#but then suddenly i had the inspiration strike and generated that good shirt

[namibozsu]

(this drawing uses screentones, which will cause it to differ in appearance wildly depending on screen resolution. Please view it on your computer if possible.)

<Uᴍᴇɪ ᴜsᴇs Tʜᴇʏ/ᴛʜᴇᴍ Pʀᴏɴᴏᴜɴs.>

[stillebesat]

An Unconventional Defeat

Sanders Sides: Patton, Virgil Blurb: Patton knew that heroes started out young, far younger than villains ever did. But this young? Inspiration: From the Anon prompt: “I can take care of myself just fine.” with Virgil. Fic Type: Superhero!AU, Villain!Patton, Hero!Virgil Overall Fic Warnings: Near Death Experiences, Death Talk, Injuries, Hospitals Taglist in Reblogs:

He’s fourteen.

Patton stared down at the prone form of his nemesis, Onyx, in the darkened hospital room, mind racing.

He knew that heroes started out young, far younger than villains ever did. But this young?

Sure, that no good empathy that the heart twinged with seemed to chime all stronger for the children. For those naive fools who were still optimistic about life and wanted to believe that good would always win out in the end. That being good was the best way to live your life. That you could change the world for the better.

Patton had been a fool like that. Once.

He’d wanted to be a teacher. Once. Be an example to the rising generation. Once.

And then he’d had his eyes forcibly opened in college to just how cruel and heartless the world actually was. Goodness only got trampled. Squashed. Taken advantage of. Goodness only got used until it wasn’t useful anymore and then got dumped like so much trash. If one wanted to change the world permanently. One couldn’t do so by being good.

Kids though?

The poor fools didn’t realize that yet. That being good wasn’t well...good. For anyone. Hero work? Pointless. Especially with how active Patton was in the city.

Hero work didn’t put food on the table. Hero work didn’t pay the bills. It was a thankless never ending job.

A job that landed a fourteen year old in the hospital with head trauma, a broken leg, arm, fractured ribs, and multiple puncture wounds in the shoulders and abdomen that had only avoided killing the kid by sheer dumb luck.

A fourteen year old that Patton had been fighting for a good three years now, not that he’d known that until nine hours ago.

Onyx had always snarked at him in a deep distorted voice, had always been covered by an ever shifting melee of shadows that never showed just who was manipulating the darkness around him.

He growled under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. Eleven. The kid had been freaking eleven when he’d first shown up to stop Patton from razing the police department to the ground.

No wonder Onyx had been so ferocious in defending the place. He’d still been of an age to see the cops as fellow heroes. The good guys. He hadn’t yet discovered their darker side. Just how much like school ground bullies most of them could be to the weak.

Patton clenched his hands, conscious of the frost coating his fingertips, of the room getting noticeably colder. “You’re an idiot.” He told the sleeping hero in a low voice, tensing as the shadows sluggishly stirred at the sound of his voice. “Ruining everything.”

He’d been trying to take down Onyx for ages. Perfecting the best way to use his ice bolts to freeze those shadows of his once and for all. It had been the best moment of his life seeing the hulking figure finally stagger when his ice had successfully pierced through the darkness and not fly out the other end. To know that they had stuck. To see those dark wisps vanish like so much smoke as the hero plummeted from the sky. To have a crater form from the impact that left a dust cloud floating in the air with no hint whatsoever of his shadows preparing to strike back.

It had been his greatest moment of triumph. The final defeat of his main nemesis.

An icy javelin had already formed in his hands, aimed for Onyx’s heart before Patton’s feet had even hit the ground.

But instead of the square jawed overly muscled hero he’d expected to finally see underneath that murky shadow disguise...he’d found a freaking child laying there, bleeding, broken, and unconscious.

One Virgil Hawkins. Fourteen years old. Orphan. Parents dead since he was nine. Grandmother dead since he was eleven though apparently no one else had realized that little tidbit yet besides Patton because he’d actually tried to find the woman last night after he’d rushed the boy to the hospital for emergency surgery only to discover the little urn with her name on it on the mantle of the fireplace in her home.

It was one thing to kill a Hero. And Patton...well he’d done in his fair share of heroes over the last decade. But killing a child? His heart might be cold. Frozen even. But as much as he itched to end Onyx the hero permanently...ending Virgil the child was an entirely different matter.

Not that anyone would know. Not that anyone would care if Virgil vanished the same evening Onyx died. He could freeze the kid’s heart here and now and not even the staff supposedly watching the boy would think much of it, injured as he was.

Patton frowned, breath misting in front of him as he held out an ice coated hand over the child, an icicle easily forming in his fist.

It would be so easy.

Who would care about the disappearance of a single boy? One who was practically a ghost in his civilian life. Certainly not the news. Certainly not the cops the kid had risked his life to defend. A kid only surviving as it were because he’d been clever enough to keep his grandma’s social security checks coming to the house as a source of income.

No one would notice if he just...vanished. Not even the school the kid attended would. Not when they couldn’t even tell him if he’d shown up yesterday for class.

No concerned teacher. No concerned counselor. No friends to worry about him suddenly vanishing. Not even the staff here in the hospital cared enough to keep more than a cursory eye on their John Doe as the police attempted to track down the boy’s nonexistent family.

Virgil had no one.

Patton let the icicle dissolve back into his skin, his hand lightly resting on the boy’s warm forehead, fingers lightly brushing the stitches there.

No one to pay the hospital bills. No one to look after him once he was released. No one to ensure that he had food, clothes and shelter. No one to stop him from being a fu-freaking idiot and going out to attack a villain old enough to be his Father.

Patton shuddered, pulling his hand back. Crofters forbid that. Teenagers were the worst. Onyx only proved that tenfold with how easily he’d wound up Patton in their fights. To have one living in his own home? With their constant mood swings, inability to do chores, and dependence on social media? Ha. No.

A groan from the bed drew him from his thoughts right as the shadows around the bed surged at him, latching onto his arm and jerking him forward with a startled yelp.

“Cold.” A hoarse voice whispered as pale fingers shakily rose from under the blanket, twisting to catch Patton’s wrist as the shadows pulled him within reach. Onyx’s eyelids fluttered as he placed Patton’s hand on his forehead. “Cold.”

Was he insane?! Patton growled, the temperature in the room dropping another ten degrees as he struggled against Onyx’s shadow grip. “Let. Go!”

The hero had the gall to smirk, dark eyes unfocused as he opened them fully, the shadows pulsing around them. “No way, Icy.” He whispered. “You cold. Feels good. You stay.”

WHAT?! He wasn’t an icepack! “I’ll freeze your burning head off! LET GO, you idiot!” He allowed a thin layer of ice to form under his hand to prove his point. It was bad enough that Onyx could match him throw for throw on a good day, it was worse knowing that a fu--freaking half-drugged teenager could still hold him with minimal effort.

Virgil closed his eyes, stupid smile growing wider. “Rubber. Glue. Back to you.”

Patton blinked. “Huh?” What was that supposed to mean?! This was why he hated teenagers. They didn’t make a lick of sense whenever they spoke.

“You’re the idiot here.” Virgil dropped his hand, the shadows releasing their grip. “Coming in uniform? To a hospital? To see me? For shame.”

Patton scoffed, taking a step back. He wasn’t some first year amateur to walk in the front door dressed like this. “Like I care if anyone sees me, kid.”

If it weren’t for the fact that he couldn’t afford to let anyone see him actually caring about anyone’s welfare, especially some ‘random’ kid found on the street after the big fight with Onyx, he would have blasted the front doors off their hinges and made a grand entrance instead of manipulating the ice of his clothes to resemble simple civilian attire before sauntering inside, no questions asked. After all, no one ever looked twice at some guy walking around in a black shirt and blue jeans, not even in a hospital.

Though. He flexed his fingers. It wasn’t like it was outside his wheelhouse to freeze people to death if they got in his way.

Onyx frowned, the shadows pulsing as he opened his eyes again, making eye contact. “No...you wouldn’t would you….why are you here--No.” The darkness gathered underneath him, carefully carefully pushing the kid upright in the hospital bed. He hissed, uninjured arm moving to wrap around his stomach. “Why am I here and not dead, Icy?”

Patton lifted his chin, glaring at the hero. “Did you want to be dead?” He asked, hefting a javelin of ice in his hand.

The teenager had the gall to roll his eyes, though Patton didn’t miss how the shadows surged around him in a protective shield. “Missed your chance, buddy. Don’t tell me your frozen heart actually thawed a little during our fight.”

“No.” Patton jabbed at the shadows, not at all surprised when they easily shattered his weapon with a quick twist.

So the kid wasn’t as out of it as his dilated eyes made it seem. Good to know.

“So I’m alive then….why?”

Why did it matter? “You’re fourteen.”

Virgil scoffed, slowly moving the arm that was in a cast so it too rested against his stomach. “So? You’ve killed kids before.”

Patton stiffened, ice flashing from his feet to cover the floor like a mini ice rink. Did the boy honestly not care about his own life?! “You shouldn’t have been fighting me in the first place, Onyx! You’re a kid. A Fu-FREAKING KID. Your biggest worry should be passing some stupid Math test! Making friends in school. Not squaring up against the worst villain the city has ever seen!” A villain that always, always killed his nemeses no matter what.

Virgil huffed, spreading his arms, the shadows twisting around them. “Last time I checked, this kid could wipe your ass into the dirt without breaking a sweat. I can take care of myself just fine, thank you very much.”

“But you shouldn’t HAVE to.” This wasn’t some stupid dystopian novel. No normal eleven year old should have such a stupidly high Chosen One complex.

“And who’s fault is it that I have to, Icemas?” Virgil’s eyes practically glittered like obsidian shards as the shadows lifted him off the bed, turning him to face Patton properly, the machines squeaking in protest as the various tubes connecting them to the hero shifted out of alignment. “No one else was stepping up. No one else would face you.”

“That’s the point!” Patton hissed, shooting a ray of ice to the door, crystals covering the window there and locking it in place so no one else would be able to investigate the alarms going off, before stepping forward to jab a finger at the boy’s chest, though he was careful to not actually touch the wounds there or send any ice bolts at him. “I’m showing everyone that being a hero is a useless archaic practice! No one should have to risk their life day in and day out for complete strangers who will never appreciate your sacrifice! If you had died tonight, Virgil, who would have cared?! The media? Ha.” He shook his head, gesturing to the blank TV screen in the corner as the shadows pulled back to quiver behind the young hero. “They’d mourn you for maybe a week tops before moving onto the next sensational story, the next stupid hero trying to make a difference. Maybe, maybe they will name some shiny new building after you, to remember you by, but then what? NOTHING. You’d be DEAD before you could ever drive and it would have all been for naught!”

Virgil frowned, shadows lowering him so he was sitting on the bed. “...You know my name?”

Patton stiffened. That’s what the kid was worried about? Him figuring out his civilian identity instead of nearly dying?! That was so messed up. “Someone had to try and track down your family, kid. The idiots here weren’t gonna do it.”

The hero had the gall to grin, though Patton didn’t miss how his fingers clenched the sheets. “Aww, well isn’t that sweet of you, Popsicle. How did that go?” He tilted his head to the iced over door where distant voices could be heard as the handle rattled. “Good old mom and dad waiting outside to see me? To check in on how their ickle Virgikins is doing?”

Teenagers. He hated them. “You know they aren’t. You have no one.”

Something flickered in the boy’s eyes. “Oh! Then let me guess.” He rested his chin on his uninjured hand. “You let the staff know I’m on my own? Do I get the oh so fun opportunity to experience our stellar A+ foster care system now?”

Patton rolled his eyes, shooting another bolt of ice at the door for good measure. “Please. They still think you’re a John Doe.” The lazy bums were waiting for him to wake up first. Hoping that Virgil would tell them who he was before trying to track down his identity or family.

“Excellent.” Virgil gave the door an appraising look. “Think they’ll believe amnesia?”

Patton blinked. “....Do you not feel the stitches holding your head together?” Or the baseball sized lump on the back of his skull from hitting the pavement?

The hero shrugged. “Honestly?” The shadows pulsed around him. “It’s all kinda fuzzy agony currently. Can’t differentiate what parts of me hurt and what doesn’t.”

How was this kid even awake?! Patton stepped forward, pushing the boy back down flat on the bed. “Then REST before you hurt yourself further, idiot.”

“Aw, love you too, Popsicles.”

“DON’T CALL ME THAT.” He would never be a fu-freaking Father to anyone.

“Or what?” Virgil relaxed against the pillows, even as his hand twisted to catch Patton’s wrist again. “You’ll kill me?”

If he wanted to do that the kid would be dead already. Patton jerked free, another ice spear forming in his hand, pointed to the boy’s throat. “No.”

“Aw. You scared to?”

“NO. I’m not killing a KID. Our fights are done with, Virgil. No more Onyx. He’s DEAD.”

The boy scoffed, pushing the spear to the side. “Last I checked, Icy,” The shadows surged over him in a swirling mass until the familiar shadowy form of Onyx stared back from the bed. “We’re the same person.” His voice echoed. “And I’m still alive and kicking.”

Ooooohoooho. Patton could feel his eye twitching as ice crept up the walls and window. If it were just Onyx he’d take great pleasure in killing the hero here and now. He itched to do so. But he couldn’t. Not with knowing that Virgil the child hid underneath the darkness. “I won’t fight you, kid.”

The shadows pulled back, revealing Virgil looking far paler than before, his face glittering with sweat. “Coward.”

“Idiot.” The kid needed to see a shrink. No normal fourteen year old would be this stubborn about wanting to constantly go up against him and face death by his hand!

“I know you are but what am I?”

The window shattered, sending frost covered glass glittering to the floor. “Hopefully grounded by the fool that ends up taking you in.” He got out through gritted teeth, ice particles shimmering in the air, ready to defend as the shadows around Onyx sprung up like a series of blackened tentacles writhing behind him.

He pitied whoever ended up with this troubled teen in their home…though...maybe he could arrange for the kid to be shipped across the country to live far far away from here. Getting out of this place could set him straight. Snap him out of this stupid hero phase he was in.

Virgil threw his head back, laughter ringing throughout the room as banging sounded from the door, the ice blockade cracking under the strain.

Judging by the way the ice was shearing off, someone with heat abilities had finally shown up.

Virgil shook his head, still grinning, though his eyes held no laughter as the shadow tentacles sharpened into jagged points, all aimed at Patton’s chest. “Oh that’s rich. Me, grounded? Like a normy would be able to stop me from coming after you the next time you decide to wreck the city.” He pushed himself up onto one elbow, jabbing his cast at Patton, the shadows quivering behind him like a pack of hunting dogs waiting to be unleashed as the temperature in the room dropped even further. “Face it, Popsicle. If you’re not gonna kill me then you’re stuck with me being your nemesis. If you want me to stop being the hero and keep me alive, then you have to stop being the villain. And we both know you’re not gonna do that. Your precious plan is too important to just give it up for my sake.”

And that was the crux of the matter wasn’t it? Patton snarled, raising his hands, the ice particles in the air morphing into a slew of arrows all directed towards the boy. He didn’t want to kill Virgil. But he couldn’t give up his plan. Give up being the villain. Not after a decade of fighting to get all those idealistic fools to see what a farce being a hero was. He was so close to winning. So close. “Fine.” He surged forward, grabbing the boy by the throat, ice arrows darting about to block the shadow tentacles of the kid’s from interfering. “You value my plan more than your pathetic life? Then you should--”

BANG.

The door behind them shattered, sending a heat wave full of shrapnel blasting into the room.

IDIOTS.

Patton whirled, flinging a wall of ice towards the figures in the doorway in an attempt to block the worst of the heat from outright killing Virgil then and there. IDIOTS! Did they not care at all that an already injured kid was in the ro---

A half melted silver door knob burst through the resulting steam before Patton could react to it, clocking him between the eyes with enough force to knock him backwards, his world vanishing into cold, silent darkness as the hospital floor rushed up to meet him.

[puckinghell]

Not A Typical Christmas Story | Elias Pettersson

Summary: You’ve never loved Christmas, and there’s nothing that can change that; especially not your best friend’s grumpy Swedish friend who you don’t even like. However, when you’ve gotta be forced into the Christmas spirit to write a Christmas story for class, there’s only one person who is willing to try and help you. Words: 14k (I’m SO sorry) Note: Here it is, a Christmas story in November. Honestly I’m nervous to post this, I’ve never put so much of myself into a story, but here we go. I loved loved loved writing this and I hope you guys like reading it. Also, the cliche scenarios were stolen from a random blog post. 

--

“You’re such a fucking Grinch.” Brock takes a sip from his hot chocolate. There’s murmur in the bar around you, and he’s muttering, but you still hear him clear enough.

“Hey,” you protest, lightly hitting him on the arm. “I’m not a Grinch. Just because you put up your Christmas decorations in October and have been singing All I Want For Christmas Is You since July, doesn’t make me the Grinch for not doing that.”

Brock raises an eyebrow. “You literally just said you hate Christmas.”

“I did not.” You stubbornly cross your arms. “I said I hate Christmas stories.”

“That’s basically all there is to Christmas,” Brock brings in, and that’s probably fair enough.

Apart from the food, presents, family time, decorations…

Fine. Maybe you don’t like any of those either. But not liking Christmas is not the same as being a Grinch: you’re completely fine with letting everyone enjoy their festive December, as long as they leave you out of it.

Which is exactly why you’ve been complaining to Brock. And as your best friend, it’s literally his duty to listen to you; unfortunately it also means he’s gonna make fun of you. Just a little bit.

“I just don’t get why I have to write a Christmas story,” you mope, a little pathetically. “There’s so many Christmas stories in the world already, Boes. And they’re all the same! The foreign sports car breaks down in a blizzard and the city slicker gets stuck in a bar with a bucktoothed chicken strangler with an IQ of 7 whom he decides, through love or delirium, he cannot live without. Or the sadistic Christmas-hating miser of the pathetic backwoods town, who makes his money grinding the faces of the poor, is inspired to a change of heart by a teary-eyed child who bears a striking resemblance to his dead daughter, and donates all his money so that the ghost town can continue its wretched, grimy, poverty wracked existence.”

At that, there’s a muffled snicker from the side of the table. You’d almost forgotten that Elias was there, to be honest.

You raise your eyebrow at him. “What? You’ve got a better Christmas story?”

Elias raises an eyebrow back, but doesn’t answer. He usually doesn’t. Brock says he’s talkative enough when you’re not around, although you for the life of you do not know what you’ve done to earn his judgment.

“Don’t bite Petey’s head off,” Brock chides. He’s always trying to keep the peace between you two, and sometimes you feel bad that he has to police his two best friends.

Today is not one of those days.

“He’s laughing at me!”

“Because you’re being ridiculous.” Brock sighs. “It’s just a Christmas story, Y/N. You’ll write it, you get a grade for it, it’s done. How hard can it be?”

It’s clear that Brock has no idea how hard it can be to write a decent story. Sometimes, you wonder if he can even really write or read: maybe he’s just memorized a bunch of words and called it a day.

You let out a grumble and drop your head on the dingy, sticky table in the rundown bar that Brock and Elias are so keen to go to, probably because they never get recognized there. Not surprising, considering the fact that the age of the average customer is above 85.

Normally, you like your creative writing course. People told you to get electives you thought were actually fun, as your normal college courses are taxing enough, and you’ve always been a writer.

Or, well, been a writer… You write. You wouldn’t call yourself a writer: you’ve never published anything and you can’t be a writer before you make money from it. But you like writing. There’s at least a hundred half finished Word documents sitting on your laptop at any given moment.

But this project isn’t fun at all. All the students in your course were excited to get to write a Christmas story. It is December, after all, and most people have gotten properly into the Christmas spirit by now. However, you’ve never liked Christmas – for reasons that you will not think about with Elias’ judgy eyes on you – and you usually write scary stories, so this is not up your alley.

“Hey,” Brock’s voice sounds, and it’s gentle now. He’s probably noticed you’re actually having a mental breakdown over this. “It’s just one stupid story, and it doesn’t even have to be good. Just write about like, animals that can talk.”

Elias snorts again, and this time you can’t even blame him.

You lift your head only to shoot Brock a glare. Brock raises his hands in helpless manner, rolling his eyes as he goes.

“I’m trying to help.”

“I’m going to get beers,” Elias says suddenly. It’s the first thing he’s said all hour, you think, and the sound of his voice almost startles you. “I think you’re more helpful when you’ve got a beer, Boes.”

He’s not wrong, but you won’t tell him that. Instead, you stare at his retreating back, disappearing towards the bar.

“Why do you hate him?” Brock says, and he sounds a little accusing.

“I don’t hate Elias, just as much as I don’t hate Christmas,” you tell him, before you realize that that technically doesn’t speak of your innocence, so you try a different tactic. “He doesn’t like me either! He never talks when I’m around.”

“Cause you make him nervous!” Brock exclaims. He pushes his now empty mug towards the side. “You’re always making snappy remarks at him.” He stares at you with big blue puppy eyes, his bottom lip pouting out. “I wish you would just get along. I love you both and it’s very annoying to have to always be in the middle of you.”

In reality, it’s not like Brock really has to be in the middle of anything. If it was up to you, you would simply not ever see Elias, and you’re pretty sure that’s the only thing you and Elias would ever agree on. But Brock somehow always brings you together: like how today he’d forgotten to mention his teammate’s presence when he asked you to come out for a drink.

But you don’t blame Brock, not really. You think there’s another universe in which Elias and you could be friends. You’re very similar, in a way: you’re both not from Vancouver, both don’t have your family around, and you share a similar sharp sarcastic humor and a love for teasing Brock.

The first time you met Elias, you were hopeful. Brock was, at that point, your only friend in Vancouver, and the two of you had become best friends like you’d grown up in each other’s pockets. If Brock liked this guy so much, you figured you’d like him too.

But Elias hadn’t seemed to feel the same way. You met at one of Jake’s parties and Brock had introduced you with the statement that you were going to be beerpong buddies, because he’d already promised Troy.

Elias’ eyes had been a little too intense, as they traveled across your face. You could feel them burn into your skin like lasers, and when his eyes finally met yours it had felt like being hit by the entire universe at once.

“Oh,” he’d said, and it had been filled with… not even disdain. You could’ve handled disdain, because you could’ve called him out on that. But this had been indifference, that you’d heard in his voice, and that was something you didn’t know what to do with.

He’d not said anything else all evening. 

Ever since then, you’d put stone after stone into the wall you build between you and the quiet Swede, every single time he so much looked in your general direction. Nothing big ever happened between you: you hadn’t had any huge fights or massive blow outs.

It was just indifference, that ate at you until it became reluctance and then annoyance, and it’s that same thing you can read on Elias’ face now when he quietly sits in a corner, listening in on your conversations with Brock.

Yes, it would be easier for Brock if you and Elias could become friends, or at least friendly enough.

“Sorry, Boes,” you tell him with a sigh. “I just don’t think it’s ever gonna happen.”

--

“Is there a reason you’re not wearing a shirt?”

You raise your eyebrow at Jake, who opened the door wearing black jeans, a Santa hat, and literally nothing else.

"I lost a bet,” he says solemnly, opening his front door further. You stomp the snow off your boots on his porch, then move past him into the house.

It’s freezing cold outside and Jake’s house is lovely and warm, which makes you happy to be there if only to enjoy the heating. It’s not like you don’t have heating at your flat, but the electricity bill is high enough every month without you turning the thermostat up as high as it goes, so usually you try to keep warm with sweaters and blankets.

Brock told you to dress pretty though, so you wore a dress to Jake’s party. Which means it’s a good thing he’s got the heating going.

“You look lovely,” Jake smiles, taking your coat from your hands. Having him act like such a perfect gentleman in the outfit he’s wearing makes you laugh, and he shoos you inside when he notices.

You like Jake. In fact, you like all of Brock’s friends – except the one, of course – and that’s the only reason you said yes to coming to this party. It’s not like you’re against parties, but it’s a Christmas party: and despite the fact that it’s the first week of December, you’ve already heard enough Christmas music to last a life time.

“There she is!” Brock hoots, when he spots you. He opens his arms and you give him a quick hug, saying hi to Bo and Holly, who he’s standing with. “I have a brilliant idea,” Brock says however, before you can even ask the Horvats how they’re doing. “And you can’t say no right away.”

That definitely means you’re gonna wanna say no right away.

“I’m not promising that,” you hum. Just at that moment, Jake appears with a glass of prosecco that he hands you, and you send him a grateful smile. He disappears just as quickly, which is probably the better option considering what Brock’s about to say.

“I think you should make an actual, real effort to get into the Christmas spirit this year.”

“I don’t think so,” you immediately answer, but Brock waves away your protests with a wave of his hand.

“That’s not the part you’re gonna wanna say no to.”

“Oh dear,” Holly laughs, and you glare at Brock.

“What, then?”

“I think you and Petey should get in the Christmas spirit together.”

The sentence is bizar enough that you burst out laughing. Surely he’s kidding.

“Are you drunk?” you ask, then, turning to Bo: “Is he drunk?”

Bo shrugs. “Not yet, I don’t think. Tipsy at most.”

“Think about it,” Brock says. There’s a glint of excitement in his eyes, which promises nothing good for you. “You’re staying in Vancouver this Christmas, right?”

You don’t say anything: the answer is yes, and Brock knows that, because he’s been trying to convince you to come back to Minnesota with him for a month. However, as you’ve told him every time, there’s no way his girlfriend would appreciate that, and you don’t like being a third wheel. Or - but you haven’t told him that - a charity case.

“And so is Petey!” Brock proclaims. He motions somewhere to the left, where the Swede is probably hiding between all his teammates, trying to stay as far away from you as possible. “So both of you have to stay here in Vancouver, alone, during Christmas. And he loves Christmas, and you don’t, but you have to write that Christmas story and it would be so much easier to do that if you actually celebrated Christmas, so he can teach you how.”

Your best friend isn’t making a lot of sense, and there’s too much information to process so quickly. First of all, you didn’t know Elias would be alone for Christmas, although you suppose it makes sense that he can’t go back to Sweden just for 2 days of Christmas. Secondly, you don’t need someone to teach you how to celebrate Christmas: it’s not like you don’t know, and much more that you choose not to.

And third: fuck. You’d basically forgotten about that Christmas story.

“It’s a brilliant idea,” Brock says proudly and a little smug. “And I haven’t told Petey yet but I know he’ll be down.”

This time, you respond: you start laughing hard enough that Brock’s smile slips off his face.

“I really don’t think he will,” you giggle. You reach out, patting Brock’s arm with a smile. “Boes, you’re a sweetheart, but stop worrying about me. My life isn’t bad because I don’t like Christmas.”

It’s bad for some other reasons, like financial debt and family misfortunes, but not because of a lack of reindeer ornaments and bad mulled wine.

Brock pouts. “But…”

“No,” you cut him off. “I can write that Christmas story just fine on my own, thank you. And if you’re worried about Elias, you can ask him to Minnesota.” You take a step back, glancing at your empty prosecco glass. “I’m gonna get another one of these.”

As you’re making your way to the kitchen, you can still hear Brock’s sputtering.

Although Jake’s house is filled with people, the kitchen still seems quiet. It’s not until you’ve let the door fall closed behind you though, that you notice movement in the corner.

“Oh,” you say, a little annoyed to be caught off guard. “It’s you.”

Elias barely glances in your direction. “Just getting some water.”

Elias’ style is always a little funky, and if you didn’t dislike him so much you would’ve appreciated how daring it is. This time, though, you literally can not help but laugh at him.

“Nice sweater,” you say, and it doesn’t even come out as sarcastic.

Elias looks down at his sweater like he didn’t even notice he was wearing it. It has a reindeer stitched on, except the reindeer looks… Well. Baked.

“Quinn got it for me,” Elias says, and he sounds a little sheepish, which is not a tone you hear from him often. “He’s got the same one.”

“A little co-dependent,” you tease, and it comes out too light and easy for it to be directed at Elias. He looks a little surprised, too, at how jovial it sounds.

“You look nice,” he says, then. He’s looking at you now, and you can feel the weight of his eyes press against your skin.

There’s something about Elias’ gaze that makes it feel like your lungs are constricting, and you don’t know what it is. You could blame it on the fact that his eyes are the kind of piercing blue that authors would compare to the ocean or maybe the summer sky, but Brock has blue eyes too, and you never feel like that when he looks at you.

“Uhm, thanks,” you bring out. The awkwardness settles over the kitchen like a heavy cloud of fog, but for some reason your first instinct isn’t to just run out of the kitchen, like you usually would.

This is definitely Brock’s fault, for making you feel bad about Elias being alone in his sauve but empty apartment in Vancouver on Christmas, when he apparently loves the holiday so much.

“Brock thinks you could teach me how to love Christmas,” you blurt out, and Elias looks nothing short of utterly baffled by your statement. You sigh, and explain. “We’re both in Vancouver around Christmas and apparently you love Christmas and I don’t, so he thinks you should teach me how to love it. He thinks it would help me write my story.”

Elias seems to ponder that for a second. When he speaks, his voice is tentative. “Do you think it would help?”

Your first instinct is to, once again, call out no and laugh it off, but for some reason you don’t. Elias sips his water like he’s prepared to wait for your answer, and you give yourself some time to think.

Realistically, getting into the Christmas spirit, or at least getting an idea of what other people feel when they’re in the Christmas spirit, could really help you pull off this story. You’re good at putting yourself in other people’s shoes, which is how you manage to write characters you don’t necessarily see yourself in.

When you wrote a story about a doctor, you talked to your friend who’s in med school about it for a week. Now, you wanna write a Christmas story. It wouldn’t be an awful idea to be around someone who loves Christmas.

“Maybe,” you admit. “But you don’t have to do it, I know you’re probably busy…”

Elias shakes his head before you’ve finished your sentence.

“When hockey goes on break, and all my teammates go home for the holidays, I won’t have anything to do.” He shrugs: it looks careless but in the most forced manner, like he’s trying to hide just how much it does matter. “We could do something, I guess.”

I guess. It’s not really the most enthusiastic response you’ve ever had, but then, this is not normal for you and Elias.

“You know what the ultimate Christmas plot is?” Elias says then, a little hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “A Christmas party is in fear of flopping thanks to a lack of Christmas spirit, but is rescued by some energetic soccer mom with no life.” He grins. “I could be the soccer mom.”

To your own surprise, you burst out laughing at his description. You didn’t think he was really paying attention when you were describing cliché Christmas plots in the bar with Brock, but maybe Elias pays attention to more than he admits.

“Fine,” you hear yourself say, and you honest to God have no idea where that came from but you know Brock is gonna shit himself with excitement when he hears. “When hockey goes on break, you can be the energetic soccer mom and try to bring me into the Christmas spirit.” You smile. “It won’t be an easy task, Pettersson.”

Elias raises an eyebrow but there’s nothing judgmental about it, this time.

If anything, it’s a challenge.

He sticks something out to you: it’s your glass, now filled again with prosecco, which he somehow managed to fill up without you even noticing.

“It’s on,” he says simply, and when he raises his water glass in the air, you don’t even hesitate to clink it.

--

“Shopping is not a Christmas outing,” you say, stubbornly crossing your arms. “And I really don’t think this is gonna get me into the Christmas spirit.”

“What do you mean?” Elias deadpans, as he yanks a shopping cart free from all the others. “Middle aged housewives fighting over discounted wreaths? There’s nothing more Christmassy than that.”

You snort. “Right. It’s just gonna be spoiled crying kids who want toys that they already have and parents pretending it’s Santa who spoils them so they don’t have to take responsibility for their kids being rude drama queens.”

Elias laughs. He pushes the cart into the department store, and you reluctantly follow him.

“That’s another storyline,” he says.

“The unexplained dilemma of parents who do not believe in Santa, and yet we, the wise audience who knows better, are left to wonder where they think these toys came from? ‘Psst, honey, Santa’s not real, so from whence came these marvels?’”

“I don’t know half of what you’re saying.” Elias holds up a string of Christmas lights. “But we’re getting these, honey.”

It comes out sweet like caramel and too serious to be anything but sarcastic, so you push the cart into his heels. Elias simply laughs and continues on his way.

The department store is busy, which is exactly why you usually try to avoid going there in December. You’d think Elias, being Elias Pettersson, would also try to avoid crowds, but it’s like people don’t see anything but Rudolph; nobody recognizes him as he skillfully pushes his way through the crowds, putting stuff into the cart that you barely know what to do with.

You’re thankful for it. It would be awkward if people did recognize him, and it’s strange to notice that that would be the thing to do it; there’s no awkwardness now, with him making snarky remarks at the quality of the ornaments or the fact that Canadians apparently love what he calls the ‘tacky’ side of Christmas.

In fact, you almost find that you’re enjoying yourself. It might as well be a Christmas miracle after all.

“When was the last time you had a tree?” Elias asks.

Your brain short circuits for a full five seconds, and then when you answer Elias stares at you as if you’ve grown a second head.

“Uh, probably when I still lived with my parents and they got it?”

“We’re changing that right now.” He spins on his heels and speed walks in the direction of the trees, too fast for you to protest.

You think of the last time you got a Christmas tree and an involuntary shiver makes its way down your spine. There’s a good reason you don’t like Christmas, and the tree plays a crucial part in it.

But Elias doesn’t know that. So you can’t even blame him for looking excited when he somehow manages to find you the perfect size tree for your apartment – even without ever having been in your apartment.

