#𑁤 no one home but the void is loud. inbox.

[cora2ons]

tag drop.

[sparklingchim]

game on | jjk

pairing: jungkook x reader

word count: 2.2k

genre: footballer!jungkook, fake dating, f2l

rating: pg

warnings: koo gets scolded for sleeping around 🥺, playboy jk <3, hints of a threesome 🫢, oc fights w a laundry machine

summary: jungkook is in desperate need to polish up his playboy image, and naturally, he turns to you for help.

a/n: hii my pretty besties!!!! it's my bday😋 so i wanted to share this silly piece i've been having so much fun writing!!! love uuu n treat urself to smth nice for me today <3 mwah😙

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

Jeon Jungkook is a charming man – and he is well aware of the fact. He plays that card effortlessly.

Most of the time, it works in his favour.

But sometimes, it backfires spectacularly and gets him into trouble.

Which is why he stands in front of his fuming manage, who is radiating enough anger to fill the entire office.

The sight isn’t foreign to Jungkook. He wouldn’t say he is used to it, but he has found himself often enough in this situation to recognise the signs of deep trouble.

Not only is Jungkook’s charm complicating things, but the fact that he is famous too.

Sometimes, he uses that as an advantage. Not in an obvious way — never by flaunting his own achievements or demanding special treatment.

That’s not his style.

His name alone carries weight, and he knows how to let it work for him, quietly bending the world to his will... until the world pushes back.

And right now, it’s pushing back hard.

One thing Jeon Jungkook does enjoy about being a pro footballer, though, is the way women obsess over him.

He knows they love him – sees it in the comments they leave on his ig posts, sees it in the DMs flooding his inbox daily, and experiences it firsthand at public events, where hordes of fans scream his name. Jungkook thrives on that attention.

However, something he doesn’t love, and what he was never prepared for, is the media. The way they scrutinise his every move, how his face ends up on every headline anytime he does something remotely noteworthy.

And now, thanks to his latest shenanigan getting caught by the press, here he is. Standing in front of his manager, Taesung, and his PR agent, Jiwoo, eyes downcast, bracing himself for the scolding that’s already begun.

“You’ve gone too far this time, Jungkook.”

His manager speaks in a flat, monotonous voice, void of even the slightest hint of disappointment, as if he’d long since given up expecting anything different.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to clean up the mess you leave behind?”

A sense of guilt creeping up on Jungkook, even though he knows if he were just a regular guy, none of this would matter at all. And he finds it a bit unfair.

But to survive in this business, you can’t complain about unfairness.

“Have you completely lost your mind?” Taesung barks.

Jungkook remains silent. He forces himself to.

“If there was more involved than just alcohol-”

“No! Nothing like that,” he denies, his response firm and immediate. “It was just alcohol – and, well, just good vibes because we won the last match, and with the World Cup being next, everyone was just really excited.”

If he had known what kind of trouble a simple, innocent celebration of his team’s win at a club would bring, he would’ve gone straight home yesterday. He would’ve skipped the rounds of drinks, the flashing lights, the loud music, and definitely the attention. But hindsight was useless now.

“Good,” his manager says. “I’m glad you were happy.” Mock sympathy drips from his voice. “Perhaps the last time you are going to be happy this year.”

Jungkook nods, accepting the gravity of the situation. No more clubs, no more parties, no more girls.

At least, not for a while. His reputation had taken a few hits recently, and this latest mess wasn’t helping. He could almost hear the whispers: reckless, irresponsible, unprofessional. The kind of things that could ruin him if he didn’t get a handle on it.

He clenched his jaw. No more distractions. From now on, it was all about the game. He needed to remind everyone why he was Jeon Jungkook — the best on the field, not just the headlines.

“You’re no longer in for the World Cup. You’re out.”

His head snaps up at that. Did he hear that right?

“What?! What do you mean?”

“Myungbo doesn’t want you on the team anymore.” Taesung’s words sound heavy and final.

Jungkook’s heart pounds in his ears.

His world tilts. The room seems to spin, the edges of his vision darkening. This wasn’t just a setback — it was a disaster. The World Cup was everything to him, and now it felt like it was slipping through his fingers. The crushing weight of the news settles on his chest, making it hard to breathe. One silly night is all that happened.

He can’t believe that a single photo of him leaving the club with two girls clinging to each arm has cost him his spot on the national football team. He went home with two girls – so what?

But he doesn’t voice his frustration. He knows better than to add fuel to the fire. Speaking his mind now would only escalate the situation and make things worse. Jungkook knows from experience.

He swallows hard, forcing himself to stay calm. His pulse is still racing, but he takes a deep breath, focusing on controlling his emotions. He has to keep a level head if he’s going to find a way to fix this.

“There has to be a way to fix this.” His eyes move to Jiwoo, his PR agent. “Right?”

His manager fixes him with a stern glare. “Jungkook, remember the promise you gave everyone a few months ago?” Taesung reminds him.

Jungkook cringes. When he made a promise to avoid actions that might damage his reputation, he didn’t think it’d be that serious. He cut back on going out, made the effort to play the role of the “good boy” but really – come on. He can’t maintain that facade for an eternity. Especially after a triumphant victory like yesterday’s.

Taking away his spot on the national football team? He didn’t think that was possible.

“How many more times do we have to fix your problems, because you don’t care enough? How many times do we have to repeat this scenario?”

“I promise I’ll better myself,” he pleads desperately, looking back and forth between his manager and his PR agent. Someone has to believe him, help him.

“Do you genuinely believe this country wants to be represented by a 20-year-old boy, who can’t keep his personal life under control?” Taesung asks, eyebrows deeply pinched together. “This isn’t just about you, Jungkook. It’s about the team, the fans, and the nation. They need a role model, not a scandal waiting to happen.”

“I know. I know.” Jungkook scrambles for something convincing to say, desperate to sway their decision. This can’t be it. He won’t let his career take a hit because of something like this. “But – but this isn’t too bad. This is fixable. I can fix this.” His voice quivers with a desperation he barely recognises as his own. “Jiwoo.” Jungkook turns to her with pleading eyes. “You always know what to do. Please, help me”

“I did propose an idea but-”

“We’re not doing that,” Taesung cuts in. “It’s off the table.”

“What is it?” Jungkook’s eyes bounce back and forth between them. “I’ll do anything. This is – this is everything to me. You have to give me a chance.”

Taesung scoffs. “A chance? As far as I know, you have been given countless chances.”

Sweat coats the back of Jungkook’s neck.

Taesung understands just how much Jungkook has fought to secure his place on the national team. He’s well aware that it’s one of Jungkook’s greatest dreams, a pinnacle of his career that he’s poured countless hours of hard work and sacrifice into. That’s why, each morning, when he wakes up to the latest news of Jungkook’s escapades, he feels a deep sense of disappointment, texting Jungkook with a dejected shake of his head to visit his office first thing in the morning.

When it’s all he wants, like Jungkook claims, why doesn’t he act like it?

“If the head coach won’t give me a chance now, he’ll never do. This is my last opportunity to change his mind, make him rethink. I need to at least try.”

Jiwoo looks at the manager, waiting for his approval. He nods.

“Very simply put: you need a girlfriend,” she says.

For a second, Jungkook is at loss for words.

“A girlfriend? How’s that going to help?” Jungkook tilts his head in confusion. This is not how he thought Jiwoo was going to save him.

“You need a girlfriend to help polish up your image as a player. It’ll make you appear more like a gentleman, softer and nicer. We need to completely shift public perception and counter the negative image they’ve formed about you. It’s all about changing the narrative,” she explains.

“And that is not something we can easily achieve,” Taesung interjects. “Rebranding your entire persona is not feasible at this stage. You’ve been projecting what kind of boy you are to the media for the past two years. It’s going to be incredibly difficult to make a sudden shift look genuine.”

“No! We — I can make it seem real. This is my only chance,” Jungkook insists, his voice gaining a hint of determination. For a moment, breathing feels a bit easier again. “The World Cup is just a month away. That’s enough time to shift public opinion and prove I’m worthy of representing the country on the team.” There’s a hopeful lilt in his voice as he speaks, clinging to the belief that he might not have to bid farewell to his biggest dream after all.

But his manager doesn’t look as hopeful as Jungkook feels.

“How are we going to find a girl who will agree to this? Someone who isn’t an obsessive fan, understands this is purely professional, and can keep quiet? You won’t be able to pull this off.”

“I was actually thinking-” Jiwoo starts, but she’s cut off.

Jungkook hesitates, glancing between them before speaking. “Actually... I think I already have someone in mind.” His voice is more measured now. “That’s not the issue.” Jungkook doesn’t need to think twice.

Taesung sighs while Jiwoo looks at Jungkook apologetically.

“You can’t rebrand your entire persona from a playboy to a lover boy within a month, Jungkook. This is over.” His manager shakes his head, a sense of finality glimmering in his eyes.

One thing that Jungkook forgot to mention is that he is an extremely competitive man, too.

~

“This is ridiculous.”

You kick the laundry machine in frustration, but all you end up doing is yelping and clutching your aching foot.

“That’s the third time this month,” you mutter under your breath. “What did I even spend all that money on if it’s just going to break down whenever it feels like it?”

You shoot a death glare at the machine, teetering on the edge of losing your mind.

“Guess I’ll have to use the public laundromat again,” you sigh, grabbing the overflowing laundry basket filled with your and your roommate's clothes, and heading out of the bathroom with a huff.

On your way to the front door, the doorbell rings.

Please, you think. You were hoping for some quiet, uninterrupted time to deep-clean your dorm on this peaceful Sunday with no one around.

But when you peek through the peephole and see Jungkook standing there, your frustration melts away. You swing the door open, the laundry basket tumbling to the floor beside you in your haste.

“Jungkook!” you exclaim. “You’re timing is perfect! Can you please fix my laundry machine again? It’s been acting up, and I’m getting frustrated.” You groan annoyed.

Jungkook doesn’t share the same excitement upon seeing you.

You grow smaller and take an indecisive step back.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, noticing the tension in his features. “Did you lose the match yesterday? I couldn’t keep up because I had too much cramming to do last night.”

While studying medicine had always been your dream, the reality is less exciting. Right now, it means sleepless nights and relentless pressure. You know that pursuing this path will offer you many privileges later in life, but you have to suffer first.

“I need your help.”

His dark eyes, usually bright and full of energy, seem clouded with worry, and his hair falls messily over his forehead, like he’s run his hands through it a hundred times in frustration.

“Are you okay?” You study him closely, scanning his face for any signs of injury. Physically, he seems fine — still tall, muscular, and as fit as ever. But something is clearly off.

“You need to do something for me.”

“I can help,” you reply, your voice soft with concern. ‘But what is it…?”

“Can you be my girlfriend?”

You blink, repeatedly.

“Huh?”

You start giggling when he doesn’t add more. You expect him to clarify or laugh along, but Jungkook stays serious, stepping closer and gently taking your hands in his. You look down at them, then back up at his face, utterly bewildered.

“You’re silly, Jungkook. If someone on the team made you do this, tell them you did the punishment and quit acting so weird.”

It’s too early in the morning for Jungkook’s nonsense.

“No, ___, you don’t understand.” He squeezes your hands when he feels you trying to pull them back. “I actually need you to do it.”

“Do what?”

“Fake date me.”

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

I'd imagine when Childe is away for Harbinger duties, you send letters to eachother, right?? Like everyone in Teyvat does. But Legacy cannot read and Ajax has a little difficulty relaying your messages to him without being able to interact with him (other than like,, shared feelings that Legacy can distinguish as something associated with you). :(((

So instead you figure out to send something for both of them each time. So it's always something like:

A letter and a few photos of you.

A letter and a homemade food (if distance allows it).

A letter and a few trinkets that reminded you of them both.

A letter and a sweater of yours, if only for cuddling and carrying your comforting scent to them, since Legacy definitely cannot fit into human clothes haha. (Childe can and will wear it around for extra comfort though, to Legacy's delight.)

A letter and a few handcrafted origami from the lady that taught you today down the street.

A letter and a plead suggestion to buy Legacy a specific thing on your behalf because he's too far away and only letters can be delivered to his current location, to your dismay.

It's always a letter for Ajax and a little treat for Legacy. So he doesn't miss you so terribly while they're both away from home.

Also I'm really sorry for flooding your inbox dear Wifi I just got really excited you answered my ask and good ideas happen to come to me all together<3

this is absolutely ADORABLE, i'm eating this like a delicious meal

you can bet your life that Childe and Legacy keep all the letters and items you send them, even if it's completely inconvenient due to being on a mission or something- Childe even has a small box he brings to store everything you send so he can keep them safe. Legacy's not let out much apart from battle, especially if they're on a mission or back at Fatui HQ, so he cherishes the moments in the evening where he's allowed to stretch his limbs and admire the gifts you sent. if they're anything handmade, like origami or cards, he'll try to make one for you in return; or he'll find you some sparkly stones in exchange for flowers you've pressed! Legacy and Childe definitely sleep hugging the sweater you sent, it wards off the nightmares that plague their minds

Childe also makes sure to read your letters out loud so Foul Legacy can hear what you've written, always met with a symphony of delighted trills and chirps in his head when you say you miss both of them. they miss you so much, the void left by your absence not even filled by the thrill of fighting and bloodshed, and when you're reunited you get one of the tightest, warmest hugs you've ever received in your life. Childe manages to tell you everything that happened before Legacy hijacks his body to snuggle up to you, purring and smushing his cheek against yours. you help him put all the objects you sent on his favorite shelf- he insists that he wants them displayed there- before tugging you into his arms and falling asleep hugging you, head carefully positioned so his horns don't poke you. even when you wake up the next morning to Childe sleeping beside you, the arm that's wrapped around your waist is still sheathed in violent and black armor, the claws sharp but oh so delicate when against your skin

[mistkisbiggestfan]

Omg the Pomni x Fem jester was so cute! Would you mind writing more of it? (If you can or want to)

Pomni, romantic / Jester! Fem! Reader - Part 2

Pomni (romantic) / Jester! Fem! Reader Hc + Small fic

A/n: Finally writing $h!t in my inbox?? Rare Jules moment, like actually I don’t know what’s happening (I’m gonna write those Tf2 and Voltron requests too, promise) REQUESTS FOR TADC ARE OPEN!!

Summary: Part 2 of being a silly jester couple Words: 1539 Rquest: Yeah!

She was kind of insecure because of you.

After she settled and realized it’s her life now, tho

You were well, everything she wasn’t; tall, well-built, at least your avatar was, and not to mention Pomni hated to admit that your digital avatar was quite attractive. 

And worst of all, you were an actual circus performer. 

But that has its downsides, of course, when she realized you were closer in behavior to Kinger than Jax or Ragatha? $h!t man. 

She tried to avoid you all day (events before the end of the pilot: the digital feast).

But on the other hand, whenever she saw you, a lightbulb kinda flickered in her brain. 

She’s such a girl failure, didn’t even know you for a day and still fell for you.

The jester was very much confused: “Am I attracted to this…?” 

Yeah she is. This freaks her out. Why is she attracted to a crazy girl?  

Your first meeting was a bit rough, duh, but in between her panicking and having a freak out, she couldn’t help but note your good looks. 

After that she didn’t see you much because you stayed behind with Kinger and Gangle.

– You’re sure this is a good idea? – Ragatha said before turning around, looking at you, Kinger and Gangle. You were laughing about something, Gangle was crying, and Kinger was doing his usual stuff. – Of course, they’re the most mentally stable trio in the whole circus! – Jax snickered before walking along the halls. – Come on ladies, let’s go harass the clown. 

During the time when abstracted Kaufmo ran around, chasing Pomni, at one point you came out of nowhere and scooped her up, bringing her to safety.

Then you kind of fu(/#d off to let abstraction of your dear friend sink in, Ragatha was very worried when she saw you not attending the digital feast at the end of the day.

The loop of never-ending exits and the void left Pomni really fu(/#d, but none really cared (expect for maybe Gangle and Ragatha) because it was her first day.

She didn’t even realize when her legs led her to the digital lake. Like someone else brought her there.

Just as she was about to sit down and relax she heard the deep and loud voice that scared her, the feminine, in other circumstances soothing voice was terrifying, she looked up and saw the Moon talking to someone.

Oh yeah, she almost forgot that Sun and Moon were AI people here. 

“That was great dear, you should show that trick to Caine sometime.” She was talking with someone? But who?

And then, she saw your (in comparison) small figure looking up, with something that imitated fire, more like digital-fire but a flame nonetheless. 

That made her feel worse, it was all superficial, all being nothing more than lines of code. Just like the talking Sun and Moon – not giving off any heat or cold.

Pomni felt herself losing it again as she saw you talking with the Moon above. 

Feeling weird was an understatement. 

Before she could go away, because she was standing awfully close to you two, she heard the loud voice of the Moon again.

Pomni finally snapped out of whatever she was in, her shoes touching the smooth, untextured grass under her. She didn’t know when or how she got here but she had to roll with the punches in this new place she was forced to call “home”. She saw the lake’s water before her before hearing a deep and loud voice of someone seemingly echoing and coming from every possible direction. She looked up.

The moon, or rather, Moon, was talking to someone. She almost forgot it– she? Moon. She almost forgot Moon could talk here, probably being some kind of AI too, like Caine. 

But, Moon was talking with someone and she could tell it wasn’t Caine. – That was great dear, you should show that trick to Caine sometime. – She heard Moon’s voice again. 

And with that, Pomni found herself walking closer to the direction Moon was talking too. How could Moon be seemingly high above, be seen from all directions and 2d like? She sighed, deciding to ponder on the perspective and basic rules that reigned this world sometime later. 

Finally, she saw a small in comparison figure standing and holding a large stick or something like that, which ended with fire on both ends, the flame made her shiver, ironic. She looked as the fire danced, looking more animated than anything else, the thought that it was nothing more than lines of code wasn’t the best. 

As she looked more closely at the figure talking with Moon, she couldn’t make out the words. And she realized, it was you, well now that was obvious, you were the only person dressed like a jester other than herself.

Before she could turn around, walk away, forget about this, she heard Moon’s voice again. – I think you should get yourself going dear, it seems like someone’s waiting for you. – Pomni’s eyes widened as she saw Moon looking at her, and she saw your head whip around to look at the person who was waiting. 

Oh h#|! – She thought, and now she contemplated turning and running away, but before she could do so, you already stood in front of her. And you didn’t look quite as cheerful under the moonlight. 

Now she could notice you had makeup on, well that’s probably just a permanent characteristic of your digital skin. You were quite different from her, that was rather obvious since you were basically towering over her. But one thing was similar, both of you had a $h!t tons of bells on you, how could she haven't noticed you going here? You were basically a walking “hey! I’m here! Can’t you hear me? Oh yeah you can”

You seemed more worried about her now, she didn’t notice, somehow, still, basically checking you out. – Are you alright? – Your voice snapped her out of a staring contest with her and your lean body. 

