#and he keeps getting closer and closer until he's actually on the drum stand

[waugh-bao]

Keith comes to focus on playing with Charlie and, later, Mick demands that he move away (1981) 

[throneofsapphics]

points for creativity 

Cazriel x f!Reader

Summary: Cassian comes up with a solution to your fight. 

Warnings: nudity, arguing, suggestiveness, not proofread, minors dni!

A/N: this wouldn’t leave my mind 

“I’m tired of this.” Cassian muttered, and grabbed your hand - dragging you right to your bedroom. “Take your clothes off.” 

“Excuse me?” You yelped, but he stormed in and kicked the door shut behind him, finally letting go of your wrist. He took a few steps away from you and crossed his arms over his body, grabbing the edges of the fabric. You were distracted, admiring the planes of his stomach, the way they moved as he stretched, the shirt discarded to the side. 

“Stop ogling.” He grunted, “your turn.” 

You narrowed your eyes, but he had an expectant look on his face, his arms crossed over his chest, and you decided to play along. You let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling your eyes before angrily pulling your shirt over your head, bunching it up and launching it at him. He caught it with a chuckle before tossing it to the side. He eyed the band over your chest. 

“That too.” 

“What the fuck is this,” you mumbled, but listened to him. The rest of both of your clothes followed, until you both were standing naked in the bedroom, a few feet away from each other. 

“Now yell at me.” 

What were you arguing about in the first place? “You were the one yelling.” You snipped at him, ignoring how his fists clenched slightly. It was more difficult to get angry at him like this, with him bare in front of you. Still, somehow you ended up in a slightly less heated argument about what the argument actually was, and who started it - but not about the issue itself. 

Both of you were distracted enough that you didn’t hear the door creak open. 

“Do I want to know what’s going on?” Azriel’s cool voice echoed through the room, shadows pooling around his ankles. You figured he knows exactly what’s happening, but wants to hear it from the two of you. 

You pointed over to Cassian, “he thought this was a solution to our … disagreement.” 

“You both were just yelling at each other.” He deadpanned, closing the door and leaning back against it, arms crossed over his chest as his mouth quirked up at the corners. 

“Her voice isn’t bursting my ear drums now.” Cassian muttered and you flipped your middle finger at him. Azriel curled his fingers inward, motioning for you to come closer to him. 

You strode across the room, the wind hardening your nipples and watched how his eyes tracked that - his pupils dilating. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest and placing a kiss against the top of your hair. 

“Traitor.” You heard the other male, and hid your smile in his chest. 

“I said nothing.” Azriel murmured, but his hand ran up and down your spine. 

“I’m prettier naked.” You mumbled, squeezing him before turning in his arms to see Cassian’s look of mock-hurt. You could tell Azriel was scanning Cassian’s body, based on how he seemed to be preening, standing a little straighter. 

“You’re pretty too Cassian.” Azriel finally said, flicking one of your nipples when you called him a traitor, keeping his arm tight around you as you squirmed, an indignant yelp leaving your lips. He lowered his mouth to your ear, lips grazing across it. “Hush.” 

His palm spread across your stomach, his thumb running light strokes up and down. “Well,” he pushed you closer to him, your body easily melting into his. “What were you fighting about?” 

[starrydixon]

Sweet Melody

Era: Alexandria (Pre-Negan) Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Pronouns: None-Specified Word Count: 1,104 Warnings: none, just fluff!

Even though you were only a little more than halfway up the street from the house you shared with your boyfriend, you could already hear the electric guitar riffs and booming bass of the drums of the metal music Daryl was blasting through the record player in his garage. The idea of Daryl putting on music as he worked on his bike caused a smile to stretch over your face and your steps to quicken.

The closer you got, the more distinctive the music of Black Sabbath became. Although you were eager to get to Daryl, you slowed the pace of your steps as you began to hear the faint sound of an unsuspecting voice singing along to the song. It was hard to picture Daryl singing as you had never even heard him hum a tune before, so you couldn't believe what your ears were hearing until you saw it with your own two eyes. Your lungs had practically stilled as you strained your ears to hear more clearly. Pausing just before the open garage door so you were still hidden from view, you carefully peered your head around the corner to peek inside the garage.

Your gaze instantly fixated on the sight of the angel wings that were on his back. With a slightly ducked head that caused his dark unruly strands of hair to cover his face, he stood by his work bench fiddling with a piece of an automotive part that you couldn’t identify even if your life depended on it. As the music of Paranoid filled the garage, Daryl’s head bobbed slightly from side to side in rhythm with the song. 

Your heart melted at the sight, and you had to place a hand over your mouth as you tried your hardest to not audibly swoon over your adorable boyfriend. Tentatively, you took a few more steps forward so you were leaning against the door frame. With your arms crossed over your chest in a way that made it seem like you were hugging yourself, you bit your lower lip as you could clearly hear Daryl humming along to the song under his breath. 

You couldn't stop the smile from stretching out across your face as you basked in the sight of Daryl singing along to the lyrics that he knew like the back of his hand. Even after all these years of knowing him, Daryl still managed to surprise you every day.

As the song began to fade and a new one began to start, Daryl had finally felt your presence. Carefully, he turned his head to the side to look over his shoulder. The archer didn’t seem alarmed at the sight of you, as his body language only seemed to relax more knowing you were there. Turning to face you fully, Daryl gave you a lopsided smile and a small wave of his hand that was covered in grease and oil.

“Were you just singing to yourself?” You couldn’t help but ask as you stepped further into the garage. Finding the black stool that Daryl barely used, you took a seat.

“Oh, uh-“ Pausing, a sheepish look suddenly formed across his face at the knowledge that not only had he been singing out loud without even realizing it, but that you had heard it. Rubbing at a non-existent itch on the back of his neck with his hand, Daryl struggled to finish his sentence. “-guess so. Sorry- didn't notice.” 

Daryl wasn't the kind of guy who normally cared about what other people thought, especially when it was about him. As he'd never had an audience to impress, he never cared if he was able to hold a tune when singing along to a song. However, now that you had heard him sing, the one person whose opinion actually meant something to him, he hoped he had been somewhat decent at it. 

With a slight shake of your head, you slowly stood up from the work stool and strode over to Daryl. The closer you became, the lower Daryl’s gaze ducked away from yours. When you were standing in front of him, you instantly placed your hands on his chest while a warm smile spread over your lips.

“Don’t ever apologize, it was nice. You should keep singing.”

Daryl’s gaze instantly lifted back up to meet yours, and he couldn’t stop the warm blush from dusting over the tops of his cheeks that reached to the tip of his ears. You were looking up at him with so much adoration in your eyes that it was almost overwhelming. The longer you stared at him with all that love in your eyes, the warmer his chest felt and the deeper the pink became on the apples of his cheeks. Letting out a gruff chuckle, he shrugged his shoulders dismissively.

“This ain’t a free show, y'know. You’re gonna have to pay if ya want more.”

As your warm joyous laugh reached his ears, and he felt your body lean into his as you laughed at his lame quip, it was Daryl’s turn for his heart to completely and utterly melt. He snaked an arm around your waist so that his hand was pressed against your lower back for support. A rather smug smirk uplifted one corner of Daryl’s mouth as he watched you laugh. 

With a grin so big it threatened to split your face in two, and with a rather mischievous glint twinkling in your eyes, you moved your hands up Daryl’s chest so that your arms were now wrapped around his neck. The slight change in your demeanor sent an electric shock to shoot up Daryl’s back as he anticipated on whatever you were about to say. His hold on you tightened slightly.

“I think I can spare a little change.” Your voice was softer now as your fingers began to play with the ends of Daryl’s hair. It made another spark shoot up his spine and goosebumps to raise over his skin. 

“Ya think I’m only worth a little bit of change?” He scoffed again at the notion as if it offended him and pulled you in even closer against his body. “Gonna have to bargain with a little more than that, sunshine.”

“How about I add some kisses, too?” Your question was teasing and hypothetical. You already knew what his answer would be.

Just as expected, Daryl’s only response was raising the hand that wasn’t currently holding you so he could cup the side of your face. Your arms tightened around his neck as his lips came crashing down on yours in a sweet and electrifying kiss.

-

-

A/N: This idea was just too cute to not write and share! I hoped you enjoyed and thank you for reading! <3

[intheticklecloset]

3 AM (Bungo Stray Dogs)

Primary Universe

Summary: After a late night out, Chuuya helps Dazai back to his place to sleep. Unfortunately, Dazai has other ideas.

A/N: The initial idea for this fic was inspired by this AMV (there are SO many good BSD AMVs, btw!). I of course put a tickly spin on it because that's what I do. Enjoy!

