#well at least i learned something actually useful and interesting from that and that's enough for me tbh

[rivereverie]

Just some observations on Astarion learning to see that he is loved

I just saw a clip of Astarion's response to his partner cheating on him with Mizora and it got me thinking. While his entire reaction is very telling and meaningful in its entirety, one line stood out to me:

"I really thought there was more to you. That you were better than other people"

This was striking because it immediately reminded me of something else he says, in the scene after his siblings attempt to capture and return him to Cazador:

"You're the only one. Other people don't have a heart like you. You're you. No one is like that."

These lines feel a little odd at first, because Astarion isn't known for putting the PC on a pedestal. I don't think that's exactly what he's doing here. I think these lines are just capturing the inner chaos and contradiction that naturally come with the gradual unraveling of a long-held worldview. At this point, Astarion is able to process that one person cares for and accepts him, but only one. They must be an outlier: an exception to the rule. Surely they're something special.

Obviously this isn't true, though, and the next step is for him to learn that the PC isn't actually unique in their ability to accept and care for him him. In fact, Astarion is already loved by others and just doesn't see it. This line of his is beautifully contrasted by Karlach's reaction to Astarion's near-abduction. She is righteously angry and protective because she loves Astarion too.

"I dare Cazador to sent more lackeys our way. This is our territory. I'll crack anyone who tries to come into my house and hurt my people."

Earlier in the story, we get a similar moment during the confession scene, showing again how Astarion isn't always able to see the truth of what others feel for him.

When he says this, he sounds surprised. Like the idea of a friend is a revelation. This kind of broke my heart when I first heard it, because I thought it was obvious to him that he already had friends, in both the other companions and my character. But I think a part of him genuinely was stuck in that old thought pattern of assuming that anyone who showed interest in him just wanted to use him. This also makes it clear just how divorced sex is from affection in his mind and experience. Though they've slept together at least several times and grown more emotionally intimate too, Astarion still needs confirmation that the PC actually cares for him.

I made a post once about the two triggers for Astarion's confession here, which further reveal his mindset: going out of your way and into danger to get his scars translated, or choosing not to force him into complying with Araj's dehumanizing demands. Both of these things are concrete demonstrations of respect and care for him and what he wants. Astarion knows very well how empty words can be, so actions are what finally help him believe that the PC cares about him, and gives him the impetus to confess.

Later, If you break up with Astarion, his reaction is extremely telling in that he regresses slightly from this healthier mindset he had developed:

"I can hardly blame you. I don't exactly have much to offer right now, beyond new burdens to carry."

Typically, we witness any traces of Astarion's self-deprecation filtered through irony or dark humor, so his vulnerability in this moment is stark.

He claims that he has very little to offer, but that just isn't true. He may be going through a bit of a crisis, but he is still a shockingly good partner given the circumstances. He is unwaveringly supportive, caring, and clearly tries to lighten his partner's emotional load when they begin to feel the strain of responsibility. Not to mention, just being himself still makes him perfectly worthy of being loved. In any relationship, there will be times when one person needs more support than they themself can give, and that doesn't mean that they aren't enough. We're seeing, yet again, that he sometimes just doesn’t recognize how deeply he is valued by others. At this point, maybe a part of him still feels like he needs to be of service in order to be accepted, let alone loved. I also personally interpret this line as partially concerning his insecurity around not "providing" his partner with sex at this time, reiterating this deeply internalized belief that he needs to perform in order to be valued.

All of these little moments add so much subtly and humanity to his character, and make his development feel natural and earned. The payoff is clear after Cazador's death, when we get to see his new confidence:

He doesn't have to ask "really?" this time.

"You believed in me - believed I was enough just the way I am."

He truly knows now that he is loved.

[saphronethaleph]

Love Language

“So, uh… Dad?” Hiccup said, nervously, but that was mostly just normal for him. “I’ve got a… question.”

“What sort of question, Hiccup?” Stoic replied, not unkindly – for him, anyway.

That was sort of how their family relationship went a lot of the time, as it happened. The two of them being at pains to be normal with one another.

“So… how exactly do we know that dragons are, uh… monsters, evil, want to hurt us, want to destroy us?” Hiccup asked, rattling off the normal dragon description from the Book of Dragons. “Extremely dangerous, and so on?”

Stoic blinked, then looked at Hiccup with the sort of look that – normally – would be reserved for a relative who’d said something extremely thick.

He wasn’t used to turning it on Hiccup.

“They keep… attacking us,” he said. “Raiding us. Carrying off our sheep.”

“Yeah, about that,” Hiccup replied. “Because, I’ve been a Viking teenager for a while now and the general impression I get is that that’s how Vikings show that they want to become friends.”

Stoic snorted.

“Not getting on well with your friends?” he asked.

“That plural is assuming a lot, Dad,” Hiccup replied. “That… word is also making some assumptions, actually! Though you did keep telling me that all the punches and stuff were just a way of making friends – but, I wasn’t actually talking about my friends, I didn’t mean them, I was meaning to talk about the dragons.”

“And?” Stoic said.

“The point I’m making, Dad, is that… so, uh, I tried putting myself in the place of the dragons,” Hiccup said, shaking his leg and leaning awkwardly on the door frame. “And I wondered what Vikings would think if we went somewhere and the people there were firing catapults at us and shooting flaming rocks at us, and that sort of thing, and… I’ve met Vikings, dad. I’m pretty sure you’ve met Vikings!”

Stoic paused, to actually consider that.

It was one of the increasingly large number of things about this conversation which was not Normal, but he was willing to give it a go.

“...hm,” he said. “That sounds like a pretty good night out, actually.”

“That’s what I’m getting at!” Hiccup agreed, now leaning over more. “Hold on.”

“What is it?”

“Not you, I mean-” Hiccup said, then gestured at someone Stoic couldn’t see.

Or possibly just nearly fell over, the lad was gangly.

“Anyway – uhm – I think the dragons just want to be friends,” Hiccup went on, speaking very quickly. “And that they’re enough like Vikings that all we’re doing is just making them more interested.”

“Nonsense,” Stoic replied.

“Really?” Hiccup asked. “Because – uh – are you at least going to think about it before you decide that I have to be wrong?”

“I don’t need to think about it to know it’s nonsense,” Stoic said, firmly.

“Yeah, that sounds pretty Viking too,” Hiccup muttered. “Stubborn and unwilling to admit that you might be wrong about something… so, uh… what about an experiment?”

“Is this some of that scientific method stuff Gobber had you learning?” Stoic checked.

It sounded a bit suspect, to him.

“Yeah, actually,” Hiccup agreed. “But if something happens you can’t say it’s impossible, right?”

Stoic carefully considered the question.

If something happens, you can’t say it’s impossible.

“All right, so let’s accept that for the sake of argument,” he allowed. “What kind of thing?”

“So I gave a Terrible Terror a fish,” Hiccup said. “Once. And now I literally cannot get it to stop rubbing against my ankles, making a kind of purring noise, and curling up next to my bed when I go to sleep.”

Stoic blinked, looking Hiccup up and down.

“...there doesn’t seem to be a Terrible Terror rubbing against your ankles,” he said.

“Yeah, because I can’t stop it, but Toothless can,” Hiccup explained. “Because, uh, there’s this Night Fury…”

“A Night Fury?” Stoic repeated, then went back over the conversation and reprocessed this new information through it.

“...are you telling me you befriended a Night Fury?” he asked. “How?”

“I shot it down,” Hiccup replied. “And, uh… since then I’ve kind of been testing the hypothesis, that’s more of the whole science thing, and it took like eight seconds to convince the Monstrous Nightmare in the training pens that I was a cool guy to be around. I just kind of smiled and that was it?”

He shrugged, then finally lost the battle against keeping the Night Fury out of the doorframe, and the Unholy Offspring of Lightning and Death Itself slowly pushed the leaning Hiccup across the doorframe.

Then spotted Stoic, groonked something, and sat on his haunches like a giant, attentive dog mixed with a curious cat possessed of a penchant for pushing things off tables.

Stoic spent several seconds contemplating what to do, then – experimentally – threw his hammer at the beast.

It ducked, letting Hiccup topple over with a thump, then loped off after the hammer. A few seconds later, a Terror sat on the prone Hiccup’s side and curled up before visibly and very quickly going to sleep.

“You, uh… see what I mean?” Hiccup asked.

The Night Fury came back, tail swishing from side to side, and deposited the thrown hammer eagerly in front of the door before making a pleased sort of gronk-chirp.

Stoic gave up.

This was now Normal.

Making that new categorization was going to save a lot of time.

“My working theory is that, to dragons, we’re friend shaped,” Hiccup said, still trapped under the snoozing Terror.

[seaofreverie]

So busy with Sparkstember that I almost forgot that I go back to school on tuesday

[skrunksthatwunk]

i just finished saw v and i don't have high hopes for the rest of the franchise (based on what ive heard) but im in too deep to stop now

[clockwayswrites]

Dead on MAYn 25 Day 3:

Trope | Eldritch horror Danny/Monster Fucker Jason

Word | Contract

Situation | The Batfam learn about Jason's boyfriend by accident.

Dialogue | "You may belong to Gotham, but this one belongs to me."

cw: blood, demonic cult, off screen screen torture

The noise that Jason made when he hit the ground was worryingly wet. Wet with the sound of blood and wounds and tortured flesh. Tim kept Duke pushed behind him until the old steel door clanged shut and the latch had scraped into place with a rusty finality.

“Okay, okay, I think that maybe it’s past time to act,” Duke hissed as he rushed to Jason’s side.

Tim didn’t rush over, instead he searched Jason’s discard jacket for supplies. It wouldn’t be enough, not with how heavy the scent of blood was, but Tim knew that Jason always had some medical supplies on him. “We can’t.”

“We can’t?!” Duke asked.

“Timbo’s right,” Jason said. His voice was clear at least, though he needed Duke’s help to get sitting up. “Can’t expose things.”

“Dude, you’re insides are getting exposed! I think we’re past that!” Duke’s voice was laced with all the dangerous anger of the same kid that had led ‘we are Robin’.

Jason sighed. “Duke—”

“No, don’t Duke me! What about when they drag Tim out of here next? Will you stop it then?”

“Duke,” Tim snapped. He tossed the vacuum packed bag of bandages at Duke. “Enough. We pressed our signals, help is on the way.”

“You’re assuming the signal can get out of this pit they tossed us in!”

“Not a pit, old tunnel construction that got abandoned,” Jason said. “Trust the tech.”

Tim squinted at Jason, trying to figure out why he sounded off. Was it just blood loss? Had he been drugged? Or—oh, that was Jason’s voice for soothing victims. Right, Duke hadn’t been abducted like this before, not for being a Wayne. Maybe Tim should tone down the bite a little. Duke hadn’t grown up being taken for ransom like Tim had.

“It will work, Duke. They’re on their way. We’ve all been through worse,” Tim said. He pulled his knife from his boot and cut swiftly through what was left of Jason’s shirt. They could use it to wipe off the worst of the blood at least. “And right now they don’t seem interested in you.”

“I’m not worried about me, jackass,” Duke said. “They’re obviously racist fuckwits, of course they don’t want my blood. I’m worried about what they’re going to do to you! Or that they’re going to grab Jason again.”

“Hey, Duke, we can handle ourselves—”

“But you won’t!” Duke snapped, cutting Tim off. “That’s the problem, you won’t.”

“Hey, bleeding here, can we argue later?” Jason interrupted. His voice was sounding a little breathless, so Tim was inclined to set aside everything else.

Besides, patching up wounds was always a good distraction. It gave the mind time to work through facts and data without so much emotion in the way.

When Jason at least wouldn’t be bleeding out as quickly (all of their shirts sacrificed to the cause), Tim asked, “What has your so scared about this situation, Duke?”

Duke balled up the last of his t-shirt and tossed the bloody thing aside. He frowned seriously. “Y’all can’t see what I can see. There’s something actually magical or… or otherworldly going on here. I think that someone in this cult actually knows what they’re doing. That’s a different thing. Magic isn’t what we do.”

“‘snot what you do,” Jason slurred from where they had propped him up in the corner. “Well. I mean, you do do someth’n, what with the light stuff. Still only me and you.”

“What do you mean him and you?” Tim asked with a frown at Jason. Sure, it was maybe a little unfair to press Jason when he was obviously a little blood drained and unusually chatty, but chances like this didn’t come often

“You know, the…” Jason waved an arm around like he was holding something.

“No,” Tim drawled.

“The All-blades and the…” Jason froze. His eyes widened. “Oh fuck.”

“Jason?”

“They, um,” Jason collapsed back into the corner with a giggle. “See, they used m’ blood for a summoning circle.”

“Right.” Tim exchanged a look with Duke. “That’s pretty standard demonic cult bullshit.”

“Yeah. But,” Jason dropped his voice to a whisper as if he was telling a secret, “they dun know what my blood will get’em.”

“And, um, what will your blood get them?” Duke asked.

Jason giggled again. “Danny.”

“Right,” Tim drew the word out. “And who or what is Danny?”

Jason opened his mouth to answer but before he could a scream broke the silence. Jason’s smile turned vicious. “That is Danny.”

-

Jason was a big guy in way that Tim never would be and that Duke wasn’t (yet). It meant that making their way from the old machine room they had been locked in towards the commotion was slow going. Jason was obviously trying not to lean on them too much, but he didn’t really have much choice with how his leg was minced. And they certainly weren’t going to leave Jason behind.

They were, though, going to stay out of the way of whatever the fuck was currently decimating the cult.

Hands—what Tim could only describe as hands were reaching out from what was now a void of space in the floor of the center of the room. The white spindly limbs would grab a cultist, ignoring blades or bullets, and then drag them back and down into the void. Usually with a horrible scream.

“That’s a lot of eyes,” Duke whispered in awe from the other side of Jason, clearly seeing something that Tim couldn’t.

“The more to look at you with,” Jason joked, still acting a little giddy. Being upright didn’t seem to agree with him much.

“That’s… that’s Danny?” Tim asked.

There was something more moving in the void. The surface rippled and churned and then exploded out into a spray of light and colors like a supernova. The being—and if held at gun point Tim couldn’t actually explain was he was seeing—pulled themselves free of the void and with a few reaching grasps, across the floor to them.

“Jason,” they purred, the word a rumble that Tim could feel in his bones.

Of course, that’s when Batman, Robin, and Nightwing came crashing into the abandoned tunnel.

Before Tim could even blink, the being—Danny—had wrapped themselves around Jason like a giant snake. All the eyes that Tim hadn’t been able to see appeared. All glaring at the heroes.

“Let him go,” Batman ordered. “The cult had no right to offer him as sacrifice. The all belong here.”

The being curled themselves further around Jason and growled out, “You may belong to Gotham, but this one belongs to me.”

“Shush, Danny, no, hush. They’re family,” Jason slurred while trying to pat the being’s cheek and missing entirely. “No devouring the souls of family.”

The being indulgently moved their head so that Jason got what he wanted. “I would not devour them. They stink like Gotham, and the Lady would not abide it.”

“Be nice,” Jason said.

“Despite the blood loss B, er, Batman,” Tim started. “Jason really does seem to know this being.

“Danny,” the being cooed.

“Who’s name is Danny.”

There was a shriek behind them as another cultist was lifted from some boxes they had been hiding behind and into the void.

“We’re alone now. We can talk,” Danny said. “They’re your family?”

Jason hummed in agreement and pressed a kiss to the sometimes bony face. It still wasn’t clear what Danny was. Tim tried not to look too hard.

“Brothers,” Jason waved loosely around the room and then pointed to Batman. “Dad.”

Danny sighed, the noise a weird sound like the hydraulics of a bus stopping. “You couldn’t have warned me this was a meet the family thing?”

Jason shrugged despite the eldtrich horror draped over him. “Didn’t ‘spect to be sacrificed. Didn’t think about how my blood might summon you.”

“Of course your blood summoned me. I wouldn’t let it summon anyone else,” Danny said, clearly offended as the voice took on an increasingly human note. The mass of whatever shifted and shrunk until a humanoid about Tim’s size hung, floating, off Jason’s shoulder. He pressed a kiss to Jason’s lips. “Like I said, you belong to me. I’ll always come when called.”

“Holy—you’re dating Jason! You’re his, what, eldifriend?” Dick asked with a wide grin. “Guy’s, Jason is dating someone!”

Bruce sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“My little bird is all grown up!” Dick cooed.

Jason flipped him off. “Dating or romance isn’t part of growing up. Way to insult aros, dickhead.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it!”

“Boys,” Bruce tried.

“So, Danny, Jason lost a pretty good chunk of blood,” Tim said, ignoring everyone else in the room. “We should really get him some medical care.”

“Shit, yeah, absolutely,” Danny said, deflating until their white shoes—since when did they have legs?—touched the ground. “Can I come? Technically Jason did summon me and so I’m around until I pay some sort of favor—”

Jason reset his chin on the top of Danny’s white hair with a salacious smirk. “I know a certain favor that you can—”

“Okay!” Tim said loudly and clapped his hands together. He did not need to know what his brother got up to with an eldritch horror. “Blood loss, remember? Deal with that later. You two can pile in the Batmobile with Robin and Duke. I’ll ride back with Nightwing.”

“Good plan, baby bird! And you’re totally staying for dinner, Danny,” Dick said. “We have so many questions.”

For a powerful cosmic horror, Danny looked pretty frightened by that prospect.

[morverenmaybewrites]

Iced Coffee (Jason Todd x Reader)

Summary:

In which Dick Grayson tries to give Jason some relationship advice. And ends up learning a few new things about his little brother.

Pairing:

Jason Todd x Reader

(AO3)

Imagine Dick Grayson wanting to talk to Jason about his new girlfriend. That is, you.

Imagine Dick Grayson, talkative Dick Grayson, whose laughter and words bubbled easily from his throat, like air released from an opened soda can.

Imagine Dick Grayson, who's used to going into any situation utterly confident in his ability to coax a smile and a story out of even the grumpiest civilians.

And now imagine him being utterly on the back foot ever since Jason came back.

The smile that's more reliable to him than his own mask now feels more like a grimace whenever Dick is around his little brother. His jokes and short little stories meant to put people at ease dry up on his tongue, and he's often left with his mouth hanging stupidly open like a fish washed-up on Gotham Bay.

For all of his hard-earned people skills, Dick Grayson simply couldn't find the right words to reach his little brother.

Perhaps it's because his last image of Jason Todd was that of a prepubescent boy, growing so fast that their father barely had enough time to put clothes on his back before he's outgrown them again.

And now, in his place was a hulking giant that Dick had to crane his neck to look in the eye.

Perhaps it's Jason's voice, and the fact that before his kidnapping, he hadn't come into adult voice yet. It was still high-pitched and bright and excited whenever they bent their heads to look over maps of Gotham. This new Jason, on the other hand, had the voice of a man, harsh and gritty, like stone grinding against stone.

One that often made him seem far too old than his actual age.

Or perhaps it's the simple fact that a decade ago, the Joker took away Dick Grayson's little brother.

And the man who came back was now a stranger.

Dick tried, of course.

He tried his best, like anyone would, given his position. After all, how many people were given a second chance to make their family whole again?

It's just that he didn't know how.

While the previous Robin had been talkative and curious and hung onto every word Dick said as if it was gospel, this new Jason was quiet, taciturn.

He spoke with a wince, as if every word hurt him, and Dick had to work hard not to wonder why this was.

He wasn't usually interested in drawing up battle plans, often choosing to do missions alone.

Now imagine Dick Grayson, crammed in what feels like the world's tiniest Jetta during a stakeout, quietly trying not to go insane. He had never done well with silence, even before Jason had been kidnapped. He hated the idea of sitting in it, stewing in his own thoughts until he could feel them scratching along the inside of his skull.

But try as he might, Dick just couldn't draw his little brother into conversation. His answers, when he bothered to give them, were short and irritated. As final as a door slammed shut.

"So, you know much about this guy we're staking out?" Dick tried.

"About as much as you. Wanted for human trafficking." Jason paused, massaged his throat as if speaking two whole sentences hurt him.

Someone's phone pinged. They both looked at theirs.

After a minute, Dick tried again.

"Barbara said he used to work out of Peru. I wonder what made him move to Gotham. Got any ideas?"

