#or they barely look the same and are out of character

[tojiscrack]

𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐃

summary: 11.3k words — your obsession over a cartoon television show allows you to get closer to people you hadn’t suspected to hold the same interest as you. meanwhile, megumi confronts something he’d been unknowingly dreading.

notes: hey :)

tw: swearing, threats, mentions of hypothermia

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i do not own any of the characters of jjk, i only own the character of y/n and her mother. the other characters belong to gege akutami.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・

"why do we even have an episode where juleka gets akumatized?" satoru demanded, exaggeratedly pointing at the wide television screen as miraculous: tales of ladybug and cat noir (specifically the reflekta episode) continued to play before you. "we can barely even hear her speak in a regular episode, and now that she's got the confidence to talk after nineteen of them, it's to flex her useless power."

you sat beside him on the floor, your legs crossed as you deliberately avoided looking at the ungraded papers satoru had carelessly scattered across the couch, spilling onto the ground around you.

"stupid juleka," you grumbled in agreement. "could've redeemed herself with a better power."

"this entire show doesn't make any sense," megumi added from somewhere behind you.

you glanced over your shoulder at him, eyes narrowed in offence.

"shut up porcupine," you scoffed, but his gaze was already fixed elsewhere, like he couldn't care less about your reaction, though you knew very well that he did.

megumi, of course, would constantly refuse to watch the show whenever you brought it up, claiming it was too 'unrealistic' for his taste. but despite his complaints, he never left when you and satoru watched it together. instead, he'd stick around, always ready to interrupt with some unsolicited critique, as if his constant commentary was absolutely necessary despite never being asked for.

it was annoying.

he'd scoff, make remarks, and roll his eyes at every plot twist. but you knew that if he had just given the show a chance, he would have been more invested than he'd ever care to admit.

"it's literally a work of fiction, it's not meant to make sense in real life," you added, turning back to the screen and scowling when reflekta began shooting at the heroes and caught the second hero.

"it's delusion," you heard him retort, and then laughed when his mother (who had been silently chopping up vegetables in the kitchen) lightly scolded him.

"megumi, either watch the show silently, or leave," she said, though not unkindly, and you did not need to turn around to sense that megumi was shooting her a glare.

perhaps it wasn't as powerful as the ones he'd give you, yuji, or nobara, for he knew better than to disrespect his own mom.

"no," you heard him respond, sounding defensive and annoyed. "you don't get it. the show's so stupid — how have none of the characters in the show figured their identities out?"

his mom sighed. "i don't know, megumi. i'm not the creator, am i?"

but megumi wasn't done proving his point yet:

"they wear one mask across the eyes and all of a sudden they're a whole different person. why can't they cover their whole face or change their voices? why can't they change their hair colour?"

"he's getting defensive 'cause everyone would recognise him behind a mask," you whispered, leaning closer to satoru so that he could hear you clearly over the sounds of megumi's low complaints and the noise from the television.

the white haired male met your gaze with a bemused smile. "why do you say that?"

you pointed at your own head. "his hair's like a lion's mane —"

"i can hear you," megumi snapped.

"good," you shot back, eyes on the television again.

megumi inhaled sharply, already gearing up for a rebuttal — probably some half-hearted attempt to defend himself or deflect the insult. but before he could get a word out, satoru cut in with a loud, exaggerated gasp.

"wait, wait, shh — this might just be the best part!" he announced, suddenly leaning forwards as if the episode had just taken a groundbreaking turn.

it hadn't.

but the dramatic way he had clapped a hand over his own mouth, eyes wide with feigned anticipation, was enough to make megumi scowl and reluctantly drop whatever argument he was about to start.

"never mind," satoru pouted, leaning back against the foot of the couch again. "i thought she'd redeem herself; how can a supervillain be so weak?"

"she's not weak," megumi grumbled. "ladybug's just dumb."

"ladybug's not dumb!" you responded easily, watching as the character in question tried to make use of her partner who was, more or less, deemed useless now. "her lucky charm gives her unhelpful stuff and she always finds a way to use it. if it were me, i'd just give up."

but megumi did not agree. "she is dumb. she couldn't even figure out cat noir's voice when he turned into another copy of reflekta."

from the kitchen, the faint clinking of dishes with the low hum of the television barely masked the exasperation in mrs fushiguro's voice when she'd started lightly scolding her son again. though quiet, the gentle rise and fall of her tone carried a familiar patience, the kind reserved for conversations she knew would lead nowhere.

megumi was so firm on his stance with this show that you knew her gentle chiding would be of no use. even then, you could appreciate that her gentle scolding had a rhythm to it — an attempt to soften his stubbornness, to nudge him towards keeping an open mind. but even without looking, it was obvious to you that megumi would not listen.

you imagined him sitting up straight, posture tense with the same quiet defiance he always held when faced with opinions that didn't align with his own.

apparently he was just always right.

she gave up after some time, which made sense. you had predicted it; you could tell that satoru had predicted it too.

the man next to you let out a laugh.

"look, megumi, i can convince you that this show's pretty realistic," he'd said, with an air of confidence that you couldn't quite relate to.

it had piqued the interest of everyone in the room, including megumi's mom, who had slowed the sharpening of the large kitchen knife just to watch curiously as satoru pulled out his black blindfold from the mess of papers behind him.

what is he doing? you thought to yourself, as the odd male had begun tying it around his eyes, resulting in his white hair sticking up like pineapple leaves.

but before anyone could utter a word, he had turned to you with a lazy grin.

"if i put this on, would you be able to tell that it's me?" he asked, as the sound of megumi's scoff travelled around the open space.

you gave it a thought, picturing megumi's visible annoyance at your answer, and then shook your head with a smile. "no, i wouldn't —"

"you're both dumb —"

"— megumi," his mom was quick to rebuke.

just as the heated debate began to start again, the sharp chime of the doorbell rang through the house, cutting through the voices in the living room. it was a brief sound, one that should have gone unnoticed with how engaged everyone was, but for some reason, it seemed louder than it should have been.

the steady rhythm of megumi's mother's knife sharpening slowed as she glanced towards the entrance, her brow lifting slightly in mild surprise. the quiet hum of the television carried on, and she exhaled, wiping her hands on a nearby dish towel before glancing up at satoru.

"satoru, can you get that?" she asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.

satoru, still reclined against the couch, shook his head immediately.

"i can't," he said, matter-of-factly. "i need to witness every second of reflekta's performance to properly judge her weak powers. otherwise, it's not a fair trial."

she sighed — long-suffering, patient — as though she had heard this kind of excuse before. without another word, she made a move towards the door, her footsteps light against the wooden flooring.

"i'll do it, mom," megumi offered, sliding off the stool he'd been sitting on.

"no, not you," she immediately responded, waving a hand at him as she walked around the breakfast table to make her way out of the open kitchen. "or you," she added, shooting you a sharp look as the person behind the door began knocking harder and harder each time. the polite chime of the bell had been forgotten, replaced by an urgency that made the walls tremble slightly under the force of it.

"i didn't even say anything!" you frowned, disheartened.

"why can't i answer it?" said megumi, brows furrowed in annoyance.

"because i know you," she answered simply. "whenever you're even the slightest bit annoyed, you say whatever comes to mind, and i can't deal with upset strangers again — yes, i'm here, i'm here!"

with another sigh, she yanked the door open, already bracing herself for whatever disaster awaited. the sight behind it, however, had her blinking in disbelief.

and you, still sat by the tv, barely stifled a snort.

mrs daphne, your middle-aged and unfriendly neighbour, stood on the doorstep, her robe — once a pristine pastel pink — now covered in dirt, leaves, and what looked suspiciously like scrambled eggs. strands of her tightly permed hair had broken free, sticking out in wild tufts, and her face had been twisted in a scowl so deep, it could have curdled milk.

but the true spectacle had been the raccoon she held aloft by its tail, its beady eyes gleaming with mischief, little paws still clutching what appeared to be a pilfered croissant. the creature hung limply, swinging slightly in the air, as if entirely unbothered by the furious woman holding it hostage.

"oh, mrs daphne," mrs fushiguro gasped, staring at the furious woman before her in awe. "i — what...?"

but the woman's eyes, bloodshot, were darting from you to megumi and back again.

still, megumi's mother had been polite enough to calmly ask what had happened, and whether she needed to be invited inside:

"we could clean you up?" she suggested, her hand over her mouth in visible shock. "but... can i just ask... what happened?"

"i'll tell you what didn't happen," satoru intervened, brows raised seriously. "reflekta."

megumi's mom shot him a sharp look over her shoulder; satoru had turned his attention back to the tv as you bit back another snort.

it hadn't helped that the racoon had begun hissing loudly.

"i didn't know we had racoons in the neighbourhood," you commented innocently.

mrs daphne did not look the slightest bit pleased. her face had contorted in a way that, though familiar, looked like she had just soiled herself in public.

"i seriously doubt that," she'd stated, the smoke practically flying out of both her ears. "which one of you did this? i will —"

"can't accuse us without any proof," megumi interrupted her, scowling once his eyes had landed on the way she was holding the racoon.

it was you.

both of you, actually.

mrs daphne had held demon dog hostage, long enough to be late for the vet appointment the other day, and megumi had not taken that lightly.

the years of the ongoing ping-pong game of pranks between the two of you and mrs daphne had only fuelled his desire to get back at her, and with the help of yourself, the two of you had used the very racoon (that toji had been tired of dealing with it digging through the trash) to set it on mrs daphne's weekly tea party. 

and you'd say that the plan had worked, judging by the dishevelled look she had rocked up to the fushiguros' door with.

"i don't need proof to know that it was you two devils," said mrs daphne, her eyes so wide, her pupils had almost become non-existent.

"we're not devils," you scoffed.

"yeah, you look like you got electrocuted," megumi added helpfully.

you glanced over your shoulder at your friend, raising a brow. the irony was almost laughable — his own hair perpetually stuck up at odd angles, defying gravity in a way that made him look like he'd lost a battle with an electrical socket himself.

"okay, i appreciate the help, porcupine, but you're embarrassing me," you muttered, avoiding mrs daphne's glare.

"megumi — no," his mom had immediately intervened, glancing back at her son as though she knew what his reaction to your comment would be.

she was right; megumi was going to shoot another insult back at you, uncaring of the fact that daphne was watching the entire thing, but at the firm look on his mother's gentle face, he reluctantly relented, choosing to shoot you a glower instead.

she turned back to your neighbour with a sigh.

"that's a really serious accusation, mrs daphne. are you quite certain that megumi and y/n did this to you? they've been watching tv —"

"— i wasn't watching that —"

"they've been watching tv," she continued over the sound of her son's grumpy voice, "all morning."

mrs daphne did not seem to appreciate mrs fushiguro's scepticism.

"you, me, and everyone else here knows damn well that it was them!" she exclaimed, nostrils flared as she shook the racoon by the tail.

careful, you thought in your head, megumi'll throw a tantrum at animal cruelty.

for a brief moment, there was silence — just the faint hum of the television filling the space.

from the living room, satoru had let out a long, drawn out, exaggerated groan, dramatically flopping back against the couch as if the fate of the world depended on whatever had been unfolding on the screen. the sound barely had time to settle before mrs daphne's grip on the  racoon had tightened again, her lips curling into something dangerously close to a smirk.

"oh, you just wait," she said, voice dripping with promise. "you think this is funny? i'll show you funny. one day... i don't know when... but one day..."

"that's a threat," you stated blankly.

"against minors," megumi added, deadpanned.

mrs daphne's face twisted, the deep lines around her mouth pulling taut as her eye twitched violently. her nostrils flared with each sharp breath, and for a moment, it looked like she was physically restraining herself from launching into a full-blown tirade.

but megumi's mother, ever the patient one, had decided to gently put an end to the conversation entirely.

"okay, i'm sorry this happened to you, but my kids wouldn't do that," she said, her hand on the knob tightening as she made a move to close the door.

mrs daphne's grip on the racoon wavered — whether from fury or exhaustion was unclear — but the wild gleam in her eyes burned with pure, unfiltered exasperation, like a woman on the brink of either revenge or a nervous breakdown. one day, she had mouthed, as the door had closed shut on her face.

mrs fushiguro turned around, visibly stressed.

"what did you two do?"

a gasp of exaggerated offence caught in your throat as you clutched your chest, eyes widening in mock betrayal. you blinked up at mrs fushiguro, expression teetering between wounded innocence and theatrical disbelief, as if the mere suggestion of wrongdoing had personally shattered your moral code.

"we didn't do anything!" you lied, pouting.

behind you, megumi had barely reacted, arms still crossed, but you could feel his silent judgment.

"really?" said mrs fushiguro, her hands placed on her hips as she raised a sceptical brow at you. "so this isn't just a repeat of two weeks ago?"

"two weeks ago?" satoru repeated, averting his gaze from the television to glance between you and megumi. his hair had become slightly dishevelled because of the blindfold. "what happened two weeks ago?"

you averted your gaze, rubbing the back of your neck and avoiding the conversation altogether. you didn't have to look back to know that megumi had most likely done the same thing, or something similar to you.

two weeks ago, the both of you had accidentally replaced mrs daphne's prized herbal tea leaves with extra-strength laxative tea.

it had been a flawless execution — megumi had played lookout while you carefully swapped the contents of her tea tin during a rare moment she had left it unattended on her porch. and as for the result...

mrs daphne had spent an unfortunate amount of time locked in her bathroom during her weekly book club meeting, leaving her guests bewildered and concerned when she suddenly sprinted away mid-sentence, clutching her stomach with a look of sheer horror.

it hadn't helped that some of her guests were kind enough to wait for her to come out, only to sniff what was left of the faeces in the clogged toilet.

the two of you hadn't been allowed to see each other for the next few days, with the exception of friday night dinner at satoru's (and even then, you weren't allowed to sit next to, across, or even parallel to one another).

megumi's mom looked like she wanted to say what the two of you had done, and whether it was to appease satoru's curiosity or to shame you and megumi, you were unsure, but she had closed her mouth almost immediately once she had met the man-child's gaze. you couldn't blame her: putting ideas about laxatives in tea to satoru of all people was most likely not the greatest idea.

he liked to act stupid, but in reality, he was the most cunning.

after uncle ogi, of course.

"er... nothing," she sighed, patting down the unruly strands of her hair. "the usual stuff they do to that poor woman —"

"poor woman?" you repeated, your attention on the tv show before you practically diminishing even though satoru had mumbled something about it 'starting to get good', "we only did it 'cause she wrote really rude paragraphs about us under buttercup brew's reviews. and then said that she likes miss b, but she should get rid of us."

"and she made us late to demon dog's vet appointment," megumi added bitterly.

mrs fushiguro exhaled sharply, pressing her fingers to her temple as if warding off an impending headache. her eyes flickered towards the kitchen, a clear sign that she was torn between dealing with this nonsense and returning to the far more manageable chaos of whatever meal she had been preparing. one hand lingered on her hip, the other twitching slightly as though itching to grab a dish towel and busy itself with some menial task — anything to distance herself from the absurdity unfolding in her living room.

"i want both of you to leave that woman alone —"

"tell her to leave my dogs alone —"

"we told you," you cut across your sour-looking friend, who had apparently still remained salty about the cancellation fee he'd had to pay the vet, "it wasn't us."

his mom raised her eyebrows sharply. "so who was it then?"

you shrugged, noticing that the man beside you had gone eerily silent: he had become invested in the tv show again.

"satoru," you lied easily, jabbing a finger in his direction.

"wha— hey!" he demanded angrily, turning to you and looking scandalised. he pointed at the tv screen, brows furrowed in that expression he'd always made whenever things didn't go his way. "you wanna be careful now, i'm gonna get akumatized —"

"that's enough," mrs fushiguro sighed.

there was a distinct look of resignation in her expression, the kind only a mother who had long since accepted her fate could wear, but the faintest downturn of her lips betrayed the silent distress of a woman who knew, deep in her sou, that this was far from the last incident she'd have to deal with.

"i— if she gets back at either of you, don't come complaining to me."

she walked back to the kitchen and began sharpening her knife again. satoru shivered and looked away.

"women are scary," he commented quietly.

"she just killed us with kindness," you added, blinking slowly.

the two of you sat in silence for a moment, eyes drifting back to the tv. the screen flickered with muted colours. after the whole daphne conversation, neither of you were particularly invested, but watching felt better than acknowledging the odd feeling still lingering in the air.

"oh, they defeated her," satoru added, sounding bored. "she really is the weakest villain."

you disagreed: the pigeon guy was worse.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・

the classroom hummed with the dull rhythm of a typical pre-calc lesson, with pages turning and the occasional sigh of confusion. at the very front, where kento kept a watchful eye sat by his desk, you had been sat hunched over your own desk, pencil idle in your grip.

your notebook had been half-filled with numbers, the rest taken over by tiny, elaborate doodles of spotted suits and tangled yo-yos. you had barely been paying attention to the list of unanswered questions before you, instead, your eyes had constantly flicked sideways to nobara, expression alight with quiet excitement.

"she's not exactly discreet when transforming," nobara commented, mindlessly sketching on the side of her own book. "if i did that, obaachan would figure me out almost immediately."

"what about your mom?" you asked.

nobara shot you a deadpanned look. "she'd probably ask if i'm being paid to save the city."

of course. you did not know how you had forgotten her mother's love for the rich.

"i mean... in her defence," you began slowly, "you are risking your life every day for free."

"you and i both know that's not why she'd be concerned," your friend responded with a scoff. before you could respond to that, most likely agreeing due to the entirely unfortunate and factual nature of her comment, nobara had sat up straight, brows raised. "what if the reveal happens when she takes her earrings off?"

you averted your gaze momentarily, stumped. "er... yes, that's how de-transformation aside from 'spots off' works," you answered leisurely, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"no, not like that," said nobara impatiently. "i mean, like, something to do with her having to take her earrings off on a regular day, and then adrien realises who she really is."

you considered it for a moment, brows furrowed and head tilted to the ceiling, deep in thought, before ultimately shaking your head, watching as nobara deflated in her seat.

"no, he's a little too blonde for that," you had decided.

"it must have something to do with the big reveal though," nobara stubbornly continued. "she refuses to take them off when she absolutely has to... like a p.e class or a sports activity, or before surgery or a medical scan. if he doesn't realise it then, then maybe when she eventually has to hide it somewhere and he finds it?"

"interesting," you nodded thoughtfully. "where would she keep it though? her diary trapped sabrina's hand before, and she ended up leaving with it, so she can't hide it in there."

"somewhere unsuspecting."

a quiet lull had settled between you and nobara. around you, the steady scribble of pencils continued as your classmates worked through their pre-calc questions in varying degrees of focus: some hunched earnestly over slope-intercept equations, others clearly finishing off assignments from different classes, flipping pages with practised guilt.

you gave nobara's suggestion a little more thought. "in the fridge?"

she shook her head. "wouldn't her kwami freeze to death in there?"

your frown had indicated to her that you had not considered that a possibility.

near the windows, megumi had leaned in beside yuji, gesturing subtly between two overlapping parabolas on his notebook, murmuring something that made yuji squint in deep concentration.

"hmm, fair point..." you hummed.

your eyes had landed on shoes belonging to someone you had recently become more acquainted with. kamo hovered quietly at the front, papers in hand, waiting for kento to finish marking his work. his gaze had drifted with disinterest, but as your conversation with nobara continued, his attention had visibly shifted.

he turned slightly, expression composed but curious, and glanced at you from over his shoulder.

"shouldn't you of all people know that hypothermia only sets in after twenty minutes?" he'd said, hands in his pockets, fiddling.

nobara scowled. "it's rude to eavesdrop."

you agreed, but you certainly did not care as much as nobara did.

"hard not to when i'm standing barely a metre away," he responded easily.

kamo's eyes had met yours again, and his previous statement had settled in.

you blinked, mildly thrown by his certainty. it wasn't like you were known for scientific facts, humanities subjects were your domain, and anything remotely stem-related usually made your brain short-circuit.

so what was he getting at?

it seemed that your visible confusion had become crystal clear to him, for he had decided to finally explain himself.

"the twins in your family during the baking competition..."

and then it all clicked.

your mouth had parted slightly as the memory surged back with sudden clarity, the details unspooling like film in fast-forward.

ah.

that baking competition.

you had told him about it during one of your tutoring sessions — somehow, in a moment of distress, to distract him from the questions he had printed out for you to answer, you'd shared the story of one of your most chaotic childhood afternoons. a family bake-off, teams easily formed and consisting of the children, if only to keep you all occupied: maki and mai, ruthless and exact; you and megumi, competitive yet wildly uncoordinated; and mimiko and nanako, sweet, eager, and, as it turned out, a little too literal.

the instructions in their cookbook had read: chill in the fridge for 35 minutes.

so that was exactly what they had done.

two tiny girls, barely eight years old, had gotten comfortable inside the bottom half of the fridge, knees tucked, heads ducked, with nanako's hand extended to prevent the door from closing entirely (she had feared the dark). both had been rushed to the hospital, apparently having experienced the first stage of hypothermia.

it was something the family had never failed to remind them.

you hadn't thought about it in years, however, kamo had been correct all along. you should have known that a fridge wouldn't be safe for ladybug's kwami.

megumi and yuji had stepped into your line of sight, each holding their own papers, joining kamo in the line forming at kento's desk.

"the fridge thing?" nobara added with a laugh.

at that, megumi had lowered his chin, looking at you with the typical monotonous face.

"what about it?" he'd asked, eyeing your blank question paper with furrowed brows. he did not seem to think that chatting about ridiculous past events was of any priority when you were on the verge of failing pre-calc.

you hastily moved to place your elbows over your paper, scoffing.

"don't be nosy," you shot back, finding yourself unsure of whether you were referring to his disappointment in your work or the conversation with nobara and kamo.

"we were talking about the fridge situation during the baking competition," kamo had calmly told megumi.

"you're still making fun of them about that?" yuji added, looking visibly disheartened. "they were kids, it was just a stupid mistake!"

when yuji had first heard the story, he'd nearly fallen out of his chair laughing. but lately, for reasons no one could quite pin down, he'd taken on a strange moral stance about it, as though the twins' misreading of the directions had become a tragic tale rather than a funny one. nobody else seemed to carry that same sentiment.

"why are you getting defensive?" megumi questioned him, eyes narrowed.

nobara pointed the end of her pencil at him with a smug grin. "'cause he knows that he'd probably make the same mistake at big fifteen."

yuji exploded. "i would not!"

the sharp spike in volume drew the attention of several classmates, but it was kento who had finally looked up from behind his desk. his gaze swept over the small cluster of you causing the disruption before settling on kamo. with a flick of his pen, he gestured the boy over.

