#man how the fuck do you tag on here again

[myojinn]

You'll Be Safe Here // 2 - Sukuna Ryomen

You'll Be Safe Here ... Part of Cursed Spirit!Reader Series Heian Era!Sukuna Ryomen (JJK) x Cursed Spirit!Reader tags: SO MUCH FLUFF, soft 'Kuna, comfort summary: After seeing you on the brink of death—there was no way you were getting out of his clutches now. How will he protect you if you aren't by his side? a/n: Since the first part got a lot of love, I decided to make a part 2! I'm also thinking about making it a Cursed Spirit!Reader Series, so like full on one shots and drabbles here and there.

First Part | masterlist soon hehe

All he could see was red.

And all he could hear was the agonizing screams for help of those he terrorized. But nothing else really mattered to Sukuna Ryomen after he saw you on the brink of death.

He'd like to believe that he was a level-headed individual—never one to be consumed by trivial things such as emotions. But he knew, at that time, he was driven by pure unadulterated anger...

... anger at the good-for-nothing scum that hurt you.

He never thought he could feel this strongly about anything. But then again, meeting you had opened up his eyes to unpredictable things. And maybe that's why he lo-

"Ryo! Hey!" He let out an annoyed grunt at the disturbance currently seated to his right... on his bed... in his sacred chambers.

"For a woman who almost died you surely are loud," he grumbles. He crosses all 4 arms and turns to look away, closing his eyes once more. He made it clear he wanted peace. But having you around made it impossible. You poked his cheek repeatedly. "Thanks to your reverse cursed technique, I think I can go back to my temple today." He swatted your hand away from his face to which you (convincingly) yelped out in pain. His eyes have never opened so quickly as they did now. A look of concern washed over his face while you (convincingly) pretended to be hurt.

He was about to take your hand to inspect it—heal it even. But before he could do anything, you laughed in his face. The soft gaze transformed into an intense glare. "Oh man... you really do care for me, don't you, Ryo?"

He folded his arms again as he grumbled to himself. You knew just how to piss him off. But even though he seemed irritated, deep down he was glad that you were back to your normal self.

He was fucking relieved to have you by his side again.

His silence piqued your curiosity. Normally, he'd have a quip for every move you made. But he just sat there, arms crossed and taking in every effort you made to rile him up.

You huffed your chest out.

Truthfully, the whole temple raid fiasco already put a massive dent in your ego... and maybe your image in Sukuna's mind. That's what you thought at least. So you made it a point to act as if nothing happened. You weren't planning to soften up and thank him for helping you.

Hell, you don't even remember the last time you uttered an expression of gratefulness.

But he also made you do things you usually would not do.

"Ryo... I'm sorry." He sighs and looks at you. You couldn't tell what he was thinking. Well, you could never tell what the great Sukuna Ryomen was thinking... ever. But your gut told you that this moment was different.

Something had definitely changed within him.

"You don't have to apologize. I've dealt with your craziness for decades now," he says flatly. You slowly shook your head. "I mean... I'm sorry I couldn't protect myself and you had to clean up after my mess." He sighed even louder. He always did that whenever you said something "stupid" as he'd call it. "I told you that it doesn't matter. I am the strongest, aren't I? You should only worry about losing if you were in my position. Say 'thank you' and move on with it." Of course, he didn't exactly mean for that to be affectionate. It was coming from a place of arrogance. But, nevertheless, it made you smile.

"Thanks, Ryo. I owe you big time." He raises an eyebrow, a faint smirk forming on his face. "You owe me, yes." You meant it as a way to emphasize your gratitude, but you didn't really think he'd bank on it. After all, the strongest sorcerer never needed favors from you. He always said you'd come in handy one of these days and maybe today was finally it. "Eh? So... what do you want me to do? I'll do anything just don't take the statue in front of my temple. Do you know how difficult it was to steal that?" His face contorted in confusion. No one in history had ever made him do that face, but you. However, you weren't sure if you should be glad about that fact. But you were sure that you loved that statue to bits. Sure, it was weird, but that's why you love it!

"Don't be ridiculous. I don't want that ugly thing near me." "Hey! I'll have you know it's a significant part of my temple."

"Significantly ugly, yes."

You were about to retort when he placed a finger on your lips, shutting you up. "As I was saying, you owe me—and you can repay me by simply staying here at my temple." You wanted to speak, but he pressed his finger on your plump lips even harder. "And no, you can't refuse." He finally drops his hand. "I can't just leave my temple like that. It was trashed and-" "I have already sent servants to clean it up and restore it." "What about my offerings? What if someone comes up and asks something from me and-" "I also have separate servants stationed there to gather any messages, offerings, whatever—and relay them to you."

"Wha-" He groans in frustration. "Woman, I have taken care of everything if that's what you're worried about. Give it a rest, will you?" You were hesitant at first, but the look of worry on your face quickly changed into a mischievous smile that he (loved) dreaded to see. "My, my, Ryo... if you wanted me to move in so badly you could've just told me. Goodness, was this part of your elaborate plan? Sending sorcerers to attack me so I can live with you?" This ridiculous humor wasn't new to the both of you. He had heard insane things come out of your mouth and he would never bat an eyelid. But after joking about him possibly indirectly hurting you evoked a sickening feeling deep in the pits of his stomach.

"I would never hurt you," he said softly.

The devilish grin on your face was wiped clean and replaced with an apologetic smile. "I know... I just... I was kidding, you know?" "Joke about anything, but not about me hurting you." Thinking about others hurting you was enough to make him feel sick. But you suffering at his own hands? It made him angry. He realized he had gone silent and that you were just staring at him with that same smile from earlier. "What?" he asked coldly.

"You're a strange man. You act so gruff, but you say things like this?" she laughs. "That's why I love ya." He was proud to say that he had never encountered an attack before that would surprise him. But the words you just spoke had taken him aback. He was shook to the core. "Shut up... you're staying here. Got it?" "Heh... say that you love me too first~"

You were annoying, reckless, and incredibly childish at times. You pissed him off beyond belief. But he couldn't imagine his life without all of your insanity. He loved you... maybe. He still didn't know exactly what 'love' meant. But whatever it is that he felt for you... he'd do anything and everything if it meant keeping you by his side.

[annwrites]

you should see me under the hood of this thing, sweetheart.

— pairing: billy hargrove x fem!reader

— type: ficlet

— summary: billy gets a flat & while waiting for a tire, you're stuck in oklahoma for a couple more days.

— tags: billy opening up a little. billy working on a car. going to an arcade. going night-swimming.

— tw: there is a homophobic slur in this one.

— word count: 6.8k

— a/n: i hope this entry sounds halfway decent. i wrote the grand majority of it surrounded by other people/noise/music, instead of at my work desk, listening to music that helps me write.

find my other posts concerning billy here

After considerable effort on Billy’s part, he’d eventually coaxed you back into his car and driven the both of you back to the motel. You’d cried the entire way there, and he felt like a piece of shit for it.

Once inside, you’d sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at the floor.

“I’m going to shower again real quick—sweated through my fucking clothes from nerves.”

“Okay.”

He sighs. “I need to worry about you running off again while I’m in there?”

You’re quiet for a moment. “No. I’m tired. I just want to go to sleep.”

He nods and watches as you get ready to lay down on the left side, which is nearest the door.

“Other side,” he says.

You look at him. “Why?”

He crosses his arms. “Please just do what I’ve asked. I don’t feel like fighting anymore tonight.”

You roll your eyes, lying down on the right side, cocooning yourself in blankets.

He goes to wash up quickly then.

When Billy comes back into the bedroom, you’re already fast-asleep. He feels relief that you’d stayed. He’d rushed so much in the shower that he’d gotten shampoo in his eyes. He was surprised the sound of him cursing hadn’t woken you.

He lies down in only his briefs—hating the feeling of clothing on him in bed, but chooses to suck it up for tonight—and he lays on his side, looking at you. Your bruises were still, obviously, quite prominent, but a few were beginning to turn more green instead of their previous dark-blue shade.

He briefly wonders how the fuck your dad could’ve ever put his hands on you, then thinks on how he nearly did just the same less than two hours ago. He tells himself he wouldn’t have done it—but the thought had crossed his mind. He’d wanted to see you afraid in that moment. And then, once he had, immediately regretted it. Deeply.

A muscle in his jaw feathers when he thinks of how you’d asked him to please not hurt you. How he’d come out of the bathroom to find you curled into a ball on the floor, a nervous wreck.

He did that to you.

You’d come with him to get away from your abuser, only to find another one along the way. What the fuck was wrong with him? Picking on you and getting under that pretty skin was one thing—he honestly fucking loved pissing you off and making you flustered. Plus, it turned him on unlike anything else. But scaring you? It just made him hate himself even more than he already does.

He slowly reaches up and gently runs his fingertips along your cheek. “I’m sorry.”

You stir in your sleep, scooting a bit closer to him. He then tries something that, if you wake up, he’s sure he’ll get his ass chewed out for. He wraps his right arm around you, bringing you in closer to him, until you’re against his chest. Thankfully, you remain asleep. He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

He then realizes this is the only time he can really talk to you—if he so chooses. He knows if he tried while you’re awake that you’d listen. But what if you later used it against him? Or thought him weak? Or some faggot for ‘sharing his feelings’? No. He had to be strong—tough. That was what constituted being a real man.

He tucks your head under his chin. “I won’t ever scare you like that again. I’d never raise a hand to you.” He lays his cheek against the crown of your head of soft hair. “I don’t know why the fuck I act the way I do. I just don’t know how to stop it. Maybe I can’t.”

He sighs. He was tired—bone-tired after the adrenaline that had rushed through him as he drove down street after street looking for you, mind racing with horrible thoughts. Thoughts like: if someone did kidnap and kill you…the last thing you would remember would be that everyone you’ve ever trusted has either hurt or abandoned you—including him—that no one was coming.

He pulls you impossibly closer then. “Still not going to stop getting on your nerves, though,” he says with a small smile.

You’re awake. Have been the entire time, but choose not to react—to say anything. You want him to continue talking—letting it—anything—out. This is the him you like. Someone who’s capable of opening up and being the least bit vulnerable. Not the monster you’d bore witness to earlier in the evening. As you looked at the hatred in his eyes then, you felt like you were looking at a stranger.

Then again, you feel that way when he’s nice, too. Maybe he has multiple personalities. You smirk at the stupid idea, for whatever reason, then snuggle closer to his chest, enjoying the warmth, his broad back blocking the AC from blowing on you.

The two of you fall asleep like that—twined around one another.

When you wake the next morning, Billy’s heavy form is lying half on top of you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, one of his legs positioned between both of yours. He snores lightly into your ear. And then you notice you’re now drenched in sweat from his body heat.

God, he’s like a human furnace. How the hell does he wear that leather jacket all the time?

You try to wiggle away from him and his snoring pauses for a moment, then continues as you lie still momentarily. You then move further toward the edge of the bed, and once you’ve slid out and onto the floor, you stand, looking down at him, seeing he’s now practically star-fished all across the mattress.

You walk over to your bag, now needing to shower again yourself to wash the sweat off, and grab a few items of clothing, silently padding into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you.

When you emerge half-an-hour later—half that time spent blow-drying your head of long hair, and pulling it into a ponytail—something you’d not done in the last couple of days—instead opting for leaving it down—you find Billy already awake, leaned back against the headboard, one arm behind his head, the other holding the TV remote in his lap.

He glances up to you, appreciating the view of you in a crop-top and jean shorts. He wolf-whistles and you don’t even give him a reaction as you place your things back in your bag.

You then turn around and he winks at you.

You don’t want to admit it, but him acting cocky and full of himself again actually comforts you. This him you can tolerate, if not begrudgingly.

“We have to be checked out in a little over an hour.”

He nods, continuing to look you over. “Why don’t you ever tease your hair?”

You shrug, even if you’re taken a little aback by the question. “I used to.”

“When?”

You cross your arms, leaning back against the wall, smirking. “Before you came to Hawkins.”

He frowns. “Why stop?”

“Why do you care what my hair looks like?”

“Just think you’d look hot with it done up is all.”

You walk over, throwing the curtains open and he squints, wincing against the bright light now streaming in. “I don’t have anyone in particular that I’m trying to impress.”

He rolls his eyes at the cheap shot.

You seat yourself on the foot of the bed, facing him.

He raises a brow. “Somethin’ on your mind, doll?”

You grow serious then. After last night, you weren’t sure you could go back to this charade. Not after seeing such a different side of him on the interstate. “Do…do you want to talk about last night?”

He almost replies immediately with 'not really', but refrains. “What about it?”

You look down to your hands in your lap. “They’re not going to be happy, seeing as you put a hole in their wall.”

His jaw flexes. “They can hang a painting up then. Or plaster over it. Like I care.”

You look up to him. “So we’re going back to this, then? You acting like nothing matters to you? And me pretending to believe it?”

He leans his head back, staring up at the ceiling. “What is it with chicks, man? Always wanting to talk about your damn feelings all the time.” He looks at you. “I got pissed, I did something stupid, and then you did too. What, you want to kiss and make up?”

He cocks his head to the side.

You understand the walls he has built around himself. You’re two sides of the same coin that way. It’s why you didn’t put much effort into making friends at school. You knew what happened when you opened up to people.

They often disappointed.

You scoot closer to him and he shifts uncomfortably, knowing what you’re doing—trying to get closer literally, so as to get closer to him figuratively. He knows this is you trying to connect—form some deeper type of relationship with him, and he should want that, but he simply can’t.

He stands then, walking over to his duffel bag to start getting dressed.

“Billy-”

He keeps his back turned to you. “Just don’t, alright? I’m not the sappy, chick-flick type. We had a fight, we both got upset, it’s over. Just drop it.”

You deflate. “Fine.”

“Fine,” he says, pulling out a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt from his bag.

The two of you get breakfast at the motel—cheap waffles and fruit, but it’s something, and free at that, so you fill yourselves before getting back on the road.

And nearly three hours later finds you on the side of the interstate with a flat tire.

You’d both felt something wrong with the front driver’s side and you’d looked at him, while he groaned, slamming his hand against the wheel. “Fuck, what now?”

He’d pulled onto the shoulder, kneeling down and looking it over. You stood nearby, staying silent as he let out a string of curse words.

He then stood, walking around to the back and popping the truck. You stood idly by, watching as he tossed your bags and his onto the ground, removing the spare tire from the trunk, then the jack and lug-wrench. He tosses the tire down near the flat, then angrily pulls his jacket off, tossing it at you.

You catch it before it can smack you in the face and gently drop it in the back seat.

You watch as he gets to work loosening the bolts on the tire and you feel yourself flush. Watching him work on a car…you hadn’t expect this reaction.

