#I wanted to write a snippet but I had no inspiration besides this and it's a bad day overall so

[yujeong]

Porsche jokes about hitting Vegas one time during a meeting. He doesn't realize he fucked up right away, not until Vegas gathers himself, smiles and says "Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you?", all while his skin is buzzing underneath the calm demeanor he's presenting. The reason Porsche even understands he said the wrong thing is because Vegas glances at Kinn as he says those words, who's sitting on the opposite side of the table, silent. Pete is also there, and he's the person Porsche checks first before he clears his throat and apologizes to Vegas. Pete is too busy staring at Vegas' tense back to notice Porsche's attention.

[jjunieworld]

UNDER THE CHERRY BLOSSOM TREE ˒˒ 최범규

it’s confession day and you want nothing more than to receive a confession from your longtime friend, beomgyu.

pairing ‎⸝⸝⸝ choi beomgyu x fem!reader 𓄷 iηcℓudᥱs 𓈓 yeonjun, soobin, and yeji from itzy

genre﹙📄﹚⸝⸝⸝ toothrotting fluff, friends to lovers, mutual pining but you both are oblivious, highschool au ???

kipo’s note ‎⸝⸝⸝ literally watched beomgyu’s cover and music video and was struck by sudden inspiration and motivation and i just had to write something based off it! ❀ so here is a super cute little drabble in honor of beomgyu’s cover, i hope you enjoy!! all feedback and reblogs are welcome! ♡

∿ [ 1.7k ] ⋆ [ continue on to . . . masterlist ]

today was a day you both loved and absolutely hated—confession day. the day where you confess your feelings to the one who you like most.

the hallways were giddy with excitement and you couldn’t help being lured to the feeling. everyone was alight with what the day could possibly behold. as you made your way to your locker to put your bag away, you heard various snippets of conversations:

“i’m scared to open my locker! what if there isn’t any note inside?” “—and he wrote for me to meet him on the football field after school!” “who do you think yeonjun will confess to? i heard from hana that he was eying her, but mina said the same thing!” “well i heard hana say that jake was going to confess to her today on the rooftop!” “—to meet near the school gates!”

a soft smile made its way onto your lips. confession day—at least the start of it—was always one that made you happy inside. you loved seeing other people finally confess their feelings to to each other. it was also fun for you and your friends to make bets on who would confess to who.

just as you reached for the lock of your locker, you friend yeji ran up to you with a thrilled expression, her black hair flying into her face as she came to a sudden stop. “it’s confession day!” she squealed repeatedly, brushing her hair out of her face and linking her arm with yours once you got your books out. “who do you think will confess to who later today?”

“apparently hana has many suitors,” you shrugged and the two of you giggled slightly as you walked the halls slowly to your homeroom. suddenly yeji turned to you, a playful grin lighting up her face with a scrunched nose. oh god, you thought, what is she about to say?

she tickled your side, making you squirm away with a laugh. “do you think beomgyu is going to confess to you today?” she asked. you swatted her hand away, heat creeping up your neck as you looked forward to try and hide how flustered the question made you. you shrugged again, hopeful smile curling your lips.

beomgyu sat at his desk surrounded by his two friends, yeonjun and soobin. he shifted a sealed envelope from hand to hand, “to y/n” written on it. the red striped tie and dark blue blazer of his uniform suddenly seemed so constricting. “—and tell me exactly what you wrote in the letter,” he heard the tail end of yeonjun’s sentence.

beomgyu had already told soobin just minutes prior and he sighed softly as he dragged his eyes up from the letter. nerves flowed through him as he recounted the letter again for yeonjun.

dear, y/n

would you meet me under the cherry blossom tree by the train tracks after school?

beomgyu

it was a very simple letter, really. beomgyu had wanted to give his confession in person to you rather than through a letter or any other means. yeonjun’s face contorted in thought. “maybe spice it up a little?” he suggested.

“i like it. it’s simple and right to the point. besides, he said he wants to confess in person,” soobin cut in before beomgyu could. yeonjun hummed before nodding slowly. “i guess it could work!”

just as yeonjun finished talking, the homeroom door opened. you and your friend—yeji, who he’s come to know of—stepped through; arms linked as you leaned into each other to whisper something he couldn’t hear. a low laugh emitted from you and beomgyu swore it was the prettiest, most melodic thing he has ever heard.

the sunlight from the open blinds of the classroom cascaded down onto your frame, illuminating you like you were on a stage. beomgyu just couldn’t believe how pretty you were. your eyes connected with his, that bright smile of yours still on your face, and you waved your hand slightly to wave at him. your bright smile turned sheepish as you quickly looked away and you and yeji made it to your seats.

from just one look, beomgyu could practically see your future together. he wanted to be yours and you to be his so desperately. he wanted to do simple day to day activities with you, like helping you with homework and putting your books into your locker. he wanted to take you to the movies and talk about what you decided to see and walk you home after, fingers just barely brushing past each other. you were just so cute.

“look at him, there’s literally hearts in his eyes,” beomgyu distantly heard yeonjun say. his eyes were still on you until fingers snapped in his face, startling him back to reality. soobin pulled back his arm with a laugh and beomgyu rolled his eyes. he glanced back to you briefly, small smile forming on his face before returning his attention back to his friends.

beomgyu looked down again at the letter in his hands. he had meant to put it in your locker this morning before you arrived, but chickened out at the last second. that’s why he was here, enlisting the help of his two idiot bestfriends to ensure everything goes off without a hitch.

soobin laid a hand on beomgyu’s shoulder and patted it comfortingly, “you got this, man! it’s so obvious that the two of you like each other!” yeonjun nodded in agreement. beomgyu sighed and tucked the letter under his books. he hesitantly let their words fill him with confidence and hope. i really hope she does, he thought.

you turned slightly and looked over your shoulder, just barely catching a glimpse of beomgyu. you turned back towards yeji with a lovesick smile. “it’ll happen, don’t worry! it’s so obvious that the two of you like each other!” yeji comforted you. you just sighed and directed the conversation to a different topic. i really hope he does, you thought.

when you were grabbing your bag from your locker, mid conversation with yeji, a small white envelope fluttered to the ground at your feet. yeji gasped as you bent to pick it up with wide eyes. yeji drew closer to you, hiding the letter from the view of the other students making their way towards the entrance of the school. “open it, open it!” she exclaimed.

with a deep breath you carefully opened the envelope that had “to y/n” written on it in familiar handwriting. carefully you opened up the delicate letter and read the contents, yeji beside you taking in every word as well. you froze in shock for a split second before a wide smile broke out onto your face and it took everything in you to keep from jumping up and down.

“he wants me to meet him under the cherry blossom tree by the train tracks…” you breathed lowly, shock still reeling you. you repeated yourself, each word getting louder as you turned and grasped yeji’s hands with excitement and almost crinkling the letter, “he wants me to meet him under the cherry blossom tree by the train tracks!”

you had gathered the attention of the students walking by and heat suddenly spread across your face and immediately calmed you down. unfortunately, just as you shrunk into your locker, your eyes briefly connected with beomgyu’s bestfriend and resident golden boy of your school—choi yeonjun.

he looked in your direction and you just barely managed to catch the smile he gave to beomgyu’s other bestfriend—choi soobin—and the words forming from his lips.

your grip on yeji’s hands tightened as you quickly pulled her towards the girls restroom. “oh my god!” she exclaimed and began jumping the two of you up and down. excited giggles left both of your lips and echoed off the walls of the restroom.

“oh my god,” yeji repeated, suddenly serious. “he means meet him now. you have to go, like, right now!” worry suddenly broke through all your emotions at the possibility of beomgyu thinking that you wouldn’t show. yeji started pushing you towards the door of the restroom.

“oh my god!” you worriedly repeated yeji’s words. in response, all she repeated was, “go, go, go!”

you booked it out of the restroom and out of the school, running all the way until you saw the familiar cherry blossom tree down the hill in front of where the school sat. distantly, you saw beomgyu’s figure waiting for you and you inhaled deeply as you made slow strides towards him. you held the letter close to your heart and tried to control your nerves the closer and closer you got to the tree.

at your incoming footsteps, beomgyu turned to you and you gasped softly and how beautiful he was. a flustered—and somewhat sheepish—smile spread across your face and you stepped just mere inches from where he stood. “i got your letter,” you said as you looked up into his eyes.

the falling cherry blossoms around beomgyu’s head and soft afternoon light framed him perfectly and it made you wonder just how lucky you were that you were the one he chose to confess to.

beomgyu opened his mouth, only to close it and have a matching sheepish smile overtake it. just as he went to open it again, a cherry blossom fell onto his head, caught in the dark strands of his hair. he looked up, just as you did as well, and you both chuckled. “can we start seeing each other?” beomgyu ask you quietly, plucking the flower from his hair and holding it out to you.

if it were even possible, your smile widened and you accepted the outstretched flower. from the corner of your eye saw yeji, yeonjun, and soobin huddle together behind a bush directly across from the two of you. yeji nudged them out of the way to get a good look but accidentally ruffled some of the leaves of the bush. you saw the three of them drop down quick as lightning behind the bush before you or beomgyu could see them.

you nodded and softly spoke, “i would really like that.” a toothy grin spread on beomgyu’s lips. finally, the one he adored the most was his.

∿ [ continue on to . . . masterlist , taglist , request ] all feedback and reblogs are welcome! ♡

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[willowpains]

introducing…

latina actress reader!

mexican to be exact, born and raised. sings and dances, but has decided to focus all her efforts into acting and breaking through Hollywood, fighting closed doors due to her nationality, always with a good attitude and ready to work her ass off to achieve her dreams to be the next it girl and big thing around the world.

she’s…

big hearted. soft. sensitive. hardworking. multilingual. singer. dancer. warm. family girl. fangirl. super friendly. the one that makes everyone feel included. a listener and big yapper around the people she trusts. a bit shy at first. loves a good party. cinephile. tequila lover.

loves…

going out with her friends and fellow costars. traveling back home whenever she can. the beach. taking photos of everyone and everything. speaking spanish in front of people that don’t understand. doing karaoke. her dog. reggaeton. doing tiktok dances. reading romance and fantasy. going to the movies at night. posting photo dumps on instagram. doing pranks. her mexican food. makeup. her alone time.

can’t stand…

horror movies. people that don’t love animals. over bearing and noisy paparazzi and press. liars. smoking and cigarettes. loud chewing. small spaces. rats. not wearing perfume. losing her favorite lip gloss. online spoilers. missing out on stuff. people talking on the movie theater.

wikipedia…

-her first big role outside of her country was as a pogue, with a trope of slow burn enemies to lovers with Drew Starkey’s character, and member of the main friend group in the highly acclaimed Netflix series Outer Banks, still ongoing now with a just released season 4.

-she was casted and is part of the wrapped up and upcoming movie: Wake Up Dead Man, sequel to the famous murder mystery movie Knives Out.

-uploads covers and snippets of originals songs on her YouTube channel, as well as see social media accounts such as TikTok and Instagram.

-had a big role besides actor Jacob Elordi in last years hit project Saltburn, making it one of her biggest movies in her repertoire to this day.

-she was seen attending a Niall Horan concert previously in the year, and was brought up on stage by the artist to sing a duet, as she claimed one of her favorite songs, “You could start a cult” during the show.

-she is rumored to take part in the role of Susan Pevensie in upcoming Narnia Series directed by Greta Gerwig, nothing has been confirmed yet but both the actress and the director have been hinting at it in different interviews and events.

loading more…🎥🎞️🎬🍿

***

I am so freaking excited about this concept that I came up with! I had been wanting to continue writing for drew and this idea just landed on my lap didn’t it? *wink wink*

I have so many plans for this universe with mexican/latina actress reader, from moodboards, blurbs, headcanons, specific scenarios, sooooo so much! if you have any questions, things you wanna request or know about reader please feel free to ask or let me know, you’ll be feeding into my motivation to write more about her and drew and the rest of the obx cast<3

credits and inspiration to all the writers out here that come up with these concepts of ___ reader! if ate up most of them and I think they’re creative and amazing af

about time my writer personality came back, and as always, English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance for any grammar or writing errors there may be!

stay tuned👀

[srslyscary]

The Final Breath

contents/warnings: SFW , reader is written as she/her, major angst, mentions of illness, mentions of death, bang chan is named his birth name in the narrative, lowercase intended

including: bang chan x reader

note: I CRIED WRITING THIS. why I got the inspiration to make something hand written? i have no clue. I thought I should start writing more often. seriously had to stop writing this just to cry for one second. this may or may not be ooc (just a slither) because i have problems writing personalities of people I don’t know in person.. please enjoy!

_

chris wiped the sweat from his brow as the final beats of the song faded. practice had been intense, as always, but his mind was elsewhere. his bandmates, felix, hyunjin, and the others, were still catching their breath when chris glanced at the clock.

"hey, guys, I need to head out early today," he said, grabbing his bag.

felix raised an eyebrow. "again? you’ve been leaving early a lot lately. everything okay?"

chris forced a smile. "yeah, everything's fine. just some personal stuff I need to take care of."

the others exchanged puzzled glances but didn’t press him further. they had their suspicions—but ultimately thought he was going home to his girlfriend, whom they were all very aquantined with. little did they know, his destination was far more somber.

chris’s heart ached as he drove to the hospital. YN, his girlfriend, was battling a brain tumor, and the prognosis was grim. the visits had become a daily ritual, a blend of love, fear, and a desperate hope for a miracle.

he entered her hospital room, greeted by the sterile scent of antiseptic and the soft beep of monitors. YN's face lit up when she saw him, her smile weak but genuine.

"hey channie!" she whispered, her voice fragile.

"hey, beautiful," he replied, sitting beside her and taking her hand. "how are you feeling today?"

she shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "same as always. but seeing you makes everything better." she laughed, nearly cringing at herself. “I bet it does.”

they spent the next few hours talking, laughing, and simply being together. chris recounted funny stories from practice, doing his best to lift her spirits. they watched videos on his phone, and he played her snippets of new songs he was working on. for those precious moments, the world outside the hospital room faded away. nothing else mattered to them but the time they spent together.

as the days passed, YN's condition slowly worsened. chris continued to visit daily, his dedication unwavering. the hospital staff began to recognize him, greeting him with sad smiles as he made his way to her room.

one evening, chris arrived to find YN's family gathered around her bed, their faces etched with worry. her mother stood up, giving chris a small, grateful nod.