"kamo, bring your work here."

as kamo nodded and complied, you noticed that kento hadn't looked all that irritated, his expression barely shifting, and there was even (dare you consider it...) a ghost of amusement behind his glasses. and it all made sense, for he had known that the noise had come from yuji.

and of course, he let it slide.

if it had been you, he probably would have made you sit in time out or something.

"favouritism," you muttered bitterly.

even so, you hadn't spent a long time dwelling on it, mostly because megumi and yuji were both now staring at both you and nobara with a kind of focus usually reserved for particularly confusing word problems.

"why are you guys even talking about the fridge thing?" yuji asked curiously.

"where would you hide a miraculous?" you asked him, leaning on your elbows and looking up at him with raised brows.

"not this again," megumi grumbled.

"hush," yousnapped harshly, before focusing on yuji again. "so..? an unsuspecting place, right?"

yuji nodded, brows drawn together in deep concentration, and for a moment, you almost expected something clever to follow, maybe a hidden compartment idea or a decoy strategy. but the longer the silence stretched, the more it became clear: he was just... thinking.

very hard.

and it became clear when he finally spoke.

"yeah," he agreed calmly. "like under my pillow."

you did not wait for anyone to insult him before doing it yourself.

"okay so you're stupid," you had decided, before clarifying what you had stated earlier; yuji's expression had fallen dramatically. "i would hide it in a fridge, but nobara said the kwami would freeze to death."

"kwamis aren't real," megumi had helpfully retorted.

"thank you for your incredibly obvious input, porcupine. why did we not consider that, nobara?"

megumi's brows remained furrowed, and though his face held its usual flat indifference, there was a tension in his jaw that hadn't been there a minute ago. he didn't respond to your jab, nor did he glance at you or nobara. he had just kept his eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder, expression unreadable.

"yuji, would you like me to mark your work?" kento had called out as he handed kamo his notes and papers to take back.

yuji stood upright and beamed, making his way over to the stoic teacher. "ah, yeah! thanks mr nanami!"

"pick a place that won't risk the kwami getting stage one hypothermia," kamo had told you as he'd made his way back from kento's desk. "you're supposed to know this."

you frowned, but the expression quickly faded as your eyes drifted longingly to the marked question papers in kamo's hands — the glorious sheets that held all the answers to the very questions still blank on your own.

"hey, kamo," you began slowly, "remember when i made you laugh and you said that no one's managed to do that before...?"

kamo followed your gaze and shook his head at you, his long hair swaying this way and that. "sorry. wouldn't be a responsible tutor if i gave all the answers to you," he'd told you unapologetically. 

you scowled, unimpressed. "boo, buzzkill."

"hello?" nobara spoke up loudly. "we still have an unanswered question here: so the fridge is out of the question. what next?"

megumi turned to kamo so abruptly, it was almost jarring, the motion sharp enough to cut through the playful atmosphere like a blade. his voice had come flat, almost clipped, when he asked, "how do you even know about the fridge thing?"

he hadn't blinked, didn't smile (as per usual), just stared, tone neutral, but just faintly laced with something else. something unreadable.

kamo, for his part, didn't seem fazed:

"she told me," he answered easily.

"how else would he have known?" you asked your unimpressed friend with a grin; megumi supposed that tsumiki was the one who had informed him of this, but as of late, he had not seen the two together since the time outside of his business class. "he was the fridge," you answered your own question sarcastically.

kamo's eyes had locked with your own. "you saying i'm fat?"

you laughed, soft and amused, the kind that curled at the edges of your smile without much effort, and nobara had followed shortly after. but megumi hadn't even flinched, clearly unconvinced that anything about the exchange had been remotely funny.

he found that you were simply laughing too hard at a joke that hadn't landed for him at all.

"hang on," nobara interrupted, and megumi had been silently grateful for it. "how do you know what a kwami is?"

kamo averted his gaze momentarily. "who doesn't know what a kwami is?"

"the people who don't watch miraculous..." you responded gradually. your eyes had narrowed suspiciously, a smile slowly gracing your lips. "oh my god... you watch miraculous, don't you?"

megumi was no longer grateful.

both you and nobara ignored the way kamo had distinctly avoided trying to answer the question, gathering his papers and walking past both your desks to retreat back to his own seat. but you hadn't let that slide so easily: you stood up almost immediately and followed him, taking enough care to take your own question paper with you.

megumi watched as you slid into the seat beside kamo with all the casual defiance of someone who knew they wouldn't be moved. kamo, to his credit, tried — nudging your paper away with the edge of his elbow, muttering something about 'academic integrity,' but you remained perfectly unbothered, chin propped on your hand, eyes glinting with interest.

megumi's frown had deepened.

it was only when yuji had returned, grinning proudly and waving his newly marked sheet like it was a certificate of honour, that megumi finally tore his eyes away. wordlessly, he stood and followed in yuji's previous footsteps towards his teacher's desk, feeling a nasty pit in his stomach he could not quite explain.

"so," you spoke excitedly, "when were you planning on telling me that you watch miraculous ladybug?"

"i don't watch miraculous ladybug," he responded stubbornly.

"liar," you teased, your hand creeping up to swipe at his marked and completed question paper. he had spotted this, and immediately pulled it away from you. this did not deter you from questioning him again (even if it had left you momentarily disheartened). "who's your favourite character?"

"none: all of them are stupid."

you watched him carefully. he had refused, for about a minute or so, to meet your gaze, simply staring down at his own completed question paper, stagnant.

it hadn't taken him long to give in; he'd turned to lock eyes with you, and by the way you were staring at him, it seemed that he knew that you'd caught him.

"what?" he said, dreary.

"how would you know they're all stupid if you don't watch it?" you challenged, grinning.

"my friend... watches it."

"who?"

"...chad."

"don't throw chad under the bus!" you scolded him, sitting upright.

you could still appreciate the fact that chad montgomery most likely did watch miraculous ladybug. you were just certain that kamo watched it with him.

"y'know... mylene is my favourite character," you added mindlessly.

kamo's lips twitched — barely, but enough to betray the internal battle you knew was waging behind his uncaring exterior. he had turned slightly, as if to avoid the trap entirely, but you saw it happen: the precise moment restraint gave way to reflex.

"mylene is no one's favourite character," he said, falling for the bait.

you laughed. "i know, even saying it was a struggle."

the conversation between you and kamo spiralled quickly — what began as a playful dig turned into a full-blown discussion dissecting side characters and plot holes. kamo, despite all prior denial, spoke with the casual confidence of someone who'd clearly watched every season. you were animated, thrilled to finally find someone other than yuji or nobara who didn't give you that look, the one that said 'you're too old to be watching a kids' show'.

meanwhile, on the other side of the room, yuji and nobara sat shoulder to shoulder, their desks practically fused together. nobara was very obviously trying to steal a glance at yuji's newly marked paper, leaning in under the pretence of helping him reflect on his mistakes (as if she were better at math than him).

yuji had kept on tugging the sheet away, hissing protests she didn't bother listening to. by the time megumi had returned with his own marked work, he took one look at them — nobara blatantly demanding him to show her his answers to question eight — and sighed before sliding wordlessly into the empty seat beside them. the corner of his page was already bent from how hard he had been gripping it.

"megumi, give me your paper," nobara demanded the second megumi had come into view.

he shot her a dirty look; she returned it and turned back to yuji, the more malleable friend.

"mr nanami said i can't just give you my answers!" yuji argued stubbornly.

"you guys are so greedy," nobara insulted, scowling down at her own blank sheet. she looked up and found that megumi's attention had been caught elsewhere. "what are you looking at?"

megumi met nobara's gaze with the kind of expression that suggested she'd just accused him of something barbaric... not that this was unusual; megumi rarely looked anything other than vaguely annoyed. but there was something sharper in his stare this time, a flicker of tension in the way his jaw tightened before he blinked and looked away.

it wasn't annoyance at her question, not really. he just didn't feel like answering, not when the sound of your laugh kept drifting over from kamo's side of the room, unguarded, as though you did not have an entire notebook worth of questions to complete.

"they're talking about that dumb show instead of pre-calc," megumi said, sounding unimpressed.

nobara watched him carefully, brows furrowed in disgust.

"oh so you're so righteous," she commented sarcastically.

"no, he's right," yuji mumbled, glaring off into the distance where you held up a terribly-drawn art piece of a bald adrien agreste to show kamo, who slammed the book back down onto the table hastily. "she's gonna be stuck as a junior."

"oh says you!" nobara retorted easily. she pointed the end of her pencil at yuji accusatorily. "you're just jealous she's talking about miraculous with someone other than you."

megumi did not dignify the comment with a response, but the way his eyes narrowed (just slightly) said enough. he had shifted in his seat, shoulders tight, as if the very idea of being lumped into that category offended some private principle of his.

while yuji opposed this loudly, megumi had flicked his gaze back to his worksheet with a kind of forced indifference, pen tapping idly against the desk, though the rhythm was off-beat, unsteady in a way that betrayed more than he meant to.

"i couldn't care less about a poorly-written show," said megumi icily, "but if she wants to pull her grades up, walking away from that conversation would be a good start."

and he hadn't stopped there.

"the show isn't even educational either. why are they talking about it in a math class?"

yuji sat up straighter at that, as though a light bulb had flicked on above his head.

"y'know what, megumi? you're right!" he stated fiercely, and he spun on his chair, calling for kento loudly. "mr nanami! mr nanami!"

the second kento looked up (he had been helpfully marking bonnie francis's work and providing amendments here and there) yuji began explaining himself:

"look, look over there," he advised his teacher loudly. "y/n and kamo, they're talking about miraculous ladybug, which is a show... that i watch too, by the way. but i'm not talking about it in the middle of your lesson... 'cause i'm a good student... that finished the work you set and even had you mark it. and i even did all the ones i got wrong, and didn't let anyone take my answers."

kento maintained eye contact with the passionate boy, before looking over his shoulder to watch you and kamo, but yuji had spoken once more, and kento's eyes had met his again.

"— because i want to actually pass your class —"

"okay, yuji, i understand," kento interrupted with a hand raised.

yuji turned back around, seemingly proud of himself.

nobara scrunched her nose up at him. "you're a snitch."

"a snitch that's passing this class," yuji corrected her, smug.

kento's gaze lingered on you and kamo across the room, expression unreadable, though the slight purse of his lips suggested disapproval. he said nothing, just observed the two of you with that quiet authority teachers wield when they were deciding whether to intervene or let the silence stretch and do the work for them.

from his own desk, megumi watched it all unfold with a calmness he hadn't earned. there was something about seeing kento look your way disapprovingly that settled strangely inside his chest.

it was almost like a quiet satisfaction.

like the prickling confirmation that he'd been right all along — about distractions, about misplaced priorities.

he didn't question why it felt like a win; he just held onto it.

"y/n," kento had called out firmly.

you looked up, brows raised.

"why have you moved seats?" he asked you, simultaneously handing bonnie francis her worksheets back, fully marked and amended where need be.

"'cause kamo's my tutor," you answered honestly; megumi scowled, "and we're talking about the work."

kento adjusted his round glasses before nodding. "is that so?"

"yep," you beamed, turning to your partner. "he explains it to me in a way that i can understand."

"i do," kamo had confirmed, though it came out as more of a question than a statement.

you nodded enthusiastically. "he does!"

the quiet satisfaction that megumi had been basking in had died out quite quickly. yuji had obviously felt the same way, for he had turned around to assist kento immediately.

"there's no link between miraculous ladybug and vector operations!"

kento had raised his hand again, dismissive. "yes, thank you yuji, i am well aware." he had looked at you and kamo again.

it had become clear to you exactly why kento had made it an issue for you to be sitting next to kamo, and you had immediately locked gazes with your stubborn friend; yuji seemed to look a little too proud of himself, and you did not enjoy that.

not one bit.

a demonstration was in order, it seemed.

"a negative plus a negative equals?" you asked your partner, watching as he raised a mildly confused brow at you. you had urged him to respond, raising both your own brows at him encouragingly.

"er..." kamo started, visibly and audibly lose. "i don't know — ladybug?"

you shook your head at him, eyes wide, before repeating the question again for him. he still looked lost, but as the obedient tutor he was, he found an answer not long after.

"oh, a positive... lucky charm," he had finally responded.

you grinned, wholly satisfied, like a teacher whose student had just passed their first pop quiz. "exactly!" you had praised, nodding with pride.

the two of you had turned back to meet kento's gaze. for a moment, it seemed that your strict teacher would make you move back to your original seat (not that you dreaded it, but the conversation about miraculous ladybug with kamo had taken off incredibly well) but to your amazement (as well as yuji's, it seemed, given the look of distraught on his face after kento had spoken) your teacher shrugged it off:

"is your worksheet complete?" he had asked you.

you held it up for proof. "halfway there."

kamo had, in between discussing the hatred you both held for mylene, helped you answer some of your questions.

"then i don't mind," kento said calmly, returning to his computer and tapping at the keyboard. "so long as you are completing the work..."

you blinked, genuinely impressed.

you hadn't actually expected that to work — it had been a bluff, a last-minute tactic, a flimsily disguised display of random mathematical understanding coated in miraculous references. and yet, against all odds, it had worked.

miraculously.

kamo seemed just as surprised, though he very obviously hid it better.

across the room, yuji sat there slack-jawed, hands limp on his desk like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

megumi, meanwhile, did not react verbally. but the way he stared down at his worksheet with sudden, excessive focus (even though he hadn't answered a question in the last three minutes) said plenty. his eyes had narrowed just a fraction too much, and the pen in his hand tapped sharply against the desk in rhythmic irritation. nobara caught the expression out of the corner of her eye and burst out laughing.

"you look like you've just been told your dog joined a fan club for cats," she teased, doubling over slightly in her seat.

and you, thoroughly pleased with yourself, displayed a new drawing you had sketched up. it was a drawing of yuji, but bald and miserable, and you had taken enough care to draw an ominous little akuma (the moth that the villain in miraculous ladybug used to possess his victims) that fluttered near the top of his shaved head.

yuji recoiled:

"no!" he gasped, pointing at you with a petrified expression painted over his face. "i'm not bald, and i'm not gonna get akumatised 'cause i'm not even angry! you're such a —"

"yuji," came kento's voice from the front without even looking up. yuji had turned around abruptly. "focus on your own work please."

nobara burst into laughter first, her hand slapped over her mouth as she wheezed, and you followed not long after, shoulders shaking as you tried (and failed) to stifle your grin behind your hand.

yuji, on the other hand, sat there in stunned silence, mouth slightly open as he turned to stare at you in utter betrayal. you were the one who was supposed to be getting told off — not him. he'd been helping the class, being righteous, virtuous, even. yet somehow, he'd taken the fall.

from the corner of his eye, megumi watched all of this unfold, jaw clenched slightly. though he didn't comment, the moment held no humour for him. there was a small, reluctant flicker of irritation that lingered behind his eyes, not quite at yuji, and not quite at you either, but at the fact that, somehow, your antics had been overlooked.

and even more annoyingly... rewarded.

"guess you're not nanami's favourite anymore," he told yuji, nudging him hard when his friend had made a fuss over it.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・

the boys' locker room after school was loud in the way that only adolescent chaos could be: metallic clatters of lockers slamming shut, the shuffle of sneakers across slick tile, and the constant hum of overlapping voices that bounced off the concrete walls like static. the fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow over rows of dented lockers that looked older than most of their owners. the air was thick with the sour tang of sweat and deodorant battling for dominance, stirred by the rhythmic clinks of belts and the rustle of polyester jerseys being tugged over heads.

somewhere in the back, someone was arguing over who'd forgotten to bring the ball again, and the distant spray of a faulty showerhead hissed like a quiet warning. beneath the surface noise was a routine familiarity, shoulders bumping in shared space, banter tossed carelessly like gym bags, boys posturing just enough to hide the fatigue of the day. a few leaned against lockers, still half-dressed, muttering about class, homework, or who had a crush on who.

megumi and yuji lingered by their own lockers, accompanied by toge and yuta, both of whom were sat hunched over the bench, chatting idly.

"don't you have detention today?" yuta asked toge, who merely shrugged in response.

toge never spoke much, but when he did, it was usually something insulting.

"what did you do?" yuji asked him curiously, as he adjusted his jersey.

"accidentally told mr ali to get laid," toge answered, securing his shoelaces.

megumi half understood the comment: mr ali was one of the few teachers here at the school that even satoru could not tolerate, constantly in a bad mood, and constantly abusing his power by taking it out on the students.

"i still don't get how that was accidental," yuta added, and then nudged his pale-haired friend urgently. "so why aren't you there now?"

toge did not seem nearly as concerned as yuta was. "skipping it; he'll live."

the door banged open with the kind of dramatic force only one person ever dared to use, and sure enough, todo strode in like a man on a mission. the noise in the locker room had dulled instantly, conversations faltering under the sheer weight of his presence (and the fact that he had demanded silence, voice booming).

without sparing a glance at anyone, he made a beeline for the whiteboard mounted on the wall, grabbing the half-dried marker from its holder. with all the subtlety of a bulldozer, he erased whatever faint diagram had been left behind — something clearly unrelated, probably netball or hockey judging by the neat spacing — and, with intense purpose, scribbled in block letters:

WHAT IS JUJUTSU HIGH'S FOOTBALL PLAYERS' TYPES?

he capped the marker with a loud snap, turned on his heel, and faced the room with a deadly seriousness that suggested to everyone in the room that this was no joke.

"not this again," megumi grumbled, and unfortunately for him, todo had caught wind of each word.

"YES, THIS AGAIN, FUSHIGURO!" he bellowed, uncaring of chad's silent flinch in the corner of the room. "we forgot to do a debrief of the task i assigned you a few weeks back."

right, megumi had thought to himself. the one where both him and yuji had been entrusted to find out which girl it was that kamo was interested in.

he had intentionally not made a single move to try and discover the answer, and judging by the shocked look on yuji's face, it seemed that yuji had forgotten to do so entirely.

"BROTHER," todo yelled, throwing the marker at yuji, who had caught it easily (megumi could appreciate the fact that yuji's reflexes had naturally been quite sharp), "DEBRIEF THE TEAM!"

megumi had given yuji a bland, encouraging pat on the back as he stepped forward slowly, the marker looking unusually heavy in his grip as he made his way to the whiteboard. the usual bounce in his step was missing, replaced by something more cautious, thoughtful, even.

the room watched in silence as he lifted his arm and scrawled a single name in a scuffed corner of the board:

Tsumiki

the letters were not bold or confident — each one slightly slanted, like he wasn't entirely sure it belonged there. megumi's eyes had narrowed faintly, something quiet tugging at the edges of his mind...

that was the name he'd expected. the one that made the most sense.

but for some reason, the sight of it didn't bring the same certainty it once had. it sat wrong somehow, out of place — not because of the name itself, but because of the hesitation laced into every letter.

as of recent, megumi had not seem quite certain that tsumiki was the one that kamo had been secretly liking. and yet, he could find nothing else exact that could explain otherwise.

"tsumiki..." todo read out loud, and megumi recoiled from the eyes of everyone in the room, locked on his face from all different directions. he did not like this. "tsumiki from physics?"

"wait, i don't get it," chad called out bravely. "what are we even discussing here?"

"todo told megumi and i to find the girl kamo likes," yuji answered, tapping the board with the back of the marker he'd used to write tsumiki's name down.

kamo had been tying the strap of his shin guard when the sudden mention of his name had pulled his attention up. his gaze drifted to the whiteboard slowly, the way someone might check a clock in the middle of the night — absently, but with growing awareness, brows drawing together almost instantly, as though the name didn't quite translate in his head.

confusion settled subtly across his features, not dramatic or loud, after all, megumi understood how kamo behaved. instead, it seemed that someone was reading the wrong answer to a question they were sure they'd studied for. his eyes lingered on the name a moment too long, not in recognition, but in search of it, and megumi had not missed this.

"is this true?" todo demanded loudly. "'cause if it is, it's not the worst type in the world —"

"why do you think i like tsumiki?" kamo asked yuji, who, just like megumi, had frozen up.

had there been a proper reason for them to have come to the conclusion that kamo liked tsumiki? megumi listed the reasons out in his head, and for the first time since coming to that conclusion, he found himself unconvinced.

"er... don't you?" yuji shot back, now looking uncertain.

1. megumi had spotted them talking, frequently.

"i asked you first," said kamo, no longer leaning against his own locker.

2. the timing could not have been coincidental: the second kamo admitted that he liked someone that time in this exact locker room was the second megumi had spotted the two together.

"er... megumi?" yuji had muttered, apparently looking to him for support.

megumi scowled and turned away, opening his locker and mindlessly rearranging what was inside; he did not want to be any more involved than he already was, which was not by much.

3. tsumiki was speaking about how kamo was  very considerate (praising him more than megumi liked to believe that he deserved).

he could feel kamo's stare pressing into the back of his skull, and it was sharp, quiet, and expectant.

it wasn't accusatory, not quite, but it was the kind of look that demanded clarity, that sifted through silence for meaning. and beneath that weight, megumi had continued to fumble with the clutter in his locker, more out of avoidance than necessity.

he did not need to turn around to know that todo's expression had soured — he could practically hear his irritation building, the heavy breath through his nose, the tension in his stance. the lack of answers had grated against todo like chalk against a board, and the longer the confusion lingered, the more obvious it became that this task was slipping further and further out of his control.

"she said you're a good guy!" yuji had added helpfully, though he did not sound too certain about that. "i think..."

kamo replied almost immediately, and just as usual, megumi could not decipher much from the tone of his voice, for it sounded indifferent. "she did?" he'd said.

surely a guy that likes a girl would care for her approval?

so if not that, why else would kamo care?

"brother, i'm disappointed with the results you've given me," todo spoke lowly. megumi had closed the door of his locker, turning around to face his teammates, wanting so desperately for this conversation to come to a conclusion. "HOWEVER, I DON'T BLAME YOU!"

4. tsumiki said megumi would be seeing kamo around more often.

"fuck, he's loud," oliver grumbled, rubbing his ear with a scrunched up nose. megumi could not blame him — todo's spontaneous change of volume always occurred without warning.

"i blame FUSHIGURO!"

because megumi had been expecting this to occur, unlike the rest of the team, he had not flinched one bit.

"kamo, just tell us who your girl is, man," logan grumbled tiredly. "we just wanna get to practice already."

