#but i just really liked this foreboding ending note

[chloecherrysip]

Just Beyond My Reach, There's Someone Reaching Back For Me (speculative mario movie fic, mario & luigi centric, around 3600 words.)

[OK SO i literally could not stop thinking about this post in the mario movie tag from last week, which turned into me trying to write out my thoughts about how the scenario could unfold, which then turned into me writing a full-fledged fanfic that's over 3,000 words long??? I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED. I've truly lost my common sense, but I just felt like I HAD to get this out before the movie arrives and their reunion is nothing like this in any way whatsoever.

This is a speculative fic of just one possible scenario out of millions, no actual spoilers; i'm working off info we've seen in the trailers/TV spots/promotions/etc, and all the characterization is based off those too, so it might ultimately be off-base. Please don't @ me after the movie comes out and get on my case about details being wrong! I AM IN THE PAST (and jealous of you in the future for having already seen it).

I present to you: A Version Of Mario & Luigi's Reunion in the Mario Movie That Would Cause Me Irreparable Psychic Damage.]

----

Mario hears him first. He would know that panicked yelp anywhere. 

By that point, he’s lost count of how many of Bowser’s minions he’s tried to interrogate as he fights his way through the airship. There’s so much shouting and clanging all around him, and his voice hurts from yelling loud enough to be heard over it, but he can’t stop. “Where do you keep prisoners? Have you seen someone who looks like me — but tall, skinny, and green? If you take me to him, I’ll go easy on ya, I swear—” 

it’s hard to tell if they’re just refusing to answer him, genuinely don’t know any useful information, or can’t actually communicate in a way he understands — probably some in each column. But he’s about to grab another angry Koopa by the shell and try again when there’s a commotion far off in the distance. The yell that echoes out to him is faint, but it tugs hard at Mario like a rope tied around his middle. Something from his memories, the nightmares he’s been having this whole adventure that he hasn’t told Peach and Toad about. Something instantly, certainly familiar to him in a way that few things are. 

His heart is suddenly lodged in his throat. He barrels his way past the troops and the Kongs fighting them, moving fast towards it.

The area of the airship he’s in starts to slope down further ahead, surrounding a huge open space that, judging by the flickering embers in the air and heavy heat that’s got him sweating through his shirt already, has a whole bunch of lava simmering at the bottom. On the other side of the chasm, there are a whole group of what look like angry blue penguins beating down some feisty stacks of Goombas with their bare flippers. There’s also what impossibly looks like a star, with a face and everything, beaming bright and doing twirling cartwheels in the air, giggling at the carnage underneath. And behind all that, he can see—

Mario reacts without having to think. He jolts forward against the railing, reaches a hand out, and yells as loud as he can. “LUIGI!” 

He can only see glimpses of his overalls and green hat at first amidst all the other chaos, but then pieces of the ongoing fight tumble further to either side, giving a clear view. Mario watches wide-eyed as his brother frantically swats away Goombas, shrieking and flailing his arm furiously when one snags some teeth through his sleeve until it comes loose. He looks terrified and a little queasy, but also very determined, even jumping in to help when one of the penguins gets pinned down. They seem to be working together. 

Luigi is here. He’s really here, alive and fighting and still in one piece. Mario isn’t too late. It feels like a 20 pound weight’s suddenly gone from his back that he hadn't even realized he was carrying around.

His yell is half-drowned out by the chaos, but Luigi’s head still snaps up, eyes wide and stricken and bright with recognition. “Mario?” He cries out, his voice cracking badly. He kicks another Goomba away and then starts spinning, searching the surrounding area with increasing desperation. “Mario!?” 

“Over here!” Mario wishes he had another raccoon powerup so he could just fly across the gap and reach him right then and there. He has to settle for taking off his cap and waving it in the air like a flag. “Luigi! Over here!” 

Finally, their eyes meet across the gorge. It’s not necessary at that point, but Luigi still tears off his own hat and starts flailing it around too overhead, as if just to make absolutely sure his brother knows where he is. “MARIO!” He shouts, his tired face instantly transforming into a relieved, overjoyed smile. 

“Are you okay!?” 

“Y-Yeah! I mean, define “okay,” but I, I'm not hurt or anything like — wait, how did you get here!? We’re way up in the air!”

Mario’s face already hurts from how wide he’s grinning. “Not anymore! And whaddya mean? What do ya think I’ve been doing all this time? Looking for you! You don’t think I could find you wherever you are, even if it’s a million miles in the air? Give your big bro some credit, eh?” 

A laugh bursts out of Luigi, surprised and shaky. Mario has missed that sound so much. “Right, right. I did think…I mean, I hoped, or…” His brother shakes his head, his voice failing him. He lets out a deep breath, so deep that it’s almost like he’s been holding it in ever since they were separated, still smiling like the sun. “I knew you would. Mario, you — look out!” 

Mario turns just as a hammer goes whizzing past his ear, tumbling down into the lava pit. He dodges the next one more capably and then catches the third one that comes his way. In one smooth, lightning-quick motion, he throws it back at the attacking Hammer Bro, nailing him in the face and knocking him out cold.

“Whoa!” He turns back to see Luigi staring with his mouth agape. “When did you learn how to do that?”

“It's kinda a long story!” There will be plenty of time to get into all the details about his adventure when he’s gotten Luigi safely out of an active warzone.  “What about you? I thought you were a prisoner here!” 

“I am! Or I was, I guess! We — me, and the penguins, and Lumalee,” he gestures wearily up overhead, where the blue star-thing is idly playing with a pinwheel that it somehow conjured out of thin air, “and the others — we broke out! We, ah, we’ve been trying to find a way outta here ever since, but this place is a maze and we need some kind of hot air balloon or one of those floating clown-car thingies to even get away in the first place, and—”

“Spinies at four o’clock!” One of the penguins shouts, at the same time that Mario yells “Luigi, on your left!”

Luigi jolts at the sight of the three spiky, spinning shells approaching fast. He jumps high enough to leapfrog right over them all, causing them to ricochet off the wall unexpectedly and careen off the side straight into the deep pit. 

“Nice, Weegie!” Mario cheers. “You always were the better jumper.” 

“Keep your head in the fight, soldier!” One specific penguin calls out to Luigi. He’s wearing a very fancy gold crown — probably their king? “We’re not done here yet!” 

“I know, I know, but look!” Luigi gestures excitedly across the chasm. “My brother’s here! He made it!”

“Good show! If he’s as brave as you said, he can help us beat back these dastardly troops once and for all! We’ll all see the light of day again soon!”

The rest of the penguins cheer, thrusting their flippers victoriously into the air, and then let out a wave of new, guttural battle cries. The Penguin King smiles over at Mario and salutes him before rejoining the fray. There are more of Bowser’s minions crowding the walkways on both sides, Mario realizes with a newfound wave of worry. He needs to get to Luigi now. 

“Stay right there!” He calls, starting to run alongside the railing. “Don’t move! I’m coming!”

“Are you kidding!? Wait!” Luigi starts running too, mirroring Mario. “I can meet you faster this way!” 

Mario laughs. “If you can keep up with me!” 

“You’re on!”

The road ahead of him is pure chaos, filled with attacking enemies and whooping Kongs and weapons flying every which way, but Mario runs. He runs until his heart burns, dodging and weaving, almost tripping here and there because he can’t stop looking over the gap to make sure Luigi’s still there on the other side, stumbling his way through his own gauntlet. The two areas are winding closer together, slowly but surely. They must meet somewhere. He’ll find it. He has to.

“Hey, Luigi!” He yells, breathless and happy. “Remember when we were fixing Mrs. McGrady’s sink a couple weeks ago and talking about the future? Did you imagine it’d be anything like this?” 

“Whaddya think!?” Luigi shouts back jokingly. “I-I mean, I imagined people being mad at us, but those were customers. There was definitely a lot less lava, and magic, and crazy green pipes that send you to places from your literal nightmares!” He laughs, which swiftly turns into a yelp when he has to dodge away from a red Koopa. The next words come out thicker, almost strained. “Mario, you, you’re really here, you — I missed you, I…”

Even with the distance and the distracting noise and the heavy breathing, Mario can hear the familiar tearing in his brother’s voice, and it pushes him to run faster. Luigi is so much braver than many people in their life have given him credit for, but he has a breaking point, and Mario can recognize it like the back of his own hand. Heck, he could use a good cry right about now too. They're so close. Just a little further.

He’s never been the biggest hugger — that title belongs squarely to Luigi, who always holds on a little too long, especially when Mario protests, swinging him up into the air until Mario has to grab him in a headlock and wrestle him down, both of them laughing by then — but he genuinely doesn’t know how he’s ever going to let go of his brother again once he’s within arm’s reach. 

“I missed you too! Every day!” He calls out, and if his voice cracks, well, that’s okay. “Hold on! It’s gotta be just up ahead!” There’s a solid wall coming up where they won’t be able to see each other across the way any longer, but the sharp curve of it looks extremely promising. “I’ll meet you on the other side!” 

“Okay!” 

The wall comes between them. Mario's finally in the clear, having left all the attackers in the dust. His legs and chest hurt, but it doesn’t matter. He's about to get his brother back. He feels invincible, unstoppable.

“I told you, bro!” He can’t hear Luigi at all any longer, but he shouts anyway, hoping the words reach him.  “Even if it didn’t turn out like we thought, it’s all gonna be okay! This is crazy stuff, but as long as we're—” 

Mario turns the corner and skids to a sharp stop. The words die in his throat, turning to ash.

Bowser is in front of him. 

The King of the Koopas nearly fills the entire space wall-to-wall, hulking and monstrous, even bigger than what Mario imagined. He breathes out an angry, deep growl that prickles at Mario’s skin, star-bright embers scattering in the air, the smell of burning getting stronger and stronger. But none of that is what Mario is focusing on. He’s frozen in place at the sight of Luigi, wriggling in one of Bowser’s gripped hands. A thick, scaly finger is coiled tight over his brother’s mouth too, keeping him from making any noise besides a variety of muffled, panicked sounds. 

“Thought you didn’t know him, Greenie,” Bowser says in a low voice to Luigi. “Wasn’t that what you said? Boy, you wouldn’t like what I usually do to liars. It involves fire — a lot of it.” His rows of sharp teeth part, just enough for a big exhale, tinged with molten heat. Luigi cringes, turning his head away as far as he can manage. He’s trembling. “But lucky for you, turns out you’re not entirely useless.”

It takes a moment for Mario to come back into his body, remember how to move and think. But slowly, his hands ball into fists. A voice erupts out of him that barely sounds like his own, grave and angry, angrier than he’s ever been in his life. 

“I’m only gonna say this once, ya overgrown turtle,” he says, shifting his footing into a fighting stance. “Let my brother go now.” 

Bowser looks down at him with a derisive sort of amusement for a long moment before laughing outright. "Give me a break, shortie! You’re even punier in person — 50 of you couldn't stop me. But that hasn’t stopped you from trying, has it? You and your little friends  — your pathetic excuse for an “army,” if that’s what you want to call it. But that all ends now.” 

As if on cue, Mario hears DK and a few other Kongs turn the corner, whooping and hollering, only to pause too at the sight of Bowser. “Let’s get ‘em! He can't take us all at once!” Someone says, and there’s a rush of new movement behind Mario. Bowser turns Luigi in his hand, holding him out a little closer to Mario with a shake of the wrist — a taunt. One of his claws pulls up just a little from the rest, the sharp tip arched and pressed lightly to his brother’s neck. The implication is clear. 

“Stop!” Mario shouts, half-strangled. He must sound serious enough that DK yells “hang on, hang on!” to his brethren, grabbing them with both arms and holding them back from attacking. On Bowser's other side, Mario can see the penguins watching what’s unfolding too with wide eyes. Even all the minions in the area have gone still, weapons lowered, waiting to see what Bowser does before making their next move. The space is suddenly quiet. 

The claw finally relaxes again. Luigi’s eyes are very wide, and there are tears on his face as he stares at Mario. He tries to say something, the sound of it hopelessly muffled against Bowser’s hand — an apology, or a plea, or simply Mario’s name. 

Mario is shaking. He grits his teeth hard, desperately tries to hold himself steady again. He hopes Bowser can’t see it — but there’s a gleam in the King’s eyes, and it couldn’t be any clearer that he does. 

“Do you know how long I worked on this plan?” Bowser says, his tone softer, more thoughtful all of a sudden.  “Orchestrating these invasions, gathering forces far and wide to serve me, taking the almighty power star for myself. I’ve wanted this for years!” His wide mouth curves up, plainly wicked and self-satisfied. “And now here I am, about to rule the world like I deserve, and a couple of useless, pipsqueak plumbers from who-knows-where think they’re just gonna waltz right in and ruin it for me.” Bowser chuckles to himself. It’s a dangerous, sharp-edged sound, echoing on and on. “Ain’t that a laugh, Mario?” 

Mario doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even know if he’s breathing any longer. All he can do is glare.

Bowser shrugs. The large fingers on his occupied hand flex ever so slightly, a slow, malicious ripple of movement, all the scales glinting in a wave. “You’re less fun than I thought you’d be,” he says gruffly. "What does the princess even see in you? A tiny little killjoy who loves ruining things for others. Guess it’s only fair I ruin something of yours to make us even."

There’s no further warning or fanfare. In one brutal motion, Bowser crushes his grip tighter around Luigi. His brother’s mouth is still covered, but the way he cries out is starkly, unmistakably pained. 

Mario’s vision floods with red. Something inside of him, the patient, careful part that was still desperately clinging to one last scrap of self-control, snaps cleanly in two. He runs at Bowser full-speed, fist cocked back, teeth bared. 

“I said LET HIM GO!” 

He doesn’t make it there. Bowser, grinning outright, moves so much faster than Mario would have ever guessed he could. He spins, and his tail comes out of nowhere. The impact is like an oncoming train, catapulting Mario into the nearby wall with a sickening crack.

There’s a horrible ringing sound in his ears. His head hurts. He hears Bowser laugh, followed by a roar and a burst of fire breath, awful-smelling and close enough to singe. There’s a lot of shouting, and panic, and thunderous footsteps, moving in a hurry. He can’t think any longer. Why can’t he think? All that comes to mind is—

(They’re fifteen, hiding in their bedroom with some smuggled bandages and antibiotics from the medicine cabinet because if their mom finds out Mario punched out a kid behind the school, she will LITERALLY murder him. Luigi wraps each bruised knuckle carefully as Mario winces and complains about the stinging ointment. His brother looks angrier than he’s ever seen him before, though, and that makes him quiet again in a hurry.)

“You want him so bad?” Bowser is much further away, his voice a distant rumble over the flickering flames. Get up, Mario tells himself. He’s gasping, struggling to push himself back up with useless, trembling hands. His legs feel numb. Get up! “Then come and get ‘em already!”

(“You never stop and THINK first, y’know?” Luigi shakes his head, badly trying to hide the tears budding under his eyes. “And now you’re hurt, and it’s all my fault, and — and I don’t need you to do stuff like that for me! I can handle it, e-even if you think I can’t!”) 

“Mario!” That’s Luigi, terrified and wheezing, finally able to talk again. An intentional decision by Bowser, no doubt, just to be cruel. Mario can barely hear his brother at all, and the sound of his voice keeps growing fainter. “No! Let go! MARIO!” 

(“What are you even saying? That’s not why I did it at all!” Mario insists, using his uninjured hand to flick Luigi’s nose with a few fingers. His affronted expression at that makes Mario laugh, and the motion quickly turns into them trying to be the first one to swat each other in the face without getting blocked. At least the tears are forgotten, which is what he wanted from the start. “Don’t ya get it? I know you can take care of yourself. But if anyone wants to hurt you, they’re gonna have to go through me first. I’M the big bro, and that’s just how it is forever.”) 

Luigi! 

He’s standing again, even as his body protests every pull and push of the way, even as he’s still struggling to open his eyes. Someone strong and furry offers some extra support on his right side. 

“You okay, man?” Donkey Kong asks. “Geez, that looked like it hurt. Hey, anyone have an extra mushroom?” 

Stars are flashing across his vision, but finally they fade away. There’s a line of fire in front of them like a makeshift barrier, slowly but steadily dying out. Sure enough, Bowser and Luigi are gone. Mario’s heart lurches hard against his ribs.

“Setting a devious trap for sure,” The Penguin King grouses from further away. “Using one’s own flesh and blood! Does that dastardly Koopa’s depravity know no limits?” 

“I’m fine. Never better,” Mario groans. He points past the fire. “He went that way, right?” 

DK blinks, looking a little uneasy. “Uh, yeah, but we should probably regroup first and — hey! Wait a second, you idiot!”

Mario’s already charged full-speed ahead, jumping over the flames. Others yell after him too, saying it's too dangerous, but he’s running anyway, chasing the smell of molten heat, the faint, far-off echoes of yelling that feel like pinpricks in his lungs. 

He knows it’s a trap. He knows. He just doesn’t care.

He already let Luigi literally slip through his hands once before. Heck, he isn’t sure if he’ll ever be able to forgive himself for that alone. No matter where he has to go, who he has to fight, how much abuse he has to take, he's getting Luigi back right now, and he's gonna pound that overgrown bully's face until he regrets every life decision that led to him daring to hurt Mario's little brother.

It can't be too late. He can't have screwed this up again. He'll do anything. Even if...

The feeling of something on his cap startles him out of the thought — the softest boop-boop-boop, like someone very small is bouncing on it. He assumes he’s just imagining things until the blue star-thing (Lumalee?) floats down further, easily keeping up with his top speed, humming what sounds like a lullaby. Mario gawks in its direction. 

“The biggest sacrifices are often the ones that burn the brightest, out in space,” it says, bright and sing-song. “Did you know that?”

“What are you even talking about!?” Mario yells. “Sorry, but I’m a little busy here!” 

It’s unbothered by that, twirling close enough to give his mustache a little, playful poke. “Not existing any longer is natural, inevitable. We all go into the light someday.” The way it’s staring at Mario is unnerving, as though this little, creepy star knows exactly what he was just thinking about. “You look scared of that. Are you?” 

Mario swallows thickly. 

“No,” he says. “If that’s the only way, then…” His eyes are burning at the edges, just a little. “If the people I love are safe, then it doesn’t matter what happens to me.”

Lumalee smiles a dreamy, thoughtful smile.

“Oh,” it sighs, little more than a breath. “This is going to be so much fun.” 

And then it floats away. 

Mario doesn’t have time to stop and wonder what that was all about. He throws himself deeper and deeper into the airship, even when a heavy metal gate slams down behind him to separate him from the others, even when the slabs of rock under his feet sink down into the lava from the weight and don’t resurface, erasing any way out. Mario thinks of his training, of Princess Peach and Toad cheering him on, of the exhilaration and hope he felt looking out over the Rainbow Road, of Luigi smiling in the warp zone right before they were ripped apart. He steels himself for what’s coming next.

Further ahead, he hears his brother call out for him.

Mario runs.

[orcelito]

kinda a little bit nervous for the scene 4 thing but it really. is smth important to address

minefield. minefield minefield minefield 

[josnhoes]

Platonic!Yan batfam with young adult reader. Part 4

[Part 3]

Note: Reader is 18-22 years old. Gn reader

Content warning: being treated like a child, being looked down on, stalking, obsessions, soft yandere but still a yandere, reader has memory issues and it's ambiguous as to why, delusional batfam, batfam as a whole basically view you as a child younger then Damien despite you being older, reader is questioned by police, reader witnessed a crime, reader tried to be a hero, violence, blood, mentions of death, dissociation, abduction

Focus Dick (Nightwing)

------

Life moved on after the incident with Redhood. He'd left early that morning leaving a note saying, 'See you soon Sparky -RH'. You didn't care to think of what the note could mean. So you burried the strange sense of foreboding that clawed in your mind at the note. Maybe the Gotham paranoia had gotten to you?

Either way, things in the next few days were normal...as normal as Gotham could be. The bat clan had put most of the heavy rollers back in Arkham at a record speed. No one knew if it was just the rogues being sloppy, or the bats were feeling a tad extra feral. You remembered when you first learned about Batman and his underlings; the idea of the police having feral furry themed vigilantes was funny. You'd thought your new neighbor was joking. But no, it was true, and after your personal run-ins with Robin and Redhood, you could confidently claim the group was feral and would punch God..any God really... given the chance. Which was what Gotham needed to be blunt.

It was nice though that you got out of the heart of Gotham sometimes. So you'd taken a day off to go to Bludhaven. It wasn't better than Gotham, but it was a change of place. The fact that a comic store was having a closing door sale was totally *not* the reason. It was.. but you were hoping to get something cool for cheap! Nerd stuff was expensive, and as a nerd, you knew that well.

The quest for a trinket wasn't supposed to end with you being brought into the local police station for questioning. You weren't part of a crime no, but you were a witness, *the* witness. A mugging gone wrong. Honestly the details were fuzzy, yet at the same time, key parts you couldn't forget. The feeling of the woman's heart fading as you held pressure on the stab wound. The wheeze in her voice as she struggled to breathe and tell you her final words. The way your body trembled as the paramedics arrived and carted her away to a hospital. The sensation of blood on your hands and skin, and the smell...

"You okay?" The police officer's voice pulled you from the spiral of your thoughts.

"I'm sorry what?" You were in a haze, shock most likely.

"I asked if you would be okay answering a few more questions. Detective Grayson just got here and wants to ask a few."

"Oh sure yeah..." the voice, no your voice spoke, but it didn't feel like you.

Dick Grayson walked into the room the officers had put you in. You weren't in trouble. A nearby camera had seen it all go down, but you were a vital witness, one who was clearly not well after what you saw. Dick didn't blame you for your state either. He...he should have been there. When Bruce had called telling him you were in Bludhaven, he was ecstatic to think he could meet you. He'd been planning a nice little meet cute styled thing to bridge a gap from a stranger to you to being besties. He was your eldest brother, the one you'd be able to rely on most. You'd love everyone in the family but you'd come to him first for everything. He could so easily picture it. The two of you staying up late, watching films and you opening up to him and feeling safe in his company. The inside jokes you'd have together, you'd both be thicker than thieves.

