#dynamic w/ the reader

[spotlightstudios]

I love writing Found Family, and I'm ngl, it's kinda why I stopped posting a lot of DCA content.

I did that thing where I stared at the characters for too long and said, "y'know, that's good sibling/guardian material" and then obliterated myself.

[baeshijima]

hmmm.... thoughts about composer!reader, whose pieces are always created for and featured in mr reca's films/projects.

people aren't sure when it first started, but in the release of one of his prior films was an ost. of course, it's not unusual to have music in such projects, but that one had felt... different, somehow — in the way its composition struck the chords of many, with billions across the cosmos instantly scouring for who made that piece.

it, of course, didn't take all that long when your name was featured in the credits. however there was barely any information aside from your name and credentials. (seriously, how could there not even be a single photo?!) no one knew what you looked like for quite a long time, only ever recognising your name and your music; even despite the numerous interviews, mr reca had never disclosed anything about you other than your talents. it came to a point where everyone believed they would never see your appearance.

well, until all hell broke loose during the annual intergalactic film awards, that is.

everyone already knew the drill — if mr reca had directed a film that year, it would undoubtedly win the adapted/original screenplay, cinematography, directing, production design, sound, music (original score and song), and film of the year awards, which also led to you winning both the music awards. usually, the composers would be the ones to collect said awards. however, the masses have become used to mr reca being the one to collect them on your behalf with thank you's also on your behalf.

that's how it's been ever since you made your mark in the universe, and so it really is understandable the uproar created by those in and out of attendance when the one who went collect the two awards wasn't the esteemed director, but a completely unfamiliar person; you.

you are definitely younger than they originally thought, having believed it must have been someone of a senior status of sorts to have consistently created such masterpieces. all eyes are trained on you as you step on stage and into the limelight for the first time, the light enhancing your features and formal attire when approaching the mic with a small flashcard in hand. your mouth opens, and the audience leans in with baited breaths as they await your first words.

...only for nothing to come out.

everyone watches a little dumbfounded as you try to talk once more but, aside from gaping like a fish, your efforts remain futile. it doesn't take long for you to clamp your mouth and eyes shut, even raising the awards in front of you in an attempt to shield your face from the crowd.

you... you were just really shy. or maybe a little...socially awkward, perhaps...? if this was the reason you never showed yourself, then they're beginning to understand why...

it passes in a blur — quite literally in that of brown. one moment you are alone on the stage, the next you have the presence of the renown director standing slightly in front of you, as though acting as a shield from the many prying eyes.

"apologies," he begins, his usual smile on display, "but my dearest composer has been suffering with a sore throat these past few days. on their behalf, we thank you all kindly for your support in our work."

and then he swiftly leaves with you tucked under and shielded by his coat, murmuring unreadable words to you as you both disappear backstage and leave everyone in a state of frenzy; to both those inside the ceremonial hall, and to those watching live elsewhere.

(it was only discovered after the awards ceremony concluded what the director had said to you, with the uploader being dubbed as a holy saint for their contributions to society. while the visual aspects of the video itself were not the clearest, barely anyone had it within themselves to complain when the audio was clear as crystal:

"and here i thought you were going to be brave and face your stage fright after all that pep-talk you gave yourself on the way here."

"i'm sorry... i really thought i could do it this time..."

"now, now, i'm merely teasing. you made a big step just making an appearance here today. i know how much courage this took for you, and i'm proud of you for facing it."

"really...?"

"but of course. i'm always proud of you, [name]. there is not a moment where i haven't been.")

(it also was not long until the cosmos was taken by storm when various pictures snapped during the awards ceremony spread. the millions of candids featuring you were one of the most liked and shared, with the top spot joined by the sequence of pictures taken of mr reca's soft expression when watching you onstage, into his realisation of your predicament, into him running onstage and shielding you from the cameras when making your way backstage.)

(...the drastic influx of fan accounts dedicated to both you alone and to you and reca should really be a studied phenomenon.)

[rayveneyed]

bakugou katsuki proclaims, quite often, that he doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body. he snarls it — cheeks flushed an angry red — when you teasingly ask him for homemade chocolates, or to change your name in his phone to something cheesy. you’ve had him down as pumpkin from the moment you started dating, after all, and he’s long grown used to hearing baby and sweetheart and darling in place of his given name, even though he swears he hates it. you often tug at his wrist and point to bouquets of red roses, whining why don’t you ever get me those? just annoying enough to have him pulling your head under his elbow and roughly ruffling your hair, cursing the way he’s spoiled you.

kirishima got mina a heartbeat bracelet, you say pointedly, tucked under his arm on the couch and peering up at him with those eyes — those eyes that say you’re looking to push his buttons a little. (internally, he scoffs — as if he didn’t know. as if he wasn’t the one that gave shitty hair the idea in the first place. it’s just — it’s different, isn’t it, when he’s getting it for himself? for you?) shouldn’t we get something like that, baby ?

he grunts something unintelligible — something about how they’re gimmicky, how they probably don’t work, how it’d distract him when he’s kicking ass, how it’d probably melt with the use of a single howitzer impact, blah blah blah. you shrug. it’s not that big of a deal, anyway. you mostly brought it up to pull his leg a little — you know he’s not one for grand gestures like that, preferring his acts of service above all else — but for all the fight he’d put up, two heartbeat bracelets arrive at your apartment not even a week later. amazon prime expedited shipping, no less. 

he ignores you when you bring it up — lets you fasten it onto his wrist with little fanfare, the tips of his ears turning red, muttering something about he’d probably never use it, anyway, and he only got it so that you’d shut up about it all — never say i don’t do shit for you, woman!

but when he’s halfway across the world, tangled up in schemes larger than you have the capacity to think about — when you’re watching the news with teary eyes and bated breath, hands clutched to your chest, it always comes without fail: a small buzz on your wrist, gentle and thudding and rhythmic. ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump.

[cursedcola]

Discussion: "The Prophecy of Twisted Godhood" <- A reimagining of Twisted Wonderland through Greek Mythology. Where instead of a world based on Disney - Yuu is sent to a school meant to train demigods in another realm. Dormitories: Heartslabyul (here) || Savanaclaw || Octavanille || Scarabia || Pomefiore || Ignihyde || Diasomnia || Ramshackle (full lore and main plot outline) || Others Notes: Hey everyone - believe it or not, this was the original idea back when I started working on my TWST otome. I went a more traditional route since I wanted more of an immersive product...but I still have all of these ideas, y'know? So why not share them since I won't be making it into a game. Character designs and comics might come if i ever want to add more

Premise: The Prophecy of the Gods’ Reawakening

At NRC on the Isle of Gods, a prestigious institution built upon the ruins of ancient temples, Yuu (the protagonist) is just another student. However, Yuu’s, a supposed ‘godless human’, arrival is no accident—there’s an ancient prophecy surrounding them that foretells the fall of all gods, threatening the balance between the mortal and divine worlds.

The gods, once all-powerful, are losing their grip over their domains. Their children, the demigods, have become restless, each facing the expectations of their divine parentage while undergoing trials at NRC. The mortals are unaware of the ancient forces at play, but Yuu is caught in the center of this storm by ‘chance’ with no power to return to their realm. As they unravel the ties between the demigods, Yuu discovers that their very existence could either restore the gods' reign or bring about their ultimate downfall.

The students of Night Raven College, in this realm known as Nether Realms College, split into seven dormitories, each reflect different aspects of the divine legacy that they inherit. Each dorm conflict mirrors a myth or curse, and Yuu must navigate these volatile relationships and broken alliances, all while uncovering their own mysterious divine heritage.

Heartslabyul - The Realm of Judgment and Destiny

Heartslabyul's - renamed 'Themantica' Dormitory - central conflict revolves around the battle between order and chaos, justice and mercy, hard work and inherited power. The dorm will undergo a transformation as its members grow to understand that their godly traits do not define them, but how they choose to wield those traits in a world on the brink of power usurpation is what truly matters. Yuu becomes the catalyst for reform, teaching them that while their divine parentage shapes them, their choices define who they will become.

Riddle Rosehearts – Child of Themis (Goddess of Justice)

Reasoning: Riddle Rosehearts is deeply connected to Themis, the titaness of divine order, justice, and law. Themis is the embodiment of fairness and law, often depicted with scales, which resonates with Riddle’s strict adherence to rules and his sense of justice, though Riddle also learns that true fairness isn’t always found in rigid systems.

Connection: Themis represents the legalistic and moral code that Riddle so rigidly follows, making her a perfect fit for him. Or rather, a perfect fit for his mother. His buried personal feelings about his role as a demigod are another story.

Conflict: Riddle Rosehearts' devotion to order, justice, and the enforcement of rules mirrors the divine influence of Themis. As the dorm leader, Riddle’s strict enforcement of rules represents his own attempt to uphold the ideal of justice in a chaotic world. However, the prophecy that ties Yuu to the fate of the gods will challenge Riddle’s worldview. As the gods’ powers begin to weaken, Riddle will confront the truth that blind obedience to law can lead to harm, and that compassion and flexibility must sometimes replace absolute fairness.

Tension with Yuu: At first, Riddle views Yuu as a disruptive force to the carefully ordered environment of Heartslabyul. Yuu, being unaware of their own divine parentage, challenges Riddle’s rigidity with their natural tendency to understand situations in shades of gray. Yuu's tendency to question authority and find balance between rules and fairness will force Riddle to confront the flaws in his belief system.

Resolution: Through their relationship, Riddle learns that true justice comes not from strict adherence to law, but from considering the greater good and acting with compassion. Yuu helps him realize that mercy is as important as law.

Trey Clover – Eldest Son of Demeter (Goddess of the Harvest)

Reasoning: Trey Clover, the thoughtful, responsible, and nurturing member of Heartslabyul, fits well with Demeter, the goddess of agriculture, harvest, and the home. Trey is dependable, grounded, and often takes on the caretaker role within his dorm. Much like Demeter’s nurturing presence, Trey ensures others’ needs are met and provides stability. He also has a calm demeanor that makes him approachable and supportive—qualities that resonate with Demeter’s ability to protect and nurture those under her care.

Connection: Both Trey and Demeter represent stability, nurturing, and responsibility, offering support to those around them.

