#and you might think 'how can you know that's why they closed self checkout'

[fakeasmr]

they finally started selling salt and vinegar poppables at the grocery store, but then they closed the self checkout because they want the cashiers to promote the new points card so they're on thin fucking ice

[rrrrinmaru]

call me by my name (xavier x mc)

wc: 2058 rating: T

It was just something you had seen online. Call your lover by their name instead of the pet name that had almost become second nature to you—the reactions from the boyfriends and husbands of Linkon City were always so amusing. The more you watch these videos, scrolling idly through your phone as you lounged on the sofa on one of your rare off days, the more you want to test it on Xavier. 

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? You can barely remember when the last time you called Xavier by his name���somewhere along the lines, maybe a few months into dating, you accidentally called him baby. 

You remember how it happened, even if you can’t place the exact date. The both of you were strolling down the streets of Linkon City, on the way to one of the cafes another Hunter had recommended to you. You remember the weight of his hand on your waist, gently guiding you along as you focused on the navigation panel on your phone, trying to suss out what exit you had to take in order to take the shortest path there. 

“You okay there?” Xavier murmured, a smile audible in his voice as he pulled you out of the way of some passer-by. “You’re squinting at the phone.”

“No, I got it,” you told him, even as you continued to furrow your brows at the screen and attempt the tried and tested method of lifting it up to the sky to get better signal, as if that would help your case. “Just give me a second, I think we need to turn somewhere up ahead, just—” you spoke, without really thinking it through, the words tumbling out of your mouth while your higher brain functions were wholly focused on reading the damn map, “—give me a sec, baby, I got it. We turn left in a bit, like—”

The fingers on your waist flexed. You looked up at him, barely registering the dilation in his pupils and the way his lips were parted, but you remember noticing the dazed look in his eyes. 

“Xavier? You okay?” 

“Hm,” He hummed, blinking out of his daze. “I’m good. No need to worry about me, just let me know when to turn.” 

And then he smiled at you, so disarmingly that you almost missed your turn.

Regardless, after that incident, Xavier teased you about the pet name until you gave in and repeated it in a quiet, shameful voice. Again, and again, until Xavier hooked you in by his arms around your waist and pressed his lips to yours, kissing you stupid. 

From that day on, you didn’t really call him by his name. Which is why the thought of switching it up excites you. It’s so enticing that you even get up to hunt for your old phone, setting it up in a discrete location near the living room to record his reaction. You won’t publish it, not when the both of you are such private individuals, but you look forward to saving his reaction for future reference, and maybe even future blackmail. 

You wait in anticipation, instinctively checking the clock every few minutes to count down to Xavier’s return. As time passes, you get distracted by the latest novel on your phone and you’ve almost forgotten about your grand plan until you hear the familiar sound of a key turning in your lock.

Immediately, you fly to your hidden phone to click record, and then rush back to the sofa. Your heart rate spikes a little from excitement, and you struggle to tamp down the smile that threatens to surface. 

The door pushes open, and you’re greeted by the gorgeous sight of Xavier stepping through your door, groceries in hand. 

Gods help me, you think, fondness bursting from your heart so vividly at the domestic sight that you think you might drown, I love you.

“The queue was long,” Xavier says, a touch of complaint in his voice. He closes the door behind him, slipping the keys into his pocket as he toes his shoes off. “There was a problem with the self-checkout machines, so everyone had to wait in line at the normal cashiers.”

The pet name almost slips off your tongue. It’s so easy to say it, when he’s acting a little whiny like this—when he gets in the mood to be just a little, tiny little bit like he wants to be babied. 

“Aw,” you say in a commiserating tone. “Do you want any help with putting those away?”

Xavier looks at the bag in his hand, then looks at the way you’re curled up on the couch. “No. Stay there; you look comfortable. I’ll come join you once I’ve placed them away.” 

He lifts the bag, peering in as if to check the contents again. “I’ll be quick, so make sure there’s space for me once I’m done.”

“Okay,” you reply, fighting the urge to smile when Xavier lifts his gaze to look inquisitively at you. Usually, there would be a pet name trailing on the end of that sentence. You think Xavier can tell something’s a little off, but he can’t place his finger on it quite yet. 

He wanders to your kitchen—the groceries he bought, sitting in your kitchen so the both of you can cook in your kitchen later, before he takes a shower in your bathroom and changes into his clothes that take up half of your wardrobe. 

Everytime you’re reminded of how much he’s carved out a space for himself in your life, his presence so steady and solid that you’re almost surprised when he isn’t in your house, as if you’ve forgotten the both of you aren’t cohabitating. Yet. 

Xavier hums to himself as he puts the groceries away. His voice is light, like stardust carrying on the wind as it trickles over to where you are on the sofa. You sit up, eyes bright as you peek over the back of the couch to see him bustling about in your kitchen. He opens cabinets to set things aside, so sure of where things are that it makes your heart kick in your chest.

To be known so dearly, so deeply—you don’t think anyone’s ever known you like this, so certainly that it feels like he’s always been a part of your mind rather than someone you met a few years ago. 

“Xav,” you call out, folding your arms on the back of the sofa and pressing your face into your forearms to hide your smile, “could you help me get a drink?”

Xavier pauses. His back is to you, shirt riding up slightly as he stretches up to place a sack of flour in the cabinet above your countertop. You see him slowly move to push the flour further in, the bend of his long fingers as he ensures there’s no chance of the flour falling out when you open the cabinet later. 

Once he’s done, he turns around to face you. There’s a blank look on his face as he leans back, hip against the countertop while he folds his arms across his chest. 

“Xav?” He asks, brows furrowing. “I don’t think I know anyone by that name, princess.”

You have to smother your smile or it’ll show on your face. Going from the way Xavier’s lips are curving up of their own accord, though, you don’t think you’re doing a very good job. “It’s your name, Xav. Xavier. Could you help get me a drink from the fridge?”

“Hm.” Xavier drags the sound out, rolling it on his tongue. He gives you a long, contemplative look. “No, princess,” he says mildly, looking faintly amused. “I can’t. I don’t know who you’re talking to.”

“Xavier,” you repeat, tilting your head as you blink up at him. “A drink, please?”

He chuckles, Xavier moves in this slow, languid way as he unfurls his arms and walks over. His eyes are a little dark, lips upturned in a knowing smile as he makes his way to the sofa. There’s this look in his gaze, this knowing look that makes you feel transparent with how he sees right through you. As he nears you, you take your arms off the back of the couch and lean back.

You can’t help it. The way he looks at you is filled with such intent that it takes your breath away. Your heart thumps in your chest, like you’re nothing more than a prey animal confronted by its natural predator. A little bunny’s heart jackhammering away in your chest. 

And then he places the flat of his palms against the back of his couch, far apart enough that he can brace himself against it as he leans down, enough for the collar of his shirt to droop and for you to get a good look at the slant of his clavicle. He’s so close, leaning over you as you sit there on the couch, and you swear you can feel the puff of his breath against your lips.

You can’t focus on just one thing. The flutter of his eyelashes as he looks at you, the softness of his cheeks, the half-moon curve of his parted lips—and his eyes, as blue as the sky, glittering with a promise as he stares down at you.

“That’s not my name, princess,” Xavier breathes out. “You know what my name is in this household.”

In the back of your mind, you wonder what you look like right now. Your eyes must be dilated. Your mouth is open from shock, and your fingers are trembling from where they are clutched around the pillow in your lap. Your heart trips over itself, throbbing so violently that you feel lightheaded. 

If you leaned up, just a little, you would be able to press your lips against his. You know you could. The distance between your lips is almost negligible, so close you think you can feel the skate of his lips against yours. 

It’s a tease. You know he’s teasing you right now, the way you teased him, and you can’t help but fall headfirst into his trap. You walk right into it, eyes wide open and conscious as you let yourself get tied up, as you let yourself drown in that swallowing, all-encompassing gaze. 

“What is it?” Your eyes drop to his lips before crawling back up to meet his gaze. 

“I only answer to baby,” Xavier murmurs, mouth curving in a smile. “That’s what you call me, princess.”

You smile, eyes crinkling as you peer up at him. “Baby.”

Xavier lets out a low laugh that sends your insides tumbling. “That’s my girl,” he says, and leans down right as you reach up to press your lips together.

You sigh, eyes closing as you sink into the kiss, and he swallows the sound with relish. One hand reaches up to cup your jaw, pulling you in so he can fit his mouth to yours, tongue slipping between your lips. His thumb presses against your skin, gently stroking the underside of your jaw, and you instinctively reach up to curl your fingers into the collar of his shirt. 

“C’mere,” you say in between kisses, gasping for breath. “There’s space—here, on the couch.”

“Mmhmm.” Xavier glances down, eyeing the space between your legs, the obstructive cushion on your lap, and steadies one hand on the back of the couch. “A little tight, but we’ll make it fit.”

He lets his gaze wander back up to you, and gives you a knowing smile. “We always make it fit, don’t we, princess?”

You get the sense he isn’t really talking about the sofa, and you feel heat rush to your cheeks as he vaults over the couch to settle between your thighs. The cushion is removed, flung away from the sofa with a vengeance you didn’t know Xavier possessed, and then he presses his weight down on you, one hand on your waist with the other curving around the back of your neck to hold you in place as he noses along your cheek, and you stop getting distracted by irrelevant things like where your cushion is, or whether he put away all the groceries that need to be refrigerated, at the very least. 

And an hour later, when you’re both out of breath, it occurs to you that your phone’s still recording. 

==

© rrrrinmaru 2024 | no unauthorised publication or reproduction allowed

[astxrwar]

blunt force trauma [2/x]

SYNOPSIS: traumatized!Bucky x Brainwashed!supersoldier!reader.

Rating: M

Word Count: 5k

Content Warnings: Canon-typical violence. Check out the tag "fic; blunt force trauma" for Content + ao3 chapter notes for extras if you're interested. <3

Read on AO3

[1] [ 2 ] [3]

It’s the first thing he realizes when he wakes up the next morning; he’s going to have to fix that giant fuck-off hole in the wall.

Bucky only remembers after he’d gone through the convoluted and absolutely unnecessary process of the Home Depot self-checkout— gloves don’t work on the stupid fucking touchscreens they have now, and neither do half of his fingers, which is just such bullshit, god, everything was easier when you could just hand some guy actual money and be done with it— that the government tracks his purchases. The military, technically. Parole condition, again, since they’re paying his rent and also all of his bills, and because, he suspects, him having an actual job would limit the amount of time he’s available as a state-sponsored superweapon of last resort. 

“What’d you get at the hardware store?”

Doc’s tone is light, nonchalant, and painfully fucking contrived. A nail gun, he thinks about saying, and some rope, and duct tape, and, oh— a band saw. Whatever he can think of that sounds the most like he might be planning to commit murder; just to be an asshole. But she already knows exactly what he bought, courtesy of the modern-day surveillance state dystopia that already pretty much existed even with that HYDRA mission falling flat. 

What he bought was a seven-foot oak two-by-four, a C-clamp, wood glue, and twelve 3” galvanized screws.

Nothing villainous, nothing remotely illegal , or whatever the hell these people think. That support in the wall is fucked, but he’d done some amount of woodworking, just as an odd summer job way back when he was fifteen or so, and he knows enough, he thinks, to be able to fix it on his own. Even if he doesn’t, tough shit, he can figure it out— he’s not going to explain to his fucking super why there’s a massive hole in the drywall and the beam’s been split nearly in half. No bullshit excuse he could come up with for any of that even came close to sounding like it’d be believable, and, besides, he kind of likes having something to do. Progress that’s visible. A goal that’s concrete. 

“The TV stand,” he lies. “It— broke.” He’d worked out the details while he was on the subway headed here, decided on exactly when to pause and hesitate like he’s admitting to something, the points where he’d inject some moments of performative vulnerability into it, not too much, just enough, he hopes, to get everyone off his fucking back. 

Doc’s eyebrows raise briefly. She taps her pen against the pad. “Broke how, James,” she prods, on fucking cue.

He hesitates, on purpose, and looks away from her, also on purpose, and then says, pointedly monotone, “I had a nightmare.” 

She leans forwards, just a little bit— she’s probably not even aware of the fact that she had, the way most people tend to be oblivious to their tells— and he knows she’s interested. Thinks this is something. “Walk me through how those are connected.”

The implication is pretty fucking clear, because she already knows he sleeps on the floor in the living room more often than in his own bed, and she knows that he has a temper, a violent one, one that he controls with precision except in circumstances where he doesn’t have to. Like when he’s alone. But she wants to hear him say it; so many appointments end up like this, the both of them already knowing whatever unspoken thing that’s been brought up, and her just— obsessed with the actual speaking. It’s annoying, but at least it’s fucking predictable. “I had a nightmare,” he repeats, not even having to fake the irritation, “And I was in the living room, and I woke up, and I was— in a bad mood. So I broke it.”

She writes something down on the notepad and he has to restrain the urge to roll his eyes. This is not the first time he’s talked about breaking shit when he’s angry. There is fucking– nothing new here. 

“So you’re planning on fixing it, then?” She says when she’s done, studying him. 

He grits his teeth. Again with the fucking obsession with stating the obvious. “It’s new. I don’t want to just— throw it out.”

She stares at him for a moment longer, her expression too relaxed to be vetting the merit of what he’s said; more like she’s contemplating it. Eventually she blinks and shifts in her chair, crossing one leg over another and sets the pad and the pen on the edge of her desk, seemingly satisfied. “That sounds like quite the project,” she remarks, in that tone he can never quite place, whether it’s approving or patronizing or something else altogether. “I think this has the real potential to be a valuable lesson for you, James. Fixing something you've broken instead of discarding it– it can be a therapeutic experience. It might help you work through some of the guilt you’re feeling.”

He doesn’t bother to stop himself from gritting his teeth at that; it would have annoyed him even if he hadn’t been lying.

~

Bucky fixes the beam, hammers the splintered wood back into a vaguely-straight line and seals the cracks with wood glue and attaches the new two-by-four to it with the galvanized screws; it’s called sistering, what he does, and the last time he’d done this shit was something like 1934. It’s what you do when the alternative would be jacking up the wall and tearing down the entire thing, which would be a massive fucking pain and require more tools and more expertise than he has.

He doesn’t see her again between then and his next appointment.

Doc grills him about his ‘project’ the next time he sees her and he says some stupid shit like yeah, it’s going fine, I feel better, I guess, about not throwing it out. And I was thinking I kinda don’t want to break it again, ‘cause I put a lot of work into fixing it. 

Doc looks satisfied with that. It’s not entirely a lie; he knows, now, what this kid is capable of. Next time he really will be more careful.

He makes sure, when he gets around to buying the spackle and the mesh and the paint to patch the drywall, that he pays in cash.

~

The second time she’s a whole lot more sneaky about the breaking-and-entering. 

Bucky wonders, briefly, if this is how it felt for his targets to come home and see him there, straight-backed and still like a statue, just– waiting. Not blinking, hardly even breathing, motionless and so utterly detached that it was hard to tell if he’d been there for hours, or if it had only been minutes. 

This time, he knows better than to try to get close. 

He’d been at the package store, picked up a case of beer, but she’s in the kitchen again and between him and the fridge, so he decides to just set it down by the door. He makes his way into the living room empty-handed, arms raised like last time. He doesn’t go further than the single armchair about halfway, just kind of rotates it around so it’s facing the kitchen, and sits in it. Focuses real hard on looking– safe. Nonthreatening. Whatever the fuck that even means.

“Sorry,” she says, after a while, the word kind of– slurred, like her tongue isn’t moving right in her mouth, thick and clumsy and unused to the dexterity speaking requires. “About your– wall. I didn’t– I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he says, after a while. “I fixed it.”

She stares at him, for a long time, not even blinking. He stares back, unfazed.

All of this feels like the weirdest kind of deja vu– like how sometimes in his nightmares he watches himself, in the third person, like he’s an observer in his own memories, or sometimes even from the eyes of victims or bystanders, even though that’s impossible and doesn’t really make sense. That’s what it feels like, now, kind of, except where the nightmares feel visceral and frightening and have him jolting awake drenched in sweat and violently sick, right now he’s– fine.

It’s one of those nightmares, except all of the pieces are cut up and rearranged and the details are all disorganized, like somebody’s telling a story all out of order. Like the cinema, back when he was a kid; he had had this friend before he’d dropped out of high school who worked in the back room at the theater, and he’d gotten to watch, one time, and see how the movies that look like they play out as one cohesive and unbroken event when you’re sitting in the audience are really just a whole bunch of smaller reels, switched out between two different projectors to give the illusion of continuity. Right now, if this were a movie, all of those reels would be all jumbled up, and whoever’s running the show keeps forgetting how to time the switch between the projectors right; things keep overlapping, getting lost. Remixed.

