#<-- that means they only erupt once. i think its neat

[geoledgy]

"When can I see you again?"

This was inspired by some brba scenes cuz I really loved the composition of them, so I painted the San Francisco Peaks amidst some cinder cones. This is what I imagine Sandstone Springs (fictional Arizona town) looking like, where the land itself is flat, and sparsely forested but it's surrounded by cinder cone volcanoes on almost all its sides, and you could see the San Francisco Peaks in the backdrop.

[blorbosexterminator]

Any thoughts on the new Pedro poem?

I once again can't claim to understand Pedro's mind haha (every time he posts something I'm posessee by this Ben Afleck picture lmfao) but I do find the poem interesting. I can't say whether I have definite thoughts per se, but there are a couple of things that caught my interest that I can share with you!

Disclaimer though, other than my general lack of insight into Pedro's brain, those notes are posted in Spanish, a language I don't speak, with no translation from his side, so anything I say can simply be a misunderstanding resulting from a mistranslation.

I suppose I'd say I was say my interest was mostly caught by the Parisian title, indicating in my opinion to those thoughts concerning the first few episodes in Paris, and by the common motifs he uses: the spiritual creature, the mirror, and the good story.

I think we might assume the spiritual creature here, at least partially, is either Berlin himself, or his reflection to himself. It's pretty neat, the first part, how it goes that the spiritual creature can neither be too spiritual or too unspiritual/worldly, how it can neither be too moral or too immoral. Whether that's what he meant or not, I find it something you can easily say about Berlin: as a character inside the narrative and as a person inside the story, Berlín definitely has an internal coherence that can't exactly be judged in accordance to an external system of morality, or even spirituality. The geyser addition is pretty cool too, even though it's one aspect I'm unsure of its meaning, but metaphorically geysers are usually put to indicate someone or something that ruptures or has an eruption due to pressure and/or repression. Something we could also generally say about Berlin, especially in the first two seasons, the way he's this perfect surface of something constantly threatening to erupt.

The addition of "And a mirror" is my favorite though. Mirrors are definitely an obsession Pedro and I share haha. But yeah. Pedro generally uses Mirrors a lot when speaking about Berlin (and maybe generally). Off the top of my head, during the early days he often attributed this overwhelming reaction to the character of Berlin to how the character held up a mirror to people, something interviewers usually mention as well, how Berlin isn't only a catalyst sort of mirror to the characters around him, but to the audience too. He also used to when describing the relationship between Palermo and Berlin. And I'd also add that one of the character's most interesting and most violent scenes from the second part of the series was literally set up in front of mirrors (as far as I remember, the only scene reminiscent of that was Palermo's mirror scene as a set-up to also one of his most rapturous moments). Whether intentionally or not, there is definitely something that can be said about this repeates aspect of the show that intersects mirrors with violence, especially in the context of Pedro's not here. The mirror is brought twice and both in the same context: be prepared of what will be reflected back at you. In the first part, it's put together with the geyser. The creature is both a geyser AND a mirror. And one must be careful looking at that mirror, look at that reflection, in all genders (? Couldn't totally get the part with en ella. En ello. En sí. The best I could perceive is the affirmity of the creature that in all shapes shows nothing but itself in the end.)

The second usage of the mirror is also linked with violence, both preceding and following it. The spiritual creature-if it becomes flesh, has nails that kill you when caressed. Then the affirmation that this clarification comes from looking at the mirror. Then it's a sort of cause and effect to the first mention. In the first, it says that one must be careful looking into that mirror. Then here in the second, it goes, if he is Not prepared (I love that it's called a gift, too! That insight.) that looking into the mirror can result in him tearing apart the one he pretended to love. The specific use of pretense in the same line as the mirror is very, very interesting. What can you see when you look at a mirror? The truth, presumably, one that you might not have liked to know (especially if you weren't careful and prepared), yet are now forced to see . There would be no more room for pretense, a visceral reaction would including tearing down those involved in the pretense.

I think there is a chance this involves or alludes to the storyline with Berlin's third wife. The line fully goes "If you're not prepared for such gifts, on a bad afternoon, you can tear the one you pretended to love." We know from the preview that the show starts on a bad day for Berlín, I think the narration starts with "There are somethings that can turn a terrible day into a wonderful one." Or something of the sort. Then clarifies that even though love (and theft) are one of those things, this wasn't the case because his third wife had just left him, so that might some subtext of the storyline. Or maybe it's about the "miserable man" that Berlin points a gun to his head, whoever that is!

Third thing is the "good story" which I can't say strikes any particular chords with me. Its first mention, in the 2 part, "If someone finds a good story, let him put it to use. Let him steal it on the spot. But in return, he has to make it his." Just sounds on the same wavelength as T.S Eliot's good artists steal and make something better or different with it." But I have no idea what it means in this context or if Pedro is particularly influenced by that line of thought. And while I can link this to Berlin, I don't know if that would be me reading too much into it or if it has anything to do with what Pedro meant.

The other time it's mentioned, it's in the last part. Which is the part most reminiscent of his other poem. And I generally think is the part most embodying Berlín's gang and their line of thought. The beings in between two worlds, who decided to chose that fate, and who deserve a good story.

[cevans16]

I Don’t Hate You, I Like You

Summary: Sebastian seems to get along with everyone except you. Why is that?

You had the role as Tony’s best friend in the Avengers. You had been part of the MCU since the beginning of the franchise. You always got along with the cast, you were real-life best friends with Chris Evans however there was one exception, Sebastian. No matter what you asked him, he always seemed to only give you one word answers, you weren’t sure as to why since you had always been friendly to him. 

You guys were reuniting for the next installment of the Avengers. You had arrived earlier from your vacation in Australia with Chris Hemsworth and his family whom had invited you to their place in Byron Bay. You were looking for your best friend Chris Evans but had yet to find him however you did spot Anthony Mackie and Sebastian Stan. They were both alone conversing with each other, you decided to walk up to say hi, you noticed Sebastian was very talkative with Anthony until he saw you coming up to them. You honestly had enough with him always being quiet when you were around, you didn’t want it to be like this again when filming for the next months so you decided to confront him about it. 

“Hey Mackie!” you said pulling him in for a hug, “Hey how’s it going?!” he replied excitedly. 

“Good! I just came back from Australia, hey Sebastian” you said smiling up at him. He whispered a shy “Hi” to you while looking down and away from your eyes. 

“Soooooo I didn’t know THIS man actually talked” you said to Mackie referring to Sebastian. “What do you mean? He talks all the time!” Mackie said. 

“No I have to pull the words out of him when I try to talk to him” you chuckled, you saw Sebastian’s cheeks turn pink but you decided not to comment on it. 

“Well its because he’s my friend” Sebastian replied a little harsher than he intended to. You felt yourself gasp at his response, you didn’t understand why he had always been quiet with you but you didn’t know that he disliked you too. Mackie didn’t say anything, he himself was surprised at Sebastian’s remark to you. 

“I see, so it’s personal. No worries Sebastian, I guess not everyone can get along right” you said cutting him off when he tried to say something else. “Anyways have you guys seen Evans?” you said looking around for any sign of the Bostonian. Luckily he was coming up to you guys just in time to save you from the awkwardness. 

“Heyyyyyy, I’m glad you’re back, you wouldn’t believe the shit that happened to me while you were gone. What’s up guys” he said to you and the boys. 

“Tell me about it over snacks” you said instantly pulling him away with you to head towards the snack bar they had set up. 

“Fucking shit, what the fuck did I ever do to him” you said annoyed to Chris

“What are you talking about?” he asked you confused

“Sebastian, I thought he was shy but no. I basically asked him why he’s quiet with me and he said well Mackie is my friend in like a douche-y tone. I didn’t do shit to him” you rambled on to Chris while you stuffed your face with a chocolate bar. You noticed his lips curve up in a devilish grin. 

“What’s so funny?” you asked him

“You like him don’t you?” he asked. You didn’t like Sebastian, you couldn’t, especially with the way he was towards you. You did think he was a handsome guy and you always felt butterflies whenever you saw him. But no one could know that, not even your best friend. 

“Pfttt no he’s not....no” you said stumbling with your words. 

“Yeah that was convincing” he snorted. 

“Shut up Evans, you’re supposed to be on my side” you said defensively. 

“I am but as a best friend I can also tell you have a thing for him, maybe you should tell him” he said. 

“Oh fuck off, not after what he said to me five minutes ago....but I DON’T like him” you enunciated the last words. 

“You keep telling yourself that sweetheart” he smirked at you. You playfully smacked his shoulder. You turned to look where Sebastian was, he was in the same place you had left him and Mackie. He looked over at you, shyly smiling, you didn’t smile back but returned an eye roll. 

The Following Day

You were all cooped up in a van heading towards Jimmy Kimmel’s show. You were sited in between Evans and Hemsworth. The three of you together were chaos in the best way possible; very loud, slightly obnoxious, childish, but the cast wouldn’t have it any other way. The three of you were uncontrollably laughing about something dumb Evans had said, you were to the point of tears.

Sebastian was on the seat behind you next to Mackie. Mackie had noticed that Sebastian always stole glances your way but he never said anything until now. 

“You know maybe you should tell her how you feel” Mackie whispered to him

“I don’t know what you’re talking about” Sebastian said in his best way to sound nonchalant.

“You know EXACTLY what I am talking about” Mackie said motioning his head to your direction, “plus you should apologize for yesterday, that was a little fucked up” he said. Sebastian nodded his head in agreement, “I will apologize but that is it” he replied. Sebastian did like you, he liked you a lot but was afraid to overstep any boundaries. He hated that he always froze whenever you would try to talk with him and definitely hated himself for how he responded to you yesterday. He felt like an asshole when he saw the look on your face, he didn’t blame you. 

------------------------------------------

“Alright! So you are all going to play musical beers!” Jimmy Kimmel said, next explaining the game. You weren’t much of a beer person but loved to compete so you agreed to participate. 

“Okay so the final team is.....Chris Hemsworth, Robert, and (Y/N)” Kimmel said. 

Robert, Hemsy and you walked to form your group together.

“We’re going to win” Hemsy said excitedly

“You bet your ass” Robert replied. You were going to say something when you heard Evans taunting you, he was paired up with Sebastian and Mackie. You were really hoping that Evans wouldn’t mention anything about you to Sebastian but you weren’t entirely convinced. 

You were going around the circle dancing around when the music stopped, somehow Sebastian mixed up the rules and began to drink from a red solo cup. “Not yet Sebastian!!!” Jimmy yelled at him causing Sebastian to spit out his drink back into the cup, the audience yelled in disgust and laughter. You were laughing about it feeling sorry for the person who would have to drink it.

Ten minutes later it was down to your team and Evans team for the tie breaker. You were moonwalking back and forth when the music abruptly stopped, you realized where you had stopped in front of....Sebastian’s cup. You tried to play it off by slowly moving onto the next part of the circle but Chris Evans being Chris Evans made sure you had to drink it. 

“No, nooo sweetie stay where you are” Chris said to you laughing

You turned around for Hemsworth or Downey for any defense, they looked at you with puppy dog eyes hoping you would do it so you could win.

“Just take one for the team” Downey said

“Right since you’re not the one that’s ABOUT TO DRINK SEBASTIAN’S SPIT!” you said 

“We are ABOUT TO WIN (Y/N)” Downey yelled back

“FINE, YOU OWE ME” you yelled. The chaos with the situation was causing the audience to erupt in laughter and sympathy for your own situation.

You took a deep breath, grabbing the cup off the table, you turned to look Sebastian dead in his eyes and said “Cheers to your spit” before chugging it down quickly. Sebastian stood there frozen, one he felt bad that out of all people it was you, two he didn’t know why he was turned on by how you took it like a champ.

“It wasn’t that bad” you said chuckling, “WE WIN SUCKERS” you said slamming the cup towards Evans who was rolling his eyes even though he knew you would do it to win. 

You, Robert and Hemsworth jumped up and down in excitement for winning, they brought the three of you mini trophies that said ‘Champions of Musical Beers’.

“Yes! And I would love to nominate myself as MVP. It took blood, sweat and spit to win it” you joked. 

Once you were done with the show, you all collectively walked towards the nearest bar. You were deep in conversation with Robert about space shuttles while Evans and Mackie were grilling poor Sebastian about his crush on you. 

“He doesn’t like her, he lovvesss her” Evans taunted, giving Mackie and opportunity to join in, “And the plus side, she’ll drink your spit”

“Can you guys stop” Sebastian said laughing while he ran his hands through his long hair, “I’m in deep shit aren’t I?”, “YEP” Mackie and Evans replied in unison. They came up with a plan to get you and Sebastian alone. 

You walked inside the bar ordering your food while the rest of the cast grabbed a high-top table on the corner of the place. You thought they were there until you only saw Evans drinking the last of his beer there. 

“Where’s everyone else?” you asked looking around, Evans turned to you shrugging. You sat next to him, taking a batch of fries into your mouth, you had done the wrong thing in drinking two cocktails first rather than eating. 

“This is a cool place huh” Chris said taking his food from you, “Yeah it’s neat” you replied. About five minutes later you were finishing up your fries, Evans taking the occasional one when you noticed Sebastian was heading to your table. You rolled your eyes at the sight of him, he caught that. 

“Someone isn’t happy to see me” he commented once he was in front of you and Evans. 

“Mhmmm we’re not friends remember” you replied snarkily

Sebastian sighed, “Look about that I am so so-”

“Save the bullshit, we don’t have to get along. Where’s everyone else?” you asked. 

He shrugged, “Fuck I know, bathroom, upstairs drinking, some left”

“Well I am going to get another drink want one?” you asked Evans directly, he nodded at you. 

“Can I sit with you guys?” Sebastian asked, you looked at Chris who nodded, you shrugged and walked away heading back to the bar. While you waited for your drinks you looked around to see any sign of the rest of your group, no one in sight, where had they gone you asked yourself.

You came back with three drinks, one for you, one for Chris and one for Sebastian, you were annoyed with him but felt bad in not asking if he would like a drink. 

You passed the beers to Chris and Sebastian who politely thanked you and was surprised that you knew what he normally ordered. 

“I’m leaving back to the hotel” Chris abruptly said

“What, you just said you were having a good time here” you replied

“Nahhh I’m getting sleepy, here Sebs you can have my drink” Chris said pushing the beer over to him. He was about to get up from his seat when you grabbed his arm. 

“Wait for me” you said to Chris, you didn’t want to be alone with Sebastian. You didn’t catch Sebastian’s eyes open in panic that their plan was about to fail. 

“(Y/N) you still have your drink and Sebastian doesn’t like those so don’t think about passing it over to him” Chris said. 

You looked over to Chris and then Sebastian, you picked up your cocktail chugging it quickly before hopping off your seat when you toppled over.

“Whoah, one too many” Chris chuckled catching you in time

“Exactly, I will not be here any longer” you said 

“(Y/N), can I talk to you?” Sebastian spoke up loud enough for you to hear. 

“WHy you already said sorry remember” you said annoyed to him

“(Y/N) come on” Chris said in defense

“Why, he clearly doesn’t want to be my friend, so I’m not kissing his ass” you said even more annoyed. Chris looked you dead in the eyes, an expression he didn’t give you often but it basically said to not be an asshole.

“Fine, two minutes” you said to Sebastian

“After you” he said getting up from his seat

“I’ll wait for you outside” Chris said to you

You walked ahead of Sebastian towards the restrooms where it was a bit quieter and more private. You stopped to face him, he leaned on the wall fidgeting with the zipper on his jacket, not saying a word. The alcohol in your system had kicked in because you were feeling extra blunt. 

“Okay, here’s the thing Sebastian. I get along with everyone, I love to hang out with you guys, we work so much and it never feels exhausting. I tried to be your friend the moment I met you, what I did to you I have no fucking clue, but we are not in elementary or high school for you to be a dick to me” you said.

You calling Sebastian a dick irked him, that wasn’t him, he didn’t want you to think that about him.

“I’m not a dick, you’re not entirely nice to me” he said

“That’s bullshit, I tried to talk to you the most polite way. What you want me to get on my fucking knees and suck your dick?!” you said feeling yourself get agitated with him. 

“Uhhhh yes” he blurted out, oh shit he thought. 

“Excuse ME?! Fuck this” you said walking away from him. 

“(Y/N)! Fuck I’m sorry that’s not what I meant, yes I do, noooo, okay shut up for a second Sebastian” he started rambling following you out the bar. You quickly walked towards Chris who had in fact waited for you. The look he saw on your face wasn’t good, he knew he wouldn’t hear the end of it for doing this to you.

“He wants me to suck his fucking dick” you exasperated to Chris. Chris laughed at the comment but was confused to how the conversation went there. 

“(Y/N) stop please” you heard Sebastian say, “What?!” you yelled at him this time. 

“I don’t hate you....I like you. I thought you were fucking gorgeous the moment I met you but I don’t know why you make me so fucking nervous that I freeze, I’m afraid I am going to say the wrong shit like I just did two fucking seconds ago back there. I like you more than a friend and being a dick is not an excuse, I didn’t mean for yesterday to sound mean. I am so sorry and I hope you forgive me” he said exhaling loud at the end.

“Annnnnddd?” Chris added in

“Fuck.... and I hope you would like to go out on a date with me...please” Sebastian said to you more quietly and shy this time. 

“Let me try this first” you said walking to Sebastian, you pulled his face down to yours to kiss him. His lips were soft, the taste of alcohol and the smell of his cologne intoxicated you more than you already were. He kissed you back passionately, cupping his hands around your face, you guys fought over dominating each others tongue until you won by tugging his hair. 

“Uhmmmmm guys” you heard Chris pull you out of your intimate moment. You pulled back to look at him and realized the rest of the cast was there. 

“Well I fucking walked in to an amazing show” Robert joked.

You laughed, feeling yourself blush, you weren’t one for PDA. You turned to look at Sebastian who was blushing just the same. 

“So is that a yes on a date?” he asked you

“Definitely a yes, although I won’t suck your dick” you teased him. He gasped at you saying that out loud in front of the cast.

“Well YET” Lizzie said unexpectedly 

“Lizzie?!?!!” you yelled over to her

“Whatttt? You already drank his spit, swapped it with each other” she said shrugging. 

[isolemnlyswear]

ooo could i request a remus x fem! reader where both of them are very shy so it takes lily, james and sirius to push them together. and whenever they talk to each other they stutter a lot?

always have, always will.

a/n : guess what! i made this way too intense again. i can't help it; its so much easier for me to write a really fucking intense love rather than a crush IM SORRY !! the end is the only cute part the rest is shite

HAPPY (very belated bc i don't have any motivation) BIRTHDAY REMUS MY BEAUTIFUL BOY

taglist : @oldschoolkiddo @amourtentiaa @anchoeritic @faeinorbit @tomriddleswifey @inks-and-jinx @jxsperhxle @punkrific @the-gazette-of-tea @krasivayadarling @orifortheweeknd @fallin-4-ya @incxndio @daisyyy2516 @hoe4cedricdiggory

young!remus lupin x fem!reader

---

"Oh." you sigh, blinking when you see Remus inside. Your huff isn't one of discontent; rather, as you enter the common room, you're simply nervous, timid to deal with the boy. As soon as you want to speak in front of him, to tell him that you really, really like him, you start blushing, turning into a stammering mess.

Alas, you swallow your fear, sitting down on the plush maroon chair opposite him and Sirius; Lily is on the floor, flipping through a potions book, and James is sprawled across your coordinating chair. Remus is lying against the side of the couch, knees up with arms wrapped around his legs. He's smiling, laughing at a joke Sirius told prior to your arrival.

Your heart is aching in your chest, and you try to will it to stop yearning for this boy, but there's a voice inside your head. One that tells you that he's all you could ever need.

Such thoughts reduce you to mush when Lily notices your arrival.

"There she is! How are 'ya?" the redhead greets you happily, and such a simple question is blocked out by your tunnel vision; you can only focus on one thing at the moment, and it's Remus.

You don't speak for a moment, zoning out, but when your eyes meet those of Remus, you quickly snap out of your trance, shaking your head.

"'M fine. J-just tired, I think 'm gonna go upstairs-" you manage to say, but you're cut off by an incredulous Sirius.

"S'five in the afternoon!" he says with a laugh, and you nod.

"And?" you quip, focus now returned when you tear your eyes away from Remus.

"Y'gotta stay down here, dinner's soon!" Lily replies, and you glare at her. She knows exactly why you want to leave at the moment, rather, she knows about how in love you are with one of your best friends. She raises her hands in mock surrender, and you sigh.

It's almost painful, the next hour. You're trying so hard to not make it alarmingly obvious concerning your... issue, but it's proving to be quite difficult.

And then, finally, it's dinner. You're able to get away with not talking, as you pretend to be eating anytime you're asked a question, and Remus is silent as well.

You eventually can sneak away to your dorm, wanting to sleep to rid yourself of the thoughts that give you no reprieve during the day.

But, of course, your dreams are of Remus.

---

Unbeknownst to you, and Remus, the entire rest of the marauders (and about half your year) are painfully aware of your affection for the boy.

And his for you.

So they hatch a plan; it’s simple, but effective.

You're all lounging in the common room -a typical Saturday afternoon - when James poses an odd request.

“Hey, Y/N? D’you wanna go look at something for me?” he asks, fighting back the smile that threatens at his lips. You nod, eager to get away from the tension that you and Remus are swamped by.

“What is it?” you ask as he gets up, leading you up the stairs and to his dorm room. You're confused, eyebrows furrowing and hands wringing nervously.

“You'll see.” James grins at you as you enter the dorm room - which has four beds, three of which are littered with laundry and other teenage boy things, but one is impeccably neat, and you assume it to be Remus’s.

“James, what-” you begin, but he shushes you with a laugh.

“Lily’s cat won't get out of this closet, y’see, and I know you're good with animals and the like, so could you...get it? For Lily, f’course, ” he asks, pointing to a rather large closet in the corner of their dorm.

You raise your eyebrows, but nod, opening the doors and getting in, eyes searching for Lily’s feline friend.

But as soon as you drop to your knees, a soft thud reverberates through the closet. James had shut the doors, and the closet was big enough to where you weren't claustrophobic, thankfully. But there is no cat in sight. None.

Downstairs, however, James had strolled in nonchalantly, and Lily’s grinning.

“What did you do this time, Prongs?” Remus sighs, unaware that the others around him are all aware of their little plot.

“Maybe you should go upstairs and find out,” James says ominously, raising a dark eyebrow. Remus glares at him, sighing.

“Where’s Y/N?” he asks, still holding his gaze on the brunette. Lily giggles, and Remus shoots her an impatient glare. “What did you do to her?” The question is directed at no one in particular, but the irascible tone in the lycanthrope’s voice demands an answer.

“Once again, go upstairs and find out, mate.” James’s tone, however, is one of amusement.

Remus takes in a querulous breath, turning to stomp up the stairs.

Undivulged to him, James is sneakily creeping up the stairs behind the boy.

You're pounding at the mahogany of the closet door, and you've forgotten your wand downstairs, leaving you helpless in the space. You ponder why James would do such a thing, but you brush it off, figuring it was another prank, one of all too many.

“Y/N?” Remus questions hesitantly into the empty dorm, and your ears prick up at his voice.

“I'm in here!!” you shout, pounding at the closet door, and Remus rushes to open it for you.

But as soon as he's inside, helping you up, James, with a flick of his wand, shuts the door.

You're locked in.

With Remus.

And it's absurd, really, how quickly your heart is beating in your ribcage.

“Prongs I swear to Merlin-” Remus starts irritably, but stops himself with a tremulous inhale.

“Fuck,” you whisper, cowering to the back of the closet. Remus’s scent is surrounding you, the honey and chocolate and dark cologne enveloping you in a blanket of bliss. You’re thankful for the dim nature of the closet, for your cheeks are rouging with embarrassment.

Little known to you, Remus’s heart is pounding in his ears, and he’s even more entranced by your scent, what with his dog-like sense of smell. It's his favorite scent in the world, truly, one he could get lost in forever.

“Sorry,” the boy whispers, slumping down across the space from you, and you quirk a brow.

“W-what are you sorry for, Remus?” you ask quietly, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“I got us locked in here, didn't I?” You can hear the soft smile in his voice, a bittersweet one.

“But that isn't too bad, is it?” you say, courage surging through your bones as the darkness shields your nerves.

“Oh yeah?” he asks under his breath, laughing softly.

“What, am I that unbearable?” you tease, tucking a strand of fallen hair behind your ear.

“No,” Remus says remarkably quickly, and then he hesitates for a second. “Quite the opposite.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but his words ring in your ears like a mantra.

“That's quite cryptic,” you say, taking in a deep breath.

“Y’gonna make me spell it out for you?”

“If you mean what I think you do, fuck, either I'm being terribly idiotic right now or...” you trail off, noticing that Remus is closer to you, now.

“Or what?” he breathes, and you close your eyes slowly.

“Or...if you're, um, insinuating what I think you to be, and I get words out correctly enough to respond...” you leave the rest of the sentence unsaid, words trapped in your throat.

“What then?” Remus says ever-so-quietly, and you take in another breath, eyes still pressed closed.

“I'd be making the best decision of my life.”

You can hear the boy’s breath hitch in his throat. You open your eyes to see that he's next to you, now, and the soft light from under the door that illuminates you as the sun lowers is glimmering on his skin, bouncing off the scars in his skin and the gold flecks in his eyes.

“Perhaps... Perhaps it’d be right of you to make that assumption. That I'm saying what you think I am, that is.” He breathes slowly, and your eyes flick to him again.

“This conversation is the most cryptic thing I've ever heard,” you say quietly with a laugh, and Remus nods in agreement.

“We’re getting the point across, though, aren't we?” he jests, and you giggle. Your expression then turns serious, and you turn so that you're facing the boy.

“Could I... Could I take you up on that offer of spelling it out?” you say breathlessly, and Remus smiles gently.

“We could say it on three,” he suggests, and you laugh.

“Merlin, we're like toddlers. Fine, on your count, then,” you reply with a nod, heart a jackhammer in your chest.

“One... Two...” he pauses for a second, and you let out a breath.

He's fully facing you, as well, and you see a glint in his eyes that's so familiar yet so new.

“Fuck this,” he says before the last count, and your eyes widen. “I love you, Y/N. I'm- I'm in love with you.” he admits, shutting his eyes like he's ripping off a particularly menacing bandaid.

You don't respond for a moment, mouth open in shock. But as soon as you snap out of your trance, you notice the boy’s posture; he's nervous, recoiled as if he's worried you wouldn't say it back.

You place a delicate hand on the side of his face, thumbing over his cheek, and he relaxes at your touch, still not opening his eyes.

You softly press your lips to his, and he responds instantaneously, one hand reaching to pull you in by your waist, the other resting on your cheek.

There's a fire exploding inside you, and it’s glorious, golden sparks erupting after being kept inside for so long. Your lips are dancing in a delicate rhythm with his, like they were meant to. He tastes like chocolate and bliss, and his hand wraps in your hair, tongue swiping over your lips gently.

After what feels simultaneously like an eternity and no time at all, you break away for air, resting your forehead against his.

“Now it's my turn to infer from that,” he breathes after a moment, and you smile.

