#(( please remember I do draw my asks responses so that can be a factor of why I'm so slow...))

[harmo-n-ia]

(( I find it cute and sweet to see how many people headcanon N's birthday to Pi day! That's really creative and sweet, and cute for him to get PIES then too heeheheh.

For Nat I went with a different angle, I made his birthday September 18th. Why? That's when pokemon B&W was released first in Japan! So that's the date I set to Nat's Birthday. He's just a sweet boy though and is happy enough to just be remembered. Though food is always a way to win him over. He's happy to share with anyone who asks and his Pokemon friends too! Best a sweet boy.

My bad end AU Naal, however.... I haven't set his just yet. He lacks the core memory of that time (I mean yeah, he'd have been a babbu) and his thoughts are foggy. He remembers little snippets of early memories and he remembers the chill of cold [which was brought away into the warmth when he was adopted by the Pokemon in the forest] attached to his early memories. So likely some time late fall through winter. Somewhere in there. Not that it entirely matters to him because he's never had his birthday be celebrated. Someone get my sad boy Naal a cake or two. Let him eat cake instead of burning down Unova for once. ;w; ))

[one-boring-person]

Hii, I'm unsure as to who do you take requests for :( I'll just hope that you write for the yautja!

Could you maybe write a yautja's reaction to his furure mate seeing his face for the first time and they are like "😳" and all of the sudden they are even more shy around him since their crush on him only got stronger?

Thank you for reading and sorry if I requested a character you don't write for, haha. Please, feel free to ignore my request if that's the case! Have a lovely day! 💙

All of the characters I write for are listed on my character list, which can be found via my masterlist, but I'm glad you requested this, because it's given me the chance to try writing something new. This is my first time writing for a yautja, so I'm sorry if it sucks😅💛

Are You ill?

Yautja x reader

Warnings: some minor bad language

Masterlist

They're tapping under his mask again, the rhythmic clinking of their blunt nails on the dented metal drawing the yautja's attention to the human in his arms. He looks down at them, finding their wide eyes fixed on him, clearly curious, as they always have been, their lips drawn into what he's come to recognise as fascination - he's still a little unsure of which emotions are displayed by which expression, but he has a pretty good idea. Their hand rests by the chin of the face mask, fingers running over the covering, their other hand splayed on his chest to keep them balanced. He's not wearing his chest and shoulder armour, or the majority of his arm greaves, and his legs are bare of their metal shielding to make him more comfortable, but his face is still covered, and that means (Y/n) is likely to fidget with it.

Inside his mask, the yautja clicks questioningly, his mandibles and mouth starting to form awkwardly around unfamiliar words.

"What are you doing?" His voice always sounds unnaturally coarse to him as he speaks the human language, whichever dialect it is, the lexis unnatural to him as he forces his way through the question.

They look startled, but only momentarily, their eyes flicking up to the eyes of his mask, a smile playing at their face. He knows that expression - content.

"Oh, nothing. Just...Curious, is all." (Y/n) sounds so much sweeter when speaking their natural language, their voice running through the sentences smoothly and wonderfully.

"Curious?" He coughs up the word, stilling his hands on their back, lightly caressing his fingertips over their hips instead, careful to mind his shape claws; he can still feel the scar where he once caught them on their side.

"Yeah." The affirm, nodding. 

"Why?" 

They don't even have to think through what they're saying.

"I'm curious as to what you look like without your mask on." They inform him, shifting to lean up on their elbows, putting their weight on his chest, not that there is much weight. He could hold them up with two fingers, easily.

At their words, however, he has to take a moment to process them, roughly translating them in his head. As he figures it out, his body stiffen slightly, mandibles clicking together in consideration.

"You will not like what you see." Is all he says, turning his head away - he's not displeased with how he looks, but he is aware that humans are more particular when picking mates than yautja are, and his looks are not the norm for them.

"How do you know?" (Y/n) shakes their head, "And anyway, appearance shouldn't change anything in a relationship. It's not the most important factor."

Their response is encouraging to him, once he's deciphered the foreign words, but he's still hesitant. Inadvertently, he makes a sharper clicking sound, one of contemplation this time, but they just smile and lightly rub at one of his dreadlocks, sending small sparks of pleasure through him. Purring lowly, the yautja relaxes, enjoying their touch, feeling more at ease now.

"If you wish to see my face, I will show you." He eventually says, sitting up with the human still cradled against his chest, settling them in his lap as he lifts a hand to unfasten the gas tubes. Hissing sounds ensue as he plucks the tubing from its relevant inserts, his nerves sparking up slightly as he notices (Y/n) watching intently. Internally, he scolds himself for being weak: a hunter like him should not be so afraid to show his face to another.

Slowly, deliberately, the yautja reaches up and hooks his fingers under the lip of his mask, taking a firm hold of it as he pulls it upwards, clearing it of his dreadlocks and jaw. As his face is exposed to the light of the room, he has to let his eyes adjust slightly, unused to seeing in this light without his helmet. He drops the mask to the floor beside them, returning his gaze back to the human sat on his thighs, mandibles clacking together nervously.

(Y/n) is silent. Their eyes are fixed on him, roaming his every feature, his every scar, lingering on the powerful tusks jutting out from his jaw, their mouth falling open in surprise. Purring to help calm them, the yautja tilts his head to the side, keeping still as he waits for them to respond, his breath catching as he runs through every possible scenario in his head. They don't seem to be reacting badly, but they've stayed quiet for a good minute now, and that worries him. 

"Holy mother of god…" They finally say, voice quiet as they lean back to look at him properly, eyes wide. A blush is quickly rising to their cheeks, but the yautja doesn't say anything - The red flush on human faces has never quite made sense to him.

"You are afraid?" He clicks, misreading their tells as he reaches for his mask again.

Hastily, they shake their head, mouth opening and closing as they struggle for words.

"No! No, I'm not. Quite the opposite." They laugh shyly, turning their head away as they shift in his lap. 

Purring again, he lifts a hand and takes their chin in his grip, gently, like he's seen humans do before, tilting their head towards him, scrutinizing their expression. Their skin is warm to the touch, and their face is bright red, signs that draw a worried click from him.

"Are you ill?" He asks them, pressing his palm to their cheeks, trying to gain a more accurate reading on their skin temperature. 

Surprisingly, they only chuckle, carefully pushing his hand away as they lift their own, hesitantly placing a finger on one of his upper mandibles. Gently, they run the digit along the curve of his face, tracing over the strong muscle in his jaw, marvelling at the power there. He has to fight the urge to nip at their finger as it draws close to his inner mouth, unable to help it as his tongue slips out in its stead, teasing at the appendage playfully. They giggle, cupping his face in their hands as best they can, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lower mandibles. Ecstatic, he purrs loudly, wrapping his arms around them so he can pull them flush against his massive body, his head ducking down to nuzzle at their hair, glad that they seem comfortable with him. His dreadlocks create a shield around them, and he feels a sense of relief and joy go through him as they return the embrace, small hands coming round to bury themselves in his black locks. 

"You are not afraid?" He hums into their hair, still feeling some tension in the air, though there is also a new scent, one he recognises from other humans.

"N-no…" They admit, keeping their head down as they allow some nerves to creep into their voice.

Confused, the yautja breathes in the scent deeply, trying to remember what it is. After a moment, he figures it out, leaning back to look into their face. Naturally, they bite their lip and look away, face blushing a furious red now.

"You are attracted to my face?" He questions in surprise, mandibles clicking together.

It takes a moment for them to reply, their head nodding very slightly.

"Yes…" They confess, covering their face with their hands.

Elated, the yautja doesn't say anything, just pulling them in to nuzzle affectionately at their cheeks, remembering that humans often do similar things to show fondness.

(Y/n) giggles, hiding their face in his chest.

"Humans are strange." He remarks in amusement, cradling them back against his chest, running his hands over their back comfortingly. 

"Yeah, we are."

[tommyspeakycap]

Can you do a jealous John stones please 🥺🥺🖤

jealous stonesy coming right up! feel like john is the quick to get jealous type :) this gif does things to me

Black Tie Turbulence

John’s hand is both a constant and comforting presence on your lower back from the moment you both stepped out the car. He’s careful with his feet to not step on the bottom of your beautiful long dress that was matched in colour to that of his delicately placed pocket square.

“Aren’t you two a sight?”

John leads the turn so you can both face Kyle and Annie, also both dressed to the nines and offering each of you a glass of sparkling champagne. “The heels are already a killer,” you joke, making Annie giggle immediately. Heels were a must for almost all black ties, but more so when your boyfriend is an absolute giant.

It was a charity ball that a good few England and their players had been invited to, mostly in order to try and sweet talk the donors into giving more of their money than they originally would. You had gotten used to these events and liked to think you had actually gotten very good at sweetly chatting the vendors into emptying the metaphorical pockets. John wasn’t the world biggest fan of these events, but he knew they had to come hand in hand with the joy of doing what he loves each and every day. Plus, he gets to see you all dressed up. That’s good enough for him.

“I’m gonna go see if I can grab another drink.” You tell John, leaning up to press a chaste kiss into his jaw. He nods, eyes following you intently as you walk off with your heels clinking and dress swaying. “Earth to Stones.” Harry Kane waves, clicking his fingers to get the defenders attention. John shakes his head with a soft chuckle. “He’s fucking whipped, mate.” Kyle laughs heartily, eliciting similar laughter from Kane and his wife.

You stood up at the bar as the tuxedo glad bartender went off to collect your order for you when an older man appeared next to you. He too was looking to order a drink. “I hear the sambuca shots are exquisite this year.” You suggest with a teasing grin and a sparkle in your eyes, very successfully gathering the full attention of the silver fox who you had turned to face. He chuckles, eyes meeting yours as his tongue hits out to lick his lips. He was probably in his mid fifties, so you didn’t feel gross for a little bit of flirting to get some cash for a children’s charity.

“I’m just joking,” you note softly, “But the whiskey is fantastic.”

He nods, a smile overtaking his pink lips and stretching his face to fill a happy 60 years worth of laughter lines. He seemed truly sweet, not that you were at all interested. But he wasn’t sleezy, didn’t have a wedding ring in and looked a little younger than you knew he was. A little bit like Patrick Dempsey, actually. “A woman after my own heart.” He responds, flagging down the waiter for two whiskey’s.

As you got to talking, you learned he was a CEO. You had always been in awe of the kind of money that John had immediate access to in his bank account, what with you still paying off student loans and such until John took went behind your back and payed them off with an insistence that “his girl shouldn’t be worrying about anything ever.” But this man had even more money than that, you suspected. He just screamed out overpriced whiskey, fancy holidays, houses on every continent and boatloads of cars that you hadn’t even heard of. Yet, he seemed very sweet. You told him about some of the work you had gotten up to on a year abroad doing aid work during your second year of uni and he had been extremely curious about it, genuinely listening which shocked you significantly.

John would have said it was because the way that you spoke, completely captivatingly as you got lost in your own stories. You made people feel as though they were part of the adventure, drawing them in and leaving them hanging on every word. Most would claim that you were the only reason John still got invited to these black tie charity events because he certainly wasn’t so good at wooing older men out of their money.

“You’re definitely a whiskey lady, then.” You nod your head at the statement from the older man, a small laugh as you remove your hand from his arm that you had reached for when he made you ‘laugh’ with his last joke. “Mhm…well travelled, beautiful, very elegant and clearly incredibly loved.” You furrow your brows slightly his words, eyeing him carefully in search of their meaning. He leans in slightly, his eyes soft with a kind smile of his face. He nods his head behind you, “He’s been watching you since the moment I stepped up next to you.”

Your eyes land on John when you turn around, trying to look as though he wasn’t watching the interaction intently with those fiery blue eyes. You giggle to yourself with a soft sigh. “You made an old man feel incredibly young again,” he begins with genuine joy in his eyes. “You could change the world with that heart. It’s that reason and that reason only that I’ll be making such a hefty donation. None of this wining and dining, fancy ballroom party they’ve thrown. Passion,” he pauses, “Your kind of passion for better is what this is all about. But I reckon you best get back to the man who looks like he’s going to eat me alive.”

His words were touching and incredibly sweet, but the end was also true. You could hear your boyfriend’s footsteps approaching at a pace that might make you question his fifa rating from last year. You turn yourself back around to offer a thank you for the donation in your name, but all you see is that head of salt and pepper hair disappearing off into the crowd. John has suddenly remembered why he hates these things so much. You’re very clever at getting exactly what was needed from these men and you had no shame at all for flirting with them. If you had it, why not use it? You always said.

Despite knowing it meant nothing, it still sent John absolutely crazy and though you’d never admit it, that was one of the biggest reasons you did it. He used to bring you these things as his friend before you had started dating, which was very coincidentally where he burst and told you he loved you when you had asked what had irritated him so much afterwards.

His jealousy wasn’t something you exactly regarded as a demon, a little bit more of a treat.

Seeing him hot and bothered, angry flush to his cheeks with his jaw set firm and his muscles tense in irritation. It was beautifully hot.

“Flirting with older men again, eh?” He says sharply, his eyes burning a hole in you with the fire of their irritation. You shrug nonchalantly and take a sip of your drink. “Not a big deal,” you hum softly in response, watching carefully as anger flickers through his eyes. He turns his back to you with a scoff and a shake of his head, grumbling something under his breath.

“We’re going.” He states. You roll your eyes. “Oh don’t be like that, John.”

“Like what, eh?” He presses, still not turning to look at you.

“All angry and shit, it’s not a big dea-“

John isn’t having it. He whips around quickly, using his large body to press you back into the bar and takes the drink from your hand with ease when you still, enjoying a sip of it before he places it down on the bar, out of the way easily with those long arms. His hands come down to hold onto the dark mahogany surface of the bar top, trapping you with your back against it between his arms and your front against his chest. “Not a big deal?” He challenges, being careful to wedge his thigh in between your legs, he presses it up against you.

“It’s all for charity, John.”

Your face remains unchanged as you look into his eyes, darkened by lust with his pupils swallowing the blue of his iris.

“I don’t care,” he rumbles, his voice low, reverberating through your ear where he had loved his mouth to, his lips and hot breath tickling your neck with each word he speaks. You open your mouth to response, but John sees this and ceases the opportunity he has primed himself for so you can’t speak before he does. The words are lost on your tongue, dying before they ever have the chance to exist when he flexes the muscles of the thigh between your legs, tightening and pushing it up against you. He swallows your squeaky whimper with his mouth over yours.

“You’re mine.” He growls against your lips, continuing to make his presence between your legs known, very very known. He does pull back k slightly though, his darkened smirk flattering to a soft smile as he tilts his head to take in your rosy cheeks. “My sweet, kind girl.” He coos, lifting both his hands to cup your cheeks, thumbs smoothing over the soft surface. You giggle at his words, blush deepening. “Seriously though, love,” he hums, “Hate the action, love the cause.”

That prompts another giggle, your head falling to rest on his chest gently. His hands strokes over your hair softly as his lips press down on the top of your head.

“Not mad?” You query, listening in to the soft and slow thud of his heart against your cheek. John has moved you effortlessly to the ballroom dance floor from the bar with only a few backwards steps, letting you lean in against his chest again. “Little bit, of course.” He replies.

John has his arms wrapped tightly around your body to keep you flush against him in every way, swaying back and forth in time with the music.

To any onlookers, it would appear as normal, mundane and incredibly sweet to see the relatively young couple enjoying each other so close on one of his few nights off. Truly, it was adorable when you factored out the reason for the proximity John keeps to your body.

“John?” You lilt, your voice a daring misfire between sweet and sultry. “Mhm?” He rumbles in response, keeping his cheek rested on the top of your head. “Your hard-on is pressing into my stomach.” He chuckles to himself, your words too quiet for anyone else anywhere near to eavesdrop on but enough to flush his cheeks ever so slightly.

“And I would much rather it was in some far more pleasurable places.”

John does not need those words explained to him, nor does he waste even a moment leading you hastily off towards the exit of the ballroom, sure that he could find somewhere in this venue suitable enough to let everybody hear just who you belong to.

[theonewiththefanfics]

Thick And Thin (one-shot)

Synopsis: He never thought his wife would ever even think about divorce. They had problems, which is why they were at marriage counselling. But he never knew her heart had broken a long time ago. And he’d been the one to break it before they even got together.

Pairing: Harry Styles x fem!Reader

Genre: aaaaaaannnnggggssssttt baby, just wanted to write something that’d rip your heart out :)

Warnings: swearing, pain, kinda depressive (??), can’t think of anything else really, but please let me know if there is, also not my best work lol :D

Word count: 7102 (let’s start off the New Year with loads of pain :) )

Italics are flashbacks

“I want a divorce.” 

           Never in Harry’s life did he think he’d have to hear those words. Not after everything they’d been through, not after all of the effort he’d been putting in to save their relationship.

           Those words had not only stunned him but their marriage councillor, the woman’s mouth open mid-word, as she tried to comprehend what was happening. Harry was fairing even worse. It was like his brain was short-circuiting, synapses broken and no longer sending any signals. 

           “Mrs Styles, I know it’s difficult,” the therapist tried to diffuse the situation. “But the reason you’re here is to avoid this specifically.”

           “I don’t remember how you smell anymore,” Y/N continued not listening to the woman, voice like a black void, but her Y/E/C eyes rimmed with tears. “Or taste. I don’t remember how it feels to have you pressed up against me or what it’s like to hear your voice. I… I don’t have anything to cling onto anymore.”

           “It’s why we're here!” he cried through clenched teeth, slipping on his knees before her, hands grasping Y/N’s in a vice-like grip. “It’s why we’re trying.”

           The laugh she let out was detached and without any love. “We tried it your way, Harry.” She’d never called him Harry before. It was always Lover. “And it’s not working for me. It hasn’t from the start. We’re… we’re so unhappy. And I don’t want that for you or for me. We deserve happiness. But I don’t think we can give that to one another anymore.” She took in a shaky breath, looking down at Harry’s hands in her lap. “When I thought of it, at first I felt horrible. I wanted to throw myself off somewhere, but the more I sat on that thought, the more relieved I felt.”

           He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, didn’t want to believe it. “Relieved?” The word felt like acid in his mouth.

           “Yes,” she nodded. “Relieved. Because this choice won’t make us hurt one another anymore. This gives us a chance to have a fresh start.”

           “I don’t want a fresh start! We said – we said through thick and thin.” He was grasping onto the last straw he could find. “This is the thin, but we’ll get through it.”

           “Harry, I already broke through the thin. And now I’m drowning. And when the thick comes, I’ll either be frozen under it and watch you walk further, or I’ll surface somewhere, and I don’t know on which side of the shore I’m gonna be on and where you’ll be. And if you try to get me, you’ll start drowning too. I don’t want that.”

           “But that’s what marriage is! Going through the tough shit together!”

“Harry… I already asked Lionel to draw up the papers. The first draft is done.”

           His blood froze in his veins.

           “When you said to sit down and write one thing that makes me happy about the relationship,” Y/N was looking at the therapist now, “about the person, I – I couldn’t. Because I kept thinking back to the start, to the beginning. That’s what made me happy. But now…” She glanced at Harry. “If there was one thing, I couldn’t do to you, not in a moment like this, is lie. I just… I don’t remember how to be happy with you.”

***

They’d started out as the cliché of best-friends-lose-contact-only-to-be-reunited-and-not-let-their-chance-pass-by-and-fall-in-love. She was ten when she’d moved in next door to him and he was twelve when he’d seen the three vans full up to the house, a little girl hopping out from one of them. Harry watched as she rushed up the doorstep and put in a key, unlocking it and a new chapter of her life with it. Little did he know she’d unlocked a new chapter of his life as well.

She was the new kid at school, and despite the fact that he was a year above, he sat down next to her at lunch.

“ ’M ‘arry,” he said through a mouthful of a sandwich. “Saw you move in yesterday.”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “I’m Y/N.”

And that was the start of a blooming friendship.

On her eleventh birthday, he gave her a handmade bracelet. She gave him a kiss on the cheek as a thank you, making Harry blush all shades of pink and red.

He was thirteen when he had his first real kiss on his birthday. Y/N had simply tried to peck him on the cheek, but he’d turned his head, and her mouth had ended up on his. She’d walked away with a shy smile and ears on fire.

She was thirteen when a boy first asked her out. Harry was the first person she told him about it. That was the first time his heart broke.

When he was fifteen, he got his first girlfriend. Y/N was fourteen when her heart broke for the first time.

           And then he'd gone on X-factor and with that forgotten about her. She called him, texted him, messaged him on social media, but usually, she’d maybe get only one picture or a small ‘miss you too’ as a response. So, after a whole year apart, she gave up. What was the point of trying to save anything when he didn’t want to?

           He moved on and became an international superstar. Y/N moved on and graduated top of her class, got into her first-choice university, and graduated with a first as well. He had some relationships here and there, while Y/N had had a steady relationship since the second year of uni, but when she decided to go to a different one for her masters they amicably broke up.

           Eight years later she was sitting at a café in London, laughing with her ex-boyfriend and catching up, as he explained how what Criminal Minds showed wasn’t really what was taught in his criminology degree classes.

           “I’m still saying I dated real-life Spencer Reid,” Y/N chuckled, sipping on her gingerbread latte. “Don’t give a shit, I need something to flex with.”

           Harry had then walked inside the café, shaking off the snow from his boots when a familiar laugh he hadn’t heard in ages invaded his senses. It was almost like he’d stepped into a dream. 

           When his green eyes befell on the owner of the voice, he had to take a double-take. Somehow in his brain, he’d expected the fifteen-year-old teenager, a t-shirt of his face on her body, as she’d cheered him on when he’d gone onto his first concert as part of One Direction to be sitting in the chair, not the grown-up woman.

           He’d still checked in with Y/N through what she posted on her social media, but as much as he’d promised not to have the celebrity life sweep him away, it had. Harry sometimes had two concerts a day, and he barely had a moment to take a bite of food. And he hated to admit it, but Y/N simply slipped from his life. And he didn’t bother to put in the effort to pull her back.

           A huge wave of guilt and longing rushed through his body as he glanced at the woman, her face lit up by joy as she and the man before her continued on with their conversation.

           Someone tapped on his shoulder, making him turn around and face another customer. “You gonna order anything?”

           For a moment Harry stuttered. He could walk away without inserting himself back into Y/N’s life, but he didn’t want that. He’d missed her. Harry didn’t even realise how much he’d missed her.

           “You go ahead.” He motioned with his hand. “I’m still thinking.”

           Harry took in a deep breath and then walked towards where the pair was sitting. 

           The man’s eyes flitted up to see who was towering over Y/N, only for them to widen, and his mouth hang open. 

A sense of pride filled Harry's chest at the reaction and maybe quenched a little bit of the jealousy invading his body. He used to be the one who made Y/N laugh until she had to tell him to stop or she’d pee herself. He was back to take up the role.

           “You okay there, Dan?” she chuckled. “Don’t tell me there’s a ghost behind my back. I told him not to walk out of the flat wit –“ Y/N had turned around and almost choked on her drink. “Oh my god, Harry! Oh – hi!” She jumped up hugging him, feeling how his body shook with laughter at her reaction, strong arms weaving around her middle. “Holy shit, it’s really you!”

           “Yeah, ‘s me. Who else?”

           “I didn’t know you were back in the UK.”

           A warmth spread through his chest, as he reluctantly pulled away from the hug. “Been checking in on me?”

           Y/N rolled her eyes, sitting back down, but pulling up a third chair for Harry to sit upon. “Dan’s a huge fan.” She motioned with her head to the man. “When we first started dating, I thought he was only doing it because we used to be friends, and he hoped I’d set you up or something.”

           Harry masked the choke of envy by clearing his throat and letting out an awkward chuckle. “Hope I’m not interrupting a date or something.”

           “A catch-up date, but not a date date.” Dan lifted his brows at Y/N, who gave him a ‘don’t start this’ look to which he threw up his hands in surrender. “I’m just making conversation.”

           “You’re being annoying, that’s what you are.” Y/N flicked a crumb from the table towards him. 

           It was in that moment that it truly hit how much he’d missed, and it hit him hard he no longer knew the person who once was his best friend.

           “You’re different,” Harry said, looking over at her trying to keep the lump in his throat from making his voice break. 

           Y/N shrugged, eyes twinkling. “I mean it has been almost a decade. I do hope I don’t look the same as I did then. Otherwise, the pain of braces was of no use.”

           “No,” he chuckled shaking his head. “’S not that… It’s like you’re a different person.”

           “I grew up,” she said, sipping on the last bits of her drink. “ ’M not the same fifteen-year-old you saw last.”

           He nodded and bit his lip. But the thing was, Harry wasn’t the stupid sixteen-year-old that left the fifteen-year-old her either. This time, he wouldn’t let the chance at happiness pass him by when he could’ve had it all along. 

***

           He sat across from Y/N at the large marble table and watched, heart bleeding out in his chest as she put her signature on the papers, her attorney fishing out something from his briefcase and handing it to her under the table. He saw her shoulders shudder before she placed a maroon rectangle with a golden inscription on it in her own purse. Harry wanted to vomit. It was her new passport, where her surname no longer matched his, where he no longer existed, inscribed into the document as her spouse. 

           “Mr Styles?” Y/N’s lawyer pushed the papers his way, the pen laying atop them. “’S your turn.”

           ‘Your turn’, as if it was a game of spin the bottle or UNO. 

           “Don’t make me,” he choked out, pleading with Y/N one last time. “Please don’t make me do this. Don’t make me give up on us.”

           Her words were worse than a knife to his soul. “You can’t give up on something that’s no longer there.”

           When they’d been at the stage of negotiation, he’d kept pushing for giving her at least half of his income, to give her one of the houses they owned together, but she’d turned everything down.

           “I didn’t marry you for your money, Harry.” He’d expected her voice to be full of venom, but it wasn’t. It was sad, resigned. “I don’t want what you’ve earned.”

           “Let me give you at least something.”

           “I don’t want anything from you. If it makes you feel any better, you can donate whatever amount you wanted to give me. I don’t care. All I want from this is for you to sign the papers.”

           “And if I can’t?”

           Y/N sighed, looking down at the table. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

           That’s when her attorney had cleared his throat. “Mrs Sty – Y/L/N. Legally, according to the prenup, you are entitled to half of Mr Styles estate as well as twenty percent of all his earnings.”

           But Y/N just shook her head. “I only signed those documents because that’s what he and his agent wanted. I never asked for it or anything or the sort. Donate it, for all I care. Buy a new house, Harry I literally don’t want to know what you do with your money.” Y/N took in a sharp breath and calmed herself down. It’d been the first time Harry had heard any sort of emotion from her since she'd spoken those horrible words. “I just want this over with.”

           And now, he was at the moment of the end. He just never thought their story would end with broken hearts and ripped up futures.

His handwriting was barely legible at best of times, but right now it seemed as if a toddler had tried to forge it with how much his hand shook. When the pen dropped, so did his shoulders, and he saw Y/N’s drop as well.

           Harry’s with weight from the love lost, Y/N’s with relief, for now their broken hearts wouldn’t hurt one another no longer.

           His lawyer handed him over a new passport as well, where Y/N was no longer written as his spouse. The urge to rip it to shreds was almost uncontainable. He hated it more than the divorce papers.

