#I saved it and don’t remember who made it

[jackiesgirl]

headcanon!iprincess treatment!

jackie taylor x female reader.

what is it like to date the most popular girl and soccer captain of the school, jackie taylor?

— you’re wrong if you think you’ll be using your car, because she picks you up and drops you off. she just likes sharing something so personal with you.

“baby, why do we need two cars? we have one for both of us.”

— that girl can’t let you open the car door. she’ll always be standing right next to you, ready to make you step out and make them feel like the center of the school.

— “jacques, i’m not cold.” but she’s already delighted, wrapping her arms around your waist and pressing a soft kiss to your cheek from behind. she looks so happy that you almost feel guilty for breaking her view of you with her prom jacket, complete with her signature number and last name.

— she doesn’t like the idea of arriving at a party without you. before, going with shauna was fine, but now that she has you, it feels uncomfortable not being with you in those moments, especially because she doesn’t know which of you will get there first, and she doesn’t know who might approach you while she’s not there. she lies on her bed, resting her elbows on the mattress as she watches you change, then says, “you’re so beautiful.”

— jackie lives to spoil you, so you’ve been able to save quite a bit during this relationship. the dates are always on her, even when you’ve ordered more than enough food. she loves paying for what you like, what you prefer, even for things you don’t need.

“look, i bought you this necklace and this ring, and i remembered you said you needed new sneakers, but i want to go with you so you can tell me which ones you like.”

“jackie, this ring is gold!”

— jackie taylor doesn’t know what personal space is when it comes to you. consider yourself lucky if you can walk down the hallway without her hand on your waist or without her spinning you around just to kiss your forehead. during games, if she scores a goal, the first thing she does is look for you in the stands. if she doesn’t see you right away, she frowns until she finds you, and when she does, she blows you a kiss with a huge smile before running back to the game.

— she loves bragging about you, even if she doesn’t do it directly. in the middle of a casual conversation with shauna and the girls, she mentions how amazing you look in her hoodie or how good those jeans she bought you fit. if someone else says you’re pretty, jackie just smiles proudly and says, “i know, that’s why she’s mine.”

— she has a sixth sense for knowing when you need something. you’re in class, sighing because you forgot your favorite pen, and suddenly, jackie reaches out and hands you hers without you saying a word. are you hungry? she pulls a snack bar out of her bag and gives it to you without asking. tired? she’s already made space in her lap for you to rest your head while she plays with your hair.

— jackie goes all out with her gestures. on valentine’s day, she doesn’t just give you flowers—she fills your locker with handwritten letters and notes saying how much she adores you. for your birthday, she throws a surprise party where everything, from the decorations to the cake, is in your favorite color. “nothing is too much when it comes to you,” she says with a big smile when you ask if she overdid it.

— she defends you even when it’s not necessary. a teacher gave you an unfair grade? jackie is already arguing with them at the classroom door. someone gave you a dirty look? she’s glaring back at them. some guy tried flirting with you? she wraps herself around you and says loudly, “my girlfriend isn’t available, thanks.”

— during soccer games, it’s impossible not to notice how proud she is of you. if you bring her water, she only drinks it if you give it to her yourself. if you hug her after a game, she clings to you like you’re the only person in the world. when she wins a championship, the first thing she does is run to you, lift you in the air, and shout, “i love you, i love you, i love you!”

— jackie taylor treats you like a princess, but she’s also the boss in the relationship. she lets you win at card games, but when it comes to paying for dinner, holding your hand in public, or making sure you get home safe, she’s in charge. if you ever joke that you should spoil her more, she just laughs and kisses your forehead. “you already spoil me just by existing, love.”

[hannahssimblr]

It’s an innocuous day in January when, for the first time, I realise my life can come apart just like anybody else’s. Like theirs, mine is a seam, a thousand tiny threads holding it firm, an analogy somewhere about a stitch saving time. Or nine. I don’t remember. My mother is too high class to sew her clothes. When they tear or wear at the elbows and knees, she buys more, because people like us don’t need to repair. 

Friends at school with fraying cuffs on their uniform sleeves, hems of their trousers unrolled and hanging raw about their ankles. Shirts, a rectangular echo of a pocket on the breast of the thing worn for years after being attacked in the hallways by boys who tore them off for fun. Happened to me too. Inevitable. A rite of passage on my first week of school. I wore a shirt still creased from the packet the next day, because my clothes never had to be old, worn, damaged. When something tore, another one appeared in my room. I was from the big house on Vernon Avenue. I had the PlayStation 2 before everyone else. My clothes were always new.

But this, all of this, is like when Jen’s school trousers ripped up the back the time she tried to climb on the cistern to have a cigarette out the window. The threads had been giving for a while. They just waited until that moment to let her know, in a violent display of embarrassment in front of the girls she was hoping to impress. It’s like when the elastic in your swimming togs gives up one day, falling to bits around your body after months of cooperation, eaten secretly by the chlorine the whole time. 

It starts with nothing. A pretzel. The bakery near the university I get my breakfast some mornings. Simple, a bagel and a coffee which I’ll take with me to class. Tuesday, that day. The day I have art history at nine with Steffen, the lecturer that fancies my girlfriend and loathes me. It’s my most dreaded hour of the week, one that calls for the comfort of a pretzel and a coffee, essential to get me through the slog of it, keep me sane while he pretends he cannot understand my German and corrects me sneeringly in front of everyone, determined to embarrass me. 

Card declined. 

“Ah, weird.” Trying again then, and another denying beep. Smiling sheepishly at the barista, explaining I don’t have cash on me. 

“It could be a problem with the machine. You can take it. You come here all the time, so just pay later if you want.”

Thank her. It was nice of her. Tell her I’ll be back in a couple of hours, after my classes, but I won’t be. My card is declined in the little Italian deli where I’ve met Astrid for lunch. It’s awkward this time. They’ve already made our sandwiches up. 

“I’ll pay it,” says Astrid after a long, uncomfortable pause, and presents a little blue debit card while it strikes me I’ve never actually seen it before. Never knew what her debit card looks like, and sort of assumed in some sense she didn’t even own one. Why would she? I think. What does she ever have to pay for?

The sandwiches, I suppose. Tasting worse than ever now, they are spoiled by the pungency of my guilt. We eat them by the river, hands freezing around the tinfoil wrapping, frowning at the water, as the wind lifts white peaks from its surface. “So weird about my card,” I say, but Astrid is disinterested, doing that flippant waving thing with her hand. “Sometimes the machines just don’t work as they’re supposed to. That’s why having cash is good.” She wants to talk about this Iranian film she and Dalia saw in an indie theater. I let her, all the distracted by thoughts of my bank account. It’s fine, surely. I have money. People like me have money. 

Early evening, with my earbuds in on the gym’s treadmill, and I hear a message chime. Jonas. I wipe the sweat from my brow and read it. It’s about the water bill. A message so unbelievably dull that usually I’d ignore it for a few hours, but now my stomach twists. I went back to the bakery after college to pay for my breakfast, and my card was declined again. It looks like I stole that pretzel now. I told the barista I’d come back in the morning with actual euros for her, and she smiled in this vacant way that made me feel like a liar, wanting so badly to explain to her I’m not, like, poor, or whatever. I can pay for it, while knowing that explanation would only make me look worse. 

And now Jonas is asking about the water bill, saying I never paid it. I step off the treadmill and stare at my phone. A drop of sweat hits the screen, magnifying the pixels, little dots of coloured screen, and emphasises the word paid for me, like I didn’t already understand the central theme of the text. As in, I have not paid my share of the bill. 

“I have,” I respond. “It should just come out of the account automatically.”

“It hasn’t,” he says, and sends a photograph of the bill, big überfällige Zahlung across the top of it in terrifying red lettering. Overdue payment. Surely not. My legs start feeling a bit weak, which is very dramatic. It’s fine. I have money. I hold on to the arm of the treadmill anyway, in case I decide to fall over. Someone is asking if I’m still using it. I tell him no and head for the changing rooms. 

I call Jonas from the UBahn on the way home, immediately confrontational on the phone to him. “I paid that bill.”

“Well, you haven’t,” he’s eating something. “If you had, then the letter would not say ‘überfällige Zahlung’.”

“That’s obviously a mistake.”

“I don’t think so,” rustling noises, him unfolding the paper for further examination. “I have never seen a mistake before like this, if that is the case. It’s more likely you didn’t pay.”

“I’ve direct debit set up, so.”

“Okay, then maybe your account is empty.” He says it so casually, mouth full of whatever he’s having for dinner. The nonchalance enrages me. 

“Don’t be so stupid,” I hiss, and someone on the train looks over. “There’s no way. I have loads. There’s something going on with my account today, is all. This is normal.” I have no idea whether it’s normal or not, but am sure there’s merit to saying it with such conviction. 

“When did you last check your account balance?”

Well, I’ve never checked it. The sight of it frightens me and reminds me of the drain and eventual cessation of life. Completely reasonable reason. “Jonas, I am telling you that this is a mistake.”

“You can check. When you get home, check.”

“Yeah,” I say, and hang up as the train hurtles from a station into a black tunnel, rumbling through the darkness. 

“You look unwell,” Jonas greets me as I arrive and untangle my scarf from my neck, choking me now, and kick my boots outside the door. Indeed, I do. My reflection is pale and wild-eyed, hair tousled from grabbing at it, like one of those Wall Street guys in the documentary my economics teacher made us watch to explain the recession. 

“Where’s my laptop?” I already know where it is. Need to look. Can’t bear to. Pushing through the apartment now with everything in a dizzying blur, shaky cam, the smell of Jonas’ cooking, him trailing behind, offering me a plate of it, as if I can even think about putting food into my mouth. 

My laptop is on the bed, tossed all casually on the rumpled duvet. Macbook. How much are these things worth? I never cared before this moment. Jonas is in the door as I type the banking website into the address. My codes then. Fuck sake. Don’t know them. I have to navigate through a chat with my mother to find them, heightening the suspense. Then punch them in. Check balance. 

It’s like being punched in the head, the feeling. Then there’s this long, deathly silence, because Jonas knows without me having to say it. He knows by the look on my face. 

“Do you–”

“I have four euros in my account.”

We look at one another for one endless moment, and I can tell he wants to laugh a bit, because it’s a funny kind of shocking. Four euros. A comically depressing number. 

“It’s fine,” he’s saying now. “You just top it up with more,” and then I look at him with the most scathing look I have in my repertoire, because for the first time, he’s the one who looks like the privileged idiot. I feel I have to speak to him slowly to control the emotion in my voice. Tremors anyway, wobbling there beneath every word. “Where do you suppose I get the money to top it up, Jonas?”

He falters. “I thought your parents gave you money.”

“They don’t.”

