. Out of breath after a short moment you part, one thing blaring in her mind. 

“You…”

Sara stops herself before she can finish. Your smile persists, radiating a sense of joy she never saw on your features before.

Ultimately, she decides against it. 

“You are too thankful, really. All I did was dress up, after all…”

You shake your head. “No, my love. You don't realize how much this means to me.” You embrace her. “I never fathomed how lucky I am to have such an attentive and loving woman by my side.”

She strokes your back tenderly, a smile of her own gracing her lips. “My love, the same can be said about you. You've done much more for me than I can ever put into words.”

Sara gently pulls away, once again face to face with you. Her hand goes up to your cheek, thumb gently tracing the curve of your beautiful smile. 

“I would do this and so much more time and time again, my love, just to see your beautiful smile.”

No matter what kind of tricks Hu Tao tries on you, you never even as much as smirk at her antics. No joke or situation can make you laugh - but does that mean she will just give up and walk away? You wish! By being so lovable and handsome and wonderful and loving her in return you brought trouble upon yourself, so you better be ready, mister!

Hu Tao rubs her temple, sighs, and readjusts her head on your thighs. 

It was a long day of work, advertisement and her usual shenanigans - scaring the daylights out of Xiangling, trying to get Zhongli to engage in some more modern activities and, of course, trying to get a reaction out of good old you. Despite her best efforts, not once have you broken your usual toned demeanor and went past that polite smile of yours. 

She looks up past the book you’re reading and at your face, bearing the same expression as always. Her eyes trace yours as they jump from line to line, before stopping abruptly. You send her a questioning gaze, but she just shakes her head. 

“It’s nothing, sweetie.” The director replies, and you go back to your lecture. 

Well, she’ll have to try again. And again. And again, though - truth be told - she is running out of ideas. Surprises, scares, pestering… none of what she tried gave any results. 

But maybe this is just how you are? Maybe the lack of expression is your unique feature. Hu Tao’s hand tightens around yours, placed comfortingly on her chest. She closes her eyes, and mumbles. “You’re worse than Shenhe…”

She can hear you putting down the book, and feel your other hand going up to her hair, giving it a few gentle strokes. 

“Don’t worry about it, Hu.”

You shift, laying down beside her. She snuggles into your arm, letting you envelop her completely. The smell of your freshly washed hoodie fills her nose, prompting her to nuzzle her face right into you. It’s not long before she drifts off. 

When Hu Tao regains sight, the first thing before her eyes is a smile. Your smile. What a nice dream. 

She takes a deep, content breath and closes her eyes again. Her fingers feel your warmth radiating from underneath the fabric of your clothes and hear your steady, deep breathing.  

Hold on. 

Her eyes shoot open and she pulls away. You stir awake, your smile vanishing right away. 

“You did not just…” She gasps. 

“I did not…?” You reply, still hazy from the sleep. 

Hu Tao wiggles free, sitting up. You do the same, startled. She crosses her arms over her chest and pouts. 

“I try so many things, and this is what finally gets you?” She turns her head away from you, pigtails swinging in the air. “Ayia, you’re such a dork.”

There’s a moment of silence. Hu Tao cracks one of her eyes open without turning around, trying to see your reaction. You sigh. 

“Hey, honey-”

“No.”

“Um, sweetie-”

“Nu-uh.”

A moment of hesitation. “Honey bee…?” “I don’t want to hear it. You disappointed me, Y/N L/N.”

Another moment of dramatic silence. Suddenly, Hu Tao feels your fingers around her sides. 

Her eyes widen and she tries to defend herself, but it’s hopeless. You strike at her with a barrage of well-aimed tickles, instantly making her squeal and wiggle. 

“Ah! Noooo! Come on!” Her body trembles with laughter, arms shooting out to grab your forearms. Before she can even realize her mistake, you’re already at her armpits, causing her to curl into a defensive ball. With little result, of course.

As she pointlessly struggles against your experienced tickling, you hum in a melodic voice. “That’s what you get for being grumpy, little butterfly~”

Hu Tao coughs a few times. All this laughter is making it a bit hard to breathe. 

“Okayyyy, safeword!” She bursts out once again as your hands slide under her t-shirt, mercilessly tickling her belly. “Uh, red! Blue! Orange! Whatever-it-was!”

You finally release her and scooch, giving her space to recover. After a few deep breaths and getting out a few more giggles, she brushes her messed up hair away from her eyes. You stare at each other for a short moment, and it’s then that an idea sparks in her mind. She quickly sits up and moves over, hands placed by her sides and ready to go.  

“Honey? You have a stain on your sleeve, I think. Can you lift up your arms please?”  

You do as she says, and Hu Tao doesn’t give you as much as a single second to think about the blunder you’ve just made. Enough said, she got much more than a single smile out of you that day. 

Thanks for reading!

[starstruckmoony]

annoying.

masterlist

pairing - james potter x slytherin!reader

summary - james potter has a crush on you, but you don't feel the same way. or do you?

trope/tags - friends to lovers (kind of), grumpy x sunshine (again, kind of), fluff

word count - 8.5k

warnings - language, mentions of sex

the very first time james tried to get your attention was in your second year at hogwarts. he could not recall the exact moment he realised that he would do quite literally anything for you, even if it meant that he would have to die, but he knew for sure that you were the one he was meant to be with. remus thought he was being a bit dramatic, he was only twelve, for merlin's sake, what does he know about love, but james paid no mind to his worries and complaints. sirius, of course, supported him, and peter simply just trailed along hoping that they will make it out alive. why? well, you were a slytherin.

you were having lunch in the great hall with your peers like every other day. barty was acting like his usual joker self. which, frankly, was not his smartest idea, considering the blaringly obvious fact that everybody was eating and a choking hazard comes in package with laughing while chewing. no one really batted an eye, though. pandora was barely holding herself together, and evan was miserably failing at keeping a straight face. regulus was rather unphased and continued shoving pieces of beef into his mouth, but not while secretly chuckling at the stupid faces barty was making. you and dorcas, being the oldest ones, attempted to calm them all down, but your worries went on deaf ears. regardless, you were having a wonderful time, blissfully unaware of what your life was about to turn into.

"oi, l/n!" the laughter around you faded away and everybody's focus was now shifted to james standing at the entrance of the great hall.

"is that potter?" pandora wiped her tears away and rose up from her seat to see the show which was about to unfold. you furrowed your eyebrows as you slipped away into thought, picturing all sorts of possible terrifying scenarios, because why the hell was he addressing you all of a sudden? out of all people? and so loudly? you'd only ever spoken to him in potions class the previous year when slughorn assigned you to work together.

it was all very confusing and you weren't sure what to make of it.

you panicked when james started walking towards you and failed to notice the way your friends sniggered at the way your face went completely pale, just like that. he slipped into the empty spot next to you, smiling while he was waiting for your reaction. gasps left the mouths of multiple slytherins at the table, and your eyes widened in horror when you recieved dirty looks from snape and his peers. they were certainly going to terorise you and your friends for that.

it took you a few seconds, but you managed to connect the dots in your head. those sudden behavioural changes whenever you passed him in the corridors, the all but subtle glances he would send your way, the smiles, that weird twinkle in his eyes - everything suddenly made sense, as much as you hated to admit it. james potter had a crush on you, and he finally mustered up the courage to do something about it. and in the stupidest way possible.

"hello." you tried sound as polite as you possibly could despite wanting him to give him a hard push to the floor. you were everything but delighted by his presence, and restored to picking at the food in your plate without sparing him a second glance. regulus let out a snort.

"can i ask you something?" he leaned forward on the table with his hand supporting his chin. he was way too enthusiastic for your comfort and you wanted him gone.

"uh, alright, i guess." you shrugged lazily, biting the inside of your cheek in distress. part of you felt like you should let him speak; what if it was school related? potter was smart, and you could use some help on your transfiguration essays. the other part of you, however, was just about ready to strangle you.

"wanna be my girlfriend?" he smiled stupidly and it was followed by hollering and cheering from his friends, including your own. the students at the gryffindor table all appeared to have a million questions running through their minds, and your fellow housemates were not very pleased - not only did he ruin their lunch, but he was a gryffindor. and top of it, he was james potter.

you did a double-take. your mouth fell open in surprise. this was exactly what you feared.

"what?! no!" you whisper-yelled, petrified by his offer. your face was on fire, and not because you were flattered by his words, but purely out of embarrassment. barty and evan dissolved into laughter.

"okay, then how about a date first?" he was persistent and you moved away from him by instinct, only to have dorcas push you forward and towards him.

"no! go away!" you hissed, mortified, and turned your face away from him to hide the fact that it was burning. you almost reached for your wand and hexed them both.

"i have a book with some cool jinxes that i can teach you! it'll be fun! please!" he kept pushing, his eyes sparkling with hope. you swore you felt like smoke was about to come bursting out of your ears. regulus reached from behind dorcas and tapped your back in a comforting manner, but you did not miss the way he smirked after he retrieved his hand.

"teach me?! do you think i'm stupid?!" you snapped, finally whipping your head in james' direction with rage evident on your face.

"i thought you wanted to learn the– ow!" you kicked barty in the shin from under the table. the sudden impact made everybody's plates shake. "hey, i almost spilled my soup!"

"come on, y/n! please!" he decided to shoot his shot one more time, this time with puppy eyes, and a sodding pout, but you refused to give in. nothing in the world could have made you say yes to james bloody potter.

"no." you said sternly, crossing your arms and not allowing yourself to look in his direction again.

"fine! but just so you know, i'm not giving up," he stood up, it was amusing to you how unaffected he was by your rejection. he was as enthusiastic as he was when he first took a seat next to you, "i'm gonna make you mine."

***

and james kept his promise. the next several years at hogwarts became certainly memorable. getting rejected bruised the gryffindor boy's ego, so he was determined to prove himself to you and became quite a little show off. he was awfully cocky, and to top it all off, he did the absolute stupidest things to try and impress you - from jinxing snape after he heard him berate you for messing up a potion, to straight up helping you cheat in transfiguration class and getting himself a year's worth of detentions. he was a gentleman, though, and didn't try to pressure you into going out with him after you made it clear that you did not want to. as much as he adored you, he never went out of his way to actually do something that would cause you discomfort. no, that was his biggest nightmare.

funny enough, it was also why your hatred for him began fading away, and very unfortunately for you, there was no going back. you really had no true reason to dislike him as much as you did, which only made you loathe him even more. truth be told, you felt bad, and that was what you hated the most.

after james' terribly unsuccessful attempt at asking you out, things became rather awkward and you did everything in your power to avoid him. you despised him, or so you told yourself. your friends were sure you did, you spoke about him with so much venom in your voice that pandora thought they'd have to lock you up to stop you from using a forbidden curse on him. but then somehow, the two of you formed a strange sort of relationship, one would even call it friendship - james would randomly wind up in the same places you (he'd always claim that it was only coincidental), but you wouldn't chase him away. yeah, you'd be mean to him, obviously, and any normal person would probably cry, but he was enjoying it, because, well, it was you. when you grew closer to the gryffindor girls, mary macdonald managed to open your eyes and you saw that james wasn't the creep you assumed he was. so, you warmed up to him, and by some strange miracle, stopped completely loathing him and his presence.

though you still found him completely, utterly and unbearably annoying.

"oi, l/n! what you up to?" he showed up in the astronomy tower where you were reading one gloomy afternoon. regulus must have told him where you were, looks like someone's sleeping on the floor tonight. the lake seemed like a perfect place to drop a bed into at times. it's not that you didn't want james there, it's just that you didn't want to see anybody at that particular moment. you had grown to love colder weekends. they were the perfect excuse to avoid any unwanted trips to hogsmeade that would usually lead to you getting in trouble because barty had a habit of setting off a dozen dungbombs to poke at mulciber and snape. as satisfying as it was, you had gotten enough detentions that year and you weren't exactly prepared to receive another howler.

so, you just couldn't miss out on the perfect opportunity to go up into the astronomy tower and read in the peaceful atmosphere. it had always been much calmer up there compared to the other parts of hogwarts.

"reading." you replied flatly, returning your gaze back to the text in front of you. or at least you pretended to do so. no matter how hard you tried, you could not focus again, so you kept your eyes on the same sentence while you waited for him to do something. for a moment, you wondered what he had been up to before he found you. he peeked over your shoulder to take a better look at the writing.

you did not say a word, and you realised that if you sat there pretending to read while waiting for him to leave you alone would most likely take hours, so you continued trailing your eyes over the letters, and got lost in the story once again.

what you didn't notice is that he got invested too, completely by accident. it wasn't james' intention to come down there and read with you, he wasn't even sure what you were up to and all he wanted was to see you, but there he was, reading from behind your shoulder in the tranquil ambient of the tower.

it was when he suddenly asked you to wait before flipping the page that you realised he had been reading with you all along, and you squinted your eyes at him with a glint of curiosity in them.

"what are you doing?" you quiered. the sudden shift in the atmosphere took him off guard a bit, and he gulped when you locked your eyes with his own.

"reading?"

"didn't know that was a synonym for being an annoying little git."

"i'm not that bad." he defended himself, trying to look back at the letters. you scoffed.

"i thought you hated books." you hid the writing away from his gaze and quirked an eyebrow in amusement.

"i don't hate them. i just prefer not to read." he responded, sounding a lot more cocky than intended which drew a chuckle from you.

"way to impress a girl." you rolled your eyes.

"i am professional at it." you laughed in his face.

"at least you're honest," you shrugged, he furrowed his eyebrows in puzzlement, "merlin, are you daft? what i mean is, you're staying true to yourself. not pretending that you enjoy something just to sweep me off my feet. it's admirable."

"of course i am! i could never lie to you. you're the most beautiful creature i have ever beheld in my sight." you let out an exaggerated sound of disgust, pressing your palm against his face and pushing him away, "lay off, romeo."

"oh!" he stood up suddenly, putting his hand over his heart dramatically and looking up, "with love’s light wings did i o’erperch these walls, for stony limits cannot hold love out. " he glanced back at you. you guffawed, looking at him in bewilderment, "where on earth have you managed to hear that?"

"seen romeo and juliet at the theatre during holidays." you cocked an eyebrow at him. never would you have thought that james potter was the one who'd take interest in muggle literature. "got a favourite scene?"

james pursed his lips in thought. "the morning after." he wiggled his eyebrows and sat back down.

"that's disgusting." you laughed.

"i'm only joking, i think the balcony one would be my favourite. i'd say it's very romantic," he shrugged with a sly smirk, "and it also made me feel the least emotional pain, if you know what i mean." he put a hand to his chest for dramatic effect and sighed.

"oh, merlin." you rolled your eyes playfully, letting out a snigger at his act. "look, i'm gonna be straightforward with you right now," you began. james sat up straight. you held back a laugh, poor fool probably thinks you'll return his sorry little feelings.

"you're not nearly as distasteful as i thought you were." you poked his arm. james looked a bit perplexed, almost as if he was expecting something more (which he was).

but then he laughed breathlessly, seeming more proud than disappointed. you couldn't help but chuckle. he bit the inside of his cheek in thought as he took in the sight of you, wondering how in the hell he got so lucky to know you. you may not feel the same way, but you surely make his life seem like an utopia, even though you're quite mean to him.

"continue, please." he reached over your arm to turn the page. you were rather intrigued by whatever that was.

"hold on for a second. why are you here, exactly?" you leaned forward to prop your chin in the palm of your hand, observing his face attentively as he scratched the back of his neck in thought.

"i guess i wanted to see you." he responded honestly.

"and there i was hoping you had something exciting to tell me." he chuckled lowly. you had come to notice that his voice was getting deeper. it wasn't high pitched and annoying anymore, definitely a lot less infuriating.

"wait, i didn't finish–" he tried to stop you before you could turn the page. "sorry, guess you gotta read faster."

"that isn't fair."

"i beg to differ."

"you're so not cool."

"then why d'you keep pining over me?" james opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. he huffed and crossed his arms. you smiled in victory, laughing when he stuck his tongue out at you.

***

by the end of year four, you had read about ten books together. he even read muggle poetry to you in the hospital wing when you got sick, which, to nobody's surprise, lead to what seemed like never-ending teasing from barty and evan (who were also james' biggest hypemen aside from the marauders). when you looked back at it a few years later, you realised that it was the moment when your first romantic feelings for him started blooming, though you would have never admitted it at the stubborn and rebellious age of fourteen. you were headstrog, a bit in denial as pandora liked to say, and top of it off, you were hard to please. in between all of that was james, who wasn't subtle about being head over heels for you in the least bit, and who would have done anything to get your attention. a match made in heaven, really.

you loved to tease him about it. he sometimes wondered why he had to be the one to fall in love with you. that's where the worst part of it all came in; feeling insecure, comparing himself to his friends, secretly wishing he was sirius (since all the gryffindor heartthrob had to do to win a girl over was to wink in her direction) and an existential crisis as an extra in the package. you clearly were never interested in him, and he couldn't help but think you never would be. sometimes, all he was doing seemed pointless, but he kept telling himself that one day you'll love him the way he loves you.

when your fifth year rolled around, you thought he would've dropped the act by then. you had matured over the summer, or at least you believed you had, and you assumed he had too. you had what some may call a summer romance with some stupid muggle boy, and to everybody's surprise, you were the one to break his heart after realising that whatever you felt for him wasn't love. a little something was stopping you from loving him and you may or may not have attempted to obliviate yourself in order to forget about james. obviously, you failed. stupid idiot.

the entirety of your holidays, you kept wondering if james had got over you, or if he was more lucky than you when it came vacation romance. you thought about him meeting a girl who actually cared for him and returned his feelings instead of teasing him, a girl that could have made him forget you completely, a girl who he had a happy ending with. you rather hated the mere thought of that. thinking about it caused an unexplainable ache in your heart.

much to your own delight, you were totally wrong.

however, things were not the same as they were the three previous years. you two became almost inseparable. dorcas kept teasing james, calling him a thief, saying he took her best friend from her. he would play along, tease her back, and tell her that he's a better best friend anyway. it made your heart flutter in a disgustingly sweet way.

you hated the way he made you feel. you hated the way you wanted to see him more often instead of avoiding him. you hated the way he smiled at you. you hated the way he tried to make you more comfortable by pointing out that you are indeed just friends. you hated james potter, yet you couldn't get enough of him.

you would never admit it, though, no. he was still that stupid little boy who offered to teach you jinxes, that idiot who chased snape away from you like a proper knight in a shining armour, that tosser who's voice was still cracking when you read together in the tower, that adorable–

"do you fancy going to hogsmeade with me tonight?" james appeared from behind you the moment you exited the classroom after finishing with ancient runes.

"studying, sorry." you shrugged, pulling out a piece of parchment to remind yourself which class you had next. "really? that's more important than me?" he sighed in disappointment, trotting after you as you began making your way over to the transfiguration classroom.

"who said you're important to me?" you smirked and looked over your shoulder. he flipped you off with a playful eyeroll, chuckling at the way you looked so proud of yourself for that comment. "i'll meet you at the portrait hole at six." you added.

the two of you entered the classroom, laughing over some horrible joke he cracked on the way. you took your usual seat next to dorcas who shot you a funny look the moment you stepped through the door.

"what?" you deadpanned before slamming your book onto the table and flipping through the pages. "care to explain?"

"explain what?" you scrunched your face up at the amused look on her face.

"twat," she slapped your shoulder, "you and potter?" dorcas motioned her head towards him, and you looked his way to find him scribbling something down into sirius' book. he looked up just in time to meet your eyes and sent a smile your way. you grinned back and turned to your friend again.

"what about me and him?" you weren't quite sure where she was getting at with whatever the hell this was. she knew your relationship with james was platonic with a capital p, simple as that. she laughed in your face.

"dorcas! don't be ridiculous, he's only my friend." you leaned back in your seat, profusely blushing and crossing your arms over your chest. everybody knew that you and james were just friends. nothing more.

"i think you better tell him that." lily turned in her seat to face to you. mary, who was sitting next to her, only nodded her head which confirmed that she wasn't on your side either. and neither was marlene who looked rather amused observing you from the table next to yours. of course she wasn't, the fact that she fancied dorcas was more obvious than she thought.

"oh, please. he even calls himself my best friend, you lot are delusional."

"fuck, y/n, you're hopeless." dorcas groaned, exchanging some disappointed glances with the gryffindor girls. she let her head fall down onto the table in frustration. you scoffed, averting your eyes to james and keeping them there for a while.

that was how the rest of your fifth year went; you and james being friendly, him asking you to accompany him on some stupid adventures he often came up with, you playing hard to get, but agreeing to hang out in the end. all of that would usually be followed by dorcas'... and pandora's... and lily's... and pretty much everybody's pointless attempts to talk some sense into your head. you would brush them off, saying he's just a nice bloke who's nobody but just a good pal of yours. you even said it to sirius.

and all of you knew that wasn't true.

***

soon enough, you began your sixth year and james was starting to lose his mind. he was so in love with you, he could barely keep a calm act around you. hiding it became a lot more difficult. he was convinced that you thought he was over you, because why on earth would somebody still be friends with a person who rejected them and showed zero interest in a romantic relationship? he felt miserable. he wanted you by his side, but just friendship wasn't enough to ease the ache in his heart. one thing was for sure, and that was that he had to talk to you.

he needed to let you know that he still loved you, and pour out all of his feelings if it was necessary. he thought that if you rejected him again, he would drop the whole thing and really, truly settle for just being friends, and that is, if you end up wanting anything to do with him. it would be difficult, getting over you. it would hurt, coming to terms with it all would be an absolute nightmare. he would be heartbroken without a doubt, but he believed he could manage it if he tried hard enough. lies.

very conveniently, you and james got into a bit of trouble that day. that was a well-known concept to you both. neither of you completed your major muggle studies essay on time, hell, you hadn't even started with yours, so you decided to do the only rational thing. which was to ditch the class.

it was nerve-wracking, sneaking through the corridors and trying to avoid getting caught by mrs. norris, or filch, maybe even by a professor, but you managed to make it to the grand staircase. you thought you were going to succeed, you were so close, but surprise, surprise - you were caught by bloody dumbledore himself. instead of cooperating, you tried to make a run for it and hide in a broomstick closet, just in time for filch to catch you.

task failed successfully.

you weren't sure how you managed to dodge getting forbidden from going to hogsmeade or even leaving the school premise, as that was the punishment you both expected to get for running away from the headmaster, but you were more than grateful that the man settled for simply giving you detention.

"do you fancy going for a walk by the lake tonight?" you questioned when you finished cleaning the floor of the potions classroom after your poor attempt at skipping muggle studies.

"what?" james mumbled incoherently, bending over to pick up some crumpled up parchment under one of the seats.

