#that seemed cheap so it's a poor reference to it instead

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Before You Go

Pairing: Dean Winchester x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary: Reader is a grad student in college trying to work hard for her degree, but a certain green eyed stranger keeps showing up and turns her life upside down. Will she push him away? Or will she finally realize that he’s not going anywhere? (I’m so bad at summaries please forgive me!)

Tropes: Angst, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Age Difference (Reader is early to mid-20's and Dean is probably early 30's)

Word Count: 5.5K (I have an addiction don't judge me)

Warnings: Some swearing (once or twice), mentions of sex (not explicit at all), implied sex, self-deprecating thoughts (Dean),  Dean might be a little bit OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. I’m not going to lie, this one is a little self-indulgent. This is only my second supernatural fic, so please be gentle. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Masterlist

Part 2

********************************************

"Did you understand anything from that lecture?" Tim asks nudging your shoulder.

 The sour smell of beer and sweat fades in and out of your nose as you make your way to the Science building through the mass of students on the way to the football game. It was a Thursday night, Thursday night for everyone else meant tailgating, cheap beer, and face paint, but Thursday night for you meant four hours in the anatomy lab surrounded by the oppressive smell of formaldehyde and bent over a table examining the internal intricacies of the human body.

It wasn’t unwelcome, you knew what you signed up for when you decided to go to medical school, but you still wished that the lab was earlier in the day instead of at 6 pm.

The air is filled with the dull throb of energy, pulsing with the music from speakers all over campus, and through the throngs of people that pass you on the way to the stadium. The buzz of excitement in the air vibrated through your nerve endings. If you paid attention to how well the football team was doing, you would have known that tonight was the championship, but the closest you got to pigskin was the bag of pork rinds in your backpack and the occasional football player that asked you for help finding research materials during your shifts at the library.

"Nope." You reply jostling past a group of guys toting a giant stuffed pig wearing jersey of the school’s rival while they catcall some girls up ahead dressed from head to toe in bright red.

"Then why did you keep nodding?"

"Because Professor Drake was staring right at me!"

"You didn't have to make eye contact."

"It's a little late for that don't you think?" You smile up at him. He's taller than you, with dark hair falling forward into his glasses and a lean build. "But it's alright, I'll just binge watch YouTube videos."

Tim laughs adjusting his backpack over his shoulder. You had been lab partners since your first year, randomly assigned and forced to collaborate, but after many late night study sessions and mental breakdowns, Tim was one of your only friends.

“You seem to spend a lot of time on YouTube." He smiles.

"It's free education."

"Seems ridiculous to pay all this money just to learn it on YouTube."

"If YouTube handed out degrees for watching videos I’d be a doctor by now. I’d probably also have a degree in culinary arts.” You look down to check the watch on your wrist. You were both running late for lab. Dr. Welsh hated it when students were late, in fact, he was notorious for locking the door. Each week there was always some poor soul that banged on the door for entry, but Dr. Welsh knew no mercy. One time, you witnessed another student attempt to sneak in through the window an hour late. Dr. Welsh made them go back out the way they came, despite the lab being on the third floor.

At least the student brought a ladder with him.

“Culinary arts?”

“I like pie. Plus baking helps me cope with my stress.” You knock into his shoulder to shut him up. “What? You don’t watch anything weird on YouTube?”

“I usually start watching videos to understand the lectures and suddenly it’s been 7 hours, it’s 3 am and I’m watching a timelapse of metal rusting.”

“We’ve all been there buddy.”

"Hey doll-face!" You hear from somewhere behind you, but you ignore it, believing it to be another group of guys who splash beer over the sidewalk.

You glance down at your watch again.

"We're not going to be late." Jake says sensing your anxiety. "We've got 5 minutes."

"Early is on time, on time is late, late is inexcusable." You sing-song.

"Dr. Welsh embroider that on a pillow for you?"

"No it’s just-"

Someone grabs your backpack and pulls you back a step. What the- You whirl around prepared to cuss out a drunken frat boy, but you weren't expecting Dean Winchester.

"Dean." You say in surprise.

He looks better than you remember. Dean's wearing a red flannel covered by a black jacket, his hair tousled just the right amount to look effortless, his green eyes crinkled around the edges as his mouth pulls into a smile that makes your knees weak.

Your relationship, if you could even call it that, began your first week of classes, two years ago. You had just moved into your apartment and met your new roommate, but instead of going out to the new student mixer with her, you decided to stay in and unpack. It was past midnight when you heard a commotion in the apartment next door and when you opened your front door to investigate, you found Dean in the hallway leaning against the wall. His clothes were torn, he had a knife in his hand, blood was soaked through the front of his shirt, but when his eyes met yours, you weren't afraid. He looked so broken, so small that you had to help him. So you pulled him into your apartment and stitched him up the best you could, while he tried to lie about how it happened and explain why he looked like he'd been through a blender. Dean had never been good at lying to you, not even then. He was also the biggest baby you had ever met when it came to wound care.

In the months that followed Dean continued to show up, each time with injuries less and less life threatening asking you to help him, until one day he showed up perfectly fine and continued to show up. You would spend every minute together for a few days and then he would leave like nothing happened, only to show up again in a few weeks and it would start all over again.  Sometimes you thought that he wanted more than just a few days together, but then he would just leave, not giving you any other explanation. You hadn't expected to fall for him as hard as you did, but each time he left it broke you. You found yourself hoping each day that he would show up, only to be disappointed when he didn't. Days would drag by fading into shades of gray until finally Dean would show up and everything went back to color, only to sink back into monochrome when he left. The last time you had seen him was a month ago, when you told him that you couldn't do this anymore and told him not to come back.

But now he was here, again.

"Hey Doll-face." Dean smiles wider.

You try to ignore how your heart stutters in your chest when he smiles at you.

"Do you know this guy?" Tim asks you taking a step forward to put himself between Dean and you.

Dean's eyes trace Tim, smile slipping into confident smirk as he sizes him up. He opens his mouth, but you interrupt whatever thought was about to come out.

"Unfortunately I do." You sigh. "Tim can you give us a minute."

"Sure. But-"

"I know." You say, understanding that he was going to remind you what time it was. "We won't be late."

"I'll be over there." Tim puts a healthy distance between the two of you, far enough to give you space, but close enough that he can see you.

Dean is still smirking at him. "Boyfriend?" His eyes flit to yours, amused.

"Lab partner." You adjust your grip on your backpack unsure what to do.

I said everything I needed to say the last time. I thought that was it. Did he think I didn't mean it?

You think about the last time he was here, when you told him that you couldn't do this anymore and when he finally left, how you skipped all your classes and stayed in bed for two days clutching a pillow to your chest and wishing that it was him. It had felt like the end. The end of whatever the hell this had been. Sometimes you wished that you had defined it the first time you slept together, wished that you had told him you didn't do that ever, that you didn't just sleep with people without feelings because you knew sooner or later it would end up like this.

Then again you knew that you always had feelings for him, since the moment you locked eyes with his the night you met.

"He’s cute. If you’re into that geeky kind of thing. Though you could always date Sam-"

"What are you doing here?"

"I was in the neighborhood. Plus I didn’t want to miss the big game.”  Dean's eyes flit to the mass of people swarming around you, shouting and singing as they stumble down the cracked pavement. The dark shadows of the buildings stretch long over campus, illuminated by the lamplights that line the sidewalks.

"You should have called"

"I did. You never pick up" He arches a perfect eyebrow.

"Most would take that as a hint"

"Well Sweetheart given my profession you not picking up made me worry."

By now you knew exactly what he did. Despite Dean not acting like he wanted a relationship, when all was quiet and it was just the two of you laying in bed he confided in you, told you things about his life that made you hold him close and wish that you could make him forget all about it. You loved those soft moments with Dean, when it felt like more and you could imagine that Dean wanted to be as wrapped up in you as you were in him.

Your heart clenches in your chest as you try to forget it all, forget the day he walked into your life, and forget how much you like him.

"I can’t do this with you right now, I’ve got a lab in 3 minutes." You turn towards where Tim is standing, prepared to leave.

"Come on you can blow off one lab.”  Dean grabs your backpack turning you back to face him. “We can go to the big game. You know I can’t say no to free beer-“ The look in his eyes is joking.

He doesn't understand.

You shake him off. "No I can't Dean. This is important to me. This is my life. I can't drop everything just because you show up out of the blue."

"It wouldn't be out of the blue if you picked up your phone." His smile dips into an attractive pout that makes it very difficult to think.

"Dean why are you here?"

"I told you, I was in the neighborhood-"

"We talked about this. I can't do this anymore."

"I remember you talking about it."

"Yes and I remember you leaving." You snap as the memory of the last time you saw him rises in the back of your throat. You think about the days that followed, when you couldn't focus and flunked a test. 

"Y/n-“ Dean sighs.

"Look, I like spending time with you, but I can't keep doing this to myself. You show up, we spend every second together for days, and then you leave. It would be one thing if we were trying to do long distance, but we’re not.  All I get is radio silence for weeks and then you show  up all over again like nothing happened, expecting to pick up right where we left off, and the cycle begins all over again."

"I don't go radio silent for weeks. It’s you that doesn’t pick up your phone or text me back.”

"Yes you do and I can't do it. I won't do it. Because every time you leave I wonder if it's the last time I'll ever see you and-" You take in a breath to stop the ball of emotion that lodges itself in your throat. "It does something to me. And I'm not saying that what you do is any less important than what I'm trying to accomplish here. I’m not telling you to stop hunting. But this is my life Dean, my future. And I don’t want to put that in jeopardy because you show up every few weeks when you’re feeling restless. I want more than a few days every few weeks. I want more and I'm worth more. And if you can't give that to me that's fine, but please stop coming around and so I can find someone else who can."

The expression on Dean's face shifts, it's no longer the playful smirk or attractive pout, it almost looks heartbroken.

But that can't be right. Dean doesn't see me that way.

You look at where Tim is waiting for you to avoid Dean's gaze. He’s looking down at the watch on his wrist and you can feel his apprehension.

"I've got to get to my lab." You turn away from Dean, but stop halfway to Tim. "It was good to see you Dean. I wish you the best."

As Tim and you begin to walk away, you can feel Dean's eyes on you the whole way up the stairs into the science building, but you refuse to turn back.

"Are you okay?" Tim whispers.

"I will be. Let's just go before Dr. Welsh locks the door." You mutter while pushing down the guilt that rose when you thought of how Dean looked when you walked away.

********************************************

Despite Dr. Welsh’s attempts to lock the door, you were far too angry with Dean to let another man stand in your way, so when you and Tim arrived to lab 10 seconds before the clock struck 6, you shoved your boot in the door before Dr. Welsh could shut it. And by some miracle he let you in. Maybe it was the murder in your eyes.

Tim had been stunned, you were usually more reserved, not quick tempered. But everything that happened with Dean rubbed you the wrong way.

You couldn’t decide if you liked him or hated him. Right now the hate was winning.

How dare he? You thought to yourself, hand clenching on the scalpel so tightly that Tim backed up. How dare he just show up again after I told him not to?

“Y/n, are you okay?” Tim had asked.

“I’m fine. Don’t I look fine?” You’d snapped at him.

Even Dr. Welsh had given you a wide berth through lab.

 After you cleaned up everything it was 10:26 pm, which meant you had a little time before your late shift in the library.

“Did you want to go see if that shawarma food truck is still parked around the corner?” Tim asks hesitantly.

“No. I’m just gonna go to the library and study before my shift.” You mumble, shouldering your backpack and ignoring the urge to think about Dean.

Hopefully he took the hint and he’s gone. The thought brought a prick of guilt. Would that be the last time I ever saw him? Would those be the last words I ever said to him? You fight the urge to call him, to apologize, because the one thing you had wanted to say was that you liked him and you didn’t want him to go, you wanted him to stay in your life permanently. Sure long distance was hard, but for him it would be worth it.

“Oh.” Tim pauses for a minute. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Huh?”

“Well that Dean guy. You seemed kinda upset.”

“I was- am. But it’s okay, give me a few hours I’ll be over it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Sure.”

“Make sure to send the link to that Timelapse of metal rusting.” You try to smile, but the joke falls flat.

“Okay.” Tim watches you go.

The library was only a 9 minute walk from the science building, but it still felt too long. You longed to be lost in your notes, to think of anything else other than Dean, but you couldn’t.

Why did he have to come back? Why couldn’t he have just let it lie? I was doing better- You think about the weeks that followed his last visit, a haze of homework, tests, and work. Well, I was doing okay.

The thrum of music is still in the air, but now less people pass you as you walk down the sidewalk, and the ones that do are holding hands and laughing. Your thoughts shift to Dean again.

I like him, but I have to get over him because it’s not going anywhere. You think about the first time you slept together. Maybe this is my fault, maybe I should have defined this from the beginning. I mean, I know the kind of person he is… That thought makes you pause. Sure the first few times you’d patched his wounds Dean was sexy and flirty, but all the times that followed he seemed, sweet, charming. It wasn’t that you spent every moment in bed, he had taken you out to dinner at the diner down the street, fought with you over the last slice of pie, took you to a bar for drinks  where he shamelessly beat you at pool, other times he waited for you to be done with your classes to make sure that you didn't have to walk home alone at night. You remember how mad he had been when you told him you did that, but gas was so expensive and it was easier to walk the four blocks.

Someone grabs your arm from behind, pulling you out of your memories, and you finally snap. Using the only self defense move you knew, besides S-I-N-G from Miss Congeniality, you knock off the hand and flip the offender over your shoulder prepared to spray them in the face with the mace in your pocket.

But then you realize who it is.

Dean frowns up at you from the ground. “When I taught you that, I didn’t expect you to use it on me.”

“Just be happy that I didn’t pepper spray you.” Your eyes narrow.

 Maybe I should. It would make me feel better.

“Would have been the highlight of my night.” He stands up from the ground brushing off the front of his clothes with a pointed look.

“Dean what are you still doing here?”

“I want to talk.”

“I’ve said all I need to.”

“But I haven’t.”

“I don’t care. You’ve heard what I need to say and I’m sick of you not listening.”

“Y/n-“

“Fine, I’ll say it one more time, but listen this time.  I've never, never depended on anyone else in my life. It's been me, me for a long time.” You poke your finger into his chest to emphasize your point. “Then you just sauntered in and changed everything. You made me care about you, worry about you, and you made me depend on you showing up in my life. Every time you leave it breaks me. Every time I’m in a funk for days. The last time you left, I cried for two days and I didn’t go to any of my classes! I'm trying to be serious about my life. And I can't do that if you show up every few weeks and make me expect something and then leave a few days later and I'm devastated.”

Dean’s eyes widen in surprise. “I didn’t know that.”

“I have to get over you Dean, and I can't do that if you keep showing up. So please just go.” You turn away from him.

His hand comes down on your arm again to turn you back to him. “I don’t want you to get over me.”

“What?”

“Do you think I like leaving you? Do you really think it’s that easy for me?” He looks hurt.

“It certainly seems to be when you walk out after a few days with a smile like it means nothing! Like I mean nothing-“ You fight the tears that burn against your eyes. You wanted to be something for him just as much as he was something for you, but you were afraid. You hadn’t depended on anyone since you graduated and moved away from home. You weren’t used to needing someone in your life this much.

"You mean everything!” Dean shouts grabbing your shoulders. “It’s me that means nothing."

You blink your eyes for a second, not comprehending what he’s trying to say. "Dean what are you talking about?"

"I didn't think you wanted that-" He looks down.

Your eyes trace the slump in his shoulders, the frown on his handsome face, and the way he won’t meet your gaze.

What is he talking about?

You try to think of a time that you’d seen him look so vulnerable, but the only time you imagine was the night you met.

"Wanted what?"

"Me.” Dean’s voice is a whisper.

"I'm confused."

His eyebrows are furrowed, lips pressed into a tight line. “I’m nothing like you.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You’re a little younger than me and you’re smart and you’ve got this bright future ahead of you. You don’t need someone like me dragging you down-“

“Someone like you? Dragging me down? Dean what are you talking about?" You can't comprehend what he's saying. You reach up to cup his cheeks, but Dean pulls back from you, glancing away.

“I didn’t go to a fancy college, I barely finished high school. I’ve spent most of my life in motel rooms  committing credit card fraud and trying not to die.  And then I met you. You’re funny and caring and so smart, and  I just thought that you would like it more if I came by every once in a while to relieve some tension. I didn’t think that you would want me to stay.”

He didn’t think that I would want him? That can't be right. Dean is so confident usually. You search his face and see the genuine vulnerability behind his green eyes.

“Are you serious?” You ask him.

He doesn’t say anything.

“Dean, you are smart-“

“Not the same way you are”

“Dean.” You can’t help but take his hand. Dean’s green eyes focus on yours for a second, wide and open. “You don’t have to go to college to be smart. You’re resourceful and you know more about supernatural creatures than anyone else. Even the top scientists and doctors in the world don’t believe in them and they went to stuffy old colleges and fight with one another over who’s smarter. I don’t care that you didn’t go to a fancy college. What you do is important, probably more important than what I’m going to do. You protect people, you’ve saved the world more than once, and sure maybe it’s not glamorous to some people but it is to me.”

His eyes widen in surprise.

“Have you thought that maybe I like spending time with you because you’re so different than the people I see everyday?” You ask him softly, squeezing his hand.

“No.” Dean mutters.

“I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth, I don’t have lavish wealthy parents bankrolling me. My dad is a mechanic. I work two jobs and send him money so I don’t have to worry about him. Sometimes I feel like a fraud. But when you show up I don’t feel like a freak. With you I feel like I don’t have to pretend, I can just be me. And I like you, a lot. This has never just been about relieving tension or sex for me. Ever. I mean it’s nice-“

“Just nice?” Dean raises an eyebrow.

You flush bright red. “I like spending time with you without that too. All the times we spent laying in bed or went to a bar or went to get food, and we talked were equally as wonderful for me. I like talking with you. I like hearing about your life. I just assumed that you had someone in every state that you visit when you’re feeling restless and that you didn’t want a relationship.”

“There’s no one else. Hasn’t been since I met you.”

Deans eyes lock with yours as you comprehend what he just confessed.

“Really?” Your voice is only a whisper.