***

           They’d been dating for a little over two years when he decided to propose, only every plan he had was miserably ruined by some outside force.

           The first time he’d decided he’d do it at a romantic dinner. Harry had found out Y/N wasn’t a fan of huge romantic gestures, so he wouldn’t get on one knee and draw everyone’s attention. He’d simply take her hand in his, kiss her fingers and ask. 

           But as they’d sat at the table enjoying their meal and talking, he noticed Y/N become quieter and quieter. A frown morphed on his face.

           “You alright, Lovie?”

           “Umm,” Y/N’s brow creased even more, and she dropped her fork. “I umm I don’t know. ‘M feeling kind of funky?”

           “What’dya mean?”

           “I – “ Y/N opened her mouth but didn’t manage to get anything else out as she jumped up and rushed towards the ladies room.

           Harry quickly dropped his own utensils and rushed after her, not bothering with the yells of the woman who was looking at herself in the mirror, while his girlfriend threw up her guts inside one of the toilets.

           A member of the staff had run to see what all the commotion was about, but when he saw Y/N half inside a stall, half outside, Harry’s hands keeping her hair away from her face, he went back out and immediately grabbed the first aid kit they had in the kitchen, handing it to Harry along with a cold wet towel.

           Y/N shuddered, leaning against the stall wall sweat glistening on her face, as he pressed the damp cloth against her skin. She gave him half a smile. “Told you not to get the shrimp.”

           “I’ll get the cab, Lovie.” He smoothed away the once meticulously styled hair, which was now stuck to her damp skin. 

           But she shook her head. “Not yet.”

           “Why?”

           “Because I’m about to puke again.”

           In the end, she threw up two more times, her stomach really not agreeing with the entrée. The waiters kept apologising the whole time, and the chef had stopped cooking, the restaurant immediately taking action and refunding everyone who’d ordered anything with shrimps in them.

           When they’d gotten back home, Y/N was so tired and felt so sick, Harry could only help her get out of the dress, clean her up with a warm towel and wrap her up in her favourite pyjamas before curling up together on his bed and falling asleep, making sure if there was a moment, she felt nauseous again, he was by her side. She needed his help more than he needed to propose.

***

           He threw himself into his work like a madman. Day and night, he was either at a studio, on a filming lot, in between meetings or interviews. The media buzzed about how his marriage had fallen apart, even though Y/N hadn’t made a statement or spoken a word to anyone, and neither had Harry. But he guessed the emptiness of his ring finger gave everything away.

           He refused, however, to speak on it. As painful as it was, he was still in love with Y/N. She hadn’t chosen to be in the spotlight, it was Harry’s world, not hers, so he respected her decision to be quiet and remained so himself, save for one single post his management had asked for him to put up. It'd also been the last time he'd spoken to her.

All he received was a simple text message 'do what you have to do'.

           A couple of months down the line though, something came up, and Harry couldn’t keep his tongue behind his teeth.

           It was an article in The Sun, a photograph of Y/N plastered all over the front page with the words ‘Gold-digger Y/L/N finally seen out after divorce with Harry Styles.” He’d snatched the paper right off the stand and flipped it open, frantic green eyes scanning the words.

           ‘Despite it only being two months since the two childhood ex-best friends broke up, Y/N Y/L/N was already seen in the company of a man, sharing a drink, and giving one another flirtatious smiles. An inside source tells us, how she hadn’t even been that upset about the divorce and has been going out and having fun with many male companions, one of them being her ex-boyfriend from university times.’ 

           ‘Harry Styles, known for his time in the pop boyband One Direction and for his solo endeavours in music as well as dabbling in acting, broke everyone’s belief in true love after being seen in public without a ring. This prompted an announcement that the four-year relationship and two-year marriage to who was once his best friend had ended and the two had decided to get a divorce. Although the post showed a picture of their silhouettes holding one another with their foreheads together, and his statement showed nothing but love and respect for his then-wife, sources say Y/N had been controlling and obsessive over her then-husband and hadn’t wanted him to leave to pursue his career, stifling his growth.’

           He didn’t bother to read any further, as he pulled out his phone, calling Jeff immediately to figure out how to make all of it go away, how to do at least one thing right.

           “They’re dragging her name through the mud!” he sneered, not even caring he was bumping shoulders with people, and if the paparazzi would dare spin a story of the state he was in at that moment, he’d sue each and every one of them personally. “I have to do something. Fuck, Jeff, I love her! I can’t let them paint her like this. Y/N – “ he choked back a lump. “She never asked for this. Didn’t ask for anything. And that man – that was Dan, okay. I know him. Yes, he’s her ex, but they don’t know anything!”

           “Harry I’ve sent them cease-and-desist letters already.” Jeff tried to ease him. “But… she’s no longer your concern Har.”

           The words hit him like a bullet and ripped a hole in his chest just like one of them would. “You might still love her,” Jeff’s voice was solemn. “But Y/N is no longer yours to protect.”

           “I can’t just let them talk shit about her,” Harry whispered back.

           His friend sighed on the other side of the line. “I know. Which is why we’ll deal with it. But you have to start letting her go.”

***

The second time Harry wanted to propose was about a month later, and Christmas was right around the corner. They’d decided that Christmas Eve would be spent with his sister, her boyfriend and Anne, while Christmas Day they’d go to Y/N’s side of the family. 

Although they’d settled on one gift each, Harry had been carrying around that small box for what felt like an eternity. And it wouldn’t really be a gift, given how he’d wrap it and hang it in the tree.

“It’s an ornament,” he’d say to her, a smug smile on his lips, as Y/N would roll her eyes at him. “Just because it has your name on it, doesn’t mean it’s immediately a present.”

And then she’d open it, and would gasp, and Harry would slide down on his knee, press a kiss to her ring-free finger before asking that fateful question. 

But just like before, his plan didn’t come to fruition. 

           He’d asked his mother to hang up the little box, so there was no chance of Y/N seeing it in his hands, but what he hadn’t thought of was Gemma’s boyfriend had decided on the exact same plan of action.

           When Michal had dropped down on his knee, Harry’s sister’s trembling hand in his, he couldn’t do that to them. As much as he wanted to marry Y/N, he couldn’t take away Gemma’s moment. So while Y/N was preoccupied with looking at the gleaming diamond on Gemma’s finger, Harry plucked down the box from where it’d hung and placed it on the side no one could see, before he could put it in his bag.

           “ ’M sorry, honey,” Anne had said to him over coffee the next morning. “I didn’t know Michal would do that.”

           He’d just shaken his head, no hurt in his heart. “Great minds think alike. Our moment will come. ‘M happy for Gem. Besides, if he hadn’t done that anytime soon, I would’ve needed to have a stern talking.” 

***

           What his sister said to him made him think he had to be living in a simulation, because it couldn’t be true. Y/N couldn’t be getting married. Not this soon. Not ever. Not to someone who wasn’t him. It had been barely a year since he’d signed the death sentence to his own happiness.

           Harry shook his head. “You’re lying. Tell me you’re lying, Gem.”

           “I’m not.” Her voice broke as she said it. “I saw her at a café. Saw the ring… the man who gave it to her. Harry, I’m so sorry.”

           His mind reeled with questions he wasn’t sure he wanted answers to. Was that why she’d really divorced him? Had she been cheating on him and just needed an excuse out of their relationship to jump into the new one? He was away so much on their relationship, he wouldn’t have been surprised if someone else had swooped in and tried to win her heart.

Harry’s mind was one of the greatest things he’d been blessed him, but also one of the worst curses bestowed upon him, as it weaved a story of Y/N and the man who’d now put a gleaming ring on her finger.

           He was away, like always, doing something he could do another time. She was on her own, keeping their bed warm with just her body, fighting for their relationship on her own, while he made plans once more to go to a different part of the world and leave her behind again.

           Y/N pulled herself out of the bed, sighing and rubbing her face. She opened their closet only to be greeted with Harry’s half empty. Maybe that was the moment she decided to find someone who’d fill it and wouldn’t leave it permanently empty, Harry conjured up.

           She’d dress in a soft jumper and some jeans, a large cardigan hanging over her body and would go to a café for her morning drink. And that’s where she’d meet him. The stranger that would take her out of the lonely life she’d been living. The stranger that would make a smile bloom on her face and her heart stutter once more. The stranger who would show her the love Y/N deserved to have.

           Harry had to shake his head to get rid of the thoughts before they ventured into a worse territory.

           No. Y/N wasn’t like that. No matter what, she would never cheat on him. She had enough dignity for herself and respect for him, even though in his own mind, Harry didn’t think he deserved it. 

           Although he didn’t have a right to, nor was it the sanest move (and if someone saw him doing it, there would probably be a slew of articles), Harry got into his car and drove to where Y/N’s apartment was, and when she opened the door after hearing seven loud knocks, he stepped inside without even waiting for her to invite him. 

           “You’re getting married?”

           She crossed her arms. “It’s none of your concern.”

           “It’s been barely a year! I refuse to believe you’ve moved on so fast.”

           Maybe he was kidding himself, and Y/N truly had, but as much as their marriage had fallen apart, he did have the honour of having known her and having figured some things out deeper than others would.

           Y//N scoffed. “I was proposed to. And I said yes.” The words were like venom entering his veins. “If I wasn’t, then I wouldn’t have agreed to it. And as I already said – it is none of your concern.”

           Harry stood there, watching as she dragged a hand down her face, eyes flitting everywhere he wasn’t. It told him everything he needed to know.

           “You’re not happy,” he whispered stepping forward and reaching for her hand. “I know how you shine when you’re truly happy. This isn’t it. Why are you doing this?”

           “That doesn’t matter.”          

           Harry was so confused, at a complete loss at what Y/N was saying. “So, you’ll what? Get married to him and be miserable? Why the hell did you divorce me then?”

Y/N sighed. “Being unhappy with him isn’t as unbearable as being unhappy with you. Because with you, I know what it feels like to truly fully loved. Which is why it broke me when you stopped.”

           “I never stopped!” Harry whisper yelled, anger coursing through his veins at her words, because they were lies. “Why do you think I dragged us to marriage counselling? Why do you think I kept fighting for us? For you?! You were the one that gave up!” 

           “You weren’t there when I needed you.” 

           Harry blinked rapidly, not understanding what she meant.

           “You left me for ten years. You forgot all about me until that day at the café. Not once did you message me or call me or even send fucking snail mail. I was the one putting in all the effort, I was the one who was trying to keep you in my life, but you didn’t want it. Just like it was when we were married.”

           Rage bubbled under the surface, but he kept it at bay. That was not how he’d get Y/N back. “How?” he asked calmly. “How did I not want it?”

She scoffed shaking her head. “It was the same as it was ten years ago. With the movie, the new album... You were always at the studio or hanging out with your castmates. When I asked for you to free up one night, one single night, you didn’t come back until three AM, drunk off your ass, and I had to take care of you. I asked for one night. And you didn’t even give me that. So forgive me for not feeling like you still loved me.”

           “Why didn’t you talk to me then?!”

           “I did!” This was the first time he’d ever heard Y/N yell, before kneading her lips tightly together and then continuing more quietly. “But you never heard me. Not really. You heard what I asked, and promised to be there, but when the time came… something more important always came up. Something that always deserved to have the promise you gave me to be broken.” Y/N gave him a sad smile. “Do you remember when you first asked me out? And I said no?”

           Harry nodded. “You said that we just got one another back and didn’t want to have anything rip us apart again. Didn’t even want to chance it.”

           “And you said it was exactly why I should give us a chance. That we’d finally found one another again and shouldn’t let the opportunity go…” She tilted her head. “Guess we should’ve listened to me. I included.”

           He couldn’t believe her. “Is that really your takeaway here? You were right?”

           “But I was.” Y/N shrugged. “Look at where we are now. You forgot me for basically ten years.” She shrugged, stepping away. “Give it some time, and you’ll forget me for the rest of your life. Besides, we’ve not known one another longer than we have. So, it shouldn’t be that hard.”

           “Why did you then? Go out with me?” Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. “Get married to me?”

           For a moment Y/N just looked at him, Y/E/C eyes boring into his green ones. “Because I’d once again convinced myself I was important to you, just like I did when we were teens. And in my head, I had dreamt up that maybe I’d be important enough for you not to forget me.”

***

The third time did the charm though.

           They were both sleepy, under the covers of Harry’s bed, eyes barely keeping open as they were determined to finish Elf.

           Y/N had her cheek pressed against his chest, bare body next to his naked one. She hated sleeping in pyjamas (unless they were staying over at one of their parent’s places,) because she said it made her feel like the clothes were suffocating her. Harry didn’t like sleeping with pyjamas because all he wanted was to fully feel the skin of his lover next to his. 

           Snow fell behind the large windows of his London penthouse apartment, covering the city in a white blanket. It rarely snowed there, so he watched with warmth in his heart as the flakes fluttered to the ground.

           It was all so calm, so serene, that Harry realised that’d been the moment he’d been waiting for. No need for fancy dinners or present it as a loud gift. Being together was a gift enough.

           “Lovie?” he asked, nose hidden in her hair. “You awake?”

           All he received in answer was a small hum. She was on the verge of passing out, but this was the moment, so, he whispered the question, voice so low as if he was asking the dark to marry him not Y/N.

           He couldn’t look at her, afraid of what she might say, afraid she might say no, think back to the times he wasn’t there for her, think of all the reasons why he wasn’t good enough for her, and would only bring her sorrow. 

           “Lover.” Her voice was as soft as a summer’s morning. “Look at me. Please.”

           It was one of the most frightening things in his life, as he did so. 

           Y/E/C eyes met green. What he saw on her face allowed his heart to calm down a little.

           “Is the Sun the closest star to us?”

           That he hadn’t expected. “What?”

           “Does it rise in the East and set in the West?”

           “Y-yes?”

           Her hand cupped his cheek, and he melted against her. “Then why are you asking me a question you know the answer will be the same as to those?”

           “Can I put the ring on your finger then?” He was more excited than about anything in his life.

           Y/N shook her head, bringing his lips to brush against hers. “Don’t need a ring. Just need you to kiss me.”

***

           The wedding was far away from the city so that no one from the press could even think about following her or her entourage. The guest list was small, compared to the three hundred people Harry’s and her wedding had had.

           Anne had told him not to go. He wasn’t invited, and neither was she or Gemma, for obvious reasons. As much as Y/N loved them, she knew it’d hurt the two women, but it would hurt Harry more. So seeing her stepping out of the car, dressed in a cream wedding gown, a veil covering her face, made flashbacks appear behind Harry’s eyelids.

           She’d worn an off-white gown before as well, dusty rose to be exact. And Harry’s bow tie had matched it. Y/N had never liked the thought of wearing white at her wedding. 

           “Listen, if it’s white, I’ll most definitely spill something on it,” she’d told him as both of them had been flipping through some wedding magazines. “You know me. But if it’s some other colour, there’s a bigger chance no one will notice when that happens.”

           It didn’t seem right to him. It was like a bad fever-dream like he’d had that one time, and Y/N had had to listen to him babble about the hallucinations dancing in front of him because of the high temperature.

           Her gaze remained on the ground, or maybe on the bucket of white roses in her hands. She hated white roses.

           A woman in a pale blue dress straightened out the back of Y/N’s dress and the train of it, and he watched as her mother came to stand beside her daughter, giving her an elbow to grasp onto.

           All he wanted was for Y/N to be happy, and it hurt to think it wasn’t with him because Harry believed it was supposed to be him. 

           He took in a shaky breath and got out of the car just as Y/N had walked up the steps and disappeared behind the double doors.

           It was going to be him.

***

Harry knew he wasn’t the best husband in the world. He was away for a lot of time, and as conceited of an excuse it was, his job did entail going out to parties, mingling with other people living the high life, and being seen with certain celebs.

           Y/N was never one for it. She always supported Harry, but she didn’t like going out and spending time with people who didn’t care for her existence. Well, maybe they did, but only in a sense that she’d been the lucky bitch who’d snagged up the Harry Styles.

           But if there was something Harry did was love, and he loved wholeheartedly, which is why it absolutely destroyed him when he’d gotten back home one evening and heard Y/N crying in their bathroom.

           She’d never tell him, but it was because no longer did his pillow smell like him. Harry had been away for so long, that the essence of him that’d soaked into their sheets was no longer there. And it broke her to pieces.

           When he’d get home, he’d be so tired, he’d crash on the couch, only tiptoeing his way into their shared room to go to his closet and get some clean clothes in the morning. He’d look over at his sleeping wife and allow a blissful smile to bloom on his face at the sight.

           He was so lucky to have Y/N back in his life. He was so lucky she’d accepted him and fallen for him as he’d fallen for her. He’d silently move over and press a kiss to her temple, before going back down and off to work once more. Only he wouldn’t see the dried tears on her cheeks.

           So, when he’d found her curled up in the tub, hands in her hair, face hidden by her knees, frame trembling like leaves in a storm, he instantly dropped to his knees, ignoring the sharp pain shooting through his bones, as he pulled Y/N into him.

           “I can’t, Harry,” she choked out, shaking her head. He knew it was bad. She never called him by his name. “I can’t do this. I’m so alone. Even when you’re here, I’m alone.”

           Harry had had his heart broken before, and always he wondered afterwards if someone took it out of his chest at that moment, what kind of a sound would it make. Or maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe it’d be as silent as the tears running down his face at Y/N’s confession.      

           “Maybe,” he swallowed harshly trying to keep his whole body from shaking, from showing the fear her statement instilled in him. “Maybe we need couple’s therapy.”

           “What?” her eyebrows had shot up to the middle of the forehead.

           “Y/N, we’re clearly having problems. I – I know I need to work on things, but you’re also not telling me how you’re feeling. Maybe we just need some help.”

           She didn’t really know what to respond. In her mind, Y/N had somehow conjured up an image that if she ever got married, they’d be happy. Sure, they’d fight and have rows, but they’d always be able to work things out on their own. Not once in her life, did she ever think she’d need to go and see a marriage counsellor to help her save her marriage.

           Her own parents much like Harry’s had gotten divorced. Hers had tried therapy. It’d been their last resort. It didn't work. So, when he’d mentioned it to her, that’s what made her decide it was truly over. 

           Y/N nodded, bringing him in for a hug, and felt his body melt into hers with relief.

She’d try, for Harry, but her mind was already made up.

***

           So he stood outside the doors, listening for the line of ‘if there is anyone who opposes this union speak up now, or forever hold your peace’. His hand grasped the handle, ready to push, but… he couldn’t. He’d ruined her happy ever after once before. He couldn’t do that again to her.

           Tears streamed down his face as he pocketed his hands and ventured away from the ceremony. The ceremony where the love of his life was promising to cherish someone else, to fight through thick and thin with someone else, to make someone else happy, while her own happiness suffered.

           Harry sat in his car, waiting for her to exit, a smile on her face as she’d hold the hand of who now was her husband. That'd be the moment he'd let go of her. But when the doors sprung open, she was alone, hands clutching onto the front of her dress, as she rushed down the steps and back inside the car she’d arrived in.

           For a second he sat in his vehicle, stunned beyond belief at what had happened, at what, as horrible as it sounded, he hoped had happened. When a man, hand in his hair ran outside as well, the same woman in the pale blue dress rushing out with him, Harry knew.

           He was basically a madman on the road, breaking almost every possible law as he tried to catch up to the car Y/N had jumped in. 

           His mind raced with the possibilities of where she could’ve gone. The airport, her family’s summer house in Winchester, honestly anywhere in the world, but Harry shut up his mind, and allowed his heart to make the decision.

           It didn’t seem like Y/N had premeditated fleeing from her wedding, which meant she’d need her stuff. And that meant going to her apartment as quickly as possible before someone came to look for her.

           The way he parked was probably illegal leaving the car basically in the middle of the road, but Harry didn’t care much as he frantically rushed up the steps of her apartment complex. He was scared that if he knocked, she wouldn’t open, thinking it might be someone from the wedding, but he didn’t need to be afraid of it, as he saw Y/N, her hair still styled as it had been for the ceremony, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, a suitcase in hand exiting from the flat.

           “Why didn’t you do it?” he breathlessly asked, startling her and making her drop the keys.

           Y/N’s eyebrows furrowed. “What? What are you doing here?”

           Harry stepped closer, hand cupping her cheek, insides trembling from all of the emotions coursing through his body. “Why didn’t you do it? Marry him? Why didn’t you say yes?”

           “I – “ Y/N choked on her words. “I couldn’t say yes. It didn’t feel right.”

           “Why?”

           “Because it wasn’t you, I was saying yes to.”

           That was all Harry needed to kiss her like he'd done once before. And this time, he wasn’t going to let her go. He’d made that mistake twice. He would never repeat it again.

           “I love you,” he cried through a laugh. “I love you. I love you. I love you. And I’m never letting you slip through my fingers ever again.”

           “How can you even think about loving me again after what I did to us?” she asked, pulling away from his lips.

           Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re talking like I ever stopped. Through thick and thin. It’s what we promised. Think and thin, my Lovie."

***

           A sixteen-year-old Harry and a fifteen-year-old Y/N laid outside in the grass of Harry’s garden; eyes trained onto the dark night starlit sky above. It was the day before his life changed forever as did hers.

           “Do you believe in soulmates?” Harry asked, trying to catch a glimpse of a shooting star.

           Y/N scrunched up her nose. “No. I don’t think I do. And I don’t think I want one.”

           “Why not?”

           “What if they’re old and in their thirties? Or dead?”

           Harry snorted at her response.

           “And you?” Y/N turned her head to look at him. “Do you believe in soulmates?

           He bit his lip and nodded. “I think I do. I think it’s two people who’ve been brought together, and no matter what happens will find their way to one another. Through thick and thin.”

"And what if one of them breaks the other's heart?"

"That's the thin." He looked at her. "And you don't give up then. It's when you need to love them even more."

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Everything tags: @lumelgy @palaiasaurus64 @supernaturalbaesduh @breezy1415 @crazy--me @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @sea040561 @staryeyedgirl @deathbyarabbit @s-c-a-r-e-d-po-t-t-e-r @reblogger-not-a-blogger @m-a-t-91 @dalilx @i-need-a-hero-i-need-a-loki @maladaptive-ninja-returns @averyrogers83 @in-the-end-im-still-trash @gallifreyansass @dewy-biitch @avxgers @unlikelygalaxygiver @magicwithaknife @ollyoxenfrees @bnhvrdy @tvwhoresblog @celebsimagines @thatkindofgurl​ @sj-thefan​ @teenwolflover28 @lestersglitterglue​ @im-squished​

Harry Styles tags: @sarcasticallywitty15​ @breezykpop​ @girlboss99​ @harrystylesdoesntknowiexist​ @alliyjane​ @sirtommyholland​

A/N: Happy 2021 everyone! Hopefully things are better this year, and everyone stays safe and sound.

P.S. my tags are always open :)

P.S.S. please don’t repost my fics on other platforms without specific written permission. Reblogs are a okay :)

[the-only-ace]

can you please write something about taem's enlistment? honestly feel awful i feel like he's lowkey sad about it i just wanna give baby cheese a hug :(

haiii i love this request since it is really well... timely (?). i have been planning to finish this request before taemin's enlistment but yeah, here we are... things been busy. so i hope this one is not that late and may this be some sort of comfort for everyone as we wait for our baby cheese's return.

serve well and always take care, taem! we will be just here and wait for your return with bright smiles on our faces.

taemin scenario: looking forward

pairing: taemin x reader

word count: 2.7k

summary: it is taemin's last few hours before his military enlistment and reader tries their best to ease his worries. both are making sure that they have spent the remaining time together to the fullest.

warning: semi-nudity, implied sexual activity (no smut thought)

send in your requests here!

your eyelids slowly fluttered open and soft rays of sunlight greeted your still adjusting eyes. you attempted to rub the sleepiness away from your eyes before slowly sitting up. your raised both of your arms above your head and stretched with a small grunt. the sheets fell down and exposed your naked torso to the cool breeze from the air conditioner. you looked at your side and smiled gently. you rested your cheek on your bended knee and gazed at the sleeping figure beside you.

taemin was sleeping soundly on his chest and the blanket was comfortably wrapped around his hips while his broad bare shoulders were displayed to you. his head was tilted to the side, facing your direction. his eyes were closed with a hint of dark circles visible underneath them--a sign of his hard work within the last few months. his lips were slightly parted and you can hear his soft breaths. his hair that used to be unruly as they got ruffled by the pillows was now cut short. you can't help but reach out and touch them with your cold fingers.

there he was, the love of your life. it may sound cheesy and a bit cliche but it was true. he was your first boyfriend and you were more than pleased that you're still together given how young you both were when you met years ago. you went through a lot of ups and downs like every other relationship out there. it was also challenging at first especially with the nature of his work since he can not fully dedicate his time to you. you eventually got over it mainly because you knew how important and passionate he was with his career. every after his performances, you can see his eyes lit up and his lips stretched into a big bright smile. it was then you knew you have to support this man. you have to be his rock when things got shaky and unstable.

you two actually hit a big milestone in your relationship quite recently. you were living with him for more than a year already and both of you were still amazed how no media outlet has sniffed it out yet. also considering the number of times taemin recorded a live video around the apartment, you're just thankful there were still no accidental reveals.

your train of thought was cut short when taemin suddenly stirred on his position. "sorry, did i wake you?" you asked softly as you retracted your hand away from his hair.

he shook his head before dragging himself towards you. his arms found their way around your waist and his head rested contently on your lap. you smiled at his behavior and then proceeded to stroke his hair again. both of you stayed like that for a bit and soaked into each other's presence while waiting for the drowsiness to pass.

"is it weird?" his muffled voice broke the silence after a few minutes.

"what is?" you inquired back.

"my hair." he rolled to his back and looked up at you.

"it's... new." of course it was, just a few days ago you were happily playing with his hair and extensions. he always allowed you put it up into a bun whenever he came back home. now, you can barely grip them with your fingers. "it's not weird, just new. it actually made you look younger in my opinion." you reassured him with a small giggle.

he frowned and groaned, clearly displeased on your response. he thought you were just lying to make him feel better. he won't believe you anyway even you deny it so you decided to ignore his sulking. you then began drawing lazy shapes across his skin while he started to hum one of his songs. your fingers eventually linger around his tattoos and you can't help but admire them.

"should i get one?" you muttered more to yourself actually but taemin heard it very distinctly. it made him shot up from the bed and beamed at you widely.

"you should!" he exclaimed excitedly. '"i mean if you really want to. we can even go to my artist and get one together."

"okay, calm down, mister." you chuckled since was almost bouncing with enthusiasm. "where should i place it though?"

"well... it would look nice here." he reached out and touch your rib area. his eyes soon landed on the red mark beside his index finger and a playful smirk slowly made its way to his lips. "or here..." he continued and moved his pointer on your collar bone, on another one of his marks. "here would be good too..." he went on and on while pointing out all of his work while his grin grew bigger and naughtier.

"stop..." you rolled your eyes and push his hand away. "i know what you're doing. someone went overboard last night." you can't help but narrow your eyes at him. it would be a pain to hide later when you go to work.

"i'm sorry, i just thought they would be a great parting gift." he shrugged before leaning closer. "so did you like it?" he raised his eyebrows suggestively.

