#prompt: calculus

[tallbluelady]

Rowan found that even calculus was made interesting by Urianger's enthusiasm for the subject.

[loonybun]

magical girls as living weapons magical girls and living weapons magical girls as living weapo

[datpotatolover]

Romance Story Idea.

She was a princess, isolated and abandoned. Cursed by birth to reduce the power of any being who dared to touch her.

He was a prince. Complex and irrational. Yet possessed a power so mysterious and unknown that could be altered by his will.

Only he was the one, whose power the princess couldn't alter. The first one to embrace her in years he was.

When the princess finally looked at him after her embrace, tears of joy rolled down her eyes, to find his power still and unchanged.

She held him and cried, years of loneliness and pain spilled from her eyes, leaving the irrational prince in a confused frenzy. Her first ever laughter came through her mouth at the sight of his confused face.

Enchanted by her lush laugh, the prince too smiled, and held her in his arms for as long as she wanted.

This is the heartfelt tale of princess d/dx and prince e^x. A cursed princess and an irrational prince.

[shinybulbasaur]

idk, it really sucks to see lectures on how "anyone can do art if they practice" from people who gleefully say that they hate math/science and that they refuse to go near it. like I'm not saying that everyone has to be good at math, but like, as someone who does both it's really weird and uncomfortable seeing the difference in how people talk about these things. "do it bad" should apply to science fairs just as much as it does to painting

[luna200418]

Hello (*^ー^)ノ

Today was great

I got new headphones, which makes my life a lot easier. I made so many Spotify playlists, too, so I didn't do any studying. I also slept during my calculus lecture, which is today's only lec. I finished foing the chemistry experiment calculations yesterday, along some calculus practice, but i barely hadany time for anything else.

But I did write a scene in the wip, which I don't know where it happens, but I saw a prompt on Pinterest, and it sparked an idea.

Here is the scene:

Ash

I adjusted the dress Titan gave suggested once again, taking a final glance at the mirror before stepping out of the bathroom. when I peek into the room, Titan is still on his bed, absently scrolling on his phone. He lifted hid head, as if sensing my presence.

"Come on out, show me the dress," he urged, a smile spreading on his face. He straightened, anticipation lining his face.

I press my lips together, suppressing a sigh. I walked out from behind the wall separating the room from the wardrobe and bathroom, feeling my nerves tickle my stomach. He's the only person in this entire world that makes me feel things I never thought I'd ever feel again. Vulnerable and exposed yet....safe and seen.

I stopped next to the dresser, thumbing the hem as Titan's eyes roamed my body. My cheeks heated up from his scorching gaze.

The simple red dress Titan had suggested for the dinner with his family wasn't just gorgeous, it complimented my lean shape and made my amber eye stand out more the the ice blue one, which is stunningly unusual.

Titan's jaw hangs slightly open, still looking at the way the dress is making me look.

"Say something," I mumbled, unsure of what to think of his reaction. No guy made me feel like this. Like it's not just my skills in bed mattered, not the way I made him feel. I was more than what the world saw when I'm with Titan. He knows the storms in me without looking, and he knows how to make them bearable if not calmer.

"You are breathtaking," he whispered, afraid to shatter what hung between us by speaking normally, but loud enough for me to hear. My breath hitched at his words. His grean eyes that had hunted me met my mismatched ones, my lips parted as he moved from his spot on the bed, coming to stand right in front of me. I can see the war in his eyes, between giving in to what he wants and providing what I need in this moment. And damn me if that doesn't make me fall for him a bit further. If thats even possible.

There's not enough air in the room, not with the way he's looking at me. Not when i can feel the heet radiating off of his body. A body I know very well.

He palms my waist gently, still at war with himself. A slow smirk spreads on my face. "Hands off," I cammanded, adopting the division leader tor eyes flare and he drops his hands.

"Ashley." His voice was rough, almost desperate. It goes straight to my core.

"I don't like to be touched without consent," I murmured, surging up on my toes, bringing our faces closer. "Am I clear, commander?"

"Fuck, Ashley." A low curse under his breath, enough to keep me going.

"Use your words, or you'll get nothing,"

"Ashley." He inhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a brief moment, before opening them. He's hanging by a thread. "Please, Ashley." His voice cracked under the weight of his restraint.

"Please what?" I am enjoying this a bit.

He groans, and I know if I look down, I'll see what's paining him. "Commander?" I whispered again, our lips brushing. Titan is staring at mine. "Say the wors, and I'm all yours."

His eyes snapped to mine, and in that moment, the war inside him ended. something close to raw hunger shining in them. "You are mine." He growls into my lips, crashing his on mine. All heat and possession, and the world dissolved around us.

[plutos134340]

Jashtober Day 4: Chicken

Guys idk how to draw chickens so for todays prompt i just learned how to draw a chicken and gave him his rightful name

[blade-that-weeps]

TM questions: whirlwind: What's one thing that makes your character really confused?

Alchemy! All the philters and vials and the formulae, the math, the complex intricacies of the craft - it all makes his eyes glaze over. It's not that he's not intelligent enough to grasp the concept, it's just that it's so dense that his brain fogs up at the mere thought of memorising so much stuff.

[alltheprompts]

Dp x DC prompt #13 (yay lucky number!)

What if Danny is introduced to the family not as a gremlin, but as his friend from community College and he is so freaking normal that it makes the entire family suspicious. The only reason Jason decided to bring him along is that he knows Danny seems too normal for their cohort and it will utterly freak out Bruce and Tim, confuse Grayson and set off Damian. Jason though, he knows Danny is only normal for the first few times of interaction, then he starts getting weird even by Bat Family standards.

Jason: Hey. I brought my friend from campus tonight.

Danny: Hi! Nice to meet you!

Bat family: *suspicious eyes* Nice to meet you.

Danny: I totally didn't believe Jason when he said he was one of 5 kids but he proved me wrong. Lol.

Bat family: How'd you meet Jason?

Danny: OH! He's been tutoring me in English class and I've been helping him with Calculus. We met at the library when I was trying but failing to type a paper and ended up irritating him with my groaning. He walked right over asked me to shut up and I apologized and said I was having difficulty *insert English homework here* and he had a look utter disgust and surprise and said "how the fuck are you having problems with that?"

Jason: I was disgusted. That was such an easy topic.

Danny: For you maybe! Anyways I said "Well if it's so fucking easy, explain it to me. And he did! With way better clarity then my professor. So I thanked him and asked what I could do in exchange for help. He then told to stay fucking quiet o he can work on his stuff. And we went on about our business. A week later we were both back in the library again and he was banging his head, so I went over and asked if he was okay and he yelled to leave him alone and he just as I was about to leave I noticed he was working on calculus and told Jim I could help if he wanted. He looked at me like I was insane.

Jason: I was cause you are. Most people don't ask to help after being yelled and cursed at.

Danny: But you had helped me on my english paper! I wanted to return the favor! This happened a few more times before it became normal to meet at the library and work together!

The batfamily is reeling at this strangely normal and meet cute type story and the fact that Jason was going to college and nobody knew somehow (Alfred knew).

After meeting Danny, they stalk him to see if he was acting normal or trying to mess with Jason or Jason manipulated someone normal to mess with them. The first while Danny seems perfectly normal and innocent but after a while they start getting a feeling of something off about Danny like he was both him and not. They also notice that Jason tends to stay calmer when he is around Danny. As they realize he is weird and they slowly figure it out, they actually get less anxious about Danny. As someone not quite normal or human in Danny's case was far more comforting for them then anyone of them managing to befriend an actual normal civilian with no apparent baggage or extreme homelife. A

[valentinedrifter]

Snippets with Ningning: Pink

Ningning x Eunha

~2.8k words

A/N: Prompt by @woollypoison, Thanks for hosting, much love!

Enjoy.

Yizhuo doesn’t know why the fuck you’re dating that stupid bitch.

Like, seriously? Out of everyone, you’re in bed with her? The fucking pink-haired bitch with the most kissable Goddamn lips, thighs that could pass off as fucking earmuffs, and tits she could just squeeze like lemo-

Okay, so maybe she sees what you see in the bitch, but that doesn’t mean she has to like it. And what the hell does the slut have that she doesn’t?

She’s got a pretty good pair of lips that she knows could take your soul away if she ever got the chance to go down on you—nine out of ten recommended—and while her tits aren’t as big as the bitch has it, Yizhuo still has quite the set that can most definitely wow you when you get a hold of them. Oh, and her ass, her fucking ass can honest to God choke you out if she ever decides to sit on your face.

Shit, she had pink hair too for like, two months, so why didn’t you try anything with her? 

If she tried hard enough, she can be the cover girl for some fashion brand out there. She has class. Standards. Self-respect, dignity if she wants to push it, not like the bitch that everyone wants to bend over their desk.

Yizhuo’s smarter than the stupid idiot that can’t even do inferential statistics to save her life. She gets As on average, and she can talk your ass off about anything that wasn’t just about getting fucked on the daily.

She helped you understand what derivatives and limits are for calculus. And where was Barbie from Temu? Getting railed in the clinic, that’s where the hell she was.

Like, damn, she can cook real food. Not the instant noodle bullshit at the local convenience store or the quick sandwich that doesn’t even count. Yizhuo can cook the good shit. Hot pots, grilled pork, she can make salmon if you were into that. Food that’s made with love. Food you damn well deserve.

So what in the fuck is she missing?

Did she need to go back to dying her hair pink just so you can notice her? Did you like bigger tits? A fatter ass? Did Yizhuo need to make you lunch every damn day?

Was it because the free prostitute won the genetic lottery, because damn if the slut didn’t need makeup to look that fucking hot. 

It was bullshit. She should be the one bragging all over campus, not the dumb bitch that stole you under her nose. Stupid whore doesn’t even treat you right, because if that wasn’t enough, she’s also a toxic piece of shit.

Yizhuo knows the rumors. About how the slut sleeps with practically everyone, from the math nerd, the volleyball star, the history professor, the fucking janitor. The campus mascot even got lucky, while wearing the fucking suit. She doesn’t know how the logistics of that would even work.

Yizhuo heard from Lia that a teacher caught Pinky and the Dean with the door open. Not closed, not locked. Open. Judging from the fact that nothing happened, she probably slept with the teacher too.

There’s even that one time where the dumbass set off the fire alarm in the middle of a quickie. How the hell does that even happen?

Speaking of alarms, Pinky’s a walking red flag, a red alert, a tactical nuke type of danger that screams typhoon siren sounds out of her ass, and she wears it like a medal. Why she’s proud of it, Yizhuo will never know. She gives props for confidence though.

And don’t even get Yizhuo started on all the exes that the bitch got bored of, or cheated on, or destroyed a perfectly happy relationship for a quick fling. Bitch is playing eenie-meenie-miney-mo at this point with how high her body count is. She’s a certified cum dumpster that’s free Twenty-Four-Seven.

She’s surprised that the slut hasn’t gotten a disease from the amount of people that’s gotten in and out of her. 

You know all about it when she asked—totally not because she isn’t curious as to why you would try and date the walking condom—and all you had to say was-

“I don’t think she did all that.”

What the hell do you mean you don’t believe them, Yizhuo thinks, because everyone and their mother knows about what the hell the tramp’s done. Shit, the motherfucker has most likely fucked a mother too, if the rumor about her and the librarian was true; It probably is.

Was that it? Were you into bad bitches? Did you have that ‘I can fix her’ kink that always went wrong because this isn’t some movie that gives you those silly happy endings. 

Then again, you were optimistic like that. So innocent, so sweet, Yizhuo could just pinch your cheeks because of how cute you are-

Hold on, does she need to do that too? Start wearing tight tops, start fucking everyone she sees in a five meter radius, holy fuck does she need to fuck the janitor? 

She sure as shit wasn’t petty about it. Nope. Nada. No ma’am. She just doesn’t understand why you would look at someone like Pinky and not like her. 

She’s been with you throughout everything, the highs and the lows, the in-betweens, the break ups—which, your relationship with that bitch will definitely end up on—yet, you don’t even see Yizhuo as something more.

She’s trying to be supportive about it like she always did, but that whore is really making it hard for her to root for the both of you. But as your best friend, your confidant, she would endure.

But if she sees you with that bitch one more damn time, she’s getting a flamer somewhere—she’ll make one herself if she has too—and turn this campus into a fire hazard.

Truth be told, it needs the cleansing after everything the human fleshlight has done on every surface imaginable. Desks, doors, public benches. She probably needs to burn the statue in the middle of the main hall too.

Okay, so maybe Yizhuo’s going off the deep end, but she swears that this is an extremely reasonable crashout, cause at this point, the campus wants to be burned. After everything its witnessed, she can consider it consensual arson, and she’s just there to get it started. 

It would be so easy too. That Gauel chick from chemistry made some sort of homemade project last year, and she could probably make a copy-

“Hey!”

The shout made her snap her head so fast she got whiplash. Her mind’s still mentally noting all the things she needs before it registers who called her.

You. Standing there, all cute, that cheeky smile filling your face that makes her want to squeeze your face out because of how adorable you are. 

Yizhuo has to dig her nails into her notebook to stop herself from just grabbing you and shoving her tongue down your throat.

And you don’t even know that you’re using that smile as a weapon because damn does that make her filthiest fantasies overwrite everything that she was thinking of from the last ten minutes. Shit, that smile’s enough to get her in the mood when her thighs unconsciously press together.

It would be so damn easy to just, like, take you right here, in the library where anyone can hear and everyone can look. Yizhuo sees the vision forming inside of her mind. 

The way you’d wrap your lips around her pretty little fingers, throating two, no, three of them down and you’d fucking take it like the throat GOAT she imagines you are.

Then she would fuck your mouth with them while you’re on your knees, and you’d have your hands on her thighs, tears and spit spilling down your chest, messing up that snug little t-shirt you’re wearing.

God, Yizhou would suck the life out of you. First with your mouth after it's been thoroughly used by her fingers. She’d explore every single inch of that mouth, and she’d get sloppy with it too. Nip at your plump fucking lips, lick the spit that’s dripping down your chin. 

She’s getting wet at the thought of you moaning out her name.

She’d bend you over the table and spank that absolute dump truck of an ass you’ve got. Yizhuo wonders how much that juicy flesh would ripple every time she’d give each cheek a hard slap. 

She would even get a handful of it, and she’d burn the feeling of that big, fat ass into her memory if she could.

She’d yank those jeans down your legs, give you another hard slap on that bare ass, and she’d go to town on you. But she’d go slow. Use her hands to get you all worked up, make you beg for her to use her pretty little mouth. And when she does, Yizhuo’s gonna savour the look on your face-

Wait. Since when did you have pink hair?

That threw her out of her daydreams, because last she checked, you had blonde hair. Now suddenly it’s this light pink that’s oddly similar to the slut you’re dating.

You’re still looking at her. Blinking, smiling, like you don’t have a fucking clue what was going on in Yizhuo’s mind, full of intrusive thoughts and debauchery all because of two completely different women.

“Eunha!” Yizhuo tucks a strand of hair back, giving you—her—a timid smile. “I…thought you had class.”

Jung Eunbi. Eunha, to those who know her. Yizhuo’s best friend. Also known as the love of her life.

“The prof got sick, so I got some time to kill.” Eunha plops down the chair in front and crosses her arms. “And you have been avoiding me.”

“No I haven’t.” Yizhuo lies, smooth as hell, cause she’s done this too many times in the past few weeks, fiddling with the pen on the desk that she was supposed to be using to write math equations. “Professor Roh’s been swarming us with work. I swear she’s at that time of the month.”

Eunha laughs, giving Yizhuo those tingles on her stomach that she seriously cannot be having right now. “Everyone’s swarming us with work. Even professor Myoui, and she barely gives anything out.”

For a while, it was normal again. Yizhuo and Eunha, messing around as always. No problems, no avoiding, no reminders of who Eunha was meeting at the end of the day.

Well, except for her pink hair which-

“When did you dye your hair?” Yizhuo pretends to be curious but she’s really just fishing cause she knows that Pinky’s involved in it somehow.

“Like a week ago.” Eunha’s twirling the ends of her curls, and fuck if Yizhuo really just wants to tell her that she really shouldn’t be doing that in front of her, because even though the color’s a stark reminder of the slut she’s dating, she looks even prettier with it.

And Yizhuo really shouldn’t be imagining the things that she wants to do to Eunha again.

“I would’ve asked my best friend,” Yizhuo can’t help but look to the side for that. “For help but she hasn’t been responding to my texts lately.”

“Your girlfriend might get angry.” That was the shittiest excuse she could’ve given, Yizhuo lets the stray thought cross through her mind, but she might as well commit to the bit. “I was trying to give you space.”

“She doesn’t care.” Eunha says, shaking her head, chuckling. “She knows that nothing’s going on between us. And she knows we’ve been friends for like, forever.”

It felt like Yizhuo got shot and left dead in a ditch somewhere when she heard those words. Nothing, Eunha says. Friends since forever, Eunha says. Yizhuo’s been trying to get something going but she keeps pussying out of it.

Her fault, really. She’s let so many chances slip by and now this happens. Eunha taken away from one of the worst people Yizhuo can imagine.

The bitch not caring really did sound like her, to be honest.

Yizhuo was about to say something along the lines of ‘Why she’s still with her’ again but she didn’t have to, because the stupid idiot decided to do it for her.

“Baby!”

And there she is. The Queen Bitch of the campus strutting into the library, dressed like a cheap whore. Boxy glasses that had no lens, ponytail held up to the side, the school girl outfit with the short skirt and the top that showed off how big her tits are. That same shade of pink coloring her hair, just a bit darker than Eunha’s.

Uchinaga motherfucking Aeri. Giselle, to those who know her. And everyone fucking knows her.

“Gigi!” Eunha stands up, giving Aeri—Yizhuo is not going to call her Giselle for fuck’s sake—a hug.

Aeri wraps an arm around Eunha’s waist like it was supposed to be there, like she’s done it so many times. And she has. Just not with Eunha.

Yizhuo did not feel her eye twitch. 

Not at goddamn all.

“Miss me already babe?” Aeri leaves a kiss on Eunha’s temple, and Yizhuo really hates how it’s making Eunha blush.

“Just a little bit.” Eunha lets out this shy giggle that makes Yizhuo want to bang her head on the desk. “I-uhm, I dyed my hair pink.”

“Looking like a snack.” Aeri pulls back, enough to get a good look at Eunha, who’s looking down on the ground, cheeks becoming rosy. “Pink suits you.”

Yizhuo’s resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

“I wanted to try something new.” Eunha replies, glancing up to Aeri, quick, hidden. That one little gesture was enough for Yizhuo to realize why Eunha dyed it.

She looks away, her own cheeks reddening from anger, shame, insanity. Were they seriously flirting in front of her? It’s like she wasn’t even there, and the fact that she feels replaced by Aeri is like a punch to the damn gut.

What she wouldn’t do to be in that bitch’s place.

And suddenly Yizhuo hears alarm bells go off.

At first, it was a glance. Aeri’s eyes move away from Eunha to her, then her entire head turns, and she hears those sirens go off louder in her head.

Because now Aeri’s eyeing her up like a snack, licking her lips, eyeing her from head to toe. It is seriously making her feel unsafe in the quiet working environment she calls her second home.

She is not thinking what Yizhuo thinks she’s doing right now. Hell no. She’s seeing things.

Aeri’s gaze stays on her, tilting her head, bedroom eyes landing on her chest. Yizhuo should’ve worn a jacket.

Please, do not let her be serious, Yizhuo is hoping, praying that any deity out there can answer her. She knows it’s useless, but it’s worth a try anyways.

“Hey, Yizhuo.” Aeri starts, lips tugging upwards, slow, predatory, unsafe. “Can I call you Ningning? Eunha always calls you that.”

No. “Sure, I guess.” Yizhuo knew that was a mistake pretending to be friends with this bitch because Aeri’s smile got wider. 

She sees Eunha smile too, leading her and Aeri to sit down on the table, completely oblivious to the fact that her best friend is being eye fucked by her girlfriend. “Found Ningning here studying for Professor Roh’s exam and figured we could catch up.”

“Is she now?” Aeri drawls, hand on her chin, still giving Yizhuo that fucking look. 

“Lots of things to do, you know.” Yizhuo replies, looking down at her notebook, really hoping that Aeri can fuck off. Her prayers were…not answered.

“You think she’d be down to help tutor us?” Aeri asks her girlfriend—that’s so gross to think about—but her eyes are staying with Yizhuo.

Oh fuck no, is what Yizhuo would love to answer, but Eunha, sweet, innocent Eunha, makes that response impossible. 

“That’s a great idea!” Eunha beams and nods at her, excited at the prospect.

“I know, right?” Aeri grins. “I think it’ll be very educational.”

No it will not, Yizhuo thinks, but the words don’t come out. What does come out makes her want to throw herself out the window because she’s a sucker for making Eunha happy. The pout Eunha’s sending her way is killing Yizhuo inside too.

“I think I’m free on the weekends to help you guys out.”

Eunha starts going off about where they’re all going to meet up, what food they should get before studying, after studying. Yizhuo’s stomach is doing backflips at how adorable she is.

And Aeri? She’s smiling, joking, playing along, all while looking at her with this dangerous glint in her eyes. Yizhuo’s stomach wants to throw up at the idea of what Aeri actually wants to do during that day.

Yizhuo feels like she just got locked into a route inside of a dating sim. And she did not like where it was going.

Yizhuo also needs a shower. A long, cold, soapy shower.

And a very lengthy, in-depth discussion with Gaeul about fire.

[fannibalsworld]

i want to see professor calculus as a pokemon gym leader!

Professeur Tournesol is translated as Professor Calculus in the english version of Tintin ?! uh... kinda lame imo, I never like it when characters have names directly related to what they do it feels too fake

[pretty-little-mind33]

Dave Lizewski x fem!reader

Summary: Being partners with Kick-Ass is far more intimidating when you have a huge crush on him, especially when he won't stop talking about his crush.

Prompt: hurt and comfort - "I'm so sick of pretending like everything is okay."

here you go, my darling @lavieenvalentina! ily! seeing you in my notifs always makes me so happy!

DAVE LIZEWSKI MASTERLIST

BLURB MASTERLIST

The night is humid and hot and nothing seems to be going your way. 

First, your costume had shrunk in the laundry making the middle feel three sizes too small. Second, it had been drizzling outside and now your hair is frizzy, and third—your partner, Kick-Ass, has been going on and on about this girl Katie from his high school. 

You know Katie. You've deduced you go to the same school. She's all sugary sweet on the outside, but she's been casually teasing you since middle school, which is something you can't exactly tell him considering your identity must remain a secret. 

It doesn't help that you don't know who Kick-Ass is either. Hell, he could be one of the stupid popular jocks for all you know and then you'd so feel silly.

"And her hair is so silky and smooth, I wonder how she—" Kick-Ass continues as you walk, grinning like an idiot. You don't know how much longer you can take this agony, but you try and listen to him anyway.

"You okay?" he asks after more rambling because he can now sense you aren't listening. 

You pause, stopping at a crossroads and then you turn to him. "I should go home, there isn't any crime happening," you say, needing some time alone and away from him. 

"Did I say something wrong?" he asks, his voice low and hoarse. It's the tone that makes your cheeks feel warm and your heart flutters uncontrollably. Behind his mask, his bright blue eyes shine and he's looking at you like some poor puppy who can't understand why his owner won't give him a bone. 

"Don't look at me like that," you say, taking his arm and pulling him into a small alley. 

"Like what?" he sounds genuinely confused as he leans against the brick wall. 

"Like a damn wounded puppy!" you exclaim, throwing up your arms in exasperation, "As if I've kicked you or something stupid. Why do you always have to act like the one who's hurt when all you do is hurt me?!"

The words tumble from your lips.

"I hurt you?" he whispers, his concerned expression obvious even with almost his entire face covered. "How? I thought we were friends. You're the best damn friend I've ever had."

"You don't know me," you interrupt him and fiddle with the latex of your glove, "not really." 

"Well, I could know you," Kick-Ass says, sounding very determined. "You're the one who doesn't want to know me. I've told you a thousand times you can trust me. I've even told you my name."

Your eyes widen at this revelation. "What? When?"

"The first week we met, you never told me yours but whatever," he shakes his head and then outstretches his hand, "Here, I don't mind. I trust you. My name is Dave," he says casually.

You suddenly click all the pieces in your head and your smile drops.

"Dave Lizewski?" you whisper, suddenly recognizing his voice. Of course, how could you not have recognized him? You sit next to Dave in Pre-Calculus every single day. Dave hangs around with Katie all the time. You look him up and down.

His eyebrows crease. "How did you know that?" he asks suspiciously.

You think, screw this, and untie your mask from behind your head, letting it drop into your hands. You look up, almost afraid of his reaction.

Dave's eyes widen and he stutters out your name, the syllables stuck in his throat as he processes that it's you.

He didn't consider you a friend at school, but you always helped him in Pre-Calculus when you could so he liked you. Plus, you're gorgeous and he can't deny that before Katie Deauxma, he'd thought of you in inappropriate ways—sometimes he still does.

His cheeks burn bright red. 

"It's you," is all he can muster.

You shrug and look away from him. "This is so stupid," you say and then turn to him again, "We're so stupid for not knowing. I mean, we talk all the time."

Dave pulls off his mask. Luckily no one is walking around this dinghy alley to see you both. Your breath catches in your throat at seeing Dave, his hair messy and stuck to his skin, his glasses abandoned and dressed in his Kick-Ass suit. 

You start to laugh. You aren't laughing at him but at this absurd situation. 

Dave doesn't take it like that and he scrunches up his nose. "Are you laughing at me?"

You shake your head and look at him seriously. "No, I'm laughing because if I had known waking up today that the boy I have a crush on was none other than Dave Lizewski from Pre-Calculus—I think I would have pinched myself."

Your words sink and Dave's eyes widen until he looks almost scared. "What?"

"You know Katie thinks you're gay. That's the only reason she's your friend," you interrupt. You feel the need to tell him, like jealousy and pure venom is slipping from your mouth. Is it mean? A little, but you think it's time someone should burst his bubble.

Dave frowns, your previous statement slipping his mind momentarily. "I know that," he tells you, defensive. 

"Then why on earth do you have to go on and on about her all the time?"

"Sorry, I didn't realize I was inconveniencing you, Y/n," he snaps without hesitation, crossing his arms.

"Well, you are," you snap back, glaring at him and looking at him like this, knowing who he is, makes this a thousand times harder.

If Kick-Ass did turn out to be a stupid, meat-head, jock then this would be so much easier. Only he isn't. He's Dave Lizewski  and Dave is sweet and he's funny and he's brave and—

"I'm so sick of pretending like everything is okay," you blurt out and bury your face in your hands. 

Dave is quiet for a moment until he walks closer and pulls your hands down so he can look at you. "Okay, listen, can we please rewind for a second?" he asks, "y-you said you have a crush on me."

You shake your head and warmth spreads across your cheeks. 

"You did," Dave insists. 

"Doesn't matter, it's stupid."

"It does matter," he says and his hands cup your cheeks, hair falling and tickling his wrists as his mask hangs from his hand. "It matters because you're lovely and kind and I really like you." 

"Not the way I like you," you counter, "you like Katie Deauxma." 

Dave winces and he can't argue. His feelings don't just magically disappear, although he can admit that for some reason—after seeing you in this light—something inside him shifted. Something he can't explain right now.

"Y/n, you don't know me either," he tells you honestly, "you may know Kick-Ass a little, and you may like him, but you don't like Dave."

Not yet, you want to finish but you don't. You keep your mouth shut. He has a point.

"Just don't talk about her anymore, will you?"

Dave smiles a little, nodding his head. "Okay. Promise," he looks into your eyes, his gaze flickering to your lips. 

He has a really strong feeling he won't need to talk about Katie anymore.

[zepskies]

UNRAVEL ME - Part 2

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Afro-Latina!Reader

Summary: In the wake of Vought Tower finally falling, you find yourself crossing paths with Soldier Boy. Rogue, weakened, dangerous, and hunted, he needs a place to hide. You’re not about to offer up your own home to shelter a supe wanted by Homelander and the CIA…but he’s also not going to let you refuse.

AN: Ahhh here we are at Part 2! Thank you to everyone who shared their thoughts on Part 1 and wanted to see more. I really, truly appreciate it since I'm trying some new things with this series. 🥰💗

Song Inspo: “Come Fly with Me” by Frank Sinatra

JVB Prompt for @jacklesversebingo: Accidental Old Person Acquisition

Word Count: 7.7K

Tags/Warnings: Some uncomfortable friction in this one, friends. 😬 But also more ethnic foodie adventures for Ben, some mini breakthroughs and bonding moments, angst, and more obnoxious flirting 🙄 (you know the drill). Chapter title inspired by a song in The Sound of Music: "Maria."

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💙 YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Part 2: A Problem Like Chiquita

“What the fuck is this?” Ben says gruffly.

He examines the food you’ve ordered from the Colombian bakery like it’s college-level calculus, holding a fat, golden, crescent-shaped pastry pocket in his hand.

“Food,” you dryly reply. “That’s an empanada. It’s hella fucking good.”

You’re eating one as well. The meat grease comes off orange on your fingers, but that’s how you know it’s well-cooked and packed with flavor.

Colored grease = seasoning.

Ben's face strains with confusion, crows feet crinkling around his eyes, his mouth pulling at a frown.

"An empa-what?"

Restraining a sigh, you try to be patient.

"Em-pa-na-da," you repeat, articulating slowly.

He still looks skeptical as he eyes the thing in his hand, even if it does smell good, like paprika and cumin and other savory spices.

“What’s it made out of?” he asks.

“Ground beef? Pastry? Happiness?” You shrug. “My people make it better. But then again, I’m a bit biased.”

The man is hesitant, but he slowly takes a bite. He chews thoughtfully. After that first big swallow, it’s good enough for him to go back in for another bite, and then finish it off with a second and third one. He reaches for another empanada in the white takeout box. 

“Are they all the same?” he asks. 

You watch in amused satisfaction. “No, that one’s chicken. These on the left are beef.”

He makes a what do you know? kind of face, and he digs into the rest of the pastries. You smile slightly. The man can eat, that’s for sure. Your grandma would have fun feeding him.

“Sooo, when are you planning on hitting the road?” you ask. “Since, you know, Homelander and the government are looking for you.”

You checked the news while you were holed up in your room, waiting for the delivery you ordered through Doordash. According to every local news outlet, there’s now a full-on manhunt for Soldier Boy throughout the city. You find a clip on your phone and turned it toward him on the kitchen table to prove your point.

“Soldier Boy is armed and dangerous. The ‘see something, say something’ rule applies. If you would like to report a sighting of Soldier Boy, please call 1-800—”

Ben taps the screen and presses hard until the clip pauses. You take back your phone quickly before he can break it. He keeps eating, and you raise your brows at him. Your hands sweep upward in a what the fuck gesture. 

“Hello?” you prod. Is he going to answer you, or just keep stuffing his face?

“Could use a little more R&R before I head out,” he says. His expression remains stoic as he eats. You watch him incredulously, wondering when he’s going to have the balls to look up at your face. He never does.

The frustration that’s been building up inside you reaches critical mass. The dial pushes, pushes, pushes over until it cracks safety glass. You can almost hear the steam whistling in your ears, along with your drumming heartbeat.

You stand from the table, your chair scraping across the floor. You can tell the sound irritates his sharp ear as he glances up at you with a frown.

“You are a goddamn fugitive. You get that right?” you say, regarding him with an incredulous tilt of your head. “Now you’ve hooked me into this. I could get in serious shit because of you, and you don’t even seem to care! What…what kind of fucking superhero are you supposed to be?”

At the same time, you don’t know why this surprises you. Most of the supes you’ve met couldn’t care less about the average person. The entire purpose of Vought’s Legal Department springs to mind.

Still, you thought America’s first supe ever—the one who supposedly fought in WWII, pounded Nazis up the ass, and represented the ideals this country was supposed to be founded on—might actually give a shit. Yet again, it stings to be proven wrong.

Ben’s face had been verging on apathy, but now, he’s just as irritated and angry as you. He pushes back from the table and stands up to his full height. Even wearing your ex’s plain gray crew shirt and some threadbare sweatpants, the man’s frame is intimidating. He slowly steps closer until he’s looming over you.

There’s a warning gleam in his eyes as he grabs hold of your chin. His entire hand frames your jaw with iron strength, forcing a gasp out of you. You latch onto his wrist instinctively, even knowing it’s useless.

“You better watch your fucking mouth, sweetheart. Before that little attitude of yours gets you into trouble,” he says. Calm, controlled, or so he'd have you believe. The a spark underneath, an edge. A fragile fucking ego.

Your breathing shallows, but you refuse to bend. Not in your own home.

“Do it,” you snap. “Bat me around if it makes you feel like a man.” 

Ben’s gaze hardens, a shade incredulous too.

“You’re a little fucking crazy, huh? Not to mention a disrespectful brat.”

“Maybe,” you say. You know you’re taking your life into your hands. Your heart thuds a staccato beat inside your chest, but you meet his gaze unflinchingly.

You’re exhausted, stressed so bad that your hands wouldn’t stop shaking this morning while you were brushing your teeth. Your mind’s been spinning fractals of “what if” scenarios, wondering when the door of your apartment is going to get blown apart, with either laser beams or bullets flying in first, no questions asked later.

You’re at your fucking limit.

And when you look at Ben, you see the second skin of arrogance pulled on like the costume he wore as Soldier Boy. The kind that probably hides what he’s really feeling underneath, not wanting to deal with the reality of whatever choices led him here.

“Doesn’t change the fact that you’re a selfish asshole. A fucking bully,” you add.

His hold tightens a fraction; his fingers press into your cheek, making you flinch and tremble inside. It doesn’t stop you from opening your mouth again. It just hardens your defiance, your glare of disgust while you’re forced to look up at his face.

“So far, I don’t see anything about you that’s worth respecting,” you say. “But I’m nobody, right? Not even a supe. Why should you fucking care what I think? Why should you care how I feel, or how easy it would be to hurt me?”

Your voice is barely more than a whisper, but the words carry the weight.

Darkened green eyes lock with yours, a silent battle of wills. You see the gears turning there, as if he’s weighing a decision in his mind.

Your cell phone rings. The sharpness, along with the insistent buzz, causes ripples through the Berlin Wall of tension. You glance over to where the phone lies on the dining table. The screen is lit up with the caller ID.

Dad calling…

You look up at Ben again. He watches you more impassively now.

You squeeze his wrist with both hands, hot tears finally welling up in your eyes. You’re not going to apologize or take back what you said, but you’re hoping there’s just one shred of humanity in him, however deep those layers go.

“Look, just...please,” you whisper. “Ben, please stop.”

The supe releases a heavy exhale through his nose.

His hand relaxes. He lets you go, like you’re not worth the effort of teaching you a lesson.

“Be careful, sweetheart. I might not let it go a second time,” he warns.

You stumble backward a couple of steps. You eye him while he walks away toward the living room. You make a cautious, sliding move to grab your phone with shaking hands.

You let out a subtle breath of relief before you answer the call, heading to your room all the while.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Oh, thank God. Gloria!” He calls to your mom in relief. “She’s okay! Christ, we saw what happened to Vought on the news. The explosion—”

“Yeah, they evacuated most of us in time,” you reassure him. Though you still hope he hasn’t seen the “hunt for Soldier Boy” yet. Nerves trill up your spine, making you toss in a joke to deflect. “I thought you didn’t like Vought News. Too biased.”

“Every channel in the world is showing that goddamn building on fire! I want you to come home. Now,” he says.

You heave a deep sigh and drop down into a seat on the edge of your bed. You touch your jaw, still feeling the phantom grip. It hadn’t been painful, exactly, but still tight enough to make you feel the asshole’s tempered strength.

“I…I can’t right now,” you reply. You mentally scramble for an explanation your dad will believe. He’s a stubborn, highly opinionated, very protective and traditional Dominican man. He’s never liked the idea of you, a young woman, being in New York by yourself, and this whole thing is exactly the kind of validation he’ll use to try and control your life…but that’s all beside the fact that you have much bigger problems right now.

“The whole Tower didn’t go down, which means my job is still here,” you say.

A heavy sigh of frustration reaches you on the line.

“Now you’re being stubborn just to be stubborn,” he says gruffly. “I’ll never understand why you had to go all the way to the most dangerous city in the country just to draw. Living in that piece of shit apartment you can barely breathe in.”

Your anger sparks. It’s a well-worn argument that you don’t feel like hashing out right now.

“Dad, I’m a graphic artist,” you remind him. “But I’m more than that now. I’m the Second Assistant Content Manager in Social Media.”

Part of you withers inside anyway.

Vince, your boss, has you on a five- to eight-year track for promotion to Senior Second Assistant Content Manager—which sounds even more pathetic in your head.

“Yeah, well, you could’ve been an ‘artist’ with no money here,” your dad insists, even as your mom reproaches him in the background.

You sigh. “Look, I’m fine. So you don’t have to worry about me, okay? I’ll check in soon.”

You hang up with him shortly after, feeling that familiar weight that tries to suffocate you after most conversations with your dad. You know he’s worried about you. That’s understandable. But why is nothing you do good enough? Why doesn’t he ever believe in you?

You toss your cell phone on the bed and rub at the ache beginning to pulse at your temples.

You don’t even know when you’ll be able to go back to work. You have a fugitive cooling off his little temper tantrum on your couch, and no idea what how you’re going to get through the next 24 hours in one piece.

You let out a long, slow breath. Okay.

When these narrow walls feel like they’re about to swallow you whole, one of your go-to cures is the record player sitting on the right-hand corner of your desk. It barely fits between your bed and the closet, but it’s the best you can make of a little home art studio.

You grab a record from your modest collection, Selena’s Dreaming of You album from 1995, and you get it going. Your favorite song is the very first one, “I Could Fall in Love.”

It's whimsical and romantic, a little bittersweet and angsty, but still beautiful, just like Selena’s voice. It washes over you as you lie in bed and stare up at the ceiling.

What the hell are you going to do? If you call the police, you’ll be dead before they even reach your door…

You could text one of your coworkers, your ex, or maybe your boss. They could get a message to Ashley Barrett, or even Homelander himself.

Though you have a sick feeling you know how that would go.

“How long have you been hiding Soldier Boy? You helped him escape, didn’t you?”

“I mean, yeah, but no! He forced me—”

Hot laser beams and blood and your body hitting the ground, with steam coming off your corpse.

“Fuuuuck,” you groan, covering your face with both hands. You take in a shuddering breath, but you can’t control the flood of tears that burn in your eyes, or the way your body shakes with quiet sobs. 

You don’t realize that a broad, shadowed frame lingers behind your door. He leans his shoulder on the wall while he sips a beer.

After a beat, he shakes his head and continues on to the bathroom to take a leak.

Eventually, you have to escape your room for something to eat. You cook something simple for dinner: sautéed chicken and onions, rice, and a can of black beans. Your mom would smack your ass with a wooden spoon if she knew you ate canned beans, but sometimes you just don’t have time to prep your pressure cooker and make them from scratch.

Your “guest” eats two whole piled-on servings, as if he hadn't polished off the rest of the empanadas from this morning. You watch from your seat across from him at the dining table, bemused, resting your cheek in your hand.

Part of you feels a little flattered that he seems to like your food. Your ex-boyfriend had been a white boy too, but while he was always polite about eating whatever you cooked for him, you could tell that he hadn’t really enjoyed the “kick” of the flavors. (Even though you promised you hadn’t added any spicy peppers, apparently he considered black pepper and paprika to be “spicy.”)

“Had a feeling you could cook,” Ben says, around a half-masticated mouthful of chicken and rice. 

“Mhmm,” you intone. “Again, when are you checking out of my little Airbnb?”

“I fucking told you. When I’m good and ready,” he says. He eyes you in annoyance, and even gets fed up enough to drop his fork-wielding hand to clatter against his plate. “You know what, I fucking fought for my country. I fought for this fucking dumpster fire, and what did I get for it?” 

You pause, your eyes widening when you look up from your meal. You finally see that he’s not as stoic and nonchalant about being in his situation as you thought. There’s a deep well of anger there behind his eyes. Anger and frustration, maybe even confusion.

“You know what, that’s it,” he snaps. “Consider me fucking done. Retired. Everybody else did.”

He goes back to shoveling food into his mouth. You tilt your head at him with a reluctant spark of sympathy. You realize that you don’t know much about him.

You know what he’s famous for. You saw the Vought-produced documentary about his life—his humble beginnings in a rags-to-heroism story, then his apparent “death” in 1984. But that was back when Vought had the world convinced that supes were born, not made.

Oh yeah, the truth of Compound V hitting the news had shocked you last year, so much that you wondered what else Stan Edgar and the rest of the board was lying about. You started sending your applications to other companies, trying to get yourself out of the cesspool, but that’s when your boss distracted you with a promotion, a new title, more money to keep you on board.

“You’re vital to the department. You can help us remind the world what Vought really stands for: equality, diversity, the American dream, and the way our hardworking heroes protect that dream every day.”

Not that you buy into that bullshit manifesto anymore, but it was hard to walk away from a ten-thousand-dollar raise. (One that only got you out of relying on your credit cards, and not much else.)

Now you realize they were buying your silence as well as their damage control. Nothing is more influential for modern PR than social media, and if you're good at something, you think it's your fucking job.

Come to think of it, the company must be really shaken up your boss hasn't reached out to have you put anything out for damage control. From what you saw on the news, half of Vought Tower is in a shambles.

Only the first few floors are safely operable, according to the email updates you keep getting on your phone, assuring you that everything's under control. You hold in a snort. Maybe Ashley's having Vince do all the PR shit himself, keeping a tighter leash on things until you all go back in to work.

You tap a nail on the rim of your beer as you watch Ben practically inhale another slice of bread drizzled in olive oil and crushed garlic.   

Considering the fact that this man is very much not dead, and he’s nowhere near as charming and chivalrous as his movies led you to believe, you also think it’s fair to assume that all the stuff you’ve ever read or watched about him is bullshit too.

Though if you’re ever going to get out of this situation, you’re going to have to at least try to understand him.

Consider me fucking retired. Everybody else did.

The words were bitter, angry, resentful…and lost? You still remember the way he looked last night on your couch, exhausted, like a weight on his broad shoulders was finally making him crack, and sink into the ground.

“Everyone thought you were dead,” you say, finally breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Forty years, I mean…what happened to you? Where were you all that time?”

Ben glances at you, but doesn’t offer a reply. Instead, he continues to brood as he eats, with dark furrowed brows shadowing his eyes, shuttering his thoughts away tightly. You have a feeling that wherever he’d been, whatever he’d been doing up until now…it wasn’t good.

For the moment, you let go of your own frustrations with a sigh. 

“Look, I get that you’re in deep shit right now, but you know you can’t hide here forever,” you try to reason with him more calmly. “We’re in the middle of the city. They’re gonna find you, and then what’re they going to do to me for helping you?” 

Anxiety and fear climb up in your chest again, high enough to choke you. Tears well up in your eyes, though you try to beat it all down. The last thing you want to do is let him see you break.

“Do you really not even care?” you ask. 

Ben finally gives you a long look.

His gaze roams your face, and for once, you can hope that he’s considering how his actions are affecting you.

“Don’t you worry about that, sweetheart,” he says. He picks up his fork again and scoops another bite of rice and beans. “Whatever might come, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

You bite the inside of your lip, breathing in deep to reign in your tears. Somehow, you don’t believe him.

On the fourth day, you finally concede that Ben needs more clothes. He’s already stopped wearing underwear, since he claimed the borrowed boxer briefs from your ex was cutting off the circulation to his dick. 

Not wanting to hear his vulgar mouth anymore—or catch sight of him free-balling his sweatpants—you agreed to buy him a couple of things. He’s made you a list.

A fucking list.

You scoff at the brand names he got weirdly specific on. Tom Ford. Hugo Boss. The fuck? What does he think, you’ve got a side hustle selling crack? Do you have a mini money mint in your tiny closet? Have you got dollar bills growing out of your ass? 

He’ll have to be content with whatever you can find in his “super soldier” sizes at Target. You even pay extra for same-day delivery.

He allows you to leave the apartment just to go downstairs to accept the delivery. The building doesn’t have an elevator, so you have to lug several Target bags back up to the third floor. You struggle getting back in, having to basically throw yourself against the shitty door to get it to budge.

You make it through the threshold, just to find Ben snooping through your stuff. Every drawer and shelf in the living room is pulled open and messily rifled through inside. 

“What the hell are you doing?” you ask incredulously. 

“You mean to tell me you’ve got a gallon jug of tequila behind your TV, but you don’t have one ounce of reefer?” Ben remarks. 

You give him a weirded out look. First of all, no one says "reefer" anymore.

“I’m not a fucking pothead!” you actually say. You're already irritated and on edge as you set down the bags on the couch. 

“Bullshit. You’re some kind of artist, aren’t you? You creative types always know how to let loose.” He attempts some flattery as he smirks over at you. “Looks like you’re not such a prude after all. Huh, Chiquita?”

You open your mouth to reply, but you notice then that he has an old picture of you and your ex-boyfriend, in a…compromising position. 

Your eyes widen. “What—give me that!”

You snatch the picture out of his hand, along with the whole black velvet box of random stuff under Ben’s arm. You haven’t opened that box in a few months, but even though you’re over your ex, you’re a sentimental person at heart.

You glance down at the old-school polaroid, your cheeks warming in a blush. It was last year’s Halloween party at his apartment, and you two had gone dressed as Woody and Jessie from Toy Story. For shits and giggles, you bought a miniature version of Woody’s hat and…well, you laughed harder than him when you found out it was a perfect fit for “Little Woody.” You even got him to let you draw a face on the head of his cock. What you were too drunk to realize at the time was that you accidentally used a permanent marker.

“What’s cowboy’s name?” Ben asks. His sinful smirk makes your blush flare hotter.

“August,” you reply, stuffing the picture back in the box and shutting it tightly.

Ben chortles, his brows raising as high as his hairline. “August? Jesus Christ. I’ll bet he liked it up the ass too, didn’t he? Am I gonna find a strap-on in that little treasure trunk?”

Your glare snaps up to meet his amusement.

“All right, enough. It’s none of your goddamn business.” You gesture wildly at the Target bags on the couch. “There, I got you some clothes. See if they fit.”

You turn with the box firmly in hand, aiming to hide it better in your room. You’ve been subjected to his presence all of five minutes today, and already you need a break from him. Ben says something that makes you pause, however.

“Thanks,” he says.

It’s so unexpected that you stop, turning to look back at him over your shoulder. Your mouth parts in surprise, but he’s already focused on rifling through the bags. He examines the pack of five boxer-briefs you got him, nodding at the size and the stretchiness of the waistband.

Smiling slightly, you continue heading to your room. After choosing a better hiding place for your keepsake box (in your nightstand, under your silk bonnet), you decide you need to decompress. You settle at your desk to draw, grabbing one of your large, half-used sketchpads.

Meanwhile, Ben has helped himself to your fridge and made himself a sandwich.

He’s bored out of his fucking mind.

He’s tired of the unfunny bullshit sitcoms on TV, and watching the news just keeps making him angry, because usually it’s about him, and the lies Vought keeps spinning about him. Ben’s also tired of seeing that sniveling, blonde fucking science experiment—and his brat son—on commercials and guest spots on late night shows.

So Ben shuts off the TV and wanders into the only other room in this place. Your room. The door is cracked open, allowing him to peer in and spy on what you’re working on. You glance over at him, your gaze catching on one of the new shirts you bought him. It may not be Tom Ford, but it’s comfortable, he supposes.

“She’s hot,” he says, nodding at the Dreaming of You vinyl record album you have propped up on your desk. A young woman’s face is framed in a red, smokey border. It seems to be your reference while your pencil moves across the blank page in precise, sweeping lines. The girl on the album has delicate features, a natural pout to her lips, an olive complexion, and rich brown hair. 

“Selena Quintanilla. She was beautiful,” you agree. “Her story was so tragic though.”

“What, she died?” Ben asks. 

You nod in confirmation, sadly. “Shot by one of her obsessed fans. It came out that the woman embezzled like, 60 grand from Selena while being the president of her fan club. Selena was going to fire her, and the bitch just couldn’t handle it.”

Ben hums in acknowledgement. She must not have been a supe. 

“I guess you never had that kind of problem,” you say.

“A crazy fucking fan? No,” he scoffed. Vindictive ex-girlfriend and a bunch of cocksucking, yellow-bellied shit stains for “teammates,” maybe. He shakes his head and watches your deft hand draw the delicate lines of the girl’s mouth. It reminds him of your pretty lips. Right now, you have the lower one pulled between your teeth in concentration. A strand of hair falls into your line of vision, brushing the page. His hand itches to tug it back behind your ear.

“You’re, uh…you’re not bad though,” Ben says, nodding at the sketch.

You give him a brief smile. It’s the first time he’s seen a glimpse of it.

“Thanks,” you say.

Ben takes a seat on the edge of your bed, not even noticing that he’s getting sandwich crumbs on the royal blue duvet. 

“That's not what you do for Vought, is it?” he asks.

You snort. “Sort of. I used to be just a graphic designer for Social Media. I started dabbling in content, giving them ideas for what to write to go with it. But after the whole Stormfront fiasco, I got a promotion."

You shake your head. "Now I wonder if the only reason they gave it to me was because I looked the part for their DEI phase. AKA: Homelander fucking a literal Nazi. Oh, yeah. He had to do a whole apology tour of damage control press for a whole damn year."

Ben frowns at that. Nazis? Fucking Nazis are back? Who the fuck is Stormfront?

"I help maintain the social media accounts of every member of the Seven," you explain. "I create the graphics, edit images, write bullshit captions like ‘That’s lit,’ when Starlight punches out the bank robber they literally placed in front of her face. I spin their messes and moderate whatever fuckery they might spew out while they're drunk, or high, or just plain fucking stupid, so they don't fucking cancel themselves..."

You sigh. "Basically, I help cultivate the messaging that Vought uses to convince the public that you guys actually care about them.”

You look up and meet Ben’s gaze. He could get annoyed with your accusation, but he can’t even muster up the energy to give a shit. Even if it proves you right.

“Marketing sells,” you say ruefully. “Reality doesn’t.”

You gesture at the small door next to your bed. “I’ve got a closet full of paintings that never sold on Etsy. I also have fifty grand in student loans from NYU, and a damn-near useless double major in Art and Communications. That’s right, fucking useless. Because all I’ve learned to do with my ‘art’ is sell people bullshit… So maybe my dad is fucking right.”

Ben remembers that conversation you had with your dad; he’d been pretending to watch TV, but his sharp ear caught every word. He heard an all-too familiar message.

A fucking disappointment.

“Daddy issues, huh?” Ben says. He feigns nonchalance while swallowing down the rest of his sandwich. “Why am I not fucking surprised?”

You shoot him an annoyed look, especially when you catch him brushing crumbs off his chest.

“Hey, would you stop eating on my bed?!”

For once, Ben actually gets you talking. You’re not so tense anymore, relaxing when he gives you your space in the room. 

An hour later, and he still hasn’t left your bed for any good reason. Your weird, one-sided heart-to-heart drawing session has turned into showing him your modest vinyl collection. He gets you to put on some Frank Sinatra while he pulls out the last two beers from your fridge.

“I have to go back to work soon, you know that, right?” you say. “I just got an email this morning. Apparently Homelander himself has requested all employees return to work tomorrow.”

You cover your face with both hands and heave a sigh. “Honestly, I’ve been trying to quit for months, but this is the best money I’ve been able to make since I got out of college.”

“Yeah, well, fuck ‘em,” Ben says. “Bunch of corporate fucking idiots.”

You glance up at him with a surprised blink, but his gaze moves beyond you. 

“You didn’t like working for Vought?” you ask. 

“They’re the fucking reason I got shipped to the Russians in the first place,” he says. His expression holds a darker edge.

Your eyes widen. “The Russians? Wait, what?”

Ben hesitates. He realizes that you might work at Vought, but there’s a lot you don’t know. It just reminds him of everything that company’s done to bury him, like he’s become their dirty little secret.

So he tells you. The real fucking story. The full story.

Well…all right, maybe not the full story. His instinct is to emphasize how Crimson Countess, Black Noir, and the rest of his team betrayed him, just to get him out of their lives. (Maybe he glosses over the reasons why.)

He explains how Stan Edgar conspired with them to replace him with Homelander, a shiny new toy that they could control, literally from conception.

“You seriously didn’t ask them what they were collecting your sperm for?” you ask incredulously.

“Hey, it was the ‘80s,” Ben says, crossing his arms in defense. “It was a different time. Back then, there was always weird shit going on.”

And maybe you were too high to care, let alone pay all that much attention. The thought coils through his mind. He stamps it down with a shake of his head.

“Whatever. It fucking happened,” he says with a growl. The longer he allows himself to think about it, the more the words spill out of him, even if his instinct is to shove it all back down. It’s a bit easier with you somehow, a normal nobody girl, who can’t really use this against him. All it might do is change the way you look at him. Maybe as less of a monster.

“So far, I don’t see anything about you that’s worth respecting,” you said. “But I’m nobody, right? Not even a supe. Why should you fucking care what I think? Why should you care how I feel, or how easy it would be to hurt me?”

What you said to him a few days ago—those words might’ve sunk into him deeper than he’d like to admit.

“Those fucking Commies had me down there so long, I forgot what a normal day felt like,” he says. “I lost track of hours, minutes, days…and in all that time, no one ever fucking even looked for me.”

It feels like a confession, the first real thing he’s told you.

And it works.

You finally begin to look at him with some sympathy. Seeing it in your eyes hits him with some satisfaction. Maybe if he keeps softening you up, you’ll treat him with that pretty mouth of yours.

“Wow, I’m…I’m sorry,” you say at last.

He pauses. You seem genuine. Even though it’s what he wanted, your pity still grates on his pride.

“What about your family?” you ask. “Do you have anyone you want to call? Anyone you—”

“No,” he says, glancing away. He rolls his shoulders, as if shrugging off your words. “I’ve been around a while, sweetheart. Anyone worth knowing is long dead.”

“Well…shit,” you say. He can tell you don’t want to say sorry again, but it’s bubbling up in your eyes. For all that fire you’ve got inside you, you’re soft too. Fragile.

What the fuck am I doing here?

Sinatra croons his final note, but the record keeps spinning until you get up to turn it off. A strange kind of silence reigns. He can still hear the rumble of your water heater, an argument downstairs between an old man and the young couple whose bedroom door faces his front door, distant traffic, and police sirens blocks away. If he allows himself to, he can hear it all. It’s too fucking much sometimes.

“All right,” he says after a while, sick of it all. “I’ve got an idea.”

He leaves your room, and you’re curious enough to follow him out. He opens one of your top cabinets in the kitchen and grabs the gallon of tequila he found this morning while you were sleeping. He rests it on the kitchen counter, shooting you a wink and a smile.

“Oh, no. Keep out of my booze,” you warn him.

“Look, we both need to relax,” he argues. Already he’s grabbing a couple of glasses from the cabinet and giving each a generous pour of lukewarm Patrón.

You grimace. You give him a narrowed, annoyed look. It reminds him that he’s the one who keeps setting you on edge.

Still, you sigh. “Wait. I’ve got limes in the fridge.”

A few hours later, you’re getting drunk with this man and eating Chinese food on your couch. You dig out a collection of DVDs from the coffee table functioning as the TV stand, and you pick out at least twenty movies you claim he needs to catch up on—like The Matrix and Gladiator, Iron Man, and The Princess Bride. 

That last one takes a fair bit of your doe-eyed pouting and pleading for him to agree to. Surprisingly, he’s starting to soften up to you the “nicer” you are to him. It did help that you lowered the neckline of your pajama top a little, using a bit of cleavage to close the deal.

By the time the credits roll on The Princess Bride, you’re sighing and happy at the most romantic ending to ever be put on screen. Ben is leaned back deep in the couch with his arms crossed, looking all grumbly and taciturn, like you forced him to put on a dress or something.

“Oh, come on. You liked it,” you tease, bumping his arm. Ben eyes you in begrudging amusement.

“At least he’s a fucking man.” He gestures Westley, the farm boy turned pirate. “Though he did take that bitch back, even after she was gonna marry Humpertwat.”

You can’t help but snort loudly at his embellishment. It’s probably all the tequila that makes you laugh instead of wanting to smack him, but the more you replay it in your mind, the better it is to you. You end up folding over with a wheeze, tears of laughter forming in your eyes. You wipe them away, one after the other.

Ben stares at you in bewilderment. But after a while, his lips twitch upward. Your laugh is infectious. It’s also the first time he’s gotten to hear it.

“Aw, don’t rag on my girl Buttercup,” you say, still giggling as you prop yourself upright on the back of the couch. “God, I don’t think I’ve seen this movie since August…”

You cut yourself off, your mirth fading a bit. This used to be one of your favorite movies to watch together with your ex-boyfriend. He knew all the words too, so it would usually end up being a commentary of quoting every single line rather than actually watching the movie.

“What, the pussy liked this movie too?” Ben snorts. “Not surprising.”

“Hey, stop it. He wasn’t a pussy!” you argue, crossing your arms.

“Then why’d you break up with him?” Ben asks, with an irritating smile.

Your brows furrow. “Why do you think I broke up with him?”

He’s assumed right, but you still want to know why.

“Because unless he’s fucking touched in the head, he’s not letting go of a hot tamale like you,” he replies. His smirk evens out into something more suave. Or at least, he attempts it.

Again, you inwardly twitch in annoyance at hot tamale, but you won’t admit that his ridiculous version of flirting is kind of starting to work on you. His green eyes roaming your face and cleavage leaves little of his thoughts to the imagination. You clear your throat, fighting a blush.

“Look, August is…a nice guy. A decent guy. We’re still friends,” you say. He works at Vought too, in the Social Media department. He even texted you to make sure you were okay after Vought almost crumbled.

Though if he really cared, he would’ve fucking called. Or came to see me, you think wryly. It’s better that he hadn’t shown up to your place though. It would’ve been impossible to hide Ben, and you don’t want to know what the supe would’ve done to him to keep him quiet.

“But?” Ben says knowingly.

You sigh, tossing your hands up before you turn toward him on the couch. Your knees are bent underneath you. You’re a little too drunk to realize your knee is touching his thigh. You only somewhat notice that he shifts toward you too, with his arm draped across the back of the couch. His hand is close enough to touch your shoulder if he wanted to.

“It was always…nice,” you admit, gesturing vaguely with your hands. You tend to do that a lot. It’s one of the few Latina stereotypes you know you fit under. “But there’s was no real spark, no…”

Ben leans in, a suggestive smirk playing on his lips. 

“Passion?” he supplies. He raises his brows as eyes capture yours. “I get the feeling he didn’t do jack shit for you, Chiquita.”

And just like that, any kind of blushing arousal dies—swiftly falling into annoyance. You don’t like nicknames that remind you of bananas, melons, or any other tropical fruit.

There were kids in middle school who used to tease you, asking you if your parents worked in a mango factory. (Ignoring the obvious that you don't get mangos from factories. Dumb fucks.)

Your parents were just wealthy enough to put you in private school with a bunch of trust fund babies, and maybe a handful of foreign exchange students. Even though there were at least four other Latinos in the class, you were the only one with darker skin. You were the only one who had to take an aptitude test to get into the school—the only one who was there on a scholarship, not your parents’ connections and yearly donations to the school.

Being black and brown might be cool in social media nowadays, but not so much back when you were in school, where diversity was just an administrative quota to be filled. Not so much where you lived, where the rich snowbirds went on vacation, and looked at people like you like exotic fruit.

Ben senses your shift. His smile loses its flirtatious edge as it fades.

“Look,” you say sharply. “You think you’re being charming with that Chiquita thing or whatever, but I don’t appreciate—”

“Maria Felix,” he cuts in. 

“What?”

Ben cards a hand through his hair, sweeping it back. You’ve noticed the way it gets in his eyes sometimes, falling across his brow.

“Maria Felix. She was an actress in the ‘40s,” he says, his eyes turning slightly wistful at the memory. He even chuckles. “One of the hottest Latin women I ever met, with more ass than the Chiquita banana lady. That was my little nickname for her.” 

Your annoyance melts into a blinking deadpan. This man did not just—

“And Christ, she had a voice on her. Like butter and molasses.” He adopts an even more nostalgic smile, “Matter of fact, what she could do with that mouth. Could suck the nails right out of a board, if you know what I mean. A real fucking talent.”

“All right, all right! Enough,” you hold up a hand with a grimace…and yet, you’re curious. 

You grab your phone from the coffee table to look her up, and sure enough, María Félix actually was a Mexican starlet. In fact, she was one of the most successful actresses in Latin American movies in the 1940s and ‘50s. You realize then that this man truly is a walking time capsule. 

“What was she like?” you ask curiously. But again, you raise a hand. “Without the Pornhub sweaty bits.”

Ben rolls his eyes, but he does tell you how he met María at an awards show in 1947.

“She was beautiful, elegant, with those soulful brown eyes,” he reminisces. His lips slip into a smile. “Until she got a couple of tequilas in her. Then she had a way with her hands that wasn’t so fucking ladylike—”

“All right. Pause,” you say, holding up a finger. A blush warms your cheeks. “Again, I don’t need the gushy details.”

He just smirks. “All right, fine. So what is it you do want to know?”

You sigh, but your curiosity does get the better of you. You want to know more about the people’s he’s met, the places he’s been, and you can’t help the way he’s hooked you, giving you a window into who he is. You know it can’t be everything though. He’s giving you the sepia tones, the highlights of his glory days.

You know there has to be a reason his whole team turned on him, and why every single member of Payback has been pronounced dead in the news over the past week. You know that this man is possibly the most dangerous supe in the world…

Well, second-most dangerous.

He’s threatened you, forced his way into your life, been the most obnoxious flirt imaginable, and has serious boundary issues…but he hasn’t hurt you. He’s never forced himself on you either, despite having the strength and every opportunity to do it.

So you listen.

He tells you about being friends with Frank Sinatra and partying with the rest of the Brat Pack. He makes you laugh with his stories about getting fucked up during the Woodstock years, his first experience with psychedelics at a Beatles concert, and how he used to have a guitar signed by John Lennon, even though he never learned to play it. 

“Crimson Countess used to complain about all the fucking ‘clutter’ in my apartment,” Ben huffs. “Look, if you can’t appreciate a bona fide John Hancock from a Beatle, there’s something fucking wrong with you.”

You actually agree. You know it’s the sentimental artist in you, but collecting things that mean something to you is awesome. You’d just about die if you even got to touch a guitar that John Lennon had played, let alone signed.

“How long were you with Crimson Countess?” you ask.

Ben’s mood begins to sour at the question. He takes another heavy swig from the whiskey he found in your kitchen. “Too fucking long.”

You watch him in curiosity, waiting to see if he’ll keep talking. After a while, he does.

“She fucking betrayed me,” he says.

You’d more than learned that earlier, back when he told you his team had sold him out to the Russians. Just like it isn't a stretch to think he killed her, along with the rest of his team. Despite how uneasy the thought makes you, even churning your stomach, you could understand why he did it. Forty fucking years...

Still, you’re a bit confused.

“Why though? All the movies you guys did together, all the interviews, and everything I ever read about you two, you seemed to be ride or die for each other,” you say.

Ben gives you a wry look. “Don’t believe everything you fucking see on TV.”

Your lips twitch humorlessly. You wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t seem to want to dig deeper into that one. You can’t really blame him.

“Well, um…as lame as it sounds, I’m sorry,” you offer.

“Like I said, you don’t have to feel fucking sorry for me,” he says. His voice is sharper, deeper. He begins to turn away from you, getting up from the couch. You surprise yourself by following his lead, reaching out to gently grasp his arm.

“Come on. Don’t take it that way—”

You get up too fast in your tequila-ridden state, making your brain feel like slush moving from one side of your head to the other. “Whoa, shit…”

With a grunt, Ben grabs you steady by your waist. He pulls you into him so you won’t fall sideways onto the empty glasses on the floor. You gasp and latch onto his arms on instinct. There you feel every firm ridge of flexing muscle under your palms and fingers. You feel the strength of his hands molding to the curve of your waist, the heat of his skin.

You tip your face up slowly, and your heavy breaths mingle with his as he looks down at you. A second more, and you think he might start bowing his head to meet you.

But just because you have sympathy for him, doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten why he’s here. You haven’t forgotten that he’s using you.

You clear your throat and drop your hands, stepping away from him. You’re a little surprised that he actually lets you put some space between you.

You take it for the opportunity it is.

“Uh, goodnight,” you offer. 

He stops you from leaving for a moment, closing his hand over yours. He smirks down at you and presses a kiss to the back of your hand, no doubt listening in while your heart taps syncopated beats.

“G’night, Chiquita.”

AN: Whew! 😮‍💨 Okay, a lot of back and forth in this chapter. A lot of Ben being a dick, of course, but how'd you like their little bonding sessions? In the next chapter, Homelander finally shows his assface...

Next Time:

“Since the incident at the Tower a few days ago, have you caught any sight of Soldier Boy? Have you heard anything about his whereabouts? Anything at all?” he asks. His blue eyes bore into yours with an intensity that makes your throat close up.

Sweat has already started to trickle down the small of your back and on your clammy palms, which lay flat at your sides.

“No,” you reply, in a miraculously steady voice.

He raises a blonde, solitary brow. His lips twitch. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you nod. Your instinct is to keep your answers simple, uncomplicated.

“Then why is your heartbeat picking up faster?” he taunts, with a calculated wave of his gloved finger. “Just…ticking away, like a little drum.”

⋆˙⟡ Keep Reading: Part 3

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[seethesin]

wake up call

pairing: Hazel Callahan x F!Reader

tags/warnings: sexual content, hazel & reader are 18+, established relationship, college au, body worship, teasing, oral over clothing, orgasm denial/edging (18+, mdni)

a/n: i too have caught feelings for my favorite arsonist, hazel callahan 😔 have an uncharacteristically short, smutty fic while i work my thoughts out.

loosely based on this prompt. gif pack/gif credit. enjoy :)

"Baby, it's time to get up."

You're too busy trying to sleep off a migraine to pay attention to Hazel stirring in bed or what she has to say. Even with an eye mask on, any stray refraction of light is enough for a splitting pain to reverberate in your head. You should have drank more water and less tequila last night.

Hindsight was always 20/20.

You and Hazel had met your friends at Mary's, a local gay bar a mile from campus. The bouncers never commented on the fake IDs you thrust in their hands every weekend and barely bothered to check them as they ushered you inside. Your best guess? They'd take every dollar they could get.

It was a small, hole-in-the-wall establishment, but it was fun enough for the group of you to drink, dance, and sing desperately off-key. It was your usual meeting spot on Thursday and Friday nights—sometimes Saturdays if you and Hazel had the strength to get out of bed in the morning—where you all could gossip about your professors and peers. You don't remember much from last night, but you do remember grinding on Hazel after downing three tequila sodas while Isabel bitched about her Econ professor, Mr. Weber.

You were now facing the repercussions of your debaucherous, dehydrated actions.

"Babe," Hazel tries again. Her disembodied voice is farther away now, most likely in the bathroom next door. "You're going to be late for calculus."

Who the fuck convinced you to take Friday classes? Let alone actually attend them?

Oh right. It was Hazel.

At least both of you managed to find off-campus housing at the end of sophomore year. If you had to share a bathroom with an entire floor again, you would have hung yourself with dental floss.

"Professor Hoyt can eat my ass," you grunt, grabbing your pillow and smashing it into your face. The next part of your sentence is so garbled that you can't even understand yourself. You hear Hazel's footsteps reenter your bedroom as the mattress concaves next to you. The pillow is nudged off your face and stray beams of light bury themselves back into your eye mask.

"She better not." Her breath fans against your cheek as you feel her nip playfully at your skin. "That's all mine."

Hazel can't see your exaggerated eye roll, but she feels the grin growing across your face. She mirrors it eagerly, pressing sweet, soft kisses down your cheek. You feel her lips ghost down your jaw before gliding down your neck. You hum quietly, reflexively tilting your head to the side to expose more flesh to her.

Hazel notices and firmly bites at the base of your neck. You moan, caught off guard.

"I can just ask Isabel for the notes after she gets out of Econ." It comes out as a whine as you feel Hazel shift on top of you.

"Mhmm," she mocks, her hands creeping under your nightshirt. Gingerly, she tugs it up and over your head before shoving it towards her side of the bed.

Her hot mouth reconnects with your skin, trailing down your chest, and kissing just over the curve of your breast. Her lips sink lower, enveloping themselves around your nipple as she sucks. Her hands slide up and down your body reverently before resting on your waist. You mewl, rutting your hips forward.

"Haze," you breathe but she ignores you.

Her lips pull away from your breast, kissing across your chest to give short, equal treatment to its twin. Whatever she was trying to do had the opposite effect on you; there was no way you were leaving this apartment when your girlfriend was too busy devouring every inch of your body.

Hazel kisses wetly against your skin as she begins her descent down your abdomen. Suddenly, she halts. Her nose brushes your navel and her mouth hovers just over your loins. She's so close to where you want her and you vocalize your frustration with a growl. Hazel's thumbs hook under the waistband of your underwear as her head sinks lower.

"Use your words," she teases, voice husky as she snaps the elastic band back into your skin.

You whimper, shoving your hips closer to Hazel's face. If you weren't so hungover, you would have clamped your thighs against her cheeks and squeezed. Hazel had a thing for breathplay anyway; she would have loved it.

"Put your mouth on my pussy."

"Yes ma'am."

Immediately, Hazel's hands grope the meat of your ass, tugging you toward her. Her lips kiss against your clothed cunt, her tongue poking out to kitten lick against the fabric of your underwear.

You exhale, squeezing your eyes shut as short, raspy moans push from your throat.

"Fuck yes," you sigh, wriggling your hips to steal more friction from Hazel's tongue. The coil in your stomach begins to tighten as heat radiates from between your legs. Your underwear is soaked from a combination of your slick and Hazel's saliva. You were embarrassed to admit it, but you were already nearing your first climax.

Apparently, Hazel has a sixth sense for impending orgasms because she realizes that too. Without another word, she detaches herself from your body. The bed creaks as she rolls off it. Her footsteps retreat to the other side of the room.

She's gone. You keen.

"Hazel, what the fuck?" Your thighs press together, rubbing feebly to try and salvage a lick of your previous pleasure. It's useless and you give up with a petulant huff.

The brunette chuckles from a distance, the sound growing louder as she returns to the bedroom. You rip your eye mask off, squinting for a full-fledged minute as your pupils adjust to the sunlight. After blinking feverishly, you stare at Hazel, now leaning into the doorway. A sheen of spittle and slick glows from her chin.

"You're up," she states obviously, her arms crossed over her chest. The way they press into her tits makes your mouth water.

"I've been up!"

She snickers.

"Good. Now you won't be late to calculus anymore."

[raven-unkind]

Congrats on 200 followers! 💓 May i req prompt 5 with jay if it's not taken please?

˚₊‧⁺⋆❤︎ pitiful ft. park jay

park jay x fem!reader

wc. 1492 words

200 followers event: “I didn’t realize I needed you until you were gone.” 

content. Angsty, jay is lowkey toxic and mean af. a/n. I HAD to make this angsty sorry guys 😔

You had always stuck by jay. You two had met in first year of college and despite his reputation and usually cold demeanor you still went out of your way to be his friend. It did not help that you developed a crush on him along the way. Yes yes.. You knew better than to fall for the guy that had tons of girls after him and that couldn't keep a relationship for more than a month. But alas feelings dont work that way and you found yourself pinning after him for 3 years. 3 years you stuck by his side, making your feeling clear, shyly at first, but by junior year it was pretty clear to everyone – including Jay – that you harbored romantic feelings for him. From what you could see, he was clearly enjoying it. He’d smirk when you’d give him all your attention while another guy was trying to hit on you and a week ago… a week ago the two of you slept together. Not ideal, especially since neither of you established what you guys are but still. It was a step in the right direction… right? For you that was more than enough; a step in the right direction.

…

“She won't leave me alone…” You stop in your tracks, holding your breath. You were supposed to be meeting up with some friends, Jay included, for coffee and to study. You’d hoped you and Jay could also use this time to address what happened at the party last friday. If it were up to you, you would’ve had a conversation about this on saturday or sunday or monday… but jay had been giving you vague, dry answers and he was dodging you on campus. So yeah, it's wrong to eavesdrop but considering your current situation… 

“Is it Vi again?” You hear Jake ask. Jake was the sweetest guy you knew. A good friend of yours, he was always down to help anyone who needed it, whether it was offering a ride or tutoring in physics or calculus. Jay snorts. “Nah I wish- Its fucking Y/n again.” Jake freeze, the cookie he was about to dip in his coffee a few centimeters away from it. His eyes darted up to jay. “...What about Y/n?” he asks cautiously. Jay takes his inquiry as a signal to finally say what's been on his mind. He lets out a deep breath. “Dude… she always fucking clinging to me, always trying to get my attention- you’d think 3 fucking years would have taught her i dont want her- then on friday i fucking…” He sighs again and you’re frozen on your spot behind the booth were the two are seated. 

To your horror, Jake's eyes dart to your form, the two of you making eye contact for a fraction of a second, Jake quickly looking away. “What did you do?” Jake asks, voice leveled. There’s a moment of silence, a groan and then. “I sleep with her.” Jake gape at him. “And now she won’t fucking leave me alone… thinks Im her boyfriend or something. God don't look at me like that Jake- I know- I know it was dumb but I was drunk and she’s not bad looking… I thought.. Maybe if I sleep with her she’d have her fill and leave me be.” He says that with sure nonchalance in his voice you feel sick. That was why he slept with you?? Because he thought you were annoying and that it would be enough for you???? Your heart drops in your stomach, your brain working overtime. A fool, you’d been a fool. You knew better- and yet you let your feelings control you and you spend- no you lost 3 years running behind a man who couldn't care less about you. You miss the way Jake's face hardens and the disgusted look he gives Jay. “Couldn't you just tell her clearly?” He asks, something in his tone you’ve never heard before; anger. “Couldnt you just act like a fucking decent guy and tell her you cant see yourself with her??” Jake's words somehow make you even sicker. He was defending you, taking your side but him defending you only twisted the knife in the wound. You slowly, silently walk back, turning around and leave the cafe. 

You feel your eyes swell with tears as you send a text to Wonyoung, notifying her you felt sick and couldn't attend the study session. You pocket your phone and head straight to your dorm. You spend the night crying, angry at Jay but mostly angry at yourself. Angry you’d been so blind and persisted when Jay had clearly been indifferent to your affections. He’d called you not bad looking. You start sobbing even harder when you realize he probably simply enjoyed the attention of a pretty girl like you, how you’d drop anything if he asked, how you’d ignore a guy who would definitely treat you better for him and the scraps he’d throw you when he felt like it. Jake and Wonyoung came to your apartment at around 5 with food and ice cream. From the looks of it, Jake had told Wonyoung about what happened. They spend the night cheering you up, talking and by the end of it, your heart hurted a little less. 

…

The past weeks had been… liberating. No more running around Jay, no more desperately trying to get his attention. Just calm. And you, and your friends. The first few days were hard, it was weird not to see Jay, not to talk to him, and everytime you thought about him, the cruel words he’d say at the cafe resurface in your brain. It felt like a breakup. Is it really possible to mourn a relationship with someone you never dated? Apparently it is. But now? Now you feel better than you'd felt in the past year. You felt lighter, smiling came with an ease that surprised you and you got prettier. People around you noticed too; a week ago, Wonyoung told you you were practically glowing at dinner, the nice barista at the campus cafe you go to? She smiled at you and said you looked happier. You realized very quickly that clinging to Jay was dragging you down. Talking about him; not once did he reach out to you. It had been always a month since you’d basically ghosted him and nothing. Not one text, not one call, he never tried to see you or talk to you on campus. 

But in some way his indifference to you had been helpful; you knew for sure where he stood with his feelings, and he didn't interfere with your healing. You’d also been spending more time with Jake, finding out you had common interests. You found yourself genuinely enjoying listening to him ramble on and on about physics subjects you knew nothing about. 

You hadn't expected Jay to reach out. To find him standing next to you in the library courtyard was surprising to say the least. He’d cleared his throat to catch your attention, standing in front of you awkwardly. “Can we talk?” You dont answer, expression unreadable, waiting for him to continue.  He gets your message and takes a deep breath before he starts.  “I messed up. I know that’s not enough, but… I need to say it.” You observe him. He looks… unsure, nervous, it's not a look you’re used to seeing on him.  “Then say it.” You keep your voice steady, cold, almost bored. He swallows hard, voice catching on the words. “I.. miss you Y/n.. I really do.” You say nothing, but your brow raises ever so slightly at the semi believable display of emotion. “That's funny for you to say- You haven't tried contacting me in the past month.” He presses his lips together. “Jake told me what happened- that you heard what I said.. So I just.. I thought you needed space- But that's not the point. The point is that I miss you- I miss having you around and stuff I didn’t realize I needed you until you were gone- I know I was a jerk and I'm sorry. Truly. 

You blink. “You realized it now? After everything?” He nods, eyes glassy, voice thick with regret. “I didn’t mean what I said. I just.. Listen Y/n- it's not the same without you.” Your eyes narrow. It was almost like he was talking about a puppy then a friend. He ‘missed having you around’ like you were some sort of pet there to keep him company. You shake your head and get up, facing him. “I’m not your safety net, or a fucking dog you keep around. I loved you. I loved you and you knew that but you didn’t respect that.” You look at him one last time. “I don't want to hear from you. Ever.” And with that you walk away, feeling lighter. 

©RAVEN-UNKIND

reblog, comments and likes are appreciated!

taglist: @annybah @dazzlingjaeyun

[luiluvr]

college! luigi struck down by a cold during finals week and still trying to keep up with school, ta stuff, frat stuff etc and reader urging him to rest and take care of himself and practically forcing him onto the couch with tea <333

sick n’ tired — luigi mangione

I LOVE THIS 😓😓❤️

WARNINGS: none! just affection and luigi being sick, mentions of Y/N

Luigi was always persistent in his work, he was incredibly dedicated and prompt with deadlines; especially in college. Only problem: he’s too dedicated. He would make sure his work is accomplished even if the world was ending.

So when a casual cold that everyone was inevitably getting during the winter semester, you found yourself trying to encourage him to take a break. The first day he had symptoms and felt under the weather: “I’m fine, it’s just a headache and runny nose. I’ll take something before bed and I’ll wake up feeling better.”

His words against yours you suppose.

Your classes were a lot earlier than his, so naturally you woke up way before him. You made yourself a to-go cup of coffee, gathered your bag and headed out. The two of you lived in different dorms; but they were across the hall from one another, which meant you saw each other all the time.

The day was normal, nothing of interest, you got through your morning class and a lengthy final, you were grateful to get it out of the way. You were on your way to a meeting with some other students about one of the support groups, there were usually two held during the day, you preferred attending the early one since there’s no classes during. On your way, you decided to drop in on Luigi, he was just barely waking up and getting around. Sluggishly. Very slowly.

You loved him but he looked like death. He stood at the small kitchen counter, a very.. yucky cough escapes his mouth. “You sound lovely.” You say as you set your bag down on a chair and watch him, he groans and mutters something inaudible. “I feel fantastic too.” He says back.

“So much for feeling better, hm?” You state a little cockily, he just glares at you. It’s funny but you also feel bad about it, his dark brown eyes are glossed over, his beard stubble was growing back on his jawline and chin; which he always hated and tried to maintain. His nose was getting red around the nostril where he would wipe and blow. Somehow, even in sickness the asshole managed to look cute. He just seemed laggy, not all there but also, too present. His ears hurt, they popped every time he drank from his water bottle. “Shut up.” He murmurs.

“You should stay here, get rest.” You say, tiptoeing to reach into a cupboard and get the box of elderberry tea out. It was nasty but it always helped when you were sick, so you bought some for Luigi. “Are you crazy? I can’t do that! I have finals all this week, plus a frat meeting Wednesday, which is really important, Y/N!” He was trying to be stern and get his words out quick, but he ended up just coughing excessively, rubbing his temple. Annoyed — almost.

“Jeez, Lu, I know this week is the worst to get sick during but you gotta focus on your health too, ya’know.” You say.

“I do know, but I already checked… I’m not running a fever so I’ll take a Tylenol later for my headache and some cough syrup before I leave. I have a two different exams today in calculus and algorithms, on top of that I’m the one planning the frat meeting, and quite frankly I haven’t really done much for it. I have no idea where it’s even going to be held this week.” He sighs and plops down on a chair.

“You’re overworking yourself, Lu. It’s catching up to you and now you’re sick.”

“It has nothing to do with it, sweetheart.” He says in that tone — you sigh, “I’m not gonna force you, but you need to rest. I’m fine with helping you plan whatever it is you need help with. However, I’m sure the other fraternity members would understand you needing to cancel and reschedule. It’s going all around, even a few of my professors had to cancel classes for the week.” Of course, he was stubborn and did it his way. Men never listen.

You went on to attend your last couple of classes and take the finals, Luigi forced himself to go Monday and Tuesday. Some of his friends came up and told you about his stubbornness in classes when the professor confronted him about not feeling well. As a teacher’s assistant, he resisted and insisted he was fine. Obviously everyone else didn’t think so because he had to sit away from other students as to not spread the bug.

As the week progressed he became more loopy, while you checked in on him daily, you finally decided to put your foot down. “Luigi Nicholas Mangione, you are staying in this dorm and you are resting. I don’t care if I have to strap you to that bed, I already canceled the fraternity meeting, a few of the members are sick as well and your professors are willing to reschedule a day for you to take the finals.”

He sat there, listening to you, his legs hung over the edge of his bed, looking more pale, his red nose had worsened and he trembled from being cold yet simultaneously overheated. His room was unusually messy, his clothes he’d worn the past few days was tossed around, he slept shirtless and there was an attempt to get tissue in the trashcan, but he wasn’t a basketball player. They were scattered lazily.

“But it’s only two finals, I don’t have any tomorrow or Friday,” He starts but you cut him off. “No, Luigi. I’m serious-” He pushes by you. “I’m fine, I just need to take my medicine for the morning.” You roll your eyes, following him into the other part of the dorm.

“Sit down.” You say firmly, you never use a really stern or somewhat harsh tone with him. You don’t like it. He glances at you as he stands awkwardly, shifting his tall figure. “But…”

“No, you heard me. Sit on the couch.”

He grumbles and finally sits on the small gray-colored couch, folding his arms like a toddler. You heat up water in a coffee maker and get the elderberry baggies for the tea he clearly hasn’t been drinking.

He’s been achy from doing so much, his body was tired. His back had been sore for a couple of weeks now and this cold didn’t help. You give him a blanket and bring him his laptop to watch TV on, then you set the mug on a coaster atop an inn table beside him. He feels a little defeated but he can’t deny he likes being tended to. Especially by you.

“There. Not so bad is it?” You question and he looks up at you innocently. What a stupid pretty boy. “Well, I’m not entirely against you taking care of me.” He flutters his long lashes. You chuckle and gently sit across from him. At this point in the relationship, you two never cared if the other was sick, he would lay with you, kiss you and care for you every time you were sick; even if it wasn’t solely an immune system sickness.

You pull him over into your embrace, he lays his head on your chest. His muscular arm tucks around you, making sure to pull up and share the throw blanket. He smiles and gazes up to you.

It’s cute seeing him with his beard growing out and rosy cheeks. Although you could do without the snotty and congested part; his feverish body kept you warm. You return with a cheeky grin and gently place a little kiss on his chapped lips. “You need some chapstick, Lu.” You murmured against them.

“I know. I lost the one I had.”

“How? You just bought it a couple weeks ago.”

“I don’t keep track of everything.”

You shake your head, tracing little patterns across his back with your fingertip. He leans over for a minute, sort of sitting up and lifts the mug with tea to take a big sip. His face contorts, you knew how funny elderberry tasted. It wasn’t the best. You laugh at his reaction, “That’s…disgusting.” He says quietly, “Yeah, but it helps.” He nodded, “Thanks for.. Helping me.” He lays his head down, burying his face in your chest once more.

“That’s what I’m here for. Next time you should really listen and rest.” He tilts his head back and itches his neck, “Yeah, yeah… You’re right. As always.”

“Don’t say it like that!” You say, eliciting laughter out of you both, before you let out a hefty sneeze. “Bless you.” Luigi says, reaching up to brush hair from your head. His thumb traces down your cheek; you sneezed again, this time it inflicted an immediate headache. Great.

He knew the inevitable had caught you too. You give him an unamused look, Luigi grins and stares back up at you.

“Welcome to the club, sweetheart.”

[tragedy-of-commons]

RUE.

── march 7th x gn!reader

summary: On Valentine's Day, rumors reach your ears that your best friend - and coincidentally, your mega crush - March 7th, has inexplicably started dating someone else. Is everything here really as it seems, or is Cupid just using you as target practice?

contains: modern & highschool au, misunderstanding trope, comedic tone but there is Angst Kinda™, inspired by my very american experiences (sorry), not actually unrequited love, happy ending, perhaps some wlw-coding icl but anyone can read

word count: 5.6k

notes: written for this event, requested by @plebejus-argus (prompt rue + indelible, lacuna)! umm. i got a little carried away. enjoy.

The world is ending as you know it.

“I’m sorry,” you shake your head, smile turning terse. “What was that?”

“I said she’s with someone else,” Herta, the Robotics Club president, informs you. She slams her locker shut (normally you’d make a comment about her barely reaching the knob, but right now you think your insides are dissolving), the sound reverberating throughout the chasmic hallway.

“Why you or anyone else would want to date Little Miss Pink is beyond me, but you’re encroaching on a taken lady, twerp. For your own benefit, you should back off.”

You knew something was off when the aloof academic genius herself dragged you away from your lunch to walk with her. But you didn’t expect this. March, your bestest friend in the whole wide world, suddenly off the market? And the news is being broken to you on the day of your planned confession? 

This can’t be right, your gut urges, she would’ve told me.

Why wouldn’t she? March 7th tells you everything! She even confided in you about accidentally pushing that TA into the courtyard fountain that one time. Hell, the pink-haired girl even triple texts you about the drama she overhears (eavesdrops on) in the library, excessive emojis included.

You text her during calculus when you should be working, and she responds immediately, both of your souls almost intertwined in some type of procrastination symbiosis. When you’re riding the bus together, she’ll rest her head on your shoulder and doze for twenty minutes while you watch the rise and fall of her chest.

And on days like these, Valentine’s, you hold apprehensive hope in your heart that today may be the day I tell her how I feel.

Your chest tightens painfully. What if that day will never come? 

“How do you know that?” you rasp, throat now dry, “And more importantly, why do you care? You didn’t even come to my party last week! You’re a geek, not a gossip—”

Herta whirls around to face you, amethyst eyes narrowed. “I’m not stupid. If you require anecdotal evidence, fine: I saw her canoodling with her presumed lover this morning. I can’t remember his name, and frankly, he was repulsive - but he was holding a bouquet, she was giving him googoo eyes, et cetera.”

You are going to die. 

If it were not for your stubborn brain, you’d buckle to your knees and beat on the linoleum floor while lamenting how every single divine being out there must be praying on your downfall. But you stay as still as a statue, probably burning holes into this egghead’s face.

It makes a little sense, you suppose. March 7th is fun, hilarious, thoughtful, beautiful, and full of joy; she’s a total catch, so it’s not as surprising as you’d like that others would be vying for her attention. She’s already befriended just about everyone in this school, including all of the teachers and the stray dogs near the gate. Who wouldn’t try to confess to her?

You blanch. “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’!” Herta stomps her foot, pulling you from your impending breakdown. “I’m never wrong, by the way. Everyone and their mother sees how you look at her. But,” she rocks up on her tiptoes to flick your forehead, “you’re too late. Pity.”

“There’s gotta be more to it than that,” you reason, huffing and rubbing the wounded spot. “Even if this did happen, she would’ve told me, like, right after! Her suddenly acquiring a boyfriend is kind of a big deal.”

“Maybe she forgot. Young love is inebriating.”

No, she wouldn’t forget. You know March like the back of your hand, and though important stuff can slip her mind, it’s moreso… assignment deadlines, instead of interpersonal drama. She’s a pro at cataloguing the latter.

“You’re overthinking it!” Herta crosses her arms over her chest. “Consider your options carefully. If I were you - which would be a travesty - I’d tell her how I feel, and before the end of the day, too.”

“That doesn’t sound like something you’d say. You were just telling me to back o—”

…then she stalks down the hallway with purpose, shockingly fast on her short legs.

Something is very wrong in the world today. You can’t even go back to lunch, your appetite lost among a whirlwind of thoughts. It’s disconcerting; you’ve, admittedly, not seen March since morning, and she was absent from the cafeteria too. 

She could be off somewhere with this… this guy. Solidifying the thought in your mind is devastating. 

One time - both of you were about thirteen, the subject of romance (what you knew about it against your will) was breached over a mess of glittery pens and scented stationery. All day, instead of working on a dreaded animal cell diagram, you’d been indulging in the sacred, prophetic game of M.A.S.H. and the crafting of paper fortune tellers. 

“I don’t see what you find fun about this,” you’d grumbled. 

“Well, that’s ‘cause you’re weird,” she’d responded matter-of-factly, scribbling numbers on sectioned folds of loose leaf. “Don’t you wanna know who you’ll marry?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s too-bad-so-sad. Now, pick a color!”

Minutes earlier, you’d been slyly watching out of the corner of your eye when she’d decided which person to put under which flap of the fortune teller (her big, looping handwriting can be discerned from a mile away), and you’d taken great care to remember which numbers and colors to pick to land on her name. 

Notably, March had put her name and yours into the craft - forever cementing the possibility that both of you could end up together, if someone just picked the right combination. 

Perhaps, back then, you were trying to puppeteer fate. It seemed to work, because when you picked 3 and pink, March 7th was revealed to you after some mere hand-shuffling and genius scheming. Back then, you’d felt a little guilty, but not guilty enough to tell her that you were probably going to get struck down for blasphemy or hubris or something. You’d just internalized that part.

…but most clearly, you remember the giant, blinding smile on her face.

“Oh my gosh!” she’d exclaimed, cheering like she was competing with the shot heard ‘round the world, “Me! You’re gonna marry me! This is awesome news. We already know everything about each other; we both like puppies and kittens, and we both suck at science!”

March was, and still is, the most beautiful person alive.

You remember your heart pounding traitorously. “...yeah. This is awesome news.”

“I want red velvet for our wedding cake!”

Of course, as you’ve grown older, you recognize that it was just a silly game. But the memories you’ve made with her between then and now, were not. If anything, they’ve only made you realize how much - how badly - you do want to marry her, one day in the future. There’s no one else for you. 

But is there someone else for her? Like this mysterious guy giving her flowers that may or may not exist? You need to talk to March or else you’re going to explode. If that happens, then the already underpaid janitors are going to have to scrape your remains off the floor. Ugh.

However, the feat of communicating with your best friend today is starting to seem impossible. 

“Now, not to call anybody out,” a warm but monotone voice interrupts your spiraling, “but please try to pay attention. This will be on your exam.”

Mr. Yang is clearly talking about you, but you cannot bring yourself to tear your gaze away from March 7th’s empty seat. This isn’t funny anymore, where is she? Out of the four classes you have today, you share three of them with her. Though sometimes she skips to nap in the abandoned bio lab, she always texts, and she always invites you.

Is she with her new boyfriend? The one she didn’t care to tell you about? You hope not. Whoever this guy is, he’s definitely not good enough for he—

A hand is placed on your shoulder. You jump. 

“Mr. Yang! Sorry!” you blurt, looking up at your history teacher with a visceral type of embarrassment. He’s assessing you with an arched eyebrow and a frown, even as his hand reels back and he formulates a response.

Your cheeks feel hot, especially because, surely, everyone is watching - judging - and you’re just floundering with your mouth hanging open like an idiot. 

…wait, where is everyone?

“Are you alright? The bell rang two minutes ago,” he informs you, gesturing to the very empty classroom. Everyone’s already filed out, and it dawns on you that you’re going to be late for your next class if you keep this up.

You swiftly counter, standing rigid in your seat while beginning to gather your things, “Yes! Again, I’m sorry, I’ve just been skimping on sleep. I’ll get the notes from someone, I promise!”

Your explanation sounds unconvincing even to you, but you’d rather die before bringing up your dilemma to someone so kind like Mr. Yang. He’s so chill that lets everyone eat in class, allows cheat sheets on midterms, and lets you sit next to your friends.

Your friends. You stop cramming papers into your backpack, bottom lip trembling.

“Sit down. I’ll write you a note, so don’t worry about being tardy.”

Slumping back down, you give up on lying, the despair clear as day on your face and in the tears clumping in shimmering globs on your lashes. “Okay.”

A pregnant pause settles over the classroom, making the cooler side of you inwardly cringe. The other side wants to rant and rave to Mr. Yang until your tongue falls off. You do neither, waiting for him to speak first. He brushes past you and drags a chair over from an adjacent desk, the metal scraping against the floor like a death knell. When he levels with you, index finger drumming against the wooden surface below, he sighs.

“I couldn’t help but notice someone isn’t here today,” he retrieves a patterned handkerchief from his jacket pocket, paternally offering it to you. “I can’t say your reaction is abnormal. March 7th usually shows up, what with you two being the best of friends. Did something happen between you guys?”

You sniffle pathetically, wiping your tears and snot on the cloth, making a mental note to wash and return it later. Y’know, if you make it through today. Exploding is still a viable option.

“Um, not really. I just think she’s avoiding me? It’s not like her at all, and now, out of nowhere, people are saying that she’s dating this mysterious guy, and—”

The look Welt Yang gives you is still one of concern, but there’s a knowing spark in his eyes that makes you pause. God, how mortifying. Have you made it that obvious that you’re jealous? Seething in envy? Ready to burn down this school and raze the fields in her honor? You bite your tongue, muttering to yourself in embarrassment.

“I’d be remiss not to tell you that rumors can be just that - rumors,” he adjusts his glasses. “I’m sure you understand; you’re a smart kid, I’ve graded your quizzes myself. Once you determine the truth, things will get easier. I’m quite familiar with you and March 7th. She’ll turn up.”

“I know, I-I just…” you swallow. “I really like her. And I guess I underestimated how much until I heard she was with someone else.” 

“I figured,” Mr. Yang smiles at you, eyes crinkling and crow’s feet elongating with the shift of his facial muscles. “It is Valentine’s Day, after all. It makes sense you’re troubled about love - the atmosphere really amps up the pressure.”

Love. He used the L word. Spontaneous human combustion therefore must commence.

Without a doubt, you know you love March. But have you ever said it? Have you ever taken the initiative to make something more out of your friendship with her? No. You’ve been… waiting, and because you’ve been waiting, you’ve missed your shot with her. Someone more candid, more confident, has wooed her first.

You can’t stew in your inaction any longer! Something must be done… maybe Herta was right. Maybe you need to confess, get this all out of your system, even if she’s taken now. There’s no other prime time for it - you feel a burn in your calves that urges you to get the hell up right now, get moving, and go tell her. 

You want to tell your best friend that you love and cherish her company more than anything in the world, even if she knows. Even if she doesn’t love you back with that knowledge. 

“I guess it does.” Sneaking another glance at March’s empty desk, you breathe out hot air and stand up again to continue gathering your belongings, stuffing Mr. Yang’s handkerchief in your pocket. “Um, I think I know what to do now. If I could get that note…”

He nods sagely. “Of course,” the brown-haired gentleman eyes the clock, “if you ever want to talk about anything else, my door is always open. Well, except for when it’s not, I suppose.”

You don’t see it as you get ready to leave, your resolve strengthened and obscuring the big picture, but Welt Yang puffs his chest out in pride for a fleeting second as you go, note in hand.

You decide to head to the last period of the day, but not quite. What you mean by that is…

“Dan Heng! Psst, Dan Heng!”

You knock on the window perhaps a little too harshly, but you have to be at least a little loud so he can hear you, right? 

The repetitive racket eventually penetrates the walls of the science building, finally earning the attention of Dan Heng. If March 7th is your bestest friend (and hopefully more soon), Dan Heng would be your number two - your sidechick. Wait, actually, not sidechick, ‘cause you don’t like him that way.

He’s the guy you drag along to the mall or to the skating rink so he can actually get out of the house a little. Smart, bit of a nerd, but he’s a stand-up dude. 

His eyes are widened marginally, and he sits up straight in his seat at your display. You can see most of him, but your fellow classmates are littered about, his desk smack dab in the middle of them and the room itself. It’s a miracle the teacher hasn’t noticed you, but you know it’s only a matter of time before you’re caught and promptly sent to detention (again).

And this guy doesn’t answer his phone in the middle of classes, either. In fact, he turns the device off completely, something you can’t fathom doing. So simply texting him and demanding that he rendezvous with you right now for an emergency meeting is out of the question.

You must look a little… unkempt. Oh well. You seek the counsel of Dan Heng the Wise.

“Meet me in the bio lab,” you painstakingly enunciate your syllables, mouthing the words as clear as you can. To drive your point home, you jut out your arm and gesture to the left, where the abandoned room lies. You’ll have to go back in the building to meet him once he understands. 

Dan Heng’s eye twitches. He glimpses back and forth between the teacher and you.

“Please! E-mer-gen-cy!!!” you frantically wave. 

You spot your dark-haired friend sigh; victory is yours. He raises his hand and rattles off some convincing excuse, throwing one last look over his shoulder before exiting the classroom when granted permission. 

Quickly, and with an exhilarated smile, you rush around the corner and push open the metal swinging doors, heading inside.

You’re sufficiently sweaty by now, faced with Dan Heng’s crossed arms and ever-present judgment. The lab, room 104 to be specific, is cluttered with all sorts of crap.

Spare desks are stacked high in all corners, spillage giving way to boxes of used equipment containing microscopes and bunsen burners - or just everything you’d expect. Large tables meant for conducting experiments are riddled with wear and tear. 

But there’s a reason a lot of people ditch to come here. Under one of the tables rests a communal snack box that every burnout, delinquent, and tired student contributes to - always leaving something in return for seeking respite from classes and the like. 

You’ve sure taken your fair share of stale pretzels and fruit bars. Lastly, the lights always stay off, giving way to the natural light seeping through the windows, illuminating floating dust particles that tie everything together. 

Wow, you should come here more often. Grades be damned. 

“What could possibly be so important as to—what’s wrong? Is someone hurt?”

Oh, right.

Dan Heng looks frazzled by your unresponsiveness, and you can’t blame him. Steeling yourself, you bring up what’s been on your mind. 

“I’m gonna confess to her,” you breathe, “March, I mean.”

It feels so good to say it to him. But if you were in his average-sized tennis shoes, you’d be miffed to be called out of class for something as frivolous as this too - a crush, one so life-altering that it’s holding your sensibility hostage and making you act like you’ve lost all your marbles.

“Has the day gotten to you too, then?” your friend actually facepalms. The hand splayed over his visage eventually cracks open so he can peer through the gaps of his fingers at you, no doubt in contemplation. “But I can tell you find this important. Is that all this is about?”

“Um… if you know where she is, do you mind telling me?”

He shakes his head, sarcastic. “I don’t happen to track her hyperactivity all day long.”

“Right, right,” you fiddle with your hands and pick at your nails. You want to specifically ask for advice, because if there’s another thing to note about Dan Heng, it’s his levelheaded nature; this cornerstone of his personality has gotten you out of trouble in the past, and though he isn’t exactly a romance guru, there’s no one else you can think of turning to. 

“What?” he sighs.

“I’m gonna tell her no matter what, I swear, but… do you think that’s the right thing to do?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” 

“Well, because Herta told me she was sucking face with some dude this morning—”

Dan Heng coughs abruptly, “Actually, save it. I don’t want to know. Regardless of any external circumstances, you’re still partial to her. That’s love, and it will only hurt you later if you bottle it up inside. Plus… if you ask me, you two work well together. I’ve never seen March happier than when she’s with you.”

You think of cute plushies and pillow forts. You think of snacks and dual-toned eyes that are always crinkling in a jubilant, idealistic kind of hope. You think of funny faces and bunny ears, of candids and camera lenses. 

“Thank you,” you smile. “You’re always the guy I can call on, huh?”

“Not in the middle of class, at least,” he sternly reminds you, though the fond pinch of his brows gives him away. “Please.”

“Understood!”

By the time the bell rings, signifying the end of the school day, you have somewhat of a plan. 

There are a bunch of weeds gathered up in your arms - dandelions, daisies, onion blooms, just a myriad of general wildflowers you’d picked from the campus’s track field. They itch at your exposed arms, bared from the feat of your rolled up sleeves, but it’s better than nothing. You’ve even shorn some of the stems and arranged them just so to give off the illusion of propriety.

They probably won’t hold a candle to whatever roses or carnations March 7th was given earlier. But that’s okay! You’ve tried your best, even pilfering a lavender ribbon from the art room to tie around the makeshift bouquet, sufficiently beautifying their otherwise lackluster appeal.

Now comes the issue of finding her. Just as you pull out your phone to send another text (the past few hours have filled her contact with unanswered messages), the device pings in your hand. Startled and hopeful, you shiftily survey the area before reading the notification.

April 8th: Omg!!! I’m sooo sorry for not responding all day (╥﹏╥)!!!

Phew, she’s alright! The animated typing indicator pops up again, so you wait.

April 8th: I promise I have a really good reason! You’re probably at the bus stop right now, so why don’t you take it to Purrfect Pastries? I’m there rn

April 8th: With a surprise for you, of course :3 and the kitties are waiting~

She’s of course referring to the cat cafe you’re both prone to frequenting. It has a cozy atmosphere, serves sweet things, and isn’t far off the normal commute to school… so it’s been purrfect, the past few years, for unproductive study sessions and shared laughter. 

Oh. She’s probably going to gush to you about her new lover. That makes sense - she was so caught up all day having fun and basking in the warmth of her new fling. 

But now is your time to shine. You’ll show up with your shitty flowers and you’ll win her over! Or maybe not that. Ideally that, yes, but March deserves to be happy; she’ll pick whoever she wants, even if that person is not you.

You: Okay haha glad you’re safe ^^

You: I’m omw On my way!

Damn autocorrect. 

“Hey, you finally made it!”

Even after a day like today, where nothing and everything made sense, one word comes to mind: Lovely. March is lovely.

As if your life depends on it, you shove the wildflowers behind your back. The stakes certainly feel that high when your eyes land on your friend. She’s at the table in the corner - the one you both always sit at, so much so that you’re told some of the feline residents curl up under the chairs, waiting for either one of you to walk through the door.

You make a beeline for the table. Normally, you’d at least greet Mittens, the host cat who lounges on the order counter, but you’re itching to deal with your pounding heart and sweaty palms right now.

However, when you wave at March and begin making your way over, you almost trip. Walking fluffballs swarm your legs, mewling up a storm and demanding your utmost attention.

“Oof! Hey, I’m here, calm down,” you laugh, kneeling briefly to scratch some bellies and chins. You beckon the pink-haired girl over to lend you a hand, too nervous to look at her, but you hear a giggle and the scraping of a chair as she presumably comes to your rescue. “They’re so clingy today!”

“Well, we haven’t been here in forever,” she hums, kneeling down with you to say hi to everyone. She coos and simpers, and while she’s distracted, then you ogle all you want. 

March is positively beaming, radiant as ever in the midst of dim lamplight and dark wood. For some reason, a hidden, sardonic part of you thought she’d look different after entering a relationship. More affected, maybe, like she’s getting used to the company of a person that hasn’t been there since the beginning. Like she’s getting used to the company of a person that isn’t you.

Selfishly, maybe you’d hoped she’d look a little dissatisfied with the affections of someone else. 

No time for that now, you remind yourself. Stay grounded.

You watch as she works her magic; the uppity cats disperse after being fussed over a little. “I guess it has been a while. I’m a bit jealous - Mittens and the others prefer you over me any day.”

“Nah, they just missed us is all,” she grins. “Actually, mostly me, ‘cause I’m an animal whisperer and probably the reincarnation of Snow White. But you’re pretty awesome too.”

I missed you more than they did, you agonize.

March 7th grabs your hand. “Now come on, we have a lot to talk about!”

Dread courses through your veins as you take your rightful seat across from her. All of a sudden the gingham tablecloth looks very interesting. You decide to stuff your weed bouquet into your pocket, too ruffled to present it to her now. 

After March tells you all about her new sweetheart, you’ll come clean - if you don’t chicken out, that is. You’ll come clean about the explosion of wonderful and awful feelings in your chest, about the years of wanting. 

How could that admission change things? Ideally, she dumps this guy and threads her fingers through yours, giving you a shot at her heart and actualizing your idea of paradise.

Unfortunately, that fantasy is just a fantasy - realistically, she’ll react with sympathy, but tell you she doesn’t feel the same. That’s what you expect; friendly touches will cease, there’ll be a foreign, awkward lull in the air, and she’ll excessively tiptoe around anything that could upset you. 

March is considerate like that. God, why does this have to be so difficult? You want to back out, but Dan Heng will forever see you as a chicken (his eyes will say it for him), and you’ll be stuck yearning until the heat death of the universe.

“Again, I’m really sorry for being kinda AWOL all day, but I was planni—”

You don’t even think about what you do next. You just blurt,

“I cheated when we were making fortune tellers.”

You don’t register the bewildered look on her face, you just keep going. It’s a bit crazy how your hesitance just vanished - leaving your true feelings to lead the situation, for better or for worse. 

“W-When, uh, we were in eighth grade. You asked me to come over to your house so we could work on science, or fucking—whatever it was—and we never ending up working. You showed me how to make those paper fortune tellers and I thought it was really stupid. I thought it was stupid until you… until you put our names in it.” 

March’s lips are parted in surprise. You want to kiss them. Also, you want to projectile vomit. The Exorcist style.

“So I totally tuned you out while you talked so I could spy. I remembered where you put your name specifically,” you stutter, “I also r-remember how many jumbles it would take, so your section would—yeah. I picked you. I chose to marry you, and I cheated.”

You choke out the last word, tears rolling down your cheeks. You’re crying, and you haven’t even made a lick of sense so far - this the second time today you’ve had a breakdown and have gotten nothing out of it! Watching as the droplets land on the tablecloth, you don’t dare look up. 

At least you still have Mr. Yang’s handkerchief.

“I cheated because you’re the best, and I wouldn’t wanna be with anyone else, ever,” your vision blurs, thankfully giving you some courage. “But I know you’re dating someone else now, and I’m happy for you. I know that’s like… a cliche thing to say, b-but it’s true.”

March’s first reaction is not what you expect.

“Huh?! What on Earth are you talking about?! I’m not dating anyone! Dummy, where did you even hear that? I… oh you’re crying, I’m so sorry!” she panics, grabbing your hand once more. “Please don’t cry, it’ll make me cry.”

You’ve closed your eyes, but her sobering words make them shoot right back open.

“What?” you manage dumbly (hopefully).

“Is that why you think…? Oh my god, no! I wasn’t avoiding you all day because I was out tying the knot or something. I was avoiding you because I was busy planning this.”

March 7th stretches her arms out, concerned. She gestures to the cafe interior, and when you gather the strength to determine what she means, you notice something you hadn’t before.

Purrfect Pastries is empty, save for the two of you and the cats. Other tables normally teeming with couples and introverts alike are barren - there aren’t even menus set out. There are no empty coffee cups or muffin wrappers to be cleaned up by staff.

Speaking of, where are the staff? Sushang and Guinaifen are usually clamoring about, even on the clock. 

…other stuff, too. Besides the banker’s lamps tinged emerald and gold, there are flowers - they look to be paper - scattered over the whole expanse of the floor. Some of the waxy petals seem to have been shredded by the claws of none other than Mittens and his gang, while others remain intact, distinctly imitating a trail of roses. 

“I wanted candles, but Little Gui said they’d be a safety hazard. Honestly, I’m surprised she can talk, considering she swallows swords and fireballs as a side hustle,” she laughs, though it’s strained and unnatural. “You were really making a girl wait to be asked out, so I decided to take the initiative. Pretty smart, huh?”

You gawk. 

“This… this is a date?” Oh my god. Oh my god. “And you’re not seeing anyone?!”

“Yeah, duh,” her tone softens. “You’re so silly. Um, I skipped school to work a daytime shift here as payment, that way we could have the place to ourselves tonight. Turns out it’s a lot of work to secure Purrfect Pastries… I begged and bothered Ms. Siobhan until she said yes. Turns out my charm is, in fact, irresistible!”

“But—huh?”

She wipes your tears, all the while chattering like you’re not gonna have a heart attack. “And I was so, so nervous that I’d ruin the surprise! Sushang made me turn off my phone so I wouldn’t spoil anything - she almost threw it into the deep fryer too - but it was all worth it.”

“What I’m trying to say is… I’m sorry for keeping you in the dark, ‘cause it seems like I’ve missed a lot. I hope you’re okay… and, also, Happy Valentine’s.”

You bite back a hiccup and shakily retrieve your real - but undeniably pathetic - bouquet from your pocket. It’s completely squashed, the ribbon is almost unraveled, and the flowers have lost most of their color, already colored a soft brown.

Speaking is out of the question, because if you attempt it, you’re convinced that you will vomit The Exorcist style. So you just press the bundle into her hand, hoping it will say what you can’t.

“Are these for me?” March asks, breathy and on the verge of squealy. 

Don’t vomit. “Y-Yeah. Can you believe it? I was gonna try and win you back with them.”

Under regular circumstances, you wholeheartedly believe she would’ve poked harmless fun at this sad attempt at a romantic gift. She’d probably say something charming like “It looks like Bigfoot stepped on them,” or “Did you get this bouquet from the time of consumption?”

But the girl you love does not do that. Everything is too much, what with the realization that today was just some hellish misunderstanding, and you’re so… so happy. You don’t think you deserve to feel such joy after coming to believe untrue rumors about March 7th, but you’ll deal with that later.

“That’s so romantic!” she swoons, “Like in the movies where the noblemen are fighting over the hand of the princess, trying to win her over…”

“You’re the one who rented out a whole cafe for me, March.”

“Huh… I guess I did! When you put it like that, maybe you should bake me scones.”

“What?”

She fluffs the proffered weeds, making them look a bit livelier (despite most of the petals being lost to time), before setting them down on the table. It makes for a shitty centerpiece, but she seems more than content, a rosy color adorning her cheeks and allowing her to glow.

“Well, we can’t have a date without food, can we? Before clocking out, everyone helped me bake scones for us to eat. I’ll go get them, okay? I’m starving!”

Getting up and looking just as she always does, you speak up, somewhat coherent now.

“Thank you. Thank you so much. Shit, it seems silly to ask now, but… will you be my girlfriend?”

The pink-haired girl, your best friend, stops and turns. With a giggle and a wink, she once again, turns your world upside down.

“I already am! Heh. Also, I definitely knew you cheated back in eighth grade - with the fortune teller. I’m not so ditzy that I didn’t notice your staring, y’know.”

She disappears behind the counter and into the kitchen, petting Mittens on the way, but you still hear her - muffled, but still quite audible - squealing from here. What a delightful sound.

Just as you begin to decompress and recover, a burning question flares at the forefront of your mind.

Just what was Herta talking about, then? What about the dude March was supposedly ‘canoodling’ with? 

Almost prophetically, your phone pings several times. You dare to check it after a brief panic attack.

Herta: Well, it’s about time I tell you, I suppose

Herta: Ruan Mei and I made a little wager yesterday. She bet, in the interest of human compatibility, that you wouldn’t make a good pair with Little Miss Pink, and that you’d wuss out and spend Valentine’s Day alone

Herta: You should know by now that I don’t lose. Simply put, I lied to your face - there was never a John Doe trying to steal her from you. However, if my deductions are correct…

Herta: You and Little Miss Pink are now an item. I expect many thanks and perhaps your unwavering monetary support on my next project. You’re welcome 💜

…

You: Fguck Duck you

Herta: lol duck

Damn autocorrect! 

…you’ll just have to kill her tomorrow. 

taglist: @kazuinvocation HELP i'm too scared to tag anyone else

vday heart dividers by @/strangergraphics!!! rue on ao3