"woah, woah, woah, dude," chad spoke up almost immediately. he had stepped forward and pulled kamo to his side. "you can't pressure my best friend to do that, it's not cool."

and just like that, a flicker of doubt wormed its way through megumi's chest — had he gotten it all wrong from the start?

kamo shrugged him off.

but megumi had just realised something...

"are the juniors right?" todo demanded loudly.

all eyes were on kamo: toge, the silent gossiper, was (to no one's surprise) heavily invested. as was his best friend, yuta, who always tried his best not to indulge in such topics, but even megumi could not deny that this one in particular was of major interest.

tsumiki had never said that he would be seeing kamo around more often...

"wrap it up, man, it's tsumiki —" someone from near the door had decided, but todo was not having it.

or at least, she hadn't confirmed it...

"I ONLY WANNA HEAR FROM KAMO!"

"me and megumi saw you two talking," yuji stated, and megumi refrained the urge to grab him by the neck and throttle him. "a lot."

'will i be seeing him around more?' he had asked her.

"this isn't right, dudes," chad sighed, looking visibly stressed.

'possibly,' she had answered...

"is tsumiki..." todo ominously began, voice deep and low, and yet holding every bit of demand with each syllable he uttered.

possibly.

"...the girl you like?"

she was uncertain.

the silence that settled over the locker room was thick and waiting, like a vacuum sealed tight with expectation. it wasn't the quiet of peace or stillness... it was the kind that crackled faintly beneath the surface, stretched taut like a wire about to snap. even the usual background hum (the rustle of bags, the scuff of shoes, the clink of locker doors) had died out, as if the room itself had been holding its breath.

uncertain... yet he remembered the look on her face.

eyes darted between kamo and todo, then to the whiteboard where Tsumiki stared back in shaky, uncertain letters.

no one moved.

it was hope.

the air was heavy with unspoken guesses and rising tension, like the entire team had been pulled into a single, silent countdown — waiting for kamo to speak and detonate whatever truth he carried.

she was uncertain, yet hopeful, like she could only do so much to allow it to happen...

"ANSWER ME!"

like she was not the one making the ultimate decision.

kamo looked the team captain with one, uncaring look, and let out an inaudible breath, one that only those next to him (chad) would be able to catch.

like she was not the one that kamo liked.

"no," kamo had answered, and the pit that had been slowly forming in megumi's stomach since pre-calc that morning had grown nine times faster.

something else inside him coiled uncomfortably, like a thread pulled too tight, straining but invisible to the eye. he told himself it was just surprise, because that should’ve been the right name on the board, because everything (or what little facts he had silently confirmed by himself) had pointed to it.

and yet, somehow, the wrongness of it all didn’t feel new.

it felt old.

familiar.

a quiet unease he hadn’t wanted to look at too closely until now, when it was suddenly inescapable. he stayed quiet, eyes on the ground, pretending the shift in his chest wasn’t happening.

maybe if he didn't pay attention to it, it'd become less real.

but kamo had made quite sure that this wouldn't be the case:

"THEN WHO?" todo had roared out, visibly and audibly frustrated.

"kamo, man, just tell him!" ethan complained loudly.

logan voiced his agreement. "he's not gonna let this go, and i just wanna get to the field already."

chad, ever the quiet moral compass of the group, leaned forwards slightly on the bench, his elbows resting on his knees as he spoke with the kind of steady conviction that didn’t demand attention but naturally earned it.

“you don’t owe anyone an answer, dude. if you’re not ready to say, you don’t have to.” his voice was calm, but carried weight, cutting through the restless complaints and todo’s booming impatience with surprising ease.

kamo had not replied immediately: he blinked slowly, as if weighing his options, then let out a short breath that almost sounded like a laugh. his hand rose to rake through his hair, fingers slipping through the strands before he pulled it back into a low bun with deliberate, unhurried movements.

"i’m not folding,” he said finally, straightening with a casual ease that didn’t quite hide the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. “you’ll find out eventually. i think i’ve got a real shot with her.”

megumi didn’t look up. he had kept his gaze fixed on the half-zipped edge of his gym bag, jaw set, expression unreadable, but something in his stillness felt sharper than before, like the conversation had shifted something small and unseen beneath the surface...

and now it wouldn’t quite settle back into place.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・

bonus scene:

august 20th 2010 — the baking competition...

the soft hum of an old ventilation fan filled the quiet surveillance room of the community centre, its walls lined with humming monitors and dusty shelves stacked with outdated manuals and forgotten equipment. the fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow over the room, and rows of cctv screens flickered with various angles of the building (the gym, the parking lot) but the largest monitor at the centre had been fixed on the stainless steel kitchen, where six flour-dusted children were deep in chaotic concentration. a half-empty bag of sugar lay ominously overturned on the counter, and someone (it hadn't been clear who) had just slipped on what looked like frosting.

in front of the screen, suguru stood with his arms crossed, brows low and accusing, while satoru leaned back in a rolling chair, spinning slightly, smug and far too relaxed for his best friend's liking.

"why am i here?" suguru had asked him, brow furrowed in annoyance. 

satoru pointed at the large screen before them. "to prove to you that i'm innocent," he had answered.

suguru remained unimpressed. "you sabotaged my kids."

"i never sabotaged anyone," satoru responded, a brow raised at suguru's obvious discontent. "i play fair, given how my kids were up against yours —"

suguru had not missed the jab. "the hell is that supposed to mean?"

satoru spun on his chair and clicked at the monitors, speeding up and slowing down the footage. 

"you wanna see what happened to your ice queens?" he said, audibly determined. 

suguru would have taken him seriously, but he had known satoru since they were just regular students in middle school. he knew better than to blindly trust the white-haired prankster. 

"what sort of reference is that?" he demanded, brow raised as he watched the footage blur and come back into focus several times while satoru messed with it. "some of that fake classic literature that you read?"

"hey, i don't read classic literature: it's boring fiction." he gestured to the screen again. "but this? this is the greatest piece of media that i've ever seen, take a look."

on-screen, you and megumi had been caught in a heated argument over what looked like batter ratios, with megumi visibly restraining himself from flinging the whisk at your head. a few feet over, maki had just lobbed a spoonful of frosting at mai, who retaliated with a fistful of flour, their collaboration unravelling into open warfare. 

but the lens lingered on mimiko and nanako — the only pair working in seamless, quiet harmony. mimiko folded whipped cream with gentle, precise motions while nanako measured out ingredients beside her, mouthing a count under her breath. their movements were synchronised, calm amidst the chaos, and if not for the occasional glint of flour on their cheeks, they might have looked like pros.

"what am i looking at?" suguru scoffed. "they're doing great."

"don't hold your breath," satoru chuckled, watching the footage patiently.

mimiko squinted at the printout of their recipe before tapping the paper thoughtfully. 

“nana," she called out, brows furrowed and lips pursed, "it says to... to chill in the fridge for... thirty-five minutes,” she murmured, eyes flicking to her sister. 

her twin had glanced up from the cocoa powder she had been attempting to level, their unspoken communication as natural as breathing. there was a beat of silence, and then, wordlessly, they reached for each other’s hand and padded across the kitchen. 

the fridge door had creaked open, light spilling out across the tiled floors, and as they began to remove a tray of gelatine cups and a bowl of frosting to make space, maki and mai’s bickering had paused, just long enough for both sisters to glance over, distracted.

with the contents shuffled onto the counter beside a mountain of cupcake liners, mimiko and nanako climbed up, knees tucking in as they shuffled to the back of the fridge like it was some private little fort. cold air billowed around them, making their cheeks glow pink, but neither flinched. instead, they settled in comfortably, backs against the frosty wall, their hands still linked. 

mimiko leaned forwards to close the door shut, and she had almost managed it. but unbeknownst to her, nanako had extended her own wrist, leaving her pointer finger out, preventing the door from shutting entirely.

"mimiko, i'm kind of scared in the dark..."

"it's fine, nanako. we just need to stay here for... erm... how long again...?"

"you said it was thirty-five minutes."

"oh yeah, i forgot."

"it's kind of cold..."

"yeah... brrr..."

maki and mai exchanged a look, the kind of look only siblings knew how to read, equal parts disbelief and opportunity. 

maki sauntered over to the fridge, peering inside like she was inspecting alien life. 

“er, what are you two doing?” she asked, voice flat but vaguely amused. 

it was mimiko that had answered. 

"we’re chilling," she'd said, and let out a small cough. "the recipe said we have to chill in the fridge for thirty-five minutes.” 

maki blinked once, then turned on her heel, marching back towards the chaos where megumi had just confiscated your mixing bowl. 

"the rules said that — that we have to work as a — a — a — a team!" you argued, hands over your hips, your apron a mess of flour, sugar, and frosting. "so you can't just keeping on taking away my mixing bowl, silly billy!"

"then stop ruining everything," he had snapped at you. 

you responded by throwing flour at his hair. it was already a mess, you supposed it wouldn't take any more time in the shower to sort the added mess too. 

before megumi could retaliate, his eyes a dangerous shade of dark blue that you had started to wisely retreat from, maki and mai had joined your guys' side.

"oi, you two," maki had hissed, one lens of her glasses dripping with melted butter. "look at them."

you and megumi, despite your differences, paused momentarily and turned towards the fridge in sync, your bickering momentarily forgotten. behind the slightly ajar door, mimiko and nanako were still curled up like chilled dumplings, pink-cheeked and eerily serene, as if sitting inside a fridge mid-baking challenge was the most natural thing in the world.

megumi narrowed his eyes, visibly unimpressed. "what the hell are they doing?" he muttered, deadpan.

"the recipe says to chill in the fridge for thirty-five minutes," mai whispered, showing you the line in the baking book that had stated exactly that.

"that's the dumbest thing i’ve ever seen,” said megumi, nose scrunched in disgust. 

you shake your head, holding back a laugh. "my daddy says we have to — to — to help animals when they're in danger... are mimiko and nanako in danger?"

"mimiko and nanako... aren't animals," said mai.

megumi scoffed. "they're acting like them."

you glanced at your competition partner, blinking through the flour stuck between your eyelashes. "so... are we 'upposed to help them?" you asked him, visibly lost.

maki and mai shared a grin that only spelled mischief. together, they turned back towards the fridge like foxes closing in on an easy win. maki crouched slightly to meet the twins’ eye level, resting an arm on the fridge door while mai stood behind her, holding the baking book. 

“hey,” maki began, tone suspiciously encouraging, “you guys are so good at this. megumi and y/n and me and mai are gonna lose now."

mai nodded solemnly.

there was a pause, and you almost believed that the act was obvious, that the other sets of twins had figured you all out, until one of them responded (mimiko, you had assumed), grateful and yet very obviously in discomfort.

"really? thank you, maki,” she said softly, fingers still clutched around nanako’s hand like they were on some arctic expedition. "you're never usually this kind..."

maki locked eyes with you and shrugged. 

nanako had spoken next.

“do you know how much longer we have to stay in here?” she asked, voice tinged with a tiny shiver. 

you had almost felt bad for them, but after taking a look at your own work station, mess littered all over the place with very little progress, you supposed that you could use the extra time.

mai gave a beat before replying, “fifty minutes.”

you, from across the kitchen, whipped your head around. 

fifty minutes?! 

that was the entire remainder of the competition — you had seen the timer just five minutes ago.

mimiko sounded sceptical. “but... i thought we were supposed to stay for thirty-five...”

mai waved her off with a breezy tone. “you read it wrong. it’s actually one whole hour.”

“an hour?” nanako repeated, voice going slightly high. “but we’ve already been in here for, like... fifteen minutes! and it's — it's cold! and...”

“exactly,” maki nodded, stone-faced. “you guys still have so much time left, but at least you're ahead of all of us! you guys are going to win.”

nanako let out a whiny little groan, cheeks puffed. “but it’s so cold, mimiko...”

"cold builds character," megumi had added helpfully.

they were rushed to the ER not long after the rest of you kids had continued to bake your goodies. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・

notes: guess who's baaaack :D no, i didn't warn u of my return, bc i meant for this to be spontaneous (this was intentional). hence why i've been answering the asks in my inbox and saving them in my drafts so i can release them all at once ;) this chapter is dedicated to @crisis-unaverted-recs i wrote my hiatus notice/announcement at around 11:34pm on the 9th of jan, and she had conveniently been the first to respond. she told me that i am 'not a content farm' and that i 'don't owe anyone my writing'. it might not seem like a lot to anyone else, but for me, it was just the thing that i'd needed to hear at that exact moment. for that, i thank you by dedicating this lengthy chapter to you. ik it's not much, but it's the only way i can show my gratitude, ty. and for everyone else, tysm for ur patience. it meant the world to me at a time where i was incredibly stressed out with exams. but that hell is over now, and i can finally make up for lost time. ty again <3

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next chapter :)

taglist (send an ask or comment to be added):

@1l-ynn @shaigimo @shuupiu @nappingnai @xbarrjallenx @reinaswrld @anintrovertedechoe @momoewn @polarbvnny @lailuv21 @cherriee-ee @hfuensiekabhsufnd @k0z3me @reocidal @jelly-fsh @anonymity-222 @blubearxy @jamypam @thelost-child @anotherwriternamedclara @ist0leurc0ffee @spookypeacesandwich @jvpit3rr @2ukika @zzn-li @biancaackerman @yanelis-world @you-transfix-me @chaeisbroke @evergumi @looktheresfire123 @arrozyfrijoles23

© tojiscrack (previously ack4rwoman)

i do not own any of the characters of jjk, i only own the character of y/n and her mother. the other characters belong to gege akutami.

if you enjoyed my writing, i’d really appreciate it if you tipped me — tumblr no longer has the tip function, so maybe here in my tip jar :)

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Break In (Part 2)

Summary: After the break in, the reader heads to the station with Tim to finish her statement. But his co-workers aren't too thrilled with him hiding her for so long and decide on a little payback...

Pairing: Tim Bradford x reader

Part 1

Word Count:

Warnings: language, smidge of angst, teasing

A/N: Okay, I had so much fun writing for this character and you guys seemed to really enjoy it too so let's hop on this bandwagon (and don't worry, I'll be doing plenty of imagine/one shot type stuff too)...

Tim sighed behind the wheel of his truck, shooting you a look when you happily unbuckled your belt. You slid out the door, eagerly waiting by the truck bed for him. He grumbled quietly, grabbing his backpack and barely looking both ways across the lot before he was walking.

You skipped to catch up with him, grinning ear to ear while he reluctantly held open the door of the station for you.

“You can sit at my desk while I change. When I get back, I’ll show you to Nolan, you can finish your report and then you can take my truck back home. Got it?”

“Actually, I was hoping I could do a little ride along today.” He faltered his steps, nearly tripping if not for you catching his arm. 

“Over my dead body,” he said, holding up a finger to your face. “Y/N, I’m serious.”

“I’m only teasing,” you said, sliding your hand down to interlace with his. He seemed oddly tense as he walked you into the station and past a set of stairs. He meandered past a few desks before stopping at a plain looking one. 

“I’ll be back in a few,” he said, waiting for you to sit in the leather office chair. He rubbed his temple as he turned away, heading out of earshot and down some hallway. You spun around, examining his desk, pouting when you only saw two photos up. One of his sister and nephews, the other looking like it was some cops.

“Dating for nearly seven months and I don’t get a picture,” you grumbled, picking up a perfectly aligned notebook and pen set. How was this the same guy that hadn’t owned a single matching glass until you went and bought him some at Target last month?

“Good morning.” You spun in the chair at the voice behind you, two women appearing. One wore a blue uniform like Tim did, the other in jeans and a blazer. The one in the uniform smiled, giving the other one a mischievous smirk. “You wouldn’t happen to be the B&E at Sunset Ridge last night? The one dating Tim?”

“Oh yeah, that’s her,” said Officer Nolan as he walked past them to a desk behind Tim’s. “How are you doing?”

“Alright,” you said. “A bit shaken up still.”

“Understandable,” said the woman in the blazer. “Nolan, we’ll be back.”

“We?” you asked, both woman pulling you to your feet.

“You like coffee? Let’s grab a coffee before you finish with John,” said the uniformed woman. You glanced back at Nolan, a sympathetic look on his face.

“Ten minutes ladies,” he called, the two leading you outside. 

“Uh, who are you guys?” you asked as they pointed over to a coffee cart on the far side of the entrance of the station.

“Lucy Chen. Angela Lopez,” said Angela, a mischievous look on her face. “And apparently you’re Tim’s girlfriend? For how long?”

“Six months,” you said quietly. They both stopped and stared at you, quickly shaking their heads. 

“He’s an-“

“Idiot, exactly,” they said to each other, giving you a smile. “We heard he flipped his shit last night on you.”

“That moron,” said Angela, walking again. “Come on, Y/N. We got some things to discuss.”

“You guys aren’t going to give me some sort of if you hurt him speech…” you trailed off when Angela barked a laugh.

“No, no, no, no. We’re going to plot revenge for him being a dick,” said Lucy. You smirked, Lucy’s eyes lighting up. “Oh, we’re going to like you.”

Tim POV

I narrowed my eyes as I walked back to my desk to find it missing Y/N. Nolan wasn’t at his either. Maybe he took her back to an interview room? I spun around, nearly slamming straight into him and his cup of coffee. 

“Sorry,” he winced, managing to avoid spilling the hot liquid all over the two of us. 

“Where’s Y/N?” I asked, Nolan raising an eyebrow. 

“I don’t know. Lopez and Chen took her outside to get a coffee-” I walked towards the front door, pausing when Angela and Lucy appeared with to go cups in their hands.

“Where’s Y/N?” I asked again, the girls looking at one another.

“We sent her back inside awhile ago.” I looked around, frowning. “Maybe she went to the bathroom?”

“Can one of you check the public ones? Please?” Lopez hummed and went across the lobby, Lucy giving me a look. “What?”

“You look worried. It’s a police station. I’m sure she’s fine,” she said. I kept scanning around the bullpen, Y/N still missing.

“She’s not in there,” said Angela a moment later when she rejoined us. I walked away, the two of them hurrying after. “Timothy.”

“Why did you leave her alone? This place is full of violent criminals,” I said, storming down a back hall. 

“Calm down, we’ll help you look,” said Lucy. Ten minutes later my hair was a mess from how many times I’d ran a hand through it. Y/N was fucking missing. What the hell had happened? Did she cross paths with the guy that broke in last night? Did he make bail and grabbed her? Why wouldn’t she have made a sound, alerted someone?

I dialed her phone, hearing nothing around me as I walked the halls. I sent off text after text, call after call, my blood pressure sky high by the time I regrouped with the girls and Nolan in the lobby. 

“Tell Gray to lock it down,” I said, going to my desk, looking up the guy who broke into her house yesterday. Someone whistled nearby, my head snapping up. They did it again, an officer turning around in a nearby chair. 

My stomach dropped when they gave me a friendly wave, Y/N wearing a hat and one of our rain jackets. “What the…”

“Hm. Eighteen phone calls,” she chided, shaking her head, the color draining from my face. “Thirty…seven texts.” 

Y/N stood up as I felt others nearby, my butt plopping down in my chair as Y/N approached. She held out her phone to me, tsking me. “But Tim? I thought we agreed you call the authorities in an emergency first, not me.”

I closed my eyes. Fuck I deserved that. I deserved that so bad. My skin was hot with embarrassment, a few laughs heard behind me. I heard it quiet though, a gentle hand touching mine.

Y/N POV

“Are you mad at me?” you asked him. He opened his eyes, shaking his head. “It was your friends idea for hiding me for so long…and the yelling thing.”

“They know when I need a kick in the ass,” he said, the pink rushing out of his skin. “I know I apologized for yelling but I’m sorry for embarrassing you too. You are a civilian and-”

“And you got scared and had all this extra emotion that you didn’t know how to deal with. I already forgave you last night.”

“Here,” he said, grabbing a notebook and pen, writing down some names and numbers, tearing it off to you. “These are my friends numbers, personal too. And that number at the top is for family to call the department for any reason. From now on we’ll just trust each other to make the right call for ourselves in emergencies, okay?”

“You’re so hot when you’re emotionally mature,” you said, putting a smile back on his face. 

“And I kind of like that you’re a little bit evil to go along with publicly shaming me.” You scoffed, putting a hand to your chest. “You have to admit you’re a little twisted.”

“Got to keep you on your toes,” you said, leaning closer, stopping yourself. He raised an eyebrow. “Am I allowed to kiss you at work?”

“You just tortured me the past fifteen minutes with my co-workers and then ask if you’re allowed to kiss me?” You pretended to pout, pecking a kiss to his lips. “Did you finish your statement?”

“Not yet,” you said, spotting Officer Nolan return to his desk. 

“Go on. I need to go see where the hell my boot is.” 

Ten minutes later your statement was done. The guy, or rather very tall idiot teenager, that’d broken in admitted he was behind the robbery and a few others in your neighborhood. You met with a guy that worked for the DA’s office, Angela’s husband you were pretty sure. After talking with him, you decided not to press charges in exchange for a whole lot of community service and him joining an outreach program for a minimum of six months.

“All set?” Tim asked you when you found him in the lobby near a garage door entrance. 

“Should be,” you said, noticing a man with more stripes on his shoulder than Tim standing nearby. 

“Who’s your friend, Bradford?” he asked. Tim quietly growled but whoever this was had more authority than him and he bit his tongue.

“This is my girlfriend, Y/N. Y/N, this is my boss-”

“Ah, you’re Gray,” you said, holding out a hand, the man happily shaking it. “I’ve heard mostly good things.”

“That’s acceptable,” he said, shooting Tim a smirk. “Is there a problem?”

“Not anymore,” said Tim, fishing his keys out of his pocket. “Pick me up at six? The alarm system is getting delivered later. We’ll install it this weekend.”

“Sounds good,” you said, pecking a kiss on his cheek. A young man near the garage grinned, Tim immediately barking at him, pointing a finger. “That’s his boot?”

“Yup,” said Gray.

“Is that…normal?”

“His style is…rougher but he makes good officers. I have to get back to it but it was nice meeting you. Don’t be a stranger.” 

“Will do,” you said, heading back towards the lobby. You slowed your steps though, glancing back as Gray entered an office. You followed him inside, Gray turning to face you. “Is it a big no no if I wanted to do a ride along?”

“...No. We do them for a number of reasons. Why are you asking me and not…” You made a face, Gray nodding. “Bradford doesn’t want you doing one.”

“He’s a little…over protective, to use a word. I feel like it might…help me understand him more…and with my screenplay,” you mumbled.

“Screenplay?” he asked.

“I’m writing a movie. I’ve stuck to trad paperbacks but this will be my first…sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” you said, turning about to leave.