“Fuck I’m not good at this romantic comedy shit-“ He mutters to himself shaking his head. “I like you too. I wish that I could be here all the time. I hate leaving you. It’s too quiet. When I’m not here all I do is think about you, what you’re doing, how your day was.”

Your entire body explodes with his words, heart beating so fast you think it’ll grow wings and take flight.

“When I was younger I used to laugh at Sam because he wanted a normal life, but with you I understand.  You’re so different than anyone I’ve ever met and it hurts me when I’m away from you.” Dean continues with a soft smile that makes you lose all feeling in your legs.

He takes your other hand. “I understand that what you’re doing is important and I’m not asking you to quit school. All I’m asking is that you give me a chance. I want to make this work. I know that long distance isn’t easy, but I want to try.” His eyes search yours, begging for a answer, but you can barely breathe let alone speak. You watch his face fall as he takes your silence as your answer. “But I understand if you don’t want to, because you are worth more. You’re worth more than a few days, than a phone call or a text. You deserve someone who can be here with you all the time. You’re worth more than what I can give you. And you shouldn’t have to settle-“

You grab the front of his flannel because you can’t think of anything to say and pull him down to you for a kiss. Pins and needles trace down your spine as his soft lips move against yours. He smiles against your mouth, folding you into him, his large hand on the small of your back just under your backpack causing warmth to shoot down your spine. You lose yourself in the way his body fits around yours

“I’m not settling.” Your hands cup his cheeks as you look deep into his eyes. “I never want you to feel that way, because you are worth a hundred of any man I have ever met in my life. And if it’s my cross to bear to make you understand that every day of my life, then so be it. Because I would be lucky to spend any amount of time with you. I don’t want anyone else. I just want you, Dean. I’ve wanted you since the day we met and every day after. And I’m yours as long as you want me.”

Dean’s smile breaks open something in the pit of your stomach and goosebumps scorch across your skin. “I can’t imagine not wanting you.” He presses his forehead against yours.

You stand there with his warm hand pressed into your back trying to think of another time that you felt even a fraction of what you feel for him. You think about your high school boyfriend, about a few of the guys you dated in during your undergrad years, but you come up with nothing. Because you can’t compare him to anyone else you’ve ever met. And it hurt you to think that Dean thought so little of himself in the grand scheme of things.

He leans down to kiss you again, pulling you against his chest so tight that everything blissfully falls away.

“Are you hungry?” He whispers against your lips after a minute.

“Yes, but my shift at the library starts soon. I’m there til 2.” You tighten your hands at the back of his neck, not wanting to let him go.

“Okay. I’ll go with you.”

“Dean it’s okay if you just want to go back to my apartment and sleep. I can give you the key-“ You notice the dark circles under his eyes, but you know that Dean wasn’t one to complain about being tired.

“It’s worth being tired if I get to see you.” Dean smiles. “But I’ll go get us some food, because I’m hungry too.”

“Don’t forget the pie.”

“Have I ever?” He brushes his lips to yours one more time, but you don’t remove your arms from around his neck. “You’re going to have to let me go doll.”

“Just 5 more minutes.”

********************************************

You spend the weekend together in your apartment. All those blissful moments together solidify the thought that this is real, that this time it’s going to be different. Every night going to bed with Dean tucking you against him and waking up every morning with your head on his chest feels like a dream, and you never want to wake. Every kiss and intimate moment between you feels like more, and you have to keep reminding yourself that it isn’t just sex, hasn’t ever been just sex. Dean wants to be there with you all the time, hold you close to him and share things with you. And this time you finally understand that you do help him forget and know that you do bring him as much comfort as he brings you.

When Monday comes and Dean has to go, you try not to think of it as the end.

Dean leans back against the door of the Impala, his hands on your hips, green eyes blazing in the sun, but it’s his eyes that warm you more than the sun’s rays.

"Sweetheart-" Dean begins, sensing what you’re thinking. His thumbs rub smooth circles against waist where your t-shirt rests.

"I know." You press your face into his flannel, inhaling the scent you ascribe to Dean. He smells like oil, leather, and the spicy scent of the soap he uses that tickles your nose.

"Hey." His free hand comes under your chin to raise your gaze back to his. "I promise I'm gonna come back. I promise that we're going to make this work. It’s going to be different.” He cups your cheek, eyes soft and understanding.

“I know, but you’re still leaving.” Your tighten your arms around his chest.

“I wish I didn’t have to. But Sam called, he needs me-“

“I know.” You breathe.

You don’t want Dean to feel any worse than he does about leaving, especially when you remember what he said to you a few days ago, about you deserving more and about how he wished he could be more for you. Deep down you know that both of you are determined to make this work, so you put on a smile.

 “It’s okay.” You gently rub his back.   “You’ll be back in 2 weeks and I’ll be on spring break in a month.”

“Does that mean I’ll get to see you in a bikini?” Dean grins.

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

“Hmm. Well until I see you-“ He raises his right hand from where it rests on your hip to remove the large silver ring from his finger. "Don't panic, it's not an engagement ring." Dean's smile breaks you a little.  "Just me promising that I'll come back, that I'll call and text you so much that you'll be sick of me." He slides the ring onto your thumb, the weight comforting.

"I could never be sick of you."

“Just you wait.” He winks, holding your hand to his chest. “I bet I can prove you wrong.”

“I welcome the challenge.”

The kiss goodbye is bittersweet, but you hold yourself together, refusing to cry as Dean gets into his car and leaves. You watch the Impala disappear around the corner, taking your heart with it, but just as it does your phone rings.

“Hello?”

“I miss you.” Dean’s voice fills the line and this time you can’t stop the tears.

“I miss you too.”

“I promise I’ll be back in two weeks.”

“Okay. Please be careful.” You remember all the stories he's told you over the time you’ve known him, all the horrible things that happened to him and Sam. Sometimes you wish he hadn’t, because you can’t help but worry.

“I’m always careful.” You can hear him rolling his eyes.

“As the person who has spent the past 2 years patching you up, I can say with certainty that you are not always careful.”

“Then I promise to be more careful than usual.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” The wind picks up, pulling your hair from the ponytail at the back of your head.

“I’ll call you when I make it back to the bunker.”

“Good.”

“Bye y/n.”

“Bye Dean.”

Your gaze drops to the heavy ring on your thumb and you hold tight to the hope and belief that this time is different, allowing the memories of the past few days to brush away any doubts that threaten the thought of what the future will bring.

********************************************

Thank you so much for reading!  I am considering doing a series with this reader and Dean, but let me know what y’all think!

[zeninsama-moved]

pay up!

gojo satoru x female reader

satoru's poor time management has you working overtime, and this cheap bastard has something other than cash to pay you with (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

note from author mercury: this is my entry for our slimeball collab over on @bastardblvd , figured the host of the slimiest event on this corner of the internet should probably contribute a lil somethin. let's pretend like i'm not shitting bricks bc this is my first time writing for gojo <3 ending is a little abrupt but i needed to get this out asap or i'd be scrutinizing it for the next five months

content warnings: female reader, unprotected sex, oral and fingering (reader receiving), overuse of the word 'cute', praise and obnoxious petnames (reader receiving), needing to keep quiet, fucking on the couch while the kids are asleep down the hall so if that's a concern for you please don't touch, panty fetish if you squint, cumshot?, implied you've fucked before, unfair compensation for your labor lmao, multiple references to the slimeball au so that may be super jarring if you aren't familiar.

↳ word count: 3.9k

It's almost eleven, which means Satoru is... very late.

Shit happens, you get it. Maybe work ran later than expected, or the train hit a freeloader on the way back to Grimetown, but still. You can’t help but feel bothered by the lack of text message from your pseudo-employer.

You would never complain about Megumi and Tsumiki. They're absolute angels, and caring for them has never felt like work. Besides, your only other options were a waitressing job at Franky’s or the graveyard shift at the gas station, which you heard is filled with... interesting characters at that time of night. Caring for the coolest elementary schoolers alive seemed like a no-brainer. The arrangement worked out in your favor as well. Satoru ended up moving you into his apartment complex due to his demanding schedule, wanting you to always be close – like two apartments down the hall close.

Contrary to the name, the Luxury Condos on Bastard Boulevard weren’t much of an upgrade from your last apartment. The landlord must be loaded because it’s a miracle this place passed inspection, but you’ll gladly accept updated appliances and neighbors without a small army of pet rats. Even the offensively high rent doesn’t bother you because your pseudo-employer paid it all in cash. 

(You tried asking Satoru exactly where he got all this money from, to which he said, “It ain’t easy being the sexiest designer sunglasses model on this side of town. You gotta work hard to play hard!”)

Anyways, whatever is holding him, you hope it’s a good excuse.

In the meantime, you’ve taken up camp on his sofa, wrapped in a throw blanket that smells vaguely of Satoru's disgustingly expensive cologne. You were too lazy to change the channel from whatever cartoon Megumi was watching before bedtime, laughing through your nose every now and then. It’s not that bad, but still… You’d really, really like to go back to your apartment and hit the hay.

Maybe a little snooze won’t hurt, but of course, right as you close your eyes...

The smart lock clicks behind you. It’s a quarter past eleven when Satoru enters the apartment, looking gorgeous and unbothered, sunglasses low on his nose and DAISO cat-print tote bag slung over his arm.

"Daddy's home!" 

"Shh!" you're glaring from the couch, lips drawn in a frown. "Megumi and Tsumiki are sleeping! Where the hell were you? You couldn't give me a heads up?" 

"Sorry, babycakes. They loved what I was giving 'em, so the shoot ran overtime." Satoru grins at you, pulling the sunglasses off his face and ditching them in the catch-all along with his keys. His shoes are toed off and left by the front door. "Why, you miss me that bad?" 

You're tempted to throw one of the many decorative pillows right at his big, dumb head. Instead you sink back into the couch, pulling the blanket tighter around your frame, grouchy. "Whatever," you sigh. "You're four hours late, so you better pay up." 

Satoru sucks in air through his teeth. "Yeah, about that..."

You don't like where this conversation is heading. 

"Some big guy outside the train station jacked my wallet on the way home. You'll never believe it, he had this fuckin'... worm? On his shoulder? Shit, it was crazy. So I don't have the cash to pay you, but–" 

You glance over your shoulder at the man now rummaging through his bag behind you, eyes and tone full of warning. "Satoru..."

An opened package is waved in your face by a beaming idiot.

"– Ichigo daifuku! Your favorite!"

He's so full of shit. There’s one piece of mochi left, does he really think his already-eaten train snack will fix this? Probably, and as much as you'd hate to admit it, you do like strawberry daifuku mochi. Dammit.  

Despite your annoyance, you don't get up from your spot on the couch. You're tempted to storm out, blow past Satoru and grab your things, maybe give him a good shove while you do it. However, you're tired, and no grand display of your frustrations would change the fact that you'd be returning tomorrow to pick up his kids from school. Also, your apartment is literally two doors down, so you wouldn't truly be escaping Satoru – you'll still feel his annoying energy seeping through the absurdly large gap under your door while you sit there, in the apartment that he bought you, stewing in your annoyance and eating your feelings in a single daifuku mochi. 

God, you might hate this man. You don't even wanna look at him, but despite feeling this way, you let Satoru move closer, ditching the bag of sweets in favor of pinching your puffed-out cheek in his fingers.

“Aw, come on,” he pouts, redirecting your face towards his in an attempt to get you to look at him, but you don’t give him the satisfaction. You force yourself to look anywhere else but the man above you and stubbornly pretend you can’t feel the cool puffs of his mint-gum breath, or notice his devious grin from the corner of your eye. “Don’t be mad at me, babycakes. Is there anything I can do to make it better?” 

“You can go to the ATM and get me some cash."

“Yeah, besides that.”

On the subject of things you hate about Satoru, you hate how quickly he switches up on you. One minute, he's the most annoying man you've ever had the misfortune of knowing. The next, he's smooth and serious. The kind of man that confidently leans in and ghosts his lips over your neck, intentionally fanning his breath over your skin because you made the mistake of telling him you're ticklish there.

"There must be some way for me to make this up to you," Satoru murmurs into your neck, the low vibrations of his voice making you shiver. It's then that you finally cave, eyes slowly meeting his, brilliant blues hidden behind heavy lids.

Unfortunately, he's very handsome.

"Okay," you huff. "Fine."

He kisses your cheek, then your nose, and then he kisses you.

You hate to admit it, but Satoru knows how to kiss. His lips are warm and soft, meshing with yours with confidence, tongue easing into your mouth in a practiced motion.

He momentarily breaks the kiss to join you on the couch, kneeling on the cushion beside you and leaning back in, cradling your cheek in his hand, murmuring against your lips before kissing them again.

"Let me show you just how much I appreciate you."

Satoru reaches down and rests his hand between your thighs, cupping your pussy through the rough fabric of your shorts. You bite your lip at the sensation, stifling a needy whimper, but he knows. Your grouchy demeanor melted so easily for him.

How cute, his little tsundere.

He squeezes you softly, then rubs four fingers up and down, keeping his pace slow.

"You know I can't do it without you, right?"

Your hips lift off the couch, chasing his hand as it continues its unbothered pace. Satoru rewards you by focusing the stimulation on your clit, switching to tighter, firmer circles over the sensitive bud.

"You're just saying that," you mutter.

"Nuh uh," Satoru teases. "I've never seen anyone be so good with my kids. They love you, you know. Maybe more than they love me."

That's not too difficult, you want to quip, but opt to bite your tongue instead. Satoru's touch feels way too good, you don't want him to stop or risk having your orgasm put off just over a snark. Instead, you curl your fingers into the nape of his neck, fidgeting with the shorter tufts of hair there. 

Satoru kisses you again. His hand stops playing with your clit just to skim higher, unfasten the button and zipper on your shorts so he can touch you where you both want it most.

"And you know," he murmurs between kisses, fingers sneaking under the loosened waist of your shorts, then your panties, until you feel his fingers make contact with your bare clit. He watches your reactions closely, smiling when you gasp and buck up into his touch. "I like you too. How can I not? You're too damn cute."

His slender middle finger skims your folds, feeling the wetness there, letting it gather and get him all slick, making it easier when it finally pushes inside you. Just one finger already feels like so much, almost too much. He feels your walls bear down, his cock twitching lazily in his pants. How long has it been since he’s had you last? 

You let him have you once before, back when he spent the whole day helping you move into your new apartment, carrying all those heavy boxes for you like the gentleman he is – and you, being the sweet peach you are, insisted on making him dinner as a thank you.

You reminded Satoru of a cute little housewife, puttering around the kitchen in your apron, though nothing was cuter than the sight of you sinking onto his dick that night, your hands and pussy clinging to him like you couldn’t get enough.

Every time he jerks off, he thinks of that adorable, pinched look on your face when the fat head of his dick first speared you open. 

It's kind of embarrassing, the hold you have on him. 

When you're taking his finger with ease, Satoru presses a second into your cunt, further stretching it out. "Come on, baby, open up for me," he coaxes, voice low and sultry. "Fuck, you don't know how bad I missed this pussy. Gonna let me fuck it again? Hm?"

"Uh huh," you're nodding, dazed, and the sight of you makes Satoru grin. The heel of his palm presses into your clit, providing the right amount of pressure when combined with his fingers.

"Yeah? Gonna let me have this cute pussy to myself?" 

Cruelly, the motion stops.

The lack of stimulation makes you pout.

Satoru's fingers glide out of you with an embarrassingly loud squelch, intentionally brushing along your clit as they withdraw from your shorts and panties. His hand emerges, fingers glistening with clear threads of arousal webbed between them, and before you can think, he slips them past your lips and presses firmly on your tongue, prompting you to suck.

"Tastes good?" Satoru coos, delighted at your eagerness. "Let me taste now, okay, cutie?" 

Shyly, you nod. His fingers withdraw from your mouth, leaving a dribble of spit on your bottom lip. 

Satoru repositions himself to kneel on the floor in front of you, tugging you by the hips so your bottom half comes right to the edge of the couch, dangerously close to his face. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to your cunt, the sensation muted by your shorts, but it still makes you gasp. His fingers hook into your shorts and you lift your hips to help him pull them off, but he makes no effort to remove your panties with them. Instead, he fixates on the little wet patch right in the center, caressing it with his finger. Admiring it.

Fuck, you’re so cute. He can’t wait to get his mouth on you. 

"Need to keep quiet, okay?" Satoru instructs, peering up at you through his lashes, watching you take your bottom lip between your teeth and nod. The last thing you need is to disturb the two rugrats asleep down the hall, even if you could pry yourself off Satoru and pull your shorts back on in record time. You don't want this moment to stop, not when the promise of his mouth on your cunt is so deliciously close.

You look so sweet like this, he thinks. Chest heaving, eyes wide and eager, one hand fisting the hem of your shirt, holding it over your stomach for a better view. Satoru smiles up at you, maintaining eye contact as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh.

“What a beautiful girl.”

Satoru buries his face in the soft warmth between your legs. His nose presses into your clit, taking in your scent as his tongue ventures lower, finally getting a taste of your pussy and he shamelessly moans. It’s faint through the fabric. He knows he could taste you better without them, but something about eating pussy through a cute pair of panties never fails to get him so fucking hard. He likes watching them get wetter and wetter, until they're completely soaked from arousal and saliva and clinging to the shape of the pretty pussy underneath.

Your other hand flies down immediately, resting on the back of Satoru’s head to urge him closer, and of course he’ll indulge you. He’ll eat you just the same, dragging his tongue in broad strokes up to your clit, then sucking it into his mouth.

The muted sensation makes you whine. It’s not enough, yet so good. Enough to make your little pussy flutter under your panties. You push his head harder against your cunt, desperate to keep the kissing suction over your clit. You’re certain you could cum like this, between the pressure of Satoru’s tongue and the vibrations when he moans against you. 

A string of saliva connects Satoru’s swollen lips to your panties when he pulls back for air, but this time he pulls the soaked fabric aside, finally getting an eyeful of your pussy.

“Well hi, gorgeous,” he lovingly coos, pressing a light kiss over your clit. “Did you miss me?” 

Is he… really talking to your pussy? 

Scratch that, you hate him again. 

“What are you doing?” You ask, breathless. 

“What do you mean? We’re having a moment,” Satoru replies, voice still sweet and airy, the same way one would talk to a cute little pet. 