You then wonder if he’s ever done any other work on it before. By the callouses on his hands, especially at eighteen, you imagine so.

When he begins to jack it up, you bite back a nervous smile, feeling something pool between your thighs. Oh, not good. Not here.

You turn away for a moment and he glances up to you. “What, can’t take watching a man get his hands dirty? Sorry your pretty-boy Harrington isn’t here and fuckin’ clueless, I’m sure.”

You turn back around and he notices your flushed cheeks, and you refusing to meet his eyes. “No, it’s not that.”

He stares at you for a moment, then it dawns on him. You like this. A toothy grin forms on his face. “You should see me under the hood of this thing, sweetheart. I’d really have you sweating then.”

He turns back to the tire, loosening the bolts the rest of the way, pulling it off, and looking it over. Then he explodes, causing you to take a step back. “Motherfucker! Are you fucking kidding me? Goddamn piece of fucking shit! Fuck this, I knew I should’ve bought a Goodyear!”

He stands, hands on his hips, shoulders rising and falling rapidly as he stares down at the ruined tire, nostrils flared.

“W-what’s wrong? Can you not patch it somehow, maybe?”

He stays silent for a moment, refusing to take this out on you. “No,” he says, brow twitching in irritation. “I would’ve, had the puncture not been in the goddamn sidewall.”

“That’s bad?”

He looks at you, replying sarcastically. “Yeah, honey, that's bad. Means the thing is fuckin’ junk now.”

He kicks it. Then he sighs, bending back down to put the spare on.

“Well, you can just drive on that one now, right?”

He looks upward to the sky, begging for the strength. “Women…” he mutters. “Not more than thirty or forty miles. Definitely no more than a hundred, and that’s if I really want to push my fuckin’ luck and risk another blowout, if not screwing up my alignment, which will just create an even bigger mess.”

It all sounds like Greek to you. “What’s wrong with that tire?”

He looks at you like the answer should be obvious. “It’s a goddamn donut. They’re not meant to be driven on for long periods of time.”

He shoves it on the car, screwing the nuts back into place.

You stay silent after that.

You’re currently standing beside Billy—the back of his shirt drenched in sweat from the summer heat—and watch as the man in front of you, standing behind the counter of a local auto-body shop, talks lowly to someone on the phone, glancing to Billy every few seconds, who is now in a…bad mood, to put it lightly.

The man finally hangs up, turning back to him. “Soonest I can get one in is two days.”

“Two fucking days? Are you kidding me?” He shouts.

You blanch, staring at the man with wide-eyes as he crosses his arms before his chest, giving Billy a rather displeased look.

You then grab the side of Billy’s shirt in your fist. You look at the man. “I’m sorry about that, we’ll be right back.”

Billy looks at you. “Don’t apologize to him. This is fuckin’ ridiculous-”

You shoosh him rather loudly—people already staring in your direction—and pull him back outside for a moment. He stares down at you.

“What?” he spits at you.

“Who cares if it’s two days, or four or five? It’s not like we’re on a set schedule. All that matters is that we eventually get there. I mean, maybe we could start taking detours along the way and do some sight-seeing. No reason to race all the way there and not enjoy the trip, right?”

He studies you for a moment. His first reaction was to tell you this isn’t a fuckin’ vacation—you weren’t going to be pulling off and taking photos of obnoxious tourist-traps. And then he suddenly softens.

This is you trying to spend time with him…right?

If he tells you no…he fears it may come off like he’s trying to get to California as quickly as possible so he can finally be rid of you.

Then he wonders what happens once the two of you do finally reach those sandy shores. Will you leave him behind, too…?

He shakes his head for a moment, ridding himself of that thought and you deflate at his reaction to your suggestion for making your road trip just a bit more exciting.

“Oh. Sorry. Nevermind. Just forget that I-”

He looks at you again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No, I wasn’t-” He sighs. “Fine. We’ll take a couple days off and just explore around town. Find some overpriced souvenir shop so you can buy some ridiculous t-shirt. Happy?”

You smile, nodding.

He heads back inside then. “Two days is fine.”

You decide to pay up two nights at a local Red Roof Inn, which happens to have an outdoor pool. When Billy was told this by the receptionist, he’d looked to you with a raised brow and a smirk, his eyes trailing down your body, then back up. “We’ll have to pick you up a bikini, sweetheart.”

You’d not replied or even reacted as you picked up your bags, turning to head to your room.

Once dropping off your things, Billy had walked back to the door, intending to head back out, intent on keeping his promise of buying you skimpy swimwear. He’d merely called over his shoulder, as you came out of the bathroom, “You comin’?”

It takes a bit of driving before you come across a local clothing shop. You head over to a rack of sundresses and flowy skirts once inside, while Billy heads to a rack a few feet away with women’s swimwear. He smirks when he finds something similar to what he had pictured in his head for you to squeeze into.

He holds it up, the hanger dangling from his index finger, and he calls to you.

When you look at him you flush—of course the bottoms are equivalent to a thong. Your eyes then meet his and he’s waiting for you to respond, a brow raised in offer.

You then shake your head lightly, looking away.

He sighs. “Course not.”

He flips through a couple other options, then picks up a red two-piece—the top essentially a push-up bra. He clears his throat and you look to him again, then quickly away.

He walks over to you, hanger still in-hand. “Oh, c’mon. Just try this one on. Humor me, honey.”

You shake your head, nose raised. “I don’t think so.”

He leans down. “Pretty please?”

You look at him, his face inches from your own.

You shift from one foot to the other. “If I pick one out will you shut up about it?” You ask sweetly, batting your lashes.

He smirks. “If I get to watch.”

You turn away, rolling your eyes, his own landing on your ass, humming his approval at the view.

You find a high-waisted two-piece and a one-piece you like the look of, and you head for the changing room, Billy following closely behind you, which you don’t notice until you turn to shut the door and he places his hand flat against it, keeping it open.

You stare up at him. “Move.”

He leans against the wall with his shoulder, other hand on his hip. “You never said I didn’t get to watch.”

“It was implied.”

He just continues staring down at you.

You then step closer to him, gripping either side of his jacket in your hands, looking up to him with hooded lids. “Hey, Billy?”

God, it took no fucking effort from you for him to be set on fire.

“Yeah, doll?” He asks, tucking some hair behind your ear.

“Go find someone who’s desperate enough,” you say, pushing him back, and just as he catches his footing, you slam the door in his face.

You decide on the two-piece, the one-piece a bit awkward-looking in the crotch.

When you exit the changing room, you find Billy standing near a wall half-full of novelty t-shirts.

You wander over to him and watch as a smile breaks out across his face as he pulls down a shirt. He then glances to you at his side and holds it up in front of him.

“What’d’ya think?” He asks.

It’s a plain black shirt with white lettering and a red heart, reading: I heart sluts.

You look at him with an unimpressed expression. “Really?”

“Oh, I definitely fuckin’ do.”

You turn away. “I’m going to check out.”

Billy puts the shirt back, flipping through a handful more and then he laughs to himself. “Oh, fucking perfect,” he says, taking a different one up front with him.

When Billy comes out to the car, he has a pair of swim shorts in a plastic bag and is wearing his new t-shirt.

He gets inside and turns toward you, the front of his shirt on full display. “Where to next? Unless you want to head back and let me see you in that suit?”

When you look at him you let out a completely unexpected laugh.

He keeps his face impassive. “Somethin’ funny?”

You stare at the front of his shirt—just how utterly ridiculous and on-the-nose it is—and then look back up to him, breaking into a fit of giggles.

Seeing you like this—happy, having a laugh for once—he starts to, too. “What?” He asks, snorting. “You think I don’t want to?”

You look back down to his shirt again, tears streaming down your face. “Oh, I do. You’re just not going to.”

He finally turns the engine over, pulling away from the shop. “Oh, baby, you should know by now: I’m not one to give up easily.”

You glance back down to his shirt. ‘Fuck virgins’. Really?

After grabbing a quick bite to eat for lunch, Billy finds a local arcade and the two of you head inside, simply looking for something new to keep you occupied for a couple hours.

And it’s when you look around at the flashing lights and take in the sounds of music and machine sound effects, couples and friends laughing and competing against one another, that you realize that for the first time in a very long time you feel worry-free.

You glance up to Billy at your side and find yourself unable to understand, exactly, how it is that you now feel toward him.

You’d seen a different side of him last night on the side of the interstate—the same man who’d picked you up on your way out-of-town—and just wish you could get more glimpses of that version of him. A version you feel you can actually trust and let your defenses down with.

I can’t do this without you.

You weren’t sure you could’ve made it this far without him, either. In reality, you were the one who needed him. He had the car, the money, the wherewithal, and the knowledge to keep you going. And then you briefly consider how those things, coupled with his more serious moments, make you feel safe in relying on him. You wonder how that would make him feel to know. And then you think of his fist in a drywall and withdraw a little.

“You were wrong, y’know,” you say softly.

He looks down to you, stopping, hands on his hips. “What’s that, darlin’?”

You clasp your hands in front of you, looking down. “You could—can—do this without me. You’re not the one who needs the other here.”

He studies you for a moment. Then he grips your chin gently between his fingers, forcing your eyes to meet his. “You’re wrong.”

He turns, taking your hand, and leading you over to a machine that will turn his cash into tickets for games. He bites back a satisfied smile at you admitting that you need him as he shoves dollar bills into it. It means a lot to him to hear. Means a lot that you’re willing to actually admit it out loud.

Once you’re both holding handfuls of tickets, Billy heads toward a racing game, while you go to wander in the opposite direction, wanting to try a claw machine, until he grips the hem of your top, dragging you along beside him. “Stop wanderin’ off.”

You look up at him with narrowed eyes. “I don’t think I can get lost in here.”

He smirks. “I’ll win you a stuffed animal later. Once you’ve earned it.”

The two of you then sit side-by-side, readying yourself to race. He glances to you as the screens begin to count down. “Don’t think I’m about to take it easy on you either, just because you have a pair of tits.”

You glare at him. “Why do you always have to be such a vulgar ass?”

He smirks. “Says the girl with a foul-mouth.”

Your wheel jerks and you gasp in disbelief that he was already ramming his car into yours.

You keep your eyes trained ahead at the screen then and accelerate, then see Billy shifting gears out of the corner of your eye.

You mentally resign yourself to losing to him… And you do a couple minutes later, him standing with a smug look on his face, arms crossed.

“Billy, one. You,” he shrugs, sucking on his teeth, cocking his head to the side.

You look behind him and smile, stepping past him, heading for the air hockey.

You currently have six scores to Billy’s two, and as you glance up to him—the irritated look on his face—you find yourself unsurprised that he’s the competitive type.

He smacks the puck back toward you, brows furrowed, free hand gripping the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles are white. “How the fuck are you so good at this?”

You shrug, smacking the puck back his way. “Guess it just comes naturally.”

He glances up to you with a smirk. “Oh yeah? Putting stuff in holes your specialty?” He smacks the puck back toward you.

You don’t take the bait, and instead choose to flip the script on him. “Maybe I just got a lot of recent practice in the night Steve and I went out. Maybe we went to the Hawkins Arcade after.”

You smack the puck as hard as you can, his eyes now trained on you and not the table, and it slides into his side easily. The table lets out a musical jingle at yet another victory on your part and you raise your arms above your head, and jump. “Yes!” You say with a smile, settling back into fighting stance.

His nostrils flare and he leans over the table, slamming the puck down and smacking it so hard it goes flying past you.

You roll your eyes, heading over to grab it and when you bend down to do so, you feel a hard smack against your behind and when you whirl around, Billy standing behind you with a wide smile.

“Bet Harrington didn’t get to do that, though, did he?”

You shoulder check him as you head back to the table. “Felt like a flea bite to me.”

Just as you set the puck back on the table, you feel him grab a handful and squeeze.

You squeak in surprise and before he gets a chance to make it back to his side, you smack the puck over, scoring yet again.

His smile drops from his face. “Hey! That’s fuckin’ cheating.”

You smile sweetly. “Sounds like a skill issue to me.”

He’s fuming now and you can’t believe just how serious he’s taking this.

But one more score on your part and the game will thankfully be over.

Billy once again slams the puck down on the table and doesn’t look at you once as the two of you battle it out—him the image of utter concentration.

You then throw at him, “If you let me win, maybe I’ll repay you in sexual favors.”

His head shoots up and the table jingles and he lets out a loud curse.

Billy is still fuming a few minutes later as the two of you browse their other games, until he eyes up a pinball machine and smiles.

You go to walk past it, until he grabs you by the hips and lifts you onto it.

You flush, glancing around, afraid of being kicked out by an employee, until he shoves two tickets into the machine, positioning his hands on either side of you, over-top of the buttons, his eyes staring into your own.

“Skill issue my ass,” he says, pulling the knob back, sending the tiny pin ball flying.

You cover the entire front portion of the game, so there’s no way he has any idea what he’s doing. Until he pushes the button for the right bumper, then the left, left again, right, his eyes never leaving your own.

The scoreboard begins to climb behind you—ten points, thirty, thirty-five, fifty, eventually a hundred, a few hundred. He smirks. “You won the last game, so what sexual favors do I get rewarded with again?”

The pinball tings under you.

You shift and he just continues staring, waiting.

“I…” You trail off. It wasn’t like he had let you win. You’d cheated, like he said. Twice, really.

The machine begins to go wild under you and coins begin to shoot into the dispenser—so many they begin spilling onto the floor.

"You should see what else these fingers are good at playing with." He slides his hands up your thighs until they’re resting over your hips. He pulls you closer to him. “Maybe I should just choose.”

You laugh from nerves. “I wasn’t serious.”

He slides his hands onto your bare waist. “You think I’m letting you out of it that easy?” He steps back finally, scooping coins into his hands, stuffing them into his pockets. “Not likely, sweetheart.”

You stand silently beside Billy as he looks over the larger prizes against the wall behind the counter. They even have an Atari. He’d wanted one for a long time, but after getting told no more times than he could count by his dad, he finally gave up on it. And when he got his car, he didn’t have much interest in wasting his time on anything else. Working on it more than served to take his mind off his shitty life.

He looks to you and you smile up at him, waiting patiently while he makes up his mind.

Then, “You choose.”

Your smile falters. “But you’re the one who won.”

He smirks, then reaches up, running his knuckles along your cheek. “Oh, I know I did. And don't think for a second I don't plan on collecting on that offer.”

You and your mouth. Stupid.

After dinner at a small diner—Billy paying for you again—the two of you return to the motel and once the door has closed behind you, Billy goes to strip right in front of you.

You gasp in shock, turning your back to him. "Can you please stop doing that?"

