#Haunted School: The Curse of the Word Spirit | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ririglow · 1 year

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Madly | Joe Burrow

pairings: loner! joe burrow x popular reader

word count: 11.7k

genre: college au!

warnings: long hair Joe (don't know if that's considered a warning or not but oh well!) reader is a bit of an airhead, cursing, drinking, awkward Joe (he gets no hoes in this), shy Joe (bc why not), the reader is toxic and unlikable in some instances, heavy make-out session, slight dry humping, there's no actual smut in this

synopsis: the popular loner gets dared to play the seven minutes in heaven at a party in a haunted house and you his crush volunteer as a tribute to participate.

a/n: shitty ass description but you get the picture! also yes that is joe with long hair someone on Twitter made that edit and since then my brain has been racking with ideas of long hair Joe. It"s giving "because tonight will be the night that I will fall for yew!!"

It was another Saturday night and you were looking forward to the party you were attending. You've always enjoyed parties, especially when they're hosted by someone you know. The idea of letting loose and having a good time is something you can't resist. You believe that having fun and being a little carefree is an essential part of life, especially when you're in college. You're not afraid to admit it, and you don't care what people think about your party-girl lifestyle.

However, tonight was different. You were feeling uneasy about the party's location, and it was making you second-guess your decision to go.

"Who had the bright idea to throw a Halloween party in a real haunted house?" Cato, your friend, expressed her apprehension as she adjusted her bunny ears. You can't blame her; this was a disaster waiting to happen. Dumb college students decide to rave in a house where there have been numerous reports of "dark spirits" from past murders. As much as you'd prefer not to be the prophet of doom, the situation sounds like something out of a cliche horror film.

It didn't help that the location is in vast flat farmland stretching hundreds of miles with the only sign of life you'd encountered on your journey being countryside animals. What in the world was Sam thinking? What were you thinking?

"That'll be your "bright" boy toy, Sam Hubbard." You respond with a compressed smile as you open the car door and step out. The cold October air hits you harshly, your pink leotard and sparkles fishnet tights were completely useless.

Your gaze immediately latches on the creepy and dilapidated house that wasn't too far off in the distance. The old Victorian-style home that has witnessed the best of days is now weathered and shadowy. The only thing stopping it from looking utterly ghastly was the seasonal decorations on the outside and the loud music blasting inside. Even though the house is not exactly in its prime you couldn't help but admire the elaborate woodwork and design.

"What?!" You felt a hefty smack land on your arm. "I had no idea this was Sam's party! Oh my God!"

"I know right?! Isn't it great?!" You chirped with a big smile. "You guys can finally spend some time with each other. "

Cato rolls her eyes walking alongside you as you make your way toward the house saying, "No thanks I'd like to maintain my dignity."

For a long time, she has struggled with her crush on Sam. Her philosophy is that if she avoids him as much as possible, those feelings will fade. Furthermore, her integrity will not be compromised simply because she has a huge crush on one of the school's wildest and most cocky athletes.

"Believe it or not, he's got a crush on you just as much as you do on him." You mentioned.

Cato rolls her eyes and continues to walk, saying, "That's not a crush; that's pure lust. Which isn't much of a shocker given how many girls he's fucked with around campus."

Your head shook in denial. "Sam might have a negative IQ and spend most of his life doing stupid crap like this," you gesture toward the house. "But take it from someone who hangs around him a lot; he's not like that."

"As the saying goes, seeing is believing, and from what I have gathered, he likes to stick his dick into anything that has a hole in it.".

"Oh really? or are you listening to those friends of yours again whose only action is tongue-kissing a tree?"

You and Cato are from different social circles. You prefer to party instead of attending study programs on the weekend, while Cato is a high-achieving scholar who is driven by the desire to learn. She always puts her education first and is the type of student who would prepare for a pop quiz as if it were an SAT. Needless to say, your ambitions and success are on opposite ends of the spectrum.

"Hey! not too much on Peggy," She scowls defensively. " The bottom line is I know he's only looking for someone to keep his bed warm."

You didn't bother responding because you knew there was no point in persuading her that her perception of him was wrong. Instead, you proceed to the front door of the house. As you both approach, you can smell the musty odor of the place, which is likely to be older than your grandparents.

Since the music was so loud, you grabbed the rusty door handle and pulled it open without knocking. Upon entering the inside wasn't what anyone would expect based on the outside image. The decoration and color scheme looked impressive. Fake cobwebs and caution tape were draped around the foyer, and a number of orange and black balloons were scattered on the floor. There were fake spiders on the walls, but you weren't sure if they were real or not. It wouldn't be surprising if they pertain to the house, you're in. Your eyes roamed over everyone in either the most generic costume to the most ridiculous, a cluster of people stood in corners making out dancing, drinking, or just talking. The energy felt very laidback, you were surprised many people even showed up given the rumors of the house.

A medium-sized table next to the entrance with an "entry fee" sign caught your eye. Rather than a bowl of cash, it had shot glasses holding liquid-filled syringes.

"This is clever," You said in awe as you grabbed two glasses handing one over to Cato.

"Oh no, one of us has to be the sober one here tonight." She said while shaking her head.

"C'mon Cat, it's only one shot and it comes with a chaser," You told her before shooting the vodka-filled syringe directly into your mouth and then chasing it down with a glass of soda.

She sighs knowing you would scowl at her for being such a killjoy. "This will be my first and only drink for tonight"

"Fine by me," You shrug taking another shot." Just as long you're not going to be uptight as a nun in a bar, all night we should be good."

"Remind me why we're friends again?" She says reluctantly, before quickly consuming the vodka.

"We help each other out." You patted her shoulder. "Without me, you would be doing a four-thousand-piece globe puzzle right now bored out of your mind, and I would be here surrounded by idiots alone."

"You'll have Sam," She points out.

"He's one of the idiots I was referring to."

"Takes one to know one." Cato teased, and in return, you playfully shoved her shoulder.

You walk further into the house. Off the main hallway, to the right, is the front parlor. The white sheet-covered furniture in this room is surrounded by a few people who sit idly. You greeted familiar faces passing by, not bothering to engage in full conversation. While Cato is after you, unable to leave your side, which is understandable, you doubt any of her other friends were attending this party. Not like any of them would be able to make it past the front door.

You beckon Cato to follow as you weave through the crowd. You passed a couple dressed up as Fred and Daphne from Scooby Doo making out on the couch with the guy's hand buried underneath the girl's skirt, in front of everyone with zero shame.

Damn. You thought as they were quite literally about to rip each other's clothes off.

"I need to get laid," You said sighing at the sight feeling a bit jealous you have no one to do that with.

"They were so rough with each other," Cato said with a grimace.

"What's wrong with that?" You said without a care in the world. Much like your personalities, your interpretations of sex are wildly different. You remember when she'd gossiped about the times she hooked up with a guy from her debate club, vanilla wouldn't be the word to describe the sex she experienced. It was dull as dishwater, you fell asleep on the phone as she ranted about how sweet he stayed in missionary for the whole hour.

Still to this day, you don't know how she can proudly profess that to someone, even to you. However, as her best friend, you still were pleased that her sex life was no longer non-existent even congratulated her on her achievement of screwing one of the student councils.

You made it to the crowded kitchen and immediately the strong scent of alcohol filled your nostrils, almost clouding your brain. To no surprise, multiple beer kegs are sitting on the counter, floor, and table. One of which is currently being guzzled by the host of the party, while doing a keg stand. Two people assist in holding both of his legs upright as the crowd gathers around shouting "Chug! Chug! Chug!"

"Oh my god, is that Sam?!" Cato exclaims beside you with widen eyes as she takes in her crush doing what he does best, stupid shit.

"Yup." You said simply, popping the "p". Crossing your arms you observe the scene in front of you, wondering how many more seconds he has until he pukes up his last few remaining brain cells.

It didn't take long for his balance to become uncoordinated and soon his body toppled forward falling off the table on the empty cans of beer and balloons that were scattered on the floor. The room quieted down as everyone including yourself and Cato included looked down at Sam, who lay flat on his back staring up at the ceiling.

"Is he okay?! oh my god, we need to help him." Cato motions to step forward, however, your arm shot out to stop her.

"Wait for it..."

You watch Sam slowly gets up before shouting. "That was fucking awesome! Hell yeah!" The crowd was brought back to life as they cheered along with him.

"He can't be serious?" She expressed her surprise.

The crowd cheered as Sam, dressed in a cowboy outfit, showed off his biceps in triumph. "Like a heart attack," you responded simply as he fires himself up, you swear that man belongs in wrestling instead of football. Cato seems unable to take her eyes off Sam, specifically his bare chest, partially covered by a leather vest that looks small in comparison to his enormous stature. With the red bandana tied around his neck and the tight wrangler cowboy-cut jeans, you would've thought he was planning a strip tease show.

"Hey, pick your jaw off the floor he's coming over here." You nudged her softly, watching Sam's eyes brighten extra once he spotted you leaning against the wall before making his way in your direction.

Sam's large frame pushed through the crowd as steps in front of you, his eyes shifting over to the right side of you towards Cato. It was a brief look but you could detect the admiration behind it, and Cato's fake unbothered demeanor as she looks everywhere but at Sam. You could practically hear her internal screaming that was going off inside her head. It's almost sickening how neither party wouldn't dare to be the first person to make a move.

"Y/N! I see you made it." As Sam embraces you, he opens his arms in greeting. As your cheek touches his sweaty chest, a heavy aroma of beer fills your nostrils, making you physically cringe.

"Can't see how I would miss this." You said wiping your cheek with a grimace as you pull away.

"Well, the last time I heard from you it sounded like you wanted to." He said with a chuckle. Your eyebrows furrowed not knowing what he meant. Sam seems to notice and continues saying." You texted me and said Sam, what makes you think I want to party at the exorcist's house?"

You let out a sound of realization, remembering the text you had sent him after he insist you partake in his foolery. To which you flat out dismissed, even though you consider Sam to be one of your closest friends, and find a majority of his chaotic antics amusing there were some things you have boundaries too, and one of those things is being inside a house where multiple murders happened. Not exactly a place you want to go for "fun". But nonetheless, you were here.

"Hey, you made it seem like you were eager to go to this party," Cato spoke up, looking at you confused.

"I was..." You trailed off not knowing what to say, distinctively remembering inquiring to Cato about the party, instead of going to a board game cafe she proposed to you with her friends. "Sam!" You exclaim, changing the subject. "I must say you've outdone yourself with this one."

"Pretty sick right? The blood was hard to scrub off when we were decorating the place but I'd say it turned out pretty good." He nodded to himself looking around.

You and Cato shared a look before saying. "Wait, what?"

He faced you two and flashed a grin. "I'm only kidding."

Before anyone could say anything else a voice calls out. "Yo, Sam!"

It was Sam's best friend Nick. The two of them were strikingly similar in many ways, and sometimes they shared the same uncanny ability to think and act irrationally. However, Nick was not your biggest fan for whatever reason you don't know. Okay, that's not true you do know the reason, but managed to put it past you.

"What's up?" Sam said acknowledging him.

"Me and the boys playing beer pong out back, you trying to shoot?" He asked after briefly greeting Cato and ultimately ignoring you. Ah. No surprise there. Though you weren't fazed in the slightest.

"Hell yeah! are any of you willing to put some money down ?" Sam grinned.

"Logan might not since he blew his last five hundred." His daddy's five hundred, Logan Wilson has never worked a day in his life and only fiend off his rich parents. Just like you. But, unlike Logan, you spend your money on things that are worthy, like shoes, clothes, hair, and makeup…

Not a stupid game that consist throwing plastic balls into cups of beer.

You notice Nick purposely has his back to you and was facing Cato and Sam. Although you didn't care, you don't like being ignored, especially when you're so used to there being a lot of attention on you most of the time.

"It's not nice to ignore someone, Nick." You speak up placing a hand on your chest as if you were hurt by his lack of attention. Hell would have to freeze over for you to find yourself caring about the feelings of someone who ate a worm just because he saw on the internet of it tasted like chicken.

"Not ignoring, just not caring for your existence." He says while cutting his eye over to you.

"And why is that?" You ask with a confused look on your face.

He gritted his teeth as he said, "Are you seriously going to pretend like what you did to Tyler last month didn't happen?"

Throwing up your hands in desperation, you said to Nick, "Exactly a month ago! All wrongs need to be forgiven and forgotten. So tell your brother to stop being dramatic and unblock me so we can work things out. "

"You know, I am so glad you guys are through. That way he can find someone who has more class and is less bitchy." He scoffs.

"Just like your dad did to your mom last year I assume right?"

"You're such a bitch…" He said starting to get in your personal space, however, Sam stepped in between you two.

Your chuckle was uninhibited, despite him being twice as large as you. A hum escaped your lips as you glanced down at your medium-sized pink French tips, reminding yourself to schedule an appointment with your nail technician.

"Hey man, cool it, just go ahead. I'll be out there in a minute." Sam assured giving him a serious look.

Nick continues to glare at you as he walked away while you give him a mocking wave goodbye.

"Cat, I know what you're going to say." You huffed out practically feeling her disapproval.

"Good so you know that was so low of you to do?" She hissed.

"I didn't even say anything that was oh-so bad."

"You were totally out of pocket saying that about Tyler and on top of that you made fun of their parent's divorce!"

"He called me classless and bitchy." You defended. "Sam help me out here?"

He scratches his head looking uneasy. "I don't agree with what he said but you did cheat on his brother."

"Would you guys stop saying that? I didn't fully cheat!" You huffed crossing your arms. "It was more of a half-cheat..."

A month ago you made a big mistake. To make a long story short, you were at your boyfriend Tyler's frat party and got pissed on alcohol, then made out with a guy. Even worse it was the night of his birthday when he discovered you and the random guy kissing. In fairness, you thought he was Tyler since they seemed to favor each other so much. Not to mention that you were drunk. When you're drunk, you sometimes do really stupid shit under the influence.

"Also, he's not officially my ex I'm working on getting him back by the way." You said. Even though he hasn't replied to any of your texts and blocked you on social media, you still believe that he will come to realize what you did wasn't entirely bad and forgive you. Your touch starvation was exacerbated by his absence.

"Shouldn't you...give him space?" Sam spoke hesitantly.

You gave him a stare.

"Space? I've given him a month to forgive me!"

"That is not how forgiveness works." Cato shakes her head. " And I agree with Sam, maybe you should just let him breathe."

You didn't miss the way Sam looked at her as if she knew the answers to all the world's unanswered questions. God that guy is so whipped.

"You act as if I show up at his home with binoculars and watch him."

"No but you did make a fake account on Instagram to-" Sam started to say

"Sam!" You cut him off with a glare.

He closes his mouth and threw his hands up in defense.

"Do you not see what you did was wrong?" Cato asked with curiosity.

"Of course, I think that it's wrong. I even sent him flowers and chocolates but I do think it's a little bit dramatic to break up over a kiss ." You shrugged. It wasn't like you fully had sex with the guy, that's why you call it a half–cheat you were thankfully pulled apart by Tyler before it go into a full-on cheat. Your logic to others may hold some absurdity but to you, it made perfect sense.

"Besides this isn't our first time having a break." You added.

"Yeah but that break was due to the fact you thought he was cheating on you with his sister!"

"I didn't know who she was! It's not my fault he hadn't taken me to meet his family."

"Because they don't like you." Sam chimes in.

"Ouch." You say, even though you know it was true. His mom down to the damn family dog didn't like you. Naturally, you never let that bother you. His family wasn't the only people you've come across that didn't take a liking to you and most certainly wouldn't be the last. Would it be nice if you could actually get along with his family? Sure but It's also nice to just have a good dick in your life and someone to talk to, that was all you needed anyway. You're dating him not his family.

"Anyways that's enough talk about my love life." You didn't feel like getting ridiculed about your relationship, especially by two people who are too cowardly to be in one.

The loud mellow beats from a song traveled throughout the house. With the bass shaking the windowpanes threatening to burst at any given moment, though it wouldn't surprise you considering how old this house is. Amid the sounds of people laughing, yelling over the music, drunken whooping, doors opening and closing, and the occasional pop of a balloon. You and Cato were throwing down in a swarm of sweaty drunks. Red solo cups in both you and Cato's hands you didn't know how long you were dancing or where the hell Sam drifted off to, probably had to gather himself once he'd seen Cato taking off her jacket revealing her black leotard unveiling her slim figure. The costume is completely out of her comfort zone thanks to you who insists you both go as the cliché sexy bunny girls.

You didn't know how long you were dancing, but the air felt hot and tight, the fog machine certainly didn't help either mixed with the sweaty odor of dancing bodies. Fresh air is definitely needed. You took a sip from your cup and swayed to the beat of the song, while your dancing had relaxed Cato was full-on letting her wild-side show. The responsible and shy girl who never parties, now is having the time of her life shaking away the modesty she had prior. By the time she hit the dance floor, she was already on her second? or fourth cup. You didn't know, regardless she completely went against her statement about only having one drink. Nevertheless, you were relieved her Alessia Cara syndrome wasn't set in motion and that she was finally letting herself have fun and not hiding somewhere in the corner playing chess on her phone.

Tilting your head back you quickly drink the last bit of alcohol. Your glossy eyes drifted around the room hoping to find a hot guy to fill your empty void and take home. No one. Absolutely no one caught your eye. Looks like it'll be yet another lonely night as you wait for Cameron to take you back. With a deep sigh, you turn your attention back to Cato who looked as if fresh air was something she needs, tiny beads of sweat trailing down her temple and her hair slightly frizzed. You knew you probably didn't look any better, if not worse. As much as you love parties they get exhausting quickly.

"I'm sweating my tits off let's head out in the back." You shouted over the loud music.