If you didn’t need him so badly, you’d kick him right in his dumb face.

Fortunately, Satoru cuts his little bit short and dives back in, tongue sweeping through your folds, finally getting his first real taste of your pussy. You taste even better than he could imagine. 

You release a breath you didn’t even know you were holding, body melting into the couch. Your fingers tangle in soft white hair, urging his head deeper, wanting to feel more of his mouth and Satoru obliges. His tongue dips into your cunt, fucking you with it, then drags up to your clit to lick in slow circles.  

He really, really wants to be inside you right now. His dick is throbbing so hard, he’s amazed he hasn’t passed out yet, but Satoru’s always been a man with a sweet tooth. He doesn’t mind setting his needs aside a while longer if it means eating out some pretty pussy. 

Maybe not too much longer though.

His fingers join between your legs, still slick from your saliva and arousal, and slip easily into your cunt. Making you cum is easy for him, his fingers thrust deep with each lazy roll of his wrist, stimulating that spot inside you with ease. Though, he can tell you're craving more of a stretch, so Satoru, being the chivalrous, generous, oh-so-kind man that he is, gives you a third finger.

Your jaw drops at the intrusion, pussy now spread wide to accommodate the stretch of three fingers as they curl and stroke your sensitive walls, drawing out more wetness and arousal until it drips down his wrist in clear drops.

Satoru knows you're close when you let out a particularly desperate moan, your hips stuttering and walls fluttering so perfectly on his fingers, clit pulsing against his tongue.

"Satoru, I'm–" you warn, trying to keep your voice low.

"I know, baby," he coos in encouragement. "Feels so good, doesn't it? Go ahead, pretty baby. Cum on my tongue if you need to."

You don't need any further coaxing. When you cum, you cum hard, hand smacking over your mouth to muffle your cries as Satoru keeps fucking you through your orgasm, fingers thrusting and tongue lapping up every drop of arousal your sensitive pussy drools out, just for him.

He rests his head on your inner thigh, watching fondly as you come down from your high. His fingers still thrust into you but his pace has slowed significantly, working you through it until your walls stop contracting. Your arousal coats his entire hand when it withdraws from your cunt, even pooling on the couch beneath you. It'll be a bitch to clean, but Satoru can't bring himself to care about that now. His dick might explode if it's not buried in your cunt in the next thirty seconds.

Even as you lay there, chest heaving, you still crave more. Your hands are greedy, grabbing at Satoru while he makes his way up and eases you back against the couch.

“Easy there, tiger,” he chuckles, hooking his fingers into your soaked panties and peeling them down your legs. "Let's take these off you first."

Your panties are discarded somewhere – probably his pocket, that pervert – before Satoru goes in for another kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. One hand rests beside your head, supporting his weight. The other reaches down and palms his dick through his pants. "You need my dick that badly? Hm? Turn around." 

You oblige, rolling over to lay on your stomach and pretending the sound of his belt unfastening doesn't make you warm with anticipation. Satoru shifts to straddle your thighs, placing one of the cushions to rest under your hips, keeping you nice and comfortable while also elevating your ass to be closer to his dick. A win-win.

"Shit," he sighs, pulling his dick from his briefs and jerking it slowly, slicking himself up with your wetness. Precum beads at the tip and he rubs it against your folds, mixing your messes. "It's been a while, huh?" 

"Satoru," you whine, pushing back against him, wiggling your hips slightly in a silent request for him to quit teasing you and get on with it.

Maybe that makes you greedy. After all, he was just nice enough to let you cum on his fingers and tongue, but you don't care. It doesn't hurt to be selfish every once in a while, especially with Satoru of all people.

When Satoru finally presses the thick head of his dick into you, it feels like you’re being split in two. He's immediately met with resistance, your cunt bearing down, struggling to accommodate it even with all the prep he gave you. So he starts slow and shallow, dragging his heavy dick in and out, bullying your cunt into relaxing and letting more of him fit. He pulls out and taps the head against your entrance again. "Come on, sweetie, open up for me~" 

He eases into your cunt again, but this time Satoru leans in, his opposite hand settling on the other side of your head, smothering you with his weight in the best way possible. His body blankets yours, pinning your back under his chest and ass against his hips. His dick pushes into you with more persistence, inch after inch sinking deeper until he's buried to the hilt.

Your eyes roll back, mouth hanging open in a silent scream. You're probably drooling all over his couch, but it's hard to feel shame when he's filling you out so nicely. He's so deep, it's like he's forcing the air out of your lungs and replacing it with his dick.

His lips ghost over your shoulder, kissing it sweetly, then he starts to move. Slow, deep thrusts, only withdrawing an inch before he's chasing that warmth again. He fucks you as hard as he can without being too noisy, limiting the smack of his hips against your ass, even though he really wants to see it bounce from the force of his thrusts. If he could, he’d be making you scream right now, watch some pretty tears stream down your face because of what his dick does to you. Yeah, that would be cute.

Satoru ruts ruthlessly into the tight heat of your cunt, chasing the orgasm he’s needed so fucking desperately. Balls slap against your clit, heavy with all his pent-up release. He takes advantage of your open mouth and forces two fingers inside, pressing down firmly on your tongue and delighting in the way you slobber around them, in the way your cheeks subconsciously hollow and suck them deeper, still tasting your pussy on them.

Sucking on his fingers keeps you quiet, gives you something else to focus on if not the relentless pounding against your cervix, or how close you’re getting to snapping and cumming all over his dick.

“Shit, you’re so perfect,” Satoru huffs against your neck. "I can feel you squeezing me, baby, I know this little pussy wants to cum."

It’s hard to moan his name when his stupidly long fingers are prodding the back of your throat. You’re babbling, crying out for Thatowu to keep fucking you, it feels so good, and he’s grinning like an idiot above you. Yeah, baby? It feels good?

Satoru’s fingers withdraw from your mouth only to snake underneath your body and stake claim on your clit, massaging in slow circles, coaxing you closer to your orgasm. You can’t take it anymore. Your body goes limp, cheek smashed into the cushion, gaping mouth smearing drool all over the fabric while your cunt creams around his dick.

“Shit, that’s it, baby,” Satoru moans, feeling your cunt squeeze around his dick like it's trying to swallow him whole. “Shit, you’re gonna make me cum. Is that what you want, baby? You want me to fill this pussy up?”

You’re too fucked out to answer, but that’s okay, because Satoru wasn’t really asking. More like letting you know he’s seconds away from driving his dick as deep as possible and unloading right against your cervix. God, he’d really like that, but he can't risk having any more rugrats right now. Not when his career as the only sexiest designer sunglasses model in Grimetown is taking off.

Instead, he pulls out of your cunt and manhandles you onto your back, quickly stroking his dick, filling the living room with the lewd sounds of your wetness squelching around him. You're laying there, dazed, legs spread wide and pussy exposed, all swollen and leaky and clenching around the air. The sight of your debauched face sends Satoru over the edge. He releases with a groan, cum splattering on your lower stomach, inner thighs, all over your pussy, before pressing the head right against your clit and letting the rest of his load drip.

You both need a minute after that. Maybe several minutes. 

Blood still rushes in your ears when you come to. You push yourself up on shaking arms, Winnie the Pooh-ing it with your tee shirt and lack of panties. You're a mess, all sweaty with his cum painting your lower half, even parts of the couch underneath you. Maybe he'll offer up his shirt as a cumrag so you don't have to do the walk of shame to the bathroom.

You watch Satoru, who is already back to his normal, irritating self, snatch his bag off the side table, already craving a little something sweet. He chomps into the last strawberry daifuku mochi in the packet and you frown.

“Hey, I thought that was for me."

“We can still share,” Satoru teases, waving the mochi-half in your face with a grin.

Huffing, your eyes drop back down to the open bag on his lap and… wait a minute. Has that been here this whole time?

“Satoru, is that your wallet?” 

He looks down, a little rice flour on his chin.

“Oh, shit! Where did that come from?” 

[skbeaumont]

"I Remember Everything" | Joel x Reader

Part 2 of Play it Again, a new series where each story is a oneshot, but all are shaped around country songs.

Song: I Remember Everything, Zach Bryan ft. Kacey Musgraves Summary: Ten years after outbreak day, you and Joel try to find a way to forget. In the process he finds things to remember, too Tags/Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, fluff if you squint, references to sex, alcohol and drugs, sex but not explicit, trauma, grief, just expect emotional damage basically Word Count: 1.2k

A/N: This ended up being both very angsty and quite sweet. Once again it was written with lyrics from the song pulled into the prose, so do listen as you read. If you've got any song recommendations for this series, let me know!

You were begging me to stay 'til the sun rose Strange words come on out Of a grown man's mouth when his mind's broke Pictures and passin' time You only smile like that when you're drinking I wish I didn't, but I do Remember every moment on the nights with you You're drinkin' everything to ease your mind But when the hell are you gonna ease mine?

The bar is crowded when you enter. Heaving with writhing bodies, hot in a way that has your shirt sticking to your back within moments of entering, a hazy, sharp tang in the back of your nose, a mix of moonshine and sweat.

Ten years today since outbreak day, and it seems everyone in the QZ is in here to forget.

Technically, there aren’t supposed to be any bars in the QZ, but as you squeeze between the crowds you spot two women you know to be FEDRA officers. It’s amazing what they’ll turn a blind eye to when it benefits them. One of the women looks pretty far gone already, leaning against the other with a placid, washed out grin on her face. The moonshine here is cheap, strong, and a poor imitation of anything that would have been served in a bar ten years ago.

You order two double whiskeys, watch the skinny youth behind the bar pour it out into a chipped mug, take it from him and hand over a creased, dog-eared ration card. A small price to pay for an evening of forgetting. You down the first double at the bar, then turn and push yourself on tiptoes to find an empty table, or a quiet corner to hole up in where you won’t be disturbed.

Instead, you find your gaze passing over a familiar figure at the back of the room. Joel’s recognisable even from behind – broader than anyone else in the room, the sloping lines of his shoulders pressing against the frayed seams of the denim shirt he’s wearing. It’s been a few months since you last saw him. You’re not sure where he’s been, maybe off on his smuggling runs; the two of you have never really kept a consistent line of conversation, your meetings generally consisting of a quick catch up and then a long, slow evening using each other to try to forget the hell of life in the QZ and your respective pasts. Unhealthy, probably, but it works for a few hours.

Joel turns where he’s stood and the dim lights in the bar illuminate the side of his face, the strong line of his jaw. He’s wearing a lopsided half-smile, leaning against a shelving unit filled with bottles, talking to a woman with dark hair. He’s clearly drunk: he only smiles like that when he’s drunk. It’s an impressive feat, considering how much you know he drinks on any normal day.

You’re still watching him, sipping your own drink, when he turns his head, eyes locking with yours. You don’t look away. The buzz of the whiskey is starting to sink through you, warm and familiar, and Joel’s eyes are just as intoxicating.

It’s always the same. There’s something about him that has you gravitating to him. It’s attraction, certainly, but it’s deeper than that. There’s so much about Joel you don’t know, so many unanswered questions and unexplained mysteries. But you know he’s like you. You know he’s lost people. You know he’s broken, and lonely, and so fucking angry that it scares him sometimes.

Joel watches you down the rest of your whiskey, eyes flicking to your lips as you lick a stray drop. He’s drunk, far drunker than he should be considering he has to be up at the crack of dawn in the morning for sewer duty.

He only got back into the QZ early this morning, spent rest of the day trying as best he could to get some sleep without resorting to rotgut whiskey to ease his mind. A lost cause, of course. He hasn’t slept without some kind of pill or booze in ten years. Eight hours in and he’d given it up as a bad job, downed a few bottles of home-brewed cider and headed to this hot, loud bar, hoping to distract himself from the date and all that its memory brings.

He hadn’t expected you to be here, and something uncomfortably like gladness settles in his chest as he watches you make your way towards him. All day he’s been on edge, wound up so tight he’s felt like something in him is going to snap, but the sight of you has it retreating, loosening his shoulders more than the piss-poor whiskey has.

He wonders for a moment what this thing you have – this relationship that isn’t a relationship, this love story that definitely isn’t a love story, just a way to forget for a while – would be like if the outbreak hadn’t happened. Would he sing you love songs, buy you flowers, take you to the beach and let your sand-covered hair blow into his face on the drive home?

Ten years since outbreak day, and he’s mostly wondering if you’ll help him forget in a way that the booze and pills he’s been knocking back since this afternoon haven’t managed to yet. Two whiskeys in, and you’re wondering if he’ll ease your mind like the liquor’s eased your tight muscles.

It’s this that carries you both out into the alley behind the bar, has him pressing you into the rough brick wall, hands roaming your body like you’re a route he’s trying to memorise so he can sneak back when the curfew falls. His mouth is hot on yours, his breath tinged with booze and counterfeit cigarettes.

It’s easy where it shouldn’t be; easy to let him lead you through the back streets to his apartment, easy to let yourself fall inside, easy to ignore the empty cider bottles that litter the apartment, the pill bags and loose cigarettes.

The sex is unrushed – it could be called romantic, if you were both other people, if it you weren’t both doing it to forget. The memories of ten years ago retreat for a while as he undresses you; the pain eases as he lays you back, slots himself between your legs and presses himself into you.

The movement of it is calming, familiar. Joel’s strong back under your hands, his muscles shifting and tensing as he thrusts into you, the harshness of his breath at your ear. He’s quiet, usually, hardly lets himself make a sound when he’s inside you, and then leaves before you’ve had chance say goodbye. Tonight, though, he doesn’t. When you’ve finished he rolls himself off of you and pulls you to his chest, wraps a strong arm around your waist and lets you rest your head on his shoulder.

“I missed you,” he whispers into your hair, and the words are so strange that you freeze beneath him, twist back so that you can look at him, see the truth of it on his face.

His eyes are dark in the half-light of the apartment, hazy with alcohol and something else, but they’re serious, his eyebrows furrowed, the creases that have started to deepen over the time you’ve known him lining his forehead.

Because the thing is, you make him forget. But when he’s with you he remembers, too. He remembers what happiness can feel like, the way that joy can take root in your chest and spread into something ethereal, something that Joel Miller doesn’t deserve to feel, hasn’t felt since the world ended ten years ago. He remembers every moment on the nights with you.

He wishes he didn't, but he does.

[seoness]

Sandor with a s/o who loves to draw/sketch/paint him? It can be hcs or a drabble or anything really.

Book!Sandor please. He’s so ugly I love him. ☹️❤️‍🩹

Praise be, praise be. Ugly is hot. Now this is a miracle, but I'll not waste a thousand words haggling over the fact that the features he's described to have are actually those which I consider attractive BUT this is not a complete miracle and I will instead ramble on about the issue of painting/drawing/sketching.

We don't see it much in ASOIAF. The artistry mentioned is often mummery, embroidery/needling, sculptures, and tapestries. (Although some armors seem to be quite the works of art, I am looking at you Ser Loras Tyrell).

Now, I am not claiming that this activity doesn't exist but I will be using our own history as a reference. Painting and even drawing/sketching were expensive back in the day (especially painting). Parchment isn't cheap. We don't really see nobles or the Faith acting as patrons for any type of painter. The only thing I can think of is shield-painters. So for the sake of ease, I am making this SO a member of nobility.

Headcanon

Every artist has their goal. To capture beauty, spark creativity, make a mark, or simply suck a little less.

It's a cliché to moan about not being understood, so you try to not moan too much when those around you don't understand. You smile, a knowing smile, often pared with a light nod. The "please-stop-and-please-do-not-make-me-ask-you-to"-nod. You've mastered it.

The thing is... a face is a face. Sure, the features change a bit but the principle remains the same. It's one of the things you never say out loud. How boring drawing can make the world. You study it, sure, but you study to capture not to admire. That can come later. Only if later ever came.

Every person has their own impossible. Some feat, some dream, something out of reach. Yours walked around the halls of the Red Keep.

Sandor Clegane was incredible. His face was incredible.

Plenty of people came to you for a portrait. Not him. One of the guards had asked you to draw him without the scar, curious how the man would look unburnt but it was one of the few portraits you refused. You never told Clegane, of course. The thought of that made you shutter. The guard would have stopped his howls long before Clegane stopped his fist from meeting the poor sod's face.

The solution was simple. You never asked for permission.

It wasn't a perfect likeness. You forgave yourself for that. After all, you had only managed to study him in passing but even the unburnt side of his face was difficult to do justice. He was more rugged. Harsher. Sader. You couldn't draw the burnt side. It was too intimate and you couldn't shake the sense that you wanted to do it justice.

So you continued. It became your secret. The ever-growing bundle of drawings of the Hound. Whenever you passed him in the hall your heartbeat soared, what if he could tell? What if he could sense that you carried him around? Glimpses set on parchment.

He was handsome. Fine, ugly by most people's count, but he was. No one else had a face you could study endlessly and never tire, but he did.

One evening you set out, it wasn't even to find him. Princess Myrcella wanted you to draw one of the birds in the garden for her little brother. The bundle of Hound-drawings just came with. They had grown into a source of comfort and shame. What if some servant found them? What if he was told? You'd die. If not by his hand, your own heart would just die right there on the spot.

Clegane shouldn't even have been there. The garden wasn't for him.

The collision was brutal... well, brutal for you. It didn't as much as budge him. Clegane remained a tower of darkened steel and you became a mess of cloth, parchment, powdered coal and a broken brush.

As you gathered the drawings you felt his gaze burning into your neck. Was it too late to tattle on the guard who wanted him drawn unburnt? Better him than you.

Clegane said something. You didn't hear, not while you talked over him and past him. You couldn't even retell what was said, you just talked and talked while you fled like a scorched rat.

Dorne? Sothoryos? Perhaps you could board a ship sailing toward the Jade Sea? Forsake your name and house and simply disappear. Yes, a sound plan. A fine plan.

Clegane didn't find you right away. Two days passed before he caught you in the hall, heading towards the Princess to deliver her drawing. There was no question, just a command: "Talk." You'd never been so quiet and so he shook you and repeated the command. "I was bored," you said, "and you're difficult to draw, interesting to draw. I haven't shown them to anyone... you could have them if you like or I'll destroy them if that's any better."

Clegane said nothing. He just released you and once again you scurried away like a scorched rat.

By nightfall a knock filled your bedchamber. Before you even opened the door, the stench of wine and ale seeped through the cracks.

