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[societyfolklore]

We Had A Deal

Title: We Had A Deal

Pairing: Dark Nomad! Steve Rogers x Female Reader

Summary:  You were Steve Rogers connection to help him disappear after Germany.. but the last time he called, it didn't work out..After almost a year he reappears—bleeding, angry, and needs somewhere safe. But you’re not a hero. Just someone with a skillset. But you owe him and Steve never forgets a debt.

Word Count:  5.4k  

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI, SMUT, Unprotected sex, Rough sex wall sex, fingering, creampie, Slight Dub Con..maybe.. little angst and emotional manipulation.. guilt, shame, Brief mentions of past physical injury (blood, wound care)...

A/N:  Set in that two year period of Civil War to Infinity War @buckybarnesfic this ones for you.. hope you like it.. (since we didn't clarify which Steve in the poll)

The lights were off when you got home. Not unusual. You were always the one switching them on, feeling your way through the dark like it was muscle memory. But the air felt wrong, too still. And the window was unlocked. That wasn’t routine. That was intentional.

Your steps slowed. Every sense sharpened. Your hand brushed the wall near the light switch, but you didn’t flip it, letting your fingers just hovered there, the quiet hum of instinct crawling up your spine. Without looking, your other hand slid beneath the hem of your jacket, hand closing around the grip of the compact pistol holstered against your ribs. Safety off. Just in case.

Then you saw him.

Sitting at your kitchen table, a shadow in worn black, broad shoulders hunched but not slouched. Blood dried across his knuckles, crusted at the base of his fingernails. His ruined tactical suit looked darker than black, stained with sweat, dirt, something you didn’t want to name. A backpack sat slumped at his feet, worn and scuffed like it had been dragged through hell.

His hair was longer than you’d ever seen it. Still blonde, but darkened with grime, curled slightly at the ends where it brushed the collar of his suit. A beard shadowed his jaw, lending something feral to his otherwise statuesque stillness. It had been months since you’d seen him. But one look at him now, and the sharp weight of recognition curled low in your chest like a bruise resurfacing. He didn’t look like the man people called Captain anymore. He looked like a man who had nothing left to lose, shoulders rigid beneath the frayed edge of his ruined suit, jaw tight like every word cost him something. His eyes didn’t shift, they just locked on you with a stare that looked straight through skin and memory, like he was cataloguing all the ways you’d changed and all the ways you hadn’t that made it hard to breathe. Like he'd seen too much, lost too much, and carried it all in the line of his spine, straight and unrelenting.

And that stare- flat, unreadable, but heavy. The kind of look that pinned you in place. Like you were the one trespassing. You could feel it in the gravity he carried. Like every step he’d taken since he walked out of your life had weighed more than the last.

And now he was here. Hurt. Waiting.

“I needed a place to stay.”

You dropped your keys on the bench with a sharp clatter. “And you chose mine?”

“You were the closest. You owe me. Remember?”

He shifted slightly, just enough for your eyes to catch it. His hand ghosted toward his ribs, fingers curling in just a little, like he was testing the edge of something raw. The fabric there clung damp to his side, and the tension in his jaw told you everything you needed. He was hurting. More than he wanted to admit.

You crossed your arms. “I gave you a clean house.”

“You gave me a trap,” he said quietly.

Your jaw flexed. “I ran every scan. Every sweep,” you snapped, louder than you meant to. “Don’t pin your ghosts on me, Rogers.”

You could feel your face heating, not from anger, at least not only from that. It was defensive, instinctive, a wall thrown up against the guilt gnawing just beneath. Because deep down, buried beneath the pride and professionalism, was something worse: the sharp sting of failure.

You didn’t mess up. You double-checked that house. Triple-checked. The data was clean. You knew it was. But that didn't change what happened, Steve had gotten wounded Sam too. And so had the only people on your roster who still tried to do good. Tried to be more than just ghosts and criminals.

Maybe it wasn’t your fault. But it sure as hell felt like it.

So no- you weren’t going to let him say it out loud. You beat him to it.

He looked down at his hand. Blood flaked off his knuckles. “You don’t get to call it a sweep when there’s blood on the walls.”

The room went still. Just the hum of your old fridge and the ache of everything unsaid. It felt like something suspended in the air, waiting to break.

“I’m here now,” he said, softer this time. “Because you’re the only one I trust to make it right.”

It was almost worse hearing that from him. Like it was a mercy he was offering you, calling it trust when it was really necessity. And worse still because a part of you wanted that trust. Needed it like a wound needed stitching.

“I didn’t ask you to trust me,” you said. “That was your mistake.”

“And you didn’t say no when I walked in tonight,” he countered, voice lower, more deliberate. “That’s yours.”

The words hit hard, slicing past your pride to land where your guilt still lingered you barely kept buried, where your pride tried to build walls against it. You hated the way it made you flinch inside, hated the way he saw too much with too little effort. Still, you kept your expression neutral, carefully smoothing over the twitch of reaction. If he sensed your hesitation, your guilt, your anger. It stayed unspoken. You locked it behind your eyes and gave him nothing. Just moving away to pull a med kit from under the sink. Tossed it onto the table with more force than necessary.

“Can’t have my most high-profile clients dying on my floor. It’s bad for business.”

His eyes stayed on you. Heavy. Accusing. Unforgiving.

“And you’re all about business, aren’t you?”

That stung more than it should have, because it wasn’t entirely wrong. But it wasn’t right either. The money had always been part of it, sure. But some jobs you took because they reminded you who you used to be. Who you wished you were still capable of being. Jobs that felt like a line between right and survival.

And Steve? He was one of the few that made you want to be better.

Which only made all of this worse.

You patched him up in silence. The gash along his ribs said more than he ever would. You didn’t ask. Just worked- methodical, steady, but not detached. Every time you pressed gauze to his skin or stitched through another layer, you were painfully aware of the rise and fall of his breath, the way his muscles tensed under your fingers, the way he didn’t wince even when he should have.

You told yourself this was just another job. Like any of the others. Keep your head down. Get it done. But the truth crept in at the edges. He wasn’t just another fugitive. He was Steve fucking Rogers. The one you used to believe in. The one who made you feel like maybe you weren’t just profiting off desperation.

Now, you were here, cleaning up his blood in your kitchen while guilt licked at the base of your spine. “Where is everyone else? Sam? Wanda? Hell, where’s Natasha?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stared like he was weighing how much to give.

“We’ve had to split up for a bit,” he finally said. “Easier if everyone lays low on their own for a while. Can’t afford to make patterns. Too many people watching too many doors.”

You studied him a moment longer, the implication settling like a stone in your gut. They were scattered. Isolated. Probably hurting. Probably hunted. Where they all in places like yours? With people like you?

"Wonderful..." Your voice was quieter this time. Not a surrender. But something worn, something bruised.

He let you work. Silent. Watchful. You wondered if he could feel your shame in the way your hands hovered, just a second too long, at the edge of his skin.

He took the pullout couch. You weren’t noble enough to offer your bed. But later that night, you stood barefoot in your kitchen, watching him sleep. Drink in hand. Guilt rotting in your gut. You couldn't stop thinking. 

You hadn’t spoken to Natasha in years when she called you over a year ago. Said Steve needed help. Discreet help. She’d made it clear you weren’t the first call. Just the one she knew would say yes. That said enough on its own. You were reliable, cold-blooded, detached, at least that’s what your reputation had earned you. Just the ghost in the wires. Not someone who got involved.

You’d helped a lot of people disappear, stay hidden. Everyone was running from something- bad choices, bad people, or bad governments. You never asked what. Never cared. Names, locations, and needs. That’s all you needed to know to make someone vanish.

But Steve wasn’t just another fugitive. He was the kind of man people still called a hero, even now. Even after the world turned on him.

That complicated things.

You took your drink to bed. Lay awake staring at the ceiling, the warmth of the whiskey dulling nothing. You tried not to think about how his blood had soaked into your dish towels. About how he hadn't flinched when you stitched him up. About the weight of his stare while you moved around him like you didn’t care.

They were supposed to be the good ones. You were the girl people called when they were desperate enough to pay for salvation.

Desperate enough that you could turn it into currency. It wasn’t heroic, but it kept you fed, off the grid, untouchable. That should’ve been enough. But tonight, with Steve Rogers asleep in your apartment and the ghosts of better intentions clawing up your throat, it didn’t feel like power. It felt like penance.

You'd wanted to believe helping the runaway Avengers would make you feel cleaner. That maybe, just maybe, throwing a lifeline to people who were still trying to do the right thing would tip the scale, erase some of your sins. But all it had done was shine a brighter light on your own rot. You weren’t like them. You weren’t running because you believed in anything. You were running because it was profitable. Because you knew how to disappear, how to survive, how to sell freedom to the desperate.

Helping them hadn’t absolved you. It had only shown you the line you’d long since stepped over. And that- the knowledge of it- curled in your chest like shame with nowhere to go. 

~#~#~#~#~#~#~

The next 48 hours crawled.

Tension threaded through the air like exposed wire, taut, crackling, ready to snap, constant, impossible to ignore. It crept into everything: the sound of the faucet, the scrape of a chair, the clink of a spoon against ceramic. Your footsteps shifted from brisk to cautious whenever he was in the room, movements sharper, clipped. You moved through the space like it was still yours, but now it felt shared in a way you hadn’t agreed to. Like you’d rented out your shadow without realizing.

And Steve? He watched. Always watched. Like he was taking notes you didn’t have access to. Not just studying your habits, but measuring them. Measuring you.

You walked around in a towel. Changed shirts in the hallway after disappearing for hours and returning dirty. Stripped your gun on the coffee table wearing just a tank and shorts- your legs bare, your expression unreadable. It wasn’t for him. It wasn’t about him. It was survival. Routine. Muscle memory that made the space yours again, because you had lived in it, built a rhythm in it. He was the intruder.

You kept your distance. Made no move to soften the edges. Didn’t invite misinterpretation or give him anything he could read as permission. Just silence, space, and cold professionalism.

You took calls in your bedroom, low-toned, clipped, all business. The kind of calls that made Steve’s jaw twitch and his silence go heavy. Names slipped out sometimes, familiar ones. Sometimes dangerous ones. You caught the way he stiffened when you asked about biometric locks or listed off chemical agents like grocery items. You never looked at him while you spoke, but you knew he was listening. Judging.

But if he didn’t like your business, he could fucking leave. You weren’t the one who came crawling through a window. 

You sat down at the kitchen table, dropping the tablet beside your coffee with a flat thunk- its glow still active from the last call. Steve was already seated across from you, silently nursing his mug of tea, eyes sharp and unreadable. You didn’t look at him. Just tapped open your notepad and started writing out your latest supply list. Med kits, Weapons orders, new ID’s... Standard stuff.

Except nothing felt standard anymore.

You could feel his eyes tracking the screen. Judging. The quiet disapproval rolled off him in waves. It curled up your spine like heat off the burner, and finally, you snapped.

“If you’re going to hang around like some awful smell,” you muttered, not even glancing up, “stop side-eyeing me.”

Steve didn’t blink. “You’re a professional, right? So be professional.”

“You’ve benefited plenty from my ‘unprofessional’ connections.”

“And you’ve made a profit off people like me.”

That shut you up. Because it was true. But also, because you weren’t sure what cut deeper- his judgment, or the fact that some part of you thought maybe you deserved it.

You’d had enough.

You snatched the tablet off the table and stood, grabbing your jacket from the back of the chair. The air felt too tight around you, like his presence was taking up more space than it should. You didn’t need his attitude, not in your own home. Not in the place where you were the one doing the favor.

You didn’t say a word. Just moved with practiced calm, throwing the bolt on the door as you stepped out, letting it slam behind you with just enough force to echo.

~#~#~#~#~#~#~

It broke on the third day.

You were on your way back from a drop off, passing through city center on your way back, instinct coiling low in your gut. Something felt off. Not obvious. Not loud. Just wrong. Your eyes swept casually across the street, and there he was. Standing by a paper stand, pretending to read. Too still. Too focused. You never looked straight at him, but you noted everything; his relaxed stance was a little too rehearsed, the subtle lift of a radio at his belt, and the unmistakable outline of government-issue boots tucked under worn denim. He didn’t notice you clocking him. But you did.

You kept moving. Didn’t break stride. Didn’t let the tension touch your face. Just stormed back toward the apartment with fire in your chest and a bitter taste in your mouth.

The moment the door shut behind you, the air seemed to thicken, sound muffled, movement slower. You stood frozen for a breath, keys clutched tight in your hand, heart pounding loud in your ears. The echo of your own footsteps felt louder than they should’ve, like even the floor was warning you. Your pulse didn’t calm, didn’t fade. Tossing your keys down and tore through the nearest drawer, grabbing one of your burners. The screen lit up with a single blinking message.

'City getting hot. Stay home where it’s cool.'

Initials only. The source was solid.

“Fuck…” you muttered, tossing the phone back into the drawer and slamming it shut hard. 

“What?” Steve’s voice came from the living room.

You didn’t answer. Trying to reign in a temper you didn't have a habit of loosing in front of people.  You wanted to scream at him to leave, instead you stormed past him as he entered to hall. 

“You sticking around’s going to get me burned,” you said, too evenly. “I’ve got clients. People on the books. Some of them are wanted too. You’ve got the damn U.S. government charging you with treason. Ross would love to catch someone like me with my pants down.”

Steve stepped closer.

“You’re afraid of Ross… but not me?”

“I don’t make a habit of fearing men who sleep on my couch.”

You turned, marching up the hallway for your room, needing distance. Needing something solid between you and him before this got worse. Before the weight of him pressed in too close again. You needed walls. Doors. Space that he couldn’t occupy so easily. Because being close to Steve Rogers wasn’t just physical- it was gravitational. He pulled at your balance, at your composure, at every carefully drawn line between professionalism and something far more dangerous. He distorted your centre, made you forget which way was forward, which direction was safe.

You didn’t look back as you spoke. “I’ll get you another safehouse,” you said over your shoulder, tone clipped, brittle. “A better one. One with backup access and line-of-sight coverage. Somewhere that isn’t here.”

“I already had your best one,” he replied without missing a beat. His voice didn’t waver, didn’t shift- like the memory was a static weight in his gut. “And I nearly bled out on the floor.”

You stopped, hand curling slightly against the doorframe.

Behind you, his footsteps followed. Measured. Heavy. He wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

“You think you can just push me out the same way I came in?” he asked, closer now. “You think distance makes this cleaner? It doesn’t. Not for either of us.”

You didn’t turn, but your shoulders stiffened. He was standing too close now. Just shy of touching as you turned around to glare at him.

“I didn't ask for you to come here." 

His jaw flexed, the smallest tic of frustration or restraint. It was hard to tell which.

You crossed your arms. Defensive. Measured. Like you could somehow fold all the vulnerability back into your skin if you just held still long enough. “This some kind of twisted loyalty test? See if I'll sell you out? That it?”

“No.” He took a step closer, boots quiet against the floor. “It’s a reminder.”

“Of what?” Your voice had lost some of its edge now. Less bite. More breath. The words came out quieter, like you weren’t sure you really wanted to know the answer.

“That I’m still here.” Another step. The air shifted between you, heavier. “Still breathing. Still owed.”

You held your ground. Refused to shrink. But your pulse spiked anyway. Your heart had already begun its steady climb toward your throat, hammering at the base of it like a warning. Your limbs had gone tight, tense- not with fear, but with anticipation. Something was coming. Something you weren’t sure you could stop, and maybe didn’t want to.

Before you could speak–he moved.

Not rough. Not sudden. Just close. Too close. He didn’t storm in like a soldier. He closed the space like a storm surge. Inevitable, all-encompassing, quiet until it swallowed everything in its path. It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t fast. But it was unstoppable. You could feel it in the way your breath shallowed, in the way your back hit the wall like it had always been waiting there. He didn’t touch you, not yet, but the promise of it wrapped around your spine and pulled. You felt the energy in the room shift, magnetic and unrelenting, pulling your breath with it.

He backed you into the wall like a shadow, hand braced beside your head. Not touching yet, not claiming–but claiming all the same. His breath was warm against your cheek. His chest nearly touched yours, heat bleeding through your clothes like contact without contact.

You stood your ground, unmoving, eyes fixed on the space just past his shoulder- refusing to meet his. You knew if you looked, if you let him in even a little, you’d unravel. Because if you did, it would be real. If you looked, if you blinked, if you breathed too hard–he’d have you.

“You don’t get to play wolf just because you’re cornered,” you said quietly, but your voice had lost some of its sting.

“I’m not playing,” he replied, his voice low and steady. “And I’m not leaving.”

That was it.

His mouth crushed yours. One hand slammed beside your head, the other sliding to your jaw, holding you there while he kissed you like he meant to end the argument with his teeth.

It was hunger in silence. Control wrapped in restraint. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for permission because it already knews the answer.

Your hands didn’t stop him. They pulled him closer.

His mouth was rough- more pressure than finesse. But it didn’t matter. You opened to him anyway, lips parting under the drag of his teeth. Your fingers curled into the cotton of his shirt, holding him there even as your mind screamed that this was a mistake.

But your body had already decided.

Steve groaned low into your mouth as his hand slid down gripping your waist, anchoring you to the wall. You felt the frustration in his touch, the way his fingers tightened like he was holding back too much, like something had been festering under his skin far longer than he could tolerate. The shift of his hips, the heat of his mouth, all of it screamed need, but it wasn’t just lust. There was anger there too. Frustration, guilt, betrayal- everything that had gone unsaid since he walked into your apartment.

The shift of his hips sent a jolt through your spine. He was already hard. Already thick and hot through the fabric of his pants, pressing against your hip with unspoken urgency.

“Steve-”

He didn’t let you finish.

The second you spoke his name, something in him snapped. His mouth found yours again- harder, more desperate this time. A kiss that stole the breath from your lungs, that swallowed the protest before it could form. Like the sound of his name on your tongue had unlocked something primal and possessive.

His hand dropped fast, gripped the crotch of your shorts and tore. The fabric gave with a sharp rip. No finesse. No hesitation. Just sheer frustration and heat ripping through cotton like it was nothing.

You didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Not when his hand was already pushing between your legs, Steve's thick fingers dragging through your slick folds with a possessive thoroughness, like he owned the right to feel how soaked you were.

You moaned, hands slapping the wall as your knees buckled. His fingers sank into you, two at once, pushing your wall out. You clenched around them instinctively, the wet, obscene squelch of your arousal echoing in the quiet hallway. He fucked you slow and deep, but there was no gentleness to it. His fingers curled with ruthless precision, dragging against your front wall until your thighs trembled.

“Hold still,” Rogers growled, those blue eyes blazing into you. “Don’t make me say it again.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“And you’re letting me fuck you against your own wall. So what does that make you?” His thumb pressed up against your clit- circling it with a slow, maddening care that the rest of him didn’t show. The pad of it moved in torturous little spirals, featherlight but exacting, coaxing sparks of sensation that made your knees tremble.

 The contrast was devastating. Where his thumb moved with calculated patience, his fingers drove into you with merciless rhythm, wet squelches echoing in the narrow hallway. Each curl of his fingers dragged over your most sensitive spot, and your core fluttered around him with slick, involuntary greed.  The soft grunt in his throat as he felt just how drenched you were. You whimpered, your hips grinding helplessly into his hand, overwhelmed by the brutal dichotomy of soft and hard, of care and carnality. He was claiming you in layers- one with his touch, and one with his unrelenting presence.

“What? No comeback?” he rasped, voice low and rough, threaded with need. 

You whimpered when he pulled his fingers free, already dizzy from how thoroughly he worked you open. Your hips bucked forward with a mind of their own, chasing the friction even as his touch disappeared.

Steve exhaled a shaky breath, muttering like he wasn’t talking to you- more like he was talking himself through restraint. “It’s been a long time,” he murmured. “You’re the one I call when I need something. Now I need this.”

Then you heard the sound of his zipper.

“Steve- fuck- wait-”

“You want me to stop?”

Your breath catching in your throat and the crackling hum of tension so thick it nearly choked you. "...No."

He pressed in with one brutal, punishing stroke.

You gasped, hissing and cursing at the sheer size of him. The stretch was unforgiving, a searing fullness that knocked the air from your lungs. Your walls fluttered violently around him, not ready, not even close, but he didn’t wait. He sank in like he had every right to be there, like your body had always been his to wreck.

Your muscles clenched, spasming as you tried to take him, adjust to the brutal girth. It was too much. Just the right kind of too much. Your cunt stretched tight around him, wet and tensing. 

He didn’t speak. Just groaned deep in his throat, and it vibrated through your chest like thunder. The veins in his arms flexed as he grabbed your thighs and hiked them higher, wrapping your legs around his waist. The new angle made your breath catch again as he bottomed out, your spine arching from the sheer pressure of it.

"Nnghuh! God.." 

“Christ” he whispered, voice strained but warm against your ear. “When was the last time you got fucked sweetheart? Feel tighter then a vice.”

He started slow- one, two strokes, deep and measured, like he was testing the fit, feeling how tightly your body clung to every inch of him. Like he needed to feel you tremble around him, to memorize the way you gasped and shuddered just from being filled. But then restraint gave way to desperated need.

His hips slapped against yours with each thrust, heavy and fast, until the drywall behind you trembled. The picture frame above your head rattled violently, the screws groaning in protest.

“You put my people on the line,” he muttered against your lips, voice cracking like he hated saying it. “We needed you. We trusted you. You were supposed to be our failsafe, not the reason we bled.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. A choked sound, barely audible over the rush in your ears as he pushed into you again. 

“Yeah?” he growled, grinding his hips into yours with a punishing press. “I can feel how sorry you are, sweetheart." You cried out, unable to stop the sounds ripping from your throat, a tangled mix of shock and release, like every barrier you’d built was breaking loose with each moan. It wasn’t just physical- it was every unspoken resentment, every buried guilt spilling out in raw, breathless surrender. You were a mess of broken gasps, choked pleas and moans you didn’t recognize as yours.

Your fingernails scraped across his shoulders, desperate for purchase, for something to ground you as your body struggled to keep up with what he demanded.

You reached for him blindly, nerves fraying, control slipping like sand through your fingers. He caught your hand mid-air. Laced his fingers with yours and pinned it above your head, pressing it into the wall like it was the only anchor either of you had.

“Steve...please-”

“Begging now?” he murmured, but there was no mockery in it. Just a kind of low, broken awe, like the sound of your voice was something he'd needed to hear for longer than he’d admit.

You trembled against him, your body clenching around the relentless force of him, every stroke driving deeper, harder, spearing up into the sensitive nerves that had already been teased past their limit. Each thrust was a collision of heat and pressure, his cock thick and unrelenting, dragging along your swollen walls, stretching you further than you thought possible. Your wetness coated him, made the glide devastatingly smooth, and the wet slap of skin echoed through the hall in time with your stuttering gasps. Every impact made your spine arch, your breath catch, your mind blur. It was raw. Carnal. The head of his cock kissed something inside you that made your vision white out for a moment, made you choke on his name like it was the only anchor you had. Your body didn’t know how to handle it. Both overstimulated and overwhelmed, nerves fried by the bruising rhythm and the fullness that never let up, never relented. He was everywhere; inside you, against you, all-consuming and there was no escape you wanted.

His breath turned ragged at your ear, voice thick and heavy. “That's right, squeeze me, good girl.” he gritted out, the strain obvious in his voice. “Gonna make you remember this.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Your throat was raw from crying out, your body alight from the firestorm building in your core. Your muscles fluttered wildly around him, unable to do anything but cling to every punishing thrust. He was burning you open from the inside out, and you welcomed the ruin.

Your orgasm slammed into you like a detonation; sharp and incandescent. A white-hot burst of sensation that tore through your core and stole the sound from your lungs. You bit down on your arm, the taste of skin grounding you as your body shook with it, walls convulsing around him like they were trying to pull him even deeper.

“Fuck- gonna come- inside- fuck-”

His words were broken now, punched out on the edge of climax. He surged forward, slamming into you one last time, hips locking as he spilled inside with a raw groan. You felt it, thick, hot, flooding you, filling every inch he’d ruined. Steve's whole body shuddered against yours, hands gripping your thighs so tight you knew he’d leave bruises.

Neither of you moved. The air around you almost crackled.

Then he pulled back, slow and unhurried. His chest lifted from yours, breath evening as if nothing had happened. Your legs slid down his hips, shaking from the effort of holding on, and you collapsed against the wall for support.

Your core throbbed in the aftermath, his cum already dripping down your inner thigh, sticky and unmistakable.

And without a word, turned and walked into your bedroom.

Like it was his.

And you let him.

You could bring yourself to follow him into the bedroom. Instead, you grab a blanket, soft, worn, one that still smelled faintly like him, though you weren’t sure if it was from the fabric or from the way your skin still remembered his touch. You wrapped yourself in it like armour and collapsed on the couch. Not because it was comfortable. You need the space. You need something that still feels like a boundary. A line he hadn’t crossed. Yet.

You expect him to leave in the morning.

He didn't 

Instead you woke up to Rogers in your kitchen. Shirtless. Calm. Like it’s his kitchen and you were guest.  The light from the window catches on the line of his shoulder, casting warm gold against skin, highlighting the tension still wound through muscle and bone. You couldn’t help but track the way it moved across him, softening the sharpness of his frame just enough to make him look human again. That flicker of warmth shouldn’t have affected you, but it did. It made something ache- deep and stupid- in your chest, like the sight of him untouched by shadow was a lie your body still wanted to believe.  Even the sight of his hair is still damp from a shower, curling slightly at the edges did something to you.

“I’ll be here a while,” he says simply, not even turning to look at you.

You open your mouth, close it again. Looking at the floor. There’s a new weight to the room. Steve then he sets a plate down in front of you on the coffee table. Toast and hot steaming mug of coffee beside it.  Looking up at him Steve looked different today. Softer. Probably because he’d worked off the chip on his shoulder when he was slamming into you. 

“Like you said... Ross is in the city,” he started taking a seat next to you.  “Not safe to go out." 

The words hit like punch, knocking the wind out of you. 

You felt boxed in, your own home suddenly smaller. Ross outside, danger circling. Steve inside, tension curling in your gut. Trapped with the thrum of last night’s tension still beating behind your ribs.

Steve didn't press, just nudging the plate closer with steady fingers

“Eat,” he said, voice low but firm. “Then you’re in the shower.”

And for some reason, you listened.

[lizzobetumblin]

Melissa hated her feelings. 

She buried them in a chest in the 5th grade (along with her ability to express them). Other peoples' feelings on the other hand was her forte. She could process, decipher and regurgitate other peoples emotions effortlessly. This gift could’ve taken her through college, all the way to a degree in psychology. Distinguished Dr. Jefferson with a PhD and a cozy office and impressive roster of high-profile, weallthy clients was a shiny idea. Fate would have a different hand for Melissa her talents were exhausted on mediating family fights, friend group drama, and charming her way out of confronting her own feelings. 

“Feelings.” Even saying it out loud to herself seemed silly. Something reserved for ‘cry babies’ and water signs. Typical Sunday nights started tame, reading or writing fan-fiction and drinking cranapple juice. And then like clock work her father would yell her name, 

‘MELISSA!!!’ Emotionless, she’d get up dust off her Winnie the Pooh shorts and make her way downstairs. On the long walk down the hall to the stairs leading to the living room brawl, she’d go through her check list: 

1.) Don’t cry.   

 2.) Stay neutral; Deescalate

3.)Don’t take anything personal. This isn’t about you

She padded down the carpeted stairs in her old soft socks to see her mother tightlipped and tear streaked thinking, 

‘she broke rule number 1’. Her father, Michael was proud and angry, his big belly filled with self righteousness. She knew he would be unyielding in his resolve and at this point her only option was to deescalate.

 ‘Rule number 2’. Then her sister the water sign and calamity for the evening sat on the floor nearly fetal, face red and raw with emotion. 

‘Its not your fault’ Melissa wanted to say ‘You just didn’t follow the rules… you’re loved.’ But she couldn’t say that because she’d be breaking rule number 3. It wasn’t about how Melissa felt. Even though she felt like screaming,

“VANESSA, YOU DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG. DAD—YOU JUST HAVE PENT UP ANGER BECAUSE YOU GREW UP IN THE HOOD OF DETROIT AS A BLACK MAN IN THE 60s AND 70s. YOU NEED A HEALTHY OUTLET LIKE.. I DONT KNOW… THERAPY?!?!?! THIS IS A WASTE OF ALL OF OUR TIME. I LITERALLY JUST WROTE THE BEST SAILOR SATURN x CHIBI USA FANFICTION EVER AND THIS IS KILLING MY VIBE!”

Instead, she decide to hear every one out. She decided to help. To calm her dragon of a father down. To be a translator for her emotional sister. To not take it personal. To stay neutral. To not cry. 

9 years later, at her fathers funeral she still never broke the rules. She played her flute and spoke at his memorial. She was present for her mother because it wasn’t about her. When other peoples' emotions bubbled up she stayed neutral. She sat through both services and she did not cry. It wasn’t until she excused herself to make a phone call outside did she collapse onto the stairs of the funeral home and weep alone in the cold Detroit snow. 

It’s okay to break the rules sometimes, she reminded herself. As long as no one else sees it.

Traumas began to compact on Melissa, as they do. Humans tend to collect traumas like pebbles on a long hike. We toss them into our backpacks and keep moving forward. Some hikers would falter, but Melissa was built for this. She’d carried the stones of her family’s traumas uphill for years. She was strong. 

When men began to befriend and reject her, saying ‘you’re too good for me’ but not too good to make them feel good. She carried that. 

When childhood friends began to cut off the strings of her heart, saying ‘We can’t be friends anymore’. She carried that.

When her family separated like dandelion seeds, it seemed like they’d never be together again. Melissa slept on so many couches, floors and car seats sometimes she didn’t know if she’d see them again. 

She carried that. 

Dying was never an option though sometimes she didn’t mind the thought of it. Peace and warmth were two things she’d desperately yearned and hadn’t felt fully since the womb. Then one night in the pitch black of the hot, sweaty, roach-infested studio in southeast Houston she slept in she wondered:

‘Why can’t I break the rules?’ She’d seen everyone else in her life break them like popsicle sticks. And she didn’t just want to break the rules, she wanted to break them boldly and loudly and annoyingly and honestly and sloppily like every one else gets to do. It was in that moment, tucked in a thin jacket inside of an 8-foot high instrument cubby in the inky darkness—it hit her. 

‘Is my suffering for a high purpose? Or is my suffering trying to kill me?’ 

She cried. 

She escalated. 

She took it personal. 

But it wasn’t enough. She wanted to scream in a microphone in a sea of shadowy faces. She drank whiskey and wove her pain into rock music. 

‘Music is my boyfriend’ she declared. The only man that kept his baggage to hisself. And it healed her. It gave her voice reason and purpose. 

The pebble-laden hike became lighter with time. The incline eventually evened out to flat, beautiful landscapes where the breeze finally met her back. She knew it wasn’t gonna be easy or sunshine but even the rain cleansed her and it was beautiful too. 

Somewhere in the rain she decided rules were meant to be built and broken. Like trust and love and friendships and families. Because every thing deserves the opportunity to change and grow. 

So... She broke rule number 1 on stage while singing a beautiful song. Dr. Jefferson (PhD) screamed for her to stop but she didn’t listen and the tears flowed like rivers of emotion down her cheeks. 

Rule number 2 was broken when she grew older and saw the injustices of the world. Marching with hundreds in protest she realized not everything needs to be pacified. 

And one day when she finally fell in love, she broke rule number 3. No matter how much training she’d done she couldn't help but take every thing her lover said and did personal. But it was ok. Because in all her resistance she realized breaking rules was her power. 

Melissa began to fall for her feelings. Her feelings gave life purpose. They weren’t always logical, as feelings seldom are. They were sloppy and embarrassing and rude and so fucking uncomfortable. But they were hers. And they were real. And when she sat alone sipping wine, staring at the moon…They were the only ones still by her side. Ready to break the rules for her because they loved her. 

And she finally loved them back. 

[sugarushwriting]

frat boy sunghoon

may look “cold” but just an introvert with a rbf

bad idea right?

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ ₊˚⊹♡

“he totally ignored me! i thought he liked me.” your friend called out from where she sat next to you. she was crying, snob running down her nose, mascara smeared over her eyes.

“i told you not to pursue him.” you sighed.

park sunghoon. your friend was crying over park sunghoon.

frat boy. hockey player. acts shy (or maybe he is). ladies man.

“you told me to go for it!” she argued and you had to fold your lips to keep from laughing.

“technically i did not. i warned you, but then said ‘go for it if that’s what your heart desires’.”

she kept crying. you hate to say it or even think it, but your friend was an ugly crier.

“people are staring.” you whispered to her. while other students walked by, they would be startled by the sobs and sniffles.

“why did he ignore me! i mean if it was you, i’d understand, because you are you. but we’re talking about me!”

you sighed, not even surprised or hurt by the snide comments. at this rate you don’t even see this girl as a friend anymore. you’ve noticed in order to lift herself up, she always had to bring you into it.

“karina, please remember you can have any man on this campus. don’t cry over sunghoon.”

karina wiped her tears, smearing the make up even more with a smile and nod. “you’re right! i can have any man on this campus, like san!”

not like san, actually. you’ve overheard what he says he likes and doesn’t like in a girl. karina sadly isn’t.

“go for it!” you gave her two thumbs up.

karina turned to you tilting her head with a smile, brushing your shoulders. “you’re the best. do you have a compact mirror?”

you went to look in your bag, “i do—,”

karina cut you off. “nevermind, someone like you wouldn’t carry one.”

karina tossed her hair over her shoulder, walking away from the bench she shared with you just moments ago.

someone like you actually did carry a compact mirror. she could happily walk across campus looking like a clown for all you cared.

“you need new friends.” a voice startled you.

“sunoo! what have i told you before?”

sunoo pouted, playing with the backpack string. “that you’re easily startled.” he huffed. “sorry.” he apologized with a smile.

“what made you want to come find me and listen to my private conversation?” you teased, and he happily sat next to you with a bounce.

“i have an extra ticket to the hockey game.” sunoo grinned holding two tickets.

you rolled your eyes. “sunoo, you don’t like hockey!”

“i know, but a frat brother of mines is on the team and he needs someone to cheer for him.” sunoo lifted one of his hands in the air like a cheer move.

“heeseung?”

“basketball practice.”

“jay? jake?”

“jay is too busy baking for some event for his movie club, jake is dog sitting.”

“jungwon? ni-ki?”

“jungwon is studying, ni-ki also has practice.”

you looked at him suspiciously. “kinda weird that everyone is suddenly busy on a thursday night.”

“that’s what i said!” sunoo gasped. “please come with me.” he pouted.

“you literally just saw karina crying over that frat brother of yours and you want me to happily cheer for him?” you asked with arms crossed.

sunoos lip poked out. “please.”

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

you were going to kick sunoo in the ass.

why?

because once you both entered the arena and went to take your seats, you saw each of the boys that sunoo named that were too busy to come.

“sunoo,” you warned and he gave you a hug from behind.

“i’ll buy you a snack from the concession stand?”

“and a drink!” you scolded.

sunoo went to the concession stand and you took an empty seat next to jay.

from furthest from you, to closest was, heeseung, ni-ki, jake, jungwon, and jay.

“hey! you made it!” jungwon smiled towards you.

“sunoo said you were coming, but i didn’t believe it!” jake said next.

you huffed with a scowl on your face.

jay chuckled. “sunoo trick ya into coming”

“he said all of you were too busy to cheer on sunghoon.”

sunoo came back just as the game was about to begin. he handed you your favorite snack and drink, and you switched seats so he could sit next to jay.

good, then you could sneak out early once you got too bored.

and it didn’t take long for you to get bored. after watching grown men fight and chase a puck after an hour, you grew tired.

“it’s only 7 pm!” sunoo said from beside you.

“i am bored!” you groaned. “how long does this usually last?”