"that was a yes or no question." you crossed your arms. you weren't sure where you were getting all of the confidence from, but you settled for blaming in on james and his self-assuring personality which had quite the influence on you, even though you willingly began spending a little too much time with him. you cursed mentally.

"wait, huh?" he stopped what he was doing, looking rather confused.

"was i not clear enough?" you rolled your eyes in a teasing manner.

"you're asking me to hang out?" his entire face lit up, a hopeful smile found its way to his lips. "yeah, silly, that's what friends do," you scoffed, though you were slightly crumbling on the inside, "so don't you dare treat it as a date." you quickly added, fixing your stance and straighteing your back to come off more relaxed. regardless of your shitty attempt at trying to pretend you were disinterested in him, james looked like he just won the lottery.

"of course." he scrambled to clean up the rest of the mess under the seats as fast as possible. he could not believe you. it truly seemed like he the odds were in his favour that day. just when he was planning on giving up and destroying everything, that simple question restored all the hope he had lost. that was the first time you asked him to hang out. it was usually him initiating everything. you quietly giggled at his overjoyed reaction, and a strange feeling washed over you. you ignored it, all of it, and settled for avoiding his gaze as much as you could for the last thirty minutes of detention.

eight o'clock rolled around so fast you could barely keep track of it. you were in a state of disarray - nervous, panicking and desperately trying to come up with some excuse you haven't used to brush james off before just so that you didn't have to show up. but that would be stupid, wouldn't it? you were the one who wanted to hang out. dorcas, evan, barty, regulus and even pandora were laughing at you, showing no signs of wanting to help you and refusing to give you any form of emotional support whatsoever.

"what great friends you are." you remarked sarcastically, pulling the first jumper you saw in your trunk over your head.

"isn't that his?" barty smirked devilishly, scanning the clothing item with his eyes. you furrowed your eyebrows, looking down just to see that the gryffindor jumper you put on did not in fact belong to you. your eyes went wide. all five of your friends convulsed with laughter when you scrambled to take it off. evan fell off of dorcas' bed right onto the hard floorboards.

"i don't know how it got here, but i swear it's not what you think!" regulus was clutching his stomach after joining evan on the floor, and you threw the jumper right in his face. pandora wiped some tears away with the sleeve of her shirt and then quietly chuckled again as she was trying to stop any more tears from coming.

"i will strangle you all, i'm not joking." you lifted your hands up in frustration, stomping back to your trunk and this time taking a shirt you were sure was yours.

"oh, c'mon, we're only teasing you," dorcas stood up, walking over to where you were and hugging you from behind, "i'm sure the laundry got mixed up." barty trailed off, and you could see him holding back a grin.

"right, but," dorcas pulled away from you and began walking backwards towards the door, "it would be quite romantic if you kept it after a nice shag, wouldn't it?"

"dorcas!" you screeched, and she was out of your reach before you even made it halfway towards the door. your friends burst into giggles again, or what was left of them, as evan and regulus were half-dead. you were a blushing mess, and you left your room resembling an angry child who was moments away from throwing a tantrum, but not without james' quidditch jumper in your hands.

you didn't notice the strange looks you were given by the students you passed by in the dungeons. you looked furious, with your jaw clenched and your face beet red, all while holding onto something which belonged to a certain dark-haired gryffindor. your thoughts did not seem to go in that direction even once. you could think of nothing but james.

the mere thought of him made you feel strange. it was a feeling that wasn't too familiar to you, but you had quite clear of an idea of what it could be and it was devouring you. simply looking at him made you feel giddy. his smile would make your heart jump. the light brush of his shoulder against yours would make you shiver. you were in love. but boy were you stubborn.

"who hurt you?" you stopped in your tracks when you heard james' voice come from behind you. you met his warm gaze. there it was, that flutter in your heart again. you blamed his smile for it. you almost cringed at yourself, you were so preoccupied by thinking of him that you failed to acknowledge his actual presence.

was he always that attractive? his eyes are so pretty. how's his skin that perfect? god, his lips look-

your swallowed harshly, feeling heat rush to your cheeks and the handsome boy standing in front of you gave you a questioning look. you cleared your throat before handing him his jumper.

"i found this in my trunk." you looked down in embarrassment, crossing your arms and fiddling with a loose thread on the sleeve of your shirt.

"oh!" he took it from your hands, his jaw fell slack, "how did that - there must've been mix up with the laundry."

"probably." you replied dryly, avoiding his gaze. "won't you be cold?" he questioned when he noticed how light the shirt you had on looked. the sleeves reached your elbows, the material was almost see through and certainly not suitable for chilly autumn weather.

"i'll manage." you shrugged lazily, looking down at the floor. those old tiles seemed rather amusing all of a sudden. 

"put it on." you lifted your head. you looked at the clothing item, then at james. you sighed and reached for the soft material. "thanks," you mumbled under your breath, holding the jumper close to your chest in a tightening grip, "should we go now? or are we just gonna stand here like idiots?" you put on a smile, hoping it would look convincing enough and hide the embarrassing fact that you were nervous. really nervous. first date nervous. you may have had to remind yourself that that little hangout of yours was supposed to platonic. friendly. not romantic. definitely not a date with that boy who's life goal was to win you over because he was desperately in love with you. and he fucking succeeded.

you lost track of time. neither of you knew how many hours had passed or how long you'd been sitting at the shore, lost in conversations about something that may seem so irrelevant to the ears of others, but so important to the two of you. you found comfort in being able to open up to james. it was different than talking to dorcas, or evan, or any of your other friends. it warmed your heart, and in a strange way, it felt like home.

you only realised how late it had gotten when the sky above you turned dark and became covered with stars. finishing that date off with stargazing would have been a delight, but rain decided to make an unexpected visit and ruined your good plans.

you retreated inside together through one of the passageways james and the other three marauders managed to discover, tippy toeing your way through the corridors in attempt to go unseen and unheard. you successfully made it through the portrait hole without alerting a prefect, and you stepped through the door of james' room, sighing in relief. james could finally release the breath he was holding all the way down from the lake. that was one of the rare times he didn't fail at sneaking around without his cloak. you celebrated a tad bit too soon, though - the high pitched voice of a seventh year girl who was supposed to keep the peace at night came from behind you, and you froze in your spot. james gulped, making eye contact with you before turning to face her.

"potter, what on earth are you doing outside at this hour?" james laughed uncomfortably, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie as he tried to come up with an excuse, "i was uh," he let out a cough, making the prefect eye him suspiciously, "i was using the bathroom."

"why aren't you wearing your pyjamas?"

"i was busy doing, uhm, something else, y'know, forgot to change and stuff."

"and what is that thing that you were doing, exactly?"

"i don't really think you'd wanna know." he grinned in misery, and you had to slap your hand over your mouth to stop yourself from making any sounds. the girl's eyes widened as she realised what the younger meant. she turned beet red and massaged her temples in frustration.

"merlin's beard, oh, fuck– shit! get out of my sight, we'll pretend this never happened. shoo, leave."

"sorry." he gave her one last awkward smile before sliding into his room, slamming the door shut and leaning against it. "remind me not to do that ever again."

"why not? that was pretty hilarious." you snickered at his demeanor - the boy's cheeks were flushed red from embarrassment.

"that poor girl probably thinks i was wanking in there." he groaned, waddled away from the door and slumped down onto his bed. the springs in the mattress squeaked from the impact. "if i don't get kicked out this year, then i must be a walking felix fucking felicis." he continued rambling as he began digging through the mess under his bed.

"where are your friends?" you looked around the room curiously. the other marauders were nowhere to be seen. "they're sleeping in the girls dormitory tonight."

you hummed as you took a seat on the floor beside him and eyed some of the items he had scattered around. a couple of chocolate frogs, some crumpled pieces of parchment and quills, a few records, and an empty bag of whatever the hell he got at zonko's next to a small stack of books. "so, what do we do now?" you looked his way, and he shrugged as he ducked under his bed, with only his legs peeking out. the action drew a snort from you. he dusted himself off as he dove back from under the bed.

"can you help me out?" he scratched the back of his head.

"what are we looking for here, exactly?" you questioned as you peeked underneath. "no clue. i'm trying to find something fun we can do."

"have you still got that book about jinxes?" james blinked in surprise. "with the ones i offered to teach you, what, like four years ago?" he gave you an amused smile.

"yeah, figured i should make up for breaking your heart or whatever." and definitely not because you realised that it was a perfect date idea. definitely not.

"i might, if sirius hasn't snatched it." he shrugged and then you both started digging through the dark and dusty mess of books, boxes and smelly socks.

"is this," your hand grabbed onto something which felt like a glass bottle, "muggle alcohol?!" you laughed at the way james' face went pale.

"i swear that's not mine!" he immediately defended himself, reaching for the bottle desperately.

"no need to lie, potter, i've a fair share of that stashed under my bed as well."

by two in the morning, both of you were absolutely pissed, but had no intention of stopping until the bottle was completely empty. so much for the jinxes.

"have you ever shagged somebody?" it was strange. the alcohol seemed to have effects similar to what was known as the veritaserum. so apart from the constant laughing fits it gave you, it made you both feel rather confident. so confident you kept spilling out truths and secrets not even your friends knew. and, well, it made you flirty. especially yourself. just a few hours ago, you were freaked out by the mere thought of getting involved romantically with the boy in front of you, but now you were shamelessly asking each other questions about your love lives. not to mention that you managed to lose your clothes in the process. james was shirtless, and you lost your trousers.

"how dare you ask me such a question?" james gasped dramatically, drawing a snort from you, "i reckon your body count is higher than mine."

"are you calling me a slut, potter?" you asked in amusement, he shrugged lazily with a smirk on his lips, "no, i'm calling you more attractive than myself."

"why thank you, my dear friend," you smiled, feeling another surge of confidence shoot through you after receiving the drunken compliment. friend. that word suddenly sounded strange.

"i haven't." james finally spoke after a few moments of silence. that little soberity you had left was what held you back from smiling.

"me neither." james bit his tongue. he felt like he could breathe normally, at last. you were relieved, and so was he.

"virgins." he let himself fall back onto the floor. you scoffed, snatching the bottle out of his hand.

by the time the sun had started to rise, you were fast asleep - james sitting down with his back up against the wall, and you on the floor with his jumper posing as your pillow. james was lucky that lily and the girls agreed to take in his three idiot friends that night because he would have had to deal with endless teasing if they had been present.

the sound of a loud knock on the door shook you both awake, and your head was met with the bottom of sirius' bed when you tried to sit up. you groaned out in pain, letting your head fall down onto the red jumper that smelled of that specific vanilla-scented bodywash only james used. you hated how you loved it.

"potter!" dorcas' voice pierced through the door from the other side, and the boy groggily sat up, making his way over to the door. the hangover headache was unbearable, but it was something he could have expected as an aftermath of last night's turn of events. the whiskey bottle lied empty on the floor. he wasn't sure how either of you managed it, but he woke up to a clean floor, and no stomach-turning stench of vomit.

"you knocked?" he leaned against the doorframe, his vision a bit blurry as he barely had time to think or grab his glasses after being woken up so suddenly.

"have you by any chance seen y/n?"

he wordlessly opened the door wider, and a very exhausted, hungover looking creature came into dorcas' view.

"what's this?" dorcas smirked, resting her hands on her hips.

"uh, a friendly hangout? what else? wait, where are my trousers?" you murmured, not quite sure of what you were stating as your brain hadn't woken up properly just yet. the piercingly painful headache was not helping.

"friendly, huh?" she eyed you both with a hint of mischief in her eyes. "yes, friendly." james confirmed.

dorcas sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose with her pointer finger and thumb. she felt a migrane incoming. you tiredly stood up from the cold floor, feeling a wave of pain shoot through your back from lying on such a hard surface. "goddammit, remind me to sleep on the bed next time." you winced, stretching in attempt to soothe the pain.

dorcas left, with marlene trailing along with her (to nobody's surprise), after you and james decided to head down to the kitchen to ask the house elves for some leftovers from breakfast since you missed it. you were lucky that the elves loved you both, and you were given a few pieces of toast as well as some strawberry jam.

you sat in the gryffindor common room, quietly chatting with james. mary and remus joined you and they took their seats in the chairs in the corner of the room, along with sirius who claimed that sitting in between remus' legs was more comfortable than any armchair. you and james, however, were squashed together on the sofa. you recieved several questioning looks from other students. not necessarily because you were a slytherin in the gryffindor common room, but because you sat so close to one another. you were practically sitting in his lap. someone unaware of the status of your relationship would have assumed you were dating. james' friends noticed too, but decided not to say anything, though they couldn't hide those proud smiles that found their ways to their lips.

***

you could not stop thinking about that night for days. and you did everything you could to forget about it. you drowned yourself in school work just to wipe the thought of it out of your mind. hell, you did extra credit. you even bullied pandora into being a model for your paintings for two weeks straight, and went as far as to make yourself accompany barty on his daily adventures where he was essentially begging for detention. but nothing was helping. that was the best date of your life. not like you had many to chose from, but it was the best. shit.

"oh, for fuck's sake! it was not a date! shut up!" you said to yourself, or to be more specific, your malfunctioning brain. you were speed-walking through the corridors, your breath uneven and cheeks red.

you came back from the gryffindor dormitories to the dungeons after another friendly hangout with james. all those things you did to forget about the first one ended up seeming rather pointless. much to your dismay, you realised you can't go too long without seeing him, as it turned out. the boy successfully found his way into your heart after all those years. and you didn't even know why. well, him being james potter should be enough of an explanation. you were visibly flushed. dorcas raised both of her eyebrows once she saw you and then fell back into her pillow, shaking with laughter.

"oh merlin, you are so red." she pointed at your face, giggling uncontrollably.

"great observation skills, meadowes." you responded sarcastically, pulling james' jumper over your head and tossing it onto your bed. yes, you forgot (read: didn't want) to return it, and no, he didn't mind because he wanted you to have it.

"where's everyone?" you quickly changed the subject. you were not ready to talk about whatever the hell your relationship with james was at that moment. you were pretty sure you wouldn't ever be ready to talk about it.

"well, regulus is probably throwing snape into the lake. again. barty and evan are surely snogging somewhere and i think pandora went for a poo, but i'm not sure." dorcas shrugged. her eyes didn't leave you, which obviously meant she was curious about what happened while you were gone. of course she was, she was one of your best friends after all. one of them, just like james. she may have got strange thrills from teasing you, but she cared about you and she made sure you knew that. so did the rest of your friends, even though they were all out and about in that given moment.

you sighed, covering your face with your hands. you felt guilty - not because you were in love with james, hell no, but because it took you so long to admit it to yourself. you never once thought of his feelings or what you've been putting him through for all those years. the first time you felt a bit different while he was by your side, you chalked it up to some weird feelings of admiration and tried to forget about it. but then it just kept happening, and you couldn't simply brush it off and pretend it's nothing. you weren't even sure why you kept lying to yourself; maybe it was because you were so set on the two of you being just friends, maybe it was because you got so used to his presence and his embarassingly obvious eagerness that you couldn't imagine living your life without all of that in it.

tears welled up in your eyes, and you bit the inside of your cheek to prevent any sounds from escaping. dorcas was not as oblivious as you thought she might be. she could immediately tell something was wrong and she rushed over to your side, wrapping her arms around you until you were comfortable enough to speak.

"dorcas, i'm in love with him," you cried, clutching her shirt as she held you close to her chest. "i know, darling." she sighed.

"i'm such a bloody idiot."

"i would usually say that's not true, but i don't really think i'd be doing either of us a favour if i denied it." that drew a laugh from you, but you quickly returned to your messy state. dorcas kept rubbing comforting circles into your back until your shoulders stopped shaking and you were able to speak properly without breaking out into tears again.

"am i an awful person?" you quiered, staring into what seemed like a void to you. you looked lifeless, and dorcas sighed, putting her hand on your knee.

"y/n, we both know you aren't. and james knows that too."

"but what if i am? dorcas, i hurt him. i treated him like a puppet and i never took his feelings seriously."

"well, i can't argue that," she bit the inside of her cheek, "but you know, you couldn't have exactly done much about it. you can't just force yourself to love somebody. and some people take a while to come to terms with their feelings, and that's okay, so don't you dare blame yourself for that. he's still in love with you, anyway."

"i could have just not befriended him." you picked at your nails as you spoke.

"that wouldn't have helped him much, would it?"

"it wouldn't make him feel as miserable."

"maybe, but you'd break his heart either way and the poor bloke would probably still feel the same. look, he was annoying as shit, and you may have been a bit, well–"

"evil?" you interrupted. she covered your mouth with her hand. you blinked in surprise and she laughed at you.

"alright, yeah, but y/n, don't you think you could fix that now? you know, do something about it at last?"

"don't make me make you, 'cause you might be the next person to get dunked into the lake. i'm feeling particularly ruthless today." regulus suddenly appeared at the door, leaning against it with his arms crossed.

"how long have you been standing there?" you spoke once dorcas retrieved her hand.

"just got here, actually."

"as i was saying," dorcas raised her voice and then put a finger over her mouth to motion for regulus to shut up. he raised his hands up in defeat, "do what you need to do."

"you know what's tomorrow though, right?" regulus interrupted once again. you and dorcas exchanged confused glances, but her face shifted into something that seemed more amused than questioning.

***

"oi, potter!" you pushed open the door of the great hall. the laughter around james faded away and everybody's focus was now shifted to you standing at the entrance, but you were looking for one person's eyes in particular.

it didn't take you very long to find them. james' surprised gaze met your rather nervous one, and you made your way towards the gryffindor table, just like he skipped over to the slytherin one four years ago.

you slid into the empty spot next to him and smiled while you were waiting for him to say something. just like last time, you failed to notice the way all of the students around you chuckled as they watched the show unfold. all because of you and james, yet again.

"hello." he sat up straight, holding back a smile that wanted to make its way to his lips.

despite being friends for all those years, you never once had the chance to sit next to each other at lunch, other than that one particular day in your second year. so he took the sudden change in your behaviour as a good sign, especially after the events of the previous night, and the night at the lake.

"can i ask you something?" you leaned forward on the table with your hand supporting your chin. james furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, and then his mouth fell open in surprise. he laughed breathlessly, shaking his head at your teasing smile.

"go ahead." he shrugged. his eyes haven't left you since you entered the great hall. it was not making your job easier, but you weren't gonna let that pretty face of his stop you from doing what you came to do.

"wanna be my boyfriend?" you smiled stupidly and it was followed by hollering and wooing from all of the students at the table, including his friends, and your own from behind you, "okay, now sn–" barty was shut up by evan's hand clamping over his mouth before he could finish that. pandora was violently blowing her nose into a tissue already. regulus seemed unphased, even though he wasn't. and dorcas looked like she finally discovered the true meaning of inner peace.

james did a double-take, and then grinned like an absolute idiot. you were furiously tapping your foot against the tiles, but froze when he cupped your cheek with his hand.

"can i kiss you?" you nodded, biting your lip to hold back the squeal that was threatening to escape. james was glowing. he grinned, launching himself forward. his lips finally met yours. your hand instinctively found its way to the back of his neck, pushing him further against you. his lips were so soft, and he kissed you like you were the most precious thing in the world. you could feel each other smiling into the kiss, and you broke apart giggling like two fools.

"is that a yes?" you quiered, just in case.

"oh god, yes." then he kissed you again, only to be pulled back by sirius who had just about enough of the pair of you, "some of us are trying to eat, thank you very much."

"sod off." james smacked the back of his head. he could not care less about what anybody else thought at that moment. sirius shook his head as he exchanged a knowing glance with his own lover, and neither of the boys could be bothered to hide their smiles.

"i wanted to do that for six years." james leaned his forehead against yours. you quickly pecked his lips again. "don't worry, i'll make it up to you."

[maxislvt]

pls tell us more about omega!wanda x beta!nat x alpha!reader 👁👁

warnings: amab!reader (no gendered terms), smut, omegaverse, sub!reader, dom! WandaNat, pegging, voyeurism, collaring, mating claims, breeding kinks, spanking, threesomes

i said I was gonna sleep but that's nawt happening so uhhh here!

okay so similar dynamic to my usual omega!wanda fics. You're rather soft and sappy for an alpha. since you face a lot of bullying for it, you hide your identity at work and don't really pursue a relationship because you've always been told that no omega would want an alpha like you.

for this I'd like to think Wanda and Natasha are a match made in hell. they're not dating each other yet. they have feelings for each other but both of them are really dominant and lack interest in being submissive so they're hesitant to commit

They both have their eyes on you before they even figure out you're an alpha. at first it's like a game for them. the first one to take you out on a date gets to do all the nasty and inappropriate things they want to you and tease the other for not getting you first!!

however that goes out the window really fast because they realize you're really bashful and it's just too cute to keep from the other. also you tend to turn and run the second you think you'll be alone with one of them for even a second.

Wanda is subtle. the way she touches you seems so innocent and kind that you almost ignore how close she is to your crotch. You usually don't catch on to her innuendos until much later into the conversation. She never forces you to stay but something is always compelling you to stay put and listen

Natasha on the other hand is very bold and doesn't hold back. sometimes you're literally pinned down and forced to deal with all her perverted comments. you couldn't run away even if you wanted to. her intentions are very explicit and there's little room for what she wants to do with you

it only gets worse when they find out you are an alpha. mainly because their nasty little fantasies can get really explicit now but also because they know exactly how to tease you. they never push too hard, but just enough to get you worked up

you don't know that they know but after falling victim to their coordinated attempts at courting, you assumed that they guessed incorrectly about what rank you are. in an attempt to have some peace, you make this grand reveal to them and they're so unphased. in fact, they're more focused on how good your scent is more than anything.

one thing leads to another and suddenly you're sandwiched between the two of them and fucked out of your mind. they don't even let you put up another act about how alphas should behave and keep you spoiled in bed all day until you stop pouting and promise to give them a fair chance

they do make an effort to take you on nice dates and buy you actual courting gifts. they're really expensive and have a lot of thought put into them. some of them are literally just sex toys they wanna use on you at a later date. like the first thing they buy you is a vibrator and lube. the hope was that you'd be curious but too inexperienced to do it on your own and come running to them

they're very horny romantics. so their claim bites on are either layered on top of each other to make a heart or symmetrical somewhere on your body. the choice is yours but I think it'd be the same way on all three of you.

anyways, you guys are a very practical pack I feel. the three of you would love to have everything be matching and constantly do cuddle piles but it doesn't always get to happen. sometimes it's as simple as one of you is on a mission and can't do the cuddle pile. other times it's the simple fact that Wanda likes to wear pajama pants, you only sleep in shorts, and nat typically goes without pants when sleeping.

and I think that practically carries over into sex as well. in my mind Wanda and Nat are a complementary pair. Wanda is soft and Natasha is strict. That isn't to say they can't come together and spoil or tease you though.

if it's just you and nat or you and Wanda, the whole scene was likely recorded and there's a million photos of how you looked.