"thank you for coming, christopher. she talks about you all the time," her mother said, her voice trembling. “I’m sorry we have to meet under these circumstances..”

chris nodded, his throat tight. “It’s fine, really.” he approached YN, who was asleep, her face pale and drawn. he sat beside her, holding her hand and whispering softly. "I’m here, YN. I won’t leave you."

when she woke, she smiled weakly at him. "channie, you’re here."

"of course, I am," he replied, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I always will be."

as the night wore on, chris and YN talked about their future—one filled with dreams they both knew might never come true. they spoke of travels, adventures, and the life they had planned together. it was a bittersweet conversation, filled with love and an unspoken understanding of the reality they faced. “hey.. do you think.. I’ll be able to see outside again?”

“of course you will. i have no doubt about that, beautiful.”

the next day, chris convinced YN's doctors to let her leave the hospital for a few hours. he wanted to give her a change of scenery, a taste of the usual through the chaos of her illness. “let’s set you in, first time in a wheelchair huh?”

she laughed only slightly, being carried and put into the wheelchair. “yeah, it feels really funny.” and with that chris began to take her outside the hospital, talking a small stroll to the nearest park. he pushed her wheelchair along the winding paths, the spring air fresh and invigorating. YN marveled at the blooming flowers, the chirping birds, and the children playing nearby. It was a simple outing, but it meant the world to her.

"thank you for this, my love." she said, her eyes shining with gratitude. "I needed it more than you know."

chris smiled, though his heart ached. "anything for you, sweetheart. always."

they sat on a bench, watching the world go by. for a few precious hours, they were just another couple, enjoying a day at the park. but as the sun began to set, reality intruded once more.

YN's condition took a drastic turn for the worse. she was confined to her bed, her strength fading rapidly. chris continued his visits, each one more heart-wrenching than the last. he spent every moment he could with her, knowing their time was running out.

then the day finally came, that day both of them never dreamed of happening. as he sat by her bed, YN's breathing became labored. chris held her hand tightly, his heart pounding with fear and sorrow.

"baby.." she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I'm scared..”

chris leaned closer, his eyes filled with tears. he wanted to keep strong for her, for the one he loved, even through this hard time. "I know, YN. but I'm here. you’re not alone. and you’ll never be alone.”

she looked at him, her gaze filled with love and pain. "promise me... you won’t forget me. live your life, be happy."

chris swallowed hard, his voice choked with emotion. "I promise, YN. i’ll never forget you. you mean everything to me. i’ll love you till the end of time.”

“then promise me one more thing.. please swear you’ll keep this promise.”

“Anything beautiful— what is it?”

“just promise me.. that if you’re not happy, that you’ll find happiness with someone else.” she said, her lips shaking slightly and her eyes barely could keep open.

“no.. no i can’t promise that. i’ll love you and only you. i can’t possibly—“ “chris please.. please don’t do this. just promise me.” YN began to tear up, looking at him.

“…i promise. but.. you’ll make it out of here just fine.. don’t say that.”

she smiled, running her thumb against his hand. “thank you for everything, my love.” and with a final, shaky breath, YN closed her eyes, her grip on his hand loosening. chris felt his world shatter as she slipped away, the silence in the room deafening.

“hey.. hey sweetheart- get up..!” he held her face, kissing her cheeks and tapping her arms slightly. “please.. don’t— don’t close your eyes.. don’t go..!”

but it was too late, she was already gone. chris quickly got up and tapped the call button, screaming for the nurses.

the days following YN’s passing were a blur for chris. he attended the funeral, supported her grieving family, and tried to make sense of a world without her. his bandmates, finally aware of the truth, rallied around him, offering their support and understanding.

chris threw himself into his work, trying to drown the pain with music and dance. But no matter how busy he kept himself, the void YN left behind was inescapable. he found himself visiting her grave regularly, bringing her favorite flowers and sitting in silence, lost in memories.

every night, for two years straight, Chris called YN’s phone. each time, he left a message, his voice filled with longing and sorrow. "hey, YN. It’s me, channie. I miss you so much. it’s hard.. knowing you’re really gone. i wish I could just wake up and come straight to your apartment to see you each morning, like usual. i wish I could take you out on dates at your favorite places, like usual. i want to be angry for you leaving me.. but I know I shouldn’t. i know I should think better about this. it’s just so.. hard. i love you so so much.”

the calling became his way of coping, a connection to the girl he loved and lost. he gained hope for the shortest moment everytime he heard the call go straight to voicemail, the last thing he had left to really remember what you sounded like. “Hi this is YN! Sorry i couldn’t answer the phone. I’ll get to you as soon as i can! Leave a message!”. even as the number eventually became invalid, chris continued to dial, his heart refusing to let go. each call was a reminder of the promises he made and the love they shared.

_

it had been a year since YN’s passing, and chris found himself standing in front of her grave once more. the seasons had changed, the world had moved on, but his grief remained as fresh as the day she left.

his bandmates, who had become his rock, stood beside him, their presence a silent support. felix placed a hand on his shoulder. "we’re here for you, bro. always."

chris nodded, his eyes never leaving the gravestone. he sniffled, trying not to let tears fall. "thanks, guys… It means a lot."

he knelt down, placing a bouquet of YN’s favorite flowers on her grave. "Hey, YN. It’s me, channie. I miss you so much. It’s been a year, but it still feels like yesterday. i feel emotional everytime i come here, knowing I was just fine 3 hours ago. i don’t think you really know how much this affects me. im slowly getting better but.. it still hurts.”

as the sun set, casting long shadows across the cemetery, chris and his bandmates stood in silence, remembering YN and the love she had brought into his life.

through all, chris kept his promise to YN. he lived his life, pursued his dreams, and found moments of happiness. but he never forgot her. she remained a part of him, a cherished memory that guided him through the darkest times.

he found even more solace in his music, channeling his grief and love into his songs. His bandmates stood by him, understanding the depth of his loss and the strength it took to keep moving forward.

on the anniversary of YN’s passing each year, chris visited her grave, bringing her favorite flowers and sitting in silence. He spoke to her, sharing his life and achievements, as if she were still beside him.

and though the pain of losing her never fully faded, Chris found a way to honor her memory in everything he did. she had taught him the true meaning of love and loss, and that lesson became a cornerstone of his life.

in the quiet moments, when the world felt too heavy, chris would close his eyes and remember YN’s smile, her laughter, and the love they shared. and he would find the strength to keep going, knowing she was with him, always.

[arealphrooblem]

Hi!! First off I just want to say that this is my new favorite writing blog on tumblr!! I'm so grateful for whatever strings the universe pulled that led me here. I'm literally addicted to every single thing you've written here. I swear I've read Mutually Assured Destruction like ten times within the past 24 hours.

I was wondering, if you find the free time and the inspiration, if you could write a villain x medic/civilian snippet? Maybe Medic accidentally witnessed villain's crime so villain can't let them just wander around freely since medic works for the hero agency, but also doesn't want to kill medic since medic is useful?

Thank you so much! I've always loved the idea of Villain x Medic so here you go!

CW: Kidnapping

“You know my face.”

The medic knew this day would come. Still, they froze in the doorway of the living room, keys dangling in their hands, blood frosting over in sheer dread. The villain sat with their legs crossed in the medic’s favorite armchair, the fire place unlit. The room in semi-darkness, the only light a glow from a street-lamp.

They didn’t ask how the villain knew their address. They should have taken Hero’s offer to leave under witness protection, but their whole life was built here. They couldn’t just leave and start over.

“I haven’t revealed it,” the medic said.

“Yet,” the villain amended. “I’m sure you would for the right price. Or under the right pressure.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t. But I am not going to risk it.”

The lamp beside the couch switched on. The medic flinched away from the sight, eyes trained on the coat rack by the door. As if mattered anymore if they saw the villain’s face again. As if they hadn’t doomed themselves the first time.

Footsteps creaked over the old wood floors. The medic took slow deep breaths, holding it for four counts and releasing it. A trick they had taught people afraid of IV needles to calm their racing heart.

The time to run had long since passed. And even if it hadn’t, the villain most definitely had people outside lying in wait for such an escape.

Hands that tipped the medic’s chin to meet that dangerous gaze.

“You’re going to kill me,” the medic said. It was not a question.

An eyebrow raised. “You sound very calm about that.”

“My career has taught me how to recognize and accept things that aren’t in my control. Right now there is nothing I can do to stop you.”

“This is true.”

The villain studied them, thumb brushing absently against the curve of their bottom lip.  The darkness of their eyes felt unfathomable, like the Marianas Trench. Like the deepest part of the ocean, full of wonder and terror.

“I am not going to kill you,” the villain said finally. “I owe you my life. And I always repay my debts. But you know my face.”

The medic swallowed thickly against the barrage of options that opened up. The villain could blind them, torture them into insanity, cut out their tongue. All of the above. The villain’s hand slips across their cheek to cup the back of the medic’s head. A possessive gesture, they noted with a shiver.

“You are coming with me. Whether it be conscious or unconscious, I leave up to your . . . control.”

Relief warred with new fear. “Where are you taking me?” they asked.  “What happens to me when we get there?”

“Questions I will happily answer in the car,” said the villain, their hand sliding down the medic’s 

neck before retreating. “Hand me your phone and your keys and then go pack your things. You have ten minutes.”

The medic stood rooted to the spot. This was real, this was happening. And it yet it still felt like a bad dream. Ten minutes to pack their life up? Ten minutes?

“Tick tock, darling,” crooned the villain, holding their hand out.

Numbly, the medic dropped their phone and keys into the villain's hand and took robotic steps towards their bedroom. Clothes were easy to grab and stuff into the suitcase. As were their birth certificate and other identity papers. Personal items, less so. Medic spent precious minutes at their bookshelf, picking a well thumbed classic from their childhood, their most referenced medical texts, and a novel they hadn’t started yet.

The pressure of time throbbed in the back of their head, making it difficult to think rationally about what they needed. They ducked into the bathroom, grabbing their contact case and solution, their toothbrush. Then they stood in the middle of their bedroom, frantically trying to think of what they couldn’t live without.

“Times up.”

The villain’s voice came from behind, causing the medic to jump out of their skin.

“Zip it up and let’s go.”

The villain’s car lay hidden in the shadows of the back alley. A dangerous looking driver waiting for them, their cigarette glow the only light. The villain opened the backseat of the car for Medic with a mocking flourish.

It was their last opportunity to run, but the medic knew a shot in the back waited for them if they tried it. So, dread sitting heavy in their stomach, they climbed in. The villain took the seat next to them, giving out curt orders to the driver in a language the medic didn’t recognize.

 The nagging horror that the medic forgot something important haunted them. They leaned their head against the window, mentally walking through their house, trying to remember. But the fear churning in their blood made it so difficult.

“I’m taking you to my compound,” said the villain, almost conversationally. As if detailing the itinerary for a date. “I have a room set up for you, as well as a med bay. You can resume your work taking care of my mercenaries.”

The medic listened with half an ear, watching the wave of street lamps pass them by. What were they missing?

“No objections to that?” the villain asked, bemused.

They passed a park, one the medic had many birthday parties in as a child, and the sudden zing of memory made them gasp.

“Stop! We have to go back!” they cried.

The driver didn’t so much as flinch.

“Go back?" The villain laughed. "Too late for that, doctor. You should have protested before you climbed into this car."

"I forgot something!"

"Whatever it is can be replaced," the villain said with a dismissive wave of their hand. 

"It's not replaceable. Please."

Desperation clawed at their throat but the villain remained unmoved.

"If it were so important, one would think it would be the first thing you packed, not the first thing you forgot. You will have to learn to live without it."

The medic closed their eyes the rest of the journey. They couldn't bear to look at Villain's face.

"Do you regret it?"

The villain sat upon the examination bed, looking almost innocent.

It had been a week since the medic was taken. Their life had changed so drastically that the normality of the med bay, of the tools they had spent years around, clanged like a discordant note. They threw themselves into their work, demanding physicals for the Villain's mercenaries to establish a baseline of health. These people, so used to sewing their own wounds, grew awkward around the medic’s soft and attentive care. Some refused to come. 

The villain showed up last, a new laceration on their ribs. They sat, spine straight and unflinching as medic carefully cleaned the wound and bandaged it. 

"Regret what?" the medic asked. 

" . . .Saving my life."

Their hands stilled for a moment, hovering over the wound. It was a tricky question and the medic wasn't sure how to answer it honestly. 

"I would have regretted the person that I'd become if I had let you die," they said finally. 

"Oh? Most people would consider it a net positive, preventing all my future damage."

"It's not up to me to decide who deserves to live and who doesn't."

"I beg to differ. You hold people's lives in your hands every day. Who else, if not you?"

The medic glanced up at the villain, who stared at them with open-faced fascination, rather than the usual dispassion. 

"I don't think any one person should have that power," they said pointedly. 

The villain smiled, a slow curving movement. "A pity. You could be terrifying indeed."

The medic swallowed something strange dancing in their gut. "You're lucky I'm not." 

"Indeed I am."

They finished the examination without further conversation. The villain watched with quiet fascination as the medic sterilized their tools, folded unused bandages away, updated the Villain's medical records. 

"What did you leave behind?" they asked softly. 

"My life," the medic said, tersely, as they tapped on the keyboard. 

The villain was undeterred. "What did you remember in the car?"

The medic paused at that, unsure if they should answer. They didn't want the villain's mockery over it. But lies rarely went over well with the villain -- the medic had cleaned up the wounds left behind from that. 

"A box under my bed," they replied, keeping their eyes locked on the computer. "It had my keepsakes in it. Family photos, birthday cards, that sort of thing."

"Sentiment," the villain said skeptically. "That's what got you so worked up?"

"I wouldn't expect someone like you to understand," they snapped, standing up. 