"eh... it's alright, i guess." you teased with a joking scowl.

"well, that can be fixed easily." he tackled and pinned you down in the bed, making you let out a high-pitch scream. he wasted no time on littering quick kisses all over your neck. you writhed under him as you attempted to escape him since you were feeling ticklish from his soft lips.

a blaring alarm noise interrupted your noises and movements. taemin pushed himself up and looked at the clock on your bedside table. he took a deep heavy sigh before dismissing the alarm. you immediately felt the change in his mood as he got up from the bed.

"i'll go brew us some coffee," he announced and got out of the bedroom.

it was now your turn to sigh. you already tried your best to ease his worries yesterday but just like you have predicted he was still troubled. you can't blame him though, after doing only one thing ever since he was only 12 years old, you get why he was anxious about this upcoming change. not to mention that he will be going through this alone in a way. his other members enlisted at the same time so the thought of someone experiencing the same helped them get through it much easier.

you got up and walked towards the chair near the bed and snatched taemin's shirt that was carelessly hanging from its backrest. you pulled it down your head and you can't help but smell his scent; it was his favorite shirt after all. god, you were going to miss him so bad.

you followed taemin towards the kitchen and the aroma of the coffee greeted you. he looked at you from head to toe and it made him smirk. he knew how much you love stealing his shirts. it was quite comforting to know that at least his clothes will be used even though he was away.

preparing breakfast was peaceful and intimate. taemin was hugging you from behind while you cook your meal; outrightly ignoring your protests since it was not really easy to move around with him clinging to you. in a few minutes, both of you are sitting down at the dining table and quietly enjoying the hot food in front of you.

it felt like a normal lazy morning. days like these were common after his promotions. it was when he has some time to rest and replenish his energy. those were the days you always anticipate since you were able to see him more often and spend more quality time together. if he didn't have a buzz cut, it was easy to fool yourself that this day was one of those.

"do you think, i'll do well?" he suddenly asked when he placed his chopsticks down.

"of course," you quickly replied without missing a beat. no matter how many times you convinced him already, you will never get tired of doing it if that will give him peace of mind.

"what makes you say so?" he looked up and met your unwavering eyes. "what if i'm not fit for it?"

"and what if you are?" you challenged. "look, we'll never know something unless we try it but trust me, knowing you, you'll do just fine. they used to criticize your singing career back then and look where you are now. you don't let external factors affect you and you always work hard to achieve your goals. so what makes this different? i know once you set your heart to something, you'll be able to do it. you just have to trust yourself as well."

"always saying the right words," he sighed and rested his head on his hand. "what will i be without you?"

"still probably as great as you are now." you knew that taemin achieved his success on his own. all those late-night practices and sacrificing a normal life as a teen, it was all him. you were only his supporter who hopefully made the process a bit easier. "besides, you crushed the obstacle course in dream team last time so i believe the drills will be manageable for you." you cheekily added.

"wow, you still remember that? i'm no minho though." he shook his head while chuckling.

"no one's like that competitive monster." you scoffed.

"yeah..." he trailed off, obviously being concern about another matter again. "i hope our fans won't forget me."

"don't be stupid." you frowned and kicked him lightly under the table. "of course they would wait for you especially after being their comfort when the other members were serving their time. i'm sure that they would be counting the days for your return and they would be delighted to see you again. although, no one would be more thrilled than me so... don't forget me as well."

"how can i forget you if i will be thinking of you every single day?" he stood up and gave you a kiss on the forehead. "thank you."

"for what?" you inquired.

"for always being there especially when i need it the most." his tone was warm and heartfelt. "i should probably take a shower now."

you nodded and listened to his footsteps disappear into the bathroom. as soon as you heard the water running, you stood up as well and placed the plates on the sink. you then went back to your shared bedroom and doubled check the contents of his black backpack, making sure that he did not forget anything important. knowing him, there was a huge chance that he does. you also added a few extra clothes and toiletries just in case he did something stupid and end up breaking or losing some of his stuff.

it felt wholesome to pack his things for him. as if you were his wife helping him prepare for his upcoming trip. if only the trip wasn't going to be 18 months long.

the time flew by quickly after taemin's shower and suddenly you were by the doorway, watching him wear the straps of his backpack. you handed him his black baseball cap before fixing the strings of his black hoodie.

"you all set?" you asked trying hard not to make your voice crack. it was finally sinking in for you and you didn't want him to know that.

"yeah," he nodded as he fixed his cap.

both of you stood there, not really knowing what to do or say next. you should probably wish him luck and send him off but you don't want to. not yet, you keep on repeating to yourself. sensing your dejection, taemin suddenly grabbed your wrist and pulled you into one of the tightest hugs he has ever given. your hands quickly wrapped around him and you buried your face on his chest, inhaling his scent and trying to memorize it--even though you already do.

"i'm going to miss you," he whispered tenderly. "so much."

"i will miss you too." you finally let out the sob you were holding back. thinking that it was impossible, his embrace tightened even more around your shaking frame.

he kissed the top of your head and murmured how much he loves you again and again. right then and there, you wanted to be selfish and don't let him go, and as if on cue his phone started to ring. he answered it and their conversation was less than a minute but you know exactly what it was about.

"they're downstairs already," he stated as he let go of you.

"you should not keep them waiting then." you clumsily wipe away the tears in your eyes.

you both bid your goodbyes before sharing one last kiss. he then got out of the apartment and closed the door behind him.

and just like that, you were left there in complete silence. you blankly stare at the closed door and you never felt more alone in your life.

you were about to turn around when the door burst open without warning. standing there was taemin who unmistakably ran back considering his heavy pants.

"taemin?!" you exclaimed from the shock. "what, did you forget something?"

"yes, i forgot to ask you something." he exhaled. "i forgot to ask you to marry me," he said in full seriousness while staring straight into your eyes.

"y-you... what? huh?" you fumbled with your words as your brain tried to process whatever he just said. "w-what did you say? i don't--" you attempted to ask again.

"when i get discharged, will you marry me?" he repeated as he moved closer towards you. you just gaped at him without saying a word and that made the nervousness slowly crept into him. "sorry, i was not able to get a ring since this was... well, spontaneous. but um... here, will this do?" you watched him remove the ring he was always wearing on his right hand. he unceremoniously raised it in front of you and waited for your reply.

you were beyond stunned. sure, you both talked about getting married someday but you didn't think he would propose today. you always knew that when he planned for the special day, you will easily catch on. he was not really the best planner and secret keeper after all. nothing has prepared you for this moment.

"y/n?" he cautiously called out, getting a little concern from your lack of response.

you looked away from the ring and moved your eyes to meet his uneasy ones. he was undoubtedly waiting for your answer.

"yes," you barely managed to blurt out. "yes, of course, i do!" you repeated, this time firmer.

you have practically seen the weight off his back after hearing your response. he broke into a tiny celebration dance before composing himself again and sliding the ring into your finger.

"okay... i didn't think about that part." the ring was big for you which was not surprising. "sorry, i'll just get you a new one soon." he embarrassingly rubbed the back of his neck.

"it's alright, it's perfect." you can now feel another urge to cry but this time it is out of happiness.

"i love you," his expression soften and one eyebrow raised up, a habit of his whenever he says something genuine. he titled your chin up and captured your lips for a passionate kiss. you stand on your tiptoes in your attempt to deepen the kiss which made him smile. his other hand moved to your lower back and pulled you closer to him while you ran your fingers through his hair. it felt right, both of you know exactly that this is where you two belong--with each other.

however, your little heaven was interrupted once again by the ringing of his phone.

"okay, you should definitely go now." you ultimately let go of your hold around him.

he nodded. he knew he cannot delay his departure any longer. "goodbye."

"goodbye," you echoed. "just for now."

he waved his hand before going out and shutting the door. this time though, he did not come back running. you knew he was on his way to his enlistment and you would be alone in the apartment for months but right now, you did not feel that lonely anymore.

you looked down and adored the ring around your finger. 18 months would indeed move slowly but it will be bearable because this time, both of you have something to look forward to.

[leejungchans]

— unexpected.

🆕 ask juliet anything!! | juliet’s masterlist

word count: 2.1k

warning(s): mentions of self-doubt, insecurities and intrusive thoughts; someone says some pretty harsh words to juliet here but nothing extreme

disclaimer: please keep in mind that the trainer mentioned in this is a completely fictional character hence why his name is never mentioned!!

set in june 2019; a few days after ateez’s first win for wave

summary: in which the boys help juliet when she gets a message from someone who she never expected, nor wants, to see again.

a/n: putting juliet in a bit of Pain™️ here 😔 as always, you are always welcome to leave feedback or chat with me!! 💕💕

As Seonghwa clears away the dishes after dinner, he notices Juliet curled up on the sofa with her phone in hand. Normally, he wouldn’t think much of it, given the other members are doing the same as they lounge around the living room. But one look at the maknae’s grave expression tells him that something is wrong.

Jongho, who’s been helping Seonghwa take the plates into the kitchen, catches him staring and follows his gaze. The two silently watch as Juliet types something on her phone before furiously tapping on the screen to delete whatever she wrote with a frustrated sigh, her long acrylic nails creating a crisp tapping noise. This draws the attention of the other six boys as they all turn to look at her with concern, though she doesn’t seem to notice from being so focused on her phone.

“Minyoungie, is everything okay?” Hongjoong finally asks, sitting up from his spot on the ground.

“Hm? Oh, yeah. I’m fine, don’t worry,” she reassures with a stiff smile, but it’s evident that something is clearly bothering her.

The leader gets up to sit next to her on the couch. “Do you want to talk about it? Or do you want some time to yourself first?”

Juliet contemplates his question for a few seconds before speaking again. “It’s nothing serious, I guess,” she admits, “but one of my former trainers at SM messaged me just before dinner asking me to meet up with him, and I don’t know how to respond.”

“Oh,” Hongjoong says. The mention of her former company causes the others to pay full attention to their conversation, knowing how unpleasant her experiences with a few of her former trainers were though she never talked about such incidents in detail. “Do you want to, though?”

“No,” Juliet responds immediately, expression turning cold. “Not now, probably not ever.”

“What happened with him?” Wooyoung asks before quickly adding, “you don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to.”

Juliet sighs, stuffing her phone into the pocket of her hoodie before hugging her knees to her chest. “No, no. I think it’s about time I told you guys what happened exactly, I guess I never did because it felt like there was never a right time to bring him up, and also because it feels stupid to talk about it when I haven’t seen him in years, and have no intention of changing that.”

Wooyoung pats her knee comfortingly. “Tell us however much you’re okay with,” he says with a gentle smile, “you don’t have to go into full detail if you don’t want to.”

Juliet pants heavily when the music stops, crouching down to catch her breath desperately while cursing the horrible cold she’s been dealing with for the past few days.

She just knows everyone noticed how her movements have gotten more sluggish with every time they go over the dance, and the humiliation sears through her body like a raging fire.

Someone—she can’t see who and is too dizzy to even turn her head in that direction to check—comes up from behind to rub her back soothingly as her chest continues to heave from exhaustion.

“Five minutes,” the gruff voice of their dance trainer says, and the group of girls instantly scramble to where their water bottles are lined up neatly against the wall. “Baek Minyoung, not you.”

At the sound of her name, Juliet looks up to see the man crooking a finger, motioning for her to walk over to where he is in a secluded corner of the practice room. Shakily, she stands up as the other girls murmur quiet encouragements, though they quickly leave her side from the glare the man sends towards them.

Juliet knows that no amount of mental preparation is enough when it comes to this particular trainer, and it makes her heart sink deeper and deeper with every step she takes towards him.

Her head is bowed when he starts speaking, not daring to look into his flaring eyes. “What’s wrong with you?” the man wastes no time in asking accusingly. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice how terrible your dancing has gotten these few days? Do you think slackers have a place here? You looked like a dying slug out there.”

“No, Sir. I’m sorry. I’m not trying to slack off, I have a cold, which is why—”

“I’m not interested in hearing your excuses,” he cuts her off icily. “Do you know what idols do when they get sick? They keep pushing. And that’s the complete opposite of what you’re doing.”

“I understand. I’m really sorry. I will do better,” Juliet replies softly, voice barely above a whisper, hoping that he’ll let her off easy.

But today is not her lucky day. The sound of a dry chuckle sends chills down her spine.

“Do you want to know something?” She doesn’t. In fact, she dreads knowing. But something tells her she doesn’t have the luxury of choosing, so she continues to keep her head down and tries to zero in on her shoes to hold back her tears.

She can feel the weight of everyone’s stares on her back, and she wants nothing more than to disappear into thin air.

“There were discussions about adding you to Red Velvet along with Yeri. A few people thought you were too young, others saw potential in you,” the trainer sneers. “Personally, I don’t see any of that, and I’m glad that they ultimately did not debut you, because all I see is an ungrateful, lazy brat.”

Juliet bites down harder on the inside of her cheeks to keep the tears at bay, and it doesn’t take long for her to taste iron.

“You better go back there and get your crap sorted out. Because if I see you not being up to par with the others again, I will not hesitate to go to the higher-ups with this, then you can kiss your future in this industry goodbye. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Look at me when you answer.”

Juliet swears she’s never seen so much hatred and disdain in someone’s eyes until the moment their eyes meet. And it takes everything in her not to burst into tears as she repeats her response in a trembling voice.

The man scoffs, dismissing her with a wave of his hand as though batting away an insect before clapping his hands together to gain the others’ attention.

“Break’s over! Let’s hope some of you actually know what you’re doing this time,” he says scornfully, blissfully ignorant of the fact that every word he said feels like another stab to her heart.

When Juliet looks up at her reflection in the mirror, she barely recognised herself from how hollow and empty her gaze looks, a far cry from the girl who started her journey as a trainee with starry eyes and a fiery passion.

What had she become? is the last thought that comes to mind before the music starts again, and she can only hope that she can make it through the rest of the session without making a mistake or collapsing.

“So... that’s basically what happened,” Juliet chokes out, leaning her head back as she blinks back tears. To be honest, she had to give herself credit for getting through that story without crying, knowing that that incident in particular instilled a new, and much more profound, sense of fear and self-doubt within her. “You can now probably see why I don’t want to meet with him.”

San comes to sit on the armrest of the couch so he can wrap his arms around the girl. “I’m so sorry that happened, but I’m glad you’re not in that situation anymore.”

“Yeah, me too,” Juliet chuckles bitterly, still not meeting any of the boys’ eyes by looking down at her hands. “I don’t think I’ve been the same since then. I mean, not that it’s completely his fault because there were so many contributing factors, but... I’ve never looked at myself so negatively until that day... it suddenly felt like I was the only person who couldn’t see how utterly worthless I was... I don’t know.”

“But what did he text you?” Despite the anger he feels for this man for hurting her in such a way, Seonghwa still manages to stay levelheaded.

Juliet takes her phone out to reread the message. “He said he was watching M Countdown a few days ago and recognised me when we got our first win. He congratulated me and apologised for everything he said to me when I was at SM. Then he asked me if I wanted to meet with him for lunch.”

“But how did he get your number?” Yeosang wonders out loud, frowning deeply. “That’s kinda creepy.”

The girl shrugs. “Who knows? I don’t know what he’s up to now, but he likely still has contacts in the industry and asked around for my number.”

Wooyoung scoffs. “The fact that he only reached out now shows he’s probably not that apologetic, since he’s the one who implied he remembers everything he’s said to you. If he really felt guilty, he would’ve made use of those contacts of his to reach out to you to apologise a lot earlier.”

“That’s what I thought,” Juliet agrees. “The fact that he texted me right after our first win doesn’t seem like a coincidence.”

Mingi huffs. “Maybe just tell him to get lost or something. He’s not worth the time.”

“If she isn’t an idol, she can cuss him out all she wants. But if like you said,” Hongjoong muses thoughtfully, turning back to Juliet, “and he’s either still in the industry or has contacts, then you can’t be too rude to him in case he tries to use it against you to paint you as some villain. You know how some people are.”

The others nod defeatedly. He has a point.

“Then... what do we do? We can’t let her go meet with him,” San says, his arms subconsciously holding Juliet a little tighter protectively.

“Of course not,” the leader assures, “I think the best course of action is to thank him for congratulating you, accept his apology—even if you don’t really want to, it can just be for show—and politely decline his invitation because your schedule is full.”

Juliet hesitates. “But what if he says that I’m lying to get out of it?”

“I mean, it’s not really a lie,” Yunho points out. “Our tour is coming up soon and we’re gonna be busy practising for it, so it really is the truth that you don’t have the time to see him. Plus, you don’t owe him anything, who cares if he thinks you’re lying or not?”

Juliet nods slowly, fingers hovering over the keyboard as she tries to think of a response, but her mind is so overwhelmed from the sudden message and the memories that nothing comes up.

“Do you want me to help you type it?” Seonghwa asks tenderly after a while of watching her struggle to formulate anything.

“Yes, please,” Juliet says immediately, visibly relieved as she pushes her phone into Seonghwa’s hand. The oldest member cocks his head to the side while he thinks before typing something down.

A few moments later, he hands her back her phone. “Here. If you’re okay with this, then you can send it to him.”

The other boys crowd around Juliet so they can all read the message Seonghwa typed out. When done, she looks up at Hongjoong for confirmation.

“It’s good, I think,” he says approvingly. “It’s short and concise, polite but not too friendly or curt so there’s no way it can be taken out of context in case it somehow gets leaked.”

Juliet nods, pressing on the “send” button with bated breath. The moment she sends the message, she feels as though a huge weight has been lifted off her, having spent the whole time during dinner silently stressing over how she should respond to the point where she could barely get down her food.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she says, leaping off the sofa to throw her arms around Seonghwa’s neck. “I wouldn’t know what to do if it wasn’t for you guys. I actually contemplated pretending he had the wrong number or even meeting with him once so he’d leave me alone after that,” she admits, “but I’m glad you stepped in before I did either of those things.”

“And I’m glad you told us about this so we could work through it together,” Seonghwa smiles, stroking the girl’s head. “You don’t have to struggle with these things alone.”

“Now that we took care of that jerk, I think we should order chicken to celebrate!”

Seonghwa looks at the younger boy in disbelief. “Yeosang, we literally just had dinner!”

Juliet laughs. “It’s okay, there’s always room for chicken! Besides, I’m paying this time as a thank you!”

“In that case, who am I to complain?”

a/n: that incident was a pretty huge turning point for juliet in terms of her mental health. she already doesn’t feel confident in herself as most trainees are, but to hear from someone directly that she didn’t get to debut because she was apparently all those horrible things made a lasting impact on her, and since then she’s felt even more horrible about herself :( but she’s gotten a lot better at managing those feelings now and of course she has the support of the boys!!

[polaroid15]

Worst Date Ever

Summary: Peter and MJ go to the movies. Turns out, all it takes is an ex-Stark employee with a grudge and a sniper rifle to ruin the mood.

Read on Ao3 here :)

------

“That movie was terrible. Like, Captain America PSA bad.”

Beside her, Peter huffs out a small laugh. “Oh come on MJ, it wasn’t that bad.”

“It totally was!”

“But as bad as the PSA’s?” he stresses.

“Worse.”

“No way!”

MJ can’t help but laugh. It’s cold outside the theatre and she shoves her hands deep in her coat pockets to combat it. “Why’d he even agree to make those?” she asks.

Peter gapes at her for a moment. “Um. I don’t know. I haven’t exactly asked him.”

“But you could!”

And it’s true, crazy as it sounds.

“I’m sure he had a good reason,” Peter says, contemplating. “Maybe he was blackmailed.”

MJ hums in disagreement. They link arms at the elbows and start their long walk home, kicking up leaves from the sidewalk. “Do war criminals really have a good reason for anything?”

“Oh my God. You and Tony would get along.”

Tony. MJ smirks. “What happened to calling him Mr. Stark?”

Almost looking embarrassed, Peter shrugs deep in his coat. “Uh- did I say Tony? I meant Mr. Stark. Totally.”

“Right. And I definitely believe you.”

“MJ!”

“You know I’m messing with you. The fact that you’re on a first name basis with the Avengers is just-”

“Crazy? Hard to believe?”

“Well, duh. But I was going to say cool.”

Peter smiles again. It makes her stomach dissolve. “I guess.”

The streets are quiet, dark. It feels like they’re the only two in the world aside from the occasional flash of lights from a passing car. So what if she leans in a little closer, or tightens her grip on his arm?

Sue her.

“I had fun tonight,” Peter murmurs. He turns his head toward her but looks away just as quick. It doesn’t prevent her cheeks from heating.

“Me too,” she says. “Even though the movie totally sucked.”

Peter opens his mouth to respond but tenses before he speaks, eyes widening and head snapping towards the opposite side of the street. Feeling her heart rate spike, MJ digs her nails into his jacket. “What is it?”

His eyes narrow against the darkness. She can see his pulse jumping through his neck. “My- it doesn’t matter. Let’s just get out of here.”

With urgency, he slides his hand down to her own and grasps it tightly, moving to pull her down the street. They barely make it three steps before Peter jerks beside her, a sound like someone being punched hard in the gut reaching her ears. Before her mind can catch up to what’s happening Peter makes a low gasping sound and folds over like wet paper, dragging her down with him.

Her knees hit the cement hard, though she hardly registers the pain through the blind panic coursing through her bloodstream. Peter continues to gasp horribly, his hand leaving her own to clutch up at his stomach. “Oh- oh man-”

“Peter what happened? What’s wrong?”

“MJ-”

“Peter! Talk to me!”

“We have to- we have to go.”

“What?”

“Now.”

Then she sees it.

Red circles on the cement, growing steadily with each passing second. All the information snaps together in her head in one terrifying second and she forgets how to draw in air, tears of panic making her eyes sting.

“You got shot,” she concludes numbly.

“Don’t-” Peter whines, curling the hand supporting him into a fist. His gasps morph into short panicked breaths. “I can’t think about it, okay? Help- help me up.”

What? She feels glued to the cement, stuck forever in the whirlwind of the past thirty seconds. Peter isn’t Spider-Man right now. Getting shot shouldn’t have even been in the realm of possibilities-

“MJ please.”

“What?”

“I need- I need you to help me up. I can’t do it myself.”

Some semblance of coherence returning to her, MJ shakes her head vigorously and tries hard to separate her mind from her body. She sits him back and registers the growing stain above his hip bone before she’s pressing her palms into it. He bites back a scream at the pressure and tries to squirm away. “You need an ambulance!”

“No. No. Spider, remember? Just help me up before someone comes-”

“Peter Parker!”

“MJ! Trust me, okay?”

Their eyes connect for a millisecond. It’s all it takes. She nods, hands shaking as they release his wound and instead work to wrap around his arm. Together they manage to stand, though both of them sway once vertical.

“Tell me what to do,” she says, white spots eating away at her vision through her panic. She keeps looking across the street to where the shot was fired from, but it’s quiet. “I’ve got you Peter. Just- you gotta tell me what to do.”

Peter looks around deliriously, the skin under his eyes wet. She wonders in detachment if he knows he’s crying. “There,” he says finally, dipping his head towards a gas station on the corner. “Bathroom.”

Without wasting another second, MJ gathers her strength and helps Peter walk. He stumbles more than once, but she manages to steady him before he hits the ground. She ignores his slurred apologies and focuses on putting one foot in front of the other.

By some miracle, they make it. The bathroom needs a key but Peter breaks the handle clean off in his desperation to get inside. They collapse inward, laying gasping against the cold tile as Peter continues to fight for breath.

“Need- need to get it off,” he slurs. He crawls towards the sink and MJ lags, brain short circuiting. She watches him as he pulls himself up, eyes rolling for a moment before refocusing and turning on the taps. He lifts up his shirt with a shaking hand and throws the water against the gore on his stomach.

Move, MJ. Help him.

His breathing is getting worse, his face more pale than she’s ever seen it.

Move!

“Peter,” she wheezes, standing on weak knees and rushing to his side. She grabs his wrists gently and pulls them away from the water. He won’t look at her, fighting weakly. “Peter. Stop-”

“Need to get it off,” he says again, chest heaving. “Ben-”

Oh.

Tears returning to her eyes, MJ rests a careful hand against the side of Peter’s face, rubbing her thumb under his eye. It carries blood underneath it like the stroke of a paintbrush. “Peter look at me. Look at me.”

Slowly, he does, though she’s not sure he really sees her. “This isn’t Ben. You’re not there, okay? You’re going to be okay. We need to stop the bleeding.”

“Bleed- bleeding?”

Heart aching, MJ guides Peter to sit against the wall and maneuvers his hands to press into his side. When they stick, she rushes to the paper towel dispenser and rips out sheet after sheet until her hands are full.

“Where’s your phone, Peter?”

“Phone?”

MJ crouches down beside him, her knees sticky with blood. She moves his hands and pushes the paper towel over the wound, applying pressure until he grunts. “Yes, your phone! Give it to me.”

“Right.” Trembling, Peter wrestles it out of his jacket pocket and drops it before it reaches her hand. She picks it up off the floor and unlocks it, careful to ignore the way her thumb leaves an ugly streak of red against the screen.

“Come on, come on,” she whispers, her vision seeming to narrow down to a pinprick. She holds her breath until she finds the contact.

It rings.

And rings.

And rings.

“What’s up kiddo?”

MJ sobs in relief. Peter looks at her in confusion, reaching a weak hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She feels blood transfer onto her cheek from his fingers and shivers. “Mr. Stark? Thank God.”

“Who is this? Where’s Peter?”

“I’m- my name’s MJ. Peter’s hurt. We need help.”

“Damn it. Okay. Crap. Jesus. I’m on my way. What happened?”

MJ spaces. What happened? “We- we were at the movies. We were walking home. Peter- Peter sensed something bad and then- and then he got shot.”

“Shot?”

“Yes.”

Stark curses loudly. Multiple times. “Did you see who it was? Are you in danger?”

“No. They- they were across the street. I didn’t see them. I think we’re okay now.”

Whatever his response is, it’s lost to her ears as Peter relaxes under her hold, his chin dipping and eyelids fluttering. She yelps and shakes him, though perhaps too hard because he flinches hard, tears spilling out of the corners of his eyes.

“Ben,” he moans, lips wobbling. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a heavy silence on the phone, filled only with Tony’s sharp breathing. “Damn it,” he mumbles eventually, as if it hurts to talk. “Three minutes. I’ll be there in three minutes, alright? Try to keep him awake. Distract him from thinking about his Uncle.”

“Okay. Right. Sure.”

Peter curls his hand around her wrist. It leaves a bracelet of red. “MJ.”

“Peter. Oh man. I hope you know that you’re scaring the hell out of me right now.”

“Sorry.”

“No it’s not- nevermind. God, you’re annoying sometimes.”

At this, he smiles. There’s blood streaked on his face from where she had tried to comfort him, already on its way to drying. “At least- at least this is more exciting than that movie.”

Unbelievable. MJ huffs out an anxious laugh. “Are you kidding me right now Parker?”

“Memorable,” he slurs before his head dips again. MJ sacrifices a hand to catch it.

“Don’t pass out on me,” she says fiercely. “It’s rude to pass out on dates.”

“S’ry.”

“Tony will be here soon.”