He slips on his new pair of swim trunks. "You've already seen my ass once, sweetie. What's another time or two?"

He then comes up from behind you, pressing himself against your back and you jolt.

He leans down toward your ear. "Might want to slip your suit on, too if we're going to swim. Unless you'd rather skinny dip?"

You grab the plastic bag which houses your new two-piece and head for the bathroom.

Once you've put it on, you look over yourself in the mirror for a moment, ensuring everything is properly covered. And also mentally prepare yourself for the lewd comments you already know Billy is going to be incessantly throwing your way.

You exit the bathroom, Billy leaning back against the open doorway to your room, arms crossed and his head rolls in your direction, eyes widening.

You're wearing his favorite color—blue. Almost an exact shade-match to his Camaro. He wonders if that choice had been intentional. Your bottoms are high-waisted, but at your hips are small, thin bows, every inch of your long legs on display. The top cups your breasts perfectly, a small bow between them as well.

He wolf-whistles. Then licks his lips and says, "I'll tell you this much, honey, the water won't be the only thing making you wet tonight if I have anything to say about it."

You walk past him. "You don't."

Just as he shuts the door behind the both of you, he reaches up with both hands and undoes both ties at your neck and backside, your top slipping off. You quickly reach up, covering yourself with your hands and he snickers as he grabs your top before you get a chance to.

You stand there, mortified. "Give it back!"

He holds it up above his head. "You want it so bad, take it from me."

You glare up at him, irritation building to a boiling point.

He shrugs, turning away. "Guess you don't need it all that bad then."

Once his back is turned to you, you make a split-second decision and pants him.

He curses, dropping your top long enough to pull his bottoms back up and you grab it, jogging down the stairs to get away from him long enough to get it back on.

You reach the pool before he does and deflate when you see the sign on the gate: Night swimming strictly prohibited.

You turn to go back go to the room, deciding on just watching a movie in bed, instead, after taking a hot bath, but bump into Billy's bare chest.

"What're you doing?"

"The sign says no night swimming."

His brows furrow. "So?" He flips the lock on the gate, stepping past it.

You quickly follow after him, grabbing his arm. "Billy, stop."

He turns back to you, expression that of indifference, clearly not caring about the repercussions of his future actions.

"We could get kicked out for this. And I doubt they'd be willing to refund you for the room tonight."

Your voice is a tone of pleading.

He's silent for a moment, as if he's considering his options, then sighs. "You're right, I'm sorry."

You fill with relief, glad he's listening you for once.

Until he bends down, wrapping his arms around your knees, picking you up. You wrap your arms around his neck to prevent yourself from falling off of him backward. "Billy, what're you-"

He races toward the pool and cannonballs in, instantly submerging the both of you.

When you get above the surface, he's floating on his back, arms behind his head, flashing you a smile.

"You are such an ass."

You go to swim in the other direction, toward the steps, until you feel his strong arms wrap around you from behind. "Oh no you don't."

You squirm against him and he just laughs as you struggle, turning you around until you're chest-to-chest.

"Let go of me, I want to get out before someone catches us."

"No one's going to catch us. Can you just chill the fuck out for a second? Jesus. You're aware you're allowed to let loose every once in awhile and have fun, right? You don't have to be so uptight all the time."

You stay quiet, ignoring the feel of his hands at your hips, which then move back to wrapping around your back.

He sighs."You're not there. You don't have to act like the woman of the house anymore. You don't have to keep it together all the time with me. You can be whoever you want now; do whatever you want. No one's going to stop you."

Your eyes sting and you tell yourself it's from the chlorine. Not from him having read you so easily.

And then you relax a little."I don't know how," you say softly.

He looks at you for a moment, thinking. "What's something you've always wanted to do, but felt like you couldn't, either because of him, or because you were afraid what everyone might think?"

You search yourself for an answer, but don't come up with anything. There was no point in thinking about things you might've been able to do if you had a different life before. You didn't. You were who you were, and you made your peace with that.

You shrug. "I'm not sure."

He rubs one palm down your back. And then he smirks, and you know whatever he's come up with is going to be the worst idea anyone has ever had. "You ever been drunk before?"

You frown. "That's not really my idea of fun."

"Just answer the question."

"No, I haven't."

He grins. "Want to?"

You debate it for a moment, sure it's a foolish thing to do. Especially with him. "Not tonight..."

"Tomorrow night, then?"

You know it's an impulsive and stupid thing to do, but you know you'll never "let loose" all on your own. Because what you'd told him is true: you don't know how.

You've never had the option to do anything before but what was expected of you. Or, rather, what you expected of yourself, since your dad couldn't be relied on for nearly anything. Other than getting drunk himself. Then you worry: what if you agree, and you come to discover you have a predisposition to alcoholism yourself?

You nearly groan for over-thinking yet one more thing. Just like always.

"Okay," you reply quietly, knowing you will have all day tomorrow to change your mind if you so choose.

He smiles. "Yeah?"

"I said okay." Your fingers brush against his curls at the base of his neck.

He squeezes your hips. "I'll have to get you liquored up so I can finally take advantage of you."

You roll your eyes skyward. "I changed my mind."

"It's called a joke, sweetheart. Stop taking everything to heart."

He glances behind you then. "Shit, what're those doing over there?" He asks with a tone of flat, feigned confusion.

You turn your head to look across the pool and you feel your skin grow hot when you see your bikini bottoms floating atop the water.

You push off of him then. "You're such a perv!"

He laughs and pinches your bottom as you swim away from him to go grab them. So that's why he'd been so handsy with your hips—he'd been busy untying them.

As you put them back on, tying the bows back into place, you look back to him with a heated expression. "So you were distracting me so you could do... That."

You lays flat on his back, floating. "Maybe. But I still meant the things I said: that you need to get over yourself and have some fun. Make a couple bad decisions. Might turn out to be the best thing you've ever done."

You splash him, then get out, heading back up to the room.

Once you've both bathed for the night, Billy exits the bathroom...completely naked.

You reach up, covering your eyes."Will you please stop doing that?!"

He walks around to his side of the bed. "I told you, I don't like sleeping in clothes. So from now on I won't be. Get used to it."

He crawls into bed beside you and thankfully covers up.

You lower your hands, looking at him. "You wore something last night."

"Because last night was different."

You groan. He's going to do whatever he wants. You already know you're wasting your breath arguing.

You nearly threaten to do the same, so as to give him a taste of his own medicine, then bite your tongue, knowing throwing that in his face would give him exactly what he wants.

So, instead, you lean over him smirking, your body hovering over his, your left leg between both of his and he looks up at you with a look of happy surprise. His hand comes up to cup your cheek and your smile disappears at the unexpectedly soft gesture as you awkwardly grab the TV remote from his bedside table and plop back down on your side of the bed.

You hadn't expected such a...sweet reaction. You were just doing it to lead him on and then tick him off.

And it turns out it worked when he speaks. "God, you're such a fuckin' tease. I don't buy the innocent act anymore, so don't bother with it."

You turn the TV on, flipping through the channels. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Billy doesn't get what he wants when, an hour later, you're both lying down for the night, and he's under the top sheet, while you're atop it, but still under the duvet.

"Be a lot warmer if you just pressed yourself up against me again like last night."

You can't see him in the dark, and know he thus can't see you, but you roll your eyes anyway. "Go to sleep."

"I'm not tired. You could always help with that."

You feel him shifting onto his side, then feel a warm hand sliding under your nightgown. You reach down, trying to shove his hand away, but, with him being stronger than you, he just keeps pushing higher until he reaches second base. Well, sort of. His hand merely skims the soft skin beneath your breast, but you huff loudly out of irritation, turning onto your other side away from him.

"Honey, if you wanted to spoon, all you had to do was ask."

He then presses his frontside against your back and you go to get up, until he wraps an ironclad arm around your middle.

"No, that's not my pistol, before you ask. I'm just that happy to see you."

"You are so fucking obnoxious. Get off of me."

He snuggles closer to you. "Mm, I don't think I will."

He becomes quiet then, and it's only a couple minutes later before he falls asleep, exhausted from the long day.

You stay silent, not wanting to wake him and hear more inappropriate comments. So you shut your eyes, falling asleep in his arms. Reluctantly.

[hazelfoureyes]

A Doe in Fall (part 7)

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

Part 1 - Pretty in Red smut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedy smut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦 Part 7 - Recognition smut💦

Part 7 Recognition

It was time to start again. Alastor couldn't forget what his mother had wanted, even if she didn't ask it of him directly. And while he finds his comfort again in killing, Detective Brady finds a lead.

「Warnings/Promises: Human Alastor x Fem Burlesquer reader, smut, reader's thighs as ear muffs, referencing cruel racists in the early 20th century south, reference to marital violence, pussy eaten, p in v sex, no creampie BOO, bad dancing, Alastor's southern accent, Alastor's mother, gossip, murder, greed , two idiots pretending they aren't madly in love, poor family planning, lots of 1920's slang with notes for your ease」

I think I fixed the broken tag list!

....it's been over a month. Here's nearly 9000 words of our favorite idiots. I feel weird labeling this smut now as...we are...kinda past the smut point and just making sweet sweet love. lol ugh gross. thank you to everyone whose offered help, donated, and shared the word about my mom! It’s been an immense help and has made her a little emotional (in a good way) <Florida stole my moms teeth— explanation and donation link> unrelated, anyone want some RadioDust?

Minors…. Minors. My inbox counts as interacting when you’re literally in there requesting smut. I know your bio has no age but baby honey darling I can tell by your writing. 🔞 Do Not Interact 🏠🚗

A development he knew was coming even if no one else believed him. A drug addict with debts to the local crime syndicates disappearing was neither suspicious nor a mystery. Everyone was confident it was obvious Tommy was at the bottom of Lake Pontchartrain or halfway to California.

But not to him, not for Detective Brady. He had been on the beat for the better part of a year, convinced there was a connection between some of the disappearances in town.

No one wanted to hear it though, most people didn’t even care the people were missing. Only the occasional wife, concerned how she would keep a roof over her head and food in her kid’s bellies with the man of the house gone. But other than that, no tears or chest beating for the missing men and women.

Which made him confident there were countless more unreported cases. Just because no one missed them, a crime is a crime.

But, no bodies, no blood, no crime scenes… he looked like he had lost the fucking plot to his colleagues.

The city didn’t want the bad press, not to mention the fact there was no actual crime to be reported. Someone up and left down? Okay, he was a wife beater? Probably left with his mistress. The cruel den mother of the home for unwanted kids? Her assistant takes the lead and she moves onto a new town to menace. Probably running from the people angry with her.

But he finally had something. Tommy was pimping out dancers, and even laid hands on one. Surely there was a man looking for revenge for that. Can’t knock around a man’s woman and have it go unanswered.

So he tried again to find the woman whose only name he knew was a moniker. Autumn Hind.

Every time Brady came to the theater, another excuse. You left early. You were on the roof smoking—- oh, you slipped out the back. Weekends were your off days, so that was useless.

“You’re obsessed.” Detective Freeman threw an eraser he’d picked off his pencil at Brady. He had seen the man devolve slowly over the past couple months.

“Thanks.” Brady was staring at his notes.

“Not a compliment, Kenny. Shit happens, people leave town. You’re acting like a handful of no shows are some conspiracy.” Freeman came to stand behind Brady, leaning over to read his notes, “How can you even read that chicken scratch?”

He clapped the notebook shut, “Every report was a person less than liked. What are the chances they all leave town in the middle of the night, last seen in the same general area?”

Freeman patted his shoulder, “Did you just ask me why a bunch of assholes,” he stood up and made a show of stretching out tired muscles, “who liked illegal hooch* and jazz with plenty of enemies disappeared?” (*booze)

Brady slapped his desk, “There! You said it! They had enemies. But what— what if they had one enemy in common. A bar manager or — or a,” he was still looking for that link.

“Kenny, the boogeyman isn’t roaming New Orleans killing people. If the higher ups don’t care, if the families don’t care, it doesn’t matter. Let it go.”

The sleep deprived detective sunk into his wooden chair, swiveling side to side anxiously, “Tommy’s mother cares.”

“Yeah well mom’s are famously bad judges of character.” Slipping on his jacket, he shot a worried look to his partner, “Ya gonna go home? Janet’s probably a mess. You’ve been keeping late hours.”

“Nah not yet. I gotta get to the theater before this dame goes ghost on me again.”

“Yikes, still? You’ve been chasing her for a while.” He was making a slow inching walk to the door.

“It’d be easier if I had some support. I gotta do this on my own time.” A deep sigh, well past the point of hiding his frustration with his colleagues and bosses. Freeman looked over the wrinkled shirt and wilted tie, evidence of a man losing his grip.

“Welp, good luck buddy. Hope you get to the bottom of whatever this is.” He gestured at the messy desk and disheveled man, “See ya tomorrow.”

Brady waved without looking up. His eyes were staring into the black leather of his notepad. Tommy was the only recent assumed victim with any real suspicion. The woman whose husband disappeared after going to see a show? Only enemy to him was her, and she wasn’t strong enough to take him down. Deadend.

Most recent, nice young man from up north. Went out for a good time, hoping to catch a little lady for some stress relief, according to his coworkers. Never showed up at work the next day. No one had a bad word to say about the man. Making him an outlier, but still. He was young, strong, soft spoken. Not an enemy in sight but no family to worry, either. Deadend.

But Tommy. Someone cared he was gone. He was in the jazz game, the drug dens, the illegal drink business, and had a heavy hand. He was the perfect bad man, right?

He looked across his desk. Bad men. The occasional unsavory woman. Maybe it was just their time. They pissed off the wrong people.

Or the wrong person.

Someone who worked downtown, someone into dance and drink, someone with nights free to do his work. Maybe a hired gun? No, some of these people didn’t have the money for that.

Plus, one person and so many missing? That would be unheard of, it’d be some kind of record for Louisiana.

A record Brady could claim.

When he entered the theater James, the manager who replaced Tommy, noticeably rolled his eyes, getting in front of the man. “It’s real bad for business to have a cop in here all the damn time. Come on, if you’re not here for a raid then could you be a little less obvious.”

Brady looked past him, “What do you mean?”

“You’re— what is it? What can I do for you?”

“Here again for Miss Autumn. Care to give her real name yet?”

“No can do. Ain’t my business to tell. She’s finished her set, asked to head home early.” Brady turned and kicked a chair over, a large man approaching behind the manager before seeing the hip badge and backing up. “Nah we’re not doing that. We’ve told her you’ve come by but she’s a busy lady. Several gigs here and there. Enough, you’re harassing the dancers now.”

With a snap, Brady had his finger in the manager’s face, “Whatcha gonna do? Call the cops?”

“She. Isn’t. Here. What the fuck do you want? For me to tie her up and bring her to your station?”