“Not quite as cryptic, you'll find.” You smile, kissing him again. “I love you, Remus Lupin. Always have, always will.”

[liyuesbian]

✧ pygmalion!au [ningguang]

notes: btw idk how commissions from museums work i just made the process up LMAO and this one's kinda angsty? i mean, it is the pygmalion greek myth so iykyk. also, i describe this figurine of ningguang here but w/o the colour... i've linked it in case any1 needs the reference. (btw, this is not set in ancient greece specifically)

only yesterday had you been commissioned by an art gallery in the capital to create a piece for their up-and-coming collection titled desire, love and identity. yet here you are, slaving away to make the perfect image you had in your head come into fruition. your vision is exquisite once sketched on paper—you can't find any faults in it so you take the risk.

as soon as your chisel meets the marble, a feeling so invigorating dominates your body. no further references are necessary as you place your trust entirely on your hands, coarse from the labour. you find such mindless toil addicting and you work day and night, only stopping for a half-baked meal and the odd collapse into bed.

for months, love streams out of the tips of your fingers and through your sculpting tools to arrive at the stone figure. you sincerely hope the intimate emotion has been reached.

when you finish, you wipe the bead of sweat running down your forehead, rest the other palm on your hip and take slow steps backwards all while maintaining eye contact with the statue. a wave of sweet relief hits you and you fall to the floor, uncontrollably sobbing into tired hands that still grip the hammer and chisel.

it's beautiful.

you stagger, struggling to get up with your bruised knees while clumsily wiping the tears off your stained cheeks. setting the instruments aside, you lift your head to admire your handiwork up close. a woman made of stone sits elegantly atop an oriental chair, crossing her smooth, white legs over each other. her left elbow is propped on the arm of the chair while on the other side, a long smoking pipe is balanced between gloved fingers. around her lies an assortment of objects: a vase containing scrolls, a floor lamp, and a charmingly decorated folding screen.

you see, you had already thought it all out. you'd imagined ningguang's preferences for a life of luxury, her affinity for constructing and sprucing up interiors. she would be a master of the trades and a woman who likes to keep an air of mystery around her. and like how you increasingly project her to be more of a person than she ever will be, there is a creeping concern in the corner of your mind that you will lose your rationality just as quickly.

the sculpture's body is clad in a qipao with a slit that reveals alabaster skin below the waist. the dress—embellished with patterns and neat linings—hugs her figure and shows off a lean build. the extensive train and sleeves of the fabric are shaped curvaceously to mirror the flow of a waterfall. and her face. the section you strived so hard to refine. she stares at you with an imperious expression and a hint of a smirk. her gaze, so piercing, makes you avert your eyes in shyness but you find yourself gravitating back to her profile.

you muster up the courage to draw closer to your creation and unconsciously stroke her cheek with your thumb, captivated. if she were an empress, you'd be a common peasant—undeserving of setting your sights on such a goddess. you can feel your soul being sucked into eyes devoid of emotion—of anything, actually. after all, the woman sitting before you is not a person but an inanimate object.

the weeks following the completion of ningguang—which is the name you've picked up the habit of calling her—are spent in said lady's company. every minute of every day, you surround yourself with her presence as if she is your closest friend. you eat with her, tell her your troubles, even going so far as to decorate her with various types of jewellery and bringing her gifts you think she'd like.

"thank you," you whisper. "for always listening to me." in truth, you're always so immersed in your work that you forgot what conversations could feel like. though, you fear your art would never be on par with something so transcendent ever again.

you become curious, wondering what she would be like if the nymph in front of you were not just a figment of your imagination.

you perch yourself on top of ningguang's stone-cold lap and trace the contours of her visage. you inspect each crease on her lips and the minuscule crinkles in her eyes, applauding yourself for the well-crafted details. you don't know what possesses you but you close your eyes and press your lips against hers, hoping that once you open them, a living being would erupt from underneath the marble. but, of course, as soon as the light hits your retinas, ningguang is as unmoving as ever.

realising what you've just done, you drop off of her thighs and laugh anxiously. however, you could've sworn that you had felt warmth in the lips of your beloved muse.

"i've finally gone mad!" you cry aloud.

hell, you say to yourself, is it even possible to fall in love with such an... an artefact? you dismiss your glaringly obvious infatuation.

"nonsense," you mutter under your breath, sensing your heart breaking slightly. how can something so painfully humanlike also not be human at the same time? you must've caused a tremendous atrocity in your past life to have made the gods harbour a grudge against you. of all things, you'd never have guessed that a lifeless piece of art would be the object of your desire.

you can't bear to look at the handcrafted lady any longer and with an anguished face, cover her with a large cotton cloth. the plan was to wait until you could hand the statue over to the curators and try to ignore its existence until then.

for a few days, you act according to the plan, going about your daily routine but eventually, your stoic demeanour crumbles. you lock yourself in your room refusing to eat or believe that your affection would never be returned.

during the hours of sunlight, you weep under your sheets, drowning in self-inflicted sorrow. and at night, you do the same, lamenting over the loss of what could've been your true love. she would've been so perfect in your eyes, your other half, and the only one who could calm this growing turmoil!

the reality pains you. hence, you do the only thing you can do: you pray. you pray to the gods for a miracle, that the light of your life would stride into your room and pull you from the depths of despair... but she never does.

your last day "cohabitating" with the sculpture has arrived and for the first time in—what felt like—an eternity, you open the doors to your workshop. taking a deep breath, you unveil the stationary maiden.

it's still as beautiful as you remember.

you give it a sad smile, wanting to get its departure over and done with. you manoeuvre about the room to prepare the things for the movers who're due to come in a couple of hours. while you go down your little list of errands to be done, you cough and bat away the smoke—wait, the smoke? frantic, you spin around, eyes darting everywhere in search of its origin until they land on the smoking pipe you so intricately moulded for the commissioned piece.

it's strange, you don't recall colouring the statue. and how on earth is smoke coming out of the pipe? suspicious, you approach the motionless entity and almost stumble when you spot its chest rising.

oh lord! — i really must be descending into madness! you clutch your head, clawing at your hair in hysteria.

"stop, please don't hurt yourself." the sound of a low, worried voice penetrates your ears. you shut your eyes tight.

"no, the gods have cursed me! i mustn't listen to your poisonous words!" you exclaim. your state of agitation is alleviated when the woman caresses your tensed arm.

"what has happened to you? i haven't seen you lately either." the tone is more soft and more tender than you had imagined. you release your grip.

"is it really you, ningguang?" your voice cracks at the end, and the woman you sought after witnesses your features twist into an expression of longing and hope.

"yes, my darling. i dare not go anywhere else."

helplessly, you rush to cup her face to check for heat, for the blood traversing under her skin—anything that would prove that your sweetheart is truly alive and breathing. and when you do get the confirmation, you beam, trying to withhold tears born from elation.

you bend down to kiss ningguang, who is still seated on the chair, once, twice, and three times to rid your scepticism. oh, deities! she's real.

"i love you," you declare.

"i know." you watch as the same creases you'd etched on the corners of her eyes spread into a loving half-moon shape and you kiss her again.

you reach a conclusion: you couldn't give away your lover—let alone a live person—to be displayed as part of a museum exhibition so when the workers arrive, you hide your muse away in another room. you apologise profusely and spin a lie, rambling on about how you had nothing to relinquish for the piece you had prepared had been oh-so-viciously stolen by a mob of trespassers!

the movers share with you their sympathies and ask what the work of art looks like and maybe they could sort something out with the authorities. nodding, you recount—so ardently—the details of your divine maiden. you feel heat rush to your face, chuckling when you realise that you'd run your mouth for too long.

in response to this, the two labourers exchange dubious looks as they peer at the static sculpture standing in the middle of the studio—its appearance unmistakably matching your elaborate description.

[nightingale-interactive]

How would Christian react to an Mc saying :

"My biggest regret was meeting you."

Because she feels as though she is going to ruin a marriage.

I hope this is okay 💙.

The fight was borne from days of sleepless nights. The cumulation of tiredness and the coffee finally running out erupting into an event that should have been avoided.

I knew that even as I scream my lungs out. My gaze never wavering from darkened blue across the room. Even in the dim lighting, Christian Anderson still seems to be larger than life. His normally light blue gaze is a deep cobalt because of his agitation. Dark brown hair, that is normally kept so neat, was tousled by his fingers continuously running through it. His slight curls became more and more prominent the longer our night went on. A once pristine suit now wrought with wrinkles-- his tie completely gone, thrown somewhere in the room-- with the top buttons of his dress shirt undone. Even now the sight causes my heart to lurch, but it does nothing to stop my endless tirade.

I don’t even remember what had caused this spat. Was it the clicking of his pen as he waited for me to be done? Or the gentle teasing tone that had interlaced his voice as he placed his hand over mine? It could have even been his apologetic smile as he told me the last of the coffee had been consumed.

I don’t remember. All I know now is that I am angry.... Even if I didn’t know what I was angry at.

But Christian hadn’t simply backed down-- even though he tried at first-- he gave as good as he got. Leaving us in an endless cycle of barbed words and acidic retorts. The once gentle atmosphere of the room turned into pure anarchy.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. Trying to will my anger away but it only lashed against my control. Burning with a need to be expelled. To hurt.

I knew that Christian didn’t deserve this. I knew that he was even more confused than I was at my change in mood but nothing could stop my next words from tumbling from my mouth.

“My biggest regret was meeting you.”

The silence that follows my statement was deafening. Slowly beginning to burn with an intensity that I hadn’t felt since our first meeting. It was harsh against my skin, prickling the expanse of my body in goosebumps, as I finally chanced a glance towards him. The look on his face nearly causes my heart to shatter.

Heartbreak. All traces of anger had disappeared from his face. An almost lost look taking its place as he continues to silently stare at me. A silence that is finally broken by the almost harsh exhale from his mouth as he deflates.

“What?”

I shake my head. Wishing, with everything within me, that I had never uttered such words to him. Words that I had no right to say to him. Not after all the things that we’ve been through. But, the vestiges of my anger from earlier don’t allow me to simply give in.

“Wouldn’t our lives be easier, Christian? If we had never met. If I had never joined your campaign?” I shake my head as I clench my hands into fists. Trying my best to stem the agony that was coursing through my body. “Wouldn’t our lives be bet--”

Christian instantly cuts me off, his words a deep snarl. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

My gaze snaps back to him. “You can’t tell me that I’m wrong.”

Before I can blink, Christian strides across the room towards me. His strong arms instantly wrap around my waist and yanks me against him. His mouth pressed harshly against my own in an embrace that I had become long familiar with. It was a message that spoke more than any of our words ever could. A promise searing itself into my very being with every gentle swipe of his tongue against my own. Imprinting itself into my body just like his hands clutching me to his body. My heart beats in tandem with his as each silent word is etched into it.

I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer. Feeling the way his body responds to my acceptance. His arms easily snaking around my thighs as he hoists me onto the table beside us. His muscular body slotting in between my thighs as if he belonged there. As if he had been made to fill that spot.

Pulling away, Christian rests his forehead against my own. His harsh breaths ghosting against my lips as a gentle look appears in his lightened blue gaze. The next kiss he presses to my lips being fleeting but holding the same level of meaning. But he doesn’t allow himself to get distracted, even though I could tell he wanted nothing more than to do so, and I barely control the whine from my lips as he pulls slightly away from me. My arms, that had been loosely wrapped around his neck, tightening ever-so-slightly.

At the action, a warm smile quirks his lips. A gentle hand smoothly tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear. “My life may have been easier if I had never met you, my love,” he murmurs softly. “But don’t ever think that it would have been better. I wasn’t alive until I met you. I didn’t take my first breath until I looked into your eyes for the first time. I didn’t feel my heart beat until I held you in my arms.”

Ducking, Christian places a soft kiss to my nose. Chuckling as I wrinkle it in protest to the action. His arms pulled me closer towards him.

“Your biggest regret may be meeting me, darling. But mine is that I didn’t meet you sooner.”

[doiedreams]

NOBODY ELSE | p.js

Requested by @moonbeamsung: hi kay!! i’ll request something🥰how about fluff 13 + 33 with jisung? take your time!! and thank you in advance, ily💖🦤🥺

13. “I didn’t think it was possible to love someone this much.”

33. “I love seeing you smile.”

║⇢ a very nervous bf!Jisung plans a Valentine’s Day surprise

║⇢ genre: fluff ద

║⇢ warnings: mention of food (sweets)

║⇢ wc: 1k words

ᜊ NOBODY ELSE ᜊ

Jisung’s fingers were wrapped around the plastic of the flower bouquet as he swayed in place awaiting your arrival. The lights of your apartment were low, yet the small candles thoughtfully placed on the table illuminated its surroundings with a hazy warm glow. If there was one thing Jisung was proud of with his little Valentine’s Day set up, it was the flower petals laid out to form a heart shape on the table cloth. To make a neat heart seemed easy enough, but it took him a lot longer than it should’ve.

Upon hearing the lock of your door, revealing your entry, Jisung’s anxious swaying came to a halt. He was frozen in place, lips parted slightly, while a flurry of butterflies erupted from the pit of his stomach. The bouquet nearly slipped out of his hand due to the sweat accumulated on his palms. A deep, shaky sigh left his lips as he wiped his palm on his sweater vest. Giving him no time to gain back his composure, the sound of your footsteps approached him from around the corner.

“Park Jisung…” you gasped, feeling as though the butterflies in his stomach transferred to yours. The sight of the arrangement- scented tea light candles, a vase of light pink roses, a box of pink frosted cupcakes, and an assortment of chocolates -brought the widest smile to your face. “Come here.”

With one hand, Jisung held the bouquet away from his torso and allowed you to step up to his still frame and embrace him in a warm hug. Your touch, and the affectionate warmth between you, melted the nerves right off of his body. To have you back in his arms after a long day is the most comforting feeling. Only you could provide him that comfort. He couldn't accept that from any other person.

As you stepped back, your foot came in contact with a light rubber material that produced the slightest squeak before it bounced off the side of your foot.

“I didn't realize it needed helium…” Jisung sighed as he stared down at the pink heart-shaped balloon you had just unintentionally kicked aside. At that, your smile only grew wider and you laughed. Jisung couldn't help but smile as well, and he thought of the work and stress he went through to make this set-up as nice as possible for you.

He held out the bouquet to you, and you thanked him before holding it up to your nose and inhaling its natural fragrance. “Jisung, I can't believe you did all this for me, ” you said, finding a vase to house the flowers.

“It's really nothing,” Jisung said. He was still wiping his hands on the front of his outfit.

Ignoring his objection, you held his face in your hands and stared into his eyes, although he was resisting eye contact. He truly felt as though his attempts at romance were clumsy and awkward; much less than what you deserved. You, on the other hand, believed that his efforts at making you happy were more than you could ever ask for.

“No, it means everything to me.” You place a kiss on his warm cheek. “Coming home to all of this makes me so happy. I couldn't possibly ask you for anything more.”

Even with the closeness between you two that is usually calming to him, Jisung couldn't help but fidget. His mouth wavered as if words were right on the tip of his tongue, but he just couldn't get it out.

“Ji, what's got you so nervous?” you ask softly.

Jisung looked down at his feet and let out a light, nervous giggle. “I’ve always thought I wouldn’t be able to do enough for you. Let alone, be enough for you. I try really hard, sometimes too hard, and I just-” He took a deep breath as you cocooned his hand between the two of yours. “I don't want to mess this up. I didn't think it was possible to love someone this much.”

At that point, getting him to look you in the eye would be nearly impossible. His hair covered his eyes as he stared at the ground and he began to rock back and forth on his feet again.

You brushed the hair away from his eyes and said, “Jisung, you are perfect to me and you are perfect for me. There is nothing you could do to mess this up,” you said, gesturing at the space between you and him with your finger. “I know how much you worry about doing the right thing, but everything you do for me makes me feel loved like no other.”

When it comes to Jisung and how he made you feel, you couldn't possibly convey those emotions into words accurately, but the effort eased Jisung’s nerves enough for him to look into your eyes with a shy, crooked smile. In response to your heartfelt words, he nodded, and the look in his eyes indicated that he knew you meant every word, and they held just as much meaning to him.

You kissed him once again, this time directly on the lips, and you whispered, “Now promise me you’ll give yourself more credit. You are the reason for this smile on my face. Nobody else.”

“Me? I did that?” Jisung teased, poking a dimple into your cheek. This only increased your laughter which filled up the once quiet space around you as you nodded in response. “Well, good. ‘Cause I love seeing you smile.”

“You know what’ll make me smile even harder?”

“What?”

“Those cupcakes,” you giggled, turning towards the box of cupcakes on the table surrounded by other treats.

Jisung shrugged and set you free to check out the sugary sweets. Your mouth watered as you excitedly approached the table. He knew just how to satisfy your sweet tooth, and it showed.

The doorbell rang, diverting your attention.

“Who’s that?” you asked.

“Oh, uh… Takeout, ” Jisung ruffled his hair with his hand, avoiding eye contact once again.

“Perfect,” you said, rushing towards the door.

Whether Valentine's Day ended in a home-cooked 4-course meal or takeout from the nearest restaurant, it meant everything to Jisung that he'd be able to make you happy and show you how much he loved you. He had his doubts about how well he’d be able to achieve that, but it gave him peace of mind knowing that he can put a smile on your face like nobody else.

ᜊ NOBODY ELSE ᜊ

a/n: happy late valentine’s day! consider me your cupid <3 please forgive me if this seems rushed or not up to par! it’s been rough recently but i am trying to get back on my grind lmao. anyways ily have a wonderful day ♡

[lady-charinette]

The Stubble - Adrienette Version

A/N: Basically the Adrienette version of this.

@miraculous-elcie-fanfics You mentioned wanting to see the Adrinette version, ask and I shall deliver (tho very late ^_^)

Adrien Agreste was one to always care for his appearance, partly because it was part of his job, partly because he liked the feeling of being clean and well kept. 

The day Adrien Agreste decided to allow the hairs on his chin to grow out, was the day of Marinette Dupain-Cheng's execution. 

It was a stubble, no prickly hairs he used to have in the beginning of puberty, but a three day old, neatly kept stubble. He hadn't thought much of it, just wanted to see how different his face might look like if he allowed it to grow or kept it at its current length. 

He had the advantage of entering a secret pact with Nathalie once he got older, anything that wouldn't potentially harm his modeling career or himself, Nathalie would keep a secret from his father. And he knew as soon as he entered the car, his stubble was safe from Gabriel. 

When Adrien went to school that day, he hadn't expected as many reactions nor feedback as he got. 

Nino was the first to compliment him when they greeted each-other in the morning. "Morning dude! How was- DUDE!" the part time DJ grabbed his shoulders and moved Adrien this way and that, to gain the full three dimensional experience of staring at the new hairy addition growing on his friend's jaw. "Man, never knew a stubble looks so good on you! Awesome!" they fist bumped, Adrien feeling mildly flustered at the compliments Nino showered him with. 

"Thanks Nino! I think I'll let it grow for a little while, or at least until father notices." The boys laughed, it had become something of a running joke with how much stuff Adrien could get away with until his father noticed something. 

The longest that happened was 2 months and that was when Adrien dyed the front lock of his hair red, like Nathalie. His father's assistant had looked not only surprised but oddly humbled at Adrien's new hair color, and Adrien swore he even saw a hint of a smile when she first saw him with it. 

With Nino asking if he would grow it out into a full beard, the boys walked into school for classes. 

Adrien hadn't expected anyone much to notice, maybe Alya, Marinette and Chloe. 

He didn't expect the whole classroom to erupt into mayhem as soon as he entered the room. 

"Adrikins, what did you do to your chin?!" 

"Woah man, looking beat!" 

"Don't you mean neat?" 

"Wow, Adrien that look suits you." 

"How did your dad allow this? Are you in trouble? Are you safe? Do you want me to lend you Markov to calculate your survival chance and estimate a escape route from your house until the police arrive?" 

"Max, chill." 

"Looking handsome there, Agreste!" 

Adrien smiled and blushed at the array of compliments and concerns, thanking everyone and quickly taking a seat at his desk. 

The teacher still hadn't arrived, so the class was free to be loud for a few more minutes. 

But there was one voice Adrien couldn't hear among the sea of his classmates. 

Marinette's. 

Slowly turning in his seat sideways, Adrien glanced back at Alya and Marinette, with Alya giving him an encouraging thumbs up, which Adrien returned. 

Marinette seemed oddly silent, curiously transfixed at a point on her desk, her ears red. 

"Marinette?" Adrien rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling oddly nervous when her eyes quickly snapped up to him. "Uhm, what....what do you think?" 

When Marinette only rapidly blinked instead of answering, Adrien quickly added:"O-Of my stubble I mean!" 

He knew she had liked Chat Noir's stubble as Ladybug, but would Marinette also like Adrien's? 

The mask did wonders to his appearance after all, along with the black leather. Despite the positive feedback from his friends, he might look weirder with it than he thought- 

"Chute!" 

Adrien's head snapped up so quickly to glance at Marinette that he felt something crack in his neck, a throbbing pain he would concern himself with later. 

"W-What?" 

"I-I mean, cut!" Marinette's ears were turning an alarming shade of red. 

Just like Ladybug. 

She also avoided eye contact as soon as he stared back at her. 

Did she call him cute? 

No, wait cut? He looked cut? 

Well, he did train more with his baton now that he knew how to activate all the upgrades to his suit and weapons, but he hadn't thought she noticed. 

A devilish grin spread his lips, one reminiscent more of Chat Noir than Adrien. "You think I'm cute, Marinette?" 

He could swear he saw steam coming out of her ears and he secretly enjoyed how her entire face light up as if on fire. "Y-Yes! I-I mean no! I mean-" 

Alya quickly grabbed her best friend's shoulder and clapped her mouth shut, giving Adrien a big grin. "What she means is, it looks great on you Adrien." 

Adrien knew it was Alya that said it, but at Marinette's red cheeks and rapid nod he could feel his own face grow hot. "Thanks Marinette." 

His smile lit up the entire room, at least to Marinette, something so pure and blinding that she forgot to breath for a second, if Alya hadn't flicked her forehead. 

"Ow!" 

"I know you want to rub your whole face against that stubble girl, but focus, we got a chemistry test right now. I know you know all about chemistry from experience, but what matters is this." Alya tapped Marinette's head with her pencil and the young woman pouted at her friend's jab before the teacher finally entered the room and announced the exam. 

Adrien, answering almost all the questions by heart, was still stuck on Marinette's red ears and blushing face. 

Which looked exactly like Ladybug's when she saw his stubble as Chat Noir. 

He definitely won't shave too often from now on. 

"Dude, stop grinning like that, it gives me the creeps." 

"Sorry, Nino." 

Bonus: 

Marinette wanted to tear her hair out. "TIKKI! What am I supposed to do?! First Chat Noir and now Adrien?! Is the world plotting my end? Is this a conspiracy?!" Marinette's voice was getting progressively higher and higher, until it outmatched Tikki's in squealing potential. 

"Marinette, calm down!" her kwami flew around her this way and that, trying to keep her friend in place before she broke something in her room, or herself.

Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed! :3

[my-writings-and-musings]

hello! if you are taking requests, can you please do the oxygen loss prompt with megatron and whirl?

I did Whirl in part two, so I have Megatron here with a ridiculously long one and I hope that's okay! I added Thunderclash as well so I can keep my pattern of two because... I like patterns. I might be getting super into this prompt...

Part One: Here!

Part Two: Here!

Part Three: You're Here!

Part Four: Here!

Part Five: Here!

Part Six: Here!

Part Seven: Here!

Part Eight: Here!

Part Nine: Here!

Part Ten: Here!

Part Eleven: Here!

Part Twelve: Here!

Megatron

·You're in the ship's recently finished classroom organizing lesson plans on your own, having been working with Megatron to try and set up more structured class schedules on the growing list of topics he's begun to cover. You're thrilled he's found a kind of calling on the ship, especially one that seems to be allowing bots to see the side of him you know best. He's made it quite clear in his own way that your assistance in this endeavor means the world to him.

·He's on the bridge, scouting out potential locations for refueling on the next leg of the journey with the rest of the commanding officers. For once there's mostly cohesion in their efforts, and his insistence on choosing planets hospitable to humans is met with agreement, if not surprise. They're on schedule to finish early for a quiet afternoon off when everything turns to a level of chaos even the experienced crewmembers have to call extreme. The rumble that shakes the entire ship is one Megatron and experienced space travelers know well; they've been ambushed.

·You're nearly knocked off the desk you're standing on by the unexpected tremors. While you're trying to figure out what could possibly have caused the disturbance, a message is appearing up on the bridge, where alerts of failing systems and corrupted codes almost make it impossible to hear an alien captain decree an intent to storm the ship. Megatron attempts diplomacy before lives are lost, but the enemy makes it clear; this ship and its contents are more valuable than anything they could offer. While the captain notes their species has heard of the famed Lost Light and its crew, their hack of the security systems proved embarrassingly simple, and they look forward to the easy payoff from selling the scraps of the Cybertronians onboard!

·With communications down and systems struggling through an ongoing sabotage, Megatron still prepares to coordinate a defense, but is stopped before he can begin by a final taunt from their enemy. Their hack of the security cameras showed his fondness for his new pet, a homo sapien of all things, and thus his current concern should be for the atmospheric regulation instead of battle plans. But considering how many dead organics he's left in his wake, surely one more shouldn't perturb him too deeply, yes?

·The line goes dead just as the ship's alarm attempts to sound, signaling an impending attack before it too crashes with everything else. His fellow officers are moving to get defenses up however they can, preparing to get the resident tech experts on the job of restoring key systems while trying to plan a counterattack with no way to reach anyone. He's near to frozen as he tries to message you to no avail, the cruel mockery of the enemy cutting deep in ways words rarely do for him, if only because the implication terrifies him like nothing ever has; he's all but helpless to save you.

·Only experience and an undying determination allow him to break through the fog. Without asking for guidance or permission, he states his one intent; to rescue you however he can. If there are any objections, he does not hear them, and soon his pedes are tearing down the hallway to where he last saw you and prays he'll find you; the classroom. Oblivious to his rush, the only thing you're aware of is the fact that something is amiss, but you don't have a clue as to what. Between the tremor, the brief blare of the alarm and your inability to get your communicator running, you only know there's danger inbound.

·Not having much information to work with, you surmise that the classroom is probably not the safest place to hunker down, and recall that the medical and scientific wings aren't far. As the doctors on the ship have added human medicine to their repertoire, and are hardly defenseless, trying to get to them seems your greatest hope for securing yourself. Not wanting to panic, you push your supplies into a somewhat neat pile and climb down the small ladder that's been added to the desk for your sake. Somehow you don't find yourself at the top of your worries at all. Your thoughts center almost entirely on Megatron, who will undoubtedly be forced into whatever conflict might erupt, and even an unexpected staleness in the air around you hardly registers amidst your anxiety.

·Megatron is still too logical of a bot not to stop every crewmember he sees to give them a brief list of orders. He knows that, without a united defense and victory, there won't be any way you can be saved at all. So he takes the hindrance, though bots hardly take long to move when he issues a command. But his growing fear gnaws at him with a simple truth; without communication, he can't even be sure of your location, let alone your condition. Perhaps he's going the wrong way. Perhaps you're already beyond help. Perhaps you've already been discovered by the enemy. All he can do in the face of blinding terror is keep moving, keep coordinating, and keep hoping beyond reason that he'll be fortunate for once.