Wanda prefers to get you really deep into subspace and wait until you're practically leaking through your underwear before stripping you naked and filling your ass to the brim. she'll let you cum as much as you want so long as you're good and let her have fun too

Natasha likes to tease. She'll edge you for hours before she even thinks about pegging you. Nat is not above spanking you just for fun! After she's marked up your skin and left you a sticky mess, she'll spank your ass bright red until you have a hand print

80% of the time they top you together is to spoil you. it doesn't have to be a special event, but they like making you feel good together and watching you make a mess of yourself. they'll stretch your ass out with both of their straps and go for as long as they can.

The other 20% is always a punishment and not even Wanda's pampering nature can save you. If you break their rules, then you have to suffer the consequences. Since Natasha is a sadist and spanks you all the time, they get a little more creative. They fuck each other right in front of you and make you edge yourself with a simple fleshlight.

The only time they let your top is if you're in a rut and that doesn't mean you're not subbing. most of the time, you're breeding Wanda while Natasha is controlling your hips and keeping you in check via a collar.

Natasha likes to watch while you and Wanda fuck out your cycles. Maybe she'll ride you during rut if she's really horny and wants to be knotted but she prefers to watch you try and act all dominant and tough sometimes.

also their straps are enchanted and they love fucking your face. Natasha likes actually fucking your throat but Wanda just thinks you look absolutely adorable on your knees and desperate to please her.

the aftercare is always wonderful. they follow a similar routine even if they're not fucking you together because it's tailored to what they think you need most after sex. cuddles and a bath are mandatory, even if Wanda has to drag you to the bathroom with her magic. if they've tipped you together, they prefer you just go right into taking a nap but they will let you watch TV or play a videogame if they weren't too rough.

honestly they seem like the type to not even consider sex if they know you haven't eaten anything, but they still keep a few in the mini fridge just in case you need something.

[cultofdixon]

Lost in your own mind

Daryl Dixon • She/Her Pronouns • We all have hard days and sometimes we need our partners to hold us just to make it a little less hard • ANGST/SFW • TW: Depression

Requested by: Anon

I…don’t quite know what’s happening.

The Saviors war ended…I should be happy, right?

Well…Abraham died…Glenn died, and Maggie has to raise her son alone…

Rick kept that monster alive…

Our family split into the communities…

We aren’t…all together anymore.

I don’t know what’s happening anymore

“Are you going home soon?” Carol asks Daryl as she comes to check on him after taking a month's watch for the Sanctuary.

“Just finished getting my shit together.” The archer states dropping his bag by his bike, noticing Carol’s concerned expression which bubbled his own. “What? What aren’t yea saying?”

“Y/N missed a few trading days. Michonne went in her place and wouldn’t really…tell me what’s happening”

I knew it was a mistake to go. I just—-“Is she—-“

“No! No, thankfully. That’s the only thing Michonne would update me on. She doesn’t know why Y/N hasn’t left the basement you two call home. Rick would send food down with Judith so she couldn’t say no to it. I think she’s depressed”

“Could that have been because I left to do this?”

“Hey, there’s no need to blame something or someone. Sometimes people fall into a depressive episode without a reason…” Carol leaned against the loading dock crossing her arms and avoiding his eye contact for a moment. “It could be because we were in survival mode during the war that we couldn’t feel anything else”

Daryl nods to her words taking it in and realizing that explains a lot of the feelings almost everyone affected by the war has been having.

“I…You sure it ain’t cuz—-“

“Daryl, if you’re talking about the moment…the exact moment after the war just ended? You know she understands why you pushed her away but that was months ago. Not everyone is going to feel everything that happened to them because of Negan and the Saviors right when the war is over”

Hell, you’re still going through it

You’re still back there.

Daryl rode his bike throughout the night have escorting Carol back to the Kingdom to make sure she got home safe before going back home to Alexandria. He knew his mind was racing on the endless possibilities of Y/N could be doing while in this episode but all she did was not leave their home beneath the Grimes residence.

The archer was greeted by a few friends as he entered the community, and was informed that Rick and Michonne weren’t in (Jude being watched by Aaron). So he’ll be alone with his partner until the Grimes return.

To his surprise, Y/N was in the main kitchen when he opened the door entering the quiet home. She kept her attention in front of her at the jammed bread she just had prior to Daryl coming home.

“Hey” His voice was softer than normal in case he startled her but she only acknowledge his presence a short moment after he spoke. A bit unphased.

“Hey…did you just get back?”

“Yeah, uhm. The watch is over so…” Daryl brought himself to sit at the kitchen island as Y/N picked up her plate and knife bringing it with her to sit with him. “Carol came by before I drove back. You feeling okay?”

“Uhm…No” Even in the state of mind she was in, she wouldn’t lie to Daryl. Not only would he be one of the few to see right through the lie, but she didn’t have the energy to keep it going if she did. “You hungry? I…made it but I’m not really feeling it anymore”

As the plate was pushed in his direction, Daryl took the knife she had cutting it in half and giving her the other while he ate his.

“Yea made it for yourself. I’ll share it but least have some of it” After he said such, Y/N picked at it at first before deciding to finally eat it.

They sat in silence for a bit and Daryl relaxed when Y/N brought her head to rest on his shoulder but her body tensed. As if she was afraid to do such, like…he’d disappear again. He brought his arm around her shoulders feeling the tension in her shoulder finally relax.

“Let’s turn in, yeah?”

“It’s not too early?”

“Nah, come on” Daryl gave a small smile before getting out of the seat taking her hand into his making their way to the basement.

It wasn’t a basement exactly, just a living quarters underneath the main house.

It was…well exactly how he left it. Looked as if he just moved in and nothing was made for it to look like their home so it brought back the moment.

“Daryl?” Y/N calls out to him as he walked away from the scene of Maggie falling to the earth sobbing while Michonne comforted her even if she sided with her husband.

“Daryl!” She called out following him into the forest watching him stop abruptly making her freeze in her place.

“Do you agree with what he’s done? With Rick’s stupid decision to keep that bastard alive”

“Is this a loaded question for me or a simple…” She quieted herself when Daryl turned toward her with an annoyed expression. He didn’t mean to. “No I don’t agree with what Rick has done”

“Will you hate me for mine?”

“What?”

“I…just need a moment alone. I don’t want you to think that I don’t need you or nothin’. Before this whole fight we were gonna…settle? Be us. Then I got taken. You got attacked. Our home got set ablaze. It’s a lot and…”

“Daryl…just. If I come to you, don’t push me away. I’ll give you what you want but I…”

“If you call, I’ll be there.”

Y/N knew that were true but she got stuck in her own mind from all that happened that she didn’t want to flood what could be going on in Daryl’s. Even if in this very moment, Daryl wanted to know everything going on. Just a word would do.

His partner got into the bed while he got out of the clothes from the day. Y/N already wore sweats as she’s been dressing more comfortably the past month since she hasn’t left the walls. He glances at her through the mirror on their shared dresser seeing her sit comfortable by the pillows but keep a blank gaze.

Once the archer got his boots off, he got comfortable in the bed beside Y/N and before she laid down he opened his arm for her.

“Come here, sunshine” He whispers watching her lay into his side feeling his hand gently rub soothing motions on her back. “I’m not going anywhere” he states pressing a kiss to the top of her head as she shifts to bring herself more into his embrace. “Everything’s okay. You are okay” he whispers to her feeling her tighten her grasp on him.

“Nothings…wrong” Y/N exhales a shaky breath feeling him hold her closer. “I’m fine you know…”

“I do” Daryl replies keeping his hand rubbing circles on her back feeling her head turn into his chest. “You are fine, you are going to be fine”

It happened slowly…the tears that sprung from her eyes as she cried into her partner’s chest feeling him tighten around her in a protective manner pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“I’m never leaving you again”

[the-s1lly-corner]

alright, so i completely understand if you don't wanna do this since you have been getting a lot of tadc requests, so feel free to leave this in your inbox for a while but its worth a shot i guess.

tadc x angel reader? but im not talking about the cute and adoring ones, moresore the bibical angel type. kind of like principalities angels if you know what that is. scary stuff.

thanks for all that you do btw, i love your writing and as a fanfiction writer myself im amazed at how quickly your able to pump out requests

thanks for reading

TADC cast x angel!reader !

took me a hot minute to find it but someone asked for the same/very similar request for zooble so!! that post is going to be linked in place of their segment! yahoo! uhuhuhuh!! admin must admit, he does not know much about actual angel lore so hes gonna be real loose with this </3 aaaand to the last part!! its the silliness... i cant contain it... sobs...

CAINE:

now i dont know what kind of personality the reader has, but imagine your wings stick out and fluff up when he decides hes bold enough to compliment, or even flirt with you... has probably led to him getting smacked by your wings and being sent flying... the price of being small, sadly... though he did kind of have it coming for standing where he was/j

sometimes, you guys fly together, since caine very rarely walks around on the ground and kind of just glides around... its nice having someone who can accompany him around... doesnt think your intimidating, if anything he thinks you look interesting... hes probably unphased by most of the forms circus members may take, though its rare you get someone who does look unsettling... shrugs

POMNI:

honestly probably a little intimidated, and perhaps even unnerved in the beginning. like not in the "im deeply uncomfortable" way but more like "oh. so thats a thing" if that makes sense? does try to be nice and kind to you, though, since she does understand that this isnt what you really look like and you cant really... control it... probably has sneezed from the feathers of your wings, if you have any.. in fact you might have accidentally smacked her with them, since shes so small.. you didnt mean to..! honest! caine and pomni just got cursed with the shortness... no thoughts, only angel reader protectively shielding someone with their wings, this can apply to any of the characters... probably one of my favorite tropes for characters with large wings tbh

RAGATHA:

if you can swap out your clothes or have clothes that are detachable (since clothes are canonically stuck to the bodies) shes definitely going to make you some clothing that you can easily slip over your wings, and still have them out! plus spending time with you making the measurements and trying out patterns and fabric is nice! thinks your wings are soft... probably a little put off by your appearance and vibe at first, but ragatha being ragatha shes not going to let it bother her for long, and she makes sure youre welcomed to the circus with open arms... i mean its not like you have a choice to leave... may as well be as inviting as possible..!

JAX:

drum roll please! its the admins favorite jax headcannon that always rears its head in whenever the admin writes a reader who has some extra body part or fluff or accessories or a combination! the fidget/fiddle headcannon! this man is likely going to stroke and mess with your wings, a lot. congrats, youre his new fidget toy/j. has probably accidentally, or perhaps no so accidentally, pulled a feather out. granted im not sure how much it would hurt, i think it would be akin to plucking hair with a tweezer, but the point still stands..! has probably asked you to fly him up somewhere... totally not so he can do some mischief... probably doesnt know much about angels (like the admin LMAO) and probably labels you as like. sterotypical cartoon angel personality (forgiving, kind, good, ect. basically everything that isnt jax/j) but whether or not thats true its up to you... though it would be a little funny for the person who looks like an angel being a trickster... shrugs

KINGER:

FEAR!!! okay... well i think thats a given when theres a new circus member around, since kinger is a little... eh... you know? probably takes some time to warm up to you, but given how he speaks to pomni in the pilot within the first few minutes of her being there, i dont think it would take long for him to approach you. definitely polite, probably even more so thanks to your angelic appearance. mmngh.. soft feathers... shares the jax fidget headcannon with the silly chess piece... bonus if you actually are really kind and protective, this man would be hovering around you since you kind of represent comfort to him... thinks...

ZOOBLE:

right here!

GANGLE:

while most of the others are a little intimidated i think gangle actually likes the aesthetics of angels. maybe thats just the artist in her; like every artist ive met either has a soft spot for angel or demon characters... sometimes both.. admins no exception, its like. mandatory artist trait/j

i had a winged reader request somewhere, where gangle puts the readers fallen feathers into art work and gifts it to them. kind of like how people used to put the hair of their loved ones in jewelry... i think that would also apply to an angel reader! similar to kinger, if youre protective shes going to gravitate towards you... given that shes made of ribbon and fragile... and because of SOOOOOMEONE (glares at jax)... very nice dynamic/relationship material here, me thinks

[tierneysodegaard]

Baby Pink - Charles Leclerc x Reader - Part Two

Read Part One here

Charles Leclerc x female!reader

Requested? Yes/No

Word Count: 2.3K

Warnings: Angst, pregnancy mentions, slight smut, fluff, swearing.

Summary: After a drunken hook-up with Max Verstappen you fell pregnant with his daughter. Max walked out on you both leaving you to raise a child with the support of Daniel. After going through a hard time at work Daniel asks you to come and visit him but it’s not Max who falls for you after not seeing you for years.

—

After you and Charles shared a short but sweet kiss in his car he stuck around. The pair of you both decided to keep it hidden from Leia, only introducing her to Charles when you knew things were going to work out. That was two years ago and now you and Charles were together and he’d moved in with you. 

Leia fell in love with him, she finally had a father figure in her life. Charles had done more for the two of you than you could have imagined. He took Leia out a couple of times in the week so you could have some time to yourself, he always cooked for her and played with her dolls so she wasn’t bored when you had to run errands or clean the house.  

You’d met his family and so had Leia, his family often taking you all out and looking after Leia so Charles and you could have some time for yourselves. Every single week he would buy you a bouquet of flowers and he did the same for Leia always telling her to never settle for anything less from anyone, needless to say, he’d set the bar high for her future partners. Everything was just so perfect with him, maybe you should have gone for him in the first place.

Leia was five now, due to be turning six in a few months and much like Charles she was obsessed with Formula 1, so much so that Charles had started to take her karting. They would come home and make any changes and talk about the race, he’d even placed her trophies alongside his in your front room. He loved her like she was his own and you couldn’t ask for anything more. 

Currently, Leia and you were sitting alongside some Ferarri engineers, watching Charles race. He was leading with Max coming up behind him. Since you started dating Charles you were at the races more often which meant you were around Max more often but he only ever stared at you from afar, Charles was always by your side, never wanting Max to get too close considering he was still yet to make an effort with her. 

Max had gotten close to the point where he could easily overtake Charles. Max tried to go around the outside but Charles pulled a risky move and needless to say it didn’t end well… for Max that is. Charles pushed him off slightly, causing Max to spin out and drive into the gravel. That move could cost Charles heavily but despite Red Bull’s complaints, he wasn’t investigated. 

Charles had won the race, thankfully and Max also left the car unphased which was a blessing for Charles. You didn’t exactly want the world to find out that Leia was Max’s biological daughter, everyone would make theories that he was out to kill him for leaving you and Leia whilst acting as if nothing had happened. 

Leia clapped and cheered as Charles collected his trophy before spraying champagne everywhere. He waved at the two of you, blowing you both a kiss as he smiled at you. His eyes were full of love, his entire world was right before him and he couldn’t be happier. 

“You won!” Leia held her arms out for Charles as he came towards you both, champagne glistening on his skin as he took her into his arms, carrying her. 

“All thanks to my good luck charms.” He kissed her cheek before handing her his trophy for her to look at. Charles smiled before looking at you, stepping towards you as he planted his lips on yours, the kiss was filled with love despite it being short. 

“Congratulations love.” You pressed another small kiss on his lips. “You deserve it.”

“Thank you, baby.” He turned back to Leia. “Shall we go back to my room in the garage so I can change and then we can go back to the hotel and have dinner with Uncle Daniel?” 

“Yes!” She leant into his touch. 

“And then tomorrow we’re going and having breakfast at the hotel and going to Australia zoo, yeah? You can see all the animals and we can spend all day there as I don’t have work.”

“Can we see the crocodiles?” 

“You can look at the crocodiles all day if it’ll make you happy angel.” He kissed her cheek again before looking back at you, holding his arm out as best he could whilst holding Leia so you could hold onto him. At least then he’d know you were safe. 

The three of you hadn’t been walking for very long when someone screamed out for you. “Oi!” The voice made you and Charles turn your heads. The pair of you were met with the pissed-off expression belonging to Max Verstappen. “So what Leclerc you steal my family and then steal my win?”

“Take Leia into my room, I’ll deal with it.” He kissed your cheek before setting her aside. Leia took ahold of your hand, her eyes glued on the scene happening between Charles and Max. “Your family? Are we thinking of the same people? You’re talking about the child you walked out on and the mother of your child you also walked out on? You let her go through that entire pregnancy on her own, the birth, raising Leia… and now you want her back when you’ve seen her with me?” 

Charles stepped closer. 

“Come on Leia,” You tugged her hand. “Let’s go wait in Charles’ room -”

She didn’t move, she planted her weight where she stood so she could watch everything unfold even when you tried to move her away.

“I wanted her back before you put your filthy hands on her -”

“Really? Remind me Max how many birthdays have you celebrated with her? How much money have you given y/n to help keep herself afloat? How many times did you fucking reach out to her? I’ve been with her for two years now and in those two years I’ve done more for her and Leia than you have in nearly six fucking years!” 

“She’s my fucking kid!” Max screamed a little too loud. Those around him caught on to what he was saying. A few staff members and some press who were lurking in the shadows started to whisper to one another. 

The secret was out. 

“Great…” You muttered to yourself. It was evident that Leia wasn’t Charles’ child. Everyone knew that but no one knew who Leia’s biological father was. Until now. 

“You’re her father by blood nothing fucking more!” Charles raised his voice. The sight before Leia all got too much. Her eyes started to well up with tears as her hand dropped from yours as she ran over to the two men. Max watched her run towards them both. He dropped down to his knees, smiling at the girl. 

“Leia baby, come here. I’m your dad, I’m sorry baby I’m here now -”

“No!” She cried, even more, she fell into Charles’ legs, wrapping her arms around him as she sobbed into his race suit. “Daddy I want to go home!” 

She’d just called Charles her Dad. 

You watched as Max’s heart dropped, his whole world falling around him as Charles picked her up once again. Soothing her as he kissed her head. “Yes baby we’ll go back to the hotel. You won’t have to see him again. It’s okay baby.”

“Charles I’m her Dad…” Max stepped closer but Charles backed away. 

“You left Mummy…” Her face was buried in Charles’ neck as she sobbed. “Mummy cried every night when you left, you don’t love me or Mummy.” Her tears increased as Charles rubbed her back. 

“Let’s go baby.” Charles turned on his heel, not saying a word to Max as he walked away. “I’m sorry -” Charles gave you a sympathetic look. 

“Don’t be.” You looked over at Max suddenly. “I just need to talk to him, I’ll meet you in the back.” Charles nodded before taking Leia away from the scene, leaving you and Max to talk. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“I’m the idiot? He nearly killed me today -”

“Oh get over it Max it was a tap.” You stared him down. “You’ve done worse and you know it. I’m going to say this once to you.” You stepped closer. “Stay the fuck away from Charles. I will talk to Leia and if she wants you in her life then she can. You have to start making the effort. If you do that’s great, better late than never. If she doesn’t then you stay the fuck away until she’s old enough to reach out by herself.”

“I want you back y/n, I’m sorry I should -”

“Max,” You cut him off. “You are never getting me back. For the first time in years, I finally feel happy with someone and I can actually trust them. You had your chance and you blew it. To me, you’re nothing but the biological father. You’re bound by blood not love and I know which I’d rather have.”

“y/n…” 

“Fuck off Max.” You called back as you walked off, following Charles’ steps. You took a deep breath, you and Max needed to talk sooner than later. He evidently wanted to talk to you when you came to watch Daniel but Charles got in before him. 

You pushed Charles’ door open to see a sight that warmed your heart. Leia was sat on the table and Charles knelt in front of her, he was wiping away her tears, talking to her. 

“Don’t cry, baby.” He met her gaze, smiling at her. “No one deserves your tears.” She nodded. “You don’t need to worry about what happened, okay?”

“Is Mummy okay?” 

“She’ll be okay and if she isn’t I’ll make sure she is.”

“Mummy loves you.” Charles smiled brightly at her words. 

“I hope she does, what would you think if I asked Mummy to marry me? Do you think she’ll say yes?”

“Yes!” Her giddy smile appeared on her face yet again. 

He smiled with her. “Good, I hope she does.”

“Charles?” You made yourself known, making the man turn his head towards the sound of your voice. 

“Hey, are you okay?” He waltzed over to you, taking your hands in his. “I’m sorry -”

“No I’m sorry.” You started to whisper. “She called you Dad I’m sorry you were probably -”

“y/n…” He cupped your cheeks. “I’m happy… It didn’t put me off if anything it made me think of something…” He paused for a second. “Also how much of that did you hear?”

“A fair amount.” You smiled. 

“There goes the surprise then…” He smiled with you. 

“Well, I don’t know when…” 

“True…” 

“What were you thinking of?” As you finished speaking Leia called for him. 

“Daddy?” 

“Yes, baby?”

“I’m tired…” 

You walked over to her, taking her in your arms. “Come on princess, let’s get you to bed.” 

The next day Charles took the pair of you to Australia zoo. The three of you looked like a proper family as a few fans got photos and press snapped a few photos of you all. Charles went ahead with his plan, waiting until you were distracted by a Koala before getting down on one knee and asking you to marry him and of course, you said yes. You announced the engagement on Instagram which surprisingly was liked by Max. 

Now the three of you were back home, Charles had just put Leia to bed whilst you were in the kitchen, pouring the both of you a glass of wine. “Do you want red or white?” You asked as he came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. 

“I want something else…” 

“What?” You leant back into his touch, exposing your neck to him which he used to his advantage. He started to nip and kiss your neck. “Charles…” 

“Hmm… you remember I told you I thought of something when Leia called me her Dad?”

“Yes…” You breathed out as his hands trailed underneath your shirt. 

“I want one…” 

“Want what?” You moaned slightly as he reached your bra. 

“I want a baby with you.” His hands went down to your hips, spinning you around so you were now facing him. “I’d do anything to have a bigger family with you. I know we have Leia but I want another…” His forehead leaned against yours as he waited for your response. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes…” He cupped your cheeks. “I’m so sure and I know you’re scared because of what happened last time but I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know you aren’t…” Your hands trailed up to his chest. 

Charles leaned down, tilting your chin up with his hand as he kissed you. At first, the kiss was light but then he deepened it, becoming rougher with every single touch. The hand on your chin trailed down to your neck, lightly adding pressure as the other grabbed the back of your thigh, hosting it up and around his waist. His teeth nipped your bottom lip, making you moan as he slipped his tongue into your mouth, pressing you against the kitchen counter. 