“This one,” he says smugly, but when he notices your expression, his face falls. “What’s wrong?”

You swallow. You could tell him, now, tell him about the last time your dad went to get a tree and never came back.

But that’s a long time ago and there’s no reason for Elias to know that. He’s not your friend, and he’d probably not even care. If anything, he’d feel sorry for you, and that would be even worse.

“That one is fine,” you tell him, and you promise yourself you just won’t put it up.

The tree gets your mood down but Elias doesn’t seem to notice. He collects some more stuff, like a throw blanket with Christmas pattern that you actually don’t mind, because you’re always cold and a person can never have too many throw blankets.

He also puts in an ornament with the Canucks logo, which you want to use to slap the smirk off his face, and a Rudolph pluche toy with a red light up nose.

“Like you, when it’s cold,” he teases, flicking your nose, and you wonder if you could use the Christmas lights to strangle him.

Finally, when you approach the end of your trip, you realize a teeny tiny problem.

“Uhm, Elias?” you ask, “I think we may have gotten too much.”

Elias rolls his eyes. “Brock said you don’t have any decorations, so this is the perfect amount.”

And it would be – if you wanted Christmas decorations – except…

“I can’t afford this,” you snap, and you can feel your cheeks heat up, and maybe the tips of your ears as well. God, this is embarrassing.

Elias’ face softens, and that kinda just makes it worse.

“You’re not paying for it,” he says, not unkindly. “This wasn’t your idea.”

“It wasn’t yours either,” you remind him. Granted, a bill like this would hardly break the bank for Elias, but you’re not about to let him pay for you just because he feels bad. You let Brock buy you dinner sometimes but that’s it, and only because he actually likes your company and because he always wants to eat at stupid fancy restaurants.

This is Elias. He doesn’t value your company, and he’s not your friend, and you won’t let him pay for you.

Elias doesn’t say anything, eyes searching your face for something. You’re not quite sure what he finds, but finally, he speaks.

“Consider it my Christmas gift to you,” he says. “You can pay me back by making me lunch, cause I’m hungry.”

And strangely enough, the thought of spending another two hours with Elias doesn’t make you wanna hurl, or throw yourself in front of oncoming traffic. In fact, you’re surprised to note that you actually had fun on this trip, and it was mostly thanks to Elias’ dry commentary on the other shoppers, of which not one sentence failed to make you laugh.

You don’t believe in Christmas stories, like the one where some weird technical glitch in the matrix gets fixed just in time for the Christmas tree in the center of town to light up, just as the guy and girl figure out their complicated emotional differences.

But maybe you can allow yourself to not actively dislike Elias’ company, at least while you’re stuck with it.

--

There’s exhaustion settled deep inside your bones, like your feet are made of concrete as you somehow manage to drag yourself up the stairs. You don’t usually mind living in a bit of a shit hole building, considering the fact that it’s very cheap – but on nights like these you wish there was an elevator you could take.

Working out in the morning before taking a double shift at the coffee shop you work at was a bad idea.

It takes you a few seconds to find your keys in your bag. It’s late enough at night that you can’t really see much; there’s lights in the hallways but most of them don’t really work, the flickering glow of them barely enough to illuminate the ceilings.

When you open the door, you instantly notice there’s something wrong.

Or, wrong… That might not be the right word. The word that comes to mind, actually, is fuck.

You’d forgotten all about Elias.

After buying all the Christmas decorations, he kept bothering you about putting them up. You hadn’t really been planning to, and unfortunately Elias knew you well enough to somehow know that.

Nobody reads you as well as he does, like his blue eyes pierce right through your skin and stare straight into your heart. It’s one of the things you find most unsettling about him. Keeping things close to your heart has always been your way to cope, but it felt impossible to do that with Elias around.

He’d kept asking you if you were gonna put up the decorations and you kept waving him away, until he finally decided he had enough.

“I’m coming over tomorrow,” he’d said – or, threatened. “Brock gave me your spare key, so you don’t have a say in this. I’m putting up the tree.”

“Don’t you dare,” you’d answered, making a mental note to deal with Brock’s traitorous ass later. “I can put up my own tree.”

You could, you just weren’t planning to do it.

“You could, but you won’t,” Elias had said, unimpressed. “So be there or don’t be there, I’m doing it.”

You had totally meant to be there. You weren’t as much of an asshole that you would let him do all the work after he also paid for it, and he was technically doing you a favor. But then your colleague asked you to cover her shift, and, well…

You forgot. And clearly, Elias hadn’t.

In the corner of your tiny little living room is a pine tree. There’s no ornaments in it except for the Canucks one that Elias bought you, but there’s what seems to be about a thousand lights in it, and it must’ve taken him hours to put those in.

It’s not even just that. The Rudolph toy is sitting on your bookcase, there’s candles on your dining table and on the couch is the Christmas throw blanket.

Under the blanket is Elias.

His head is resting on the arm of the couch, blond hair a little messy. His eyes are closed, eyelashes fluttered against his cheekbones, and he looks strangely peaceful.

You feel something settle in your stomach.

You imagine him sitting on your couch, waiting for you to come home because he wanted to see your reaction. You can imagine his little smug grin as he took in his work, way too proud with a simple string of lights in a Christmas tree. And maybe, maybe, he even thought about you celebrating Christmas here with the place looking exactly like this, and maybe that made him smile.

And then you didn’t show up. 

You wonder if you should wake him, to kick him out of your apartment, tease him for waiting for you, or even to say thank you. But his chest is rising slowly with every steady breath, and you’ve never seen Elias look so tranquil, so at peace.

For some reason, waking him feels like a crime.

So you step closer and tug the blanket a little more over his shoulders. You tell yourself it’s because the place gets so stupidly cold at night, and you can’t have him get sick and have a miserable Christmas because Brock would kill you, but you know it’s not about that at all.

It’s about the fact that coming home to a cozy, decorated apartment after the exhausting day you’ve had was actually pretty nice. And it’s about the fact that for some reason, Elias’ sleeping figure on your couch makes the place feel more like home than it has ever before.

And maybe it’s because the night is dark, and Elias can’t hear or see you, but when you whisper: “Goodnight” into the quiet living room, it sounds a lot like thank you.

--

When you wake up, there’s the smell of pancakes in the air. It’s a smell you would recognize anywhere, and it startles you awake too quickly for it being so early in the morning. You nearly jump out of bed and follow your nose towards the kitchen.

If anyone would’ve asked, you would’ve bet money on it that Elias would’ve woken up on your couch annoyed as hell, and booked it out of there as soon as his legs could carry him. But somehow, like a mirage, he’s standing at your stove, making pancakes.

Are you dreaming?

“Am I dreaming?” you ask out loud, and Elias swirls around on his heels.

“Don’t scare me,” he snaps, annoyed, but the annoyance flows away within seconds. “I was hungry.”

“So you made pancakes?”

Elias laughs softly. “I can’t make much else with what’s in your kitchen. You need to go grocery shopping.”

You really do, but you can’t think about that right now. Not when Elias is standing in your kitchen like he owns the place, like it’s normal for him to be there.

It very much is not. So why doesn’t it feel wrong?

“Uhm.” If he’s here, you figure you should at least be polite. “Do you want coffee?”

He waves towards your coffee machine. “I already put it on.”

You stay quiet as you make the coffee, a little too aware of the way Elias moves pancake after pancake from the pan to the stack, movements relaxed and almost lazy. It’s Sunday morning and it’s not that late, but it feels like it could be one of those mornings that stretches out endlessly, dark grey clouds outside your apartment as Vancouver slowly wakes up.

Neither of you speak until you’ve sat down at the table, pancakes and coffee in front of you. It’s awfully domestic and you don’t know what to do with it: it’s become easy to snap or snark at Elias when Brock’s there as a middle man and Elias looks like he’d rather cut off both his legs than spend another minute in your presence, but it’s not like that now.

Now, Elias seems quietly content to sit in your kitchen eating pancakes that he made on your stove while you were asleep. Now, Elias seems completely comfortable scrolling through his phone while you stare at him. And this Elias, you have no idea what to do with.

“We’re gonna do something Christmassy today,” Elias says, between two bites of pancake. “I’m just trying to figure out what.”

You raise an eyebrow. It’s been only a week since Brock had the awful idea to make Elias teach you how to be in the Christmas spirit before booking it to Minnesota, and so far Elias has seemingly put way too much time and effort into it, while you haven’t even put one word in your empty word document, that you ironically titled ‘Not a typical Christmas story’.

Then you remember the night at Jake’s party, and how Elias said he wouldn’t have much to do once all the guys went home to their families.

Suddenly, you feel for him. You know what it’s like to be lonely.

“The Christmas market isn’t on today,” Elias continues, oblivious to your mental dialogue. “But we’re going there soon. And we need to watch a bunch of Christmas movies.”

You hesitate. Are you really going to do this?

“I might have an idea for today.”

Apparently you are.

Elias’ eyes finally focus on you, expression curious. He doesn’t say anything but he’s clearly waiting for you to continue, so you take a deep breath and go for it.

“I’ve never gone skating.”

An hour later you’re at the local outdoor ice rink, and it’s not until you see the crowd that you realize this might’ve not been your smartest idea. It’s Sunday, it’s December, it’s not awfully cold: you think at least 1/3rd of Vancouver is at this rink.

“Uhm, I might not have thought this through,” you state a little bashfully. You can already see a few Canucks jerseys on the ice, and although you can’t see the back that well you wouldn’t be surprised if a bunch of them carried the number 40.

Elias shrugs. He seems unbothered, but then he mostly does. You can never really read him, and it’s one of the things you find most unnerving about him.

“It’ll be fine,” he says. “I’m wearing my glasses.”

He is wearing his glasses, which he rarely does. You’re not even sure he needs them or if they’re just a fashion statement. He’s also wearing a hat, so maybe he’s thought this through more than you.

But surely just glasses and a snapback won’t stop Vancouver from recognizing the Canucks biggest star?

Apparently, it does.

Elias goes to rent the skates, because he couldn’t be bothered to go back to his apartment to get his own. He’s put them on within 20 seconds, while you’re still struggling to wiggle your foot into the first one.

He laughs and you shoot him a deathly glare.

“Don’t laugh at me! We can’t all be professional hockey players.”

“I don’t think you need to be a professional anything to lace up a skate,” Elias answers dryly. He turns to face you, then pats his leg. “Give me your foot.” 

It’s embarrassing to make Elias tie your skates, but it would be more embarrassing to ignore him and then spend 20 minutes struggling with them. So you swing your foot into his lap. 

Long fingers work swiftly around your laces, and suddenly your skate is tied, fitted closely around your ankle. Elias pats your shin, then holds out his hand for the other foot. 

You swing your second leg into his lap. 

“I don’t know how you do this so fast,” you mutter. You can feel the flush on your cheeks and you hope Elias assumes it’s because of the cold.

“I’ve got many talents,” Elias deadpans, and you can’t stop yourself from laughing. 

“Juggling, unicycle riding, and lacing skates?” 

Elias nods. There’s a smile tugging at his lips. “All very important skills.” 

Finally, you put your skates back on the floor and waggle towards the door to. the rink. Elias has jumped onto the ice before you can even think about moving. 

You stop. Is this really a good idea? You could break both your legs here.

“Don’t be scared,” Elias says, correcting guessing the root of your hesitation. He’s gliding on his skates with ease, shuffling back and forth the way hockey players always do during the anthems.

Because he’s waiting. For you. Because you’re going skating together.

This is the weirdest fucking thing that’s ever happened to you, kinda like a fever dream; and that’s enough motivation to step onto the ice.

You stumble a bit, and Elias reaches out to grab your elbow to steady you.

“Careful, it’s slippery.”

“Unsurprisingly,” you mumble beneath your breath, and Elias’ grin goes a little wicked before he promptly lets go off your elbow and slides back.

Bastard. But the ice is slippery and you’re not steady on your skates, so you scramble forward only just enough to reach Elias again, wrapping your hands tightly around his arm.

“Do not let go,” you hiss.

“Do not be a smartass,” he shoots back, but thankfully he doesn’t move away again. Instead, he carefully takes both your hands away from his arm and takes them into his own, turning so he’s skating backwards and pulling you along.

If you don’t have to move your own feet, moving is a lot more fun, and you feel yourself loosening up. Every now and then you stumble, but Elias’ grip on you is firm and he never wavers, even when you yank on his hands to pull yourself upright again.

You’ve always noticed how graceful Elias is on the ice. There’s something about him when he skates that has always caught your attention, even if you would never admit that to him. But without the hockey gear, it’s even more clear how elegant he moves.

You, not so much.

“You better not be laughing at me,” you grumble, a little annoyed that you have to cling onto Elias as a lifeline in order not to break your neck. 

Elias raises an eyebrow. “I never do that.”

It should sound sarcastic but it really doesn’t, and you wonder if he’s momentarily forgotten every single interaction you’ve had with him over the past year.

Your expression must speak volumes because he rolls his eyes. He swiftly moves, so he’s skating next to you instead of in front.

He’s still holding your hand.

“I never laugh at you,” he clarifies. “I laugh because you’re funny. It’s different.”

And, oh. That does something to your stomach, something that you probably shouldn’t be thinking about right now.

Elias doesn’t seem to want to dwell on it either, because suddenly he pulls his hand away, skating a bit to the front to where you can’t reach him.

“You can do it on your own,” he calls over his shoulder, a cheeky smile playing around his lips.

And it turns out you can: you don’t fall, you keep moving – albeit a lot slower than Elias – and it’s actually kinda fun.

You can do it on your own, but. It was more fun with Elias next to you, anyway.

--

When Elias texts you to tell you you’re going to the Christmas market that night, you haven’t seen him in three days.

But you’ve been texting. He’s been sending you stupid Christmas songs that you mostly don’t listen to, and Christmas movies you’d prefer to never see. You send him ideas for cliché Christmas stories that you can almost hear his disapproving snort for. 

Santa becomes a prima donna and holds Christmas hostage until his ego is stroked in the form of songs written in his honor by reindeer who are willing to give their very lives for the cause.

Elias’ answer comes swift.

No. That has definitely been done before and also, someone could call animal services.

When Brock asks you how you’re liking your time with Elias, when you FaceTime him during dinner, you fall into silence.

What are you gonna tell him? That you smile every time you see his name pop up on your phone? That you have no idea anymore why you didn’t like him all that time? That you now understand what he meant when he used to say “Petey just needs a little time”?

“It’s going,” you hum noncommittally, chopping another carrot.

Brock laughs. “You’re so full of bullshit. I can literally see you trying to hide a smile. You realized I’m right, didn’t you?”

“You need to shut up,” you tell him without any heat. “We’re civil. He’s bored, I’m in the middle of writer’s block crisis. We’re not getting married, Boes, it’s just better than doing nothing the whole week you’ve deserted me.”

“Sure,” Brock drawls, and it doesn’t sound like he believes you at all.

“How’s the pups?” you ask, and Brock laughs because that wasn’t even slightly subtle for a topic change. He clearly decides to let you, however, starts talking about Milo’s new habit of burying people’s gloves in the yard.

The thing is, you don’t really wanna talk about Elias with Brock when you don’t even know yourself what you think of him yet. Fine, you don’t hate him, that’s clear. You’ve realized his air of indifference is just a shield, a wall that crumples as soon as he laughs. His teasing remarks are familiar now, feel friendly the way they feel when they come from Brock, and you’ve realized he’s one of the funniest, smartest, and kindest people you know.

But Brock would just push it into something it’s not. When he comes back, you’ll probably go back to being ‘Brock’s friend’ instead Elias’, and you wouldn’t be surprised if everything goes back to the way things were. Maybe with less animosity, but when Elias has a bunch of different people to choose from, why would he choose to hang out with you?

But for now, he doesn’t have any other people to hang out with and he does choose to hang out with you, and you’re hit once again with how weird that is when you step into his car the next evening.

“Dude, it’s way too cold to be going outside,” you grumble, shutting the door of his car behind you. Inside the car it’s warm and cozy, and Elias has an amused expression on his face when he turns to you.

“Good evening,” he deadpans, “I’m good, thank you, how are you?”

“Right.” You can feel your cheeks flush and hope he thinks it’s because of the heat in the car. “Sorry.”

Elias laughs. “It’s not that cold,” he chides, pulling the car into the road. “You just didn’t dress properly.”

You look down at yourself. You thought you’d dressed quite warm, but there’s an icy chill in the air that promises a chance of snow, so maybe it’s not warm enough. You didn’t even take gloves, you realize now, or a hat.

Well.

Elias is grinning while he stares ahead at the road, and you kinda wanna smack him except for how it also makes you smile. He’s dressed a lot warmer than you, and with the scarf almost up to his chin and a beanie on his head there’s not much risk of him being recognized anywhere.

“I brought extra gloves,” Elias says, then. “You’re not gonna be able to enjoy it if your hands are cold.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Elias, not to be a downer, but we’re going to a busy market that revolves entirely around Christmas, and I don’t like Christmas or crowds. I don’t think I’m gonna enjoy myself either way.”

“We’ll see,” Elias says simply, and it sounds like a promise.

It’s easy to keep up the conversation on the way there, light teasing from you and genuine interest from him. It’s comfortable, both the warmth in the car and Elias’ laugh next to you, and when he parks the car you almost don’t wanna get out.

At least he does have gloves for you, and he gives you a scarf, so you’re not that cold when you step out into the night air.

The Christmas market is busy, hoards of happy people looking for some Christmas cheer. You stick close to Elias’ side: if you lose him in this crowd, you’ll never find him back.

At least it’s pretty. The sky is already dark but the Christmas market has been lit up with seemingly millions of lights in every color imaginable.

“I don’t think purple is very Christmassy,” you say, flicking a purple light hanging off the stall that Elias is browsing.

“I prefer the white ones,” he answers, eyes kept firmly on the handmade ornaments in the stall. “They look like stars.” He turns, holding out an ornament. It’s a glass star, and it reflects the lights like a kaleidoscope.

It’s, objectively, beautiful. You don’t have to like Christmas to love it, but when you reach out for it, Elias laughs and pulls it out of your reach.

“I thought we decided you’re not to be trusted with glass.”

He’s referencing a time long ago, when you were hanging out with Brock and he happened to be there, and you dropped a glass and Brock had made a whole spectacle of it.

To be fair, you hadn’t really put Elias in the memory you keep of that day, because he was simply there: as Brock’s friend, as someone who happens to linger in the background. He’s lingering in the background of many memories, you realize now, but you’re starting to realize you prefer the ones where he’s front and center.

You walk past more stalls, filled with either tacky Christmas stuff – you buy Brock some socks with Santa on them because you can’t not – or handmade things, which you actually like looking at. Elias buys some things for his parents – “I’ll send them to Sweden,” he says, and he looks a little too sad so you start chatting about how Rouss kinda resembles a reindeer, somehow.

You’re walking past the food stalls when Elias asks: “How’s the writing going?”

You freeze. That’s not a question you were ready for, and it leads to the inevitable urge to blurt out the truth. “I haven’t started. I just don’t think I can.”

Elias’ eyes on you are thoughtful, like he’s searching for something in your soul. If he tries hard enough, you think he’ll look right through you: nobody has ever made you feel so open, so visible, as he does.

“Brock didn’t tell you why I don’t like Christmas, did he?”

“No,” Elias admits, “but I figured it was a better reason than red is not your color.”

“Hey!” you protest, stepping to the side so you can bump your shoulder against his. “Red is totally my color!”

It’s not, but Elias doesn’t push it. Instead, he smiles warmly, and suddenly you want to tell him.

“When I was young, my parents used to fight a lot. One day, two weeks before Christmas, they got into a massive fight. I listened to them from my bedroom and then my dad came upstairs and told me he was going to find me the perfect Christmas tree. He got in his car and went to get the tree, or so I thought. I never saw him again.”

You sigh. “It’s not, like… I’m over it, mostly. I just can’t help but feel that same feeling every year around Christmas. It’s like hoping for something you know will never happen. Like you’re reading a book and the happy ending never comes. ”

“That’s why it’s hard to write the story,” Elias hazards a guess. He looks curious, but he doesn’t look like he feels bad for you, which is what you would’ve disliked the most.

He points to one of the stalls, then. “They make the best hot chocolate in town. Want one?”

You nod, following him towards the stall as you continue talking. “It is. But I do also find Christmas stories boring to write. It’s always the same concept, just in a million different ways.”

Elias smiles. “That’s the fun of it, no? You know the happy ending always comes. It makes you feel good.”

“It’s boring,” you repeat, stubbornly. “The girl from the big city with a job paying upwards of 8 figures goes back to her hometown for Christmas and somehow falls for some high school fling who still lives in a basement, but makes a mean cup of hot chocolate and says thing like ‘What can I say? I was stupid.’” You cross your arms. “You can’t tell me if we took the Christmas element away you would voluntarily read that story.”

Elias laughs. “Some people would. Isn’t that basically the story from The Notebook?”

“Have you ever watched The Notebook, Elias?” you frown, and he shrugs.

“No, but Brock said it made him cry.”

Which isn’t surprising, because a lot of movies have made Brock cry. You wonder what Elias would do if you put on The Notebook on your upcoming Christmas movie night.

Elias turns around, then, two steaming cups of hot chocolate in his hands. He smirks when he hands it to you.

“What can I say? I was stupid,” he quotes, and you can’t help but giggle as you take the cup from him.

“You didn’t make this, you just paid for it. It doesn’t count that way.”

“After this we should probably go,” he says then, glancing at his watch.

The words sink into your stomach like a heavy stone of dread; you don’t really want to go home, and the realization hits you like a ton of bricks. You’re happy, right now, and if ‘feeling Christmassy’ basically translates to feeling happy, well…

It’s not Christmas, though, that’s got you feeling this way. You could care less about the pine trees and the tacky music and the reindeer and the big man with the white beard and red hat.

You care more about the blonde man beside you, staring into the distance with the brightest blue eyes, and the way he somehow always makes you laugh.

Damn it. How much you hate it when Brock is right.

--

With Brock telling you how much Elias likes Christmas movies, and Elias having pushed you for this Christmas movie marathon for days on end, you were expecting a bit more excitement from him when it finally happens.

You can tell something is wrong from the moment you open the door. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets, and when he smiles at you it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hey,” he says softly, moving past you into your apartment.

“I hope you’re ready to rewatch the same exact movie with only minor differences all night,” you joke, but Elias doesn’t even look up as he methodically pulls off his coat, kicks off his shoes and pitter patters into your living room.

He scoffs when he sees your tree, still empty except for the Canucks ornament that he got you.

“Really?” he asks, and for the first time in a while you can’t tell if he’s joking or actually upset with you.

This is the Elias that you knew before, the one that you didn’t like because you could never reach him, guarding his heart like a fort. But this time, you know what it’s like to have the other Elias, and you already miss having that Elias in your life.

“Sorry to disappoint,” you bring out, and it comes out a bit shaky. Elias turns around and his face softens slightly.

“I didn’t mean that.” He sighs. “I nearly canceled this.”

Your heart sinks.

“I get grumpy when I’m not feeling good and I don’t want to take it out on you.” He sinks down onto your couch, kicks his feet up on the coffee table like he’s been there a million times before. “But I didn’t wanna cancel, so. I didn’t.” He sounds almost helpless, like he’s not sure if he should be saying what he’s saying.

But your traitorous heart lifts immediately. If he didn’t want to cancel, it means he wants to be here, and that’s really all you need to know.

“Well, I’m gonna make popcorn, then,” you say, keeping your voice light. “You pick the movie. I don’t care. They’re all the same anyway.”

Elias rolls his eyes, but it’s good natured. “They’re not the same!” he calls after you as you disappear into the kitchen.

“Every Christmas movie ever was written by someone who didn’t know what to write,” you tell him, knowing he can still hear you from the kitchen – the benefits of living in a tiny apartment. “Writer’s block? No problem. The solution: a little bit of Christmas magic. ‘We can’t pay the rent’, ‘I’m sick’, ‘My boss is making me work on Christmas’. Poof, with a jingle of bells, problems solved in the form of a generous benefactor, aspirin, or a hit man.”

“If that’s the case, why can’t you write a Christmas story?” Elias calls back teasing, and you give him the finger through the wall.

He might not see it, but you’re certain he can feel it.

You take the popcorn and walk back to the couch, letting yourself drop onto it next to Elias. You misjudge the distance a bit, causing you to sit a little too close to Elias for it to be strictly friendly; but Elias doesn’t budge, so you don’t move either.

You’re pressed against Elias shoulder to thigh, and you can feel his body shake when he laughs.

“I like this cliché,” he says, nodding towards the television. “Let’s see if you can guess it.”

You watch the movie in relative silence, eating popcorn and enjoying the warmth of Elias body against yours. You have to admit you lose focus every now and then: the movie isn’t that bad, but it’s hard to focus on anything with Elias so close. Every now and then, when something funny happens, he exhales a sharp breath of laughter, and sometimes he hums as if he’s agreeing with what’s happening on screen.

He smells nice, too, and finally you get tired enough that you get a little brave: you let your head drop against his shoulder, tugging your feet under yourself.

“Figured it out, yet?” Elias asks softly.

“Yep,” you answer. The movie is nearing the end but you figured it out within the first ten minutes. “Basic physics, not to mention common sense, are thrown to the wind as Christmas repeats every day, disappears from the calendar, or is hurled into the past or future.”

Elias doesn’t respond, and suddenly you wanna know.

“Are you okay?” It’s probably a weird question, and very out of the blue, so you hurry trying to explain. “Cause you came in very sad, and like, if you don’t wanna talk about it with me that’s fine but I think it’s good to talk about things sometimes so if you wanna…”

“I’m fine,” Elias says, cutting you off, but it doesn’t sound dismissive. It sounds a little amused, and when you turn to look at him, you find him smiling. “Worried about me?”

And it’s the strangest thing, but you are. “A little.”

Elias’ face softens. “I promise I’m okay,” he says. He reaches out, then, places his hand on yours and squeezes. “I just talked to my parents before I came here, on Skype, and they were talking about Christmas and it sucks that I can’t see them for the holidays. But it is what it is.” He shrugs. “I sulk for a bit and then I move on.”

You never really go home for the holidays, but you understand how awful it must be to be stuck alone in Canada with your whole family in Sweden.

You blame the quiet, late night energy for what comes out of your mouth next.

“I think I could be convinced to make you a Christmas dinner if you ask nicely.”

Elias laughs, and his hand is warm when you turn your palm up and he laces his fingers through yours.

“If I ask nicely, will you watch another movie with me right now?”

You pull the Christmas themed throw blanket over your legs before letting your head drop against Elias’ shoulder once again.  

“You don’t even have to ask.”

--

“I have an idea,” Elias says through the phone, and you don’t quite recognize the tone in his voice at first. “Well, it was Brock’s idea, but I think it’s a good one.”

Anything that was Brock’s idea immediately fills you with doubt, and you frown. “What?”

That’s when you realize: Elias sounds excited.

“Brock knows someone with a cottage, about two hours from here. It’s in the forest and it’s supposedly very Christmassy. We should go for a night.”

He sounds quietly pleased, and you don’t have the heart to tell him no.

“Okay.”

Objectively, though, it’s an awful idea. A Christmassy cottage in the forest also sounds like it would be very romantic, and you’ve finally come to terms with the fact that what you feel for Elias is definitely not just friendly comradery at this point. Feeding this feeling would not be smart, considering the fact that it’s almost Christmas and after that you’ll most likely never spend time with Elias like this again.

Sure, he might be at parties with the other Canucks or Brock might invite him for drinks with you, but it won’t be like this. You’re not stupid enough to think this will last: that would be a real Christmas miracle, and Christmas miracles don’t exist.

“Sometimes I wish I could read your mind.” Elias’ voice startles you despite the fact that his words come out softly. It’s been quiet in the car, apart from the low murmur of the radio in the background, for a good fifteen minutes.

You’re on your way to the cottage and your thoughts are going a million miles per hour.

You look over at Elias. He’s staring ahead at the road, one hand on the wheel and the other in his lap. He looks relaxed. Comfortable.

“It’s usually nothing interesting,” you say, and you thank the universe that he can’t know what’s going on in your mind.

“Are you thinking about your story?” he asks, and you weren’t, but it’s as good an excuse as any.

“I’ve gotta email it to my professor in four days,” you admit. “And I haven’t put a single word on paper yet.”

You’ve tried, that’s for sure. You’ve spent hours on your laptop, staring at a Word document. You’ve typed sentences and deleted them, tried to outline the story or just wing it while typing. Nothing works, nothing feels right when it stares back at you from the screen.

Elias hums noncommittally. “I think you think about it too much,” he says. “Just don’t worry about it. And write what you know.”

You scoff. “I don’t think anyone wants to read a Christmas story about a father who bails on his family, Elias. Nobody likes sad Christmas stories.”

He smiles. “Any sad Christmas cliches on your list?”

“Each and every event, whether holiday related or not, is tainted through the loss of a dead relative. Example: “Can I have a glass of water?” “Your, uh, *swallow*, your grandmother used to drink water.””

Elias laughs before reaching for the radio and turning up the music. You never listen to Christmas music, as a rule, but somehow you don’t hate it now that it’s blasting through his stupid sports car, the world flying past you through the window.

The drive is filled with Elias humming along to Christmas music and you laughing whenever he pulls a face at one of the lyrics. You spend at least 30 minutes debating if ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’ should still be allowed on the radio – no – and whether or not Michael Buble is the king of Christmas – in Europe, apparently yes.

By the time you reach the cottage, you feel a lot more positive.

Until you see it.

“Uhm,” you bring out, staring at the place in front of you. Elias barks out a laugh, but it sounds mostly disbelieving.

“When Brock said ‘cottage in the forest’, I pictured something different,” he says sheepishly.

“I guess this shows the power of speech?” you offer. “Like, ‘cottage in the forest’ and you think of this beautiful rustic romantic getaway. But this is more ‘cabin in the woods’: I think we’re about to get murdered.”

Elias raises an eyebrow. “Romantic?” he repeats, an amused tilt to his voice, and you nearly get back in the car.

Way to put your foot in your mouth.

Luckily for you Elias doesn’t dwell on it. Instead he wanders inside, where at the very least it looks a little better.

It’s cold, and there’s no working electricity, but there’s a fireplace and a billion candles, and it’s decorated quite cosy. Maybe even Christmassy, if you really squint: although you’re happy to notice there’s no tree.

It’s easier than you thought it would be, to spend an evening in some dodgy cabin with Elias. It’s easy to chat about everything and nothing, to cook dinner with him. How domestic it feels to tease him about how slowly he chops the mushrooms, while he somehow makes sure your wine glass is always full.

Silence doesn’t fall until long after dinner. The fireplace is on, fickle candle light giving the room an orange glow. You’ve somehow ended up with your feet in Elias’ lap, although you can’t remember how they got there: you’re painfully aware of the heavy grip of his hand around your ankle.

The wine has given your brain a nice fuzzy feeling, has softened up the edges around your thoughts. And all you can think, now, is how nice this is: to have Elias right there next to you, blue eyes fixed on the ember flames burning in front of you.

“I’m glad that Brock kept forcing us to hang out,” you say, without thinking. Elias glances over at you.

“Forcing us?” he repeats, as if he’s not sure what you mean.

You shrug. “Come on, Elias, we didn’t like each other before this. You probably didn’t want to hang out with me as much as I didn’t want to hang out with you.”

The words hang heavy in the air for a second. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear you saw Elias flinch.

“Actually,” he says tightly, and your heart does a traitorous swoop. “Brock never forced me to come. I always asked. If I knew he was gonna see you, I asked to come along.”

The words hit you like a freight train. You can feel your heart beating in your chest. But surely there’s no way you’ve been wrong all this time?

Brock did say Elias didn’t hate you.

“But… I thought you didn’t like me.” Your voice sounds small in the quiet room. It feels different here, so far away from the city: when the night is so silent all your thoughts sound so loud.

Elias shrugs. He doesn’t look upset, per se, but his face is carefully closed off and you know now that’s not a good sign.

“I know you thought that,” he says, voice flat. “I know that first night I came off as rude.” His smile is wry. “I was nervous, I didn’t really speak English, and you’re very pretty. I guess it was a recipe for disaster, on my end, so it doesn’t surprise me you didn’t like me.”  

You can feel the blood rush to your cheeks, your heart pounding in your throat. You’re hearing his words but they sound almost foreign, and you can’t quite believe he’s really saying them.

“I’ve always liked you, though,” Elias adds, almost as an afterthought, carelessly like it doesn’t matter. Like he doesn’t know what that does to you, your mind going into overdrive.

You’re not an easy person to like. That’s not you being hard on yourself, you just know you judge too harshly, react too quickly. You go into downwards spirals of negative thoughts, you put opinions into people’s mouths, and most of all, you don’t believe in happily ever after.

People, in your experience, don’t stick around for people who won’t promise them happily ever after.

But Elias is here, having brought you to this cabin, having pushed and pushed to be around you: and you didn’t even notice. You thought he was just doing Brock a favor, you thought he was just bored. He’s not been very outgoing about his affections, but you can tell that they’re there; from the way he’s put up your Christmas tree to how he always listens to every word that falls from your lips. No, he’s not been very outgoing about with his affections but he’s been plentiful with them, and you just didn’t notice.