Conflict: Trey Clover embodies the nurturing and stabilizing influence of Demeter, the goddess of the harvest and the home. Trey is the responsible caretaker of the dorm, often stepping into the role of peacemaker and advisor. However, the divine chaos wrought by the prophecy forces him to question how much he can protect others from the encroaching disaster. Demeter’s loss of influence over the harvest in the world will affect Trey’s ability to care for others, and he may feel powerless to prevent the unraveling of the world around him.

Tension with Yuu: Trey is highly protective of Yuu, as they are a triggering force that may push Riddle over the teetering edge, but struggles with a deep sense of helplessness. Yuu is an uninvolved party to the gods’ warfare, and Trey’s connection to Demeter places them in a Persephone-esque position. Yuu’s inevitable involvement in the prophecy raises the question of whether even his powers to nurture can stop what’s coming. Yuu becomes a mirror for Trey to understand that change is inevitable, and that sometimes, allowing things to grow in a different form is necessary for survival.

Resolution: Trey will come to accept that nurturing isn’t always about protecting people from harm, but rather about guiding them through transitions and supporting them as they face their own challenges. Yuu's growth into their role will help Trey understand that not all things are meant to stay the same forever.

Cater Diamond – Son of Eros (God of Love)

Reasoning: Cater Diamond is a fun-loving, social, and self-aware character with a deep connection to social media and capturing the moment. His energetic, attention-grabbing personality aligns well with Eros, the god of love and desire, who often brings people together in unexpected ways. Eros also represents a playful, seductive force, much like Cater’s ability to charm and captivate those around him, while his social media savvy connects to Eros' symbolic role in the pursuit of connection and attraction.

Connection: The playful, charismatic, and communicative nature of both Cater and Eros makes them a fitting pair.

Conflict: Cater Diamond’s connection to Eros, the god of love and desire, makes him a natural at influencing relationships and connecting people. His charming, flirtatious demeanor is a reflection of Eros’ ability to manipulate and inspire love in others. However, the prophecy forces Cater to confront the darker side of love—the obsessive, destructive, and manipulative nature that Eros’ power can also wield. As the gods’ power wanes, Cater begins to question whether his relationships with others are genuine, or if they’re merely the result of his ability to manipulate emotions.

Tension with Yuu: At first, Cater views Yuu as a puzzle to solve, someone who doesn’t seem easily swayed by charm or emotional manipulation. Yuu’s sincerity and ability to build genuine relationships challenge Cater to rethink his approach to love. As the prophecy nears its fulfillment, Yuu will show Cater that love can’t be controlled—it must be earned, nurtured, and given freely.

Resolution: Cater learns to let go of his need for attention and approval, realizing that true love is built on honesty, trust, and vulnerability, not manipulation. Yuu’s example shows him the power of real connection.

Ace Trappola – Son of Hermes (God of Trickery, Travel, and Communication)

Reasoning: Hermes, the god of trickery, travel, and communication, is known for his mischievous and playful personality. Ace, with his witty, rebellious nature and tendency to bend the rules, fits perfectly with Hermes' persona. Ace’s love for teasing others, his knack for getting out of tricky situations, and his ability to charm those around him makes him a natural fit for the god who’s always up to something playful and clever. His impulsive behavior also echoes Hermes’ swift, often unpredictable actions.

Connection: Ace’s wit, humor, and trickster nature align closely with the god of mischief and communication, Hermes.

Conflict: Ace Trappola is the embodiment of Hermes, the god of trickery, communication, and mischief. Ace’s constant need for attention, his love of pranks, and his manipulative nature align with Hermes’ playful and unpredictable qualities. However, as the gods lose their influence over the mortal world, Ace becomes aware that his tricks and quick wit may not be enough to navigate the complexities of the prophecy and the divine conflict. He must confront his own immaturity and selfishness, realizing that his usual tricks can’t solve the problems at hand.

Tension with Yuu: Ace sees Yuu as a challenge—someone who isn’t easily fooled or controlled. Yuu's ability to act with intention and thoughtfulness challenges Ace's impulsive nature. Yuu’s steadiness and willingness to make the hard decisions will force Ace to realize that his cleverness doesn’t always get him what he wants. He must learn that sometimes, real communication is about honesty, not manipulation.

Resolution: Ace will eventually come to appreciate the value of genuine connection and purposeful action. Yuu will help him see that trickery can’t always be the solution—it’s the truth and action that hold power.

Deuce Spade – Youngest Son of Hephaestus (God of Craftsmanship and Fire)

Reasoning: Hephaestus, the god of craftsmanship, fire, and hard work, is known for his dedication and loyalty. Deuce Spade shares many of these traits with his strong sense of duty, determination, and earnestness. Deuce is not a naturally gifted student, but through effort and perseverance, he works hard to overcome his challenges. Much like Hephaestus, who labored tirelessly to create his masterpieces, Deuce is a character defined by his commitment to improvement and his willingness to push through struggles.

Connection: The hardworking, earnest, and somewhat awkward nature of Deuce mirrors Hephaestus' perseverance and determination in the face of adversity.

Conflict: Deuce Spade is a reflection of Hephaestus, the god of craftsmanship, fire, and hard work. Deuce is driven by an earnest desire to prove himself through his effort and dedication. He is a diligent student who values hard work over innate talent. However, the prophecy forces Deuce to question his own worth. The struggle for divine recognition, along with the looming sense that all their hard work might be in vain, challenges Deuce to confront his belief in the value of toil. Can hard work truly protect the world from the prophecy’s wrath, or will they need something more than mere craftsmanship?

Tension with Yuu: Deuce’s strong work ethic and determination to be the best often put him in direct opposition to Yuu, who may not have the same motivations or views on hard work. He sees them as a possible connection to better understand human-kind and learn socially acceptable mannerisms. Yet their nonchalant outlook on the school’s way of teaching demigods has him question the ‘right path’ – which Deuce finally thought he found.  Yuu might remind him that effort alone is not always enough to overcome challenges—sometimes, one must rely on intuition, teamwork, or emotional resilience to succeed.

Resolution: Deuce learns that true strength doesn’t just come from hard work, but from the ability to adapt, trust others, and remain flexible. Yuu teaches him that it’s okay to rely on others and embrace different strategies to solve problems. That there is a balance between good and bad – perfection and rebellion.

[kingkat12]

So Kate's (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: dom/sub dynamics, foul language, humiliation, office misconduct, reader is a freak ouf

summary: being a brat has its consequences-- did you really think Mr. Godfrey was going to let that go with no repercussions? time to smarten up, and dress up too.

word count: 9,670

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a/n: I've been obsessed w Zendaya's shoes as of late, so you best believe I managed to squeeze in a chapter about Louboutins....... and we are FINALLY getting reader and Letha being cute besties again omfg so TIHI ENJOY<333

Handling pain is a skill.

However, there are some people that are born without the ability to feel pain, and that is often a lethal flaw-- if you don't feel pain, then you're actually more susceptible to injury, did you know? I didn't. After scouring BDSM forums all over the internet, I had quite frankly gotten obsessed with finding out everything I could, and the more I got into the pain aspect of it, the more I found myself unable to understand. 

I didn't like pain. Never have, never will like pain. That wasn't the part I enjoyed, or wanted, out of my odd relations with my boss. Although, it seemed I might be into the emotional pain of being Mr. Godfrey's secretary-- it certainly made my brain hurt and my cheeks burn, but in the most intoxicating way. Something told me that was a feeling I had been chasing my whole life, and now that I had it, I finally felt complete, and unable to let go.

But, back to it-- if you're unable to feel pain, then you're prone to unintentional self-injury, because you literally can't feel it when you get a paper cut, or when you've bitten your tongue too hard, or even broken your bones. Maybe it's alright to be in pain sometimes? Maybe it's fine to feel it in exchange for health? I had no idea. All I knew, was that I had managed to triumph over the worst pain a woman could handle; not my period, no, not childbirth, but--

Wearing So Kate's.

The classic stiletto by Christian Louboutin, famously worn by Zendaya and probably all of Hollywood.

I'm joking, of course-- I know there are much worse things I could go through. However, I had gotten a pair as a gift for finishing college, and originally, I fucking hated those pretty sons of bitches. They were gorgeous, elegant, classy, perfect, yet agonizing to wear. I couldn't walk for more than five minutes before my feet would beg to be beaten with a hammer in order to not be able to walk in them anymore. However, after about four months of wearing them around my apartment, making dinner in them, washing the dishes in them, doing my laundry in them, they almost started to feel like socks.

I had pushed past the pain, and gained something beautiful-- a wearable pair of Louboutins. 

And today, I finally dared to wear them to work. It wasn't like I was running track around Godfrey Industries, right? I could totally wear them without even noticing how ridiculously tall they were. I knew how to handle them, after all. I could totally fucking do this. 

Anyway, I needed something to distract me from the psychological warfare Mr. Godfrey was waging on me for biting his fucking thumb. Stupid, stupid girl.

Using my shoulder, I nudged the door to his office open and slipped in like a shadow, keeping myself small and unnoticeable. Hoping to get it over with soon, my first step was hurried, and that made the cup clink clumsily in the saucer; with a quiet hitch of my breath, I deliberately slowed, pressing my steps into silence. Thank fuck I wasn't a spy-- I'd get myself killed with my heavy damn steps. Or was it the Louboutins? 

One cube of brown sugar.

Not too much milk.

Stirred three times, exactly.

I always got Mr. Godfrey's coffee just right. I always made it with the utmost precision. If anything, I was the picture-perfect secretary right now (if you excluded the times I got off behind my desk, or the two times in my boss's office whilst he watched me). Had Godfrey Industries been a fair place to work, I wouldn't have any problems here. However, it wasn't-- this place was somewhere I'd guess the Anti-Christ would set camp, if he could choose. 

So, with my heart lodged in my throat, I continued making my way to Mr. Godfrey's desk, not daring to take my eyes off the coffee; there was no way in hell I'd spill any of it and give him more reasons to deem me incompetent. 

But just as he had done every day for the past week, Mr. Godfrey didn't look up. 

There was not as much as an acknowledgement, not as much as a glance. He sat behind his desk, back perfectly straight, one hand poised near his temple with a pen resting lightly between two long, slender fingers. His green gaze scanned some document with such intensity that it was almost theatrical, like he knew I was standing there and he was choosing, with full awareness, not to acknowledge me. Fucker. 