Another ping. Jason looked down at his burner phone. Caught Dick's expression out of the corner of his eye and mutely shook his head.

"Well," Dick pretended to stretch, more to have something to do than anything else.

He decided to try a third time.

"Seen the Bloodhounds’ game last night?"

Jason looked at him as if he was speaking in tongues, and Dick decided that it was high time he tried shutting up for a while. He tapped his fingers on the wheel, fidgeted with the radio, trying to decide which station was the least likely to drive him insane over the course of what seemed to be a very long, very boring stakeout.

Dick settled on easy R&B. Leaned back in his seat, or at least pretended to, as he watched Jason fiddle with his phone.

"Barbara got any updates for us?" he asked as Jason read over a text.

There was an awful moment when Jason startled, and the first thing he did was reach for his guns. It must have been instinct, his hands flowing smoothly from one location to the next. And it was only the quiet click of the safety turning off that seemed to bring Jason back to himself.

Dick could practically see his little brother forcing himself to relax: the visible unclenching of his jaw. The conscious decision to let go of his guns.

And Dick tried, very, very hard not to think about how he must have spent the past few years, if his first reaction to being surprised was violence.

If he could somehow revive the Joker just so he could kill him again, Dick would do it. He could have sworn he could hear his own teeth grinding. The air in the car suddenly felt thick, the silence suffocating, as both of them tried not to acknowledge what just happened.

And just as Dick was mentally rehearsing his speech to get coffee and stale donuts from the shop across the street, Jason spoke.

"It wasn't," he said.

Dick blinked. The number of times that Jason initiated conversation was few and far in between.

"Pardon?" Dick said, wondering if he heard it right.

"It wasn't Barbara on the phone," Jason clarified, this time slower, as if he was talking to a particularly dim child.

"Alfred, then," Dick guessed.

"No. And I didn't."

"Didn't what?'

"I didn't watch the Bloodhounds' game last night. I was on patrol and must have missed it."

"Oh."

Dick wasn't even sure if Jason watched baseball anymore. It was just another conversational Hail Mary he threw out there. But at least Jason seemed willing to talk, even if it was in broken fragments. But if Jason was on patrol the night before, and he was on stakeout tonight then he must not have gotten much sleep.

"Want to get some coffee?" Dick said, jerking a thumb at the corner store he was eyeing earlier. "My treat."

While Bludhaven didn't have the abundance of street vendors and overnight kiosks that Gotham City offered, it at least offered similar 24-hour joints that could offer the same overpriced, watered-down coffee that one could get in Gotham City.

And in its own small way, it was like Dick Grayson never left home.

Josiah Johannes Salazar was almost certainly the made-up name of the man they were staking out. A small-time thug, at least by their usual standards, he mostly dealt in human trafficking and came under Barbara's radar after a rash of missing person reports were linked back to him.

A gifted art student from the local college.

A stand-up comedian who often performed to packed bars on rowdy weekends.

A used-car salesman from the Burrows.

Nothing out of the ordinary, really. Just your usual run-of-the-mill scumbaggery. Kidnapping people to be bought and sold on the flesh market. Or so, that was Barbara's current theory. An easy enough case. Sure to be closed by the end of the week. In fact, Tim already had several hopeful leads on the victims' possible locations.

Which was why it was such a mystery that Jason insisted–insisted!–on accompanying Dick on this particular stakeout.

It wasn't like he was unwelcome–Dick would jump at any chance to bond with his little brother again–it was just unexpected. Certainly, when he had rounded the parking spot where he kept the second hand Jetta, he hadn't expected Jason to be there, a duffel bag slung across his shoulder and a scowl on his face.

And as soon as Dick unlocked the car, Jason opened the door and planted himself so firmly in the passenger's seat that for a moment, Dick wondered if they really did have a prior agreement he forgot about. But now in the garish yellow light of the donut shop, one fact was becoming increasingly obvious–his little brother was tired. The lighting made him look positively jaundiced, and the shadows under his eyes were as fat as bruises. His clothes were rumpled, and Dick found himself wondering if he had changed into them immediately after his patrol.

The scar on his face looked more terrible than ever.

There was a sudden tension in Jason's shoulders that made Dick realize he was staring.

He immediately dropped his gaze.

Only to find an even more incredible sight.

"Hey, Jason..."

Jason frowned at him, and glanced around the shop to see if anyone was listening. But apart from the cashier, a pimply teenager flicking through skin magazines, the place was empty.

Jason never did like hearing them use their real names while out on missions. And it was only after careful assessment of the area did he finally speak.

"What?"

His response was short and irritated, a clear sign that he was beginning to weary of conversation. But Dick couldn't help himself.

"Are you drinking iced coffee?"

The cups in their hands were nearly identical, condensation beading on the cheap plastic surface, although Dick was sure that Jason didn't have the same obscene amounts of caramel syrup pumps in his. But back when he lived in the manor, Dick was sure that Jason was strictly a hot coffee kind of guy.

A hot black coffee and cigarette type of guy. The result of spending most of his childhood in East End. Alfred despaired at the state of his diet, and Dick would often hear him lecturing Jason on the dangers of nicotine and caffeine addiction.

Jason glanced down at his drink, seemingly unbothered. "Yes."

He seemed content to leave it at that, despite the fact that this new information had hit Dick with the force of a bombshell.

Jason drank iced coffee now?

What else did he like?

Did he like matcha? Chai? Perhaps those overpriced flattened croissants dipped in chocolate? Did Jason still like soft tacos from food trucks? Or did he prefer burritos now?

For a moment, Dick envisioned inviting Jason to go shop-hopping with him and Barbara, the way they used to back when Jason was Robin. Maybe even invite Tim along, now that Jason was finally speaking to him.

Eat questionable street food until their stomachs roiled with grease. Or even better, haul it all back to the Clocktower and make a movie night out of it.

He could even imagine Alfred, somehow unchanged, hovering at the edges, making sarcastic comments about everyone's cholesterol level.

Maybe he could even convince him to try a fry or two.

Maybe Bruce–

The ping of Jason's phone broke Dick out of his thoughts.

"Not an update," Jason muttered at him, before opening his phone to take a look at it.

There was the barest flicker of emotion on his face before he was deleting the message and pocketing it. But not before Dick caught a glimpse of what was on the screen: a grainy image of the interior of a pizza parlor outfitted like it was from the 70s. A bottle of cheap beer and what looked like someone's Scrabble tiles were front and center.

Dick blinked. "Jason..."

The iced coffee. The constant texts from someone.

How could Dick Grayson, son of the world's greatest detective, had missed it?

"Jason, are you texting your girlfriend?"

It was like an explosion had gone off in Dick's chest, like someone had shaken a can of soda and pulled the tab to watch the glorious release of carbon dioxide and sugar. Finally, after struggling all night to find something that he and Jason could talk about, finally Dick found something that he could relate to his little brother about: women.

"Fuck off, Dick," Jason muttered, but he knew his little brother enough to realize there was no heat in it. "It's none of your business."

"Holy shit, you totally are. And while on a stakeout, too!"

Dick felt giddy.

It was unfamiliar, this ribbing. But it was welcome. It felt like the sort of thing that a big brother should do.

"You know Bruce wouldn't approve," he prodded.

He made his voice sound deep, mimicking their father, "Distractions on the field can be a fatal mistake."

"I don't give a rat's ass about what Bruce approves of," Jason said with a shrug, but he failed to hide the amusement in his voice.

"Besides,” he added. “He flirted with Selina Kyle all the time. In full costume, the hypocrite."

Dick laughed, partly because it was true, partly because he was actually bantering–bantering!–with his little brother again.

Jason's phone pinged again, and this time Dick couldn't resist another jab.

"She's got you over a barrel, huh?" Dick said.

"What?"

"Are you in the doghouse?"

Jason frowned at him, and Dick decided to elaborate. "Whenever I took missions one after the other, Barbara would let me have it. Especially if it made me miss date nights. She used to send me these walls of text..."

Jason shook his head. "She's not angry with me."

"Oh." It was nice of you to be such an understanding girlfriend. "It's good that she understands. How long has it been since you took her on a date anyway?"

Jason looked uneasy, shifting his weight from one foot to the next.

"Two weeks," he muttered.

"Two weeks?" Dick was flabbergasted. "Dude, Barbara would definitely have put me in the doghouse for that."

A night on the couch at the minimum.

"I've been busy," Jason said defensively. "We're nearly closing in on this case."

Right. Dick nearly forgot. Josiah Johannes something.

"Well, maybe you should do something nice for her, at least," Dick insisted

"You know, remind her that you care."

He thought of his father, who used to buy bouquets of flowers for his mother, to give to her after every successful performance. The night of her death, there had been a large bouquet of orchids left in front of her dressing room mirror that went unclaimed.

Dick shook his head, dusting away the mental cobwebs.

"Got any ideas?" he asked.

Jason shook his head mutely.

"Come on, give me something," Dick said. "You must have some idea growing up."

Bruce, he knew, was notoriously tight-lipped, so it was unlikely that Jason got any ideas from him. But maybe, once upon a time, Willis Todd did something nice for his wife.

"The men in East End would tip an extra five dollars to whores they like,” Jason snapped.

Dick felt his heart drop to his stomach. He could feel a flush rising to his cheeks.

"Yeah, don't...don't do that..." he muttered.

They grow quiet for several minutes, sipping their coffee and occasionally throwing glances at the building they were supposed to be staking out. It was Jason who eventually spoke first.

"She's not upset," he said quietly. "I just...feel like I should do something for her."

It struck Dick then, that Jason looked woefully young. It was likely that this was Jason's first real relationship. And he had nothing to go on except what he had seen men do to sex workers in East End.

And Bruce...wasn't exactly a model for healthy relationships.

"How about flowers?" Dick suggested gently. "Those are always a classic.

Do you know what kind of flowers she likes?"

A pause.

"No."

"I used to date a girl," Dick began. "Bit of a gardener. She loved roses. She'd snip the ends and put them in water to make them last longer. She loved white roses best of all, because she'd try all sorts of experiments with dyes."

Jason didn't answer, fiddling with the straw of his drink. And when he next spoke, it was in a painfully unsure voice.

"Is that...something I should know?" he asked quietly. "Her favorite flowers?"

Suddenly, Dick hoped–wished–violently that this wasn't Jason's first relationship. That sometime after the Joker and before the Arkham Knight, he carved some semblance of peace for himself. Maybe met a girl or a guy during those few sunlit months in Santa Prisca. Dated. Fooled around. The kind of things that he should have done growing up. The kind of things that Joker stole from him.

"Not necessarily," Dick said, his voice soft. "But it doesn't hurt to pay attention. Girls like that sort of thing. Well, people, really. If she ever mentions something like that, just make sure to take a note."

The nod Jason gave him was oddly solemn, and Dick realized, with heartbreaking clarity, how much his little brother wanted to make this work with you.

"What about chocolates?" Dick suggested again, not wanting to dwell on darker thoughts. "I'm sure we can find a confectionary here somewhere..."

Jason snorted. "Sure. In Bludhaven, the peak of romance."

He grew quiet again, before saying, in hesitant voice: "She likes old movies. There was that one about an urban legend..."

"There you have it," Dick said, trying not to let the relief show in his voice.

"You can have a movie night or something! Hell, you can even go now. Make a surprise out of it–”

But the contemplative expression on Jason's face–the one that made him look so young–suddenly fell away, and what was left now was pure Red Hood.

"Can't," he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. "We're on a mission."

"For some two-time smuggler? Please, I can solve this case with my eyes closed."

Jason looked at him as if he was insane.

"What?" Dick asked.

"Dick," Jason said slowly, with gravity. "What do you know about Salazar?"

"Hm?" Dick was still mentally going through the catalogue of nearby confectioneries the two of them could go to. "Some human trafficker...don't worry we got Tim tracking down his victims."

"A sculptor who's selling out entire galleries as a student because her work is so lifelike," Jason said, a bite of impatience in his voice. "A comedian who's always performing to packed crowds because everyone says his jokes make their entire week. A used-car salesman who never misses a sale."

Jason paused, waiting for Dick to put the pieces together.

Dick had never thought of the victims that way, and now that Jason was pointing it out, it all did sound rather strange. The realization came to him with slow dawning horror.

"Jason..." he said. "You think he's trafficking metas?"

Jason sighed, and there was something weary in it. Dick remembered that his little brother hadn't seen you in two weeks.

"You think he might target her," he concluded. "That's why you're working so hard on this case."

Jason didn't answer. He didn't have to.

"Does she know?"

"No." Jason's answer was immediate. "It's just...a working theory, anyway. I don't want her scared over a theory."

"It might make her a little more careful if you told her," Dick nudged Jason with his shoulder. "It wouldn't hurt. Plus...well, it's not nice to keep her in the dark, you know?"

Jason looked at him, and for a moment, Dick could see the boy from the manor. The one that used to hang on to his every word as if it was gospel.

He pulled out his phone.

And sent you a quick text.

"Thanks," Jason said quietly. "I'm still...getting used to...all this."

And he gave Dick a small, grateful smile. Just the barest quirk of the corners of his mouth.

But it was there.

Dick smiled back. "You're doing great. Besides, working for two weeks straight on a case to keep your little girlfriend safe? You're a regular romantic. She's going to think you're from one of those old movies she likes."

The smile was gone. The scowl back in place. Jason shoved him, with perhaps more force than he intended to, but Dick rolled with it, laughing.

Maybe getting to know his little brother all over again wouldn’t be as bad as he thought.

[theempressofthenile]

Astro notes : Short N Sweet <3 Mercurial Design.

Mercury in the 1st - Comical. Socially abundant. Can be very quiet or loud. No in between. I love them actually. Would love someone that can match their flow, however most can never keep up with their every flowing wave. Their like the wind in human form. Their mind is a capsule of all the memories and experiences they've accumilated with time. Very interesting beings and could show you everything and nothing at the same time.

Mercury in the 2nd - This group has common sense enough to figure things out in such a small period of time that they can do almost anything to get what they want. They have issues with exploring things at first hand (taurus is the original ruler of the 2nd) so they can be a little stubborn but over time they quickly learn for new things to come to them from time to time. Very deep thinkers. Can be very open minded when they WANT to be.

Mercury in the 3rd - Intriguing personalities and are the gift that keeps giving. Soft spoken and has a mind thats free to any and everything. Really reluctant on having new friends but can become the bestest of friends later. they can really shy at times. There most open to conversations with strangers, it seems as they can let their whole world out from their mind and open a door to someone who is willing to listen. Beautiful spirits.

Mercury in the 4th - Sweet childlike personalities and honestly their mystique is one of a kind. Going into their world is like walking into a magical novel filled with fantasy, and coming out and it all disappears. Like a spell. Very captivating artists, and most keep the good stuff in a treasure chest, only the real ones will get a chance to open up whats inside.

Mercury in the 5th - Playful. Soft spoken. Interesting. Knowledgeable. Carefree. Those are the 5 things that is most prominent about their character. They will speak to you through song, writing, or even through and instrument. They work real well with their hands, if you can catch what I mean ;) Smooth charmers and could be a mini casanova so watch out for them. Very seductive.

Mercury in 6th - Talkaholics. Chatty Patties. You get my drift lol. Their caring to the ones they love and are advocates for everyone or everything such as animals and plants or even homeless people. You cannot get away with being mean to someone if they catch they are going to say some lol. Can be very mean spirited to the ones who deserve it. Overall, very practical and humane about things that need most of our attention. They aren't boring, their routines can switch up a lot depending on their mood so be easy on them.

Mercury in 7th - Charming individuals whose seductive prowess come out like a lightning bolt. Everybody likes them. Children come up to them the most tho. They have an angelic presence to their personalities and can get anyone to be on their side. Charismatic. Be careful, because the same way they can use this gift for good, they can switch and you know... do some damage ;)

Mercury in the 8th - Something about their wordplay is very special and potent. They have a gift with words that can transform the way you feel, think, breathe, etc. They have knowledge and insight about the world that most will never accept to be the truth. So they guard these secrets with their life, holding on until the ashes fall away connecting back with the wind. And allowing the circle of life to continue. The mind transforms a lot and they become a new person every once and a while. Be easy on them, their brain can take them to many stages psychologically.

Mercury in the 9th - Have a wit and charm to them that keeps the energy going. They aren't use to having people wanting to be around them or being attracted to them a lot however this happens more often than not. People love what they have to say, and want to hear more of how they view things from time to time. They are really interesting to say the least. Like what all do you know?

Mercury in the 10th - The audience admires these beings. Naturally charismatic and people love to see them on the big screen. They literally have a tv personality and can go viral at some point in their life. Gotta watch out for the people who always have their hands out, their naturally giving and love to share their time and energy freely.. a little too much. Keep your circle small.

Mercury in the 11th - Have a natural knack with entertaining all sorts of groups. Can commit to a cause like no other and get as many people on board. Very persuasive and social skills are through the roof. The social awkward become to most popular. The loner because the one everyone knows. These individuals are great with turning something that was 'lame' into someone fun and cool. Very different from the crowd, which what allows people to see them for their soul and not their flesh.

Mercury in the 12th - Spiritually inclined to feel the waves of the universe. Captivating the stars in the night and then going home to serve the divine with a painted canvas. A gifted creator who's only purpose is to live and die. To create and conquer the mind. The brain is the place of peace, when it wants to be. And when its not, they transmute that energy into something no other than. Something creative. Something special. The universe uses them as the vessel to give a message to the audience who desires to hear the words of God. You will never get another one of them in your life if you ever meet them.

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

...ready for it? - j.l. howlett

a/n: hi! here's a full version of a blurb i wrote a few days ago that got so much love so quick that i wanted to give yall a full version! the beginning is literally just the blurb but after that it's all new! like many of you wolverine brainrot has hit me hard, so here's graphic smut about him. leave a comment or a reblog if you enjoyed :) warnings: SMUT!!!!! some dumbification, use of pet names, reader is fem, reader is a mutant and able to control plants, lots of cursing, lots of grotesque fliritng/fantasies, some soft moments, some sort of primal sex, oral (fem receiving), some of the setting is probs inaccurate but whatever. let me know if i missed any big ones!! word count: 4.9 k summary: well, you had to find some way of entertaining yourself at charles xavier's school for gifted youngsters. and you have always liked an emotionally unavailable, absolutely hung, challenge. pairing: logan howlett x mutant!reader now playing: ...ready for it? - taylor swift "in the middle of the night, in my dreams/you should see the things we do, baby/in the middle of the night in my dreams/i know i'm gonna be with you, so i take my time"

You are absolutely enthralled with him. It’s actually sort of pathetic how your fingers twitch at the sight of him, at how the mention of his name or god forbid the sound of his voice makes your head snap up, attention deficit disorders be damned!

Funnily enough, you had no damn interest in Xavier’s stupid mutant school, because to you, you’re not an outsider because of your mutant abilities (that don’t have much of a physical apparition, at least one that you can’t hide) but because there’s never been much of a place for you to fit in.

But, you were behind on rent and of course, you fucking hate your job, so why not? You’d be able to be slightly less of a freak, and you’d get free room and board in the process! (Where Charles gets all of his money, you do not know.)

And because you’re a little older, Charles doesn’t force you to sit in a class room to learn about basic arithmetic and grammar lessons, so you really only do some training around three times a day, you have your own room (with a dusty box under the other bed, you also suspect your room used to be the ‘sex’ room) and you have the weekends off.

So for a twenty something year old with few ambitions, the social skills of a Martian with autism, and a huge crush on every older emotionally unavailable man you meet, it’s a pretty good set-up.

You’re waiting for time to pass in the garden, just reading a rather interesting book that Charles had recommended after he noticed you needed something to pass time before you started making bad decisions.

You hear his heavy footsteps on the gravel before you see him. Your heart beats faster, but you will yourself, do everything in your power not to glance up at him. And you let out a breath as you succeed, keeping your head down.

“In your natural habitat, are you, spitfire?” Your head darts up to him—There’s no way he isn’t talking to you, you know you’re the only one in this garden. And you can see his lips twitch up and you want to crawl out of your skin!

“My-My natural habitat?” You laugh, closing the book you’re reading because your attention is locked to him now.

“Yeah, seems like it.” He saunters on up to you and sits on the bench next to you.

And let’s make something very clear—

Logan Howlett does not sit.