Clegane didn't say a word as he stormed inside. You didn't even manage to tell yourself a prayer that it was drink that reddened his face. Rage, hot and black, filled his grey eyes. "That the lot of you do? Pissing yourself with fear before me and snicker behind my back," he spat, "interesting." "You are interesting," you answered meekly.

The chair let out a crack as his body slammed down upon it. The laughter thick in his throat. "Draw then. Go on, if it's any good I might let you live."

So you drew him. Clegane never told you if he thought the drawing any good, but surviving that night was answer enough.

Strangely enough, you hoped he'd come again. You'd take more time, allow yourself to admire him. Just for a moment.

[tired-biscuit]

I've been thinking of "ex-husband kiba". Do you think he'd be massively jealous if you started dating again. He starts arguing with whoever you're dating about who can fuck you best and it ends with you being spitroasted between the two while they both turn this into a figurative (and literal) dick measuring contest on who can last the longest. You're not even part of the conversation anymore and it seems like you have a penchant for dating the stubbornest men possible.

oh my god yeah, it’s that stupid pride of his!

the funniest thing would be if you started dating a guy that would resemble him a lot both in looks and personality and he’d get all conceited and would make sure to sneer and point it out to you.

maybe he knocks on your door one evening because he’s ‘come to pick up the rest of his stuff’ or whatever lame excuse he has to offer you, but instead of doing that, he ends up pushing past you and is walking around the place like it’s his own home — because it used to be at some point — and your date is also there and he’s looking at him all sorts of confused, while kiba is just quarrelling with you and is just side-eyeing the poor dude, like, “really? you couldn’t find anyone else than a cheap copy-paste version of your goddamn ex-husband? tsch… well, i guess i can’t say i’m all that surprised, honey.”

and he’s clearly so fucking pissed and is feeling jealous out of his mind, but he’s hiding it behind arrogance because he’s just that type of man… so he keeps calling you all these sweet pet names that he’s well aware make your heart jump in your chest even whilst he’s quietly arguing with you, and still keeps on referring to you as his wife even if you’re officially divorced, and he’s wearing that t-shirt you always said you liked on him because of the way it hugs his shoulders just right...

i think if you would somehow end up in a threesome with him and your date, he’d make sure to brag about how he knows exactly where to touch you to make you cum the fastest and what parts of your body are the most sensitive. and if we’re talking spitroast, then he makes sure that’s his cock is the one you’re sucking so that he can look you straight in the eye and smile that wretched grin that you fell in love with all those years ago.

he wants to slam you so bad, but he’s spiteful and he holds a grudge, you know? so he’ll rather fuck your throat and will watch someone else fuck your pussy if it means that he gets to provoke the shit out of you as a result.

also, he’ll make you choke on his dick to stop you from moaning if your date actually manages to hit that sweet spot inside you.

[onedaughterofman]

Enough (Papa Emeritus IV x g/n reader)

Summary: No matter what he does, Terzo's shadow always follows him.

Tags: References to the Grammys, cussing, self-esteem issues, fluff and a bit of angst, emotional hurt/comfort. Short fic.

A/N: The official Grammy's account posted Ghost's nomitation for "Call me little sunshine" using Terzo's pic instead of Popia. THAT'S A FUCKING CRIME. MY MAN DESERVES BETTER AND I WILL NOT BE SILENCED.

Anyway, angst fuel.

“Those… motherfuckers!”

Copia paces around the room, arms gesticulating in every direction as he rants. It is unusual to see him so irritated, upset. A part of you wonders why something so foolish seems to bother him that much.

“They know nothing, Papa,” you whisper, letting out a deep sigh when he continues to walk around the room. “It’s just a stupid picture.”

“No! It’s not!”

The yell takes you by surprise. Your brows furrow high on your face, as his voice becomes softer, full of air when he continues. “It’s… fucking not.”

Something is wrong. Copia never yells, especially not at you. The guilt on his face obscures his factions, causing the wrinkles on his forehead to deepen as he walks in your direction. Kneeling in front of you, he places his hands on your knees.

When Copia looks up again, there's a faint glow on his eyes. “I’m ashamed, amore. Perdonami, ti prego.”

It's impossible to reject his apologies when his head meets your thighs, heavy with the weight of his worries. Copia doesn't seem to mind being on the hard floor, because he maneuvers his body to rest in a comfortable embrace as his arms wrap around your abdomen.

In a silent manifestation of your forgiveness, your fingers card through his disheveled hair, nails lightly scratching at his scalp. Copia lets out another audible sigh before you speak up. “This is not about them using Terzo’s picture instead of yours, right?”

For a long moment, he doesn’t reply. Then, gradually, his head shakes. You can’t inspect his face, but the way he clings tighter to you is a visible indicator of his distress. His muscles are tense, almost as if he's getting ready to bolt out of the room at any second. “Haven’t I…” Copia begins, inhaling. “Haven’t I given enough?”

There's nothing that can prepare you for the shock that fills your core when you realize he's silently crying. The tears cling to the corners of his eyes when he looks up to you, a sad furrow on his brows. His mouth is tilted downwards, lip trembling with every sob that he refuses to let out.

Before you manage to state anything, Copia continues. “I did everything they demanded, everything they told me to. And it’s not enough. It’s never enough.”

Oh. Now, you understand better. This goes way beyond a picture or even a nomination. Copia is insecure, as he has always been, way before he became Papa. “The Academy knows nothing. It’s just a stupid award.”

“Terzo won it. I didn’t. And… it’s not only about it. I’ll never be enough for the old man, or for Sister. Fuck, she can’t even call me Papa. I’m worthless, I’m a failure! I'll never be more than just a… cheap copy of Terzo.”

Copia hides his face on your thighs again, body shaking with heartfelt anguish. You know how much this wounds him, how hard the comparison between him and the other Papas have eroded his already poor self-esteem.

It doesn't make sense to you. Yes, it might be true he’s different than his predecesors, but he’s so talented and wonderful in your eyes. If only he could see, you think. If only he could perceive himself the same way you see him. When he’s on the stage, singing in front of a thousand of fans, he shines brighter than any other star in the dark sky. And oh, how much you love to be near him, to bask in his light and walk by his side.

Without hurrying, your arms embrace him back as much as you can. Your palms caress his back, up and down his spine, until you feel his breathing become less shallow, only a bit less shaky. “Papa,” you begin, voice in a whisper. “I can’t speak for the rest, but I know one thing.”

His cheeks are damp when you grab his face, forcing his gaze to meet yours. There are dark traces of smudged paint on his skin, spots you clean with the pad of your thumb. “I love you, and don't care about what Sister, Nihil or anybody out there thinks about you. I understand if you have doubts, but please don’t talk like that about the man I’ve fallen in love with.”

Gradually, Copia’s gloved hands cover yours. His eyes are glossy, immense and brimming with emotions that swirl inside his pupils. He’s speechless, mouth slightly agape as he struggles to find the words he wants to say.

“There’s one thing about my man. He’s wonderful to me, so talented and loving,” you continue, letting your fingers trace his face. “Please, be kind to him. Try loving him as much as I do.”

For a long moment, Copia remains silent. Then, his head falls back to your lap as his arms embrace your abdomen again. “I can’t promise anything,” he whispers, like a secret only meant for you to listen. “But I’ll try if you promise you’ll never leave me. Stay with me, forever.”

A soft smile stretches your lips as you nod. “Only if you stay with me, then.”

He does. For long minutes to come, he stays kneeling in front of you, lost in your tender embrace.

Ps: I wrote this in one sitting before going to sleep. Ghost deserves so much better when it comes to awards.

[anxresi]

Brace yourselves, folks… We’re about to enter the dark, dreary and sometimes disturbing world which is Thomas Astruc on Twitter. 😧

Those possessed of a weak disposition, prone to nausea or an complete intolerance to utter bullshit may want to turn back now. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. (but still leave me a ‘like’, if you’re feeling generous 🙏)

Anyway, what ‘delights’ has this stand-up guy, this pioneer of mediocre cartooning, this dude on the cusp of arguing with little kids on Twitter been sharing with us, the great unwashed, at this present time? Let’s run through a brief checklist of the ‘highlights’, shall we?

*Telling people the upcoming Miraculous movie is what the fans ‘want’ but the show is what we ‘need’ (whatever THAT means, typically modest reaction from the epitome of humbleness himself).

*Saying that anyone who DARES criticise the show should ‘keep it to themselves’ or they’ll be ‘blocked for spreading negativity about the artists’ (dude thinks he can police Twitter… good luck with that!)

*Informing fanfiction writers that their work is ‘pointless’ and the only people who know what they’re doing are him and his team (If you mean ‘How To Destroy A Franchise In Five Easy Seasons… I guess he’s right)

But his favorite topic (seriously, check out his replies… we’re talking more than 50% here) concerns a fictional teenage girl he constantly decries but can’t seem to get enough of moaning about. It is of course… oh let’s face it. You know the answer to that one already. ROLL THE TWEETS!!

Yep, you guessed it. Apart from the OP being uncommonly accurate in their opinion, now apparently ‘Chloe’ has become The Not-So-Great Bearded One’s new insult of choice for anyone who dislikes what’s been done to the show. Poor ‘Karen’ never stood a chance… 😢

What a mature, grown-up type chap he is! I have no idea why he’s no longer referred to as ‘Hawk Daddy’ in polite circles, and instead called ‘Man Baby’. Just look at him, REALLY giving it a bunch of teens on Twitter who DARE imply his show is nothing but da best! You go, Thomas! Go change your dirty diaper, that is. 🤢

So, abandoning all her subtleties and nuance , reducing her to a shrieking monster and choosing to actively give characters who have arguably done FAR WORSE throughout the series much better endings means they ‘wrote it well’? Gosh, maybe getting an F in English stands for ‘Fabulous’ after all!

Guess in Thomas’s somewhat warped worldview, everyone who doesn’t like 💯 of his show from top to bottom should be placed on a plane with their main abuser to be forcibly deported and probably tortured for the rest of their sorry lives. That’ll teach them!

And who cares about stupid stuff like ‘build-up’ or ‘character-development’ if they genuinely were preparing Chloe for… what was that thing he described it as again… a ‘damnation’ arc? Let’s just flip a switch at the end of S3 to turn her into a pathetic caricature of her worst excesses without explanation, then introduce a ‘perfect’ sister out of nowhere to throw all those undesirable traits into sharp relief! And that’s not even getting into that detestable retconning flashback episode… What an absolutely fantastic idea to make everyone hate her as much as Thomas does!

No-one will notice the sudden incongruity here… after all, the average age of their audience is 5-8 so if they just throw excrement like crazed baboons about Chloe at the young audience time and time again caveman-style CHLOE: BAD. EVERYONE ELSE: GOOD the kids will chow it up like cheap chocolate ice cream! The older ones that do kick up a fuss? Who gives a ****. They don’t buy the merchandise, and where would all those hard-working producers if it wasn’t for all that cheap plastic crap?

With considerably less cars, swimming pools and exotic holidays to hard-to-pronounce destinations, that’s where! Let’s keep that bandwagon of shit a-rollin’… 🤑

Ah, now I believe this is that classic tactic otherwise known as ‘gaslighting’. When you say something as a fact over and over again, when the opposite is clearly true. Those of lesser willpower may start to accept it as reality while others (mostly those with functioning eyes, ears and brains)… won’t.

You know who was also good at that gaslighting thing, don’t you? A few clues… A Former (thank God) President? Very orange? Initials DT? Yep, that guy.

…And coincidentally, someone Thomas has been known to compare Chloe (14 year old girl, let’s not forget) to regularly. I mean, with THAT kind of accolade hanging over her head from the guy who created her, how could she ever fail?

See? What a great influence he is on the young too! Now he’s got his own handpicked gang of sycophants out of the street labelling anyone with the slightest complaint from a)pointing out the animation was slightly better last season or b)saying they miss the old transformation sequences as a ‘Chloe’. I think we’ve found his new favorite insult, and it’s the worst word he can possibly think of. Figures.

I bet he’s putting together a petition as we speak, for an official entry into the dictionary. Fortunately, there’s already one for ‘Thomas’, as in ‘Doubting Thomas’… someone who talks so much nonsense you should disbelieve anything they say. Or Thomas The Tank Engine, because whenever you mention a certain Blonde’s name in his presence, he tends to blow steam, look very heated and… you get the picture. 😆

On top of everything else, now he’s issuing threats. I have to hand it to him though… that’s a pretty good one. NO PLEASE TAKE MY MONEY MY LIFE I’LL EVEN GIVE YOU A FOOT RUB A BACK RUB AND LEARN TO LOVE ZOE ANYTHING BUT THAT NNNNNNOOOOOO….

Seriously guys, we need an immediate intervention. THIS CANNOT BE ALLOWED TO HAPPEN. I’m about to book an emergency flight to France, to barricade him in his office until he promises to never again even entertain the notion of… this. Who’s with me?

(And incidentally while I’m there, does anyone want me to pick them a souvenir? A beret? Frog legs soup? One of those miniature replicas of the Eiffel Tower? Let me know by tomorrow at the latest, and I’ll see what I can do) 😊🇫🇷

[wherefore-whinnies]

how i learned to crochet amigurumi!

this is for @jetset-rain but I thought I might was well just post it to everyone!

I taught myself to crochet back in 2020 for the sole reason that there was a really really cute Wooloo pattern and I wanted it. no other loo would do. so I wanted to share some tips and such!

to get started I got a few things:

a crochet hook, or multiple: I bought a super cheap set of like 10 different sizes on amazon for like $14. (unfortunately I don't know where besides amazon you'd look; at craft stores they'll be brand name and much more expensive.) since you're just starting out and seeing if you like it the quality really does not matter imo. so yeah I'd totally just grab some cheap no-name/knock-off set from somewhere, it's fine. the two hooks I used from the set most often until I replaced them with higher-quality ones were size 3.0mm and 4.0mm. I think 3.0mm isn't a common hook size in North America; when I replaced it I got a 3.25mm hook instead. these hook sizes might also be referred to as size D (3.25mm) and size G (4.0mm). I think for some of my very first attempts I used a 5.0mm hook (size H). so really I would have only needed those 3 sizes.

some cheap yarn from my craft store. the yarn weight I used might be called "medium", "worsted", or just "size 4" (in the UK I think it's called "aran") and it's the most common size at least at my craft store. I just looked for something cheap with a lot of yardage in a colour I liked. I think mine was Bernat Super Value Solid in Lush (green) which was 426 yd - I still haven't run out 3 years later although I'm getting close now. you might want to get two different colours.

stitch markers - these are little things like safety pins that you insert into your stitches to help you keep track of the counts. I think I didn't get any right away but they are very helpful! I think once again the cheapest way to get some is somewhere like amazon unfortunately. you can get a large quantity for a lot cheaper than in craft stores. or you can skip buying some initially especially if you have safety pins or something you can use as a substitute.

a yarn needle - you'll need this to weave in the loose ends of your yarn at the end of a project. I got a couple relatively cheap from my craft store. you can skip buying some initially and just leave all the ends chilling hanging out.

I then proceeded to teach myself stuff off of youtube videos. if you're left-handed like me you can look up specifically left-handed videos or you can just use one of those sites that lets you mirror youtube videos.

this video below seems super familiar and I'm pretty sure it's one of the first videos I ever used.

I also used the video below this for my first ever "project". there's a right-handed version on their channel somewhere.

at first it took me several minutes to make just one single crochet stitch. it was so frustrating and I was like how tf do people just do this (I have pretty poor fine motor skills). but I kept at it!! here is the first square I ever made (following the above video) on the right, and the second square I made on the left:

the next thing I learned was how to do a magic circle so that I could crochet in the round to make amigurumi. I think I used the below video (there is probably also a right-handed version, otherwise you can watch a mirrored version):

and then after that I was ready to make cute creatures! I made a whale following the below video! (also I had to buy safety eyes for this, on amazon again)

and now you have amigurumi!!!

[bethanydelleman]

Difficulties Part 1

I usually keep pretty well to Austen or British literature of the last century, but as Jane Austen is very concerned with the plight of women, I wanted to share two small things that happened to me, that impress upon me the difficulty living in the world as a woman.

I had a job that I really loved at a university in Canada. I was unionized, had unlimited sick days, medical benefits, paid time off, a pension, and reasonable compensation. After about two years at this job I left for maternity leave, which in my country was 1 year at half pay. I was worried however, because my department had a nasty habit of laying off women during mat leave. This would usually be illegal, but research work is all based on grants and contracts, so it can happen more easily in my field than in others.

I was anxious about going back to work, but at the 10 month mark my boss emailed and asked if I could come back early. I agreed, partially because I was bored but also because I was worried I might lose my position if I didn’t go back. So I went back 3 days a week (I had actually started at this job 3 days a week and moved to five over time) and my son went to a great little home daycare. I made it clear to my manager that as I had a 2 hours a day commute, I didn’t want to work more days. I thought she would understand as she had also worked part time when she had young children.

2 months in, I was laid off. I was only 2 months away from my contract becoming permanent, something that happened automatically after 3 years. I also had worked so few hours that it was impossible for me to collect employment insurance. It turned out they just wanted me to cover a three month leave of another staff member.

Now I feel I must justify myself, I was good at my job. When the news got around, I was approached by several people I had worked with who offered themselves as references. One person even swore when she realized she’d have to train someone new on the complicated medical software that I had mastered (just ask a nurse or doctor how user friendly their medical records program is...). Even though they were not required to, many of the doctors I worked with still included my name on their published research papers.

Anyway, we were in a terrible position as a family. My husband and I had just purchased a new house, since my job had seemed secure. I fortunately had about a month’s vacation pay as a buffer, but that was it. My daycare graciously let me take my son out until I found another job, if I had lost my space it would have been worse. I desperately applied for jobs and eventually accepted one with the same employer that was not unionized.

I lost my pension, sick days, medical benefits, and paid vacation and was only given about 2 dollars more an hour in this new job. I never would have accepted it if I hadn’t been so desperate. 

And the worst part is, the people who did this to me were all women. My manager and supervisor were both women. And they didn’t care. The one even seemed surprised that I was angry at the final meeting. She said it was best for the projects. I highly doubt it.