“You want to maybe tell me what’s going on?” he says eventually.

“I–” She finally blinks, then, and tears her eyes away, looks somewhere over his shoulder, glassy and sightless. “I don’t– I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Bucky shifts on the chair as he watches her, leaning back, resting his elbows on the arms, trying to appear casual, relaxed, which is– not how he feels. He’s not stressed out, really, but that same thing is going on with his awareness, like the last time; everything is sharp and bright and detailed, and he’s here, he’s present, he’s not caught up in his own thoughts or in his memories or in the past, separated from everything else in his head like he’s cordoned off from it all by this thick pane of glass. “Okay, well, what do you know?”

Here is what he knows: when he’d gone back through the memory, some of the patterns she’d used when they’d fought were HYDRA, but a lot of them weren’t. He thinks she’s probably been brainwashed, but it’s hard to tell to what extent, and even harder to tell why. She knows him, and he’d bet that’s why she keeps coming back here.

She doesn’t answer the question. She still hasn’t moved, not even to shift her weight, like she can’t feel the way her body must be getting sore from standing in the same place for a while. Normal people, they fidget a fucking lot. Bucky’s not as bad as he used to be, so he moves, now, occasionally, aware of his muscles complaining if he’s stayed still for too long, but it’s infrequent enough to make people uncomfortable. 

He figures it probably doesn’t make her uncomfortable. He figures even if it did, deep down– she probably wouldn’t even know.

“You know me,” he presses, after the silence has drawn out for a long time. “You knew my name.”

She looks back at him again. Even the way her eyes move is strange, unnatural, too sharp and too sudden and too intent. People don’t realize this, either, but when they look at stuff, they never really look at it; the eyes move, back and forth, just a little bit. Compensating for the fact that the human field of vision is actually pretty narrow, filling in the bits in the periphery. When she looks at things, there’s no movement. Just this unwavering precision. That happens to him sometimes, still. 

“Do you know your name?” he asks her, and she flinches. 

That thing that he’d seen the last time, like a spark, or a glint, or something, when she’d been about to do some serious damage to herself in order to escape and he’d let her go, when she’d recognized that– it’s back. 

Absently, Bucky thinks about Romania. This apartment is way fucking nicer than the one he’d had then; a one-bedroom, new, light fixtures that all work and really great water pressure and a kitchen that’d been remodeled just last year. In Bucharest, he’d lived in a studio, with windows that didn’t latch and leaked when it rained and hot water only sometimes. 

“How about you just tell me your name,” he says, more firmly than the first time. “You know it, it’s always the first thing to come back.”

That’s not really true. The first things are feelings, but they’re fleeting and sometimes wrong. A name is a concrete thing. It’s a fact. You can write it down and you can say it aloud and you can hold onto it.

She jerks back like he’d slapped her. “How do you know that,” she replies, still flat, but wavering a little; so little that if he didn’t know , he probably wouldn’t notice.

James Buchanan Barnes. He’d carved it with a pocket-knife into the floorboards of that studio apartment, above where he’d hidden his go-bag underneath, in the spots where water damage had rotted it, made the wood soft, like carving into skin. It was insurance. To make sure he couldn’t forget. He’d stare at it, when his nightmares would keep him awake, and the letters would float out of focus and distort and stop making sense, like when you say the same word over and over, until it means nothing.

Eventually, there were other things, too. 

Your mother’s name was Sarah. You used to wear newspapers in your shoes. 

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Bucky says. “Tell me your name.”

That spark in her eyes is bigger, flickering, like watching a candle in a windowsill. “I– I don’t–”

“You can tell me,” he repeats, louder, “You know it. You’ve said it, haven’t you? Out loud, to yourself, and I bet you’ve written it down somewhere, you know it, I know you do–”

His voice rises in volume and lowers in pitch without him meaning for it to, and something inside of her flips like a switch, that candle stops being a candle and it flashes bright and wild like a molotov cocktail or a fucking car bomb, like flames licking up the side of a building, the veneer of neutrality cracked open and something vicious and violent and vulnerable underneath and whatever of that is still left inside of him rears up to press at the surface of his skin and he thinks yes, come on, just fucking say it–

Her eyes flash and harden and her mouth presses into this trembling line and she turns and disappears down the hallway.

“Oh– god damn it,” Bucky says, the tension he hadn’t even registered collecting in his body giving out, his back slumping into the chair cushions. 

He sits there for a long time before he finally gets up and goes down the hall to his bedroom, where he stares at the open window, and then pulls it shut.

~

Bucky sleeps in his bed, that night, and not in the living room. He doesn’t have nightmares, and he doesn’t even really wake up on the hour like he’d expected to. Instead, he dreams. In his dream, he comes home to a darkened apartment, case of beer in hand, and he walks the length of the living room and he opens the fridge and sets it inside. When he closes the door, she’s standing behind it, and dream-him jerks like he’s been startled, though he doesn’t feel any actual fear.

She has a gun to his head. She’d been in civilian clothes both times he’d seen her, but in his dream she’s wearing black. Body armor.

“Sorry,” she tells him. Like she’s talking about the hole in the wall.

Her finger tightens around the trigger.

He closes his eyes.

Bucky wakes up before it goes off. His bedroom is flooded with morning light and his heart is beating slow and steady and he feels, strangely, fine. 

~

Doc stops halfway through a back-and-forth about whether or not he’d consider actually picking up woodworking as a hobby– you need hobbies, James, it’s part of being a well-adjusted human being, to which he’d flashed a not-smile and said back, I thought the reason I come here twice a month is because I’m not one, Doc.

She’d looked at him like a parent looks at a child who’s being snarky on purpose, which– fuck that, honestly. He’d been alive probably before her parents were even born.

And then she’d just leaned towards him and tapped her pen against her notebook and stared, the way normal people stare, her eyes fidgeting back and forth, not staying anywhere for long, flicking over his expression and his posture and the way that he’s holding himself in the too-small annoyingly-uncomfortable chair–

“You’re in a good mood,” she says, and then, as an afterthought. “Relatively speaking.”

Bucky scowls at her. “I'm not in a– good mood,” he says. 

She raises an eyebrow at him like she thinks he’s full of shit. “I’d like to discuss it. Your mood. Good or otherwise.”

The scowl deepens. It’s real fucking aggravating, the way that she always prefaces shit with I’d like to and let’s try and if you would as if he has any choice in the matter. As if this isn’t a session he’s forced into attending because the alternative is– many years in prison. Many. So many.

He closes his eyes for a second. He has a headache starting; he always gets fucking headaches, here. “It’s nothing, I don’t know,” he says. She stares some more, the way she does when she’s not going to say shit, the threat of talk or I’m court-ordering you back to sessions more frequently than either of us want to be seeing each other lingering unspoken in the deeply annoying silence.

Bucky makes some vague frustrated noise and then does what he usually does when she gets like this; racks his brain and makes something up. 

“I met someone,” he says finally, which is true. “They’re a veteran,” which is also true. Kind of. “I’ve seen them a lot,” not really, three times isn’t that much, but the context kind of makes it feel like it is. “And I guess I’ve just been thinking about them. We’ve started– talking. Kind of. Not really friends, but– acquaintances. We have–” he shifts on his chair, crosses an ankle over his knee, thinks, again, about how the government could buy furniture that doesn’t suck. “We have a lot in common.”

Doc blinks at him; she’d sat forwards, the way she does when she’s pressing him, and she leans back, now, which he’s sure makes him palpably relax. “A veteran,” she repeats, pensive, “World War 2?”

He scoffs. “No.” 

“Korea?”

“No.” 

She gives him this look, which he figures is something along the lines of would it kill you to just answer the obvious question here?

Bucky sighs, long-suffering. “Recent. I don’t– it hasn’t come up, but they’re pretty young, so.”

Doc makes some approving sound and nods and writes something in her notebook. He hates that fucking notebook. Sometimes he thinks about breaking into the office and setting it on fire, but the risk-to-reward ratio, he figures, just isn’t worth it. He’d probably go to prison. Or worse, he’d be sent all the way back to visits twice a week. 

“If they’re around your age–” he opens his mouth to say something technically probably obnoxious, but she shoots him a sharp look and says, “Your physical age, James,” before he can– “--it’s likely to have been Iraq or Afghanistan.”

She glances up and to the left of him– the clock. Great; they have to be almost done. “Both of those wars were– complex. Most of my clients served in one or the other,” she says. “Quite a large number of soldiers who were simply following orders found themselves responsible for the deaths of innocents; I’m not surprised you have things in common. I think it would be beneficial for you to make friends you can relate to.”

What he thinks: 

I don’t have anything in common with people who chose to follow orders. People who chose to do-- anything.

What he says, instead; “What, you want me to make friends with them?”

She sets the pad and the pen down on the table beside her chair. “This is one of those things that’s more about what you want, James,” she says eventually.

“I don’t know what I want,” he replies.

~

It’s been a week, since he saw her; she’s not there, when Bucky steps into his apartment after taking the subway back from therapy. He wonders for a second if he’d fucked up the last time, scared her off, but he knows, objectively, it’s too early to consider the possibility. Not like he could do anything about it, anyway; he doesn’t have the connections to be able to figure out who she is without a name.

That night he has the dream again. The apartment, darkened and silent. The bright, washed-out white of the open fridge, setting the case of beer on the second shelf, the inside otherwise empty. Spotless. Like a prop. Dreams are weird.

He knows what’s going to happen when he closes the door, this time. For a second it looks like there’s something red on her arm, at the shoulder, but when he looks harder for it there’s nothing, just unbroken black.

“Sorry,” she tells him, again, only this time she keeps going. “I have to. I don’t have a choice.”

“It’s okay,” he says; this is new, too. “I know. It’s going to be okay.”

Her finger tightens around the trigger in slow-motion, and he doesn't close his eyes, this time.

Bucky still wakes up before the gun actually goes off, and he still wakes up feeling weirdly calm. He prefers this, he decides, over the dreams about killing people. Dreaming of being killed– that’s fine. Better, actually.

He sits up and he swings his legs over the side of the bed– he’d been taking advantage of the lack of nightmares and the suspicious ease with which he’s been sleeping, lately, because he’s kind of getting old and his body has started to hate him whenever he doesn’t sleep on an actual mattress– and when he stretches his back doesn’t ache or twinge or crack the way it does when he sleeps on the floor.

He yawns. He rubs at his eyes until splotches of color burst behind his eyelids, and then he opens them, and he waits for his vision to unblur, and–

He zeroes in on something moving on the windowsill with an instinctive and familiar efficiency.

It’s a slip of paper, folded up and trapped between the glass and the mesh screen, fluttering gently with the breeze. It’s from a notebook, ripped out, the kind that comes from one of those slender, flimsy little pocket-sized spiral ones you can get at the dollar store, the pages inside so thin they might as well be tissue paper.

On it, scrawled in shaky, uneven handwriting, is a name.

~

He has the dream a bunch more times after that, and it's mostly the same, and then it isn't.

Stepping through the door to his apartment, stepping into an open mouth; the lights are on, this time, but somehow the room is still dark, just these glittering shards of white on the ceiling that look like sharp, gleaming teeth. He can’t see her as he rounds the counter to the fridge, and though he tries to turn his head and look, the dream body won’t obey. Just opens the door, puts the beer inside– there’s stuff in the fridge, just splotches of color that could be anything– and then closes it again.

Gun to his head. The muzzle is touching his skin, this time, which is weird, and also stupid. You don’t touch people with the gun you’re pointing at them; that’s a really good way to get it taken from you. But it’s a dream, and even though he tries to turn and disarm her, his body stays still.

“Sorry,” she says, “I have to. I don’t have a choice.”

It’s okay. I know. It’s going to be okay. He’s had this dream a lot of times, now, and so he expects–

He says the name from the notebook paper. Her name. She’d given it to him, she’d wanted him to have it. 

Her finger tightens around the trigger all at once, and he doesn't wake up, this time, but the gun doesn’t go off, either. 

It clicks. Jammed. She opens her hand, and it drops, and then it disappears instead of hitting the floor, because– dreams.

“What do I do now,” she says. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

"It's okay,” he hears himself reply. "Just-- let me help you."

[sixthwater]

Hello my friend, I hope you are doing well and swimming in money and happiness. My question is, what in the chart can tell us about which quality that is more likely to be valued or noticed by people around us? Is it 10th house and 11th house again? Or are there specific placements to look at?

I might have gotten some details wrong but there's a guy, a creative, he makes content. He tried all kinds of content but none of them worked out, most of these things had himself as the focus. He took a step back and realised that he was good at making other people famous. So he decided to make other people the focus of his content, in a way that allows their individual uniqueness to shine. That's how he got famous. It's like a secret ingredient. He probably has placements that make him feel drawn to creative and independent work, but those specific elements of 'people' and 'uniqueness' are what make the crowd notice him and his work. I want to know where we can find this specific indicator, if possible. It doesn't have to be worldwide recognition like this dude, as long as it pertains to a crowd or group of people.

I mean, yes there's a possibility that if another person tried the same idea he did, it might still be noticed by others, but I wonder if every person has their own secret ingredient. The reason for my ask is that I'm writing a fictional story, and I'm wondering what theme, quality or method I should emphasize in the story that will align with my chart and all the points that can help make the work stand out. I'm doing this for fun I'll still do it regardless of whether I get recognitions or not, but like, why not try making the best version of it at the same time y'know. Also if this quality can be replicated in other fields as well, and not only in creative projects.

(Asking like a true Leo midheaven lol).

Thank you very much for your insights if you chose to answer! Have a lovely day 😌💗💖💗💖💗

Hello!

Qualities that are noticed by others can be found in the:

First House, Fifth House, Sixth House, Seventh House, Tenth House.

You don't have to have planets in these houses, whatever sign sits on them will be noticed by others (ie; aries over the fifth will gain you the reputation of being an active or competitive partner, gemini over the sixth causes people to notice you always dabbling in different things or you're big on small talk, etc).

It depends on the person for what's valued, an introvert will probably avoid someone with Gemini over the sixth (if they're a regular at a store and they know this cashier often strikes up a conversation, they will go to self-checkout for example), so that's up to how the charts play out.

Recognition

Oh I love talking about this, yes you can figure that out! Very obvious one is Second House Ruler Within the Eleventh. It can lead to either gaining from others or helping others. Amy Peohler has this and when you think of the entire cast of Parks & Rec (a show i believe she produced), nearly everyone from there got shot into memorable castings after that. Even then, she's at her best when she's working with those she's close to/on great terms with (which is attributed to her Jupiter, the ruler).

Uh, I guess you can also say Tenth Ruler Within the Eighth, but that heavily depends on what the sign/planet is. This arrangement can range from healing others, dealing with things behind the scenes, or showing others how to deal with things and helping them adjust to life (access to hidden knowledge and sharing it with others). It's not the same as making other people famous though. It's more like showing people the ropes so they can do it themselves lmao.

For You

I think? I remember where your sun is (whenever I write smart stuff I memorize it jifdksa;jfeia). If your chart is the same under whole sign then I think focusing on themes of relations and day to day life would be beneficial? I have a shit ton of stories that I never finished so what good are they to me *coughs in second ruler in eleventh* but idk i feel like you have a lot of stories to tell, and i feel like people would appreciate having a sort of 'comfort character' cause i think that definition has distorted from literal comfort within the last few years lmao

[mood2you]

The excesses of capitalism are shrinking... We don't sell coffee or soup anymore--well we've gone from soup only in winter, to soup only on weekends, to soup Saturday. There's nothing consumers can do, we're phasing it out, with no replacement. Also soda is now 4 dollars.

My dream for a different system is if you do notice that even having soup available at normal times but it's not moving, listen I used to take 1 bowl of soup home and that was usually all or most of the soup. In a different system you could just be moving soup to workers at closing, but if I didn't like the soup I would soon say no, I'll just throw it out at home, I'd rather throw it in our dumpster. You know? If it's that bad. I'm really not sure why it doesn't sell, but it basically doesn't, whereas it used to. Maybe it got worse. Maybe it got cheaper, maybe it got cut with more flour and less cheese, maybe it got more water and less salt, or more fat and less veg. And in my dream, if it's not moving, they make it better, they do make it more expensive not cheaper, and maybe advertise it better. People love to see something failing and make it even worse. And I know it's more expensive to make things better than worse, but everything is getting worse and worse, and there's not even a premium expensive version that is better, everything is cheap (it actually isn't) and bad.

An example is my library has self-chekout, most do, and must have for about 15 years. I do usually use it, but if there is a line or--for me they were broken for about a year and I got used to having a librarian scan stuff. I actually can't tell you why, but there is a new promotion, "use self checkout, spin the wheel, get a prize!" libraries are so catered to kids that they might just be wanting to teach kids how to use the machine, but it's just so funny because you will still need a librarian there with free hands to give you the prize. When I spun it, I just took a bookmark, which I could have taken I'm sure even if I didn't land on blue!