So seeing you as you were now was a reminder of just how fragile you were. You were in shock a really bad case of it too. Your eyes were distant as you struggled to answer the basic questions. You were shaking. You still had the victim's blood on your shirt too. He should have been there. Any of them should have, but you were in *his* turf so it should have been him. He should have gotten there before you had to see it. You shouldn't have had to apply pressure to a wound like that.

Your voice was hollow, he'd seen videos of you. Hollow is never something he could have pictured you as. You had so much life to you. Yet here you were in this state because of *his* failures; as Nightwing, a detective, and a big brother. What if it had been you? You would have died on his watch in his turf. He couldn't handle that right now.

He got the answers he could from you, then easily guided you out. He told his fellow workers he was taking you home. No one questioned it, Dick was a good guy and not the type to let a traumatized witness go home alone.

You didn't question him as he ushered you to his car, or where he was taking you when you hadn't told him where you lived. He wasn't sure you could do that right now. He wasn't lying saying he was taking you home... it just wasn't the home you'd have expected if you were more here. The room in the manor wasn't perfect, but you'd be safe there.

He brought you inside, and the family members at home seethed at him. He couldn't blame them, this was his fault. Cass took you with help from Alfred to get you cleaned up and put you to bed. His heart broke seeing how you just went with everything. Like you were aware enough to function on a base level and orders, but mentally? You were gone. Pulled into yourself, protecting yourself from the trauma that he'd caused. He should have been there.

[hyuuukais]

-`♡´ - APARTMENT 143

pairing -> lee minho x fem reader

synopsis -> after a bad breakup, y/n needs to find a new place to live. although she's grateful for her best friend, up-and-coming model hwang hyunjin, for letting her stay at his, she can't keep living with him and his model roommates. so when an opening for somewhere nearby with cheap rent opens up, she jumps on it, despite knowing next to nothing about the 3 other tenants, only that one owns 3 cats. the three quickly learn of her breakup, determined to help get her back on her feet. but what happens when one of them begins to develop feelings?

warnings -> gen, hospitals, food mentioned, feeling sick/throwing up mentioned

MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS | NEXT

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE -> COMFORT ME (partially written, wc: 535)

That... isn't Soobin.

None other than Lee Minho is sitting on a waiting room bench to greet you with a soft smile and a paper bag held tightly in his arms. He sets it down next to him and stands, letting you come to him. There are fresh tears cascading down your face as you practically throw yourself into his open arms, one of his hands smoothing your hair. Just the feeling of him holding you is enough to break you completely, barely able to keep yourself standing up.

"Shh," Minho guides you to sit on the peeling leather bench. "Breathe."

"She's awake," you gasp into his shoulder, still holding onto him tightly. "She's awake."

After a long time, you're able to peel yourself away from his now wet t-shirt and look up at him with wet eyes. His own glance between yours and you don't notice the way his heartbeat thumps louder, or the way his breathing picks up when you break into a smile. Minho brings his hand up to wipe your tears away and you can't help but lean into his palm, closing your eyes with a sigh. Against better judgement, Minho leans in and places a kiss on each of your eyelids, lips so soft you barely feel it. When your eyes flutter open, he can't look at you.

"She's doing better then?" Minho clears his throat, removing his hand from your face and shifting slightly away; you try not to be hurt by this.

"Yeah. The doctors say she should recover pretty quickly now and can go home by the end of the week hopefully." You eye the paper bag still sitting next to him. "What's that?"

"Oh!" He perks up, passing the bag over to you. "I almost forgot."

He watches you open it with a smile on his face, your own features mimicking his as you peer inside. It doesn't take long for you to scarf down the croissant, offering Minho a bite, but he shakes his head and delights in watching you savour it. This is the first moment you've had since you came down where you've just enjoyed something, not having the worry of whether your sister will still be alive when you walk into her room at the front of your mind.

"How have you been?" Minho asks once you're done eating, taking a sip of the guava juice.

"Really terrible?" You shrug. "It's like, there's this guilt eating away at me constantly for multiple reasons, and I haven't been able to cry until today. Instead, it's just been this feeling in my stomach and in my chest, all heavy and foreboding. My head's been killing me and my mom's been killing me and my sister could have been killed and I just-" Taking a deep breath, you debate your admission. "...I can't stop thinking of him, Minho."

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," his voice is quiet, one hand sliding over your knee in an act of comfort. "Why don't we get you home? Have the hospital call when you can see her?"

"I'd like that," you sigh, sliding your free hand over his. "I'd like that a lot."

-

notes -> we r getting closer and closer to y/n revealing what happened to her dad... maybe minho can get it out of her? speaking of minho, bro finally left his ex for good! is this really the start of minyn (minion, if u will), or will there be more obstacles in the form of people to keep them apart? oh, and i'm thinking i may close the taglist soon? idk yet !

taglist -> @chaeryred @toplinelix @channie-143 @staysinbloom @puppyminnnie @tfshouldidohere @kangaracha @chlodavids @whitney190 @thisisnotjacinta @borahae-reads @brooklynie @gini143 @kayleigh-28 @skz-streamer @babyphotos0325 @scallywag1299 @venusmoonxnight @naomisosoup @fertiliezedtoesw @s00buwu @realrintaro @anothershorthuman @stayatinykatsy @ilovejeongin007 @btswestan @multifandomedsimp @ihrtlix @raehawthorne @euphoric-univers @catchingskzzzs @evermourning @satsuri3su @jazziwritesthings @minhwa @wyzminho @fic-for-readers @dreamerwasfound @imsiriuslyreal @lailac13 @palindrome969 @lixie-phoria @aalexyuuuhm @sunflowerbebe07 @st4rhwa @lukeys-giggle @jabmastersupriseee @judeduartewannabe @gaysontheprince @stepout-09-15

^^^ orange means i can't tag you

[when-pigsfly]

WITCHING HOUR, CH. 1/3 — [18+]

(18+) - MARKED FOR EVENTUAL SMUT, MINORS DNI!

fem!reader x arthur morgan

summary: most people in the area had issues with coyotes. yours wore a cowboy hat, but you let him in anyways. tags: marked 18+ for smut in later chapters, reader has a backstory kinda (but also not kinda), referred to as lady/ma’am/etc, arthur doesn’t know how chickens work, i really don’t know my farm lore

word count: 5.5k

a/n: setting this pre-chapter 2 ish and post chapter 1, except it’s winter for realsies, Because I Can. and please no questions about chicken logistics or I Will Cry.

you can find a link to the playlist here!

The fictitious “stranger,” by all accounts, was possessed. 

Possessed by an air so overwhelming, so sure, that it incited perversity in even the most upright.

He was an outlaw, by the cut of the whispers. The story went that he’d rolled in like a heavy fog, altogether quiet and unassuming, though still carrying the foreboding quality that preceded the raising of hackles. Mothers kept watchful eyes over their daughters, and more notably, the fathers brandished their guns. 

And yet—that maddening yet—the mothers seemed to care little for their own warnings, and even the fathers were envious of a man dripping with exploits they didn’t have the luxury of entertaining.

Luxuries and lack thereof aside, the fickleness of those who spoke of him had not gone entirely unnoticed; it lent no plausibility, no substance to the dream-like tales they’d crafted in their drunken stupors. The most substance you’d seen had been spewed into the shadowy corners of Valentine, pissed into not-quite pristine patches of snow, foul stench leaking out onto already foul streets before it followed you back to the farm.

It stunk. 

It stunk, and it loitered, and it’d been stealing from you.

Which is exactly why—when he shows up on your rickety porch just as winter has begun to bleed out into spring—you take up the mantle of digging your loaded barrel right into his sternum. 

—

The front door tremors behind you.

The stranger shifts on his feet. 

You shift with him, and gloved hands inch toward the stars in surrender not long after. 

Amorphous mass comes to your mind first, rather than man. You can only discern the more essential points of his appearance: the gloves, the satchel, the rifle slung over his back. Knives are stashed somewhere you can’t see—if he’s worth his salt—but everything else blends into the dark line of trees behind him. You swallow a rather painful yawn.

His hat, evidently beaten to hell and back several times over, sits low enough on his forehead to cast shadows over his features—though not low enough to completely obscure the faint outline of a face from your view. The rest of him only falls into place once you crane your head to find his eyes. 

As is customary in situations concerning your immediate safety, your throat constricts, and the second yawn you feel crawling up your throat nearly succeeds in asphyxiating you. 

Petty crimes would have granted him a slighter frame, but no petty crime you can think of could have afforded him the sturdy chest, the buckling of the air around him, the crooked line of his nose, clearly less cared for than his battered clothing. He’s still a little blurred—largely from a lack of sleep on your end, and the protection of his hat on his. Even so, the hard set of his gaze offers nothing other than the tale of cruelty lived and the promise of cruelty to come. 

There was no doubt. This had to be him.

(You might think him handsome, if not for the fact that it’s a quarter past three in the morning.)

The first breach in his stony composure that you catch is paper thin. Fleeting. And he’s quick to recover; any indication of surprise is sequestered with a blink. The second is an awkward shifting of his stubble-shrouded jaw, and you note with a squint that his bandana still hangs feebly off the jut of his chin. 

He admits defeat after a few clumsy seconds. Cracks a wicked smile, bright as the moon peeking out from behind the crown of his hat. But it falls away quickly. Somewhere in the distance a tree branch creaks, tiny shards of ice scattering to the ground and tinkling like bells.

He was calm. Entirely too calm, considering where he stood. His hands haven’t budged, and nothing in his stance hints at an intent to attack. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he looks more annoyed by your presence than you are by his. 

You try not to think about his eyes. There’s something else in there, too. Apart from the agitation that radiates from them, that is. It lurks deep beneath the blue and wades through the slight dilation of his pupils; it urges him closer—or, is it you?—like the distance between the two of you isn’t sustained by the twitchy arms of a jittery woman holding a rifle.

But there’s an abrupt wind that fiddles with the cotton threads of your chemise, and you’re suddenly struck with the realization that no, your hunting rifle isn’t loaded, and in your haste to confront him you’d forgotten your boots and shawl. 

The nighttime chill, ever the tyrant, lodges itself where the wooden boards scratch eagerly at your bare feet. You were cold, so cold that it ached, and you were tired. But it’d do you no good to show your hand this early. So like the hiss of a rattlesnake, you keep your voice low, and you keep it lethal. 

The stranger is named by the venom falling from your tongue.

“You’ve got ten seconds to convince me not to unload this lead into your chest, Morgan.” You track the added prod of the gun to ground yourself, eyelids still heavy with sleep.

It doesn’t do much, as far as threats go. Morgan’s ever steady breathing still accents the now stagnant winter wind, a stark contrast to the throb of your heart striking your ribs. But a small scar, carved into the flesh of his right cheek, has made an almost imperceptible shift. The rest of his features take far more liberties with their movement—

—and he’s scowling.

Your heart strikes louder.

God, the shit you would shovel to be able to read minds. Animals have always been more your speed; people were a hassle—far too unpredictable, and they tended to reap fewer rewards. 

In your mind's eye, Arthur lies silently amongst the fallen snow, red unfurling behind him like wings. You’d hate to have to kill him, you really would. But there was nothing more dangerous than indecisiveness: it killed, and often relentlessly.

Only, you’ve been staring too long. It’s long enough to rouse Morgan from whatever state he’d been in before you’d spoken. He’s smart enough to keep his palms facing you, and he dips his head with the same mildness that one might use to soothe a startled mare. The scowl is tamped down, smile returning to him like water running through a scraggly creek. 

“Evenin’, Miss.” He drawls.

And it works. You hate that it works. There’s a dull heat that seizes your lungs at the low timbre of his voice, something akin to fire. 

No. No, nothing like it. It was more like the cheap whiskey you’d downed that first night working as a farmhand, all those months ago. It’d numbed your tongue, tumbled down your throat like sun-warmed stone, and simmered in your stomach. You hadn’t dared take another swig after that. Too dangerous. But it’s easy enough, passing your shudder off as a trick of the cold and cocking your head incredulously. 

“Showing up uninvited, and you can’t do me the courtesy of knowing my name?” One push of the rifle sends him back with surprising ease—away from the cabin, and away from that damned moonlight. “Ma’am will do you just fine,” you spit.

His smile fractures. Not enough to truly frighten, but enough to make your fingers clench. “You talk to all your guests like that, Ma’am?” 

You steel yourself. “Only the sneaks.”

At this, Morgan stills. Shuts his eyes. 

Did he really think you wouldn’t notice?

The farm had more issues with coyotes than crooks; that’s what you’d been hired to take care of, more or less. Your employers—the Campbells—were getting on in their years, and were in desperate need of someone to help keep watch during the nights. So imagine the surprise when you’d found not a coyote, but a wanted man sliding through the shadows. 

It’d angered you, that first time he’d gotten away. You’d only recognized him long after he’d left. But after that night, you’d made a show of firing off rounds into the nearby woods and roaming the perimeter of the grounds under the guise of a late-night hunt. 

From what you knew, he hadn’t come back to steal, but you knew you’d seen him lingering. Felt him watching. Waiting for something—but you’d made sure that every pop of your rifle drove him further and further from whatever it was that he’d been aiming for. And now Arthur Morgan is here.

He furrows his eyebrows, purses his lips, and they disappear for a moment when he goes to wet them before he speaks again, a little less amused. “Now you know I mean no offense—”

“No offense? Well, I’d kill to see what you and your ilk consider offensive.” 

The wind slams the front door shut. 

“My ilk?”

You wonder if it’d been your goal all along, trying to rile him up like this. Accusations slide out of your mouth and into the night air far too easily for it not to be. But the thought of anything other than catching him red-handed occupying your head unnerves you, sending you another two steps forward and into the powdery snow.

“Jesus, woman! Alright, alright.” Morgan’s eyes finally leave you, darting between where your feet dig into the cold ground and the muzzle of the gun pressed to his chest. He slumps his shoulders and looks up to the sky, still an ugly grey-black from the thin dusting of snow the night before. 

“Look,” he starts, hands fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, “I don’t mean no harm. I swear it. I’m—just give me a minute to explain, will you? One minute, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

There’s a please somewhere in there, left unsaid yet still ever so loud. You think it might have left him in the puff of breath that still hangs above your heads; hot and heavy in his mouth, but turned to nothing but vapors once it misses its chance to solidify.

You eye him warily. This could be over and done with in a matter of seconds, and you might be able to knock that godawful mustache clean off of Sheriff Malloy’s face. You kill him—or turn him in so long as he didn’t bleed out, whichever came first—and get whatever bounty was nailed to his head. Use the money to get out. Get your freedom. Stop biding your time, and get revenge. 

And yet.

And yet.

“…You lying to me, Morgan?”

His shoulders straighten out, suddenly very tense. “‘Course not. You think me the lyin’ sort?”

Your voice flattens. “I figured that much was obvious.”

“Ouch, lady. Not willing to pull your punches for little old me?”

“You’d rather the lady use the gun?”

“Neither, thank you. And, speaking of which–” His chest deflates a bit, putting space between the two of you without having to step back. “—quit swingin’ that thing around. You’ll take someone’s eye out.”

Exhaustion mounting, you lower your rifle slowly. You keep your eyes trained on a pebble that’s escaped the snowfall relatively unscathed, not trusting yourself to look anywhere else. Conceding with a sniff, you toss your head toward the front door. It’s quiet, now. 

“Get in, before I change my mind—and no funny business, neither. Guns, knives, whatever else you’re hiding, drop ‘em. Right here.”

Too groggy to note the stalling of movement, you wait for the clinking of metal to stop. His boots retreat from your peripheral far more reluctantly than you expect. There’s a telltale groaning of wood, and you turn to find Morgan gazing down at you with an outstretched hand from where he’s hopped onto the porch. He murmurs with a reverence that you’re sure is misplaced, so quiet that you have to watch his lips to catch even a smidgen of what he says. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

This was a game to him. You knew games. And so when you go to place your hand in his it’s to eye him down, back him into whatever corner would hold him and keep him there till you knew why he’d spent the last month haunting your lodgings like a ghost.

Calloused fingers wrap around your hand like a vice, and when he’s guiding you and your icy feet up the stairs it strikes you that maybe—just maybe—your assessment of your situation had been far too impetuous. Arthur’s touch is surprisingly clinical, but even through the leather of his gloves, it was warm. Too warm. 

Ghosts weren’t warm. Or, at least you didn’t think they were. And Morgan, looking like the very paragon of the West, all bright eyes and honeyed words, had given you a glimpse of something far too beguiling not to investigate. It’s when he presses the back of his free hand to your wind-bitten cheeks that you wonder what your father might think.

“Chilled, right to the bone.” It isn’t so much a mutter as it is a rumble, reverberating somewhere deep in his throat and traveling up to where the two of you have made contact. You’re avoiding his eyes again, but you’re close enough now to be able to see his muscles working his neck. 

His smell overtakes you much like the cold has. The freshness of the pine needles still stuck to his coat makes up most of what you’re able to distinguish. A little bit of horse, too—he’d ridden here. Where exactly he’d hitched his horse was a mystery. But with the proximity of his sleeve to your nose, you can make out the faintest hints of a potent musk. It’s everywhere: in your nose, your mouth, under your skin. Every inhale turns your muscles into piteous liquid. There’s no hiding your shudder, this time.

Morgan suddenly yanks his hand back as if scorched, and schools whatever expression he’d been wearing prior into one of indifference. He hums. Frowns. 

“Let’s…uh, get you inside.”

You offer a tight nod and turn away, but Morgan is quick to the draw; he whispers a quick “pardon me,” and goes to retrieve the weapons he’d dropped in your stead. 

Oh. You’d forgotten. It seems he’d forgotten too, brushing the mixture of dirt and snow away and mumbling something about keeping his guns warm. You’re left standing dazed on the porch, skin still blistering from where his fingers had met your skin.

Morgan has the decency to look at least a little troubled when he returns. He places what he’s collected into your arms before opening the front door, and gestures for you to enter. You offer one last look to the moon before following him inside.

__

Your judgment on Morgan—Arthur, now—was still up for debate. But your punishment for rushing to catch him had been doled out almost immediately. 

For your feet, a numbness that the fireplace had been bullied into chipping away at. Your hands are still tight from the cold, and they sit tucked underneath your thighs with the added protection of a few blankets that’d been placed over your shoulders. Your eyes flick over from the fire to Arthur, and your chest tightens. 

He’s found his seat across from you: coat and satchel on the back of a chair he’s pulled from the dining table, big hands tapping away absentmindedly at his knees. With the coat set aside, there’s nothing to hide the first few buttons of his shirt that hang open, pitch black and rolled up to his forearms to account for the warmth of the fireplace. His hat remains, hair still tucked away and settled at the nape of his neck.

You’d both been sitting in silence for the last half hour, despite Arthur’s insistence on “one minute,” letting the cold of the outdoors thaw out before saying anything that might get the rifle pulled again. You did gain a bit of satisfaction at the slight tinge of red in Arthur’s ears; it seemed the cold had gotten to him, too.

You watch as his eyes wander over the furnishings of your cabin. Thankfully, the door to your bedroom is only slightly ajar, and the knot in your chest lessens. It wasn’t often (or ever) that you had visitors over, which meant that most of your things were tucked haphazardly into corners or set on kitchen counters.

The Campbells—generous as they already were—had insisted you take up residence in a cabin on their property that once belonged to a daughter of theirs. She’d long since moved out, but the light in their eyes at the thought of it being occupied again was undeniable. It wasn’t much, but it was yours. And Arthur was seeing all of it.  

“Don’t get too comfy.” You frown. “…Arthur.” He beams, and suddenly there’s something incredibly interesting lingering right by your foot. 

His name still feels foreign when it leaves you. At first, you’d taken it as a show of good faith; he’d sworn to keep his mud-caked boots off of your rug in exchange for keeping his feet from becoming bullet-ridden by the time the sun came up. Arthur, feeling like he’d gotten the shitty end of the stick, had joked that you may as well call him by his first name. The last person with the guts to threaten him with a shotgun had, so what was one more?

It was a weak threat, if one at all. You knew, and he knew, that you were just about the only person this side of the Grizzlies who was vaguely aware of who he was. You’d seen it in his face when you’d called him by name. It’d be an insult to call it fear; an expectation of an inconvenience would be more accurate.

Luckily for him, you didn’t care. Not right now, at least. Imposing as he was, you refused to be cowed into going along with whatever it was that he'd planned. 

Your heel messes with the leg of your chair. “Don’t you go forgetting why I brought you here in the first place.”

“Not quite sure if I’d use that wording—“

“Can it, Morgan.”

His jaw clicks shut this time, but he’s still got that goofy grin smeared onto his face when you chance a peek at him. You’ll let it slide, for now. You’ve stalled long enough.

“So. My eggs. You gonna tell me, or do I need to start pulling teeth?”

“No need,” Arthur assures, “shouldn’t be stickin’ your pretty little fingers in just anybody’s mouth, Ma’am.”

An outlaw and a flirt, to boot. Wonderful. You’re wondering how long it might take to chuck the nearest inanimate object at him when he pipes up again.

“You piss in somebody’s cigarette box, lady?”

“Did I piss—Morgan, quit it!”

This seems to reign him in a bit, and his smile dips.

“I’ll be frank, since you asked so kindly.” Arthur leans back in his chair, flexes his palms. “You had people tailin’ you.” 

You quirk a brow. Ah, that’s right. He didn’t know, couldn’t have. But just as you attempt to explain, Arthur holds out a hand to stop you and shakes his head.

“Killers.”

The hand fussing with the material of your blanket falters.

“...I beg your pardon?”

“Hired guns, Ma’am. Out for you. You’re real…fortunate, I’d been passing by when I was.” A rueful look clouds his face. “Not much to hire once I was through with ‘em, though.”