That’d be ideal.

A month, nearly. Coming once or twice a week to try and speak to you but every time he missed you. He was going to snap if he heard one more time you were gone. Maybe everyone was in on it. Maybe you werenin the back right now laughing at him.

Brady scanned the room, “Where’s she live?”

“How the fuck would I know— please, leave.” James gestured to the doors.

He lifted his badge up, waving it at the patrons seated closest to him, “Yall know it’s still illegal to partake-,”

“Jesus! Enough!” The manager pushed him back, flashing an apologetic smile to the guests, “She moonlights Sundays at The Dime near the park on 5th, singing for a friend. That’s all I got about her life off stage. Will you fucking go?”

The detective perked up, “See, was that so hard?”

Finally, he could feel his fingers grasp the shifting shadow that was his only lead.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“I never said sorry.”

You turned your head, not expecting him to say something serious. Waiting, he didn’t add explanation. Sorry? What had he done… ran out of milk? Forgot to bring in the towels before it rained last week? A quick search of your memory yielded nothing.

“For what?”

He was staring off in front of him. “For putting you in danger before. In the park. I am sincerely sorry.”

You’d somehow almost forgotten. It’d been weeks. Every bad feeling that night had brought you had been carried away by good morning kisses and gentle words before sleep. Nearly every night was spent in his bed, Alastor dropping you off at your apartment when he went downtown for work. The incident in the park was a different lifetime already.

Had he really put you in danger? Or had you rushed into the danger of his hobby to feel closer to him?

“I put myself in that situation. You didn't throw me at that guy. I don’t do a damn thing I don’t want to do. You should have learned that by now.”

Tough act for a woman who jumped up to pour some man’s coffee.

You shook your head, you had to stop equating doting on Alastor as a show of weakness. It wasn’t. Even if admitting that meant admitting you were wrong.

But he had put you in danger’s way, he knew it. “No, you wouldn’t have ever been in that situation if it wasn’t for me.”

Your laughter bounced off the car windows, “Alastor, you met me getting choked to death by a strange man. People will always make dangerous situations for women to be in. Don’t act like you’re special.” A sly smile to ease his anxious heart. “I’d rather be in danger for you than just because I’m a woman. If it’s gonna happen anyway, might as well be worth something.”

His hand slipped onto your thigh, expression softening before his own smile grew again, “Don’t lie to my face so easily. I am very special, we can all agree.”

You looked around, the two of you alone in his car on a side street, “All? You know the trunk is still empty, right?”

“Oh, is that so? You’re quite dangerous yourself, I nearly forgot why we were here.” He patted his pockets to make sure he had what he needed. “When I give you a wave, back up to me, okay? Don’t leave the car. Just drive off if-,”

You kissed his cheek, “Shut it. Not a chance. Go give em hell, baby.”

Alastor crumpled against his steering wheel momentarily, your words cutting his heart open in a most wonderful way. He could never have predicted getting kisses before beginning his dark work. What had he done to deserve this? Perhaps proof someone in hell was in full support of his actions. Straightening his back and checking his hair and glasses in the mirror, he flashed you a smile before slipping out of the car.

When Alastor said he was ready to begin killing again, you were a mix of excited and scared. Excited for normalcy to return but scared of the dangers presented there in. You’d been dodging the blue eyed detective for a while already, and moving forward meant possibly making mistakes he could grab a hold of. Not mentioning the risk of someone hurting Alastor again…but for your part in everything, you and Alastor found a compromise.

A deal had been made. You’d stay in the car and bring it to him when he was done. He had asked you flee if something went wrong but you both knew that wasn’t going to happen. Crawling into the driver’s seat, you tried to remember what he had taught you. How to get it started up, how to make it go backwards. How to make it go, in general. You’d never driven a car. Well, not until Alastor insisted on teaching you. Driving up and down the long stretch of road he lived on, Alastor white knuckling the door handle as you jerked the car forward with every failed shift. You had started on his land, but he feared for his home's safety with you behind the wheel.

Your hands slipped down the steeling wheel, big and round. Your mother would’ve had a hoot had she seen you in the driver’s seat. Clearing your throat, you leaned into the back of the car and double checked the canvas was properly secured.

Another man tonight. The few times you’d both gone out for leisure, having preferred to spend time alone at home, Alastor had gotten gossip that piqued his interest.

You remembered the way the woman’s hand touched his arm when she leaned in. “You didn’t hear it from me but it’s best to avoid French Study on Thursdays. Real piece of work slipping something in drinks and robbing people.” He reported what she had said back to you. It’d panicked you, realizing you were closer to being on Alastor’s list than you’d realized.

“No, the issue isn’t the stealin’. It’s what he does with the people with,” he had been delicate as he said it, taking another long sip of whiskey, “other things of value. And the fact this man has no need to steal. It’s ridiculous! His family has been land ownin’ and well off for generations.” Alastor was always impassioned when discussing the things he hated, even when slipping into drunkenness. His accent came through when he had too much to drink, his real accent. The accent his mother had. “You robbed men for power balance, for their assumptions you were easy to manipulate to begin with. He? Uh, Him? He’s just a piece of shit. He thinks he’s better than everyone else. And no one would report him ‘cause his family name.”

His drink spilled a little, when you had offered to clean it he just slipped the button up off. He lost his usual classy air as the bottle emptied. Which you actually liked.

The benefits of drinking on his back porch was no need to worry about decorum. Music was softly spilling from the open window behind you, Alastor’s prized record cabinet spinning the newest presses.

“It’s like there’s a little bug under my skin,” he wiggled his fingers over his sternum, “It’s gonna dig into my bones if I don’t cut it out.”

Despite your own drunkenness, you nodded and followed along, “So, ya gonna kill ‘em?”

Alastor pouted, making you snort, “I don’t want to think about that right now.” He enunciated every word clearly in his practiced and professional voice.

You’d ended the evening playfully arguing the merits of prohibition on the jazz scene and watching Alastor dance around the wrap around porch. But the conversation hadn’t ended for him.

Little hints he was still focused on it popped up over the following week. Alastor randomly asking you how it felt to be drugged, did you wake up in pain? Embarrassed? Scared? You caught him staring at the greenhouse from the window one morning, lost in thought. Before he had finally said he wanted to go out again, you understanding what that meant, you’d seen him turning a dinner knife over and over in his hand impatiently.

And now here you were. In the car beside a park late Thursday, Alastor having done some scouting while you’d finished up early at the theater.

It took hours. Which was good, it meant Alastor wasn’t rushing. He liked the stalking aspect of killing, of watching someone from across a room knowing exactly how their night would end. And as that man whose name would soon be buried with him alternated smiling and barking orders at staff, Alastor felt his stomach flutter. Like watching a slab of meat slowly turn over the fire. The crueler he was, the worse he acted, the more Alastor found his fingers tapping on the bar with anticipation. Perfect. Damn yourself more. No fake smiles or double faces, no, people like him didn’t even try to play the game others were forced into. Born with money and land already theirs, they didn’t even know the rules.

But Alastor did. Alastor mastered them at the tender age of 14. When he realized his father’s features were a shield. His mother’s lessons on manners and charm his weapons. The first time he was in mixed company, when someone leaned in and whispered a cruel “prank” he had planned for a young dark skinned woman on the other side of the room, he understood. They pulled back and smiled at him, and he managed to muster one of his own. Just smile, they’d take it to mean whatever they wanted it to mean because they thought he was of the same mindset. They assumed it. Like so many other things people would assume about him as he grew.

When he told his mother the story after getting home, she shook her head. When he had asked her what he should have done, she set down her book.

“Well, I’d love to say you should have stood up for her. But I’d also like to have my son above ground.”

He asked her why she couldn’t have both.

“Sweetheart, we don’t usually get the choice to do either, let alone both.”

He offered a solution, after a moment of thinking, “I shoulda buried him first then.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if that was how the world worked?” She returned to her book, “If God just struck em down dead as soon as they hurt people. Better yet, before.”

It would be nice. It was nice. Because Alastor couldn’t wait for God to make the world his mother mentioned. He grinned ear to ear, gloves a second skin, as the man crawled backwards in the grass like an animal cornered. His heart was pounding in his ears. Where to cut first? The gut, his family fat and soft from the money they made off the labor of others? The pale neck of a man who never spent a day outside, instead indoors drugging strangers for sport? The chest covered in a fine cotton shirt he didn’t appreciate?

He wished he had many arms, as many as he could imagine, to slash and tear in tandem.

“What do you want? Money?” the animal asked him.

Alastor shook his head no. No, he didn’t want money.

“Do you know who I am?”

Alastor nodded. “That is precisely why I am here.”

Would he beg? Cry? Bargain? Experience told him it’d be the latter.

“Alright well, if you know who I am you know you’re making a mistake. Here.” The man opened his wallet and pulled out a few greenbacks, holding them out for Alastor. Alastor’s smile softened slightly, remembering tossing you a wallet once before.

He reached down with his left hand to take the money, but instead grabbed the man’s wrist. Swiftly, quicker than the man could process, he took the knife tucked into his belt behind his vest and stabbed the man in the stomach.

Staring into his eyes, he could see his own image looking back at him. Smiling.

Alastor grabbed your face with both wrists, hands bloody and one still holding the knife, and kissed you when he’d flagged you down.

“Is this for bringing the car around without running you over?” Your eyes glanced at the knife beside your head. He apologized, tossing it into the trunk.

“No, just happy to see you.” A mischievous grin that made your knees weak, his body shimmied closer until he was pressed against you, stealing another kiss. His arms stretched out to keep from bloodying you. Your fingers slid up his cheeks to return the kiss. “Thank you, dear.”

When you returned home, to his home, that is, you took to task bringing in the laundry he’d left on the line and putting away the things still on the counters from breakfast. You couldn’t resist going to the second floor room and looking down into the greenhouse. You couldn’t see perfectly well, but you could see nonetheless. Alastor didn’t want you in the greenhouse yet when he was working. He said it was the ugliest parts, the kind that would sure give you nightmares or rob you of your appetite.

Considerate. But, it only made you more curious. Would you be sick if you saw? Would you never eat meat again?

What would you do if you didn’t have any reaction at all?

You watched Alastor leave the greenhouse and lock the door behind him, so you hopped down the stairs to meet him in the hall beside the kitchen.

He’d been sweating, shirt open to reveal a thin white undershirt, and under his arm was a canvas roll. He lifted it up, “Tools. Rinsed them off but I’d like to dry them under the electric lights.” You grabbed the aprons from the wall hooks, Alastor letting you slip it over his head and tie it for him. “Why so tight?”

“I like the way it makes your waist look.” You’d seen him wear it when making biscuits. It made his shape so clear. It reminded you of watching water drip down his sides and roll off his hips in the shower.

He beamed, “I’m listening. What exactly do you like about my waist?” Sharp brows raised as that friendly tongue peeked out at you.

“Hush.” You cooed.

You stood on the long side of the table, him at the short, and took turns wiping the tools dry and checking the other’s work.

As he grabbed each one he would tell you what he used it for. Holding up the garden shears and explaining the point along the blade that had the strongest force. The advantage of curved pruning blades when used on a human body. His eyes were gleaming as he spoke, looking so lovingly at each item like it was a loyal pet.

He finally noticed you were grinning and chuckling softly, so he dropped his smile for dramatic effect, “What? What’s so funny?”

Shaking your head, you set down the next item for him to inspect, “Nothing. You’re just so cute when you’re talking about your passions. Your face lights up from the inside out.”

His breath hitched, smile actually lost as he processed every syllable. Your turn now to notice him staring as you looked up from your work. You recognized that look though, the wide eyes and serious lips. The air of the kitchen felt like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm rolled in.

Alastor set the tools back onto the canvas one by one and carried them to the counter. Before returning he picked up a small knife and set it near the edge of the table.

“Come here.” He nodded his head to space in front of him. The way he said it, that tone, made your heart begin to skip beats.

You slid between him and the table, Alastor lifting you up with a startling ease and setting you onto cool wood. Kicking your legs a little, you set nervous hands onto your lap. You wanted to touch him. To pull him by the apron straps into you.

“How do you always say the right things?” He closed the distance between you, one hand on your neck while his mouth came to your ear. “The things I didn’t know I wanted to hear?”

Swimming. Your mind was swimming. “Why is your idea of right the same as my idea of the truth?” You could feel the grin. Sighing into your ear, down your neck, his hands grabbed your hips and pulled you off the table enough to press your core into his clothed erection. Even through his pants and the apron, you could feel him clearly. When did he get so hard? You always wondered in those moments if it was the topic of discussion. Or the knives. Or your need. Biting your lip wasn’t a thought out action, but Alastor loved to see it. Rolling his hips into you in response.

“Wanna go upstairs?” you asked.

He shook his head, slipping off his glasses.

“Oh no, don’t even wanna see me?” You teased, but firm hands held you tighter to him in response.

“I won’t be letting you get far enough away from me for that to be a problem.”

When he leaned down and his lips so very gently pressed into yours, you could feel it. That missing something from before. It was in the air, it was rolling off of his body and dampening your senses. A desire, a drive that you felt that first time you had sex with him in that apartment above the theater. A motivation that was lacking last time in his bed.

His eyes were staring down into yours, waiting for your response. Eagerly you replied by chasing his mouth with yours. A chain of kisses as you tried to ever remember enjoying kissing another person as much as him.

Not a single soul. Why did it feel like this was all you ever needed? Eyes closed and lips on lips, hands in his hair, it felt like you’d been holding your breath all of your life. His body on yours was a gasp of air.

For Alastor, he couldn’t even think of breathing when around you. Let alone when your mouth was on him. Every time you touched him all he could think about was the word ‘affection’.

So when your tongue swiped up his lips, he moaned as he opened for you. Not because he was new to kissing someone with so much lust. He’d grown accustomed to the things you did to him. No, because you were a fever that had taken hold of him and your kiss the medicine that soothed his delirium.

He wondered, was that why people called it ‘love sick’?

“You really like me, don’t you?” He asked, nose sliding up your jaw.

An opportunity presented to you. A chance to spill over the edges.

You pushed it away, legs wrapping around his waist and pulling him closer.

“Something like that, yeah.”

His hands pressed flat against the table to balance the deep roll of his hips against you. One of your own fell behind you to keep from falling backwards, the other flung over his shoulder. When you moaned into his cheek he captured the sound with his mouth and slipped his tongue back into you.

You liked him. He’d known people to love and not like their partner an ounce, but the way you appreciated his quirks made his heart sing in its brittle cage. You never ceased to see him. The issue with always putting on a show is people tend to be disappointed when the actors become human again. But you never met his persona. He was knife wielding, bloodlusting Alastor from the first word. So when he was himself, you recognized him clearly. Because he was all you ever knew.