This man poses, as if there’s always some invisible camera capturing every frame of movement, from the way his legs spread out, to the way his chest lifts when he inhales.

Fuck, you think you might die if you can’t suck him off right now.

“And what exactly is my uh.. habitat?” You question.

He takes out his lighter and a cigar, placing the cigar in his mouth as he gestures to the space around the two of you, lighter in hand.

“A garden.” He says, matter of facility, as his voice is muffled only the slightest bit by the cigar.

And you just sort of look at him before asking,

“Oh, you enjoy being boiled down to your mutations, Claws?” You question, and as he goes to light the cigar, he smirks.

“Alright, you gotta admit though, it is cliché!”

You are absolutely in agreement, there is zero doubt you are as much of a walking, breathing, real life living, stereotype.

“It is not!” And the pair of you give each other this look, like you’re both shocked at how whiney that statement is!

“Uh-huh, sure, Spitfire.” It sounds almost like he’s purring at you.

When he lights his cigar, he’s sort of eying you for your reaction, whatever you might say.

“You know, smoking is not only bad for you, it’s awful for the environment.”

“You’re probably the most cliché little freak around here.” Which.. honestly..? Shouldn’t possibly turn you on as much as it does.

You just stare at him for a minute, and he smirks.

“Cat got your tongue?’

And maybe it’s stupid and maybe it’s immature but your hand just comes over to fiddle with the pointed part of his hair.

“We’ll you certainly look the part.” He just looks at you, and honestly? The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s proud of you for teasing him.

“Aw, there’s my little spitfire,” He teases, just to see how red you get. And red you are— it’s embarrassing. And here’s the kicker—You are young. Exceptionally young, and what’s insane about that? How horny it makes both you and Logan.

The idea of fucking your innocent cunt, tight and all his, drives him genuinely mad. And you are, quite literally, a whore for the idea of riding this older man’s dick. You know he’s big—sometimes you see the outerline of it when he walks away from you all huffy and puffy.

“You’re a tease, Claws.” You respond, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Says you,” he raises and eyebrow, leaning closer to you now, “You’re the one laying around in the sun, looking like that.”

“Looking like this?” You scoff. You’re wearing a muscle tee and a pair of ripped jeans, but the gaps are huge and he can see your thighs. He wants to devour you, and you would let him if he only asked.

And let’s be clear—he is fucking you with his eyes. There’s no way to go around it.

“I think you’re just.. horny.” You tease, and he just growls. Seriously, this man who is undressing you with his eyes, growls, because he does want you and he is horny!

“I think you’re onto something.” He purrs, and you want to just.. god. You don’t know how to express the pit of desire that grows in you. “I would fuck you until you couldn’t think, right here among your pretty flowers. Would you like that, baby?” he asks, his hand finding your thigh.

But you just cough on the smoke from his cigar, before frowning.

“You really shouldn’t smoke.”

“Aw, I’ll make it up to you.” He smirked. “Promise, spitfire.”

He’s very close to you now, so you take a second to just breath and you know that he knows that he’s got you—hook, line, and sweet, sweet sinker.

And then you realize what exactly it is that you’ve gotten yourself into. And what a nightmare it is—Or maybe a dream if you listen to the pathetic part of your brain, but you are into this an in a way that is concerning for your own mental wellbeing and desperately want to avoid him having all the power in this situation.

“Oh, I am sure you will.” You assure. You lean forward, plucking the cigar from his lips, and placing it on the ground, squashing it beneath your heel. With a flick of your wrist, vines and grass grow over the cigar, composting it. And from the vines, grows a small little buttercup flower.

You lean down and pluck the flower from the grass, before tucking it behind Logan’s ear.

“You should take care of that hard-on you have, Claws.” You hum, before standing up, and walking away. And for a minute, he just watches you go—partly to because you have an amazing ass, but partly because you have absolutely flabbergasted him.

And have made him want you even more.

• • •

The next time you see him is the next night, in the woods near the mansion. Because the literal sixteen year olds you go to ‘school’ with do not know how to do anything on the weekend except drink, fuck, and smoke.

Honestly, you kind of fit in great.

So here you are, nursing a mason jar of.. some fucked up concoction, and you’re not too sure what’s in it, but you have drunk two of them and are on your third. You think you might live forever, until you glance up and see Logan, in these fuck me jeans and this burnt orange flannel and a wife beater.

Instantly, you know that you’ll die tonight if you don’t have him.

He approaches you with this cocky smirk as if he hasn’t realized your intoxicated state yet.

“Now what’s a little spitfire like you doing all alone on a Friday night?” he questions, tilting his head. His smirk is deadly. And you roll your eyes.

“Here comes the big bad Wolverine, all bark and no bite.” You scoff, and his eyes flash with surprise. Only for a second, but even drunk, you notice the way his eyes shoot up in surprise.

“All bark and no bite? That’s quite the accusation.” He hums.

“Well, we’ve been.. eye fucking each other for a few weeks now, and you haven’t even kissed me yet. I get being into foreplay and edging, but holy shit, Claws, throw a girl a bone once in a while.” You scoff, and for a moment, he just looks at you.

“Are you.. drunk?”

“Do you think I’m drunk?”

“Yeah, you’re drunk.” He sighs. You respond by taking another sip of your drink, but before the bitter liquor hits your tongue, he snatches the bottle from you.

“Let me take you home.” You’re sure your eyes look like hearts, so, dreamily and a little love struck, you respond,

“’Kay.”

And he chuckles a little bit at that.

“We’re not gonna do anything, I’m just gonna walk you home, spitfire.” He starts, and your face falls a little bit, but in an effort to hide it, you respond,

“..’kay.” And he sees right through you. You’re pretty much an open book. And the alcohol doesn’t help. His pointer finger and thumb comes to your chin, and he gently rubs his thumb against your lip.

“Don’t be like that, pup. It’ll happen soon. Just not tonight, okay?” He assures.

“’Kay.” You answer softly, and you think he smiles at you but your vision is sort of blurry. Then, you blink, as a gust of wind moves through the trees, sending a shiver down your spine. He sighs, and wordlessly takes off his flannel, before wrapping it around you. Your arms slip into the sleeves, and you almost cry because it’s like, the best hug in the entire world. “Won’t.. you be cold, then?” you question, and he just shakes his head.

“Let’s get you home, spitfire.” He holds a handout to you, and without a second thought, you take his hand. He wraps his arm around you, and you lean against him like it’s something the two of you do often. If you were sober, you might short circuit. But, you’re not, so it feels right.

The walk home is quiet, but Logan’s thumb gently rubs against your shoulder. He wants to do more, but he knows he shouldn’t, since you are in fact plastered.

You ignore the giggles and whispers from teenagers making their way past you to the party or to their rooms, and you even ignore the way their giggles stop when they meet Logan’s gaze.

When you get back to your room, you take a second to lean against the door, and he takes a second to admire the way you look in his clothes.

“Ready for bed?” he asks gently, and you just smile at him.

“You’re really pretty.” He just does the half scoff-half chuckle that you’re obsessed with. Then, he wraps his arm around you again, opening the door to your room, and guiding you inside. He gets you to your bed and sits you down, before kneeling in front of you to untie your boots. “Has anyone ever told you how good you look on your knees?” you ask.

He just gives you this smirk.

“One or two pretty girls back in the day.” He says, “None as pretty as you though, spitfire.” He says, and you groan, leaning back and laying on the bed, as he pulls off your boots.

“You’re awful.” And you need him.

“Yes, I know, baby.” His voice is almost condescending, and it turns you on. But then he stands up, grabbing the folded blanket from the edge of your bed, and laying it over you. He finds his place kneeling next to you again as you stare at him, cozy in bed. His hands gently brush hair from your face. “Do you need anything else?”

“You.”

“Soon. But not yet, pup. You’re too drunk.” He says softly.

“Thanks for walking me home, Claws.”

“You’re very welcome, Spitfire.” He purrs, leaning forward and kissing your forehead gently. “I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Logan.” You mumble as you drift off to sleep. He sits there for a few minutes, just looking at you for a long time before he gets up and creeps out of your room.

• • •

The next morning, you sit in the cafeteria, drinking a large coffee, and nursing the worst hangover, possibly of your life. Made even worse by the fractions of memories about what happened last night.

You rub your eyes, flinching when you hear the clatter of a plate on the table, and someone sitting across from you. You peek through the gaps of your fingers to see Logan sitting across from you, a smirk on his face.

He opens his mouth to say something but you beat him to it.

“I hate you. Shut up.”

“I didn’t even say anything!” he laughs. But he sees how much pain you’re in, and slides two pieces of sourdough toast to you. “Truce?”

“Truce.” You agree, taking a slice and biting into it. You feel better.

And after a moment of silence, he asks,

“I’m never getting my flannel back, am I?”

Truthfully, the flannel has been folded neatly and tucked into your drawer, for the next time you need some comfort.

You tilt your head, looking right into his eyes.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

• • •

Weeks go by like this.

You spend your days either going to class or hanging out—okay, it’s more like flirting with a side of hanging out, with Logan. The pair of you become quite close, and maybe that’s why you haven’t fucked yet.

Oh, the two of you want to, and it’s obvious to everyone (Charles has called you out for being distracted more times than you can count, and you remind him not to probe your mind, and he tells you he does not need his mutant abilities to see that your thoughts linger elsewhere.) but you’re.. afraid, at this point.

Which is odd, because you’re no virgin, you know he wants you, but.. what if everything changes after that? Maybe he’ll start to avoid you. Maybe you’ll start to avoid him. And you’ve really become good friends, and don’t want to lose it.

And then, there’s the fact that half the time, he’s away on dangerous missions, and even if he can regenerate, you worry about him. But he hasn’t been on any lately, so it’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You’re sitting in the garden when it happens.

He finds you, and this time, you do not even try to hide the way your head picks up and gazes at him.

“Hi, Spitfire.” He grins, and you smile a bit at him.

“Claws, what can I do for you?” And he sits next to you, and for some reason, maybe because he doesn’t say anything at first, you know that there is something wrong. And you know what it is.

After a few minutes, you glance to him.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Your voice is quiet, as if you’re scared that if it gets any louder, everything will fall apart.

“Yeah. Charles has me going on another mission.” He doesn’t say it, but you both know this isn’t an involuntary thing.

“Cool.” You cringe at your reaction.

“I guess.” He laughs weakly, as if he knows he’s twisting a knife buried within you.

Silence fills the air. It’s not necessarily uncomfortable, but it isn’t the relaxed silence you’re used to with him. Confessions dance on the tips of your tongues, and you’re so close to saying it, that when you turn to each other suddenly, you just need to look at each other for a second.

“Be safe.” You say quietly. “And hurry back.” You request, and you try not to sound like you’re begging.

“Of course.” He says, like it perplexes him that you even have to request. “I can’t leave you here yearning for me forever, can I?” He teases, and for a moment, you have this flash of an alternate universe where he does die on this mission and you are trapped in this garden forever, waiting for him. Like a lost puppy, or worse, a lost lover. The mere thought of it fucks with your head.

“No. You can’t. I won’t allow it.” You explain, “If anything, I’m the one that should be haunting you.” He just smiles. A real, not at all awkward smile.

“I’m sure you will, spitfire.” He says, and his head comes forward so that his forehead is resting against yours.

“When do you leave?” You ask gently, and he sighs. His breath smells of mint and cigar smoke, maybe even a hint of lemon.

“An hour. I have to pack quick and then debrief.” He answers you.

And just as love struck as you were the night of the party, you answer,

“’Kay.” You smile weakly at him. And he just.. looks at you for a few minutes before sighing again. He pulls away and leans up to kiss your forehead again, before standing up. He turns a few steps away from you just to tease you.

“Don’t miss me too much, okay?” he requests softly. Before you can stop yourself, you stand up, and wrap your arms around him. He only pauses for a half a second before he returns your embrace, and it becomes apparent that you both needed this moment. You stay like this for a few minutes before you pull away.

“Bring me back a souvenir.” You try, a soft smile on your face.

“Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll bring you something great from the great city of Tulsa, Ohklahoma.” He grins.

“Deal.”

“Deal.”

• • •

For the next week, you feel like this must be what it was like for housewives when their husbands went to war. You knew all too well that that statement was extremely dramatic, but you simply cannot help yourself.

You think you might die by day three.

It’s like you’re going through withdrawals and it’s making you go genuinely insane.

You have worn this man’s flannel for almost the entire week, because at first you’re a little self-conscious of other people noticing your repeating outfits, but only at first. By day four, you have decided you don’t give a single fuck.

Day eight you’re just laying in bed, quietly making a list of all the positions you want him to take you in. It’s a long list. You’re brought back to reality by a knock on your door. You’re about to snap, knowing that you’ll tell whatever child has been sent to bother you to scram, but when you open the door, you grin widely.

Logan stands there, looking tired, but he’s smiling and holding up a shot glass that reads ‘Tusla’, and has skyline on it.

“Didn’t I tell you I’d get you a souvenir?” He asks, and you can’t help but wrap your arms around him, pulling him in. He hugs you back, making sure to squeeze you just a bit—your feet barely come off the ground.

He pulls away, and you grin up to him.

“You came back.” You say it as if you can barely believe it, and just for a moment, he feels an emotion he can’t quite place, but he ignores it.

“Of course I came back, spitfire. All in one piece too, as requested.” He grins, and you’re just.. amazed at the look of him. “What’s that look for?” He asks gently, tilting his head.

“I just..” you start.

And then you break.

You lean up and kiss him gently, those stupidly delicious sideburns making your stomach flip. He doesn’t waste time, kissing you back, his arms around your waist. After a minute, you pull away.

“Sorry. I’m kind of done playing that game of waiting for you to kiss me. I just got the first hit of you I’ve had all week, and I feel fucking amazing.” You confess, and sure, it’s not a big grand love confession with tears and poetry, but your words make him kiss you so intensely that you start backing into your room, his hands exploring your body as you tug off his leather jacket, a new flannel for you to steal coming off soon after.

He keeps kissing you as his hands come down to your jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping them, before gently pushing you to sit on the bed. He kneels in front of you, and begins to tug off your boots again, then, on your jeans.

You grin.

“You know, I’m getting the oddest sense of déjà vu. Something about you looking great on your knees.” You tease, and he just tugs off your jeans in one strong swoop, before leaning in to bite your thigh. You gasp, your hands coming up to tug his hair.

Then, he begins to tug at your panties, and you tilt his head up, glancing at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Well, before I was interrupted, I was about to eat you out.”

“Wait, really?”

He blinks, confused.

“Yeah. Is that a, uh.. problem..?” He hasn’t gotten any complaints yet.

“I just.. I didn’t think guys actually did that, I thought it was just.. a porno thing.” And at this, the man who is about to burry his face between your thighs, laughs. And not just a chuckle, this man hollars. “What’s so funny, claws?” You ask, a little suspicious.

“Nothing,” he promises, “I am just going to take such good care of you, pup.”

“I’m holding you to that, claws.” And then, he leans in and begins to kiss your thighs, gently biting down here and there. Then, he licks a stripe along your cunt, and you let out this loud moan, and your hand comes up to clamp over your mouth, but he reaches up to grab your hand, lacing his fingers with yours.

He pulls away to lecture you. Lecture you. On his knees. Head between your thighs.

“Nuh-uh, I wanna hear all the pretty noises you can make for me.” Then, softer, he adds, “Never been eaten out before, fuckin’ travesty.” He mumbles, before leaning in to lick your cunt again, beginning to lap his tongue over your throbbing heat.

His nose rubs against your clit, and it’s enough to drive you genuinely crazy. You’re unsure how you’ve gotten to this point in your life without having your pussy worshipped like this, but with him around, you’re pretty sure you’ll never go another day without it.

His tongue continues to work magic on your cunt, as his nose presses against your clit, stimulating you to the point of making you see stars.

Your hands tug at his hair, and the moan that it elicits from him is enough to send vibrations through your cunt through your stomach. Your head leans back as you moan, and for a moment, you hope there is no mutant in this mansion with super hearing.

His free hand grips your thigh as he bends your leg back to get better access, as he continues to eat you out. The mere taste of you is enough to drive him crazy—He almost wants to start thrusting into the side of your bed, he’s so hard, but he ignores that urge to continue to eat you out.

“Mm—Lo, I—I’m gonna—”

He just hums into your cunt, giving your thigh a gentle squeeze of approval, before his tongue moves even faster (if that’s even possible, though, he is an amazingly surprising man), and suddenly—

You feel a release you have been waiting for weeks, and it is fucking phenomenal. And the Wolverine just licks up all your cum, even if it makes your thighs shake, but honestly, he doesn’t care and neither do you. For a moment, you just listen to the sound of your own pants.

After a minute, you are able to look at him, and he just looks up to you with the same smirk that has been torturing you for all of those weeks. And you just have to pull him up to kiss you, like it’s the only way you’ll be able to live.

As you kiss him, you pull off his wifebeater and then your hands rest on the sides of his face as he pulls off your shirt as well, before his hands begin to make quick work of his belt, wanting to skip all of the pleasantries and just fuck you.

But when he finally gets his jeans off, you pull away, and he stares at you like you’re crazy.

“What the fuck could possibly be more important than me fucking you stupid?”

“Will you just.. let me look at you?” You scoff, your eyes flickering over him to just memorize every square inch of his body. He humors you for a few minutes, standing there with his hands on hips before he leans in and cages you in with his arms.

“Show’s over, spitfire.” He purrs, leaning in to kiss you, slowly making his way closer to you so that you’re laying back on your bed. At some point during the kiss, his boxers come off, and when you feel his cock against your cunt, you moan into the kiss, and you can feel his smirk against your lips.

Oh, you could kill him. But, you suspect maybe he’ll get to you first.

After he kisses you for a few minutes, he pulls away to tell—not ask, tell you, “I’m going to fuck you now.” And you know your line.

“’Kay.” He grins at this and kisses you again, before lining himself up and starting slowly. He just has the tip inside of you, and you begin to moan, your grip on his shoulders tightening. You already feel entirely too full, and he slowly agonizingly slowly pushes into you, and he sees how his size makes your face twitch,

“Shh, shh, I know, pup. Deep breathes for me, bub,” he says softly, such a stark contract to his rough movements, as he bottoms out and has his entire cock inside of you. And he gives you a second, watching as your face relaces, adjusting to the size of him. “Okay?” He asks, and you nod.

“’Kay,” You assure, and he kisses your forehead.

“’Kay.” He responds, and before you can tease him for it, he begins to thrust into you, slowly as first, but he continues to quicken his pace. Your nails begin to scratch on his back, and he lets out this angelic moan—You must’ve died and went to heaven.

As his thrusts quicken, the lines quickly blur between quick ruts and an animalistic need, manifesting itself in the way he fucks you. You know you won’t last long, especially when his fingers find your clit and begin to rub it again.

“Fuck! Oh my god—”

“I know, baby, I know,” he coos, his free hand coming to your thigh to lift your leg up, only for better access to your throbbing cunt, “God, I love the feeling of you around me.. Worth the wait, I promise.” He grumbles, as he thrusts into you, his only goal to make you cum.

You want to respond to that—To tease him, to make him feel as shy as you do, but he has completed his goal of fucking you stupid.

All you can do is respond, “Fuck—I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby, go ahead, cum for me,” he requests softly, leaning in to press a rather jarringly sweet kiss to your lips.

As you cum around his cock, he shudders, the look of you, laying there fucked dumb, is almost too much for him to bear.

“I’m gonna fill you up, pup,” he tells you, and all you can do is moan in response, which makes him come that much closer to the edge. After a few more thrusts, with a euphoric moan that will haunt you forever, his hot cum fills you up, leaving the pair of you clawing at each other, wanting more.

When you’re both finally finished riding out your high, Logan lays next to you, keeping you close. His grip on you is tight—possessive. When you finally find your voice, you ask,

“You’re not gonna turn me into a booty call, are you, claws?”

And he laughs.

“No,” he says, pressing a kiss to your head. “You’re gonna be my best girl, Spitfire.”

“Does this mean I get to steal another of your flannels?”

“I’ll give you my whole fucking wardrobe to see how many times I can make you cum.”

[laser-tripwires]

i am occasionally reminded that parker knows how to shoot/handle a gun competently in redemption s1e3 and it's like, eliot, mr. "i dont like guns", why are you teaching people this.