“Name a character after me and I’ll get you your ride along. But not with Bradford. I need his focus to be on his boot.”

“Not a problem. I was thinking Idris Elba for who plays you?” He gave you a look like you were a kiss ass. “Denzel?”

“Officers Nolan and Juarez will give you a call tomorrow to discuss your ride along later in the week,” he said, nodding towards the day. “Have a good rest of your day, Ms. Y/L/N.”

Tim POV

“So, how was your day dear?” Y/N asked, setting a bowl down in front of me at her kitchen table. I hummed, giving her a look when she trailed her finger up my arm.

“Can I eat my dinner before we get horny?” I teased, Y/N shrugging.

“I’m not the one that walks around without a shirt after his shower every night.”

“I would be perfectly okay with you also being topless you know.” I grinned as she sat down next to me, shooting me a look that it wasn’t happening anytime soon. “Thanks for cooking.”

“It was my turn,” she said, picking up a fork and digging into her pasta. “I put extra chicken in yours.”

“Thank you,” I said as she shoved a piece of garlic bread in her mouth. We ate a few bites, Y/N sipping on a glass of white wine while I drank a beer. “Work was pretty boring, caught up on paperwork a lot.”

“No hunting serial killers today? Dismantle a drug cartel?” she asked, smirking at me. I rolled my eyes, slurping up more pasta. “Save a kitten from a tree?”

“I watched two grown woman argue over a fender bender for an hour while we waited for a tow truck for some insane reason. A four year old accidentally called 911 and his dad about shit a brick when I did a safety check. Oh, my highlight was when my boot got thrown up on by a drunk guy in the middle of the day. Really good stuff.”

“I like your boring days,” she said, softly smiling. I returned it. Boring meant safe in her mind and if that made her happy then I’d be happy too to be bored.

“How about you?” I asked.

“Wrote some, had a meeting with my agent about the deadline for the next book. Oh and I had lunch with those producers that are interested in buying my script when it’s done.” 

“You were productive,” I said. She put a hand on my forearm, sliding it up to rub my bicep. Fuck, she was in the mood tonight. I wasn’t about to complain about-

“And I talked to Gray and I’ll be going on a ride along with Nolan and Juarez on Friday. I’ll get so much research for the script. Isn’t that exciting?” she said, grinning wide. I tensed for a split second. My gut screamed no, it was too dangerous. But I didn’t want another fight…and I could threaten Nolan and Juarez into taking only easy calls…

“S’great,” I said, shoving more food in my mouth.

“Lying straight through your teeth I see.” She still smirked, looking through her eyelashes. “I can’t wait for Friday!”

“Yeah. Can’t wait for it,” I grumbled, wondering why the hell I had to fall for such a stubborn woman. “Can’t fucking wait.”

A/N: Are you interested to see how the ride along goes? Let me know in the comments!

[sturniololuvz]

Can you please do a fan fic, where it’s Matt and readers first time showering together. Including things like the awkwardness, the cuteness and the gentleness??

“this feels like everything.”

—

The bathroom is fogged up before you’ve even stepped in.

Matt stands by the mirror in nothing but his sweatpants, running a towel through his hair like he’s trying to stall — even though he’s the one who asked you to stay the night. You’re wearing his t-shirt, way too big, and underneath it, absolutely nothing.

Your heart’s pounding.

He catches your reflection in the mirror and stills.

“You don’t have to,” he says immediately. “Like — if this is too soon, or weird, or—”

“Matt,” you say gently. “I want to.”

He nods. Swallows hard. “Okay.”

You step toward him, and he meets you halfway. There’s something about how his hand settles at your lower back — protective, not possessive. Like he’s reminding you that you’re in control, even when you’re half-naked and nervous.

“We’ll go slow,” he murmurs. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

—

You peel off his shirt first — yours now, technically — and the way Matt looks at you when it drops to the floor is like he’s trying not to blink.

He doesn’t say anything crude. Doesn’t stare too long. He just… softens.

Then he tugs off his sweatpants and pushes open the shower door, letting the steam billow out like a warm cloud.

You step in first.

The water is hot, hitting your shoulders in sheets. You shiver a little from the temperature shift, then from the feeling of Matt stepping in behind you.

He closes the glass door gently and exhales.

“Well,” he mutters. “This is happening.”

You laugh. “You’re so awkward.”

He wraps an arm around your waist. “Yeah. But you like it.”

You do.

You really, really do.

—

At first, you’re not even touching.

Just standing under the water, facing each other, both unsure of what to do next — wet hair, flushed cheeks, nowhere to look.

You bite your lip. “Are you gonna kiss me or just stand there like a Sims character?”

Matt huffs a laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

Then he leans in.

—

The kiss is slow. Careful. His hands settle on your waist like he’s learning how to hold you. Yours slide up his chest, slick with water, and your breath catches when his lips brush the corner of your mouth.

“You okay?” he whispers.

“Yeah.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I know.”

Matt pulls you closer, bare chest to bare chest. Your heartbeat flutters against his. He ducks his head, resting his forehead against yours.

“I’ve never done this before,” he admits.

You blink. “You mean—?”

“Showered with someone.” He pulls back slightly. “Like, not just for… fun. Like this. Like, with feelings.”

That shuts you up.

But only for a second.

“Same,” you say quietly.

Something clicks in the air.

—

You start helping each other — clumsily. He pumps shampoo into his hand and lathers your hair, rubbing your scalp so gently it makes you close your eyes. You rinse and do the same for him. You both giggle when soap gets in someone’s eye. He kisses your temple when you call him a baby.

Then his hands trail down your spine, resting low on your hips. The mood shifts again — warmer now, heavier.

You’re pressed back against the tile. He’s between your legs. Everything is wet and slick and slow.

“Still okay?” he murmurs against your jaw.

“Mhm.”

He kisses your shoulder. “You sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure.”

You guide his hand.

He exhales like it hurts.

—

It’s not wild.

It’s not rushed.

It’s intimate in a way that makes you dizzy — like you’re learning someone else’s body for the first time and realizing they’re letting you learn it.

You wrap your arms around his neck. His lips ghost along your throat. He pushes in slow, and your breath stutters against his collarbone.

Matt makes a sound — something soft and broken.

You whisper his name, and he looks at you like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“You feel like…” he breathes. “I don’t even know. I’ve never felt like this.”

You nod, words caught in your throat.

Your legs wrap around him tighter.

The water roars around you. The tile cools against your back. His fingers grip your thighs like he’s anchoring himself to the moment.

You both come apart quietly — heads resting on each other, soft breaths shared, like it’s a secret no one else will ever know.

—

After, he helps you wash the conditioner out of your hair. You rub a washcloth over his back. He kisses your nose and calls you annoying when you drop the soap twice.

You both step out, dripping and flushed, and wrap yourselves in towels.

Matt catches your hand as you leave the bathroom.

“Stay in my bed,” he says. “Don’t go home yet.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

He smiles.

And for once — no smirk, no sarcasm, no meanmatt! edge — he just looks happy.

Like this means everything.

Because maybe it does.

—

taglist : @sturniolo-szn2 @fadedstvrn @tezzzzzzzz @stayingstromboli @ivysturnss @sturniolofreakk @ihateemetoo @sturniolo-tease @sturniololuv3r @sturnsclam @nxvasturns @csturniolo43 @mattspillowprincess @sturniolo-fann @izzylovesmatt @sturniolosymphony @bernardmatthews @bugs-tags @emely9274 @arianna1342 @stevielovesmatt @riggysworld @ph3ebssturniolo @whore4chris @amelia4chris @pizzapocketpocketpizza @strxn-2 @xxxxxxlovesstuff @whump-loverz @sarahsturnn @urloveanaa @k-pevensie28 @chrissturniolobendmeovernow @chriss-slutt @lenus1aa @kitty-meow-meow44 @sturnslux3 @blahbel668 @kingofeverythingmb @kenah-sturniolo

[muramurka]

Ok gays, today we're going to give a talk about Aubrey, or Aubreylikesmith and her besties. A girls with strange tendencies for teens, a racists and their excuses.

And what is fueling these thoughts? Meet Azia! Aubrey's 15 years old oc!

Yes, she's still a 15-year-old girl. Does she look her age? I doubt it very much. She looks 20 years old. But let's say yes. And what, in my opinion, is problematic? Cool design, beautiful drawing..... Half-naked child with bipolar disorder. I don't think that when your boobs are big, your waist is small and your clothes are open - it's all about sex. Not at all. BUT THIS IS ABOUT A 15-YEAR-OLD GIRL! In underwear! WTF!!!! Well, Aubrey and her friends don't think so. By a stroke of luck, I was able to get on their discord server and talk in person. So, what do we have in general?

.

.

Wow. That's rich. To hear this from someone who seems to really like drawing half-naked teen. Like seriously? How will the image of a girl in panties help others? Okay, okay, you know what, let's flip the same coin as Aubrey: My classmate. She smokes, cuts herself, loves hanging out with all the guys and doesn't study well. Great, so Aubrey's right! She just discovered that shit happens. Will the drawings that project such a life help? ok. Let's hope so? idk. How will THIS help? It's like you're looking at a picture of an American Psychopath and you're like "YES, IT's LITERALLY ME" and you feel better? Isn't this romanticizing through the lens of rose-colored glasses? Oki-doki. Fine, girl, maybe you're right.

But that's nothing compared to..

IT'S OK BECAUSE I'M MINOR TOO. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK!1! ABSOLUTE CINEMA! What difference does it make how old you are when you sexualize minors? Is that an excuse? It's not good in any way! WTF I'm surprised I have to talk about it at all. You're posting this to the public, where there are not only minors like you. Ok? That's the first thing. Secondly, !NOBODY! has no right to sexualize minors.

Oh by the way, remember that art with The Egyptian trend? When I said that it was a naked 15-year-old girl, they objected to me. Of course, we just got it all wrong! This is the outfit that Egyptian women used to wear in those early days! Obviously. But they had plenty of other options besides going topless. But Aubrey chose exactly the option when a teenage girl is naked! Funny? Hell yeah. Of course, in ancient Egypt, women could wear dresses with bare breasts, but there are plenty of other clothing options.

And now about why I consider them racists.

She was trying to bleach her skin. WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE OMG.

If you disagree with them, if you are against drawings with naked children, you will understand why I decided to tell you about it. A lot of amazing artists painted her character, supporting her, which haunts me. Guys, sexualizing schoolgirls is not normal. Their excuses like "It's to support people" or "It's just a ragebite" are complete bullshit. I hope you understand why. These people laughed at me when I said I was going to make a post about it, but am I really that bad if I talk about that? Because making fun of people that sexualizing minors? I wished her death, which was not nice. You know, Aubrey, I'm sorry for that. I know you will hardly read this or accept the apology, but I was wrong when I wrote that.

Thanks. And thanks to everyone who helped me find the screenshots. You guys helped a lot with the search, because I was blocked.

Патриот слушает.

[itsoverfeeling]

Episode 7 of Murderbot

It's been a second since I've done a more analysis-style post, but I'm feeling quite excited post-episode 7 and I wanna get my thoughts out there. There's a lot I could get into, so I'm only going to focus on a few parts.

Warning for TV spoilers and an image of a decapitated head.

Before watching this episode I made a post stating the following:

also also. i feel like the point about bharadwaj being attacked at the beginning of the show where it has to be asserted that “it wasn’t a monster, its just an animal doing what animals do” is interesting as well… hm I see so its more difficult for the team to maintain objectivity and/or sympathy when they feel directly threatened or fearful. i wonder what parallels could be drawn from that!

Indeed, this episode acknowledges the immediate aftermath of the team seeing Murderbot, well, murder. It's one thing to know a SecUnit can kill versus seeing (and feeling, in the case of those getting sprayed with blood) a SecUnit kill. And like I point out in that post, they are now struggling to maintain their objectivity and sympathy. Where once, humanity (and I use this word purposefully) was easy to grant Murderbot, it is now creating a new set of problems for the characters... now they're forced to ask: why would a person (meaning human) do this? why would a person (human) not understand the gravity of this? (how much of a person is it really?)

The issue with that line of thinking is that they haven't managed to separate human from person. Because Murderbot is not a human, it is a construct. It see itself as a construct, it likes having its armor on, it likes having guns in its arms, it likes being strong and it doesn't like a lot of things it deems as "human" things. It's the team that wants to see Murderbot as a human rather than a person, and Murderbot can't be a human, not even if the crew repeats it over and over again.

Murderbot, obviously, is mostly frustrated that the team doesn't understand that violence is necessary here. It points out that Dr. Mensah was willing to kill a SecUnit, that's basically the same thing. Dr. Mensah... acquiesces but I wonder if she's truly grappled with the personhood of constructs. I say this, because, similarly to the previous episode ending on Leebeebee's decapitation, this episode ends on the decapitation of a SecUnit.

The difference being that Leebeebee's body was looked upon with horror and ongoing grief, but the SecUnit is looked upon as an eliminated threat. Or rather, it's barely even glanced at!

Whereas Leebeebee has remained a constant horror, that they've been replaying through their minds, delaying their own escape/safety as they think about her death and frustrating Murderbot when it just wants them to move onto the next self-preserving move, the SecUnit's death is forgettable.

When a human dies, they struggle to prioritize their immediate safety, because how could they? But when a SecUnit dies and, say, one of their crew faints, they are immediately prepared to prioritize his immediate safety.

For Murderbot, there is no difference between the death of a dangerous human or a dangerous construct. But for the humans, they have not yet grappled with this difference.

So they ascribe personhood to Murderbot, but they are not truly prepared for what it means to consider Murderbot, and associated constructs, a person. And Murderbot may be forced to wade through the consequences of this.

I also want to note this moment:

She's accusing Murderbot of not caring about the team, but, functionally, is enforcing the idea that humans are the priority (to be mourned, to be saved, to be sympathized with) and that Murderbot is solidly the outlier.

Because, look, we (meaning Preservation Alliance and accidentally implying humans) take care of each other! And you, Murderbot?

You kill people, including your own (meaning humans you should care about and accidentally implying constructs you're the same as).

What an amazing episode to show that the crew is not yet prepared to understand Murderbot! And Murderbot, despite how it will probably feel justified in thinking these humans are irrational, continues to deeply crave a chance to have... something. I'm sure it hasn't figured it out, yet. There's a reason why it showed its face when Mensah insisted. It didn't have to, but it chose to.

And to top this off, I'd like to acknowledge this bit I wrote yesterday:

i feel like the point about bharadwaj being attacked at the beginning of the show where it has to be asserted that “it wasn’t a monster, its just an animal doing what animals do” is interesting as well...

The animals make another appearance as well! Look at me, making well-timed observations. And this episode, the animals do what animals do. They fulfill their instincts and mate and lay eggs. And then, they protect their eggs from those that have harmed them, through what they've determined is the easiest route to safety, by killing and eliminating the threat.

Sounds familiar...

[wendichester]

༘ ⋆｡ ˚ the same flame,

summary. sam's hallucinating. dreaming. maybe seeing into the future. it's lucifer. and everything he's been through. and he's slowly escaping through trembling fingers. but you'll never let go.

pairing. sam winchester x reader genre. fingerlicking angst

wordcount. 524

notes / warnings. big shoutout to my girl @stargazedwinchester for coming up with this idea and allowing me to do my take on it. ( also if you haven't, go check her stuff because it's amazing! ) // ptsd, trauma, reference to character death, sam breaking down, crying, mental deterioration.

Sam doesn’t talk about it. He barely even looks at you some days.

You catch him blinking too long. Flinching at things that aren’t there. Jaw tight, knuckles white on coffee mugs. He goes quiet mid-sentence, then plays it off like he just lost his train of thought.

He didn’t.

He’s seeing things again.

And you know it. You’ve known it for weeks.

What you don’t know is why he’s shutting you out.

He sleeps with his back to you now. Leaves rooms when you enter. He won’t touch you unless you reach first, and even then—his fingers are cold, hesitant, like he’s afraid you’re not real. Like maybe if he presses too hard, you’ll disappear.

Tonight, it all comes to a head.

It’s late. The motel room smells like old wood and rain. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring down at his hands like they belong to someone else.

“Sam,” you say, softly, “please. Just tell me what’s going on.”

He doesn’t move.

You kneel in front of him. Gently touch his arm. “You’ve been... somewhere else lately. I’m not mad. I just want to help.”

Still, nothing.

Then—

“I saw you burn.”

You blink. “What?”

His voice is hollow. “In the hallway. You were wearing that blue shirt you like. There was smoke, and you were screaming, and I—I couldn’t get to you.”

Your stomach drops.

“I’ve been seeing it. Over and over. Some nights it’s the fire. Some nights it’s your body in the tub. Or blood on the walls. Sometimes you’re crying, and I think I’m comforting you, but it’s Lucifer. It’s always him.”

“Sam—” you whisper, already reaching for him, but he jerks back like your touch scalds.

He finally looks at you. Really looks. His eyes are wet, wide, and wrecked.

“It’s exactly like it was with Jess,” he chokes. “The dreams. The visions. The hallucinations. It’s the same fucking pattern and I—I can’t—”

His voice cracks. He presses the heel of his palm to his eye like he can shove it all back in, but it’s too late now.

“I can’t lose you too.”

Your heart shatters.

He’s not scared of the visions. He’s not scared of losing his grip on reality. He’s scared you’re next.

And no amount of logic or reassurance is going to fix that in this moment, because in his mind—it’s already happened a thousand times.

You climb into his lap, straddle him gently, cradling his face. He trembles under your hands.

“You haven’t lost me,” you say, firm and slow. “I’m here. I’m right here. You can touch me. You can kiss me. I’m not going anywhere.”

His arms wrap around you so tight it knocks the breath from your lungs. He buries his face in your shoulder and finally, finally sobs—shaking, raw, coming apart like a man who’s held in too much for far too long.

You don’t say a word. Just hold him. Let him unravel. Let him believe again.

Because if it takes a thousand nights to remind him you’re real, you’ll do it. Over and over. As long as it takes.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for Drakel behind the cut, who asked for something soft and is getting some "Superpup". content warnings: not necessarily a full-blown anxiety attack, but a character in a compromised mental state is actively panicking while thinking very unkind things about themself, and is at least getting CLOSE to anxiety attack territory. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

Something crunches outside–a footstep on gravel, maybe, or a big scary monster that’s gonna come eat them–and Kon whimpers in terror and hides against Krypto, which is something he’s never done once in his fucking life, and the little puppy-brain thinks: is it the scary bad man again, is he back, is the scary bad man gonna hurt him again, he doesn’t wanna get hurt again, he's scared–! 

Krypto growls low and threatening, baring his teeth at the door as his hackles raise, and a flashlight sweeps across the room, and a voice says–something, the puppy-brain can’t process it, and Kon can’t process it through the puppy-brain–and Kon huddles down as small as he can against Krypto’s chest and whimpers. Another voice says something, and Krypto barks sharply, and the voices both curse in surprise and fall back, and then Krypto snatches Kon off the floor in his teeth–grabs him by the scruff with his teeth–and tears out of the store at super-speed with him in his mouth. 

Kon yelps. 

Krypto flies fast, and the whole world blurs and it’s all rushing wind and speed, and the stupid fucking puppy is still fucking scared, and Kon–and Kon–

Kon had felt a whole lot safer curled up against Krypto’s chest, it feels like, stupid as that thought is. 

The puppy really, really wants to hide again, though, and Kon can’t think about anything right, can’t even–can’t–

He just wants Clark to show up and fix this, even if he’s gonna give him another stupid lecture about not being so reckless and stupid and–

He just wants Clark at all, he thinks, even though it’s a stupid fucking thought. 

Then the blurred world and rushing wind and speed all stop all at once in a jarring jolt as Krypto lands–somewhere, Kon’s too dizzy to really figure out where just yet–and in the same instant, and a voice exclaims, “Krypto! What are you doing, boy, you know better than to come to the apartment like this!” 

Krypto sets Kon down all nice and neat on a concrete balcony and wags his tail, and Clark comes out through the sliding glass and onto the balcony too, looking stressed and looking around like he’s looking for something, but Kon doesn’t care, because it’s Clark. 

He tries to say that, on some stupid crammed-down reflex–tries to say “Clark” or “Kal” or even “Superman”, or just “HELP me!”, but the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a pathetic and scared-sounding yelp. Clark pulls up short, looking startled, and looks down at him, and seems to just be noticing him for the first time. The stupid puppy-brained puppy feels exposed and vulnerable and terrified of the huge looming scary thing taking up the whole stupid world and whimpers in fright as it skitters back between Krypto’s legs clumsily and tries to hide underneath him even more clumsily than that. 

Krypto barks as proud as every time he’s ever shown up dragging a supervillain by the cape or “fetched” a whole-ass tree out of the ground instead of the normal-sized stick somebody’d tossed for him, then plants his butt on the balcony and wags his tail even harder, panting happily up at Clark as the stupid fucking puppy burrows in and hides against his stomach and whimpers again. Because it’s fucking scared, and Kon just wants Clark to make it better but Clark’s big and scary right now just like the scary bad man was and Clark’s gonna be so mad that he messed up something as basic as just some random fucking robbery so bad, and Clark’s gonna think he’s so stupid and gonna tell him he’s so stupid and–and–

And Clark’s gonna be disappointed in him again. 

He’s so stupid. He’s so stupid, he’s so stupid all the time, he never just thinks and right now he’s even worse at thinking than usual and Clark’s gonna think he’s so stupid and so dumb and gonna hate him and–! 

“Oh,” Clark says, and drops down to one knee, his face and posture and everything all going all soft all at once as he reaches out with a big and planet-crushing and gentle hand. “Who’s this? Are you lost, buddy? Need some help getting home?” 

The puppy wants to be home, and Kon knows where home is, so that’s all his stupid crammed-down brain can process before the both of them are bolting forward into Clark and trying to jump up into his arms, all freaked-out panic and distressed yips and whines. 

“It’s alright, buddy,” Clark murmurs, his voice just as gentle as the hands that could crush a planet are wrapping the puppy–and Kon–up into themselves and pulling them in to cradle against his chest right where the “S” goes. Right where the El crest goes. 

The El family crest, that Clark still lets him wear. 

Kon bursts into sobs that the puppy makes as hitched, stuttered whimpers, and Clark smoothes a big-heavy-gentle hand down their back and makes a soft little shushing, soothing sound and keeps cradling them right there. 