·You can't remember the classroom ever taking so long to cross, but that's hardly important, especially with your communicator still failing to function. Reaching Megatron would give you incredible comfort right now, if only to hear he's alright, yet that's obviously not going to happen. Honestly, it sounds silly to really think about it, the human worrying for the Cybertronian... But your anxiety isn't comforted merely to remember he's a gigantic combat veteran, not knowing anything about his current status is all it needs to wander to scary places...

·Closing in on your position, the mech in question echoes your worry, but his knowledge of the current danger puts his feelings closer to panic. All he knows is that he's coordinated a not insignificant number of bots for a better defense on his way through the ship. With better resistance on their side, he knows they can win, because they must. The alternative won't come to pass while his spark still flickers within him. That promise comes to an early test when he overhears enemies moving on the path ahead, and he takes the charge without hesitation, his terror converting quite easily to rage for extra assistance.

·By the time you're at the door you know something is wrong with you. Each step comes with a wobble you can't explain, and soon the dizziness you thought was worry has grown to almost debilitating levels. Why is the room spinning? Why does your body feel so heavy? It doesn't worry you as much as it probably should, but you know it needs to be fixed, especially with the ship potentially in jeopardy. Faint activity from the hallway outside spurs you to finally trigger the door to open, which thankfully appears to be one of the few systems still working. Heavy footsteps not too far away register in your ears just as you're forced to lean against a wall for support.

·The aliens that come into view before you quite unexpectedly are large, tough, and well armed. Most races would have found them an insurmountable challenge, and even an experienced Cybertronian combatant couldn't expect an easy victory against a single fighter, leaving you quite hopeless as you stare upwards in confusion. Megatron is not the norm, and his drive to win is fuelled by far more than just survival, so he feels little more than irritation when he finally arrives to the hallway you're pinned within. More than a dozen mark his path to you, their forms clustered around the helpless human in sick curiosity, and as a result they're heedless to his appearance.

·Hulking forms most definitely not of Cybertronian make tower over your body as it struggles to keep upright, the ceiling spinning overhead as you try to connect thoughts and move your legs to flee. A language you don't understand precedes a slow swipe in your direction, one that you stumble away from more than dodge, resulting in you roughly collapsing to the floor. Something like cruel laughter greets your painful tumble. You should be angry, being mocked like a bug skittering from its inevitable squishing, but God you're so exhausted. It's not even in you to be afraid when the barrel of an alien gun is pointed at your head and the scent of ozone fills your nose while the barrel fills with light.

·A second tremor shakes the ship, but this one proves to be far more deadly than the last. Your would be killers are obliterated by a blur of gunmetal gray that pummels them into the floor, and before you can blink the carnage begins and seems to escalate to unimaginable levels of ferocity. Only your familiarity with Megatron allows you to discern him amidst the flurry of quickly diminishing combatants, but he's nothing like the mech you know in this instant, going for sheer brute force over strategy as he tears aliens apart with his bare servos. In the bloody chaos you can't tell if he's taking damage or not despite the sheer numbers he was initially facing.

·The end of it all is somehow more startling than the beggining. In one final attack he ends the last soldier, quieting the cacophony of battle to leave only the steady drip of alien blood down the wall and his own haggard ventilations. There's a dash of bright energon amongst the mess, glowing in rivulets down his side, and somehow that's what gets your cloudy brain moving again. Pushing exhausted legs against the floor, you try to rise as you cry out in concern, reaching for him before you collapse right back against the solid ground.

·Heedless to his own injuries, Megatron is over you in a single instant, no longer blinded by the fury he'd experienced at the sight of you in peril. All he'd known was that your attackers had needed to die, no hesitation, and tearing them apart had come easily from there. Now things are once again far from simple. The blood on his hands doesn't stop him from picking you up as gingerly as he can, though your impossibly tiny body appears more delicate than ever in his massive palms. Though it makes him sick to realize, he does indeed know a struggling organic when he sees one, making the captain's words burn in his audials once more.

·Guilt is forced down to a minimum so he can focus on what matters; you. He needs to get you somewhere safe but with access to oxygen, and the only place that can happen is the medical bay or the laboratory, and he knows both are quite close. He couldn't care less about his own gashed side, so even if the medics and scientists are elsewhere he should likely be able to rig something up before energon loss impacts him. Holding you close, in a way that will permit him to shield you with his body, he starts moving while he speaks to you. It's obvious even to him his words aren't motivating, but at least they seem to get your attention.

·Looking up at him, feeling like you're tiny beyond belief thanks to his incredible size, you wonder how much of this could be real. Megatron had just hurled himself into battle for you, enduring agonizing wounds in the process, and beaten back what should have been impossible odds... If he wasn't so close you could touch him, you'd certainly think he was just a figment of your imagination emerging from the spinning hallways around you. His deep baritone rumbles reassurances to you as your eyes slowly drift shut, your perception fading around the edges until he's all you can see, and you can feel sleep beckoning like never before.

·He truly has seen enough organics dying to recognize that you're fading in his arms, and seeing the connection between such atrocities and you is slowly starting to tear into him with guilt that refuses to be ignored. How many lives just like yours has he snuffed out? How recently was it that he could have ended your life amongst the billions of others, unaware of what a gift you are to the universe? More specifically, because of this, what right does he have to so much as look at you? The thoughts are a dark and unmanageable tangle by the time he arrives at his destination, where an already overwhelmed medical crew is tending to the injured from an apparently victorious battle. He's near to shock when he hands you over to a frantically rushing Ratchet and simply explains you need oxygen, his hand gingerly cupping his injury before he firmly insists on being the last to be repaired. If he's spoken to afterwards, he doesn't remember any of what is said.

·The medical bay is dim when you awaken, and you see that you've been placed in your own private room when you look about, oxygen mask holding secure to your face as you do so. A massive shape against the wall would have startled you if you didn't immediately recognize Megatron. He smiles almost sadly when you awaken, and while you initially attribute his uncharacteristic weariness to the welded injury on his side, he quickly makes it clear that isn't the case. Whispering a simple wish for your recovery, he excuses himself and makes to leave, and you know that something is amiss m

·When you merely call for him to stop, he breaks, confessing that his relief to see you alive is equal only to his certainty that he's not worthy of you and can no longer pretend otherwise. It takes all of your strength to sit up and demand he stay; you refuse to let the bot who just saved you walk out, especially when you've made it abundantly clear his past is something you've accepted, and your firm reminder is cut short only by dizziness forcing you to lay back. The sight stirs him to return to your side, concern in his optics, and you lay a hand on the tip of his digit in a breathless and wordless reminder; he's more than his past to you, and you made that decision knowing the struggles ahead. He smiles as his digit gently strokes your forehead, recalling that he too had made a decision that day; to trust you meant yours.

Thunderclash

·The two of you are in the hangar practicing sparring, which for your benefit mostly consists of him holding up a training dummy against his palm while you whack at it, and as is often the case you've become sidetracked by conversation over actual work. He's laying on his front to keep the two of you closer to eye level, leaning his chin against his spare hand for comfort, talking about all the little things that come to mind as opposed to the grand topics he's used to being asked about. Frankly, this freedom a big part of what he likes about these moments with you. He gets to just be a bot with interests like any other.

·Your casual chat is interrupted by a communication from the command team on the bridge, who summon him for assistance tracing where a series of small anomalies across the ship might be coming from. Systems are glitching in ways that can't be explained, the defensive radar can't seem to decide if there's something in the apparently empty space around them, and in an ironic twist the message goes dead just as communication problems are mentioned. It's quickly apparent something needs to be done.

·Apologizing for having to cut things short, the massive bot offers to give you a ride to the heart of the ship, which he'll have to pass on his way to the bridge. Always eager to spend more time together, you happily oblige, taking the place of the training dummy in his palm as he lifts you to rest beside his spark. While his shoulder is arguably a more dignified location, you take more than a little comfort feeling the hum of his energy at your back, and thus have chosen this as your travel spot. Between his wound and the many setbacks it's taken to get him back in shape, it's just nice to feel his spark going strong.

·Not long after setting off, he gets the sense there's more to these troubles than technical error, and that something less than desirable may be the culprit. It's not something he can explain, but being more attuned to the subtler things in his environment just gives him a feeling. When he voices this to you, along with the thought you should probably be left somewhere safe, you ask what he believes might be coming. Not because you don't believe him, but you know he only drops his smile when he is preparing for something bad, and you haven't seen proof of any concrete threat.

·With almost comedic timing, the ship lurches at that very moment, nearly knocking the big bot off balance. Only his firm but careful hold saves you from a twenty foot fall. The rumble fades off with something like a great dragging sensation through the ship, which you'd compare to a Manhattan sized car grinding to a halt. Now cupping you in both hands, Thunderclash asks earnestly if you're alright, to which you reassuringly reply that a little turbulence isn't enough to do any damage.

·Smiling at the fortitude of your tiny body, he begins walking straight away, shifting to strategy as his red optics narrow in contemplation. He explains that the particular nature of that shake confirmed his suspicions something is planning an attack. Rather, they're initiating an attack. The sensation of a ship being locked to another and anchored is a particular one, and combined with their systems crashing it's obvious an enemy has come prepared to strike for a well planned ambush.

·You see that he's worrying, but you say nothing of it, taking hold of his thumb to communicate support. Being with him in private has made it clear his existence as a perpetual source of strength for others exhausts him, so you've since committed to acting as his well of certainty in difficult times. Not letting your fear bleed in to your words, you instead ask what the two of you should do, confirming your own communicator is uselessly jammed as you do so.

·Moving through the ship at considerable speed with his long legs, he decides that you'll still need to be secured rather quickly, as enemy combatants are probably already storming the ship or preparing to do so. You'd debate him if you weren't well aware of the logic in his plan. No matter what the enemy is, you won't stand much of a chance in a full on brawl, as anything confident enough to attack a Cybertronian starship is likely to have the firepower to back itself up. Still, it's impossible not to be dissapointed by your inability to offer aid, though it's probably for the best as you're rather exhausted from sparring anyway.

·It happens in a blur, but that's partly because of the shocking reaction time of the bot carrying you, something few would expect due to his size. Thunderclash registers the threat as soon as he turns the corner, a feat aided by the very much not Cybertronian appearance of the figures he sees, and then made far easier by the multiple clicks of weapons preparing to fire. Your presence in his hands became his central point of focus in that instant. Turning on the spot, he allowed the first hail of bullets to strike his armored back, keeping you well out of the line of fire before ducking behind an opposite corner for cover. The sting of the gunfire matters little when he sees you safe in his hands, and less when he instructs you to stay low after setting you down and charging in to fight.

·In the heat of it all, you're embarrassed to be caught so frazzled, as this is hardly your first exposure to alien combat. But there's little time to admonish yourself when chaos unfolds just around the corner, and your tiny size permits a small peek... Thunderclash is the gentlest giant in the world to you, but in just a few blinks the hulking aliens are on the losing front, and while his fighting style is far from gratuitous it is effective. You're still trembling from the rush of the initial shock when the last enemy of the group is on the floor, but even with your shaky vision you can see your bot is unharmed. For a moment that little burst of relief supersedes everything else.

·In usual fashion though, he expresses worry for you when he returns to pick you up from where he left you, drawing an affectionate chuckle from you at how impossibly selfless this mech can be. But he doesn't back down from the question like he usually does. His expression of concern intensifies as he starts moving again, and his sharp optics find ample to worry about on your seemingly unharmed body, with particular attention being paid to your face. Those brilliant eyes of yours are well known to him, and so he can tell something is... off in their beautiful depths. Even if his medical studies focus very little on organics, he's able to recognize the signs of a body struggling, and your paleness combined with the way you labor for each breath tells him something is very wrong.

·Now in a race against time, he has no choice but to move, gunning it towards the ship's tech wing where the laboratories and medical bay are located. He doesn't yet know what's wrong with you for certain, but aid will be there if it's anywhere to be found. There's no time to be wasted in securing you somewhere either, he's going to have to face any threats as they come in the moment whilst ensuring your protection in the process. It's a set of circumstances he's encountered before in his long and eventful time as a soldier, but there's an entirely new variable this time around; you. He adores you, like no one he's ever met before, and perhaps it's selfish but the very thought of losing you... he's not sure his spark could take it.

·The soothing tone of his voice and the rhythmic thumping of his footsteps make it surprisingly difficult for you to heed his requests to stay as awake as possible. Even though your breaths are coming in with difficulty, it seems like sleep would be a fantastic idea at the moment, even if only to rest your eyes. His cupped hands just support your body so nicely, and are so warm, and his voice is so delightfully melodic. Why does he seem so intent on keeping you conscious? Why does he look so incredibly upset to see you struggling to keep your eyes open?

·The pathway he chooses is mercifully free of conflict at first, but that matters little due to your rate of deterioration, as you may not make it even at his full speed. Driving isn't an option due to his need to be combat ready, and the lack of options and hope is absolutely tearing him apart. He hasn't had someone like you in his life before, and the desperation in his voice begins to show that, cracking as he loses his steadfast control of his usually impervious wall of confidence. The selfishness of his desire kills him; how dare he put his own feelings on you due to his weakness? Begging you to survive for his sake?

·No amount of haze can prevent you from startling at his pain. There are tears in his optics, though he doesn't even seem to notice them, letting them fall down his face as he pleads. In the warm fog clouding your brain, you feel a surge of worry, and your hand instinctively grabs at his nearest digit to give it a squeeze. Before you can even offer a breathless reasurance, he ceases running and dives from gunfire that seems to erupt from nowhere, laying you in a tiny maintenance crevice before hurling himself at the second delay he knows you don't have time for. The last thing you see before drifting off is the grief in his optics that you wish you'd been able to comfort...

·While his combat skills always make things quick, in this blur of pain and rage he's downright brutal, ending each foe swiftly but with absolute contempt for their existence clear in every torn limb. Hits to his own frame don't register at all. Bullets and blades mean nothing in the face of what he's about to lose, and the vengeance fueling his strength turns foes into scattered body parts more effectively than any grenade ever could. By the end of it all he's likely set a record for the swiftness of his takedown, but it matters as little as his multitude of bleeding wounds. All he can see is your now limp body as he pulls it from the hiding spot, and his vision narrows to only your faintly moving chest and his pedes moving one past the other through the carnage.

·There's a mass of activity in the technology wing, likely due to injuries as well as the many bots ordered to stand guard in the event of battle, but he doesn't hear the reaction his arrival triggers in the slightest. His sharp processor is reduced to one goal, and anything unrelated doesn't exist. At the sight of the crowded medical bay he starts to strategize. Ratchet appears in his vision, first focusing only on his obvious injuries and the alien blood he didn't know was spattered across his frame, before well trained optics catch sight of the tiny human limp in his hands.

·There's a rush of an explanation; they think one of the systems downed was the atmospheric generators, resulting in a loss of the oxygen the ship maintains for your needs. It's all the information Thunderclash needs to act. Brushing off any help for himself and encouraging the more egregiously wounded to be tended first, he requests only to be provided what you need. Busy tending the injured, medics still assist him getting a supply of oxygen going where they can, with Ratchet using his particular knowledge of human anatomy to ensure the ratio is correct for your biology while Thunderclash prepares it all. Dexterous hands set you on a medical slab where an oxygen mask and scanner are used to return your blood oxygen to normal, and just like that, he knows you'll eventually be okay...

·By the time you wake up your tiny frame has been moved to a private room, both to keep you from the chaos of crammed in bots and to give the two of you privacy from adoring admirers. He's beside you, his wounds patched but his frame still dirtied with blood, a sight that shocks you enough to force a gasp into your mask. Perking up the instant he hears you, the hulking mech is as close as the berth allows in a flash. A stream of questions about your wellbeing passes his lips before you can get a word in. Between the dried blood, the patched wounds, and the faint discoloration of his optics that suggests recent weeping... It's hard to know what to ask him, so you vaguely request a rundown of what happened.

·His face falls, and in between recounts of alien attacks and near death experiences there's overwhelming self depreciation. To hear him tell it the entire affair might as well be his fault. You've always known him to be humble, even critical of his actions, but this borders on self destructive. Worse, the crux of his crisis seems to be that he was motivated to save you not just by duty, but by his selfish desire to protect the one he loved so dearly and can't bare to lose. His own desires are inexcusable in these things, as he puts it, and could have hindered him at your expense. Shaky arms rise so that you can grab the nearest part of him, a digit once again, as you encourage him to stop tormenting himself. You owed him your life, several times over just for today alone, and there wasn't a bot in existence less selfish than he. The kindness of his spark was what you'd fallen in love with, and what you still loved now, because he was more than a legend to you. You loved Thunderclash the bot, not the expectation everyone else had built around him, and thus he'd always be enough just by being himself. Finally relaxing after everything, and his spark singing at your ability to become his rock when he needs one, he allows himself to just rest and exist as he is. Laying his helm on the berth beside you, he nuzzles close, allowing himself to feel simple gratitude to have and love you as you do him.

[geoledgy]

OH OH OK I GOT A QUESTION. whats the youngest like, volcano in the san francisco volcanic field

Sunset Crater!!!!!!!!! My favorite volcano everrrrrr, it erupted around the year 1050 so it's very recent in geologic terms - it's about 950 years old. It also means the San Francisco volcanic field is still active (not Sunset Crater though, that is a cinder cone so they only erupt once and then it's over - we call that a monogenetic volcano). Sunset Crater National Monument is managed by the NPS near Flagstaff. The red is from oxidized basalt (contains iron). Also, the Sinagua people in the area witnessed the eruption, safely evacuated, and eventually relocated to areas like Wupatki and Walnut Canyon due to volcanic soil allowing the areas to be farmable. I am a volcanologist so I understand the in-depth geology of Sunset Crater better than the historical and cultural significance, but I do recommend doing your own reading on it if that interests you too cuz I always think it's incredibly neat how human and volcanoes are so intertwined with one another, one way or another.

btw...Sunset Crater also makes a lot of "cameos" in my story Uranium Rush cuz the fictional town of Sandstone Springs is nearby it. If you ever see me draw a reddish looking volcano cone in the desert that isn't the San Francisco Peaks (Very large, jagged, has snow) it's most likely Sunset Crater! Anyways...from my understanding, every hill in Northeast Arizona is actually a cinder cone, so I think that is super neat...and there's like 600 of them in the area.

Also, SP Crater is the 2nd youngest at about 5.5k - 6.0k years old, still seems pristine bc its crater rim is compose of resistant lava. (Sunset Crater has a tiny bit of crater collapse which you can see on the left side in the previous image)

Thank you so much for the ask!

[anika-ann]

Attached: Words We Don’t Mean

(...and Those We Do)

Type: series, modern-college-professor Steve AU… aka the wrong attachment AU ;)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader   Word count: 7950 👀

Summary: Your parents decide to visit for Thanksgiving, which alone is a trial. 

The fact that they haven’t met Steve yet and they have no clue who he is… yeah, you better brace yourself for a storm.

A/N: Attached: Words We Don’t Mean (and Those We Do) is a one-shot to the Attached series. Technically, you can read it as a standalone.

A/N: In the Stockings fic, I mentioned that no one in their household talked about (last) Thanksgiving. Here’s why. Also: I named the parents Paul and Jane, it’s enough of a mess to work around with nameless reader; if that offends you, sorry, feel free to move on from this fic.

Warnings: angst, parents-daughter fight, mention of sexual relationhips and of using one’s body to earn money (negative view), mild flashback, emotional H/C, swearing, sprinkles of fluff and Disney

Story masterlist

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“Sweetheart, please, sit down for just a second,” Steve requested gently; however, there was no mistaking the drop of amusement in his voice.

You hummed in acknowledgement of his words and continued scrubbing the bathtub clean.

Everything had to be perfect. Had to be. You bought the tinniest of the giant turkeys yesterday – just so you wouldn’t have to eat leftovers for a month –, ingredients for the stuffing, potatoes and cranberry sauce. Your mum had promised to stop by somewhere to get four slices of a pumpkin pie. But cooking was on your list later today; first you needed to make sure that the apartment would shine with cleanness.

Not that you considered yourself a neat freak, thank you very much… maybe occasionally. And Steve? Yeah, he was more of a neat freak than you were and now he was telling you to rest and take it easy? Uh-huh, nope.

Nope, because… your parents -- gosh, your parents.

“Honey-“

Your head snapped to him as he bounced off of the doorframe, soft steps leading him right to you.

“Did you just call me honey?” you asked incredulously.

Not that you didn’t like it, it was just-- you were Steve’s sweetheart, his babygirl, his good girl… now honey? That was new and frankly, it might have freaked you out a bit.

Also, your heart skipped a frantic beat upon looking at him.

Damn, you forgot again about what he had done yesterday and it always startled you to see him like that. Too unusual – not bad-looking by any means, just… unusual.

Steve chuckled as he crouched to you, dropping a kiss to the top of your head and cupping your mildly sweaty cheek. He grimaced a bit at your surprised tone.

“Not a fan?”

“I mean, yeah, sure, hun, it’s just that… it’s a bit ominous, the change.”

One corner of his lips rose at your choice of a petname. “That’s because you’re freaking out and I need you to calm down a bit, sweetheart.”

Your eyebrows shot up and you scoffed, rather offended. Mostly because he was right – but also because he was being a damn hypocrite.

“Oh, am I? Me? Did I spend about an hour in front of the mirror yesterday, trying and almost failing to solve the dilemma whether I should or shouldn’t shave off my beard?”

Steve’s face turned entirely sour at your snarky remark.

“Don’t be mean, it’s a valid concern to-- I don’t want them to hate me,” he murmured and dropped his gaze in shame along with his hand, seemingly shrinking into himself, his insecurity returning.

You sighed and mentally cursed yourself for bringing it up again.

You dropped the brush to the tub with a thud and lost one of your gloves, wiping the ew feeling onto your old sweats before you tried to smoothen the worried wrinkle between his eyebrows.

“They’re gonna love you, Steve,” you assured him again, letting you fingers travel over his clean-shaved jaw, lightly pulling at his cheek to make him smile again. “I miss the beard, not gonna lie, but you do have an extremely sweet boy-next-door look now, you are my handsome, funny, smart as hell guy, who’s somehow all grown up and has life stuff figured out and you’re making me happy. You’re the epitome of the guy a girl wants to bring home to meet her parents.”

Despite slightly panting from exertion, you took care to sound as convincing as possible, pushing away your own worries for a bit.

Steve was your perfect guy, perfection incarnated; you weren’t worried about him not making an impression… except for the fact that Steve did have a few years on you and worked at the uni and—well.

Yet, you couldn’t but dread the moment your parents realized that you were everything but perfect since they let you loose on the world. You had never been the daughter to show off like the epitome of everything good and wholesome, but you always tried your best to please them…. Now though? Darting your professor? Even if he wasn’t exactly your professor?

Yeah, you didn’t think that a spotless apartment could make up for that, but it helped to ease your anxiety when you kept lying to yourself that it just might.

Steve grasped your palm in his, planting a tiny kiss there – a gesture to warm your heart, always – his lips once again curled up a fraction as his gaze met yours, his mesmerizing blues kind and hopeful.

“You really think so?”

“Of course.”

And with the way he was looking at you – you finally figured it out. Just a fleeting thought and an answer to an unspoken question you had been failing to grasp at since yesterday; it escaped your lips before you could stop yourself.

“Gosh, you look like a Disney prince!”

Steve’s eyes went comically wide, laughter erupting from his throat and he pulled you to him in one swift motion, falling on his ass with you in his arms in the process and nearly getting crushed by you. Clearly, he did not care one bit as he shook with laughter, kissing your nose, your cheeks and finally your lips despite your protests that you were gross.

“That’s golden! Oh babygirl, you’re the-”

“Tell me I’m Cinderella, I dare you,” you grumbled, but Steve just shook his head and kissed you breathless, fingers of one hand curled around your nape to guide you closer, to breathe you in, while his other hand stayed wrapped around your waist.

You tried your best not to touch him with your gloved hand, having it ridiculously stretched out to nowhere in order not to spot his clothes, but your free hand clutched at his t-shirt with enthusiasm.

His lips left yours only when the world started spinning and your mind turned blank besides the thought of Steve’s mouth being on yours and how much you loved it when he stole all the breath from your lungs – and how much you always missed him when he withdrew.

You stared at him, dumbstruck, as he watched you like you were the eighth wonder of the world, your messy self in baggy clothes, your heart growing three times its size, your insides positively tingly from the heated make-out session.

Steve was smiling again too at last, brushing your nose with his and planting one last soft kiss on your lips.

“Okay, babygirl, now hand over the brush.”

You had to blink several times, your oh so lazy brain taking its time to realize what he said. Huh? Also, did he just said it as if he was asking you were a robber holding a hostage on gunpoint and he was asking you to lay down your weapon?

The thought made you internally snort.

“Why?” you demanded, suspicious.

“Because I’m taking over.”

You instantly shook your head. “No-“

“Yes. I promise I’ll make sure it’s spotless-“

Okay, yeah, that was one of our arguments against him doing the clean-up. However, there was one more. “But you still have papers to grade and lessons to prepare!”

“And you want to cook too and then we’ll have to clean up the kitchen. And you’ll want to take a shower and and and. Papers can wait. Gimme the brush.”

“You make it sound like it’s a weapon of mass destruction… or I am,” you muttered, but you kissed his cheek – such a strange feeling, you truly missed the sensation of his beard scraping your lips – and climbed out of his lap with a meek and cautious thank you. He cackled at your antics, but quickly fished out a new pair of gloves from the bathroom drawer and started working.

You swallowed your smart remark about him being the Cinderella now. Mostly because his gesture was one of the sweetest things and really – seeing Steve scrubbing the bathtub might not be the sexiest thing in the world… but it kinda was.

It pulled at your heartstrings as you imagined that this might be how it would always be; you and Steve, settling together, taking care of the household, then cuddling on the couch—the domesticity you hadn’t always been sure you craved.

Now you were certain of it; but to get to that, you had to survive your parents’ visit first.  

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You had somewhat stayed in touch with your parents, mostly with your mum; you two had been calling on a so-so regular basis, sometimes with video, and both her and your father were obviously aware that you had a boyfriend (gee, that sounded kinda trivial, a boyfriend). In fact, Steve played a huge role in them deciding to purchase their plane tickets… besides wanting to see New York City… and you.

The thing was… you had managed to keep Steve’s identity secret so far; you never used a videocall when he was around, so your mum only had heard his voice, sweet and polite in the most Steve fashion possible, you sort-of danced around his age and his job. Yeah, you found it strange as well that you kept it up so long, a divine intervention even; or maybe your mum simply had a good idea of your dirty secret all along and purposely didn’t probe.

Now, with your parents in the apartment, your dad’s eyes more on Steve than on you (your mum’s eyes wandered too, you noticed, but she had enough decency to show you she missed you first), you felt dread fill every cell in your body. Your heart was pounding in your chest with too much ferocity, your temples pulsing, your palms uncharacteristically sweaty and if it wasn’t for Steve’s warm hand on your lower back, its weight oh so comforting, you might spontaneously combust because of your nerves.