But I am except from this because I don't know how to make things better, like, if I knew how to make MY soup better, well, I would. When it comes to soup I'm sometimes scared to completely ruin it and waste it, what if I add cream and it becomes sweet and salty battling in an unflattering way? What if I add a pepper and it turns bitter? For my art I literally don't know what to tell you. I think libraries should open 12 hours a day if it's not getting foot-traffic. One flaw with my scheme is "soup new formula" would scare me like did the old formula give everyone tummy aches? I don't want it. But "library open 10-10" is just saying the news. Extra extra read all about it. That's so expensive that's 4 extra hours of labor and that's tired workers on the road after dark!

If your saleman isn't selling give him a raise.

[cinnamonest]

Ok but also modern Xiao is the exact type of boy to fall madly in love with a camgirl/egirl.

Like people joke about "beta" dudes and simps being the type to like camgirls and whatnot but from what I've heard from accounts of camgirls, those dudes are the most *vocal*, but the real loyal viewers are the silent ones. Quiet, socially inept kissless-virgin loners that don't have a social life to speak of.

As a camgirl you get a lot of commenters during streams -- there's always dudes who feel the need, for whatever reason, to comment on parts of your body or the acts you perform, or a bunch of simple comments like "hot!!" and, you know, various spammed emojis. And most of the bastards seem to think their comments are worth more than money, since they leave the bare minimum despite all their drooling over you, but that's just how people are.

You do get one, though, that's virtually silent. Almost a lurker, if it weren't for the massive cash drops the guy deposits once per stream and one very short comment. It's very simple, it's always a huge donation, followed by a very simple request for this or that, a request that certainly isn't really worth the insane sum of money you're being given. Worded very plainly, no descriptive language or use of emojis or anything, it's more like "suck on it." or "use that one." Sometimes he alone out-donates the rest of your viewers combined.

Not to mention, he's the sole subscriber to the top tier of that patreon you started. So the mystery guy gets a lot of benefits. A custom 10-minute video per month, for starters. You weren't really certain what else you should put on that tier... So you contact him about it and agree upon sending him something per request every month. He's a gross perv, which you could have easily predicted. Asks for things like used underwear and shirts, lipstick prints on your polaroids, hell, you even fill up a tiny container with saliva once for him. Oh, bathwater too. Gross. But he's paying, so.

And then, he starts asking... For something different. A conversation. You're a bit surprised at first, but he's serious. So you do it. Schedule a thirty minute session, message back and forth. You expected maybe he wanted to say something, but you end up doing 99% of the talking - he just asks simple questions. What do you do when you're not working? What do you do for fun? Do you have any family? Do you have any friends? Essentially an interrogation into your life. It feels like the kind of questions someone would ask on a first date, to be honest. You can't help but feel some pity for the guy if he's so lonely that he's willing to pay for this, so, you let it go a bit over the time limit.

You ask some things in return - he seems to not like talking about himself, quickly turns back around to questioning you, but gives brief answers - You're surprised to learn he's young, and not, well, a gross old dude like you're aware most viewers are. Seems odd, why can't he just go out and meet people? You can't say so directly, it would be rude, but he seems to pick up on the hint from things you say and answers the unspoken question - I'm not good with people.

He's aware of how it all works. He's not a delusional bastard that thinks a girl on the internet actually gives a shit about anything but his money, but... It feels nice. He's... A very lonely person. Never got along well with others, never really had anyone that cared. You're always so sweet in your little messages, you send little heart emojis and smileys and xoxo's in every message you send him, and he knows it's part of the act, but sometimes he does like to pretend it's real. The semblance of kindness and warmth and love. Likes to pretend you're being that sweet because that's how you actually are. Likes to forget that he's living on ramen and has a flat-zero savings balance because he's blowing his grocery money and savings on you. Likes to forget the transaction entirely, pretend there's no money involved. And most importantly, likes to forget you have plenty of other dudes that pay for you.

If he's being honest, he does sometimes let... Fantasies run through his head. Sometimes. But he knows it's dumb. And he feels pathetic about it, really. It's not like he can even hope to get a girlfriend in real life, he can't even remember the last time he talked to a female human being. Or... Anyone, for that matter. He has no friends, he works from home online. To say his social life is empty is an understatement.

Becoming addicted to you is only natural. He realizes he's becoming obsessed, but doesn't see any point in fighting it. You're just so sweet, so nice, and you even take your clothes off too. So he... Kinda starts to lie to himself, intentionally. It's almost kinda like having a girlfriend, isn't it? A... Long distance one. That doesn't know his name, that he probably doesn't know your real name, and has never seen his face, but... Still. It's kinda like that, isn't it? Maybe, just maybe, he can hold a little bit of hope in that dream every dude that ever loves a camgirl has... That somehow, a miracle happens and he has a real chance.

But it occurs to him that even if that's not what fate has in mind, he can make that reality come true.

Perhaps you're desensitized to creepy, given how so many of your followers are, so you make what will ultimately be a mistake. One month he asks for something... Odd. Says he wants to send you something that you should wear in your stream, that's the arrangement for this month. You set up a PO box. Figure it can't lead directly to you that way. It's a t-shirt, rather plain single color. It occurs to you that it's probably one of his, that he'll get off to seeing you wear, but something feels... Off about the whole exchange. Like there's some other intention you don't realize.

See, he's a bit tech savvy and has already well figured out where you live in general, he just wasn't sure which apartment it was, so he waits outside for you to pick up the package and follows you home. What a perfect, utterly unimaginable coincidence it turned out to be - here you could have been separated by oceans and countries and yet, it turned out you two lived in the very same town! Well, you knew that when he sent you his address for mailing, but you were smarter than to inform the guy who spends nearly his entirely salary on a camgirl (let's face it, no one who does that can be a mentally stable person) that you just so happen to live so close together. He realizes you avoided mentioning that realization, but he understands why.

Yes, he understands exactly why you wouldn't tell him, because you know that if he found that out, then he might do exactly what he knows he's going to do.

Also, you seem to be looking over your shoulder a lot more lately. He would know, he counts the number of times you do it every day for the past week. At least when you're outside, he can't see you as well when you're inside your place, even with the binoculars.

Your paranoia is what he thinks about as he goes to the store - walks there of course, so no cameras capture license plates. Wears a hoodie over his head. Self-checkout. Pay with cash, untraceable. Double-bags to make sure no one can see the red-flag combination of acetone, bleach and duct tape.

Yeah, he can't say he blames you, but you started being cautious a little bit too late.

[nightowlfandom]

Kakashi Hatake- Cheeky

 ANON ASKS

Hey author-chan how are you? Well I saw that your requests are open and I would like to know if you write to Naruto and if the answer is yes, could I get a Kakashi x f!reader imagine/oneshot with prompt #19, please?

I ended up asking her to choose a couple more prompts, aaannnd here they are!

#19- Hmm, who you tryna’ look sexy for babygirl?

#20- Don’t finish that sentence darling…it won’t end well for you

#27- I couldn’t stop thinking about you all day.

#30- Dance for me. I’ll sit right here and you put on a show, okay?

 #47- You’re too cheeky for you own good, kid.

warning.....I will fuck up your day. Might be OOC but almost all my shit kinda is imo lol Does anyone really care?....he spits in your mouth..... I am sorry for absolutely nothing.

CHECKOUT MY MASTERLIST HERE!

Leggo

...

“Watch it, Kid!”

“Why don’t you walk where you walk!” you caught the throwing star between your two fingers as it was hurled back at you. “You’re cutting into my training time.” you rolled your eyes.

“Damnit Y/N you could have taken my eye out.” Kakashi groaned. “Be careful with that thing!” 

“Like that would have been a bad thing.” you scoffed. “Get out of the way next time.” you rubbed your shoulder. “If you weren’t in my line of vision, you wouldn’t have almost got caught in the crossfire.”

“You know you love looking at me.”

“How can I when no one ever sees your face.” you burst out laughing. “What kinda mug you got under than mask, huh?” you challenged. 

“You’re too cheeky for your own good kid, someone outta bring you down a few notches.”

“And just whose gonna do that.” you rolled your eyes, turning away from him.

You ignored his answer and bent over, stretching to touch your toes. “My back.” you groaned. When you stood up straight again, he was staring at you. “You need something?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” he blinked(...or winked?) at you.

“I can’t tell if that was a wink or not...” you raised a brow.

“Good.”

“You’re a real-”

“ Don’t finish that sentence darling…it won’t end well for you “

He walked off, undoubtedly wearing a self-satisfactory look on his face.

“How does she put up with him?”

“Damn, I thought she was really gonna kill him for a minute.”

“You’d think those two liked each other with how much they argue backed and forth.”

“It’s not nice to gossip.” you called behind your back to your comrades. You shoved the throwing star back into your pouch and walked off. Kakashi Hatake and Y/N L/N were always the talk of the town. One was always getting on the nerves of the others.

....

You were relaxing in your house after a long day of training. It was good to work out your skills while nothing was going on. You never knew when something was gonna happen. You stretched your arms over your head as you walked into your kitchen. 

“God I’m starving.” you sighed. Before you could dig through your fridge, there was a knock at the door.

“I’m coming!” you called, knowing they could hear. As you neared the door, the knocking only got louder. “Geez Hold on-!” You yanked the door open to see Kakashi awkwardly standing there. He wore his authoritative demeanor.

“Y/N, may I come in?” he spoke. You almost peaked behind his shoulder, people were walking around outside. ‘We must talk.”

“Sure.” you made room for him to walk in. Just as you closed the door, you were pushed up against the door. He yanked down his mask to show that daring smirk. You felt his lips brush against yours. Kakashi wrapped his arms around your waist, hoisting you up and pushing you even further against the door.

“ I couldn’t stop thinking about you all day. “ he moaned against your lips. “Shit you drive me crazy.” he growled.  “I bet you thought your little show was cute.”

“Got your attention didn’t it?” you giggled through the friction. “If we’re gonna sneak around, might as well make it fun for me too.”

For the last several months you had been more than casual with Kakashi. He trailed his hand down your spine, resting at the base of your back. 

“I have half a mind to punish you.” he began kissing down your neck. “But I missed you so much.”

“So does that mean you can stay for the night or do you have to wrangle those three morons again?” you melted into his tough as the thoughts of the Three Stooges getting into trouble that required Kakashi to clean up....again. 

“I’ll stay if you want me to.” he began kissing your cheeks, forehead, nose and lips. He kept rotating around each area of your face. To answer his question, you helped him out of his jacket. “Hm, okay then.” he smirked. 

“I don’t need to tell you where my bedroom is do I?” you stepped away from him.

... (Two days later)

Training in the woods wasn’t so bad. But training while Kakashi dragged his students along was gonna drive you absolutely crazy.

“Y/N! Y/N!”

“Yes. Naruto.” you seethed. ‘What can I do for you.”

“I’m gonna be the best Ninja in the world! You just watch! I’ll be able to beat you one day!”

“That’s great buddy!” you tried to laugh. Cute. No one could compare to you when it came to throwing sharp things at a target. You walked by Kakashi sending him a harsh glare. You walked ahead of the group. No one could see it, but your annoyance made him smile a bit. You stopped in front of a three, pinning a target to it before walking a good 30 feet away from it. You went into your pouch and took out a throwing star.

With a single flick of the wrist you threw it, watching it slice through the air and hit the target right in the middle. You walked back another few feet and did it again. Good to know you hadn’t lost your touch.

“Wow. Miss Y/N sure knows what she’s doing.” Sakura whispered to Kakashi. “I can see why everyone raves about her,”

“Yes. She is very capable, Sakura. She has impeccable precision.” he commented. Although he was thinking something completely different. Everyone watched as you took out your annoyance on the bullseye target, When you had ran out of stars, you trudged back up to the tree and yanked each one out.

Later on, Sakura, Sasuke, and Naruto were all napping. All had passed out at some point after some extreme training courtesy of Kakashi. As for you, you were sitting by the lake, getting some much needed recreation. You had just gone for a swim. The ice cold water felt perfect. 

You stood up against the tree facing away from everyone. You were prepared to get back into the water when Kakashi came up, slowly ridding himself of his shirt as he did.

“Going for a-” you were cut off as he pushed himself against you, claiming your mouth in a kiss. Not that you weren’t totally happy, but his students were literally napping less that 50 feet away from you both.

“W-wha are you-?”

“Shhh.” Kakashi pulled down his mask then got down on his knees as he fumbled with your panties. “If we’re gonna do this, you gotta be quiet.”

“You’ve had some pretty dumb ideas but-...fuh.” you cut yourself off as you felt him trail his hands up your thigh. He pressed small kisses down your thighs. You were still soaking wet from the water, so your skin was slippery. He pulled your panties down, placing small kisses along your heat.

You dared peek over your shoulder. Everyone was still sleeping, but you found it hard to focus. Kakashi gently drove his tongue into your slit, causing a sharp gasp to escape your lungs. Your legs shook as his tongue flicked against your clit.

“Kakashi~” you shuddered. You found yourself running your hands against his silvery white hair. He grabbed your leg and hooked it over his shoulder. “We could get caught!”

“Exciting isn’t it?” he giggled. “You just have to stay quiet.” you felt his fingers slither inside you. “ Come on Y/N... Dance for me. I’ll sit right here and you put on a show, okay? “ he moaned, sloppily dragging his tongue up your slit. “Shit- You’re so fucking good, Y/N. You’re soaking.” he laughed evilly. 

“Whose f-fault is that!”

He slapped your ass, making you gasp again. You could just picture that shit eating grin on his face. 

You were made to stand up straight as Kakashi rose to his feet. He hoisted you up, wrapping both of your legs around his torso. You hadn’t noticed that his pants had dropped around his ankles. You felt his painfully slowly slide himself inside. 

“They’re still sleeping.” he grunted, slowly thrusting into you. “Fuck I needed this.” he moaned. “I need you~” he coughed. “Kiss me.” 

He, in a hurry, sloppily kissed you. Your tongues clashed. You faced heated up from the lewd sounds your mouths made as they clashed together. Kakashi pushed your further against the tree. 

“Kakashi..” you were able to muster. 

“Open your fucking mouth.” he cut you off. “Now...” he growled. 

You obediently did as he asked, sticking out your tongue as Kakashi let a line of drool go from his tongue to yours. He claimed your mouth again while he dug his nails into your thighs. His cock twitched inside of you as his thrusts grew sloppy. 

You couldn’t even talk through his kisses. Your insides clenched around him, feeling yourself grow more and more sensitive at his touch. You didn’t care how loud you were anymore and he didn’t either. 

“I’m gonna- I’m gonna fucking cum. I’m gonna- ARGH-” 

You felt him practically bottom out inside of you, cumming inside your depths. To avoid making any sounds, he kissed you again. With one harsh thrust, you came too. You heard those lewd watery sounds as liquids dripped out of your pussy, down your legs. Poor plants. 

“Kakashi~” you moaned again.

“It feels good?” he talked down to you in a babyish voice. “You like my cum inside you don’t you.” he spilled the rest of himself into you tightness. “And they’re still sleeping.” he smirked. “You were worried about nothing.”

“Shut up.” you rolled your eyes. You whined as he slowly removed himself from you. 

“It’s running down your leg.” he laughed. “Shit, you’re so sexy.” he dragged his tongue down your neck. “Shit-”

“You’re lucky we didn’t get caught.” you shakily spoke. “And you call me the cheeky one.”

“Hm, don’t be like that, babe...or else I might not to easy on you this time.”

(This one was not so much hardcore, but it was something, so I’m all caught up with requests I think! Does anyone here fucks with Haikyuu?.....Can I- Can I write for Haikyuu?)

[jiminrings]

can we get a fratboy Jimin and good girl oc with pinning from both sides 👀 ahhhh thank u in advance love ur writing!!

cherry king

drabble week: day four

drabble week masterlist

pairing: fratboy!jimin x goody two-shoes!reader

wordcount: 3k

glimpse: "y-you uhm, you-? y'know, you like... doing that? is that why it's your nickname?"

feedback + support mean the world to me!!