With a subtle roll of my eyes, I cleared my throat; "Your coffee, sir,"

I put it down one inch from the edge, centered with the stack of papers to his right, just as he had instructed me to do during my first week here. It was perfect; I was perfect. I put it down with a trembling sort of reverence, my hand ghosting over it for a second, unsure, like maybe if I lingered just a little longer, he'd finally look at me. Maybe he'd say something, acknowledge me? I didn't need much at this point. I'd take anything, just a glance, a huff, a sigh, anything.

But... nothing.

The air between us stretched thin. I could hear Mr. Godfrey's pen scratch against the paper in front of him, could see the way his sharp jaw flexed once, twice, like my presence was physically bothering him-- and then, he moved.

I held my breath as Mr. Godfrey's hand reached forward, slow and unbothered. For a moment, I thought he was going to say something, that this would finally be the morning he gave in and spoke to me again, even if it was just a snide comment or a thinly veiled insult-- I was so starved for his attention, I would've taken it like praise. I would've taken it with open arms, whatever it would be. Even if it was just a tiny 'this coffee sucks', it would probably make my day, and maybe even make me orgasm on some higher level right in my Louboutins.

But instead, Mr. Godfrey lifted the coffee cup by its delicate handle, turned a fraction in his seat, and... dropped it into the trash bin beside his desk. The ceramic hit the bottom with a sharp crack, and I flinched. The sound echoed in the quiet room like a slap-- I stood frozen, watching the faint steam curl up from the bin, mixing with the scent of scorched sugar and shame.

I balled my hands into fists. 

Mr. Godfrey had been pulling this crap on me for a week now, and I knew that it was because I had bit his thumb. I knew it, deep in my gut. But after he had let me cum on his shoe (yes, I know, I'm deeply ashamed, don't you worry), and I bit him (because I was overwhelmed by the power he held over me, like any fucking newbie would be), he had stepped on me and called me a brat! Who the fuck does that?! If anything, I should be spitting in his OCD-coffee!

... Oh, that's a good idea, actually.

I wanted to spit down at his feet too, maybe even specifically on his right shoe, where I had gotten off. How dare he make me feel this way? How dare he play these games with my head?! At the end of the day, it was fucking childish, and at the end of the day, it... was getting to me. Ugh. Why couldn't he at least look at me?

I forced a swallow past the burn in my throat, and I nodded even though he couldn't see it. Or maybe he could? Maybe he was watching me through his periphery with that sick, surgical precision he had, cataloguing my humiliation like it was data, like it was proof that this was working?

Bastard.

However, in the midst of my frustration and anger, I recognized that I had missed the sickness of it all. The twisted feeling of being scorched, and feeling my skin swell in resistance to the burn. I stood in Mr. Godfrey's office a beat too long; way too long, actually. Maybe I was stupid enough to believe that if he got uncomfortable enough, he'd say something? I just needed him to speak to convince myself that I hadn't imagined the whole thing, that I hadn't invented the way he had pressed me down onto this very desk, the way he had looked at me, and the way I had unraveled in his hands like a silk ribbon--

But Mr. Godfrey didn't change his mind. He wouldn't-- not for me. He didn't look at me, nor did he give me anything as much as a hum. Instead, he merely raised his hand and gave a short, dismissive flick of his fingers, a wordless, effortless command for me to leave, the same way one might shoo away an insect buzzing too close to their ear.

The flick of his wrist felt like a phantom bruise, and as though I had been slapped, I turned around on my Louboutin heels and marched out of Mr. Godfrey's office, stomping my every step to his floor. Hopefully, I'd leave a large scratch or two. 

How long would this war last? What did I need to do to get him to sign a peace treaty?

Ugh.

This day sucked.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

.... Okay, fine, maybe this day had some redeeming factors after all.

"--He's really sweet and all, but I feel like he can sometimes be too sweet. This isn't high school, y'know? I don't like going on dates with him and feeling like I'm going to prom every time!" Letha swirled the rosé in her wine glass, tutting the tip of her tongue against the roof of her mouth with disapproval. "What the hell happened to normal men in the 21st century? What happened to them, seriously? Where did they go?"

I could only laugh, glancing down at my Louboutins as she continued complaining-- lunch with Letha was always amusing. She also worked for Godfrey Industries, but much higher up (nepotism alert), and therefore always had access to my schedule. Even though she worked remotely from inside some mansion her father bought for her as her graduation present, she could therefore calculate when she could swoop by the lobby on the first floor and ask for me to be called down for lunch; the Godfreys were all smooth like that. 

Letha was the one who had gotten me my Louboutins for graduation, and Letha was the one who got me the interview at the company-- I could trust her. If anything, I needed her opinion on what was happening between me and her cousin, without her knowing who I was talking about. However, I needed to get to that somehow, eventually. "I don't know," I answered, placing my elbows on the table and putting my face in my hands. "But I promise you, you could find someone way crazier than someone who wants to date you the old-school way." Much, much crazier.

Letha sighed, cocking her head to the side as she looked back at me with those classic Godfrey-green eyes. It was almost scary how similar they were to Mr. Godfrey's-- well, of course. They were cousins, after all. Maybe I could keep looking into Letha's eyes for the rest of my life, and that'd relieve the withdrawal symptoms I was having from my boss no longer looking at me? Yeah, that sounded like a good plan. 

"You might be right," she purred, steepling her fingers as well, mimicking me. "Or maybe I just find it repulsive that he's into me? I've been scouring the internet, and that's what comes up most of the time."

I shrugged; "I don't know, Lee. Maybe you should bring that up with the guidance counsellor, just like in the good old days?"

"Ha-ha," Letha rolled her eyes, grinning from ear to ear. "But I think my main issue with this guy is that he seems genuinely nice. Big difference from Chad-- do you remember Chad? That asshole didn't even bother to pay for dinner when we flew to Aspen together!"

"Of course I remember Chad! But him not buying dinner for you doesn't really indicate whether he's a nice person or not, though?--"

"Come on! It's enough to show he was a shitty boyfriend!-- Oh, wait, yeah, that one's mine," 

Our conversation was cut off when our food arrived, and as we exchanged polite smiles and short thank you's, I couldn't help but notice the look in Letha's eyes when she scanned our waiter; it was almost flirty, yet openly hungry. She brought her hand up to her shiny blond locks, twirling it around her finger as she locked eyes with the guy, blinking sweetly, innocently-- I had to do everything in my power to not groan or laugh. It was crazy how this sort of stuff always worked for Letha without fail, because as predicted, our cute waiter left the table with a pink tint colouring his cheeks.

Godfrey-green eyes met mine once more with a playful smirk. "I love the waiters here," she purred. "That one's my favourite. He's particularly yummy!--"

"Okay, enough!" I grabbed my cutlery, suppressing my giggles. "You were just talking about the guy you're actually dating. What was his name again?"

A rather pregnant pause ensued. Letha swallowed, clearing her throat with suspicious anxiety. "Well, I call him Barty..." she mumbled, barely audible.

Wait. Immediately, I put down my fork. "No," I breathed, stunned. "Lee, don't fucking tell me his name is!--"

"He's from old money!" Letha whined, placing her glass next to her plate. "Of course he'd end up with a name like!--"

"Bartholomew?!"

"I know!" With a cry-like sigh, Letha grabbed her fork and stabbed her salad, visibly upset. "Okay, now it's decided. I should definitely break up with him."

I bit down on my lower lip, crossing my legs at my ankles as I hoped to regain my composure and hopefully not be too harsh with Letha's endeavours. "Again, I don't agree with that. Maybe he has a crazy name, but at least he seems normal! There are much worse men out there, believe me. Seriously, maybe you should stick around and take it slow, this time?" Believe me, believe me.

Letha stabbed another cherry tomato with such force you'd think it had personally offended her. "I'm not so sure about that," she mumbled. "Ugh... Bartholomew just sounds like the kind of name you moan by accident when you're trying not to finish."

I choked on a piece of salad. "Jeez, Letha!"

"Tell me I'm wrong!"

"You're... not," I muttered, trying very hard not to imagine anyone whispering Bartholomew in a sexual context. Ew. Could not be me. "But I'm also begging you to change the subject."

Letha smirked, clearly pleased with her joke. "Fine, but I'm not wrong about him. He wears Balenciaga shoes unironically. You know how I feel about men who dress like they're about to blow Kanye West in the middle of January!

Ew, ew, ew! "Yeah, but you've dated worse!"

"And that's not a comfort!"

I ended up rolling my eyes, letting her spiral while I pushed my salad around my plate. This restaurant was glossy and cold in that exclusive way, and I knew I had to eat my food until its last crumb to not offend the head chef or something--- with its white tablecloths and modern chairs, this was the kind of place that pretended it wasn't trying too hard, even though you knew a thousand-dollar lighting consultant had planned the ambience. It was a typical Letha-place to dine. The wine was crisp, the water had cucumber in it, and someone was definitely eavesdropping from the next table over.

Still, it was better than the office, where Mr. Godfrey was ready to make my life pure hell. 

"Well," Letha said suddenly; "At least your love life's probably better than mine. I haven't seen you in a while, so I expect a good fucking update! Who are you dating at the moment? Does your guy also insist on intense eye-contact during sex? Sickeningly long cuddles afterwards? Ugh, I could barf..."

My fork paused halfway to my mouth-- I set it down gently. Eye-contact? If only. Physical intimacy? I wish. Sex? Oh Lord. I cleared my throat; "Actually, about that..." Your cousin is into some form of office sadism and has seen me cum multiple times. Did I tell you I came on his shoe last week? "I know you have more experience than me regarding relationships and men, so I need your opinion on something."

Immediately, Letha's ears perked up, and she beamed at me from across the table. She grinned like a cat who had just heard a mouse blink; "You're seeing someone?"

"Oh, hardly,"

"You're... sleeping with someone, then?"

"Not really?"

"What?" Letha chewed on a cherry tomato as her brows drew together. "How can you not really sleep with someone? Do you, like, exclusively dry-hump or something?"

"I'm-- yeah, I don't know what the fuck this is," I scooted closer to the edge of the chair, lowering my voice so that the rich aunties next to us wouldn't hear me. "It's not sex, but it's not nothing... it's much deeper than that."

Letha blinked, putting down her cutlery with urgency before leaning closer. "What do you mean?"

"There's-- there's this guy," I whispered. "And I feel like he's literally inside my head! It's like he knows what I'm thinking, like he knows my nastiest thoughts, and it's freaking me the fuck out because he uses it against me!"