– What? Oh, oh! – She looked up at you, as you leaned in to hear her better. – I’m not that short – She thought to herself. 

– Is there something you need? – You said now starting to walk along, towards the entrance of the main area. She shook herself and ran to catch up, you started juggling as she looked at you weirdly for a second, were those balloons? How the fu(/# can you juggle balloons?

– I just wanted to thank you, for, eh when you saved me from that monster. – She said, not looking up at you, but she heard a laugh, snicker, whatever, it seemed more nervous than cheery though.

– Kaufmo.

– What?

– That wasn’t a monster. It was Kaufmo. – You said, still juggling, she seemed to catch on with your thought process. 

– Right. Sorry – She apologized quietly, both of you being now in the hallway leading to your rooms. But you laughed it off, catching all the balloons and popping them, like Caine did with Bubble, with funny sounding “pop”. Only now she realized you were standing still now, not walking anymore. 

– Don’t beat yourself over it, sweetheart. – You laughed, not mockingly, somehow it sounded lovely. Amd Pomni froze – her face red. Oh god she if she didn’t want to hit herself then, she definitely wants to after this. Once she realized what happened your laughing disappeared a long time ago. She looked around and found out you left her off in front of her new room. – Wow… – She breathed out. 

At first you were not a big fan, but your behavior was always the same, you really kept almost everything to yourself, but you have to admit she was a little cutie.

Ever since you always tried to make her flustered, and it always works.

She tried to make you flustered on more than one occasions but you seem to not be able to feel flustered or embarrassed, your face just goes from “:D” to “(´ ꒳` )” 

You’re actually the boldest mf out there, even bolder than Jax. 

Jax probably gave up on trying to prank you after that “staring at your soul” thing.

But Pomni is a brand new target, so you protect her. And it makes her flustered, but on the other hand, what doesn’t make her flustered?

She might have called you mommy by accident. She was burning, but to her shock. That seemed to make you flustered, but just for a second, before you laughed sweetly at the mess before you.

“That was great, cutie.” “Thanks mommy.” “...” “...”

She should be glad Jax didn’t overhear that, or did he?

He did. It’s over for her. 

She was walking through the hallway towards your room and looked up to see him, looking down at his nails, even though they were covered with his gloves. “Pomni, remember that calling the jester mommy isn’t very PG 13.” He smirked before the situation resolved to a harmless fistfight.

Caine doesn’t bat an eye, maybe says something to Pomni but that’s all. (You’re his and Moon’s favourite so it’s understandable, don’t let the others know though.)

Favouritism is real.

Overall very cute, two jesters are always better than one.

[clefairymuke]

eloquent | nine

pairing: levi x reader

word count: 5.7K

tw: swearing, mentions/descriptions of sex, alcohol consumption, cheating

themes: modern au, college (grad school) au, enemies with benefits, enemies to lovers, slow burn, professor levi, writer!levi, extremely smutty, lots of pining, hurt/comfort & hurt/no comfort, dom levi/sub reader

tags: @number-0-iz @propertyoftoru @commanderawkward @thenamesholly @shortmexicangirl @missyasma @syubseokie @ceceofthevalley | reply to be added!!

note: i hope you guys enjoy this one!! i spent a lot of time with it and i think i like it :) back to the reader's pov, picking up right where we left off.

Dr. Ackerman’s walls are soundproof.

Part of you immediately assumes that he was not aware of this fact when he was harshly instructing you to moan his name loud enough for Reiner to hear on the other side of the wall, but a much more insistent part of you believes that Levi loves two things and two things alone: humiliating you — his topmost priority — and being a shining example for the drama queens of the world.

As you sit on the passenger’s side of Reiner’s SUV for the second time today, you would prefer to be anywhere else in the world. Thick fingers rest idly on your leg, a near-unnoticeable tap of his pointer finger keeping time with the song on the radio, which you’d already heard on the ride up to Levi’s office. The sun is higher now, on track to reach its cusp by noon as it beams through the windshield to irritate your eyes.

Upon staggering out of the great oak door and greeting your apparent new ‘boyfriend,’ you knew that a plan was in order. Originally, you assumed Reiner would be long gone to likely never call you again — and the fact that you were content in that is something you’ll have to address later — but there he sat, unaware of the betrayal you committed right behind his back, all smiles. Quickly, you applied a melancholy expression to your panting mouth and informed him that you had to go home and get to work on your novel immediately. Of course he obliged politely; the more agreeable the man is, the more you want to rip your own hair out.

Sane women appreciate kind men, you assume. But you’re far too exhausted to explore where that leaves you.

“You shouldn’t let him get under your skin,” Reiner says suddenly, making you jump. “What he thinks doesn’t mean anything. You write beautifully.”

If Zeke or Eren or your mother had said something so brash, you’d know they meant it for comfort and no more. You’d agree and laugh and move on, both parties involved knowing that Levi’s opinion is easily the most important thing that will ever come across your ears. When the clueless blond at your side says the same, it’s because he believes it to be true. If he thinks you can out-write Ackerman, all of his compliments become null and void.

A long-highlighted quote from Serpentine races through your mind, more fitting to the sentiment than makes you comfortable. Artists' souls are few and scattered, unknown and unheard to those not cut from our cloth.

“He’s practically the god of writing, you know,” you answer, not meeting his eyes as he stops at a traffic light. “If he says my work is bad, it’s because it is.” Reiner lets out a long sigh in place of a rebuttal, not bothering to defend his position. A loud buzz sounds in the seat beneath your leg — your phone announcing a new email. The brick apartment complex appears on the horizon as you open your inbox, fingers punching the screen more harshly than usual.

lackerman@gmail.com

Subject: Contact Information

To whom it may concern:

Dr. Ackerman has instructed me to provide you with his cellphone number; his information is attached.

Zoe Hange

Although you click the attached contact information without hesitation, anxiety runs to your core. Your thumbs twiddle over the keyboard idly while the gears in your mind grind harshly against one another. A few rough drafts of the fateful message roll off of your fingers while you think it through.

Hey, Dr. Ackerman, I got your email. This is my cell phone number! Okay, no exclamation points. Should you call him Levi? Is that too suggestive?

Hey, Levi, I got your email. Assuming he does not return to being a devil next time you see him, you’ll probably text him more than professionally — so should you lose the capitalization? It would be much more strange to randomly switch one day, right? Speaking of seeing him, Tuesday is far too distant; as soon as you have time to sit down and think, you’ll likely have a life-altering nervous break from the unanswered questions between the two of you alone.

hey, levi, i got your email. is there any way we can meet sooner than tuesday? Perhaps calling him by his first name is too suggestive. Thumbs beginning to ache, you type the final draft of your message: hey, dr. ackerman, i got your email. is there any way we can meet sooner than tuesday?

Ten minutes later, you’re shutting your bedroom door tight behind you. Of course, your elusive and frightening writing advisor has yet to reply to your message — still, you’re thankful to be away from your other problem, a man named Reiner Braun. Ever since he happily informed Dr. Ackerman that he was your boyfriend, the issue has been rather thought-provoking.

You groan before tapping the telephone icon, scrolling through your recent calls. Zeke is out to lunch with a girl he met at school, but Eren is rarely busy — the line begins ringing without another thought. Putting the call on speaker, you lay your phone down flat on your desk and tug your hair free from the elastic restraining it. Your shoes hit the floor next, then your skirt, which you’re bare underneath due to Levi’s new white lace pocket square.

The line picks up as you tug a pair of lounge pants over your legs. “You okay?” Eren asks immediately, his voice wary of your mood. You almost giggle at the assumption, but there are much more serious matters to address.

You tie the drawstring around your hips and settle into your desk chair. “I feel. . .” you begin, taking a deep, audible breath. “Clinically insane. Disloyal. Humiliated. Slutty. Intrigued.” A quiet laugh sounds through the speaker, bringing a little smile to your lips. “I’m in a good mood, although I shouldn’t be. Dr. Ackerman may have —” you pause, deciding how much to reveal, “made a move.”

Eren gasps sarcastically. “A move?” he pries curiously, as you log into your computer and swirl the cursor around idly. “You’ll have to give me more to work with.” You open a blank document and position your hands over the keyboard, not quite sure what you’re aiming for. The smooth plastic glides beneath your fingertips as you brush them back and forth.

“Well, it was more than a move,” you admit, the memory stuck to the front of your brain. The blinking cursor begins to morph into words as you speak, the gray-eyed man’s advice ringing loud in your ears. “First, he’s totally fucking rude to Reiner. He introduced himself — like, ‘it’s an honor to meet you,’ and all — and Dr. Ackerman literally said, ‘Okay,’ and ignored his handshake.” In some other compartment of your brain, there’s a room — scratch that: it’s a tent lit with only a lantern, with a pallet on the ground made of blankets — and the deliciously frightening love interest, Jasper, is berating Laura’s ridiculous behavior.

Laughter bursts loudly through the phone, but it doesn’t interrupt your desperate typing. Words have become a paragraph now, closing in on two. “God,” Eren wheezes out, “I would’ve fucking gone home, man.”

You can’t help but chuckle along with him as you recall the memory, but there are too many trains of thought running for it to keep your attention long. Jasper’s hand brushes Laura’s wrist scarcely, just enough to send a chill through her. “Then he sends me to the office, and I’m in the chair I always sit in. He comes in, sits on the front of the desk instead of his chair, and is like ‘I don’t want to read your shit today.’”

Eren winces through the phone as your fingers continue their rapid assault of the keyboard below them. “Harsh.” You giggle as you indent another paragraph.

“No, it’s okay,” you assure him, “because here’s the thing. After that, one thing led to another, and he gave me head. Against the wall, that Reiner was sitting on the other side of.” Adrenaline coursed through you like nothing ever had before — you won’t tell your friend that you moaned the man’s name shamelessly thinking that Reiner absolutely could hear you. Some secrets must stay in that office.

Eren doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but you aren’t unnerved. A certain ambitious electricity pulses through your fingers as you finish off the first page of the scene, watching the satisfying appearance of a fresh, white space. “I have so many questions. Reiner — what’s the plan about him? Feelings for Dr. Ackerman? How was the head? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You laugh loudly as Jasper takes Laura’s chin between his fingers and stares down at her. “Why do you think I’m calling you?” you ask playfully. “I only know the answer to one of those questions, and it was pretty damn good.” A jarring vibration sounds against your desk, sending your heart to your throat as you peer down at the notification. “Oh my god, Levi texted me. Love you. Bye.”

You hang up the phone viciously before opening the text thread with Dr. Ackerman, reading his message immediately as he had yours just a little while earlier — perhaps you would take your sweet time to reply, as well. As you read the contents of the message, you know that won’t be possible. The blue bubble reads: I really need to see you tomorrow.

Tomorrow — you could finish these pages by tomorrow. Only one page in, and you know this scene is going to be worlds ahead of the last thing you brought to his desk. Your heart skips at the word choice; should you reciprocate it? A split-second decision and your fingers are beating at the keyboard. i really need to see you, too. what time? i have class, but i’ll make myself free.

The message is marked read immediately, making you suck in a breath. Your teeth grind together as the three gray dots at the bottom bounce rhythmically. Dinner tonight, then. I’ll pick you up for reservations at 7. Blood sets your cheeks ablaze as you read, freezing you in place. Reservations sound rather upscale — as if the fabulously wealthy dine out at Olive Garden — which makes your skin crawl. Furthermore, this is a man you fervently despised until his fingers started to trail up your legs.

But who are you to deny dinner with a famously unobtainable master of literature? Especially when it's the same one that had you writhing underneath him only an hour ago — and you wouldn’t mind doing the same after the dessert course this evening. You read it over a thousand times before you send it, but you finally deliver your address and toss your phone as far from you as possible.

Directing all of your focus on the document in front of you, you pour yourself into the keyboard with vigor, desperate to present something worth reading to Levi the very next time you sit before him. Making time to get ready for dinner will be a challenge, but it’s one you take in stride. You have a big day ahead of you.

-

As the clock begins to wind down to your impending doom, anxiety starts to rear its unbearably large head. After squeezing the most expensive dress in your closet over your head and carefully perfecting your appearance, the pages you printed an hour ago are screaming at you to read them over again; you try to ignore them at first, scrolling idly through social media, but it becomes deafening after a while. Reluctantly, you pluck the manila folder from the desk and start out your bedroom door.

The hallway is loud with the scent of clashing perfumes — Zeke had been holed in his bedroom with his brunch date since they arrived around noon. Raven-haired and rather tired looking, the girl was very kind and introduced herself to you — Pieck, from out of state, and she’s an editor. Still, she kept a confidant of yours from crucial intel regarding Dr. Ackerman, so you were praying for her departure. Now that she’s gone, you hardly have time to tell a good story.

Zeke is laid across the couch, round glasses nudged toward the tip of his nose as he peers down at a worn out copy of Mrs Dalloway. As you cross the threshold, his eyes come up to meet yours. “What are you all dolled up for?” he gawks, folding down his page and laying the book on the coffee table.

You wiggle your eyebrows suggestively before changing the subject. Holding up your manila folder as if it’s a certificate of achievement, you shoot him an award-winning smile. “New pages. Can I pick your brain?” Zeke only lingers on the previous topic for a second before deciding to cooperate. A wise move.

He waves his hand at you as if he’s herding cattle, and you’re quick to oblige; your heels click beneath you as you dart across the den, offering your friend the envelope like a thoughtful gift. You swallow hard as he takes it and sits up straight, pulling the packet free. “I want to show these to Levi tonight. Tell me what you think,” you say as you chew on the inside of your lip.

“Tonight? Sorry — did you call him Levi?” Zeke questions, forehead wrinkling as his eyebrows shoot up.

You shake your head rapidly, giving him a quick, sly smile before throwing the subject out again. “I am begging you to read the fucking pages, Zeke.”

Now a bit tense, your roommate thumbs through the packet while you bite your nails beside him, focusing all of your energy into reading his facial expressions. Halfway through, you decide you must stop surrounding yourself with such stoic company. You glance at the clock as he turns to the last page, and the fated hour is closing in. Nausea churns through your stomach.

You brace for impact as Zeke hands back the neat stack, but he presses his lips shut tight. After five long, silent seconds of staring at one another, he says, “I’m not spilling until you do.”

Letting out a dramatic groan, you begin to pace back and forth across the hardwood living room floor. “I wanted to wait until I had time to give you the details,” you explain, pleading with him through wide eyes. Regardless of your defense, he remains stubborn, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m getting dinner with Dr. Ackerman,” you admit. “We kind of had a moment today.”

Zeke, now totally upright with his brow drawn in, looks speechless for a moment. You find that a sliver of nervousness slinks through your brain as he stares at you, although you never considered before that you fear his reaction. He opens his mouth to speak twice before he actually settles on his next words. “Just so I can be sure we’re talking about the same person — you do mean Dr. Ackerman, your personal antagonist, right?” your friend asks, gawking at you as if you’ve sprouted an extra head.

You frown. “We aren’t eloping. It’s dinner. Who the hell says no to fancy dinner with a famous author?”

Zeke shakes his head, rubbing one hand across his brow back and forth. “Probably the girl he’s sent home crying on multiple occasions? I just don’t feel right about this, dude. Like, it was funny that one time, but he’s a lot older than you. I thought this was a joke.”

Heat rushes to your face as you shove the packet back into the folder and shut it tight. “Why would it be a joke? I’m an adult, you know. I have a college degree and pay stubs to show for it.” Rolling your eyes, you stuff the envelope into your purse and toss it over your shoulder.

“I just wouldn’t want you to get taken advantage of,” he says, his concern clear in his expression. Zeke reaches out to you as you adjust your hair in the mirror, probably for a hug or the type of come-to-Jesus discussion that requires hand holding and eye contact, but you pretend not to see it. After a second, his hand drops away.

Your phone vibrates on the table beside you, and you snatch it up immediately. From Levi: I’ll be there in a minute or so. Shaking the irritation from your skin at once, you tuck your phone away and spin to face your protective friend. “I have it under control — pinkie promise. But I can’t argue with you right now because I’m leaving.” You walk over to him and squeeze his shoulder with one hand before starting toward the door.

“Be careful,” Zeke calls as you leave. “Text me if you need me.”

The door clicks shut behind you, and you are overcome with fear. No new headlights shine in the wide parking lot outside of your apartment door, although the street lights reflecting off of the afternoon’s rainfall on the slick, black pavement fool you once or twice. Admittedly, you aren’t quite accustomed to the never-worn shoes currently strapped uncomfortably around your ankles, so you’re glad he isn’t here to see you stagger down the slippery, concrete stairs.

As you reach the bottom, two near-blinding headlights start up the drive; as the car takes a careful left into the lot — sleek and black, a BMW — your phone vibrates in your pocket. Anxiety shoots through you, and you don’t even bother to check the screen. The car comes to a halt with the left side facing you, the driver door opening before you can take your first step.

A man in a suit nods his head at you politely before grasping the handle of the back door, pulling it open slowly to reveal dark leather interior. More of the spacious backseat comes into view as you approach, and you immediately spot pressed black slacks and pale knuckles. Levi sits on the far side, knees spread wide with one hand resting limp across his left leg. Over the crisp white button-down shirt, a deep crimson blazer clings to his shoulders and makes the pink of his lips impossible to ignore. The watch on his right wrist shines while he props his chin, elbow against the door, and his charcoal eyes examine you up and down.

“I was afraid you would wear a sweater,” Dr. Ackerman quips as the suited driver offers you his hand. Hesitant, you take it in your grasp and allow him to help you into the warm, comfortable seat.

“Thank you,” you tell him warmly as he shuts the door behind you and goes back to his place at the steering wheel. You return Levi’s blank stare with a nervous grin. “I like to think I clean up pretty well.” The car shifts back into drive and eases forward, turning a wide circle in the lot and heading back down the entryway.

“You do,” he says, and your smile becomes more genuine. After a second of only the low classical music — a cello, you think — playing softly through the speakers, you begin to rummage around in your purse for the manila folder. Fishing it free, you extend it timidly to the man at your side.

Dr. Ackerman glances down at it briefly before looking back at you, folding in one of his eyebrows just slightly. The warm, cozy interior of the BMW suddenly becomes unbearably hot. “I wrote this today,” you elaborate, watching the whites of his eyes grow just a little wider. “I think that it’s closer to your expectations.”

A smirk flits across his mouth as he takes the envelope from your shaky hands, leaning forward and snaking his arm around the passenger’s seat to lay it down flat. “Give that to Hange while we’re eating,” Levi directs the driver, who nods along with his instruction. “Have them put it on my desk in my study at home.”

His back comes to rest against the seat again, and his eyes fall straight to you. “I’m excited to read it,” he tells you, his tone genuine. You fight to keep your jaw from dropping, but you’re sure the widening of your eyes gives away your surprise. “I always am.” The elixir that courses through your veins is warm and comforting, and you feel the corners of your mouth pulling up high.

It gives you enough confidence to push your luck. “I really wanted you to read it tonight,” you say, leaning toward him. He chuckles and shakes his head, making you frown.