“next!”

great!! the line’s moving :D

that’s only like the 87th time jimin has heard the word next and it makes him wonder how much more would it take him to bring him to the front

(it’s actually only been 14 times and jimin might just be a self-admitted impatient bitch!!!)

he understands that yes, it’s ten in the evening!!! and reasonably-large stores/pharmacies like these can have less staff at the time compared to ten in the morning

sure, checkout machines and cashier lanes could be broken down!! or they could just not be open at all

jimin gets that alright, maybe the self-checkout machines are close at this time of the night because it is ten in the evening

what’s not clicking in his mind, however is that at the exact time that he comes here

as in the EXACT time that he’s here (!!!) — there happens to be dozens of people in a store at ten in the evening, and there happens to be a grand total of one (1) cashier lane

atleast random store music would be entertaining :((( all he hears are the beeps of a scanner and the chatter of groups of people who came here

jimin was eavesdropping on some guys in front of him and he wAS invested but lmao turns they were just discussing the plot of die hard or any testosterone-jacked movie like it

he’s also tried looking at the smaller middle-aged woman’s phone in front of him who’s scrolling through her facebook feed, but quickly decides against continuing it

because what if u could see his face and when she turns it off, she’d see a college guy deeply-invested in the baloney article she was reading about how subway sandwiches are the work of the devil

so uh yeah he’s just looking everywhere besides the front, back, and the sides of him and in all angles basically

he’s,,,,, aimlessly scrolling through his instagram feed he’s already scrolled through tHREE times and his explore’s page a little too dry

it’s a good thing that jimin’s entirely sure he’s the nosiest person out of this line and no one else is trying to figure him out

might be wrong though

“cherry king?”

hold the fuck on

jimin’s eyes widen, head snapping up and clueless to the fact that he doesn’t look discreet at all, and his head-cocking’s the most movement he’s done the whole time in this store

WHO’S SAYING HIS NICKNAME?????

it can’t be a coincidence either because as far as he’s concerned, there isn’t anything named cherry king that’s being sold here

there is literally NO other plausible scenario happening here besides the fact that someone who knows him is in the store!!!!

his gaze falls to the person behind him, brows knitted in confusion until it clicks

oh

that was you?

“jimin? huh, it really is you. i thought i was losing my mind for a second.”

“y/n?”

okay maybe hE’S the one who’s losing his mind here

he knows you!! you’re the smart girl in his year who’s known for being pristine and stuff!! you’re like the good-est girl he’s ever known and heard of

.... quick question lads is that weird to know someone by

“you could’ve just called me by my name, y’know,” jimin chuckles heartily, still a little dumbfounded to see you here but he’s grateful for the interaction nonetheless

you look casual today?? like you still look like yourself but everyone else would think it’s an out-of-body experience to see you out of your pretty dresses and monochromatic get-ups

it’s you..,.. in a hoodie three sizes larger than your size with your pristine shoes traded in for socked-feet wearing slides

jimin thinks that you look like grace under pressure

“i wasn’t sure,” you smile right back and it’s the first time he realizes that there’s glasses atop your nosebridge, softening your image more from the usual composed look you carried

“how were you sure enough to say my nickname out-loud though?”

jimin questions you, bringing light to how he’s wearing a plain white shirt and is looking as relaxed as ever with how he’s dressed — his hair long enough to be put into a messy sprout of a bun

you clear your throat, the amusement bubbling in your scratchy throat

“you have yourself as your lockscreen, jimin.”

oh my gOD

he winces when you say it, eyes screwing shut in embarrassment that he whines in pain with how direct you put it

“n-no way — fuck you respectfully, y/n. i-i’m not- i’m changing it right now!!”

does he look the vainest person alive rn

the way he has a mini freakout entertains you to your core, giggles unable to be suppressed as he finds the latest-taken picture he has of dogs that he comes across with

that’s 10/10 an experience he doesn’t want to repeat again

“it’s okay. i won’t tell anyone.”

he hears you reassure and he believes you, a flustered blush on his cheek still as he coughs to make up for a diversion topic he couldn’t think of

frankly, you’re getting bored too and jimin’s the only form of entertainment you have because using your phone atm would be too disorienting

“what are you doing here, by the way?”

your head tilts in query and he’s relieved that you address something else, not being relieved seconds later when he realizes his answer

“just a little supply run for our frat. we weren’t supposed to run out of things for three more days, so this is just a lil emergency haul for awhile.”

you nod in understanding, glancing down at his basket and uh

uhm 1/4 of the space is literally occupied by boxes of condoms

....

......

jimin’s confused to why you turn silent, thinking that he must’ve gotten boring to continue talking to until he follows your gaze to his basket

NO WAY?!]>|>]%%[%]%]

“i-it’s not l-like that!!!” he crouches and immediately gets the food and the bottles of shampoo and conditioner to bury the condoms in the bottom of the pile, attractively getting more attention from you who’s ready to let it go

“i-it’s not — it’s ours — n-no!! t-they just gave me a list and i just put it because it’s on the list b-but like it wasn’t my-...”

how many more times will the universe fuck jimin up in front of the person he has a lil happy crush on

you only smile meekly, tilting your head and he thinks this is the part where you tell him how much of a douche he is

"y-you uhm, you-? y'know, you like... doing that? is that why it's your nickname?"

:O

“t-that?” jimin clarified albeit confused, thinking back to his nickname as he tries to rapidly connect the dots to not look like a fool

cherry king? that?? what do you-

WAIT WHAT

“nO!! o-of course not!!”

he almost shrieks and his voice sounds ultimately defensive, shaking his head no

why does he look so frantic

“hey, hey, i believe you! — calm down, jimin. you don’t have to explain anything to me.”

whew

fuck

but he argues that it iS the truth though!!!

but why won’t you just ask him why he’s called cherry king though >:(

you’re already content with the silence after the conversation but he isn’t, still wanting more

is it so bad that he wants redemption D:

“how about you? what are you doing here?”

you don’t answer instantly and it’s because you’re nudging jimin to continually walk, the cashier looking much more visible now as he’s nearer in line

he takes a look at the handful of things that’s in your basket —

electrolytes, hot pockets, soup, cup noodles and fever patches...?

“oh. i think i’m running a fever.”

what???

what are you doing here aLONE if you think you’re running a fever???

he’s not gonna lie about the fact that you don’t look too good

what if you pass out and no one’s there for you and all the graveyard shift employees do is put a wet floor sign around your figure???

“y/n?? what are you doing here alone then?? are you oUT of your mind??”

the panic in jimin’s voice is clear as day and you’re a little startled, instead responding to tapping him on the shoulder to point that he’s already the one on the cashier

what he does is grab your basket before he is, putting it in front of the conveyor belt because he couldn’t even wait for it to roll out

“i said i think i’m running a fever.”

jimin stops from simultaneously rummaging for his rewards card and putting his items on the counter to unceremoniously drop the box of condoms down jUST to put his hand on your forehead

“you are.”

you surely don’t think low of jimin but you can’t help be surprised either at his concern for you when this is the only time you’ve had a conversation with him!!!

“you drove here?” he asks in seriousness, sending you a look while waiting for the total amount

“walked. the airconditioning makes me even more sick,” you answer with no fuss because even thinking about car fresheners while you’re sporting a fever makes you want to gag. “let me-...”

jimin already pays for both your items in cash, getting them bagged separately as he’s not gonna take no for an answer for what he’s gonna propose next

“then i’ll keep the windows down. i’ll drive you back to your dorm.”

he grabs both your bags in one hand and uses the other to beckon you over, holding you still because it’s dark out and a fever vision wouldn’t exactly help

it’s only when he straps you in and (true to his word) puts the windows down and starts his car that you start asking

“why are you doing this for me?”

why IS he doing this for you??

jimin thinks about his answer in a second

“would you do the same for me?”

well

if you were in front of him at a godforsaken line, had yourself as your lockscreen, realize that jimin’s behind you with a fever and is by himself in a store at 10 in the evening

“of course i would.”

jimin smiles, steering away from his parking spot

“then i would too.”

( ♡ )

maybe you’re thinking of jimin

no wait you’re dEFINITELY thinking of jimin

you’re much better now and your fever’s already subsided enough for you to go back to class!!!

the whole interaction with him was three days ago and maybe your head is just full of him at this point

“are you sure you’re okay to handle this by yourself??”

jimin worries when he drops your bag to your hands, briefly coming inside your dorm to set it down

“mhmm. i’ll just sleep it out.”

“i think if you’re missing a couple of steps.”

you snort as his paranoid features, waving him off. “i’ll eat. then go to the bathroom. and then sleep.”

okay good enough

“what if this just-“ jimin trails off, his expansive mind suddenly running as he points to your chest, “stops????”

cute

“i have a smart watch.”

“would you put me as one of the emergency contacts? please?”

he’s making you take down his number without malice because jeez he’s gENUINELY worried!!!!

it may not always be great sharing a house with his frat brothers, but he knows that if he has a fever, atleast half of them would dote over him and you have atleast one who would go into hysterics!!! it’e a full package!!

“i’ll be okay, jimin. i’ll call you when i need someone to hand me my puke bucket.”

“please do. i’m not even kidding. get better now because i miss your dresses.”

o_O

uhm

“n-no i meant your usual style!! wait, not that there’s anything wrong w-with your style right now. i-i was-...”

“yeah. i miss them too. now go home, jimin.”

“you sure?”

u never really had the impulse to invite a guy to go inside your place but maybe now you do

“mhmm. drive safe.”

okay

:-)

“good night, y/n. call me whenever.”

classes were a bit rough today because you’re still easing yourself on getting back to the groove of things, but it was tolerable!!!

you’re getting your key out of your backpack when a lock clicks open a couple doors away from you, the hinge noisily squeaking

it’s jimin who leaves it, with seri who’s the actual occupant of the dorm leaning on the doorframe

“y/n—!”

he squeaks the moment his eyes land on you

your hand automatically waves, the same meek smile for him to see

“jimin.”

( ♡ )

the last interaction you had with him is still on jimin’s mind, a whole week later

it’s been bothering him recently that you know what it looks like the last time around!!!! but he could swear up and down that it wasn’t

he just feels this great urge to explain even if you haven’t asked

“oh. so we have to move out for the time-being?”

jimin clarifies with namjoon, the head of the frat, and he’s met with a solemn nod

it makes sense!!!

the house got checked today and there were mULTIPLE fire hazards!!! and it needs to be fumigated anyway under new campus protocol so it indeed makes sense

practically everyone's going home because it’s a long weekend anyway because of a holiday

and he’s not sure if he wants to take the same route.

“hi.”

jimin squeaks the moment you open your door, surprise evident on your face but not shock to the point you’d close the door on him

“jimin?”

okay maybe he’s gonna go straight to explaining

“frat house needed to be closed because of some complications, and it wouldn’t be open to us for another three days. most of the guys are coming home,” jimin clears his throat, his head down while he shyly scratches the back of his ear, “i have one, but i’m not sure if i wanna.”

oh

it’s that problem

it takes one, two seconds before it all registers in your head, nodding surely

“you can take my bed. i’ll take the couch, it’s a pull-out anyways.”

you open the door for him widely and the only thing you ask if he’s had dinner and if he’d like some

god you’re really throwing him in a loop here

it’s after a batch of your cooking that jimin’s only ache is why you were the way that you were, half-dazed the whole time he’s met you properly

“why do you never ask me?”

“hmm?” you hum as you dry the dishes that you’ve used, wanting to get it done as soon as possible so your full attention would be on him

no, actually. jimin WANTS you to pry!!

he wants you to worm your way into his privacy and into the confines of his mind

but it seems like you’ve already did without even asking.

“ask me why i’m called the cherry king.”

you tilt your head in confusion, that time playing in your head of why jimin looked confused when you didn’t continue to ask further

maybe you’ll indulge him

“why are you called the cherry king?”

jimin smiles, leaning to your couch with his arms relaxed

“we did secret santa for christmas at our frat house. taehyung thought it would be nice if he pranked me by gifting me a jar full of cherries, but i thought that was his actual gift, and i liked it to the point that i finished it in one sitting.”

tHAT’S ACTUALLY PRETTY ENDEARING

cute, even

“ask me why i came out of seri’s apartment last week.”

oh that’s.,.,. that’s a bit higher in level compared to nicknames

“why did you come out of seri’s apartment last week?”

“because seri’s the ex-girlfriend of hoseok, my frat brother, and he wanted me to return all her stuff because he doesn’t want to be reminded of his cheating ex.”

well that was definitely weighted

jimin plays with the hem of his shirt, the words tumbling out of his mouth

“ask me why i love you.”

why do you wHAT

your mouth drops open, the new position you took on the other end of the couch taking an impact on him

“w-why do you love me?”

jimin’s a lot of things but he’s not drunk tonight

he doesn’t know why he’s letting his feelings slip either, but it’s the bottomless need that he feels when he’s around you

“i feel wanted. i feel needed.”

he smiles cheerfully even if he feels shy dropping this on you all of a sudden

“not sure if you want me nor need me, but i feel welcome with you if that makes sense.”

:)

“you just make me feel loved, i guess.”

jimin looks at you for the first time since he’s opened his mouth, an equally fond look on your face

you said no words but what jimin receives is a gentle tug, your hand on the side of his face until he’s leaning on your shoulder

“i wanna know what's up there.”

he points a finger to your temple, an amused lilt to his tone, “surprise me.”

it’s an unfolding of things that was weeks in the making but months in developing, the distant glances leading you to recognize jimin in the shop in the first place

“i feel the exact same with you,” you answer honestly and it makes his laugh from his chest, his cheeks warm and his heart content

and you just wanna suspend yourselves in this moment forever

“oh! and if i were to lose my virginity to anyone at the moment, it'd be you!!”

...

....

jimin swats at your shoulder to which you only giggle at, a toothy smile on display as this is the warmest he’s ever felt

“i wasn’t kidding!!!”

you yawn when you defend yourself, predicting that you’d fall asleep sooner or later on the couch, but for the time-being, you just stroke jimin’s hair to soothe the both of you

jimin is now the furthest thing from sleepy

"what? you told me to surprise you!!"

[after-witch]

Hook Line and Sinker [Yandere Ransom Drysdale x Reader]

Title: Hook Line and Sinker [Yandere Ransom Drysdale x Reader]

Synopsis: You’ve broken up with Ransom Drysdale, and you mean it this time. But the freedom that comes with the breakup leads to a series of unexpected coincidences that leave you wondering: was it worth the price?

Word Count: 8955

notes: yandere, mentions of physical abuse, financial abuse, comfort sweaters

Nothing lasts forever. Not even relationships--and certainly not love. What might start off as an intense, passionate relationship can (and did, in your case) eventually fizzle; things that you were willing to overlook when you were absolutely besotted would wear down with time, and eventually they became too much to ignore.

That’s what you tell yourself, what you remind yourself, in the moment after you tell him:

“It’s over, Ransom. We’re done. I’m leaving.”

It couldn’t last forever. Not with his inability to stay sober, not with his tendency to cheat on you with meaningless flings that somehow hurt more than any steamy single-minded affair. Not with his flare-ups of controlling tendencies that left you in tears on the bathroom floor as he asked you to please stop dressing like a slut in front of his family, is that too hard to ask?

You’d asked him to change. He swore he would; he never did. You forgave him, more than once, more times than you could count. But enough was enough. Maybe he thought you were too weak to leave him, especially three years into your relationship, when your lives were becoming so integrated, pushing you towards a potential permanent future. It was a future that left you feeling numb and anxious. Stuck in a marriage with someone who wanted to stay with you but treated you horribly, all the same. And that wasn’t even getting into the family dynamics that left your head spinning.

He stares at you now, and his mouth opens just a little bit in what you know is going to be a barrage of questions, insults, maybe even threats spurred on by your words. But instead he closes his mouth and shakes his head, letting out a soft, bitter chuckle.

“Well, damn. This sucks.” You can see the indent of his tongue in his cheek before he clicks and shrugs. “Guess that’s it then. Need help packing your shit or what?”

His response is so blasé that you’re genuinely shocked and, you must admit, a little hurt. He didn’t even ask for a second chance or beg you to stay or argue with you about your terrible timing because our-vacation-to-Hawaii-is-coming-up. So it’s your turn to look surprised, and you shake your head.

“No, I… already took care of it. It’s at a storage locker.” You didn’t have family left, and your close friends had pulled away from you one by one once you stayed with Ransom time and time again--so you’d had to pay movers to help you pack and transport everything to storage over the weekend, while Ransom was away and you were free to make a clean breakup.

He nods, sticks his hand inside his jacket pockets. He’s looking around the room, avoiding direct eye contact in a clear show of his discomfort. It’s weird seeing Ransom like this--the normally self-assured, cocky Ransom, looking for any excuse not to look at you.

“So… see ya around?” His tone is sincere, if still confused. The idea of you leaving must have really never crossed his mind. The look on his face when he finally faces you again appears genuinely puzzled.

He sticks out his hand and it feels almost comical for things to end this way, particularly considering the nights you’d spent imagining some big blow up, some big fight with Ransom screaming and you firing off the many reasons why it had to end no matter what he said.

But it didn’t go the way you expected at all. It was calm. Easy. A clean break-up.

So you shake his hand and grab your purse and the small roller-suitcase and give a half-hearted wave as you walk out the door; the taxi you’d hired to pick you up is waiting, car running, meter going. You would be staying at a hotel for two weeks, which would hopefully be enough time to find a semi-decent apartment; your credit score had improved so much since Ransom added you to his cards, to a shared checking account, and it wouldn’t be too difficult to get approved.

