#will replace that missing grade

[dont-open-dead-inside-net]

y'all 😭 my grade the other day was at a high forty, which is horrible, but i managed to get it up to a sixty! which is great! but she* just updated the grades on some assignments and now im down to... a twenty. today i got it back up to a thirty five which is... better. but still. jesus christ

*my professor

[brucenorris007]

knocknocknocknock

Rouge groaned and sat up; going by the rapid tempo, she had a good guess on who was knocking even before she opened the door to the house.

Sure enough, Sonic stood on the other side of the threshold, one hand raised in greeting.

“Shadow,” Rouge called over her shoulder. “It’s for you.”

“Actually,” Sonic said. “I’m here to borrow Omega.”

Rouge blinked. Twice. Raised an eyebrow and called again.

“Omega, it’s for you!”

She could hear the bemused, off-kilter beat of silence. She looked back at Sonic.

“Since when do you make house calls for Omega?” She asked.

“First time for everything, right?” He said with a shrug. “We’re in kind of a hurry and I don’t wanna play Shad’s guessing game about whether or not he’ll sucker punch me before he’s willing to have a conversation.”

Rouge opened her mouth. Closed it. Considered the point.

“SHADOW HAS ENGAGED IN MORE ERRATIC, INCONSISTENT BEHAVIOR RECENTLY.” Omega commented, stomping up to stand beside her at the door.

Sonic smirked.

“At least we know what we’re getting with Omega.”

“Fair.”

“Okay,” Sonic said, turning on his heel. “Let’s go, Omega!”

“NEGATIVE.”

Sonic choked in a false start and nearly tripped over their front stoop. He looked back, bewildered.

“Huh?”

“EXPLAIN YOUR OBJECTIVE AND WHY MY PRESENCE IS REQUIRED.”

Sonic blinked.

“Right, yeah, okay,” he said. “We’re figuring out where Eggman is.”

The borderline silent whir from Omega’s chassis got louder by a fraction of a decibel.

“TO DESTROY HIM?”

“We’re trying to find him first,” Sonic said, smoothly avoiding saying one way or the other what would happen when they did find the doctor. He scratched his head, fingers parting his quills. “We can’t tell where he’s doing his evil thing from. Tails can explain it better, but whatever tech he’s using isn’t connected to the same network as the rest of his bases.”

Sonic raised both hands in a shrug.

“Something like that, I think.”

Rouge digested the information silently; depending on what the doc was up to, she might get called in.

“Anyway, that’s where you come in,” Sonic said, pointing at Omega. “We’re gonna pull a con on Eggman.”

“You came looking for Omega to pull a ruse?” Rouge asked skeptically.

“He works with you, doesn’t he?”

“AFFIRMATIVE.”

Rouge smirked and patted Omega’s arm cannon.

“It does mean a paint job,” Sonic said. “Temporary, I swear; you ‘capture’ me and bring me in to one of ol’ Buttnik’s bases. Doesn’t matter what he’s up to, he’ll pay attention to that.”

“AND THEN I EXTERMINATE HIS INFERIOR MODEL ROBOTS?”

Omega, as usual, posed the question more like a statement.

“Ahh,” Sonic hedged. “You’d have to hold off on that; just until he gives up where he is!”

“UNACCEPTABLE. IT IS OBJECTIVELY MORE EFFICIENT TO ELIMINATE INDIVIDUAL BASES UNTIL HE IS FORCED OUT OF HIDING FOR LACK OF RESOURCES.”

Sonic’s mouth twisted into a borderline grimace. He glanced at Rouge; she shook her head. She wasn’t in the mood to help mediate, especially not on her day off.

“That’ll take ages, though,” Sonic said. He paused a second; a sly grin stretched across his face. “Besides, think about it; how ticked off will Eggface be when he figures out he got tricked?”

“. . .”

Rouge recognized the hum of Omega’s CPU; he was considering it.

“Even better,” Sonic said, thumbing his nose. “How ticked he’ll be when we bust down his door and break all his toys?”

“EXTREMELY.”

“He’ll blow a fuse; so, you in?”

Omega’s engines revved in lieu of an answer and he blasted off from their porch. Sonic send Rouge a backward, two-finger salute before tearing off ahead of him.

She watched them go for a moment before closing the door. She backtracked to the living room and flopped backward across the sofa; gracefully and accurately landing with feet over the armrest and her shoulder against Shadow’s, eliciting a halfway resigned grunt.

“Omega should be in a good mood when he gets home.” She said idly.

“Hrm.”

Rouge shifted to grab a cushion and reposition her wings.

“You could’ve gone with them if you wanted.”

“I didn’t.” Came the slightly too snippy reply.

Rouge rolled her eyes and snatched the remote out of his hand.

“You have been sucker punching a lot lately.”

“Shut up.”

@generic-sonic-fan

[urbestestwindgod]

no im actually cursed because i have missed picture day EVERY YEAR since SEVENTH GRADE. i am NOT that same kid anymore😭 I DONT WANNA BE MY SEVENTH GRADE PHOTO ON THE SCHOOL WEBSITE A G A I N. im not even gonna be IN the yearbook, IM NOT AS UGLY ANYMORE GUYS I PROMISE. why have i been sick every picture day. not even “anxiety sick feeling” I HAVE COVID

[ghwosty]

feeling pretty vindicated in my decision to go more vegetarian in my diet overall. It all started bc my cholesterol has been elevated in my last two lipid panels. After the first test I decided to cut red meat and dairy milk (but not cheese lol) from my diet. The second lipid panel didn't improve very much, so I decided to take it a step further and cut virtually all meat with very very occasional exceptions (even then I keep it to turkey or fish/shellfish). Got the bloodwork done again and went into my doc earlier today to review the results and my bad cholesterol is going down and my good cholesterol is up! and by a lot! And tbh even before knowing that Ive been noticing that Ive been feeling pretty good too, I don't feel nearly as sluggish and generally bleh as I had been.

[caterpillarinacave]

For the True/False assumptions game: You are good at chess.

I’ve never played chess actually!

[spicy-apple-pie]

Damian gets de aged to baby age and Bruce is absolutely delighted.

Like, he’s concerned, because he loves his 10 year old Damian. He would be heartbroken if it was permanent, it would be like Damian died.

But as soon as they confirm that it’s all temporary, he’s relieved, but down plays his excitement. A whole week with his (now literal) baby boy.

One of his biggest regrets in life was not being able to see Damian as a baby. It’s different with his other kids because they had parents and he repeated that he could never replace them. Damian on the other hand, he should’ve been there. He would’ve been, had he’d known. So he really feels like he missed out on that aspect.

When Dick insists that he holds and plays with Damian, he gets all pouty and quiet. Because how ridiculous is it to be jealous over a babies attention. Until he notices Damian keeps looking back at Bruce, as if making sure he’s still there. And he realizes that Damian, even though he’s happily playing with Dick, wants him around. And he’s so proud of himself. He’s getting a good grade in Dad.

It’s all fun and games until it’s time for bedtime and turns out, Damian is a clingy baby. Bruce basically has to sleep with one hand in the crib for Damian to hold for him to even consider sleeping.

[bet-on-me-13]

Wes ruins everything

Wes had finally done it, he had finally realized why nobody ever belived him about Fenton and Phantom! It made so much sense now, he had been looking for an answer for years, thinking he was going crazy because everybody refused to see the Obvious!

He was Cursed!

He literally had an Ancestoral Curse on his Bloodline that made it so that all those born with the gift of Prophecy would be ignored! A Gift of Prophecy that he apparently had.

It was Cassandra's Curse, the one from Greek Myths. Apparently she was his Great×1000 Grandmother and passed down the Gift (and Curse) of Prophecy to him. And he knew how to break it!

All he needed to do was gather the right resources, chant the correct incantations, make sure not to accidentally summon a Demon in the process, and he could just foist the Curse onto some other poor schmuck. Sure it would suck for them, and he would loose his Gift of Prophecy, but Wes had been ignored for Years at this point, he needed validation!

So he did the Ritual, and he didn't mess it up, and he managed to get rid of the Curse.

Now all he had to do was convince everybody that he was right for the first time in his life! This was going to be great!

...

Cass didn't know what was going on.

A while ago, she had started getting these...gut feelings that she couldn't explain.

She would look over the details of a Case her Family was working on, and see a patern that the others were seemingly ignoring. Like when she realized that The Penguin was about to raid the Docks on the East Side, but the others were convinced it was going to be on the West.

But when she had tried to tell them, they had brushed her off. "We've already concluded that he will begin the Raid on the West side, no need to go to the East."

She had gone anyways, and low and behold she had been right. But nobody even acknowledged that she had been right at all, they had just wondered how they had missed the signs, not even questioning how she had known.

It wasn't limited to Cases either. Even small things, like telling her brother's where the TV remote was were brushed off, and hours later they would still be looking, never even having checked where she told them.

It seemed that no matter what, nobody cared about her point of view anymore. They kept brushing her off, telling her she was wrong, actively ignoring her ideas.

And it was getting worse. They were starting to ignore her more and more, forgetting she was in the room, not calling her down for Dinner, even forgetting to check in on her during Patrol.

She knew that there must be something going on, Magical or otherwise, but when she tried bringing it up with her Dad or JLD, they would also Brush her off.

Her Family was forgetting her. And they didn't even realize it.

...

Danny was not okay at the moment.

When he had gone to school a few weeks ago and noticed everybody staring at him, he didn't give it much thought. Maybe Dash or Paulina had spread another Rumor about him again, not too out of the ordinary.

When his name had been called over the Intercom, he hadn't thought much of that either. His grades were falling even more than usual, so he assumed his Guidance Counselor wanted to have another talk with him.

When he walked into the Principals Office to see both of his Parents and some GIW Agents, that's when he realized something big must have happened.

He didn't have much of a chance to react when the Shields went up, but he did react when the first Ecto-Blast scorched the wall behind him. His Parents began to scream at him as they fired their Blasters, something about replacing somebody? He didn't know, he was pretty preoccupied at the moment.

It took more effort than he cared to admit to escape the Room, but a stray shot to the hidden Shield Projector under the Principals Desk proved to be his saving grace. Unfortunately the moment he escaped the Office, he was met with a veritable Army of GIW Agents, all armed to the Teeth with Weapons he had never even seen before.

He managed to get away for a moment, hiding in the Bathroom as the Agents chasing him passed it by. That's when he met Wes.

He obviously hadn't been expecting him, but the moment he saw him Wes put on a smug look. "Oh hi Fenton, trying to get away from the other students?"

Danny had replied with confusion, "What the hell are you talking about?!"

"I finally managed to convince everybody about you, now everyone knows that you're Phantom! I'll bet you're hiding from all of the other Students hounding you for questions right?"

"...it was you?"

"Yeah, so? I finally get to be right!"

"...You absolute MORON-"

That was the last Danny got to say to Wes before an Ecto-Blast launched him through a Wall, seeing his face morph into a look of Shock just before the dust cloud covered it up.

Since that day, Danny had been on the Run. Nowhere was safe anymore now that the GIW knew both his Human and Ghost's faces, but he had to keep running. He crossed state Lines already, and was on his way to the next Ecto-Rich City he could sense, somewhere in New Jersey.

He cursed his Fenton Luck every day. Why had everybody believed Wes this time?! Nobody had ever belived him before, nobody even seemed to acknowledge his existence after a while! What had changed?

Danny just wanted to rest already.

...

Cass had taken to Patrolling alone recently. She had taken to doing a lot of things alone, actually.

After the first month, it seemed that nobody could remember that she was in the room with them, even if she was within their eyeline, she just faded into the background. By the 2 Month Mark they had stopped talking to her entirely, although occasionally she would get a Text or two from her dad. By the 3 month Mark she was completely invisible, and By the 5th she had been forced to get used to it.

She didn't know what was going on, was it a Meta Ability? Magic? Alien Tech? She had no idea.

She had begun to cook for herself after the first time Alfred forgot to set her Plate at the Table. The same with Washing her own Clothes, Cleaning her Room, and Paying her Phone Bills. At the very least the Automated Allowance Payments to her Account had kept up, or she wouldn't have been able to go to her favorite Cafe anymore.