The villain watched them leave and the medic felt their gaze like a laser all the way down the hall. 

Two days later a painfully familiar box sat on the examination table. Scribbled in sharpie on the cardboard was a message: 

I do understand. 

[peachesofteal]

Oh sweet, sweet Peach 🥺 I just blew through your Dead Disco writing in a matter of hours and holy fucking shit I think it might seriously be one of my favorite fic series I’ve ever read in my entire fucking life. I am completely, utterly, irredeemably in love with the way you’ve captured their dynamic—I just want to snuggle up in their little world and never leave. I adore the way you’ve written about Darling’s insecurities in such a realistic way because I know if I were in her situation I’d struggle with the same issues. And the way Simon steps up as a dom to take care of his loves both in and out of the bedroom… cue open weeping. He’s perfect. Johhny’s perfect. Darling’s perfect. So perfect I can hardly stand it. And your writing overall is so beautiful; you should be beyond proud of what you’ve created ❤️

One thing I’d love to see if you’re still writing for this series is for Simon and Johnny to figure out what is going on at work that is stressing Darling out so much (maybe a coworker or superior harassing her and threatening her job if she doesn’t give in) and they just ‘casually’ stop by to bring her lunch and catch the coworker in the act and go all overprotective 🤤 God I love me some overprotective Ghost and Johnny!

Anyways, thank you for sharing your creations! You seriously should be so proud ❤️ much much love!

Hi! Thank you so much, this was so incredibly sweet of you. I've loved living in their little world so for you to say you could curl up inside of it too makes me so incredibly happy. I love them so much, sharing them with others who also loves them just turns me into a pile of sap.

Additionally, I was so happy to write this little snippet that takes place after "On a Slow Night", so thank you for the inspiration. I got to dive into Darling's life a little bit and it was so fun.

Ghost x Soap x female reader Takes place after On a Slow Night This is CANON (weird I have to say this now but I dig it) for Dead Disco. Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI. No smut but this fic contains mature themes. Protective Simon and Johnny. Possessive Simon and Johnny. Darling doing darling things. Anxiety. Eating and food related issues.

It was well past five in the evening.

It was well past five in the evening, and you were still at work, eyes straining across two monitors, comparing lists and numbers across two screens, estimates and bids and evaluations all jumbled together.

A mess. You were staring at a mess, a mess that you hadn't even begun to unravel, a mess that you had to fix before even thinking about going home for the night, the realization of that fact settling like a stone in the pit of your stomach. It unsettles you, sending unease surging through your veins, making your skin crawl with anxiety.

This was your dream job. So why didn't it feel like a dream?

You knew that answer, of course. It was because your new boss, the promote-from-within, the monster that walked these halls, despised you. She regarded you the same way she regarded a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of her way too expensive heels, with disdain.

Johnny had tried, bless him, to encourage you to go over her head, to say something to her boss, even though you explained you couldn't.

"I'm just an assistant curator. I can't go over her head, her boss barely even knows my name yet." He had argued, tried to push, until Simon stomped his fight out.

"She can't violate the chain of command. You know that."

Besides, you weren't a snitch. You weren't going to behind her back, or above her head, just for her to retaliate against you later. Which she certainly would. You weren't willing to risk it. You were due to be promoted, and had been waiting. For over two years.

Your phone buzzes against the desk, the group chat lighting up your screen. It's the guys, with the usual questions; where are you, when will you be home, what do you want for dinner. It makes your heart ache, a little bit, makes your head spin, thinking about them at home without you, waiting. Standing by. Just as you do for them, all the time. You begin to type out a half hazard text, trying to explain how you're going to be late, again, when a shrill voice grates against your ears.

"Knock knock." She's standing prim and proper right in the doorway of your office, bony fingers folded around a stack of papers. Oh my fucking god, no way. "These need to be scanned and compiled along with your acquisition list from today." The pressure in your skull skyrockets and you fight the urge to pinch the bridge of your nose.

"Kelly, I've really got a lot on my plate. Is there a way I can-"

"Are you refusing?" Orange red lipsticked coated lips flex into a feline smile. A sinister smile. A smart one. Fuck.

"N-no. No, I wouldn't."

"Great. tonight then." She drops them in front of you with a thud, eyeing your taupe wool sweater with disgust.

"Okay, tonight." You slump forward in defeat. You wanted to go home. You wanted to curl up on the couch between the guys, and let run you a bath or give you a back rub. All of that... sounded a lot better than all of this.

I'm going to be really late now. You shoot off the text before putting your phone facedown and cradling your head in your hands.

How late? Johnny asks immediately and you grimace.

Have you eaten? Did you finish your lunch? You try not to wince at the direct line of questioning from Simon, who undoubtedly already knows his answer, based on how you were feeling this morning when they tried to feed you breakfast, and how busy you've been at work.

Don't know. Yes. Half of it. You fire back, ignoring the burn of the guilt from the lie, and then put it in your drawer. Less distractions means you'll get home sooner if you can focus and just get it done.

You don't mean to fall asleep at your desk. It's just, the heat kicks on, and the room warms to a very nice temperature, and your eyelids feel so heavy that you suddenly find yourself excusing it a little if you lay your head down for a minute.

It's a mistake. It's the worst mistake, and you know it, you feel the weight of your mistake sharply when there's a crone like voice shrieking near your ear and you're jerking up in a fright, eyes wide in panic.

"-eeping? While you're getting paid? When you're supposed to be working?" She's standing inside your office now, a foot from your desk, face twisted into a macabre mask of indignation.

"I'm sorry." You croak. "Didn't mean to." You palm finds your face and you rub, trying to get with it, and quickly, before she loses her mind. Your head is spinning, dizzy and clouded, and you curse yourself for not actually eating at least half your lunch like you said you did.

"And you think you'll be a curator next year? With this kind of lazy behavior." She scoffs, nose wrinkled, and shame licks against the skin of your jaw while you grind your teeth.

"Kelly, I'm sorry. I'm exhausted and-"

"I don't want to hear your stupid excuses. I should fire you, right now. Sleeping! On the-"

"What the fuck is going on here?" Everything inside you grinds to a halt at the sound of the deep, gritted Manchester accent. Oh, fuck.

Simon's standing just inside the office, Johnny next to him, holding a bag. It's got a Tupperware in it, you can see from here, still fogged up by the warm contents inside. They've brought you dinner. Your heart melts at the sight, and then swiftly hardens and drops like a stone when you realize 1. They're not allowed to be in here after hours and 2. Simon just cussed at your boss. When you don't say anything, still sitting there slack jawed, Johnny prompts you.

"Darling? Is everything alright?" You try to put a thought together, to answer, but Kelly beats you to it, turning on a dime, taking a few steps to where they lurk just inside your office.

"Who are you? You can't be in here after hours." She hisses, and while Johnny sneers at her before looking back to you, Simon's fist visibly clenches.

"Security let us in."

"They don't have the authority to do that, you can't be-" You stand, but the floor somewhat shifts beneath your feet, walls tilting, and your fingers grip the desk. It's enough for Johnny to disregard anything she's saying, pushing past where she stands with her hands on her hips to stand at your side, a steady hand on your elbow.

"Alright love?" The blue eyes search yours and you manage a nod.

"Jus' tired. A bit hungry." He looks back to Simon, who's watching you carefully, before he turns his irritated gaze back to Kelly.

"Did I hear you threatening to fire her?" His voice is cold. It's seeking, lethal, something sharp and refined that you've never heard. Johnny keeps his hand on you, thumb stroking soothing circles into your skin.

"She was asleep."

"Because ya've overworked her, you daft cunt." Johnny snaps, and her eyes widen in shock.

"How dare you! Who do you think you are?" She caws and Simon takes yet another step, this time close enough that she jerks backwards.

"She works outside her contracted hours all the time, and she doesn't complain. At your request." Simon cocks his head. "Sounds like a labor law violation, if ya ask me."

"Aye, it does." Johnny cheerfully agrees, warm palm sliding up and down your spine. Kelly looks between the three of you, something uncertain tugging at the corners of her eyes, before she's shaking her head in protest.

"She volunteers, she-"

"She's ours." Simon snarls it, and Kelly blanches. "And we're not going to allow whatever mistreatment is going on here to continue." Something warm simmers in your stomach, even though your mortified. Ours. She's ours. The words make boulder sized butterflies thrash in your stomach. You're probably going to need to find a new job, but this is kind of worth it. Kelly is sputtering at Simon, who's now standing with his arms crossed, glowering at her from the behind the mask, looking properly terrifying, while Johnny continues to rub your back, warm palm soothing you into a big yawn, one you fail to stifle. One they both see. He dismisses her, with one more promise of a phone call to the labor advisory, or worse, the board of directors. That threat alone is enough to shut her up, scaring her into pressing her back against the wall meekly, while Simon gives Johnny a subtle nod.

"We're leaving." Johnny declares, and Simon nods. He crosses the room to pull your bag from the back of your chair, while Johnny slides your laptop into it's sleeve and grabs your coffee cup. "C'mon darling, let's go home." He coaxes, and you let them lead you from the office, Johnny with a firm hand at your waist, Simon leading the way.

You don't look back at where Kelly stands in the hallway, gobsmacked and speechless.

[alienoresimagines]

I wish you would write a fic (canon era, modern au, any setting really) where Buck is sick and Bucky fusses over him. Maybe with Buck’s head in Bucky’s lap?

I loved your fic of Bucky watching Buck sleep, so anything with that type of vibe? ❤️

I don't know the difference between a snippet and an actual fic so this is 1.4k 😅 But hey, Gale's awake for this one! Thank you so much for this inspiring ask, I've been writing angst for a week so going back to fluff felt really good 🥰❤️ Featuring : A sick Gale and a worrywart Bucky Also on AO3 Find my other Mota fics here

"Do you need anything ? Blanket ? Water ?" His hands hover over Gale's shivering form but the other weakly bats his hand away when John reaches out to check his fever.

"M'fine, Bucky." Gale's usual deep voice is now raspy and hoarse from too much coughing and Bucky winces in sympathy, knowing how much just saying those few words must've hurt. It also happens to be one of the biggest lies he's ever heard, on the top of his list with Buck's other countless "I'm fine"s he's heard since meeting the other. Bucky's only slightly exasperated.

"Like hell you are." He grumbles unhappily but fondness rounds the edge of every word as he fusses with the army issued blankets until only two unimpressed, slightly hazy with fever, blue eyes could be seen above the green fabric. John has to physically suppress a coo at the sight, sure it wouldn't be welcome, and very much not in the mood to wrestle Gale back in bed a second time.

He's honestly surprised the other held on for as long as he did considering the entire 100th had fallen victim to a nasty cold in the past two weeks, even Bucky himself. Buck had nursed him back to health and despite the pounding headache he remembers, John had enjoyed every minute of it. He would've enjoyed it a lot more though, if this stubborn sweetheart of a man hadn't also decided to take as much of a workload as he could while the rest of them were bedridden, disregarding any signs of his own degrading health.

A hand pulls on his sleeve until he sits on the edge of the bunk, the heat from Gale's body warming his side even through two blankets. Those pills better kick in soon or John might just die from worry. Over a damn cold.

Well, that's not exactly true. Even if the depth of his feelings for Gale still scares him absolutely shitless, he's past the shameful stage of denial. A mere small splinter would be enough to have him worried sick if it was in Gale's finger. But, he considers, maybe he went a bit overboard when he tucked Gale in with all the blankets available. Perhaps just four would be enough... which is why he lets Gale, although unhappily, drop some of the blankets on the bunk next to him. His mouth opens then closes with a click at Buck's glare.

Three blankets it was.

Gale settles again under the remaining covers, graciously letting John adjust them until his neck is covered. His lips, despite being chapped and not as pink as usual, still look so inviting that Bucky has to physically stop himself from pressing his own lips to Buck's. Three days he's been deprived of Gale's kisses and he has never wanted anything more in his life - except for Gale himself. During the two days he was sick, Buck had imposed a no-kissing-on-the-lips rule, much to his own chagrin but he respected Gale's boundary and need for cleanliness. Besides, it's not like he wanted to get Gale sick. And today, on the day he'd been longingly awaiting for 48 endless hours, Buck himself was sick and would refuse Bucky's kisses, he knows. It doesn't stop him from gazing mournfully at those plump lips.

"I was really looking forward to those kisses." He whines dramatically in a defeated sigh, a pang of fondness in his chest at Buck's own saddened eyes. He hasn't been alone in his longing, and the thought sends warmth through his body. Yet, coldness courses through him as he watches guilt overcome sadness when Gale turns his head sideways to avoid looking at him.

"M'sorry." All theatrics forgotten, a frown crosses his face immediately. He leans closer to Buck's face, gently sweeping his hair of his forehead and then cupping his flushed cheek to stroke over a high cheekbone until Gale looks at him.

"Hey, Buck. Listen to me." With his thumb, he tenderly frees Gale's bottom lip from the cage of his teeth. "You've got nothing to be sorry for. Damn cold got everyone, it's no surprise it'd get you too. Nothing shameful 'bout that, okay?"

Later, when the other isn't as miserable as now, John will grouch to him about working himself to the bone instead of going to see Smokey as soon as he’d started feeling bad. Later, he'll make Gale promise to come to him too, if he doesn't feel like talking to their flight surgeon.

The thing is, Gale is John's safe place. With him, he doesn't have to worry about talking too much, touching too much -as much as he could in public- being too much. He just wishes Gale would allow John to be his safe place too. And he knows that Gale allowing him to see that vulnerable side of his is already a huge show of trust. But he wants Gale to trust him not only to catch him when he falls but also to lean on him when he misses a step or falters just a bit.

For now though, he accepts the small nod he gets and relishes in the soft, barely there up of the corners of his lips, which blooms into a sweet smile when Bucky leans down to press a kiss to his forehead.

"As soon as you're back on your feet, I'm kissing you 'till you push me away." He promises against the too-warm skin of Buck's forehead before pulling back and grinning down at him. Gale looks amused, if a bit tired, but the light in his eyes is one of amused defiance. Even if he doesn't speak, Bucky hears him anyway and it sends thrills of anticipation down his spine. Just a few days more.