“I’d rather not have to insult you. You always cry, and the place we’re eating has a dress code,” Levi responds flatly, and you almost think it’s a joke. Still, with his history, you tend to stray on the safer side. Crossing your knees, you pull your phone from your purse and unlock it. “I would just really like it if I didn’t upset you tonight,” he continues suddenly, making you look up to meet his gaze.

You shoot him a reassuring smile as the car pulls beneath a pavilion. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

In the light, you can see now that the suited driver is brunette and pale, in his late twenties. He exits the vehicle again to open your door, offering a hand and helping you out, then taking your purse with the other. You thank him as you take it back, looping it around your shoulder and watching as Levi steps out onto the cobblestone beneath you.

The restaurant is sleek and modern, painted in shades of burgundy and grey along the long, rectangular exterior. Dim, yellow-toned lights are your only indication toward the door, which is tall and cherry colored with a man in a suit standing at the frame. After tucking a bit of cash in the driver’s pocket and sending him off, Dr. Ackerman is right back at your side. He offers you his arm, and although it sends a chill through you, you take it without a bit of protest.

“French food?” you ask curiously as the two of you stroll past the sign. “I’ve never had anything you could consider French.”

His arm breaks away from yours as he pulls open the door, holding it for you and following behind. “You’ll love it,” Levi promises, laying his hand flat on the small of your back as he guides you toward the hostess. “I’ll order for you, if you’d like.”

Dr. Ackerman’s hand stays snug against you as you follow the hostess through the small, packed restaurant. The round, white-clothed tables are populated with men in suits and women dressed to the nines, sipping glasses of wine and dining on dishes you’ve never seen before. In a corner, you spot Zeke’s latest fling dining with a woman in a pantsuit — you wave, but she doesn’t notice you.

Though you can’t identify the scents that surround you, you know that they’re utterly delectable. Every second you continue to traipse through the restaurant and breathe the mouthwatering aroma feels like hours. Finally, the black-clad woman leading you lays your menus down at a more private table in the back corner, half obscured by lattice and already set with two glasses of water.

Levi pulls out your chair as he detaches his hand from its place on your back, and you take a seat. You clear your throat as you take the sturdy plastic menu and give it a once-over, not recognizing or understanding a single word — the prices aren’t even listed. Before Dr. Ackerman has made it around to his chair, you’ve already tossed it back onto the table in resignation. “I’ll have whatever you’re having and a glass of wine,” you inform him as he sits down.

He takes his menu and yours from the table, stacking them neatly and setting them on the edge of the pristine white cloth. “You have excellent taste,” he praises sarcastically, lifting a hand to get the attention of a server in a black button-up shirt. A moment later, she stands a few feet away, hands folded neatly behind her back.

“Good evening, Mr. Ackerman,” she greets him, and Levi returns a polite nod. “Will you be having the usual, sir?” She’s blonde and fox-faced, with a lilting voice. Her name tag reads “Ella.”

“Yes,” he replies smoothly, unfolding a cloth napkin to lay over his lap, “and the same for the lady. Could you pick out a nice bottle of wine for us?” Ella nods and ducks away, tucking the menus underneath her arm as she goes. The water is cold against your teeth as you sip from the glass, watching your date nod in acknowledgement of a group of suits strolling by.

You can’t help but feel a little important as you sit among such wealthy company, eyes hungry to take in every luxurious detail. Long-stemmed roses inside clear crystal vases sit in the middle of each table, and you’re surprised to see that they’re real; you don’t envy the poor restaurant employee tasked with putting them out each morning. Arranged neatly at each place setting is a cloth napkin and more silverware than one could ever use, filling you with a bit of apprehension as you try to deduce which fork would be best for each course.

A loud, continuous vibration shocks you back to your plebeian existence, making you flinch. Rummaging through your bag, you locate your cell and yank it free, lifting it to your eyes for inspection. Your heart sinks to your feet — it’s Reiner. You’d forgotten about him. Again.

Avoiding the storm-cloud eyes dissecting you a few feet away, you decline the call rapidly. writing — i’ll call you back, you type, guilt flooding through your chest. Powering off the phone, you stow it back in your purse and fold your hands on the table in front of you; a fake smile paints across your lips as you combat Dr. Ackerman’s suspicious stare.

“You can take that if you need to,” Levi says plainly, and you shake your head in response.

“They seem to be familiar with you,” you redirect, gesturing to Ella as she approaches. “Come here a lot?”

A rare grin flashes across his face as two empty wine glasses are placed in front of you. “Often enough,” he answers, shrugging. “There isn’t much worth eating here in the city, but I try not to work Niccolo to death.” An ounce or so of deep red wine splashes against the glass before Ella pulls the bottle back. Without prompting, Levi lifts it by the stem and swirls it twice before taking a long, slow sip. “Yes, that’s good,” he tells her, before turning his attention back to you.

“Niccolo?” you question, cocking an eyebrow as the server fills both of your glasses and turns to leave again.

“My chef,” Levi explains, leaning back in his chair. “He’s fucking annoying.” You can’t help but laugh despite his seriousness, and his eyes get a bit warmer. Though you knew he was wealthy, Dr. Ackerman being rich enough for a private chef surprises you. You’re suddenly very aware of the fact that you’re a cashier for a living.

As the small talk continues, you learn a lot of things about him that you didn’t know before. French food is actually his favorite — best eaten in Paris according to him, and his brief mention of bringing you along one day soon did not go unnoticed — but he isn’t averse to Italian. He’s traveled the world a hundred times over it seems, his magazine always fully loaded with anecdotes and details. More pressing than any of the other facts, however, was that Levi is capable of being nice.

Monotonous as speaking to him can be, you’ve begun to notice a couple of tells to which Dr. Ackerman is prone. Recognizing his jokes was your first feat of the evening — the tip of his nose twitches like a bunny before he makes a sarcastic quip, and you realize he’s a lot wittier than he gets credit for. However, that is not to say that the man sitting across from you does not enjoy being mean; the second tell you identify is that he narrows his eyes when he mentions someone he doesn’t particularly enjoy.

“I actually wanted to discuss something with you tonight,” Levi begins as you pop another hors d'oeuvre between your lips. Without waiting for your reply, he continues, “I want to apologize before I even get into it.”

The sincerity in his eyes frightens you, sending your back straight and drawing your brow in. “What’s going on?” you inquire, trying to judge his expression and failing miserably. He dabs his mouth with his napkin.

“I have not been honest with you. I chose you to work under my wing personally, and I have sent your portfolio to my publishing team. I’m sorry for not telling you before.”

Your ears ring. Although it seems that your body has petrified in place, your mind is sprinting marathons — the words personally, chose, and publishing repeating in your head at a screaming volume. One thing that evades you is why Levi is hanging his head; how is the admission that your childhood idol hand-picked you worthy of such a sincere apology? A giggle bubbles at your lips.

“You chose me?” you ask, eyebrows pinched tight against the bridge of your nose. “I thought you hated my work.”

As if the situation was not already puzzling enough, Dr. Ackerman lets out a laugh. Not bothering to explain further, he reverts back to his previous sullen demeanor. “I just want you to be aware of your position. To give you an opportunity to duck out, if that’s what you decide.” He runs one hand through his hair before taking a long swig of the sweet red wine.

“Duck out? What the fuck are you talking about?” you blurt out, regretting the harsh tone as soon as you employ it. You lower your voice quickly before starting again. “Why the hell would I give up this kind of opportunity?”

Levi clears his throat, leaning back and gesturing to Ella as she approaches with your entrees. As she sets the plate gently in front of you, you’re momentarily distracted by the sight of perfectly cooked duck breast. “I’ll have a scotch,” he sends her off, picking up his fork and knife. “If that’s how you feel, I’m glad. I’d like to continue working with you,” he says, cutting into his food. “I just thought you’d be intimidated to be published alongside me.”

You hesitate before putting the first forkful in your mouth, but it melts deliciously on your tongue when you finally do. Living in his shadow hasn't crossed your mind, but you try to push it away as soon as he introduces it. Currently, you aren’t published at all. Anything is better than that, right? The validation you’re feeling right now could last a lifetime. So you shake your head and smile wide. “No, not at all. Thank you,” you tell him genuinely.

A scotch on the rocks appears at his side without a word, and Levi lifts it to his lips, trying to obscure the pearly white of his teeth as the first real smile you’ve seen flashes across his face.

-

Nearly two bottles of wine and a créme brûlée later in Levi’s beamer, his rough hands are pulling you to his lap, pearly teeth pricking at your neck and two fingers rubbing harshly through your panties. The buzz in your brain gives you more courage than usual as you loop intricate knots in his hair and grind against the growing bulge in his slacks. “We don’t have time, sweetheart,” he whispers, peppering a few more kisses on the base of your throat before lifting his chin to look at you.

A whimper sounds from your throat as you stare down from him, steely eyes entrancing you as you watch your reflection in the billowing flames of his pupils. “Spend the night with me,” you murmur back, more wine-drunk than you’re willing to admit. He just shakes his head with a little grin, reaching to comb a loose strand of hair out of your face.

The air around you shifts all the sudden as your eyes dart to Levi’s lips, and you realize that you’ve yet to taste them. You lay your hands flat against his warm, heaving chest, spreading your fingers out wide and feeling his heart thumping underneath the right. Maybe it’s the wine, or instinct, but you begin to lean in. “Kiss me, then,” you say, feeling his thumb glide softly across your cheek.

You swallow when his left hand comes to cup the other side of your face, molding along your jaw like its twin and pulling you closer. His lips brush yours chastely at first, with a gentle hesitance that sends a tingle down to your toes, red wine and mint and raspberry reduction dancing across your tastebuds and electricity streaking through your veins. It stops here for a moment, fleeting, as Levi’s entrancing heather eyes examine your expression; before you can take a breath, he pulls you flush against him, slipping his tongue past the threshold as his lips crash onto yours. Your mind explodes into colors and feeling, nothing tangible or decipherable left to identify as you return the feverish kiss, arms looping around his neck to close the gap between your drunken bodies.

The cruel universe only allows a few seconds more of this heaven before you feel the car begin to slow to a stop, shifting into park before your eyes open again. Levi, looking uncharacteristically bewildered with his tousled hair and swollen lips, allows his hands to slide from your cheeks to rest on your hips, never looking anywhere but up at you.

You’re broken from the serene trance as the back door opens with a pop, eyes darting to the driver through the tinted window as it swings wide. Quickly, you peck another kiss on the red lips beneath you and shoot him a smile. “Text me,” you say, and he nods in agreement. As you look over to get your purse, the sound of a barking dog grabs your attention.

Eyes darting out the door, you see Reiner and his lab sitting in the trunk of his SUV.

-

last chapter | next chapter

[thesunicarusfellfor]

THE FUCKIN YANDERE GODS OMFG AWOOGA YOU DID SUCH A GOOD JOB THE FIC IS GOOD AS HELL!!!!

Is there any chance youd write a part 2 in the future? Its absolutely cool if you dont want to but WOW this concept? Solid gold (no pun intended)

I honestly love how people reacted to this story. It was so fun to write and became my most popular story to date. I'm such a sucker for the gods and mortals forbidden romance trope is just chefs kiss. Also, puns are always intended. Hand em over.

This chapter doesn't really involve the reader much, it's kinda more of a filler but I want this story to become a series, which means shorter chapters to separate the story. This is just simply a lore filler chapter.

TW: Mention of amnesia, memories being altered

Send me a message via inbox if you wanna be added to a general or series tag list. Make sure to turn off anon, please.

Mortal of Gold (Yandere!C!Techno x GN!Shy!Reader x Yandere!C!Philza) Part 2

It was quiet, for once, but there was a soft wind blowing through the curtain-covered doorway that prevented most light from seeping through. Two figures stood in the other corner of the room, staring into the bronze bowl filled with liquid, watching the destruction they caused spread across the village of L'Manberg with darkened eyes narrowed into glares.

"They deserved it..." Philza murmured, likely to Chat who was resting on his striped hat, giving the odd little squawk or chirp every so often. He gave a sigh and popped a piece of bread he tore off into his mouth, giving a small piece to his whining bird afterwards.

"I don't think the mortals have ever seen you lash out at them in person... Usually, you just send your crows to destroy their crops when they annoy you." Techno chuckled softly as he stole a piece of bread from Philza which caused him to give an annoyed scoff and bat his hand away, "But-"

"YOU SUMMONED 10 WITHERS?" A voice boomed through the palace, causing Phil and Techno to sigh and back away from the dish displaying their destruction proudly, "AND KIDNAPPED A MORTAL?"

The blond rubbed his face and Techno took off his glasses while they both walked out the door. Walking down the polished quartz stairs, the two gods quickly came into eye contact with the source of the voice, as well as a few other visitors.

"You're just mad because we tried to kill your high priest, XD, don't pretend like you follow the rules either." Technoblade sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose before putting his glasses back on, "And the mortal is none of your concern. We just did something about it, unlike you fawning from a distance over your mushroom boy."

Despite the cracked mask covering the god's face, everyone around him knew he was irked from Techno's statement. The three other gods behind him snickered into their hands until DreamXD snapped his head in their direction, the thin golden ring halos around his head gained a red glow to them.

The two brunets behind him immediately snapped their mouths shut, but the blond kept snickering away to himself, causing him to get smacked upside the head by one of XD's floating hands before he turned and stormed out the door.

"Ow! Bloody dickhead!" The blond groaned and rubbed the side of his head. The God of Mischief and Determination, Tommyinnit, scowled in the direction of the maniacal god before turning back to his father and Techno, "Ay Dad. Didn't take you for the destructive type! I hear you pulled a Techno and wiped out a village with Withers!"

"Yeah! The explosions shook the entire Upperlands!" Tubbo, the God of Bees and Chess, cheered a bit as his bee buzzed around him, getting specs of pollen in his fluffy hair and decorating his small horns.

Chuckling to himself, the God of Music and Insanity looked behind him at the sandy ground covered in a faint black fog, "XD was throwin' a tantrum. It was honestly the funniest thing to watch," Wilbur adjusted with the guitar on his back, "So where's the little mortal you kidnapped?"

"They're under a sleeping spell at the moment while the amnesia spell sets in," Phil gave each of his sons a brief hug as a greeting, "Then we'll have to alter their memory so they don't panic, but they'll have to stay up here permanently, their mind could be shattered if they do return to the mortal world."

"Shattered?" Tommy repeated, reeling back slightly as Wilbur summoned a leather book in his hand, opening it and scanning through the words, "That sounds like a pretty violent backlash..."

Phil and Techno avoided Wilbur's suspicious glare as subtly as possible, pretending not to see it, "Well... Remember, they're a mortal. Plus the strain of their home being destroyed, getting robbed, then getting kidnapped by gods and being brought to the Upperlands... Who wouldn't go absolutely mental? Then if they see the remains of their old village, it could undo all the magic that was placed upon them."

"Makes sense to me!" Tubbo chirped, his small goat ears wiggling as he held Chat in his hands, "Can we at least see them now and visit them when they wake up?"

Techno tensed up a bit but realized quickly that two of the three of the gods visiting them were too young to consider dating, and the third one was married to a human that he was trying to turn into a merling. "I... Suppose so. Just don't be too loud or the spell will break."

Tommy rolled his eyes dramatically, but the feathers behind his ears ruffled slightly to give away his excitement. Although, he was much better at hiding it than Chat, Tubbo's bee TC (Twitch Chat if you're wondering), and Tubbo, despite the fact that Chat actively visited (Y/n). Wilbur didn't seem to care much, but there was a hint of curiosity in his eyes. Or that was his insanity kicking in.

The avian nodded and began leading his biological and adopted sons through Techno's palace, Chat chirping away in his mind. 'Gods, that bird doesn't shut up...' Phil rolled his eyes up to the sky for a moment before smiling a bit to himself, 'Better than everything being dead silent I suppose...'

"In here. Now shut up. The spell won't work twice in a row." Techno hissed quietly before moving aside the crimson satin curtains to allow his old friend's sons into his rarely touched bedroom. The quartz room was kept dark via similarly coloured curtains blocking the majority of the light from coming into the room, while still allowing enough so they could see. A canopy bed stood proudly in the center of the room with golden posts and pure white chiffon silk curtains swaying lightly with the blowing winds.

Phil and Techno couldn't help but smile softly to themselves at the thought of seeing you again, even if you were asleep and, at the moment, void of memories and personality. Techno led the way inside and gently hooked his fingers around the fabric and moved it aside to let the younger gods see the mortal they had saved from the cruelties of the Earth.

The three gods carefully took their time studying you, trying to find what had their father and the anarchist totally entranced. Their eyes carefully took the time to study your soft (h/l) (h/c) hair, your beautiful (s/t) skin, and your silk robes that were ombre from red to white, accented with the very golden accessories that the high priest had tried to steal. (They used magic to put you in the new outfit. They're yanderes not creeps.)

"Oh... They truly are stunning. Are you sure they're a mortal?" Tubbo frowned for a moment, straightening up and pulling Chat away from your motionless figure so the crow would stop trying to peck at your jewellery.

"What do you mean?" Wilbur frowned at the younger god, his adopted brother. This had also caught the attention of the other gods

"I mean... Don't think they're a mortal, or at least they weren't born one..."

[brittsacademia]

Dabi marriage hcs? 🥺

Yes? 🥺 So, I made an odd mix of headcanons and mini-scenarios in the form of memories, I guess? Enjoy! Also, to the Dabi simps flocking to my inbox ever since I posted Reminiscent, welcome!

Marriage HCs

Characters: Dabi X GN!Reader

Genre: Fluff (SFW)

CW:| Soft(ish) Dabi | Swearing | Some suggestive themes | Catcalling (during one of the memories) |

Requests are OPEN!

• In the first place, being in a relationship with Dabi is complex. After all, he's a villain who's quite stunted emotionally from childhood trauma. It's an extremely slow burn between the two of you, with Dabi not accepting for a very long time that what he felt for you went much deeper than a physical relationship. In all honesty, it terrified him; he didn't want to get attached to people in his line of work, he didn't want to trust anybody.

• Though don't be mistaken, even when Dabi finally comes to terms with his desires to go steady with you, his romantic capabilities are comparable to those of a slab of concrete, and he's in no way what society would consider boyfriend material.

• However, he does appreciate that — no matter how stupid he might think the thought is — you trust him. You're patient with him, and you don't push him out of his comfort zone. You don't pry into his life, letting him open up on his own accord. You genuinely care for his wellbeing, which is something that's continuously throwing him off.

• These are all vital aspects that you're going to need to demonstrate if you want to get far with Dabi.

• It's all so domestic, so normal. When was the last time he felt like this? Villains and normality rarely mixed, yet here he was.

• One moment that hit him hard was a simple one.

"Welcome home, Dabi! I missed you," You said as he walked through your appartment door after being away for a week due to his duties within the League.