It was bittersweet for her. She used to go to that Cafe every week with Alfred, but he didn't even come on his own anymore. Had he only come for her? Did she really mean that much to them? It hurt, she finally had a family that cared for her and suddenly she didn't exist to them.

She sat alone at a Table, ignored by everyone in the Cafe as usual, when a new face walked in. He looked about her age, a little roughed up, walking with a sort of cautious gaint, as if he was scared of something. His Body Language seemed to agree with her assessment, as his body practically screamed "Worry" in its movements.

Cass stopped watching at that point. Just another Gotham Teen, probably worried over something like getting not having enough money or getting mugged on the way home. It was a Common sight in Gotham.

She attention was pricked again for a moment when she heard a voice speak up. "Uh, can I sit here?"

She ignored it, he wasn't talking to her.

"Um, excuse me? Miss? Could I sit here?" He repeated.

She ignored him again, he wasn't talking to her. Nobody talked to her.

"Hello? Do you have Earbuds in?" He said, and he waved his hand in front of her face.

Her face. He waved his hand. In front of Her Face.

He was talking to her.

She looked up at him sharply, seeming to startle him for a moment before he asked, "So, is that a no?"

"You can see me?" She asked.

He looked a bit bewildered, but replied "Uh, yeah? Why would I not? Are you...a Ghost?". That last part sounded a bit suspicious.

"No. Not a Ghost. But nobody sees me. Ever. Nobody remembers me." She replied. She had never spoken this much to anybody outside of her Family, but in the past few weeks she had been starved for interaction.

He seemed slightly interested, and sat down at her table. He looked her in the eyes, and said "Do you...talk about it?"

She smiled. He could see her.

[femmeroll]

hiii, could you write something about sevika corrupting a sweet church girl?

your blog is really cute btw <3

omg omg omg !!! i’ve been dying to write something like this, thank you for the request!!

sevika x fem reader

cw: religion, corruption, implied age gap, fingering, semi-public.

you’re a good girl. made good grades in school, good daughter, good sister, kind person. you never miss a sunday service. and if you must, you’ll be at the church for service on monday afternoon. you spend your life being pure, avoiding sin wherever it may rear its devilish head.

no pride or greed or lust. just simple, sweet purity.

that is, until you meet that lady.

every day on your walk home from mass you see her. maybe mid forties, dark hair, and easily six feet tall. she stands outside the deli every morning at 11:45 on the dot for her smoke break.

and every sunday morning she says hello, or good morning, or asks how ‘sunday school’ is going. it’s strange. you always give her a smile, say hello back, but she seems so condescending. like every word she says to you is secretly making fun of you.

you don’t really know her either, which is weird. it’s a small town, everyone knows each other. not…her thought. she’s just an impossibly rude person you see on sundays that causes you to remember the jesus was always kind to strangers.

it’s a cold january morning, sidewalks slick with ice. like clockwork, that woman is standing outside the deli with her cigar.

“careful, virgin mary. don’t want you slippin’ out here.”

okay, rude.

“i’m okay, no need to worry,” you respond, stopping in your tracks in front of her. the gaze she holds on you is almost uncomfortable. she’s staring down at you like she’ll burst out laughing at any moment. like the mere idea of you is just hilarious to her.

“sevika, by the way. my name.”

oh. sevika. okay.

“y/n. it’s nice to properly meet you. i’ve never seen you around outside of…this.”

“i’m not very social” she responds.

you smile. you certainly know the best way for people to find community in town.

“well, there’s a service on mon-”

she cuts you off with a scoff. “not interested. not the place for me.”

“why not?”

sevika leans closer, letting her lips fall near your ears.

“i like smoking, drinking, cursing, fucking. it’s not the place for me, princess.”

you clutch the cross around your neck with a gasp. this is wrong on so many levels. sinful, disgusting, unnatural…and yet you feel your face getting impossibly redder.

sevika stomps out her cigarette. “see you next sunday, princess.”

whether you like it or not, sevika evokes quite a bit of lust in you. her smirk, her piercing grey eyes, her muscles that stretch the fabric of her impossibly tight tshirt…you can’t help it. the forbidden fruit is strong. you suppose it’s all a part of the lord’s plan. send you a taste of homosexual temptation and watch you be a true follower.

you aren’t though.

you entertain her flirting, all her lustful stares, and your church dresses start to come above the knee just to give her something to look at. you don’t know why you like this so much. it’s gross. it’s wrong. it’s against god’s wishes.

but jesus christ, one look from sevika and that all goes out the window. every good christian moral, everything you’ve known to be true disappears the second sevika locks eyes with you.

after a monday evening service, you take your weekly stroll home. it’s dinner time, and sevika is working.

you open the door to the deli, seeing sevika behind the counter. you watch silently as she meticulously rearranges the meats on display.

“i could use some dinner, sevika” you say and she perks up, brief shock replaced with her signature smirk.

“princess. c’mon back, i’ll make you whatever sandwich you want.”

and she does. you’re sitting on a wooden stool in the back of the deli, making small talk. sevika’s presence feels strangely right, like these little moments were made to happen. maybe this was the lord’s plan after all.

sevika steps closer, towering over you.

“you have sauce on your lips. messy eater, huh princess?”

she takes her calloused thumb and wipes the sauce away, eyes never leaving yours. the air feels thicker and your face feels hotter. and without skipping a beat, your lips on on sevika��s.

she stammers a bit in shock, then immediately gaining back control. she wraps her hand around the back of your neck to pull you in deeper. you can feel her smirking against you, prying your lips apart and exploring the inside of your mouth with her tongue.

her lips feel like the missing piece of a puzzle, perfectly slotting against yours in a dance of passion and affection. she’s calculated with the way she kisses, making sure you feel every bit of her tongue gliding against your mouth.

“sevika-” you pant, pulling away. “we shouldn’t, i-it’s not right.”

“shush, princess,” she growls, “gods not watching right now.”

and maybe he’s not. so fuck it. you nod and let sevika pull your blouse off, pushing her head into your chest. she litters your chest in bites, reveling in the sweet moans you let out.

her hands make their way under your skirt, silently asking for permission to pull your slick panties down.

all you can do is nod, desperate and utterly dumb for her touch.

“so soft, princess…” she moans, “so wet. is that all for me?”

another nod.

“you gonna be a good girl?”

another nod.

sevika pulls hand away with an evil grin. “words. or you aren’t getting shit from me.”

“yes, it’s all for you. yes, i’ll be good. please hurry before i remember that i’m a woman of god and stop,” you groan.

her ring finger circles your swollen clit, spreading your folds and rubbing you down to your needy hole. one of her thick fingers is enough to stretch you out, walls tightening around her as she slowly moves in and out of your cunt.

“tight fuckin’ pussy…so pure and innocent, huh? just a good little church girl who likes other women fucking her greedy cunt?”

she chuckles darkly at herself, and at the way you get even tighter at her mean words. so humiliating, so blasphemous, so unholy. and yet every deep, deliberate thrust has you closer and closer to cumming.

“sevika,” you whimper, “i can’t hold it, please.”

“is that right?” she teases.

“you can cum, baby. but make sure to repent after.”

[creative-crybaby]

Trifle

PAIRING: Gojo Satoru x fem!reader

GENRE: crack? crack. | smut (18+)

Minors DNI

TAGS + WARNINGS: fingering, oral (m receiving), praise kink, dacryphilia (?), cum eating, squirting

Let me know if I missed anything.

WORD COUNT: 1.7k

SUMMARY: Two things can be true at the same time. Does Gojo make you want to hit him upside the head with a frying pan, should his Infinity allow it? Yes. Does he also know how to make your ovaries explode with his fingers alone? Also yes.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Heeeeyyyy~ yes it's been several months without a fic and this comes out under 2k words buuuuuutttt~ u get bitchass!Gojo (we love him)

© creative-crybaby, do not repost or modify

You’re going to kill him. 

He’s a walking, talking headache. Questioning your teaching methods for your students, eating your sweets even though you’ve labelled them (it’s right there!), swooping into your missions like he’s saving the day. Those are just a few of the many examples, but he does it all on purpose, you’re sure of it. 

So to be sitting between his long legs with his slender fingers knuckle-deep into your sopping cunt feels like a blow to your integrity and pride. 

Especially since he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“So,” Gojo drawls, pausing his ministrations between your trembling thighs, “how many orgasms was that?”

Your face is boiling. From rage or embarrassment, you can’t decide. “Fuck you.”

The sorcerer hums at your crude remark before slipping his digits out of your pussy, holding his hand a foot away from your face to catch your essence blanketing his skin. 

“Patience, patience.” His easy-going tone makes you want to jab your elbow into his stomach. “Jeez, someone’s eager. You finally warming up to me, Princess?”

And that damn nickname. Either Gojo genuinely doesn’t know how much you hate it, or he’s just trying to push your buttons some more. With the clueless grins he’d offer as he’d call you that, you’d assume the former. But with his explanation for calling you that being that you always stick your nose up at him, you don’t think he deserves any benefit of the doubt. 

You hate that nickname, yet you find yourself clenching around nothing just from hearing those familiar syllables. 

His first question came out like he was asking for the time, yet with the number of times he’s made you see galaxies, you ought to be grateful that his tone holds no cockiness. No, actually, you might prefer that instead—how dare he handle this victory with grace and nonchalance?

“This doesn’t even make us friends,” you manage to stammer through gritted teeth. Your glare remains on his hand, still drenched before you, though your frustration lies more down south than anywhere else. 

You can hear the taunting frown in the sorcerer’s voice. “Guess you won’t care for this anymore, then.”

His arm, responsible for putting you in your puddle-like state, slowly retracts, and you can feel the sorcerer take his time raising from his seated position. 

Now he’s finally giving you the space you always wanted from him, yet you surprise yourself by grabbing him by the wrist. You let go as soon as you recognize your action, but the deed has already been done. 

An overly enthusiastic gasp. “You do like me!”

“Oh, my God—If I say yes, will you just finish the job already?” you groan. 

Gojo plops back to his seating position behind you, nestling his chin onto your shoulder as he teases his hand to return between your thighs. His warm breath fans your cheek while his lips graze your earlobe. Miniscule actions that have your body heating up. Intentional on his part, most likely, though you refuse to give him any more ammo against you. 

A heavy sigh. The feigned disappointment in his tone has your brows furrowing so intensely that you worry you might pop a vein. 

“No gratitude for the hand that feeds you, huh?” The special-grade sorcerer nuzzles into your neck, his woe-is-me attitude soon replaced with a blinding grin and boyish giggle. “Oh, but you know I can’t be mad at you for long!”

Long and slender fingers bury themselves in your weeping cunt before you process his mood swings. A trembling moan slips from your mouth as his skilled ministrations resume, your sweet spot welcoming the familiar touch. His speed and rhythm return as if he never paused, further turning your brain to mush as your thighs tremble. Gojo chuckles childishly once more, the charming melody syncing with the embarrassingly loud squelching of your soaking pussy. 

Multiple orgasms later, and you ask for more. The heat from the situation must be melting your sense of reason because you can’t tell if you’re greedy or just plain stupid. 

“You crying?” Gojo’s voice carries its usual teasing lilt, the one he has specifically for you. You don’t even realize how the fresh tears glaze your vision—as if he didn’t already have enough fuel for the fire.

But you bite your tongue. You bite your tongue because there’s no convincing anyone that he’s crazy and seeing things and the last thing you need is for him to stall some more when you’re already sososo close to the edge.

A slight change in angle. It does the trick, his fingers still bullying that one spot while his palm brushes against your throbbing clit with just as much vigour. Your body tenses, a choked sob escaping your glossy lips as your orgasm hits you like a tsunami. Warm liquid follows soon after, the blue-eyed sorcerer’s movements refusing to halt and making lewd splashing sounds in the process. 

Even once everything simmers down, the impact decides to remain a bit longer. With a heaving chest and stuttering hips, the room stops spinning, slowly but surely.

A low whistle. “If you had to pee, you could have just said so.”

“Why are you like this?”