“Jump.” His other hand grabbed your leg that was still on the floor, allowing you to have support to jump into his arms. Charles walked back, heading to your shared bedroom. “Such a good girl for me…” 

“Hurry up and get to the bedroom.” 

“So impatient… might have to punish you for that…”

“Do your worst Leclerc.” 

Looks like Leia would have to share yours and Charles’ attention with a sibling.

[daimyosprincess]

PART I: FOREWORD

—PAIRING: Professor!Boba Fett x F!Librarian!Reader

—SERIES RATING: Explicit, 18+ only — MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

—SUMMARY: When the new Mandalorian studies professor Boba Fett comes into the university library looking for help, you’re more than happy to be of assistance.

—WORD COUNT: 6.4k

—TAGS & WARNINGS: second person narration, no use of y/n, references to sexual themes, alternate universe, professor!Boba, age gap relationship between an older man and younger woman (reader is mid-twenties and Boba is late forties), bisexual reader, reader described as having hair, alcohol consumption by reader and others, GRATUITOUS flirting (like a ridiculous amount), use of pet names

—AUTHOR'S NOTES: Here it is, my first ever posted fic! I'm so excited to share this with y'all, it's been so much fun to write. Thank you for all your support for this series. Enjoy the Boba brainrot with me :)

Read on AO3 — Series Masterlist — Taglist

Part II>

The university library is dead—classes aren’t in session and things are slow. The afternoon summer sun streams through the building’s tall windows, illuminating the dust motes that dance in the golden light. The faint rustle of papers turning is the only sound filling the idle air other than you and your coworker’s chatting at the circulation desk. 

“No, I’m telling you there’s no good guys to date here. They’re all either emotionally unavailable or terrible in bed… or both,” your friend Selena gripes. She’s exasperated by the most recent of her flings ghosting her after their last hookup. 

Swirling your iced coffee, you roll your eyes. “Well maybe you need to expand your dating pool, there’s more out there than just twenty-something guys who spend all their time in the gym.” You grin knowingly at your friend—she definitely has a type.

She throws an elbow at you. “Hey! Not all of us are into girls and men old enough to be our dads! Speaking of which…” she cuts off, wiggling her perfect eyebrows at you.

“Excuse me,” a deep voice calls from behind your back, “is there a librarian I can speak to about reserving my course materials?” The voice’s vowels lilt and come together like sand being molded by an ocean wave, powerful yet graceful—it’s a voice that could warm you in sunny, shallow waters or drown you in a raging storm.

All but choking on your coffee, you spin to face the front desk. Standing on the other side of the counter is the most handsome man you think you’ve ever seen: copper skin, white teeth, and dark eyes stand atop a crisp linen shirt rolled up to reveal thick, strong forearms. Pale, silvered scars crisscross his skin, glinting in the light, making him look equally dangerous and enticing, like a trap baited with everything you’ve ever wanted.

Shit, he could get me in a lot of trouble… and I’d let him. You clear your throat, doing your best to recover with at least some of your dignity intact—a difficult task when the absolute god of a man before you just heard that you’re definitely into men his age. 

Selena, however, beats you to an answer. “Yes, sir, that would be my coworker here,” she answers in a sing-song voice, “she’s more than happy to help you with anything you need.” You shoot her a dirty look as she flounces away back to her desk in the back, her attitude completely unapologetic.

Being the flirt you are, you did fully intend to hit on this handsome professor, but that’s not the point. Rallying your thoughts, you flash him a dazzling smile. “Yes, I certainly am,” you confirm. “What can I do for you, professor…?” Your voice trails off in anticipation of his response, and you catch the dark gleam in his coffee-colored eyes. 

“Fett, Boba Fett. Professor of Mandalorian studies,” he answers smoothly, his rich timbre confident and unphased by you and Selena’s antics.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, professor,” you respond, matching his blithe tone. You introduce yourself with your name and title as the research materials librarian.

He smirks, flicking his eyes over your frame in a casual, yet interested, way. “I assure you, the pleasure is all mine.” When his eyes meet yours again, they flicker with amber fire, bright and tempting.

You let his compliment hang in the sunlit air between you for a moment, gauging whether he too felt the electric connection buzzing between you two. Judging by the glint in his eye and quirk of his lips, he did.

Game on. “Well, usually faculty submit their materials for purchase and reservation at the end of the previous school year or at the beginning of the summer session,” you inform him with an overly patronizing tone. “But I suppose I can make an exception for you since you’re being so polite.” You end your statement with a wink, inviting him in to test the waters.  

Taking your hint, he leans his muscled arms on the high lip of the desk, bringing himself closer into your space. “You’re too kind. Things have been a little difficult since I’m new to the school and wasn’t in the country until last week… and I’d really appreciate your help, princess.” The pet name rolls off his tongue like spiced honey, hot and sweet.

  Your brows arch up and you run your tongue over teeth behind your lips as you consider the handsome professor. Most men you meet are either too intimidated or too stupid to give you a fair fight, but this Boba Fett… he might just be the one. Without saying much, he’s said it all: true power doesn’t need to be defended because it speaks for itself. His innate confidence makes your stomach tighten and your blood run hot—this is going to be even more fun than you first thought. “Why don’t you come into my office and I can see what all I can do for you, Professor Fett,” you offer with a flirty smile.

“Please,” he entreats with a saccharine smile, “call me Boba.”

Leaning against your doorframe, Boba shoulders his leather satchel, his broad shoulders rippling under the material of his shirt. The muscles in his arms carve out valleys in his marked skin, making your mind race with the thought of how those arms would feel around you, lifting you up, or pinning you down beneath him. The way he totally fills up the space around him is enough to send heat between your legs, and the snatches of fantasy only heighten the desire simmering in your core. You’ve done everything you can to help the professor at the moment, but neither of you seem too keen on parting just yet, much to your satisfaction. 

“So how old are you, then?” he asks, eyeing you tilted back in your chair below him.

You’d teased him about his thesis date being long before your birth while you chatted as you submitted his materials requests. “Why, professor,” you taunt, looking up at him from heavy-lidded eyes, “are you trying to make sure I’m at least eighteen?”

He answers with a devil’s grin. “No, just trying to see whether or not I’m old enough to be your father.”

Yep, he definitely heard that earlier, you groan internally as heat pricks up your neck. Not one to be beaten so easily, however, you lazily trail your eyes down to his left hand braced on your door, a smirk splitting your face when you don’t find a ring. “As long as you’re single, I’m twenty-six.”

“And if I’m not?” he counters, cocking his head in pointed curiosity.

You pray to whoever might be listening that he is because you might not survive temptation much longer, not with the way he’s looking at you like you’re the sweetest dessert he’s ever seen. “Well then, I’d be twenty-six and disappointed.” 

He snorts, shaking his head with a deliciously low chuckle. “You really are something, aren’t you, little one?”

Your stomach flips at his continued use of the sweet names, but you swallow it down. Boba Fett is a test you intend on passing and that means you have to keep your wits about you.  “I have been told I can be quite the handful. Hope that's not a problem… don’t think it would be for you, though,” you reply, looking him up and down meaningfully and letting your eyes linger on the fabric stretched tight over his biceps. He’s built like a kriffing brick wall, thick and solid, and you want to climb him to the very top. 

The sultry look he gives you makes you think he’d let you, too. “After forty-seven years, princess, I don't think it would be.”

That same hum of charged energy of your initial meeting fills your office as your gaze falls into line with the intense depth of his own. You were wrong before, he’s not looking at you like you’re dessert. You’re prey, soft and open, and he’s the predator tracking you deeper and deeper in the forest, far away so no one would hear your shriek when sunk his teeth into your flesh. 

But did prey ever want to be torn apart by its hunter? You roll your lips together, squeezing your thighs against the embers of desire flickering to life between them. 

A few moments later, your computer chirps with an email notification and you blink back to reality, the tension fizzling out into the surrounding air. Probably for the best since I’m about ten seconds away from jumping this man's bones in my office. Straightening up in your seat, you clear your throat. “Same time tomorrow, then, professor?”

“If it’s not a problem,” he shrugs, his heated gaze betraying his nonchalance, “I know you’re a busy girl.”

He’s clearly enjoying calling you everything but your name and you, much to your surprise, are lapping it up. In an attempt to even the score, you push up from your chair, snatching up one of your business cards from your desk and scribbling your cell number on the back. Sauntering over to him stretched out in your door, you stop just a little closer than absolutely necessary. You slip the piece of paper into his front pocket, pleased with the way the muscle in his jaw twinges at the contact. “Oh, no, it’s no problem at all,” you practically purr, “At the university, we want to make sure our new faculty enjoy everything the library has to offer.” 

He huffs in amusement, not moving away. “Your efforts should be rewarded, then,” he notes, his voice like rich molasses, “You’ve been nothing but eager.”

Before you can stop the impish impulse, you rattle off your usual coffee order. The worst he can say is no, but something tells you he’s willing to indulge you just a bit more than most would.

He tilts his head to the side, his lips twitching into a smile in understanding a second later. “Size?”

“As much as you’re willing to give me,” you wink, flipping your pen between your fingers under your chin. You’d like to think he’d indulge you in that too, but you don’t want to get ahead of yourself.

“Don’t worry,” he assures, his voice like bittersweet woodsmoke, “I’ll make sure you get everything you deserve.” The promises laced through his words like invisible threads, weaving together images of love-bruised skin and rough hands pressed into soft flesh.  

You swallow thickly, and almost groan in embarrassment when his eyes track the bob of your throat with a smug look. “You could get a man into trouble, little one. A lot of trouble…” 

He shoves off the doorframe, his face swaying dangerously close to yours as he turns to leave. “See you tomorrow, princess.” He says the words like a promise rather than a casual expression.

“Oh, professor?” you call out after him. You can’t let this man come out of your office thinking he’s won your little game, your pride simply won’t allow it—and neither will the lurid desire bubbling up from somewhere deep within you. You want to push him, needle him until he snaps, poke the bear until he takes a swipe. Not very smart for someone who’s definitely the prey.

He turns to face you as if he had been hoping you’d stop him. “Yes?”

“You should know,” you bait, letting your eyes flicker down to his lips and back up in wicked pleasure, “I like trouble.”

Every day since your electrifying meeting has been an excuse to see him: hand delivering something that could have been interofficed, calling his office phone and inviting him to look over some course book in person, or volunteering to give him a tour of campus that happened to include lunch together. Boba’s like a burning sun and you’ve been ensnared in his orbit, your every phase and season given life by his heat.

When you couldn’t find an excuse to be around him, he found one; he came to make copies in the library because his department’s machine “never seems to work right,” the coffee shop gave him an extra pastry he “couldn’t possibly eat,” or the darn databases wouldn’t let him log in and you’re the “only one who can get them to work.” Even when your extensive partnership gathering his course materials came to an end, Boba was quick to offer you a spot in his office to work while last minute construction went on in the library before the start of the fall semester.

Boba’s office is tucked away at the end of a long hall in the gothic-style humanities building and quickly becomes your own personal sanctuary for the remainder of the summer. Its soaring ceiling and long, arched window gave a sense of lightness to the corner space, the natural light reflecting off the pale walls. Brass lamps with warm, golden light keep the room cozy when clouds roll in, along with the sumptuous oriental rug spread over the stone floor. Boba’s furniture is functional and comfortable; a large, sorrel leather couch sits perpendicular against the wall from his sturdy oak desk, accompanied by matching armchairs facing him for visitors. The walls are lined with bookshelves and cabinets housing his impressive personal library and mementos from his illustrious life.

It’s in this ivory tower oasis that your heart begins to grow into a softer shape and your mind settles into the rough-hewn grooves of the professor’s tides. The power of him both rouses and relieves, stirs and soothes; the shards of you are made into soft seaglass by the roll and drag of his waves against the sand. And oh, how you’re tempted to let him pull you under the glassy surface, to submit and let his current tow you to blissful paradise. You yearn to provoke his storms as well as seek his shelter from the harsh creatures of everyday life—you’re sure he’s going to be the end of you.

The week before classes start you’re slouched comfortably across the couch in his office. Sunlight dapples the room in a saffron glow through the forked leaves of ivy hugging the window as you’re half-heartedly responding to the numerous last minute item requests from harried professors. While most of them are smart enough to be polite, quite a few have decided to be rude, pain in the asses instead. 

You grumble loudly, throwing your head back against the cushion behind you. Your frustration is not helped by the fact Boba is extra good looking today, his white shirt is practically glowing against his sun-kissed skin and open a button lower than usual for the breezy weather—not that you noticed those kinds of things about him. Just like you definitely weren’t aching for his attention that’s currently wrapped up in class prep.

“Why do all these professors expect me to drop everything to attend to their specific requests like I have nothing better to do?” you huff, massaging your temples with your fingertips. “I do have an actual job besides course reserves.”

Looking over a pair of reading glasses, Boba leans back in his chair, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Must have seen you doing it for me, princess.”

You blow out a dismissive sound and roll your eyes. “Yeah, well, you’re different.” Snapping your laptop closed, you manage to keep the pleased smile from turning up your lips. You have Boba’s attention now, just like you really wanted.

“Mmm, different how?” he hums, his intense gaze now trained on your face.

The heat of his assured, teasing confidence makes your guts churn. While your mutual physical attraction to one another is surely evident to both of you, you’ve been doing your best to hide the fact that he holds your heart in his hands too. No use ruining the good thing you have going with the handsome professor by admitting you have an honest-to-god crush with feelings.

Rolling over on your side so you can prop your head up on your hand, you find Boba entirely too smug for your liking. Putting on your most innocent face, you blink up at him with wide doe eyes. “Oh, you know me, professor, always happy to help you older folks figure out all the complicated technology involved in getting your books.” Despite your efforts, you can’t help cracking a grin at the end of your sentence.

That sparks the fire you hoped it would in Boba, his eyes glittering and his posture shifting forward in response to your goading. “Watch it, princess. Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”

Heaven help me, he looks so kriffing good, his shoulders alone make me want to risk it all. “Don’t worry,” you grin, “I’ve never had any trouble swallowing what’s in my mouth.”

“Well, well, well,” a rich female voice interjects from the door, making you jerk upright. “If it isn’t the new Mandalorian studies professor going at it with the pretty little librarian. I should’ve known that I couldn’t trust you around her, Fett.”

“Fennec!” you exclaim, relief dousing your prickling surprise: she knew you were a tease. You scramble off the lounge and throw your arms around your friend. “It’s Wednesday,” you state, perplexed, “I thought you wouldn’t be back from your trip until Friday?”

She wraps her arms around you, pulling you into a satisfying hug. “Missed you too much, kitten, had to come back a little early,” she answers with her usual flirtatiousness. You don’t miss the way she winks at Boba over your shoulder as her palms slide over the small of your back when she pulls away. You secretly hope it will make him a little jealous.

“Never met a beautiful girl you didn’t try to seduce, have you Shand?” Boba pipes up from behind you, his tone familiar.

Your heart rate spikes at his compliment but you tamp down the heat threatening to creep up your face. Stepping back, you swing your head back and forth between the two professors. “You two know each other?”

Flicking her long braid over her shoulder, Fennec smiles, throwing a puckish look at the man behind the desk. “Oh, Boba and I go way back, long before either of us cleaned up and joined academia. Who do you think got him a job here?” she quips, sinking her weight onto her hip with her usual air of unapologetic fortitude.

“I got myself a job here,” Boba cracks back, his grumbling making it obvious he’s accustomed to Fennec’s ribbing.

She shrugs, grinning. “Don’t discount the power of a good word on the inside.” Slinging an arm around your shoulder, she loudly whispers in your ear, “What’s a pretty thing like you doing with a man like him anyways, kitten? Thought I taught you better than that.”

“Kark off, Shand,” Boba huffs, and Fennec throws her hands up in front of her chest in a showy apology.

Letting his languid gaze slide over to you, Boba studies the curves and planes of your body, mapping out each. You can’t squash the tingling glow buzzing in your chest at his attention, and your eyes sink down under fluttering lashes, your resolve weakened. “She’s a smart girl, she knows what she wants,” he finally says, releasing you from his inspection to smirk at his colleague.

The heat in your lower belly flares hot and wanting at his passive claim over you. Shit. Sometimes you wish he’d just shove your clothes aside and bend you over the nearest flat surface to take you for himself. Dangerous thoughts like those keep you up at night, wishing it his fingers pumping in and out of your pussy instead of your own. 

You drop back down onto the couch to buy yourself a second to regroup. Kicking your feet up in an act of collected indifference, you drawl, “Aw, don't you two go fighting over me, there’s plenty to go around.”

“Yeah, but Boba doesn’t like to share,” Fennec snorts.

You grin up at the dark-haired woman and prop your computer back on your thighs. “Good thing we’re just friends then, Fenn.”

“Lucky him,” she chuckles. Straightening up and drawing a breath, her jovial expression settles into something more sincere. “Well, I’ve got plenty to do for classes next week, just wanted to stop by when I heard your voices. It’s good to see you again.”

Genuine affection spreads in your chest as you look up at your friend; for all her teasing and bluster, Fennec has a heart of gold. “Glad you made it back safe, Fenn, we’ll get coffee and catch up soon,” you promise with a candid smile.

“Sounds good, let me know if you ever want some better looking company.” She winks at you then tosses her head in Boba’s direction. “Always a pleasure to see you still in one piece, Fett.”

Despite his glowering expression, Boba’s voice is warm. “Same to you, Shand. Just remember to always watch your back.” The sound of the dark-haired woman’s throaty laugh echoes down the hallway as she heads towards her office. 

When you look back at Boba, his mahogany eyes are already on you. They’re watching, as they often are, like you’re some fascinating phenomenon that might disappear if he doesn’t recommit it to memory repeatedly. “So you and Fennec are friends,” he states simply, leaning forward on his elbows. There’s something expectant in his tone, his demeanor hinting at anticipation. It makes the cozy atmosphere of the office crackle with intent.

You learned rather quickly that there was little use in trying to figure out Boba when he didn’t want to be figured, so you relax back into the couch and play along. “Yeah, she’s one of the first people I met when I started at the university. She took me under her wing and helped me find my way around here, she’s a good friend.” Before you can think better of it, you add, “But she’s only ever been a friend, despite what she might hint at.”

A small smile chips through the stony set to his features that makes your heart skip a beat. “Well that’s good to hear. Raises my hopes for your answer to my next question.” The richness of his voice belies any nervousness, if a man like him even feels such a thing. He always seems so sure, always in total control. 

Was he jealous of Fennec? Your mouth goes dry and you force your easy smile to stay in place; Boba’s focus is zeroed in on you and you'd rather die than slip up in front of him—he'd enjoy it far too much. “Oh, do tell, professor. I'm all ears,” you urge, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your cool with passing success.

His lips twitch up, amused with your brashness. “You’ve been more than helpful these past four weeks, little one,” he begins, “I couldn't have gotten everything done for my classes or had the peace of mind to get properly settled here.”

“Really, it's no problem, I don't-”

Boba raises a hand for silence and your jaw clicks shut in quick obedience—much to your embarrassment and his obvious pleasure. “Whether you mind or not,” he continues, “or if you feel it's your job, I greatly appreciate all your efforts.” He studies you for a moment and it feels like he can see right through to your insides. “Can I take you to dinner at the Vineyard this Saturday, to thank you for all you've done?”

Genuine surprise releases a stream of words pouring from your lips before you can even register them. “The Vineyard? Downtown? It’s so fancy, you don't have to do that. I mean it's like $100 dinners and-”

“You deserve it, princess. I told you you'd get everything you deserve, remember?” Boba smiles, the corners of eyes crinkling in a fond expression. “Plus, I enjoy your company… and I think you enjoy mine, too.”

Your poor heart is beating so hard in your ribs you’re sure Boba's able to hear it. The safety of him and his space have disarmed your usual defenses, sanded down the spear of your tongue; it’s equal parts freeing and terrifying, uncharted territory ripe with possibilities and danger. You’re left unable to deny his assertion—or form any real words—so you opt to arch a brow instead. 

“Don’t play coy, little one,” he chastens, his firm words and velvet tone skating over your heated skin. “I know construction in the library finished last week, yet you're still spending all your days in my office.”

Biting your lip, you do your best to look surprised. “Oh, really? I must have, uh, missed the memo on that,” you try lamely, scratching at the back of your neck. It’s a weak defense but it’s all you can muster at the moment, only half your brain is available to cobble together a response; the other half is too busy fighting the urge to leap over his desk and into his lap.

Boba chuffs a laugh, his handsome face all too knowing and his deep eyes sparkling with amusement—and maybe something darker, more sensual if you could bear to look. His reaction does, however, kick-start your customary attitude. 

Crossing your arms over your chest, you fix him with the most sardonic look you can. “Well, I didn’t see you complaining, professor.” You tack on an eye roll for good measure as it never fails to get a reaction from him. And, oh, how you wanted to get one out of him, be the reason he’s loses his cool. Just the mere thought of it makes you ache.

Cocking his head to the side, he has the gall to look like he’s already won. “Why would I complain about getting what I want?” His face is drawn in a question, but his eyes flash with the answer.

“Well, you… you, er,” you stammer, suddenly unable to find a foothold. Boba had shaken the very earth beneath you with his admission, it has scattered your mind and rattled the bedrock of your resolve. The familiar nagging, forbidden desire to give in, to submit wells up in your throat; it would be easy, sinfully easy, to give up the fight and let Boba win. But easy’s never been my thing, has it?

Rolling back your shoulders, you mount your last stand. You let your head loll over to look at him directly, your eyes peeking out at him from under hooded lids. “And just what do you want, Boba Fett?” you answer, your voice husky and weighted.

The air itself thickens around you, dampening the outside world to something far away and unimportant as Boba contemplates his response. This is the impasse the two of you had been circling all along, choosing to precariously balance your brash determination against his indomitable will rather than risk tipping the scales. The only true solution is for one of you to give, but neither of you had yet been willing to break.

Finally, Boba’s lips part, a quick tongue darting out to wet the chapped skin. “I want,” he starts, low and deliberate, “to take you out to a nice dinner, have a good glass of wine… and have you all to myself.”

His words are etched in crystalline honesty and thus you have no choice but to respond in kind, even if it only skirts your shared quandary. “Then who am I to deny you, professor?”

The rest of the week might as well not have even happened as far as you're concerned—all that mattered was making it to Saturday. Boba had dangled the promise of sweet reward in front of you and seemed content to watch you flounder your way to it over the intervening days. It also didn’t help that Selena could not shut up about it, even now as she’s standing behind you, pinning and primping your hair to her liking.