• Home? Having a home where he feels safe and loved is not something that Dabi's been blessed with during the entirety of his life. It threw him off guard, and you remember the way his normally stoic, void of emotions expression faltered into one of surprise.

• He wouldn't say it out loud — that's just not how Dabi rolls — but he fucking loves you. So much.

• So, what about marriage? Dabi's not really the type to bring up the subject. He's not against it, but it's not a priority that he feels necessary.

• He's conflicted. On one hand, he doesn't believe that he needs to bind himself to you through legal documents to proclaim his love to you. In fact, the thought of being tied down through legal means doesn't vibe well with him; it just doesn't feel right.

• It does not help that Dabi's biggest exposure to marriage wasn't a positive one: a loveless, forced quirk marriage between his own parents. Growing up in that environment didn't give him the best impressions, and it still — to this day — leaves a bit of a bitter taste in his mouth, even though he's learned upon growing up that his parents' situation doesn't represent the entirety of the population.

• On the other hand, he knows that he sucks at love, and perhaps putting a ring on your finger would be the ultimate show of dedication to you. You'd never have to doubt his feelings ever again after that, right?

• So, in conclusion, Dabi could say that the thought and meaning behind  marriage — should the relationship be a genuine one — is kinda nice, but the process of it is not.

• If he ever does decide to take that step with you, it would be 100% non-traditional.

• His proposal — he'll admit — was extremely out of the blue, not at all thought of, and you had to question him about it since it was so vague.

Your discomfort was more than evident as you made your way down the street in the dead of night back to your appartment. The cause of your discomfort was a group of drunkards, lazily leaning against the brick wall of some rundown bar. The catcalling was lewd, treating you like nothing more than a fuckable slab of meat.

"Aw, c'mere pretty baby!" One of them slurred, making some little, kissy lip-smacking noises as if he was beckoning a cat over to him. "Let's have us some fun."

You supposed you could applaud the sheer audacity and balls that these men possessed, shamelessly 'flirting' with you while Dabi walked right by your side. As if the arm slung around your waist wasn't indicator enough of your relationship status, though you guessed that people like them didn't much care.

"Hot damn, I wouldn't mind slidin' inside of 'em. Baby lookin' fine as fuck."

"Hey, patchworks! Why don't ya bring 'em a lil' closer. C'mon, don't just walk away! Share your pretty toy with us."

Dabi's fingers dug into your skin, an agitated grunt escaping him as he leered at the offending men, daring them to continue.

"Dabi, babe, they're not worth it," you muttered to him, trying to not allow the situation to escalate. As scummy as they were, people like them rarely acted further than hollow words.

But your words didn't reach Dabi, his steps slowing down until he came to a full stop. His expression seemed bored, but you knew better. There was a fire in his eyes that spoke for him, letting on to his malicious intents from the annoyance he felt from the pigs' crude attempts at getting into your pants.

Dabi lightly pushed you away from him, subtly shielding your body with his as a way to both keep you safe and assert dominance.

"Dabi..." you sighed as you watched him take a few steps towards the men. You knew what was coming next, and there was no way you'd be able to change your stubborn boyfriend's mind.

The men seemed to square up, clearly looking for a fight; Dabi kept that bored expression, not at all impressed but somewhat amused by them.

You wondered if they even knew who they were messing with. It wasn't like Dabi was an unrecognizable villain; his face was all across the country. Perhaps they were genuinely clueless, or maybe it was that they were much too drunk to comprehend the severity of the situation they were in. No matter; they were looking for a fight with the wrong person.

"How unfortunate of you to think that you have a chance with my spouse," Dabi said, raising his hand and shooting a burst of flames near the heads of the men.

Dabi had opted to spare them. Not out of the goodness of his heart, but because of the fact that you were both out in the open near a busy bar. He didn't want to risk drawing too much attention.

But nevertheless, it was absolutely comical to see the men immediately shrink in fear, some having a generous portion of their hair burnt off. They ran off, screaming profanities and things along the lines of 'It was just a joke' and 'Chill man, they're not even that hot anyway.'

Dabi clicked his tongue as he watched them run, tails between their legs. "Pitiful."

He continued walking alongside you, as if nothing had happened.

As you walked, you furrowed your brows in confusion as you replayed Dabi's choice of words before he'd scared off the drunken guys.

"Dabi?"

"Hm?"

"Back then, did... did you refer to me as your spouse?" You asked in disbelief.

"And if I did?" He said, sparing you a side glance, the tiniest of smirks stretching at his lips.

You stared for a few seconds in silence, and you knew that your expression clearly conveyed your shock, though it was soon replaced by a gentle smile.

"Well then, I guess I'd have to thank my husband for standing up for me," you said, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

• In the following days, you woke up to an empty bed, and you guessed that it was because Dabi was needed on the field. But what threw you for a loop was that, when you walked into the kitchen, you saw a little velvet box sitting on a note atop your table. Inside the box was a ring.

• The note:

I don't mean to bolt, but the League needed me early. I got this for you. If you're going to be my spouse, you might as well look the part. I'll see you soon, Doll.

~ D.

• It was a weird way to say 'marry me', but you couldn't even be mad. It was so Dabi-like to pull something like that. How he even knew your ring size, you weren't quite sure.

• Again, 100% non-traditional. Besides, finding a priest that would be willing to wed an infamous criminal wouldn't be an easy feat, and it just risked both of you to be ratted out.

• If you're kept a secret from the League, Dabi and you would have your own little ceremony; just the two of you.

• However, if you're on good terms with the League, they will absolutely participate.

• You'd all venture to an abandoned church in the dead of night to hold the ceremony. Kurogiri is absolutely the one to act as the Officiant. You bet your ass that Toga and Magne help you in picking out the best outfit to floor Dabi. Surprisingly enough, Twice volunteered to be Dabi's best man. Shigaraki and Spinner aren't very involved in the wedding, but they still show up regardless, even though Shigaraki is practically grumbling about it. Mr. Compress, being the gentleman that he is, is the one to walk you down the aisle.

• Although Dabi grumbles the entire time about wearing a suit, he finds that the glimmer in your eyes as you take in his appearance is worth it. But don't expect him to dress this fancy ever again!

• And damn it all, you just look absolutely stunning, don't you? Get ready for a passionate night with him after the wedding — perhaps his favourite tradition!

• Dabi does have a matching ring as well, though he only wears it when he's home with you. He wouldn't want to accidentally destroy it with his quirk/in a fight, or manage to lose it while out on missions.

• Sure, you didn't have a honeymoon, and you didn't have that fairy tale kind of wedding that your friends and family had, and you weren't even officially recognized as a married couple. But so what? To you, Dabi's your husband, and you're so honoured that he loves and trusts you to the point of wanting to commit the rest of his life to you.

Support me, maybe? 🥺

[fanficshiddles]

What would President Loki think of christmas and new year? as a mortal stuck in the void with him

Ok so this has been in my inbox for a few days as I wanted to take my time with my response as decided to do a tiny drabble thingy and wait till I was back on my laptop and had time.

-

You got pruned into the void and ended up falling, quite literally, into President Loki's lap when you arrived there. He was highly amused to find a rather beautiful mortal looking up at him in confusion and fear from his lap, almost instantly he began flirting with you once he got over his initial surprise.

He ended up taking you under his protection. You had been intimidated at first, but soon grew to love him. Even if he still had his scary moments. He was quite different from other Loki's you'd met before.

When things from Earth started falling into the void, you knew it was around Christmas time back home because many of the buildings were decorated inside. And soon you had Loki's lair filled with Christmas trees and other decorations.

He would roll his eyes when he saw you dragging in yet ANOTHER decorated Christmas tree.

'Damn place is becoming a forest.' He would grumble, yet wouldn't stop you.

And when you found something that was too big for you to carry, he would act all dramatic and like it was the biggest hassle in the world, but he wouldn't be able to resist your pleading eyes so he would send one of his goons to collect it for you.

He wouldn't be that fussed about it all, but seeing how excited and happy it made you, made him happy. Not that he would ever admit it. The one thing he did like about it all, was the mistletoe.

After telling him about the tradition, he hung some up everywhere so he'd have an easy excuse to pounce on you for kisses whenever he so desired.

You told him all about New Year too, and how big celebrations were had on New Years Eve. He wasn't fussed about that either, really. But when you found a box of fireworks and told him about how people normally set them off during New Years Eve, he swiftly decided that it would be a good idea to celebrate.

Though with Alioth on the go, you both knew it was a bad idea to set off giant loud rockets into the sky. But Loki had the perfect place to set them off, right above the other Loki's hideout. The ones who rebelled against him.

You hadn't been too pleased with his idea, but even you couldn't deny it was quite nice to see fireworks light up the sky...

Loki would have his arm around your waist as you both watched Alioth eat up the colourful lights in the sky. He'd lean in and whisper 'Perhaps some of your Midgardian traditions aren't so bad after all.'

[xaharadesert]

Return to the Lazaret Alone Pt. 5 - Headcanon

Asra Alnazar x MC

A/N: Almost done! @snarkfinnicksoup, only one more to go after this! But of course, who knows how long it’ll actually take me to get around to writing it :) Requests are open! Oh, and for anyone who’s wondering, after I finish this request I have about 8 others that have been sitting in my inbox for way too long, so if it takes a long time for me to post your request, that’s why! I like to take my time and write these headcanons to the best of my ability! Please let me know if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes! Also, I know this didn’t touch on MC’s reasons for going to the Lazaret as much as the previous parts, but I feel like at this point it’s a bit repetitive. But, I made Asra’s perspective extra angsty to make up for it!

TW: crying, Lazaret, isolation, relationship insecurities, anxiety, panic attack, food mention, mentions of death

Spoilers for the end of the game!

💙Asra💙

Leaving an argument unresolved was one of Asra’s least favourite things to do

Even if the two of you couldn’t reach a compromise or some sort of agreement, he, at the bare minimum, always liked to soothe over any hurt feelings before separating in any way

Your last argument before you had lost your memories would forever be one of his greatest regrets, and he was determined not to make the same mistake by letting you think he didn’t love you completely

So even if you were angry, and needed some time to sort out your feelings before addressing the issue again, he would take your hand tightly in his own and tell you that he loved you before letting you go off on your own

With that being said, your most recent argument was much more bitter than usual, and even though he had still told you he loved you, he felt as though you hadn’t heard him properly

The both of you had gone to bed feeling bad, but neither of you had wanted to stay up any later fighting

Once sleep had reset your emotions, you could try again more peacefully in the morning

Or at least, that’s what Asra had hoped would happen

But when he woke up the next morning, it was to find you missing

Now normally, this wasn’t an unusual occurrence

He liked to sleep in late as often as possible, and no matter how long you slept, he would probably be in bed longer

So you not being next to him shouldn’t have scared him as much as it did

But to some degree, your emotions were connected, and he could feel his heart ache right along side you

He was out of bed before any other thoughts could register in his mind, throwing on some clothes, allowing Faust to slither into his shirt, and grabbing a few key items— most importantly, his compass

Not bothering with breakfast, he followed the compass’s needle as it pointed him toward what he desired most: you

He moved through the town quickly, not returning any of the greetings thrown his way by familiar townsfolk

An unpleasant feeling tugged at his gut, telling him that he already knew where you were

Telling him that the past three years had been a lie; telling him that his worst fears were a reality

Telling him that you were dead

His panic rose instead his chest, threatening to burst out

Doing his best to push it down, he kept moving, trying to convince himself that maybe you were just buying something at the edge of town

He couldn’t consider any other possibilities without breaking down

So when he came to the edge of town, the end of the dock, facing toward the Lazaret, that’s what he did

He broke down

Rationally, he knew you were fine

He didn’t know why you would have gone to the Lazaret, much less alone, but he knew that you were alive

But a larger part of him didn’t care

It insisted that you were dead, that he had failed to save you, that you hated him for everything he put you through

And he couldn’t help but fall to his knees, tears streaming down his face as he tried to stop himself from screaming for you

He felt like he couldn’t breathe; there was an invisible hand wrapped around his throat, slowly and painfully strangling him

The dock beneath him seemed to be falling away, and he felt like he was falling with it, not into the water below, but into an endless void

After what felt like an eternity, he slowly regained control of his senses

There were a couple people kneeling beside him, hovering but not touching as they tried to talk him back to reality

He didn’t recognize them, so they were likely just concerned passerbys, but he appreciated them nonetheless

It took a while, but eventually he was calm enough to convince them to leave him be

Now that the initial panic had passed by, he felt empty, but at the same time, determined

He wasn’t sure how long he had taken for himself, but he felt ready to find you and bring you back home, where you belonged

Quickly finding someone willing to ferry him to the Lazaret for a certain price, he sat in a small boat, staring solemnly at the Lazaret as it slowly grew bigger

When he reached the shore, he asked the boat’s owner to wait just a while until his return with you

He pulled out the compass and followed it once more, refusing to look at his surroundings lest he fall into panic again

It lead him into the lone building occupying the island and he pushed down his rising fear again, focusing on the fact that every step brought him closer to you

And there you were; curled up to be as small as possible, sitting on the ash covered ground

He choked back a cry and very nearly threw himself at you, holding you tight and trying not to break down again

You were startled for sure— Asra hadn’t made a sound when he came in— but he didn’t seem to notice, too busy being relieved and repeating quietly out loud that you were alive, you were safe, you were with him

And frankly, if you started crying to, then nobody would be able to blame you

The two of you clung together, crying for different reasons, but crying nonetheless

Eventually Asra managed to pry himself away from you just enough to look deep into you eyes

His cries slowly turned to laughter out of relief that you were safe, back to crying because of where he had found you, back to laughter again because, yes, he had found you, and you were alive

All in all it was a very messy and confusing time for the both of you

But eventually calm and relative silence fell over you as a comforting blanket, save for the occasional sniffle or chuckle

Frankly, neither of you was in a state to talk things through at the moment

You would, for sure, as there was no way Asra would ever leave anything unresolved ever again, but for that one day, all he wanted to do was take you home and hold you close

He shakily pushed himself to his feet, and tried to help you up despite not being very stable himself

The two of you left the Lazaret hand in hand, relieved to be together, but knowing you had much to talk about later

[camslightstories]

Tolerate It - Part 13

Lena Luthor x reader, Kara Danvers x reader, Alex Danvers x reader. Baby Danvers. Female Reader.

Notes: Hey! I hope you guys are doing great and if you are not I promise things get better. I’m sorry I haven't updated but its just work and home are being hectic but I’m trying to get everything in track again. This chapter took an awfully long time write, i hope you guys like it!

My inbox is open for suggestions, recommendations, questions, and more. If any of you need help I will be honor to help you, always! Please fill my inbox with theories, comments and more i wanna hear what you guys think of the story! Hope you have a great day!

Taglist: @multi-images​  @captain-josslett​  @aznblossom​  @venteen​   @coxmicbabygirl​  @lezzzbehonesthere​

The smell of fries and burgers invaded your nose as you sat on the floor, glancing at your sore hand. Your legs extended on the floor as you held your head against the column of the place. The uncomfortable ache on your hand had seemed to increase by the second, as you sat down.

Confusion was the main thing in your head, the confused heavy feeling in your chest when you close your eyes, the twisted and ached void confusing you when reality sets in. It felt like a war between your mind and heart that neither of the two you understand. It felt like the reasons that your brain had were now gone, the reason part of feeling nonexistent.  

“Didn't think I would see you so soon” You claimed when you felt the presence of the brunette behind you. Two bags in her hand as the archer sat beside you. 

Thea replied teasingly, and flirtatiously grabbing fries from her bag, after hitting you softly in the shoulder. “Neither did I, princess”

“Thanks” You whispered as you started to eat, both of you sharing a knowing and somewhat comforting. The Queen woman smiled and kept silent giving you a nod. 

Thea had known you for a long time, but not until three years ago she saw you as her older brother’s best friend. She and Talia had taught every skill, you needed and wanted to learn. She had seen you put all of your anger everywhere you could. You were there subtly with alcohol after every break-up and make-up she had with Roy, showing your care as you sat with her drinking in silence until she couldn't anymore. 

The small creek sound of the door took both of your attention. Your mother stood silently with a white medical kit in her hand and an understanding expression on her face. You glanced at the brunette beside you, meeting her glance. A small spark in her eyes which you had never noticed before, you stopped in your way to comment on it when you heard the knowing clearing throat of your Mother. 

“Can I come in?” The Queen woman smiled reassuringly before leaving the room. Your mother stood at the side of the door, watching curiously and carefully before speaking. 

You looked up and met her eye glance, giving her a small nod as you spoke almost inaudible. “Sure”

Your mother had been making the small notes, and remainders when she saw you. She couldn't lie about the fact that her heart joined in joy and broke in less than 24 hours. It had been difficult to maintain a straight face when your oldest sister called her explaining the situation, letting her know and Jeremiah that after days of trying, they were the last option to bring some feelings to you. 

She saw your father way too comfortable yet nervous when they got the news, the trip had been too questioning and secretive that she suspected something had happened with the two of you. But seeing you with her own eyes as you stood in the room with void eyes, and rage protecting your walls. 

The complete silence from your party told her more than you knew. The isolation, the hidden pain, the calm and silence. It all reflected in one thing and it was you trying to understand your feelings, your world, yourself. It had happened when your dad had supposedly died. The heavy feeling in her chest grew as she sat beside you, while you stared at the wall quietly debating with your thoughts and feelings. 

Flashback - February 2005

You sat in the backyard of the house, dressed in black attire. Your eyes watching over the waves as they ended in the sand. The way the breeze moved the palms and softly touched your face. Your hands gripping the blanket covering you. 

You waited for everything to process in, you waited to wake up, you waited for him as you walked down the stairs that morning, you waited for your sisters to tell you it was a lie, you waited for your mom to serve his favorite lasagna as he came back home, you waited for the sound of cheer when he and your oldest sister finished repairing another part of the old car, you waited for him and Kara coming back from the forest at night after watching the stars, you waited for him to sit on the small bean bag of your bedroom as you played him something new in your instruments, you waited for the loud laughs and scolds that would come after you and your sisters would create an eating contest ending with Kara smiling proudly as you and Alex throw up, you waited for the ‘pizza and tacos night’ where the five of you somehow cooked without burning the kitchen down, ending with a marathon of movies and smiles on everyone faces. But it never came. 

The distinct voices from the house gained your attention as they felt closer. You closed your eyes, trying to focus on the sound of the waves failing in the attempt. Turning around to see both of your sisters standing side by side as one of your family members expressing their condolences to them. Kara seemed to keep it together as she nodded shyly, while Alex clenched her jaw giving a small thanks before walking away, your blonde sister watched the redhead walk away before looking at the floor excusing herself too. 

You looked away back to the beach, before deciding to get up and walk down the small hill entering the beach. Taking off your shoes, you put them at the side of the beach entrance before wrapping the blanket tightly around you. The voices began to zoom out and the sound of the ocean began to fill your ears. The soft sand on your feet as you walked closer to the shore felt grounding. The soft breeze that moved your hair out of control felt comforting as you sat down. 