(i am aware parker has a handgun in s1e1 but i dont think the skills are transferable to shotguns and its never really established if she can actually hit anything and also i doubt archie would train her in it bc its not a gentleman thief skill and by the same logic i doubt parker would teach herself bc its not particularly thief-y)

anon, this ask was like an early christmas present for me. i love when people are "wrong" in interesting ways, or if not wrong then... take a different view to what i do. so, parker and guns. i can't believe i've never made a post about this.

(heads up, i've stolen vast swathes of this post from conversations i've had with both @ghostlyarchaeologist and @aardvaark. words are all mine but ideas are mutually borne, so thank you both for being sounding boards at various points in the past. everyone go follow heather and adrian cos they're better at this than i am.)

right, let's talk about the pilot, becuase parker can absolutely hit things with that. both eliot and nate know immediately that hardison isn't a real danger, but the second nate hears the safety beng turned off there he whirls around and matches her threat; that's what you do when you know someone's not making pointless bluffs.

also, boiling this back to it's utter basics, what's the main skillset you use in order to handle a pistol competently? hand-eye coordination. which is something we know for sure parker has in spades; she's a master pickpocket and she learns fast.

we need to remember, also, that parker's initial sense of morality is completely fucked. or... not morality, exactly, but sense of what does and doesn't count as wrong, what does or doesn't count as harm? because there's that scene in homecoming, right, where everyone's protesting the concept of eliot having to do the thing they hired him for, and parker weighs in with "i never hurt anyone." except... like, the FIRST thing we know about parker is that she blew up a house as a child. it's canonical that the parents survived, but parker also spent six months in juvie and has broken out of prison multiple times and lived on the street for god knows how long and stork job shows she can fight pretty well pre-leverage, too. i'll come back to all this in a minute.

her being a crack shot with a gun is... not really incongrous with who she was pre-leverage. archie describes her when he found her as "a danger to herself and to others" and like YEAH no i buy that. i buy that completely.

next up, what about things that aren't pistols? well.

that's a fucking sniper rifle.

that's a fucking sniper rifle.

that is, and i cannot stress this enough, a fucking sniper rifle.

so yeah, i'd say that those skills are transferrable. she can take out an armed gunman and tie him up with duct tape, without causing a scuffle, and re-aim the gun. with enough consistency that nate knows for sure she'll manage it in less than three seconds. sure, we can chalk some of that up to parker at this point having had four seasons of eliot here's-how-you-take-out-thugs-with-guns fight training, but... i think at this point it's pretty fair to say that (regardless of the provinance of her skills) parker's kinda a good shot, actually.

okay, let's revisit that point about morality, because there are kinda a bunch of really important touchstones here.

so, john rogers once said that "parker is the second most dangerous person on the team, and eliot would argue first most dangerous." she's the team member with the least qualms about hurting people, always, and that's a detail that tends to get brushed over.

she would have killed tara here. she makes that extremely clear. i can't listen to that "Bye, now." and not get shivers.

talking of shivers.... "I want to do the right thing."

because, look, parker's not eliot. she's not thawing ice all the way through, and yet we're shown again and again that, despite that, "She has the nuclear winter inside her." there will always be a part of her who's first instinct is to jump, to hide, to run, to kill, to not care because caring hurts. but there's also a part of her that is softer than any of the team, that is a child who'll never grow up and yet grew up too fast. she grew up beaten, bruised, neglected and starved yet she's something wonderful - but she knows she's broken, she knows they all call her crazy, and it hurts. she wants to do the right thing, make the right choice, but she hates that it'll never be her first instinct. and the thing is? that's okay. she went through hell and back and turned out someone strange and weird and at times unkind, but... the team like how she turned out. hardison likes how she turned out. and that's worth the world - she just needs to remember it and believe it and use HER skills instead of trying to be something she's not. that is what parker and eliot's conversation in the ice cave is about, if you strip it back to it's bare essentials. parker doesn't want to be normal, she just wants to be normal enough for her friends.

has parker ever killed someone? i don't know. i don't know if she even thinks like that, in such clear terms - as i already talked about, parker's definition of 'hurt' is not the same as anyone else's.

so let's talk about broken wing job for a second, because absolutely everyone overlooks the reason why parker does the job in the first place - "You brought a gun? To my bar?"

because. yeah.

"Those guys are gonna rob this store, right? Which is fine. I don’t mind robbers who aren’t robbing me, or my friends, or kids or… But they brought a gun to the party, and that changes all the rules."

this is season five. she investigates the theives because she's bored - but she only decides to stop them because they brought a gun. that's the kind of very specific morality you only get after being the good guy for a very long time, and i do think that hanging around eliot probably helped affect that a bit.

actually, fuck it, look at what else she says about this whole thing in the broken wing job.

"No cops. No cops. That will actually increase the chances of people getting hurt. [...] Seeing a uniform in the middle of stealing something could cause you to panic, make bad decisions..."

"These guys aren’t that good, which is actually another reason why we should do this, ‘cause sooner or later, they’re gonna make a mistake. Someone’s gonna get hurt."

so. yeah. on the one hand, this is weapons safety 101, for someone in parker's position. "[The Leverage crew] don't use guns because - when guns come out, people die. This attitude very much comes out from traditional American crime literature, and also from talking to our professional criminal friends. Guns are messy, when they show up things escalate, you take a longer, harder fall when doing a crime with a gun - professional criminals are pathologically averse to carrying weapons." i'm quoting john rogers here, because i can, but you'll hear similar in any training manual, and it's especially relevant to parker's actions both here and elsewhere in the show.

on the other hand, mix up all those statements and it definitely implies parker has fucked up badly in the past. again, i don't know if she's ever killed someone. but.

well, for funsies, let's look at the rest of JR's above statement about gun safety (i'm quoting from his blog on the gone fishin' job, in case you wanted to find the source): "You do not point a gun at anything or anyone you are not willing to kill. [...] I had that drilled into my head at an early age. A gun has two settings - holstered and murderous. 'Wounded' is an accidental condition. Eliot in particular is aware of this, and one of the many reasons he does not use a gun is because he is trying to, well, not kill people anymore. Hardison is magnificently awful with weaponry. Although Parker is probably a fine shot, she's trying to play nice by the new rules, and only brought a weapon to the meet in the pilot because she wanted to get paid."

and all that is, more than anything else, the core and crux of everything i'm saying here. factor in how broken parker is, how we know she's made mistakes in the past, throw in archie's "a danger - to herself and to others" line, think about the tara rooftop incident... there's a picture emerging here. it's not a nice one, but it's unpleasantly clear.

so. where does that leave us?

well, it at least leaves me extremely certain for a vast number of reasons that eliot didn't need to teach parker how to shoot a rigged game.

[great-and-small]

One of my inner mantras when I’m out in nature is this: if something is worth a look, it’s worth a close look. So when I stopped to look over a railing at this nondescript corner of a pond, I forced myself to pause and spend some extra time looking closer at the scene at hand. Aside from the larger fish swimming below (which I am regrettably unable to ID) I greatly enjoyed watching the little “minnows” just under the surface. These fish are lively and entertaining to observe as they forage for food and squabble with one another, but they’re often overlooked by even the most ardent wildlife enthusiasts here. I grew up catching and observing minnows for fun and I’ve got a real soft spot for them, so here’s a little deep dive into these shallow water fish!

While a big school of minnows may not look like much at first blush, hardly anyone could deny the beauty of a Sailfin Molly after they’ve had a proper look at the fish.

If you’re trying to spot this species in a group like this, look for the blue tail and orange head of a mature male (quick mnemonic- red head= Molly like Molly Ringwald) but remember there can be a ton of color variation in mollies. These fish are feisty and bold; you’ll often see them chasing other mollies to defend their territory. If you watch closely enough you might get to see a male flare his oversized dorsal fin in a courtship display that is quite impressive.

Perhaps less visually striking but no less interesting in behavior is this little fellow, the eastern mosquitofish.

The Eastern mosquitofish is considered an invasive species in many places where it has been introduced by human activity, but here in their native home you can’t help but love em. The species is so named for their favorite prey (water borne mosquito larvae) and you can imagine how this particular behavior would be appreciated by us mammals that live near water! Mosquitofish (like the sailfin molly) often inhabit water that is lower in oxygen concentration, and have thus evolved an upturned jaw that allows them to take in water closer to the surface where it is richer in oxygen. It also happens to give them an adorably tough little expression for such a tiny fish.

While observing this group I got a special treat and spotted an Eastern mosquitofish with a genetic mutation!

This is a melanistic male, which is a mutation that is fairly well documented in my area. Although you might think that males with this mutation would be more susceptible to predators due to their flashy appearance, there is some research suggesting these melanistic males are actually targeted by predators a bit less than wild-type males. There is also at least one study showing that some females of the species prefer the look of these handsome black-and-white males, making it more likely to be passed down than other mutations might be. When I was a kid we called these “Salt-and-pepper” minnows.

If you live in the Southeastern United States and have a stream, pond, creek, or lake nearby, why not do a little nature scavenger hunt to see if you can spot some Sailfin Mollies and Eastern Mosquitofish for yourself (with huge extra bonus points if you can find a melanistic male Mosquitofish). If you live elsewhere in the world- see if you can find some small fish filling the same ecological niche and we can learn about them too!

[7-deadly-cats]

killing me softly | 12

K M S M A S T E R L I S T | <- P R E V I O U S | N E X T ->

✿ G E N R E ✿ she fell first, he fell harder | slice of life | drama

✿ P A I R I N G ✿ s1!rafe cameron x overthinking!reader (f)

✿ C O N T E N T W A R N I N G ✿ swearing, suggestive language, ruthie being a bitch, rafe showing signs of jealousy & protectiveness, also rafe making suggestive comments & sexual jokes, virginity mention, reader slowly learning how to handle rafe, slight overthinking/anxiety, chat pics containing cursed images lol

✿ S U M M A R Y O F L A S T P A R T ✿ unfortunately, cara had totally forgotten that her mom's 50th birthday was on friday—the same day as kelce’s party. still, you insisted she shouldn’t cancel just for you. in art class, rafe surprised you with his effort for your project, and the dynamic between you had shifted into something more teasing. you were pretty sure he was actually flirting with you this time—on purpose. later in physics, topper texted to ask if you needed a ride on friday. apparently, cara had mentioned it to him. you agreed.

✿ W O R D C O U N T ✿ 4.4k+

✿ A / N ✿ i had sm fun with this one even though it feels kinda rushed and floppy BUT i can't wait to write the party and i didn't wanna drag on the pre-party stuff for another part. hope you guys enjoy it though and holy shit, i'm so scared of what will happen next bc i don't know yet either. lmk what you think of this one <3

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

W E E K O N E // T H U R S D A Y

Thursday morning had completely thrown you off your game again.

First, Cara's sudden announcement that she'd totally forgotten her mom's 50th birthday being on Friday; then Rafe (honestly, you could just end the sentence there), who had looked unfairly hot in that stupid cap of his and there was the way he had flirted with you (yes, we’re staying delusional); and finally Topper, asking if you needed a ride on Friday night (which made zero sense because you lived like two seconds from Kelce's house—but hey, who cares, as long as you didn’t have to show up to the party alone).

At least the afternoon spared you from more stress.

Well, that kind of stress anyway.

After school, Cara had driven you home and stayed for lunch with your dad. Afterward, the two of you disappeared into your room to (A) pick an outfit for tomorrow night—because no way were you dealing with that stress last-minute—and (B) because you’d asked her to hang out so you wouldn’t spiral alone with your thoughts because MR CAMERON HAD GIVEN YOU ENOUGH MATERIAL FOR A WHOLE OVERTHINKING SESSION HOLY SHIT.

And (C), she was your bestie. Obviously you loved hanging out with her anyway.

“—and then you pair it with some cute brown western boots, like full cottagecore farm princess vibes, and Rafe’s gonna be like ‘Yee fucking haw, bitch,’” Cara concluded, holding up a cream-colored dress she had pulled out of your closet—one you didn’t even know you owned.

You sat on the edge of your bed, knees pulled up, raising an amused eyebrow. “You do realize no one at that party is gonna be wearing anything even remotely like that. I don’t want a spotlight on me.”

Cara frowned and threw the dress onto the already overflowing chair. “Girl, the biggest spotlight is already on you—and it starts with an R and ends with afe Cameron. So, use the damn stage while it’s still lit.”

“Jesus, save the metaphors for Ms. Langford,” you replied, laughing.

“Hey, if I wanna flex my literary devices, let me.”

You just grinned at her and flopped back on the bed with a groan. “Ugh, it’s all so... messy and annoying and just... why can’t he just say if he’s interested or not? That would make things a whole lot easier. But nooo, it’s this weird maybe-flirting-but-also-not thing—like, what even is that?!”

“Men,” Cara replied simply.

You frowned. “That doesn’t help.”

“Have you ever thought that maybe he’s thinking the same thing?” The mattress dipped as Cara sat down beside you. “Maybe he doesn’t give more obvious signals because he doesn’t know how to read yours. I mean, do you even give him any?”

As if Rafe ever overthought like that. His brain was pure 'in-the-moment' mode. He wasn’t like you, running through every possible scenario in your head at all times.

“Well, I don’t know,” you said, eyebrows scrunched.

Then you suddenly sat up, meeting Cara’s gaze with a little smirk. “I flustered him yesterday. Or... I think I did.”

“WHAT?” Cara’s brows shot up. “And you didn’t tell me?!”

You laughed. “I was so dead tired yesterday, I completely forgot.”

“WELL TELL ME NOW HOLY SHIT.”

“Okay, okay.” You shifted into a cross-legged seat. “It probably just made him uncomfortable but I kinda went on one of my little rambles again. Told him I appreciated how he doesn’t make a big deal out of stuff—like when I’m awkward or mess up. And then I don’t know... he just went quiet for a few seconds. Almost stunned? He had this look—caught off guard but also lowkey touched? Like he hadn’t expected it...? Ugh, I don’t even know.” You laughed nervously. “He probably just thought I was having a weird episode. He already thinks I’m mentally unstable anyway.”

Cara just stared at you, brows raised, mouth slightly open. Then she shook her head, holding up her hands in a slow, dramatic woah-woah-woah-woah gesture. “Holy fucking shit. I—WOW. I don’t even know what to—GIRL. YOU FLUSTERED RAFE CAMERON.”

You smiled sheepishly. “Yeah but—”

“NO BUTS. Oh my god, do you even—like, ahhhh.” Cara jumped off the bed and brushed a blonde strand out of her face. “I wish I’d seen that. I mean, goddamn, WHAT. I haven’t even seen you two interact yet!”

She frowned dramatically and shook her head again. “Okay, screw my mom. Well—no, I am going to her birthday. BUT. Oh my god. OH MY GOD. Y/N. We’re both so dumb.” She held her hands up like she’d just had a full-on divine revelation. “Kelce’s party isn’t gonna end at midnight. Let’s be real, it’ll probably start properly around then. So I’ll just come by after my mom’s thing. I HAVE to see you two together.”

Oh.

That actually didn’t sound like a bad idea and—wow, how had your brain thought of every possible scenario except that one? Like??? What was the point of overthinking if not for this kind of thing??

You smiled, cheeks warm. "I’m not sure Rafe sees it that way. Him and I spending the party together, I mean."

That would be... oh god no that would be—WHEW—like, that would 100% mean he actually liked you in some way.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, JUST IMAGINE.

AND DIDN’T HE EVEN SAY HE WANTED TO BE YOUR WINGMAN???? PROJECT-PARTNER-ZONED BUT STILL!!!

“If he doesn’t, I’ll beat his ass,” Cara said, scrunching up her nose. "Dude literally invited you. He better make damn sure you have a good night."

You know what? YES. Like, who invites someone and then just ghosts them? The bare minimum would include a conversation, right? …Or two or four, maybe more hihihi.

God, you just wanted to hug Cara. You’d been freaking the hell out about this crazy-ass party, and in less than two hours she’d somehow made you look forward to tomorrow night.

You nodded amused. “Assuming I’m the only one he invited—sure.”

Cara frowned and waved it off. “Then he’s for the streets anyway.” She tilted her head with a mischievous grin. “And Topper’s still an option. He’s not bad-looking, he’s sweet, sure his mom’s a helicopter parent and—”

“I’m not becoming Ms. Thornton.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Still think you and Barry—”

“No.”

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

W E E K O N E // F R I D A Y

“No?” Rafe raised a brow, clearly amused, as he zipped up his backpack. “Why not?”

You, on the other hand, grimaced, your cheeks burning hot, and prayed that half the econ class hadn’t just overheard Rafe asking if he should bring condoms for you tonight for when some dude would get you laid (his words).

But THANK THE UNIVERSE, most people seemed too busy packing up to head to their next class.

(And yes, you had sat next to him again because... IT JUST HAPPENED, OKAY.)

“Because…” God, why did he always put you in these situations? “I don’t plan on…” HOW DO YOU EVEN PHRASE THIS?

“Fucking?”

THIS GUY.

Staring straight ahead, you kept shoving your things into your bag. Now even your neck was on fire. “Yeah,” you finally muttered through clenched teeth.

Rafe let out a quiet, amused breath. “You scared ‘cause it’d be your first time?”

OKAY NOPE. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK??!!

It was bad enough your entire aura apparently screamed "VIRGIN" loud enough for him to notice—he had to bring it up IN SCHOOL in a FULL CLASSROOM?

You met his cocky smile with a dead-ass frown. “You scared to ever think for a second before opening your mouth?”

And whether that pissed him off or not, you honestly didn’t care in that moment.

Rafe had a whole personality spectrum going on but this asshole side of his? Yeah, not it. And just because you were—unfortunately—down bad for this boy, did not mean you had to take whatever came out of his pretty damn mouth.

But Rafe just smirked crookedly and slung his backpack over one shoulder (yeah, dude, we see your biceps flexing). “Keep that attitude for tonight. I'm sure there's a guy who's into that.”

BRO.

But before you could come up with something to throw back, a fake-ass-smiling girl popped up next to your desk, her glossy white Prada bag (girl this is a school, be fr) hanging perfectly on her shoulder. Her bestie Gracie stood right behind her with the same plastic smile glued on.

Ruthie’s big eyes fluttered right at Rafe as she said, “I’m assuming Topper’s playing taxi tonight again.”

Your stomach dropped. What the hell did she mean by that? LIKE WHAT? Topper had NOT mentioned Ruthie joining his ride.

Rafe gave a barely noticeable shake of his head, lips in a hard line. “Not for you.”

Ruthie tilted her head with a smile. “Did he tell you that?”

“I’m telling you now.”

You’d never heard Rafe sound so calm. It was... unsettling. You weren’t even the one he was talking to and it still gave you a weird feeling.

And that made it worse—because you felt so out of place here.

Ruthie’s brows twitched. Then, for a split second, her dark eyes locked onto yours—and seriously, she visibly looked you up and down before turning back to Rafe. “Is your new girlfriend coming too?”

AYO WHAT.

NONONONO DON’T BLUSH DON’T BLUSH DON’T BLUSH.

fuck.

Rafe let out a scoff, scratching his chin with narrowed eyes. "Come on, Ruthie. Fuck off. Go annoy someone who gives a shit."

Oh boy. She was lucky she wasn’t a guy because everything about Rafe screamed he was one second away from punching someone.

Ruthie’s lips pulled into that same fake-ass smile, and this time she addressed you directly. “Y/N Y/L/N, right? Funny how we’ve never spoken, even though you’ve been here as long as everyone else.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, face all fake-innocent. “Anyway, I hope it’s not gonna be another one of those parties where some girl ends up crying ‘cause she got ditched by a guy. Always so sad to look at.”

This fucking bitch.

Cara definitely would’ve slapped her for that.

And you know what? You were still pissed at Rafe from earlier, and this? Nope.

You just smiled politely and swung your bag over your shoulder, voice friendly. “Sorry to hear that. Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”

Three funny things happened in that exact moment: Ruthie’s raised brows, Gracie throwing her a not-so-subtle side-eye of agreement, and fucking Rafe letting out a clearly amused breath.

And Miss wannabe-netflix-meangirl-whatever did not like that one bit.

She was just opening her mouth again when Rafe cut her off, waving her off with a hand. “Jesus, enough already. Listening to you whine gives me a fucking headache.”