“Ooo, I can’t believe it’s really happening!” she squeals, sliding another bobby pin into place against your scalp. “You and the hot professor, going on a date to a romantic restaurant all dressed up! I bet he’s going to invite you back to his place after. Do you think he has a big… you know?”

“If you never finish with my hair, I’ll never have to know,” you grumble. Now that the time has nearly come, you’re about sick to your stomach with all the overthinking you’ve done. You almost talked yourself out of going three times before Selena even came over to help you get ready.

“Hey, none of that sad shit,” she chides, pointing a hairbrush at you in the mirror. “You’ve been dying to go on this date all week, you’ve just got a little case of nerves. Totally normal.”

“But what if he doesn’t actually see this as a date? He never actually said it was. Or what if he really just wants to sleep with me and ditch me after this?” You groan, flopping back against your vanity chair miserably. Your earlier suspicions about his mutual feelings for you had soured—now you’re not even sure he likes you. 

Selena thwacks the back of the head. “Ow!” you yelp, glaring at her in your reflection.

“Pull yourself together. Anyone within a mile radius of you two can tell you’re crazy about each other. Now sit still so I can get these pieces even,” she orders, centering you in the mirror with her hands on your shoulders. You do as she says, focusing on the practiced movements of her hands as a distraction for the feeling in your gut.

By the time you pull on your dress and slip into your shoes, you’re beginning to come back around to your usual self, likely in part due to the shot of tequila Selena convinced you to take with her—not that you needed much convincing to begin with. 

She hypes you up as she fastens the clasp of your necklace around your throat. “Shit, girl, you look hot! I’m not sure he’s going to be able to take his eyes off you long enough to drive to the restaurant.” 

“I do look good don’t I?” You flash yourself a smile in the mirror. After a trip to the mall yesterday, you and Selena had decided on a simple black satin slip dress and matching strappy heels. The deep “V” of the neckline and snug fit around your hips gave the dress just enough sex appeal while still being elegant. Twisting around, you check the lines of the dress in the back. “It’s too bad no one can see these panties, they’re so cute.”

“Oh, someone’s going to be seeing them alright,” Selena giggles from her perch on the end of your bed.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop the girlish grin turning up the corners of your mouth at her insinuation. Shit, I hope he rips them off me. “Only if I decide he deserves to.”

“There she is, there’s the girl we know and love. Give him hell!” 

Your phone dings on your bedside table and your friend snatches it up before you can get to it. “Hey! Give it!” you demand, grabbing at the device.

Sliding up the bed out of your reach, Selena hunches around your phone. “He’s here! And he sent a bunch of heart emojis.”

Your nerves tingle in cold-hot anticipation, your face going slack in disbelief. “He did?!”

Selena bursts into laughter. “No, I’m just messing with you, he just said he’s outside.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you groan, snatching away your phone. “Go ahead and see if I keep helping you come up with texts to send all your gym rat side pieces.”

She lays a hand on her chest, feigning shock. “You would never. Now get out there and blow his socks off, or you know, whatever else you want to blow.” She smirks suggestively, shooing you towards the door. “I’ll lock up, now out out out.”

“Okay, okay, I’m going!” Your heart hammers in your chest and you consider another shot of tequila before dismissing it—no need to set yourself up to be any hornier than you already are for the Mandalorian professor. Slinging your purse over your shoulder, you’re out the door.

Leaning against a sleek midnight black Audi is Boba Fett in all his glory, dressed in a well-fitted pressed shirt (with the sleeves rolled up, damn him) and gray slacks. His salt and pepper stubble and dark eyes make his already handsome face look even better. Catching your appearance in the doorway, he juts his chin up in greeting, his eyes sliding over you in obvious pleasure. “Evening, princess.”

He holds out an arm and you take it to step off the curb, testing his muscles underneath your fingers as you do; if Boba notices, thankfully he doesn’t say it. He opens the passenger door and you step in, settling down onto the supple leather of the lush interior. 

He doesn’t close the door right away, instead standing and clearly enjoying the view down your dress. You glare up at him in mock annoyance. “You gonna stare like a dirty old man or are you going to take me to dinner, professor?”

“You’re the one who got all dressed up for a dirty old man, sweetheart, I figured you'd want me to enjoy it,” he replies smoothly, his lips quirking into a smirk as he shuts the door before you can manage a response.

Yep, these panties don’t stand a chance.

“So, Fennec tells me you were some sort of deadly mercenary gun-for-hire before you settled down to teach the impressionable young minds of university students,” you smile cheekily over your glass of wine, swirling the sparkling contents around the cup’s curves. “That true?” Stars help me if it is, I don’t know if he can get any sexier.

The evening air is crisp and warm, a mild sea-breeze rustling the hem of your dress under the table. The scene laid out around you is so terribly romantic you have to pinch yourself a few times to make sure it’s not all part of the best dream you’ve ever had. Tables for two are scattered over a stone patio overlooking the sunsetted ocean, with glowing candles in their centerpieces and string lights criss-crossed overhead illuminating the space with soft light. 

Boba lets out an exasperated sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Of course she did. Don’t believe everything she says about me, she loves to tell a good story.”

“Avoiding the question, are we?”

“Sure you don’t want any dessert?”

“Aww, come on Boba, pleeease? Please tell me,” you whine playfully, sticking out your bottom lip for extra effect. He hadn’t denied you anything yet tonight—and you intend on keeping it that way. 

He sighs, resigned to his fate. “You’re going to be the death me, you know that, princess?” You squeal a pleased sound and lean in conspiratorially on both your elbows, eager to hear his answer. Tossing his napkin from his lap onto the table, he leans against the back of his chair and props his arm up, gazing at you over the candlelight. “I’ll tell you, but you have to answer a question of mine if I do. Deal?”

Running your teeth over your lip, you nod, blinking your eyes down to his crotch and back up to his face slowly so he’s sure to notice. “Yeah, we have a deal. Spill it.”

True to his word, Boba recounts what you’re sure is a heavily abridged version of his life before becoming a teacher. He was born on a rainy little island called Kamino and lost his father young. While his father was a Mandalorian, Boba himself didn’t necessarily consider himself to be one, hinting that he hadn’t felt the most welcome by his father’s people when he visited the island of Mandalore before it’d been nearly wiped off the face of the earth. 

Alone in the Mandalorian diaspora, Boba had turned to what he knew best to make his way in the world: fighting. Working protection gigs, “recovering property” (which no doubt was not entirely legal), and retrieving missing or abducted persons, he made a name for himself in that world as the best since his old man. It was also how he met Fennec, who apparently was one of the best espionage mercs money could buy, and why he had a ridiculous amount of money for a college professor.

“So why did you go into teaching then?” you ask, pushing your now empty glass aside. “Kind of an interesting choice considering your… previous profession.”

“Didn’t plan on it.” Boba drains the rest of his glass and sets it next to yours. “After one too many close calls, though, I knew I couldn't continue that life. All of that wasn’t-isn’t the legacy I want to leave behind. The death of my father and his heritage might have been out of my control, but I will not let it be in vain. So I took what I knew, learned what I didn’t, and started teaching in Mandalorian studies.”

You two sit in silence for a while, watching the tide roll in under the silver gleam of the moon. “Thank you for sharing.” Your voice is almost a whisper, “I’m sorry to hear about your dad. He would've been so proud to see the person you’ve become, I’m sure of it.”

Boba tilts his head to the side, studying you as if you’ve said the most interesting thing the world has ever heard. “Thank you… that’s kind of you to say,” he answers quietly, as if he doesn’t quite believe you himself. The careful look in his eye makes you wonder what other secret burdens the handsome professor bears in silence. Even more so, it makes you want to shoulder some of it, or at least provide him some sort of relief.

The table off to your right bursts into hoots of laughter and the dusky spell between you is broken. You blink the haze out of your eyes and Boba clears his throat. 

“Time to pay up, sweetheart. It’s my turn to ask you a question,” he smiles, his white teeth catching the flickering candlelight. The faraway solemnity in his eyes is replaced with dark heat.

“Go right ahead, I’m all yours,” you grin back, “ask away.”

Signaling your server for the check with two fingers, Boba leans forward, taking your hand in his large one. “Tell me, little princess, am I dropping you back at yours after this, or are you coming home with me?” 

—Endnotes: I don’t know anything about cars, I just know that Audi is a fancy car brand, at least in the US. Don’t judge me 😭. Also I guess this is a coastal university. I don't have a name for the school yet though, what do y'all think?

Part II>

[positively--speculative]

Sorry to make this rant again, but there's more to the gothic genre than just "dark and twisted fucked up stuff." And I think the mindset that it is probably comes from being exposed to it at a time when you're not ready to consume it.

I had several friends and acquaintances in my late teens and early twenties who liked/loved Anne Rice. Only one of those friends recognized how fucked up some of her writing and approach to certain sensitive topics were. When I finally did read Interview with the Vampire and The Vampire Lestat, I found myself waiting for some sort of moment where the writing would make it clear that many situations are, in fact, unsavory and awful...but they never are. Daniel doesn't interrupt Louis about the slavery. Nothing pushes back against Lestat or Gabrielle for the incest. It just happens and the reader just has to accept it. And when you have bright-eyed teens and early twenty-somethings wanting to delve into the subject of gothic literature and vampires without having been introduced to better-written gothic stories, they just kind of accept it and pat themselves on the backs for being able to enjoy something so "mature."

I know I've mentioned Crimson Peak before, but it's amazing how it just...does such a better job at not only including disturbing things but at framing them. No, it doesn't beat the audience over the head to explain why incest and seducing multiple wealthy women into marriage to murder them for their fortunes is horrific. We see things from Edith's point of view, so we are therefore able to fall in love with Thomas just as much as she does, and we can feel her horror when she finds out the truth about him and his sister. Their incest is never romanticized. And the disturbing part is knowing that Thomas has actually fallen in love with Edith--because it shows that someone who has done such horrible things can still have the ability to fall in love with someone and hurt them. Yes, Lucille was pulling most of the strings, but he was not blameless.

Anne Rice's writing, to me, talks down to readers who are, rightfully, disturbed by these kinds of things and it seems to reward apathy. It's like she was giving gold stars to readers who can just consume gross stuff and be unphased. And I kind of wish that her writing was treated as just shock porn rather than reading that challenges her readers intellectually because they really don't do anything to challenge her fans. I'm not begrudging her the "gothic" title, but I will say her gothic books are not really good at all aside from making some interesting characters. And it was because of her interesting characters that I was actually excited when the TV adaptation was announced, but I knew as soon as it was announced Louis would be Black that Rice's fans were going to be on their shit.

I think it says a lot that the show created a better gothic story than Rice ever did, and I think a lot of white fans resent it for that, because the show is asking them to think and be challenged in a way Rice never did. Even the ones who claim to like the show resent Black fans for "bringing race into everything" when one of the show's most central themes is race and racism. Maybe it's mean to keep saying they have the media literacy of a peanut, but there's no way to talk about this adaptation *without* bringing up race. But I really don't think they get that, because they're used to racism just happening (again, Louis was a racist slave owner in the book) without being made to pause and examine it.

[chronic-ghost]

Chapter 10 of Recovery Road

chapter rating: E (18+)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 31K (part 1: 14K + part 2: 17K)

chapter summary: how they find each other again . . . and everything else

chapter warnings/tags: discussions of mental health, medication discussions, therapy (so much therapy), everything about theater and theatre production is nothing but fake lies, and yes lots of smut

a/n: there's a longer, sappy-er reblog coming but i just wanted to say thank you to everyone who came along with me on this journey. this wouldn't have been possible without you and i hope to see you again soon!

▲ Series Masterlist | Previous | Part 2 + Epilogue

▲ AO3 Link (posted there as a single chapter if you like to read it all at once)

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“Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever.” - Jane Austen, Persuasion 

SEPTEMBER 

“And so we can see that with the abstract paintings, color theory, as well as a fundamental understanding of color under light, is more important than ever. We can have a more immediate reaction to abstract art precisely because it digs at our unconscious thought. We see what we want to see and that can give us perspective on our own lives as well as that of the artist.” 

One hand jumps up from the back of the crowd. 

“Yes?”

“Is it true that Van Gogh ate yellow paint because he thought it would make him happier?”

You nod. “He did. But Van Gogh was a deeply disturbed man and while many of his best works come from his Yellow period, art historians have debated for decades about whether or not the madness was worth the beauty.”

The same boy in the back, blonde, lanky, frowns out of frustration, not boredom. 

“So he ate yellow paint and then painted yellow things?” 

“It could be said that he wanted to literally take what he was feeling inside and put it on the canvas.” 

Another boy, bigger than the first and clearly used to all eyes on him, snickers. He points to a frame at the end of the salon wall. 

“So, what, the artist who did that one wanted to get their blood all over everything?” 

You cross your arms, unphased by yet another teenage smartass. “What does color theory tell us about the color red?”

“It’s associated with anger,” a young girl at the front says with confidence. “Or more often, love. Intense emotions.”

The same jokester in the back chuckles, louder this time. “Wow, so that guy must have really been in luuuurve to paint that.” He pinches the waist of a girl next to him and she wriggles away, giggling. 

“Actually,” you say, straightening up, “I had just come out of a horrific break up and was trying to process grief, trauma, and heartbreak unlike anything I’d experienced before.” 

That successfully manages to silence them all. It usually does.

“You painted that, miss?” The girl at the front asks again, her eyes wide in awe. 

You smile at her. You remember being her age, fourteen, and thinking the world of art, theater was all so exciting. 

“I did. Am I a vain bitch for putting my own paintings in my gallery? Probably, but for some reason, people like to buy them and I’m not going to turn down an opportunity to fund another kitchen renovation in my home.” 

There’s a surprised chuckle amongst the students. Nothing endeared you faster to teenagers by some light cursing. 

“What other paintings are yours, miss?” The blonde boy asks, eyes suddenly leaping from wall to wall, trying to spot similar brush strokes. You don’t miss when the girl looks at him, her cheeks red. 

“Miss Lorraine only has a handful of her paintings in this gallery.” Marie steps forward from around one of the salon walls, her trusty iPad clutched against her chest. “If you are really interested in her work, I highly recommend going to see her charcoal sketches upfront. But this is the end of the tour. Your teacher has given you fifteen more minutes to view any last pieces or purchase a souvenir, but then it’s back on the bus. ” 

The gaggle of high school students disperses, an excitement buzzing as a few surge towards the charcoal exhibit. 

You roll your eyes, as bodies flow around you, and flick your best friend of the past ten years on her earlobe.

“That was supposed to be a secret.” 

“Oh, whatever.” Marie bats your hand away. “It’s honestly some of your best work. You should be proud.” 

“This is meant to be a business, not a housing facility for my ego.”

“Well, the second your ego starts to suck money out of this place, I’ll let you know.” She taps her iPad with her stylus. “Speaking of which, Andrew should be by in about ten minutes to discuss that piece he wants for his new show.” 

You groan, falling behind Marie as she leads you to the front desk, where some of the students are purchasing posters of the art they liked. You watch as the sales girl rings up a few posters and some postcards, as Marie continues to scroll through her tablet, always thinking of the next thing, the next move. 

“This had better be the last one,” you sigh, particularly pleased when you see someone buy a postcard of your red painting. “Why am I starting to think this damn show is going to be the death of me?”

Marie scoffs as she leans forward onto the corner of the sales counter, your bark always worse than your bite. “If you’re so concerned, think about what the notoriety of designing a set for an off-broadway production will do for this gallery.” 

“Does it always have to come back to this dump?” You smile at her, knowing you are the only one who is allowed to tease her precious child. 

“Duh.” Marie sticks out her tongue at you. 

Despite the absolute horror you felt about starting your own gallery three years ago, you can’t say it hasn’t been a success. A reasonably-priced gallery in Brooklyn, you worked to showcase small local artists who needed a leg-up in the industry. Not that breaking into the art world yourself had come easy, but with your old connections in Hollywood and Marie’s in the music scene, you recognized the sheer number of doors open and available to the both of you. The community received the opening of the gallery better than expected, given that it was occasionally used as a center and study hall. It was small, quiet, and unassuming, but it was yours. Yours and Marie’s. You wouldn’t be here without her. Quite literally.

“Once you’re done sulking, we have a meeting with a local council member about expanding the property at two, then that new artist from the Bronx is coming by to measure his space.” She scrolls through your day, with the sharp eye of someone who never missed a beat. You told her she didn’t have to wear that crisp white shirt and pleated black pants, but she rolled her eyes at that: “I’m going to be thirty-three in two weeks. I cannot wear plaid shirts to work every day.”

Same old Marie. Using any small excuse to dress up. Unlike her, you had zero compunctions against wearing old concert shirts and paint-splattered jeans to “the office”. Except, you conceded, on days like this where it was tour after tour, client after client. You attempted something “professional” for her sake, but these heels pinched your feet and the emerald green top seemed to draw the eye of every teenage boy who walked by you. 

“Ah, shoot,” Marie says suddenly, standing up right from her iPad. She glances at her watch. “Andrew asked to see a print of King Square and I totally forgot to grab it.”

“Want me to get it?”

She waves you away. “Nah, mingle. I’ll be out in a second.”

You smile as she struts away. Again you wonder what you possibly did to earn a friend like her, what you did to earn her devotion for a decade of friendship. It was as if the universe had been steering you away from all other friendships, keeping you a friend-virgin, until you met Marie. The One. The girl, now woman, who had saved your life more times than you could count, even before she became the manager of the gallery. You hoped to spend the rest of your life proving to her that she had chosen well. 

The class of teenagers has thinned. Only a few remain to chat with friends, or check out one last piece they might have missed, a plastic bag with a rolled-up poster in their hands. The noise in the gallery dulls, as the patter of feet against the wood grain and the sound of eager voices falls away. You hear the front door swing close and the room goes silent. You inhale, the saw-dust smell of the space always soothing to you, even before you turned it into a gallery.

This place felt like a destination, a culmination, a breakthrough after so many dark nights. You poured your heart and soul and nearly every dime you had into building this space and its community. You could wander through the salon walls, easily identifying the artwork done from different points in your life, what each of them meant to you, by the colors or mediums used. You experimented a lot after rehab, trying every creative outlet you could find until something stuck. Hell, you even attempted cross-stitching – Marie still laughed herself silly every time it was brought up. 

Early on, you processed a lot through clay, through sculpture. It wasn’t very good, but it gave you somewhere to put your rage, your frustration, those hot emotions that made you want to squish warm goo. You could never make bowls or vases – instead just absurd creations with teeth and wide eyes. 

Next came the paintings that covered entire walls. You’d come home after spending hours in a rented workspace, covered in paint, hot and tired and teary, but relieved. The scratchy ball in your chest loosened after those hours of working yourself into exhaustion. That was also around the time when you had started to process decade old feelings and memories regarding your parents with your therapist. It all went hand in hand. 

It was only recently that you’d turned to charcoal and your canvases shrunk. There was something hypnotic about charcoal as a medium, the stark contrast of black and white, of the delicate shading required to give depth and offer light, the way it stuck to your palms, your forearms as if the subject you sketched lingered on you. 

You turn a corner and are welcomed by the sketchings of dozens of artists who also worked in charcoal. The exhibit is called The After Effects of Flame and the artists had completely risen to the challenge. The soft paper, the light etching, it makes the space beautiful, quiet, warm. 

But your eyes fall to a single piece across the room, your heart thrumming in your chest. 

He had shown up in your work in prior years, of course, as much as you tried to swallow him and the memories down. A flash of the curve of his chin, the sharp angle of his nose, the endless brown of his eyes – they were there as you sorted through the cracked pieces of your life in rehab and continued on in therapy. As you moved on from that night in the hospital. 

As you moved away from him.

But you still found slivers of him, splinters that dug into your skin against the wood grain. Marie said it wasn’t noticeable, that only you saw those flashes because of what you had been through, what he had meant to you. But he was there, inside you somewhere, after ten years, and he became a different sort of ache. What he had been to you was never clear, never given structure or form, and perhaps that was why closure had been so hard to find: there was no road map to moving past whatever Dieter Bravo had meant to you. What he had become. What he still, in the fitful state between dreaming and awake, was to you. 

He wasn’t haunting you; you had never known a silent ghost. But he lingered, like the remnants of last night’s perfume or the body warmth of a loved one after they’ve left the bed. You saw him in everyone and in everything and, simply put, Dieter wasn’t going away. 

Much like with grief, you learn to hold this part of you that held him and let the memories, the good and the bad, pass over you without judgment. 

The world is hard enough on you as it is, your therapist told you, don’t add to it by beating yourself up.

So you let him stop by, hang around if he wanted to. He kept you company as you sketched and drew and created in a way you had never experienced as an actress. This is what you were meant to do. It just took you twenty-two years and a decade of heartbreak to get here. 

You stepped closer to the centerpiece of the exhibit. 

A simple sketch, nothing outwardly advanced or difficult, but it is detailed. Thoughtful, introspective. It comes from an image that appears to you in the morning light of your empty bed, or as you fade into the welcoming arms of sleep. It feels like it should be a memory, but if it is, you don’t know when or where it sits in your history. Sometimes, it doesn’t even feel real. Other times, it’s too real, the added weight in your bed almost palpable – you can smell him in the air, you could reach out and touch the curve of his shoulder – and you blink, the image is gone and you’re alone. Your outstretched hand floats through empty air, the tears stinging so sharply in your throat you can’t breathe for a moment. 

To anyone else, the sketch is that of a man, naked, sleeping partially on his stomach, partially on his side, turned away from the viewer. His arm curls beneath his head, under the pillow, and the sheet slips low on his hips, the turn of the light dictating whether or not the exposure is playful or sensual. The waves of his hair fan out across the pillow, tuck around the back of his neck in a way that begs to be teased, tugged on. To everyone else, it’s a loving image of relaxation, of peace, of quiet, joy. 

To you, it’s the image of Dieter that visits you most frequently.

You stand before it now and try to find that solace, that imaginary morning where domesticity dripped into your bed with him, the tension it takes from your bones. But you can’t find it. The day is coming up again, the first blush of fall breathing down the New York streets, and like a thready hangnail you forget to cut, you find pain with every movement. 

He sits, melancholic, in your heart. I know, darling, I know. 

Unconsciously, you rub a hand up your shoulder, unease mounting. You rub again, and something catches in the corner of your eye.

Someone is still here. 

Tan coat nearly the same color as the floorboards, the man somehow blended in amongst the cream paper of the charcoal sketches. His knee-length coat looks expensive, the white Converse do not. His head is tilted back, looking up, inspecting one of the pieces. 

Okay, yes, you saw him in passing on the streets – a flash there, a blur here – but this is getting ridiculous. 