The quiet that follows isn’t entirely unfamiliar. He’s an outlaw, you muse. Things like this are to be expected. But it doesn’t occur to you to ask who they were, what they looked like, what they wanted. Because Arthur didn’t know, didn’t need to know, and you aren’t sure if you want him here when you wrap your mind around the sobering fact that your long-held suspicions now bear fruit. So, you settle for the obvious.

“You kill ‘em?”

His jaw twitches. “Nothin’ gets past you, Ma’am.”

“...‘Suppose I should be thanking you, then.”

“Got my thanks when I checked their pockets.”

“But—”

Arthur gives a grunt of protest. 

Jackass.

Though your concerns about theft were long gone, it doesn’t seem like he wants to talk about this any more than you do, so you do your best to set the conversation back on track.

“Well, uh…the eggs, then?”

The tension in his jaw lessens. Arthur unfurls a long leg, digs the heel of his boot out in front of him, and rocks his foot back and forth.

“You know these winters. I can tell you do—despite all the…” he trails off, nods the brim of his hat toward your newly cultivated relationship with the fireplace, and you flush. “So, I uh, started out sneaking a few off, along with some other things for my people back at camp. Snagged some extra rations. Kept an eye on you. Two birds, one stone.” 

“So it wasn’t just the eggs you’d been stealing, then?”

“It’d behoove me to tell the truth and shame the devil, Ma’am. Not that he and I are unacquainted.”

So that was a yes. 

The part about “keeping an eye” on you is tacked on rather reluctantly, but at the mention of camp, your brows raise. It was true, then. The tales you’d heard during your trips to Valentine, the new faces you’d noticed in corners and back alleys, they were all real.

There was a time when you thought you might be able to find your place sleeping under the stars, free to do as you wished and go where you pleased, so long as the law kept their greasy mitts to themselves. But circumstances had seen to it that your dream went unfulfilled. 

You muster up what you hope is a sympathetic smile, and Arthur takes it stiffly.

Even so, something else with his phrasing catches your attention.

“Hold on now, you said ‘started.’ There something else you’re not telling me?”

A hand, previously settled on his knee, finds its way to the back of his neck and rubs. 

“Uh, y’see,” he starts, looking damn near ready to wring his own neck, and you have to laugh, because what on God’s green earth could have Arthur Morgan this bothered? But instead of finishing his sentence, he turns his gaze toward the small sliver of moonlight coming in through the curtains and poses a question:

“You know anything about chickens?”

You blink.

“Arthur Morgan,” your eyes shut, and your mouth hangs open. “I work on a farm.“

“That you do.”

“And you’re asking me if I know about chickens?”

“That I am.”

He’s looking mighty sheepish; his hands return to their places on his knees and begin to tap again, with the added scrunch of a nose. You stifle a snort and oblige him.

“Yes, I’m well versed in chickens. Now tell me what the hell is up.”

And tell he did. Turns out, one of the eggs he’d snatched had somehow been fertilized, and hatched. Arthur, of all people, had been far too mortified to go and ask one of his own for help, so he’d spent the last two months slinking around to find out if his luck might earn him another to keep the one he already had some company. 

He’d named it and everything, so eating it (Marlene, he corrects gruffly) was completely off the table. By the time he’s finished his story, you’ve spent an exorbitant amount of energy fighting off several fits of laughter, and you’re fighting off your ninth when Arthur interrupts.

He leans forward, as if to confirm something, then settles himself back into his chair once he finds what he’s looking for. “You ain’t from around here, are you.” It’s a statement when it leaves Arthur’s mouth, not a question.

Observant. Observant, and deflective.

Chewing at the inside of your cheek, you pocket the uneasy feeling in your chest for later.

“Long story,” you offer. And a difficult one, at that. It wasn’t one you liked to revisit.

Arthur replies almost instantly. “Shoot.” For a moment his face pinches, like he’s dropped his last cent down a splinter-ridden nook he can’t reach. He deliberates, for a bit. But the money is long gone now. “Got a full audience right here,” he continues, a tad slower. “I’ve got…time. Why the hell not?”

There’s no smile, but there’s a genuine curiosity that creeps into his voice. It wafts over the crackling of the fire, blows fresh wind underneath wings long forgotten. 

This wasn’t good. Not one bit.

You cast a skeptical glance toward the bottle of whiskey on the table. It’d been set out on instinct when you’d let him in, a habit formed from a time long gone. Would Arthur want some, maybe? He seemed like the type. And you weren’t too pissed about the eggs now, anyways. So you wrap a blanket around yourself, stand, and turn to the cupboards to find a glass. But something stops you from making it over, and you instead choose to wrap a hand around the bottle and offer it to him.

If Arthur is as confused as you are, he doesn’t show it. He mutters a word of thanks as he takes the proffered bottle. But you don’t miss the way his eyes rake over your bare legs like hot coals. Or the slight twitch of his fingers—now free of their gloves—at the light brushing of your hand over his as you pass the bottle to him. 

You follow the bobbing of his throat for what feels like a lifetime as he takes down gulp after gulp. Amber liquid slips from the corner of his mouth; it catches the firelight on its trek down, and steals your air along with it when Arthur moves to wipe it away with the back of his hand.

It startles you, how quickly you’ve become accustomed to cataloging his movements. You’ve met him before, you’re almost certain of it now. If not in the fields here, then maybe somewhere in Valentine, or the woods. But somewhere. He felt too familiar to be new, too invigorating. A part of you wants to pinch yourself for giving in so easily. Maybe…maybe the folks in town had been right? Maybe Arthur Morgan was possessed? It was either that, or you were an idiot. You sincerely hoped it was the former.

The sound of the glass bottle hitting the table is what snaps you out of your trance. Blinking rapidly, you chance a peek at his eyes again, only to find them peeking right back. You do your best not to turn away. That thing you’d seen lurking out on the front porch is still there, submerged in the depths of his pupils. Still waiting.

You pull the top off of the bottle, take a quick swig, and return to your chair with an inhale and newfound resolve in tow.

Blabbering seems to come unfortunately easy with Arthur. He sits, silent and attentive throughout the entire retelling—save for the occasional grunt of approval, disapproval, whichever was appropriate. You tell him of your mother, young and hungry, and how she’d made herself available to the highest bidder—your father. Some wealthy businessman from God knows where. Twenty years your mother’s senior, it’d been no secret what exactly he’d gotten out of their short-lived union: a wild young thing to look after his progeny and keep his bed warm.

He was nice enough, for a time. Or at least nice enough for your mother to be able to tolerate. But something had sent her fleeing from that big, big house. She’d kept you in her arms and her heart till you’d found somewhat of a safe haven in the Grizzly Mountains.

“Safe” had been a bit of a stretch, though. Anyone with half a brain knew exactly what the Grizzlies were like. Arthur agreed. But your mother had been raised there, just as you would be, if only for a little while. You’re only able to remember a short split of time—just before your mother passed, and before your father had come to take you away from her. 

By then your mother had already taught you most of what you’d needed to survive: reading, writing, hunting, flattery, the works. The only thing she’d left out was how to survive without her. 

Your father had come to find you only a few days after, bearing news of his intentions to turn you into a “proper lady.” He made no mention of your mother or where she’d been buried. 

Polite society hadn’t taken too kindly to a daughter hailing from unsavory origins, and it was safe to say that you hadn’t taken too kindly to polite society either. So, you’d spent the last decade or so making your father’s life a living hell and warding off any potential suitors.

But it became clear stunt after outrageous stunt that he had no intention of cutting ties. Rather than cutting you off, he’d settled for the next best thing: manual labor. Your father was old friends (though “friends” was a bit dubious) with the Campbells, and deemed it an appropriate enough punishment for your wrongdoings. He’d relied on your aptitude for hunting to pawn you off on them, and with the help of some expertly feigned resistance, you’d gotten him to plant you exactly where you’d wanted to be. 

Away, and alone.

“Threw a wrench in my plans, but…life here has been peaceful, I reckon.” You pick at the beds of your fingernails, head bowed. 

Peaceful. 

Peaceful and quiet, save for the occasional moo. 

Though, now that you thought about it, you’d have to tally it up to several wrenches if you counted the hitmen. But you could open that barrel of horse shit later.

The creaking of wood alerts you to a shift in Arthur’s positioning, and his voice barrels down at you from the ceiling; he must be looking up. 

“You don’t seem all too ‘at peace,’ if you ask me.”

“I ain’t ask you.”

“Tuh.”

The two of you fall into yet another bubble of silence. It’s comfortable enough, though still laced with the slightest bit of awkwardness. 

You couldn’t get a read on Arthur. Just about every decision he’d made tonight—or told you he’d made—had been a contradiction. It didn’t make a lick of sense. But now that you’ve had more time to ruminate, it didn’t seem like it made much sense to him, either. His body language divulges as much. 

The quiet agitates you, now. Itches. You need to know more. Understand more. But you can’t do that without retracting your fangs and reigning in your apprehension. Finger beds picked raw, you test the waters.

“Not at peace, hm?” You mutter. “…How you figure?”

You hear him shrug. “Dunno.”

Silence.

You wait for him to continue, but it’s not until you look up at him that you realize he’s been waiting for you to look back. Arthur’s voice cuts through the silence once you can meet his eyes without squirming.

“Met enough people to know who’s livin’, and who ain’t.” He crosses an ankle over his knee, and gives an exhale when he puts his hands behind his head. “I’m in no place to be dealing out life advice, but you seem awfully dead, Miss.” 

“Ma’am,” you correct. 

Arthur makes a face, and you bark out a laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. Some stranger he was, telling you off like this.

Your eyes crinkle, smile working its way from the inside out. “Takes one to know one, I assume?”

He blinks at you. “Yeah. Yeah, somethin’ like that, I suppose.”

More silence. 

“Do you think—”

“I ought to be heading out, now.” The dream is cut short. Arthur is standing suddenly, intercepting before you have the chance to say something incredibly, incredibly stupid. He tugs on his coat, fingers closing the buttons with frightening efficiency before he gathers up his gun and whatever else he’s brought with him and heads for the door.  

You're scrambling up out of your chair before your brain has a chance to process.“Arthur,” you say, half to him and half to the floor, “Arthur, wait a damn minute!” 

The spurs on his boots cease in their clinking. He’s got one hand wrapped around the doorknob, squeaky and now half-turned.

“…Got business to take care of.”

“At three in the morning?”

He glances at the small pocket watch you’d left open on the table. “Half past four, actually.”

“Didn’t realize you could tell time.”

He hums.

And Arthur stares at you for a moment, unabashedly. It’s unreadable at first. But then scars are shifting, and he’s leveling you with a look so bitter that it nearly has you reaching for your rifle again.

“Goodbye, Ma’am.” Arthur waves a noncommittal hand at your feet as he turns the knob. “And…go and see about those feet of yours, will you?”

He sweeps out the door.

He’s left it open.

It’s only after the faint sound of hoofbeats is nothing more than a whisper that you realize he isn’t in the cabin anymore. But somewhere between the shutting of the door and the hanging of your rifle, the faint impression of his parting words is pressed into your palm.

You look down, a bright sting and the sight of red specks on the floorboards making themselves known rather insistently. 

“Oh.”

—

next chapter >>

[moonpetrichors-blog]

you're currently carrying 'avatar x reader' with your absolutely amazing works, so i have another request for you, love, if that's alright <33

no idea how to properly start this, but basically neteyam and y/n are a thing- and even though y/n is like super grateful for his protection, lately she's been feeling just like another of his many responsibilities, not a partner. so they grow a bit distant, to that point where even his family notices, and when they try to talk it out they get into an argument. pretty much angst (because i love it👹👹👹) !!!!!!!!!!!!! and it's totally up to you if it ends with fluff or angst. oh and i thought maybe it could take place when they arrive to the metkayina clan, because it would mean y/n left everything behind just for neteyam (and his amazing family ofc🤞🤞🤞), but the way he begun to treat her, makes her think she might regret that decision= more aNGST‼️‼️but that's up to you- whatever you're more comfortable with :)) okay, byeee!!! have a nice day!!!

(i'm @introvert-pansexual btw😧)

Not A Responsibility

Tags: Neteyam x Omaticaya!Reader, Oneshot, Fem!Reader, Angst, Fluff At The End (Not Really)

Warnings: Tiny Bit Toxic, Mentioned Jealousy

Ever since you left the Omaticaya clan for your boyfriend, you’ve felt suffocated by his overprotective nature. You’re his partner, not just another one of his responsibilities or trouble-seeking siblings. And it hurts, knowing that he treats you like you are less his mate than burden. You think you might regret leaving your home for him.

UR SO NICE OMG😭😭❤️❤️ I love every request I get HSJQISIWJ some days my brain is just poop cause i cant think up ideas so these are nice to get ☠️☠️ also yuh I kinda inferred that u switched accs bc i stalk my followers LMAOAOAO anywayss this deffo isnt my best work but ive been kinda tired lately so like sorry if its not that great 😭😭

* ˚ ✦ 1096 Words • Read below the cut  

╭┈─────── ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-╰┈➤ ❝ [08/01/23] ❞   

 You and Neteyam have been dating. For a long time, actually.

You grew up together, and the tight friendship you built inevitably developed into feelings of attraction. You were anticipated to be mated to one another, and the Sully family cherished you.

Jake used to torment his son before you began dating. He'd make remarks about how you two reminded him of him and Neytiri, and how Neteyam had to entice you with the superb wooing genes he inherited from him. Neytiri would slap him on the back of the head and order him to be quiet. However, she couldn't argue with Jake's teasing. A lovely girl like yourself resembled a second daughter to her; if her son didn't put a ring on it, she would drag him by the ear.

You felt your throat constrict and your eyes burn with tears the day Neteyam informed you Jake was forcing his family to pick up and move. How were you supposed to just carry on and forget about your relationship?

You couldn't. As a result, you left with him. You would fly for a thousand days on an Ikran, cross vast oceans, and abandon your home a million times more for Neteyam and his family. Neteyam considered himself extremely fortunate to have you.

However, after finally settling in with the Metkayina, you began to sense a twinge of foreboding. You felt homesick, and you knew that relocating to a whole new clan would be difficult. Neteyam appeared to be taking it the hardest though, so you did not want to complain.

You noted how his shoulders tensed more frequently, or how he wore a faint grimace when alone. You were outsiders in this place, and they treated you as such. Neteyam couldn't help but be uptight whenever the olo'eyktan's son harassed his siblings, but he lost his composure when he sought to bother you.

Or, more accurately, flirted with you. Neteyam had a reputation for being a jealous boyfriend. You and his family were fully cognizant of this, but to the casual onlooker, he always appeared calm and collected. When Aonung penetrated your personal space, you recognized how Neteyam would surreptitiously linger nearby, or extended an arm around you. It drove him insane.

When he first started acting that way, you would coo at him and envelop him in your embrace while calling him sweet. You believed his protectiveness over you was adorable, and it was flattering to say the least. Neteyam, on the other hand, had nothing to be concerned about. You were solely interested in him.

...

Regardless of your unconditional affection, it seemed that the more Neteyam stayed in the Awa'atlu village, the more awful he grew.

Irrespective of Aonung's unwanted attention (which had long since faded), nothing made Neteyam happy anymore. When you tried to kiss him, he would either accept it reluctantly or brush you away. If you wished to spend time with him, he would acquiesce, but would eventually talk about his siblings or babysit. Nonetheless, he would be fiercely protective of where you went or what you did.

You couldn't condemn Neteyam for being nervous and tense all the time, but it seemed that no matter what difficulties you were encountering in your relationship, he began to treat you as if you were just another one of his trouble-making siblings. Another chore added to his long list of responsibilities.

Neteyam’s protection used to be charming, but it was now just smothering. It seemed like you were so distant from your boyfriend, yet also so close to him. You began feeling less like his partner, yet it also caused you to feel guilty when you were emotional in front of him. You knew you had no right to complain because you left the Omaticaya clan by your own volition. How could you grumble about it when your lover was enduring greater struggles?

This was a recipe for disaster.

...

You no longer felt comfortable communicating your concerns to your boyfriend. Each time you sought to bring up your reservations about how Neteyam was treating you, he was too preoccupied with his own life to give much heed to your conversation or relationship.

You eventually gave up on your efforts to work it out. If he were to behave distant from you, you would respond with the same energy. You two gradually drifted away, the gulf between you expanding by the day. Neteyam's family became quite alarmed when they noticed how seldom you two were interacting nowadays.

Jake and Neytiri encouraged Neteyam to try to spend some quality time with you again, and that he could set his other obligations aside. They'd maintain a close eye on their other children so Neteyam wouldn't have to fret about them.

He agreed begrudgingly, unable to say no to his parents. You were thrilled when he sought you out for a casual date, the first in a long time. There was a nagging whisper in the rear of your mind that gnawed at you, warning you he just wasn't the same, but you dismissed it. He'd come to find you, hadn't he?

...

You were deflated throughout the duration of your date. The longer time passed, the more you could feel the ominous mood rattling deep in your bones. During your time together, all Neteyam could think about was how much this move had stressed him out, and now he had to be concerned about paying you attention as well. It was apparent from his expression that he was not enjoying himself.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

You snapped at his indifferent attitude. “Can you stop zoning out and actually listen to me for once?”

If Neteyam was trying to fake a smile before, he definitely wasn’t anymore. “What do you mean? This whole entire date I’ve been only listening to you!”

You scoffed at this. His mind was in a whole other place for the entire duration of it. “You never have time for me anymore, and when you do, you act like I’m some burden on your to do list!”

Neteyam felt his blood go hot. Before he could stop himself, he began to yell. “It’s not my fault I can’t give you attention all the time! My parent’s are always putting pressure on me to make sure everyone’s looked after and well behaved, including you!”

Then, his voice dropped to a cruel whisper. “Do you think I wanted to go on this date?”

That was the juncture at which you felt so enraged that you couldn't prevent the tears from cascading down your flaming cheeks. Neteyam's countenance didn't alter in response to your outburst, which only served to make you angrier.

You practically screamed at him. “You’re such a dickhead! You’ve changed, Neteyam.” You began sobbing.

“The only reason I’m mad isn’t because you don’t give me enough attention, it’s because every time we’re together you completely neglect my feelings! You make everything about you!”

He remained still as you wiped your angry tears away, then jutted a finger against his chest. “For someone who acts like they’re always looking after everyone else, you’re so incredibly selfish with me.”

In the face of your harsh comments, Neteyam remained silent and unmoving. He was speechless; he didn't know what to say. The rage was still coursing through his veins, but all he could do was hearken to your never-ending shouts.

Your voice dropped an octave, and you glared into his eyes which you once looked so fondly into. “I’m not another responsibility of yours. I regret ever following you here. If I knew you’d turn out like this, I would’ve saved myself the heartache and found a new partner instead of leaving everything behind for someone that won’t even give me the time of day. You could at least try to act happy to be around me.”

That made his heart break, and he could feel the tears beginning to gather in his eyes too. He couldn’t believe you would have ever found it in you to say that to him. “Fine, do what you want. I tried to spend time with you, and you turned it into an argument.”

He pivoted on his heel, and stormed away from you on the threshold of tears. When he was far enough away, he let the tears flow.

Your voice carried from halfway across the beach. “Fine then, if you want me so bad, I guess I’ll go!”

You, too, turned your back on him and dashed away to find somewhere to cry privately. You felt like such a child.

...

It was growing dark, and eclipse was approaching.

You still hadn’t returned to the marui you shared with the Sully family, and Jake was beginning to get worried. “Where’s Y/N?”

That question was obviously directed towards Neteyam, but he remained sulking instead of replying.

Neytiri’s patience was thinning with her son’s out of character behavior. “That girl doesn’t know her way around the Awa’atlu village. She could be lost!”

Jake rubbed the bridge of his nose, glancing at the sky. He shared Neytiri’s sentiment, as his son still wasn’t talking. What the hell happened on your date?

Although Neteyam appeared furious, he was actually feeling quite guilty. Your reality check tugged at his heartstrings, and now you could be injured, or worse, lost, because he told you to be. He sprung from his seat and raced out the marui, unable to sit still any longer.

Jake's shouts for his son to return at that instant went unfulfilled. Even if Neteyam was angry with you, he was still afraid that something awful would happen, and he'd never forgive himself if it did.

Neteyam called your name as he ran throughout the village. However, no matter how much terrain he covered, or how many times he bellowed your name into the frigid night air, your voice did not respond. He was sweating nervously now, terrified about not being able to locate you. What if he never found you?

Those fears, however, were quickly dispelled into the wind whipping behind him as he hurried towards the sound of sniffling behind a nearby tree. Neteyam scratched the back of his neck, unsure what to do. As he drew near to your weeping figure, he stepped on and snapped a twig, capturing your attention.

You spun around to investigate the source of the noise, only to discover that it was your idiot boyfriend. Neteyam urged you to relax, then sighed and settled besides you.

Before you could protest against him taking a seat next to you, he hugged you tightly and apologized.

“I’m sorry. I’m the way I am right now because I don’t want anything bad happening to you, or my siblings. I can’t imagine ever losing you.”

You let your rage disappear, leaning into his embrace as he continued to talk.

“I know I’ve been a real idiot lately, and I’ll try to show up more in our relationship. My personal problems aren’t your fault.”

Your prior resentment faded as he brushed your tears away with his thumb, and you buried your face in his chest, allowing your arms to wrap around his midriff.

“I’m sorry for saying I wished I stayed behind and found someone new. That was a lie, I’d never be able to move on.”

Neteyam felt his chest tighten at your words, and merely hugged you tighter. “I’ll never hurt you again.”

[babyyoda234]

Three Times the Batfamily has been disgusted by your love life...

Dating is hard... but dating in Gotham... Oh Brother... Here are all the times the Batfamily has been involved in your love life.

1st time: Valentines Day

I've really gotta stop going for nerdy guys. This never ends the way I want it to.

"You know Eddie. You could have bought me dinner..." I call out to the rambling rogue behind me, "Scratch that... I can list off a hundred different date ideas.... That DO NOT INVOLVE THE BATMAN."