There's a moment of silence as John mindlessly plays with sweaty golden strands until Buck blinks slow and long and Gale's warm hand slips into his under the blanket. He has to bite his lips to keep the dopey smile from his face but he does stroke his thumb back and forth the expanse of Gale's knuckles. Shivers still wrack his form, though they did subside a bit compared to minutes ago. It's not nearly enough for Bucky.

"You sure I can't get you anything ?" Buck audibly groans as he opens his eyes just enough to show Bucky just how hard he's rolling his eyes and John snickers sheepishly. He raises the hand not in Gale's soft grip in mock surrender, the amused glint in sky-blue eyes only spurring him on. 

"Sorry, sorry. But really, do you need anything ?" Gale licks his lips once and oh, John knows that look. It's as adorable as it makes his heart ache, the way Gale doesn't look him in the eyes. He thinks of a young boy, barely knee tall, not daring to ask his father anything and imperceptibly clenches his jaw. Softly squeezing Buck's hand in his, he smiles encouragingly when the other faces him.

"Anything, Gale." Tired eyes look at him for a moment, searching for something but John isn't sure what. He keeps his face open, knowing perfectly well there's no way he could hide how he feels about the other man when no one is around. Gale must find whatever he's looking for because he bites his lip slightly, seemingly pleased and content, if a little shy.

John is keeping a tally of how many kisses he's been robbed of.

Minutely, Gale starts scooting over and John huffs a laugh but obediently sits in the spot just vacated, back leaning on the metal headboard. He's barely put his legs on the blankets that Gale immediately presses in close to rest his head on John's lap like a cat pressing his head on his hand until he gets pets.

Bucky might just die of adoration for this sweet, sweet man he's blessed to call his.

He's half convinced the other will start purring when he strokes his fingers through his hair, nails slightly scratching at his scalp like he knows Buck likes but Gale only presses even closer to him until his body is one hot line against John's leg, a happy hum leaving him. He's asleep in one minute flat, face buried in Bucky's lap as the latter keeps playing with his hair, eyes not leaving the even rise and fall of his back.

John's so, so in love that he wonders how he ever thought he wasn't Gale's safe place just as much as Gale was his.

[m1ckeyb3rry]

CONGRATS ON 500 FOLLOWERS WOOO!! its been a little over a year since ive found your writting, how time flies T-T Could you possibly write a platonic gojo & reader oneshot where its just snippets of Gojo's first year teaching and the reader is a 1st year student not part of jujutsu society? I'd prefer if the mc had a somewhat introverted personality while being grumpy bc of being forced to attend the school. U can change their behaviour to what u feel more comfortable writing if u want tho!!

── THE SCHOLAR

Synopsis: A short snippet of how Satoru Gojo convinces you to be his first student in full.

Event Masterlist

Pairing: Gojo & Reader

Chapter Word Count: 2.6k

Content Warnings: not many tbh…reader is a d1 hater of gojo and ino ig?? also just a hater in general LMAO she does NOT want to be there

A/N: wow anon i can’t believe it’s been a year since you found my account and that you’ve stuck around for so long, that means a lot to me!! i apologize for how long this took me and how short it is 😫 it was a bit difficult for me to write gojo as a teacher without feeling like i was just rehashing his dynamic w a previous y/n i’ve written 😓 but i hope this is somewhat close to what you wanted?? also idk if you’ve read my fic pomegranate ink or not but i did throw in a reference to it at one point so props to anyone who catches that hehe

Additional: part of my 500 follower event! see the event description and rules to make a request of your own.

You weren’t really sure what cause your classmate had to be as pleased as he was, but for some reason, the boy was bouncing in his seat, scribbling down notes with the fervor of a scholar — though you were quite certain that he was nothing of the sort, at least not when his test scores were taken into consideration. 

“Hey,” you whispered, tossing an eraser at his head when your teacher’s back was turned. “Ino. What’s the big deal? We’re not even learning anything yet, so what are you writing down?”

“Are you kidding me? Gojo just told us an entire story of his past. That’s valuable information!” Ino said. You frowned at him.

“It’s not valuable information, because he’s so prone to embellishment that he’s all but an author at this point. Besides, do you think you, or anyone else for that matter, will ever face seven first grades and come out the winner, without even a scratch?” you said.

“He’s the strongest sorcerer in the world, though, so it’s feasible for him,” Ino said.

“Right,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Maybe for him, but not for anyone else. This is just bragging under the guise of an educational opportunity. We’re never going to be powerful enough to replicate such a feat, so what’s the use in wasting our time talking about it?”

“You’re such a spoil-sport,” Ino huffed. “We’re the first students to ever get to learn from Satoru Gojo, and somehow, you’re complaining about it? That’s ridiculous no matter what way you put it!”

“Is everything okay?” 

Both you and Ino jumped as Satoru Gojo appeared in front of your desks, peering down at you over the lenses of his dark glasses. He didn’t seem annoyed that you were talking while he was ‘teaching’; in fact, he looked excited, as if he wanted to join in the conversation as well. You could imagine him pulling up a chair and resting his chin in his hands as he gossiped with you, and it made you scoff.

“Everything’s fine. We were just wondering when you were actually going to start the lesson,” you said.

“She was wondering that!” Ino rushed to clarify. You shot him a dirty look out of the corner of your eye, which he ignored — you supposed loyalty didn’t mean much to him, as you two weren’t really friends and therefore couldn’t inspire much loyalty in one another regardless. “I was telling her how fascinated I am by the story you were telling!”

“Suck-up,” you hissed.

“Stupid,” he hissed back. Gojo clapped his hands, returning to the front of the classroom with a distinctly unacademic swagger to his step that made you internally fume.

“No worries, we’re just getting to that part! Today, we’ll go over some basic curse theory,” he said, drawing simplistic shapes on the chalkboard to accompany his explanations. As usual, Ino was absorbed by the standard bullshit Gojo spouted, but you found it to be so boring that you actually began to nod off, catching up on the sleep you had missed last night due to a mission which had run later than expected.

Unlike Ino, who had been automatically enrolled in the school because of his family lineage, you had been scouted as a fresh talent by Satoru Gojo himself. It had been a long conversation, and he had only managed to convince you in the end by telling you all about Kaito Hinode, the well-regarded first year teacher who you would study under. Hinode was a sorcerer you believed you wouldn’t have trouble respecting, and so you begrudgingly agreed to attend the school and give the whole notion of ‘jujutsu sorcery’ a shot.

Then Hinode retired, mere weeks before you were set to begin at the school, and his replacement was revealed to be none other than that irreverent, inept, and decidedly unserious man who you had secretly hoped you would not see much more of: Satoru Gojo.

You didn’t even want to be a sorcerer in active duty, but the theoretical side of it interested you to an almost unhealthy extent. You spent days upon days studying the workings of curses and cursed energy, to the point that you could be considered almost an expert. That was the only thing cheering you about coming to the school, that you’d get to discuss with individuals on your level, and so it had been such a heartbreaking disappointment when Gojo, who cared little about the causes and more about the results, was the only proper sorcerer you came into frequent contact with.

The other teachers didn’t have time to entertain your pestering, far too busy with their own students, which meant that Gojo was really your only option. And of course you had tried — really, you had. You had presented him with your questions and ideas, but he had only made a face and told you that studying curse theory to this extent wouldn’t help anyone, and least of all yourself.

He wanted you to learn how to fight, but you didn’t care for that. You didn’t want to fight. If you could spend the rest of your days shut away in a study, reading your books and taking notes on them, then you’d be quite content. You were reluctant to go on missions, even if you were ten times better than your peers, and you often dragged your feet heading into your practical classes. More than once, Ino had had to hoist you over his shoulders and sprint to the training field so that you were not both late, and you knew that you probably shouldn’t be so harsh on him given that, but because it meant that you had to exert yourself on the battlefield instead of rereading your favorite essays, his good intentions only made you resent him more.

“You know, you could really be a great sorcerer,” Gojo said to you one day. You were sitting on a bench while Ino did exercises, ink smudging your hand as you meticulously annotated a book that the principal had given to you. You blinked up at him, amazed once again at how tall he was. He blocked out the sunlight, his shadow looming over you in a way that would’ve been ominous if he wasn’t so typically harmless.

“Hm?” you said, returning to your book when you realized he wasn’t going to say anything of importance. “Sure, I guess I could be.”

“Becoming a first grade isn’t an impossibility for you. It’s something attainable, which is incredibly rare for someone as young as you,” he continued.

“Right,” you said.

“Do you care about that, though?” he said.

“Nope,” you said. “I have no interest in being a first grade sorcerer. It just means more dangerous missions, doesn’t it? I don’t care about all of that.”

“It also means a higher salary,” he said.

“Probably not high enough to make up for the risks,” you said.

“Well, it’s pretty high, though only you can decide if it makes up for the risks or not,” he said.

“Listen, sir, I’m only even here because you told me I could further my studies with people renowned in their fields. Do you mind telling me what field you’re renowned in? Because for some unfathomable reason, you’ve ended up as my teacher,” you said.

“I’m…the strongest sorcerer? In the world?” he said, though the way he phrased it made it seem like he was asking you instead of telling. You shrugged.

“That’s an intrinsic talent. You didn’t learn to be that way; you were just born with it. Sure, you had to practice, but practicing and studying are different. Anyways, even if you are the strongest soldier, I think we’ve established that that’s not something I’m interested in. I was supposed to be under the tutelage of wise and experienced professors, but instead, I’m being instructed by you, who’s barely even a few years my elder and has never taught before,” you said, closing your book and holding it to your chest, smiling tightly at him. “I’m staying here because my parents already paid the tuition fee, but I’m not happy about it. Just so you know.”

“If you’re a first grade sorcerer, you also get more access to information,” he said after a moment. “Stuff behind a million clearances that only people of a sufficiently high rank get access to.”

You froze, your eyes brightening at the thought of this forbidden knowledge. You already knew that you were missing several key pieces in your preliminary research, but no matter how hard you looked, you had never been able to find the answers to the seemingly obvious questions. Was this why? Was it really because you did not have the seniority to warrant the understanding?

“Is that truly the case?” you said.

“I can’t help you in terms of books and learning and all of that boring stuff,” he said. “But if you put in a bit more effort, I can turn you into someone that the higher ups listen to, instead of the other way around.”

You mulled this over before nodding, standing up and leaving your book on the bench.

“Okay. I’ll do as you tell me to, but like I said earlier, I’m not going to be happy about it,” he said.

“Who cares? You can be the gloomiest girl alive!” he said, reaching out to ruffle your hair. “Let’s work together, Y/N!”

“I’m your student,” you reminded him. “Not your friend.” 

He waved you off. “You’re old enough to be both. Now let’s get to training!”

It was horrible, being Gojo’s favorite student. For one, Ino was jealous — although soon enough he found another mentor to cotton on to, and then your relationship with him mended into something a little more cordial and polite. For another, Gojo had this strange penchant for throwing you into impossible situations and watching in glee as you struggled to get out of them.

His missions also tended to be errands disguised as pressing matters. Once, he made you run around Tokyo, stopping in various stores so that you could improve your conditioning — stores which just so happened to carry the items on his week’s grocery list. Another time, you single-handedly had to exorcise every single curse harassing a nearby bakery — a bakery which just so happened to carry a specialty flavor of cake that was his new favorite. Whenever you complained about the silly chores, he asked if the exercise had made you stronger or not. You would begrudgingly admit that it had, and then he’d tell you that you should just think of it as a win-win scenario and stop whining.

“Y/N!” That was how it always began: he would shout your name as he entered the classroom, usually accompanying it with a wad of paper or some other, similarly harmless object sent flying your way. You’d catch it in one hand and glare at him.

“What?” This would prompt him to explain his ridiculous plan for the day, after which he would turn to Ino and hand him his assignments. He had gotten special permission from the school to train you in this non-orthodox manner, given that you were so far ahead in any material that giving you homework would be redundant and a waste of time for all parties involved. For his part, Ino did not complain, for he had long ago lost interest in training with Gojo, who was admittedly terrible at actually explaining anything of note.

You made a good pair, you and Gojo, or at least as good of a pair as could be made given the circumstances. As the year went on, you grew more and more familiar with the reasoning behind his atypical style, and though you would never cease to complain, it was more lighthearted, a habit instead of a genuine gripe.

“You’ll be promoted any day now,” Gojo told you on the last day of your first year — the last day that he would be your director supervisor. “They’re waiting for you to grow a bit older, but it’s maturity you lack, not talent. If you participate in the Exchange Event next year, you’ll get the recommendations you need without a problem.”

“If?” you said, picking up on what he had left unsaid. “Isn’t it mandatory? Why wouldn’t I participate?”

“It’s mandatory if you’re living on campus, yes,” he said.

“And what cause would I have to not be living on campus?” you said.

“You’re interested in curse theory, aren’t you?” he said. When you nodded, he sighed. “Still? I was hoping you’d have moved on by now…well, I can get an alternate course of study approved for you by the principal, if you want.”

“An alternate course? What would that entail?” you said.

“One of my fellow special grade sorcerers, Yuki Tsukumo, specializes in researching the exact types of things you find so fascinating. If she agrees to it, then you could serve as an assistant of sorts to her. It’ll be like an internship or something. She won’t let you slack off — it’ll be much worse than anything I put you through, that’s for certain — but if that’s the path you want to take, then it’s an option,” he said.

You had never loved him quite as much as you did in that moment. Without even taking a moment to think about it, you nodded enthusiastically, beaming at him.

“Yes! Yes, Gojo, sir, that would be ideal. I’ve read some of the proposals Tsukumo’s submitted to the higher ups, and oh, if I got to work with her, it would be such a dream,” you said.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he said. “She still has to agree to it.”

“Do you think she’ll say no?” you said.

“Maybe at first,” he said. “After she meets you, though? No way. You’re my pupil, after all. You’ll be the most impressive student she’s ever taken under her wing — and I can attest to the fact that you’ll be far and away the most dedicated.”