Peter moans low at this, his touch around her wrist weakening. “Can’t- can’t invite dad’s on dates. That’s- that’s lame.”

MJ feels like she’s spinning. “Peter-”

Metal hits the ground hard from behind and she doesn’t need to look to know that Tony is here. He collapses at her side within seconds, his laboured breaths filling the small space and his hand reaching to cup the back of Peter’s neck. His other hand pushes Peter’s hair back in a movement more gentle than MJ could think possible.

Like a dad.

“Hey Petey, how’re we feeling?”

Peter doesn’t even try to look at him, his eyes glassy and unfocused. “Been- been better.”

“I’ll say.”

“Bad date,” Peter murmurs, resting his head more fully against Tony’s hand. “Shot. Whoops.”

“Whoops indeed,” Tony agrees, “God, kid you’re a disaster.” He turns towards MJ. It’s her first time meeting the billionaire in person, though the shock factor is diluted against the fact that her boyfriend is actively bleeding out underneath her hands.

“You must be MJ,” Tony says, offering a hand. The fact that her own is covered in blood doesn’t seem to cross her mind as she reaches to shake it, feeling increasingly dizzy. “Sorry about all this. Parker luck, you know.”

“What-”

As if to steal back the attention, Peter gives one last guttural moan before his body goes limp. It takes both MJ and Tony to keep him from kissing the cement.

“That’s my cue,” Tony says, gathering Peter into his arms. Shifting the position, he looks at his watch. “Happy will be here in two minutes, alright? Do you know who Happy is? Actually, doesn’t matter. You can trust him. He’ll clean up this horror show and take you over to the compound, alright?”

After an inappropriately long pause, MJ finds enough sense to nod, distracted by Peter’s lax body in Tony Stark’s arms.

“Okay. You did good. Don’t freak out. Deep breaths. Stay here. Two minutes.”

She blinks, and Tony is gone.

Blinks again, and a flushed man in a black Audi pulls in front of the bathroom. She sits in the corner and can’t make out what he says to her as he pulls at the paper towel and mops away the blood. On the sink, on the wall, on the floor.

“Can you stand?” he asks when he finishes. It looks like Peter had never even been here. She looks at him through swimming vision. “What?”

“Stand. Can you stand?”

“Oh.” After a short nod, MJ makes it to her feet. The man’s hand wraps around her elbow, warm and gentle, and she lets him lead her out to the car.

-------

The Avengers Compound looks much bigger in person, she decides. She stares at it and shoves her hands between her knees to keep them from shaking. She smells like blood and movie theatre popcorn.

Happy tries to make conversation, to assure her, but her frazzled mind tunes him out to a dull static. Her teeth chatter with chills unrelated to the cold and she must lose time because the next time she becomes aware the car is parked and her door is open, the man named Happy standing in its place and talking. Surprised her ears have spontaneously stopped working, she fights to break the spell and blinks to clear her vision. “What?”

Happy sighs, though through his tough demeanor she sees a flicker of empathy. “You need to get out of the car.”

“Oh. Right.”

Nauseous, MJ stumbles out onto the driveway and from there allows Happy to guide her up to a set of double doors. The Compound is warm and for a moment, she lets herself relax.

“P-Peter?” she asks. “Have you heard anything? Is he- is he going to be okay?”

“It’ll take more than a bullet to take down that kid. Don’t worry. He’s in good hands.”

Though his words feign confidence, MJ remains unassured. They stop outside a large door, which Happy opens, and gestures for her to enter. “Clean the blood off. You’ll feel better.”

It’s a bathroom. She pauses at the door until the request processes in her brain. Then, strangely untethered, she nods and steps inside.

As soon as the door shuts she slides back against it, stars floating across her vision. She digs her nails into her scalp and forces herself to fill her chest with air.

“Oh God.” She crawls over to the toilet and barely has time to lift the lid before she gags.

She feels better.

Feeling more coherent, MJ makes her way to a fancy porcelain sink and twists the water until it steams. Then, without focusing her attention, she dips her hands under the stream and scrubs with lemon soap until her hands burn too badly to continue. She wipes violently at her face, at her arms, at the darkened denim at her knees.

Not sure how much time has passed, MJ exits the bathroom to find Happy standing in the hall, phone pressed to his ear as he paces. His eyes catch her and his expression softens. “I’ll call you back,” he says. “Better?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Good news. Peter just got out of surgery. They have him all settled. I’ll take you up to see him.”

He begins to walk away, though MJ doesn’t follow. Her feet feel like bricks. “He’s really okay?” she asks.

Happy stops. “Yes. He’s fine.”

A sharp pain in her chest she hadn’t fully realized was there loosens at the confirmation. Lightheaded, she follows.

The hospital room is dimly lit, casting long shadows. Peter is laying in the center of the room, pale and unconscious but alive. Hardly able to register her relief, she freezes in the doorway as Happy wanders in, his face a picture of undeniable worry. Stark is sitting in a chair close to Peter's bedside, his eyes bloodshot and his hand resting protectively against Peter’s arm.

Happy stands beside the man, one hand resting on his shoulder and the other on Peter’s blanketed leg. They share a quiet conversation before Happy nods and moves to leave. He pauses beside her. “What are you waiting for?” he asks.

Then he hurries out into the hall.

It takes a couple of long seconds before she regains control of her legs. She drifts in and eases down in a chair on the opposite side of Tony, who regards her with sharp eyes.

“How’re you holding up?” he asks, which almost surprises her more than the gunshot.

“M-me? I’m fine. How’s Peter?”

“Also fine.”

“He wasn’t-”

“He is now.”

Stark is running his thumb across Peter’s arm, almost absent mindedly. MJ is transfixed by the obvious display of affection and feels, to some relief, the confinement of her worry slowly dissipate.

“Do you know who it was?” she asks. “That shot him?”

The man’s eyes darken, something like guilt passing through them. “Yes, actually. A bitter employee.”

“What?”

“Someone who used to work for me. They were- unethical, to say the least.”

Once again, MJ’s mind is spinning. “Why Peter?”

Tony frowns, but quickly trades it for a look of nonchalance. He doesn’t look at her. “Hurting Peter hurts me more than actually hurting me. He knew that- the bastard. Though how he found you guys in the first place-” Tony closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry. This should’ve never happened.”

“Oh. It’s not your fault. All that matters is that Peter’s okay.”

“Right,” Tony agrees, regarding her weakly. “Thanks for taking care of him. I know that couldn’t have been easy.”

MJ shrugs.

“No, really. I don’t know what I would do if-” Tony tapers off, sighing deeply and closing his eyes. “You know.”

“I know,” she says softly.

Clearing his throat, Tony shifts, though his hand never leaves Peter. “So it was a date then?” he asks. It’s so undeniably paternal that she can’t help but laugh in exasperation.

Before she can respond, Peter moans between them. He swats Tony with a heavy arm, eyes still closed. “Don’ grill her,” he slurs, words barely coherent.

“Oh lordy,” Tony grumbles. “Only you would wake up from a drug-induced sleep to stop me from talking about your dating life.”

But when MJ looks at him, Tony’s face is soft and painted in relief. For some reason, it makes her eyes water.

Peter swivels his head towards MJ, managing to pry one eye open to half mast to look at her. Fighting for courage, she grabs his free hand and intertwines their fingers. “S’ry,” he murmurs.

“You’re an idiot,” she says. Then, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Peter smiles, though it falls into a wince. “I owe you one.”

“Definitely.”

Face relaxing, Peter’s head dips before he catches in with a startled breath of air. Tony rests a hand on his forehead and pushes him back against the pillow gently. “Go back to sleep kiddo. We’ll be right here.”

Peter hums, far from the surface. His head lolls into Tony’s hand and his hand squeezes MJ’s weakly before growing limp. “Love you guys,” he whispers.

Her stomach jumps. She squeezes his hand back.

Love you too, loser.

Tony sits back in his chair. He looks at her almost apologetically.

“Welcome to the family.”

[hooniee]

   — ꒰‧⁺celsia *ೃ༄

↷ jungwon x reader  ⋯ ♡ᵎ: 

↷ genre: romance | mystery ⋯ ♡ᵎ

↷ warnings: mention of blade to cut open book! | not proofread!⋯ ♡ᵎ

↷synopsis:  (y/n)’s boring life gets a little bit better, finding a mystery journal⋯ ♡ᵎ

⇢˚⋆ ✎ author note: hello! this is for @enhypenwriters​ event of the month! strangers to lovers <3 this one out of the three stories i made! this one was definitely fun to write and maybe i’ll expand on it later! enjoy!ˎˊ-

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .*

“celsia’s kingdom was-”

the abrasive scraping of white chalk on the chalkboard had come to a halt. the bell chimes, the more petite hand of the clock was precisely striking 3:00 pm.

ms. jeon glimpses up before allowing a long-awaited sigh, laying the chalk in its corresponding place. dusting off her hands of residue, she concluded our class.

“alright, guys! let’s stop there, we’ll proceed where we left off tomorrow.”

the class arose from their seats, bowing to her before she exited. classmates exalt their breath and stretch their bodies from being restrained in a desk for the prior eight hours.

the rackets of shuffling books being shoved in bags and hurried footsteps came from every corner of the school. chatter goes throughout regarding how dull ms. jeon’s history lesson was.

“who even cares about the past anymore?”

“the princes were never found right?”

“you guys up for some norebang? at han’s?”

while your classmates debated on what karaoke place they intended on hanging out at, you hastily shove the remainder of papers in your bag, not minding if they would be creased.

readjusting your hair slightly, you rise from your seat and attempt to quickly boot it to the door.

“(y/n)! don’t you want to come with us?”

someone seized the end of your sleeve. you turn around to see shin ryujin, the class president, and someone you could view as a friend. 

her freshly tinted grey hair nevertheless had a shock factor on you.

“sorry ryu! i have to get to the library,” you warmly took her hand and squeezed it, before dashing off.

“this girl,” ryujin sighs

"where is (y/n) going?" vice president asked ryujin

"library again"

you had quietly forced your way through the masses of people before having a hand tug at your blazer, causing you to lightly tumble back.

you turn to see heeseung.

“(y/n)! where are you going in such a hurry? i was just about to try to find you to ask you if you wanted to come to the arcade with us? we invited some of our friends from saebom as well,” heeseung interrogates.

sunoo pops up from behind him, “come on (y/n)! i’ll be so much fun, please it’ll be so much fun.”

sunoo was your classmate while heeseung was your upperclassman. sunoo and you were selected to be lab comrades last year and have been friends ever since. that's where he introduced you to his remaining friends, heeseung and underclassman, ni-ki.

as much as you desired to accept their proposal, you remember the library and time was ticking before it closed.

you bowed your head, “i’m sorry guys! but i have to do something important. what about we all hang out tomorrow? you can invite your friends from saebom and i’ll treat all of you guys to a meal? how does that sound?”

sunoo pouts, “alright then”

“get there safe,” you bowed your head.

“see you-” before heeseung could complete his sentence, you had already fled off.

“where is she in a hurry too?” ni-ki abruptly enters the discussion, studying your disappearing silhouette

“OH MY, don’t give me a heart attack ni-ki” heeseung holds his hand above his heart.

“whatever grandpa,” ni-ki snorts before sprinting

“what did you just say to me? get back here,” heeseung commences chasing after him

“i wish (y/n) would have come,” sunoo shakes his head before attempting to catch up with them.

you eventually arrive at the library, catching a few breaths in and noticing ms. kim sitting down in her normal spot.

you take a deep breath, before entering the library. the tiny bell above the door executes a noise, gaining ms. kim's attention.

she glances over to see you and smiles widely. she gets up from her seat to welcome you, “(y/n), you’re here just in time! the new books are on the back table, left side.”

“thank you ms. kim!” you bow to her, with a big smile on your face.

glimpsing round, the library was moderately bare except for two or three students that were distributed from tables.

you headed back to see the fresh heap of new history books that rested on the small birch polished table.

these weren’t unspecified history books, they were royal books.

ms. kim was a historian before a librarian so she was capable of getting her hands on some books about the disappeared royal family from centuries ago.

you smiled at the collection that grazed your eyes. you choose a book that was nearly the measurement of a binder.

you had tenderly dusted off the cover, as you open it. you slightly cough at the quantity of dust the books have garnered 

the publication titled read, “celsia, the royals”

the backbone of the book had been fastened back together, implying you must be cautious when reading.

turning each rusted paper sparingly, you could observe the old castle in which the royal family had occupied before it grew abandoned. 

it was a beautiful interior, built out of the most luxurious rose quartz that anybody could fancy of in that era.

the chandelier that draped in the main room was constructed in the purest gold that was handcrafted by only the best chandelier.

their disappearances were continuously something that was whisked beneath the rug.

we studied briefly about it in history class but we always end at a set point because there was nothingness beyond that.

there remained no traces of foul play at all, it was like everything had vanished inside the castle. all belongings of the families were taken and the only items they could find were some rings that showed to be discarded.

there were three rings, made for the three succeeding crowned princes.

sapphire; purity, wisdom, and chastity

assigned to the oldest of the sons as he was waiting to be the next crowned prince, a face and personality that reflected purity

ruby; nobility, purity, passion

assigned to the middle son, fascinated about archery. the desire to be the greatest hunter in the kingdom. a soul abundant of passion

and lastly,

emerald; wit, eloquence, and foresight

assigned to the youngest son with a voice that could put the whole town to slumber. though the youngest could wield the responsibility like the oldest son.

you softly caress the pages while browsing through the information. it was practically always the identical facts but you couldn’t help but learn how each historian put it in their own words. 

you had gingerly closed the book before proceeding onto the next one.

this book, strangely, didn’t have a name.

the cover was made of brown leather, with J, engraved on the silver button that fastened the book closed.

matter a fact, it wasn’t like a textbook but as a diary

‘who has diaries like this anymore?’ you thought to yourself.

you shrug the thought aside and undo the clasp.

brushing at the pages, you could scarcely obtain any of the words. they were inscribed in cursive and it seems that the ink has smudge.

flipping through the so-called journal, you could gain some phrases.

“castle”

“my older brother”

“rose quartz”

to you, the messages didn’t correlate with anything considering the smudged ink left the words in ruins.

flipping to the end of the diary, you scan the back of the cover.

if you happened to not spare a secondary glance, you wouldn’t have noticed that petite tear that was sliced into the leather.

peering closer, you could see the incision that was nearly flawlessly adhered together.

you were further too curious to place it down, so you went to ms. kim to check it out.

“is this all you want to take home (y/n)?” ms. kim inquiries, scanning the book and your library card.

“yup! that’s all for now,” you chirp.

she pauses for the receipt and fixes it on top of the diary.

“see you (y/n)!” ms. kim waves.

you bow before hastening home, diary in hand. you quickly fish out your keys from the backpack.

the door unlocks before you barge in and toss your bag on the floor. you slide off your shoes and quickly speed to the kitchen.

“where are they? where are they?” you ransack around the cabinet

“ah! there they are,” drawing a sharp box cutter.

setting the diary on the countertop, you open it to the back page. you mindfully compose the incision larger beginning from where the adhesive is and all the way down.

“got it!” you shout, placing the box cutter down.

you thoroughly unfold the slit a little wider to see a piece of something in there. you pull it out to reveal a photograph.

you smile, thinking it was probably a journal of someone’s life story and this photograph has special meaning to them.

you glance over and your eyes widen as you examine it. 

"that's not-"

you squint your eyes at the worn photograph and go straight to the lamp, shining light to see more precisely.

your mouth drops wide open when you realized it was true, clasping your left hand over your mouth.

though the photograph’s colors were faded, there stood the three princes wearing suit colors that matched their rings.

it was a miniature photograph that could comfortably fit in someone's wallet.

sapphire; puppy-like, doe eyes that are filled to the line with love

ruby; the fairest skin, plump lips that were painted red like his passion

emerald: sharp eyes that won’t deceive, dimples that mark his cheek

‘did i just find one of their journals?’ you question.

no photographs of the princes or royal family were ever recovered. it was rumored that they had a significant family portrait, but even that was nowhere to be found in the castle.

holding tightly to the photograph, you hasten to your laptop. there was no rush but the adrenaline that was elevating in your heart said otherwise.

you had opened a new browser tab and started typing swift.

“photograph on the missing three princes”

“celsia’s crowned princes”

“celsia royal family photos”

no matter how much scowering on the internet you did, you couldn’t find any traces of this photo anywhere.

you were gazing at the screen for hours, working to find any data you could.

your eyes became weak as the room grew dim but yet, you still didn’t budge from your spot.

‘maybe i should try the news tag’ you thought.

you clicked on the tag and the first article that popped up

“belongings of the three princes are being found after centuries"

browsing through the article, the grip on the photo became tighter.

it didn’t make sense to you. for centuries, they’ve never attained anything in the castle or anything about the castle. now suddenly, items of the three princes were coming into play.

it appeared like they were planted there on purpose, but it would be impracticable. the whole royal family would be deceased by now.

you looked at the photo one more time to admire the handsome princes. though all were handsome in their own way, emerald caught your eye.

sharp eyes and sharp jaw, yet the eyes hold so much sweetness and the smile holds so much grace. he caught your eye the second you studied the photograph.

emerald was someone interesting.

you cried, “only if guys looked like this in my school.”

the clock ticks, making you look up at it. it just became 8 pm.

you yawned. you desired to do more investigation but tomorrow's test in history was retaining you back.

that clicks in your head.

‘i’ll just ask ms. jeon! maybe she’ll know something’ you made a mental note, as you had just physically printed it on your brain.

you decided to call it a night, eyes dropping down from the intense amount of looking at the computer.

the next morning, you were depleted with your brain being over-exerted last night. you made sure to get up a bit earlier to study on your way to school.

you were ready were putting your shoes on, the photograph caught the corner of your eye. 

you debated whether you wanted to keep it at home or take it with you.

‘it would be safe here but what if someone tries to break into my house?’ 

irrational thoughts came to mind and in the end, you decided to seal it in the journal and bringing it to school with you.

before any second-guessing, you shove the journal into your backpack and rush your way to school.

you wanted nothing other than history class, last period. your mind was tingling with problems that needed solutions.

you hardly made it when the bell went off. you rushed up the stairs, to study hall, seeing ryujin already there.

ryujin sees you and flashes a smile, signaling to you

“(y/n)! over here,” ryujin pats down the seat next to her.

you smile, heading over and sitting down.

"sorry for leaving so suddenly yesterday, the library got new books! you know? the usual" you acted cool

"no problem. i know you well, book nerd," she snorted.

letting out a big sigh, you bring out your history textbook to aim to recall as sufficient information as you could in this brief 25 minute period.

ryujin resumes playing on her phone before she peers over to you. she corks her eyebrow in puzzlement.

“what are you doing?’

now it was your turn to be confused, “studying for our history test for ms. jeon?"

“ah you didn’t hear? ms.jeon isn’t here so that means no test, isn’t that amazing?” ryujin cheers.

the news disheartens you ever so little.

thought you didn’t have to cram information, your heart sinks a little with your curiosity raging as a furnace overflowed with gold.

why did this tug at your heartstrings? it was simply because you were curious right?

“yeah that’s amazing!” you shakily cheer.

you restlessly bounce your leg and illogical reasoning surge your brain.

‘i need to ask her now! but why do i? why do i feel so anxious? my heart feels like it’s beating out of control’

and your head wouldn't stay still even when ms. jeon class rolls around, the time ticks by way too slow. 

“and make sure-”

the bell jolts you out of your seat and you immediately gather up your things. if people were to see you, they might think you were being pursued.

you were strained as is and you try to bolt out of school before someone clutches your wrist.

“where are you going?” 

you turn around to see heeseung clinging onto you

“home?” you cork an eyebrow.

why was heeseung asking an impractical question? it was a wednesday, where else would you be going?

“home? aren’t you coming with us to the arcade? we invited our friends from saebom as well,” heeseung asked, troubled

your mind clicks. you have plans with heeseung and his friends today. you weren't in the best headspace and entirely blanked.

“ah right! i’m sorry, i forgot. let’s go,” you stiffly smile.

“you’re fine. sunoo! ni-ki! ready?” heeseung calls them over, swinging his arm over your shoulders.

sunoo rushes over while ni-ki trudges behind. ni-ki yawns while sunoo squeals at your presence.

“is (y/n) coming with us today?” sunoo cheers linking arms with you.

“yup, and she’s treating us to a meal,” ni-ki smirks

“you boys are going to be the death of me,” you groan, recognizing the deal you presented yesterday.

heeseung laughs and you make your way to the arcade. you guys, the disordered and noisy quadruplets, stumble in.

the arcade was a generous size than the ones you've been to previously. they had more selections of machines and the building was coated in bright colors.

it’s jammed with students in diverse uniforms from all around town with their friends. probably trying to shake the pressure of exam season.

“heeseung hyung!” someone calls out.

“jay!” you glance over to see a boy with bleach blonde hair with silver, swaying earrings, coming over with three followings behind him.

they do a bro-shake, asking each other's day before jay’s eyes land on you.

“oh i don’t think we’ve met before, i’m jay,” he stretches his hand out to you

jay was a few inches shorter than heeseung, stocky rings on both hands, a few piercings on his ears, and someone who was attentive to his fashion.

“i’m (y/n). nice to meet you,” you softly shake his hand

the three boys jostle jay aside before speaking.

“we haven’t met her either, let us,” a soft voice intervenes.

you glance up and at that moment, you assumed your eyes were playing tricks on you.

meeting with the pair of doe eyes that were meant to be captured into a photograph.

your heart sinks to your abdomen, blood drawing through your veins so harshly, causing your whole body to flush.

'there was no way that this was them?' you soothed the uneasy thoughts.

sapphire

“i’m jake! it’s nice to meet you”

his gummy smile reflects the happiness from his tone

ruby

“park sunghoon,”

he bows his head, fair skin that gleams that only princes could accomplish

emerald

“i’m jungwon, it’s nice to meet you”

his sharp eyes turn into small crescents, dimple prominent.

you glance around at the three boys.

"jungwon or jake?"

you vaguely remember the notebook, having the engraving of J on the button of the diary.

"the book addressed his older brothers. that indicates it would be jungwon since he was the youngest and jake was the oldest"

you bow to them, wanting to see if getting a glance of their hands would lead to anything. 

no rings on

right, the rings were founded in the castle. they wouldn't possess it on their body.

“it’s nice to meet you too, i’m (y/n)”

glancing at them, you see capture something from the arcade light. on all of their left ears, hangs an earring that correlates with their colors

gold chain with a small, round sapphire on the end

silver chain with a small, triangle ruby on the end

rose gold chain with a small, heart emerald on the end

it was them. this couldn't be a coincidence.

emerald or jungwon was standing directly in front of you

“let’s go play some games guys!” sunoo shouts before he drags you.

sunoo breaks our introduction. grabbing your arm, he pulls you away to an air hockey table.

sunoo plays against ni-ki as you watch. jay and heeseung verse each other on the basketball game.

you watch around the arcade, observing the happy smiles of people. you smile too before feeling a tap on your shoulder.

you turn to see jake, sunghoon, and jungwon. the three princes.

it became quiet for a minute as you look eye contact with jungwon before sunghoon talks up on the behalf of his younger brother.

“um, jungwon has something he has to tell you,” sunghoon says before bumping jungwon ahead.

“u-um,” jungwon stutters out.

you smother a laugh. one of the crowned princes of celsia kingdom was in front of you, stuttering and reddening.

“don’t be nervous jungwon! i don’t bite”

“can i have your number?” he blurts and now it’s your turn to be startled

'that was unexpected'

“s-sure,” you stutter out as he hands you his phone.

his phone wasn't anything out of the ordinary. an iPhone 8 plus and there was nothing that symbolized he was a prince. the home screen packed with several games.

you enter your phone number and hand him back his phone.

he bows and the three princes are about to leave before you stop them.

this could be awkward if this was synchronicity but you were practically sure it wasn't. reactions will tell the truth.

“jungwon! i need to say something to you, can you come closer?” you smile.

he's confused but complies, leaning into you.

you whisper in his ear, “ whether this applies to you or not, i’m onto you, emerald prince”

he lets out a choked sound, alarming you. you smirk, bowing and heading towards jay and heeseung who were near to destroying the basketball machine.

'bingo'

jake tugs jungwon back and the three of them head to one of the secretive corners of the arcade.

“what did she say?” jake questions

"yeah, what made you choke up like that? you never get surprised like that," sunghoon examines. 

“she’s onto us,” jungwon grunts.

sunghoon and jake look at each other, eyes widening in the process.

“b-but how? we made sure no traces of us would be found-”  sunghoon rambles.

the three princes grew anxious together, questioning how they could meet you again. 

this was the secret that they were expected to remain to the three of them and now an added person knows.

“i don’t know! but she somehow knows and we can’t let her tell anybody,” jungwon groans

"we have to do something," jake sighs.

you felt holes being pierced onto your back, generating an unsettled vibe within you.

“i’m keeping an eye out for you (y/n) “ jungwon flashes.

[babybluebex]

waiting [robin of loxley]

pairing: robin hood/robin of loxley x fem reader (y/n)

summary: when robin of loxley is sent to fight, y/n figures out what he meant to her, and how the anti-hero named the hood factors into her lost love. 

word count: 7700+ (oog sorry)

warnings: d*eath mentions, ab*se mentions, v*olence mentions

a/n: so this took a HOT MINUTE to get out, but i was surprised at the response to my teaser about this. hope you enjoy!!

tag list: @nolmao89​ 

“Rob!” I cried, huffing out in frustration. “You’re so much better than I am, why do you need my help?” 

“I didn’t really need your help,” Rob began, the tip of his tongue poking out of his lips as he concentrated. “I figured helping me train was better than whatever you were supposed to do.” 

He was right, of course. What else did I have to do? My mother would want me to master my needlepoint-- a skill that noble women were expected to know, for some reason; my father would want me to be praying. Neither option was too great, so, of course, when Rob asked me to help him practice archery, I jumped at the chance. 

Before I could react, Rob released an arrow, and it whistled through the air before burying itself deep into a tree across the clearing. He had me draw a crude bullseye on the bark with chalk, saying that I should do it because I have a steadier hand, and his arrow was just centimeters off of the exact middle. “Good job,” I told him. “I can’t do that.” 

It was my turn, and I notched the arrow in the bow. I wasn’t lying for the sake of making Rob feel better. I was truly rubbish at archery. My arrow landed inside the target, thankfully, but nowhere near the accuracy that Sir Robin had. Rob was two years older than I, making him nineteen, but we had been close since we were little. There weren’t too many noble families in Nottingham and, as soon as I was born, Rob and I were matched. I have always known him as the man I would marry as soon as I turned eighteen, but I never considered Rob my “boyfriend” or whatever other girls my age would call him. He was my best friend, through everything that we had ever done. 

Rob laughed. I was sure it was at me, because we both knew that archery was not my strong suit, and I chuckled along with him. “You’re getting better,” he told me. “I think, within a year or so, you’ll be cracking.” 

I sighed. “I don’t want it to take a year,” I said. I marched over to the tree and gripped the thin arrow, and I yanked it out of the tree. Mine hadn’t buried as deep as Rob’s had, and he followed me and easily retrieved his own arrow. “I would very much like to hit the bullseye before our wedding.” 