Anyway, this is my little proof that having a uterus and being a mother who wants to spend time with her child still can destroy your career and that you can’t rely on the compassion or humanity of your superiors.

Note: Why do I need medical benefits? I live in Canada, but we have a strange form of universal healthcare that covers all hospital and doctor visits, but not eye, dental, most therapy/mental health care or most medication. So for a person my age at the time, the most commonly covered would be things like birth control, glasses, dental visits, and physiotherapy.

And yes, this creates problems were someone with say, type two diabetes can’t afford their very cheap meds and instead ends up in the ER frequently which is super expensive. We have plans where if you are poor enough you get free medication but it’s a mess and honestly they need to fix it.

[dearestones]

You Earned It (Swindler x Reader)

Warnings: Dom! Reader, Swindler is in the receiving position, fondling, groping, fingering, fluff, reader enjoys flustering Swindler. (Note: Swindler will not be referred to by any name because this takes place pre-canon).

Summary: After dating for a couple weeks, you and your fellow Seal Center coworker take your relationship into intimate territory. 

.

.

.

Your coworker at the Seal Center was a bright eyed woman with a love for cute things and a penchant for optimism. You usually worked the same shifts as her and would often banter in between clients just for the fun of it. A few weeks ago, however, the both of you began to realize that you shared a few more common interests other than the fact that you shared a lot of shifts and sometimes frequented the same convenience stores during lunch breaks. 

The both of you liked watching the same anime, had read the same romance novels that would have made other people cringe with embarrassment, and the both of you had a love for cheap fast food. It was a friendship that endured past discussions on the worst client you had that day to slowly become a long lasting commitment to see who could make the other laugh first or to offer a shoulder to lean on after a particularly hard day.

It didn’t happen slowly and it didn’t happen too quickly either. 

You were in a relationship not just with the coworker from the Seal Center, but with the young woman with the pink highlights in her hair, who could make any situation seem light hearted. She was a gem in trash ridden Kansai and you were loathe to let her go. 

Not that she would ever think about ending your relationship too soon. In fact, she was the one who suggested that you come to her apartment tonight, a mischievous look on her face. You had gone over to her apartment several times over the past few months: once because it was storming and you needed a place to dry off and a few other times when you had first entered into a romantic relationship with her. It shouldn’t have felt intimate as it did, but as she brushed her fingers against your jawline and peppered the corner of your lips with a series of butterfly kisses, you had a feeling that she wanted something more than just dinner. 

You responded in kind to her flirtation, but before you can get farther than kissing her knuckles, a slew of other Seal Center agents begged the both of you to get back to work. 

Your coworker turned red with embarrassment before running to her booth while you simply laughed it off. The both of you were in love, so what?

“You are terrible and you know that,” she scolded. She spooned more broth of her hearty soup into your bowl, her spoon noisily clinking against her worn china. She said that she had inherited it from her parents before she had set out to live by herself. For something that was familial, it sure was cute and floral, quite like her actually. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you wanted others to see us kissing and stuff.”

“And stuff,” you echoed teasingly. “Is it my fault that I want to show off how wonderful a girlfriend I have? You’re so adorable!” 

You joked, but you still paused in the middle of slurping your noodles just so that you could pinch her cheeks. As per usual, the young woman’s cheeks grew to an alarming shade of red, almost as if you had plucked roses instead of harassing her poor face. She swatted your hands away, but your eyes were quick: you saw that she was holding back a smile. 

The both of you bantered some more. Apparently, there was a rumor that one of the more volatile criminals (Akudama, if you recall), had taken to roaming the streets after getting out of prison. You weren’t too sure which of the infamous degenerates were wreaking havoc, but there was a citywide curfew that was steadily becoming more and more stringent as time passed. If the police department weren’t going to do their jobs, then you knew for sure that the Executioners were going to be right on their tail. It was a horrible way to spend the time conversing, but your girlfriend was intrigued and you weren’t all too squeamish about the subject matter.

Pretty soon, the both of you were hard at work with cleaning up the table and washing the dishes. Since you were a guest, your girlfriend insisted on washing the bowls and glasses for you. You didn’t object because seeing her so determined to get her way was frankly all too cute for you to handle. Instead, you simply dried them before placing them on their respective racks while she hummed a little tune under her breath. With both of your combined efforts, the kitchen was set to rights and she was simply washing the suds and grit off her hands before you made your move. 

Carefully, without her noticing, you walked behind her and placed your arms around her middle, your head coming to rest at the crook of her neck and shoulder. She startled a little before relaxing under your touch. She mumbled about wanting you to wait until she was done washing your hands, but you were adamant. Besides, washing her hands didn’t have to take too long, now did it? 

“Away with you,” she sniped as she turned off the water and then used your head as a way to dry off her hands. 

“Wow. How hygienic of you.” 

Before she could even think about wriggling away from your grasp or refuting the accuracy of your statement, you ran your hands up and down her sides, paying close attention to how she tensed before relaxing once more. Tonight, she was wearing comfortable sleeping wear, an oversized shirt that hid her plush thighs but left her shoulders wide open. Before she cooked dinner, you saw her struggling to reach a pan from one of her cupboards and you saw that despite how high her shirt would ride up her thigh, she wasn’t wearing anything but a plain pair of underwear underneath. Out of respect, you hadn’t said anything, choosing only to help her with her selection. 

Well, mostly out of respect. 

She probably knew this already, but it was worth mentioning now. You were a glutton and after dinner, you were eager to get your dessert. 

You peppered kisses on her smooth skin, careful to drape most of her hair on her left shoulder so that you could gain access to her right side. Meanwhile, you multitasked, one hand cupped her side just underneath her left breast while the other rubbed circles and generously groped her flesh on the right side of her stomach. Despite her slim figure, she was awfully soft.

“If you want to stop, we can,” you whispered gently in her ear. 

You hoped she wouldn’t ask for you to stop. 

A few days ago, she broached the subject of taking your relationship even farther than just kisses and hugs. She wanted you to give her pleasure that she had been dreaming of ever since the both of you had become intimate. At first, you thought that she was joking, but it didn’t take a genius to realize that the red on her cheeks and her darting eyes were because she was so earnest and embarrassed of what she wanted. You were charmed, but you didn’t want her to look so ashamed of her desires. You took her by the hand and expressed just how much you wanted her. It didn’t matter to you if this relationship was going too fast or too slow, what mattered was that you were with her and she was with you. 

She shook her head before molding her back against your chest, her curves fitting just right against you. 

“Bed?” 

She looked up at you with those large, bright eyes of hers and you knew that no matter how much control you had tonight, you were still at her mercy. Something as simple as asking for the bed and you were already ushering her towards your shared destination. It would be cramped, but then again, you weren’t thinking of sleeping that much tonight anyway. 

“How do you want me?” 

Cautiously, you waited on her bed, the coverlet slightly disturbed underneath your added weight. It didn’t take too long, much to your amusement. It seemed that her request from a few days ago didn’t waver. 

With decisiveness that shocked you to near silence, she pretty much shoved you so that you were seated against the headboard before she settled herself against your chest. At first, you were confused. Glad, but confused. Did she only want cuddles, or—?

“Come on,” she giggled as she turned around to give you a sloppy kiss against your cheek. “Like what you were doing before and then we’ll go on from there. How’s that sound?”

You smiled before resuming with your exploration of her body. 

First, you massaged her shoulders and upper back, the kinks that you found there resistant at first before loosening and turning into a relaxed puddle of flesh. She sighed a little as you added more pressure and you pressed your lips against the nape of her neck to encourage her. 

From her shoulders, you pressed down further into her lower back and if she was already sighing her thanks before, she was practically singing your praises. Sitting upright was no longer an option for her; she was practically using you as her rock and foundation. You alone were holding her together. 

After several more minutes of her sleepily collapsing underneath your skillful touches, she turned around again and nipped you on the nose. 

“My back’s fine! What about my front?” She whined, but there was no bite to it. Her voice came out breathy and if you kissed one specific spot where her jaw met her ear, her breath would hitch just a moment too long before she would laugh. “Now you’re just teasing.”

“If I remember, you wanted to get teased.”

“But I also want to feel good.”

“Then I suppose I better get to it.” 

WIthout so much as a by your leave, you cupped both of her breasts through the thin cloth of her shirt, silently appreciating the fact that she also wore no bra. Honestly, she played the role of innocent maiden well enough, but you could have sworn that she was seducing you on purpose. It took everything in you not to let your gaze wander too often down her chest, but you were only human. 

And you had needs. 

You ghosted the pads of your fingertips around her soft nipples, grinning to yourself when you felt them stiffen and peak under your touch. The surrounding plushness of her flesh easily yielded under your touch. Not too plump and not too small, just right. You leaned a little over her left shoulder to glance down at how her breasts filled your palms so neatly.

With one hand palming her breast, you allowed the other to raise her shirt up and over her chest. You didn’t bother taking the shirt completely off, you raised it up enough so that you could see how flushed her skin would get from your ministrations. 

Such a lovely shade of pink…

You wanted to see more, but first—

You flicked her delightful nubs on her chest, eliciting a feverish little whine from her throat. 

“Are you satisfied yet?” 

In retaliation, your girlfriend gripped your wrist before tugging it towards her stomach. You took the hint, opting to massage her soft flesh by kneading and rolling her skin. You alternated between light and soft touches, the harsh tug and pull of practiced impatience and mounting lust. However, you were in want of more stimulation, more evidence that you were giving her as much pleasure as you could possibly give. 

Your dear little girlfriend needed to make more sweet noise for you.

You bit down a little at the sensitive skin on her neck, pinched her nipple, and allowed one of your hands to meander towards the inside of her thighs. The result was immediate: you could have sworn that she was on the precipice of her peak, but with the way her chest heaved and breasts wobbled, her panting moans slightly muffled by the palm of her hand, you knew that you could take her higher. 

With one palm at her breast alternating between gently kneading and pawing hungrily and your other hand rubbing circles that gradually grew larger and larger and nearing closer to the soft line of her cotton panties, you continued to cherish her. She was so soft and so warm. A pretty little instrument that yielded to your every touch, a symphony that was building up to a thunderous crescendo. 

“P-please… I need—” She squirmed under your touch. How long had you been touching her? The fact that she held out so long without verbally begging was a travesty. You would have to get her worked up quicker next time. 

You stopped touching her completely and leaned fully against the headboard. 

“Do you need me to stop?” Despite the gravity of the question, your tone was cheeky and just a little on the sly side. “We can always just cuddle,” you sang a little to yourself when you realized that your dear little girlfriend had purposely slumped herself against your chest and was wrestling with your hands to be placed back on her body. You hadn’t noticed before, but her body was not only hot and bothered but also flushed with a light sheen of sweat. 

“Come on,” she whined. “Stop playing with me already and get on with it!”

“If I recall correctly,” you said as you tugged her chin forward for a kiss, “you wanted me to play with you. Begged me for it, actually.”

The red on her cheeks was sublime, but the angered exasperation made your blood thicken like no other. 

In a warning tone, she said your name and this time, you complied with no complaint. 

This time, both of your hands paid more attention to the lower half of her body. Her poor little breasts would have to make do with her slender hands. 

“That’s right,” you urged her, “touch yourself and pretend that I’m not here.”

She groaned, but began playing with her breasts as one of your hands parted her inner thighs and your other hand gently stroked up and down the last of the barriers that would have separated you from entering her heat. A heat, you found, to be staining the fabric of her panties. You leaned over just a little and saw that she was wearing underwear that was dyed a soft shade of pink. 

You wondered if her core would be as pink as that panty of hers.

You’d find out later, you decided.

You put all of your focus on letting your finger glide gently up and down the cotton fabric. It already felt damp from all of the foreplay from before, but the more you allowed your fingers to ghost along her hidden folds and creases, the more her hidden cavern began to give way to your curiosity. 

Meanwhile, you were rewarded with the sweet lullaby of her labored breathing and muttered nothings as she continued to arch into your body, her scent a heady feeling that clouded your senses. 

Eventually, you were no longer satisfied with just acquainting yourself with her undergarments. With the way your girlfriend was basically now a puddle, it didn’t take much coaxing for her to spread her legs wide, to raise her hips, and to shimmy her panties down the smooth expanse of her thighs all the way down to her dainty little feet. 

“Show time,” you couldn’t help but whisper in her ear, to which she could only scream in frustration before she was silenced by your finger entering her core. 

Her heat swallowed you, the walls clenching tightly around your digits. She was wet, so very wet. When you had the audacity to withdraw from her core, you felt that your fingers were coated with her juices. If you were to put two fingers together, you could see the thin strand of her slick holding together until they abruptly broke apart. A fragile little spiderweb that was as sticky as it was white. 

Your fingers explored her folds, caressed her mound, and you set to work trying to find the precious little pearl. It took a few moments, but soon, you pressed at a certain little nub that was so deceptively soft and small, but so powerful. The instant you found out that your girlfriend was reacting more and more to when you pressed and circled around that particular area, you were overtaken with a sense of accomplishment: you found her clitoris. 

With two fingers thrusting in her tight heat and your thumb pressing circles on her clit, you were free to pinch and prod at her breasts. Those poor mounds of flesh were left neglected for so long! It was about time you remedy that.

As your hands worked in tandem with each other, she became more and more desperate. Her hips rutted back and forth against you, her sharp gasps of breath punctuated by the occasional moan of pleasure. Even her legs, which she had splayed out so lazily from before, began to fight to close from the mounting pressure. If it were earlier, you would have simply teased her again, but this was it. 

Her body was a delicate instrument that you were attentive to perfecting. You couldn’t just stop now—you had to make sure that she would reach her peak. 

You squeezed her tightly against yourself and she seemed to undulate under your hold, her writhing proving to be only a small disturbance against your masterful strokes. Eventually, you focused all of your attention on her precious pearl, taking note that if you continued rubbing harder and faster—

“P-please—” She reached behind herself so that she could tug at whatever she could find—the headboard, her sheets, or you. She was grasping now, writhing, all in the pursuit of pleasure that you were tasked and honored to give her. “Please!”

“Please what?” Your voice came out a little husky and labored, your ministrations taking up most of your focus. “I can’t help you—” You sucked in a deep breath when you felt her rock her hips against you. “—i-if you don’t say it.”

“I’m gonna—! I’m—!” 

You smiled into the skin of her neck, the sweat an aphrodisiac and a reminder that you reduced her to this begging, pleading, beautiful mess. 

“What?” You couldn’t help but goad. “What will you do?”

She screamed pitifully at you and because you weren’t a complete monster, you shushed her gently. 

“That’s all right, I’ll make you say it next time.” You pinched that sweet bundle of nerves and whispered straight into her ear, “You earned it. Cum.”

And just like that, her body seized and she let out a silent moan. Her face looked so elegantly beautiful and adorable, pure blissful torture on her features. Her eyes rolled back and her mouth gaped wide in sudden pleasure. 

You let her ride out the waves of pleasures by rubbing circles around her clit, taking time to pump in and out of her wet core just to feel the lovely sensation of her squeezing you. 

By the time she was coherent again, you had taken to kissing the nape of her neck and patting down her pink highlights back into a somewhat organized mess of hair. 

“That was…” She looked blissfully happy at that moment, but when she caught sight of your smile, she ducked away and grabbed one of her pillows before hitting you with it. “Why do you look so smug! I haven't done anything for you yet!”

“Oh? You want to do something for me?” 

Your eyes ran shamelessly up and down her body. Her shirt had once again fallen towards her hips, but you could still make out the peaks of her nipples through the thin fabric and if you looked closely at her thighs, you could see the faint sheen of her cum mixed with sweat. 

“Yes.” 

She looked so resolute at that moment, you couldn’t help but feel touched. You launched yourself forward and caught her in a kiss that was less sexual and more romantic, allowing yourself to enjoy the moment before pulling back.

“Are you sure? I think I’ve worn you—” She looked ready to throttle you for suggesting that all that pleasure was enough to put her to sleep, but you couldn’t help but tease. “—out and I wouldn’t mind waiting or doing it another—” 

Before you could continue, your girlfriend—bright, beautiful, and devious—pinned you to the bed and rutted her sopping, wet, and warm heat over your crotch. For the first time that night, you were stunned into submission. 

She had control now.

Her pretty pink lips ghosted over your neck and down to your clavicles, gently butterfly kisses landing every which way before she descended upon your chest and began sucking your nipple through your sleepwear. 

“Let me do something for you.” She looked up at you with those piercing eyes of hers, half lidded, but fully immersed in what lustful desires she had in store for you. “After all,” she flicked one of your nipples and you bit back a pleasured gasp, “you earned it.”

.

.

.

Note: Dedicated to @hisredhysteria. Thanks for believing in me. 

If you want to donate a Ko-Fi, feel free https://ko-fi.com/devintrinidad.

AKUDAMA DRIVE MASTERLIST

[zibdigitalnz]

Strategic Savings: How to Find Quality Affordable SEO Services

In today's digital landscape, having a strong online presence is essential for businesses of all sizes. Whether you're a small startup or a large corporation, SEO services can be the key to boosting your visibility and reaching your target audience.

However, with so many options available, it can be challenging to find quality services that won't break the bank. In this guide, we'll explore some strategies for finding affordable SEO Aucklandservices that deliver results without sacrificing quality.

The Importance of SEO

Before diving into the tips for finding affordable SEO services, let's first understand why SEO is crucial for your business. Search Engine Optimization (SEO) is the process of optimizing your website to improve its visibility in search engine results pages (SERPs). By ranking higher in search results, you can attract more organic traffic to your site, increase brand awareness, and ultimately drive more conversions.

Investing in SEO services is not just about saving money; it's about investing in the long-term success of your business. While it may seem tempting to cut corners and opt for cheap services, doing so can often lead to poor results and even damage your online reputation. That's why it's essential to find a balance between affordability and quality when choosing an SEO provider.

Tips for Finding Quality Affordable SEO Services

1. Set Clear Goals and Budget

Before beginning your search for affordable SEO Auckland services, take the time to define your goals and budget. What are you hoping to achieve with your SEO efforts? Are you looking to increase website traffic, improve search engine rankings, or boost online sales?

Having clear objectives will help you narrow down your options and find a service provider that aligns with your needs and budget.

2. Research and Compare Providers

Once you've established your goals and budget, it's time to start researching affordable SEO service providers.