Letha looked like she was about to explode like those birds in Angry Birds, barely able to contain her excitement. "I'm listening,"

"No, no, this is not a good thing!" I tried, fiddling with the napkin nearby. "He knows what I want before I even know it, and... these past few weeks, I've done some really crazy shit, and I just-- have you ever let someone control you?"

Letha's plush lips parted slightly, eyes scanning my face with confusion. "That sounds really... kinky,"

"Yes, but have you ever?"

"... No? I don't think so,"

"Are you sure? Has a guy never, like..." I couldn't even say it out loud. I glanced at the nosy ladies next to us who were trying to eavesdrop, and they quickly turned away from us and our conversation. Sighing, I turned back to Letha-- how was I supposed to avoid making it obvious that I was talking about her intimidating (and ridiculously hot) cousin? "Have you ever, like, for example... humped guy's a shoe?" Maybe it was a normal thing? Maybe I just wasn't experienced enough?

But then, Letha practically jumped in her seat, gasping; "Humped a shoe?!"

"Shut up!" I hissed, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. Oh God. "Lee, please, I!--"

"I need to lie down!" Letha exclaimed, blissfully stunned. "Preferably in traffic, because this is so much juicier than Bartholomew! What the fuck have you been up to, seriously?! Who are you, and what did you do to my best friend?"

"--I didn't know what I was doing, okay? It just happened, and now I can't look at him without thinking about it! And even worse, he won't even look at me anymore! 

Letha had both hands over her mouth, but I could still see the unhinged smile hiding behind her fingers. "Oh my god. This is... this is the craziest thing I've ever heard in my life," she whispered, barely containing herself. "You humped a shoe? His shoe?!"

"He told me to!" 

"And you just did it?!"

"I told you, I've lost my mind!" I stared down at my plate in shame; I knew I had gone mad when a piece of lettuce started to look judgmental of me as well. "Forget I said anything... Seriously, just forget it."

"Right..." Letha's voice was now a reverent hush, like she was observing a religious moment. "So, you're saying he won't look at you anymore?"

"Yeah," I breathed.

"Maybe he's ashamed?"

I cocked a brow; why was she suddenly sounding like she was actually helping me? "Nope,"

"Well, to me it sounds like he might be toying with you, then," Somehow, Letha had calmed down, and was now casually back to eating her salad. "If he's the type of guy that tells you to hump his shoe and then ice you out, he's playing a game."

"... Oh?"

"Definitely," She tilted her head and flashed me her pitiful, green eyes. Gorgeous. "And I don't know too much about this sort of stuff, but if I were you?" Her voice dropped, soft as a dare, yet served with concern; 

"I'd learn how to play the game."

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

There was a woman waiting for Mr. Godfrey. 

I stared at her from where I sat behind my desk later that day, wondering what on earth she was here for. She had been waiting patiently outside his office for about fifteen minutes, refusing to sit down on the designated seats, and it had now gotten to the point where she was clearing her throat and squirming uncomfortably because of her heels. 

They weren't very tall, yet I guessed they were a pair of those kitten heels that felt really comfortable in the morning, but became absolute killers by the end of the day. 

However, she was gorgeous. With legs that could probably reach all the way to China, she was statuesque, poised, and everything I'd guess Mr. Godfrey was usually into. Something in me burned when I realized that he'd be alone in his office with her, and images of me throwing my computer at her and ruining her beautiful face flashed before my eyes-- I shook my head, hoping to get the thoughts out of my head before I continued smashing my fingers against the keyboard to hopefully complete the weekly report I needed to hand in soon. The harder I clicked the buttons, the more I felt my aggression relieve itself-- God, how I wished I could relieve myself my usual way, yet Mr. Godfrey had installed something in my brain that wouldn't let me. For some reason, I couldn't physically bring myself to go against his words, and that scared me more than anything.

Ms. Long-Legs cleared her throat again, making me wonder whether it was a tic, before she approached my desk for the fourth time today; "Are you sure that he remembers my appointment? I was scheduled for 13:45, and I have been waiting for fifteen minutes! It's almost two o'clock now!"

With a long, dramatic sigh, I glared up at the woman; I couldn't bring myself to be nice to her, knowing she'd be alone with him shortly. Would she also be asked to hump his shoe? Did she get off in front of him too? "Mr. Godfrey is a very busy man," He's not running a business for fucktards, after all. "He will be with you shortly." And you can shove your cock up your ass.

Was he maybe toying with this woman too? Was he making her wait because he knew this would drive her crazy? It seemed he had a pattern.

She scanned me up and down, sensing my hostility. "And you're sure he knows I'm here?"

... Something told me she had been a part of the Godfrey circus longer than I. 

Bitch.

I blinked, angered. Because this, I wasn't actually sure about. Mr. Godfrey's blinds were rolled down. Therefore, I had sent him an email about this ten minutes ago, yet he hadn't answered any of my emails the past week, so... ugh, I knew what I had to do. With a sharp breath and an unprofessional roll of my eyes, I got up from my seat, expertly poised in my high heels. As I graciously made my way past her and her pained feet in Louboutins that were nowhere near a heel-height threshold she could handle, it made me feel on top of her in some evil way. Better than her. Why would Mr. Godfrey want someone who couldn't deal with some pain?

Hoping to hide my anxiety from the woman waiting for him, I knocked thrice on Mr. Godfrey's office door. 

No answer, of course.

I glanced over my shoulder-- Ms. Long-Legs was still watching me like I was an idiot. Frustrated, and keen not to be seen as incompetent, I knocked again, this time a bit harder. My stomach knotted with anxiety, because I knew the woman was still staring, arms folded, one foot angled awkwardly as if trying to relieve the pain in her heel. When I didn't get any answers again, I pressed my ear closer to the door, feeling as though I was breaking all the laws in the universe. 

I quickly pieced together that Mr. Godfrey was on the phone; "--No, I said I don't care who signed off on it, you run it past me first, that's the entire goddamn point!--"

Then, the door flew open.

It was clear that Mr. Godfrey had dragged his hand through his hair multiple times; it was a mess.  The top two buttons of his shirt were open, and the anger flaring in his green eyes was unmistakable. However, despite all of it, he looked handsome as ever-- bastard. 

I blinked up at him, staring; up close like this, I could smell his cologne, probably with hints of his aftershave as well. Just as I started to feel pink mist seeping out of my ears, I cleared my throat, hoping to get his attention through his scattered energy, and--

Oh.

He looked at me.

Mr. Godfrey looked at me.

For the first time in about a week, eyes wide with frustration with the person on the other side of the phone he had pressed between his shoulder and his cheek, he looked at me.

"Sir," I tried, nodding towards his guest. "Sorry to disturb, but you have a-- a visitor... she was scheduled for 13:45."

Visibly annoyed, Mr. Godfrey's green eyes landed directly on her, and immediately, his expression faltered. It was momentary, like he was horrified to see her, and his jaw tightened as he kept his eyes on the beautiful woman waiting to get a moment of his precious time. "Right," he breathed, probably debating whether to jump out the window in his office, or if it'd be easier to shoot himself with the gun I knew he had in his third desk drawer. "And you are?"

The woman straightened up; "I'm with HR. We met a few weeks ago,"

HR?  What the fuck had he done, now?

Mr. Godfrey sighed, relenting; "Come in, then,"

Ms. Long-Legs straightened immediately, her discomfort forgotten in favour of the crisp swish of her designer skirt as she strutted past me and into his office. I remained outside, still holding the handle, uncertain whether to close the door behind her or not, until Mr. Godfrey made the decision for me-- he slammed it shut in my face.

The blinds stayed up this time, and for a second, just a second, I saw him-- Roman Godfrey. Not the suit, the tyrant, or the freakishly composed bastard I'd come to hate and want at the same time, but the man; pale, quiet, and rattled.

He was visibly uncomfortable, leaning against his desk with his arms crossed over himself, as though that would somehow protect him from whatever the woman was there to tell him. I watched as his eyes narrowed and fixated on the way Ms. HR shifted in her heels in hopes of relieving her discomfort.

Then, through the blinds, I watched as his gaze flicked to mine.

My heels.

His lips parted, just slightly. Was he maybe thinking about the difference? The way I looked like I could be in these hell-bringers for hours, yet the other woman couldn't even hold herself for fifteen minutes? High, thin stilettos, black patent; perfectly balanced. I hadn't shifted once-- I didn't need to, and I wouldn't. I could stand in these all day.

But Mr. Godfrey didn't seem to allow himself to stare on any further. Without a word, he stood up with a sharp clack, and approached the blinds-- I couldn't read him when we locked eyes, and I didn't have any time to, before he snapped the blinds down again. 

Ugh. I couldn't see anything now, so I did what any dangerously curious person would do; I stayed frozen and pressed my ear up against the door, just close enough to hear.

"I'm here about the complaint filed last month by your previous secretary," came the woman's voice. Cool, measured, practiced, HR; that was what she was. Not a girlfriend, not a sub, but an executioner. Thank fuck. "I assume you've read through the preliminary documents. There were some... disturbing claims. Specifically about a personal dynamic between the two of you that was allegedly coercive."

A sharp scoff followed from Mr. Godfrey, almost a laugh. "She begged for that job back after I fired her," he huffed. "There was even a whole fucking scene the day I interviewed for my new secretary! If anything, she should be the one in trouble right now! There was nothing coercive of the sort, and I'm even suing her for saying that crap, ask my paralegal!"

"That may be," the woman replied, cold. "But the concern is the power imbalance. The possibility that you encouraged certain... behaviours."

Mr. Godfrey snapped back, raising his voice; "That's bullshit! She was undeniably nuts, you must've realized that during your talks with her?!"

"-- Mr. Godfrey, please, this is simply a formality! You must understand that!"

"I do!" he hissed. "And you've done your job, so are we done? Can I go back to doing mine?"

"If you're asking if I'll be filing a formal report, then no... But this will stay on record,"

Mr. Godfrey groaned-- I didn't need to see him to know that he was rubbing his temples. He did that whenever he got properly annoyed. "If every woman I'm going to work with is going to try to squeeze this company for my money, then I'm compelled to only hire men! But I can't fucking do that because of your fucking inclusivity regulations!"

"Mr. Godfrey, I suggest you stop speaking!--"

"This is my company! If my previous secretary is going to press with crazy claims, then I expect you to be on my side!--"

"I am not here to shield you, sir! I am here to protect your employees, and quite specifically, your young, new secretary who frankly looks terrified of even being in your vicinity!"