The puppy feels almost as safe as it did hiding under Krypto, and Kon feels–Kon feels– 

Kon feels stupid and useless and weak and scared and like the most worthless fucking Super that’s ever existed, the most useless El that’s ever existed like he’s even really a real one of those, and–a-and–

And safer than he’s ever, ever felt in his whole stupid, useless, worthless existence. 

Kon cries mortifyingly harder, and the puppy snuffles and whimpers and whines, and Clark holds them soft and secure and safe and murmurs gentle, gentle things in a tone of voice that Kon can’t even process the sound of; can’t even understand the words of. 

He doesn’t think even Ma’s ever talked to him like that. 

Everything’s still so, so scary and all weird and wrong, b-but . . . but he . . .

Krypto barks proudly again and wags his tail happily, and Kon mostly manages to stop crying, and Clark keeps stroking that big-heavy-gentle hand down his back over and over again even while he does, and . . . and it’s fine, it’s alright, it’s okay now; it’s fine. Krypto was smart enough to save him and smart enough to bring him to Clark and Clark is smart enough to save him too, smart enough to find someone who can help and take him to them, to someone who can fix him, so–so it’s fine, and he’s okay, and the scary bad man’s not here and can’t get him or the stupid puppy’s stupid puppy-brain ever again, because Superman has them, so they’re–so they’re–

So they’re safe, Kon thinks in a weirdly painful kind of relief, and the puppy buries their face in Clark’s chest. 

Clark’s the safest place in the whole world.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

🔪 3 Plot Twists That Slap (and 1 that should be arrested) 🔪

hello and welcome back to me yelling on main about storytelling crimes. today we are talking about plot twists. specifically: the good, the god-tier, and the why-would-you-do-this-i-trusted-you tier.

let’s go.

✨ The Twist That Reframes Everything ✨ a.k.a. the “wait. WAIT.” twist. This is when you drop a twist that doesn’t just add drama - it recontextualizes the entire story. It makes the reader go back and reread earlier scenes like “was this character ALWAYS sketchy or am I just stupid??” It retroactively changes the emotional weight of everything that’s happened. Suddenly that offhanded comment in chapter three hits like a brick. The romance subplot becomes 500% more tragic. The villain’s motive makes SENSE now. Delicious.

✅ Best used when: the breadcrumbs are subtle but real. The twist shouldn’t come out of nowhere - it should feel inevitable in hindsight. Like Sixth Sense, Knives Out, that one betrayal in your favorite anime you still haven’t recovered from.

2.🧨 The Emotional Betrayal It’s giving: “i would’ve died for you” energy. This is the kind of twist that hurts. You thought they were loyal. You thought they cared. They did care - and still did it anyway. Or they never cared, and now you’re spiraling. This twist slaps because it’s not just about plot, it’s about trust. It stabs the characters AND the reader in the same motion. Bonus points if it’s a slow burn betrayal. Bonus bonus points if the betrayer feels genuinely torn up about it.

✅ Best used when: the reader is emotionally attached. Don’t waste this one on a side character we barely know. Save it for the love interest. The best friend. The mentor figure with dad energy. Make it personal. Make it RUIN lives.

3. 🧊 The “They Were Dead the Whole Time” but Make It Interesting Listen. This one’s risky. It’s a classic for a reason but also easy to flop. But when done well? Haunting. Creepy. Unhinged in a gorgeous way. It doesn’t have to be death either - maybe the character’s been possessed. Or they’re not real. Or the narrator’s memory is lying. The KEY is to not lean too hard on the shock. Lean on the vibes. Give it eeriness. Make it a slow unraveling. Give us dread. Give us melancholy. Give us psychological decay with a side of unreliable narrator.

✅ Best used when: you’re writing something surreal, gothic, speculative, or emotionally weird. This twist isn’t about plot logic, it’s about atmosphere and emotional rot.

🚨 The Twist That Should Be Arrested: “It Was All a Dream” 🚨 I’m sorry but. no. if I read 80k words of someone’s descent into madness just to find out it was their stress dream and now they’re normal again?? I will throw the entire book into a lake. This twist erases tension instead of escalating it. It invalidates everything the reader emotionally invested in. It’s the narrative equivalent of gaslighting. don’t do it. UNLESS - and this is a big unless - you’re doing it with INTENT. Meta intent. Dream-within-a-dream psychological horror intent. If you’re gonna do it, it better haunt me. It better RUIN me. Otherwise? Into the lake.

okay that’s all. go forth and commit plot crimes responsibly. bonus points if you use all three Good Twists in the same story and then look me in the eye like “oh was that too much?”

it wasn’t.

tag me when you emotionally destroy someone with it.

🕯️ download the pack & write something cursed:

[urfavleo777]

luigi wearing glasses, praise kink, professor x student relationship, dry humping

pairing: luigi mangione x f!reader

➳

You never really cared about grades. Not in the way people expected you to, at least. Instead of jotting down the lecturer's golden sentences, you preferred to write down yours, so that when you got home you could create something actually readable out of it that some might consider poems. For you they were much more valuable than the highest score on the final exam. Exactly, for you. 

But you weren’t lazy. You were just tuned into something different. So naturally, when you got to college, you threw yourself into literature like it was a religion. Each free moment you dedicated to the library, where you ended up spending more of your academic year than in actual lectures—especially those without mandatory attendance. You always took the same table, which, after a while, sort of became your signature spot. People started to recognize you only by the sight of you sitting there, head down, lost in pages. You were not aware that among them there was also one man who particularly stood out, who often rummaged through the shelf of your favorite fiction. Professor Mangione. And you were so absorbed that you didn't even notice him sending you a short glance that grew longer with each passing day.

"Hey," he said with a small smile. "I’ve noticed you here a lot. You’re not in any of my classes though, right?"

You shook your head, slightly confused. "No, I… I don’t usually go to lectures where attendance isn’t required."

He chuckled. "Fair enough. But eventually, you’ll have to start. Final exams are coming up. You don’t want to cram everything in last minute.”

You blinked, a little confused. “Wait, what do you even teach again?”

He didn’t seem offended, rather amused, which he confirmed with laughter. That was a bit disappointing though since you wanted him to go away. Instead, he replied, briefly glancing at the cover of The Bell Jar. “Literary theory.”

It suddenly clicked - sure enough, Professor Luigi Mangione was somewhere hidden in your course syllabus. You decided to skip his lecture right from the beginning of the semester.

You grinned, biting your tongue to avoid complimenting him for the book he was holding. “No wonder I barely show up.”

He raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And why’s that?”

You shrugged, a bit defensively. “I guess I just prefer the practice over the theory. Reading and writing feels more real to me than all those abstract concepts.”

He leaned in just a little, eyes narrowing with interest. “Practice over theory, huh? There’s something poetic about that.”

Fuck.

You stood. You sat again. He didn't look away for even a second, clearly enjoying the effect he had on you.

“Well,” you said, grabbing your bag with a smirk, “I should probably get back to work before I start failing all my classes—even the ones I actually attend.”

He laughed softly. “Smart move. But don’t be a stranger, alright?”

You glanced over your shoulder as you headed for the door, tossing a playful grin back at him. “No promises, Professor. But I’ll try not to disappoint.”

What the fuck had just happened?

➳

You quickly noticed that Professor Mangione had a certain routine to which he stuck religiously.

Mornings began with him drifting through the fiction shelves—never in a rush, always deliberate—his fingers grazing the spines like he was searching for something long lost. Then he’d settle into the same armchair by the window, legs crossed, a book in one hand, coffee in the other.

You told yourself you weren’t watching him. Just... observing. Like a character study. The kind of person you'd write into a story without fully realizing it. But the truth was, his presence began to mark your days almost as much as your own reading. A quiet fixture. Predictable. Steady.

And somehow, annoyingly, intriguing.

He wore a navy button-down today, sleeves rolled just past his forearms, and when he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, your stomach flipped like it had no loyalty to your brain.

No doubt — it was that image of him that must’ve provoked the dream you had the following night. Naturally, you started attending his lectures, where you often engaged in provocative discussions with him. But it was his beautiful, focused face that couldn’t prevent you from thinking about finally fucking him.

You put your notebook away and walked over to him, taking a seat across from him like you hadn’t dreamt about his face buried between your thighs three days ago. Like you hadn’t dreamt about him pulling your hips to the edge of his desk, looking up at you with his mouth wet and his voice wrecked, and saying, “You’re my favorite student. My brightest. My best.”

You cleared your throat until he noticed you. Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

“You wanted to talk about your assignment?” His voice was calm. Casual. But you saw the flicker in his eyes, the faint pull at the corner of his mouth.

You nodded and pulled the paper out, holding it with both hands like it might burn you.

“Actually it’s already done,” you said quietly. “What you asked me to write.”

He took it from you gently, careful not to brush your fingers—but the air sparked anyway.

“I’ll read it tonight,” he hummed, clearly impressed, while sliding the pages into his leather satchel. “I’ve been curious to see how you write.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Curious, huh?”

He met your gaze without flinching. “You have a reputation, you know.”

“Oh?” you tilted your head. “For what?”

“For saying too much in discussions. For not showing up to lectures. For making people want to listen when you do.”

A pause. His voice had dropped just enough to blur the line between professor and student.

You laughed lightly, trying to break the tension, but it only made it worse. “That’s a lot of reputation to carry.”

He smiled, slow and knowing. “Something tells me you’re not burdened by it.”

There was silence for a moment. Heavy, but not uncomfortable. You leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, letting the soft hum of the library swallow your heartbeat.

“And what’s your reputation, Professor Mangione?”

His eyes flicked down to your lips and back up again—quick, practiced, like he hadn’t meant to get caught. “Depends who you ask.”

“Well,” you said softly, “I’m asking.”

He looked at you for a moment too long. Then: “Maybe you should write about it. Come to your own conclusion.”

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Careful. I get very detailed when I write.”

“I hope so.” His voice barely carried across the table now. “I look forward to reading it.”

➳

Class was over, and before you knew it, you were already walking toward his office. Each step felt heavier than the last, the confidence you had earlier slowly unraveling with every inch closer to the door.

After all, you were about to face the Mr. Luigi Mangione — the one you even started to respect until he treated you unfairly.

You raised your fist and knocked.

"Come in."

His voice, low and raspy, sent a shiver down your spine. You slowly pushed the door open and stepped inside. There he was—sitting at his desk, eyes fixed on his laptop, fingers dancing effortlessly across the keys.

You hesitated for a moment, the door clicking shut behind you a little louder than you'd intended. Still, he didn’t look up.

The only sounds in the room were the rhythmic tapping of the keyboard and the steady ticking of the clock above his shelf.

It felt like the silence was a test. And you weren’t sure if you were passing or failing.

You swallowed hard. “I came to talk.”

At that, he finally looked up—glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose just slightly, gaze unreadable. He didn’t say anything for a moment, only studied you like you were a passage in a text he’d read too many times but still hadn’t quite decoded.

“About your grade?” he asked, but his tone already suggested he knew it wasn’t just that.

You stepped forward, voice low. “About how you’ve been treating me.”

Something flickered in his expression. Not guilt. Not surprise. Something heavier. He leaned back slowly in his chair, elbows resting on the arms, fingers steepling.

“Go on.”

“I participate more than anyone,” you said. “I turn in every assignment. And yet somehow I’m still the one being dismissed. Corrected. Challenged harder than the rest.”

“Is that how you see it?” he asked, head tilting.

You nodded. “Yes.”

He smiled, small and maddening. “Maybe I push you harder because I know you can handle it.”

“That’s not your call to make.”

“It is,” he said evenly, “when I’m the one grading you.”

Silence.

You stepped closer. “You’re not being objective.”

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m not.”

There it was. The admission. It landed like a match in a dry field—silent at first, then everything inside you started to burn.

“You’re a good writer, Y/n. But I know you have the potential to become the best.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you whispered.

“And you shouldn’t be here.” His voice was barely audible now, but it struck like thunder.

“I know,” you said.

You walked closer to the chair he was sitting on. The distance between you evaporated in three steps. Close enough now to feel his breath, to smell the faint trace of coffee and cedar.

“I told myself I wouldn’t touch you,” he said, gaze locked to yours.

“But you want to,” you breathed.

He reached out his hand to you, which you took and he guided you onto his lap, his thumb brushing the edge of your cheek like a question he already knew the answer to. “You have no idea.”

“Professor—”

“Shush,” he whispered. “You’re bold. I’ll give you that.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words died on your tongue. Your breath hitched as his hand slowly reached out to brush a strand of hair away from your face. A touch too soft. Too deliberate.

“You wanted my attention,” he murmured, tone now quieter… darker. “Now you have it.”

You’d wanted him for so long—fantasized, daydreamed, obsessed over every look, every word, every red pen note on your essay—and now…

Now it was real.

You could taste him on your tongue.

If it weren't for the fact that you were sitting on his lap, your legs would probably give out on you.

“But if this—” his voice dipped lower, rougher now, “if any of this feels wrong to you—if you want to stop, or slow down, or if you change your mind, I’ll listen. Always. But don’t protect me at your expense.”

You stared at him.

Your heart ached with the weight of it. The tenderness. The way he said it like he meant it, like this wasn’t just about desire but choice. Care.

Your hand reached up slowly, fingers brushing his chest, his collarbone, until they curled into the fabric at his shoulder.

“I don’t want to stop,” you whispered.

And that was all he needed. His hand cradled the back of your neck again, and he kissed you—not hungrily, not desperately—but with the kind of reverence that made your knees weak all over again.

Your hips grind softly against his thigh as you coo softly, “Mh, professor..” you whine as he presses your hips further down on his thigh, giving you more pressure. “Mhm— tell me,” he instructs as he caresses your hair. “What do you want to know besides why I hurt you so much with this essay, hm?” he pouted, gripping your hips. 

“Do you…” you hesitated. The question felt fragile in your throat. You weren’t sure you wanted the answer—but the ache for it was louder than your fear. “Do you really think I’m a good writer?”

His expression didn’t shift. Not right away. But you felt something ripple behind his eyes—something careful. Measured. Like he knew exactly why you were asking. Still, he didn’t flinch.

“I wouldn’t lie about that,” he said gently. “Of course you are, my smart girl.”

Fuck. 

Your hips grinded on him harder, faster, picking up the pace as you try your hardest to utter sentences from your mouth. “I had a dream about you, professor,” you whined as you squeezed your eyes closed, your hips grinding on Luigi harder.

“Tell me about it, baby—y’can do it” he urged, kissing your neck softly, your pussy drenched. “Professor—can’t…” you frowned as your grinds become sloppier the more he kissed your neck. “Why can’t you, hm? Goin’ dumb on my thigh, are we?” he chuckled slowly, moving his head up from your neck to gaze into your lust eyes.

Your underwear was completely soaked through, making a wet spot on Luigi’s jeans, amusing him greatly. “Is my favorite studentessa* close? hm?” he cooed, bouncing his thigh, slightly making your sensitive cunt practically come undone from that alone. “Mhm..” you looked at him, eyes wide and naive. “Yeah?” he tilted his head to the side, his mouth slightly agape as he reached his hand down to rub slow circles around your clit. “Yeah…so close” you bited your lip as you grinded your hips against his finger, hiding your head in his neck as you let out soft whimpers and pleas. 

“Cum f’me, sweetheart—you deserve it” he said as you finally let go, your body trembling as you continued to grind on his fingers, euphoria crashing over your entire body. “Prof—sso good..” you whimpered as he slowed down his fingers, letting you ride out your orgasm. “You did so good, baby” he praised as he kissed you on your open mouth. “Now tell me about that dream you had about me.”

You couldn't help but giggle. “It could have been prophetic, actually.”

➳

*studentessa (italian) - female student

[yyxandere]

Can do a bit of expansion on how Dante and Vergil would react(or however else you would word it) if the reader had fangs? You don't have to do this, I'm merely curious about your interpretation of the two. I really enjoy your writing too. Glad I found your blog.

-ˋˏSINCERELY YOURS. . . ->

Sure thing anon!! I’m so glad you stumble across my blog and it piqued your interest, it’s honestly very flattering\(//∇//)\

Dante loves the fact that you have fangs, he wants to put his fingers or both his thumbs in the side of your mouth and wants you to bite hard, don’t worry about hurting him darling, he’ll heal those fang punctures in no time, so keep biting him hard will ya?

Dante would step his game (unfortunately) to see you laugh or smile to one of his stupid ass jokes or his dumb pick up lines (that he probably searched up in the internet and practiced it infront of Lady and Trish to ask both their opinions… both women hated it, but he knew the more dumber it is the more likely it would make you laugh.)

He doesn’t care if you’re a demon or human if you have fangs he would act like a damsel and you’re the scary vampire here to drink all his blood up! But don’t worry your “blood-bank” isn’t going to squirm or resist you, he’s now pulling down the collar where his nape is and looking at you very seductively, his little charade is ended with you slamming the door shut with a kick down puppy like Dante.

Unlike his brother—Vergil here is a master of subtlety, he would be fixated on your fangs especially when Vergil is the type of yandere to fixate on his darling and uncover secrets about them or deeply analyze them.

But Vergil is so emotionally constipated, so he won’t out right say what he wants especially when it trifle things such as your fangs, yet whenever you have any little quirks regarding about your fangs, like biting you lips whenever you’re nervous, or whenever you’re eating steak your fangs always goes first into the meat, he has it all written down and now hiding im his shrine behind his closet. .

Ever since he started falling inlove with you (unhealthy obsession ahem.) he started reading vampire love stories mostly about the love interest who are the same gender as you.

One day he read a story that was a vampire love story who had the same description as you and the love interest was a white haired man like him, and oh boy, did he eat it up like a starved man inside a buffet.

Everyone noticed the change of literature but whenever someone every barely says anything related to it he would go on a ten hour rampage of how the author is a very respectable individual with their works, the way the author writes the characters the dynamics it’s so poetic and it’s DEFINITELY not because he can self insert himself in the story…

Now all I can think about is having a make-out session with Dante or Vergil and you biting on his lips and when you pull your lips out of his own, his blood is now on your lips and not gonna lie it turns them on.

[imagine-darksiders]

Angel of Highway 49

Chapter 7 - Guardian Angels.

Summary: You're not the selfless type, but life-or-death is a rare state to be in, and might even draw out your true colours. Optimus won't soon forget it.

Tags: Optimus&Reader, Cave-in, Missile, Explosions, Threat to children, Hurt, Whump, Protective characters, Fear of death, size-difference.

------------------------------------------------

Perhaps if you had made the effort to run this fast as a child, you’d have been granted that scholarship your parents were always wittering on about.

Then again, until today, you had no idea that it was even possible to heave your body onwards so quickly, and if it weren’t for the cumbersome wellies weighing you down, and the drag of two children being wrenched along in your wake, you’re half convinced you could break some sort of speed record.

The threat of death, evidently, is one Hell of a motivator.

As it is, there isn’t a thought in your head except for ‘run.’ There isn’t a sound in your ears beyond your own ragged, desperate gasps for breath and the tinnitus screaming to a staggering crescendo between them. Everything else is muffled, deemed unimportant by the rest of your biological functions that are urging you to focus on nothing except for keeping one foot flying out ahead of the other.

A muddled cacophony of noise is buzzing against your eardrums like furious wasps. Voices, indiscernible in your confusion, all clamouring over each other. You think one of them must be Miko’s, high and startled, but with her skinny wrist still trapped in your vice-like grip, she has no choice but to hurtle along in your footsteps.

You haven’t even noticed that she’s trying to put up a feeble resistance, scuffing her boots in the dust in an attempt to slow you down. But her effort pales beneath the strength you’ve been lent by your own adrenaline.

In your other hand, you’re towing Rafael behind you like a very disheartened kite, his sneakers flying over the ground as his vastly shorter legs pump furiously just to stay upright.

And finally, from the corner of your eye, you can see Jack’s mop of jet-black hair bobbing along on your right flank, barely keeping pace. His gaze is fixed forwards, jaw set nervously as you charge hell-for-leather at the entrance to the tunnel you’d come in by.

What had once seemed so reminiscent of a hungry, gaping maw stretched open to swallow you whole is now a shining beacon of hope, a pathway to salvation, even if that salvation leads to a crotchety old farmer on the other end of a shotgun.

Deep in the back of your head, there’s a mantra echoing over and over again, repeating its broken notion as your boots stir up clouds of dust from the cavern floor.

If you can just make it to the tunnel… If you can just clear that corner, it’ll be okay. You only have to keep going.

Keep running. Keep running. Running. Run. 

You don’t comprehend, at first, why the air is so suddenly rent asunder by a startling ‘hsssss!’ as of some, immense snake breaking through your muffled hearing and alerting you to a danger you haven’t yet seen.

It’s all the warning you get before a streak of silver screams over your head.

Eyes bulging, you sweep your gaze up just in time to spot the slender object as it hurtles towards the tunnel ahead, a fire blazing hotly under its tail.

You’d know the look of that missile anywhere. It’s the same one that had, until mere seconds ago, been sitting on the arm of the sleek, silvery giant.

There’s no time to think. There's barely enough to act.

Like a pair of lead weights, your heels suddenly come down on the path hard, burying themselves into the dust to fight back against your forward momentum.

Somewhere far behind you, yet not far enough at all, thunders a voice with enough power at its back to bring a mountain to its knees.

“NO!”

Fuelled by a concoction of privily untapped terror and the most baseline instinct to turn your back on impending doom, you let go of the children’s wrists in favour of whirling towards them instead, while at the same time throwing out an arm to catch Jack around his scrawny waist.

He hits your outstretched limb just as Miko and Rafael crash into your torso with two sickening crunches.

But any indignation they might have voiced about the rough treatment is forgotten the moment you wrench Jack in front of you, throw your arms around the trio and duck your head so violently that your chin knocks against someone’s-

B O O M !

You don’t even get the chance to scream.

As soundly as a slug to your gut, all the air is torn from your lungs in the time it takes to blink an eye. The world around you, above you, below you, and beside you is rocked violently on its axis as the missile makes contact with the wall just inside the tunnel entrance.

Agony punches out your eardrums as you’re launched forwards off your feet.

The explosion sends you crashing to the ground over the children, and a blast of suffocating heat sweeps across your body from toe to skull, singeing the fine hairs on the base of your neck and licking at your bare shoulders. Along with the wave of hot air comes a hailstorm of tiny, hard projectiles, rock that’s been blasted apart by the impact and drums at your body like a thousand stinging insects.

For a split second, you couldn’t say with any confidence whether you’re dead or alive. Then the hot, burning pain on your shoulder registers, and your wonderings are put to rest.