You were suddenly entirely grateful that Steve had shaved off his beard, was giving less of a an incredibly hot (and still very young, thank you very much) professor vibe and looked--- well, kinda like he could be your classmate.

But of course, of course the subject came up. Inevitably, after the small talk about your parents’ flight, about how their job was going and if they picked up a new hobby (…or heard some gossip), you and Steve became the centre of attention.

First, things went smoothly enough; you talked a bit about school, about Penny and some of your classmates and professors, about your part-time job. Steve had been subtly drawing small comforting circles on your thigh whenever he wasn’t eating and he in fact succeeded in lowering your heartbeat so much that you might appear even calm.

And then it oh so predictably went to shit.

Because apparently, your materialistic father had to ask Steve what he was studying and what his plan for his future career was.

“I actually finished my studies,” Steve admitted in an admirably dispassionate manner.

Meanwhile, your own heart started racing again, sending you to the verge of a cardiac arrest; your father’s eyes narrowed slightly, but a hint of a smile played in the corners of his lips in effort to remain polite… for now.

“Oh? Was that recently?”

You deflected that question by bringing up the pie and snatching Steve with you to bring it to the table since you two were the hosts.

The question forgotten, your mum – god bless her, she had caught up enough to know you did not want to discuss Steve’s age, even if it wasn’t that bad – asked about Steve’s field of study.

“History, minoring in pedagogics.”

“Oh? So you are a history teacher?” your dad chimed in and you swallowed as Steve confirmed that claim, walking straight into a death trap. You had seen it coming, you had, but you still winced when your father’s icy tone cut the almost festive atmosphere. “And it wouldn’t be that you’re more of a university professor, would it?”

His hand balled into a fist on the table, your mother’s lightly covering it as she whispered his name; the gesture of comfort, a silent plea for him to stay calm, didn’t quite work.

Steve, to his benefit, looked only a bit sheepish, meeting your dad’s eye with bravery worth of the Disney prince you had called him earlier that day. Also, with the same honesty… why hadn’t you agreed on lying to them again?

“It would, sir.”

“Oh. I don’t suppose then that it is a coincidence that you two met in school?” your dad continued and you sighed, your breathing progressively turning into a more and more of a difficult task with the anticipation of a storm.

“It is not, sir,” Steve replied calmly and you honestly didn’t know whether you should kiss him or punch him, unsure if his attitude made your father madder or not. “However-“

Your father’s gaze snapped to you, sharp and enraged; you felt yourself sink into your chair involuntarily, your mind travelling years back to the moments when he wasn’t pleased with you at all, yelled and sputtered words tasting of venom.

“Do you have any explanation for this inappropriate joke?” you father hissed, not caring he interrupted whatever Steve was about to say to your defence.

Your chest grew heavy, edges of your vision blurring subtly; your eyes burned and suddenly, you weren’t only remembering. You were reliving a memory, feeling like your child-self, like your teenage-self, being scolded for every imperfection; and there had been generous amount of those as you had been growing up.

Steve’s hand somehow slid under the table again, squeezing yours, a gentle wave of attempted comfort washing over you.

But it took one glance at him and you understood that silent support was not the only goal of his when he sought your touch.

His jaw was set tight, his grip a little too strong; he was trying to maintain composure, while not at all impressed with the tone your father was speaking with you.

Yet, Steve’s gesture did provide you with something you hadn’t had whenever you faced your father before; strength and true support, the essential reminder that you had done nothing wrong.

“Dad, this is not a joke,” you said, your voice shaking only slightly as you squeezed Steve’s hand back, “Steve and I are dating. Yes, he is teaching at the same college I study, but-“

A fist hit the table, causing the remaining tableware clank with the force behind the blow and you winced in fright, all muscles tensing in an instant.

“There is no ‘but’ applicable in this case!” your father spitted out, the anger in his voice making your guts twist, the sting in your eyes intensifying. “We help you to pay for school so you could study, not sleep around!”

Several things happened at once; your mother admonished your father, a level-headed whisper of his name. Your voice, too quiet as always when your father reprimanded you, tried to protest, to defend yourself.  And Steve’s patience ran out, his outrage at your father’s demeanour showing.

“Paul-“

“That’s not what’s-“

“Don’t talk to her like that!“

“You keep your mouth shut now,” you father snapped at Steve, pointing a finger at him accusingly before turning his rage towards you again, the deep disappointment in his eyes somehow more hurtful than the anger. “Is it that bad with your grades that you have to—to--- Jesus Christ.“

The world stopped for several frantic beats of your heart, everything else in standstill. Multiple sharp breaths were drawn in, but you didn’t think either of them was yours.

Your father’s unfinished sentence echoed in your ears as if from a terrible distance and just like that—just like that, you were thrown several months back to the days before your graduation.

Rogers’ whore

Bet she’ll get the highest score

The icy feeling that froze your bones and crystalized the blood in your veins made for a stark contrast to the few hot tears you were distantly aware of that were running down your cheeks.

Many had thought of you that you were a set of holes to fill for the professor in exchange for passing an exam or two, which was disgusting, deeply insulting and obviously wrong. But those people didn’t know you- they weren’t your blood.

Your own father was now seconds from calling you a whore. The dinner turned into a stone in your stomach as the verbal punch knocked all air from your lungs.

“Paul!” you heard a swift reproach, quickly followed by Steve’s voice, dangerously low in a threat. “I’m sorry, what did you just imply about her?”

“You zip it-“

“Paul!”

It felt like a fucking elephant stomped on your chest, the spiral of pity and despair, mocking voices swirling wildly, tossing you around with a quickening speed as the circles got smaller and smaller, as if you were circling down the drain, your breaths coming shorter and shorter too-

And yet your father still continued, ignorant to all warnings and your inner turmoil.

“That’s over, my dear. I refuse to support such disgusting thing. And you, I don’t see how it’s possible that you still have your job-“

“DAD!” a loud cry cut off the monologue and it took you a moment to realize that it was you who just snapped and yelled, despite the unmistakable addressing.

Your father stared at you in mute shock as you dared to interrupt him; and frankly, with the world spinning, your stomach twisted and your chest constricted with anxiety, you were shocked by your actions too.

It was the fact that he doubted Steve’s position at the uni, flashed through your mind, the way he insulted the man you loved and who deserved all the good things. Or maybe it was his fucking attitude towards Steve and you in general and you just finally reached your limit. You weren’t sure; but shit, this ended now.

The silence that fell on the room granted you a few moments to breathe and calm your frantic mind.

“He is not using me like some f-“ -fuckdoll- “-fling or whatever. And he’s not even my professor, he’s-“

“Like it matters!” you father snapped from his trance, spitting the words, a vein on his temple visibly popping up as he rose to his feet swiftly, nearly sending the chair flying to the ground.

You stared up at him, the coil of despair and rage in your gut burning hot as he literally looked down on you.

You hadn’t been ready for this. You hadn’t been ready for your father to despise you for being in a relationship with a great man, to judge you so harshly without being able to listen for a damn second.

“It DOES. But even if he was-“ you tried to explain again, losing patience and the ground under your feet too as Steve’s hand started practically crushing the bones of yours.

You could physically feel Steve trying to hold back and slowly succumb to his not so nice emotions no doubt swirling in him just like in you.

“How can you not see that’s he’s only looking to get his---” your father gestured wildly towards Steve and rather low and you could hear Steve’s teeth grinding at the implication. Your blood reached the boiling point. How dared he to- “-that he’s only seeking a physical thing-“

“That’s not what this is. I love your daughter-“ Steve emphasized, expression fiery, voice surprisingly measured for a man who you believed was one moment from punching your father.

“Sure you do, son, until something with long legs and tall heels walks by-“

Steve’s chair scrapped against the floor and you quickly laid a palm over his chest to stop him from jumping to his feet and succumb to his righteous anger.

“Steve-“ you whispered soothingly, seeing the light tremble to his hands, tendons dancing under his shirt with the effort to hold back.

“Paul, that’s enough,” your mother interjected, grabbing her husband’s wrist to keep him back as well.

“I do love your daughter, I respect her and I fully intend-“

Steve closed his eyes as he inhaled shakily to compose himself. In the very back of your mind, you spared a single thought to what he was going to say before he shook his head and looked your father dead in the eye again.

“-I am serious about her and I want to and will be with her as long as she’ll have me.”

You had two full seconds to sink into the gentle sentiment behind his words, to cherish how much he did respect your choices and strangely, how he still doubted he could be enough for you, before your father scoffed dismissively.

“Well, I hope you are serious, because if she comes crawling back in few weeks, the door and the account will be closed.” He shot you one disdainful look that made your heart stop before twisting his arm from your mother’s hold and stepping away from the table. “We’re leaving.”

Your eyes slipped shut, a fresh wave of hot tears painting your cheeks, all strength leaving your body, darkness enveloping your mind.

He was cutting you off. He was going to disown you no doubt; that much of a disappointment you were to him.

Your own father hated you.

Dull ringing filled your ears, muffling your mother’s low voice.

“I’m so sorry for his behaviour.” She sounded truly regretful, her voice quivering a bit, you thought. “I’ll talk to him about what he said. Thank you for the dinner, baby. It was nice to meet you, Steve, truly.”

“You too, ma’am,” Steve responded firmly, his voice the only solid thing in the room. “I’ll—I’ll walk you out.”

“That’s not necessary, Steve. But thank you. I’ll call you, sweetheart.”

A low whisper about a promise fell from her lips next as she brushed your shoulder, but you couldn’t hope to understand what she was saying, the buzz of blood in your ears growing louder.

And then you knew she was gone along with your father. You knew because a warm hand touched yours, another gently wiping way the endless waterfall of your tears and then you were pulled to your feet and practically dragged to the couch in Steve’s protective embrace.

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You wouldn’t be able to tell how long you were drenching Steve’s shirt in tears, sobbing into his chest as he held you firmly and yet tenderly, whispering sweet nothings, words of comfort empty and yet so meaningful.

You couldn’t tell how long it took for the tremble subdue, for the sobs to turn into sniffles and then die out entirely.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so so sorry,” Steve whispered to your hair, caressing your scalp, your back the next, dropping a kiss to the top of your head.

“I know,” you creaked back, gripping the fabric of his shirt for one last time before you gathered your breath and courage to face him; you had to. You might be a mess, but it was vital that he heard you say this: “It’s not your fault.”

You withdrew slightly, meeting his eyes, so big and regretful, a bit watery as if he was the one crying. The corners of his lips, apparently having been turned down the whole time, twitched, his whole face twisting in a grimace; little sad, little defiant, but he didn’t protest even though you were certain that he wanted to.

Perhaps it was a testimony of how well you two fit, how your thoughts worked on the same wavelengths; you understood what he must have been thinking. If you were dating literally anybody else, this wouldn’t have happened.

So you had to assure him that you didn’t blame him; even if he did so himself. You didn’t have the energy to be angry with him for such thing. Mostly because that in a way, there was a tiny bit of truth in him thinking so.

“Don’t do that to yourself. I chose you. Yes, this relationship is on both of us… but we knew the risks and went for it anyway. And—it’s worth it, it’s just… fuck, this is so fucked up. I’m in such a mess now,” you whispered, your voice breaking as fresh tears burned in your eyes.

Steve’s fingers were quick to dry your cheeks, gently stroking, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“We are, babygirl. We’re in this together. What’s mine is yours,” Steve said, determined. You couldn’t find yourself sharing his optimism, but his eyes locked onto yours, serious as his words. “We’ll figure it out. Find ways of saving more. Hell, if it comes to that, I’ll try to find a job that pays better-”

Your palms landed on his chest, pushing away, putting some distance between you; his hand dropped from your face.

Say WHAT?

“Absolutely not!” you protested instantly, sobering from your despair and letting indignation take over, ignoring entirely the voice in your head sweetly nudging you with the idea of what Steve was willing to give up for you. “I’ll drop off college before I let you give up being a professor, Steve-- you are made-“

“Not an option, sweetheart,” he shot back instantly, expression turning strict. “You leaving college is off the table.”

Mentally, you threw your hands up in the air, growing confused and frustrated by the minute.

“Why? How is that different from you finding a new job, giving up something you worked for so hard?”

“The difference is,” Steve raised his voice slightly, speaking slowly as if he wanted you to remember every word, “-that the chances are that I could come back at some point, that I might only lose a few years. You dropping off, on the other hand, would affect your whole future.”

The same exasperation you felt burned in his eyes now and you gulped, realization hitting you that… yeah, okay, that was a good point. But you hated it anyway.

“…okay, that’s a fair point. But I rather work three jobs and didn’t sleep at all than seeing you leave the university.”

“And work yourself to the ground? I don’t think so, babygirl,” Steve shook his head, just a smidge of patronizing which stung more than you would expect.

Obviously, he was presenting you with more of a feasible option, but you had a feeling that the primal instinct to be the provider played a role in his attitude too – and at any given moment besides this one you would like that; you were completely fine with him wanting to ensure you were secured, taking the larger portion of the burden on his shoulders.

Except now it reminded you of your father in the worst possible way despite knowing that the sentiment was nothing but sweet, no malice in his intentions. It chased tears into your eyes.

Steve’s expression instantly melted, panic flashing in his eyes as he must have figured out that this was not the right thing to say… or not the right way.

His hands were quick to frame you face, tender but unwavering, forcing you to look him straight in the eye.

“Hey, hey, no. It’s just… we’ll work it out, somehow, okay? We can even move out and share an apartment with someone else if we need to. Though you’re forgetting I used to pay this rent and bills on my own.”

Your lower lip quivered, your heart fluttering in fondness for this incredible man, your chest constricted at the idea of taking anything away from him, even if it was comfort. God, the distance he was willing to walk…

“You were living on school cafeteria food and ramen,” you mumbled, corners of your lips twitching upwards for the shortest moment.

Steve’s smile, on the other hand, was almost blinding, tight-lipped but honest, thumbs sweeping at the tears that appeared yet again.

“See, another possibility to save money. Don’t cry, my pretty girl…” he pleaded lowly, kissing your nose before shaking his head lightly. “Or cry if you need to. I’m here, sweetheart, okay? Whatever you need.”

Shit, your heart couldn’t hope to contain this amount of love-

How could anyone ever doubt Steve was the right man for you? The best man? The most wonderful loving human being? How did your father think he was just looking for a mindless fuck?

“I love you,” you whispered hoarsely, smiling through your tears. “Fuck my father. He can’t bully me into being his perfect daughter by cutting me off, can’t make me behave. There’s nothing wrong with me loving you.”

“Or me loving you.”

There was no questioning his honesty; it was written all over his features, his irises bright with emotion. And yet, you worried your teeth over your lower lip, insecurity, your old friend, crawling into your head.

“You do, really? Even with my asshole of a dad?”

You didn’t mean it. Entirely. Though momentarily, your dad was being an asshole, not for the first time.

“Yeah, sweetheart. You’re my everything,” Steve promised, releasing your face in order to tuck messy loose strands of your hair behind your ears.

“That’s the sweetest thing to say, but you can’t exactly sell me to put food to your mouth-“ Oh. Even though… maybe that would be an option? “Well, technically-“

All the gentle warmth radiating from Steve’s expression turned ice cold, smile dropping so fast it startled you.

“Don’t you even-“

“Hey, why not, I mean how much do you think-“

“Stop that right now!” Steve’s voice cut you off, razor sharp voice as if cutting into your skin.

You flinched at the mental blow on instinct, air stuck in your throat, muscles in your back straightening enough to inflict a sharp pounding in your head.

Steve closed his eyes, inhaling and exhaling painstakingly slow, as if he got punched in his gut too. His fists on your sides clenched and unclenched, Adam’s apple bobbing. When he looked at you again, it was obvious he realized he had scared you – and that he regretted not keeping his anger in check.

“I’m sorry, babygirl, I didn’t mean for it to come out this harsh.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, focusing on nothing but your breathing and keeping yourself from sobbing again as you were reminded of your father’s yelling. With each long second, you could see Steve’s face twisting and his body sinking into the couch in shame.

Well. As much as you hated him snapping at you, you had to give it to him – it sobered you up. Frankly, you didn’t blame him for being so harsh.

But you were also aware that Steve was a painfully kind and gentle soul and he never wanted to be rough with you… well, except under certain very consensual special circumstances.

“I know,” you forced an unconvincing smile, laying your palm on his cheek, affection Steve was quick to lean into with a sigh – probably both relieved and content. “I’m sorry for talking stupid.”

He covered your hand with his, carefully manipulating it so he could brush his lips over your palm.

“You’re not, not really. Our heads are a mess, rightfully so. I know people still do that, some purely by choice, but—I don’t want that for you, ever. That’s the same level on a will-never-happen scale like you not continuing your masters. Not an option for me. You’re my girl and if someone’s gonna change their habits, it’s gonna be me first.”

The surge of affection at his words filled your stomach with butterflies, wrapping around you like the softest and warmest comforter.

Great, now you wanted to cry for a whole different reason.

“I don’t deserve you,” spilled from your lips before you could think twice. Steve’s sweet smile made its return.

“Other way around, babygirl. Other way around…. Now how does a bath and a bed sound?”

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Steve hadn’t planned on you and him having a bath when making the suggestion. He found a bath-bomb even and few candles so the light wouldn’t have to be on and hurt your previously teary eyes.

But then you looked at him with wide eyes, pleading and so vulnerable, a single look so heartfelt that it would make the devil’s black heart break and the angels weep – and he was done for, sinking into the bath with you even if the bathtub was not meant for more than one person, especially when one of them was of Steve’s built.

He couldn’t tell you no. Less so after the shitstorm the dinner had turned into.

Yes, Steve’s own emotions were running high, anger, disappointment and self-hatred he knew he couldn’t confess to, certainly not at the moment, but you. You were the priority here because he had a feeling that no matter how overwhelmed he felt, he had nothing on you.

The ceramics of the tub was hard against his back and against his knees at the side, but you fit into his arms and between his legs so perfectly and contentedly that he wouldn’t dare to complain. Head in the crook of his neck, your back to his chest, you melted into him, eyes closed, fingers absently and yet affectionately running over his forearms above water, sometimes along his calves.

You didn’t talk much, mostly repeating that it wasn’t his fault, that you loved him – something he found himself echoing every time – and it slipped through your lips too that while you would never change the fact that you picked him… you were sorry for being a disappointment to your father.

At that, something in Steve’s chest cracked and he swore to himself – that he would never ever be the cause of you feeling like a disappointment. And why would he – you were his perfect girl, his best girl. As much as he regretted that he indirectly did have a hand in making you feel like this now, he wouldn’t change who you were to each other and who you were had he had the chance. Never.

What he could do was to hold you tighter after your admission and whisper more sweet nonsense that made perfect sense to him to your ear.

By the time the water got cold, you were practically asleep, completely groggy, pliant. Somehow, you both climbed from the tub without sustaining any injury. He might have been holding you upright a bit as you both brushed your teeth and pulled on a pyjama.

You fell asleep almost instantly, face hidden in Steve’s chest, few stray tears dampening his sleepshirt as you mumbled one more love confession into the fabric.

“I love you, Steve... I’m sorry… you have to put up with such bullshit…” Your words slurred but Steve didn’t need to hear them to understand what you were saying.

He dropped a kiss to the top of your head, pulling you closer to his side, ignoring the sting of guilt in his gut.

“I love you too, sweetheart,” he whispered, earning a hum that might have been a sign of contentment… or you being entirely drained. “Let’s go to sleep now. Clearer head in the morning.”

Another hum and then nothing but your deep slow breathing, the last remnants of tension leaving your body.

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Steve didn’t think he would follow you to the dreamland anytime soon, too agitated, thoughts swirling wildly in his head, but he caught himself snapping back to consciousness at some point, unsure when he fell asleep – and what woke him up.

An intrusive buzzing on your nightstand provided him with the answer, your phone lit up.

Steve spared you one glance as you stirred only to nuzzle deeper into his frame, sighing.

As carefully as he could so he wouldn’t wake you, he stretched over you and checked who was calling.

Blood crystalized in his veins, heart sent into frenzy as he read a simple short word.

Mom.

He squeezed the side button, silencing the vibration as he pondered what to do; and yet, even as his heart jumped to his throat – as if he was a teenager about to face his girlfriend’s parents after he took her virginity – he had already made a decision, accepting the call as you sank into the cushions without him as a pillow.

He slipped from the room as silently and quickly as possible, announcing himself before you mother could say something not meant for his ears.

“Oh. Hello, Steve,” your mother greeted him, clearly surprised – but much to Steve’s relief, not angry.

He could do this, he could talk to your mother even with the lump in his throat; could have been much worse. Could have been your father and Steve wasn’t so sure if he would manage him. For one, he would hate to be reminded, once again, of what the numerous hate letters had told him about being a total perv; for two, Steve feared he might exchange words with your father that couldn’t have been taken back and would seal the damage done to the relationship with your parents .

“I’m sorry, ma’am. She fell asleep and—I can wake her, of course, but-“ He stumbled over his words and was immensely grateful when your mother saved him from his misery; more se when she said what she did.

“-but she had a rough night. We all did. I’m okay to talk to you, Steve.”

“Alright… how can I help, ma’am?”

“Tell me how bad she is, Steve? She stopped crying before she falling asleep?” the woman on the other side asked softly, causing Steve’s heart to squeeze in a painful memory of his own kind mother, God bless her soul.

And perhaps it was that very memory that encouraged him to speak openly, the genuine worry of a mother who cared deeply for her child, her heart full of love.

How such woman could end up with such an asshole and stay with him was beyond Steve’s understanding, but he certainly wasn’t in position to judge the choices of the women in your family – after all, he was your choice and there was a long line of people who looked at the two with disdain.

“For a while,” Steve admitted with a sigh, his gaze automatically flickering towards the bedroom. “She’s—she feels like she disappointed you in a way, she’s scared of the what’s next, but she’s angry too, because she doesn’t think she did anything wrong by being with me.”

And Steve thought the same… to a point. Didn’t matter that sometimes he would find himself in a dark place where he simply awaited the moment you’d change your mind and left him; for someone your age, with better looks, someone smarted, someone funnier, someone who didn’t have to shave off his beard just so your parents made it through the front door without yelling.

Such gloomy images always left him more desperate than he was comfortable admitting and with searing jealousy in his gut.

He needed you. Yes, he’d survive if you left – but he was certain that you’d take his heart with him, leaving him unable to fall in love ever again… or to feel whole, for that matter.

“She wouldn’t leave you to get her financial support back, Steve,” sounded gently on the other end of the line and Steve’s heart skipped a beat in alarm, brief wonder if he had said any of his latest thoughts out loud.

He supposed he didn’t – your mother was just too intuitive, just like his used to be. He gulped against his dry throat, suddenly guilty for – in a way – forcing you to leave them.

“…I suppose not… I’m sorry if-- it was never my intention to steal your daughter from you, but I’m- I’m not gonna pretend I mind that she would rather be with me than had her money.”

“This is not your doing, Steve, don’t you think I don’t know that,” she continued, a subtle smile in her voice, Steve thought. “And it’s good that she’s willing to make this choice. We wouldn’t want the bride to get cold feet, after all.”

Steve’s heart stopped altogether, he was sure of it. Colour him mortified.

How the hell—but- she couldn’t--- he hadn’t proposed yet and he- what?

His stomach twisted in a tight knot. He couldn’t but ask, voice barely above whisper.

“…how did you know?”

“You stopped yourself mid-sentence, Steve. And as cliché as it sounds, you had fire in your eyes, defending my daughter. It is clear to me that you are serious about her, that you love her, and from the little I heard about you, you are the kind of man who would put a ring on it to seal the deal.”

You mother was definitely smiling now and Steve found himself doing the same, even if the lift of his lips turned sour.

“I would have asked for parents’ blessings, but…”

“I give it,” she was quick to assure him and Steve’s breath hitched, his chest puffing with pride, filling with endless relief and joy. Your mother approved of him. Even knowing who he was, how old he was, how—she was willing to give him her blessing! “You seem like a good man, Steve.”

Steve was both embarrassed and ridiculously proud when he realized he was blinking against tears gathering in his eyes, enormous weight falling from his shoulders.

“That, uhm—that means a lot, truly,” he choked out, swiftly clearing his throat, the embarrassment definitely winning now. He had to get it together before he gave out how weak he could be in front of your mother… she had given her blessing; she could easily take it back.

“I like you, Steve. You’re a good blend of an old-fashioned and modern man. Don’t mess it up and keep my daughter happy.”

“I will try my best, ma’am,” he declared in an instant, meaning every word.

A sigh sounded from the speaker. “That’s all I ask for… now the less happy reason to call. I talked to Paul, but he… I’m sorry, Steve, as for now, he still isn’t fond of you.” That didn’t surprise Steve, but it hurt nonetheless. Then again, he was grateful that your mother tried to put in a good word for him; that meant a lot too. “He only agreed to pay for three more months.”

Steve’s free hand balled into fist, the other clutching the phone considerably tighter as hot surge of anger flooded his veins.

Three more payments. As if the relationship with your family was a damn job contract and this was the notice period.

Steve was sure he was going to be sick.

“Thank you. That’s… we appreciate it,” he managed to grit through his teeth, trying his damnest to remember that he wasn’t mad at the sweet woman – only at her husband.

“You really are a good man, Steve. You’re good for her. I’m glad she found you.”

Steve would once again be entirely joyful at being at least your mother’s favour, but he heard you call out his name from the bedroom, low, hoarse and utterly confused and all he could focus on was the idea of you, red-rimmed eyes and messy hair and still adorable, looking for him in the dark room with a pout to your lips.

“Steve?” your mother called out unsurely and Steve snapped from his reverie.

“Sorry, uhm, she’s awake-- do you want me to hand you over or-“ he blurted out swiftly, hoping the answer would be no as he couldn’t wait to crawl back to bed with you.

“No, just tell her I called. I believe you two have things to talk about. Take care of my daughter, Steve. I’ll be in touch.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Jane, Steve,” she offered kindly just as Steve heard the soft patting on your fluffy socks on the floor.

“Yes, Jane,” he corrected himself then, unable to contain the satisfaction as he tested the name on his tongue. “Thank you, really. Goodnight.”

He ended the call as you emerged from the bedroom, squinting to the low light, your eyes instantly finding him – he automatically smiled for you, unsubtly splaying his arms wide. You didn’t hesitate, aiming straight into his embrace even if it was at snail pace.

It was funny and strange and wonderful how Steve still loved simply holding you, his heart calmer the moment he found you melting into his frame. Christ, he loved you… and clearly, your mother noticed; he was so obvious, that-

“You were gone,” you muttered into his chest discontentedly, nuzzling into him and Steve automatically cradled you to him tighter.

“Sorry, sweetheart. How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” you admitted bluntly, propping your chin on his torso to look up at him, eyes growing wide and surprisingly soft with emotion. “More so because I was talking stupid and crying into your shirt instead of comforting you after my dad accused you of the things that--- those things that aren’t right.”

Steve felt the painful nudge to his consciousness, because he knew there always would be some truth to ‘those’ words; but you were here to dilute the pain and make it all better. Your care for his well-being served like a shield for the sticks and stones for now at least, when you were the priority. You had it worse at the moment, no matter what his former colleague had accused him of in those hate letters – and now your father.