Gojo hums before slipping his fingers out of your pussy, earning him a slightly pained whimper from you. He stands back up as you wipe away the evidence of your crying, peering up at him when his shadow blankets you. His towering frame never fails to catch you off-guard, but what currently has your attention is the Special Grade sorcerer sucking his digits clean of your juices, a satisfied mewl coming straight from his throat.

“Welp,” he stretches his arms above his head, “we still have a bit of time left before we have that meeting with good ol’ Principal Yaga, so,” the sound of a zipper reaches your ears, and it's only a few seconds later that he pulls out his cock—long, stiff and painfully ready, “why not return the favour?” 

You’re too fucked out to argue against him. That’s the reasoning you’d think of using should he confront you about your willingness to comply. You can’t help it if you’re losing the staring contest against his cock, saliva pooling on your tongue as he taps his vermillion tip against your cheek.

Your lips part as your eyes flutter closed, unable to bear to look at the Special Grade sorcerer as you take him down your throat, inch by inch. The gagging sound that erupts from your throat halfway through makes your brows furrow, and you can only hope the man above you doesn’t comment. With clenched fists sitting on your lap, you further shield your sight with screwed-shut lids as you push yourself to take more, using your tongue for good measure.

A shuddered sigh leaves Gojo’s soft lips when you tease one of his veins. “That’s a good fuckin’ girl.”

You moan in response, feeling bold enough to create a steady pace to bob your head. Whatever you couldn’t reach, your hand took care of, a part of your brain urging you to squeeze him just a bit harder. His responses only grow louder, his groaning and panting setting your face on fire.

“You’re so good at this,” he rasps, his large hand finding the top of your head. Despite his gentle touch, you furrow your brows at the contact. “Too good…” You don’t expect him to slip himself out of your mouth, holding his base away from your mouth and making you finally look up at him. Gojo tilts his head to the side. “You’ve done this before?”

You'd have thought he was teasing if it weren’t for the pout on his lips. You look at him for a moment with an incredulous expression.

“What are you talking about?” You swat his hand out of your hair. “You seriously think being with anyone outside our line of work would be easy?” The male sorcerer’s gaze carries hope at your words, a noticeable shine in those cerulean blues that make your heart stutter. Unsure of what to do next, you continue the lost momentum by pumping his pulsing cock in your hand. “I’m stuck with you, Gojo.”

You figure his shuddered gasp is from your returning touch, especially with the combination of pinched brows, quivering lips and heavy blush on his cheeks and ears. But his large hand on top of yours–the one doing all the work–tells another story.

“You really do like me, Princess!” The sorcerer exclaims, his voice wavering halfway. 

At this point, you don’t care to dissect whether or not he’s pushing your buttons. Even at a time like this….

“I meant I’m settling for you,” you grumble, ignoring how his hand practically devours yours. You manage to retract your hold from his. “Don’t make me bite you.”

Gojo giggles at your threat, his bottom lip slipping between his teeth when you plop his dick back in your mouth. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Without warning, you graze his shaft with your teeth the more you take him in your mouth. Not enough to hurt, but enough to send a message, if your irritated expression wasn’t already doing the job. 

Although, you suppose it is your fault for not taking him seriously either. Your actions earn you a whimper from the Special Grade sorcerer. Not a second later, he has his head thrown back as he pours his load down your throat. Your eyes widen at the overpowering taste, doing what you can to swallow every drop without choking. Even through his orgasm, you find yourself thinking about how he ought to cut down on the sweets. 

You’re quick to pull back for air once Gojo comes down from his high, sputtering in your hand as he sighs happily. 

“Told ya,” he muses, tucking himself back in. You wipe your mouth, glaring at him from your spot on the floor. 

“Whatever,” you grunt, putting your clothes back on before attempting to stand. If he notices your legs still wobbling, he thankfully doesn’t comment. “Let’s just hurry and get to that meeting before Yaga gets mad.”

Gojo hums with a tilt of his head as he watches you dusting off your pants.

“Oh, yeah!” He drops his fist into his palm. You throw a wary look his way when he grins. “We’ve been late this whole time, actually.”

© creative-crybaby, do not repost or modify

[divinit3a]

oneshot: out of character -> ao3 link reader x mer animatronic!moon 🌊 word count: 3,403

Working at a Fazbear animatronic theme park hadn't really been your dream, but it is your current reality.

At first, you were starry-eyed. Clocking in each day at a place that brings out the magic of imagination. Revamped from its first attempt that mysteriously burnt down after a rigorous police investigation, inexplicably refurbished into a half VR game center, half water-park. You’d bet the money that fuels such an over-the-top offshoot for the franchise pumps in from the Pizzaplex the next city over.

The ambition of the two owners who picked up the business manifested into a massive aquarium at the center, home to mechanized sea life. Animatronics of all shapes and sizes, perfect replicas of their real life counterparts. Plus or minus a more vivid, appealing, toy-selling color palette. 

The multi-level aquarium showcases beautiful spectacles of engineering that allow all creatures of the deep to intermingle without the limitations of reality. You’ve stood in the tunnels that wind throughout the first floor on the slow moving tracks before, looking around with awe and wonder at the flittering sharks and jumping dolphins. A whale would float by now and then, casting a great shadow across the tunnels as everyone hurried to snap a photo.

Ferry rides are offered at an exuberant price to float atop the largest of the decorative tanks, where a stationary mermaid animatronic waves with a pleasant smile. You stopped going to the ferry rides after they replaced the human staff with the admittedly rather creepy, blank-staring bots and their pre-recorded voice lines. 

Despite all the splendor surrounding you, the position of 'general maintenance' tends to become lackluster after cleaning up one too many barf piles near the food courts. Or being tasked with fishing cellphones out of the tops of tanks, enduring the hellish fury of whichever parent you had the misfortune of relaying the lost or damaged items policy to. Rattling off of a lengthy speech of ‘we wont pay for this,’ in corporate, smiley, customer-service-y terms. 

You sigh, pushing a heavy mop forward as music thrums through your ear buds. You take a moment to rest your head against your curled up hands at the top of the handle, listening to the last few seconds of the track, before popping the ear buds out one by one and shoving them into your jacket pockets. 

The slow drip of a faucet welcomes you back to cold, harsh reality. The last hour or more of your life was spent sopping up the ick that countless shoes tracked in and out the restroom facility throughout the day. 

By now, the sun is setting over the horizon line. You always pick up the latest shifts in the day. The overnight security staff are your regular acquaintances. You’ve bribed the main desk guy into being your ride-or-die with sugary, outdated donuts.  

There's a ding on your pager. You lean the broom handle on the brick wall, which is plastered with Chica and Roxanne themed posters that encourage handwashing. As you rest the mop, you falter to catch it from falling over, as the damn thing could never just stay put. Once you’ve prevented the disaster of the mop tipping over, you check the pager again, missing the glitching and rearranging of the letters on screen. 

Honestly, the technology is considerably retro compared to what's out on the market; looking more like a terminal you’d see in a sci-fi movie, or perhaps a calculator that would be chucked at a classmate in second grade. 

What greets you is an open-ended service ticket for the Haunted Shipwreck. You quirk an eyebrow. The exhibit was usually cleaned diligently by daytime staff in preparation for opening in the evening. Spruced up by the folks who worked at the bar, and the poor teenage saps who had to stand in the queue lines scanning tickets. The ‘ride’ was part of the finale of the virtual reality storyline that guests could pay a premium price to experience, connecting all the dots of the theme park’s attractions together. 

Plus, it was the only place that served alcohol after five pm. The specialty drinks are so neon and vivid that the sugar content has to be astronomical. 

Parents flock there like it is truly an oasis in a kiddy-park desert. 

Scratching at your head, you walk in a circle as you read the details, or lack thereof. The ticket reads, 'Exhibition needs spot cleaning.' Spot cleaning? A whole exhibit? Your thumb hovers over the button to accept the task. It beats mopping bathroom tiles any day.

You wring out the mop into its bucket, and begin the tedious task of ferrying cleaning supplies from one area to the next. On your way out, you sling the heft of a tool bag over your shoulder. 

_____________________________________

The scent of lemony freshness follows you in hot pursuit. You shove open the doors to the exhibit with a “Hello?”, expecting another person or two from the maintenance crew to have accepted the job. Cleaning a whole attraction on your lonesome did not bode well for the ‘no overtime’ policy. 

The response you get is absolute silence.

You feel along the wall for a light switch, and then remember that this is an amusement park, not a hotel. The controls for the area’s lights are all in the breaker room out back. Locked away with a key that is not in your possession. With a sigh, you fish out a flashlight from your tool bag and continue to wheel your cart in.

Without music blaring through the hidden speakers, or patrons milling through the bar onto the dance floor, the main atrium of the ride feels as haunted as its namesake. Grumbling, you pull out your pager and look down. The screen is blank, as if the task had never existed at all. 

Before you can question the disappearing act, spotlights turn on. A deafening click causes you to jolt and nearly drop the device.  

You look up, and are face to face with the animatronic who prowls the exhibit. Your lungs temporary pause all function as your heart works in overdrive. 

Above you is an elaborate trick of puppetry. A skeletal siren with a face as white as bone is frozen in place, with its arms outstretched as if it had been reaching towards you in the darkness to swipe you up. Thin, transparent plastic that shimmers like true fish scales acts as webbing between its sharp claws.

A billowing tail snakes like a serpent atop most of the area’s ceiling, weaving around the lighting system. The tip of its tailfin is curled around the rafters, as if supporting its weight. But that couldn’t be true; as a large cord connects into its back. Following the tubing leads to the pulley system which keeps it on predictable tracks. 

One eye is cyan. The other eye is entirely a deep crimson, casting an eerie glow across your face. The eye with the cyan pupil trembles. 

“Jeez, you scared me!” You say, too shocked to catch yourself before talking with an inanimate puppet.

The robotic siren, Moon, stares at you, not budging from its post. The lack of movement makes it feel more and more like a statue. You feel silly for speaking to it directly. 

But you remember: there's a person whose entire job is to spend the day operating these guys. To keep them lifelike, same as the free-roam 'animatronics' that are actually just staff in sweaty old mascot suits. Learning the truth as an employee had dimmed the magic of the theme park, but you still admit that it is an impressive work of robotics, especially considering the aquarium. 

“Are you still on for the night? Ride’s shut down,” You ask, pushing through the lingering fear you felt from the brief scare. During off-season the park closes earlier and is open about half the days, meaning that Haunted Shipwreck is mostly operational Friday and Saturday. Today is a Wednesday. You didn’t expect the elusive staff who controls the two mermaid animatronics to be on duty. 

In response, the animatronic's massive tail slaps against the faux rocky terrain that decorates its elaborate enclosure. Moon lands back on the main stage it perches on during performances. Without the constant spray of dry ice to create the illusion of fog, and the bright red lighting, the siren lacks the intimidating flare you expect.

“Well, I'm here to clean. That's all.” You rest your hands at your sides, settling your thumbs into the belt loops. 

Moon peers at you. Then it rolls over onto its back. The wires controlling its electronics flatten against the surface as it settles into place. You blink as you stare at a 'belly-up' fish. Its hands rest into a t-rex, claw-like position at its sides, as if it wasn’t used to laying down, either, and instantly felt awkward. 

“Oh,” You exclaim, wrapping your head around the vague task you accepted. At last, you understand who – or what, needs cleaning: the animatronic itself. There’s gum stuck to its sculpted fins and a few pieces of paper wedged into the joints that segment its torso from its abdomen, limiting its range of motion. 

A cruel prank, regardless of the recipient’s ability to feel discomfort. 

You set your tool bag down on the floor and stumble up the plastic molded rocks, right past the ‘DO NOT CLIMB’ sign. All things considered, the ‘spot cleaning’ looks like an easy project to finish off your shift. 

You sit on your knees next to the animatronic. 

You start by pulling the paper jammed into its torso hinge out. You brace a palm against its side, and carefully tug. Hearing the papers tear makes you curse softly under your breath. 

The animatronic watches, and then bends its torso hinge away, giving you easier access to pull the shredded bits out. 

You begin to notice that all the papers jammed inside the robot are actually posters and pamphlets that you can pick up for free at the photo kiosk a room over. Strange. 