Word Count: 973

~~~

Nothing good ever happened after 3 A.M.

Chuuya grunted as he and Dazai stumbled through his front door, no thanks to the detective, who was so drunk he could barely stand upright. “Lightweight,” he muttered, tossing his keys into the bowl by the door and kicking it shut behind them. He fumbled for the light switch.

“Oww, Chuuya,” Dazai whined, nearly toppling over as he tried to shield his eyes from the soft yellow glow.

“Stop being a baby. I’m putting you to bed.”

“Ooh, I must have been a good boy this year~”

“Shut up! Not like that, you idiot. Come on.” Chuuya angled them so they were headed toward his bedroom.

“Chuuya’s dragging me to bed,” Dazai sang drunkenly, giggling a little as he stumbled across the carpet, over the threshold, and toward the surprisingly simple twin bed that Chuuya rarely had time to actually enjoy thanks to his work.

The redhead wrestled Dazai around so he was sitting on the mattress, swaying a little. “You forgot to take your shoes off, moron.” He leaned down to do it for him, but the next thing he knew arms were wrapped around him and he was being yanked off his feet, lying staring up at the ceiling with Dazai’s body beneath him. “Asshole! Let me go; you’re so drunk I don’t know how you aren’t dead already.”

“Chuuya’s grumpy,” Dazai hummed, snuggling his face into the redhead’s neck and hugging him closer, digging his fingertips into his partner’s ribs. “Grumpy, grumpy Chuuya~”

The redhead froze, eyes flying wide open. The touch was gentle, but it didn’t matter; Chuuya was ticklish enough that even that much was enough to do the job. He squeaked, biting his lip hard to keep from giggling like a little girl, thrashing in his drunken boyfriend’s grip. “I-Idiot! Don’t touch me! Let me go!”

Dazai giggled for the both of them, switching from digging to random poking, like he was drumming his fingers on a tabletop out of boredom. Chuuya hated that it tickled so bad.

“Dazai!” he cried, trying and failing to get away. He managed to fall off of the detective’s body onto the mattress, but as soon as he had a momentary glimpse of freedom Dazai was on him, rolling over so he was pinning him awkwardly to the bed, fingers poking and pinching along his ribs. Chuuya snorted. “Shihihit! Dazahahahai! Quit it!”

“Grumpy, grumpy Chuuya needs to learn to smile more,” Dazai slurred.

“Asshohohohole! I’ll kihihihill you! Let me go!”

“No can do, Chuuuuya~”

Chuuya would deny the scream that left his lips until the day he died once his infuriating partner found the spot at the top of his ribs that drove him up the wall, forcing loud, desperate cackles out of him whether he liked it or not. “AHAHAHA!! DAZAHAHAHAI!!”

Dazai giggled again, fingers flying across his ribs, up and down like he was playing a xylophone. “Tickle, tickle, little chibi~”

“Dazai!” Chuuya wheezed, fisting the comforter on his bed into one hand while frantically trying to punch any part of his boyfriend that he could with the other. “Stahahahahap it! I dohohohohon’t like being tihihihihickled!”

For a brief moment, everything stopped. Chuuya gasped for breath while he could, trying to shove Dazai away, hoping his strength would be greater since he wasn’t the one who was drunk enough to pass out at any moment.

“You don’t?” Dazai asked, sounding genuinely surprised, standing up of his own free will and toppling sideways onto the bed so he was looking the redhead in the eye – kind of.

Chuuya flushed at the question. “No.”

The detective observed him for a moment, eyes bleary yet trained hard on his partner. He hummed after a while, flopping onto his back with a sigh. “Then why do you look so disappointed that I stopped?”

“Idiot,” Chuuya grumbled, jumping onto his waist and digging into his hips, smirking at the too-loud squeal of delight Dazai let free. “You’re the one who’s disappointed I wasn’t tickling you back until just now.”

“Ehehehehehehe!” Dazai laughed with such childlike glee that it made Chuuya blush for the both of them, though he kept tickling anyway, fingers flying from his hips to his belly to his neck and even into his underarms, which made the detective shriek so loudly the redhead had to stop lest they wake up the neighbors.

“Okay, dumbass. Take your shoes off and go to sleep, all right? It’s almost four in the morning—”

Dazai grabbed his waist and rolled them over so he was on top again so fast Chuuya got whiplash, but he didn’t have time to worry about that since his ribs were being played like a piano again, this time without the benefit of being able to hide his face or muffle his sounds at all, staring up into Dazai’s eager grin as he was.

“Ahahahahaha! Whahahahahat did I just tehehehehell you, you bahahahastard?! I dohohohon’t lihihihihike it! Lemme gohohohohoho!”

“That’s what you said,” Dazai agreed, flopping down so his entire body weight was pinning Chuuya in place, his chin nestled into his boyfriend’s neck so his ear was as close to Chuuya’s laughing mouth as possible, fingers still digging with an expertise that was absolutely unfair for a drunk person. “But I think you were lying.”

Chuuya raged and fought as much as he could, but it soon became apparent that he wasn’t going anywhere until Dazai was either satisfied or passed out from his alcohol intake, and so – laughing up a storm and letting out embarrassing squeals and snorts – the redhead let himself go limp and accept his ticklish fate, color staining his cheeks as he submitted to the playful torture.

It wasn’t like Dazai would remember any of this in the morning, anyway.

He never remembered anything after 3 A.M.

[yourtouchismidas]

george teaching you how to play the drums and just being overall like a bigggg sweetheart boyfriend and it's super fluffy

george wants to touch you. he's not stopped looking at you all night. his palms havent stopped sweating. and he had to wipe them on his jeans in the restaurant every time you went to the loo. he thinks he's done good, for a first date, considering how nervous he was. how he text matty before like it's two hours til the date and then it's one hour til the date before annoying him so much that he text back calm the fuck down. you're acting like you've never been on a date before!

he has. he has been on many. but this. this is with you.

the girl he has always wanted. always stared at. always longed for. was always dating someone else. ruffling his hair and calling him georgie like it was no big deal, when actually every touch of your fingers was like lightning, every time you walked on past like a bruise inside his chest. it's fine. he always told himself. it's fine. i'll get over her.

but tonight he has made you laugh. a beautiful sound. he's made you blush, by the way he looked at you. feeling like it his one chance, his window, his lifeline. that you agreed to go on a date with him.

now your at the doorstep of his house. you walked to get icecream and you laughed when he got it on his nose. he was hoping you would kiss it off, and you looked like you might, but then he panicked, and wiped it off quickly with an eugh. you chuckled and walked on.

you knew where you were going. you knew where he lived. he knew you knew. and now you're here. silent. heavy. shaking. tense.

"come in?" george says, his voice sultry, like he can't keep his desire out his throat no matter how he tries.

he makes you a cup of coffee and you sit quietly together on the sofa and sip. you run your foot up his ankle and back down. touching. close. but not close enough. george wants to reach out. he aches too. but it's like his brain wont let him. its too much. too much pressure. to get what he wants after all this time. to have it so close. and the thought of messing it up. it freezes him.

you get up. look at the things you have seen a few times. but closer. his drum kit. his favourite. the one passed down through his family, is in the corner. blue and gold. you touch a cymbal lightly. it tingles through the air.

"whoops," you say. the first words said in minutes. he's cursing himself.

"don't worry," he says. "can you play?"

"no," you laugh. "i love music, but i dont play it."

"want me to teach you?"

"sure," you say, grinning at him. his heart is slowly. his body is unfreezing. he's becoming alive.

he tells you to sit down on the stool and places the sticks in your hand. he swears he can feel electricity when he touches the skin of your palms. he tries to teach you from the side, standing, telling you which drum to hit and when. you keep getting it wrong, laughing, hiding your face.

"help me i'm awful!" you say.

he takes a second, then he slowly slides on to the back of the stool too, you shifting forwards to make room. your back is on his chest and he knows you can feel his heartbeat through his shirt, there is absolutely no way you cant. you let out a little hmm, at his touch, and lean back into him for a second. george closes his eyes at the warmth. he takes his hands and puts them on your shoulder and then runs them down the length of your arms, until he has both your hands in a firm grip.

"there we go," he whispers in your ear. he sees the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. slowly, he moves your hands in his so your playing. you're drumming. well it's him. moving you. moving with you. you let him take over.

"well done," he whispers in your ear again, once he finishes the song.

"hey i'm pretty good aren't i?"

"you're better than i couldve ever imagined."

and with the adrenaline of the drumming, and your smile and your body hot on his, he leans down and places a kiss on the cool skin of your neck. except he can't stop at one. especially when you moan. he can't stop. he can't stop. he cant....

[amyyythestarry]

TOILET BAND HANAKO KUN!

——

CHAPTER 1: Band.

——

“… Have you heard?” She spoke softly into the microphone as soon as it was turned on along with the radio.

“There is a rule regarding that staircase that you must never break.” 

Slow, rhythmic melodies played when he strummed the strings of his ginger orange guitar with a guitar pick, decorated with random cat stickers, put on by another male, that just wouldn’t come off. He left them there until he was able to find a way to get them off of his precious instrument.

“You must never step foot on the fourth step. Why? Because… You will be taken to the other side.”

“Taken, to the otherrrr side~” Sung another person, standing right beside the green haired girl, holding another microphone. Violet and mauve, covered in various stickers and paint splatters on the bottom. His voice was smooth and calm, despite the words being deep.

Then drums started, still soft and faint, the person with the sticks trying to bang as light as possible to match the tone of the start of the song. Guitar still strumming, and now a keyboard is being used.

“Down, down belowww. To the darkest, deepest, path you’ll gooo.” He continued, eyes closed and head swaying with the flow. 

“Limb, from dangling limb. They’ll pull you apart, down to countless pieces.” 

The drumming tempo started picking up, so did the guitar, and now the drummer and guitarist were playing more fast and furious, creating a new rough and exciting rhythm.

“Now you’ve ruined the stairs.” The girl sang.

“It’s painted with crimson blood.” He continued. “Yasuraka ni o yasumi kudasai~”

“In piecesss~”

Now the instruments were louder than before. The drums are still banging with the occasional cymbals. The bass guitar’s volume was turned up, not enough to cover the singer's voice, because it was still so quiet. And the keyboards settled with matching the singer’s vocals, it wasn’t a noisy instrument anyways, especially since the player wasn’t an aggressive typist.

They continued playing like this.

Nobody expected the short, black haired, brown skinned boy, the one who was the most childish and reckless out of them all, to actually be a good singer. Because as they kept playing, kept up with the song, and the lyrics of the boy flowed throughout the room like lovely wind, they all figured this was the best outcome for them.

The boy did add unnecessary additions to the song that weren’t there before, but heck, it was still bada**.

As they got closer to the end of the song, the drummer decided to close their eyes as did the guitarist, the typist, and the lead singer. Wanting to just feel the atmosphere of the room, the melody of their instruments and his vocals clashing together in the best way.

The song was closer to ending. The guitar slowed down again after its solo, going with the rhythm it had when they first started playing. The singer's voice was higher.

“Taken to the other siiiide, to the bottom of the underworld, the top of the stairs will take you.” The green-ette sang, voice being in the background of the main singer.

“Have you heard? Number 2?”

The singer stopped singing, and the instruments had to keep going.

The drums continued to bang, harder and louder than throughout the whole song, now that it had the spotlight. Alongside the guitar, as it became more distorted on purpose.

But as the song was now about to end, and the drummer banged on the bass, planning to end it off with a ding from the hi-hats. The time was right, and the drummer hit two of the hi-hats with each cherry wooden stick, and the sound along with the dings of the cymbals was the sound of crunchy snapping.

The song finally ended. The guitarist and typist stopped playing, because of the ending of their strain, and cause of the sound they hear almost all the time while practicing. As well as a voice grumbling from the back of the room.

“D**nit! I broke them again!”

Everyone in the room turned to the drummer, looked at him, and then at the two broken parts of the drumsticks rolling on the floor on each side of the drum set.

Mitsuba Sousuke sighed, dropping the remains of the sticks onto the floor by his feet, and rubbed his face with both hands from embarrassment and frustration.

“… Jesus, Mitsuba-chan. This is like, the fifth time..” The guitarist sweatdropped.

“Oh shut up, airhead.” Mitsuba pulled his head up from his hands and rolled his pink eyes, the left one being hidden by his curly hair.

Hyuuga Natsuhiko put his hands up when Mitsuba glared at him, and the lead singer of the group spoke up.

“Mitsubaa, you need to stop breaking the sticks!”

“It’s not my fault!” He claimed, dropping his head down and looking into his lap when being faced with amber eyes.

Yugi Tsukasa walked over to the broken pieces of dark cherry wood, picking them up and inspecting the jagged edges of the sticks.

When looking up slightly, Mitsuba expects Tsukasa to be looking at him with downcasted eyebrows, shaking his head and tutting. But instead, he sees the smaller boy smiling down at the sticks in his hand.

“Y’know, maybe we don’t have to throw these away again? We could probably try fixing them!” He suggested, looking up at Mitsuba and giving him his usual wide toothed grin, the one Mitsuba couldn’t help but secretly admire.

The pink haired boy stilled, then slowly nodded while a small shy smile plastered on his face, along with the hotness of his cheeks coming to be.

“Um.. Yeah, maybe we could..?”

“And if that doesn’t work,” Tsukasa started again, pulling out his phone and starting to type. “I’m sure you could use broken wood for something else, right? Like, using them for some type of art pieces?”

Everyone internally questioned what kind of art piece the boy could possibly make with broken drumsticks, but they didn’t further think about that. Tsukasa could make something out of anything.

While Tsukasa was still on his phone, the green haired girl sighed.

“Well… I’m sure the song went well,” Nanamine Sakura said, pushing curly strands of hair out her face. “We’ll check it when we get back to the Broadcasting room.”

Currently, the band of pre-teens and second year teenagers are in a closed, deserted garage in the middle of nowhere where non-human beings are stranded. Nobody was in the area but them, though. So they found it a perfect place to try and finish their first song, named ‘Misaki Stairs’ in their fresh album ‘Rumor’. Since the club room they use to brainstorm and hang out in was too small for a whole band set up.

They decided they would use this garage for playing, and their club room for producing their music.

The band members agreed, and collected their belongings, getting ready to head out of the room.

Tsukasa walked over to a corner of the garage and picked up a long furry black thing, cooing at it saying, “Did you have a good nap?” The thing responded by purring into his arms.

“What is that?” Natsuhiko asked him, looking at him over his shoulder while he zipped his guitar shut in it’s black case.

Tsukasa turned to him, revealing an animal. His pet, that they didn’t even realize was here in the first place. The same pet Tsukasa let around them all the time. 

Miyu, the strange cat Tsukasa always carried in his backpack, and somehow always appeared around them no matter where they were, opened its eyes to look at the confused looking band members she knew were Tsukasa’s friends. She quickly snapped her eyes at Sakura, and jumped out of her owner's arms. Walking over to Sakura and meowing at her, close by her left foot.

The black and white cat watched Sakura’s face contort into a deadpan.

“Tsukasa, why.. Is your cat in here?” She asked the boy who was gathering his backpack and putting both his and Sakura’s microphones in their respective cases.

“Oh! Because she wanted to listen to our first official song!” 

They looked back down at the cat, who was bobbing its head like it was agreeing. Sakura shook the topic off, and started walking towards the button that opened the garage door.

When it opened all the way they all walked out of the garage, being faced with a scenery of mixed colors in the empty sky that belonged to the Far Shore, the realm of all supernaturals and non-human beings.

Mitsuba instantly pulled out his camera being hung around his neck, and snapped a picture of the sky above. He didn’t usually take pictures of pretty things like this, they couldn’t come close to the pretty-ness that was himself, but it was more odd than the sky of the realm of humans, and odd things deserved a snapshot.

There were also other weird things in the Far Shore too. And besides, Tsukasa was staring at it like the beautiful, strange thing it was, and he never planned on keeping the picture. As soon as it came out, and he shook it to get rid of the black, the picture showed the perfect shot and he gave it to Tsukasa.

Right inside Tsukasa's open right palm appeared a floating, misty black thing, with a small blue swirly dot in the middle. In an instant, the same black smoke clouded their vision and engulfed them with the intent of taking them somewhere else faster.

Natsuhiko spoke up, not seeing the person he wanted to speak to because of all the mist.

“Tsukasa, you also have to help me get these stickers off my guitar and case y’know! And stop tampering with them!” 

He heard a giggle from the boy he was talking to.

“I’ll try!”

Once their sight became clear again, they all were in another place, and a place they knew well. The Broadcasting club, taking place in the school they all attended.

And once they settled in, they got to work. Checking over their song, edited it, and once it was deemed perfect, contacted their album cover producer and started on releasing it to their oblivious human and random supernatural audiences.

Now this was the start of The Broadcasters.

——

NEW AU ONESHOT!

Next chapter is: Band. ( 2 )

[mizjoely]

MHAW Prompt #3: to this point, from now on

To this point/from now on/wherever I go/I won't be long-

"Why not?"

Molly stopped singing, a flush spreading across her face at Sherlock's voice. She hated being caught singing aloud by anyone, but especially by Mister-Music-Snob. "Why not what?" she asked when he continued to stand there with his 'Well-I-asked-you-a-question' face.

"Why won't you belong?"

Molly screwed her own face up in confusion. "It's just a song, Sherlock, just lyrics. It means it won't be long before the two of them, you know, get together. The next line is 'beside you dear/the path is clear'. And then it, you know, goes on from there."

"Ah." Sherlock nodded gravely. "So I won't be long, rather than I won't belong. My mistake."

With a rush of insight Molly understood exactly what he'd meant, and her heart felt as if it would burst with sympathy. "No, I get it, Sherlock. Lots of people feel like they don't belong, that they're apart from the rest of the world."

Her already burning cheeks felt even hotter as she realized what she was saying. Oh no, would he think she was comparing him to his crazy sister, the one who felt all alone because of her terrifying intellect? The one who couldn't connect to the rest of the human race?

Dear. God. Would he think she was calling him a machine? The way John used to do? She'd rather die than have him believe that! She knew that yes, he loved her, just as he loved his small, select circle of friends and family.

Just as she opened her mouth to apologize, he surprised her by stepping forward, deep into her personal space, and placing one hand gently over her lips. "Don't apologize, Molly, I know what you meant - and what you didn't mean. I was just..." He huffed out a wry laugh. "I was trying to find a way to tell you how I really feel, and I thought the song was the perfect opportunity, but then of course I misunderstood it, and then I made you feel as if you'd misunderstood me, and that's the last thing I wanted to do. To hurt you again. To make you feel inadequate or alone or-"

Molly gently removed his hand from over her lips. "Breathe, Sherlock," she advised him. "Just...take a moment. Breathe. Then just say it, whatever it is you came to say. You never have to worry about hurting me with the truth."

She braced herself, keeping herself outwardly tranquil as she waited for him to finally give her the official 'I love you as a friend' speech she'd been waiting for ever since his travails at Sherrinford and Musgrave. Oh, he'd tried a few times, and she'd patiently waited for the words to come, but each time he ended up mumbling something about how complicated emotions were, accepting her reassurances that yes, they were still good, and then practically running away from her.

Now or never, she advised herself. If he doesn't say it now, you will tell him it's all good and he doesn't have to actually say it. Then we'll both be able to go on with our lives without this hanging over us.

I hope.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was not only doing what she'd advised him to do - breathing, slowly and deeply - but had closed his eyes and dropped both hands by his sides. When he opened them, the panicked expression was gone. He smiled softly at her, and she smiled back, reaching out to give his hands an encouraging squeeze. "Go on, say it, then," she said.

"Say it like I mean it?" he asked, and she flinched a little, then stiffened her spine and nodded.

"All right, I will," he said, catching her hands as she started to let him go. She was so surprised she didn't fight him, just let him hold both her hands, watching as he brought them up to rest on his chest. "Do you feel that, Molly?" he asked, and she nodded, because his heart was drumming in his chest, as if he'd just sprinted after a particularly speedy suspect. "That's how I feel about you. No one else makes my heart race like this." Slowly, carefully, he pulled her closer, until they were barely a breath apart. "No one else sees me like you do." He stroked his fingers along her cheek. "No one else has ever touched me the way you do."

Then he grimaced. "That - that was not meant to sound like a cheap pick-up line," he grumbled, and Molly couldn't help the giggle that escaped her lips. His own twitched into a smile in response. "No one else makes me as tongue-tied as you do," he concluded with a shrug. "So my only conclusion is that I love you, not as a friend - not like I love John or Mrs. Hudson or my parents - but as something...different."

"Different how?" Molly prompted, barely remembering to breathe herself as she gazed hopefully up at him.

He groaned. "You know how, Molly, do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Yes," she said promptly. "You do. Because this is too important to leave anything in doubt. Say it like you mean it. Say it first."

With that call back he flinched, just a little, as she just had; and just as she had done, he straightened his spine and nodded. "I love you," he said simply. "I said it. I meant it. I mean it." His gaze softened as he sang, 'beside you dear/the path is clear'" - and then he kissed her.

And Molly Hooper was never in doubt about his feelings ever again.

[flyingraijin]

sweetener. - Ch 6

R.E.M.

Pairing: Atsumu Miya x fem!reader

Word Count: 7140

Warnings: Swearing, let's not even talk about Suna at this point, high schoolers being high schoolers, all characters are 18+

Note: Actually on time this week yay!

Series masterlist + ao3

When you eventually arrive at the gym with Hinami, it barely takes one quick glance around to notice that there are a lot of people here to spectate the practice match. Far more than you’d ever expect for a game that isn’t an official one. 

You’re well aware of your school’s tactics of using the cheer squad to ramp up official games, however you hoped that wouldn’t be the case for a practice match. Simply because, well, it’s just a practice match. And thankfully, you don’t see any trumpets or drums or cheer pompoms around. But there are already people beginning to fill up the small set of stands in the gym. 

It’s with this in mind that you send Hinami on ahead of you; handing her the bag with your camera inside it and telling her to save you a spot. Then you dive around the inside of the gym wall, slipping through the crowd until you’re able to reach the door to the locker rooms. 

You pause before you enter it, suddenly feeling awkward about the whole thing. After all, this is were the boys get changed, and there’s a possibility you could walk in on any of them in a state of undress. Then again, this is also where Atsumu had instructed you to find him before the game.

You stand silent for a moment, and say a prayer to the gods that you won’t see any of the volleyball players’ junk. And then you slowly push open the door and step inside, all the while making sure to keep your eyes narrow enough that you can squeeze them tight shut at the first sign of trouble. 

What you do walk in on, however, is arguably far worse than seeing any of the volleyball team members naked. 

The entire volleyball team is grouped in the open centre of the room. There are clothes and bags strewn all over the floor, water bottles settled on benches, shoes waiting neatly at the foots of lockers. Everything looks as one might expect for a locker room for athletes right before a game. However, it's the athletes themselves that are the problem. 

While several of the younger students are standing in a wonky circle around the outside of the space, the third and second year boys are closer towards the middle. Ginjima’s face is strained, his mouth open like he's trying to get a word in edgeways, and Riseki looks like he’s actually about to puke. Between all of them, stand four people; Osamu, who’s grabbing tightly onto the back of Atsumu’s shirt, as well as one of his arms, and Kosaku, who's got his hands planted firmly on Suna’s shoulders. And Suna and Atsumu… well, they look like they’re about to kill each other. 

Your mouth drops open as you take a slow step closer, staring as the view in front of you unfolds. Atsumu is struggling violently against Osamu’s grip, his amber eyes flaming and his teeth gritted. On the opposite end, Suna is standing his ground against the blond setter, his own face hardened into a blank, icy mask. Ginjima is trying to get between the pair of them, reaching out his arms in an attempt to get a hand on each of their chests so he can physically push them apart. However, Atsumu keeps shaking off his captain’s grip, still glaring daggers at Suna. 

“You bastard!" he growls out,  eyes fixed on his slightly taller teammate. “Yer a fucking coward!” 

“Me?” Suna spits back, yanking one of his shoulders out of Kosaku’s grasp as he takes a step closer to Atsumu. “You have no goddamn place to talk, Miya, not after all the shit you’ve pulled!” 

“You know that I’d never-!” Atsumu starts to respond but it's now that you make yourself known, stepping out of the shadows of the doorway and right into the midst of the group. Immediately, both Suna and Atsumu freeze up, their wide gazes going right to you. Around them, too, their teammates tense as the atmosphere in the room seems to thicken even more. 

You look at Suna first. His eyes are just as cold as when you’d fought with him earlier, but the raw fury on his face is much more obvious. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this mad and it makes something in your chest drop. Quickly, you turn your gaze to Atsumu. 

He looks just as angry but it’s not abrasive in the way Suna’s expression is. When his eyes meet yours, you see some plea deep within them, a beg for you to understand. And you do; his anger isn’t for you. 

Still, the entire thing has you bristling and you can feel your own expression darkening as you continue to look round at the rest of the team. Then you speak. 

“What the hell is going on here? You idiots do realise you’ve got a game in a few minutes, right?”

They’re all silent, staring back at you almost sheepishly, and you suddenly feel like you're scolding a bunch of toddlers. Your mood worsens. “You guys are supposed to be a fucking team,” you hiss at all of them, “so what the hell are you fighting about?’”

Ginjima opens his mouth, looking like he wants to answer you. But Suna beats him to it. Turning his icy gaze on you, he fixes you with what seems like all the hatred he can muster up. “It doesn’t concern you,” he spits, his gaze darkening. “So you should back-”

He doesn’t get to finish though, because, with an angry growl, Atsumu wrenches himself right out of his twin brother’s hold and grabs Suna right by the collar. “Doesn't concern her?” he spits right in the taller boy's face, his expression positively murderous. His grip on Suna’s collar is so tight that it has Atsumu's knuckles going a bloodless white. “How about you repeat what ya just said to her face, huh?” 

Suna’s face contorts into an ugly expression and he grabs at Atsumu's own shirt before shoving him away. “Fuck off, Miya,” he snaps in anger. His shove is enough to send Atsumu reeling, stumbling back slightly. Osamu grabs onto him immediately to prevent him from leaping at Suna again. But it seems that Suna's answers has dulled Atsumu a little bit. Now he only looks up at the taller boy with distain on his face, as well as pure undiluted disgust. 

“Coward,” is all he says. 

Suna’s eyes widen for a second, his jaw dropping just slightly. He looks like he’s been physically struck by Atsumu; even you feel the sting of it, despite not having the full context of whatever has just happened. Suna takes another step forward then, actually looking like he's about to tackle Atsumu, however both Kosaku and Gingima dive in his way to hold him back. He struggles for a few seconds, glaring daggers at Atsumu the entire time. And then, finally, he seems to give up. 