“sometimes 2 hours. sometimes 3.” sunoo answered. “please stay. i haven’t seen you in so long!”

“sunoo, you saw me three days ago.”

“three days too long!”

you loved sunoo, you really did. he was younger than you, but not by much. you met him when he was a freshman, and you both shared a class together. you happened to sit next to each other and hit it off.

you were thrown off when he told you, he was in a frat.

you barely knew the other guys, other than jungwon or jay as that’s who sunoo usually hung around the most.

you were kind of familiar with sunghoon and the others, which is why you tried to warn your so-called friend about sunghoon.

it’s not like sunghoon was mean to you, or mean to anyone you noticed him interacting with. he was just quiet. you didn’t know if it was truly his personality or something he pretended to be.

he also just had a resting bitch face and stared off into space often so you couldn’t really judge him on that.

regardless, it didn’t excuse his behavior with the way he treated karina and probably other girls. karina may get on your nerves, but she has been there for you in tough times.

if a guy didn’t like a girl, then he straight up needed to tell them, rather than string them along.

the buzzer sounded, and you clapped thinking it was all over.

“calm down sweets, we still have at least an hour left.” jay laughed and you slid down in your seat with the biggest pout and groan.

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

the next day, sunoo invited you to the usual friday frat party at the frat house. you hesitated, but in the end said yes.

none of the guys lived at the fraternity house (thankfully). jay always said it was because he was too much of a neat freak to have that many people in his house, same with sunghoon.

you got dressed in dorm you shared with your roommate, minnie. you all weren’t close, but you both were friendly and civil, and got along pretty well. it was a good balance.

and she wasn’t a fan of karina as she knows how karina talks to you.

you wore short blue jean shorts (hello ass cheeks) and a plain black long sleeved crop top, with a low v neck.

“i don’t understand how karina judges your clothes. you dress just fine. you just choose to be comfortable most days.” minnie said.

“yeah,” you agreed shyly, “hopefully soon she’ll understand me.”

“i doubt that, she’s too full of herself.” minnie chuckled and you laughed along.

“finally gonna get some tonight?” minnie asked as you were putting on lip gloss.

you snorted, “with who?”

“any of those frat guys would be more than happy to get you to bed, babe.”

“eh,” you thought about it.

“if i were you, i would go for jake or sunghoon.”

you twisted your face at the mention of sunghoon. “definitely not sunghoon.”

“why not? i heard he’s great—,”

“i don’t care how hes like in bed.” you groaned, putting your lip gloss down. “why not jay?”

you turned to look at minnie who sat in the shared common space. “jay is a romantic. you might get him, but he’s very selective.”

“so jake then.”

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

walking into the frat house at 10 pm, it was already packed with different people from different cliques from campus.

you went straight to the kitchen to find sunoo and found him, preparing a drink.

“gotcha!” you startled him and he shrieked causing you to laugh.

“your friend is here.” he smiled taking a sip from his cup. he pointed towards the stairs.

it was karina, and she was with san (?).

you walked over to greet her with a smile. “oh hey.” she smiled wearily. “heard you went to a hockey game.”

“yeah, sunoo wanted me to go.”

“yet when i wanted you to go with me, you wouldn’t. no matter how much i begged.” karina said in an unhappy tone.

“what?”

since when did karina ever want to go to a hockey game? she wouldn’t even go if it meant staring at the guys, specifically sunghoon. she also found it boring!

“karina,”

“no need to beg on your knees for my forgiveness.” karina chuckled.

you looked over to san who looked uncomfortable. was karina really just trying to look all tough in front of this guy?

“whatever karina, i’ll never get on my knees for you or anyone at that matter.” you snapped angrily, and turned to walk off quickly.

“are you okay?” jungwon asked from beside sunoo.

“she’s a bitch.” you said under your breath and took jakes drink from across you, drowning it in 3 gulps.

“woah slow down there! don’t wanna pass out too quickly!” ni-ki laughed.

“i need another.” you stated and jay raised his eyebrows looking at sunoo.

“just make the girl a drink!”

and that they did. 5 to be exact. and you drunk each one. quickly.

bright and dark lights. flashing. jumping up and down. dancing. giggling in happiness. laughs.

that’s all you could remember the rest of the night.

“you need to slow down!” sunoo scolded.

you shook your head and pouted like a toddler. “no!” and you giggled. you heard sunoo calling for jay walking off.

you don’t know how, but you ended up being crushed between jay and heeseung who helped walked you to their house down the street from the fraternity.

you babbled nonsense, also complaining about karina. “can you believe,” you hiccuped, “she said that to my face!” you whined.

“oh no, i can’t!” jake fake pouted from behind you.

the boys walked you into the house, helping you take off your shoes by the door. “thank you.” you mumbled.

jay and heeseung walked you to the couch to lay down. usually after frat parties all 7 of the boys stayed at the house that heeseung, jay, jake, and sunghoon shared.

“she’s never been this drunk!” sunoo said.

“what kind of drink did you make her, man?” heeseung asked jay.

ni-ki and jungwon were too busy looking through the kitchen for snacks.

you were left alone on the couch as the boys gathered in the kitchen.

with a small giggle, you found the strength and balance to walk/crawl up the stairs, into a bedroom, and to the adjoining bathroom.

you don’t know how long you sat next to the toilet until you heard a voice, “what the fuck?”

you opened your eyes slowly. “hi sunghoon!” you smiled with a wave, then hiccuped once again.

sunghoon walked to his door frame, “i found your lost girl you idiots!” he yelled and then sighed going back to the bathroom.

just as you were about to say another word, you felt your stomach churn. “uh oh.”

“you better aim for that damn toilet!” sunghoon shrieked.

you did. kind of. some of it got on the seat, but most of it got in the toilet.

sunghoon groaned in frustration. he had not planned on babysitting a drunk you and cleaning up after your mess.

sunghoon was a clean freak, and didn’t like his space being invaded.

“im sorry!” you cried.

“it’s okay.” sunghoon sighed. he went closer to you, to help you stand up. “let’s get you to someone’s bed.”

he only made it far to his bed with you as you could barely stand up without getting nauseated. “this bed is nice.” you fell over.

“well no, that’s my bed. any bed but mine.”

you shook your head. “im staying here.” you inhaled the scent of the bed.

sunghoon cringed because outside clothes on his bed! “uh, do you mind changing into something not outside clothes?”

“it’s not like i brought pajamas for a slumber party sung-hoon,” you hiccuped his name and giggled.

sunghoon sighed and grabbed an old shirt of his with the frat logo that fit you well. he also grabbed a pair of boxers for extra protection on your end.

“here.” he threw them at your head.

“such a gentleman! i can see why girls like you so much.” you said sarcastically. you stood up with a wobble reaching to take off your clothes when sunghoon cleared his throat and turned around.

“i’ll clean up the bathroom.” he said more to himself.

you struggled with undressing and dressing yourself, the shirt put on backwards, but you got the clothing items sunghoon provided for you on your body. your other clothes laid askew on the ground.

when sunghoon came out the bathroom, you sat on the edge of his bed and now you were crying (?).

“uh, are you okay?”

you laughed, then cried. “am i ugly?” you asked with a sob.

“huh?” sunghoon looked at you like you had two heads.

“it’s just karina, who’s supposed to be my friend, but isn’t a friend, constantly basically says i am not attractive enough for guys.”

you continued the sob story as sunghoon stood and listened to your rant. to a guy you barely interact with, you complained to him about the one girl who you should be protecting. who you should be defending to him for treating so badly.

“would you have sex with me if i asked? or kissed me? would you even hug a girl like me?”

sunghoon stood there awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. before he could answer, you answered for him. (wrongly of course).

“who am i kidding! of course you wouldn’t! no guy on earth would!”

as you continued to babble on, comparing yourself to other girls, sunghoon stood there awkwardly, but listened quietly.

it wasn’t until you talked yourself to sleep that he tucked you into his bed.

₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ ₊˚⊹♡

[multiheadcanons]

PACK A BAG WITH THE MERCS

scout: tiny black backpack. holds his gun and twenty bucks. a comb, a compact mirror, and two condoms. his ID, his passport, and a prepaid gift card with 37 cents on it. a comic book, an extra mag, and a crumpled piece of paper with his family’s phone numbers on it. an extra set of engineer’s goggles. an extra set of sniper’s aviators. a broken pencil and a bottle of unlabeled pills. it’s aleve. a pack of gum and one loose cigarette.

soldier: fanny pack but he carries it like an orc’s club. his ID, his checkbook, a gram of cocaine, a used syringe missing its needle, and $100 bucks cash. aside from these things, it is filled to the brim with rocks, animal teeth and bullets, used and unused.

pyro: hello kitty novelty ita bag. packed with pins. coin purse full of pennies, no silver coins. minimum of five lighters in different colors. matchbox. aerosol spray can. pack of colored pencils. small bottle of water, smaller coloring book. hair barrettes. dog ty beanie baby. pack of stamps. a charcuterie fork they stole from a restaurant. two loose bandaids, some hydrogen peroxide, an open pack of mike and ikes, and three mints.

demo: a fanny pack and he wears it correctly. his checkbook, his ID, his shit list, and a dud of a prototype of a small bomb that he abandoned the ideals of long ago but he tells himself he’ll come back to it. a pen, and two rolls of quarters. the deed to a lake house in michigan he won in a poker game. a walkman, and five shooters of various liquors. a large folding knife, a set of small bolt cutters, and an extra black eyepatch. in case he loses the one he has on.

heavy: small cooler bag he wears across his back, “misha” neatly embroidered in red. two water bottles, a bag of cheez-its, and a sleeve of peanut butter crackers, a couple oranges and a small bag of grapes if he made a stop at the grocery store recently. $50 bill. ID, debit and credit card, and a checkbook. passport. a white feather, two pens, and a box cutter. small flask of vodka. two unused shotgun shells, a keltec PMR30, and a loose earring. microfiber cloth, small notepad littered intermittently with russian, not written on the lines.

engineer: a simple brown leather pouch he attaches to his belt loop with a carabiner. he keeps his ID, his checkbook, his passport, anywhere from ten to thirty dollars in cash, various amounts of change, the keys to his truck, and a couple extra bullets in case they’re ever needed. he’ll occasionally slip a small screwdriver or wrench in there for on the go fixes, but he is usually also taking his toolbox wherever he’s going.

medic: black leather satchel. contains $250 american cash in small bills; and €150 euros. and a roll of quarters. a travel first aid kit, a shooter of vodka, a bottle of water, and a biohazard trash bag. ibuprofen, acetaminophen, and either two tabs of acid, an eight ball of cocaine, or a loose, unlabeled pill. probably xanax. could also be tylenol. he will take it regardless. a white feather, a small pocket knife, his passport, and a wallet, containing an old photo of times long gone, a photo of the team, a fake ID, and three credit cards that do not have his name on them.

sniper: his pockets. wallet containing his ID, his american driver’s license, his insurance, up to $500 cash and a small photo of his parents. keys in opposite pocket. sometimes a receipt or two. everything else is in his van, and if he’s going somewhere, he’s taking his own vehicle.

spy: mid size clutch purse. two packs of cheap cigarettes, one menthol one not. $50 american dollars. a baby photo and a photo of a woman in a blue dress. three separate passports with different names, four credit cards with other names. none of them are his. his knife and revolver. pocket atlas, and a faded contact book of numbers that don’t work anymore. an out of date bus pass, and a ticket to a concert he never went to.

[seraphshifts]

dr shifting exercises. answering the rest of the questions from this post by @zaddizu

an artist you'd like to watch play live - Sabrina Carpenter and Katseye are big ones (gotta support my partners!), but also Chappell Roan and Laufey!

is your life dangerous - Not really. It's not any more dangerous than anyone else's life.

if you were to change one aspect of your life, big or small, what would you change? - Nothing, I gave myself truly the ideal life in this reality.

how do you dress? - Usually comfy, putting in effort to my appearance isn't really realistic for life with chronic illness, but when I dress up it really depends what style I'll go for.

are you popular? - Somewhat? I'm popular on social media but I don't have a crazy amount of friends, if that makes sense.

what is your mbti - INFP

favorite season - Winter

are you an organized person? - I'm pretty organized!

what is your occupation? - I'm a service dog trainer, content creator, game developer, and I work at a non-profit that I founded with my friends!

what's an attractive aspect that you admire? - Physically I love people with wonky teeth or stretch marks. A personality trait I love, however, is people who love nature and animals.

do you play any instruments - I play multiple instruments! I can play guitar (acoustic, bass, and electric), piano, drums, violin, harp, saxophone, and ukelele.

do you have a partner? a crush? - I have eight partners (polyamory final boss). Four of them are my girlfriends and four of them are my boyfriends. I am dating Demitra Kalogeras, Megan Skiendiel, Daniela Avanzini, Sabrina Carpenter, Hitoshi Shinso, Denki Kaminari, Eijiro Kirishima, and Hanta Sero

biggest ick? - People who hate animals. And I don't mean having no strong feelings on animals, I mean genuinely despising animals, especially if they go out of their way to cause animals harm.

what is a song that describes you? - Love Me That Way by Sabrina Sterling

something you carry 24/7? - My service dog Avalanche's leash!

look into your bag. what's in there? is it messy? organized? what kind of bag is it? - I have a white tiger stuffed animal backpack. It's somewhat organized. Inside there's a note pad, pads, playing cards, lip oil, a charging bank, a compact mirror, hand sanitizer, aquaphor, hand lotion, sunglasses, bandaids, hair ties, cash, a debit card, a wallet, gum, pens, and a portable fan.

where do you spend most of your time? - I spend most of my time in my room. When I'm not there, I'm either bothering my parents, hanging out with my friends, or with my partners.

a person you feel safest with? - Apart from my partners and best friends that I've already talked about on here and my CR friend group, I have another best friend named Celeste. She's like a second big sister to me and I really look up to her. She's also a content creator.

a person you dislike? why? - Blanche, Cora, and Bridgette. Pick me spoiled rich girls.

who is your closest friend? describe them. - Same as above (people I feel safest with)! All those same people, there's no one person.

what's your favorite time of day? - I'm definitely a night person.

if your friends described you in 5 words, what would they say? - Funny, weird, brainrotted, clumsy, ill.

now describe yourself in 5 words. - Funny, weird, kind, childish, clumsy.

someone you admire. - My siblings, my parents, and my friends but especially Celeste.

what are you known for? - How much brainrot comes out of my mouth tbh...

biggest pet peeve? - Loud chewers, fucking hate that shit.

what's your favorite item that you own? - I truly cannot pick one single thing.

do you have any pets? - I have six dogs and four cats! All of which are my little babies.

what's your favorite piece of clothing you own? - Most of my sweatshirts and shorts!

[liillyliilly]

His Diary

akaashi keiji x reader words; 10082 synopsis; For Akaashi Keiji, love meant letting someone know him better than he knew himself. It also meant being okay with letting her read his diary.

She decided that this was her new favorite book. It had all the right amounts of everything in it, drama, romance, depression, self-loathing. The journal she found was likely never written to be read. The journal he lost, the journal that Akaashi Keiji misplaced on a train going home from his editing job, he never expected to become a crux in his journey to love.

In all honesty, she didn’t even know it was a journal. It just seemed to be an episodic novel with a unique font, something along the vein of The Perks of Being A Wallflower. She only ever knew the leather-bound pages as a novel with no name. The author used a first-person perspective when writing and told the story of a young volleyball player who wanted desperately to find a passion, so he surrounded himself with others who had passion. What he seemed to enjoy more than playing the sport was writing though.

The author of the untitled book loved to read because the way he wrote made everything else she had read pale in comparison to the inky brilliance. He had captured teenager-dom with such sleight of hand that she believed his writing was made of magic and fairy dust. The story made her cry, made her groan, and made her feel second-hand embarrassment to an extreme she thought wasn’t possible.

When she read the first chapter, she realized she ought to pace her reading, because there were only so many entries. And she had no way of contacting or looking up the author, there was no information of who the author was on the back of the book. There was a Fukurodani Sticker, a school she remembers from her own time at a high school nearby, they were known for their volleyball skills and prowess, so she assumed maybe the author had some lived experience when it came to volleyball. Maybe that was a hobby aside from being a writer of such compelling stories.

She carried it everywhere from the day she picked it up on the floor of the train, it was always in her backpack, purse, and suitcase. She never left it alone, it had become a part of her. She felt like somehow this author reached into her heart and left fingerprints of his making into permanent fixtures of her anatomical structure. DATE: XX-XX-2013 TITLE: Alethiology; The Study of Truth

Today I realized that maybe I am all that I will be. My capacity has limits in comparison to others. A friend of a friend told me that their volleyball captain made a speech once, not to the whole team, just talking with buddies. His speech, or at least the parts I remember from it, was devastating. He said something like guys like Atsumu and all those geniuses, do things on a scale of 1-20, whereas normal guys like me do things on a scale of 1-10. Or maybe they have a denser more compact 1-10. And if 1-20 doesn’t work out, they try things from A to Z.

I’ve never thought of things like that. There’s always been a straightforward path for me, whereas, in comparison to Bokuto, he seems to have a much longer and more complex route ahead of him. Am I all that I will be? Is there a way for the normal guy to switch from 1-10 and try 1-20?

We have another game soon, maybe I can control more than I expect. Is flight into this world of geniuses possible? I can only control myself and my thoughts, but maybe there are external factors that contribute to my role on this team. My role in life as well.

Bokuto is asking for me, I need to go. Hope I can write again soon, but with all the games we’ll be playing I’m doubtful I can write with actual thoughts and not just tallies and plays from the games.

- A.K.

“I mean, who thinks of things like that Miwa?” She sits in the styling chair, getting a refresher on her hair. Miwa snips away lightly, inspecting each strand with duty and consideration for the entire look.

“Your author crush does.” Miwa brushes away some hair from Y/N’s shoulders, tidying up the apron wrapped around her.

She just rolls her eyes at Miwa’s comment. Flipping to the page in the book, tracing a finger over the deep black gel pen markings. Numbers and dashes and names of high schools against Fukurodani tell the story of the adventure at Tokyo’s national volleyball tournament from way back in 2013. She had barely started her second year of middle school in 2013, ripely being 14 years old.