“I’m sure we can manage that,” Rob laughed. “It might be a fluke, but--”

“Rude ass,” I said with a smile, hitting his shoulder with my fist. “You don’t think I could learn in six months?” 

“I’m sure you could,” Rob began. “But I wouldn’t bet money on it.” 

“You’re so mean to me!” I gasped, and Rob smiled so widely that his eyes wrinkled up. “Why am I marrying you?” 

“Because you have no choice?” Rob offered, and I shrugged. 

“You’re right,” I said. “Annoying, but right.” 

Robin smiled, and he ruffled my hair up. “I believe that you can learn by the wedding,” he told me, notching another arrow and letting it fly within seconds. Another bullseye, just off of the exact middle, and Rob scowled. “In fact, I’m sure of it.”

“Why did you doubt me, then?” I asked. 

“It’s my duty,” Robin said, cocking his head as he examined the target. He suddenly seemed serious, all mirth in his voice gone. “As a man. A husband.” 

“To tear me down?” I questioned, my eyebrows drawing in confusion. 

“So my father tells me,” Rob said. He let the arrow go, and it landed next to the first one. “He tells me that a husband has to show dominance in every situation. If my wife dares to even make a joke that’s funnier than mine…” He paused and trailed off. “It’s ridiculous.”

“Quite so, I’d say,” I agreed. “Who’s your father to tell you how to treat me?” 

Robin nodded. He studied the target for a moment more, then strung up the remaining arrow in his quiver. He took a deep breath, then released it, and I watched as the arrow sailed easily to the direct middle of the target. The scowl remained on Rob’s face as I retrieved the arrows, and I noticed how forlorn he was as I replaced them in the quiver on his back. “Rob?” I said softly. “What’s the matter?”

Rob turned to me, his jaw set tightly. His eyes were set on mine, and I saw the glossiness at the edges. “I have to go,” he mumbled. 

I took a step back. “Did I say something?” I asked. 

“No,” Rob started, and he pulled off his quiver. He let it, arrows and all, clatter to the leaf-carpeted ground before he wiped his hands down his face. He looked tired, and his forehead wrinkled as he set his jaw once more. “No, no, you’ve done nothing wrong.” 

“What do you mean, then?” I asked. “Where are you going?” 

“Y/N, please!” Rob said. He had never raised his voice at me like that before, and I knew instantly that whatever was wrong was bigger than me. He drew in a deep, rattling breath, and I took his arm in my grip. “I didn’t want to tell you like this. I wanted you to be happy, I wanted myself to be happy, Goddamn it all--” 

“Robin, you’re scaring me,” I said softly. “Just tell me, please-- 

“I was drafted,” Rob said suddenly, his voice low and quiet. 

I was quiet as I absorbed what he said. Drafted. The word swam around in my head, and my vision became blurry with tears. My Rob was drafted. “Rob,” I whimpered. “No. Please, you can’t--” 

“I don’t have a choice, Y/N!” Robin told me. He was cross with me, I knew it, and I expected him to lash out at any moment. I had never seen it before, but my friends who were already married told me about how often their husbands corrected them with a hit. I was waiting on the day that Rob began to treat me more like a wife and less like a friend; if there ever was a moment like that, it was now. “I have to go.” 

I took a deep and steadying breath, but the ache in my chest and stomach was too great. Robin was a great fighter and obviously skilled in archery, but he was too kind. He could never kill anybody. The Crusades would be Sir Robin of Loxley’s undoing. “How long have you known?” I asked softly. 

“A month,” Rob told me, looking at the ground. 

“A month!” I exclaimed. “You’ve known that you have to go fight in the Crusades for a month, and you never told me? Robin!” 

Rob didn’t respond, urging me to move a step closer to him to extract an answer. His eyes lifted from the ground to my face for only a second before retreating downwards once more, and I sighed. “When do you leave?” 

“Tomorrow morning,” Rob told me. 

I let his words sink in. Tomorrow morning, Rob would go to war. Tonight would be our last night together. I took in a deep breath and stepped even closer, and I put my arms around Rob. It hurt my heart so immensely to know that this might be the last time I saw my best friend, and I sniffled away my tears. Rob had a habit of getting upset himself when he saw me getting upset, and he had been that way for years. Even when I was little and would cry as toddlers were wont to do, he would do the same. 

“Hey, hey,” Rob whispered, lifting my face out of his neck. His eyes were rimmed with red as he tried to hold in his emotions, and he swiped his thumb across my cheek. “No tears, please, my love. I don’t want my last memory of you to be a sad one.” 

I didn’t want to tell him to not let it be. I didn’t want to tell him that, deep down, I hoped that our last memory would be in the morning. I hoped to see him off, to kiss his hand and call after him as he left. I didn’t want to tell him all of that, because I’m sure he knew. Instead, I hugged him, and I breathed in his smell. “Please come back,” I gasped, my fingers tearing at his shirt. I needed him close, and he complied. “Please, Robin… Please.” 

“I will,” Rob whispered, pressing his cheek into mine. “You have my word.” 

I think we both knew, in that moment, how empty his oath was. He had no control. Nobody did. I didn’t believe in God in the way that my father wanted me to but, that night, as I sat in my bed, I prayed for my Robin. I had always assumed that Robin would be around for me, and I could hardly bear the thought that he wouldn’t be just a woodland clearing away. 

The sun baked my body when I woke up, and I felt nauseous and stuffy. I had laid awake for hours, crying and praying and wishing and hoping, and I desperately needed a drink of water. My mind was foggy as I splashed my face with warm water from the basin next to my window, and I pulled my hair up off my neck. The birds chirped beautifully, and I wondered what time Robin would be over. He always found a way to sneak in without my father knowing to steal an apple and tease me and convince me to train with him. Whether it be archery or sword-fighting, Robin loved training. It was probably the only thing in life he really cared about. 

I began to pull off my sweat-soaked nightshirt, and I spied a small envelope on my desk. The paper was smooth and cream-colored with a sprig of a musky herb stuck to the back with wax. Robin’s handwriting was on the front, my name emblazoned with patches of running ink from where Rob had likely shed tears whilst writing the letter. 

My love, the letter began. As much as I would enjoy seeing you one last time before I leave, I can’t bring myself to ask you to meet me in the town square. It would hurt you too much to see me. My father cut my hair just before I began writing this, and I look like a fool. I don’t want your last memory of me to be looking like a court jester. It hurts me to write this, but we both know that I won’t be returning home. Even if I physically make it back to Nottingham, I will not be your Rob. I want you to remember me as Rob. Remember the time when you cornered me during a sword fight, knocked my own sword from my hand, and laughed. I love thinking of you like that; joyful and victorious and invincible. You looked beautiful that day. I can still feel the bark of the tree against my back as your hair fell in your eyes and you jested with me to “try again”. Have you ever heard of a sore loser? You’re a sore winner, my love. At the time, I told you that I let you win, but that is far from the truth. You won. Not only did you outsmart me (and let me know that I keep my legs fairly unguarded, which I will put into practice later), but you helped me learn something that I had been repressing for nearly as long as I have known you. I love you. Through and through, for the rest of my days. I love you. I wanted to tell you this morning in the woods, but I felt ill at the fact. It’s easier to admit this over a written medium. I knew the exact moment you cornered me with your sword that I loved you. I’ve never loved anybody more than you, and I doubt I ever will. I have to live with the fact that I’ll never know if you love me back. If you do, though, promise me this: stay true to me. Have a home for me to come back to, a bed to call our own, and a love to last for eternity. You, my love, are everlasting. All of my love, Rob. 

My tears caught in my throat, and I choked them down with a horrid gagging. I let the letter drop to the floor as I scrambled to get dressed, throwing my dress on and phishing my shoes onto my feet. My corset was loose around my body as I ran, and I barely heard my mother greet me before I was out the door. My feet slapped the grassy ground as I ran, and the bouncing of the corset against my back was enough to make me strip of it and leave it behind me. I heard the bustling of the town in the square as I approached, growing louder and louder as I drew nearer, and a ragged scream came from my throat. “Robin!” I yelled. There was a mass of people at the entrance to the square, and I knew that my sharp elbows were no match against the older, portly men who blocked my way. Through the crowd, I saw the soldier’s white uniforms, and I sobbed. “Rob.” 

“Y/N?” A distant and faded call came from the soldiers. I would recognize the sound of my name on his lips anywhere. “Y/N!”

“Rob!” I cried, and I stretched my arm out to try to catch any part of my soldier. My outstretched hand was suddenly filled by a strong and warm hand, and I looked through the crowd to see my Rob holding my hand with the tips of his fingers. His face was pale, his tawny hair barely existent, and his green eyes alert. 

“Oi!” he said to the crowd. “I-I need to see my wife!” 

Finally, we were pressed together. My face went to his neck as I held him close, and my skin tried to find something to recognize. His uniform, blindingly white with a bright red cross on his chest, was too rough. It wasn’t him. None of this was Rob. “Didn’t you read my letter?” Rob asked, speaking loudly over the crowd cheering for the departing soldiers. 

“I did!” I told him. “I just--”

“Oh my days, what are you wearing?” Robin chuckled, but I heard the weakness of his voice behind it. 

I couldn’t form words to answer him. Instead, I clutched his face and drew him to me, and I kissed him. Robin didn’t hesitate for a second before putting his arms around me and kissing me back. His hands were firm on my waist, his lips soft against mine, and I felt dizzy when he pulled away. “I love you,” I told him breathlessly, and those dimples appeared in his red cheeks. Rob had the best smile I had ever seen. I was a fool for not knowing years ago that the warmth that Rob gave me was love. I loved Rob. 

“I love you too,” Rob told me. There was a tug from behind Rob that drew him away from me, and he looked behind himself to see another soldier, older and who had obviously fought before, pulling him back. “Your ring,” he began quickly. “It’s in my room at my parents’ estate, on my desk. Please--”

“I’ll wear it every day until you come back,” I told him. “I swear to it!” 

My body tingled with a sting as Rob was pulled away from me, and I watched as he looked over his shoulder at me one last time. I choked on a sob and I nearly fell to my knees, but several pairs of arms were wrapped around me. My maids, as well as my mother’s maids and my mother herself, were surrounding me, draping coverlets over me to protect me; even though I wore a dress, the fact that I had thrown away my corset and lost my shoes on the run basically meant that I wore nothing at all. I knew that my mother wanted to scold me on how improperly I had acted, but she seemed to know the pain I was in. She hugged me tight, pressing my head into her chest, and she let me cry. I wasn’t sure that I would ever stop. 

A year passed painfully slowly. I had found the ring that Rob had indicated and wore it on my left hand every day. It was light and easy, and I imagined Rob’s father standing disapprovingly over his shoulder as he told the blacksmith how to make it. I tested it, and it easily withstood the strain of archery and sword-fighting. I knew that he had it made small so that we could continue our training together once we were married. 

The first six months were easy; slow, but easy. I had convinced myself that Rob would be discharged for any number of things and come home to me any day. In my imagination, he would mouth off to a superior-- as he so often did in his youth-- and he would be sent home for disorderly conduct. I foolishly believed the little lie I had concocted. I went about my days as normally as possible, but I never realized how often Rob filled my days until he wasn’t there. I constantly found myself wondering what he was doing before I reminded myself that he was not just on the other side of the clearing. 

Then, six months hit. I remembered the exact day we were supposed to be wed, and I could barely bring myself to get out of bed. The day felt like a day of mourning. The entire household was gentle with me, which was expected, but I especially hated it. I sat at breakfast with a blanket over my shoulders, absently listening to the conversation, and it wasn’t until my father barked my name that I truly began listening. “Look at the state of you,” he sneered. “How do you expect us to find you a suitor when you look like that?” 

“I have a suitor,” I mumbled. “Robin?” I saw the clench of my mother’s jaw when I mentioned his name, and my heart sank. “What?” I asked. “Why make that face? Mother?” 

“My dear…” She started. “We got the news late last night.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I whispered. My chest hurt, my stomach hurt, and, if I wasn’t sitting, I surely would have fallen. I didn’t have to ask to know what the news she spoke of was. 

“You were already asleep,” Mother began. 

“Already--!” I started, but held my tongue when I saw my father’s eyes flash with a warning. “You mean to tell me that Rob… Robin is dead?” 

“He was badly wounded in battle,” Mother began. “My dear, there was nothing that anybody could have done.” 

“And you tell me this on the day…” I started. My words failed me, and I put my hand on the wooden table. I bit my bottom lip hard enough to taste blood, and my hand closed slowly into a fist. 

“The day? What day?” My father asked. 

“They were to be wed today,” Mother said. “If Sir Robin had not been drafted.” 

I sniffled and wiped my eyes with my fingers. I was done with weeping and sobbing. I had had enough of crying, I decided. “I assume that you have already found a replacement,” I mumbled, anger beginning to replace my sadness. 

“Of course,” Father said. “We have always had a second option. Sir Robert of Rainault.” 

“And who is that?” I asked. “Not from Nottingham, surely?” 

“Yes,” Father continued. “The Sheriff.” 

I blinked a few times. “The… The Sheriff,” I repeated. “The Sheriff of Nottingham. You want me to marry him? Father, he--! He is older than you!” 

“He is the only other nobleman in town,” Father said. “You are not marrying below your station. Even that Loxley boy was a stretch; his father had lost nearly all of their property. They were squarely 50 acres away from having their titles stripped of them. And Sir Robert agreed to let us keep your dowry.” 

“I refuse,” I said quickly. “I absolutely refuse! I’d much rather be sent to a nunnery instead!” 

“You just might be!” Father said. “There are no further discussions! You are marrying the Sheriff, and that’s that.” 

I met him the same night. The Sheriff was a tall man with thinning hair and wandering hands, and I felt sick being in his presence. He wasn’t my Robin. I had sworn to Robin that I would be true to him until he came home and, even though he wasn’t going to return to Nottingham, I intended to keep that promise. I knew better than to explain this to Sir Robert, though. He would have none of a silly little girl who was in love with a dead man. I also knew better than to keep calling him The Sheriff. He told me that Rob would do just fine, and I swore I saw a twinkle of recognition in his eyes. He had to have known that that was what I had called Robin.

We were married exactly a week later. Usually, brides were happy and full of joy. I was shrouded with a veil, and I liked it; nobody could see me cry. The Sheriff’s kiss was nothing like Robin’s. Robin’s kiss was eighteen years in the making, full of unspoken words and harnessed emotions, his mouth salty with tears. The Sheriff kissed me like it was a chore, and I could almost feel the resentment at his core. Robin’s simple ring was replaced by something bigger and more terrible, and I’m sure my husband thought that I had lost Robin’s ring after the wedding. That night, I bit my tongue and cried for Rob. The Sheriff knew, I was sure, but at least I was saying the right name. There was nothing for him to complain about.

However, my husband was wrong. I had not forgotten Robin’s ring. While it was nowhere near as opulent as my wedding ring, it meant the world to me. I couldn’t keep it in our manor, because a maid-- or worse, my husband-- would find it, so I nestled it in a small handkerchief and buried it beneath our tree. The tree with the chalked target for Robin’s archery was the same tree that he had mentioned in his last letter, so I buried the handkerchief there. My tears bubbled up and spilled down my cheeks as I worked to dig with my fingers, and I clenched my sore hands together and mumbled prayer after prayer. I wasn’t sure exactly what I meant by my prayers, an endless stream of ‘please, please, please’, but I hoped that whoever was listening for that sort of thing heard them. 

Days passed at a snail’s pace, starting before I wanted but ending before I was ready. Sir Robin of Loxley frequented my dreams, and I would wake my husband up by screaming for Robin. I thought about him more than I did my husband, and, a few months into our marriage, he began to show me what he thought of it. If I even dared to mention the Loxleys in any manner, I was hit. The Sheriff was never particular about where he hit me; wherever was nearest for him to reach was his go-to. I took to wearing sleeved dresses to hide my bruises and cuts (my bastard husband wore rings that left me with scrapes all over my body), even during the warm months. That wasn’t the only change to my wardrobe. My husband insisted heavily that I wear a veil to cover my hair, citing how cruel certain men were when they saw a vulnerable woman. That procured a genuine laugh from me, and a swift hit in the face from him. 

When I visited my parents, my mother always held my hand the entire time. She knew how badly I was hurting without Robin. Even if I hadn’t loved him so, he was still my best friend. She explained in hushed tones how my father could never understand what Robin meant to me, and that she wouldn’t either, if she had not followed me out of the manor that day he left. She told me that she saw us kiss and reach for each other until we couldn’t anymore, and she told me about how her own heart hurt when she saw how broken I was over him leaving. Mother never came right out and told me that she regretted helping set up my marriage, but I knew my mother. Her watery eyes when she would pat my cheek and see my wince of pain said all that I needed to know. 

Two years after Robin left, nearly to the day, his mother grew very sick. Doctors said that it was a sickness of the brain, associated with Robin’s death and her grief, and she requested that I visit her. As much as Robin was her son, I was her daughter. I read to her and spoke to her about whatever came up, and I saw her getting better. The color returned to her eyes, the same shade of jade that Robin’s were, and I saw the life return to her. The next day, she passed away. I was sitting next to her, reading from a book of fairy tales, when she reached for my hand and took it with a surprising grip. “Y/N...” she began softly. “Was I a good mother to you?” 

“Yes, Lady Loxley,” I replied gently. “As good as any.” 

She nodded. “That’ll do,” She said, then closed her eyes and swept away amongst the wind. By the end of the year, Robin’s father was gone as well. Two years had come and ravaged the Loxleys. I tried my hardest to follow my rule of not crying anymore that I had made eighteen months ago, but I cried when Robin’s father was laid to rest next to his wife. The Sheriff stood at my side, trying to seem as if he were comforting me in a time of great distress, but, in the privacy of our own home, he scolded me for even keeping in touch with them. “You never even married this boy,” he sneered. “Why do you care for him so much?” 

“I was betrothed to him the day I was born,” I said firmly. “I was supposed to marry him, yes, but he was my best friend. I love him, in a way I’m not sure you can fully understand. Your heart is made of ice, Robert.” 

Finally, my years of training swords, knives, and archery with Robin came in handy. The Sheriff wound up to hit me, but I dodged his arm and found my own arm wrapped around his throat. “You are a cruel man,” I spat at him. “Do you not understand love, even in its simplest form as childhood friends?” 

“I will have your hand cut off for this, stupid girl,” The Sheriff told me. 

“I wish you would,” I huffed. “Why did you marry me? You could have left me as I was; alone, heartbroken… You could have left me to be a spinster.” 

“Before Loxley, you were betrothed to me,” The Sheriff said. “Your mother and father were married, and the child from that union was promised to me. Then, those damn Loxleys had that child, and he was of higher standing than me. So, you went to him. You were mine before him.” 

My grip faltered for long enough to allow The Sheriff to throw me to the ground and wrap his sharp hands around my throat. My father had said it himself; there was always a replacement in the wings. Tears leaked from my eyes as I came to a realization that made me sick, and I drew in a shaking breath. “You control the Crusades’ draft in Nottingham,” I whispered, my voice tightening along with his hands. “You control who is registered, who gets called to service… You did this. You killed Robin.” 

I woke up in the morning to the distant sound of my husband shouting. That was usual. When not physical, he was verbal. I pulled myself from the bed and got dressed, making sure to slip a pair of trousers on under my dress. I planned to visit the long-forgotten Loxley estate as I often did, trying to find any remnant of any of them to keep, but every search came up empty. It was eerie, walking through the estate, all previous owners gone to history. It felt wrong. The tapestries on the wall were faded by the sunlight pouring through perpetually open windows, birds roosted in empty corners of the elegant halls, and books had turned brittle. I was surrounded by ghosts whenever I visited the Loxley manor. My favorite place was the attic, where all of the most valuable of their possessions were held. Usually, it was locked with heavy-smelted doors, but I knew Robin’s father well enough to know where he hid the key. 

Just as I suspected, my husband was throwing a moody when I came into the dining room. “That damned Hood!” he scowled, holding his newspaper so hard that I was sure it would crumble. 

The Hood was a menace to The Sheriff. He stole from all of the more noble in Nottingham and distributed the wealth to the people who lived in squalor on the outskirts of the town. I admired what The Hood did, but I knew better than to admit that. “If I ever catch that bastard, I will have him killed.” 

“For what exactly?” I asked. 

“What not?” The Sheriff scoffed. “Thievery… Other things.” 

“There are plenty of thieves in Nottingham,” I replied. “You don’t like The Hood because he constantly evades capture and embarrasses you.” 

My husband looked at me with cold eyes. He studied me, trying to find something to take problem with, and he finally said, “Leave.” 

I left for the Loxley manner soon after. I was never sure what I was after when I went there. Maybe to find a forgotten memory of some kind. The stone was crumbling, ivy was growing uncontrollably up the side, and the entire place was in complete disrepair. The moment I walked into the warm attic, though, I knew something was different. Everything looked the same, but the energy in the air was different. I stepped carefully, trying not to disrupt the dusted floor.  The closer I looked, the more inconsistencies I found since the last time I had visited. That chair had not always faced the wall. The painting of Robin’s father had a small hole in the nose; moths could be to blame, but I doubted it. The differences were small, but I saw them. Someone had been there. 

I sat down at a small table, and I tilted my head to see the dust-covered tabletop free of dust in one place. I placed my hand gently in the middle of the clean patch, and I saw a clear handprint. The hand was larger than mine; a man’s hand. I clenched my jaw and carefully palmed a small dagger, and my eyes darted to all sides of the attic. Who else knew where the key was? I heard the gentle coo of a mother pigeon far off, and the rustling of feathers, and my nerves went on high alert. Pigeons were common in the old attic, but never in the morning. “Who’s there?” I shouted, standing suddenly and pushing my chair over with a thunderous crash. “Whoever’s there, you’re trespassing!”

I heard the rustle of a very non-birdlike entity behind me, and I turned just in time to have a knife sail by my head. There stood a large man, easily seven feet tall, skin dark and marked all over with scars. He wore a long coat and held several knives in one hand. His other hand was gone, his arm ending in a haunting nub right above the wrist. “And what about you, my sweet?” he asked in an accented voice as rough as rocks, and he let another knife sail towards me. Robin’s voice whispered in my ear as it always did, telling me what to do, and I threw my arm up to meet the knife in mid-air, knocking it off its course and making it clatter to the side. “You’re trespassing as much as I am.”

“This--!” I began, and paused to dodge another throwing knife. “Is my family’s manor!” 

“And what family would that be?” The man asked smoothly, one knife left in his hand. 

“My husband!” I yelled, and the final knife sailed by me, and my arm stung as the sharp blade cut my arm on its way past. It began to bleed immediately, and I groaned in pain. “Ah! Fuck!” 

“English!” The man shouted, and three arrows buried themselves in the wooden floor just in front of my feet. I looked upwards, tracing the arrows as I had been taught, and my eyes found a dark figure in the beams of the ceiling. They had a large bow and arrow around them, and they traipsed down to the floor with the skill of someone who has always done those sort of stunts. Another arrow was cocked and flew before I could fully finish registering this new person, and it whizzed past my head with an uncomfortable lack of distance. They notched another arrow and let it go within a second, and I dodged it by leaning backwards. My back was not at all ready for the sudden test of flexibility, because I toppled backwards into the table and chair. In my breathless state, I was able to see my new attacker. All skin was covered, from their legs to their hands to their head with a heavy, black hood. The Hood. I had heard my husband speak of him enough times to know him by looks alone. His face was covered by a blue cloth, leaving only his eyes visible. Startlingly green, rimmed with red and purple exhaustion, trained on me with murder in his eyes. The next arrow that flew buried itself right next to my head, and the man stepped closer and closer to me with each arrow. He walked easily, firing arrows with precise expertise, and the larger man shouted at him. “Hurry now, English!” he yelled. “Finish this!” 

I was frozen in plain fear by the time the man was right on me. I was shaking as I stared up at him, and he trained an arrow at my face. I scrambled backwards, trying to escape in any capacity, and my hand slipped from under me when it caught on my veil. It slipped off of my head and I fell backwards and smacked my head against the wooden floor, and my eyes watered with pain. When I looked at the archer next, those hard green eyes had softened, and his arms went slack for a split second. That, the moment of hesitation where he realized that he was about to kill a married woman, was all I needed. I hooked my feet around his leg and kicked the back of his knee, and he crumpled on top of me with a cry of surprise. The knife in my hand went to his throat, and I wrestled him to the floor. My knee went to his stomach, forcing a gasp from his chest, and my knife nestled easily in the hollow of his neck. “English!” The man yelled with fervor, but the archer-- The Hood, the man called English-- only stared up at me. His chest barely moved, but I could feel his heartbeat against my blade. Scared? Nervous, perhaps? Unsure of what to do when bested by a woman? 

I took The Hood with a hand around his throat and forced him to his feet. My knife found home in his neck again, and my eyes trained on the large man across from us. “Who are you?” I asked. 

“A better question would be who are you?” The man asked. 

“I am Lady Y/N Loxley,” I answered with a bite. “I own this manor.” 

“Loxley?” The man asked, a glimmer of recognition in his dark eyes. “As in… Robin of Loxley?” 

After four years, the mention of his name no longer fazed me. However, the name seemed to trigger something in The Hood, because he jolted hard enough to force a pained gasp from my mouth as I struggled to restrain him. “Yes,” I replied quickly. “What’s it to you?” 

“You were married to him?” the man asked. 

“Would you like me to procure a marriage certificate?” I snapped. “Who are you?” 

“Take off your captive’s hood,” the man told me. “I’m sure he would be happy to explain.” 

I scrunched my nose in frustration, and I huffed, “A name. Now.” 

“Yahya,” the man answered. “Little John.” 

“Nothing little ‘bout you, mate,” I chuckled lifelessly. “And yours?” I cocked my head to look at The Hood, and I noticed that his hands were up and fingers splayed. He was showing me that he had no weapons. “English, is that what he called you? Or do you prefer The Hood?” 

“Take it off,” Little John told me. “Quickly, my lady.” 

I stared at Little John for a moment more, then I removed my weapon-free arm from around The Hood’s waist. I tugged his hood backwards and off, and came across the cloth he covered his face with. I worked to unwind it with one hand, and my heart stopped when it passed my face. The smell. I could never forget it. I didn’t have to see his face or hear his voice to know. The smell of him was enough to force tears to fall. My Robin. 

I was frozen as Robin took off the rest of his disguise, and he turned to me with wetness in his eyes. My mouth was open in shock as I tried to process what I was seeing; my Robin was no child of nineteen anymore. He was freshly twenty-three now, a seasoned veteran of the Crusades, his whole body firm and built in a way that my little Robin never could have dreamed of. I felt sick. My knife fell from my hands and to our feet with a metallic racket, and I closed my mouth. “Robin,” I choked out. 

Robin took a step towards me, and I took a step backwards. No. It couldn’t be. “No,” I whispered. “No! Y-You’re dead--” 

“My love,” Robin said, and I drew in a wrecked sob. His voice was lower as well. He was so different from the boy who had left me, but I knew that he was the same on the inside. “Who told you that?” There was hurt in his green eyes, and I couldn’t control myself anymore. I carefully approached him and put my hand on his cheek, and the warmth of his skin finally convinced me. My Robin was home. 