“Elias,” you start, but the sentence dies on your lips when he turns to face you, suddenly a lot closer than he was before.

“What about now?” he asks. You must look as confused as you feel, because he clarifies right away. “What do you think about me now?”

There’s nothing unsure about the question, and you think the answer is been pretty clear. You wouldn’t be here if the answer wasn’t clear. But despite that, despite that he seems to already know what you’re gonna say, you wanna say it anyway. You think you have to say it anyway.

“Now I like you,” you tell him, sitting up straighter. “I really like you, Elias.”

The last thing you register is the pleased smile tugging at the edges of Elias’ mouth, and then his lips are against yours.

The kiss is soft but not hesitant. Maybe he’s giving you time to think about it, this way, if this is what you want: but in that moment there’s nothing you want more, nothing but a fierce desire to trace your hands down his body.

As soon as your fingers touch his arm, Elias deepens the kiss. He kisses exactly how you would expect him to; giving you everything, no trace of doubt or hesitation.

There’s nothing frantic about it, nothing scary. With every second that ticks by you fall a little further into it, your mind a lovely shade of blank – with the exception of the boy in front of you, like all your nerves screaming his name.

“Hey.” Elias’ voice is soft as he pulls away. He doesn’t take his hands away from where they’re laying against the bare skin of your back. “We don’t have to go further.”

He’s giving you an out, you realize, a second to gather your thoughts. You could pull away now, you could put some space between the two of you.

You scoot forward, moving even more into his lap, and carefully curl your hand around his jaw. He leans into it slightly, and your heart screams with how much you want him.

You don’t answer. Even as a writer, you realize that words are sometimes overrated. Instead, you press your lips against his, placing your heart in his hands as you kiss him once more.  

--

It takes about two hours after you get back to your apartment for the reality of it all to comes crashing down at you.

The night at the cabin was wonderful; magical, even. If you would write the perfect Christmas story, it would be a lot like that.

Except you’re not writing a Christmas story – you should, of course, but you haven’t started and that’s because Christmas stories are unrealistic.

You and Elias, your story - no matter how wonderful – is unrealistic. What were you thinking? That Elias, being who he is, would simply… What? Become your boyfriend?

He’s Vancouver’s biggest star, everyone’s favorite person. You’re just another lonely writer who lives mostly in their own brain. You’re just someone else who is hard to love; like your parents, like your sister, like all the friends you’ve seen get their hearts broken.

You call Brock.

“Wow, calm down,” are the first words that come out of his mouth when he finally speaks. You’ve told him most of the story by then, sentences coming out in shallow breaths and tears already burning in the back of your throat. “What the hell do you mean ‘hard to love’? That’s bullshit.”

“It’s not.” You swallow. “Brock, it’s not real. What I’m feeling. People fall in love all the time and they all believe that’s it, their perfect story, but how often does that story end up a tragedy?”

“Y/N…” He sounds mostly sad. “You can’t live like that.”

But your mind was made up long ago, so long ago when you were just a child. When you saw the tragedy that was your parents love story, and then later it was only settled deeper, when you saw your friends get hurt, when your sister got cheated on.

“I can’t make myself the protagonist of my own tragedy.”

“Petey isn’t going to break your heart.” Brock’s voice is sharp, and you realize this is not a fair position to put him into: how can he be honest to you when that means breaking Elias’ trust?

“He won’t mean to,” you whisper. “But it’ll happen. It might not even be his fault. I’ll probably break my own heart somewhere along the line. But happiness doesn’t just come along this suddenly, Boes.”

“What is it does?” Brock asks, and you don’t have an answer.

What if it does is less scary what if it doesn’t, and the next few days when Elias calls, you don’t pick up the phone.

--

You shouldn’t have opened the door.

“You’re avoiding me.” Elias sounds... hurt. You don’t think you’ve ever heard him sound like that. You’ve learned that when he’s upset, he mostly sounds indifferent; locks his emotions behind a wall for nobody to see.

And maybe it’s a testament to how well you know him, now, that you can pick up on the change in his voice. Or maybe it means he’s decided to let you in.

God, you hope it’s not that last one. Hope he didn’t make that mistake.

You sigh. “I’m sorry, but…”

“Don’t.” Elias cuts you off by pushing past you into the apartment. He stands glaring at you in the middle of the living room, arm crossed. “You’re not doing this.”

You have to.

“It’s just not gonna work,” you try. There goes the crack in your heart, bursting open like someone squeezes it with an iron fist.

You’re doing this to yourself. But that’s better than the alternative: better than having Elias do it way further into the story, when there’s something to destroy.

There’s nothing to destroy, now. There’s only the prologue to the story, and now the epilogue. A story with no middle won’t be remembered.  

“That’s not true.” Elias isn’t backing down. “You can’t tell me nothing this past month has meant anything to you.” He frowns. “Does this have anything to do with your Christmas thing? Would it be different if this had happened in January?”

You laugh, but there’s no humor there. If only it was that simple.

“This has nothing to do with Christmas, Elias. This just isn’t real. There’s no happy ending to my storyline, and I’m not dragging you down with me.”

You let your eyes fix on him, on the way he stands there stubbornly, still fighting for something. For you. If only it made a difference.

Elias doesn’t say anything, for a while. Finally, voice timid, he says: “You’re gonna throw this away because you’re scared.”

You are scared. But that’s not why you’re doing this.

“Damn it, Y/N.” Frustration rings clear in Elias’ voice, now. “I know you feel what I feel! You can’t just ruin that because you’re not brave enough to say what you want!”

“It doesn’t make a difference, Elias!” You’re hurting too, and you can hear your own voice getting too loud.

“I wanna live in a world where people don’t get hurt, and everyone’s got enough money and nobody ever has to skip a meal!” You swallow, hot tears pricking behind your eyes. “I wanna live in a world where people don’t get in the car to get a Christmas tree and never come back, and I wanna live in a world where Santa’s real, Elias, but that’s just not reality. That’s not how life works.”  

Elias’ eyes are dark, his jaw tense. You know you’re not gonna like what he’s got to say before he’s even opened his mouth.

“Maybe not,” he says tightly, “but you live in a world where people can choose to love each other. It doesn’t have anything to do with Santa, or magic. None of those things are real, but love is real, and you can choose to believe in that.”

He grabs his jacket, is walking towards the door before you can even comprehend what he’s saying. At the door, he turns around. His eyes shine with sadness.

“I want to love you, but you have to choose to believe that, too. And if you can’t, then I guess it won’t ever be real.”

When the door closes, the last piece of your heart breaks in two.

--

“Merry Christmas!”

Brock’s voice is bright and cheery. He’s clearly only just woken up, his blond hair a mess and Milo passed out in his lap.

“It’s not even Christmas yet,” you tease. You curl your legs closer to yourself, your coffee in one hand and your phone in the other. It’s nice to see Brock, even if it’s just over FaceTime.

Getting your heart broken is even worse when you can’t really talk about it to your best friend, because you also broke your best friend’s other best friend’s heart.

It’s a complicated issue, is the thing.

“It’s Christmas Eve tonight,” Brock says, rolling his eyes. “That’s basically Christmas. Are you still moping?”

“Hey,” you protest. “I’m not moping. I’m sad. It’s different.”

You have been moping, a bit. The first two days after your final talk with Elias, you didn’t even really come out of bed. You just sat there and you wrote.

That’s the only good thing to come out of this, you think. You somehow not only wrote your story, it’s maybe the best story you’ve ever written.

“I know. I’m sorry.” Brock’s voice is gentle. “You can talk to me, you know? I won’t use anything you say against you or tell Petey or whatever. He’s been talking to me too.”

Your heart does a somersault. If Elias has been talking to Brock, Brock probably already knows everything; in a way, you can’t believe he’s still talking to you if that’s the case.

More than that, though, it brings an opportunity. To find out what you’ve been wondering since Elias stepped out of your apartment.

“Is he alright?”

“Are you?” Brock counters, like that matters.

You stare at the coffee in your cup. It’s too hot to drink still, little puffs of steam climbing through the air.

You’re not doing so well, admittedly, but that’s probably fair. You were the one to broke off the story, in the end. And you hate to admit it to yourself – and you definitely won’t admit it to Brock – but you’ve been wondering if you made the right choice.

“I wrote my Christmas story,” you say, instead of answering his question. “Handed it in yesterday.”

Brock lets you change the subject. “Cool. What did it ended up being about?”

You sigh. “It was about me.”

Brock raises his eyebrows, interest clear in his eyes. He doesn’t push you, and you’re glad for it. You need a moment to find the words.

“I wrote about a girl who hates Christmas because it reminds her of things that she’s lost. And I wrote about how scared she is of gaining something because that means she can lose it again.”

Brock’s voice is soft when he speaks. “But someone teaches her? In the story?”

He knows you too well. You laugh quietly. “Yes, someone takes her through all these Christmas cliches to make her realize why they’re cliches. It’s not because of the act itself. It’s because you spend time doing it with someone you love.”

“She loves this person, the one that teaches her,” Brock hazards a guess.

There’s no longer any doubt that he knows exactly how you feel about Elias.

“She loves him but that scares her even more. Because if she loves him, she could lose him. And Christmas has always been the time to remind her of loss and heartbreak. So she assumes it’ll just end in hurt this time too.”

“It doesn’t have to,” Brock says.

And you know. Somehow, writing the story, you realized that. Because as you wrote about this girl, that was exactly like you, you found yourself not wanting to give the story a realistic ending. You wanted to make it right, wanted her to end up with the person who taught her how to love Christmas and how to love him.

So you did. You gave your story a happy ending. And in doing that, it’s like you gave yourself permission to want a happy ending for yourself, too.

But there’s just no way. Life isn’t a fairytale, and the Christmas cliché where the girl who throws it all away gets back her perfect boy by stealing Santa’s microphone in the mall and making a grand speech about how pushing him away was the biggest mistake of her life, simply isn’t real life material.

“It’s not too late, you know.” Brock’s sitting up straighter, almost as if he wants to come through the camera and tell you in person. “If you wanted to change the ending. You could. He’d let you.”

Your heart starts beating faster and it has nothing to do with the caffeine you’re drinking.

All this time, you’ve been wondering. Wondering if it’s too late.

“How would I do that?” you ask. “Hypothetically.” 

Brock’s grin is so bright you nearly have to close your eyes. “Send him the story,” he says, without thinking about it; the jerk probably has been thinking about this since you started telling him what it’s about. “You should send him the story. Kinda like a message in a bottle.”

When you say goodbye to Brock, his eyes are fond when you tell him “Thank you” and mean it. Without him, you don’t think you would’ve had the courage, but now it feels like the only possible ending comes with you taking your Word document and putting it in an email.

--

To: e.pettersson40@hotmail.com

Attachment: Not a typical Christmas story.pdf

Message:

Elias,

I’ve tried to write this letter a million times, to tell you what I should’ve said that night. I can’t say I’m not scared what you’ll think, but who am I to know what the future holds? If my heart was paper I’d fold it, throw it to the wind and hope it’d end up in your arms. So here it is, my paper heart, in the form of the most cliché Christmas story of them all. The one where everyone ends up with their perfect happily ever after.

Signed with love from me to you,

Y/N.

--

There’s three rapid knocks on the door, and then silence.

Your heartbeat speeds up like you heard gunshots instead. Within seconds you’re on your feet, almost running to the door.

There’s only one person that could be at your door on Christmas morning at 9am, right?

When you open it, something heavy dissolves in your stomach, a sense of comfort falling over you like crawling into bed after an exhausting day.

“Elias,” you breathe.

For a second, you just stare at him: he looks like he’s barely slept at all, dark circles surrounding his eyes, which somehow seem more blue than they ever have before.

“Merry Christmas,” Elias says then, thrusting something forward. You grab it in reflex.

It’s the glass star, the ornament from the Christmas market. The one that you had told Elias you found beautiful, the one that reflected all the lights like a million little stars. The one that reminded you, even, of Elias’ eyes.

It’s still beautiful. And suddenly there’s tears running down your cheeks, warm against your skin.

Elias frowns. He looks a little worried, unsure; as if he shouldn’t be here. But God, he is here, on your doorstep, and he brought you this ornament, and you know that it has to mean what you think it does.

“I’m sorry,” you bring out. “For everything, I…”

You can’t finish your sentence, because Elias steps forward, his arms outstretched, and you launch yourself at him like a missile. He catches you easily, presses you against his chest and buries his face in your shoulder.

“I read the story,” he mumbles. You can barely make out the words, but they hit you like a ton of bricks anyway. “You believe in Christmas miracles now?”

You can hear the smile in his voice as he asks, because he already knows the answer.

“I don’t know,” you admit. You pull away a little, but keep your arms firmly locked around Elias’ waist, and his hands remain on your back. “But you’re here, so. I think I might have to start.”

Elias laughs, moving closer again to press a kiss against your head. You can feel his lips move against your hair when he speaks. “What about us? You believe in us, now?”

You don’t answer him, but you think he can tell from the way you kiss him, anyway.

--

You tug the blanket tighter around your shoulders, smiling down at the opposite end of the couch. Elias is talking in Swedish and you don’t understand a word he’s saying, but you can tell that he’s happy, smile bright and eyes fixed on the laptop screen in front of him.

He’s been talking to his family for the past hour, and watching him has been a great source of entertainment for you. He blushed when his brother mentioned your name, and finally he did introduce you to them.

“This is Y/N, I’m forcing her to watch Christmas movies with me all day and then bake cookies,” he’d laughed, and you didn’t tell him that there’s nothing you’d rather do.

“Jag älskar dig, hejdå,” Elias says, and then he finally closes the laptop. “Hey,” he hums, poking your thigh with his toe, “my mom said she can’t wait to meet you, so. Be warned.”

You laugh. “I would love to go to Sweden. I read something about cakes.”

It feels natural, to crawl over to the other side of the couch and lay down between Elias’ legs, head resting on his chest. You can hear his heartbeat under your ear and it’s enough for your eyes to close on their own accord.

It’s not like you’ve had much sleep the past few nights. But now, you think you could finally sleep peacefully, knowing that Elias is here and he’s not leaving.

His hand moves down your side, sneaking under your sweater, fingertips soft against your skin.

“It’s snowing,” he says, suddenly, and you open your eyes to look out the window.

Indeed, there’s little flurries of white powder fluttering through the grey Vancouver sky.

“That’s too much,” you roll your eyes. “The great grandmother of Christmas cliches.” Elias raises a questioning eyebrow, so you explain. “As the final crisis is resolved, everyone runs out in the street on Christmas Eve to discover that it’s snowing! In Nigeria! During a drought!”

“We’re in Vancouver,” Elias deadpans, and it’s only because you know him so well that you see the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “And it’s not Christmas Eve, it’s Christmas Day.”

“Minor details,” you shrug, placing your head back on his chest and closing your eyes again.

“We’ve gotta decorate this sad excuse of a tree.” You can hear the smile in Elias’ voice as he talks. “Two ornaments does not make a Christmas tree.”

“Later,” you hum, curling your fingers into his sweater. “We’ve got all day.”

Elias laughs. “The tree is supposed to be decorated before Christmas, typically.”

You can’t help but smile at that. “We’re not a typical Christmas story, though.”

“Maybe not typical, but still pretty good.” His arms tighten around you and you can feel him press a kiss into your hair.

“Pretty fucking good,” you agree. “If you get me off this couch today it’ll be a Christmas miracle though.”

You shouldn’t have said that: no sooner than the final word leaves your lips you’re being lifted into the air, legs dangling helplessly as Elias throws you over this shoulder. Your giggles come out a little hysterically. 

“I told you miracles are real,” he grins, unceremoniously carrying you towards the bedroom.

You’ve just come from there, but you’re really not against the idea of going back.

“What about the tree?” you squeal, lightly slapping his shoulder.

“Tree can wait,” Elias decides, as he dumps you onto the bed and lets himself fall over you, leaning on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you.

“Tree can wait,” you echo in agreement, and you let your body relax into the mattress as Elias kisses you. When he tries to deepen it, you turn away just slightly, keeping your nose pressed against his cheekbone. “Hey, Lias?”

“What?” Elias mutters, sounding a little annoyed to be denied another kiss.

You smile. “Merry Christmas.”

His laughter sounds bright.

“Merry Christmas, babe.”

[fruitcoops]

Hi! If u have any time, I would love to read some fluffy Coops hurt/comfort! Maybe Remus having a nightmare about Greyback?

I can, yes! For those of you wondering why I didn’t continue the Greyback audio series despite a couple different asks: someone kept coming into my inbox and bothering me about progress, and I got tired of it. I write for fun, and if the story isn’t flowing I generally work on something else for a bit until inspiration strikes. Constantly asking (like, three times a day) about a fic will not get it out faster.

Coops credit goes to @lumosinlove!

TW for nightmares, past injury, and self-deprecating dream talk (briefly)

Greyback was out of the league, and rumors had begun to fly about a possible court case. Remus had received hundreds of texts, emails, and DMs from people expressing their condolences—his old teammates had contacted him more in the past 48 hours than they had in literal years.

And he was so unbelievably tired.

Hattie rumbled against his front and Sirius was solid and warm behind him, curved in a protective parenthesis against the endless unanswered messages. Upon Remus’ request, he had taken his phone and put it on the top shelf of the laundry room cupboards; anyone who wanted to talk to Remus would go through Sirius, first. He couldn’t think of anyone that mattered who didn’t have Sirius’ phone number.

“Are you still awake?” Sirius murmured against the nape of his neck. Remus nodded silently. “Do you want to take some melatonin?”

“It’s alright.”

Sirius shifted and pulled the blankets further onto their shoulders; Hattie wiggled up until her face was out of the sheets, then sighed heavily. “Do you want to talk?”

Remus shrugged, suddenly feeling shaky and untethered. He had only caught a passing glance of Greyback at the conference, staring him down across the lobby until his handlers took him away and left Remus alone with the media. The look in his eyes was almost murderous. “Just don’t let go.”

The arm around his waist tightened and he closed his eyes, matching his breaths with Sirius’ until his world narrowed to the heartbeat against his shoulder and Hattie’s fur in his hand. No aching feet, no pounding head, no verge-of-tears clog in his throat—just Sirius, just Hattie, just them in their bed and the whole world locked outside.

“We’re going to be okay, right?”

“Why wouldn’t we be?” Sirius moved and a small pocket of cold lodged behind Remus’ knees. “Re, I knew what happened before the story came out.”

“But know there’s…”He waved a hand in the air. “People. Cameras. So many people trying to contact me all the time, and I’m tired. I haven’t really been here for you.”

“Remus.” Sirius tugged on his shoulder until he rolled onto his back, but kept their sides pressed together. “You don’t have to be here for me right now. It’s my job to be there for you while this is going on. Besides, I’m used to dealing with media and nosy people.”

Remus exhaled slowly. “Thank you for taking my phone.”

“You asked me to do it.”

“Still. You could’ve said no.”

“You have enough on your plate already, mon loup.” Sirius trailed his fingers lightly through Remus’ hair and he closed his eyes. “Sleep. I know you didn’t last night.”

“I slept a little bit.”

“Yeah, for about two hours.” A gentle kiss pressed against his cheek. “Sleep.”

He took a deep breath and tried to relax, letting the tension drain from his muscles and allowing the tsunami of exhaustion to wash through in its place. His brain still ran at a million miles per hour and he could feel the beginnings of yet another headache—though who was he kidding, the last week had been a constant headache—but he focused on his heartbeat and breathed in the familiar scent of their bedroom.

Remus felt himself slipping, and suddenly all he smelled was sweat. Sweat and fear and the spongy plastic of the mats sticking to his cheek. He couldn’t feel any pain, but the terror of someone’s hands on his body bolted all the way to his core. Pressure on his thighs as the person’s knees pinned him down; pressure on his back and a palm by his shoulder blade; pressure, so much pressure, on one joint until it gave out and Remus was falling.

He was cold, colder than any ice bath, and gasping for air.

He won’t love you. He never did. Nobody will ever be able to tether you for long. He’ll get tired of trying.

“Please,” Remus begged as the roaring wave came up behind him. A blurry face appeared ahead, with cold eyes and a razor-sharp smile. “No, no—”

Fenrir wouldn’t let go. He was trapped like a fish in a net, struggling and fighting against the harsh grip until his eyes flew open and someone was talking right next to his ear and it was too much too much too much—

“No!” His elbow slammed into something soft and the warmth across his chest disappeared. “Get off me!”

Bedroom. He was in a bed, in a bedroom. In his bedroom. It smelled like lavender and laundry detergent. Hattie was on the floor, carefully sniffing his hand and watching him with huge gray eyes as he pulled his knees to his chest and waited for the last of the nightmare to tremble through him.

A hand brushed against his arm and he flinched, teeth chattering despite the warm room. “Don’t touch me.”

“Okay.” The mattress dipped as Sirius sat up and crossed his legs, sitting patiently and rubbing one rib.

Remus’ mouth went dry. “Did I hit you?”

“Just your elbow.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s not. I hit you.”

“Do you want to take a look?” Sirius asked, his voice soft. Remus blinked rapidly and shifted to face him; he lifted the edge of his sleep shirt and gestured to his ribs. “See? No marks. You didn’t hurt me, just surprised me.”

“Part of me wishes they never found that video,” Remus said. The words tumbled from his lips—he had been choking them down for days now, but he was too tired to hold them in anymore. “I wish nobody ever knew except you and me and him.”

Sirius hummed. “That’s fair.”

“It’s stupid. He deserves what he’s getting.”

“He does.”

Frustration bubbled in his chest. “Then—then I have to choose one, right? He deserves what he’s getting and I deserve to move on and his name should be dragged through the mud, but I just want people to leave me the fuck alone.”

His shoulders folded in and he pressed his forehead to his knees; there were no tears left, but that didn’t stop the shivering that made his stomach hurt. “Can I touch you?” Sirius asked after a moment.

“Yeah.” Remus leaned into him, laying both his legs over one of Sirius’ and curling up like a barnacle against his side. “Sorry for dumping all this on you.”

“Re, this isn’t dumping stuff on me. This is communicating how you feel, and Heather says that’s a good thing.”

“Heather isn’t here.”

“When’s your next appointment?”

“Monday.”

Sirius gave him a squeeze. “I’m not a therapist, but I can hug you until Monday if you want.”

Remus laughed a little—there wasn’t much humor in it, but at least it was there. “That sounds pretty nice, actually. I’m going to take a shower and then make some tea.”

“It’s a mint with honey kind of day?”

“Yeah.”

Forty minutes later, when Remus was mostly dry and bundled in his most comfortable sick-day clothes, he went downstairs and found a steaming mug of mint tea with honey waiting on the coffee table. Sirius smiled and patted the couch as the opening credits of Avatar began. It felt…well, it felt almost normal.

[heyitsyn]

Manager!Seijoh Part 9

a/n: hehehe this was inspired by that iconic picture in pinterest of akaashi turning into a child

summary: you signed up to take care of grown teenagers who are capable of taking care of themselves-not children

for more seijoh content, check this masterlist out!

LMAO IS IWA KICKING HIM AND IS THAT MATTSUN SLAPPING HIS FLAT BUTT

so like,,,, you were at a complete loss

this was literally the last thing youd ever think of and you didnt even think it was possible for this to happen!

but before that

get in losers we’re going on a flashback

it was a wednesday so duh practice was normal after school

but you read on your weather app that it would be thunderstorming so you were worried on how the others would walk home and even texted oikawa if he could cancel the after-practice practice

but since the spring competitions were getting close, he wanted to get as much practice as possible, even sometimes doing monday practices, and the coaches were usually out the door once mandatory practice hours were over, letting the boys do more practice with no worry since you were there to handle it

the boys were in the gym practicing and stuff but you could hear the thunderstorms from the distance, the smell of rain already filling the gym

and you knew none of these boys owned or carried an umbrella with them so you were going to go and buy umbrellas for when they go home

‘you guys, ill be right back. im going to go to the store down the street, okay?’

the look you gave to iwa made him nod, knowing he was the one really in charged, since oikawa wasn’t really capable of handling everyone

‘i want to come’

kyo said but you stopped him, placing a comforting hand on his arm

‘ill be really quick so dont miss me too much’

‘come back soon, y/n-chan!’

‘be safe!’

iwa made sure you were bundled up with a raincoat and had your umbrella on hand before you went on your journey

ugh team moms have my heart

thankfully, the store had more than enough for the boys and you were trying to hurry because it was now raining heavily and you wanted to run back so they wouldnt worry

the cashier rang up your total and you were just giving her your card when a VERY BRIGHT LIGHTNING striked from the sky and a VERY LOUD thunderstorm rang in the distance

your heart thumped and it mightve just been your managerial instincts but you knew something was wrong

oh god oikawa must be freaking out right now since he absolutely hates thunderstorms

your worries were evident on your face so the cashier hurriedly handed you your bag full of umbrellas so you were able to sprint out of the door and too much in a hurry to even open your umbrella

the run to the school felt like it was a 10-mile run and when you finally ran towards the gym doors, you slowed to a speed-walk

but you froze

the lights were off and you could hear the screams of a child

well,,,,, more like, children

you entered the gym and fell on your butt in surprise

in front of you, were 9 toddlers who were thankfully covered by the now too-big clothing

they couldnt be over 3 and a half feet tall and looked like they were around 3 or 4 

‘i-i-iwa-san?’

you stuttered and reached a hand forward towards the baby with the black spiky hair but he cried louder, clutching on to the brunette baby

‘oh god’

you were finally starting to realize this situation

‘oh my god, what do i do’

you mumbled, standing up and panicked eyes wandering over each child

they were chibis

3 chibis were sleeping and you could tell each boy by their hairstyle

kunimi, yahaba, and mattsun were sleeping on top of the blue shirts and white shorts

kindaichi was hiccuping, seemingly done with his crying, while oikawa was bawling and screaming with iwaizumi holding on to his hand tightly, eyes also teary

makki was bleary-eyed and watari was just sitting there, eyes wide and lips parted but kyo, with hair turned to his original color yet the same sharp yellow eyes, looked on the verge of crying, hands reaching out to you

you immediately grabbed ahold of oikawa and you were thankful that their shirts were still over their tiny body

‘its okay, oikawa-san, its okay’

thunder rumbled again and this time, woke up the others in fright causing them to also start crying then the others started their own crying because everyone else was crying

you kept oikawa on your arms but ran to check on individual player

‘no,no,no! its okay! look! ball!’

you presented the stray volleyball next to iwaizumi and you guessed he was holding it before he transformed into this child form

‘IM SCARED!’

kindaichi shouted while sobbing and his loud voice startled yahaba even more and got him to cry harder making the others follow suit as well

‘oh no’

you whined and was slowly going crazy by the crying noises

you dont have any siblings so you never got the experience of having to take care of be around a toddler

maybe you should calm each child individually

that would work, right?

you remembered the method you used on oikawa once during training camp and you were hoping that his child self would still use the same calming routine

the speed you had to find your headphones and plug them in to your phone then his ears and playing the ‘big bang theory’ theme song was A S T R O N O M I C A L

you placed him in front of you and wiped the tears that trailed down his chubby cheeks while his little hands held on to your shirt

his cries started to slow down until it was just whimpers and you placed a kiss on his forehead when he finally quieted down

but while you were taking care of their captain, kyo was yelling at yahaba and making him more upset and cry even harder

‘MEAN DOGGIE!’

yahaba shouted and tried to hit kyotani but he hit him back

you pushed both children away and sat them down on their beehinds in front of you

‘no. we dont hit, yahaba-san, and we dont make fun, kyotani-san. time out for you two’

yahaba glared at the floor with tears pricking his eyes but one look from you made him hold it in and bite his lip

iwaizumi looked like he was finally getting ahold of himself as he was calmly sitting down with makki and mattsun by his side

you chortled when mattsun still possessed the same teasing smirk as he did when he was a teenager and his red eyes were now filled with mischief along with makki

iwa looked up at you with bright eyes, as if waiting for a reward or a compliment, and you swallowed your squeal before crouching across him and caressing his cheek

‘good job, iwa-san. iwa-san is a good boy’

he smiled, a smile youve never seen before, then snuggled closer to your palm

the only one really crying was kindaichi while kunimi and watari were also just sitting down

kindaichi’s sobs echoed throughout the gym and as you walked closer, you heard his stomach growl and you instantly knew how to calm him down

the sausage you picked up to feed the strays with kyo later was still in your bag so you peeled the wrapper about halfway and handed it to him

kindaichi stared at it and you had to guide it in his mouth to start eating just to ensure him it was safe and he could eat

the thunder seemed to have died down and all that remained was rain

the boys were starting to shiver from the cold and you were sure the heat in the gym was working before you left but now it wasnt because of the power shutting down

it wouldnt be good if they remained in this cold environemnt and you suddenly remembered that you were still soaked from the rain and was getting colder by the second

maybe it was the panic that shot up your adrenaline and didnt let you realize your own situation

each boy had their jackets thrown to the side but you quickly put it on them so you could bundle them up as best as you can

their shoes were too large for them so you ran to the storage room where there were plastic bags that you used to tie around their feet with their socks

iwa noticed your trembling body and he shakily stood up and ran over to you

you finished tying kindaichi’s bag when you noticed iwa standing there with his arms stretched towards you

‘hug’

he squeaked and you sniffled before wrapping him in your arms and holding him close to you

it seems iwa still possessed his protective instincts from before

by the time all the boys were ready, the rain thankfully reduced to simple sprinkles and you made everyone hold hands

the boys stood on a row in front of you and you seriously talked to them

‘no matter what, never let go of your friend, okay? even you yahaba, kyotani’

the two gave each other a glare but they still clenched each other’s hands

you grasped oikawa and iwa’s hands and the others formed a chain with mattsun holding iwa’s and makki holding oikawa’s and so forth

you figured you could just leave their bags in the gym so you were walking as fast as you could towards home where it would be warm and a safe place to figure out a plan

natsu has seen a lot in his years of living and from being in nekoma in general

but he has been shocked to see this

it was already late and your parents were both at some business trip and he knew you were supposed to be home already but you werent

he was about to call you when the doorbell rang and he figured it was just some person convincing him to be christian

he opened the door, exasperated and irritated

‘listen, im the biggest sinner that has ever-Y/N!’

he shouted in surprise 

there, you stood, shaking and red with a bunch of toddlers

what in the world

‘natsu. m-move’

you stuttered out and he couldnt help but do what you said and he made way for you and the little ducklings

the little boy from the back, the one with yellow eyes, glared at him as he walked past and natsu shook his head in disbelief

‘wha-’

you ran to the temp screen button thing bro i dont know what it is but i have something like an echobee thats like that to turn up the temperature in the house

the boys were still excitedly babbling on about some movie and they were singing songs 

‘PONYO PONYO PONYO-’

poor natsu just stood at the archway by the living room

‘oi, y/n. please tell me you didnt kidnap a bunch of kids’

there was no teasing tone, just pure confusion

you didnt look up from the temp thing and you configured it to rest at 75 degrees fahrenheit fyi

‘something happened. something weird and bad happened. it shouldnt even be possible but it did and im so confused and i dont know what to do’

you rambled and you turned to look at the kids

natsu noticed your frazzled form and he gently grabbed a blanket to drape over you so you could get warm and led you to sit on the couch

‘just tell me, babes. we’ll figure it out’

he reassured and you sighed

‘i-i,,, was g-going to the-the convience store to-uh-get some umbrelllas for the boys but,,, when i was there,, there was a big thunder and boomed and lightining and i knew,,,,i knew there was something wrong and something had happened so i ran back and then bam! i saw them as kids!’

natsu trailed over from your face to the boys and he started to piece together that yes, this was your team

the brunette boy he messed around with and the one with the adorable eyebrows

‘y/n,, babes,, did you dabble with voodoo? bad juju?’

he whispered and you almost cried

‘no! why would i?!’

‘THEN WHY THE HELL ARE THEY BABIES?!’

‘I DONT KNOW! IM NOT DUMBLEDORE!’

‘what are we going to tell their parents?!’

‘that their kids turned to babies?!’

‘yea right! might as well tell them the earth is flat!’

you both went silent for a bit before natsu sighed then turned to you

‘babes, go and shower. go and get warm while i take care of the kids. youre soaked and youre freezing and you’ll get sick. besides, they shouldnt be that bad, right?’

not even caring to answer that question and completely not hearing it, you nodded and groggily went to go bath

the boys saw you leave and they looked at natsu with either wide scared eyes or glaring eyes

especially the boy with the yellow eyes

natsu smirked

‘i know you. what was it? dog? crazy dog?’

there was clear offense in kyo’s face and he easily jumped to natsu’s lap and grabbed his hair to tug on it

‘yey! play time!’

oikawa shrieked and everyone shouted in agreement before joining kyo

natsu screamed as they punched his stomach and pulled his hair

you were in the middle of rinsing your hair when you heard the screams and you thought it was the boys but you recognized them as natsu’s

you continued showering

the boys were having fun beating up your cousin and natsu seriously wondered if you were taking your sweet time just to let them have their fun

‘oi! if you dont stop! i wont let you play mario kart!’

the boy with a middle part stopped tugging his hair followed by the one with the spiky turnip looking hair

‘maiyo,,,, kat?’