And you liked him

You appreciated him.

He dared to think maybe he could inspire more from you. A thought that made him twitch below the belt.

Closer. He needed you closer. He needed you so near to him that he’d never forget the feeling of being wanted. It’d be imprinted on his chest and his arms and his lips.

Impatient hands slipping up your sides, along your neck, down your chest. His greedy mouth suddenly understanding the same greed he once marveled at in your own kisses. Hot tongue sliding over yours, delving deeper into you with every return.

When his hands seemed to come to an agreement, they yanked you forward again. You’d fall off ass-first if he pulled you any further.

You watched with only slight horror has he grabbed the small knife and hiked up your dress in tandem. A gulp, worried the other shoe had finally dropped on a too-good situation.

“Are you particularly attached to these panties?” His eyes were looking up and over his glasses.

“No?” Did you really need panties, you wondered. Ever? Girdles we’re falling out of fashion perhaps you’d all be naked again soon enough. Maybe you two could start another Eden. A pomegranate’s juice the new red staining his skin.

Not even a tremble, his hands lifted each side and sliced them free.

“Oh?” You didn’t have a real question in mind when he tucked the panties into his back pocket. Just a need to express you saw it and didn’t understand it.

Alastor took your hand and pressed it against his hardened length, eyes locked onto yours with a sharpness to them. But when your hand took hold of him and squeezed, everything softened in his features. Funny how where one area grew stiff another melted.

He rolled his eyes closed as you finally undid his belt and pants. A struggle you didn’t see, Alastor trying to keep from pouncing on you like a horny virgin. He didn’t want to rut into you, he didn’t need the pleasure. He needed something he couldn’t see or explain. He just knew you held it behind your teeth.

When your skin pressed into his and you both moaned together he was sure you were the same. One person, split into insufficient parts. Finally lined up flush in place.

When you circled your hips against his aching cock, he wondered what you were chasing after. Was it the pleasure? He’d give it to you in spades.

He was on his knees with his face between your legs before you could close your thighs in surprise.

You needed both hands now to keep from falling back onto the table. “Alastor,” a whine.

He knew better than to talk with his mouth full, so he let two fingers work their way into you with shallow thrusts. Easing you open for him.

“Yes?” His eyes didn’t leave his fingers, glistening under the kitchen light. You hadn't thought much ahead past his name, once his fingers were in you and curling up to find your spongy and soft bundle of nerves your mind had gone empty.

“We can just fuck, if you’re horny.” You watched him watching himself.

“Where’s the fun in that?” His mouth returned to your mound, broad tongue forming a point and finding your clit.

A lazy moving tongue would be frustrating if not for his fingers punishing your g-spot. Consistency was key, and his hand was focused and skilled.

Suddenly you remembered the piano in the sitting room. That’s where you knew that movement from. That clearly practiced muscle memory.

Alastor felt confident everywhere but rarely did he feel comfortable. When your thighs came together and squeezed him at the ears, he felt positively cozy. Would you be so kind as to be his ear muffs come winter? He’d have to remember to ask when his mouth was free. How many cold nights he could now rest assured he would have warmth just a little dive of his head away.

Lowering his mouth, nose buried in your muff, he wriggled his tongue in with his fingers. Not enough, rarely was anything enough any more. He stilled his hand and prodded at your sensitive walls with that intrusive tongue, relishing the little movements you made in response. Taking his digits out entirely, he buried his wet muscle as deeply as he could reach.

The huffs of exhales you were making triggered a moan from him that you felt through your skin. His enjoyment was tripling your pleasure.

Goosebumps ran up your arms at the combine sensations of his moaning and prodding.

When his lips and tongue returned to their uneven teasing of your clit, three fingers now swiping past your inner spot with every thrust, your hands came to his head. Fingers slipping through his hair and gripping every time your body shook. Encouragement, the more you tugged the surer he was he was doing the right things.

And oh, he was. You said the right things but Alastor always seemed to act on them. Your senses lodged themselves between the even stroking of your g-spot and the unpredictable movements of his tongue. One kept the pressure rising as your orgasm climbed, the other pushed you along jolt by jolt.

Curious thing. That night in the park he didn’t have much reaction to your enjoyment, but he found himself not fully softening in his lap as he continued. Normally, unless still physically stimulated or the rare time you stirred something in him, he wasn’t very… battle ready.

But the feeling of you pulling him in by the head, fingers in his hair and thighs at his cheeks; this was different than the others. He was sure now it wasn’t just physical pleasure you wanted. His pride said it was more.

Dozens of times before— he truly was a rake in some aspects, though admittedly it was all in the pursuit of avoiding “sex”, as defined by most, not chasing it — he helped a date find release with his tongue. But it never did anything for him. They moaned and said his name and screamed. Which was lovely. Who doesn’t enjoy recognition?

When you said his name, it was heavier. It was material, it had mass and as its gravity began its pull he found his mind circling that sound. He was pleasing his darling, not placating. And it made him react in that unusually crass way.

He felt like an apex predator when killing, tearing open animals made for him to hunt. But you made him feel baser. Prey in your gentle bite.

As your orgasm mounted, you began tugging at his hair to pull him off. You didn’t need him to stop, but everything was suddenly too sensitive. It was alarming to feel your body rocking from overstimulation. A strident cry filled the kitchen as your back arched off the table. He didn’t let up, despite how much you thrashed under his mouth. Rolling pleasure, muscles electrified and shaking beyond your control.

You patted his head harshly, “Good, I’m good. Alas—tor! Fuck!”

Ah, he loved when you swore. It punctuated your otherwise preternatural aura with a touch of humanity.

He stood and leaned over your now reclining body. Your pussy still clenching and legs shaking as he admired his work. You admired his shape in his apron, his broad shoulders and sharp eyes. Caught between your legs like a lion in a mouse trap; he acted like he had no way free of you. His grin widened and he made a display out of licking each finger clean. Eyes never leaving yours.

You knew many men to squawk at going down on a woman. To balk at wearing an apron. To grimace at the suggestion of cooking a meal while their lady took a nice bath or enjoyed a coffee. Alastor seemed to not think twice about any of it. How nice it would be. To have a partner beside you, to not be the woman in the often referenced “behind every great man is a great woman.”

“Alastor, I want you.” You pulled him down by the neck and stole a kiss. When he began to stroke himself fully back to life you pressed that hand to his chest. “Not like that. Though I’m not declining the offer.”

His eyes saw something in yours. “Sweetheart, you have me. There is no part of me that isn’t possessed by you. I know we keep things relatively… tightlipped for safety but I’m your fella and you’re my gal.” His nose touched yours. “But if you want more, I’ll become more. I’ll break myself apart and make myself better.”

Your heart sank. Sitting up to command a little authority, a feat given you were sitting panty-less on a kitchen table, “Don’t you dare. I’ll always meet you where you are, got it? Don’t go… groping around in the darkness for me; trying to find what I need. I’ll always come to you. Because you’re more than enough as you are.”

A little cough to clear his tightening throat, “I’ve not had a day of darkness since you arrived.” A kiss to your forehead before a soft thumbpad wiped at the corner of your eye. “Did I make you sad?”

You wanted to say it. But not now, not like this. You didn’t want Alastor to connect love and sex. To think one was necessary for the other.

While you were coming to learn how lovely it was to pair the two together, it was a fact they were wholly independent things. And you couldn’t allow him to think they were a set.

“You’ve made me too happy. It’s absolutely terrifying.”

But Alastor had found your expressions of acceptance always tumbled the circle of Love to overlap with that of Sex. It was only in that mixed space did he find desire in pleasure.

A wicked smirk, “Let me pile on my affections and drown out your fears.” His hips rolled into you again, a surprising eagerness returned to his lap. “Can I continue?”

With a nod and a smile, “But not another word of change, buster.” You leaned back on your hand for support. Alastor was happy to return to your heat, lining up and sinking into you. An embrace like no other, one he found particularly earnest when with you.

Close. Finally. You began where he ended, a natural extension of who he was and who he could be. The things he could have. A relieved sigh he didn’t try to hide before he began moving, a moment when his tension could melt. You were both an unseasonably warm autumn day and the cool comforting shade of an unfamiliar tree. Both the heat and the relief.

He watched your body rock against the table, even fully dressed you managed to look more scandalous than any show he’d seen downtown. He was grateful he didn’t seek this comfort often in others, the way his mind melted made him feel vulnerable. He couldn’t think straight. And then you began to make those lovely little groans, high pitched and needy, and he was sure his soul was errant.

As his thrusts deepened, cock no longer kissing your cervix but ramming into you with good intentions, you dropped back as you lost the battle against his hips.

Alastor’s arms slid up our waist and pulled your arms towards him, “Too far, I can’t see your face.”

Your arms were slung over his shoulders as your back curved for him, “You don’t need to see my face.”

“Tsk, wrong.”

Your new favorite place was right in front of him, wherever his line of sight was you wanted to be in it. Nose to nose, heads tilting to recapture soft lips and softer moans.

Until the softness left, Alastor’s skin slapping against yours as he dragged those lovely sounds from you. He watched your eyes roll closed, mouth open as you moaned with the safety of the seclusion of a country home. A thought bubbled up, inspired by you.

“I want the neighbors to hear you.” That smile half cocked across his upsettingly handsome face. His hand slipped between you both to repeat the motions he learned before. Hard and fast, no choice but to raise your voice.

Your head fell back, clit still sensitive, “You don’t have neighbors!” A new moan hitting the walls.

“I do— just a few miles down the road, dear.” His mouth latched onto your neck but he didn’t suck like he wanted, he couldn’t bite. Your skin was your job, your body not his to mark. Suddenly he remembered, “Do you still have that make up? For your bruises?”

You couldn’t understand why he would bring that up while balls deep in you but you nodded.

“Would it work on your neck?” He nipped lightly.

It clicked, “Absolutely.”

You felt like a teenager again. When his tongue swiped over your soft flesh before he began to suck on the skin there you could feel the heat rising off your chest. You could feel him everywhere, and with the knowledge he wanted to hear you, you tossed your shame out of the kitchen window and relaxed into the pleasure.

As he moved up your neck he left little marks behind. There was no sense left you didn’t occupy. He could smell the soap and sweat of your skin, taste your cunt still on his tongue, your sights and sounds a decadence he couldn’t get used to. And the feeling of you… velvety walls, a feeling finer than silk as he slipped in and out of you. So incredibly hot on his most sensitive areas, pulling him back in with admirable strength.

He felt his orgasm ratcheting up but tried to hold back. He wanted more time to experience your ecstasy, to wallow in your openness. Even pressed skin to skin now wouldn’t satisfy that deep desire for this unique level of intimacy. So he wanted to enjoy it for as long as he had it.

But, he knew he should prepare. “I don’t want to dirty your dress.” A lust heavy voice penetrating the nap of your neck. He’d made a risky release before at your urging, something he often thought about when work got quiet. But he knew he needed to think clearer now.

“Then don’t.” A terrible reply but you wanted all of him, every drop of his hunger for you. “Keep the mess in me.”

“My dear,” he slowed his hips, autopilot keeping them moving at all, “I don’t think now is the time for,” you tightened around him to trip him up, which worked spectacularly. Alastor had take several seconds before continuing, “talks on family planning.”

A pang of nausea and fear, small and sharp in your abdomen. It wasn’t that you weren’t aware of biology, just that Alastor brought out your baser animal instincts, too. And before, when he came buried as deeply as he could reach, it felt like you’d actually completed some ritual. Bears hibernated, birds migrated, Alastor came in you.

You’d never let a man do that before Alastor. “I just want to… accept everything you are willing to give me.”

He bit his bottom lip to redirect some attention away from his now throbbing member, “And when you’re sure on me, I’ll always provide.”

A pout that he kissed, you accepted the terms. An argument could be made you were already very sure, but you were well aware how naive that sounded when you’d known each other for so little time. Had a coworker told you she’d met a guy and within three months was ready for… the consequences, you’d have laughed and asked if she was drunk or just stupid.

Alastor wanted to provide. But he knew you’d be the one with the raw end of the deal, he couldn’t risk coercing a decision in the heat of the moment. If your mind was half was addled as his with pleasure then you were in no state for big decisions.

Life changing decisions.

Decisions that filled empty homes.

Fuck, why wasn’t he a less considerate man?

When his kiss deepened, so did his ministrations. He was fully sheathed and so unwilling to draw back more than a couple inches you wondered if he had changed his mind. It felt like a man not wanting to stray too far from home. One hand on the small of your back, his other other on the back of your neck. When he pulled out he pressed his tongue further, only stopping the kiss when he came onto the little space of table between your thighs. Soft and swollen lips parted as his breaths ran ragged. A smile spread across your face as you watched his eyes open, witnessing a pleasured blow out of his pupils.

When he grabbed a kitchen towel and cleaned the table, you chuckled at his grimace. “See? My way is cleaner.”

He didn’t reply at first, taking the cloth and hovering over the sink before tossing it into his trash. “Only in the short term. We can finish up tomorrow with the tools?”

Your legs kicked again, not ready to slide off, “Mm, it’ll be easier in the daylight.”

“Instead,” he zipped his pants but removed the belt and set it on the counter, “Let’s get zozzled* and sway around the sitting room? Crash where we land.” (*drunk)

“I’ll pour if you get the music on.”

He turned to leave but paused, “No, I’ll handle the drinks. You always have too heavy of a hand.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining last time…”

“I’m not sure I remembered I was at home and not at a drum* last time…,” He uncorked the label-less whiskey, grabbing two glasses with one hand. “Didn’t wanna insult the pretty waitress.” (*speakeasy)

Fair. You weren’t much for drinking and always underestimated the strength of illegal hooch. Some were weak and some could kill you. But fancy Alastor had connections with the kind of people no one dared to risk harm to, so he always had the most trustworthy goods.

Good music, great whiskey, and even better company. You thanked him for being safe while working, he praised your ability to learn new skills so quickly. After a few drinks he pushed the coffee table against the wall and you drunkenly swayed around the room to something playing smooth and low. As much as you enjoyed your conversations, having your head tucked under his chin as neither of you said a word somehow filled in the little cracks of your heart more so than any talk. For him too. No tension after sex, no stress of how long he’d get to breathe before the next instance of prodding to do it again. He could smile and close his eyes and feel the room swing and sway in total safety.

A safety neither of you knew was being threatened from afar.

When you woke, Alastor was gone. A note on the table letting you know he’d run out to grab some things for breakfast. Telling you to relax and recover.

You put the furniture back, bringing the glasses to the kitchen and his belt to the bedroom.