“Screw this,” he mumbles before yanking himself out of the grasp of his captain and teammate, and stepping back. Everyone in the room watches him for a second, and he looks back, his eyes seeming to linger on you the longest. Something flashes in his gaze for the briefest of moments and then it's gone. And he turns on his heel and brushes right past you, not making an effort to avoid knocking a little painfully into your shoulder as he storms towards the locker room door. 

Everyone is silent was the door slams shut behind Suna, probably more out of shock than anything else. Then Ginjima coughs awkwardly. 

“Alright everyone,” he starts, standing up a little straighter and running his hands down the front of his shirt to straighten out the creases. “We, uh, should probably get to the court. We do have a game to play.” 

“Yes, sir,” all of the team but Atsumu respond, though it far less hearty than usual. You receive several sheepish glances, and even a soft pat on the shoulder from Riseki as the team begin to trail out of the locker room, picking up their shoes and water bottles as they go. You should probably head after them, you figure, since now really sin’t the time to go cheering Atsumu on. But your feet stay glued to the floor, your eyes still fixed on your (fake) boyfriend until almost everyone but the two of you remain. 

Osamu is the last to leave and he stops at your shoulder before he goes. “Don’t worry,” he tells you very quietly, probably quiet enough that even Atsumu can’t hear it. “He’ll listen to you. Just talk to him.” And then he’s gone too, stepping away with his shoes in hand. The locker room door closes quietly behind him. 

You stand for a long moment, just staring at Atsumu. He’s stock still, still in the same place, and his head is down. You can’t see his expression with the fluffy blonde hair that's hanging over his face, but you can see the way his hands are clenched into tight fists at his sides. His shoulders are shaking too. 

“Atsumu-?” you ask slowly, raising one foot to take a step forward. However, you're stopped dead in your tracks when suddenly Atsumu’s head flies up and you're faced with his full expression. Something deep in your chest cracks. 

“I -” he starts, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry.” 

“Atsumu…” you mumble out as there's another crack in your chest. And then you realise that it’s your heart that's breaking. 

Because Atsumu… his eyes are shining with tears. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “Ya shouldnt’a had to see that. I just… got mad. I’m-”

But before he can apologise again, you make the few short steps between the pair of you and throw your arms around him. 

”Don’t,” you mumble into the muscle of his shoulder as your arms snake around his back and pull his body close to yours. “Please don’t apologise.” 

You feel the shudder that runs up the length of Atsumu’s spine, a shudder that is probably a held back sob. And then his head drops forward and you feel his breath on your neck as he buries his face in your shoulder, just as you're doing to his. His arms come up, caging around your lower back and then he’s hugging you with so much strength you half expect him to lift you completely off your own feet. 

“Just…” you start out, stuttering a little as you rub a hand up and down his back. “What… Are… Are you okay?” 

You almost cringe as the sentence leaves your mouth because what a fucking dumb question! But it's the only thing you can come up with right now as your entire body aches with concern for the boy your'e really not supposed to be feeling much for. 

You hear Atsumu inhale a sharp breath against you, his fingers digging into the fabric of his own jacket that you’ve still got on. And then, very slowly, he answers. 

“Probably not,” he whispers, his words so close to your ear that you have to suppress a shiver. “But I will be.” 

“O-okay,” you stammer back. 

“Just,” Atsumu murmurs, head still buried in your neck. “Please don’t let go. Not yet.” 

“Of course not,” you say back to him, your voice steady this time. Your hold on him tightens somewhat. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And it surprises even yourself because you’re really not. Not for a long time. 

You're not sure how long you end up standing there. It can’t be more than a couple of minutes, considering the fact that Atsumu still has a game to get to. But for you, it feels like forever, as you stand, breathing in Atsumu’s now familiar smell and feeling the complete strength of him, even at his most emotionally vulnerable moment. 

Eventually, Atsumu does pull away. And when he immediately flashes you that familiar teasing smirk, you realise he’s completely back to being himself once again. It bugs you a little bit, as you let him go, because you're pretty sure he’s just hiding everything he’s really feeling behind that usual cocky attitude of his. But you don’t press the matter because you know he doesn’t really have the time to get into all of the details right now - you’ll just have to pry it out of him some other time. 

Still, you set your hands on your hips as he steps backwards, and fix him with a very pointed look. 

“So, are you going to explain what just happened?” 

Atsumu cocks his head to the side. Then he smiles sweetly. “Nah.” 

Your jaw drops. “Hey!” 

“I’ve got a match to get to!’ Atsumu says quickly, holing up his hands defensively. Then he sighs. “But I promise I’ll tell ya after. Okay?”

Realistically, you can't argue. But you still take a moment to frown at him. “You’d better,” you threaten. “Otherwise I’ll ask Osamu.” 

“I promise I will!” Atsumu reassures you. “Anyway, ‘Samu is too much of an airhead to have noticed everythin', he can’t give ya a proper story.” His smile drops a little and you see that same flash of plea in his eyes. “Just… later, okay.” 

“Okay,” you agree finally. Then you uncross your arms and make to take a step back. “I should probably go anyway. I need to find Hinami.” 

For a good few tenths of a second, you think he’s going to let you leave. However, once your back is turned, you feel him grab at your wrist, catching your arm and holding you back. “Wait.”

You turn back around to raise an eyebrow at him. “What now?” 

Atsumu pouts. “I never got my good luck kiss.” 

“That’s what you're worried about” You stare at him, eyes wide. “You almost killed your teammate and you have to get to a match in about thirty seconds, but that is what you're thinking about right now?!”

Atsumu's pout deepens. “Hey, I need my good luck kiss,” he whines at you, looking sulky. “Don't be mean.” 

You just roll your eyes at him. “You’ve done just fine without it up until now.”

“Well, from now on I need it,” he shoots back, eyebrows furrowed. Your shoulders sag a little. 

“But there's no one else around. What would be the point anyway?” 

Atsumu doesn't take very long to answer back, and in the back of your mind something tells you he's been planning this for a while. “I’ll cash in one of my free kisses!” he tells you smugly. “Ya can't say no to that.” 

You scowl immediately. “You're abusing your privileges.” 

Atsumu's pout returns. “Hey, ya promiseddddd,” he grumbles, giving you puppy eyes. “You agreeeeeed.”

“God, fine,” you spit out then, huffing out a frustrated sigh. “But this absolutely counts as a free kiss, and you’ve only got one left after this! Okay?” 

“Okay,” Atsumu replies, smiling brightly at you. His hand, still wrapped around your wrist, tugs you in closer and before you know it, you're pressed right back up against his chest. Only now, he’s looking down at you through half-lidded eyes. Your heart seems to do a backflip. 

“By the way,” Atsumu mumbles down to you, as he dips his head closer. “You look very cute in my jacket.” 

You want to reply but he kisses you before you can. And for some reason, you don't object. 

This isn’t the first time you’ve kissed Atsumu. This isn't even the first time you've kissed Atsumu this way; pressed up against him, with his arms around you and your own hands settled comfortably on the front of his chest. And yet, it feels different. He feels different. 

It's odd but you can’t help but chase it, allowing for the kiss to continue as you seek this feeling. It's something that twists in the very bottom of you stomach and has almost all your nerves tingling like your entire body is suddenly filled with static electricity. It makes you grab onto Atsumu a little tighter, your fingers digging into the fabric of his practice shirt. And it stops you from objecting when you feel his lips probe a little further, gliding against yours in a movement that makes your head spin. 

Really, you can’t help but feel like… this kiss means more than anything you’ve ever shared with Atsumu. And… you really like it. A lot. 

Too bad it's cut off by the faint blow of a whistle from back at the gym, the signal of the five minute call for all the players to be on the court. It startles you enough that you jump backwards, away from Atsumu, your cheeks suddenly feeling hot and your heart thumping hard in your chest. For a second the pair of you just stare at each other in complete silence, and you can't help but feel a sense of awe of the guy in front of you. But then your senses return to you and you drop his gaze immediately, going to stare at the floor. 

“There, you got your good luck kiss,” you mumble out, forcing yourself not to stutter over your words. “Now you’d better win or else I’ll kick your ass.” 

You hear Atsumu let out a snort of self-confident laughter. “Of course we’ll win, who do ya think I am, princess?” And then he's breezing past you, just like the rest of his team had minutes earlier, heading for the door of the locker room. His shoulder brushes yours as he moves past and you think he pauses very briefly in his steps, letting his head drop a little to he can whisper in your ear. 

“And thanks. Was a nice kiss.” 

And just like that, he’s gone, off to go do his thing on the court, and leaving you so flustered you almost forget how to breath. 

Damn him, you think angrily to yourself as you continue to stare down at the floor. Damn you, Miya Atsumu . 

There's no real malice in it though. None at all

The game, despite everything, goes amazingly well. With Atsumu obviously so off before stepping out onto the court, as well as the tension between the entire rest of the time, you'd been worried their ability to play volleyball would be compromised. The entire sport is so team based to the point that conflict between teammates has the potential to seriously mess up the rhythm of the teams play style. But Suna and Atsumu, while not interacting any more than is absolutely necessary, are able to play together enough that the Inarizaki team takes the first set by five points. 

You sit with Hinami through it all, cheering the boys on and snapping photos with your camera throughout. The stands in the Inarizaki gym aren't huge by any means, and space is hard to come by, but Hinami has managed to get the pair of you good seats closer to the back, so your ariel view of the court is amazing. You focus your camera whenever Atsumu goes to serve and try to get a few shots of the twins' combos too; particularly their erratic quick attack that they'd stolen off the Karasuno team during last year's Spring Nationals. You try not to focus too much on trying to deduce the situation between Atsumu and Suna and do your best to switch your attention from being a "volleyball girlfriend" to being a photographer of the match. Ans=d thank goodness Atsumu is so photogenic when he's playing because some of the shots you do grab are absolutely stunning. 

The college team manages to snag the second set just barely after a few flubbed serves by the Inarizaki boys. Your eyes immediately jump to Suna when the whistle blows, instinct taking over your body. But then you force yourself to look away, to look at Atsumu instead. He's in the midst of jogging over towards his twin, his cheeks flushed and hair damp with sweat from the speed of the game. He doesn't notice you looking and you do eventually drop yours eyes from him too, when he hitches up the bottom of his shirt to use it to wipe the sweat from his face. 

The third set comes along quickly and seems to be over in a flash. The Inarizaki players seem to be filled with more vigour after losing the second set, and they smash through their opponents once again to take the set by three points. Around you, the small crowd breaks out into cheers of joy and you can't help but snap a photograph of the happy faces around you (not for the school newspaper but just for yourself). Then you hand your camera back to Hinami and get to your feet a little earlier than usual so you can go to down to the court to congratulate the team. 

Your steps are steady as you descend the stands, however your heart is pounding. You’re nervous - for what, you're not entirely sure. You're still not entirely sure what the incident between Atsumu and Suna earlier was about, however with the atmosphere between the teammates back in the locker room, your instincts are telling you that you probably had a lot to do with it. You know that Atsumu was never Suna’s closest friend; that spot has always been reserved for Osamu. But it’s not like they disliked each other before now, so… 

Well, the fact that you feel guilty now about possibly causing conflict between the team is only part of the reason you're so tense. You also don’t really know where you stand with Suna anymore - if he’s fighting with Atsumu about you (which you're still not sure is actually the case but you're just assuming) then he must care at least a little, right? If he truly didn’t give a damn, you know he wouldn’t be as upset by your “relationship” with Atsumu as he is. And while you don’t like the idea of either of them fighting, you can’t help but think… what you're doing with Atsumu is working. 

The team is celebrating by the time you finally land on the court, all exchanging smiles and excited high fives. While it’s not an official match that they’ve just won, the victorious feeling is still there, and you know as a team they’re very proud of the fact that they’re able to beat a local collage team - especially so, now that their old upperclassman, Kita-san, Ojiro-san, Omimi-san and Akagi-san, who they all admired a lot, have now left. You can’t help the smile that tugs on your lips as you approach, their infectious enthusiasm fizzing through your system, and when Kosaku eventually catches sight of you and waves excitedly, you return it with just as much energy. 

“Hey hey!” Riseki says happily when he too turns to see you. He jumps over, waving his arms wildly in excitement. “Did you see my serve? Did you? It was so good! I totally nailed that serve toss and then just slammed it like whoosh!” 

You laugh at his enthusiasm, nodding along encouragingly as he continues to describe his service ace in detail. You’ve always felt a certain warmth towards Riseki, ever since you first met him last year; probably because he’s your kohai and has looked up to you in a way not many people have throughout your time in high school. You make sure to slap his palm hard when he raises his hand for a high five and then reach up to ruffle at his hair. “Yeah, your serve was great! I got some really good photos of it!”

Riseki’s eyes light up immediately and he seems to glow with excitement. “Oh, you did? Ooh ooh please can I see ‘em! Please please please?!”

You open your mouth to assure him that you will definitely let him see the photos, however he’s shooed away then by another, taller figure who moves up from behind him. 

“Alright, buzz off,” says a familiar voice. “Yer hoggin' my girlfriend.” 

“Oh-” Riseki steps back immediately, looking embarrassed. “Right. Sorry.”

Atsumu snorts and just elbows him away before turn to look down at you. He’s covered in sweat, you notice immediately, but theres an undeniable spark of fire in his eyes. You recognise it from his practices; he gets that look whenever he plays volleyball and enjoys it, and you can’t help but reciprocate the rush of happiness that he’s just oozing at the moment. 

“Hi-” you start, feeling a little awkward at first considered everything from before the match. However, you don't get the chance to continue because Atsumu sweeps you into his arms, lifting you right off your feet in a tight hug that has you squealing in surprise. 

“Ohmigod, Atsumu!” you shriek, arms automatically slipping around his neck as you try to steady yourself. “Put me down-!” He silences you by pressing his lips to yours. 

It's a very short kiss, and very performative. You can feel eyes on you from all around, especially those of his teammates, and you don’t feel that same… spark that you'd felt when you’d kissed him earlier. But you’re happy enough now that this feels nice regardless and you can't help but let out a giggle against his lips when someone from the college team whistles. 

Atsumu pulls back at that, his dark amber eyes searching yours for a moment. And you smile back at him happily before pinching his cheek between your fingers. 

“You were so good!” you tell him earnestly as he lets you slip back down so your feet are touching the floor once again. “It was amazing!”

Atsumu chuckles and reaches up to brush his own sweat-slicked hair back. His eyes glint. “Aw, thanks, princess,” he chirps. “But I knew I was gonna be amazin' already! I’ve got my good luck charm with me.” 

You raise one eyebrow at him and he replies with a quick kiss to your cheek before wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “I’m gonna have to bring ya to all of my matches from now on.” 

You flick his shoulder, your cheeks burning. “Why are you so cheesy?”

“I’m charming ,” Atsumu corrects you brightly before leaning in again. For a second, you think he’ll kiss you for a third time today and your heart does a very embarrassing, and very unnecessary backflip. But he just pulls you into another hug instead, fitting your face into the crook of his shoulder. Then you feel his low voice in your ear. 

“Put on a show, princess, that whole team’s watchin’.” 

You glance over his shoulder and realise he’s right. The whole team, the opponents, the entire room is watching you. And that includes Suna, who's standings little further away behind Osamu with an expression you can’t quite read on his face. 

Right now is the perfect opportunity to prove yourself to everyone. And yet… 

There’s something very deep down in your gut that twists uncomfortable with the reminder that this is all for show. It’s all for the eyes of everyone around you, and for them only. 

It's with this in mind that you turn your head a little so you can properly bury your face in Atsumu’s chest. You close your eyes and feel him against you. And for the briefest flash of a second that's over before it’s really started, you pretend there’s no one else around. 

Atsumu and Osamu walk you home that evening. It's a surprise for you because up until now, it’s only been Atsumu who’s been making the journey too and from school with you. But when you ask them about it, as the three of you step out of the school gates and begin the familiar treck home, Osamu informs you that he has been very strictly not allowed to accompany you and his brother on your walks to and from school. 

“Yer boyfriend is a sap,” is what he says to clarify when you give him a confused look. “He doesn’t want any of his precious time with ya wasted with me bein’ here.”

You round on Atsumu immediately, giving him a suspicious look through narrowed eyes. “You told me that Osamu didn’t want to walk with us!” you confront him. “Did you lie to me, Atsumu?”

Atsumu looks exaggeratedly shocked. “I would never lie to ya!” he says very firmly. “Relationships are built on trust!” 

“He definitely lied,” Osamu tellss you bluntly from where he’s walking on your other side. “Tsumu is a huge liar.”

“'Samu!”

“What!” Osamu cuts back at Atsumu, looking around you to glare at him. “You are!”

“I am not!”

“You ate my last coffee jelly and then tried to tell me ya didn't even though you were still holdin' the cup!”  

Atsumu has the grace to look a little guilty at that, and it tugs a short laugh from you as you watch him begin to blush. 

“Okay, maybe I did,” he concedes. But then he reaches out to grab your wrist and pulls you more towards him and further away from Osamu. “But I would never lie to her !”

“You did though,” you point out to him, trying not to laugh when he looks down at you with an absolutely mortified expression. “You said that Osamu didn’t want to walk with us when actually-” 

Atsumu slaps his palm over your mouth, cutting you off abruptly. He deliberately avoids eye contact with you, looking sulky. “Okay, maybe I did,” he says again. “But that was only cuz I wanted to spend more time with ya without shitty ‘Samu around.” He glares over the top of your head at his brother again, who just rolls his eyes in return. You push his hand away from your mouth so you can answer him, shaking your head. 

“You could’ve just said so,” you tell him, still fighting a smile at the sight of the blush that's sitting prettily across Atsumu’s cheekbones. “I wouldn't have minded.” For extra effect, you lean up to press a quick kiss to the line of his jaw. Atsumu’s face immediately begins to burn an even brighter red. 

“Although,” you continue, pulling away from Atsumu’s grip so you can move back towards Osamu’s direction. You stop when you’re evenly between the pair of twins, and flash Osamu a warm smile. “Now that Osamu’s here, I actually like having him around. Will you walk with us more often, Osamu?” 

Osamu looks at you, then at his brother, then back to you. Then he shrugs his shoulders briefly, his hands buried deep in his pockets. “Yeah, sure.” 

Atsumu splutters. “Hey! Yer supposed to say ‘no’ and leave me and my girlfriend alone!” 

Osamu just rolls his eyes. “S’not my problem yer girlfriend is better company than you are,” he shoots back calmly. Atsumu chokes. 

“Aww, thanks ‘Samu,” you say to him very sweetly, giving him your nicest smile. “Maybe I did pick the wrong Miya - oof!”

All the air seems to leave your lugs entirely as you’re grabbed from behind and then hoisted up and over one broad shoulder. You let out a shriek of surprise at the feeling as your eyes bulge and your world spins. And then all of a sudden you're looking down the maroon jacket-clad back of your fake boyfriend. You blink at it in surprise, watching as the fabric moves with each of his steps. It's the same as the one I've got on, you realise when you notice the lettering that runs across it. 

Miya. A . Just like what you’ve got written across you own shoulder blades . 

You're snapped from the thought very quickly though, when you suddenly realise Atsumu is holding you over his shoulder by a grip he has on the back of your thighs. Your face begins to burn. 

“Oh my god, you twat, put me down!” you screech, immediately trying your best to wriggle way from him while also keeping yoru school skirt in an appropriate position. “I swear, Atsumu-!”

“No,” is all he tells you in reply, sounding very indignant. “Not if yer gonna flirt with my brother right in front of me.” 

“I wasn’t flirting!” you shriek, your entire body growing hot with embarrassment. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if it was just Atsumu, but you can see Osamu watching the pair of you with an amused expression and it’s flustering you beyond belief. “I promise! Just put me down, you oaf!” 

Atsumu lets out a “humph” noise. He shifts his grip on you a little and you think he might actually be letting you go. But he only seems to adjust his hold before going back to carrying you just as before. You whine in frustration and slap at his back. “Atsumu!”

“I’ll let ya go,” he starts, and even though you can’t see his face you know he’s pouting. “If ya say that I am the better lookin' twin, and  that my hair is cooler than ‘Samu’s”

“Sweet lord-” you mumble to yourself, rolling your eyes so hard you almost give yourself a migraine. “What are you, five???”

“Otherwise I can just carry ya the whole way,” is all Atsumu has to say in response. You want to protest that it's still a good fifteen minutes walk to your house and he won’t be able to carry you for that long. But then you realise that he’s practically a professional volleyball player at this point and he could absolutely carry you all the way home, probably without breaking a sweat. Your body sags with defeat. 

“Fine,” you grumble out. “But I’m just saying those two things and then you will put me down.” 

“Of course!” Atsumu tells you sweetly. You don’t believe his sweetness for one second. 

“You are the better looking Miya twin,” you grit out through your teeth, “And your hair is cooler than Osamu’s.” 

Despite the fact that you're supposedly dating the guy, that sentence is very hard to say out loud. 

Atsumu chuckles heartily and reaches up to pat your back. “See, that wasn’t so hard,” he tells you happily. You can only glare at his shoulder muscles. 

“There, I said it, so put me down.” 

“Anythin’ for you, princess.” 

You let out a squeak of surprise when just as suddenly as you were grabbed, you're now dropped. Thankfully, Atsumu doesn’t just let you hit the ground; his grip remains on you long enough for his hands to grab your waist and then he lowers you very gently for the last couple of centimetres until your shoes are safely on the pavement once again. 

Immediately, you slap his chest. “You're a dick,” you tell him firmly before turning around and starting to walk once again. Osamu is still there, keeping pace with the both of you the whole time, and so you turn to him, your expression sour. “Does he behave like this all the time?” 

Osamu snorts. “Well, he doesn’t throw me over his shoulder and walk 'round the house,” he tells you casually. “He’s way too weak for that. But he is still a dick.” 

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Oi,” Atsumu's voice cuts in and then he grabs your wrist once again, and pulls you around to his other side. “That’s it, you two can’t talk anymore.” 

“Jus’ because yer fat ass is in the way doesn’t mean I can’t talk 'round ya,” Osamu tells him. Atsumu promptly aims a kick at the back of his brother’s knee. 

“Screw off, old man, stop tryna steal my girl.” 

“Old man?! Yer the older twin, dumbass!” 

“Yeah, but you have grey hair. So yer old.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

You can’t help but burst out laughing, watching as they start swinging and dodging away from each other. These are the Miya twins you're used to, the ones you’d see in the background when you hung around with Suna and the ones he’d send you videos of at random hours of the day. This feels familiar, despite the fact that you’ve never been so involved before. And as the two brothers eventually notice the way you're giggling and turn to you, each with a similar warmth and spark of fun in their eyes, you feel something swell in your chest. 

Maybe it’s a good thing that everything turned out the way it did, something inside you says quietly. Otherwise you wouldn’t have gotten to experience this . 

When you finally arrive at your house, Atsumu walks you right up to the the front door in an effort to “prove” that he's a good boyfriend. He also instructs Osamu to “stay the hell back” so he can give you a proper goodbye. Osamu says he’s glad to stay behind because he doen’t want to see that shit, and with that you and Atsumu step right up to the front porch of your house. When you reach the front door, you turn to look at him. 

“Thanks for walking me home,” you say quietly. “I appreciate it.”

Atsumu gives you a smile and a shrug in response. “”Course I’d walk ya,” he says. “Can’t let my girlfriend walk by herself in the dark, right?”

You roll your eyes and flick him in the centre of the forehead, holding back a smile. “You’ve really dedicated yourself to the part, huh.”

“Obviously,’ Atsumu grins. “When I do somethin’, I’m the best at it. So I gotta be the best fake boyfriend you’ve ever had.”

“You're the first fake boyfriend I’ve ever had,” you say to him firmly. “And the only one. This isn’t gonna be a recurring thing.” 

“Aw, that makes me feel special,” Atsumu says and then ducks away when you go to flick him again. A genuinely warm smile tugs at his lips. 

“It’s nice hangin' out with ya though, so don’t think I’m forcin' myself into this.” 

You give him a smile in return. “That's good to know.”

“And, uh,” Atsumu starts, scratching at the back of his neck. “Thanks for… well, earlier. In the locker room. Sorry if I scared ya.” 

You blink, a little surprised at the fact that he even brought it up. You're used to most of the emotional moments between you and your “boyfriends” being dismissed immediately, so having Atsumu acknowledge the fact that he’d cracked a little in front of you - it’s new for you. But for some reason, you like it. 

“Of course, I don’t mind,” you tell him, your voice a little softer. “I’m happy I could… help. But…” you nibble at the inside of your lip. “Are you gonna tell me what that was about?”

Atsumu lets out a soft sigh, his shoulders sagging a bit. You can see it in his eyes, he doesn’t want to. But there’s also determination written across his face which you don’t entirely understand. 

“We can talk about it,” he says eventually. “Just not now.” 

“So on Monday?” you ask, thinking that since it's the weekend now, you won't see him until then. Atsumu purses his lips. 

“I’ll text ya about it,” he says eventually. You face falls a little when you realise how serious the expression on his face has become. If you can’t speak about it at school, then it's probably something bad. And that makes what feels like an ice cubs slide down your throat. 

Atsumu seems to notice your discomfort and without really seeming to think, he reaches for your hand. You inhale when you feel the warmth of his palm close around yours, your eyes widening just a little. Then he squeezes your fingers slowly, comfortingly, and you relax again. 

“I don’t want ya to worry about it too much, okay?” Atsumu tells you softly. His eyes are sincere. “Don't… don’t overthink it.” 

You let out a short breath as you stare up at him, wondering briefly how he's gotten to know you so well over the very short amount of time you've had together. Then you nod slowly. “Okay. I won’t.” 

“I’ll text ya,” Atsumu assures you softly, squeezing your hand again. “I promise.” 

“Okay,” you says again, a little softer this time. Only somehow it seems more certain. 

Theres a moment of silence as you both just look at each other. Then, very slowly, Atsumu leans in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. “G’night, princess,” he says quietly to you, his words brushing over your skin and sending shivers own your spine. “Thanks for comin' to watch today.” 

“O-of course,” you mumble back, stuttering a little as your heart jumps. “Good night, Atsumu.” 