If you’d been any closer, you might’ve…

You think you scream then, though most of the sound beyond your own head is muffled and suppressed, and your vision swims as if you’ve been plunged underwater, making it very hard to keep your eyes open. But somebody certainly shouts, in a low yet booming voice that’s almost loud enough to cut straight above the discordant rumbling of a mine’s structure falling to pieces around you,

“-BRIDGE!” it hollers, “RIGHT NOW, DOC!”

You didn’t catch the preceding words.

Things have started to move, like you’re sitting right above the epicentre of an earthquake, but it’s the bodies squirming below you that coax you from your daze.

“Guh! Sh-… unf!” Sluggish and senseless, you brace your forearms against the ground and use what little strength you still have to shove yourself awkwardly onto your side, rolling your weight off the kids and wrenching your eyes open.

It’s darker than it was. Much darker. Dust chokes the air around you, blotting out the light cast by those strange crystals. It’s sucked into your lungs when you take a shallow breath only to near-enough suffocate on the fine particles of grit that try to come down with it.

Sputtering, you feel your stomach clench. Each hacking cough jolts your diaphragm, but at least the noise of your own struggle grows clearer and clearer as the ringing in your ears begins to recede, leaving an uncomfortable ache between them.

As if in a drunken stupor, you blink one eye first, then the other, squinting through the mire to see that Jack, Miko and Rafael are already helping one another to their feet, their motions blurred surreally, but even as addled as you are, you know that if they’re moving, they’re still alive.

Good.

If there is relief to be found however, it doesn’t last nearly as long as it should, because from out of the gloom, a pair of dazzling lights sear into existence, and a monstrous shape moves through the murk towards the kids like a shark through silt, swelling larger as it nears.

And then, the lights turn, veering sharply to the left and out of your eyes as the hair-raising squeal of rubber tyres brings the silhouette to a halt just beside Miko, flinging up dust and stones in its wake.

You have to blink several times to dispel the negative blots seared in your retinas.  

It’s… a truck. A juggernaut on four, heavy-duty wheels. Painted a shade of familiar… military-green.

A pair of neurons connect in your brain with a ‘zap’ and -“No way,” you croak.

Helplessly, you watch the vehicle’s back door pop open, and as you peer inside to catch the hand that must have pushed it open, your blood freezes solid, like hoarfrost forming along your veins.

Empty.

The truck houses no visible person, no face that might debunk the impossible conclusion you’re beginning to draw. Nothing but leather seats and a dark interior that sits devoid of another human being.

‘Would it reassure you to know that this vehicle is operated remotely?’

You clench your teeth, shrinking away from Optimus’s voice as it rises uninvited in the back of your mind.

The residual heat from the explosion is forgotten entirely to make room for the chill that sweeps up your spine instead.

And yet, with a fearlessness you’ll come to envy, Miko is already leaping through the open door and into the truck proper before twisting about to grab Rafael’s shirt, yanking the boy inside after her. They fall in a tangle of limbs across the back seats just as a rock the size of your fist comes crashing to the ground where they’d stood.

“W-wai-“ Reedy, weak, you can’t be heard over a resounding ‘crack’ that splits the cavern’s atmosphere in two.

Jack though, you soon surmise, had either heard you, or spotted you because he’s suddenly crouched down in front of your face, his pupils shrunk tiny in palpable alarm.

“C’mon! We gotta move!” he urges as he grabs at your arm and heaves your torso off the ground in a way that strains the bruise on your shoulder and leaves you gasping deliriously, “Get up! This whole place is coming down!”

And as if to punctuate his point, another rock, this one larger than your head, slams into the dirt just inches to your left. The suddenness plucks at your red-raw nerves and propels you up onto your feet with a shriek, finding clarity in panic.

“You two! Get in! NOW!” a raucous voice urges, belonging neither to the children, nor to yourself, and originating entirely from the grill of the vast, green truck.

Your tongue sticks fast to your palette. Every muscle in your body solidifies when Jack’s grasp on your forearm goes taut and, to your absolute horror, he begins trying to drag you towards the still open door of the vehicle, his trainers skidding awkwardly over the ground.

He may as well be trying to move a brick wall.

So potent is the ice in your blood and the terror dulling your senses that something deep inside you has weighed up the risk of approaching these titans against the risk of staying in a collapsing mine, and whatever it is finds that you’d rather face the latter.

Better the Devil you know, and all that…

“Jack! Hurry!” Miko urges him from the open door, slapping her palm on the headrest in front of her.

Grunting with effort, he screws up his face and promptly throws his weight backwards, nearly yanking your arm out of its socket.

The sudden jolt is enough to give you a start.

It’s safe to say you aren’t exactly thinking clearly, perhaps that’s why you wrench your arm from Jack’s sweaty palms so viciously, his blunted nails leave long, angry stripes down the length of your skin.

But the scuffs are barely a blip on your radar.

You’re too busy staggering backwards with your eyes fixed blearily on the massive truck, as if it’s a predator poised to pounce on you should you find the nerve to blink. It’s wrong, that truck. You just can’t fathom why the children have jumped inside it so readily, despite the cavern collapsing to ruin all around you.

“Get…” you start, croaking on the first syllable and swallowing dryly to try again, “Get out of there!”

Shaking his head in bewilderment, Jack takes a hurried step towards you.

“Jack.”

A monstrous rumble fills the mine, almost as deep as the reverberations themselves as the walls begin to split and the ceiling bows ever inwards.

“Go with the others, through the Ground bridge. Now.”

Urgent without being loud. Authoritative.

Horribly, awfully familiar…

Without warning, a monumental leg comes sweeping over the truck and lands next to the boy, nearly staggering him when it comes crashing to the ground at his side.

For a split second, you’re convinced that a particularly strange stalactite has fallen from the roof.

Tossing a rapid glance between you and the green truck, Jack shouts to be heard over the cacophony of noise, “But, what about-!?”

“Go.”

The boy’s jaw snaps shut as though he’s been scolded, and he spares you one last look, his mouth little more than a tight, reluctant line. Then at last, he blurts out a sound of frustration and spins on his heel, diving straight into the truck and almost landing squarely on Miko.

The heavy, green door has barely slammed shut behind the soles of his trainers before its tyres start to spin, madly gaining traction and peeling away from you as another half-dozen rocks plummet down to bounce off the metal roof with a series of ‘dings’ and ‘clangs.’

Grit and dust and stone is churned up into an even thicker cloud when the truck hares off across the disintegrating cavern, leaving you to face what’s to come by yourself, without even the children here to display your backbone for.

Paralysed, you stare through your tears after the blood-red lights as they fade away into the vapour, distantly aware that one of your arms is reaching out, whether to call them back or beg to be taken with them, you couldn’t rightly say.

The tunnel behind you that had promised escape is now choked with rock, the first route to fail after the missile’s impact.

And ahead of you stands a titanic leg – two legs, now that you look again - obscuring half of your vision, and you don’t dare raise your head to meet the very gaze you can feel boring into your skull like a drill.

There’s nowhere to run.

There’s nowhere to hide.

You’re out of ideas, options, and hope.

Trapped.

It’s a sickening feeling.

Evidently, the giant isn’t content to wait for you to look up.

The infinite pillars of metal bend outwards like knees, two towers of grey and black metal, interspaced by panels of cobalt blue that gleam too brightly in the darkness.

All around you, the Earth heaves a thunderous groan which is followed closely by another ‘crack!’ that rattles the teeth in your gums.

But through it all, through the roar of a cave-in and the shifting of several thousand tonnes of rock, you can still hear a voice from on high as it speaks to you, enveloping your chest in the force of its timbre.

“Do not be afraid…”

A spectacular idea in theory. In practice however…

For one insane, petrifying moment, you wonder if you’re about to see the face of God.

Stumbling another few steps away, you let out a sudden yelp when the heel of your boot catches on a large rock and you’re sent toppling over onto your backside, catching yourself on your palms and inadvertently looking up.

But it couldn't be God. Because you know that voice, the gentle resonance that hums through you from the tips of your fingers to the soles of your feet, as powerful as it is contrastingly placid, not unlike a tranquil brook that hides the most turbulent, treacherous vortexes under its surface.

Bent in half like the joint of a human’s leg, the metal limb hits the ground just a few feet away from where you fell, yet the shudder that rolls through the earth goes unnoticed. You’re too transfixed by the cerulean lights hovering over you in the darkness, twin stars standing side by side in a silver sky.

Your tongue tears itself from the roof of your mouth like stripped Velcro, and a single breath sneaks in past your quivering lips, filling each lung with just enough air that you can utter one, pivotal word.

“…. Optimus?”

The name leaves you in a strained whisper, but it couldn’t ring more loudly in the space between you and the metallic titan, whose strange, blue lights seem to grow inexplicably brighter at your utterance.

No sooner has the word left your mouth however than your brain immediately and vehemently tries to reject the very idea, deeming it far too absurd to possibly be true. It can’t be true. Optimus is just a disembodied voice who drives a truck, which is far more plausible than… whatever this thing is.

The cavern above you suddenly lets out another furious roar as the crack in the ceiling lances several metres straight across its width.

And still you remain stuck fast, gaping uselessly up into the lights that have you pinned like a wolf pins a lamb by its neck.

Leaden arms tremble and threaten to buckle under your own weight, yet they stay locked in place, even when you give them an unenthusiastic twitch. Belatedly, you start to wonder what’ll kill you first; The cave-in, the robot, or a goddamn heart-attack.

Motion. Too close for comfort.

Your eyes wrench themselves from the silvery face and snap down to a massive object near your left flank...

You almost swallow your tongue when you let out a sharp gasp, realising what it is.

A hand. A hulking, obsidian hand – half obscured by the dust – had been inching towards you, still is in fact. Five segments of welded metal stretch from a solid palm, each almost as long as you are tall. ‘Fingers!’ you realise with an awful lurch in your stomach.

It means to grab you.

That thought alone is enough to unlock each of your limbs, and you lurch away from the reaching appendage, belting out a howl of terror -

Which lasts for all of a second before the giant opens its ‘mouth’ and speaks.

“Y/n.”

It hits you like a punch to the chest, far rougher than the knock you received after taking a tumble from Tom’s back. In an instant, you stop trying to get your legs underneath you, falling completely, deathly still, staring hard at the hand that hovers just in front of you, its fingers outstretched imploringly.

With the simple call of your name, your proclivity for rationalising away the coincidences flies straight out of the proverbial window.

There’s no pretending anymore. You’ve heard your name enough times now, spoken in that deep, dulcet voice that you doubt you’ll ever scrub it out of your head.

And then, as if it couldn’t get any worse….

“It’s me.”

The robot’s mouth moulds eerily around the words in its borrowed voice. Two ‘eyes’ like dazzling headlights remain adhered to you, azure burning so brightly through the gloom that they’re growing ever more difficult to look at, yet to turn away feels so much like presenting your spine to a loaded gun.

Your world tilts sideways as something in your brain is thrown off-kilter. A faint spell.

Thankfully, it only lasts for a second before your head snaps upright again and your surroundings find their anchor once more.

Perhaps, you think, it would have been better if you had fainted.

“Forgive me,” the robot continues, hushed but quick and orotund, “I am afraid that explanations will have to wait.”

He – ‘It, it, it,’ you chant – doesn’t give you another second to catch your breath.

In the next blink, the hands surge forwards. One cascades past you at breakneck speed, curving behind your back to keep you from retreating whereas the other moves to cover you like a suffocating roof.

You don’t see the stalactite crash into its knuckles just in the nick of time, glancing harmlessly off the metal instead of your own head.

“No, no! NO!” you bleat, maddened with terror, scrabbling at the ground to drag yourself backwards, but there’s a hand hitting your spine before you can make it a couple of feet, slipping easily under your backside and scooping you off the ground whilst its twin closes in on top of you.

A memory springs up, jarring and unbidden, of the cattle you put through the crush a few days ago, their bulging eyes and helpless lows, how frantically they fought against the metal keeping their heaving heads pinned so Terry could vaccinate them.

They looked scared to death.

You wish you never left that fateful day with your tail between your legs, cowed out by a family who were better off seeing the back of you than they were to live around all of your failures and inertia.

One last broken howl shakes out of your chest as the appendages come together, sealing you in a dark, cramped space between a pair of solid palms.

You just hope that when death comes, it'll be over so quickly, you don't even realise it's happening. 

-------------------------------

Safety.

Optimus’s EM field sings with that one, crucial note, pulsing outwards in steady beats as it tries in vain to seek out and soothe your own.

He can feel you struggling, limbs fluttering against the insides of his palms as of some small avian creature beating its wings to try and take flight, and his spark creaks mournfully at the understanding that his servos are the cage you’re trying so desperately to escape.  

And yet in spite of his contrition, a wave of unabashed relief still floods the Prime’s circuitry like a balm to overheated plating, and something gentle clicks into place the very moment he has you secured in his hold, something that’s been niggling at his protocols since the night he found you alone on the road into Jasper.

If he had even a nano-second to spare, he might be inclined to selfishly savour the solace of having you close after almost losing you to Starscream’s malice.

The seeker fled before his missile even impacted the tunnel walls, leaping into a seamless transformation and vanishing with the blast of a jet engine, all while the Autobots were distracted by the sudden and horrifying sight of death barrelling towards their charges.

… Optimus hopes the Con realises how lucky he is to have turned tail rather than stick around to see the destruction unfurl. Prime isn’t sure he could have convinced Bulkhead not to rip the spark from Starscream’s chest if the seeker hadn’t removed himself from the equation in such a timely manner.

Primus, Optimus isn’t entirely sure he could have convinced himself either.

But even with Starscream gone, even with all of his focus honing in on you and the children, Optimus still hadn’t been fast enough, nor strong enough to stop harm from befalling you. Despite what his fellow Autobots and the children might think, he isn't omnipotent. He's lost far too many good mechs to ever consider calling himself as such. 

Primes shouldn’t dwell… but this latest failing will haunt him, of that he has no doubt.

He will not soon forget, however, the sight of you turning and shielding the children with your own body at the last possible moment before impact. He makes a note to thank you for that just as soon as he gets you out of here. But for as grateful and proud as he is, he only wishes you didn't have to be in that position at all. He should have been the one bearing the brunt of that explosion. Not you. Never you. 

He can almost hear Ratchet now, scolding him for trying to be a martyr. 

However, Optimus doesn’t have the luxury of penitence, certainly not now, when he has yet to ensure your safety in full.

He’s only traded one danger for another, but even without a Decepticon looming over you, you’re not much safer now than you were when Starscream’s weapon was drawn on you.

So long as you remain in this collapsing mine, your life still hangs in the balance.

And he will not have that.

Sending a wordless, apologetic thrum through the airwaves, Optimus heaves himself to his feet and whirls about, hurtling right into a steady charge across the cavern, following Bulkhead’s quickly fading tyre tracks.

Ahead of him, almost invisible through the tumbling ceiling, shines a vast, verdant swirl of familiar light.

Thank Primus the Wrecker had thought to call in a Ground bridge so hastily. He and the children are long-gone, safe on the other side where they should have been all this time. 

Now, Optimus just has to do the same.

Apertures narrowed to pinpricks, mouth set firmly behind his battle-mask, he launches his actuators into ferocious overdrive and storms towards the Ground Bridge, tucking his servos low against his chassis to further shield his precious cargo.

All of a sudden, a voice crackles to life in his audial. Ratchet’s.

“Optimu-!” But whatever his old friend might have said is cut promptly off with a squeal of static when a sizeable boulder strikes the Prime on his finial, knocking his head sharply to one side.

He shakes off the impact seamlessly, pushing his frame to the limit and never once letting his stride falter. He can hear the cavern swallowing itself behind him, thousands of tonnes of rock plummeting to the ground just where his pedes had last trodden, chasing him across what remains of the space and closing in fast.

Lower and lower, he has to duck as his shoulders are buffeted by the weight of an entire mountain hellbent on making him yield.

The Ground bridge’s light envelopes him like an outstretched hand as he hurdles a collapsed stalactite and reaches the edge of that empyreal glow. He can’t take his optics off it, not even when something whallops him on the back of his neck struts with the force of a thunderclap, not even when his legs buckle and his knees start to dip, and the tiny being in his palms lets out a muffled scream.

Out of time, straddling the precarious ledge between salvation and destruction, Optimus calls upon every vestige of strength he has left in his motors and funnels all power to his legs for one final, critical push.

With a tremendous kick, he hurls himself forwards through the bridge, twisting in the air as he flies over the threshold of the portal. For just a moment, he’s floating on his back, optics wide open to watch the writhing colours dance and spark over his head.

Then, not a moment too soon, the ceiling of light is replaced by a ceiling of familiar, rust-red rock.

When Optimus hits the ground, he hits it hard, nearly jarring his tanks up into his spark-chamber from the colossal force of the collision. Metal screams shrilly over concrete as he slides across the base’s floor for several metres on his back, scraping up his paint and leaving dark scuffs along the ground in his wake.

Yet throughout it all, by the will of Primus or his own self-regulated strength, Optimus’s hands remain steady, neither flexing closed not springing open, rigid and unmoving around your body in a way he prays will cushion you from the worst of the impact.

And finally, everything - the noise, the peril, the spark-stopping alarm he’s been warding off since the start of this whole, horrible affair – it all comes skidding to an abrupt halt when he does.

The momentum of his leap wears off at last, and leaves the mighty Prime laying supine in the middle of the Autobot base, blinking in stunned silence at the fluorescent lights hanging far overhead and listening to the wheels on his pedes spin slower and slower until they come to a stop.

There’s blessed movement in his servos, minute and delicate, and even with the ache in his shoulder struts and the frantic roar of his spark, he can’t resist taking a moment to twitch his thumb inwards with an infinite gentleness, eager to reassure himself of the presence of the human held inside.

Even when he registers the very clear jolt of you pulling away from his encroaching appendage, his relief doesn't waver.

He’s got you.

Of course, as it is so often wont to do, Optimus’s brief second of respite doesn’t last for very long at all.

“What-!?” the clipped, apoplectically incensed voice of his medic begins from somewhere nearby, easing Optimus’s flared nerves as a barrage of ‘outrage,’ ‘frustration’ and ‘concern’ all smack into his field at once, “-In Primus’s good name took you so fragging long!?”

[zyart-jpg]

"And would it be alright if I pulled you closer"

Pairing: Jay Jo x Reader

Summary: What started as a study session turned into something softer—shy glances, sketchbook doodles, and the warm kind of silence only shared between two hearts quietly falling.

Tags: Established RS, Fluff, Artist! Reader

A/N: yaaay this one's for you @ravenwritten even though we always beef <3 LMAOOOOO jk, i wrote reader as an artist cus you draw so well!!!! hope u like it :>

Jay loves studying—he really does.

The structure of it, the logic, the calm rhythm of equations and annotated readings—it all makes sense. It’s comforting in the way people rarely are.

But you—sitting next to him with your thigh pressed to his, humming some half-forgotten melody under your breath, pencil tapping lightly on your sketchpad. You’re not even doing anything loud—just doodling, occasionally tilting your head to look at him like he’s part of your subject matter.

And god, how is he supposed to concentrate when you’re like this?

He blinks down at his book, reads the same sentence for the fifth time. It still doesn’t make any sense. 

He sighs, barely louder than a breath.

“You… don’t have to stay here while I study,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on the barely-highlighted paragraph in front of him.

You pause mid-sketch. “Huh?”

Jay stiffens slightly. He doesn’t want to look at you—because if he does, he might lose whatever nerve he’s barely gathered to say this properly.

“I mean, it’s probably boring,” he adds, quieter now. “Just sitting here. Watching me study.”

You twist toward him, the bounce in your leg halting. “Am I bothering you?” you ask, voice soft, expression tightening just a little like you’re trying not to sound hurt. “I can move if—”

His hand shoots out before he can even think. He grabs your wrist—not rough, not panicked, just firm, like it’s instinct.

You blink down at where his fingers are wrapped around yours.

“...No,” he finally says, eyes still not meeting yours. “I just… thought you were bored.”

The way he says it is so tentative, almost like he’s asking permission to keep you there. Like he doesn’t trust himself to deserve it.

You soften. Your free hand reaches over to tug lightly at the sleeve of his hoodie. “I’m not bored. I like being here.”

That’s when he glances at you—just a flick of his eyes—and you smile.

He looks away again, ears red. “Still… If you are bored, we can do something else. You don’t have to just sit there.”

“But I want to.” You lean in a little, resting your head on his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You’re warm. And you make those little concentration noises when you read. It’s cute.”

He huffs a breath through his nose. You can feel the way his shoulder tightens a little beneath you, like he doesn’t know what to do with the compliment.

A beat passes.

Then he clears his throat. “What’re you drawing?”

You perk up, immediately straightening. “Wanna see?”

You could see the way he seemed unsure, only focusing on how your eyes twinkled and your nose twitched—he nodded.

So you slide your sketchpad toward him, flipping it to a page filled with quick character doodles, some of them cartoony, others more detailed.

Right in the center is a sketch of a boy with messy hair hunched over a book, hoodie sleeves too long, expression focused but gentle.

He stares.

“That one’s you,” you say casually, grinning. “Studious Boyfriend.”

He just blinked silently.

You glance up, and for a second, he’s just looking at the drawing. Then at you. Then down again.

“I don’t look like that,” he mutters, but it sounds more like he’s embarrassed than disagreeing.

“You do to me.”

Jay doesn’t say anything.

But when you go back to doodling and humming again, he shifts just a little closer—barely an inch, like maybe you wouldn’t notice. But… he doesn’t mind the way your legs touch again. Not at all.

Neither of you moves away this time.

You both return to your own little worlds—him with his book, you with your pencil—but something feels different now. Warmer. A little too warm, actually.

Your head tilts as you shade in the folds of his hoodie on your sketch, trying to act normal. Trying not to notice how you can feel his body heat against your side. Trying not to think about how your heart’s been doing this weird fluttery thing ever since he touched your wrist.

Jay kept staring—at his book, at the desk. He hasn’t flipped the page in ten minutes.

He sneaks a glance at you. Then forces his eyes back to the same sentence he’s been pretending to read. Then glances at you again.

You’re humming—some soft little tune, probably something you made up—and it sounds like safety. Like the kind of sound he could memorize if he let himself.

He shifts again. Not big. Just enough to bring his elbow a little closer to yours.

His fingers twitch beside his leg.

Say it, he tells himself. 

“Hey…” he finally says, albeit quiet.

You glance at him, eyes wide, still soft with that look you always get when he speaks. “Hmm?”

His gaze flickers to your lips—just for a second. Then immediately back to the book, like he’s been caught thinking something he shouldn’t.