Burying your feet in the sand as you closed your eyes trying to remember something, to have something to hold on to. It felt weird, out of place, like something was missing. Your mind tried to wrap up with the fact that your father was dead but even if you knew what was happening, you still had questions. Sitting on the sand, you stared blankly at the ocean, as the waves came, as the breeze moved the palms and touched your cheeks, as the soft salty smell invaded your nose, and the coldness of the day began to increase.

It was like a debate between what you wanted to believe and what was happening. There were running thoughts in your head that made you feel exhausted. It was unpleasant and even tiring to think of how this event would change your and your family's life. You avoided the thought as much as you could, wishing and hoping to wake up from the nightmare but it was real and as much as you didn't want to accept it, your father was gone, and he was not coming back.

You didn't even realize when the sun that was high in the sky had come down and reflected in the ocean, you didn't feel the breeze and air get heavier or the way the only thing illuminating the night was the light bulb you dad put at the entrance of the beach. 

It felt like time went in seconds, long seconds that you wished to take back and at the same time to move faster. It wasn't easy, it didn't feel easy, and the hole in your heart was unmistakable. You weren't a person who liked change, nor a person who easily understood what was going on around you. 

Sure when Kara came into the family, it was like the missing piece. It didn't take you long to warm up to the blonde, but she was suffering from the loss of her planet so you stayed behind the doors and waited the right moment to comfort her and make her as welcome as you could. You saw her hesitate when she was doing something that would make her happy, you saw her doubt herself as Superman came into the news, you saw her shed tears when she tried to find where Krypto would be. 

You tried constantly to win her affection, her trust, her intelligence, and more but you couldn't make her happy if she didn't heal. So you stayed awake during the night waiting to comfort her, you played with melodies on the piano so she could have a similar bed song as she had in Krypto, you ran as fast as you could after school to help her with her English or to watch and sing along with Wizard of Oz. You keep trying and trying even though she was legally your sister, you wanted to have a connection with her just like you did with Alex. So when the blonde the morning of your birthday hugged you and in English told you, you were her sister and she could be prouder than to call you that, you shredded in tears hugging her closely. 

But it was different, everything was different, it felt different, it sounded different, it even tastes different. There was a silence between your family, Alex kept her feelings inside and bottle them in trying so hard not to break, mad at the world, mad at dad, at you, at your mom, even Kara. Your mom was understanding but quiet, she tried to be your and your sister's rock during the day but at night you can hear her crying her heart out. Kara kept silent, mad at the world for taking another person from her, holding you close trying to be helpful as much as she could even if she was hurting as much as she was when she first landed. And you, you kept quiet, trying to understand, trying to find the lie, trying to reach and understand your feelings but couldn't. So you waited for the time to pass by and for things to get in order, just like your dad used to say ‘time heals things, everything gets better with time’ but as the words rounded your head you couldn't feel more than the biggest lie of the world.

Flashback ends

The soft wrap with alcohol against your knuckles ached as your mom determinately disinfected your hand. You felt her eyes constantly glancing at you when you kept silent, trying to ignore the slight throb from the small wound in your hand. You glanced from the wall you stared continuously into her eyes, before speaking. “I tried”

“I know sweetie” Eliza looked up while finishing wrapping her hand before speaking in a motherly tone. As soon as she heard you talk she knew, she knew what you meant. Just your silence gave it away, she knew your conflicted feelings weren't going to help now and they didn't before, but what scared her was how long you were going to take to heal, to flash a familiar smile, to laugh until you couldn't anymore, to look at the eyes of your significant other, to sign with your older sisters until either of your throats wouldn't give more. 

Fighting back the tears your eyes had swollen, you claimed again making eye contact with your mother, your mother's eyes redating with comfort and sadness as she looked at you. You clenched your hand into a fist but immediately opened it again when you felt the strong throb in your knuckles. “I tried, and it didn't work out. It didn't do anything”

“Healing isn't about not feeling sad or feeling numb, it's about letting in, letting go, and finding yourself again but you can't do it if you are not ready for it” She answered brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. 

And the understanding in her eyes and voice made you doubt, as your feelings started to fall in place. Heartache, anger, sadness, disappointment, pain, and more began to feel your chest and your mind as you took the words of your mother in. Your now bloodshot eyes looked away from her as you felt your lip tremble.

You nodded quietly, and before you knew. You threw your arms around your blonde mother, tears furiously leaving your eyes as she soothed you, with comforting and reassuring words. Your head was hidden in her neck as you cried your eyes out. 

The feeling of heartbreak and pain overwhelming you as everything started to come down on you. And you wanted to cry, for minutes, for hours, days, weeks, even years. Because somehow after everything you still didn't feel enough, you felt everything you did was wrong, that you could have been better and you could have changed differently, closing your eyes you wished for it to be gone, but deep down you knew it wasn't.

“Please just make it stop, mom. Please, it hurts so much”

Flashback - February 2005

“Please just make it stop, mom. Please, it hurts so much”

You don't know how it happened or how long you had been furiously crying until you stared at the small seashells in the sand getting wet thanks to your tears. The once beige shell now was white. Grabbing the seashells from the sand, you started to throw them angrily at the water. 

The sound of the rock making contact with the water somewhat comforted you, longing to throw everything away for it, for the broken shells to absorb your problems and leave with it. Soon enough you fell to your knees sobbing out. As the night lighting shot in the ocean, as the ocean tide had gone up, the once breeze became violent air. 

One second you were crying furiously on your own, and the next you sobbed into your mother's arms, as she reassured you that everything was going to be okay. You gripped her shirt hugging her closely before looking up to her, touching your chest as your bloodshot eyes glanced in hers.

Your lip trembling from the cold and your sobs, her heart broke, even more, when you hid in her neck which made her look up as she soothed your back. She was trying so hard to keep it together for you and your sisters but the moment she caught sight of Kara and Alex with blankets around themselves walking straight to where the two of you sat, made her break into tears. 

You looked up from your mother's neck as you felt a hand rubbing your back and others grabbing your hand softly in reassurance. Each one of them by you and your mother's side, your cries had slowed down when your redhead sister asked with a crack in her voice to your mother. “Are we gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, we will be but it will take time to heal, we can't rush it, we have to be ready”

“We are going to be okay” Kara claimed as a statement of reassurance after your mother responded, but her trembling lip, bloodshot eyes, and the high tone she used made her sound more like a prayer than anything.

Your mother reassured, making you three nod slowly before falling into a reassuring silence. “Until then we have each other, and one of the most precious things you girls are going to have in your life is each other, your family.”

Flashback ends

Unknowingly to you, your sisters had been watching from the door the moment Kara heard your heart spike. Tears in their eyes as they watched your mother rocked you slowly as you cried. Silent sobs and bitten lips coming from them as they stopped each other from walking into the room. 

Alex kept her jaw clenched as her hands gripped each other hard as she tried to keep the tears inside. The redhead felt responsible for your crying, the urge to run in and comfort you debating her self-control. Doubts, questions, and more gained in her head as she saw you sob into your mother's arms, rage slowly consuming her emotions as the protectiveness over you began to show up.

Kara let out silent sobs, with her hand on top of her mouth. Her bloodshot eyes and red cheeks had overwhelming tears. The superheroine hated herself, as she felt responsible for your crying. She just wanted to hold you in her arms and tell you everything was going to be just fine, she wanted to see your sunny smile when you saw her or the bad jokes and puns you used all the time, she wanted you, she wanted her little sister but a part of her told her you needed the same space she once received from you. 

The two of them standing next to each other with broken hearts and tears in their eyes, a small sense of hope in their chest as they watched the scene. Sharing a knowing, Alex came closer putting her arm around your blonde sister’s shoulder before speaking. 

“Everything is gonna be okay, we are getting her back, I promise,” She said quietly reassuring Kara even when neither of them fully believe it.

[glitter-x-gold]

requested: sarò la luce di sera (Måneskin)

requested by @/Sheruie on Archive of Our Own! (link on the blog!)

in which Cora doesn’t think she can do it anymore, but thankfully, there’s always family to show her that she can

@/Sheruie requested, here it is :)

Cora is a female character on this case, as an obvious reference to the song. However, how you perceive and interpret Cora is your own choice.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: ⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️

- suicide attempt (nothing explicit, but still, implied)

~ * ~

Outside the hotel room, the night was dark and silent, the chilly breeze from the slightly opened window making Cora shiver slightly. She took a deep breath, followed by a sharp exhale, as she faced the unlabelled bottles that stood on the nightstand, at arm’s reach.

Some kind of dark, freezing void had taken over her chest, killing anything else, any other happy feeling that dared growing. It had been like that for weeks, maybe months, and she just didn’t believe there was any other way to live anymore. She just didn’t feel like she was strong enough to keep going. They certainly wouldn’t miss her much, right? No one wanted a broken someone, a person who could no longer put their own pieces back together, or at least pretend things were okay.

Laying abandoned on the bed, her phone buzzed, once, twice, the screen lighting up with unspoken urgency.Cora had told them she didn’t feel like going out that day.

Non mi va, raga’. Sono troppo stanca.

Ethan and Vic had respected her decision, though making sure she knew they’d come back running if she needed them; they had noticed how Cora hadn’t been herself for the past days. Maybe a little rest would help her get back on her feet. Thomas had kissed her forehead before going; a silent “Please be okay”. Damiano had stayed behind for a second longer to take her hand in his and squeeze it lightly, to then look her in the eyes with such intensity he had said everything without words. It didn’t matter how much she tried to hide it; he could see right through her. Now her phone was buzzing again. And she was ignoring it, still fighting an internal battle as to what she was about to do. She looked at the wrinkled paper she had left beside her, her shaky handwriting barely intelligible. She wasn’t sure if she should; however, she didn’t know if, come the time, she’d be brave enough to proceed. To finally stop burdening everyone. When Cora felt the dampness on her cheeks, she realized she was crying; her throat seemed to be closing, and an irrational panic arose to her brain. For the first time in weeks, she could feel, and what she felt was fear. She had the pill bottle in a firm grip, but something paralyzed her, so she remained there, sitting on the bed, crying, unable to do anything. A raging fire had replaced the numbness, destroying everything in its path, and Cora just wasn’t sure what was worse anymore.

The door to the room opened before she could process what was happening; she could hear the guys’ voices, chatting and bantering. She’d recognize Damiano’s laugh anywhere. Cora couldn’t even move, all she could do was cry, her breath in short, shaky puffs that hurt her aching chest. The sounds ceased abruptly when two friends fell silent, as they noticed her presence on the other side of the dimly lit bedroom.

“Cora?” - she heard Thomas call - “Cora?”

As they noticed she didn’t react, their calls for her grew louder and more worried. All of a sudden, before she could realize, a hand was placed on her shoulder, the cold contrasting with the excessive warmth of her skin.

“Cora… baby, what happened?”

Damiano was the first to notice the bottle Cora was holding in her hand; then, his gaze settled on the wrinkled sheet of paper placed beside her. Given her current state, it wasn’t at all hard for him to put two and two together. Setting all his heartbreak aside, he knew he had to think quick, so he brought himself down to his knees in front of her, while Thomas sat beside him, unable to hide his shock.

“Look at me” - Damiano asked, softly - “Cora, can you please look at me?”

While still gasping for air like a fish out of water, Cora made an effort to meet his gaze, focusing on something, anything but the thoughts that flooded her head. Moving gently, slowly, he placed his hands on top of hers, trying to unclench her fist and ease her grip on the pill bottle.

“We’re going to let this go, okay, amore?” - he said, while still trying to pry her fingers away from the object

Without realizing, the girl was whimpering, when she finally gave in to Damiano’s touch and opened her hand, releasing her grip on the pills, letting the container fall to the carpet with a soft thud, as it was replaced with the boy’s hand on hers. Damiano had climbed up on the bed to sit beside her.

“Did you take anything?”

Cora shook her head hastily, finally abandoning herself to the crying, no longer fighting her feelings, struck by the thought that she had almost done it. Thomas, still sitting in his place on the floor, was suddenly overwhelmed by the realization that if they had come home a minute too late…The girl was now huddled against Damiano’s chest, as he tightened his hold on her ever so gently, tears running down his own face, smudging his makeup.

“Andrà tutto bene, piccola” - he whispered, voice thick with his own overload of emotion - “We’re here now. Andrà tutto bene”

Cora tried to speak, to say something, anything, but instead all that left her chest was a loud, completely broken sob. Thomas took her hand, he too still confused and trying to fight past the shock that clouded his judgement momentarily.

“Perdonami”

It was, at last, the first intelligible word she was able to say.

The blond boy finally found it in himself to speak.

“There’s nothing to forgive. We love you so much”

They heard the door open again, Ethan and Vic’s voices speaking softly. They, too, fell silent, their features suddenly heavy, as they saw Damiano still holding on to Cora, both crying like children, and Thomas’ hand interlocked with hers, quiet tears, too, running down his pale cheeks. Exchanging a look, they took a step forward, making their presence known.

“Cora? Damià?” - Vic asked, confusion and worry in her voice - “Thomas… what’s happening?”

Ethan was the quickest of the two  to catch a glimpse of the pill bottle laying forgotten on the carpet beside her. Then, he saw the note, and a hand flew up to cover his mouth in shock. Vic followed quickly. In a moment, both were, too, sitting next to the rest;  Ethan on the bed, beside Cora, Vic on the floor, right next to Thomas, looking up at the pair. Damiano just felt thankful to have the girl safe in his arms; that they hadn’t been too late. Her cries had quieted down a little. The older boy left a gentle kiss on her forehead.

“How did you know?” - she asked, almost whispering

Thomas was quick to reply.

“You weren’t taking our calls. We were worried”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m a burden. I just thought you would be better off without me”

It was Ethan’s turn to speak up.

“Don’t say that again. Please” - he asked, hurt - “we love you, Cora. You’re our sister. We want to help you”

Then, Victoria:

“Don’t shut us out. We’ll fix this, we promise you”

Finally, Damiano cleared his throat and seemed to take a moment to think of how to phrase his thoughts.

“Sorellina mia, non sei mai sola… trust us on this one. Let us take care of you. We’ll make it okay”

For the first time in weeks, Cora felt an overwhelming amount of love replace the void that had been sucking all happiness out of her. A tiny little spark of warmth flickered on her heart, fueled by her family’s soft touches and kind words.

Damiano wiped the tears from her cheeks while his own still rolled down his face.As they huddled up together, taking comfort in each other, she knew they wouldn’t leave her. She had love. Something worth staying for.

--------

translations:

“Non mi va, raga’. Sono troppo stanca.” - “I don’t feel like it, guys. I’m too tired”

“amore (mio)” - (my) love

“Andrà tutto bene, piccola” - “Eveything’s going to be alright, baby”

“Perdonami” - forgive me

"Sorellina mia, non sei mai sola” - “My little sister... you are never alone”

(A/N): this is a very, very sensitive topic I would not normally write about. however, if this is a way to, somehow, bring any sort of comfort to someone going through a rough time, I am happy to provide it for you. let this be your reminder that there is always something worth fighting for.

this is a small story that in no way, shape or form glorifies mental illness. not only is it unrealistic and irresponsible to take it lightly, it is dangerous.

last but not least, everyone struggles at some point in life. bad days don’t last forever. you’re never alone. you’re so so loved. if you, like Cora, are not in a good place right now, remember there’s no shame in asking for help.

you can do this. it gets better. my inbox is open if you need a friend.

[themagicalmysticalboy]

John and Paul had a big argument about Brian, Paul still cant forget about Spain. It's a very cold and raining night, after very intensing session of drinking John appears under Paul's house, but Paul isnt inside...The next morning Macca finds frozen wet and limp figure curled at his doorsteps.

a/n: this has lit been in my inbox for so long and i feel awful. So sorry anon. hope you’re still around to see it <3

Three minutes. 

That’s all it took for John to have Paul fuming. When the phone rang throughout the house he had half the mind to not answer at all, figuring it would be John. But now he was stuck on the line with a drunk and poorly apologizing Lennon. In reality, he was so incoherent that Paul wasn’t even sure if there was an actual apology buried in his mumbling. On the contrary, he seemed to be blaming Paul, if anything.

“Lemme jus- I’ll come… come over, yeah.” John hiccuped through his words.

“Don’t, alright? I’d rather not deal with you now.” He almost told John he wouldn’t be home, anyway, but that wouldn’t be clever. So, he kept his lips sealed on the topic. 

“It didn’t mean a thing, Paul. Brian was just there.” He said it as if it explained everything. 

Paul pinched the bridge of his nose, his other hand tightening around the phone with a death grip. “I don’t want to hear how it happened.” His voice almost didn’t sound like his own. “I don’t want to hear you blame Brian if that’s what you’re at.” John tried to interrupt but Paul only raised his voice higher. “He doesn’t even know we were together!” Paul’s eyes widened as his mouth snapped shut. Would John catch it? Or was he too drunk to comprehend it?

Deafening silence made Paul’s heartbeat in his ears. “You said ‘were.’” John’s words came out slow and almost sober. “Were together, Macca.”

Paul swallowed down the lump in his throat, his eyes stinging with tears he wouldn’t let slip. There was no going back now. “Yes. We were together.”

He slammed the phone to the receiver just in time to clamp his hands over his mouth, holding in a sob. Rained poured down outside his window as tears slipped down his cheeks. All he could do was stare at the raging storm and wonder if there was any way to fix what was now so painfully broken. He thought of calling off his plans with Mal and just staying by the phone for another call from John. But that was pathetic. He had promised to watch the football match with Mal a week in advance. There wasn’t a good reason- or at least one he could say out loud- to cancel. There was also the issue of not being able to move. Paul seemed immobilized with sadness and fear, quiet sobs escaping him as he stared into the haze outside his window. 

He stayed by the phone for a while until a crack of thunder jolted him to life and he hurriedly wiped his cheeks free of tears. With some much-needed washing up in the bathroom, he was ready to go, wanting to leave before the storm became too much and he would be stuck in his house with only his thoughts. The idea of that terrified him into rushing through the house and hurriedly leashing Martha. She helped him in his hurry, not letting him think twice before tugging him along and to his car. 

They made it into the car, assaulted by the frigid rain, shivering. Paul cranked up the heat as soon as the car was running, rubbing at his arms. The car ride wasn’t long enough for him to get lost in his thoughts, thankfully, and when he arrived at Mal’s the man kept them busy with snacks and other guests and drinks. Paul easily dropped into social mode and left his strife with John in the back of his mind. He knew it would rear up as soon as he was home, maybe even just in his car, but he wouldn’t ruin Mal and everyone else’s fun while he was there. 

Whether it was the knowledge of having to face his own actions or the still-raging storm keeping him, Paul didn’t leave Mal’s house until very late into the night. Mal had suggested they play a board game to sober everyone up and it drug on until almost five in the morning. The rain was at a drizzle when Paul put his car into park. 

He wanted to wait just a bit longer for it to come to a halt but Martha was wiggling around like mad, whining and pawing at his arm. He sighed, letting his forehead hit the steering wheel. “Fine,” he breathed.