A new life, one where you could focus on yourself for once, was just around the corner.

**

"I'm sorry, miss, but it's definitely not the reader. The card is declined."

You've had this nightmare before. No, you've lived this nightmare before--years ago when your credit was shit and you ran up your cards and had to face the music in a publicly humiliating display with the longest checkout line you'd ever seen behind you. Only that was years ago, in a little grocery store, and since getting together with Ransom you never had to worry about problems like this. You never had to worry about the shame of not having enough, not being enough.

But this? This was happening now. In an upscale hotel. With your nice purse (a Christmas present) and designer clothes (casual, comfortable) and your cheeks flushed undeniably warm.

The hotel clerk has a tight, sympathetic smile on her face. A coworker who walks behind her glances at you, judging, and you just know he's going to head into some break room and tell everyone but yet another piece of discarded army candy with a declined credit card. You wish you'd kept your sunglasses on.

"Did it, um, say why? I don't--" you plaster a smile on your face, hating the way this all feels familiar, like a part of your past coming back to haunt you. "I don't understand, the card is good."

The clerk's smile flickers, just a bit.

"It says there's a fraud alert on this card. Perhaps you'd better call the company. Or would you like me to call them?"

Fucking. Ransom.

"Oh, oh no, don’t worry about it. I’ll call them myself. I'm so sorry about this." You turn away from the clerk as quickly as possible and step away from the counter, away from the person waiting behind you who will surely have no trouble with their card, away from the clerks giving you a passive side-eye. You lean against a cool cement pillar in the lobby and you know what you have to do.

You have to call Ransom.

You haven't deleted his number yet--you'd planned on calling him today or tomorrow to figure out how to split up your shared finances--so it's easy enough to find the number. It's not so easy to tap his contact, but you have to, so you force yourself to do it and stare at his photo as the call rings. And rings. And rings. “Hello?” Your breath catches but in an instant, when the message continues, you feel stupid. It’s his voicemail. Fuck.

You text him, instead. Emergency. Call right away. And of course: He leaves you on read. Fuck.

You call him again. And again. He picks up on the sixth call, but your heart is racing too hard and sweat is beading down your forehead and it takes you a moment to confirm that the "Hello?" wasn't part of the voicemail message this time. Fuck.

"Um. Hey," you say, keeping your voice as un-royally-pissed-off as possible, because if he did put in a fraud alert then you don't want to risk any additional asshole moves. "So there's something wrong with the card? The one that ends in 8921? The hotel said there was a fraud alert and--"

"Did you really think I'm going to keep paying for your shit if we're over?"

His voice is quick, biting--exactly what you'd expected from him earlier. Somehow it stings even harsher over the phone, where you feel more helpless, unable to avoid his words.

"I thought..." you wet your lips, trying to maintain your cool. "Look, my name is on them, so I thought send you my part of the payments until I can get cards in my own name."

He chuckles, low and short. "Yeah? What, you want to create a payment schedule or something?"

You fight back the annoyance in your tone. You hate having to be the bigger person, but your finances--your life--is on the line. "Yeah, actually, that'd be perfect. It wouldn't be for long. You know I'll pay them on time, I'm not looking to screw you over."

"You're going too pay me on time? For all the stuff you've bought, the stuff I’ve bought for you, this hotel room and god knows what else? How are you going to afford all that?"

He knows you recently earned a promotion at your work. He knows this, because you were so excited about it, and his half-assed congratulations over lukewarm leftovers left you feeling bitter and sad and useless. So you can't help it when bitterness seeps into your voice with your answer. "You know I just got a promotion."

"Did you?" It's said in such a casual tone that it gives you pause, but a moment later he simply hangs up on you.

Fucking. Ransom.

You shove your phone back into your purse, and the clerks at the counter are staring at you. Sweat has trickled down your back and your shirt sticks to your skin ever-so-slightly as you pull away from the pillar and approach the counter, awkward smile and cheeks hot.

"There is an issue with the card, they're working on it, so I’ll just call for a new reservation when it's fixed. I'm so sorry for the mix up!" Your voice is so peppy and high-pitched and fake and you feel like you’re back at your old job, feet aching with falling apart shoes, forced to deal with people returning old toasters laden with crumbs, calming they’d “just bought it the day before and it didn’t work.”

"Of course," the clerk says, and you know this is hotel clerk code for "You're a shitty liar."

You roll your suitcase out of the lobby with tears in your eyes and you shove your sunglasses on as soon as you've cleared the building. You feel exhausted, drained--so you use what little energy you have left to start googling for cheap motels.

**

The room smells musty. You pin the plastic sheet you’d snagged at a dollar store over the comforter and pray it will be enough to protect you from whatever is on the likely unwashed fabric. The TV is broken, there’s no WIFi, and there’s a few suspicious stains on the floor that make you wonder if this hotel has ever been featured in a porno, true crime show, or both.

But it’s all you could afford with the cash in your wallet. You only had enough cash on hand for 2 nights at a ragtag hotel that offers nightly and hourly rates. You didn’t dare use your debit card or any credit cards with Ransom’s name or information on them.

You just need some sleep. A good night’s sleep to feel renewed and ready to tackle retaking your life, bit by bit. In the morning, you need to go to the bank and withdraw your money from the joint bank account. Then you can reopen an account in your name, get a new debit card, and apply for a few credit cards afterwards.

Sure, it would have been nicer to do this without Ransom being an asshole. But deep down, you suspected he wouldn’t let you have a clean, lets-still-be-friends type of break. Not after all the times he’d pressured you into staying, manipulating you with words and gifts and promises, promises. Promises that were worth shit. 

The sheet crinkles underneath you as you scroll through your messages. You’d texted a few formerly close friends about the breakup earlier, hoping that they’d maybe want to reconnect. So far, you’d been left on read, blocked, and received only one response: “New number, who is this?”

So much for that. Not that you can blame them. There are only so many times they can rush over for a late night intervention in which you tell them every horrible thing Ransom does (he’s controlling, he doesn’t want me to meet with friends without permission, he tells me what I can and can’t wear, he cheats, he lies, he pushed me--)--before they get tired of you returning to him, again and again and again.

The only one who’d been texting you recently--okay, for the past year--had been Ransom. Mostly dick pics. And demands for you to send him something back, which you always did after a while, because you didn’t want to deal annoyed texts or voice messages accusing you of clearly cheating on him or hating him because why else wouldn’t you be willing to send him so much as a sexy selfie to your boyfriend? 

But in between those, there were conversations. Sometimes sweet ones, sometimes thoughtful ones that always made you remember why you fell hard for him in the first place. Late night conversations from when he was off on trips. You try not to wonder if he was fucking someone on each of these trips, if while you were sending him a late night ramble about a TV show and he was humoring you with jokes and quips, he was actually snuggled up with someone else. Laying in bed, naked, laughing at your dumb ass waiting at home.

The not-so-sweet conversations were ones that you had screenshotted and sent to your friends more than once, before they pulled themselves away. Texts asking where you were. Asking who you ate lunch with, and whether or not you were fucking them. Asking why your new office was connected to a certain co-worker’s, and how many blowjobs you had to give to get said new office because you didn’t tell him about the new office until after you were moved in, so you were clearly hiding him. Asking you to send him outfit pics so he could approve them or make you change if they were too slutty or not slutty enough or if you were only clearly wearing that halter dress to try to get with the bartender.

Yet your mind had always returned to the nice Ransom, the Ransom who made you laugh and squeezed you hard when had a shitty day of work and let you bury your face in his sweater as you snuggled on the couch. Maybe that’s why it took so long to leave.  You were waiting for him to stop being Ransom and start being the fantasy of Ransom you’d conjured in your head.

Your eyes feel heavy so you plug in your phone, turn the sound off, and lay down on the uncomfortable plastic sheet that crinkled over the pillows. It feels strange to lay on a lumpy mattress covered in plastic, after years of custom-made beds and memory foam pillows and all the other luxuries that Ransom was able to provide.

You try not to think about it too much. While you won’t exactly be indulging in all the luxuries you had with Ransom, but your job pays you well, and you won’t ever have to go back to living hand-to-mouth like you did before. You won’t have to worry about late bills and debt collectors and landlords who come late at night and demand inspections while you’re in your pajamas.

You have work in the morning. You have to get to the bank in the morning. Your thoughts are still buzzing with anxiety as you fall into an uneasy slumber.

**

“I’m sorry, but the account has been closed.”

You feel years of customer service training cracking underneath your skin. You can’t freak out. If you freak out, they won’t feel inclined to go the extra mile. You know this, from firsthand experience.

So you take a shaky breath. “Um, this just--it isn’t possible. It’s a joint account. I’m on the account. There was money in there, you can check--”

“I’m sorry, but the funds were transferred and account has been closed by the other account holder. There’s nothing I can do. I suggest contacting the other party in the account.”

You swallow and nod and walk away, this time having been smart enough to keep your sunglasses on to hide your humiliated expression. Why didn’t you insist on having your own account? Ransom said it was better to keep it joint, so you could just buy stuff whenever you wanted. You’d agreed because it was so generous, something you’d never thought possible at the time, when you were used to having to pay overdraft fees and cringing whenever you checked your balance.

Your fingers tremble as you bring up his contact on your phone. You tap. No answer.

You don’t have time to call him two, three, ten times--you have to get to work. So you steady your nerves. You breathe in, you breathe out. You get in your car and plug your phone in and decide to contact your lawyer. Fuck--your lawyer was Ransom's lawyer. But the anxiety eases when you remember that you’d paid him a retainer fee months ago, and Ransom couldn’t do anything about that. You could at least get a basic consult out of the retainer.

The call ringing sounds muffled through your car’s speaker but it isn’t long before someone answers, and you’re transferred to the lawyer Ransom insisted you have--gotta have a lawyer when you have money, babe--and that you hadn’t spoken to in ages.

“Hi,” you say, voice artificially bright, “this is--”

You don’t get a chance to finish.

“I know who this is.” The lawyer sounds tired, and his tone is curt and clipped. “I’m sorry. I’m no longer able to provide you with any legal counsel.”

You almost miss a red light and regret calling the office while you were driving.

“Is this about the debit card? Because I paid the retainer months ago--”

“The retainer has been refunded into the connected checking account.”

Your voice looses its artificial cheeriness and you stumble over your words in frustration. “That’s--it’s--it was a joint account, which is why I called, Ransom drained it and took everything. Isn’t there something we can do, because that was my money too and--”

“I am no longer able to provide you with legal counsel.”

You want to cry. You hate crying, as an adult. It makes you feel weak. Especially on the phone.

“I don’t understand. Why was the retainer refunded? Did--did someone call you?”

He clears his throat into the phone. “I am no longer able to provide you with legal counsel. Goodbye.”

He hangs up. Your hands shake.

You pull into the parking lot of your work and park the car and as soon as you do, you hunch yourself over the steering wheel and simply shake in frustration.

You have no bank account. Ransom drained it. You have no credit cards. Ransom blocked them. You couldn’t even talk to a lawyer, because--shock--Ransom made sure you couldn’t. Everything was in Ransom’s name. He insisted on adding you to his accounts, closing out your own paltry ones; insisted that he pay off your credit card debt, and making you close those, too, instead adding you to his cards. It was all to help you out, he said, at the time.

Wasn’t it? He was shockingly not judgmental about the state of your finances, and while you’d put up some protest, you didn’t exactly argue with him when he suggested wiping your debts clean and getting your credit back up. And considering that he wasn’t immune to needing a bail-out now and then (late night calls to his grandfather, snarky comments at his parent’s dinner table, come to mind) maybe he could sympathize with being in over your head. Even if your issues were rooted in poverty and shitty jobs and his were rooted in a total lack of financial discipline and, as you’d later found out, a drug addiction.

Still. He helped you before. He would help you now, once he realized how serious it was. For now he was just--reacting like an asshole, acting childish and ridiculous. He was an asshole. You know this. You’ve known this. You need to call him and meet with him and make him realize how ridiculous he’s being, and he’ll sigh and snark but he’ll agree to stop acting like such an ass.

But first you have to work. Life goes on. Even without Ransom--even with Ransom, screwing you over out of pettiness.

The air conditioning in the lobby is on blast, and the familiar smell of clean furniture and floor cleaner from the late-night cleaning crew is surprisingly comforting. Here, you can forget about Ransom--forget about the cards and the lawyer and the fact that your life has been upended in mere hours. If only until your lunch break, at least.

Anthony is working the front desk and you give him a a soft, if strained smile. There’s something in the smile that he gives you in return that reminds you of the hotel clerk. Sympathetic and judgmental.

Ah. You probably look like--well, less than your best, you realize. You did pack some toiletries in your suitcase but the water in the motel had streaks of brown and you didn’t shower, opting instead to rinse your face with what was left of a water bottle you’d bought earlier and layering on more deodorant to make up for the lack of a proper scrub. You probably looked a bit tired, haggard, not unlike some of the employees who got stuck with big clients the night before their paperwork was due.

Still. Nothing that freshening up in your private bathroom--thank god for the new office--can’t help. So you hit the button on the elevator and take deep breaths as you ride up, intent on working as productively as possible. The doors open and you navigate the familiar maze of open-plan desks for the lower-tier workers, desks surrounded by half-walls that always kept you staring straight ahead, lest you accidentally glance over and see a co-worker picking their nose.

Yet as you weave in-and-out of the familiar rows, heading towards the back of the room where the real offices, the ones with full walls and doors and privacy glass lay, you can’t help but feel that something is… off. 

No one calls out to greet you, though that can be easily attributed to the jealousy over your promotion. You’d been working there for far less than most of the lower level workers--Ransom got you the job, with his connections and a hefty revision of your resume and, you assume, some personal phone calls--and you’d already been promoted to senior management. That wasn’t technically Ransom’s work, though. That was all your own effort, your own blood, sweat, tears and intense devotion to each project that came your way. Sure, the connections he helped you make, the dinner parties, all that helped--but if it weren’t for your skills, the connections wouldn’t have made a difference. Right? 

Still, whatever bitterness existed in the people hunch in open-air cubicles, the receptionists always greeted you. But today they caught your eye then awkwardly glanced down, or pretended to be looking for something in their drawers. It was odd. Did you look that bad? That out of sorts?

You shake off the heavy feeling in your stomach and for once, you shut the door to your office instead of keeping it open for passers-by or people needing approval for this-and-that. It feels good to lean against the solid wood door and take a breath, a deep one, invigorating and calming.

A quick trip to the bathroom has you staring at yourself from all angles. You don’t look that bad, you reason. Just tired. But who wouldn’t be, sleeping on a plastic sheet in the shittiest motel in the area? You take a quick sniff under your arms but even that reveals nothing much but a faint hint of sweat and powdery deodorant.

There’s a firm knock at your office door and you glance at the mirror for a final once over before opening it up. It’s your boss. Did you have a meeting? You try to do a mental scan of something you’ve missed, but nothing comes to mind.

“Hi,” you say, wavering with uncertainty at the threshold. Should you invite him in? “What can I do for you? We didn’t have a meeting, did we?” You let yourself chuckle, dry and quick. “I’m sorry, I’m a bit scattered this morning.”

Your boss doesn’t return your chuckle, which immediately raises the hairs on the back of your neck. Something was wrong. Shit--you were working on a major project for a seriously important client. The type of client that could genuinely make or break a company, if you got on their bad side. You press your lips together and make a silent vow to keep it serious.

“I’d like to keep this conversation private.” His tone is low and serious and you invite him in without a second thought, shutting the thick door behind you, trying to ignore the way everyone was shooting glances as it closed. Fuck, fuck, fuck, your thoughts race--no wonder everyone was giving you the stink eye. Something was wrong with the client, and you were the one making primary contact with them.

Your boss takes a seat on the leather sofa pushed up against the wall and you immediately set yourself down behind your desk.

He sighs. Short. Frustrated. Annoyed.

“We have to let you go.”

The words don’t register.

“Go where?”

It’s only after you say it that you realize what he said, what it meant, and you feel like a colossal moron in every respect.

“It’s not working out,” he continues, staring at your desk and not at your face. “Since you’ve only been in this position for a month, you don’t quality for senior severance. The best we can do is to pay you what you’ve earned this week.”

Your mouth is so dry that you don’t know if you can talk. Your hand fumbles on your desk for a water bottle you’d left overnight, and that’s when you see it--the photo frame. You keep a photo of yourself and Ransom, cuddled together for a selfie, on your desk. The photo was lying on your desk, frameless, ripped in half--leaving only your vacantly smiling face staring up at you.

Ransom was here.

“Did he put you up to this?” You whisper. “Did Ransom tell you to fire me?”