Something thudded inside the office-- maybe a drawer slamming, or a fist. I couldn't make it out. In an instant, I scurried to my desk, sitting down with the utmost hurry. So, my suspicions had been correct; the previous secretary had definitely been his sub. Why couldn't Peter have told me this? How many people knew? With trembling fingers, I tried to go back to working on the weekly report-- I had to submit it in about ten minutes, and I realized all I needed was Mr. Godfrey's signature. Fuck. 

Then, I heard harsh footsteps nearing. The door to Mr. Godfrey's office whipped open with a gust of air, and the man himself stormed past me like I was invisible. 

The HR woman stepped out shortly after, smoothing her skirt and offering me a polite smile; I could see the evil glee behind those gorgeous eyes of hers. I didn't return it. Bitch. 

For some reason, I felt beyond angered by what I had just witnessed. If Mr. Godfrey was being hounded for something that was consensual, that was simply unfair. I would never do that to him. I would never, ever, even though Letha confirmed that my afflictions were irrational, even though I knew it was irrational-- in a hurry, I grabbed the weekly report from my desk and rushed after him.

I wasn't terrified of Mr. Godfrey; I needed him to know that. If anything, I wanted him near at all times. The HR bitch had no idea what she was talking about!

That was why I was now on my feet, heels clacking sharply against the marble as I chased after him. "Mr. Godfrey-- sir-- wait!--"

But didn't stop; he wouldn't. He was a storm in motion, cutting through the office like it offended him just by existing. A few people looked up as we passed, some quickly ducked their heads back down behind their screens, and others openly stared. I didn't care; all I saw was the back of his head, the sharp angle of his jaw as he strode ahead of me, fists clenched so tight the tendons in his forearms stood out.

"Mr. Godfrey!" I tried again, clutching the paper against my chest. Maybe talking about the report would make him see that I wasn't scared? I had no idea what I was thinking. "I just-- I just need your signature on the!--"

In an instant, he stopped so abruptly that I nearly crashed into him. Mr. Godfrey turned around, eyes blazing, lips parted with fury-- and before I could take a breath, duck, save myself, he shouted at the top of his lungs; "What do you want?!"

The hallway went silent. Several doors cracked open. Somewhere, a printer stopped mid-page. All I could hear was the thundering pulse in my ears.

I blinked up at him, stunned.

"What," he spat, "is so fucking urgent that you need to chase me like a lunatic down the goddamn hallway?!"

I froze. "Sir, I-- It's just the weekly rep--"

"I don't give a shit about the weekly report!" he barked. "You think I'm in the mood to babysit your paperwork right now?! Don't you see I have more important things to deal with right now than your incompetence?!"

My ears were burning red from the humiliation, but this wasn't the kind I had previously liked-- this felt like torture. I couldn't yell back, couldn't oppose him, not in front of the whole office. My body betrayed me, and I felt my eyes well with tears; did he think I was incompetent? Was that maybe all this week had been about, that I just... wasn't good enough? 

Had I imagined everything?

Mr. Godfrey wasn't done. "Oh, don't stand here and look like a victim! I told you to stop stuttering, and to wipe those fucking tears you always have! And still, week after week, you hand in your work like I should be grateful you managed to use a stapler!" he yelled. "If you need my signature on bullshit like the weekly report, learn to forge it, and save me the fucking waste of time! How incompetent is it possible to be?!"

A lump rose in my throat, and I pressed my lips into a straight line, not wanting to give away the way they quivered with my building tears. 

But then, Mr. Godfrey's voice dropped, and he got all up in my face-- to truly cross the line, he pressed his finger into my shoulder, giving me a harsh shove in hopes of me losing my balance; I didn't. Not in my fucking Louboutins. I didn't dare to look at him, and I screwed my eyes to the floor. 

"Fix it," Mr. Godfrey hissed, low and lethal. "And get out of my fucking face."

With that, the scratch of the heel of his shoe violated my ears before he stormed off, yelling something I couldn't catch at the rest of the employees who were watching. 

My hands were still gripping the report, wrinkled now and damp where my fingers had started to sweat. My vision blurred as hot tears finally spilled over and fell, one after another, down my cheeks and onto the paper. I didn't even wipe them away. I just stood there, crying silently like some stupid little girl who couldn't even handle a bad grade. How could I have been so thoughtless? How had I manage to convince myself that Mr. Godfrey was into me, when all along, he was just a plain fucking sadist?

Letha's words stung me as I stood there, frozen, staring at the floor, and specifically at the marble that shimmered faintly beneath the artificial lights. Somewhere behind me, someone coughed. A keyboard clacked. A door eased shut. Life went on, yet I couldn't move. How was I supposed to play Mr. Godfrey's game? 

Then, a voice cut through the blur, urgent but soft; "Hey-- hey, hey," A warm hand appeared on my arm, and I instantly knew who it was. 

Peter's handsome face was a mix of worry and fury, his brows drawn tight as he stepped between me and the eyes of the office. "Come here," he murmured, shielding me with his body. "Don't just stand here, come on."

I shook my head and tried to push him off, tried to regain my dignity, but he wouldn't let me; "Don't argue with me right now," Peter said, gentle but firm. "Look at the state of you... Jeez, you're shaking. You're coming with me."

Like the saviour he was, he ushered me toward his office, blocking the view of every curious face that dared look up, his hand never leaving the small of my back. He opened his door, pulled me inside, and shut it behind us with a soft click. "There you go," he murmured, guiding me into the chair across from his desk before leaving to close the blinds. 

The moment I knew no one could see me, I allowed myself to unravel-- the sob clawed out of my throat before I could stop it, and I bent over my knees, hands clutching at the short skirt I had specifically worn for Mr. Godfrey, just trying to hold something, anything. My pride, maybe?

Peter was already crouching beside me, his sigh falling warm against my knee. He didn't touch me, didn't shush me-- he just stayed still and let me fall apart. "Hey," he eventually said, voice barely above a whisper. "He doesn't get to talk to you like that."

I shook my head, but I couldn't speak. The tears kept coming, thick and hot, soaking my lashes until the whole world looked smeared. My ribs hurt from holding it all in, and now it poured out with everything I had been hoarding for a whole week.

Peter shifted closer, eyes round with concern. "You're not stupid," he said, softer now, reading my silence. "And you're not bad at your job. Roman just needed someone to bleed on, and you were standing too close... It's not your fault, kid."

I let out a shaky laugh; my tears were shockingly salty as they spilled over my lips. "I'm so pathetic," I whispered, voice breaking. "Crying in your office... Over him."

"No, you're not pathetic," His voice was steel now; "He's the pathetic one, for taking his shit out on someone like you."

Someone like... me?

The phrase echoed. Someone like me. Someone who still wore short skirts because she wanted the attention, someone who played pretend-submissive in her head like it meant something, someone who thought she could turn lust into safety, or longing into control. Someone delusional. Someone small. Someone pliable. Someone discardable. Someone unimportant. 

"I just thought he--" I stopped, swallowing another sob. "I thought he liked me." Stupid, stupid girl. Why would anyone like someone like me? Especially Mr. Godfrey, who could have anyone he ever wanted.

Peter's silence was heavy. It wasn't cruel, wasn't judgemental, but full of all the things he didn't want to say too quickly. "He did-- He does," he tried. "But not in a way that's good for anyone." Peter looked at me, earnest, eyes kind in a way that only made it worse. "I can't say much because of legal reasons, but the way he handled the last secretary wasn't... it wasn't okay. None of it was alright."

He shifted, gently placing his hand on my knee; something about it made my skin pleasantly buzz. "Look... This is a guy who grew up being told he was a God. He's been bathed in wealth we can't even begin to comprehend, and his mind is all screwed up because of it, so anything he says, comes from his sheltered little dream-land. He doesn't understand consequences. He doesn't understand that you're sitting here, upset. Imagine it like... like he's constantly in a moderate bubble of psychosis. Life is not real to him, so you can't make him real. Roman Godfrey is the virus in your computer, and it's time that you either tossed the whole thing out or built a firewall,"

I blinked at him, my heart aching in some small, tender way I wasn't prepared for. "But... I like my computer," I whispered. 

Peter reached out with his free hand, slow, careful, and peeled the wrinkled report from my grip. "It's a very nice, shiny computer," he said, rubbing my knee with his thumb in soothing motions. His eyes rounded out further with concern and pity, and he sighed before he landed his last blow;

"But you really need that firewall if you want to keep using it,"

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Handling pain is a skill.

Going through a full workday at Godfrey Industries was also a skill. It could break the strongest of soldiers, kill the most resilient of wolves, yet somehow, I had gotten through to the end of it. 

Mr. Godfrey hadn't come back from where on earth he had ran off to (probably his palace in the depths of Hell, if you ask me), and I had been back from Peter's office for a while now, sitting behind my desk playing my favourite game-- snake. Now that Mr. Godfrey wasn't here to give me any assignments, I had nothing to do, and quite frankly, I couldn't focus on anything that garnered my full attention; I needed something to space out to, and this was perfect.

I had about thirty minutes until I could go home. Hopefully, my crazy, evil, handsome bastard of a boss wouldn't return from Satan's secret lair, where he probably resided, and I wouldn't have to face him until the end of the day.

But as you likely guessed, speaking of the devil--

Mr. Godfrey's steps were usually harsh, quick, rash, and I'd usually be able to hear them from miles down the hall. However, he had somehow managed to appear in front of me with the swiftness of a CIA-trained spy, completely undetected. He leaned against the wall opposite my desk with his arms crossed over his chest, not looking at me-- instead, I saw the way his eyes had fixated on my Louboutins, and most specifically, the heel of them.

Then, just as I thought he was about to yell at me some more, and just as I grabbed my desk with dread, his first words were shockingly soft; "Those are sharp," he mumbled. "Sharp and high. I wondered why you were so tall today."

Stunned, I shifted in my seat, straightening up. I couldn't believe he was talking to me again. Swallowing over and over, I scanned him; was he wearing a different shirt? Maybe he had sweated through the previous one-- the whole incident with the HR lady seemed intimidating, after all. "I'm glad that how I dress doesn't utterly disgust you anymore," I huffed. "Is there anything I can do for you, sir? Maybe I could go get another cup of coffee for you to dump in your trash?"