Whether Cato heard you or not she still nods her head. Slightly uncoordinated and a little bit tipsy you proceeded to walk in the direction of the back of the house, ignoring the way your body brushed up against multiple sweaty bodies and obvious lustful stares from onlookers. It would be a whole different story if they were at least attractive. You reach the rear entrance which is located by the kitchen the glass knew it the frigid air hits your warm bare arms and legs. The wind felt brisk and smelt heavily of weed.

"Whew! I thought I was gonna die for a second." Cato pants as she chugs a bottle of water you didn't notice she took.

"No kidding." You said shaking your head as you took in the scenery in front of you.

Unlike inside, the outside wasn't decorated and didn't have that many people standing around. Outside furniture was occupied by multiple people. Looking around you notice there are two main areas on the patio everyone is hanging around one by the firepit which resembles a snooze fest you barely took a glance, the other area, however, grabbed your attention it's the area Sam is at so, of course, it would be the loud, full of life and obnoxious. Multiple people stood around the pong table rotating the small burning herb to each other as Nick and Sam's team go back in forth.

"Joe's here!?" Cato says right before you were about to make your way over to Sam's side.

"What?" You asked not knowing who she was referring to, Joes are few and far between in your life, such as your uncle, a creepy gas station clerk to whom you gave a fake number, and the quiet boy from second grade who sat next to you during class.

You didn't recognize this Joe though.

Cato's finger points in the opposite direction of a guy with neck-length hair sitting down on the mini sofa looking very disinterested and ready to go home. He took more interest in fiddling with his fingers than anything. The longer you stared at the more you realize how cute he is.

She turns her head and squints her eyes at you. "Joe from my study group, the one I told you that'll help you with your Physics? You were to meet him at the library last week."

Ohhh, right. That Joe. Although she assigned him to you as a tutor, you've never actually met him, only hearing about his extreme isolated ways and brilliance in science from Cato.

"Please me tell you went and didn't bail on him?" She expressed that when she noticed the look on your face.

"What? Pfft, no I would never!" You exclaim waving her off.

"Well, let's go say hi. He looks miserable. I'm sure he'd like to see some familiar faces." Cato said.

You scanned the area and noticed he was the only one sitting there in his little world. Only an empty bottle of Kirkland purified water sat on his lap and kept him company.

Oh no...

Without giving you a chance to protest and give her a bullshit excuse she drags you along in the direction of Joe. Shit, shit you deadpan because you did bail on the study date she arranged for you. To you, the proposition of going shopping seems way more fun than sitting in a library bored out of your mind while some know-it-all explains the properties of matter and energy. It was a pain in the ass in high school and even more so in college.

When you both approach you have a chance to get a really good look at him and wow is he extremely attractive? That was the only word you could think of to describe him. His dark blonde hair is long and creates a messy curtain bang that compliments his features well. Pink lips with a defined jawline you were sure models only dream of having. He looked unreal, too good to be true. This man is gorgeous and you can tell even though he's sitting that he's tall and has a nice body underneath the semi-baggy outfit.

You were not the type to feel timid, but when his enchanting blue eyes looked up at the two of you. It took everything in your power to not shy away.

"Never in a million years did I think I would see Joe Burrow at a party, let alone a Halloween one," Cato said, shocked while leaning down to give him a brief hug as you stood behind her side awkwardly.

You secretly prayed for him not to acknowledge you, the last thing you want is him bringing up your "study date".

Cato will kill you if she finds out you didn't make it. Ever since you barely graduated high school with her, she's made it her duty to be your personal academic advisor to help you throughout college. So far it has been a rough couple of months for you in terms of grades and you've concluded that education is about to come to an end for you.

Joe forces out a laugh like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. "I could say the same to you. Ezekiel dragged me here."

"Ah I see, y/n did the same to me." Cato said turning his attention to you.

As soon as he made eye contact with you, he began to peer up at you. With a sense of wonder and concern?

Taking you by surprise, he asks, "How is your grandmother?"

What?

You furrowed your eyebrows looking confused before you responded. "Um?"

His cheeks flush a deeper red and his eyes downcast to his fingers which didn't stop fiddling in his lap. Jesus his hands were huge, and veiny. Although it was difficult, you were able to look away and focused what came out his mouth next.

"Well, apparently, you texted me last week letting me know you couldn't make it to the study date we had due to your grandma being ill. That's my bad if I pried too much, I was just concerned. You don't have to answer, that was stupid of me to ask." He begins to ramble and even stutter at one point.

There is a lot of opening and closing of your mouth while you are unable to find any words to say. It wasn't long before Cato's eyes were drawn over to you, and a sharp, glaring gaze immediately identified the problem.

You grimaced as you fiddle with the pink pearl necklace an item that was bought on your shopping spree. "Oh! Um, she's fine, alive... and well." You said with a smile.

Your memory of telling that lie is hazy at best.

As far as you know, your grandmother is in great health and is not even in the same country as you. Instead, she is enjoying retirement with her husband probably relaxing on the beach in Rio de Janeiro, certainly not cooped up in her house with severe hay fever.

You could feel Cato's heated stare and you didn't dare look at her instead you pretend to take an interest in the mini firepit as if it were the most interesting thing in the world right now.

"That's—uh good to hear." He stammers out quietly. His eyes were still trained on his fingers, you notice his right leg started to bounce up and down rapidly.

You feel a strange sensation creeping up on you like a dark cloud hovering over your head. You can't quite put your finger on it, but it feels like a mix of uneasiness and discomfort. It's been a while since you've felt this way, and you're not sure how to deal with it. You try to ignore it, but the feeling only grows stronger, until it's almost suffocating. You realize that what you're feeling is guilt and shame, two emotions that you thought you had left behind a long time ago. You've always considered yourself to be someone who lives life without regrets or faults, but now you can't deny the fact that you've done something that you're not proud of. The weight of your actions is heavy on your chest, and you don't know how to make it go away. You take a deep breath and try to face the guilt head-on, knowing that the only way to move forward is to acknowledge your mistakes and learn from them.

Right off the bat, you knew Joe lacked a lot of social skills and was not the type to be outspoken which is why he didn't question you further. He didn't seem like the kind of guy to be presumptuous in any way. And that made you feel even worse. You met this man less than two minutes and he's already waking up emotions within you.

Clearing your throat you straightened your posture as if you weren't fazed in the slightest. Though you felt like the worst person on the planet. "Well, Jeff—"

You were cut off by Cato swatting your arm. Looking at her in utter confusion as to what did you say wrong. She hissed out, "It's Joe"

Instead of giving you an offended look, he chewed the inside of his lip looking everywhere but at you. He didn't even bother correcting you. Judging by his demeanor you can tell he's feeling extremely awkward.

"Joe, do you mind if I take a seat right here?" You gave him another strained smile, pointing to the small space next to him.

He nods his head and watches you plop down with a sigh of relief. Your heels have been slowly killing you for the past few minutes, and you were on the verge of taking them off at any moment. However, even if you were wearing stockings, you would be too afraid to let your feet touch the filthy ground, no matter how protected they were.

Because of Joe's large frame taking up most of the space and your side being pressed against his, you could feel his body tense as he awkwardly folded his arms in his lap in an attempt to avoid any contact, like that seems to be his goal. And maybe it is considering the fact you'd just acknowledged him by the wrong name and to top it off you failed to show up last week.

You're almost certain he doesn't like you very much at the moment.

Maybe you can change that...

Just as you were about to say something to Joe, Cato beats you to the punch. "So, how long have you been hanging out here?"

"Um—" Joe pauses to take a deep sigh, his mouth twists as he thinks over his answer. "For about ten minutes or so, it's more tolerable out here than in there."

"That's true." She nods in agreement. "Have you had anything to drink?" Cato speaks again with a smile, but you could still see the irritation behind it not aimed at Joe but toward you. And you knew what it stemmed from.

"Of Alcohol? No—"

"No? That is horrible! We'll fetch one for you." She rushes out of her seat, which was across from you and Joe, before you can react she grabs your forearm, yanking you from your seat as you sputter out in surprise and confusion.

"I'm good you don't have to—" Joe spoke up but Cato was already headed towards the door that leads back inside the house. You passed Sam who looks confused watching Cato drag you back into the house.

Within seconds of entering the kitchen, she pulls you to a corner where fewer people are gathered and stares at you with a glare.

"Ow, what was all that for ?" You whined rubbing your arm.

"You are such a liar! Where do you get off??" She exclaims. You open your mouth to answer but she put her hand up to stop you. "That was rhetorical."

"I'm guessing this is about the tutor date?" The question came out more as a statement than anything.

"You think!? I was under the impression you were going to put in some effort." She sighs deeply with a sense of disappointment in her eyes. You felt like you were standing in front of your mother instead of your best friend. "Is there any way you can justify, with truth for disregarding his time to help you?"

Actually yes, you would not be standing here looking hot as you are if it wasn't for the shopping spree you did. However, you had a feeling she wasn't going to like that answer so instead you gave her the answer she wants to hear.

"Would you calm down? I'll just reschedule."

You were planning to do that anyway since your Physics grade was declining rapidly. Your professor's angry emails keep reminding you.

Cato laughs half-heartedly. "I wish you luck with that, Joe keeps to himself and does not tutor anyone. I had to give up my LEGO creator space shuttle explorer for him to agree to tutor you, now that was for nothing."

Her LEGO what?

"I'm sure he'll take pity on my grandmother and give me another shot." You said with a sly smile.

"You think he actually bought that?"

You never cared enough to see if others believed your excuses in the past, so it was difficult to tell. However, you care now, especially since you feel extremely guilty about the entire situation.

"Dunno, if he did or didn't I'm still gonna ask him."

Cato looks at you for a few seconds before sighing. "Why not just find another tutor?"

"Because It's unlikely I'll find one who looks like that." You weren't going to sugarcoat the reason for wanting him to be your tutor, his looks play a major part. The shopping spree would have been a no-go if you had known how hot he looked before you canceled out on him.

"Jesus, you are something different." She snorts as she grabs a can of beer.

"I take that as a compliment" You smile brightly.

"Well, if he agrees promise you'll take it seriously this time?"

"Come hell or high water, I'll be there." You responded quickly, ready to go back outside and accompany Joe again.

If he could change one thing tonight it will be texting Ezekiel earlier out of boredom. Joe thought maybe they'll end up playing super smash bros or catching a few sports games on TV. Instead, he had unintentionally allowed his roommate to coax him into going to a party he had zero interest in. Joe lives and breathes to stay in his own space so the idea of being surrounded by sweaty bodies, booze, and a bunch of horny people looking for someone to spend their night with has never sparked his interest. As soon as he enters the doorway he automatically wanted to turn back and spend his night copped inside his apartment, that's how he spends most of his nights anyway: tucked away from the world while entertaining himself with reruns of Animal Planet.

Now he's surrounded by the aroma of sweat from different bodies and loud music that will surely have his ears ringing once he leaves this place. God he hates these types of parties, and to make matters worse it's on Halloween his least favorite holiday.

He felt like the odd man out standing in the dusty corner of the keeping room that is adjacent to the kitchen taking tiny sips of water because he didn't want to rush the drink fearing he'll get thirsty soon after, then he'll have to re-collect his strength to navigate through the rowdy crowd to get another. There are a lot of people and almost all of them are drunk off their asses including Ezekiel who is grinding sloppily between two girls with devil horns.

As out of touch as he is with the scene in front of him, he couldn't knock anyone for having fun. And is glad his roommate is enjoying himself for the most part. No matter how ridiculous Ezekiel looked in his fireman costume which was just an opportunity to show off his abs in hopes to attract the attention of girls. One of the many things Joe does know is that Ezekiel is a fuckboy through and through. He drinks, smoke, party, and fuck around with nearly every girl on campus it's enough to make Giacomo Casanova appear like a gallant virgin. It's no surprise he found his remedy within minutes of arriving, whereas Joe is still struggling. Not that he's trying anyway. He doubts he'll find anything enjoyable at this party.

Joe sighed as he surveyed the crowd for the millionth time. He looked for the usual drunkenness, obnoxious yelling, and horny dancing of college students. He sees people in all kinds of costumes. There were witches and ghosts, superheroes and villains, and even a few monsters. The music is loud and unbearable, and everyone seems to be having a good time. A part of him wonders sometimes if he is wasting his life by being alienated since he was not tempted by indulging in that lifestyle. Having been that way since he was in high school, he occasionally felt sorry for his parents for having to deal with his reclusive behavior, however, he soon realized there are worse things he could do or be. In his view, being introverted never hurt anyone.

That's when he saw her. Suddenly it seems like there is no end to the misery inflicted upon him tonight.

Across the room, dressed in a revealing cat costume that shows off her curves, is Brooke Earle his oh-so-loving ex-girlfriend whom he'd only dated for six months. She was surrounded by a group of guys, laughing and visibly flirting with them. Joe felt a pang of familiarity and distress. He remembered how she used to flirt with other guys when they were together, and how she would always make him feel like he wasn't good enough for her. He remembers how she would get mad over the smallest things, and how she would blame him for everything that went wrong with their relationship. The air suddenly felt thick and his stomach churned at the sight of her.

He'd broken up with her a few months ago but still felt like he was under a spell. He was afraid that if he ever saw her again he'd be drawn back into her toxic world. She looks beautiful with her long blonde curls and tight catsuit, but he knew her beauty was only skin-deep.

Joe felt a wave of anxiety wash over him. He didn't want to be in the same room as her, let alone give her an opportunity to talk to him. Without a second thought, he turn to make himself blend in with the crowd but it was useless considering he stuck out like a sore thumb since he was towering over nearly everyone in the room and is the only one not wearing a costume.

Then he heard her call his name.

"Wow I must be dreaming, I didn't know you were coming tonight!" Brooke says walking over to him with a smile. "You look nervous?"

Joe could feel his face turning red and his palms began to sweat as he looks down at the ground. He doesn't know what to say to her, they weren't even close to friends. He didn't want to be rude, but he also didn't want to engage with her either.

"I,uh, you look great I wasn't expecting you to be here." He mumbles. If he did he would've stayed put in his apartment.

She laughs a sound that's equivalent to nails on a chalkboard. "You weren't expecting me? I wasn't expecting you," she said. " Well, I'm glad I finally ran into you, we should catch up sometime."

That's the last thing he'd want. Even though they attended the same college, he had avoided her at all costs since their breakup. It was easy for him to do so because he rarely goes out anyway.

He felt like he was suffocating as he shook his head. "No, I don't think that's a good idea," he said. "You are not going to wield yourself in my life again."

She looked taken back as if that was the last thing she'd expect him to say. "What? Why not?" she asked.

He took a deep breath trying to find the right words to explain. "I just don't think you're healthy for me to be around," he said. " you're not someone I want to be my girlfriend let alone someone who I can catch up with."

Brooke looked stunned and a bit hurt. But he knew he had to be honest with her. No more walking on eggshells.

He didn't let her utter another word before making his way toward the patio door. Ezekiel gave him a questionable look, worried about his friend's abrupt exit. However, he reassured him with a simple shake of his head to let him know everything was fine even though it was not.

As soon as he stepped outside, he let out a huge sigh of relief. He was finally able to breathe in some fresh air and escape the toxic presence of his ex.

Joe felt a mix of emotions as he drags his feet to the other side of the patio and sat down on the surprisingly clean outside sofa, ignoring the loud whoops and cheering by the small crowd that gathered around the beer pong table. He tried to shake the feeling of seeing her again but she had a hold on him. One that is negative. It was the last thing he wanted to do to himself again.

Untwisting the cap on his water bottle and taking the last swig. His stomach still felt fluttered and on edge hoping she doesn't decide to follow him outside.

As he sat on the patio, the flickering flames of the small firepit cast an orange glow across his face. He began to stare into the fire, lost in thought as the unpleasant memories his ex he desperately tried to keep away began to flood his brain. All those troublesome arguments she'd purposely try to start just so she can have an excuse to walk out and cheat left a nasty taste in his mouth. He thought about all the hurtful things she had said to him by now he knew she shouldn't faze him but it was hard to let go of the memories of someone who'd been such a big part of his life.

As the fire crackled and popped along with the loud chatter coming from the other side of the patio, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to find the strength to not just say screw this party and leave Ezekiel to walk thirty-five miles home.

Suddenly he hears the sound of high heels clicking in his direction he looks up to see his friend from work-study, Cato, walking toward him with you in tow. He felt his heart skip a beat once his eyes landed on you, standing there dressed in a pink bunny costume. You look beautiful and vibrant. Joe feels embarrassed to admit that he's developed a small crush on you which is why he agreed to Cato's arrangement with the study date, if it were anyone else he wouldn't have done it.

But that backfired badly when you didn't show up.

He remembers walking out of the library feeling disappointed. He looked forward to that study date all week long. It was going to allow him to finally have a conversation with you and show you how smart he is. He'd waited there for hours until he got the text from you about your grandmother being sick which he believed until he inquired about her well-being to you.

The look on your face told him all he needed to know. Your face was tense, your eyes were darting around, and you seemed to be avoiding his gaze.

At first, he didn't know what to make of it. Had what he said upset you? Did your grandmother's health gotten worse?

Then you spoke, and he realized what was going on. You had lied to him. You made up an excuse for not showing up and now you're standing there underneath Cato's heated stare. Which tells him she didn't know about the lie you told.

He felt a mix of emotions. On one hand, he was somewhat hurt that you told him a terrible lie because he was truly concerned. Furthermore, he felt more awkward and embarrassed when, seconds later, you called him by the wrong name, which made him wonder if you were paying any attention to him at all.

Joe looked over to Cato who made small conversations while ultimately still glaring at you. He just sat there, feeling uncomfortable and flustered due to the fact you were sitting next to him and the aroma of your sweet perfume enchanting his senses. Before he knew it Cato was rushing to get him a drink he tried to decline the offer but it went in one ear and out the other. She urges you to follow her into the house as he sat there by himself once again unsure what to do next.