ALKSDFJLSDKFJDFKJDS BABY KINDAICHI STILL NOT BEING ABLE TO SPEAK PROPERLY

natsu saw them both stop and he excitedly sat up

‘yea! mario kart! you want to play mario kart?! oh my! its so much more fun than playing with natsu-nii!’

he didnt care what they wanted to do as long as it didnt involve him being getting beaten up so he quickly assembled the console and they all rallied around natsu as he set up the game

‘okay. we can play with 4 players at a time. who’s going first?’

there was a bit of hostility among the children as they turned their former soft gazes to hard and competitive looks

‘me!’

‘i wanna!’

‘me!me!me!’

‘stop it kawa-chan!’

‘iwa-chan ow!’

there was great uproar while natsu sighed in relief and leaned against the back of the couch, watching in amusement

there were punches thrown, some shoves, but they ultimately decided on players

begrudgingly it was kyo, kindaichi, mattsun, and watari

the others stayed behind with a pout on their lips and sulked

but as soon as they started playing, those sad looks disappeared and they scooted closer to watch it with interest

‘GO MAKKI! GO!’

‘KENKEN HURRY!’

the only one who wasn’t so in to it was the one with the spiky black hair and green eyes

‘hey, kid, what’s wrong?’

natsu asked and he didnt answer but just looked at him before turning to watch the tv silently

he was about to ask again when you appeared and the boys cheered at your arrival before turning back on the game

you were refreshed and you sat on the loveseat next to natsu’s place on the couch

‘they seem to be having fun’

you smiled but natsu crinkled his eyebrows then pointed to a figure behind the rest

‘the kid’s just been sitting there. i dont know if hes just like that or what but hes not really doing anything’

‘oh, thats just iwa-san. hes normally like that. look. iwa-san! can you please come here?’

at the call for his name, the boy perked up and he excitedly clambered over to sit on your lap

he leaned his back against your chest and you ran your fingers through his hair

‘why are you just sitting there, hm? do you not want to play?’

you spoke softly and he shook his head, eyes still on the match

‘friends are happy when playing. i like my friends. im okay’

despite the very child-like voice, there was a sense of maturity in there and you weren’t sure if they still carried the same memories as they had back when they were already teenagers

‘iwa-san, do you know me?’

you asked and he looked up to look at your face

then he shook his head

‘no’

you blanched

and so did natsu

‘so let me get this straight, kid. you let some random stranger take you to their house?’

iwa shrugged

‘she help me and friends. she nice’

you almost squealed but held back and you tightened your arms around him

‘youre sweet, iwa-san’

‘y/n, you could literally be charged of kidnapping right now’

natsu ruined the moment and you glared at him

‘im just trying out a way to help them. and besides, they couldve screamed and cried and ran out but they didnt so i didnt take them against their will’

natsu rolled his eyes before standing up

‘well, im hungry. and these kids cant exactly have take-out. imma go see if we have any food left’

he left you alone with the kids and you encouraged the others to win by cheering for them and smiling at the way they were laughing

man, no matter what age, you still love them

natsu peaked his head out from the doorway

‘we got dino nugggets’

you nodded

‘those should be good’

natsu returned to his spot on the couch and you stared at him

‘what? im too scared to do anything to the oven. remember when i broke the other one?’

you sighed and shook your head

iwa noticed you needing to get up so he was about to move when you placed him on natsu’s lap

‘iwa-san, natsu-kun will take care of you for now, okay?’

iwa didnt object but he didnt like it either

you were pressing the timer on the oven and you opened it to change the racks when you noticed a small figure and hands and feet trying to climb in

in shock, you dropped the rack and grabbed kunimi’s small body

‘kunimi akira! what were you thinking?!’

the baby’s eyes were half-lidded and he looked really tired and the oven was radiating warmth and he thought he could climb in it and sleep

but you knew that he would literally DIE 

you ran him back to the living room and natsu was shocked to hear of what happened

‘HUH?’

‘yea. so try and make sure none of them does something dangerous’

you pleaded and he nodded before taking kunimi’s hand and urging the kid to sleep on his lap instead

you were finally cooking the nuggets and while it cooked, you were grabbing any leftovers for you and natsu to eat

there was little bit of rice and some tonkatsu left so you heated that up and continued to cook until everything was finished

‘boys! natsu! dinner!’

at the mention of food, the kids dropped the controllers and raced to go to the kitchen

natsu trailed behind with a half-asleep kunimi in his arms and iwa who held his hand

‘FOOD!’

kindaichi and oikawa shrieked

you gave each boy their own portion of food and you gave natsu his dinner

‘to be honest, i was surprised we had enough nuggets’

natsu was surprised at the nuggets you still had in the freezer

you shrugged

‘at this point, im not even surprised at anything anymore. i think im just in a dream and im controlling it and somehow, the universe is bending itself to help me’

natsu stared at you as if you grew three heads before chuckling and returning to his food

however

there was no such thing as peaceful dinner with the boys

yahaba was crying that kyo took some of his nuggies

kunimi tried to have one bite of his chicken before toppling over to the side and falling asleep

mattsun was tricking makki by pointing somewhere and when the brownette turns, he would take a nugget

oikawa tried it and iwa almost fell for it but he caught his best friend in time resulting him to hit the choco-hair boy and making tooru cry from the booboo

you sighed, rubbing your temples

‘i swear. my head’

you whined and natsu patted your back before he disappeared somewhere, presumably his room, to get away from the madness

your temper was rising and with how exhausted youve been and the incoming cold you feel is making you irritated

‘BOYS’

of course they stopped as they got scared by your tone and if they were teenagers, they would have the same reaction because youve never used this tone on them

‘kindaichi, wake up kunimi. kyotani, matsukawa, eat your own nuggets. yahaba, oikawa, stop crying. kyotani apologize to yahaba for eating his nuggets and hug him. you too, iwaizumi apologize to tooru for hitting him and hug him’

‘BUT-’

the boys started but you shot them a look

‘NOW’

‘sorry’

they mumbled and they looked at you before going to give the other a hug

‘bakakawa’

iwaizumi mumbled and tooru was about to cry but you scolded iwaizumi again

‘iwa, we don’t call people stupid’

he stared at you then turned away, an obvious pout on his lips and pushed his plate away to sulk

wow 

is parenting this hard?

watari calmly ate his food and you smiled

you scooped him in your arms and you held him close

‘come on, everyone. when youre done eating, how about we watch ponyo? hm?’

as if they werent just sulking, they all cheered and abandoned their food to go running to the living room where you put the movie on

halfway through the movie, someone wanted something sweet

you had iwa on your right, mattsun on your left, watari on your lap and oikawa by your feet so you werent exactly at the position to make something

‘nee-chan, i want choco’

makki asked and you sucked in a sharp breath to calm yourself from how cute he was

you gently asked the others to move so you could go but they held on to a part of you

mattsun and iwa with your arms, watari holding your shirt, oikawa holding your leg

‘come on, guys.do you want choco?’

‘but-but-but’

oikawa blubbered

‘please dont go’

mattsun pleaded quietly

‘ill be back! i swear! please?’

begrudgingly, they let go and you stretched out your legs when you stood up then walked to the kitchen

as you opened the door, you were looking through something when you saw a reflection from the glass of a face

you shrieked and looked behind you, expecting some murderer but it was actually a line of the boys

it was like they followed you into the kitchen like ducklings following their mama duck

‘kyotani!’

you wheezed, seeing it was his face that you saw with those beautiful eyes

‘we missed you, nee-chan’

kindaichi whined with a small voice

you noticed that kunimi wasnt with the group so you assumed he was asleep on the couch

‘you scared nee-chan, boys. but it’s okay’

their puppy eyes made you cry inside but you ushered them to go to the dining room so they could wait there for their drinks

you poured chocolate milk for everyone except for tooru as he was lactose intolerant so you gave him chocolate oat milk

they brought the glass to their lips as you drank coffee and they lit up at the delicious taste

‘mmmm’

they giggled and you chuckled before reaching over to wipe makki’s top lip

‘thank you nee-chan!’

oikawa grinned and they all agreed

‘youre welcome. nee-chan will take care of you when you need it’

by the time midnight struck, you were already in a cuddle pile with the boys

they all fell asleep and you were being laid on by the others

natsu came down for water and saw you being smothered by bodies but he thought it was cute so he took a picture for you to see in the morning

he found the remote and turned off the movie and tv before wishing a whisper of a good night then headed back to his room

the room was filled with snores and you were dead asleep

but you couldnt help but squeeze back the tiny hand that gripped yours

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

mrs l/n and mr. l/n groggily made their way up to the front door

‘god, its so late. im so tired. i want to sleep’

mrs l/n complained

mr l/n immediately fished out his keys and he turned the door to enter their home

it was very quiet and dark so they figured that both you and natsu already went to bed

they dumped their luggage at the entrance, bothering to unpack tomorrow and were making their way to the kitchen for a water 

mrs l/n was making her way to the bathroom when she heard a groan from the living room

her eyes shot wide open and she thought she was so tired that she was hallucinating

but nope

her eyes transfixed itself on a figure that was standing at the middle of the living room

with a shaking hand, she reached over to flicker the lights on and she shrieked at the sight of a naked man

tooru felt sleep immediately leave him at the sound of the woman’s shriek and his eyes fell on someone by the doorway and she was not staring at his face

instead

down there

he followed her sight and my god

oikawa screamed

a/n: hehehe happy new years!!! well,, belated new years!! but we really starting the new year with a buck naked oikawa and a traumatized mom aren’t we? but i hope everyone had a great holiday and im so excited for the start of the new year and what it has in store for us!!! sending much love!!!

[soullessmocha]

eyes wide open.

{ david the lost boys x reader }

rating: pg-13

word count: 1922

summary: the reader finds themselves in this picture perfect morning. yet with one simple phrase they questions their whole reality. what is really happening with them?

warnings: afab!reader, mind manipulation, false reality, picture perfect family, death, slight gore, pure sadness, soft!david, sad!david, afab reader, some sad sad shit, not proofread bc i wrote this so late at night.

a/n: i had major inspiration to write something for david. i have been watching a lot of wandavision. this show really inspired the plot and the general story of this fic. i hope you do enjoy! i broke my own heart writing this. and no there are no wandavision spoilers in this. 

A yelp leaves your lips as two tiny humans graze past you causing you to jolt almost spilling your scalding coffee. “Boys! No running in the kitchen!” You yell to the rambunctious twins as they run around giggling as they chase each other before making their way into the living room. A sigh leaves your lips in relief before the tired smile turns into a warm loving smile as a hand is placed on your waist and a stubbled kiss is placed on your neck. “Good morning,” you greet your husband after putting a hand on the back of his head to which he chuckles. David slowly makes his way to the front of you. “Good morning, I see you didn’t spill your coffee this time.” David’s sly comment causes you to roll your eyes as you set yourself at the kitchen island where a breakfast was waiting for you. “Yes, luckily. You know we need to take Marko and Bruce out more. Get all of that energy out. I don’t know where they get it from.” You state before taking a sip of your warm coffee, the warmth causes you to shiver with satisfaction. An airy laugh bursts through the kitchen, “Ah yes, to be young again.” David teases once again before leaning himself on the kitchen island admiring you from afar with his striking bright eyes . These moments of sweetness weren’t rare but it was rare for you to catch him admiring you and giving you the soft look that reminded you of how much he truly loves you.

A soft smile creeps its way to your lips and you flop your head to the side, feeling the rollers in your hair to catch your head from going any further on your shoulder. “You can say that again.” Another sip of the sweet coffee trails over your tongue and you hear him sight as he also grabs his coffee. “I miss it. Sleeping all day, partying all night…” David trails off as he fills his mouth with coffee, his face being partially blocked by the family portrait mug. You blink at the statement. Why did that strike a cord in your chest? Why did it feel like you’ve heard that before? It was as if your consciousness did a full turn about. You blink a few more times and you can see David notice your sudden distraught state. Subconsciously you look down at your ring finger where two dainty gold rings lay, one with a perfect circle diamond and the other a simple band, symbolizing your marriage to the man of your dreams. Yet you don’t remember anything about the wedding. Why couldn’t you remember your own wedding? Also you couldn’t remember moving into the house. You couldn’t remember giving birth to your own sons.

“Darling?” David asks as he carefully sets down his mug, his expression feigning concern. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling okay?” He questions putting a hand on your back and rubbing low slow circles. Almost as if he was trying to ground you and bring you back to this reality. You shake your head, “What you just said-” you start but David only chuckles, “What? Being young again? I mean I’m sorry babe but we aren’t as young as we used to be.” You shake your head and stand pushing his hand away. “No, the other thing,” you start and look around the house carefully, looking at the family portraits from when the boys were newborns to the most recent Halloween photo that was framed perfectly adjacent to the fridge before focusing on your husband, “sleeping all day. Partying all night.” Then suddenly you hear his voice echo in your head and it hits you like a truck. “Never grow old… Never die.” Your words leave your lips in whispers. Suddenly your breathing picks up and your head starts to spin. Your chest heaves with each breath as anxiety and fear starts to fill your senses.

“What are you talking about, honey?” David asks with a seemingly worried and confused expression as he approaches you slowly. “Babe, you need to calm down. Take deep breaths, you’re starting to worry the boys.” he notes as the twins stand at the entrance of the open concept kitchen from the living room.

“No, no, no, don’t tell me to calm down David!” Your voice raises as you put a hand out to signal for him to keep his distance. The boys looked worried as well, almost as if you were scaring them. Were they even your kids? Are they a part of you? “Mom? Are you okay?” Marko, a little blonde boy asks you with wide eyes while his darker haired counterpart hid quietly behind him. “Go play outside sweetie, please.” You choke out as the boys hesitantly leave the kitchen hand in hand. David sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose starting to give up but he doesn’t want to give you that satisfaction. As the boys leave you point towards them with a shaking hand. You didn’t notice your whole body was trembling as memories flush to your mind overwhelming you. “David, wha- why- why can’t I remember anything?”

“Jesus, Y/N, don’t start this. It’s too early in the morning for this.” David complains as he rests a hand on his hip of his neat chinos and white pristine button up shirt. He was dress as if he was ready for his 9-5 office job. Then the memories started to clash before your eyes. The bleached mullet, the gloves, the black trench coat. Yet here he was in front of you wearing a neat button up shirt with slacks and a brown belt. His hair was short and moving freely, no longer constricted by gel. “The boys? You can’t- I mean I can’t- We can’t do that!” You say in a loud tone and David tenses, his eyes slowly getting darker with each word you talk. “I don’t remember us getting married David! I don’t remember the birth of our boys! What are you doing? What is this David?” Your stance starts to get defensive as you keep your distance. David didn’t budge or say a thing. “David what the hell is going on?!” You yell, finally snapping. David blinks at your state, surprised as he looks at your long hair in distressed curlers, your robe hanging off your shoulder and your body trembling in fear and confusion.

“Y/N…” David starts trying to hold onto your hands but you rip them away on instinct. You know he had the ability to play mind tricks but this was on a different level. There are faint memories of you talking about wanting a family and kids before you made your choice. You chose to be with him forever, you chose to sacrifice all of those things to be with him. Why was he doing this? Your brows furrow in hurt and disbelief. “What are you doing to me?” You choke out as tears brim your eyes blurring the fine line between the realities you were in. You could see half of him with the striking bright blond hair and donned all in black. Yet the other half was a natural blonde, with clean shave and neat clothes on. “Y/N, I can’t let you go like this.” David whispers, he was now cornering you. Yet you didn’t feel in danger, you felt concerned but not threatened by his nature. “Please, don’t do this right now.” Was he begging you to stop? David never did that. Not the David you knew. That David always got his way and did everything he could. He would never resort to requesting for someone to stop doing something.

“Don’t do what right now? David, what is happening to me?” You ask and this time you close the gap between the two of you. Your hands cupping his cheeks as you search grey-speckled blue eyes. “What do you mean you can’t let me go like this?” You questions again holding his face searching for answers in his deadpan expression. David only sighs and shakes his head, not knowing what to say or do. “Please David, I don’t want to be in a lie anymore…” You beg in a hushed tone pressing your forehead against his and holding him close. As you held his warm body it soon turned cool, no longer as if there was any body heat radiating off of him. Then you were numb. Your eyes were shut close as you felt his forehead touch yours but they slowly opened when he pulled away. It revealed a house you weren’t too familiar with. There was pressure in your chest as if the whole world was crashing down on it. David was kneeling in front of you. The only thing keeping you two apart was the large steak driven into a part in your chest inches away from your heart.

A soft whimper leaves your lips as they tremble in the crushing weight of the reality. He was doing this to send you off one last time. To give you the lasting memory of the thing he thought you deserved the most. A normal life. “Shhh,” he hushes you and pets your head trying to calm you. You were wet and sticky with an oozing dark liquid. You were cold. Yet you were still awake. “I didn’t want to send you off like this,” David starts his eyes boring into yours in almost a hypnotic way. You could see his eyes gloss over, he too was in pain. You could only shake your head for it was too hard to talk with all the pressure. Your hand grasps his and presses it against your cheek. It was his bare hand, something so rare to hold and feel. Even the action of kissing his palm made your body tense and seize from the pain. “Thank you,” you whisper into his palm holding it close. David gives a sigh of defeat and brings his forehead close to yours once again, pressing them together in unison. One hand held your face while the other held your waist. How badly he wanted to close the gap between the two of you.

Suddenly with the blink of an eye you were back in the reality you now know as false. David pulls away from you and the boys come to his side. Your two beautiful boys wrap their arms around you. Tears fall from your eyes and trail off your cheek. You hiccup from a quiet sob as you hold them close. Kissing both of their foreheads you pull away gently. You look at David and approach him wrapping your arms around his neck. You press a loving kiss to his lips. Your grip on him was deadly. “I love you,” you whisper against his lips. David can only smirk and press another chaste kiss and hug you once more. He admired your scent one last time before he knew it was time. “I love you too,” he replies before pressing his forehead into yours. Then your world faded to black, nothingness, stillness, almost deafening.

David pulls away from your lifeless body that was slumped against the wall. A single tear falls from his eye and he is quick to wipe it away. “I will see you again soon,” he whispers into the air before stepping back where his boys were waiting for him. All of their faces distraught with sadness and fear for their brother.

[yeojaa]

someone’s someone, i.

read part two!  inspired by today’s weverse post (because omg???) and set in the angels & airwaves universe because these idiots are so special to me.  a second part to this drabble will be forthcoming and it’ll be...  even cuter?  idk.  

pairing.  jjk x (named) f!reader.  rating.  general.  tags.  nothing inappropriate.  just a lot of sweetness and silliness.  wc.  1.1k.

JINNY’S APARTMENT Saturday, December 3, 2020.  12 AM. 

 You’re laughing at him.  He’s really not sure why - only knows that you are from across the room with a towel wrapped snug around your body and your phone in your hand. 

“W-what’s so funny?”  The words round on their way out, tripping over themselves with the appearance of his occasional stutter.  After a long day, he’s more tired than he expects.  Less refined and more loosely-limbed - your favourite version of him.  

(You remind him of it constantly, passing reassurances he never really realizes he needs.)

With your dark hair in a loose twist at your neck and your feet bare, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you look more beautiful.  That is, until he’s on the receiving end of that stupid blinding smile of yours, singular dimple drawing his own forth.  His favourite version of you.

You’re like mirror images - lovesick idiots who can’t take their eyes off each other. 

“Taking selfies in my bed?  Really?”

Jungkook blinks, gapes, tries to formulate an appropriate response.  He settles for honesty, long fingers sweeping through his grown out fringe to push the strands behind his silver-lined ear.  “You have good lighting.”

You laugh again - he never gets sick of it - and he watches as you cross to your closet, tossing your phone at him along the way.  You’ve got terrible aim somehow, despite the many hours you log on the first-person shooter you both love.  The glossy black iPhone narrowly misses his face, bouncing off the padded headboard and onto your side of the bed. 

“You look cute when you’re in selfie mode.”  It’s full of teasing yet wrapped up nicely and topped with a big red bow.  

His face stares back at him from your screen.  

“Okay, creep!”  He doesn’t mean it and you don’t really care, though he gasps like he does and you throw a pair of bacon and egg patterned socks at him. 

“You can take selfies but I can’t take photos of you taking selfies?”

It’s like the last brain cell shared between the two of you has gone out the proverbial window, thrown from the room by the ridiculous nature of your conversation.  Neither of you mind.  This is how you were - had been for the last year. 

He wouldn’t trade it for a single thing. 

“Are you sure you don’t secretly work for Dis—”  The ceiling is an understanding audience member, meeting his stare until he swivels it to you - and nearly forgets what he was saying. 

It’s hard for him to form any sort of articulate thought when his girlfriend’s standing six feet away wearing only his favourite pair of underwear:  high-cut plain black cotton.  Simple and yet so perfect. 

“Work for who?”  You echo, turning to him with an inquisitive raise of your brow and a smile that reads wicked. 

“Huh?”  It’s not uncommon that you reduce him to single syllables.  It’s the byproduct of being stupidly head over heels in love, probably. 

“Who do I work for, JK?”

“Me?”  Now he’s just spewing nonsense, answering before he’s even given proper thought to the question.  An overeager puppy who only knows treats come from sitting so he does it often and without thought. 

Wait, did that make him Pavlov’s dog? 

“I work for you?” 

You’re a striking figure, dressed in spirals of ink and the sweetest smile.  His heart skips a beat - a little one-two tap - when you draw close enough for him to reach for you.

“You could.”  Truthfully, he doesn’t even know what he’s saying right now.  Just feels the need to speak, to coax you closer whether by words or hands or any other method under the sun. 

“I’m good,”  you return with sugar on your tongue and hearts in your eyes. 

“Okay,”  he answers, probably a little dumbly.  He’s suddenly far too interested in how you feel in his arms, your knees slotting wide on either side of his hips.  You’re terribly soft and still shower-warm, radiating heat all the way through his black tee shirt and worn grey sweats.  Broad palms traverse the shape of your bare waist before settling into their preferred spot with fingers interlaced.  He holds you easily, comfortably, like he wouldn’t rather be anywhere in the world. 

You unfurl your hands from around his shoulders, simultaneously pushing him back and seizing his discarded phone from beside yours.  “Let me take one.”

“Take one?”

The exasperation is exaggerated, fitted into the conversation by a gentle palm against his chest.  His heart beats steadily beneath your palm - in sync with yours in a way that makes you bubble with pride.  “A photo!” 

“Okay,”  he relents easily, sinking into the pillow that cradles his head.  He peers up at you with those big doe eyes of his, galaxies caught in the unnerving darkness of his pupils and the pretty depths of his irises.  He’s so utterly handsome you can’t help but take a few long moments to appreciate the angle of his nose, how the freckle right beneath his soft bottom lip winks up at you when he speaks.  The attention isn’t anything new but it’s a little unnerving;  a shadow of shyness passes, drowning out the sun in his smile.  “What?”

“I love you.”  It’s not the first time you’ve said it, nor is it the last (he hopes).  Jungkook still folds it up and tucks it into the space behind his ribs for safekeeping. 

“I love you, too.”  He’s grinning when he says it and you snap the photo simultaneously, catching him off guard with a proud smirk.  He’s heartbreakingly adorable, bunny-smiling and relaxed against the frame of grey sheets.  You hum a noise of approval, shifting above him;  his thumbs rub soothing circles over your hip bones as he waits patiently. 

“You look good.”  

“Post it.” 

“Post it?” 

“Did I stutter?”

You have half the mind to remind him how bad it sometimes gets, but you don’t.  “You post it.”

The phone is back in his hands, digits tapping over the surface as he does exactly that.  “There.”  It comes with a great flourish - posted to Weverse with a line of purple hearts.  “Lazy bones,”  he grumbles, shooting you a look as he drops his phone and takes up something far more important in his hands - namely, your face, so he can kiss you all over your cheeks. 

He does it sweetly, repeatedly, until you’re swatting at his wrists and demanding he stop.  He only does because his phone starts blowing up, a barrage of notifications lighting up the screen.

If only either of you had noticed the purple in the posted photo, tips of your fingers just barely peeking into the frame. 

His eyes meet yours - wide and alarmed and somehow, filled with amusement. 

The same word in two voices and then all at once, colliding laughter.  “Oops?”

[ficsandcatsandficsandcats]

"Behave" and "Mine" smutty timees with Geralt the sexy witcher pretty pls?

Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Geralt x Reader Word Count: 1,914 Rating: E Taglist: @heroics-and-heartbreak​ @whatevermonkey​ @mycat-is-mylove @mynamesoundslikesherlock​ @kemmastan​ @magic-multicolored-miracle​ @writingstudent​ @mlleecrivaine​ @coffee-and-stories​ @amirahiddleston​ @ultracolorfulnerdcollection​ @astouract​ @your-not-invisible-to-me @daydreamer-in-training @morelikebyesexual a/n: Some academically inspired smut for you xo

Beware the witcher, they said, for they are a fierce breed. You longed for a taste of that ferocity for though Geralt was an excellent lover he was also very… well, not timid. He was passionate and thorough and very generous but he was so soft. He caressed and peppered kisses and was so careful with you all the time. You’d tried to tell him that you wanted him to be rough but even that had only inspired a slightly brisker thrusting, never really getting what you were asking for and you grew too embarrassed to vocalize it more clearly. It wasn’t until the pair of you attended a lecture by Jaskier that it clicked for him. He’d watched you stare at Jaskier in rapt attention as he shared the many different ways to express love and affection in art, including the acts that most deemed too improper to speak of. If anyone could and would speak of it, it was Jaskier de Lettenhove.

“When we write of a man’s loving strike it isn’t to glorify violence, but to communicate the needs being met in different ways,” he explained, “In the tale of the Lusty Carlotta she is shunned for her – quote – extreme tastes and even sent to a nunnery which is where she paradoxically finds her satisfaction. The severe punishments of the abbess awakens her own lust and whether or not you agree with the text from a religious standpoint you cannot deny it’s very evocative.”

Your eyes never wavered and you made little notes in the journal you’d brought as he spoke. Geralt glanced over and saw you were writing titles of the pieces he mentioned and slowly but surely the witcher understood.

“Now perhaps you think to yourself, what if someone’s partner is hesitant because they fear hurting their lover,” Jaskier said. Geralt caught himself nodding a moment too late but thankfully no one had seen. Still he listened carefully as the bard continued.

“This is where communication is vital. You must express in the story that the lovers understand the roles and why it’s desired. We take for granted that we know what our partners want but in life and stories the best, most stirring embraces may only be experienced between two who know what is wanted and know if they can provide that for them. If you’ve decided to write a tale or share an anecdote about a passion that explores this side of carnality, you have to be sure that you express clearly that not only is the submissive desiring of this, but the dominant one is as well.”

Geralt pondered this, chewing it over slowly in his mind and by the time they left he still wasn’t sure what to do with it. You noticed his pensive silence, sliding your hand in his and squeezing it gently to pull his attention to you as you walked towards the house. The amber eyes glanced at you and then flitted away quickly. If you didn’t know any better you’d say he was almost bashful.

“Is everything alright Geralt?” you asked.

“Hmm.”

“Did you enjoy the lecture?”

“Hmm.”

“Oh…” your voice grew small and you looked askance awkwardly. Geralt heard the defeated tone in your voice and tried to think of what to say. Words were not his forte. He didn’t know how to tell you that he finally understood what you were asking for and feared he may hurt you. He didn’t know how to tell you that it scared him a little that he enjoyed the idea of doing these things to you, or, as Jaskier had insisted one should think of it, for you. He stayed silent as you took off your cloak and hung it on the rack. He stayed silent as you moved into the bedroom and wordlessly began to change out of your clothes. He stayed silent as he crossed the room in quick strides and wrapped his arm around your waist pulling you close. He cradled your face in his large hand, his golden eyes staring into yours intently with the words he could not say until he summoned the only one that seemed to capture what he felt.

“Mine,” he said in a low, firm voice. Your eyes widened slightly and you smiled.

“Yours,” you said. He loved the sound of it, loved the possessive and proud feeling that welled in his chest as you gazed at him and called you his.

“Mine,” he murmured against your lips, pulling you into a bruising, punishing kiss that you responded to eagerly. Your arms wrapped around his neck and he pulled you up against him by your hips as you wrapped your legs around him. He walked you back to the bed and experimentally tossed you down onto it. You bounced once and giggled, landing with your legs parted and your half-undone dress just barely shielding your breasts from view.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, and you felt emboldened by the lecture and the look in his eyes.

“I want you to make me yours. I want you to use me any way you want. I want you to p-punish me if I don’t do what you ask,” you admitted, stammering over your words but feeling freer for saying them. He was so proud of you and so in awe of how lovely you looked as you took charge. He wordlessly pulled his shirt off, throwing it aside carelessly.

“I want that too,” you said. He chuckled as he leaned forward, body large and looming over yours. He slid a hand into the opening of your bodice and palmed a breast so tightly you gasped. He startled slightly, watching your face warily but you didn’t look upset. He could feel your heart racing and roughly ripped the dress open further. You swallowed hard as he bared your body to him and ran a hand down it starting at your neck and down between your breasts and your stomach until he reached your mound. He was surprised to find you already dripping wet and he palmed you, enjoying the way you ground against his hand and writhed beneath him.

“Who do you belong to, Y/N?” he asked.

“You, Geralt,” you answered.

“Too fucking right,” he growled. You whined when he pulled his hand away but sat up with interest as he undid his belt and quickly finished disrobing. You ached with need at the sight of him, hard and thick and yours. He saw your eyes fall to him and he took himself in hand, stroking slowly as you watched.

“Tell me what you want,” he demanded.

“You.”

“Be more specific.”

Your eyes flitted up to his and you felt your courage waver slightly. He sensed your hesitation and moved closer, reaching out to lift your face to meet his with a tender look in his eyes.

“Tell me what you want, love,” he repeated.

“I want your cock.”

“Where?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake Geralt where do you thi-”

He rolled you onto your stomach and before you could ask what he was doing you heard the thwack of hand meeting flesh and your ass stung.

“Behave,” he growled, leaning over you as one hand massaged the spot he’d spanked. You could feel his hard length brush against your ass as he moved to look into your eyes as you craned your neck back towards him.

“I asked you a question, Y/N,” he said in a voice that was stern and demanding though you could see a tinge of uncertainty and concern in his eyes.

“I want you to fuck me, Geralt. I want you to fill me up and make me scream your name. I want to be owned by you inside and out so fully that I feel the ache for days but still crave more.”

Geralt had never been one for dirty talk, preferring to use his actions over his words, but when you said this he understood its appeal for the first time. He kissed you hard and before you could get a proper breath he’d pushed you into position, propping you onto your knees and presenting yourself for him lewdly. He just looked at you for a moment, stroking himself though he was more than ready for you.

“I’m going to be careful,” he said, “But I’m going to give you everything you want.”

“I want you. I just want you,” you said breathlessly, propping yourself up on your hands and arching back towards him. He aligned himself at your entrance and entered you slowly. You were tight and warm and wet and he wanted to bury himself deep inside of you as quickly as possible but he kept his control. There was good and bad pain and he would be certain you only felt the first. He looked at the red mark on your ass and smiled. You grasped at the bedsheets, panting as he slowly filled you.

“Go faster I can take it,” you pleaded. He swatted you hard, giving you a matching mark on the other side and he felt you get wetter, screwing his eyes tight and forcing himself to breath slowly and maintain his slow, steady pace.

“I know what I’m doing, Y/N. Now shut up and take it,” he snapped, surprised but delighted when you moaned in reply and he felt you clench around him. You obeyed though you rocked against him lightly so he had to still your hips with his hands until he was finally, blessedly, buried to the hilt. He pulled out just as slowly, your little frustrated sighs music to his ears but nowhere near as beautiful as the gasping moan you gave when he quickly thrust back into you. The pace grew quicker, building slowly but still quicker than he’d planned. He had excellent stamina, not a brag just a fact, but when you came for him, suddenly and catching you both by surprise, he nearly lot himself as well. You clenched and fluttered around him and your moans were half-cursing, half-sobbing as he fucked you through your climax, pushing you with ease into a second one and this time he let himself take his release as well.

“That was…” your voice trailed away as you lay side by side. He stroked your hair and nuzzled your cheek with his nose, more tender and careful than usual as he tried to check in with you. He waited for you to finish your sentence, anxious for what you’d say.

“Perfect,” you finished, lolling your head to the side to give him a sleepy smile. “Did you like it?”

“Yes,” he said quickly, pulling you in close to press a gentle kiss to your puffy lips.

“Mmm good,” you yawned, “Would you want to do it again sometime?”

“Yes,” he answered just as quickly, “Would you ever want me to…”

You cracked open one eye and watched him, waiting for him to continue.

“Take the lead?” he finished.

“Ooh what would that be like?” you asked, seeking fodder for your dreams.

“I don’t know… We could read those stories you wrote down. See what they have to say,” he mumbled.

“Geralt of Rivia that is the sweetest, sexiest thing anyone could ever say,” you murmured, eyes falling closed though the smile on your face remained. He harrumphed, fearing that you were teasing him, but when he fell asleep moments later there was a smile on his face as well.

[manychocolatefactories]

CatCF: White Chocolate

And here is my White Chocolate retelling!

About this version: This version could take place in something between the 90s and the 2000s. It has been strongly inspired by both the world of cartoons in general, and "A Series of Unfortunate Events", as strange as it may seem. In this version, you have Seven Platinum Tickets.