Coffee and a slow perusal of his home. Intimate details you tried to not stare at when he was there. The rare photo of his mother, a woman you didn’t speak about, a conversation you didn’t need to have, but someone you knew existed fondly still in his life. A silent thank you to her.

No photos of a man to give thanks to you so you turned to the little curios and mementos. 

Little seashells and sand dollars, a small gator’s skull. Books, about anatomy and history. Novels about crime and love and mystery. Ticket stubs for films he’d seen. Little bits of his mother scattered in. A woman’s necklace. A chatelaine* with all of the accessories and tools. (*wikipedia page)

When you felt you’d spied enough, you crawled into his side of the bed and inhaled as deeply as you could. His pillow smelled like him. You let yourself sleep off the hangover surrounded by pieces of Alastor.

Pieces you couldn’t contain. Pieces left around town as a dick* hunted for his personal monster. (*a detective, but also, a dick, fuck this dude?)

Beth, or Betty as you called her, the friend you often sang for, was cleaning up from the previous night when Brady walked in. She tried to tell him they were closed, but he took a seat at the counter anyway.

“I’m looking for a singer named Autumn. She been around lately?”

She paused, knowing the name was tied to your work. This man didn’t know you. “Whose asking?”

“The city of New Orleans”, he set his badge on the counter top.

“Is she in some kinda trouble?”

“She the kinda dame to get into trouble?”

Beth laughed, “She doesn’t try to but men, liquor, and jazz tend to make it happen. She’s okay, right?”

He took a deep sigh, trying to blink away the exhaustion and remember he needed to be someone strangers trusted. Being honest hadn’t been working and being rough barely got him a lead. “Well I was hoping you’d know. Found out someone roughed her up a bit ago and just wanting to make sure she’s okay. But I don’t have her legal name, no address, nothing to track her down.”

Shaking her head, she leaned onto the counter, “What? Some egg* forget it’s just a show?” Brady shrugged. “I can’t say. She hasn’t been by in a couple weeks.” (*man)

He asked why. Feeling the deadend approaching.

“She was just doing me a favor. Once she got a guy she didn’t have much time.”

Fighting the urge to slam his fists against the wood and sling his notebook across the bar, Brady took slow breaths. Jaw clenched as he grabbed his pencil, “That is wonderful news. Hopefully a fit guy who can… keep her safe.”

Beth laughed a little, “I don’t know about that. He’s kind of a daisy*, but real kind.” (*a non-masculine man)

“Could I get a name? Or her address? Wanna follow up. See for myself that she’s doing well.”

She tapped the bar with two fingers and winked, “Ah no can do. Flatfoot* or not, I don’t tell men where to find sleeping ladies. But her fella is in radio though. I recognized his voice right away. Popular too, really ritzy air about him.” (*cop, detective)

As he left, he slapped the notebook against his palm over and over. When he stopped to take a second to congratulate himself something caught his eye. Across the street was a park he knew well. Following the block and turning, he could see the white and green awning of the cafe he’d seen you at before.

Had he been there? He hadn’t questioned why you were alone on such a nice day. But maybe you weren’t. Maybe you’d been playing him from the start.

Enough games.

When you took the stage that evening, a Friday show with a promising crowd, you felt like solid gold. Alastor would be there to pick you up in a few hours, you had every need met. And now you had the adoration of strangers to pump up your chest.

Until you passed your come-hither eyes over the crowd and a striking ocean blue pair knocked the wind out of you.

James was standing behind Brady, mouthing an apology. You missed a beat in your routine but forced your smile back. It took a second, to slide back into the actress you were when away from Alastor. Every time it got harder and harder to fall back into that role but you managed. His eyes never left your face, and you thanked God your heaving chest could be seen as fatigue and not the sheer panic that had taken ahold of your body.

When you were on the other side of the curtain you considered rushing out the side door, into the alley and down the street. But you couldn’t. You’d successfully brushed him off for so long but now that he had seen you, had made it clear he was there for you, you couldn’t flee. Innocent people don’t hide from cops.

Feet dragging, you saw some of the dancers standing around the dressing room door. “He’s out of his gourd if he thinks I’m changing with him in there.” One said loud enough to ensure Brady heard. When you entered the room he was sitting at your make up table, legs spread and your shoes in his hands.

“There she is!” standing, he extended the shoes to you, “Don’t stare like a deer in the lights. I’m sure you knew I was coming. Slip these on, we’re going for a ride.” He gave them a shake, “You can call your mac* from the station and let him know you’ll be late.” (*man)

˖  ݁𖥔.Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult.𖥔 ݁ ˖

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei ,  @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog  , @poinappel l , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima a , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @rubyninja1 , @simphornies

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[lovebittenbyevans]

All Eyes On Her

Summary: When the world find out about you being with Geto. You wonder if being his girlfriend is too much for you

Pairing: model! Geto Suguru x collegestudent! Female Reader

Warnings: cursed words, social media au, heartbreak

Author note: Geto world is here! This a continue of AU universe series Life In The Spotlight. Keep up with Behind Closed Doors and Mystery Girl. Enjoy reading!!

– I don’t do taglist

People can’t stop staring at you everywhere you go with him. For the past few months you have been busy with your classes and seeing him. On campus everybody just been gossiping about you and Geto.

“I can’t believe they last almost 5 months now.” A girl whispered.

Another girl whispered. “How did a bad man hook up with her?”

You can tell some of these girls you have class with are jealous even though you didn’t pay them any mind. You were not used to having this much attention before at all.

You sigh, looking down at your phone and noticing you were getting notifications on social media like crazy including blogs and geto fanpages tagging you every second.

getosuguru babygirl ❤️ @.y/nusername

This was your reality now. You were going to have to find a way to get used to it. You walked out of the door feeling the cool breeze hit your face. Feeling all eyes on you was making you cringe inside.

Geto pulled up in front of the campus and got out of the car. He got out of the car, opening the passenger door for you while not paying any attention to any of the girls who were giving him heart eyes.

“Hey babe.” He gave you a kiss on the cheeks before you got inside his car hearing the door shut.

Geto got inside the driver seat, closing the door shut as he pressed the start button on his car. “Just drive, please.” You tell him. He nodded and immediately had his foot on the gas pedal driving off.

As he stopped at a red light, you began to speak again. “How do you deal with this attention all the time? It’s like eyes burning into my skull everyday.”

He chuckled, keeping one hand on the steering wheel and the other hand on your lap. “At first it was overwhelming but I learned to keep my head held high and keep it moving.”

You scoff. “Easy for you to say.” You started to wonder maybe being with him isn’t a good idea to begin with. “Maybe we should call this off.”

His eyebrow raises. “Call what off?”

You suck your teeth while leaning back against the passenger seat. “Us being a couple. You already ignore me anyway.”

“Ignore you?” Geto blinked in confusion.

You didn’t have time for him to play stupid. You glance at him. “Yes, you've been ignoring me for the last few days like I don’t exist anymore.” You did not feel like arguing with him either.

He pulled up in front of your dorm and put the car into park. He took off his seatbelt as he turned his head to look at you. “What? I have not–” You cut him off before he could give an excuse. “Check your phone from two weeks ago till now.”

Geto had no idea you were feeling this way. He was still getting used to having a whole girlfriend instead of being a manwhore. He took his phone from the cup holder and looked at his phone call logs.

He scrolled from last month to this month realizing he had a bunch of missed calls and facetime calls from you. He also looked at all the text messages you sent him within the last two weeks until today.

How the fuck has he missed all of these?

“Y/N, I–” He paused for a minute. “Don’t say you're sorry because that shit is already thrown out the window.” You raised your voice a little.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Is all he could say in his head

He tried to reach your hand but you pulled back. “Look, I know you are trying to get used to this whole having a girlfriend thing but maybe this isn’t what you need to change your ways because of the media. You can go back to your troublemaker ways.” You took off your seatbelt and got out of the car holding your backpack.

“Wait, Y/N you don’t mean–” He began to say something when his phone rang.

You shake your head as you hear Geto calling out to you. “Y/N, Y/N!” You ignore him closing the car door shut and immediately went inside going straight to finish packing your clothes in boxes.

[mayajadewrites]

could've been you: aizawa x fem!reader x hawks

summary: You're the new teacher at UA with a rocky past with one of their beloved teachers, Shouta Aizawa aka Eraserhead. You'd rather never see him again but alas, such is life. You also meet Keigo, aka Hawks, who is the opposite of Aizawa. Smiley, golden retriever energy. Nothing could go wrong... right? relationships: aizawa x fem!reader, hawks x fem!reader warnings: some chapters will be NSFW, they will have a warning on them in bold. not many descriptions of reader, other than she's midsize.

ao3

TAG LIST:

@come-away-with-me87, @kxshdoll, @evilsanzu, @friendly-neighborhood-turtle, @lili-pond, @falling4fandoms

CHAPTER SIX

It was this moment when you realized that you fucked up. Feelings for Shouta are bubbling into your mind that you've been suppressing for years.

In high school, you and Aizawa were the best of friends. You would hang out constantly, tell him your deepest secrets, and you trusted him. That's why when you were in the battle with him and Endeavor, you felt so hurt.

Betrayed by him.

All the love you had for him went out the window. You couldn't believe he would risk your life like that.

You look down at the raven haired man that's laying with you. You stroke his hair, twisting his curls around your fingers. He's still sleeping - soundly at that. You felt his chest against your thighs move as he breathed slowly.

You sigh as you continue caressing his hair and dragging the tips of your fingernails across his scalp.

Your phone vibrates with a text from Keigo.

Keigo: I'm sorry about today. I can't believe how strong Shigaraki actually is.

You: It's not your fault, don't stress it. Did you get home okay?

Keigo: I did. Do you want me to come over? I'm down for a sleepover.

You look down at Aizawa sleeping soundly in your lap.

You: Not tonight. I'll call you tomorrow?

Keigo: Sounds good to me. Sleep well, baby bird.

You: Goodnight Kei.

Aizawa stirred in your lap as he gripped your plush thighs gently. He was mumbling words but not of them were audible.

He began to twitch and grip you tighter.

"Stop, please." You could finally understand him.

"Hey, Shouta." You nudged him gently. His eyes fluttered open with a panicked look on your face. "Relax." You whispered as you stroked his hair again.

"Did I hurt you?" He asked looking into your eyes.

"No." You shook your head as your eyes got lost within his. His eyes are beautiful, despite how tired they look. You could feel your heart beat faster as you kept looking at him.

"I should-" Aizawa attempted to stand up and leave the room, but you stopped him. You grabbed his wrist gently as he stood next to the bed.

"You should what, Shouta?"

He just... stared at you. His eyebrows furrowed as if he was talking to you with his mind.

"I can't read minds Aizawa." You kept holding his wrist, now tighter. "Don't make me get in your head."

"You don't want to know what's going on up here." His voice was low now. He kept his eyes on you, peering at you through his lashes.

"What do you want Shouta?" You prop yourself on your knees so you're a bit taller, almost at Aizawa's eye level. "Tell me." Your eyes move from his eyes, to his nose, to his lips - then back to his eyes.

Aizawa leaned in, his lips ghosting yours. "What I want to do, I can't do to you yet."

Shivers were sent down your spine. What did he mean he can't do it to you yet?

"What can't you do to me Shouta? Use your words."

"Anything that's going on up here. It's not time." He tapped his temple with his index finger.

Your lips form into a pout as you let go of his wrist. You turned your head to the side, refusing to look at him.

"Don't be a brat." Aizawa grabbed your chin with his thumb and index finger, gently bringing your gaze back to him. "It's for your own good."

"You act like I can't put two and two together." You furrowed your eyebrows. "Obviously there's something going on here."

"What I want to do to you..." Aizawa leaned down to your level and rubbed his nose with yours. "I want to study each and every inch of your skin. I want to kiss you in places you've never been kissed. I want to learn what makes your toes curl. I want to taste you, Mirage."

There goes your heart again.

"Don't use my hero name, asshole." Your lashes fluttered against his cheeks.

"I thought it fit well." He shrugged and pressed his forehead to yours.

You wanted to kiss him. So badly. You wanted to feel his plush lips on yours. You wanted his large hands to grip your body caress your curves.

Aizawa must've known what you were thinking because he pressed his hand to your cheek. You leaned into his touch and took a deep breath.

Then you felt his lips on yours.

You swore you felt sparks that electrified your kiss. His lips are plush as he moves his mouth slowly, making sure he's feeling every part of your lips. You press your hand to his that's on your cheek and tilt your head to the side - your faces fitting together like a perfect puzzle pieces.

You wanted more. So much more.

But then Aizawa pulled his lips from yours slowly. You savored every moment of that kiss that you could but you already wanted more. The sounds of your lips parting is now your least favorite sound.

"That's it for now." Aizawa stood up and straightened his posture. "It's a school night and your first full day as a teacher."

"You're just gonna kiss me and expect me to act like that's a normal occurance?"

"What, the bird doesn't kiss you like that?"

No, no he doesn't.

But you really like Keigo. You like how you feel with him. How happy he is all the time. How caring he is about every detail of your life that you tell him.

He doesn't kiss you like that though.

Or at least, you don't feel this way after he kisses you.

You didn't answer him, instead you just look away. "Get out, Eraser."

"Don't be like that." Aizawa slipped his shoes on at your front door. "I'm making sure you get a good nights sleep and don't get distracted." He winked and gripped the doorknob.

"Goodnight." You stood up, turned around and stretched, putting your ass on full display for Aizawa. Your shorts hug your curves beautifully and he took notice. His eyes trailed your body, especially the soft parts of you. Your stomach, your hips, your thighs.

"You going somewhere?" He asked as you took a few steps towards your bathroom.

"Not that it's any of your business, but no. I'm going to shower. Get your stink off of me." You smirked as you opened the bathroom door. "Goodnight, Eraser."

Aizawa stood at your front door - one hand on the door knob and his eyes gazing at you.

"Did you forget something?" You let go of the bathroom door and walked over to him.

"I did." He nodded as he leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. He brought one hand to your hips as he kissed you, this time he slipped his tongue inside your mouth. You pulled away once you felt his tongue dance with yours.

"Don't start something you won't finish." You looked up at him through your lashes. "Goodnight Shouta."

"Goodnight." He smirked as he opened your door and left. You heard the few footsteps to his room, and his door close.

You put your hand on your chest as you feel your heart rate increasing. Every time he kisses you it's like he takes your breath away while at the same time he's giving you life. You touch your lips with your fingertips, still feeling the ghost of his lips on yours.

He's only 2 doors down from you but it might as well be 2,000 miles away.

__________________________

Monday morning came quickly. You showered even though you showered before bed, mostly because your mind was filled with thoughts of Aizawa.

Dirty thoughts. Nasty, even.