She shot anxious glances between him and the door until he undid his seatbelt to lean over and pop the passenger door open. She shot out of the car and into the darkness with a happy wag in her tail the instant she could, leaving Paul to stare after her. Exhaustion mingled with dread, making him unwilling to go to his house. He sluggishly got out of the car. As he leaned back in to grab his wallet, Martha began to bark.

He dragged out a long sight, head dropping, before snapping back up and yelling out for her. She only barked louder, followed by a pained whimper. The pitiful sound shot a spike of alertness into Paul’s core. He yelled out again as he ran but the dog had gone quiet. Fear was shoving his senses into full throttle and he bolted to his doorstep.

When he finally arrived, he was struck still. The droplets of water now moved in slow motion, the biting cold a distant memory. His dread filled the void left by his other senses.

A figure was curled up on his doorstep, Martha nudging gently. With a rough nudge and a nip at the hair, the figure's head tilted into the dim porchlight. The aquiline nose and auburn hair of his John was illuminated. His mouth just barely open, eyes softly closed.

All Paul could do was stare in shock and horror. The world was thrown out of pause when a trickle of water sent a shiver down his spine. He was suddenly aware the rain had picked back up and the cold was whirled up with a nasty wind.

Words were leaving his lips but he didn't know what he was saying or why he was talking. All he knew was that he had to get John inside. Martha, bless her, was ahead of Paul, biting on to John’s collar and pulling him towards the door.

In a flurry of movement, the door was thrown open and John was dragged across the threshold. With a deep huff of breath, Paul lifted John into his arms. “John? Johnny, come on, please!”

He continued to plead as he rushed to the nearest couch. Once laid out, John let out a groan before curling into a ball again. He was shivering like mad, nearly vibrating off the couch. 

“Hey, you’re alright,” Paul cooed softly as he stripped John of his soaking wet clothes. “Can you talk to me?”

“Where- wherewereyou.” His words rushed together in an airy gust before his teeth began to chatter.

Snatching up every blanket in eyesight, Paul wrapped him up into a tight bundle. “Do you need an ambulance? Should I call-”

“‘S fine.” His eyes cautiously opened, lulling around the room until they found Paul. “Where were you?”

“I’m phoning the ambulance,” Paul decided. He moved to leave John’s side but felt a strangely strong grip pull him back. He fell onto the cushion, sitting by John’s hip.

“I’m fine.” The words came out with a startling levelness, only to be followed by more chattering of his teeth.

Paul studied him, their eyes locked in battle. With a hum, Paul narrowed his gaze, “I’m getting you a warm washcloth.”

“Alright.”

Once a basin of hot water was filled and the fire was lit, Paul began his nursing. He fused over John as neither man uttered a word. Grabbing more covers and some pillows, Paul tucked him in tight and lifted his head to put down the pillows. All the while, Martha sat wearily at John’s feet.

Now thoroughly bundled, he ran fingertips along John’s temple and down to his jaw. “Sure you're alright?”

“I waited for you,” John said with malice, only to be betrayed by a faltering voice. Paul had not noticed the lingering smell of alcohol on his breath until just then. He was obviously no longer drunk, only sad and cold, but it must have taken a lot to pass out in the freezing storm.

“I was a Mal’s, love. Do you want a cup of tea? Or I could run a ba-”

“Stop!” John pushed at his mountain of covers and forced himself upright. “Get-” 

Paul grabbed him by the shoulders to steady him only to be pushed away. They both tumbled from the couch, hitting the hardwood with two distinct thuds. Martha let out a bark but didn’t move. 

Paul made to speak but as soon as he opened his mouth, John spat out, “Shut your bleeding trap and listen to me.”

His mouth was still hung open so he snapped it shut and gulped through a strained throat. John’s eyes danced viciously between his.

“I’m sorry! Alright? I’m sorry and I know I can never take it back but I am. I-” Tears were welling in his eyes. “It was so stupid. Stupid of me to try to shift the blame. Stupid of me to do it at all. But,” John’s hands were in his damp hair, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I love you.”

 John was breathing hard and Paul felt he wasn't breathing at all. There was a delicate sheet of glass creeping between them. A single mistake could shatter it to the ground and leave them bleeding. 

Much softer, slower, and steadier, John said, “You don’t have to forgive me. I don’t deserve it. Sure as hell don’t deserve you.” When Paul didn’t respond, John continued. “I was drunk when I came. Was quite intent on telling you off- maybe break a vase or two.” Paul huffed a pained laugh. “But I’m sober as I can be now. I just want you to… You should know how much I mean it when I say that I’m sorry. If you don’t want me any longer, that’s fine.”

The sheet of glass dissolved on the spot, melting into the wood and warming the space. There was a vague awareness of the short bursts of nervous laughter leaving his lips. All he could do was stare at the half-naked man on his floor that had just poured his heart out. He had no clue how much the thought of them being over had weighed on him until the moment the worry lifted away. Gathering himself for the sake of the confused Lennon, Paul scooted towards him and threw a cover over his shoulders. Biting hard on his own lip, Paul cupped John’s face with both hands. 

“You’re the stupidest man I have ever met.” He smiled with all the sincerity and adoration in his body.

“I’m what?”

Paul laughed again, nerves completely drained from it, his hands moving to John’s shoulder and head falling into his chest. He breathed in the man, pulling him between his legs to hug him tightly. His skin was still cold, his body still trembling. “First of all, that’s all you had to ever say. Second, I’m just glad you didn’t kill yourself in the cold.”

John nuzzled his nose into the crook of Paul’s neck. “I’m slightly offended that me not dying was your second point.”

Paul only held him closer. “I hate you so much. But you’ll always be the love of my life.”

[dazed--xx]

Alone

REQUEST: *Hi see you mentioned about story requests. I'm having a hard time since I'm currently pregnant and my partner walked out on me, so could you do one when Jungkook where I meet Jungkook and he helps me raise the baby please*

Summary:  “I'm pregnant Jungkook.” the line goes dead silent “look before you say anything, no I wasn’t hiding this from you and I completely understand if you don’t want to talk to me shit I wouldn’t want to talk to me and move on to someone who is not pregnant and going to be having this type of responsibilities-” “Y/N-”

GENRE: Mild-Angst, Fluff

Member: Jungkook x Pregnant!reader

Word count: 2,132 

A/N: so this is literally my first fanfic ever and i hope you guys like it. and to the person that requested this I wanted to tag you because i did post it but i didnt want to kind of call you out online especially since this was based on something you have personally happening to you, trust me pregnancy is scary let alone having to go it alone so if you need someone to talk to im here btw.. but hopefully you guys like this it was pretty good i wanna post a couple of requests a day since i banged this out as quickly as i did im taking more requests just inbox me or go to my ask let me know if you want your name attached to the request and i will send everyone that i know requested a specific story i will tag and send it to you so you know it is done but without further ado ALONE

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

“Where are you going? Do you really expect me to do this alone?” I shouted to the already abandoned house. A swell in my throat rises and I can't breathe. My body shakes as the tears take over. I fall to my knees running my hand over my stomach. “Don’t you worry baby; Daddy will be back he loves you I promise” I say to the life growing within my womb. 

The warmth from the comforter consumes me as I awaken with dried tears in my eyes. My heart aches as I remember the events from the past 12 hours. The thick silence takes hold of my heart and it begins racing. My heart beat sounding as if it is being played on a speaker the size of a skyscraper. Feeling the bile rise in my throat, rushing to the bathroom, I empty out the contents of my stomach. Tears escape my eyes as I reach out to the void. I'm alone truly.  

My first OBGYN appointment rolls around and my heart is in my stomach. The nurse escorts me in, slowly my feet turn into lead as I drag myself onto the cot in the room and lay back facing the monitor. Once I feel that cool gel upon my stomach, my heart settles and the most beautiful BUMP BUMP BUMP is heard throughout the room. My eyes focus on the image in front of me. “well congrats sweetie you're about 10 weeks, Due September 27. Remember no stress and make sure to take your prenatal. We’ll see you next week” My ultrasound technician announces excitedly. I smile anxious as to what I should do next.  

I make my way to a small café after my appointment wanting a small tea to calm my nerves. Looking around the coffee shop I notice quite the crowd and my panic begins to set in. It feels like I can't breathe while the crowds begin to grow as the café reaches the brink of rush. More and More people pour through the door as my anxiety takes over and I feel the bile rising again, I abandon my spot in line trying to make it to the restroom before I release the contents of my stomach all over the café floor. The restroom door becomes the only thing in sight to me as I dash for it. I reach for the handle and the door opens and I slam into a hard chest and soon I am on the floor.

“HOLY CRAP!!! IM SO SORRY I WAS NOT PAYING ATTENTION” A angelic voice apologized above me. My eyes drift from the floor up to see the most amazing man I've ever seen in my life with his hand out and my voice gets caught in my throat. I stare at him for a while capturing every detail of his face and take his hand. I nod quickly and mutter a fast “Sorry” and dash around the beautiful man and lose myself behind the safety of the door. I was dreading walking back out into the craziness of the café, but excited to see if I could once again get a glimpse of the gorgeous man from before.  

Soon I am back in line and order my tea, when a familiar voice sounds from next to me “You know.... you should let me pay you back for your drink you know...since I hurt you” Shocked I turn my head to see the same beautiful man from before. “Oh, please don’t worry about it I really wasn’t paying attention either it's not a big deal” I smile shyly. “Besides I'm sure you have better things to do with your time than to buy a stranger a drink” He laughs “Honestly, Beautiful, I don’t really have anything to do with my time that doesn’t involve getting to know you” Heat creeps up to my face and I lower my gaze and smile. “I don’t need you to pay me back for my tea for you to be able to get to know me, but unfortunately I gotta go” I say slowly moving past him. “At least let me get your number...please” He asked “You don’t even know my name and you want my number?” “Hey I know what I want and I feel like me knowing your name won't matter much cause I probably won't be calling you anything other than mine” I let out a small giggle “ that was super corny but since you're trying so hard give me your phone” I put my number in his phone and hand it back to him and walk toward the door “By the way my name is Y/N” as I make my exit I hear him shout back “Jungkook!”  

As the weeks pass, I find myself talking more and more to Jungkook. He still hasn’t stopped flirted with me as much as he did that day in the café but we talk everyday about almost everything and I can't help but feel scared to tell him I am having a baby. What would he say? Will he not want to talk to me anymore? Would he not like me as much? A loud RING pulls me out of my thoughts as my phone lights up with Jungkook's name and photo comes up on my screen.  

“Hey, what's up cutie?” He says excitedly  

“Not much, just lying in bed not feeling too good today” I respond pouty  

“Aw, do you need anything? Medicine? I can bring you soup it'll make you feel better I know you said you went out with your friend last night are you hungover?” The worry evident in his voice.

“Um honestly no um I can't drink so I'm definitely not hungover just different I know what it is though I'll be fine” the nervousness in my voice is evident

“what's wrong then beautiful? Is everything okay?” Oh no... not that question. He’s worried and I know he is but I don’t know what to say. I can't stop it the words just rush out of my mouth like the bile I throw up every morning  

“I'm pregnant Jungkook....I'm 14 weeks pregnant” the line goes dead silent “look before you say anything, no I wasn’t hiding this from you and I completely understand if you don’t want to talk to me shit I wouldn’t want to talk to me and move on to someone who is not pregnant and going to be having this type of responsibilities-” “Y/N-” No listen Kookie cause I really like you and I didn’t mean to keep this from you I was just scared that you would hate me” “Y/N-” “I mean I know you just met me a couple weeks ago and it wouldn’t mean much for you to just walk away from this because let's be honest who wants to deal with that-” “Y/N! JUST STOP AND LISTEN PLEASE!” The words stop flowing as quickly as they began.

“Do you think id stop liking you because of the simple fact that you're pregnant, I mean yeah it does suck that you're going to have someone else's baby but I don’t care about that... WAIT! Is that why your ex left?” I stay silent

“Baby....are you there?” He asks worried.

“Baby girl???”  

“Beautiful are you okay? Hello?”

I sniffle “Yeah I’m here sorry” my voice cracks at every word.

“Baby are you crying? Do you need me to get you anything?”  

“No, I'm fine I promise I'm going to go to bed okay? Goodnight handsome I'll talk to you in the morning” “wait what no I'm com-” I cut him off to end the already overwhelming call. My vision blurs as the tears cascade down my face and I let out a harsh sob. I was scared for nothing or he's just too optimistic. A loud knock on the door grabs my attention.  

“who is it?” fear leaking out in my tone. “Baby it's me open up” I hear Jungkook's melodic voice through the door. Quickly I swing the door open to be greeted with the man I've grown so accustomed to in the past few weeks. Taking in the sight of him my heart begins to race as the tears began to no longer form. He reaches his arms around me and pulls me against him. “Baby girl, why didn’t you tell me sooner? You really thought that would make me just leave. How could I do that when in the past few weeks, you’ve stolen my heart” He looks at me and there's a hunger in his eyes as they shift down to my lips. “aww fuck it” he exclaims as his lips capture mine. His arms wrap around my waits as my hands get lost in his soft midnight hair. After a while he pulls away and a small whimper is released from my mouth. “Do you know HOW long I've wanted to do that” he exclaims excitedly with a smile plastered across his face.

After that night Jungkook never left my side, everything I craved he got, Anytime I felt nauseous Jungkook was there.  It became routine with him his calls became more frequent on days he knew I had appointments and he went to every ultrasound. His excitement for my baby was shown one day when I came home from work and my whole apartment was filled top to bottom with diapers bottles and wipes. Jungkook was still too nervous to buy much because he felt he was taking part of the experience from me and the fact that we still don’t know what the baby is yet. As the date rolls around to the appointment it's all Jungkook can talk about. He wants a girl every five seconds he reminds me it's always “Baby do you think the princess will like me? I mean I want her to know I care and that I love you” which is why he was so heartbroken when he could not make it to the gender reveal appointment because of a last-minute practice session. “Please promise to call me right after you find out okay baby?” He begs sadly before he left for the morning.  

After the appointment my heart swelled with joy as I turned into my driveway to see Jungkook's car sitting there. As soon as I unlocked the door, I felt a pair of strong arms wrap around my waist and feel kisses peppered up my neck “Hey, Baby how did your appointment go? How are you feeling?” he says in-between kisses. A blush creeps up onto my face “Yeah, it went great baby is a growing good and healthy, so I have to tell you something” I state biting my bottom lip and looking toward the ground.

“Oh god what's wrong? Is our princess okay?” his use of the word our makes my heart skip a beat “OUR? And the baby is fine....” I look at him pointedly and his hand runs through his hair as his face turns beet red as he slowly stutters out “I mean....um... I'm sorry I didn’t mean to just assume that you wanted me involved but it's so hard not to be when I'm so in love with you that I don’t care if I wasn’t the one that got you pregnant that’s my baby and you’re my girl so yeah our.... so, what is you have to tell me?” I kiss him softly at his words. I beam at him “You're literally so amazing I can't believe you would even consider any of this I know it's a lot to ask for someone to be involved with someone who is pregnant and all I appreciate it baby BUT unfortunately it's not a princess we got blessed with, handsome” as I put his hand on my stomach and his face twists into confusion “what do you-WAIT! IT’S A BOY? FORREAL? IT’S A BOY?” the smile cannot be contained on his face as he comes to the realization.

"Yes, it’s a boy” I state as Jungkook lifts and twirls me around I laugh.

Jungkook happily exclaims “Oh my god, I'm gonna have a son.” Jungkook drops to his knees and places his hand on my stomach and softly speaks “Hey handsome, its daddy, no I'm not your real daddy baby but I'm going to love you and your mommy like I am. I can't imagine a world without you I can't wait to meet you”

I stand there smiling knowing.......Jungkook won’t ever leave me alone  

[saventhhaven]

The Rescue

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader (vaguely)

Tags: dead!Dean, worried!reader, witch, CPR

Word Count: 1,173

A/N: I apologize if my details for CPR are inaccurate, I did my best :)

(Gif not mine)

Rain poured down in thick sheets from menacing gray clouds. Had it not been for the fact that Dean had been in broad daylight less than half an hour ago, he would have sworn night had fallen. The storm darkened the rest of the world significantly as thunder crashed, and the unforgiving winds howled. Rain washed the blood from his hands and his gun, though it wasn't his own. Dean held his forearm above his eyes as he tried to keep the rain out of his face. Although he would never admit it out loud, he was lost, and this storm really wasn't helping him.

"Y/N!" He yelled the young woman's name into the void, but the storm's sounds immediately swallowed it. The two of them had split up when they followed the warlock into the woods, but Dean had quickly tracked him down and killed him. This raging tempest that kept increasing in intensity was a parting gift. Now that the hunt was over, Dean was anxious to find Y/N and get the hell home. He didn't know where she was, and the phone service was completely out. Wherever she was, he only hoped that she was having more luck.

"Y/N!" he yelled again. As Dean stepped over a fallen branch, pain suddenly flared up within him, and he clutched at his chest, groaning. "Y/N!" Her name came out as a panicked cry for help, far different from the tone he had been using when he was trying to find her. Dean fell to his knees, blinded by white light, though he couldn't tell if it was from the lightning anymore. Now, his only hope was her finding him. "Y/N!”

Thunder crashed above you noisily as you shoved your phone back into your pocket. There was no use in it becoming totally useless from the rain if you didn't even have service to call Dean.

"Dean!" Your voice was starting to go hoarse from how many times you had called out for him. The trees that surrounded you all looked the same, and you had no indication of where you were, much less where Dean might be. You hadn't heard from him since before the two of you split up, and you were starting to feel anxious. It was even worse that you had no way of knowing if Dean had taken care of the warlock. The gun in your hand trembled slightly as you continued to scan your surroundings as you moved North - or at least what you were hoping was North. The strong winds whipped your hair into your face, stinging your cheeks. This storm was unlike any you had encountered before, and it made your job a hell of a lot harder.

When brief flashes of lightning illuminated the forest around you, your eyes locked onto a heap about one hundred feet away, and your heart dropped into your stomach.

"Dean!" Water splashed up onto the ankles and shins of your jeans as you sprinted toward him. He was on his side, totally motionless and unresponsive. You rolled him onto his back, shaking him vigorously. "Hey! Hey!" He didn't seem to have any flesh wounds, but the fact that he wasn't waking you up was still more than enough reason for concern. When Dean still did nothing, you pressed your ear against his chest, listening for a heartbeat. Nothing. "No." You suddenly felt panic creep up, but you forced it back down. You were no help to either of you if you couldn't even think straight. "No, no, no!" Without a second's hesitation, you pinched his nose and tilted his chin up, pressing your mouth against his to force air back into his lungs. You rocked back on your heels to lace your fingers together and lock your elbows, beginning a steady rhythm of compressions on his chest.

As you tried desperately to revive him, you noticed a piece of cloth peeking out from his jacket pocket, revealed by you rolling him onto his back. You knew right away what the object was, and your movements faltered before coming to a stop - a hex bag.