I can hear a swift crack followed by a muffled cry.

"I like flowers... I'm sure there was a way you could incorporate a riddle with those."

Footsteps draw nearer.

"I honestly don't even think you are trying. What does a child make, but never see? Come on dude... Work on on yourself. Restraints are fun, but this is ridiculous."

Suddenly, my restraints loosen. Stumbling to my feet, I swiftly turn around to see Batman's foreboding gaze. Eddie lies face down passed out 3 feet away.

"Are you alright?" Batman questions carefully noting my lacy heart pj's on top my push up bra. My diamond question mark necklace glitters in the darkness.

"Uh... yeah... Guess I should probably find an apartment where the Riddler doesn't live next door."

Batman sighs before patting me on the back. I am weirdly comforted by the paternal look in his eyes.

"That would be for the best."

2nd time:

Nightwing raises a pointed eyebrow before covering Robin’s eyes. Robin smacks his gloved hand away.

“Come on…. Y/N…” Nightwing trails off.

I interrupt him before this can get anymore humiliating. Being left to be eaten by a man sized Venus Flytrap after a date is not how I imagined my night to go.

“I do not need a life lesson; I have work tomorrow.”

Robin dutifully unties my restraints. He carefully looks anywhere else except my green lingerie.

Nightwing clears his throat. Rummaging through fallen leaves, he asks

“Do you know where she might have left your clothes?”

I shake my head before I start searching the drawers to the nightstand. My sweaty palms create some difficulty turning the knobs.

“You know…” Nightwing continues leaning against the wall, “If you ever wanted to go on a date with someone who wasn’t going to be sent to Arkham… I’ve got this brother.”

My heart starts pounding. This is not happening. Robin’s jaw drops in disbelief.

“Are you seriously trying to set up Red Hood right now?” He gasps incredulously.

Both vigilantes listen to something being said into their ear pieces.

“Well, Jaybird. She’s prettier than anyone you’ve been talking to lately.”

My mouth gasps silently like a fish. Robin finally looks me up and down. He nods before agreeing. This child did not just....

Trying to ignore the hot waves of embarrassment, I finally force words to come out.

“GET OUT! I’ll find them myself!”

3rd time:

“Okay… but this time was not my fault.” I explain raising my hands in surrender. “How was I supposed to know that Two Faces favorite song would be ‘22’? I have to make a living somehow!”

Batgirl tries to keep a straight face, but when she glances back at Red Robin… they both burst out laughing.

“I’m sorry….” She says trying to be professional, “This isn’t funny.”

“Uh huh…” I respond narrowing my eyes at them.

Realizing my mortification, their laughter slowly dies down. The teenage vigilantes grow as serious as possible.

“So, Two Face took you captive after you dedicated 22 by Taylor Swift to him?” Robin questions analyzing the crime boss’s de office.

“Yes, I work at the iceberg lounge as a singer.”

“Where you ever an associate of Harvey Dent before his accident?”

My face goes red. This is not how I wanted today to go. I hate adding fuel to their fire.

“Something like that. I made some mistakes early in college.”

Batgirl bites her quivering lip to avoid laughing again. She checks her clip board left by Gordon.

“We’ll make sure GCPD gets back your… 2 themed underwear that went missing?”

I fantasize about those birds that slam their head underground to avoid conflict.

“I just want my computer. He can… keep the rest. I’m sure he’d like wearing it more than me.” I awkwardly trail off wrapping the robe tighter around my body.

Red Robin nods before muttering something into his ear piece.

“Okay, we’ll be on the search for that. I’m sure Red Hood can drop it off when he raids the lair tonight."

I start laughing before taking a step back. Putting my hands up, I interrupt.

“I can pick it up at Gordon’s office tomorrow. There’s… no need for… any of that.”

The two teens share a glance.

“Are you sure?” Batgirl inquires with a knowing smile in my direction.

I raise an eyebrow.

“Leave me out of this. I do not need to end up dead in crime alley because you guys thought it would be a good idea to set me up with your brother.”

Laughter can be heard in their comms. I vaguely make out “She’s got a point” in Nightwing’s voice.

With a reluctant grin, Batgirl shrugs. Before the vigilante duo leave, Red Robin flashes me an ornery grin.

“See you later.”

I respectfully flip them both off. Laughter echoes down the hallway as they leave.

[seoafin]

pairing: fushiguro toji & reader / side pairing stsg x reader an installment to the exposure therapy au warnings/tags: mentions of sex work/escorting, gambling, don't read if weird teacher/student dynamics squick you nothing is meant to be romantic and toji is a shitty teacher word count: ~4.7k

-

“So,” Toji says, eyeing your lone figure in the classroom with a raised eyebrow. “Just you today huh.”

You look up from your book at him, and then your gaze circles the empty room, the three unoccupied desks next to yours make the room feel emptier, bigger. Sorry to disappoint, you think. He’s not the only one. “Just me,” you reply plainly.

Satoru, Suguru, and Shoko aren’t here. The three of them are in Fukuoka. Before they left, Satoru had boasted about a certain famous shrine dedicated to Sugawara no Michizane belonging to his family. Suguru had slammed his closed fist down on his head with a roll of his eyes, dragging Satoru away by the hair, leaving you with a smile and a promise to return promptly. Don’t go anywhere, okay? We’ll be back soon. 

When a sleek black car had pulled up to the base of the school, Shoko had reluctantly disentangled herself from your side, complaining about unnecessary appearances.

That had been four days ago.

You heard of a brewing storm in the area. You hope the three of them are staying warm and out of the rain. You hadn’t even expected Toji to drop in on class today. He seems to call out at the mildest inconveniences. The other day he had cited not wanting to see Satoru’s face as a legitimate reason to skip on his duties as a teacher. He’s the worst teacher you’ve ever had.

You close your book. “What’s on the agenda today?”

“Hell if I know,” he shrugs. “Got any ideas?”

You stare at him.

“Forget I asked,” he scoffs. “Right,” one foot is already out the door, “I’m out.”

He stops, back turned to you. Then he sighs wearily, as if you’ve somehow exhausted him.

You are promptly plucked out of your seat, Toji's fingers curled around the back of your collar. When you look at him inquiringly, he simply says: “Field trip.”

—

Your eyes water as you enter the pachinko parlor. You are greeted by the omnipresent acrid scent of smoke clinging to the yellowing walls and ceiling. You blink away the tears stinging at your eyes, and quickly follow Toji through the large room, passing by multiple seated older men, eyes glued to the bright machines in front of them. All you can hear are the sound of balls clacking and levers being pushed. From what you can gather, nobody has won today. It slightly amazes you how Toji thinks he’ll be the exception.

You follow his dark, foreboding figure to the back of the room, to the very end of the row, where there are only three other men. Only one spares you a glance. There are eyes all over the ceiling, scuttling about. Curses, you note, traces of all the ill will that’s gathered. 

There’s a wooden stool. He barely gestures at it before saying, “Sit.”

Toji gets comfortable in front of a large flashing machine, and proceeds to pull out his wallet.

You’re aware gambling is a vice. It’s not really any of your business what your teacher decides to do in his spare time. It’s not as if Megumi and Tsumiki aren’t being taken care of. If this is what Toji would prefer to do over buying the kids new school supplies then…

All that work into keeping Megumi only to gamble his time and money away.

It would be one thing if it was entertaining but…

He’s losing.

Badly. You never expected it to be like this. How awful. If it were you, your dignity could only take so much.

You think it takes a special kind of resilience to be a gambler, but more importantly it takes luck.

You rise from your seat to take a closer look. Not a single metal ball has reached the prize slot no matter how he tries to align his timing with the press of the lever.

You glance at Toji, face alight with a fierce concentration, jaw tight. You sigh.

“You’re losing.”

“Shaddup.”

You sigh again, turn around and seat yourself back on the stool. You open your book. You told Suguru you’d try to finish it by the time he returned.

Someone is hovering. You can see a man out of the corner of your eye. You look up at him, a skinny balding middle aged man in a worn suit, tie loose around his neck, and he nearly flinches. You can hear the plink plink plink of money being lost in front of you.

“Is something the matter?” you ask politely. You figure if anything he’ll ask you for your ID. Without the jacket of your school uniform, you can usually pass off any suspicions of being a student. You aren’t an adult, but you aren’t a child anymore either. You’re of age.

He hesitantly takes a step closer. “How much?”

There are thin, wire glasses on the bridge of his nose. You can see the perspiration building on his forehead. You tilt your head.

Anxious energy radiates off of him. His gaze is fixated on your chest. “Just for the night,” he says quickly. “One night.”

Understanding quickly dawns on you. “I’m sorry,” you start apologetically. “You seem to be mistaken. I’m not an escort.” The man blinks. You continue. “In fact, if you’re looking for one, you might want to look at the man right there.”

You wonder if Toji is into men. If it even matters. Customers are customers. Money is money, and something tells you he isn’t picky.

That elicits an indelicate snort from the aforementioned man. So he is listening.

The man looks dissuaded for a minute, before pressing forward once more. “I can pay,” he says breathily, inching closer to you. His eyes dart to your slightly spread thighs before going unfocused. 

Now, just how should you handle this?

You could take his hand, momentarily stop him in his tracks. You’d be gone before he gained consciousness once more. But you’re technically not allowed to use your cursed technique on civilians, and you don’t like doing it either, despite Satoru’s protests about the underutilization of your technique.

A shadow looms above you.

“You bothering my girl?”

You involuntarily shudder at the statement, but the man pales, looking up at Toji fearfully as if he descended from the parted heavens. 

“Y-Y-Yours—”

“Mine." Lips peel back, revealing bared teeth in a mockery of a smile. “Fuck off degenerate. Or you’ll be seeing my fist next.”

The man scrambles backwards, almost tripping on his feet. He gives you one last look before you watch him disappear through the rows of metal machines. You look back at Toji, gaze dropping to his empty hand.

“Wow. You didn’t win a single thing.” You think that in itself is a special skill. 

An irritated look crosses his face. Green eyes flash. “Damn things are rigged,” he seethes. “ All of ‘em.”

Just as he finishes that statement, shouts fill the front of the room along with shrill celebratory noises. You look at him. His face grows cloudy. You hop off the stool. “I was wondering how long it’d take you to give up.”

He changes the topic. “You look fine for someone who was just solicited.”

You shrug. “Nothing would’ve happened.”

Toji begins to trudge to the exit. A walk of shame. “He looked like he was gonna haul you off to the nearest love hotel.”

“I’ve never been to a love hotel." You had told Satoru and Suguru of your interest to see the interior of one once. They had both fallen quiet for the rest of the walk home. “But it’s not exactly the kind of place you go to alone.”

He shakes his head. “You’re a full time job, you know that?”

You look at him curiously as you step outside. Your lungs are glad to trade the smoke-laden air for fresh air.

“It’s a shame he didn’t solicit you instead,” you remark as the two of you start on a journey to the nearest convenience store. You’d like a drink. Maybe if you’re in a lenient mood you’ll buy Toji one too. “I’m sure you could’ve shown him a better time than me.”

“Dunno about that.” He gives you a scrutinizing once over. “A virgin like you? Hot commodity. ‘Sides,” he smirks. “I’m expensive.”

An unmarked virgin maybe. But any man would recoil from the scars that mark your body. All the assignments from before Shoko. And if not that, then the disfigurement of your side gifted to you from the man right next to you.

“That explains how you can afford to lose so much money.”

Unexpectedly, he takes you in good humor. “You’re a mean little thing when you want to be,” he says. “The mouth on you.”

You blink. Nobody has ever called you mean. Not to your face anyway. You think about it. Maybe this is what Satoru used to dislike about you, back when you hadn’t cared about how he perceived you. All you knew back then was that you said all the wrong things. Now you eagerly await text messages from Shoko. You like it when Satoru smiles, when he flashes you a grin so bright that you can’t help but smile back. You like the soft crease of Suguru’s gaze when he regards you. You like it so much that you can’t sometimes can’t breathe. You’re a different person now. Sometimes, you need to remind yourself of it.

Inside the convenience store, you select black tea for yourself and a coffee for Toji. You walk outside to him chewing on a pork bun and you hand him the drink. It’s a brand you’ve seen him drink before. He stares at the black label. You don’t expect a thank you.

“Tsumiki is starting middle school soon,” you say, staring out into space. “She could use some new school supplies.” Along that line of thinking, Megumi could use a new randoseru. 

He’s silent. You’d buy her some yourself, but you think it’d be more meaningful coming from the man who is technically her step-father. She’d be delighted even, you think, and Megumi for as aloof as he tries to be, can only be so distant when it comes to his beloved sister. There have been too many mistakes, too many burned bridges, but this could be a step in the right direction. You don’t think he sleeps at home.

The two of you enjoy the quiet. You finish your drink, and then stand. You’re in a familiar area of the city, and there’s someone you’ve been meaning to see.

—

“You’re late,” Marie scolds, hand on her hip. You close your eyes at the scent of plum blossoms wafting from her skin. “Think of me as one of your clients. Be punctual!”

“This one’s fault,” Toji grunts out. His knuckles dig into the side of your head with enough force to tip you over, and your eyes snap open immediately. If you were a lesser person, you’d be on the ground. You frown, your head sore. “Found her hoverin’ over some damn stick in the park.”

It would have made an excellent walking stick. You clutch your shopping bag to your chest. “Satoru and Suguru never complain…”

That’s a lie. Satoru has resorted to either holding your hand or staying attached to you at all times to make sure you don’t wander like some bodyguard. Suguru too. You don’t know why. You’d rather just find them later to save them the trouble of finding you.

“Make your boyfriends wait, not me.”

You make a face. He should’ve just left you. Despite that, you hang your head apologetically. It is your fault. You had become distracted multiple times along the way, and a specific distraction had culminated in the shopping bag in your hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize Fushiguro-sensei made plans to be here by a certain time. It was my fault.”

“Damn right.”

He’s a sore loser, you think. You may have said it out loud because his gaze slides to you, mouth opening with what you think is a nasty reply.

Marie shoots him a sharp look. “Now, now Toji. A man like you knows better than to run his mouth like that.”

“Off the clock,” he replies before stepping forward. A throng of women gather around him, cooing and ah’ing, hands skirting over his arms and chest. A man like him has no need to pay for a woman, so you gather they’d sleep with him willingly for free. And from the looks of it, he has a plethora of choices. You hope they aren’t expecting more. Like money. You think many women have been reduced to tears by the man. 

Marie clicks her tongue, and a collective sigh sounds the air before the crowd disperses to their actual clients, leaving just one lucky woman who pulls him towards the back of the room, towards the more private area.

“They pulled sticks earlier.” Marie looks amused. “It’s not often Toji comes around for anything other than drinks.”

You smile. “He likes your company. You shouldn’t discount that.”

Her eyes are fond as they look at you. Her fingers brush the hair away from your face. “What a man like that is doing around a sweet girl like you is beyond me.” She sighs, shaking her head. “He’ll corrupt you.”

It’s not that bad, you want to say. Not as long as you hold no expectations about the person he is. The only thing you’ll hold him to is being a father. But other than that you’ve found that you seem to feel a certain kinship with miserable people and your teacher is one of the more miserable people you’ve ever met.

That’s when you see them. A group of girls hovering behind Marie. They span from what looks like your age to a little older, and they seem to be waiting.

“Honestly,” Marie turns to them. “What have I said about standing around the front?”

The girl in the very front pouts, glossy bottom lip jutted out. “But Marie, you said they’d be here! Those two hot guys. I want the black haired one, he was charming!”

“Then I’ll take the one white haired one. Those sunglasses…”

“No, I want that one!”

“I’ll take them both!”

“As if they’d be interested. You’re practically made of plastic!”

“What did you say—”

“GIRLS!”

They reluctantly settle. 

“Toji’s students are they?” Another girl asks, voice breathy. 

“Not like that,” Marie says chidingly. “Those two respectable high school boys wouldn’t come to a place like this if they didn’t have to,” Marie glances at you. “And I never said they’d be here. You girls and your selective hearing give me a headache!”

“We’re graduating this year,” you say. You don’t think it matters. Jujutsu High is a year longer than regular civilian high schools. Nobody in your class is underage anymore. “I’ll be sure to pass them your way after. But—”

The girls squeal. Marie winces. You’re surrounded at once, the surrounding clash of perfume making you go lightheaded. Someone’s large endowed chest is pressing against your back, and both your arms. Someone is tightly clutching your hand. Everyone is speaking. Their names, their phone numbers, their availability. Not a single girl has listed her rates. You want to tell them that they should because Satoru and Suguru have money to spend. Special grades make a salary far beyond anything normal jujutsu sorcerers do, and that was coming from someone who considered their own pay more than comfortable.

You suddenly understand every single man in the host club more than you ever had before. You, too, would pay for the experience of a beautiful woman looking at you like the only person in the world.

Your face is hot. You’ve never been surrounded by so many beautiful women in your life. Satoru and Suguru and even Toji regularly experience this? You think that’s unfair. 

“GIRLS!”

“Satoru and Suguru are in Fukuouka right now,” you say apologetically. Shoko too, you think. But that’s something you’d like to keep to yourself, lest you lose her to another prettier girl.

The girls sigh a collective “awwwww.”

You are reluctantly let go of, on unsteady feet. Marie looks downright annoyed. “I should put you all out for the night! Stop bothering the poor girl, and get back to work!” She barks.

The girls slink away, casting you pleading looks. You smile. Something flutters to the ground. You pick it up. It’s a business card with a number written on the back. Someone had stuffed it into the sleeve of your shirt. You discreetly slide it into your shopping bag. You’ll give it to Satoru and Suguru later. Satoru, when he inevitably complains about how you hadn’t bought him a gift. 

And then you feel something more in your shirt.

“Those girls,” Marie scowls as she straightens your shirt and hair with all the vigor of a mother cat grooming her kitten. You almost close your eyes. “The new ones go crazy for a pretty face. They’ll learn soon enough.”

You follow Marie to the bar, unable to help your curiosity as you glance at all the men being entertained on love seats. You recognize some faces from the women that had surrounded Toji, but instead of the excited air that had prompted a frenzy around Toji, everything now is strictly professional.

The life of a jujutsu sorcerer is hard, but in a way you envision anything else. If you ever became a hostess or an escort, you’d fail. People like Toji and the girls can do things you could never do. 

Marie pours you a drink as you take a seat. It smells sweet. “I’m sorry about that,” she sighs. “How have things been?”

“Good,” you reply truthfully. Unexpectedly so. You’re visiting Riko next month and you are carefully readying souvenirs to take to her. No deaths (as of now). Suguru and Satoru are happy. Shoko is preparing for medical school. Things are unusually good. You pause. “I was solicited by a man.”

“Oh dear,” Marie closes her eyes. “Now just where has that man been taking you?”

“Just the pachinko parlor.” And the race tracks, but that’s a story for another time. 

“Not that seedy place!”

“It wasn’t that bad,” you say. For you. “But I don’t think Fushiguro-sensei has a single yen to his name right now.” In other words: you really hope the woman currently with him isn’t expecting anything other than a good time. 

“Oh,” Marie groans. “Born under an unlucky star, that one. He just doesn’t learn.”

“I’ve never seen anyone so unlucky,” you reply gravely, sipping at your plum wine. “I am curious though. I wish Fushiguro-sensei hadn’t scared him off so early. I’ve been wondering about how much he would’ve paid.”

Toji slides into the seat next to you. There’s lipstick on his chin and smudges of it on his neck. “A cheapskate lookin’ guy like that? He would’ve shorted ya. Consider yourself lucky I was there.”

You frown once again. “Nothing would’ve happened.”

He eyes you dubiously. “With you? Who knows.”

You don’t have a reply for that. He’s right.

Marie hums, cleaning a cocktail glass. “That was quick,” she says to Toji. “Done already?”

He waves a blithe hand, not responding. You also look at him.

“Oh dear,” she says in mock concern. The corners of her lips are fighting not to tilt into a smile. “Old age getting to you?”

He narrows his eyes playfully. “Why don’t you find out?”

You eagerly take a long swig of your drink.

Marie straightens, not in the least ruffled, gazing down at him with the countenance of a regal queen. “Things have changed since we first met, Toji. You couldn’t afford five minutes of my time.”

You nod.

Toji grins, and it looks devastatingly charming. “No discount for little ole’ me?”

“You bastard,” a derisive snort. “I’d make you pay more. You’ve never paid for a girl in your life.”

It doesn’t dissuade him. “You know I’d make it worth your time.”

“All this with another woman’s lipstick on your face,” she leans over and lightly pats Toji’s cheek in a vaguely warm, yet condescending manner. She turns to you. “Never let a smooth talker into your bed.”

“You know I do a lot more than talk, Marie.”

Marie rolls her eyes. “Toji, dear. Shut up.” She smiles. “I want to hear about those boys of yours.”

It takes you until Toji snorts to realize she’s talking about Satoru and Suguru.

“They’re fine,” you say. Maybe she’s angling for their wallets. It’s an endeavor you wholeheartedly support.

She imperceptibly leans forward. “Is that all?”

“No girlfriends if that’s what you’re wondering,” you report. You’re sure the two of them will make her money. 

Speaking of Satoru, Suguru and Shoko. You take your phone out of your pocket and stare at it. No text messages. It’s been like this for the last four days. They must be busy. You’re not upset by it. 

Just…

Maybe a little lonely.

“Thank you for inviting me out today,” you tell Toji. Well. More or less he had dragged you out of your seat under the guise of a field trip. But you’re still glad nonetheless. You enjoyed it. The school is too big without your best friends, and Nanami and Haibara were out on a joint assignment this morning. You don’t know what you would’ve done by yourself. You don’t like to be alone with your thoughts. “It was very educational.”

An eyebrow quirks upwards. “Was it now.”

You look at him. “Yes. I’m never betting on pachinko.”

He clicks his tongue sullenly. Marie exhales a wheeze of laughter. 

Then he reaches over to pluck your phone out of your hand. After a second, he tosses it back at you.