Reinterpretation of Augustus Gloop:

Augustus Gloop, first Platinum Ticket winner. This Augustus, I imagined as a bully.

Physically, he is a very round boy. His belly is round, his torso is round, his face is round, his arms and legs are round, he basically looks like a bunch of balloons tied together, or a mass of spheres/globes. He has two great "beaver teeth". In terms of clothes, he eithers wears hoodies too small for him and of bright, vivid, flashy colors (orange, yellow, pink) or he wears striped shirts that are not slimming at all (such as the red and white stripes shirt of Augustus Gloop in the 2005 movie).

To all adults, Augustus plays the part of the cute, happy, innocent boy. But to all the other kids, he is a horrible, nasty, brutal and greedy bully. He likes to torture and dominate others - though he is not a sadist. He just seeks power and dominion, he loves to strike fear and submission in the heart of other children. A good exemple of his double-faced nature are his beaver teeth - he can actually speak perfectly fine with them, even though they gave him a slight lisp that is quite cute to adults. But with children, he worsens his lisp on purpose so that he would spit and splutter all over their faces, and when said children complain, the adults keep saying things like "He can't help it, he is just different, don't discriminate".

Augustus actually used to be a regular-sized kid (even though taller and bigger than his comrades, but not that fat). He regularly beat up, gave wedgies or other typical bully tortures on his peers to get their money or their toys. But it all changed when one day a boy had the idea to offer him his lunch instead of his money. Augustus was a big eater you see, and he seized the opportunity of having a free lunch. And since all the other kids preferred to give up their lunch rather than their money of their toys, they all started to "encourage" (as in, subtly manipulating him) so that he would racket lunch and food instead of money out of them. As a result, Augustus grew immensely fat on all the free food he got each day - and with his bigger size he could intimidate and crush other kids more easily. But at least, they didn't had to steal money from their parents anymore.

His demise will be with the Exploding Candies (remember those?). I think they would be going by a section of the Factory where some of Wonka's candies are stored, and Augustus would see another kid holding an Exploding Candy. Not knowing what it is, he would bully said kid (maybe Charlie?) into giving it to him. He would swallow it and then...

BOOM! HE EXPLODES INTO LITTLE PIECES!

No, I'm kidding Xp Actually I went with something much more cartoony (this Augustus himself being cartoony - in fact I based him in "fat Chuck with beaver teeth" from the cartoon "Chuck's Choices". It may sound weird but it makes kind of sense in the series Xp). He would  suddenly be all distended and inflated like a balloon, and then deflate completely (again, like a balloon), reduced to a flat, pancake-like boy, with smoke coming out of his mouth, nose and ears.

Reinterpretation of Violet Beauregarde:

The character is named Violet Strabismus, second Platinum Ticket winner. For her, I tried to think about what kind of people/archetype/stereotypes were seen chewing gum all day long, and I ended up finding this idea upon seeing a girl on a train that corresponded exactly to that.

This Violet is the typical embodiment of the cynic, "pseudo-edgy" teenager that seeks everything that is bleak and dark. She is a mix of goth, of emo, of punk and grunge. She only wears and surround herself with things dark, creepy, sinister or sad. She romanticizes notions such as despair, death, suicides, and the like. She is the kind of teenager that claims her whole life is just a series of pains and losses, that she seeks comfort in the darkness and the morbidity, and she disdains everything joyful, innocent or happy. Her two favorite hobbies are chewing gum, and trying to destroy other people's dreams and hopes with depressing talk.

The irony in all that, however, is that despite Violet's claims that she has a miserable and sad life, she actually has a very happy one. She has loving parents that support her in everything she does, and siblings that also love her. She comes from a wealthy background, which allows her to buy all the chains and piercings and extremely complicated goth/punk clothes she wants at specialized stores. She is quite a pretty and good-looking girl, even with her creepy clothes and dark makeup. She even has a huge house, and in fact despite her claims to adore death, never went to a funeral ever in her life, and never knew anyone that died. Still, she keeps repeating that she is a "misunderstood, bullied, rejected loner". And she is not suicidal herself, mind you, nor depressed. She is perfectly fine. She just wants to look like she is, to "fit her style".

Her demise, as with all the Violet variations in my stories, relies on the Three-Course Meal gum. But here, the dish used is the ice-cream. I had the idea that the gum would actually turn Violet's flesh into ice-cream. As a result she is immediately put inside Wonka's cold storage room and freezers, so she doesn't melt. And she is condemned to live her life alone, in dark, cold, locked up places, exactly as she pretended and wished to.

Reinterpretation of Veruca Salt:

Now, I am not much satisfied with this Veruca Salt, but well, it is still worth a shot, even though the idea itself may be not so original.

Veruca Salt, third Platinum Ticket winner. For this Veruca, I envisioned actually a character based on Darla Dimple from "Cats Don't Dance". She is a small, cute and child-like girl, that looks almost like a pretty little doll, but who is able to scream with an insanely powerful voice and can act like a total brat by throwing extremely destructive tantrums and breaking everything everywhere if she doesn't have what she wants.

Her demise was actually suggested by ArtMakerProductions - the Geese Room. The Geese Room from the 70s movie would return, with a full room having geese lay chocolate eggs for Easter (I also think Wonka would be disdainful of this silly idea according to which rabbits laid the Easter eggs). And when Veruca would throw one of her usual tantrum, one of the goose would believe her to be one of her children (due to Veruca's screams sounding like a goose' screams) and just sit on her, crushing the little girl. (Not to death of course, but that's one big goose Xp).

Reinterpretation of Mike Teavee:

This one was hard to think about, but I finally found something I'm quite proud of.

Mike's character is obsessed with television, right? And he wishes to be INSIDE television, right, that's the core of his demise. Well... what about a Mike Teavee that is obsessed with television not as a watcher but as an actor?

Henry Trout, fourth Platinum Ticket winner, is a former child actor who used to be the star of numerous teenager sitcoms and other televisions shows by Disney-like productions. All this fame turned him into a spoiled, arrogant and selfish brat, and when he was kicked off the shows, for both being too old AND being just too much of a jerk, he couldn't let go of the past. He believes that everyone knows him through his work as an actor, and that everyone is a fan of him. He spends a lot of his time looking at his old television shows, and television is his only topic when speaking with other people. He still dresses and acts like a star - and never once realizes that a good lot of people don't know or even remember him. As per ArtMakerProductions, his parents are also his agents, and they desperatly try to find back their son's former glory, by "overselling" him to get a lot of media exposure, and still doing a lot of advertisement and promotion despite him not getting any real work - the finding of a Platinum Ticket was another attempt at becoming famous once more.

Take the characters of "fallen stars" such as Norma Desmond in "Sunset Boulevard" and Jane Hudson from "Whatever happened to Baby Jane?". Mix them with the former Disney or Nickelodeon child and teenage stars, especially if they had a dark turn in their life (the Spouse twins, David Henrie, Cameron Boyce, Zac Efron...). And you get Henry Trout.

His demise is still the Television Room, like all the other Mikes. However his variation is that the television Wonka used was prepared to teleport and air objects, such as Wonka bars. It is still a technology in working, and they only focused on the material and visual parts. They haven't worked on the sounds. As a result, once Henry Trout gets on TV, he is insanely happy because now everyone will see him and nobody will kick him out... but then he realizes he can't speak, because there is no sound. And when rescues from the television, he discovers he turned completely mute.

Reinterpretation of Charlie Bucket :

Charlie Bucket, the seventh and last Platinum Ticket winner.

For this one... I actually don't know. I wanted to do a Charlie based on the "brown-haired Charlie" as illustrated for exemple by 2005's Charlie. But I hesitate. On one side, I haven't used yet the idea of "the too-saint Charlie", aka a Charlie Bucket so good and so perfect he becomes a male Mary Sue, unrealistic and annoying, an exaggerated caricature of a good boy. I thought I could potentially use this with the brown-haired Charlie, especially since 2005's Charlie was criticized for being a too-perfect child.

On the other side, I also liked the idea of a crippled Charlie, in the mind of "Tiny Tim" from A Christmas Carol, and I also thought it would be fitting for him...

So I'll let it float for now.

Reinterpretation of the deleted kids :

# Terence Roper. Since this one had barely any personnality in the original drafts, I decided to include him (especially since I already reinvented the two other kids part of his trio - Clarence Crump and Bertie Upside).

I think of Terence Roper as the typical "hot bad guy" archetype. He is a criminal kid, and a little delinquant, that drives despite not having a permit, that steals, that robs, that like to spread chaos and destroy shop windows and tag walls etc... I think he is the son of two famous criminals, and thus thinks of crime as the "family business". But he is also a very good-looking, very charming, and very popular boy, which resulted in him not only being leader of gangs and the like, but also having a sort of cult or worship around him - similarly to how "bad boys" in high schools can be idolized. I think something very similar appened with his parents - I want to explore with this character how people worship criminals, with very successful bandits, mafioso or drug dealers ending up as popular and romanticized and idolized as movie stars, singers or the like.

He is the blousons noirs of the 50s and 60s, the old-fashioned troublemakers pachucos, the greaser delinquants of the movie Grease, and all other fashionable kind-of-criminal groups you could think of.

But the irony here is that Terence actually got his Platinum Ticket by legal means, by buying a chocolate bar - and in fact, for him to have found the Golden Ticket and not stole it is a great disappointment and shame.

For his demise I thought of re-using the Fizzy Lifty Drink. He would stole it in an act of bravado, and drink it without realizing what it was - which would result in him getting a perpetual case of bad gazes (frequent burps, farts, and other stomach noises). This would completely ruin his cool and good looking image, as well as any kind of grace or discretion he may have.

# Miranda Mary Piker. Sixth Platinum Ticket Winner (Terence Roper was fifth). She is based on the character as most know her : a school-obsessed, fun-killing girl. The original incarnation was a stern, no-nonsense, very strict girl that basically acted like any cruel headmistress or teacher from those horrible British boarding schools. However, given that this character was alreayd beautifully reintepreted by Danguy96, I wanted to do something slightly different. This Miranda is more like an "annoying moral guardian". She is still obsessed with school, good work and being an obedient and good child, and she still disdains silly things such as games, entertainment or fun in general, but instead of being a stern and harsh girl, she would rather be a nagging and annoying pest, that keeps giving speeches and sermons to everyone about why you should act a certain way and not another, a walking moralization that keeps trying to teach "proper manners", "maturity" and "basic knowledge" to everyone in a very condescending way. I also thought she would try to dress up as an adult, and thus with adult clothes - but since she is just a cild, said clothes are much too big for her, resulting in her looking kind of ridiculous.

Her demise would, of course, be the Spotty Powder. I can't remember if this was an idea that was suggested to me, or one used by someone else in their reinterpretation, but I like the concept that instead of falling inside the machine and being crushed to death, Miranda (and possibly her school director father) would actually fall into a big pile of the Spotty Powder, and thus develop all the symptoms of a contagious disease and be forbidden from setting a foot in school for a very long period of time.

Reinterpretation of the rival chocolatiers :

This is the big defining feature of White Chocolate. In this version, the rivals of Wonka have a big part to play.

They don't appear in themselves - but they sent emissaeries, messengers and spoekpersons to contact each of the kids that won a Platinum Ticket, in a similar way to the 70s movie, and each chocolatier tempts the kid with a different "treat".

Slugworth seems to be a chocolatier involved in the criminal underworld - his emissaries at least seem to have some criminal undertones, and act through fear and violence rather than seduction. In fact, I think his chocolate and candy business may actually be a "cover" for darker criminal activites, and "washing" of dirty money.

Augustus Gloop receives the visit of a man with "icy blue eyes and nasty purple scars on his cheeks". He passes off as a waiter in the restaurant in which Augustus is celebrating, even though it is just a disguise. He tries to convince Augustus by both subtle threats, and the promise of a free pass and unlimited offer in all the restaurants and buffets of the town.

And Terence Roper, due to his criminal connections, actually is invited to the house of a wealthy man with ties to the criminal world, a creepy man in fancy, wealthy suits, but stuck in a wheelchair and with a fake eye shining like a silver dollar.

Slugworth's purpose seems to be the destruction of Wonka. He tries to convince the children to sabotage or put maybe bombs and things like that inside the Wonka factory, or to ruin batches of candy, stuff like that.

 Prodnose rather keeps sending women as emissaries. In fact  even thought of making Prodnose actually a female chocolatier, but I don't know yet... I thought of Prodnose as some sort of media mogul, that tries to spread their brand to everything (there are Prodnose television shows, book series, toys, sport equipment, gardening tools, etc...) including candy-making and chocolate-making.

One "messenger" contacts Veruca Salt. She is one of the journalists interviewinv the young girl after she found her Ticket. Based on Cherry from the musical, she is a happy, charmant, pleasant woman. But her face has something... weird to it, almost unnatural, as if she had a bad surgery job done to it. And she keeps smiling all the time - her smile seems completely stuck.

Henry Trout is the other one to receive a messenger from Prodnose. As Henry goes to have a new suit tailored for him (because of course Henry only had tailored suit perfectly to his size), the tailor reveals herself as a messenger of Prodnose, who could easily bring back Henry in Prodnose-made television series and shows. The tailor herself is a tall and thin lady all dressed in black, and with long, spindly fingers with long and pointy nails - her hands in fact look like creepy spiders.

I thought of probably Prodnose trying to cause a huge scandal inside the Wonka factory, and thus asking the kids to find out Wonka's dirty secrets, and if not, to invent some that they would "reveal" upon leaving the Factory. Where Slugworth tries to ruin physically and economically Wonka, Prodnose tries to ruin his reputation and to discredit him on moral ground.

 As for Fickelgrubber, he is actually envious of Wonka. I think he is a very young person hailing from a very wealthy and powerful family, and his dream was to become a candy-maker, but he was very bad at it. However he refused to give up - especially when seeing how Wonka was succesful. Fickelgrubber is an envious and jealous child-minded young person, and he refuses to admit Wonka can succeed where he fails. Fickelgrubber has tried to copy and steal Wonka's inventions for years now, but all his attempt ended up failing miserably - he copied the ice-cream that never melt of Wonka, but they had a tendency to turn into rock-hard material. He copied the gum that could create gigantic balloons of Wonka, but he mixed up the recipe, and the gum actually made kids inflate and pop like balloons. And when Fickelgrubber released glow-in-the-dark candies, it was later revealed they contained a huge dose of radioactive components.

Fickelgrubber's emisseries are creepy kids (I still don't know if they are "friends" of his or merely all sorts of cousins of his real family - as I said, Fickelgrubber is quite young, both in spirit and mind).

Violet, upon visiting her local cemetery, is contacted by a beautiful blond teenager standing on the wall of the cemetery. He acts flirtingly, seductively, playing the "good cop" (and he also actually acts like a cat, meowing, purring and sometimes even moving like a cat - I thought of him as a parody of Cat Noir from Miraculous). And when Violet is not receptive to this, the boy presents his sister, that is waiting behind Violet. A big, burly, muscular girl with a bulldog-like face.

Miranda is also contacted by Fickelgrubber emissaries - twin girls, identical, but "perfect", as in with perfectly clean and ordered clothes, identical beautiful hairstyle, and the like (I thought of them as inspired by the twins from The Shining). They are basically the kind of "perfect" and "proper" kids Miranda seeks to create in the world. And they try to convince her to join them (they even have prepared for Miranda clothes identical to their own so that they would become their new sister). I don't know however how would Miranda react to that - either she refuses, due to stealing secrets being perceived as cheating and she is against it  ; either the sisters actually convince her to go along with the plan by the simple argument that Wonka is an excentric, ridiculous man that gets success without hard work, and Miranda hates both goofy/clownish and not-hard-working people.

As for Charlie Bucket, he will actually be visited in turn by one messenger from each chocolatier (in fact, he may even escape them when they start fighting each other).

Slugworth's emissary... I actually don't know. Xp I thought of maybe a kind olf man, almost grandfather like, that acts all nice and doting, but then reveals that inside his cane, there is a blade.

Prodnose's emissary is a loud-talking woman with a lot of makeup and wearing a huge coat made out of crocodile (I thought of her as a mix of Cruella and Ursula).

As for Fickelgrubber's emissaries, Charlie meets at first a beautiful Japanese teenager (male or female?) dressed in a refined suit, something between a fashion model and a succesful business owner. And when their smooth talk fails, they present their brothers - because they are triplets. And appear from the darkness two huge sumos, teenagers yes, but the size of elephants. (This was again inspired by usual sumo appearances in cartoons, from JCA to the Simpsons passing by Shuriken School).

[blessed-but-distressed]

#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she’s winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. CS AU

***

also on ff.net and ao3

***

Tagging: @katie-dub , @wholockgal , @kat2609 , @whovianlunatic, @optomisticgirl, @ladyciaramiggles, @the-lady-of-misthaven, @emmaswanchoosesyou, @ilovemesomekillianjones, @biancaros3, @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky, @ms-babs-gordon  @ab-normality, @andiirivera, @fangirl-till-it-hurts, @onceuponaprincessworld , @natascha-remi-ronin, @kiwistreetswan and whoever else asks me.

***

A/N: Part 2 of 2. Surprise, bitch. Bet you thought you’d seen the last of me!

***

Killian

How do you feel about improv? ES

Trepidatious. KJ

What if I told you some random just gave me last minute tickets to a Jane Austen inspired improv drag show, and I have a spare? ES

Curiosity alone compels me to say yes. Pleasance? KJ

George Square. ES

Thank fuck. I forgot my umbrella. KJ

If Killian had any sense, he'd approach the month of August the same way Robin did every year. Which mostly amounted to renting his house out to a troupe of Hungarian acrobats for extortionate sums of money and taking off for the south of France, thus avoiding the whole sorry spectacle.

A privilege reserved for those not living out of their older brother's spare room. Nor stuck writing Fringe reviews for his ailing periodical.

He thought his latest was his best yet.

Do you value your time? Your money? Your life? Then walk, don't run, as far from this act as you can. No one this incompetent should be wielding chainsaws, let alone juggling them. I may have been the only one-handed man at the preview, but with this shambolic spectacle set to run for the rest of the week, I expect I won't be the last. 0 stars.

Liam had accused him of being deliberately cruel, but he hadn't seen the show firsthand. The phrase 'culpable and reckless conduct' came to mind. His review went up online, unchallenged.

To his great surprise, his favourite show so far had been the improv show Emma had dragged him along to. It had all the subtle snark and invariable romance of Austen's classic novels, with the added benefit of Emma nearly passing out from laughing so hard. That alone would have justified his five star review, but the cherry on the cake had been when the man dressed as the elderley Dowager had picked August out from the crowd, and made him part of the act.

Killian generally condemned the casual cruelty of audience participation. Indeed, he lived in constant fear of it at every show he reviewed. But when it came for a certain novelist, he found his views on the matter suddenly rather... fluid.

Try as he might, he couldn't see what Emma saw in the man. What hidden virtues he possessed that had provoked such a ferocious loyalty. Killian wasn't stupid enough to voice such thoughts, of course, but that hadn't stopped him trying to figure it out.

The opportunity to continue this study was surely the only reason he'd opened an unsolicited DM from the man himself, when he should have been watching a Swedish comedy troupe send up classic films in a series of skits.

We have a mutual friend in need. How's your schedule looking uhhh… now?

Killian looked back to the stage. He couldn't be sure, but he thought the red streamers might signify blood. They were either up to Carrie or Jaws.

Trouble? Killian typed back.

Emma. The next message read.

We're in a bar in Leith and things have gotten a little… messy.

Killian checked the time. Barely past one in the afternoon. And fucking Leith? That didn't bode well. But at the same time, his review of the show was supposed to be online within the hour.

With a growing sense of unease, he typed out his reply. Which pub?

***

Stepping into The Marksman on Duke Street was not unlike stepping back in time. More precisely, to somewhere smack dab in middle of the Thatcher era, when Leith was a byword for deprivation and whatever comes after heroin chic. It was charmless, grimy and depressing, and Killian might've never understood the appeal until he caught the sign in the window. It opened at 6am.

Trying to avoid the abject stares of the locals, Killian found his quarry sat at the end of the bar on mismatching stools. Emma slumped forward, her face hidden, but August turned around swiftly at his approach, the alarm in his eyes quickly giving way to recognition.

"Oh thank god." August swept off his barstool, his relief so palpable that Killian thought he might hug him. He didn't look well. Thoroughly debauched, if one might say so, and in desperate need of a bath.

"Nice place," Killian remarked drily. "A bit off the beaten path…"

August pinched the bridge of his nose, looking weary. Or… wearier. "It's been a long night. And morning." He glanced back to where Emma sat propped by the bar, apparently still completely unaware of his absence, and drew closer, his voice lowering.

"You know that Graham guy?"

Killian couldn't explain it, but something inside his chest caught. Like flint striking steel. "Aye," he growled, not liking where this was headed.

"Married," August supplied, without preamble. "She didn't know. No one knew. She ran into them holding hands in the Tron. Matching wedding bands. The whole bit. So she threw her beer in his face and called it a day, right? But this morning, no, yesterday morning, the wife showed up. At the apartment. Emma's apartment."

Killian's fist clenched by his side.

"Yeeaah. It got pretty heated. Long story short, it's been a day and a half. I don't even remember how we got here. I'm not sure I even know exactly where here is. I have to be on a train at 4 to King's Cross or my publisher is going to sue my ass. Now, I can trust you? To get her home safely? You look at her like you're half a drink away from belting out Jessie's Girl at any given moment. I didn't imagine that, did I?"

Of all the places to grudgingly admit his feelings, not least in confidence to this man he wasn't sure he even liked, The Marksman was not the venue he would have chosen. And yet.

"There's very little I wouldn't do for that woman."

He was caught by surprise when the man launched forward and kissed him on the cheek, more still when he went back for the other cheek. August grinned enormously, grasping Killian by the shoulders. "Welcome to the family! Please don't fuck it up." And then consulting his phone, "I really need to go."

August made short work of the rest of his goodbyes, pulling Emma into fierce hug from behind, whispering something into her ear as he let her go. Then, with a wink in Killian's direction and a kiss blown at the nearest crusty Leither, he picked up his messenger bag and fled onto the street.

Steeling himself after that prologue, Killian turned back to where Emma sat by the bar, unseeing reddened eyes peeking out from under a tangle of blonde hair. He pulled out August's vacated stool, and took a seat.

"Swan," he began, with an imaginary tip of his cap.

"Jones," she replied, her voice flatter than he'd ever heard it.

"Of all the gin joints…"

She grimaced. Though her frown was so pronounced already, it didn't make much of a change. "We don't talk about the gin."

"At least tell me it was the good stuff."

She tried to smile, but the action seemed to cause her pain. "Don't do that. Don't be nice to me right now."

"Why not? You're not the villain in this story."

A small noise escaped her, half laugh, half sob. "Sure feels like it."

"No, that's the supermarket gin talking. We've talked about this. Nothing good ever came from a clear spirit at 35p a measure."

She sank further forward in her seat, her forehead resting against the bar top. "Don't be cute. Please just leave me alone to die," she mumbled.

He couldn't resist tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, making sure she could see him. "I'm not going to do that. I have a duty of care."

"Why? Because you'd have to find someone else to write a column about?"

"No," he replied levelly. "Because you're my best friend."

That had her lifting her head off the bar, albeit wincing as she did so. "I thought Robin was your best friend?"

He tapped his chin. "No, it's definitely you."

She considered that. Though how much of her internal brain processes had survived the pickling process over the last 24 hours, Killian couldn't be certain.

Of course, it was at that moment their bartender appeared, a middle aged woman with an ill-fitting polo shirt and bright green acrylic nails she drummed against the bar top. "Another top up, hen?" She didn't even glance at Killian.

He put his hand over Emma's glass. "Actually, I'm afraid we're on our way out."

Their server didn't much like that, a hand finding her hip. "Well that's up for the lass to decide, no?"

"It's okay, Tracy," Emma said, managing a consoling smile. "He's a friend. Are we all settled up?"

"We are." She gave Killian a cool once over. "Friend, you say? Mind you keep it that way. Looks like nothing but trouble to me. And you still raw after the last one. Liars and cheats, the lot of them."

Killian thought to take offence, but Emma already had him by the arm, pulling him off his stool. "Thanks, Tracy. Can you call me a cab?"

***

Getting her into the cab took some doing, not least because she had to pause twice to throw up in the gutter, and the first guy had driven off. Fair play to him. Thankfully by the time the second cab arrived Emma's stomach had settled, and she spent the drive curled harmlessly against Killian's side.

"Your lassie alright?" the cabbie asked, as Killian half lifted, half dragged her from the backseat out onto the gravel driveway. "You need a hand?"

It was a testament to how preoccupied he was that Killian didn't even stop to consider that might've been a crack about his prosthetic until Emma was already inside and passed out on his bed.

He texted Elsa first. A simple heads up.

There's an unconscious woman in the house. Don't freak out. KJ

It went about as well as you'd expect.

At least he had sisterly back up when he broke the news to Liam that he wasn't getting his review.

Needless to say, by the time Emma raised her groggy head from his pillow, the house was no longer silent, and it was no longer still. Elsa had insisted on rushing home, and boyish shrieks permeated the air, punctuated by the usual crashing and banging.

Killian sat in his one armchair, an ugly monstrosity of purple velvet which had been forbidden from the rest of the house, sipping his tea as she came awake. It took some time. One eyelid slithered open. Then the other. Never both at the same time.

"Do I want to know why someone is screaming in the next room?" Her voice was scratchy, and he motioned towards the glass of water by the bedside.

"Nephews," Killian said by way of explanation, as she crawled forward to grasp the glass in both hands, shaking with the effort.

She took a long draught, surveying her surroundings. He wondered how much she remembered from the last two days, if anything. If she even remembered his arrival at The Marksman, or August's leaving. She examined the ornate cornices, and floating beams. The collection of spent paperbacks stacked by the bed and the shabby, unmatched furniture.

"Your house. Your room?"

"My room," he confirmed. "We have guest rooms, but they're upstairs. And quite frankly, just getting you this far was nightmare enough. You're heavier than you look."

He earned a pillow to the face for that remark. It still smelled of her, which in her current state, wasn't much of a testimonial.

"Shower?" he ventured.

"Please," she said, rolling over until she could place both feet on the floor.

"Second door on the right. Elsa left some things out. Towels. Fancy shampoo. Paracetamol," he added with a waggle of his eyebrows. "Should be a set of clothes too."

She cringed. "Elsa knows I'm here?"

"Sorry. It's a new house rule of theirs. Radical honesty. Elsa knows you're having a rough time of it, and are convalescing. But that is the extent of her knowledge. Whether that remains the case, is entirely up to you."

"Right."

"Oh," he said, smacking his forehead. He scrabbled around on top of his dresser, before presenting her with a wooden triangle.

She took it automatically, seeming annoyed at herself for doing so. "Uh, thanks?"

"The bathroom door doesn't have a lock on it. Best wedge it under the door. Trust me when I say, you don't want Lachie walking in on you in the altogether. It's stressful for all involved."

"Good tip," she said, with a ghost of a smile.

She edged past him awkwardly to the door, her bare feet silent on the carpet. She'd already slipped into the hallway when her head appeared back around the door.

"Killian?"

"Aye?"

"I'm horrendously hungover so you probably can't tell, but I appreciate, uh…" she waved the wedge around vaguely. "All this."

"Swan?"

"Yeah?"

"I mean this in the nicest possible way, but please do shut up," he said with a wink. "Also, you're taking me out for pancakes after, so don't be too long."

Her eyes narrowed. "Oh, am I just?"

"You are indeed. Best thing for a gin hangover, in my limited experience. And it was very generous of you to offer."

"Very generous," she agreed, dubiously. "And Killian?

"Aye?"

"You're so full of shit. But... I do love pancakes. And one more thing?"

"Hmm?"

She kicked a toe into the carpet, eyes evasive. "You're sort of my best friend, too." Then she disappeared back behind the door, leaving Killian slack jawed.

***

He'd nearly finished two chapters of his book by the time Emma returned from her trip to the bathroom, shower soft and minty fresh.

"Better?" he asked, putting the novel aside.

"Much," she agreed. "Though full disclosure, I think I just used a $300 tube of lotion, and I kinda smell like a baby Porsche."

"The very best kind of Porsche," Killian assured her, offering her his prosthetic to take. "They're terrors once they hit the teenage years. Shall we?"

They crossed Bruntsfield Links just after sunset, the sky still streaked with pink and orange. He'd always loved summers in Scotland, that neverending twilight. It almost made shivering through six months of winter worthwhile. He was so busy admiring the scene, he nearly missed it when Emma detached herself from his arm, stopping in her tracks.

"Emma?"

She was standing entirely still, her eyes shut.

"Are you alright, love?"

Her eyes flickered open, almost surprised to see him still standing there. "Sorry, just… cataloguing."

"Cataloguing," Killian repeated, deadpan.

"Yeah, smartass," she said, walking forward to loop her arm under his again. "Cataloguing. Sometimes I forget, but this-" she indicated the kaleidoscope sky, the green-gold expanse of grass disappearing into the distant smudge that was Arthur's Seat, the group of laughing teenagers nearby trying to finish their mini golf game before they lost the light, "-Sometimes I still have to pinch myself."

She didn't elaborate, and Killian found himself oddly lost for words. He just reached over to squeeze her hand, and led her back towards the city lights.

For the time of year, they got lucky. The line was short, and it wasn't long before they were led to a red vinyl booth, complete with its very own mini jukebox. They both stared at it for a good minute before Emma fished a spare pound out of her pocket, and dropped it onto the table between them. "Your call. I'm going to the bathroom. Anything but Don't Stop Believin'."

Lord help him, but he thought he might love her.

He settled for a less foreboding tune, which morphed into another, then another, before he was fishing out his own coins to keep the party going. If he didn't know her any better, he might've thought she'd done a runner on him. Fortunately, he did know her better. Or at least, he was starting to.

She came back just in time for the guitar solo in The Chain, her I'm-bearing-up smile indicating she was doing nothing of the sort.

"Ruby texted," she explained, taking her seat opposite him. "About twenty times. She wouldn't stop until I FaceTimed her. I miss anything?"

"Just side one of Rumours. And your drink order." He indicated the glass of fizzy orange liquid in front of her.

She wrinkled her nose. "Fanta?"

"Irn-Bru. Best hangover cure there is."

She cast him a doubtful look.

"I'm serious. There's been studies."

"Oh well, if there's been studies." She slid the glass minutely closer, but didn't partake. Instead she watched as Killian lifted his own glass, and made a face.

He lowered his glass. "What?"

"Nothing. Just thinking about how I'm never drinking again. I didn't even know they served beer here."

"They do, but this is Dry Ginger."

She raised an eyebrow. "Ginger ale? You?"

Killian shrugged. "It's something I'm trying. Like a cleanse. But instead of drinking juice and doing yoga, I drink post-mix dry ginger and be less of a twat."

"Sobriety." Emma slapped her hand against the table. "I wish I'd thought of that. But I've barely seen you, when did you decide this?"

"Roughly…" he counted back the days, "43 days ago." When I thought I'd lost your friendship forever. But he didn't have to say it. From the look on her face, she already knew the significance.

"Huh." Emma sat back in her seat, absorbing that. But if she was planning on expanding on that thought, she was saved by the arrival of their waitress, who was all too eager to expound on the daily specials.

By the time they were alone again, Emma had cracked and was halfway through her Irn-Bru.

"I mean, it's not repellent…" she offered, by way of grudging approval.

"Trust me, it works." And then because he felt like they'd danced around it long enough, "So do you want to talk about it?"

She set down her glass, letting her fingers trace along the edge of the table top. "Nope. But somehow I feel like we're going to anyway."

"It was only about eight hours ago you wanted me to leave you to die in Leith's most depressing pub. I feel like it warrants at least a conversation."

She grimaced at the memory. Or perhaps where the memories ought to have been. It was hard for him to be sure.

"I fell in love with a married woman once. If you're worried about my judgement, you needn't be."

He wasn't quite sure where it had come from. This sudden urge to talk about Milah. But it was how they'd always operated, wasn't it? If he wanted Emma to take down her walls, he had to offer up a few bricks from his own. Well, this was more of a boulder, really, but at least he had her attention.

She snorted. "I wasn't in love with Graham."

"So what's the problem?"

"Because," she reasoned, tears springing into her eyes. "It's just so fucking mortifying. To be played for a fool, again. I thought I was smarter than that. I thought I could just, I don't know, flirt with a cute, intelligent guy and feel good about myself for five fucking seconds without it ending with his wife beating down my door demanding to know if I'd fucked her husband!"

She'd gotten a little loud towards the end there, with more than a few wary eyes glancing their way. Killian quickly stood up, and made his way over to her side of the booth, slipping in beside her. It was a tight fit, but it did succeed in sheltering her from most of the stares.

"Alright, so he's a tosser."

Another snort.

"Liam's bookie knows a guy. I could make a few calls?"

She shot him a sideways glance. "Don't tempt me right now. I just feel so stupid. But like, in an angry way."

"You're not stupid for being taken in by him. It's not a weakness to want to see the best in people, Emma. In fact, considering how many people in your life have disappointed you, myself included, I'd say it's pretty bloody brave."