“Where have you been?” I asked shakily. “W-What happened to you?” 

“I was there this whole time,” Robin told me, his eyebrows furrowing. There was a small scar at the arch of his left eyebrow that left a small bald patch. “Have you not gotten my letters? I wrote to you every day.” 

I shook my head quickly. “No,” I told him. “I never received any letters.” 

“What happened to this place?” Robin asked. “Where’s my mother?” 

My heart fell into my stomach. He didn’t know. “Robin,” I whispered. “Your mother and father passed away several years ago. It’s been empty since.” 

Robin’s jaw tightened, and he shook his head in disbelief. “No,” he said. “I would have been told, even though… It’s true?” 

“Robin, I’m so sorry,” I murmured. 

Robin’s arms went tightly around me, and he unleashed sobs into my neck. The sound of his crying hurt my chest, and I followed him as he sank down to the floor. My poor Robin had been through so much. He still had a lot to learn, though. 

Robin pulled himself from my neck, and I wiped his cheeks with the corner of my sleeve. “Why did you wear that veil?” he asked. “I thought only married women…” 

“Robin,” I started, wincing. He would be hurt, no matter the way I phrased it. “I didn’t want to. I truly, truly did not want to get married. I was happy to keep my promise to you, but… My father arranged a marriage for me, and I had no choice. I said no, but we were married just the same.” 

Robin was quiet, and he hastily took my hand and examined it. My rings were on my hand, no sight or even tan line from his, and he stared at my hand, chewing on his bottom lip. “You promised me--” 

“I know what I promised you, Robin,” I sniffled. “I know. I tried to contest it at every turn, but it still happened. If it is any consolation, I do not love him. I’m not sure he loves me either.” 

“Do you love me still?” Robin asked gently. 

“Of course I do, you absolute toff,” I whispered. “You have no idea how long I’ve mourned you. I waited for you every day. Even after getting married, I still waited for you.” 

“Would you leave him?” Robin asked. 

“You know I can’t do that,” I whispered as I gently pushed his tawny hair aside. “A woman of my standing, leaving her husband… It doesn’t happen.” 

“You called me--” Robin started but stopped in his tracks. “You called me The Hood.” 

I nodded. “Everybody in Nottingham knows you,” I told him. “You actually stole quite a bit from my husband. Honestly, he deserves it.” I managed a small smile, but Robin’s discomfort continued. 

“No, no,” he said. “I only steal from the rich.” 

“Robin,” I began. “I am the rich. Even if I was not born to the family I am, I married into a wealthy family. Formerly wealthy, that is.” 

“Who?” Robin asked firmly. “Who took you from me?” 

I sighed. “Rob- -“ 

“No!” He cried and stood up. “Who makes you wear that veil? Who did I steal from? Who took you from me?” 

My eyes flickered from Robin’s face to the floor, where his bow and arrows lay forgotten. “Sir Robert of Rainault,” I answered. “The Sheriff.” 

Robin looked at me, watching me, looking for a sign that I was joking. When it was obvious that I was serious, though, he let out a heavy breath. “You’re married to that man,” he began carefully. “Does he hurt you?” 

“Define ‘hurt’,” I mumbled. 

“Y/N!” Robin shouted. “You know what I mean! Does he hit you?” 

“Yes,” I hissed. “He does! What do you want me to say to you, Robin?”

“I want you to say my name,” Robin said. “You used to call me Rob.” 

“I did,” I acquiesced. “I used to. But that was four years ago. We were different people then, Robin. We-we were children. I’m not seventeen anymore, and you’re not nineteen! Robin, we can’t pick up where we left off because that was worlds ago. I’m sorry, but I can’t do anything. I wish I could. I wish I could find a way to annul my marriage and be with you, but that’s…” I groaned. “That’s impossible. I love you, but there’s nothing we can do about that.” 

“English,” John said, and Robin turned to him. As he turned, I noticed a large, raised scar on the back of his neck, and I bit my cheek. He had been through so much. “We have things to do.” 

“I’m sorry, John, but I’m busy,” Robin sighed, gesturing to me. “Reuniting with my wife? This is important. You can wait.”

“Can they, though?” John asked, tossing his hand out in frustration. “Living off of their last cents, they need our help.” 

“Who?” I asked. 

“The lower classes,” John told me. “That is why English does what he does.”

“What?” I said. “Steal from the rich to give to the poor? Is that what you call honorable?” 

“Don’t you even gripe about honor,” Robin laughed ruefully, turning back to me. “You get no say.”

“Why?” I asked. “Because I was forced into marriage?” 

“Because you didn’t keep your word,” Robin said. “You swore to it, Y/N! You swore to wait for me!”

“Get it through that thick skull!” I cried. “I did not want to! I was forced! Does that mean anything to you? I was either supposed to get married or go live as a nun! You know me, I would never survive in a nunnery! It was the only thing I could do! I don’t know how to make you understand, but I didn’t want to, and there’s no way for me to get out of it! Robin, I…” I took a deep breath and clenched my hands into tight fists to calm myself down, and I softly said, “I love you. I always have and I always will, but there is literally nothing that either of us can do. I am trapped.” 

Robin watched me cool down from my outburst, and he carefully approached me. His blue face cloth was still in his hand, and he gently wiped my wet cheeks with the corner. “You always cry when you get frustrated,” he whispered. “You have always done that, ever since you were small. My love, I am so sorry.”

I sniffled. “I tried to wait for you,” I told him. “I tried as hard as I could, but… You never came home. I was told that you died and there was no point in waiting for you, but I did. I never stopped waiting. Never.”

Robin carefully raised his mossy green eyes to mine. “I never thought I’d see this place again,” he admitted gently. “I never thought I’d see you again.” 

“Well,” I said, my eyes watering. “Here we are.” 

[darkeninganon]

(So, this storyline now has a name; it is the Ender Family AU! Dream’s design was based off @winifreyd and their White Enderman Dream! They are awesome and do amazing artwork, and this story would probably not exist if they did not  share their art! Warning for gore, blood, very heavy torture, passing out (as a fear/pain response), forced drugging/drinking (Potions are canonically drugs/alcohol), unwanted contact (Dream doesn’t like people touching his fur), and (there is no nice way of saying this) flaying. If you spot something else, message me and I will add it and apologize profusely. The beginning is deceptively sweet btw, just as another small warning.)

Ranboo looked between Tommy and Tubbo. His face was burning, but only one side showed a tinge of color.

"You mean you really don't remember staring down Quackity?" Tommy found it hard to believe, and was currently the main person opposing such an excuse.

"Really, I don't! You know how much I hate eye contact."

"He's got a point..."

Michael oinked in agreement. The trio were currently in the zombie piglin's room, Ranboo holding the child as the little monster drew something. Tubbo was kneeling next to the table, head partially resting on said table. Tommy was the only one standing, arms crossed, glaring at Ranboo.

Ranboo sighed, shaking his head. "Even if you don't believe me, it is the truth."

"Oh, I believe you, I just want to know why this is the first time we are hearing about it!" Tommy hissed, throwing his hands up. "I mean, if you hide that, what else are you hiding?!"

"Oh come on Tommy! Ranboo wouldn't-"

"Quite a bit because I would rather NOT be the reason someone kills Tubbo or Michael." Tubbo snapped his head towards Ranboo, horror plastered on his face.

"WHAT?!"

Michael snorted, holding up his picture. It depicted Ranboo holding a red square, and speaking in scribbles. Ranboo groaned as Michael proudly displayed his picture. The baby zombie piglin still had yet to learn to speak, but his writing skills were far beyond where most thought he should be at.

Tubbo stared at the picture, clearly concerned. "Michael, sweetie, have you seen daddy act weird?" Michael nodded, borderline enthusiastically. The little zombie pigling then grabbed a sheet of paper, scribbling most of it in red crayon before writing three large letters on it, and handing it to Ranboo.

Tommy and Tubbo stared.

"So, I guess I blew something up." Ranboo stated, staring at the crudely drawn TNT. He looked back to Tubbo and Tommy; "I think it's about time to tear down the walls of your old house."

"Damnit Ranboo!"

"I'm sorry?!"

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Dream stared, listening to the murmur of Quackity and Sam talking outside the wall of lava. It is a new day, Quackity is back. Dream could only wonder what Quackity was going to do today. Maybe he'll take my teeth, that would make sense. Or perhaps my other eye. Yeah, that sounds like something they could justify doing. Dream sat up as the lava fell away, Sam and Quackity standing at attention. Quackity was decked out in netherite armor. Enchanted netherite armor. Dream's ears fell back as a low growl fell from his chest.

Quackity made his way across the pit of lava, standing across from Dream with nothing in his hands but a potion and a pair of shears. Once the lava covered the opening again, Sam came through, glaring at Dream.

"Huh, what's the special occasion?" Dream smirked, tilting his head. Of course Sam; dear, dear Warden Sam; would want to help Quackity. "Don't tell me I actually scared you two." The prisoner chuckled, glancing between the two.

Quackity held out the potion; it looked like mud mixed with glitter. "Drink this."

"Excuse me?"

"Dream, do as Quackity says. I really don't want to have to force you." Sam stated, monotone. Dream stared at the warden, incredulous.

"No! I'm not drinking anything that crazy moron brings in here!" Sam sighed, striding over to Dream. "Get the hell away from me!" Sam went behind Dream, locking the prisoner's arms in an uncomfortable hold. Dream began yelling, kicking his legs out as Quackity approached. Quackity took Dream's jaw into a tight hold, digging his nails right into the joint and forcing Dream's mouth open. Once that was done, Quackity tore the cork from the bottle, shoving it into Dream's mouth.

Dream gagged, coughing and thrashing in an effort to get the bottle out of his mouth and not swallow the bitter liquid. Eventually, the potion's effects won out over Dream's own desires, his body going limp and his struggles ceasing.

Dream's eye darted around the cell. He wanted to move, wanted to cry out, wanted to not be sitting still. No matter how much he tried though, his body just sat there, even as Quackity removed the bottle and let go of his jaw.

"Hell yeah!" Quackity cheered, throwing the now empty bottle into the lava. "I told you it would work!"

Sam let go, gently resting Dream's head on his lap. "Yeah. You're sure he can't feel anything?" The warden sounded worried as he placed Dream's tongue back in his mouth and closed his jaw.

Quackity chuckled, "Yeah, I'm sure." He dragged his hand through Dream's fur, drawing lines at seemingly random points.

He's lying. Dream wanted to scream, Quackity's hands were cold and he hated as the "visitor" ran against the grain, causing the fur to stand up on end. Sam, he's lying! Please! But he couldn't say anything.

Sam, for his part, was staring at Dream sadly, carefully petting the prisoner as if he didn't co-sign this. He jumped as a hand snatched his wrist, holding it still. Sam looked to Quackity, who was still smiling.

"Seeing as how Dream isn't going to feel it, why don't you feel how soft he is!"

Sam looked at the prisoner, resting helplessly in his lap. Even though Dream's body couldn't move, his eyes were glaring at Sam. Still....

Curiosity won over the Warden as he took off his glove. Even with Dream unable to move, Sam was hesitant to touch the fur. When Quackity had entered the prison, that was all he talked about. It was just fur, what made it so special? What it because it was from Dream, and the prisoner never let anyone touch it?

Quackity groaned, snapping Sam from his thoughts. Without warning, the visitor grabbed Sam's hand and buried it in the mane around Dream's head. Sam could only stare. It was... So freakishly soft.

"Right!?" Sam glanced at Quackity, who was smiling like the cat that got the canary. "Seriously though, seeing as how he's going to be trapped in here for eternity, he really doesn't need this fur. He'll just overheat!"

No, I won't! Sam, please stop this! Tears fell from Dream's eyes, his mind racing. Taking his fur was the one thing he never expected.

Sam nodded, resuming petting Dream. "Just... be as quick as possible."

Quackity nodded as Dream's eyes darted to the man with the shears. "Let's see... Let's start here then!" Quackity stated, opening the shears and pulling Dream's skin right at his hip. Dream watched in horror as Quackity carefully cut a thin layer of skin and fur from his body, pulling and cutting just enough to make a starting point for him to continue. "Man, this is going to take a long while. Sam, would you mind grabbing a few more potions, just to be sure?"

Sam nodded, carefully setting Dream's head down on the obsidian floor, giving the prisoner one last pet before drinking a potion and diving into the lava.

As soon as Sam was gone, Quackity looked at Dream, and slid his hand between the skin he had just cut free, and the lower levels of skin and muscle. Dream tensed, the salt from Quackity's hand burning the fresh wound. "Man, this must really suck for you." The visitor laughed, a cruel smirk coming across his face as he wiggled his fingers in the wound. Dream gave a weak whimper, tear pouring from his eyes as the wound became wider and burned more. "Do you have any idea how hard is was to get the potion just right? Make sure you can't move, can't talk, but also heal you and make sure you can feel it? It was hard, man." Quackity finally removed his hand from the wound, marveling at the lack of blood. "This is probably what Tommy felt like. I have no idea what the afterlife is like, but maybe one day, I'll ask him."

Quackity straightened up as Sam came back, carrying a bag filled to the brim with the potions Quackity had made. The visitor smiled, turning back to Dream and resuming his work. Dream watched, heart racing as he finally saw what his fur and skin hid. Thin muscle hung from bones that showed painfully through in some places. It only took about two minutes for it to look like Dream was wearing a furry shirt or hoodie; a quiet whimper bubbling up from his chest as the first “hem” was finally completed.

Sam snatched a potion from the bag, opening Dream’s mouth and doing his best to make sure the prisoner didn’t drown on the vile liquid. Quackity gave Sam a weird look, getting ready to cut open Dream’s front.

“Really? He has another hour or so on the first potion.” Quackity muttered, pulling the skin up with his fingers, smirking as the muscles underneath twitched in pain.

Sam cast an unseen glance at Quackity, removing the empty bottle and throwing it into the lava. “He must have some form of tolerance, even after all this time. The numbing factor wore off I think.” Sam sounded distant, did Sam even believe his own words? Surely he knew.

“Well then let him deal with it. It’s not our fault he’s weird.” Quackity retaliated, making one final cut right at Dream’s collarbone, stopping as he noticed Sam flinch. “Hey, I’m sure Tommy felt way more pain than whatever little pin pricks this monster is feeling. Need I remind you-”

“No!” Sam winced, “No, I don’t need to be reminded.” He repeated, softer. Through the thick lenses of the mask, Dream could see Sam’s eyes darting between the prisoner and Quackity. Sam went back to petting Dream, unaware he had stopped for so long.

Quackity shrugged, cutting a gracefully curved line around Dream’s collarbones, stopping about halfway on either side. He grabbed Dream’s arms, inspecting both before dropping one to the ground, and making a quick slash around the whole wrist.

Blood poured from the fresh wound, diminishing to a trickle as Sam’s hand wrapped tightly around the small wrist. “Quackity! What the hell?!”

“Wow, language Sam.”

“Screw the language! What the heck were you thinking?! Get the bandages out of the bag now!” Sam glared at the visitor. Removing Dream’s fur was one thing, but getting so close to such areas… Sam would not stand for it.

“Will you relax? Look, it’s already closed!” Quackity pried Sam’s hand away, revealing a thin, bare scar circling Dream’s wrist. “Nothing to get pissy about.” He huffed, grabbing the prisoner’s other hand and doing the same. Sam was quick to cover the wound again, glaring hatefully at Quackity. “Alright. I need you to turn him onto his stomach so I can finish up the neck. I was not going to risk cutting your legs.”

“Quackity…”

“What? Don’t tell me you actually feel bad for this piece of trash.”

Sam looked between the visitor and prisoner. Dream looked terrified. Sam held out his hand. “I’ll take care of it.” Quackity stared at Sam, hesitantly handing him the shears. Quackity watched as the Warden made a shallow cut along the back of the prisoner’s neck, breathing heavily and muttering. Sam practically threw the shears back to Quackity, petting Dream as soon as they left his hands. “There, done.”

Quackity nodded, looking down at the paralyzed prisoner. He struggled to pry Dream’s skin open, humming and inspecting where it connected. Quackity took out a netherite knife, sliding it under the skin and between the muscle.

Dream watched, muscles burning and twitching. A ringing filled his ears, his heart racing, his lungs tight. He couldn’t breathe, and he felt way too hot… no, he was cold… Well, his body was cold, his arms freezing, but his face felt like it was right next to the lava. Sam… Sam something’s wrong… SAM! Sam please! SAM! Dream was suddenly in a void, screaming and wailing filling his head. He blinked, back in the cell. Quackity was further along in removing his skin. He could see his ribs laying right underneath the smooth muscle, his vision flitting to Sam, distress hidden by dark lenses. Sam’s head snapped to look at Quackity, muffled words demanding something. Dream’s mouth was pried open, another bottle shoved down his throat.

Black consumed him again. Back to the cell. Something hard and soft was in his mouth. Sam was holding his head, forcing him to look at the warden. Sam kept calling his name. Black again. Back to Sam. Black again. Sam. Black. Sam. Black. Sam. Black. Cloth?

Dream could feel his mouth was open; he could feel something wrapped around his body, arms, even his legs. Everything hurt. His eyes were wet, not from the cloth.

“S….Sam…?” His voice sounded too quiet. A hands was suddenly placed on his head; a gloveless, unarmored, calloused hand.

“It’s…”

“Sam… I’m sorry… I’m really, really sorry…”

Sam sat there, staring at Dream. Dream’s whole body was covered in tightly bound gauze. He looked almost like a mummy rather than… whatever he was. The only parts of him that still had fur were his head, hands, and knees. Sam had to fight with Quackity over leaving the fur on his knees. Sam sighed, closing his eyes as he took a breath, one hand resting on Dream’s chest while the other continued to pet him. “I know you are. I know.” Sam opened his eyes, staring at the creature laying on the floor before him, “It’s not me you have to apologize to though.”

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Quackity held up the pure white pelt. He had just finished cleaning it.

“Damn.” Quackity turned, smiling wildly at Schlatt. “Where the fuck did you get a coat like that?” The goat-man ghost lit up a cigarette, reaching out and touching the fur. “Again I say this: Damn.”

Quackity laughed, “I got it from my dear friend in prison.” Schlatt paused in his appraisal of the fur, staring at Quackity as if the still living man had grown another head. “Not like he needed it with how hot that place is. Besides,” Quackity pulled the fur away, brushing the soft hairs against his face. He froze, jolting to look at Schlatt, “Did you know his fur was this soft?”

The ghost stared, Quackity had a look to him that made Schlatt happy he was already dead. “No…” He spoke softly, lowering the cigarette he had. “I had no clue.” Schlatt watched as Quackity skipped way, the beautiful white pelt held close. Schlatt shook his head. Not for the first time in his life was he thankful that Quackity was on his side.

[builder051]

The talk

Chasing Ghosts

(I generally do not play in this arena; DO NOT ask for other stories with PMS, etc., as illness features. I do loosely plan to continue this thread, though. Or @mohini-musing might pick up for me.)

Warnings: weight (though not ED context), SA inc. prostitution, blood, emeto

____________________________

Tasha comes down the hall and stands like a ghost behind the sofa.

James is in the recliner across the living room, and he barely looks up from the textbook he's pretending to peruse. The quiet music he's had playing in one ear has long since captured his attention more than the multiplication of matrices. He's fairly sure he'll never use the skill lest he become a software engineer post-graduation, and the prospect of that's looking pretty slim.

He sees Tasha out of his peripheral vision, but doesn't move his head or lift his eyes for acknowledgment. She's probably drifted down from her weekend high, realized it's Sunday night, and gotten up for a Gatorade and maybe a glance at her homework.

Steve, though, who's lying on his stomach and taking up the whole of the couch, practically jumps to attention. He stands, scoots, and sits again in the amount of time it takes James to blink and make the first inhalation of a laugh.

"Sorry," Steve says, as if he's personally offended Tasha and just been called out. "I didn't mean... I was just, like, studying..."

Tasha shrugs. "Didn't come to sit with you," she says, in a voice that recalls the 'boys are gross' tone of young teenagerhood.

"What's up, then?" James asks, trying to bring back the balance of the room's atmosphere.

Tasha makes an ugly face. She opens her mouth, then shuts it. "Can I talk to you alone?"

James scoffs. "You think there's privacy in this apartment?"

"I can go, I don't know--" Steve looks around.

"Just talk," James says. He almost rolls his eyes, but the undercurrent of Tasha's affect seems to hold an air of seriousness. If there's something she needs to confess or ask for help with, he doesn't want her to feel less than secure.

Tasha lets out a breathy sort of sigh. "Blood," she says. "There's blood."

"Huh?" Steve responds first. "Where?"

James takes a little longer to contemplate the admission. Has she cut herself? There's no visible damage; Tasha's not holding an injury or howling in pain. Bloody vomit? That's nothing new, really, and even with vampire-red teeth, which she doesn't have, Tasha probably wouldn't come crying to him.

James is still thinking when Tasha points vaguely down the hall and to the left, which is, technically speaking, her side of the apartment. Or at least the bedroom and bathroom they'd parceled out for her when they'd unofficially moved her out of her dreary campus housing.

"What, in your room?" Steve asks.

"No." Tasha screws up her eyes. "I mean... I'm bleeding."

The cogs continue to turn in James's head, and just as he lands on an answer, Steve gives up, shaking his head and saying, "I don't get it."

"Fuck you," Tasha mumbles. "Both of you." She turns and starts to head back down the hallway.

"Tash." James jumps to his feet, his algebra book falling to the floor.

"You guys are fucking gay..."

"Hey!" Steve interjects.

James flaps his hand at Steve to shut him up. "Maybe we're gay, but I'm your big brother." He shoots a quick glance at Steve, hoping this won't surpass his no privacy promise. They've done some pretty wild stuff together: partying, puking, cleaning the carpet... Period talk shouldn't be too far out of their wheelhouse. At least, not if Tasha wants to talk about it.

Tasha huffs and rounds the edge of the sofa. She stands beside the arm, leaning her hip against it for a moment, before finally deciding to sit down, as far away from Steve as possible.

"I..." James starts, assuming it's his responsibility to keep the conversation going. "I assumed you hadn't been, um. You know."

Tasha's 100 pounds soaking wet. In her usual cutoff shorts and tank tops, he'd give her 95. Maybe 92 if she's detoxing. James assumes she has something like female athlete triad going on, except without the athlete. He doesn't like to think she's just too skinny to go through... normal biological processes. If he blames the drugs, sees them as wrecking her body instead of bringing her solace, then he'll have to turn eyes on himself, and there's no way in hell he wants to do that.

"Smart one," Tasha says. "And exactly how much thought do you give to the functioning of my uterus?"

Steve gives an 'oh shit' face, looking from James to Tasha and back again as if wondering how he's been so thick headed. James agrees, but is also relieved, in a way, that his boyfriend hasn't been thinking about his sister in, well, that way.

"Seeing as I have, more than once, pulled you out of an R-rated situation with iffy consent, and you have yet to become pregnant--" James starts.

"Yeah, ok, you don't have to..." Tasha shakes her head.

James decides not to stop his momentum. "Do you know how much sex you're having? How often you're using protection?"

"I said, you don't have to." Tasha glares at him. "I don't have one. A cycle, or whatever. I can't get knocked up."

"Well, I figured that, but you can still get an STD--

"I don't think you're hearing me," Tasha says. "I don't have one. I haven't. Like, ever."

"But--what?" James squints and cocks his head. "What about, what was it? Cheerleading camp?"

"That stupid summer program when I was 16?" Tasha bites her lip. "Yeah, that was a lie."

"You're losing me." Steve reminds them he's part of the conversation as well.

"What, didn't your mom send you to cheerleading camp when you were a sullen teen?" Tasha asks him, seemingly in all seriousness.

"Um. No." Steve withers a little under her stare. "There was a threat to beat it out of me with a bible when I was that age, but that never came to fruition."

"Mm. Fun times." Tasha scrubs her hair back from her face. "I told mom of the moment I started at camp, so then she couldn't go nuts about the moment I 'became a woman,' or whatever."

Tasha has always seemed like a little kid to James. Her stint at camp had only taken place... he quickly calculates... 3ish years ago. Tasha is a kid. She hasn't busted 20 years old yet. But, for the first time James wonders if other, more metaphorical factors are at play.

The idea quickly fades, though, when he remembers the actual topic at hand. "Ok, but Tash," James says. "What's actually going on right now?"

Tasha practically sinks into the couch cushions. She wraps both arms around her abdomen. "Blood," she says. "Kinda...everywhere."

"We'll clean the bathroom later," James says dismissively.

"And I'll do laundry," Steve offers. "I used to be the scrawny kid who got beat up a lot. I can do bloodstains."

"Not helping, babe," James tells him before Tasha can get a word in.

"Feel sick," Tasha admits, rather suddenly.

"Bathroom it is, then," James decides. "But, let's use mine."

Tasha seems to have turned into a shapeless blob on the corner of the couch, her chest meeting her thighs with her arms still wrapped around her stomach. Her face is in her knees, which James has to admit, would be easier to clean than the carpet.

"Come on," he says gently, taking Tasha's shoulder. "If you're gonna puke, don't do it here, please."

"But I already diiiiid," Tasha complains, drawing out the last word and adding the hiccup of a fake crying fit.

"Sorry." James hooks his flesh arm across Tasha's chest and lets her cling to him down the hall. He takes her into his and Steve's disorganized yet bleach-shined bathroom. Cleaning was practically Steve's hobby. Yet keeping down the clutter? Not his strong suit.

Unsure of exactly what kind of sick his sister intends to be, he sets her down, fully clothed, on the toilet, which, of course, has the seat up. Then he dives for the trash can and shoves it into Tasha's chest.

She gives James an appreciative glare, then sets her chin on the edge of the trash can, ostensibly to wait for an upcoming retch. James can practically see it, rising from the bottom of her spine, up her back, to her neck and throat before finally pushing a pitiful amount of spit and bile out of her mouth.

"Ok..." James sighs. If she's down to just that, she's been at it a while. Lost a lot of fluids already.

"Gatorade?" Steve asks in a chipper tone, putting voice to what James is thinking without a trace of delicacy.

"Hmph." Tasha spits. "If it'll... make it stop burning..."

"Lemme guess, vodka last night?" James tries to make her laugh. Maybe cough.

"Fuck you."

"Eh, we'll talk about that later," James says, hoping he doesn't sound threatening. "For now, how about I go with you?" James pulls on Steve's arm and heads for the bathroom door.

"Hey, you said no privacy here..." Tasha's irritated and sickly voice trails after them.

"Yeah, well, puking people aren't allowed to leave the bathroom," James says. "That's the house rule that trumps all the others."

"But I puke on the couch all the time--"

"That's because it's too hard to get your fucking limp-ass octopus body into the bathroom in the first place." James rolls his eyes. "Just sit tight."

He quickly drags Steve into the kitchen. "Ok," he says. "You have to know about this stuff. You took health class in high school, right?"

"I've lived with a woman," Steve reminds James, a little shamefully. "But Peggy was super private. You know, like inhibited, about, like, um..."