You supposed you had some things to thank him for, then. The corners of your lips twitched as you bowed your head at him, causing him to grunt in confusion; after all, you had never shown him such deference before.

“You’re not that bad as a teacher,” you said. “You know, for it being your first time, I think you did alright.”

“Yeah?” he said eagerly before composing himself, clearing his throat before speaking again. “Yeah, I guess you turned out just fine.”

“Thank you for everything, Gojo,” you said. “Please know that you’ll always have an ally in me.”

His black sunglasses slid down the bridge of his nose, just a bit, but enough that you could see the way his eyes softened ever so slightly. Then he reached out and socked you in the arm affectionately.

“Considering how often I butt heads with the higher ups, I might call upon you one day,” he said. “Don’t make that kind of promise lightly, is what I’m saying.”

“I’m not making it lightly,” you said. “If you call upon me, I’ll come. That’s what you do for someone who’s changed your life, right?”

Even the shades he had shoved back into position could not hide the breadth of his smile nor the depth of his fondness. He nodded, slowly at first and then quickly, like he wanted you to be very sure of his agreement.

“True,” he said, and then he patted you on the head. “Guess that means you can call on me whenever you want, too. I’ll be there.”

You smiled at him over your shoulder as you left for the summer and thought that you might never be so fortunate — or unfortunate — as to have a teacher quite like him again.

[bedoballoons]

Omggggggg

ok but I have another one! And yes I am obsessed with demon slayer. so Tokito muichiro inspired x (angry bois also albedo and the dadd- like zhongli and Al-haithim.

so muichiro has Memory loss due to young tramaaaa, anemo vision fits best, has very baggy cloths to help with is battle technique, in his 7 form can literally turn into air, to quite but he is super fast. And ya. Ohh Also when we remember our past(tokitos brother was murdered plus his parents) I just want confurttt.

I only have one he because when I was around 1-3 l don’t remember I was diagnosed with eye cancer I things. We caught it early and we could either do chemo(which could’ve killed me) or remove the eye intirely so we did that. There’s more to the story but I’m so tired right now .

Oh my gosh! I'm so glad you're okay! It sounds like it was a scary situation but you pulled through and now you have a pretty unique quirk about you! I hope you know that's really awesome <3

YAY okay I'm so excited for this request! Sorry it's been awhile since I've answered! I do have a question though! Do you think because he turns into air and Venti is the anemo archon, he could control him in that form?!?!?

─⊰⁠⊹ฺ✿𝔾𝕖𝕟𝕤𝕙𝕚𝕟 ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕔𝕒𝕟𝕠𝕟𝕤⊰⁠⊹ฺ✿─

{༻~Tokito Muichiro like reader~༺}

CW: Reader has past trauma and memory loss, slight angst but mostly comfort and fluff! Some of these are extremely long and I apologize, I just got really into writing them...

(Includes: Zhongli, Albedo, Alhaitham, and Wanderer!)

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

𑁍༄Zhongli:

You sighed quietly, your head aching as memories swirled around your mind like a messy swamp...nothing making sense and yet...you were still trying to put the puzzle together. You just wanted to know...even if it would hurt, you had to know what happened in your past...

"You know, there are better ways to go about recovering your memories, as someone with a long history who remembers many things from very different time periods, I might be able to shed some light on the subject." You looked up to see Zhongli walking towards you, his voice as calm and collected as always...comforting in some ways.

You bit your lip, it seemed embarrassing to ask for help from someone else, but you'd run out of options...so it only seemed reasonable, "Please... help me." The tall man smiled at you, his eyes filled with kindness as he sat down beside you, looking up at the sky. "First of all you should take time to clear your thoughts, take a deep breath and then exhale...relieve yourself of all the unimportant thoughts clouding the memories you want to recover."

You did as he said, taking in a deep breath...and then slowly letting it out, even if it seemed a bit strange to you...it actually did help you feel slightly better. "Very good, now I want you to think about the snippets you do remember, concentrate on the little things, tiny details one wouldn't usually focus on..but don't frustrate yourself, getting overwhelmed won't do you any favours."

You nodded, closing your eyes and recalling your few memories as best as you could...the scent of the air...the sounds...even down to the smallest shred of movement...and just like that, it came back to you. The images of your brother...your parents, all of it playing over and over while you tried to stop it, but it was like you were trapped in your own memories, screaming for help.

And then, nothing...you were back in Liyue...Zhongli holding you in his arms while you stared blankly at him..."Are you alright?" He asked, but you didn't even have it in you to answer...the suddenness of what just happened leaving you silent with shock. He seemed to notice this, kissing your head softly and rubbing your back, perhaps it would be better to not remember all at once...

𑁍༄Albedo:

Albedo gently touched your vision, the soft teal glow of it very familiar to him...beautiful and inviting, but earned from such sorrow and loss. A loss he wished could have been reversed...while you on the other hand, weren't focused on the vision or its meaning, you were far more concerned with perfecting your fighting style. "Albedo?" You looked at him curiously...he seemed so interested in your vision, but he'd seen many of the course of his lifetime...why was yours so captivating?

"Oh apologies love, I was just thinking about something. Back to the topic at hand, I've given your clothes a bit more of a baggy design, making sure to leave lots of room for movement and airflow. Please let me know if anything is uncomfortable, I'll make adjustments to improve their quality." He handed you a stack of clothing, the material soft and comfy looking, but also durable...perfect.

You rushed into the empty room nearby and changed clothes, leaving your old ones behind before hurrying to the dummy you'd set up by the entrance. You practiced your fighting techniques, already impressed by Albedos work and also very aware that he was watching you closely...maybe...he was worried about you?

𑁍༄Alhaitham:

Alhaitham closed his book, looking up from his desk to check on you...and noticing the bags under your eyes, you'd been tossing and turning in your sleep all night...mumbling things about death. You had him very worried, and that was saying something because he truthfully didn't concern himself with other people's issues unless they were incredibly serious, but your sleepless nights and difficult past...were starting to really impede your life, he just wanted to help.

He stood up from his chair, breaking your attention away from the plate of food you'd been poking at for a hour now and leaving you slightly confused, by now you'd gotten used to Alhaithams schedule and the one thing he never left out or cut short was his reading time...so why was he doing so? "Alhaitham, are you alright?" You asked, looking up at him slightly worried and running through different scenarios in your head, each one not really making enough sense to be considered a explanation.

"I'm perfectly fine, I'm more concerned with you. Would you like to take a nap together? You look exhausted and I can only assume you won't want to sleep alone because of your recent nightmare increase." Alhaitham held out his hand to you, gesturing towards the door as you tried to comprehend what he'd just said...he wanted to take a nap with you? "Oh...alright." You didn't really know a better way to answer as you accepted his hand and the two of you made your way to the large couch in the livingroom.

You crawled onto it first, watching as he left for a moment, only to return with your favourite blanket. Then he joined you on the sofa, sighing in content as you cuddled up to him and he covered you both up, in truth he was hoping this would help with not only your lack of sleep...but the nightmares themselves. He just wanted you to be okay.

𑁍༄Wanderer:

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Turning into air...was unlike anything else, exhilarating...calming...terrifying and apparently one of your most alluring qualities, well in Wanderers opinion anyway. Other than him most of the people in Sumeru considered this some type of witch craft, even though you carried a vision...they saw you as an outsider and whenever you attempted to take a trip to the city you get many stares.

Wanderer was the only one who found it beautiful, although to be honest he found everything about you beautiful and for some reason you were incredibly easy to talk to...to relate to. You'd share moments together where one of you would be caught up thinking about the things you couldn't change...forced to remember times you'd wish you could forget and then you'd comfort eachother, make the other feel better just by knowing what it was like.

"Heyyy get your head outta the clouds. The sooner we help her royal majesty the cabbage head, the sooner we can go home." Wanderer gently bonked your head, pulling you back into reality and making you smile, a very light blush colouring your cheeks.

ଘ(੭*ˊᵕˋ)੭* ੈ♡‧₊˚Have a nice day*⁠.⁠✧

[popjunkie42]

The Thief and the Rake: Chapter Six

Chapter Six: You've Ruined My Life, By Not Being Mine

Read on AO3

Nesta has a secret of her own. The sisters get invited to meet the Grand Duchess Amarantha Beaumont, much to everyone's great regret.

Much thanks to @witch-and-her-witcher who read this twice and gave me many head pats.

This chapter definitely fought me a bit so I hope I wrangled it enough! I'm very excited to get to chapter seven for...reasons...

Snippet under the cut, thanks for all the comments and love <3

Carriage wheels clattered on cobblestones in front of Nesta, mud squelching from the rain-slicked streets.

The afternoon storm had abated just minutes ago. A stream of sunlight cut through the clouds and tall buildings and cast down, like a beacon, squarely on the sign in front of her - Dayton Publishing.

A little too on the nose, she thought.

The lady sighed, tapping her fingers against the sealed portfolio in her arms, that she had wrapped in a shawl to protect from the rain.

The city street moved around her like a stream around a stone – busy men in dark suits, street merchants hawking newspapers and umbrellas, carriages and horses coming and going in front of her.

“Marquis survivor of the French Revolution speaks out! Corn laws to cause more shortages in the city! Latest chapter of Lady Somerset’s Final Season! Only one penny for a paper!”

Nesta still wasn’t used to the sounds of the city, the constant clang and squawk and steady thrum of voices and bodies.

She would just have to cross the road - take a few quick steps through that door to shut out some of the noise. To say a few words and hand that manuscript to Mr. Helion Dayton, who she had been conversing with for several weeks over post.

As Mr. Nathaniel Archeron.

But standing there, so close, Nesta knew she would not walk through those doors today. Even if the last correspondence had included cautiously delighted praise of her first two chapters and a repeated invitation to visit between the hours of two and four o’clock any weekday besides Wednesdays.

Nesta wasn’t here for this. Her whole family was not here for this. And although there was nothing statedly improper about a lady sitting in her home and writing words of fiction, it did have a certain air of artistic and willful strength of mind that some might not see as wholly respectful for a well-bred lady of the ton. Someone, perhaps, like a Grand Duke.

To be truthful, Nesta had hardly spoken more than a few polite words to the man, enough to make sure he was of generally sound mind and not a raging brute or someone they couldn’t stand for ten minutes at dinner. So perhaps she was unfair in assigning him opinions about lady novelists and what they might do with the pages of a story that kept them up late into the night in a fervent and inspired escape from everyday drudgery.

No, Nesta had done her research - the Grand Duke Grayson Nolan was as without scandal as one could expect a rich aristocrat the age of twenty-six to be. He was bereft, as far as Nesta could tell, of any obvious mistresses or wanton gambling habits. He would be perfect for Elain, give her everything she could want, and Nesta would not stand in the way of that immaculate future.

Maybe next year. Maybe after Elain had married, and was settled into a home, then no one would care what a quiet old spinster wrote and shared with small publishing houses in London.

The slight reprieve from the smells and dust the rain had given to the city streets was quickly burning away under the spring sun now coming out from behind the clouds. The weather in London had fully turned, and the lovely blossoms and scent of green grass in Kensington Park were only a short respite from the steamy, foul smells of the city streets. A horse relieved itself on the street just in front of her. The sun tried its best to sparkle in the puddles on cobblestones that were quickly frothed with mud and excrement.

Nesta took it all in. The jolt of the city - so alive. Maybe the scents and sounds of it all made it more like a living, breathing magnificent beast than a city, its breath the steaming rain, its scales the cobblestone streets.

In the cottage, she had first started writing stories after London was just a foggy memory of a lost childhood. As a young girl, she certainly hadn’t been walking the lively streets like this. She hadn’t known that life could be this big, this vibrant, and now she doubted the fumbling, small stories she wrote under that dank cottage roof.

In her stories, written under moonlight with well-worn pen nibs and dull pencils, she had voiced the dreams she was too bitter to say aloud. Dreams of kind families and dashing knights. But as she grew older and life grew crueler, the stories changed. The heroines became more clever, more cunning. Tricking and fighting their way out of dangers themselves, more cautious in the help they accepted.

At least they offered a meager distraction from her hungry belly.

She was struck from her reverie as a hard shoulder knocked into her back, and Nesta stumbled off of the curb, the portfolio falling from her arms and into a particularly filthy puddle.

“Shit,” she yelled, the perpetrator already halfway down the street. Her gloves would need scrubbing but she grabbed the folder and yanked it just out of the way of an oncoming carriage.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Pulling the dirty glove off, Nesta unwound the string around the now sopping wet folder and pulled out her pages.

Flipping them over, she took a deep breath and assessed there was no damage. She had spent hours and too much on pen nibs to carefully parse out those handwritten pages.

“Do you need a hand?”

Nesta looked up into huge round blue eyes, glittering in the sun under bright copper hair, tightly pulled back into a bun.

“What?”

The young woman motioned to Nesta again with a lift of her chin, some sort of mirthful look in her face that made Nesta frown.

Looking down at herself, she understood. A dirty glove on the ground now beside her feet, the portfolio dripping mud onto her skirts, the papers clutched in a death grip in her other hand.

“I’m fine.”

The woman nodded. Seemingly content to watch her struggle.

“If you’re going to see Mr. Dayton, he’s quite fastidious. You might want to change and come back.”

“I’m not going to see Mr. Dayton.”

Again, the woman regarded her with that strange stillness. While the bustle of the city hummed around her. The woman’s skin was pale with warm freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks. Her lip upturned into the smallest smirk.

“Oh, so you’re just standing here staring at a publishing house, with a manuscript in your hand, not going in?”

“Precisely.”

A full smile. Nesta gritted her teeth.

“All right then. Have a good afternoon Miss…?”

Nesta kept her mouth shut, clutching her pages tight to her chest.

The copper-haired woman scoffed. Nesta watched as she deftly skipped around puddles across the street, opening the door to Dayton Publishing and disappearing inside.