“But you… We all thought they were funding your lifestyle.”

“They weren’t.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Oh.”

“But Jude,” he says, shaking his head at me. I don’t like that. “You were spending so much money all the time. We all thought you had an unlimited amount.”

“I wasn’t,” I snap. “I wasn’t, really.”

“The holidays you went on. The gifts for Astrid, the way you eat at restaurants every day…”

“Those things didn’t feel expensive. I thought I had enough money to cover it, or, I don’t know, I didn’t think. When I sold my car, I–it looked like…” I break off helplessly. “I got an A in maths, Jonas. How can this happen?”

“It’s basic subtraction.”

“This shouldn’t be happening to me.” my laptop fades to black now, the account disappearing from sight, but the reality still ringing in the surrounding air. I think of all I am about to lose. A vision of my life crashing down around me like a house of cards. “Astrid! Oh, God, Astrid. What is she gonna do?”

“She will have to buy her own things for once.”

I groan, head in hands, unable to formulate a response. How can I speak when my life is basically over? Condemned to the streets. One of those people rummaging through skips with holes in my shoes, saying mad things to people at the bus stop, terrorizing the feral pigeons in the town square. There he is, crazy bird man, a cautionary tale. He got an A in maths in his leaving cert, and this still happened to him. 

Jonas, there by the door, deciding it's the perfect time to ask whether I've paid rent this month.

Without looking up. “No,” One glance at my account was enough to show it’s been struggling along for a while. Hundreds becoming tens, whittling down through December to the last few euros. Pocket change. It’s been bad for a while. “No, I didn’t pay rent.”

“Hm,” he says. “And how do you plan to do that?”

Looking at him in despair, considering, briefly, a tantrum of some sort. Pure childhood panic. If I cause enough of a scene, this will all go away. Looking into Jonas’ face is frightening, because I can see it there. He doesn’t know what to do either. He isn’t going to help me. 

“What do I do?” I ask, as if he knows. Pity in his eyes, watching me flail. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Perhaps you can get a job.”

A job. Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. A job. An actual job. Kill me. That’s the last thread. The one causes the seam to give and ruins my life. You don’t understand. I want to explain. I’m from the biggest house on Vernon Avenue. I had a PlayStation 2 before everyone else. Instead of saying that, I lie here like a corpse, staring at the ceiling, wishing some heavy piece of furniture would crash through it and turn me into one for real. 

“It’s not bad,” he says, not understanding how bad it really is. Unable to fathom the intricacies of my life. 

I don’t bother to answer. It’s the financial equivalent of being pantsed in the schoolyard. The blankets ripped off my sleeping body on a winter morning. I am a creature accustomed to the shade beneath a rock, exposed at last to the light, nothing left to shelter me.

A job. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[rizzoreads88]

Elriels are funny. We've been in Azriel's head. One time and know exactly what he's thinking. He is attracted to Elain... but that's all. Their story would never be about choosing love over a bond because Azriel's only motive to go after her is because he believes she should be his mate. His brothers are mated to her sisters, so, in his mind, it's only natural he should be mated to Elain. Even if they ended up together somehow, Azriel's fixation with the bond would not fade, because it's already there when he thinks of the middle Archeron sister. The moment Azriel found his mate would also be the moment he left Elain. And that mate will be Gwyn. He will leave Elain the moment the bond snaps for him and Gwyn.

Are you a romance reader? Like I’m genuinely asking anon if you read romance books a lot? Because in 90% of romance books the love interests don’t confess any sort of feelings for a while into their love story.Romantic pairings in romance books usually start out w lust. (Especially in sjms books)The author shows the reader that the MC’s are into each other by the way the characters act, by their actions toward each other and then once the story gets going we get the love confessions. We haven’t even had Azriel or Elains story yet.

We have been n Azriels pov for one singular bonus chapter. Of course we’re not going to get any sort of love confessions in a bonus chapter. Remember Cassian & Nestas bonus chapter from Acomaf? When we were in cassians pov was he thinking about how much he loved or deeply cared for Nesta? NO LOL he was thinking about how badly he wanted her. His physical attraction to her… they had a almost kiss that didn’t happen in that bonus chapter as well. HMM SOUND FAMILIAR?!?!

But I’ll play along….

So Azriel and Elain get to know each other slowly over two years and then start to like each other… he spends time alone with her in the garden and on Soltice in acofas past 3am never once makes a move on her just hangs and talks w her…. And you think this man doesnt have deeper feelings then lust?

Azriel was the first to notice she was taken in acowar and was full of rage and was willing to die to get her back, then when he gets her back he’s bleeding out and won’t even get looked at until he knows she’s ok…And you think this man doesnt have deeper feelings then lust?

In azriels bonus chapter we learn He can’t sleep because he’s thinking about Elain so much, he saved her Soltice gift put it on his nightstand and looks at it everyday for a year, his razor sharp thoughts go quiet around her, he has a physical reaction to eluciens mating bond, he can read her without his shadows, he questions the cauldron over Elain… not finding a mate… but over Elain…And you think this man doesnt have deeper feelings then lust?

You guys take the one sentence where he says he hasn’t planned farther then his fantasies to mean he only lusts for her!!! Which doesn’t even mean that. It means he hasn’t made any plans for elain bc she has a mate. She is off limits to him. Rhysand reinforces this in the bonus chapter. We know he thinks more about her. He’s losing sleep because that’s how much he’s thinking about her and upset because he can’t do anything about it…. And you think this man doesnt have deeper feelings then lust?

If Azriel did any one of these things for Gwyn yall would never stop saying he was in love w her. I mean you guys take him smiling at her when she cut the ribbon in training as him being into her so please be so for real right now. Yall know Azriel is into Elain much deeper than lust.

Azriel is not fixated on a mate bond. He is into Elain who already has a mate lol… if he was going after elain because he’s just fixated on the mate bond why would he be going after someone who already has a mate? That makes no sense whatsoever

“The moment he found his mate he would leave elain and that mate is gwyn” Ok I’m not sure if you realized you even said this but like wowza…. You know he met Gwyn first right? Hes been around Gwyn longer… yet he still is into Elain not Gwyn. Even after his acosf Soltice moment w Gwyn your sides fav moment “spark and glow!!!!!” 3 days later he is around Gwyn again THINKING ABOUT ELAIN 🤣

But you know who Azriel is not thinking about? Gwyn. He lived in the same court as her for over 2 years and never even checked up on her after Sangravah. Then when he starts training w her for months never even thinks about her to get her her own gift. He pawns off the necklace he got for elain which she gave back to Gwyn anon. Meaning if Elain didn’t return it Gwyn woulda got nothing. Then when Gwyn is taken to the blood rite Azriel cares more about Saving Eris then gwyns well being. And even after that when Gwyn goes to the river house after they complete the blood rite azriels in the same damn house and doesn’t even walk over a couple of rooms to make sure she’s ok🫣

Even if you want to convince yourself all Azriel feels for Elain now is lust that’s still not a good point for your ship LOL bc he’s known gwyn longer and been around her more and is not attracted to her like that.

Remember when SJM had rowan lusting after Aelin in her gold nightgown lonnnnggg before they were together or admitted they had feelings for one another? Remember when SJM had hunt drooling over Bryce in her pink dress lonnnng before he admitted his feelings to her or that he even had any? Remember when Casssian was insanely attracted to Nesta in acomaf lonnnnngg before admitted to having any sort of feelings for her? Or what about Dorian and Manon who literally started out just as purely physical attraction and hooking up? So even if you want to try and convince yourself it’s just lust…Azriel being insanely attracted to Elain is still on par w how SJM writes all her endgames.

[theplantsthrowawayblog]

Save The Last Dance For Me.

NOW PLAYING: Michael Bublé — Save The Last Dance For Me

SYNOPSIS: It’s your last night as an engaged couple. So, obviously, he takes you out on the town to celebrate.

Established Relationship || AgedUp!Sero X Fem!Reader || SongFic Fluff

A/N: Dudes i spent too long making that header graphic. also this was a shit idea i got this morning so now you get this. listening to a sero playlist, this song showed up, IMMEDIATELY got a fic idea. have fun reading this crap lmao. uuuhhh as for ages, both of you are 24-26. Sorry for it being Fem!Reader. I will absolutely try to make something GN! in the future i promise 😭 he’s probably gonna be ooc ugh

“Now you can dance every dance with the guy Who gives you the eye, let him hold you tight And you can smile every smile for the man Who held your hand beneath the pale moonlight”

“You ready?” He asks, grinning at you. All his. You had been for the past few years — seven years together, three spent engaged. But tomorrow was the day the knot was officially tied, and you were properly married. You nod excitedly, stepping out of the car after he opened the door for you.

What better way to celebrate than a night out?

“But don't forget who's takin' you home And in whose arms you're gonna be So darling, save the last dance for me”

He laughed from the bar, watching you. You were having fun. That was all that mattered. He knew you were his and his alone; your loyalty had been tested so many times when he went off with his hero work. You hadn’t cheated. Not once, not ever. So, he didn’t care what you did.

Sero watched you with a smile, feeling his chest ache with sheer love. It was hard to think you’d be his wife in the morning- But that was just the truth. And he was thankful for that.

“Oh, I know that the music's fine Like sparklin' wine, go and have your fun Laugh and sing, but while we're apart Don’t give your heart to anyone”

You were dancing. It was fun. Sero didn’t care what you did. You loved that about him. He was so confident in just letting you do what you wanted. Which, he was right to be confident in it- You were his. You knew it, and you loved him.

You could feel his eyes on you. You liked that fact. Your freedom was something that made him feel good. Seeing him all smiley the way he always got… It was nice.

“And don't forget who's takin' you home And in whose arms you're gonna be So darling, save the last dance for me”

He remembered your first date. It was back in U.A.’s halls; you’d been dumped, and he’d comforted you. He just sat there and rubbed your back in small circles, letting you cry and rant about your ex. Sure, it wasn’t a “date”, but it was what got his number in your phone. Originally, it was so you could call him when you needed comfort.

It was hard to think that the sad girl he’d found in the hallway was becoming his future.

“Baby, don't you know I love you so Can't you feel it when we touch I will never, never let you go I love you oh, so much”

You remembered the official first date. He’d taken a walk around campus with you, then took you to a boba place. You nearly started snickering. It felt like so much back then. Compared to the current lifestyle you two shared, that first date was so simple.

“You can dance, go and carry on 'Til the night is gone And it's time to go If he asks if you're all alone Can he walk you home, you must tell him no”

You flopped into the chair next to your soon-to-be, grinning at him tiredly. “Do you wanna dance, pretty?” Hanta cooed, holding out a hand for you to take. You did. You smiled as he pulled you up and out onto the floor.