"Shit!" you swore. You had left your lighter in the Impala, not knowing you would need it. If Dean didn't have one on him, it was all over, and you refused to let that happen. A world without Dean Winchester was a world you didn't want to live in. Moving frantically, you dug through the man's pockets, searching for the lighter that he usually carried with him. Thankfully, he did have it, and you yanked it free of his clothes, taking the small, cloth sack in one hand, and flicking your thumb over the lighter with the other. The rain continued to pour down on the two of you as you struggled to set fire to the hex bag. This was an impossible task, and panic threatened to overtake you again.

As your breathing began to come faster, you forced yourself to slow your heart rate and think clearly. What would Dean do? The second the question came into your mind, you knew what you had to do. Likely, the reason Dean was in this state in the first place was the small canvas bag you had in your hand. Before you did anything else, you had to burn it and pray he would wake up. You held the object behind your jacket, shielding it from the unforgiving rain and winds. Over the open flame of your lighter, it took the damp canvas a few moments to dry out enough to catch, but it finally did.

With the offending curse broken, you threw the hex bag to the side, watching Dean hopefully. When his chest still didn't rise or fall, you shook your head frantically.

"No!" you exclaimed to yourself as tears rose up in your eyes. "That should've worked!" You were totally out of ideas as you pressed your mouth over his again. The only thing left to do was try more chest compressions, but if this didn't work... You were trying hard not to think about it. "Come on," you said to Dean, although you knew he couldn't actually hear you. "Come on!” Dean's eyes flew open, and raindrops trickled down his face as he sat up, coughing and gasping for breath. You let out a relieved sob and threw your arms around him, still not quite able to believe that you had just saved his life.

"Y/N?" he asked over the howl of the wind.

"Don't you ever do that again!" you scolded. "You scared the fuck out of me!" Dean's hands came up to rub soothing circles on your arms, where they rested around his shoulders. "I thought I lost you." Dean pulled back to look at you.

"You're gonna have to try harder than that to lose me, babe." You smacked him in the arm, mostly with a playful nature, but still a little harder than you intended. "Ow!"

"Let's just get the hell out of here."

Thanks so much for reading!

Like always, links to my masterlist, taglist, and inbox are in my bio! <3

My Everythings:

@cole-winchester​ @alexwinchester23​ @1-am-made-of-stardust​ @thorukindig​ @fiftyshadesoffandom6783​ @hobby27​ @supernaturalenchanted​ @organicpurplepants​ @odysseyofasiren​ @defenderrosetyler​ @crystal-lilac​ @youshrimpdickfucknugget​

Dean Darlings: @calaofnoldor​ @transparentfestivaltiger​

[heuristicallyinclined]

Nobody Knows

Hey, so this is my first public fanfic. I have been a Homestuck fan since the early 2010′s but Hiveswap slammed me back into it hard enough to write. Cringe is dead and it is going to be angsty and indulgent with canon treated as a suggestion. I’ve been spamming some of my favorite writers in the fandom with ideas in their inbox and decided to actually do something about some of them. Most of this comes from some future angst with Mallek I sent @clusband a few weeks ago during sad Mallek hours. Constructive advice welcome.

Get some hurt, comfort, fluff, a lot of angst. A lot of background characters.

Summary: MSPA Reader reflects on their current situation and unhappiness at not being able to see their old friends again. They accept that they past they once knew them in no longer exists, but what about the present? 

Chapter 1: Self-reflection and other cool ways to spend the day

Part 1/?

(Word count: 3,085 | Rated T | Past MSPA Reader x Mallek Adalov,  MSPA Reader x Mallek Adalov, Past MSPA Reader x Polypa Goezee, Background DaveKat)

AO3 Links: Part One (This) | Part Two  | Part Three

Being back in your hive after however long it has been brings up memories. Memories that you had spent so long aching for whenever the discomfort of that void inside of you passed. Focusing on that hollowness for too long always made you uncomfortable, but you sometimes would try to understand why that was. You tried, you really did, to the point of feeling that static so hard that your vision would go white and you couldn’t hear anything over the sound of it in your mind, feeling like you were going to pass out. You think one time you did, but it was hard to tell. Fuck.

You thought that getting them back would help, make you more content, fill it even, make you feel whole again? But you just feel even emptier and like an even more monumentally bigger fuck up. You drink your shitty, expired coffee made in the coffee machine Tagora bought you a long time ago in the mug Skyyla made you, thumbing over the Ladyy design on the handle. You smile at the idea of her making such a comparatively small mug for you. Imagining the struggle of her larger hands trying to make something usable for your much smaller ones. You feel the warmth from your drink and your memory. At least your makeshift home was too out of the way to be ransacked, that or too much of a death risk for anyone other than alien refugees to try to make their way into.

You look around you at all of the trinkets your friends had given you. Remembering how at the time, you felt so rewarded, accepted even. Trolls being, well, trolls, had a hard time opening up to others given how much of a hellscape the whole planet was. So every time you made some progress, you felt like you got the neighborhood cat to approach you without getting too clawed up.

You look over in the corner and notice the plastic bag you got when grabbing some oblong meat products for Dieman at Grub-Mart. You had some extra caegars and figured he might be exhausted after doing whatever drug that was at Ardata’s party. You figured that some sweet meat might help with the hangover. You definitely needed it.

Your teal highlighter had been covered in dust, having not been used since you decided to be a good friend and smuggle some snacks into the bookhive to support your favorite legislacerators-in-training late night, er morning, study session. You stayed as moral support, given you know fuck all about the laws of any given planet and also enjoy having your flesh remain unscorched. You feel like you learned a lot. Probably. You mostly shared meaningful eye contact and words of encouragement.

Drawings from clown children and sketches from Amisia cover your walls. So do ticket stubs from Marvus’ and Chixie’s shows. You felt an odd sense of pride in being one of the most normal people there, extraterrestrial status not withstanding. A set of indigo sweatbands from exercising with Nikhee that you would also use with Stelsa during scaerobics classes are hung on hooks. There was a rom-com with a title too long to read in your lifetime that you watched with Polypa and books borrowed from Galekh that you never returned.

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You care about all of your new friends, of course you do! It is just that… you feel more like the universe’s least qualified guidance counselor instead of their friend sometimes. You’re older than them, so it is maybe more like a sibling or a sketchy babysitter kind of relationship. They all have kinda weird, hard lives, even the ones on Earth, so you don’t mind being an interdimensional taxi service, or a postman who delivers kids to other kids, but they tend to relate more with each other than with you. Which makes sense, and you're definitely happy they finally get to be with other people their own age, but seeing them hanging out with each other really makes you long for the people you once had the same kinds of relationships with.

You had Karkat ask about your hoodie before you got your memories back and Sollux mentioned Mallek, but you got a little occupied by drones. It had been a bit since then. After taking Karkat back to his hive after a movie night with Dave, you noticed him eyeing your hoodie again.

“HEY. SO YOU NEVER ACTUALLY TOLD ME.”

Told you what?

“DON’T BE OBTUSE, I GET ENOUGH OF THAT FROM ALL OF THE OTHER BULGELICKERS THAT HAVE TRAMPLED THEIR WAY INTO MY EXISTENCE. DID YOU KNOW SOMEONE NAMED ADALOV?”

Oh, yeah the hoodie. After remembering, you were not looking forward to this conversation. You look off and let him know, yeah, you did. You trying not to make a big deal of it has clearly had the opposite impact on him.

“YOU TELEPORTED YOUR HORNLESS ASS INTO MY HIVE. IS THIS WHAT YOU’RE GOING TO BE COY ABOUT? YOU DUMPED ME ON AN ALIEN PLANET AND HAVE THE INEXPLICABLE HOBBY OF TRYING TO GET YOUR FROND STUMPS IN EVERYONE’S PERSONAL LIFE AND I ACTUALLY WANT TO KNOW ABOUT YOU AND FIGURE OUT HOW YOU OF ALL PEOPLE MANAGED TO GET A HIGHBLOOD MOIRAIL AND-”

Matesprit. He pauses and actually looks taken aback. It is odd to see him momentarily speechless.

“WHAT?” Well that didn’t last.

He was my matesprit.

“AGAIN, WHAT? SO YOU HAVE BEEN HERE BEFORE AND ARE WEARING A SIGN THAT HASN’T BEEN USED IN FUCK KNOWS HOW LONG? BEING MUTATED CULLBAIT NOT KILLED BY DRONES AND YOU EXPECT ME TO BELIEVE YOU FILLED A QUAD?”

Quads.

This information seems to break him. You see a familiar crease being to form between his brows. You then pause, trying not to get offended.

Wait, hold on, he has totally accepted you being able to travel time and space, but you filling a quad is too much?

“YOU ARE STILL PUSHING IT WITH TIME. BUT EXCUSE ME IF THROUGH THE PANBOGGLING TALES OF YOUR FUCKING ESCAPADES THROUGH SPACE THAT THEY DON’T EXACTLY FUCKING TRACK ON BEING CONDUSIVE TO FILLING YOUR QUADRANTS.”

Fair. You sigh and tell him the story before he can take a breath because as much as you care about him, this boy has one setting and it is very loud.

You tell him about taking a walk, getting abducted. Saying you were a robot and then revealing you were not in fact a robot. You hesitate during the underground river part as you walk the line between Mallek’s privacy and sating Karkat’s curiosity. You smile recounting getting pushed in the river, saved, and how he called you cute and started blushing and trying to backpeddle. How the two of you hung out later and how he made an account just to talk to you. Karkat seems to soften by a modicum at this.

You laughed at how he showed up to tattoo a stranger just because you asked. You wistfully go through the memories that led to an eventual confession and how beforehand how your moirail Polypa was coaching you and Galekh provided you with literature on quadrants. A true bro move, especially since you don’t know how a conversation on them would have gone. You guessed it was since you helped him with his pitch quad and the tattoo. Maybe he felt like there was already something going on when we were both at his hive in matching hoodies, oh yeah he was the guy who got tattooed. His kismesis was your law partner. Karkat’s brow twitched, incredulous. Yeah you don’t know how Gorgor managed that either. Maybe having an alien alive and working for him on Alternia added to his court cred. You also think that that wasn’t the only part Karkat took issue with, but by some miracle, he lets you keep talking.

You kept expecting him to cut you off but he seemed somewhat enraptured by the tales of your romantic antics, despite his efforts to seem more interested in the you part, you were getting a feeling he was more interested in alien dynamics. You knew he was interested in romcoms so maybe this was just some new material for him, especially since quads were a new thing for you and maybe he has strong thoughts regarding the differences in alien ro-

Oh.

Oh you see why now.

Karkat seemed to pick up on the shift in your storytelling going from your personal life to human romantic customs.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT LOOK FOR?”

What look? There are no looks occurring.

“TRY THAT SHIT ON A MORON WHO JUST HATCHED. THEY MIGHT JUST BE MORE INCLINED TO GLEEFULLY SHOVEL THAT EXCUSE DOWN THEIR CHUTES.” He crossed his arms and squints at you. You knew how sharp his claws were from experience, not that you thought he was going to hurt you. There was just something very endearing about him trying to intimidate you while not subtly trying to glean more information about humans without seeming interested in humans. Or a human. Yeah, this is totally about Dave. You just have to find a way to gracefully skedaddle around that little detail.

I just had a bit of learning curve when dating an alien. So it is totally cool if you don’t know much about human stuff. I know quads can b-

“AND WHY DO YOU THINK I WOULD WANT TO KNOW THAT?” He says this clearly knowing what he thinks you think. You think it would be better if he didn’t think you thinked that, considering how the tips of his ears are turning red. You think.

You have romcom stuff everywhere and seem to really like them? Learning about human stuff might make it easier for you watch human romcoms and see how good or bad they are based on social norms. Kinda like romantic xenoanthropology.

Fucking nailed it. He huffs and rolls his eyes. Or at least enough that your answer plus the sheer amount of not fucking wanting to talk about that got you onto romcoms in general. He seemed to echo Polypa’s taste and you smiled at how animated he was becoming. A few of what you watched were now classics. Others that you didn’t like are prime pitch fodder. It had gotten late (early?) and that led you back to your hive. Just sitting alone and thinking. God you hate self-reflection.

You think of your time with Aradia. How she said you were a little broken. How she said you wouldn’t remember not being able to get to your friends again and being held by whatever the fuck that was. But you did remember, as much as you wish you didn’t. Guess you were more broken than she thought. It would be easier to just think you couldn’t get back because you didn’t try hard enough. But you did, you really did, and no matter what you do you just can’t. You are a shitty meta traveler and an even shittier friend. You thought about trying again but you get the feeling that you can’t access something that longer exists. You’d probably just get stuck in some corner of the universe and be alone all over again until you suffocate.

Can you even really die or be killed in anyway that matters anymore? At least in a way that doesn’t bring up the dull pang of a “bad end” followed by getting slammed dunked back in the past, before your fuck up, by an alarmingly cheerful time goddess?

Yeah, you didn’t think so. That would just add to the conga line of your dead selves letting you know how much of a dumbass you are.

But those people, those times. They don’t exist anymore. You keep thinking back to the way things were and who they were and how you can’t travel to those points anymore. All you have is the relative now and the people who exist now. Mostly.

You finish your terrible, bitter coffee, the cup no longer keeping your hands warm. You deserve this. In some shitty cosmic way, maybe you deserve this for not being better as a friend or partner. You can’t go back to the way things were to only to the people of now. And who even know who or what that even is.

Wait.

Maybe you couldn’t go back to the people they used to be because those were no longer who they were now. That thought sends a pang of hurt through you, imagining what little hope they had crushed. God dammit. But you have to try. Otherwise it is just you babysitting some 13 year olds who are trying to discover themselves and work through their issues with some interdimensional asshole looking over their shoulders. That asshole hopefully just being you.

You put your mug down and stand, closing your eyes, you try to repeat what you did with Aradia again, the memory of them doesn’t work. You know that. But with your new friends, it hasn’t completely been the memory? Maybe more accurate to say it’s them, some part memory sure, but more the idea of the present them, what they look like, who they are. You open your eyes and glance down at the sign on your hood. A sign you have mindlessly traced so many times. A sign that when you forgot it, gave you a dull sense of grief, now that you do remember though, it has sharpened and you are reminded of it whenever you are alone for too long or even slow down. Like the rest of you from other timelines will catch up to you in the current one and you get to experience your failures all over again.

You hold yourself tightly to ground yourself. Self-flagellation won’t get you anywhere, you’ve tried, you know this. So again, you close your eyes. You focus on your hood, the sign on it, the person it belonged to. The Mallek he was when he gave it to you vs. the Mallek he knew he didn’t want to be. The one he would have to be to survive. Your throat tightened at the thought of not being able to find him because he couldn’t do it and what if they got him an-

You slap yourself to stop catastrophizing.

Focus!

Adult trolls get bigger and their horns and claws grow with them. Their skin hardens and darkens as it does. You can’t tell if them molting was a joke someone told you or if they were serious so you don’t think about that part. Their blood color shows more through their eyes as they age. They wear black with their sign incorporated on it when they get spaced. You think back to the cerulean pirate you saw with Konyyl. Something like that. Okay you were getting somewhere. You could tell by how afraid you were to get there. You begin to get a headache, like your mind is a rubber band that you are trying to stretch to fit around something it shouldn’t.

Mallek said he would be a soldier or a spy and would be stuck ordering around lowbloods. No longer able to use his hacker skills how he wanted to. You imagine him, larger, older, more tired. Probably has more piercings and tattoos. You smile a little, despite yourself and the tension you feel continuing to build. He would likely play along, do what he had to do to do what he wanted to do. But at that point what would that even be? You imagine he would never truly stop messing with the system or hacking. His natural curiosity wouldn’t let him so he would be trying… something quietly on the side. He was sympathetic but you didn’t know how deep he would or if he would go down the rebel route, maybe just try to deal with his own corner of the universe.

Going along with what is expected seems to be the easiest way to keep under the radar. He has always been partial to not getting culled. Even when it was just the two of you, you knew it was a conscious effort to let his guard down around you, often requiring a change of scenery with you jokingly asking about if you would be needing goggles. Jokes often broke the tension of being afraid to be known with him.  

Despite his projected cool, you knew he was an anxious person and preferred to be alone. You could see that being warped to fit the expectations of being a cerulean. You remember from  conversations you had early in the morning, with ordeals approaching, you had some rare moments of verbalized vulnerability, of him exasperatedly going over what ceruleans are supposed to be with the unspoken and mutual understanding of what he was actually like. The coolness that he projected could morph into coldness, him wrapping it around himself tighter than any armor the empire would give him. Put some distance between himself and his team. You couldn’t see him being casually cruel, but definitely keeping people away through attitude and fear of his caste. The band tightens. So does your throat.

He hates having people over him and likely would at that start. Probably would be trying to do well so that he could use his performance and caste to be given his own ship and team so he could get some breathing room away from his superiors. Just be another team that does their job without question or issue in order to keep the space around himself. You realize that at some point during this, you started hyperventilating. You consider doing the breathing exercises Konyyl taught you, but at this point, you were tired of trying to be okay about it. You wanted to let it out in some way or another. You wanted to feel.

You thought of you, your disappearance. How that would have impacted him probably trying to find you, keeping himself up more than usual, blaming himself and then being taken off world. The not knowing would upset him the most you think. Would he even want to see you? What if he mattered to you way more than you mattered to him and you just showing up makes things worse? Another pang of guilt hits you for making things harder for another person again and you taste metal. You grit your teeth and refocus. The whole picture might never actually be known to you, but this is likely as close as it gets. You see this in your minds’ eye, the assumed idea of a person who may or may not exist, based off of who they used to be. Was this accurate, would this even do anything? Your hands clench around the hem of your hood and you drop to your knees and your leggings scrape the wood on the floor of your hive, eyes still screwed shut with tears pricking at the corners, breathing quick and heavy, jaw locked.

You try again.

The bands snaps.

And your head hits a cold, metal floor.

[aroworlds]

The Vampire Conundrum, Part Two

When Rowan Ross is pressured into placing an aromantic pride mug on his desk, he doesn't know how to react when his co-workers don't notice it. Don't they realise he spent a weekend rehearsing answers for questions unasked? Then again, if nobody knows what aromanticism is, can't he display a growing collection of pride merch without a repeat of his coming out as trans? Be visible with impunity through their ignorance?

He can endure their thinking him a fan of archery, comic-book superheroes and glittery vampire movies. It's not like anyone in the office is an archer. (Are they?) But when a patch on his bag results in a massive misconception, correcting it means doing the one thing he most fears: making a scene.

After all, his name isn't Aro.

Contains: One trans, bisexual frayromantic alongside an office of well-meaning cis co-workers who think they're being supportive and inclusive.