As he sat there waiting for your return, he watched the frat guys on the other side of the patio play beer pong. They were loud and obnoxious, shouting, and high-fiving each other after every shot. He felt a twinge of familiarity when he recognized one of the guys, Sam Hubbard. Ezekiel brought him around a few times and they'd only had a handful of conversations. Even though he wasn't used to talking with guys like Sam (excluding Ezekiel) who was outgoing, boisterous, and a bit of an airhead. There was still something about him to Joe that made him feel at ease. He seemed genuinely friendly and curious.

He was about to pull out his phone busy himself with playing a chess tournament when he heard someone call out his name.

"Joe! What's up, man?" It was Sam, walking from across the patio in his direction.

"Hey, Sam," He greets back standing up from his seat to give him dap.

"Dude it's been a while since I've seen you! What brings you to this party? You don't strike me as a party guy."

Joe shrugs. "Ezekiel wanted me to check it out, I don't know anyone here besides him and Cato."

He didn't bother to mention Rebecca it's best if she's kept locked out away in the past.

"Well, you know me!" Sam said, clapping him on the back before leaning closer to his ear. " Say, uh, are you and Cato like a thing? I saw you guys hug or whatever.. not that I'm a stalker—"

Sam continues to ramble until Joe stops him.

"Cato and I aren't together, we just know each other from a study group," Joe assures him so that he be free of Sam's beer breath wandering in his face.

"Oh! Really, man? That's great!" He throws an around Joe's shoulder excitedly. "Me and the boys were going to play truth or dare wanna play?"

Truth or Dare? He hadn't played that games since he was in elementary. It wasn't his favorite either, he hated being put on the spot in front of strangers.

He went to open his mouth to decline when he sees you walk back out onto the patio with Cato.

"What are you guys up to?" You ask observing the scene as you walk over to the two men.

"Joe just agreed to play truth or dare with the boys and me, you girls want in?"

You took a glance at Joe who was already looking at you and judging by his expression it didn't look like he got a chance to have a say in the matter.

"Only if other girls are playing too," Cato said crossing her arms, not wanting to play Truth or Dare with a group of just men. And honestly, you don't blame her.

"Of course! Yeah, hell yeah. Troy got his girl, Danielle. Ashley—" He pauses looking up to think of some more people. "Oh! And Alix from Cheer."

"Well, I'm in!" You beam. Not wanting to turn down any potential entertainment and playing those types of games brings out the best.

"Cool, I'm gonna gather up the rest and bring the bottles out." Sam grins patting Joe on the back before scurrying off.

Soon after, everyone crowded around on the patio. Forming a circle around the firepit. You took your previous spot next to Joe whose leg started to bounce up and down, you took pity on the guy because unlike before he was surrounded by a group of drunken party-goers something he was most likely trying to stay away from inside.

"Okay, here are the rules: You can either choose to take a dare or take a shot." Sam holds up a bottle of Patron Silver Tequila.

You frown in disappointment. "I thought we were playing Truth or Dare. Do you have to bring alcohol into everything?"

"It makes it more fun if you don't like it, don't play," Nick spoke up with irritation

"I'm just speaking for the people who don't drink, dickhead."

And by people you mean Joe, the drink Cato had given him is still full. You'd only seen him take a small sip which was out of appreciation. Seeing that gave you a conclusion he wasn't much of a drinker.

"Well, we know you're not one of those people. Little Miss "Alcoholic." Nick spoke.

"Really? That's all you got? I've been called worse by better." You said while flipping him off.

A few people chuckled, including Joe. Your stomach did a flip at the sound of laughter coming from him.

"Watch it now." A redhead spoke who is propped on Nick's lap.

"And what's gonna happen if she doesn't?" Cato raises her eyebrows at the girl. Tension began to arose as everyone look between you and Cato and the redhead with expectancy.

Sam clears his throat." Alright guys, let's start!"

The game starts with Sam daring Troy to give Danielle a lap dance which left everyone looking at the scene with amusement because Troy couldn't dance if his life depended on it. The game continues, with dares getting more and more ridiculous. On Cato's turn, she surprisingly picked "Dare", which turned out to be a harmless one. She had to call a nearby 7-Eleven and ask if they were open. So far no one has picked Joe and you could tell he was feeling at ease. Until it was Sam's turn again.

"Joe, it's your turn my man, Dare or Drink?" He grins face flustered from liquor.

Joe hesitated for a moment, not sure what to do. He's never played this kind of game before and he didn't want to look like a party pooper in front of you .

But then, he made his decision. "Dare," he said, trying to sound confident thinking he'll get an easy one like Cato.

However, by seeing Sam's growing smirk, he knew that wasn't going to be the case.

"Alright then, I dare you to ask any girl at this party to play Seven Minutes in Heaven with you."

Joe felt his heart sank. That's the last thing he wanted to do but he knew he had to follow up with the dare. He hesitated he didn't want to pick anyone he didn't know and be stuck in a closet with someone he didn't like.

Of course, he had you on his mind, but he doubts you'll agree—

"I'll play with you," You spoke up, with a smile while looking at him. "If that's okay?"

He felt his heart skip a beat. You looked at him with such anticipation. Not trusting his voice he nods his head in agreement. The rest of the guys excluding Nick hollers and whistles as you stood up holding out your hand for him to take which he does. He ignores the tingles he felt as his hand engulfs yours. Taking note of how soft and delicate they feel.

Sam led you both into the house to the upstairs closet. On the journey there you kept a firm grip on his hand, and as you weave through the crowds of people Joe caught the attention of Ezekiel who was still sandwiched between the two girls. "That's my boy! Go ahead and getcha some!" He yells out excitedly.

Joe felt his cheeks fluster, he doesn't know what to expect since he's never played the game seven minutes in Heaven but he knew it wasn't going to be any of that. By the sound of it just means that you two would be locked in a closet for seven minutes what could you two possibly do in such a small duration of time?

"Joe! Joe!" Brooke suddenly appears." Where are you going?" she asks him while giving you a sharp look. To which you reciprocated by looking at her unfazed.

He ignores her and motion you to keep walking. While Brooke looks on in anger and jealousy. Even though he didn't care whether she feels those types of emotions or not, a part of him felt good that she was seeing him with you. Maybe that'll show her once and for all she is not the girl he's chasing after anymore.

"Okay here we are you two have fun, remember seven minutes!" Sam cheesed as the three of you stop in front of an old closet at the end of the hall.

He ushers you two in and just as he was about to close it, your hand shot out to stop it. "Look after Cato don't let any weirdos near her. "

"You got it." He said with a salute before shutting the door leaving you and Joe In the cramped space. The only thing that accompany you two was the dusty light bulb above which only provided dim lighting.

It was tight and dingy in the small closet. You didn't care though, you were too busy staring at Joe as he towers over you, his entire physique is large. His breathing is soft and you can feel his body close to yours. There was a long moment of silence before you decided to try and break the ice.

"So," You clear your throat, rocking back on your heels. "You don't like parties."

Joe chuckles softly feeling his nerves ease up a bit. "Was that meant to be a question?"

"Just an observation." You responded trying to look anywhere but at him which was quite impossible since he was the only thing in your view due to his height.

"Well, your observation is correct." He sighs feeling himself relax. " I'm more of a....loner if that's what you want to call it. So these types of events aren't really on my radar."

"What is on your radar?"

"Being occupied with school and football." He says.

That piqued your interest Sam's always trying to get you to attend the school's football games. "You play football?."

"Well sometimes, I'm the third-string quarterback." Joe looks rather embarrassed to say as of you'll make fun of him, but you were just left confused. Much like any sports-related talk would have you.

"I'm sure you're great!" You beam a smile at him showing off your pearly whites.

"Thanks." He says with a smile.

You stood there in thought about your earlier introduction. Mentally cringing at how stupid you must've looked by not remembering your lie and how you addressed him by the wrong name.

"Hey, um, about the tutoring thing. I'm sorry." You said.

"Sorry about canceling out on me? Or the fact you gave me a horrible lie about your grandmother?" Joe said with amusement as he crossed his arms leaning on the door.

Damn, Cato was right he didn't buy it. You thought.

You let out a defeated sigh. "Both,"

He stares at you for a second squinting his eyes in thought. "What did you do that day anyways?"

"I made plans to go shopping. " You mumble looking down at your heels, expecting him to scoff or sigh in disappointment. The reaction you were used to by many.

"And you didn't think I'd want to go? I'm a bit hurt." He places a hand over his heart.

Your eyes light up as you looked up at him. "What?"

"Yeah," he shrugs pushing himself off the door. "You look like you know a thing or two about fashion and I desperately need some pointers."

"I can't tell if this is sarcasm or not. " You said slowly still eyeing him.

He threw his hands up in surrender. "No sarcasm. Just want to give you a heads up come the next tutor date if you so happen to have the urge to go shopping again just let me know, and I'll be happy to join you."

"Next.... tutor date?" You tilted your head in awe you were almost certain he wouldn't be so willing to ever offer you any help again.

Joe chewed the inside of his cheek before saying. "You don't have to come—"

"No! I want to! It's just..."You trailed off trying to find the right words. "I wasn't expecting that."

"How come?"

You shrugged. "Figured you'd hate enough to not tutor me."

"I'll admit... I was a little hurt. But it wasn't enough to make me hate you, trust me on that." He says the last part quietly while his eyes lock directly on yours.

There was an air of infatuation in his eyes as he looked at you with a shy smile. You didn't miss the glimmer of interest in his expression.

A moment of silence fell in the small closet the only sound that could be heard is the thumping bass from the music downstairs. The proximity between you and Joe is so close when you look up at him for the millionth time you notice a small piece of cobweb in his hair. More likely due to the fact his head directly touches the ceiling.

"You have something in your hair." You stated.

He blushes. "Oh, thanks for letting me know"

"Here, let me get it for you." You gently remove the cobweb from his hair.

"Thanks." He says.

Taking him by surprise you stepped closer to him, your chest pressed against his. You hear his breath hitch by your movement and see his Adam's apple bob up and down when he swallows thickly. "Your hair is very pretty." You breathe out reaching up to swirl one of your manicured fingers through his hair.

Joe blinks at you, not finding the strength to formulate any words he could feel his face heats up bashfully.

"You're very pretty too." He mumbles so low you almost didn't catch it.

You open your mouth with only the tip of your tongue showing. With sparkling eyes, you decide to test the waters a bit when you lean closer to him as if you're telling him a secret. "Wanna make out?"

"What?!" Joe sputters out, with wide eyes.

"Do you want to make out with me?" You repeated slowly to give him more time to comprehend every word.

"Um—" Joe begins to say before pausing he didn't know how to respond.

"It's fine if you don't want to, no pressure." You shrug as if wouldn't faze you if he agrees or not. But deep down you eagerly wanted to release some of the sexual frustration that's been pent up for weeks without Tyler and Joe seems like the perfect candidate.

Joe shuffles his feet. "You want to make out in here?"

"That's kinda the main point of this game." You giggle, watching him pinch his lips." You never played Seven Minutes in Heaven?"

"No, I thought we were just going to talk." He chuckles nervously his eyes crinkled at the corners. Your mouth opened to assure him that you both can simply talk if that is what he feels comfortable with. Before you can let out another word he speaks again. "But I do want to kiss you if that's okay?"

"Go for it." You tell him, subtly running your tongue over your bottom lip and tasting the pink strawberry lip gloss you applied earlier.

Joe's hands fidget nervously by his sides, and his eyes keep flickering to your puffy lips. You can tell he's nervous, but it's kind of endearing. You almost started to wonder if he's ever kissed anyone before. Gradually, he leans in closer, his breath hot on your nose and cheeks. You can feel his heart racing, and it makes your pulse quicken. His perfect proportion lips glisten after his tongue swipes over them when your arm reaches up to curl the back of his head pulling him down to your height. It was a little awkward with Joe having to crane his neck downwards. As your lips meet, you were met with the softness of his lips, it wasn't shocking in any way since you knew just by gazing at them you were going to feel satisfied.

The kiss only lasted a few seconds with you being the one who pulled away. You notice his hands were awkwardly by his side as if he didn't know what to do with them. A breathless chuckle left your lips at his tense posture.

"What's funny?" He asks looking down at you with a worried look.

"You just need to relax." You say, reassuring, with a smile. You took your thumb to wipe away the pink gloss you left on his lip before slowly trailing both hands down his long arms to grasp his hands which feel a little clammy. Without breaking eye contact you guide his hands toward your lower waist. "Is this okay?"

Joe finds himself completely lost in your grasp, unable to ignore his hand placement. This was more than okay, there's a certain look in his eye that says, "I want more," and you suddenly realize Joe is a bit different than the shy, quiet-spoken guy you met an hour ago. His hands travel down further until both rest on your backside a surprised gasp left you when he yanks you more into him before attaching his lips to yours. This time his kiss held more confidence, and your lips worked together perfectly, he clearly knew what he was doing this go around and you loved it.

The large fingers of his hand splay over your plush cheeks that protrude from your leotard as he gives it a firm pinch, which makes you gasp again in shock, he takes this opportunity to slide his tongue between your lips and gently massage it as he does so. He begins to turn you both around. Resulting in your back coming in contact with the door. There Joe becomes more feral, his tongue prodded between your parted lips, teeth biting on your lips firmly. It was dizzying mostly because it's been a minute since you've had some air so you broke away. He didn't mind it though because he began to continue his kiss on your cheek down to your neck.

He's truly taking you by surprise, when you walked into this you thought it'll be you who take control. However, right now Joe is showing absolutely no restraint. And you love it. You can tell he's a man who appears reserved, but there is something lurking beneath the surface, a wildness you feel but not quite make out. A primal desire you know is there.

"You have no idea how long I've been wanting to do this with you." He said in between kisses on the slope of your shoulder and neck.

"Really?" A breathless moan escapes from you, wondering how the hell was that possible when tonight was the first time you guys had a proper introduction to each other.

He must follow you on Instagram. You got quite a following on there plus that's where most guys see you at anyway along with parties which you knew most likely he don't attend.

"Mm-hm," He hums as his hands settle on the curve of your backside, inhaling sharply when your hips rub against the hardness that pokes through his jeans.

It wasn't until he lifted one of your legs to curve around the waist that you realized the problem he had, too caught up in the feel of his lips biting and sucking on your neck. You giggle at the tickling sensation as he continued to hold your leg around him snugly.

He mumbles something incoherent due to the fact his face is nuzzled at your neck, then he lifted your other leg up so now both your legs are wrapped around his waist. A squeal left you at being suddenly lifted off the ground, it didn't take long for a blush to bloom and spreads throughout your entire body as he holds your more firmly. His arms are so strong and his mouth is back pressed on yours. While his hands cup your backside holding you against the door.

Your arms were clinging around his shoulders as he nibbles on your bottom lip softly biting into it before running his tongue over it.

An intense thrill runs through your body as a result of the sensation. As his heart races, so does yours, and you both feel it. It's such pure and absolute bliss that you can almost forget that there's a whole world out there. You just want to stay in this moment forever. As you cling to each other, locked in an embrace and lost in this moment, you feel completely and utterly connected. You've never experienced this feeling before not even with Tyler.

You don't know how long this make-out session was and you're pretty sure it was well over seven minutes. You weren't complaining though because you were just about to give this man something he wouldn't forget. Just as you were about untangle your legs from his waist a loud knock made you both jump.

He pulls back, his breath heavy, and his hands holding you gently. You dropped down to your feet just as the door swing open revealing Sam and Cato along with everyone else who was on the deck excluding Nick looking at you two with amusement.

"Had fun?" Sam grins, his eyes dancing back and forth between you and Joe.

You smile and chuckle at his question. "That's an understatement." you reply feeling a chill on your neck due to the wetness Joe's mouth left. As you stepped out the closet Cato looks at you with a "tell me everything" look.

"Give me all the details when we get to the car." Cato said quietly to you pulling you toward the stairs.

Turning your head to look at Joe you weren't surprise to see him standing there with a deep redness on his cheeks while his lips were coated with your lip gloss as the guys crowd around him letting out loud whistles and whoops. His eyes connect with your as you walk away, you called out

"I look forward to our next tutor date."

Joe's mind is racing as you disappear. But a smile spreads across his face, as you just confirmed everything he had just hoped.

Taglist: @blu3jeanbaby @tigertales9 @wickedfun9 @joeburreauxsworld @cherry2stems @luvjoe9 @maricciardo @lonelywiththestars @clumsyjoeb @certifiedlesbianbaddie @idyllicbarb @balanceingrace

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow x black reader #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow fanfic

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llondonfog · 3 months

Text

a little jjk/twst au concept with silver as a cursed human and lilia as his curse; any inconsistencies are my own, i literally finished binging the first season & movie an hour ago :') // @admiraltdevanto i hope this satisfied a bit of the need <3

the final cursed spirit lets out an ear-piercing shriek, one that sets silver's teeth on edge and locks his jaw in place, as it all but bursts into smithereens like a shredded mylar balloon. essence, lurid purple and rancid like decaying flesh, splatters around him, and he raises his sword in an attempt to shield his face from the smoking pieces that fall around him like a poisonous rain.

he needn't have bothered— faster than any human eye could blink, faster than they had sliced through the vengeful curse before them, leathery wings sweep around him like a cocoon, enveloping him with ease in the shelter of their embrace.

the tense muscles in his jaw automatically begin to loosen into the beginnings of a crooked smile when taloned fingers brush against him in the darkness, probing and far more gentle than their wickedly sharp nature would appear. he stands obediently still as they investigate the superficial bumps and bruises from the fight, new additions to a never-ceasing collection. it is only when those thin digits meet and pause at the oil slick of blood sluggishly oozing from a nasty scrape along his hairline that he hears a sharp inhale from behind, and his brief respite from the harsh light of the world outside falls away in one clean swoop.

silver winces as his eyes become reacquainted with the viciously cheerful gleam of the afternoon sun, and the curse flutters his wings in equal parts agitation and lingering aggression, fangs bared as if still wishing to sink them into the dissipated spirit for belated retribution.