“'Cause don't forget who's taking you home And in whose arms you're gonna be Save the last dance for me”

You could smell his cologne as he spun you once, twice around. It was nice. “You’re so pretty, y’know that?” He asked you softly, his raven hair brushing around with the movement of your twirls. You looked away with a tiny smile, barely pulling back to offer a small nod before moving close again. He just laughed.

“Oh, I know that the music's fine Like sparklin' wine, go and have your fun Laugh and sing, but while we're apart Don't give your heart to anyone”

Your laughter rang through the night as he pulled you back to the outside, your fingers locked with his as you ran. What for, he hadn’t said. He just tugged you along, grinning and giggling like a kid.

“And don't forget who's taking you home And in whose arms you're gonna be So darling, save the last dance for me”

He pulled you along the sidewalk, over to an old building. It looked abandoned and worn with time, but Sero continued to guide you through it, heading for the staircase. You looked at him quizzically. “Just trust me,” he smiled, his eyes brighter than you’d ever seen them. He was excited for whatever his surprise was.

“So don't forget who's taking you home Or in whose arms you're gonna be So darling, save the last dance for me”

Each step was taken two at a time; for you it was out of curiosity, for him it was from delight.

When you finally got to the abandoned rooftop, he’d set up something small — not much, but it was still beautiful. There was a radio, which was playing love songs, with a picnic basket set aside for later.

“Oh baby, won't you save the last dance for me Ooh, you make a promise That you'll save the last dance for me Save the last dance The very last dance For me”

Abruptly, he pulled you close, dipping you low to the ground. You gasped, not ready, but managed to keep yourself from falling. He just smiled down at you.

“Tell me, wifey. Did you save the last dance for me?”

[softer-ua]

Nezu is way too suspicious.

His Quirk allows him to cause chain reactions, a fact explicitly stated by Midnight, who also made sure to remind us that he holds a grudge against humans. We don’t know the full extent of his abilities, but we do know that his foresight is extensive—so much so that he planned specific routes for Kaminari and Mina to take during a crisis. That suggests his influence is incredibly far-reaching.

And Midnight? The only UA staff member who isn’t around anymore. Suspicious.

Now, let’s talk about Nezu’s involvement in key events:

1. The USJ Attack

• He’s one of the few who knew about AM’s Quirk, its limitations, and how little time he had left.

• Nezu deliberately held up All Might, making him even later to the attack than he was already going to be.

• If Nezu wasn’t directly involved in setting up the attack, he at the very least played a role in ensuring AM wouldn’t be there in time to prevent it.

2. The Successor Plot

• Nezu was part of the selection process for AM’s successor, encouraging him to choose a UA student before Deku even entered the picture.

• He personally voted for Deku’s acceptance into the Hero Course.

• He knew Deku and Katsuki were from the same middle school, likely remembered them from the sludge incident(which was in the paper) and saw that they some of the highest scores in separate categories.

• Then, he placed them in the same class and observed their very complicated relationship firsthand.

3. The Sports Festival & Its Consequences

• He allowed Katsuki to be tied up on live in an event that replaced the Olympics in popularity.

• Which directly led to him gaining the League of Villains’ interest.

• At the same time, this put Katsuki on Jeanist’s radar—setting up a future mentor-student relationship.

• All of this put even more pressure on Katsuki, forcing him to prove himself.

4. The Training Camp

• Nezu was one of the very few people who knew the camp’s secret location

Possibly even picked the location

Was in charge of many pros would be there.

Was vastly easier to kidnap Katsuki in this setting rather than the other failed attempts

AM conveniently wasn’t present.

(Frankly I think these play a big role than one student leaking the location)

5. Katsuki’s rescue and AM’s Retirement

• led directly to AM refacing AFO instead of the LOV

He then burnt out the last embers of his power, forcing him to retire.

• This intensified Katsuki’s suspicions about AM and Deku, making him dig deeper into their relationship.

• The guilt lessened Katsuki’s performance during the Provisional License Exam, which he failed—leaving him out of the work studies.

6. The Ripple Effects on Katsuki & Deku

• Because Katsuki wasn’t eligible for work studies, he missed Deku’s battle with Chisaki.

• This fight also cemented Deku’s personal investment in Eri, and reinforced his need to break rules for the sake of others.

• Deku’s actions, in turn, saved UA’s reputation by overshadowing another potential scandal.

6. The Long-Term Setup

• Jeanist was taken out of commission during Katsuki’s rescue, freeing him up for later.

• Nezu actively discouraged his staff from searching for a traitor among them.

• He finally implemented the UA dorm system, something he had been advocating for but never acted on—until now.

• He reassured AM that if nothing suspicious happened after the students moved into the dorms, then there was nothing to worry about.

7. The Final Stage: The War Arc & Beyond

• By the time of the war, Katsuki had matured emotionally and was able to fight alongside Deku for the first time in a villain attack.

• He had also become even more deeply connected to Deku, setting the stage for their intertwined fates.

8. Nezu’s Endgame?

And here’s what fucks me up the most—Nezu easily agreed to let the students ambush Endeavor and hunt Deku down.

It was never even a question whether that was in his power, Uraraka knew it would be, so it’s just common knowledge? 🤨

But how does he have the power to do that, like imagine being one of the leaders heading off a fascist uprising and your sons hs principal demands you come in and you have to because you used to go to school there???

And then UA becomes the shelter during the war, but it doesn’t come as like government mandate, it’s Nezus choice something he does as a concerned and caring individual

In the end nearly everyone who rebuilds society is a UA alumni, and Deku, the face of the war, now works there!!

So society has an intense gratitude to UA for holding them during the war, an intense admiration for producing all these heros, and there’s apparently a rule/law(?) that you are beholden to your old principles meetings even when the worlds ending 💀

Nezu owns society and he planned it!!!

[animereaderinsertwriter]

part one - two - three - four -five

i saw you in a dream (bucky barnes x reader)

tags/warnings: plot with porn, fluff, a little angst, there is some mild amnesia, major plot twist, first person (bucky's) pov, inspired by this song

blurb: In this life and every life; waking and dreaming; this I swear.

These are the words inscribed on Bucky's wedding ring. A wedding ring that he doesn't remember ever having. It's not a vow he made-- not that he remembers, anyway-- but it might just be one that he decides to keep anyway.

ao3 here

“I’ve decided to call off of work for a while,” my wife explains to me over breakfast. “I’d rather be around if you need me than be at work, and we’ve got ample savings to live off of in the meantime.”

I ask her if she’s sure about that— I don’t really need a babysitter, I’ve already gotten over my meltdown about this whole thing— but she assures me that she believes it’s the right decision.

“What do you do for work, then, that they let you have time off so easy?”

She hesitates.

“I work for Tony Stark,” she replies after a moment. “As it stands, though, he’s got an excellent team, so they can share the load of whatever I’m leaving behind. Besides, it’s time I took a vacation.”

She’s keeping something from me, but I let it slide.

“Babysitting me is hardly a vacation.”

She shoots me a sly grin over her cup of coffee.

“Who said I was babysitting? Keep up the sass and I’ll call Dolores to sit with you while I go to Bali.”

I’m startled into a laugh.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I? Try me, soldier boy.”

There is a strange energy between us that makes me feel oddly playful. I want to forget about eggs and bacon and chase her around the house instead.

Gradually, though, that energy fades as we run out of things to talk about. Awkwardness subsumes us again, and since I cooked, (Y/N) offers to wash dishes, presumably to escape the weight of the silence between us.

About an hour of that tension is all either of us can stand. 

“I’m going downstairs to train,” she says, throwing a bar cloth over her shoulder. “Would you like to join me?”

I blink.

“We have a downstairs?”

“Yes— a basement.” A fond smile comes over her face. “You designed it yourself.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“I did?”

“Oh yes.” She grins. “Come on, dear— I’ll give you the tour. You’ll love it.”

She walks past me just close enough for me to feel the heat from her body, but does not touch me. She keeps going just long enough for me to see the full length of her figure, then turns back to throw at me a mischievous look over her shoulder. 

“Well? Coming?”

She keeps walking, and I keep staring. This time, though, I grin. This hint of playfulness gets a rise out of me not unlike the one from before, and I realize that this must be what normal is for us.

What a fox.

Like a hound dog wagging his tail, I move to follow her. This, if nothing else, should prove interesting.

***

Three and a half hours later, I’m sore, sweaty, and I can’t feel my face.

To be fair, we’ve only been working for most of three hours. The majority of the first hour was spent on rediscovery— and what an hour it was! Not only did I apparently stock most of the cool machines I’d used in Wakanda, but there were also some things I’d never seen before, such as the combat simulator that Shuri had apparently gifted me last year for my birthday. (Y/N) warned me that it felt real, but I didn’t believe her until those nerve stimulators of Shuri’s mimicked exactly the feeling of a bullet ripping through my shoulder. It’s unpredictable, the simulator; it generates combat scenarios at random, and not every conflict ends well even if you do everything by the book. It’s a genius invention, and I spend an hour and a half on that alone.

As fascinating as the combat simulator is, though, it doesn’t hold a candle to what comes next.

While I rest from playing with all my (new) gadgets, my wife has been working slowly and steadily, alternating between lifting weights and training with a punching bag. She’s sweating heavily, and she looks pretty fatigued, but she keeps at it with a determination that reminds me of Steve. Eventually, though, she sits down to rest too, and between gulps of water, she says,

“Spar with me.”

“What?”

The word comes out as a laugh. She smirks.

“Laugh now, Sergeant Barnes, but I learned from the best.”

“Oh yeah?” I challenge playfully. “Who?”

Her smile is radiant and warm; it feels like a house fire in my chest.

“You.”

My heart skips a beat. 

She thinks I’m the best.

It’s a stupid thought, perhaps even a silly one, but it’s there. Even so, looking at her now, moving to stand with her hair all mussed and her face all sweaty, I know I can’t seriously spar with her. 

At least, that’s what I think until she whirls a kick at my head, forcing me to block it with my forearm.

“I said,” she pants, baring her teeth in a feline grin, “spar with me.”

The word no had been on the tip of my tongue— but I’ve never been one to leave a blow unanswered.

I grin back, and the game is on.

I launch myself from my seat, aiming to use my size to my advantage and grapple her— safely, gently, of course— to the ground. All my arms catch is air. She bounds lightly backwards, as graceful as a dancer, and holds her hands up in a ready position. 