Miwa and her sip some freshly made smoothies of Miwa’s creation, sitting at a table in the window of the entrance to the salon. Miwa bounces her foot that’s crossed over her leg and she pours over the entry once again. It was becoming addicting to choose one entry to re-read until she ingrained the stylistic choices into a deep long-term memory.

At that same moment, Bokuto Koutarou and his best friend Akaashi Keiji walk past Miwa’s Salon, attempting to plan a group hangout to celebrate Bokuto joining the MSBY Black Jackals team.

“I’ll need to make sure Konoha comes, and that he brings that cute friend of his for you,” Bokuto wiggles his eyebrows repeatedly, and Akaashi shoves him lightly on the shoulder.

“Konoha is dating that cute girl he brings around.” Akaashi clarifies. Bokuto looks stunned, but then he remembers them making out on his couch during movie night that one time.

Akaashi looks around the street for a moment, peeking into the windows and observing the various occupants. When he sees his journal, the one that’s been missing for a little over a year, he just has to get it back.

When Akaashi pulls Bokuto into the hair salon, and barely below a scream says, “You stole my journal!” pointing at the girl who was indeed holding his journal from high school, Bokuto feels like his head was put through a blender. There were three very distinct things occurring at that moment. A pretty girl was shoving a book into her bag looking very defensive, Akaashi was trying to take the aforementioned girl’s bag from her, and a girl who he assumed was the pretty girl’s friend had a pair of scissors pointing at Bokuto by the throat.

Akaashi was still trying to pull the bag away, the pretty girl was looking extremely scared, and the scissors girl had opened and closed them one too many times for Bokuto’s comfort.

“Listen, I think we should all just take a moment to pause.” Bokuto held his hands up, shuffling to outturn his pockets in a show of lack of violent intentions. The black-haired girl puts the scissors back into her half apron that’s around her waist and then folds her arms.

Bokuto then pries Akaashi away from the pretty girl who was now clutching her bag against her chest and sniffling a little. Akaashi did feel bad that he made such a bad first impression, but he swore she had his journal. His embarrassing high school journal, the same journal that had cataloged many things he wished he never had recorded down on paper.

Bokuto pushes Akaashi’s head down, forcing him into a deep bow. Bokuto follows suit and also bows.

“I’m sorry for, uh, trying to steal your bag. But I think you may have a book, that isn’t a book at all, but rather my journal.” Akaashi is now sitting at the table in the window, Bokuto, the black-haired girl, and the pretty girl also sitting with him.

Outside the evening had quickly set in, with the orange and pink colors racing to get to the skyline. The blue began to fade into a deep dark navy color. And the lights on the streets began to flicker on. The lights on the outside of the salon began to twinkle from the setting they had been placed on, fairy lights luring those with a need for a haircut into the salon.

Bokuto had his head on his hand, staring intensely at the girl who had taken Akaashi’s journal, sighing slightly at the way her lips pouted and shined from her lip gloss. The girl with the scissors had brought out two more glasses of thick smoothie.

She pulled out the journal from her Doughnut Macaroon-style crossbody bag and slid it over to Akaashi. Akaashi flipped through the pages, immediately recognizing it as his. His face goes red and he readjusts his glasses, and she realizes that this must be his journal. He even goes straight to the back cover and smiles at the sticker she had grown to love to trace with her pinkie when reading.

“I’m not done with it yet, so, I really do hate to say this, but you can’t have it back until I finish it.” She takes the book back and tucks it into her bag again. Akaashi looks dumbfounded, eyebrows raised and lips pursed into a line.

“You’re just going to keep private property? Even though you know it’s mine?” What a dauntless woman she was, to show what Akaashi considered to be audacity with the whole journal situation.

Bokuto chimes in at this point, “Akaashi, I think we should just let the pretty girl keep your little diary.” Bokuto then starts nodding his head up and down to try and get agreement from Akaashi. Akaashi scoffs.

“Okay, so it’s settled, my cutie of a best friend will keep the journal until she finishes it, we’ll get your numbers and she can contact y’all when she finishes the journal, and I get to cut both of y’all’s hair because honestly, it’s atrocious.” Leave it to Miwa to consolidate a plan in a matter of moments.

Miwa touched the spiky salt and pepper hair that Bokuto had, and Miwa’s expression turned sour when she felt the amount of gel on top of his head, then Miwa pulled out a photo of Yuki Ishikawa in a two-block cut and explained what color of black dye Miwa will use for Bokuto. For Akaashi, Miwa just did a trim and tidied up his sides to bring them slightly tighter into his face.

While annoyed, Akaashi does give her his number, along with his name, and Bokuto does the same with much more enthusiasm. After the haircuts are finished, Akaashi tries to pull Bokuto away from the salon, but Bokuto keeps doing the ‘call me later’ signal with his hand and blowing a kiss to her wistfully. She just waves to the both of them while Miwa giggles behind her dye-stained glove. DATE: XX-XX-13 TITLE: Meraki; Putting A Piece of Yourself Into Your Passion

I am the protagonist of the world. We lost but I am still alive, we lost but I loved the game. I came to the realization that it doesn’t matter if you are the best character, the most complex, or the most ‘genius’ of them all. It doesn’t matter because I am the protagonist. I can be the hero of my own story without ever having won first place in a big-name tournament.

Bokuto is graduating, and I’ll still be here, which is disappointing. He’s my best friend I think. Even if he’s the most annoying ass I’ve ever met, he’s still my best friend and I would never trade him for any other person in the entire world. Together we are the protagonists of the world.

Second place is just as accoladed as first place. If I wasn’t who I am, then maybe I would’ve gotten mad. The first-place winner is a rich school, they’ve been a powerhouse for decades at this point, and this win is just another notch on the belt. If I wasn’t who I am, especially after this tournament, maybe I would’ve gotten frustrated at myself for not doing enough. For not being a setter like Kageyama. Or a setter like Oikawa. That doesn’t matter though, I am a setter. I’ve worked hard to get where I am. But a human mind will always wonder why. And sometimes it's just because you’re unlucky.

Kenma told me about his loss to Karasuno, his sweaty hands made the ball slip in the final point. He laughed about it, he said that that was the best game of volleyball he’s ever played. When Kenma told Kuroo thanks for teaching him volleyball, I cried, but not as much as Kuroo did. They remind me of why I went to Fukurodani. I saw Bokuto’s passion for the sport. His passion encouraged mine, and look where we got to. We because the victors at the end of the war.

Mom made katsu chicken for dinner, I did some homework, and I had to put away my volleyball uniform for next year. I practiced in my backyard, alternating between overhead and underhand passes, seeing how long I could go without dropping the ball. Dad called me into the house for ice cream after thirty minutes elapsed.

I called Bokuto tonight before I went to bed. Told him that he’s my best friend and that I love volleyball. Bokuto agreed.

- A.K.

She was crying, and so she held the book out in front of her, resting it on her blanket. She finally had some faces to match with the words she was reading, and it all felt much too real. Bokuto did seem like the type of person to adopt and bring a person like Akaashi into his fold. But the way that Akaashi genuinely admired and appreciated his best friend was unparalleled and she felt like he would understand the exact way she felt about her best friend, Miwa.

Miwa and her met when she was fresh out of college. She hadn’t an idea of what to do in her life, while Miwa seemed to have her passion set out in front of her with her hair and makeup salon. When she got a haircut from Miwa and started ranting about her life, Miwa just told her to slow everything down. Take a gap year from life and just be a human. So, she picked up shifts at Miwa’s salon and moved in with her.

The best friends slowly became business partners as well, and an expansion to the salon was added, a small specialty bookshop that she ran, while Miwa continued to do hairstyling. Their customers were dedicated and loved to support their business. Branding remained solely under Miwa’s name, but she became everything else to the brand as well, the little addition that made the salon extra special.

When she started to cough a little from the way her heart was beating erratically from crying about Akaashi’s diary, she had to get out of bed and get a glass of water. Akaashi’s number was resting on her kitchen table. Miwa was watching some rom-com in the living room of their shared apartment. She brushed pasted the kitchen and sat next to Miwa.

“A good chapter?” Miwa threw a piece of popcorn into her mouth.

“He’s devastating. Who writes like they feel every emotion entirely?” She started crying again and Miwa laughed a little before rubbing her best friend’s back.

“You could always call him and tell him he’s a good writer if you need to talk about it. Sure it’s unconventional, but maybe he has more insights that you can cry to.” She grabbed a pillow and started hitting Miwa with it.

She did take Akaashi’s number into her room on her way back to bed though. Leaving the series of digits on her bedside table, she re-read the passage and cried again. She thinks she knows him better than most, but they aren’t even friends.

Since realizing he’s a person, and that Akaashi lived this story in the book. The story of his life recorded in his journal, she starts to wonder about what happened to him after he stopped writing in the diary. But she hasn’t finished the story yet, so she’ll have to see what happens next. Again, trying to pace herself, she puts the book away until tomorrow when she can read a little more.

Akaashi sits in his office, he’s still there and it’s much later than the clock would like to admit. The clock wondered if Akaashi would ever go home. But there he was, reviewing the different styles of manga serializations Udai Tenma wanted to try out for his next series. His haircut makes him feel a little colder because now the air can hit right behind his ear instead of being covered with his hair. He puts on a beanie to fight the chill.

When it gets too late at night, his mind tends to wander slightly. Just barely drifting out of his control, like the way a lily pad will drift to the center of a pond when the stem at the base of the connection is severed. He can’t dive into the pond to bring his thoughts back into his hands.

He thinks about her. The girl with his journal. The journal was a cheap 2,500 yen book, but he liked the paper, it was a cold press thicker GSM than most other paper forms. Gel inks went on smoothly to the paper, letting him get more words across by the second than if he was writing with a ballpoint. He remembers that from when he used to write in the journal in high school.

Throwing himself into the back of his seat, he rubs his face, his glasses almost falling off from how he runs his hands up from his chin to his forehead. Setting the glasses on his desk, he spins his chair a little. The clock screams at him, he takes the message from his dedicated clock and grabs his messenger bag.

On the train, he thinks about her again. Instead of getting irritated at how Bokuto essentially gave his journal away to a stranger again, he wonders what her thoughts are. Was his writing any good to warrant such a committed reader? Did she like his journal only because it was funny to read what his dramatic high school self wrote about?

He cringes thinking about all the potential things he wrote down. There’s no direct recollection of what he wrote down exactly, but he knows vaguely what was on his mind when he was writing. His ego, his insecurities, his favorite things. Lots about volleyball, Bokuto, and books. Once he wrote about his thoughts on sex, which is embarrassing for him that a grown woman is reading his teenage idealizations of intimacy.

It could be considered something unique to read. Akaashi settled into the belief that she was merely reading his journal because it was something different than typical books that were being published. Although, why she was reading his journal instead of a Haruki Murakami book was beyond him. Nothing beats his favorite literary giant.

Setting his bag on the coat hanger stand, and shrugging out of his long pea coat. He heats some stovetop ramen while listening to Bokuto talk over the phone, he was ranting about the same girl that Akaashi had had on his mind.

“Oh and those eyes of hers. Did you see them?” Of course, Akaashi saw them, they were big, bright, and astute. Akaashi hums in response, and Bokuto continues barreling through his late-night thoughts.

“I think we should invite her to my party. You know, the one to celebrate my big accomplishment.” In a different apartment, Bokuto spins a volleyball on his finger, but he keeps dropping it so he ends up just repeatedly tossing it into the air so he can satiate the desire to feel his fingers on the ball.

“Yeah, how about no.”

Bokuto asks why not, almost in a whining tone.

“Did you forget she has my journal still?” Akaashi put his bowl in the sink, putting on rubber gloves as he started to wash out the dish and then put it on the drying rack. He decided to finish all his dishes right now anyway since he still had the gloves on.

“Your diary can’t be that juicy, you didn’t do anything too dramatic in high school. Plus I know you wanna see her again too. Don’t pretend like you don’t have a piqued interest. Also, did I use piqued right?”

“You used it right, yes.”

He eventually agreed to let Bokuto invite her to the small get-together. Akaashi didn’t know why Bokuto kept referring to it as a party.

A week later, Akaashi realized that maybe Bokuto kept calling it a party because it had shifted from a friends-only gathering to a huge party at the park. Some other Fukurodani alumni helped to set up decorations in the central gazebo and make banners to hang all over the pavilion. Akaashi was mixing the punch at a table, while Konoha asked what he had been up to lately.

Kuroo and Kenma brought huge gifts for Bokuto, a PlayStation from Kenma, and a packet of potential sponsorship deals from Kuroo.

When she finally made her way to the pavilion with a small brown package, Akaashi couldn't care less about the party. She was wearing a tight-fitting black shirt with a tiered white and gold skirt, and her shoes were a pair of sneakers, but the whole outfit made Akaashi concede to Bokuto’s claim of her being “drool-worthy”. He had to remember that this was the same woman who had his diary. The whole conflict between physical attraction and mental frustration made for an entirely convoluted reaction to her presence.

She bows politely to Bokuto when he goes over to her, offering the gift with both hands, only then did Akaashi wonder how old she must have been. Bokuto had been talking to her more than him, and Bokuto had mentioned that she was a second-year middle schooler when Bokuto was in his third year. Akaashi did some mental math and realized that he, himself, must have been around three to four years older than her.

Akaashi forced himself to ignore the idea of a cute younger girlfriend that started to pester him in the back of his mind. He wanted his journal back, and that’s all this relationship was to him, a mutual exchange of her reading and then him eventually getting back his property. But with the way she had done her hair, Akaashi had a hard time focusing solely on wanting his diary returned.

She was glad that Bokuto appreciated the gift, she hadn’t known him longer than a week or so, and she had gone with a safe gift based on what she knew about him and why this party was even being thrown. She got him a wearable jump monitor that her dad had bought a month ago but never used, she was grateful for having a father who never threw things away. She also included some stickers that she had bought from a small sticker shop online, and some that she had made using Miwa’s craft supplies.

When the excitement of her being at the park died down, she made her way to a table, with a small plate of desserts. She observed how everyone interacted with each other, almost as if they had been friends since the dawn of time, and she believed that that very well might have been the case.

Akaashi stalked her from afar. He appreciated that she was similar to him in a way that mattered to him, she was a watcher. She would assess what was going on, who would talk to who, and how they would nonverbally communicate as well. He got so engrossed in watching her that he neglected to observe the others as well.

Specifically, Konoha, Washio, and Komi had grabbed a water cooler and had the full intention of dumping the water on Akaashi. It was payback for declining their invitations to various other parties from the last year. So there he was, not only soaked through with water but revealed from his vantage point unmistakably indicating to her that he must have been watching her. She laughed a little at the antics but then brought over a small cloth she had in her crossbody bag.

His white shirt was completely transparent, and his brown slacks had turned from a regular light brown into a dark musty brown. The only way to resolve the issue in her mind was to start dabbing at his chest with her handkerchief.

“I see that your friends have a peculiar method of exacting humor.” Her handkerchief eventually was too soaked through that she was just touching his chest with a cloth that had performed osmosis and was now at equilibrium with the water on his shirt.

“Yep.”

“Look, there’s a hoodie in my car, I know we aren’t too close, but it’s probably better to wear my oversized hoodie than to have your whole torso on display for the rest of the night.” She shoves her thumb in the direction of her car.

After making their way to her car, she digs through the trunk and pulls out a grey hoodie with the words ‘Miwa’s Salon’ embroidered on the back. He tugs at the back of his shirt to take it off and she widens her eyes before turning around. The hoodie is comfortable, with a soft fleece on the inside, and it smelt like lychee, vanilla, and surprisingly chocolate marshmallows. It smells like her and he wonders if he could have the scent bottled and then sprayed all over his house.

Suddenly he’s tugging at the collar of the hoodie and swallowing thickly, looking around at anything but her figure in front of him.

“We should probably get heading back to everyone now that you’ve changed.” She goes to start walking to the gazebo, but Akaashi’s words stop her.

“How well do you know me?” She tilted her head and said something about not following along with what he was saying, so he continued, “Well, you’re reading a part of me, you know with my journal, my internal thoughts and hopes and dreams and all that. So, how well do you know me?”

She timidly bites down on her bottom lip, formulating a response. But Akaashi surmises that she must not really care much for the conversation, so he, unfortunately, starts to run his mouth and the words just spiral out.

“You know, it doesn’t matter, to you, it’s just a story about a teenage boy who played volleyball. It’s silly to assume you’d try and actually-”

She cuts in, “I know you’re a considerate person. And it's not just about the volleyball stuff, it's about you, finding yourself to some degree. I know you are polite. I know you’re allergic to beating around the bush, you’re direct and blunt. I know that you can overthink too much.”

Akaashi repeatedly adjusted his glasses, and she stepped just a little bit closer to him, folding her hands behind her back and leaning in slightly so she didn’t have to talk as loudly.

“You also have a bad habit of thinking you can control more than you can, one of the interesting things in your journal is how you jump back and forth between knowing what you can control and then inflating from stress and thinking you can micromanage the entire world. You said you can control the court, but in reality, that’s your worldview. You conclude you can control the entire world sometimes.”

He regrets starting the conversation because this revelation of how much she knew about him exposes him. Akaashi didn’t know how to continue with the gap in knowledge between the two of them.

He only knew she was younger than him, she was incredibly perceptive, and she smelled so freaking good he just wanted to shove her into the backseat of her car and kiss her. Akaashi’s thoughts could not have been his own at this point, he was going crazy. He must have gotten sick from the cold water being dumped on him he speculates.

When they get back to the gazebo, Akaashi thanks Bokuto for the party and heads home. She stays at the party, talking to a select few people and wondering what exactly she said that scared Akaashi off so quickly.

Sitting in the tub, Akaashi rests his head against the shower wall and lets the hot water filter his congestion that didn’t exist. His hand twitched over to his phone, which was on the toilet seat playing some piano music that he hoped would alleviate all his bad habits. He wonders if she will text him soon. If she would text him ever. He felt like he was younger, it was ridiculous that one person would have such an effect on him to this degree.