He steps back then and goes to leave, turning his back on you so he can descend the steps of the porch and head back to the road when Osamu is waiting. However, at the very last minute, your mind jumps with realisation and you reach out to grab his wrist. “Atsumu-”

Atsumu looks back over his shoulder, eyes questioning. “Yeah?

“Your jacket,” you say. You're still wearing it, you’ve just realised, as heat blooms in your cheeks. He’ll probably want it back and since you have no reason to keep it any longer, you might as well just do it now. However, when you go to unzip the thing, Atsumu shakes his head. 

"Keep it,” he tells you gently, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards in a smile. “It's too small f’me anyway. And it suits ya.” 

You can't formulate any words in reply and simply nod in understanding as he sends you a cocky smirk. “You’ve still gotta wear it to my other games too!” And then he turns back around and continues on his way, back towards Osamu. Your hand falls back to your side from where your grip on his wrist has fallen away and you can't help but stand and watch until Atsumu and his brother are both walking off, waving back at you in farewell. 

When you step back inside your house, your mother is the first to greet you. 

“Hello,” she says brightly, peeking her head out from the kitchen as you kick off your shoes at the doorway. “Did you have a good day?”

“Yeah,” you mumble back. Your voice is weak. 

“How’d the volleyball match go?” 

“Our team won,” you tell her simply again. When you stand up straight and walk further into the house, you head straight for the stairs to go up to your bedroom. As you take the first step, you hear your mom call out to you again. 

“Who’s jacket it that? It's not yours, is it?"

“No,” you shake your head in reply. “I wore it to show support for the volleyball game.” 

“So who’s is it?”

You answer without even thinking. “My boyfriend’s.” For the briefest of seconds, the word ‘fake’ doesn’t even cross your mind.

[wonder-in-wings]

'Objects in the Mirror...' || Dīs, Parker

TIMING: Sometime in July LOCATION: Natural History Museum PARTIES: Dīs (@disinfernus and Parker (@wonder-in-wings SUMMARY: ‘...Are closer than they appear.’ Dīs goes to the Natural History Museum where they encounter the unnatural Parker. The two are similar, yet different and they talk about their respective interests and collections. CONTENT WARNINGS: None

Keeping to what they knew was what Dīs did best, but every so often they were drawn out of the comfort of their shadowed hole and thrust into the middle of human social interaction. That day it came in the form of crowds surrounding a new insect display at the local museum. The museum had always been there, of course, but there had never been enough hum or drum for them to simply allow their curiosity to take the reins.

The energy within the building was alight — there were plenty of children and their sounds of excitement or disgust at the pinned arthropods echoed around the display. They flitted between adults and nearly ran into Dīs, who only tried to get a closer look at a detailed array of butterflies. Their brief moment of disdain must have been noticed as they could feel a pair of eyes linger on their person; it was only the wrinkle of their nose and maybe a grimace, but could they be blamed? — Another day at the museum, another day of astute observation and answering the occasional question for Parker as this was the singular place in public that he felt comfortable in his explanations and rather confident, if still a little stand-offish, with where he was. He learned a while back that he probably should’ve had a job that dealt with the public, if only because he wasn’t going to get what he wanted if he hid in a hole all day or haunted his condo while he took advantage of the racket he involved himself in previously. That wasn’t to say it was tempting sometimes, as Parker didn’t quite enjoy the buzzing of children and their noises as much as he could’ve given his own interest in the field he served. The good news was that with insects, it was slightly more niche than something like dinosaur bones or the renaissance art that sat in the art exhibits of other museums. No, the reason why he worked with the public, uncomfortable though it was sometimes, was for instances like the one Parker found himself in today. The warden felt something rippling under his skin, almost as though the iron in his blood was turning itself over like a line of dominos. It was psychosomatic, of course, or he assumed it had to be since he didn’t actually have dominos under his skin but he’d experienced that sensation increasingly since his smart decision to move to Wicked’s Rest. There was a fae there. And while Parker wasn’t one to make assumptions based on physical appearance - your style was your own, even if it was stupid - this rippling feeling helped him narrow down who it was and as luck would have it, it was the tall individual who looked ready to make an appearance at a funeral. He didn’t react immediately - he had also since learned that causing a scene wasn’t preferable to any parties involved - but he was driven by an intense curiosity and it naturally carried him across the room, stopping only long enough to answer a passing question or direct someone to the place they needed to go. Soon enough, he was standing near the individual and though he wasn’t confrontational yet, he did have a habit of staring. “Are you enjoying the exhibit?” Parker asked the shadow-clad stranger, instinctively turning his head so his good ear was ready for any incoming answer. — Dīs was aware they looked largely out of place, both in style and height, but they paid no mind to the drive-bys that came from the other patrons’ eyes. Not until one of them broke their silence and engaged them, likely in the hopes of starting a conversation. There was a tinge of contentment when they noted their company was just about eye-level, a happy surprise given how many of the townsfolk were vertically challenged. But then again, everyone was vertically challenged in their opinion. It came with the territory.

They had to wonder if this person caught a whiff of their expression of distaste at the rambunctious children that paid little to no mind to the beautiful displays set before them. Probably. They didn’t try to hide it. Dīs tore their attention away from the specimen they were eyeing the moment the question escaped the other man. They took note of the museum badge before their eyes met with the inquisitive, and beautiful, pair. 

“I am, yes,” they returned with a pleasant enough smile before chasing away the momentary pause with a slight shrug. “Well, as much as I am able to.” As if on cue, a toddler erupted into a bark of a screech. The sound was curt, but piercing. Dīs refrained from rolling their eyes. “Is it yours, then? It’s very well put together.” — The Warden had to maintain his professionalism. He couldn’t slip up again, not during that time of day and not when there were so many people around as noted by the sharp cry of a toddler and though he didn’t physically react like holding a hand over his other ear, his brow did furrow with the unpleasant sensation, his mouth thinning. Parker understood the stranger’s sentiment oftentimes - he needed to get away from the museum eventually, to open his own galleria where he could bar the entry of children 12 and under. He had art and kids didn’t get it. “It is.” Parker replied, still feeling his blood rippling under his skin and while he didn’t look away from the stranger, their eyes locking but with no indication that he was afraid, he did force himself to take a small step away. He wasn’t afraid, and this fae was none the wiser about what he was. “There’s something inherently satisfying about admiring a collection.” He said, motioning to the displays. “Even if it’s not appreciated by most.” Parker removed his eyes from the dark stranger and looked forward now. “Is there anything you collect?” He asked keenly, the movement of his blood easing up ever-so-slightly as he willed it to calm down; he knew a fae was standing before him, there was nothing he could do about it at present so the sooner he got comfortable, the better though his mind started buzzing with the singular question he desired to know above all others - what do you look like? —

There had been a number of different prospects and ideas when it came to Dīs’ plan to grow their subterranean and undead kingdom. A few seemed to genuinely have potential — a carnival and a haunted house tour were at the top, but there was one thing that helped them to make a decision: families. Families were messy and large and tended to come with small, germ infested children who were loud and touched everything. That made the decision to settle on a casino and hotel hybrid. Sure, there was the occasional parent and older kid, or a couple with a toddler or two, but the casino on the first floor tended to deter a lot of them. If they wanted family friendly, they should have gone to Florida for their vacation instead.

Most people in the museum didn’t seem to get the memo, but most people were probably locals, anyway. That didn’t stop Dīs from wishing there was a natural child deterrent as well, but alas — they couldn’t have it all. They had this conversation, on the other hand, which was a good distraction from the voices that echoed around them. “I feel their appreciation is more valuable when there’s not much of it. But that may be just me.”

“I do, yes,” they replied; there was a tint of eagerness in their tone that was likely noticed. There were not many whom Dīs had the pleasure of swapping collection stories with. Most of their family, though as obsessive as they were in their own right, couldn’t understand the youngest lampade’s affinity for things. “I collect antiques, which is incredibly broad, I know, but my collection is made up of a bit of everything really. Books, silverware, paintings — as long as it’s over one hundred years old, I want it.”

—

“I agree.” The Warden said in response to the first statement - if he had his way, there would be no children ever. No children, no animals, just adults and their appreciation for beauty, even if it was nonstandard. They weren’t here to entertain their mutual disdain for children, though, as Parker’s blood still rippled underneath his skin and he asked the fae if they liked collecting as well. When they replied that they did, their voice taking a tone that indicated that it was something they were passionate about or at least proud of, Parker took a deep, steady breath as he listened keenly. His brother once suggested that he try to expand his hobbies, noting the Warden’s array of talents that he could’ve pursued that he simply opted not to in favor of his insects, swimming, anatomy. ‘You could sing on Broadway’, his brother said, lightly nudging him. ‘You know mom would love that. Plus, I bet there’s a bunch of fae in New York; I mean, c’mon. It’s New York’. What a waste of time. He supposed there was value to antiques, even if Parker himself couldn’t appreciate the sentiment in the same way the fae did, but regardless of where that spark of collection came from, the Warden tried to understand the perspective. That being said, he was still standing before a fae– no, not entirely correct. A fae - nymph, the more he felt his blood protesting despite his command to calm it - was standing before him. “Antiques. Such a broad umbrella, as described yourself, surely never wanes or finds itself bored.” He remarked. “Obviously, I collect insects on a surface level.” It was his turn, turning to look back at the displays with his own level of admiration in his eyes. “But I find a particular beauty in wings.” Parker said, his own tone drawing breath, a sense of longing and reverence in his otherwise flat tone. “The vestigial limbs that serve no purpose, are just there to make a statement and showcase one’s pride. A status symbol. I’m still missing a few, though I’m far from picky; there’s always room for more.” He looked sideways at the stranger, his steely gaze unblinking. “Do you have wings?”

—

It was always nice to meet someone even slightly like minded, even if the conversation stayed at surface level. There really was no intention of going deeper, not unless something else painted itself interest piquing. Their insect collection was beautiful and expansive, sure, but lots of people collected things. There was nothing inherently special about that. 

For Dīs though, it was important. Not special, no, but it kept them company when no other fae wanted to deal with their unusual behavior. Clingy, annoying, too much — lost trinkets and rotting corpses never complained like they all did. The jewels glittered and glistened, bodies numerous and silent, their own little kingdom of death and wealth. Their family couldn’t understand it, they tolerated it, but their distance only served to fuel the collection further.

“Well, now, I would have to disagree,” Dīs continued, their brow now furrowed. “Wings serve a multitude of purposes from protection, mating and the most obvious — flight. I really do not think a honey bee would do very well without their wings, do you? I don’t think the flowers would, either. But that’s an extreme.”

The question itself wasn’t particularly jarring, but there was something about the way the curator looked at them that caused a frown and a deep worry to settle in their body. “A few, but nothing that you don’t have here already. I don’t really collect insects, though.” Dīs sniffed. “They were gifts.”

After a beat, they asked: “Do you have a favorite pair?”

—

A soft inhale through an arrow-straight nose. Either the fae was playing stupid, as they all tended to do when they thought they were in control of an interaction with someone as ‘simple’ as a human, or Parker had been too subtle in his line of questioning. He wondered how often it was a little bit of both. “No no, you’re right. Wings do serve a purpose… for insects.” He exhaled and folded his arms in front of him as he tilted his head slightly to stare into the middle distance, not focusing on anything. “Favorite pair?” He repeated the question, letting it linger in the air for a long moment before he nodded his head ever-so-slightly. Did he? Parker had a handful to choose from, finding intense fascination and beauty in all of them but after the silence in which the collector sorted through his options, he chose one; of course he did, the thought that he wouldn’t choose these suddenly made ridiculous. 

“I was incredibly fortunate to receive a pair from one that was a morpho menelaus - the Blue Morpho species.” He began to explain and it was his turn for there to mark the beginnings of a softness, a gentle reverence as he described them. “Usually, you can tell the difference in male and female patterns but this one was affected by gynandromorphism - the wings have the markings of both male and female cells. “So they’re blue morpho, but they have a beautiful weaving of the aquamarine from the male and the brown spots of the female.” Parker’s eyes seemed to light up, all but forgetting for a fraction of a moment where he was or what he was talking to. 

“I’d never met an entomid with wings like that before. I likely won’t ever again.” The ghost of a smile crossed his face. “Truly one of a kind. They’re with my mother, hanging on her wall.”

—

For now, nothing seemed too amiss about the conversation other than the curator’s own unusual air and surprisingly narrow-minded opinion on insect wings. For someone who claimed to work so closely with them, you’d think they would know of their importance. They very well served quite the purpose for insects, yes Dīs was glad for the agreement, but the man’s tone felt off.

Dīs wasn’t entirely sure if they were just sensitive or not considering the clusters of crowd that danced around their fixed point in the room. That creeping feeling didn’t last, and it gave way to something else as his company spoke on about his favorite pair of wings. The twinkle of admiration, maybe even adoration, was a familiar one to catch in the other man’s eye. It was refreshing to see.

Until it felt off again. Entomid. Entomid. The little hairs all over their glamour stood on end, causing their skin to prickle with goosebumps. Why would he just give himself up like that? To even the playing field? Was there an ace up his sleeve? Dīs kept their expression as placid, though seemingly interested in the story, as possible.

“That’s quite a beautiful gift, I’m sure your mother appreciates them.” Dīs lifted a brow and turned from the framed insects to eye the man beside them. “What happened to the morpho? Were they already dead?”

Or did you kill them? 

—

He felt the eyes of the fae on him and instinctively, as though activating for fight-or-flight mode upon the gaze, the blood in his veins churned in a particularly strong pulse. Just once, but enough to serve as a steady reminder that the stranger wasn’t human. Not that Parker had since forgotten; he wasn’t stupid. “Dead? No.” He shook his head faintly, his brow furrowing slightly at the implication. “Well… it might be dead now. I’m not sure; it was a few years ago. It was alive before and after I harvested its wings, though.” Parker explained. “I don’t prefer to kill and I don’t like getting into fights; they often lessen the quality of the specimen.” He looked the fae in the eye again, unwavering, his stare icy and while he hadn’t, one might’ve been mistaken for thinking the Warden had somehow gained the ability to see through the veil of a fae glamour. And as one got to know someone like Parker, maybe they’d even wonder which individual that ability would be more detrimental to. “As I said, vestigial limbs. Status symbols.” His gaze flickered up to just above the fae’s head, briefly dancing in the empty space where he knew a set of horns or plantlike antlers would be if the nymph possessed them. His eyes then darted back down to look just past the gothic stranger, where a set of wings would typically rest. “That’s the thing with collecting though, as I’m sure you know.” He mused. “I never know what I want, what I didn’t realize I wanted, until I see it.” It was a blanket statement and if the fae wasn’t dumb, they’d know what he meant. “Are you similar?”

—

“So you maim them, then?” Dīs uttered a curt laugh through their barely parted lips. This one was a strange one. It wasn’t unlike looking into a mirror, if the mirror were warped and found in a funhouse. “I find keeping specimens whole preserves their beauty. Breaking them seems… unnecessary and wasteful.”

Warden. That’s what they were called, wasn’t it? Hunter, to be nondescript, but Warden was the preferred nomenclature. It was the word that circled their brain the moment he’d revealed his hand. But why? To gloat? Or was this a distraction? The grand reveal could mean a lot of things, too many for Dīs to pinpoint a single reason, but as fun as the game was, they didn’t want to be stuck in it forever — or meet whatever end that poor entomid had.

“Let’s agree to disagree then.” Clearly they wouldn’t change his mind, not that they really wanted to, but his obstinate nature and clear, yet downplayed, obsession with mutilating fae, especially those of the insect variety given the evidence, incited an eagerness to add him to their own collection. Now that would be quite the challenge.

“I am, yes,” Dīs spoke truthfully and smiled knowingly. “Very much so. Most of the time I won’t know what I want until it practically walks up to me. I’ve found some of the best pieces that way.”

—

“Call it what you will.” And Parker opted to call it ‘humbling’. More or less, that’s what his brother opted to call it after a while, once he had relinquished ever fully knowing what Parker’s problem and subsequent drive was, even though the Warden himself thought it was rather obvious. Fae were haughty. They were entitled. The one who stood before him, he realized with approximately zero surprise, was no different as they talked. “Very well.” The Warden, the same ghost of the smile that had tugged at the corners of his mouth now daring to flit across his face for a moment. Fake. Stretched over his teeth and never reaching his eyes that still stared just past the nymph. It was brief and soon enough it was put back in its place under his dermis. It didn’t feel right on his face. It never did, even when it was genuine, which he couldn’t tell anymore. If it was ever genuine. As the fae spoke, Parker could pick up that it too was using word games. None of it was new to the Warden - the fae often played their word games and it was him that started this battle - so it didn’t take the man too long to realize that the fae was referring to him. “Indeed.” How grand would that be, truly, to be considered a specimen worth adding to someone’s collection. Even if it were a fae. Now if only it weren’t. It was unfortunate, really… Parker didn’t have any friends, no one to talk about his strange obsessions with, his passion for what he did and especially not why. No one ever asked why aside from a surface level as they were either looking at him with disgust or begging for him not to harvest from them. “It’s a shame you only collect antiques, then.” Parker replied rather casually. “What was it you said, so long as it was over one hundred?” The real question was ‘would the fae renege on its statement earlier’, make an exception or would it stick to its pride and carefully curated responses.

—

They couldn’t agree, wouldn’t. That much was clear and that much was fine with Dīs. It made their conversation crawl to a standstill. Meeting someone new, even for their own collection, wasn’t the reason they were in the museum in the first place, but truthfully, it made the other man all the more interesting. It made them want to know him more. But they were being regarded as prey, at least that was the feeling they got, and they didn’t really like it when the tables were turned on them. 

“Yes, as long as it’s over one hundred,” Dīs reiterated; this was no choreographed dance, and it was left open for any sort of mishap. They were not above putting their own body in the crossfire when it came to backing on prior statements, causing them pain or illness of any sort. But if they could avoid it by following the music that seemed to play for only the pair, that would be even better.

Sometimes, though, Dīs didn’t care for the music.

“A shame? Oh no, I wouldn’t say that. I see it as an opportunity to start expanding my collection. I hear retro is very in.” They felt their phone vibrate in their pocket, an irony considering they were about to use time as an excuse to leave. A glance at the screen elicited the slightest crinkle in the fae’s hazel eyes - irritation. The phone was slipped back into its cloth cocoon. 

“Unfortunately, I do need to leave, but this was an… enlightening conversation.” Dīs pulled the mass of wavy, black hair into one hand and draped it over the shoulder furthest from their company. A question dared itself to rear its head, a curiosity that may go unanswered, but what harm could it do? He apparently already knew what they were (there was no way they were mistaken for a hunter, either), and was confident enough to reveal himself.

Dīs wanted to know why.

“I do have one question for you before I go.” They kept their expression pleasant, but their eyes stopped onto the pinned insects in front of them. “I’ve been told that there are two types of people who show their cards early in a game. There are the ones who are a little too excitable, maybe even a little stupid… and then there are the ones who have something up their sleeve. Why did you show me your cards,” their golden eyes flicked down to the name tag before drifting back up to the man’s face, “Mr. Wright?”

He had the upper hand, Dīs could admit that. Why did he seemingly throw that away? Did he know something they didn’t?

—

‘Retro is very in’. Parker wouldn’t have considered ‘archaic’ to qualify as ‘retro’ but he knew what the nymph meant. At least it didn’t change its previous statement and it only served to assist in his lack of fear towards the fae. And while he uncharacteristically thought that perhaps he could keep his casual responses going for a little while longer, the nymph retrieved its phone and would be the first to depart from their conversation. Though he wasn’t feeling it then, the Warden knew that this was for the best of both parties - the longer he remained in close proximity to the nymph, the more he could feel his blood frothing, his mind burning with curiosity, his imagination ravenous like a wolf being tempted with the promise of a feast. If only it could pierce the veil. The same smile that had threatened Parker’s face still lingered, though it never quite made its appearance and he kept his icy blue eyes on the fae as it asked ‘why’. That was the question, wasn’t it? Why did anyone do anything? Why was the fae in the museum, at his exhibition, walking about like a dime-store goth and entertaining fancies like collecting dusty artifacts then telling him that he was being wasteful by not keeping the entire body of a fae in his basement. He was a Collector, not a serial killer. Maybe one day people would learn not to conflate the two. For now, though, Parker let the question linger in the air for a moment, but not too long of a moment as he knew his company was summoned elsewhere. He himself turned back to the displays, his eyes dancing over the intricate patterns of the wings. “There’s a third reason why someone may show their hand; it’s when they don’t consider whoever they’re showing to be a player in the game.” The Warden rested his hands on his belt - not his trusty utility belt, unfortunately, but this one still had one pouch that he could place his thumb on. He also opted to leave off the part where he didn’t consider the conversation enlightening, not really. It was an amusing waste of time, or it would’ve been if Parker found literally anything amusing. He didn’t though, the least of all, fae. He… loathed them at the best of times. ‘You’re so much fun at parties.’ “The answer is irrelevant; from our discussion, it seems you also have a set mind so you’re inclined to believe what you want.” With that, Parker gave a small bow of his head to the nymph. “Have a nice day.” And he turned and walked back to where he was standing previously, his back straight, his posture professional and his mind wanting him to tear that veil off of the nymph to see what it was hiding from him, what he could harvest and add to his collection.

—

The universe did a good job at remaining neutral. Between their encounter in such a public setting and the urgent message ending it just when things were getting good, the universe was nothing short of an artist. But it did make their paths cross, for whatever reason — they were now aware of each other’s presence. That both excited Dīs and worried them. Although they were long-lived and still had a ways to go, they weren’t invincible by any means. Not to mention, they couldn’t imagine living without their antlers, or their crown, so to speak.

Perhaps Parker was right about that, about their pride being held in what made them fae. But humans did the same thing, did they not? They had to wonder how he would feel if they took something of his own.

“Glass houses, my friend.” Pride, self-importance, a confidence in one’s own abilities and power — the reflection was clear. It really was a shame that he turned out to be a hunter; Dīs would have liked to have someone like him around during their adolescence, a friend, even if they disagreed on most. The phrase ‘unstoppable force vs. immovable object’ came to mind, eliciting only a soft chuckle in response. Yes, it did seem that both of their minds were made up. The dismissal was expected yet still curt and left them to stare after the man’s back with the ghost of their chuckle still on their face.

“You as well.” Their smile dropped when they gave the butterfly on the wall one last glance before they sauntered out with a new heaviness that settled uncomfortably on their mind. They had a feeling that this wouldn’t be the last they saw of Parker Wright.

[lilbreck]

ST:TOS 103 - Where No Man Has Gone Before

Yes, we did skip an episode. No, we will not be reviewing Charlie X. While we found both Charlie and Mitchell creepy, Charlie’s age and his ability to control people made both of us too uncomfortable to enjoy even watching the episode.

We open the episode with Spock and Kirk wearing ugly sweaters and Spock without his eyeshadow. Though, Nimoy’s makeup almost matches his sweater. This scene also brings us another bit of Early Episode Weirdness in that Spock claims that one of his ancestors married a human female. He neglects to mention that said ancestor was his father and the woman was his mother. I’m thinking that they didn’t have Spock’s full backstory fleshed out when they started filming. At least his eyebrows are closer to being in check. Yes, I’m endlessly amused by this.

I can only assume that Spock and Kirk are currently still on duty in uniform, because we do see people out of uniform in the back. I can’t remember, do we ever see the main crew out of uniform on the ship? (Daughter’s note: Why don’t they have badges if they’re in uniform? Did they fall off without them noticing?)

I know it’s nitpicky, but they don’t have any sort of quarantine procedure for things they beam onboard? I’m pretty sure they address this in Strange New Worlds, IIRC, and possibly in some of the other Star Trek series, but it really does seem like a major oversight. No decontamination or anything. It’s really surprising there weren’t more outbreaks of strange viruses or radiation sickness on starships.

As much as I love the touch screens of the later shows, there is something I just adore about all the toggles, switches, and physical buttons of the old Trek. One thing I never loved? When a superior would come over and hover as if he actually knew what you were doing and was making sure you were doing it right. I refuse to believe Kirk could actually operate the transporter controls unless they had been pre-prepared for him and he only needed to touch one button.

I know it’s kind of hard to tell because he’s wearing the wrong color shirt, but there’s our first Scotty sighting! Now just to figure out the first time he and Uhura are in a scene together. And you thought your pairs were rare. Also, the disaster recorder (which I keep mistakenly calling a probe) looks like some sort of filter drum from an industrial AC unit.

When they talked about its tapes being intact, my daughter got a big laugh. I told her that “In the future, we’ll like things retro.” Retro apparently also means downgrading back to the previous big screen TV/view screen. Side note: there is no need to have someone hovering over the captain’s shoulder like that. At one point he even directs her to stand in a different place. What was even the point of this character?

At this point I become very confused. Where exactly are they heading? They can’t be following a signal, because the signal is coming from the recorder. Just, they randomly start heading somewhere and run into what is probably the same strange field.