Emma shook her head. "Is it though? I saw red flags. Even from the start he was kind of flaky. I wasn't even sure if I really liked him. It just appealed to my vanity, that he seemed to like me. So don't I deserve this? Just a little?"

"No." Killian wasn't sure where the vehemence came from, but he could feel it, welling up. "No, you don't deserve to be lied to, and dragged into the middle of someone else's messed up marriage without your knowledge or consent. No, you don't deserve being made to feel like the side-piece. You're not the side-piece. You're the heroine. And he's just a fucking wanker. What you deserve..." He looked up to see their server approaching the table, platters piled high with maple syrup topped goodness. He shot Emma a smile. "What you deserve, is pancakes."

***

It would've been remiss of him not to foot the bill, after his earlier declaration about her deserving pancakes, so there'd been a little bit of an argument about that as they wended their way down Clerk Street in the growing darkness. That Emma could argue about not paying for the pancakes he'd goaded her into in the first place, was a testament to the healing powers of Irn-Bru and a triple stack. No truly hungover person would have committed to such a futile battle.

But when they arrived at the beginning of her street, Emma stopped arguing and grabbed a hold of Killian's arm, pulling him up short.

She was shaking her hands out, like she was fighting off an attack of nerves, and Killian was instantly on the defensive. "Swan?"

She stopped when he said her name, plastering on what seemed to him a rather brittle smile. "Hey. Sorry. I'm just wondering, would you do me a favour?"

He had to chuckle at that. "Swan, if the last twelve hours have proven anything, it's that yes, I am available for favours. Unless of course they involve you paying me back for the pancakes. Because I'm afraid I'm rather immovable on that front."

"Great. So umm… Ruby has this theory."

"Ruby has a theory?" he repeated, hoping at some point, things would start making sense. "What manner of… theory?"

"Oh, god this is so stupid," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I'm just going to say it. I'm just going to come right out and say it: I want you to kiss me."

Something very violent was happening inside Killian's chest, a feeling which was neither happiness, nor disappointment, but a crushing combination of the two. He felt hot and cold. He felt light-headed.

"You want-" he started.

Emma's eyes were screwed shut, as if bracing for a blow. Or in this case, the fallout. She already had regrets. And more than that, it had been Ruby's idea. But why would Ruby…?

Of course.

The best way to get over a man, was to get under a new one. Wasn't that the old adage?

It wasn't about him. It wasn't about them.

No, she'd been clear. I want you to kiss me. She'd chosen him. She trusted him to be the one to soothe her wounded pride. Maybe she'd hoped it would be him. Maybe he was just the most convenient option. In any case, the wondering would certainly kill him.

But not as much as going through with it.

He reached out and took her hand, waiting until she opened her eyes. By Christ, people weren't supposed to look so beautiful by yellow street light. It wasn't scientific. And yet.

"No."

Now it was her turn to look like someone had punched her in the stomach.

"Oh." She made to release her hand from his, but he held firm. In fact, he pulled her closer, just a little.

"No, I'm not going to kiss your bruised pride back into place. Because I promise you, it's going to heal just fine on its own. You don't need a kiss from me or anyone to remind you what you're worth. You never have. It's one of my favourite things about you. Understand?"

Her reply was a little choked up when it came. "Got it."

She gravitated closer, her eyes shining, and he felt like he was losing his mind. He was certainly losing his nerve. He settled instead for raising her hand to his lips, brushing a soft kiss across her knuckles.

"That's one for the road."

He released her then, though nearly every part of his was screaming at him to do the opposite. Thankfully, she looked just as shaken as he felt. He nearly twisted his ankle in a gutter trying to put a little distance between them. And then he had one perfect surge of stupid confidence, and turned back to face her. She was still standing under the streetlight where he'd left her, looking oddly incomplete.

"Will you do me a favour, Swan?" he called out.

She held up her hands in a helpless shrug. "Sure."

"When the time is right, ask me again."

Then with his heart hammering a million miles a minute, he turned away and slipped into the adjoining street, and back into the night.

[raisingsupergirl]

Wreaking Award-Winning Havok at Realm Makers

Here I am again, sitting on my back porch—possibly for the last time since we’re closing on our new house this week (yikes!). My mind and body are exhausted, but my heart is full. Full because I didn’t quit. Full because I surrounded myself with men and women who could match my excitement and exceed my talent. Full because I just got back from the Realm Makers annual conference with some renewed validation that I really needed—what I’m doing matters.

The conference started off in typical fashion: barreling in on a Thursday, freaking out (in a good way) as All the Awesome People I Know Mostly From Internets greeted me on my way to my hotel room, rushing down to the conference bookstore to drop off all the Havok swag/decorations with some amazing Hivers (the endearing name for Havok staff), rushing back out to pick up my friend/roommate Arpit from the airport, rushing back to the hotel to check on the Hivers only to find that they’d already done the hard work and made our book table look fan-freaking-tastic, and then sitting down, taking a deep breath, and realizing that I’d actually arrived, and it had been FAR too long.

You see, I don’t know if anyone told you, but 2020 was kind of a strange year. And one aspect of that was the shutdown of, well, pretty much everything. And some of those things were writing conferences. And contrary to popular belief, writers actually do get lonely from time to time, so connecting with other writers, geeking out, talking shop, and generally reminding each other why we do what we do is actually pretty important. No, strike that. It’s REALLY important. And it’s of that weird kind of importance that we’ve all experienced this past year-point-five that we don’t fully understand until it’s returned to us. In its place, there’s an insidious uneasiness, a creeping aimlessness, a cancerous doubt. Elusive and tricksy, these little gremlins have stolen our hope and our self-worth. They’ve clawed at our relationships and obscured our dreams. But thanks to Scott and Becky Minor—and the Army of Amazingness they’ve rallied to their cause—a few hundred of us lucky souls have taken up arms together and beaten back the Enemy. What follows is how experience looked for me this past weekend.

I’m a bit of an over-committer. Maybe you are, too. I mean, it’s hard not to when there’s so much worth doing, right? Well, as per tradition, the first commitment of the weekend was a little skit to kick off the conference. Also per tradition, I waited until the last minute to write said skit and get it to my co-actor, Sarah. So, of course, we were both freaking out about learning it all in time, and we both assumed we’d freeze, stumble, fall, and be generally shamed out of the conference at the very start. Of course, that didn’t happen. I arrived on stage with a bang, the geeky lip-service and writerly inspiration started rolling, and the crowd ate up every minute of it. People were commending us for the rest of the weekend on our Oscar-worthy performance. And with that terrifying obstacle behind me, it was time to sit back and relax… Okay, not really.

The second thing I committed to was opening up my entire schedule to mentor and critique appointments, fully expecting that no one would want to sit down and pick the brain of a middle-aged fraud. Wrong. Twenty-five appointments. That’s what I ended up with. Two full days of my butt stuck in a chair, back and legs aching, eyes burning, introverted energy leaking out all over the floor, and dozens of starry-eyed writers spilling their hopes, dreams, fears, and questions to little old me. And I’m here to tell you, it was an experience I’ll never forget. Not because I got to pretend I was an authority or because I snagged some editing clients out of the deal (though those were some nice perks). No, it was because of the priceless tangible value that these people brought to my daily grind these past two years.

I need an entire hand to count how many people started crying during our meetings. Not because I crushed their dreams or because they lamented wasting their mentor appointment on me. No, it was because they were so deeply grateful for the work that Havok is doing. The chances at publication. The editorial feedback that has allowed them to grow in their writing journey. The sense of community they’ve experienced since becoming part of the Havok family. Remember when I said writers get lonely? Yeah, it runs deep. I can’t tell you how many times this past weekend I declared, “This past year, every single writer who’s not deeply established has experienced a crisis of faith. We’ve all wondered if we’re just wasting our time.” And every time I said it, I was met with a solemn nod. Each time I watched as the individual across from me realized that they were not alone—that their brothers and sisters were hurting along with them, that the despair in their hearts might not actually be a reflection of their own failure. That maybe their calling in life was still legitimate. And every time a meeting ended, I sat there in a brief moment of silence, thanking God for the opportunity to do exactly what I was doing. And then, at the awards banquet, Havok became an award-winning publication, twice over.

The categories of “flash fiction” and “audio short” were at the very end of the awards ceremony, so it was tempting to check out for the rest of it. Thankfully, the energy in the room was contagious as author after author walked onto that stage, thanking God and country for the opportunity to share their creations with the world. And by the time the first Havok story was called (congratulations, Ronnell!), my feet were barely touching the ground. And then, the silky voice of Magnus Carellson echoed over the loudspeakers as he read “Why God Made Beer,” and my heart exploded. Havok acquired that story by A.C. Williams. I helped edit it. We published it and marketed it. Magnus narrated it in brilliant fashion. And then the rest of the writing community took notice. They accepted it. Praised it. Embraced it. And as I said, everything I’d doubted—everything I’d almost given up on countless times—suddenly had deeper meaning than I could have ever hoped.

More congratulatory high-fives. More tear-filled thank-yous. More awe-struck realization. And back at the Havok book table, our anthologies were making their way into the hands of ravenous readers. All-told, we sold forty-eight books (and a big ole pile of kick-butt t-shirts). Havok is now in forty-eight more households being read by who knows how many more people. People who are telling their friends about these little flash fiction stories from an ever-growing publishing company that runs on volunteer-fuel and gives all its money back to its ridiculously talented authors.

The thing is, we’re not doing anything all that crazy over at Havok. We’re acquiring stories, editing, and publishing, just like countless other companies. But we’re not giving up just because we haven’t seen overnight success. We’re showing kindness and respect to new and established authors. We’re serving a community and a need. We’re showing up and doing our best work. We’re supporting each other and giving space for dreams to unfold, one tiny act of compassion at a time. It’s what God called us all to do—what the world has tried so hard to make us forget. We’re playing our part in the fight against fear, anger, and hopelessness. We’ve been doing it for years, and people are starting to take notice. And no matter where we go from here, I’ll be forever grateful to Realm Makers and its community for reflecting that kindness and respect back on me. Y’all are amazing. Never forget it.

Until next year, Realmies. I’ll see ya on the Internets!

[octania]

Icy summer explosion (part 1)

Bakugo x Reader

Shoto x Reader

 Genre: Romance, Drama, Comedy

 Type: Series

 Words: 2200

 Characters in this part: Bakugo, Shoto, Deku, Kaminari, Kirishima.

 Short description: A tense summer love drama between you, Bakugo and Shoto. It all starts in summer paradise, but where will it end and how?

————————————————————————————–

The show was a big success . But this one was slightly different than the others, and that’s why they all were still super hyped when it was over. The heroes were now in their third year of education and were already a favorite among society. Never before have so many quality heroes been in the same class. The show was intended to educate and inspire young people who have just gotten their quirks, and what better way of doing it than to allow them to spend some time with their idols.

 “I can’t believe they are giving us a day off, here!!”- screamed Deku.

“I can’t believe it neither man. Also without supervision? If you ask me, that’s hella strange.”- Kirishima replied as they were rushing to the changing room to take off their costumes.

“I told you assholes, Aizawa is done with us after the stunt we pulled. This is his smart way of getting back at us. Luring us to go outside alone, in a foreign country, on a sea side no less. He knows we are stupid enough to drown by ourselves. Specially Kaminari , idiot forgets that he needs air when he is under water.”- Bakugo said sarcastically.

“Hay! That was only that one time! I was trying to catch that fish, it had such pretty colors!”- Kaminaris cheeks turned red.

“Maybe if they let us off the hook once in a while, he would not try to grab every moment so desperately , ever thought about that?”- Shoto Todoroki said seriously, grabbing his backpack, walking to Kaminari, pulling his nose like a child.

“You don’t follow rainbow fish around ,though.”- he laughed.

“How about we grab something to eat first, then go to the beach?”- continued Shoto.

  x                   x                    x

 Y/N walked down the streets of Camogli in Portofino. It was quiet, she escaped the wild screams and beast crowd from the show, but could still see them in front of her eyes. She could feel a rush of adrenaline again, the same one  she felt in the moment the heroes stepped into the crowd. They smiled as they looked into the curious and excited eyes of the younger generations. Although only Kirishima, Deku, Kaminari, Shoto and Bakugo were present, it was more than enough for her. Her cheeks turned red and a shy smile took a position on her face, remembering a pair of wild red eyes. She couldn’t help herself, she followed him throughout the show non-stop. His arrogant attitude, energetic approach, wild character, sharp tongue … damned be this fetish for bad guys. But he was not evil, he was one of the best heroes from whom incredible things were expected. The redness on her cheeks intensified.

  This trip was nothing but perfect. Them , the sea, the surroundings…heaven. She arrived to her hotel, but she didn’t go in. She was filled with adrenaline, filled with excitement, she could not possibly go to sleep now. Also, it was a beautiful summer night, peaceful, just right for a night swim. Because of the show, everyone is on the main square,  which means, the beach is empty. She can finally have that butt naked swim she wanted. She giggled, already jumping down the big rocks that led to the beach. Taking her shoes off, her feet landed on the warm sand on the beach. The moonlight reflected itself on the surface of the water. The moon , big and yellow, proudly stood in the center of the sky, welcoming her to the scene. She smiled as the waves of the sea touched her bare feet. Not waiting a moment longer, she took off her white dress, letting it fall down on the ground, remaining only in her panties. She ran , jumping into the sea, embracing the cold feeling on her skin, swimming and diving along the shore.

x                                 x                                x

 They were finally free. Even though it was just for one night, they were living every moment to its fullest potential. Eating, joking, talking, trying to light a fire, but it ended by them thanking the God they were surrounded by water because they almost managed to burn down the little bamboo houses that were beach bars.  They needed to find dry firewood, but since they were on a sandy beach, it was no easy task. Kaminari decided to make his task easier by hiding behind beach bars and tearing pieces of bamboo off them. But that was not the end. When he had collected a couple of pieces, he decided to prove himself a little more. He rubbed his fingers, letting a little electricity out on the dry bamboo. Unfortunately, he let go a little too much, and the electricity also reached the bamboo on the beach bar. The bottom of the beach bar began to burn. He panicked, tossing the other burning pieces aside and trying to kick the sand at the burning bar. He didn’t even realize that the bamboo he had thrown was now spreading fire on the wooden chairs next to the bar. Everyone ran up, extinguishing the chair before it spreads more. After putting out the fire, they scolded him, realizing that it would be best if they didn’t use their quirks, not tonight. So, they needed to light the fire in a natural way, with sticks. Bakugo had no patience for that. After seeing Kirishima fail for the third time, he reached for the wood, which they carefully stacked on top of each other.

 “Idiot, get lost! You are fucking everything up! “- he pushed him abruptly with his foot, so that  Kirishima fell face down into the sand. He reached for the wood, as small explosions began to appear from his palm. Before he could do anything, an icy feeling permeated his body.

 “Oi! What the fuck?! I will kill you!”- he growled from the depths of his throat. From his palm to the forearm, everything was covered with a thick layer of ice.

 “We said no quirks…specially yours…we don’t want to attract unwanted attention.” – Shoto said calmly, not even looking at Bakugo.

 “Oh yeah?! And this ice just appeared according to Gods natural plans?! Screw you!!”- the ice exploded from his hand, while his fists were now smoking. Beneath his white-red hair, two serious multicolored eyes could be seen. He watched Bakugo walk toward him, burning with rage. He clenched his fist, ready to counterattack. But before the situation developed for the worse, a shout of happiness was heard beside them. A faint light spread across the beach.

“I did it! I did it!” - Kirishima, who at no time cared about the situation that was developing next to him, managed to light a fire, which is now slowly igniting.

“The spark from Bakugo’s fists fell and made a little ignition, I was blowing, and it started!” - he explained like a child, jumping next to the now beautifully spread fire.

 “See, we did it! Come on man, we are here to enjoy ourselves. Chill. Come, we can kick the ball a little in the shallow water.”- Kaminari appeared behind Bakugo, placing his hand on his shoulder.

 “Tch..whatever.”- he clenched his fist, shaking Kaminaris hand off, still targeting Todoroki with his killer gaze, but the smoke from his palms now disappeared.

 "Consider yourself lucky,“ he turned, moving towards the water.

 “That’s it, let’s go!” Kirishima shouted, kicking the ball and running towards them.

 “Don’t let him get to you… It’s been years, you know he will never change. Don’t let him ruin your good time.”- Deku said to Shoto with a faint smile. Shoto said nothing. Although it is true that he was already numb to Bakugo’s behavior, his outbursts really shouldn’t have always gone unpunished. Just because everyone has ignored his behavior because they’ve gotten used to the way he treats others, doesn’t mean he should be tolerated forever. He felt his left palm getting warm. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Deku was right, now was not the time to teach a naughty brat some manners. They are here to have fun. He opened his eyes and smiled.

 "You’re right. Come on, let’s join them.”- He stood up, taking his blue shirt off, uncovering his hard muscles.

 “Yeah!”- Deku followed his example.

 They entered the water and joined the others. The ball barely withstood the strong blows. From the game, this grew into a competition. No one wanted to drop the ball. They threw themselves frantically, energetically, striking it with all their might in someone else’s direction, just so it wouldn’t touch the surface of the water. Bakugo relentlessly aimed at Shoto. He aimed at the head and didn’t even hide it. Every time Shoto would jump and hit the ball, avoiding Bakugos attempt, the veins on Bakugos’s arms and neck would pop out. After a while, Shoto no longer wanted to just carelessly ignore Bakugos attacks. When Deku threw the ball towards him, he swung with full force towards the Bakugo, who dodged the ball just in time, and it flew far out to sea.

   “I slapped your mama on the ass with the same force,Shoto, but she didn’t dodge it.”- Bakugo said with a nasty smile, provoking even more. But he didn’t wait for a response. He ran through shallow water then jumped in, moving his strong hands through it. The waves were not working in his favor, as they were carrying the ball more and more away. He sped up, pushing the water more fiercely. He could barely see in front of himself as the sea was splashing in his eyes. Suddenly, his face landed on something soft. Shocked, he pushed the strange thing with his hand, grabbing it. He shook his head, shocked, trying to see properly.

“What the f…”

He eyes almost fell out, jaw dropped, cheeks fired up and he could feel his heart in his throat. The strange thing in front of him was a woman, and the thing he just rubbed his whole dumb face in and decided to push it , were her boobs. A pair of eyes were looking back at him with the same shock in them. He pulled back his hand, as he tried to speak but a wave landed on his face once more, making him almost choke on water. He started coughing, trying to catch air.

“Omg are you ok???”- the woman screamed, trying to hit his back with her hand, but considering they were both up to their neck under water, it was no help. Her desperate try to quickly get closer to him to help, ended up making the situation even worse, as he turned his head too quickly, bumping his forehead directly in hers.

“Fucking shit!!!”- he yelled as the poor girl cried out, grabbing her head. She felt dizzy, barely staying conscious.  The pain and the raging water made her vision blurry, but she fought to stay awake.

“Idiot! Stay still!”- Bakugo was filled with panic, as he reached for the girl, trying to keep her above  water. His arms grabbed her, trying to pull her on his chest. But there was one more problem. As he pulled her on his chest, barely keeping himself above the water, he realized her body was naked, and her tits were now above the surface, pushing on his jaw.

“What are you doing!?”- The girl screamed once more. Before he could even think of an answer, let alone give one, a sharp pain filled his cheek, as the girl slapped him. He was now so confused he just wanted to drown. But he realized she will actually drown literally if he lets her go.

“Stop moving!”- he yelled annoyed,not even looking at her any more, pushing her around , placing her on his back, putting her arms around his neck as he held them firmly with one hand, and started swimming with the other. He was swimming hard with his legs, trying to reach the beach. He could hear people yelling. Guys. The rest of the gang were now yelling to him, waving. He sped up once more, and in that moment of confusion, something struck him. Her boobs once more were squeezing on him, on his back. His face became one big expression of embarrassment and anger . Finally, he reached the shallow water, standing on his feet, grabbing the girl legs, carrying her on his back.

“What the fuck?!?!”- Deku and Kaminari screamed in the same time.

“Look everyone, Bakugo caught a mermaid!”- Kirishima laughed.

“Shut the fuck up, you idiot!!!!”- Bakugo yelled.

“Oh my god, she is …she is naked..”- Deku yelled, automatically running to get a hoodie.

“Well that explains the nose bleed and a “sea shell” hidden in his pocket.”- Kirishima could not help himself, he was now laughing his ass off.

“Quit it you moron, help me, she hit her head!!”- Bakugo, indeed with a nose bleed, yelled.

The only one who said nothing was Shoto. He stood there in astonishment, when suddenly an ice wall formed around Bakugo and Y/N, closing the view on their bodies. The only thing visible was their faces.

[smuttymess]

bts astro soulmate reading | for ellen

sign: leo sun | aries moon | scorpio rising

lover: Park Jimin | soulmate: Kim Seokjin

This reading is for the beautiful, smart, lovely Ellen! I really had fun writing this one as I think this is truly a match made in heaven. Hope you enjoy too :)

Action-oriented, strong-willed and enthusiastic, Leo Suns are truly a force to behold. Add in a fiery Aries Moon and you've got yourself a powerhouse who will work tirelessly to achieve any goal they set their mind to - be it a seemingly impossible project at work or playing matchmaker to a notoriously picky bestie. A big-picture thinker, you live in the here and now, focusing less on fantasy and more on the expansive potential of your reality. Supported by your innate self-confidence that radiates from your soul, you are a naturally charming and strong leader, bringing people together and making beautiful things happen (see: events!) Scorpio is a curious sign as it has the intensity of fire, but all within the magnificent depths of water as its core element. While your Aries Moon and Leo Sun is a roaring fire that burns passionately and bright, your Scorpio rising - which dictates how you present yourself - often results in a cooler exterior, with an incredible emotional current flowing just beneath the surface. To those who first meet you, you are seemingly reserved and aloof - avoiding frivolity and small talk like the plague - preferring instead to simply listen, observe and absorb before revealing your true self. This is to your benefit, as your Leo/Aries combination often lends to bluntness, sharp words, and sometimes hurt feelings - the Scorpio rising dials that back a bit, making you more cautious with your language but also perhaps standoffish at times. Despite this occasionally ice exterior, you are very keen to connect with people on a deep, emotional level, and nobody knows this better than the people closest to you. While you have many friends and admirers, there are only a select few that get full access to your heart - and to them you are unfailingly loyal, warm, compassionate, reliable, and generous. Once your trust is earned, you are likely to give your all in your work, familial, and romantic relationships - your love is big, bold, and boundless. Unlike more passive, agreeable signs, you definitely expect equal love in return - Leo/Aries needs praise, recognition, and appreciation for all of your fabulousness, and like a true fire sign, you're not afraid to ask for it. A goal-setter, there is nothing you do in life that isn't deliberate or without meaning. Your desire is to leave an impact, making your mark on the world with your own fiery personal brand, and its likely that your influence already spans further than you realize.

A true connector and creator, you naturally seek ways of construction experiences that meet your expectations and exceptional taste levels - who better than you? Being a lover of fantasy and spectacle, nobody is surprised when you create a Studio 54-inspired pop-up party, wherein you show off your curves in your best 70s get up. Blissed out in a sea of glitter, sequins, and champagne, you are simply shining beneath the dazzling lights as disco floats through the air. The tone of the evening is simply fabulous, and surrounded by friends new and old you are truly in your element. You are unstoppable, the star of tonight's show, and the only thing that could make it better is a dance with the beautiful stranger sauntering around the club in his perfectly tailored bellbottoms and silky button down shirt like he owns the place. Wanting nothing but the best in your life, you are attuned to the fact that you want him, strategically positioning yourself in the middle of the dance floor as the music plays and meeting his eyes with an inviting stare. With ample confidence and mysterious aura in your arsenal, Park Jimin does not stand a chance once your sights are set, and it is not long before you two find yourselves immersed in each other's company under the flashing lights and the sheer electricity of the evening you've created. You tend to leave people wanting more, so you are not surprised to find the flirty Libra boy in your DMs the next morning. So, when is the next party?

Developing from a flirtatious friendship into something a bit more fun, Leo and Libra are an instant hit. This is a combination of fire and air, with Jimin acting as the wind beneath your sails as the easy, go-with-the-flow, partner in crime for all of your big schemes. Possessing an innate love of beauty, of fantasy, and romance, Jimin provides a level of optimism that your fantastical mind requires - he genuinely believes that there is nothing you cannot accomplish, helping your dreams along to become a reality. A Libra's extremely affable, adoring nature is like kryptonite to the romantic Leo who does not know the meaning of too much praise. It is no surprise when these two meet it is nothing short of a whirlwind relationship, with Jimin doting on your every wish without hesitation. The combination of Jimin's Libra Sun and Gemini Mercury makes him expertly aware of how to charm you, giving you exactly what you need at the right time. A true people-pleaser, you are delighted to find Jimin highly amenable to your emotions and desires, wanting nothing more than to ensure you are content. When you feel the genuine nature of this person that simply wants you to be happy - and unwavering loyalty of his Gemini moon - you are able to fully let down the walls posed by your more mysterious, reserved Scorpio rising that initially avoids vulnerability so soon. As Leo and Libra falls in love, there is an infinite level of romance and adoration. Suddenly, you find that you are in fact a hopeless romantic, loving being that sickening couple that sits next to each other in the corner of wine bars. He helps you slow down to access a more sensual side of your sign, your fingers intertwined underneath the table in a playful exchange while his hands graze your thigh despite. Jimin's Gemini Mercury allows for a bit of mystery and impulsivity, and there is something exciting to you about not knowing what you're going to get from him on any given day - while he can easily seduce you, is more than happy to let your more assertive Aries Moon take control when the mood strikes.

While Leo and Libra are typically quite compatible, there are some underlying issues presented by your charts. While you enjoy Jimin's free-flowing nature and desire to please, you become unsettled when this behavior is not just limited to you. His eagerness to please makes him quite susceptible to peer pressure, something that you simply cannot relate to with your heightened sense of independence. When he shows up late for date night, flushed and tipsy after a couple of extra rounds with the boys, you grow less amused by this side of his persona which you begin to see as inherently weak. Additionally, his moody, sensitive Moon in Gemini combined with a Venus in Scorpio makes him an especially possessive partner, not fully allowing you to be the social butterfly you are at your core and also requiring a level of affection and attention that you cannot always provide. When you feel that your needs are not being met to the level you expect, your Leo bluntness alongside the sting of your Scorpio rising are likely to hurt the softer Libra who is effectively allergic to criticism or discomfort in their personal and romantic lives, causing him to retreat. This only serves to exacerbate the problem, leading you to end the relationship on a swift and final note.

Always on the move and averse to any type of wallowing, Leo Sun/Aries Moons are constantly ideating, creating new ways to have fun and enjoy life to the fullest. You are truly the architect of your life, moving on your own terms which often leads you in the pursuit of food, travel, music or any other experience wherein you can connect on a sensory level with the world around you. Travel to another city for a concert? Consider tickets booked. Try a foreign cuisine completely unknown to you? Why not! Your friends are more than happy to go along for the ride, knowing that wherever you're going is where they want to be. You enjoy activities which showcase your profoundly adventurous, spirited nature. Independent and proud, you adore a challenge but not known for asking for help even when you need it say, during your first foray into rock climbing experience at a facility in the mountains. Despite your assuredness that you've got this (you don't!) it is when you're stuck midway through the advanced wall you insisted on climbing that a pair of big, strong hands are firmly grabbing the harness around your waist and steadily guiding you back down to earth. Before you can even process all that just occurred, your eyes widen at the sight of the gorgeous man in front of you shaking his head in disapproval. "You weren't listening to my instructions at all, were you?" His words are stern, but his eyes bright and lips pursed into a smile as he senses your competitiveness. In true Leo form you're soon able to charm your way out of what potentially could have been a lawsuit, enjoying taking to the smoke show who reintroduces himself as Kim Seokjin before explaining the basics you so diligently ignored. Impressed, you remain composed despite the incredible visual of Jin swiftly scaling the wall with ease. Like this, see? Our Sagittarius Jin is not always extroverted, but certainly has the confidence to ask for what he wants, and it's not long before he's proposing a 1:1 lesson in the very near future. Your Scorpio rising knows to play it cool but also when to seize an opportunity, and undoubtedly this one is too good to pass up.

This is a duo that may play a few games in the early phases of dating, but one ignited there is no extinguishing this spark.  Jin's Sagittarius Sun is an ideal match for your Leo Sun as you share a warm, good-natured aura that you exude in every area of your life - its one of your signature qualities that you find most attractive in yourself and others. While there is a lot of ego in this pairing - both of you aware of your individual greatness but also in each others - you find a true partner matching your profound level of adventure, curiosity, and genuine experiences. This manifests itself in somewhat of a condensed dating phase, equipped with elaborate dates wherein the sky truly is the limit. Such a fiery countless hours together bonding over both new and shared interests - think skiing in Aspen, racing on a closed-course, a food tour of Rome - allowing them to show off their own skills while igniting their competitive fire while learning something new. Initially there is likely to be more of an investment in fun than an emotional commitment - a Sagittarius's specialty - and were it not for your other placements this could easily dissolve into a longstanding friends-with-benefits or fun summer fling. Luckily, your compatibility is deepened exponentially by several specific pairings that overlap and compliment each other. Two Moons in Aries are equally ambitious, fair, independent and honest, and you both take pride in this character trait that you are so appreciated for and allows you to be extremely successful in work and your social circles. Once you begin to explore the "why" behind your ambition - your desire for connection, improving humanity, making an impact - you are both able to open up into a deeper level of emotional understanding that few others get to access.

It is here that you find true romance, with his Venus in Capricorn appealing to your sensitive, dreamy, and romantic Pisces rising/Leo Sun. True to your Leo brand, you also need to be praised, worshipped and adored. You rule with your emotions, so acting up out of sheer passion is not unlike you. Not everyone can handle this wide range of emotions, but adaptable Jin is up for the task. He is perfectly able to navigate your moods, with the patience of a saint combined with a Mercury is in Scorpio which makes him extremely observant and strategic in terms of his communication. There is no staying mad with a Sagittarius (no matter how annoying he may be) as his need to move forward at a rapid clip makes it nearly impossible for problems to fester too long. With Venus in Capricorn there displays of grandiose affection you adore: two dozen roses at your door just because, renting out your favorite restaurant for a private meal on a random weeknight, a fully packed suitcase at the edge of your bed with an accompanying note. Madrid tomorrow morning? This is a couple that fucks like rabbits, often beginning the foreplay long before they reach the bedroom. He certainly enjoys watching you slink around the room at any party or event, entertaining the crowd with your charm and basking in the limelight, looking absolutely stunning in a dress he's gifted you. There is an air of excitement as the night goes on, knowing full well that he will be the one that has his hands all over you as soon as you get home. Its likely that the two of you get off on being the power couple that nobody can get enough of, and even more satisfying is that is just comes so naturally to you - there is no faking this level of chemistry! A mutually impulsive nature exists at the core of this dynamic, meaning you may not wait until you get home (why would you, when there's a car?)

Fiercely independent and fast-paced, more than anything you need someone who can both keep up with you and challenge you as well. Jin the Archer is notoriously hard to lock down, seeking someone who will let him be his fully adventurous, fun-loving self, and he successfully finds that in the equally on-the-go Leo. Your sensitive Leo thinks funny guy Jin may initially be a bit over-the-top in his playful teasing of you, enjoying pressing your buttons a little bit, but over time you learn that this is simply how a Sag shows love. It is this highly humorous element of his personality that opens you up to access a more playful and lighthearted side of yourself that embraces your humanity and flaws without taking them too personally. Together, Leo and Sag guide and drive each other in your respective careers, acting as partners and confidantes, while innately understanding the others need for space like few others can. At the core, this pairing has a strong foundation of friendship upon which everything else is built, creating a very open and respectful relationship which allows the other to stay true to their deeper selves without fear of judgement for being "too much". The life created between this pairing is one of fun, great wealth through your many successful enterprises, and the strongly rooted presence of family. Fiery, bold, passionate selves, this pair grows even stronger as they move through life together, inevitably making their mark on the world through charitable and culture contributions with their infectiously energetic personals and uniquely creative minds.

[deathfrisbeeinthetardis]

Light on the Hill

Summary:

Ryan and his friend go investigate an abandoned hospital when something strikes, leaving Ryan alone and struggling to make it home. A stranger appears to lend him a few lights to guide his way.

Inspired by Ryan's 2009 trip to the Queen Mary and a crazy dream, @q-unsolved I wrote it :)

Find it on Ao3 here or read below!

The air was damp in a way that was unusual for California, pressing down cold and heavy onto Ryan's body, limping slightly. He curled an arm around himself, the flannel and shirt now felt too thin to guard against the chill in the night. His hand tightened on the strap of the backpack that carried the bulky recorder he had brought with him on the investigation. Not that it works anymore.

In the ramshackle hospital at the edge of the city, he had seen something dark and looming coming at him from the end of a black hallway, and Matt saw it too. The thing had lunged for the other boy, and Ryan had lurched forward to put himself between the darkness and his friend.  The boy had booked it, not stopping even when Ryan was knocked down, foot suddenly jerked back by something that distinctly resembled the grip of an icy hand.

He had screamed to Matt for help, scared out of his mind of what could be tearing into him at any moment, but the other boy never looked back. A few moments later Ryan heard the sharp screech of tires.