Taking a second to indulge your curiosity, you inspect one of the postcards. 

The front of the card is split into two; the daytime half, Sun, spritely and bright on the left. And his cursed form that haunts the seas at night, Moon, in an ominous dark silhouette on the right. A few of these are even lenticular prints that you can shift back and forth, but those have to be bought at the complimentary gift shop at the end of the ride.  

The depicted dark, jagged silhouette of Moon is a sharp contrast to the docile animatronic beside you. Existing to be ‘vanquished’ time and time again, by brave patrons, in order to free Sun from the shackles of an evil witch’s hex. 

The witch character is set to debut at long last in a few months.

You find yourself smiling at the memories of watching the performance for the first time; the smoke and mirrors of the robots being switched out on stage to masquerade as one feat of engineering. The silly story never fails to be engaging, with how much production was poured into making Sun’s character so lifelike and memorable.

Now that you think about it, you wonder why Moon never got the same treatment. You look up to see that the ‘cursed siren’ on your mind is staring right at you, almost expectantly. Beneath its chassis where your palms rest is a soft, insistent hum of machinery, fans set to medium gear. It points to a piece of paper you missed under its arm socket. You lean closer to dig in, their gaze burning into the back of your head. 

The silence as you work on the clean-up becomes increasingly uncomfortable. Even more so when you consider that whoever is tasked with puppeting Moon is still up in the server room, no doubt working past their shift’s end to make your job easier by maneuvering the siren this way and that. 

Though, you wonder why the puppeteer didn't just meet you at Haunted Shipwreck themself to talk it through. Must be some kind of NDA, or lack of a remote control.

By the time you are scraping gum off glittering scales, you decisively break the ice with, “Y'know, Im surprised. I thought you'd be home by now,” beginning the idle, one-sided chatter. Just because you are here on business, doesn’t mean the exchange had to be so clinical. Your quiet companion shows that its listening by flicking the long fin that adorns its head. Bright cyan tracks your every movement with what feels like intense curiosity.

While you work, you take out the pager to check on your tasks for the night. In an instant, Moon swipes it, moving faster than you can comprehend. They slither away from you with shocking speed, cable attached to its back whirring to keep up with the momentum. 

“Hey! Give that back!” You reach up, fingertips brushing off the smooth scales upon its long, imposing tail. Up above, the animatronic fiddles with the pager. Frustration ripples off it as its hands clunkily tap away at the tiny, human-sized keyboard. 

“Don't break it, c'mon, it'll come out of my paycheck!” You swat at the robot whose mid-air. You gasp at the audacity it has to curl its tail inward and away from you. An unfair game of keep-away. 

Moon turns the screen of the pager back to you. 'Thank you,' is typed out in simplistic, boxy letters. You blink, staring at the screen as the pager is gingerly placed back in your hands, claws ghosting across your arms. The siren pulls back quickly. Moon fidgets with the hem of its costuming, a subtle act of nerves that trips you up even worse.

“You—you're welcome.” You stumble on your words, not quite sure why the sentiment is so shocking. But it feels like it came from the robot itself—whoever ran these guys was committed to staying in character. Even to other staff. You admire the dedication.

The robot leers down at you. Pupils burning, an unsettling lack of expression except for a wide-eyed stare that never relents the pressure it exerts. A hand extends out, and it takes a moment for you to realize that its asking for the pager back. Dumbstruck, you comply without a second thought. The robot taps away at the keyboard, dwarfed by its palms. You hear the click-click-click of the backspace button as it shakes its faceplate.

The pager returns to you. After all its effort, only one word is on the screen: 'Again.'

“Again?” You repeat aloud, looking up at Moon with confusion. The robot continues to fidget, before nodding so quickly in confirmation, that you are worried you'll need to send in a ticket to fix its neck hinge. That sort of job goes to the on-sight mechanics who the company contracts, not a regular maintenance guy like you. “You'd... like me to stop by, again?” You guess, and Moon's nerves boil over. The tracks in the ceiling creak as the creature 'swims' all around you, showcasing flashes of glittering fins and the faintest glint of sharp fangs beneath its flowing collar. With the blur of violet, magenta, and crimson swirling around you, its like being in the middle of a shark swarm— without any of the fear. 

Because you take the boundless enthusiasm to mean, 'yes.'

”Okay, okay. I will,“ You laugh at the strange antics, charmed by how earnest the supposedly wicked siren can be. You don’t know much about Moon's character here at the park; he was intentionally left mysterious to add to the villainous flare. Or perhaps, to excuse the lack of forethought into an antagonist designed for a theme park. So, to see him instead doing several aerial laps around the perimeter of the shipwreck, you can't help but find them endearing.

Your pager dings, reminding you that there is twenty minutes before your shift ends, and one bathroom facility left half-mopped in your haste. 

“It was nice meeting you,” You hesitate—you have no idea who this person is. You stare into the lens of the animatronic’s eyes, pondering who was watching you back on the camera feed. 

Maybe the two of you could get lunch sometime off the clock, away from the prying of corporate eyes. Perhaps they are nervous to break character. You glance to the security camera in the corner, and back, ”...Moon,” you decide to call them by the character they play, for the time being. 

The siren lurches toward you. 

You reel back, almost slipping on the plastic rocks.

Spindly limbs wrap around you, catching you from your fall, and—Oh.

You blink, struggling to keep up. The wretched siren of the coast is giving you a hug. The fabric of its costume sleeves is silky and smooth, and almost bundles you up like a tarp.   

”O-okay, then.” You pat at the back of the animatronic. Its staring at you so seriously with massive, leering eyes, that you are struggling not to buckle under the stress. The pressure Moon exerts is light, but spikes your heart rate regardless. Your feet are almost off the ground, balancing on the heels of your work boots as you tilt back. You aren’t looking to go for a swim, or to be put on medical leave from a concussion. 

“That’s, um, very sweet, thank you, Moon.” You tap its arms next to indicate you’re ready to be let go of. You find your cheeks flushing in embarrassment, wondering if the animatronic’s puppeteer thinks its amusing to scare you with this level of whiplash. Maybe it is funny to them, to make the theme park's aloof villain act all cuddly for one-on-one exchanges. 

“There we go—nice and easy,” you find yourself narrating, as the siren deliberately sets you back down on the floor. Not back onto the rocks; no, it cranes you over to main floor, where you run a much smaller risk of falling on uneven terrain. 

Walking over to collect your belongings, you shrug your tool bag over your shoulder, and place a hand on the handle of your cleaning cart.

The animatronic waves you off, watching with interest as you shove your way out the door. A glimpse of the outside world, the low lights of the shut-down park and the infinite expanse of the night sky.

You stop in the doorway, prolonging the moment, “Have a good night, Moon.” The animatronic stays perfectly still, playing its role. Poised with elegance and a threatening aura. The sight leaves you with chills, although you hardly had reason to fear the animatronic, or its friendly puppeteer.

The door closes.

A pause. 

Moon stays put until they can no longer hear the roll of your cart. Then it springs up. Pacing back and forth, tail moving as smoothly as kelp in the current, weaving through decorative pillars that sell the illusion of being underwater, trapped in a shipwreck. The sliding of the wire on its tracks plays a symphony as it maneuvers around. Feeling–feeling, like it did something right, by doing something terribly wrong. The sensation was so complex that it keeps cataloguing every second.

Moon couldn't believe that tampering with a maintenance ticket actually worked. A small, small chance that anyone would pick up the task he made up— jamming postcards into its segments in a fury to make the objective believable, once someone had actually said 'yes.'

The cord above squeals, and Moon realizes it needs to relax, less it break its ability to move within its small, small world. 

Settling back down, the siren sits on its lonely perch with a glimmer of hope–that you'll be back again the next night, and the next, and the next. After all, you spoke to them with such ease. Most everyone pretends he’s nothing more than a glorified stage prop. Doomed with an underutilized, elaborate AI on the same caliber as all the others in the park, who roam freely. Who get to interact, learn, and grow daily; who get to make friends and play so many games.  

Until next time, they'll work on their communication. Study the humans who walk through its exhibit closer and closer. Experiment with how to evoke emotions beyond fear.

Their tail thumps, eager to continue daydreaming throughout the rest of its cycle spent awake.

[colonelarr0w]

"My love, mine all mine"

JJK Characters as oddly specific romantic scenarios.

Contains -> Satoru Gojo, Suguru Geto, Kento Nanami, Toji Fushiguro, Choso Kamo, Ryomen Sukuna, Hiromi Higuruma, Ino Takuma, Yuuji Itadori, Megumi Fushiguro

! PIECE BEGINS UNDERNEATH THE CUT !

SATORU GOJO as randomly giving flowers.  

The action is unpredictable, unexpected — very similar to the unpredictable tendencies of the Special Grade. Gojo is never a one-trick pony, never does he want you to grow bored or tired of him (not that you ever will, obviously). Money did not matter to him, not when it came down to you. If a bouquet of flowers cost an arm and a leg, Gojo would gladly take a saw and get to work.  

If he happens to see a bouquet of flowers that would just look gorgeous on your desk, he’s throwing various bills at the florist and beelining for where he knows you’ll be. Gojo loves you, which is absolutely not a secret to anyone around him, and him randomly going out of his way to buy you flowers only reminds you of that bursting love that he has for you … and only you. And maybe, just maybe, he'll leave a small handwritten note with a scrawled declaration of just how much you mean to him.  

SUGURU GETO as admiring the rain. 

How serene and tranquil it is to just admire nature’s tears with Geto. Neither of you have to say anything, not that you want to — lest you want the loving silence to be tainted with whispered words. You don’t mind the silence, and nor does he. It's comfortable, peaceful, and it allows you both to momentarily forget about the world that you lived in. Instead, you could bask in the warmth that Geto emanates, clinging to it like a moth would cling to a light that they found.  

Geto’s arm is loosely draped over your waist, your side molding into his own like two pieces of a puzzle. Your head tucked against his shoulder, ears perked to listen to the rain’s gentle pattering. Geto’s fingers trace mindless shapes into your skin, content to sit in your presence. You carry with you a softness that Geto knew could never be replicated, reminding him that the things that have been done to him and by him are things long left in the past. For now, he could be Suguru – and he would only ever be Suguru around you.  

KENTO NANAMI as tying untied shoelaces.  

Late night walks where your shoes just won’t seem to cooperate. For as tight as the knots initially felt, they only loosened with each step you took. Even his steps had noticeably slowed to be in sync with your own, being sure to not accidentally leave you behind. Always attentive to you, reminding you that he loves you with a gentle squeeze to your fingers. The eyes behind his eyeglasses soften as you return his squeezes, but their softness is replaced then by a flicker of concern as you stumble, nearly rolling your ankle against the pavement.  

And so he pauses your walk, releasing the gentle grip he has on your hand and touching his knee to the ground. Fingers loop through the undone laces, expertly knotting them before softened eyes flicker up to your own. Your cheeks flush at the sheer adoration that swims in his eyes, your gaze flickering away from his own as a mumbled thanks falls from your lips. But he does not miss the curl of your lips – wearing that sweet smile that Nanami wishes that he could forever commit to memory. Nanami imagines an alternate scenario from his position, one where he holds silver and slips it onto your finger. Eventually… 

TOJI FUSHIGURO as late night drives.  

With gentle music and the soft rumble of the engine, it’s no wonder that you feel so incredibly safe sitting in the passenger seat of Toji’s (Shiu’s) car. Your hand rests on the back of Toji’s, which lays against your thigh — squeezing every few seconds in a silent ‘I love you’. His declaration spoken in a language that only you understand, one crafted for you and one used only when you were around.  

Your drives aren't known to have a set destination, just filled with senseless turns that never have a true end thought out. Many of them are silent, the car only filled with the sounds of your pre-prepared playlist of songs that both you and Toji enjoyed, but there are times where the car is filled with soft conversation recounting past experiences or simply reciting the day’s events. But one thing is for certain, only you could make the great Toji Fushiguro soft. 

CHOSO as shared routines.  