Your phone is alight as text messages fill your entire screen. You stare at it, wide eyed as texts start piling in, the latest from Satoru, Shoko, Suguru, or all three.

satoru 

[13:04] respond 

[13:04] respond 

[13:04] respond 

[13:04] respond 

[13:04] respond 

[13:04] respond 

[13:06] what r u doing

[13:06] answer

[13:06] answer

[13:06] answer

[13:07] answer

[13:07] answer

[13:07] answer

[13:07] IT’S BEEN 4 DAYS

[13:09] are you mad at me

[13:10] fine

[13:10] don’t reply.

[13:15] hello

[13:20] hello

[13:20] hello

[13:20] hello

[14:05] WHAT FIELD TRIP ANSWER ME RIGHT NOW

shoko

[8:43] your phone is on silent isn’t it

[8:45] see u soon

[30 picture attachments]

suguru

[12:04] yaga said you were on a field trip with fushiguro-sensei

[12:04] can you tell me where you are?

[12:05] nowhere dangerous right?

[12:06] are you still with him? what kind of field trip are you on?

[12:06] this is inexcusable. you shouldn’t be on an unsanctioned field trip just the two of you.

[12:07] are you back at the school?

[12:07] you don’t need to be there. just leave him.

[12:07] please don’t do anything you would normally do

“Your phone was on silent,” Toji says flatly, if not a bit amused. “How old are you again?”

You’re too eagerly engrossed in reading your text messages that you don’t respond. Marie and Toji share a look.

“I don’t know…” you trail off, ungluing your eyes from your screen. Too many texts. You don’t even know how to begin to respond. So you don’t. 

A memory suddenly hits you. Before the three of them left you had been at a cafe with Satoru. While you had been in the midst of typing out Shoko a heartfelt response Satoru had snatched your phone out of your hands, clicked around with it, and slipped it into his pocket.

After then you had subsequently received no text messages. So he had put your phone on silent. You resolve to learn that setting as soon as you go home. 

suguru

[17:54] we’re coming back. i’ll see you at the school.

You excitedly stand, waving the text in Toji’s face. “They’re coming back!” You exclaim. “I’m going to meet them.” You quickly bow to them. “Don’t bother coming back early,” you tell Toji. Then you rush out.

—

You nearly run into Shoko’s open arms, burying your face into her shoulder. She smells like dewy grass. Back inside Satoru’s room in jujustu tech, the four of you are together. It feels as if they never left. 

“Welcome back,” you say breathlessly. “How was Fukuouka?”

“Wet,” she says, making a face. “How was your field trip?”

“Interesting. I think Fushiguro-sensei is the unluckiest man in the world.”

“Well, I don’t doubt that,” she replies. “I bought you souvenirs.”

“Me too,” you blurt out. Your face warms. “Well not a souvenir, really.” You give her the shopping bag in your hand. “I saw it and thought that…” that it’d look perfect on her, “that maybe you could wear it to the next festival…?”

Before she can unravel your impromptu gift, an airy voice cuts through. 

“So the two of us are chopped liver now, are we Suguru?”

“It seems that way, Satoru.”

“How awful,” Satoru sniffs. “After all the trouble we went through to get here early.”

“It was an ordeal, wasn’t it?” Suguru’s smile turns a hint menacing. Your fingers go sweaty. “I’m more interested in this ‘educational field trip. ’”

“It was educational,” your rebuttal is weak. 

“Is that right,” Suguru hums. “I’m looking forward to hearing all about it.”

You look at Shoko helplessly. She shrugs.

Satoru frowns, rounding on you. “I can’t believe you! Not a single text the entire time we were gone! Just what were you two doing anyway? Confess!”

“You’re the one that put my phone on silent,” you reply. “I didn’t even know. I thought the three of you were too busy to update me.”

Satoru opens his mouth. You can see the moment he realizes you’re right. His mouth closes. 

Suguru rolls his eyes. Shoko shakes her head. The two of them promptly slap the back of his head, earning a yelp from the white-haired boy.

“Besides, I haven’t forgotten about you two,” you say, thinking about the cards. Satoru perks up at the prospect of a gift. He’s surprisingly easy to handle at times. Like a child. It’s not bad, you think. Not at all. You smile, reaching into your pocket and pulling out a stack of cards.

“For you two.”

They momentarily glance at each other before taking the cards.

“Wait,” you pat down the sides of your body. “Ah—” three cards tucked into the waistband of your skirt that you hadn’t noticed before “—here you go.”

They stare down at the cards in their hands in silence.

"...Thank you," Suguru says, ever polite, voice strained.

You beam. “Your welcome. The two of you should go with Fushiguro-sensei next week." The two of them wear matching grimaces. "The girls really want to see you again." You look at Satoru. "Even you Satoru!"

"Hah!? What is that supposed to mean!?"

You're sure the prospect of being surrounded by beautiful women will make them more amenable to the idea. Shoko is laughing.

“Wait right here,” Shoko says quickly, getting up from the floor. A quick squeeze of your arm. “I’m getting your souvenirs.”

You turn back to them. “Was Fukouka fun?”

“...The same as always,” is Satoru’s somewhat peeved response as he throws you a box of mentaiko flavored chips. “Annoying old geezers nearing the grave. We skipped the onsen.”

The fact that Suguru doesn’t even correct Satoru on his words says enough. 

“Oh. You shouldn’t have.” It would’ve been a nice way to end their trip. You plop a chip into your mouth. It’s too salty for Satoru’s tastes, but you enjoy it just fine.

Suguru smiles. His fingers are playing with the edges of your hair, lightly tugging. “Next time, we’ll all go together.”

“That would be fun. I’d like that.” You go quiet for a few seconds. “I missed you two.”

Satoru puffs up. “Tell me more.”

“I was a little lonely without everyone. I think that’s why Fushiguro-sensei took me out on a fieldtrip today.”

In other words: he was being oddly considerate. In his own way.

Satoru deflates, pouting. You don’t notice, lost in your thoughts.

“Satoru, Suguru.” The two of them look at you. “If I were an escort, how much would you pay for a night with me?”

The two of them go silent.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Drawn Together 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, obsession, intimidation, and other dark elements.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: You get a tattoo on an impulse to break your routine, but you walk away with something else as permanent as the ink.

I saw this and had to

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You are not a rebel. You are clean cut. You live within very precise boundaries. Minimizing every part of yourself to evade notice. Rules are not meant to be broken, despite that old cliche.

That is until that day. It's foolish, you know it. That voice in the back of your head repeats your foreboding. You know you can't go back. There isn't a magic eraser for this one.

Shut up.

You're over it. Over yourself. Over your boring life. You've never done one fun thing for just yourself. It's always been what has to be done. What must be done. You're thirty years old and you don't even know if you understand the concept of 'fun'.

You sit on the leather bench. Nervous and shaky as hell. There's still time to change your mind. You can take your deposit and go, with clean untainted skin.

No! You're not going to chicken out this time. You want one memory that doesn't end in you tucking tail and running.

"Do you like the sketch?" Sam, your assigned artist asks.

You glance over at him as he pulls on a pair of black gloves, his gun laid out and sterilised. You peek at the open sketchbook, the drawing of a simple red poppy outlined in black with a thick spiraled green stem. Nothing too big or extravagant, easy to hide. If your mother or father ever saw that, you would be excommunicated.

"I love it," your voice quavers and you clear your throat, "I'm sorry, I'm just a little anxious."

"That's fine. First time, right?"

"Uh, yeah, I don't even have piercings," you give a brittle chuckle, "I'm not really the adventurous type."

"I'm sure you are in your own way," he grins, a look that calms you. "So, we still set on ankle?"

"Um, yeah, I think that's good."

"As good a starting place as any. Glad I talked you off the ribs. Those are tender."

"Just an idea," you breathe, "I don't know much about these things."

"Not to worry, you're in good hands," he winks, "you can just relax," he rolls his stool to the foot of the bench, "and pop your leg up here."

"Right," you gulp down another chest full of air and follow his direction, "that's it?"

"And keep still. Tell me if you need a break. The pains a bit much at times so don't be afraid to speak up."

"Okay, sounds good," you try to settle in but your blood feels thick and your vision speckles with silver. Oh god, you're really going to do this.

"Don't hold your breath," he says, "really, I don't like my canvases passing out."

"Sorry."

"It's okay, you want something to drink before we start?"

"No, I'm good."

"Awesome," he says and grabs his gun, double checking the tip before moving back to your ankle. "Alright, I'll count down so you're not too surprised."

"Thanks," you fold your hands over your stomach as he positions your leg and bends forward.

He counts from three and you focus on not moving at the first stab of pain. Don't be a weak bitch. You grit your teeth and let out your breath as the gun buzzes loudly. The pain keeps a steady sear in your skin but you slowly get used to the sensation.

As he works, your eyes wander along the dark red walls and the artwork hanging all around. Tattoos in colour and black and white. The schematics of a tattoo gun. A falcon crest wrought in brass.

You hear the door open and the smoky voice of the other artist, Nat greets the newcomer you can't see past the pillar. The response is a deep, rocky timbre. You can only imagine the inked up brute behind it.

"Always with the notes," you hear a paper crinkle, "I'm the artist here, Rogers."

"Hey, I'm an artist too," the man counters lightly.

You peek over as the redhead woman appears on the other side of the pillar and guides her client through to her open workspace. An open curtain drapes against the wall at the other end of the shop. She sets down the page and tuts as she looks it over.

The man slides off a pair of dark sunglasses, black lenses with golden frames. He slips them into the pocket of his denim jacket and tugs at the sleeves. Their actions seem to be routine and you can see why. His arms are covered from wrist to shoulder in ink, a few smaller tattoos on his knuckles. Now you really feel out of place. 

"Sam, what's up?" The other client calls over as he hangs the denim on the coat rack.

"What's it look like, Steve?" Sam says, his eyes not leaving your ankle.

You take in the interaction silently. You're a stranger among the usuals. The poser getting their taste of artificial danger. Your ankle tweaks and you smother a grunt between your teeth. The noise catches the blue eyes of the man, Steve.

You quickly avert your eyes back to Sam and knot your fingers together. Steve's shadow moves away. The artist at your bench hardly seems bothered but gives a shake of his head.

"You want the curtain?" Natasha asks as she approaches the black drapes.

"Nah, you know I don't care."

Your eyes flick up as the man peels off his tank top. Wow. You blink rapidly and make yourself act normal. 

He lowers himself onto the leather seat as Natasha takes out her tools and starts sterilising. You once more force your attention back to Sam's careful work. It's going to take a while.

"You good?" He asks as he glances over, lifting the gun from your skin.

"Great," you murmur in an airy voice.

"Still nervous?"

"No, actually, kinda excited," you try not to speak too loud, overly mindful of the other client in the shop.

"Good," he hunches again and you suck in as he put the needle back to your skin. "So, what do you do? When you're not getting sick tats, that is?"

"Um, I, er, I teach. Music lessons."

"Music, huh? You seem like… the drummer type."

"Piano," you correct him, "I can carry a beat–" you pause to check the pain in your voice, "but I mostly teach piano."

"Classy," he remarks, "so, a poppy, any particular meaning to that?"

"Er, no, uh," you rub your neck nervously but make yourself quit moving, "it's my favourite flower."

"Pretty sombre fave but I get it," he remarks.

"Yeah, I guess…"

Your attention is drawn at the soft slap of skin and the rattle of metal. You look up as Steve retracts his hand and Natasha points at him with a sharp nail, "this is a sterile workspace."

He chuckles at her irritation and shows his palms before he sits back. He rolls his shoulders as he leans casually and twiddle his fingers against his jeans. Once more, your eyes meet and his mouth slants slightly. You gulp and look down again.

"So, any ideas for a second piece?" Sam asks.

"I think I'm gonna stick with one."

"Not gonna get a full bouquet?" He wonders.

"Not yet."

"Better get cozy, Rogers," Natasha says.

You look up as she sprays shaving foam onto his chest.

"You know this is my second home," he teases as he relaxes and she spreads the cream.

"Don't remind me," she grumbles as she takes a razor.

You tear away from your distraction once more. Gosh, it is painful. You don't know how people end up like him. Your tiny little flower will be more than enough for you.

You close your eyes and groan. Sam rests his hand on your calf. He squeezes as he pauses again.

"Need a break."

"No, keep going," you puff out.

You grip the side of the leather bench and bite down. You've always been a big baby. You bat away the gloss of tears threatening to confirm that and take another breath.

The subtle creak of leather pulls your gaze back across the room. Steve leans slightly around to see you past Nat as she shaves one side of his chest. You grimace and hide beneath your lashes.

Why is he looking at you like that? It must be amusing, someone like you in a place like that. Now you know this is definitely a mistake.

[bloodlust-1]

༻ 3 Nights ༺ part 1

Gortash x fem Tav — mini series Explicit 18+

Summary: Gortash invites Tav to stay 3 days at his palace for the sake of an alliance. Reluctantly, she compromises for peace and it becomes an experience they won’t forget.

T/W: language, manipulation, blood

Notes: okay. Yes, he’s been my new obsession so I had to write something up. This is a bit of a long one, I’m planning to do a few parts in total. Enjoy ;)

Tav arrived at the tyrant’s palace, and she couldn’t shake off the feeling of foreboding that settled in the pit of her stomach.

Arguably, this could be the stupidest thing Tav’s ever done. To agree and comply with Gortash for the sake of an alliance for some sort of peace.

This alliance was just for the time being, of course, Tav was way too ahead of her plans to betray him when the time came. To seal the alliance, Gortash requested Tav to stay 3 days with him. Not a hard task but it made Tav extremely suspicious of him to even request such a thing.

Tav only agreed to see if she could infiltrate any plans stashed away in his office. This could totally be a one-up in the game for her. But for now…Tav forced her shoulders high with a brave feeling in her chest, and she barged right into his palace doors.

Tav was quickly met with metal steel watchers, and they instantly alerted their attention to her, “Lord Gortash has been waiting for you. Meet him upstairs in the main room, he won't ask twice.”

She rolled her eyes and swatted away the watchers. She didn't need an invitation and she sure as hell didn't need to listen to Gortash's orders. She did as she pleased, and with that, she made her way to his quarters. Making a few stops to peer into different doors here and there.

As Tav continued to his quarters she was met with a pair of dark eyes. Gortash's cold, calculating eyes seemed to pierce through her as he welcomed her to his palace. Despite his courteous demeanor, Tav could sense the aura of ruthlessness that surrounded him.

"My favorite little hero is finally here. Come in, make yourself comfortable." His words were laced with veiled threats, and she realized that he pulled out a chair for her.

Tav walked into the room, crossed her arms, and refused to sit, "I hope you have some better guest adequate considering you weren't there to greet me at the palace door. Just remember this whole —" She waved her hands around, "Thing going on is not for fun and games."

Tav despised Gortash for his cruelty and oppression, yet she knew that aligning with him was crucial for achieving her own goals. Her conscience wrestled with the moral implications of her actions, and she found herself questioning whether the ends justified the means.

Gortash's lips tugged into a smile, "Dear, this is so we can trust each other. An alliance is what you want, isn't it? We should trust one another if that's to happen."

His eyes lingered around Tav's body. It admittingly made her a bit uncomfortable although her armour did leave a lot to be desired. "Really? Armor darling. " He clicked his teeth and shook his head, "This is my home, not a battlefield."

He yelled out for a servant, who came scurrying into his quarters, "Please give our guest some proper clothing. She will be staying a couple nights here. She is to look like a proper lady before dinner. Now, go."

Tav's eyebrows furrowed as his cruel words hissed at her, "Excuse me? A 'proper lady'? That's a hunk of bullshit!" She snapped back at Gortash, who quickly ignored her by leaving the room with an amused smug on his face.

"Come, my lady, let's get you cleaned up." Tav was still on guard, but she agreed to give the servant an easy time. So, she followed her into a bedroom attached to a lavish bathroom. A marbled tub ran with warm water that was adorned with many soaps and rose petals.

Gods, when was the last time Tav enjoyed a bath?

The air was filled with the delicate scent of flowers, and Tav undressed her armor, letting it fall onto the carpet. She stepped into the warm embrace of the water and cleansed herself of any traveler grim. The soaps soaked into her skin, leaving Tav smelling divine.

After her bath, there was a set of clothes laid on the edge of the bed. Tav tried on the white dress, with golden embroidering and frilled sleeves. There was also a black corset to pull the whole outfit together. Tav felt beautiful yet uncomfortable.

The same servant walked into the room with a hairbrush and pins, "Allow me to pin your hair, my lady."

Some time had gone by before Tav was deemed "acceptable" to sit with Gortash for dinner. She thought it was absolutely ridiculous, and these days may go by slower than she thought.

Her heels clicked against the palace floor as she made her way into the dining room. When the doors opened, there he was. Those same dark eyes piercing her own.

The long dining table was set with fine china, crystal glassware, and flickering candlelight. Tav's gown shimmered in the soft glow of the room, and she purposely took her seat at the far end of Gortash.

Tav pulled out the seat and purposely plucked herself onto the chair. She looked the part but certainly didn't act like it.

Gortash’s eyebrows curved into a questionable look. He brought his elbows onto the table, bringing his fists to rest against his mouth. There was a long silent pause, he peered at Tav trying to get a good read on her.

"Let us get to know each other, hm?" He brought his hands away from his face and picked up a glass of wine instead to sip.

Tav hunched over the table, her hands balled into fists. She gave him a threatening stare, "Gortash, Did you not hear me earlier? I am not here for fun and games, so whatever it is you're trying to do — stop it."

He snickered, damn was this amusing for him. He had never met anyone who just waltzed their way into his palace to pick a fight. She was a nobody. Gortash, he was somebody. Yet she came to him with confidence, an alliance, and now she's here in his home. How entertaining was this whole debacle? He wanted to push her as much as he could. It was all a manipulation tactic to see how far he could go.

"Enver— Call me Enver for the next 2 days. But like I stated, let's get to know each other, little hero. I'd love to hear about your background." His head tilted with a mischievous smile on his face.

"That's none of your concern." Tav spat out harshly, with a threatening glare. They were both testing each other.

The air was still and tense, and Gortash's presence dominated the area. His evil smile radiated a chill throughout the room. "Isn't it? I am lord now, and I want all my baldurians to be considered. Especially my most favorite citizen."

He reached out his hand, the tips of his fingers adorned with the sharp glove that pointed into hooks. "I'd love to hear about that pathetic fucking camp you have right outside the city. A shame it would be if something were to happen while their leader's gone."

"What...How did you —"

He spoke with command, "See, that's something I learned about you. When you care to get to know someone, these things come easy. But please, you're welcome to search this whole palace all you want. Maybe you'll find something about me worth learning."

"Okay, I'll humor you— but first, we need to lay some ground rules. If you respect my rules, I'll respect yours. "

"I’m listening, Tav."

A chill ran down her spine when he spoke her name. It cringed her and only made her rules more needed, " 1: You will not hurt my camp, 2: You will not try to attack me, and 3: I will roam freely where I please."

"Yes, yes, and yes, you have my word." He nodded in agreement. The room was tense at this point, but he still locked eyes with Tav. Her beauty was one he saw in paintings, and she was free to his viewing pleasure. A thought crept into his mind: what if she was mine? An interesting thought indeed. He cleared his throat, "Tell me about yourself."

Throughout the meal, the conversation between them was polite but strained. Tav struggled to maintain her composure, her uncertainty about Gortash's intentions gnawing at her. She couldn’t shake off the feeling that she was walking on thin ice, unsure of what might be his true motive.

Despite her unease, Tav maintained a facade of politeness, engaging in small talk and lurking eyes on one another. She would look away each time she caught herself staring at his exposed chest. It angered her even more that Gortash was attractive. Only when he spoke would his image crumble for her.

As the evening wore on, she found herself carefully measuring her words and actions, acutely aware of the potential consequences of missteps in this precarious situation.

~

After dinner, Tav wandered around the palace. By this time, the sun had set and the palace went dark. Only a few candles lit the room, barely reaching its light out to see clearly. Tav kept a pocket knife on her hidden in the folds of her clothes.

She grabbed a candle stick and began to investigate the rooms. There were many rooms, a lot of them were untouched. Tav thought he must've been very lonely in these walls. instantly she shook her head, she did not want to pity him. After all, he's the villain.

Tav found herself standing in a room aligned with many books and a single desk inside. It appeared to be a study, and she waved her candle around the room. A fresh painting hung on the wall: a portrait of Gortash.

Tav studied the art, and it was a very well drawing of him. It even captured how deep his jacket cut, exposing the hair on his chest. She only knew this by how hard she was staring at it at dinner. Her eyes scanned his face, examining the scars on his jaw that she hadn't noticed.

A handsome man he was, truly.

Tav stepped back from the picture, she was looking for any signs of any importance. The desk was littered with folders, papers, and crumbled notes. She settled the candle on a stand as her fingers sorted out the piles of paper.

Most of what she read was events that already happened from Moonrise. Tav placed the pile down and reached out for one of the crumbled letters. It was a letter about her. Surprisingly, there were people already sending Gortash news about her even before the takedown of Ketherick.

He truly had eyes everywhere.

As her eyes lingered on the note there was a huge knocking noise. Her head shot up and was matched with Gortash’s presence. His broad physic leaned against the door way, his arms crossed and he looked at Tav questionably.

“Well— did you find anything worth learning?” His eyes were cold, his demeanor felt off, and he was already making his way towards her before words could come out.

Tav shot the letter away from her face, “You knew about me this whole time… what’s the point of this? I know my reasonings for an alliance but what’s yours?” There had been tension between them all day and enough was enough. She needed to know his intentions before she stupidly fell into his game.

Gortash grabbed Tav’s chin firmly, forcing her to look up at him. His eyes were filled with a mix of desire and control as he attempted to assert his dominance over her.

Tav's expression remained resolute, refusing to succumb to his intimidation.