You put on a black midi skirt that hugged your curves, white platform converse, and a white t-shirt tucked into your skirt haphazardly.

You did your usual makeup and hair, then you were ready to get out the door. Your purse is on your counter when you grab it, your phone pinging with a message.

Keigo: Good luck today baby bird. I know you'll be amazing.

You smiled at the message and typed up a response.

You: Thanks Kei. You have a good day too :)

When you look up Shouta is locking his door. He has his hair pulled into a low ponytail, some of his front pieces of hair framing his face. You looked away from him once he looked at you and walked towards the halls of UA.

You settled into your classroom, writing your name on the board. Your first class will trickle in after homeroom, aka Aizawa's class.

You look over your lesson plans, mostly just introductions and what they think strategy means.

You tap your index finger on your bottom lip as you read some notes Nezu left for you when you hear a knock on the door.

"Hey, you ready for them?" You looked at Aizawa in the doorway.

"As I'll ever be." You smile as he swallows you with his eyes. He only nods in response as he lets the kids from class 1A in.

"You will behave for Ms. Mirage. Got it?"

"Yes, Mr. Aizawa!" The kids said in unison. He watched each kid enter your classroom and nodded at you when the last one walked in.

"Good morning." You smile at the classroom full of eager students. "You all know me already, so we can skip that introduction. But I want to know, what do you think strategy is?"

A couple of students raised their hands. Midoria, as always, very eager to learn shot his hand up first.

"Strategy is a plan to achieve a goal. It's essential when fighting villains!"

"You're right, Midoria." You smiled at him. He was so sweet, and willing to learn every day and better himself. You notice Ochako smile at him as if she had hearts in her eyes.

Ah, young love.

The rest of class went off without a hitch, not to your surprise. You know how to keep your ground and make sure the kids stay on task.

You said goodbye to them at the door as they filed out for lunch. You noticed a dual-haired boy try to sneak past you.

"Hey, Shoto." You gently place your hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"That depends. Are you gonna tell my old man if I tell you?"

You blink a few times as you try to understand what he's saying. As a teacher, you have to keep a good relationship with your students. They need to trust you above all else.

Even though you're good friends with his father, this stays between you and Shoto. He's like a nephew to you - you remember when he was just a baby crying in his mother's arms.

You shook your head 'no'. "Whatever you tell me is just for me. I don't need to report back to your father."

"Noted." Shoto said as he continued to walk out the door.

Just like his father.

You bring your bag to the teachers lounge for lunch. You watch Aizawa walk into the room first so you follow after him.

Except he's stopped at the doorway.

You turn your attention to where he's looking - at the round table in the middle of the room where some people eat and socialize during lunch hour. There are smaller tables in the lounge, but this is the biggest one.

A vase full of 4 dozen red roses was placed on the table.

"Ooooh, Mirage has a lover! Yamada held up the note attached to it. "Good luck my baby bird." He sang. Yamada laid the back of his hand on his forehead. "How romantic!"

"Tsk." Aizawa sucked his teeth as he walked to one of the tables on the outskirts of the lounge. You can't help but smile at Keigo's gesture and take a whiff of the aroma of the roses.

You: Thank you for the beautiful flowers.

Keigo: They could never be as beautiful as you, baby bird.

When you look up from your phone screen, Aizawa is staring at you. He takes a bite of his sandwich as his eyes stay glued on you.

"I'm gonna put these in my classroom until the end of the day." You grab the vase full of flowers and walk out of the room.

You can still feel Shouta's eyes burning into your skin.

[auteurdelabre]

LOSING OUR MINDS TOGETHER CHAPTER 5 soft!Joel x f!reader

Tags: soft!Joel, pining, crushes, fluff, art references.

Pairings: Joel x Reader/ Ellie x Riley / Bill x Frank

A/N: for those of you who like my romances with a little less angst!

Series masterlist here

“Don’t be mad.”

“That’s not a great way to greet me, Frank.”

Frank is giving you a hound-dog look when you arrive at the gallery that week to help him hang pieces for his upcoming exhibition. He often calls you in for times like this, wanting your advice on where to place items, paying you more than you deserve. You know he could do it himself, that he only does it to keep you in enough cash to keep creating.

“I just know your temper,” Frank says as he searches his pocket for his phone. “But a woman came in looking for something to put in her office. Needed something really eye-catching. So I showed her that piece you texted me.”

“What piece?”

“The canvas. The intense one. The one not like your other pieces.”

“Oh that.”

“Yes that,” Frank mocks, leading you into the gallery. “She was interested. More than interested actually.”

You give a hum of a response, helping Frank to hang some of the bigger canvas pieces.

You don’t feel like broaching this subject again. Selling that art piece feels strange. Creating it felt strange, almost like you weren’t in control of yourself when you made it. You don’t really have any desire for that piece to go out into the world.

“I see the AC is working,” you say, motioning to the roof. “Bill did a good job.”

“Uh, yeah,” Frank clears his throat before focusing all his intention on a label next to one of the bigger Mondrian-inspired piece.  “You teaching that Ellie girl yet?”

You’ve known him long enough to be aware that this is classic Frank misdirection.

“So how did it go with Bill?”

“How did what go with Bill?”

“Don’t do that,” you say with a gentle shove to his shoulder. “Tell me. How did it go? Fireworks? Did you kiss? Did you tell him you’ve been secretly pining for him for months?”

“No,” Frank frowns. “I was professional and so was he.”

You take a moment to watch the slim man continue to affix the label to the creamy white wall. He doesn’t seem his normally boisterous self. Something didn’t go the way he wanted it to. So you stand there, arms crossed, brow raised. He tries to ignore you for a few minutes, but knows it’s a lost cause.

“I tried to pay him and he wouldn’t take the money.”

“Okay…”

“And then he was just so beautiful and sexy and manly and he knew Hockney and I didn’t know how to ask him out or even if he wanted me to ask him out.”

You’ve never seen Frank ramble like this, all high pitched and nervous as he paces around the painting.  Then to your surprise he trips over his own feet, going down like a sack of potatoes. You can’t help but laugh as he rights himself.

“See? I’m a fucking wreck!”

“Just a little,” you say, helping him to stand, brushing the dust from his sleeves. “So what happened next?”

“So then I wanted to be cool and say ‘then lemme treat you to dinner’ but I kept second guessing and freezing and I just kept thinking about what would happen if he wasn’t interested. If I’d read the situation wrong.”

You groan, wanting to shake the man in front of you. You can see so clearly that Bill is into Frank. You want to smash their faces together like two life-sized Ken dolls.

“If you don’t ask him out, I’m gonna do it for you.”

“No you fucking won’t,” Frank says sharply, taking the next canvas from you with a frown. He doesn’t speak to you again until you’re both halfway through hanging, your head cocked as you look at the colorful picture in front of you.

“So? What do I tell her?”

“Huh? Her who?”

“The woman who wants to buy your painting,” Frank says slowly as if English isn’t your native tongue. You wince, unsure of why it feels so weird to sell it. Right now it exists under a sheet of canvas in your studio, not like it’s that sentimental.

“It wasn’t really for sale. Just something dumb I did and wanted to show you. It’s not really my style. . .”

“So have two styles,” Frank shrugs. “One for yourself and one to pay the bills.”

“Van Gogh didn’t have to change his art styles,” you mutter sullenly.

“He also died penniless with one ear.”

You hide a smirk at that. “How much does she want to pay?”

“I told her it was five grand.”

“WHAT?”

Your eyes are like saucers. Even after Frank’s commission that’s a hefty chunk of change. Nothing you’ve ever sold comes close.

“And she didn’t even hesitate,” Frank says with a supercilious grin. “Offered to write the check right then and there. So you tell me Miss van Gogh Jr, you want five grand?”

///

Ellie finds herself feeling strangely nervous for tomorrow’s first lesson. She assumes it’s because you seem cool so far, but what if you’re a shitty teacher? Or what if you’re boring? You seem fun with your weird style and playful attitude. But it could be an act.

She sits on the front porch swing, working on her latest sketch when she hears the faint tick tick tick of a bicycle’s gears heading up the driveway. She glances up to see Riley dropping the bike on the lawn before moving with gazelle-like grace towards her.

Ellie tries to force herself not to take in Riley’s long legs or the way her body movies under her t-shirt.

“Hey Texas,” Riley grins.

“Hey Riley," Ellie replies with a smile. Her heart pounds as the taller girl comes up the porch. Riley unhooks her bright purple biking helmet, dropping it onto the swing.

“Whatcha doin?”

“Sketching,” Ellie says, closing the book quickly. “Practicing since I’m taking art lessons from the neighbor.”

She points at your house and Riley smiles, nodding. “She’s cool for a grown up. Not annoying like the rest of ‘em.”

Ellie nods, agreeing. You’re about the only other person on this block that she actively looks forward to seeing.

Riley collapses onto the porch swing beside Ellie, her dark face shining with sweat.

“Lemme see,” Riley says motioning to the sketchbook still in Ellie’s grasp. Ellie pauses, unsure. She doesn’t really share much of her artwork with anyone besides Joel and you. She doesn’t think she’s very good. It feels too intimate to show off her sketchbook right now, so she clutches it a little closer to her chest, shaking her head.

“Uh, not much in it yet. I’ll show you when I have something good.”

Riley doesn’t fight her, doesn’t even seem upset. She just nods before yawning and stretching.

“You settling in okay?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Ellie nods. Ellie watches as Riley’s bare leg brushes her own and she wished she wasn’t wearing jeans so she could better feel the warmth of Riley’s touch. Riley is talking but Ellie misses it, distracted by the beautiful dark of Riley’s skin.

“Huh?”

“I asked if you have a bike?”                         

“No. Mine was stolen right before we moved here.”

“You should get one,” Riley says, pulling a knee to her chest. “Then we can go riding together.”

Ellie nods, her eyes finally moving to Riley’s face. “Yeah, good idea.”

The two of them lapse into an easy silence, rocking back as they watch the lazy neighborhood. David is mowing his lawn, giving them both a wave when he catches their eyes.

“That guy is such a creep,” Riley says with a mock-shudder.

“I haven’t spoken to him yet.”

“Don’t if you can help it.”

“Okay.”

“I’m heading to my volunteer job with the seniors,” Riley says with a dramatic sigh. “Saw you and thought I’d come say hi.”

“Well hi,” Ellie says with a shy smile, watching as Riley pushes herself from the swing and goes to right her bike.

Before Ellie can reply Riley has snapped on her helmet and given a wave. Ellie watches her pedal away, her braids flying out behind her. Ellie feels a strange jump in her stomach, confused at how much she enjoys Riley’s company.

///

That Wednesday you make sure that the studio is the tidiest it’s ever been. With the large canvas sold (and you $4,400 richer) there’s more space to move around. You bring your drawing table to the center, setting two stools opposite one another. Today will be a chance to see what Ellie is drawn to, what she’s already created. Then you’ll get an idea on how to move forward with it.

It’s very early, earlier than you normally are ready to start the day. But you’re excited for lessons with Ellie and amazed that you sold that intense painting of yours. You wonder what about it was so enticing to the buyer.

You walk out your front door, bare feet slapping the path to your mailbox. You glance over at a flash of movement, shielding your eyes from the sun as a tall figure moves towards you at the same time from the yard over.

“Mornin’ neighbor,” Joel offers, his toolbox in one hand, a coffee thermos in the other. He strides toward the truck parked not too far away from your mailboxes.

“Morning,” you greet, faltering slightly when you recall your last interaction with him. 

You turn your attention to the mailbox and Joel takes his time gazing at your legs in your shorts, the deep scarlet of your toenails. He has the insane urge to run his palm down your calves, just to feel them sun warmed and soft under his touch.

“You’re up before noon,” Joel teases, placing the toolbox in the back of his truck and grinning at you. “Special occasion or somethin’?”

“Ha ha,” you say drolly, opening your mailbox and finding it empty. “I’ll have you know I’m taking my teaching responsibilities very seriously. I was just making sure everything was ready for Ellie this afternoon.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Big day?” you ask, chin tilting in the direction of his truck.

“Yeah, Tommy and I – he’s my brother – we’re gonna check out some place on Mulvine. Apparently it’s a pretty big job.”

“In this heat? No thanks,” you say with a crooked grin.

Joel thinks your smile makes you look mischievous. He likes the sight of it.

“Gotta pay for those art classes somehow,” Joel hums in amusement.

“Yeah well, thanks to a really nice neighbor I saved some money and get to teach in an air conditioned environment,” you offer feeling shy. “So I guess I owe him a beer sometime.”

Joel feels his pulse tick at that, seeing the way you’re mouth curls to the side almost shyly. You stand on one leg, the other crooked, foot balanced on your calf. You’re still shielding your eyes from the early morning rays, missing your trademark oversized sunglasses.

“I’m sure he’d be agreeable to that,” Joel says softly, desperately wanting to extend the moment despite running late to meet Tommy. It feels like the first time since the two of you met that the conversation is easy and well-received.

“I uh, I looked up that Pygmalia thing,” Joel says, the name getting stuck on his tongue.

“Pygmalion,” you correct gently. You don’t do it with mockery or malice, just like the gentle teacher you always are.

“Yeah, that one. The one you talked to me about.”

The surprise must read on your face because he chuckles and his cheek flashes the hint of a dimple.

“I was wonderin’ if you ever Pygmalion’d yourself.”

“Huh?”

“Like, uh, put yourself in a painting as a character or somethin’,” Joel says wincing at how awkward this is coming out. He’d hoped to sound suave and knowledgeable but he feels like he’s coming off like an illiterate hillbilly.

“No,” you say laughing at his inability to explain himself. You find it strangely endearing to see this broad, tall man looking so overwhelmed just at the topic of art. “I don’t like to do portraits. I used to, but not anymore. Now I like doing sculpture more.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “When I do sculpture it’s like I’m creating something from the ground up. I don’t really know how to…” you trail off, trying to think of how to articulate this. “You build houses, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, when you’re doing that starting from the bottom and working out until you’ve got this big beautiful house, that’s how I feel. Like I’ve just created something from the earth.”

Joel is struck dumb by your words, not in some small part at your ability to bring what he does for a living into it. He’d never considered construction and contracting work to be artistic or beautiful – more just a means to an end. But there’s something about the way you weave your words that has him spellbound.

He must be staring too hard for too long because your neck goes pink and you step back, eyes on the ground.

“Anyway, I won’t keep you any longer. Have fun at work and I’ll see you for that beer sometime.”

With that you twist away, feeling embarrassed at having said something so stupid. Joel watches you leave, feeling that same yearning twisting around his ribs as he watches you enter into your home.