“Hey, no. Don’t worry about me now.”

You gazed into his eyes, pushing on your tiptoes to peck his lips and the small gesture of affection was like a balm to his soul, much like your words.

“But I do. Always. I love you, Steve… I’m sorry we can’t catch a break… but we’ll… somehow, we’ll push through, right?” you whispered, hopeful and wistfully determined and Steve could only nod, feeling the corners of his lips rising.

“Absolutely, sweetheart. You’re my girl.”

“And you’re my guy. My prince charming,” you hummed, cradling his unusually smooth cheek, irises full of wonder, the sensation was as foreign to you as it was to him. But it was your babble that made him chuckle, the nickname that seemed to catch on; you were too cute for words. “Guess I am Cinderella after all and somehow you accidentally fell in love with me.”

“Damn right I did,” he confirmed, brushing your forehead with his lips before tugging you back to the bedroom. “Not all that glitters is gold.”

“True. Though you might have some glitter from the bathbomb on you.”

“Cheeky girl.”

He didn’t bother pretending to be offended or grumpy; he was simply too happy to see some of your snarky teasing side making its return, that was always a good sign.

“I try… but really, are you okay?”

Steve didn’t respond at first, climbing to the bed, manoeuvring you to his arms where you belonged and fit so naturally. Only when the lights were out and you were both comfortable, he replied, truthfully.

“I will be. I have you. Plus, your mum seems to be okay with me.”

More than okay, apparently.

Steve’s heart fluttered with a bit of nerves as his mind wandered to the ring he kept in the very room you fell asleep every night.

“As she should,” you hummed, sounding very pleased. “She has a nose for good people. And you’re the best.”

“After you at least.”

“Best man, then,” you argued playfully and Steve was perfectly content to have you think that. It would play in his favour when he would finally find the courage to sink to one knee in front of you.

“Well, I’m certainly a lucky one… I have the best woman.”

“Uh-huh. Sure you do. Love you,” you whispered, kissing his chest over the fabric of his sleepshirt and sighing blissfully. “Goodnight, Steve.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you too.”

If you only knew how much…

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

S.R.masterlist

Attached masterlist

Stockings (next in timeline)

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

Wink wink. I once again stretched this quite a bit, but hopefully you reached this very end without skipping something ;)

Thank you for reading and extra thanks if you happen to like, reblog and/or comment. Stay safe and happy!

(Also, to American friends: I hope you'll have better Thanksgiving than this ;) )

[baoshan-sanren]

Chapter 51

Emperor Wei WuXian And His Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Birthday

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 Part 1 | Chapter 8 Part 2 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 Part 1 | Chapter 15 Part 2 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 Part 1 | Chapter 22 Part 2 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31 | Chapter 32 | Chapter 33 | Chapter 34 | Chapter 35 | Chapter 36 | Chapter 37 | Chapter 38 | Chapter 39 | Chapter 40 | Chapter 41 | Chapter 42 | Chapter 43 | Chapter 44 | Chapter 45 | Chapter 46 | Chapter 47 | Chapter 48 & Chapter 49 | Chapter 50

Jiang YanLi is asleep.

Her eyes had not strayed from Wei Ying’s face for the majority of the evening and the night, but now, her head is pillowed on her arms, her breaths soft and nearly soundless. The dawn is only a few hours away, the darkness assuming a gentle, mellow glow, as it usually does before giving way to the morning light. Resting in the far corner of the Imperial chambers, uncle’s form is only a shadow draped in blue robes. XiChen is playing, his fingers moving over the strings, the stiff posture of his shoulders giving away the misery in his wrists.

WangJi’s own wrists and fingers ache, a dull, burning sensation that refuses to fade. He is grateful to the pain, for it keeps him alert. Even under the shifting light of the candle flames, Wei Ying’s face is no longer ghastly pale. There is a delicate flush across his cheeks now, a healthy color of dreamless sleep. His mouth is slightly parted, his breaths deep and even. Jiang YanLi had been the one to remove the cumbersome hair ornaments, to brush the thick curtain of Wei Ying’s hair until it shone. It is braided loosely now, a heavy, glistening coil of impossible length. WangJi has moved to touch it more than once, but drawn his hand back each time.

The memory of sliding his fingers through the strands, marveling at their texture, at the rich and lush weight in his hands, is a painful, physical presence. Wei Ying will recover, uncle had said. He will wake. WangJi keeps these words in his heart, a small, burning flame of hope. But there is very little uncle can say about the adverse effects of Wei Ying’s ordeal. Since the time of YanLing DaoRen, the study of resentful energy and demonic cultivation has been prohibited, its practitioners facing a swift and brutal death in every corner of the Empire.  

Uncle may be knowledgable on the subject, but he has said precious little, leaving most of WangJi’s questions unanswered.

Wei Ying will wake. Wei Ying will recover. But will he still be Wei Ying?

The Rogue Prince shifts slightly in his place against the far wall. He has long ago settled down to meditate, the sword placed across his knees, the white bandage around his eyes glowing in the gloom.

At first, WangJi had believed his presence to be a family matter. After all, what is more natural than a concerned uncle at the bedside of his ill nephew? But now, WangJi thinks that perhaps Xiao XingChen is here for an entirely different set of reasons. There is no other living person so intimately familiar with YanLing DaoRen, with the corruption caused by the resentful energy, with the symptoms of YanLing DaoRen’s particular type of madness.

If Wei Ying wakes, and he is no longer Wei Ying, will Xiao XingChen take the matters into his own hands? Will WangJi be expected to abide by the man’s judgment?  

Silent and still, wrapped in white, the Rogue Prince is not a comforting presence, but a ghastly specter of an executioner. WangJi moves a little closer to the bed, his knees aching sharply, another pain that will keep him awake and alert.

Time passes, slow and thick with waiting.

In the soft light of the early dawn, uncle wordlessly takes XiChen’s place at the guqin. Although XiChen’s skill is significant, WangJi can immediately feel the difference in the richness and the depth of the sound, in the strength and determination behind every note. Each time it wraps around him, uncle’s spiritual power is familiar and comforting, a calming memory, a steadying touch, pressing gently on his weary shoulders. It is a battle now, to keep his gaze clear and focused. He had wanted to wait until Jiang YanLi woke on her own, so that he may close his eyes instead, but sleep is dragging him under despite his aches and pains. Reaching across Wei Ying to wake her, he feels a tremor underneath his arm, a stutter of a breath, a slight impression of movement.

He freezes in place, his own breath locking in his chest. Wei Ying’s eyelashes flutter. His mouth moves, the motion soundless. A tiny line forms in-between his eyebrows.

“Wei Ying,” WangJi says, his voice rough with disuse.

The Rogue Prince shifts again, a soft rustle of robes. WangJi can now feel uncle’s sharp gaze on the side of his face. Jiang YanLi sighs deeply in her sleep.

“Wei Ying.”

The eyelashes lift. Underneath them, Wei Ying’s gaze is blank and unfocused. They descend again.

WangJi carefully fumbles for the hand resting on top of the covers, mindful of the neatly splinted wrist. He struggles upright, the pain in his knees forgotten.

“Wei Ying.”

The throat moves. A heavy swallow, then another. Fingers tremble, brushing against WangJi’s own.

This time, when the eyelashes lift, Wei Ying’s gaze is focused. His lips move around a name, but no sound comes. Still, WangJi has seen Wei Ying’s mouth form that shape many times before; he does not need to hear, to know what it means to say.

Lan Zhan

The sound of the guqin ceases. Chaos erupts.

Uncle is first to reach the bedside, reaching down to check Wei Ying’s pulse. Jiang YanLi is awake; she relinquishes her hold on Wei Ying so that uncle may take her place. WangJi is grateful to be allowed to stay where he is, to keep his hand lightly pressed to Wei Ying’s palm. XiChen takes uncle’s place at the guqin, the Cleansing now forced to battle with the clamor of activity. Although her eyes are red and shining, Jiang YanLi’s voice is steady as she sends the guards scurrying out of the Imperial chambers. The Royal Companion and the Council must be informed that the Emperor is awake. More candles are brought in, despite the rapidly brightening skies. Servants are sent for tea, despite the fact that no one will drink it. More servants are sent for food that no one will eat. This all occurs around WangJi, meaningless and unimportant events that cannot compare to the gentle brush of Wei Ying’s fingers, the grounding pressure of his thumb on WangJi’s knuckles.

Nie HuaiSang appears just as uncle moves away from the bed, half-dressed and noticeably disheveled, the state of his hair perfectly reflecting the disorder around him. Jiang WanYin arrives on his heels, tidy where Nie HuaiSang is rumpled, contained where Nie HuaiSang is vibrating in place. Still, the dark shadows under Jiang WanYin’s eyes reveal that he had been the one who had not slept, his neat uniform the same one he had worn the day before.

“I can detect no traces of resentful energy,” uncle says, “However, the Emperor is very weak, and should not be moved. I would prefer to consult with the Head Healer on any further treatment.”

The Rogue Prince had not yet approached the bed, but now he does, a soundless movement bringing him into Wei Ying’s field of vision. Although the man’s smile appears to be relieved, WangJi finds himself turning slightly, just so he can monitor Xiao XingChen while still keeping his hold on Wei Ying’s hand.

“The Head Healer is in the dungeons,” Jiang WanYin says, “and so is her apprentice.”

Jiang YanLi hisses under her breath, turning a disapproving gaze onto her brother.

Wei Ying’s fingers tighten, his expression growing alarmed. He attempts to sit up.

This results in utter commotion, nearly loud enough to drown out the Cleansing altogether. Jiang YanLi tries to convince Wei Ying to stay put, her tone pleading but firm. Uncle grumbles in disapproval, giving voice to a string of words that should never be used in reference to an Emperor. Jiang WanYin curses loudly, a collection of profanities that make WangJi’s ears burn. Wei Ying ignores them all, his grip on WangJi’s hand now painfully tight, his breaths labored from the struggle.

Finally, WangJi can see no other course of action but to slide his arms under Wei Ying’s shoulder blades, and lift him up. Wei Ying is strong enough to latch on to WangJi’s robe with his uninjured hand, but not yet strong enough to remain upright on his own. With some shifting, his upper body settles against WangJi chest, forcing him to sit on the edge of the bed in order to bear its weight.

It is an intimate, utterly inappropriate position, and WangJi finds that he cannot look up at his uncle again. At this very moment, with Wei Ying pressed against him, he cannot muster the necessary fortitude to confront uncle’s disapproval. Somehow, in all the shifting and movement, the long braid had slithered down into WangJi’s lap. Wei Ying’s body is a scorching line of heat from his hip to his shoulder, and yet, it is the weight of that braid that that keeps driving WangJi to distraction, the inky black coil a sharp, eye-catching contrast to the white of his robes.

“A-Yuan,” Wei Ying croaks, the feeble sound lost in the ongoing procession of Jiang WanYin’s curses.

Still, Jiang YanLi hears it, immediately rushing to reassure, “He is safe, and well-hidden. The rest are unharmed.”

“A-Sang,” Wei Ying says.

“I am here,” Nie HuaiSang says, only now moving closer to the bed, his posture cautious.

“Tell me,” Wei Ying says.

“Are you stupid?” Jiang WanYin bursts out, “You cannot even sit up on your own. Do you want to die again? Wei Ying, you best lie down right now, or I will put you down myself.”

“You will not,” WangJi says.

He had not intended to speak out loud, but the words come out sharp and cold, leaving silence in their wake.

Nie HuaiSang’s eyebrows climb so high, they attempt to disappear in the messy tangle of his hair. Jiang WanYin has finally been made speechless, although his mouth is still moving; at this moment, he very much resembles Wei Ying, who does not know how to be silent even when his lips are sealed. Jiang YanLi is studying the carpet under her feet. There is an odd expression on her features that WangJi does not recognize.

Is she... going to laugh?

Wei Ying’s body shudders against his own. A soft gasping sound follows the shudder, and WangJi looks at him in alarm.

Wei Ying is... also laughing.

WangJi feels his face heat.

Jiang YanLi delicately clears her throat, “Sect Leader, if you wish to speak to the Head Healer, I am sure my brother would be pleased to provide an escort. It may be prudent to do so now, before the Council realizes that they had failed to impose any restrictions on visits to the Wen Sect.”

His face still burning, WangJi does not look up to see his uncle agree, or to watch him take his leave with Jiang WanYin.

No longer laughing, Wei Ying slumps with a sigh, forcing WangJi to wrap an arm around his waist in order to keep him upright. His temple presses to the side of WangJi’s neck.

“My protector,” he whispers, the teasing note obvious despite the weakness of his voice.

“Shameless,” WangJi hisses back, but there is no real heat behind his words.

It is hard to muster any heat, when most of it has collected in his face and throat. Wei Ying’s hair is soft against WangJi’s skin. His temple is warm and full of life. The smell of pears is heavy now, carrying with it memories of a mouth pressed against his own, a gentle huff of a laugh against his lips.

The sounds of the guqin have gone on uninterrupted, but he can practically sense his brother laughing at him. He has a feeling that the Rogue Prince is laughing silently as well.

It is not all due to WangJi, their amusement. The Emperor is alive, awake, and well enough to tease. The relief in the air is palpable and infectious. Under the circumstances, it does not take much, to be cheerful. WangJi feels it himself, a light bubble of air in his chest, bright with contentment. The mortification of being so intimate in front of so many witnesses cannot be simply willed away, but he finds that it can easily be overshadowed by joy.

“A-Sang,” Wei Ying says, “Tell me everything.”

[akishyff]

How Rose Became A Supervillain

I was bored, so I wrote this fun little story. Enjoy!

“Mnggggh...”

“I know, rosebud, I know.”

Rose straightened up in her hospital bed, reaching weakly for her phone. “But I gotta tell Juleka I’m okay...”

Her father seized the device, wagging his finger sternly at her. “No texting yet. You need bed rest.”

Mama grinned teasingly and held out a box. “Behave and we’ll give you a present!”

Rose’s eyes went wide and she sat still.

The box was handed over. Rose opened it and grinned at what was inside- a pair of... what, brooches? She wasn’t overly familiar with fancy jewellery. But they were pretty. Once was shaped like a butterfly, the other a peacock tail.

Mama smiled. “They’re a matching set. Maybe you can give one to that pretty girl you-“

Rose threw the lid at her, blushing madly. Papa laughed. “Alright, we get it. We’ll pick you up tomorrow, rosebud.”

Her parents left. Rose idly picked the butterfly brooch out of the box. It really was pretty. Maybe she could give the other one to Juleka?

She pinned it onto her hospital gown and was blinded by an eruption of brilliant purple light.

Understandably, she squeezed her eyes shut and screamed. “AAAAHHHHHH!”

“Wait, no, don’t be scared!”

She squinted ever so slightly, and... why was there a purple thing in the air?

She opened her eyes properly and was greeted with the sight of an utterly adorable purple moth fairy. “Greetings, mistress! I am Nooroo, Kwami of the-“

“SO CUUUUUUUUUTE!”

Rose seized him in a cuddle-hug, squealing. He was just so cute, she couldn’t help it!

“Ack! Mistress, please!”

She released him with no small amount of reluctance. “Sorry, sorry, you’re just so cute and tiny!”

The butterfly/moth/fairy blushed violet. “That’s alright, Mistress. Anyways, as I was saying, I am Nooroo, Kwami of the Butterfly Miraculous, which grants the powers of transmission and generosity. A pleasure to meet you!”

Rose tilted her head in confusion. “What’s a Miraculous?”

“The Miraculous is a magical jewel that will give you superpowers when its respective Kwami- me, for yours- inhabits it.”

“Huh.” Rose poked the peacock pin. “Is this a Miraculous too?”

Nooroo winced at that. “Well, yes, but it’s been damaged. I advise against wearing it- it’ll hurt you if you do.”

Rose frowned at the box. “Oh. Alright. Is there a way to get the Kwami out?”

“Only if someone wears it.”

“Well, that’s not fair! They should be allowed out, too. Is there a way to fix it so I can wear it?”

Nooroo frowned. “Well, we Kwamis aren’t allowed to know that information. If there is, it’d probably be in one of the Miraculous spell books.”

“Well, how do we find one?”

The Kwami perked up. “Oh, I can help with that! If you use my powers, you can give people superpowers, and-“

“Miss Rose?”

Rose’s eyes went wide and she pulled the pin off, hiding it under her bedsheets. Nooroo vanished in a puff of purple smoke.

The nice nurse poked her head in. “Sorry, dear. I thought there was someone else in the room.”

Rose shrugged. “Sorry! I was just thinking out loud.”

The nurse looked sceptical, but she nodded and exited regardless.

Rose sighed and put the pin back on. Nooroo popped back into existence. “Maybe we should wait until you’re out of... wherever this is.”

Rose nodded in silent agreement.

…

“Wait... so all of you are stuck in your Miraculous all the time?”

“Well, if we have an owner-“

“And if you don’t have one, you’re stuck in a box, unable to interact with the world at all?”

“...Mistress, I promise it’s better than it sounds-“

Rose’s eyes burned with blue fire. “It’s not right. You should be free to cuddle people and eat lots of snacks and watch movies!”

She turned on Nooroo. “Where is this box?”

“I- I don’t know, but Mistress-“

Rose tapped the pin. “Alright, Plan B. Don’t worry, Nooroo, I’ll free all your brothers and sisters so they can be pampered like the adorable little fairy creatures they are!”

“Mistress, really-“

“Nooroo, Wings Rise!”

A rush of light and power, and suddenly Rose was wearing a gorgeous purple and blackish-violet dress, with long silver gloves and a neat lilac domino mask.

The swarm of butterflies her transformation had created flapped around her, one nudging at her hand until she allowed it to sit eagerly on her palm. She cupped it in her hands and allowed power to flow. “Alright, my Lovely. Go find me a Champion!”

The now-purple Lovely flapped out of her window. Only a minute later, she found a connection. “Hello there!”

Oh, it was Ivan! Interesting. What the- who are you?!

“Oh, I’m... shoot, I didn’t think of a name... uh, Pixie! I’d like to help you! What’s wrong?”

It’s Kim! He won’t stop taunting me, and I’m the one getting in trouble for it! So I got a little confrontational, ignoring him wasn’t doing anything!

Pixie frowned. “That’s terrible! Can I do anything?”

I don’t think so.

“Well, I prefer to be optimistic! I can give you superpowers, so he can’t get to you anymore!”

...I feel kinda like I’m making a deal with the devil here.

“What? No! I only want one little thing in exchange- can you try to find some little creatures called Kwamis?”

What now?

“Or a big, ornate looking box-“

Um, yeah, sure, I’ll find your Kwamis. You got a deal.

Pixie smiled happily. “Alright! Good luck, Steelhead!”

…

Pixie, still transformed, stared at her television. Her Champion had, apparently, decided to kidnap a person.

She flared their connection. “Steelhead, what the-“ she said a word that most of her classmates probably wouldn’t expect her to use.

I told you, he’s been messing with me for too long!

“So you kidnap him?!”

Oh, right. I forgot.

Pixie pinched the bridge of her nose. She could feel a non-illness-related headache coming on... “That’s alright, just put him-“

I’m supposed to find those Kwamis for you!

“Wait, that’s not- put him down first-“

WHERE ARE THE KWAMIISSSSSSSSSSSS?!

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all...

…

Ladybug whirled her yo-yo as the butterflies Lady Wi-Fi had barfed up (and wasn’t that a disgusting visual?) formed the face of their adversary. “So you’re Pixie! You’re the one who’s been terrorizing-“

Eeeeeee! Oh my gosh, actual superheroes!

....what.

Oh, you must have Miraculous! That means you have Kwamis! Oh, can I meet them? Can I hug them? Ooh, what do they like to eat? I know this great bakery...

Ladybug exchanged an incredulous glance with Cat Noir.

This was their adversary? Their supervillain nemesis? The Joker to their Batman?

...oh, but I’d like a talk with yours, Ladybug, see if she could change your costume, it’s horrible-

That got her attention. “Pardon me?”

No offence, but one of my friends is a fashion designer, and if she saw you just running around in a polka-dotted onesie, she’d probably cry!

“...Cat Noir. Stand back. I’m ripping that face apart.”

Her partner shrugged agreeably, she split her yo-yo’s shell open, and at once went to work.

…

The once-again-white butterfly flapped back to Rose, detransformed, as she spoke animatedly. “Now I know they have Kwamis! That’s two I don’t need to rescue already!”

Nooroo sighed. “Mistress-“

The butterfly landed on Rose’s finger as she thought out loud. “But I still don’t know where the others are, and I’m not sure how to find them.”

“Mistress-“

It hit her and she triumphantly threw her hand in the air. The butterfly promptly left its perch, it and its fellows placidly flapping across Rose’s room. “I just need to get one of their Kwamis! I bet if I can talk to them, they’ll be able to tell me where the rest of you are!”

“Mistress, please-“

“All I have to do is get my hands on one of their Miraculous!”

Nooroo sighed. “You’re just going to ignore me, aren’t you?”

“Nooroo, Wings Rise!”

“Yes, I thought soooooooooooo...!”

…

Reflekta, I am Pixie-

“Hold up, Rose?”

Juleka stared at her wrist mirror, glowing purple with the butterfly possessing it. There was no way her girlfriend was the supervillain terrorizing Paris-

Yes, moonbeam?

...welp.

“Rose, please don’t tell me you’re a supervillain.”

It’s for a good cause! There are these creatures called Kwamis that are stuck in the Miraculous- I’ve been making Champions to find them so I can free them and give them treats and cuddles!

Yeah, Rose was Pixie. Only she would become a supervillain for the sole purpose of pampering superpowered familiars.

“Wait, so these Kwamis are just stuck in these Miraculous?”

They can only come out if someone wears their Miraculous.

Y’know what? This was a crusade Juleka could get behind. “I’m in.”

…

“Cataclysm- oh no, my ring!”

Cat Noir spun in sudden fear, powerless as Reflekta advanced, only for a butterfly mask to flare over her face. “Yes?”

Silence for a moment, then; “Well, maybe you should have thought about that before you gave me these powers-“

Silence again- this was weird to watch. “What do you mean, you don’t control it?! You’re the one handing out the stupid superpowers, how can you not control it-“

Ladybug’s yo-yo lashed around the villainess’s arm. “Talking isn’t a free action, Reflekta!”

The pink abomination was on the ground in seconds. “Miraculous Ladybug!”

Cat Noir sighed as his appearance shifted back to normal, before tackling Ladybug for a hug. “Thank you thank you those heels were nightmare inducing-!”

“Cat Noir, your timer!”

Juleka, purified, held up a hand. “No, no, let him stay.”

Cat Noir shook his head. “No, I’ve gotta go before I turn into a clown for real!”

His ears twitched, but he must’ve misheard what Juleka said next.

Surely she hadn’t just said, “Well now how am I supposed to get that ring?”

…

Lila snarled to herself as she marched angrily down the streets. How dare that pathetic little bug try and get in her way...

What’s got you so upset?

“What the-“

Oh, I’m Pixie!

“...as in the supervillain?”

I resent that title. But yes, and I’m here to give you superpowers! All I want in exchange is either Ladybug or Cat Noir’s Miraculous!

Lila needed more information. “Why do you want the Miraculous?”

They have cute little creatures living in them called Kwamis! But I don’t like that they’re all cooped up, so I’m getting them out!

...so the sole thing that this superpowered terrorist wanted to do with magical superpower-granting artifacts... was cuddle the tiny animals that came with them?

...well, who was Lila to question the person giving her superpowers? “Fair enough.”

…

Rose stared in glee at the news. “Nooroo, Juleka, this is amazing! A new heroine! And that means another Kwami is free!”

Nooroo sighed. He didn’t bother trying to talk Rose out supervillainy- she was just too enthusiastic about ‘liberating the Kwamis’ to listen to a word he said. And neither would Juleka, who was completely caught up in her girlfriend’s ‘righteous’ cause.

Juleka frowned. “Yeah, but she hasn’t made an appearance for those four Mr. Pigeon fights. Maybe she had to give the Miraculous back to Ladybug or something?”

Rose’s enthusiasm died quicker than D’Argencourt’s political ambitions. “Oh, I hope not. That would mean the Kwami is still stuck! We’ve gotta find some way to find out...”

Juleka hummed quietly, then a sudden mischievous grin sprang over her face. “I’ve got an idea. Lovelize me real quick?”

“Sure! Nooroo, Wings Rise!”

“Oh, here we goooooooooo...!”

…

Luka knocked on his sister’s door. “Hey, Jules?”

“C’mon in!”

He ducked under the doorframe. He hated that he had to have this talk with her, but he really was worried.

Juleka looked curiously at him. “What’s up?”

Luka sighed and took a seat, running a hand through his hair. “Jules, I’m getting worried. You’ve been turned into Reflekta a bunch lately-“

“Mr. Pigeon’s been Lovelized like seventy-two times!”

“-and you’ve been doing so much weird stuff! Why did you even let those zoo animals loose? Juleka, please. Is something going on?”

Juleka frowned. Then she shrugged. “Eh, she probably wouldn’t mind me telling you. Rose is Pixie.”

“...I’m sorry, your girlfriend, a literal angel, is a magical superterrorist.”

“It’s for a good cause! There are these little creatures called Kwamis...”

…

Pixie nearly squealed when her Lovely made contact. “Queen Wasp, I am Pixie! I’ll grant you superpowers to prove you’re exceptional, but in exchange, you must give me your Miraculous!”

What- no! I’m not giving this up!

“I can give you any other powers you’d like!”

That was a lie. Pixie had no control over what powers her Champions received. But Chloé didn’t need to know that.

Oh! Well, in that case, deal!

Pixie cut the connection, then opened her window. “I’m gonna get a Miraculous~ ack! Stupid impractical dress!”

Once she’d recovered from tripping, she ran a good few rooftops away from her home just in time for Queen Wasp to land. Her Champion smirked as she pulled the Miraculous from her hair.

Pixie snapped her fingers and freed her Lovely. Chloé smirked and handed the comb over. “One Bee Miraculous, as requested. Now, my superpowers?”

Pixie nodded agreeably and began charging a new Lovely- she may not have liked Chloe, but a deal was a deal-

Zip!

Ladybug landed on the roof. “Hand it over, Pixie!”

Pixie helped and hurled her Lovely right at Chloe’s hair tie. “Hold them off!”

She ran for it while Chloé, transformed into some bright yellow banana-themed monstrosity, lunged at the heroes with a shriek.

She leapt down into the streets and detransformed quickly, clutching the Bee Miraculous close to her chest. A whirlwind of red and black and pink exploded over the city a few moments later.

But Rose was grinning as she returned home, throwing the Bee Miraculous to Juleka. Her girlfriend let out a yelp, followed by a whoop. “You got it!”

“I got it!”

Juleka hurriedly threaded the Miraculous into her hair, allowing the Kwami her freedom in a burst of golden-yellow light. “Greetings, my Queen! I am Pollen, Kwami of the Bee Miraculous, which grants the power of subjection!”

Rose squealed. “SO CUUUUUTE!”

Juleka smirked. “Cuddle her later, sunshine.” She turned to the Kwami. “Hey, Pollen, two questions- where are the other Kwamis, and more importantly, what’s your favourite food?”