She struggled against his hold, refusing to show any sign of submission. Gortash’s grip on her chin tightened. Despite his forceful demeanor, Tav met his gaze with unwavering strength, silently challenging his authority.

“Power, of course. I need you and you need me, so I’ll play nice.” His voice became low, “Only cause I tolerate you.” He forcibly tilted her face as his eyes traced the contours of Tav's face. “You are one fine specimen.”

Tav’s eyes went wide and her face went pale. Did they actually find each other attractive? Gortash continued to speak, “I’ll give you something to imagine: A kingdom loyal to their court. A king and queen sat next to each other as everyone bowed to them. Their power: unmatched. Their strength: untouchable. Their bond: unbreakable. Are you painting this picture? This could be you and I. My equal and my right hand.” The warmth of his breath hit against her skin. She was still under his hold and a rush of warmth hit her body. Her knees buckled and her face grew red. What in the hells was she thinking?!

Tav's heart started to race under his touch. He physically towered over her and his face was undeniably closer to her face than ever. Tav stared at him with defiance but her body language went against her will.

He was just another man under all this drama, and his intimidation felt almost….sensual? It was a mix of emotions she never felt.

“You can let go of my face now.”

With a swift motion, the claw of his glove snagged a small cut on her cheek. Tav winced and used all her force to push him away. She palmed her face, and the slick had already started to drip down her jaw.

Tav's adrenaline kicked in as she pulled the pocket knife out, charging at him with a shove. The blade sunk into the nape of his neck as Tav's body pinned his closely against hers on a wall.

Her eyes raged as she looked into his gaze from the dimmed light. Just as he did, she swiped her knife against his skin. Only enough to create a small laceration just like hers.

His hand gripped Tav's wrist. The claw of his gloves pressed against Tav’s skin— Giving it a tight squeeze, and knocked the knife out of her grip.

With his free hand, he closed the gap between their bodies, “Is this your way of flirting? We’re both a mess now.” The slick of blood streamed down into his chest.

Tav quickly surrendered to the pain that shot up from her wrist. So, she let her restraint down. Gortash saw her surrender and loosened his grip, “Good girl.”

Tav scoffed, “Bastard.”

“I know.”

Gortash let go of her body and walked back to the desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out a small kit of some sort. Gortash then lent out a hand, waiting for Tav to accompany it, “Come, girl.”

She frowned and shook her head, “I’m not holding your hand.”

He sighed and rolled his eyes, “Suit yourself. Let that—“ He pointed at her cheek, “get infected all you want.” It was then that Tav noticed it was a medical kit. Was he trying to clean her cut? Strange.

Gortash took the kit and walked out of the study and back into the dark halls. With an annoyed groan, Tav followed aimlessly for him. His heavy boots hitting the floor echoed throughout the hall. It gave the atmosphere an unsettling aura.

She was led into a familiar room— it was exactly the one she settled herself in earlier. Gortash dragged a nearby chair to the end of the bed. He sat down, his legs spread while he hunched over with his elbows resting on his knees, “Sit.” He spoke in a commanding monotoned voice.

Tav hesitated, she had little trust in him. However, with a skeptical feeling, Tav sat on the edge of the bed in front of him. Gortash opened the kit and drenched a cotton ball with alcohol, "Look at me." He commanded with a softer tone this time.

Tav sat still as he brought the cotton to her cheek, lightly dabbing it against the wound. She winced and scrunched her face in pain.

Secretly he enjoyed seeing her in pain. Something about the way her eyes weakened sent shivers up his spine. Gortash continued to clean the cut with precision, his touch gentle yet firm. Tav's breathing began to steady as she relaxed into his care.

He reached for a bandage and carefully applied it to Tav's face. He leaned back, admiring his handiwork with a satisfied smile, "While I do enjoy the blood, I wouldn't want to mess the silk bedding. "

"I do as I please." Tav pouted. Her eyes fixated on the now-dried blood that rained down into his chest. Her eyes traced the trail into the same spot she had been staring at dinner. He was...nice, to look at she supposed.

Gortash leaned closer to her, he had caught Tav staring a little too hard at him. Being stealthy was something Tav was horrible at considering she bursted into his coronation. This realization filled him with confidence as his charm and poise alter a subtle change in Tav's behavior. She was seeing something she liked in him.

Gortash firmly put his hands on Tav's shoulders, shoving her back onto the mattress. Tav let out a small gasp as he hovered over her small stature. His hungry eyes viewed every little piece of skin available to him.

Calculating eyes bore into her, as he leaned forward, his voice dripping with contempt. "Do it. Do as you please."

A shiver ran up her spine. She wasn't sure if it was a good or bad thing, but her body completely froze under him. Her mouth parted with no words left to say.

What the hell was he doing? Why couldn't she move? Maybe it was how handsome she found his restless eyes. Or the way his body was strong and tall. Gortash always stared so passionately at her, even now.

With no response, her eyes glistened with anticipation. Gortash brought his lips close to Tav's mouth. Only the slightest space between them, Gortash's eyes downcasted on her while her heart thumped against his skin. The warmth of his breath caressed her lips. Tav closed her eyes and submitted to the tension between them.

"Tch—" Gortash scoffed teasingly.

The warmth Tav felt suddenly grew cold. She opened her eyes to see Gortash standing over the bed. There was no kiss. Tav propped her elbows up, why did he leave? A slight shame cast on Tav as she lay there dumbfounded. Was he just toying with her?

"Rest, I will be expecting you for breakfast." Gortahs's arms crossed as he stared down at Tav like a scolding parent, "Don't make me wait." With that, Gortash walked out of the room.

He purposely planted a seed into Tav's head of control as soon as she let her guard down. His deceit would have her tossing and turning all night.

To be Continued ~

Any thoughts? Comment 👇🏼 I love to engage!

Part 2 here!

[ghostchems]