Despite my sharp words and attitude, I flinched when Mr. Godfrey's green eyes darted to meet mine. However, they weren't terrifying like they had been earlier. Something had changed. "Yes," he said, pushing away from the wall and swallowing the reprimand he wanted to give me for mouthing off. "There is something you could do. Follow me."

There was something unbelievably relieving about hearing Mr. Godfrey talk to me and treat me like a normal person. If anything, it made everything worth it, and I felt sick for even thinking it. Some part of me would maybe even let him yell at me every day, if he'd come back at the end of it and speak to me softly like this. Without saying a word, I nodded and followed his long steps into his office.

The door shut behind me with a muted thud.

I stood in the middle of his office, unsure whether to sit or wait for him to tell me to. It felt like I had walked directly onto a wooden stand, ready to have my head chopped off by the dreaded Godfrey guillotine. 

However, Mr. Godfrey didn't look at me. The silence was suffocating, and the room smelled like that expensive cologne he wore, mixed with the adrenaline still lingering from whatever fire he'd walked through to get back here.

Without saying a word, he went to the bar cart by the dying orchid, fingers brushing over a crystal decanter before pouring a glass of what I could only guess was brandy. That alone told me something was off-- he never drank during office hours, meaning something was brewing, and it might be the cauldron where he was going to cook my remains.

Mr. Godfrey walked over to me and handed me the glass. What? I took it because I didn't know what else to do, and placed it beneath my nose; yeah, this was brandy, alright. 

Then, finally, he spoke, still not looking me in the eye; "What happened earlier... wasn't supposed to happen,"

"What are we talking about?" I asked, clutching my glass. "Me getting off on your shoe, or you yelling at me in front of the whole office?"

That did it-- Mr. Godfrey's eyes snapped up, ready to burn a hole through mine. It was clear that I had caught him off guard, and that he had obviously meant the latter, but I had been dying to finally say it out loud. You've seen me cum. You've seen me cum!

I was building my fucking firewall, piece by piece. Thanks, Peter. 

I had to play Mr. Godfrey's game to defeat him, the ultimate boss. Was he perhaps the modern equivalent of Bowser? That wasn't a thought I wanted to think right now, but anywho-- thanks, Letha.

"I crossed a line," Mr. Godfrey finally said, his voice tight with discomfort. "But I'm not usually surrounded by like-minded people, so... I got ahead of myself. I got too excited."

"Like-minded people?" I took a careful sip of my brandy as my words echoed the office. What was that supposed to mean?

Mr. Godfrey's mouth twitched like he regretted saying it out loud. He turned away slightly, running a hand through his hair; it was disheveled again in a way that made him look younger, almost boyish. "I saw something in you," he said after a pause, quieter this time. "Or, well, I saw you, and what you did, and I suppose I took that as an invitation. But was it?"

"Was what?"

"Was it an invitation?" he pressed, swallowing. "That first time I saw you? Did you want me to see it?" 

I stilled, pressing the glass to my bottom lip as I tried to find my words. "No," I breathed-- that was the truth. It'd had nothing to do with Mr. Godfrey. I was simply doing what I had been doing for years, and I had only wanted to relieve myself, but... "But I think I part of me wanted you to."

"To?"

"To see me, sir," My gaze fell to the floor, glancing at my Louboutins as anxiety burned its way into my fingertips-- or was that the brandy? "I just... wanted to be good."

Mr. Godfrey blinked. "Good?"

"Yes, sir,"

"Good for... me?"

Green eyes burned into mine when I dared to meet them again. The tone of his voice, the way it was painted with a delicate stroke of uncertainty, made my heart skip a beat. "You're doing it again," I breathed. "You're talking to me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like this is something more than me being your secretary, and you being my boss,"

The air between us grew thick with tension as Mr. Godfrey's gaze never left mine. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. His broad chest rose and fell as if trying to steady himself, like he was trying to catch up with something that had just slipped through his fingers. "You're right," he said, his voice low and controlled, though there was a hint of something raw beneath it; "And I don't think I'm able to stop."

Oh God. 

I didn't know how to respond; I was suspended in that breathless pause, feeling like the wind had been knocked out of me, and not because of anything cruel, but because Mr, Godfrey was so composed now, so gentle. I opened my mouth, daring to speak, but he lifted a hand-- calm, slow, before he delivered the final blow; "So, if you wish to leave, you're not going to walk out of here with nothing. Don't worry. You'll get the severance package, full benefits, letters of recommendation, glowing ones... You'll be taken care of. I want you to land softly after what I've put you through,"

I stood still. 

Very still. 

Too still. 

It felt like any movement might shatter the fragile air between us, but in this tension, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't exist. So, I downed the brandy, to Mr. Godfrey's surprise-- I put it down on the floor next to me, flexing and unflexing my fingers like a nervous tic. I could feel my eyes well with tears as all my air got stuck in my chest; was this really happening? 

No, no, no.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no!

"Sir," I breathed, hoping my voice wouldn't crack. "Are you firing me?"

Mr. Godfrey's eyes widened slightly-- not with anger, not with that usual razor-sharp contempt he wore like a suit, but with something closer to confusion. However, there was no uncertainty when he gave me his answer; "No," Immediate. Definite. "I'm not firing you. If I fired you, you wouldn't get the severance package, so no. I'm not firing you. You're just... allowed to leave."

Something within me had cracked, and I couldn't mend it. I was trying to scoop up my emotions and stuff them somewhere I couldn't reach, but there was no going back. My tears had blurred my vision completely, and I had no idea how they hadn't spilled down my cheeks yet. This was an immediate panic unlike anything I had ever felt before. It felt like I was about to be executed, and like my entire reality was shattering. "Am I really that bad?" I breathed. "Did I-- Did I do that bad?"

"... What?"

"Did I do that bad of a job? Was I-- was-- I that bad?"

Mr. Godfrey stilled, but not like before; this was different, quieter, slower, like I had said something in a language he only half-understood. He took a single breath, and then, almost cautiously, exhaled; "You think this is about your job,"

"I just!--" I swiped at my eyes, furious that I couldn't stop my tears. "I'm just trying to-- to understand, sir! What did I do-- do wrong?"

Mr. Godfrey blinked. His hands gripped the desk even harder, as though that would ground him in this unforeseen conversation. Something told me that no one had cried like this in front of him before, and that he had absolutely no idea what to do with the crybaby in the room. "I thought I was doing you a favor," he tried. "I thought you'd want out, after what I've been putting you through?"

I placed my fingers beneath my lower lashes, hoping to salvage at least a bit of my makeup. 

Now that I was faced with the option, I finally knew what I wanted, after all the different inputs of the day. Just the thought of no longer seeing Mr. Godfrey, no longer being told what to do, no longer chasing the pain, the humiliation, the exhilaration, along with the high of having his full attention, made me want to scream. I needed him like water, despite what everyone else thought I needed. I'd had a taste of what I could have with him, and I needed, needed, needed, needed--

"No, I need this," I said, suddenly, voice thick with the kind of desperation I didn't know I was capable of exposing. "I need this job, sir. I need the rules, I need you to keep telling me what to do, I need-- I need this."

I watched as Mr. Godfrey flinched and pushed away from the table, shaking his head as though I was telling him something he shouldn't know. He paced back and forth, chewing on his bottom lip. He stopped with his back to me, his hand dragging down his face. "You can't need that," he muttered. "You shouldn't."

"But I do!" I cried, louder now, surer; it was a relief to say it out loud. "This, whatever this is, has been the only thing that's made any sense to me in a long time! It's like-- it's like I've been living under a damn rock for years, and all your bullshit makes me feel alive!"

Mr. Godfrey practically spun around on his heel, facing me with his brows drawn together in a look of offence; "My bullshit?"

"Yes, your bullshit!" Sniffling, I rubbed my nose, trying to get myself together. "You haven't even as much as looked at me for a week now because I showed some resilience!"

"That's not!--"

"No, that was why, sir! That's why, and I've loved it!" Tears ran down my cheeks as a broken laugh slipped past my lips. God, what a relief, and what a revelation-- all the emotions from my week of being ignored had culminated in something I had never felt before; important. Because Mr. Godfrey had taken the time to single me out, put his energy into ignoring me, and that made me feel beyond special, beneath all the pain and confusion. 

I needed this. I needed this.

Mr. Godfrey stared at me like I had just spoken in tongues. He was absolutely baffled-- positively scandalized. I watched it ripple through him; first the disbelief, then the reluctant understanding, and then that flicker of dark, stunned delight. "Are you sure?" he eventually asked, scanning me for any possible cracks. "Are you sure that this isn't just some new obsession of yours?"

I took a shaky breath; I was sure. "It's not,"

"And how can you be sure?" Something told me that Mr. Godfrey was nervous about this too, somewhere behind his deep, green eyes. He had previously had a hefty telling-off from HR, which I definitely should've have witnessed, so I could understand that he was reluctant to step into this again, no matter how much he wanted to; however, something in my head stopped working, and went into a gear I didn't know I had.

My brain short-circuited and did the most instinctive thing I could've done. I stepped forward away from the door, one step, two step-- I was sure, and this was the only way to show him.

I dropped to my knees before Mr. Godfrey.

The carpet grazed my knees, but I barely felt it. My breath came down in hard, choppy motions, but I didn't let it show. I simply placed my hands on my thighs and waited. I waited for him to say something, to deny me, to accept me, to step on me once more and call me a stupid little girl with a brain the size of a nut, anything-- I had to lower my gaze.

And for a few agonizing seconds, nothing happened. 

Then, I heard the sound of his shoes.

Mr. Godfrey stepped forward, silent, until the tips of his expensive shoes were nearly touching my knees. I didn't look up, I didn't move-- I couldn't. I was offering myself up to his dominance, to his control, to his liking, so I needed to stay very, very still. This felt like a mating dance I'd see birds do on National Geographic, because that was their nature, and this was ours. I could sense the air change above me, hear his soft sigh, and then--

Mr. Godfrey snapped his fingers, and I didn't need to talk to know what he wanted.

I tilted my head upwards, daring to meet his green, unreadable gaze. From this angle, he was gorgeous as ever, breathtaking-- I couldn't believe I even had a sliver of his attention.

Mr. Godfrey's thumb touched my bottom lip; his skin was warm. The pad of his thumb pressed inward with gentle pressure, and his eyes never left mine, even as they fluttered with my shaky exhale. 