Read the rest on AO3

[beewolfwrites]

Hiii! I've been on your blog for a while and really liked everything you wrote Chishiya related (I'm reallyyy looking forward for the new chapters in vThe Oar in the Sand", I literally spent the whole night reading your series and now I'm hungry for more of it :3)

Anyway besides screaming my love for your writing I came to humbly ask if you could write some chishiya x fem!reader, where his coworkers didnct know he had and S/O at all and are pretty shocked (honestly I ate this prompt every time)

Have a wonderful day and drink water! Can't wait to hear from you :3

Hey! Thank you so much, I hope you enjoyed the series so far, and I've started writing the next chapter of The Oar in the Sand so hopefully I'll be able to update it soon, and I may even post a little snippet of the new chapter later today :)

I really enjoyed writing this, even if it's mainly Chishiya destroying the dreams of one hopeful nurse. Your water reminder was kind of an inspiration too.

Have a wonderful day too!!

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

Long shifts were always tiring. Not so much because of the complexity of the surgeries - with my skills, even ten hour operations were manageable, and once you removed yourself emotionally even the most intricate surgeries felt mechanical. No, what drained me most was the small talk, that calm, reassuring bedside manner that I'd spent years mastering. It was like playing a role, one that I felt no familiarity towards, no joy. And then there were the questions…

‘Will I be okay, Doctor?’ 

‘What will happen to me? Will I be able to live a normal life?’ 

‘Will I see my family again?’ 

Such ridiculous questions. Everything in this world comes with risk. They were more likely to die in a car accident on the way to the hospital than on my operating table. And if life was simply a gamble, what difference did it make?

The hospital was quieter now as the night staff began to arrive, trading shifts with their daytime colleagues. Outside, the sky had darkened into dusk and the city skyline burned neon. I headed back to my office, shrugging off my white coat and hanging it on the wall beside a dusty looking picture that had been part of the room long before I moved in. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of leaving the office door open. 

‘Chishiya-sensei?’ 

One of the nurses, Honoka, was lurking in the doorway, her fist raised as if she had intended to knock before seeing that I was there. She was only a couple of years older than me, but clearly lacked the ability to realise when her presence wasn’t needed. Or wanted, for that matter. 

‘Honoka,’ I replied cooly. I was too drained to bother with a false smile. 

Again? Let’s get this over with. 

She fluttered about nervously, one hand hidden behind the door frame. How pathetic. Obviously she was hiding some kind of token - a gift, of sorts. 

‘Is it a bad time? I wanted to catch you before you went home for the day.’

Losing interest already, I diverted my attention to my bag, searching through the pockets and feeling around at the base. Hospitals were funny about their rules, what you can and can’t wear due to risk of infection. Still searching, I cut to the chase. 

‘Did you have something for me?’ 

Her jaw dropped and her eyes averted immediately. ‘How… How did…’ She shook head and revealed her hand. She was holding a bottle of strawberry flavoured water, which she immediately presented to me. ‘I just wanted to congratulate you on the surgery this afternoon.’ 

I glanced at the bottled water. ‘The appendectomy?’ 

A basic one-hour procedure… talk about grasping at straws. 

‘Err, yes.’ She gulped. 

She was unsure of herself now, possibly because I lacked any and all interest. Sighing, I checked one last pocket in my bag before finally finding what I was looking for. The wedding band was cool and familiar in my palm, and I slipped it on my finger. 

‘Thank you Honoka,’ I said, taking the water from her. ‘I think I’ll save this for my wife. She’ll probably be tired.’ 

Honoka’s expression drained of all colour. ‘Your… your wife, Chishiya-sensei? You never mentioned you were married.’ 

I smiled - the same cheerful mask I had worn for years now. ‘I don’t believe anybody asked.’ 

And I don’t believe it’s anybody’s business. 

I slotted the bottled water in my bag, only for Honoka to flinch. ‘I just thought you might have been thirsty.’ 

Hauling my bag onto my shoulder, I slipped past her in the doorway on my way out. ‘My wife likes strawberry. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.’ 

I didn’t bother to look back, even though this news would spread like wildfire around the hospital staff by the next morning. I didn’t care. If anything, it was one less nuisance to deal with; Honoka, or any of the other nurses, wouldn’t be paying any impromptu visits to my office from now on. My thumb stroked the wedding band on my finger, a constant reminder of the only thing that truly mattered. 

As if on cue, my phone hummed in my pocket. It started as a one-off after a bad day, but when one bad day turned into a bad week, a bad year, and then a bad workplace, your post-shift phone calls quickly became a familiar habit. Surprisingly one that I never tired of. 

I picked up, skipping the greetings. ‘You’re finished already?’ 

‘Yep! Just heading to the car now. Where are you?’ 

‘What a coincidence,’ I said, using my free hand to take out my car key. The headlights flashed in the distance. ‘I’m on my way.’ 

You sighed on the other line, and I could hear the muffled sounds of you sliding into the driver’s seat. ‘Today’s really dragged, huh? I can’t wait to see you. It’s been terrible.’

‘Terrible, hm?’ I opened the door to my own car. 

‘Yeah. I’ve been so busy! They just keep throwing work at me and I can’t keep up. None of us can. I don’t know how long I can keep working here, Shuntarou.’

‘Well,’ I said, sliding my bag into the passenger seat. ‘I’ve got a story that’ll cheer you up.’

‘A story?’  

I smiled. ‘You like strawberries, right?’ 

[wildlife4life]

Inspiration Saturday

Tagged by @steadfastsaturnsrings Thank you!

Do I have other wips besides NFL Buck? Yes. But lately I have been on an writing roll with this fic and I love all the anticipation there is for it. So, here is a mood board (collage?) and short snippet for inspiration Saturday. It is a continuation of Buck's perspective of draft night from yesterday. (Go here for all things NFL Buck)

"Ali is the sneakiest bitch." Buck mumbles in his boyfriend's shoulder and it shakes with his amusement, "She's also becoming my favorite person in the world." Eddie unburied his face from Buck's hair and dragged the tip of his nose down to press into the younger man's temple, "I agree with the sneakiness. I'm still trying to figure out how the hell she was able to get me in the theater to see you be drafted on such short notice. Also, either Ali is the nicest, most compelling agent or just downright frightening because that woman got the hotel staff to break their privacy policy and give me a key to your room over the fucking phone." Buck lets out a barking laugh and squeezed Eddie even tighter, "I've learned to never question her methods and just enjoy the end results." He pulled his face from the paramedic's shoulder and put a scant few inches between them so he could look into those soft tawny eyes he'd had hoped to see this day. God they were so much better than his imagination, wide and sparkling with pride and elation. "I am enjoying this result so fucking much." Eddie's warm calloused hand gently clamped the back of Buck's neck and closed the short distance put between them. Plush, warm lips pressed eagerly into Buck's and pushed away the last of his disheartened emotions from the draft. Almost everything he'd been wanting that evening, came to fruition, just not in the way he expected. But it was okay. Buck was kissing a man who he never even hoped of finding, yet here was Eddie, wanting him, loving him just as much as Buck does. The unexpected, helped him achieve his NFL dreams and so much more. So it was okay that Christopher wasn't present. Buck would see his best friend in a few short days and throw a just as grand celebration with him. (As for Maddie, soon the rookie quarterback will have the means and connections to help her.) It was okay that a part of himself had to be kept hidden, it wouldn't be forever. Eddie supported and understood staying a secret because he truly loved Buck and wanted him to achieve his dreams. It was okay and the ache in Buck's chest loosened. He still wants so much, but Buck understands he can't have it all at once. For the time being, he can embrace what he already has and that especially applied to his surprise guest. Eddie's kiss deepened and the fingers on his free hand traced the top button on the Texan's draft pick's dress shirt. Buck's own hands released their tight grip on Eddie's forearms and slid down to his hips. Buck breaks the kiss, just a for a quick second to whisper, "I want you." "You have me." Eddie replies breathlessly before giving Buck a devilish smirk, "But you can have me however you want." And Buck is definitely okay with that.

I know we all want things to be more than okay for Buck and Eddie. And maybe it will be. Or maybe, just maybe I really put these the boys through the ringer a few times... Wouldn't be a 911 fic if I didn't. Lol. But I do hope you all enjoyed!!!!!

Tagging (no pressure): @daffi-990 @diazsdimples @theotherbuckley @disasterbuckdiaz @devirnis @fortheloveofbuddie @wikiangela @exhuastedpigeon @spotsandsocks @lover-of-mine @jesuisici33 @bekkachaos @thewolvesof1998 @giddyupbuck @eddiebabygirldiaz @hippolotamus @rainbow-nerdss @spaceprincessem @athenagranted @eddiescowboy @evanbegins @elvensorceress @malewifediaz @911onabc @911-on-abc @loserdiaz @hoodie-buck @try-set-me-on-fire @ladydorian05 @bigfootsmom @watchyourbuck @thekristen999 @spagheddiediaz @monsterrae1 @rogerzsteven @honestlydarkprincess @bitchfacediaz @buck-coded @housewifebuck @glorious-spoon @buddierights @prosperdemeter2 @lemonzestywrites @gayedmundodiaz @cal-daisies-and-briars @transboybuckley

[whumpsoda]

Bad Days - Malak and Nevan

WOHEO Masterlist

This is inspired by a recent ask!!! I really wanted to write a couple short things about these two in recovery just because I couldn’t get their ask out of my head :3

These two snippets take place proceeding Malak and Nevan’s captivity, after a hunter frees them!!

Taglist- @softvampirewhump

cw: conditioned/brainwashed whumpees

———————————————————————

Malak’s eyes remained fixed on the glowing screen of the television, lazily glossing over each flick of the visuals. He blocked out the drawl of voices, reducing the sound to a hum in the back of his brain.

Besides that, the shared trailer was deathly silent.

Upon the revelation, Malak perked up a bit. Just minutes ago, or at least so he thought, Nevan had been dashing from room to room in a whirlwind of motivation, cleaning and taking care of whatever he could for most of the morning.

As much as Malak wished to help the younger man during his tough days, he wasn’t exactly equipped in that area of expertise. Sometimes letting Nevan do his own thing seemed to work best.

But now he’d stopped, and was nowhere to be heard. Silence during Nevan’s flare ups was never a good sign.

Draping his most prized blanket over his shoulders and around his neck, Malak made his way to the kitchen. His feet, covered in a pair of plush and fuzzy socks, shuffled over the crunchy rug.

Walking was still strange for Malak. His legs still wobbled, his knees still always threatened to buckle any second. He had the wall though, surroundings capable of stabilizing him as he made his way across the room. He would take any means of aid over crawling.

Hiding his body behind the doorway, he peered his head in, only for his vision to settle upon Nevan immediately.

The other man’s back was pressed against the wall next to him, a familiar sight. He stood in a trained position, flawless posture and hands perfectly intertwined above his midsection. Nevan didn’t take the slightest notice of Malak’s presence, eyes shut and ears closed, save for the search of his beloved bell.

Malak gently lifted a hand, stretching out a finger and tapping softly to Nevan’s shoulder. 

Nevan twitched with the touch, eyes widening the smallest bit in reaction. “Master..?” He hazily questioned, head tilting to meet Malak with glassy, confusion tainted eyes.

He recognized that was not his master. That Malak was just another thrall, and a much farther valued one at that. Yet, the urge to serve someone, anyone, in any way possible did not dissipate.

Malak used his thumb to tenderly stroke Nevan’s skin. He easily leaned into it, awaiting for Malak to gift him a wonderfully mind numbing command. When he didn’t, instead continuing his tender motions, Nevan utilized one of Darius’ favorite phrases. “What may I do for you, sir?”

Malak stared for a moment, quietly deciding his next move while Nevan gladly waited. He released the plaster of the doorway, shifting his weight back to his two feet. Silently he held out his palm, looking to Nevan and signaling for him to take it.

Nevan’s lazy gaze fell to the hand and then back up to Malak, searching for approval, and Malak only nodded gingerly, gesturing again to his hand. Timidly, Nevan accepted the gesture, allowing for the other man’s thick fingers to envelop his own in a pool of warmth.

“Do you need something, um, sir? I can be of assistance.”

“Follow.” Malak instructed, but unlike Darius his voice was calm and leathery, not a hint of irritation. Nevan did so obediently, eager to allow anyone to give him a purpose.

He walked elegantly behind, contrasting his roommate's heavy steps, as Malak guided him to the floor of their living space where he had been seated just moments prior. “I can be a good boy and help you, sir. With, with, um, anything.” He insisted, head spinning with each graceful step.

His movements abruptly ceased with Malak’s, almost running into the larger man. Malak simply motioned to the deteriorating, itchy rug. “Sit, please.” He requested. 

Nevan instantly dropped to his knees, a dizzied look on his face. Malak soon followed, gently making his way to the ground beside the other man. He wrung his muscled arm around Nevan’s shoulder and neck, tenderly pulling the man closer.

Malak shifted his attention, something on the television catching his eye. Nevan sat in stunned silence for a moment, savoring the warmth of his cheek against Malak’s fuzzy sweater. “Am, am I being good? Do you need anything? Am I being a good boy?” The pathetic pleas of questions spilled from his lips.

“Good. So good.” Malak soothed, tugging Nevan closer. Nevan nuzzled into Malak’s comforting, relaxing hold.

He sensed his face heating from the praise, his blurred brain recognizing the pleasant pulse of his heart. “Thank you, thank you, sir.”

“Shh. Relax.” Malak murmured, brushing a thick strand of hair behind the small man’s ear.

Startled from such a foreign request Nevan pulled away for a moment, the faint remembrance of his biddable objective resurfacing. “But, um, but I-” his fingers curled atop Malak’s lap, and his dark brows twisted.

“Please.” Malak whispered, soft gravel snaking its honeyed way over the word.

Nevan’s body numbed, limbs easing and falling back into place. “Oh. Um, okay, sir.” He stumbled, his cheek taking its place on Malak’s large shoulder.

Nevan was delighted to do anything as long as he could succeed in pleasing just one person.

——

Malak was having a bad day. He admittedly had a very frequent amount of days coated in bitterness and the everlasting effects of past events, and Nevan held the sole responsibility to get him through another one. He didn’t particularly mind, though, being well acquainted with the practice of waiting and serving upon others.