You stare, immobile and silent, at the dark curls that catch against his collar. At the broad shoulders that curl inwards. This is not a ghost, a specter. This is not a haunting. He even stands, holds his weight, just like – no, no, this is just desperation, you’re overworked and tired and – 

Oh, fuck, the black rings –

“Darling!”

Your head snaps to the front of the gallery, seconds before you are nearly tackled to the ground by your friend and long-time benefactor Andrew Young. He had started to go gray at twenty-five, and never to be outdone by the ravages of time, he dyed his entire head silver. It’s been this color for years, blinding and shining, the only thing he changed was how it was styled. Nearly forty, he’s shaved the sides and let the top grow long. It flops in his face as he pulls back, grinning from ear to ear. 

“This looks fantastic!” He beams around your latest exhibit. “Baby girl, I am so proud of you!” 

You drag out a smile, your lips catching on your teeth, the buzzing in the back of your mind at a low hum.

“T-thank you, Andrew. I– uh,” you blink up at him, “sorry, it’s been a day and I haven’t eaten. I’m just a little dizzy.”

Andrew frowns and throws an arm over you. “You work too hard – has anyone told you that? And that, quite frankly, I simply cannot have. You see, I can’t do the set without you, and then I can’t do blocking and stage production, and then the damn thing itself is off the rails. Do you see my problem?” The designs you had been planning are back in your office, some initial sketches drawn up and laid out based on Andrew’s requests over the phone. You smile, settle, that gnawing sense of panic easing. Andrew watches you visibly relax in his arms and he taps your nose with a bright blue nail. “Besides, it’s up to you, you New York native, to help me show my star a good time around town.”

He steps back, arm thrown out wide, and your heart plummets. 

You know who he is before he turns that thick head of hair, before you see that aquiline nose in his profile, before you are swallowed up by those endless, warm brown eyes that flicker in the corners of your heart. 

“My dear, I’d like you to meet –,”

“Natalie?”

The noise is barely human, a punched out groan from a hit that maybe broke a rib, popped an organ loose. 

The gallery has gone silent, or maybe it’s just you’re so suddenly stuffed full of memories, of rage and joy, grief and giddiness, that there’s no room for any sound. 

He’s not a ghost, not a haunting, but he is pale, the whites of his eyes bright and round and staring. 

He is not the Dieter that curls up against your neck at three in the morning when you can’t sleep, no, this one’s different. The lines marking his eyes are deeper, more pronounced – laugh lines, you remember, he’s clearly laughed a lot in the time that he’s been gone. His beard is speckled with gray, here and there, drawing your gaze to that lovely bare spot where the hair refuses to grow. His hair is longer, unkempt, and wild, and in his ear sits a small silver ring. This is not the Dieter you remember. 

He’s older and so are you. 

The coffee cup drops from his loose fingers and splatters against the ground, light brown liquid splashing everywhere. It rolls towards his shoes, but he doesn’t move. Neither do you. You couldn’t, really, even if you wanted to. 

To cope, in the beginning, in the cold, sick days in the hospital, you told yourself that he had died. That’s why he left you, why he abandoned you to get the drugs out of your system alone. To get him out of your system. It was childish and petty and completely irrational, but it soothed you in a way that made living manageable. You could walk around those long white hallways, talk, eat, exist without a giant gaping bloody hole in your chest. 

Consciously, you knew he was out there, somewhere, but in all the chunks inside of you that made up his lingering presence, the old idea, the old comfort, embedded itself. 

Seeing him now, seeing him ten years older, it’s like he had come back from the dead. You could not have made up a more surreal dream.

“Oh, hey, Andrew, I got your print and I –,”

Marie stiffens the instant she sees who’s in your line of sight. Her mouth drops open and the poster joins the spilled coffee on the ground.

“Holy fucking shit.”

Andrew’s perfectly manicured eyebrows eject into his hair. “What? You’ve met before?”

“W-we . . .” the rest of the sentence dies in your mouth, catches fire and turns to ash. “We – I . . .”

“We used to . . .” his voice is raspy, deep, as though scraping through a wet crevice. “We used to work together.”

It doesn’t sting, the casual distance in his words, because he’s right. All of you met a decade ago for work.

Marie swallows as her eyes slide to you. 

His have traced every line of your body, once, twice, and three times over. They stay on the bridge of your nose, the crook of your neck, the arch of your cheek. He’s not looked at Marie once. Given the circumstances of your last meeting, perhaps it should have been you to appear as a ghost from beyond the grave. 

“Uh, Andrew, do you mind if we give Dieter and Natalie some time alone to –,”

“No!” You both bark, a sufficient reason to tear your gaze away from the other. 

He sounds genuinely frightened. Your stomach twists. Your gaze flickers to the spill at Dieter’s feet. 

“Marie, would you get some towels for that?” She nods, completely forgetting the print and nearly sprinting for the bathroom. You swallow, set your shoulders, and turn to Andrew. “I’ve got the designs in my office. If you’d – if you’d both – like to–,”

“Natalie.” He tries again and you flinch as though his voice is a physical force that has pressed roughly against an internal bruise. At his side his hands clench over and over, mouth opening and closing, brow furrowed as if he’s scrambling through every word he knows and can’t find the right one.

Your chest suddenly squeezes so tightly you have to put a hand over your sternum to keep your ribs from collapsing into your spine. You can feel the blush breakout across your cheeks, down your chest, and you’re so confused as to why, a hot bloom of anger overwhelms everything else. 

Andrew’s eyebrows are in danger of falling off his forehead. Dieter still hasn’t looked away. 

“Okay, what am I missing here?”

“We dated.” You say. You keep your gaze on Andrew, knowing your knees would buckle if you look anywhere else. “While we worked together. We dated about ten years ago on the set of one of our movies. But,” you swallow, your knees shaking in these stupid fucking slacks, “that was a long time a-ago.” Your voice cracks and you hate it. You want to hear him say your name again, just to make sure he got it right.

“Are you sure you don’t want a second?” You nod. “Then, uh, let’s see this design.”

Dieter doesn’t follow you and Andrew. Small miracles, you suppose. As you walk Andrew through the designs, you can see out the clear office door that Dieter had taken off that rich tan coat and is using it to soak up the spill. You can’t tell by the twist in his mouth if he’s regretting that particular decision, or regretting something else, but Marie appears a moment later with a rag. His expression changes as she hands it to him, softens, that wind-swept, knocked-back-on-his-ass surprise creeping into the opening of his mouth. She says something to him – her back is to you – and his mouth flatlines. He nods and Marie turns on her heel towards the office. 

You avert your eyes from her and look back at Andrew.

“So what do you think?” 

He grins, completely obvious to the exchange outside, as he shuffles through a few papers. “As always, darling, you’ve managed to somehow crawl into my brain and recreate exactly what I’ve been looking for.” 

You won’t be designing the actual set pieces, but more of the backdrop, what the audience will see through the open windows and around stairs. Most productions use lights to fill in their backdrop, but Andrew described wanting to make the stage feel as claustrophobic as possible. “Nothing breathes in here,” he had said over the phone. “We need something sturdier than lights.” 

You have never felt claustrophobic in your office, but staring at Dieter, an older Dieter, a different Dieter, absurdly scrubbing your gallery floor spotless, the walls nestle tighter, the air stagnant and stale. You feel like you’re seeing the entire place with new eyes and you realize how dingy it is. You can’t look Marie in the eye as she opens the office door. 

“How goes it in here?” She says, surprisingly breathless. 

“Fantastic!” Andrew claps his hands together. “The theater has given us access to the space starting Monday, so I’d like to get to building this as soon as possible. The back lot is huge so I’m hoping to do all painting onsite.”

You nod, the request somewhat expected – Andrew was a bit of a micromanager. 

Behind you, Marie is humming with unfocused energy, but only in a way you can pick up on after ten years of knowing her. To Andrew, she calmly asks,

“Would you like us to bring out those other pieces you won at the fundraiser? We can have them loaded up, if you’d like.”

Andrew’s eyes widen. “Oh god, yes, please. I’m so sorry – I told you I’d pick those up weeks ago! I’ll go get the car.” 

Marie’s gaze latches onto you as he jogs past her. 

“What do you want me to do with . . .” 

You can’t find him through the window, but the floor is spotless. 

You shake your head, that slightly dizzy feeling returning. “Go help Andrew. I’ll . . .” you shrug. “Actually, I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to be alone with him if you don’t want to.”

You feel your back muscles tighten. “No, no – I want – I mean, it’s fine. If I’m going to help Andrew with the designs, then we’ll have to see each other, right?”

Her look is apprehensive but she gives in. “Alright. I’ll be just a minute.”

The second the door closes, you push your palms into your eyes and groan. What the fuck is happening?

You spot him again in the charcoal exhibit, as if this is the area he is confined to. He holds his coat over his arm, the bottom half of it damp and a different color, as he slowly roves from piece to piece. He’s on the opposite side of the room from your contribution, but a part of you wants to yank it down and shove it under the floorboards. A very large part of you.

“Dieter,” you say, hands up, but your voice startles him anyway. His stark white t-shirt matches his converse, and you vaguely think, he���s going to be cold without a jacket. 

He physically steps back the closer you come. You don’t know if that hurts or if you feel relieved.

“Andrew went to get the car,” you say, your focus going in and out as you stare at his earring. “He has some paintings he won at an auction here and he hasn’t picked them up so Marie is bringing them out to the curb to load up.”

“Oh. Okay.” 

“Yeah.” You lose track of the earring as you meet his gaze. Terror, in his eyes. Concern, worry. 

Sadness. Yeah, you definitely know that one. 

Without a single coherent thought in your head, you head for the front doors, feeling him fall in step behind you. 

You can almost hear the storm brewing in his head.

“Natalie, wait.” 

Just in front of the glass doors, you stop. On the other side, Marie and another backend worker load wrapped canvases into a Black Escalade. Even without the faint howl of wind, it looks cold outside. 

He stands in front of you, older after ten years, but no less beautiful. He’s thickened over the years, more solid, an oak instead of a stretchy willow. The thought of what it would be like to wrap yourself around his chest, feel the warmth of his stomach against yours, comes crashing down on you. The inclination is to yank it back, submerge it, but you don’t do that anymore. 

You look into his eyes and the old ache hums. You thought it was gone, despite the many times you think about him, the many versions of him that live in your memory. But it’s there. You’ve missed him.

“Look, I’m sorry – for, um, the surprise visit.” Voice low and quiet, like trying to pass on a secret, his thumb spins through his rings distractedly. “Andrew said he had some errands to run around the city a-and the names didn’t register with me . . . a-after all this time.” He swallows, glancing at your shoulder for a second before finding your eyes again. “Had I known it was yours, I would have . . . I’d . . .” 

“You’d what?” You want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Shake him until he speaks, until he explains himself for showing up and cracking your world in half. 

His mouth crumbles, stricken with regret, and he shakes his head. “I – I –,”

Someone taps on the glass beside you and it’s your turn to jump ten feet in the air. Marie waves to you and Dieter, her arms wrapped around her chest to stave off the cold. On the street, Andrew gets into the Escalade as the worker heads for the warehouse around back. 

“For what it’s worth, it was really, really good to see you.”

Your head snaps back to him. No stutter, no unease. Confidence. This is what he feels. This is what he means to say. 

And then Dieter Bravo smiles at you. Genuinely, gently, full of wonder. He is . . . relieved.

You nod, dumbstruck, as he pushes through the glass doors and you’re following him before you know what you’re doing. The air has a bite to it, the threat of winter swirling in the gray clouds above the city streets. A particularly rough gust of wind barrels down and Marie staggers into you. Wrapping her up in your arms, you watch as he climbs into the Escalade and the passenger window rolls down.

Of course Andrew hired a driver. He leans out, his silver flop fluttering in the wind. 

“We’re having a party tomorrow, my place. A little kick-off party before production and rehearsals begin. You two should come.” 

You can’t see Dieter behind the tinted glass but you know for a fact he just tensed up. Beside you, Marie is shivering, the little thing.

“Maybe, you know? We’ve got a lot to do around the gallery before the weekend,” you say as you rub her shoulders. “It’s kind of a bad time.”

“Well, the art director is going to be there, so it might be nice to get to know him before we get started.” Andrew shrugs, seriously, unaware of the consequences of his simple request. 

Nothing about this feels like a good idea. You nod. “Lemme get Marie here back inside before her lips go blue. I’ll text you tonight about it.” 

You both step back from the curb as the Escalade eases its way into New York traffic. Your eyes stay pinned to the window until you can no longer see it in the distance. Holding her close, you kiss Marie’s cold forehead. 

“C’mon, Frosty, I think we both deserve the biggest cup of coffee our Kerig can make.” 

The hum of the potter’s wheel is loud in your concrete basement. Cold air curls in from the small open window at ground level, chilling the floor and the walls. It stings your bare toes just a bit to keep you awake and focused, your arms and hands already chilled by wet clay. You pump the wheel a bit faster as you try to thin the edge of this bowl – or what may be a bowl. This rarely ever works out, but at least the concentration forces out everything else in your brain. And, as an added bonus, the sound of the wheel also blocks the incessant buzzing of your phone.

Andrew and Marie had not stopped trying to call or text you since the gallery closed. Marie was not above simply barging into your brownstone if you had been quiet for too long, but this was a special case and she knew it. 

Hands wet, back aching from your hunched position, fingers as steady as they’ll ever be, you smooth the rippling clay as it spins. You pump the pedal steadily – too fast and the clay will spin off, but too slow and you’re basically playing with playdough. 

To your enormous surprise, the clay curves, molds between your finger tips. With every rotation, there comes a clear, distinct solid edge to this unfinished ceramic. 

Yes! Okay, just a little bit to round things out and –

Your phone alarm goes off, you jump, and the maybe-bowl deflates into a pile of squishy goo. 

“Damn it,” you mutter, even though you have only yourself to blame. You set this alarm because you needed two extra minutes to clean off before accepting the incoming Facetime. 

You just finish rinsing clay out of your nails when you hear the familiar chimes from your phone. Switching between your phone and a dry rag, you accept the call and smile into the face of a sixty-five year old woman. Blue tips on the edges of her gray hair, oversized cat-wing glasses, Dr. Carla Holstein always reminded you of Ms. Frizzle’s evil twin sister, in appearance only.

“Natalie, how the fuck are you doing?” 

Her non-existent brain-to-mouth filter was one of the things that initially endeared you to her. Talking to a shrink about your childhood trauma felt less embarrassing when the woman taking notes had electric blue nails. 

“I’d say I’m good, doc,” you smirk at her as you head up the wooden stairs of your basement, “but then I probably wouldn’t be calling you.”

“It’s like you only wanna talk about the bad things with your therapist,” she shakes her head mockingly. “As if I wouldn’t appreciate you calling with good news.” 

You chuckle as you drop onto the floor of the living room, mindful of any furniture that might get smeared with errant clay from you overalls. “I’ll save those for our weekly meetings, alright?”

“Which brings me to my next question – what the fuck is going on? You haven’t made an emergency appointment in years. What gives?” 

You set your phone up against a stack of books on the wooden table you lugged here all the way from 42nd street. Frowning, you lean against the redbrick fireplace, in a home you decorated with ugly little trinkets and overused furniture. Tidy and messy, this place holds everything that over-spilled from your brain, a place that feels like what the inside of your heart might look like, if you could see it.

“Seriously, Natalie, what is it? You’re kinda freakin’ me out.” 

“It’s Dieter.” 

Those perfectly drawn on eyebrows arch into that silvery hairline. “What? He called you?”

“He showed up at the gallery this morning.” A motormouth when left unchecked, Carla is a fantastic therapist, first and foremost. She knows exactly when to shut up and let everything pour out of you. And you hated when she did that. You scrubbed your face with your hands, groaning. “Not like that, but he’s the lead role in Andrew’s new production. I don’t know how the fuck he even found out about the part in the first place, but he swears he didn’t know that Andrew and I know each other. I know it wasn’t an intentional ambush but . . .”

“But it still feels like one?” You nod, your bottom lip snagged between your teeth.  

“It’s just . . . it doesn’t feel real, you know? Like, what are the fucking chances that everything has to line up perfectly in the universe for him to come stumbling into my gallery after ten years?”

I really thought I’d never see him again. 

“Was he actually stumbling? Is he sober?”

“No to the stumbling part, but I have no idea. I mean, I don’t think Andrew would hire someone so coked out they couldn’t remember their lines . . . but he was always so good at hiding it.”

The desperate anger in your voice makes you cringe. Even after all these years, you hate when you confess something you didn’t mean to. Dieter’s ability to mask how high or drunk he was used to scare you. Like you were never quite sure which version of him you were going to get. But then again, you were also so high and drunk you never really cared. Which was entirely the point.

“Well, that’s his shit to work out,” Carla scoffs. “I wanna talk about you. What did you feel at the time?”

“Nervous. Shocked. Surprised. Angry.” 

“Talk to me about the anger.” 

“I’m angry that I couldn’t think of a single fucking thing to say to him. Not even a good ol’ ‘fuck you’ or a ‘hello’. I’m angry that he’s back in my life in a way where I’ll have to see him again and again. And I’m fucking pissed that after all these years, after all this work, I see my ex for thirty minutes and I’m running scared to my therapist.”

Carla’s face softens. If you were in person with her, this would be the part where she lowers her clipboard and looks at you with warmth you are barely accustomed to. 

“But did you run for a drink?”

“No.”

“Did you run to the nearest street corner and pick up a bag of coke?”

“No.” 

“Then the process is working. The tools we built to manage your anxiety, to find healthy outlets for your emotions, they held up under scrutiny. You can be pissed all you want but you should also be fucking proud as hell.” 

Something hot and sharp threatens to choke you, your cheeks flushing. The word “pride” and you in the same sentence always fucking did that to you. You cough, clearing your throat.

“Okay, then what do I do?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how do I act around him? Do I treat him like a stranger? A friend? Can I be his friend? Should I?”

“Is that what you want? Don’t forget you always get to set the boundaries of any relationship you have. He doesn’t get to decide that for you.” 

Your toes squeeze into the plush forest green carpet beneath you, thumb pressed into your palm. 

“I . . . don’t know.” The truth of what you want sears the back of your throat, a vomit-burn on your tongue, but you keep it to yourself. “But I shouldn’t be around him, at the very least, right? Isn’t rule number one for ex-addicts to keep away from contacts in their past lives?”

“Sure,” Carla nods sagely. “Old friends can bring back old patterns. But are you saying that because you are genuinely concerned about what would happen if you reconnect or because you feel like it’s what’s expected of you as a recovering addict?”

You bite your lip harder. “I don’t know, Carla. It just seems stupid to willingly let someone like Dieter back into my life.”

“And I’m saying you don’t have to. This is a hard case because not only is he an ex, but he was also your dealer and fellow addict.” Carla leans into the camera – this is the part where she put away her clipboard entirely. “But whether or not you let Dieter back in is irrelevant. I want you to go through life with the security in yourself that your past doesn’t have to own you. You have come so far and done so well. You’re on medication and in therapy. You’ve built a great life for yourself, in spite of everything. There will always be temptations, cravings to go back, and I’m not saying you should be overconfident and assume nothing can go wrong, because it absolutely can. But you are not the old Natalie anymore, have faith in yourself. You get to decide your life.”

Once again, you are reminded of all the people who let you forget that. The anger, the hurt, decades in the making, it’s still there. But its bite is no longer cruel. 

You nod. “Thank you, Carla. I needed to hear that.”

“I know that,” she smirks. “I’m a damn good therapist.” 

“As if you’d let me forget.”

You thank her and end the call. With a sigh you lean back, staring into your living room. Back then, you grew spikes to keep back a world intent on consuming you. Dieter had been the only one to not mind the spikes, even mold around them. 

If he’s still a fuckhead, I’m gonna kick his ass.

Your stomach makes a displeased noise, irritated at being empty for so long, so you stand, taking your phone with you as you head for the kitchen.

You bring up his contact and type out your message:

Hey Andrew! Would love to come to your party. What time?

Marie did not want to go to the party for a variety of reasons.

Too busy at the gallery. Invoicing. Nothing to wear. Straight up tired. 

All valid reasons. Except they weren’t and it was bullshit and you made her go anyway. 

Groaning all the way on the subway, she won’t even look at you as the elevator doors open to Andrew’s hallway. She’s gone uncharacteristically silent as you near the party. This is not her usual “I’d rather be in my Snuggie” scowl, but something else. Her eyes are sharp, hard. 

“What?” You bump her with your elbow. “You look like you’re plotting murder.”

“Maybe I am.”

You still and she does too. It’s like you can see inside her brain. “This is about Dieter?”

“Andrew’s a good guy,” she huffs, waving at the shut door. “He doesn’t deserve Dieter’s drama and bullshit . . . and neither do you.” 

About a foot shorter than you, Marie carries enough spitfire to fill someone twice her size. You’ve never actually seen her in a fight, but you really don’t want to. Her cold pink nose from the wind outside does nothing to deter her rage.

“If it makes you feel any better, I was cleared by my therapist to be around him.” 

She harumphs. 

“Look, if I can make this much progress, this much change, shouldn’t we give him the benefit of the doubt? Maybe he can too?” 

Her scowl deepens, but the murderous glint in her eyes fade as she knocks on Andrew’s door. “You are too nice for your own good.”

You mock-gasp. “You take that back!”

Just like every other party you’ve ever been to hosted by Andrew, the vibe is intimate, warm, and friendly. You run into and greet a few of the costume designers and lighting techs he’s used in the past, ones you’ve met before by way of just hanging around Andrew during rehearsals. Andrew is very fond of adopting creatives like pets and if he likes your work, chances are he’ll use you again – something uncommon in the industry, but very welcome to those whose paychecks are never steady. However, you notice how small the gathering is. You’ve seen this open-floor plan apartment full of people, partygoers nearly stacked on top of each other during Halloween parties or on New Years Eve. But this production team is a fraction of that size. 

Private. That was the other word Andrew mentioned over the phone for the backdrop design. He wanted the space to feel private, as though you were staring into something that was none of your business. 

That feeling doesn’t persist here. Here, everyone is welcome. 

Everyone, including –

“So, are you going to tell me what the fuck is up with you and him, or am I going to have to think up a very elaborate con to get you to confess?” Andrew snakes an arm over your shoulder, a glass of sparkling water in his hand. His green eyes are full of mischief, the faint lines around his eyes crinkled with glee, as he watches for any change in your expression. Dieter sits on a chair across the room from you, leaning in to listen to a story a man on the center couch cushion is animatedly telling with his hands. To his right, and nearly touching Dieter, is a blonde, beautiful, twenty-year old actress who everyone is telling you will be on Broadway any day now. You know someone told her your name, but you can’t remember it. You swat away your annoyance.