///

Ellie wishes Sarah was with her today. Not just today of course, but especially on days she tries something new. Ellie was all shouts and fists; Sarah was tempered action and cutting words. Between the two of them they were each other’s armor. Sarah was always there to help and make her feel less intimidated, less scared. Now she feels vulnerable as she trudges over to your door, sketchbook under her arm.

You fling the door open before she can even knock and Ellie is relieved at the smile on your face. Over your clothes you’re wearing a yellow smock with ribbon ties that have a lemon pattern printed on them. Your hair is up, out of your face and your feet are bare.

“My favorite student!” you crow, urging her inside. “C’mon in. I’ve got us all set up.”

Ellie follows you through the maze of eclectic furniture and art on the walls. She’s curious to see that your style inside is just as she imagined it – colorful and sort of weird, like you. And like you it’s got a vintage feeling – like something not quite modern. Ellie finds she really likes it.

“So I like to have some music playing on in the background while I’m in the studio,” you explain as you move to the turn table. “Which do you like?”

You motion to the shelf of vinyl records all lined up. Ellie has to stand on her tip-toes to see the titles.

“I know David Bowie,” she offers.

“Good taste,” you muse.

She takes a moment to survey the records a bit long before she reaches for one with sketches of vegetables on it. The Best of Cream. She likes the look of it.

“This one?”

“One of my Granddad’s favorites,” you say with a grin. You nod in approval and Ellie feels secretly pleased. You place it on the turntable, lifting the needle. Ellie watches as you touch it to the spinning record, the crackling sound of contact comforting.

The music flows from the record, guitar and drums and a man’s sultry voice singing about the sunshine of your love. You give a hip shake, shoulders rolling as you attempt to take Ellie’s hand in yours in dance. You’re surprised when at the contact she jerks her hand back as if she’s been burnt, eyes wide.

“Sorry,” you say with your hands raised.

Ellie feels her face flush, her body breaking into a cold sweat under her layers of clothing. The sound of I’ve been waiting so long dances through the air as the two of you stand there. You’re still, unmoving, waiting for her to say something.

“I just. . . “ Ellie looks anxiously at you, faltering. “I just don’t like to be touched.”

“That’s totally fine,” you insist. “I should’ve asked.”

Ellie waits for you to make a big deal of this. She waits for the prying questions and prodding but none come. Instead you’re giving her a warm smile and tilting your head to follow you.

“C’mon, let’s get started.”

Ellie seats herself at the drafting table in the center of the room with its two stools. For the next half hour  you take her through a quick overview on what you’re hoping to teach her; still life, landscapes, watercolor, oil painting, sculpture and more. You also encourage Ellie to tell you anything she wants to learn in particular.

“I always thought it would be cool to make a comic book,” she offers, sipping on her sweet tea refill.

“Oh that sounds fun!” you make a note of that in your sketchbook. “I see you brough a sketchbook with you. Mind if I take a look?”

“They’re not very good,” Ellie says shyly. She’s seen the work you have hanging around the studio. It seems like you’re good at every medium.

“I just sold a piece recently that wasn’t one I didn’t think was very good,” you tell her honestly. “I think sometimes we don’t know the impact our imperfect work makes on other people. Plus if you were perfect then we wouldn’t be doing lessons, so hand it over, kid.”

You hold out your hand, fingers curling. Ellie smirks up at you before shoving the book into your waiting grasp. You open it up, looking through the variety of sketches. While her technique may be adequate you’re very impressed. There’s major talent here, just waiting to be nurtured.

“Is this Joel?”

“Yeah,” Ellie nods.  “He naps on the couch and that’s the best time to draw him. He hates sitting for me.”

You smile briefly, turning the page to a beautiful teenage girl with a shock of hair and large luminous eyes.

“Who’s this?”

“Sarah,” Ellie says, looking wounded as she stares down at the drawing.  You want to ask for more details but Ellie is flipping to the next page, showing you a horse from a farm.

“That’s from Uncle Tommy’s place last summer,” she explains. “He has a farm up here. His wife runs it.”

“Cool,” you say impressed. “I love animals.”

“Me too.”

For the rest of the lesson you bring out sheets of paper and graphite. You teach her proportions and she grasps it all so easily. You teach her smudging techniques and highlights and the direction of light. When three o’clock chimes in the grandfather clock out in the hallway you’re shocked.

“Damn that went by fast.”

“It really did,” Ellie says, looking up at you from her latest work. It’s a sketch of that same horse, the proportions coming along much better now.

“You know when I look at this art I can see the feeling behind it,” you tell her. “I can see the love you have for animals.”

Ellie listens, nodding.  You see the graphite on the end of her nose and hold yourself back from rubbing it off.

“Art is kind of magic that way. Plus, it’s like therapy when feelings get too big. You ever have that, El? Where the feelings are so big words aren’t enough?”

Ellie thinks of Riley and the twist she’s had in her stomach since they met.

“Yeah.”

“When you feel big feelings its best to get it out on the page,” you tell her as you begin to set up the canvas. “So your homework this week is to take any big feelings and put ‘em to paper. I don’t care if it’s sketching, painting, collage. You do what works and then if you don’t mind, I’d like to see it next lesson.”

Ellie beams. “Yeah, okay, awesome.”

///

Frank goes over the books a few days later, his mouth curled to one side in concentration. It’s been a very profitable month for the gallery. You dropped off that big canvas earlier in the week and it’s like nothing you’ve ever done.  He hopes you’ll make more.

But he’s been so busy he hasn’t had time to go to the coffee shop which means he hasn’t been able to see Bill since the day he came in to help with the AC.  Frank is convinced he can still smell Bill’s shampoo in the air some days, even though it’s impossible.

Frank is so focused he doesn’t even notice the hulking figure in front of him until he clears his throat. Frank glances up from his computer to see Bill standing there, his shirt tucked into his jeans and his large hand holding a to-go coffee cup from Frank’s favorite coffee shop.

“Bill,” Frank’s voice is a cracked choke. “W-what are you doing here?”

“Haven’t seen you around the coffee shop lately,” Billy replies. Frank watches as the man places the coffee cup in front of him. “Thought you might be avoiding me.”

“What?” Frank’s eyes are saucers. “F- no, no of course not. I’ve just been so busy this month.”

“Ah, okay.”

Frank feels a flush start on his cheekbones. He takes the coffee into his hands, praying they don’t shake. Bill brought him coffee? What does this mean? The two man stand in awkward silence together.

“Your friend was at the coffee shop today,” Bill announces out of nowhere, his voice almost tentative.

“Which friend?”

“The loud one you’re usually with.”

You.

Frank holds in a groan, terrified to know what’s going to happen next. Either Bill is going to be horrified and think Frank sent you over there to scout things out or he’s going to be a very straight man who’s deeply offended.

“I don’t know what she said, but I apolog-“

“She said you wanted to ask me out to dinner the last time I was here.”

Silence. Frank feels his face turning beet red the longer that it stretches on.

He’s going to fucking kill you.

It’s not like over the phone where he could just hang up and then avoid his favorite coffee shop.  Bill is standing there, big and broad and his eyes so beautiful waiting for an answer. There’s only one choice; total honesty.

“Uh. Yeah. I-I did. As a thank you for all you did.”

Bill blinks slowly, his light eyes trailing over Frank’s face for a full moment.

“So you just wanna take me to dinner ‘cuz of the repairs.”

His voice sounds even, almost resigned like he was expecting that. Frank knows this is his last chance. He could pretend like it was just that – just a kind offer of friendship, a thank you for his repair work.

But he doesn’t want that. He wants more.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

Bill seems to be gauging something before his brows rise and fall.

“Huh.”

Frank feels a strange curl of his lip begin, amused at the man’s monosyllabic yet thought-heavy response. He doesn’t seem offended, doesn’t seem disgusted. But he doesn’t seem over the moon either. It makes Frank lick his lips nervously.

“So you wanna go out then?”

“Pardon?”

“Wanna go on a date? Dinner?” Now it’s Bill’s turn to look rosy in the face. His eyes are on the desk Frank stands behind. “If you want, I mean. Maybe you changed your-“

“No.”

Bill’s face goes slack. “No. Right, of course. Forget I asked.”

He goes to turn but Frank throws himself over the desk, a heavy hand on Bill’s shoulder before the man can walk away.

“No! I mean, like, yes! As in no, I didn’t change my mind, so yes I want to go on a date with you.”

Frank winces as he hears his frantic voice echo in the gallery. He sounds and looks insane. He removes his fist from where it clutches at Bill’s shoulder and feels immense relief when Bill turns back, his light eyes filled with quiet mirth.

“You always this articulate?”

He steps towards Frank, allowing the taller man to slide back onto the other side of the desk, cheeks burning fiercely. Despite everything Frank laughs, a real genuine laugh that has his eyes crinkling in the corners.

“I’m normally better, I swear.”

“Guess I’ll have to see for myself on Saturday night.”

It hangs there between them, like a melody. Frank feels his mouth curve into an even wider grin, his heart hammering in the best possible way. He feels electric, like every neuron in his body is shooting off fireworks.

“Pick me up here at eight.”

“How about six? I’m an old man that works early the next day.”

“Let’s compromise and say seven.”

“Seven works.”

“Alright then.”

Bill takes one last look at Frank before touching his fingers to his forehead, giving a gentle mock-salute. Frank watches him lumber to the front of the gallery, heading out. He gives one last wave to Frank as he exits, a smile on his face as he walks by the window and down the street.

Frank collapses into the stool next to him, his body weak with excitement. When the excited tremors abate he tugs the cellphone from his pocket, quickly composing a message to you.

         [1:04pm] You fucking bitch. I love you.

///

Ellie is trying to think of a big feeling to channel into her art that weekend when she hears her name being called. Riley is striding up the walk, a smile on her face. She’s wearing shorts and a neon crop top that reads sunshine, fireflies, summer in looping script.

“Hey Riley.”

“Hey Lee.”

“Lee?” Ellie wrinkles her nose at this.

“Ellie. Lee. Get it?” Riley balances against the porch railing smiling at her. “I figured since you don’t have a Texas accent I needed to give you a better nickname.”

Ellie grins. “Got it.”

Ellie catches herself staring at the girl and tears her eyes away, looking at the scuff of her sneakers instead.

“So hot out today.”

“Yeah,” Ellie concedes. It is warm out today, in a sticky, oppressive way.

“You wanna go swimming with me?”

Ellie immediately feels her body tighten. She glances at her long sleeves and thinks about the murky waves. She shakes her head, swallowing.

“Nah.”

Riley seems to take this personally because she starts backing up.

“No worries. Maybe next time."

Ellie realizes her faux pas too late. Riley has taken Ellie’s shyness for rudeness. She should have told Riley the truth; that she can’t swim. That she doesn’t want her body exposed. But the taller girl is already striding down the driveway on her long legs.

Don’t leave. I want to keep talking to you.

“Bye Riley,” Ellie finally manages to croak out.

“See ya, Lee.”

Riley casts a polite smile over her shoulder, her smile gone before Ellie watches her jog off in the direction of her home. Ellie watches the girl leave, feeling a crushing disappointment somewhere beneath her ribs. She fumes silently before pushing into her house, slamming the door behind her.

“Woah, what’s goin’ on?”

“Nothing,” Ellie replies sullenly. Joel goes to ask more but she’s already padding over to the couch, her sketchbook tightly held in her grip.

You said to draw in moments like this. To make her feelings come out on the page.

“Tough day,” Joel comments.

“Nah. Just… nothing,” Ellie finishes, not raising her eyes. Joel watches his daughter draw furiously, knowing better than to invade her space. His eyes lift to your window, surprised to see you in the studio tiding it up.  He drags his eyes away, feeling like a creep staring at you.

“Making sandwiches, you want one?”

Ellie gives a grunt of response, her eyes fixed on the sketchbook. Joel whips them both up a turkey on rye and plops some chips onto a plate, bringing it over to Ellie who takes it gratefully with a quick thank you. Joel plops into the easy chair on the other side of the room, crunching on some chips as Ellie digs into her lunch.

“Haven’t seen you drawin’ like that in a while,” Joel comments.

“Neighbor told me to draw when my feelings feel big.”

“Good advice,” Joel nods. He watches Ellie’s eyes go distant and he wishes he could know what she’s thinking.  “She a good teacher then?”

“Yeah, I like her.”

“Good.”

Joel is pleased to hear this. Happy to know his daughter is being taken care of, that she’s happy. After so much misery he hopes that she can be as happy as possible with him.

“She said you were hot,” Ellie comments around her sandwich out of nowhere. “Told me when we were driving the other day.”

Joel tries to hide the pleased smile behind his sandwich, but Ellie sees it all the same

[kaosanddestruction]

i don't even play for honor man i just thought it was funny

[megumi-fm]

.

[swiftcast-selene]

30: Dawn

he'd stayed up all night for this. seeing the sun - the proper sun - crest the horizon again... it had all been worth it.

[piningprecussionist]

Saw a comment somewhere and if I wasnt so tired my blood would be boiling but we are at a low simmer, so here I am to Bitch

I'm sorry but if your argument for (likely canon) bisexual Kim having a preference for men is her FORMER relationship with Scott I am going to beat you to death with my bat

At LEAST say it's the hopeless pining she does for him currently. Or maybe mention that she's dated 3 guys that we know of! (Which I will counter w her being gay as hell for/with 3 women, which levels out- though that's besides the point-) But if you're going to hinge it entirely on a relationship she had that started and ended in highschool I'm going to break your legs and make you sit through a deep dive of the series with me. All media. Just to reeeeeally draw it out. Painfully.

[melrosing]

anyway in an absolutely wild turn of events I think I’m free of my hideous job and like. substantially richer for it??? lmao 2023 you really owed me

[hauntingblue]

I have connected two dots... yamato kaido and momo (and kinda shirahoshi with her top) have clouds above their shoulders... and luffy in gear fourth has them also.... I can see the signs

[laplacesdevil]

One of my favorite dialogue from Null because like??? Oh my god?? I love bbcr bc it gave null (+ baldi!) such endearing voicelines

[lildoodlecat]

Immensely disappointed to find there are no wangxian podfics at 20+ hours. What am I supposed to do, record one mysel— *forcefully dragged away*

[wolf-2099]

i make my SR posts non rebloggable lately cuz this is for Me. i dont care abt numbers or rbs this is content solely for me. if you look i appreciate you SO much but this is indulgent content for my personal ttrpg campaign and i dont want anyone to feel like they have to partake in it

[immortalmoron]

Pssst hey you scrolling trough Tumblr. Yeah you. Come here for a sec. I got something for ya.

FOOL!!!! APPRECIATION BEAM 💞💞💞💞💞💯💯💯💯💯💥💥💥💥💥💥💥‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️