He entered the living room of the trailer, a bowl of mouth watering, savory macaroni wrapped inside of his grip. A sticky pool of cheese drooled over the noodles, steaming with warmth. He turned to the floor, Malak’s usual spot, and yet nothing sat atop the disturbed, crumbling rug. 

His gaze wavered about the room, over the still black television, the scattered blankets, and yet Malak was nowhere to be seen. Nevan’s stomach tensed, and he quickly set down the food. 

“Malak?” He exclaimed, making his way swiftly down the narrow hall, and peeking into the other rooms. “Malak?” He repeated. No answer. “Malak!” Silence.

He dug through each room, checking wherever he could, even spaces that wouldn’t have fit Malak’s bulking figure. No Malak.

He practically ran back to the minute living room, biting his lip warily and clawing at a strand of his hair. Horrified, his gaze quickly landed on the front door, a sliver of freezing air making its way in. His breath hitched.

Malak was gone. For all Nevan knew, he was escaping back to the vampires, no matter the fact that their masters were long dead. What if he was hurt? Scared? What if a different vampire had already plucked him off the streets for themself? 

Dashing to the door, Nevan swung it open and stuck his head outside, icy wind chilling his cheeks. “Malak?” He called again, only for his vision to quickly land on the other man balled up on the edge of the porch.

Nevan inched closer, careful steps creaking the old and withered planks of wood. Malak sat atop the rim, shivering under a swaddle of several precious comforters. The one most recognizable was the meticulously pink one Adrastus had knit, which hugged Malak’s large waist.

“Hey, man. What’re you doing out here?” Nevan questioned softly, bending down to his knees and resting on Malak’s level.

Malak’s head was eagerly craned to one side, exposing the skin of his neck and chest, the only part of him not enveloped by a pillowy blanket. His lips quivered as he spoke, and his teeth slightly chattered. “Mm… Mah- Master…” he stumbled, eyes glassy and brows furrowed in puzzlement.

“What about Master?” Nevan pressed, placing a tender hand to the other man’s shoulder, a welcomed touch.

“Um…wuh, wait… ‘fer Master…” Malak drawled, tilting his neck ever so much further, desperate for the intimate bite he so craved. His still red rung bites were clearly visible, him having ripped off the usual bandages that covered them. 

Nevan, despite the despair that hung on his heart, gave Malak a sweet smile. “You’re waiting for Master?” The other man took a moment to process the speech, before giving him the faintest of a nod. “Well it’s pretty dark and cold outside right now, and it’s not so safe to be out here. Can you wait inside with me?”

Malak thought the suggestion over, before distressfully shaking his head. “Mmng.. mm, mm… n- no…”

“Come on, man. Here.” From the corner of his eye Malak inspected Nevan’s outstretched hand, hesitant to take it. Ultimately though, he did as he was told.

“We can wait together inside where it’s nice and warm. I’ll turn on the television too and we can watch something while we wait.” He tenderly rubbed Malak’s fingers as the man rose to his feet, shivering. “Master would like that, wouldn’t they?”

Taking a beat to digest his friend’s saccharine words, Malak gave another feeble nod in agreement. “Yeah, yeah… Mm, Master…” his feet scuffled along the wood as he walked, and his pounds of blankets picked up dirt as they dragged behind him, all the while Nevan gingerly guided him along.

Once back indoors, Malak practically leaning on him, Nevan made a point to lock the doors. With intertwined fingers the two made their way to Malak’s spot on the floor, of which he drowsily plopped onto. 

“Here, dude. I made you some food.” Nevan placed the still lukewarm bowl in Malak’s open lap, of which he eyed hungrily. “Mac and cheese.”

Malak rubbed his palms on the ceramic, reveling in the warmth it supplied to his freezing flesh. “Mm…mac and, and cheese…” he perked up only when Nevan switched on the TV, his favorite program quickly catching his cloudy attention.

Nevan returned again, resting beside the other man, speaking to him in his soothing, honey voice. “Do you need help eating that?” He asked. 

Sometimes Malak did. Sometimes, often on the bad days, he imagined it was Adrastus feeding him. Placing sweet, loving spoonfuls of their rich cooking to his tongue, whispering affectionate praises and cooes that licked his ears.

To Nevan’s surprise, Malak lightly shook his head, vision still fixated on the screen. “Wah, um, wanna… wanna do it.” His doe eyes trailed over with unease to meet Nevan’s.

Nevan only gave him a satisfied grin. “Let me know if you need anything. I’m always happy to help.”

[nebbyy]

Hello! I simply adore your writing!! It’s so sweet and the way you write about love is so captivating and beautiful! If you are able to take requests, I would like to make one! Please do not feel pressured to take it if you are busy, take care of yourself first and foremost!

This may be a slightly longer ask, so I do apologise for that! I’ve recently fallen into the Kingdom of Heaven rabbit hole and I do not see a way out, and this is purely going to be a self-indulgent ask based on a rather strange medieval themed dream I had.

Once again, please do not feel pressured to take this request! If you just want to enjoy reading this snippet of an idea, please do so! And I hope your day has been wonderful!

☀️ Strange dream anon

-

The newlywed wife of Baldwin, who is rather quiet and shy at first, the daughter of a lord or a king from a distant country (completely up to you on this one! It wasn’t clear in my dream), who has been taught how to wield a sword and is quite proficient with a weapon in hand after her father realised he would not be able to protect her his entire life, and defence against a weapon is a skill that she would need in a land foreign from her own.

It is a mere handful of months after the marriage that Baldwin has to leave the castle for a matter regarding politics that would take at least three weeks, if not more due to travel. While he is away, the new queen is left without a large number of the knights, who have gone with their king and thus, the palace is very still and quiet. There are of course enough men about that she would be safe, but it is still has a starkly different aura to when it is filled with people.

It is during this time that a group of assassins sneak into the castle at the dead of night, their intent is to murder the queen and her guards to leave a message for Baldwin that no matter how hard he tries, he would never be capable of defending his people (especially those closest to him). A tactic, to weaken him and make certain his enemies and subjects know he is a weak king.

They do not expect however, that the queen whom they’re attempting to kill can wield a sword in each hand and has been prepared to fight to the death from the moment a sword was placed into her hands years ago.

(In my dream I saw the queen silently running through the hallways knocking out the assassins, hiding in the shadows to strike, climbing out a window to get to a higher level of the castle, it was both awesome and rather funny). She gets the rest of the guards to help her, and together they manage to subdue most of the attackers.

Baldwin returns home the next day, exhausted and drained from the travel and stress, he simply wants to spend some time with his wife to forget about the world around him for just a moment, yet when he enters through the gates one of the guards informs him of the attempted assassination on the queen.

Imagine the surprise he felt when enters the castle to see half of the assassins knocked out, and the other half gagged and tied up, ready to be questioned.

And his wife? The worst of her injuries is a bloodied nose that stopped bleeding hours before he had arrived.

-

I’m not certain how to end it, my dream unfortunately stopped here, however I imagine there would probably be a rather sweet ending, Baldwin fretting over his wife after learning from the guards what she did, and his wife becoming more open with him, a much more relaxed and bubbly version of her coming out of her shell.

Thank you for reading!!

Hi anon, thank you so much for sharing your story! I myself find a lot of inspiration in my own dreams, so I'm glad to hear I'm not the only one lol.

As of now, I've been taking a break from writing, but your story is so interesting!! I might just save it up in my drafts for when I start writing again.

I honestly looove the idea of a strong and independent Queen to rule beside Baldwin, he just seems like the type of man to appreciate having such a woman by his side.

Also, thank you so much for your sweet words, it really means a lot more than you can imagine to hear them (or better read them)🫶🫶

Feel more than welcome to share other ideas in the future, I'll be more than happy to read them and eventually save them up in my drafts for the future!!

[mothervonmayhem]

Battle of the Bands

Hobie, Miguel, Gabriel, Gwen and 1st person pov OC / MC

New Adult magical realism AU (obvi) brain worm that has grown from a 2-shot screenplay for some fun comics into a monster. This fic is like Tremors in my brain.

The summer before college MC, Gabriel O'Hara, and Miguel O'Hara go on an international road trip with their metal band, Neon Requiem. Destination? BandFest, the Battle of the Bands in London guaranteed to secure the winning band a record deal. They meet other ATSV characters along the way.

No mention of Y/N / Reader, written from 1st person POV. Self-insertion is made easier by fewer details about the MC.

Notes on language: Tried my best here, if you are a native speaker of French, let me know if the MC's French is unnatural and I will love you forever.

Romance, angst, and poorly understood music concepts are often written as having a distinct visual component because I am an artist first. <

@pinksugarscrub @the-kr8tor I DID THE THING!

*******************************************************************

Chapter 1 - “Vous êtes maître de votre vie et de vos émotions, ne l’oubliez jamais. Pour le meilleur et pour le pire”

The Rusty Nail's neon whir and raucous rhythms had been muted to a melancholy hum that evening, it was a ghost town, the emptiness of the dimly lit bar echoing with decades of unfulfilled longings. I nursed my drink, letting the smoky burn of liquor etch contours of quiet contemplation onto my throat as I surveyed the handful of kindred souls keeping solemn vigil. Life had been feeling heavy, and I needed to write, to make art, and to get lost in music.

At the far end of the bar hunched a beautiful wraith, his slim, angular frame sheathed in torn denim and studded leather. Something indefinable shimmered around him, unsung poetry, snippets of melodies, a symphony I could see and hear and almost touch. Drawn like a moth to the lambent glow of the music, I slid onto the stool beside the ethereal punk spectre. In my mind's eye, I crowned him the prince of punk, a fairy tale rebel.

Our bodies brushed intimately in the cramped space, raising ghosts of sensation along the exposed skin of my fishnets. "Wozzat, luv?" he murmured, kohl-rimmed eyes flickering over the point of contact with a soldering heat.

Mon dieu, {My God} Had I spoken my admiration aloud? A flush crept up my cheeks as I scrambled for a response.

"Désolé. Je répétais quelque chose pour ne pas l'oublier… Need to write it down before I lose it," {Sorry. I was repeating something so I wouldn't forget it…} I mumbled, a flimsy excuse for my wandering mind.

Fumbling through my bag ,I pulled out my tattered notebook, fingers trembling as I scribbled down a scrap of verse inspired by the punk's incandescent presence beside me. I scribbled my observations in hasty strokes. The dying light of day bled into night, a liminal space that begged for a soundtrack. I could almost hear it, a melody just out of reach, shimmering in the smoky air.

"The liminal light of late afternoon, yawning into early evening…" I muttered, pulling on the strings of the melody, trying to draw it back to me. "I don't want to be loved for the things that I don't do. I don't want to be just a pretty face, I want to be a work of art…We are all just works of art."

The jukebox fell silent, making my mutterings around sift and strange, slightly unhinged---but the punk prince remained---his gaze heavy on my skin. I met his stare, unflinching. Unabashed curiosity flickered in eyes, wide brown and doe-like, framed by lashes so lush they seemed to blur the line between masculine and feminine, earthly and ethereal. I found myself dizzied by warring impulses - to flee this unsettling intimacy, or be consumed by it wholly.

He was a changeling, gorgeously androgynous: part punk Mona Lisa with a Cheshire cat grin, part Jean-Michel Baptiste, part force-of-fucking-nature. He made me feel like a background character in his story, could be a punk fairy princess, and I would be the dragon. My thoughts raced, fragments of poetry and half-formed desires. I scribbled faster, chasing the threads of inspiration, but a nudge from my prince brought me back to earth.

Snatches of poetry, raw and unfinished, that I urgently longed to refine on the page before they dissipated like the last wisps of smoke in a spent ashtray. But the punk's aura dragged me too deeply into devotional reverie. I glanced up apologetically as my concentration scattered, the thread of inspiration slipping through my fingers once more.

The bartender had sprouted up directly in front of me, and she eyed me expectantly. Her hair was a shock of blue curls and silver streaks shorn close to her scalp, it made her eyes seem more gray. Her skin etched with lines that mapped out the years like a roadmap. I felt the familiar pang of a poem lost to the ether.

"Un…Jack Daniel's, s'il vous plaît," {A…Jack Daniel's, please} I said, no longer able to filter its lilt from my words, as I wasn't paying attention to dulling it.

"Blimey, that's a proper choice, innit? You 'ere for the battle of the bands event this week, love?"

"Oui, how did you know?" {Yes, how did you know?}

"Just a…sense," he demurred with a wicked grin. "Call it a punk's intuition, darling. I'm in the mix too, y'know."

The bartender chuckled as she set my drink down. "You mean because everyone is here for Bandfest? Don't listen to this one, lovey, he's incorrigible. The crowds will be in later on, but you're a bit early."

"Shh, Roz. Who's up tonight?" The prince asked, a wicked gleam in his eye.

"Oh, you want insider information? What's in it for me?"

"Givin' away free tattoos, could autograph yer arm, love."

"I'll pass, thanks. The brackets are up in an hour anyway. It's Night Terrors vs. Death Rapture, Blood Prophecy vs. Cherry Bomb, Spider Punks vs. Neon Requiem…"

"Why are the punk bands going up against the metal bands?" I asked, just as the prince inquired about Phantom Pulse.

"There wasn't a lot of quality competition this year, or that's what the sponsors said, so they automatically advance to the semifinals since they won last year."

"Bollocks!" The prince cried, his outrage palpable.

"Oi Punk, you don't want to sign with Vic Luna at Zenith Music Group, anyway."

"Tu…ne le fais pas? Mais pourquoi?" {You…don't? But why?} The words tumbled out, my curiosity getting the better of me. At her blank stare, I repeated the question in English, heat rising to my cheeks.

Roz leaned in, her voice low, "Look kid, it's complicated…"

The prince rolled his eyes, a sneer playing at his lips. "Betrayed a lot of good bands."

"You don't need to remind me, Punk, I lived through it. Despite the changes at Zenith Music Group, they still organize the annual Bandfest, which showcases both established and emerging talent in the punk and metal scenes. The event is highly respected within the community and provides a platform for bands to gain exposure and connect with fans," the bartender continued, her words stilted, rehearsed.