…

Marinette finished crying and looked up at Master Fu. “I’m sorry, Master, if I hadn’t lost the Bee Miraculous-“

Master Fu held up a hand. “Do not worry, Marinette. Pixie has already activated the Miraculous, but Wayzz says her intentions with it do not seem harmful. Pollen is likely not in danger.”

Marinette sighed. “Well, there’s that at least.”

“And perhaps we can track Pollen through purchases.”

At that the secret heroine frowned. “Wait, how are we gonna do that?”

“Well... Pollen’s favourite food is somewhat... distinctive.”

And that was how Marinette and Tikki found themselves spying on a supermarket to see who bought jalapeños.

Honestly, given what Pollen was the Kwami of, it made sense her favourite food would be what could bring most people to their knees.

…

Pollen sighed as she stretched out in a patch of sunlight. “Nooroo, your owner is so wonderful!”

Nooroo smiled weakly. “Yes, but I can’t get her to listen to me.”

Oh dear. Pollen tilted her head, now worried. “What do you mean?”

“I keep trying to tell her, it’s not a big deal that we have to stay in the box, but-“

Pollen held up a hand. “Wait, you want her to stop kidnapping Kwamis?”

Admittedly, it had taken her some time to come to the conclusion that yes, she had basically been kidnapped, but given her luxurious surroundings and that Miss Rose allowed her to gorge herself on as many peppers as she liked...

Well, could she be blamed for not caring?

“Nooroo, you’re aware this is paradise and I never want to leave?”

Nooroo frowned. “...well, I guess if you like it...”

Pollen smiled. “If it’s still bugging you, we can get another Kwami to give this place their approval!”

Nooroo snorted. “Right, because Ladybug’s just going to drop a Miraculous right into the hands of one of Rose’s friends.”

…

“Luka Couffaine, this is the Miraculous of the Snake, which grants the power of Repetition. You will use it for the greater good.”

Luka stared. He was being given a Miraculous.

Huh. Well, guess Rose is getting a third Kwami.

He donned the Miraculous, knowing full well Juleka was transformed with the Bee Miraculous, hiding in the shadows. “I’ll do my best, Ladybug. Sass, Scales Slither!”

Pixie’s latest Champion was called Desperada, and she had the heroes on the ropes, until Viperion started using Second Chance. That, and he was pretty sure Pixie was telling Desperada to throw the fight.

And sure enough, Juleka snuck up behind him as Ladybug cast her world-healing wave. “Jules, make it look good.”

“Venom!”

Ladybug spun- he did as well, doing his best to look surprised- just in time to see the stinger strike his back.

He woke up a minute later, staring at his bare wrist. Ladybug was grimacing beside her. “I’m sorry, Luka, I didn’t think she was using the Bee Miraculous!”

Luka tried to inject fear into his voice. “You mean...”

Ladybug talked for a few minutes about the ramifications of what had happened, apologized profusely to Luka, and ran off to detransform.

Luka made his way back to the Liberty, dealt with Jagged, snagged an opportunity to play guitar for one of his favourite music artists, and finally went to Rose’s house with Juleka.

His sister grinned triumphantly and allowed Rose to slid the Snake Miraculous onto her wrist. A burst of cyan light welcomed Sass back into the world. The Snake Kwami stared at him in confusion. “Luka? What is going-“

Nooroo flew out from the little Kwami theatre Rose had set up in an old dollhouse, looking utterly flabbergasted. “How did you get Sass?!”

Pollen buzzed out of Juleka’s pocket. “Finally! Sass, it’s so wonderful to see you’ve been kidnapped!”

Rose, naturally, let out a squeal. “SO CUUUUUUUTE!”

Sass spun in confusion, then looked at Luka. “Have I just been captured by Pixie?”

Luka sheepishly rubbed the back of his head. “Look, let me explain...

…

It only took a day in Rose’s Kwami paradise for Sass to crack. Unfortunately, it didn’t help much.

“And you can’t tell us where he is?”

Sass sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m completely certain he moved locations when you were able to bring me here.”

Juleka groaned and collapsed. “Well, we’ve gotten somewhere, but that somewhere isn’t getting us anywhere!”

Luka held up a hand. “Hey, what if we found a way to follow Ladybug to the Miracle Box? We could... I dunno, create a Champion powerful enough to force Ladybug to get reinforcements, one of us follows her really obviously to make her let her guard down, and another one follows her once she gets rid of the first tail?”

Juleka frowned. “It could work. But Rose can’t control what powers her Champions get, so there’s no guarantee that we get a powerful one.”

“Why not irritate someone who’s already become a powerful Champion?”

Five heads turned to Sass, who shrugged as much as a Kwami could. “If there is a Champion who has already forced Ladybug to bring in reinforcements, recreating that Champion could be the key to success.”

There was silence. Then Juleka picked up her phone. “Alright, I’ll get some paint balloons. When’s Chloe’s mom’s next fashion show?”

…

Ladybug gasped as she and Cat Noir ducked behind a knocked-over table. Carapace and Ryuko hid behind another, and Rena Rouge was out of sight, controlling her Ladybug illusion.

Apparently someone had snuck into the latest Bourgeois fashion show and decided to throw a paint balloon at Audrey Bourgeois. The conclusion was all too predictable.

Thankfully, she had an idea for how to deal with Style Queen.

Cat Noir pressed a darkly bubbling hand against the floor-

Style Queen tripped-

Ryuko erupted into Wind Dragon and blew the glitter woman apart, save for the flower on her crown-

Carapace fired Shellter as Ryuko blew away, leaving Style Queen trapped without her akumatized object on her-

And Rena Rouge burst down from the vents to crush the akumatized object under her heel.

Ladybug hadn’t even had to use Lucky Charm.

She grinned and hurled her yo-yo triumphantly into the air. “Miraculous Ladybug!”

It was the work of a few moments to collect the Miraculous she’d doled out and soon she was swinging back to Master Fu’s parlour when she caught a glimpse of something yellow-

She swung her yo-yo, and the Bee villainess who had been assisting Pixie sprang aside. “Ha! You’re not following me today!”

And with that, Ladybug wrapped the villainess up (not bringing her close, because she did not feel like being Venomed today) and hurled the Bee with all her strength in the direction of the Eiffel Tower.

She crossed her arms in a moment of brief satisfaction. Today was a good day.

And with that, she continued her run to return the Miraculous, riding that emotional high the whole way. What could possibly go wrong?

…

Master Fu had just retired for the evening when his door burst open, and a young girl walked in.

He recognized her pin at once.

“So the infamous Pixie has come to visit me.”

The villainess smiled cheerfully and did the last thing he expected from her. “Nooroo, Wings Fall!”

A rush of light spiralled away from her, and he was left staring at a girl wearing lots of pink, fumbling in her pockets for something. A girl he recognized from Marinette’s phone background. “Rose Lavillant?”

The girl perked up at once. “You know me?”

Fu shifted. “I’ve heard your name here and there.”

She smiled. “Well then I don’t have to introduce myself! Oh, do you have a Miraculous spellbook by any chance?

He ran a hand over his bracelet- this was getting too close for comfort. “Why do you ask?”

She finally fished whatever she was looking for out of her pocket. “Well, Nooroo says that this Miraculous is damaged and that a Guardian with a spellbook might be able to fix it!”

And she set the Peacock Miraculous on the table, blinking with wide, hopeful eyes.

Fu stared. “...very well, I suppose I can fix the Miraculous.”

Rose clapped joyfully. “Oh, thank you! Oh, one more thing.”

“Certainly.”

“Can I borrow the Kwamis, please?”

Fu got to his feet. “I’m sorry. You wish for me to give you the Kwamis?”

Rose pouted. “It’s not fair that they’re all cooped up in their box! They should be allowed to see the world! And play in the sunshine! And read books, and watch movies, and...”

Fu stared as the girl went on and on.

Had Pixie, supervillain, magical terrorist of Paris... only become evil to pamper the Kwamis?

Fu raised a hand. “You understand, I can’t just allow you to have access to the Kwamis without first ensuring they will be safe.”

Rose promptly stopped waxing lyrical about all the wonderful things in life the Kwamis should be allowed to experience. “Oh, absolutely! I’d never ask you to do that!”

Well, the good thing about this supervillain was that she was reasonable. “I will send my Kwami, Wayzz, to your home. Additionally, I will allow you to take a Kwami from the Miracle Box. Tomorrow evening, you will return here so the Kwami you select can make their report, and I will then choose whether to grant or deny your request.”

Rose smiled. Suddenly the entire world seemed warmer and brighter. “That’s fair! Can I leave this one with you, then?”

Fu agreeably pocketed the Peacock Miraculous. Then he opened the Miracle Box. “Rose Lavillant. Pick a Miraculous and a Kwami to pamper for all of tomorrow.”

Rose squealed. “Oh, there’s so many! What’s this one? Ooh, or this one! Oh, this one’s really nice- is the Kwami the same colour?”

Goodness, this girl was a ball of sunlight.

The Pig Miraculous was on her ankle a few moments later, and Rose squealed as Daizzi materialized. “SO CUUUUUUTE!

Daizzi squealed right back. “SO CUUUUUUTE!

Maybe he should offer her the Pig Miraculous permanently...

…

Marinette cautiously stepped around the street. “Tikki, do you think I’m doing the right thing?”

The Ladybug Kwami nuzzled Marinette reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Marinette! Master Fu said she’s trustworthy, and she’s returned all the Miraculous she took! I’m sure it’ll be fine!

Marinette nodded, let out a sign that took her tension with it, and opened the door.

Rose was in the hallway in an instant, the Kwami that must have been Nooroo flying over her shoulder, and Daizzi cuddling into her hair. “Oh! Marinette! You made it!”

Tikki cheerfully flew out of Marinette’s purse. “Greetings! I am Tikki, Kwami of the Ladybug Miraculous!”

Rose squealed. “SO CUUUUUUTE!”

Tikki was in a stranglehold before she knew it. Marinette stepped further into the house, entered Rose’s room, and-

Wow. It was a Kwami paradise.

An old dollhouse was set up as a little movie theatre. A table had been cleared off and a heating lamp set on it- Sass and Longg evidently liked that. A massive vase of flowers was inhabited by a giggling Barkk and Pollen, and Kaalki was having her mane brushed out by-

“Juleka?”

Rose’s girlfriend grinned and peeked up. “Hey.”

“You were that Bee villainess?”

“Yep.”

“...You kicked Gabriel Agreste in the groin!”

Juleka shrugged unrepentantly. “You delovelized Nino and Kagami before they could do it. I figured I’d pick up the slack. How’s that, Kaalki?”

The Horse Kwami sighed. “Oh, that’s lovely. Ziggy, you simply must try this!”

The Goat Kwami poked her head out of the movie theatre. “Once this is over! Now c’mon, the next episode’s starting!”

Kaalki zipped in with a cheerful neigh.

Marinette sighed and slumped onto Rose’s bed. Juleka patted her on the back. “I know, I know, we were under your nose the whole time.”

Marinette groaned. “How didn’t I see it? Of course Rose would be a supervillain dedicated to pampering Kwamis!”

“I mean, we never thought you’d be Ladybug.”

“Fair.”

Rose popped her head into the room. “Um, Marinette? Tikki’s buzzing.”

“Huh, Cat Noir must be calling me. Tikki, Spots On!”

She slid open her yo-yo the moment it formed. “Hey, Cat, what’s up- wait, slow down- what Eagle Miraculous- GABRIEL AGRESTE IS DOING WHAT IN NEW YORK?!”

Rose wordlessly held up a hand. “I’ll round up the Kwamis for you?”

Ladybug hung up, massaging her temples. “Yes,” she hissed, “please do.”

She had a fashion mogul to destroy.

[dinosaurtsukki]

wherefore art thou, romeo? | an osamu x f!reader one-shot

pairing: osamu miya x f!reader

word count: 6.1k words

contains: a boatload of crack, fluff if you squint, high school setting, more bickering than working on the actual play, mutual pining, best friends to lovers, brief mentions of the romeo and juliet with leonardo di caprio in it

summary: being best friends with the miya twins for years has prepared you for all of their shenanigans but even you’re taken by surprise when osamu, the guy you’ve been in love with for years, nominates you to play juliet for the class play and atsumu to play romeo

a/n: *squints at word count* okay this was supposed to be released in three chapters but i ended up writing all of it in one go and i didn’t know exactly where to separate the chapters so here it goes 

the day started out fairly normal, if fairly normal meant that your two best friends were using your ruler to divide a candy bar accurately into two during homeroom while waiting for the teacher, could be called ‘fairly normal.’ but when those two friends were the miya twins, that’s how normal things got. the teacher arrived a bit later, announcing some reminders about the cultural festival dates, before the time was handed over to the Class President, a guy with glasses and straight black hair that you and your friends just called ‘Mr. President.’

“for the cultural festival, our class, due to majority votes, has decided to put on the play: ‘Romeo and Juliet,’“ Mr. President announced. judging from his cheeky smile, you could tell that he may have had a hand in those ‘majority votes.’ 

“aw, yuck. don’t tell me ya voted for that, y/n,” atsumu nudged you from behind your desk.

“why are you assuming its me?” you grumbled, batting his hand away.

“aw, no crepe cafe then,” osamu said sullenly beside you. your gaze was pulled to him, as it always was. now that the spring inter-high was over, osamu was mostly in his school uniform, not that you minded. his silver hair, that he got in trouble with the principal for, was pushed haphazardly to the side and gleamed in the sunlight.

“now,” Mr. President continued. “what we have to decide on right now is who gets which acting roles and who gets to do the technical jobs.”

“painting sets? painting sets?” atsumu poked you and osamu. 

“hmm, i’d kind of like to work on the lights,” you hummed, already imagining yourself scrolling through your phone and switching on the spotlight once every few minutes. osamu was quiet and you knew he was probably thinking of painting sets too.

“now, is there anyone who’d like to volunteer for playing romeo?” Mr. President asked, surveying the class. “you can also nominate people and--”

osamu abruptly raised his hand up. your eyes widened, wondering if he was going to volunteer. atsumu had the same concern.

“whoa, whoa. don’t tell me yer thinkin’ of playing romeo?” atsumu laughed incredulously.

but that isn’t what osamu did. in full Dramatic Flair, osamu miya pointed at his twin and announced “i nominate miya atsumu to play romeo.”

the laughter in atsumu’s voice died as quickly as the class erupted into murmurs. based on the snatches of conversation you heard, atsumu was going to be wielding a sword and probably wearing tights.

“okay, that’s one nomination for atsumu to play romeo,” Mr. President nodded, writing atsumu’s name on the board. you stifled a giggle as you heard atsumu stand up in his seat behind you.

“wait! wait! i nominate ‘samu to play romeo!” atsumu exclaimed hurriedly. the reaction wasn’t as loud as before and osamu flashed his twin a smug grin. 

“i’ll make sure to get a nice, bright spotlight on you,” you smiled cheekily at him.

“so, we have atsumu-san nominated to play romeo and--”

“i’m not done,” osamu interrupted. “i also nominate y/n to play juliet.” 

if atsumu reacted at a snail’s pace, yours was quite similar to how ketchup fell out of a bottle: none at first, before coming out all at once. within that length of time you spent staring into the void, Mr. President already wrote down your name on the blackboard and proceeded with the rest of the nominations (there weren’t any). the class voted, and you just barely felt someone pat you on the back to congratulate you for the role.

it was right when the decision over the roles was over when you turned slowly towards osamu, who had the audacity to flash a peace sign at you, and whisper ‘what have you done?’

...

“I CAN’T BELIEVE YA NOMINATED US TO PLAY ROMEO AND JULIET!” you and atsumu practically screamed at osamu during lunch break and for the rest of the day until you got to the miya twins’ house, where you spent most of your time, and cracked open the script that Mr. President handed out.

“sheesh, that was hours ago. get over it already,” osamu said, not looking up from the book he was reading: Beginner Techniques in Set Design. you didn’t even think he was reading, just mocking you and atsumu about the fact that he got the awesome job of painting sets. 

“it was hours ago but atsumu and i are stuck with rehearsals for weeks!” you complained.

“not only that, but we’d have ta read shit and memorize shit,” atsumu seethed. “and we know that y/n sucks at that!” 

“hey! i bet i could do better than you!” 

“i don’t think ya can!” 

osamu watched the battle from the top of his book, smiling to himself as you and atsumu quickly got into one of your fights that distracted you from the main reason behind the fight: osamu himself. ‘they’re still just like kids,’ he thought, watching you proceed to trap atsumu in a headlock. 

the three of you had been the best of friends since grade school when you pushed atsumu off a jungle gym and osamu laughed and high-fived you. it was when the three of you were eating breakfast after a sleepover in your first year of high school, when you said that atsumu only had two brain cells and that ‘one was a skater boy, the other said see you later boy’ and osamu laughed so hard he got milk coming out of his house, that he realized he just might be in love with you. 

“so, why didn’t you nominate yourself to play romeo?” suna asked him the next day while they were in the middle of stapling felt stars on a piece of dark blue fabric. like osamu, he was also lucky enough to be put in set design. “i mean, if you like her so much.” 

“because i don’t want to play romeo,” osamu said as-a-matter-of-factly. “and i think making ‘tsumu do it is hilarious.”

“you really do have a one-track mind,” suna hummed and turned around to where atsumu and y/n were already busy working on the scene where romeo and juliet meet.

“ugh i have to kiss her hand?” 

“well, do you want to kiss my foot?” 

“i’d rather kick ya in the face!” 

“you know, i feel like this on its own would make a great play,” suna said, watching the scene. 

“a romeo and juliet where the lovers actually hate each other but their opposing families desperately want to push them into an arranged marriage. sounds pretty neat,” osamu mused.

“okay, why don’t you two take a break, collect yourselves, and then we’ll come back in ten,” Mr. President sighed. at that, you and atsumu quickly stopped quarreling and stalked off in different directions. you headed straight for osamu and suna.

“sometimes i can’t tell who’s the more insufferable one between you two,” you narrowed your eyes at osamu who had the audacity (the only thing he never seemed to run out of) to smile innocently.

“it’s one of life’s greatest mysteries. like, whether the chicken or the egg came first,” suna added. 

“just give it a few weeks. atsumu will soon embrace his fate and you’ll be an amazing juliet,” osamu patted the top of your head. if you weren’t so annoyed with him you would have felt the butterflies in your stomach. except now you just wanted to bite his hand off.

“you know what, i’m going to kita’s later,” you muttered, pulling your phone out to text kita shinsuke, aka your adoptive mother. 

“hmm? why?” osamu asked.

“because he’s the only sane person i know. plus he’ll help me out with my lines,” you explained, sighing with relief when you got a prompt reply from kita.

“oh, well i was planning to buy some convenience store snacks that i saw on sale for when i do homework later,” osamu said, trying not to sound disappointed.

“maybe next time,” you smiled apologetically. “but in the meantime, maybe get your twin over there to memorize his and not fuck up.” osamu looked up at his brother who was holding the script up a few inches from his face.

“you’re right,” osamu agreed. “but, it would also be funny to edit out a few words here and there.” you returned his cheeky grin.

“you read my mind.”

...

“kitaaa what if it means something that osamu chose to make me and atsumu romeo and juliet,” you groaned, face planted on the coffee table in kita’s living room while he peeled tangerines. “like, what if he realized i actually liked him for this long and this is his way of friend-zoning me?”

“osamu’s the kind of person who’d tell you right away if he doesn’t have the same feelings for you,” kita shook his head.

“that means he’s going to reject me soon!” you sat up, planting your hands on the table.”

“y/n, you’re doing it again,” kita gently reminded. “think of it this way, maybe he nominated you to play juliet because he wants to see you as juliet. but he’s not fully ready for the commitment so he nominated atsumu to be romeo.”

“or he just wants to mess with us, which is probably the case,” you chuckled half-heartedly. “maybe i’ll just believe that.”

“or, think of it this way,” kita placed a peeled tangerine into your hand, like the mom friend that he was. “you could use the opportunity to be the best juliet ever, someone that osamu can barely tear his eyes away from.”

“and i can show up atsumu at the same time!” you grinned at the idea. kita sighed.

“you know, i feel like your sheer desire to just beat atsumu at everything may be a hindrance but go on.” 

“yeah, yeah, you lost me at ‘beat atsumu at everything’,” you sang as you cracked open your script. “now help me. i have to memorize all this by tomorrow.” 

...

“i think yer all wondering why i’ve gathered ya here today,” atsumu began.

“we’re... in the volleyball clubroom,” aran spoke slowly.

“which is where we always hang out,” suna added. atsumu raised an eyebrow and a hand to silence them, which sometimes worked.

“i’ve gathered ya guys to form the all-important, top-secret team with only one goal in mind!” atsumu paused for dramatic effect, which suna purposely ruined by coughing. “we’re gonna to get myself out of playing romeo for the class play.” 

“let me guess, whatever it takes?” aran asked, his arms folded.

“whatever it takes!”

and atsumu took that completely seriously. the next day, he gathered aran and suna to the clubroom again to execute his master plan, version 1: operation casting call.

“get it? cause, ya know, i’m part of a cast, and i’ll be showing up in a cast,” atsumu grinned proudly, showing off the roll of bandages that he bought yesterday at a drugstore. 

“okay, first of all: lame pun,” aran sighed. “secondly, that’s not a cast you’re just wrapping your foot in bandages and not encasing it in plaster which i think was what you were originally going for. lastly, do you realize just how many holes your plan has?”

“oh yeah? like what?” atsumu crossed his arms and scoffed.

“like the fact that your twin brother would know whether or not you were injured yesterday,” suna brought up.

“...i’ll jus’ say that i sprained my ankle jus’ now,” atsumu said.

“as if he’s going to believe you,” suna snorted.

“i’m just saying, please ditch this plan before you embarrass yourself,” aran sighed. atsumu felt his face heat up with embarrassment.

“sh-shut up! this plan is gonna work and i’m not gonna play fuckin’ romeo for another day!” atsumu snapped. “now help bind my foot.” 

aran and suna looked at each other. “you’re taking a video of what’s happening later,” aran said while suna nodded.

“i hate ya guys,” atsumu crossed his arms. 

a few minutes later, his foot was all wrapped up thanks to aran and atsumu was propped up on suna as he hobbled into the classroom. with full dramatic flair that he never seemed to run out of, atsumu slid open the door to the classroom.

“Mr. President! sorry to say this but i sprained my ankle!” he cried. everyone inside turned to look at him with you raising an eyebrow at the dubious looking ‘sprained ankle.’ 

“you know, if you spoke like that all the time you’d make a great romeo,” his twin quickly piped up from near the door where he was busy painting a tree.

“shut up ‘samu, ya traitor,” atsumu muttered at him. Mr. President had walked closer and inspected the bound foot.

“osamu, is this true?” he asked.

“w-wha? don’t ya believe me?” atsumu splattered. beside him, suna had already brought out his phone. mad, atsumu pushed himself off his ‘friend’ and tapped his ‘sprained’ foot on the ground. ‘it hurts! see! ow!” atsumu lied.

quick as a flash, osamu kicked atsumu’s good foot, causing him to hop on his ‘sprained’ foot. 

“fuck! ‘samu!” he yelled. 

“well, i guess there’s nothing to worry about,” Mr. President smiled and clapped his hands together. “and atsumu-san, that was a good attempt at acting. i hope you channel that passion into rehearsal today.” 

atsumu could do nothing else but mumble. “yeah, fine...”

...

“i can’t believe atsumu even thought that his plan would work,” you laughed, recounting the events of earlier that day. you were sprawled across the wooden floor backstage the theater your class was going to use for the cultural festival. osamu was right beside you, painting one of the backdrops for the play. 

“i really do think all the brainpower went to me sometimes,” osamu mused as he carefully painted the sky around the white clouds. there was a look of pure concentration on his face that made you think that maybe osamu was quite excited to do the set design for the play. ‘it’s always the things that you don’t really expect him to get into,’ you wondered as you watched him. 

“hey, is this shade of blue a bit too... blue?” he asked, holding the paintbrush to you. you scooted over next to him, grateful for the excuse to be nearer osamu. 

“it could use a bit more white to look more like the sky,” you answered.

“hmm, can you pass me that can of white from over there?” 

“sure, let me just-- hey!”

a splatter of blue paint landed on your nose as osamu swiped his paint brush over it. once again, he had the audacity to snicker as you grabbed the paint brush from him to splatter blue paint over his hair.

“you are so dead, miya osamu,” you narrowed your eyes and grinned at him as you picked up the tube of red paint from beside your knees.

“wait, wait y/n,” osamu laughed and held up his hands in surrender. “that’s red paint right there.” 

“you didn’t seem to have a problem with brushing light blue paint on my nose!” you exclaimed pointing at your face. 

“well, it is a bit of a good look because it brings out your eyes--” he was cut off by you squirting red paint right at his face. slowly, osamu raised a hand to touch the paint on his cheek. “you know, i kind of deserve that.” 

“you definitely do,” you stared down at him with both hands on your hips before bursting out laughing. osamu blinked up at you before joining in the laughter. even with your blue nose, you still looked absolutely radiant. just like how you were earlier during rehearsals as you did your best performance of juliet. you captured everyone’s attention and even atsumu actually made an effort to get to your level.

“come on,” osamu chuckled, standing up and ruffling your hair with the hand that still had red paint on it. “let’s go wash up.” 

the feeling of him ruffling your hair was such an old and familiar gesture that you couldn’t even remember when osamu started doing that. but you could clearly remember everything else you did when you were kids. watching cartoons and mixing different kinds of cereal in the morning, trying to climb up the drainpipes into each other’s rooms, the endless cycle of calling each other names, crying from too much teasing, and saying sorry only to forget two minutes later. 

you watched, head cocked to the side as osamu washed the paint from his face while you dried your hair. he didn’t realize just how much soap he was getting in his eyes and the cute, childishness of it made you giggle.

“what?” osamu looked, or rather, turned his head to you.

“your eyes are going to burn at this rate,” you snickered, stepping over to him and placing your hands under the faucet before gently washing the soap from osamu’s face. you didn’t even realize what you were doing until you were doing it and by then, it was too late. osamu didn’t seem to mind, not even when you used the towel around his neck to pat his face dry.

“there, now you just have a big red stain on your nose,” you laughed nervously as osamu opened his eyes.

“at least it goes with my hair,” osamu snickered, tossing his towel over your head before ruffling it. you felt your face heat up and smiled awkwardly at him in response.

“is this your idea of trying to dry my hair?”

“i think it’s kind of working.”

“it’s not working,” you laughed, taking the towel from him. “but thanks.” you felt your throat tighten with the words you wanted but were too afraid to say. you didn’t know when you started falling for one of your best friends and maybe it was thanks to all the shoujo manga you’ve read for years, but you knew that the best friend and the main character rarely ever got together. 

luckily, it was osamu who said something. “you know, you were pretty good earlier as juliet. i bet ‘tsumu was threatened,” he laughed, lifting his bag and starting to walk towards the school exit. you jogged to catch up to him. 

“no thanks to you though,” you snorted. 

“hey, it’s all for the sake of making memories,” 

“we could have made memories while painting sets,” you huffed. “you know, like more paint fights.” osamu flashed a sideways smile at you.