"Yeah, I get it." James shrugs. Then, "Did you know you can stem a nosebleed with a tampon?"

"Why would I?"

"I don't know..." James shakes his head.

"Why do you?" Steve looks a little take aback now.

"The field. Desert air's pretty damn dry."

"Ah. Ok."

"We'd get donations of shit from the states. Care packages, Costco overstock, you know. Just, whatever. When we got pads and stuff, whoever was unloading the box would just hold them over their head and yell 'who needs them?'"

"And I'm assuming people would just raise their hands?" Steve postulates.

"Yup." James pops the P. "No privacy. Everyone knows everyone else's bathroom habits. When you're deep in the field, there's no men's and women's facilities. Half the time the privies don't even have doors."

"Ok." Steve nods. "Experience, then. You have lots of experience."

James shrugs again. "You have to be chill, ok?" He opens the fridge and pulls out two bottles of Gatorade. He holds one to either side of Steve's neck, as if to physically cool him. "This is, like, super weird and awkward for her. She's really scared, I think, and her brave face just looks...jerk-ish."

"Yeah." Steve takes the Gatorade. "I can be good with this. I really care about her, even if she doesn't think I do."

"I know you do," James says. "It's all in the presentation right now, though. She's skittish. But, also, for some reason, willing to talk. We have to tease it out. And you can't ruin it, ok?"

"Ok, ok." Steve seems to understand, even if he doesn't appreciate the words.

They head back to the bathroom, where Tasha has, for whatever reason, decided to heave into the toilet instead of the trash. She squats awkwardly, sitting on one heel. From the angle he's at, James can see a spreading stain on the back of Tasha's shorts, which has made an imprint on her ankle and the bottom of her foot.

"Don't move," James says, reaching for a towel.

"The fuck would I?" Tasha coughs, holding her stomach and moaning.

"Well, when you're done, stand up slowly and wipe your feet."

"...Shit..." Tasha spits. "Like I said. It's fucking everywhere."

"Yeah..." Menstrual blood, James has no experience with. But blood in general, yeah. It does get fucking everywhere. There's that first moment when the entire body and all its systems are still in shock, like when the arm is first blown off, and then all he can see is red. Even the bone that was white just a second ago is lost in a sea of scarlet--

"Well, I suppose congratulations are in order," Steve says with a grin, clearly trying to be friendly, but missing out on one, or more, of the points. "You're not pregnant."

"Well, of course I'm not, you dingbat," Tasha replies, rolling her eyes so hard that James is sure it must give her a headache. If she doesn't already have one. "And besides. He used a condom."

"Wait," James says. He's been preoccupied by not looking at Steve. "You know that?" he pokes cautiously. "For sure?"

"...Yeah..."

"Every time?"

"To be honest," Tasha starts, spitting and pushing herself away from the toilet. She crab-walks to the towel, wipes her feet, then sits on it, criss-cross like a little kid. "I don't know if he actually gets off every time." She draws her mouth into a straight, defensive line.

"The fuck does that have to do with anything?" James asks.

Steve looks very much like he wants to get the bleach from the cabinet under the sink, pour it into one ear, tip his head, and see if it comes out the other.

"He pulls out," Tasha says bluntly. "And there's never any, you know. Gunk."

"Wait, he does both?" Steve's eyebrows disappear into his hair. "A condom and--"

"Ok, ok." James puts up his hands to shush them both. "And this is, what, this is your dealer we're talking about?"

"Yeah, I guess, if you want to call him that," Tasha says with a shrug.

"What else would we call him?" Steve now looks disgusted. "That'd be stupid to let him just, like, defile you every week."

"He doesn't--" Tasha starts, but then she hiccups, and maybe thinks better of what she was going to say. She still stares Steve down, though, then looks to James as if grasping at straws of support.

"He's, like, a manufacturer?" Tasha turns her gaze sideways.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." James puts his hand over his face. He'd assumed Tasha was getting her stuff on the street, through a framework of various interlopers. Now he's getting news that his kid sister is taking substances thrown together in some coed's bathtub? This is too much.

"Tash--" James starts, trying hard to keep his bubbling anger and concern from spilling over.

"He's a PhD candidate," Tasha says defensively. In Chemistry. And--" her eyes flicker from side to side as she seems to wonder what's appropriate to spill. "I won't tell you his name. But... I'll tell you that he got kicked off the football team for being too violent, but he still wears his green jersey all the time to prove how much better and calmer he's become since that happened, which was only in the freshman year of his undergrad..." Tasha babbles on.

The more she defends the guy, the more James hates him. He feels bad for him a little, slinging synthesized crack to get by. He feels better for Tasha, knowing that what she's taking is most probably pure. But the sex thing is--

"It's kinda creepy," Steve says, taking the words right from James's mouth. "Like, how much older than you is he?"

"I don't know." Tasha shrugs. "Not that much, I don't think. Started school early, finished fast. And I'm not sure this is his first post-graduate program..."

"Maybe shouldn't've added that last part," James says, screwing up his eyes. "So he's had, like, however long to prey on girls who are barely legal. Who might not even be legal..."

"Well, I'm legal, and I can do what I want." Tasha crosses her arms in front of her chest.

"Yeah," James sighs. "Unfortunately."

"But what about the thing with the handcuffs? The gang rape? Losing your bra?" Steve blurts out.

"Wait, you..." Tasha's eyes flash with anger. "You told him?"

"What did I say about privacy?" James quickly reminds her. "The non-puking kind? And, um," He looks to Steve. "Maybe a little respect?"

"Sorry," Steve mutters. "But--I really do--"

"I don't really remember that stuff," Tasha says.

James studies her face, but he can't tell if she's lying.

"Probably just party stuff that got out of hand."

'You mean you were too stoned to know the difference between your regular and some random dude off the street,' James thinks. 'What do you do at parties? And how the fuck do you slip past me?'

"He's your pimp, too, isn't he?" Steve asks, pointing at Tasha rather accusatorially, in James's opinion.

"No!" Tasha leans forward and brings her arms down to cover her clearly still sore abdomen. "Bruce wouldn't--" She swallows. "I didn't-- You didn't hear--"

James hasn't been a student long enough to know who was on the football team 4, 5, 6-odd years ago. He supposes he could look it up, crossing the name with accounts of any violent incident that amount of time ago. He's not sure he wants to, though he'll probably wind up looking it up later. Either that, or Steve will. James still has his ex-mil connections, a few of which were absorbed into the local police force. Steve, on the other hand, is better with social media and navigating the niceties of such mysteries as SnapChat and TikTok.

"Ok, fine," James says, just ameliorate his sister's panic.

"He doesn't even drug me at parties," Tasha goes on, probably unaware of how terribly young and desperate she sounds, making lame-ass excuses so she can keep her boy toy.

"And you've had other guys who did?" Steve asks incredulously, even though James shakes his head frantically at him to try to get him to shut up.

"You know Rumlow?" Tasha asks, since apparently she's now all about spilling names.

James shakes his head, but Steve screws up his eyes and says in a disgusted voice, "him?"

"Yeah..." Tasha sighs and looks down at her fingernails, which are stained rust-red at the root. "Remember the night I didn't come home?"

"Yeah, and scared the living shit out of us because your phone was off," James fills in the blanks.

"Well, I didn't turn it off."

"You mean that asshole kept you overnight without any means of getting yourself out of there?" Steve looks downright sick. "I mean, I know he looks slimy, but that?"

"I think Maria accidentally slept on the couch and found me at, like, 6am trying to stick my head in the linen closet because I couldn't find the bathroom." Tasha laughs, though the situation is anything bur funny.

"And I was so pissed at her for having you out all night..." James trails off.

"Yeah, maybe respect my choices a little more?" Tasha glares at him. "I mean, Maria's studying to become an EMT now. You can't think that badly of her."

'Great,' James thinks. 'Someone who'll drug Tasha to the gills every weekend.' She'll be less likely to overdose, but James has seen it all too often in the field. Newly minted medical personnel eager to sow off their skills and rushing into action.

"Yeah," James says, trying not to smirk. "So you got a girlfriend and a boyfriend now?"

"Ew, no," Tasha replies. "Friends with...benefits, I guess. If you even want to call it that. Folks who look out for each other, using a barter system?"

"Did you recently take World History?" James can't help but poking at her vocabulary.

"Fucking-a, I don't know. Once I pass, it's in my past."

"That's actually a good motto," Steve points out.

"Anyway," James says, bringing the conversation back to topic. "None of your...friends... are invited to this house."

"It's not like I want to bring them over for dinner," Tasha replies. "I guess drop off and pickup might happen, since, well, you know now, and I don't have a car." She shrugs. "Cool?"

James hates the idea of someone inebriated driving a car in which his sister is a passenger, despite the fact that he's done it before. Regularly, actually. Maybe he just hates the idea of the driver being someone who Tasha just fucked. The air might be heavy between them. They might smell like each other's deodorant and musk. They might kiss each other good bye. The thought makes James's stomach turn.

But, "sure," he says. "That's fine.” At least she'll come home.

James shares a glance with Steve, which seems to confirm the same sentiments, "Yeah," Steve echoes, as if his opinion counts for anything. "Fine."

[eintsein]

Impostor Syndrome: What it is and how to deal with it

There may be times when you feel like a fraud, like at any moment people will find out that you have no clue what you’re doing and you don’t deserve any of your achievements. You think that you’re unworthy of praise, that you only succeeded out of luck.

This is known as Impostor Syndrome, and around 70% of people have struggled with it in their lives. The problem arises when high achievers fail to internalize their success, i.e. when you attribute your success not to your own abilities but rather to external factors.

Some say that impostor syndrome could be linked to traits like anxiety or neuroticism. Impostor syndrome has also been commonly attributed to behavioral causes like childhood experiences, e.g. being labeled as “the smart one” or “the talented one”.

Another huge factor is how well you think you fit into a certain group, e.g. impostor syndrome is common among people of a racial/ethnic/cultural minority, women in STEM, and international students at US universities.

Dr. Pauline R. Clance was the first to design a scale to measure impostor syndrome based on six factors

The impostor cycle, where someone is given an achievement-related task and they either (a) overprepare or (b) procrastinate

The need to be special/the best

Superhuman characteristics

Fear of failure

Denial of ability and discounting praise

Feeling fear and guilt about success

There are different types of impostors, as categorized by Dr. Valerie Young, an expert on impostor syndrome (note that these categories aren’t mutually exclusive):

I’ve personally dealt with the first two types. I’m fairly certain I can attribute being ‘the genius’ to childhood/adolescent circumstance: I’ve been known as ‘the smart one’ throughout elementary school and high school - every time I made a mistake, it was met with a chorus of ‘wahh jo made a mistake...’ Even last month when I had a mini-reunion with some of my high school friends, one of them said something along the lines of “I like when Jo makes mistakes because it reminds me that she’s human, too.” I can definitely say I’ve overcome that now because, you know, college - everyone’s as smart or smarter than you and works pretty hard.

Being ‘the expert’ is still something I’m still trying to overcome. Last spring when I was applying to internships, I only dared to apply to those where I met 100% of the requirements. I’ve been coding for like 4 years but I constantly think I’m incompetent. It once got up to the point where I literally took 3 similar courses to assure myself that I actually do know how to do full-stack web programming. I still struggle to draw the line between relearning something because I don’t think I really know it, versus learning something for the expansion of knowledge.

How do I deal with it?

Firstly acknowledge that you have impostor-related thoughts Awareness is the first step to changing how you think and how you act.

How does impostor syndrome look like in a school/college setting? Examples include

You refrain from asking questions because you think other students/TAs/the professor will think you’re dumb;

You don’t respond to questions even though you kind of know the answer but you always think your answers aren’t right enough or that they’re simply wrong;

You don’t participate in discussions because you feel that you won’t add any value; or

You prevent yourself from having an opinion because you feel like you have no right to have one.

Reframe your thoughts

Think of their possible effects Do these thoughts help or hinder me? Will anything useful come out of thinking this? Acknowledge that not speaking up may mean slowing your team down or depriving your classmates of potentially valuable insights.

Separate fact from feeling Are they factual or simply a misinterpretation of my environment?

Differentiate feelings of fraudulence from feeling like an outsider Does my work show that I’m incompetent or is the fact that I’m the only female in a team of males/POC in a team of Caucasians make me think I’m inferior?

Stop comparing yourself to other people You might think something along the lines of “there are already so many people who can do what I do but so much better, so what’s the point in even trying?” However, remember that these people were once where you were, and taking even the smallest of actions could help you get to where they are.

Be more forgiving with yourself

Rethink perfection Not everything has to be perfect. Even if you have high standards, not achieving those standards doesn’t make you any less worthy.

Reframe mistakes and identify areas of improvement It’s okay to be wrong or not to know everything. Think of mistakes as learning opportunities and indicators of gaps in your knowledge/understanding of something, as opposed to a negative measure of your self-worth. Being wrong doesn’t mean you’re fake; it just means you have more to learn.

For example, previously I would only answer a question in class if I was at least 90% sure that was the correct answer. That’s a high threshold, and I don’t think it’s very useful for helping me learn and grow. Over the course of a year, I’ve managed to lower that down to I’d say around 60% (50% with coffee lmao).

Collect positive experience

Remember and reflect on praises Think about the efforts you exerted to help you achieve something and the positive responses you garnered when you finally achieved it. Remind yourself of the words of encouragement other people have told you, no matter how small. You could even keep a folder/document/journal to look back on when you feel like a fraud.

Heck, sometimes I feel like my posts aren’t useful or my designs are terrible, but then you guys tell me such kind things and I think, maybe I’m not as bad as I thought.

However, while it’s good to remember the good words people have said, don’t work just for the sake of praise. Focus on the value of the work itself and not the validation that comes from it.

Focus on providing value

Focus on what you can say Instead of thinking about what you don’t know, focus on what you do know and what you can say. Even if what you say isn’t entirely correct or relevant, it’ll get others around you thinking.

Remind yourself that holding back is like robbing the world of your ideas There’s always some value in your words, even if you don’t initially think so. How that value affects the world or other people may differ. For example, when you put forward an idea/thought in a discussion, it could be that

If there were parts that were incorrect, other people might have had the same misconception and are more than happy for the clarification;

Again, if there were parts that weren’t correct, they might not have had the same misconception but now realize that there is a way in which the subject can be misinterpreted, thus allowing them to have a more comprehensive understanding of the subject; and/or

It’ll stimulate further thinking and discussion and raise more questions, especially if other people wouldn’t normally think what you just thought. Then other people could bounce off your idea and form an equally great one.

Take action You won’t feel as much of a fraud if you’re doing something that brings you a little closer to achieving your goals or that adds value to your work.

However, be careful not to overwork yourself. Every time you start doing something, pause and think: is this really important to my progress or am I just trying to prove myself?

Instead of working on too many things, do something outside your comfort zone each day no matter how small. Once you do this, focus on quality (your growth) instead of quantity (the number of things you do).

Also, for those of you who fall into the ‘expert’ category, this also means practicing just-in-time learning, i.e. learning things when you need it, not just to comfort yourself.

I hope that was helpful, and please don’t hesitate to reach out if you have any questions/comments/suggestions :)

[hoochy-coo]

i really wanted to know your opinion on this hun, and also what WS anon thinks about it! especially considering the way flo normally deals and talks about her projects and coworkers on her social media (like she’s already doing with ‘the wonder’ and still do with ‘little women’, ‘midsommar’ and of course ‘black widow’), because imo the way she dealt with dwd was definitely weird and not a coincidence. she didn’t even shared or even liked olivia’s post of her first look as alice in the film! and for someone like florence, that’s just not right.

I didn't follow how Flo was like during the whole process of DWD so I can't comment! If people can send an unbias report to Flo's whole attitude before, during and after DWD wrapped I might have a better opinion. If it has been discussed here before maybe you have a link Jessie? Cause I usually ignored DWD convo here before.

Weird question but WS anon do you know if Harry and Jeff are still friend? 😓😬

I don't have proof but I would assume they're not totally on bad terms. I also don't follow Harry enough to make any kind of assumptions between him and his manager.

WS anon can you ask your friend if she thinks DWD will be a hit in the box office? I’m just curious cause I follow an account who also got spoilers and they’re saying a lot of the same as what you said. But I was wondering how your friend thinks this will perform?

We actually discussed this not because we're particularly interested in DWD but my friends love discussing film potentials and pop culture. So from what we gathered there were two test screenings. My friend only attended the second one and she was pretty lukewarm about it. But we assume they have more than enough survey response to improve on the material. I don't think 6/10 is a particularly bad rating? We think it's safe to assume the primary audience will be Harry stans. My friend thinks his fans would be happy enough because though his acting was pretty mid compared to Flo, he looks really good save for the ending. And since there were a lot of stans during the last test screening maybe they put there wanting to see more of him. Booksmart was well-received and Flo is very well-loved, the genre usually draws in an audience, so a lot of cinephiles might be drawn in. However, for the gp we think it will depend on the reception of the film critically and the word of mouth marketing. While a lot of the cast are pretty well-known, none of them are considered true box office draws. Harry might draw in a lot of his fans, but for the gp I never really here them be excited just because a popstar is starring in a film. Flo, Chris and even Olivia are pretty well-known but looking at their filmography none of them are Tom Cruise or Dwayne Johnson. In fact they starred in some flops in the box office, which is no shame cause I do believe the word movie star doesn't really exist anymore. Not even Brad Pitt could save Ad Astra in the box office. Right now we don't really see it as a big hit. My friend is no Olivia hater by the way and again 6/10 isn't bad. But as she was trying to explain to us the film, so far it's not very captivating and intriguing. I didn't really have an interest seeing this film so I would be one of the market that needs to be convinced to see it. Other factors include the fact it's R-rated which will automatically limit the audience. My friend said she doesn't think the film utilized the rating enough though. Another is when it will be released. Nearly every month next year they have a big competition which will probably block in more theaters. And lastly is how other countries will treat the cinema next year because while the US is pretty relaxed I have read some countries don't want to risk opening up movie theaters until the pandemic is completely cleared.

- Worcestershire Sauce Anon

PS Jessie, I have info I want to share with you but please don't post it.

About Flo, I remember getting some asks about how she went from interacting with Olivia at the beginning of filming to not really saying anything after O made that IG post thanking Harry for “stepping aside” so Flo could shine lol. I’m not 100% how accurate that is though!

(And ofc!)

[simplybakugou]

Teacher, Teacher

↝ After he finally found a daycare for his daughter, Kaminari can’t help but crush on his daughter’s stunning new teacher.

BINGO SPACE: Single Parent AU

⋆ PAIRING: dad!kaminari x daycare.teacher!reader (fem) ⋆ WARNINGS/TAGS: fluff ⋆ WORD COUNT: 2370

A/N: i’m back at it again with another bingo piece for the @bnhabookclub​ event. thank you to the anon who requested kaminari for this prompt, especially since this is my first time writing for kaminari! i’m not sure if i did justice to his character so please forgive me if this wasn’t the best... like really this was just ass :(

FULL BINGO MASTERLIST

✐posted 07.25.2020✐

“Look, Daddy! That cloud looks like a bunny!” Kame giggled in her seat, staring admirably at the sky.

Kaminari smiled, watching his daughter from the rear view mirror. “It looks pretty out there, right, Kame?”

Kame turned her head to her father, nodding her head vigorously. “Mhm! I wish we could play outside today…”

“I know, kid, but Daddy has to work. But you’ll get to play with kids your age at the daycare!” Kaminari said, trying to entice Kame to the best of his ability. Then again, most kids Kame’s age were fearful of leaving their parents’ care for a short period of time.

Being a single parent was nowhere near easy, especially for Kaminari. In his prime he was one of the top heroes, saving people left and right and working beside other hardworking pro heroes. But somewhere along the way he fell in love, having a child with the woman who he assumed he would spend the rest of his life with. That is until she became a different person, claiming that Kaminari was selfish in working long nights and not considering how hard he was working himself to keep the country safe. With the birth of his daughter he truly did try his best to make his previous family of three work but it just wasn’t enough for his ex, ultimately leading to a breakup.

Kaminari had gotten full custody of Kame, other factors leading to his ex being unfit to look after their daughter. As Kame grew older and older with every passing day, Kaminari took it upon himself to quit professional heroism, finding other odd jobs with his quirk coming in handy from time to time. He knew he had to be a good father for Kame’s sake and while he loved being a hero, he couldn’t call himself a hero if he wasn’t looking after his daughter well enough. 

It was a difficult sacrifice but one he was glad he had taken in the long run. After all, nothing matters more to him that little Kame. 

“We’re here!” Kaminari exclaimed, putting his car in park and exiting the vehicle. He opened the backdoor, removing the seat belt from Kame and placing her on the floor, holding her little hand in his. 

The closer they became to reaching the daycare, the more frightened Kame became, her lip quivering as Kaminari opened the door to the building. “I’m scared, Daddy.”

He patted her head, making sure not to mess up her blonde locks that he had tried so hard to pin back. “It’s okay, I’m sure everyone here’s really nice.”

Kaminari and Kame entered the small building, peering into the windows at the sight of at least fifteen or so children playing amongst themselves. Kaminari stood by the doorframe of the miniature classroom, looking for the teacher of the class of rowdy children and who would essentially be taking care of them.  

“Where’s the teacher?” Kaminari mumbled to himself, watching as the kids were loud as they talked with one another. 

As if on cue, Kaminari sucked in a breath as a gorgeous woman exited the supply closet, a stack of books in her hand as she was talking to a child.

You were stunning and had quite literally taken his breath away. The way your face lit up as you dealt with the children, making sure to crouch in front of them so they wouldn’t be so intimidated when talking to an adult who was two times their size.

Your gaze shifted over to the father and daughter waiting patiently by the door, standing to your feet. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you there! You must be Kaminari, right?.”

Kaminari almost had to shake his head to escape the trance you had put him in just from your appearance alone. You extended your hand out for him to shake, which he did, feeling your slender fingers against his. You turned to Kame, bending over slightly to look at her. “And you must be little Kame!”

Kame nodded, hugging Kaminari’s leg as she hid behind him. Kaminari sighed. “Kame, you don’t have to be scared.”

“B-But Daddy’s gonna leave and I don’t want you to leave me alone!” Kame whined, her body practically quivering in fright. 

“I’m sorry about her,” Kaminari said to you.

You shook your head, standing upright once again. “It’s okay! A lot of the new kids are like that. It takes some time for them to get used to everything. You’re more than welcome to stay for a little bit, at least until Kame gets comfortable.”

“Is that okay?” Kaminari asked.

You nodded. “You can take a seat in the back.”

You walked to the front of the class, clapping your hands together to get the kids’ attention. “Okay, guys, we have a new friend joining us today! Everyone say ‘hi Kame!’”

“Hi Kame!” The class said in unison.

“And Kame’s dad, Mr. Kaminari will be joining us for a little bit, too. Say ‘hi Mr. Kaminari!’”

“Hi Mr. Kaminari!” The class said together once again. 

Kaminari smiled, laughing as he waved at the kids. You gestured to the front seat, letting Kame know to sit there. Kaminari had to guide her to the chair as she was still scared and he sat himself in the back of the class.

As time progressed slowly, Kame would occasionally glance back, making sure that Kaminari was still there, his presence alone comforting her a little. Kaminari would try his best to calm her down despite being a little far from her, letting her know that there was nothing for her to be scared of. 

Kaminari looked at his watch, realizing he needed to get to work soon but it would be difficult to do so, especially with Kame still not feeling secure in this new environment she was put into. 

“Need to be somewhere?” You asked as you were passing around markers to the kids.

Kaminari rubbed the nape of his neck. “Yeah, I need to get to work soon.”

You glanced over to Kame who was completely focused at the task of coloring in the miniature pictures she had drawn. “I’ll distract her, and then you should slip out when you can.” Your voice was lowered to a whisper and you sent a sly smile to him as you approached Kame’s desk, crouching down beside her and praising her work. She was practically beaming from your kind words, explaining to you what she was attempting to do with her drawing.

As Kame was gazing down, her eyes practically glued to the paper, you peered to the back, making eye contact with Kaminari. He felt stiff under your gaze, your (E/C) eyes piercing right through him. You tilted your head at the door, indicating for him to make his way out while Kame was distracted.

He had gotten your memo, standing up and slowly proceeding to the door. He turned around, smiling at the sight of Kame grinning and totally entranced by whatever you were saying to her.

That was one thing he had in common with his daughter: you had managed to single-handedly completely captivate them both.

***

As the next few weeks passed by, Kame became more and more comfortable with her new peers and her new teacher. She even looked forward to going to the daycare every weekday but that didn’t mean she was okay with Kaminari dropping her off and simply leaving. He still had to sit in the back of the class but the duration of his stay became shorter and shorter the more time Kame spent in this new environment.

Wanting to at least help out, and get closer to you as he quite obviously had a crush on you, he decided to help you organize the kids’ crayons, markers, and toys whenever any of them made a mess. With this time he spent helping out, he evidently did get closer to you, learning that you had been a daycare teacher for a few years now and wanted to branch out into other teaching methods although you still wanted to be around kids. 

And you obviously knew who he was, even if the kids weren’t familiar with the old hero. You had informed him how you were a fan of him, even remembering seeing his face on TV back in his U.A. days. Hearing you praise him and thank him for keeping the world safe, even if it were for a short amount of time, definitely boosted his ego and made him feel content since the woman he was attracted to was the one praising him.

Nonetheless, these feelings of his were not one-sided, although Kaminari wasn’t aware of it, as you definitely were attracted to him. Hell, what wasn’t there to like about Kaminari? He was handsome, charming, and the way he spoke to his daughter in a gentle manner made you grin like a fool. 

But to your disappointment, it had been a week since Kame or Kaminari had shown up to the daycare. You found yourself looking back at the door every now and then, a frown on your lips when you realized they, especially Kaminari, weren’t going to show up for the day. Even a few kids noticed you staring at the door, questioning you which you only laughed sheepishly in response and told them not to worry about it.

Finally Kame showed up that morning but to your dismay, Kaminari had left in a hurry, leaving Kame and not even uttering a word to you. “Daddy said something happened at his job, Miss Y/N,” Kame informed, smiling up at you sweetly.

“Thank you for letting me know, sweetie,” you replied back, patting her head. At least now Kame didn’t need her father sitting in the back of the class everyday… but was that a good thing for you?

Nevertheless you couldn’t help but glance back every so often at Kaminari’s now empty chair that was still placed all the way in the back and overlooking the kids. For now you could only look forward to seeing him later when he would have to pick his daughter up.

And finally that time had come and you smiled and waved goodbye as each kid left with their parents. With no time at all, Kame was the only child left behind and you watched as she held her miniature bookbag in hand, eyeing the door as she waited patiently.

You kept her company, asking her all kinds of questions to amuse her in which she happily responded to. Then, Kame squealed as Kaminari arrived, letting out a breath as Kame went charging at him, hugging his legs as she giggled.

You approached the door frame. “It’s been a while since I last saw that pretty face of yours.”

Kaminari almost blushed, taken aback by your compliment. You thought he was pretty when you looked like that? You were the most beautiful woman he had laid eyes on and he couldn’t believe you thought he was handsome.

“Kame’s mom had her for a week. Sorry, I should’ve told you that before.”