Now, we have two other new characters, and you can tell the woman (Elizabeth Dehner) will be sexually repressed because she’s wearing pants. This is confirmed when Mitchell inappropriately tries to flirt with her, and she basically rejects him. He then calls her a walking freezer unit and my daughter and I decide he needs to die painfully. Side note: there is no real point to her character. She doesn’t even get any real part to play until very near the end, and it was not all that necessary.

I know it was the 60s, and it’s possible that those kind of things were taken more seriously, but the way they talk about ESP and things like that as if they’re Very Scientific™ just makes me giggle.

Another issue I have with this episode is that they took the ship out of the galaxy instead of sending some sort of probe to gather information. Apparently, Starfleet and/or The Enterprise are run by Kerbals.

Given that both actors who had to wear the contacts kept their heads tilted back and seemed to be looking down toward what they were trying to see, I wonder if that’s the only way they could actually see out of them. I can’t imagine they were terribly comfortable.

Later on we get needless and uncomfortable interactions between Mitchell and Dehner, Mitchell being creepy and ominous, and Spock jumping right to “Kill him, Jim.” Of course, then we get undeniable proof that Mitchell and Kirk could never have really been friends:

He couldn’t even get Kirk’s middle initial right. Or, you know, they hadn’t actually worked on Kirk’s full bio at this point.

In the fight scene, the first where we get a ripped Kirk shirt, we never actually see what rips the shirt. We have Shatner’s body double do a flying tackle and then, when we cut to Shatner getting up (please forgive the blurriness):

It ends with Mitchell being buried in a grave (that I don’t think could have held him) and Dehner dying from… Emperor Palpatine style lightning bolt fingers. Kirk records that they both died in the line of duty. I choose to believe both bodies were left there, and they recovered. They learned to get along and remade the planet to be very hospitable… or they moved to a one far away. They’re gods, they can do that shit.

End of episode tallies (details by daughter)

Unprofessional Behavior: 01 (Mitchell, who was still himself at the time, harasses Dehner. After the zapping, however, I consider him under the influence and as such, none of his interactions with Kirk afterward count.) Total: 05

Starfleet Are Cheapskates: 01 (Kirk’s shirt got ripped and we don’t know why. RIP.) Total: 02

Reasons Why Enterprise Needs a Counselor: 01 (Kirk had to kill his friend.) Total: 02

Early Episode Weirdness: 04 (Spock? Why are you wearing yellow? And downplaying your human heritage? And you too, Scotty. Minus the human heritage. Spock also suggests killing Mitchell sooner than he probably would have later on.) Total: 05

In The Future, We Like It Retro: 01 (Tapes. They use tapes.) Total: 02

[the-raging-tempest]

👾 for zrise please!!

Hey Romeo!! I’m not really sure how I do these but here we go! These are so hard to choose from but! I went for Death Is In The Air by SAKIMA

Overall this song to me for Zrise is about death. His own and others. Death is always around him. Follows him. It’s also about losing yourself. To your emotions. To your ambitions. Your justifications.

__

Is my heart breaking

Or do I have one at all

Am I feeling or faking

I don’t know anymore

Zrise wants to believe he’s a very heartless careless and callous person. Kind of in a self protective way. Because if he doesn’t have a soul, heart, etc then he can excuse what he does. He often feels he’s bad at living. Bad at being a person. Does he even care about the things he tells himself he cares about? Most of the time no. Most of the time what he truly cares for he tries to hide deep. Makes excuses. What he wants he can’t admit to himself.

What’s in the back of my head?

It’s just like white noise

Or a demon under his breath

Telling me it’s time to dance with death

Some nights I’m possessed

Anger, bitterness, resentment, sadness, a lot of emotions get the better of him and he feels he has little control of ‘acting out’. He’s always getting in trouble for pushing the wrong boundaries. Obviously some of these result in violence. In ways he regrets. Often for various different reasons. But he hates his emotions. He feels ‘possessed’ by them. Unable to let them go.

No I never

See it coming

Till it holds me down like an anchor

No I never

Hear the drumming

Till I’m too far into the rapture

Much of this is the same as above with the added. It isn’t until the repercussions hit him in irreversible ways do they register. Also to me this evokes the drowning.

I wish I could be brave

This line does a lot for me for his character that is hard to put into words. He often pretends he’s brave. Often looks down on cowards. But he himself IS one. He hates it about himself. He’s ultimately afraid to die, afraid to be alone, afraid to be unloved. He only gathers the courage to do the things he does because he believes he must to get what he wants. He wishes he could stand up for himself. Wishes he could actually practice what he preaches. No matter the consequences.

Do it or don’t I never know so I

Keep dancing on a pipe dream

Keep laughing when I wanna scream

He’s actually never clear of what he’s doing is helping him get closer to what he wants. Part of him knows no matter what he does he’s kind of fucked. Finding a cure is a pipe dream. Because even if he gets it likely it won’t solve all his problems. But it’s what he has to do. The last line is very him in his trickster mindset. He tries to find some twisted sense of joy in his misery.

I feel the ache of the waiting

I feel the tar in my lungs

For every debt that I’m paying

I’m no further along

This also calls back to the drowning for me. The ache of waiting for his mother to return and comfort him. Which never comes. The tar of the water and congealed blood in his lungs. For everything he does to try and prove himself to his mother he feels just as trapped. Just as unloved.

What if I give up the ghost

And just become one myself

What if he just stops fighting? Stops trying to survive? What if he just died instead? Would that be better?

Dunno why I’m holding my breath

‘Cause they all let me down in the end

And I just forgive them

Has to do with most people he grows close to. Most of the people he learns to trust and love end up betraying him. Just as he does to others. Because that’s the only kind of relationship he knows. He forgives them in the sense that he just allows it all to happen again.

No I never

See it coming

Till I lose myself to the anger

No I never

See it coming

Till The crying turns into laughter

I wish I could be brave

Much the same as similar lyrics as before. But instead we end on a more sinister note. Acknowledging the anger and how he leans into this vindictiveness. Where when others hurt him he wants to laugh. Loose himself and hurt them in return.

[painful-pooch]

has bruno ever suffered three-days-no-sleep exhaustion? :)

Yes he has, actually! There's been a few moments where he was forced to stay up for a while, and sometimes they were some of the deadliest times of his life! Here's one example from a deployment to an undisclosed territory right before he joined the Task Force.

Gonna tag @ocean-blue-whump, @actress4him, @whump-in-the-moonlight, @thethistlegirl, and @technom0ose for the Bruno whump lmfao

CW: War, explosions, gun fire, death mention, death, exhaustion, hallucinations, military whump

Seventy-eight hours.

It’s been over three days since Bruno could recall truly resting, even if it was in a not well-ventilated tent and on a decrepit cot the Army had left behind for him. This deployment had been a mess since the very beginning, from the intel being off about the number of enemies to their comms being offline during this strategic battle. He’s one of the few officers left on the field and he had to send one of the fastest Lieutenants back to HQ to get more help on the way.

The issue with that was Bruno had sent for reinforcements over thirty hours ago. The chances that the Lieutenant died went higher each hour, and any time he went to see if communications were back online, he was met with static.

They were now pinned at the camp, enemies surrounding them and waiting until they surrender or die. Not like the enemy really cared, but Bruno made sure not to make their loss simple whatsoever. He was going to make them work at his own expense; one of lack of sleep and of rising stress.

His back was against the brick cover offered to him; his breathing now slower as he tried to focus on any noise that could give away the enemy position. He wiped at his face with his dust covered hand in a vain attempt to remove the sweat from stinging his eyes. It didn’t help much since his eyes were dry and bloodshot, both signs of staying awake for far too long, but there was only so much he could do.

He yearned for a moment to lay his head on a half-decent pillow and count sheep instead of mortar blasts that rang in his ears over the last couple of nights. There was something about the night that always beckoned for Bruno to give in, to simply close his eyes and allow for some amount of respite from the harsh reality that was war. The darkness offered something that the light could not; a false sense of safety that caressed a soldier with warmth and empty promises that tomorrow would arrive, only for a bullet to put that soldier to rest.

Closing his eyes for too long could mean death, but the stoic officer hugged his rifle closer to him, digging the back of his head into the brick in the hopes that the pain would give him strength for another few minutes. It was far too quiet, and it didn’t sit well with him, so he peeked over the side of his cover, squinting his eyes and straining when all he could see were blurbs and blurriness.

Maybe he could close his eyes for a few moments…? He allowed for his eyes to flutter shut for what felt like an eternity, relief washing away the hours of-

“AMBUSH AT THE SOUTH WALL!” Bruno’s radio blared loudly, scaring the man awake, scrambling to stand up just in time to see the flickering flare above the camp and the sound of gunfire, explosions, and screams echoing in the valley. He shook his head to get his bearing back and he turned the safety off, sprinting in the direction where the noises only got louder, his heart racing and following the beat of the drums of war.

He made it to the South gates of the camp, and he didn’t falter, gritting his teeth and snarling while aiming his rifle at the enemies, firing away. His bloodlust grew as each body fell to the ground, the urge to protect everyone keeping him standing in the open while shouting, “Don’t fall back!”

It was back at it all over again; his chance of rest went out of the window, and he had to return a bullet spree to his enemies, not caring if his accuracy was marred greatly. The quiet was gone and the darkness turned to a haze of red flares to accentuate the blood spilled from both sides. It never stopped. It never would end.

Death followed him like a plague, and sure enough, he was pinned behind his cover once more, seeing that one of his men needed him to drag him back to safety. That was before the screaming halted suddenly after the next barrage of lead and the sight of the dirt around them turning to mud. Bruno sucked in a deep breath and tears pricked at his eyes. He didn’t have time to mourn the loss, especially if he’s trying to keep the others alive. He would scream to the heavens later.

The adrenaline was pumping inside of Bruno and he heard the static of his radio come on and off until a new voice arrived. “Kilo Squad, this is Blackjack coming online. We are roughly 2 klicks away from your location. Request for air strike?”

Now that… that was a breath of fresh air for him and he called for someone to watch out for him while speaking back in the radio. “Blackjack, this is Captain Stenberg, request for air strike is a go. I repeat, air strike is a go, they are right on top of us. Copy?”

“Wilco. Standby for air support. Dropping in thirty seconds. Use green flare for visibility support.”

Bruno peeked over the edge and saw the fallen troop one last time, and something in him snapped. He shoved his rifle to another soldier. “Keep them off me, NOW!” He roared, unholstering his pistol and jumping over the barricade, sprinting towards the casualty. A heavy blast beside him threw him and made his vision go blurry, but he knew the blob was getting closer.

Without wasting a moment, Bruno fired back in the general direction of the enemy and picked up the fallen soldier in a fireman carry, rushing back to safety as the roaring sound from the skies gave away that an aircraft was coming. “Fire the green flare!” he shouted at the soldier once he made it back, tossing the dead man to the side temporarily, a hand on their chest to keep them safe.

What happened next was both beautiful and terrifying at the same time, the sight of explosions happening all around the camp from the airstrike, leaving behind a streak of fire and destruction behind. Bruno was in awe and the relief made time move so much slower around him, so he didn’t notice the soldier shaking his shoulders. “Sir, we did it! The enemy is falling back!”

Bruno laughed softly and grinned back a bit, proud of his men, both alive and fallen. He looked beside him to see that the soldier he was sure was killed in action laughing and patting Bruno on the shoulder. "That was a close one wasn't it?"

No... he was dead. Bruno was certain of it. Was he dreaming? The blood covering his hands would say no, but what was real? Who did he kill and what was going on? Bruno stood up quickly and stumbled over to where he was first at, his breathing growing more ragged overtime. When he did arrive to the Northern part of the camp, he saw that the whole area had been destroyed. A female soldier walked up to him, a hand on his shoulder. "Sir? How did you know to come to the South gate and attack the enemy first?"

"What do you mean? You guys called me on the radio and told me there was an attack on your end of the wall..." Bruno could feel the gentle tug of gravity pulling him down to the ground, but he held up fast.

"Sir, the radios have been down this whole time until Blackjack came on. Also, you were the one that started the attack... you initiated contact with them and killed them all. Are you okay?"

"N-no... that's not right. There were flares and explosions... I..." The world, however, began to spin and he collapsed, his breathing slowing down. It finally caught up with him and he couldn’t stop himself from shutting his eyes. If he wasn’t going to rest willingly, his body was going to make him, no matter how loudly the woman screamed for him to open his eyes again.

[purposefully-lost]

The baseball team had started to filter out of the gym by the time Chris arrived. It wasn't any surprise. They were on a winning streak, they weren't gonna stick around for long past the meeting with the coach when they had plans to celebrate. Lucky for her though, the star of tonight's game hadn't left yet. Bat still resting over his shoulder, Andy Campbell was still chatting with the coach, listening intently to whatever it was he had to say. Chris held back, fingers drumming nervously against the camera in her hands until they finally said their goodbyes and Andy started past her.

"Hey, Andy?" She tried, pausing when he turned to look for the source. His eyes landed on her, at first surprised, then pulling into a friendly, tired smile.

"Hey," he said, turning fully to face her. "What's up?" He glanced down at the camera, then raised an eyebrow. "Get any good pictures of the game?"

"Oh. Uh." She hated this part. Standing on the sidelines to snap photos while everyone was too busy with the game to notice her was fine, but asking to stage one always felt awkward. "I- I guess. I was actually wondering if you'd want to get a photo? For the paper?"

"Sure!" He seemed to brighten a little at the idea. Before she could suggest just moving to stand against the mascot painted on the gym wall, he nodded towards the door. "Hey, why don't we do it at the field? The lights are still on. That'd look cool, right?"

"I.. guess," she agreed. It would look good, actually, but she hadn't expected him to care. "It-"

"Good!" She didn't get a chance to disagree. Moving with purpose, Andy started for the door with her jogging a few steps to catch up with him. A teammate asked where he was going and she caught some joke about being famous before they were walking out into the night air and towards the baseball field. There were still a few people lingering around down there, but not many, and nearly all of them had started to head off by the time Andy was slipping through the gate and letting her in behind him. "At the home plate?" He asked, barely glancing at her to catch her nod before he moved to stand next to it. "Do you want me to pose, or something?"

"I- I don't know," she replied, face warming from realizing how stupid she sounded. She wasn't used to actually orchestrating this kind of thing. She shrugged. "Sure. I- I guess, like you're about to swing."

"Sure can do." Feet apart, the bat lifted off his shoulder and held steady, his shoulders set, like it was natural. He gave her a grin and it was hard not to grin a little back.

"That's good," she told him. She moved around him, took a few steps back, crouched a little while she lifted the camera to her eyes. Deep breath to keep it steady as she snapped the first shot. They ended up taking a couple, a more casual image of him leaning on the bat, a try at catching him in motion. She offered a quick thank you before starting to head off, back towards the school. His voice stopped her.

"Hey, Christine," he started, prompting her to turn back. He hadn't moved from the plate at all, she noticed. The bat was loose in his hand, settled against the dirt. "You're.. friends with Jonathan, right? You two hang out sometimes?"

That wasn't what she'd expected. Chris frowned, feeling herself tense a little, then shrugged. "Sorta."

"Is he doing alright?" Andy walked a little closer to her, his eyes searching her face. "I, uh.." His foot nervously stomped at the packed dirt. "I noticed he was pretty beat up the other week."

Was he being genuine? She couldn't tell. She'd never paid much attention to Andy Campbell. To some of his teammates, sure, only because she did everything she could to avoid them. It didn't matter anyway. Even if this was bait, she didn't couldn't see where it led to and there wasn't much of an answer she could give him. "I- I don't know," she answered honestly. Disappointment slipped into voice whether she wanted it to or not. "He hasn't really talked to me since then."

"Oh." Whatever trace of a smile that had been left was gone now. Andy looked off to the side, his fingers flexing a little against the bat. Chris watched his adam's apple bob as he swallowed. A beat passed. "Hey, tell you what, could you maybe.."

He'd started to look at her again as he spoke, then stopped the moment his eyes landed on her face. The easy grin and the natural confidence had both vanished. The boy in front of her was a far cry from the homegrown all-star she'd been taking photos for just a few moments ago. Some sadistic part of her wondered if, if she took a photo now, how they would compare. "You know what?" He asked. His voice sounded dry. "Don't worry about it. Just make me look good on the front page, okay?"

He tried for a smile, but it was gone before he'd even walked past her. Chris stared at the place he'd been, brows furrowing, then turned to watch him trudge back up to the school, his bat over his shoulder and his head down.

[mamgt]

Vertigo

Chapter 2: Going Out

Table of Contents

 Yoongi is stuck. 

He hasn’t told the managing team of the newly debuted boy group he was supposedly contributing to for their first EP about his predicament. All he’s been able to come up with are random sounds that even a toddler could make whilst having a tantrum.

It’s not like he’s slacking. He’s basically locked himself in his studio and isolated himself from all his family and friends, putting his phone on perpetual silent mode. He promised himself he wasn’t leaving the studio until he could give them at least one song. Then he bargained again when it took him a week to even decide on which instruments to use. Okay, he thought. I won’t go out until I at least have a verse and a chorus. 

When still, no amount of self-persuasion brought him closer to creating anything, he’s final plea was to at least to come up with a hook. It doesn’t have to be long. Just something to start with. A spark to light up the whole thing. 

He’s barely slept and probably has more caffeine in his bloodstream than actual white and red blood cells to keep him going. He’s washed his face raw from all those nights forcing himself to awake. He’s gone through several hoodies and shirts, his laundry barely piling up because he doesn’t change much. He’s confused days and times as they melt into each other. Burning away like a kerosene lamp. Burning away his time. The deadline coming up to him with its out stretched claws. 

It wasn’t always this hard. It’s never been this hard. He’s always poured out music like an exhale, found beats that were just as natural as his own pulse. 

When his world turned upside down four years ago, he feared for his craft. He thought then, broken hearted and vulnerable, he would have no motivation to keep going. That the loss would consume him and nothing else mattered. It did consume him but it also fueled him and he had never been more productive in his life. He may have worked himself out a little too much but it validated the pain he felt inside. His actual tired body holding hands with the regret, the disappointment, and the feelings of betrayal. Then, he would be too tired to think. It was the perfect set-up. 

Now that the pain has subsided to a numbness, Yoongi is also void of any sort of inspiration. He should’ve known, anyways. Life’s been warning him that all good things come to an end. When there’s is an up, there is a down and the higher you go, the farther you fall. The brighter the lights, the darker the shadows. 

He’s rummaged through all kinds of sounds he’s saved in his library, tinkered with the many pianos and guitars he owns. He stopped learning how to play the drums awhile back but he reached for it in desperation. He even tried to create his own sounds with the random things in his house, which may have been the mistake as to why his mixes are sounding more like kindergarten than someone who’s been producing for almost half of his life. He’s tried listening to other music, toying around with their sounds hoping inspiration would come to him but nothing. He’s going insane. 

He lets out a loud curse. He stands abruptly from his chair, which causes it to roll away and crash against his coffee table. He paces around his studio. Hands twisting at his hair. He needs to get out now. Besides, if there’s one thing Yoongi has learned is that promises are really there for breaking. 

꩜꩜꩜

Jimin’s feeling much better now, thank you very much. 

Of course the breakdown was expected and of course he needed to talk to his mom again before he braved this new world even though technically, he’s been here. Not here here. Jimin’s family used to live in Busan and he had only taken trips to Seoul every now and then. Trips he can’t even remember. But Jimin’s not quite ready for his hometown yet. Baby steps. One insane decision at a time. He’s not trying to unravel years of underlying issues. He can do that in class. In the safety of his professors’ presence where unearthing his past would just be another requirement he’d get an A in. 

He had graduated from a business course in the hopes of catching a lot of cash. Grabbing at the kind of life his younger self had always dreamed of. It worked for awhile. He got the cash. He helped out his family but he was still empty. Still lost. Still feeling like something was missing until those feelings turned into resentment and then utter suffering at having to wake up another day to a job who kept telling him he was easily replaceable. That no matter his honors and the hours he rendered, he was just another pawn on the chessboard. It was dehumanizing.

So, he sought for something human. Something more kind and maybe, he could hit two birds with one stone and learn to be kind to himself. He had applied to several schools but the one he had chosen was a master’s in art psychological counseling at Yonsei University. He had other choices but this one had offered him full scholarship as long as he kept his grades up, which wasn’t a problem because Jimin lived all his life as a goody two shoes, top of the class, teacher’s pet. He’d like to say he’s smart, that’s how he does well in school, but he’s not. He just works really hard and has ingrained into his mind that getting good grades was the only thing he could do to give back to his mother.

That was then. He eventually was able to actually pay her back, with actual monetary value although, she shied away from it every time. Her love language was never gifts but Jimin wanted her to experience all the love languages. But now that he’s accomplished that, he wonders if he would still feel the same. Would he have the same motivation? Would he be the same boy who graduated from college with latin honors? Or would that also turn dim like so many of the shining stars Jimin used to believe mattered. 

He takes in the scenery, the perfectly manicured lawns. The shrubs cut in precision, each one looking exactly the same as the others. He stares up at the school’s exterior, stoned buildings with the garden shamelessly consuming it like it’s their territory. Jimin thinks it looks romantic, like it could be a castle in some far off land. He’s seen the photos but they don’t do it justice. You have to actually see the light of the sun reflect on the windows and the dew on the leaves, smell fresh air as if the school wasn’t part of the bustling city of Seoul. Even the wind feels different, like it has small sparkles being carried with it. 

Jimin thought it would be harder, knowing he’s practically abandoned the language he was born into, but it comes to him like little hiccups. He’d say it’s like riding a bike but it’s a bit more rocky than that, like he knows he can balance the bike, he just keeps jiggling. He can pick most of the words he hears from the chatter of the students and some school staff as he wanders through the campus a whole two hours before his orientation. He’s gotten by with the simple thank yous and excuse mes he’s had to use while commuting around but he knows it’s not enough. At some point, he has to converse. Even worse, his classes are in Korean. He knew that, coming into this but it doesn’t make it less daunting. One insane decision at a time.

He takes a deep breath. He’s psyching himself out. Orientation first, he thinks, then we’ll panic later. 

꩜꩜꩜

Jimin’s seated at the aisle, closer to the exit than he had intended. He wanted to sit closer, a better view, like he always does for any class back in the Philippines. Even for his driving school he had sat front and center, taking advantage of the hard earned money used to pay for whatever classes. But this time, his fears take over. He’s scared that the speaker might go around, look at their faces, and what if he gets called? He hasn’t the right words nor the proper language for it yet. So as much as he would like to take advantage of this orientation, he sits, at the back, pen and paper out. 

They’re half way through discussing the different requirements needed to graduate when someone blocks his view, trying to fit himself beside Jimin. He had put his bag there since no one had sat there as the room was getting filled and now he hastily tries to pick up all his stuff, some of if it falling to the floor. Whoever this was did not have the courtesy to say excuse me or be on time, but thought to help pick up the falling items which only led to them bumping their head on Jimin’s.

“Ow!” 

Jimin sits up and rubs his head, grimacing. The other boy finally unfolds himself, holding Jimin’s notebook. This school must actually be from a fairytale story because his seatmate looks like a prince with his blonde wavy hair cascading on his face like dominoes. Jimin closes his mouth, he didn’t even realize it was open and rips his gaze away from the boy, who, Jimin thinks is speaking to him in his low voice. 

Jimin looks at him again and the boy simply smiles. He looks like he could be Jimin’s age but you could never tell with asians. Jimin purses his lips and looks down, trying to adjust to his new position, holding his bag on his lap and his notebook and pen on top of it. He checks inside his bag if there were any missing items and he hears the boy speak again.

For some reason, Jimin knows it’s Korean but he doesn’t understand a single thing. It only makes him panic. Did he just lose all his knowledge of the language in bumping his head. He’s tempted to start yelling at the beautiful boy to give it back, give Jimin back his very limited knowledge of Korean, he needs it, when said boy waves a hand in front of his face.

He asks if Jimin is okay. That he knows.

He replies in English, convinced he’s really lost it all from that little bump in the head. 

“I’m sorry…uhm…I’m bad at Korean…,” he says sheepishly. Time was up. It was a short lived ruse that Jimin could pull this off without having to admit his inadequacy. He’ll just have to study even harder now so he never has to admit this ever again, to anyone. 

“Oh, sorry, I was saying sorry for the mess…” He gestures around himself and at Jimin’s bag. He speaks to Jimin in English but it has a sort of parisian accent to it. He can’t be sure because he’s only heard Americans speak in a parisian accent. He wonders where this boy is actually from. 

“I’m Kim Taehyung and you?”

“Jimin…uh…Park Jimin.”

“I like that.” Taehyung nods to himself and the makes finger guns, “it’s like Bond James Bond.”

“Oh it’s just Park Jimin.” Jimin wants to curl in on himself. He’s not used to do this. In fact, he hates this. Not just because in the Philippines you don’t say your last name before your first name, but because that last name, he hasn’t used it in a long time. Apart from government documents, Jimin’s being using Lawrence’s last name because it was easier for people to address him with Garcia rather than a location. It didn’t really matter what his first name was after that. Filipinos had all kinds of unique names: Jonick, Junun, Jomar, Jonnel. But that one word, one name, gave people less questions to ask Jimin, especially when they saw their family all together. 

Taehyung tilts his head slightly, his eyes wide, and mouth set into a pout. He could hear his question and he knows he’s just debating whether or not ask it. If it would be impolite to. 