The twisting in his chest had kept Ryan down on the dusty concrete, staring at where Matt's figure had disappeared in the doorway, even after the grip on his ankle melted away. Walking out of that place had been his body on autopilot to ensure its survival, his mind wasn't there at all.

Nothing followed him.

Ryan's foot hit a bump in the pavement and the jolt sent pain shooting up his leg from his bloody knee, the liquid matting the rough material of his jeans. The dark marks on his ankle tingled.

"Fuck." He hissed, voice scratchy from the screams. He started when his breath ghosted in front of his face, his hands were starting to get numb. Had it been this cold earlier?

He's going to have to pick up speed. It was at least a two-hour walk back to his house, and he didn't bring enough money for a cab. It is generally not recommended to wander around Los Angeles alone at three in the morning.

Instead, he stumbled to the side of the deserted street and half-collapsed against the chipped concrete ledge, leaning his head back over the lip to rest on the icy surface. He was pretty sure he saw two men behind him five minutes ago, but he couldn't really bring himself to care, just tried to breathe in and out, in and out, his insides writhing.

"You okay kid?"

Ryan kept his eyes closed. The voice didn't seem sinister, and if it meant him harm, there wasn't much he can do to prevent whatever was going to happen.

"Hey, come on buddy, sit down. Your legs won't hold much longer."

Ryan did as the voice said, blame it on the exhaustion and emotional strain or something, but what he said was true, and his steady voice was a relief to Ryan’s scrambled head.

"That hospital there's got something going on huh?"

"How--" Ryan started, opening his eyes and peering at the man. Apart from his considerable height that Ryan could see even with the man hunched down to Ryan's eye level, he didn't look too much out of the ordinary. Straight nose, slightly wide head, eyes tilted down at the sides that now shone with something like pride and understanding. "You've been in there?" He asked finally.

"Yeah." The gravity in his voice roused Ryan's confidence a little, and a part of his head thought absently that if his nerves weren't so shot he might have pursued the meanings the man had loaded onto that one word.

"I saw something in there, and a hand grabbed my ankle." His words were slightly rushed, feeling a sudden urge to convince the man of what he had seen and get validation from someone that he wasn't losing it. He rolled up his pant leg with shaking hands to bare the purple marks on the joint, standing out starkly against his pale skin. He knew he was getting worked up again, could feel his breathing speeding up, but he didn't know how to stop the dangerous acceleration. "Please, I'm not crazy."

"I believe you, Ryan." The taller man kept their eyes locked, holding on to Ryan’s attention so he wouldn’t drop down into the endless spiral. The street was dark and the man’s eyes were almost all black. "I've seen it too."

Ryan gave in then, hugging his knees close, the weight of an arm looped around his shoulders grounded him to reality as he breathed and shook until exhaustion loomed over all else. He leaned into the man's side and felt safe, sitting right there on the side of an LA suburb road with the stranger. Somehow asking for a name didn't seem a concern at the moment.

"It's not just all bad out there you know, there are good spirits too." A pause, then the hand on his shoulder gave a gentle squeeze, "Ryan, look."

 His other hand brushed through the air, and Ryan let out an awed huff of breath as he watched strands of light coalesce from the dark night around them, clinging slightly to the tips of the man's long fingers and spiraling down to his palm. Ever so slowly, the trickles of light swirl into a sphere that glowed with a brilliant white-blue light, bathing them both in its gentle radiance.

"It's beautiful," Ryan breathed, and with an encouraging nod from the man, he cupped his thin hands so the man could nudge the swirling light into Ryan's palms.

It was the loveliest thing he had ever seen, and even though it was obviously supernatural, just as the man was, his awe and amazement won over the lingering vestiges of fear. Warmth sank down into his hands and made its way to his chest. It was as if he was soaking up the joy and solace that the spirit had experienced over a lifetime, every surprise, every satisfaction, every bit of love collected, now given to Ryan to comfort and soothe.

The man's smile was kind as Ryan relaxed, lifting his hand once more to gather a second, third, and fourth spirit, giving each a boost with his palm so they could hover around them, creating a little bubble of tenderness and tranquility on the chilly suburban street.

"Don't walk this world with fear just yet, there is so much more out there that you have not seen." The man said in a quiet voice, and Ryan finally managed to tear his eyes away from the light in his hands, eyes growing damp as he gazed at the man gratefully. He tried to memorize the lines of his face so that he would know him when they met again, but the details seem to slip from his mind as soon as he thought them. Belatedly, as if from within a dream, he blurts out, voice barely over a whisper, "I don’t even know your name."

The man's smile curved his eyes into the shape of crescent moons, and he gives Ryan's shoulder another reassuring squeeze before turning to face out into the night. “When the time comes, you’ll know me.” Voice still low, there was a new layer of tenderness, as Ryan’s eyelids drifted closed, mind slipping into the soft calm of sleep. “I will watch over you. Rest now. ”

And he did.

Ryan woke up in his bed to a bright morning, wounds almost healed and warmth lingering in his chest.

Seven years later he goes to a demon-infested house with his co-host to investigate. He looks at Shane’s smiling face as the flashlight turns on, and he knows.

[yodawgiherd]

Collared

Rating: E

>>>Read on AO3<<<

After a lengthy discussion with me, myself and I, the council have decided to cut this chapter into two parts, one covering the foreplay and the other doing the dirty. This was done mostly to prevent the chapter from being too long and also other reasons. This is the foreplay one. I believe that there is still more than enough dom!Mikasa to be found here, but explicitly explicit happenings will be done in the next chapter. The last part was strongly inspired by the "step on me" meme. I blame certain people.

Enjoy!

For Eren to wake up alone on a Saturday morning felt weird, eyes slowly opening to the sunlight. Mikasa wasn’t an early bird if she got the choice, so for her to just leave the warm bed on her own was unusual. With a groan, he rolled off himself, standing up in dire need of some coffee. Down the stairs to the machine, Eren pressed the right button and turned around with the sigh, facing the place where he knew his fiancé would be.

On the pole, doing a nearly flawless flag pose, her body in a perfect 90-degree angle to the pole itself. He sighed, again, rubbing his forehead. This really shouldn’t be physically possible. Mikasa had a look of concentration on her face, which was sweaty, a clue suggesting that she’s been going at it for some time by now. As she was also wearing her sleeping clothes, which meant formerly Eren’s shirt and panties, she probably went to the pole first thing in the morning. Why yes, his girlfriend was indeed quite a gym enthusiast, how could you tell?

The machine beeped behind Eren, signaling that his drink was ready, and also unintentionally breaking Mikasa out of her focus. Snapping into reality, she quickly located her boyfriend, the concentration melting into a huge grin. Sliding down the pole, she padded over to him on her bare feet, standing on her tippy toes so she could kiss him without Eren bowing down to her height. The kiss was a bit salty, considering the sweat and all, but overall pleasurable as always.

“Oh, you made me a coffee?”, brushing past him before he could say it was in fact supposed to be his drink, Mikasa claimed the cup, taking a sip, “You’re so considerate baby.”

Not only a fry thief but a coffee taker as well. Why was he dating her again? Making himself another one, he leaned on the counter, popping the morning stiffness from his neck.

“You know what day it is, right?”, came her voice.

“Saturday?”, he guessed, not opening his eyes.

“That’s right. Which means…”

“Means that I’m yours to command.”, opening his eyes, he smirked at her, “Anything you wish of me, mistress? You already stole my coffee so I’m not sure what else I could give.”

“Good to see that you’re so eager puppy, but I’m fine. For now.”, the tip of her tongue appeared, licking her bottom lip as she watched him over the rip of the cup, “I do have plans tho, big plans…”

“Such as?”

“First, we take a bath, then we go to the city.”

That made him arch an eyebrow.

“You wanna go out?”

“Correct.”

Knowing that today was Mikasa’s dom day, Eren wasn’t sure why would she ever want to leave the house, but he didn’t need to question it. She was in charge, which meant that all he had to do was follow orders and turn his brain off, and he was more than fine with doing that. Shrugging, he took another sip of his coffee, waiting for the inevitable to happen.

In the bath, Mikasa washed away the sweat from the workout, and after that spent a long time thoroughly cleaning Eren. She made him stand still as a statue while she shaved every hair from his body, including those few that managed to appear between his legs. Mikasa even took the cage off for the treatment, leaving only the cockring on, very thorough in her efforts. The razor whispered as it slid over Eren’s skin making him shiver a little. Her hand was steady, but those little looks she threw his way made Eren worry, just a little bit. She wouldn’t hurt him. Would she? No, of course not. Unless?

She didn’t.

After that, Mikasa washed Eren’s hair, humming a happy melody to herself. It felt good, being cared for like this, but Eren had the feeling as if he was a prize stallion, being groomed by his owner to be shown off. From how much attention she paid to his crotch area, both front and back, Mikasa was likely simply shining her toys before the evening would come.

“It’s been some time since I played with your ass, isn’t it?”, she said, hand rubbing the upper part of Eren’s thigh. Not really waiting for an answer, she went on.

“It’s a very nice ass, don’t get me wrong, I quite like it.”

She was the one to talk, with how flawless her butt was, but Eren had no problems accepting a compliment.

“Thank you, mistress.”

“Hmmm…”, done, Mikasa gave his ass a light smack, standing up from the water.

“Wait here,”, she said, “I have a gift for you.”

Remaining where he was, Eren simply watched her climb out of the tub. It gave him a prime view of her own ass, with the water running down the pretty shape, so he wouldn’t say that he minded too much. Retrieving something small from one of the drawers, Mikasa walked back, slipping back into the tub.

“Here,”, she said, holding it up “Like it?”

It was a ring. Big ring. Too big to fit on his finger. Which meant…

Of course.

“Hold it for a moment,”, Mikasa didn’t really care about his opinion, it looked like, as she handed him the ring and kneeled before him, hands going right between Eren’s legs. While she worked on removing the old ring, still in place, he took a moment to inspect the new one, looking for differences. The most striking was the color, as this new one was gold, not silver. Next, there was something on the surface, which upon closer inspection became an etching, words to be exact.

“Mikasa’s Pet,” it said.

Right.

“It’s great, isn’t it?”, taking the ring from his hand, Mikasa quickly put it in place, her movements already practiced by how many times she used such devices on Eren, “Now everyone will know that your cock is mine.”

“I…Uh... I don’t really take off my pants in public.”, Eren countered, feeling the familiar tightness return after being freed from it for a few seconds.

“It doesn’t matter,”, she went on, “It’s the thought that counts.”

Reaching down to retrieve the cage, she snapped it on top, once again returning her puppy to chastity.

“And I made sure that it's compatible with the cage. I’m so generous.”

“Incredibly so…”

“Look,”, Mikasa extended her hand, showing him her engagement ring, “Now we match!”

Her ring was a simple golden circle, Eren knew that she didn’t like stones that much and acted accordingly when he was picking it out for her. It didn’t have any ownership claim engraved on it either, as that thing between his legs did, but other than that, it looked similar. Now anyone could see that he was owned by his fiancé, how romantic.

“I have one more gift for my puppy, come on.”

With that, she left the bathroom, leaving Eren to stare after her. If her first gift was a new cockring, what in seven hells would the other one be? Carefully climbing out of the water too, mindful of the cage, he followed her, ideas spinning.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Yes, yes you will.”

“Mikasa I…”

“Puppy…”, her voice was low, sexy and threatening at the same time, “Your opinion does not really matter today, right?”

Sexy because Mikasa wearing nothing but lacy black lingerie was a damn sight to behold, dangerous because the way she looked at him made Eren shiver. Even in a strapless bra and panties that made Eren drool a little bit, Mikasa managed to look like a full-time dominatrix. It was written in her face, her posture, the confidence in which she held the collar. With an expression that didn’t allow any discussion anymore, she held up the second gift in her hand.

“You will put this on your neck, you will wear it when we go out, and after we get home..”, her lips curved upwards into a sadistic smile, “I’ll punish you for talking back.”

Not that long ago, Eren had that great idea to make a personal collar for Mikasa, have it fitted specifically for her neck and have her name put on it in huge silver letters. The second gift turned out to be nothing but a very similar collar, the only difference being that it was made for him. And it was a good gift, Eren liked it, but the problem was Mikasa’s request that went right along with the gift. She wanted him to put it on, now and wear it when they go out, have it on in public. Having written that he’s Mikasa’s pet around his cock was fine, none could normally see that, but having it around his neck in the form of a dog collar, with his mistress right next to him was a step Eren wasn’t sure he was willing to take. But from how things looked, it would come down to what Mikasa wanted, not him. As usual.

“You should be glad that I’m not making you get a tattoo of my name,”, she continued, voice dripping poison, “Now, stop resisting and…”

Mikasa held up the collar in one hand, pointing at the ground with the other.

“On. Your. Knees.”

Eren’s legs buckled beneath him before he could consciously react, and suddenly he was staring upwards to see Mikasa’s face. Oh, she liked that, seeing how her smile turned from dangerous to genuinely happy one, she liked seeing him submit to her. She took a step forward, putting the collar around Eren’s neck. It was a perfect fit, of course. Once he was collared, Mikasa ran a single finger up and down the side of Eren’s face, smirking.

“You don’t have to worry, puppy, I have it all thought out. But first…”, turning around, she walked to the wardrobe, throwing the doors open, “I’ll pick some nice clothes for you. Be a good boy and sit on the bed, yes?”

Defeated, betrayed by his own body, Eren slumped down as ordered, waiting how his mistress will humiliate him further. Which… didn’t happen? Mikasa didn’t pick anything weird for him, to match that collar, instead, he was given a normal dark suit, she even allowed him to wear a tie to partly cover the leather hugging his neck. Dressing quickly, before she changes her mind, Eren was soon left with nothing to do but wait, so leaning back on the bed, he engaged in one of his favorite activities. Watching Mikasa dress. If he was asked, he’d probably say that he liked watching her undress more, but even this had a certain ring of intimacy to it. Enjoyable.

On her part, Mikasa wasn’t rushing anywhere. While Eren managed to put on all his stuff, Mikasa just fastened a garter belt around her hips and was now pulling up her fishnet stockings. She knew that he was watching, moving slowly, giving Eren a little show. It wasn’t really a secret that he had a thing for Mikasa’s legs, and the goth was apparently feeling generous. Dragging the material over her leg, Mikasa took her time with hooking the top to the garter belt, winking at Eren over her shoulder. With her stockings on, she turned towards the mirror, readying her makeup. The sheer amount of eyeliner she decided to put on gave Eren a little pause, It was more than usual, but he wouldn’t protest. The dark shades she created nicely highlighted the exotic shape of Mikasa’s eyes. Moving on, she painted her lips black to match. As Eren could see through the fishnets, her toenails were already black, and now she painted the nails on her fingers too, completing the usual makeup routine.

It would be fair to say that Mikasa was never big on make-up, most of the time she didn’t wear any, because why would you ever bother with painting yourself before a workout, are you nuts? But when she did put it on she had a very good hand, most likely gained from watching the professional makeup artists work on her during the photoshoots at the studio. When Mikasa put in the time to brush up her makeup skills, it signified something, a night out, a dinner, a special occasion where she wanted to look her best at, and today certainly fit those requirements, having her puppy to play with without any restrictions was a treat. Eren saw her go through the same movements for what felt like a hundred times but still wouldn’t get bored of it. There was something hypnotizing about the way Mikasa did her short beauty treatment.

Makeup done, black lacy lingerie on, stockings fastened to the garter belt, she stood up, moving over to the wardrobe again, this time in search of her own clothes. Hands moving through her collection, which grew substantially since she started working as a model, Mikasa had a certain dress in mind for her plan. There it was. Black, obviously, tight around her body with a see-through section at the neck, at the sleeves, and seamlessly changing into a nicely flowing skirt at the bottom, ending in the upper part of her thighs. Putting it on herself, Mikasa was nicely surprised when Eren zipped it up for her without the need to order him, his good boyfriend instincts taking over.

“Good boy.”, a little praise falling from her lips, making him smile.

Dress in place, Mikasa moved on the jewelry. Rings, one for each finger, choosing from the big collection that she had nowadays, most of them gifts from her fiancé. Classic cross earrings and a leather choker that was nearly as thick as the collar around Eren’s throat. Necklaces, not missing the chain with the key to Eren’s chastity cage and the silver crucifix Levi gave her, all those years back. Probably her favorite jewelry alongside the earrings. Basically done, all she was missing were her boots, and when Eren watched her pick those massive leather ones with thick soles and many buckles that went all the way to Mikasa’s knees, her strategy finally clicked for him. In this outfit, Mikasa was the archetype of goth gf, as if she literally just stepped out of someone’s wild dream. That normally wouldn’t be that unusual, as she was stubbornly loyal to being goth all the way from high school to this day, not caring in the slightest that the style moved from being cool to being just kinda weird. She liked it, and that’s what mattered. But while Mikasa enjoyed dressing like this, she usually toned it down, because she simply didn’t want to draw attention. Not tonight, however, tonight she was going all out. With this beautiful and strange visage next to him, who would ever pay attention to Eren? Who would ever notice little thing like a collar around his neck when Mikasa was shining like a dark sun, drawing everyone’s eyes to herself?

“Well, puppy,”, she began, standing up from the chair and turning towards her smitten fiancé, “Ready to go?”

Seeing Mikasa bring out the goth inside her like this, full-on out, how comfortable and smug she was in this handpicked outfit of hers, Eren had one of those snap moments where he just looked at her and thought: ok but what the hell. He wasn’t stupid, Eren knew that she’s pretty but damn, how can a woman be this perfect. God, Mikasa was beautiful, and Eren would have no problem with staring at her for over five hours.

Standing up to match her, Eren noticed that while the massive boots gave her height a little boost, she was still shorter than him. When Mikasa wore those killer heels of hers, their eyes were roughly at the same level, but not now, the gothic queen was smaller than her devoted servant. Reaching out, he took her hand into his, intertwining their fingers.

“You know,” he said, looking her up and down, taking in the whole getup, “You kind of look like a superhero in this.”

“I do?”

“Yea, like… hmm… the super gothic… dark princess of….hmm.. darkness?”

“Dark princess of darkness? Wow, how expressive.”

“Your attempts at mockery are not needed, vampiress.”

That made her smile, black lips curving up.

“Well, if you are a good boy today, and I might suck something else than blood.”, she gave him a wink, taking a few steps towards the exit and tugging him right along with her.

“Come on, baby,” she said.

“Let’s go save the world.”

Mikasa’s plan worked, that was for sure. While they drew looks, as a pair, it was only Mikasa who the attention was centered at. With miss goth 2020 on his arm, no one paid Eren much attention, especially when his clothes were simply a suit, nothing as interesting as her dress-up. The only one who knew about the collar was the woman who put it there. And no one would know. Eren was just a smudge of black suit next to the dark goddess next to him, radiating beauty and confidence with each step. He really was not much more than a servant, being taken by his mistress out of a nice walk. Eren heard them, heard the few whispers that praised Mikasa, heard the people saying how beautiful she is, and he couldn’t agree more. And the fact that this divine being was holding his hand, her attention almost solely focused on him made Eren feel all warm and happy inside.  Mikasa was a supermodel, she could wear anything she wanted and pull it off perfectly. And the world just stared. It’s called fashion sweetie, look it up.

Overall, this day out was an otherworldly experience. Mikasa was in the lead, completely, Eren simply followed her like a dog on a leash. First, they just walked around the city for a spell. After that, she took him to a cinema, but not for the movie. Sure, they bought tickets for something, Eren couldn’t even remember what, enchanted as he was. Sitting next to her, Mikasa kept the contact between them light, just the tips of her fingers tapping away at his skin, and Eren was touch starved before he realized it. Not for long.

As soon as the lights went down Mikasa confidently climbed into his lap and angling his head up, she claimed his mouth. Whatever the movie was it must have not been very good, as they were alone in the room, fact that Eren was grateful for, considering that he spent most of it by having his mouth ravaged. Mikasa kissed him, bit into his neck, did anything she wanted to her pet while all Eren could do was groan, head swimming from her intensity. Of course, the cage turned from dismissible thing into a small inferno, his body attempting to react as it normally did to being kissed by his goth gf. And couldn’t, his attempts at erecting cut short by the metal bars of the chastity. Her weight on his lap, her tongue tracing his teeth, Eren moaned into her mouth, in paradise and hell at the same time. Mikasa was wearing a dress, which meant that the only barrier between his caged pride and her heat was Eren’s jeans and her lacy panties, the way she slid against his crotch made him go close to losing it. And she knew perfectly what she was doing, of course, stirring her hips a little, mimicking those movements she did while riding him, driving her puppy insane. A film never felt this long in Eren’s life before.

After the “movie” they both had to visit the bathroom, Mikasa to reapply her lipstick, as she left most of it littered over Eren’s face and neck, and him to wipe away the said stains. Despite his best efforts, some residue remained, dark spots littering most of the skin above the leather collar. Holding the sink, Eren stared at himself, at the ravaged face that looked back at him from the mirror. Mikasa was doing things to him, things that were beyond his power to explain, she was wrapping him in her spells. The black smudges on his face and neck, the collar, still visible even beneath his tie, the cage, tight between his legs, those were all little stamps of her ownership and Eren couldn’t help but wonder on the long way she came. From an insecure blushing, silent, weird goth girl at school to this. A smug and beautiful goth dominatrix who had no problems with using her pretty boy in any place and any way that she saw fit. And from the way his eyes were unfocused, how red his face was, Eren knew that he was loving it, loving when Mikasa displayed her confidence and beauty like this. She was sexy, she was hot, and she knew it, wearing it out in the open without a care in the world. Eren was glad that he was partly the reason why she could do this, he and others have together chipped away at Mikasa’s made-up insecurities, bringing out the inner goddess. It was high time that his fiancé realized that she is indeed a queen. Eren was just lucky that he was allowed to accompany her.

The next stop of Mikasa’s grand tour was a small restaurant, saying that she’s hungry. And nothing even happened, for a long time, she just played with the key around her neck a lot, obviously teasing her puppy. When the dessert came, she turned up the heat.

“Spread your legs.”, she ordered out of nowhere.

“W-What?”

“Spread your legs.”, Mikasa repeated, eyes completely serious, “Now.”

Choice was an illusion, he couldn’t say no to her. Obeying, Eren soon discovered why she wanted this. Under the table, hidden from view, Mikasa lifted her leg and pressed her heavy boot against Eren’s crotch, putting some weight behind it. Shaking it a bit, literally rattling his cage, she smiled oh so sweetly at him at the same time, her black lips curved upwards.

“Are you okay, baby?”, she said out loud, faking the concern in her voice perfectly, “Your face is all red.”

How was it supposed to be not red, when she went on with her little torment underneath the table, the thick sole of her boot perfect for the teasing.

“I’m…I’m okay.”, Eren squeezed out, managing a smile, “I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?”, the intentionally dragged out the word, increasing the pressure.

Eren’s fingertips dug into the table for the sides, his legs shaking. It would be a logical course of action to close them, to force the pressure away from his crotch, but his mistress ordered him to keep them open. And her word was more important than self-preservation, it looked like. She went on, moving her leg a bit, increasing and decreasing the strength of the push, while all the time keeping eye contact with her pet. You’re mine, her dark eyes said, you let me do this to you because you know that I own you.

“I’m fine, fine…”, breathing was difficult, as anytime Eren drew breath the collar made its presence known, tight around his throat.

And he was basically panting at this point, as Mikasa went on with her fun, toying with his helplessly restricted cock using the toe of her boot.

“Thank you for your concern,”, eyes meeting hers, he forced himself to smile back, “Mistress.”

“That’s good, very good, because when we get home…”, Mikasa leaned over the table, her lips brushing Eren’s ear when she whispered, “I’ll make sure that you won’t be okay or fine anymore.”

As quickly as it appeared, her boot was gone from his crotch, and Mikasa stood up, a radiant smile on her face.

“Let’s go, we have a long night ahead of us.”

This whole day, everything Mikasa did, Eren didn’t even realize that she was slowly but surely enchanting him. All the little touches, the teasing, the smiles, she was weaving an expert web around her puppy, drawing him into it. The audacity of the things she did to him, how nonchalantly she ignored any chance of them being found out, it shocked Eren and turned him on at the same time, exactly as Mikasa planned. The goth witch had him under her spell completely by the time they reached their house. Eren belonged to her in body, mind, and spirit too, broken and ready to be ordered around. Mikasa wanted an obedient pet tonight, not a bratty one, and molded her puppy just the way she wanted to. They surely didn’t save the world today, but Mikasa positively wrecked Eren’s. Now, he was ready to serve her.

“Maybe next time we do this, I’ll put a leash on you too.”, she was saying as they entered, “What do you say, Eren, would you like me parading you around on a leash? Maybe on all fours too, like a good dog.”

“Anything for you, ma’am.”, came from behind her in an unfocused voice, as Eren was too busy staring at her legs and ass as she walked in front of him, hips swaying, hypnotizing.

While Eren removed his shoes and jacket, as they usually did before entering the living room, he noted that Mikasa didn’t take off anything, keeping even the massive leather boots on. She’s most likely going to order him to take them off for her, not wanting to bother herself with all those buckles, he deduced, following his queen. Walking into the living room, Mikasa sat down, graciously, on the sofa, eyeing her prey. There was plenty of room to sit next to her, the furniture was massive, but Eren knew what she wanted him to do, and sitting wasn’t it. Coming to stand next to the goth, he sank down to his knees, keeping his back straight as he looked at his mistress with a glint of adoration in his eyes. Judging from her smile, he passed the test.

“You’re a good boy tonight.”, she said, appreciative.

“Thank you, mistress.”

“But I’m damn tired,” she drawled, stretching her body, all that walking….

From the corner of her eye, Mikasa could see how hungrily Eren eyed her legs, giving her an idea.

“What do you say, pet, do you want to make me feel better?”

He nodded, rapidly.

“Perfect. But before you can serve me, I need to see you better.”, she gestured with one finger, “Take off your shirt and tie, I wanna see those pecs.”

But when Eren moved to obey, she held up a hand.

“And do it slowly, I want a show.”

Button by button then, Eren undid his shirt, letting it hang open. Mikasa almost immediately took advantage, reaching out to place her hand over his chest, tracing the muscles there with a light touch. Oh yes, this felt good.

“I like it when my slaves are in good physical condition,”, she mused, “Then they can serve me for a longer time. And you do have some nice shapes here.”

The edges of her rings scratched along his heated skin when Mikasa dragged her knuckles over the exposed patch of it before reluctantly pulling her hand back.

“Continue.”, she ordered.

Completely under her spell, Eren moved automatically, shrugging off his shirt and folding it neatly next to him. The tie came next, unwrapping the knot and pulling it from his neck, fully exposing the collar that was there. The large letters caught the light, nicely shimmering, spelling out her victim’s name. Now naked from the waist up, save for the leather collar, Eren once again resumed his kneeling position. Back straight, hands behind his back, one holding at the wrist of the other, eyes only for his mistress, waiting for her to order him, to tell him what to do. On her part, Mikasa was in no rush, reaching out to run her fingers up and down his firm stomach, over those nice abs and between his legs, feeling up the metal of his caged cock. The way her slow exploration made him groan was completely worth it.

But it was about time that her puppy felt some pain too, she knew how much he enjoyed it. Back up, Mikasa arched her fingers, changing her hand into a claw and digging her nails into the firm muscles of Eren’s abdomen. Mercilessly, she dragged her hand, creating a nice red path behind her hand. Eren’s eyes widened as he took a sharp intake of breath, but didn’t make a sound, even as Mikasa took her time in scratching his skin. He didn’t question it, didn’t protest, didn’t do anything to stop her. After all, Eren was Mikasa’s property, and if she wanted to mark him, then who could say no to her. To test her puppy further, Mikasa moved her hand again, this time all the way up to Eren’s chest. With delicate movement, she reached out, tweaking a nipple between her black fingernails. The sudden surge of pain made him curse, a muttered word said between clenched teeth, but it didn’t escape her attention.

“What was that?”, she said with a grin, “You said you wanted more? But of course…”

With a rustle of her dress, Mikasa leaned forward. Her every move carefully tracked by Eren’s eyes, who was just a little bit nervous about what she was going to do to him. Mikasa could get creative if she wanted to. Noticing his nervousness, her mouth moved up to his ear, whispering.

“Aww, poor baby, are you scared?.”, her tone dropped lower, “Good. You should be.”

Gently, she kissed his earlobe, the tip of her tongue playing with that sensitive body part, all fun and games, until she decided that Eren relaxed enough. And then she bit it, forcing another groan from her abused boy. With an evil giggle, Mikasa pulled back, one hand snaking behind Eren’s back and taking hold of his overlong hair, yanking his head back. Forced to stare at the ceiling, he could only feel as her lips descended to nip at his neck, abusing that little part above the collar’s edge. When her teeth sunk into it, adding another lovebite to the collection from the cinema, all he could do was groan. Again. Far from done, Mikasa moved her head down, kissing and nipping all over his skin, down until she reached her prize. Sealing her lips around Eren’s nipple, she flicked it with her tongue, lashed it with small kitten licks, loving how it made him shiver. Mikasa couldn’t wait to put the clamps back to work, as his nipples were very sensitive, same as hers, and she knew firsthand just how intense the metallic bite can be. For now, her teeth would do. Grazing the peak lightly, she used her hand to play with the other one, tips of her nails scratching lightly around the skin.

It was the anticipation that was the worst. Eren knew what was going to happen, sooner or later Mikasa would bite down, make him writhe in pain again, abuse his body, but all she did was featherlight, pleasurable, and the waiting was killing him. It used to be alien, weird, to derive pleasure from having his nipples played with, but he and Mikasa had long since crossed that bridge. Nowadays, they were up to some much darker stuff. At exactly that moment, she bit down, and her fingers that till now were only lightly tapping at his other nipple twisted it, making Eren’s whole body tense up from the sudden lash of pain. But he managed to remain silent, much to Mikasa’s delight. She did enjoy training her puppy, after all. Easing her hold, she once again returned to the nice treatment, as if that sharp sting was simply Eren’s imagination.

Taking her time with it, Mikasa developed a routine. Alternating between both of the sensitive peaks on Eren’s chest, she moved her mouth between them, but never let the other one rest, using her hand to play with it. Sometimes, her lips completely abandoned that area, choosing instead to nip at his collar bones, neck, everywhere she wanted to. She had two hands to use, didn’t she? Her mouth was an addition, she could very well handle her boy without it. His body was her playground, a canvas which she was slowly but surely painting red. Only here for now, but Mikasa had plans for the rest of it later, no rest for the wicked. Always unexpected, she was gentle before being rough, fondling and licking before biting and scratching, turning pain into pleasure and pleasure into pain on a moment’s notice.

Eren was taking the abuse or training, rather well, although groans and shivers moved his body anytime Mikasa got rough. It doesn’t really matter how much do you prepare mentally, having one of your nipples bitten into and the other tweaked by strong and nimble fingers just have certain effects on your body.

“You like pain, pretty boy?”, she murmured, “Do you like it when I torment you?”

As if she didn’t know the answer to that by now, as if his cock wildly straining against the cage wasn’t a proof of how much he craved it.

“I..L-Love it… Miss-“, Mikasa chose just that moment to bite again, “F-Fuck… Mistress..”

Eren wanted to touch her so bad, his hands straining where they rested behind his back, fingers digging into his own skin to keep himself from moving. There must have been red spots from how tightly the fingers of his left held his right wrist, and vice versa, effectively cuffing himself without Mikasa tying him up using anything physical. Her word was more than enough. The collar bobbed around his neck, when he swallowed, sweat beading on his skin, the abuse Mikasa was enjoying rather difficult to endure. Yet he did so, suffered it without moving a muscle, and that impressed his mistress enough to consider this part of the training as complete.

Pulling back, Mikasa returned to a more comfortable position at the sofa, her half-lidded eyes watching her toy. His own eyes were darkened, pupils dilated, breathing heavy and skin covered in sweat, beads of it running down over those pretty firm muscles. It made Mikasa hungry for more. And seeing his face, somewhat devoid of any marks, she got an idea.

“You’ve been eyeing my boots before.”, she said, turning her leg to give him a better look, “You like them?”

Eren’s eyes flickered down, taking in the glory that was her calf encased in tight leather.

“Of course, mistress.”

“Tell me, how would you reply if I said that they make me want to step on you?”

Oh god.

“I…Uh… I mean….”

The slap was hard, ringing Eren’s ears while his head snapped to the right with the strength of the blow. The rings didn’t make it better, surely leaving their marks on his cheek. Automatically, his head moved back to its original position, ready for more punishment if his mistress decided that it was necessary.

“When I ask you a question,”, another slap, “I expect only one answer,” another one, “Do you know what it is?”

“Yes.”, his jaw ached while talking, “It’s: Of course, mistress.”

“Good. Now get on the fucking floor.”

Immediately obeying, Eren lay down on his back, presenting himself in front of his mistress. Standing up, Mikasa loomed over him, looking down at her slave, the hint of sadism back in her eyes.

“Now, ask me for it.”, she drawled, “Beg.”

Not like Eren had a choice.

“Please, mistress, step on me.”