Take the time to explore different companies, read reviews, and compare pricing packages. Look for providers that have a proven track record of success and offer transparent pricing with no hidden fees.

3. Look for Customizable Packages

Many SEO service providers offer customizable packages tailored to meet the specific needs of your business. Instead of opting for a one-size-fits-all solution, look for providers that are willing to work with you to create a personalized strategy that fits your budget and goals.

This way, you can get the most bang for your buck and ensure that you're investing in services that will deliver results.

4. Consider Outsourcing to Freelancers or Agencies

In addition to traditional SEO agencies, consider outsourcing your SEO needs to freelancers or smaller agencies. These providers often offer more affordable services than larger agencies, as they have lower overhead costs.

Plus, working with freelancers or smaller agencies can provide you with more personalised attention and flexibility.

5. Ask for References and Case Studies

Before committing to an SEO agency, ask for references and case studies from past clients. This will give you insight into the provider's track record of success and their ability to deliver results.

Don't be afraid to reach out to past clients directly to ask about their experience working with the provider and the results they achieved.

6. Don't Sacrifice Quality for Price

While it's essential to find affordable SEO Auckland services that fit within your budget, it's equally important not to sacrifice quality for price.

Remember that investing in SEO is an investment in the future success of your business, so prioritize providers that offer quality services and deliver measurable results.

Conclusion

Finding quality SEO services doesn't have to be a daunting task. By following the tips outlined in this guide and prioritising providers that offer transparent pricing, customisable packages, and a track record of success, you can find an SEO partner that meets your needs and budget.

Remember, investing in SEO is investing in the long-term success of your business, so choose wisely and watch your online presence soar.

Source By - https://tinyurl.com/3d4st2wp 

[venalier]

TO SHATTER A HART. — ♡

          they say that, centuries ago, this ground had been watered with historic blood. forced to march alongside the rest of the camp ( but are they soldiers or prisoners? or sacrifices? what is their place in this strange war they’d been thrust into without context or the chance to regain their bearings? ), she’s given just enough time to mull over what might await them and take in the daunting unknown that lay as interminable and inevitable as the endless stretch of deceptively picturesque fields. since they’d woken up on this foreign ground, it’s been nothing but struggle after struggle — first the inexplicable illness that had gripped half their lot and vanished with equally little explanation, then to be rounded up and walked into the encampment as ‘ guests ’, though she knew better than that. the skirmish that had suddenly broken out, the lives that had been taken — and restored?

          now this: the solemn line of demoralized yellow marching in grim silence; she’s been in an army before, but it wasn’t anything like this. ( she’d been among comrades, at least friendly faces. ) why are they here to fight an empire none of them have a quarrel with? if, as the shared dreams imply, they had been sent here for a reason, then why isn’t anything coming together at all?

                                maybe her biggest fear in all of this,                        is that they’ll just die here, for a cause none of them agreed to,                                                  and everything— it’ll all be for nothing.

          now this: a disturbance in the ranks near the front; she grabs her naginata on instinct, anticipating an ambush. already? men shout; shouts turn to screams; the formation dismantles and soldiers start to break away; she catches one’s panicked face as he shoves her aside to escape. are they so weak-willed—

          now this: no, not weak-willed, because the sight that greets them isn’t the sea of adrestian and armor-clad red that they’d expected to be waiting for them, but something grotesque: a swelling mass that gurgles and snarls as it rapidly grows. one of their own? she spots the last tatters of gold and black before they are swallowed into a pattern of camouflage hide as would be found on the coat of a hind. it’s familiar dark curls, then, that twist and harden and elongate into ten, twelve, twenty point antlers of branching, macabre black, when she realizes the chilling truth;

                                       now this: ❝ ... claude? ❞

          it takes shape before all of their eyes: a monstrously large stag ( just like the visions! ) that would be only that if not for when it turns its face towards them to reveal a nightmarish chimera of human and cervid and rows of demonic teeth. but it’s the gleeful malice frozen in bloodshot eyes that she thinks she’ll never forget.

          teeth chattering, she wills herself to push past the shock, to pull her weapon from her back and into her hands. don’t shake. shigure and a few others she knows are nearby; they'd faced horror together before. and they’d made it out then. ❝ if the others won’t fight— ❞ palms cinch firm around polished wood, ❝ —then we’ll have to. ❞ more and more of the so-called alliance army scatters around them; is this what that prophetic voice had been leading them to? are they the only ones willing to stand their ground in the end?

          the stag rears — ❝ don’t let it escape! ❞ — and she charges;

caeldori misses! ( 4 )

          blade raised and legs crouched, ready to leap and bring a first shattering blow down on the distortion’s broad shoulders and give her allies an opening. but she never gets off the ground, doesn’t expect magic,

cervid husk attacks! ( 14 )

          for forelegs to gash at the air and a burst of wind to knock her solidly backwards, eyes squeezed shut and tumbling painfully through the grass, only years of training keeping her from losing her weapon in the process. when she slows, a sharp twinge from her torso suggests she’d bruised or torn something, maybe, in that poorly timed attempt. ugh, embarrassing. she’s supposed to be better than this. butt of the pole to the ground, she pushes to her feet, steadies herself. a monster that big would be tough to fight on foot. just her luck, to end up in a clash like this for her life without a pegasus.

next » @ceaselessblade

[nukyster-blog]

Losers, cigarettes and bad taxidermy:

Summary:  This is not the greatest fanfiction, this is just a tribute. No, all jokes aside, total comfort fic in which Eddie meets up a total fruitcake, tries to master the art of taxidermy and oh hell, might fall head over heels. Warning: drug use, no surprise there. probably some hurt/comfort, cursing, mention of mental illness, depression and some teenage touchy. 

Chapter 1)The curious incident of the wolf four past midnight:

Necrotic, Eddie scribbled the word down and could practically hear the obnoxious voice of Ms. O’Donnall’s sneering in his ears about his illegible spelling.

She may have a point, but tonight Eddie blamed it on the dead-beat battery of his flashlight. He had to change position, the tombstone was digging into his spine and his ass was cramping up from the cold pedals.  ‘Necrotic, necrotic, what rhymes with necrotic?’ Eddie tapped the back of his pen rapidly against his front teeth and glanced down on his notebook; ‘psychotic, gothic, erotic?...’ he hummed, now biting down onto his pen, ‘but there is nothing erotic about necrosis… unless you are into necrophilia!’ For a moment, Eddie sensed he’d found the holy grail, scribbling down erotic, adding a double line, but then sighed and moaned. Everyone already called him a freak, if he mustered up the courage to write a song about screwing a corpse, well, that would only add fuel to the fire. 

So, a thick line scratched through both necrotic and erotic. With dread, Eddie glanced down at the idle process of tonight’s creative session: about four incoherent lines and two pages of doodles. 

That and the impending backache from hell made him reconsider his decision. Seriously, writing lyrics at Hawkins cemetery seemed like the most metal thing ever, but in hindsight he should have checked tonight’s weather report. For the month April, the nights were cold as fuck.

‘I bet Bruce Dickinson never suffered from pneumonia after writing a masterpiece’, Eddie wiggled his toes to get some feeling back into them. His ratty old sneakers were no match for the cold concrete. 

Collecting the courage to get up and walk all the way back to his van, Eddie took off his headphones which had been blaring Black Sabbath ever since the sun went down. 

Ozzy’s voice was replaced with the sounds of midnight. Crickets sang their lullabies, but aside from that and his own breathing, it was quiet. Too quiet, the type of quiet that gets on your nerves and gets you on your toes.

Eddie, metalhead in heart and soul, might have a little difficulty being alone in the dark. 

‘But are you sure you’re alone?’ the little nit-picking voice in the back of his head chimed in, referring to the many horror movies he’d seen. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck spiked.

Yup, Eddie, metalhead in heart and soul, definitely had a problem with being at a cemetery, far past midnight, with a flashlight whose beam started to flicker and dim.

  In a weak attempt to regain his courage, Eddie drew out his Swiss pocket knife, brushed the dust off his notebook, and got to his feet as fast as humanly possible. 

He should have eaten more than one burger, or he shouldn’t have drank a whole six-pack of Primo’s. 

He definitely shouldn’t have drank the whole six-pack, because aside from feeling lightheaded, his stomach started to churn.

Having at least some sense of decorum, Eddie managed to leap over the tombstone, and threw up  all over the concrete, instead of over someone’s final resting place. 

Ozzy was now muffled in the mix of cheap beer and a partially digested burger, because, of course, his headphones dropped and, of course, had to land in the middle of his poor excuse for a dinner. 

Eddie made a face, pulling his headphones up by the cord and shining his flashlight on them to determine the damage. 

It flickered one more time and went out. 

Although his head tried to be rational about the whole situation, you’re in Hawkins, no-one ever dies or goes missing here, c’mon, don’t be such a pansy, his gut told him firmly and directly, shit, shit, shit, abort, abort!

Eddie sided with his gut and ran like hell.

Eddie did not get very far.

Someone really should take it upon themselves to take better care of the cemetery. Seriously, the elderly could break their hips visiting one of their deceased loved ones, here. 

A few of the cobblestones were missing and he tripped. Unceremoniously he went down, face first.

Oh, he was so glad Jeff, Grant, and Garreth weren’t here to see their Dungeon Master bitch and moan in pain, spread over the moss-covered stones of the Hawkins cemetery.  

Ozzy mumbled, Eddie groaned, footsteps echoed sharply around the tombstones, the sound deafening to Eddie’s ears.

He was not alone, there was someone else in the midst of night roaming the grounds of the cemetery. Now, he highly doubted these were girl scouts going rogue. 

Shit, shit, shit!!! His guts boomed in sync with his heartbeat. His sneakers scraped over the gravel, giving him away in a second and Eddie cursed himself, tweaking his eyes closed, because this was definitely one of the moves the stupid blondes made in pretty much every horror movie ever created. 

As the footsteps paused and an animalist howl proclaimed the arrival of something demonic, Eddie knew one thing for sure; he was about to die. 

For a moment, Eddie wondered if it was too late to switch sides- he decided to give it the benefit of the doubt and said a little prayer. 

Reopening his eyes, a wolf towered over him. The mut had seen better days, its fur was thin and even in the darkness of night Eddie could count the ribs. 

It was definitely hungry.

Eddie cried out like a little girl, alerting the beast, who lept about a foot into the air at the high pitched squeal echoing from the mouth of its presumed snack. 

“What the fuck dude?!” One very pissed owner appeared from a line of tombstones. Holding a leash, a girl around his age dragged the wolf away from Eddie by its collar. Her extremely large motorcycle jacket seemed to be swallowing her whole and her pair of army boots nearly disappeared underneath the broad legs of her camo trousers. Eddie eyed her up and down, blinking as he spotted more silver in her ears than he had on his fingers. A nose piercing and heavily eyeliner where the cherries on top. ‘It’s no girl scout, but no serial killer either’, Eddie thought to himself, relieved.   

“Why are you screaming?!” She yelled, accusingly.  

“Why are you walking a wolf around at the cemetery in the middle of the night?” Eddie yelled back, accusingly as well.

“It’s a Husky!” The girl stated, still forceful. 

“A Husky?!” Eddie called out, also not minding his volume. Then, he glanced at the what-he-believed-to-be-a-wolf, which, now that his adrenaline leveled out, was yes, most definitely a Husky. 

“A Husky!” Eddie stated, feeling like a dumb-fuck. “Why are you walking your Husky in the middle of the night, at the cemetery?! Don’t you know it’s against the law to be here after visiting hours?!”

“And what exactly are you doing here, after visiting hours?” The girl questioned, in her defense, asking a good question. 

Eddie felt called out, dramatically brushed off his knees and got up.

“I’m visiting,” Eddie glanced over at the grave beside him, “my uncle Theododris Walker.”

The girl glanced at the grave and back at Eddie: “Theo died in 1864.”

“My great-great-great uncle Theodoris Walker, may he rest in peace,” Eddie stated, placing his right hand atop of his heart. 

Even the Husky didn’t look convinced. Its owner also looked uncomfortable, pulling the dog a bit further away from Eddie.

Eddie tended to have that effect on women. And kids. And on his bad days, the human race in general. 

“I’ll be going then,” Eddie stated as the girl made no effort to make their conversation less awkward.

“Alright,” the girl responded, “goodnight.”

“Yeah, alright, goodnight!” Eddie said back a little ticked off, shoved his headphones over his head instinctively, realized he was smearing chunks of acid burger in his hair, yanked the headphones back off, cursed, sensed how awfully psychotic he must appear, blinked his eyes, noticed the girl just stared at him with big cow eyes, decided there was no way in hell he could smooth this one over, then turned heels and charged in one straight line back to his van.

Without tripping over his own two feet, Eddie dared to call that a humble victory. 

.-.-.

A/N: So yeah, this will be a total comfort-fic, we all know why. Heads Up for a slow-burn, metal music, drugs and hurt/comfort, because that’s what I need after the last episode of Stranger Things. 

Like to read your thoughts, Thank you so much my kickass beta: @sarahh-jane

Xoxoxo Nukyster 

[mintugiyuu]

> here’s the final part of your request @kyojoroo ! I’m so sorry it’s in two different parts, but I learned for the first time that these text boxes have a limit lmao, again I hope you enjoy and have a great day/night! <3

༄ we have to stop meeting like this - continued

sfw one-shot

➥ pairing || rengoku kyojurou x reader

➥ au || modern day; college

➥ warnings || cheesy, tooth-rotting fluff with extra cheese

➥ synopsis || the reader keeps bumping into the one and only rengoku kyojurou; only instead of just casually seeing him over and over again, they quite literally bump into him in the most inconvenient ways possible. (cont.)

➥ part one || click here!

༄ the mediterranean sea collection - masterlist

Today had to be one of the worst days in your life. Freezing, drenched, and newly homeless, you tucked yourself onto the bus stop bench. Lucky you, this one didn't even have an awning to protect you from the elements.

The rain had no pity for your predicament as it pelted your body, the light clothing doing close to nothing for you. Summer had just come, yet the night rainfall seemed to have brought an unexpected chill.

Not to mention the suitcase and duffle bag you had with you were now also getting soaked.

You could only hope nothing was too waterlogged.

Your hand did little to protect your dying phone from getting wet as you tried to search for the nearest place to stay. Motel, hotel, air B'N'B; anything in range to get you off the streets for the night.

You had a feeling this would happen, and boy were kicking yourself for not seeing the red flags and preparing sooner.

Not having enough savings for a dorm, you had signed a contract with the residents of an apartment to rent out one of the rooms for cheap.

The agreement only lasted for two semesters, but they had promised that you'd be able to renew it once summer rolled around.

"Promise my ass." You grumbled, remembering how the original owner had gotten a partner. In return, they refused to let you sign another contract so they would have space for the "love of their life".

You saw the signs; you saw how their stuff slowly moved into the apartment and all the time they were spending there.

You just didn't think they'd be shitty enough people to kick you out the moment your contract ended.

A gust of icy wind rolled through, causing another shudder to rack your body. The closest place wasn't in walking distance, and it was far to late for the buses to be running. Sighing, you shut off your phone and closed your eyes.

You had resigned yourself to walk the several blocks to the nearest 24/7 fast food place to at least get out of the rain.

That was until the rain fall suddenly stopped beating down on you. The rain couldn't have stopped though, you could still hear it. You blinked your eyes open and looked up, surprised to what - or more accurately, who - you saw.

"...Kyojurou?"

Standing there in all his warmth and glory, Kyojurou looked down at you with concern, holding a bright red umbrella over your soaked form.

He couldn't seem to help the small smile that graced his lips at the sound of his first name.

"I'd be happier that you finally used my name if you didn't look so sad and drenched."

A humorless snort escaped your lips as you hugged yourself, shivering slightly. "Timing always has my side doesn't it? I'm just about to head to the closest food place to get out of the rain, so don't worry about it."

"Why?"

"I got kicked out," you shrugged, looking to the ground.

"This late at night?"

"It surprised me too. They found a new roommate and wouldn't let me renew my contract for the next school year, and it just so happens it ended tonight." There was a hint of bitterness in your tone, one that was completely understandable.

Kyojurou's brows furrowed. "They didn't give you a heads up? A two week notice?"

"I'm just lucky they let me pack all of my stuff before I had to leave." You continued to look down at the ground, not seeing the way Kyojurou's face contorted ever so slightly.

He didn't get mad often, but whoever your old roommates are were now on his shit list

"Well that's a shitty thing to do," he stated bluntly, causing you to sputter and blink dumbly at him.

It's been almost a year since you've met the blonde, and in all that time you never once heard him say a single bad word.

"Did you just curse??"

He pretended not to hear, pulling out his own phone to see the time as you mulled over the fact that this sweet ray of sunshine just called someone shitty.

Expression neutralizing as he schemed, he turned back to you. "You don't have to stay in a fast food place for the night."

"Huh?? Are you suggesting I sleep in a box?"

The man smiled, resting a reassuring hand on top of your shoulder, frustration forgotten for now. "You can stay with me!"

"What now?"

Chuckling, he passed the umbrella off to you to hold, beginning to slip his arms out of the jacket he wore. "You can stay with me for the time being until you get back on your feet! Well, us. If you wanted to of course! Sanemi just moved out, so we're looking for a new one regardless."

Baffled at the sudden offer, you started to shake your head, forming the words to decline him. It was too big of a favor, how could you accept that?

He was one step ahead of you, as he always is.

"Before you say anything, no, it would not be any trouble, you're a joy to have around! We can settle the nitty gritty later, let's just get you out of the cold."

"Wait, Kyojurou," you were silenced by a heavy warmth that suddenly engulfed your upper body, including your sight. Moving the fabric from your eyes, you realized it was his jacket.

His once dry clothes was slowly becoming just as soaked as you were as he took back the umbrella, insistently keeping it solely above you.

The gentle way he smiled in combination with the light post that shined behind his head had you convinced he was your guardian angel in disguise.

You hesitantly pulled the jacket closer to your body, not being able to deny how relieving the warmth felt. "But, won't you be cold?"

"My insides are practically pocket heaters, it takes a lot for me to be cold. A little wind and rain won't do anything to me, I promise! Now come on, before you get sick," he insisted as he grabbed your bag, throwing them over his shoulder.