I parted my lips, inviting him, accepting him.

He let his thumb rest inside my mouth a moment longer, not controlling, just there, like a question he already knew the answer to; I wouldn't bite. I wouldn't do that again, and he knew that now. When he eventually pulled it out, slowly, carefully, he brushed it against my cheek, smearing my spit into my skin, wanting to see whether I'd whimper with discomfort or squirm with disgust.

I did neither.

With a dreamy sigh, Mr. Godfrey crouched down in front of me, getting on my level for the first time-- it almost felt symbolic. We had accepted each other. It was done. He leaned in closer, so close I could smell his cologne again, so close I could trace the outline of the blessed Forbes nose, close enough to make me wonder whether he'd kiss me or not, before he whispered; "Are you sure?"

My lashes were heavy with my drying tears. "I'm sure,"

"I've been burned here before, so I need you to be clear with me. Do you consent?" Mr. Godfrey's green eyes seared into mine as his words clung to the thick air-- he needed to know. He needed to know, the same way I needed him to doom me.

I needed him to specify; "To working here?" 

"No," Mr. Godfrey breathed. "To being my submissive."

My heart stuttered-- finally.

It was out in the open, and in the midst of my joy, my eyes scoured his, searching for lies, searching for anything Mr. Godfrey could trick me with, but this was one of those rare moments where he was laying out everything for me to see. Something told me I wouldn't get him like this ever again. If anything, this was the opportunity of a lifetime, and an opportunity I had been waiting for him to give me since the second I met him. 

Finally, there was no question in my mind. I didn't need a firewall; I needed a dominant.

"Yes,"

(a/n: there is so YUMMY about this guy.... wtf is wrong w me?? OH WELL<333 HOPE U ENJOYED, MWAH MWAH MWAH FOR ALL THE SUPPORT!!!<333)

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lovely little taglist:

@likecherriesinthespring @muchwita @fish-eyes-png @voidpixies

@voidofsunlight @sn0wybowie-blog @scarledy @carmillavalentine

@succubustacy @sweatyconnoisseurstrawberry @ohperiodtpoohhh

@whisper-it-to-my-ear @prismozo @dreamxaboutxsomethingxnice @scarledy

@useyourwandbro @malenoradgn @veesenya @immernixia

@lunaskye999

[sp4ceboo]

UPCOMING PRINCESS'S GUARD alpha!KIRIBAKU X omega!READER | OMEGAVERSE + MEDIEVAL AU

A/N: 18+ (snippet is suggestive + some knife play), i'm still editing but it's looking to be just under 6k and should come out soon-ish. i'll start a tag list if anyone wants? anyway, here's the crumbs

EDIT: READ HERE

Eijirou steps forward from where he fills the doorframe, inhaling, checking your scent for the distinct metallic tang of blood. You watch as he scans the room, scouring it for anything wrong despite knowing you’ve probably already done so.

Remorse is clear on his face, and you know that if Katsuki was less frustrated with himself, it would be on his too; though you are not hurt, though you are capable on your own, and though you are the reason there were gone, they still were not there to protect you when you needed them. You can see they are both painfully aware of it.

Slowly, Eijirou gets to his knees in supplication, and after hesitating, Katsuki does too.

“My lady,” Eijirou says softly, eyes downcast. “We have failed you.”

Katsuki remains silent, a muscle in his jaw feathering. He cannot meet your eyes. You take a step forward to stand directly in front of them, and you cannot help but relish the way the power rushes to your head. There they kneel, at your feet, heads bowed. It’s at odds with the pure strength that sings in their veins and permeates their very beings, strength that is so clearly evident in the ripple of muscle that lines their every movement and the patterns of scars on their skin.

“Two of you, and still you can’t do your job properly,” you sigh, bending down so you can look them in their eyes. “Pathetic, good for nothing alphas.”

Intertwining with Eijirou’s sweet musk, the warm scent of caramel floods the room as Katsuki immediately catches on to the cruel, saccharine tone of your voice. You laugh softly, prowling over to him, amused by the way he unashamedly breathes in your scent.

Picking up the silver dagger on your desk, you wrap your fingers around its ornate hilt and roughly fist a hand in Katsuki’s blonde hair, yanking his head back. He glares at you, his crimson eyes defiant, the muscles in his neck straining, and you flip the dagger in your hands before pressing the tip to his throat. A low growl sounds low in his chest as you trace the line of his jaw, clenched to perfection.

The burnt sugar flavour to the air only grows.

[shouyuus]

>“college roommate!vi who goes real quiet the first time you laugh in her presence, a real laugh, not one of those ha-ha ones you snipe at her when she's trying to get a rise out of you, or teasing you about spending all your time in the library, but one that shakes your shoulders and makes your whole face light up.”

inserts that one reaction image with the badly drawn figure head in hands blushing. ahem anyways i’ve been going through your collage roommate stuff again because it’s so lovely i love rereading it!!! your hc stuff is so nice

i feel like just. lovergirl!vi is so real in every universe right like no matter what, she loves so hard and with her whole entire fucking chest. like.

the first time she feels that tingle in her stomach, she kinda knows is already a bit too late. bc like PHEW there's only DOWN from here like she's finna SPIRAL and she KNOWS it.

all rise for simp!vi truthers!!!!

[sophiethewitch1]

In Death's Embrace Pt. 2

Jason Todd x Death!Reader

Part one!

Jason shoots up in bed, his hand stretched out. He’s sweating, drenched in his own panic in fear. His hand falls into his lap, still twitching. He doesn’t remember what he was dreaming about, doesn’t remember what he was trying to grasp.

He knows he failed. He knows it slipped through his fingers like sand. He doesn’t think there’s anything more tragic in the world. He doesn't know why.

“Once again, you amaze me. Breaking the rules of the universe, not once, but twice.”

His hand is wrapped around his gun before you even finish the sentence. It’s pointed between your eyes once you do. To your credit, whoever just broke into his apartment without triggering any of his alarms, you don’t even flinch. No, you just fold your hands behind your back and give him an odd look.

You tilt your head, eyes moving over the scars on his face and catching on the lock of white hair he sports. Then, your face breaks into a smile, and something in Jason’s heart jumps. There’s a knowing in your eyes that he doesn’t like. An understanding.

You see through him, somehow. He doesn’t like it. He’ll shoot you for the offence.

“Who are you? How did you get in here?” Jason demands, assessing you like you assess him. You don’t look like a combatant, in long dark flowing fabrics. Still, he knows not to underestimate someone based on their appearance.

That damned clown never looked like a threat. And now he was standing here, with someone who seemed just as crazy in his bedroom. Only someone that crazy would break into his home.

“Are you going to shoot me?” your words are teasing, eyes fond. Maybe you’re crazier, then. You don’t believe he’ll do it. He will.

He should have already. It’s base curiosity that holds his trigger finger. That’s what he thinks it is, at least.

“I might,” he finally says, “Again, who the fuck are you?”

“It’s interesting talking to you like this. You knew who I was straight away last time, but this time you turn your weapon to me,” you continue, ignoring his threat. A muscle jumps in his cheek, annoyed at your presence, at your blatant disregard for him.

“Last time?”

Your smile turns into a bright grin. He’s momentarily stunned by it.

“So, you really haven’t won just yet. That gives me a small measure of pride,” you say, walking over to the window with your hands still behind your back, “Maybe enough to spare you from my anger.”

You look over at him again. Purse your lips.

“Maybe not.”

“I think you forget who is holding the gun,” Jason reminds you, clicking his teeth at the way you just shrug.

You go quiet. No more teasing words or ominous warnings. Jason should shoot, shoot now. He’d hate the cleanup, hate the mess, hate all the effort, but it was necessary. You were dangerous. That much was obvious.

Instead, he opens his big dumb mouth and asks, “What do you want?”

You sigh, shaking your head. “Is it terrible I don’t know? Rules are rules after all, but this situation is… complicated. You’re not another Sisyphus, you don’t even want to be here.”

“You broke into my home and started threatening me. That doesn’t sound complicated,” Jason insists. This is such a fucking weird conversation. And Sisyphus? Jason had done his homework, he knew about the mythical man who cheated death. He thinks he’s actually quite a lot like Sisyphus.

He still doesn’t appreciate the comparison.

“Yes well, I don’t want to be here either, de-” your voice cuts off, eyes widen in surprise, and then narrow on him like he caused some great offence. Inside him, he feels his dead little heart wither even further at the sight. Like you being upset with him was one of the worst mistakes of his life.

Once again, you broke into his house. All he’d done was tell you to get lost. Oh, and maybe threaten to shoot you, but who cares about that. He soothes the momentary panic, insisting you obviously hadn’t.

Which is dumb. He’s being an idiot. Jason Todd is being an absolute moron right now, and he just needs to shoot you.

Instead of paying attention to the gun trained on you, you stare out his window, at the streets of Gotham’s Hill district below. The sun is rising, rays bursting through the fog. The people are just getting up with it. It’s one of the few times the city is anything close to quiet. Most are still sleeping, and so is crime.

Warm sunlight catches on your cheek, and again, something inside Jason cries out at the sight. It’s worrying.

“I think I want you dead, again,” you confess.

Jason’s breath whooshes out of his lips, and his gun arm twitches for a second. Well, fuck him, that’s certainly a statement. And again, why hadn’t he shot you?

He still doesn’t do it. He must be crazy, too.

“I’m being greedy. I always have been, of course. It’s what I am… But especially this time, I think I’m being too greedy,” you sound sad, your fingers trailing across the wooden window frame, “I think I shouldn’t be here, but it’s the ones like you who make it hard.”

You rub dust against your fingers, and Jason feels embarrassed for the state of his home. He realises a second later what a stupid thought that is, you broke in. He wonders how many times he’ll have to repeat it to remember it. He feels uncomfortable and off-kilter, and he knows it’s because of you.

He needs to get you out.

“I’ve always hated the special ones, you know. The smart ones. You’re too good at pulling me, manipulating me, tugging on my strings like a puppet. You make me human,” you turn back to him, crossing your arms and resting against the sill. You’re comfortable in his home, more so than he usually is. Calm, relaxed, like the world is at peace, and worries are something of the past.

He wonders what that must be like. Fucking delightful, he bets.

“Are you not human?”

You raise an eyebrow in response.