With a huff of satisfaction on finally being given the appropriate respect, Mikasa lifted her leg before slowly setting it down against Eren’s chest. His hands balled into fists as she increased the pressure, muscles clenching. Deeming that he’s ready, Mikasa let go of solid ground, fully moving to stand on Eren, his chest broad enough to fully accommodate her, looking down at him, the hint of sadism evolving into a full-blown grin. Mikasa could say that she was standing at the top of the world, or better yet, had the whole world beneath her feet. Funny.

The boots may have seriously been made for walking on people, the massive platform soles cushioning her feet very nicely, making even standing on such even terrain quite easy to do. For Eren, who was apparently turned into a human carpet, a footrest, it was rather hard to endure, although it gave him a little bonus. Lying under her, it gave him the perfect place from which he could peek under her dress, to see not only her beautifully strong pale legs in all their endlessly long glory but also the part between them, covered by the black lace of her panties. You know what, for this view, the suffering was worth it. That was until Mikasa took a step backward, planting on of her boots right on his crotch.

“Do you think your cock is feeling neglected?”, she thought out loud, increasing the pressure of her foot, “All alone in the cage, while we are having so much fun….”

Fishing between her necklaces, she pulled out the key, looking at it thoughtfully. Wiggling her leg, Mikasa forced more of those delicious sounds from her captive.

“Maybe I should unlock it…. Hmmm…”

Eren couldn’t really answer. Mikasa was not light, her athletic build made sure of that, so speaking was impossible with all her weight settled on his chest, pushing out any air he managed to squeeze into his lungs. He wasn’t really expecting to be let out this early into the play, but if she was offering, then maybe….

“No, not yet.”, she decided, letting go of the key and it vanished right back among the collection around her neck.

There goes that hope.

At least she lifted her foot back from his crotch and moved it to stand once more on his chest. It’s the small victories that count. The moment of triumph didn’t last long, as Mikasa once again lifted one of her legs, this time using it to turn Eren’s head and step on the side, squishing his face into the floor.

“You look so good under my boots, puppy, beneath me, it’s where you belong.”, the pressure increased again, making Eren’s eyes water, “It feels amazing to put you in your place.”

Having Eren endured all this shit she threw at him without a word of protest, the fact that he literally let her walk all over him made her so aroused that Mikasa had to hop off, otherwise she might just not be able to hold herself and fuck him here and there, which would be a waste of all her evil plans. Breathing hard, she stared at his devoted face under her foot, loving this moment of dominance so much. When Eren gave himself to her this willingly, when he absolutely followed orders, it never failed to make her wet between the legs. Regaining control from her primal side, Mikasa closed her eyes for a second, searching that lost composition before forcing herself to stop and get on with it. Fuck, but this was hot.

Just as soon as it appeared, the heavy boot was gone, allowing Eren to turn his head back up, just in time to catch Mikasa stepping down from him and returning to her place on the sofa. Reaching out, she crooked a single finger in the well-known gesture of Come here.

Able to breathe freely after what felt like an eternity, Eren slowly picked himself up from the floor and back into the kneeling position by her side. To say that she was harsh would be an understatement, Mikasa was really letting her cruel sadist side run free tonight. Aside from all the scratches left behind from before, his chest now had boot prints from where his cruel mistress deemed his body to be worthy of being stepped on by her divine being.

“That was fun,” she said, awfully cheerful, “I’m definitely doing it again, soon. But now…”

Stretching her legs, Mikasa smirked.

“Those boots are heavy to wear, and I’m growing tired.”

She tapped the top of one with her finger, her nail lightly touching the black leather. Eyes looking straight at Eren, her voice changed from the normal one back to her dominatrix tone, giving orders and not taking no as an answer.

“I want your mouth on my boots, puppy, I want you to kiss and lick every part of them. I want you to show just how devoted you are to serving me. After that, I’ll allow you to take them off and you will give a similar treatment to my legs, and massage my feet too, it was a long day of walking after all.”, smirk once again curved her black-painted lips, “What do you say, pretty boy, up for the task?”

Taking a wheezing breath, Eren tore his eyes away from those sexy shoes, meeting her gaze. Was he up for it? Damn, that was not even a question. Not only was he completely under her control, but from the way she worded the order it was clear that Mikasa wanted Eren to help her relax, to feel good, and that was always high on his priority list, doesn’t matter if she was domming him or not.

“I would love to do it.”, he said, “To worship you, mistress.”

“Good boy.”

Relaxing once again into the sofa, Mikasa lifted her leg, letting Eren take hold of it. Seeing how eager he looked, how his eye darted all the way over the knee-high boot and up to the for now forbidden garden of Mikasa’s stocking covered thigh, it did things to her, to the place between her legs which was getting more and more aroused by the second. For now, however, the dominatrix would just sit back and enjoy the show. Seated comfortably, she nodded at her puppy, ordering him to start with a single word.

“Begin.”

[yeojaa]

TO THE MOON AND BACK - ft. ???

You feel winded and you're not sure why.  Like you'd been walking on cloud nine and were now falling through the atmosphere, plummeting toward the ground at incredible speeds.  When you speak, it doesn't really sound like you.  "Yes."  Because he was exactly right - you were a hopeless romantic.  Always had been.  It was hard not to be when your parents were childhood sweethearts and love was the thing you'd been chasing your whole life.

alt summary.  You use your one brain cell for love.  It doesn’t always end well.

pairing.  who knows, honestly.  the obvious ones are kim taehyung and jeon jungkook, though.  

tags.  blind date, strangers, strangers to friends, strangers to lovers, getting to know each other, alternate universe, alternate universe - modern setting, romantic comedy.

rating.  general (for now?)

word count.  ~6000

chapter 1.  

You weren't sure what you were doing here.

Sure, you'd signed the waiver, your favourite pen leaving a messy blue scrawl across the crisp weight.  You'd acknowledged all of the terms and dated the bottom left-hand corner, humming quietly to yourself as you'd done so.  You'd read the document once, then twice for good measure, politely asking for a copy of it when the petite assistant had come to take the pages off your hands.  

But you still weren't sure what had brought you here, to this exact place at this exact time.   

Standing in the spacious studio with a dozen hangers hung over your arms, ready to air your life for millions to see.  Were you really ready for this - whatever it was?

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, suddenly nervous.  Your fingers are experiencing a strange tingling sensation you only recognize from times of stress - waiting for your results after an exam, the minutes after a first date, any time your umma calls without messaging first.  It's descending down the tips of your fingers, shooting like electricity through the live wire of your bones.  Suddenly, every minute movement of your neck feels like it takes all the strength in the world and your chest feels like it might explode from the labour of your breaths.

"Ready?"  It's the assistant again, bouncing toward you in her Fila Disrupters.  Very stylish.  She's staring up at you expectantly, though that shifts quickly to concern when you don't immediately respond.  "... Are you okay?"

"Yes.  I'm sorry.  I'm fine."  To her relief, you answer her follow-up almost immediately, a chipper smile plastered across your face.  It's a touch forced, the edges pressing your cheeks a little too far into your eyes, the tension in your jaw almost making it look like you're grimacing.  Almost.

"Great!  Come with me."  

Your fingers fumble with the button of your jeans, missing the hole twice before a groan of frustration fills the enclosed space.  You're so anxious you can feel the nervous energy filling you up like a balloon, dragging your poor body from the familiar weight of your bones.  Your hands won't stop shaking and they're so cold.  You can feel the chill through the denim of your pants when you rub your palms over your thighs in an effort to bring blood rushing back to them.

"Please come out when you're ready."  The voice speaks over the public address system wired into the ceiling.

You glance up from your little dressing room, noting the soft yellow that now illuminates your space.  It floods the walls you can barely make out over the top of your dressing stall.  You notice, with some amusement, that it matches the yellow of your socks that rise above your ankles and disappear into the hem of pants.

"Relax.  It'll be fun," you tell yourself before counting to three and trying your button again.  

It slots into its rightful home on your first go.  That must be a sign, right?

You exhale deeply, pushing all the air from your lungs as you face the mirror on the back of the door.  You blink at your reflection, smoothing your fringe until it falls just right over the rim of your glasses, barely grazing your line of vision.  You watch the way you chew your own lip, grateful you've got nothing but bubble-gum flavoured lip balm on, and nod.  It's reminiscent of a child on their first day of school.

Then you force yourself out of the stall before you can talk yourself out of it, peeking around the corner of the door.  

You're not sure what you'd been expecting but it definitely isn't this.

Because he's tall and broad, with shoulders that fall like a mountain range and a mop of dark hair.  It curls over his ears and looks unkept but purposefully so, pushed behind his ears.  The coat he wears fits across his back, hugging his silhouette as it falls to his knees.  Plaid trousers hold his legs, cut directly above his bare ankle.  He looks like a goddamn fashion model and you haven't even seen his face.

"Oh, hi."  His voice is warm and heavy, like a weighted blanket or hot cocoa on Christmas Day. 

It envelopes you in bass and makes your stomach flip in anticipation.  

He's right across from you now, sliding into the high director's chair that sits directly opposite from where you are, half-pulled into your seat.  He's as handsome as you would've imagined, the slope of his jaw and curve of his cheekbone seemingly carved by Michelangelo himself.  Thin gold frames - eerily similar to yours - sit on the high bridge of his nose and behind them, eyes crinkle from the force of his big, boxy smile. 

You find yourself at a loss for words for the second time in not very long, only managing a soft, "hello."

He seems to find that endearing, a soft laugh - one that very clearly echoes ha ha ha in the quiet room - drifting from where he sits.  You feel your face flush, shifting through the colour wheel before landing on an embarrassingly vivid shade of magenta.  You can see if in your reflection from behind his shoulder when you finally make yourself comfortable, only then meeting his open, curious stare.

"I like your pants."  He gestures toward you as if he could be talking to anyone else, the diffused golden glow catching against the thin rings he wears.

"Thank you."  You try not to mumble, offering a sweet albeit small smile in return.  You're pleased with your choice and in turn, his compliment.  You loved these jeans, had worn them for years since you'd bought them one summer in Tokyo.  They hug you just right, sitting close to your waist and through your hips before relaxing into a chic 70's inspired straight flare.  It doesn't matter that there's paint on the left knee - from that time you'd hosted a wine and paint night at your apartment - or that the frays on the hem are in dire need of trimming.   

"Should we get started?"  There he is, leading the conversation again.  You feel a little bad, though that flies out the proverbial window when he's leveling you with another one of his smiles.  It's hard to feel anything but child-like happiness when he looks like sunshine and middle school crushes. 

You nod, turning your attention to your phone. 

The screen reads START: PERCENT OF INTEREST FROM FIRST IMPRESSION.  You immediately want to enter 100, your fingers moving to tap the requisite numbers before you're hesitating, hovering over the "1" as it taunts you.  Was that too high?  What if they showed him?  Would he be turned off by how eager you were?

You're dragging your bottom lip through your teeth over and over again, stuck on a decision.  Was he experiencing the same turmoil?

You steal a peek at him, hoping to be as covert as possible.  He's staring straight at you, amusement written into the way his mouth twists, fighting back the laughter that sounds like music to your ears.  His phone rests loosely in his right hand.  Clearly, he's made his choice already. 

You huff and enter 85, still not entirely happy with your decision by the time the next question pops up.

BASED ON OUTFIT 1 (SCHOOL), YOUR NAME IS _____, YOU ARE _____ YEARS OLD, AND YOU LIVE IN _____.

You had to guess his name?  That was going to be impossible.

Or not, you think as his fingers glide across his screen, seemingly unfazed by the challenges currently presented.  Maybe that was for the better, though.  Maybe it would help you gain some sort of idea into who this stranger was, with his soft white tee shirt and expensive Hermès belt.  

Even as you're filling out the answers, you can feel his eyes boring into your head like two little laser beams.  You're sure that's why your cheeks are burning up and your have to retype your last answer three times, messing up the characters like you haven't spent your entire life writing them.  How could he be so comfortable?  His fingers aren't even twitching, instead leisurely curled between his legs as he studies you.  He looks like he has nothing to hide, blinking innocently at you when you drag your gaze from his hands, his brown leather watch strap.

"Your name is Kim Nari."  He's speaking seconds after you've pressed enter, alerted of the fact by the small chime of his phone.  If he notices the way your brow furrows, he doesn't react, reading his answers with easy reassurance.  "You're twenty-threeyears old and you live in Itaewon."

It brings you some sort of joy as you shake your head, hand raised with your thumb and forefinger curled in.  "Three strikes and you're out."  You laugh and then he's joining you, the sounds slotting easily together like a harmony.  "My name is Cho Jiyeon."  His words are forming the syllables silently, as if testing out the way it feels.  You can't help but smile at that, nose scrunching as he does it again, repeating it like it's the most fascinating thing in the world.  " I'm twenty-two and I live in Hongdae."  You don't acknowledge the fact that he's technically right - your actual birthday is in a few days.

"I see."  Your corrections are accepted as easily as he breathes.  "Nice to meet you, Cho Jiyeon."

"Really, Nari?"  You can't help but tease, manicured brow quirking curiously.

"You're pretty, so I thought you'd have a pretty name," he says plainly.  You can't help but snort, hiding the sound behind your palms as laughter shakes your shoulders.  Had he managed to compliment and insult you all at once?  "You still have a pretty name."

Now it's his turn to laugh, your reaction of wild head shaking and face covering causing him to stifle his own into the back of his hand. 

"It's your turn." 

So it is.  "Your name is Yun Taewoo and you're twenty-five?"  The first two come as questions more than answers but you're almost certain of your last one.  "You live in Cheongdam."

By his smirk, you're either terribly right or miserably wrong. 

When his head tilts, you're reminded of a golden retriever or a teddy bear, his dark eyes twinkling at you from behind his spectacles.  "My name is Kim Taehyung."  You're not sure how you ever thought it would've been anything else by how well it fits him. "You're right, I'm twenty-five."  Here comes the winner, you think.  "And I also live in Hongdae."

Dammit dammit dammit.

Taehyung can see the disappointment in your eyes and his own are waning into crescent moons, dragged into the shape by his all-encompassing grin.  "My parents live in Cheongdam, if that helps."  It doesn't really, but you appreciate the effort, visibly relaxing at his concession.  You've known each other for all of fifteen minutes and he's already worming his way into your silly little schoolgirl heart.

"It does.  Thanks."  You're giggling around your gratitude, allowing your eyes to trail pointedly at the timepiece on his wrist.  It cost more than one of your semesters.  "The Cartier was kind of a giveaway."

"But you recognized it," he teases back warmly.

"Touché."

"My turn again."  A soft cough to clear his throat before he repeats the next question.

YOUR MAJOR IS _____, YOUR GPA IS _____, AND AT SCHOOL YOU ARE _____. 

"Your major is art, your GPA is 3.1, and at school, you're an outsider."  

You're not sure whether to be offended that you're seemingly so easy to read, a hand flying to your throat.  "Are you following me?"  You're asking before you can help it, earning a hearty laugh from Taehyung.  He's shaking his head, awfully proud that he's just struck the nail on the head.  "I'm actually doing a double major, so I'll give you that.  My GPA is actually 3.9, though."  You can't help your own pride from sneaking in, colouring your words in shades of gold as you beam.  It only falters when you consider his last guess.  "What makes you think I'm an outsider?"

Not that he was wrong, per se, but you're a little surprised.  You'd never been unpopular but you just kept to yourself, drifting from different friend groups as you saw fit. 

"You don't want to forced into a box, so you're an outsider.  You choose to be."

You have no answer for that so you instead engage in a peculiar staring match until your eyes burn and you're blinking rapidly. 

"Your major was business, your GPA was 3.5, and you were a total insider."  Maybe it's the fact that he figured you out so easily that you feel uncertain about your own answers.  

He shakes his head, ever the gentleman.  "No, sorry.  I was a fashion major and my GPA was 3.0."  He pauses thoughtfully, considering the implications of being an inssa.  He supposes you're right, though he'd never really thought of himself as one.  Just someone that was well-liked and never turned away.  "Good try, though."  Again, encouragement.  It makes you like him for more than his charming smile and fashion-sense.

"I'll get you next time."

"I'm sure you will," he returns without even a hint of sarcasm.  "Next outfit?"

You nod, slipping from your seat and all but skipping into your dressing stall.  As you disappear back inside, you catch his smile in the reflection of your door and bite back your own.

The nerves that had melted over the course of your conversation seem to have come back in full force, spreading warmth over your cheeks as you stare at yourself in the mirror.  You've smoothed your hands over the soft corduroy of your skirt at least ten times now, straightening the hem this way and that in the pursuit of getting it to sit just right over your thighs.  

"Just go back outside.  He's nice.  Stop freaking out."  The reprimands are filling the small space and you feel almost overwhelmed.  Outfit number two was supposed to be a date outfit and just the word had your hands clamming out, heat licking up the back of your neck.

It's not that you weren't used to dating - he was just really cute.  

Adjusting the collar of your turtleneck - soft, black, draped in all the right places and tucked neatly into the waist of your skirt - you nod again.  It's your little way of building yourself up before you're stepping back outside, arms sliding into the sleeves of your grey tartan blazer.  You look good.  Taehyung had even said so.  You could do this.

No, no, no.  You can't do this.  Not when he looks like that.

He's beat you to his seat, an Adonis in black.  Gone is the loose white shirt from earlier, replaced now by an inky top that sinks against his skin.  The collar is open, the top two buttons undone to reveal the honeyed expanse of his chest.  You're not sure whether you want to bury your face into it or his silky shirt and it takes you a moment to remind yourself that's terribly inappropriate. 

"I like this look," you offer, hardly able to tear your eyes away from him as you settle back into your chair.  You can't help but notice how he smiles, gloating like he's all too aware of his effect on you.  He even readjusts, opening his arms to you as if to urge you on, when you continue to inspect his clothes. 

The pants he wears are different now, an expensive textured fabric that hugs his thighs and drapes across his shins, falling just above his ankle like before. There's no visible sock line and his shoes - black calfskin loafers with little tassels across the tops - scream expensive.  You'd hazard a guess they're Saint Laurent or Prada.  The only thing carried over from his last outfit is his watch, now stacked with delicate silver chains and a single red yarn bracelet you'd noticed earlier.  Even his hair is different, effortlessly styled and sweeping across his brow in soft, easy waves that beg to be touched.

"I like yours, too," he coos, that smug expression never faltering.  You try not to blush beneath his stare, trapping your hands beneath your legs as you allow him the same courtesy. 

Your thigh high socks sit just beneath where your palms rest, black a stark contrast to your skin and the brown of your skirt.  Your toes wiggle experimentally in the boots you're wearing, the ever popular sock-style blending seamlessly with the material of your stockings.  You can feel the lines of your rings where your skin is exposed, the same silver resting at the small of your throat in layered necklaces and at your ears in intricate loops.

He can't help but linger when the light catches the metal of your jewelry or when you shift nervously, thighs pressing together.  More than a small part of him enjoys you squirming under his gaze.  It's coquettish, even if it isn't meant to be.

"Do you want to go first?"  The words break whatever spell you'd been under and you re-focus on the device in your lap.  You nod before you've read the question thoroughly, flushing once you've had a chance to do so.

BASED ON OUTFIT 2 (DATE), YOU'VE RECEIVED _____ ROMANTIC CONFESSIONS AND HAVE BEEN IN A RELATIONSHIP _____ TIMES.

They really didn't beat around the bush, did they?

You're tapping out your response, pushing forward when you stop to think.  It was just two numbers.  

When the familiar ding of your phones breaks the relative silence, you look back up.  Of course, he's already watching you, ever the active participant.  "You, Kim Taehyung, have received more than twenty romantic confessions and you've been in a relationship more than ten times." 

Something like surprises steals across his face, contorting his expression into one you hadn't seen yet.  

"Wrong."  There's no further elaboration and for a moment, you have the urge to apologize.  Had you offended him?  "I've received more than twenty romantic confessions but I've only been in a relationship twice."

Now it's your turn to be surprised, your eyebrows disappearing into your hairline.  How did someone look like that and not date?  It seemed like such a waste.  

"Shocking, right?"  Taehyung takes the words right out of your mouth but they feel wrong when uttered back at you.  "Both relationships were long-term.  Five and four years, respectively, so I never really had time to date anyone else."  A hand adorned in Gucci rings cards through his silky mop of hair, smoothing it away from his forehead before it falls back into place perfectly.  "Don't worry - I'm not offended you think I'm such a Casanova."

You can't help but scowl at his words.  He's right and you're being called out so hard.

"You've probably had more than ten confessions and..."  You're not sure whether he's really trying to remember what he'd written or if he's just drawing it out, teasing you mercilessly like its his newly discovered favourite pastime.  "Five boyfriends?"

"Ah - you got those right!"  You're not bothered by his accurate guesses this time.  In fact, you clap as if his success somehow belongs to both of you.  He finds that endearing.  He likes the idea of the two of you as a team.  

"Next one?  Go ahead."

You double check your next answer, trying not to laugh when you remember what you'd entered.

YOU FEEL ATTRACTED TO SOMEONE WHO IS _____.  YOU ARE ACTIVE/PASSIVE DURING THE DAY AND ACTIVE/PASSIVE AT NIGHT. 

"Kim Taehyung," you meet his eyes when you say his name and for a second, you lose your train of thought.  His lashes are so thick and dark and without his glasses on, you swear you can see the constellations in his irises.  "Um."  He snickers and you roll your eyes, rereading the small font on your device screen.  "You are attracted to someone who shares your confidence and who will rise to challenges with you.  You're active during the day and..."  You don't dare look up.  "You're also active during the night."

To your benefit, you both collapse into laughter, doubled over in your chairs as the double entendre sits salaciously between you.  

"You're not wrong," he drawls, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively at you.  If you were closer, you think you'd swat his arm or nudge his foot - anything to demonstrate that you think he's an absolute dork.  "I want someone who can be my partner in crime and I'm active all the time."  He leans heavily into the implication, dragging the "ah" in all out like he's trying to break it over his tongue.

"Okay, Casanova.  Your turn."

He hums, not even bothering to look at his screen as he studies you, eyes ticking from the way your long, dark hair cascades over your shoulder to the wine-stain you'd pressed into your full lips.  "You're attracted to someone who excites you and makes you feel wanted."  By the way he's drinking you in, you think he could be talking about himself.  "You're active in the day and passive at night."  

When he says passive, it almost feels wrong.  Dirty.  Like it should be whispered into the shell of your ear and not spoken so casually from three feet away.

You have to remind yourself you're sitting in a studio, surrounded by production staff.  

"I do like to sleep a lot."  You manage once the flutter in your chest has subsided, allowing you to find your breath again.  It still feels a little airy, a little like the wings of butterflies are tugging the words out of your chest.  "But I think everyone wants to be desired, don't you?  I don't think that's specific to me."

"Then why don't you tell me what kind of person you're attracted to?"  He doesn't say it but you hear it in his voice - the unspoken question.  Is it me?

You're not ready for that conversation, nor do you think this is the place to have it.  "I think we should change."

The third time you exit your dressing stall, you're out before Taehyung is, giving you a moment's reprieve as you climb into your chair.

You're more comfortable than you have been, both mentally and physically, but it's nice to have these few extra moments of peace.  He was just so much - it was hard to focus when he caught your stare or he did that thing with his tongue, pink gliding across his bottom lip.  You were ready to take back some control.  Hopefully his daily outfit was as casual as yours.  You didn't think you could handle another peek of that chiseled frame.

God, when had you become so easy to please?

"That was quick."  He's popping his head out of his room and gliding into his seat in what feels like one fluid motion.  Well, he certainly seems spirited.

"What can I say?  I'm fast."  It's enough to make him chuckle because very clearly, you were not fast, but he wasn't about to call you on that.  Not when you two were getting along so swimmingly.  "Shall we get started?"

You don't even wait for his response before you're studying your phone again, considering the two latest questions.

BASED ON OUTFIT 3 (DAILY), WHAT YOU HEAR OFTEN FROM YOUR FRIENDS IS _____ AND WHAT YOU HEAR FROM YOUR PARENTS IS _____? 

That was easy enough, you think, free hand fiddling with the pocket on your thigh.  The cargo pants you wear sit easily on your hips, the beige material matching the seat.  You're back in sneakers - all-white Converse with a small platform - and your glasses are perched on the bridge of your nose.  You're aware of a draft on your shoulder, the soft wool of your camel and blush cardigan having drifted low across your shoulder. 

You fill out your answer with ease, sparing Taehyung a glance when you're finished and realizing, much to your surprise, he's still typing.  

"You can go first, when you're done." 

The only indication he's heard you is the bob of his head so you take his preoccupation as time to admire his latest fashion choices. 

Wide-legged trousers that look extremely comfortable, falling easily over backless Gucci loafers.  His shirt is French-tucked, the drape of his taupe top relaxed.  The watch remains where it has been, though the other jewelry that had previously accompanied it is gone.  He's got a chic black beret pulled over his ears, causing strands at the nape of his neck to curl adorably.  He looks every inch an off-duty model and you have to remind yourself to stop gawking when he begins speaking.

"What you hear most from your friends is 'don't forget' and what you hear most from your parents is 'did you eat?'"

You think his streak must be running out and he sees that reflected in your goofy smile, one of his own framing his face.  "Nope.  My friends say 'get some sleep' and my parents ask 'how is school?'  Good try."

He shrugs, mouthing something like 'you win some, you lose some' before sliding his phone back into his pocket.  "Go ahead."

"What Kim Taehyung hears the most from his friends is 'I can't believe it' and what he hears most from his parents is 'visit more often.'"  You'd been reading your screen, lifting the words verbatim, so when you look up and catch his expression, you're startled.  For the first time, Taehyung looks unsure, though it lasts only a fraction of a second before he's nodding, his sweet laughter sinking into your molars like honeycomb and cavities.

"Close enough.  My friends usually say something like 'you're kidding me' but you're right about my parents."

Maybe that's why he looked so sad, you realize with a little twinge of guilt.  You consider asking a follow-up but by the way he pulls his phone out, you know it's a conversation better left for another time.  Like perhaps a second date.

YOUR ALCOHOL LIMIT IS _____ AND YOU SMOKE _____ A DAY.

He's already reading his answer to the second question by the time you tune in fully.

"Cho Jiyeon, your alcohol limit is two bottes of soju and you don't smoke."  You wouldn't say he's exactly right but you relent, nodding in agreement. 

"Between two and four, depending on the day."  There's a story there and it intrigues him but he says nothing, instead waiting for your appraisal of his tolerance.  He's ready to completely blow your mind.  "Your limit is... four bottles?  You definitely don't smoke."

It's with pride that Taehyung shakes his head, chest puffed out and lips pursed.  "My tolerance is one - one shot."  He can't help but laugh when you level him with disbelief.  "I don't like the taste," he continues, completely unashamed.  He's dealt with enough teasing from his closest friends so he's used to the incredulous stare you're currently giving him, unfazed as he beams at you. 

"I never would've guessed," you quip, thoughtful.  

"I'm full of surprises."  

You think it's a promise, like the guarantee of buried treasure or calm in the eye of the storm.  "I'm sure you are."

Your final change makes you feel like you're at home, despite the fact that you're nowhere close to it.  It's nice to be in your pyjamas in the middle of the day, even if you didn't normally wear the set that currently sits on your body.

"Last one," you say to yourself, peering closely at your hair, your lips, the way your shorts feel a little shorter than usual.

Then you pull yourself out for the last time and plop yourself into your chair, smiling brightly at Taehyung when he exits in the same instant as you.

He's in silk pyjama bottoms, the navy a stark contrast against his feet - which are slotted into soft shearling slippers.  The top looks oddly familiar, the white stirring a memory that you're not sure how to place.  "Hey - I recognize this," you state uncertainly, gesticulating at his broad chest.  He looks down and a smile so shy your heart could cry spreads across his face.  Maybe you're wrong but it looks like the tips of his ears are suddenly red beneath his crown of softly mused strands. 

"I don't normally sleep with a shirt on," he confesses, delicate fingers brushing the shoulder of his top.  He's not quite meeting your eyes, that seem dusting of rouge seeping over his hollowed cheeks and across his temples.  

"Oh," is all you can say, just as bashful.

As if to ease the unusual weight that's settled over the two of you, he speaks again, earnest.  "I like your sweater."   

You pick at the item in question, thumbing over the worn hem.  It's incredibly soft from years of wear, a gift from your father when he'd visited for business years ago.  The formerly vivid stitching on the first letter is starting to come undone, the remaining letters of HARVARD all in equal states of distress.  Still, it's comforting and oversized, drowning you in its shape and making you look more diminutive than your lissome stature already does.  

A leg draws up, about to pull to your chest, but then you think better of it.  You're in shorts - worn jersey ones taken from a matching pyjama set you'd once gotten as a birthday gift - and you're reminded of how little they'd covered when standing, so you settle for crossing your ankles.  The bears printed on your socks - three stacked at various levels across the top of your foot, your ankle, your calf - cross as well. 

"Thanks."

"Do you want to go first this time?"

It's nice that he's so considerate.  You nod, turning your attention to the last few questions.  You realize, with the smallest hint of disappointment, that there are only two left.

BASED ON OUTFIT 4 (PYJAMAS), YOU WANT TO LIVE UNTIL _____ YEARS OLD.  THE MOST IMPORTANT THING IN YOUR LIFE IS _____.

You're not sure whether it's the fact that your time with him is coming to an end or the questions themselves but you feel odd, a lump forming in your stomach.  Whatever it is, you try to push it from your thoughts, ignoring the weight it carries in favour of giving further consideration to your answers.  

"I think you want to live until ninety years old."  That made sense, right?  Most people wanted to live out there lives as long as they could, watching the generations span after them and basking in the pride of a life-well lived.  "The most important thing in your life is growth."  Okay, so maybe that was a bit of a stretch.  Could you really know someone that well after only such a short period with them?

You think so, because after everything so far, you felt like you did.

"Ninety would be nice,"  he agrees after a moment, biting his bottom lip as he weighs his next words.  "The most important thing in my life is being true to myself."  So you were wrong - but that was also a really deep question.  You feel like it's not fair and he can clearly see that when he grins, gracious and giving.  "I think growth means staying honest to myself, though."

You think you could kiss him and absorb some of that sunny goodness.  

"You want to live until you're ninety, too."  A small part of you doubts he'd use the same age, that suspicion deepening when he doesn't even bother looking at his written answers.  "The most important thing in Cho Jiyeon's life is love.  Am I right?"

You feel winded and you're not sure why.  Like you'd been walking on cloud nine and were now falling through the atmosphere, plummeting toward the ground at incredible speeds.  When you speak, it doesn't really sound like you.  "Yes."  Because he was exactly right - you were a hopeless romantic.  Always had been.  It was hard not to be when your parents were childhood sweethearts and love was the thing you'd been chasing your whole life.

The reason you'd even agreed to appear on this silly video segment.

"What about age?"  He prompts, not skipping a beat.

"I don't know," you answer honestly.  "I don't think I'd mind when I died if I found love before that."

You're not sure whether the look Taehyung gives you is affectionate or pitying because you're not really looking at him, instead focused pointedly on the paint that coats your nails and the way your knuckles flex beneath your ministrations.

"Last one," he chirps, snapping you from your careful consideration of your own humanity.

You don't answer, instead rereading the last answer you'd filled out.  

IF WE WERE LOVERS WHO BROKE UP, WE WOULD HAVE DATED BECAUSE OF _____ AND BROKEN UP BECAUSE OF _____.

It felt a little too close to home and yet, you were in the home stretch.  You'd be held here in this little piece of forever until you answered. 

He begins before you get a chance to, impossibly softer than he'd been previously.  "If we were lovers who broke up, we would have dated because you felt like my other half."  You have to remind yourself that it's all hypothetical but his voice is so alluring, like a lullaby you'd like to slip into dreamland listening to.  Even the way he details your imaginary breakup is beguiling, low timbre hitting some chord in your heart you weren't aware existed.  "We would have broken up because you'd always be chasing a vision of me - and not the real me."

Emotion wells in your chest and in your throat and behind your eyes and you have to swallow thickly, forcing the onslaught down before you're crying in front of the cameras and making a fool of yourself. 

You'd written something silly but as you prepare to answer the same question, it feels far too inconsequential, like a child playing dress-up.  

"If we were lovers, we would have dated because I was your muse."  His mouth quirks at that, though you can't see from the way you're staring at your hands still and it's short-lived.  "We would have broken up because I couldn't keep up with you."  It's not what you'd originally opted for but it feels better.  Right.  Like it could be true, in some fantasy world where people like him ended up with people like you. 

Silence drags on once you've finished speaking.  You could hear a pin drop - and think you do.  It might just be someone's pen slipping from their hand.

Your eyes meet, like kismet, after what feels like forever.  He smiles and you can imagine that same, sad thing mirrored in your own expression. 

"Please give us your percent of interest based on your final impression."  The public address system again, tearing your little illusion to shreds.  He's a stranger again, someone you've only met for the purpose of this YouTube video.

You glance down at your phone and without thinking, press that frightful "1" followed by two 0's.  You see him enter his score.

And then the lights are fading from a rosy glow, replaced by the standard professional lighting.  The curtains have closed and the production assistants are milling over, thanking you for your time and advising of when you might expect to see the video up.  You're barely listening.

Because Taehyung's already gone.

notes.   i've never written this much in one sitting.  i hope you enjoy it!  as always, feedback appreciated.