“...Nothing.” He exhales, his voice a little too shaky to pass for casual. “Never mind.”

You pause. Then smile, cheeks already pink. “You sure?”

He gives a small nod, but doesn’t say anything. His jaw tightens, like he’s trying to chew his thoughts into something easier to swallow.

Instead of answering, he shuts his book.

You blink. “Break time?”

Jay nods, stiff as a board. “Five minutes.”

You smile, stretching your arms overhead with a sleepy yawn. “Perfect. You need to reward yourself for being so good.”

That makes him go still—like you just hit him with something he didn’t know how to process. His ears go pink, but he doesn’t protest.

You set your sketchpad aside and scoot closer without thinking, resting your head on his shoulder with a sigh. Like it’s normal. Like it’s nothing.

It is absolutely not nothing to Jay.

He freezes.

You can feel how tense he is beneath you—like he’s trying not to breathe too hard in case it scares you off. Slowly, painfully, he lifts one arm and hesitates behind your back before finally resting his hand there, awkward but sincere.

His palm is warm.

Your fingers find the drawstring of his hoodie, fiddling with it idly, and you murmur, “You always smell like laundry and paper.”

He lets out a nervous, tiny sigh—not the bad kind, but more like a relieved one.

You look up at him, and your face is so close to his that you both freeze again—eyes locked, breath caught.

Jay swallows.

His voice comes out as barely a whisper. “C-Can I hold you?”

Your eyes widen. You weren’t expecting that. Your cheeks flush bright.

“You already are,” you whisper back, a bashful smile tugging at your lips. “But yeah. You can.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, gently tugging you closer so your head rests more fully against his chest. It’s clumsy—he moves like he’s afraid of messing it up—but it’s sweet. Honest.

Then, after a moment of silent panic and courage battling in his chest… he leans down, and presses the faintest, most featherlight kiss to the top of your head.

You stiffen for half a second. Then melt.

You bury your face in his hoodie, hiding the huge, dumb smile stretching across your lips.

He’s blushing so hard he can feel it in his ears. His hand is still on your back, but now it’s trembling just a little.

“This is a good break,” you say softly.

“...Yeah,” he stammers.

And as you both sit there—hearts racing, hands fidgeting, faces red and shy and warm—Jay wonders how five minutes with you can make the rest of his day feel this easy.

Maybe even… perfect.

MASTERLIST

[dayasfilms]

Chapter Eight - The Real Story

Summary: Vecna shows you his plan, and it leads you to wonder why he targeted you in the first place. You knew he must have done it for a reason.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of Y/N, blood, weapons, death, kidnappings, angst, war

Word Count: 5k

Note: One more chapter to go! It’s so crazy, I can’t believe this series is coming to an end (at least until season five comes out). I’ve had a blast rewriting this series and I’m so happy many of you have been enjoying it! If you want, leave some requests in my inbox about some one shots you would like to see with Star and Steve, or even the other characters. The ideas will definitely help me write!

Series Masterlist

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Yasmin gently tied a cloth around Hopper’s forearm, securing the final knot. He watched her, his expression softer than usual. Across the room, Murray and Dmitri worked to get information out of the remaining Russian guards, trying to find a way out of the facility. Joyce sat nearby, occasionally chiming in with Yasmin and Hopper’s conversation, before quietly stepping away with a knowing smile, leaving the two of them alone.

“Guess you got my message, huh?” Hopper said as Yasmin leaned back into her chair.

She rolled her eyes. “No, I just always dreamed of visiting the Soviet Union. With Joyce. And Murray.”

He chuckled. “You and him getting along?”

Yasmin glanced across the room at Murray. “He’s definitely…something,” she said with a laugh. “Thank God Joyce is here to keep me sane.”

Hopper’s smile faded into something softer, more bittersweet. “I thought you were dead,” he said quietly. “Thought I lost you.”

Yasmin’s breath hitched. She looked at him, her eyes soft. “We did lose you. For eight months. We had a funeral.”

He let out a half-laugh. “Anybody show?”

Her brows furrowed. “Are you kidding? You’re the hero of Hawkins.” Hopper shook his head, like he still couldn’t believe any of this. Yasmin placed a hand on his arm. “It’s true, Hop.”

He gave a faint smile. “Yeah, well…I always felt I’d be easier to like when I was dead.” She rolled her eyes, clicking her tongue. He looked at her again, more serious now. “How about El and Y/N? They okay?”

“They’re doing good,” Yasmin said quietly, picturing her daughters. “They miss their dad. We all do.”

Hopper’s eyes went glassy, and he looked away. “I think I finally get how Y/N must’ve felt. Locked in that place for years.” He glanced back at Yasmin. “And now here you are. Still the one saving everyone.”

Before she could respond, Murray’s voice broke the moment. “Uh, I hate to interrupt, but apparently…they can climb too.”

They all turned to the monitor. On the prison yard security feed, a demogorgon was climbing the wall fast. The Russian guards began to fire, but it barely slowed down the creature. When they ran out of bullets, the monster lunged at them one by one, tearing them apart.

Then suddenly came a loud bang from the nearby room. Everyone froze in terror.

“The hell is that?” Dmitri asked.

“Please tell me they don’t have another one of those things,” Murray exclaimed.

Yasmin instinctively reached for her gun and stepped forward. Murray did the same, only for Hopper to snatch the weapon from his hands and move to the front of the group. A Russian scientist began shouting in panic, warning them not to enter the room. None of them listened.

The group crept up the stairs quietly. Hopper slowly turned the handle and pushed it open. Inside, a demogorgon was chained to a table, and it shrieked and thrashed, desperate to break free. Hopper didn’t hesitate as he stepped forward and fired directly into its open mouth. The beast went limp, blood splattering across the room.

Behind another door, Hopper led them into a larger chamber, and what they saw made them all stop in their tracks. There were many tanks and inside them, more demogorgons floated, suspended in some kind of fluid. They were here to be used as weapons.

Yasmin’s heart pounded as she stepped forward, eyes moving from one creature to the next. She knew the Russians were always planning something. The Cold War paranoia had led to cruel programs, even the one that turned her daughter into a weapon. But this was something else. They had brought these things, the monsters from Hawkins, across the world and locked them in glass cages.

At the far end of the room, they found a larger tank. Through the thick glass, they saw dark particles swirling violently, like a tornado. The fragments of the Mind Flayer were still pulsing with energy, being kept alive in this place.

Brenner set the machine down, gently wiping Henry’s wrist. “All done,” he said. “Not so bad, was it? See? There’s nothing to be afraid of. Is there, Y/N?”

Your body locked up. You couldn’t move. Your eyes widened as Brenner slowly turned his head to look at you, his voice deepening.

“Do you understand now?” He asked. “Do you see how similar we are? How we were taken and used against our will?” You staggered back, your breath catching in your throat. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

You turned and ran, bolting into the hallway as the lights flickered violently above you. Somewhere behind you, a high-pitched screech echoed. You turned a corner and found dead bodies sprawled across the floor. You stumbled back in horror, then sprinted in the opposite direction, your lungs burning.

In the real world, Steve grabbed your face, panic overtaking him as your eyes rolled back. “Y/N? Stay with me! Stay with me, okay?!”

Tears threatened to spill from his eyes, blaming himself for your situation. If he hadn’t gotten dragged underwater, you still would’ve had your music on. He looked up into the opening and shouted at the others who were scrambling to find music for you.

“Whatever you guys are doing, hurry up!” He held your face gently, trying to get you back. “Please wake up! I can’t lose you,” he cried, forehead pressed against yours, tears finally falling.

You reached a dead end. A heavy door blocked your path, sealed with wooden planks. You dug your fingers under one board and pulled with everything you had, grunting in effort.

“Y/N.” You froze. Vecna approached from behind, his tone calm. “What are you doing? It’s not time for you to leave.”

You turned back and yanked harder, ripping plank after plank away. You could feel him getting closer.

“Now that you’ve seen where I’ve been…” He paused. “I’d like to show you where I’m going.”

Tears streamed down your face as you tore off the final board and flung open the door, only to stop again. Inside was a small room, identical to the one where you were first taken. Brenner stood waiting for you.

“Take a seat, Y/N.”

The lights shut off. You turned to run, but something yanked you backward. Vines coiling around your arms and legs and dragging you into the chair. You tried to move, but it was no use. The lights flickered back on.

Flashbacks crashed into your mind, all the memories you buried, moments you tried to forget. Tears spilled freely now. Ahead of you, Vecna walked forward. He stopped in front of the chair and leaned down, placing both hands on either side, caging you in.

“I’m not taking you now,” he said. “Your time isn’t over yet.”

You were frozen in place, lips trembling. You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t even cry out. Vecna leaned closer.

“You have so much potential, Y/N.” You shook your head slowly, shutting your eyes, until you felt his cold finger brush your cheek. “You and I…we could be so powerful together,” he whispered. “Like I said, we are the same.”

“No!” You cried, sobbing harder.

Vecna’s eyes darkened. He pulled his hand back with a low grunt. “Fine,” he said coldly. “Then tell Eleven.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t know what he meant.

“I want you to tell her everything you see.” His hand hovered over your face. And then you saw all of the visions that were poured into your mind. You saw red cracks tearing through Hawkins, splitting the earth apart. You heard four chimes of the grandfather clock.

You screamed. “No!”

“Tell her…”

“No!” You cried, shaking your head violently.

“…Everything.”

The images kept coming. All the deaths and destruction. You saw your mom, Steve, Jonathan, Nancy, the kids. All of them…dead. You sobbed, louder now, trying to fight it, trying to break free.

“Your time isn’t over yet,” Vecna said. “But I will have you. Sooner or later.”

You gasped awake, eyes wide as your body collapsed backward. Steve caught you instantly, cradling you in his arms.

“Hey, hey–whoa, whoa, whoa.” He brushed your hair back, breathing hard. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t even process what just happened. Tears poured from your eyes as you looked up at him, only to realize he was crying, too. Steve held you tighter, his voice trembling.

“I’m here. I’m right here, honey.” He cupped your cheek, thumb gently stroking your skin. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

He pulled you into his chest, holding you like he’d never let go again as you broke down in the arms of the man who loved you more than life itself.

You eventually calmed down enough for you and Steve to climb the rope and pull yourselves back into the real world. But the visions still clung to you, haunting your mind. Once on the other side, you all went to Max’s trailer, knowing that it wasn’t safe to stay at Eddie’s place. After going inside, you sat numbly on the couch. Your limbs felt heavy and your mind was spiraling. The others hovered nearby, concern etched into their faces.

Nancy sat beside you, her hand moving gently up and down your back. You focused on the motion, trying to match your breath to it. Max handed you a glass of water and you nodded gratefully before downing it in one go, the coolness burning down your dry throat.

You leaned into Nancy, letting your eyes close. But the moment you did, the images returned. The red lightning, screams, blood, the sound of that clock. You flinched. Nancy tightened her hold around you, reminding you of her presence.

The others kept their distance, giving you space, but you could feel their eyes. You cracked one eye open and caught them staring. The moment they noticed, they all awkwardly looked away, suddenly busy with anything but you.

You slowly lifted your head from Nancy’s shoulder. She hesitated, but when you gave her a soft nod, she released you. You stood up, legs shaky but steady enough. You cleared your throat. Everyone turned toward you. Dustin was the first to speak.

“What happened?” He asked, eyes wide. “And how did you escape?”

You took a deep breath, preparing yourself to tell them the entire truth about Vecna.

“He showed me things that haven’t happened yet. The most awful things,” you said, your voice hoarse from not speaking for so long. You sat down in the chair Max pulled out for you. “I saw a dark cloud spreading over Hawkins. Downtown on fire. Dead soldiers. And this…giant creature with…a gaping mouth.”

The room stilled around you. Everyone exchanged worried glances as they settled into place, waiting for you to continue.

“And this creature wasn’t alone,” you continued, your voice breaking. “There were so many monsters. An army. And they were coming into Hawkins. Into our neighborhoods. Our homes.” You looked down at your hands, your breath shaking. “And then…he showed me my mom. And Mike. And Lucas. And Dustin. They were all…” The tears came before you could finish.

Steve leaned forward. “Okay, but…he’s just trying to scare you, Y/N. Right? I mean…it’s not real.”

“Not yet,” you said quietly, eyes locking with his. “But there…there was something else.” You paused, steadying yourself. “He showed me gates, four of them, ripping open across town. They looked like the one at Eddie’s trailer, except they kept growing. And this wasn’t the Upside Down Hawkins. It was our Hawkins.”

“Four chimes,” Max whispered. All eyes turned to her. “Vecna’s clock. It always chimes four times. Four exactly.”

“I heard them too,” you said, the memory flashing again. You remembered what Vecna told you, that your time wasn’t over. He didn’t want to kill you. Everyone froze in realization.

“He’s been telling us his plan this whole time,” Max breathed.

“Four kills. Four gates,” Lucas said, looking at Max. “End of the world.”

“If that’s true…he’s only one kill away,” Dustin added grimly.

“I don’t get it,” Erica said. “Why did Y/N have all those symptoms if Vecna wasn’t going to take her?”

“He said…he said it wasn’t my time yet,” you replied. “He wanted to show me his plan. That he was preparing me for the worst.”

“Oh Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ,” Eddie muttered under his breath.

“Try ‘em again. Try ‘em again,” Steve urged, nodding at Max to call your house in California. Max picked up the phone and dialed. After several rings, she slammed the receiver down.

“Anything?” Dustin asked, though the silence was already an answer.

“No,” Max said. “Rang a few times, then went to a busy signal.”

“Maybe you punched it wrong,” Steve suggested. “Try again.”

“I didn’t punch it in wrong,” Max snapped.

“Well, I don’t know.”

“Dude, I think she knows how to use a phone,” Dustin said, rolling his eyes.

“I’m just saying, she could’ve typed it in wrong.”

Max tried again, and still got the same result. “Same shit.”

Your stomach twisted tighter with worry. You had no idea what was happening in California, you had no clue where Eleven, Jonathan, Will, Mike, or even Joyce were. The thought of something bad happening to them sent your heart pounding.

“How is that possible?” Lucas asked, hands on his hips.

“I told you. Joyce has this telemarketer job. Always on the phone,” Dustin explained. “Mike won’t stop whining about it.”

“Yeah, but this phone’s been busy for, what, three days now?” Max said. “That’s not Joyce. No way. Something’s wrong.”

“She’s right,” Nancy agreed, walking to the window. “It can’t be just a coincidence. Whatever’s happening in Lenora is connected to all of this. I’m sure of it.” She stared outside, thinking about Jonathan, Mike, and Will. “But Vecna can’t hurt them. Not if he’s dead.”

“You’re right.” You stood up. “We have to go back in there. Back to the Upside Down.”

“Whoa, no, no, no. What?” Steve stood too, walking towards you. “Let’s think this through.”

“What is there to think through, Steve?” You said, exasperated.

“We barely made it out of there in one piece!”

“Yes, and that’s because we weren’t prepared,” you argued. “But we will be this time. We’ll have weapons and protection. And then we’ll go through the gate, find his lair, and finally kill him.”

“Or he’ll kill us,” Steve countered. “The only reason you survived is because he wanted you to. He’s not scared of us.”

“And for good reason,” Robin added, getting to her feet. “We were wrong about Vecna. Henry. One.” She frowned. “Sorry, what are we calling him now?”

“One,” Dustin said.

“Vecna,” Erica argued.

“Henry,” Nancy added.

“Right. We’ve learned something new about Vecna-slash-Henry-slash-One. He’s a number like Eleven, only a sick, evil, child-murdering version with really bad skin. But my…my point is, he’s super powerful. He could turn us inside out with a snap. It’s not a fair fight.”

“So then why fight fair?” Dustin asked. “You’re right, he’s like Eleven. But that gives us an upper hand. We know Eleven’s strengths. And weaknesses.”

“Weaknesses?” Erica asked skeptically.

“When El remote-travels, she goes into this sort of trance-like-state,” Dustin explained. “I bet the same is true of Vecna.”

“That would explain what he was doing in that attic,” Lucas added.

“Exactly. When he attacks his next victim, I’ll bet you he’s back in that attic. Physical body defenseless,” Dustin said.

“Defenseless? What about the army of bats?” Steve asked, pointing to the red mark around his neck.

“Right. True. We’ll have to find a way past them,” Dustin admitted. “Distract them somehow.”

“And, uh, how do we do that, exactly?” Eddie asked, beginning to stand up.

“No idea.” Dustin shrugged, and Eddie sat back down. “But once they’re gone, he doesn’t stand a chance. It’ll be like slaying Dracula in his coffin.”

“That all sounds good in theory, but there’s no pattern to Vecna’s killings,” Robin said. “At least not one I can decipher. We don’t know when he’s going to attack next. We don’t even know who he’s going to attack.”

“Yeah, we do,” Max said. Every eye turned to her again. “I can still feel him. I’m still marked. Cursed. I ditch Kate Bush, I draw his focus back to me.”

“No.” You stepped forward, pointing a finger at her. “Absolutely not. I’m not letting you go as bait.” You met her eyes. “If he’s going to attack someone, let it be me.”

Steve grabbed your shoulders. “What are you saying? You’re not doing that!”

“I thought you weren’t one of the people Vecna wanted to kill?” Nancy asked. “It wouldn’t work, right?”

You shook your head as Steve dropped his hands. “No, but…”

“But what?” Steve pressed.

“He said that my time isn’t over. Yet,” you murmured. “He said he’ll have me sooner or later.”

“What?!” Steve exploded.

“What does that even mean?” Lucas asked, staring at you.

“I don’t know,” you said truthfully. “But he wouldn’t have done all that just to scare me. It was all for a reason.”

Max shook her head. “I still think it should be me.”

You sucked in a breath, your pulse pounding. “Max–”

“You have actual skills that could be put to good use. I don’t.”

“Max is right,” Dustin said quickly, turning to her. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

“But we need you, Y/N. You can help us defeat Vecna.”

You crossed your arms, looking away. “I still think it’s a bad idea.”

“Well, too bad, because I’m going to do it,” Max said, meeting your eyes.

“Max,” Lucas said softly. “You can’t. He’ll kill you.”

“I survived before,” Max said. “I can survive again.” She lowered her eyes. “I just need to keep him busy long enough for you guys to get into that attic. Then you can chop his head off. Stab him. Blow him up with some explosive Dustin cooks up. I don’t care how. Just…whatever it is…whatever you do…try not to miss.”

The room fell silent. You clenched your jaw, fury burning quietly beneath your skin. Steve was still watching you, but you didn’t say a word. You didn’t want her to do this. She’s just a kid. You knew it should be you instead, but you also knew they all needed your help to defeat Vecna. You wanted to scream, to grab Max and shake her, tell her that she shouldn’t do this. You wanted it to be you. Because if something went wrong, you didn’t think you’d ever forgive yourself.

After a few moments, everyone gathered around the table, Eddie slapping down a newspaper. “Check this out. The War Zone. I’ve been there once. It’s huge. They got everything you need for, uh…well, killing things, basically.”

“You think fake Rambo has enough guns?” Robin asked, then pointed at a picture. “Is that a grenade? I mean, how is any of this legal?”

“Lucky for us it is,” Eddie replied. “This place is just far enough outside of Hawkins. As long as we steer clear of main roads, we ought to be able to avoid cops and, uh, angry hicks.”

“If we’re trying to avoid angry hicks, maybe we shouldn’t go to some store called the War Zone,” Erica muttered.

“Normally, I’d agree,” you said, crossing your arms. “But we need the weapons. So I think it’s worth the risk.”

“Me too,” Lucas said.

“It’s definitely our best option,” Nancy agreed.

“But is it worth the time?” Dustin asked. “It’ll take all day to bike there and back.”

“Who said anything about bikes?” Eddie grinned.

“You got some car we don’t know about?” Steve asked.

“It’s not exactly a car, Steve,” Eddie replied, standing up straight. You furrowed your brows, looking between your ex and the metalhead. “And it’s not exactly mine but, uh, it’ll do.” He turned to Max. “Hey, Red, uh, you got a ski mask or bandanna, something like that?”

Max nodded and left, returning with a Michael Myers mask. Eddie slipped it on and gestured for you to follow. You all left the trailer, weaving behind another. The owners of another trailer sat outside, completely unaware. Eddie rushed behind and found an unlocked window before climbing in. One by one, you all followed. Eddie then yanked the mask off and jumped into the driver’s seat, hot-wiring the vehicle. Steve, Robin, and Eddie had their own little chat before the vehicle roared to life.

“What the hell? Hey! Open this door!” One of the owners shouted from outside.

Eddie scrambled out of the seat and Steve slid in. You jumped into the passenger seat, your heart racing as everyone situated themselves in the RV.

“Everybody, hang on to something!” Steve shouted.

“Drive, Steve! Drive!” Dustin screamed.

“Go, go, go!” Everyone shouted at him from the back.

With that, Steve pressed the gas, speeding off with the trailer as the owners began to chase you. “Shit, they look pissed,” Dustin muttered.

“It’s not every day you lose your house and car in one fell swoop,” Robin yelled, holding on for dear life.

Steve made it to the road, the ride a little bumpy. “Hold on! Hold on!”

You glanced back, seeing the owners yelling behind you. Your chest heaved. “Oh my God,” you breathed. You could see the owners fuming with rage, and a wave of guilt hit you hard. You hated what you’d just done, but in your defense, there really hadn’t been another option. Your car was still near Skull Rock and you had no other car. As the adrenaline began to wear off, your breath caught in your throat, lips parting slightly in disbelief at what had just happened.

As Steve kept driving, you sat quietly, the noise of the engine filling the silence. Every now and then, your eyes drifted toward Steve. You weren’t sure if he noticed, and if he did, he didn’t say anything.

“How’s it handle?” You asked at last, your voice breaking the quiet.

“Not half bad,” Steve replied with a small chuckle. “Considering that this is a…house.”

You let out a laugh, your lips curling into a grin. “Yeah, I could imagine.”

Steve glanced at you briefly, the corners of his mouth twitching before he turned back to the road. “Yeah, it’s…it’s silly,” he said after a moment, voice quieter now. “But I…I’ve actually…I always had this dream that I’d have this really…really big family.” You turned toward him, brows arching in curiosity. “I’m talking, like, a full brood of Harringtons. Like, five, six kids.”

Your jaw dropped slightly, brows pulling together. You and Steve never really had the talk about kids before. You were both still young, and the topic had never come up. This was completely new to you. “I’m sorry. Six? Are you trying to start a basketball team or a small army?”