And that... actually wrapped up that little interaction.

“She’s such a fucking annoying bitch,” Rafe said as he walked beside you through the hallway.

Which—uh yeah—was kinda funny, because you had History next and he wasn’t even in your class and—

Never mind. Kelce and Topper were in your class. He was probably just tagging along to see them.

You didn’t have enough brainpower to think that far ahead anyway, since you were walking so close together you had to focus not to bump into him like a total clumsy idiot.

“I think she watched Mean Girls too many times as a kid and decided to make that her whole personality,” you muttered.

Still lowkey overwhelmed by everything that had just happened but also… a little amused by how it all played out.

Rafe chuckled again and you could feel his gaze on you. “You really should talk back to her more often. Might actually get her to shut up.”

“I didn’t even say anything bad,” you said, briefly meeting his smirk. Which was technically true but sure, okay—your line could be interpreted as a soft dig. Oops.

“Shit, did you see her face? That was some ‘I’m ending you tonight’ type shit.”

Even though he sounded entertained, you still felt a little uneasy. Because yeah—Ruthie was a shady bitch. Everyone knew it. And she was always the first to start gossip and stuff spread fast on Figure 8—even if it wasn’t true.

“What? You scared of her?”

You blinked, meeting his eyes again. “What? No.”

“You suck at lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Sure.”

A frown crept onto your face. “It’s not like she’s gonna actually start a fight or anything.”

Then again... there probably was a reason “ruthless” and “Ruthie” shared the same root letters.

“Dunno,” Rafe shrugged. “I’ve seen her swing at another girl with an empty beer bottle before.”

Your head snapped to him, brows raised. “Now you’re lying.”

No way that was true. How had no one talked about that?

Rafe raised his hands innocently, still amused. “It's true. At some little beach party she threw last year. No clue what they were fighting about but the crazy bitch just swung at the other chick with an empty beer bottle. It was fucking wild”

Honestly, what shocked you more was that Rafe had been at a Ruthie party to begin with.

And before you could stop yourself, you heard yourself asking: “Why’d you even go to her party?”

OH GOD. That came out way too dry for something that was supposed to be a casual, joking question. FUUUUUCK.

Someone please shoot me now.

Rafe seemed slightly surprised by the question too, his brows lifting just a bit.

UGHHHH.

Then he just shrugged, eyes on the staircase ahead. “Had her annoying friend on my ass at that time but the free drinks made that crazy-ass party kinda tolerable.”

Oh.

Something tugged deep in your chest.

You remembered now—for like a week or so, Rafe had had a thing with Ruthie’s bestie, Gracie Malone. And the thought of them, how Ruthie and Gracie probably saw you now as just another one of his temporary girls... and not knowing if Gracie had maybe really caught feelings for him...

Yeah, that made you a little nervous about tonight.

Not knowing what to say, you just nodded, gripping your bag strap tighter. A somewhat forced smile on your lips. “Fair.”

Rafe just let out a soft chuckle and—OH MY GOD OMG OMG—softly bumped his shoulder into yours as you climbed the stairs.

OH. MY. GOD.

It was something totally normal. Happens all the time when people walk side by side—no intention, definitely not. No, you’d just taken a dumb step and ended up too close to him, and then he was the one who brushed against you with his next step, but—

GIRL STAY CALM.

“Yeah, so if you don’t wanna end up with half a beer bottle lodged in your brain, you should maybe hire yourself a bodyguard for tonight,” Rafe joked, turning the corner with you.

You bit the inside of your cheek, sensing an opportunity in what he'd said—something that even YOU could use as a basis for—

“Why, you volunteering?”

And there it was, out in the open—HOLY FUCKING SHIT AHHHHHHHHH.

Your heart launched into a full-on death sprint and every single nerve in your body started buzzing under your skin. And then you felt uneasy because he probably thought that was just some awkward, pathetic attempt at flirting, WHICH IT WAS, and he was SUPPOSED TO somehow get the hint that you liked him but—

A boyish chuckle escaped his lips and he raised his brows in disbelief. “You want me to play Prince Charming for you?”

Heat crept up your neck but you just smiled awkwardly. “You just looked like you’d really love to deck her one.”

“Oh, you think I like hitting girls now?”

“Girls no. Furies, yes.”

GIRL.

Rafe just laughed, an honest sound that sent a warm feeling spreading through your chest. “Shit, I think you're the one who’s gonna deck her tonight.”

Great. Your horrible attempt at flirting had ended in… whatever this was.

“Ayo, Rafe!”

Kelce’s loud-ass voice echoed down half the hallway. He and Topper were already standing outside the history classroom with the rest of your class, waiting for Mr. Davis to arrive.

You braced yourself for your fight or flight to kick in—But… it didn’t. Which was weird. WHY THE HELL NOT?

Rafe dapped up Kelce and Topper, and you just stood there like some NPC waiting to be addressed, unsure of what to do. Leave? Stay? SAY HELLO?

“Yo, Y/N, Rafe already told us he’d be bringing a date tonight,” Kelce said, eyeing you with a grin full of shining white teeth. “You excited?”

NEVERMIND, FIGHT OR FLIGHT ACTIVATED.

AND WHAT??? NO WAY RAFE HAD CALLED YOU HIS FUCKING DATE. Definitely just Kelce bullshitting.

“Dude,” Topper said with a scoff.

Your cheeks burning, you just let out an awkward chuckle.

“You made Ruthie shut up,” Rafe said, eyebrows raised unimpressed. “This bastard should be easy.”

Such a great friend.

“Ayo, what.” Kelce raised his brows, looking at Rafe and nodding toward you. “How come we didn’t adopt her sooner?”

DUUUUUDE.

And your face just hit a new level of heat.

Though it was kinda cute how Kelce and Topper were looking at you right now like two dumb little boys in awe.

You just smiled sheepishly and shook your head slightly. “I didn’t really shut her up.”

“You basically called her a crybaby,” Rafe countered (Kelce gasped) and turned to Topper with furrowed brows. “She wanted you to play her taxi again.”

Topper shrugged. “I got two seats left.”

OH. Now that was interesting. Could Topper Thornton actually… tolerate Ruthie?

You weren’t sure if he was just extremely polite and somehow blind to her mean girl energy, or if he was so aggressively nice it looped back around to ass-kissing, OR—and this was the worst possible option—he actually had a thing for fucking Ruthie Whitmore.

Kelce clicked his tongue. “Shii, Top, since when are you into evil chicks?”

Rafe, on the other hand...

“The fuck do you mean two seats?” His brow twitched, lips curling into an irritated smile. “Who’s the other bastard you bringing?”

...

Okay, um...

Topper hadn't told him.

Aka you were the bastard.

Topper eyed him irritated, his thumb pointing toward you for a second. “I’m picking up Y/N first, then I’ll swing by for you. Thought I'd told you yesterday.”

"You didn't." There was a shift in Rafe’s whole posture.

Subtle, wouldn’t even be noticeable unless you were used to reading people’s body language closely. His chin lifted a bit, shoulders squared, and his gaze sharpened just slightly.

You felt it the second his eyes landed on you. The intensity in his stare sent a damn shiver down your spine.

He looked like he might kill someone right now.

But why? Didn’t he want you to go with him? Was this too much for him? Too territorial? Some random chick from school being picked up by his friend for a party you could’ve easily walked to?

“I hope that’s not a problem,” you said, giving a smile that came out way more uncertain than you intended.

It’s not a problem and if he makes it out to be one then the fuck?

But his look made it very clear: it was a problem.

And the air between the four of you had suddenly thickened with this really uncomfortable tension, all of it directed squarely at you.

“Outta the way, outta the way.”

Mr. Davis. THANK GOD.

The middle-aged teacher, arms full of books and a giant bag slung over his shoulder, clumsily made his way through the group of students in front of the classroom, trying to unlock the door with his free hand.

“You better hurry, dude,” Kelce said to Rafe, tone sing-songy. “Jones won’t be happy if you’re late.”

Rafe just scoffed, an annoyed glint in his eyes. "Don't piss me off."

With one last unreadable glance at Topper, he turned and walked off toward his class.

And now that you were left alone with the other two, it was like everyone silently agreed that they were very grateful for Kelce’s well-timed distraction.

“He’s pissed,” Kelce commented.

Topper raked a hand through his hair. “Yeah.”

“I wonder why,” Kelce added with a cocky grin aimed straight at you. Then he headed into the classroom like he hadn’t just dropped a mini bomb.

Great. Just great.

Topper sighed and turned to you but you beat him to it: “It’s fine, I can walk. It’s honestly--”

“No, no, it’s all good,” he interrupted, his voice calm and reassuring. “It's my fault. I thought I'd told him yesterday and he's probably more pissed about Ruthie having approached him than this." He gave you a friendly smile. "Don't worry, I’ll talk to him later.”

You raised your eyebrows slightly. Why the hell did Topper need to check in with Rafe about picking you up anyway? Sure, Rafe was kinda the alpha in their little trio or whatever, but seriously? That was a bit much.

Still, it was none of your business and your brain already had enough material to spiral over. And if Topper said it wasn’t about you, then it wasn’t about you, right?

Ha. Ha.

So you just nodded, gave him a polite smile, and said, “Okay.” Then you followed him into the classroom, trying not to fall into a pre-party panic during the next two hours.

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EXTRA SCENE containing the convo with Rafe and Topper + a little Rafe POV. you don't need to read it rn for it to make sense. you can also come back after finishing this chapter.

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You set your phone on your desk and ran your hands down your face.

Rafe Cameron, ladies and gentlemen.

Ugh, seriously, you didn’t even know, like, THIS GUY.

He messed you up so bad and turned your brain so upside down, it was nearly impossible to even start thinking about him. It was like his whole existence caused a short-circuit in your brain.

Which was crazy—and also kind of a paradox—because he made you spiral so much it almost looped back into nothing, like a vacuum that reset your thoughts.

… and somehow, that was kind of soothing.

Especially, because you’d somehow reached a dynamic in which you weren’t really afraid of saying the wrong thing or pissing him off. And that was mostly thanks to him, because during your little argument the other day, he had made it very clear that he did NOT want you second-guessing his mood or overexplaining things just in case he misunderstood them.

That was really hard for you but your positive-thinking-slash-delusion system had been a big help—plus the fact that Rafe didn’t dwell on things or embarrassing moments. Most of the time, at least.

Okay, the whole Apple Pencil thing was an exception, and the way he kept making suggestive comments that flustered you, and--

Okay, he did dwell on things.

But he did it in such a... skillful way, it didn’t feel like he was mocking you, more like playfully teasing you.

And part of you kind of believed (more like wanted to believe) he did it to get you out of your head. Even if he just enjoyed putting you in awkward situations, him short-circuiting your brain was a nice side effect.

You leaned back in your chair and looked up at the ceiling.

Then there was the whole thing with Topper...

Why had he offered to give you a ride yesterday if today he suddenly decided he’d rather drive Ruthie around? Especially when Rafe was also supposed to be picked up by him—and it just seemed so out of character for Rafe to back down because of Ruthie.

Especially since Topper had said he’d work things out with him. Had it really gotten so bad between them that Rafe would rather drive himself than let Topper give him a ride?

That made zero sense in any universe.

Or could it maybe be...?

You scrunched up your face and shook your head. No, that would be insane.

And yet...

God, you didn’t even dare say the thought out loud in your own head because it made you feel like you were putting too much importance on yourself. Like some hopelessly in-love naive girl from a crappy early 2000s high school rom-com.

GIRL, IT’S OKAY, IT’S YOUR OWN HEAD LIKE??? NO ONE’S LISTENING WHAT THE FUCK.

Okay, okay—could it be that Topper texting me and making plans behind Rafe's back, actually made him... jealous? IS THAT WHY HE WAS ACTING SO WEIRD TODAY IN SCHOOL AFTER HE FOUND OUT??? AND THEN HIM ASKING ME IF I HAD A CRUSH ON TOPPER??????

HOLY SHIT.

SO DID HE WANT TO PICK ME UP INSTEAD OF TOPPER DOING SO???

EWMJKDNGHXJNHFZCDDMHCUNGFKSHMSDFVHNFDAICHDFS.

You leaned forward and buried your face in your lap with your eyes squeezed shut. Absolutely secondhand embarrassed from yourself.

I’M FUCKING INSANE. LIKE HE IS RIGHT, I’M CRAZY.

A knock on the door made you jump and sit up straight.

“Yeah?”

Your mom poked her head into the room, her eyes briefly scanning the mess of clothes all over your floor you hadn’t cleaned up since yesterday. A smile on her face. “Everything okay?”

You nodded awkwardly. “Yeah, what’s up?”

“I’m heading into town, wanna join? I wanted to look for a dress for Veronika’s party tonight.”

Ohhh right. Your mom was also going to the birthday of Cara's mom.

And honestly, that sounded perfect—there were still six freaking hours until 9 PM. No way you were able to spend that time alone without losing your mind.

And hey, maybe you’d even find a better outfit for later.

A smile crossed your face. “Sure, I’ll just get changed real quick.”

“Great. I’m waiting downstairs.” With that, your mom closed the door behind her.

Okay.

The buzzing in your nerves wasn’t here yet. Which was weird. But a lot could change in six hours, and worst of all: Rafe’s moods fluctuated like crazy.

It was basically a gamble trying to guess what mood he’d be in when he picked you up later.

And how he’d act at the party—that was a whole other level. And not even your fucking overthinking brain dared to make predictions about that...

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EXTRA SCENE wheezie showing rafe how to use reaction pics

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K M S M A S T E R L I S T | <- P R E V I O U S | N E X T ->

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T A G L I S T F O R M (taglist for this story is CLOSED but you can sign up for my other stuff through this link)

@ursogorgeous13 @my-name-is-baby @moneybaby07 @jjasmiineee @sttaejoon-blog @vogueprincess @princesspeaxhh @wtfisastiles @wefelldowntherabbithole13 @rafes4 @kathryn-maraudersversion @wuluhwuhmaster @torturedtypewritersdept @sfotiegiuls @ltristessedureratoujours @stoned-writer @lunaleah @akobx @cokewithcameron @b00klvrs @rafesdrew @mattyskies @yktayy9669 @beabafreakbee @c1gsafterwhat @drewstarkeyswife-7 @wtfdudesblog @akobx @wintercrows @miaaaoa @setmefreemyg @pogueprincesa @chimchimjiminie16 @drewstarkeysrightarm @wtfdudesblog @wolfstarsimpxx @emmiesummers @brycesfav @ayy1234567 @rgeraldg @stanseventeen @louvrgirl @chaoticromantic @drewstarkeysrealwife @drewstarkeyswifehoe @psychicnatural @mysticbby2009 @oreocheesecake-12 @miniiminie @drunkinthemiddleoftheday @drewstarkeyywife

[acosmicbee]

Dangerous Man

500 Follower Celebration - Day 5

(Castle In The Sky inspired! Is it obvious I love Studio Ghibli or what? TWS: Reader gets drugged, brief vomiting towards the end)

Working in the mines was hard, labor intensive work. Luckily, you weren't actually a miner, but you spent a lot of time keeping everything else up and running and helping wherever you were needed. It was a great way to pick up random skills.

It was the end of another long day. You had already waved your boss out, knowing he had a daughter to get home to who hadn't seen her dad all day. You had been the last one to leave, only half paying attention as you walked along the forest, heading towards town.

It was strange, completely random. You thought you were hallucinating for a when you saw a something stumble out of the woods in front of you. It was a girl, who then promptly collapsed, leaving you to rush to catch her before she hit the ground..

You were an orphan, your mother died in childbirth and your father had disappeared on an adventure when you were 8. Despite that, you were never alone. The townspeople looked after you and you always had enough to get by, they made sure you learned to never abandon a person in need if you could help. Because of this, you didn't hesitate to bring the girl home. You lay the girl down in your father's old room, making sure she was tucked in and safe before heading to bed yourself. Hopefully when she woke up she'd be able to answer your questions.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You yawned as you cooked breakfast, never truly used to waking up so early in the morning. The food was nothing fancy, just some eggs with a bit of sausage you had left over. You made two plates, one for yourself and one for the mysterious floating girl. You gently knocked on the door before entering, seeing her awake and sitting up.

"You're awake. I was worried after whatever it was that happened last night you might be out for longer." You handed her the plate.

"What happened? And where am I? Who are you?" She carefully took the plate but didn't touch anything. You sighed.

"I'm Y/N. You're currently in the town of Shipp's Ravine, a small mining town no ones ever heard of out by the coast in the middle of nowhere." You introduced lightly. It wasn't wrong, hardly anyone who wasn't from here or somewhere close by had ever heard of this place. "As for what happened, you kinda just stumbled out of the woods."

"I'm... Poppy. I come from... far away. The airship stopped to refuel and... I ran for it." Poppy answered, talking slow as she tried to remember what happened.

"An airship? We don't get much airship traffic around here. You must have walked really far, the nearest airship dock isn't for three towns over, and it's military run." You said. Poppy grimaced.

"The military can't help me." She eventually answered. "Not with why I ran."

"Why? Did you do something? Are you a criminal?" She shook her head before taking another small bite. That made you pout a little. Secretly harboring a criminal would've brought some much needed excitement to your life and she seemed nice enough.

"This man he kidnapped me. He's working with the military, or at least he has connections with them. I know he's probably using every contact he has to try and find me." She said. You perked back up, your interest and excitement piqued.

"Well if you're trying to hide, Shipp's Ravine is the perfect place. Trust me, very few people even know this place exists! You'll be safe here."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You hummed as you skipped down the path, waving hello and greeting everyone you passed. You were heading out to buy some more food for dinner having taken a day off to talk to Poppy.

You were halfway to the market when you spotted him. A man with long blond hair in a clean white suit. Next to him were two armed guards. You cursed under your breath as you picked your way through the crowd, trying your best not to stand out.

Of course it didn't work as you were tapped on the shoulder. You turned around with a bright smile, tilting your head in mock curiosity at the outsiders trying to talk to you. "Excuse me, have you seen a young girl? Maybe around your age-?"

"Yeah! There's Lisa, Diana, Gianna, Lily, Winona..." You started to list off all the names of village girls you could think of who fit the description. The man shook his head.

"Her name is Poppy. She has fiery red hair and bright green eyes. Face covered in freckles." You shook your head.

"Nope! The only girls who fit that description would be Mrs. June's daughters but they're both under 7. Anything else I can do for you?" The man shook his head.

"No thank you. Good day."

"You too sir!" You answered, extra cheerily before continuing your shopping. You couldn't leave empty handed without drawing suspicion as to why.

The second you were done, and out of view of the main square, you booked it. You ran up the path, basket clutched in your hand. Poppy jumped when you slammed open the door, shutting it quickly behind you as you drew the curtains shut.

"The man who kidnapped you, does he have long blond hair? Gray eyes?" You asked, the second you dead bolted the door. Poppy froze.

"He's- he's here?" She whispered.

"Hey, hey, it's alright. I have an idea. I have a friend who works at the rail station. I'll get us tickets somewhere in countryside, somewhere even more rural and out of the way. But until then stay here. Avoid the windows and don't answer the door. If you're okay with it, I can cut your hair shorter so you pass as a boy."

Poppy agreed to let you cut her hair so you'd made sure to wash it out nicely before you started. You'd been cutting your own hair for a while, so you made it look as nice as possible. She didn't seem to mind too much and you even caught her smiling at herself in the mirror later.

"It's nice not having to worry about brushing it for hours and hours." She eventually told you. "I wish I had cut it sooner. Maybe you could get a new job as a hair dresser."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The day you left was the day you heard that the military had been getting warrants to search the villager's houses for Poppy. You'd already been dropping hints about taking a vacation so it wouldn't come as a surprise if you left for a little.

You ran around your house, gathering only the most important things. You burned Poppy's dress, shoving her into some clothing you'd bought that was clearly meant for a boy. Once you had those all packed away you handed one of the clothing bags to Poppy.

"It'll help you blend in if we're both carrying stuff. Until we're safely on the train I'll call you Pierre, okay?" She nodded, pulling down her cap more as you walked to the station. The train station was empty and you were able to get a private room for a discounted price for the two of you, all paid in cash. The energy was tense until the train had pulled out of the station.