After I aim a few hits at her, missing each one, I realize her strategy. I’m bigger, stronger than her, sure, but it takes a lot more for my muscles to move my larger body than it does hers. She’s baiting me into my strikes, hoping to fatigue me before she presses what then will be her advantage. I adjust accordingly. I feint left, but move right— the motion traps her as my metal metal hand closes around her soft flesh. I think I have her until she uses the same momentum that I use to pull her to me to bash her forehead against the bridge of my nose, stunning me. She wrenches free and tries to sweep my feet, but I’m too sturdy for her. Instead, she falls with the motion, and I follow her to the floor in an unsightly but effective crawl to try and close the distance between us for a grapple. She doesn’t make it to her feet before I’m on her, and I know it’s game over now.

Size for size, strength for strength, I’ll win.

Surprisingly, though, she still makes me work for it.

In an impressive show of agility, she rolls away from me before I can grab her— but not before aiming a kick at my temple that, had it landed, might have been deadly. Frustrated, I make a grab at the foot that kicked at me, and she stomps my fleshy hand with her heel— meet punishment for the pettiness of my grab. Truly irritated now, and in sorry pain, I get my feet underneath me and throw myself at her once more.

She rolls again, and my hand misses her arm by only half an inch. In fact, she almost makes it to her feet before I finally latch both arms around her waist and bring her down hard. I win the ensuing scramble; only a few seconds pass before I have her pinned beneath me, my hands circling her wrists and forcing them to the ground beside her head. Her legs are pinned open by my knees, and I grin in fierce triumph.

“I win,” I say, and I know my expression must be wild with joy.

Her expression doesn’t exactly match mine, though. Her eyes are wide, her lips are parted, and…

And her chest, slightly exposed and pressed forth by her raised arms, is heaving.

The world slows. My awareness narrows to just the places where our bodies are touching, which is… a lot of places. My heart is racing, I can’t catch my breath— and neither can my wife. My wife, who is panting, sweaty, and beautiful, whose soft thighs are on either side of mine, and whose eyes say she wants me to close all the distance that there is between us.

“Bucky.”

She breathes my name like a sigh, and I know that in this moment, I’ll do whatever she asks of me. 

“Bucky,” she repeats, “I think— I think I need to shower.”

That’s… not what I wanted to hear.

I let her up. She dusts off like it’s nothing, but I can see the tremble in her limbs. She’s fatigued beyond fatigue, utterly exhausted— and so, I find, am I. On unsteady legs, I move to follow her, then stop.

“Eat something,” I tell her belatedly, uselessly. “I mean, to keep your strength up, you should probably eat.”

She turns. Her smile is sad.

“Thanks Buck, darling. I will.”

And thus, like a newborn fawn, she stumbles out of the room on shaky legs, leaving me to stand in humiliating silence with a raging hard-on and nothing to do with it.

***

While (Y/N) showers, I raid the kitchen. 

My own shower was short and cold. I took it in the guest room, which is just as richly furnished as the rest of the house. It wasn’t the best shower I’ve ever taken, though, since I wouldn’t exactly call it refreshing. I came out of it just as I came into it— tired, frustrated, and hungry.

One of those things can be fixed quick, fast, and in a hurry by an enterprising guy like me, though, and I place my bets on the fridge as I crack it open for a peek at its treasures.

There is everything imaginable in that refrigerator. So much that I have a hard time choosing anything at all. I settle on boiled eggs, string cheese, and an apple to start, and when that doesn’t do the trick, I manage to put together the ingredients for a simple but flavorful soup.

By the time (Y/N) returns from her shower, the soup is finished and there’s a bowl cooling for her on the counter. I serve it to her myself when she comes into the kitchen, and she thanks me tiredly as she sits at the dining room table.

“This is good.” She blows on the steaming spoonful she’s scooped up. “Thank you.”

I shrug.

“Sure thing.”

Once she’s done, I take her bowl and clean up. Her eyes are drooping sleepily, and I have to work to hide my smile from her as she yawns cutely.

“Wanda, Nat, and Bruce want to go out tonight,” she sighs tiredly, looking at her phone. “They’ve invited us, if you’re interested— although, just so you know, they likely have selfish intentions for asking us to come.”

I cock my head to the side in question. My wife blinks blearily, then clarifies.

“You can’t get drunk, so you always DD.”

“Not selfish, then.” I laugh, “just common sense.”

“Mm, maybe. Wanda gets weepy when she’s drunk, and Bruce gets cornier. Natasha stays Natasha, but sometimes her languages become… interesting.”

“And you?”

She grins.

“I have no idea what you mean. I’m a delight, as usual, even when I’m drunk.”

Oh, I can translate that pretty easily. My money says she’s worse than all three of them combined.

“So,” she continues, “you in or out?”

I consider declining— (Y/N) seems too sleepy now to go out later in the day— but then I remember our sparring earlier and decide that, super-soldier-ness be damned, a drink might be a good idea after all.

“I’m down. You sure you’re not too tired? We worked hard earlier.”

“I’ll nap,” she yawns. 

I continue cleaning up, and she shuffles in the direction of the master bedroom with a muffled thanks for the food.

A little while later, I settle in on the couch and very politely pretend that I can’t hear the distinct buzz of a vibrator through the walls as my wife, on the other side, softly calls my name, doubtless thinking me unable to hear. 

Damn that super soldier serum. Never did me any damn good. 

***

I’ve never taken so long to dress in my life.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s like I completely fried my brain looking at the wardrobe in front of me. There are… there are colors here. Colors and designs and textures— how the fuck am I supposed to match any of this to anything else? I have half a mind to ask (Y/N) for guidance. However, the other half of my mind would insist that I jump off a bridge before resorting to having her dress me like I’m some kind of doll, so instead of looking at the clothes and continuing to overwhelm myself, I move to look at myself in the mirror and try to imagine an outfit that I would like.

While I’m scrutinizing myself trying to find the best outfit, I realize that my hair is different than I remember it. It’s still long, but there are more layers. I like it, I think. It makes me look cleaner, sharper. 

I finally settle on a black button-up and a pair of jeans. There’s a jewelry box on the dresser that I found my socks and underwear in, and I open it to find jewelry that must belong to me: a couple medals (Jesus, they’re old!), a silver chain, and a set of cufflinks.

There is also a wedding ring.

I lift the wedding ring and examine it. There is an inscription looping on the inside of it that reads,

In this life and every life; waking and dreaming; this I swear.

I consider putting it on my finger, but I decide against it. I haven’t earned the right to wear it— not yet. I have no right to my wife; as I am, I can’t be what she needs. I’ll need to wait until I can prove to her and to myself that I can still make her happy before I can feel right about it.

I place the ring back in the jewelry box and try not to feel disappointed.

I pick up the silver chain. It might be a nice addition to the outfit, I think. I put it on, stare at it, then take it off. I peer at myself, sigh, then put it back on. 

It’ll have to do.

After much wailing and gnashing of teeth, I finally manage to meet my wife in the living room, ready to head out. I make it halfway through the threshold to the living room before my jaw hits the floor.

Her dress is champagne gold with a perfectly-draped neckline that I feel sure makes my eyes bulge out in cartoonish heart shapes. The thin straps of the halter neckline settle pleasingly over her shoulders, and when she turns, I thank God for every roll, dimple, and contour of her back. Her long, delicate earrings brush her shoulders as she turns back to me, and I decide then and there that it’s over for me. There’s no way I’m not going to spend every minute of every day trying to make this dame happy for the rest of my life. Greek statues would be jealous of such a beauty. Hell, I don’t discriminate— statues of every race, color, and creed can eat their hearts out. They could never compare to her.

“Hey handsome. Whatcha think? Will I do?”

My approval must be obvious; she smiles cheeky and adds,

“It has pockets!”

To show me, she sticks her hands in them. The motion makes her breasts jiggle prettily, and I fix my gaze on the light fixtures in the ceiling trying to will away the urge to peel that fucking dress off of her with my teeth like I have any right whatsoever to do so. 

I really don’t know what the hell’s come over me. I feel like a hound-dog slavering over a fox. I’ve always loved women— who doesn’t?— but this feels… different. I ache for her in a way that makes me want to crack open her rib cage and live there.

“You look great.” My mouth is dry. I clear my throat. “Really great. I feel a little underdressed, looking at you. I can change, though, if you— ”

She grabs my arm, right on the muscle of my bicep.

“Don’t you dare,” she murmurs, looking up at me through her lashes. “If you look any better, I’ll have to keep a baseball bat around to beat the women off of you.”

She squeezes my bicep, then releases me, her expression subdued.

Was that… jealousy? 

Interesting.

I offer her my arm— the metal one. She takes it, and I try not to feel smug.

“Ready?”

She smiles, nods, and accepts the arm I offer— but not before glancing at it and frowning. I frown too, confused about what might have displeased her, but there’s nothing I can figure out before we’re loading up in what is apparently my Jeep Wrangler. She directs me to each of our friends’ houses— “Wanda last,” she insists, “to give her time to put the kids to bed”—and then to the nightclub Natasha likes.  

The club is nice— the whole place looks like the inside of a lava lamp— but it’s full to the brim with sweating, drunk, scantily-clad people who all seem to feel entitled to touch everyone else. I personally don’t have any interest in that sort of thing, especially not this grinding business that looks little better than public dry-humping. Back in the day, I’d be spinning girls all around the dancefloor; I’d keep them on the floor until their feet hurt and even after. Now, though? I wouldn’t be caught dead doing… whatever that stuff is.

Well, if (Y/N) asked for a dance, I’d do my best. Anybody worth their salt would know better than to say no to a dame like her. But the thing is… she doesn’t ask me.

“I’m going to dance for a while,” she yells at me over the sound of the music. “Are you good here?”

“Peachy,” I shout back, propping my feet up on a rung of the barstool I’ve claimed. “Have fun, beautiful.”

Her smile glows in the blue-green light, and then she’s gone with Wanda and Natasha, who seem just as eager to dance.

Out of politeness, Bruce hangs out with me at the bar for a little while and we talk shop— S.W.O.R.D’s research and operations, Steve’s programs there— but it’s clear that he wants to dance as well. Before long, I send him off with a clap on the shoulder for encouragement, and then I’m alone at the bar, sipping surprisingly good whiskey.

A while later, a woman sidles up beside me to order a drink. I turn to look at her. She’s a dark-haired beauty with skin the color of polished bronze and hair like big, dark, fluffy clouds. Her lips are full, and they glitter with reflective golden gloss.

“Hi!” She greets me as we make eye contact. “You’re super handsome, oh my God!” 

I blink.

“Uh, thanks.”

“Say, do you wanna dance?”

“No can do. I’m here with my wife.”

The response is automatic. I shock myself with it. For a guy that’s only been married less than forty-eight hours, I’m coming to find that the “nope, I’ve got a wife” instinct sure does kick in fast.

“Oh my bad king! Have a good night!”

She turns to go, but I reach out and grab her arm.

“Wait, wait!” Jesus, fuck, I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’ve got to be the stupidest man alive… but this might just be what I need. “I… think I might need some advice. Do you know stuff about relationships?”