“C’mon, I’ve never seen you look at someone like that. I’m dying to know –,”

“Is he sober?” Your frown falls on Andrew who takes a step back, his own thick eyebrows scrunched together.

“Who, Dieter?”

“No, the man on the moon.”

Andrew shrugs, the lilac pullover he wears looking soft enough to eat. “As far as I know, yeah. We met when Toby and I went to that yoga retreat in Oregon last year. It was a substance-free commune so unless he was getting drunk off the atmosphere –,”

“You’ve known him for a year?” You gape at him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why would I tell you about some actor guy I met out on a co-op in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere? I didn’t know you knew him! We didn’t reconnect until I asked him to come read for the part.”

“And why did you ask him?”

“I . . . dunno,” Andrew says, clearly ruffled. “I liked his vibe. Matched what I had in my head for the role of Sam. And he’s got the best puppy dog eyes of anyone I’ve ever seen.” 

It’s not like you can disagree so you turn away from him, scowl on the verge of pouting. 

“Oh, no, the conversation does not end here, not after you’ve given me the third degree. Who the fuck was this guy to you?”

Across the room, the blonde’s knee knocks against Dieter’s and something acidic like bile claws the back of your stomach. You take the cup of water from Andrew, other hand digging into your purse.

“We dated. It didn’t end well. In fact, just watch Recovery Road – kinda says the whole thing.” You know Andrew doesn’t deserve your ire and you’ll apologize with coffee and a biscuit from his favorite bakery, but right now, if you don’t leave right now, you’re liable to pop something. “I heard it even won an Oscar.”

It’s stupid and childish and wrong to get jealous every time he talks to a woman. 

Okay, notice the thought. Observe it. And let it go. 

You inhale, the orange ring immolating the paper around the tobacco, and exhale smoke over the railing of Andrew’s balcony. It’s a nice balcony, as far as metal balconies go in New York. It’s private, sturdy, and a perfect place to contemplate the insanity of your own life. The sunset bleeds rapturous colors, bright and loud, across the city, light reflecting like stars in the glass windows of the buildings. The sight and the smoke is enough to ease the burden in your chest, just for a moment.

It’s not like you are even really jealous. You know that feeling and this isn’t it. The pain is farther away than the immediate nip of jealousy. You follow the feeling, careful not to nick yourself too hard on old memories as you use your toolbox to sort through the undulating waves of feeling. 

But therein lies the problem. You remember.

You remember when that girl curled up next to Dieter, eyes full of adoration, used to be you. 

You tap the ash against the metal railing, feeling terribly sorry for yourself, when the door to the balcony slides back. A few people had come and gone, shared a smoke, then went back inside. You know you are probably being a party pooper, gazing alone and wistful at the sunset, and you promise yourself this is the last one. It’s officially getting cold the lower the sun falls. But then you turn to the person who just came outside. 

“Ah, shit.” He blinks at you as the noise from the party inside is muffled behind the closing door.  “I mean, uh. Hi. Um. I didn’t know . . . look, I’ll just come back later –,”

“Andrew says you’re sober. Have been for at least a year. Is that true?”

Maybe you should have just brought a police hat and badge if you were going to grill everyone like this. You lean your hips back against the rail, the burn of the smoke forcing you to breathe slowly. 

The autumn wind tugs at his hair, threatens to pull that black sweater out of his pants, as he stares, a lighter and a packet of cigarettes in his clenched fists. 

“Um, yeah. He’s right. I’m . . . I’m sober. Have been, for a while.” 

You nod, reeling in that invisible electric fence you kept him at the edge of. He senses it and hesitantly, cautiously, he takes a few steps forward and joins you at the railing, but at least two arms lengths away. Eying you, he taps out a cigarette and lights it. He smokes, a full inhale and exhale, before continuing.

“Going on about ten years now.” 

The way he says it knots your stomach. His tone of voice. You know exactly what he means. How could you not?

You sip slowly, unable to look at him. 

“You haven’t had a drop of alcohol or smoked a single joint in ten years?”

He shrugs. “Doc says weed’s actually good for unfucking my brain.” He swallows and props himself up against the railing. “But, uh, I did go to therapy in rehab again and for the first time, I continued going after I got out. Turns out risk taking behaviors and mood swings are not things normal people experience. Looked lot at my anxiety around self-acceptance too. Triggers included feelings of inadequacy. I even got a new syndrome named after me in the DSM. Baffled my therapist for months.” 

“Really?” You stand up right, mouth parted. 

“No.” And there’s that Dieter grin. After a decade, it blooms across his face without any hesitation. Your heartbeat pounds rough against your throat for a second. But then his expression grows heavy. “But, uh, I was serious about the therapy part. It’s helped with the depression and anxiety attacks.” 

You roll your cigarette between your forefinger and thumb as another wind blows by. You nip at your lower lip. 

“Personally, I found Buspar was really good at keeping me from wanting to claw my skin off. Anxiety’s never been better.”

His eyebrows jump and he shuffles a bit closer. 

“Oh, yeah? Used to give me the worst headaches, but we fucked around with the dosage and it helped.”

You nod, remembering those weeks of trial and error. You don’t know what to say, what else to admit. His gaze flutters up your shoulder to the side of your jaw and he leans forward with you.

“Did they, uh, put you on Campral too? Wish they had that the first time I went to rehab.”

You shift your weight as you glance over your shoulder. “Yeah. Makes coming to shit like this easier. I, um, don’t feel so overwhelmed to fight the urges, you know?”

“Yeah. I fuckin’ do.” 

You blame the catch in your breath on a particular rough gust of smoke. He taps out that cigarette and eagerly lights another one. Yours is barely holding on. He must think of something, remember a joke, because he smirks again. 

“They also tried to put me on Metoprolol, but I told them to fuck off.”

You frown at him. “What’s that for?”

Dieter shakes his head, barely containing the smile on his face. “Fucking blood pressure medication. You turn forty-five and they wanna put you on Centrum fucking Silver.”

“Centrum? Isn’t that for –?”

His look dares you to tease him for it, all low eyes and curling lips, but you can’t swallow the fit of giggles. You snort, which makes him laugh, and then you do too. 

You laugh with him, until you remember you shouldn’t. You swallow your giggles, sipping more fervently on your cigarette, hoping your abrupt end wasn’t too obvious. 

But if Dieter notices, he doesn’t say. He watches the city skyline, contemplative.

“But of all that, therapy seems to be the thing that sticks the best.” 

You groan, smacking your palm against the railing, hunching your shoulders. “God, doesn’t that fucking suck? The one thing that actually helps is talking about your stupid fucking feelings?” 

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “yeah, it really does.”

Grinning, you flick your cigarette into the concrete pot Andrew has specifically out here for that sort of thing and go to light another one, but your packet is empty. You both stare at the empty box and then each other. 

Dieter pulls on his cigarette, with a big inhale. “Well, I guess you, um, gotta go back –,”

Your past does not own you. You decide what you want. 

“Do you wanna get lunch sometime?” That is not how you should have asked that question. His eyes go wide and he’s consumed by a coughing fit. You realize your mistake only seconds too late. “That’s not a line, I swear–,”

He bats your concern away, eyes watering, shaking his head. 

“No, I know–,” he croaks. “Yes, I’d like — to catch up. No – I didn’t think it was – a line.” 

He barely gets his breathing right, your own hands knotted together, as the balcony door opens for a second time. 

“There you are!” Marie tsks. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere and –,” 

She frowns at the hunched-over coughing man in the shadows. He tries to smile at her, cheeks red, eyes wet. 

“Hi, Marie, how are–,”

“Andrew wants to make a speech.” She talks like she didn’t hear him. “Come on.” 

She all but takes you by the scruff of your neck and hauls you back inside. You wave over your shoulder to Dieter and realize you don’t have his number anymore. Haven’t had it for years. You no longer have any way of contacting him, even if you wanted to.

As speeches go, Andrew was always very good at them. Short, sweet, and to the point. He thanks everyone for coming as he stands on his dining room table, thanks the caterers and the staff. You stand in the corner with Marie, chatting with the art director you finally met until Andrew started his speech. You focus entirely on Andrew, resolutely not searching the crowd or the balcony, as he continues to welcome everyone to New York, cracking a few jokes here and there. But then the perfunctory part of his speech is over, when something thoughtful comes over his face. 

“I know you’ve all got better things to do than listen to me rant and rave, but I know each of you personally, and I’d like to say I’m so happy you’re in my life. I’d like to think everyone touches each other’s lives for a purpose. Not to sound utilitarian, because those purposes can be healing an emotional wound, or filling a hole you didn’t know was there. Or, in Jack’s case, the best damn audio technician I’ve ever seen. Thanks, Jack.” He holds up his glass as the crowd laughs. Andrew smiles and shifts his weight. He had never done any sort of acting himself, always more content to be the conductor of the chaos, but you always think he would have done well. He has a presence and it’s comforting. “Every day we interact with each other in ways that we can’t foresee and leave lasting consequences we can’t explain. That’s what’s at the heart of this story, this play we’re about to create. The effects we have on each other, how those chance meetings can have lasting consequences.” He grins across the crowd, to where you know his husband, Toby, stands. “How love is the only thing that matters in this fucking world. I really hope you remember that as we start production. If nothing we do matters, then love is the most important thing we’ll ever do.” He holds his glass high and everyone follows. “To love.”

“To love,” the chorus chants.

You’ve never been good at sitting still but this is getting ridiculous. Beneath the table, your toes curl and uncurl in your boots, rubbing blisters with your thick socks. Your teeth nibble the thinnest piece of skin behind your lip, chomping constantly like an uneasy horse chewing at its bit. You stare at the menu and read absolutely nothing. It could be written in French for all that you retain. 

This is such a dumb fucking idea. 

The restaurant is nice. Too nice for something like this. They have glass cups and plates that clink together when stacked on top of each other. The lighting feels low, even for the middle of the day. The paneled wooden walls are too stuffy, too old money. When you asked Andrew for a brunch suggestion, you never should have trusted the recommendation of someone whose idea of loungewear is a pair of hot pink Puma track pants. You loosen your grip on the leather-bound menu out of fear of breaking it in half. 

“This is so weird.” 

Your eyes snap across the table to your lunch companion. Sunglasses pushed up and nestled inside his long hair, Dieter distractedly tugs at his earring, frowning at the cream-colored menu. Everything about this is wrong. The location. The vibe. The white fucking table cloth. The fact that he’s here, sitting with you, like this is some chat with a business acquaintance –

“This is so fucking weird,” he says again, slowly. “Not a single thing on this menu looks good.”

He pauses for a moment, letting it settle, before he grins up at you. With a sigh, all the air rushes out of your chest. You smile back.

“There’s this really good hot dog cart down the road.”

He snaps his menu shut with glee. “Lead the fucking way.”

Ten minutes later, Dieter groans into a steaming chili cheese dog. You’ve found a concrete bench overlooking a small nearby park. It’s Saturday so the park is full of children and their parents, dogs and their owners. It’s . . . normal. 

“Holy shit, this is good.” He licks melted cheese off the space between his thumb and forefinger and goes back in for seconds.

You suck a drop of chili off your thumb and grin. “Found this place when Marie and I first moved here. We lived just down the road and Tony with his cart became our guardian angel. And even now, even though I live across town, I’ll still come by just for his hot dogs.”

The man, round as he was tall, waves over his shoulder, heat rising from his chunky yellow cart, and you both wave back. 

“Can Tony adopt me? Please? I clean the dishes every time, I swear.” 

You chuckle as Dieter continues to slurp every errant stream of meat juice careening down his wrist. 

“I think his other kids would object, but you can try.” 

He chews slowly, suddenly thoughtful, glancing over the cold autumn air at the vendor. “You told me once you felt like it was hard to make friends. Guess that’s not the case anymore.”

He glances at you and you finish off your hot dog in two bites, your mouth dry. You shrug. “I do a lot of things now that I didn’t back then.” 

He nods – rather, moves his head up and down rigidly – and finishes his lunch as well. You hand him a napkin and he takes it gratefully.

“But, uh, speaking of friends, how’s Heidi? Do you still keep in touch?” 

Dieter’s eyes light up. He tosses away the napkin as he takes out his phone. “They just adopted another little kid.” He scrolls through his pictures before handing it off to you.

And once again you’re struck with the weight of memories that had been at the bottom of the box for years. Heidi’s older too, her hair now completely sheared off, cut shorter even than Dieter’s, but she’s smiling. She and another woman hold up a boy who looks to be about six, while two others, another boy and a girl, sit in front of the couch. All of them smile up happily for the camera. It tugs at a soft place inside of you. 

The thing that’s been circling your mind for days lifts its head out of the churning mixture of your thoughts, sniffing the air, knowing it’s almost time. 

“Oh wow! He’s adorable!” You grin genuinely. 

Dieter smirks as he closes his phone. “Carlos. Heidi asked me to help him practice his Spanish, but I’m pretty sure he knows more English than I do.” 

“So they’re happy?”

His brown eyes fall on you like autumn leaves and your toes curl again. “Yeah, they’re happy.” 

“And Mark? Do you still keep up with him?”

Dieter glances away, biting his lip. “Um, no, actually. It’s kind of hard to hang out with someone after you’ve punched them in the face and called them a liar while being so coked out you’re hallucinating.” He picks at a callus on his palm. “Wouldn’t be the first time I lost a friend because I did dumb shit while I was high.”

You nod, the shame and embarrassment all too familiar. Plus, every memory you have of that hotel you handle with radiation tongs and chemical-resistant gloves. 

“But, uh, what about you?” He leans back against the bench, hands in his lap. Behind him, children run and scream in the cool sunlight. “Were you and Marie always friends, even back then?”

“That’s a complicated question.” You sigh and tuck your hands up into your jacket pocket, matching his position on the bench. His legs sprawl out far longer than yours. “I wanted to be her friend back then, and I tried, but then things got . . . intense, with you, and the drugs, and I stopped responding to her calls and texts. For weeks at a time.” His gaze flickers to you as you talk, between your face and your pockets. “But she was also there for me . . . afterwards. She says Heidi called her and told her what happened and she immediately came to the hospital. She just fucking forgave me. Forgave all the shitty things I had done to her, just like that. To this day, she doesn’t hold it over me and I don’t know why but I’m so grateful for her . . .” Your voice cracks and you squeeze your eyes shut for a second. You can feel the wind on your cheeks, your unspilled tears sitting in your eyes. 

You have to get this thing off your chest.

“Dieter, I’m so sorry.” With a gasp to stifle your tears, you turn to him to look him in the eyes. “For the first two years of my rehab, I thought about writing to you, or calling you. Just to say how sorry I was. I had no idea what it was like on the other side of sobriety, how every day is a such a fucking struggle, and I rubbed that in your face, over and over again until you snapped. I’m so sorry.” 

He studies you for a moment, arms crossed, dark eyes almost black in the thin light. You can hear children yelling and shrieking with glee. Faint, distant. He taps his teeth together twice before finding his answer, his jaw tight.

“That’s not why I snapped and you know it.” 

His voice holds like iron in the wispy wind. Everything blurs around you but not that. Not him. He shakes his head gently, eyes falling to the scarf around your neck. 

“And please don’t apologize to me. I don’t think I’ll be able to stand it.” 

He meets your eyes and you swear they’re damp. A shade brighter than they were before. You stare at each other, on that park bench in Brooklyn, on a cold autumn day, for a long, long time.

You have to ask it now. You can’t avoid it any longer.

“You wanna get coffee?” You pass the tremble in your hands off as a shiver. He nods, still chewing on his mouth, and you gather your trash. 

It slips out of you as casually as you slip your napkins into the trash bin. 

“How’s Chloe?”

You barely have turned around when his hand seizes your upper arm. His grip is almost too tight, his eyes wide and manic.

“Oh, shit.” He blinks as though he’d been slapped. “Natalie, I never told you – I didn’t even think – fuck –,”

“What, Dieter?” You want to pull away, but the touch around your arm is warm, thick. You peer up at him from furrowed eyebrows. “What didn’t you tell me?”

He swallows.

“The baby – it’s not – it wasn’t mine.” 

Your entire body goes slack as your mouth drops open. The hold he has on you is welcomed; the entire park is in danger of spinning sideways. 

Somehow he has the good sense to pull you both back onto the bench. Your knees buckle the second you move and you all but collapse into the concrete. Dieter releases you and rubs his hands together, leaning forward on his elbows, eyes still wide and blank. 

“How do I say this?” He murmurs and that old hurt turns to panic, to anger. 

“How to say what, Dieter?” You snap, hotly. “Just start at the beginning. Please.”

He shakes his head, tongue up against his molars, finally turning to look at you. “Chloe and I got divorced. Years ago.” He takes a steadying breath, thumbnail absent-mindedly against the black ring on his third finger on his left hand, as if to remind himself what was there. This is why no one over the age of twenty-five needs to wear this many rings, Dieter!

“Look, Chloe and I – our marriage was shit from the get-go. I didn’t want to admit it back then, but it’s true,” he says, still soothing himself with gentle strokes. “I used Chloe, like all the people in my life, like a crutch and she felt it. I was smothering her and she couldn’t get far enough away from me, even halfway around the world. She started seeing someone in Portugal and I think she was happy there. I hope so. But, uh, she didn’t want it to get to the papers that she’d cheated on her movie-star husband and got knocked up as a result, so she passed the baby off as mine. We were about seven months in when she finally told me. I don’t know if she could tell I was coming apart at the seams or she was finally ready to be happy, but she confessed. And I confessed to her – the drugs, the affair with you – all of it. I think I just wanted it to be over, done. We weren’t going to come back from something like that and I think we were both okay with it.” He stops spinning the ring and, against all expectations, grins. “This is probably kind of fucked up of me but we kept in touch for a while. She married the baby’s dad about a month after we divorced. He’s actually a really nice guy. I was even invited to the wedding, if you can imagine.” 

There must be something wrong with your hearing. He’s stopped speaking but there’s a high pitched whine nestled between your ears. 

“So you don’t . . . you aren’t . . .”

“No, I don’t have some ten year old kid running around out there,” he huffs, shaking his head. “And no, I’m not a father. Or a husband. Not anymore.” 

You say the first thing you think of. 

“Dee, that’s fucking crazy.” His old nickname slips out while your brain is offline. “That’s, like, soap opera levels of insane. That’s . . . I can’t believe . . .” 

With a massive inhale, where you can see the hot steam of breath enter into his mouth and nostrils, he sits back, hands limp in his lap. 

“I don’t blame her, you know. After what I had done, to her, to you, I didn’t have the right to be angry that she cheated on me. In some fucked up way, it made sense and it wasn’t just my paranoid, druggy brain telling me something was off. I was never a good husband, was never going to be a good father. When I think about it, the kindest thing she ever did was agree to leave me, even when that seemed impossible.” 

His massive palms smooth across his thighs, his soft hair tugged on by the wind. His fingertips stop just short of touching yours, inches from your own lap. 

“Natalie, I’m sorry I never reached out after that night. Or even years later. I lost hours of sleep thinking about what I was going to say to you if you ever let me see you again. I had all these grand plans of finding you and showing you how sorry I was. But then,” he swallows, “I realized what damage that would do and I . . . I thought it would be better if we just never saw each other again.” 

Your ribs expand out into your chest, just once, just enough for it to hurt, before everything settles.

“I didn’t try and find you for the same reasons. I wanted to, though.”

If that counts for anything.

Back then, Dieter always had a fascination with your hands. Holding them, inspecting them, drawing invisible artwork across your palms and over your veins. He even sketched them on notebook paper and post-it notes from time to time, when you sat still long enough to let him. 

You can see it in his eyes that he wants to touch you, to hold your hand, but he doesn’t. Instead, he puts his own back into his pockets. 

Anxiety churns in your stomach. There’s more he wants to say and so do you, but for now, you’re content to let the confessions of the day settle. 

It’s funny, the little things that you pull together in your mind to create an image of someone. You didn’t think of it often, but when you did, you tried to imagine him happy, with his wife and child. And now you know that’s all they were, imaginings. You wonder if you thought about it more than he did. 

The label of father for Dieter was gone, after ten long, insufferable years. You had no idea what would take its place.

“Can I ask you something?” 

When you look at him, the intensity in his gaze is lifted. Something lighter has taken its place.

“Sure.”

“Why were they called The Sixers?” 

The whiplash between conversation topics is colder and sharper than the air around you. You suddenly remember you’re in a park full of children with Dieter Bravo inches from you.

You grin at him.

“Because it sounds like the sex-ers. Like sex-havers but said fast.”

That press of skin, the dimple on his right cheek, deepens and he smiles. “Nick came up with that one, didn’t he?”

You giggle. “Yeah, but the rest of them signed off on it.”

He nods, eyebrows arching as he shrugs. “But I actually meant why are they called The Sixers when there’s only five of them?”

Not once, after a decade, after millions of memories you shifted through, pulled out and examined and held up to the light – after shifting weight and blame and shame, putting your entire life under scrutiny – after sobriety and founding the gallery and finding Marie as the best friend in your whole world – 

Not once, had you ever stopped to consider that. 

It starts low in your stomach, expanding rapidly, arching up your spine, pulling your lips open, your head back until it bursts out of your mouth so absurdly loud, you clap a hand over your lips to keep from drawing attention.

You laugh so hard, you cry. 

Dieter is bent over, howling alongside you.

When he orders your coffee, he remembers how you take it.

“Cream, no sugar, right?” He smiles as he hands you the steaming cup.

What else of you still lives inside of him? You hesitate to wonder.

You nod, thanking him, and follow him down the street. 

A brisk evening settles between the high rises and rows of brownstones. The air has a mean bite to it now, a chill that nips at the bone. But you don’t really notice it. Not with his warm shoulder pressed up against yours, the warm styrofoam keeping your fingers from numbing. You’d brought up Andrew and the discussion quickly turned to the play. Dieter gestures wildly, chatting about this role, something so different from Hollywood.

Not that he had done much in the way of the public eye after Recovery Road. Smaller stuff, indie films, a few local LA plays. Then when all that became insufferable, he wrote a few treatments for some films, scripts to movies that never saw the light of day, and sold off the rights of those scripts to keep himself busy. He even directed a short film or two, but still felt a restlessness you were all too familiar with.

“So when Andrew called, I got the next flight out. This is the first part I’ve been excited about in years.” 

You smile at him as you sip your coffee. “I’m really glad to hear that. Andrew’s a great director, I think you’ll have fun with him.”

As you led him near and nearer to your street, the conversation wove between artistic inclinations, production management, set design, character work – things you thought you’d forgotten about for the most part, but came back all too easily. You laughed easily too. 