It was a long trip, one that would stretch through the night and into the next day. You and Poppy entertained yourselves with card games and books and other random things until it had gotten dark out. You went to bed feeling safe, drifting off easily to the gentle rocking of the train.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It was late -- or was it early? -- when you heard the door to your cabin open. In your half asleep state, curled beneath one of your mother's quilted blankets that you'd brought, you assumed it was Poppy. Maybe she needed air or to go to the bathroom.

You could vaguely make out a silhouette of someone with long hair. Convinced it was Poppy you rolled back over, but the door never closed and the lantern light in the hallway made it difficult to fall back asleep. You yawned, finally deciding to get up and see what she needed when your blood ran cold.

Poppy didn't have long hair anymore because you had cut it. Poppy couldn't be standing in the doorway because you had seen her asleep on the other bench when you opened your eyes.

T h a t   w a s n ' t   P o p p y.

A sudden pinch at the base of your neck made you whine in pain. You rolled over, trying to stand, only for your legs to give out. You never hit the floor, silently being laid back down as you tried to force your body to work.

The man, the same one from the marketplace, shushed you gently as he watched you try to fight the drug. Your eyesight was blurring, your brain turning to mush and you couldn't move. You passed out right as he turned to Poppy, still blissfully asleep across from you.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You woke up to a faint humming noise. Your stomach turned unpleasantly and you felt feverish and nauseous. Where you were laying was comfortable though. You were warm and it was soft. You wondered what had woken you up when you finally registered someone shaking you.

Opening your eyes to the dark room you saw Poppy, face covered in tears. She hugged you the second you awoke, crying into your chest. Looking around and letting your eyes adjust to the darkness you realized why. This wasn't your home, nor was it the train car. It looked like the fancy rooms advertised for rich people on airships.

"Poppy?" You whispered weakly. She held you tighter, still silently crying. You looked around noting anything that could be important. It was a large room with two beds, one of which you were laying on. There was a small heater in the middle of the room as well as a table and chairs. Your bags were placed on the table, including your mother's quilts which were neatly folded.

There was a small window in the room, barred from the outside, not that it would do anything seeing as the only view out the window was clouds and the night sky. You looked towards the door, ignoring the way your head spun. It must be a side affect of whatever he'd drugged you with, this lethargy and pseudo-sickness.

"It's locked. Everything is." Poppy whispered to you. "I'm so sorry Y/N. I never meant for you to get caught up in this."

Both of you turned at the sound of voices in the hallway outside the locked door. There was the sound of a key before the lock finally clicked open. It was the man, holding a small oil lamp. He was no longer in the white suit but in some kind of lounge wear, possibly some kind of rich person pajamas you'd never even heard of.

"You're both awake. I'm glad the drugs finally wore off, I was getting a bit worried. Then again, they were military grade sedatives." He smiled calmly, almost like he was trying to be comforting. He was dangerous, no amount of smiling would change that.

"Where are we? What did you do?" You asked. You cursed your voice for not only betraying your fear but also your compromised state.

"Y/N L/N, the beloved orphan of Shipp's Ravine. I asked around about you after our little interaction at the market. The townspeople really love you there, it's a shame you won't be going back. As for lying to me, we can discuss the repercussions of that later."

"Let them go! They never did anything to you! This has always been about me, you don't need to drag them into this as well!" Poppy yelled. The man just chuckled, approaching the both of you.

"My sweet, naïve, little Poppy. You trust so easily and you're lucky this time it turned out well for you. Imagine if you'd been found by some creep instead of some poor child playing adult who wanted nothing but companionship in return." He said, and you didn't even have the strength to be offended at his description of you.

"As for them not doing anything to me, they lied to me. Albeit, they did so to protect you, which is just so precious. It made he change my mind on what should happen to them. Rest assured, they will be cared for, just as you will be cared for. You'll finally have the sibling you always dreamed of."

"Just because you kidnapped us together doesn't make us siblings! This isn't some heartfelt family reunion!" The man smiled and tilted his head.

"Oh, but wouldn't it? I happen to have a letter from the commander of the royal military, which makes it more than just simple law. Would you like me to read it to you?" He held it out of reach when Poppy tried to snatch it from him, a satisfied smirk on his face. "It says, 'Seeing as Y/N L/N and Poppy Demonium lack legal guardians as both parents are either deceased or missing, I, General Kingston Grant hereby give all legal guardianship to one Caspian LaRue.'"

Those words proved to be the final straw for your stomach as you hunched over, gagging as you threw up on the floor beside you before slumping over onto Poppy.

"Oh dear. I suppose I should've guessed that such a large dose would've been too much for your body to handle." He murmured. You could only cry as you closed your eyes, trying to stabilize yourself.

You didn't even know when he'd called in cleaning staff, but they were already there when you opened your eyes again, leaving quickly once it had been dealt with. Poppy cradled your body close, protectively glaring at Caspian when he approached the bed and sat down beside you.

"You'll feel better in the morning. We can have a real talk then. Good night Y/N." He brushed some of your sweat stuck hair off your forehead before turning to Poppy. "Good night, Poppy. Sleep well."

He turned to leave, grabbing his oil lamp from where he'd set it, when a small smile crossed his face as he stood in the doorway. "Poppy, short hair suits you. Even if you did cut it for a silly reason." With that, the door closed and locked behind him and the two of you were left alone in the dark to ponder your new lives.

[carlislefiles]

closer | fushiguro megumi, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, kamo choso, nanami kento, sukuna ryomen, yuuji itadori ╰►they don’t just want to know you—they want to get closer, piece by piece, moment by moment. every shared glance, every quiet habit learned, every soft gesture is a step toward something deeper. these are the ways they draw near when words aren’t enough. 7.1k words

a/n: guys, bear with me...is this too cringe? I'm all about being cringe, but this might just be too far, even for me. let me know........also, reader is not giving very self-insert here. sorry if that makes it unenjoyable to read, but I kind of like to give “reader” her own little personality. relationships are unique, including these ones. warnings: cussing, food/eating habits and negative relationship with food (only in nanami's), kissing. thanks for reading!! enjoy <3

he doesn’t even know when it started. the convergence of your interests. megumi wouldn’t call it that, anyway. he’d call it “noticing.” observing. being aware. that’s just his job, right? to be aware of things. aware of you. but really, it’s always been like this. he’s always been like this—with you, at least. long before the word dating was ever said. long before you ever called him yours. he called you his in his head all the time, not that he’d ever admit it. not even under threat of death. or worse—under gojo’s teasing.

you were friends for a long time. the kind of long that feels inevitable. he thought you were cool, quiet, competent—like him, but also, nothing like him at all. you kept your head even when his was spinning. you smiled through things he barely had the patience to endure. and still, somehow, you found time to ask what kind of music he liked.

"I don't know,” he said the first time you asked. you rolled your eyes and handed him a headphone. he remembers the exact song. the way the guitar came in soft, how the singer’s voice cracked on the second verse. you tapped your fingers against your thigh. he sat completely still. he still listens to that band when you’re not around. it doesn’t make him miss you less.

he never liked airpods. too easy to lose. too fancy. not personal enough. no tangibility to them. so he still uses the string headphones—the ones you used to share, tangled shoulder to shoulder in the back of ijichi’s car or on the train into the city. he’d pretend to be annoyed by how close you were. he never was. he still keeps them in his backpack. they’re fraying a little at the connector, but they work fine. he doesn’t like how separate airpods make things. no cord. no anchor. he liked when you had to lean in. liked when your shoulders bumped. liked when you’d turn to look at him, mouthing the lyrics like it was a secret only the two of you knew.

your music taste is—well, if you ask him, it's ridiculous. erratic. unstable. you’d go from hyperpop to sad piano instrumentals in the span of an hour. sometimes painfully upbeat, sometimes so slow and tragic it makes him wonder if you’re okay. but he listens anyway. memorizes the names of the artists on your playlists.

your room is the unofficial hangout room now. it's warm in a way most places aren’t. full of yellow light and dusty old posters and music that never really stops. megumi never says it, but it smells like you. feels like you. yuuji flops down on the couch, screams the lyrics to the wrong part of the song, and megumi threatens to kill him every time, but never actually kicks him out. not unless you're not there to laugh about it.

the cd player in the corner? he found it on a whim—some thrift store downtown. he thought it looked like something you'd like. vintage. a little scratched, but charming. like the kind of thing you'd insist has "character." it didn’t even come with a remote, and he had to clean the lens with a q-tip, but your face when you unwrapped it? worth it. he’d do it again a thousand times. he keeps a list on his phone. hidden in a folder named after something boring—like homework notes—but it’s really just your favorite songs. things you’ve mentioned once in passing. albums you’ve said you wanted to find on vinyl. posters you looked at online but didn’t buy. stuff he’s planning on getting you one day when you’re not looking.

sometimes he ducks into record stores, pretending to just be killing time. he’s not. he’s always on a mission. band shirts. concert flyers. weird little pins and patches. things he’ll pretend are for him, but that you’ll “borrow” and never give back. you’ve got one of his shirts from a band you love but he insists he doesn’t even listen to. you wear it to bed. he doesn’t ask for it back. he wouldn’t dare.

you once told him music feels like a memory. and now you’re everywhere in his. you on the sidewalk, your hand brushing his as you walk. a glittery pop song bouncing in your earbuds. you in the train station, humming something old and dreamy while you wait. you in your room, dancing barefoot, arms up, eyes closed. you in the middle of chaos, sitting beside him, one headphone in each ear, a quiet song threading between you like a secret.

you are soft melodies and quiet lyrics. you are sound and silence. you are everything he listens for. and if you ever ask him why he knows the words to that obscure b-side from an indie band you loved in middle school, he’ll just shrug. “you played it a lot,” he’ll say. he won’t say: you’re my favorite song.

suguru has always admired quiet intelligence. the kind that hums beneath the surface, unshowy and sincere. he’s drawn to it instinctively, like a moth to a soft, flickering light. so when he meets you, that’s what he sees first—your mind. and it wrecks him in the gentlest way possible.

it starts innocently. libraries, museums, long walks with conversations that spiral into history, literature, philosophy. you speak in fully formed thoughts, but never to impress. you’re not trying to win anyone over. you simply love learning. and he, already enamored, finds himself craving your thoughts like oxygen.

when he visits your apartment for the first time, he’s stunned. not by grandeur, but by the sheer volume—books, everywhere. stacks balanced precariously on counters, dog-eared novels on the nightstand, paperbacks splayed open over chair arms, annotated hardcovers with coffee rings staining the corners. fiction and nonfiction, ancient epics and modern romances. worlds pressed between covers. it’s a home that lives and breathes. and in it, you—curled up on the floor with a novel half-finished, unaware of how magnetic it is to him, the way you’re so fully transported.

you read constantly. in coffee shops with earbuds in, at the park stretched out on the grass, on hikes with your shoes kicked off beside a lake, at the kitchen counter with a mug in hand. there’s always a book tucked under your arm or poking out of your bag. always a world you’re halfway through. he doesn’t know how you do it—two, sometimes three books a week—but he doesn’t question it either. you don’t read to impress anyone. you read because you must. because your soul demands it. and geto finds it breathtaking. he starts watching you, more than he means to. the way your brow furrows at dense paragraphs, the way you softly mouth certain sentences, as if tasting them. the hush in your touch as you turn a page. you don’t just consume stories—you commune with them. and quietly, without fanfare, geto begins to follow.

he asks about your favorites once, offhandedly. feigns a casual curiosity. what books made you who you are? you list them slowly, with that thoughtful precision he admires so much—wuthering heights, middlemarch, the count of monte cristo, a dozen more.

later that week, he finds them all. used copies with cracked spines and soft covers. he reads them one by one. slowly, carefully, like they’re holy relics. and every time, without fail, he sees you in them. in the softness of elizabeth bennet’s wit. in the aching loneliness of heathcliff. in the slow, righteous fire of edmond dantès. even when he doesn’t agree with the character, he understands you through them. sometimes, he borrows directly from your shelves. he prefers those. books that have passed through your hands already. books that still carry the imprint of you—your looping handwriting in the margins, little question marks, circled words, lines drawn between paragraphs like you’re mapping emotional terrain. there are sticky notes pressed between pages, phrases underlined, whole sections bracketed with commentary that leaves him reeling. you scribble things like this destroyed me or he deserved better or the most romantic line in the whole book. sometimes you draw—stars in the corners, little flowers beside the titles, smiley faces during happy endings. he never marks the books himself. he wants your voice preserved. untouched. like a kind of literary devotion.

he joins your goodreads, quietly. starts tracking your shelves. recommending things he finds. you laugh the first time you notice. but when he leaves a five-star review on something you love, it feels more intimate than any confession. like he’s trying to see you clearly. trying to be seen in return.

reading becomes its own love language. you’ll rest your head on his lap in the park at sunset, reciting passages aloud while he watches the way the golden light catches the curve of your lips. your voice is soft, lulling—part melody, part prayer. sometimes he closes his eyes and lets your narration lull him half to sleep, the sound of your words curling around him like incense. other times, he reads while you read—pressed side by side on the couch, each of you absorbed, the quiet between you a shared sanctuary.

he finds comfort in the quiet repetition of it all. in the soft flutter of turning pages. in the way your fingers always seem to reach for his shirt absentmindedly as you read, grounding yourself in his presence while your mind roams far away. you have your own little book club now. informal. just the two of you. you recommend things. he reads them. you talk about themes over dinner. cry about endings. rant about plot twists. there’s no structure. only devotion. sometimes, you gift him a book with a note tucked inside—this made me think of you. or I hope you love this the way I love you. he keeps them all. reads them slowly, letting them settle in his chest like snowfall. he’s never been one for grand declarations, but with you, everything feels like one. even silence.

geto has seen violence, grief, and chaos—more than most. but here, in this quiet world of words and warmth and well-worn pages, he finds peace. and in you—bright, brilliant, beautiful—you who lives a thousand lives a year through your books—he finds something even rarer: a reason to stay. and if he ends up falling in love with every protagonist you adore, it's only because you've taught him how.

it’s no secret that gojo loves to spoil his girlfriend. in fact, it’s practically public knowledge. it’s the kind of thing whispered behind hands in boutiques and murmured with disbelief in cafes. did you hear what he got her? she’s the one who wears the pink louboutins, right? the custom pair? I saw her with him at cartier last week. but here’s what people don’t understand: it’s not just the extravagance that makes it special. it’s not about dripping in labels or having closets lined with chanel. anyone with a black card can throw money around. what sets gojo apart—what makes it love, not just luxury—is how well he knows you.

because satoru doesn’t buy gifts for the sake of buying. he gives like he lives: loud, deliberate, and terrifyingly precise. he remembers everything. your favorite color isn’t just pink—it’s that blushy, powder-soft shade that looks like sunrise on your skin. your favorite scent isn’t just floral—it’s rose with bergamot, no jasmine. he knows your size in everything, from ring to heel to hoodie. he knows what fabrics you love, what textures you hate, which brands get it right and which ones just don’t understand your silhouette.

his days off—rare as they are—are often spent trailing behind you in luxury boutiques, sunglasses pushed into his hair, humming to himself as you drift through racks and displays. tiffany’s. dior. prada. cartier. the staff knows him by name, of course, but more importantly, they know you. because he’s made sure of that. you’re not his accessory. you’re the main event. they bring you sparkling water before you even ask. they remember the jewelry you tried on last month. they set aside pieces they think you’ll like, just in case he swings by again.

and while he’ll happily drape you in silk and diamonds, he knows that none of it gets your heart racing the way shoes do. that’s your shared weakness, really. not designer bags. not watches. not even the couture dresses he loves seeing you in. no, it’s heels. stilettos. platforms. pumps. laced, bedazzled, red-soled. manolo blahniks that make you feel like royalty. jimmy choos that click against marble like punctuation marks. the christian louboutin boutique practically knows your birthday by now. he sees it in your eyes when you step into the shoe department. the gleam. the shift in posture. the quiet awe. and he gets it. because while you’re busy falling in love with each pair, he’s falling in love with you all over again.

he never lets you buy shoes alone. it’s an unspoken rule. those try-ons—those moments when you slide your foot into something ridiculous and beautiful—those are for him. you, perched on a velvet stool. him, sprawled on the low settee, elbow propped on the armrest, smirking as you twirl for him. his approval is exaggerated, dramatic. he clutches his chest. tells the clerk it’s a crime how good you look. but when you sit down and glance at him, uncertain, he quiets. reaches for your hand. says, softer, you look perfect.

he leaves for missions sometimes. too often. long stretches with too few texts and blurry video calls where his voice is scratchy and tired. but even then, he never forgets. he’ll send a picture of a necklace he saw in milan that reminded him of you. he’ll drop a message that says, use my card today. buy something pretty. I want a private fashion show tonight. and you’ll laugh, roll your eyes, but comply. because it’s never about obligation—it’s about closeness. about feeling wanted even from a thousand miles away.

you used to hate it, the extravagance. the sheer amount of money he spent on you. it didn’t feel real at first. like playing dress-up in someone else’s life. there were nights you cried over it—convinced you didn’t deserve the time, the gifts, the affection. but gojo’s never had patience for that kind of thinking. he knocked those thoughts right out of your head. gently. repeatedly. unrelentingly.

because here’s the thing: for all his flash and flair, for all the arrogance the world sees, satoru’s love is terrifyingly earnest. he doesn’t give to impress. he gives because he sees you. really sees you. he knows that behind your closet of pretty things is someone who reads the same book ten times just to remember how it made them feel. someone who wears the same shoes until they’re broken in just right. someone who cries at dumb commercials and laughs until their stomach hurts.

he spoils you because it’s his love language. because he wants to cover you in reminders that you are wanted, adored, remembered. it’s not the necklace from morocco or the coat from tokyo that makes you feel loved—it’s that he knew the exact shape of pendant you’d want. the fabric that wouldn’t itch your neck. the tiny detail you once mentioned in passing and he never forgot.

this is what love looks like, in satoru’s world. not just diamonds, but diamonds cut to your taste. not just shoes, but shoes that make you feel like a weapon when you walk. not just luxury, but intention. and presence. and constancy. so when people say gojo spoils his girlfriend, they don’t get it. he doesn’t spoil you with things. he spoils you with knowing. and that’s what it means to be loved by him.

takuma plays call of duty and fortnite. nothing else. not out of snobbery—just habit. it’s what he knows. what he’s good at. fast-twitch reaction times, coordinated assaults, headshots. it’s loud, explosive, testosterone-fueled, and satisfying in the most surface-level kind of way. something he can win. something he can control.

you sit in his lap on game nights, nestled in the safety of his arms as he plays, letting your presence wrap around him like armor. he likes that part more than the actual matches—your warmth curled against him, the easy way your legs drape over his, the way you let him protect you even if it’s just pixels and an open field. you never care about winning. you’re the kind of player who hides in bushes, builds awkward little walls, and screams when enemies get close. he thinks it’s hilarious. he thinks it’s adorable. he thinks maybe he’s never had this much fun losing a game in his life.

when you mention you play too, it catches him off guard. not because he doesn’t believe you—but because what you play is so different. so soft. so quiet. games with no guns, no leaderboard, no carnage. you play things like animal crossing, stardew valley, unpacking. games about cleaning, building, making friends with deer in sweaters. you say it like an apology, like maybe it’s something childish. but all ino hears is that you have a world that brings you peace. and he wants to see it.

the first time he holds your pink nintendo switch, he fumbles the buttons, stares blankly at your character’s little house. you’ve named your island. you’ve laid out paths. there are flowers everywhere. it’s the opposite of every map he’s memorized, every arena he’s died in. and he finds himself smiling. genuinely smiling. it’s not like his games. there’s no urgency. no timer. no voice chat full of teenagers yelling slurs. just calm.

you let him customize his character, and he spends ten minutes picking out a beanie and flannel that match his real outfit. you laugh, call it uncanny. he pretends to grumble, but he’s proud of the resemblance. proud that you noticed.

from then on, he’s hooked. not in the obsessive, competitive way he’s used to—but something gentler. sweeter. the kind of interest that builds over time like ivy, curling up and around the corners of his routine.

he checks in on his villagers. he buys them gifts. he rearranges his furniture. he decorates his house with things he thinks would make you smile. he starts calling tom nook a scam artist, parroting your rants about interest rates and balloon payments with the intensity of someone who actually pays rent.