“I’m Korean.” Jimin nervously laughs and bring his attention back to the orientation hoping Taehyung would move on and find someone else to both, maybe the girl beside him. She looks like she wants to be bothered and put on the spot. Jimin’s barely been here and all his false pretenses are starting to crumble. He is grateful he found someone who could speak English with but he doesn’t really want to have to explain why a Korean doesn’t speak Korean. He wants to put on another mask of belonging just like he did with Lawrence’s last name. 

“Do you have any plans tonight?”

Jimin is surprised he almost breaks his neck as he turns to Taehyung. That was not what Jimin was expecting. So far from it that he doesn’t even know how Taehyung got from one topic to the other or he simply doesn’t care about the new information he’s gathered from Jimin. But he does care enough to want to know more. 

“Why?” Jimin asks suspiciously. 

“Me and a bunch of my friends are going to see that new bar near Gangnam, you should come.”

Jimin just gapes up at him. 

Taehyung starts typing on his phone and then says, “I’ll send you the address. Do you have KakaoTalk? You should pro-”

“I don’t even know you…”

“So?” Taehyung finally looks at him with a dazzling smile, all of his pretty teeth out for him. Jimin doesn’t have an answer. This was an opportunity, wasn’t it? This is the kind of thing he said he was going to do like go to some place he’s never been as recommended by a complete stranger who he doesn’t even know if is actually a student in this school. 

And if he gets murdered? 

[Next Chapter]

[plush-rabbit]

Aphrodisiac Induced Reader + The Brothers

A/N: The brothers!! I hope yall enjoy!! Aphrodisiac induced is always a fun thing to play with. The brothers,, my beloved

-

You really should have known better than to take food that was offered by Beel. You know that he has the right intentions in mind- that him sharing food is a miracle of itself and rejecting him would have his brows furrowed and lips pursed into a pout- but he’s also gluttony. He can eat whatever he wants and as much as he wants without so much of a stomach ache. You, on the other hand, cannot. You should have seen this coming when the cupcake you bite into filled your mouth with such an indescribable sweetness that it made your teeth ache, the flavor otherworldly and leaving you hungry for me, taking greedy bites out of the cutely decorated pastry. There was a sharp pang in your stomach, your body on fire and sex dripping with every nudge that your body made.

You couldn’t be alone right now- or maybe you should have been left alone, maybe that would have saved you from humiliation of your dripping arousal that was leaking past your slit. You’re quick to rise, standing on shaky legs, curled over as your cheeks burn, sweat beading against your skin, only worsening the sensitive state that you are in. It’s fast-acting, making your breaths come out in heated gasps, and everything just feels a bit too much, just too good for it to be normal. An aphrodisiac- a strong one that is making you impossibly aroused. You suck in a sharp breath and go to the person who you know will treat you right.

Lucifer:

Lucifer is a gentleman- most of the time at least. But during your time of need he is perfect to go to. He’ll allow you- or more like insist- that you stay in his office until the aphrodisiac’s effects have passed. You’ll lay on the couch, face buried into a throw pillow while the other one is between your legs. Shame has long been gone since you’ve entered his domain, his eyes never really leaving your shaky frame. When you moan his name, he stiffens, the pen in his hand is held tighter but he still rises, walking towards you in concern. He’ll sit beside you, let his hand curve over your forehead, feeling the heat go through his glove.

He clears his throat, pulling his hand away, and there’s this heavy look on your face, the pillow squeezed tight between your legs, the pillow under your head has faint imprints of your teeth. He’ll avoid touching you, pulling his hand away from you and walking briskly to his desk chair. He can hear your steps across the floor, the way you gasp his name and seem to rub your thighs together for any sort of friction. He won’t spare you a glance, eyes focused on the paperwork in front of him. Underneath the desk, his leg jolts as you snake your arms around his shoulders, your lips wet as they touch his neck.

There isn’t enough time in the day and night for him to focus on his work and on your growing needs that are starting to mark everything in his office. Black ink scratches along the pape, the letters growing shaky as you snake your way onto him. He’s actually startled when you situate yourself on his lap, your sex pressed against his erection. He’s surprised by your sudden confidence but writes it off due to the effects of the aphrodisiac. You’re above him, arms snaked once more on his shoulders and you play with the hair that rests on the nape of his neck.

The feeling of shame is not foreign to the Avatar of Pride but even then, letting you know that he is indeed aroused given the situation does bring a bit of heat to his body. His hands find their way to hold onto your hips, trying to ignore the way that you have begun to grind against his. But there is work to do and despite the growing need to pleasure both you and himself, he displaces you, ignoring the way that you call his name and can’t seem to stop touching him.

The only way to gain his attention that you desperately long for is to push him away, the wheels locking against an edge of the floor and you bend yourself over the desk. Lucifer wants to throw you out so you can be another’s problem but you pull your bottom layer off, your fingers searching inside your leaking hole and pride starts to fuel him. You touch yourself in front of him, beg for him to touch you- of course you would. Slender hands come to touch your body, and you’re already leaking onto the floor, thick, sweet arousal staining the very room that he allowed you to enter. His cock is against you, rimming around your entrance, hearing your cries and please for him to simply fuck you but you did cause him to become distracted from very important work and he is going to punish you for that.

Mammon:

Of course you’d go to him. He is your first after all, why wouldn’t you go to The Great Mammon? But wow, he was over his head when you came knocking at his door. Always eager to see and spend time with you, he allows you to enter without seeing the state you’re in. You stagger into his room, holding his hand and stumbling into him and it’s only then that he can smell the sweet, lingering aroma in the air. He wants to believe you’re just trying a new perfume and now it's made you sick, but it’s worse than that when the hand you’re holding moves to your chest. He can feel your rapid heartbeat, the way your body is in flames that can rival hellfire itself, the pained cry of his name as you try to pinch your legs together in the awkward embrace.

Frozen for a moment, Mammon completely blanks on what to do. He can feel your pain, the aching need in your entire body that makes you feel as if you’re going to combust into flames. He doesn’t know whether to touch you or not. But then you cry his name- sobbing it out in broken syllabus and you cry that it hurts and you think you might die and you're in his arms. Your hold on him tightens and he thinks he can leave you to be- let you wait out the excruciating pain in his room until the feeling fades and just thank him with attention or material objects later. He fails to consider that he is weak to you and when you look at him with teary eyes, he falters.

He stutters in his explanation, talking about how he can maybe go out and get you a toy or something- and he promises to be quick, he is the fastest after all. But then the thought lingers and he imagines your sex stretched with some toy that he chose, and his body jerks. Your vision is growing blurrier by the second and the hold on his hand tightens until your knuckles pale. You pull on him, thanking whatever God is watching down on you, that the door to the prized car he keeps in is open. Even he’s unable to know what is going on until you push him inside, crawling onto the back seat, calling his name and begging for him to join you.

In such a closed space, the Avatar of Greed is trying desperately to avoid touching you. He stays seated in the front seat, fingers drumming along the steering wheel. He cares for the car deeply- one of the few things that gives him freedom that is indescribable and yet, here you are. Your sex is leaking, your cries echoing across the closed space and what is music to his ears in his dreams is now a horrible reminder that you are seated behind him, victim to an aphrodisiac. He needs an excuse to touch you, needs to just feel you for a moment and when you threaten to stain the flawless leather seats with your slick, it’s enough for him to crawl to the back seat.

He never realized how crowded it was, how his elbows and knees tend to knock into things. He doesn’t notice how you’ve kicked your shorts off, how your underwear has become dark in color to your dripping sex. You kiss him, and Mammon is weak to you. His hands are on you, the scent overpowering and he promises to keep the touching to a minimum to only touch what you’ll let him touch and kiss where you want him to. But you’re huffing, grabbing onto him and trying to meet his crotch. The windows grow foggy, the car begins to creak but neither of you pay it any mind. It’s cramped and you’re too close but not close enough, you ache to be closer to him, to have him pressed against you until all you can remember is the way that his chest feels against your skin, the warmth of him, and the way his kisses are so tender and feverish all at once.

Leviathan:

Leviathan refuses to make eye contact with you. He won’t even address you. He sits on his desk chair, playing a game that doesn’t need half of the attention he usually gives. You rest inside his bathtub, curled over he presumes, whining and mumbling something that sounds like his name but he can't be so sure nor does he expect you to mumble his name in your current state. But as much as he wants to drown you out, he can’t. You’re too whiny, crying and begging for a solution, peeling your shirt off because it’s too hot. He reasons that’s because of the aphrodisiac because his room is always kept to a cool temperature. So now, he has you topless in his bathtub and the only proof is your shirt that was tossed where he sits and the reflection above, portraying a teasing, blurry image of your torso.

It’s possibly the worst situation for the poor, introverted demon. He finally has you all to himself and you’re in such a needy state and the plot is so close to a top tier hentai of his- Help! My Friend Took a Drug and Now They Won’t Stop Grinding on Me But I Also Don’t Want Them To Stop. But You came to him, you trusted that he would watch over you and whether it was because he kept his room so guarded or because you trust him, he really doesn’t know which. It’s just too muddled for him to believe that you would actively choose him. So, he does what he does best- he immerses himself in a game. The cutest game that he could think of- one that even if he grew and remained hard would make him feel more like a degenerate than he already does. He puts his headphones on and as if everything is trying to punish him, the loading screen takes forever.

The soundtrack plays loud, booming in his headset and effectively drowning you out. But he knows you’re still crying for him- that you're still in the same room with him. The perverted otuka glances up where he can see your reflection and he catches a glimpse of your hands cupping the swell of your chest and his face burns. Had you caught him peeking before? Was this a way for you to play with yourself without actively touching yourself? He can feel his growing arousal, translucent pre-ejaculate spilling past his slit and staining his boxers. It’s humiliating and he hates that the idea of you touching yourself in his room is more than enough for him to get in the mood.

He’s ignoring you- the only way that he can hopefully soften without actually creaming his pants. He avoids your reflection, ignores how your hands grip the curve of the tub until your knuckles pale, how you swing a leg over and it meets the hard layer of the bath, and for a moment, you still. He’s ignoring your decision to remove yourself from the place he rests and staggering to him. When he feels your hands on his thighs, he startles and the game minimizes into a small box. Unaware of what to do in this situation, he freezes, letting his body tense as you crawl onto his lap, your eyes heavy with lust and body feeling so warm above him that he’s unable to breathe.

His breathing is ragged, his hands stopping on the curve of your bum, as he’s unable to look anywhere else but your face. You’re flushed, gripping onto him, your tongue out as you pant and you’re so desperate for his attention that you lean close. His hands raise in an attempt to push you off but as if it were a cliché moment, his hands curve over your chest and you whimper his name at the simple touch. The third born should have been careful, he shouldn’t have let you grind against him and he surely shouldn’t have let himself becomes distracted by a kiss and yet, here he is, undressing himself as you greedily slide yourself onto his cock, your face scrunching up as every scale is pushed further into your aching hole. Leviathan is holding you close, the computer screen dimming as your can fill him spill inside of you.

Satan:

Eager to learn, he knows the effects of what an aphrodisiac can do to a being. So when you come knocking at Satan’s door, begging for refuge, leaning against him and gripping at his shirt, he pats your hand, and welcomes you inside. He allows you to rest on his bed, letting you bury yourself under his blankets. Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea for either of you- you’re inhaling his scent during a time of desperate need, and soon when the effects wear off, he’ll be left in a bed that is drenched in your scent. That, however, is a problem for another day.

In order to keep his mind and hands busy, he’ll finally organize his room. He’s able to ignore your whining, the way that you shiver under the covers and bury yourself into his pillow, how you spread your legs so they are uncovered by the blanket; he ignores the sweet scent of your arousal that fills the room and his lungs. He holds his breath, taking few, deep breaths every now and then to avoid inhaling too much of you. You’re whining, talking through the pillow about how it hurts and you just need something- and doesn’t he have a spell he can use to just rid you of at least a tiny bit of it.

It’s the growing arousal of himself and your constant whining that edges him closer to annoyance. He holds books tight in his hand, orders them by author and published years, height and volumes, but it isn’t enough to drown you out. He regrets letting you enter his room but in the same second, he regrets having the thought. He’s happy that you came to him, trusted him enough to see you in a disheveled state. He doesn’t want to scare you off or make you feel unwanted, so he edges closer to you, tugging on the bottom of his shirt as if he were a nervous boy instead of a grown demon. The bed creaks under his weight and your hand latches onto his thigh. He jerks his leg, your hand only squeezing tighter and when he makes eye contact, your eyes are filled with tears, glistening and catching on your lashes like fresh dew.

You’re aroused, deeply and sweetly. It's a nervous thing to be attracted to someone like you, a demon that has been round and born with blood and wrath etched deep into soul and yet here he is, nervous to even touch your trembling hand. He knows the effects of something as strong as an aphrodisiac and for a demon made one, there is no real spell for it. He lets you lay on his lap, your mouth close to his sex, eyes lidded and holding tight to his hand. His control is fading, his growing need pushing past logical thought. He offers himself, and you rise quickly, already straddling his lap, your chest pressed against his, asking if it is okay. A cold shiver runs through his spine and he nods, offering that he’ll take care of you.

The trembling, nervous demon fades just as quick as it came when your lips are on his. You kiss him, need so transparent that he’s teasing, pulling away, letting your back meet the bed. His smile is sharp, leaning to kiss your pursed lips, grabbing your leg and pulling it upwards, mumbling praise under his breath when you hook your leg around his waist. Satan is heavy when above you, and maybe it’s the aphrodisiac that still lingers on your tongue, but he is unwilling to move away from you, kissing you and hooking his fingers in your mouth when you moan. You’re needy and he wants to hear you beg for him, calling his name. He cups your face with spit coated fingers, asking you to be good for him and mew for him.

Asmodeus:

As the Avatar of Lust, Asmodeus immediately knew something was off in the house when he felt lust in the air. It’s sweet. Intoxicating and bitter all at once. It’s like the sweetest honey known to mankind and he knows the feeling well enough to open his door before you have the thought to knock. He welcomes you into his room, letting you rest on the bed, a small part of him on the inside crinkling when you ruffle the sheets. But, of course, he knows this isn’t you- you would never be so careless. It’s all because of the aphrodisiac making your movements more frantic.

He knows the cure to end it- sex, plain and simple. Masturbation might help but he fears your hand will become sore. Always eager to have somebody in bed with him- out of his own sin and own need for company- he offers you two choices. You can borrow a toy- new, still in the box and all- or he could take care of you. Perhaps he shouldn’t have offered the second option, he knew how excited you were to simply enter a room with another living being but he couldn’t help himself. You look absolutely adorable with your flustered face.

A kiss from the living Avatar of Lust is better than any pleasure that you’ve ever received. And he knows it. You moan under him, your body shaking and eyes rolling to the back of your head, clawing at the shirt on his back. He smiles into the kiss. So eager to be taken care of that a simple kiss was enough to make you climax, your arousal dripping onto your underwear, so heavy in the air, that he pulls away as he feels your breaths start to shorten due to lack of air. But even as he pulls away, you still reach to pepper him with kisses, your breathing reggae against his face, gasping for breath with every parting kiss.

Your hands are on him, eager to pull him into another kiss. You want him and it’s evident from the way that you don’t push away when he removes his clothing. But, he stops for a moment, watching your gaze on him, wide and dazed and you stare at him as if he was something more than just a demon, you give him your worship and you pull him into another kiss. He stiffens, pulling away and asking if this is what you want, touching your bare skin only to flinch away as if it burned him. And when your lips are on him, your smile returns for a moment, telling him that you came to him because you knew he would tend to you in any way, and he melts.

His lips return to yours, kissing you eagerly, wanting nothing more than to just keep his lips on you. And as last time, you shudder beneath him, another orgasm washing through your body, your release spilling pass your slit. Limps entangle with each other and you cry the name Asmodeus, moaning it as if it were the only thing on your mind, sobbing under him and telling him how good it feels. You pet his head and let him bury his face into our chest, peppering kisses until he reaches your neck. His eyes close, an unexpected climax teases at him, as you pull him closer to your aching body. Every sigh from you in a gentle gust of wind, every cry a song that not even choir from the Celestial Realm can rival. He pushes deep inside of you, letting you feel every curve and texture from his cock as it molds your leaking hole into his shape.

Beelzebub:

Beelzebub feels incredibly guilty when you come to him, his shirt knotted in your hands as you explain what you ate. He blames himself, going to hold you only to flinch when you hiss and pull yourself closer to him. It’s an aphrodisiac, he should have known that you’ll be more sensitive to touch during this time. He apologizes as he leads you to his bed, shaking his head and holding your hand. He’s gluttony- he should have been able to smell the scent of an aphrodisiac.

Of course, he’ll let you hide in his room until the effects wear off. He won’t make a single peep but it’s difficult for him. His clothes are sticking to him, his body is in an odd sticky situation where sex clings to him clothes and skin. He knows the effects of the aphrodisiac but he feels guilty for giving it to you so when you cling to him, begging for him to not let go of you, he sighs and stays beside you. He’s stiff, unwilling to move and can only let out a shaky breath, when you press yourself closer to him, hooking a leg over his and curling it over. He can feel your sex- hot and pulsing and he leaves ripped bedsheets as his hand curls into the comforter.

He’s rubbing your back, letting his fingers drum against your spine as he hears your panted breaths. He knows he should stop, that he should at least go and take a shower so he can at least smell good but you hold a tight grip on him. You’re feverish, burning against him and he can tell you want more, your lips open up and kiss along the side of his ribcage but he can’t move.

It’s getting too much- even for him. He doesn’t want to take advantage of this needy state that you’re in but as he rises with a feeble explanation that he’s going to take a shower, you pull him down. He’s above you, your eyes watery and cheating rising and falling with heavy breaths. He can’t kiss you but you’re leaning closer, your lips brushing against his and he can smell the aphrodisiac that still rests like heaven on your tongue. You don’t blame him for the accident slip, you’re just begging for him to take care of you, letting your hand rest over the swell of his breast and he’s growing weaker by the second.

When your lips are on his, your tongue slipping past your lips, Beelzebub can taste the aphrodisiac and he’s melting. His tongue has made its home on your mouth, curving over your pink muscle and feeling the way you shudder beneath him. His name is muted by the kiss, your hands clawing at his clothing and he’s sweaty and aroused, watching you as you strip yourself of your clothes. The lovely pastry that still lingers isn’t enough for him to go into a full rut, but it’s enough for him to bend your legs to your chest, your hole pulsing as his cock aligns to it. The way that you call his name is enough for him to push himself fully into you.

Belphegor:

Belphegor is asleep under the covers, pillow tucked under his head and he does not awaken to your scent growing closer and closer, heavier and sweeter than usual. He doesn’t awaken when the doorknob wiggles, a frantic turning but he does awaken when you slam the door. He is startled awake, his eyes wide for a second before narrowing, teeth flashing as he lets out a low growl. He stops when he notices it's you, yawning and telling you to get into bed with him. It’s only until you’re beside him, greedily taking the invitation, that he realizes the state you’re in.

He has to prod you until you tell him what’s happened, watching as you bury your face into a pillow, whining out pathetically as you tell him what happened. He laughs, it’s sharp and teasing. Of course, you took an aphrodisiac by accident. It could only happen to you. He tries to be sympathetic with you. He knows you must be in a great deal of pain, but then again you came to him and that makes him stay awake for a bit longer, turning over on his side and watching you struggle to not touch yourself despite the aroma of your arousal that is thick in the room.

Sloth offers to put you under a deep sleep- he can’t promise that you’ll be still- but he can promise that you’ll wake up without the effects of the aphrodisiac. When you refuse, he merely shrugs, turning over with a pout. He’s disappointed but he can’t do much. He does tell you that he is tired, so he’ll be sleeping but you’re allowed to spend the rest of your heightened arousal in the attic with him. The power of an aphrodisiac- one made a devil no less- is strong, and giving it you in even worse. He can sense the neediness in you, the way you watch him with lustful eyes, your mouth parted the eagerness to get into bed with him.

As promised, he slips off into a sleep, leaving you alone. But your body is on his, legs parted with his single leg. He isn’t asleep long enough for him to be in an actual slumber before he feels the bed move ever so slightly. It’s constant and your whining, mumbling apologies and he opens his eyes to find you humping his leg. It’s pathetic and hot all at once, watching you get off on his leg alone, so desperate for release that you’ve succumbed to humping him. His smile is tight, turning over and letting his tail curl around you, the static in the air only causing you to arch your back when his demon form pops out. It pricks against your wrists, the fur unkempt as he rises above you.

You wanted his attention and now you’ve gotten it. You’ve woken him up from nap, it’s normal and expected for him to be grouchy but thank goodness that the smell from your leaking sex is more arousing that anything else he’s encountered. You’re on your knees on the mattress, his hips meeting yours and letting out a loud grunt when he finishes. He’s tired and over it but his cock still stands upright and you’re still needy and awake, your sex leaking with his arousal. Belphegor will lay on his back, offer himself in his sleep to you until you’re content. The last coherent thought he has is sighing at how warm and squishy you feel against him.

[cosmiclove-heavenstruck]

Dance Lessons | Harry James Potter

Pairing: Harry Potter x fem!Gryffindor!Reader

Wordcount: 12200 words (Yes, really. Do you ever just start to write a little oneshot and then it turns out as a fic with over 10000 words?)

Warnings: swearing, mentions of underage drinking, sexual tension but no smut, fluff, slight angst, slow burn i guess

Summary: Harry asks you to teach him how to dance for the upcoming Spring Ball.

a/n: Set in Harry’s sixth year. English is not my native language, so there might be spelling/grammar mistakes. (The beginning is inspired by this oneshot)

Not many could say that they had faced Voldemort more than once and had survived, but Harry Potter was one of the few lucky ones that had gotten away every time. And if that wasn’t enough, Harry had defeated horrifying creatures, had broken into the Ministry and had saved the wizarding world several times – more or less accidentally, but hey. He had dealt with Umbridge and fought Death Eaters.

To the world, he was a hero, he was the Boy Who Lived.

So yes, his record of fighting the evil was quite impressive for a sixteen-year-old. But there was one thing he knew he would never impress anyone with and that were his dance skills.

Because Harry Potter couldn’t dance for shit.

Everyone who had watched his poor attempt at a waltz at the Yule Ball knew it had been an embarrassing disaster, and a blessing when he had stopped – merely for Parvati Patil’s feet.

Everyone who had watched knew that Harry Potter had never before set foot on a dancefloor. And you had watched. You had watched with great interest because secretly, you had wished for him to ask you to the ball. But when there had been only two weeks left and Dean Thomas had asked you after Transfiguration class, you had said yes.

There you were, sitting with Dean beside Seamus and Lavender as well as Ron and his date Padma, your eyes glued to the raven-haired boy getting terribly out of step. You watched, of course, under the pretence that you found it disgracefully hilarious.

Harry had never thought about asking you to the Yule Ball, if he was quite honest with himself. He had been after Cho, and he waited way too long to ask her, so she was already going with Cedric. And you had a date with Dean.

As good as Harry was with fighting the dark and the evil, as bad was he with social interactions. He had no problem producing a Patronus, but he was absolutely useless when it came to talking to girls.

You were the opposite.

Yes, the boggart may had made you faint in front of your whole class, but on the other hand, talking seemed like the easiest task in the world. Whether it was a chat with a teacher or speaking to strangers, though you did not thrive off of that.

There was one other thing that made you stand out to the other girls (and boys) in your year: You knew how to dance, from a simple disco fox to a more complicated waltz.

So, when Professor Slughorn announced a Spring ball for the students in sixth and seventh year, Harry knew you were his only chance if he did not want to make a fool out of himself again. He asked you (after a whole week of practicing in front of the mirror), with heated cheeks and a fast-beating heart, if you could teach him how to dance.

You felt a bit taken by surprise by this request, but agreed, nonetheless.

Friday evenings, eight to nine o’clock, were now reserved for your weekly dance lessons.

Looking at Harry’s history, it should be no big deal to dance with a girl when you had already come across the most dangerous things existing in the wizarding world. He should not be nervous; what was the girl teaching you how to dance against gigantic spiders who saw you as their dessert?

Well, everything.             

The thing was, Harry could prepare spells and charms, he knew what he had to do when he was faced with a Dementor or a Boggart. His mind, however, went completely blank when it came to you, like his nerves were on fire. To say he was nervous was an underestimation.

Harry ran his hand through the mess of black locks in a rather useless attempt to flatten them. They jumped back up immediately as he let go, pointing in every direction but the one he wanted them to. Stupid genes.

Sometimes he wished he had inherited his mother’s hair. It would have been fun to be mistaken as a Weasley and he could pretend he and Ron were actually brothers.

To keep his hands busy, Harry smoothened the plaid shirt he had thrown on before darting another glance at the clock over the door of the abandoned classroom on the fifth floor. 8:01 o’clock.

His fingers drummed against the wooden desk he was leaning on to release his excited tension, which only worked until the door opened, and he jumped up into a straight position.

You stepped inside, a vinyl clammed under your arm and an apologizing smile on your lips.