Your presence in Choso’s life has brought about notable changes to the course of his day — namely his routine and how he decides to spend the mornings and nights. What was once simply waking up and immediately moving about has now become remaining tangled in the sheets for five (sometimes ten) extra minutes. What was once a simple brushing of the teeth has now become a multi-step skincare routine and lengthy shower. 

His day just wouldn’t be the same without your shoulder brushing against his own as you both cleaned your teeth. It wouldn’t be the same without you brushing through his hair and styling it for him with the gentlest of hands. His nights wouldn’t be the same without your body against his in the bath, sponge rubbing away the day’s tension. And it certainly wouldn’t be the same without you wrapped in his arms, gentle snores fanning against his neck as you doze off — wrapped in the comfort of his embrace.  

RYOMEN SUKUNA as shared glances.  

They say that the eyes are the true window into the soul, detailing the true feelings of what resides within and bringing it forth in a discreet, almost unknown, manner. Fleeting glances can speak the same amount as a full-length conversation. Softened irises can shine with love and narrowed pupils can convey rage equivalent to that of a freshly sharpened dagger. Sukuna’s eyes were no exception to the rule — the love he held for you couldn’t be hidden behind pointed glares, not when they softened immediately upon finding you.  

The moment your eyes met his own, soft and gentle, something in him promptly melts. How funny that the King of Curses would find himself staring at you — a simple sorcerer — with crinkled eyes. Was he smiling? No, no he’d never admit to ever smiling, but the sight of you just brings one to his face so naturally. Your head turns so that your gaze meets his own, silently reading each other’s eyes before you smile at him. And though he wants so badly to scoff and turn the other way, for you … he returns it.  

HIROMI HIGURUMA as being picked up from work.  

It was no secret that there were creeps lining the streets of the city, prowling around underneath the cloak that night provided and waiting for the best opportunity to strike. Wandering around at night, while not inherently dangerous, did not sit well in the stomach of Hiromi. He knew that you were able to handle yourself well, you were no stranger to defending yourself in situations where you needed to – but he still could not quell the pit of worry that bubbled in the pit of his chest whenever you were kept late at your office.  

And so, to keep a sound mind, Hiromi would wait outside the double doors of your office building, smiling against your hair as your body molds into his own. His nose nestles itself into your hair, inhaling the familiarity of your scent – a soft mixture of lavender and rose. The hug lasts for as long as you need it to, broken only when you decide to take a step back. The passenger side door to Hiromi's car is then opened for you, your hand is held as you step inside, and a kiss is pressed to your cheek all before the door shuts.  

INO TAKUMA as sharing food.  

Relationships are meant to be 50/50, an even split that ensures that one party does not contribute more or less to the relationship than the other. To say that Ino believes in balance in his relationship with you would be the understatement of the century – he never wants you to feel as if you're doing too much or that he's doing too little for you. Ino also believes very heavily in sharing everything with you; personal stories, clothes, drinks, and of course, food.  

Never will he order the same thing as you, knowing that at one point or another, you'd try whatever snack or meal he had ordered for himself. Your eyes would flicker to his plate or to the ice cream in his hand, then to his eyes, silently asking permission. With a smile akin to that of a lovesick teenager, Ino extends whatever it is that he's eating to you, feeling his heart warm at the sound of your satisfied hum. You kiss his cheek in thanks before offering him whatever it was that you had ordered. Rinse and repeat, and suddenly you're both sharing two meals as opposed to enjoying one for yourself – and neither of you would change it for the world.  

YUUJI ITADORI as stargazing.  

Something about the silence that night provides paired with the gentle light that the stars in the night sky had always been so calming for you, always carrying with it a sense of serenity that could only be replicated by something as soft as a mother's love or a hug. And like a moth drawn to a light, you found yourself admiring those very stars every single night – now you had someone to share that peace with, someone to bask in the warm light that the stars provided.  

Laid out over a blanket, two pairs of eyes watch the twinkling stars with a fascination only replicated by that of a child. For a moment the world is silent, filled only with the sounds of your breathing and Yuuji's. His hand is intwined with yours, thumb rubbing back and forth against the backs of your knuckles. Your cheek is against his shoulder, both your eyes and his shut in complete serenity. Those are the nights where you can just be children, as in reality, it is what you both are.  

MEGUMI FUSHIGURO as interlocking pinkies.  

Not everyone is affectionate, not everyone is able to easily convey their love through prolonged physical touches such as a hug or a passionate kiss. Certain love languages come easily to some people, but to others it may be a touch more difficult. Some convey it through words, others convey it through actions that are a little more hidden, secretive. Megumi, for as quiet as he is, falls into the secretive category when it comes to displaying his love for you.  

He loves you, hell, he would devote himself to you entirely if given the chance, he just finds it a touch difficult to display that love for you through means of physical touch. That does not mean he won't hug you or indulge in your kisses, it just means that he may not be the one to initiate those actions. But there is an exception to this little rule, and that is the fact that Megumi will always link his pinkie with your own when walking on your side. The smile that worms its way onto his face the moment that his skin touches yours is missed by everyone, but never ever will it be missed by you – and to him, you are all that matters anyway.  

[my-names-angel-but-im-not-one]

Soulmates

Pairing: satosugu x reader.

Tw warning: obsessive behaviour, kind of dark, possesive Satoru. And just Satoru(he's a warning himself). No proof read, I'll do it later okay.

He used to hate it. The mark. Satoru used to hate it. The small moon mark of his soulmate, of you , because it was just below his mark.

The mark of suguru. His first soulmate, that he killed , and watched as suguru's body slowly became lifeless , Satoru's eyes watering but he refused to cry. He held him close , his lover , his bestfriend , the only one who saw him as satoru and not as strongest, slowly suguru's mark on Satoru's wrist started to wither away and then gone completely, before the weight of this could crash on him another mark formed below suguru's fading one.

He furrowed his brows, what was this?.......was the universe playing with him? Were they playing a cruel joke on him? Laughing down at strongest, by giving him another soulmate right after he killed his first one? He hated this mark , this moon mark. It was mocking him , laughing at his misery of loosing his soulmate and giving him another one.

He hate this, he hate everything, he hate himself for killing the only man he loved and for what? Humans? Oh how he so was gonna kill you, the one who's his second soulmate. Second. You think you can replace suguru?! He'll show you and the universe itself how devoted he is to suguru.

But he couldn't.

When he first saw you, shying a bit, in a meek voice asking him sweetly "um are you my soulmate?" As you shy away a bit. Maybe because he's beautiful, or maybe that's just your personality. But the thought of killing you never crossed him again after your encounter with him.

But what broke his heart when you showed him , his mark on you. Right bellow your collar bone. A white fish. Koi fish. His heart broke, because it's same as him, same mark of him that suguru had.

He never thought he'd love anyone else, not after suguru, he thought he'd be too depressed too unaware of everything, but you were an unexpected twist in his life. He thought of you more as a possession than a person. But can you blame him though? He's soo paranoid that you'll die too. And to make it worse? You're a non sorcerer.

You were practically born to be kept locked , to be safe and isolated. He couldn't save suguru, a special grade so he know he needs extra precautions to keep you safe. He can't let you know the world he live in , he can't let you know he's abnormal. And most importantly? He can't let you know you're second one and you'll always be.

You had your suspicions about him , he said he's a teacher, but only have a handful student, when you asked to visit his place he refuse. Lashed out even, you were scared, he's a man at the end, stronger than you , but he apologized, begged even. He so sweet ofcourse you'd forgive him , he's just a big baby to you. But then it grew, the suspicions, he used to stare at things as in off space and when you look where he's looking, there's nothing. You asked him "what is it? Is there's something?" He just shook his head and mumbled "spaced out".

You thought you were being paranoid, but he was just getting creepier and creepier , one night you woke up in the middle of your sleep, he was there , standing by your bedside , blue eyes shining in a pretty way? No. Scary. For the first time you thought he was scary.

"Satoru....? What are you doing in my house??"

".....I was missing you"

"but we just had lunch together in the morning?"

"Yeah......but i-..... I love you"

"I know, ......I love you more"

You said sighing a bit, sure he's kind of creepy but you're blind, blinded by his beauty, cute behaviour and the little tears that prick his eyes as he stands there. You can't understand him. But that's just live isn't it? You don't need to understand him to love him.

"Come here" you said patting the empty space next to you. He climbed in fast. You pecked his forehead and spooned him letting him cuddle not asking anymore questions but one.

"Wait...how did you get in here? I don't have a spare key."

"Uh....I kind of broke the window?"

"SATORU!"

It was fine for few months, amazing even. You don't mind him being possesive or obsessive as long as you have your freedom , infact it's all cute even. But then you had an accident, minor one, your knees and palm scrapped you told him, mostly in a joking way, but he was done , done with this all.

Next day you woke up chained , ankle in binds that connected to the wall , and it don't look new, it look like it was planned , you panicked a bit thinking you're kidnapped but then he walked in with food

"Satoru?"

You whispered almost confused, he just smiled. This was different, his smile wasn't adorable like you once thought, it wasn't the one that he gave on your lame jokes, it looks guilty, apologetic even.

"I'm sorry"

He said and you knew, it's his doing, you're smart. Naive? Maybe as you ignore all the signs, but smart enough to know it's all planned, planned for longer than you think.

"Why?"

You asked sitting on the bed, but something told you , you knew the answer.

"I can't loose you. After the accide-"

"It's nothing! I just scrapped my knee-"

"You never know! What if next time it's worse! What if you....you..."

He couldn't get the world's out, tears seeping through his sunglasses, that you never asked why he wore.

"come here"

Seems like this is the only thing you'd be saying from now one.

Things didn't changed but you did. He removed chains but kept you inside the house, you were fine with it. Sometimes questioning your sanity as to why are you fine with it , but you were. He bought everything you'd want. And you started something work from home. He was tamed, as long as you were inside the house, the moment you guys were out for a movie or anything, he was like a rabid dog. Feral even. So you preferred staying indoor. 'Good for me' you often thought, atleast you don't have to socialize.

He loves you so much. And you know that, you know if you scream he'll come running. And so he did. When you're scream came from the bathroom.

You rubbed your collarbone, trying to remove whatever it was , before Satoru can come in the bathroom from your scream, but you forgot he's fast. He busted through the door.

"What?! What happened?!"

He asked eyes panicked as if searching for danger but it was just you bent over a bit, to look in the mirror, you were rubbing, your collarbone??

"I didn't do anything! I don't what this is! I swear! I don't know I don't know"

you were panicking, he took long strides towards you

"hey hey it's alright I'm here I'm here, it's alright okay? Show me what it is , I'll fix it"

he said rubbing you arms. You nodded Removing your hands. Satoru's eyes widened, in shock? Surprise? No, it was horror. A mark had form below his soulmate mark. He hurriedly rolled up his sleeves and yes there it was. The same one. Your panicked face confronts into confusion "what is...." You don't know what to say, he put his wrist near you collarbone and yes it was same.

The black koi fish mark. On both of you. Suguru's mark

A/N: I took soooooooo long I know. I don't have motivation to write. Also if there's any grammatical mistakes do let me know, I don't have the energy to proof read I'll do it laterrrrrrr, love ya guys :)

[afterthelambs]

⚠️Spoilers for Look Back but I was initially confused about what Fujino and Kyomoto's relationship had to do with pursuing a career as a mangaka. After thinking about it, I interpret it as a narrative device to represent what will come when choosing to pursue art (of any form, whether it's comics, painting, animation, music, etc.).

Think about it, what's Kyomoto's role in the story? She is what got Fujino to take art seriously in middle school, and what motivated her to continue after she initially gave up. However, she's also the only thing in the story that makes Fujino wish she quit art. First, halfway through 6th grade and then later after her death. She serves as Fujino's motivator and de-motivator.

I think the scene of Fujino wishing that she never told Kyomoto to come out (that pursuing art only led to suffering) represents artists' regrets. We literally look back and see an alternate universe where Fujino never pursued art and it has a happier ending. Anyone that pursues artistic dreams will end up regretting it at some point. It's not easy, any artist will tell you that. The story is saying yes, you probably will end up healthier and more stable by giving up your dreams. Because art is suffering.