“we’d have those regardless. i wanted to see you as juliet.” 

you could feel your heart beating loudly in your ears as you forced yourself to think of a million other reasons as to why osamu would say that, only to focus on the single, most probable one that could mean everything you’ve ever dreamed of coming true. “osamu, i--” 

“i can’t believe ya left me!” atsumu exclaimed loudly behind you two, causing you to jump. you turned around just as he slung his arms around both of you and his twin.

“i can’t believe you thought pretending to sprain your ankle would work,” osamu muttered, looking slightly annoyed at his twin.

“shut up! i can’t believe ya’d break my cover! my own brother!”

“i think you two are way past that already,” you snickered, slightly annoyed at atsumu’s sudden appearance but unable to admit that you didn’t miss having him around either.

‘if i never get to confess to osamu, i’ll still have this,’ you thought, with a satisfied smile on your face.

...

“no offense, atsumu, but i think you should just move on from the fact that your plan to get yourself out of playing romeo just isn’t going to work,” suna said, lounging across his friend’s bed and uploading the video he took of atsumu’s ‘master plan’ failing. “just accept your fate, like what romeo did.” atsumu stopped pacing and regarded suna with a raised eyebrow.

“ya read the play?” 

“i read the summary,” suna answered. “at this rate, everyone knows you’re going to be faking some accident.” atsumu made no response and suna realized he needed just one more push. “also, you’re basically losing to y/n.” 

that got atsumu’s attention. “since when did she wanna be juliet anyway?” he muttered. 

just then, the door to their room flew open and in walked a very excited aran carrying a relic from the past, an actual DVD in its case, and a bag from the convenience store.

“yer late,” atsumu scowled at him. 

“yeah, and you didn’t listen to what i said and looked really dumb earlier,” aran said, much to atsumu’s embarrassment. “anyway, i think i have a solution to your woes,” he grinned, presenting the DVD to the two of them.

“what the fuck am i gonna do with movie ‘romeo and juliet?’“ atsumu frowned.

“it’s not just any romeo and juliet movie, it’s the romeo and juliet movie!” aran said enthusiastically. “starring leonardo di caprio!” 

“who now?”

“he’s the guy who didn’t win an oscar for years until the bear movie,” suna explained.

“ooooohhh.” 

“you uncultured shits,” aran sighed. “anyway, atsumu, just accept your fate--” 

“that’s what i’ve been trying to tell him!” 

“... and open your eyes to how awesome it is to play romeo!” aran finished. atsumu looked from the DVD in his friend’s hands, to suna on his bed, and to the bag of convenience store snacks, before sighing and nodding.

“if i decide it’s shit ten minutes in, we’re dropping the movie and yer all gonna tell me i’m right.” 

but he was wrong, oh so wrong. 

just like every middle-aged mom or english literature university student who watched Romeo + Juliet, atsumu was pulled in by leonardo di caprio’s sincere, expressive eyes. he practically swooned at the scene where romeo and juliet met from different sides of the fish tank to that iconic pool kiss, and by the end of the movie, atsumu almost teared up. he tried to hold back his emotions, in the hopes of not looking lame in front of his friends, only to find aran practically sobbing and suna clutching his knees to his chest.

“that was... really fucking beautiful,” atsumu cursed as the credits rolled.

“do you understand now? what it means to play romeo?” aran put a hand on his shoulder.

“do it for leo di caprio, atsumu,” suna added. atsumu sniffed and nodded his head eagerly.

“i will, i’ll do it for leo.”

...

it was a normal day at school, if normal meant you were wearing a blanket wrapped around your waist to make you ‘feel as if you were in costume’ and mixing vending machine coffee and vending machine chocolate milk in styrofoam cups with your best friend who also happened to be the guy you were in love with. that was as normal as thing got when you were best friends with the miya twins.

and that only meant that seeing atsumu come in for rehearsals, with a determined spark in his eyes, and recite every line to utter perfection that you knew william shakespeare himself would be proud of, was just pushing the boundaries of ‘normal.’

that only meant you had to be on your A-game too and before you knew it, you and atsumu had put on your best performance yet. your undying competitiveness and atsumu’s devotion to leonardo di caprio had gone a long way. all throughout that, osamu had a ‘cat-who-just-ate-the-canary’ smile on his face as he watched from the props area.

“you look like you’re going to say ‘all according to keikaku’ at any time,” suna observed. 

“oh, i am saying it in my head,” osamu said, watching you and atsumu onstage. he had hoped for two outcomes: either you were both comically terrible at the play, or that you were slightly mediocre. but a part in his mind knew you would find a way to surprise him. you always did, after all.

yours and atsumu’s performance got everybody in class even more motivated about the play. osamu ended up in a million meetings with the fellow set designers, even learning how to paint trees to look as life-like as possible. although being busy wasn’t enough to distract him from looking at you, especially when dress rehearsals began and you were wearing the most stunning dress that the costume department worked on. meanwhile, atsumu pretty much rehearsed, ate, and slept with his prop sword. 

finally, the big day of the cultural festival came around. despite the fact that you utterly loathed having to play juliet at first, you couldn’t help but feel proud at how far you’ve come. 

“hey, maybe i should just go to acting school or something,” you joked, sitting beside osamu and smoothing your dress over your legs which dangled over the side of the stage.

“you’ll run home crying after you hear any sort of criticism,” osamu snorted.

“mean! i deal with criticism really well!” you pouted. osamu raised an eyebrow at you and you rolled your eyes. “you know i was joking. the fact that i haven’t received any acceptance letters from the universities i applied to is kind of making me crazy.” 

“so, is the fact that you’re playing a fourteen year-old girl who has to hide her love from her entire family before later killing herself a good way of escaping?” osamu asked.

“yeah, that and watching atsumu’s surprising transformation,” you snickered, turning around to watch atsumu and suna horsing around onstage. or rather, it was just suna from one end of the stage tossing chocolate chips at atsumu who was attempting to catch them with his mouth. 

“i asked suna and aran about what changed but their lips are tightly sealed,” osamu shrugged. “i like to think that he hit his head somewhere.” 

“well, he’s going to hit his head some time during the day at the rate he’s going right now,” you said, watching atsumu laugh and choke at the chocolate in his mouth. it was funny at first, until you noticed that atsumu kept on coughing.

“osamu,” you quickly tapped his twin. osamu turned around and immediately rushed over to his brother who was now turning a bright shade of red. 

“oh my god, were there peanuts in that chocolate?” you asked. atsumu let out a gasp and nodded his head.

“i’ll go get his meds,” osamu quickly jogged off only to be replaced by a very concerned Mr. President. “someone get him some water!” 

“i never thought atsumu-san was allergic to nuts. is it serious?” he asked, handing you his water bottle which you opened and quickly gave to atsumu who was now sitting down on the floor.

“well, it’s mostly rashes and an itchy throat but as long as he takes his medicine, he’ll be fine,” you shook your head. 

two allergy tablets, an apology from suna, and a long explanation later, atsumu was lying down in the nurse’s office with the swelling noticeably reduced. “unfortunately, he’d have to sit out the rest of the play so that the reaction completely subsides,” the nurse told you, osamu, and Mr. President. you sighed and regarded atsumu with hands on your hips.

“you thought they were chocolate-covered raisins, didn’t you?”

atsumu didn’t say anything except: “i’m sorry leo di caprio.”

“this is the absolute worst time for this to happen,” Mr. President sighed as he addressed your classmates backstage. “there’s only thirty minutes before showtime and our romeo is out of commission. anyone have any bright ideas?”

“does anyone else here vaguely know atsumu’s lines?” you asked around. “someone who read the script?” instead, you were met with silence. as much as you wanted for some miracle to happen and for the show to go on because you genuinely did want to play juliet, putting up a half-assed play with one of the two main characters gone wasn’t going to look good either.

you sucked in a deep breath, preparing yourself to make the call, but osamu, who had noticed your expression earlier, stepped forward. you looked at him with wide eyes and just caught him glance at you before addressing mr. president.

“i can step in for romeo.” 

“osamu...?” you asked. 

“i haven’t really read the script but i’ve heard atsumu rehearsing by himself often enough to pick up a few lines,” osamu rubbed the back of his head, already feeling nervous. 

“also, twin-sense,” suna piped up. “you know, your psychic connection between twins?”

osamu nodded his head slowly. “yes, that too.”

“alright, alright,” mr. president nodded his head. “well, i guess that’s better than nothing and osamu can fit into atsumu’s costume too. if you can, use these thirty minutes to read as much of the script as possible.” 

“got it,” osamu nodded. and with that, everyone resumed preparations and you were pulled into the dressing room to get your hair and make-up done. when you emerged, osamu was sitting on the floor against the far side of the backstage, bent over a copy of the script and muttering in concentration.

“hey,” you greeted, sitting down beside him. he was already dressed in his costume: a white, long-sleeved shirt with golden buttons and some tassels on the shoulders. his hair was also combed back with a few strands falling across his forehead.

“god, i can’t believe atsumu memorized all this shit,” osamu shook his head and looked up at you only to stop short. he had seen you about a million times in your juliet costume but with the make-up and your hair arranged so elegantly, you looked absolutely breath-taking.

“something wrong?”

“i... i’m just panicking about having to play romeo all of a sudden,” he blinked.

“i know. scary, isn’t it?” you nodded. “i... you didn’t have to though. i’m pretty sure everyone was ready to throw in the towel.” 

“and waste all my hard work painting sets?” osamu raised an eyebrow at you. “no way.” you tossed your head back and laughed.

“well, if you put it that way...” you nodded and smiled bravely. “the show will be fine. if you forget a line, just improvise. the most important thing is channeling the emotion.” 

“i think i can do that,” osamu smiled and reached a hand out to you. “to the best show ever?”

you grinned and shook his hand. “to the best show ever.”

...

the show was a complete disaster. as much as osamu did try to recite atsumu’s lines completely from memory, it was as if everyone was thrown off their game throughout the entire play. cues for special effects were forgotten (someone accidentally turned on a smoke machine during the first scene), props were misplaced (the actor for Tybalt was using a footlong hotdog against osamu’s prop sword), and there were more than a few times when someone missed their lines. at one point, you ended up reciting Team Rocket’s iconic spiel after the line ‘a rose by any other name is just as sweet.’ but, despite everything being a shitshow, it still ended up being overall entertaining. the audience laughed through most of the obvious fails and that caused the actors to loosen up just a bit. 

and it was osamu who ended up spearheading the comedic aspect of your ‘romeo and juliet’ play. from his dry, deadpan delivery of the very emotional lines, to his small inserts and side-comments about the play itself. you even had to stop yourself from laughing at times. but if you and atsumu were amazing at playing the scripted ‘romeo and juliet’, you and osamu were complete naturals when it came to improvising. 

“i don’t know if this is a success by conventional definitions,” Mr. President addressed everyone backstage as soon as the play was over. “but... we sure did make everyone out there laugh.” 

“and i consider that a win!” atsumu cheered beside you. he was looking much better, still with a bit of rashes though and his voice kind of heavy from the medicine. “kind of sad that i didn’t get to play romeo though,” he whispered at you.

“that’s alright. i channeled you in spirit,” osamu patted his twin’s shoulder.

“like hell ya did! i couldn’t believe ya used the dagger to kill yerself at the end,” atsumu argued.

“right?? i had to be all ‘oh romeo, you must have forgotten to use the poison you brought in your pocket!’” you recalled.

“i see dagger, i use dagger,” osamu reasoned. “wait, that’s ‘Macbeth’ isn’t it?”

“in a nutshell,” you shrugged.

“ugh, i’ve had enough of nuts for a day, don’t even mention it,” atsumu groaned, pushing away from the two of you and wandering off to the snack table that your classmates prepared.

“damn, i had more puns up my sleeve,” you sighed, watching him leave. 

“you’ll find a time to use them, don’t worry,” osamu reassured you. “in the meantime... do you want to, get out of here first? explore the rest of the cultural festival?” you felt your face flush but nodded nonetheless.

“i’m sure no one will notice the main characters of their cast go missing,” you grinned. “let’s get out of here, romeo.” 

when osamu meant ‘let’s check out the cultural festival’, he really meant buying a bunch of snacks from the stalls set up all around the school. but then again, that’s what he did all the time. soon enough, the two of you were sitting on the rooftop with your prized horde. 

“thank god i don’t have some weirdass nut allergy like tsumu. that’s definitely evidence that i got the stronger genes,” osamu said, biting into a crepe he just bought. “also the fact that he didn’t check that chocolate-covered nuts packet.” 

“i still feel sorry for him. he worked really hard to play romeo well,” you sighed. 

“hey, i tried to play my part seriously. well... sometimes.” 

“you did nail the whole ‘yearning for my love juliet’ part right,” you grinned, remembering the surprise at seeing the tenderness and longing on osamu’s face as he recited romeo’s lines about being in love with juliet. ‘well, that’s something for me to daydream about for the rest of my life you,’ you thought.

that was until osamu said “well, it’s good practice for when i actually confess to someone.” 

confess to someone.

‘does that mean, all this time? he’s liked someone?’ you felt your stomach drop. you’ve never known osamu to be expressive when it came to people he had feelings for. were you just ignoring all the signs? was--

“it’s you, idiot,” osamu sighed. 

“wait, what?” you looked at him with wide eyes. osamu sighed again and ran a hand through his hair.

“you know, i was thinking of a more suave way to say this but you looked like how you did earlier when you were supposed to be engaged to tybalt,” he chuckled. “so, i put two and two together for the first time. you’re the one i like, y/n.”

it was the moment you’ve been waiting for for so long, and yet the only thing you could come up with was “haha, cool.” 

in response, osamu stared at you long and hard before taking another bite out of his crepe. “i think your brain is fried,” he muttered through a mouthful of crepe.”

“hold on, hold on,” you held a finger up, finally coming back to your senses. “you had a crush on me and also the audacity to make me juliet and have your twin brother as romeo?”

“i thought you’d be really cool as juliet but i didn’t want to go through the work of being romeo,” osamu said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “obviously it backfired but--”

“that’s called karma, osamu,” you pointed an accusing finger at him. “if you think i’m going to let you off easy i’m--” 

you were cut off by osamu’s lips meeting yours and the taste of whipped cream and strawberry on your tongue. your brain short-circuited, trying to think of a way to describe this situation other than ‘haha, cool’ again. osamu, sensing your brain waves, pulled you even closer with a hand on your cheek.

“are you going to let me off now?” he raised an eyebrow at you after you parted. you smirked.

“i’ll have to think about it.” 

“yeah?” osamu mumbled, his smirk matching yours. “what else do i need to do?” you leaned forward before taking a bite out of the crepe in his hands. you chewed while grinning at the surprised look on osamu’s face.

“now we’re even.”

taglist (still open to anyone who wants in!): @montys-chaos​ @miyumtwins​ @strawberriimilkshake​ @pocubo​ @sugawara-sweetheart@akaashisbabydoll @laure-chan@therainroguefanfiction@atetiffdoesart@stephdaninja@oikaw-ugh@charliefredb@dramaqueenweeb1469@tremblinghearts@applepienation@doodleniella @haikyuu-my-love

[star-killer-md]

Happy Hunting 2: Large Game

Part One Here//AO3

Request: From @clumsycopy: Charlie Barber + any of the kinks from October 17th in Kinktober list? 💕

Knife-play | 69 | Bondage 

Word Count: 6k 

Warnings: mentions of drug use, Kinfe-play, blood kink, blood as lube, knife fighting, violence against both the reader and Charlie, foreign object insertion, oral sex f receiving, afab reader but no pronouns used, dead dove do not eat, dark fic, it’s about to get bloody y’all 

Ship: Serial killer!Charlie x Reader

Summary: Charlie Barber is not a man who is easily swayed by failure. 

You were dancing again.

He could just make out the familiar movement of your hips, the way they swayed to a song he couldn’t hear. It was the same half-salsa feet-forward, hands beckoning him further into your coils—ready to wind him up in a vice grip and strike. 

Charlie hadn’t been back to the bar—your bar, as you’d said. Your bar, your territory. No, he had been good, stayed off your hunting grounds ever since he woke up nearly frozen to a concerned police officer prodding him with a nightstick. So, he kept his distance from that section of the city, but he couldn’t quite manage to keep his distance from you. 

It was even colder now with winter in full swing, and the harsh wind, tunneled by the city grids, beat at his back. Your street was small—quiet but not enough that he’d seem out of place leaning on the corner just out of range of the streetlights.  Through your third story window he watched as you moved, staying just within the frame like it was a spotlight. Like this was just another performance and the stage notes placed you front and center for the whole of New York to see. 

Well, maybe not the whole city, he thought when you pushed the curtains open. 

He followed the movement of your hands, cracking the window despite the chill and letting some of the music drift down to him. It was soft, but familiar with a good beat. None of the crap that played when he drank and watched you stalk the small, neon lit dance floor for fresh meat. 

“Did you know that prey animals never have forward facing eyes?”

He recalled more of that night than he expected too. And in particularly vivid detail, he remembered your voice. The growl of it, the power, the ‘I’d rip your throat out with my teeth and love every second of it’ snarl in his ear. 

God what he wouldn’t give to hear it lilted and pitched high, whining with your hands clawing at his— 

Charlie felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 

It was familiar by now. You usually caught him—or at the very least he usually noticed when you did. A shiver ran through him every time you picked him out of the surroundings and pinned him with that predatory gaze that said ‘I see you.’ 

And you did. 

You did see him, not just lurking in the dark on your corner, but you saw him. Saw the creature that lurked and festered behind his mask and understood it. That is why he had to keep coming back. Had to keep watching you dance from your bedroom window like a one person stage play, and he was the only one in the audience that got it. But really, who could blame him?

It wasn’t often one meets another of their kind and lives through it. 

So Charlie came every night he could manage it, ever since you left him drugged and cold in that park with its circle path like a black hole. And he knew you watched him too. 

He was your type after all. 

It was so obvious once he thought it over, he almost kicked himself for missing it. You’d just been so distracting. All those men, tall with their dark hair and dark eyes and not nearly as handsome as him but close enough. None of them had ever walked away. But you took him to your graveyard, pressed him into the killing floor and…let him go. 

There was desire in the way you’d ground yourself against him—a craving he knew all too well would not be shaken. 

You slipped once, and you would do it again. He could feel it. And when you did... 

The fallout would be delicious. 

***

Slipping in was easy enough. Your lovely elderly neighbor was more than willing to buzz in ‘such a nice young man’ as it were, and your name was printed clearly along the mail slots with your unit number conveniently displayed adjacent. 

That was quite the oversight. 

You were at work, he’d taken off a day last week to trail you into the city center. The office building you worked in was a few train rides away and Charlie knew you wouldn’t be back until late that evening. Which left him plenty of time to get to know you a bit better. 

Now, Charlie liked to think of himself as a man of skill. Maybe he’d underestimated you at the start, allowed his judgment to be clouded by fantasies of you, restrained and begging, gushing wet and ready to take him like no one else ever could. But after his last encounter, he’d grown sharper. 

Anyway, he’d been right all along. 

You would be so much more than a trophy. 

But there was only so much he could learn from the few hours between rehearsals, hopping from train to train, and following you like a lost dog. He needed more than that, more than sitting outside your workplace or cafés. He needed you, all of you, and he suspected you needed him as well. 

Why else would you have left him breathing?

Gaining back a bit of high ground would be necessary, though. You knew he was watching, and seemed to like it a little too much. All of this was a show to you, a character, a role, but Charlie needed to know about the actor. The hunter. And what better way to do that than to learn how you lived when no one was watching. 

Or, when you thought no one was watching. 

He climbed the narrow staircase to the third floor and found your door at the end of the hall. The lock was easy enough to pick and these older buildings never had security cameras. So when the door clicked open, he stepped in and shut it behind him without an eye batted in his direction. 

Your apartment was neat, but in a lived-in sort of way. There were dishes in the sink and some clothes strewn about the floor of the hall and piled on the small sofa, but overall it looked exceedingly...normal. 

To be fair, Charlie’s place was just as unassuming and far less homely than this, so his shock was probably unwarranted. 

He wandered through your kitchen first. A mug sat on the counter, still lukewarm and half full from your breakfast he supposed. So you left in a rush. That seemed to suit you, always moving, The clothes on the sofa were separated into piles, lights and darks ready to be laundered. 

His hands sifted through the mounds of soft fabric, lifting shirts and such to his face every so often to catch your scent. But it was mostly overpowered by perfume or soap until his hands felt strapy lace and pulled and that oh, that was what you smelled like. Tangy and sweet and making his mouth water. His jeans grew tight as he thought briefly about laying amongst your laundry, enveloped by the heady scent of you. 

He could push the lace of your panties between his lips and suck hard, taste the remnants of your slick on his tongue, imagine your thighs were pressed against his ears. Conjure up the feeling of your knees at his back again and let the adrenaline course through him while he stroked himself. 

While equal parts enraging, that night was the closest to ecstasy Charlie could recall. The weight of you, settled in his lap and grinding on his cock, while he could barely lift a finger was a rush unlike any other. 

Suddenly he understood the allure of big game hunting. 

You were his bear, his wolf, his lion, every dangerous thing that could rip him apart and fuck. Even getting close enough to land a shot now was invigorating. 

That meant he had to be especially cautious, though. There could be no more mistakes this time. No more strings left untied or your claws would be at his throat again and he doubted his chances of survival the second time around. But, that didn’t mean he couldn’t reward himself just a bit. Just getting this far was quite the accomplishment. So, he tucked the underwear into his back pocket and moved swiftly through the rest of your home. 

The bathroom was uneventful and your hall closet held nothing but sheets and towels. There was nothing left then but your bedroom at the end of the hall. He let the door creak open slowly, revealing a sizable bed graced by natural light from the window. The very same one he’d watched you through for weeks. It felt odd to be on the other side of it. 

Your drawers yielded nothing of particular interest, though the closet was much less disappointing. On a shelf sat a bin peeking out from in between spare blankets. He tugged it down and cracked the lid, grinning when it finally dawned on him what exactly he’d discovered. 

In his hand Charlie held one familiar, hideously neon green sneaker. So that’s what had become of your unfortunate first dance partner. It was intermixed with multitudes of other innocuous items. Some wallets, car keys, rings, and gloves were all folded and stacked with precision. Most were clearly men’s, and all were meticulously organized. 

He chuckled, looking down at your trophy case. Keepsakes, he guessed, from all your former conquests. He wondered if you took them all to that park, or if it was new. Wondered if you left them all to freeze and be found by unsuspecting passersby. 

Charlie was so entranced by this new information, that he failed to hear the front door drift slowly open. Never heard the soft steps of your feet on the hardwood, nor the drag of the knife from it’s butcher block. In fact, it wasn’t until the chill ran down his spine, gooseflesh erupting across his arms in a wave, did he pause. 

“Hello, Charlie,” you mused from behind him. 

The sound of your voice was like a cracking stick in the woods at night. A pair of glowing eyes in the glare of a flashlight. Ominous and growing closer. His breath froze in his chest as he rose carefully up from the floor and turned. 

***

It was quite the sight:

You—shoulders relaxed and leaned against the doorframe, lips pulled into that mixed drink expression he’d grown to crave. One part grin, three parts wolfish snarl. Your finger was placed gently at the tip of a sizable carving knife, the other hand gripped tightly just below the bolster. 

Charlie towered over you, but in that moment he felt dwarfed standing in your bedroom and staring at you down his nose. 

He said nothing and you dropped the blade to your side. 

“I thought we talked about this,” your voice echoed. “Seems like you did a piss poor job of listening.”

Slowly you took one step then another, until you stood only a foot or so away and your chin was tipped up to maintain your gaze. Charlie’s hands were curled into fists at his sides. You were supposed to be on your way to work, boarding the E train by now seated or standing next to the door so you could make it onto the platform before the incoming crowd. You shouldn’t have returned until late tonight. 

Late tonight when you would have undressed and he could have seen the silhouette of your body through the sheer curtains. Could have locked the memory away for later and stroked himself off into the new panties in his pocket. 

That was your pattern. Those were your rules. 

Why would you break them now?

“Then again, I suppose the stereotypes ring true,” you said and grinned up at him. “Directors aren’t very good at taking orders.”

Charlie’s eyes widened and your smile grew. 

“Did you think you were the only one doing research?”

“I’m impressed you found the time,” he mumbled into the closing space between your chests. 

“It comes with experience,” you breathed across his lips. 

His gaze was locked on you, but he made sure to keep the knife in your hand within view. Charlie was larger and he guessed he’d have little problem restraining you, but now was not the time to be taking chances. 

You lifted the weapon slowly, trailing it up his chest and letting it catch on the buttons of his shirt. His hand was fast, moving on instinct and engulfing your wrist so that the tip of the blade rested right in the dip of his collarbone. The cool metal left a trail of tingling skin behind. His cock throbbed in his pants as your tongue flicked out to wet your lips. 

“Don’t worry, Mr. Barber,” you brought your empty hand up to pat his cheek once again. “You can always learn from your mistakes.” 

He grunted when you wound back suddenly and landed a sharp kick to his shin. In the scrabble you wrenched your wrist from his grip, slicing into his forearm before he could regain his balance. 

“Fuck!” he hissed, pressing a hand to the wound. “You—god— you bitch.”

From the corner of his eye Charlie watched your circle to the left, “Now now, I don’t think your son would appreciate that kind of language.” 

A sharp, stinging pain was radiating from his arm and his hands shook with the adrenaline and its accompanying rage. 

“You need to shut your fucking mouth,” Charlie growled and pounced at you, catching your hand as it brought the knife down in an arch towards his chest.

“What, are you gonna make me?” you jeered and tried to twist your hand away but his thumb dug into the pounding veins just below the skin of your wrist. You cried out and he caught the movement before you could land another kick. 

You let out a muffled yell when he gripped your thigh and yanked you off your feet. The blade clattered from your hand as you crashed to the floor as Charlie felt a familiar rush at seeing you, dazed and limp below him. Quickly he snatched the knife and pulled you up by your arm. Your hands were clutching at the back of your head where it had smashed against the hardwood and your eyes were unfocused. He shoved you towards the bed even as you tried to blindly scratch at his face. 

His hand wound around your throat as your back hit the mattress and you clawed at his fingers. 

“Not so talkative now are you?” he snarled against your lips, bringing the blade up to rest at your throat. “Little whore needs her prey drugged up and half dead before she can strike? Some fucking hunter you are.”

You squirmed as Charlie squeezed just enough to stop the blood flowing in your neck, watching your face contort with the pain and the loss of breath. 

“Kiss. My. Ass,” you spat with what little air you could gasp. 

He straddled your body easily, so much smaller now that you were pinned under his fist. The knife bit into you, sending pretty beads of scarlet down your bare chest. The tip dug just past the skin. He loved that sight, the way your skin yielded to the metal and parted at just the lightest pressure. The noise that left you when he first breached your flesh was almost as delicious as what he imagined you’d sound like when he sunk his cock into you. 

Very nearly moaning at the sight, dragging the blade down leaving a shallow stripe that stopped just between your breasts. You stilled, wincing but licking your lips once again as his eyes trailed up the cut and met yours. The deeper slice on his forearm was dripping a slow, steady stream into the hollow of your throat that spilled out around his fingers and ran down your chest. 