You were laughing when you stopped in front of your brownstone, but then instantly sobered when you saw who was waiting for you on the steps. Which was intentional because she absolutely had a set of keys.

“Oh, uh, hey, Marie.” 

“Dieter.” But she’s looking at you, her jaw set and eyes blazing. “I just came by to get those invoices. Did I interrupt something?”

The back of your neck warms and you put more space between your shoulder and his. “No, i-it’s fine. Dieter was just walking me home. The invoices are in my kitchen.”

The chill of the air settles around you, tapping against the bubble you’d found yourself in after the park. You have him at arm’s length and you don’t know whether to shake his hand or give him a hug. You go with neither.

“It was good catching up. I’ll see you Monday?” 

He nods, grinning in that silly way that makes him look like a fourteen year old dumbass. “For sure. See you Monday.”

It’s not the way you wanted your afternoon with him to go, but in honesty, it was probably the best way it could have gone. Dieter waves at Marie as he heads back the way you came, towards the subway station. 

He’s not entirely out of earshot when Marie turns on you.

“So, what the fuck was that?”

You don’t meet her eyes as you fumble for your keys, your fingers numb from the cold. The door to your brownstone creaks as you stumble inside, as if irritated with you that you’re letting all the warm air out. 

“What are you talking about? We were just catching up.” 

She’s hot on your heels as you slide off your jacket, almost running for the kitchen. 

“You don’t just catch up with someone like Dieter Bravo. He knows all your weaknesses, Nat.” 

You scowl as you toss your purse onto the kitchen island. You face off with her, your hands on your hips. “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means he’s your blindspot,” she says, carefully watching your face. “Always has been. He’s not just some guy and you know it. He broke your fucking heart.” 

It had been all smiles and laughing and remembering the good this afternoon. But she isn’t wrong. She rarely was. 

She can see the understanding cross over your face. 

“Where’s his wife anyway? Chloe?”

“They’re divorced, okay?”

Marie’s mouth falls open in disgust and you cringe. Probably shouldn’t have mentioned that. 

“So he’s back in your life for five minutes, single, and you’re getting coffee with him?” 

“I didn’t know he was single when I asked him — you know what, it’s fine. I asked if he wanted to get lunch and that turned into coffee and we spent a lot of time talking about the play. That’s it.”  

She crosses her arms, reading every line in your body for secrets, as if he might have slipped you a bag of Oxy. You stare back. You have done nothing wrong and neither did he. 

(You store away the fact that this was the first time you hung out with Dieter Bravo in a capacity that didn’t have you both hiding in shadows, ready to examine later alone in bed.)

“And you can honestly say you didn’t feel anything for him?” Marie arches an eyebrow, waiting for your stony face to crack. “No flicker? Nothing after ten years of radio silence?

“It’s not like it was before,” you answer as honestly as you can. “Even if it was, I can’t imagine he feels anything but guilt over me, which isn’t a great starting point for a relationship. You saw his face in the gallery – he looked petrified, not in love.”

When she nods, it stings, just a bit. She eyes the paperwork, knowing the income and good word coming from Andrew’s production would benefit the gallery for years to come. And of course she knew – she was the one who came up with it. Would she have said yes if she knew Dieter was attached to it? Would you have?

“Are you going to see him again?” 

You wave a sweeping hand at the invoices, as if to show how the gallery and Andrew’s show are completely intertwined. 

“I have to, right?” 

Marie frowns at you, angry but not at you, and then her face softens, all fight gone, and she goes around the island to hug you. This is what saved you. This is what kept you going. 

“I know my boundaries, Marie,” you say to the crook of her neck, unwilling to look her in the eyes while you say this. “And I know what happened in the past. I’m not going to make the same mistakes.” 

She kisses your cheek. “Good because I really can’t run the gallery by myself.”

You laugh, pulling apart, and you shuffle the invoices together. “Yeah, who would you have to cart all this paperwork around?” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Bright and early.”

You wave her goodbye from your porch, locking the door after her. 

You want to google his name and “divorce” to see if it’s true. If anything he told you today was real. You want to curl up in bed, with your head under the sheets and try and piece his life without you together. But you don’t. 

That was the thing with Dieter. You want things, but you can’t have them. You have this indescribable urge, but it must be tempered. The obsession is lesser, a blindspot more than anything, now that you know your next hit and how you felt about him had been horrifically tied up into one, incessant, painful need. It would never be as bad, you assure yourself because now that you don’t have that overwhelming urge to get high; whatever you would be feeling is just good plain old human brain chemicals. And if you survived being coked out for nearly a year straight, you’d probably survive your own stupid emotions. 

You would survive Dieter Bravo. All you have to do now is be his friend.

OCTOBER

A sharp chill had descended over the city, bringing with it an explosion of color. A consolation prize for the painful nip in the air. It was too early in the season for snow, or anything to prevent the wind from being so cruel, so everyone had to bustle from one structure to the next, careful to avoid the cold that hounded them like dogs. Teeth clenched, hands clutching scarves, the streets were filled with scowls and pink cheeks, raw knuckles and frozen ears. The crowds moved faster, eager to get where they’re going, out of this cold, out of this wind that pressed unsuspecting bodies together with the force of it. It made getting out of bed, leaving the cozy warmth of duvets and covers, planting your feet on the freezing wood, almost a monumentally impossible task. Especially for those who hated mornings anyway. 

As much as you tried – really, truly, desperately tried as you sorted through the mosaic of your life, shining up as much as you could – you simply could not turn yourself into a morning person. Yawning widely, you stirred the cup of terrible coffee aimlessly, as if with enough glaring it would not only taste better, but startle you awake. 

No such luck. 

“Hey, miss, where would you like us to put these?” 

You grimace as you choke down the black sludge, pointing the workman to a far wall at the back of the stage. Six in the morning and you already know it was going to be a long day. There are supplies to organize, materials to sort out, work to delegate, but you can’t seem to climb out of that sleepy haze. It had been a while since you’d been on the set of a production but if you don’t plant your feet now, you are liable to get swept up into the chaos. 

You shake your head and blink. Focus. 

Your designs had mapped out six separate moveable pieces of extra thick balsa wood. Attached to wheels, stage hands could rearrange the pieces as needed, depending on the scene. The “walls” are light enough for Andrew’s skeleton crew, but with some shadows and shading, you could give them depth and visual weight. You just had to build the damn things first, but Andrew assured you that all of his stagehands are basically master carpenters. By the confused but eager looks on their faces, you doubt that’s entirely true. Maybe by the end of this you’ll all be master carpenters. 

Smiling to yourself, you go to help them unpack the planks of wood, but freeze when you hear Andrew’s voice unexpectedly. Assuming he’d come by when most of the work is nearly done, you poke your head around the thick black curtains. 

Andrew stands facing the house, his arms wide and mobile. You smirk at the Lululemon sweats – his version of dressing down – as he addresses the small crowd in front of him. It’s the cast, you realize, only about seven of them and in the center is, of course, Dieter, with dark circles under his eyes. He’d never been a morning person either. He has his arms crossed over a thin black shirt and he’s focused entirely on Andrew, thick brows furrowed. 

And focused entirely on him, is Emily (you finally remember her name), the cute blonde twenty-something. 

Friends help friends get dates, right? Maybe this would be a good first step.

Getting Dieter Bravo laid.

Lunch arrives well past noon, leaving everyone tired, hungry, and a little irritable. Cast and crew go off into their separate corners, looking for peace and quiet and somewhere the pounding of hammers isn’t audible. 

You’re deciding between a ham or turkey sandwich when he sidles up next to you. His plate is half a sandwich, three strawberries, and four cookies. Good to see his voracious sweet tooth hadn’t dulled even a little bit. 

You glance over your shoulder. Emily sits on the edge of the stage, munching on a bag of chips and reading over her script. With your elbow, you nudge Dieter and he turns to look. 

“She likes you,” you grin. 

He frowns, glancing back between you and the girl on stage. “Who? Emily?”

“Duh. She has eyes, doesn’t she?” 

Dieter’s mouth goes tight and he turns back to the craft’s table, suddenly interested in adding something healthy to his plate. 

“She flirts with everyone. Besides, I’m kind of out of practice.”

“What do you mean?”

He picks at a melon, noses through the box of chips. “Rehab makes dating kinda hard. Unless . . .” he pauses and puts down his plate, “unless you’ve figured out the secret to dating in rehab.”

Your neck heats again. “Um, no, definitely not. It’s been a while, for me too.”

“How long is a while?” His eyes darken as he asks. 

You are completely baffled at how quickly this conversation spiraled out of your control. 

“Dieter – I – it’s been – you —,” 

He spares you and bites the corner of his cheek. He glances over to Emily as she swings a long, bare leg over the edge of the stage. 

“I’m not sleeping with her.” You nod, dumbstruck by this complete and total opposite reaction you thought he’d have. He works his jaw before looking back at you. “Her or anyone else. Okay?”

Andrew calls the cast to the stage to review blocking before the buzz saws start up again, so Dieter is pulled away before you can sputter incoherent consonants at him. He leaves his plate with you.

“Don’t let anyone steal my cookies,” he says very seriously before wiping his hands on his jeans and heading back to work. 

What you said is true. You didn’t date anyone in rehab, the practice actually rather forbidden, and didn’t really have the inclination once you got out. It had been years before you actually tried to date anyone, but most of them ended after the first awkward hug goodbye or when he tried to put his hand up your skirt at dinner. 

You hadn’t been a nun this whole time – you weren’t a fucking saint – but there hadn’t been anyone, anyone who really mattered in, years. For the first time, that struck you as odd. There wasn’t time, you reason with yourself as you watch him cross the stage on Andrew’s direction and jot notes in his script, his hair sticking up in all directions as if a cat’s tongue had licked him up the back of his neck. With moving to New York and starting the gallery and then running it, expanding it, there just simply wasn’t time to find something to fill that giant, gaping hole in your life. A hole you didn’t seem to mind or even notice, until Dieter came back. 

Okay, maybe, friends didn’t need to help friends pick up dates. He didn’t seem interested anyway. 

You pick up his plate, careful to not spill his precious sweets, only vaguely aware that his first inclination after loading up his lunch was to come find you.

🤍 Next: Part 2 + Epilogue

[mc-lukanette]

Luka tended to stick to below the deck whenever Juleka had her friends over above it. They knew him, they were friendly with him, but barring a few exceptions, he didn't consider himself friends with them.

Marinette was one of the exceptions, and while he was confused as to why she would be down with him rather than her friends, he was happy to spend time with her. They entertained each other, Marinette sitting at the stool in the kitchenette and laughing whilst he feigned being a butler, serving her lemonade with a rag hanging from his forearm.

The moment only broke when they heard footsteps coming from the staircase leading down to where they were. Sure enough, Adrien emerged, looking around before his eyes locked with Marinette.

"Oh, Marinette! There you are!" He brightened and walked over to her. "We thought you wandered off or something so I—"

He was interrupted when Marinette took the cup Luka had served her, thrusting it down on the counter for effect. Her smile was strained. "Thank you, Adrien, but really, I'm fine! I wanted to be down here! The lighting's just the best!"

Adrien's eyes darted around skeptically at the various light sources around. Luka knew that, given Adrien's status as a model, he must've known what "proper lighting" must be, and the Liberty wasn't it.

"Uh... really?" Adrien asked, his tone indicating that he was making an attempt to be nice about it yet failing to hold back his feelings completely.

"Yes, and me and Luka were just talking," Marinette replied, unphased. She idly tapped the glass with her fingertips, adding, "I'll be up later, okay?"

He looked back-and-forth from the two of them, a weird look on his face, but he ultimately relented and turned around, heading back upstairs.

Luka watched as Marinette sighed heavily and slumped onto the counter. He wondered what must've happened between the two of them. Granted, he'd never personally seen Marinette and Adrien even in the same place together, but from what Juleka had told him, Marinette was perfectly pleasant and always tried to get along with him.

"...Luka," she muffled against the counter, then raised her head to ask, "do you think I'm selfish?"

"Selfish? You?" He shook his head immediately. "No, I don't think that at all. Why would you...?"

She paused, arms tucking into a loose way of crossing them. She pursed her lips in thought, then averted her gaze from him nervously. "H-hypothetically, what do you think about people who go against their kwami?"

Ah. That explained it.

Looking down, he occupied his hands by cleaning up a spill Marinette had caused when she hit the counter with her glass. She was apologetic about it, but he simply smiled in reassurance. He didn't actually need her to clarify either, but asked anyway, "What do you mean?"

"The—the romance stuff," she replied, clasping her hands together. "What if their owner decided that they don't want to be with who their kwami picked? O-or, worse... what if they decided that they wanted to be with someone else?"

He genuinely thought about it, having had no idea that she was interested in anyone. He couldn't say that he had any experience with her situation - Sass had never been particularly insistent about his love live - but he could put himself in her shoes.

"I don't see anything wrong with it."

"What do you mean?" Marinette asked, visibly confused. "If a kwami chooses you, then you're supposed to follow—"

"—their advice," Luka finished.

"...H-huh?"

"That's how I see it, anyway," he clarified. "Kwami can guide you, but I don't think you have to listen to everything they say if you don't like the tune."

"But that's not..." Marinette sighed, rubbing her arm uncomfortably. "That's not how people usually see it."

"It's not," he admitted. Setting the rag aside and moving her drink, he leaned onto the counter to replace her hand with his own, rubbing her arm for her. She looked up appreciatively and he continued with a chuckle, "But you're coming to the wrong person to talk about what everyone else thinks."

She laughed through her nose. "I-I guess so."

"...Marinette," he began steadily. Maybe he didn't have any experience, but someone he knew did. "Did you ever wonder why my mom doesn't have a kwami?"

"She doesn't?" Marinette blinked. "Yeah, I've never seen her with one, but I thought you said there was a mouse kwami around here somewhere."

"There is, but it's not hers." He paused, retracting his arm and letting her take in what he'd said so far. "She didn't always play the tune she does now either. She was a completely different person."

He giggled at the way her eyes went wide, her nose scrunched up in confusion. "S-she was?" She rubbed her chin, trying to imagine it. "I... no, I can't even see it."

"I barely remember it, since I was really young," he admitted, "but she used to be pretty down to Earth."

Marinette's nose scrunched further. "I definitely can't see it."

Luka explained, "It was probably her parents; my grandparents. I don't remember them much anymore either, but they were pretty stuffy people from what she always told me."

"And?" Marinette leaned forward with interest. If she noticed how close they were, she didn't do anything to undo it. "What happened?"

"Her kwami paired her up with someone she hated. She didn't even realize it at first, since she always did what people told her. Living with someone you don't like though, knowing that you're going to be stuck together forever..." His expression grew grim at the memory. "She couldn't do it. She snapped like an old guitar string. I didn't know what life was going to be like on the Liberty with just me, her, and Jule, but it's the best home I could ask for and it was only once we got it that she started smiling like she meant it."

Marinette let out a breath, wholly invested in the story. "And her kwami...?"

"Left them behind," he answered simply, sliding his hand across the counter for emphasis. "She didn't want anyone telling her what to do anymore. Life wasn't worth living for her if she couldn't play the way she wanted to. That's why me and Jule got kwami that really fit us; she's not perfect, but she taught us to know who we were and what kind of kwami we should listen to."

"O-oh..." Marinette visibly relaxed in her seat, fingers tapping sporadically on the counter as she absorbed the story. Sheepishly, she tried to excuse, "I-I don't think Tikki is that bad."

He gave her a patient look. It took less than five seconds for her to crack.

"Okay, well, she—yeah, she has strong opinions."

"I bet," Luka replied. "You told me she was one of the oldest kwami? She probably thinks she knows every song that's ever been played, but no one can know what they all mean."

"Hm." She grabbed the counter for support, allowing her to lean back on the stool without risk of falling over. "That...that's true."

"And just because she's old doesn't mean she knows everything."

"That's also true..."

He smiled, seeing that all of the uncertainty from earlier was slowly fading away. "I get along with Sass, so I don't know anything dealing with a kwami like yours, but I think you should focus on your own happiness."

"What if Tikki—" Marinette paused, embarrassment spreading across her face at a delayed realization. "U-uh, I mean, this—this hypothetical kwami, isn't happy for their owner?"

He shrugged. "Then I don't think they should've come to them in the first place, especially if they were someone like you." Smiling knowingly, he added, "You deserve to be respected, Marinette."

She hunched forward to lean on the counter again. He couldn't see it, but he could hear the idle taps as her legs swung back and forth against the stool. This had been something on her mind for quite a long time, it seemed, and he was happy to be the one she went to for advice.

Finally, Marinette raised herself up with a smile. "Thanks, Luka. You're right."

"You're welcome." His eyes followed her as she hopped off the stool and walked around the counter to his side. "I'm just glad I could—"

His mouth stopped working when she leaned up and kissed somewhere between his cheek and lips; far enough from the lips to be respectful to one she wasn't dating, but not so much on the cheek as to come off strictly friendly. Luka could only stare in surprise at her shy little smile as took hold of her drink and turned away to hurry to the staircase and head above deck again.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there, but two soft clicks from behind him indicated that the fridge had been opened and then closed. Sass took his rightful place atop Luka's shoulder, biting into a hard-boiled egg.

"For all your wisdom, you lacked in what it took to see who the girl was fond for," he noted in amusement.

Luka had the decency to blush at that, having no argument to defend himself.

[morn1e]

What is your DudeMarnie timeline? Like, what game do their shenanagins take place in, and what does it look like in the other/later games? :3c Was the Dude ever marries to the Bitch, then left her for Marnie, or did he meet Marnie first?? :3c I’m soooo curious tbh, I wanna know everything

heeheehoohoo thing is i wrote their timeline like a good week ago but like a complete idiot deleted the post last night.anyways will write it here either way:) post under cut bcuz this is rather long

so basically in their timeline pretty much follows p2 only. apocalypse weekend+lost paradise either happens wayyyy later, or maybe even never(have not made up my mind yet). bcuz frankly i just.....do not care abt the dlcs or the other parts. 2 me p2 only exists.

dude is still w the bitch when he meets marnie! theoretically he does have an affair w marnie as he was still married, but i say that by the time dude+his wife moved to paradise their marriage was in literal shambles. the love was long gone&the only reason they stayed married was bcuz of the tax benefit. i like the idea from the postaI movie that the bitch was openly cheating&had her lovers over for the longest time because neither of them cared at all. they hated each other.

ANYWAYS😁. end of may comes, dude+the bitch relocate 2 paradise in preparation for the game dev job. on the same night they arrive the wife nags dude so hard he leaves the trailer to explore the town when he comes across a nightclub, where a metal concert is being held. dude comes inside for the heck of it&gets dragged into the mosh pit, where him being dude he just starts throwing hands&beating the shit out of everyone bcuz not only how dare they drag him into the moshpit but also because he might as well. doing so he ends up socking a bystander girl extra hard in the face - surprise! it is marnie! she stands out to him immediately because it is not everyday you meet a rather tall woman being able to take a punch to the face from a 6'8" man&be so unphased. he follows her home&a few nights later he reappears because not only is he curious abt that blonde chick he socked in the face a few nights ago but also bcuz he needs to get away from the bitch wife. this is where him&marnie become friends (more like marnie letting him come over because she does not have the willpower to say no)&dude starts coming more often because is it a great escape from his wife+free alcohol/weed to leech from&finally, a place where he is not being nagged at, as marnie knows when to shut up&never complains. he enjoys the peace.

time moves from may -> june where dudes biweekly or smth visits become more and more frequent because he is starting to enjoy marnies company too much. every night visits turn into a sleepover, sleepover turns into staying a few nights at a time. by the end of june they start hitting it off. then july rolls around&that is when p2 monday-friday happens. on friday dude shoots himself, his wife leaves (but unlike the events in canon, he does keep champ and the trailer). his ass ends up in the hospital. after he leaves, dude takes champ+his crap from the trailer&officially moves in w marnie&they live together in paradise for a couple of years the least. most likely longer. that is all i have for now. i do not want to think abt what happens next. i cannot say they live happily ever after in paradise bcuz that is just too ooc for dude to me personally, but i just have not thought of anything that satisfies me. so i put a period here.😁.

that is kind of it!

[sarandipitywrites]

find the word tag

i was tagged by @ahordeofwasps - thank you! check out her words here

my words to find are cold, bold, fold, and mold. i'll search the latest draft of Dead Roots, Dark Water for those.

tagging @sunset-a-story, @k--havok, @thesorcerersapprentice, @liv-is, and @aziz-reads to find devour, pride, flutter, and thrill, plus an open tag for anyone else who wants to play along 🙂

now, to go find those words:

cold

"Do you enjoy being in shackles, Cylen?" Jak jolted away from the terminal. The words kept coming, green rebukes on a sea of black. "Dealing with Krew hasn't taught you anything? Don't just offer yourself up without finding out what you're getting into. Not in Haven. This city devours kids like you." Solid advice. But Jade didn’t seem to be like Krew — after Krew’s backhanded flattery, Jade’s candor was… refreshing. In a bucket-of-cold-water kind of way.

bold impudent

Krew bobbed in the air, dodging the shrapnel, and closed in on Jak. His putrid breath fanned across Jak’s face. “Impudent little— you must think my grace limitless, ‘ey? Well, Cylen, I’ll tell you one more secret, hmm? A man is nothing more than his pride and his reputation. And you will sorely regret casting your stones at mine.”

fold

The kid clicked his tongue for Jak's attention, seemingly unphased by Daxter's complete disregard for firearm safety. "What's your name?" Hadn't Daxter already said it? Maybe the kid wanted it spelled out. "J-a-k." "Just 'J-a-k'?" Something fluttered in Jak's chest, lodged in his throat. He formed the sign for 'green,' his hand curled into a 'J.' The kid copied him before fingerspelling 'C-e-r-e-s.' He mimed a smiling mouth, hands formed into 'C's. Namesigns. Ceres had one, and had given one to his dog. And he wanted to know Jak's. Only Dax had ever known Jak's namesign, and he was the one who'd given it to him. "I like your name." Ceres unfolded his legs, kicked them slowly under the table. "Green. Like eco." Like eco. Like the color of his hair before the sun could bleach it blond. Like the carapace of his favorite beetle — the river jewel — and the plants he'd pressed into albums, back when— "Yeah." Jak swallowed back the lump in his throat. "Like eco."

mold

Darkness sparked cold in his chest — anxious. Frightened. Some metal heads could take the eco inside them and shape it, mold it. It had never obeyed him so well — he wasn't a metal head, despite everything — but that had been before. He pulled at the darkness in his chest and it came willingly. It seared down his arms, through his nerves, pooled in his hands. Somewhere between plasmic and solid, it gathered and grew and sparked and thrilled.