You know he won’t answer. But you stare at him so fervently that he can’t help but look up at you, and you see it all in his eyes, in the subtle, embarrassed expression of his face.

You can imagine Ransom strolling in--maybe he called first--and settling in for a private audience with your boss in his office. He’d probably pull the chair up to the desk and put his feet on it, just to be an ass. Then he’d bring up… you. And why you had to be let go. Did he give a reason, did he tell your boss why a respected employee who he once secured a position for, who shot up the ranks through intense effort and work, needed to be fired? Did he even need to give a reason?

“This is absolute bullshit,” you say, finally, voice dry and hoarse and bitter. You want to say you’ll be contacting a lawyer. That this won’t stand. But you know--and he knows--that there’s nothing you can do.

Your boss stands, slow, and sighs again. “I’m sorry it had to end this way. Pack up your things as quickly as possible.”

He leaves, and you keep your eyes trained on the ripped photograph to avoid seeing the expressions of the people in the doorway before your boss mercifully shuts the door.

It takes all of your effort not to cry.

You don’t have much effort left.

**

Your things consisted of a handful of personal items, little touches you’d brought in to make your office feel more like “you.” A nice picture print. A pastel afghan to drape over the couch. A stapler with a floral design. You have the strong urge to dump them in a trash can, but that’s quickly quelled by the realization that you can’t afford to buy new things, or any things, at this point.

You don’t care if wearing your sunglasses as you power walk to the elevators makes you look stupid. You know someone, somewhere in this office is filming you and probably captioning it with something stupid to post to their Reels or TikTok, and it just makes you leave faster. A few people murmur comments your way, sympathetic in tone, but you’re not really listening. None of their platitudes matter, because Ransom was here, in your workplace, in your office, and he stole the thing you were most proud of from under your feet.

To his credit, when you reach the bottom floor, Anthony practically fumbles out from behind his desk and holds the door open for you. He mouths a “Sorry” and he probably is, but he’s probably used to dealing with rich assholes like Ransom who get what they want, when they want it; even when what they want is to fire a good employee on demand for very personal reasons.

The sun is beating down hard, even for the morning, and the stress of your situation makes you blast the air conditioning as soon as you get in the car. God, the car--how are you going to afford the payments? You wish you could call your mom. You wish your friends--are they even your friends, anymore?--would call you back.

You grab your phone from your purse and stare at the black screen. Maybe you should call the friend who didn’t block you. She would answer, if you called, because she knew you didn’t make calls unless it was serious. She might not rush to your side, but maybe she can offer you a place to stay, a couch, some advice. A kind word would do, right now, with how much anxiety and frustration has been packed into the last 12 hours.

But when you unlock your screen, your gut sinks. Five missed calls. From the storage company. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You tap their number and bring the phone to your ear and pretend that your hands aren’t shaking.

The man who answers is the same one you talked to on the phone before, when setting up your move. “Hello, Move’nSecure Storage Company. This is Steve speaking. How many I help you?”

“Hi Steve!” You hate how chipper you sound. “I actually just got a few missed calls from you guys, I’m sorry, I was in the office and--”

“Oh.” His voice is surprisingly flat, suddenly flat, losing its customer service inflection in an instant before picking it back up. “Yes. We’ve been trying to reach you. For confirmation, the storage locker your purchased is A443, correct?”

You fumble in your purse for the receipt and confirm the little numbers printed neatly on the paper. “Yes, A443. Is everything okay?”

“No, it’s not.” You’re grateful that you didn’t have much for breakfast because you know it would be clawing its way back up at this point. “The card you gave us for the storage fee was declined.”

The debit card. You’d paid in cash for the move, and paid for 1 month of storage with the card. The card that was now useless, connected to an empty and closed bank account.

“Is there another card you can give us?”

“No, but...” You say, because no, there is not. There is not a card. There is not a job. There is nothing. “But if you could just hold my stuff, I’ll be there in less than a hour to get it.”

“We don’t hold items,” Steve tells you, a rehearsed banality to his tone. “Your items are currently outside the unit.”

You instinctively want to yell at Steve but, fuck fuck fuck, you’ve been there, behind the counter, dealing with people who couldn’t pay for shit and then had the nerve to get upset with you. “All of it?” You ask, your voice cracking slightly.

“Yes.”

You hang up, and toss your phone onto the passenger seat. The quicker you get there, the less chance that something will get broken or stolen or who knows what else.

The trip to the storage unit seems to take forever, and when you arrive you don’t even take a second to lock your car doors. Instead you sprint inside, startling Steve--looking at his phone, then at you, then at the sign plastered up on the wall leading to the storage locker floors. He points. Row A, separated into 100s, 200s, 300s, and--your number--400s.

You don’t remember if you say ‘thank you,’ because you’re speed-walking down the hallway and following the signs and it isn’t long before you see it: a storage locker with tons of stuff piled up, dumped, outside the now-empty unit where it was supposed to be safe and sound. Waiting for you to get an apartment and pick it back up and rearrange it into your new life, your new “you.”

The problem is immediate: You can’t fit all this in your car. You don’t know anyone who could take the stuff for you. You mind reels for options and the only thing you can come up with is ferrying your belongings to and from the hotel. You can pay for a few more days once you cash your partial paycheck. After that… you don’t know.

Pawn your things? Yeah. That might work. You can get enough cash by pawning most of your stuff, the good stuff. Enough money to get you into a shitty apartment with leaks and a bad landlord. Then you can a job that barely pays rent and you’ll be right back where you started, before you met Ransom. Before you thought leaking ceilings and $20 paychecks after taxes were a thing of the past.

You ignore the humiliation that makes your stomach curl as you take your things out to the car, handful by handful. Steve doesn’t bother holding the door open for you. You mention that you’re going to be back on your way out, and he offers a non-committal hum.

At least when you get to the hotel, the owner sees you fumbling with boxes and offers to help you out. It takes less time with two hands to get everything in the room, and once it’s locked up you head back out to the storage units.

You keep your sunglasses on for the second trip into the storage unit, even though you don’t know Steve or care what he thinks. He doesn’t look up when you walk in and it’s just as well, since you’re only heading back to the A-400s and don’t need his non-existent help.

But the sight that greets you when you round the corner to your unpaid-for storage locker makes your blood run cold.

Your stuff is gone. All of it.

You rush back to the desk, where Steve does look up, startled by your urgency.

“My stuff,” you spit out, “My stuff is gone! Someone took it!”

Steve shrugs. “Sorry.” He points to a sign behind him: “We are not responsible for the loss of items inside or outside storage lockers.”

“Are you fucking kidding?” You can’t the anger in your voice this time. “You just watched someone walk off with my stuff and didn’t say anything?”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “If it was that important, you shouldn’t have left it here. Or you should have given us another card.”

You feel like throwing your hands up but you just clench your fist and storm out the door, huffing as you reach your car. The anger melts into the sense of loss, the realization that you only have a few meager items that you’d managed to collect; you picked the lightest stuff, first. And in retrospect it was things that didn’t matter much at all. Clothes. Hair supplies. Makeup. You should have grabbed the box with your USB sticks, your memory cards, your photo albums; your personal mementos and sentimental shit. Instead you grabbed the box with your shampoo.

At least the clothes might get something in a pawnshop. The makeup, too, on Facebook or Depop or Instagram. But it wouldn’t be enough to put you up in an apartment. You’ll have to live in your car. Until they repossess it for lack of payment.

You don’t have your bank account, your credit cards, your job, a place to stay, or your personal possessions. And soon, you won’t have your car.

You have no friends. No boyfriend. No family.

All you have $20 left in your wallet and well, fuck it. You grab some McDonalds on the way home because, fuck it, and eat all the fries before you make it to the motel. The thought of eating in your dirty room makes your stomach turn and you decide to eat everything else you bought, the burger and the shake and the chicken nuggets too, tossing the wrappers on the floor. It feels like deja vu--getting cheap fast food to make you feel full, tossing trash on the floor of the passenger seat, all bringing back the way you used to when you’d grab something from the dollar menu on your way to work at the call center.

You almost wish you could stay at this hotel, brown water and all. The owner is decently nice. He smiles at you when you enter and doesn’t bring up that you didn’t come back with more boxes, like you said you would.  

You’re surprised at how grateful you feel for the dingy hotel room now that you won’t be able to stay here more than another day. Now that the alternative is sleeping in your car, then sleeping on the street, if you were lucky.

Your phone feels heavy when you set it on the table and stare at the home screen. Another photo of you and Ransom stares back up at you. You haven’t had time to change it up yet. He’s grinning. You’re smiling. It’s a good photo. You try to place it in your memory, try to remember what beach that was, but your trips blur together and you can’t.

Should you call him? If it was just the cards, just him being petty over credit and finances, it was one thing. You could try to placate him with returning gifts, just asking him to give you what you put in from your own paychecks. But making you lose your job? It was too far, too fucking far. And there was no going back from that. Fuck, someone was probably moving into your office as you sat in this dimly lit room mourning the loss of your entire life.

For a brief, very fleeting moment, you consider calling Harlan. You weren’t exceptionally close, but he seemed to like you well enough. He’d even asked you once, puling you aside at a tension-filled family party, if Ransom treated you right, told you to tell him if he ever got to be too much. Harlan felt like Ransom’s keeper--in more ways than one. You could never tell Harlan about the shouts or the occasional bruises from when Ransom really, really lost his temper--it’s not like you could prove them, anyway, as Ransom made sure to keep you away from his family when he lost control like that. No need for excuses about running into doors when he made sure you looked your best at family functions.

But the thought of breaking the uneasy stasis that Ransom had with the most significant member of his family made you want to vomit. There would be no coming back from that, and you knew better than to cross any line involving the great Harlan Thrombey.

You could call your friend--ex-friend? The one who didn’t block you or forget your number. You should. No, you will. Because what else do you have to lose.

But before you can bring up her number, you get a text--Ransom. It’s a photo and your curiosity gets the better of you as you click the notification.

“What the fuck?”

He’s sent you a photo of his car, trunk open. It’s filled with boxes, odds-and-ends. It’s filled with your stuff.

You text him: What??

He texts back: Hey. I’m in front of the hotel. Come out? Bring your suitcase. :P

It’s your stuff. It’s his car. He’s here. All reason is thrown aside as you grab your suitcase and purse and rush down the hallway, ignoring the owner’s confused response from behind his desk as you push open the front doors and look around the parking lot.

His car is parked to the side, not in front of the hotel’s glass double doors. He’s standing outside his car, leaning against it. He takes off his sunglasses and tucks them in his pocket when he sees you approaching, face confused and fuming all at once.

“What the fuck, Ransom, what the fuck is your problem--”

“Hey, hey,” he says, hands up in defense, “You’re not even going to thank me for picking up your stuff?”

You feel suddenly, impossibly rooted to the spot.

“What do you--what? You took my stuff?”

He shrugs. “C’mon, did you really think I’d just leave your stuff in some shitty storage unit? Someone would’ve taken it if I didn’t get there first.”

You swallow. “Why?” You ask, because Ransom never does anything for no reason. Or so you’ve learned.

His expression loses a bit of its cocky casualness. He tilts his head a bit, looking at you as if you’ve asked a particularly offensive question.

“Why do you think?”

To lord it over you? To make you think your stuff was gone and make you worried, sick, crazy?

“I don’t know,” is what you settle for in the end. “I really, really don’t. You--” You lick your lips, and try to calm down, calm the pitter-patter of your heart, and think before you speak. “You’ve done some pretty messed up stuff today. My job?” The last question comes out soft and pained, and you know your eyes are starting to tear up.

“Hey.” His voice is soft and placating and it makes your stomach flip as he approaches you, standing there on the sidewalk with your purse and suitcase. “Hey, c’mon. Don’t cry on me.”

You know this Ransom. The Ransom that holds you and pets your hair and offers to get Thai food delivered even though he doesn’t like it just to make you happy.

He puts his hand on your shoulder and you jerk it away. “Don’t.” That Ransom is a fantasy. Or an incomplete version, the version that pretends he doesn’t lie and cheat and hurt you in more ways than one. “Don’t you fucking dare, especially not after what you pulled today. My job? My job, Ransom? You’re a--a fucking asshole.”

He puts his hands up again, defensive, and takes a step back. But he doesn’t return to his car, and stays just a few steps in front of you.

“Look. Call me an asshole. Sure, fine, I can admit that. But do you know what else I am?”

He waits a beat, waits for you to look at him, before he continues. “I’m a realist. I like facts. And the fact is? You aren’t much without me. No job, no credit cards, no bank account. Without me, you’re just some broke chick scrambling to get an apartment in the shittiest part of town, working a dead-end job that don’t pay shit. With me though…. “

He leaves the words unfinished, but you know what he means. Flashes of your life, cocktails and smart business outfits and dinners at restaurants you didn’t even dream about attending before you met him. Phone calls with shakers in the industry and social media requests from people you’d never dream you’d meet. Connections that meant something, a career path, dinner parties with people who could offer tangible benefits to your career and your life.

It wasn’t that he spoiled you. He wasn’t a sugar daddy. You weren’t getting gifts for blowjobs. It was that his presence in your life boosted you, socially, financially, mentally, physically, in every which way possible.

His presence got you a job that you loved, which meant you weren’t burnt out when you came home, which meant that you had the time and energy to spend hours catching up on books or redecorating the house or watching movies. Good money meant you could order in whenever you felt like it, meant you didn’t have to worry if you burned dinner because you could just buy new steaks or order-in or go out, last minute, and still get a great table. It meant you had all the clothes you wanted, stylish and personally tailored; it meant you had easy access to a gym and exercise equipment and an indoor pool to keep you healthy. It meant you had a life that provided comfort in every way possible.

Being with Ransom Drysdale was like… like a little shot of privilege directly into your arm.

Privilege that he took away just as easily as he gave it. Just as easily as you took it. Just as easily as you took it and eagerly ignored the dark side underneath. Or maybe you didn’t ignore it. Maybe you liked it, maybe it reminded you of who you were underneath the designer clothes and expensive dinners.

Maybe you wanted to fix him, like he fixed you? He wasn’t totally bad, after all, he did make sure no one took your belongings. Maybe it was your presence that gave him the idea for that touch of sympathy, maybe with Ransom change was slow and muddled, not picture-perfect sweeping changes like the kind in movies.

“So?” Ransom’s voice cuts through your thoughts. “Are you going to come home or,” he waves his hands around dismissively, at the hotel, at you.

You feel very, very less-than right now. You look awful, your hair mussy and your makeup mostly melted off with sweat and sun. You probably smell more than you normally do, thanks to the lack of a shower. Your muscles, sore from the motel bed, ache for the large spa bathtub that Ransom had installed in the master bathroom just for you, stocked with bubbles and salts and overpriced bath bombs that were $10 a pop.

But your muscles had hurt before, when he pushed you against the dresser.

You have nothing, and no one. Except Ransom. Ransom who didn’t judge you when you instinctively saved plastic bottles and boxes, but merely nudged you towards recycling and took you out to splurge on a reusable water bottle and proper storage containers the next day. Ransom who asked you what sort of job you wanted, really wanted, and made it happen for you. Ransom who shrugged and wiped away your credit card debt without making you feel like shit.

Ransom who didn’t let you leave the house if your wrists were sporting fingerprint shaped bruises. Ransom who argued with you about talking to men, even men at work. Ransom who held you tight at night and said he never wanted to let you go, and wouldn’t you just make a fine-ass addition his crazy family. Ransom who took care of you, now that you had no one else.

“What do you want me to do?” The words feel slow, sluggish. Like they wanted to stick to the roof of your mouth and it took everything in you to get them out.

His voice turns low and serious as he stares at you with an characteristic expression. “Well, the first thing is to get down on your knees…”

You feel your eyes practically bugging out.

“What the fuck, Ransom?”

He laughs. He always did have a nice laugh.

“I’m just messing with you, Jesus. Take a chi-I-il pill. Just grab your purse and come sit your sweet ass in the front seat. Let’s go get some burgers, I’m starving.”

Your legs feel like jelly when you take that first step, and the sound of your roller suitcase as you pull it along seems louder than ever. Ransom pops the truck and you just manage to fit it inside with the handle closed, jamming it in between some boxes at an odd angle. The handle of the passenger side is familiar, warm from the sun.

You open the door and practically shove yourself into the seat, closing the door as fast as possible. You can’t do more than glance at him as humiliation and anxiety and just the smallest bit of relief washes over you. It’s been less than 24 hours since you broke up, and here you are--again.

He’s staring at you quietly, his expression difficult to place. He looks relieved. He looks annoyed. He looks like he wants to kiss you. He looks like he wants to slap you. Maybe he wants to do it all at once and can’t decide which to pick.

Instead, he puts his hand on your thigh. Gives it a squeeze. Hard, bordering on painful.  He’s staring straight ahead, at the worn-out sign on the hotel’s front door, one hand gripping the flesh of your thigh. He looks good in profile. “Don’t ever try to pull something like that again. I mean it. I really mean it.”