She purses her lips in thought, then nods her head.

“Bad ones, yeah. Good ones, not so much. Also, babe, I’m a little drunk so I dunno how useful I’ll be to you right now.”

“That’s fine.” Reconnaissance, I tell myself. This is just simple reconnaissance. “You mind if we talk a minute?”

“I don’t mind at all! Yap away!”

I tell her the important bits and leave out the stuff she probably shouldn’t know.

“Like I said, I just feel like I barely know her anymore, but I… I want to try and make it better. She’s good to me, and I want to be good to her. Plus, the chemistry is…” I think back to that sly smile, the press of her thighs against mine. “Off the charts. I just wanna be the man she fell in love with.”

Lani— that’s my new friend’s name— nods thoughtfully. 

“And you say you’ve only been back stateside for a couple days?”

I nod and feel a little guilty using someone else’s war for my white lie. Still, though, I don’t know what all my excuses would consist of if there was only peacetime in recent years.

“Then this is just relationship throat-clearing,” Lani tells me confidently, throwing back the shot I bought her. “Ack— that’s strong. But yeah, it’s just a phase. If you wanna speed stuff up, I recommend physical touch. Not the sex kind, you understand— just hold her. Your bodies have probably done a little forgetting even if your minds haven’t. Might be a good idea to start there.”

“But how do I initiate it without coming off.. weird?”

Lani and I talk for a long time. I lose track of how long. Before I know it, it’s been two hours, and I look up to realize that I haven’t seen my wife in that amount of time. I look around, but I don’t see her.

“Don’t worry,” Lani is telling me, “You seem like a good guy, and you’re trying. If she loves you, you’ll work it out just fine.”

A weird look comes over her face, and she adds, “Besides, if I’m guessing correctly… she’s definitely still burning hot for you, king, so good luck out there.”

I turn back to her and thank her sincerely. She pats me on the shoulder and thanks me in turn for the drinks. It’s only right, she insists, that her bad experiences should serve to help someone else prevent them. With that, she’s off, and I’m sitting by myself once more.

Tired now, but armed with a good strategy, I stand, stretching my legs. I scan the dancefloor for my wife, but I don’t see her in the immediate vicinity. When I do catch sight of her, I wish I hadn’t— her eyes are all molten fury as she squishes her way through the crowd of dancing bodies. Whatever has happened tonight, she’s not happy about it, that’s for damn sure. Still determined to act on the advice I was given, I start to make my way toward her, but before I can get very far, I see someone grab my wife’s arm and yank— hard. She stumbles, and I catch sight of the person who’s holding her. 

It’s a man. A large, scruffy-looking man with a look of trouble about him.

I start to shove through people faster.

(Y/N) tries to snatch her arm back, fails. She’s clearly a bit drunk, and stumbles when he yanks her over to him. I’m two strides away, but not close enough to help before the situation explodes.

My wife, full of righteous fury from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head, rares back and punches the guy straight in his ugly face. 

He lets her go then, but people start screaming and the crowd jostles me away from her. I’m trying very hard not to lose my patience and start swinging my elbows— I could kill someone like that with my level of strength— but I’m starting not to care as I watch her use her fists like hammers on the guy’s skull. I’ve seen shit like this among soldiers before, back in the day. She’s drunk, she’s angry— and, judging by how long she lasted against me sparring, she’ll catch a fucking manslaughter charge if I don’t intervene soon. 

I scream her name above the din, but she doesn’t hear me. Her knee connects with Ugly Guy’s nose, and I finally break free from the people-prison that had me trapped. 

“Hey!” I call out to her, reaching for her arm. “Baby, hey, he’s had it, okay, you made your—”

She whirls on me, and I catch hell in the form of a cupped hand smacking painfully against my ear.

“Stay the fuck out of this,” she snarls at me, vicious and cruel. “I’m not done here.”

Oh, but she is. I can be every bit as vicious and every bit as cruel as she can be, and I prove it by grabbing her from the back and putting her in a metal-armed headlock.

“Stand down, babygirl,” I growl close to her ear. “You don’t want to kill him.”

“I do,” she confesses darkly, struggling vainly against me. “I want his bleeding heart in my hands!”

“Then not here, not now.” Bouncers have finally noticed the commotion— too late, sadly. They’re heading for us, but I keep my voice level and calm. “Behave or I swear to God I won’t let anyone bail you out of jail.”

“You have no right to command me!” She thrashes in my arms like a trapped animal. “Let me go, asshole!”

“I have every right.” I tighten the lock.

“Says… who?”

“Says this.” I tighten my arm more, and she wheezes like a squeaky toy with the squeaker ripped out. “Now behave. I don’t wanna go to jail.”

And, let’s be real— if that stupid, ugly fuck decides to raise his hand to her even in self defense, it’ll be both of us sitting in a jail cell. I’d kill him for it.

I let her go then, and she stumbles, clutching at her throat and gasping for air. I feel an instant flash of regret, but I have no time to process it before I’m gathering her in my arms and promising the bouncers that we didn’t start it, but that we’re leaving so as not to cause more trouble. They look at us skeptically, but decide that we’re apparently not worth the trouble and send us on our way. 

Natasha and Bruce catch up with us at the doorway. They saw the whole thing, apparently, and had the same trouble I did with trying to reach (Y/N) before she caused more trouble for herself and us. 

“You guys go on home,” says Natasha, a strange look in her eyes. “We’ll catch up with Wanda and we’ll all get an Uber home when we’re ready.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, desperate for an answer in the affirmative.

“Yes, we’re sure,” Bruce says, placing a reassuring hand on my wife's shoulder. “We all get mad sometimes— and sometimes, we all need a break.”

If Bruce Banner tells you that you need to take a chill pill, you take one. 

And so that’s how my wife and I end up parked in our garage, staring straight ahead at the wall in absolute silence. I’m lost in thought, pondering how such a promising evening went to shit so fast, when (Y/N) breaks the silence.

“I’m sorry I hit you.” Her voice wavers a bit. “And that I called you an asshole. I was just so mad…”

She’s fighting tears. I want to stretch out my hand to her, but I don’t know that the gesture would be welcome.

“S’okay. You had a right to be mad at that guy. He was a total creep.”

She shakes her head.

“I wasn’t… I wasn’t mad at him. I mean, I was, but not initially.”

I turn to her, but she’s staring straight ahead, jaw clenched. With great effort, I keep my voice gentle.

“What happened? Why were you angry, then?”

Her lower lip trembles.

“I really don’t want to talk about this right now, Bucky.”

It’s not the answer I wanted, but it is an answer I will accept.

“That’s okay. We’ll talk about it later.” I think for a minute, then add, “Also, I’m sorry for putting you in a headlock and then insinuating that I have a right to order you around.”

She huffs a laugh.

“I deserved it. All you did was keep me from making a pretty big mistake.”

“Still,” I insist, “I was meaner than I would have liked, and rougher too. I’m sorry.”

“Bucky, please don’t apologize— not for this. It was the right call.”

“But I am sorry it had to happen that way. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

To my shame, there is still a red line at her neck where my arm pressed against it. It’s not bruised or anything, but the mark itself shames me.

My wife turns to me, rigid and acerbic. She says,

“James Buchanan Barnes, I have begged on my actual knees for the same thing you did this evening and worse for my own, selfish… lascivious reasons. When I tell you that no apology is necessary, I mean it. You have nothing to apologize for. No touch from you could ever be too rough for me.”

The implication she just made— that she enjoyed being in a headlock, that she… gets off on that rough and ready side of me— lays heavily between us. 

I’m utterly speechless.

“Ugh, I’m still fucking drunk,” she groans. “Don’t listen to me. I’m going to bed.” 

She clambers out of the Jeep and makes her way into the house. I sit there for a minute to process, then turn the car off and follow her inside.

By the time I make it in, the water to the main shower is running. With a loose plan in mind, I undress down to my boxers and slip between the covers of our shared bed adjacent to the bathroom and wait for her to finish. 

Then my hearing picks up on something I’m not supposed to hear— a whispered phone call that is meant to be masked by the running water of the shower, but isn’t.

“I don’t know, Shuri.” My wife is saying, her voice thick with tears. “He may wake up tomorrow and remember everything. No, the tests won’t be back for— oh stop that, you know we don’t have Wakanda’s resources. No, I don’t think international travel is a good— Shuri! Listen to me, he’s okay. Why am I so emotional then? Why do you think! Because— ” there is a pause, a shuddering breath, then, “Well, I’ve made a fool of myself. Oh, Shuri, what a jealous fool I’ve been!”

(Y/N) recounts the evening as she remembers it, and I am horrified to discover her version of events. Right off the bat, I apparently managed to fuck up by not wearing my wedding ring— apparently she saw that as a sign of rejection and not the show of respect I had intended it to be. That pain, of course, exacerbated the jealousy she describes to Shuri as me openly flirting with and buying drinks for a hot, drunk chick— a jealousy that she thinks she doesn’t even have a right to feel because I’m no longer hers— or at least that’s what she thinks I seem to think.

This account paints me in a terrible light indeed. I feel physically ill listening to all of my actions being laid out and twisted into something they were never meant to be.

“I can’t even be mad at him, Shuri,” she cries, a terrible, aching sound that wrenches my heart and roils in my gut. “It’s not his fault— he doesn’t even know me. And— I mean, yeah, I know he saw the ring ‘cause he had on the necklace, so he had to have looked in— ugh, don’t distract me! My point is, what if he never remembers? He— he may want to leave. No, I won’t stop him— I want him to be happy, even if it’s not with me. I just— I love him, Shuri. If he leaves, it will break my heart.”

I keep listening , but those words bounce around in my brain. 

If he leaves, it will break my heart.

“I don’t even think he thinks I’m pretty anymore. When he saw me in my cute little dress— you know, the gold one with the pockets?— he looked up at the ceiling as if he’d rather look at anything else. Oh, Shuri, it’s over. It’s hopeless!”

It’s all I can do not to bust the bathroom door down and correct every misconception she has. Instead, I bide my time, resting my eyes and my body as she finishes her phone call and her shower. She needs this time and space, so I give it to her until the water shuts off and she makes her way to the bedroom where I lay in apparent sleep.

(Y/N) steps softly up to the bed, then hesitates. I’m willing to bet she’s contemplating sleeping in the guest room. Without opening my eyes, I say,

“Don’t be shy. There’s plenty of room.”

Gingerly, she climbs into bed. She settles as far from me as she can get— an admittedly respectful distance in a circumstance such as this one. Still, I’m unsatisfied. 

“You can stay there if you’d like,” I tell her, “but I’ll feel terrible if you fall off.”