"Little" was an understatement, but you didn't have the energy to argue. It was the middle of the night and you could feel your eyes starting to droop.

Grabbing your luggage to role behind, you let the other wrap his free arm around your form, hand resting on your arm. "Thank you, truly I don't know where to start showing how grateful I am. I owe you big time."

"Never refer to me as Rengoku-san again and I'll call it even!"

A wobbly smile tugged at your lips as you leaned into his side, letting him guide you down the route to his apartment. "You have a deal then, Kyojurou."

The weather broadcasters warned everyone about heavy snowfall, but you couldn’t help but think they could’ve prepared everyone a bit more as you stared out your window and could only see the shadow of snow.

Thank the gods above it was winter break or they’d have to cancel classes, which would just be tuition money flushed down the shitter.

Your train of thought was interrupted by a knock at the door of the bedroom you were in, which was odd because the door was open.

Low and behold, it was your sweetheart of a boyfriend, holding two mugs and using his foot to knock. “I brought hot coco!”

"You don't have to knock, this is your room you dork."

"Our room technically, my dear." He responded smoothly, shutting the door with his foot behind him as he made his way to you.

"Careful not to spill it," he winked, laughing slightly as he handed you your mug.

"Just for that I should," you scoffed playfully, sticking your tongue out at him as you took the drink. The smile on his face was nothing but adoring, finding you to be adorable. You had to look away to dismiss the butterflies that swarmed in your tummy. “Looks like we’re snowed in for a bit. The snow is above the windows.”

Kyojurou hummed in agreement. “I still don’t understand how tiny snowflakes can become so damaging so fast!”

“You’re funny,” you chuckled, taking a sip of the hot beverage. Kyojurou always made the best hot chocolate.

“... UME! I’m glad I can be amusing!” You couldn't hold down the snort at the realization that he wasn't joking, swallowing and shaking your head. You granted him mercy and switched the subject.

“What are the others up to?”

Kyojurou leaned against the sill next to you, shoulder bumping yours affectionately. “Tengen is in the living room playing video games with his girlfriends, Mitsuri is watching a movie in her room and Obanai is watching with her. I think she's also painting his nails from the conversation I overheard while passing by."

“I see.”

The both of you were leaning against the window sill, basking in the comfortable silence. It wasn't common in an apartment full of unique roommates.

Even now you both could hear the loud victory cheer of Suma as Tengen groaned in defeat.

Taking another sip of your drink, you hummed, lifting your head to face Kyojurou. You were going to say something, but that was forgotten as you covered your mouth with your fingers as to not laugh suddenly.

"Hm? Is something wrong?" Your poor oblivious lover had a whipped cream mustache. He tilted his head at you - not unlike an owl - seemingly confused to your sudden shift in expression. You swallowed your laughter down as you placed your drink onto the sill, stepping closer to the blonde.

"No, nothing's wrong. You just have a little something rigghtt..." you reached out to grip his chin gently, swiping your thumb across his top lip to collect the whipped cream. "-there, all gone!"

A pretty, bright red color spread across Kyojurou’s face, wide eyes blinking owlishly at you with his mouth slightly agape. Laughing quietly at his reaction, you licked the cream off your thumb, patting the side of his cheek teasingly.

"You'll catch flies, hun." A click of teeth could be heard as he closed his mouth.

"RIGHT!" He stopped himself to clear his throat, turning to face the window as his usual smile reappeared, though a bit wobbly. "Thank you!"

All you did was hum, a slight mischievous smirk settling onto your face. You were set to happily go back to your drink when you shivered, the chill of the room finally reaching you through your clothes.

Kyojurou caught it from the corner of his eye, turning back to you. “Are you cold?”

You waved him off, shaking your head. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence, you'll just get another sweatshirt.

“I’ll be ok. The hot coco will warm me up in- WOAH!” That plan was thrown out the window when he suddenly scooped you up into his broad arms, smiling determinedly.

"You're not allowed to just continue on being cold, not if I can help it!" The firey man plopped you down onto your shared bed, quickly gathering the collection of fluffy blankets you have accumulated over time.

In the blink of an eye, you were neatly swaddled in said blankets and being held gently to your boyfriend's warm chest. He settled underneath the main blanket, wrapping his strong arms around your body.

“Is that better?” He beamed at you, looking oh so proud of himself.

What did you do to deserve him?

"Much," you all but groaned, snuggling your face into the warmth of his chest. It was like cuddling a big warm marshmallow. “I still can’t understand how you’re so warm.”

“I’m a living-breathing heater, my dear. I’ve explained this before, I’m sure of it.”

You snorted, leaning into his hand as he began to run his fingers through your hair. “I’m not complaining, you’re good to keep around for whenever my hands freeze.”

“I wouldn’t mind one bit," his voice came out softly, planting a warm kiss to onto your forehead. This in turn caused you to melt even further into him, burying your face into his shirt.

Kyojurou laughed with amusement as he turned on the television, looking for something for the two of you to watch for the rest of the evening. You eventually peaked your head out to look at him, wrapping your arms around his middle.

“Hey, Kyojurou?”

“Yes?”

All of his attention was on you. Even in these small moments he looks at you as though you're the most precious human being in the world. And to him, you were.

You hummed, placing a kiss onto his chin. “I’m happy I spilled my drink all over you.”

The small peck had similar effects from the whipped cream incident earlier, though he seemed to snap out of it quicker this time. He smiled brighter, cupping your cheek with his large, warm hand.

“That's an odd way of saying I love you."

This made you pause, the 'L-word' not being used between the two of you yet. “Wait, what?"

He gave you no time to question further as he placed a kiss onto your lips in return, his other hand finding the small of your back to pull you closer.

The initial shock of being kissed faded quickly, your arms finding their way around his neck as you pulled yourself closer. The kiss was short and sweet, yet the passion that Kyojurou lived by was always present.

The kiss came to a pause with you laying on top of his chest, remote forgotten and blankets wrapped around you as you steadied your breathing.

Kyojurou's eyes crinkled slightly with his smile, brushing the back of his hand across your cheek.

"I love you too."

[tech-knowing-hillbilly]

The hillbilly: Music and life in Appalachia

Day 1

When Tr’thl’ia first learned that the ship would be getting humans from a region on Earth that the humans called “Appalachia”, xe were confused. They had only ever met humans that came from cities near coasts, and had heard of what those humans referred to as “Hillbillies” in almost a derogatory tone. xe took it upon xemself to learn about what kind of humans would be joining xem. As xe read, xey started to understand why other humans had been critical of those from that area. Xe read about how that are hadn’t really been very populous due to the terrain, and also learned that because of the lack of infrastructure in that area, many humans that lived there did not get a lot of education due to many families being in poverty, mainly due to the only jobs in those areas being in the coal mines or other jobs that depended on coal. Xe read about events such as the Coal Wars, specifically about the Battle of Blair Mountain, which made xem shudder with sorrow for the lives that were lost. Xe also read about families such as the Hatfield's and McCoy's, which reinforced the stereotype of humans from there being violent and uneducated. Xe resigned xemself to dealing with constant fights and dealing with whomever started each one.

Day 2

When John McKannon walked onboard the G.U.R.V(Galactic Union Research Vessel) Frailing with the others from the mountains, he was surprised to see Security Officer Tr’thl’ia standing there, waiting with what looked like dread and disdain.

“Hello, my name is-” 

“I know who you are, Hillbilly.” Tr’thl’ia stated.” Just know this about my ship. I will not tolerate violence on this ship. If any of you or your friends cause trouble onboard, you will be shot out the airlock mid warp. do you understand?”

“Yes Xir,” John simply replied. What in the absolute fuck was xer problem?

Day 3

The day went, much to xis suprise, without physical incident. There was an incident around the second meal of the day that involved one of the hillbillies, Amos, and one of the other humans, Mike, from a place called “Florida”, in which Mike did some sort of odd whooping noise with their hand over their mouth and bounced around, which xe would later learn is a type of “racial” slur against those of First Nations descent. This caused Amos to start charging toward Mike before being stopped by John. Tr’thl’ia was confused by this, as the research that xe did before hand showed by all accounts that John shouldn’t have stopped Amos and instead should have even joined into the fight.

In the evening, or what could be considered evening on the ship, Tr’thl’ia was making xis rounds when xe heard a sound that xe had never heard before. It was rythmic, strumming sound along with beats that xe could not place, and it seemed to be coming from the rec area of the Hillbillies( they were given their own area as the captain was advised to by Tr’thl’ia). As xe drew closer xe could start to make out words:

My old mistress promised me                                                                                  When she died she’d set me free/                                                                           Lived so long her head went bald,                                                                           I don’t believe she gon’ die at all!                                      

more of the strumming and thudding sounds.

You take yours, and I’ll take mine,                                                                           We’ll go fishing in the summer time!/                                                                       You get a line, and I’ll get a pole,                                                                            and We’ll run down to the fishin’ hole!

Xe was at the threshold of the doorway to their rec room, and saw something that was suprising to xem. All of the hillbillies, save John and Amos were surrounding those two. John was strumming an object in their hands that looked like a disk with a stick on it, and Amos looked to be stomping. Xe let an audible gasp that drew the attention of everyone in the room.

“Are you alright?” John asked.

Yes, I w-was just investigating the source of the noise that I had heard. What were you doing with that object to get that sound?” Tr’thl’ia asked in amazement.

“This? this is a banjo, which is an instrument from Earth that was based on an instrument from Africa. And the noise that you heard is an old tune called ‘Hook and Line’. It’s a song that’s been played in our mountains for years.”John replied.

And those thuds that I heard?”

“That is a type of dance known as ‘Buck Dancing’. It is a dance that is similar to tap dancing , but where tap dancing is more involved with the front of the foot, buck dancing uses the whole of it to act almost as a set of drums for mountain bluegrass.” Amos answered.

“Ah, so is it a form of war chant, or ritual?” Asked tr’thl’ia.

“It is neither, it is a form of entertainment that is popular in the Appalachians due to it being very cheap, and it is good for social bonding.” 

“So that explains why you are all around. But why did Mike make that odd sound towards you, and why did that upset you?”

Amos turned red at that question, looking like he was about to cry , and John cut in for him, speaking in a soft, but firm tone. “He did it because he is a racist piece of shit, that’s why. Amos is Native American. His people where some of the first in the region, and were deeply persecuted back in the day for both their culture and skin color. Many were made to leave the area in an event known as the Trail of Tears. But some of those people did not wish to go on the Trail of Tears, and instead retreated deep into the mountains, for safety. Even still, many people nowadays hold deep prejudices against his people, and others like them. That’s why many of his people hid in those mountains, and joined communities of those that hid there as well for various reasons.”

“I understand now why you had a reaction like that, but why don’t other humans like people from your area? You seem like people that are very accepting from what you have told me.” Tr’thl’ia questioned.

“Because they are not as accepting as they seem. They came from privileged homes, homes with food on the table, parents who were home all the time to be able to answer questions, to help them learned. They are jealous that they do not have the drive to be able to get out of tough situations, like we do. Many of those you see here among us are from families that are broken and poor, with one or both parents gone at any given time. Many of us had days where we wouldn’t eat, because we wanted our younger siblings to be able to have a meal. Hell, many of us are working here TO support our families back home, to fight to keep food on the table. We fight a lot, as you probably have read, because we have to, because we have no other choice but to fight over resources as simple as food. That fighting, brings us together, the struggle brings people in our communities together, as we have all shared that struggle at least once.” John picks up his water glass and takes a sip. “We all here had to work to get out of those hills, for if we didn’t nobody would help us get out. We would all be dead within twenty years.”

Tr’thl’ia listened to the words that John was saying, and really thought them over and began to feel a bit of remorse for the way xe had greeted them earlier.

“I’m sorry,” Tr’thl’ia said softly, “ for the way I greeted you when you came aboard. I was biased by what the other humans had said about your people, and what they would be like, without giving me context as to why you may have to be that way. I didn’t realize that you would have to struggle that much to get out of that area, I thought that you would have all of the resources that you need to do what ever you wanted to do for a job, and that it was your own fault for not leaving.”

John cracked a warm smile at that. “You have no need to apologize for that. Many people have that same reaction to us. What matters is that you have the balls to accept that you were in the wrong and have tried to make some sort of amends. Now, where were we?”

You take hook, I’ll take line,                                                                                     We’ll go fishin’ in the summer time!

(If you made it this far down the story, Thank you! This is my first post, so it is probably a bit rough, but I hope you enjoyed it. Name of the tune mentioned in the story is ‘Hook and Line’ and if you want a good example of both the song and Buck Dancing, check out  Clifton Hicks - Hook and Line (dance accompaniment)! He is very talented and also has many videos on the history of the banjo and the afro-carribean roots of it. He also does lessons on older styles of playing such as Overhand(Frailing, clawhammer) and two finger picking. Thanks again for reading and I hope you enjoy!)

[flowercrown-bard]

For the writing prompts #14. Can��t make move because other person is a rival/enemy (please!)

Thank you so much for the prompt! So...I'm not 100% sure if this still fits the prompt but oh well, I tried

pairing: Eskel/Jaskier

word count: 5k

from this prompt list

summary: Jaskier finds anoynmous poetry that talks about how witchers are unwanted posted on notice boards. Of course he makes it his goal to find the mysterious poet and make them stop. It's too bad that as time goes on and the poet's verses change, it becomes really hard to hate them (new fic with Eskel‘s POV to this)

content warning: self-deprication, angst

Jaskier was known for many a thing. Some people knew him as a talented bard. Others thought of him only as the idiot they had seen jump out of a window to escape a scorned lover’s wrath. The list could go on forever, Jaskier had made sure of that.

But the one thing, everyone without fail would know him for, is that he was fiercely loyal to witchers.

For years he had sung about the White Wolf and his heroics, but lately, ever since that fateful day that he had finally met Geralt’s brother, Jaskier also sang about a different witcher. One who had promised to show him his collection of old poetry that scholars everywhere would kill for. The witcher that was kind and sweet despite what his appearance might suggest. The witcher whom Jaskier couldn’t stop thinking about ever since they had parted.

Briefly, Jaskier had been worried that Geralt might disapprove of Jaskier writing songs about one of his brothers. After all it had just been the two of them for so long. But Geralt didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he smiled a little wider whenever Jaskier crafted verses for Eskel. In fact, he looked at Jaskier as if there was more to it than just professional interest. Which was absolute nonsense, of course. Singing about another witcher was only profitable. It expended Jaskier’s repertoire and what better way to help all witcher-kind than to spread tales about more than just the most famous one of them?

So yes, Jaskier was first and foremost known as a friend to witchers.

Another, lesser known fact about Jaskier was that once he developed a grudge, he would hold onto it for the rest of his life.

Which is why Jaskier was seething with fury when he caught wind of some unnamed poet who apparently made it their life’s work to destroy witchers’ reputations.

What made it even worse that on the day Jaskier found out, he was in high spirits. He had been travelling alone for the past month and had just heard of Eskel – who Jaskier had been looking forward to meeting again since forever – being somewhere in the area. Of course, Jaskier had dropped everything and gone to search every notice board he could find for any clue as to any contracts close by that could have attracted the witcher.

What Jaskier found instead was enough to make his fists tremble with barely suppressed rage. Right there, in the middle of the notice board hung a piece of poetry on some cheap paper.

That in itself wasn’t too bad. Jaskier remembered well the days when he himself had been too shy to openly present his poetry and had resorted to anonymously posting it onto boards, but this – this was the worst thing Jaskier had ever read. The verses spoke of what it meant to be a witcher, of how life one the Path could look like. Some of the words and metaphors used were clear references – or even plagiarism – to Jaskier’s songs about his witchers. But where Jaskier praised and celebrated, this poet snarled and spat at witchers.

At the very least, the handwriting wasn’t too easy to decipher, as if the poet – if one could call them that – hadn’t had much time to write this. It was a poor consolation.

Jaskier read through the poem again and again, his mind catching on the words unwanted and mutant. And those were the most harmless insults.

The entire poem read as a collection of all the horrible things that were spat at witchers. Not only was it a clear rip-off of Jaskier’s work – describing the life of a witcher – but it dared to twist it into something ugly and loathed.

To make the insult worse, underneath the poem, in the place where normally the poet’s signature would be, was a clumsy sketch of a goat – clearly meant as another insult to Jaskier. Dread pooled in Jaskier’s stomach, as his eyes raked over the lines one more time and an even more horrible conclusion dawned on him.

The poet didn’t just made references to Jaskier’s works in general. It used imagery Jaskier specifically used in his songs about Eskel. The kindest soul Jaskier knew. A man so selfless that he had even saved a baby goat and had against all odds managed to take care of her while on the Path.

And now this poet spoke about Eskel’s bad experiences and posted them openly on the board for all the world to see.

Without thinking, Jaskier tore the paper with the offending poem from the board. It nearly crumbled in his fingers, but he forced himself to keep his hand steady. He would need the poem to ask people if they knew who had written it, even though the thought of showing it to more people churned Jaskier’s guts.

His search ended abruptly, when instead of finding out who the poet was, Jaskier heard about Eskel being driven out of the town.

He gritted his teeth and left the town to resume his search of Eskel. But even as he left the town behind, he swore to himself that whatever he did, some day he would find the poet and he would make sure they would never write another harmful word about witchers again.

-

Not a week later, a couple of towns over, Jaskier found another poem. The same handwriting, the same sentiment of witchers being resented outcasts.

After that, Jaskier doubled his efforts to sing the witchers’ praises.

Apparently, the unknown poet took that as a challenge. Wherever Jaskier went, it was only a matter of time before the next piece of offending poetry appeared.

The poet should have been easy to find. Poets of all kinds had the convenient habit of making themselves known – Jaskier could attest to that. And yet, this one alluded him time and time again. They were impossible to find. For a brief moment, Jaskier considered the possibility of Valdo Marx being the one writing these horrible things just to spite Jaskier, but even he wouldn’t stoop low enough for such a thing. Valdo had his place in Cidaris and he would never become a travelling bard for such a petty thing. Because that was clearly what this mysterious and hated poet was; travelling, just like Jaskier and yet always one step ahead, always out of reach.

There was no hint as to where the poet would go next. The only pattern Jaskier could find was that they always showed up in towns that remembered a witcher with scars running down his face.

For whatever reason, the poet was targeting Eskel specifically.