You turn, glance out the window, familiar tears at the edge of your eyes.

“I won’t,” you whisper, dreaming of the tub and bubbles and how good a warm soak will feel on your back, on your thighs, on your soul.

“Good girl,” he says, patting your thigh firmly. He plucks his sunglasses out of pocket and puts them on in a smooth motion. The car starts smoothly, its fine-tuned and expensive engine a familiar sound, and your hands feel robotic as you pull the seatbelt over your chest and click it tight.

“Let’s get dinner and get home. You have some unpacking to do.”

[dragonsareourfuture]

Mello/GN!Reader — I Forgive You (Part Two)

⚠️Warnings: mentions and descriptions of bullying/abuse. Please do not continue if you are sensitive about that kind of thing or do not enjoy reading about it.

If the title wasn’t enough of a spoiler in the first place, here’s part two lol. Link to part one is right here!

Later that week Mello unexpectedly announced that he was taking you on a drive, instructing Matt to hold down the fort and put down his video game for at least a couple of minutes to watch the security cameras the three of you had set up overlooking the suspected Kira’s home. Once in the car, intense curiosity filled your head as blaring rock music invaded your ears. You cringed, reaching to switch off the radio so you could actually think coherent thoughts.

“Where are we going?” You questioned now that the music wasn’t in the way of your voice reaching Mello’s ears. “And shouldn’t we be helping Matt?”

“He can handle himself.” Mello kept his eyes on the road, switching the music back on and tapping his thumb on the steering wheel of Matt’s old Camaro.

“You still didn’t answer my question. And why aren’t we taking your motorcycle?”

“Jesus, you ask a lot of questions.”

“I just like to know where I’m going with the strange man who used to beat me up all the time. Is that so wrong?”

Mello let out a sigh. “No, I guess not.” He was almost inaudible over the music. He gave you no clues as to where your final destination was, and you began to wonder if he even knew, himself. But eventually, with a sigh of relief that you weren’t lost, the car pulled into a parking garage after you got a glimpse of a sign for a mall. You recoiled in surprise, but said nothing, figuring he was just using that parking garage to be discreet while your actual destination was down the street or something. However, when you exited the car, a surprisingly eager Mello took your hand and dragged you out of the parking garage and towards the front entrance of the mall.

“Wait— Mello, what are you doing?”

“Just hurry up! Let’s get this over with,” Mello huffed, fighting against your resistance by pulling at your hand harder, coaxing a whimper from your throat.

“M-Mello, stop! You’re hurting me—“

At your words he let go instantly, causing you to fall backwards into the pavement.

“Oh, god, (name)! I’m sorry!” He shouted, throwing his hand out to help you up and freezing when all you did was flinch and hide your face.

Mello carefully retracted his arm and crouched down next to your form. He could only gape wide eyed for a full minute, stunned at the effect his past self had on you. Guilt made itself known inside his chest, weighing him down like his heart had suddenly turned to stone. He wondered if his heart had always been cold if he ever thought of treating someone like he once did.

Mello went for attempt number two, gently brushing his fingers over the hands that covered your face and wrapping themselves around your wrist. He pulled you to your feet and stuffed his hands back in his pockets to show that he meant no harm.

“I...I thought that we could go shopping. Didn’t you want someone to take you to one of those little shops in your town? Well, this is the closest thing we got here.”

Your eyes flitted to the giant, glowing logo above the entrance to the mall. You nodded slowly and took your place alongside Mello as you both entered the castle-like building. Mello asked you where you wanted to go first, pointing you over to a directory and listing a few stores he thought you might like, strongly urging you to stop by Hot Topic at least once during your trip. You agreed, wanting to see why he was so fond of the store.

Once you arrived at the small section that was dedicated to “Hot Topic” you immediately saw what attracted Mello to the store so much. Even the entrance practically screamed “Mello” and the inside was even more uncanny.

The blond explored the isles, offering clothes or accessories to you occasionally and, if you felt they’d suit you, you accepted them. There was still a tinge if tension in the air — as Mello hadn’t seen you in a long time and even when he had, he never took the chance between punches to note your clothing style — the two of you quickly collected enough items to load a truck. Mello shepherded you into a dressing room and, as you tried on different outfits, gladly took back the clothes you eliminated from your mountainous pile, handing you new sizes if you needed them.

When it came to be checkout time, you had two bags worth of clothes clutched in your hands as Mello dug through his wallet, which you couldn’t imagine there being that much money in until he pulled out a credit card. Although the cashier accepted it without a problem, you whisper yelled to Mello, “Where on earth did you get that!?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

You rolled your eyes, but let him continue. The cashier handed Mello back “his” credit card and beamed at the pair of you. “Here you are. And, may I add, you two are an adorable couple.”

You and Mello both looked at each other, surprise and uneasiness swimming in your eyes, but acting as a couple would be much better than trying to explain your complicated situation to this poor person who just wanted to complement you.

“Thank you.” You and Mello droned animatedly, hurrying out of the store with your bags to allow the next person in line the check out.

This little exchange didn’t come up again until the drive back to the apartment when Mello asked, “Do you think we looked like a couple?”

“Nah,” you shrugged, rifling through your shopping bags to peer at your new items excitedly.

“So, are you at least close to forgiving me?”

“I might be on my way,” you said in a joking manner, but in truth you were quite serious. A single shopping trip wasn’t going to change much, though it did spark something in your heart when you thought about the gesture. “How did you know?”

“Hmm?”

“How did you know that I wanted someone to take me shopping? I only wrote that in...oh...”

Mello would have hung his head in shame if he didn’t have to keep his eyes on the road. You shifted uncomfortably.

The sound of the engine and the tires against asphalt being the only sound in the car became too much to bear. You reached out and turned the radio on, rock music filling the rest of your drive home.

Mello occupied his thoughts with the next entry of your journal that had embedded itself into his mind. This particular entry raved about the food in your town and how it always smelled so good from the whiffs you got from outside. You wished you could go in and try some but, given your filthy state, the employees would have thrown you out. Besides, what money would you use to purchase such food?

For the next day or so, Mello looked up the best restaurants to visit. Ones that had good yet also fairly cheap food since he blew most of his money treating you to new clothes. Matt would’ve killed him if he found out that their survival money was being spent to simply prove a point to you, but luckily he never did.

As it turned out, there was a fairly well known cupcake shop that resided in the walls of your small town that also happened to be a wide-spread chain throughout the current area.

Mello snapped his laptop shut and grabbed his coat from the back of a chair.

“When’s (name) coming back?” He hurridly asked the redhead, who was busied with his game console and a family-sized bag of chips.

“Uh, I don’t know. Soon. Why?” Matt responded lazily.

You were on a supply run for the bare necessities and it had taken Mello around forty five minutes to find the location of the cupcake shop just outside of the city already. Without any time to waste, the blond wordlessly threw open the front door and sprinted out to his motorcycle parked in the sketchy parking lot outside the apartment building. After revving up the engine the blonde went at top speed in the direction of the cupcake shop, wanting to greet you with the cakes when you returned. This was futile, however, as you arrived back at the apartment from your shopping trip early and waited for nearly an hour before a huffing and puffing Mello came bursting through the door.

Both you and Matt reached for your guns before you realized it was only Mello, startled as the door was practically knocked off its hinges. Mello shielded himself with the white box he clutched in his gloved hands, screaming that it was only him.

“Your point?” You asked, keeping your gun aimed at the panting boy half jokingly before lowering it with a sigh. You gestured to the box. “What’s that?”

Mello placed the box on the coffee table and slid it over to you, knocking headsets and game cartridges out of the way in the process. You peered through the translucent window on the top of the box and your gaze softened. “Oh, Mello...”

“I found that one cupcake shop in your town—“

“You went ALL THE WAY—“

“No, no! There’s another one right outside the city.”

“That’s still a long way.” By now you had opened the box and plucked a red velvet cupcake from the assortment. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing. I should be lying down my life for you because of what I’ve done.”

You stayed silent, unsure of what to say and peeled back the wrapper on the fluffy red cake, taking a bite. You hummed in delight and picked up the box carefully so that none of the cupcakes tipped over, offering it to Mello.

He raised his hand in protest, falling back into a chair after tossing his coat onto the armrest. “I couldn’t. They’re yours.”

You wouldn’t relent, thrusting the box into his chest. “True, but I’m willing to give up at least one.”

Mello allowed the slightest smile to tug at the corner of his lips, reaching his hand in and picking out a chocolate cupcake with rainbow sprinkles scattered over the icing. He thanked you in a hushed tone as he licked the stray bits of icing from his fingers.

“What, I don’t get one?” Matt intruded. You picked a vanilla cupcake from the collection and shoved it right onto his lips, the icing and sprinkles sticking to his face. “Gee, thanks.”

You giggled and plopped yourself down onto the couch after slapping Matt’s calf as an instruction to get it out of your way or else you’d crush it with your butt.

After happily chewing and finishing his cupcake, wiping off the chocolate residue from his face and hands, Mello directed his attention to his cellphone which had just started ringing. The blond clicked the “answer” button and he pressed the phone to his ear as you and Matt carried on your careless banter right beside him.

Mello listened for what felt like an eternity, yet the numbers on the digital clock by the couch never changed. He hung his head, determined to keep his reaction to what he was hearing secret from the two people beside him as blond strands of hair fell like a curtain over Mello’s sharpened features.

“It can be resolved by having a name written in the notebook?” The blond mumbled, his back slumped and elbow resting on his knee. His words seemed to catch your attention as you cleaned Matt’s face of vanilla icing with a spare napkin. “Well then...if I don’t do it...”

“Mello? What’s wrong? Who is that?

Mello waited for an opportunity to hang up, doing so and gazing up solemnly through his bangs which still covered the majority of his narrowed, blue eyes.

“Nothing to worry about,” Mello assured, sharing a knowing glance with Matt before shoving his phone in his pocket and out of sight, “Just a wrong number.”

You shrugged and took another bite of your cupcake, blissfully unaware of the battle ensuing inside Mello’s head.

When they told you their plan, you had all but thrown a tantrum. It was insane, reckless, and was sure to fail miserably but that didn’t seem to stop the duo as they rushed out the door to execute their foolish plan. Of course they had waited until the very last minute to actually mention to you what was going on, knowing full well that you would protest.

“It’s not gonna work! You’re both smart enough to know that so why on earth are you going!?” You hollered, stomping your foot like a child and throwing your hands about in a fit of anger and panic.

“It’s all gonna work out in the end, I promise,” Mello rambled hurriedly while throwing on his biker jacket and tossing Matt his car keys. The blond shoved his hand in his pocket and felt around for something before he tore it from its hiding place and thrust it in your hands. “Even if I’m not here to see it, you will be.”

You stood in utter shock, having heard him basically admit that the plan was a suicide mission, as the brunet and the blond slammed the door in your face. Their footsteps carried all the way down the flight of stairs until they disappeared. The silence surrounding you seemed to break you from your trance as you tore after them, only to catch up enough to see Matt pulling out of the parking lot and Mello just placing his bike helmet over his head.

Your ears seemed to ring as you clutched what he had given you to your chest — an envelope. Mello mounted his bike, ready to drive off when he saw you standing by the apartment building’s entrance. Though it was tough to see through the tinted wind guard of his helmet, you could have sworn the boy shot you a smile full of regret.

Before you knew it, he was gone in a cloud of smoke.

You hadn’t even realized you’d been crying until the splash of your tears on the envelope caught your attention. As you listened to the retreating sound of a Camaro and a motorbike, you tore open the envelope and pulled out a crudely folded piece of paper. Upon unfolding it, the writing was messy and rushed. You assumed Mello had written it in the few moments that he had before he had to leave. You were able to decipher the chicken scratch nonetheless.

 (Name)—

This isn’t how I imagined formally apologizing to you, but it’ll have to do.

All I ever got to do for you was ruin your life and then give you some lame attempts at making it up to you.

I swear if I come back from this I will take us off the grid. I’ll take you back to your old town and you can live how you’ve always wanted — you can eat in all the dumb little cutesy bakeries and shop in the most expensive stores. You’ll live the life you’ve always deserved and I’ll do everything I can to make sure that happens. I swear to you, if I make it out alive, I can be that person you’ve always wanted you hold you when times get tough and give you advice about some stupid guy you like. Because, even after this short amount of time we’ve spent together, I realize that if anyone deserves that, it’s you.

If I don’t make it out alive then, well, that sucks for me. If that happens to be the case, I’ve collected all that money that I’ve “earned” and used it to get you a plane ticket to England. You can live that amazing life you’ve always wanted without the burden of me there dragging you down and reminding you of some of the the worst times in your life. Just make sure to find me a nice burial site, alright? Or maybe cremate me. I don’t know, whatever.

I guess the whole point of me writing this letter is to say that I’m so, incredibly sorry for everything that I’ve done and have yet to do. My words will never be enough, written or otherwise, but I just want you to know how deeply I wish I could go back in time and fix my mistakes. Fuck the butterfly effect.

Just do me one favor and please live a happy life without me there to ruin it for you.

-Mihael

 You dug into the envelope once more and, sure enough, there was a plane ticket to Winchester, England. He knew he wasn’t coming back.

And, as Mello had planned, you boarded that plane on your own, nothing but a carry-on bag filled with new clothes and his letter to accompany you. The tear stained sheet of paper had worn terribly from how many times you read it. Your eyes scanned over the messily written words during the entire flight, fingertips delicately tracing the indents the pen had made. You tried to be happy for your friends who had sacrificed their lives for the good of humanity, but you couldn’t help but sob silently for the entirety of the flight. You thanked the heavens that no other passengers were in your row of seats, as they might have heard you whisper through dry and cracked lips,

“I forgive you.”

[honey-dewey]

Little Leather Boots

Pairing: Shane ‘Dio’ Morrissey/Reader

Words: 4,442

Warnings: Reader is pregnant and is very worried about it, mentions of abortion but it doesn’t happen, lots of tears, a very worried and loving Dio, mention of c-section, I think that’s it folks. 

Permanent Taglist: @phoenixhalliwell

After one too many wild nights with your goth boyfriend, you somehow wind up pregnant, which you didn’t even think was possible considering that you and Dio always used protection. But here you are, pregnant and terrified that Dio ‘I hate kids’ Morrissey will be pissed. No matter what happens, it’s going to be a very long nine months. 

You woke up to an empty bed, as was the unfortunate usual. Your body ached in all the right places as you slid into Dio’s shirt from last night and your own pyjama bottoms. The apartment was cold, too cold as you headed to the bathroom, yawning widely. 

It was only when you opened the bathroom door that the nausea hit you like a truck. You immediately felt your knees go weak, gagging and dry heaving over the sink. When you resurfaced, you rinsed your mouth out and met your own teary eyes in the mirror. Wiping away the evidence, you picked up your phone, trailing slowly to the kitchen. Grabbing a water bottle from the fridge, you called into work, taking the day off. 

The next thing you did was text Dio. He was, understandably, worried. You told him you felt better, and that it was probably just a stomach bug or something. Nothing to worry about, nothing to come home early for. 

Truthfully, you were feeling better. Too better. Settling on the couch, you googled problems where nausea was a symptom. Not much came up that was possible. A stomach bug, but nausea was your only symptom. Same went for the flu and all the other illnesses. And then, right at the end of the list, was pregnancy. 

You scoffed it off, tossing your phone down. As much as Dio complained in the first few weeks, he always used a condom. Always. You’d asked him once if he ever wanted kids, and his response had been a steady fuck no. 

But then you began to think about it harder. You’d always had irregular and unpredictable periods, so the fact that you hadn’t had one in a while wasn’t super suspicious, and your weight had fluctuated, but that was because Dio insisted on a cherry pie last week. No, you couldn’t be pregnant. 

“But what if,” you whispered out loud, looking at the wall and sinking into thought. “It would explain a lot.” 

Deciding to prove to yourself that you were absolutely not pregnant, you stood and put on a decent pair of pants, scooping up your wallet and heading to the CVS. 

The closer the drug store got, the more nervous you became. What if you were pregnant? Would you get rid of the baby? Would Dio dump you if you didn’t want to? Who would take care of you and your baby? 

Shaking your head, you walked into the CVS and took a breath. This would be very easy because you were definitely not pregnant. 

You grabbed a three pack of tests and stood in the self checkout line, hyperaware of the heavily pregnant woman behind you. As you rang up your purchase and dug around in your wallet, you heard her sigh. “I remember when I bought mine.” 

“Pardon?” 

“Sorry!” The woman said sweetly, smiling at you. “I was just remembering when I bought my test for my baby. It’s a magical day.” 

You tried to smile back. “Magical.” 

The woman nodded. “Does your husband know?” 