She doesn’t move. It’s remarkable how quiet her crying is, but I can feel the sadness radiating off of her in waves.

I sit up. 

“Hey.” I open my arm— the metal one— up to her. “Come here.”

She shakes her head.

“You don’t have to do this, Bucky,” she sniffles. “You— you’re really not obligated to comfort me. If anything, I’m supposed to be comforting you.”

“Why?” I ask. “I’m not the one who’s lost anything. From where I’m sitting, I’ve only stood to gain. I have a home, friends, and a beautiful wife where I used to have none of those things. But you… you’ve lost a husband.”

She covers her face with her hand, and I take it upon myself to close the distance between us. I pull her to me, and she buries her face in my chest while she cries.

“I’m sorry,” she says, over and over. “I’m sorry…..”

I soothe her as best I can. I rub circles into her back and hold her close. When she shifts awkwardly, I grab Kleenex from the nightstand and let her blow her nose. The whole time, I take Lani’s advice and don’t let her get more than three inches away from me. 

When she’s calmer, I begin to speak. I start with what I feel should be the most obvious fact that she has misunderstood.

“I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the world.” I tell her firmly, brushing hair away from her face. “I’ve seen a lot of women in a lot of places all around the world and even outside of it, and to me, you beat the hell out of all of them. When I saw you in that dress, it was all I could do to keep my hands off of you and go back to whatever it was we were doing in the basement earlier.”

My wife blinks owlishly. I don’t wait for her to respond before I press on.

“But,” I continue, “I kept my hands to myself because I haven’t earned that yet. I’m stumbling in the dark here with no clue what I’m doing— I’m not the man you married. At least, not yet. But I’m trying to be. I want to be him. That’s why I didn’t wear my wedding ring. I wanted to be worthy of it— worthy of you— before I put it on. In retrospect, I’m realizing I must have seemed like an asshole by not wearing it— even further from the man you know and love.”

“Oh Bucky,” she sighs, tears streaming down her face, “you really are the man I married, even if you don’t know it, you sneaky, conniving, eavesdropping bastard. You listened to my phone call with Shuri, didn’t you?”

I turn pink from the top of my chest to the tips of my ears. 

“That depends on how mad you’ll be if I say yes.”

She lets out a snotty giggle that’s stupidly cute.

“S’what I get for marrying an assassin and a spy,” she smiles through her tears. “Go on, dear— you might as well finish up. You’d better have a jam-up excuse for letting that girl fawn over you all night, or I’ll still be cross with you.”

I shrug.

“That one’s easy. I was asking her for advice about you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

She’s quiet for a long time after that. I keep handing her tissues and she keeps blowing her nose until the fount of her tears finally dries up.

“So?” I probe gently, taking her hand in mine, “Am I forgiven?”

“Of course.” She squeezes my hand. “It’s me who should be asking for forgiveness— I should have trusted you to start with.”

I shake my head with a grin.

“My wife can do no wrong as far as I’m concerned. Even when she does something wrong, I’ve got to assume that it’s my fault somehow.”

“Bucky,” she laughs. I lean my forehead against hers and decide to press my luck.

“Can I kiss you? I’ve wanted to since we sparred earlier, and I think it would go a long way towards soothing any ruffled— mph.” 

Her lips are soft against mine. She kisses me once, twice— and then I deepen the kiss, adjusting our bodies until my hand is threaded through her hair, forming a cup around her skull as we kiss deeply, unhurriedly, as though we have all the time in the world. Her hands roam and so do mine, and in this slow, sensual exploration, I am completely, utterly lost. 

Selfishly, I want more. I want to pull my wife into my lap and let her feel what she does to me— I want to kiss and touch her and make her feel good— but Lani had advised me against this temptation.

“If you give in too soon, somehow sex and intimacy become the same thing, which… they aren’t,” she’d told me. “She needs one much, much more than the other, and I’ll give you a hint— it’s not sex. Trust me, even if it feels right in the moment, it won’t later. It’ll feel transactional. That's the worst possible outcome, ‘cause when it comes down to it, there’s always a better deal somewhere else. Give her safety, though, and she’ll always be yours.”

So that’s what I do. I hold her and kiss her and touch her until she’s tired, and then I tuck her into my chest and wait until her breathing evens out to close my own eyes and sleep.

[honeysorwell]

all of it (all of you) 

Pairing: Melissa Schemmenti x hairdresser!fem Reader

Synopsis of the story + Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10

Link on AO3

Chapter 3

Tag list: @janeyseymour @italianaidiota @chloeelou02x (and if you want to be tagged too just let me know.)

Warning: idk... maybe redheads (if you are Y/N)

Once again, thank you all very much for embracing my work with such affection.

Enjoy!

The nerve on that... redheaded slut!

The thought repeated in a loop in the hairdresser's mind as she remembered the words that the woman whose hair she had dyed and dried with such care had said to her a few minutes ago. She thought of that hair that shone under the salon light after her care, and felt her anger triple size.

The redhead's words boiled her blood like nothing else had since she arrived in this country, and that's what made her mutter lost and angry phrases to herself as she washed her utensils in the storage room after finishing the hair of that... that... woman.

How miserable it must be to live with someone as unhappy as her.

Beautiful women really are the devil.

It's a shame that people like that can't simply be ejected from the planet for good.

"What happened?" Angelina's voice is sweet but worried as Y/N's friend enters the storage room, closing the door carefully behind her.

This concern only becomes more evident when Y/N thumps the brushes she used on the table in front of them before answering.

“A stupid American with an attitude just belittled my work.”, the hairdresser doesn’t even bother to look up at her colleague with a strong accent and Greek descent, who still wears the mask on her face that is part of her uniform for her nail appointments.

“Do you want us to throw water on her? I think she’s still in the parking lot and the hose is up there in front of the window.”, Angelina’s question is so honest that it makes Y/N smile genuinely.

“No…”, is how the Brazilian answers her friend after thinking for just a few seconds, “I don’t want to give her a reason to come back here, and it would be sad to ruin what I did to her hair. But thank you.”

Before leaving and returning to her appointment, Angelina gently kisses her friend's hair, but the affectionate gesture is not enough to calm Y/N's angry heart.

The hairdresser takes a deep breath and drinks a few glasses of water before returning to work. Luckily, an adorable little girl who is always asking her about Portuguese words shows up with her father for a haircut just before lunch, and her curiosity and charisma manage to bring a few genuine smiles not only from the Brazilian woman but from everyone in the salon.

But the discomfort still remains subtly buried in Y/N's chest until the end of the day, and inside her car, questions that the hairdresser rarely asked herself now bubbled uncontrollably in her mind. The fact that all the traffic lights were red for her, turning a twenty-minute drive home into a forty-minute drive didn't help it either.

Was she really not good enough? Was everything she had built over the years nothing more than an illusion?

It couldn't be. This pretense could not have fooled so many people, so many clients, and in two different countries... And Andrea.

Andrea Rossi was a very competent woman. The Italian woman had all those years of experience and such a sharp tongue, Y/N can't imagine the older woman falling for the illusion created by her, a woman who is just in her mid-twenties.

Unless it was out of... pity.

Before she even realizes it, the hairdresser finds herself sitting impatiently on her own sofa in the same way she does in the waiting room for routine appointments, and then she picks up her own cell phone and calls the first contact on her saved list.

"Hello?"

"Hello... Andrea?", the Brazilian woman's voice sounded broken from her first words and she already started to hate herself for it as she tried to control her breathing.

"Y/N?", her name comes out of the phone like a question itself, and the Brazilian woman feels terribly guilty for realizing that, yes, she woke Andrea up in the middle of the night.

10 pm. A particularly fair time for a woman of Andrea's age to be sleeping, especially considering that she is now retired.

"I'm sorry... I didn't mean to wake you."

"No problem, ragazza. Are you okay?"

"Yes, yes I am and I... I hope you are too.", the Brazilian woman breathes for a few seconds and, while courage still floods her body, she speaks again, "Andrea, I would like to ask you for something."

"If I am in a position to give it to you, it is already yours, my dear..."

The older woman's answer floods Y/N's heart with such great affection that the Brazilian woman knows it is dangerous when she feels so vulnerable. The questions she really wanted to ask the older hairdresser almost escaped between her lips.

Do you think you could tell me that I am good at what I do? Like really... really good?

"I... Do you know the red hair color you created especially for that client of yours? The one you recommended to me to be your hairdresser?"

“Melissa’s redhead? Yes, I remember it, dear.”, the sound of Andrea’s voice sounds so uncertain, her confusion almost makes Y/N back down.

“I was wondering if you would allow me to share it with another professional. And I know it’s your creation and I have no right to ask you to do so, but here I am anyway.���

“Y/N, that color is yours now and you can do whatever you want with it. I’ll hardly use the same measurements for anything else where I am now.”, the older woman says with a laugh, before speaking again with a slightly more concerned tone, “But... If you’ll allow me to ask, are you really okay? Why would you want to do this?”

Andrea’s question is sweet, her concern comes from a place of such care that it almost makes Y/N cry, but that only makes Y/N feel worse as she drowns in all her self-deprecation and her anger towards this... Melissa.

Because if it weren’t for her, her grotesque attitude, and her insensitive words, none of this would have happened.

Andrea personally asked the Brazilian hairdresser to take care of this... Melissa and ten other clients, and the Brazilian woman were so happy about it. That was such an honest way to show how Andrea trusted her, and Y/N just wanted so much to prove herself worthy of that.

And everything had worked out well with the other clients the hairdresser had already met. But with this woman she just... couldn't.

For a second, Y/N starts to wonder how someone as kind as Andrea could meet and share her presence with someone so... unfortunate. And willingly.

And then the hairdresser finally comes to her senses.

Y/N knew absolutely nothing about the relationship between the two women.

Were they family?

The thought sounds loud and echoing in the Brazilian woman's mind and she almost chokes on her own saliva just imagining putting Andrea in such a delicate situation against the rude redhead or even putting herself against Andrea, if the older hairdresser found Melissa's behavior respectable.

She genuinely doesn't think the older woman would do that... but today was exhausting and Y/N doesn't want to paint this unfortunate possibility with the colors of certainty by actively telling Andrea what happened. Maybe any other day, but not today.

"No... It's not important..." is how Y/N chooses to answer the older woman, even though she knows that Andrea probably knows she's lying, so the Brazilian woman starts to justify herself in the best way she can to avoid the Italian's question, "And it's also so late, I shouldn't have called you to talk about something so trivial at this time. Forgive me, Andrea."

"Don't worry about me, dear. And I really meant it when I told you that you could call me whenever you wanted, ragazza."

"Thank you. Have a good night, Andrea."

"You too, ragazza."