infernal - terzo x f!reader - part two

art by the lovely @stainedlilac

author’s note: part two is here! been stewing on this for about a month now. 18+! mdni! i just think that infernal terzo is so pathetic and delicious, i want to eat him up. part one is here. ao3 link. about 5.4k words :) let me know what you think! this really feels like it is something special to me.

~~~~

You didn’t sleep well the night before. Maybe the satanic imagery you had been sifting through or Mr. Golden Bachelor’s general creepiness had gotten to you. Or maybe it was the constant flow of ideas and plans that flooded your brain on how to fix up his dismal mansion. It had so much potential. Whatever the true reason was, you spent most of the night tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable or relaxed enough to get deep sleep. Then again, at least it was different from your nightly twelve hour depression sleep. You aren’t sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

The drive back to his house goes rather quick and even though you have only driven there once, you feel as though you are on autopilot until you reach the end of his driveway. You can’t help but feel anxious. This is your first full day as his employee and you don’t even know what to expect. There is still the uncertainty creeping up into your thoughts that this might not work out anyway. If anything, it makes you feel just a tiny bit less nervous. Just a tiny bit. You grab your back from the front seat and sling it over your shoulder, taking a moment to stare at the quiet, foreboding home in front of you.

The door is unlocked. You take a short moment to decide whether or not you should knock but since you are an employee, you decide to walk right in. The house seems more quiet than the day before and for a moment you wonder if Terzo is even awake. Then you hear soft sounds coming from next to the sitting room. You make sure to stay silent as you walk toward the sounds, keeping your bag slung close to you so it doesn’t make any noise. 

“I miss you… you know that, right?” There is a hint of sadness in his soft voice. 

You quickly determine that whatever conversation he is having is private and you definitely do not want to listen to more of it, especially since you don’t know him that well. You try not to make a sound as you take a few steps backward, then you turn fully around scurry on to the dining room.

Terzo doesn’t remember Hell. He gets flashes of images and gut feelings of pain every so often but other than that it is a big black hole in his memory. When he first arrived at this house, though, he noticed a peculiar rotary phone in what is now his office. He assumed it came with the house… until it started ringing. After initially ignoring the calls, he eventually picked up only to hear shrieks and growls, sounds that brought back the hazy memories of hell to the forefront of his mind. He began to grow bored of the calls but the voices started to grow clearer over time. 

One of the voices ended up being Omega’s.

Omega had been banished to Hell by the Clergy for being a distraction. Little did they know, the ghoul had been the one who held Terzo back from complete insubordination. Once he was gone, Terzo went off the deep end, becoming more and more disobedient to the higher ups in the clergy, ultimately ending with him being dragged off stage and removed from power. 

He was unsure if they came into contact while he was briefly deceased. Omega wouldn’t give him a straight answer on the subject no matter how much he pressed. He also would not explain to him what the hellphone is for. Even with Omega not really giving him any answers, he was always glad to hear from him, even if sometimes it hurts.

“It’s not the same without you here. It hasn’t been.” Terzo leans back in his chair and props his feet up on his desk, toying with the phone cord. 

“I know.” Omega’s true voice is much different than his earthly one. It’s low and barely perceivable by the human ear and yet it stings.

“I have hired someone, though — an assistant. I think maybe they will help spruce this place up.” Terzo pauses for a moment, then gives a soft sigh. “And maybe be fun to play with.” 

“You must be lonely, bello.” Omega rumbles and Terzo can’t help but offer a quiet groan. It has been a while since he’s heard any kind of compliment, let alone one from Omega, his former flame.

Terzo hums in response then lets comfortable silence fall over the conversation. He always hoped when he would pick up the phone it would be Omega but every time it was… well, difficult to find topics of conversation. They are both stuck in their own personal purgatory. Which only leads to one place in Terzo’s mind…

“So…ehhh, what are you wearing?” He purrs into the receiver and is met with more silence followed by a “click”, disconnecting the call. Terzo slams the phone down on the receiver with a growl. The nerve of Omega to hang up.

He leans back in his chair, the sound of the leather squeaking beneath him until his eyes fall upon a lone joint right next to his computer. He smiles widely at it as he snatches it up, lights it with the tip of his finger and brings it to his lips. The smoke fills his lungs as he inhales deeply and holds it there in his chest. Terzo has always been an advocate for the Devil’s lettuce but he definitely uses it more now that he has been forcibly retired — mainly because there isn’t much else for him to do. 

The familiar haze begins to fall over him, a nice feeling of relaxation and sleepiness causing him to rest his head against his desk for just a moment…

The next thing he knows, he’s waking up with his cheek smushed against the top of his desk. Terzo groans quietly, rubbing his head before he realizes it is now the afternoon and he hasn’t seen you yet today. He lazily climbs to his feet and shrugs off his robe, leaving him in his sweats. He figures it’s high time the boss made an appearance but hesitates for a moment as he eyes the half-smoked joint.

You’ve spent the morning organizing and packing up the many odd books in his collection. There is one that has caught your attention, though. When moving some things around it dropped and opened, your eyes immediately snapping to it as if it was calling out to you. Your hand hovers over the page, eyes focused on the image on it. A man with his face painted and similar robes to the ones you’ve seen on the photos you’ve gone through stares back at you. He looks angry. You let your fingers brush over the text beneath the portrait. 

Papa Emeritus the Second took the Ghost Project soaring to new heights. Despite this, he was still removed due to failing to overthrow governments and churches. His younger brother (by three months) took over after him. 

You lift the book and walk back to the table, waiting to sit down before  turning the next page. His eyes stare back at you, familiar mischief shining behind them. 

“Naughty girl.” Terzo purrs from the doorframe, a sleepy smirk stretching across his face. His cheeks are flushed and the whites of his eyes are bloodshot. His smell is distinct and your brain crashes once you realize that he is stoned. You take in his messy hair and half-lidded eyes before your eyes drift to scar on his neck. It’s jagged, the scarred skin raised in a pronounced way and it is a lighter color than his olive skin. You don’t want to stare but an overwhelming feeling of despair creeps up your spine. There is something wrong with the scar. It looks deep and like whatever kind of wound it came from was incredibly painful. You almost ask what happened but then your gaze drops–

His gray sweatpants barely hang onto his hips and it’s obvious he has gone without underwear today. You would feel like this is incredibly inappropriate if he wasn’t looking at you with such a seductive grin and all thought of his scar has now vacated your mind. Terzo lazily strolls up to the table and snags the book out from in front of you. He claps it shut and tosses it to the other side of the room.

“You are not here to be nosy, puffetta.” He purrs as he leans against the side of the table, his eye  fixated on you. “You are here to organize and ehhh, be tidy.” Terzo giggles then takes a seat on top of the table in front of you. 

“I wasn’t being nosy, I was being curious.” You quip but immediately feel some anxiety — you still don’t know Terzo that well and talking back to your boss isn’t something you wanted to do on your second day. The anxiety fades as he dramatically rolls his eyes and scoffs but he can’t hide his smile. “Besides, a lot of these books have a distinct look to them… kind of hard not to be curious.” You push one of the leather bound books in his direction. Terzo scoops it up and then leans back on the table until he is laying down, his hairy chest just in front of you. He opens the book to look at the title page.

“Satan and YOU: A guide to converting to a blah blah blah…” He snores and drops the open book on his face, pretending to be asleep. You blink at him but find yourself grinning; this man is a goof. Terzo peeks at you from over the top of the book, his mismatched eyes looking right through you.

“Okay, okay. They at least look cool. You could always display them, you know.” 

“Display?” He slips the book off of his face, placing it on the table next to him and brings his hands up to rest underneath his head.

“Yeah, do you have any bookcases or shelves or—“

“I’ll think about it, mio toppolino.” Terzo muses then slowly sits up and gazes down at you. “Let us see what snacks I have.” He swings his legs over the edge of the table and hops down to his feet, a hand resting on your shoulder and then tugging lightly at your shirt to follow him. You get up and follow close behind him, your eyes fixed on his strong back and shoulders, admiring the proportions of them to his waist. 

Still, your gaze starts to drift back to the scar. How is a scar like that even possible? It’s evenly spread along his neck, fully connected even though it is jagged. What could have caused it? The more you look at it, the more you think maybe it’s some kind of edgy tattoo. He was the lead singer of a dramatic rock band, after all. All of your thoughts fade when he turns his head, looking back at you to make sure you are there and gives you a smoldering glance. 

Where was this charm yesterday? Maybe it’s related to the weed.

“Do you smoke, puffetta?” He purrs as he starts to open cabinets above the counter, one after another with most of them being empty. You settle yourself against one of the counters.

“Sometimes.”

“Want some now?” 

You raise your eyebrows slowly at him. You are on the clock and he is offering you marijuana. Sure, this has happened to you in a corporate setting but it was more like “here, have some edibles to take when you get home”, not while on the clock.  

“I’m okay, thanks.” 

Terzo gives a small shrug then continues to go through his cabinets before finding a lone box of cheerios. He stuffs his hand into the box and starts to munch on them while he stares off in your direction. It’s awkward but you are grateful to spend some time “getting to know him” even if he is high out of his mind. Your initial assessment of him still stands though — he is a mess.

“Do you need groceries? I can put in an order to be delivered.” You pull out your phone.

“Oh, si!” He hops off the counter and hurries over to you, box of cheerios in hand. “Could you get me some doritos?” Terzo is right next to you now, his chest nearly pressing against your shoulder as he peers at your phone screen. You open the app and hand it to him.

“Pick what you want but… I mean, I guess you should pick some actual food and healthy stuff, not just snacks.” 

Oh, how cute. Terzo’s eyes widen, his cheeks turning red and he has the overwhelming urge to grab you and pull you in close to him, to tell you that you’re his now, that he’s never letting you go. He knows he can’t, it would be too much too soon but he wants you so badly. And how adorable is it that you are concerned with him eating healthy? It’s only the second day and he can’t get enough of you. 

“I will be sure to get some… strawberries.” Terzo says with a giggle and starts to scroll through the local grocery store’s offerings. He focuses on the screen in front of him and the pictures of potential snacks while you wander away from the counter. The kitchen is a dark teal with light marble counters but barely anything on them. There is a small bar area with stools that look like they would fall apart if you sat on them. You figure he doesn’t do much cooking or entertaining guests. A large bay window captures your attention, showing the sad state of the backyard.

The yard is covered in brush and fallen branches, the grass overgrown and dead. Brick walls line the yard with a short iron fence along the top of. Both could use some attention.

“You have a pretty big yard.”

“Mmm?” Terzo looks up at you with wide eyes, the corner of his credit card in his mouth. He quickly finishes typing in his credit card information into the phone, keeping his eyes on the screen. “Whaff?”

“Your yard, it’s nice. Have you thought about getting a landscaper to fix it up?” You lean against the side of the window. Terzo’s gaze flits up to you and he messes with the phone in his hand.

“I believe this is why I hired you, eh?” He saunters towards you, wiggling your phone in his hands. “To help make this place live-able.” Terzo stops just in front of you and hands you your phone, his fingers lingering on yours.

“But don’t you have any ideas for what you want? Like a garden or something?”

Terzo visibly recoils, his brows knotting and his lips pressing into a thin line. “A garden.” He whispers then gazes out of the window for a moment. “My older brother was more of the gardening type. I ehhh… don’t have much of a green thumb.” He holds up his thumb and smiles weakly. How badly he wants to take his thumb and press it inside your mouth while he forces you to your knees in front of him and —

“Well, we can always start small with some tomatoes or something.” You give him a kind smile and he all but melts. He hums in agreement and steps in closer, hovering just beside you, your hands nearly touching as he gazes out into his overgrown yard. Never has the thought even crossed his mind to go outside let alone having a garden. But having a garden with someone? Terzo brushes his arm against yours, trying to be slick about it but failing. He hadn’t realized how touch starved he is until he feels your warm skin against his. 

“I should get back to it. Uhh… your food should be in, like, twenty minutes, Mr. Emeritus..” You say after checking your phone, eyes flitting up to his as you take a step back. He is squinting at you, the corner of his lip twitching. “Mr. Papa?” You try again and he audibly groans.

“No, no. Call me Terzo, per favore.” 

“Okay, Terzo. Food will be here soon.” You walk back into the dining room, leaving him alone in the kitchen. Something is buzzing inside you. Curiosity, you think, or at least that’s what you’re telling yourself. Were you flirting back with him? Yes, the answer is yes. The vibes are certainly different than those you were hit with the day before. You are no stranger to getting some attention on the job, having work crushes in the past that never really amounted to anything (by design, of course), but this is different. The setting is so intimate and half the time so far he is hardly wearing clothes.

Unpredictable. He is unpredictable.

The rest of the day is smooth with Terzo floating around the house, always making sure to stay somewhat close to you to see what you’re doing. He has a different snack each time and offers you some which you politely decline. By the time the end of the day rolls around he’s gone, probably asleep somewhere. 

You feel it was a productive day. Leaves crunch beneath your feet as you walk from the porch back to your car, your backpack slung across your shoulder. There is still some stress bubbling up in your stomach. You think about how you’ve seen so many colors of him already and it’s only the second day. 

You wonder what Terzo you’ll be getting tomorrow.

***

Terzo can’t get enough. His face is buried between your legs, his mouth and tongue working you over as he groans and pushes further into you. He digs his fingers into your thighs and ruts his hips against the mattress. The taste… your taste makes him moan, nearly whining for more and more, his cock leaking and pulsing with each lap of his tongue. He feels invigorated, finally tasting you and putting his expert skills to good use pleasing you. 

He is hardly holding on, his cock throbbing and he frantically grinds against the mattress and sheets, the tension building in his abdomen and leg muscles. Terzo swipes his tongue sloppily along your folds, desperate for you and your taste. He tries to stay composed, to stay in control but it’s all too much and he comes undone, your name on his lips —-

Terzo’s eyes open and he realizes that he’s been sloppily sucking on the corner of his pillow. He lifts his head and eyes the damp pillow, then rolls over to find that he came in his paints. A guttural growl rips from his lips as his fingers dig into his sheets, then angrily tears right through them with his sharp nails. He is so impatient, so needy for you even his dreams are cutting to the chase. 

But he knows he still needs to bide his time. It’ll be all the more delicious that way. Doesn’t mean that he can’t be a little bit cranky about it, though. 

Terzo peels off his briefs and tosses them across the room, landing in a pile of dirty clothes off to the corner. He lays in bed naked for a moment, his mind wandering back to what his mornings used to look like. They weren’t so different than now, starting off with him alone in his room but he would at least have people fawning over him and following him around all throughout breakfast and his duties. He used to enjoy the quiet time on his own when he could get it but now…

But now all he has is you. 

He swings his legs off the bed and slowly pushes himself to his feet, shuffling toward the bathroom. The bathroom is black marble throughout with a shower and bath in one corner and another clawed, golden bathtub in the center of the room. He turns the hot water on for the bathtub, and only the hot water. Ever since he came back from Hell, he could withstand scalding heat and is unable to enjoy his baths any other way. Terzo skims his hand along the surface of the hot water, his thoughts far away as he watches the tub fill. 

Him and Omega used to take baths together. Sometimes they ended up being a couple of goofs, playing around with bubble bath and other times, it was the start of a rather long night for the both of them.

He slips into the tub and sinks down into the scalding water until everything is fully submerged except the top half of his face. Terzo glares over the still water, his gaze settling on the golden faucet. Anger and frustration bubbles up inside of him, the overwhelming feeling of being so isolated taking its toll on him. 

It’s not fair. He did more for the Ghost Project than any of his brothers. As if the power didn’t go to their heads at all… as if the power isn’t going to il Cardinale’s head right now, and yet Terzo was the one who was punished and humiliated for it. He growls from beneath the surface of the water and his hands drift up to grip onto the sides of the tub. 

At least he isn’t dead.

Terzo tries to remind himself of this but sometimes he thinks maybe he would be better off reaping the benefits of being the Morningstar’s mouthpiece in Hell with his brothers. Maybe he would be able to see Omega and the other ghouls that were banished after he was removed. 

His eyes refocus on the bath and he notices that water bath water is now boiling around him. Terzo yelps and scrambles out of the tub, slipping a few times before making it onto the cool marbles floor. He looks down at himself, water droplets glistening on his perfect skin and he is shocked to see that he is totally fine. His eyes drift back to the tub, the water now still but murky. He grabs a towel and dries himself off, keeping a watery eye on the tub as he makes his way to the bathroom mirror to embark on his usual morning routine.

Moisturize. Apply face paint. Stare at himself while naked. He flexes his muscles, his gaze falling over his body as he moves to highlight each area. He’s grown a bit of a pouch of a stomach but it doesn’t bother him too much — he’s not twirling or running around on stage anymore, he’s earned a little bit of pudge. Terzo can’t help but slip his hand down to give himself a few lazy strokes, the thought crossing his mind of you seeing him naked for the first time, as if you haven’t seen enough already. 

He runs his free hand through his soft, damp hair. Terzo has been lazy lately, letting his hair dry however it feels like. Sometimes it came out in nice waves but most of the time it stuck up in all directions and also somehow fell into his face. He feels different about today, though. He grabs his product and starts to style it, taking the time to make sure it’s perfect. His hair has grown longer than he’s used to with it curling behind his ears and at the top of his neck. He does it best to smooth it down. 

His reflection looks weary but reminiscent of how he used to appear onstage during the beginning of his reign. Terzo’s grip on his half hard cock tightens, a grunt spilling from his lips before he tears his eyes away from the mirror and lets himself go. He strides out of the bathroom and slips on a fresh pair of briefs. 

Terzo is feeling a certain way today. He wants to look good… maybe because of you. He saw the way you looked at him yesterday, how your eyes wandered over his body and your cheeks grew rosy. His lips quirk into a grin as he thinks about it. Or maybe he wants to look good because he wants to feel good. He opens his vintage armoire, his gaze flitting over  The fanciest loungewear he has and he’ll wear it for you, a plush black smoking jacket with a golden collar and gold detail that goes down to his knees. 

He ends up back in front of his mirror, admiring himself in his smoking jacket. Despite being pleased with his appearance, the anger and frustration still boils deep inside him. The hoops he had to go through just to get attention these days… the way he now has to tiptoe around getting what he really wants from you when before he could just have it. He is touch-starved and hasn’t fucked in quite some time, the fact he was buzzing just from brushing his arm against yours, that ever since you started (two DAYS ago) he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about taking you, tasting you, fucking you, to the point that he came in his sleep. 

It’s pathetic.

Another growl rumbles up from his chest and he finally leaves his bedroom, assuming that you should be here by now.

His assumption is correct. It is nearly lunchtime now and you’ve been diligently cataloging and boxing up the remaining memorabilia for most of the morning. You feel a little bit lighter, a little bit more comfortable in the job, even though you know your responsibilities will most likely change once you are done with the dining room. And from what happened yesterday… you are looking forward to seeing Terzo and wonder where he must be. Maybe still sleeping?

When you arrived that morning, a piece of paper was left on the dining room table. It was your resume with incredibly beautiful script scribbled on the back of it: your job offer in writing with a higher salary than was mentioned in the past. You can’t help but wonder if it’s because of how things went yesterday, how you two had flirted and talked for the first time.

You would hate to admit it but he was the last thing you thought about before falling asleep last night. It was the most restful sleep you’ve gotten in a long time.

Maybe this is where you’re meant to be. Still though, you think about the deal you made with yourself a few days ago – sticking around until the first paycheck and then re-evaluating. You had good days at your previous job but that didn’t make you hate it overall any less. 

Critical thoughts dissipate as he enters the dining room, your face going blank as you take in what he’s wearing. He looks dapper – put together even! You blink a few times then clear your throat.

“Good morning.” You croak, realizing that you haven’t spoken for the better part of the morning. Terzo gives a soft grunt in response and he offers a tight lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“I see you have made great progress.” He hums as he stalks around the dining room, examining the boxes and the neatly printed sheets of paper taped to them with the contents of each listed out. 

“Yeah, almost done.” You smile brightly at him, feeling yourself start to warm up just from him being in the same room as you. “Have you given any more thought on which of your books you want displayed?”

Uncomfortable silence fills the room as you watch Terzo’s face turn from indifferent to twisted anger.

“I DON’T WANT THEM DISPLAYED, I WANT THEM GONE!” 

You are knocked back into your seat from the volume of his voice. His teeth are bared and sharp canines almost hang over his lower lip, deep snarls ripping from his throat as he glares at you from across the table. 

“The entire reason I hired you is so you would do what I say and get this shit out of my SIGHT!” Terzo hisses as he slams his fist down on the table, one of the dim bulbs illuminating the room shatters from the mere strength of his voice. You are frozen, seated at the dining room table that is nearly clear of his memorabilia now, your eyes glued to his fiery ones. He leaves you, the door slamming behind him and it feels like the entire house shakes from it. 

You look down at your hands which are laid out on the table, watching them tremble. His voice was so strong, so much so that you thought you could feel it booming in your own chest. It’s terrifying that he has that sort of power and that his mood could switch on a dime just like that. So angry and over what? A question? Still though… you can’t ignore the throbbing ache between your legs. Usually being yelled at terrified you, having been afraid of making mistakes or getting in trouble from a young age, but you’ve never felt this before.

You clear your throat again, trying to calm yourself down but your cheeks are on fire. He looked at you like he wanted to devour you, like he wanted to punish you. You wet your lips and suck in a deep, shaky breath. Your thighs press together and you squirm in your seat as you try to get back to work, organizing a few different variations of white gloves. The thought comes to your mind about what it would feel like if he spanked you wearing a pair of these gloves.

You drop the pair and bury your flushed face into your hands, incredibly embarrassed by the thought.

Maybe you like it when he’s angry. 

Meanwhile, Terzo spends the rest of his afternoon pacing in his office in a panic. He’s afraid he’s ruined everything now. You certainly weren’t going to stick around after he yelled at you like that and he wouldn’t blame you. Sure, there were moments when he was Papa that he was prone to having angry outbursts. Usually Omega would be the one to bring him back down to Earth or if it occurred after he had gone… well, Terzo ended up feeling justified for the behavior, being Papa and all. 

But this isn’t the clergy. He has no protection. He only has you and he could have fucked it all up. Terzo didn’t want to start the process over again of finding someone to help. He only wants you now. He sits on top of his desk and runs his hands through his hair, strands having fallen out of place due to his outburst. 

You have gathered up your things and start to make your way to the front door when the door to his office opens and he steps out. Terzo fiddles with his hands, staying silent until he is closer to you, his eyes focused on the ground before drifting up to your gaze.

“I am so very sorry, mio toppolino.” He sounds quiet, heartbroken, even. “That was inappropriate of me.”

“Oh.” Your grip on your backpack tightens, a blush rising across your cheeks. “It’s okay. Really.”

“No, it is not. It is unacceptable.”

“Terzo, it is really okay. I mean it.” The blush only spreads, covering your cheeks and moves up to the tips of your ears. Your eyes are wide and you can’t control yourself from giggling, trying to cover it up with a couch. You feel insane.

He is staring at you, really staring at you, and his eyebrows knot in confusion. Then, it hits him. You want to play with him. Terzo’s lips stretch into a cat-lick grin, his eyes turning seductive. This is quite the development. He feels his cock jump in his briefs but he remains collected.

“Since you don’t want your stuff displayed, maybe think about if there’s anything you would want in your office. Looks kinda sad without any stuff in there.” You quip before turning to the front door and leaving him standing in the sitting room, watching you go as his hand slips into his jacket and then down his briefs.

[dev1lm4n]

coward

pairings: jackson-era!joel miller x f!reader

summary: in which joel wanted to stake claim over you, but he's too much of a coward to do so. aka jealous emotionally pent-up joel

word count: 3.5k

warnings: suggestive, not explicit just mentions of sexual relationships

notes: this was ultimately cliché as shit but i NEED to write it

Clank. Clank.

Sunset has fallen upon the town just mere minutes ago. Gleeful chirping of the local birds were quickly replaced by a chorus of cicadas, loud clattering of metal cutleries, and scratchy scrapes against plates. There was a foreign atmosphere settling between tonight’s dinner participants and to be honest, it’s much weirder than you anticipated.

It’s foreboding; alike to those family dinners you’d attend to exchange bland pleasantries with cousins and nephews. The kind where you’d have to swerve from uncomfortable questions probing into your personal life, whether it’s your marital status or your paycheck. Except there wasn’t that much of a crowd tonight. Just you, your ‘date’, and Joel Miller.

Joel Miller was someone you couldn’t label properly.

You weren’t exaggerating in the slightest bit when it comes to your complex relationship with him, if you could even call what you had with him a relationship to begin with.

It’s just too messy and embarrassing. It’s like trying to pick apart a tangled up ball of yarn, hoping you’d figure out when things began and when it ended.

Has it even ended? The particular question had you mindlessly stabbing the roasted chicken you managed to cook up. It’s a little overcooked and mildly underseasoned, but it’s better than the alternative. Joel’s staple, which was heated up cans of Chef Boyardee’s Beefaroni, had always been reserved for those who’d acquired his unique tastes. You and Ellie were his number one frequenter when it comes to it.

Joel looked displeased by the pleasantries. His nose crinkled briefly, but he played along regardless. “I go on patrols most of the time, but I could fix things too here and there.”

“So.. Joel, right? What do you do ‘round Jackson?”

Jack managed to break up the everlasting silence with his low-register voice. You assumed that despite the initial awkwardness, he had at least enjoyed the food, considering the heaping glob of mashed potatoes he’s adding onto his plate.

“Oh. That’s nice. I’ve never gone on a patrol before,” Jack shared briefly, only to beam a shy smile towards you. He’s a cute boy you won’t lie. Maybe that’s why you scouted him off  the bar last week. “I take care of the horses with her.”

“Jack’s also from Texas, you know. Thought you two would get along,” you opined.

You watched the cocky raise of eyebrows Joel did and the half-smile following after. He’s silently judging the excuse of a man you’ve brought home tonight, that or he’s just not in the mood for a late night chat after such a troublesome day.

Joel had always been an incredibly difficult man to read. You still think you could read a horse better than him. You’ve gotten better at it throughout the years you’ve spent alongside him, especially after the trip around America for Ellie’s sake, but it’s still a hit or miss most times. It almost felt like he kept changing the numbers to the safe. Just when you thought you’ve cracked the code, he’ll have you come right back to square one.

Joel’s mouth twitched at your silly little assumption, his face contorted as if asking you if you’re for real. You shrugged, amused in a sense. It’d be good for him to start making actual friends, right? Right now his circle was a limited bunch with you being the only non-family acquaintance. His social skills were something you and Tommy are both working on these days. Plus, Jack’s easy on the eyes, so it’s two birds in one stone. 

“I see you still have a thing for Texas boys, hm?”

Joel teased you, this time not even bothering to flash you one of his degrading glares. He pretended like he’s really into the colorful medley of roasted root vegetables you’ve roasted, when you know for a fact he hated any kind of greens. He’d only pretend to like it when Ellie’s around, preaching around about its importance. You realized that you’re getting sidetracked from the real offense he’s just given. A jab of jealousy you’d say.

What kind of game is he playing? Was it another one of his ‘push guys away from you because all men are shit and you’d get hurt’ game? Jack was such a sweetheart, he didn’t even catch on to Joel’s implications, instead he settled on laughing alongside your awkward chuckles.

“Friends?”

“How long have you two been friends?”

Jack’s eyes sparked with curiosity, looking like he’s genuinely in awe of the fond illusion you two must’ve convinced him with.

Joel grinned, a corner of his full mouth lifted at the thought. He almost looked pleased at the premise.

“Two years,” you chimed in for a quick save.

“Man, I thought you two were together,” Jack confessed, salad dressing smeared lightly on his top lip. “Can’t say I ain’t happy when she came sizing me up for a date.”

Your gaze cruised back towards Jack, fluttering a sweet smile his way in case he finally caught up to Joel’s inappropriateness. All you saw was just an innocent look of acknowledgement. His cheeks brightened and swept by a soft wave of pink when he noticed you looking his way, appearing to be thrilled that you spared him a chunk of your attention.

Such a sweetheart. It wouldn’t be so bad if you actually got serious with him; move into a small cottage house, raise chickens and sheeps. Then you could finally bask in stability and mutual understanding. The two things you’re currently lacking.

A silent beat passed at his words. 

You humored him with an obscure chuckle, but it was painfully obvious how the atmosphere dimmed and crumpled ever so slightly around the edges. It’s not the first time the two of you were mistaken as a couple by other villagers, even Tommy and his wife were dead set convinced the first time you sauntered in with him. The months spent on the road with Ellie and him were life changing to say the least and you’d like to think the two of you were bonded by such traumatic events. He needed a purpose, you needed refuge. It’s always been like that from the start. 

There wasn’t even a tinge of romance to humor. Once in the past, you made the mistake of giving in to your ‘delusions’. You wondered whether the silent brief touches he made whenever he walked beside you meant something more. You wondered whether the way he reacted exaggeratedly when you prick your fingers on a rotten door frame meant that he cared. You wondered whether the confessions he made while you were curled up, riding out a fever from a stab wound meant that he wanted you. Those pathetic flourishing feelings were stomped by the heavy soles of his boots the one time you asked.

You could still remember vividly the terrible things he said and the way you sobbed your heart out at that. Thinking back, you’d understand why he said what he said. It was wrong of you to humor such thoughts.

Jack hummed fondly into his handkerchief, neatly cleaning up his fresh shaven complexion that always seemed to make him look a few years younger than what he truly is. He’s more of your age, something you took into account when he came up in your radar. That must mean he’s more suitable for you, right? Unlike Joel who’s reeling into his late fifties; who’s probably too old for all the ‘childish’ shit you put him through. Jack’s also kind and considerate. He went out of his way to get you a basket of fresh apples when you’re sweating bullets trying to catch a loose mare. He never scowled or snapped at you. He’s good for you.

“No. We’re just really good friends,” Joel spoke up firmly into the warm summer air.