"lilia, i'm fine, i promise," he's quick to reassure the curse hovering before him, unable to wipe the returning smile as it creeps along the corners of his mouth. "really, it looks worse than it is— i'll go to a hospital to get it checked out and say that i tripped and fell, alright?"

eyes a shade of crimson that put the fresh droplets of blood against silver's temple to shame fix upon him with an ancient magnitude, at odds with the almost child-like pout creasing a delicate, pointed face. for a split second, silver is wildly grateful that there are not any sorcerers lingering on the grounds, lilia's vulnerability a private moment for the two of them alone as a cold hand rises to cradle his cheek and wipe it clean. ". . . i eliminated it too quickly," the curse grumbles, all too human in his bitterness. "i did not see when it managed to land such a blow against you." "i will be fine," silver stresses once more, sword returning to the sheath along his hip with practiced ease. "you kept me from the worst of it, and for that . . . i am grateful."

perhaps it is a selfish pleasure, but it is one sin that he finds himself so willingly committing— it had been abundantly clear from their first meeting that the curse before him was not used to, nor expected, gratitude and praise, much less words so unconditional and genuine. as expected, lilia falters minutely before tucking his wings away with the barest hint of a preen, a sparkle returning to his ruby eyes that had been darkened by the heat of battle.

"and more importantly," silver continues, tone gentle and quiet so as to not disturb the sleeping figures tucked safely beneath the desk behind them. "we managed to save them." the two children sent napping to escape the horrific scene before them by silver's own gentle wash of cursed energy, the only gift he could grant them before the spirit haunting the school discovered their presence mid-battle.

with an off-key hum, lilia crouches by their side, a hand outstretched and hovering, but not quite caressing the hair of the boy closest to his feet. "i suppose they were cute enough to spare," he comments lightly, rocking on his heels as if he hadn't blasted a dripping hole the size of a boulder through the spirit's core the moment it had tried to target the children. "not as adorable as you were at this age though, my dear."

silver has to suppress a smile at that, though it's tinged with a bittersweet taste that lingers in his mouth. lilia is kind for a curse, too kind, in fact— he does not allow his hand to touch the child's head, to disturb silver's gift of pleasant dreams with nightmares of warfare and strife. it speaks of a weakness that neither he nor lilia address, that the curse strokes silver's head until he sleeps and that silver never complains of his haunted dreams.

"you would know best— wouldn't you, father?"

#lettie writes #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland silver #twst silver #lilia vanrouge #twst lilia #diasomnia #kicks feet delightedly #THIS WAS SO FUN TO WRITE #MAYBE I'LL EXPLORE MORE AS I GET FURTHER INTO THE SHOW #BUT AAAAAAAHHHHH #also please take this as my tribute for that devastating ch you posted yesterday <3333

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virusinfected-memes · 2 years

Text

TUMBLR TEXT POST SENTENCE STARTERS, PT. 1 ;

75 starters. CW: blood mention, cussing, death. Starters come from various text posts floating around Tumblr. The only thing changed for this post was adding capitalization and punctuation. Feel free to change words and pronouns as needed!

“All I do is drink water and be stupid.”

“All I do is rotate three outfits and talk shit and have panic attacks.”

“All I want these days is to hike through a mossy forest filled with heavy fog and get lost for a while.”

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for the those two guys who died in the Blair Witch house? Who broke into HER home, trespassed on HER land, and messed with HER stick bundles? I don’t!”

“Baby girl, you are strange and off-putting.”

“Can necromancers heal depression?”

“Did I need it? No. Did I buy it? Yes.”

“Don’t forget that what you see isn’t all there is.”

“Do you ever wanna bond with someone so bad you’re like, “Damn, I wish we were knights on a dangerous quest...”?”

“Do you think the world could suddenly end on a night as quiet as this?”

“Fuck yeah, I’m an influencer! My content is clownery, I promote stupidity, and I’m sponsored by the circus.”

“Have people in horror movies never seen a horror movie?”

“Holy shit... I’M the demon living in my house?”

“Hot tip: bury yourself in the forest to recharge, never come back, and become a local cryptid.”

“Humans are really good at remembering each other’s bad decisions.”

“I am one percent human and ninety-nine percent tired.”

“I don’t really feel like existing today.”

“I do this really cute thing where I shut down and hate everybody.”

“I feel like I’m in the Sims where it takes five hours to make pasta and then you have to immediately go to bed.”

“If I can’t hand my lover a cup of coffee and kiss their forehead while they’re working, then what even is the point?”

“If my son is stealing pies off window sills, it’s because I taught him to do that, bitch.”

“If you aren’t someone the church wanted dead three hundred years ago, are you really living?”

“If your computer has malware... that’s me in there. If you take care of me like a little Tamagotchi pet, I will leave and give you a secret present in your files.”

“I hate those really vivid dreams that you’re still emotionally attached to after you wake up. You’re stuck, feeling for something that technically doesn’t exist.”

“I’m giving up personhood to become a full-time abstract concept.”

“I’m like a shitty anime dating sim. If I talk to six people, I have to immediately go to bed. If I go grocery shopping, that’s half my HP.”

“I’m off to kill the most powerful man in the world.”

“In the 90s, computers would scream every time you went online. That was foreshadowing.”

“I procrastinate so much now that if I ever became a vampire I will literally put things off for centuries.”

“I think I want my next piercing to be through my heart with a wooden stake.”

“I think my dark under eye circles are adding to the aesthetic, actually.”

“I think the far healthier app to have in middle school was the DSi camera, not Tik Tok.”

“It’s okay to be obsessed and in love with me.”

“I was born in the wrong generation. Take me back to the paleoarchean era. I want to be insentient. I want to be bacteria.”

“Little known fact: once you’re older and you’re no longer in school, time stops being real. Did that thing happen one year ago? Two? Five? A few months ago? Who knows.”

“Maybe if we all just collectively start decorating now, we can... force it to be Halloween.”

“Me? Tired? Sleepy? Yes, constantly.”

“My blood is glow stick juice. That’s why all my bones crack when I move.”

“My body is less of a temple and more of a rotting 19th century mansion rumored to be haunted by several wicked and vengeful spirits.”

“My body is my temple. Ancient and crumbling. Probably cursed.”

“My hobbies include laying in bed in my underwear while I listen to music and hate myself.”

“My kink is closing doors so that I’m in complete solitude.”

“My superpower is going into a book store and immediately forgetting the name of every book I’ve ever wanted to read.”

“Not all your life decisions have to be smart. Some can be purely for cinematic value.”

“Nothing should go back to normal. Normal wasn’t working.”

“Not really a fan of this ‘being a person’ thing.”

“People keep saying “go big or go home” as if going home doesn’t sound like the best idea ever. Hell yeah, I wanna go home, and I’m gonna take a nap when I get there.”

“People who suggest getting breakfast together as a hangout plan are the kind of people you want to hang onto.”

“Pray for me. Nothing’s wrong, I just want more power.”

“Protect me from what I want.”

“Pro tip: instead of having feelings, try being dead inside. Everything is still horrible, but you will not care at all.”

“Remember, you can disappear into the woods whenever you want. You’re an adult.”

“Reminder: you can start over at any time. Your day is not ruined. Your world is not over. Take a deep breath. Start over.”

“Rest in peace to everyone killed by the gods for their hubris, but I’m different. And better. Maybe even better than the gods.”

“Sexting? Nah, I’m into spexting. Spooky texting. Ever seen a ghost? Hit me up.”

“Something all children covet is the generic black t-shirt with white skull worn by cartoon teenagers.”

“Sometimes a girly just needs to mask her declining mental state by calling herself a girlboss and that’s okay.”

“Sorry, bro, I can’t hang out today. I used up all my mana.”

“Sorry I tried to drink your blood. I think you’re cute.”

“The internet is awesome, but you can’t download love.”

“The only reason I still have depression is because I can’t take my brain out and blow on it like a DS cartridge.”

“The older you get, the more you appreciate just chilling at home doing nothing.”

“The world is just generally better when you’ve recently eaten a sandwich.”

“The worst part about kissing a perfect ten is the cold feeling your lips get from touching the mirror.”

“Very sexy of me to be isolating myself and rotting into the floor.”

“Well, the horrors may be beyond YOUR comprehension, but I understand them perfectly.”

“What does your soul look like?”

“What ever happened to personality? I want decorative towels that aren’t boring! I want NOVELTY! I want people to come over to my house and look at my trinkets, and immediately think “this lady is a wacko” and also “her stuff is haunted!””

“When fat Pikachu finally returns, I know he will single-handedly save our economy.”

“Yeah, I could have cracked the Zodiac cipher before those guys did. I just didn’t want to.”

“You cannot find peace by avoiding life.”

“You can’t keep dancing with the devil and wonder why you��re still in Hell.”

“You know what I would be if I was in a video game? That dead body you find at the beginning with like ten gold.”

“You think too much. You’ll make yourself ill if you keep that up.”

#ask meme #inbox meme #roleplay meme #rp meme #rp sentence starters #sentence starters #tumblr #* mine

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mistresslrigtar · 5 months

Text

DTIYS for @bahbahhh's 1200 follower prompt

As always, there's a song that inspires my writing. Today I share an oldie, but what a goodie.

Where Do I Begin - love theme from "Love Story"

Where should I begin?

The story of our love is older than the Calamity. My memories of when we first met are foggy at best, but it wasn't pleasant from what she related to me. She told me once my silence drove her crazy, and apparently, my excuse was that wielding the Master Sword was the root cause of my quietude. I was a liar. That may have been the reason before she entered my life, but if she had any effect on me then as she does now, the truth is, she left me tongue-tied. I must have known then what I know now, that she was the only one for me.

Sometimes, I imagine those star-crossed lovers felt as I do now when they realized their time was running out.

Does it seem strange to you for me to think of them as entirely different people? It shouldn’t. Neither one of us was the same after one hundred years. I had no memories save the ones she spoon-fed me, and she was no longer the naive girl who had held Calamity Ganon at bay, waiting for me to awaken.

Ah, that’s difficult to think about.

The guilt that consumes me knowing I wasn’t strong enough to save her then or now, is insurmountable. She’d had to fight alone. All those naysayers, including her father, who belittled her, were proven wrong. Without her, Hyrule would have fallen one hundred-ten years ago. Without her, Hyrule would have collapsed when Ganondorf returned from the dead.

Without her, I’m nothing.

People call me the savior of Hyrule when, in all honesty, I had very little to do with it. Hyrule’s salvation floats, unseen above our heads, endlessly circling, searching for what she’s misplaced.

Something of her spirit must remain. I refuse to believe Mineru’s last words, that my Zelda’s mind and soul are forfeit to the cosmos. If that were so, she’d never have swooped in and saved me from the jaws of the Demon Dragon.

Why’d we go beneath the castle?

If I could take it all back, would I, knowing what waited in the depths? Perhaps we could have lived to the end of our days in blissful ignorance. Had the children we’d only just begun to talk and dream about. We deserved that, didn’t we? We’d already sacrificed twice for Hyrule.

This isn’t how it was supposed to end.

I try not to curse Hylia, but my heart has hardened, and faith seems unobtainable. Zelda wouldn’t like knowing I feel this way. She’d had faith I’d save Hyrule and had sacrificed her mortal soul to ensure my success.

I had faith—in her. Now, I’m lost in a void of moments when we lived and loved for a brief while. How can I move on? When all the best of me was lost when she sacrificed her beautiful soul in the hope that I’d triumph.

The cost was too steep, Zelda.

It’s been over five years since she fell into the chasm, disappearing in the blink of an eye. I never saw her again, the love of my life and my only reason for being. I can’t escape her memory. Her ghost remains everywhere I go, to haunt me by day and my dreams by night.

I can’t stand to linger in Hateno longer than necessary and never set foot in the house. It takes all my willpower to descend the ladder to her well to collect the few brightblooms that sprout there.

The home I began building in Akkala (back when I still had some hope that she’d return to me) is a complete lost cause. I haven’t visited there since the end. Seeing the empty study and gallery I built for her is too much to bear. The last letter from Hudson asked what I intended to do with the home. I told him to repurpose it into a school for Tarrytown.

She’d like that.

Shielding my eyes, I look to the sky in search of her. There she is–the Light Dragon. She drifts above me, her legs endlessly swimming in the air, and the crystal green eyes I love so much gaze back at me.

She’s still the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen, and I’ll always love her whether she’s a human or a wyrm. There’s an old song that asks the question, how long can love last and be measured? Surely not by the hours in a day or a lifetime even. My devotion to her transcends time, space, and physical form. I’ll chase her, search for her, and cherish my Zelda until the stars burn away.

It’s my turn to rescue her, even if that means I die trying. I’ve scoured all of Hyrule and the Sky Islands, searching for a way to reverse her terrible fate. There’s only one more place that remains. If the answer to the riddle of how to save her is anywhere, it’ll be in the depths.

I’ll spend the remainder of my days searching for a way to save her. Because in the end, it’s always only been for her.

“Link!” Tulin’s voice, carried by the wind, breaks my reverie.

Glancing over my shoulder, I see he’s heading toward me. He nearly knocks us down with a bear hug when we collide. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him, and as he backs away, I realize he’s as tall as me.

He sees that I’ve noticed and smiles, turning his head. “Check this out! My braid is long. Kind of like yours. Looks cool, right?”

Yeah, it does, Tulin. He reminds me so much of Revali without any of the pomposity.

He’s the one I’ll miss the most and who will understand the least why I have to go. He’ll want to follow me if I tell him, and I can’t have that. He belongs here, in the sky, touched by the sun and moon. I can see his future, and it’s bright.

Before I go, I must spend these last few days with him, building brotherly camaraderie and making memories. Hopefully, he’ll fondly reflect on our time together and forgive me for leaving.

Pulling out my paraglider, I put on a happy face for him.

Race you!

#bahbahh1200 #dtiyschallenge #dtiys entry #legend of zelda #zelink #the legend of zelda #tears of the kingdom #breath of the wild

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androideqlstuff · 7 months

Text

The Fall

YGO DM fanfiction Puppyshipping/violetshipping.

After falling from a considerable height, Kaiba shouldn't have survived, and yet he's alive and not where he should have been.

Hurt, some comfort, angst. Post-breakup. Minor injuries. Includes either the beginning of a time loop or main character death depending on how you want to interpret it. Ambiguous open ending.

Written for day 1 of Whumptober 2023 Prompts: “But now this room is spinning while I’m trying just to fill in all the gaps.” Safety Net | Swooning | “How many fingers am I holding up?”

-----

His head was still spinning by the time he was done falling. It had not felt like a moment, but a long stretch of semi-conscious numbness. He'd gone through a string of questions that didn't get past the first word. A brief sample of a timeline pulling like an elastic band before it snapped in his hands.

Kaiba blinked and tried to prop himself up. He managed just barely. He had not hit the floor, but something softer, something that groaned and cursed beneath him. It had a head full of thick blond hair. The deep relief he'd felt to have Katsuya right there turned into panic once it dawned on Kaiba that he’d broken his fall.

Scrambling to his feet was impossible with his head in such a state, but he did move aside. His mouth opened. It closed. “There’s nothing to say here,” a part of him was telling him, even though when his eyes glazed over the scene, he was sure the blood on the pavement belonged to the nasty scrape on Katsuya’s elbow.

This wasn't the street, though. It was no longer the middle of the night either.

“God, what were you thinking?”

Thinking? He didn’t know. He’d fallen from the second floor, right? He’d stepped on a trashcan, then on the box with the fire extinguisher, and he’d grabbed onto the ledge of the window and…

That wasn't right. He'd fallen from much higher. From a balcony on the fifth floor. Katsuya had been in the apartment right before that moment, and there was no way he could also be down here to catch him. But now he was at school, near the bushes, not far from the empty track, and it was probably around time for lunch. They had left this place ages ago, and yet here he was, in his uniform and in a body that didn’t feel as strong as it should.

Did he fall trying to climb up to the faculty room, or did he fall years after that? And what about all the time in between? The dangers he'd faced, the fears he'd fought, the mourning he'd done?

What about the temporary happiness he’d found in Jounouchi? What about dinner last night, when the words “I think this isn’t working out” had sent him to bed alone to ponder, and the taste of expensive spirits had renewed his determination. It was then that his head had begun spinning in retrospect. When Jounouchi hadn’t let him in, he’d taken it upon himself to climb on the small ledges of the building.

The sight of Katsuya by the window, who looked at him like he was trying to comprehend a monster at his doorstep had told Kaiba it was hopeless. He'd done the wrong thing, influenced by the alcohol, and his efforts had backfired. Light-headed and with his hands and feet going numb, he’d lost his grip and footing. He barely registered the fall. He hadn’t even felt it.

Had all of that actually happened? Perhaps he’d never stopped being this lanky kid who’d yet to hit a growth spurt, anger an ancient spirit, and fall in love after the worst had already happened.

He closed his eyes. It almost felt like the alcohol was still there. The breakup still haunted him, even if it had never happened. He yearned for Jounouchi, even though in this situation he now found himself in, they did not know each other. They had never talked. Kaiba had never even noticed he existed. It was still early in the year, and even Yugi was a thing of the near future.

How could he miss the quiet nights together and the mature scent of Katsuya's cologne then? This younger version smelled like deodorant and urgent teenage energy, and he seemed uncomfortable with their silence.

“Seriously,” Jounouchi said, dusting himself off and hissing at his bleeding arm. He winced as he tried to move his wrist. “You’re in my class, ain’t you? Kaiba, was it? What were you trying to do up there? Just take the stairs, man. Those little arms of yours ain’t getting you anywhere like that.”

Perhaps it had all happened. He might have fallen, and his brain might have become splatter on the pavement. Maybe the last bits still attached to his skull were giving him something to think about in his last moments so that he would not have to face the truth.

Jounouchi stood up.