But then Fujino enters Kyomoto's room after reading the comic from the alternate reality and all of a sudden we get a montage of the happy memories and accomplishments they had pursuing their dreams together. And we realize that, everything we saw of them in the alternate 'happier' reality pales in comparison to this:

The happiest both of them look in that alternate world is when they finally meet and promise to work together someday. They loved art. They loved each other. Giving up on your dreams means missing out on all of that, and nothing in the world can replace it. Because yes art is suffering, but art is also joy and love.

And so the end of the story where Fujino goes back to work isn't her moving on. She tapes the comic strip in front of her to remind her of Kyomoto, to remind her of why she got into comics in the first place. Basically, Kyomoto IS art to Fujino. A life with her means experiencing both suffering and joy, while the life without her means having none of that.

I might be wrong about this, like maybe Fujimoto just wanted to tell a mangaka story with doomed yuri (valid) HOWEVER i like my interpretation so im sticking with it.

[natalianovnas]

༄ `. 𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒

summary: natasha is your intimidating, brilliant guest lecturer in an advanced political theory course. you’re a grad student who always challenges her ideas in class — something she seems to enjoy a little too much.

genre : professor/student au.

warnings : desk sex, fingering (r!receiving), praise, aftercare, implied ongoing relationship.

The clock on the wall ticks past 6:00 PM and you should be gone because everyone else is but you're still here, standing in front of Professor Romanoff’s desk, heart thudding like you just ran across campus.

Your paper — the one you poured a week’s worth of caffeine and passive aggression into — lies between you and your teacher like a live wire.

You could’ve let it go. Could’ve sent a petty email or stewed in silence over your B+ — but no. You're standing here after hours because you knew she'd still be in, grading with that meticulous red pen, sipping coffee that’s probably cold by now.

Her red hair is pulled back in that perfect low ponytail, glasses perched on her nose, eyes fixed on the printed essay you dropped in front of her.

“A B+? ” You repeat, arms folded, left brow raised. “Seriously?”

Natasha leans back in her chair, unfazed, “Your analysis lacked depth. You made broad claims and didn't support them.”

Her lips curve slightly — not a smile, more like a dare.

“It was generous. You missed the core argument entirely — trying to prove too much and did too little.”

“I challenged your opinion,” You fire back. “It was a good paper. You just didn’t agree with what I said.”

“You challenged it poorly,” She replies, calm as ever, fingers steepled, cooly showing her dominance over you. “And I didn’t agree because you didn’t convince me. Next time use evidence.”

Oh this woman could be so infuriating but you couldn't help yourself.

There’s always been something loaded in your interactions — the tension, the eye contact that lingers just a second too long, the way she pauses before saying your name, like it sits differently in her mouth.

Stepping forward, you opted to stand your ground. "Or maybe you just didn’t want to admit I had a point. You mark me harder than anyone else,” you continue. “Even when I make the same mistakes others do.”

“Because I hold you to the standard I know you can meet.”

“And what standard is that?”

She rises slowly from her chair. The difference in your height disappears instantly — she always stands like she owns the air between you. She circles the desk until she’s in front of you, close enough for her perfume to replace your thoughts.

“I should remind you,” Natasha says, low, “that this is highly inappropriate.”

You don’t step back, neither for your gaze that's still on her. “Then tell me to leave.”

Instead of telling you anything, she leans in and kisses you like it’s the last chance she’ll ever get. Desperate, controlled — until you kiss her back, and the control slips.

You’re pushed gently against the desk, her hands braced on either side of you, mouth hot on yours, tongue teasing. She groans softly when your hands slide under her blouse, your nails dragging across skin.

Her voice is low and rough: “You always had to be the one I couldn't ignore.”

Her hands are on your thighs, dragging up your skirt. Her mouth moves to your neck, biting just hard enough to mark. You gasp her name, and she exhales against your skin like it’s a confession.

You barely register being lifted until you’re seated on the desk, legs spreading instinctively as she steps between them.

“You sure?” Your teacher asks quietly, fingers brushing your cheek.

You nod, “Yeah. I’ve been sure.”

Her lips crash into yours again, hands warm against bare skin. You help her strip your shirt off, tossing it blindly across the office. Her mouth trails back down your neck, slow and deliberate, nipping at the base of your throat until you shiver.

You tug her blouse free from her slacks. She helps you unbutton it, letting it fall open just enough to expose black lace and smooth skin. She doesn’t let you go further — not yet — instead reaching under your skirt, fingertips skimming the tops of your thighs.

“Already wet for me,” She says with a smug smile.

“Shut up,” You breathe.

She chuckles, mouth brushing your ear. “Make me.”

You gasp when her fingers slip under your panties, dragging through your slick folds with infuriating patience. She kisses you again — slow this time — as she circles your clit, teasing until your hips jerk forward.

When her fingers enter you — two at once, deep, slow, smooth, curling just right — your whole body tightens.

She keeps her pace controlled, curling her fingers expertly with every thrust. Her other hand spreads over your stomach, grounding you as your hips roll into her touch and you moan into her mouth. She swallows it like a prize, her free hand gripping your hip to keep you steady.

“Natasha—” your voice breaks.

“Just like that,” she breathes. “You’re doing so well.”

You cling to her shirt, panting, thighs trembling as she fucks you steadily. Each stroke is perfect — practiced — like she’s imagined this too many times to get it wrong. You don’t even care about being quiet anymore. Her name leaves your lips like a plea.

“Look at you,” The redhead murmurs. “Taking my fingers so well.”

Not so long after, she feels you clench around her fingers. She then leans in close.

“I’ve got you,” she says, mouth back on your clit. “Let go for me.”

And you do — back arching, mouth open in a soundless cry, eyes fluttering shut as you unravel.

She kisses you through it — Gentle, reassuring — Her fingers slow, easing out, hands trailing soft patterns down your thighs.

Natasha helps you off the desk, straightening your clothes while adjusting her own.

You look at her with a smirk. “So… does this mean I get an A now?”

She raises an eyebrow. “I’m not giving you an A+ because we fucked.”

You laugh, breathless. “Right. Because I earned it.”

Her hand brushes your waist again, lingering. “That you did.”

. . .

Later, she sits beside you on the office couch, one arm around your shoulders, your legs folded over hers.

Her office is still and dim again, save for the faint glow of the desk lamp. Your body’s still buzzing, thighs trembling slightly as the rush begins to settle.

Natasha doesn’t say anything right away. She just stays close, fingers brushing gently over your hips, grounding you. Then she reaches down and grabs a clean hand towel from her drawer — you blink, surprised, and she smirks like she’s done this before. Maybe not this, not with you, but... she's always been prepared.

“This okay?” She questions, voice low and careful.

“Yeah. Just… a little shaky.”

She moves slowly, wiping between your legs with deliberate care — never rushed, never rough. She kisses your inner thigh when she’s done, then helps you back into your underwear, smoothing the fabric tenderly.

You don’t realize how much you needed the softness until she pulls you into her lap on the office couch, arms winding around your waist. You bury your face into the curve of her neck, letting your breathing even out against her skin.

Her fingers stroke lazy circles over your spine. “You were perfect.”

“You didn’t go easy on me.”

“You’d hate it if I did.”

You laugh, muffled against her collarbone, and she presses her lips to your temple.

After a few minutes, she pulls back slightly and lifts your chin so your eyes meet. “You good? Wasn't too much?”

The way she double checks has you with that fluttering feeling in the pit of your stomach.

With a smile, you say, “No. It was… exactly what I wanted.”

A small smile touches her lips too. “Good.”

She passes you a water bottle from the side table. You take a few sips, and she watches you like she’s making sure you’ll actually drink all of it.

When you lean back against her, more relaxed now, her hand slides down to rest over your thigh.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward — just full of everything neither of you can say right now. But her thumb brushing rhythmically over your skin says enough.

But then,

“You gonna give me that A now?”

“No.” She helps you sit up, tucking your hair behind your ear. “But I might let you argue for extra credit — over dinner.”

You grin. “Romantic or academic?”

“Both.”

[liplinerloser]

The coffin of Andy and Leyley

A long term relationship with either of them

(Spoilers for Decay Route, It’s a long one! My requests are open <3)

Minors DNI

Andrew Graves

He meets you in high school, when he could still be bothered to talk to people. You sit next to him in an English class, he catches you with your head in your hands after it’s over, and despite not knowing you or really giving a fuck about you, he bites. Asking if you were okay was apparently the wrong answer because you start sobbing.

At this point he’s ready to walk away, but he can hear through your tears that you’re struggling with your grades, and it’s all gone to shit. That peaks his interest, Andrew ‘academic validation’ Graves knows exactly what that feels like. Begrudgingly he asks if he can help you, seeing you perk up at the thought. He ends up keeping you around for reasons he can’t understand.

He’s attracted to vulnerability, although he would never admit it, it makes him feel more secure in his own abundance of issues. If he’s smarter than you it also makes him feel like the superior one in the relationship that you can rely on.

Doing an English degree, he’s obviously poetically romantic when he wants to be, writing you your own sonnets, or ranting on and on about the historical context fuelling an authors writing career while playing mindlessly with your hair. He’ll take a lot of candid pictures of you to keep just for himself.

Andrew uses relationships outside of his obvious family unit to distract from said family unit, and convince the barely functioning moral compass ticking at the back of his mind that he is normal, he’s proving it by being with you, and loving you, and wanting you. No matter how many times your touch makes his skin crawl with inexplicable guilt

You notice bizarrely he never seems to have much time for you, you’d heard from a friend of a friend, Julia was it? That was the norm for him, though she seemed reluctant to get into details. You’re sympathetic to your boyfriend, maybe he’s busy or has a difficult home life.

he introduces you to the only other person in his life, his little sister, “the bane of his existence”, the fire of his loins, lovingly nicknamed Leyley. You inquired about the parents but alas, they weren’t in the picture god rest their souls.

To absolutely no one’s surprise, she hates your fucking guts. It doesn’t matter whether you’re a man, a woman, or anything on the spectrum; the sight of you with her Andy makes her viciously nauseous, and she seeks to correct it at once.

Your time with Andrew will constantly be cut short, with Ashley feigning illness, fear of being home alone, desperate help for homework, or just missing her older brother. It doesn’t matter what she says, as soon as it’s said he could hardly throw a glance in your direction. Clearly if you make it long term you always enable this behaviour alongside him

Ashley will give you the girlfriend special. Blowing up your phone with god awful messages at a god awful time at night, sending you hundreds of letters, hell you’re sure you saw her in your window at night! Her pink eyes staring daggers into you. But alas Andrew is blind to his sisters actions, it can’t be her, are you saying she’s capable of such things?! How could you. And somehow by the end of the conversation, you’re apologising to him.

Any speaking ill of Leyley will not be tolerated, he raised her. Even if she can be a self proclaimed bitch at times, she’s his, and in his eyes you’re replaceable. During the relationship you’ll have to deal with both her abuse and his.

The rare times you do get him alone without Leyleys disturbance, you get to be in the presence of Andrew as opposed to Andy. His repressed fears and upfront attitude, a harsh 360 from the character he masquerades for the sake of his sister. He’s soft with you, gentle small gestures such as tucking stray hair behind your ears, or stroking his thumb across your knuckles while he holds your hand. You can’t shake the feeling though that he’s hiding something darker from you.

Once he realises you’re serious about the relationship and don’t have any issues with Leyley become a complete pushover just like Andy He tries to involve you more, to the point you basically live with the siblings in the apartment.

You notice some, unsavoury behaviour between the two, with Andrew perpetrating it, such as walking in on Andrew sleeping with his sister, coddling her like a teddy bear. Upon seeing you walk into the room his eyes flew open, sitting swiftly up before quickly explaining the “panic attack situation”.

It was bullshit. You weren’t stupid, he knew you weren’t stupid. But you loved him, and if you make it far enough in the relationship, he manages to work into your brain and guilt you into thinking it’s just a unique element of their sibling dynamic. Hell what would you know, even if you had siblings it’s just not the same

Where most people would’ve seen his manipulative side rear it’s ugly head, and tear loose of this creep, he manages to get to you. He gets you so fucking good, right where he wants you, with your stomach exposed and vulnerable that you feel like apologising for even getting Involved! You’re not so lucky as the one before you, nobody is going to pull you out, and you certainly can’t help yourself.