After the party, she sits with Miwa, disclosing everything that happened at the party.

“And then he just ran off?” She nods at Miwa repeating what she just said. “Girlie, you gave him an in-depth review of his personality and you’re shocked that he ran away? Sometimes you can be too judicious for your own good.”

“Should I text him an apology?”

“Are you sorry for anything?” Miwa rolled her eyes, hating when she got like this. Miwa never allowed her to apologize for things that didn’t need to be apologized for.

“No.” She rubs her arm and chews the inside of her cheek.

“I think you think he’s hot, I mean, you understand this man on a deeper level that he now grasps, and you said he had the chest and torso of some kind of slutty librarian/gym rat agglomeration.” Miwa takes a bobby pin out of her hair and runs a hand through her bob cut, “If it was me, I would send him a picture of the journal and ask for nudes, or else the book gets it.”

She hits Miwa with a pillow, and Miwa realizes she really should throw the pillows away or else getting hit with them would be a very painful recurrence.

Miwa goes to sleep, but she stays up just a little later. Eyeing Akaashi’s number that lay painfully glaring at her. She decides to read more of his diary instead of texting him. DATE: XX-XX-13 TITLE: Weltschmerz; Sadness When The World Isn’t As It Should Be

Summer sucks. Bokuto has a training thing for some team he wants to be a part of in the future. All my friends that were third years are essentially gone, actually out and living life, and I’m stuck here. At least there’s only one more year left of high school. And then I can go and work for a literary magazine.

I miss people. Despite their failings, I do need people in my life.

You can only play so much volleyball in a day by yourself before your motivation is gone by the third week of playing alone.

It’s times like these that make me think about the future. I don’t spend much time with girls per se, but they are pretty and nice. Our manager is a girl, but she has a boyfriend. She’s chill.

Sometimes, when I feel like something is wrong, I turn to the idea of love. I’ll admit that I love a few things in life, but that’s only because I think love is something truly special that you can’t just fling around. I ‘like’ things more often than I ‘love’ them. Volleyball, my best friend, my family, books, and writing.

Will I know when I’ve found the love of my life? My parents said they knew they loved each other from the first moment they met. Will I feel like that too? Will I know it’s love? How can a feeling be recognized as a specific feeling? How do I know what anger feels like, besides that heat and pressure and red hot sun? How do I know what sadness feels like, besides water, coldness, and finishing a run? Would love have those distinct colors and associations? Or would love just become the person I love?

I don’t believe in soulmates. Definitely not. I think people are infinitely compatible, and it all depends on our ability to communicate and agree to grow with a person for the rest of our lives. I believe we make our own soulmates, through sharing experiences and agreeing to be ourselves no matter what. I told my mom this and she just smiled at me like I still had a lot of life left to live.

But don’t I have enough experience to know what I want? Or at least to formulate my own opinions and beliefs? I may be 17 but I am not an idiot.

Or did my mom’s look of a wistful future just mean that when I fall in love I’ll know it and I’ll look back to these words and think I’m completely ridiculous?

Dad made spaghetti for dinner. It was gross so we ended up having to order udon from the place I like instead.

We watched a movie Mom wanted to show me, the title was something like Wildly Wealthy Westerners or something. It was just about rich people from America and Canada, plus a subplot of romance between a basic guy and this rich heiress girl who just couldn’t be together because of rich people's reasons. It was silly but the music was good. The ending kiss scene was hot, he shoved her into the backseat of his jeep and I swear I heard Mom sigh.

- A.K.

She didn’t expect him to text her on Monday of the following week, asking if they could meet for tea at a place near his work during his lunch break. She surprised herself by agreeing to it, and then by cheekily calling it a date.

Akaashi shoved his phone into Udai’s face, “What does this mean?”

Udai pushed his bangs back and inspected the text messages on Akaashi’s phone. “I think it means she agreed to go on the date you asked her on?”

“But I didn’t ask her on a date?”

“Oh, but you definitely did. Oh and tea? What dork takes a girl for tea on a first date?” Udai pushed Akaashi’s phone away and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Then Udai’s face breaks into a blinding grin, “Is this your little diary thief? And the one who gave you the sweater at Bo’s party? Oh, it is isn’t it, do you have a picture of her?”

Akaashi briefly flashed a photo Bokuto had taken with her in Udai’s direction.

“DAMN! I need me my own diary thief,” Udai raised his eyebrows and started laughing a little, and then he ruffled his hair and used his fingers to zoom into her face, slowly, he started moving down the picture to her body. Akaashi pulled his phone back before Udai got too far down.

The clock on Akaashi’s desk wanted him to leave for an early lunch and by an early lunch, an hour early. So there he sat at the small cafe on the corner by his office building, rubbing his sweaty hands against the legs of his pants, waiting for her. She was five minutes early and was surprised to see him already at a table, so she decided to have a little fun.

Since his back was turned, she went up to him and tapped his shoulder, when he turned around she let out a small “Boo!” and put her hands up into an imitation of claws, trying her best to seem scary. He just thought she was adorable. He motioned for her to sit down.

Resting her crossbody bag against the back of the chair, she took a seat. Akaashi was able to wave down a waiter, who gave them a single menu to look over.

“What kind of tea do you like?” She asked, using her pointer finger to scan through the options the cafe had available.

“I like black tea, and sometimes chamomile tea.” He asked her for her favorite type, and she told him. He tried to commit her favorite to memory as quickly as possible.

Eventually, they had their tea, and the silence started to set in. Between sips, Akaashi would try to figure out how to say what he wanted to say. But he thought it was all too bold. So he told her a little about his life, his work, and his friends and she did the same, returning statements in a unique fashion about her life. Her word choice was special, calculated even. She was like him in another way that mattered, a calculated, intentional way of speaking.

She could always make him yearn to be a little more considerate of his words. Until she managed to pry them out of him.

“So why am I here?” She stirs a little more sugar into her tea, then pauses from drinking her tea to take a sip of her water.

“I want one of your journals.”

She laughs before realizing he’s entirely serious, “How do you even know that I have any journals to lend to you? For all you know, I could be living a journal-less life.” She waves her small stirring spoon around, before putting it into her mouth.

“I can’t explain it, but I know you have journals. Only someone with a journal of their own would be so obsessed with another’s.” Akaashi takes the spoon from her mouth and uses it to stir some sugar into his tea. Her mouth gapes for a moment while he smirks, looking right into her intelligent eyes.

The next day they have tea again, and she gives him one of her journals from high school.

“Don’t read it all in one go.” She pauses, “I don’t write nearly as well as you do, so don’t scrutinize my words the way you do all your mangakas’ words.”

Akaashi nods.

He read it all in one night. He calls her in the middle of said night.

“Who the hell is this Ito kid? When did you and he start talking? Just outta nowhere he pops up at the end of your last entry. Where’s the careful recollection of all your interactions with him?” Akaashi is exasperated, running his hand through his hair. He disagreed with what she said about her writing.

She was compelling and interesting, and she most definitely had his heart. Her high school experience had been so different from his, and she seemed to be much more optimistic about life than he was. Despite her calling him a realist, he believed that in comparison to her, he was a total pessimist.

She explained to him about Ito, and that he was a short-lived crush she had had at the end of her second year in high school. Akaashi was glad when she said she didn’t even talk to him anymore. Based on the way she had written about him, Akaashi thought that Ito would be the love of her life, and Akaashi was slowly realizing maybe his heart was in the process of making her the love of his life.

“When do I get the next journal?” Akaashi wanted to keep talking to her despite the lateness of the hour.

“You don’t. I told you to pace yourself, I only have one of yours so you’re only getting one of mine.” She was lying on her stomach on her bed, slightly kicking her feet while talking to Akaashi.

Akaashi groans but tells her he’ll return the journal next week when he can have another long lunch break. She says she’ll be there.

Akaashi recalls when he remembered his diary was lost.

It had been a long day at work, and he wanted nothing more than to go home. His mom hadn’t remembered his apartment address, so she sent one of his old journals to his work office. He put it into his satchel and made his way home.

On the train, there had been a slight jostling. And Akaashi hadn’t noticed the journal falling out of his bag and under his seat.

When he exited the train, she had gotten onto it. She sat down in the same seat he had. Right when Akaashi started walking to the stairs to exit the station, she reached down under the seat to stow away her bag, only to be met with a rough material. And for a moment, if they had just turned around, their eyes would’ve met right as the train pulled away.

When he finally got home, he unpacked his bag, looking to put away his journal safely into a box with other memorabilia from high school. When he dumped his bag upside down, shaking everything out, he just couldn’t find his journal. When going home from work the next day, he had asked all the employees if they had seen a leatherbound notebook. None turned up.

If there ever was a moment that could’ve changed the future, that was what it would’ve been. If the train hadn’t jostled. If Akaashi Keiji hadn’t been tired from work and forgot to check for the journal on his way out of the station. If she hadn’t sat right where he had been sitting, and most definitely, if she didn’t love a good book, then it all would’ve turned out differently.

But that’s not the story that’s being told. The story being told is of Akaashi Keiji realizing that to love someone, you have to accept that they may know you better than you know yourself.

It had been six months, and she was close to finishing the journal. Somedays she didn’t read at all, others she read three entries and wanted to binge the rest of the diary.

They went for tea every single week. Sometimes twice. Then other times, he would take her around Tokyo to go exploring. They went to every museum, every library, every cafe that specialized in tea. He figured that they ought to be on an even playing field when it came to how well they knew each other, so instead of getting more journals from her, they traded lists of their top one hundred favorite books.

She had put three Haruki Murakami books on her list and Akaashi wanted to hold her face in his hands and kiss her.

But they were just friends. Friends who knew each other better than Akaashi was comfortable with. She knew what he would order before he said it, and he knew what she was going to comment before she stated it. When she asked him about his experience with failure, he knew that she had gotten in too deep.

She knew more about him than he expected her to, she knew all about the silly things that rattled around in his brain, and although it had been a journal from high school, he knew that people stayed pretty similar throughout life. So when she looked at him, she didn’t just see professional editor Akaashi Keiji, she saw a teenager who wondered what place he had in the world as well. She saw him as acne-ridden and languid with life. He wanted to control her perspective of him and he couldn’t do that now, because she had the key to his past and the map of his future.

So he tried to put some space between them. Just in case. Maybe it was a horrible tendency to overthink, no, he knew it was his horrible overthinking tendency. There were so many ways their relationship could go. He could completely crush her, to be completely crushed himself in turn.

Walking the edge of a knife with her. Balancing on the blade of friendship, if he fell onto one side, with no cuts, then they could have a happy relationship. If he cut himself on that blade, then the worst-case scenario would be that she realizes she doesn’t like him back and then there’s just someone who knows him too well out in the world.

When he hadn’t texted her in four weeks and her messages were left on read, she decided to finish the journal and be done with it. Their time as friends was short-lived she thought. She thought there may have been something more for the pair of them. And suddenly all the depressing love songs became about him. Which made her resentful, because who ruins ‘Iris’ by The Goo Goo Dolls like that for someone? DATE: XX-XX-14 TITLE: Quatervois; A Crossroads

I graduated today. I went through that book of fancy words Mom gave me and stumbled across this one. Quatervois, a crossroads. Does this count as a crossroads?

The magazine I want to work for said I could have an internship while I attend college. An internship in the manga editing department. Was I not good enough for the literature department? Is it because of my age? I think my essay and grades were good enough to at least qualify me for a chance to interview in that department. But they only let me interview for the editing department.

Does that make me a career failure? I like the magazine, but I’m not sold on the department they want me to go into.

Washio called me to congratulate me, he said that I was finally crossing over into the real world. I’m pretty sure I’ve been living in the real world for as long as I’ve been alive, but Washio made it seem like things would be so different for me. I digress.

When nothing seems straightforward, and you come to a fork in the road and you have two options that you can’t see down, how do you choose which road to go down? The one lined with flowers, or the one with a dirt path that could eventually have something more alluring at the end.

- A.K.

On the penultimate page of the journal was a glued-down picture of Akaashi wearing his graduation suit, and holding his graduation scroll, his parents stood on either side of him grinning proudly at their only child. Maybe she should’ve checked the book from the last page and then started reading the front. But she didn’t want spoilers, that’s why she never checked the second to last page.

She texted Akaashi and said she finished the journal and was ready to return it. When he didn’t respond, but had read the message, she texted Bokuto asking for some clarification. She asked if Akaashi had said anything about her that would’ve indicated why he was mad. Bokuto just said that Akaashi wasn’t mad at all. So now she was confused. If he wasn’t upset, then why was he ignoring her?

Instead of going to their tea place, she goes to his office during lunch. She scans the buttons, looking for his department.

“Hey diary thief, whatcha doing here?” A shorter guy with shaggy black hair and a hoodie with a denim jacket over it comes around to her and presses the elevator button.

“Are you going to the Manga Editing Department?” She checked before entering the elevator with the shaggy-haired guy, who had introduced himself as Udai Tenma, but she could just call him Tenma. He confirms and then doubly checks her identity as the same person Akaashi had been talking about and spending all his lunch breaks with.

“It’s funny that you know about the journal, I came here to return it finally. Probably much to Akaashi’s delight.” She adjusts her bag across her shoulders, giving a short sigh.

“No, Akaashi loves that you have his journal. At first, he was a little annoyed, but now it’s kinda like you have a little piece of him all the time. I told him just to get you a necklace with his name on it, but noooooo Udai I can’t do that because I’d essentially be confessing if I did something like that.” Udai did a brilliant imitation of Akaashi, even going as far as to push his shoulders back to make him seem taller and with a broader build.

Udai turned slowly to face her, eyes wide and jaw dropped, “Please pretend I don’t exist, I never said anything about Akaashi’s undying love,” He froze, “Also ignore what I just said.”

Udai got out of the elevator on the floor below the editing department. She could hear him start to criticize himself and say he owes Akaashi so many more favors and solids now.

She walked through the office, lightly admiring all the manga panels, all the stories that had come out of this building astounded her, it had been a while since she last read a manga, so she considered picking one up on her way out. Maybe she’d read the one written by Udai.

Then she sees him. Akaashi, with a pencil in one hand and an eraser in the other. His head is moving slightly, due to the music playing through his headphones she assumes. He fidgets in his chair, wiggling the seat around. Despite being angry at him, he was still adorable when he was engrossed in his work.

“You’re being childish.” She handed Akaashi the journal. Akaashi had to take off his headphones when he saw that his journal was being thrust into his face, he dropped his pencil and turned around only to be met with her. Even though she seemed to be upset with him, she still looked beautiful.

Akaashi looked confused, so she clarified, “Ghosting? Really? You could have just said you didn’t want to be friends.” Her tone is sharp and penetrating.

It wasn’t the being friends part, it was the part where he wanted her to be entirely his. An overwhelming desire to attach her to him in all senses. He swallows and takes the journal back. He wants to ask what her thoughts were, and what she came to understand about him. Yet, he knew she was upset with him. He would be upset with her too if she did what he had done.

He had completely blown his chance, hadn’t he? The one woman who had read the teenage journal and still wanted to be friends. Maybe her knowing more about him wouldn’t be too bad at all, maybe that’s exactly what he needed.

“I don’t want to be friends.” She starts to sniffle, she quickly runs the sleeve of her shirt onto her eyes. Akaashi rushed the next part out, “I can’t be just friends with you I’m afraid. I think I want more.”

She blinks rapidly before regaining composure and putting her hand on his shoulder. “I think you need to sort out your feelings. Because if you really wanted more, you wouldn’t have treated me like I was disposable. You wouldn’t have ignored me. So, figure it out, and let me know what the result is. You know where to find me.”

She rubs her thumb on his cheek in a parting gesture. He remembers when she did that for the first time, around three months ago. They were at a library he had found in a far corner of Tokyo, and he was talking about a book that Udai hadn’t understood at all, which made him irate that Udai could skim over such an important story. They were in their little section, with dim lights and a stack of books they wanted to talk about.

As he was waving his hands around, trying to show her the pages and lines he was referencing in the book, when she reached over and brushed her thumb against his cheek, the rest of her fingers resting along his jaw and lower cheek. Her palm barely contacts his chin.

“You had a little mark there. But I think it’s just a cute little freckle, it won’t wipe off.” She brushes against his skin again, and when the mark doesn’t disappear, she leans back into her chair, waiting for Akaashi to begin again. When he starts talking again about the book, he keeps stumbling and stuttering over his words.

She gave a small wave before leaving his office space. Akaashi's co-workers just turned their heads to watch her exit, heads sticking out of cubicles, and then in a blink, they all turned to face Akaashi with disappointed faces, shaking their heads and clicking their tongues. Then, they went back to work and Akaashi was sitting at his desk with his journal brazenly staring at him.

He had one chance to make it right. So he set aside Udai’s manga draft, knowing he could go through it in less than an hour, and he picked up his pencil, writing one more entry in his journal.

He can only wait a week before giving it to her when he shows up to her apartment unannounced. Miwa opens the door and rolls her eyes, but letting him in.

“I gotta run and get some new specialty scissors. I’m not afraid to use them in an unintended use if I get back and she’s crying.” Miwa motions her fingers from her eyes to his. Akaashi gives her a thumbs up.

When she comes out of her room, she inspects him on the couch, he’s holding his journal.

“Read the last page for me. It’s an extended edition.” He jokes somewhat. She sits next to him and reads his ‘extended edition’. DATE: XX-XX-XX TITLE: Micawber; An Eternal Optimist

I was stupid. Believe me, I know I was a whole idiot and a half.

Here’s to giving up realism and embracing optimism.

You knew who I was before I knew you. I was scared that you would know too much. That’s hilarious, right? I wanted you to know me, and yet there I was completely afraid to let you get too close, but you were already close. It’s not just what words were contained here, although I re-read my journal and there are definitely some things I should’ve self-censored.

You were what made the entire difference. Your ability to perceive me as a whole rather than a sum of my parts was the distinction that was made.

With you, I truly am a protagonist. Not a side character anymore, but the main character who shares the limelight with his love interest. Although, I have a distinct feeling that you may be more of a main character than me. But, I know you’d say you digress.