“Are you OK? Did you hit your head?” He reached out his hand and stopped midway. “Wait, can I?” He waited, and as Kaiba said nothing, he touched the side of his head, just a little above the temple. “Dude. That’s already getting swollen.”

“What is…” he started and trailed off. He could not focus on anything other than the differences he kept spotting on Jounouchi's face. The light crinkle next to his eyes was gone. The thin line close to the corner of his lips as well. Different shade of blond, missing an earring, a little more fat in his cheeks.

“Your head, dumbass.”

Jounouchi looked away and nodded worriedly. A gesture he usually did to soothe or encourage himself. Sometimes to think. Oftentimes because he was biting his tongue to stop himself from saying something he didn’t really want to say.

Hey. Katsuya, what are you thinking right now?

“You… Hey, do you know what day it is?”

It's not late enough into the school year for you to hate me for some of the things I did to you.

“October 1st,” Kaiba said.

I’d made plans for us this month. Two weeks off. Tickets to Italy. You always said you wanted to see the Coliseum in Rome.

Jounouchi grimaced.

“Does it really look like October to you..?”

It should have been obvious to Kaiba that he’d given the wrong answer. It was probably still April. But he’d been so certain. The last couple of months after they’d broken up were so fresh in his memory, it couldn’t have been any other way. He’d thought so much about everything that it had made him sick. He’d counted the days. When he took September off his calendar, he was greeted with a circle around October 23rd, the day of their flight.

I know I didn't ask you. I know I never ask you anything.

“Alright, alright. I’m gonna go call the nurse. I’m sure she’ll know what to do.”

I know you're upset that it's always my plans and never yours. I know I always said I would try, and that I never really did. I mostly wanted you to calm down first. Once you weren't angry anymore, everything I ever promised you kept getting postponed.

I know that I left your sister's graduation party early and that I didn't seem any different when your dog died. I thought it was fine. With a good gift and the cremation paid for, I thought that would be enough. I thought you understood that I did care.

"… I'm sorry."

I’ve always believed that words are cheap, even though it’s harder for me to say it than it is to throw resources at my mistakes. But you like the words, don’t you? You like what I find the hardest, even though it’s the least helpful.

"Dude, don't worry about it. Just be grateful that I was here. Falls like that aren't a joke."

“My head hurts.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Jounouchi said. He suppressed a chuckle. “You’re gonna make me feel bad for laughing, c’mon. Can I count on you to not pass out while I’m gone?”

“I can’t promise anything.”

“OK. I’ll make it as quick as possible. Keep your eyes open. I mean it. Don’t doze off.”

Jounouchi crouched in front of him. Their foreheads were barely touching, but it wasn’t the affectionate gesture it had once been. A concerned threat was patent in every inch of Jounouchi’s face that Kaiba could see.

“Also, they’re going to ask what happened. And you better be clear about it. You fell, and I caught you, and you have to tell them that immediately. Otherwise, no deal. Can you do that?”

If I say I will, you will probably believe me this time, right?

“Because they’ll think you hit me if I don’t. I know.”

Jounouchi clicked his tongue.

“And here I was thinking I didn’t have that kinda reputation here…”

“You bleach your hair.”

Jounouchi reflexively touched the top of his head in an attempt to cover dark roots that weren’t even there. He was always so careful with those.

“You don’t know that. Can you do it or not?”

It was an easy request compared to the ones before.

"Of course."

Kaiba watched him leave. He still wasn’t sure what he was dealing with exactly, just that he felt so drowsy and that keeping the first half of his promise was getting difficult. If this was a vivid figment of his imagination, it was making him sad that the last moments of it were of him alone again.

What if it’s real? Strange things have happened before.

Wasn’t that just wishful thinking? He couldn’t get attached to that idea.

He wanted it to be true anyway.

#yugioh #ygo dm #puppyshipping #violetshipping

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underscar · 1 year

Text

DREARY NIGHTS

Pairing: Megumi Fushiguro/Female Reader

Summary: Milky puddles of darkness and shadows plaster the empty halls of Jujutsu High. Everyone residing inside the school was under the spell of rest, except Megumi. The "death" of Itadori Yuuji possessed him to remain awake night and day for a week now. Megumi didn't even know why he was so upset about that idiot. He barely knew the kid. But his heart was still heavy. Instead of nightmares, he kept thinking about it all the time. He wandered the halls like a ghost. The last few days, watching you sleep, despite how awkward it may be if he was caught, was therapeutic. This night, in particular, he catches you crying as he peeks into your room, and you sense your boyfriend's pain.

JUJUTSU KAISEN MASTERLIST | TAGLIST

A/N: Trying this tumblr thing again.

Now I gotta repost these oneshots bro 😵‍💫

WORD COUNT // 2764 words

Milky puddles of darkness and shadow plaster the ghost halls of Jujutsu High. The wind howled a solemn sound outside the campus, the melody haunting the dormitory.

Everyone residing inside the school was under the spell of rest, but Megumi, unfortunately, was possessed to stay awake for the last few moons.

He’s been under this curse of no rest for a week now, and his mind didn’t seize him a break. Itadori Yuuji was on his mind, someone he hardly could even call his friend due to how short they had known each other.

Megumi didn’t even know why he was so upset over that idiot anyways, he barely knew the kid. But his heart was still heavy. Just from the few encounters they had spent together, he felt a spark of friendship develops.

He had met Itadori when he was in a state of loneliness and dread. Instead of nightmares, he was stuck with constant, possessive thoughts of the tragic event of Itadori’s death that he witnessed through his bloodied eyes. And because of…this he wandered the halls like an eclipsed spirit.

In the beginning, he was the sole first year, beside you, his girlfriend, at Jujutsu High. Until Itadori showed up. To also add to relevance, recently another student, Nobara Kugisaki, had also shown up soon before Itadori’s unfortunate, and juvenile death. But the side reason he had this hole in his chest, a hole of weighted dread, was because of your lengthy absence.

You had been sent on an internship of sorts a month before the Itadori Yuuji and Sukuna situation. The ‘internship’ was for you to join experienced Jujutsu sorceries on a long-time, long-distance mission outside of Japan.

Somewhere in India, he remembers you telling him. Through your constant text from him while out on this trip, you told him happily how you promoted a grade up due to your helpfulness and proof of development and confidence in your technique. He was proud of you of course, but your success also made him question himself.

Question himself on what he wanted to accomplish, that he was destined to succeed and produce things great like you have so far and young. You were a model student, it probably wasn’t best for him to compare himself.

But he couldn’t help it.

At the beginning of the week, you had come back to the school and unpacked in your dorm. You arrived back at the school right after Itadori’s death was announced and arrived from your trip…to a solemn environment.

Megumi offered to help but you were persistent. He had honestly felt bad for your underwhelming arrival home. He had issues…expressing his emotions for you.

Expressing how happy he was when you walked through the door, how lonely he had been when you were gone. He had desperately desired you. And the first thing that came to his mind when he learned of Itadori's death was your physical comfort. But even when you arrived, he found himself not wanting to speak of his tragedy. He didn’t want to upset you when you arrived home. What Megumi wanted then, was for things to just go back to normal.

Back to just being content with you, and not worrying about other first years or depressing drama. He knew in the back of his mind that you all had to move in cause time and life would not stop to let him cover his feelings.

The Goodwill Event was happening sooner than he would like and all of you had to prepare instead of sitting on your asses with a frown. He knew this…but couldn’t change how he felt, and the lack of motivation in his step.

However, now he’s on a solemn walk that seems to never stop. And a dream that never ends. A headache that builds up like pouring rain, and a young, grievous heart tugging him. What had comforted him on these nights so far, far better than rest could, was watching you mindlessly sleep the night sky away and into a beautiful morning.

Now don’t get him wrong, he knows and acknowledges how creepy it is. Especially if he was caught. But you…just eased his mind, and he needed that, especially now.

Megumi walked the hall, passing spare dorm rooms in the process, barefooted. The carpet scraped his feet, and the moonlight’s flow showered through the connected windows that followed the hallway to the very end.

His steps begin to falter before coming to a slow stop. He stopped in front of a particular room. Reaching for the doorknob to check up on your sleeping figure, he hears a timid hiccup.

His hands flinched away from the knob as if it had shocked his pale hand away. His brows curved. Are you crying? The halls were still, and the silence embodied him in full. He stood as still as a mannequin in front of your dorm door, waiting for an itch of a sound to escape the four walls. One second goes by and no sound emits, then another, and another, just a paused silence.

Megumi was getting anxious. Was he hearing things? He pulled at the loose strings of his grey sweatpants as he waited for a second longer for a noise, a sign of anything that he wasn’t going mad. The string twirled in his hand as he twisted and turned his sweatpants strings knot.

He must’ve been hearing things, he thought as he turned away. Maybe he was going crazy from lack of rest. Before he could think further a hearty sob transmitted through the door and to his ears, making them twitch ever so slightly. He shook his head, causing a tornado to form, and making his dark hair even more disheveled.

"Ah, fuck it.”

He curved the knob, and the door slightly creaked open. He peeked his head inside the dark, but familiar room. Megumi knew your dorm better than he knew his own. The mid-opened closet had various pictures of you and him, some with Satoru and the other second years. It was a bit dusty due to your lack of appearance as of late, so your window was left open, bringing in a melodic light from the moon, and a cool sigh of wind. His eyes shifted onto you, primarily. Moonbeams stained you, and crystallized tears poured from your eyes.

You had yet to notice his sudden appearance, so you continued to cry your song, and drain your tears. The wind shivered the leaves and tree branches outside your window. Megumi wasn’t sure if it was the wind or your presence that was bringing a chill up his spine. Your abrupt sob brings him back to attention.

He scratched the back of his hair before suddenly making his presence known. He calls out your name gently so as not to startle you, causing the tears you allowed to fall on your face to come to a sturdy stop.

You turned to him, processing his appearance. Half his body was peeking in through your opened door. Your eyes were startled like a shocked kitten and they glistened from your tears and twinkled in the moonlight.

Your heart backflipped when you suddenly heard your boyfriend’s voice. Your stifled cries quickly came to stop as you stared from your bed, at your boyfriend of years, gripping your bed comforter.

He questioned you, gently. “Why are you crying?“

You hiccup before responding, wiping your stained face. "It’s nothing to worry about Megumi, I just h-had a bad dream,” you mustered. Subconsciously, you scoot over, making room on your bed for Megumi.

"Oh." He walks in fully, closing the door behind himself. "What about?”

He places his hand in the pockets of his sweats as you stutter, the cause of your tears picking back the pace. “Well, I-It was,” you hiccupped. The dream now was sort of a blur, at this point you didn’t know how long you were crying.

Megumi stood in his spot, in front of where you laid on your bed, hand tense in his pocket, anxiously waiting for your answer. He assumed it was something awful that happened on your mission out of the country, and he felt bad that he hadn’t asked you when you’d first arrived home.

The things you must’ve seen, and the experiences you went through, must’ve been traumatizing.

His eyes narrowed.

And he wasn’t there for you. Megumi looked down at himself. Calling himself a bad boyfriend internally.

You shook your head, tears spilling everywhere on your comforter as you exclaimed the reason for your wave of sadness. The cause of the pain in your heart and dread. Megumi listened. Your voice was higher in pitch, and he wouldn’t be surprised if the entire school had heard you state your ridiculous, depressing, dream.

“It was about Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure!!”

His mouth went dry. “What….?”

His eyebrows curved, and his pine eyes emptied. You’re crying over an anime of all things?

His mind was slowly processing the information as you explained your dream in further detail, wiping the tears forming. “After my internship in India, I rewatched that Stardust Crusaders episode where they traveled to India before bed and I guess I had a dream about it. The character’s death always makes me cry!”

You lean against the wall and your eyes water as you recall the characters that didn’t make it to Diamond Is Unbreakable.

Megumi stared at you, unimpressed. “That’s what you were crying about?“

You whined. "Don’t judge! It was sad, okay!” You reach and dig your hands into his right pocket and pull his hand to hold. Megumi didn’t protest. He still, however, stood in front of your bed while you rested your back against the wall against your bed. The only thing keeping you both connected was your entwined hands in the moonlight.

His hands were so warm, you couldn’t replace them with anything.

Megumi didn’t say anything. You pouted at his disregard of a depressing scene from an anime you loved! You pull on his hand, pulling him closer, making his knee now touch your mattress.

He stared into your eyes, while you stared up into his from your bed. You looked so cute pouting up at him, he thought.

He squeezed your hand, and you soon squeezed back. A wave of calmness crossed you. You stared at Megumi. It was nice to see him again, see him in person. To touch him, and to really comfort him. Especially now, when he needs you the most. Your tone wavered.

“Why are you up anyway, Megumi? Bad dream too?“

Megumi was quiet again. He didn’t even get the chance to dream. He looked away from you, his eyes shifty. You sit up straight and pull him onto the bed beside you. The impact of his fall onto the bed makes it bounce for a second, and now he sits beside you, back against the wall. He was still quiet though. You rubbed the hand you held with your other. Leaning your head on his shoulder, your brows slump down as you stare at his perfect face, trying to read him.

To get him to say something to you. You rested your chin on his shoulder and ask again.

“Megumi? Why are you up anyway?”

Your question wasn’t answered. Instead of an answer or words, he abruptly kisses you, shutting you up also.

You freeze, his lips moved against yours passionately. You squeezed his hand as your eyes fluttered closed, and your heartbeat began to accelerate. You turned your head to the side for a better angle.

As he slowly pulled away, he rested his free hand on your cheek, blush spread on his face like cotton candy.

When your eyelashes fluttered open, his dark green eyes boldly stared back at you, and warmth filled your cheeks and stomach.

However, he still didn’t say anything, but his action spoke louder than any words. You whisper. "Is it about Itadori?”

Megumi sighed and turned away from your eyes. Instead now found your locked hands more of an interesting sight at the moment. A second passes and a breeze comes inside.

After half a minute, his lips begin to move. “I haven’t been able to sleep,” he admits, still staring at your entwined hands.

You look down, biting your bottom lip. nervously. What could you say? You didn’t know Itadori, but you weren’t out of the loop either. Megumi never told you how close he was beginning to feel toward Itadori. You honestly hadn’t witnessed your boyfriend develop a friendship with someone in a very long time. You were told by the second years how it was suspected that the higher-ups got Itadori killed, and you believed them because Satoru didn’t try to dismiss your questions on the rumor.

"I didn’t know Itadori as well as you did, but his death still upsets me,” you sympathized. “I would hate to lose you. I would hate to lose everyone! My parents, friends, teachers, everyone. I wouldn’t be complete without them. Especially without you Megumi, I would be far too upset.” You allowed your heart to spill.

Before you could tear up further, suddenly, Megumi begins to chuckle, rubbing the tense hand he held. "Everything upsets you. Even anime characters’ deaths,” he teased.

He smiled at you. Your eyes soften at his expression. His dark eyes were exhausted and humble. It was dark inside, but the moonbeams on his face made him glow. You smiled back, bopping your nose with him.

You bark at him. "No teasing!” You weakly shove his shoulder. Megumi does his fair share of teasing, he can be stoic at times but anyone who knows him knows he’s more than that. But you like him this way, you love when he allows himself to be vulnerable just for a tiny bit.

Megumi however, liked how you expressed your emotions and thoughts so easily. How it was as easy as breathing for you to admit…that you’d miss him if he died. He loved how much you cared…

You slouch your shoulders. “But seriously Megumi. You can talk to me about anything, you know. I’m always here to listen to you,” you remind him, laying your head back on his shoulder, pouting. Grabbing his hand with the one he isn’t already holding, placing it on top of your entwined hands.

Megumi sighed. He stared straight ahead at the wall in front of your bed. He nodded. "I know,” he said, barely audible. He leans closer to you. For a second there was an eternal silence that stared at the sight of you two.

You snuggled your face further into his shoulder, and soon he ends up just wrapping his arm around you. In return you wrap your arms around his torso, unlinking your hands from his. Your eyes were getting heavy, and your throat was a tad dry but you didn’t want to end Megumi’s embrace.

You look up at his ghostly face. "Do you want to stay the night? And risk Gojō-sensei’s teasing once he catches us. Am I worth that big of a risk?” you teased him.

Satoru had a habit of teasing you both, mostly Megumi, really only a Megumi, from any sign of intimacy you both showed. Rarely did you both do public displays of affection. Not only because of Satoru but he did play a minor role.

You leaned up to sleepily kiss his cheek.

Megumi’s face was content and he didn’t fully react to your kiss. His thoughts were calm for once, and his heart wasn’t as heavy as before. Half of the dread he carried, dispersed. You were so lovely, he thought. Itadori was still on his mind, despite him being blessed to be in your embrace right now.

But for now, he’ll enjoy this moment, and allow himself to feel and accept the pain and remorse he feels for his friend.

He shook his head. “You’re worth every risk.”

You smile lazily at his response. Lack of rest and love behind your clouded eyes. You close them before whispering right into his ear, paralyzing him. “I love you, ‘gumi.” Your weight pulled at his shoulder.

He leaned his head back against the wall, fluffy hair acting as a cushion. He pulled you closer to his warmth, embracing you as lovingly as he could. “I love you too,” he murmured.

“I think…I’ll stay the night,” he whispered. He gazed at you, but you were already fast asleep on his shoulder. The sight eased him to slumber.

REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED!

© UNDERSCAR 2023 - All rights are reserved to underscar. Do not repost, copy, change/modify, plagiarize, translate or screenshot my work: this will also include not reposting my writing on other social media platforms and writing platforms.

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hwsforeignrelations · 2 months

Text

The Psychic And The Sceptic

AO3: Give it some love!

Words: 10k+

Summary: In the world of Mob Psycho 100, England convinces phasmophobic America he is haunted by a ghost named Birchington to get revenge against Alfred’s constant insistence that the supernatural does not exist. The prank goes too far when America generates enough collective fear to materialize Birchington into existence. Now faced with a dangerously powerful spirit, the Transatlantic lovers must defeat Birchington and save their vacation.