Content Advisory: This story hinges on the way most cishet alloromantic people know nothing about aromanticism and the ways many trans-accepting cis people fail to best communicate their acceptance. In other words, expect a series of queer, trans and aro microaggressions. There are no depictions or mentions of sexual attraction beyond the words "allosexual" and "bisexual", but there are non-detailed references to Rowan's previous experiences with romance.

Length: 3, 737 words (part two of two).

Note: Posted for @aggressivelyarospec‘s AggressivelyArospectacular 2019.

Romance, too, feels like one of the mechanisms by which a dangerous trans body can be rendered more acceptable to cis folks.

“His name’s Aro,” Melanie says after lunch, showing a new volunteer around the office. She pats Rowan on the shoulder as she walks behind his chair, startling him enough that the clipping path he’s making around a photo of Damien’s head goes veering off to the side. “He does our website, our flyers and the information guides we send out. Aro like from the Twilight movies!”

Introductions once only encompassed Melanie’s habit of overly-stressing pronouns when referencing him—a dysphoria-triggering reminder that she doesn’t think him masculine enough for people to assume it. Isn’t that bad enough without her also getting his name wrong?

He sighs, frustrated. Complaining about this, when trans people are in desperate want of a working environment free of outright antagonism and discrimination, feels unreasonable. Hell, Rowan knows aromantics who’ll revel in being named “Aro”, so isn’t his hurt just pettiness? Isn’t this why he’s no longer welcome at home, a man too intolerant of his family’s mistakes? How many times did they tell him that his harping on about little things demonstrates a concerning lack of gratitude for their acceptance?

His co-workers do seem to believe in Rowan’s masculinity; he shouldn’t take that for granted.

Instead, he feels like he’s failing at being both transgender and aromantic.

After a fair amount of editing, he places Damien’s image in the brochure mock-up and exports to PDF. The office will make suggestions, some useful, some ignorant and some so absurd that Rowan will laugh with his friends later on, but that’s fine. He can’t expect otherwise in a workplace where everyone considers him possessed of unknowable ability with computers. They’re good people, in the main, and they care about their work.

It’s just complicated, and Rowan hates the feeling that complicated is the best cis people will let him get to a normalised acceptance.

“Aro? An Arrow fan called Aro? Really? Do you like comics or are you one of those people only into DC TV?”

Rowan looks up from attaching his PDF to an email to find the volunteer sitting on a creaking office chair and crab-walking it over to Rowan’s desk. “Comics?”

“Oh, good.” The volunteer sighs as if in relief. “I mean, the TV show? It isn’t terrible—better than most of DC’s movies, at least—but I’m so tired of people who call themselves fans but have never touched a comic book.”

Rowan glances at his journal cover, ponders its possible similarity to the show’s motif and nearly bursts out laughing. He’s never read a comic and doesn’t plan on doing so. He prefers indie podcasts and audiobooks on account of increased representation and greater ability to sew and cook while listening. “I’m not an Arrow fan. Sorry.”

Another show about cis people possessed of everyone-should-pair-up amatonormativity?

Hard pass.

“You’re not?” The volunteer gapes, waving his hand towards Rowan’s cluster of pride mugs. Three, now. Only one contains coffee, which feels like a terrible oversight. “Is this a joke, then? Are they getting you arrow stuff because of your name? Like some office thing?”

Aro.

His name is not Aro.

Rowan once thought the concept of snapping a mere storytelling device, something as ludicrous or impossible as “glittering eyes” or “romantic interest that lasts after getting to know someone”. At best an experience had by people without a brain that doesn’t devote most of its time to screaming alerts at the prospect of anything dangerous. Absurd, irrational, void of any real-life relevance.

Not even with his family has he felt this chilling, all-encompassing moment of enough.

He looks back at his computer, attaches a second PDF file to his email and, before he considers pesky things like consequences, clicks send. Then Rowan climbs up on his office chair, steps up onto the desk and whistles like a country boy who owned a border collie prone to sneaking off the property and rounding up the neighbour’s sheep.

Everyone in the office gapes up at him with a motley assortment of parted lips, unblinking eyes and, in Melanie’s case, the pointing of a long, vermillion-polished fingernail.

Up high, the room reeks of nesting rodents and the popcorn ceiling desperately wants refinishing.

Now Rowan’s brain tells his limbs to shake and his chest to heave; of course, he thinks as he shoves his hands behind his back, anxiety kicks in after he’s neck-deep in it! “My … my name is Rowan. I chose it.” He looks at the vent on the opposite wall, fighting to sound collected. Is that black mould? “Dad told me if I rejected my deadname, I was rejecting them. That I was being cruel and selfish. I earnt my name!” He stops, gasping for breath like a hooked fish—which, given his terror, feels far too appropriate a simile. “My identity is aro, short for aromantic, like being queer—one way of my being queer. So ... there’s a PDF booklet in your inbox about aromanticism. Read it! I’m proud of being aro, but you need to call me by the name I chose! It’s Rowan!”

He jumps down off the desk. The creaking laminate and the thud of his dress shoes, a little too large for Rowan’s feet, sound abominably loud in the sepulchrally-quiet room. Heading past giddy into faint, but pushed on by a heedlessness of the “this can’t possibly get worse because I’m going to be fired” variety, Rowan snatches up his satchel and reaches into the side pocket to pull out his handful of print leaflets. He drops one in the lap of the gaping volunteer, tosses the rest on an empty desk for luddites who prefer paper, and returns to his chair.

Seven sets of speechless eyes bore holes through his skull, shoulders and spine.

Rowan jams on his headphones, opens his no-romance metal playlist and turns his music up to a volume just short of deafening before queuing new posts to the project’s website.

When he invented the God of Trans Men as flippant rhetoric to cope with Melanie’s questions, is it right to pray to him?

***

Two hours later, doing his best to radiate an aura of do not disturb on pain of your bloody death, Rowan fights to pay attention to the last event write-up. Leaving early means asking permission and walking down the row of desks, risking stares and comments; he instead corrects Melanie’s idiosyncratic punctuation. Didn’t Melanie go to school at a time when they taught more than English comprehension? How doesn’t she know when not to use an apostrophe?

There’ll be consequences. Warnings? A formal discussion in the private office the supervisors only use for interviews? A request that he undergo counselling? A strong recommendation for psychiatric assessment? Firing? It isn’t like they can’t throw a rock and hit thousands of people under the age of forty with general computer skills and design ability who aren’t prone to standing on desks to make unwanted announcements.

No. Focus on the damn comma splices.

Should he ask his psychiatrist for the soonest possible appointment? New meds?

A tap on the shoulder makes Rowan’s head threaten to brush the probably-asbestos-riddled ceiling; he gasps and yanks off his headphones, trembling.

Melanie stands beside his chair, holding out her phone in its glossy pink case. “Those words that are underlined? Can I click on them to find out what they mean, like on a website? Like ... al-lo-sexual?”

“Hyperlinks in an interactive PDF—the file on your phone—work the same way as on a website,” Rowan says without thinking: in the last three months, he’s been asked this ten times. “If you click on those links, they’ll take you to a glossary at the end of the document with definitions.”

Damien sits facing his usual computer, his head tilted as if watching out the corner of his eye.

Melanie smiles the expression of a woman in an alternate dimension where Rowan doesn’t engage in embarrassing outbursts. “You’re so good at all this stuff, Rowan.” She stresses his name just enough that he can pretend she didn’t. “Where did you learn it all?”

He once tried to explain his philosophy of clicking on things only to realise that while the concept of generational divides requires excessive generalisation, a difference exists in terms of his willingness to fearless experimentation with electronic devices and programs. “School. Uni.”

“You’re so lucky. School was nothing like that when I was a girl. You have so many more opportunities now. And identities.” Melanie sighs and pushes a wisp of grey hair back from her eyebrows. “It’s good, it really is.”

Rowan blinks, startled into silence by a rare glimpse of validation stripped of performance and demonstration.

He hadn’t thought anyone here capable of it.

“It says that some people feel repulsed by romance? Are you like that? Should we do something? Do we need to not talk about romance in the office? Like, if I describe my daughter dating her boyfriend, not that I want to, is that bad? Do we need to hold a meeting? Damien—Damien—”

Damien turns, wearing the blinded look of a rabbit frozen in a spotlight. “Yes...?”

For how long has Damien worked with Melanie? For how long has the office rolled with Melanie’s interruptions and proclamations, her meetings called about the slightest of issues? For how long has the office accepted Shelby’s incessant reminding and Damien’s inability to surrender event photography to someone who knows how to modify their flash settings? Isn’t there a chance that they’ll tolerate Rowan’s occasional moments of desk-blathering?

A trans aro should be able to sew a patch on his bag reading “aro” without provoking cis weirdness. Since when does someone read a new word on his bag and assume that’s now his name? Isn’t that another over-the-top demonstration made by awkward cis people trying to prove their acceptance, something that’s never made Rowan feel safe?

Even when he’s aromantic, he never gets to avoid cissexism.

He slides his hands between the seat and his legs, aware of Melanie’s once again drawing the office’s unbroken attention. “I, personally, don’t care if people talk about their romances,” he says, certain that Damien needn’t answer Melanie about meetings, “but I do care when people assume I must want one. I do care when Sh … some of you just keep asking if I’m dating anyone.”

Rowan long set aside the need to bother with romance. He isn’t aromantic in the way most people first think of the word, as he does fall in love, but it describes his frayromanticism nonetheless. Why put himself through the inevitable messy, angry break-up when his partners don’t understand why what started as romance ends up to him as a friendship? When dating isn’t without trans-related challenges, why force himself into a type of relationship that he knows won’t last?

Romance, too, feels like one of the mechanisms by which a dangerous trans body can be rendered more acceptable to cis folks, in the same way it sanitises his equally-threatening bisexuality. If queers are holding hands and exchanging rings, just like cis and heterosexual couples, they’re safe.

He wants to be normal, but not that normal.

Melanie surprises him again by nodding. Opaque red only colours the corners of her lips; the worn centres reveal the brownish-pink beneath. “Like how we now don’t assume everyone’s—what’s the fancy word you use for not being you?”

“Cis. Yeah.”

“At my first job, I never dared yeah my elders. Can I ask what’s this a-sexual thing? Not-sexual? That’s a thing that can go with your a-ro-manti-cism? Am I saying it right? Is that something people can be?” Melanie grabs the volunteer’s vacated chair and wheels herself up to Rowan’s desk. “Tell me about this. Please.”

Damien gives a theatrically deep sigh, winks at Rowan and turns back to his keyboard.

Rowan’s tangle of feelings bewilders him too much to be simple relief, but he doesn’t appear to be at immediate risk of losing his job.

***

“We need to have a meeting!” Melanie announces ten days later, striding up to where Damien peers over Rowan’s shoulder to approve the touch-ups on a series of scanned photos. Rowan grasps the want to have a section on the website showcasing past events, but surely Damien’s film-camera predecessors weren’t all unable to take decent pictures? “Today. Perhaps before lunch?”

“Do we?” Damien doesn’t bother to turn his head. “What’s the number on the urgency scale, remembering that whiteboard markers aren’t a five?”

“I’m aro-ace.” Melanie stresses the words, beaming with the confidence of a child presenting a new finger-painted masterpiece. “I didn’t know, but I definitely am. I’m aromantic and asexual.”

“I’m glad for you.” Now Damien faces her, scratching his shock of unruly brown hair. “I don’t know why this needs a meeting? Do you want something addressed?”

Rowan leans back in his chair, too startled to do anything but watch. Melanie’s interrogation of him about all things a-spec over the last few days left him certain that she was questioning, but he didn’t expect this announcement—or Damien’s reaction to it.

“I’ve been reading, and I sent around a list of links everyone else should read, too. We must do something about our website. And, of course, everyone should know I’m aro-ace, and then let people ask any questions. Then we should consider changes to our submission forms, and then...”

Already, Melanie has done more to integrate her identity into the office and its projects than Rowan ever dared risk. Why, then, does he feel as though he’s being pressed inside a metal suit three sizes too small? Shouldn’t the end result be worth enduring a staff meeting in which she announces she’s aro-ace? Melanie being Melanie, she’ll gladly answer questions about aromanticism. Doesn’t that give Rowan everything he wanted—ability to be out as aromantic but someone else’s dealing with allo nonsense?

Matt’s right.

Rowan’s just a coward.

Damien nods at Rowan. “What do you think about that?”

“Uh...” Rowan draws a delaying breath, fighting against a brain too bewildered to be useful in forming comprehensible speech. “Uh … you’d have to run form changes past someone higher up, wouldn’t you? We have to ask about everything else? But...”

He doesn’t name Melanie a friend, but fellow aromantics aren’t common enough that Rowan will reject a companion—even if they’re cis and have subjected him to half a year’s discomfort, anxiety and alienation. He slides his restless hands under his legs, biting his lip against the sickening realisation. Melanie’s enthusiastic fearlessness may make this office and program better for him as an aro, but how can it answer all the attitudes that made Rowan fear coming out in the first place?

If he’s a coward, doesn’t he have reason?

“We do need a meeting,” he says slowly, his heart pounding in his chest like blast beats in death metal. “On better integrating marginalised people into our office. Because the way you emphasise my pronouns, Melanie, or the way Shelby reassures me five times that I can correct her … that doesn’t make me feel safe. It makes me feel reminded. Different. Too visible. And that’s why...”

“You ended up standing on a desk?” Damien asks with the gruffness of a middle-aged cis man trying to sound gentle.

“Yeah,” Rowan mutters. “That.”

Melanie clasps her fingers to her lips. “Oh! I didn’t mean anything by it! I just wanted people to get it right!”

How many times has he suffered through well-meaning people explaining that in response to his saying that they made him uncomfortable? How many times has he heard people justify their actions as though good intent always mitigates bad impact?

“You’re … you’re still making this about you! The only answer I want or need from you is thanks for telling me, Rowan, I won’t do it again! That’s all! Not your reasoning, not this effort to justify! I want to know that you hear me, that you’ll acknowledge that your intent however good still made me come home crying from dysphoria, and that you’ll stop because I don’t want to put up with it anymore! That’s all!”

For the second time in less than a fortnight, a chilling silence envelops the office.

“We need a meeting,” Rowan says breathlessly, reminding himself that at least this time he isn’t standing on his desk, “discussing how to include marginalised people in our office. Discussing all the microaggressions. Maybe you need to find … educators, trainers who come in and do this. I don’t know. I’m just so tired of never feeling safe or normal, never feeling like I can say anything because this isn’t hate and at least you’re not my parents! Like I don’t ever get to have anything better!”

He stands up, unsure what to do past fetching himself a distracting cup of coffee.

Maybe, then, he’ll be able to survive the way Melanie looks at him—as though he just ran over her puppy.

She just came out, and he did run right over it.

“I’m sorry.” Rowan sags onto his chair, leaning forwards to grab his satchel despite the unpleasant giddiness. “I’m sorry. It’s wonderful, Melanie, that you now know who you are and that you can come out. And it’s amazing that you’re doing things already, when I needed like six months just to get used to my knowing I’m aro. I just...” He reaches inside the satchel and pulls out a rough oblong shape wrapped in white tissue paper. “Here. I’m sorry.”

He, an allo-aro man, screwed up an aro-ace woman’s coming out. Shouldn’t he know better? He wants to laugh, wants to cry, wants to curl up in a ball and hide under his desk. Even now, when he’s trying to get what he needs as a trans man, he’s being the worst kind of aromantic!

Her lips pinched, Melanie takes the present in her hands, worrying at the top piece of tape with her long, pink nails.

“We’ll have a meeting.” Damien runs his hand through his hair as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. “I’ll talk to the heads about … sensitivity training, I suppose this also is. Would you be willing to write me an email outlining some of these behaviours and any ways we can make this office safer for you? Is that an appropriate thing to ask of you?”

“I don’t mind,” Rowan says. As long as he doesn’t go ignored, he’ll send a few emails—and he already has a few blog posts on which to draw. “Thank you.”

“Do you … want anything, now? To talk privately to me or anyone else? Or to a senior supervisor? Or someone with the government body? Can I do or arrange anything else?”

“Coffee. Please. And … and then to go back to fixing photos as though absolutely nothing happened because I don’t … do this sort of thing.” Rowan heaves a shaking sigh, pushing aside the thought that nobody can have failed to observe this. “Thank—thank you. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

He notices Damien gesturing at Melanie, notices that Rowan’s aro flag mug leaves with both and returns a few minutes later—now distracting from the office’s musty odour with its rich bitterness. He takes a few sips, but only by throwing himself into his work can he survive the gibbering, chattering thoughts building into a crushing tsunami of what the hell. Why did he do that? Why—no. Photos.

The soft clunk of crockery hitting laminate makes him look up.

Melanie leans against the edge of Rowan’s desk, her hand resting atop her new orange, yellow, white and blue aro-ace flag mug. “I’m sorry. Thanks for telling me.” She draws a deep breath, tapping her nails against the rim. “I didn’t know I could … that there’s an explanation, until I read your booklet. It described me. Things I didn’t realise about me! Things I’d been feeling! But … I’ve been learning about things like micro-aggressions. I didn’t know I’d been doing them myself. I’m sorry. I’ll keep learning. And thank you for my cup.”

“I know,” Rowan says softly, thinking back to the day when he realised the words “aromantic” and “frayromantic” describe him. A belated voicing of confusion and alienation; the naming of a constant sense of difference from the world. Revelation, understanding, explanation. “I know. I’m sorry, too. I don’t like … scenes. Or asking people things. I’m an anxious coward. So it just...”

He waves his hands, trying to mime an explosion.

Melanie, wide-eyed, jerks her head. “I couldn’t have said anything if you hadn’t done it first—and I wouldn’t have known to say anything if you hadn’t! And you’re asking us to do things knowing that we don’t understand, which must be frightening at least. You’re brave. And you shouldn’t be sorry.”

Rowan stares at her, unsure what to say in response. Never has anyone in his life freely offered such a sentiment. Never has anyone offered him something so generous without subsequent critique of Rowan’s intolerance for and impatience with their struggles to deal with him, praise softening the following reproval.

Brave.

His throat tightens and his eyes blur.

“Would you work with me on a proposal to put together for the submission forms? Damien insisted that I work with you, if you want to.”

“Uh … yeah?”

Melanie grabs a stack of papers from her desk and a chair. “I’ve gone through the old forms and highlighted passages. Do you want to read through and see if there’s anything I’ve missed or anything that should be left?”

He nods and takes the papers. Is this an alternate universe, the world flung upside down? Or, if people possess a minimum of decency, can he make needed change by addressing his problems instead of letting everyone talk over him? Can he build a world where he doesn’t endure cis or allo microaggressions by believing that their inconveniences aren’t worth more than his discomfort?

If his co-workers doesn’t object to correction, if they’re willing to make changes and investigate training, is the problem one of Rowan’s overreaction?

Does that mean he can talk to Matt the way he spoke to Melanie and Damien?

“Is something wrong?” Melanie asks, frowning.

Rowan shakes his head and plucks a pen from his frayro mug. “No.”

For the first time in a long time, that’s mostly true.