“Sorry I’m late, Snape held me off,” You said, placing your bag on the table Harry had leaned on previously.

“Don’t worry, it’s fine. Uh, are you alright?” He asked.

“Oh, yeah. I mean Snape just almost failed my assignment, but I found a new song to dance to, and I’m pretty sure you’ll like it,” You said as you rushed over to the old vinyl player in the corner and unwrapped the black record.

Harry followed your every movement. You could feel his eyes on you and bit down on your lip to stop yourself from smiling.

“It’s a bit slower than the other one, so it will be easier for you to follow,” You added and pulled the vinyl out, stroking a streak of Y/H/C hair behind your ear, your back still facing him.

When the record was placed correctly into the player, you turned back around and led Harry by the hand to the middle of the classroom. This simple touch alone made Harry’s head spin, and it did not help when you placed his hand onto your waist.

“Are you ready?” You asked and he nodded. “Good, follow my lead.”

There was nothing but admirable beauty, the way you moved to the soft piano music filling the room, Harry thought, and he hated himself for not realising sooner. You were like a sunset, and he was afraid to look right at you because what if you saw all the feelings swelling in his heart that dared to overspill at any moment.

You had been right, he adored the music you had brought with you, but he adored you even more.

You thought he looked at his feet because he was afraid to mess up the steps.     

“Hey,” You said softly, taking the hand from his shoulder to lift his chin. “Eyes up.”

“Yes. Right. Sorry.”

A sheepish smile spread over his face and your heart beat hectically against your rip cage as his emerald green eyes met yours.

It took Harry a great deal of strength to not break out of the dance routine he had so intensely studied and kiss you. But your hand slipped away from under his chin back to his shoulder and the moment was lost, like so many others.

Staying professional was not so simple for you either, as much as you liked to deny it. You liked Harry, more than friends should like each other, but who could blame you? Harry was very handsome, with his messy hair and those green eyes, he was sweet and caring, and he was dancing with you in an abandoned classroom, his hand on your waist.

Looking at it from this angle, there seemed to be no reason as to why you were so careful to deny your feelings.

Well, there was one problem: You thought he wanted to ask Cho to the ball to make up for the Yule Ball.

Harry was pretty oblivious when it came to love. Neither had he thought about you as more than friends before sixth year, nor had he realised that the feelings he had felt for Cho two years ago were similar to the ones he had for you now, though they were much more intense.

The worst part was that you two had been friends for three year and since then, you had spent a week of every summer holiday at the Burrow. Harry knew you; he knew that you liked his crappy jokes and his sarcastic comments, but never before had his stomach tingled when you laughed at them. Never before had there been goose bumps all over his skin when you hugged him. And to hell, never before had he acknowledged how goddamn beautiful you were.

“You’re getting really good.” You ripped him out of his thoughts.

“Oh. Really?” He asked.

It would be brilliant if he could dance without thinking about it all the time, fearing he could step on your feet.

“Yes, really,” You replied, grinning.

“Well, I- I suppose I have a good teacher.”

The piano music faded out and you stopped in the middle of the room, slipping your hand out of his. It was a good excuse to turn around and start the vinyl again, so you did not have to answer anything.

Harry stood there for a second, gulping and scratching his neck. He should not have said that.

What he had said flattered you, but it was only a knife dressed like compliment, stroking over your heart to stab you right after. All of this was amicable, temporary, fickle. All of this was for Cho.

You sat the needle back on the record.

“What’s it called? The song, I mean,” Harry asked quietly.

“‘Il Reste du Temps’. The rest of time.” You walked back up to him and took his hand, leading you two into the dance. With his hand on your lower back, he pulled you a bit closer than last time.

“So, there are only two weeks left. You have asked Cho by now, I suppose?” You asked to remind your thoughts of reality.

Harry narrowed his eyebrows, not sure how you had come to the conclusion he still liked Cho. She was great, for sure, but she wasn’t you.

“Oh. Uh, not really, no,” He answered. Your heart jumped.

“Well, you should hurry up. You don’t wanna wait until last minute like last time.”

“I- yeah, I mean, I don’t- I don’t want to go with Cho.”

You stepped forward even though you were supposed to draw back and stomp on his left foot. His hand around yours clenched for a second at the sudden pain.

“Shit. Sorry.” You quickly brought you two back into the right footstep order. “You’re not asking Cho?”

“No. I wanna- No.” Harry stopped himself from talking any further. He couldn’t ask you. He just couldn’t.

“Well, who do you wanna ask?” You said.

Maybe it was Ginny. She was gorgeous, phenomenal at Quidditch and in the Slugclub. Nothing you could say about yourself.

Harry opened his mouth and stammered. “It’s, uh, you know…some…girl.”

Oh yes, great save, Harry, congratulations, He thought to himself, couldn’t be any vaguer, could you? For Merlin’s sake, look at her, she is completely confused.

You were pretty even when you were confused, with your eyebrows drawn together over your eyes curiously inspecting him – Stop.

“Ah, okay. The lucky girl’s a secret,” You said, laughing lightly. It was definitely Ginny.

“No, I mean, she’s –” 

“It’s not my concern who you’ll ask, Harry,” You interrupted to calm him down. “As long as you ask her.”

Harry didn’t know what to reply to that. You really saw them just as friends.

The two of you danced for a while and Harry tried to memorise every golden speck in your dark eyes, every freckle, every curve, just so he could imagine you instead of the person he would dance with in a fortnight. If he would even go. Because what point was there to go to a ball if the one person he wanted to dance with more than anything else would not be there with him?

You tried to enjoy the closeness while it lasted. But the voices crowding your mind all shouted that he would never see you the way you saw him. That his face would never be so close ever again. That his hands would never rest on your body the way they did now, and never with any other intention than for the sake of learning how to dance, learning how to impress Ginny or whoever he would ask.

“Have you – have you asked anyone yet? To go to the ball with you?” Harry disrupted your thoughts and pulled you back into reality.

“No. I don’t even know if I’ll go,” You said and Harry’s heart dropped. “I mean, I’ll come to watch you dance, that’s for sure.”

Now his heart was way up in his throat, beating like hell. He swallowed and forced himself to answer. “No pressure then.”

You grinned at his comment. “Oh please, you can dance better than most of sixth and seventh year combined by now. You remember the spin I showed you last time?”

Harry nodded. He lifted his left arm and put a little pressure on your waist. You performed a small twirl before he caught you again, hand on your side. He smiled proudly.

“Really good.” The music stopped and you looked at the clock on the wall behind Harry. 8:57 o’clock. “I guess that’s it for today.”

Harry smiled sadly but you thought it was just your mind, playing you a trick. You packed the record back into the cover while Harry shouldered his back bag, handing yours to you. Then he held the door open for you, and you stepped out into the dimly lit hallway.

Harry had already pulled out the Marauders Map to check if the way back to the Gryffindor tower was clear. You weren’t technically allowed out after nine p.m. because of the new safety measurements, but it was part of the charm.

“Filch’s down on the first floor and Snape’s in his office,” Harry informed you.

“Okay.” You nodded.

Quietly and side by side, you two walked back to the Gryffindor tower. There was plenty of silence to break, plenty of time to ask you to the ball, Harry thought. But he was too afraid.

–

“It’s not that easy, alright?”

“Bloody hell, you spent every Friday evening with her! Half of our year thinks you’re secretly doing it in that classroom.”

For that, Ron earned a jab into his ribs. The two made their way through the masses of students down the last staircase to the Great Hall.

“Ow! It’s not my fault, you can’t open your mouth.”

“Oh, I can’t open my mouth? Have you asked Hermione yet?”

Harry was sure this would shut Ron up, but he was wrong.

“I asked her six weeks ago and she said yes, mate.”

Harry stopped in his tracks, stunned. “Wot?”

“Merlin, do you ever listen to me?”

Ron shook his head, walking to breakfast. Harry needed a few seconds before he could move again, then he caught up with his best friend. He was about to say something back when Ron’s sister Ginny interrupted them, wrapping her arms around both of Harry and Ron’s shoulders.

“Morning boys,” She greeted them enthusiastically.

The ceiling of the Great Hall was covered in a pale blue and yellow, the upcoming sun shining golden through the high windows.

“So.” Hermione poured both of you a glass of pumpkin juice. “How was it yesterday?”

“Mhm?” You looked up from your toast.

She sighed as if her question was rather obvious. “The dance lesson with Harry?”

“Oh.” You shrugged. “Normal.”

“So, nothing happened? Nothing you want to tell me?” She asked further.

You eyed her suspiciously, but she kept an innocent face expression.

“It’s not like we could do much besides dancing.”

Lavender beside you snickered and Parvati snorted into her coffee.

“Believe me, there is a lot you could do in that hour besides dancing,” Parvati said.

“God, no! Have you met Harry?” Lavender said bemusedly. “Like he's the type to have secret sex.”

“Still waters run deep,” Parvati replied, a smug grin on her lips. “Don't they, Y/N?”

Hermione crunched her nose at the suggestive tone as you narrowed your eyes at the two girls, shaking your head.

“Yes, keep making fun of my non-existing love life.”

You grabbed the strawberry marmalade, determined to ignore any topic concerning Harry. While you had lain awake last night, you had decided to bury your feelings for him all together and get over it. This would be easier once your dance lessons came to an end and the ball was done.

“Well, it does exist for everyone else,” Lavender interposed.

“And it would exist for you, too, if you would finally do something,” Hermione said, leaning forward.

“What?” You asked. “I mean, yeah, I like him, but he is definitely not into me like that. And I can't force him to be.”

Hermione groaned, and Parvati rummaged through her bag, pulling out a piece of parchment and making some space on the table.

“Okay, let’s see,” She began, “He asked you to teach him to dance. Big step for him, you know that. He always stares at you during Quidditch instead of the Snitch. Wood would've killed him by now. He always sits beside you. He definitely smelled you in Amortentia, regarding how he looked at you during that class. And since then, he looks at you like you’re the only person in the room. He –”

“He does not,” You said, grabbing her wrist to stop her from writing any further.

“Yeah, he does,” Lavender argued. “Look!”

You turned to spot Harry alongside Ron and his sister Ginny coming through the doorway, and for one second, your eyes met. Then Ginny said something, and Harry looked at her, laughing.

You sighed and stuffed the rest of your toast down your throat to get rid of the sour feeling twirling and burning in your stomach.

“Well, Ginny’s pretty funny,” Hermione tried.

“Yeah, she’s funny and pretty and she likes everything he likes.”

“None of that matters because he fell in love with you and not Ginny,” Lavender said, smiling brightly.

“He did not – not what you said.”

“He did! The list doesn’t lie.”

Parvati waved the parchment through the air, and you snatched it out of her hand, drowning it in the pumpkin juice before anyone could read it. Hermione curled her lip as she watched the paper soaking up the orange liquid, sinking to the ground of the jug.

In the same moment, Harry, Ron and Ginny reached your table, and to your surprise, Harry really did sit down beside you, your knees touching shortly while he climbed over the bench. The sudden touch sent sparks through your body and filled you with a comfortable warm which was quickly extinguished by Ginny sitting down next to Harry.

You didn’t want to be jealous.

There was no need to compare yourself to Ginny, you were two completely different people. But hearing her talk about Quidditch to the guys and seeing her flicking her beautiful hair over her slim shoulder made it so obvious how perfect for Harry she was. You couldn’t compete with that, in fact, you didn’t even want to compete with that.

No, you would get over your feelings and maybe ask someone else to spend the next Hogsmeade weekend with you. Those evenings with Harry, those moments too good to be true would stay somewhere deep down in your heart, locked away from the real world.

The weekend left as fast as it had come, and soon enough Harry and you both found yourselves in your day-to-day school life, studying for an upcoming Charms test and writing essays for Snape and McGonagall.

There wasn’t much time to think about each other, yet Harry managed to glance up from his homework a few times to stare at you opposite from him, snuggled into an armchair while flicking through a book. He noticed that you captured your tongue between your lips or mouthed single words to yourself whenever you were so deeply sunken into thoughts that you forgot the many people around you.

The latter found Harry very impressive because he was never that relaxed if more than three people were with him. Your lips on the other hand found Harry... well, much more interesting than his homework was the least to say.

Every day he woke up thinking that today, he would ask you. But whenever he came close to ask, he changed the topic or was distracted by friends and classmates.

Even Ron had given up with his jokes by now, which was a very bad sign and a nonverbal way to say, Man, you fucked up.

–

You had decided to make the last of your dance lessons a memorable one. An hour of pretending, of being close to someone you know you would never be this close to ever again.

Therefore, you had asked your older sister to send some of your favourite records from home, which you were now sorting through in the abandoned classroom. It was ten minutes to eight and you were sipping a butterbeer to cool your nerves. All those times before you had been as calm as ever, but today you were on the edge.

The door opened and you turned to find Harry in the doorway, hair messy as ever.

“Hi,” He said and the corners of his lips jumped up into a lopsided smile.

“Hey. You’re early.”

“Could say the same about you.”

“Yeah, you could,” You mumbled, pushing the needle of the record player down onto the vinyl.

Classic music filled the air and you walked over to Harry to lead him to the middle of the room after he had dropped his back bag to the floor. With the high heels on your feet, you were almost eye to eye, your nose at the height of his lips.

For a wonder, he did not need your instruction to place his hand on your waist and pulled you much closer than usual.

Harry felt his heart beating in his throat. Being this close to you was galvanic, every nerve was burning, and then again, for the first time in two months, he was able to close his eyes and let himself sink in, to melt with the music, to feel the tact pulsating through his whole body. It was what you had tried to teach him all along.

And yet his tongue was tied. He just had to ask. Would you like to go to the ball with me? One simple question. You had told him yourself to not wait until last-minute to ask, and now with every minute, every hour, every day passing it felt more ridiculous. He had known that he wanted to ask you and only you to the ball, but every time he thought about forming the question, his mouth failed him.

Your eyes lay calmly on him, tapping his shoulder in time to the music while secretly trying to remember every little detail of his face: His prominent eyebrows curved over his emerald green eyes, his flushed cheeks and the dimples created by his light smile lying on his lips.

Harry had become, for lack of a better word, quite fantastic at slow dancing. There was confidence in the way he moved through the room and held onto you, mingled with a certain elegance and appreciation of the art he was participating in. A good teacher, he had called you. Well, regarding slow dances, yes.

But there was one other thing he had yet to learn.

“You’re really good, you know that?” You said, and his smile brightened.

“Yeah? Or are you just saying that because it’s my last lesson?” He asked.

“No, I mean it. You know, I wrote my sister last week and she send some of my vinyl discs from home,” You told him as the music slowly faded out and let your hand slip from his shoulder and hand to turn to the record player, not noticing how his fingers lingered a moment longer on your waist.

Harry watched how you sorted through the discs, not able to make use of their names in any way. The only record he had come across before those dance lessons had been one by a singer named Bonnie Tyler, who Aunt Petunia secretly listened to on repeat during the summer when Uncle Vernon went grocery shopping or mowed the lawn.

Harry wasn’t a big fan, which was pretty much the only thing he had in common with his cousin Dudley.

“Here. To dancing and a nice Spring ball.” Harry snapped out of his thoughts. You held out a bottle of butterbeer, which he took and snapped its bottle top off, regarding for a moment to say something along the lines like To you, for teaching me how to dance or To us, but that seemed a bit too much.

Therefore, he went with a simple “Cheers” and touched glasses with you.

While he took a big sip in hopes it would make him braver, you decided on a turquoise and pink coloured disc with a man dancing on the front, the words Footloose in ornate writing covering its front. He couldn’t help but notice the grin you tried to hide, as if knowing something he didn’t.

“What’s that?” He asked, leaning against the table beside you and putting his beer aside.

“That’s what the cool kids dance to.”

You placed the needle onto the record. Drums began to play a fast rhythm, mixed with an electric guitar, and you slipped off your high heels, now only in tights. Harry watched with fearful curiosity how you snapped your fingers in time, bopping your head with closed eyes to internalise the music.

Every movement of your feet, your hips, your shoulders was nonchalant, effortless and... well, simply cool.

“Come on!” You said loudly over the music, waving Harry closer.

“No, no, that’s –” He shook his head, heat flushing his cheeks, and crossed his arms.

“Yes!”

You danced up to him, grabbing him by his hands and pulling him to the middle of the room.

Harry had improvised a lot when it came to fighting evil. His whole trip to the ministry had been decided because of his gut instinct, because he had thought he knew what he was doing. Well, that was probably a bar example. He had made everything worse back then.

But everything he had done to fight off the hundreds of Dementors at the Great Lake, or the creatures in the maze two years ago, or Voldemort at the graveyard, every single thing had been purely and spontaneously improvised.

Now, he wasn’t sure if he was that good at improvising dance moves, but you had other plans.

“Come on, don’t you trust me?” You said as his fingers clenched around your hands, unable to let go, like a man clinging onto a life buoy in the middle of the ocean.

And Harry wanted to say back that of course he trusted you, more than he probably knew himself, but all that came out was a “Yeah” which sounded more like a laugh than an actual word because of the grin stretched across his lips.

“Just dance the way you dance when no one’s watching,” You said.

“I don’t – I don’t do that,” He admitted, feeling how his cheeks burned under the unbelieving look coming from you.

“Okay, then close your eyes and just – just do it. Here, I’ll do it, too!”

You closed your eyes, smiling brightly, and slipped your fingers out of his, twirling on the spot like you usually only did behind closed doors, and clapping your hands in time with the music.

Harry couldn’t rip his gaze off of you, the way your body moved without any shame, your ridiculous head banging while acting like you play the guitar – air guitar, that’s what it was called, he had seen Dudley and his friends doing it, but never with so much... passion?

You were quite passionate about dancing, much more passionate than you were about school or Quidditch, and it fascinated him. How you could let loose, could forget what everyone thought of you, and he wanted to feel it too, wanted to not think that everyone was judging him.

So, Harry closed his eyes, concentrated on the beat of the music and your hands clapping, and then he did what you had been doing: Moving his arms, his legs, his feet, all a bit offbeat, all much less cool than what you did, but it had the effect he had wished for.

He forgot. Forgot about everything going on, everything in the past, everything that would come. It was like the music had deleted Voldemort from his mind. There was only his body and those absurdly freeing dance moves he would have been ashamed off any other time.

But not with you.

“Hey, you’re doing it! You’re doing it, look at you!” You shouted over the music, and Harry ripped his eyes open in the same moment as you grab his hands again. He slowed his legs.

“You said you wouldn’t look,” He said breathlessly, very aware of his fast-beating heart.

But if he was honest, he did not mind that you had seen him. If he could choose any of his friends to watch him dance like this, it would definitely be you.

“I had to, I’m sorry!” You laughed, and the song came to an end. “Oh, I have something even better, you’ll like that!”

You hit him friendly in the chest and rushed over to your pile of vinyl discs, wrapping the Footloose back up and pulling out another one from a white and pink packaging with two people on the front.

Harry would’ve never believed that dance lessons would be more exhausting than Quidditch training, but he had soon been disabused. He took a huge sip from his bottle of butterbeer and watched how you placed the needle on the disc before reaching for your own bottle.

“‘You broke my heart – ‘cause I couldn't dance – you didn’t even want me around!’” You were mouthing along the words the singer was speaking in an overdramatic seriousness, holding your bottle like a microphone. Harry was grinning at you, afraid of what would come next. “‘And now I'm back – to let you know – I can really shake 'em down!’”

The music dropped in, and you shook your hips, hands on your black skirt.

“Now don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Dirty Dancing,” You dared as Harry stayed at his spot, and he shrugged helplessly.

You shook your head at him with a smile on your lips, placed your bottle away and pulled him away from the table until you two were almost as close as in your usual dance lessons.

“Okay, like this.” You grabbed him gently by the waist and pushed him a bit down so his legs were slightly bent. Harry’s heart jumped at the unexpected touch. “Good, yeah, look at what I’m doing.”

Your grip became firmer, circularly moving his hips like you did. His eyes jumped up between your face and your waist, and he tried his best to copy your movements while calming his heart speed down.

“Yes, good! Now, your upper body, look at me – yeah! Good, eyes up,” You reminded him, and he glanced at your face, his cheeks flushed.

“Is that okay?” You asked, stepping closer so your hips almost touch, and he nodded. You took his hand, placed it on your lower back, and wrapped your own arms around his neck, just like Johnny and Baby had done it in the beginning of Dirty Dancing.

“That’s good!” You encouraged him, and he grinned at you, his face bright red. “You know, in the movie, they have another dance with a lift.”

“You’re not gonna make me do that, are you?” He asked.

You shook your head, laughing. “No, definitely not without training and a mattress,” You said, slowing your hip movements. “Maybe after the ball. I mean –”

The words had just slipped out of your mouth without thinking about them before. But Harry smiled, brushing a strand of hair out of his forehead, while I’ve Had The Time Of My Life began to play, and Bill Medley’s voice filled the room.

Harry felt like he was on fire. If you wanted to continue the dance lessons next year it must be because you liked him. In some way, you liked him, and it was very hard for him to concentrate during this dance. And training on a mattress would not make that easier – Stop it, stop it, just answer!

“Yeah, okay,” He said, and your heart jumped up in excitement. You smiled back at him and grabbed his free hand with yours, leading you back into a simple dance routine fitting the music. Harry followed almost effortlessly, only shortly glancing at his feet.

“I’ll have to demand payment if we keep doing this.”

“What kind of payment?”

His hand on your lower back pushed you a bit closer, you were almost chest to chest. Was he... flirting with you?

Whatever it was, it made you speechless, and in a moment of incautiousness, your eyes fell down to his lips. You held your breath for a second as you looked back up into his eyes, slowing your movements. He returned your gaze, but just as you were about to gather all your courage, his eyes shifted to the door of the classroom, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration.

“What?” You asked, turning around.

“Filch,” He said and not far down the hall, you heard the meowing of Mrs. Norris.

Panic flared up inside of you as you saw the clock on the wall: Half past nine.

“Argh, fuck.”

You let go off him and rushed over to the table with the record play on top, shoving your vinyl discs into your schoolbag and collecting your high heels in a hurry.

Outside in the hallway, the scratchy voice of Filch mixed with the clicking of his cat’s claws on the stone tiles. Harry had grabbed his bag from the floor and fished out his Invisibility Cloak. As you turned around, he had reached you and enveloped you two in the cloak, standing almost as close to you as a few seconds ago.

“Have you found someone, Mrs. Norris?” Filch’s voice echoed through the hallway. “Is someone out of bed at night?”

“We have to get out,” You whispered, not very keen on getting detention any time soon.

“If we open the door now, he’ll know someone disguised is there,” Harry answered.

“How often have you snuck out of bed at night?”

The corners of his mouth twitched upwards into a lopsided smile.

“Enough times to know what to do.”

The scratching on the classroom door reminded Harry that, despite the fact that they were invisible, it was still pretty obvious that someone had been in here. Harry flicked his wand at the ceiling light right in time – the candles went out and the two of you were coated in darkness just before Filch pushed the door open and the light from his lantern fell onto the stone floor. You held your breath, hoping he would leave again.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Norris’ red eyes scanned the room and the greyish cat walked up to you as if she could actually see you. Instinctively, you wanted to move backwards, but Harry’s arm wrapped around you, holding you in place. You looked up to him and he slowly shook his head.

Mrs. Norris eyed you for a few more seconds before she suddenly jumped onto the table behind you, walking up to the two almost emptied butterbeer bottles and bumping her head against them.

“Oh no.” Your voice was no more than a whisper. “I didn’t –”

Harry placed his hand over your mouth, forcing you to keep quiet.

“Sorry,” You mumbled.

Filch had turned away from the other side of the room he had inspected and was now walking over to his cat. With his arm around your mid, Harry pulled you two quietly away from the table he was now inspecting. You weren’t entirely sure whether it was the panic of escaping Filch or Harry’s chest pressed against your back, but the butterflies in your stomach were jittery as though they were on drugs, and your heart beat unbelievably fast.

Harry felt your heartbeat. He felt the pulsating blood in your veins on your neck where his arm lay, reaching up to your mouth. You were barely breathing, and he figured it was because he was holding you like he was about to kidnap you.

“Run when we’re in the hallway,” He whispered, eyes steadily watching Filch, and removed his hand from your lips to grab your free hand. You nodded shortly. Fortunately, Filch had left the door open, and in one swift motion, Harry had steered you outside.

Fingers still interlocked with yours, he began to run, you by his side. And despite the fact that you two had almost been caught, despite that you had been interrupted when he had felt most confident, despite the ruined moment, he felt light and free and happy.

You were clutching your shoes, slithering over the cold tiles in your black tights, and Harry, looking at you, almost missed the last step of the stairs leading to the portrait of the Fat Lady. He held onto you as he staggered, and you giggled breathlessly, pulling him back up.

“That – stupid – fucking – cat. Can she see through your cloak?” You asked.

Harry shrugged and ruffled through his messy hair.

“Don’t know. I think, but I’m glad she can’t talk,” He said, and a grin spread over your lips, which he returned.

He caught your eyes, looking at you like before, like there was something he needed to say – the tingling feeling in your core got overwhelmed by heart-racing panic and because of some sour mix of uncertainty and fear, you slipped out from under the Invisibility Cloak, taking a few steps away from Harry.

Not a second later, he emerged as well, fighting to keep the smile on his face like his heart hadn't just sunk so deep he wasn't sure if it was even still connected to his veins.

“You okay?” He asked.

“Yeah!” Your voice was too loud, too squeaky to convince him. “Yeah, I – I'm sorry, it's just been a long week and I'm really tired. I'm gonna – gonna go...”

You gestured to the portrait behind you, avoiding his eyes, and turned to escape the situation.

Harry stared at the spot where you had vanished into the common room, his fingers clenching around the fabric of his cloak before tossing it to the ground. It didn't give the satisfying sound he had wanted to make, so he sent a “Fuck!” after it.

“Young boy, that is not a very appropriate language, now, is it?”