Charlie watched, entranced as your blood mingled and his pants tented. He dragged the hand at your neck through the mess. The smell of iron was thick in the air, and his own blood rushed. His ears were ringing, your bedroom fading out until all he could focus on was the pounding of your pulse under his palm and the heaving of your breasts as you gasped for breath. 

His grip on your throat loosened. There was something happening, something coming over him as your eyes roamed his face, stuttering at his lips and traveling back to meet his stare. Time had stopped, and he was reminded again of how alluring you were. 

How had he forgotten?

The same grace that he’d been drawn to was evident in the slow movement of your arm, moving to softly grip the knife in his hand and gently push it to the side. Charlie let you move the blade from your throat.  

It was hours maybe, or just seconds that you both stared, bleeding, at one another. It was a standoff, the tension growing with each passing moment. The rolls had finally been reversed. You were right where he had fantasized you would be for so long, but there was still something in the way you gazed at him.

Head on, eyes forward. 

Predator eyes. 

And that had to be what all the others were missing. 

That spark. That fight. The sharp teeth, eyes locked, ready to tear into his neck stare that made the catch so much more exciting. 

The others were nothing compared to this. 

This is why he needed you alive, wanted you kicking. Wanted you screaming and crying and moaning for him. On his fingers, on his cock, on his blade. Fuck, he wanted to be buried in you and it didn’t matter which way.  

He needed to taste his victory, and it seemed so did you. 

“Shit,” he breathed as you lifted the knife from his hand and placed the tip just above his belt, slashing his shirt open by the buttons one at a time until it hung loose around his shoulders.

“You want to hunt, Charlie Barber?” you asked slowly, and—fucking christ—that voice did something to him. His breathing came in pants as you pulled his hand from your throat and wrapped it around the knife handle, placing the tip at the hem of your top. “Let’s hunt.” 

Charlie growled, really truly growled as your shirt tore easily in the path of the blade. It fell open, exposing your skin to the cool air as a new trickle of blood leaked down the valley of your breasts and rolled in rivulets down your ribs. 

His mouth watered. 

Placing his hands on either side of your head, he lowered his head and followed the trail of blood with his tongue. Groaning as the sharp, iron tang of it coated his mouth but the sound caught in his throat as you surged forward. Your teeth dug into the meat of his shoulder, very nearly breaking the skin and laving over the angry red mark you left behind. 

“Do you always taste yours?” you asked, nudging his nose with yours. 

Charlie leaned back on his heels as you sat up. He rested half his weight in your lap as you tugged the remains of his shirt off and trailed your fingers along the edge of the slice you’d left in him. The sting of it awoke something, some ache, an itch that was never quite satisfied with any of his other prey. 

“I asked you a question,” you lifted your hand, two fingers coated red and pressed them to his lips. 

When he opened his mouth to answer, your fingers slipped inside and dragged along his tongue.

“Yes,” he muttered

“Hm,” you bit your lip bottom lip and he wanted to replace your teeth with his. “Well then, how do I compare?”

He let you pull him down by his jaw, “I don’t think I’ve had quite enough to tell you.” 

The mattress dipped when he pulled away and stood. You watched carefully—eyes flicking between his hands, his face, and the obvious bulge of his arousal—as Charlie brought the knife up and trailed the point along the fabric covering your pussy. The quick breath that left you made him shutter. 

He glanced back up at you, and nodded his head to the buckle of your pants. A few seconds past in which the two of you stood your ground—a stalemate between alpha’s—until, shockingly, you relented with a huff. 

Charlie kept his eyes on your face until the last of your clothing thumped softly on the floor. Bare and decorated with drying trails of blood, you laid back and let your legs fall open slowly, giving him a full view of your glistening lips. 

It was unlike anything he’d seen before or even dared to imagine. 

His mind raced through dozens of images just like the scene before him. But when he thought of all those before you, looking down on them was more akin to staring at a piece of meat. They were no more entertaining than a chuck roast, flopping about and whimpering. Even when they begged or screamed it felt nothing like this. 

You were a cut steak in the same way that a dream was reality. He could treat it as such, but it would never be true. 

It occurred to him then that until now, he had been much like a beast in an empty cage—pacing and yearning for some kind of challenge, something more stimulating than prey that couldn’t bite back. And you were exactly what he’d been waiting for all this time. 

Slowly, you drew your fingers through the mess pooling between your breasts and brought them, dripping, down to draw bloody circles over your clit. 

“Well, why don’t you taste a little more?”

***

Charlie was uncertain how long he’d been on his knees, your ass sat on the edge of the bed as he sucked and nipped at your clit, drinking down the slick that gushed from you. Regardless, it was long enough to have reduced you to what he assumed was the closest you would ever come to a writhing mess on the mattress above him. 

“Fucking Christ,” you groaned and raked your nails harshly against his scalp.

He hummed as the sting intensified with your fingers knotting themselves in his hair and tugging. Your thighs tensed, slamming shut around his ears until he wrenched them open again and continued to run his tongue in slow circles over the nub, pulling it between his teeth every so often just to hear the catch in your breath when he did. Charlie had yet to even delve his fingers inside of you, and he could sense your growing impatience. 

But every new gushing of your cunt flooded his mouth mixing with the blood on his tongue and clouding his thoughts in a tangy, metallic haze. 

Shit, he’d decided the second he licked his first, long stripe up your pussy that he would never taste anything more delectable. If he ever got caught—which was incredibly unlikely—but if he was, his last meal would be to bury himself between your legs and drink until they took him away. 

The only thing that dragged him back into the world outside of his mouth on your lips was the sharp smack of your hand against his temple. You yanked his head back and growled down at him. 

“Don’t forget who you’re toying with, Mr. Barber,” you hissed. 

Charlie couldn’t help the grin that tugged at his cheeks, “Trust me, I’m well versed in dealing with desperate whores.”

He caught the beginning of your lunge before your back left the bed. His passive palm slammed down onto your chest, smearing a handprint on the bloody skin and effectively pinning you on the bed. God, he had come close to cumming in his pants a few times since the start of your little game, but the sight of his hand encompassing the swell of flesh at the top of your breasts nearly brought him to his breaking point. 

“Well,” you gasped and hooked your legs around his waist, rocking his aching cock between your folds, “luckily, so am I.” 

Charlie grunted and felt himself start to boil over. Even through the rough fabric of his pants, your pussy was so incredibly warm and wet he had to wrench himself away. And then you were laughing, the chuckle building low in your gut and working its way out to grate his ears, make his face burn and his hands curl into fists. 

“I think you would do well not to forget who you’re toying with, either,” he snapped, dragging you again to the edge of the bed and retrieving the knife he’d discarded on the floor. 

“What do you think you’re—”

He cut you off, as he flipped the blade into palm and ran the pommel against your entrance, nudging your clit again, “You want something inside this fucking cunt so bad, I’m going to give it to you.” 

The sharp metal bit into his hand as he plunged its hilt all the way into the bolster. The cry that left you, half sob, half choked relief at finally being filled seeped into his veins and spread like venom. 

“You, son—fuck—son of a bitch,” you moaned as he pumped the knife handle harshly into your soaking cunt. 

He couldn’t help himself. 

Charlie’s hand dropped to the zipper of his pants, hastily unfastening the clasps and pulling his dick, raging hard and flushed red from the confines of his underwear. It slapped against the skin of his stomach and left a trail of precum behind. As he fucked you on the knife, angling the hooked end so that it stroked your upper walls, he roughly fisted his length. His hips bucked up into his dry palm but the friction was nowhere close to what he needed. 

He wanted your hot, wet, pussy to clench around him so he could mark you with his cum and his teeth and make you his. 

But he couldn’t give in so quickly. 

The second he relented to those base instincts, you would have won, and Charlie couldn’t have you gaining any more leverage than you already had.  

So instead, he let his cock go excruciatingly untouched and reached up to knead your breasts. Your nipples peaked under his fingers and he rolled one between them, listening to the whining in your throat as he pinched the stiff flesh. He almost lost himself entirely in the wonder of your softness, the way you yielded and shaped to fit in his palm. 

Without much thought he arched up, mouthing across your tits and sucking hungrily at the nipple. When Charlie drew back, your skin was shiny with his spit and the blood still oozing out and collecting in the dip of your chest. Entranced, smeared his palm through the sticky, warm pool and coated his palm. He brought it down, jerking his cock once again and the sweet, hot slide of his blood covered hand was enough. 

“You like it?” he mumbled, growing more incoherent by the minute. “Such a fucking slut, I’m going to ruin this pussy, you know that right?”

You kept your mouth shut, but through the haze of pleasure and pain, you managed to fix him with another bone-shattering stare. 

“You’re going to take my cock and no one else will ever be good enough when I’m done with you,” he was rambling now, fucking his hand and your cunt with his face in your tits. 

Charlie didn’t believe in a god, but right now—he certainly felt like one. 

“Admit it,” he snarled, “we’re the same.” 

His hips came to a stuttering halt, thumb teasing at his cockhead before letting go completely to press hard at your clit again. “None of those assholes you picked up ever satisfied you, I know they didn’t.” 

“You’re right,” your words were so quiet he almost missed them entirely. 

He never relented on your clit of the hand driving the knife’s hilt impossibly deep into your cunt, but he did raise his head from your breasts to hover over your face. 

“What was that,” he asked in a whisper. 

It suddenly felt incredibly wrong to speak any louder. 

Your face was twisted in pain of admittance and the release that he’d kept you on the brink of for so long, “You’re right, nothing was ever enough.” 

Until him. 

You didn’t say it, but he knew that was what you meant. 

And then Charlie Barber was kissing you. His lips were on yours in an instant and it was all teeth and tongue and battling for dominance which developed quickly into a truce of sorts.

Neither of you were better than the other. 

Just two sides of the same monster. 

You moaned, deep and low into his mouth, licking past his lips to trace the crooked edges of his teeth. He hoped you could taste yourself on his tongue. 

Below, you were rocking your hips now, meeting each thrust of the knife. He could feel the tension on every backstroke as your walls clenched tighter against the hilt. 

He wanted to see you cum so desperately. He needed to know what you looked like in the throes of bliss that only he could bring you. So, he tore his lips from yours and watched as your back arched into his chest and you threw your head back choking as your pussy clamped around the unforgiving handle while the orgasm washed over you. 

There was a moment of silence as you both panted and twitched and revealed in the incredible satisfaction of finally, finally finding your equal—your match. But then your eyes were locking onto his face again and he felt the familiar predatory urge to bitesuckpouncepound once more. 

The following seconds were a flurry of movement. 

Charlie ripped the knife from your cunt and let it clatter to the floor as you latched onto his neck and sucked hard. In the midst of the tangle of arms and limbs his pants were fully abandoned and he crawled over your body, sitting back against the headboard and dragging you into his lap. 

You pulled back, foreheads resting together and both looking down to his cock. Coated in a slick of blood and precum that leaked steadily from the tip, it was nestled between your bodies and twitched with every rapid beat of his heart. 

Ever so slowly, your eyes drifted back to meet and he swallowed thickly before your mouths were crashing together again. Time was irrelevant as your bodies moved incomprehensibly fast, aching to be joined and satisfied. 

“Take me,” he groaned into your mouth, sucking on your tongue and releasing it with a pop. 

Thankfully, you just nodded. No smartass quip, no talking back. 

The knowledge that you needed this just as much only spurred him forward. 

Swiftly, you lifted your hips, guiding Charlie’s length between your folds and sinking down in one sharp thrust that seated your ass comfortably against his thighs. The blood and your first orgasm eased the slide of his dick. Almost immediately you started bouncing in his lap, and he gripped your hips, bursting vessels under the skin. 

One hand traveled up to your back, holding your chests together as the other guided you down, spearing you on his dick and you both moaned at the feel of completeness. 

Your nipples dragged across his as your bodies frantically moved together and the sweet sensation stung his fraying nerves. 

“Charlie,” you sounded just as wrecked as he felt, “Fuck.” 

“I know,” he whispered your name in between the sloppy meeting of your lips, “I know.” 

The room was filled with the most base of animalistic sounds and the wet slap of your cunt on his cock. You were tightening around him and he felt your fingers bury themselves in his hair, tugging his mouth from yours so he was looking you in the eye. The hand on your hip was digging dark bruises into the pliant flesh as you ground against him, breath fanning over his face. 

And this was it. 

This was what it had all been leading up to. 

The rest had just been practice. 

And this was the culmination of everything he’d learned. 

So when you came with a shout of his name, looking him straight in both eyes, he knew you really would be his last. 

There would be no others after this. As much as he had claimed your cunt, your body, you for himself, you owned this pleasure—his pleasure—just as completely. And that alone had him pulsing, coating your walls in thick, hot ropes of him that mixed with the bloody mess coating your bodies and dripped out around the base of his cock.   

The whole time, your eyes never left his for a moment. 

Perpetually looking forward. 

***

Charlie’s arm throbbed from under the packs of gauze and ace bandages. It was raining again and the train platform was particularly packed considering it was well past midnight. 

Performances were set to start next weekend and rehearsals had him working till the early hours of the morning, catching trains at ungodly times and stumbling into bed only to rinse and repeat the next day.

He missed you. 

It felt good to admit that. Not shameful or weak. He’d come to terms with the feelings of loss that had formed like a rock in his gut when he slunk from your apartment two weeks ago. Still marked in your blood and tasting you on his lips, Charlie had left you sleeping and stumbled back to his place to shower and make it to the start of dress rehearsals. 

And since then, he hadn’t had a free minute to sneak away. 

It’s not as though he could just shoot you a text the way his intern did constantly at even the simplest of tasks. But the closing wound concealed behind his cardigan and trench coat was a pleasant, if painful reminder of his final hunt. 

He was right, after all. 

If the others were lackluster before he met you, he was entirely disinterested now. 

So he comforted himself by reliving the events that transpired in your room—your voice that he felt more than heard, the cut of the blade, his name caught between your teeth. He took a calming breath, glancing around to clear his head lest he miss the train while caught up in the fantasy of your bare skin on his. 

As the tunnel vibrated and shook with the force of the approaching subway, Charlie gazed across the tracks to the adjacent platform. It was less crowded, not many people taking the southbound lines from this part of the city. He was certain he caught a familiar glimpse of a coat, a wolf’s snarl, two eyes locked on him. But the train blocked his view before he could get a better look. 

Frantically, he boarded the compartment and shouldered his way to the opposite doors and looked out the smudged window. 

His heart stuttered in his chest when he saw you.

Standing relaxed on the filthy green tile, you grinned at him and very suddenly Charlie was no longer bending under the weight of his work. As the train started up again, rushing faster and faster away, he looked for as long as he could at your figure growing smaller until it was swallowed up by the maze of pitch black tunnels. 

With a sigh, Charlie sunk down onto the vacant bench and laid his head in his hands. Though just to hide the sinful smile that graced his lips from any prying eyes. 

You really were a perfect trophy. 

This hunt might be his last, but something told him it would not be ending anytime soon. 

And that was more than enough. 

[daebakinc]

A Snagged Thread (preview)

Pairing: Jihoon x Female Reader, ft. Seventeen and other currently undecided idols Genre: Angst, Romance Summary: You loved Jihoon, your boyfriend of three years, more than anything. But after one too many times of being forgotten, you can’t bear it. You completely disappear from his life, planning on keeping it that way forever. But when a favor for a friend forces you and Jihoon to cross paths, will you give your hearts a second chance or guard it fiercely to stop it from breaking again?

Could a night be more perfect?

A breeze warm with the promise of summer drifts through the cracked windows. It's gentle enough to kiss your face and barely push at the candle on the table's flame. The restaurant lights are dim and soft, perfect for romantic whispers and smiles glowing with infatuation. An acoustic guitar floats from carefully hidden speakers.

From listening to Jihoon's own playing, you can tell the guitarist is talented. The music speaks rather then being simply played. The melody is deceptively simple, enticing the listener to try to remember if they heard it before. It teases the ears, smoothly dancing from light flirtation to enticing seduction and back again.

Jihoon would fall under its spell for sure. His fingers would be tapping against your hand as it tried to follow the notes. As always, his mind would be squirreling away snippets and strands of inspiration to try to revive and rework in his own way later.

If he was here that is.

Instead, the chair opposite you is only occupied by a phantom. A phantom made of shards of broken promises and ugly insecurities made all the more clear by the shrinking candle reflected in the window.

“Miss.”

You glance away from the window at the waitress’ gentle voice, then away from her face. Instead, you focus on the neat bow-tie at her throat. It's too late though. The pity in her eyes was clear and stings more than you thought it would. You expected it, having seen it many times before in other faces in the same familiar situation. It never gets more bearable.

“I’m very sorry, miss, but we have a number of people waiting. If you’re not going to order, I’m going to have to ask that you give your table up.”

“Can I have another ten minutes?” You give her a smile, but you can feel how weak it is. “Please.”

“I'm really sorry, but my manager said-”

“It's okay. I understand,” you blurt out.

You get up, but do it too quickly. Your chair violently falls back, loudly smacking into the one behind you. Blessedly, it's empty. Turning to correct it, your ankle twists in its ridiculous heel, throwing you forward as well. If it weren't for the waitress catching your arm, you would have planted face-first into the hardwood.

“Miss! Are you alr-”

“I'm fine, thank you.” You take your arm back as your ears and cheeks burn. Opening your purse, you pull some bills from your wallet and press them into the waitress' hand. “I'm so sorry for wasting your time.”

Her eyes widen at the amount. She tries to give it back, protesting, “Miss, I can't -”

“Yes, you can. Someone should have a good evening.”

You all but run away, thankfully managing to avoid bumping into anyone. The shock of the cool air when you step through the door sends goosebumps up your arms and legs. A wind forces your arms to fold over your chest as insult to injury. Still, it's better to focus on that instead of the slow crumbling of your heart.

The subway to take you home is just a block away. But your feet hurt and you're tired and you just want to burrow under your blankets with the lights off. If you never re-emerge, it is what it is.

A taxi pulls up in front of the restaurant. A man dressed in a smart suit exits first, immediately turning to offer his hand to his female companion. They positively glow with the happiness of infatuation. Matching smiles. Gentle, intertwined fingers. Stars captured in their eyes.

It turns your stomach.

You had that. You know you did when you and Jihoon started dating a few years ago. One look in his eyes would steal your breath and stop your heart. You know it was the same for him. You'd seen it, felt it, breathed it. Maybe not as much recently, given how infrequently you met and how often that was spent napping together, but definitely in the beginning...

Fuck it, you think to yourself as you feel the disappointment, frustration and sheer pain building in your chest. If you're going to lose it, you'd rather do it in the privacy of a taxi than surrounded by strangers on the subway.

“Wait!” You raise your hand and rush to grab the taxi door, opening and sliding in.

After giving the driver your address, you lean your head back against the headrest. You close your tired eyes and sigh. You can do this. It's not that far. You're a big girl. You can keep it together that long.

Rubbing your eyes, you try repeating an affirmation.

“I am a strong woman. I am a strong woman,” you tell yourself. “I am a strong, beautiful, independent woman. I- I am-... I am a strong-”

The words get stuck in your throat, like they know their own futility. Before you completely lose it, you clamp your lips shut and press your tongue into the roof of your mouth. Praying you can just get home.

The taxi stops at your apartment building just in time. You place a too-large bill in the driver's hand, shouting back to keep the change as you scramble out the door.

You drop your card the first time when you try to swipe into your building. At this hour, the entry is abandoned, as are the stairs that you run up. Your breath is labored by the time you reach your door, your heart thudding even faster. It takes three tries to fit the key into the lock. When the door finally closes behind you, you immediately collapse against it.

“One more chance, Jihoon,” you murmur, sliding down to sit on the floor. “Please, don't mess it up. Please...”

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself as you take your phone from your purse. Its  screen is dark. Just like it has been most of the evening. It lights up, painfully bright in the dark of your apartment. Hoping you accidentally turned the notifications' sound off, you unlock the phone to look at your messages.

Hi, love. I'm here.

You didn't forget, did you?

I'm going to head in so we don't lose the reservation. See you inside.

Are you on your way?

Jihoon, where are you?

All your texts.

Not a single answer. Not even a single 'read' next to them.

The iron claws squeezing your heart clamp down harder. Is this what a heart attack feels like?

This isn't the first time Jihoon was a no-show for a date. He always had an excuse. A filming ran late. He lost track of time in the studio. The group needed to do an extra practice.

Every time, Jihoon held your hands, his apology as much in his eyes as his words. Every time, you smiled and forgave him.

He'd promised this time. He'd promised he wouldn't forget. He'd promised he'd be there. You'd believed him, even making a dress especially for the occasion.

But he failed you again. Ignored you again. Forgot you, again.

You feel the urge to throw your phone and scream, but it's gone in an instant. It's too much effort. A heavy, ugly hollowness fills the void left by the brief flash of anger. Instead, you let your phone slip between your fingers onto the floor. Just like your body wants to.

Your vision blurs as words utterly fail in the face of choked down sobs now erupting. The taste of salty tears run down your cheeks to catch on your lips. Your chest palpitates with your hiccupping breaths. It's like the shreds of your heart are attempting escape by battering their way through. Burying your head in your arms, you have no choice but to drown in the tidal wave of hurt slamming into you over and over again.

You are tired. So tired of the disappointment and the insecurities Jihoon's repeated absences seem to affirm. You are tired of feeling like you, your relationship, mean nothing to him. That you are all the things your worst fears hissed in your mind for years. The demons you've fought and once had Jihoon fighting alongside you.

That you are forgettable.

Unworthy.

Unlovable.

As you lie on the floor shaking, aching, and alone, you can't help thinking one thing.

Enough.

Jihoon sits in front of his computer in the studio. His fingers lightly tap against the mouse, where they've been glued for hours. There's something missing from the melody. He just hasn't figured it out yet. He hits play, settling into his chair, hunting intently for that piece to make it perfect.

Just as he feels it inching closer, someone knocks on the door.

“What?” he snaps, whipping his chair around.

Jeonghan pops his head in, completely unfazed by his groupmate's biting tone. “Jihoon, you're still here?”

“Yeah.” He spins his chair back around. “I need to finish this song. It's driving me crazy.”

“Is it the one you've been working on since last month?”

Jihoon hums in agreement.

“Have you asked Bumzu for help yet? Maybe you're too stuck in your own head.”

“Not yet... but getting a second opinion isn't a bad idea. Would you mind listening?”

“Sure.” Jeonghan comes in, grabbing the extra chair and wheeling it beside Jihoon. “Oh, by the way, you never told us how your anniversary date went. Did Y/N like the restaurant?”

Jihoon freezes, his hand hovering over the mouse. He had to have misheard. “Our what?”

His groupmate stares at him. Speaking slowly, Jeonghan says, “You and your girlfriend's third anniversary. Like four weeks ago. You’d only been arranging just the right restaurant for it for months....”

“Fuck,” Jihoon groans, slouching back into his chair with his face in his hands. His heart sickeningly drops in his chest.

“Jihoon, please don't tell me you forgot.”

His mind races through the days that feel like a blur. How did he not remember? How? “I think I screwed up.”

“Missing an anniversary? Yeah, I think you did.” Jeonghan gets up, patting his shoulder. “I'm going to leave. I think you have more important things than a song.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Jihoon scrubs his face with his hands before pulling his phone out of his pocket. He frowns at it. He can't even remember the last time you two talked, he's been so busy. Why didn't you call him, text him? If not the day of your anniversary, why not after?

He checks his call log. Two missed calls from you from a week or two ago. He'd meant to call you back on those, but never did. Stupid.

Then, he checks your chat. That's when he sees the number of notifications. “What the hell...”

Jihoon curses again as he remembers that one night. He doesn't even remember when it was. All he recalls is getting annoyed at the back to back beeps alerting him to messages when he was neck-deep in composing a song. Assuming it was the other members sending memes in the group chat, he'd silenced the notifications and tossed the phone back. He must have never gone back to check if they were on again.

Dammit. You have every right to be pissed at him.

He's more than aware of how much you put up with. From keeping your relationship low-key to constant rescheduling around his schedule. The awkward number of times he's had to apologize for missing a date or falling asleep while you told him about a new design you were trying at work. Yet somehow, you love him enough to always smile, tell him it's alright, and keep on loving him. Sometimes, he can't help but wonder if he's worthy of the love of such a saint.  

Switching back to calls, Jihoon presses your speed dial. Unsurprisingly, he gets your voicemail. Sighing, he leans forward with his elbows on his knees.

“Hi, it's me...” He clears his throat, embarrassment and guilt robbing him of eloquence. “I'm really, really sorry I missed our date. I just saw that I accidentally turned the notifications off on our chat. I can't believe I did that. I wasn't ignoring you on purpose, I promise. I'm an idiot and I can't blame you for being upset with me. I've just been really busy with work. You know how it is... I'll come by your place later to apologize in person. I promise, I'll make it up to you. I'm sorry... I love you.”

Although Jihoon had every intention of going to your apartment that very night, it's a few days later that he finally makes it there. As he climbs the steps, he can feel his hands shaking. How will you react when he shows up? Sure, he's made mistakes and you've fought before, but never this bad.

Will you be angry? Silent? Sad? God, he hopes you don't cry. He can't stand when you cry because of him. He never knows what to do when he makes you cry.

Whatever you do, Jihoon reminds himself, he'll deal with it. He'll take it. He deserves it after what he did. With that resolve, he tightens his fingers around the bouquet of sunflowers he's carrying. He'll do anything to make it up to you.

Reaching your apartment door, he knocks. When the door mechanisms click, Jihoon straightens his shoulders and fixes on his best apology face on. However, it’s not your face that greets him as the door opens. Only empty space.

“Who’re you?” asks a small, high-pitched voice.

Jihoon looks down over the bouquet into the eyes of an inquisitive child. He glances over at the number beside the door. It’s definitely yours. Is one of your friends with a kid visiting?

“Um, hi. Is –”

An older woman Jihoon doesn't recognize rushes from behind the door to scoop up the child. “Jiah, what did I tell you about opening the door?”

“Don't open the door for strangers,” the child innocently replies.

“Excuse me,” Jihoon says politely, “but is Y/N here?”

The woman shakes her head. “I’m sorry, but there’s no one here by that name.”

It feels like someone poured Arctic water over his head. That's not possible. “What?”

“We just moved in last week. I'm sorry.”

Panicking when the woman starts to close the door, Jihoon catches it with his hand. “Do you know where the woman who lived here before moved?”

“No. I don’t even know her name.”

He lets go as the door closes, his fingers numb. Why would you move? Did you tell him?You must have mentioned your new address in the messages.

He hurriedly opens your chat, reading the messages. His heart drops further and further with each. Then, he gets to the last two, spaced a day apart, and it absolutely stops.

Jihoon, this is our last chance. Please call me back.

I'm sorry. I can't.

The sunflowers fall to the floor, forgotten as Jihoon runs back the way he had come. He reaches the street, out of breath. He can't think, only feel. He feels like he should run, run through the city calling your name until his legs give out.

You wouldn't just leave like this. You wouldn't abandon him. Not like this.

A single coherent thought breaks its way through his panic. Call her. His fumbling fingers hit your number.

“Come on, come on, pick up,” he begs.

Immediately, instead of ringtone, he gets the message, I’m sorry, but the number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please try again.