he starts to understand why you love it. it becomes a quiet ritual. on the couch, wrapped in blankets, your switch in his lap while he fishes or visits your museum. he finds comfort in the simplicity, in the soft loops of background music, in the way you nudge your head onto his shoulder and murmur things like you can put a fountain there or this villager reminds me of you. it’s the least demanding, most fulfilling kind of intimacy. no need to talk. just presence. just being.

eventually, you introduce him to stardew valley, and he surprises himself with how much he cares. about the farm. about the villagers. about the tiny pixelated chickens he names after his friends. he wakes up early in-game to water crops, picks out birthday gifts for the npcs, saves up for a barn expansion like it’s a life-or-death decision. he becomes obsessive in a way that’s almost funny—carefully planning the layout of the fields, mapping out seasonal rotations, memorizing fish spawn schedules. but underneath the min-maxing is something real.

it’s the first time he’s ever played a game that makes him want to stay. not fight, not win, not conquer—just stay. that’s what he realizes about playing with you. it’s not about skill. it’s not even really about the games. it’s about what they give you permission to do. to exist alongside each other. to carve out a little world where things are simple. kind. yours.

he teaches you mario kart in return. you’re terrible at first. but you try. you laugh when you fall off the track, scream when he tosses a blue shell at you. and ino, who has always been impatient, who swears under his breath and rages when he dies in call of duty, finds himself strangely calm. gentle. he lets you win sometimes. doesn’t say anything when you do. just watches you celebrate like it actually matters. and maybe it does.

you play everywhere. late at night on the couch. in the back of classrooms, screens hidden beneath the desk. on planes and trains and anywhere else that feels heavy. it’s a comfort. a way to say I love you without needing to speak it aloud. a shared language in pixels and crops and silly outfits. a way to be near each other when the world feels far too loud.

sometimes you fall asleep first, curled against him with your switch blinking beside you. he tucks it away for you. pulls the blanket up to your shoulders. presses a kiss to the top of your head and lets his own game idle while he just…watches you. he never thought playing “cozy games” would be his thing. but then again, he never thought anyone would love him like this—gently. without expectations. without needing him to be loud or strong or funny all the time.

choso isn’t exactly new to the world. not really. he’s existed long enough to have seen its worst, to know what it is to survive it. he knows violence like instinct, and silence like muscle memory. but this world—your world—is different. brighter. softer. sharper around the edges in the strangest of ways. he’s learned a lot, mostly thanks to yuuji. yuuji with his fast talking who’s tried to drag him into modern life one awkward step at a time. and choso’s adjusted, for the most part. but the thing that finally pulls him in, fully, completely, is the phone. you set it up for him. unlocked it, cleaned the screen, tucked it gently into his hands like you were giving him something precious. and to him, it is. he holds it like it might break. because it holds you.

you’ve set his lock screen to his favorite photo—one yuuji snapped without warning, a soft blur of the two of you tangled in sleep, your cheek pressed to choso’s chest, his arms tight around you. he doesn’t even remember it being taken. but he knows how it feels. the image alone makes him ache in the sweetest way.

you show him how to open the camera, how to take pictures. the result is an ever-growing album of blurry images, most of them of you. some are nearly abstract—his finger over the lens, or too much zoom, or crooked angles—but they’re yours. captured pieces of your face, your hands, your laughter frozen in low resolution. he scrolls through them sometimes just to feel close to you.

and the texts—those change everything. he used to hate leaving. missions with yuuji and gojo felt endless, stretched thin by distance and dread. he’d grown so used to loss, to disconnection, that being apart from you brought a cold, aching fear he couldn’t name. but now, he can reach you. at any time. wherever he is. that alone feels like a miracle.

and the best part? you always respond. quickly, warmly. a soft tether across any stretch of land. you ask him if he’s eaten, if he’s safe. you send blurry photos of the dinner you made. he saves every one. sometimes he responds simply—I miss you :[—because there’s nothing else to say, not really. the words don’t cover the shape of missing you, but he tries. he texts you when he sees a stray cat, crouched in an alley or sunbathing on a shrine step. sends a grainy photo, fuzzy around the edges, and waits for your inevitable cooing response. it never takes long. he sends you good morning texts, every single day. even if he’s tired. even if the mission ran late. even if the only thing he can type is "I love you.” it’s worth it. you told him once that it’s the first thing you check when you wake up. that stayed with him. that mattered.

when he discovers wikipedia, it becomes a daily ritual. he texts you links to things he doesn’t understand—“super bowl?” “sabrina carpenter?”—with only a question mark. you explain them patiently, laughing sometimes, but never cruel. he stores the knowledge away like it’s precious, because you gave it to him. because you didn’t make him feel stupid for not knowing. this is how he loves you: quiet, curious, deliberate. through effort. through learning.

he starts watching you on your phone—how your thumbs move, how you flick the screen to play solitaire or scroll instagram. he sits beside you, mesmerized, eyes tracking the glowing light as if it holds the key to something unknowable. when he finally caves and lets you help him make an instagram account, he uses it for one thing: you.

his entire grid becomes a shrine to your existence. photos of you with yuuji. candid snapshots of you tying your shoe. pictures of your hands, your back turned at sunset, your profile lit by a café’s warm light. no captions. no hashtags. just you.

he changes his home screen too. a photo you didn’t even know he took—just you, showing yuuji how to do something, your brows furrowed in concentration, your mouth mid-explanation. he looks at it when he’s overwhelmed. it grounds him. you ground him.

he still doesn’t like leaving. he probably never will. but now, when he’s alone, when the air feels cold and the silence too loud, he has you in his pocket. he has your texts, your voice messages, your digital footprints scattered across a device he once didn’t understand. he has proof that you’re real. that this love is real.

he takes photos every chance he gets. posts them. saves them. blurry or not, they mean something. they’re part of a world that doesn’t feel so scary anymore. not when you’re in it. because this isn’t about technology. not really. it’s about closeness. about connection. about finding a way to reach you, even when the world pulls him away. the phone is just a tool. but it’s a tool he cherishes. because it leads him back to you. every time.

you don’t eat like someone who loves food. and this, to nanami, is one of the most horrifying discoveries he’s ever made about you. you, the most beautiful person he’s ever met. you, with your expressive eyes and stubborn independence and your habit of choosing sleep over breakfast. you, with your ramen-for-dinner and black coffee-for-breakfast and "I forgot to eat lunch” like it’s a casual comment, not a red flag waving at full mast.

he is distressed. silently, of course. because he is nanami kento and he does not raise his voice unless the situation calls for it. but inside? there is a quiet, steady scream. you are everything good. and good things should be taken care of. fed. nourished. cherished. you don’t even know what it’s like to eat food that makes you feel something. and that’s a tragedy he can’t let stand.

so it begins. a simple offer. "I made too much,” he lies, setting down a container beside you without fanfare. “tell me if you like it,” he says, nonchalant. you eat it while hunched over your laptop. french toast, a little crisp on the edges, with just the lightest dusting of powdered sugar and homemade berry compote. you don’t even pause while typing, just shovel it down like you haven’t tasted something this good in years. maybe you haven’t.

he makes a note. literally. notes app, line by line. – french toast (too sweet, still liked) – pork tonkatsu (devoured) – lemon bars (grimaced at first bite, then ate half the pan)

he starts to see it like a mission. the kind that makes him feel like there’s meaning in all this mess. you need to eat. he needs to understand you. both goals converge somewhere between a perfectly seared salmon filet and a cinnamon roll recipe that takes four hours and involves resting the dough overnight.

he brings you a little bento to work. says it’s because he had leftovers. he does not mention the three hours he spent the night before trying to recreate the exact version of the chicken katsu you said you liked from a random corner stall three years ago.

he takes you to cafés and pretends he’s interested in the drink flights they offer—coffee tastings, seasonal specials. he orders one of everything. you sip them all and scrunch your nose and then smile and steal whichever one he likes best. he lets you. of course he does. his apartment starts to smell like cinnamon and garlic and fresh baked bread. you tease him about being a grandma. he raises an eyebrow. you laugh and call him nana-nanami. he pretends to be offended. he is not. he is delighted.

one day you stumble on the notes. not intentionally—he left his phone on the counter and walked away to check on something in the oven. when he comes back, you’re holding it. reading. your eyes are wide, but not upset. curious. maybe even a little glassy.

“you…really kept track of all this?” he freezes. calculating how badly this could go. you’re private. a little shy. you don’t like people making you the center of attention.

"I just wanted to know what you liked,” he says, carefully.

you beam. beam. “we need to make some corrections,” you say, grinning. “you rated that curry too high. I only pretended to like it because I didn't want to hurt your feelings.” he’s both horrified and pleased. mostly horrified.

the next day, there’s a laminated poster on the fridge. color-coded. the last twenty recipes he’s made for you, listed in chronological order. you’ve added emojis and little comments and a completely unnecessary five-star rating system. he tells you it’s ridiculous. he also doesn’t stop smiling for the next 48 hours.

you start texting him when you see a meal that looks good. a tiktok pasta. a bakery's instagram reel. a picture of a weird street food that’s impossible to recreate, but nanami is not a quitter. he starts compiling them. starts planning weekends around them. one saturday, he makes you five different kinds of soup to see which one you like the best. you rank them all. he kisses you behind the ear while you’re laughing.

sometimes he still worries. when you’re tired. when you skip meals out of habit. when you say you’re not hungry, but your stomach growls anyway. he doesn’t scold you. he just sets something down in front of you. a warm slice of bread with salted butter. miso soup. rice and pickled plum. a soft cookie. tea with honey.

you don’t always say thank you. he doesn’t need you to. he watches you chew. watches your eyes light up when you take that first bite. he catalogs the way your face softens. the way your whole body relaxes. you say, "I didn’t know food could feel like this.”

and he says, "I did.” because food, to him, has always meant comfort. presence. warmth. love. funny how his two favorite things represent the same concepts.

sukuna was not…soft. he was not delicate. he didn’t show affection. and having you around didn’t change that. you were just a maid. your pants were covered in dust, your white shoes long since gone brown with dirt. you slaved away in his estate, and he allowed this because it was your job as one of his loyal subjects. he was a king, after all. he didn’t ask for your presence. you simply arrived. you remained.

but the king of curses found himself… drawn to you in an inexplicable, frankly offensive way. your cold fingers, not even long enough to wrap around one of his wrists. your smile—gentle and delicate while also stuffing him full of sunshine and adoration he didn’t see himself as capable of receiving. it was alarming. disturbing. so horrifically unlike him, he wondered if he was finally contracting one of those disgusting human diseases. tumor? must be. 

but it didn’t deter him. he was curious. more than curious. invested, even. you were still allowed to clean, yes. but only his chambers. you weren’t a “maid” anymore, not to the rest of the staff. you were his consort. his companion. his chosen. no wedding was being planned. there was no ceremony. no declarations. but you slept in his bed. you ate from his table. you bathed in his private bathhouse, the one that faced the gardens and filled with steam that smelled like jasmine and mint. you wore slippers he’d picked, fabrics you liked. you became his girl in every way that mattered. and you—gracious, generous, lovely you—took anything he was willing to give you. with no complaints. no demands. no expectations.

sukuna kept waiting for the shoe to drop. for you to wake up and demand more. for you to finally ask for a kiss, a love confession, a promise, a future. he wanted you to. he didn’t. he didn't know what he wanted, which was infuriating in and of itself.

so he started to try. not overtly. not in ways anyone else would notice. not in a way that he’d ever have to say out loud. but he tried. because he realized he knew everything else about you—what foods you liked, how you liked your tea steeped, the sound you made when you were too tired to speak but too polite to ignore him—and if he wanted to truly claim you, he needed to understand the things that made you light up.

you liked art. that became obvious quickly. he caught you staring at the same painting every day: van gogh’s irises, tucked in a hallway most people never paid attention to. he watched the way your steps slowed, your hand brushing the air like you wanted to touch it but knew better. at first he thought it was just idle curiosity. maids got bored, didn’t they? but you spoke about it later to one of the kitchen girls. described the brush strokes. said it made you feel something. sukuna could never forget the tone in your voice. soft. wistful. almost mournful. after that, he started paying attention.

he took you to a gallery once. the king of curses. in a mortal place, surrounded by fragile art. he cleared it out, of course. the only footsteps in the place were yours. you gasped and flitted from painting to painting, your hands clasped in front of you like it would keep the joy from spilling over. you beamed. and he—he watched. not the art. not the brushstrokes or the frames or the curators’ cards. you.

you told him about composition and color theory. you rambled about light and shadow and symbolism. and when you caught yourself and tried to backpedal, he stopped you. “can you not tell that your beautiful ramblings are all I desire now?” he growled, tone sharp but not unkind. “if I wanted you to stop, I would never have allowed you to begin.” you blinked. smiled. and continued.

your favorite was monet. the water lilies. the gardens. the foggy mornings and violet dusks. he didn’t know much about impressionism, but he knew you liked the softness of it. the warmth in it. the dreaminess. so he filled his estate with them. your favorite pieces, framed in gold and hung wherever he knew you’d pass. he memorized the way your breath caught every time you noticed one. how your smile grew soft, eyes going a little distant, like you’d stepped out of time.

you looked at the paintings like they were new every time. and—curse him—you looked at him the same way. he caught you once, in the quiet between dinner and bed, standing before the water lily pond in your thin nightclothes, eyes shining like you were trying not to cry. “it’s just…” you said, then trailed off. "I never imagined living somewhere that felt this beautiful.” he scoffed, looking away. “you always had a ridiculous imagination.” but he stood closer to you that night. let his warmth cover you in roves. brushed your hair off your forehead when you slept.

he doesn’t tell you that your voice is the only sound he wants to hear echoing through his halls. he doesn’t admit that he kept one of your sketchbooks and looks through it when you’re not around. he doesn’t say that he listens when you talk about brushwork and painters and heartbreak and beauty, because it’s the only time he sees your soul fully bare. but he does learn. learns your favorite painter. your favorite painting. your favorite place to stand in the garden. your favorite shade of blue. and every time you smile, he counts it as a win. every time you gasp over a new piece of art, he logs it for later.

every time you look at him—truly look at him—he wonders if this is what it feels like to be seen by god. and if you ever ask him why he remembers so much, why he knows so much, he’ll sneer. “because you never shut up about it.” but when you leave the room, he’ll look at your favorite painting, and for a second, think of nothing else.

you could’ve guessed how every friday night for the rest of your life would look after just one month of knowing yuuji itadori. movies. always movies. and not just one or two—all of them. it was like he’d made it his life’s mission to watch every film ever made. and while he might not be quite that ambitious (yet), the determination? painfully real. he starts with horror, obviously—his favorite genre. gleefully grotesque, endlessly entertaining, full of jump scares and monsters that make you gasp and grip his arm like it’s a lifeline. he thinks it’s adorable. starts looking over just before the scare hits, waiting to catch your reaction in real time. you're better than the movie, he decides early on.

but one night, curled up together during a rewatch of human earthworm, you let your favorite movie slip. you say it casually, laughing, eyes shining. pride and prejudice, you tell him, the 2005 version. with keira knightley. the rain scene, you say, makes your soul levitate. and yuuji just stares at you like you’ve told him your greatest secret. later that night, alone in his dorm, he plugs his earbuds into his laptop, lies flat on his back, and watches it. beginning to end. no breaks. and he cries. a single, tragic man-tear, but it counts. no one will ever know this—no one—but something inside him shifts that night. he wakes up the next morning changed. reborn, even.

it’s a gateway drug. suddenly, you're binging period dramas like your lives depend on it. emma. little women. the bbc north & south. anything with slow-burn tension and women in gloves. he doesn't always understand the plot—what’s an entailment?—but he knows exactly when to look over at you. when your eyes start to glisten. when you reach for his hand. he starts pointing out characters who “give off darcy energy.” he’s usually wrong, but he tries. bless him.

then come the romcoms. the notebook. 10 things I hate about you. how to lose a guy in 10 days. he starts saying “frost yourself” without context. hitch has him giggling. clueless becomes an inside joke—he starts calling you “cher” every time you wear plaid. and of course, the comedies. adam sandler. scary movie. hot rod. dumb and dumber. nacho libre. you two watch shrek 2 so many times, you’re convinced yuuji and you could recite the entire movie shot-for-shot, line-for-line. 

then comes the hunger games, and everything changes again. yuuji sobs during catching fire. openly. no shame. clutches you like he’s the one volunteering as tribute. he insists he would survive the arena if you were his partner. definitely. “we’d be the katniss and peeta of the jujutsu world,” he says with full sincerity. and that’s how you know you’re in deep.

but really, the movies aren’t the point. you are. the way your eyes light up during the opening credits. the way you gasp and laugh and cry. the way you hide in his side when the music gets creepy. the way you mouth your favorite lines like incantations. you watch him like he hung the stars. and he watches you like you are one. maybe the one. especially when you pause the movie just to explain an obscure plot twist to him, or go on a passionate tangent about why titanic has the dumbest ending ever. arguments have been won and lost over whether or not rose could’ve fit on that door. 

you watch them everywhere. in his dorm, in yours. in the student lounge with popcorn smuggled in hoodies. on classroom projectors after hours. in the backseat of a car during road trips. curled up on airport benches with his coat draped over your legs. sometimes, when you’re away on a mission and he’s missing you so hard his chest aches, you sync your laptops and facetime. three seconds off. buffering constantly. but he doesn’t care. he still gets to watch your face, soft and illuminated by the glow of your screen. sometimes, he misses the entire plot just watching you.

spring break comes, and neither of you go home. you choose each other instead. and you binge like it’s a competitive sport. harry potter. lord of the rings. the hobbit. every twilight movie, which he pretends to hate and definitely doesn’t. all twenty-one seasons of grey’s anatomy. he gets weirdly into it. shushes you when derek is on screen. says “it’s not just a show, it’s an education.” he’s firmly convinced he could perform surgery now. definitely an appendectomy. probably a heart transplant with a diagram and enough adrenaline.

you build blanket forts. lay on the floor like starfish. curl into each other on his narrow twin bed, limbs tangled like headphones in a pocket. sometimes you’re in his lap, back to his chest, criss-cross-applesauce. sometimes, you’re draped over him like a human throw blanket, and he’s playing with your hair while you trace shapes on his forearm with your fingertip. there’s a half-eaten bag of chips beside you, a flickering laptop on the windowsill, and the steady hum of home.

it’s romantic. it’s stupidly domestic. it’s the kind of soft that makes your teeth ache and your chest feel too small. and yuuji—yuuji, who once swore allegiance only to horror movies and kung fu flicks—would watch anything if it meant watching it with you. even pride and prejudice. especially pride and prejudice.

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

One of the girls

(Dean Winchester x female reader)

Summary You dress up as a working girl for a case. It brings up some memories for Dean, as well as some new fantasies of you. CWs Dean and his history with sex workers, nothing actually happens but Dean's fantasizing. Some seemingly unrequited pining. 18+. 3.7k words

Dean Winchester masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist

You’re leaned against the side of the Gas Mart, legs stretching long and naked from the high leg of your jeans shorts and the second-hand cowboy boots you picked up God knows where - Dean’s never seen them on you, but he loves them immediately. You’re wearing a sheer red top, tied at the waist to reveal the soft-looking skin of your stomach and to top it all off, a fluffy, short leopard print jacket, that Dean hasn’t pressed his nose into, but can guess exactly what it smells like: dusty, plastic-y and perfect. 

To cut a long story short: you look absolutely delicious, a juicy piece of bait that no blood sucker in the world could possibly resist. Dean sure as hell knows he wouldn’t be able to.

This was your idea, even though Dean had it first, and he’s half sure so did Sam. But they’ve both seen enough early 2000s comedies to know that suggesting you dress up as a prostitute would get them slapped. But then you suggested it, and didn’t even make it a big deal. Just shrugged, said: “the vamps clearly have an MO. So I should be the bait, dress up accordingly.”

Sam and Dean made a big show of gallantry about how they couldn’t let you do this, how it was too dangerous. You just raised your eyebrows, a cheeky smile on your pouty lips. 

“No offense,” you said, “but I don’t think you’re their type. Not that I wouldn’t pay for the privilege to see you try.” Your eyes roamed over both of them, and while Sam scoffed, then chuckled, Dean couldn’t help but wonder if you really were imagining him in some skimpy, slutty outfit. He sniffs, now, pushes the thought away. Maybe something for another day.