After hanging up the cell phone, a bitter taste returned to the hairdresser's mouth. Looking at her small apartment and without a single docile soul to ease her worries, Y/N took a deep breath, trying to push away the lump that insisted on forming in her throat.

The rational part of the hairdresser knew that she shouldn't take it personally. That Melissa was just another grumpy client, one of those who seem to take pleasure in spreading bitterness wherever they go. But, no matter how much she repeated this to herself, the wound opened by that redhead's cruelty wouldn't heal.

The following days were difficult as Y/N tried to focus on the other clients, the laughter, the compliments she always received. But, deep down, the redhead's disdainful voice still echoed in her mind, undermining her confidence. And so, the Brazilian woman began to actively notice small details that she had previously ignored. First, it was a cut that didn't turn out exactly as it should in her opinion, then it was a shade of dye that could perhaps be more vibrant, followed by a fringe that could be a little longer to look more like the reference in the photo.

Each day created more and more doubts that, like a shadow, began to settle in the hairdresser's heart.

"That woman... She has no right to make you question yourself like that, Y/N.", is what Angelina says to Y/N seriously during a calm lunch that the two woman share, only to make all the vulnerability in her eyes overflow in a few tears that run down her face against her will.

That cry, with the fact that the Brazilian woman couldn't even respond to her friend's words, made Angelina's blood boil.

"We're going out tonight. On me!", the Greek woman says as a declaration, and without any excuses to deny her friend, Y/N just nods her head affirmatively.

That night, the nightclub that the Greek woman had chosen was pulsing with life. The strobe lights cut through the darkness to the rhythm of the music and in the middle of the dance floor, Y/N and Angelina swayed their bodies, trying to free themselves from the tensions of the day.

Y/N was still visibly uncomfortable, but Angelina was on a mission determined to cheer her up.

“Forget about that woman, Y/N!” the manicurist shouted, grabbing her friend’s hands and pulling her closer, while the two laughed and twirled together, “Today we’re going to find someone here who will only give you the nicest compliments.”

After a laugh, Y/N finally began to relax, letting the music take over her. Angelina, with her extroverted way, made funny faces and steps as she observed particularly clumsy people on the dance floor, making sure that Y/N didn’t have time to think about anything other than smiling with her friend.

The two were in tune, laughing and dancing so much that for a moment, Y/N felt that nothing could make her happier than a drink.

When the second glass was ordered by the two women, Y/N noticed a man at the very end of the bar who was struggling a little to order a drink in the middle of the crowd. He was tall, blond, young and... quite clumsy. She noticed how he showed his ID to the bartender without being asked and awkwardly held a beer while his cheeks began to redden thanks to the bitter taste of alcohol even with the bright lights.

And there Y/N was sure that it would be a sin not to let Angelina devour that guy alive.

“Lina.”, the hairdresser called her friend’s attention and made sure to only point to the man in question with the tip of her chin when her friend’s eyes were paying full attention to her, “Your type, right there.”

When Angelina looks at the man in question and automatically bites her lower lip, Y/N wants to laugh even louder than before.

It took a little persuasion for Y/N’s coworker to leave her alone to go meet her newest prey, promising that it would only be for a while and that she would be back soon. But the Brazilian woman keeps saying how happy and well she is just staying by the bar and that if she gets tired she will just call an Uber and go home.

As soon as she is officially alone, pushing her hair out of her face with her fingertips while she continues drinking and moving softly to the rhythm of the music, a tall man with bright red hair approaches the hairdresser with a confident smile.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, with a thick Philadelphia accent that made Y/N shiver.

Jesus. No.

He was handsome. Really nice to look at and seemed quite confident, which really pleased the hairdresser, but... No. God, no! Y/N really didn’t want any Philadelphia beauties in her bed tonight.

She was as polite as she could be, refusing with a shake of her head and turning her body away from the man.

But everything turns into a snowball when, less than a minute later, another man's voice rang in her ear.

"You're stunning. Come dance with me, will you?"

British? Oh...

So, happy not to hear an accent even remotely similar to that of that unhappy client that wouldn't leave her head, Y/N lets her best flirtatious smile escape her lips and then turns to... the greenest eyes she's seen in... well... two weeks.

Not that she's counting.

Y/N hates to admit it, but she felt a chill down her spine and barely tried to hide her look of pure disappointment. It was as if that red-haired hurricane who treated her so badly had shared her physical features among the people in that place who liked her enough to catch her attention.

After denying this man, the Brazilian woman begins to observe the people around her better, deciding that being the one who initiates contact this time will decrease her likelihood of suffering yet another disappointment.

Unfortunately, fate did not agree with Y/N ​​when her eyes met the eyes of a tall, smiling woman who was already looking back at her, as if she had been watching her from a distance and was actively waiting for a single opportunity to approach her.

And, of course, she was probably the only red-haired woman in that place.

It was as if the universe was playing a cruel joke on her.

“No, thank you.”, was the incredulous murmur that Y/N let slip between her lips before downing the drink in her hand in one go, leaving the alcohol to deal with the irritation that had begun to grow inside her.

Because there, she only saw red.

It wasn’t fair.

The hairdresser just wanted a nice night, but the universe simply decided that she didn’t deserve that.

The Brazilian woman took out her cell phone, her hands now shaking with anger, and typed a quick message to Angelina.

“I’m going home. Thanks for the night. I love you.”

Without waiting for an answer, Y/N called an Uber and, as soon as a car accepted, she left the club with those flashlights, loud music, and annoying clones.

She should have calmed down on the way home, the end of a night filled with good music and alcohol always has this effect on her, but the truth is that the hairdresser went home more irritated than ever.

The Brazilian woman frowns the whole way home in that Uber, just imagining how leaving the house that night was a waste of time and money.

She appreciates Angelina's attempt to cheer her up, but the hairdresser now knows that she should have just bought takeout and stayed home miserable.

Opening the front door to her apartment, Y/N thinks that maybe casual sex can save the rest of her week. But meeting someone new, especially after the redhead ghost that apparently started stalking the hairdresser's ming, was out of the question.

But maybe...

Before even taking off her clothes and heading to the shower, Y/N starts scrolling through her contact list, purposefully skipping all the redheads along the way.

She stares at a friend who had a habit of being adorably overly physical for a while longer before giving up, only to start looking at the Instagram of a former coworker’s brother who had the most beautiful brown eyes. However, his latest photos make it quite clear that he has now started dating a girl with a funny smile who is apparently the principal of a Philadelphia school.

“Good for him, I guess,” Y/N mutters softly to no one in particular.

Just as she’s about to log out of the app, a particularly demanding mother of a client (who had already made it more than clear that dating a younger woman was not a problem at all to her) posts a picture of herself

She has the most adorable doe eyes and such a seductive smile, but even Y/N knows that it is particularly humiliating for either of them to initiate such contact for this purpose after 2 am. Especially when that client’s daughter has an appointment early next week.

So she just likes the photo, not caring about being the first one to do it, and accepting that the best thing to do that night is just go to bed.

With the delicious buzz of alcohol and loud music from the club in her ear while Y/N is getting ready to sleep, the hairdresser starts repeating to herself that tomorrow she will feel better. Tomorrow someone nice and attractive will come her way and all the miserable and snotty clients will simply die burned in a really big pizza oven.

But none of that happens.

The bitter taste in the hairdresser's mouth just won't go away, and with her mind so unhappy she rejects any and all advances from potential dates because they all look like... that woman.

Sometimes it's the hair, sometimes the angry look, sometimes the voice...

It's just... horrible.

A kind of self-inflicted celibate retreat that simply decides to stalk the hairdresser for weeks.

Luckily for her, the rush of Y/N's work took over all her energy. And the lack of vitality to sustain her anger, in turn, caused something to start changing in the Brazilian woman's mind. Little by little, the anger gave way to just hurt and sadness.

It was no longer an anger that consumed her, but one that made her reflect.

Y/N loved what she did. She loved transforming hair, yes, but she also loved transforming people's days and self-esteem. The Brazilian woman knew that the work that day with Andrea's client had been good, after all, Melissa had tried to give her a tip.

Whether it was out of guilt or generosity, it didn't matter.

The client, despite her harsh words, had left satisfied — Y/N saw Melissa's look of approval in the mirror at the end of the appointment, even if disguised. That woman's words were not about Y/N, but about something she carried inside herself, something that Y/N could not fix.

Andrea had told her a few months ago that the naivety that lived in Y/N's heart, believing that everyone would recognize her effort, could be a problem in Philadelphia. She said that no matter how much love professionals who work with the public have for their work, they should know that it will never be enough to shield them from the cruelty of others.

These were precious pieces of advice, but they had been clouded in Y/N's mind by her anger. But now that she remembered those kind words, all the others sounded fresher and fresher in her memory.

The older woman had told her time and time again that separating empty criticism from those that really mattered and understanding that not everyone who sat in her chair would leave happy, in addition to being certain that this was not a reflection of her ability, were more important things to learn than getting the exact angle of a pessimistic woman's cut right.

And it was these words of wisdom from Andrea Rossi that made the anger that was boiling in her chest begin to lose its strength. That indignation that made her relive Melissa's speech over and over in her mind, began to transform into just an unhappy memory. Not overnight, but with the help of small moments like when a longtime client hugged Y/N after a haircut, saying she felt renewed, or when a teenager, upon seeing her new look, smiled so wide that her eyes lit up.

And that's why when Olivia, the salon receptionist, calls her name and tells her that a redheaded woman is there looking for her, that thought of that woman barely crosses Y/N's mind.

Olivia had already told her that Melissa accepted the measurements for her hair color, what more could she want?

But there she was. With her hair in waves, a pair of sunglasses perched on top of her head and a heavy-looking dessert platter in her hand.

"Oh. You. What do you want?", Y/N asks with a frown full of tiredness and disbelief, which she doesn't bother to hide.

Y/N’s question isn’t meant to hurt, but the redhead still takes the words with a thud and becomes so surprisingly uncomfortable that the hairdresser suddenly drops her bravado upon hearing the redhead’s request.

“Can we talk somewhere else?” Melissa’s voice is restrained and hopeful, silently wishing that Y/N would invite her to some private spot within the crowded salon, away from the curious eyes of the salon, but Y/N surprises her.

“Parking lot.”

It’s not exactly what the redhead wanted, but it’s worth much more than the idea of ​​the hairdresser just saying no and turning her back to get back to work.

Melissa knows that would be her own reaction.

When Y/N opens the salon door and holds it open gentlemanly until the redhead can walk through without any problems while holding the big tray in her hands, the teacher lets out a low, relieved sigh before starting to talk.

“I would like to apologize to you.”, Melissa says bluntly, handing the dessert platter with the tiramisu to the hairdresser, “And this is my way of doing it.”