Shit. Ah, fuck it. His finger tightens, and the recoil jerks his arm. The silencer keeps the early apartment quiet. Quiet, if not for the sound of the bullet clattering to the ground.

You both glance down at the crumpled piece of metal sitting pathetically on the floor. You lean over, pick the piece up, and then lift it to your eye, watching that same sunlight reflecting the early morning in the steel. A small rainbow flitters across your skin. You close your fist, and you stroll over to Jason.

It takes him a moment to remember to be wary of you, and by that time, you already have his hand cradled between yours.

You place the remnants of the bullet in his scarred palm.

“I expect an apology for that later,” your voice is soft, sweet. Loving, even after he shot you in the chest. Not like it did anything. Your fingers curl around his, tracing every crack and crevice. You do it with concentration, with precision, like you were made just to touch him, to comfort him.

A memory, gone in a flash. He feels it’s loss like a toothache.

He swallows, “I’m sorry.”

You laugh, and the sun’s not outside, it’s in his bedroom and it’s smiling and it’s everything and it’s here in his grasp and he knows it’ll be okay again. It has to be okay again. You said it’d be okay, didn’t you? He can’t remember. His head’s swirling, spinning, falling right into you. Right back into you.

“Or now, that’s fine too,” you sound delighted. He’s glad.

You let go of him, and move back to the window, drawn by the view outside. Jason's hand clasp and unclasp. The street obviously fascinates you, your eyes flicking back and forth and tracking the movement of every soul outside. He wants your gaze back on him.

Jason clears his throat. You glance back at him, then pointedly, his right hand.

He can feel his face flush, embarrassingly. He’s still holding the gun. He turns the safety off and tucks it back under his pillow.

He clears his throat again. He wants something from you, expects it, really. But he can’t tell what it is. He thinks you know, though. That you’re withholding it, for some reason. He’s irrationally irritated at that. You said you were greedy, but nothing could compare to his greed.

Even if you wanted him dead. He was starting to put together the pieces, but he couldn’t seem to feel alarmed. No, it simply wasn’t necessary, with you here.

Still, it’s not quite enough. He wants more. He wants to know more. So he waits for you to speak again.

“I’ve thought about doing this so many times over the years. It would’ve been selfish, and more than that, outside of my duty. You’re not one of mine anymore. For a little while, at least.”

He wants to be. He wants to be yours. He wants it more than he can breathe. If he’s yours, maybe you can be his.

You glance to the side, thinking out loud, “But then you went and started remembering. I’ve worked very hard to make sure that’s impossible, you know. That the memories from my realm stay there.”

You turn a disapproving glance his way.

“Of course, far be it for me to get in the way of a Wayne and his decision to break the world. You lot do that far too much, give me too much work,” you mutter that last part, hand moving to your brow. Like you’re massaging away a headache. He should be doing that for you.

“But you did it. And you’re here. And now I am, too. And I have to go soon.”

You drift closer to him, and Jason’s breath catches. He’s still. He doesn’t make a single movement, scared he’ll scare you away. He realises that’s stupid. That you caught a bullet to the chest. That you’re stronger than anything he could imagine.

He still thinks he could startle you if he’s not careful. That you’re like the mist outside, incorporeal. But Jason can do anything if he puts his mind to it. He knows how to catch the wind, how to gather steam on the underside of glass, how to cup sand and water and feathers and everything that would ever want to be outside of his reach.

You’re out of his reach. He has to let you step into it.

You stop a foot away from him. He grinds his teeth, and again, you raise a brow at him. He doesn’t move, despite his muscles screaming at him too. You give him a nod and take another step closer. He still doesn’t move, and you give him a satisfied look.

“So, what should we do, Jason?”

“How do you know my name?”

“What? Did dying strip you of any brains?”

The banter is familiar. He doesn’t mean to ruin it.

“Do you have to leave?” again, a voice in his mind whispers. You look sad, again. Again, again, again. All of this is an again.

“Eventually. Sooner rather than later,” you sigh, “You can keep a secret, can’t you, Jason?”

“Not if you leave.”

It’s a bold move. You take a step back, and he winces. Back and forth, back and forth… Still, he doesn’t take the words back. He can’t, because it’s the truth, and now that you’re here, there’s no going back. He’ll do anything to keep you with him, and if you go too far for him to reach, he’ll follow you.

“I think that’s an unfair request,” you say, and he shakes his head.

“It’s fair. You don’t have to stay forever, just a while.” Now that, that is a lie. You seem to know it, too.

You look out the window again. Jason, after a moment's hesitation, moves over beside you. You don’t flee, your attention is on the people below. He opens the window for you, and you give him another smile. He collects them like the rare treasures they are. You lean out into the air, and he freaks, then realises you’d shrugged off a bullet. He stays close, vigilant, anyway.

“I’m curious, I have to admit. What’s this place like?” you ask, resting elbows on the wood. The streets are foggy, as they usually are in the morning. The Hill isn’t the nicest place, not the cleanest either, but you look at it like it’s heaven incarnate. He can see his neighbour down at the local grocer, the old woman who hoards cats seeing her grandson off to school, and one of his guys hanging out on the street, keeping the space safe.

Under his orders. The Hill wasn’t the nicest place, but he liked to keep it as nice as possible.

...Peaceful, he wanted the people here to have their peace. He was obsessed with it, really.

“It sucks.”

You laugh again, music to his ears, “Not the best advertising.”

“I take it back, it’s the best place on earth,” he replies, barely paying attention to his words. He’s seeing how close he can get to you. How many inches he can claim. His face is almost in your neck by the time you lean back, and he curses under his breath.

“It doesn’t need to be,” you say, pushing away from the sill and turning to wander around his room. You take in everything about the space. From the general mess, to the Jane Austen books crammed into his bookshelf, to the mask he’s left half-hazard on his bedstand.

You watch it all, just as fascinated with the world outside as the one inside. He wants to believe that means he’s special to you. And if it doesn’t, that just means he needs to work a little harder.

Finally, you turn to him. You take in every facet of him, once again. Your all-knowing gaze finds his hair again. You seem especially fascinated by that. You lift your hands, and he’s in them before he realises he’s moved.

You map his features with your hands, and he makes a little sound in the back of his throat. Ignoring that, you wipe the bags under his eyes. He feels his sanity slip away under your touch. You trace the scar on his chin, the one above his left brow. The stubble along his jaw. The bump in his nose. The edge of his lips. He wonders at the smirk you give when he groans. And finally, you come to that strand of hair.

You tug on it. A memory fizzles again, and to his frustration, he can’t quite grab it. Can’t quite take it, claim it. It’s not his, not yet.

You haven’t given him permission to remember. He wants it, he wants it, he needs it.

“I think I can stay, maybe. Just for a little, just a little. You want that, right?” your hands cup his face, and he knows, somehow, that you’ve done this a thousand times. And if this is the thousand-and-first time you’ve held him like this, he’s glad. To be back in your embrace is the sweetest pleasure. The greatest relief.

“Yes. Yes, yes… yes, I do,” he’s nodding, he’s begging, he’s pleading with you. Just for a moment more, just a second more. Just a little bit more, before you let him go again. He leans down and presses his forehead to you, sighing in your scent, the wheat reeds in the wind, the warm sun on skin.

He wonders what he has to do to make sure you never let go again. He wonders if you’ll let him do it.

You shake your head, giving him a rueful smile, “You really are too cute, darling.”

That nickname. The key to his heart, his mind. Every single barrier keeping him from you is gone, crumbled by your will. He is thankful you’ve given them back. He is thankful for every moment you ever had with him. And he’ll make a thousand more.

He presses his lips to yours, arms holding you close. When you melt into him, sigh into the kiss, he feels a euphoria he didn’t know could be true. He feels a relief he didn’t know even in his days under, even when you only held him.

He feels alive with it.

“Thank you for coming back,” he whispers against you, and he can feel that familiar, that damning smile spread.

“You left me. I had to hunt you down myself, Jason dear.”

Maybe he couldn’t have his peaceful death. But he had a loving one, and that was all he needed.

[rush-the-stars]

i think if you’re in a relationship with caitvi and you’re a brat/have a bad attitude, you’d think cait would be the sweeter brat tamer on the surface but. certainly not. you can’t catch an attitude with cait unless you want swift punishment. cait’s “nice” solution is to let vi handle you first. and vi is wayyyyy easier on you than cait.

[voidcat]

Ok so here’s my short list of pros of alpha and omega narumi thoughts (with a beta reader)

Alpha!narumi: he’s worse than his usual self. Soooo attached to you. You give him a little bit of a identity crisis when he realizes/learns you’re a beta (which- I’m thinking someone making an offhand comment abt reader and another comment abt a well desired and respect alpha falling for a beta) on pros list because I love to see him suffer and this goes so well hand in hand with reader having this alienation feeling due to being a beta (also bonus points “thank fuck I’m a beta so I don’t have deal w those needy or persistent alphas like omegas do-“ narumi: hiiiii)

Omega!narumi: u can get him pregnant (also so needy and pouty and desperate and cute. There’s smt so overpowering about seeing a typically strong/leader figure becoming putty in your hands )

[howlsofbloodhounds]

would color and killer actually enjoy the van life

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

had a really weird moment right after waking up where i started thinking abt satoru with a curse user!reader who’s really bratty and pissy that he refuses to kill them but then i realized that it’s. literally just stsg 💀

[windspeaking]

they're obviously incredibly different in other respects but it is really fascinating to me to hold up the temeraire and wings of fire series to each other as worlds where humans and dragons coexist as fully intelligent beings but at least in some places are willfully ignorant of this fact and one species treats the other like property or companions at best

[twistedheartsclub]

HELLO

Tell me… do you crave long stories or short ones? How are you enjoying the darkness so far? If you have a special request, don’t be shy—message me or leave a comment. Your words linger longer than you know. To those who’ve already whispered back… thank you. Let’s keep it dark. Let’s keep it ours. 🖤

[oh-gods-its-a-dragon]

I realize like 99% of my.... "issues" stem from getting into Omegaverse fics at an age where I DEFINITELY should not have been reading them😭 it just spiraled...

[rush-the-stars]

your most recent post... nai x reader x vash vibes...

anon you literally know me so well i made that post specifically about nai LMSJDLSHAAK

he literally does it in tristamp when he cuts off vash’s arm and luida runs to help vash and nai snaps “stay away from him!” like hehe.

this with nai x reader x vash…..anon……..anon….hehehehehheehhee