In your journal, you mentioned once how you believed that a good story can compel you to be changed. How characters drive a real tangible change in a person. Did I do that for you? At least a little bit? I know I was changed when I read your story, I realized that maybe I liked you a little more than just liking you.

Please don’t think I am mean. I was cruel, rude, and inconsiderate to you. Ghosting for more than a month because I was worried is likely going down in my personal history as the worst thing I’ve ever done to you. But I’m dedicated to never doing anything bad to you ever again. I’ll never hurt you, and I’ll never lie.

I’m optimistic that you like me a little. Maybe even a little more than like.

So, tell me why I still feel worried. Is this feeling even worried? Or is this what love feels like? The desperation to not hurt you in any way. The pang of knowing that I am myself with you. And, yes, the physical magnetism that makes me feel just a little more like a teenager when I am with you.

I think this feeling is love. I just think it’s so overwhelming that I ended up making it into a negative emotion instead of what it is.

I’m sorry. Forgive me or I really won’t know what to do with all these feelings that flit around in my heart for you.

I love you.

- Yours, Akaashi Keiji

She knew he was watching her. She had her nose in his journal, reading what he had written for her.

“Can you get me a tissue?” Akaashi handed her one. He was ready to say his goodbyes.

When she closes the journal, he looks at her with curious eyes. She smiles.

“Best book ever.”

He grabs her by the back of her head and kisses her. She held his face in her hands, tilting her head slightly and he hummed into her mouth. His nose was cold on her face, but the warmth of his mouth contrasted with the frostiness. His other hand grips her hip, trying to pull her closer to him. Despite them being already so close, he wanted her to envelop him.

Then he was pressing her down onto her couch, both hands on her hips. When she wrapped a leg around his waist he thought his heart was going to jump out of his chest. Her head was on the arm of the couch, and he had moved from her mouth to the side of her face to her neck, to right above her bra, leaving a trail of his making. He was glad she was wearing a low-cut top because it made it easier for him to pull the shirt down so he could reach more of her skin.

In contrast to him, she felt soft and pliable. She also felt wholly his in this moment.

Her hands were in his hair, pulling the strands in a mellow methodology, not wanting to hurt him almost. She wanted his hair just a little longer, but the short hair tickled her neck, so she was happy with the length it was currently.

The top of her chest was creamy and supple. He let his tongue brush out once, twice, before going back up to kiss her again. He licked at her bottom lip, and she opened her mouth just enough for him to run his tongue into it for a moment, before biting at her bottom lip in thanks.

“You taste like sugar.” He was hot in the face and had some hair sticking to his forehead. She pushed his bangs back tenderly, his chest was still rapidly moving up and down trying to catch his breath. He went in for another kiss, still short of breath, so she had to intervene.

“Slow down loverboy, you need to breathe, or else you can’t keep going.” She laughs a little and he can feel the way her body carries the laugh from her chest to her stomach. She moves in close to his ear, “And that would be a zero-sum game for us both.”

He nods, and she draws his head down to rest on her chest.

“Is this better or worse than that fantasy you had about making out with a girl in the backseat of a car?” She recalls one of his entries from his journal.

He rubs his face against her, inhaling deeply. “This is way better. But we’re still gonna kiss in the back of my jeep, and soon at that.”

She hums a little in response.

The next year, Akaashi and her moved in together, Miwa was glad because now she could finally walk around her apartment without clothes on (despite her doing that when they were roommates anyway). Bokuto was glad to see that Akaashi finally had someone to read his confusing books and that he didn’t have to read another one ever again. Udai would occasionally make a joke about if it didn’t work out with Akaashi she had a place in his awaiting arms. Akaashi threatened to work for another manga magazine and Udai would be stuck using only Grammarly. That usually shut Udai up pretty quickly.

They both kept detailed journals. And when they finished them, they would let the other read them. Akaashi let her read all his past journals as well, and she let him read her diaries.

Maybe love isn’t what you expected at first, maybe it's not even a feeling you want to feel at that moment, or for that person. But love works out for the best in the end. Whether that’s with a best friend, a lover, a child, or even a book.

For Akaashi Keiji, love meant letting someone know him better than he knew himself. It also meant being okay with letting her read his diary.

[everythingne]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ➛ kindred souls - f1a (1)

Vienna Alexandria Fisichella. The eldest daughter of Ludovica Davies (nee. Fisichella) and older sister of little Anaya Davies. Her life is a countdown of exact seconds, a calendar packed with dates--barely leaving enough room to sleep, eat, or shower. Between racing, working, and caring for her sister, there is no time for Vienna to just be Vienna.

And this year, like every year, was set to be the same old shit. Until it wasn't. And one, maybe two, phone calls changes everything Vienna's come to know.

masterlist (in progress) / next chapter

notes/warnings: implications of manipulative/neglectful parenting, past infidelity, vienna does not know her dad,

Camden laid in a quiet lull of the early winter night. Stars twinkling overhead as the old second-hand Mercedes compact car rolled to a stop in a parking spot, the cracked windows letting out the faint sound of some Chappell Roan song before they're abruptly rolled up with a thunk. The engine creaks as it's killed, the fan sputtering to a stop as the air condition stops blowing wildly in the car, and blonde hair falls to rest against it's drivers shoulders.

Vienna Alexandria Fisichella. Or, just Nini if you were the child in the backseat, sits there for a moment in the still silence. Willing herself to get out of the car even with her bleary eyes and aching legs. She's still wearing her fireproofs. She hadn't even changed after practice.

"Anaya..." The driver, Vienna, hums as she looks back at her baby half-sister. Anaya's face squished against the back door's glass, a teddy bear hugged to the six-year-olds chest, her older sister's big Fortec Motorsports hoodie enveloping her.

"Anaya." Vienna tries again, tapping her sister's knee with hopes to wake her up, to no avail. Huffing out a soft laugh, Vienna grabs her backpack from the front seat she gets out and shuts her door softly. Popping the boot to retrieve her over-the-shoulder bag. Vienna slams the boot closed, then moves to carefully open her sister's door, using one hand to make sure she doesn't fall out of the car.

"Anaya, hey, we're home." Vienna kneels down beside her car, gently shaking her sister awake.

"Carry me?" Anaya murmurs and Vienna sighs softly, dropping her bags into the backseat of the car--pausing to grab her keys, and then hosting her sister in her arms as she shuts the door. Within seconds, Anaya is asleep, her brown hair mixing with her sister's blonde as she's carried into the safety of a warm apartment building.

The front desk is vacant this late at night, with a little sign with the emergency number to call sitting in place of Felicia or Jaxx. The only sound was Anaya's soft snores and the soft tap of Vienna's sneakers, then the elevator's ding.

Luckily, the office is frgid, as is the elevator, so Vienna doesn't feel tired as she lumbers to her apartment with her sister in one arm and her bag in the other.

The lock clicks open with a beep, and with one hand and a prayer to not accidentally drop her sister, Vienna makes her way into the tiny three-bedroom apartment. All the lights are off, save for a soft one by the front door, so as Vienna navigates the immaculately clean halls, she clicks on each light as she passes.

"A'ight, Naya," Vienna hums, setting her sister down on her bed, "Ya' gotta get changed and int'a bed, okay?"

Anaya whines, curling up in a little ball, "Nini... I don' wanna... 'm tired."

Vienna chuckles softly, kissing her sister's head and taking off the girl's sneakers. She had such a soft spot for the girl it was hard to say no. So she murmurs into the girls brown hair, "Alright, alright. As long as you promise you'll brush your teeth extra long tomorrow mornin'."

"I promise." Anaya yawns as her sister tucks her in tightly to her bed, her little McLaren bear poking its fuzzy head out next to hers. Vienna leans down, pecking a kiss on her sister's hairline before leaving the nightlight on as she leaves the room--only partially shutting the door, because Anaya needed to see the hall night lights on to fall asleep.

With a shake of her arms, Vienna locks the door with a slight knee in the door to make sure it closes properly. She scoops her bags up from the doorway, the clicks of the lights being shut off follow Vienna down the hall. Retreating into the sanctuary that is her bedroom, Vienna slowly sinks to sit on her bed and groans as she pops her bags down by the foot of the bed.

She will have more training tomorrow. All day, wake up at 6am training, not just come in for a few hours after noon training. Which was okay, because Vienna loved her trainer Joella Kukrit with her entire heart. But she knew she'd be dead the next night when she had to work the night shift. Nine to one in the morning as a lead manager at a little corner store, which luckily gave her time to catch up on paperwork or any missing assignments from her online college courses.

Thank you United States Sports Academy for online courses, and a sports management degree could be Vienna's soon enough. So if all this driving didn't work out, maybe she could have her own team one day. Which seemed pretty fucking cool.

So, Vienna takes a shower, braids her hair back, brushes her teeth, and washes her face. She only does moisturizer tonight, too tired to bother with anything else. Then, when she gets back to bed, she doesn't even have time to scroll through her phone before she's out like a light.

And her alarm rings at exactly five thirty in the morning like it has every morning since she was fourteen.

She's showered again, teeth brushed, full skincare, and hair done by six-thirty. Her hair is down, now in waves from the braids, and she wears loose sport shorts and her team kit with the tightest sports bra known to man underneath. Yay gym days.

Vienna stands, sock clad feet still cold against the tile in the kitchen, watching the bacon pop in the pan, when her mother walks in.

Ludovica Davies was a single mom for about ten years before her new husband, and Vienna's step-father, Christopher, stepped into the equation. the Royal Air Force engineer had taken Ludovica, or Dove as she liked to be called, by the heart the first time they'd met.

Exactly two years and four months later, Vienna had a wedding to attend, a baby sister to take care of, and a step-father stationed in fucking Bahrain of all places on a joint leave with the United States military.

"You look good," Dove says, kissing her daughter's cheek as she tugs her own ponytail until her long brown hair tumbles out. She huffs, tangling her hands in her daughter's long blonde hair, "Just make this brunette."

"Momma." Vienna laughs softly, "I know you say it makes me look like my Dad, but... I love it."

It had been a lifelong fight. Not once had Vienna relented. She loved her hair because it made her look like her father, the man her mother refused to tell her anything about. The mystery of who her father was had always followed Vienna, her family often making comments about how she acted just like the man she had no connections to. Vienna had tried asking her Nonna and Nonno, even her Uncle Giancarlo, but had never gotten far.

Back when her mom still spoke to them regularly.

Before money got tight after she got herself disowned and took her kids with her. The reveal that Vienna's 'father', a man named Zander Moss, wasn't actually her father and had torn her family in bits.

And since her tenth birthday, Vienna had this mystery father in her periphery who she could never quite reach. The only thing she knew was that he had been a racer, whether it was Indycar, Motocross, NASCAR, Formula 1... she had no idea.

She had always assumed Formula 1 since her uncle had also raced in the sport but never had confirmation.

"Your father..." Dove sighs at her daughter, going to go on some long-winded rant about how he left her and Vienna, never cared, never looked back. But Vienna stopped believing that after she found out her mother had been lying about her heritage for years following her divorce from her first husband.

"Momma. Another time." Vienna sighs, then makes her way across the kitchen to the sink, washing off her hands. Dove relents, just for now, and goes off to make herself a coffee.

"Momma!" A little cry erupts, and giggles down the hall get closer as Anaya appears around the corner, "Are you home today?"

"Sorry, Anaya. I've gotta get in for a twelve by seven." Dove hums, leaning down to kiss her daughter's cheek, "I'm gonna take you to school though, and Miss Angela agreed to keep you late."

"Okay!" Anaya cheers, happily clinging to her mom's leg as the woman makes coffee. Vienna doesn't say anything for a moment, settling down to eat when she notices Anaya staring at her food.

"Momma, d'ya have time to make Anaya somethin' to eat?" Vienna hesitates to ask, already knowing the answer will be no. Dove huffs, then turns to her daughter and swaps to Italian quickly to scold her daughter about how she was the breadwinner, how Vienna was wasting her time with racing and not going to university full time, blah blah blah.

She scolds Vienna for a long enough time to make Anaya breakfast.

And then she leaves, without taking Anaya to school. And Vienna puts her head in her hands and lets out the deepest sigh she's let out in a few weeks. Then pops her head up with the biggest smile she can muster and leans down to tickle her sisters sides, the little girl squealing as she tries to get away.

"Alright." Vienna stands after a moment--collecting herself, "Anaya, you can have the rest of my food." Or, all of it. Vienna had protein bars in her bag she could eat instead for today. "Eat that, I'll get your uniform."

And as Anaya goes to eat, Vienna rushes off to her sister's room. In what is probably world record speed, she packs up the girl's bag and grabs her uniform. By the time Anaya comes back with a full stomach, Vienna rushes her into the bathroom to get ready for her morning.

Vienna ends up being exactly five minutes and thirty-six seconds late to her practice.

Luckily, Nina isn't there yet either. But Kai and Alex have started getting dressed for some simulator practice, while Nina and Vienna will have to run laps and do endurance for being late.

Then, Nina appears as Vienna's shoving her stuff in her locker.

"Do you think they'll be pissed we're late again?" Vienna laughs softly, kicking the locker closed as she leans on the front half of Fortec's logo printed on the metal.

"You have a genuine excuse with Anaya." Nina shrugs, "I just slept in."

The girls share a soft laugh before Nina gasps and quickly begins to open her phone. When Vienna teases about a new partner on the horizons, Nina shakes her head and then holds out her phone to Vienna to display a graphic, "I wasn't sure if you got this email, but it's a message from Mrs. Susie Wolff. The Academy is working to bring in more female drivers, and guess what?"

"Hm? What?" Vienna hums and Nina's grin almost doubles as she sing-songs,

"They're doing open tryouts! Just show up, they'll give you a car if you qualify, and scouts from each F1 team will be there to watch and see what happens!"

"When's the tryout?" Vienna finds herself immediately asking, even though she knows her mother would say no.

"Saturday at six in the morning," the girl replies to Vienna, now going to shove her own stuff in her locker.

In five days.

Between work, college, and taking care of Anaya, Vienna can't imagine she has enough time. But the chance to race in F1 Academy?

Shit. She's so willing to skip work for this.

And so, on Friday night, Vienna asks her mother.

"For Formula One?" Dove says, setting down her drink, "No. You can't skip over F3 and F2."

"No no," Vienna sits down, setting down the drawing Anaya had given her after school that was definitely going to be pinned up with all the others in her bedroom, "F1 Academy runs Formula 4 cars. I'd be on the same level."

"Vienna..." Dove sighs, putting her head in her hands, "No. No, I'm not letting you skip work for some tryout. What if they don't want you?"

"They won't want me at all if I don't show up, plus Susie Wolff herself-- the like.. director of the entire thing, is expectin' me." Vienna emphasizes, "Momma, please. If I don't make it, I'll never ask again."

"No, end of." Dove stands, taking her dish to the sink and unceremoniously dropping it in. Expecting Vienna to clean it later like she always does.

"Momma, why won't you let me advance? You wrecked my chances with Rodin for F3 this season, and now this? I want a career in racing. Not just some fun side gig to do." Vienna huffs, standing up as her mother stops in the doorway.

"Vienna Alexandria." Her mother turns around, "My word is final, do you understand?"

Vienna sighs, moving forward, practically begging "Mom, please."

"No, enough." Dove waves a hand, "If I hear anything about skipping work or anything, I'll pull you from Fortec."

And as her mother disappears down the hall. Vienna knows she's gonna call out of work the next morning. She has a shot here. She and Abbi have been neck and neck all season, winning race after race with only thousandths of seconds between them.

She wakes up at four the next morning as she should, calls out of work as soon as she can to use her groggy morning voice as cover, and then gets dressed.

And she feels bad, laving a note on the fridge that says she was called in to work early, but she has to try.

Her racing bag is tossed over one shoulder, her backpack in the other, her racing shoes in one hand, and keys in the other as she almost runs out of the lobby. The morning chill is welcome, and she starts her car before taking a slow breath.

Her sponsors ended this season. She'd saved up enough to have one more season. This was it.

Vienna shows up a little early to the Silverstone track, sitting in her car for a moment as she watches a bunch of people mill about. Even Sky News cameras and ESPN reporters. With a slow breath, Vienna shuts her phone off and stores it in her backpack, making her way up and into the cheers from her friends as they wait at the gate to be let in.

"Dude," Chloe says, "Everyone's here. We just saw Toto, Fred, and James walk in."

"Seriously?" Vienna asks, shoving her racing shoes in the side pocket of her bag as she brings her hands up to tie up her hair.

"And your favorite early 2000s driver." Nina nudges her teammate's arm, "Mr. Jenson Button."

"Shut up." Vienna gasps and the girls break into giggles and softly speak amongst themselves. Since her tenth birthday, when Vienna spent the weekend watching F1 from either Renault or Ferrari, she'd always loved Jenson. She wasn't sure what the immediate liking was, but she had always found something intriguing. Familiar. She'd met the man at the races a few times as a child, but she doubted he'd recognize her now. It had been almost a decade.

Vienna follows Nina in when the gates are open, settling in the unmarked garage they've been given to use for this event. A few camera operators are milling about, and she tucks under the arm of Joella and her Fortec Head Engineer Kyle and into a driver's room to change.

An hour later she's adjusting her helmet, tapping her hands along her suit in her usual checks, before looking back at Kyle.

"Everything secure?" He asks, tugging on her radio cord. She nods when it doesn't budge and he bids her good luck with a tap to her helmet. Nina passes to get to her own unmarked F4 car for the race, the two bumping knuckles before Vienna turns to climb into her own car.

And across the track, she catches the eyes of none other than Jenson, before she's forcing herself to concentrate. This is her only shot. She can't blow it because of some starry eyes.

Jenson keeps his hands stuffed in his pockets for a few moments, humming, before turning over his left shoulder and moving back to where Williams was. The race starts by the time he's made his way up. The race itself is only one forty-minute session, which Jenson thinks is a little idiotic.

How are they supposed to know the full capabilities of a driver after only forty minutes?

Watching the unlabeled car-- only with the number '13' hastily smacked on, Jenson hums. The car zips around the corner, perfectly hitting the apex, and he leans forward from his spot next to James and some of the other various Williams engineers who've come to watch.