So Jaskier did the only thing he could do. If he wasn’t able to tell the poet off face to face, he might answer in the best way he knew how: With his own verses.

Every single poem he came across, Jaskier would reply to with poems of his own – pinned to the boards in the place where the stranger’s poem had hung before Jaskier had torn it off. For good measure, Jaskier would also sing his verses in taverns and market squares, just in case the poet would be able to hear him.

When the stranger that had quickly become Jaskier’s worst enemy, spoke of ugly scars in his lines that twisted every smile into a snarl, Jaskier answered with tales of a witcher’s laughter that was more beautiful and joyful than any coy giggles one would hear at court.

When his enemy talked about witchers being alone and scorned wherever they went, Jaskier sang about how wonderful it felt to call a witcher his friend, how loyal and protective witchers were of those they loved – this of course was underlined with a barely hidden message that Jaskier in turn was very protective of his witchers and would bring anyone down who dared insult them.

This warning evidently wasn’t received, for the next poem Jaskier found spoke of lonely nights and averted eyes.

And the thing was…the more Jaskier read those poems, the more he found that they were true. What could he say to disprove those words that he hated so much? He had seen first-hand how people scuttled away in fear as soon as they sat eyes on a witcher. He knew that right now, without his company, Geralt and Eskel would spend their nights alone, possibly hurt and feeling like they didn’t belong.

As much as Jaskier despised the poet for perpetuating the public’s opinion of witchers, Jaskier had to admit that somehow they had a deep understanding of what a witcher’s life was like, even if they used their insight to do harm.

Jaskier didn’t know how to feel about that revelation. Whoever that poet was, he knew. He understood. Maybe even felt the same way.

But that didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.

This person was hurting Jaskier’s friends and there was no excuse for that. If he ever met the poet, no word about this irrational fascination would come past his lips. He would make sure that they stopped writing such terrible things and nothing more. They didn’t deserve anything more.

--

There was just one problem…the poetry was good. Brilliant, even. If it weren’t for the horrible subjects, Jaskier might even admire the craftsmanship of the verses.

He couldn’t for the life of him figure out where the poet had learned to write like this. Certainly not at Oxenfurt. Some of these rhyme schemes were similar to ones only found in old elven poetry that had been nearly erased entirely and there were references to some of the poems to literature that had been almost completely lost for ages.

Jaskier almost wanted to sit down with this poet and talk about their craft. Their verses were more expressive than anything Jaskier had ever read and as loath as he was to admit it, some of them brought tears to Jaskier’s eyes with how beautifully worded they were.

It was such a sharp and painful contrast reading those wonderful metaphors and rhymes describing the Path as something gruesome, ugly and hated.

It made Jaskier long for his friends. He wanted to make sure they weren’t alone anymore, that they didn’t have to see only the ugly parts of the Path.

But it also made him want to know more about the poet. Wanted to find out why they sounded so hurt in the way they wrote. He wanted to console and comfort them.

It was an ugly thought and one that Jaskier was ashamed to admit to even himself. So he pushed it into the far back of his mind. This person, whoever they were, wasn’t the one Jaskier should comfort. They were the very reason why Jaskier’s friends felt lonely.

Jaskier would never betray Geralt’s trust by befriending someone like that. Even more, he wouldn’t betray Eskel like that. Beautiful Eskel who was afraid to smile for fear of people flinching back in disgust. Who had been shy and yet excited about talking to Jaskier about poetry.

Jaskier froze and ice spread through his chest. Eskel.

All this time Jaskier had been so fixated on finding the poet that he had completely forgotten that he couldn’t have been the only one who had found their poems. If Jaskier had seen any of them, he would be crushed. Poetry was one of the few things Eskel found enjoyment in while on the Path and this could ruin that for him forever.

That thought was enough for Jaskier to regain his earlier determination. Not a hint of affection for the poet was left in his heart.

--

Except that, as the months dragged on and Jaskier kept replying to the poet’s words, the hint of affection or rather fascination flickered back to life. At some point, the poet had started to respond to Jaskier’s responses. Not openly, of course, but it was obvious in the way they wrote that they were referring to some of the things Jaskier spoke of in his newest songs.

What had started out as a passive-aggressive way for Jaskier to tell the other poet that he despised them, slowly turned into something much different. Jaskier wasn’t sure if he liked it.

Ever so slowly, the subjects of the poet’s verses shifted. True enough, overall they were still about the Path in one way or another, but now the poems about hatred and scorn were interspersed with ones about flowers and occasional appreciation and strangely enough, the joy of knitting. The last one elicited a startled laugh out of Jaskier when he read it and he quickly stopped himself. He couldn’t however keep the smile off his face as he read through that poem again.

Hadn’t this been what Jaskier had wanted all along? It would appear that the poet had finally started to see reason and change the way they thought about witchers.

And now that Jaskier found those other, happier poems, he couldn’t help but see the beauty in their verses. He still kept all of their poems, but now he no longer did so to vanish all traces of them off the earth, but so that he could read them when he felt his own loneliness creep up on him.

Time and time again he let his eyes wander over a poem that talked about the happiness that came with unexpectedly meeting family again that had been longed for. It made Jaskier think about his witchers, about Geralt who had been his best friend for years and about Eskel who Jaskier wished more than anything to meet again someday. And strangely enough, he also thought about the poet, about meeting them and talking about the beautiful things they wrote about.

More than once, Jaskier reached for his quill to put a hidden message about a possible future meeting in his next poem, but every time he stopped himself. He couldn’t do this. Not for as long as he wasn’t sure whether this person had destroyed Eskel’s happiness and the last bit of his already fragile self-esteem.

But then, there was another change, one Jaskier hadn’t expected and that made his heart beat painfully fast in his chest. No longer did the poems speak about vague occurrences of joy and beauty, but of the joy Jaskiergave the poet. About how his voice and his words could make the poet feel like maybe life wasn’t as bleak as they had been told. About how Jaskier’s responses gave them hope. About how they made them feel less alone.

The sincerity and almost admiration in these words startled Jaskier. This wasn’t what he had wanted to do when he had started to respond to the poet. And yet…he couldn’t deny that he too felt a strange sense of companionship whenever he found another one of the poems. As strange as it sounded, but the poet had become the closest Jaskier had to someone he could talk to. Jaskier had no idea where his friends were, but no matter where he went, sooner or later, the poet’s words would reach him again. And damn him, it was nice having someone think of him and craft beautiful verses just for him.

Guilt gnawed at Jaskier’s insides and he wished it would be different, but he found himself looking forward to finding the next poem, always praying with all his might that it wouldn’t be about witchers.

It was nearly autumn when Jaskier found the poem that made his chest tighten with a strange emotion he couldn’t place.

The poem was so full of longing that it became hard for Jaskier to breathe. It was about yearning to meet Jaskier, of seeing his smile and feeling the gentleness of his hands. It was about the soul-crushing knowledge that they would only disappoint Jaskier if they ever met.

Jaskier’s hands trembled as he took that poem off the notice board. He caressed the small picture of the goat that had gone from being a hated mockery to something that made Jaskier smile whenever he saw it.

That night he got so close to telling the poet where to meet them.

The song with the directions was already written and he was already gathering his nerves to prepare himself to sing it the next day, when a sudden gust of wind made the stack of the stranger’s poems Jaskier had kept flutter through the air. Pages upon pages about how witchers were despised, about how they were fated to be alone and how no one would ever be able to see past their hideous scars landed all around Jaskier, accusing him of the betrayal he had almost committed.

His heart dropped like a stone and he forced himself to read through all of the poems again. Every verse, every line, every word that reminded him why he had sworn to himself to never forgive this poet.

When he was done, he stuffed the papers into the bottom of his back, telling himself he didn’t care about them crumbling and tearing.

When he left town, there he left no reply to the poet’s last poem. He only continued reading the notice boards to make sure the poet was still writing about things other than witchers, but Jaskier never responded anymore.

After a while, the poet too stopped writing.

His last poem was but a line, asking whether Jaskier was alright. It was so simple, so obviously worried that it took all of Jaskier’s will power not to respond and let the poet know that he was still there.

By the time it had become clear that no more poems would be written, Jaskier had almost convinced himself that he was happy about never having to hear from them again.

--

Though the thought of the poet didn’t leave Jaskier’s mind, no matter how hard he tried, Jaskier found someone far better.

Not a week after he had severed his connection to the poet for good and was back to performing his old songs about witchers, the door to the tavern Jaskier was playing at opened and a familiar figure entered.

Jaskier’s heart gave a jump and his fingers nearly fumbled when he recognised Eskel. The smile that spread across Jaskier’s face at the sight of the man he had longed to see again faltered, when he took him in more closely. Eskel was guarded most of the time, but now there was something more than that in his expression. He looked almost dejected and he had heavy bags under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days.

Jaskier’s chest clenched and he had to fight to keep up his happy performance persona. The Path must have been especially unkind to Eskel. Dread clawed at Jaskier’s heart and his voice trembled.

Was this the poet’s doing? Had their words reached Eskel after all and taken away any peace he might have had?

Jaskier’s eyes followed Eskel as he scanned the crowd before his eyes landed on Jaskier. For a heartbeat, something akin to fear flickered across Eskel’s expression, but then his eyes lit up and his shoulders slumped in relief.

As quickly as he could, Jaskier brought his performance to an end, claiming that he needed a break to give his voice some rest. He hurried over to Eskel and practically fell into his arms.

For a moment, Eskel stiffened at the touch, but then he returned the embrace almost desperately and pressed his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck.

“You’re alright,” Eskel breathed, barely loud enough for Jaskier to hear.

“Of course I am,” Jaskier said as brightly as he could to ease Eskel’s worry and pulled back so he could properly look at Eskel. “Contrary to popular believe, I can go some time without getting into trouble.” He made no effort to try to be subtle about checking Eskel over for injuries. “Out of the two of us, I’m not the one who risks his life every day. What happened to you?”

Eskel stiffened slightly and his eyes shifted to the side, evading Jaskier’s gaze. “Nothing. I was just worried I had lost … a friend.”

Something in Jaskier’s chest softened and as they sat down at a table, Jaskier made a point of sliding in right next to Eskel instead of sitting down opposite of him.

For some inexplicable reason, Eskel still seemed hesitant to touch Jaskier as if he was worried Jaskier might withdraw if Eskel got to close, but his eyes raked over Jaskier as if he wanted to commit every inch of him to memory.

Jaskier scooted closer to Eskel until their thighs touched. He reached for Eskel’s hand and brushed a strand of hair behind his ears while talking about the thing Jaskier had seen since they had last met.

Ever so slowly, Eskel relaxed and leaned into the touch.

What had started as hesitant replies to Jaskier’s numerous questions about the Path quickly became a comfortable conversation, just like they had had when they had last seen each other.

The easiness with which words flowed almost reminded Jaskier of the easy exchange of words he had had with the poet.

He banished the thought as quickly as it had appeared.

He put his attention back to Eskel where it belonged and listened intently as Eskel told him about the monsters he had fought, about the places he had been and about the fact that for some reason, Eskel had been paid in knitting lessons from the very same old lady that had paid Eskel by giving him Lil Bleater a year ago.

As Jaskier laughed at that story and warmth spread through his chest, Eskel too smiled at him. It was a timid, gentle thing, barely enough to lift the edges of his lips properly, but it was big enough to twist the scars. And for once Eskel didn’t seem to mind.

The sight did something strange to Jaskier and suddenly he was filled with the urge to trace these beautiful lips with his thumb.

Eskel must have seen something shift in Jaskier’s expression, for he suddenly stopped talking and his eyes drifted down to Jaskier’s lips.

“Don’t stop,” Jaskier whispered. “I love the way you talk. It sounds almost like poetry.”

The hint of a blush crept into Eskel’s cheeks. “I…I could never write something as beautiful as your songs, but…” His lips twitched upwards and he lowered his head slightly. “You are very inspiring Jaskier. The way you talked about poetry…it made me pick up a pen too, after we parted last time.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. “You write poetry?”

“Not very well.”

Jaskier knew that his eyes were full of fondness for this wonderful, beautiful witcher, but he didn’t care if he saw. He was too relieved to hear that the poet hadn’t been able to take Eskel’s love for poetry away from him after all.

So fixated on that last piece of bitterness that Jaskier had carefully kept alive to remind himself not to contact the poet again, he couldn’t help the next words from slipping past his lips.

“Whatever you’re writing, I am sure it is better than those horrible poems I have had to read lately.”

Eskel froze and his eyes darted between Jaskier’s.

“What…what poems did you have to read?” His voice sounded strangely thick.

Jaskier’s brows knitted together and he waved his hand through the air dismissively, even as his chest clenched painfully. “Just someone who thought they should post their poetry on notice boards. It’s a good thing no one will ever have to read a word of theirs again.”

Eskel’s face fell and he drew back just enough that he wasn’t touching Jaskier anymore. “You really hated it that much?”

Jaskier huffed out a bitter laugh. “You would have too, if you had seen the things they wrote.”

Even while he said it, Jaskier knew that something was wrong. Eskel’s expression shuttered completely and he turned away from Jaskier.

Jaskier’s insides grew cold. For an uncomfortable moment that seemed to stretch on forever, he sat silently next to Eskel, wrecking his brain trying to figure out where he had messed up. Whatever it had been, it was clear that his presence made Eskel uncomfortable.

A half-hearted excuse left Jaskier, something about having to continue his performance.

Eskel only replied with a silent nod as Jaskier left the table to resume his playing. And when Jaskier risked a glance at their table during a song, he found that Eskel had already left.

Uncaring of the disappointed shouts of his audience, Jaskier’s voice broke off and he hastened back to their now empty table to gather his things.

Whatever he had done, to chase Eskel away, he needed to fix this.

He grabbed his cloak and dropped a couple of coins on the table to pay for the meal he had had earlier, when his eyes fell on something lying on the table. A slip of paper with some flimsy excuse for why Eskel had to leave on it.

For a heartbeat Jaskier only stared at it, uncomprehending what he was seeing.

But there was no two ways about it. The writing that now stared back at Jaskier was the same handwriting he had been reading for the past months. It was the poet’s handwriting.

Without a second thought, Jaskier bolted out of the tavern and after Eskel.

“Wait!” he called out to him when he caught sight of him disappearing into an alleyway.

His breath came heavy and his lungs burned from the sudden sprint, but Jaskier didn’t stop until he caught up with Eskel who stood with his back to Jaskier, obviously unwilling to face him.

“Eskel,” Jaskier said helplessly. “I-“

“I’m sorry,” Eskel interrupted and his shoulders tensed. “I didn’t know – If I had known how much you hated the poems I would have stopped.”

For the first time since Jaskier could remember, he found no words. His mind was racing, connecting memories to his knew knowledge and making connections where before there had been nothing but false conclusions.

Jaskier’s uncharacteristic silence must have been reply enough for Eskel, for he half-turned to him, just enough for Jaskier to see his scars.

“I didn’t mean to make you hate me,” Eskel said quietly and his voice was tight. “I am sorry I made you miserable with my poems all these months. I’ll stop. I promise, you won’t have to read anything like that again. You won’t even have to see me. I just…after I didn’t hear from you again, I needed to make sure you were still alive.”

“You didn’t,” Jaskier said, voice breaking. “You didn’t make my life miserable. But they sounded….Eskel, why did your poems sound like yourlife was miserable? Why would you say such horrible things about yourself?”

Eskel flinched and his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I didn’t know what else to write about. There wasn’t much else. Until…” Eskel’s voice trailed off.

“Until you wrote about flowers and knitting and family,” Jaskier ended softly for him.

Eskel nodded and Jaskier felt tears pricking at his eyes. “I loved them. And knowing that they came from you, that you are the one who found happiness out there, you have no idea how much that means to me.”

Without meaning to, Jaskier reached out for Eskel’s hand and before he knew it, Eskel had threaded their fingers together and turned to face Jaskier fully. They were so close. Jaskier could see every speck of gold in Eskel’s eyes as they flickered down to his lips.

“Jaskier.” His voice was hoarse and he looked like it took all his strength to say the one word. Slowly, Eskel leaned forward, and Jaskier could feel his heart skip a beat and his breath hitch. Eskel’s eyes widened and he drew back abruptly.

“I am sorry,” Eskel blurted out.

Jaskier’s brows drew together and he tried to follow Eskel’s movement and close the gap between them again.

“Why? Eskel, what could you possibly have to be sorry about?”

An unreadyable expression flashed across Eskel’s face. “About this.” He gestured vaguely between them. “And about my last poems. I didn’t think you’d ever find out they were from me. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

It took Jaskier a second to understand what he meant, but when he did, his heart broke for the poet who had longed to feel Jaskier’s touch; for Eskel who had been scared that he would only disappoint.

Carefully, Jaskier lifted his hand, giving Eskel time to refuse the touch. When his hand settled on Eskel’s skin and gently caressed Eskel’s scars, Jaskier could feel Eskel’s shuddering breath ghost across Jaskier’s skin and Eskel closed his eyes, leaning into the touch.

“You could never disappoint,” Jaskier whispered. “Never you.”

“Does that mean you didn’t mind those poems?” Eskel’s voice was filled with barely restrained hope.

Jaskier let out a huffed laugh. “Oh, I did very much mind them. For so long I had wanted to punch my poet in the face for what they wrote. And those letters…they made me want to kiss them.”

Eskel’s eyes snapped open. “You-“ he broke off, a bittersweet smile on his face. His next words were so quiet that Jaskier couldn’t be sure he was even meant to hear them. “At least I could make you want me as someone else.”

Jaskier tilted his head to the side. His fingers slid down Eskel’s face, before they came to rest at the corner of Eskel’s lips.

“Oh Eskel,” Jaskier breathed, stepping impossibly closer. “The one thing holding me back was the thought that it wasn’t you.”

“Jaskier…” Eskel came no further. Before any more words of fear or self-doubt could leave him, Jaskier pressed his lips against Eskel’s.

Eskel let out a soft gasp, before returning the kiss, only interrupting it for long enough to whisper words to Jaskier that were simpler and yet more beautiful than any poem could be.

For the first time in what felt like too long, Jaskier responded to his poet’s words, with the same simple words that made Eskel’s face light up in a way that made Jaskier doubt that he would ever write about loneliness and feeling unlovable ever again.