It looked like he’s finished with his meal, assuming from how squeaky clean his plate has gotten. Good that he’s filling up. You’ve always liked guys with a little more pudge to them. Not that it mattered. You two were just really good friends as he put it.

“I don’t think I can stay friends with a gal so pretty,” Jack chimed in flirtatiously, a charming smile etched its way across his lips.

You smiled in return, making sure to count to three before letting your eyes wander back to where Joel was sitting. It might be wrong for you to be searching for another man’s reaction when you’re here having sweet Jack as your date. What was certainly wrong was how your stomach finally rumbled with nervous butterflies when you saw his expression. When you saw the small itch disrupting his collected expression; setting his lips into an unimpressed thin line, a small vein prominent on his neck.

God, you wish you could capture the moment on camera.

The rest of the evening went by civilly; you’d expect your really good friend to rip Jack’s head right off when he kept making those stupid flirtatious jokes. Joel looked like he was trying his best to stay grounded and rational, but it's no secret he's holding back a dirty scowl. You caught the way he stuck his tongue onto his inner cheek, or the way he scrutinized each and every joke your date made. Forcing him to explain it thoroughly and embarrassing him in the process; you know he’s an ass, but tonight he’s really testing your limits.

You’d imagine he’d have an excuse as to why he’s behaving this way, like how your veggies tasted weirdly bland he couldn’t hold back his face. It’s unbelievably silly how he thought you’d believe such things at your grown age. That’s another thing to deal with. 

At the moment, you just needed to focus on bidding Jack a sweet goodbye. His smooth blond hair glimmered underneath the moonlight as he leaned in for a kiss. One you didn’t expect quite yet, but you didn’t have the heart to push him away. He’s been a good company after all.

As you expected, it didn’t feel right. His lips were soft and tasted like fresh oranges, but it didn’t feel right. Was it a mistake to keep him at bay when you’re still unable to let go of your peculiar crush? Probably. You were deep in thought as you pulled the front door closed. A gust of wind blowing over your shoulder while you let the guilt marinate into every inch of your skin. 

You felt icky.

“I don’t like him.”

Joel’s disdain traveled quickly along the walls, down the hallway, and onto the exact spot where you’re standing. You turned on your heel to face him, your lips drew back in a snarl. After everything you went through tonight, all the pillow cushioning so that Jake doesn’t feel all the more offended by his audacity, and you’re rewarded with this? You expected him to do one thing and he couldn’t even make it right.

“Yeah?” you piped up, eager to rile him up. “Well, I like him a lot.”

He’s used to listening to your childish preambles. It didn’t take him long to learn how much fun you have just by disobeying his rules, going through with whatever your heart desires, even when it poses a great danger to your own safety. You’re always tricky to deal with, but it’s the only thing that keeps his heart pounding at his old age. The only thing that made him feel alive, thawed after years of surviving. Maybe that’s why he still persisted in keeping you around.

“I’m serious, sweetheart. He sounded like bad news.”

Fucking sweetheart? You scoffed, sounding offended. He would always use that nickname whenever he’s trying to get something through your thick head, whether it’s to stop you from jumping head first into a pond or in this case, to stop you from making rash decisions. He knew what he does to you. He knew that you’d always listen, but not tonight.

“If you spend just one second of your precious time listening to what he has to say, you might actually see what I see,” you glowered. “You were fucking with him the entire time.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You were looking down at him, Joel. You always do that. Think everyone’s beneath you.”

“I wasn’t. He’s just a little.. well, flimsy for you.”

“Oh fuck off. You don’t know a thing about me.”

That was a complete lie. He knew more things about you than you’d like, like the way you like your coffee in the morning and which horses were your favorite.

“I don’t?”

“You don’t.”

You solidified your answer, trudging your way past his shoulders like some agitated teenager. Joel thought you looked cute upset and maybe that’s sick of him, but he couldn’t help but be entertained at the way your lips jutted out in disagreement. You’re like this young new thing he’s obsessed with.

“Okay, okay. Come here. Don’t be upset at me. Jake is a nice boy.. I guess,” he gave in to the commotion you made, although he still felt somewhat bitter. 

Jake’s not that much different from what he’s like when he’s younger. Way before his kid, his botched marriage, and the apocalypse. When he’s twenty with a vision for life. It vexed him to admit that he was truly a good man for you. That the man you chose for once wasn’t a scheming jackass. “He worked with horses?”

“Yeah,” you gave in, flashing him the look. The one where you’re further emphasizing that you’re certain with your decisions, that you don’t need him guiding you towards what’s wrong and right like he always has. “He’s good with the horses.. and with me too. Gave me apples when it’s in season.”

Joel’s dark eyebrows curved at your statement. His arms lifted further up to rest against the thin of his waist, a judgemental stance in action. Did you think things like that were peak romance? What about all the times he personally executed all those clickers lurking over you? Whether it’s with a gun or a knife, he’s sure that he’d top Jack when it comes to things he did for you.

“Well then I’m happy for you,” he concluded with a curt nod, doing the one thing you didn’t expect him to do. You scrutinized his expression in response.

“You’re happy for me?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m gonna go on a date with him.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’m gonna get him to kiss me again.”

“Wow. Sounds fun.”

“I’m gonna get him to fuck me so hard you could hear me in your stupid room, Joel.”

That one surely struck a nerve deep within him, judging from the way his lips contorted in disbelief. You’ve never been so.. vulgar in front of him. Not once have you mentioned anything about your sexual desires in front of him and so he thought you didn’t even know those kinds of things existed despite your big age. 

Maybe you’re untouched by the twisted world you’re living in. He assumed you were this sweet girl with an innocent crush on him, eyes twinkling with admiration everytime he walked in a room. He loved the attention, shamefully so, and he’d love to savor it as long as possible. Even when it felt wrong. He didn’t think it was possible for you to look at another in that manner. The thought had him marching towards you, large figure towering over.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, sweetheart.”

“Why not?” you challenged him.

“Because you’re doing this for attention.”

“I’m not,” you struggle to keep the act upright.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you actually like him. Tell me you like that silly boy.”

You gaped at his request. Adam’s apple bobbing reluctantly as you gathered every last bit of your plummeting confidence to look up into his eyes. They were arrogant; browns peering down at you like he’s just delighted to domineer, to reassert the magnitude of his influence towards you. He caged you in with merely a look. 

This spited you. He’s always been like this. Give you some room to explore so that you don’t feel trapped with him, but he’d always give a little tug to your leash whenever you forget your position. You were his, before he was yours. That was rule number one.

“I like him,” you repeated yourself, bracing for the onslaught of tsunami he might release at your stubbornness. “He’s kind and sweet and lovely and.. and he has the balls to tell me how he felt about me.”

His expression of disapproval seared through your skin, leaving you raw and vulnerable to whatever it is he’s going to say right back at you. You could tell that he was livid, although he's clearly trying his best to be the better man out of the two of you and stay grounded. 

He knew what you're like. He knew that you're riling him up so that he'd cave in to your requests, because God was it terribly hard to stay put when you're looking at him like that. Round pupils bared into his own. Joel felt the revolting urge to soothe your worries, to utter meaningless words of assurance, to validate the bond he's been trying his best to suspend. His desire festered like it was contagious, blurring the line of boundaries.

“If this is about last week, you know my answers remained unchanged.”

"Why?"

You sounded hopeless and it's clawing at his skin.

"It's unfair to you."

"You know what's unfair, Joel? Acting like you gave a damn, then shutting me out of your life like I meant nothing."

You scoffed. You weren't just desperate for an answer now, no, you were furious. Angry that he thought he could make the decisions for you, that he could be the one to determine which things were right and wrong for you when he knew for a fact that you're a grown woman with your own mind to rely on. Angry that he'd put his self worth in the gutter. Angry that he thought you'd judge him even after the things you've been through together; endless drives through the motherland, camping under a sea of stars, dancing with death itself.

Was it that bizarre of an idea? You plucked up the courage to get even closer. The frilly yellow ruffles of your sundress grazing his crossed forearm.

You poked an accusing finger into his chest.

"Drowning yourself in your pathetic pity party because oh, you're so broken. So undeserving of love."

Your furrowed eyebrows drove him insane.

"Yet you still keep me around. Couldn’t push me away because God knows you need me more than you'd like."

Your labored breath teased the column of his neck.

"That's what's unfair. The fucking waiting. The dancing around. Put me out of my misery, Joel."

He didn't know what to say. Silenced for once.

"Look me in the eye and tell me you don't want me."

You dared him, just like how he dared you. Joel felt conflicted. His vision glued onto the tips of his worn down leather boots as if it’d provide some kind of answer to your demands, He inhaled sharply, before letting out a shaky sigh. Afraid that he’d promise you something he couldn’t own up to, especially since his sharp edges are now dulled from age. 

Joel couldn’t be selfish. No, he couldn’t be that person any longer when he has one foot in the grave.

He knew his end was approaching.

Subtly, but surely. His heart tightened sporadically every time he’d run a little too fast. His joints were stiff and useless, enough that Tommy threatened to pull him off patrols if he kept pushing at his pace. He recalled the incident from his last trip. How he barely escaped a loose infected because his senses had dampened. Your voice also seemed to become more and more faint; he couldn’t even hear the list of items you’ve burdened him with on a shopping trip. Whether you needed a jar of raisins or a pair of shears.

Claiming you was selfish.

He decided on that awhile ago. Far before you’ve realized your infatuation with him, far before you offer such a sweet proposition. 

“Come back to me when you stop being a fucking coward, Joel.”

His throat grew parched at the buzzing silence. He willed himself to touch you, even when it burned his finger tips and sizzled the tip of his ears red. You looked furious, but that cute expression faltered in a miniscule of a second when he cupped the side of your cheek. His thumb stroked agonizingly slow as if you'd evaporate into thin air if he was too brash.

He'd always thought you’re beautiful. One of a kind. Whether it’s when you’re drooling embarrassingly or when you’re dressed up for the commune’s party. But you look the most unbelievable when you’re worried for him.

Was that selfish of him? He traced over your bottom lip gently, feeling the plush material underneath. How he longed to press his lips onto yours. Would it taste sweet? Would you feel soft? His bottom lip quivered, unable to form an answer.

[average-riot]

I actually wasn't expecting some silly sketchbook doodles on an au which I didn't even explain properly to get that many notes!! 😭 but here we are, so with a drumroll please...!

Hi ! This is an actual-actual post on my au :)

My bicgest focus on this AU is definitely Noah and Alejandro which I'm not even ashamed in admitting to, but to get this started...

A Separate Peace is a book written in 1958, set during WWII, in all-boys boarding school, which follows Gene (in our case, Noah) and Finny (in our case, Alejandro!). I've heard from a friend it's actually school required reading in some places in the USA, but I'm not fully sure! However, I hope at least some people have read it before, considering it's such a good book...

For an easier time reading this, I'll be use Noah and Alejandro's names, instead of Gene or Finny, when explaining the plot! ✨️

It's all even more striking when he keeps dragging this sullen little thing after him

Both 16, Noah, and Alejandro strike an unlikely friendship during their summer session of 42'. Despite veing roommates, anyone would be lying if they claimed there was no difference between the two: While Noah carries a studious life full of cynicism, there's nothing Alejandro won't do. Full of charisma and athleticism, there is not one person on campus who would not recognize Alejandro's endeavours and who doesn't absolutely adore them.

There's not one single scheme which Alejandro proposes which Noah can refuse to participate in, albeit his existence. That included the creation of the Super Suicide Society of the Summer Session. Not as foreboding as it sounds, really- All in all. Just a club full of boys doing things considered mildly dangerous. Fighting rough, jumping from high places, playing the most obscure games.

So, then, where's the issue again?

You could suppose it's jealousy. Although Noah would hardly admit to that claim. He'd rather call it doubtfulness, as there is much to doubt. What causes someone like Alejandro to stick by him? Surely he has a plan. Surely he's just showing off.

It starts with two boys standing on the branches of a tree, Alejandro almost ready to jump off into the stream of the river below. The climax is a little more weight put forward, subtle, destabilization of the sacred place they both stood on, from Noah. And the scene closes with a fall, a broken leg, and denial.

But that doesn't mean an ending, no.

Autumn's coming, after all !

There's more characters, of course, and some people who I've already assigned! Alongside a few other pieces of art. I could technically put the entire plot of the book in here, but I think I'd rather do that over multiple posts, with a bunch of little art pieces— or maybe even start a fanfic on AO3 to sort of document everything!

But I'm definitely doing more about this. <3 ty for reading and paying even some attention to this silly little project

[dailyadventureprompts]

Adventure Arc: A Song on a Silent Night

Before we begin I’d like to get personal for a moment. About a year ago I decided I was going to step away from this blog as a daily format and only post when I was really inspired to. It was a drastic step, but one I had to make because I was so burnt out and so deep in seasonal depression that I was on the edge of having a breakdown. Ironically, it was this specific adventure arc that did it for me, as I felt pressured to make something for the holiday season but literally couldn't get words on the page. Taking a break turned out to be the best thing for me. This past year has been great and I’ve actually had enough energy to not only do the projects that are important to me, but to also improve my writing.   My partner and I have written a narrative podcast and we’re shopping it around to producers at the moment, I couldn’t be more excited. (BTW if you happen to be in the business, give me a shout) In many ways it’s very cathartic to come back and finish this adventure. I’d even say it was easy, since I didn’t have the pressure I self imposed because I thought I needed it to write. I just wanted to say: Take care of yourselves friends. Nurture yourself and good art will follow. I am so thankful to have you all as my audience and I hope you know that no matter how bleak the season gets it’s an absolute joy to write for you.

It’s the coldest night of the year, and despite all the lights on in town no one is home. They have been snatched from their beds and their hearthsides by a sinister song that carries on the wind and has spirited them off to another world. Our heroes must follow, and in order to get their friends and family back they must lay siege to the sorrowful heart of winter itself.

Find out what led to these events, and their outcome, below the cut.

Into:   Some weeks before the disappearances begin, the party are sent into the cold to check on a missing mail shipment, only to end up clashing against a group of hobgoblins intent on ruining the holiday season. From there, acts that might be construed as harmless planks escalate into outright malice as it becomes clear the hobs are disappearing townsfolk, working off some sort of list given to them by an unknown villain. 

Adventure Hooks:

If you’re running this adventure arc as part of a longer campaign, consider previewing the hob’s lair long before the villains every arrive, an old ruin where fey and witches are said to revel during the new moon. Having a low level party venture out to the ruins for a test of bravery only to return months later as veteran heroes will show them just how far they’ve grown.

From deadly pranks to highway robbery, each act of malicious mischief committed by the goblins is accompanied by a list of names and seemingly innocuous offenses, evidently ripped off a far larger list in possession of their leader. The party are likely to collect more than a few scraps of these over the course of their journeys, and will be surprised when they begin to form together, laying out a series of disappearances that stretches back some years. 

The goblins’ leader Klatterbell was having such a nice time in the mortal realm before the party got involved. As a hob-knight in service to an archfey of sorrow and frost, the material plane was practically a balmy vacation destination compared to his patron’s foreboding frozen realm. This led to Klatterbell slacking off on his task of collecting mortals and develop aspirations of becoming a sort of yuletide bandit lord.  Aspirations the party can’t help but thwart when they riad Klatterbell’s fortress and set the captives free.  The fight can end either two ways, either the party is defeated, captured, and banished through the portal to the frozen realm of the bleakfather,  or the party is victorious, and as his last act Klatterbell rips a horn from his belt and plays a haunting and mounrful note that will be picked up by the wind and transformed into a haunting tune. 

Returning home from defeating the goblins and rescuing the captives, the party find the town deserted, the strange music unleashed by Klatterbell’s horn echoing in the roar of an approaching winter storm. With their rescued townsfolk in toe, the party will begin to explore the eerily empty town, discovering that the inhabitants seemingly got up from what they were doing and walked into the cold, proceeding enmass to the edge of the settlement where the snow erases their footprints.   It’s at that point that the frost giants attack, walking out of the enroaching storm like it was a curtain between worlds. They’re here to mop up any townsfolk where were not swept up by the enchanting song and whisked away to the feywild, and maybe do some looting while they’re at it. 

Regardless of how it shakes out, the party will have to assail the realm of the Bleakfather, battling their way through a boreal wind that will seek to rip all warmth and joy from their bodies. The only way of getting through this storm is to think back on the moments of joy and light they’ve experienced through their adventures: the festivals, the little kindnesses, the gifts, the pranks, the games, the songs, their friends: These things will lend them strength when the cold and the dark creep in to swallow them… battling their way up the mountain, to rescue the townsfolk and perhaps defeat the archefey himself. 

Future Adventures: 

It wasn’t only the party’s neighbors that were taken captive by the bleakfather, scores of innocents from across the realms were taken by the frostgiants as thralls, all living out their indenture over the feywild’s timeless years. Hospitality will hold for the winter, but come spring the heroes will need to set off to find these people a place to live. 

With their slaves stolen and their fortress breached, the ice giants will scatter, some returning in months or years later at the head of raiding parties as they too seek a new home.  While some may be hesitant to give up their supremacy and seek to subdue the locals wherever they go, others may wish to live only in peace. 

[andromedism]

In 2017, I watched “The Gang Tends Bar” as it aired live, and it’s all kind of a blur but I remember three things very clearly:

Sunnyblr was POPPING. To this day, I still see TGTB posts floating around with 10k notes and they are all still so fucking good. My beautiful relics of an absolutely insane time.

Airing A Crickets Tale that very next week is probably one of the most chaotic things that was happening to Tumblr at that time. We were all like, “Mmm, thanks for whatever that was, RCG! So yummy! Now can we have another helping of repressed middle-aged gay men?” and they said, “Okay, sure! Here’s more of that but make it foreboding,” and aired “Dennis’ Double Life” the very next week after THAT.

I didn’t sleep the night TGTB aired. I was a freshman in college and I went to class the next day and just stared at nothing during my lecture because I was so blown away by it. At 18, it was one of the most formative experiences I’ve ever had with television. Raw, emotional moments have always been so much more impactful to me in comedic shows. I still consider it one of the most romantic episodes of any show I’ve ever seen. I’m 25 now, and I have never forgotten the way I felt the first time I saw this episode. My life is entirely different now from February of 2017, but my feelings about TGTB are exactly the same if not intensified.

Bonus Big Feelings:

Once you’ve watched “Dennis’ Double Life,” TGTB reads so differently—it hurts so much more. Because you know how it ends for them and you never get closure. YOU NEVER GET CLOSURE.

Something about Glenn’s hair being outstandingly hot in S12 really brought everything together, that year + heightened the pining. He would do something and we’d all be like “ok work!”

Season 16 is the closest I’ve felt to Season 12 levels of deranged. I think this makes sense since S16, stylistically, reminds me the most of classic Sunny and somehow, also, every macden fic I’ve ever read.

I never had a good reference point for whether other people outside of Sunnyblr read that episode as incredibly queer, or Just Guys Being Dudes, but most of my comms class watched this show, and we were all foaming at the mouth talking about it the next day. Everyone was like, “Oh my god! It’s getting gayer! We won!”

Reflecting on where I was in life when TGTB, and when this most recent season aired, I can’t help but wonder where we’ll all be if they touch noses. Season 24 is our seasons guys.

[prince-kallisto]

Crowley’s Special Lesson Themes Analysis

HELPPPPPPPP OMGGGGGGG WTF

Okay okay okay, first of all, I’m really flattered when some of y’all say I’m perceptive and such due to my theories, but tell me why I literally JUST realized that the lesson theme changes when Crowley drops in for a Special Lesson?!?!? 😭😭😭😭 L Kallisto moment. -100 perception.

Im not kidding I was literally so focused on Crowley’s chibi form that I never noticed that the music changed when Special Lessons were activated 💀 Self-roasting aside, I immediately went to search up the OSTs for Special Lessons. A huge thank you to this user on YouTube. I compiled the three videos just for my personal reference, but I highly recommend to listen to these songs they’re such a bop!!! 🏃‍♂️🏃‍♂️🏃‍♂️🏃‍♂️

I find it really fascinating that the “Dire Crowley” theme (the song that plays when you first open the game) is very foreboding, but the Special Lesson songs are rather flamboyant. Maybe I’m just hearing it wrong, but I like how a ringing bell-like sound can be heard in the Special Lessons songs. It seems like the passage of time through bells is a shared motif in Crowley’s songs? It could also be a reference to school bells.

I have a theory that these Special Lesson theme songs represent Crowley’s relationship and dynamic with each of the staff members. I separated each song into their different section to talk about, including their bpm/tempo, just because I think the details put into these songs as amazing! Note, I don’t know much about music and instruments haha, so please correct or feel free to elaborate on any information ∑(ﾟДﾟ)

Alchemy Special Lesson BGM (Crewel)

-100 bpm, Allegretto, and in D minor. Allegretto is lively, but it must be executed with a sense of restraint, elegance, and precision. It is not like Allegro, which tends to be happy and upbeat. Allegretto is quite literally “less than Allegro,” so it’s restrained. D minor is a key that is often related to feelings of desperation or distress, which is fitting for Crewel’s students. Although don’t take anything I say about the keys too literally (*ﾟ∀ﾟ*) “Major=Happy, Minor=Sad” is a gross oversimplification of keys, and a song can represent any emotion regardless the key it’s in. However, I think it’s worth mentioning because keys are still chosen purposefully to guide the listener to an interpretation of the music! ♪(๑ᴖ◡ᴖ๑)♪

-This is honestly one of my favorite songs from the game. I am LIVING for the doublebass in the background. It’s so jaunty and lively despite its deceptively simple sound. It keeps the tempo very well, I love it

-I relistened to the “Cruella De Vil” song that Roger sings in 101 Dalmatians, and it’s what gave me the idea that Crowley combines his theme with the individual teachers. This song has a elegant yet foreboding vibe to it, much like Roger says about Cruella: “she’s like a spider waiting for the kill.” If you listen to instrumental versions of this song, I feel like the vibe is there

-The Alchemy song feels a bit tense, especially near the end, where is feels like the instruments are fighting for attention and overlapping each other. Although Crowley and Crewel are both (SEEMINGLY) classy and get along surprisingly well in canon, both of their “teacher modes” are very intense. E.g Crewel with the whole pup thing, and Crowley just being unreasonable over all haha. Perhaps it is why Crewel and Crowley very rarely are on screen together? For both Crewel and Crowley to be present in a Special Lesson must be very stressful for the students, with Crewel being strict and demanding and Crowley just being nosy haha.

-Their relationship fascinates me, as they both seem to respect each other a lot. For Crowley, it makes sense, as he generally speaks favorably of the other staff members. But Crewel is rather critical of both Vargas and Trein, so why is he so tolerant of Crowley’s rather unreasonable behavior? Crewel seems to respect him and consider him to be kind, even though it’s obvious Crowley is not. And like I said, they don’t interact a lot in canon, and they mostly do when the other staff members are there too, so there’s very little time of them talking to each other specifically. But then it made me think how crows/ravens and wolves have a mutually beneficial relationship in the wild, with crows leading wolves to possible prey, and the crows feeding on the carcass once the wolves make the kill and eat their portion of the prey. Research has even discovered that ravens have close bonds with specific wolves in a pack, and often play tug-a-war with wolf puppies with sticks. Thus, ravens are often referred to as “wolf birds.” Due to this, some crows and ravens get along with bigger dogs too, as crows/ravens tend to like canines. So perhaps Crowley and Crewel’s positive relationship is a reference to this, and how they may just instinctually like each other? 🤔 Because I cannot think of a reference from the 101 Dalmatians, Snow White, or Sleeping Beauty to be made here with these two characters.

-So going back to how the instruments seem to be fighting each other in the end, perhaps it represents how differing Crowley and Crewel’s personalities and teaching methods are. Crowley is strict when necessary, but he’s far more tolerant with student antics and often acts even more immature than the students sometimes and allows fights/conflicts for the students “personal growth,” whereas Crewel has this intensity and energy with the students at all times, never wanting them to be out of line in any matter at all. Like the clash of their hands-off and hands-on methods, but at the end of the day, they’re both rather strict and it’s unfortunate when the students have to deal with them at the same time haha! In their Alchemy Special Lesson voice lines, both Jack and Rook express how intense the room gets, and Room saying HE feels like the prey now. Several other students say how they feel a chill in the air during Alchemy special lessons, with even Floyd saying he gets the “heebie-jeebies.”

History Special Lesson BGM (Trein)

-100 bpm, Allegretto, and in F major. Allegretto is a common tempo in classical music, alongside Allegro and Adante, so it’s fitting that Alchemy and History follow suit. Ernst Pauer describes F major to express peace and joy, but to have an underlying passing regret and melancholy. I could think of few possible “passing regrets,” with Trein in particular with the passing of his wife, whom he remembers fondly and has many habits in her memory. And of course, History in general causes many regrets.

-After listening to this one, I immediately went to go listen to the BGMs from Briar Valley in Book 7 lmaooo…I find it interesting how prominent wind instruments are shared between these songs, but I need to analyze further before I can say something more definitive 🏃‍♂️ It is interesting how the History Special Leason theme has this whimsical and fantastical feel to it- it’s very fitting.

-On this note, the middle-ish section of the song reminds me a bit of a marching band! Which is. Interesting considering it’s military origins 👀but maybe I have to admit that this is a stretch haha…something to think about though when I analyze Book 7’s music in the future.

-I’m really in love with the “call and response” theme they have with the woodwind instruments (clarinet and piccolo?? I’m apologize if that’s inaccurate, I don’t know much about woodwind instruments 😭 I listened to samples and just made my best guess,,,) clarinet plays a melody and a piccolo responds and repeats the same sound. Not to be dramatic af, but it lowkey sounds like a pair of songbirds who are courting each other, which makes me sad because I’m not normal over my silly Crowley theories🏃‍♂️🏃‍♂️🏃‍♂️ When courting, a songbird “sings”so the other bird they are courting can respond. If the courting is successful, the pair duets the same tune, which is exactly what the piccolo and flute are doing. Crowley x Trein is real… (I’m kidding HELP). It goes to show that even though Trein scolds Crowley a lot, they clearly have some faith in each other, especially in Book 6 when Crowley assigns Trein as temporary Headmage. This “call and response” is a representation of this faith, with one calling, and the other responding when it’s necessary.

-Or if you’re ridiculous like me, it’s sad in context because Crowley is an isolated character, despite all the pairs of raven statues around the school haha!

-Interestingly enough, this is the one song out of the Alchemy and Flight themes that does not have a the “ringing bell” I was talking about. Interesting this is missing in the History class, as if time is not relevant/time has stopped. Or perhaps how sense it’s history, we are not at the “present” time.

-Overall, this song feels far more harmonious than the Alchemy song. I think it goes to show how genuinely dedicated Trein is about the study of History, given he’s done fieldwork in the past. Trein is able to keep Crowley relatively in line just like the students, so the song flows smoothly.

Flight Special Lesson BGM (Vargas)

-140 bpm, Vivace, and in A minor. Vivace means brisk, lively, which signals to the musicians to play with spirit and energy. This tempo is AMAZING, because Crewel and Trein’s were both at 100 bpm, right? But this song is at 140 bpm. It gives a dynamic sense of movement and vigor to the song. At this beat, it’s known that it may make some listeners feel restless, due to the beat being faster than a resting heartbeat range. It was an incredible choice for the Flight lessons with Vargas, as it is a gym/workout class! 140 bpm falls comfortably in aerobic exercises heart rate range, especially since where referring to teenage boys. Haha this may be obvious in music theory/composition, but I thought it was cool! (*ﾟ▽ﾟ*)

-I was surprised by this one, for how prominent the electric guitar is instead of the orchestra at the start of the song! Crewel and Trein go along with the orchestral theme rather well, making it a strong highlight of their respective songs. Compared to the other themes, the guitar feels overbearing. It’s very fitting for Vargas’ personality, for as we see in the special voice lines, Vargas is a bit much even for Crowley

-However, strangely enough it works, as the ending portion combines everything quite well. Vargas is one the staff members who I think has the most positive opinion about Crowley. Although Vargas is overbearing, he and Crowley get along really well. In events like Beanfest, they share an equally concerning enthusiasm of the sport of it all. They seem to have a lot together sharing their predictions and ideas for Beanfest, and Spelldrive is also a shared interest of theirs. Funnily enough, I think Vargas of all people is able to take Crowley’s antics more in stride than the other staff members, and vice versa.

-This song ends in a particularly exuberant manner. It goes to show how excitable both Crowley and Vargas be, and how they have high hopes for their students. Yes, they’re a bit much, but there’s a genuine liveliness they both share. Crowley even plays along with Vargas’ strange ideas, like how in an Unified Exam voice line, Crowley thinks that Vargas’ idea of making the student uniforms with heavier fabric to “build muscles” is a genius idea and he wants to look into it more.

-So perhaps this song deviates a little bit more from the classical themes to represent the antics these two have compared with the other teachers?

Did I overthink these theme songs WAY too much? YES LMAO 😭😭😭 But I am so genuinely surprised at how the different Special Lesson themes were made for each class. You would think that the song would be the same, since Special Lessons are rare and last for a short amount of time. It is why I have these little notes about each song, because if the time was spent to craft unique songs, I feel like there is a purpose and thought put behind it? Hmm, I’d like to study more about music to articulate my thoughts better, because I am very interested in Twisted Wonderland’s songs, and I know very little about music!

Edit: the brilliant and lovely @snakevsnis (💞) also sent me a brilliant interpretation that Crowley may also just be the type to “mimic” the personalities of the people around him, especially based on their habits to blend in. I love this idea! It makes me think how Crowley’s immaturity becomes far more rampant when he’s around the students. He’s even a character with a generous voice range, e.g his deep, serious voice in the opening prologue, versus any other time when he’s silly. It’s to the point where his “true” personality is currently ambiguous, as it tends to shift quite a bit. So yeah, I think these BGMs could be representation of this!!

Anyway if the Alchemy special lesson theme song doesn’t get played at my wedding, what’s even the point anymore. L spouse, L wedding, I’m ditching it immediately and running away into the night, taking all the gifts and money with me so I can finally buy a Crowley plushie (things perfectly sane people say)