"Hm." James comments softly, "That's a perfect apex and an immediate overtake in the next turn."

"She's pushing that car for as much as it'll give her. Get her in something more powerful and she'll be hitting these with ease." He says softly, looking back down at the driver profile--Vienna Fisichella, 21, racing for Fortec in British Formula 4. Giancarlo's estranged niece if he remembered the story from Fernando right. The girl's an Italian native, who grew up between England and America, her childhood home placing her right outside London. But that doesn't explain why Jenson can't shake the idea of somehow knowing this girl. Maybe it was just from the times he'd met her as a kid.

"She's pushing, but losing a lot here in the chicane, and turns four and seven." A random engineer says.

"But she catches it in straight." Jensen counters, the engineer humming in thought.

James nods, "She's never competed on this track in these cars, and she's giving Abbi and Doriane a run for their money."

James and the others comment on all the drivers, impressed or disappointed in their performances. The race ends with that girl, Vienna, Jenson reminds himself, in a comfortable P3 with a considerable gap from Lia behind her.

"Get her information." James says to a nearby engineer, "I think she'll be worth looking into."

As the team moves forward, Jenson catches the girl's eye yet again and gives her a nod of approval. Something about her is so familiar, it almost makes him feel sick.

Sitting outside the exit, Lia whacks Vienna's arm as she approaches with a tiny grin, "I see you figured out that brake managing."

"Li, that car sang." Vienna chuckles, "It was nice to have you behind me for once."

"We miss you over in the States." Lia pops down next to her previous rally car teammate, watching as Nina and Abbi come out of the gate laughing, Chloe trailing behind with Doriane waving goodbye as she jogs off to an awaiting car.

"I miss rally," Vienna huffs, looking over as the other girls bid each other goodbye, but she waits for Nina to drive her to the train, "if only I had the funds to keep doing it."

"You know my mom would pay for you in a heartbeat," Lia says softly and Vienna shakes her head. Back when both of them had been racing rallycross together, it was before Vienna's step-father Christopher really forced himself into the family, and before her 'father' Zander pulled out of child support the moment his not-kid had turned eighteen. She and Lia had tried for months to get any sponsor to cover the price for Vienna to race, but between traveling, the car, and other things... it never went through.

And so, Vienna made the transfer to Formula Racing, much to her mother's chagrin but to her own delight. With a grimace, Vienna huffs out, "If only my mom hadn't literally committed infidelity."

Nina scoffs as she approaches with Abbi in tow, "Speak of the devil."

The little black Honda pulls to a stop and Vienna curses, standing up and making her way across the expanse of the little benched area to where her mother gets out of her car and slams the door.

"What was the one thing I fucking told you, Vienna Alexandria!" Dove shouts, grabbing her daughter's arm to tug her closer as she drops her voice, "And now your sister has to witness this? I thought we kept this from her."

"Wow, thanks mom. Oh, I had a great day, I got third, does that matter?" Vienna snips, yanking her hand back from her mother.

Dove scoffs, glaring at her daughter as she scolds, "I told you not to do this! Why can't you listen to me?!"

"You are the reason I had to leave rally. You are the reason I had to leave everything I knew behind!" Vienna jabs a finger at her mother, "So sue me if I want to actually make a career good enough for me to move out and not need to panic over sponsors!"

"You are not moving out. You know that." Dove laughs cruelly, "Your sister needs you."

But a white shirt behind her mother catches Vienna's eye, along with someone loudly announcing Jenson's approach on purpose. With a soft curse under her breath, Vienna begins to walk away from her mother, "No. She needs a mother or a nanny. I'm not either of those things."

"Vienna Alexandria!"

"Miss Fisichella!"

Both Jenson and Dove make eye contact, the woman tearing herself away the second Jenson steps towards her with a half-outstretched hand. The moment killed by Vienna turning to say,

"Yes?"

Jenson shakes his head, moving to tightly shake Vienna's hand, "You did wonderfully today. I just wanted to congratulate you."

"Thank you, Mr. Button." Vienna's smile nearly doubles but she stammers as she lets go, "If I could just get a bit more speed on turns four and seven... I can't leave opportunities for other drivers to get through."

"It was a short race," Jenson shrugs, "I don't know what we would've been able to see in just one forty-minute session, but regardless, I hope I can see your growth within Williams soon."

With a wink tossed over his shoulder, Jenson calls for Lia, who quickly stands and makes her way over. Tossing a goodbye and a wink in Vienna's direction.

It takes Vienna a moment to pick her jaw up off the floor.

Her phone rings.

After a moment of pause when the noise startles Vienna, nose deep in homework, Vienna answers with a soft, tired, "Hello?"

"Is this Miss... Vienna Fisichella?" The voice says on the phone as Vienna plops down on the edge of her bed, trying to fight back her tears.

"Yes." She manages in a strained voice, clearing her throat as she brings her knees up to her chest and flops to lay on her side.

The source of the voice clicks as he introduces himself, "I'm Jenson Button, calling on behalf of Williams Racing."

"Oh, Good evening!" Vienna tries to cheer, but it falls flat. And she quickly clears her throat once more before settling into her sheets, "It's nice to hear from you again."

"It's nice to be the one to make this call, Lia told me I should." Jenson says and Lia shouting a complaint in the background is covered by Jenson laughing, "Miss Fisichella, I wanted to welcome you to Williams' Formula One Academy team alongside Lia."

"Oh. Oh my god." Vienna starts to laugh, "Wow, I... thank you, thank you, Jenson. And Lia."

A few plans are made, conversation quick, and when the call is dropped the swirl of emotions makes Vienna break down in tears. But the patter of her sister's feet dancing and the melody of her voice singing along to some old Disney CD music makes Vienna swallow her tears and get up.

"Hey, Aya." Vienna steps out of her room, wiping her tears onto the back of her hands before turning the corner, "D'ya have school tomorrow?"

When Anaya shakes her head, Vienna kneels down and takes her sister's hands into hers, "Wanna see what I do for work?"

"Vienna!" Anaya squeals, running up to her sister's legs as the two stand by a gate. Two cars whip past on a small track and Anaya screams, jumping up and down happily.

"Those two cars are driven by Logan Sargeant and Alex Albon." Vienna kneels down as she explains, a hand on her sister's back, "They drive for Formula One. Which is three stages above what I drive."

"When will you drive one of those?" Anaya asks softly, and Vienna shrugs.

"Maybe one day. But I'm kinda old now, a lot of the Formula One rookies are my age." Vienna picks Anaya up as the two cars come past them again. Anaya waves, as if the drivers will see her, making Vienna chuckle softly before she starts walking towards Williams. She can see Lia outside and smiles, setting down Anaya who screams and runs up to Lia.

"Aya!" Lia cheers, jogging to meet the six-year-old halfway, kneeling down to scoop Anaya up in her arms, "Oh my gosh! How are you!"

"Lia!!" Anaya just squeals her name again, making Lia laugh as she opens an arm to hug Vienna once she's close enough. Setting an impatient Anaya down, the girl runs over to the fence to watch Logan and Alex practicing again. Lia gives Vienna a tighter hug this time, sighing happily.

"Oh, Vienna." Lia steps back, squeezing her friend's hands, "you look sick."

"So much happened last night. So, so much. I've been crying for like... hours." Vienna wipes at her face. smiling sadly at her friend, "Uhm. My mom's really behind on rent. I had to pay five thousand pounds just to hold our apartment for three months. But it's like... sixteen thousand overall."

"Holy fucking shit, Vienna," Lia whispers, looking over at Jenson who is slowly approaching the two as he speaks with James. They're close enough to hear, but Lia feels like this is a moment where... maybe she should let Jenson hear.

"Oh, also, Chris dipped. Took my mom's money and ran. We literally don't have enough money to live, I don't know if... if I can even take this opportunity. I might have to quit. Or try and reach out to my family in Italy, but I don't even know if they'll want to talk to me after everything with my mom." Vienna sighs as she runs her hands through her long blonde hair, pausing to call Anaya over as the girl strays a bit too far. Giggling, Anaya comes bounding to her sister's side and hides her face in her sister's dress pants as she looks up at Lia as the girls continue to speak.

Across the lawn, Jenson looks like he's gonna have a stroke, James grimacing, "Oh dear. This might've been a mistake."

Jenson doesn't even have to think before he says, "I'll cover it."

The two share a look, then turn back, watching the girls talk amicably as Anaya tugs at her sister's hand. Jenson watches as Vienna kneels down to grab her sister and tuck her in her arms. There's some sort of tug in his chest, something he only feels at home when he's with his wife, with his dog and kids when the world is quiet. A warmth.

Jenson shakes his head, "I'll cover her costs. Send the check to me."

"Jenson." James tries to stop the retired driver, but the man shakes his head. Moving forward quickly, Jenson turns to the side as he shouts back at James.

"Trust me!"

tag list (open, thank you !!)

@marshmummy

general tag list (open!)

@d3kstar

[grim333z]

I've got dreams again~

Carl x m!reader

{tw: suggestive}

"Feel the rush of my blood

I'm seventeen again

I am not scared of death

I've got dreams again

It's just me and the curve of the valley

And there is meaning on Earth, I am happy"

He's a fair few steps ahead of you, his years worn boots crunching against the rocks of the path. In reality, you'd told Rick it was just a run and you'd planned to go pretty far out, and you were gonna see if there was anything of much use to the community but in all reality, You and Carl just wanted to get out, really, a break from it all. 

The gentle hum of grass hopers in the un maintained shrubs rings out as you walk down the path. You're surprised the path is even still here after all these years, chalking it up to water erosion, the heavy rainfall in the early months of the year washing away the soft stone of the area. The boy in front keeps his eye on the surroundings, for walkers or people who'd get in the way. 

His hair falls like water on his back, waved and curled slightly unruly, the ends glowing like gentle embers at the death of a bonfire under the warm light of summer sun, his hat tipped back sitting as it usually does on his head, one slender hand wrapped around the strap of the backpack he was carrying, laying against his shoulder, the other strap loose and dangling where he'd not put it on. His free hand lingering over the worn handle of his bowie knife, his years old gun never to far, over time bullets had grown sparse for a while you manufactured them, he only had a few, and rarely used them, preferring to opt for melee weapons in this day and age. Despite his messed up depth perception from the accident he'd had as a fourteen-year-old he was decently accurate with a knife, though you were never far enough away to jump in to help him.

The decent up the rocky terrain is calm, a warm oasis in the mess of everything amplified by the gentle appreciation of each others familiar comfort. There's no words exchanged just the quiet taking in of everything, the bliss of nature being left to its own devices. Over grown trees and the sounds of so many birds, having been left untouched for years at a time. There was never any discussion to what the two of you were, close, for sure, anything more however seemed to linger in the background; neither of you willing to do anything, but the feelings growing to hard to ignore. People had suspected the two of you were together,  you'd never really had the chance to... explore that kind of thing. You're pulled out of your thoughts by Carl speaking after having been quietly walking for nearly an hour, "There's this gap in the trees we can set up camp for the night," He hums turning to look at you, his overgrown fringe covering the majority of the scar, the faint reddened valley of the scar poking out from beneath, the taut and stretched skin that was pulled haphazardly together by Denise and her very sparse medical knowledge.

You nod in response, following him through the dense masses of the gorgia woodland, tall southern magnolia trees line the edge of the now waning path following Carl as he cuts down some of the in the way plants lining the once foot worn path, the soil being slightly more compact than around the path, being the only sign it really once existed.

The clearing is higher up the Hill, almost mountain, than you'd thought, though you'd probably not even realised the angle you were climbing at, just following Carl while taking in the undisrupted nature around you. It had clearly been a campsite before, a worn rotting wooden fence lines the edge where the slope down to the valley begins, an undisturbed view of the miles long stretch of hill and valley, the trees accumulating into one large mass as you look down at them off in the distance. However your moment of appreciation is interrupted by the sound of the thick polyester of Carl's orange backpack hitting the dirt behind you, the sun hanging lower in the sky, knowing the two of you would need to set up for the night.

Walkers were fewer and further between now, less people to feed from, less people to infect and less people to join them after passing; if you'd made it this far you'd had to have grasped the almost rules behind a Walker, bites kill, everyone is infected. Nowadays it was almost a sign of respect to put someone down once they're gone, if they cant or don't wanna do it themselves. You know Carls rules for putting someone down, he only does it if its someone he loves, he admitted he'd do it for you in the event of your passing. Though when the time comes, you'd doubted you'd let him see you in such a vulnerable position as that. 

"Can you keep watch while I pitch the tent, just in case." he hums knowing you're god awful at setting up tents, still you decide to challenge him, "Why can't I do it?" he shoots you a disapproving yet playful glare, a very clear No. You tinker around the small campsite, deciding to get something cooking, lighting a fire, letting it grow as you venture out into the woods, hoping for something decent to eat. Heading back to camp after a short while with two small-ish rabbits, preparing them too cook before setting them on the fire, Carl sat on a log beside the small fire; silently taking in the warmth and orange glow as it spits small embers into the air, you slump down against him as the summer warmth starts to fade into a cooler evening, a comfortable silence falls between you and the boy, the smell of cooking food and his faint boyish musk from beside you fills your nose, the sound of birds far of in the distance quieting down for the night, being taken over by the late night hum of small clusters of insects scattered around the forest. 

"You ever been here before?" You question, he never spoke about much of what he did before he knew you, having known you from the start it was his life before that remained in the dark. He shakes his head, before glancing at you, his hair brushed to the right in the wind, "Saw it on a map," He breathes, before pointing at the faded blue paper sticking out the free bottle holder on his backpack. You hum gently in response, before the calm silence resumes around you two. 

The sun sets, the night air cold around your two bodies as you eat what you'd hunted, subconsciously growing closer to the boy beside you for warmth. "I'll keep watch tonight," You hum, receiving a quiet grunt in appreciation. 

However when you find yourself shivering beside the burnt out bonfire, the cold air whistling past your ears and the constant ringing of crickets, You know he can hear you shiver from through the polyester walls, hearing the zipper, you glance at the tent, spotting his tired eye meeting yours. "Get in idiot" he hums, "I said I'd keep watch..?" you spit back, "Walkers aren't hard to hear, we'll be fine get in." He breathes, watching you shiver as you stumble into the tent, sitting down next to his camping mat.

"I should've told you not to..."He says, more to himself than anything, you decide not to respond, taking in his sleepy form, the way his hair has become dishevelled, his scar revealed from where his hair had flatted from where he sat, his tee-shirt clinging to his bony frame, you sit trying to warm up, glancing at the boy across the tent, he looks nervous, like he's hesitating.

"If you sit closer you can use my body heat, if you want..."He hums, a gentle suggestion, to which you comply , awkwardly positioning yourself near enough to him, where you weren't touching but you could feel his warmth, sat across from you on the edge of his sleeping mat. "Thanks.." There's something about the air that's off? Like some words lingering on the edge of your lips or the crack of roots as a tree hits the floor, like you can hear them before they've even been said. 

Before you know it his lips have found their way against yours, gently asking permission to continue, as he drinks you in, the warmth of his body hovering near yours as his fingers tangle into your hair, finding your fingers digging into the bone of his hips. The two of you had hardly been with girls let alone other guys, the whole thing feeling clumsy and raw, the feeling new and and nameless, something undiscovered, at least to the two of you, his name frequenting your lips, the perfect genius of your hands and mouths, a moment of peace in the midst of everything you'd been through. Each time your eye met his, the deep ocean blue of it filled with awe of something like this manging to find its way into something so flawed and maimed.

[hyperactively-me]

cutting down a christmas tree with könig 🎄🧤🪓 warnings: none (i guess a warning would be that this is my first time ever writing for könig, sooo hopefully this is not too bad)

The forest is a winter wonderland with pine trees covered in snow, their branches adorned with glistening icicles. The scent of pine fills your nostrils, a nostalgic aroma. As you and König trek into the forest, a blanket of snow muffles the sounds of your footsteps. You sink a foot into the snow with each step, the powdery substance threatening to spill into your boots. The air is crisp and invigorating, and you can’t help but feel the excitement of chopping down a tree for Christmas with your boyfriend.

“Are you keeping up well enough back there, liebling?” König calls over his shoulder, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.

You roll your eyes playfully in response, the cold air turning your breath into visible puffs. "I'm keeping up just fine, König,” you reply, playfully waving your hands. “You’re the one with the long legs!” 

König seems mostly unbothered by the depth of the snow whilst trekking farther into the forest, strong legs pushing through the slush. 

“Uh, I can slow down if you would like,” he offers, slowing to a stop to wait for you to catch up. He gives you a pointed look, adjusting the straps of the backpack carrying the heavy axe he was going to use to chop down the perfect tree. The moment you reach him, he flashes you a half smile, then keeps going. 

You catch up to König, appreciating his willingness to slow down for you. “Thank you,” you smile, falling into step beside him. The snow crunches beneath your boots, and you enjoy the rhythm of your synchronized footsteps in the snow.

“Do you see any you like, liebling?” König questions, surveying the couple of firs in front of him. 

You scan the area, taking in the trees standing tall against the winter landscape. Each tree is definitely unique, but some are too tall, and some are too sparse. After a moment, your gaze settles on a particularly cute fir tree, its branches evenly spaced and adorned with delicate icicles that catch the soft glow of sunlight.

“How about that one?” you suggest, pointing to the tree that caught your eye.

König follows your gaze and nods in agreement. “Perfect choice, liebling. It’s yours.”

With determination, you and König make your way toward the chosen tree. The snow underfoot becomes slightly deeper as you approach, but the prospect of finding the perfect Christmas tree propels you forward. König expertly adjusts the straps on his backpack, ensuring the axe is secure. As you approach, you can’t help but gush over its compact size and the way the snow is delicately draped over its branches. 

“It is very charming,” König states, taking a moment to assess its size and shape. He takes a step back, shuffling through the snow to create a sort of divot for him to stand in. “This is the one,” he declares with a confident smile.