He sits there now, in the driver’s seat of the Impala, his brother next to him, parked far enough away that they can see you but won’t scare away any potentially fangy customers. Both brothers are quiet in the dark of the car, watch you there in the light of the gas station, the way you pop a wad of gum, smacking your cherry red lips so practiced, so perfect, so much like the real thing that Dean wonders, not for the first time, where the hell you learned this.

He knows where he learned it. Learned about this type of woman. They called them hookers back then, but he’s pretty sure that’s not the word you’re supposed to use anymore. Sam would know, but he’s not about to ask him. Because there’s some things his little brother doesn’t need to know.

Dean grew up in the weird intersection of not having a single woman as constant in his life and wanting to fuck pretty much every one of them he came across, his budding sexuality something he suddenly came upon, no warning, no guidance. Only ugly bathrooms, TV blaring in the next room, doing it dry, then with lotion, once with soap that got into his urethra and made him sure he was gonna pass out. Life was just an endless string of faceless women, and that was even before he started having sex. Waitresses, hotel maids, neighbors in adjacent rooms. And the hookers. Prostitutes. Shit, he’s not sure which, but they were a constant.

They were sweet to him and Sam. Especially when they were kids. Short skirts and high heels and bra straps and sometimes wigs, but also when they stayed somewhere for a little longer, they knew him and his brother by name, would praise him for taking such good care of Sammy. He’d grin at them, and they’d tell him he’d be a heartbreaker when he grew up.

So now there you are, the sweet girl he’s had his eye on, at least until you joined Sam and Dean full time. Relationships are something fleeting to him and he can barely stay interested. Any woman he gets close to, really close to, is assigned a familial role - mother or sister. He knows there’s something deeply fucked up about that, but he’s too fucking old to change.

He keeps watching you. The gleam of the light reflected on your skin. The way you lean to accentuate your tits and hips. The slight flutter of your eyelids to seem attractive and like you don’t give a shit at the same time. There’s something so innocent about it all. Something pure.

“I’m gonna go see if there’s anything on the other side,” Sam says into the quiet dark, and Dean just barely nods, only half listening. He hears Sammy move, the frame of the car squeaks and then the door, opening and shutting. He’s too busy staring at you.

Sam’s got this whole thing about not paying for it, but Dean doesn’t really get why he’s so uppity about it. Sure, he loves the chase - a low lit bar, drinks, that connection in the air. The kissing. He really, really loves the kissing. But the truth is, it also fills his gut with anxiety. He knows he carries a certain appeal to women, and it’s not often that he’s rejected. He manages to be forward without being creepy and he���s pretty sure he does a good job once he gets down to business too.

But the simplicity of the transaction, the clear lines - there’s something about it he misses. He hasn’t done it in years, not even sure how he would do it anymore. Is all that stuff online now? Or could he still find someone in a motel lobby or a parking lot?

There is one experience he often goes back to, when he needs a little inspiration. She was older than him. He must have been maybe twenty, so it’s hard to say now how old exactly, because to him everyone past thirty seemed ancient at that time. But she wore a wig, he remembers that, blonde so bright it was almost white, short, revealing her slender neck, a little heart tattoo just under her hairline. Had soft lines around her eyes. She smelled of menthols.

She took him to the room she worked out of. Told him to lie on the bed. She took his dick out of his pants and when he reached for her, she tutted, pushed him back down on the bed by his shoulders.

“That’s alright, sweetie,” she said. “Let me take care of you, okay?”

In a way, Dean knew what she was doing. Getting him close with her hand so she wouldn’t have to fuck him for long. But he just couldn’t seem to care. When he finds a hook up, there’s so much he needs to do. He wants the women to have a good time, remember him fondly. 

But this woman, kneeling on the bed by his hips, jerking him off, she was taking care of him. Her hands were soft and slippery from the lube she’d used. She kept muttering sweet things to him, calling him sugar and honey and other things.

He was close to coming when she stopped, reached for the condom. Rolled it down on his erection, making a whimper escape him from the sensitivity. Then she climbed on top of him.

She told him how good he felt and how hot he was, but Dean knew it wasn’t real. Still. She was doing it for him. Yeah, she was being paid. But there was something about that. It felt like kindness.

He takes a deep breath, still watching you. Those vampires don’t seem to be in any hurry. You switch your weight from one leg to the other, roll your shoulders. Sigh, and Dean can see even from this distance that you’re getting bored. He grins. 

The image comes to him without warning. Him, coming out of the Gas Mart, the same one he’s looking at now, maybe just tugging away his wallet or looking at the receipt. You approaching him from the side and he looks at you, alerted by the movement. He’s only mildly surprised to see you’re wearing the white-blonde wig in his little fantasy. You smile at him, lip gloss freshly applied, eyes wide and lashes flicking suggestively at him. 

“Hey there,” you’d say with that sweet voice of yours.

Dean’s hand wanders to his crotch, rubs along the rough fabric of his jeans. He shouldn’t, and he’s not gonna, of course he’s not. He’s just teasing a little, just pushing down on the feeling, but he’s not gonna do anything. He leans his head back, eyes still half open. It makes you blurry in the low light in the distance. But you’re clear as day in Dean’s head.

“Hey yourself,” he says, a small smile on his face. He’s not about to act shocked that you come to talk to him. He thinks it must be pretty darn scary walking up to random men at a gas station in the middle of the night, so he wants to make sure he doesn't make you nervous.

You pop your hip, one hand going to it, allowing him to take in your body, your shape. You’re fucking gorgeous, the prettiest he’s ever seen.

“Looking for some company?” you ask, a little smile tugging at your lips at the cliché sentence, but the truth is, Dean likes it. He purses his lips, looks to the side, then back at you.

“What if I was?” he asks, teasing, and you smile at that, take a step closer to him and Dean gets just a whiff of your perfume - cheap and sweet.

“Then I’d say you just got extremely lucky,” you reply, a broad grin breaking over your face. Dean can’t help himself but chuckle a little. Both of you are going through the motions, but it’s clear that this is a sealed deal. He nods.

“Lead the way,” he says.

You walk ahead of him, and it gives Dean a chance to stare at your ass, your waist, the bit of your neck he can see with your hair tugged into the wig. And more of your smell. He’s not embarrassed to say that that alone is enough to make him chub up. He presses his hand against himself. Does the same in the Impala. But he’s not really there.

You get to your room, unlock the door, push it open. Don’t turn on the light when you do and Dean steps in after you. It’s bright enough to still see you - these places always are. It never gets fully dark out here, always some neon light buzzing, a headlight shining in. It makes you look ghostly, highlights the parts of you he can see.

Dean closes the door behind him, then steps closer to you. You take the time to shrug off your jacket, and while Dean’s kinda sad at the loss of the cheap material, he loves what he sees underneath. He can see the outline of your bra, a severe push-up number, under the sheer shirt. More skin. 

He stands close, so close you’re almost touching but not quite, looks down at you, you up at him. It’s quiet in the room, the tension between you drowning out all background noises. Only breathing. He hears the wet noise of your lips pulling apart, the cheap lip gloss separating.

Your hand goes to his chest and you begin pushing him back. He follows the movement until the backs of his legs meet the bed. He plops down on it, and all of a sudden he’s looking up at you, not the other way around. 

He raises his hand, carefully. Lays it on your hip. Runs it down, slow slow slow, until his fingertips touch the skin of the back of your thighs. It tickles you and you shift in place, and that grin is back on your face.

“Lie down,” you say. “Lemme take care of you, honey.”

Dean lets go, then shuffles back on the bed. Lies down, head meeting the knotted pillow the motel can’t be bothered to replace until it’s fallen apart. His hands go to his belt as he undoes it. Pops the button of his jeans, then opens the fly before he rests his hands on his chest, lies there and waits.

You appear in his periphery, and he’s not sure where you came from. Dean looks up at you, the way the low light frames you so beautifully. Without breaking eye contact, you climb onto the bed, kneel next to him.

Your hands go to his jeans, and he feels himself twitch in anticipation. You drag down his pants and his underwear and then your hand goes in and you take him out. Your lips part and your eyes go from his face to his cock. You bite a little at the bottom one and then you begin stroking him.

It’s testing, a little too dry, but honestly, Dean doesn’t care. He feels himself harden in your hands, watches as your chest rises and falls. You like this as much as he does.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” you say and Dean nods, his hair scratching against the pillow under him. “We’re gonna take our time, take it slow.” Dean swallows. Young him doing this would be terrified at the clock running out and not being able to pay in the end, or needing the money for food or anything else, and he really doesn’t want some scumbag pimp on his case. But he knows he doesn’t have to worry about that with you. So he nods.

“So nice and hard,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, so low in fact Dean misses some of the softer consonants, but his brain fills in the missing parts. “Gonna take good care of you, baby.” 

His breath shudders, stomach clenches. Your movement is smoother now, your hands gliding, and Dean’s not sure if it’s his pre-come or if you got lube from somewhere, but he couldn’t care less, because your shirt is suddenly gone. He can see the globes of your breasts unhindered, looking endlessly soft. He reaches his hand out, runs it over the left one, the satiny fabric meeting your satiny skin. Fucking perfection. 

You lick your lips, pick up your speed a little and Dean’s eyes flutter shut, just briefly.

“Fuck,” he gasps under his breath at the slight twist of your hand, holding him just a little tighter than is comfortable, but he loves it this way. 

“You’re so good, Dean,” you say and he blinks his eyes open. “Feel so good. Just relax. Just relax. Let it happen.”

Dean groans, feels the first tug in his balls, the pressure in his stomach. It’s accompanied by buzzing pleasure, but he has just enough wherewithal to not let it take him immediately.

“Can we–?” he says but you shush him.

“I know exactly what you need,” you say. “Don’t I always know what you need?” And Dean can only nod, because of course you do.

You slow your movement, then stop completely, giving him that strange floating feeling he gets when suddenly the stimulation is gone. But it’s not for long.

You’re naked, suddenly, except for the wig, and Dean doesn’t know when that happened, nor does he care, because you raise your leg, straddle him, the impossible soft insides of your thighs pressed against his hips. He kinda wishes you were still wearing the cowboy boots, but he doesn’t have time to focus on that, because your fingers go to your mouth as you collect some spit, bring it to his cock and the feeling of your warm saliva nearly makes him roll his eyes up into his head.

Then you take him in your hand, line him up and start sinking down on him. There was no need for the spit since you’re warm and wet, and that’s about the last coherent thought Dean has for the night. 

You moan loudly as you sink lower, envelop him, the most intimate embrace. Dean’s hands go to your waist, to steady you as much as himself, because this? It’s the best he’s ever had. 

Your hands rest flat on his stomach and then you’re all the way down, Dean buried as deep inside of you as he can go, and a soft shiver goes through you, one that Dean can feel where he’s snug inside of you as well as hear in your soft gasp and see in the dreamy smile on your face. You could be moaning and frowning and screaming his name, but right now, he wants you all soft and happy.

You start rolling your hips and Dean needs to press his head back into the pillow again, your wet heat dragging along him, the walls of your pussy kissing his cock. A soft whine leaves you too but when Dean looks up at you again, you’re still smiling. 

His hands are still on your waist and he uses the hold to push you back a little. You understand a second later, lean back, one of your hands going to his leg instead. He can look at you perfectly this way and from the slight way your eyebrows go together he knows the position is having exactly the effect he wants it to have.

“Oh fuck, Dean,” you gasp, surprised by your own pleasure, maybe. Dean lets one of his hands wander lower as you concentrate on riding him. He presses it close to your entrance, where he’s appearing and disappearing inside of you, the fucking most perfect sight in the world, and when some of your wetness transfers to his thumb, he brings it up to your clit, presses against it.

It makes your movement stutter, makes you gasp, and then you find your rhythm again, a soft chuckle leaving you as you adjust to his touching. 

“Baby,” you say and now it’s Dean shushing you. He wants you to concentrate on how good you’re feeling, not on singing his praises. 

You keep going, keep rocking against him, and then your noises start becoming louder. High noises, feminine noises, soft, girly noises, sounds he’s never heard you make in real life, hiccuping. Dean feels you grow tighter around him, warmer, and he picks up the flick of his thumb, the fingers of his other hand pressing into your skin. Despite the fact that the position is so perfect, you lean forward again, hands on his front. Because you want to look at him.

You’re going fast now, mouth open as you keep his gaze, sweat building on your chest and on your brow. Dean just keeps helping your movement, keep the rhythm, keep it steady.

He reaches one hand up, his index and middle finger connecting with the strands of the wig, pulls gently and it drops off you. Your real hair opens from how you rolled it up to get it in, falls and it’s really you, all of you, there on top of him.

“Right there,” you gasp, you fingernails digging into his skin and then Dean pushes up into a sitting position, arms going around you as he holds you tight, thrusts up at you and you cry out, one hand on his shoulder, one in his hair, and holy fuck, you’re about to come, he’s about to make you come for the first time ever. He presses his mouth against the skin between your perfect tits, drives up hard and then for a moment you sound like you’re in pain, shaking, then no sound and then the loudest, longest moan he’s ever heard, and he’s right behind you, just a little more, just one more thrust, one more and–

Dean flinches at the knock on glass, eyes flying open, heart punching him in the nipple for a second with how hard it’s beating. He looks to the side, and it’s Sam, arms widening in what is clearly the sign language equivalent of what the fuck. Dean looks down - no, his jeans are closed, and although his hand rests dangerously close to his crotch, he doesn’t seem to have made a mess.

Well, the other reason he can tell he didn’t come is cause he’s hard as a rock. 

He rubs a palm over his face, sniffs, just as Sam rounds the car, opens the door on the other side. Did he fall asleep? Is that what happened?

“Dude,” Sam says, just as he folds his long body into the passenger seat. “We’re on a case with vampires and you decide this is the perfect time for a nap?” Dean opens his mouth to sass right back, when the door to the backseat opens too and you get in. 

No wig, no cheap perfume, but you duck your head, scoot to the middle of the bench. Dean swallows, awfully aware of the circus tent he’s sprouting. 

“Get off his ass, Sam,” you say, taking off the leopard print jacket - the t-shirt underneath is a lot less sheer than Dean remembered, plus no sight of tits pushed to the high heavens. You reach for the jean jacket you abandoned and lay it over your shoulders. You push the leopard number away with two fingers. 

“That thing was giving me an allergic reaction,” you say, throw a quick smile at Dean. He huffs.

“What, uh, what happened to the vamps?” he asks, looking at Sam. He takes a deep breath, sighs. 

“No sign of them,” he says, shaking his head. “Looks like we’re back to square one.” You lean forward, arms crossing over the backseat of the car.

“Maybe my acting just wasn’t good enough,” you say, raising your eyebrows at Dean in a self-deprecating manner. All he can do is grin.

“They’re missing out, is all I can say,” he says, not aware how that sounds before it’s out. 

He can feel Sam throwing him a confused, potentially disturbed, look, but Dean doesn’t care. Because you look surprised and then amused.

“Mmh,” you say and then Dean needs to turn around, get the car started because he’s pretty sure if he keeps looking at you he loses any chance of hiding his erection. He turns the key, Baby starting to purr under him, and starts driving her off the lot. 

Only once the lights of the gas station are far behind he dares to look in the rearview mirror. You’re leaning against the bench, looking out into the night. There’s a soft smile on your lips and when you suddenly turn your head, look back at him and meet his gaze, Dean swears he can feel you back in his lap, where you belong.

[koolades-world]

Hello my fav Obey Me writer!!! Can I request the fantastic three(Dia, Barb and Luci) react to MC who excels in the RAD exam despite struggling academically in the human world? MC thought that subjects in RAD are much more interesting and easier than human world subjects.

hi!! yes of course :) you're too sweet!!

enjoy <3

Mc who excels in RAD despite struggling academically in the human world

Lucifer

he couldn’t be more proud of you!

he held high standards for you but he didn’t expect the exchange student to meet them

he’d gotten a copy of your past transcripts and thought he might need to get you help for classes

but you proved him wrong

while he’s not one to say it verbally much, it’s obvious how much he puffs out his chest when he speaks about you

instead of you needing a tutor, you are the tutor!

actually, if you're up for it, he'll pay you to tutor mammon since you're the only one he'd pay attention to haha

don't tell his brothers, but he promises to take you out for something fancy as a reward

Diavolo

he's so glad you're thriving in a new place

he was initially worried just in general because the devildom could be harsh

and you're not like solomon and aren't used to it like he is

but, about after a week in rad, you seem overjoyed and your grades are reflecting that

he's so happy to see you happy

of course, he invites you over for tea to ask you about your experience so far

and he absolutely beams when you start to gush about how much you're enjoying rad and learning the new subjects

he couldn't have asked for any more from you. just keep having fun!

Barbatos

since it's barb, he already knew you'd settle in well

but, of course that doesn't stop him from worrying about you settling in

before you start at rad, you're a little confused about the hints he's dropping

then you find out what he meant on your first day

you pick up so much so fast, and soon enough, you're at the top of the class

he makes it a point to visit you at least once everyday, usually during lunch, to check up on you

and he usually finds you happily doing your work!

if you ever need anything, he lets you know his door is always open

[reagent-leon]

Okay guys, I’m really sorry, but this is going to be another vent piece rather than a proper essay. Once again, I’m here to despair about the inconsistency in Coyle’s comic design. 

So, as we can see, Coyle's uniform is based on the New Mexico State Police uniform

This image in particular.

Everything is present and correct, except that Coyle's uniform has a mandarin collar rather than an open one. It really bugs me because while the image has been manipulated slightly, it just kinda looks like they stuck the standing collar on top of the uniform without trying to blend it? I mean look, you can even see the badge on the lapel has been copied over to the comic, even though they didn't use the open collar. What the fuck is that?

This is derivative and I've mentioned it before in another post, but I'm going to mention it again because it still pisses me off. They even left the SP on his Sam Browne belt. SP stands for State Police! The Blackwell Police Department is a municipal police agency! The Oklahoma equivalent of the NMSP is the Oklahoma Highway Patrol.

Coyle having a Russian shoulder patch and no Sergeant's chevrons? Lazy. And I mean that with my whole chest at this point, and imma tell you why I'm losing patience with this comic.

So, going back to the original image, above the rectangular name badge is a badge that I couldn't identify.

In an earlier post, I misidentified this pin as something similar to the badges below.

This style of badge appears to be connected to the Union, given its laurel theme. I admit, I was kind of surprised to learn that Oklahoma and what was known as Indian Territory at the time, were a part of the Union and not the Confederacy, however, the American Civil War isn't my area of expertise.

But on closer inspection... do you see what I see? The four thunderbolts? That badge is an EOD, an Explosive Ordnance Disposal Badge.

Now that as a concept is cool as fuck. Coyle being part of the bomb squad actually makes a lot of narrative sense. Coyle is implied to be very good with electrics (and possibly just DIY in general, given we hear him referencing power tools). By the time he's killed his third wife, the man is rigging full-on saw traps to get rid of his in-laws.

So if Coyle's got the brains and the will, what's the problem? Well, the thing is, EOD badges were originally created for the military in the 50s, and we have no evidence that Coyle served in the Korean War to have earned such a badge, nor would he have reason to display it on his police uniform. Those credits don't transfer.

There isn't any one set Law Enforcement EOD badge, and it differs from agency to agency, but for a small agency like the Blackwell Police Department to have their own designated bomb squad in the 1950s... while it's not impossible, it's a pretty big stretch. If Coyle had been part of the Oklahoma Highway Patrol, it would make more sense as it's a larger agency, but from my limited research, even the OHP didn't have a formal bomb squad until the 1970s.

So while it would be super cool if it were canon that Coyle is a bomb disposal expert... I just don't see enough historical evidence for it.

I would give Red Barrels actual physical money for them to remake Coyle and Phyllis' comics in the original comic styles, because this photomanipulation-collage type shit just isn't it.

Imagine if something happened to Coyle that made him unsuitable to be a prime asset, so they take him on as an engineer... hopefully not in the same sleep room as Noakes.

I hope this rant has been educational, or at least entertaining to watch me get heated over. Coyle could be such an interesting character, but I keep running face-first into walls of inconsistency 😔