Andrew is passively abusive, to both you and Ashley; he’s passive aggressive, and gives you whiplash with his contradictory behaviour, sometimes using his bad moods to emotionally manipulate you into doing whatever he wants. Even the times you think he’s doing what you want, it’s usually because it serves him.

Andrew is smart, he knows it, but he’s not smart enough to admit he’s also capable of being a terrible person while also being a victim. The times you try to address his negative behavior he withdraws from you completely, before coming back due to his physical needs.

As much as he doesn’t feel the true love for you he knows should be burning in his chest, he needs you. He needs you for a sense of normalcy, for your comforting grasp and honeyed words, because without that he has nothing else to stop him from snapping. So you’re very important to the Grave duos coexistence.

Once it gets to a certain point in the longevity of the relationship, Andrew will feel like he needs something permanent to tie you down, especially if he becomes increasingly suspicious of you leaving. He’s not above baby trapping you to keep you exactly where he needs you. Besides, he raised Leyley, what’s one more.

Following from that he probably has a breeding kink, he likes the idea of something like a baby keeping you tethered to him permanently. Just like how his parents tried to shake him and failed, you’d never be free from him.

Andrew uses sex as a stress relief, in a similar bracket to the cigarettes. He’s fucked enough to know what he likes, and that’s all that matters.

He’s not particularly intimate, In the traditional sense, he’s hypersexual so he fucks a lot, but don’t expect him to lovingly gaze down at you while he pounds you into the pillow.

He knows your body inside out, knows what makes you tick, where you’re sensitive and what gets you moaning like a bitch. He knows how to work his tongue and have you crying to the ceiling forgetting any other problems you had.

You noticed he comes to you for sex a lot particularly after he argues with Ashley, you always just assumed he was Pent up and it was his way of dealing with stress.

When it all comes to an end I think there’s only two ways you’d be around to stay with Andrew, if he hasn’t already indulged in his sister and descended to the final layer of hell.

Either you know about Ashley with all that entails, and you choose to stay despite it all, then you allow Andrew to live his fantasy’s inside the house, and play a normal life when he leaves those four walls with you. You become his front, and to an extent, he can love you for that.

Or he has snapped, killed Ashley, and before he can kill himself, you walk in. You and your gummy spine help him dispose of her body, and then you become her replacement. You’ll start to notice gradually Andrew dresses you more often, in outfits following the formula of shorts, boots, some sort of sleeveless top, and a choker. He does your hair for you, a low messy ponytail. Eventually whatever your name was doesn’t matter anymore, you’re not you, you’re Ashley! His beloved Ashley, his dear sweet Ashley, His Ashley.

Cant stay like that forever though, his soul craves her, and you’re not her.

Ashley Graves

Unlike Andrew, Ashley makes no effort to get closer to you, because she knows there’s no point.

There was a time in her life that she had wanted to be social, wanted friends outside of Andrew and that bitch Julia ; but Everytime she tried to talk to new people it felt like an overbearing shadow loomed over her. The girls she did talk to were uncomfortable with her brother, and the guys didn’t even talk to her, they already knew the crack.

A lot of the reason her attachment to Andy was allowed to fester is because of this rotting social life. But you can change that.

You meet her through Andrew, specifically being part of his friend group during school, though closer to the other guys, you thought he was… nice? He’d decided to invite all of you over to continue their card game match. The issue is he hadn’t mentioned you being the new addition, thinking it pointless

Ashley being Ashley was seething, smoke steaming from her nose, blood shot eyes seething. Why hadn’t Andrew mentioned you?! Was he hiding something. And who was this floozie trying to take him away from her!

Ashley couldn’t hold on long with you in the apartment before having an outburst in front of the whole group, in turn making them uncomfortable; all the guys opted to go to someone else’s house to continue, but you couldn’t help worry for Ashley. Andrew assured you it was one of her Temper tantrums and walked off in a huff.

Following her into her room, you find her crumpled on the floor infront of her made bed, head stuffed down into the bedsheets, as sobs wracked her frame, your heart ached for the poor girl. You wondered what could have hurt her so much

“G-go away!! You’re just like the others hussies tryna steal him away from me! W-well you wont be able to, I won’t let you!” She shot up, despite the height difference clearly trying to intimidate you.

Oh! That was all it was! She was just a jealous younger sister scared of her brother having too many friends and not spending time with her anymore. A smile graced your face as you pulled her into a hug, she fought back like a wild raccoon but eventually warmed up to it. “I’d never steal your brother from you, Ashley. He loves you so much, I’m sure of it!”, unaware of the full extent of their relationship you felt confident in your statement.

It was enough to get Ashley’s tears to dry, and a small smirk on her face, you’d heard Andrew complain about her in the brotherly way, but she seemed like a little sweetheart!

Over the years you grew away from Andrew, went to different universities, did different courses, he split from the friend group where you stayed in touch. But you did end up getting closer to Ashley.

She felt relieved to have someone outside of Andrew that wasn’t also competing for his interest like Julia, and you didn’t judge her for anything!

She confided all the bullshit her parents did, or do, even the arguments she had with Andrew, expecting you to be fully on her side like she had gotten used to with Andy. But you weren’t, you were honest with her, told her things she needed to hear to be better, and yeah she fucking hated it, wouldn’t talk for a while.

But eventually the phone would ring, in a small voice she would mention how she apologised, or made up and moved on.

She felt different than she did with you than when she hung out with Andy, there wasn’t a pit that sat heavy in her stomach, a guilty gnawing feeling. She enjoyed sleep overs at your house when her parents were particularly overbearing, the relief of getting away from it, even Andrew bizarrely

Ashley always likes her affections for someone to be affirmed, oftentimes through physical touch and words of affirmation. She’s relieved she doesn’t have to force this out of you, you enjoy her company, her snarky remarks about people and her perspective. She takes comfort in cuddling with you on the couch watching some shitty tv and making a running commentary of it, something she stopped doing because it pissed Andrew off.

Ashley tells you the secret that’s “weighed on her soul” since she was a kid. About what happened to what’s-her-face. You’re dumbfounded that she was capable of something like that, but seeing the tears streaming down her face made you think otherwise, even if the sobs conveniently stopped when you held her. You felt awful thinking she lived with such a heavy action from when she was a child, with nobody to comfort her, but disgust overwhelmed your senses at the nature of the act. Locked in a box, in the dark, she probably cried for her mom in her last moments. But she isn’t here, Ashley is, and it’s Ashley’s pitiful expression you’re forced to gaze back at. Did she feel guilt of her constant rotting?

She’s surprised you don’t do anything about the Nina secret considering you knew Julia, her closest friend; she had assumed after worming it out of her you’d hold it over her head forever, forcing her to bend for you. But unlike others in the past you don’t, you don’t blackmail her or ignore it for bigger issues, you’re simply there for her, rather than for something from her.

Don’t get her wrong though, as soft as she can appear, shes just as capable of being manipulative as Andrew when it serves her. you were ruined by this secret too, bonded together with her by it forever.

Ashley’s attitude as a whole is a lot harder to shift than just with the power of friendship. It’s fucking draining. She will always find a way to start an argument, screaming that you don’t care about her and you don’t put effort in, then if you respond she blames her inadequacies, and how she’s a “terrible woman”. You try not to indulge these, rather hugging her, asking her to talk when she’s calmer, and leaving. It’s clearly insecurity and you want to help her rather than hinder her or feed into it like some people-

Unlike Andrew, a relationship with her doesn’t revolve around sex, At least on the terms of her wanting it. She would much rather get validation through other actions towards her, and if you use her you’re no different than other people. If you’re going to do it, be gentle with her, that’s all she wants.

However, despite not wanting anything from you physically, she can be quite mentally draining to be around, even she’s aware of this. She’s grateful you ‘put up with her’, she’ll never tell you that though! Hehe

She’s the type of person who enjoys having something personal to someone, like having inside jokes nobody gets, or matching bracelets. She’ll absolutely make those ugly mismatched bff bracelets and expect you to wear it like it’s woven with gold.

The only other person she’s ever had that kind of relationship with is Andrew, and having it with you made her feel so… normal?

Unfortunately in the end, Ashley is a product of her upbringing by Andrew, all her behaviours and irrational fears, her attachments, they were all planted far too early on for you to even fathom changing them. No matter how long you stay by her side, treat her like an individual rather than a concept, care for her with your full heart, she cannot help crawl back to Andrew. It’s in her blood.

Nobody gets her like he does, and you’ll never know her fully unless you know the ins and outs of him too; an impossible task. Andrew knows this too, the off times you see him in public he smirks, as if he’s won over you.

She’ll keep talking to you, but gradually the phone calls lessen, there’s no silly notes or clothes left around your place, it’s as if all traces of her have been erased. She is fully absorbed by Andrew, she’ll never be yours, she never was.

Maybe you can slow her decay, but you can’t stop the inevitable.

[alexispunkkk]

in the house of my father

♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰

god only knows — chapter 1

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- warnings: religious trauma + so much guilt, struggles with purity, toxic/complicated family relationships, blasphemous themes, death in family, grief, smoking, kissing, (no smut this chapter), age gap attraction if you squint but not much happens here

- summary: the repressed preacher’s daughter comes back to town, carrying with her immense religious guilt after growing up in the church.

- word count: 3.3k

- author’s note: ahhhhh first chapter of this fic and im so fucking excited!!!! so happy to finally be making a series and i hope yall enjoy 💋💋💋💋

on ao3

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If you learned anything growing up as the preacher’s daughter, it’s how to be watched. 

Not looked at, but watched. Measured, judged. Eyes on you at all times, from quiet women who were taught to smile and men who think they know what God wants. You’re in a constant state of being weighed against a God you’ve never met, or at least you don’t think you’ve met. Who lives in your head, your closet, under your bed, behind your eyelids when you sleep. A constant reminder given to you by your father, by the cross nailed up above your bed and the one strung around your neck.

They started calling you “blessed” before you knew what the word meant, saying it in Sunday school like a promise. You had entire psalms memorized before reaching the age you learned to ride a bike. It’s set in your blood, set in the little marks on the back of your thighs from the church pews. 

The lord is your shepherd, but he never managed to follow you out of this estranged place. God loved you, but not enough to save you. 

Your daddy helped build the church with his own hands, laid the foundation while your mother was pregnant. His sweat is now fixed into the wood and the scripture forever set in the nails, or in his brain. Imprinted. He told you God spoke to him on hot Texas nights, the nights when the air was still and the crickets continued to blare and keep the town up. 

If your childhood taught you anything, it’s that love comes second to obedience. The lord is everything. The notion was engraved in your brain by the ripe age of six when you began first grade. 

And the truth is, you used to believe it. Or at least you always tried your best to believe: prayed the way you were taught, on your knees with a soft voice and clean hands. God never seemed to answer. Or maybe he did, and it sounded too much like your father’s voice to feel like genuine love. 

He didn’t feel like love, but more like a nagging weight hanging on your shoulders.

The town’s sweetheart, preacher’s daughter, and God’s little lamb. You wore white, especially on Easter, sat with folded hands and the softest smile the lord would ever see. Said grace, never missed Sunday school. A good girl. 

But you hoped, maybe, just maybe, the communion wine would drown you one day. 

Eighteen. You packed up and left for college, begging to leave this god awful town behind for at least a couple of years. Not quite sure where you’d end up, but hoping it was far, far away. With less dust, a louder city, maybe, loud enough to drown out the thoughts trumpeting in your head and alerting you that you weren’t a true baptist. You didn’t try hard enough to believe. You simply couldn’t be saved.

You stopped attending church. Stopped thinking about heaven. Even stopped calling your father every weekend–now a distant memory you tried with the best of your ability to push back and replace with the college kid lifestyle. The silence that followed didn’t even feel like guilt, but relief. A break from that damned church being forced onto you every day when you woke up. 