Made for: USUKUS Twice Per Year 2023-2: "Across the Universe" @usukustwiceperyear, organized by the most FANTASTIC Narco and Verus

Alfred F. Jones idles by Dog & Duck’s entrance, hands cupped against his lips to protect the Zippo’s flame from the London wind waiting to swallow its heat. The round, silver-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose fog up to temporarily blind his street view. It's late in the evening and America glances up, pretends he sees bright constellations against a black expanse instead of the light-polluted haze.

Alfred never liked the cold and he wants to crawl under a warm, heavy blanket. Preferably with the selfish bastard subjecting his American greatness to London’s miserable weather. Soho’s pointedly upturned barstools and the clusters of laughing suits pouring out from bars and onto cobblestone streets feel eternal in their effect. The scene could be seen in exactness on any Friday evening, one hundred years ago, even. The bitterness of tobacco bites the American’s throat with familiar comfort and his fingers tingle at the rush of nicotine. He always smoked more when abroad.

America presses his body closer to the doorframe and just stands there, fills his lungs with smoke and enjoys the peace of being surrounded by conversation he isn’t expected to lead. If he has his way, he’d be providing patronage a few doors down and he peeps longingly along 5th Street where Ronny Scott’s Jazz Club tests his commitment as Designated Arthur Escort.

Good music and the best espresso martini of his life…

“No fookin’ wae. Thi’ Japanese physic defeated th’ Dagger!” exclaims a woman, her and a similarly blasted friend gaping down at the phone held precariously in her hand. “Scared each ‘ther w’ stories about her in prim’ry school.”

America pauses a second then smiles behind his cigarette hand. It takes a day for his brain to realize every retail attendant and secretary he speaks to aren’t imitating British people. They just are British. Though he’s been balls deep for over half a century and should be accustomed, England’s voice doesn’t register as British. He just… sounds like England.

Somebody stumbles and curses behind him, crashing into his side when they exit. Speak of the devil, “Oi mate, watch where you stand!”

Alfred smushes the end of his cigarette into a street pole and flicks the butt into the abyss. It’ll decompose, right? He excuses it by rationalizing: the streets are already littered with soggy stubs. It wouldn't look very awesome to bend over and pick it up now that it’s done. Whatever.

He distracts himself by grabbing Arthur’s side and presses England close so he can smell the stale whiskey on his breath when the Englishman squawks in indignation.

Arthur wiggles but makes no move to dislodge himself from the American’s arm. To be perfectly honest with himself (which he didn’t make a habit of) he had doubts about whether Arthur was actually a lightweight or just enjoyed being carried home. Maybe a combination of both. Regardless, Arthur makes a consistently convincing show of being drunk off his tits.

Arthur slurs, “Didn’t see you there, lad. Just had a few, straight as a pole.” His eyebrows are pressed into one long furrow and his feet totter on the sidewalk, unfocused pupils never lingering on one thing. The yellow streetlamp catches faint freckles dotting Arthur’s nose when the Englishman presses a sloppy kiss against America's cheek. His coordination is off so it's more of a wet-lipped mush, but it’s so ridiculous that it folds Alfred’s lips upward.

If Arthur has been acting all these centuries Alfred would be honored by this magnificent display of public shitfaced-ness. It’s done a lot for their relationship over the years.

“C’mere, y’old drunk. Back to your fairy friends.” Alfred dumps his jacket on Arthur’s shoulders and keeps the Englishman tucked into his side when they finally abandon the closing bar. Arthur’s tie is missing and a mysterious beige stain sits on his left arm, right above the silver band on his ring finger. The little emerald nestled in the center sets off the color of his green eyes and Alfred kisses their closed lids.

“P-public indecency!”

“What?! Man, I fly my ass across the Atlantic, get dog-piled by everyone and their grandmother about some ESG ratings (which I can’t fucking control- I mean, c’mon!), barely find a second to order a burger and latte (thank god for Starbucks), then I’m dragged to Soho just to be put on Designated Arthur Duty so everyone else can drink their merry hearts to… aw I don't know- the Almighty Dollar! Now, now, I get gaslit by my limey sweetheart who hasn’t bothered to fly over in years! Y’all got lucky I ain’t on caffeine withdrawal, cuz tonight woulda been wayyy shorter.” Alfred laughs, and this time Arthur only huffs when Alfred kisses the other eyelid.

“‘M not drunk!” Arthur responds instead, followed by a noise like there’s peanut butter on the roof of his mouth and he can’t quite unstick his tongue. The silence following that declaration is so pungent an Olympic sprinter would cough.

“Tipsy,” Arthur allows, charitably. A guy passing them scoffs into his beer and Alfred just barely manages to yoink Arthur back before he lunges at the guy.

Alfred starts their walk towards a busier street to hail a taxi.

(“Cab, yank!”).

Arthur’s car is parked nearby but Arthur doesn't trust Alfred not to crash his beloved LHS 1955 Rolls Royce Silver Wraith into the nearest post box.

Alfred doesn’t argue. He wouldn’t dare risk denting those beautiful antique headlamps, that chrome grill…. A flush rises up Alfred’s cheeks and he dips in to kiss Arthur’s ear.

To apologize for his unfaithful thoughts towards The Car.

Not that the Englishman isn’t absolutely aware of what ol’ Roycie does for him because boy, oh boy does it do it for him!

Arthur naps on the ride back while nuzzling into the leather headrest in front of him. Outside the window, London's street lamps illuminate the city. Tudor and Victorian and Brutalist homes idle side-by-side, thin mailboxes odd with their vibrant red paint and phone boxes Alfred forgets exist outside of BBC shows whiz by on the streets. This is the stuff architects back home worship, and homes further from the shopping areas remind Alfred of San Francisco’s Victorians (minus the fun colors).

Then he’s struck with a sudden sadness. It depresses Alfred to remember the millions of families who lost their homes in the Blitz. Alfred sees their hollow, starving faces in his mind every time he hears the many construction projects replacing crudely assembled housing infrastructure.

But 77 years later and you wouldn’t know what carnage wrecked the city if you hadn’t seen England drag himself from the cliffend of abyss by the skin of his teeth. Two in the morning and London isn’t even close to quiet. America’s rolled window allows the wind to freeze his cheeks red, and he hopes they don’t look as flushed as the group of teenagers tottering down the sidewalk in their rumpled school uniforms.

England’s heart is decadent, simple, foreign, and familiar all at once. But it’s kinda creepy with all its crusty historical stuff. Ghosts like crusty historical stuff, and America does not like ghosts.

… Not that ghosts exist, exactly. But the vibes? SO ghosty.

A chill runs down America’s spine and he shakes himself from staring at the window to find a credit card that will pay their fare.

⚜⚜⚜

He’s loose and affectionate but vulnerable and inhibited, hiccuping against Alfred and bemoaning the glory days of sea life. . “Nothing compares to standing at the helm of an even ke-keeled- hermpfg-” England covers his mouth and jerks for them to stop walking.

After the cab (thank god) and on the beautifully pruned lion outside his condo Arthur chunders at least lunch and probably breakfast.

Alfred makes sure his partner hadn’t disgraced his shoes, then snatches England’s keys from the jacket slung over his shoulder. “Saw this scene play out the moment you ordered that last round of shots,” Alfred’s fingers sift through the keys while Arthur mutteres profanities up the short stairway. At the top the shorter man presses his forehead against Alfred’s back, steadying his dubious and trembling knees by clutching the American round the middle. “You d-didn’t think to stop me? Cruel,” Arthur moans, tightening his hold to emphasize the extent of Alfred’s inhumanity.

Alfred laughed. “Try? Babe, I couldn’t dream of getting between you and a bar tap. You’d send me home on the next flight!”

Arthur snuggles delightfully into his back, not denying. Alfred’s firm spine and familiar warmth quell the rebellion of his flesh, as if forgetting its owner's mistreatment to revel in the closeness to this source of love, so rarely afforded this luxury.

Relief was temporary, and all is not forgiven.

When Alfred opens the door he leaps out of the doorway (and Arthur’s arms) as a fairy comes barreling towards his face.

Arthur loses balance and crashes into an oakwood coat stand with a belated yelp.

Trixie sneers towards Alfred as he sprints at the bedroom, then circles back to flutter innocently around Arthur’s crumpled form.

Flying Mint Bunny peels off from the darkened window to join them, and England sees others gathered round the entrance watching. England swears he can feel glittery sparkles surrounding his magical friends like auras and he sneezes.

Trixie lands on his shoulder with an air of disdain and twitters, “You’re one of the most powerful physics in the world, and you pick a non-believer? Why do you burden yourself with that self-denying imbecile, Britannia? America felt my presence. Then he turns around and pretends we don’t exist.” Arthur sighs and shrugs a little helplessly. Trixie insists, “It’s insulting.”

England rubs where his smarting head smacked the wood and watches the last of his American disappear through the door to the bedroom. The bump on his scalp heals before it fully forms, and with it, so heals a part of his intoxication.

But he’s still a little tipsy and a lot too nauseous to re-engage that particular conversation regarding Alfred’s denial of the supernatural. It’s not as though Arthur disagrees with Trixie, per se. But he doesn’t want to get into it while Alfred exists just not far away, transforming the bedroom carpet into the aftermath of a hurricane.

A cacophony of mutilated zippers and abused, rough canvas assaults his ears as Alfred sorts through his suitcase.

“God, my head is killing me,” mumbles the Brit in lieu of a proper response, trying in a vague attempt to extract sympathy from beings he’s not sure possess it. Trixie and he can shit talk later over tea. He turns to Flying Mint Bunny for a distraction when he’s saved by “disaster”.

“Where in the fuck is my floss?” cries a familiar voice, dismayed. Sharp, emerald eyes follow the direction of the noise. Oil portraits and rectangular trimmings from floor to ceiling line cobalt walls, adorned in ornamental plasterwork. At the end of the hallway a seven section bay casement window bleeds moonlight onto the faded oriental rug, swathing an otherwise unlit space in soft blue hues. They are staying in an old house and one he hasn't updated to current styles in well over a century. He’s a self-admitted creature of habit, and he won’t ever update another of his properties if he can help it. The ancient foundations maintain their old magic and Trixie, Flying Mint Bunny and the rest are most comfortable on its undisturbed grounds.

“You smell like vomit,” Trixie adds, in that neutrally observational tone. Something Arthur can’t see catches their attention, they kiss his cheek and flutter off.

Mint Bunny squeals happily and flies off to the kitchen, probably to check his cupboards for the usual American snacks Alfred carries with him each visit. At least one of his friends approves of their relationship.

⚜⚜⚜

When Arthur finally peels himself from the coat rack and stumbles to the bedroom Alfred is sitting on the bed sorting through his email, nails click–clack-clacking at the keys and hair damp from the shower. A long string of floss is stuck in an incisor, just ending at his chin. Alfred looks much more comfortable than he did in his work attire, sporting a pair of disgraceful (adorable) striped pajamas. Blue eyes look up and smile at his now mostly-sober lover, beckoning with his bare toe for Arthur to come nearer.

Arthur raises an eyebrow and remains in the doorframe. Beyond the American’s bespeckled sight England presses his fingers into the wood, need for Alfred battling with his pride. What sort of besotted fool would he look? To follow that manicured big-toe’s command. He was England, for god’s sake! An officer of His Majesty’s Military, privateer of the seven seas, knight of King Arthur’s Round Table –

Alfred jumps off the bed, plucking the floss from his mouth in what Alfred must imagine to be sexier than it is. He approaches Arthur’s appraising gaze until they stand centimeters apart-

Arthur’s eyebrows untense and he’s wound into a warm, tight hug.

Alfred doesn’t mention that Arthur smells like stomach acid, which he knows he does. “Holding you in my arms, after a long-ass day… god Artie, I missed ya. You melt my heart right down to butter.” A huge smile breaks Alfred’s face (he can feel it against his shoulder), and Arthur closes his eyes to savour this feeling.

“Ditto.”

It’s difficult to internally admit when something foreign drives intense affection. The urge to become closer, to crawl under Alfred’s ridiculous pajamas and hold him beneath his skin is strong. It reminds him of the yearning he felt for cold, fresh water after a long while at sea. The crown of Arthur’s head is peppered with kisses and Alfred’s clean scent hits him like a rush of warm air. “You left me to die,” Arthur reminds Alfred’s chest, resisting the urge to nuzzle the edge. “By the door. I might have choked on my own sick and died.”

“Catch you in the field, babe,” Afred laughs, referring to the mysterious meadow where all nations regenerate, naked at the day… they were born?

Were they born?

It took about a day for a regenerated nation to find humanity and by then, its location was forgotten.

“Don’t even think about it, boy,” Arthur sasses, balancing the tone by groping Alfred’s lovely behind. “It's about time you pulled out that fat republican wallet. Eight o’clock tomorrow evening, reservation for two. Sushi, the best of what London has to offer.”

Alfred laughs, using one of his own hands to help Arthur get a better grip on his ass. “Sure thing, sugar. But first you’ve gotta work for it.”

“Needy Americans,” The Brit huffs, walking them towards the bed. The back of the American’s knees make contact with the mattress and Alfred falls with a huff, Arthur smirking over him.

Blue eyes smile up when England crawls on top and uses his quick, sharp tongue to ravish a California sun-tanned neck and collarbone and chest like the sky was falling. Alfred’s hands pull at Arthur’s shirt and he moans with pleasure, baring his neck to allow more access, to get all the attention he hasn’t been given for far too damn long.

“Bend your knees,” demands Arthur, taking one of Alfred’s legs in his hand and pushing it up so he can bite a line down his inner thigh. Alfred does as he is bid, but not without a bit of sass. He tries to focus on one hand and massages Arthur's left shoulder, right where he knows it’s tight.

The effect is immediate and Arthur slumps.

“Gghmph,” England moans.

“I missed you, sweetheart,” America pants, Southern twang drawing out the pet name and Arthur feels his arousal spike. Virginia always did the trick for Arthur, brought him right to his metaphorical (and occasionally physical) knees. Buttery and sweet like honey, Alfred keeps the accent up when he mewls the name of every deity he’s never believed in and breathes the Englishman’s name right against the ear adorned in silver piercings.

“Don’t you dare stop.” There’s no need to clarify what they won’t want to end, because it’s never been articulated beyond lips shaping their meaning against damp, desperate skin.

Arthur bites into his American roughly, at the juncture between his shoulder and neck, and one-handedly unties the drawstring of Alfred’s pants. The fabric is pulled down a beautiful pair of hips and now they’re both fully in the mood, cheeks red and huffing hotly.

Alfred kisses Arthur right shoulder the moment it’s revealed. “You’re still kinda dirty,” Alfred laughs and devours Arthur’s mouth.

✰ ✰ ✰

Wind sweeps through the open window and billows out the curtains like a lady’s ball gown. England and America lounge on the couch, Arthur’s perpetually chilled feet buried under the American. Arthur reads a dog-eared copy of Shakespeare’s works and Alfred is nose-deep in a Bureau of Labor Statistics report. They’ve been like this for two hours post-sex and it's disgustingly domestic, but Alfred decides he doesn’t care. It’s very late and Alfred can see sleep tugging at England’s eyes, and although it’s a full six hours ahead of Washington DC Alfred watches Arthur’s chin dip every ten minutes. Then he’d jerk awake, frown, and keep reading. It's a little entertaining and a lot cute.

The papers slap onto the side table to disturb an otherwise quiet space.

“Dude,” Alfred closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up his forehead. He looks under them at his partner.

Arthur doesn’t glance from the page but a toe shifts under his ass. Sassily.

Alfred rolls his eyes, “Arthur.”

Haughty green deigns to meet baby blues, expression still. Alfred stares back and Arthur eventually raises an impressive eyebrow. “Yes, love?”

Alfred laughs and flops sideways, fumbling until his ear lays over Arthur’s stomach and his right arm hangs over the couch to prevent either man from slipping. Arthur snorts and fusses a bit before settling into their new position, rubbing circles over Alfred’s temple. A few hours ago every point of contact burned like fire. Now, it just feels nice. And post-sex shower Arthur’s back to his usual soap and tea smell.

If all days getting dogpiled ended like today Alfred wouldn’t need half the cigarette budget.

“Read to me,” Alfred demands, proud of himself for such an awesome idea. The position is awkward but they fit together like puzzle pieces.

The hand rubbing his temple deftly pinches his nose. Alfred flinches and the same fingers ease wire frames off from where they’re squashed between Alfred’s ear and Arthur’s stomach, folding the arms on the side table over the rejected report. Alfred looks up to see the blurry shape he knows to be Arthur, adopts his most innocent expression.

“Please?”

Even the fuzzy colors of Arthur’s sharp features soften. Heh, got ‘im.

Arthur scoffs and resumes his petting. “Oh, very well. Spoilt brat.

“‘Benedict: O, she misused me past the endurance of a block! An oak but with one green leaf on it would have answered her. My very visor began to assume life and scold with her. She told me, not thinking I had been myself, that I was the Prince’s jester, that I was duller than a great thaw, huddling jest upon jest ith such impossible conveyance upon me that I stood like a man at a mark with a whole army shooting at me. She speaks poniards, and every word stabs. If her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her; she would infect to the North Star.’”

Alfred laughs at the last sentence and Arthur’s eyes crinkle faintly at the edges. His reading voice is unbelievably sexy and warm, tongue looping through Shakespeare’s words like an experienced weaver’s hand winds their thread. Arthur doesn’t just read when telling a story. He spoke the lines and he brought their meaning to organic, vibrant life. Before the modest fireplace England delivered Benedict’s wit and charm with an adeptness Alfred, having attended Much Ado About Nothing dozens of times, had never felt. The Englishman’s affection for the words of his old poet and slight fatigue softening rounded vowels make America’s heart flutter.