König then takes the axe from his backpack, setting it down as he crouches beside the tree, inspecting the trunk from different angles. You watch König's every move, appreciating the care and attention he puts into selecting the perfect spot to make the cut.

“Do you need help?” you ask, standing off to the side a bit, studying König’s hunched back as he surveys the trunk of the tree. 

König looks up at you, his eyes softening with a warm smile. “I’ve got this, liebling, but thank you for offering.” 

Oh, you know he’s got this. It just never hurts to offer some help. You take a few steps back, giving him space to be able to cut down the tree, your breath visible in the frigid air. 

König pushes himself up to standing, grunting as he straightens up. You watch as his large hands twist the handle of the axe in his hands, finding a firm grip on it. As he positions himself and prepares for the first swing, you take another step back, giving him the space he needs. König's strong hands grip the axe tight, and with a steady determination, he delivers the first blow. 

The rhythmic thuds of the axe against the tree trunk tears through the tranquil forest. König's movements are deliberate, each swing calculated and purposeful. The muscles in his back and arms flex with strength and precision. As the tree begins to topple, you marvel at how effortlessly König maneuvers the axe, bringing the fir closer to hitting the ground. 

With a final, decisive cut, the tree succumbs and falls gracefully into the powdery snow. König lets out a triumphant whoop, and you join in, clapping your gloved hands excitedly. You push your way through the snow to approach him, and together, you survey the fallen tree.

“That was amazing, König!” you exclaim, genuinely entranced by his skill. “This tree is perfect," you say, running your hands along its branches.

König turns toward you, a twinkle in his eyes. “Team effort, liebling.”

You laugh at his comment, shaking your head. 

“What, a team effort is me picking the tree and you doing all the heavy lifting?”

König stares at you for a moment, a funny look on his face. 

“Yes?” he says.

You chuckle, reaching to grab his backpack for him, but he kicks it out of your reach. When you look up at him, you realize that he’s not kidding. With a grunt, König slings the backpack effortlessly onto his shoulder. “I’ve got this, liebling. You’ve done enough by choosing the perfect tree.” He winks at you, and you giggle. 

“Ok, but I really can help—”

König interrupts with a smile, “I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got it.”

With a sigh, you finally relent, knowing that he is set in his ways.

“Alright, alright, but only because you’re being so pushy,” you say, shuffling in the snow. 

König nods approvingly, a glint in his eyes. “Good. Now, let’s get this back to the car.”

König grabs the base of the trunk, securing it tightly in his grip. You walk by König’s side back through the snowy path, the tree leaving a trail of fresh imprints as he effortlessly carries it. You reach over in an attempt to share the burden, but König immediately wrenches his arms away. 

“Absolutely not, liebling,” König protests, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “This tree is my responsibility. You just focus on enjoying yourself.”

“Alright, alright, I give up, you win,” giggling, you put your hands up in mock surrender. “It was worth a shot.”

König snorts, his determined strides sometimes outpacing you, causing you to have to shuffle a bit faster to keep up. Upon reaching the car, König expertly secures the tree to the roof rack, making sure it's snug and won’t budge during the drive. You push up onto your toes and hand him the straps, and together you make sure everything is snug and secure. The tree sits proudly atop the car, ready to be taken home.

“Looks great, I think it’s secure,” you call out from the opposite side of the car. König circles around to your side, pulling on the straps to test the integrity. 

“It will hold,” König declares with a satisfied nod. “Very good.” He leans down to place a gentle kiss on your forehead. 

With the tree securely fastened, you both climb into the car, relishing the warmth that envelopes you as soon as he closes the car door for you. König starts the engine, and you begin the drive back home to your shared cabin. As he drives, König reaches over to squeeze your hand and press a kiss to your knuckles, a gesture that fills you with warmth. The ride home is filled with shared glances, laughter, and the anticipation of continuing the holiday festivities. Christmas carols play softly on the radio, and you stare out the window at the wintery world. 

Upon arriving home, König carries the tree into the living room, its branches brushing against the entryway. The scent of pine fills your home, immediately creating a cozy atmosphere. With the tree in its designated spot, you take a moment to appreciate the view of your boyfriend standing so proudly at his work. 

“Now, let’s decorate,” König says, pulling out boxes of Christmas decorations.

You both set to work, unpacking boxes of ornaments and string lights. You strategically hang ornaments on the branches, fluffing up the branches as you go. König takes charge of untangling the stubborn string lights, his patience wearing thin as he curses under his breath.

You can't help but giggle at König’s slight frustration with the tangled lights. “Need a hand with that?” you offer, reaching for the knotted mess.

König practically throws the lights into your hands, grumbling at how impossible they are to untangle. When you untangle them in less than 30 seconds, König’s eyes are practically popping out of his skull.

“If only you let me help more often,” you say, smirking playfully.

“Eh, I can make it more of a once in a while thing,” König says as he takes the lights from your outstretched hands. König then wraps the tree with the lights, using his stature to his advantage to reach the top of the tree. 

Once the last ornament is in place, you step back to admire the decorated tree. The room is bathed in a warm glow, and you share a satisfied glance with König. He reaches for a small box from one of the decoration bins and presents it to you with a smile.

“What's that?” you ask, intrigued.

“Open it and see,” König replies.

You unwrap the box to reveal a delicate, handcrafted ornament. It’s a miniature wooden sled with tiny details, clearly carved with great care. You run your fingers over the smooth wood, appreciating the craftsmanship.

“It's beautiful, König, thank you,” you say, touched by the thoughtful gift. You look up at König, and the smile on his face is priceless. 

“I thought it would be a nice addition to our tree, something to remember this Christmas.”

You find the perfect spot for the ornament, and König lifts you up slightly so you can secure it to a sturdy branch. As he sets you back down, you take a moment to pull him down for a gentle kiss. With a tender expression, König leans in and captures your lips in a sweet, lingering kiss. 

Eventually, you find yourselves nestled on the couch, blankets wrapped around you, and the crackling fireplace casts a fiery warmth on your legs. The room is filled with the soft glow of the Christmas tree sitting prettily in the corner of the living room. König pulls you closer, and you rest your head on his shoulder, relishing in the beauty of the tree and the warmth of the man sitting beside you.

[hannahssimblr]

Jen stops to catch her breath. It is a long hike from the carpark, made even longer by the muggy heat of the midlands. She tosses her bags onto the scorched grass and wipes sweat from her brow, wheezing. “Christ. Is it much further, do you think?”

“No, Jenny. Get a grip. You’re barely carrying anything, anyway.”

She looks at me. My own bags, including a sleeping bag and a cheap, compact tent, and all of Evie’s things, too, are over my shoulders. The straps dig into my shoulders and hands so much that I anticipate welts, but I don’t dare complain. She is standing right there. 

“I’ll take a bag, Jen,” she says. “I have nothing now, and honestly, I feel really bad.”

“Oh, thanks,” Jen passes her a backpack, which Evie slings over her shoulder, smiling sympathetically. “I get it, though. It’s hot, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s hot. I also just hate hauling my arse about for miles, regardless of the kind of weather. I’m just dead lazy,” she throws a judgemental eye in my direction as Evie rushes to join Claire and Shane. “And it seems that certain girls’ bags are more important than others around here, right, Jude?”

“She was struggling,” I protest. “It didn’t feel right to let her carry them all the way. You could have asked Shane, or someone, if you were finding it so hard.”

“That’s the privilege of being fancied by Jude Turner, hm?”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”

“I hope you’re going to be wise this weekend…” she starts up, but I’m already walking away. 

“C’mon, you’re holding me up!”

She groans and drags herself behind me, toward the towering festival entrance peeking over the horizon. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[starlight-archer]

Fic Request for @ckxep "Charles and Edwin being dumb teenage boys"

They're having a little holiday weekend!

It was the first month of Autumn and things had finally slowed down at the office. They had had a busy few weeks and they had all decided that they were long due a break.

Initially, they had struggled to come to an agreement on where to go, but then the classic British September heat wave had hit and Niko had eagerly suggested that they all go to the beach.

Charles was immediately eager, it having been a long time since they had gone to one outside of a casework. He was practically already in his swim shorts and flip flops before she had even finished her sentence.

Edwin hadn't really been to the beach much while he was alive. There had been a lake on his family's estate, and there was the one Summer when he was twelve, when he had been sent to the seaside "for his health" (though he hadn't actually been allowed on the beach or in the water, and his aunt Beatrice had kept trying to feed him nettle soup).

All that to say that they had leapt at the idea.

They had debated for a while about where to go, but in the end they had settled on a two day trip to Cornwall. They had taken the train into a seaside town called Hayle from London Paddington, and Crystal had rented a chalet at a small holiday resort that had it's own private beach.

Once they arrived, they quickly realised that they would have to wait for the following day for the beach.

It was raining. A lot.

So, Charles pulled a couple of umbrellas out and they headed over to the supermarket to stock up on snacks before checking in to the chalet.

The place was pretty spacious inside, with a small kitchenette, a compact lounge with a coffee table, an open area and then two bedrooms and a small bathroom.

They set up in the small sitting area and broke out the snacks, had an afternoon of board games that Charles had brought along. Half way into it, they had started a game of Charles and Edwin throwing popcorn and gummy sweets, and Niko and Crystal trying to catch them in their mouths.

At one point, they had also made a game of seeing how many marshmallows they could fit in their mouths (Edwin had cheated by letting them phase partially through him and they embrassingly hadn't noticed until he got to ninety-seven).

The next day, they had all gotten into their beachwear and headed down to the seafront. It was a picturesque little area and due to the time of year, most of the others there were middle-aged or elderly couples (likely there in September because all of the families with children had gone back home with the end of the Summer holidays).

Crystal set up their wind shield and parasol while Niko laid out the beach towels and found rocks to weigh down the corners.

Charles put his backpack down and opened it up before pulling out two decently large shovels, both with wooden poles and brightly coloured plastic handles.

He gave Edwin a look, grinning and raising his eyebrows.

"Shovels?" Edwin looked at Charles curiously as he took the blue shovel in his hands.

"Shovels!" Charles echoed, waving his own, bright red shovel excitedly.

He brought Edwin over to a patch of sand that was a little bit damp at the top. The tide was on its way out, so they wouldn't have to worry about having to move across the beach.

"What are we doing with these?" Edwin asked, already having an idea, but still being unsure.

"Digging a hole!" Charles exclaimed.

"A hole..."

"A really big hole!" Charles made the first move to bury his shovel in the sand and toss the contents to the side. "Come on!"

Edwin hesitated for a moment, but when Charles carried on, he decided to join in. If nothing else, he was curious about the appeal.

One hour and twenty minutes later and the appeal had become more than apparent.

Edwin and Charles had managed to dig down deep enough that their heads were barely visible over the brim of the hole and it had become wide enough for at least three people to fit in there (granted, uncomfortably, but still).

"Well, I must admit that this is a strangely rewarding endeavour." Edwin said, digging his shovel into the lump of sand at his side.

"Mate! It's digging a massive hole, it's brills! It's like human nature, innit?" Charles beamed.

It felt good to do something so pointless and fun, just for the sake of it, without having any additional purpose or end goal. Just dig a hole. A really big hole. And then hope you don't accidentally make it too deep to climb out without help.

When they were done with the hole, they rejoined Crystal and Niko by the parasol and dragged them over to see the hole.

"Holy shit!" Crystal laughed. "It's like six feet deep!"

"You guys! That's crazy!" Niko hesitantly leaned over the side to peer in. "it's like the mountain of sand you dug out just makes it look even deeper."

"You basically dug a pond."

"Pretty cool, yeah?" Charles put his hands on his hips and looked incredibly proud of all their hard work.

"Pretty cool." Crystal smiled, holding back the rest of her giggles.

They all took a splash in the sea, then spent the rest of the day lounging, waiting after they had packed up for the wave that finally reached the hole and filled it up to the brim, knocking half of the dug up sand back in at the same time. They cheered.

Walking back up the path, Charles suddenly darted ahead. "Oh, yeah!" he cheered and when he turned back around, brandishing two large sticks that he had picked up from the bushes.

He threw one to Edwin, who deftly caught it. "En guarde!"

Without another word the two of them took a fighting stance and started "sword fighting" with the sticks, carrying on until they were almost back at the chalet, where Edwin finally managed to disarm Charles, sending the stick flying off to the left.

Before the sun had set, they finished packing up their overnight supplies, picked up some takeaway chips for the journey, and headed back to the train station. There would be one changeover at Plymouth and then they would be on their way back to London.

Vacation well spent.

[ghostingpen]

what's in my bag

i saw a tumblr post asking people who carry bags what items are there to bring other than “chapstick, keys, phone and maybe a tampon” and tbh that stuck with me. so here is everything i keep in my bag because i like to be That Backpack Person who has everything for any common occurrence.

after years of experimenting with my everyday carry, trying out trendy backpacks such as the fjällräven kanken and the doughnut macaroon, i surprisingly now find myself reaching for the jansport right pack backpack the most.

look at it in all its glory decked out in pins, buttons, and charms. i recently wore it going apple picking at an orchard and had no issues.

so here are its contents:

front small pocket:

mini emergency kit (i’m reusing an old gum container to keep small things i find myself needing often: bandaids, painkillers, hair ties, loose cash to give to the local homeless, four quarters in case i go to ALDI or want a gumball) + pocket tissues (this is what i run low on the most) + mini UNO cards (waiting in line with friends? play UNO) + tide to go pen + 2-in-1 battery bank/plug-in charger + phone charging cable + d20 dice (stimmy)

front medium pocket:

wallet + coin purse (to collect loose change) + disposable pens + e-reader + car keys + work ID + vape

water bottle pocket: 

the 24-oz owala water bottle is, and i’m not sponsored when i say this, the best water bottle i’ve ever used. the design is genius.

laptop pocket:

reusable shopping bag (i impulse buy a lot so this is useful) + one “big” tech thing and its charger for entertainment purposes. i like to have multiple entertainment options because i’m mentally ill. i’m currently carrying my steam deck OLED with me but i may sometimes instead bring one of these:

ipad: for web browsing, drawing, word processing.

freewrite alpha: my current way to write fiction. think a modern alphasmart that lets you transfer files locally or sync to the cloud if you prefer that.

work laptop: for work.

main pocket: 

mini tote (i use this to easily transfer whatever’s in the main pocket to another bag) + journal (a traveler’s notebook) + large emergency kit (sanitary pads, herbal oil for aches, eczema hand cream, earplugs, makeup wipes) + noise-canceling headphones + electric fan + hobonichi drawer pouch (other charging cables, wig caps, bobby pins, gorilla glue, facial wipes) + compact umbrella + pencil case

pencil case:

mechanical pencil + pencil lead + mini sticky notes + multi-ruler + white gel pen + glue stick + eraser + scissors + highlighter + brush pen + metal pen (it works like an 8 ball where you roll it and it shows you an 8ball-esque answer)

what you put in your bag is a very personal thing! i am always fascinated by the different ways people hold their things and what they find worth carrying around.

[oh-no-another-idea]

OC Bag game

Thanks for the tag, @mysticstarlightduck! I've totally fallen off the wagon in both writing and tag games as I'm traveling right now, but I'm popping back in with this fun one, AND I wrote my first daily 1k of the year yesterday. 🥰 (Being patient with my stats as I travel is harder than I thought it'd be! I can write when I'm home, I can write when I'm home I can)

Rules: Name five things your OC would have in their backpack/satchel/purse/bag.

Velia:

A snack like a biscuit or an apple

The daily paper

Her prized mirror compact would usually be in a pocket, but if she didn't have pockets?

Whatever...stolen items she's recently acquired

Antonio:

You guessed it. A backup sandwich

A backup necktie

The paperwork he's supposed to be carrying

The three books he's definitely not supposed to be carrying

A pen

A backup handkerchief

Paris:

His artist's sketchbook

A charcoal pencil

Extra rosin for his violin bow

Possibly something for lunch

Passing the tags on to anyone who happens upon this one, and also @sleepyowlwrites @space-writes @charlesjosephwrites @eccaiia and @kaylinalexanderbooks <3

[twst-aceofhearts]

𝙿𝙰𝙻𝟹𝚃𝚃𝙴: 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝟼 || 𝙿𝚄𝚁𝙿𝙻𝟹

𝙖/𝙣: 𝙬𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙙𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙮𝙖'𝙡𝙡 >:3 𝙣𝙤𝙣𝙗𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙧𝙮 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙚𝙝𝙚

𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙨: 317

Tyrian Corcoran never liked the phrase “black and white.”

Too binary. Too absolute. Too easy.

Nothing in their life had ever fit neatly into a checkbox. Not gender, not feelings, not this school—especially not this school.

Grayscale Academy liked order. Liked labels. Liked to file things away.

Tyrian didn’t fit in a file.

They were quiet, sure. But not passive. Observant, not oblivious. Which is why, when the others started changing, Tyrian noticed first.

Alroy’s stares during assembly. Clementine’s sudden scribbles. Saffron��s perfect posture starting to crack. Olive’s backpack growing heavier with secrets. Nyla walking like the air itself was pressing on her skin.

And then, finally, themself.

It began with the mirror in their dorm. A cheap square thing, bolted to the wall, standard-issue. One night, Tyrian leaned close, studying a freckle they didn’t remember, and the light shifted.

Their eyes were violet.

They blinked. Back to gray. No, not back—hidden.

That’s when it hit them. The color was never gone. Just buried. Drowned. Suppressed.

Like everything else.

Tyrian started carrying a small compact mirror in their pocket. Everywhere they went, they checked angles. Reflections. Places where reality might slip. And the more they looked, the more they saw it:

Color leaks. Not big, but real. In the corners. In the reflections. In the cracks.

They found a message scrawled inside their locker yesterday: “Some things refuse to fade.”

It was written in purple ink, under their old Latin notes.

They hadn’t written it.

But it felt like it was meant for them.

Tyrian had a theory. Not one they could prove. Not yet.

But it went like this:

Color was memory. Color was resistance. And something—or someone—was trying to bring it back.

Tonight, they’d meet on the rooftop. All six of them.

They didn’t know what would happen. But Tyrian knew this much:

Whatever was coming, it was already inside them. And it was bright.

credit to @cafekitsune for divider