Hymns traded for headphones, soon picking up cigarettes not only to feel grown. The people there didn’t know you by your last name. Hell, they didn’t even know your last name: it didn’t matter in college. There, you weren’t just the preacher’s daughter.

Sure, you packed your bible, told yourself you’d put it to good use. But by the time you were exposed to the new world you’d never gotten close to experiencing, it was quickly forgotten in the drawer next to the bed in your dorm. 

The cover reading The Holy Bible soon was picking up dust and ended up stampeded by a variety of other items that certainly would be regarded as sinful on the sacred pages. Things that would make your daddy sick at the sight of. Cheap lace panties only to be worn under dresses, broken lipsticks and a pack of condoms–yet to be opened. 

The first time you kissed a stranger, the guilt finally got to you. Nipped at you, gave you true pain and fear you couldn’t seem to recognize. You let him take you home from a party, he didn’t ask your name, and you didn’t offer. 

Hand slipping beneath your shirt, all you could think of was the old Sunday school books you’d color in, your father and the other children sitting next to you. Soft pastel crayons and the sad-eyed saints on the pages. 

This boy was different. Your last name didn’t matter, he didn’t know you used to help with prayer circles, you’d lead choir at Christmas time, or that the first time you’d been touched by a man that wasn’t your family was when he was anointed you with oil on your forehead and swore he heard the voice of God when he laid his hands on you. 

He kissed you like you were a body, not your father’s name. And you just let him.

You didn’t cry after. You felt like it, but you didn’t. You laid on your bed in the dark, fingers splayed out over your stomach as you waited for something to feel inside of you. Something to split, to help you understand the gap between heaven and skin. Nothing.

It might seem reassuring, maybe something to give you a sign that you were really as pure as you were meant to be, growing up in such a sacred household. But no, it was worse. Feeling nothing meant that nobody was watching, not even Him. 

That was the night you entirely stopped praying. 

The only thing remaining was the cross hung around your neck at all times, more as a reminder of the girl you used to be, the girl who your parents tried to raise. Of the girl who believed love came second and was earned through suffering. Who didn’t know that wanting could also be holy. Who was more confused and guilty than anything. 

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The call came on a Monday on your walk home from your first class, and upon seeing it was your father, you let it go to voicemail. 

His voice always shared the same sound as the town: hollow, sun-bleached, left out too long in the heat to shrivel up and go to dust. You expected the usual, asking meaningless questions about school and reminding you about the church, giving you information about the town you’d simply rather not listen to.

Not today, though. His voice was slightly shriveled, softer than you were used to hearing over the phone. He didn’t cry, your daddy was never one for crying. Just said the words before ending the voicemail.

“Hey, sweet girl. I know I already called you yesterday. You didn’t pick up.” 

It would make you feel less guilty if he sounded upset about it, but the blank tone in his voice whenever he reminded you of your absence always seemed to hit you in the heart like a truck. He continues.

“Uh, it’s your Uncle John. He’s gone.” 

The two sentences were split by an awkward cough, a correction of his voice. Silence for a moment.

“Funeral’s Saturday, your room’s still here and put together if you wanna come. I didn’t know if you’d want to.” 

Your uncle was the first man to treat you like you weren’t just a creation for God, he’d hug you without quoting scripture and wouldn’t always be preaching at you. Fuck. A genuinely good man in a pitiful town that you have to call home. And you can’t name many men like that.

As terrible as it’d make you feel, you almost didn’t go. Going means seeing all the figures that you’ve spent nights crying about in your college dorm, everything from your childhood that tortured your later years coming back as if it's nothing.

But not going was blatant disrespect to your late uncle, one of the only men in the town you actually had some respect left for. So, you grabbed a suitcase and tossed in the necessities: toiletries, a few modest outfits for your seemingly brief return to Texas, a funeral dress. 

Preparing for the airport, you had the nagging feeling you were forgetting something. You forced yourself to recheck your bag at least three times, thinking it’d be a basic item–deodorant, toothpaste, socks? Everything was there.

The feeling lingered but you brushed it off for a bit, throwing your shoes on and tying them the way your daddy taught you. Bunny ears. One loop through the other, pulled into a tight knot.

You opened the damned nightstand drawer, the one that carried all forms of guilt, and the feeling finally dropped at the sight of your old bible hidden under a couple of old napkins and a bottle of Zoloft. Even though you were in a rush to get out to the airport, you took the time to finally sit down and look at it, hoping it’d take a bit of the weight off of your chest before seeing your father and the church again.

The surface was–obviously–incredibly dusty, but it looked the same. It was the same old copy you’d been given after your baptism, at such a young age. You were a daisy fresh girl then, with no guilt or sense of doom following you around.

The thought had you sitting for a moment. Fingers tracing down the bonded leather that’s creased over the years, over the lettering on the cover that you used to swear by. It was a horrible feeling and genuinely had your heart hurting for the first time in months, the first time since the day after your first kiss.

And for once, you swore you might’ve felt Him looking down on you.

But, opening it would be too much. Seeing the little underlines from your favorite pen as a child and notes written in the margins during Sunday School would make your heart heavier. Flying already makes you anxious, and the weight of reading through your bible right now wouldn’t ever help with that. Not anymore. 

The flight was rough. The drive from the airport to your childhood town was worse.

Smelling all the old scents–rust from fences, stale cigarette smoke everywhere in the air–it lingered as a constant reminder of your childhood in the church. The old wooden pews and the leather of hymnals, stretched fabric of you and your cousin’s best Sunday dresses. 

You passed by the baptismal river, the church-run thrift store run by your old elementary school teacher that’s full of Bibles and nearly broken toys. The Sunday school, farmhouses with broken shingles on roofs and chickens out back. The funeral home you’d be attending tomorrow, your old highschool, trailers with Virgin Mary statues in the front. 

The buildings sit still, watching you and judging like all the women in town do. Paint peeling in strips, the church bell groaning uncomfortably. The memories aren’t pleasant, your spine stiffening the second you pull into the old gravel driveway of your childhood home. Haunting, not comfortable, pressing down on you like guilt. 

From the outside, the house appears innocent, neat. White clapboards scrubbed over time by the sun, and the old porch that wraps around the front. You used to sit out there with your daddy and uncle on Sunday afternoons. 

Flag out front and fresh roses delivered on the steps, but with thirsty and brittle grass. Windows that catch light in a way that unsettles you–just so you can’t see what goes on inside. 

The door creaks like you remember, the floor following suit. And almost enough to scare you, your father was waiting in the kitchen for your arrival. He didn’t feel the same, though, more like a stranger. Unknowable, unrecognizable, like a celebrity in your own home. 

He greeted you like one, too. Of course, he tried his best, but the awkwardness spilled over and the air was tense–it’s been two years since you’d seen him, and you always seem to ignore his calls now. The only thing on you that reminded him of the little girl he once knew was the cross dangling around your neck. 

Your clothes were different. Your scent, your hair, the lipstick you’d chosen, everything. Not so much the town’s little angel, not coming off as God’s sweet creation, but just a girl. One he doesn’t recognize. 

“Hi, Angel.” 

His voice was softer, even more so than it sounded on the phone. Clothes more casual than the robes and vestments he’d have on on Sundays back then–a simple flannel and jeans. Fitting more in with the other men in town. A few in particular came into your mind. 

Your arms met his, and you were soon wrapped up in a hug that brought back feelings you hadn’t felt in a while. Maybe the lord. Maybe simple love. Maybe being home, feeling childhood. You don’t really know.

“Hi, daddy.” 

You mumbled, giving him a weak smile and pressing a soft kiss to his now withered and wrinkled cheek. Your hand came up to hold the cheek you’d kissed, shaking your head.

“Room’s clean.” Was all you got in response. He didn’t ask how you’d been this time, didn’t pay any mind to the way your dress now fit above your knee. He couldn’t pick up on the cigarette lighter in your bag. Nothing. Like you’re a stranger in another pew.

And somehow, it hurt more than the other times you’d heard from him and he did nag you about these things. You almost wanted him to notice something, to pick on you. It’d at least make you feel more at home.

There was a strange and hollow mercy in the silence he offered you–a grace you seemingly hadn’t earned again. Your stomach twisted, the same way going to church as a teenager would make you feel, back when forgiveness felt like a failed test. 

You feared his judgement in the past. He’d certainly say something about the length of your dress or your makeup. But now, you’re fearful of his indifference. Guilty. If he wasn’t picking you apart, was he noticing anything? Were you worth noticing? Is He noticing? The absence of shame this time isn’t as peaceful as it once seemed. 

It was like the funeral was all you’d come for. And yes, it was the only reason you came, but a part of you wanted your father to want you there for more of it. You don’t know if you even want that, but the little baptist girl inside of you is aching. 

You nod once and let go of him, shaking your hand off and grabbing your bag–making sure nothing sinful were to fall out. How he’d react if he saw cigarettes in your bag, you didn’t know, and you surely would never want to find out. You don’t see him until the next morning.

The walk to your bedroom brought you a little more peace. The creaks in the floorboards remembered you better than your own father seemed to. The Bible verses framed on the wall, the old air lingering that brought you back years. And for the first time in months, a scent hit you that reminded you of someone else in town.

Someone like your uncle–a man who never reached or treated you as some darling of God. Treated you like a human girl, not just under your father’s name. The first man to catch your eye the next day at your uncle’s service.

He stood towards the back of the church, one hand resting in the pocket of his worn button-down suit jacket and the other rubbing his thigh. He’d never usually dress like this, you know that. But for the sake of the funeral of a good man, he swapped his usual rugged look for a more respectful outfit. 

You were used to heavy boots that complimented the look of his broad shoulders. Hands that look like they’ve done years of work–carpentry. Like he works with them, like he smells like Marlboro Reds. A sharp face, both softened and withered by the sun over time. Deep lines carved into his brow, as well as a scar on his right temple. 

The graying in his beard would dull most men, and it’s gotten more grey than since the last time you’d seen him. But on him, it made him look more real. Like he’s aging on purpose. Dark and steady eyes, not exactly cold, but highly watchful. Like he’s untrusting, not letting a certain something out. 

When you stepped inside, his gaze finally moved from the ground up. Just for a second. At you. Like you’re the only one to draw his precious attention.

And it hit you like fucking thunder. Joel Miller was looking at you. You’ve changed since he’s seen you, grown up. Not a teenager anymore, but a woman. In a black dress, a grown body.

His gaze didn’t display any lust, not yet. But recognition, curiosity, maybe. Something old, low, and almost aching. Aching like his back now–you’re not the only one who’s grown older. He was in his mid thirties when your mother and father had you, and he’s known you ever since. Held you as a baby. Was there for your baptism, for the performances you put on as a child at church every Christmas. 

He’s fifty-six now and feeling as if your name on his tongue would still taste and feel like that little girl he used to know, the one you used to be. But his eyes showed that you weren’t her. He didn’t recognize you.

Not in the same way your father didn’t recognize you, no. In his own way. Your father saw through you, like a verse no longer needed. No comments or even a flicker of recognition in his eyes that matched yours, just polite distance and a kindness reserved for strangers–maybe even sinners not deserving of saving. Like you seemed too far gone to him. 

But Joel. His gaze lingered, not sliding over you. Not long enough to be too obvious or come off as creepy, just enough to feel. He paused, shifted. Trying to place you, not from memory but from instinct. 

To Joel, you’re not returning to town. Other women and neighbors whispered and stared when they saw you enter the church after a couple of years of absence. Judged. Joel, on the other hand, saw it as an entrance. As someone appearing, not returning as the same little girl seen only as her father’s daughter. 

You felt doubly unseen. By the man who helped conceive you, raise you. And by a man in town who is now even more of a stranger. Who you haven’t thought of in months, but now is rushing back. It’s dangerous, and now’s the time you definitely feel like God is choosing to watch–in this church after years of not attending, surrounded by people you used to consider family. 

You looked away first, reaching up to your neck to toy with the little cross displayed over your pretty collarbones. The chain you often subtly tug at to try and hang on to the remnants of religion still lingering in that head of yours. 

Your father used to tell you that God moves in mysterious ways, but you’d never expect Him to look like a hardened man who smelled like whiskey and sin. Now you felt like you had something to repent for.