Anxiety brought by the BLS’s report soars to far crevasses of America’s brain, busy activity settling by England’s lolling voice.

Alfred closes his eyes and breathes deep, deeper than he’s been able to breath in a long while. Vibrations of Arthir’s chest, pressed against his ear, flood his body with ease so he doesn’t register when the act ends and England’s silent.

⚜⚜⚜

England blinks through exhaustion at the lax, tanned face.

A silly urge prods the older blond and Arthur considers it absentmindedly. Squirming in embarrassment, Arthur gently blows America’s hair to confirm that he’s asleep. His eyelashes don’t flutter and Arthur sighs with relief and mutters, with more tenderness than he will ever allow the egotistical fool to hear awake, “I love you.”

The words hang in the air a moment, and Arthur closes his eyes and sighs deep when the American’s face remains relaxed in sleep.

“Coward!”

Arthur jumps, heart leaping up his throat. Trixie is watching from the mantle, their tiny feet swinging back and forth. It’s clear the faerie has been observing them for a while. Just his luck. Shouldn’t they have something better to do?!

England flushes and looks awaywhere but his small friend, demanding, “Something funny?”

Silence follows the question and Arthur eventually looks towards the fireplace, blames the heat in his cheeks on the flames licking up applewood. Trixie tilts their head, suddenly serious.

“Britannia slept wrapped amongst oak root flares,” they say, so indirectly it might not be for Arthur.

“You’re happier.” Now they face England. He doesn’t answer, picking apart the odd sentence.

Alfred produces a loud snore in the moment Trixie and Arthur lock eyes. Arthur raises his right hand, previously holding the book, to smooth through America’s golden hair. The stands are soft from the shower and he tugs gently at Nantucket. He raises an eyebrow at the mantle, tempting the magical creature to comment.

They don’t. Arthur looks down at his lovely lad and the rings of exhaustion below his eyes and the peacefulness of his expression in slumber. He looks younger without his glasses, and the weight of his torso is warm and heavy. Just enough to be comforting, even if he was losing some sensation in his legs. He can feel Trixie’s gaze on his face. He doesn’t know what thoughts might be going through their mind, but he believes what they say is true and he is happy for it, though he will not reveal such sentiment to reward their audacious behavior.

✰ ✰ ✰

America wakes to the sensation of a page brushing Nantucket and a pair of bony wrists resting on his crown. England reads beneath him and Alfred pretends to stay asleep.

“Good afternoon- or should I say morning, Mister Eastern Standard,” Arthur murmurs, blowing Alfred’s cover. Paper scrapes against America’s hair as England turns a page.

Sunlight filters through lacy curtains, its gentle warmth tingling the skin of Alfred’s back. Arthur’s lounge room’s overall chill is attributed to the outdated (to state it gently) building’s poor insulation.

Combined with their point of contact the temperature is perfect.

Snuggling close, Alfred smiles into Arthur’s waist and pulls his right hand up- except it’s fallen asleep on the floor. So he pulls that one in and successfully retires with his left where a thin-rimmed Texas is deposited.

Alfred didn’t like opening his eyes without them. He’s been told it makes him look tired and young, neither of which was his desired image. Plus he couldn’t see more than four inches in front of his face.

Alfred refuses to contemplate what that symbolized of his nationhood.

Without looking, the lenses squeak against a blanket pooled on the floor and are placed on Alfred’s face. Arthur's gaze briefly flicks down to meet blue eyes when the American looks up. His lip twitches just barely, then he goes back to reading. The Englishman looks younger than usual, features relaxed as sharp eyes scan the lines of text with efficiency. Sometimes his lips mimic the words, but Alfred knows Arthur would be self-conscious if he were told and so he tries not to look or smile too adoringly. He settles for nuzzling the inside of Arthur’s wrists.

“Morning! I’m a little surprised you didn’t try getting up,” Alfred digs his phone out from the couch cushion and starts checking the news. “I mean, not sure why you’d wanna.”

Above him Arthir huffs, “Oh, bugger off. I haven’t felt my legs for the last ten hours and you’re about fifteen tones above my current PR.”

Alfred smirks and wiggles, not moving. “Better get back to the gym then, sweetheart. I ain’t seen you in years. You can bet your black pudding I’m not moving before lunch. Speaking of,”

⚜⚜⚜

Alfred closes Wall Street Journal and scrolls through nearby restaurant pages. Now that food is mentioned, Arthur realizes he is starving. However, he doesn’t want Alfred to see his own realization because it would be embarrassing to admit he hasn’t eaten since yesterday morning, and forces his eyes to continue reading the words. Internally Arthur begs his stomach not to rat him out.

“Alfred!” Arthur squawks when America bounces up, sending Shakepeare at his face.

“Whoops!” shouts Alfred, already down the hall. He emerges a moment later wearing jeans, tugging a sweatshirt over his head. Arthur scowls while Alfred pulls his shoes, “Remember that French-Prusian bakery you took me, Matt, and the Aussie to in the ‘50s? With the halva croissants?”

It takes Arthur a moment, but he does. In fact, he remembers selecting that particular bakery, along with a few other restaurants, in an attempt to encourage America’s prolonged stay in London. So they could… so he could spend more time with him. Or something like that.

“Yes.”

“It’s gonna close in, like, thirty minutes,” Alfred pleads, struggling to tie the laces on his combat boots. Then he's running back for a toothbrush.

Memories of that visit are forced to the forefront of his mind and he allows them to run their course while he bookmarks his page and folds the blanket and stacks it on a towering pile of afghans.

As it turned out, Alfred hadn’t needed more than an invitation. Between the American embassy, London’s reconstruction, and a pitstop in the French countryside the two of them ended up in one another’s company for much of the following week as a result of “sheer coincidence”, and the tireless efforts of clever secretaries. Their schedules overlapped perfectly. It was pleasant remembering that week of travel and sleep, a small break from his own stressful affairs with the worn and edgy politicians reconstructing the dissonant pieces of a shattered empire.

On their train out of France and towards the Channel, England had broken down against the observation car’s rail. He had thought himself alone with cold, loud air rushing against his back. He didn’t make a habit of crying but in that moment he’d been overwhelmed by it all and dropped his shields in (what he thought was) the privacy of night. When Arthur wiped any trace of distress from his face and saw that an hour had passed, he reentered the car to find America staring out the window.

Two cups of liquid sat balanced on either knee and when he looked up, expression concealed by an absence of light, he offered the right one to England.

“Found a moment to cram your face in the dining car, have we?” Arthur asked, taking the cup with visible suspicion and sniffing the rim. His eyebrows shot up in surprise.

It was tea! Either he had fallen off the balcony and gone to heaven (extremely unlikely) or been the victim of frostbite and gone delirious (possible), because in no universe did the United States of America offer England tea.

England was more surprised not to receive even a “stuff it”. America’s silhouette only shrugged.

Sipping it delicately, England had tapped his foot. He wasn’t sure what response the situation deserved and America had resumed his window watching, occasionally sipping what Arthur assumed was coffee. Arthur was tired from years, decades, of constant change and it felt as though that hour of reflection had forced him to recognize the exhaustion for what it was. This brief display of care, in a moment of weakness, was enough to move his cold heart and he melted just a bit. His resolve to look unperturbed by America’s tea offering melted Arthur just enough to sit himself a few seats from the American.

His tongue had tasted black tea. It had been a tad cold, meaning Alfred had seen him crying and retreated to his seat for at least twenty minutes. Dash it all, he'd cursed internally.

The remainder of the trainride had passed in the most silence England and America had shared all week, and when his cup of tea had been drunk to the dregs he’d grabbed America’s hand in a firm grip and they nodded once. Then England had left, grabbed his bags, and boarded the Channel ferry without looking back.

That was not the first occasion America had revealed something tender and lovely behind that megawatt smile, but it was a memory he held dear to his heart during a time Arthur knew a gentle wind might toss him out of existence.

Blanket folded and feelings tender, Arthur pushes himself off the couch and vows never to remember it again. It makes him feel old and inglorious.

Arthur’s thoughts are interrupted by an unhappy, empty stomach.

“Don’t wait up” He tells the empty room sarcastically. Bare feet follow the farmed portraits towards his room, taking a moment to smooth out a carpet corner with his toe. Alfred has the unique gift of generating an awful racket with the smallest of tools and an orchestra of water, metal, and plastic against procline narrates Alfred’s routine exactly beyond the thick doors.

Clink! Alfred sets down a can of shaving cream.

When he enters the bathroom America shoves a bottle of sunscreen in his general direction, raising an eyebrow through the mirror where he’s shaving. England sees his own shadowed face in its reflection and shoos Alfred aside to lather his own cheeks in shaving cream.

“Fucking gorgeous day, huh? Haven’t slept that well in months. Suppose I sleep on you every night; I’d be Superman,” Alfred shows off perfect, pearly white teeth and Arthur considers flossing for the first time in weeks.

“Suppose you lose about three stone and we’ll revisit that idea,” he pauses to gargle mouthwash, then spits it down the drain and presses a kiss to America’s snarky smirk. “We’ll workshop.”

Slacks, vest, comb, and ten minutes later America and England are out the door and hand in hand towards the bakery.

⚜⚜⚜

Alfred is chipper as usual and Arthur enjoys the wonderful breeze and Alfred’s expressive background chatter as Arthur leads their speed-meander towards the bakery. No need really. The smell of warm pastries hits them a block off and now it’s Alfred pulling Arthur along, like a child towards a candy shop. It's a small building tucked between two larger modern ones and the bell on the door jangles when they enter.

“Arthur!” exclaims a jovial woman manning the register, “We haven’t seen you in months! How’ve you been? How did the roses come along this season?”

Alfred abandons their hold to explore the limited array of baked goods left from the morning crowd. If that boy smudges the display case…

“Blooming even more vibrant than last year, thank you. It’s wonderful to see you, Amahle,” She’s placing five of the remaining croissants in a white paper bag, deft movement not breaking their conversation. Arthur’s mouth waters a bit but thankfully his stomach does not expose his excitement.

He’s missed this bakery more than he realized. Alfred is pointing at a chocolate something-or-other and Amahle adds them to the bag with a smile.

“Business running smoothly?” he asks to be polite, although the answer is evident by the almost empty shelves.

“Always”, she laughs, and frowns playfully when Alfred tries offering his card. She hands Alfred the bag, stuffed to the brim. Golden pastry crust peaks over the edge.

“Thank you, ma’am!” Alfred’s hand crinkles the little white bag and emerges with a cookie, immediately shoving its entirety into his face.

“A-Alfred!” Arthur sputters behind him, barely resisting the urge to strangle the man for his slobbish eating habits. But Amahle just looks pleased to see a customer enjoying her food with gusto. Settling for a swift smack on that lovely behind Arthur slips a twenty pound banknote into the tipping jar while the shop owner is shelled by midwestern American enthusiasm for anything containing butter and sugar. America barely swallows before going on, “Your bakery is really delicious, you know? Artie dragged us here years ago. Best pastry crust I’ve ever had, and believe me when I say I’ve tried a lot. Haha, never forget!”

During COVID Arthur made a point to place weekly orders from a few private businesses. Amahle’s being one of them. Luckily her shop pulled through and it warmed Arthur’s heart to see their usual flourishing clientele returned.

He waves goodbye and drags Alfred, still talking, out the door. He hasn’t seen Alfred for years, and they have a lot to do today.

⚜⚜⚜

On the road towards the nearest Underground station and midway through a weak defense of the Imperial system, America shivers. “D-did you feel that, Arthur?” he whispers, pushing up his glasses and crowding closer. Arthur pulls when his partner’s steps falter, looking around briefly.

Some steps ahead a father pushes a stroller, and a woman wielding five leashes (all attached at the end to dogs of varying sizes) leans against a nearby tree watching her phone. Some ducks idle by the pond, and the usual animal suspects are present. Nothing out of the ordinary. And certainly nothing so peculiar as to cause America’s arm muscles to clamp under his clothes.

“Those USDA-approved chemicals finally hit their mark. A few bites of sashimi ought to right things,” he says, tapping the side of Alfred’s head to cover up a kiss. The smell of his own shampoo in Alfred’s blond curls makes him a little warm so he cuts it short.

Alfred returns the gesture. But he pulls on England’s arms, and the uncalibrated force both informs the Brit America isn’t joking, and yanks him down before Arthur can prepare. “Alfred, watch it!”

“Oops. But babe,” Alfred stops their walk, and forces Arthur to stare at intense, anxious blue eyes. “I- something- I felt something cold go through my chest. L-like a ghost,” he stammers out, cheeks gone white.

Arthur feels the urge to roll his eyes. He doesn’t fight it. “I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”

“Dude!” Alfred shoots him a betrayed look, snatching his hand from their hold inside Arthur's pocket. “This ain’t funny! It’s almost a full moon!” He gestures vaguely at the sky.

If there had truly been any “ghost” phasing through Alfred's chest, Arthur would have noticed. And a full moon? Was that some American superstition- that ghosts would abandon their regular hauntings to pester the non-believers? America’s big, blue eyes plead Arthur’s unmoved green one’s to believe him. Or maybe to disprove his anxiety?

Well, there wasn’t any harm in encouraging this superstition. It might even provide the evidence America needed to overcome his see-it-then-I’ll-believe-it system. Trixie would be proud.

“Yes. Yes! Of course, how very silly of me, poppet. I didn’t realize you could sense, uh-” Arthur thought quickly, looking around for inspiration, “Birch!...ington. Birchington, that’s his name. Died an awful, painful death I hear… heard- from the papers.” Arthur nods solemnly, biting into a croissant.

He’s rewarded for his shoddy acting skills by a quick inhale, and his hand is immediately rejoined in his pocket. Ha!

It’s twitchier than usual and Arthur would feel guilt, except that Alfred’s persistent refusal to acknowledge the existence of the creatures that raised him for the first millennium of his life has festered into an admittedly bitter sore-spot in their relationship. As one of the world’s greatest psychics, the responsibility to legitimize his side profession partially fell on his shoulders. England was only performing his duty to all spirit and magic kind!

They descend into the station and Arthur continues the story while he fetches Alfred a metro ticket from the kiosk, “Oh yes, terrible thing it was. Worked under some old fart as a valet for years- 1890s, was it? TB caught him off guard and poof! Apparently he was quite the handsome devil, had the papers all in a rage.”

Arthur slips the ticket into a shaky hand and looks up into a white face, blue eyes wide like saucers. “T-terrible, huh?”

“Terrible,” Arthur agrees, smug.

⚜⚜⚜

To nations there is nothing more comfortable than standing in their homeland and Arthur is no exception. Nothing quite makes England’s day like riding the Underground. The cars are densely populated but quick, just enough people and time to recalibrate his senses after being away from society for any extended time.

Not even Alfred’s twitching can break this sensation of quiet contentment.

The weekend crowd is thin in today’s unseasonable weather and both men find seats promptly. Arthur busies himself multitasking: arguing with Scotland over text and editing a memo for his boss about yesterday’s meeting, excluding any detail of the after-work drinking party. His thumbs are too fat for the tiny keyboard and every word is a laborious process, relief only granted by Scotland’s motley, half-illertate notifications. Beside him Alfred startles like a lamb at every minute jerk of the traincar and unexpected noise, fiddling with video games on his phone and switching tabs to his inbox and hoaxy Twitter articles on the supernatural every other second.

That’s the third time he misspelled “propositional”! Fuck this!

“What’s got your knickers in a twist? That alien friend of yours escaped through the backyard fence again?”

Alfred delivers a particularly nasty look, knee bouncing. “First, Tony has free reign of the place! He ain’t a pet; he’s a fiend. Second: Ghosts, Arthur! Like you said! I mean, they don’t exist, but what if someone’s really, really good at imitating ‘em. Haunting and, and… and whatever the fuck else ghosts fo- Arg!” Flappy Bird crashes into a green pipe.

Arthur puts his hand out and Alfred drops his phone into it, watching Arthur beat America’s high score over the trenchcoated shoulder. Alfred raises a thin eyebrow when it’s given back. “Touché.”

Alfred and Kiku weren’t the only nations bored out of their minds in 2013.

“Birchington has better things to do than play tag, Alfred. It’s insulting to imply otherwise.”

When they arrive at Piccadilly Station Alfred bounces off his seat and flies at the doors, waiting with a hand on his hip for them to open. “Hun, really. I appreciate you tryna make me feel better but I’ve got a gut feeling- something’s gonna go down. I found this Twitter community- they totally agree.”

Alfred throws this over his shoulder. His clenched jaw catches the car’s dingy light. Stupidly handsome yank.

Blue eyes are hard behind silver glasses and his posture is ramrod straight beneath a classic WWII flight jacket. It reminds Arthur of an officer’s pose, the one Alfred wore during his own training. The serious attitude would be knee-buckling if Arthur didn’t know what nonsense brought the attitude about.

The effect is dampened. Only a slight rouse on the cheeks betray him. Luckily, Alfred is even denser when he’s in a mood and so the Englishman is spared the ridicule.

“Intuition? Good lord, lad, we’ve far too much to do to listen to that,” Arthur scoffs, offering half of his second croissant when they reach the street.

✰ ✰ ✰

Arthur isn’t taking this spooky business seriously enough. Maybe he’s spent so much time in his “Magic Club” with Norway, Romania, and Haiti he’s developed a tolerance. Which is super weird, considering magic doesn’t exist. One too many “scones”(read: coal nuggets) and his break with reality isn’t limited to his sense of taste.

But it’s okay, because Arthur looks extremely handsome and mature today and a little sass and insanity’s never been enough to keep him out of Arthur’s arms and bed.

Alfred accepts the croissant and nibbles at its flaky crust, following the beige back of a trenchcoat leading them towards a car. He’d prefer to nibble on his fingernails but then he'll get slapped by Arthur, teased by Mattie, and yelled at by the manicurist. A triple whammy he’d rather not relive.