Steve laughed at your reaction, a fond smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, six little nuggets. Three girls, three boys. And…and every summer, I figured all of us Harringtons, we would pack into something like this and…just see the country.” His gaze met yours again, lingering this time. “You know, the Rockies, Grand Canyon, maybe Yellowstone. End up in some beachside town in California. Spend a week parked in the sand. Learn how to surf or something.”

You gave him a small, thoughtful smile, the image he painted lingering in your mind. It sounded kind of perfect. Except for the kids part.

“That sounds…nice,” you said softly.

“Yeah?” He asked, grinning.

“Yeah.” You met his eyes again. It lingered for a moment too long, until you finally looked forward again, shaking your head. “Um, except the six-kid part, though. Maybe knock it down to, like…two kids. Six kids sounds like a total nightmare.”

Steve laughed, then looked over his shoulder. “If only I had some practice.”

Following his line of sight, your smile returned at the sight of the teens in the back. “Yeah. That’s fair.” You turned to find him already watching you.

He gave you a gentle smile before shifting his attention back to the road again. Your grin faded slowly, and you let out a quiet breath, thinking over his words.

You all arrived at the War Zone, but only you, Nancy, Robin, Erica, Max, and Steve headed inside to gather weapons. The moment you stepped through the doors, you were hit with the sound of chatter. You weren’t the only ones stocking up.

“So much for avoiding angry hicks,” Robin muttered, eyeing the other customers as she glanced at you and Nancy.

“Let’s be fast,” Nancy said, already scanning the aisles.

“Yeah, the quicker the better,” you agreed.

“Yep.”

“Definitely.”

Everyone split up to search for their own gear. You made your way to the counter, asking the guy behind it for a shotgun and extra bullets. Once it was in your hands, you gave it a brief examination, making sure it was in good shape.

You wandered through the aisles in search of anything else useful when something caught your eye, a black leather jacket hanging on a rack. You slid it on without hesitation, sighing quietly when you finally found something to cover you.

Turning the corner, you spotted Robin and Steve a few aisles down. Steve hadn’t seen you yet, so you hung back, watching as Robin’s attention was locked on something…or someone. You followed her gaze and saw a couple making out near the end of the aisle. A second later, Robin spun around, bumping right into you before quickly rushing off.

Steve finally noticed you standing there, and you raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Uh…she’s just a little jumpy,” he said, clearly making up something fast. “First time in a store full of weapons and all.” He gave you a sheepish look, then darted after Robin. You glanced back at the couple, eyes widening in realization, then turned and continued browsing without comment.

Something caught your eye in one of the displays. It was a sword, the blade long and sharp. You lifted it carefully, running your fingers along the smooth silver edge. You were definitely taking this. After paying for your weapons, you were gathering your things at the register when a hand grabbed your shoulder. You flinched slightly and turned to see Nancy, her eyes wide with alarm.

“We have to go. Now,” she said, voice urgent.

“What? Why?” You asked.

Nancy subtly nodded toward the far end of the store. Your gaze followed and landed on a familiar face. It was one of the basketball boys you’ve seen at Lucas’ game. Your stomach dropped.

Grabbing your bags, you turned on your heel and rushed out with the others. You sprinted toward the RV, throwing open the door and climbing in as the group who stayed back started asking questions.

“We gotta go,” Steve said, already sliding into the driver’s seat. You dropped into the passenger side, setting your bags down.

“Your old friends are here,” Erica said, throwing a look out the window. Everyone began to panic.

“Shit!”

“Let’s go, let’s go!”

“I’m going! I’m going! Sit down!” Steve shouted, slamming his foot on the gas. He drove until he found a secluded area, deep into an empty field with no houses nearby. One by one, everyone filed out of the RV to prep the weapons and get ready for what was coming.

You slung your shotgun over your shoulder and carried the sword in your other hand as you walked out with Nancy and Max. The three of you sat on the grass, and Nancy pulled out a hacksaw, placing her shotgun across a metal bin.

You raised an eyebrow as she started sawing the barrel down. “What are you doing?”

Nancy glanced at you, then gave a small shrug and smile. “Jason said something to me in the store. Gave me an idea.”

“Interesting,” you smirked, watching her work. Max held the end of Nancy’s gun steady. You listened to her own advice, grabbing your own shotgun and started sawing as well.

Max looked between the two of you. “Is this even legal?”

Nancy exhaled, eyes still on her work. “Technically? It’s a felony.”

You tilted your head and gave a half-smile. “I’m basically a walking felony anyway. What’s one more?”

Max laughed under her breath. “Right.”

“But at least it guarantees one thing,” Nancy said, meeting your gaze.

“We won’t miss,” you finished, sawing down the barrel completely as it fell on the grass.

You all climbed back into the RV after changing and gearing up. Your weapons were secured and plans were in place. Steve took the wheel again, driving you toward the Creel House. It was beginning to dawn on you that this was it.

As the RV slowed to a stop, you stood and turned to Max. Without a word, you took her by the shoulders and pulled her into a hug, holding her tight.

“Finish him,” Max whispered into your ear.

Your stomach twisted at her words. You gripped her tighter, like maybe you could protect her if you just held her for a second longer.

“I will,” you murmured back, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest.

You reluctantly let her go and watched as Max, Lucas, and Erica stepped off the RV, standing in front of the house. You returned to the passenger seat beside Steve, trying to shake the unease creeping in. The feeling lingered as Steve drove off. You stared out the window, the blur of trees passing you. Your gut clenched with every second, telling you that something was coming. You didn’t know what but your intuition kept warning you that something was going to go wrong. Still, you held onto that bit of hope. Even if your heart told you it wasn’t enough.

[unlikeable-female-character]

Old Man Logan x Nurse!Reader - part 2

Thanks for all the love on the previous part of this here.

This is very much an AU where no one dies - Charles and Caliban make an appearance in this one - and maybe Laura will show up at some point but as I say, not adhering to any movie timelines etc etc, just doing my own thing. And as I said in another post, Logan is probably out of character but eh...what can you do?

warning - mentions of masturbation, performing the act of masturbation (both m and f), fingering (f receiving), a bit of sweary language.

barely proof read

****

You and Logan fell into comfortable routine. You didn’t frequent the diner as much as you had because why did you need to now? You were a little sad to leave such an important place behind but with your apartment and Logan’s…. ‘What exactly is this place?’ You asked the first time he took you to the smelting plant he called home. You stood in the middle of what you supposed was the lounge and took in your surroundings. ‘I know it’s not exactly Architectural Digest but it’s safe. That’s what matters’ You looked at him and felt instantly guilty. There was sadness in his voice and expression, that maybe this was the best he had under the circumstances and what did you expect him to do. ‘Of course,’ you said quietly. You knew why he was here and you knew it wasn’t through choice.

You didn’t mind spending time here but you loved taking Logan back to yours and letting him spend a few hours in comfort, to sleep in a bed that didn’t creak each time one of you moved - or god forbid tried to fuck in it. The first time you had tried to do so the noise the bed made was so loud you both worried Charles and Caliban would hear out in the water tower. Not that stopped either of you…of course.

Not that either of them needed to hear the rhythmic squeak of Logan’s worn out bed to know exactly what you two did. It was fairly obvious, the nature of your relationship, when you suddenly appeared with Logan one day and continued to return. Caliban appreciated having someone else around that did more than just grunt at him (you chided Logan for that). He was extremely appreciative of your medical expertise. You often sat with him chatting about your work or helping him brush up on his first aid skills and sometimes just having a good old gossip. Much to Logan’s chagrin, who also refused to take part in the first aid lessons. ‘Don’t want it, don’t need it,’ was his reply. You may have stuck your tongue out at his retreating back for that one.

At first meeting you Charles was thrilled that Logan had found someone and rambled on about how he had known about you for such a long time because Logan was so LOUD without ever saying a word. The idea of Charles being able to read your thoughts was a little worrying but he assured you that he would never attempt to do so. He was, if nothing else, a gentleman and his word was his bond he told you.

Logan wasn’t so lucky. Especially if you’d had to spend any length of time away from each other. ‘The amount of self abuse is astonishing. I didn’t think it was possible to masturbate that many times a day. Almost impressive,’ he mused one day out of nowhere as you all sat at the table eating. ‘Jesus Christ…’ Caliban muttered burying his face in his hands. Logan nearly choked on his food, and went redder than you had ever seen him. By the time Logan had recovered enough to speak Charles’ mind had moved onto other matters. You just wanted to laugh but knew you shouldn’t.

Of course you teased him about it later.

‘Do you really do that?’ You asked. You were both sat on a blanket on the roof. You’d asked Logan if there was any way to get up there and after he had indeed found a way you insisted you go up and watch the sunset over the desert. ‘Just looks the same as it does down on the ground,’ you heard him mumble as he lead you around the building to one of the less dubious staircases though still in an alarming state of decay. ‘What?’ ‘Self abuse,’ you said imitating Charles and giggled Logan grumbled ‘He’s a nosy old fucker who needs to keep his mind to himself’ ‘I don’t mind.’ He looked at you. ‘Don’t mind what?’ ‘If you do…that…when I’m not here. It’s nice to know you miss me. Well…my pussy at least,’ you smirked. Logan stared at you. ‘I miss all of you,’ he insisted, then paused, ‘maybe I do miss that more…’ You pushed him and he pretended to fall back, pulling you with him so you landed on his chest with a thump. ‘Well,’ you said, playing with the buttons on his flannel, ‘my pussy misses you as well.’ Logan glanced at you from under his lashes. ‘And do you…?’ He asked leaving the sentence unfinished. You rested your head on his chest, a favoured spot, and closed your eyes. ‘Of course. Well…I have help. Doesn’t quite measure up. If you know what I mean…’ and you raised your head to waggle your eyebrows at him. ‘Oh really?’ He said, looking a little too smug for your liking. You poked his chest. ‘Pride comes before a fall, mister,’ ‘What does that mean?’ You sat up and straddled his hips, wiggling, (deliberately of course) before stilling over his now growing erection. ‘I mean for such an old guy you’ve still got lead in your pencil. But you aren’t irreplaceable,’ you sighed dramatically, then thought for a minute, ‘have you though?’ ‘What?’ ‘Got lead in it?’ Logan rubbed a weary hand across his face. ‘I thought you were a medical professional?’ ‘I am,’ you preened. ‘Then you know there isn’t a bone in there. And it’s Adamantium. Not lead’ You smiled down at him. ‘My point is…’ But Logan grabbed your hips and shifted beneath you. You let out an involuntary moan. ‘Don’t change the subject you bastard,’ you said leaning forward to kiss him. ‘It’s my favourite subject,’ Logan smiled and started to unbuckle his belt. You batted his hands away, took over and popped the button on his jeans before slowly pulling down the fly. You raised yourself up on your knees and started to yank down Logan’s jeans and boxers. His thick cock sprung free and you gave it a gentle stroke with your finger. Logan groaned. ‘Show me,’ you said ‘Huh?’ He opened his eyes and looked up at you. ‘Show me what you do when I’m not around,’ you said, continuing to place feather light touches up and down the thick shaft. ‘Seriously?’ You hummed and nodded. ‘I want to see,’ you leant forward and caught his mouth in a kiss, ‘it would be very hot indeed.’ Logan stared up at you. He couldn’t say it was the first time he’d ever had such a request but… ‘Would it?’ He asked ‘Oh yeah,’ you breathed. You sat up again and looked at him, taking in the sight before you. It was fair to say you had Logan entirely at your mercy, lying there exposed as he was. You pushed up his undershirt and gently ran your hands across his belly, the hair there soft against your fingers. You watched the muscles twitch beneath your touch. You let your fingers drift lower but not low enough. Logan shifted beneath you, his hard cock just waiting for someone’s attention.

There wasn’t much you and Logan hadn’t done. He was masterful when it came to eating you out and you thought he would happily die with his head between your thighs. Giving him an early morning wake up blow job wasn’t unusual either. For some reason Logan’s bashfulness in that moment made your heart clench. The man who thought nothing of pinning you against an alleyway wall and fucking you quick and hard while he shoved his fingers in your mouth in an attempt to muffle your screams was now nervous about showing you how he pleasured himself. You smiled down at him. ‘It’s okay, you don’t…’ Which was when he grabbed his cock and started to pump his hand along its length.

This was hotter than you had ever imagined it could be. Logan lying there on that rooftop, his cock in his hand, shamelessly moaning as he continued to stroke himself. You felt yourself clenching around nothing and knew that you would be taking him to bed and you didn’t care how much it fucking squeaked.

‘Are you close?’ You asked. You watched him watching himself and thought you might explode. ‘Yeah…’ he said. Or rather groaned. The word itself was only vaguely formed. His hand never stopped moving. His grip was firm but not too firm, a continual movement from tip to base, occasionally stopping to collect some of the pre cum from the tip to help his hand on its way. ‘Is this what you do when I’m not here?’ You asked Logan didn’t reply as such but just moaned out something you took to be a word of assent. He locked eyes with you then and kept eye contact with you as he groaned even louder and came in spurts across his stomach. You watched the come splatter over him and you let out a small moan. You couldn’t help notice Logan’s smile. ‘Liked that huh?’ He asked. ‘That was…oof,’ you sat back on your heels, Logan’s legs still underneath you, ‘that might have been the best thing I’ve ever seen’ Logan flopped back onto the blanket and he laughed. ‘God, sweetheart, what are you doing to me?’ ‘What do you mean?’ Logan just looked at you. He couldn’t put it into words. Since meeting you something inside him had shifted. He felt hopeful for the first time in so many years. Like there was actually something worth living for. You made the grime and dirt and hurt and pain disappear, even for a moment. And he loved you for that.

As Logan tucked himself back in his underwear and jeans you noted his smile. ‘Happy?’ You asked. ‘Very,’ he replied before surging up and placing you deftly in your back. You looked up at him as he looked over you. ‘And now it’s your turn,’ he grinned. ‘Excuse me?’ ‘Fairs fair sweetheart. I gave you a show. Now it’s my turn.’

Your breath hitched as he ran his hand between your legs. You were very wet but he couldn’t feel that through the leggings you were wearing. You moved your hips a little to press into his hand and began to roll your leggings and underwear down. Logan helped to pull them further down your legs until they rested bunched at your ankles. You stared at him as you let your knees fall slowly to each side, exposing yourself to him and the cool desert night. You saw his Adams apple move noticeably as he swallowed hard. ‘This what you had in mind?’ You asked as you ran two fingers through the slick that was gathering and then slowly circled your clit. Logan stared down at your hand and nodded.

You touched yourself slowly, small circles, longer stokes, your hips beginning to move a little, small raises up as you moved your fingers. You let out small moans as your arousal grew and you felt yourself moving further towards the edge. At one point your other hand moved up to your breast and you could feel the nipple pebbling be rather the thin fabric of your t-shirt. You watched Logan, his eyes taking in every inch of the show you were putting on. You felt his hand move up your side and under your shirt, taking your other breast in his large hand, stroking and squeezing at it. ‘Logan…’ you breathed. ‘Yeah darlin’?’ ‘Touch me,’ He grinned. ‘I am touching you baby,’ ‘No,’ you squeaked,’ inside.’ To demonstrate you moved your hand down towards your hole and pushed two fingers through fingers inside. ‘A little help?’ Logan smiled again and moved to replace your fingers with his own. You went back to your clit as two of Logan’s long, thick fingers worked their magic inside. ‘This…’ you stopped as he hit a particularly sensitive spot, ‘this is why I need a little helper..at home…no one can touch me like you can Logan,’ and your back arched as your breath started to come in quicker gasps. Your hand and Logan’s moved in unison, the slick noises of your arousal the other thing you could hear until ‘Oh god..I’m coming…Logan…I’m…..’ Logan stilled his hand as he felt you clenching around his fingers, the pretty sounds you made, that you felt no shame in making filling the air.

As you came back down to earth, he helped you put your clothes to rights and pulled you into him, his arms wrapping you so tightly to him. He kissed you slowly and deeply and you thought how odd it was that an abandoned building in the middle of nowhere felt like home and safely and love.

‘We should go back inside,’ Logan said eventually. The night was starting to turn chilled and you realised that you had forgotten all about the sunset. Oh well, you supposed there were other nights. You’d just have to try not to become distracted next time…

[draculings]

the many butch lovers who have followed me recently might like to know that I'm making a whole comic about these characters! A Longshot Out of the Birdcage is my graphic novel in progress. Set in 1952 New Jersey, it tells the story of Nicolasia "Nicky" Flores and Henrietta "Henry" Roth - two butches who scrounge up a living on the beachfront, working at a mob-backed nightclub.

It's a butch4butch-centric comic about the lengths people will go to for a scrap of power for themselves, in a world that expects them to be powerless. You can read a full sample scene here!

I've also just shared the script for the first three chapters in full over on my patreon and kofi pages, which you can read for just $5! But, here's another sneak peek below the cut:

It’s whiskey, apparently. Or bourbon - Nick never knew how to tell the difference, really. She’s barely ever tried them, and it all burned the same. It’s something that’s not watered-down beer or bathtub liquor, at least, in a neat glass set down in front of her with a chunky single ice-cube.

“…gee.” She murmurs. Who was this kid? Nicky looks over at the bar - cleaner here than the last place, the dim light giving atmosphere instead of just making it hard to see what kind of sticky mess you just put your shoe in.

Did Henry know someone here, maybe? Get a discount?

“I didn’t know what you liked.” Henry shrugs, sitting down with her own identical glass. She smiles, almost bashfully. “It’s okay, if you don’t wanna drink it.”

“S’alright.” Nick says. She nurses the drink tentatively - it burns the whole way down, but not in a bad way. Gives her the push to ask, “D’you… you work a union job, or something?”

“A union…?” Henry squints, not sure she heard right over the noise.

“You know, something that… pays good.” Oh, that’s a risky, stupid subject. “Ah, I shouldn’t - I just mean you don’t gotta, uh, go all out. A beer woulda been fine.”

“I don’t like beer.” Henry’s nose wrinkles. The pout she gives is childish, exaggerated. Cute, Nicky’s thoughts supply absently, warmed for a moment by alcohol.

She only registers, long after the right moment is gone, that Henry didn’t answer her question at all.

[chaifootsteps]

https://youtu.be/qZ_ivo5W6S8?si=0Qe0vsP0pwUCMLPs

I keep seeing this therapist channel analysing hazbin/helluva characters. I always ignored it but this time I decided to give it a try by watching this therapist analyse Stolas and Blitz 'break up' in Apology tour. I actually live typing this out while watching the video, it's messy and super long but be prepare for the hot searing pain I went through

-therapy lady says good for stolas for telling blitz off he doesn't want him here cus blitz caused stolas more pain. what a great start

-saying it's soothing for stolas to go to a party that hates on one guy. she does retract it's not the best way but "~misery loves company~" kms rn /j

-the therapist does acknowledge Blitz self hatred and his personal trauma (she has a separate vid on that but I don't wanna torture myself more)

-awares stolas is verbally hurting blitz to feel the same hurt he's feeling right now as a way to know if blitz... cared??? wtf am I watching

-believes stolas doesn't look down on blitz but instead put him on a pedestal (oh boy) all because stolas always sees blitz with lovestruck eyes *my ears are hot red now*

-also awares how stolas treat his imp butlers less respectfully BUT she still believes that's not how stolas treated blitz

-the therapist is heartbroken blitz didn't tell stolas striker tried to kill him the first time and it shows blitz cared little for stolas AUDUDHFNFJDJD

- she does understand why blitz didn't told stolas about the first assassination attempt but oh poor little stolas thinks protection means care so that means blitz never cared for him

-the part stolas questions blitz if he ever feel remorse what he do, okay I like the part she said stolas is being unfair cus he's dropping all of this onto blitz all at once and it's too much to process. but for the rest sigh we'll see...

-thinks stolas believed he could change blitz for being hateful to others and to himself UH WHEN THE FUCK HE EVER DOES THAT

- now we're at the party scene yaaayyy... I'm sorry did she say stolas has so much EMOTIONAL INTELLIGENCE??!!! this video will be the cause of my death

-I HATE YOU I HATE YOU STOLAS I HATE YOU STOLAS I HATE YOU STOLAS I HATE YOU STOLAS I HATE YOU

-praises stolas for shielding blitz away from the party goers so they won't recognise the guy they all hate. IT'S TO SHOW STOLAS DOES CARE FOR BLITZ AWWW YAY FOR BARE MINIMUM EFFORTS (sarcasm)

-therapy lady creams her pants in joy how drunk stolas is being emotionally intelligent to say blitz was able to cared so much for so many people that they throw a hate party about him. and this is stolas way to soothe the hurting blitz. uhh okay fuck you.

-saying it's interesting stolas says "somebody" when explaining what he wants in a relationship. WOMAN BLITZ FUCKING ASKED WHY WOULD A ROYAL BITCH BIRD STOLAS WOULD LOVE AN IMP LIKE HIM AND THE TWIG BIRD ONLY TALKS ABOUT WHAT HE WANTED INSTEAD FUCKKK YOOOUUUU

-oh look more stolas praising because he's oh so polite to gesture to blitz if he can go with the succubus guy....

-the video ends with a sponsor ad... wow...

-oh wait she's still continuing, her afterthought how great... she believes there's still a chance of blitz and stolas relationship can be fix.....

now that I'm done with my self punishment, what are my thoughts on this video? honestly I should've seen it coming with the therapist not seeing stolas is genuinely the worst and mainly siding with him giving a middle ground with also understanding blitz's struggles too. that I will give +5 aura.

the main obvious reason why I'm angry at this vid cus this licensed therapist lady does sees flaws of stolas but using it as an excuse why he behave this way. "there's a reason why he acted this way. it's trauma! so don't be angry at him after he killed your whole family in front of you" type of vibe.

she really thinks his 'love' for blitz is innocent and romantic when it's clearly not. Stolas was constantly sexualising and harassing blitz with gross words, especially in public and in front of his own daughter. and blitz is always ALWAYS expressing he HATES when stolas does that. but noooo blitz never cared so pity the owl putting so much in this 'relationship'. like this woman REALLY believes stolas doesn't look down on blitz meanwhile there's tons of videos of hypocrite stolas compilations on YouTube.

but at the same time I myself feels at wrong to badly judge this professional lady. but the fact she has these firm beliefs of stolas always being good and the tragic 'ex' in this situation is mind boggling. idk chai what are your opinions on this?

I'm never gonna watch this woman's videos again. It made me wish youtube has a real block button.

Just goes to show that you've got to vet your therapists carefully, because they're human like anyone else and just as capable of spouting pure horseshit.