You shook your head as Kame wandered off into the hallway, looking up at the pieces of arts and crafts made by the kids and were now hung up on the walls. “It’s alright. I was just wondering. But it must be difficult… being a single father and having to balance work with taking care of Kame.”

“It doesn’t matter how hard it is as long as I have Kame. She’s all I care about right now,” Kaminari said, his words bringing a smile to your face as you both glanced over at Kame who was staring proudly at her masterpiece of a drawing.

Kaminari’s phone began buzzing in his pocket and he apologized briefly to you as he answered the call. It was his boss, letting him know that he wanted Kaminari to extend his hours which he could only complain about internally.

As he spoke on the phone, you joined Kame in the hall, crouching down beside her as she began babbling on about the different colors she used in her drawing. You praised her for her art which she giggled happily to in response.

Kaminari stood by the door, his lips curling upwards as he watched the encounter before him. He felt his heart skip a beat just by watching you interact so sweetly and charmingly to his daughter. He couldn’t remember the last time Kame had gotten close to an adult, not since her mother left them at least. But you had a way with enchanting kids as they practically ate up anything you said to them. 

The more he got to know you, the more interested he was. 

“Come on, Kame, we’ve got to go home,” Kaminari called out, shoving his phone in his pocket following the end of his phone call.

“Coming!” Kame exclaimed, skipping towards her father. She turned around and waved excitedly to you. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss (L/N)!”

“Bye, sweetie,” you replied, waving back to her and making eye contact with Kaminari as you waved to him as well. 

Kame made her way out the door first and Kaminari followed right behind her until he stopped, holding the door open with his hand. He turned his head to face you and you rose a brow at him in confusion. “Are you doing anything this weekend?”

“Not really. I’ll probably be applying for other teaching jobs but that’s about it. Why do you ask?”

Kaminari smiled confidently. “I wanna take you out to dinner. I’ll come pick you up here at six.”

You grinned, overjoyed by his offer. “Sounds like a date. I’ll be waiting, Kaminari.”

“Call me Denki.” He sent a wink in your direction, making you want to squeal internally. 

It had been a while since Kaminari decided to start a new relationship. As lonely as he felt, he knew he didn’t want to pursue a partner that Kame wouldn't be comfortable with, not to mention he barely had enough time to keep up with work, Kame, and his personal life. 

But for you he was willing to make it work.

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into the night (bakugou x reader) - Chapter 3/?

Summary:

You were born to die.

It is a fact you’ve known since your quirk first manifested, and one you have been denying for just as long. You refuse your supposed fate and try to live the best life you can while remaining undetected.

But maybe fate has another plan. A chance encounter on a mountainside changes your life forever.

Chapter One

MATURE : MINORS DO NOT INTERACT // 18+

“-such an asshole though!” You groan into your hands, hiccuping lightly.  

“I couldn’t hear that, but I can kinda guess what you said.”  A tinny voice responded.

“Sorry.” You mumble, bringing the phone up to your ear. “I’m jus’ angry.”

She laughs. “And drunk."

“Mmmaybe.” You attempt.

“Honey, I know when you’re drunk.” She laughs. “I met drunk you first.”

“HAH! Yeah, that was great.” You smile at the ceiling.

“I don’t know about that.” Her voice is light and airy. “Having some random girl come into the bar at like midnight screaming that I stole her desserts wasn’t exactly how I planned my first day open to go.”

“But, you met me!”

“Ah, and my life hasn’t been boring since.” Another light laugh. You hear a different voice in the background. “Okay hun, I have to get back to work now. Take care of yourself okay? Drink water, eat some bread.”

“Imma go for a walk.” You decide, sitting up. The room spins a little, so you close your eyes.  

“Uh, that’s probably a bad idea hun.” The voice on the phone continues. “Just stay home.”

“No no no nonononononono.” You say. “ s’Makkari, s’fine.”

“I just don’t want you to run into any shady characters out there.”

“Pshhh, shade-shady characters should be scared of ME!”

The voice in the background gets a bit louder. She puts a hand over the phone and responds to them. “Ah, shit okay. One sec.” The muffled sound stops as she takes it off. “Hun I gotta go, but please be safe okay? Text me in the morning.”

“Will do captain.” You salute lazily, then hang up the phone. Ah, shit. You forgot to say goodbye. Bringing the phone into your eyesight, you sigh sadly. You miss her. Naoko had been too busy with an event at the bar a week before you left, so you haven’t seen her in almost two weeks now. It’s longer than you’ve gone without seeing your friend since her bar first appeared in your neighborhood.

Putting your phone down on the bed, you stretch a little before reaching towards your nightstand. Past-you had been smart enough to grab some water on your way upstairs, so you chug it. It doesn’t make you feel any less woozy, but you hope you’ll be happier in the morning because of it. Once gone, you return the glass to the nightstand and stand up, making your way shakily downstairs. The stairs are no challenge for you, so you make your way towards the front door, pausing only to peek into the living room. Dad is still passed out on the couch, the blanket you laid over him earlier somehow still holding on. The room itself is a bit of a mess with beer cans littered throughout, but that is a problem for tomorrow.

You give a quick nod, grab your jacket, and head on out into the cold. It should be cold, as evidenced by your breath becoming visible, but your alcohol-ridden body stays warm as you walk. It’s only after you’ve gone quite a distance that your body starts to register the change in temperature. You don’t mind much, the cold serves as the shock your system needs to gain more awareness. While you are walking a bit more clunky than normal, you are no longer stumbling or swaying. You feel lucky that nobody is outside to witness you.

Nostalgia hits you in full force as you pass your old elementary school. Memories flash behind your eyes of running around the field, digging in the dirt, and playing make-believe. You were lucky to go to school here. Nobody gave too much thought into quirks beyond the initial ‘cool’ factor. Kids from Makkari didn’t have particularly strong quirks, and you can only think of one classmate that even dreamed of becoming a hero. Maybe that's why Dad decided to come here after all.

You pass the school and continue down the road, drawing a smiley face of condensation on the window of Tanaka’s store as you pass. Task completed, you continue on your aimless walk. You should probably start heading back soon, your fingers and toes are getting a bit cold. You look up as you walk, marveling at the star-lit sky. The sky in Sapporo is never this pretty.

“Watch it, idiot.”

Your head snaps forward at the unexpected voice, vision swimming slightly.  There is a person directly in front of you. A few blinks later, your eyesight clears enough to recognize him. The asshole on the mountain. The blond is dressed in all black, breath coming out in quick wisps of mist in front of him. You can hear a dull beat of music from his headphones.

“It’s a shady character!” You raise your hand to your mouth, covering a gasp.

A scowl forms on his face. “The fuck did you call me?!”

You giggle, hand leaving your mouth to return to your side. You want to say something, really, but nothing is coming to mind. In the end, you just stare at him. To be fair, he also takes a minute to consider you. Those red eyes flicker up and down your body, brows furrowing.

“You’re drunk.” That scowl fades a bit into an unimpressed look.

“Whaat?” You deny, looking away. “Nooo.”

“So you’re usually fucking dumb enough to walk around in slippers?”

Huh?  You look down at your feet. “Oh.” Wiggling your toes a bit, you giggle. “Cold.”

“Tch. Dumbass.” A moment of silence. You are still looking down at your feet when you hear the shuffling of clothes. Looking up, you realize he has begun to leave. Something in you wants to stop him. Probably the alcohol. Wait, what is he even doing here? Shouldn't he be up on the mountain? Is he actually here?

“Are you a ha-hallucination?” You ask, taking a step forward. You bring your hand up towards him, not entirely sure what you intend to do. It stops inches from his shoulder. Huh? A warm hand is wrapped around your wrist, preventing you from making contact. “You feel real.” Your hand opens and closes in his grasp.

“Go home, extra.” He scowls. Wow, his eyes look more intense up close.

“Yanno,” You say. “I think - I think you’d be pretty if you smiled.”

“Hah?!” Red eyes widen a small bit.

You smile at him, big and bright. “Like ‘dis.” It’s a bit muffled through your smile. There is a moment of silence, both frozen in place before he scoffs. Your hand drops heavily to your side as he lets go. The hand that was holding your wrist moves to your shoulder, a sudden pressure forcing you to completely turn around to face the village.

You stumble as he lightly pushes you forward. “Go home.” Looking over your shoulder, your eyes lock with narrowed red ones. Ugh.

“Fine.” You mumble, turning back to walk. “Byebye shady character.”  You can almost feel that intense gaze on your back as you walk away, only breaking when you turn a corner. It’s a bit weird, but despite his sudden appearance, you don’t feel unsafe around the mysterious blond. That intense gaze was more...intriguing than scary. Maybe it’s because he saved your life. Hm.

It takes you much longer to get home than you thought. You had been too distracted to realize that you made it all the way through the village and onto the surrounding side roads. Extremely unsafe, in hindsight, and something you would never do in Sapporo. Still, the walk back was quiet and easy.

Dad is still passed out when you re-enter the house. You adjust the now fallen blanket to once again cover him and head upstairs. Now that you are a bit soberer and inside, your feet feel frozen. You grimace and change into pajamas and your thickest socks. You contemplate having another layer of socks, but decide to just head to bed instead.

You don’t exactly fall asleep, but pass out when you hit the bed.

The headache creeps up on you in the morning. At first, you think you’ve gotten away without any consequences of trying to keep up with your Dad in drinking, but by the time you are dressed and heading downstairs, your head feels like a jackhammer has hit it.

The main floor is clean of any remnants of last night. Dad is fully dressed and humming while making breakfast. You frown, jealous at his cheerful demeanor.

“Morning.” Dad sings, placing food down on the table. It is a simple breakfast today, definitely something your body should be able to take. You grunt in response and grab a piece of toast, nibbling lightly on the edge. Breakfast is a quiet affair today, with Dad slipping you some headache pills in the middle of it. Ah, how you love him.

“Your phone is buzzing.”

Glancing down at your phone, you see it light up briefly. Huh. While you had grabbed it on your way downstairs, the headache had made you concerned about checking it.

[ 7 New Messages ]

[ 6 Missed Calls ]

You blink at your phone, confused. Checking the missed calls first, you see they are all from Naoko: four from last night, two from this morning.

22:08

Naoko: Hey hun plz remember to text me when ur home.

23:34

Naoko: Are you still on ur walk?

23:55

Naoko: Plz let me know you got home ok.

01:24

Naoko: I hope you’re just passed out at home. PLZ CALL ME IN THE MORNING

Naoko: I am not above calling Makkari police on ur ass.

08:33

Naoko: Okay I’m getting really worried now.

09:10

Naoko: Please be alright.

“Oh shit.” You sit up straight, thumbs hitting the buttons to call Naoko back instantly.

“Not at the table,” Dad grumbles.

“But-” The phone connects.

“I’m going to kill you.” Aaand she's pissed. You grimace at the sound of her voice, a bubble of guilt growing in your stomach.

‘Out.’ Dad mouths, pointing towards the living room. You roll your eyes but get up, passing the living room to make your way up the stairs.

“I’m so sorry!” You say. “I honestly got home and passed out. I just woke up!”

There’s a long silence on the other end as you enter your bedroom, sitting down at your desk. Then, a sigh. “It’s alright.” She replies, and you can practically hear the anger drain from her voice. “I’m just glad you’re okay. I was just worried, you know? The last I hear, you are absolutely drunk and wandering the streets. It’s not safe.”  That bubble of guilt grows a bit more in your stomach. As the owner of a bar in the busy downtown core of Sapporo, Naoko has witnessed a fair share of horrible things happen to drunk people. You stay quiet as she seems to calm herself, then “I never got it out of you last night, why were you even that drunk?”

“I tried to outdrink my dad.” You mumble.

“...Really?” She sounds surprised. “Your dad? All of this wasn’t at least for some guy or something? A rebound?”

“As if!” You let out a sharp laugh. “There’s no cute guys in Makkari.” An exaggeration, sure, but the cute ones are either taken or not in your age range. In fact, now that you’re thinking about it, you might be one of the only single people around your age in the village. Oof, that's a bit of a punch to the gut.

“What about your mountain boy?” Naoko asks. “I thought you said he was attractive.”

“He is  but he’s a complete…jerk…” Your words fade off a bit as a memory floods your mind. The night sky, dark and beautiful. Drawing a smiley face in the window. Blond hair and a heavy base echoing from headphones. Red eyes and a scowl. A hand on your wrist, on your shoulder.

“Ahhh…” You raise your free hand to your cheek, feeling it heat up. “Oh no."

“What?”

“I think...I think I saw him last night.”  

“Wait, while drunk?”

“I don't remember all of it!” You insist. You remember reaching for him, smiling big in his face. “It’s all a bit blurry, but I think we talked for a minute.” Oh shit, what did you do? What did you say??

A laugh echoes through the phone, juxtaposition from the dread that creeps up your spine. When you reached out, what exactly were you doing? “Well, did he walk you home?”

“No." You hope you would remember that. "I don’t think so…”  There's a disapproving sound from Naoko on the other end, then a thoughtful silence. “Can we talk about something else? Anything else?”

“Alright, I’ll let it go. For now. ” She responds. “Hm, let's see, I can tell you about this girl that came into the bar last night…”

The call didn’t last much longer after that. Your heart wasn’t really in it, and Naoko always has a bunch of errands to run on her days off. You hang up the phone and place it on your desk, walking over to plop down face-first on your bed. You groan as more blurry half-memories from last night flood your brain. Did you make even more of a fool of yourself in front of that jerk? Ugh.

Eventually, Dad calls you to help with clean-up downstairs, so you begrudgingly pull yourself up and go help. You shoo him away from the sink, manners telling you that if he made the food you should be the one to clean up. Instead of leaving, however, he sits back down at the table and talks. It warms your heart, really, how much you can tell that he’s missed you.

You agree to go with him today to run errands. Originally you had planned to climb the mountain today, but after everything that happened yesterday you are not too sure if you can face the blond again. It’s a nice day, walking through the village and spending more time chatting to folk. You both pop into Tanaka’s store and chat for a bit with him. It feels like you are a teenager again, almost like you’ve gone back in time, but Dad has gone more grey since you’ve last seen him, and Tanaka struggles to move around the store like he used to.

Dad stays to chat with Tanaka a bit longer as you pop into the nearby cafe. You are next in line when familiar voices make you turn around. Saneka and Nakamura wave from the door, walking up to talk. It’s mostly mindless small-talk until Nakamura brings up the noises on the mountain again. He mentions hearing them again last night, definitely more interested in them than the other day. You think about the blond, his scowl, and intense gaze, and honestly consider mentioning something. But what would be the consequences of that? If a hero had to come to Makkari to take care of an unlicensed quirk, that would only spell more trouble. And, well, you sort of owe him. You deny hearing anything.

Luckily, you are next to order. You order a latte from someone you don’t recognize. It’s made quickly, and you wave at Saneka and Nakamura as you leave, headed back towards Tanaka's store. You are about to go in when your pocket buzzes. Letting go of the handle, you check your phone.

[ 1 New Message ]

Naoko: What did you say the mountain guy’s quirk was?

You are confused at the sudden question. Sure, you were drunk when you explained it, but you don’t suddenly have more information now. Why did she even care? With one hand occupied with the coffee, you slowly answer. Thank god for autocorrect.

You: I’m not really sure. Didn’t see it.

You: It was loud tho, and strong. The trees were completely shattered. Some I think were on fire?

[ Incoming call: Naoko ]

The hell? You pick up the phone. “Uh, hello?”

“Was it like an explosion?!”

“Hm, yea. I guess so.”

“Shit.” She mumbles to herself, voice shaking slightly. “I think that might be him...”

“Who?” You take a sip of coffee.

“A pro hero.” You startle at her answer, coffee definitely going down the right pipe. Coughing harshly, you hit your chest with the hand holding the phone and try to breathe. It takes a minute before you calm down.

“A-what?” You finally make out. “That’s not possible.”

“I don’t know hun.” She replies. “Just, the description you gave of him and the attitude and now the quirk….” She fades off for a moment. “Google him. Ground Zero.” You place your coffee on the sidewalk, careful to not knock it over. You put her on speaker and open up your internet app, typing in ‘Ground Zero hero’.

You pause, hand over the ‘search’ button. There is no way. Naoko must be wrong. But Naoko has always been obsessed with heros and hero culture. Still, she could be wrong about this, right? Your heart pounds a bit harder. Heroes don’t come to Makkari. Nothing happens here. Why would he be here? It makes no sense. Taking a shaky breath, you hit the button. It takes a minute, as your data has always been a bit spotty out here, but soon the page loads.

RED RIOT TAKES DOWN VILLAIN WITH GROUND ZERO

IS GROUND ZERO DATING FELLOW HERO URAVITY?

GROUND ZERO: SETTING A HORRIBLE EXAMPLE FOR CHILDREN

TOP 10 EXPLOSIVE GROUND ZERO INTERVIEWS

You stare at the articles as they come up, dread crawling up your spine. There are no pictures, but something in you fears the worst. You click on the images tab. It loads slowly, but the first image that appears makes your stomach plummet.

Blond hair. A red, intense gaze. A seemingly permanent scowl. Your wide eyes take in more photos as they load. Some of them are professional, magazine shoots or runway press. Some of them are shakier, taken of him the heat of battle with a terrifying look on his face.

“Well?” Naoko's loud voice shocks you from your staring.

You take a deep breath. “It’s him.”

In a village like this, if a hero showed up it would be the only thing people talked about for years. So, why haven’t you heard of it? You frown in thought. If people don’t know, did he come here in secret? It's extremely suspicious, but if it was something bad, why would he risk his cover to save you?

“Let’s talk about this later.” You take it off speakerphone and press it to your ear. “How does five sound?”

“Sure.” She replies steadily. This discovery seemingly has less of an effect on her. “I have some other stuff I have to do anyway. If you run into him again, think you can get an autograph for me?”

You respond unsure and hang up after a quick goodbye. Reaching down, you grab at your latte and take a large sip, not really tasting it as it goes down.

The door to the store opens and your dad pops his head out. “You okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” You give him a -hopefully confident- smile. He still looks concerned, so you take the opportunity to hide from his gaze by walking into the store. Tanaka waves at you from the counter.

“What was that about?” Dad asks from behind.

“Just...work.”

“Does your team really need to call you on vacation? What is so urgent about accounting?” The two of you reach the counter. You determinedly look at Tanaka, avoiding Dad's gaze.

“Uh, yea.” You mumble, before realizing you probably need more to dissuade him. “One of my juniors made a mistake, so she called me to figure out how to fix it.”  It concerns you how easy it has become to lie to him. Dad makes a sound that you can't understand without looking at him, but you can feel another question coming, one you probably can’t answer. You decide to change the topic.

“Hey, Tanaka.” You lean against the counter, feigning causality. “That guy that is staying in Fuccanchi, what do you know about him?"

“Oh, him again!” Tanaka smiles. “Not much, I’m afraid. I’m afraid you lost your chance dear, he left this morning.”

...

Oh.

[veryvincible]

If tony meets the criteria for ocd, why do you still say he doesn't have it? Not disagreeing just curious

Disclaimer again: I am not a mental health professional, I am simply a mental health advocate with many years of research under my belt, as well as lots of firsthand experience with the diagnostic process and other mental health-related incidences with the medical field (in America specifically). So, as always, feel free to look into it yourself if you’re interested in it, because there’s always discourse in the (very messy) field of psychology. Anyway, on we go.

The thing to remember here is that, with fictional characters, we don’t get to delve into their minds as much as we’d like to; internal monologue, as deep and complex and beautiful as it can be, is still a collection of words to define a mass of feelings, and these masses of feelings can be attributed to so, so many things. When a therapist diagnoses you, they get to ask funky questions like, “Do you feel like your thoughts and concerns spiral, and you’re helpless to stop them?” “Thinking back to your childhood, do you think you exhibited similar symptoms that you’re experiencing currently?” “Do you, personally, have an opinion about what may have been a catalytic event for you adopting this state of mind?” and all sorts of things. Though those are much more formally put than most questions I’ve been asked by therapists, the gist is basically the same-- they get to deep dive into your history, your mind, your self-awareness, your body language, your feelings... and you’re one cohesive person with a cohesive story. 

For comic book characters, we don’t get to delve into that. We don’t get to go, “Well, his childhood was like this, and that explains these behaviors! We can assume his panic response is Like This, and we can assume his attachment style is Like This, and we can assume his symptoms are Like This, and we can assume he feels Like This,” but those are all assumptions, and we can’t probe further. On top of that, most of them aren’t even intentional-- sure, yes, Tony Stark is a very sad man, and most writers make him this very sad man, but I can guarantee that most writers aren’t specifically looking into MDD and writing Tony accordingly. Some may be drawing from personal experience, others may be drawing from assumptions, etc. Whatever the case, Tony is not a cohesive man with a psychological timeline wherein one event leads to a developed response, consistently.

Above all else, diagnosis is a tool for treatment-- yes, it is excellent to be able to better understand yourself and feel the relief that comes along with this, but diagnosis came into being for the sake of medical professionals being able to say, “Hm, you’ve got [whatever]. I will go tell the other doctor you’ve got [whatever], so that guy can help you, because he specializes in [whatever], or you can try these home remedies for [whatever], or we can delve into [whatever] emotionally with talk therapy.”

Because diagnosis is a tool for treatment, you get these funky little footnotes in the DSM (which, again, is not the end-all, be-all, but when it comes to fictional characters, it’s totally fine) and other diagnostic tools that tell you “Even if you meet all these criteria, this diagnosis isn’t necessary if these symptoms would be better explained by something else!” because treating you for every psychological condition you qualify for could be rough on your body, it could end up with conflicting treatments (especially if you make incorrect assumptions, or if certain symptoms are stemming from different physiological factors despite appearing the same externally), and it’s just kind of tedious.

Like, you could potentially exhibit every symptom under the diagnosis of Generalized Anxiety, but if you have severe PTSD from long-term trauma that’s made you super jittery, it might be accepted that Generalized Anxiety wouldn’t be the best diagnosis for you, because ideally the treatment you’d receive for PTSD (trauma counseling, medication, etc.) would help with that.

I will say here that having an “umbrella diagnosis” under which other potential diagnoses could fall is not the same thing as having comorbid disorders; you probably know that already, but I’m going to say it anyway, just in case. Comorbidity involves overlap but separation of diagnoses, whereas the whole “Don’t diagnose your patient with [whatever disorder] if these symptoms are better explained by another thing!” happens more often when the entirety of one potential diagnosis fits under a section of another, more fitting diagnosis. So, if you see anyone with very long lists of diagnoses (probably don’t put big lists like that in your bios, though, please-- that seems kind of dangerous), that’s not a sign that they’re, like, mental illness-hoarding or whatever the fuck, despite that being a very common assumption that a lot of neurotypical people (and honestly, other mentally ill people) can have. Bodies like to be balanced. When one thing falls out of place, a lot of other things might follow. Just a disclaimer for you here, because I feel it’s important to say.

So, that covers... most of the reason why I don’t personally like to point to Tony as a character with OCD. First of all, sure, he has what could be considered obsessions and what could be considered compulsions, but we can’t actually ask him, “Hey, do you think these thoughts are obsessive? Are these potential compulsions things you perform ritualistically in order to make the obsessive thoughts go away?”

And... I don’t know. I think OCD (for me, specifically-- I know there are others with OCD whose opinions differ, and more power to them) is something that has to be written more intentionally for it to read as representation. Sure, they might have what could be intrusive thoughts... but my intrusive thoughts don’t just feel like thoughts that “could” be intrusive. They are intrusive, unmistakably. My compulsions don’t just feel like solutions to the problems I’ve made up or exaggerated in my head; they’re irrational, fear-based, anxiety-inducing. It’s the way you make sure every upstairs door is closed before heading downstairs, because otherwise you get a tightness in your chest and you can’t focus or breathe quite right; or the way you get up out of bed to make sure your door is locked multiple times just in case you forgot; or the way you develop avoidant tendencies or overly communicative tendencies because if you don’t, the ramifications within your relationships could be unbearable. It’s having a voice inside your head that’s not just telling you you’re a monster, the perfect antithesis to everything you’ve ever held dear; it’s a voice inside your head that is the monster, a voice that sounds the same as your own, simultaneously overprotective of your well-being and overly interested in the total destruction of your person.

And... I’m not saying Tony doesn’t experience that. He clearly has this feeling of “I am a monster” inside of him. He clearly has that feeling due to what he perceives as his own shortcomings. But these are comic books, and though there are many ways you could introduce intrusive thoughts in an internal monologue, we don’t really get that with Tony as much as I’d need to in order to feel represented by him. We don’t get him thinking shit like, “You could abandon this all, you could leave this shit to the rest of the team, you could fuck off and live on an island somewhere else, you could hole yourself up in a room and never leave, you could kill them, you could kill him, you could kill everyone, you know for a fact you have the resources to kill everyone, don’t you want to make sure? What if your tech fails? What if you do kill everyone? What would happen, huh? How would that look? How would that feel? What do you think it would feel like to pick up their bodies, to look in their eyes and have nothing staring back at you? You could tell him you hate him. Not to save him from you, no-- you could just do it because you’re able to do it, because you’ve cultivated these relationships and you’ve fooled everyone into loving you despite knowing you don’t deserve it. You’ve tricked them, and every day you continue on like this you’re manipulating them, and you’ve taken so much from them-- they’ve put so much of themselves in your hand that you could so, so easily crush if you just took a second and did it.”

... And we don’t get the accompanying monologue of, “No, god no, what the fuck, that’s not who I am, that’s not who I want, I’m not like that, I love them, that can’t be who I am, if that’s who I am then what does that say about me, what does that say about the space I take up, what does that make me?”

Which is where the OCD version of “I am a monster” tends to originate-- the inherent inability to separate oneself from the illness, the difficulty in coping with an overactive survival mechanism ready to ensure you’re prepared for every single thing that could go wrong, very specifically the things you’re most worried about, because that’s what matters, right? The things you’re worried most about. And Tony’s most worried about love, about his loved ones, about the planet, about life.

But “I am a monster” doesn’t imply that internal monologue. “I am a monster” could be a legitimate analysis of what he’s been through and what he’s done, clouded by self-loathing instilled in him by his father. “I am a monster” could be something he’s thought since he was younger, not because of any specific symptoms he developed, but because of what he was told-- because he was told he was wrong, bad, unlovable.

I think Tony could get there. I think I honestly may have written Tony there at some point, just because it’s easy to write for me. But if we’re following standard diagnostic procedures with a man on a page who really hasn’t been written intentionally with anything other than substance abuse, symptoms of PTSD, and depression... I don’t know. It doesn’t read like OCD to me. It doesn’t feel like OCD to me, and if at any point it did, I think that would be more of me filling in blanks with my own experiences than it would be anything else.

(There is one canonical instance of “I could kill this person right now if I wanted to!” level intrusive-ish thoughts I can think of off the top of my head, and that is in the most recent Iron Man run, and that also doesn’t read like OCD to me because, honestly, nothing Cantwell writes with regards to mental health seems natural or authentic or accurate. Also, I don’t know if it really qualifies as an intrusive thought if it feels more like a justified outburst of rage to the character thinking it, so, uh. Hmm.)