"Ay, and they are the sponsor bringing in your crowds." The prince's voice was sharp, laced with an emotion I couldn't quite place.

"The only time we're out of the red, punkass. We'd have to shut down if it weren't for the Battle." She said heavily, "Which is the greater evil, we are a place of refuge for several members of the community, not just you."

"You don't need to remind me Roz, I'm living through it. Right, I'll stop ragging on the corporate sods for now, until you have some plausible deniability." He raised his hands in mock surrender, a bitter laugh escaping his lips.

"There's a good Punk." Roz smiled, sliding him another pint before retreating.

I made a mental note to warn my bandmates about Vic and Zenith's sordid history. We were in this for the music, not the money, no one played metal for the money--but it never hurt to be cautious.

"Roz is like the den mother of the London punk scene, a living testament to grit and resilience, and screaming yourself hoarse at basement shows. Dream t'be like her when I grow up. To listen without judgment, offer advice without preaching, and know when to slide a shot of whiskey across the bar and when to cut you off. She has a way of looking at you, really seeing you, like you matter… like you are more than just another face in the crowd." His voice trails off, heavy with emotion. He blinks and shakes it off.

"Can I see it?" The prince's voice cut through our lost thoughts, his fingers reaching for my notebook.

I clutched it to my chest, a knee-jerk reaction. "Can you look into my very soul, like Roz?"

His smirk widened, that Cheshire cat grin that set my heart racing. He nodded, a challenge in his eyes.

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," he purred, and I felt my stomach flip. I repeated the phrase in my mind, first in French, then in English, just to be sure I'd heard him right. Wasn't this some flirty idiom?

"You have a book of poetry somewhere hidden in those skinny jeans, mon ami?" {my friend?} I ask, hesitant, double-checking his meaning. He flirts like others breathe.

In lieu of an answer, he produced a sharpie from thin air. Before I could protest, he had my arm in his grasp, his touch electric against my skin. I shrugged off my leather jacket, baring my arms to his ink-stained fingers. Roz chuckled as she set another drink before me, clearly amused by the prince's antics.

"You'll need it…I see you took this wanker up on the free tattoo offer. Don't let him draw any on your arms."

"Any? …Any what?"

"Wankers," she clarified with a laugh. It clarifies nothing, I need to study my British slang.

"I would not mar the flesh of such a beautiful and willing participant, Roz. Kindly fuck off," the prince mumbled around the sharpie cap clenched between his teeth.

Between the verses he scrawled, he peppered me with questions, his voice a giddy whisper.

"So, who's your poison, love? Which bands get your motor runnin'?"

"Ah, j'adore Rammstein, Gojira, et bien sûr, Motörhead. And so many others, doesn't even scratch the surface. Et toi?" {Ah, I love Rammstein... And you?}

"Proper choices, those. For me, it's the classics - Sex Pistols, The Clash, Buzzcocks. Real raw, in-your-face stuff, y'know?"

I leaned in, excited, but too close. I nearly jumped as my lips grazed the dusky shell of his ear. "Ah, un homme de bon goût! I've seen the Buzzcocks live, you know. Pure chaos, c'était incroyable!" {Ah, a man of good taste! I've seen the Buzzcocks live, you know. Pure chaos, it was incredible!}

"No bleedin' way! Metal chick like you? I'd give me left bollock to have seen the Sex Pistols live. But I did catch The Clash back in '07. Changed me life, it did."

"Lemmy, sans aucun doute. The man's a legend!" {Lemmy, without a doubt.} I declare into the bar.

"Oi, don't go disrespectin' Johnny, now! The bloke's a punk icon, 'e is!"

"You're a punk icon!" someone shouted from the back, but the prince waved them off with a grin.

"Oh, I didn't catch your name," I said, with a sudden shame, my brow furrowed.

"Everyone just calls me Punk. You can too. Just not dirty punk, we don't want to come to blows, do we, love?"

"I'd kick your ass, mon ami. Pas grand chose à donner, mon petit prince des fées… eh mon prince dégingandé, right? I would not describe you as petite even if you are skinny." {I'd kick your ass, my friend. Not much to give, my little fairy prince… eh my lanky prince, right?}

Miguel was at my side in an instant, all rippling muscle and furrowed consternation. "Carnalita, {little sis} why did you sneak out on practice just to drink in this hellhole?" he rumbled, disapproval lacing every sonorous word. Tenderness faded a bit.

I met his gruff chiding with an insouciant toss of my hair. "Salut, Miguel. Ça fait longtemps." {Hello, Miguel. It's been a while.}

"Is that Jack? No puedo mas… Carnalita…This shit is bad for you." {I can't take it anymore…little sis...}

"Je nais etre rond comme une queue de pelle. Tu es vraiment un trou de balle quand tu dis des choses pareilles!" {I would be round as a shovel handle. (Idiom, essentially she is saying ~ I was born to be drunk) You are really a dumbass when you say things like that!}

Miguel's grumbling stream of Spanish reprimands washed over me as I settled into our familiar dynamic - the tender yet terse cantata of friend and protector that had composed them score of our relationship since childhood. For all his bluster, I knew every arrhythmic cadence encoded Miguel's steadfast affection.

Only Gabriel's soft interjection could salve the rising discord. "You worry too much, Miggy. We've been practicing all week."

He cast me a plaintive glance, silently pleading for conciliation, and I grudgingly obliged with an internal eyeroll. "Qu'il aille se faire! C'est vraiment chiant tu te rends compte." {Let him go fuck himself! It's really annoying, you know.}

Heedless of my saucy french asides, Miguel merely drew a fortifying breath before continuing in that maddening timbre of unrelenting reason. "Gabri and I could have come out with you. You shouldn't go out alone in an unknown city - it's not safe for you, mi carnalita."

The prince leaned towards us with a lazy smirk, "S'not that serious. The Rusty Nail is safe enough." He paused as the bartender snorted in agreement before continuing, "We're keeping the lady safe, mate…you can trust me, I'm one of the Spider-Punks."

Miguel simply sneered at the prince's proffered handshake, dismissing it out of hand. "You have arms like sticks. How would you keep her safe?"

The punk's smirk widened as he shrugged. "Ah, one of those. Never skip leg day, eh bruv?"

I strangled a guffaw as Gabriel hastened to run interference, engulfing the punk's hand eagerly. "We've heard of you guys, the local punk band, yeah? Your drummer is…gahh…Ah-Mazing! You think we could meet?"

"You call that punk noise "rock"?" Miguel scoffed. "Metal is where the real skill lies…Real talent is in the complexity, the technical skill. Metal pushes boundaries, takes you to new places. Punk's just three chords and an attitude."

I rolled my eyes. At this rate, I'd have to drag Miguel out before he started a brawl.

"Ah, mais non, Miggy. There's art in simplicity too. Punk, metal, it's all about the energy, the message, non?" {Ah, but no, Miggy. There's art in simplicity too. Punk, metal, it's all about the energy, the message, right?}

Miguel grunted, but squeezed my hand.

I stood, motioning for him to lean in close. "Allez, let's save the competition for the stage, d'accord? I learned some things about the record company. We should talk in private." {Come on, let's save the competition for the stage, okay?}

The prince unfolded himself, towering over me. "Tell you what, mate. Let's settle this on stage. We'll let the crowd decide who's got the real chops," he challenged.

Gabriel chimed in, "Pero, mana's right, Miguel." {But, sister is right, Miguel.}

Miguel looked ready to explode, but Gabriel's eyes held him in check.

"Music's music. Let's just focus on putting on a good show, and maybe we can learn something from their band, eh?" Gabriel said.

The prince leaned in, lips grazing my cheek. "Aye, love. Can't wait to teach your wall of meat here a thing or two. How about we give 'em a show they won't forget…later?"

I grinned, "Oui! A collaboration? Here… Ça ne casse pas trois pattes à un canard…mais, pour vous. I want it back later." {Yes! A collaboration? Here…It doesn't break three duck legs (Idiom ~ It's nothing special) …but, for you. I want it back later.}

The lanky punk sauntered off, his studded boots leaving faint trails of glitter on the barroom floor. Miguel's scowl deepened as he watched him depart, fists clenched tightly.

"Is that your poetry notebook?" he growled, voice rumbling low.

"Yes, I traded it to the punk faerie for these tattoos, I smirked, revealing the vine-like scrawl of ink now adorning my flesh like raised scars from whipping brambles.

Miguel's face darkened further, storm clouds gathering at my words. "The one you never let anyone touch or read…"

His voice strangled to a whisper, and I could not parse the complex calculus of emotions flitting behind his eyes

Gabriel placed a calming hand on his brother's arm.

"Easy, hermano {brother}. He's not worth it," Gabriel said in a soothing tone.

"Be nice, Punk is a good guy. I like him," I countered softly, a warm glow blossomed within me as I realized my entire arm was now a crawling garden of sentences entirely in French.

Miguel opened his mouth, undoubtedly to unleash a heated retort, but Gabriel cut in, "Should we go look at the brackets to see who we're facing?"

"It looks like my entire arm is covered with quotes from The Little Prince, which happens to be my favorite book. It's actually quite a sweet gesture," I said softly, fingertips grazing the raised words like treasured runes.

With renewed curiosity, I examined the ink quote now etched on my skin: "Vous êtes maître de votre vie et de vos émotions, ne l'oubliez jamais. Pour le meilleur et pour le pire." {You are the master of your life and your emotions, never forget that. For better or worse.}

I didn't mention the lone scrawl that could have been a phone number hidden amidst the literary foliage now vining my limb. Miguel was in full-on Dad mode, and I didn't need to add fuel to that particular fire.

"I already know the competition for the quarterfinals, we don't need to waste our time. Come on, manos {used as slang for brother}, we're going to kick some ass!" I giggled brightly, elated at my new 'tattoos' scrawling up my arms. I didn't put my leather jacket back on, I didn't want to cover any of it up.

Miguel's glare never wavered, his eyes fixed on the far side of the bar where the prince had disappeared into the crowd. "Don't tempt me. Let's go, carnalita {little sister}, time for practice."

With a resigned sigh, I surrendered to my brothers' insistent tugs, allowing them to lead me from the Rusty Nail. But the punk prince's parting words still reverberated through my mind like the lingering notes of a siren song. Later, he had purred, that single hushed syllable seeming to contain all the intoxicating lure of a siren's call - equal parts velvet promise and brazen challenge, twined inextricably into an enchantment I could not resist. The whole damn bar was a sailor's nightmare.

[greentrickster]

WIP game

Rules: You will be given a word. Share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that start with each letter of that word.

@shadow-pixelle tagged me with ECHO, so congrats - have some 'Got a Light?' (my RWBY fic) snippets! And, to have some extra fun, since they're all from the same fic, I'll get one snippet from each of the first two books I've written this fic in and two from the current book (because it's the biggest), and you'll get the sentences in the order I wrote them... but not necessarily in the order they'll come in the fic, because I'm writing non-chronologically. ;D Enjoy!

E

"Easy for you to say," Jaune gives up on meditating (because he's weak) to glare at Roman, "You're probably just saying that because you had a stupid one, like- like bad luck or making your pockets bigger or something!"

...Branwen had flinched at the first suggestion. Interesting. Neo'll have to look into that. More importantly, however, Roman has frozen in place, dust crystal fallen to the ground beside him. He stares straight up into the sky unmoving for a good twenty seconds before he lets his arm fall across his eyes with a distraught groan.

"Dangit, that second one actually sounds like an amazing- that would have been so useful for shoplifting or, hells, just storing extra ammo without ruining the lines of my suit- dammit, now I'm sad, thanks a lot."

C

"Consider: would any of you say you are quite the same people now that you were at the beginning of the school year? How about ten years ago?" he smiles at the range of reactions this elicits. "To me, it is much the same, albeit on a far larger scale. It seems as though we each carry a certain amount of... ourselves, for lack of a better word, with us to each new life.

"For example, it may surprise you to know that, in regards to myself, while I have heard many times that I seem to have gained a certain level of maturity overnight when my memories and powers are unlocked, oddly little in my personality or mindset of my new life seem to change beyond that. I will confess, it inspires a certain amount of curiosity these days, whenever the end of a current life draws near, as to what new myself I will have become the next time my memories return."

H

"Hey, what about all the nice things you were gonna say to Pyrrha?!"

"They will be formatted as an extremely flattering eulogy!!!"

Qrow is drawn away from this amusing interaction by Neo, who has removed a glove and stolen a fistful of bacon with her bare hand, wiggling it enticingly at Qrow with a big smile.

"I feel like I'm being mocked," he states, examining it with each eye suspiciously.

"You're not," Torchwick says, finally calm again and theatrically wiping his eye, "She just likes watching birds eat. Used to sneak into kitchens at restaurants so she could get table scraps for it."

...eh, fair enough. Qrow obliges and daintily tugs a strip of bacon free with his beak, holding it with one claw to peck at. Neo beams.

O

"Oh, um- yes! He says... 'Thinking of mew.'"

Ruby glances up from skimming her texts to see Weiss staring blankly ahead.

"...he's a dork," she says, voice dazed, "He's an enormous dork."

"Weiss-" Uncle Qrow groans, only for Jaune to hold his hand up.

"Don't bother, Mr. Branwen, I've got this."

"Kid, it's Qrow."

Jaune ignores him, going to put a steadying hand on Weiss's shoulder. "Look, I'm sorry you have to find out this way, but the thing about guys is... we're all dorks. And Neptune is our king."

"...I see." Weiss nods, and Ruby goes back to her own texts, "Is it a bad sign that I still like him, even though he's flawed?"

"I mean, he didn't realize you wanted to keep seeing him after the dance until you cried at him for flirting with other girls," Nora comments, "You kinda already knew that he wasn't perfect."

"I suppose that's true... In that case, I'm going to respond in kind! Nora, I require your assistance!"

---

(Told you guys it's not as dire as my research subject list makes it sound!)

I'll be tagging @fullbattleregalia and @elektricangel, along with anyone else who wants to play - your word is LIFE (because my fic's about Roman coming back as a ghost and I'm funny).