“I’m not married,” you breathed, staring down at the CVS bag with watering eyes. “He hasn’t, I don’t know if he’ll,” 

“Oh sweetie,” the woman said, coming closer and putting an arm around you. “I'm so sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” 

You shook your head, wiping away tears. “It’s not your fault,” you said softly. “You didn’t know.” 

The woman sighed, rubbing your arm. “Darling, go home, drink some water, and take the test. I promise, no harm can come from just knowing.” 

Nodding, you took your purchase and waved to the woman. She waved back as you began your short walk to your apartment. 

Taking her advice, you drank water, read over the instructions in the pregnancy test box, and immediately moved everything into the bathroom. 

As soon as you shut the door, you called one of Dio’s friends. Raven was a close confidant of yours and could probably be trusted with this secret. 

“Yo,” Raven said as she picked up. 

“Raven I think I might be pregnant.” 

“I’m sorry, what?” Raven asked. “Did you take a test yet, are you sure?” 

You sat in the bathtub, shaking your head. “Not yet,” you mumbled. “I bought a few.” 

Raven made a noise of sympathy. “Dolly, do you want me over there?” 

“Yes please,” you said, hating how weak you sounded. 

“Be there in five.” 

The apartment was deafeningly silent for five minutes before Raven forewent knocking and just opened your front door. “Dolly, where are you?” 

“Bathroom!” 

Raven’s concerned face appeared in your bathroom door. She took in the likely pitiful sight of you sitting in the bathtub and immediately joined you. “Hon, you’re a hot fucking mess in here.” 

“I know,” you said, head in your hands. “The tests are on the counter. I haven’t taken them yet.” 

“You should,” Raven said, standing and passing you one of the tests. “Worst case scenario, you are knocked up and Dio gets mad, so I kick his ass and take you to my place.” 

You snorted and stood. “Thanks Rav,” you said softly, taking the test. “Now get out of the bathroom.” 

Two agonizing minutes later, you’d washed your hands and taken the tests, not necessarily in that order. Raven knocked, and you opened the door for her. 

“Can I be the Godmother?” She asked, leading you out of the bathroom and away from the tests that need a few minutes. 

“What?” 

“If you are pregnant,” she explained. “Can I be the Godmother?” 

You sighed. “Raven, I’m not even sure I’m going to keep the baby yet if I’m pregnant.” 

Raven dramatically rolled her eyes. “Killjoy,” she groaned, falling into your couch. “Okay, better question. How’re you gonna tell Dio?” 

It was something you hadn’t considered yet. “Uh.” You fidgeted with a pillow, trying to think. “I don’t know. Eventually, I guess he’ll find out when I start looking like I swallowed a planet, but, well, I dunno.” 

A timer dinged in the background, and Raven shot to her feet. “Do you wanna look first or should I?” 

“You do it,” you said, suddenly feeling like your mouth was full of cotton. You watched Raven open the bathroom door, pick up the test, and stare down at it. 

“Hey Doll,” she said, leaning her hip against the bathroom door frame and holding up the test. “Positive. All three of them.” 

Your breath stopped. “Really?” A horrible euphoria spread through your body as you took the test from Raven. Sure enough, it said positive. “Oh my god.” 

Raven left shortly after that, apologizing that she couldn’t stay longer. 

“You call me if Dio flips his shit,” she said, hugging you close. “If he won’t take care of it, I promise I’ll be the best damn auntie in New York.” 

You smiled, waving to her as she went. Sitting on the couch, finally alone, you picked up your phone and dialed a familiar number. 

“Baby?” 

“Hey Mama,” you said, twisting a necklace Dio had gotten you last year. “I have something important to tell you.” 

Your mother gasped. “Are you engaged? Did he finally ask?”

You sighed, smiling to yourself. Despite her original hang ups with your goth boyfriend, she’d come to love Dio like he was one of her own kids, and had been pestering since your four year anniversary to get married. “No Mama, he hasn’t proposed. But I, well, I might need to come spend some time with you. For a while.” 

“Oh darling, what happened?” 

You took a breath, trying to force the words out of your mouth. “I’m pregnant.” 

There was silence on the other end. “Mama?” 

“Baby,” your mother said, voice thick with tears. “Baby are you happy?” 

You began to cry too. “Yes Mama, I think I am.”

Your mother let out a breath. “That’s all I care about. If you’re happy, I’m happy. Oh your father is going to be thrilled! Does Dio know?” 

“Not yet,” you said, nerves returning. “I don’t know when or how I’m gonna tell him, but I’m just terrified he’ll be mad.” 

“Mad that you’re pregnant with his baby?” 

“Mama, he hates kids,” you reminded. “That’s why I might have to come stay with you. Raven offered to help me, but if things go south, I want you.” 

Your mother was quiet for a second. “Of course. Should I tell your father?” 

You smiled. “Please do. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” 

“You call me as soon as you tell him, no matter what. I want to congratulate or yell at him.” 

Laughing, you said goodbye to your mother and hung up, leaving you alone to figure out how you’d break the news to Dio. 

He came home hours later, finding you on the couch watching bad reality TV. “That bad, hm?” 

You groaned. “You have no idea.” You’d cleaned the bathroom and hid the evidence, stashing one pregnancy test in your bedside table and throwing the other two out. 

Dio chuckled, falling onto the couch and kissing you. “How’re you feeling?” 

“Better,” you lied. “Raven came around and kept me company for a bit, and then my mom called because apparently we hadn’t talked in a while.” 

“Did she ask if we were engaged?” 

“What do you think?” You laughed, leaning against Dio’s chest. “Oh! Guess what!” 

“Hm?” 

You pulled out your phone, scrolling through Instagram until you found a specific photo. “My old high school best friend is pregnant!” 

Dio squinted at the photo, and you smiled, handing him his glasses from the coffee table. He was technically supposed to wear them all the time, but he said they ruined his vibe so he never actually wore them. 

“Which one is this?” He asked, adjusting his glasses and looking at you. 

“Bridgit, the cute blonde who accidentally started a fire in the gym.” 

Dio nodded. “She’s huge.” 

You snorted, taking your phone back. “She’s eight months pregnant, Dio. Of course she’s huge. I dunno how I’d handle being that pregnant.” 

“Yeah well,” Dio said, standing. “You’ll never have to.” 

That sent a bolt of fear through you. Resting a hand on your stomach, against the nearly invisible baby you were protecting, you spoke with a certain caution. “You really don’t want kids, do you?” 

“We’ve had this talk,” Dio reminded, sitting back down with a drink in hand. “No, I don’t. I’d be a shit father.” 

“Aw, I think you’d be great at it,” you said, trying to ease your nerves. “Dio Morrissey, holding a tiny little baby, I can see it now.” 

Dio chuckled, nudging you. “Where’s all this coming from? We haven’t talked babies in a year.” 

You shrugged. “I’m not exactly getting younger,” you mumbled. “And when Mama called, she asked me when I was planning on having kids.” 

“Oh,” Dio breathed, putting an arm around you. “What’d you say?” 

“I-“ you faltered, meeting Dio’s deep brown eyes. You hoped, very fleetingly, that your baby would have his eyes. “I told her,” you said slowly, realizing it was now or never. “I told her I was already pregnant, Dio.” 

It was like time stopped. Dio’s eyes went wide, his entire body stilling. “You’re kidding,” he said, so softly you almost didn’t hear. “I don’t, I mean, baby why are you crying?”

You wiped your eyes, chest heaving. “I love you so much, and I don’t want to leave, and I don’t want to get rid of the baby, and I’m scared Dio!” You stumbled over your words, still sobbing. 

Dio shook his head, pulling you close. “I would never make you leave,” he promised. “Not over this.” 

You went still, relaxing in the familiar arms. “You- you’re not mad?” 

“Mad?” Dio pulled away, cradling your face in his hands. “No! I could never be mad at you! It wasn’t your fault and you had no control over any of this.”

Then, you asked the all important question. “Are we going to keep it?” 

Dio took your hands, squeezing them tight. “Do you want to keep it? I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to, okay? Think about yourself, not me. What do you want?” 

You thought about it, finally coming to a conclusion after a minute. “I want to keep it.” 

“Okay then,” Dio said. “I guess we’re having a baby.” 

The rest of the night was a whirlwind. You called your mother, and she and your father congratulated you and made you promise to come visit soon. Raven was also called, swearing violently at Dio until you reassured her that he was okay with the scenario. 

After dinner, you made tea for yourself, standing in the kitchen in Dio’s pyjamas. He came up behind you, spanning his hands across your belly. “I love you.” 

“I love you too,” you said, leaning into his touch. “Your hands are freezing.” 

You two spent the better part of the night like that. You resting and Dio always with a hand on your belly, thumb stroking over the dip of your waist or the divot of your hip bone. 

“You sir,” you said when you finally got into bed and Dio put a protective hand over your waist. “Are obsessed.” 

“I can’t help it,” Dio purred softly, kissing your forehead. “My darling is going to be a mother, and I’m going to be a father. I’m not obsessed. I’m protecting.” 

You smiled. “Same thing.” 

The next month was surprisingly hard. You weren’t really showing, but Dio rubbed your belly anyway. He was surprisingly physically affectionate, and did something that shocked you to your core. 

He quit smoking. 

For almost thirty days, you and him struggled in your own ways, always there to hold the other up as Dio’s hands shook and you dry heaved literally every morning. 

Finally, you had a doctor’s appointment. You’d see your baby for the first time and find out how far you were. As you wiggled into a shirt, you turned in the mirror and gasped. “Dio!” 

Dio came rushing into the bathroom. “What’s wrong?” 

You pressed a hand over your belly. “Look.” 

Coming up behind you, Dio grinned when he saw what you were seeing. A baby bump. An unmistakable baby bump. 

“She’s real,” Dio breathed, and you grinned. 

“What makes you think I’m having a girl?” 

Dio smiled, kissing the back of your neck. “I want a girl.” 

You laughed. “Dio, the sex of our baby is not dependent on your desires.”

“But it should be,” Dio said. “Because I want a girl.” 

“Why?” You asked, tugging on a sweater and covering the bump. 

Dio shrugged. “I had to look after four brothers growing up,” he explained. “I kinda want to take care of a baby girl now.” 

You smiled. “You’re a sap.” 

“I’m your sap,” he corrected, stepping into his boots and zipping them up. “C’mon, we don’t wanna be late.” 

The trip to the doctor was odd. Your doctor was a lovely older man who, while he was a bit blunt, was soft spoken and genuinely seemed to care. 

“And there’s your baby,” he said, turning the screen so you could see. He adjusted the transducer on your belly and you took a big breath, finally seeing your baby. 

“She’s beautiful,” Dio murmured, squeezing your hands. 

“They.” 

“She.” 

“Dio!” You said playfully. “We don’t know the sex yet!” 

The doctor chuckled, moving the transducer a bit. “Looks like everything is developing as expected. You’re about twelve weeks, or three months along, although it’s hard to tell because you’re not sure of the date of conception. But, if you’re at three months now, then your due date should be mid-April. However, if the baby is a week or two early or late, we shouldn’t worry.” 

“And when can we learn the sex?” Dio asked, still holding your hands. 

“We can typically start to see it at about 18 weeks, but we’ll take a look at 22 just to be sure we can see it,” the doctor said, putting the transducer down and wiping your belly off. “We can schedule your next appointment for the sex of the baby now, if you want.”

You and Dio both nodded. “Thank you so much doctor,” you said as you tugged your shirt back over your stomach. 

In the next ten weeks, you and Dio began to get ready for a baby. Your old spare room in the apartment that no longer smelled like cigarettes was cleared out and turned into a beautiful nursery. Despite your insistence that it couldn’t be painted black, Dio still managed to put his touch in it. By the time you were getting ready for your second appointment, the nursery was basically done. 

“I think we did good,” you decided, looking at the nursery as you went to grab Dio so you wouldn’t be late. The walls were a smooth cream color, with the same hardwood as the rest of the apartment covered in a soft black rug. The furniture was all black, with white detailing on the crib’s blankets. Dio had found a gorgeous Edgar Allen Poe blanket that he’d insisted upon, and that was how the classic gothic literature theme came to be. After the blanket came a mobile that had ravens, and then a few picture frames with Dio’s favorite Poe passages. 

“Me too,” Dio said, standing from where he’d been attempting to read a book and coming over to kiss you. “Ready?” 

You nodded. “Absolutely. Mama’s still mad we aren’t having a gender reveal party.” 

“Gender is a construct,” Dio reminded you with a soft smile. “As long as our bean is healthy, I will be happy.” 

Grinning, you made a face as the baby kicked you. “Ow! Tiny motherfucker’s already got your punches,” you grumbled, rubbing a hand over your belly. 

Dio chuckled. “Can’t inherit an ability to throw a punch.” 

“Yeah, well,” you said lowly. “If this kid keeps this up, I won’t have much by way of internal organs when we’re done here.” 

Your second appointment was less stressful than the first. You were out of the danger zone with the risk of miscarriage, and today was all about being happy. 

“Alright,” the doctor said, pressing the transducer to your belly and beginning to move it around. “22-ish weeks, how’re we feeling?” 

“I’m getting six hours of sleep a night and eating almost double what I was last year,” you said, staring up at the ceiling. “I feel terrible.” 

The doctor smiled. “And you, Mr. Morrissey?” 

Dio shrugged. “I’ve gotten used to living with the world’s crankiest pregnant person.” 

“Bitch,” you said under your breath, smiling while you did it. 

“Mhm,” Dio kissed your hand, the warmth of his face a weird contrast to the cold of his lip piercing. “Love you too.” 

The doctor turned the screen towards you. “Alright. Are we ready?” 

You and Dio both nodded. 

“So, there’s the head,” the doctor said, pointing to the screen. “Hands, feet, everything is developing normally, and it looks like you’re having a little girl. Congratulations.” 

You and Dio walked out of that appointment and immediately stopped for ice cream, at your request. You eagerly texted everyone, giving them the news, and Dio handed you a cup of bright pink ice cream. “Congratulations.” 

“Thank you,” you said, taking a bite of the ice cream and sitting on a bench, rubbing your belly. “So, you must be over the moon. You’re getting your little girl.” 

Dio grinned, leaning against your shoulder. “Baby, I have never been happier.” 

Three weeks later, sometime during month 6, you started to feel the euphoria die. You were in pain, and lots of it. Every day, the baby seemed to find new ways to make you suffer. Shifting around and sitting practically on your bladder at one in the morning, giving you hellish cravings that made Dio gag more than once, and for a whole week you had nausea so powerful that you could barely eat. No matter how many times Dio kissed over the now obvious swell of your belly, you felt a creeping horror at the stretch marks you were now sporting. 

“Oh my god!” You hissed, crawling out of bed and swearing violently as you began to make slow laps around the apartment, trying to ease your pain. “Fuck!” 

As you trailed from the kitchen to the bedroom, you felt something warm trickle down your leg. Looking down, a gripping terror took your heart as you realized exactly what had just happened. Three months early, your water had broke. You felt your breath quicken as you did the only rational thing. You screamed for Dio. 

“Shane!” You yelled, the panic forcing his given name out of your mouth. “Fuck! Shane!” 

Dio came skidding out of the bedroom in all his half asleep glory, eyes wide. “What’s wrong?” He said, voice urgent. “Babe? Talk to me!” 

“Water,” you gasped, reaching out to him. “Shit. Water just broke.” 

“What?” Now Dio’s panic met yours, but he was significantly better at keeping a level head. “Okay, not freaking out. We are not freaking out. Look at me. That’s it, there we go.” As he talked, he led you from the puddle of amniotic fluids on the kitchen floor to the bedroom, folding up a towel and guiding you to sit. “I’ll call the doctor, okay? You just relax.” 

Dio scooped his phone up, anxiously dialing the number for the office. 

“Hello? Yes, my partner’s water just broke. Yes, they’re about twenty five week. Of course. Yes. Definitely. Okay, thank you.” 

He hung up, sitting next to you and putting a careful hand on your back. “Babe. C’mon, we’ve got to get to the hospital.” 

You nodded, standing and gripping Dio’s hand as he led you to the car, laying the towel down in the passenger seat and helping you sit. 

“Baby, listen to me,” Dio said softly, taking your hand as soon as he was in the car. “The doctor said you’re probably going to be okay, and so is the baby. 25 weeks is super early, but there’s a high chance you’ll both be okay.” 

“Okay,” you said, placing your hands over your belly. “It seems she’s also inherited your dramatic flair.” 

Dio chuckled. “Close your eyes. We’ll be there before you know it.” 

Despite the late hour, the hospital was alive with activity. A kind nurse led you to the delivery wing, gave you a hospital gown, and promised to get the doctor. 

He was in the room within minutes, checking your dilation and sighing. “So,” he said, standing. “We’ve got options here. