#using hand wavy things to talk about the plot

[wbbfannnnnn13]

Motion Sick // Chapter 3

Theme: messy homoerotic friendship -- angst rn

A/N: Just moving the plot forward! More pining and angst, but new soccer girl has entered the chat ;)

WC: 5,688

**** Chapter 3 ****

“I’m just saying, the vibes are immaculate.”

Aubrey makes this announcement from her usual spot on the athletic training table, lying flat on her back like she’s sunbathing under the fluorescent lights. She’s got one sock on, the other dangling from her toe, and a resistance band in her hands that she’s doing absolutely nothing productive with. Paige sits on the table across from her, knee wrapped tight in ice and an expression that says please stop talking.

Caroline is cross-legged on the floor between them, taking a sip of Paige’s Gatorade she definitely didn’t ask for permission to take. “Honestly? She’s hilarious. We had a gen psych class together last semester and she used to roast our professor under her breath every ten minutes. I didn’t think I’d survive that class without her.”

“She also has perfect teeth,” Aubrey adds, completely unprompted. “Like, offensively perfect. I didn’t even notice until she smiled at me in the dining hall once and I forgot what I was doing.”

Paige tilts her head, brow furrowed. “Why are we talking about her again?”

“Because,” Aubrey says, with zero shame, “she followed you on Instagram.”

Caroline chimes in, “And you still haven’t followed back.”

Paige narrows her eyes. “How do you even know that?”

“We’re observant,” Aubrey says innocently.

“Okay, stalker.”

“She’s also the soccer team’s captain,” Caroline adds, like she’s reading off a scouting report. “Sophomore. Pre-PT. Smart. Funny. Ridiculously hot.”

“And—” Aubrey cuts in, leaning toward Paige with a glint in her eye, “—she plays Fortnite. So honestly? You two are a match made in gamer-nerd heaven.”

Paige snorts. “Wow. That’s the bar now?”

“That’s the dream,” Aubrey corrects.

Paige tips her head back against the wall and exhales slowly. “How do you even know all this?”

“We care about your healing journey,” Caroline says sweetly, offering Paige a Sour Patch Kid like it’s emotional support.

“Yeah,” Aubrey adds. “And also we follow each other. So I stalked a little. It’s not that deep.”

It feels deep.

But Paige doesn’t say that.

She just takes the candy and chews it slowly, letting the sour bite distract from the sudden tightness in her chest.

*

Later that night, Paige is horizontal in what can only be described as in-her-feels athletic wear—a hoodie swallowing her whole, sweats from a past season, hair still damp and wavy from a too-long shower that didn’t do what she needed it to. Her knee’s elevated like the trainers told her, phone screen glowing like it’s about to say something she doesn’t want to hear. 

Recovery queen, sure.

She opens Instagram. Again.

Kathryn’s profile is already pulled up—@kathryn.lane. Paige’s thumb hovers over the follow button like it might bite her.

Bio: ⚽️ | Pre-PT | iced coffee over everything Profile pic: mid-celebration after a goal—arms outstretched, hair flying behind her, expression pure joy. Confident. Loud. The kind of photo you can’t fake. Latest post: a media day photo dump—Nike warmups, slicked-back bun, bright red cleats, gold chain glinting under studio lights. Caption: “season loading.” 15,348 likes.

Paige exhales slowly. Over fifteen thousand likes. Okay, so she’s not just anybody—she’s, like, someone. Cool. Awesome. No pressure.

It’s harmless. One tap. No expectations. Just following back. A courtesy. A click. A spiraling identity crisis waiting to happen.

She scrolls. One of the photos is mid-laugh, head thrown back, sun catching the curve of her cheek. No filter, no perfect angle—just easy. Paige can practically hear Aubrey’s voice in her head: She’s cool. Chill. Everyone loves her. Doesn’t take things too seriously.

Of course she’s hot. And not complicated. Not careful. Not Azzi.

Paige closes the app. Reopens it immediately. Closes it again. Then opens TikTok and scrolls for three minutes before ending up right back on Kathryn’s page like muscle memory.

“It’s not that deep,” she mutters to no one, and presses Follow.

Her thumb immediately betrays her by liking the second-most-recent photo by accident.

"God—okay, that’s fine," she says, dropping her phone like it’s suddenly too hot to hold.

She flops backward, hoodie sleeves bunched around her hands, heart weirdly unsettled.

It’s not like she’s looking to fall for someone. She hasn’t been with anyone seriously since Azzi—hasn’t wanted to. Not really. There’s been flirting, sure. A few late-night texts she never followed through on. But nothing that made her feel steady. Nothing that made her forget. Most days, the idea of starting over feels exhausting. And compared to what she had—even when it was messy—everything else just feels flat. Almost.

So yeah. Following Kathryn shouldn’t feel like anything.

But it does.

Because when her phone buzzes with a new DM notification ten minutes later and all it says is—

Kathryn.lane: 👀

Paige feels something flutter and sink at the same time.

She stares at the message for a full minute. Doesn’t reply.

Instead, she closes the app, puts her phone on the charger, and stares at the ceiling like it’s going to offer answers she’s too scared to speak out loud.

*

Media day always feels a little like senior photos on steroids.

Matching gear, blinding lights, people yelling things like “Hold the ball a little higher!” and “Pretend you like each other!” and Paige just… smiles. Because that’s what she does. What she’s supposed to do.

There’s a camera in her face, a mic clipped to her collar, and someone with a ring light asking her about goals for the season like she didn’t have surgery a little over a month ago. She gives the usual answer—leadership, defense, trust the process—while her knee throbs quietly under the table.

Business as usual.

She’s been doing this long enough to know how to hit her angles. How to let the flash bounce off her skin just right. How to talk about UConn like the legacy isn’t sitting heavy on her shoulders every second of every day.

And then someone says: “Let’s get you and Azzi in here.”

She doesn’t flinch. Not outwardly. Just flashes a practiced smile, one she’s sure reads oh my god, so fun! instead of please no.

Of course they want her and Azzi together. They’ve been linked since high school. The future of women’s basketball. Dynamic duo. Two sides of the same coin. Blah, blah, blah. Once upon a time, it was fun. Once, it felt easy to lean into the narrative. To play it up for the cameras, hip-check each other during interviews, share inside jokes that made the interviewers laugh nervously behind the lens.

Now?

Now it just feels like playing a character she doesn’t remember how to be.

Azzi steps into frame. She's already in uniform, bun high, lip gloss faintly pink like she actually remembered glam today. Paige is mid-blink when their shoulders touch—just barely—but it’s enough to jolt something loose.

They’re still good at this. At pretending. At making it look easy.

“Okay, love that,” the photographer says. “Can you two just… turn a little more toward each other? Azzi, maybe like rest the ball on your hip, yeah, that’s great. Paige—look at her. Laugh like she said something funny.”

She does.

And for half a second—just half—it actually feels real.

Azzi says something under her breath about how awkward her hand looks, and Paige chuckles, automatic. Their eyes meet, just briefly, and the weight between them lifts for the first time in what feels like forever.

They’re still them. Somewhere in there.

The photo crew claps like they just landed a Vogue cover. Someone yells for Aaliyah to jump in for a TikTok, and Paige doesn’t even argue. She just steps back, adjusts her jersey, and lets muscle memory take over.

The three of them fall into place—Aaliyah cueing up the sound, Azzi rolling her eyes playfully, Paige trying not to trip over her brace as they half-dance, half-laugh their way through it.

And for a moment, it’s normal.

No weird tension. No almosts. No late-night what-ifs lingering between them.

Just three teammates. Just a TikTok. Just a flash of something easy.

Paige lets herself enjoy it. Just for a second.

Before the camera clicks again and the spell breaks.

Later that night, Paige scrolls through the camera roll Coach D dropped in the group chat, trying to play it cool while secretly doing the same thing every girl on the team is doing—zooming in on their own face to see if their mascara held up under the studio lights.

She lands on a few she actually likes, which is rare. Her hair's straight and down today—thankfully cooperating for once.

One photo has her mid-laugh, head tilted toward Aaliyah. And in the corner—barely in frame—is Azzi. Face turned slightly, lips parted like she’s in the middle of saying something, eyes crinkled just enough to look soft. Like the version of her Paige used to get when no one else was around.

Paige’s thumb hovers.

For a second—just a second—she considers picking it. Wonders if anyone else would notice. Wonders if Azzi would.

But then her chest tightens. That same old ache—the one that’s been showing up in inconvenient places since last year.

Nope.

She scrolls past it.

Picks a few different ones instead. Safer. Simpler. Easier to pretend.

A clean solo jersey shot. One with the whole team mid-laugh. And a few mirror selfies from the locker room.

She types out the caption, pauses, then adds it anyway:

5, I’ll be back soon 🥺

Soft. Self-aware. A little dramatic. Whatever. She’s earned it.

Within minutes, the likes are stacking. Comment after comment rolls in—prayer hands, hearts, “Coach P,” and “comeback loading.”A few teammates repost it with captions like our leader and still setting the tone. The freshmen flood her DMs with “thank u for being the best” energy, and old teammates drop things like gonna miss seeing #5 out there. Her mom writes a full paragraph about grace and perseverance that Paige definitely plans to delete later.

But for a second, it’s nice. It’s something. It reminds her that she still matters. Even in sweats. Even on the sidelines.

Then— @kathryn.lane: Captain behavior fr 🫡

Paige stares at the screen like it just spoke to her.

A few words and an emoji. That’s it. But somehow it short-circuits her brain and sends her heart slamming against her ribs like it’s got something to prove.

Because that? That’s not nothing.

It’s casual, sure. Not an outright flirt. But still—there’s a tone. A knowing confidence that makes Paige feel both wildly seen and completely unprepared.

And the timing? Disrespectful.

The post has only been up for ten minutes. Paige is still watching the likes come in, still pretending it doesn’t matter, still fighting the ghost of the girl who used to sit beside her like they shared a heartbeat. And now here’s this girl—dropping a comment like a challenge.

She taps into Kathryn’s profile again—because of course she does.

Same cool-as-hell profile pic: a mid-celebration soccer shot, hair flying, grin wild.

Paige’s thumb hovers over the DM button.

They’ve been talking. A little. Since that dumb accidental like last week, when Kathryn had DM’d her with a 👀 insinuating she had caught her creeping and Paige responded way too fast with

@paigebueckers: rude. i was admiring your footwork

That had gotten a laughing emoji. Then a “ur funny.” Then silence. Until now.

Now there’s a green light.

Paige doesn’t let herself think about it too hard. Doesn’t let herself remember what it’s like to want something that wants her back.

She just types:

@paigebueckers: hey not to be lame but do you use snap?

It sends.

Immediately.

And she regrets it. Immediately.

She throws her phone across the bed like it might bite her. Stares at the ceiling. Covers her face with both hands.

What is she doing?

Now Kathryn’s sliding into her notifications with a

@kathryn.lane: lmao yeah. want it?

And Paige? She grins. Bites her lip.

@paigebueckers: obviously

And just like that, she’s moving. Not rushing. Not replacing. But moving. Somewhere.

Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s small. Even if it might be the first good thing that doesn’t end in ache.

Azzi Media day always feels a little fake, but today it felt almost normal.

Which is saying something.

There were lights and cameras and a playlist Nika curated that was equal parts hype and chaotic—everything from Kendrick Lamar to Janet Jackson. Everyone looked good. Vibes were solid. Coach even smiled twice.

And Paige?

Paige looked like herself again. Or at least, the version Azzi keeps trying not to miss—the one with laughter tucked in the corners of her mouth, hair shining under gym lights, eyes alive with something unspoken. The version from late-night bus rides and shared playlists and inside jokes no one else ever quite got. The version that used to look at Azzi like she was home.They were paired up for a few clips—per usual.

The media team loves a narrative. And Azzi didn’t fight it. Couldn’t, really. Not when Paige had nodded once and said “let’s just do it.”

So they did. Smiling together at first. Then Aaliyah joined in and they did a TikTok. For a second, it was easy. For a second, it felt like muscle memory. For a second, it felt like them.

Then it was over.

Now Azzi’s back in her dorm, legs tucked under her, hair pulled into a half-bun, still wearing her media day team shorts because she hasn’t found the energy to change. She’s mid-scroll through the team group chat when she sees them—Coach D dropped a link to the media day folder with a casual “pick your favs for social.”

Aaliyah’s already picked hers. Aubrey’s making memes out of hers. Azzi’s barely paying attention until she spots one.

Paige, mid-laugh. Aaliyah grinning beside her. And Azzi—just on the edge of the frame—turned toward them, caught smiling like she forgot she’s been trying not to for months.

And God. It wrecks her.

Because it’s not a posed shot. Not a carefully curated moment.

It’s them. How they used to be.

For one blink of a second, it looks like nothing ever broke.

Azzi’s stomach knots. Her thumb hovers like she’s afraid touching the screen will make it vanish. It’s stupid, probably. Overdramatic. But that smile? That ease?

She hasn’t seen that version of herself in a while.

The burn behind her eyes comes slow and sharp, like she didn’t notice it sneaking up until it’s already here. She blinks once. Then again. Her throat tightens, and she leans her head back against the pillow, eyes closed like that might be enough to stop it.

Breathe in. Don’t cry. Breathe out.

She’s fine.

She’s totally, absolutely, one-hundred-percent fine.

Then her phone buzzes again. A vibration against her thigh. She looks down before she can even think twice.

Sure enough—Paige’s annual media day drop.

Azzi clicks through.

The photos are perfect. Of course they are. Paige always looks like she was made for the spotlight—hair glossy and straight, lashes curled just right, that subtle smirk she only ever pulls when she’s wearing a jersey. She looks calm. Confident. Like nothing’s missing.

Azzi scrolls. Past the fire emojis. Past the “Let’s go, P!!” and “Coach P szn 😤” and “Comeback tour loading.”

And then— There it is.

@kathryn.lane: Captain behavior fr 🫡

Azzi blinks.

No. No, no, no.

Her stomach drops so fast she actually feels dizzy. Like she stood up too fast, or the floor moved without her permission.

It’s one comment. One line. Stupid emoji.

And yet it feels like someone ripped the air right out of her lungs.

She locks her phone. Unlocks it again. Scrolls back. Reads it once more just to be sure.

Captain behavior fr 🫡

The audacity.

Azzi swallows hard and suddenly she’s overheating. Her sweatshirt feels like it’s strangling her. She yanks the sleeves up past her elbows and stands too fast, pacing toward her desk and back, like she could outrun the feeling forming in her chest.

It’s not jealousy. Not exactly. It’s something worse.

It’s recognition.

Kathryn Lane is everything Azzi’s not. Confident. Out. Chill. And apparently—into Paige.

Azzi swipes a hand down her face and leans against the dresser like it might hold her up. Her heart’s beating so fast it hurts.

She closes her eyes.

Tries to breathe.

Tries not to cry.

She presses the heels of her palms into her eyes until the stars appear behind her lids, but it doesn’t help. The burn is still there. Hot. Immediate.

God, she is not okay.

Not even a little bit.

She stumbles toward her bed and falls backward onto it like her whole body gave up at once. Her phone hits the mattress beside her, face-up, as if waiting for her next spiral.

And yeah, it’s coming.

Because if this is the start of Paige moving on—

She rolls over, grabs her phone again with the urgency of someone texting a lifeline, and opens her messages.

Azzi: you up

Caroline: ??? yes also you’re literally ten feet away

Azzi: come in here now

A beat later, the door creaks open and Caroline steps in with that same unimpressed expression she always wears when Azzi’s spiraling.

She shuts the door with her foot and folds her arms. “Okay. What now.”

Azzi sits up, hair a tangled mess, hoodie sleeves wrung to hell between her fists like they might hold her together if she just grips tight enough. “Did you see the comment?”

Caroline doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even pause to pretend she didn’t. “Yup.”

Azzi waits—for reassurance, for a little softness, for Caroline to backpedal and say it probably meant nothing. But it doesn’t come. Caroline just stands there, arms crossed, as unflinching as ever.

“She’s flirting,” she says finally. “It’s public. It’s bold. And it’s working.”

Azzi’s jaw tightens. Her whole face goes still. “That’s not helpful.”

Caroline sighs, stepping further into the room. “No, but it’s the truth.”

She pauses, then walks over and sits at the edge of the bed, her voice dropping just enough to feel like a truce. “Look, I know this sucks. I know it’s not what you wanted to see. But pretending it doesn’t bother you won’t make it stop.”

Azzi doesn’t answer. Can’t.

So Caroline nudges her foot with her own and says, quieter now, “You either tell her how you feel, or you let her go. But this in-between thing? It’s killing you.”

That lands harder than Azzi’s ready for. She blinks. Swallows.

Caroline sits on the edge of the bed, voice gentler but still firm. “You had your chance. A hundred times. And I get it, okay? You weren’t ready. You’re still not. That’s not a crime. But Paige? She’s not gonna wait forever.”

Azzi stays quiet. Still.

Caroline watches Azzi’s face for another beat—sees the tension still coiled tight in her shoulders, the way she’s clearly not about to start making emotionally healthy decisions anytime soon.

So she sighs, stands, and mutters, “Alright, sad girl. Grab your shoes.”

Azzi blinks. “What?”

“We’re getting ice cream,” Caroline says, already halfway to the door. “You can spiral and cry into a pint of cookies and cream like a normal person.”

Azzi doesn’t move.

Caroline looks over her shoulder, deadpan. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

Azzi swallows hard, stomach twisting like she just stepped off a moving train. That kind of queasy, heart-in-throat nausea that has nothing to do with what she’s eaten and everything to do with what she’s feeling.

“Fine,” she mutters, finally getting up, even though she’s not sure if it’s the ice cream or the heartbreak that’s making her motion sick.

Paige

By the time she gets to the party, Paige is already sweating.

Not from nerves, she tells herself. Just the hoodie. Obviously.

(Definitely not because she changed three times before leaving. Or because she spent twenty full minutes debating whether it was too much to wear mascara for a casual Friday night house party hosted by the women’s soccer team.)

She’s fine. Totally chill.

Totally not spiraling over the fact that this will be the first time she and Kathryn are in the same room since their accidentally-on-purpose Snapchat streak started. Not spiraling over the fact that Kathryn sent her a selfie earlier captioned “see you soon 🫣” and Paige stared at it for an unhealthy amount of time before sending a safe but flirty reply: “bet”

Because apparently this is who she is now. A person who flirts. With someone new.

Trying something different. Something that isn’t Azzi.

She adjusts her hoodie again—black, simple, cropped just enough to remind people she has abs despite being sidelined—and steps inside the house. The music’s loud enough to make her feel like her heartbeat is syncing to the bass. The air smells like perfume and jungle juice and someone’s terrible vape flavor.

It’s packed. Every sport seems to be here—soccer, football, track, even a couple of swimmers Paige recognizes from weight room lifts. Guys from the baseball team are camped near the back patio, already way too loud. Volleyball girls crowd the kitchen island like it’s a pregame huddle. The music’s thumping, the lights are low, and there’s a half-empty White Claw pyramid forming on the coffee table.

And yeah. There’s no missing it.

Azzi’s here.

And so is Derrick Fucking Jones.

She clocks them instantly. Azzi’s standing just off the kitchen, a red Solo cup in hand, wearing one of those casual zip-ups that shouldn’t look good but somehow does. Derrick’s behind her, too close for Paige’s liking, laughing at something Azzi said with his whole chest. He’s always so loud. So visible.

It makes her stomach twist.

She looks away quickly—eyes scanning the room, looking for a new target. Something to focus on.

And there.

Kathryn. Across the room, laughing with a few of her teammates. Her hair’s pulled half up, damp waves framing her face, UConn Soccer tee soft with wear—and still, somehow, she looks effortlessly cool.

Paige swallows.

Okay. Here we go.

She weaves through the crowd, ignoring the way her knee throbs with every uneven surface. Kathryn notices her halfway over and waves, her grin bright enough to make Paige blink.

“Well, look who it is,” Kathryn teases when she reaches her. “You made it.”

Paige’s smile comes slower, but it’s real. “Wouldn’t miss it. I heard there’d be Capri Suns.”

Kathryn laughs, tossing her head back a little. “Only the finest in athlete hydration.”

They fall into a rhythm before Paige even realizes it—talking over the bassline of someone’s playlist, close enough that their arms brush occasionally when they shift to hear each other better. It’s not flirty, not yet. But it’s easy. Comfortable in a way that Paige didn’t expect. Kathryn’s got this calm energy—cool without trying, sharp in conversation without ever making Paige feel like she’s being sized up.

And she’s funny. Like, actually funny.

Not in a trying-to-impress way, but in the kind of way that catches Paige off guard. Kathryn deadpans a comment about their coach’s weird obsession with protein bars and Paige snorts so loud she has to apologize mid-laugh. Kathryn just grins and keeps going.

They wind up leaning against the kitchen island, half-watching people filter in and out while sipping clear-ish liquids from red solo cups. Their conversation drifts to injuries—because of course it does—and it turns out Kathryn’s coming off a mild ankle sprain. Nothing major. Just enough to make her grumpy during warmups.

And for a while—it’s nice.

Until her eyes drift.

Unintentionally. Reflexively.

To Azzi.

She’s still in the corner. Still beautiful in a way that makes Paige’s chest ache.

Azzi’s looking at her now.

Their eyes meet across the room.

And there it is again. That thing that lives in the space between them. The thing Paige keeps trying to forget and keeps remembering anyway.

Azzi looks away first.

Paige swallows, hard. Kathryn’s still talking—something about their athletic trainer and his obsession with cupping therapy—and Paige tries to refocus. Tries to laugh at the right moments. Tries to remember why she came here.

Because maybe this could be something.

Maybe Kathryn is the kind of new that feels safe. Not too deep. Not too complicated. Not layered in history and what-ifs and invisible bruises.

They end up at the edge of the kitchen, where a beat-up folding table is already half sticky with spilled drinks. Someone tosses them a ping-pong ball, and Paige shrugs, falling into step beside Kathryn. One game turns into two. Two turns into a streak.

They’re kind of killing it.

Kathryn’s lowkey competitive—nothing aggressive, just that confident, steady kind of locked-in that makes Paige want to keep winning just to see her smile again. They high five after every made shot, grin shamelessly when their opponents groan. There’s an ease to it that settles something restless in Paige’s chest.

Her shoulders relax. Her laugh comes easier. She’s fully present—for the first time in a long time.

The third team goes down fast, and Kathryn’s on a roll now, bouncing on her heels, shouting “Let’s GO” loud enough to get a few looks from the crowd.

“Who’s got next?” she calls, raising her cup in challenge, eyes scanning the room.

Paige grins, tipsy and warm and maybe a little too proud of their impromptu dynasty. She leans closer, nudges her with her shoulder. “You’re gonna scare them off.”

But then—

“Right here,” someone says.

And of course. Of course.

Azzi Fudd and Derrick fucking Jones step up to the table like they’ve been waiting their turn all night. Azzi’s hair is pulled back, gaze unreadable. Derrick’s wearing that same smug look he always does, arms crossed like he’s already won.

Paige blinks, the moment spinning just a bit too fast around her. The music fades, or maybe it just feels that way.

Kathryn raises an eyebrow, amused. “Ohhh, we’ve got challengers.”

Paige exhales through her nose. “This oughta be good.”

Azzi doesn’t say anything. Just picks up a ping-pong ball and rolls it between her fingers like she’s weighing her next move. She meets Paige’s eyes across the table.

And just like that, the high fades. A different kind of adrenaline creeps in. One she hasn’t missed.

*

Azzi doesn’t blink. Just nods once and flicks the ball across the table.

It sinks in the front cup.

Derrick whoops behind her like they’ve won the championship. Azzi doesn’t even smile.

Kathryn raises her brows at Paige, then steps forward and casually drains her own shot. “Okay then,” she mutters under her breath. “Game on.”

And it is.

What starts off funny and a little flirty turns razor-sharp real quick. Not outwardly—everyone’s still laughing, sipping from red cups, pretending it’s all fun and games—but Paige feels the shift. The second Azzi made eye contact, the air got heavier. Warmer. Like the space between them is a fuse just waiting to be lit.

It’s unspoken, but obvious: this one counts.

Kathryn doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe she’s just unfazed by the tension tightening between the four of them. She plays loose, relaxed, still cracking jokes. But Azzi’s locked in. Derrick keeps clapping too loud. Paige’s hand trembles once when she lines up a shot, and she hates that it’s noticeable. Azzi definitely notices.

Halfway through, they’re tied. Four cups each. The crowd’s getting rowdier, more invested. People are watching now. Of course they are. Paige and Azzi, opposite sides of the table like some sort of metaphor too on-the-nose to be funny.

Azzi hits again.

Paige follows.

Kathryn sinks one. Derrick misses.

It’s close. Cup for cup. Shot for shot. Glances sharp enough to draw blood.

Paige can feel Azzi across from her. Not just see her—feel her. The way she shifts her weight. The set of her jaw. The way she’s trying not to look at Paige’s hand when it brushes Kathryn’s in a quick exchange of the ball.

She wonders if Azzi’s doing the math. If she’s trying to figure out when this started. If it’s real. If it hurts.

She wonders why it matters.

Final cup. Tie game. Everyone’s chanting now, some drunken rhythm that sounds vaguely like pressure.

Kathryn steps up first.

“Finish it,” Paige says, not meaning for it to sound like a dare.

Kathryn just grins.

Flick.

Bounce.

Splash.

The place erupts. Derrick groans. Paige lets out a sharp, breathless laugh and claps her hands in a quick, staccato rhythm—one, two, three, four, five—before grinning wide and shouting, “Let’s go!” She spins toward Kathryn, hand already raised for a high-five, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Azzi lowers her eyes.

Kathryn grabs Paige’s wrist, lifts it like a victory pose, both of them laughing, flushed and breathless. She grins wide, arms in the air like she’s doing it for the camera, and it’s dumb, so dumb, but it makes Paige laugh. Really laugh. Loud and unbothered and a little tipsy.

She lets herself enjoy it.

Kathryn leans in close, not touching, just riding the high. “Undefeated, Bueckers.”

“Captain behavior,” Paige throws back, and Kathryn winks like she knows exactly what she’s doing.

It should feel good. It does feel good.

For a second.

Until Paige looks up.

Azzi’s already turning away, back into the crowd like she didn’t just lose more than a game. Derrick follows her, his hand brushing her lower back in that annoying, casual way that says mine without actually having to.

Paige’s stomach twists. Not dramatically—just enough to knock the air sideways in her chest.

Because it’s stupid. It’s beer pong. It’s college.

But Azzi walked away.

Didn’t say anything.

Didn’t look back.

Kathryn’s still talking, something about who they should take on next, but the words blur. Paige nods and forces a smile, but her gaze stays pinned on the place Azzi used to be. The corner of the room where she stood, silent and still, like she was trying not to shatter.

And Paige should feel victorious.

She should feel something.

Instead, she just feels… off.

A weird, dull ache spreading across her ribs, like she’s been running too long in the wrong direction and only just realized.

She shifts her weight, adjusts her grip on her cup, and nods again at something Kathryn says.

It’s fine. She’s fine.

So what if she looked for Azzi’s reaction first?

So what if she cared?

So what if part of her is still waiting for Azzi to turn around?

Azzi

She doesn’t realize she’s still holding her breath until the ping pong ball drops, rattling in the final cup like it belongs there. Like it was always going to end this way.

Kathryn throws her hands up, triumphant. Paige laughs—loud and bright, all teeth and joy—and just like that, Azzi feels it again. That awful drop in her stomach. Like missing a step on the stairs. Like her whole chest is tilting sideways.

Derrick laughs beside her. “Damn. Better luck next time.”

Azzi smiles, but it’s the kind of smile you wear when someone’s looking. Not the kind that starts behind your ribs.

She takes a step back. Just one. Enough to feel the air shift around her.

On the other side of the table, Paige and Kathryn are resetting cups. They’re close, bumping shoulders. Paige leans in to say something and Kathryn grins, eyes soft, hand brushing against Paige’s arm like it’s nothing. Like it happens all the time.

Azzi looks away.

The noise of the room suddenly feels distant. Like she’s underwater. Like she’s watching the whole night through glass.

“Hey.” Caroline’s voice comes from behind her shoulder, low and steady. “You okay?”

Azzi nods too fast. “Yeah. Just—hot in here.”

It’s not. There’s a window cracked open. The air is cool enough to bite if you stand near it. But Azzi isn’t near it. She’s standing right in the middle of a moment she can’t undo, trying to pretend it doesn’t sting.

She doesn’t mean to look back, but she does. And Paige is laughing again. At something Kathryn said. Or maybe nothing at all. Maybe just the thrill of being wanted by someone who isn’t going to fumble her heart.

It hits Azzi like a wave.

Because she remembers that laugh. The soft, secret kind that used to be just for her. In Paige’s dorm room. On away game bus rides. On the bench during blowouts, whispering jokes between timeouts like their own version of a highlight reel.

That laugh used to mean something.

Now it belongs to someone else.

Kathryn leans in again, closer this time. Her hand finds Paige’s arm, a light touch just above the elbow, like she’s done it before. She says something only Paige can hear, voice low and easy, and Paige laughs—shoulders softening, smile blooming slow. Just for a second. Just long enough for Azzi to feel everything shift. 

She swallows hard.

This shouldn’t wreck her the way it does. Paige was always going to move on. That’s what people do when you don’t choose them. That’s what they’re allowed to do.

Azzi knows that.

But it doesn’t stop the sick, slow twist in her stomach. The way her heart squeezes up behind her ribs like it’s trying to disappear.

And then Paige looks over.

Not at her. Past her. Through her.

Like she isn’t even standing there.

Azzi blinks, her eyes stinging for reasons she refuses to name.

She turns away.

Caroline doesn’t say anything. Just nudges her lightly with her elbow, like she knows. Like she sees all of it and isn’t going to make her spell it out.

Azzi presses her hands into her back pockets, trying to hold herself together. But the pieces are slipping.

Because Paige looks happy.

And Azzi?

Azzi feels like she’s standing still while the whole world moves on without her.

[patheticpeoplesupreme]

Au where SQH messes up a little too much during their head disciple days and System punishes him not with death, but by ripping him of his personality and memories, leaving him a husk of his former self. For years, the mountain has tried to fix him but to no avail, Mobei—Jun kidnapped him and forced his underlings to fix SQH but

Nothing worked. Eventually, An Ding Peak worked without a Peak Lord, and they all mourned for SQH’s technical death/disappearance.

When SY appeared as a disciple of SQQ and helped to fix his relationships with everyone, aka SQQ and LQG become bffs, YQY reconciles with SQQ

And SQQ started to treat LBH better, he still calls him little beast though, but anyway,

Despite that, the cliff scene still happens because the system wants tragedy, and now SY stresses out alone for the next few years, vaguely remembering the plant body

The plot still continues, meanwhile while they’re both dead for a while, when the peak lords found out SQH’s body was in Mobei—Jun’s palace, they tried for years to get both SQH’s and SQQ’s body

And more of the plot happens

And eventually, SY and LBH get together and there’s a happy ending for them, until SY remembers that he’s never once seen the An Ding peak lord,

He’d felt unnerved when MBJ was the one who invaded instead of the rhino, but he didn’t have time to question it

He asks YQY about which leads him to asking LBH to asking MBJ if he would let SY to talk to SQH’s body. MBJ only lets him go inside because LBH mentioned how knowledgeable SY was about various things.

MBJ protectively stays in the room, LBH stays to protect SY

—

“Shang Qinghua?” He says aloud, staring at the traitor spy cautiously. He didn’t really understand why MBJ was protective of the man, though he supposed it’s because SQH couldn’t have betrayed him in this timeline if he was just a husk.

Still, he wondered, what changed? Why had SQH lost his soul? Was it like… Him? Was the system preparing for another transmigrator? But YQY said that he’d been in a sort f a coma for years! Why would the system wait this long?

Suddenly, the system beeped

[Would User 02 like to free User 01 from his punishment?]

!!!

User 01?? What!? System!??? You can’t use spring that up on him without context??!?

[Would User 02 like context?]

YES PLEASE??

[User 01 transmigrated here as a baby! Unfortunately, User 01 lost too many points! Too much OOC! So the System has inflicted punishment on User 01!]

This is… so severe! Shen Yuan frowned and kneeled down to his level. His heart churned for the former user, he didn’t think there could have been such a severe punishment.

“Who was he…?” He murmured, not noticing that the two demons in the room was heard. MBJ restrained himself from responding, it hurt to remember the small little human that vowed to follow him for all his like.

[User 01’s USER ID is Airplane Shooting Towards The Sky!]

“…”

“You..” MBJ gritted out after a long silence of SY staring at the body, it was getting irritating. It also unnerved him. He wasn’t doing anything, but he seemed to reach a level of understanding that no one else could.

Still, LBH gave him a look, even if he was also doubting SY’s actions a little, “Have patience.”

This time, SY took care to say it in his head.

‘Can’t you free him from his punishment?? It’s been years! The plot is practically over now! Just—! He doesn’t deserve this suffering!’

[The System thought User 02 hated User 01 for writing Proud Immortal Demon Way OwO]

‘That doesn’t mean I want him to live as a husk of his former self! He had a life! The peak lords never described him as a bad person! What would it take for you to give his life back!?]

[Hm…]

What do you mean HMM?!?!?

[Analysing.]

[Analysing.]

[Analysing.]

[Congratulations! Congratulations! Congratulations! Good things must be said three times! Due to User 02 managing to complete the plot, the System will reward User 02 by freeing User 01 for free! No points will be deducted! The data of User 01 ; Shang Qinghua will be transferred slowly!]

Shen Yuan only sighed in relief and stepped back when he spotted Airplane’s soul flowing back into his body.

He didn’t wake immediately, it’s been far too long for that, but he saw two light streams of tears running down his cheeks, barely breathing as his body worked up to becoming functional.

Mobei Jun gasped and rushed to his side, his cold hands freezing the tears, but he never stopped holding SQH’s body closely.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Now that Book 7 is over, if you had to list all 7 Books in order of most to least favorite, how would you list them?

For me, it's:

BEST

Book 6 - Amazingly catches us up on the character development for the OB boys while also exploring the complexities of loss + grief and what that can do to a person. Doesn’t feel too bloated or like too many characters are fighting for screen time.

Book 4 - Very complicated motives for our OB boy of the month. Appreciate all the mind games played this book.

Book 3 - I actually consider this one pretty basic too, but I do like that Yuu takes on more of an active role in this one + actually tries to come up with their own solutions. OB boy's self-reflection in the museum was also good.

Prologue and Book 1 - Very basic, nothing offensive about them. Serviceable enough introductions to the world and to the general pattern of each main story book.

Book 5 - Just personal dislike for idol competitions and anything adjacent to them. Premise was definitely not for me. Middle part/the training was boring but necessary. Thought Epel got over his gender normative views way too quickly but liked his talk with Deuce on the beach.

Book 7 - Bulk of the issues start coming in during the dream hopping part, everything ultimately dragged on for too long. Feels like one huge chunk of wasting time doing irrelevant things + there is not enough urgency to save the world because of it. Ending is hand-wavy and rushed (the one part that should have been longer and more detailed got glossed over). Also has holes in logic, but not as many as book 2; story can still largely function with those.

Book 2 - So many plot holes. Actively makes the OB boy look incompetent rather than intimidating.

WORST

[southtopaz]

PSYCHO KILLER - SCREAM

Summary: in which Iris Morris has to navigate her personal relationships while surviving a psycho.

Warnings: Fem!reader, angst, mention of violence, swearing, Tara Carpenter x Fem reader, multiple parts, slow burn

Word count: +4,5k

A/n: the next 3 chapters won’t follow Scream 6 plot as I wanted to add more storyline to the characters outside of the movies. If you want to read just Scream 6 plot, skip to Part 12. English is not my first language, so I apologize for any grammatical mistake.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12

Iris wiped down the counter of the bustling coffee shop she worked at, her focus shifting to the door as it swung open. Tara walked in, beaming, and Iris's face lit up with surprise. "What are you doing here?" she exclaimed, stepping around the register.

"I finished earlier today so I thought I'd come visit you! How's your day been?" Tara leaned on the counter, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"Extremely busy, talked to way too many people today, my social battery is over". Iris replied, rolling her eyes tiredly. "And don't even get me started on the Karens and the grumpy customers".

Tara laughed a little bit at her distress as she rubbed her shoulder in comfort. "But tell me, What about you?"

"Same old, we learned some things about movie making and then we watched a short film, it was a great day". Tara replied. "I was thinking we could check out that new taco place tonight. You in?"

Iris grinned, her excitement bubbling. "Absolutely!. I can't wait to relax" They exchanged ideas, the hum of the café fading as they planned their evening, savoring the joy of just being together.

Iris wiped her hands on her apron, leaning closer to Tara. "You have no idea how much I needed this surprise," she said, brushing her hand softly against Tara's.

Tara smiled, her voice softening. "I just wanted to see you. How about we get some beers with those tacos?"

"That sounds perfect," Iris replied, her heart fluttering at the thought of their evening. "I think you just made my day ten times better".

Just as Tara opened her mouth to respond, Miles, Iris's coworker, chimed in from the other side of the counter. "Hey, Iris, can you stop flirting with your girlfriend and get back to work?"

Both women flushed, exchanging quick glances. "We're just friends!" Iris blurted, her cheeks burning.

"Well can you and your friend stop flirting with each other and get back to work?".

"... We were not....". Iris paused mid-sentence as she noticed Miles turning away to focus on the coffee machine, oblivious to her response. "Okaaaay," she said with a sheepish smile at Tara. "Can you give me just five minutes? I need to help with the line forming." Tara nodded, a playful glint in her eye, and Iris turned back to her work, stealing glances at her friend as she poured drinks and took orders.

Iris busily attended to the steady stream of customers, exchanging smiles and friendly greeting as she prepared drinks. The shop buzzed with energy until the final customer stepped in.

It was a girl around their age, she had blonde wavy hair that framed her heart-shaped face. Her striking green eyes were bright and expressive and she had a light dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks, while her confident smile reveals a hint of playfulness. She was pretty and she definitely knew it.

"Hello, what can I get for you?".

The girl, with a confident grin, approached the counter. "Hey there, can I get a caramel macchiato?".

"Sure anything else?"

"That depends, do you want to drink something?" She winked, her flirtation unmistakable.

Iris blushed under this girl's gaze, she wasn't used to this type of attention. She chuckled awkwardly, trying to remain professional. "Just the macchiato then". she replied, glancing at Tara, who stood nearby, her expression darkening with each passing second.

The girl jokingly pouted and then she gave her card. "How come I never saw you here... Iris?". She asked as she tried to read her name tag.

"You probably did, you just don't remember".

"I'm pretty sure I would".

Tara crossed her arms, her jaw tightening as she watched the interaction unfold. Iris turned to start making coffee, but the girl walked around the counter to keep talking to her.

"I'm Ashley, nice to meet you," the blonde said, her smile bright.

"Likewise," Iris replied, trying to remain friendly. Tara felt a surge of annoyance—why was Iris being so nice to this girl?

Finally it seemed that Ashley felt someone sending daggers at her way and she turned around, seeing Tara for the first time and she quickly took notice of the girl's face.

"You guys together?" Ashley asked, raising an eyebrow.

Before Tara could respond, Iris quickly answered, "She's my best friend."

"Oh cool," Ashley said, smirking at Tara, who scoffed in indignation.

"Here's your coffee," Iris said, trying to shift the focus back.

"Thank you, cutie," Ashley said, and Tara almost gagged in disgust. Who even said that these days?

"Would it be too bold of me to give you my number?" The way the blonde leaned in closer made Tara's stomach churn, and she couldn't help but glare, silently willing Iris to step back and focus on her instead.

"I mean, I... sure?" Iris stammered, caught off guard.

Ashley grabbed a napkin and scribbled her number, quickly handing it to Iris. "Don't feel pressure to call me, but I'd really like it if you did." With a final smile, she turned and left, leaving Iris staring at the napkin in surprise.

As Iris turned to wipe the counter once again, she caught Tara's eye and noticed the mix of irritation and sadness on her face.

"What?" Iris asked, noticing Tara's tense expression.

"Nothing. I can't believe you accepted her number," Tara replied, frustration lacing her voice.

"I didn't want to be mean," Iris defended.

"Well, are you going to call her?" Tara shot back.

"I don't know, maybe? I haven't really thought about dating again, but it might be good for me."

Tara lowered her gaze for a moment before meeting Iris's eyes again. "Yeah, who knows?"

"You okay?" Iris asked, puzzled by Tara's sudden shift in mood.

"Yeah, I'm just getting a headache. I'm gonna head home. See you there." Without waiting for a response, Tara turned and left, leaving Iris staring after her, a mix of concern and confusion swirling in her mind.

A few days later, Iris found herself sitting across from Ashley at a trendy little restaurant. The atmosphere was lively, filled with laughter and clinking glasses, but Iris felt a tightness in her chest. She wasn't sure on going on this date but she figured what's the worse that could happen? She needed to move on somehow and maybe going on dates would help her. When she mentioned her date to Sam and Tara, Sam had looked surprised, cautioning her to be careful, while Tara simply told her to have fun before retreating to her room. The sudden shift in Tara's demeanor left Iris feeling confused and slightly hurt as she didn't understand why Tara was suddenly avoiding her.

As the conversation flowed, Iris attempted to focus on Ashley's stories, but her thoughts drifted back to Tara, a constant, unwelcome distraction. Ashley was charming and confident, her laughter infectious, yet each time she leaned in closer, a flicker of doubt ignited within Iris.

The memories of her last relationship flooded back, betrayals that left scars she hadn't fully healed. And she found herself wondering if she could ever go past that. Everytime they laughed she kept thinking if Ashley was going to pull a knife and stab her in the stomach until she realized how insane she was sounding.

"So, what do you like to do for fun?" Ashley asked, her green eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"I, um... I like hanging out with friends," Iris replied, her thoughts drifting to how much she missed Tara's presence. "Especially Tara. She's always up for something fun."

Ashley raised an eyebrow, a hint of annoyance flashing across her face. "Is that the girl from the other day?" At Iris nod of acknowledging, she continued. "Sounds like you really enjoy her company."

Iris bit her lip, realizing she had mentioned Tara too often. "Yeah, she's important to me," she admitted, feeling a pang of guilt.

As the date continued, Iris struggled to engage. She kept imagining Tara's smile, her laughter, and the way she seemed mad at her when she left that night. The connection with Ashley felt forced, and every time she tried to push aside her lingering trust issues, they bubbled back to the surface.

By the time dessert arrived, Iris knew this wasn't working but she continued engaging on the date to not make it worse for the other girl who was clearly trying. When the bill came, Ashley offered to pay but Iris declined as she felt like it was the least she could do, after all, she wasn't really planning on seeing her again.

As they wrapped up the evening, Iris smiled weakly, grateful for Ashley's tries, but deep down, she felt a mix of relief and disappointment.

After their date, Ashley walked Iris home, their footsteps echoing softly against the pavement until they reached her front door.

"This is me," Iris said, managing a weak smile. "Thank you for coming with me."

"It's no problem, really," Ashley replied, stepping closer with a hint of eagerness. "So, I had fun—maybe I can get a kiss?" She leaned in confidently, and in that moment, Iris felt an overwhelming sense of uncertainty. As their lips touched, she felt... nothing. The kiss was light and fleeting, and Iris pulled back almost instinctively, a wave of confusion washing over her.

"I'll see you Ashley". The girl quickly realizing that Iris wasn't going to invite her in, said goodbye and left.

When she stepped into her apartment, the familiar scent hit her, but it did little to lift her spirits. She sighed heavily, letting her purse and jacket tumble onto the sofa, feeling the weight of the world settle on her shoulders. The silence enveloped her as she trudged to her room, her feet dragging across the floor. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she dropped her head into her hands, disappointment curling in her chest.

It wasn't long before the sound of approaching footsteps broke the stillness. She looked up to see Sam standing in the doorway, concern etched across her face.

"Hey, so the date didn't go well? Did she suck?" She asked, trying to inject some levity into the moment.

"She was actually really charming and nice," Iris replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Then why do you look like that?" Sam pressed, her brow furrowed with worry.

"I just can't," she murmured, frustration lacing her words.

"Can't what? Have fun on a date? Of course you can."

"Do you have fun on dates?" she shot back, her heart racing.

"I don't go on dates at all," she admitted, her tone somber.

"And why is that?" she asked, sensing the familiar heaviness that hovered between them.

"You know why," she said quietly, their shared history hanging in the air like a ghost.

They both sighed, the sound filled with a shared despair. "Then I guess you also know why I didn't have fun today," she confessed, feeling the sting of her own vulnerability. "She was sweet, and maybe if I didn't carry all this baggage, I could have actually liked her. But I spent the whole night fighting with my thoughts, literally thinking about anything and Ashley was the last thing on my mind."

"What else did you think about?" Sam asked, her gaze piercing yet gentle.

"Just stuff. It doesn't matter," she replied, but they both knew it did.

"I understand that. Are you going to start therapy? You study psychology and yet you don't go," she nudged, a note of concern slipping into her voice.

"I know, I have to. I thought I could do it by myself, but clearly, it's not working," she admitted, shame creeping in.

Sam moved beside her, enveloping her in a tight hug, the kind that felt like a lifeline. "Eventually, we are going to be fine," she whispered, the warmth of her words wrapping around her like a security blanket.

"Aren't you afraid you're never going to love someone again?" she asked, the vulnerability creeping back in.

"It's not something I'm thinking about right now," she replied, though her eyes revealed a deeper turmoil. "But you, Iris, you have to understand that nothing that happened was your fault."

"What if that's the only type of love I'm ever going to get? Toxic and manic?" Her voice trembled, the fear clawing at her insides.

"One day, you're going to find someone who will love you the way you deserve to be loved, warm and healthy," she reassured her, her sincerity grounding her.

"I hope so," she whispered, the hope feeling like a fragile thread.

"Who knows? Maybe it's someone you already know or someone you haven't met yet," she said, a hint of optimism breaking through.

"I'm just scared, Sam. I'm so angry and terrified that I will never love again," she confessed, the tears threatening to spill.

"Don't think like that okay? That love is going to knock on your door one day, and I hope you don't let it go to waste," she replied, her voice unwavering.

"One day, you're going to find it too, you know?" Iris added softly.

"We will see. Now come here," she said, pulling her into another embrace, a moment of solace amidst the storm.

Just then, a knock on the door interrupted their quiet moment. Tara entered, her expression shifting to concern as she assessed the atmosphere.

"Hey, I saw you were here," she said, her eyes flitting between the two. "Are you guys okay?"

Sam stood up to give them space. "Yeah, I'm gonna go to my room. You guys talk," she said, offering a soft smile before slipping outside.

Tara settled next to Iris, who looked at her in surprise. "I thought you didn't want to talk to me," Iris said, her heart racing.

"Why wouldn't I?" Tara murmured, her gaze dropping to the floor, a hint of sadness in her tone.

"I don't know, but I'm glad you're here," Iris said, tentatively reaching for her hand. Their fingers brushed, sending a small spark through her.

"Did you have fun?" Tara asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Not really," Iris admitted, the weight of her disappointment still heavy.

"Why not?" Tara probed gently.

"It turns out I'm too traumatized," Iris laughed quietly, the sound tinged with bitterness. "Also, I just didn't like her."

"Well, she certainly did like you a lot," Tara remarked, a small scoff escaping her lips.

Iris chuckled at that, warmth spreading in her chest. "I don't care. I'd rather be here," she said, her fingers intertwining with Tara's. "With you."

She felt Tara's sharp intake of breath and the way her grip tightened. "I'm glad. I'd rather be here with you too," Tara whispered, her eyes searching Iris's.

Tara leaned in closer, their shoulders brushing, the warmth radiating between them. Iris could feel the soft thud of her heart, an echo of hope. They sat in a comfortable silence, fingers still intertwined, the weight of the past lifting just a little in the warmth of their connection.

Two months had slipped by since that failed night and Iris and Tara had gotten closer than ever. Their friendship had deepened, filled with laughter, late-night talks, and moments that made Iris's heart race. Yet every time the atmosphere turned slightly out of the friendship context—when their hands brushed or their eyes lingered a moment too long—something within Iris would clench, and she would pull away, retreating into her protective shell.

When Iris returned home from work, she felt a sense of excitement bubbling inside her. She had planned a night in with Tara and Sam, as it was her turn to pick a movie and she decided to go with a classic one she knew Tara would love and  she also packed a bag of her favorite snacks. The smell of home assaulted her nostrils as she unlocked the door of their shared aparment. 

Iris stepped inside and paused, taking in the sight of Tara sprawled on the sofa, her hair slightly disheveled and a silly smile on her face as she looked up from her phone. "Hey, girl!" Iris beamed, plopping down beside her, the cushions sinking beneath them. "So, I found the perfect movie for today. It's kinda old, don't know if you know it, but I think you'll love it!"

Tara grimaced slightly, her brow furrowing as she cleared her throat. "Mmm, I can't today."

"Why not? You okay? We can do something else..." Iris's heart sank at the prospect of their plans being changed.

"I have a date," Tara announced.

"What?" Iris's voice rose an octave, disbelief washing over her.

"I have a da—" Tara began, but Iris quickly interrupted "Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time."

"Since when do you have dates?" Iris emphasized the word "dates," making exaggerated air quotes with her fingers, disbelief and annoyance flooding her senses.

"Since now," Tara replied, her tone nonchalant as she met Iris's gaze.

"But why?" Iris pressed, a knot in her stomach tightening and she didn't really understand why.

"Well, it's easy, Iris. If you want someone to go on a date with you, you just ask them." Tara fixed her with a serious stare. "So he asked me, and I said yes."

"Now why the fuck would you say yes?" Iris stood abruptly, a surge of frustration fueling her actions.

"Why wouldn't I? Maybe going out with someone would do me good." The words felt like a punch to Iris's gut, echoing the same phrase she had given to Tara when she had gone out with Ashley, which only made her blood boil.

"Well, you can't go," Iris declared, as if she had the final word in the matter.

"What the fuck? Of course I can go!" Tara shot back, rising from the sofa as well, the tension in the room palpable.

"No, you can't! It's dangerous! You don't know who this person is! What if he's some random trying to be Ghostface?" Iris's protective instincts were on high alert, her heart racing.

"Bullshit, you didn't think about any of that when you went out with Ashley!" Tara retorted, her frustration matching Iris's.

"It's different," Iris countered, her voice rising as they stared each other down, the atmosphere crackling with unspoken emotions.

"Why?" Tara demanded, her eyes challenging Iris to say something, the air thick with tension.

"What's his name? Do I know him? What does he look like?" Iris fired off a rapid series of questions, anger overtaking her.

"What's up with all these questions?" Tara stood her ground, a mix of irritation and curiosity on her face.

"I'm just asking, that's all! You're still not answering!" Iris felt her pulse quicken.

"This is insane. It almost sounds like you're jealous," Tara said, her voice low and curious, a smirk forming on her lips at the idea. "but that would be impossible, right?"

"Of course it would be impossible, jealous? Me? I'm not jealous! Don't be ridiculous! I'm only asking because I'm worried about your safety! They could be a total creep for all I know!" Iris's emotions spilled out, raw and vulnerable.

"Eee, what's going on?" Both Sam and Mindy appeared from the kitchen, drawn by the rising tension in the room.

"Tara is going out with a potential killer" Iris declared dramatically.

"Iris, what the fuck?" Tara looked incredulous.

"What?" Sam was now fully alert, glancing back and forth between them.

"No one is a potential killer. His name is Drew, and he's Chad's friend from football," Tara clarified, rolling her eyes.

"And? C'mon, Sam, back me up!" Iris implored, frustation creeping into her voice.

Sam hesitated, torn between agreeing with Iris and her sister's firm stance. She sensed the urgency in Iris's eyes but also the pleading look in Tara's expression. Seeing Iris acting so weird about it was definetely something to talk about, maybe this would be the push the girl needed to finally do something. Plus she had a tracking device on Tara, she will be keeping an eye on her. "Okay, go, but you message me all the time, and I'm keeping the tracker," Sam finally relented.

"You still have that tracker? Jesus, Sam," Tara remarked, half-amused, half-annoyed. Sam simply stared at her, unwavering. "Fine."

Iris felt a wave of disbelief wash over her. "So just like that?" She couldn't hide her shock.

"Just like that," Tara affirmed, a mischievous smile playing on her lips as she patted Iris's arm before heading to her room to get ready.

"I can't believe you let her go!" Iris exclaimed, her disbelief bubbling over.

"Well, what did you want me to do? Lock her up in the room?" Sam countered, her brow raised in challenge.

"Yes!" Iris's response came out sharper than intended.

Mindy, who had been watching the entire scene unfold with barely contained laughter, chimed in. "You're so jealous I almost feel sorry for you." she declared, amusement lighting up her face. "But then I remember you are an idiot and I go back to normal".

"For the last time, I'm not jealous!" Iris shot back, her cheeks flushing.

"Saying it ten thousand times doesn't make it true!" Mindy teased, her laughter infectious.

"Fuck off, Mindy, and fuck you too, Sam!" Iris huffed, storming off to her room. "Fucking traitor" She mumbled under her breath. As she slammed the door behind her, she could still hear the sound of their laughter echoing down the hall, only fueling the fire of her annoyance.

Inside her room, Iris paced back and forth, the weight of her emotions crashing over her. She didn't understand what she was feeling but she hated it and she needed it to stop. She tossed her phone onto the bed, staring out the window at the night sky, which seemed to reflect her inner turmoil. The thought of Tara laughing with another person, enjoying a night that could be shared with her, twisted her stomach into knots but she wasn't fucking jealous, she was just worried. Honestly who the hell would name their child Drew?.

Iris lounged on the sofa, the soft fabric cradling her as she flicked through channels mindlessly, the muted glow of the TV casting gentle shadows around the room. She had lost track of time, her thoughts drifting between the day's events and the comforting rhythm of her breathing. Just as she began to feel the weight of solitude, the front door creaked open, and she turned around meeting with Tara who gently waved at her.

Iris's expression went from surprised to concern, it was still too early for her date to be over. "Tara!" Iris jumped up. "You're back already?"

"Yeah, it was... not great," Tara admitted, biting her lip as she approached Iris. "I realized pretty quickly it wasn't what I wanted."

Iris couldn't help but admire Tara as she stepped through the room, the soft glow of the hallway light catching the shimmer of her dress. The deep emerald fabric hugged her curves in all the right places and a delicate silver necklace, adorned with a small, glistening pendant, glinted as she moved, adding a touch of elegance. Tara's hair fell in effortless waves around her shoulders, framing her face beautifully, and Iris felt a swell of admiration, thinking how effortlessly stunning her friend looked, an image that would linger in her mind long after the day ended.

"Oh, that sounds awful. I'm really sorry," Iris said, her voice trailing off as she struggled to find the right words. The tension from earlier still hung in the air, frustration and embarrassment swirling inside her. She had replayed the incident in her mind, and while the anger lingered, it was overshadowed by her embarrassment over her own outburst.

"Na, it's okay. I don't really care," Tara replied, settling onto the couch beside her. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, her casual demeanor surprising Iris. "Plus, he wasn't really my type."

Iris couldn't help but chuckle at Tara's attempt at humor. "What's your type then? Muscular guys, blondes?"

Tara paused, her gaze fixed on Iris as if she were analyzing her, weighing her words carefully. "Brunettes with a terrible sense of humor."

"That's oddly specific," Iris laughed, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Is this the moment you tell me you have a crush on Chad?" She pretended to gag dramatically, eliciting a soft smile from Tara, who continued to gaze at her with an intensity that made Iris's heart flutter.

"Oh yeah, the love of my life," Tara teased, and they both burst into laughter. "Maybe we can watch a movie?"

"You're not tired?" Iris asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Not for you," Tara replied, a soft grin spreading across her face. Iris felt a warm blush creep up her cheeks, so she looked away, nodding in agreement. "Give me five minutes so I can get into my pajamas."

A few minutes later, Tara returned, her comfy sweatpants and oversized tee a stark contrast to her earlier outfit. They settled onto the couch, the soft cushions sinking beneath them as Tara reached for the remote, while Iris pulled a cozy blanket over their laps. As Tara scrolled through the options, Iris found her voice again.

"I'm sorry," Iris blurted out, guilt flooding her system. "I shouldn't have freaked out earlier. I just—"

"No, Iris, it's okay," Tara interrupted, stepping closer. "I get it. You care about me. I just... I didn't expect you to be so upset about me going out with someone."

"But I get it, with everything that happened last year, it's not easy to trust people".

Iris was surprised by Tara's understanding and as she nodded in agreement she couldn't help but feel bad as it felt like she was lying. She just didn't know at who, Tara or herself.

"Still, I'm sorry, it won't happen again".

"Okay, I appreciate it". After a few moments of silence, Tara spoke again, glancing up with a smile. "I found this rom com, thought it might be fun."

"I'm in," They exchanged casual remarks about the movie, the tension from earlier fading away, replaced now by a cozy atmosphere.

As the story unfolded on screen, Iris felt Tara shift closer, their thighs brushing against each other. She glanced at the girl who was utterly absorbed in the film, her eyes bright and animated.

She felt Tara move uncomfortably in the couch just as she brought the blanket closer to her.

"You know you're taking all the blanket away from me," Iris said with a playful grin, her voice light with amusement.

Tara looked at her, a hint of embarrassment creeping into her cheeks. "I'm sorry, I'm cold," she replied, a sheepish smile tugging at her lips, her eyes darting back to the screen.

"Well, come closer then," Iris suggested, her tone inviting.

Iris felt the warmth of Tara's body enveloping her, a soothing presence that made her heart swell. She instinctively draped her arm around Tara, pulling her closer. Tara nestled into her side, letting out a contented sigh that sent a rush of warmth through Iris.

"Is this okay?" Iris asked softly, glancing down at Tara, who was now looking up at her with a smile.

"More than okay," Tara replied, her eyes sparkling.

"You know, if you wanted to cuddle, you could have just asked," Iris said, wiggling her eyebrows. Moments later, she felt a gentle slap on her arm.

"You think you're funny but you're just a little shit"

"Thank you". Iris couldn't help but smile, feeling a wave of affection wash over her.

As the movie progressed, Iris found herself losing track of the plot, completely captivated by the feeling of Tara curled against her. She absentmindedly played with a strand of Tara's hair, twirling it around her fingers, each touch sending tingles down her spine.

Tara shifted slightly, her arm slipping around Iris's waist, pulling her in even closer. The intimacy felt electric, their bodies fitting together like two puzzle pieces. Iris's heart raced as Tara nestled her face into the crook of Iris's neck, breathing in the familiar scent that always calmed her. She found herself lost in thoughts about how Tara had looked for her date, a vision that lingered vividly in her mind. Suddenly, an urge to express her feelings bubbled up within her, and she felt this need to share what she thought.

"You know, I don't really remember the last time I saw you in a dress," Iris said, a teasing smile creeping onto her lips.

"Yeah, it's not really my thing, but I wanted to try something new," Tara replied, laughter spilling from her lips like music, a sound that resonated deep within Iris. "Did I look ridiculous?"

Iris shook her head, her pulse quickening. "I thought you looked beautiful." The words slipped out, filled with sincerity and warmth.

Tara's cheeks turned a soft shade of pink, and she locked eyes with Iris, her expression a mix of surprise and delight. "Really?" she asked, her voice slightly trembling, as if she could hardly believe it.

"Yeah, stunning," Iris replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tara didn't say anything else but she reached out , intertwining her fingers with Iris's. As they continued watching the movie, their hands remained clasped, the warmth radiating between them a comforting reminder of their bond.

[vintagegirl01]

Remember the Time

Genie Steven Grant x female reader

Summary: You come across a mysterious item and are shocked to find that you are now a mistress to a genie. A handsome one at that. What will be your three wishes that you will command him to make come true? Power? Wealth? Or something else entirely?

A/N: Recently I finished watching Once Upon a Time in Wonderland. Therefore, I got inspired to write this since I loved the relationship between Alice and Cyrus. Though there will be some things that I will use from the shows plot, there will be a lot of differences as well. But that will be for later.

Also, y/h stands for your hometown.

Lastly, the theme for this story—besides Once Upon a Time in Wonderland— is Michael Jackson’s song Remember the Time.

You were running.

Trying to get away from something. Someone to be more exact. You just can’t remember what either is now.

Nevertheless, you know you must hide as fast as you can. Therefore, you look around you to find some plant that will help you get out of this situation.

Once you do, you start to eat some of it and begin to shrink in size. You then start to move underneath the hedge of a part of the maze, you see a shiny, golden bottle.

Deciding to take the extra precaution, you enter it.

As you open it and begin crawling inside of it, you try to make your way into it despite not being able to see where you are going within it.

“What are you doing in my bottle?” A masculine voice asked.

Jolting from the unexpected voice, you look up to see the voice coming from a man. Sliding your way towards where he stands in the bottle.

The man in question is of average height with dark wavy hair, dark brown eyes, is clean shaven, and wearing an ivory doublet.

Despite the intensity of his eyes that make you feel self-conscious, you try to gain your bearings and look him in the eyes to show that you are not intimidated by him just because he looks at you as if you had his sole attention.

“Turn me in and I get big.” To prove your point, you take out a tiny, blue bottle from your brown satchel that has a tag wrapped around the neck with the words ’Drink Me’ written on it.

Holding the bottle in your right hand, you shake it around and decide to once again emphasize your point further. “Right here, right now. Burst your house into a million shiny pieces.”

Rather than me upset or intimidated by your threats, the man in front of you gives you the most beautiful smile. “We wouldn’t want that, no would we, love? Good bottles are so hard to find these days.”

Though shocked by his reaction, you are more so by the fact that he called you love within the first moments of you two meeting. Even though you threatened to blow up his home.

Hmm…What a peculiar man, you think to yourself.

“My name is Steven. My home is your home,” The man says motioning around the bottle that he claims to be is his home.

_____________________________________

“Agrabah sounds beautiful,” you responded to Steven as he finished telling you about the wonders of his homeland as the two of you sat on two chairs, face-to-face. The only thing being between the two of you is a small rectangular table that holds both of your chalices filled up with water.

He smiles, taking a sip of his drink. “I hope to one day see it again.”

Once again placing his chalice down, Steven gives you his undivided attention. “What place do you call home, love?”

There’s that nickname again, you think to yourself.

Trying not to stumble upon your own words, you say, “(y/h). Although, it hasn’t exactly felt like home lately…”

“So, we are both strangers in this strange land?” The handsome genie asks.

You smile. “Strange is one word for it.”

“Wondrous,” Steven responds.

“Dangerous,” you reply.

“I sense that you can take care of yourself, love” The genie compliments.

You blush, giggling softly.

He puts his chalice down. “And you have to go back to your land soon?”

After talking for a bit longer about this, Steven smiles at you before uttering the following words. “Mistress mine, my will is thine. Tell me your wishes three…”

The two of you smile at one another. Though you have only met this man, you felt as if you have known him all your life.

“Open your hand,” Steven suddenly says.

You look at him confused. “What?”

Steven ever so patiently repeats himself. “Your hand, open it.

You bring up your right hand to find three little red gems in your hand. “What are these?”

Steven smiles. “Your wishes.”

Awestruck, you reply, “They are so pretty.”

“As are you,” Steven instantly replied.

You smile, trying to avoid the growing tension between the two of you. “So what happens now?”

“Anything,” Steven says. “Everything.”

“So I can wish for anything I want?” You ask.

“There are a few restrictions,” Steven starts. “The Laws of Magic as it were.”

You give him a confused look. “The Laws of Magic?”

Steven nods. Yes, there are four of them. I can’t kill anyone. I can’t bring anything back from the dead. I can’t change the past, and I can’t make anyone fall in love.”

You both look at one another before you finally decide to speak. “Reasonable enough…After the third wish, what happens then?”

Steven sighs. “I get returned to my bottle and someone else finds me.”

“So you spend your entire life…”

“Serving the pleasures of my masters” Steven finishes your question. “Yes.”

You think thoughtfully before speaking. “What if I were to wish for your freedom?”

A frown makes its way onto Steven’s face. The first one that you’ve ever seen since being in his presence. A sight, you come to realize, that you don’t like at all. “It’s been tried, and it’s never gone well. For either party. Wishes come at a cost, love. The bigger the wish, the greater the consequence.”

Seeing the sad look on your face from his words, Steven smiles again. “You’re still not sure what to wish for? Perhaps we could…take a walk… I can give you some suggestions.”

You smile at him. “I’d like that very much.”

The two of you get out of his bottle and out into the outside of it once again. As you get ready to put on your satchel, Steven gently takes it from you and puts it around himself. He then offers his arm to you. You take it and the two of you begin walking away together, smiling and talking with each other.

_____________________________________

You then open your eyes to find that you are alone in your bed.

It was just a dream, you sadly thought to yourself. Your handsome genie wasn’t real. Just a figment of your imagination.

The sole reason why you are in this asylum.

Taglist:

@autismsupermusicalassassin @missdictatorme @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @ominoose @official-mr-knight @oscarssimp @angel-of-the-moons @bit-dodgy-innit @nathanbatemanfucker @writefightandflightclub @faretheeoscar @hoedamn-eron @female-hysterics @emma23 @reallyrallyauthor @runa-falls @melodygatesauthor @gills-lounge @pocketofpossibilities @oscarissac2099 @oscarssimp @oscarisaacsworld @oscarisaacdaily @oscarisaache @oscarisaacappreciationsociety @oscarisaaic-archive @giona45-5

[kristophgavinsbottomeyelash]

HEADCANONS - TW FOR MENTIONS OF DYSPHORIA, PARANOIA, AND OCD

- Kristoph is transfem genderfluid and uses he/she pronouns but he doesn't really talk about it - his physical presentation doesn't typically change a whole lot

- She has a very difficult grasp of her genuine identity which is why she sticks to a lot of the same clothes/make up/hairstyles in order to feel grounded

- He is dysphoric, like hella, but again will never talk about it

- Kristoph has severely damaged hair from constant bleaching. She refuses to let her roots show which means a very strict hair routine, it's also permanently wavy from the constant styling

- My version of Kristoph has darker skin with no definitive ethnicity, but if anyone has thoughts on feelings or vibes for that I'd love to hear them! I am not personally someone with naturally dark skin, so I'm most definitely not an expert in representing someone who is (however i am very willing to learn the proper way to do so!)

- He knows how to play the violin but only does so in private. klavier and phoenix are the only two who know aside from his parents

- Oh yeah! Her parents are what you'd expect. neglectful and generally just. really bad. Leaving Kristoph to become independent at a young age with the responsibility of klavier

- Kristoph loves borscht. It's a comfort food.

- Kristoph has paranoia induced compulsions and delusions, such as needing to make sure everythkng is in its exact place or something horrible will happen, needing to be around someone for a certain period of time to ensure that they aren't plotting to expose her

- Kristoph doesn't "get upset", he has full on breakdowns, even over seemingly trivial things - though it's unlikely that the breakdowns are seen

- Because I think she's autistic, her knowledge of physical touch and physical boundaries is really severely messed up, in that it's difficult to tell when he's too close or grabbing something too hard

- Kristoph doesn't "feel emotions" in the typical mental sense, he feels physical symptoms of those emotions which cue him in; an onslaught of symptoms negative or positive, is physically painful

- She paints her nails to feel calm

- Heavily, heavily apathetic

- Kristoph refuses to wear anything that isn't made of expensive, silky materials; both to appear put together and also because of sensory issues

- She has a practiced habit of tilting her head when feigning curiosity

- He wears tights instead of socks because they're less irritable to his skin

- Has definitely told a kid to [redacted] themself before. Thinks of the memory fondly

- There is an eerily stark difference between her real laugh and the fake, charitable chortle of pity that makes it very difficult to sit with; it doesn't happen very often

- Kristoph has a lot of thin features like thin nose, thin lips, thin fingers etc. She's very angular. Hugs from her feel like hugs from a very spindly tree

- She is constantly cold to the touch, like unnervingly so

- "An overly moisturised snake" - my girlfriend (he moisturises his hands and refuses to grow out body hair)

- Pretty eyes/eyelashes that are offset by the cold grey of her irises

- Kristoph applies daily makeup that blends in well with her natural appearance, but when taken off, it's obvious that he's very. Tired.

- Not good with kids in the slightest. Extremely overcompensating and patronising. cue that one art post of Trucy seeing him for the first time and breaking into tears.

MORE TO BE ADDED!!!

[teambyler]

"Byler Endgame, One Episode at a Time" - s5e3

Plot beats and scenes leading to a Byler endgame, one episode at a time, for Season 5 of Stranger Things. (This is just for fun! I have no insider knowledge!)

Also see Part 0, where I explain what I think a Byler Endgame has to address. Link to the previous episode.

s5e3

TIME JUMP. It’s September and school’s about to start.

Will and El are extra close this summer, and the group plays D&D when it can. Robin helps him like himself more, and gets him to her hairstylist (“You think this just accidentally looks great and messy?”).Will’s artist instincts kick in, he starts to get a new wardrobe.

Wavy-haired Will starts the new school year, with a new look and more confident. Girls hit on Will. Dustin and Lucas egg him on. Will has eye contact with a BOY. The girlfriend of Bully #1 is into Will, and Bully #1 notices. Will tells Mike he’s getting all this attention. Mike snaps and says to focus on the A plot.

“A PLOT” DEVELOPMENTS. Danger escalates against Will (Will’s welfare is the focus this season just like in s1 and s2).

The boy and Will eye each other again. Will walks up to him and strikes a conversation. The boy looks immediately excited and then reserved. Will asks if he likes D&D, the arcade, etc. They agree to go to the arcade afterschool, and they both give flirty smiles. The boy is actually Bully #1’s circle, who notices and starts heading over. Will sees him. “Actually I have something, maybe some other time?” He leaves. Bully #1 confronts the other boy. “What the hell was that?” Zoom into the boy, who looks scared to say what actually just happened…

After school the next day, Mike and Will are about to leave the school grounds. The bullies confront Will. Bully #1: “Hey I hear you were asking him out on a date? Can we all go?” Mike tells them to back off, and he prods Mike hard in the chest. Will immediately pushes Bully #1 back. They tackle Will and start to pummel Will badly while calling him gay slurs, and Mike jumps in to defend him and he gets punched in the face. Mike immediately starts yelling for help. El arrives and uses her powers in front of people in the school. This backs the bullies off but makes the bullies surer than ever that they’re into satanic stuff.

The party arrives and bandages their wounds. Mike puts his arm around Will’s shoulder and they go home. His dad Ted overhears them in the basement. Mike: “Stupid mouth breathers. Are you sure you’re okay, Will?” “The pain’s okay. I’ll get over it. “I’m not talking about that… The mean things they called you.” Will: “I’m… alright? I mean, it’s not like I haven’t heard it before.” Will falls asleep and Mike leaves the basement. Ted sees Mike’s black eye and freaks out. “What just happened!? What the hell is going on here!?” “Shouldn’t you be asking if we’re okay?” “What were you and Will doing?” Mike looks at his dad, “None of your damn business.” Mike storms to his room and slams the door.

The next morning, Will wakes up in the basement, and Mike is there by his side reading a D&D book. Will thanks Mike for always being there. Mike shakes his head: “I didn’t do much for you yesterday.” “You couldn’t have. You did the right thing, getting help.” Will meant always being there when he was possessed, just always being there. Mike puts his hand on Will’s shoulder: “I’m your friend. Of course I’ll be there.” “There was a time I wasn’t so sure… like that summer? With the mind flayer?” Mike thinks wistfully about that time. “Yeah, I was with El... Sorry, I was just – I was distracted. You could say I was kind of obsessed (they laugh). But hey, time heals all wounds eh?” Mike gives Will an assuring pat, taking care to avoid a place that hurts. There’s a pause as Will tries to gather the courage … “Ya know, Mike. The things they were calling me?” “The mouth breathers?” “Yeah. They’re... not wrong.” Will looks at Mike significantly.

Mike takes a moment to process. “… So you’re gay?” Will nods. A pause… Mike notices Will’s fear and says, “That’s cool… REALLY cool.” He says there’s nothing wrong with being gay, of course he stands by Will. The whole party has been bullied, of course we stand by you Will. Will starts to tear up. He sits up, “So nothing’s changed?” Mike puts his hands on Will’s shoulders and looks him in the eye. “Nothing will ever change between us.” Will wants to hug him and hesitates. Mike gives him a CLOSE, FULL-CONTACT, INTIMATE HUG. Will: “We’re still friends?… “Of course.” Mike pulls away and looks at him. “Best friends. Nothing’s ever gonna change that, okay?”

Mike tells him to stay here while he checks on breakfast. He walks upstairs. In the basement, Will is crying. He looks at the painting with Mike the Paladin on the wall, and smiles through tears.

FOLLOW ME for the next part of “Byler Endgame, One Episode at a Time”!

Part 0 (what a Byler endgame needs to address) Previous episode Next episode

-teambyler

[novathehumanperson]

HEYYYYYYYYYYYY NEW WRITER NEW WRITER I SEEEEEE!!!!!

I DUNNO IF YOU DO READER WITH LIKE A PLATONIC RELATIONSHIP WITH A CHARACTER OR WHATEVER- you can just delete this if you don’t do any of that :)

Anyway~ I shall take the honers of being your first request person thing!!!

Fandom your one and only~ “MHA”. Could you do a Brother Shoto Todoroki x Hated Sister Reader???

Anyway~ idk if your those kind of writers who need a tinsie winsie of plot before doing the request so~

Maybe Reader resembles Enji which makes the whole family hate her? Rei just straight up scared of us? But then on night one night Shoto catches us doing self harm? He may “hate” us but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care :)

If you don’t like sensitive topics it’s completely fine!!! Just delete this if you don’t want to 🙃

The way I put this is also kinda cringe so I apologize 😓

𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐱 𝐇𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

TW: Self-harm, some talk of depression, and child abuse.

Note: It's not cringe, I like the idea. I needed some motivation anyway. I hope this is okay. :)

Living in the Todoroki family was rough. Y/n looks almost exactly like Enji with her medium-length, wavy, red hair and turquoise eyes. Her appearance led her siblings to subconsciously hate her. However, her parents were a lot more open about it. Enji hated y/n because she was just another failure. She had gotten a fire quirk, but it's weak. It's not something that Enji wanted. He only wanted the best. Rei didn't necessarily hate y/n. She was more scared of her. But it still felt like she hated her.

The days got harder and harder, and y/n was so lonely. She longed for affection from her siblings or her parents. It got harder to do basic things like brush her teeth or even just get dressed. Many nights, she would lay on the ground and think about how much better life could have been if she had just looked like Rei. Despite all of this, she coped well. Y/n was very good at pretending.

One day, y/n found herself in the bathroom. In her hand was a razor. She figured that maybe just a few cuts would help. She desperately needed a release. Y/n looked around before starting to make a cut. But before she even could think to hide it, she heard a familiar voice.

"What are you doing?"

Shoto said while standing in the doorway. He looked worried. Y/n couldn't remember a time when he looked worried for her wellbeing like this. In fact, she couldn't remember a time when any of her family was worried about her.

"Nothing!"

Y/n quickly exclaimed, trying to hide the wounds. Shoto just sighed and walked forward. He then, surprisingly enough, started helping her fix up her wounds. This was the first time she felt cared for. She felt happy in the moment.

"You know, you shouldn't hurt yourself like this."

Y/N looked at the ground in shame, she's was embarrassed. Suddenly, Shoto hugged her. He resented her, yes, but he couldn't let his sister get hurt. He still cared about her, and deep down, he knew that it wasn't her fault. He would have to just push those feelings aside for right now.

"Y/n, I do care about you. I don't want to see you like this. I love you, sister. You can talk to me when you start feeling down again, I'll listen."

Shoto hugged her, and you could see a tiny smile on his face.

"Let's go eat some dinner, okay. Fuyumi always makes good food."

Shoto said, and y/n smiled a bit. She felt better than before. Maybe things would start to get better?

[myinternettrash]

Cáncun [Chapter 2, Year 4, Part 1]

summary: Bruce stared blankly into the crowded cafeteria. His skin was itching. His muscles crawling. Everything was empty. A hollow shell.

The news was playing on an old TV that hung in the left corner of the cafeteria, his oatmeal was left uneaten.

Bruce's rage flared more often than not now.

an: OMG YALL IM SO SORRY!!! this chapter was delayed six months and i am soso sorry! i had a lot of things going on with my family and just general life issues, anyway i hope this chapter makes up for it!

quick reminder that this fic is split in years so this is the 4th year part 1 as well as SCAREBAT IS A PLOT DEVICE OMG PLEASE GIVE MY FIC A CHANCE 😭😭

as always concrit is welcome and needed !!!

xx

YEAR FOUR —

Gotham was always clouded in an everlasting cold during the winter months. Her freezing heart would beat slower, a deep resonance of sadness and death flooding through the city. The feeling only made it colder.

It didn't help that Arkham’s AC was always blasting. Heat was only used in areas the staff would have to work in, cells and ‘patient’ areas would be left to the AC and Gotham frost.

So, Jonathan and Bruce were huddled together in a corner of the library. Jon’s smaller frame was pressed into his front, wavy, black hair fell across his broad shoulder as Jon shivered. The Arkham jumpsuits were not warm by any means, the material was thin and cheap, not anything like Jon’s too-long business attire or Bruce’s designer suits.

Bruce was used to the cold though, the ice lived inside of him ever since his parent's murder. The prisons only made him grow closer accustomed to it.

Jon hadn't experienced a cold like this.

Bruce wrapped his arms around his friend, squeezing tightly for a few seconds before letting go.

“What book are you thinking of picking out?” Bruce whispered lowly, his voice reverberating in his chest, Jon could feel the rumble through both of their jumpsuits and their skin.

The other man lifted his head from Bruce’s shoulder slowly, “I was thinking of reading Pale Fire, but that might be too dark, don't you think?”

“Jon, I’ll read whatever you want to read, this book is for you,” Bruce smiled at his friend, his hand cupping the other man’s jaw, “but I don't want that book to push you farther into depression.”

“I-i-i’m not depressed!” Jonathan retorted quickly, mouth agape as he stared into Bruce’s ice-blue eyes. “Jon, darling,” the doctor’s eyes flitted to Bruce’s lips as they started moving, “yes, you are.”

Bruce smiled solemnly, he could hardly feel bad for Jonathan. The man knew what he was getting into when he got himself caught. He worked at the goddamn place, he knew exactly how the prisoners were treated.

“Jon, tell me something,” Bruce paused briefly, “what are you scared of?”

The shorter man suddenly became serious, his mouth pressed into a tight line, he huffed shortly, his breath coming out hot onto Bruce’s jaw.

“I have no idea what you are talking about, dear. I am not scared of anything, I’m the Scarecrow, remember that?”

Jonathan smiled, before patting the taller man on the shoulder lightly, “Now! Let’s check this book out shall we?”

Bruce stared vacantly into his friend’s eyes, the Scarecrow was a crock of shit. He cared for Jonathan deeply but, god could that man be fucking egotistical.

Gotham hadn't seen a real villain. Not yet.

Scarecrow was close, but Bruce could feel that a force more powerful was lurking in Gotham’s dark alleyways.

*

Jonathan panted.

Hot, heavy breaths reverberated around the room. The cell was dark and stuffy, the smell almost overbearing.

His fingers were wrapped tightly around his cock, precum beading into perfect little pearls on his flushed tip.

Bruce had brushed him earlier that day. His palm just bearly grazing his dick above the layers of his stiff, orange Arkham regalia. His other hand rested delicately on Jonathan’s hip as he explained some unimportant topic about bats and a villain bound to appear in Gotham. It wasn't as interesting as the way his lips moved or the way his tongue would brush over his bottom lip every few seconds. Not nearly as important as the feeling of that broad palm, his skin left scalding hot in its wake.

He had been hard and leaking ever since.

His slender fingers moved faster over his shaft, meek little moans escaping from his plush lips.

“Ffffuckkk, Bruce…” his hips stuttered.

A finger slipped into his mouth, coating the skin with hot spit. His hand moved languidly behind himself, swirling around his rim before pushing in.

Another moan, higher pitched.

Absolutely pathetic.

His finger curled, searching desperately for that spot. His other hand moved faster over his cock. His finger finally found it.

Two moans and a gasp. Disgusting.

“...B-bruce,” his fingers wiped over his tip, spreading his precum over and down his shaft.

His walls squeezed tight and hot around his finger as it pushed in and out haphazardly. His hips stuttered again, pushing his dick through the cup of his hand.

“Oh, god,” his balls tightened. What a fucking weak bitch.

A mantra of Bruce filled his mind, everything about him was enrapturing. His chocolate brown hair, those ever-changing, murky blue eyes, his skin, smooth and flawless, his form— god, Jonathan didn't know how he kept up a physique like that in a fucking asylum— his mind, that beautiful, beautiful brain. Sometimes just looking at Bruce scared him to his core. There was a monstrous bat that lived beneath Bruce’s skin and it was evil. He could see it behind the muddy blues, see it clawing beneath his skin, he could feel it when they touched. Jonathan was terrified of Bruce, and the fear turned him on as much as everything about Bruce did.

He was hopelessly, pathetically, in love.

God, Jonathan craved him.

Everything was Bruce as he came, ropes of hot, white cum spraying onto his palm, coating his slender fingers and the starched orange jumpsuit.

What a pussy. Weak. A bitch for Bruce to use.

That was exactly what he was, Bruce’s bitch.

He just came harder.

Broken moans and gasps filled his cell, the smell of sex and cum taking over all of Jonathan's senses.

Goddamn.

Once his brain was no longer a puddle inside his skull, Jon noticed the cum that had sprayed across the bleak and depressing pages of Pale Fire.

How would he explain the stains?

*

Bruce panted.

His body quaked, breaths coming out ragged and short. Why wouldn't it leave him alone? Constant screeching, deafening and full of rage, sharp talons clawing at his guts, his bat, as Jonathan calls it, brewed and bubbled in his stomach acid.

Bruce was shaking, quivering underneath his jumpsuit. The thin material was coated with sweat and stuck to his back. His fingers twitched as they raked through his hair nervously, dirty fingernails mucking up his dark brown hair.

He muttered feverishly, “Bat… bat… bat… Mother… Father…”

The loud clang of his cell door pulled him from panic, a guard—not Mick, not one of the nicer guards in Arkham, not even Cash, he didn't know this guard— looked at Bruce through the visor on his helmet, ruddy brown eyes flicked to Bruce’s hands and wrists, scanning them for injuries.

“Get up,” the guard’s voice was deep and steady with a hint of a Cuban accent, calming Bruce’s nerves, if only momentarily. The presence of another person forcing his mind to switch into his playboy facade. Slowly, Bruce pushed up from the ground, the cold concrete grazing his flesh.

The guard was tall—even taller than Bruce, who was six foot— and built, intricate tattoos curling around his biceps in a bright green, vein-like. The green was a stark contrast to his tan skin, and as far as Bruce could tell, the tattoos covered the guard’s body, stretching over the expanse of his neck and stopping at his face.

The guard spoke again, “I’m Nathan Dorrance by the way, m’ friends call me Nate.” Black gloves wrapped loosely around Bruce’s left arm, steadying him so he could walk. “My name means ‘a gift from God’ but my father always said I was the bane of his existence”, the guard let go once Bruce was no longer shaking. “Will I be a gift or the bane of your existence?”

Bruce shifted his eyes—more gray than blue in the dim lighting— to the rust colored eyes of Nathan. “I doubt I’ll be that much trouble,” his lips curled into a tight smile, showing off stark white canines.

“Besides,” he laughed sarcastically, “I’m on new meds!”

The tattoos on the man’s neck seemed to pump with some fluid as his head tilted to the side.

“Then I’ll be a gift.”

“Is there something you needed me for?” He gritted out the sentence from between his teeth. The sweat that once covered him was now drying in the ever cold Arkham AC, it was uncomfortable and made his teeth clack together, he didn't know if he was shaking from the cold or from the meds.

Nathan spoke again, “Leland needs to see you.”

*

The led lights flickered outside of Leland’s office, the varnish on her mahogany door shined in the light, glaring into Bruce’s eyes if stared too hard for too long. Apparently Leland, though having called for Bruce, was busy with someone.

Officer Dorrance—Nathan, Bruce corrected himself— stood by him, arms crossed over his chest but he was calm and relaxed. His tattoos appeared to twitch every few minutes, it was probably just a side effect of the medication, Bruce thought.

A laugh rang out, cold and insincere, it was followed by a polite but equally biting chuckle. And then the shining mahogany door opened abruptly, the hinge creaking as it swung, and out walked Quincy Sharp. The old fuck was the warden of Arkham, but Bruce thought he should have been in a padded cell. He was just as crazy as the rest of them.

Leland’s hand was grasping the door tightly, her bright red nails contrasting against the dark wood, “Well, thank you for the visit Mr. Sharp! Pleasant as always.” She smiled, her teeth grinding slightly. Sharp waved, the heels of his dress shoes clacking against the floor as he waddled—really, he waddled, it reminded him of someone he always saw at his parent's parties— to the Arkham Mansion.

“Well, hi, Bruce, come on in,” Nathan tapped his shoulder lightly, signaling for Bruce to go inside.

Leland’s hand gestures for him to sit down on one of the chair’s that surrounded her desk—Bruce was considered low risk at the moment so he got the privilege of being able to sit and talk to the doctor’s inside their office instead of an interrogation style room. The chairs were plush, deep red velvet, they reminded Bruce a lot of the furniture in the library at the Manor.

The doctor swiftly made way to her desk, gracefully lowering herself into her chair, “So, I have a few questions for you,” she rustled around and grabbed a notepad and pen.

Bruce stared for a moment, blinking slowly, “Of course, what could I help you with Mrs. Leland?”

“I have a few questions for you about Jonathan Crane, the police want to see if any inmates knew of his villain persona the Scarecrow,” she looked at him momentarily, her deep brown eyes meeting his murky blues.

“I know you two are close,” Bruce nodded hesitantly, breathing out of his nose.

“I did not know of his activities if that is what you are asking, he never-” The doctor jotted down his statement quickly, her head raising to look at him again, “he didn't devolve into his life outside of work.”

He continued, “We bonded over literature,” his eyes followed her hand as it wrote, “that's why we were close.”

She nodded, her short, dark brown bob bouncing along with it. “Yes, thank you Mr. Wayne,”

She shifted her arms into a more comfortable position, leaning on the table slightly, “I am… aware you are both still very close, outside of a doctor-patient relationship, has he told you anything since then?”

Bruce shook his head, “We are friends, yes, but he has not told me anything about Scarecrow, I believe he is deeply ashamed if anything.”

Bruce could smell the doubt.

“Alright then, thank you Bruce,” she smiled, fakely Bruce noted. He twitched out a smile, wide and toothless. Nate came in and waited as he got out of the chair.

Bruce left, Nathan following shortly after, his tattoos shifting as he moved.

*

“Bruce?”

His eyes snapped open.

Jonathan’s wavy, dark hair hung over into his face cornflower eyes staring into his, wide and concerned.

“What?” Bruce rasped out, putting his broad hand on Jon’s skinny shoulder.

“You were zoning out,” his eyes were darting over Bruce’s face, searching for something. Ever the physiatrist, Jon was, he always needed an explanation.

“Darling, I’m fine, I’m just tired,” he moved his hands to cup Jon’s jaw, “I’m ok, I promise.”

Jon gasped lightly, not loud enough for Bruce to fully hear. But he could tell, Jon’s flushed cheeks, his pupils dilating, his quickened heart rate.

He knew.

“B-bruce…” Jonathan sighed out, slumping closer into Bruce's body

“Yes darling?” Bruce smiled warmly after he spoke, all sparkly canines.

“I- I think… are you sure you're ok?” Jon bit his bottom lip, eyes twinkling as they looked up at Bruce.

Bruce gnawed on the inside of his cheek before answering, “Yes, of course I’m okay, I always am when you're with me Jon… Was there anything you wanted to tell? I sensed hesitation.” He was polite of course, you had to be to get the reaction you wanted.

Jon whined, his fingers twiddling together. His slender hand went to move the book they were reading before Bruce zoned out to a more convenient location on the floor.

“I,” he looked down towards his lap and then back into Bruce's eyes, “I think I’m in love with you.”

“I know Jon,” Bruce leaned towards the smaller man’s face, teasing him. And then he kissed him.

Jon gasped, louder this time and into Bruce’s mouth, before going back in to kiss him again.

Pale Fire was forgotten on the floor.

*

It was unlike anything Jonathan could have ever imagined.

Bruce had kissed him so warmly, like a cup of perfect coffee in the cold bite of the Gotham winter.

It was unlike anything Jonathan could have ever wanted.

Beautiful, crazy, amazing, Bruce was his now, all his.

His cell felt warmer now, his mattress a little softer, the air a little clearer.

It was like his whole worldview was shifted.

Bruce was an enigma when Jonathan first met him. Ever polite and collected, despite just murdering a man in a courthouse. He had two years to think about his actions, but most people would still have some sort of emotion, unless they were sociopathic—which Bruce after much deliberation—was determinedly not.

He had to study him, it wasn't everyday that a “Prince of Gotham”—a notable title, no matter how odd it was to Jonathan—snapped, not like this anyway. Billionaires don't normally turn to murder to cope with trauma, cocaine and other illicit drugs is more likely, which is what fueled Jon’s interest.

There was something hiding behind those pale blue eyes.

Jonathan, ever the physiatrist at heart, needed to know what was plaguing Bruce’s mind, handsome faces like that needn't be so worried.

He was scared of something, something strange and monstrous. It wasn't tangible.

So, Jonathan dug his talons in and started digging.

After countless sessions and cups of coffee, he finally uncovered The Bat, a creature that Jon has yet to fully understand.

All he knew was that it was in Bruce, screeching at him, clawing its way through Bruce’s stomach lining trying to escape.

He was the most interesting person Jonathan had ever met.

As they got closer, bonding over similar childhood experiences (even if their childhoods were vastly different), Jon confided in him.

About Scarecrow. About the fear toxin. About the goal.

And Bruce understood. He got what Jonathan had been studying—independently, however—for years.

He knew the fear, he was interested in Scarecrow, interested in him.

So he fell in love, and Bruce loved him too.

*

Bruce stared blankly into the crowded cafeteria. His skin was itching. His muscles crawling.

Everything was empty. A hollow shell.

The news was playing on an old TV that hung in the left corner of the cafeteria, his oatmeal was left uneaten.

Bruce’s rage flared more often than not now.

His bat, his monster, was screaming inside him. He could feel the pulsating veins of Gotham, the scum that was emerging made her veins pump harder, faster. Bruce was invigorated. Gotham had been far too quiet since he had killed Joe Chill.

Even Scarecrow didn't take over Gotham in a cloud like Bruce did. Bruce was too perfect to be a villain, it caught everyone by surprise.

That was Jonathan's flaw, he was brilliant, but he was too predictable.

The news reporter’s tone suddenly changed, the monotone voice gone and now filled with shock.

“This just in! The Gotham National Bank has been robbed. There are a presumed five dead.”

Bruce looked over at the screen, as did the rest of the prisoners in the cafeteria. Most were shocked, some were unmoved.

Bruce was everything all at once.

The news station rolled footage found from the security cameras around the bank, most were deactivated, but cameras left in areas that would normally be turned were left on. Like the robber wanted the process to be seen.

Men in clown masks infiltrated the bank with extreme precision. Cut the alarms, one clown dead, control the crowd, people scream, mob ties, two clowns dead. A mistake, a clown and a mobster injured, break into the vault, three clowns dead.

A bus slams through the building, four clowns dead, the clown from the bus helps the remaining one load up and then he’s dead too.

And then the clown mask comes off, all toxic sludge green hair and grease paint.

Bruce’s heart twinged, his interest piqued. The man had grotesque scars that cut a mile wide smile from the corners of his lips far into his cheeks. Red lipstick was smeared across them and highlighted the scars for anyone that looked.

A gloved hand pulled out a grenade from his suit jacket and stuck it in the mob member’s mouth, a purple string pulled the pin of the grenade as the man climbed into the bus, the mobster’s muffled yelling and the rumble of the school bus were the only things heard as the gas released from the grenade.

Bruce was captivated.

As the footage cut out and the news reporter returned to the screen to ramble on a long dialogue discussing the plan of action against this new villain, the noise in the cafeteria buzzed loudly.

Some were impressed, others were jealous, and even more were terrified.

The TV had to be switched off after the reporter said an estimated 68 million was stolen from the bank, yells and hollers filled the cafeteria as Bruce went to leave.

He had to call Alfred.

*

The dialing tone was the only thing that filled Bruce’s ears as he waited.

Today, Gotham was changed.

The line clicked over.

“Master Bruce?”

Bruce shifted to lean against the metal divider between the phones and moved the phone closer to his mouth.

“Did you see the news today Alfred?”

After a few seconds the older man's British accent cut through the white noise of the phone, “Yes, I did Master Bruce, it was certainly… masterfully done, no matter the execution.”

Bruce smiled, genuinely, “He’s a genius.”

“How have you been, sir? I heard from Mrs. Leland a few weeks ago and she had an odd report.”

His smile dropped, “Did she ask you about Dr. Crane?” He laughed spitefully, “Yeah, we had that same discussion, I told her what I knew,” he moved himself off the divider, now serious, “she’s trying to look for something that isn't there.”

“Ok sir, I just wanted to make sure you were all right,” the butler sighed.

“Yeah, I’m alright, Alfred, things are looking up.”

“Soon enough I’ll have a smile on my face,” the brunette chucked, “I’ll call you again soon, Alfred, thank you for talking to me,”

“Goodbye, Master Bruce.”

[jayy-day-library]

REVIEW: The Love Hypothesis by Ali Hazelwood

Rating: 3/5

Synopsis

As a third-year Ph.D. candidate, Olive Smith doesn't believe in lasting romantic relationships--but her best friend does, and that's what got her into this situation. Convincing Anh that Olive is dating and well on her way to a happily ever after was always going to take more than hand-wavy Jedi mind tricks: Scientists require proof. So, like any self-respecting biologist, Olive panics and kisses the first man she sees.

That man is none other than Adam Carlsen, a young hotshot professor--and well-known ass. Which is why Olive is positively floored when Stanford's reigning lab tyrant agrees to keep her charade a secret and be her fake boyfriend. But when a big science conference goes haywire, putting Olive's career on the Bunsen burner, Adam surprises her again with his unyielding support and even more unyielding... six-pack abs.

Suddenly their little experiment feels dangerously close to combustion. And Olive discovers that the only thing more complicated than a hypothesis on love is putting her own heart under the microscope.

Review

I am not the smartest person when it comes to biological science, so a lot of whatever the hell hey were talking about really went over my head while reading this book. Aside from that, this story really did capture my heart despite it being from the infamous Book Tok. Though, this book wasn't exactly as it was marketed to be from readers. When many talked about spice, it sounded like this entire story was meant to be erotica. The reality is that there was really only one sex chapter, which given the traits of our beloved heroin, Olive, it makes sense.

The prologue drew me in immediately. I'm a sucker for a good laugh especially if it's relatable. I've learned my lesson from wearing expired contacts myself! Immediately after reading the prologue, I knew we had our hero. Then suddenly two years and eleven months later we find Olive kissing some guy who is none other than our hero himself, Adam Carlson.

One thing that irks me about the beginning of the book is the first chapter where it is described that Olive had kissed Adam without his consent. At the beginning of the story, the two of them are the perfect strangers who stand at very different levels in their careers - Adam is a professor, Olive is a student which isn't exactly the power dynamic I usually go for in contemporary romance novels. While I love a good plot in STEM, specifically women in STEM, I find that the relationship could've been represented better with a more preferable age gap that does not make it seem too inappropriate. However, they do end up making it work as they start becoming more comfortable with each other, so I guess that works.

"I'm starting to wonder if this is what being in love us. Being okay with ripping yourself into shreds, so the other person can stay whole."

Both Adam and Olive have admirable goals in their careers; Olive's pancreatic cancer project and Adam's fight for his research fund while under suspicion that he may be moving to another university. This story is very much character driven with not much character development. But, if you're looking for that grumpy x sunshine fake dating trope, well then this book is perfect for you. I noticed that this story did not focus much on the flaws of the characters which added to the lack of character development, aside from them being more comfortable with each other as the story progressed. The more we got introduced to new characters, the more I started to realize that each character lacked diversity. It seemed that they each had either the same or a similar personality. Which while entertaining for certain character interactions, it all seemed repetitive in the end.

"Olive had felt that he was on her side. Over and over, and in ways that could never have been anticipated, he had made her feel unjudged. Less alone."

Conclusion

All in all, I feel that while the relationship was cute and had great development, the story could've used more personal character development for the individual characters. One thing that I did enjoy that I tend to joke about quite a bit is the fact that even though they had no "one bed trope," they ended up making their own anyways and I thought that was funny. The best takeaway from this book is that it surrounds the difficulties of women in STEM and the fact that Adam became her biggest protector in the end made my heart flip. Nothing is sexier than a man who will do anything for his woman even if it means pinning a man against the wall and threatening to kill him. Hopefully you find this book enjoyable as much a I did despite it's many flaws and it's redeeming qualities that balanced it out.

"If you say another word about the woman I love, if you look at her, if you even think about her - I'm going to fucking kill you."

[thisisyouridol]

tell me about your aitsf au im so curious whats the deal…

anon i wanna make out with you sloopy style

i love talking about the name origin so ill explain that really quickly: eudaimonia is a greek word that basically means “division by good means” or a “great (as in positive) divide”. i called it this because i consider this au like an other side of the coin type deal, in ai1 saito briefly considers the fact of what would have happened to all of them if he had never killed manaka, this au is like, my take on that.

ah i dont wanna just have a block of text click the thingy you sexy thing you

yeah this is a manaka lives au. saito still goes on to become the other half of the cyclops killers, but he gets much less enjoyment out of it because his assiociation with killing is not as important and does it mainly at rohans behest. his relationship with his father is better / worse also because him sabotaging the plant never happened here either. points of the main plot still happen like the second psync machine, hayato and saito’s psync, but because there IS no hit on iris and hitomi theres a lot of stuff i move around (like the hayato rohan psync, how hayato comes to find out whos the cyclops killers, etc etc) and i decide to do some hand wavy magic, the hayato and saito psync goes weird—because they both have the capability to psync. they both kind of get kicked out of somnium.

in my au psyncers are a much rarer commodity, and i only have plans to include saito, hayato, mizuki (no bibi here srry), + ryuki as psyncers. being a psyncer in this au means that unless you are compatible with that other psyncer, you cant psync with them. so, mizuki can psync with ryuki because they get along and emotionally are connected, whereas saito and hayato hate each other.

back to what i was saying. anyways the plot is a little spotty here bc this au is actually like a sitcom to me but ultimately boss finds out that saito can psync, blackmails so sejima with his murders, and lets rohan take the fall for all of it. she basically comes to “own” saito and they take a lot of measures to control him. he changes the way he looks (see ponytail) and has a plate enforced in his head (the thing that looks like a eyepatch), and changes his last name. hes forced to live with hayato who looks over him and makes sure basically he doesnt kill anyone while working as special agent / himself because hes on like five different medications to make him normal-core.

for hayato he still left hitomi (who co-parents iris with manaka) because of his sordid evil past or whatever. he comes to reconnect with them when iris is like 14-15 and saito is like jesus fucking christ [realizes everything is connected.] mizuki also lives with saito and hayato but not like consistently she just stays over a lot, renju has a very faint idea of who saito is bc hes smart like that but lowkey he doesnt gaf bc hes also neglectful like that. hes like hayato my drinking buddy can you and your murderer boyfriend watch my kid for a week thanks love you ❤️ legally they cant talk ab what saito did, his father, you get what im saying here.

saito, like date, is given aiba after a year of being with abis, she’s meant to be a companion but also takes the role of keeping him in check so hayato can take a back seat regarding that. she shocks him all the time mainly for fun. saito also doesnt have the authorization from boss to use weaponry so hayato tends to hav tag along with him, saito is not allowed to kill because boss considers it an “addiction”, hayato does it for him basically so he can stay “clean”.

hayato is also considered a consultant for abis rather than being a official member because he doesn’t have a ai-ball partner, he’s given tama about two years after saito is given aiba. if you’re wondering where that leaves ryuki and mizuki, ryuki gets maruko and mizuki and saito share aiba.

the plot of ai1 doesnt happen here (so a lot of characters stay alive and they never learn certain things ahh!!) but im working on a murder mystery plot based on ai2, it’ll have to do with ryuki and his family mainly. ill be honest and say i dont really like aini but i love some characters so theyll be here too!!

theres a 100 things i could say but im trying not to infodump lol if you want to know more ab a specific character pls shoot me another ask ill tell you everything ily .

heres some old fic stuff as a treat from me to you

[primofate]

The Ruthless Prince (Part 19) Scaramouche x fem!reader [Genshin Royal AU]

Summary: When Prince Scaramouche picks you out of a random group of commoners to marry, your life is turned upside down. He’s mean, snarky, condescending and he doesn’t act like a proper husband or prince at all. However, when Prince Tartaglia from the neighbouring kingdom takes an interest in you, Prince Scaramouche finds himself even more annoyed than usual. This is the story of him and you navigating this roller coaster of a relationship.

Warnings: heavy angst on Scaramouche’s part, severely injured reader with heavy thoughts of death

Word Count: 4.9k

Summary and a recap on the Royal AU plots are here.

Read other parts: (Ruthless Prince Masterlist)

“You did well, son,”

Two days after the incident, the king and queen, Scaramouche’s mother and father, arrived back from their long tour and journey of traversing other kingdoms and building alliances. It was a necessary thing to do, if they wanted their own kingdom to thrive. 

Already, as soon as the king arrived he had made several arrangements for repair work. It looked as if their tour was successful, as he noted that several other countries and kingdoms were willing to supply them with some resources that they lacked. 

To Scaramouche, though, that help came all too late, but he said nothing about it. Nothing he said now would change anything of the past.

“Scaramouche,” his mother, while his father had gone off to take care of the mess, embraced her son and mumbled. “The messenger told us everything, you must be exhausted,” 

He was a grown man, but in front of his mother, he was just a boy. She pulls away to give him a sympathetic gaze, one that he didn’t meet as he just looked at the ground. Defeated.

The words you did well meant nothing to him. With Kuni dead and Y/N gone, the gnosis missing, casualties within the knights left and right “You did well” seemed hardly the right assessment of things. 

Mother, with hair that reached to her mid-back, wavy in the right places yet not overly so, reached out for her son’s hand and walked with him. Her orchid-coloured hair swayed with her, she was graceful in a lot of ways, but the crinkles in her eyes showed her age. Despite that, she was beautiful, and one could hardly call her ‘old’ since her beauty trumped it. “I’ll run some tea, and have them make a lavender melon pie for old time’s sake and we can talk, alright, dear?”

His father, Scaramouche respected, but his mother… He didn’t mean to pick favourites, but it was inevitable when his father was so busy and his mother was so doting. Scaramouche was powerless in front of his mother, she was comfort when everything else fell apart around him. He only nodded in response. That, and she had a hidden talent of being intimidating when she wanted to, just as all mothers did, even more so than his father.

Mother opted to walk with him to his study and Scaramouche only realized it when they were already in front of his study door. He stops, his hand pulling back almost automatically, and he winces, like he didn’t mean for that kind of reaction. His mother turns back, questioning gaze in her eyes as she was just about to open his study door. “...Do you not prefer to sit and talk in your study, son?” 

Scaramouche felt a lump in his throat, but he swallowed it down hard, the memories of the past two days haunting him. 

When he got back to the castle on horseback it had already been morning. He hadn’t slept, trekking that river up and down three, four, five times before he finally gave up and told himself he’ll look for you again tomorrow. No matter how many times he looked at the ring on his finger, it was just a cold silver metal pressed on his skin now, there was no colour that indicated that you were still alive. 

He still remembered he had other duties to attend to back in the castle, mainly Kuni and the other casualties. So without any sleep in his veins he proceeded to oversee the clean up of the castle, the captain of the knights had reported back to him, telling him how many men had fallen. He moved to the infirmary at some point and asked the head healer how everything looked, and she gave him numbers. 

There was a certain procedure when someone died fighting for the kingdom, there were special rewards for their immediate family as well as a special resting place for them. None of that could ever cover up for the grief of losing a beloved, of course, but it was how things were, working for the royal family. 

A team was dispatched to tell the bereaved, and Scaramouche wanted to be in charge of Kuni’s procedures…mostly because Kuni didn’t have any family. He had literally spent all his life serving the royal family, and had no connections whatsoever to the outside world. Scaramouche didn’t know how to feel about that fact, as he watched their funeral director go over Kuni’s body, cleaning it up for the next step. Kuni may not have had family outside of the castle, but Scaramouche realizes now that everyone inside the castle had probably treated him as some type of guide and mentor, a father figure. That included Scaramouche himself. 

He closed his eyes and took a deep, slow breath. In his mind he had said thank you and farewell to the old man already, in reality he just couldn’t take another second of looking at the mistake he could have avoided. He took one last look at Kuni’s body before leaving the funeral director to do his job. Perhaps he would have more courage to say the actual words of thanks out loud at Kuni’s funeral…but at that moment all Scaramouche could think about was how he wished you were here.

You would understand. You would be just as angry and just as downcast as him, and you wouldn’t judge him for it. You probably would have blamed yourself the same way he was doing now. At least he wished there was someone he could share this agony with, but there was no one except more agony waiting for him in his bedroom, seeing as it was empty, and it would be for a long time until he found you. 

As much as he wanted to collapse in bed, his attire was still dirty and bloody, so he proceeded to the shower instead. He stripped off all his clothes, but it wasn’t enough to lift the overbearing weight on his shoulders, he still felt as if he had his armor on him, still felt as if he was on horseback, still felt as if he was brushing Kuni’s eyelids close. 

The shower turned on and the pitter patter of it against the tiles soothed him in some way. He stood there bare and unable to even understand what he had to do now. Showering seemed like such a difficult task all of a sudden. Not wanting to think or do anything for the time being, he let himself shuffle forward, his forehead lightly hitting the shower wall as he let the water rain down on him. Hoping that it would wash away dirt, but also hoping that regret would be washed away with it. 

He didn’t know how long he spent in there, but it was noon when he emerged in his sleep attire, though he was dripping wet and didn’t even bother to dry himself off completely. He fell face first into the bed, and he immediately knew sleep wouldn’t visit him anytime soon. 

It was so… large. This bed. He could spread both arms out and every part of him still fit in it. 

He hated it. 

When you were here, he had to keep his arms to himself for months, mostly because the two of you were not comfortable with skinship but also because he hadn’t felt anything for you those first few weeks. 

You were just an insufferable pretend wife that he needed. 

And now? 

He grits his teeth remembering the first time he really kissed you. Not the wedding, that was not even comparable to the first night, the only night the two of you spent wrapped up in each other’s arms. 

That was just yesterday…what happened…? 

He thought to himself. Closing his eyes didn’t help with trying to block out all the times he saw you smile, or all the times you looked so pissed at him–he honestly thought that was your best facial expression–or all the times you bantered back with him. 

That was another problem. 

It was quiet. 

Yet his mind was full of noises, your voice hovering over each other, your incredulous scoff when he said something unbelievable, things that you’ve said that he just suddenly remembered.

“…You didn’t have to punch him, you know,” in response to that time he had punched Tartaglia in public.

“I just don’t want to spin out of control or…or something,” the first time you practice a dance with him, and him, replying with all the confidence in the world, hand around your waist,  “You won’t,”

“I vow to always be by your side…” he remembers how cold your hands were when you restate your wedding vows during his birthday, was that out of nervousness? “…To be your shelter, your strength…and your bride,” 

He jolts up from the bed, swinging his legs over the edge and planting his elbows on his knees, palms yet again covering and digging into the dips of his eyes, willing himself to stop thinking about it, but it doesn’t help one bit. 

He stands and almost runs away from the room, he can’t stay there right now. The pillows smell like you but it doesn’t give him any comfort. He opts to go to his study, maybe do some reading or paperwork and just…fall asleep on the table. You hadn’t spent a lot of time in his study, there would be no trace of you there, maybe that would help. 

Perhaps it was all the happenings of the past two days that makes him forget your painting is hanging up on his study wall. He entered his study with a little bit of ease in his mind, but when he sat on his chair he came face to face with the serene painting of him hanging next to the door. 

Scaramouche froze on his seat, back tense and arms stiff at the sight of the watercolours melding into a perfect–yet not so perfect with that grey blotch on the side–painting of him drinking tea. It’s just as he saw it the first time. A side profile of him, lifting a teacup to his lips in his prince garb, eyes looking off to somewhere far away, plate of biscuits on the coffee table in front of him.

It was night and day, the difference between him in that painting and the him sitting in his study right now. The tones of purple and yellow on the painting were bright, you could tell that light was pouring through from the window in your rendition of him, but now he sat here in the dark and he was sure that his expression was nothing like it was in the painting. 

The sound of his chair scraping on the floor woke him to the fact that he was walking towards the painting without thinking. 

This was the only piece of you that he had left. 

The only proof that you were not just some type of dream or illusion that graced his life for a few months. 

This was proof that you were real, and you were right there with him. That you accepted him despite his fucked up past and the assholish things that he had done. It was then that he realized how much you really had to go through to enter the royal family, to be betrothed to him, and yet, you were stronger than what he had anticipated.

His hand lifted and touched the words on the bottom of the painting: Happy Birthday. From: Y/N

A soft scoff escaped from his lips at the memory of him forcing you to write your name on it. You were upset that he had ruined the painting, and in classic Scaramouche-Y/N manner the two of you had still quarreled and argued over it despite it being his birthday present. He never did apologize out loud for ruining it. 

It’s strange, the sudden tremble he feels on his lips when he remembers bits of annoying yet tender memories of you. Maybe this was his chance to say “...Sorry, Y/N,” he breathes it out like a secret, lays his forehead on the painted version of him that he knew was happy, simply indulging in the tea you brewed and the biscuits you picked out. 

He pictured in his mind what kind of reaction you would have, if you heard him utter a real apology to you. The pretend conversation in his mind plays out, with your wide awestruck gaze on him “You’re saying sorry to me?” and him probably just glaring in response, but there’s still amusement in your eyes when you smile and laugh a little. “The world must be ending,” 

That doesn’t help. That made the lump in his throat bigger and made the tremble in his lips stronger. He tethered himself to reality by holding onto the frame of the painting. It hurt more because it was all just in his mind now, it was not real, he was making conversations up, just to keep a bigger piece of you, and when that hit him his legs grew weak and he fell to his knees in front of the painting, head dipped down and angry, frustrated tears threatening to spill over.

His throat was burning, trying his hardest not to cry because he didn’t do that. That was not him at all yet it was so, so difficult in this cold world all by himself. “It feels like that, Y/N,” he whispers to himself, in his mind still continuing the pretend conversation in his own world with you still in it, “It feels like the world is ending,” 

And the first few tears fell. The amount of failure that he had accumulated in one day manifesting in salty droplets running down his cheeks: Kuni, the gnosis, his kingdom, his knights, and the unexpected biggest share of his grief, came from the fact that he would go through every day without your presence anymore. 

“Scaramouche, dear?” His mother’s voice pulls him back to the current reality, and he felt like he had been gone for a while. Scaramouche’s face hardens, eyes darting over to the study door, knowing that the painting was there, waiting for him. He pulls his hand away from his mother’s and shook his head. “...There’s…a better place…” 

Scaramouche turns without asking his mother to follow, he still had his gruff attitude even around her, but he looked back to check if she was following, and indeed she was. He doesn’t know what compels him to travel towards your Art room. There were too many memories of you in there and yet for some reason he wanted to see it. Perhaps because that room was also another piece of you to remember by, and he had just wanted to stamp it in his memory. 

When he arrives, he’s a little nervous at the door, but he pushes it open and steps in. The smell of paint, oil pastel and tea attacks his nose. It’s such a strange combination, but it was comforting to him. 

His mother stepped in behind him and instinctively took a walk around the room. She saw the papers strewn around on the large table, an easel standing near the window, shelves of paint and art materials lined up. Her eyes drag over to the other side. A coffee table and comfy chairs, instead of art materials, cans of tea lined the shelves on the other side. A peculiar combination, his mother thought.

“...This is a new room, have you picked up a new hobby dear?” His mother asked, smiling lightly and looking at his son who was absentmindedly staring at the easel near the large windows. He looked to be in his own world again, seeing a ghost of someone painting, wrist moving up and down in strokes and head tilting to inspect if she had done her illustration properly.

Scaramouche once again pried his eyes off the illusion of you, eyes darting towards his mother. “Uh… No,” he finally answered. “It’s just… Y/N’s Art room,” He turned away and walked towards the shelf of tea leaves, not knowing what he was looking for, just browsing for a distraction, but he had missed the astonished look on his mother’s face. 

“...You had a room constructed for her?” Mother asked and Scaramouche lifted a hand up over a high shelf, fingers brushing over a tin can that said “Chamomile Tea Leaves”. He read that it helped with sleep, and he hadn’t had a good wink ever since the war. 

“...The room was already constructed…It was just a sitting room back then, I just… had it renovated,” Scaramouche explained, moving the tin can forward so that it landed safely in his hand, grasping it carefully and walking over to the coffee table in the room. He sat on the chair that he was sitting on in the painting, but stopped himself from thinking of it too much before he spiraled down another hole of regret.

His mother approached him, an ever present smile on her face and putting a hand out for the tin can. Scaramouche passed it over to her. “...You seem to have grown a lot more attached to her since the last time I checked, dear,” and he could say nothing to his mother’s observation. 

“Attached” wasn’t quite the word for it. He didn’t know what word to describe this lost feeling in his chest, nor the nights that tortured him cause every time he looked at your side of the bed, he thought you would be there, but you weren’t. “Attached” was a little of an understatement. 

“Mm,” He could only let out, eyes wandering away from her, landing on the ring on his finger once again. He would look at it every so often, hoping that there would be some inkling of a colour, some sort of clue, some direction in this pathless chase after you. 

“...Scaramouche,” his mother’s voice had a sense of firmness in it for the first time, his face automatically obeys and turns to finally meet his mother’s eyes for the first time that day. Her gaze was serious. “It’s not time to give up yet, don’t you think so?”

He sighed, his thumb was absentmindedly touching the ring, just feeling the metal of it. “...The ring hasn’t given me any clue that she’s still alive… I’ve looked for her. I don’t know where she is. I’ve asked Kokomi to help, along with her subordinates and yet…” His mother’s soft chuckle threw him off, he looked back at her with a questioning gaze, wondering what exactly she found funny.

“Your father and I have long abandoned those rings, do you know that?” She went around her son, over to the nearest armchair next to him. “Well, of course, when we were younger it was like a guide, but the older we got the more we realized it was better to trust our instincts instead of what the ring showed us,” She reached over to place a hand on Scaramouche’s shoulder. “There are a lot of things that could have happened, son. It could have been damaged, lost while she fled, malfunctioned…The ring is just a tool, not a prophecy,” There was a scolding tone to her voice, and yet a gentle look on her face. “What truly matters is what YOU think in your heart, my dear. Do you think she’s still out there somewhere?”

Scaramouche let his mother’s word sink in, though they were sinking slowly, he addressed her last question and let it weave in and out of his mind. With a small huff, and a hint of hope in his demeanor he answered begrudgingly, “I think she’s too damn stubborn to die so easily,”

Mother laughed, and patted her son’s shoulder. She’s amused at the slight resemblance to his father, but also relieved that Scaramouche had found something worth fighting for. 

“Well then, hold on to that tightly and we’ll keep looking,”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Is she alright?” 

In a rather large bungalow out in the outskirts of Higi Village, Finnian crouched over your limp body, assessing the way your face flushed a dangerous shade of pink, breathing heavy, damp cloth on your forehead.

Finnian was a real village man, large and burly, face covered with a coffee coloured beard and hands calloused with work. In the large bungalow, he lived with his wife Serena: the picture of hardworking. Her ash toned braided hair fraying at places because of the work she had to do for the day. She used to be a doctor back when they still lived inside the main city. Out here, she was but a humble owner of an apple orchard. Together with her husband, they did quite well for themselves, supplying apples to markets and different merchants. 

“I’m not sure, her fever isn’t breaking,” Serena mumbled while covering her mouth in worry. “She’s been out for four days on and off… I… I don’t think she’ll make it at this rate,” Serena was distraught over the thought that someone was about to die under her watch. Her hand instinctively goes towards her belly, thinking that this stress was definitely not good for her pregnancy, but they couldn’t just leave the young lady dying out there in the banks of the river. 

Finnian plants a hand on his wife’s shoulder, and brings her in for a tender kiss on the forehead. “We’ll see, love. You’ve done what you can, alright? It’s all just up to her now…” On the side of the room were the belongings that managed to survive on the rough ride down the river with you, neatly piled atop each other already. 

The day that they found you, they were sure that all they had to do was bury you in a quiet resting place. They had no idea who you were, there was not a lot of clues as to what your identity was. To their surprise, despite the severely broken arm and various bruises on your body, you had held on with a very faint pulse, and that was all it took for the couple to bring you back to their orchard home. Monitoring you as much as they could.

The days passed, and though your body started to repair itself, cuts healing and bruises clearing, mentally, it seemed that you were not ready to awaken yet. There were occasional times where Serena would find you awake, and yet you were so out of it that you had passed out again in the next few seconds. There was not a time where she found you really, consciously awake. 

Serena actually thought that your episodes of waking and staring into nothingness was your way of coming to terms with death, that it was trying to take you, and that you were silently accepting it. But you seemed to keep running away from death, living yet again into another day. 

It was exactly six days after, when your eyes opened and your brain started to connect the dots. You were alone in the room when it happened and your whole being ached. It ached like never before, and you could feel the trauma creep up all around you. 

The first thing you did was cry. 

You cried because everything hurt, cried because dying might have been easier than this, cried because you remembered spots of your memory and how scared you had been. Cried because you could not move a single inch of your muscle without it tearing you into pieces. 

Your sniffling was answered by a loud gasp as Serena entered the room, the shock on her face didn’t disappear as she tried to soothe you. “Shhh… It’s okay, you’re fine,” 

You only cried harder. Being told that everything was fine when it felt like it wasn’t was a sort of crippling relief. You weren’t alone and left for dead, at least, and you knew that you would be forever grateful to whoever this woman was. 

You couldn’t speak, but your sniffles dwindled down and she waited for your tears to lessen before attempting to pull away–you hadn’t noticed that she was rubbing circles on the back of your hand–and when she tried to release your hand, you held on to her tightly instead, fear communicated in your eyes, your head shaking as best as it could from left to right.

She understood immediately.

“It’s okay, I’m just getting you some water, I’ll be back quick,” she promised and you had no choice but to let her go. She came back just as she said, and had a cup in her hands. Serena stared at you for a moment, wondering how she might ask you to sit up and drink some water in your state. Your broken arm was already in a proper sling, but she remembered the bruises on your back and how much those might ache the moment you so much as twitched. 

“Can…Can you sit up?” She held your elbow to support you but you were too scared to even try. Breathing was already hard enough, your chest was tight and the rise and fall of it stung but you had no idea why. You shook your head lightly, your eyelids suddenly getting droopy once again. It dawns on Serena then that you had already exerted all the effort you had for today, and sure enough your eyes close, bringing you back into a peaceful slumber within seconds. 

Serena sighs, a hand on her heart trying to calm the rush of pitter patters against her chest. She didn’t know why, but she had been so panicked to see you awake and coherent. It was a good thing, but your tears were heartbreaking, because she knew that it must have hurt, looking at your condition. 

She gently patted your hand. Even though she didn’t know you, it must have been her new, maternal instincts kicking in. With a baby in her belly, she would’ve hated to think what would happen if her own son or daughter was in the same state, and no one bothered to help.

She was only doing what she hoped other people would do, from the goodness of her heart. 

Seeing that you had no way to drink water, Serena had been dripping it into your mouth by lightly tapping a damp cloth on your lips and occasionally squeezing water into your mouth, if Finnian was around. She settled on sitting down next to the bed and doing the same thing today. The body could survive without food for weeks, but water was another thing. 

Serena was not a particularly religious person, but the state you were in could probably make even the devil kneel in prayer for your recovery. The physical damage was worrying, but Serena was now more worried about the brief desperation in your eyes as you cried:

It’s as if you had wanted it to end instead of fighting it. 

CONSIDER SUPPORTING ME AND READ SOME EXCLUSIVE FICS!

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/lenaprimofate

https://ko-fi.com/primofate

MASTERLIST

https://primofate.tumblr.com/post/653296890583154688/masterlist-for-mobile-version-main-links

[worldsover]

The Yarn We Spin ft. Gyuri

length ✦ 5687

genres ✧ first-person address; kinda melancholy; some good dicking down anyway; ex-fwbs!Gyuri

You're a close vastness, a far proximity: an immeasurable distance. I shouldn't have tried. We’re under the same blanket but a wall doesn’t just divide us; it launches you up into the ink of space, blistering past the threshold, past our observable two-dimensional universe. I don’t claim to be more real than you but this elusive perpendicular axis makes you merely a character in my eyes. Distances can be broken down with time—the wall between reality and fiction can't be breached the same.

What a paradox. You’re a character but your life couldn’t possibly be a story. Don't take offense. Most people’s lives aren’t blockbusters. Good stories have a good arc with a good ending, or at least an interesting one. Yet absent closure, these stories will be written anyway because people will wake up, work, eat, then sleep, without a hand to author their plot. In addition, no matter how boring they might be, these narratives intertwine in their own unique way. Nobody’s life can be recounted without at least one other person.

You told me about your mother’s story after all. It’s not the same story as mine, but it’s a story we, and everyone else, have. There were tales about the rest of your family, your friends, and your coworkers. These minuscule strands define our lives, weave into the ropes of humanity then fray. Sure, people die but they also break up, they move away, maybe they just disappear. I’ve never found that sort of thing sad. Maybe its inevitability makes me too objective about life. If I don’t move on, then I’ll never move on, and then I’ll be stuck.

It’s dark. Even the light that passes my eyelids doesn’t make me want to open them. So I didn’t move on. So I am stuck. But I need these empty words, these preambular paragraphs of stories about stories that don’t mean anything. More than nothing, something that pretends to be anything is actually less than nothing at all. This something leads to a cruel, self-feeding doubt. No matter how much I want the silence, this story will be written anyway.

“Gyuri.” Your light voice and lighter touch on my neck breaks down walls, finally frees me from my somnolent musings. How indulgent of me, that’s all the wall was—an insecure construction—for now.

“Thank you.” The words clear a scratch in my throat.

“Thank you? What for?”

Spring air through the open window hits all my bare skin and makes me clutch the soft blanket fabric. An amused breath from my nose. “I dunno.”

“Well, you’re welcome.” Hug me tight, and I hug you tighter. The simple, obvious things you do keep me away from those rambling thoughts. They tend to devolve.

“By the way...” My voice peters out in a low fry. “You remember Jungmo and Yumi?”

“From the acting class?”

I nod and stretch my arms up. “Mhm. They broke up.”

“Oh.” Gather some blanket back for yourself. “I had no idea they were dating.”

“That’s why you should’ve stayed in the classes.”

“I dunno, it never really clicked for me.”

“Yeah. I figured.” A final squeeze in my embrace before I roll out from under the sheets and sit up. My hair’s a wavy mess. “I need to shower by the way."

I see your playful sniffs. You’re just trying to get a closer look at my body. "Yeah, you smell like it."

"Pfft, alright stinky, you're one to talk." A bit of evidence from last night spills between my legs. You run to get some tissues. "Thanks."

When you kneel to help clean up, I love your little awkward smile, both corners half-raised. I love your face, your hair, your body, your personality. Without much thought, since those are what makes you, I'd be saying I love you.

I guess I do since no friendship exists without love. With a kiss on your forehead and a restored pep in my step, I head to the bathroom.

Sprinkles form from my fingertips as I let water find the trails of my body that it wants to follow, like little trains that forge their own tracks. The mist comforts me enough that I could fall asleep again, or at least my brain could. Not a good thing, I would start to overthink once more.

You don’t have to knock on the door, I would never be mad at you barging in. But thanks anyway. There is little pretense of washing ourselves. At once, we twist together, so that even if my soapy wet skin lathers yours, neither of us would mistake it for a quick clean.

"Fuck." A simple utterance when you take one of my nipples in your mouth. The suddenness shuts my eyes then careful teeth lock our embrace tighter. For an ounce of air, sometimes we untwist. The pace is like our rope. Whenever one of us found a partner, the other kept their distance. Now we’re the opposite of distant, spinning our yarn together. It’d save water if we were bathing. Your tongue takes its precious time up my chest, up my neck, until our eyes meet. Your lips taste good, you know? It’s nothing so grand, just a bit salty, a tad addicting.

“So, should I clean you up a bit more?” you ask when you pull your head back. I crease my features, perplexed.

My perplexity slips like your two fingers inside my pussy, replaced by a soft instinctive whimper. That’s when I realize there’s still some of your sticky white still sloshing in me from last night. The fingers within me move like they’re stirring, while your thumb works on my clit to escalate the automatic sounds from my mouth, recaptured in your lips.

You make a loud “mwah” as a point when we separate once again. Your eyes promise the world in them. I can’t ever let myself be fooled. Instead, I fall into my body’s desire again, arms less active in holding your back. I don’t really need to since you’ve pushed me up to the wall now.

“You, nnuh, having fun there?”

A pointless question, your smile answers it. With the other free hand, hold me up by the waist. My limbs grow slack as you continue to circle and thrust at the same time. While the warm water washes away the increasing sweat, I still notice your hand getting messy with your own semen from my pussy. You’re so focused. Even when I look away, you’re still telling promises you can’t keep with that intense gaze.

“I think, I, I think, you’re gonna make me...” I shut up when you lean your head in, but instead you tip a bit to the side for a chaste smooch to the cheek. “Wha—”

Then I really shut up when your lips follow the trail that your tongue makes. “Have I ever told you how good you taste?”

“All the time!” I whine. I like to think it’s uncharacteristic, but the skill with which you touch me always pulls me out of my mind. It makes me think less of the real world, into some near dream state. My walls swallow you, as though they have a mind of their own, and they suck you in like your mouth does to my neck.

I have to. I need to. I reach for your cock. Wet with water, I try to spit on it but miss. You don’t seem to care though, like my fingers are just an added bonus to the replete pleasure you give me.

But only a few pumps in, and the dizziness that your fingers induce comes to its natural resolution.

This kind of story, some simple smut, is so repetitive, but fuck, I love it. You have so many ways to pen my climax.

“Gyuri, that’s it. You’re going to cum on my fingers.” Water bogs down our heavy breaths. The statement is sure as day, like my orgasm is a given.

This one flashes me between the real and the surreal. That dream state slams me back out of the deep, to watch your unfailing fingers. It was a quick lesson for you a while ago—when I'm cumming, don't you dare stop.

My body reacts to the orgasm with every little sudden motion.

My cum and your cum (whatever's left) flows from between my legs like a stream of consciousness. How apt; my brain drips out its thoughts and leans back to irreality as you press forth. Time is a timid thing, not allowing me to understand only seconds pass in real time. Your story orbiting mine is chaos like two incalculable pendulums, too sensitive to initial conditions.

Then, out of my own body, I see you. Trying to catch your own breath, while I throb all over your hands. I see the shower, my apartment, the city, Earth, space, then true space with its ever present vacuum. And like a vacuum, I'm sucked back and you're holding me with a smile and a more delicate clutch. Well, not that delicate, your hands quickly lower back to my ass.

"That was good."

It’s not as though I need you to praise me while you pat my head. If anything, I want to thank you for that climax, but you’ve heard enough of my gratitude.

Actions over words. Fingertips over the tip of your dick, a meeting of the most sensitive nerves. The simple act of wrapping my fingers already makes it difficult for you to stand.

I spit on my hands, taking wetness from my pussy. I try to tease your cockhead on my clit, but a sharpness shoots up from underneath. It’s too sensitive. I shouldn’t have done that.

So I spin you around—pretty easy to manipulate a guy when you have him cockfirst—until your back is flat against the wall.

One hand with a massaging, kneading grip, a thumb underneath the tip, the other hand massages your balls. Then we really start. This is where I have to take advantage of every advantage I have, because I know how much you jerk off with your own hands. My stiff nipples rub up against your chest, tickling you and moving vertically much like my fingers around your cock. Sometimes, I have both hands around the whole thing and you jerk your hips to pretend like my hands are my pussy. But they aren’t, so I give my whole eye contact—much easier to do when you aren’t filling me and substituting my brain with dick—as I spin and rotate and circle my thumb around your tip. A little more spit, a little more pre-cum and I have the texture to really make that dick shine.

Signals for your orgasm are clear to me. A higher moan from the top of your mouth and nose, I guess when you lose footing and slip that’s pretty obvious, but there’s also your eye contact shakier than usual, and your hands that grab onto whatever they can. Of course, even in the heady prelude to your climax, you still reach for my ass. It doesn’t matter where you grab on though.

When you cum, I almost have to hold you up by the cock. It’s like those spurts contain all your strength. You leave your own body, one arm around me, one hand behind you on the wall. Your words falter to primal noises too. It’s hypnotic, every streak that flies in there, the twinge and tingles and swells of your shaft as it sends those streaks and you release your sticky self onto my tummy.

“You’re the best,” you say breathily.

Your head reaches down to immediately kiss me while more of your cum drips past my tummy to the shower floor but I stop you. “Now what?” I ask.

“Hmm?”

“Aren’t you tired?”

“You know how quickly my energy comes back. Especially with a gorgeous girl in the shower in front of me.”

“Oh shut up.” I put my hand on your chin and squish your cheeks, thumb on the right, index on the left. But neither of us can stay silent, a little giggle from our lips. I watch yours, you look down at my mouth the same.

Asynchronous heartbeats louder than the shower.

There’s no reason for tension. We had sex last night, we just gave each other orgasms, yet somehow, the glance of our lips fluxes my heart, tells it to leap off its seat in my chest. Every single time. This is why our story sucks. We never tread any new ground. However, that selfsame lack of progress holds a richness of ecstasy. Prods turn to pressure, then turn to tongues so familiar with each other as to forgo all communication. I don’t need to tell you to let me breathe, or for you to tell me to stroke your hair. We both work in our kiss, to strive for more futile desperation than each other, to siphon a hair-raising buzz in a prurient loop, like the feedback of a microphone in front of a speaker. With the hope to come out on top, sparing gasps of air punctuate longer stretches of suction and tongue trips into the mouth. It’s slipshod, it’s overlong, it doesn’t matter.

I’d tell you to fuck me—what’s the point in talking when it’ll all be written anyway?

✦✧✦✧✦✧

Everyone else is waiting for some train to arrive. Love, dreams, that very ending for which they’ve spent decades planning. I’m on the other side of the station, feet as tired as my eyes that stare at my own train. When people look at me, I feel their glares, judgemental like mine. It’s because I’m watching a train yet to leave—no, it’s because that train is empty.

It’s a strange metaphor to be stuck on because I’ve already left. Living on my own wasn’t worth it, any of it. The money, the responsibility that turned into a hassle. I couldn’t have an apartment just for us to have a place to fuck. In the whole scheme of things, a four hour drive, an hour’s flight, that’s nothing.

Our circumstances brought us together, nothing more. What did we share other than kisses? Fluid? I know why you like me. Same reason I like you, we get physical gratification from each other. Makes us sound like machines, I know.

I appreciate that you only let circumstances pull us apart slowly. Every couple weeks, you take that long drive, then bring me back to your place just to fuck. Eight hours of round-trip driving. In a sense, that’s a level of trust from me and a level of commitment from you that I’m not sure couples have unless they’re married.

Thanks for being my friend.

It helps me not fall in love when your dick plunges in and out with the same timing as your smooches. You’re too good at this, but I know how practiced you are at this point. Faint moans travel up, echo back down the height of the hotel staircase. I told you to take the stairs with me, knowing full well your patience.

You leave enough of a mark on my chest, groping it clumsily underneath my shirt when you thrust up into me, and enough of a mark on the wall, at least that's how the force of those deep plunges feels. We run up the stairs and barely make our toes in the door before we make out again.

“Can I take a breather, Gyuri?”

"I needed one too to be honest."

"Oh thank god. I don't think I've been up that many steps in a while. At least not that fast."

"Yeah." I giggle. A mirror by the entrance. I wipe a bit of smudged lipstick off the corner of my mouth. My hair's disheveled. I'm all sweaty. "I need to—"

"Shower?"

After my nod, you give a knowing nod in return and I take a much quicker one than usual. I can hear your thoughts past the jet pressure of the shower, or at least your heavy breaths, the tapping of your feet. I know you well. You're weighing between taking a shower yourself and jumping my bones the moment I open the door. That choice makes my chest leap out of itself, I know myself much less assuredly.

You gave me a prologue, a synopsis of your hunger bending me over the railing before you took me against the wall.

I could dress myself again. Synapses burst.

Your jaw finds company with your restless feet when I walk out in a towel alone instead. I don't know if it's genuine anymore. We've had sex so many times. Yet here you are, sharpening your knife.

I am the conflict, I am the resolution. I don't know myself well, but do I like that?

You cut short my time to think with your hand grabbing mine, pulling me right in front of you as you sit on the edge of the bed. I stand with a new but old hesitation. It’s so embarrassing, especially when my towel slips and I’m before you nude while you at least have your dress pants on. You drink the sight of my body in. It’s not like I’ve done anything in particular for today, I’m the exact me you’ve slept with every time before, but you sit with anticipatory anxiety.

“What do you… do I just stand here?”

“I miss you Gyuri.”

“I’m right here.”

“You’re right here now,” you say before a sigh. Now with both hands holding each of mine, you bring me onto your lap and reflexively, my arms and legs wrap around your torso. Without prompt, I take in your muscles and strive to keep their texture in my memory. “I miss when this was a near daily thing.”

“But does that really mean you miss me?”

“What? Of course it does.” As I examine closer, the naivete in your pupils is genuine. I never doubted that, explicitly at least.

“Okay.” There’s nothing I could do but take you at face value anyway.

I start grinding.

You start kissing.

“You’re gonna leave a mark,” I say, leaving my own dark stains on your pants.

“I want to. I want to leave marks that’ll stay until we meet again.”

“What if we don’t?”

“What do you mean?” you ask, your tone soft as though you’ve never considered the possibility.

I gulp when your lips hold my neck deeper like you’re trying to get something out of it. “Never mind. That’s enough.” I slink down to my knees. Candles. I wish we had them right now. The warm, soft ceiling light isn’t the worst.

Not sure what compels me to give you the blowjob of your life. Foreshadowing, perhaps. I want this suction to haunt your dreams.

I want you to have a goddamn story about this.

I’ll give you the best blowjob of our lives combined.

This is my revenge, for every time you made my heart skip looking at me. I pull your jeans off then let my tongue fall out, missing your shaft when I lean in (a difficult feat with its length) and I lick your tummy instead, tickling you.

Your dick… Well, it looks like a dick. An ideal size for me to enjoy, a tantalizing bend. But it’s matte, as skin normally is. I only make the observation because I take the soft thing between my lips, and that first inch becomes glossy. Your eyes roll, and so does your head around your neck when I polish the next inch, tongue dragging side to side at that sensitive ridge under your tip. Then I pull back out.

“Gyuri, fuck. Stop teasing me.”

My tongue follows your vein up the side of your cock, but it’s not enough. It needs to shine in the light, it needs to lube up my throat, it needs to be fucking sloppy. Turns out a circle has an infinite number of sides. So I collect all the spit I can and at the sight of the strings and frothy slop on the head of your deck, your legs wriggle. But I know you can smell the desperation, the sweat and saliva. My tongue goes up, then back to the base of your shaft, and I rotate around until it’s even. Of course, nothing is perfect, so I get lost in this cycle until I’m bobbing down on your cock like I’ll find my reward at the bottom if I look hard enough.

I keep looking. The back of my throat engulfs and tightens around the head of your dick every time I gag, but my eyes close and I’m not really looking. I don’t need to anyway. My hands that explore your torso go from pinching your nipples and fondling your muscles to treating your balls like a plaything. Your fingers find repose in my hair but I give your dick no such calm. A gag in, then a gag out and each time your cock’s tip reaches my lips, I wrap it air tight once again.

Right before the throbbing takes you away—I can even feel the pulses in my mouth—you pull me by my hair, shocking me as I’m too caught up in the fellatio.

We both stand, you turn me around and spank my ass, then tease my pussy with your length. My lips are a bed for your shaft to give a few rubs. But this isn’t the way you want to take me.

Shove me face first onto the bed. We’re both carnally hungry, so you don’t even have to give my butt another smack for me to get on my knees. I’d say fuck me hard doggystyle, but you’re going to be thrusting so hard that I have my face down on the mattress anyway. The heat approaches my pussy from behind, you’re lining up, and then you insert.

“Hmmn,” you groan out. I probably make a similar sound but the mattress catches it in its softness. You’re anything but soft though, as you split me apart, as though this were the very first time. That’s the fascinating thing, every time we fuck it’s a special occasion. With every push forward which sends your cockhead into my needy cunt, I recoil back like it’s a law of motion.

One of your hands takes my hair, the other stops slapping my ass over and over to trace up my sides. I’m a little ticklish there, but I can’t laugh, all I can feel is a senseless high from the friction of your cock. That other hand goes up my arm and grabs it, pulling it back and turning my whole body into a lever. That angle you send your dick is so perfect, it’s so stimulating on my walls that the imagined heat in my head spreads out from my core.

“Gonna cum, gonna cum, gonna...”

You stop fucking me.

Sighs between gasps. “That’s not sexy you know—”

Flip me over onto my back then you pull a pillow underneath my head. Missionary. I can’t read your mind. I don’t know your intentions. But that was the very first thing you did, putting a pillow under my head before you made love to me, before that lovemaking turned quickly into animalistic ravaging. We’re probably going to be skipping that first step, aren’t we?

Your head obscures the hotel light. I don’t need any light at all, closing my eyes instead. Your lips pounce on mine, your tongue lunges inside, but your cock eases in with more dexterity.

This is almost real. Opening my eyes back up, I scan your face, needing answers. “Look at me,” I say. It’s the first time I have to remind you.

When you focus back on me, I realize, I don’t know. I don’t understand anything. This is almost real, almost as if you weren’t just a perfect character in my story.

In and out.

It’s that feeling of wholeness. Every word I want to say becomes replaced with a mote of lust in my spinning head.

I regret the decision, telling you to look me in the eyes. The emotions are too rampant. Back and forth, your dick goes. So do I.

“I love you. Gyuri, I love you. Please… Fuck, this can’t be it, this can’t, this...”

Tears fall in reply. You’re silent, I’m silent, and slick noises overtake our breaths as you speed up and I tempt you to speed up with my motions, making sure that I’m taking the full length of your cock.

“Hah, hah.” Your breaths are loud. “You know I haven’t had an orgasm for so long.” Good. Good. Change the topic.

“Not, nuuuh, not gonna last?” Tease you. I’ll just do that. Yeah. That’s it.

“Don’t care. Feels like I’ve been fucking you, for forever. Hmmh,” you say.

So we’re the same. This isn’t news to me. We’ve always connected on this physical level. “M-make forever into now.” That’s a new one. Does that even count as dirty talk? Why am I getting self-conscious? You're thrusting your soul into me. My dizzy head wanders, then flies—maybe I’m just trying to give that soul back—and I feel each throb clench your cock and each beat out of time takes seconds to pass the heat of pleasure throughout my core to the outreaches of my limbs.

Then, your end nears the same, because my cumming pussy is just too much. Through the blackness and visibility and cycles between which orgasm causes, you pull out, cum flies and covers my whole body. As much gets on my pussy as it does on my face, with a skillful line that etches my abs and cleavage.

Drag your cock up, covering it in your own cum, and you sit as delicately as you can on top of my chest. I clean your shaft enthusiastically, and after I lick you all up, I want it to be over, but you’ve never had a problem kissing me. Maybe that should be obvious, but it’s one of those changes of pace I’ve yet to become used to. Instincts tell me this unfamiliarity is good.

We both fall over on the hotel sheets, tired and sweaty. You help me clean up.

We cuddle.

We fall out of the cuddle when we sleep.

It’s all so fast for how slow it is.

I feel blank.

There’s no point in planning for an empty resolution. To spin a yarn is to lie, so when we lie together, we must lie to each other.

“We’ll always be friends.”

When you told me that long ago, I assumed the lie was in your discipline, that one day, you would confess your deeper emotions to me, that you didn’t just want me: you needed me. It turns out that lie was the same as when I say it now as we lie next to each other in this bed.

Hotel mattresses never feel right to sleep on.

The train leaves, lurching forward with huffs and puffs like its engine is steam-powered, with screeches of metal against metal that tires my ears.

Finally.

It might catch up to the real me.

✦✧✦✧✦✧

We are actors with no script.

I don't have one but I felt like I was living life reading one, until I moved back home. That shift was what I needed.

You never needed one, even if your words often sounded like you were fed your lines, like every sentence was a clever punchline (or an attempt at one) that your author wrote.

The scriptlessness is obvious: our story doesn’t have much of an ending. I guess it’s a bit amusing, I can remember your breakups just as well as I can remember my own. It’s always such a defining moment to break up with someone you’re dating. That’s not how it works with friends right? It’s not like I’ve ever broken up with my friends—I know some people that have, though they’re the overly dramatic exceptions—but that doesn’t mean I’ve kept every friendship since I was a baby. Minuscule strands in the end. I don’t mean to tear them apart, certainly neither do you. Right? Who means to untangle their rope? That’s why it’s a lot harder to remember the final time you talked to a friend.

“Hey Gyuri, remember those first few days we were really texting?” Sip on your latte as you scroll through your phone.

I mirror you, though I’m just tapping on my screen. That gets pretty mundane, so I watch the people pass by outside the cafe window. Glancing strings, deeply woven cords. All types of stories. Probably more interesting ones.

“Those turned sexual quickly.” You chuckle to yourself when your finger stops swiping down.

“Wait, do you still have those pictures saved?”

“Oh, I never saved them, it’s just in our chat, look.” You turn your screen towards me and my hands rush, nearly slamming the phone onto the table.

“Chill! We’re in public.” A sigh breathed between my lips. “Keep them, I don’t really care anyway.”

“I know, the mask. I wish I could see your smile in them.”

“You’re saying my tits aren’t good enough?”

You urgently shake your head. “No, no, not at all—”

“I’m kidding, jeez.”

“And that first time, you weren’t kidding about making a mess of your sheets.”

“Did you think I was?”

“I thought you were exaggerating a bit maybe, you know, for effect. But you really had my tongue and chin dripping.”

“You seemed thirsty enough.”

“Wow,” you say, drawing out the vowel. “Thanks.”

“Isn’t it funny how we always just end up talking about sex?” I ask. Funny isn’t the word I mean.

“True. We don’t really share much else to be honest.”

I realized that a while ago. Part of what makes friendships special is the blurriness of memory. It’s fine. I really don’t mind that we keep repeating the same moments. It all blends together and in that recounting of those moments, the warmth resurges. Not the same as the original experience but… good enough. Right?

“Besides. That’s everyone, right? When you distill it down,” you say.

Out the window, that couple, they’re probably talking about the bills they’re late on. The annoyed looks, that man with his hands up, a wallet in one of them, her hands on her sides. That’s not happy, is it? But it is a cord.

“Sure,” I say, my lips a little tighter.

“Then after all that texting, we finally saw each other in person and you were even prettier than I expected.”

“Pfft. Nice try. Too late for compliments now.”

“No, I’m serious. Barely made it out of the restaurant without our hands all over each other.” Yours scoots towards me on the table, like your index and middle fingers are two little legs that waddle over before they stop by my cup. “Finally, a smile again.”

“Didn’t even realize I wasn’t. No, those were great times.” I lower my voice. “You definitely made me cum the most I ever have that night.”

“Wait, so you were faking it the other times?”

“I dunno, those times kinda blur together. Doesn’t really matter how many, I always felt good no matter what.”

“Maybe after this we could, you know, feel good one last time.” You’re so sure it’s the last time too, but I’m not. Earphone cords used to get tangled in all kinds of funny ways. Most people don’t bother with wires anymore.

“That’s what the hotel was.”

“Oh…” Look down. “You’re busy?”

“I guess.” I shouldn’t have said it like that.

“So you’re leaving now?”

“No.”

“What do you have to do later?”

“Work.”

“Mmm.”

"So yeah." I put my hands on the table and stand up.

"Yeah." You mirror me.

I adjust my watch.

Run your hands through your hair.

It could've been my hands instead.

Maybe my hair.

This isn’t a good story.

But at least it’s a true one.

Right?

“And we’ll talk again?” one of us asks.

“I’d love to,” the other replies.

"Tell me. When you're in the city again."

"I will. Will you?"

“I will.”

Does it matter who says what?

We both know when we’re both lying.

Just as stories are deceits, so are the people in them. The yarn we spin is your smile; my finger that brushes your fingers; and our glances which promise one day, this mutual lie will evolve into truth somehow.

You walk away first. I hope you catch your train.

The cafe window becomes a mirror.

Or at least I hope you feel the same way about me as I do about you.

Because I will write my own story, pretend you never were but as the words I type down.

I hope I’m just another character in your story as well.

✦✧✦✧✦✧

AFF, AO3

[mviswidow]

wanda’s ride

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: SMUT!! porn w plot, thigh riding, a whole lot of teasing, bottom! wanda

Prompt: I was thinking maybe you could do something where wanda is flirting with natasha and other team members and fem! reader gets jealous and decides to... you know "punish" her

Summary: Wanda tries provoking R to get her to fuck her, but it lands her in trouble. A/N: there’s a bit of Sharon slander but pls forgive me, i love her. this is also kind of slow paced, but i wouldn’t say it’s slow paced in a bad way?

Your eyes settled on Wanda talking to flirting with Natasha for probably the hundredth time that night. You knew she was doing it to get a rise out of you, especially since she kept looking at you while she was doing it, leaning closer to Nat as she laughed at whatever she said, putting her hand on her arm to hold herself up.

A few minutes later Wanda came and sat beside you where you were listening to and occasionally participating in the discussion Bucky was having with Maria about weapons or something. To be fair, you were only half paying attention because of how distracting Wanda was being.

Your thighs were pressed against hers in the lounge chair so you could both fit, and your arm ended up around her shoulder. You placed a kiss on her bare collarbone, enjoying the skin you got to see in her off-the-shoulder dress, “Behave yourself,” You warned, placing another kiss at her sweet spot before biting the skin there softly.

Wanda took your hand that wasn't around her shoulders in her own and placed it on her thighs, her hand over yours.

You chuckled and shook your head, “Always so horny, aren’t we, darling?” You said in a low voice, not wanting Bucky or Maria to hear, even though they weren’t paying attention to the two of you anyway, too caught up in their conversation.

Wanda said nothing, but just nodded as you squeezed her thigh and smirked at her flushed face. She’d begged you to just tell Tony that one of you was feeling sick so you didn’t have to go to the party and you could fuck her into the next day. Her goal was to provoke you enough to get you to leave and take her with you and you knew it, but you had much more self control than she did.

You moved your thumb back and forth on the inside of her thigh for a few minutes, listening to Bucky and Maria, sometimes jumping in on the conversation, and other times nudging Wanda for her to say something.

She wasn’t listening so most of the time she just agreed with whatever she’d heard last. She was trying to think of something that would push you over the edge and get you to drag her out of the room.

Eventually, Steve came over to talk to Bucky and Tony had called you over, so the two of you had separated again.

Wanda was growing frustrated because no matter what she did, you would just smirk at her or stare stone faced. She was really horny after working herself up, thinking of all the ways you would ruin her. There was probably an hour left of the party when she got an idea, hoping that it would work.

Finally, your expression changed when she walked over to Sharon, starting up a conversation. She knew how you weren’t particularly fond of her. You didn’t hate her, but you hated the way she would look at Wanda sometimes when she happened to be in the training room while the two of you were training. And you despised the way her eyes flicked to Wanda’s cleavage when she got closer to her. Your eyebrows shot up when you saw Wanda put her hands on Sharon’s waist, and Sharon looked like she was thanking Wanda, so you assumed your girlfriend had complimented her, but you were having none of it when you were worried Sharon would put her hands on Wanda.

“For fucks sake,” You muttered, excusing yourself from Tony and Natasha, which made them laugh when they saw what Wanda was doing to get you riled up, before going over to where she was standing with Sharon beside the bar, your heels clicking on the floor.

Wanda backed up when she heard you getting closer, and when you put an arm around her waist before kissing her temple, she smiled at you, “Hi, sweetheart.”

You hummed in response before turning to Sharon, greeting her quickly to get the niceties out of the way, nodding at her half smile. “Do you still not feel well, my love? I finally convinced Tony to let us back to our room now that things have died down.”

You almost smirked at the excited look in Wanda’s eyes, but you just moved your arm further down her waist, letting it rest right above her ass while you both said goodbye to Sharon and made your way to the elevator.

You took her hand in yours, pressing a kiss to her knuckles and walked inside, clicking the button to your floor.

Neither of you spoke and the tension was thick, but you just stood there leaning against the wall, playing with the rings on Wanda’s fingers, thinking of all the things you could do to her, knowing she was reading your mind.

Her breathing had become irregular and her face was red, her lips slightly parted, and you noticed her thighs pressed together when you thought of ramming into her with her favorite strap-on.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. You smiled and let Wanda leave first, opting to slap her on the ass playfully, which made her giggle, as you made your way into the kitchen and took a banana from the fruit bowl, peeling it and taking a bite of it as you watched Wanda shift uncomfortably on the barstool.

“What are you doing?” You asked after you swallowed your first bite.

A look of confusion played on her features and she tilted her head, “Nothing, I’m just waiting for you.”

“Go get changed for bed, just panties and a t-shirt. When you’re done I want you to come back in here and have a snack. Once you’ve done that you can come back to our room,” You instructed and watched Wanda get up and walk to your room as fast as her feet could carry her without breaking out into a run, which made you chuckle.

On your way to the room you shared with Wanda, she was passing you in the hallway, and you gave her a little smile. She looked so soft, her makeup had been wiped away and her wavy hair was resting over her shoulders, the hem of her shirt just covering her bottom.

You almost stopped her, wanting to kiss her, but you refrained from distracting yourself and her, knowing that she would try to eat quickly and you didn’t want her to make herself sick or anything.

Once in your room, you changed out of your clothes from the party and put on underwear, a pair of sleep shorts, and a tank top that you often wore to bed. You wiped away your makeup and fixed your hair so it would stay out of your face before picking up the book you’d been reading from your nightstand and going from where you were.

After a few short minutes, you heard the door open, but you didn’t look up until you’d reached the bottom of the page you were on, noticing that Wanda was still standing at the door, looking unsure of what to do.

“Do you need something?” You asked innocently with a cocked eyebrow.

“I just thought we were - you know, that you would-”

“Spit it out, baby,” You interrupted.

She looked flustered and you had half the mind to laugh at her, “I thought you were going to punish me.”

You nodded and looked back to your book, “I will.”

She chuckled and finally closed the door, walking up to the bed and sitting on her knees in front of you, clearly wanting your attention. “Are you just going to make me wait?”

“I’ll leave you untouched for a week if you’re going to be a brat about it,” You challenged, looking up at her.

“I’m sorry,” She apologized immediately, panic in her eyes. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

You smiled, pleased at her response, and leaned up to kiss her. She tried to work you up, doing the little things she knew you loved, and you teased her back just as much, biting her bottom lip, brushing your tongue with hers. You squeezed her lower lip between your lips as you pulled away from her, making her smile.

“So are we-”

“If you want to get off right now, the only way you’ll be doing it is on my thigh,” You deadpanned, looking back down at your book and moving your thigh closer to her.

“What, while you just sit there and read?” She scoffed.

You sighed, feigning annoyance, “Would you rather I get the strap out and make you cockwarm until I finish my book? I have around 100 pages left, you’d be there for quite a while, my love, just dripping onto my lap.”

Wanda shook her head, as much as she loved cockwarming for you, “I need to cum, babe, please. If I ride your thigh will you let me?”

“Probably,” You shrugged. “Take your panties off before you get on,” You said, tapping your thigh before you flipped the page of your book. You were only half paying attention, it was really hard to read while your girlfriend was ready to beg you to fuck her, but you knew how much she absolutely hated the lack of attention you were giving her, so you considered it worth it.

You felt her weight leave the bed for a second, and she hurried to get her panties off before getting back on and carefully straddling your thigh that had been waiting for her and placing one of her hands on your shoulder and the other on the bed next to your leg.

You bit the inside of your lip when you felt the wetness from her cunt on your skin, she was dripping and you were itching to comment on it, but stayed silent until you heard her sigh, relieved that she could finally get what she needed, whether you planned on helping her or not, “Oh, I wouldn’t get too excited yet, princess, I can’t make it too easy for you, now can I?”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

You opted to ignore her attitude, “By the end of the night, your ass is going to be nine different shades of red after that little stunt you pulled tonight. We’re only getting started with this.” You said, and you couldn’t resist looking at her, an exasperated look on her face.

“You’re cruel,” She whined.

You hummed in agreement and slapped her ass with your hand, which made her hips jerk forwards, “Move.”

You didn’t have to tell her twice. She immediately started moving her hips back and forth, spreading her wetness on you. You felt her fingernails dig into your shoulder blade and it wasn’t long before soft sighs were escaping her mouth, “What, does that feel good, pretty girl?”

“Yes,” She nodded, closing her eyes, and finally moaned. Quietly, yes, but it was your favorite thing to hear, so you didn’t care.

“Good,” You smiled and flipped your book onto yourself before taking the hand that was on your shoulder and removing the rings on her fingers off, seeing that she’d forgotten to do that in the haste of getting herself ready for you, which made you chuckle. You reached over and dropped them on the nightstand, hearing them clink together as they landed on the wood. “Now, hands off, princess, behind your back or on your thighs, your pick.”

She nodded, too turned on to protest, and put her hands behind her back, never stopping the movement of her hips. That didn’t last long though, and she only kept her hands behind her back before they fell to her thighs, gripping the bottom of her shirt and bunching it up, which gave you the most beautiful view of her clit bumping against your skin.

You noticed her pace had quickened, and you put a hand on her waist, “Slower.” You flipped your book back up to read, but you weren’t paying very much attention, it was merely for theatrics.

You kept one hand at her waist, since she was having trouble keeping the rocking of her hips slow, this was her punishment, you couldn’t make it too easy for her. You almost felt bad for her with how incredibly slow you had her going. Almost. Both of you knew she wasn’t going to cum like this, but you’d give her what she wanted eventually. The only sounds in the room were her whines and quiet grunts, and her head was down, chin almost touching her chest.

After a minute of her grinding slowly, you let her move her hips faster, you didn’t want to tire her out too quickly. Once she was going at a steady momentum, you removed your hand from her waist and smiled when she kept going at the same speed, “Look at that, who knew my best girl could be so independent?”

Wanda’s head lifted so she could glare at you, but you just smiled at her proudly and went back to your book, but you jerked your leg up while she was rocking forward, making her moan from the pressure on her clit.

“You can go faster now,” you mumbled, turning the page of your book, smiling when you got to the exact page you’d been waiting to find.

She moaned and complied, her pussy practically begging for release. You smirked as you felt her juices dribble down your thigh, “Look at that, Wands, you’re making such a mess.”

You put your finger in between the pages and shut your book, using your other hand to wipe upwards, collecting her wetness on your fingers and bringing it to your mouth, moaning when you tasted her on your tongue. God, you couldn’t wait to devour her later. Wanda whimpered at the sound of your moan and her hips started to move a little faster, and you let her.

“Hey, baby?” You hummed, wanting her attention on you.

Her eyes opened, and she looked at you, hoping that you would finally tell her you would take care of her, or that she’d been so good for you and now she could finally have what she wanted, but you said none of that. You simply turned your book towards her, pointing at a paragraph at the top of one of the pages, “Can you read this page out loud for me?”

Wanda grunted, tired, horny, annoyed, and frustrated, but took the book in her hands, moaning when she read the first two sentences in her head. You were making her read a lesbian fucking sex scene and she had never hated or loved you more.

You smirked at her as she tried to read coherently, but she was almost done, “Kate’s tongue licked a stripe up - fuck- up Alice’s center and flicked her tongue against her clit.” Wanda let out a whine and her pleading eyes met yours.

“Give me two more sentences, darling. I’ll let you fuck yourself on my thigh when you’re done, I promise,” You nodded, urging her on.

Her shaky voice continued, and you could tell she was struggling to focus, “God, Alice pulled a pillow over her face to muffle her moans, but as soon as she did, Kate pulled back, bit at her thigh. ‘Let me see,’ she- she murmured. fuck- ‘Please.’” She moaned once more and you took the book from her, tossing it to the nightstand.

“Fucking, finally,” Wanda groaned, as you sat up straighter.

Her hands surged forward and she pulled you towards her, not being able to stop herself from kissing you feverishly. You kissed her back, but not for long. You turned her head with your hand a little and started kissing down her jaw to reach her neck before starting to suck at her neck with the intention of marking her.

“Babe, fuck, don’t do that, they’ll see tomorrow,” Wanda moaned, but it didn’t seem like she cared that much, because she brought a hand up to grip your hair and her hips were moving faster.

“Good, I want them to. Maybe that bitch will learn to stay away from you then, hm? Or did you forget what got you into this? You don’t exactly have the grounds to tell me what to do right now, my love,” You smirked and nipped at the skin besides the hickey you just made.

Wanda’s hips jerked forward and her grip on your hair tightened, almost painfully, “Please,” She whimpered.

Your thigh was coated in her juices and the slickness was making it harder for her to get any friction on her clit.

“Do you want some help, princess? Is that it?” You teased, already starting to suck a new hickey above her collarbone.

She whined, “Yes, please.”

“Say it, I want to hear you say it,” You mumbled against her sweaty skin.

“Let me get off on your thigh while you play with my clit, god- please,” Wanda’s head dropped to your shoulder, but her action was short lived, because you detached your mouth from her neck, tilted her face up, and brought your thumb up to her mouth.

She parted her lips and sucked in your thumb, swirling her tongue around it and getting it wet with her spit, not that it would need to be already wet once it got down there.

You kissed her shoulder and tapped the side of her face with your other fingers, signaling for her to open her mouth.

You brought your thumb down to her clit and started rubbing slow circles, and she reacted immediately, moaning loudly and whining something in Sokovian.

You increased your pace and her hips sped up, knowing that she was close because she only started speaking in Sokovian in bed when she was going to come. She was moving almost erratically, and all she could do was babble in her mother tongue and moan at your ministrations.

“This is what you wanted isn’t it? You wanted to see what I would do when I got mad, yes? You wanted me to make a mess of you? I think I’ve done just that, darling, I’ve reduced you to just moans and babbles.”

She nodded frantically and bucked her hips on your thigh. You kissed her and swallowed some of her moans, and at this point you were probably dripping onto the bed, too.

“‘M close, please,” She begged, needing release after being teased relentlessly.

“Take your shirt off,” You instructed, and she did immediately.

You took a nipple in your mouth, switching between biting it gently and swirling your tongue around it, and you used the hand that you weren’t using to rub at Wanda’s clit to tease the other nipple in your hand, making her back arch, almost dramatically.

She cursed in Sokovian and groaned, her movements jerky and you could tell how tired she was, “Please, ‘m gonna cum, babe, please-”

You lifted your head up from her nipple, but continued gently pulling at the other in between your fingers. Your noses brushed together as you kissed her again, before pulling back, “Go on, come for me, show me that you can follow instructions so this doesn’t have to happen again.”

Wanda moaned and her back arched, your thumb continuing to work at her clit until the tenseness in her body snapped and she let out a strangled cry as she came on your thigh.

You were quick to leave her nipple and put your arm behind her, supporting her weight as her hips slowed, and you kept working at her clit slowly until her hips stopped completely and her body was relaxed.

She was panting heavily and her head had rested on your shoulder. You chuckled airily and kissed the side of her face, “You did so well, pretty girl, I’m so proud of you.”

Wanda smiled at your praises and mumbled out a ‘thank you’.

You knew you had to give her a break before going at it again, so you let her slump against you as your fingers danced along her spine and you continue to whisper praises in her ear.

Once she’d calmed down she pushed herself off of you and tried to settle into bed.

“What are you doing?” You asked, a single eyebrow raised.

“I’m sleepy,” She said simply and looked up at you.

You tutted and shook your head, “Oh, no, baby. I was serious, I’m not done with you. Your ass is going to be real tender tomorrow morning.”

[calciseptinefic]

then out of nowhere, somebody comes and hits you with an ooh la la la, ooh la la la, ooh la la la, ooh

Marvel || Wade Wilson/Peter Parker || Part 3 notes: Title from 'Mad Sounds' by Arctic Monkeys. Many thanks to babygato for her beta on this chapter. this fic is also available on ao3 warnings: none

.

← previous: Part 2

.

Wade wakes. His hand is under his pillow, gripping the handle of his gun, unlocking the safety as he sits up. He aims—

But there's nothing. Just his heart pounding in his chest and a shrill ringing in his ears. His eyes dart to the window—closed—and the door—shut. The closet is empty. There's no room to hide under the bed. He's alone—he's safe—he's—

Wade forces himself to breathe in.

Breathe out.

His ribs and diaphragm shudder with the effort. Inhale. He counts the seconds in his head. Exhale. Tells himself he isn't in any danger. Inhale. Allows himself to be in the moment. Exhale. Lets go.

In…

Out…

Slowly, Wade calms down. When his panic has faded, he lets his finger fall from the trigger. Puts the safety back on. Briefly touches the long side of the barrel to his cheek, the cold hardness of the metal real and reassuring, a solid reminder that he can protect himself. A talisman of sorts. Grounding. Then he puts it once more under the pillow.

It's mid-morning. The sun has risen over the building next door and golden light seeps in through the blinds, hatching perpendicular against the dark wooden floorboards. Dust motes float lazily in and out of the slatted beams. Wade's comforter is heavy and warm. He contemplates curling up again and dozing for another hour or so, but…

Peter.

The spider-themed superhero from another reality.

Another reality.

A dream?

Wade gets out of bed and goes to the door, bare feet treading silent upon the floor. He turns the handle softly, the click of the mechanism barely audible, and takes a few steps forward until he can peer into the living room. There's a human-shaped lump on his couch, curled into a ball beneath Wade's spare comforter. Only the tuft of Peter's messy brown hair is sticking out, but it's enough for Wade to identify him. That, and Peter's red and blue suit is folded neatly on the coffee table, alongside a half-emptied glass of water.

Not a dream then.

This reality.

In the light of day, the situation Wade has found himself in feels more surreal. Wade's just an ex-soldier turned glorified errand boy with more mental health problems than the DSM-TR-5 can identify. How is he supposed to help a fucking superhero from an alternate universe? He doesn't have a fancy science degree—hell, he didn't even graduate high school—so if Peter needs that kind of help, the most Wade can do is help him sneak into a building after hours.

It wouldn't be the first time we were wildly out of our depth, Wade thinks to himself. Just gotta start where we always do.

An idea is forming in Wade's brain. He can feel the shape of it but can't make out the pieces, not yet, so he goes back into his room, sits on the edge of his mattress, and grabs his phone off the nightstand. Unlocks it. Pulls up Google, and types in 'parallel universe'.

The first thing that crops up is an article from space.com, which attempts to talk about 'eternal inflation' in terms of 'bubbles' and 'wave functions' and 'branches'. It seems easy enough to digest until he gets to a theory about a mirror universe and loses the thread of the plot when he reads 'while eggs would un-crack and make their way back inside chickens'. Peter's universe might be weird but Wade doubts it's that weird.

Wikipedia is Wade's next stop. There are so many blue links that he quickly gets lost in the tangle. Some links are irrelevant, connected to philosophical thought experiments or sci-fi media, while links to relevant concepts go completely over his head. He's heard a few of the terms before, but they've always been used in a hand-wavy, non-specific manner, and he quickly finds there's nothing hand-wavy or non-specific about actual quantum mechanics.

Again, Wade back-clicks and starts over. He reads a handful of other articles, watches a few YouTube videos on low volume, and even attempts to decipher a couple of scientific papers. All of it makes every neuron in his head ache. He sets his phone aside when he has the gist of it:

Math says parallel universes exist, probably—but travel? Forget about it.

The idea in Wade's brain becomes doubt as he is forced to confront the sheer impossibility of Peter's words. He knows that something undeniably preternatural is going on; he saw Peter on the ceiling last night and had his hand webbed up. But those are things that Wade witnessed. Experienced. If Wade had to explain what the reason behind it all was without any assistance from Peter, he would probably point all ten fingers (and all ten toes) at the government.

Wade sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, the pressure alleviating the ache in his skull. Truthfully, Wade doesn't think of himself as a practical person. He's not great with money, he tends to give into the most basic of whims, and—when it isn't a matter of life or death—he's generally reckless with himself and his time. But even he has to admit that travel between alternate realities seems unlikely, even more so than Peter being the product of some weird classified science project. Wade's been in the military. He's seen fucked up shit, and lost any remaining faith he might have had in both the government and the people who run it. It's not like he's some conspiracy theory nutbag who thinks the earth is flat or the moon landing was faked, but potentially experimenting on humans to give them superpowers?

See above, re: Wade's been in the military. Fucked up shit ain’t even the half of it.

The thing is, Wade doesn't think that Peter's lying. Or rather, he doesn't think that Peter thinks he's lying. In Peter's mind, maybe he truly believes that he's a superhero from another universe. But in actuality? Maybe Peter's mind is cracked from the strain of genetic experimentation. Maybe he escaped the facility he was detained in, and by random chance he ended up in Wade's apartment in Queens.

Of course, this theory doesn't explain how Peter knows Wade. Trusts Wade. Having a complete stranger place their absolute faith in Wade is just as crazy as accidental inter-dimensional travel. Sure, it might be possible, but the chances of it actually happening? The odds are so infinitesimally small that they become unbelievable. All Wade truly knows is that Peter needs his help and, whatever the truth is, Wade's going to give it.

Even if helping Peter means betraying his trust a bit.

The first stages of a plan solidify in Wade's brain. He makes a mental note to call Weasel at the first available opportunity, then puts his phone back down and grabs a change of clothes. Peter is still dead asleep on the couch and snoring lightly. Wade cannot help but smile, the expression tugging at his scar. It's been awhile since he's shared his space with someone and it feels... nice.

In the bathroom, Wade goes through his normal routine. He brushes his teeth. He hops in the shower. He pisses down the drain, washes his hair and body, then jacks off. Normally, morning masturbation is perfunctory for Wade, a way to regulate his dopamine and make sure his head's on right for the day. It's little more than a grab-n-go; he doesn't bother with elaborate fantasies, just shuffles through his mental rolodex until he finds something to sink into.

Today, Wade thinks of Peter. He can't help it. Physically, Peter's his type, and that spandex costume of his hid nothing. His long legs would feel good wrapped around Wade's waist, knees digging into Wade's ribs. He'd be so cute as Wade fucked him, his boyish face flushed red, his doe eyes gone glassy, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. Would he beg for Wade to go harder? Give Wade pretty pleases and cry about how he needed it? Or would he demand an unspecified 'more', goading Wade with playful taunts and teases while his nails dug into Wade's shoulders—

Wade grunts as he comes. His body twitches with how fast and quick it was, and his cock throbs a little miserably in his hand. Hot water hits his neck, shoulders, and chest before rolling down his body; he stares down at the nearly invisible lines of water as they move towards the drain.

This really, really, really is not going to end well, Wade thinks.

After his shower, Wade doesn't bother to shave, even though his stubble is long enough now to enter beard territory. He just towels himself dry, pulls on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, and makes sure he doesn't forget deodorant. He even eyes his cologne for a few seconds. It's ridiculous. He only wears it when he is trying to get laid which…

Wade spritzes his pulse points. He doesn't think it's in the cards but, hey, it never hurts to be optimistic.

Peter is awake when Wade emerges from the bathroom. Or rather, he's sitting upright on the couch, but his eyes are half-lidded and he yawns so hugely that Wade can hear his jaw crack from halfway across the room. Peter's hair has also transformed from messy into comical, the strands sticking straight up as though he were electrocuted.

"Coffee?" Wade asks warmly.

"Mmm," Peter hums in affirmation.

As the coffee brews, Wade digs through his fridge in search of something to make. He used most of the eggs last night and there's only a half-eaten bag of shredded cheddar in the cheese drawer. Inexplicably, he has a full bag of carrots and unopened microwavable sausage patties, but the bread on the counter is moldy and most of the stuff in his pantry is either pasta, canned soup, or some sort of snack. If Wade were by himself, he would probably slap some shredded cheese on the Jimmy Dean's, nuke it until the cheddar melted, and eat it with a quarter bag of Hot Cheeto Fries, but there's no way Wade's going to subject Peter to a depression meal less than a day after they met.

"What's for breakfast?" Peter asks as he shuffles into the kitchen.

"Bagels," Wade answers. Closes the fridge. Looks at Peter, and is hit in the stomach with a hot, fierce stab of want.

The sweatpants Wade lent Peter are hanging low on his hips, low enough that the thick band of a jockstrap rises above the cinched waist, mocking Wade for his weaknesses, and the hoodie stops just above Peter's belly button, revealing a thin, dark line of hair. The hoodie had been one of Vanessa's and Wade had honestly forgotten that it was cropped; Vanessa had always worn it with high-waisted leggings, so it never exposed much skin. But on Peter, combined with the low-slung sweats? That's... a lot of skin. A pale stretch broken only by the occasional dark mole Wade wants to put his mouth on. Peter looks like he sprung out of one of Wade's bookmarked pornos, like he's two seconds from pouting and batting his eyelashes and asking coyly if daddy wants to eat him for breakfast instead.

Wade rips his eyes away and focuses on the coffee maker. Jerking off to Peter in the shower is one thing; staring at him like a mindless pervert is another. Wade might be an asshole but he isn't a fucking creep.

The bar stool scrapes against the floor as Peter plops down and clarifies, "Bagels?"

"There's a shop a couple blocks down." Wade hopes his voice sounds normal and not at all strangled. "It’s either that or we risk whatever's gaining sentience in the styrofoam container in the fridge."

"Bagels," Peter opts. "I don't like having to re-kill my food."

Wade laughs as he fishes a couple of mugs out of the cabinet. Hot and funny? That combination in another human is almost as improbable as being able to stick to the ceiling. Wade sincerely hopes that whatever omniscient deity sent Peter his way also sees fit to strike Wade down with a bolt of lightning before he can say or do something incredibly stupid. He busies his hands with pouring coffee from the carafe.

"Cream or sugar?" Wade asks.

"Black."

Wade turns around to give Peter his mug. Holds it out over the kitchen island. Peter takes it with both hands and—

Clink.

Oh. Wade thinks. Lightning.

There's a plain gold band on Peter's left hand. On his ring finger, specifically. It looks good on him, a soft warmth that matches the olive undertone in his skin. Wade hadn't noticed the night before because Peter had only taken the glove off his right hand. If he had…

But he hadn't. And Peter had taken all his flirting in stride, even implying that the other Wade frequently called him baby boy as well. Maybe that's just how their friendship works. The other Wade flirts and Peter treats it like it’s nothing. Because it is nothing. Because Peter wears a wedding ring. Because Peter is married.

For the first time, Wade feels sorry for his other self. Wade's only known Peter for a few hours and already he can tell how easy it would be to love him. If he and the other Wade are anything alike—and he has a strong gut feeling that they are—then he must spend a lot of his time silently suffering, unable to express his feelings fully yet also unable to let Peter go.

Oblivious to Wade's thoughts, Peter brings the mug to his mouth and takes a sip. His nose wrinkles immediately in disgust which, somehow, only makes him look cuter.

Poor fucking bastard, Wade commiserates.

"God, this stuff is awful," Peter says. "What is this, Folgers?"

Wade's mouth moves on its own as he quips, "Nothing but the finest incest coffee for you, baby boy."

Peter chokes.

"What, no questionable commercials from the late aughts in your universe?"

"I wish that were the case." Peter wipes some coffee off his chin with the back of his hand, unintentionally showcasing his ring even more. "I just forgot it existed, and you very forcibly brought it to the forefront of my mind. So. Thank you for that."

Wade makes a non-committal noise and drinks from his own mug. He doesn't mind it so much, but he knows his taste buds have been deadened from years of consuming MREs. There's something comforting about bad drip coffee, harkening back to a time when he could solve all his problems with a well-placed bullet. Like into spouses from other dimensions—

Whoopsie daisy, Wade thinks, crumpling his murderous thoughts into a ball and yeeting them from his mind. Where did that come from?

Wade's lonely. He knows that. He and Vanessa broke up shortly after his cancer was resolved and, in the three years since, it's been nothing but one-night stands. Which was fine for the first year or so while he worked on the rebound but since? He misses the intimacy. He misses knowing someone and being known. And when Peter burst into his apartment last night and knew him, trusted him…

It's heady. The other Wade has already done all of the work for him, and all he had to do was sink into it. He has no right to be upset or jealous, especially since Peter has clearly hitched his horse to someone else's wagon.

"Too late for that," Wade mutters.

"Hmm?"

"Just talking to myself," Wade tells Peter, and drains the last of his cup in one huge swallow. Drinking it so quickly has burned the tip of his tongue, and the sludge at the bottom is particularly bitter. "Alright, I'm going to run down the block and grab some breakfast. There's more coffee in the pot if you want it. Do you need anything else? Any food allergies I should know about, spider or otherwise?"

"I can eat anything. But uhhh, I do have a favor to ask."

"Ask away."

"Can I use your laptop? My phone is charged but it's not on any network, and I can't connect to wi-fi. I think the protocols might be different here since I use StarkTech." Peter holds up his cellphone. It looks much like the one Wade uses—a slim rectangle made of glass and stainless steel—but the stylized 'STARK' logo on the back is unfamiliar. "There are some people I want to look up."

"People who can help?"

"Potentially." Peter takes another swig of his coffee. "I'm just anxious, you know? I don't know why I'm here. I don't know if it was an accident or if it was on purpose. And if it was on purpose, who did it, and why?” Peter runs his free hand through his wild hair, tugging absently on the strands as he talks. “Everyone who I can think of that would want me gone would have an easier time killing me than concocting some nefarious plot to send me to another universe. Not to mention I'm inconveniencing you and putting you in danger—"

"I'm gonna stop you right there, Petey Pie, before you work yourself into a fit." Wade leans back against the counter and holds up one finger even as Peter's mouth briefly twists into a moue at being interrupted. "Firstly, please remember that as much as I love a good dress, I am not a damsel in distress. I can hold my own in a fight." Wade holds up another finger. "Secondly, you are not inconveniencing me. If we're being completely honest with one another, I'm curious to see how this pans out. I'm bored as shit and got fuck all going for me. I'm between jobs, and this is way more interesting than shaking down another cheating loser." Wade lifts a third finger. "And lastly, yes, you can use my laptop. Just don't snoop through my bookmarks. It's eggplants all the way down, and I don't want you scarred for life."

"What makes you think your porn preferences would shock me?" Peter asks, grinning. He's put his chin in the palm of his hand and—if that ring of his weren't flashing right next to the sultry curl of his mouth—Wade would have bet the whole house that he was being flirted with.

Stop projecting, Wade tells himself. Aloud, he says, "Who said anything about porn? I was talking about my favorite cooking blogs, Petey, geez. Get your head out the gutter." Wade tsks jokingly, then pushes off the counter. "Give me a second, I'll go find it."

Wade's apartment has a small, second bedroom that acts as a junk room. It's where he keeps all of his spare weapons: guns and grenades, knives and explosives, and even a pair of katanas he took from a dead yakuza guy the last time he was in Kyoto. He has a small desk in there too, though he never uses it for its intended purpose; it acts mostly as a table, stacked high with random shit, including his laptop. For once it's plugged in and fully charged, so Peter should be able to use it for a while.

"I'll be back in half an hour, give or take," Wade says after he gives the laptop to Peter. "Try not to have any inter-dimensional house parties while I'm gone, alright?"

"Yes, dad." Peter rolls his eyes.

Wade sticks out his tongue like the mature adult he is.

"Oh my god," Peter laughs. "Seriously, Wade, go. I'll be fine."

"You sure?"

"Yes." Peter shoves Wade's shoulder. It's barely more than a small push, but Wade is still forced to take a step back to prevent himself from falling. Peter had previously mentioned something about super strength, but it's still surprising; Peter's muscles are long and lean, and his otherwise sweet appearance belies how strong he is. Wade tries to keep the shock off his face and fails, because Peter apologizes a moment later. "Sorry," he says. "Forgot."

"S'cool." Wade shrugs it off. Goes to the front door and wriggles into his sneakers. He grabs a jacket—because it's still fuck cold for mid-March—and makes sure he has his keys, cellphone, and wallet. "Need anything else while I'm out?"

"Nope." Peter turns his back and waves a flippant goodbye. "See you in half an hour!"

"Brat," Wade says as he leaves but, as he takes the five flights of stairs down to the main level, he finds he can't wipe the dumb smile off his face.

.

Part 4

.

[musubiki]

do you have anything you can share with us about Mermaid GF??? 🥺

aaa i have some stuff!!! not super fleshed out though and super subject to change!!!

- so far my favorite design is that koi fish mermaid i drew back in july so im gonna stick with that for now.,,,

- she still doesnt have a name,...some contenders are just koi (me being uncreative), tofu, soy, (adzuki is also a cute name!! name her after beans!!!!)

- im using that same mermaid lore i used a while back for a mermaid au: the way mermaids work is they all have items they carry with them that if they give it to a human, they can turn human too (so long as its in that humans possession. they cant return to the ocean and be a mermaid until said human gives their item back)

- that being said, im not sure what her item is yet!! probably pearls she wears around her tail!! gives them to oscar when she wants to come on land and be around him!!!

- i like to think shes pretty bubbly..,..very upbeat and excited about life..,,sweet and a little bit dumbass (but they all are so she kinda fits right in)

- her and mochi have a beef. theres a huge rivalry between the witches and the mermaids. probably dates back thousands of years to some sour grapes but basically now they hate each other. its also a bit of a pride/power thing, similar to the BU bear vs shark debate. on land the witch is the top magical creature but plot them into the ocean and the mermaids can kill their asses so its a bit of a fight there

- they both talk enough shit to get on each others nerves. when mermaid gf first came around to see oscar mochi was like NO. absolutely not. put that thing back where you got it or so help me-

- and of course oscar wont disobey her, he owes her a lot. but also it makes him sad. new friend gone :(. and lime has to be like "get your ass over here mochi we have to have a TALK." and gives her a scolding about being mean to oscars mermaid gf just because shes a mermaid

- eventually mochi is like fine youre right. oscars been through enough he can have this. goes up to oscar and goes "(sighh) i wont stop you from hanging out with mermaid gf" and hes HAPPY!!

- (worth noting at that point he doesnt.....particularly care? shes cute and all but he doesnt really know her, he just feels bad about mochi sending her away when mermaid gf just wanted to befriend him)

- her and mochi never really stop fighting. but they reach the point of friendship one day. still fire off insults and stereotypical jabs but they come to understand each other eventually (i believe at one point mermaid gf even protects mochi against the other mermaids trying to kill her)

- in terms of magic, mermaids are closer to like. the rock monsters and tree spirits than the mages and witches, despite being part humanish. this is because their magical features are inherint rather than gifted by the gods or whatever

- that being said, theyre not capable of the kind of magic witches or mages can use. but they have abilities like the turning human through the item thing i mentioned, and they also have special coral they can morph into any kind of weapon/object

- bouncing off that, mermaids are masters of arms!!! theres a few fighting types in tcwg, and aside from magic fighting and hand to hand combat, theres also weaponized combat which is what the mermaids are best at !!! they all carry a piece of coral they can morph into weapons when they need!! (mermaid gf here prefers a polearm, i believe.)

- shes veeeerrrrryyyy flexible

- perfect wavy hair all the time

- mermaids have natural eyeshadow and lipstick that matches their tails. its who they are as a species. they also have very long eyelashes and it makes witches go GRRRRR cuz witches are always seen as ugly old hags

- i want her to have a koi/ocean patterned wrap skirt when on land !!!!!

- her and coco are chill with each other. coco is like yooooo wanna try peanut butter on a spoon? and shes like YESSSSSS

- her and taffy are also chill. she looks at him for a long time, seems to remember he tried to kill mochi in the past, then goes "witches are the worst, amiright?" and he kind of cringes and goes "i am not the man i used to be-"

- she never becomes a member of the guild. but i consider her to be one of the various characters that just show up sometimes like sulluvan or the merchant or corvus. definately not a constant character but she shows up occasionally!! (i believe shes also timeskip-exclusive)