His eyes flew up to the Fat Lady, who had apparently watched with great interest. “Besides, what are you doing that late out of bed? I mean I know it gets later on Fridays for the two of you but it's later than usual today –”

“Chinese Fireball.”

“I just don't know what you are doing during that hour. There are rumours, for sure –”

“I told you the password, now will you open the fucking portrait? Chinese Fireball.”

“Oh, fine.” She let the portrait swing forward. “I'll find out by myself... maybe visit some paintings down on fifth floor...”

Harry ignored the Fat Lady.

He also ignored Ron calling after him from the sofa in front of the fireplace, as well as Hermione's questioning look and all the other people staring at him as he darted through the common room and up the stairs, slamming the door of his dorm shut behind him.

He ignored them because the only person he wanted to be seen with had just left him standing in the hallway and he wasn't even sure why.

The first time you saw each other again was three days later in Potions. You had ignored him on purpose, which you knew was obvious to him: Leaving the Great Hall whenever he stepped inside, sitting as far from him in the common room as possible, avoiding his eyes... that did not leave that much room for speculations.

You didn't want to hurt him, you really didn't, but you couldn't be friends any longer, especially not after last Friday. You weren't even sure what exactly had happened – had he really flirted with you or had that been your imagination? Probably the latter. He had asked someone else the ball after all. Right?

Parvati nudged you with her elbow, and you snapped out of your thoughts, noticing the hole in your parchment created by your quill. The two of you sat in the far back of Professor Slughorn��s class, who was in the middle of telling one of his anecdotes instead of teaching about Veritaserum.

“What’s going on?” She asked in a hushed voice. “You’ve been weird since Friday.”

Lavender, who sat in front of you, turned around. “Is it because of – you know?”

She gestured towards Harry in his usual place diagonally across from you. You sighed, placed your quill aside to rub your hands over your face and shrugged. You had also avoided any questions from your friends about Friday, mostly because you could not even answer them yourself.

“I thought he would ask you,” Lavender whispered while throwing a quick glance at Slughorn to make sure he was still occupied with his story. “Didn’t he?”

“No,” You mouthed. Parvati shook her head.

“Man, you’d think he had grown a set of balls after all. If it turns out he just used you to look good in front of Ginny, I swear to Merlin –”

“Well, that’s what it looks like, I mean, he had enough time to ask you,” Lavender said.

Before you could reply anything, Parvati had grabbed her wand and leaned forward. In the next second, the blue Jobberknoll feathers on Harry’s desk burst into flames with an ear-piercing noise.

Both Harry and Ron jumped up, startled from the sudden explosion, and Hermione let out a little shriek as one of the sparks got caught up in her locks. Snickering came from the Slytherin table, and Crabbe and Goyle were stupidly grinning.

“Was that you? Stupid tosspot, I’ll shove that feather up your –,” Ron swore loudly, fists high and ready to walk over to the Slytherins, who had gotten up as well and were throwing insults through the room.

“Calm down, m’boys, no need to get abusive.”

Slughorn stepped between the two fronts while both Harry and Hermione pulled Ron back down onto his chair. With a wave of Slughorn’s wand, the feathers stopped burning and were as good as new.

“Have you gone mental?” You asked during the turmoil. Parvati shrugged and innocently shoved her wand aside.

“You’re my friend and if he hurt you, he’ll get what he deserves –”

“He didn’t hurt me!” You whispered angrily. “I was the one who panicked, I ran away that evening because I was afraid of what he would say! Not Harry. I left him like the idiot I am even though he – he was super nice and said he wanted to learn more –”

“Ms. Y/L/N?”

“Sorry, Professor, I was just –”

“Talking to Ms. Patil, I noticed. Could you still answer my question?” Slughorn eyed you, and so were all the other students.

“Uh...yes... if you could repeat it? Sir.” You said, and once again snickering echoed through the classroom, the loudest coming from Pansy Parkinson.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Parvati reaching for her wand again, and you quickly pressed her hand down to the table, awkwardly smiling at Slughorn.

“I asked if you could tell me anything about the usage of Veritaserum in court,” He kindly repeated and you straightened your back, ignoring Hermione’s raised hand.

“Well, the potion is strictly banned by the British Ministry of Magic, therefore they don’t use it during interrogations and such, which is also because, like any other potion, it’s not infallible. But I read that in some Asian countries, the accused can choose if they want to take Veritaserum before they give testimony. Unfortunately, in some courts they give the accused failed Veritaserum in order to alter the given testimony fraudulently.”

You had never read about that, you were – ironically – making it up, but Slughorn didn’t seem to notice.

“Very well, that’ll be five points for Gryffindor,” He said. “That reminds me of –”

As Slughorn fell back into his old habit of telling personal stories during class, you sank back into your chair and stared at the chapped top of the desk for the rest of the lesson.

Only the bell ripped Slughorn out of his monologue, and over the rustling of chairs, he told the class to read the next chapter of Advanced Potion Making until Wednesday.

“Courtyard?” You asked Parvati as to where to spend your free lesson.

“Yeah, but I got a question about that graded essay from last week. Just go ahead, I’ll catch up with you,” She answered and made her way to the front. Alongside with Lavender, you were one of the first to leave the Potions classroom.

“I wish I hadn’t picked Arithmancy,” Lavender complained.

“You can sleep longer on Thursdays, remember?” You said as you reached the entrance hall. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah, bye.”

Lavender began to climb up the stairs to the third floor, and you walked down the hallway. It was freezing cold outside, but the courtyard was beautiful during every time of the year, especially in the early mornings when the sun melted the iced-up grass and you could share a hot chocolate with your friends on one of the benches.

“Hey, Y/N! Wait!”

You turned to spot none other than Theodore Nott running up to you, his Slytherin scarf loosely around his neck.

“Hi,” He said as he had reached you.

“Uh, hi. Can I help you?” You asked.

“Actually, yeah. I wanted to ask if you have a dance to spare at the Spring ball? I mean, I know you’re going with Potter, I just wanted one dance with someone professional –”

“I’m not going with Harry,” You blurted out. Theodore narrowed his eyebrows.

“What?” He asked, a bemused smile on his lips.

You gulped and shook your head, crossing your arms. “I’m not going with... anyone.”

“Oh. Well, then,” His body relaxed visibly, and he raised his eyebrows, “do you wanna go with me?”

You opened your mouth, an agreement already on the tip of your tongue, but you knew that was just out of desperation and not because you actually wanted to go to the ball with Theodore.

“Hey, you know what, no pressure at all, okay?” He said, placing his hand on your shoulder casually. “I’ll be at the ball anyway, so if you want to dance then, I’m free.”

You nodded. “Thank you, Theodore. I’ll think about it.”

“You can call me Theo. Only if you want to, obviously.”

A grin crept upon your face. “Yeah, I’ll – I’ll think about it.”

Whatever Harry had felt the two days prior, it was nothing compared to the sour feeling circulating in his stomach now, like some dragon-creature spitting fire and tearing at his entrails with sharp claws. Inside of him, everything was clenching and itching, but on the outside, he was numb.

Like his brain had been disconnected from his muscles, wherefore he was only able to stare at Theodore Nott and his stupid, complacent grin and his hand on your shoulder while he asked you to the ball.

This wasn’t fair. How come everyone else but him was able to do it, how come everybody else had managed to find a date, when – to be honest – he had been provided with one of the best initial situations? How come the only thing he was apparently fit for was getting himself into trouble and escaping death every goddamn year? Harry had kind of forgotten about all that was to come, all that Dumbledore had told him, and the memory Slughorn was still tending like dark secret simply because of you.

The worst thing wasn’t that Theodore Nott had just asked you to go to the Spring ball with him. No, the worst thing was that you had agreed.

The only thing that was left for him was to run, which he did now: Up to the Gryffindor tower, tossing his back bag into a corner and grabbing his Firebolt from under the bed, then back down to the Quidditch pitch in record time.

Flying was one of the most freeing activities known to Harry, especially in the cool, fresh morning air with no one else around. High above the frozen grass and the wooden stands, much higher than probably allowed without any teacher near by, Harry paused to watch the sun over the Forbidden Forest.

He wondered if you had ever flown before, if you knew how brilliant it was to hover a thousand feet above the ground, far away from all the problems. Far away from Ron asking what the bloody hell was wrong with him. Far away from Hermione telling him that it was his own fault for waiting so long but that you surely weren’t interested like that in that tosser Theodore (though she would probably word it much more formal).

Time was relative up here, Harry had noticed over the years, so he closed his eyes and shut the world out for a moment. Saturday was still light-years away anyway, so –

“Harry, is that you?”

He almost fell from his broom.

With his heart still beating way to fast and adrenalin pumping though his veins, he turned his broom around to find no one other that Luna standing inside commentary box and waving up to him. Oh well. So much for being alone.

He steered his Firebolt down to the blonde witch and landed beside her.

“What are you doing her, Luna?” He asked as climbed from his broomstick. “Don’t you have classes right now?”

“Oh, yes. But I saw that you are sad so I asked Professor Sprout if I could go because I’m not feeling very well,” She explained and sat down on one of the benches.

“You lied to a professor?”

“Oh, no,” She said, looking at him with her dreamy blue eyes. “I don’t feel well when my friends are sad.”

Harry didn’t know what to reply to that, so he simply sat down next to her. Luna had such a strange, but calm energy, like a pulsating, pink bubble inhibiting her, and if you were lucky, she let you inside this bubble and you could shut the world out for a moment.

“Harry, why are you sad?” Luna asked softly after a while.

“Because... because I like someone who doesn’t like me back,” He said.

Luna placed her hand upon his, and he saw that she had painted her fingernails in every colour of the rainbow. Though that was probably Ginny’s work.

“I think Y/N likes you very much,” She said. Harry scoffed.

“Not the way I like her,” He said. “She just agreed to go to the ball with Nott. I saw it. She looked happy. And when I wanted to ask her last week, she ran away.”

“You know, first I thought you wanted to go to the ball with somebody else,” She said. “I thought maybe you wanted to ask Cho again and wanted to prepare this time. And maybe Y/N thought so, too.”

Harry looked up at the blonde girl.

“She did ask me if I was going to ask Cho,” He said, remembering one of the dance lessons.

“And did you tell her that you actually want to ask her?”

“No,” He admitted, burying his face in his hands. “I panicked... and now it’s too late.”

“No, it’s not. You should still go to the ball, and then you should tell her,” Luna said.

“How? I can’t do it when we’re alone, I certainly can’t do it when there’s a hundred people around,” Harry said miserably.

“Well, then don’t.” Luna shrugged. “If you want her to be with Theodore –”

“I don’t want that,” He interrupted her. “Of course, I don’t.”

“Then go to the ball and tell her. I know you can do that.”

Saturday evening came around faster than you liked it to. Over the last four days, you had noticed Theodore’s eyes on you more than once during the meals or potions class, but it did not cause the tingling feeling in your stomach you would like his looks to cause.

If anything, you felt a pressure to talk to him and to spend time with him because you would go to the ball together. But you did not give in to that pressure and avoided him as much as possible, which led to you often leaving the potions classroom as one of the first.

To be honest, you were much more concentrated on Harry.

Harry who did not sit beside you during meals anymore. Harry who did not look in your direction but rather stared at his plate. Harry who looked like he had just lived through a very miserable week.

And you knew that was because you had left him standing in the hallway last Friday night. Maybe he had figured that you had feelings for him and that was his way of dealing with it: Distancing himself from you.

You wished you had not run. You wished you could’ve stayed in that abandoned classroom forever, your favourite song playing and his arms around you.

–

“What eyeshadow should I use?”

“The darker one.”

“Y/N?”

You snapped out of your thoughts, looking up from where you sat on the floor in your puffy, ankle-long purple-pink dress. Parvati held out her eyeshadow palette, eyebrows raised as she sceptically eyed you. Her black hair was still wrapped around a dozen curlers. Lavender had spent all morning on them.

“Yes, the darker one,” You said. “Brings out your eyes.”

Thankfully, that answer seemed to satisfy her enough to not ask how you were doing. She and Lavender had already asked that over a million times, but you had reassured them that you were totally okay.

Parvati turned back to face the mirror.

“When did you want to meet with Nott?” Lavender asked. She kneeled in front of her trunk, pondering whether she should wear black or silver heels.

“Half past seven,” You mumbled, picking at the tulle of your dress.

Theodore had held you back yesterday after Defence against the Dark Arts to tell you that he would be at the Great Hall at 7:30 and that you were welcome to eat dinner with him and his friends – which included people like Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson; people you usually avoided by all means, people that had laughed at you for tripping over the last step of a stair, for not knowing an answer to one of Snape’s stupid questions, or for simply being Muggleborn.

You had never been less interested in going to a social event. All you wanted to do was lay in bed under your blanket and erase the last week out of your mind.

“Oh, come on, darling, we talked about this.” Lavender came over and squished your cheeks, brushing away a tear. “Today is not the day to sulk about some guy who doesn’t return your feelings. Today is your day, and you’re gonna have fun with us. Don’t let some guy ruin that. Okay?”

You sniffed and nodded, not able to answer because she cupped your cheeks so solidly. Lavender smiled and kissed your forehead.

“That’s right,” She said. “We’re gonna have some dinner and dance a bit and if by then you still feel bad, we can go back to our dorm.”

“And if Harry dares to talk to you, he’s gonna know what’s it feels like to be kicked in the balls with a heel,” Parvati added dryly. You laughed.

The Great Hall was decorated with yellow, pink and purple banners, and the four long house tables had been exchanged with much smaller, round ones scattered where the staff table usually stood, on each of them a vase filled with rosa tulips and white daffodils.

The ceiling did not mirror the night sky outside but a beautiful, orange sunset lighting up the dance floor in the middle. Opposite from the many tables, on the other end of the hall, Slughorn had organised a stage with a cover band. Next to the stage hung a long parchment onto which everyone could write requests.

You spotted your Potions teacher, dressed in a bright green suit, next to Dumbledore, his robes a terrible pink, both of them writing down their song requests.

“A Galleon that Dumbledore is a Spice Girls fan,” Lavender said grinning as she had followed your eyes.

“Bet,” Parvati said, grabbing three drinks from a passing waiter. “Here. Cheers.”

The three of you clinked glasses and took a sip of the red punch – it tasted strongly of various fruits, coconut, and bitter alcohol.

You let your eyes glide further over the hall and the people that sat together in groups around the tables, some of them already eating. Secretly, you were looking for Harry, though you only discovered Ginny in between Luna and Hermione, all of them chatting happily, and a few tables behind them, Theodore.

He waved as he saw you, gesturing to come over. You forced yourself to smile and wave back at him.

“I’ll see you later,” You said, chugging down the rest of your drink.

“Tell us if he’s being an asshole,” Parvati said. “Or really any of them.”

“And have some fun,” Lavender added.

You took one last look at your friends – Parvati in her silk, almond white, slim dress, and Lavender with flowers in her hair, their arms linked together – and swallowed thickly before turning and making your way through the crowd towards Theodore, though you made sure to give the table with Ginny a wide berth.

“Hi, Y/N,” Theodore greeted you, pecking a swift kiss on your left cheek. His eyes, however, were gliding over the room filling with more and more students. “We’ve already ordered some drinks, come on.”

You took a step back after the kiss, blinking quickly, then noticed how the other people around the table were staring at you:

Pansy and Daphne eyed you and your dress dismissively, and Blaise sipped on his wine, eyebrows raised. Only Draco was slumped in his chair and chewed on a gum, not wasting a single glance at you. He looked as uninterested in this Spring Ball as you felt.

An hour ago, you sure as hell wouldn’t have believed to relate to bloody Draco Malfoy.

“Uh, hi. I’m Y/N,” You said, forcing a smile on your face and holding out your hand towards Pansy, as she sat closest to you. “I like your dress. Matches your earrings.”

That compliment seemed to leave a mark. Her judging look softened and she shook your hand.

After introducing yourself to everyone (well, except Draco, who had only shortly nodded at you), you sat down in between Theodore and Blaise, and ordered something to eat.

Pansy and Daphne were huddled together the whole time, giggling and pointing at others, while Draco raised a complaint about every meal on the menu or really any other small inconvenience that had the unfortune to be spotted by him (“I can’t eat that, it has tomatoes in it. Nothing on here is gluten free. I’ll write father first thing in the morning. Pansy, will you shut the fuck up for a second? That’s not even a real band. God, I hate this place.”).

“He’s a whiny bitch most of the time, but his family has a great holiday chalet in France,” Blaise said to you after Draco had shot you an annoyed look for asking if you should ask the band to play a different song. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t be friends with him.”

“I hope you choke on that disgusting wine,” Draco muttered, and you chuckled.

“Sure, darling,” Blaise replied, sharing a look with you. Until now, Blaise had surprisingly talked the most with you, and it turned out he wasn’t half as bad as you had always thought he would be.

Theodore on the other hand had only occasionally asked you how your meal was and how long you had planned to stay. His eyes had not held contact with yours for longer than a second and were still searching for something in the crowd, which was – by the way – having fun on the dance floor while you had not moved in almost an hour.

It wasn’t until a particularly beautiful girl from Ravenclaw strode past your table that Theodore hooked his foot around the leg of your chair to pull you closer and placed his hand on your upper thigh, giving you his full attention for the first time that night.

“Have I told you that you look very pretty tonight?” He asked, his dark eyes meeting yours.

“Er – no,” You said, darting a confused look towards the Ravenclaw girl.

“Well, you do,” Theodore went on and turned your head back to face him by stroking his thumb over your cheek before pressing his lips onto the skin beneath your ear. They felt chapped and not pleasant in any way. You cringed.

“Uh, sorry, but that’s maybe a bit early, don’t you think?” You said, drawing back and shoving his hand from your thigh.

“She’s gone anyway, Theo,” Blaise said. You did not understand.

“Who’s gone?” You asked, looking back and forth between Theodore and the others, who all seemed to know something you didn’t. Pansy giggled.

“Nothing,” Theodore said. His sweet voice had turned bitter, and you felt like that was your fault. He stood up. “I’ll get some more punch.”

The band segued from an upbeat song into a much slower one, and the light of the candles magically dimmed.

“Do you want to dance maybe?” You asked Theodore as a way to make up for your rejection, but he had already pushed past a group of chatting seventh years, not turning around.

You sank back into your chair, picking at the tulle of your dress again. Was it too early to tell Lavender and Parvati that you wanted to go back to your dorm?

“Girl, if I were you, I would get out of here as quickly as possible,” Blaise said. You looked up at him. “He’s not worth it. And he’s not here for you. So don’t waste your energy.”

“But he asked me to the ball,” You said weakly.

“Did he? Or did he just ask for some time with you to make his ex-girlfriend jealous?”

“He – well – he…”

But Blaise looked at you and you knew that he was right, that this was never about you but some other girl. It was always about some other girl.

“Excuse me, I’ll get some fresh air,” You said and made your way through the tables towards the doors.

The last time, everyone had watched him. Now it was Harry’s turn to watch everyone else try their best on the dance floor. He wasn’t sure what was worse; to be laughed at by the others while stepping on Parvati’s feet every other second or to watch not only Hermione and Ron but also Ginny and Luna, as well as Seamus and Dean dancing closely, arms around the other.

They all had no idea what they were doing, Harry could tell, but they were having fun anyway. He had never seen Hermione this happy.

“Oh, flashback.”

Harry looked up. Parvati sat down next to him on the chair that Ron had left over half an hour ago.

“Yeah,” He mumbled, taking another sip of butterbeer, and turned back to the dance floor right in time to see Dean kissing Seamus passionately in the middle of the room.

“And you are not dancing because…?” Parvati asked. Harry crossed his arms.

“If you’re here to make fun of me or to blow up my butterbeer, feel free to fuck off.”

Parvati chuckled. “Sorry about that. But seriously, why are you sitting here miserably after all those dance lessons?”

Harry tried to make out if she was actually serious or if this was her way to revenge herself for the Yule Ball.

“Are you kidding me?” He asked. Parvati narrowed her eyebrows, now visibly puzzled.

“No, I’m genuinely asking –”

“Well, it’s not that fucking easy to slow dance if you have no date, is it,” He said crossly.

Parvati gaped at him, but he was certainly not in the mood for this. It had cost him all his strength to not look for you in the crowd all evening, he did not need reminding of you not liking him back by Parvati.

Before she could say anything else, he placed his butterbeer bottle on the table and darted outside, hands shoved deeply into the pockets of his suit and eyes directed to the floor.

Harry’s feet guided him towards the courtyard. The music played by the band wasn’t as loud out here, and the cold night air was lively in contrary to the sticky, perfumed air inside the Great Hall.

He kicked some of the grass away and walked towards the bench underneath the willow, watching how its branches weighed in the wind and thought how you were probably having as much fun as his friends, or maybe even more, considering Nott was infamous for snogging in various broom closets.

Harry’s stomach turned at the thought of that. He wished he had a time turner to make it right.

The moon stood high on the deep blue night sky, illuminating the courtyard you had unconsciously walked to. Grey clouds had approached, and tiny raindrops were falling to the ground, steadily drumming onto the roofs of Hogwarts.

On your way out of the Great Hall, you had caught a glimpse of Theodore sticking his tongue down the throat of that Ravenclaw girl, but to be honest, it didn’t matter that he was making out with someone else. It would’ve just been nice if you could have had a forewarning.

You thought you were the only single soul wandering about, then spotted a figure sitting on a bench. You were about to turn and search for some other place to wallow in your feelings, when you recognised the messy hair.

Maybe this was the time to make up for running away. Maybe this was the time to be honest.

Harry looked up when he noticed someone coming closer, the tulle of your dress rustling over the wet grass. His heart jumped and he forgot to breathe for a moment.

“Hello,” You said, voice echoing over the empty courtyard. “Can I sit?”

“Of course.”

Harry scooted to the side to make some space for you. You sat down next to him, leaving maybe a hand width between the two of you. The wide branches of the willow guided you from the cold rain.

“You weren’t dancing,” You said, staring at the grass instead of his face.

You would understand if he did not want to talk, if he just walked away. He didn’t owe you an explanation for why he had not asked you to the ball or why was sitting here instead of inside with Ginny or whoever he had asked.

“You weren’t either, were you?” Harry replied. “You and Nott.”

“No, he’s busy with someone else, so… no. Not dancing.”

“Oh.” Harry shuffled. His knee bumped against yours. “Well, he’s an idiot then.”

You smiled, not moving your knee away from his.

“Yeah…but I don’t mind, really.”

“You should,” Harry said, and he meant it. No one should be treated like that. “If anyone should be dancing, it’s you.”

You looked up at him. Harry was already watching you, and it filled you with warmth despite the freezing cold. There wasn’t a single sign of hurt on his face, just a soft curiosity lying in his green eyes.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, “for running away last Friday. I had to sort out some things.”

“What things?” He asked quietly.

“Some…” Your heartbeat sped up. Be honest, you told yourself. “Some feelings.”

“Oh.” Harry tried to figure out what you meant by that, but the way you looked at him made his mind go blank. “You mean you…”

“I really like dancing with you,” You said. Harry felt his heart beating faster than ever against his ribcage. He wondered if you could hear it. “And I wouldn’t have done those lessons with anyone.”

The music from inside the Great Hall was growing louder, overshadowing the rain; someone must’ve opened the doors to let in some fresh air. The band was playing a slower, French song and it stung in your heart. It was one of your favourites.

When you turned back to Harry, he was standing up. For a second you thought he wanted to leave, to go back inside, then –

“May I have this dance?” Harry held out is right hand, and you did not have to think twice if you should take it or not.

He helped you up from the bench and led into the middle of the lawn, the rain still pattering onto the grass and the stone tiles. It smelled strongly of petrichor, and you thought that this was much closer to spring than the decorations in the Great Hall.

Harry’s hand found its place on your back, pulling you closer to him. You placed your hand on his shoulder, tapping his skin with your finger in time to the music out of habit, and met his eyes, reflecting the moon light in them.

Had you ever told him how beautiful he was?

The two of you moved, swaying back and forth. Harry realised that he did not even need to concentrate on the steps, he knew them by heart. The closeness of you took his breath away, the way your fingers held onto his, the way there was little to no room between your torso and his. You were smiling at him, despite the cold and the rain. Harry felt his stomach tingling.

“What��s it called?” Harry asked quietly, not wanting to drown out the music.

“‘Je Te Laisserai Des Mots’. I’ll leave you words,” You translated, having memorised the lyrics in your mind. “I’ll leave you words underneath your door, underneath the singing moon. Near the place where your feet pass by…hidden in the holes of wintertime and when you’re alone for a moment.”

You paused and Harry’s eyes fell to his feet, not able to take your gaze any longer. There were words on the tip of his tongue he did not dare to say – afraid, to ruin the moment. He wanted to stay here forever.

“Eyes up,” You said, placing your hand underneath his chin to lift his head up.

More French words reached your ears; Harry figured they were the same sentence repeated over and over, but even if he had been able to understand French, he wouldn’t have been able to translate them because of your hand still resting under his chin.

“Kiss me whenever you want,” You whispered. “Kiss me whenever you want. Kiss me –”

And then, Harry let go of his fears and kissed you.

After all it still took you by surprise how he loosened his fingers from yours to cup your face, pulling you as close to him as possible, until there was no space in between, noses bumping against each other. Both of your hands slung themselves around his neck, caressing his skin and driving up through messy hair.

His lips matched yours, gliding smoothly over one another, smearing your lip gloss everywhere until all you tasted was strawberries and sweet alcohol. With his chest against yours, Harry was glad to notice your heart beating as fast as his did, though that was also because he really needed to breathe – not that he wanted to, he would have been totally okay with never breaking away from the kiss if it was always going to feel this soft and freeing.

It was you in the end that had to carefully pull his face away from yours, heavily breathing in and out. You brushed his wet hair out of his forehead and let your fingers slide over his temples and cheeks down to his neck.

“That offer,” Harry began breathlessly, tucking a strand of hair he had accidentally drawn from your pinned-up hair behind your ear, “about continuing the dance lessons…that still stands, right?”

Your lips curved upwards into a smile. “Of course.” 

“Brilliant,” Harry said, mirroring your smile before leaning down again to close the gap between your lips.