“I’m waiting.”, the Brazilian woman says as she crosses her arms over her chest, activly ignoring the dessert platter in front of her and looking expectantly at Melissa, completely ignoring the last sentence said by the redhead.

“Waiting... for what...?”, the redhead asks, partly confused and partly anxious for something she believes she has no chance of achieving.

“You said you want to apologize to me. I’m waiting.”, is what Y/N says to her in a soft voice, looking directly into the green eyes in front of her in expectation.

Then, after understanding that the hairdresser, wisely, would not make it easy for her and taking a deep breath, Melissa begins:

“I’m sorry for insulting ya, Y/N. I... I was deeply unfair and cruel and, honestly, I didn't even mean the things I told you, about you or your work... I just... I've had Andrea as my hairdresser and my family's for over ten years and she's been a part of my life for much longer than that. And that had been such a stressful week at the school where I work... I think it was all just too much and I dumped it on you undeservedly.”

When the Brazilian woman just lowers her head and nods, still silent, Melissa finds even more courage to continue speaking.

“I know I'm justifying my actions but I really need to... at least let ya know that I'm not like that,” the second and third-grade teacher says softly and in a low voice, before shaking her head and correcting herself, “I mean, I'm a little sharp around the edges but... Not without reason like I was that day. I mean... Sometimes I am... But not when it comes to someone I met through Andrea.”

After a moment of silence, Y/N looks Melissa in the eyes again, barely noticing the anticipation that had been created there when she asks:

“So this…”, the hairdresser says, pointing at the woman in front of her as a whole in a curious manner, “Is it all because you want my services, after all?”

“I… I’m not here for that. I’m here to apologize because I really regret how I behaved with ya and it’s eating me alive.”, Melissa’s answer comes seriously and along with a negative shake of her head that almost makes her dizzy.

“But…?”, the hairdresser begins, with a glimpse of a playful smile that also draws an identical one from the redhead’s lips when she finally gives in.

“But, I would still like to be your regular. If you’ll have me.”

Normally, Y/N would say no.

Normally, Y/N would say that she understands that people are sometimes rude, but that she doesn't need that in her life.

But the woman really appreciated Melissa's apology and saw the truth in her words. She doesn't know exactly how the redhead works inside a school, but she can imagine the kind of stress she must be witnessing on a daily basis, and this is the last straw needed for her to forgive her.

"People have their bad days. Just don't do that ever again, understand? Not with me. I'm not someone who usually gives people second chances.", Y/N answers seriously, giving her condition and only when she receives an affirmative nod from the redhead does she awkwardly take the dish from Melissa's hand, her fingers brushing against the teacher's for a brief moment due to her concern in holding the dessert firmly in her hand.

"Thank you. I can't wait to try whatever this is.", the Brazilian concludes, with a sparkle in her eyes full of curiosity towards the dish that made Melissa's heart race, filled with pride, "I've never received food from a client before..."

"Tiramissu. Family recipe.", Melissa's voice now sounds more confident and cheerful, and Y/N enjoys witnessing this more than she realizes as she smiles and nods in agreement with the redhead's words.

Only when Melissa, now embarrassed by the silence that takes over the empty parking lot, decides to say goodbye to the hairdresser is the Brazilian woman's voice heard again.

“Wait... This dessert platter... What do I...?”, the question begins to form on Y/N's lips but Melissa interrupts her gently, as she does with her students when they forget to clean their snow-covered feet before entering the classroom.

“Can I pick her up next time I come here... for my coloring?”, is a hopeful question once again, and Y/N likes this Melissa much more than the one she had in her chair and the hairdresser could not be more grateful to have a glimpse of her.

“I can fit you in next week at the same time Andrea asked me to.”

“That would be great. Seriously. Thank you, hon.”, is how Melissa says goodbye and, with just that last word, Y/N can feel the skin on her face heat up, even with her hands firmly holding the cold dessert platter.

[vicolette]

Brother’s Admirer !

– A/N : the title is so weird ik but I have no other idea I’m sorry💔💔

– Warnings : English isn’t my first language, mentions of y/n, fluff

"Should we sit here?"

Irene nodded her head as she took a seat in the stands, watching the footballers of FC Barcelona play on the training ground. You sat beside her, your coat keeping you warm, although the sun was shining bright.

"Why is it still so cold? It’s march!" Your best friend complained as she sighed in disbelief, hiding her face in her hands as she groaned. In response to her mood swing, you let out a chuckle, but your attention wasn’t really there for her.

It was for Pau, her younger brother.

Your lips twitched as a smile blossomed on your face, your gaze following him before you realized that Irene was still there, acting oblivious about your secret crush when you looked at her.

Since two years, you have had been enamored with Pau – his awkward personality and good looks were making your heart melt whenever you saw the teenager. Now, as he grew older and you did too, you could notice the changes in his life. A bit more confident than he used to be and he also grew a lot taller, much lie his muscles.

However, there was barely any chances for you to get together with him, especially since you were befriended with Irene. It would ruin the friendship and, even if love was something you wanted in your life, you valued your friendship more than some potentially relationship with her brother.

"I don’t know…" Your mutter was quiet as you lowered your head, staring at your plain white shoes while she kept talking. The original hang out plan was to study at her place while Pau was at training and then get some ice cream, but it changed when you both somehow managed to get your work done earlier.

Truth being told, you focused on it way more than usual to get over with it and get some sweets, since you have been craving ice cream for a while now, although it wasn’t even the perfect weather for it.

"Here." Irene snapped you out of your trace as she held out a popsicles for you, the other one that you have bought already in her mouth. The coldness of it made her tense up, which earned a laughter from you.

"Thanks." As you ripped off the wrapper and took a bite out of it, you could feel the delicious taste of strawberry ice cream. Silence crept into the place as you both watched the smaller teams play, before you spoke up once again. "Should we even eat ice cream during winter?"

"Nah, but who cares?" You both laughed at her question, yet she then went quiet, indicating that she was trying to remember something. "Wait, I need to pay you back for the popsicles."

"Keep it, it’s no–"

"Oh my god, my wallet!" Irene gasped in horror, taking her purse as she searched for her belongings, when she then deadpanned and glanced at you. "I forgot it at home."

You chuckled at her dramatic expression, shrugging your shoulders as you rolled your eyes playfully, when you suddenly met the eyes of Pau. He had heard Irene and hadn’t seen her previously, so he looked away to see what she was doing.

"Pau!" The familiar voice of Flick was heard as he turned around, yelling out an apology as he got back into the flow of the game, returning his focus to the opposing players.

Irene raised an eyebrow at her brother, wondering what might have gotten him so distracted, before the realization dawned upon her. Her gaze landed on you and before you could even say anything, whether it was to defend yourself or say the truth, she giggled.

"Pau seems to be lovely, right?" She tilted her head as Irene awaited a positive answer, which you had truthfully given her.

"Yeah, yeah, totally…" Your smile faltered when you realized what she was doing – setting you up with him. It made your heart flutter at the thought, hoping that what you thought was true.

"And..! Did I tell you about the time when he saved a cat from a tree? He’s growing up too fast!" She mockingly wiped a fake tear away from her eye, sarcasm lingering in her voice as she looked back at him. You weren’t that naïve to not realize her tactics, since you’ve gotten used to them, but it still made you blush in embarrassment.

Meanwhile, Pau's team had won the mini match and although he wasn’t too fazed by it, he had tried to amaze you with his skills. Hell, he even scored a banger to make you think that he was someone so strong and out of the world.

"Good game, kiddo." Lewandowski's voice was audible behind him, an arm wrapped around his shoulders as he pulled him closer. When the media coordinator was done taking a photo of them celebrating their win for their Instagram account, Robert pointed out a specific secret of his. "Your crush is here! Is that why you stole the ball so often?"

"Obviously, grandpa."

"Are you learning from Lamine, or what?"

– A/N : my eleventh post!! Hope you liked it<3

[gennianydots]

Happy April 24th, fellow PatPraners!

[illegally-downloaded-skeleton]

[pinkfey]

me when the boy savior the boy saved everyone: 🤯🤯🤯

[jomeimei421]

GYAAHHH people are reblogging ANCIENT art of mine

[blue-eli]

Realised it’s @khoc-week so even though I don’t have the energy to do it daily have this I did a while ago but never posted.

Arxeht my beloved. They came to me in a dream where I was a replica (of multiple people but looked most like Vidar) made by apprentice Nort/Xemnas, who was the fifteenth member of the organisation and also had my knowledge of hit video games Kingdom Hearts and kept getting randomly thrown through space and time.

[toxickeyboard]

I saw it and instantly decide to make something stupid

[maxiwaxipads]

Manufactured SEEDs

Basically, the concept is that SEEDs once served as a “positive” force meant to permanently remove or separate negative emotions that were deemed unnecessary.

(I wish I could elaborate but I don’t really know how) (I wanted the idea that “SEEDs” have always existed or something unique to Fragaria Memories without being inspired to anything if that makes sense?)

Assuming that SEEDs existed during the time of Legendary Red, what if “Legendary Red” made the SEEDs but backfired and twisted the story that they saved the world of Fragaria from the SEEDs.

Maybe the SEEDs couldn’t be completely destroyed for whatever arbitrary reason, and the Strawberry King took responsibility to guard the last remnant of existing SEEDs left from this world of Fragaria?

Eldritt’s purpose is to keep the origin of SEEDs and the truth of Legendary Red a secret. 

<- But at the same time, what good is keeping the truth hidden(?)) “To keep the world idyllic”(?) (How would revealing the truth about Legendary Red and the SEEDs affect the world? 

(Maybe we can connect this to time loop theory(?)) (Do you think Halritt wants to keep the world happy by all means necessary) (and time loop is his only answer)

Do you think their existence evolved during their entrapment by the Strawberry King? They’re indiscriminately trying to feed from negative emotions because of this insatiable hunger they had for who knows how long?

How did they escape? Why did the Strawberry King disappear?

Lovers to the same lies— Protectors to sanctity, memories to sanity Red-splattered puddles dye into black I, the shadow to which you belong … strangers to the flesh. Fumbled darkness, the pitch-black mold. A stiff neck … Unable to turn. (Clocks unfortunately twist … A head rolls down.)

Edlritt - “What only needs to be known is that…” Eldritt - “We both want the SEEDs eliminated.” “So, Merold, as long as the motivation exists—we will both be quiet.” Eldritt - “Is this clear enough for you?"

[fantasmadelaciudad]

ppl responding “remember” to comments/commenting it on videos someone made in 2020/2021 in a pathetic attempt to make the person who initially made the comment/video ashamed bc anything done in that time period is automatically deemed cringe is so fucking annoying. what if those ppl got hobbies that didn’t include trying to shame others for enjoying things.