They pass by an old bar with ivy weaving through its brick wall (that can’t be up to code) and goosebumps spread across his arms under the leather jacket like a wave of cold water crashing over his head. Jesus on a stick. Birchington, that bastard! He crams the rest of the pastry into his mouth and speed-saunters towards Arthur.

The Englisman scans his car, now visible through a light crowd. No smashed window glitters on the road. Hooray! “I’m picking up a few files at my office before dinner,” Arthur pats his arm with the hand holding his keys, swiping through his phone in the other. “Be a dear and quit stroking the sides. I know you’re besotted but I really hate seeing grease smudges on my way to work.”

Alfred snatches back the hand absentmindedly petting The Car. “I don’t- I wouldn’t- I. What?” He holds both hands in the air as if to pronounce his innocence.

See, officer? Unarmed. Arthur rolls his eyes and uses the edge of his shirt to wipe a nonexistent smudge on The Car. That ass.

“Not to spoil your plans but weren't we gonna go on that hike? Weather reports say it’s gonna be way worse the rest of my VK dates.”

The driver’s side opens with a well-oiled chick and they both slide in through respective doors. Alfred’s admiration for The Car is so strong it almost distracts the American’s thoughts from Birchington.

“Oh arse it all … yes. Those files will have to wait. You might be right- for once.”

“Haha, don’t hurt yourself.”

Arthur sits back a moment and looks pensive out the windshield. “ My hiking boots and bag are still in the back from last time. Everything should take less than six hours so we’ll be right in time for our reservation. Sounds good?”

“Sounds better than good. And I wanna pick up water and a box of Ding Dongs. When I checked the cupboard half the wrappers were empty.”

“It wasn’t me,” Arthur huffs, and Alfred doesn't know whether or not to believe him. Certainly, Ding Dongs don’t just go poof! But Arthur wouldn’t have had time to eat so many and Alfred has been known to sleepwalk (and eat).

Alfred brushes his legs up and down in an attempt to warm up. He feels colder than he did a minute ago.Winter can suck his balls. “Mind turning up the heat?”

His request is obliged and The Car is expertly wound through busy lanes. Alfred takes out his phone and scrolls through his Twitter feed. One of the trending posts by Reigan Arataka’s Spirits & Such Consultation. Defeated the Dagger in Japan?! Alfred heard dozens of rumors about her both in Japan and back home. Alfred retweets the post:

“OMG i’m in London rn w my bf and he says theres a ghost named birchington haunting us. any1 else in the uk heard of him?”

The car warms quickly as they drive (on the wrong side fuck fuck fuck Alfred resists the urge to scream every time they turn). Nevertheless a chill persists deep in his bones. It remains even when a sweat builds under his collar while Arthur insists the driver in front of them is a wanker and habitually fucks his mother on Sundays.

It’s cold, but it absolutely shouldn’t be. Could it be the ghost? That fucker Birchington?

“Who in their right mind allowed your daft,”

“Arthur.”

“Flea-bitten, pig-brained,”

“Arthur.”

“Chud to maneuver a vehicle on this blood- Oh you’re turning? Finally! Realized you could suck up even more oxygen by flicking the turnsig-”

“Arthur!”

“What?!”

“I know they don’t exist BUT- There’s a mutherfucking ghost haunting my ass and you’re pretending not to see it!” Alfred snaps, shivering under his clothes and twitching nervously.

Arthur taps the steering wheel and doesn’t respond immediately. Which he should, considering the gravity of the situation. “America,” he says, not kindly. “There’s no ghost.”

“…Promise?”

“Well, not in the car at the very least. There’s a placard in the glove compartment, be a dove and hang it under the mirror.”

Alfred sighs in disgust and digs through what must be a hundred maps (honestly, who still uses paper maps?) before pulling it out and doing as he’s told. There’s nothing to worry about, Alfred tells himself.

But when he moves his hand from blocking his view of the street a silhouette on the sidewalk appears. It’s a hunched figure wearing a ragged cloak and Alfred sees the red brick wall behind them. The hairs on the back of his neck stand ramrod and he turns to tug on Arthur’s sleeve when a moment later he blinks.

And the figure is gone.

If there was a ghost nearby Arthur would have noticed, what with all his freaky magic wizarding shit. The goosebumps and feeling like he’s being watched are probably a symptom of burnout. Alfred just doesn’t know how to relax and his brain has come up with something mean to scare his mind into its usual overworked state. That’s what Mattie says all the time, and his Canadian neighbor is usually not wrong.

Alfred can trust Arthur. Arthur wouldn’t lie about something like this. He wouldn’t.

Would he?

✰ ✰ ✰

Thirty minutes into their hike and twenty into the culpability of Twitter users abouts the existence of ghosts, and all the theories his followers proposed in Alfred’s tweet comments, Arthur proves him wrong.

“For goodness’ sake, Alfred! I was joking, love. There is no Birchington. I was just so pent up with your constantly jabbing my magic so I made up a silly little story.”

Alfred stops walking and flails before finding his voice, “... You lied to me?”

“It wasn’t creative enough to warrant a ‘lie’, per se. Anyone with half a brain could see through it. Just- just quit fussing so we can enjoy what little free time we get.” Arthur grabs Alfred’s hands, expression something between infuriated and pleading. Arthur looks at his watch and it’s clear the only thing the Englishman is concerned with is staying on schedule.

Alfred feels beyond betrayed. He trusted Arthur!

(To be frank this wasn’t inconsistent behavior. Their usual Halloween challenge relied on Arthur using Alfred’s particular weak spot against him. But!) This wasn’t Halloween. This vacation was supposed to be for sleep, exploring, and sex exclusively.

Flabbergasted, Alfred stutters angrily a few moments before turning cheek and stomping off. Unfortunately Arthur carries all of their navigation equipment, and so Alfred’s gesture can’t have the desired impact and storm out of sight the way he’d prefer, but he can sit down and start typing a draft to Mattie about what a jerk Arthur is.

Alfred finds a semi-dry log and does just that.

Honestly, doesn’t Arthur know how lucky he is to be with Alfred?? He’s so amazing. Massive biceps, a sweet face, sexy NASA station ID card… Arthur’s totally disrespecting him. Slandering his dignified image! That limey bastard!

Alfred types furiously on his smartphone, striking a comical silhouette along the trunk he leans against.

But he pauses when the shadow of an unkindness of ravens are bent by his foot. Birds twitter and chirp in the tree tops. They sound so merry, and of course they do. How could the birds be unhappy? The weather is lovely and they’re with all their bird friends. Who knows how long birds live, how long they’ll have to chirp together. Perchance. It’s nice to hear their musical notes and Alfred starts feeling silly for being bitter. Closing Whatsapp, Alfred starts looking towards his Englishman, about to forgive and forget-

Before he sees the expression on Arthur's face.

England has an unimpressed eyebrow raised above on an equally snooty gaze, almost glassy with disinterest. The birdsongs seem to cut off abruptly in Alfred’s ear and he whips back to Whatsapp, typing twice as furiously.

“If you need a moment to console yourself I’ll just be over there,” says Arthur eventually, finding a stump near a clearing to sip at his Yeti of tea. Japan gifted him a box of teas before the meeting and this black blend has subtle hibiscus tones. It’s excellent and Arthur mentally ponders what gifts he could thank Kiku’s gesture with.

Arthur does feel a little bad for keeping up the lie, but America is acting so childish that it would hurt him more to acknowledge it than apologize and it was such a fucking. Stupid. Lie!

Behind him Alfred curls his lip in Arthur’s direction, thumb pressing a hole through his phone screen.

The sound of crunching glass makes Arthur look over his shoulder to raise an even (if somehow possible) higher and haughtier eyebrow.

“Not. One. Word,” Alfred says in an intense whisper, ruined phone falling into a small pouch on the side of America’s borrowed hiking bag. This wasn’t the first technological casualty, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last

Arthur seals the Yeti bottle shut and nods, meeting Alfred in the middle of the trail where they initially parted ways.

Looking down at Arthur and remembering all the birds singing, he realizes how little time they have and how much he doesn’t wanna waste it. “Pop by Starbies tomorrow morning and we’re even.”

Arthur offers a sarcastic hand and Alfred shakes it.

They both look down at their hands for a moment before Alfred smiles. “Awww, c’mere you,” he dips Arthur into a tender kiss, almost overbalancing with their combined hiking equipment.

The trail leads England and America another four miles into the forest, an orange sun just beginning its Eastern dip to cast long tree shadows.

⚜⚜⚜

Arthur starts feeling something strange. Alfred convinced him to stray from the trail after a late lunch and he regrettes giving in. They each had headlamps but neither man was keen to stay out past dark.

Unfortunately the compass wouldn't quit spinning and Arthur’s phone was dead. Alfred was freaking out as the minutes went by and the sun sunk lower, and Arthur pretended he wasn’t freaking out as well by marching ahead.

Alfred wasn’t in the habit of verbalizing his anxiety, but Arthur chalked it up to some lingering ghost fears.

“We’re lost! Oh fuck Arthur, we’re lost,” Alfred whimpered, chugging his water. “If Birchington- if ghosts existed I’d be real nervous right about now. Dark, empty forest. No weapons, compass broken, phones dead. Ha ha ha. Heh.”

“Pity, it seems we’ll miss our reservation. But we’re fine. We entered the path on the Eastern side, so even if we don’t find the trail for a few miles we’ll run into a road.” But the temperature was dropping, and frankly neither Arthur nor Alfred had been following where they were. Who needed to with a trail?

“Uh, Artie?”

Arthur stopped smacking the side of the spinning compass to look up. “What?”

“The website didn’t mention a big ass castle anywhere.”

“Why would it? There’s no cast- Oh.” In the clearing, illuminated just by moonlight, loomed a massive, dilapidated and ivy-covered castle.

How neither man saw it before is beyond Arthur. It’s enormous and beautiful, with tall towers on either side. They stand so close they can see the mosaic of rocks, and thick ivy tearing through the binding. Moss kisses each crevasse and the rocks are smoothed by weather and time. It’s a jaw droppingly stunning building and it makes Arthur melt just a bit.

“I thought I’d seen them all…” Arthur whispers aloud. It is curious to realize that something this huge and close to home had gone under his radar.

A force he can’t place seems to pull Arthur’s body towards the looming structure, and before he realizes it he’s weaving through the brush filling the entrance.

“Wha- Arthur! No, man, no c’mon this is- it’s how people die in h-horror movies!”

Subconsciously, Arthur can tell how close to breaking Alfred’s tone is. But there’s a mixture of curiosity and something far more powerful pulling him in and denying his feet their forward march is actually painful. “You wait here, love. I’m gonna have a look about.”

His responses are vague flailing noises which increase steadily in volume until Alfred is glued to his side. They ascend a crumbling stairwell off the parlor, and with each step what little light remains steadily dulls until the brightest thing visible is the entrance to the stairs. They turn on their headlamps, but there’s not much to see.

“This is creepy as fuck,” Alfred complains, and Arthur can’t help but agree. There’s magic, strong magic, somewhere in these walls and he feels both threatened and enraptured by its pull. He can’t stop himself from placing one foot in front of the other even when he’s decided the potential risk is not worth quenching his curiosity. Alfred is clearly terrified, and the American’s unintentionally harsh hold over his arm threatens to snap the bone.

Behind him a rather nasty cough emanates. “Excuse me.”

At that Arthur whips around faster than light. Alfred would never apologize for coughing! He’s right: In front of his eyes festeres a spirit. His form is vague, but he wears a white shirt under a cloak, and it is speckled with blood. A cloth is held against his mouth and when he looms towards them he doesn’t make another sound.

”It’s Birchington, just like those guys on Twitter said!” Alfred exclmains.

Ah. That explained this then. What's more stereotypical than an English 1890’s TB victim haunting a dilapidated medieval castle? Very little, that’s what.

“How many Twitter followers do you have, love?” asks Arthur. He knows it's in the millions. It doesn’t bode well for them, alone with an extremely powerful spirit who's still gaining in power from fear generated by Alfred’s Tweet.

Six hours ago Birchington the ghost, an unfortunate victim of tuberculosis, did not exist.

Now Alfred and Arthur are being pulled right off their feet and into the air by a very real, very dangerous conjuring of the mass imagination. In the end, Arthur can admit this is his own doing.

Alfred’s unholy screams are devoured by an artificial wind, but his mouth is open and he can feel the American’s terror from where he’s being tossed and dragged against the walls on the other side of the room.

With each drag Arthur feels his skin ripping off from his back, arms, and legs and his clothes go damp. He smells copper, and he bites his tongue to keep from screaming.

Alfred has no such reserves and curses up a storm, his superior strength holding up better against Birchington’s onslaught.

Suddenly the bricks beside him explode into shards of rock and America is right next to him, arms strained against the wall and hands embedded in the crumbled dirty brick. “You said you lied, fucker!”

Arthur strains his neck in order to turn his head and yell against the howling wind, “I did not lie this time, Alfred! Your chronically online Twitter posse believed him into existence! Maybe you should keep your fucking life to yourself insetad of informing the world on your every step and thought, twat!”

“T-twa- I can’t believe you, you-Akk!” And Alfred is yoinked back into the air.

Below them Birchington coughs up what must be a lung and a half. The noise he produces is dreadful and comically fitting for his backstory. The concept of a coughing, evil ghost would be funny if the attacks weren’t so vicious. England is again slammed into a wall, this time stomach down, and he turns his head to snarl. He has to think of something to at least even the scale, and as he does his tongue curiously catches a tooth which must have cracked off when his face smashed against the bricks.

He spits it out onto his palm and clenches it tightly in a fist, closing his eyes and forcing his body to hold up against the invisible winds wanting to shove it to and fro. When he opens them his body remains in the same place and below Birchington releases an energized hacking fit. England senses the spirits' magic increase, but his own abilities allow his physical body to maintain its undisturbed hovering.

Above him Alfred continues to be spun about, flailing his arms and legs like someone who has never learned to swim in a body of water. Arthur can’t do anything about America while he stabilizes his own field of gravity and familiarizes himself with Birchington’s energy.

“I’m going to try exercising him, so try and grab onto something,” Arthur shouts, drawing upon his magic and forming a ball of light in one hand. It’s difficult to maintain because Birchington’s power is being drawn from the land around them, which England partially draws from as well. Without any magical conductor, he has nothing but his own limbs to centralize the force of his blow.

England takes a breath, flexes his leg,

And drops.

⚜⚜⚜

“Bloody buggering- fuck- goddamit,” Arthur seethes, forcing the two pieces of femur together. The only thing worse than breaking a femur was having to re-snap it when the bone healed crookedly.

Alfred, smushed against his side in an Uber that probably isn’t up to code, rubs his shoulder in sympathy. The lad was obviously exhausted. Not surprising considering the bodily trauma inflicted by Birchington’s attack. The American was fighting sleep, blinks becoming slower and slower.

The windows are open and leave the car feeling identical to the stone, bone-cold castle they escaped not hours before. The chilly temperature might have helped England fight his own desires to sleep if not for the warm leather jacket sitting over his shoulders.

Immediately after exercising Birchington Arthur blacked out. Alfred took the liberty of wrapping him in that beloved flight jacket and carrying them towards a road, where a car peeled off the road and the driver proclaimed herself an Uber.

Then Arthur awoke with a shout of pain.

They listened to her with disbelief, but little choice. The night was empty and it was a stroke of luck that anyone was out here at all.

“No card, though,” she’d then said, and with no cell signal to verify her credentials, they clambered into the back.

And they were, finally, on their way back and blessedly ghost-free. Now England could allow himself to breathe.

England tried relaxing a bit into his seat, laboriously unstiffening his shoulders and unclenching his jaw. Everything screamed, sore and bruised, and he was exhausted in every manner of the word. With his magical reserves depleted to nothing Arthur felt weak and out of his element, and the only thing which provided even a modicum of comfort was the promise that Alfred wasn’t so upset over the (obvious) ghost prank he wasn’t booking an early flight home.

Cheers!

“A spot of tea would be lovely right now,” Arthur mutters, leaning his forehead against the driver's headrest. The leather smelled of cigarettes and toffee and it distracts him from the sensation of bone knitting itself together.

“Mind if I light one?” Alfred asks the driver, Zippo flame already dancing against the wind’s pull.

“Not at all! Mind lighting two?”

“Artie?” Without looking Arthur declines with a small wave. He doesn’t want Alfred to see his hand shaking if he tried holding it.

Shrugging, Alfred hands the driver a cigarette and sucks on his own so long Arthur wonders if the American has switched off his need to breathe.

It would be an overreaction from Arthur’s perspective but then again, a little haunting never spooked him.

But then America breathes out and coughs and Arthur remembers he wants tea. Preferably cold by about twenty minutes, served in a quiet which lacked the burden of guilt.

Alfred acts natural enough, tapping ash out the window and smiling at tall, sparse trees whipping by. But if he were sincerely okay the car would be flooded with conversation and laughter.

“For what it’s worth…,” Arthur starts (gently, so Alfred will look). “I’m sorry I lied about Birchington. I might not care about ghosts and the like, but I knew you did. I took advantage of your trust and I’m sorry.”

The car is silent for a moment (minus cheesy pop blaring through the driver’s Airpods) and Alfred looks out the window again before meeting his eyes and smiling. This time it reaches his eyes and crinkles the crows feet and Arthur’s thoughts abandon his physical discomforts when he imagines kissing them.

“…It’s ok, I guess,” says Alfred, in a voice rarely used. Arthur knows he means it. “I kinda got caught up in all those news media stories about that Arataka guy in Japan and his Dagger story.”

That sentence sits in the air until it feels settled. Arthur starts, “Speaking of Japan…”

A beat. Then,

“Oh em gee, Sushi!”

#hetalia #usuk #hws america #hws england #fanfic #usukustwiceperyear

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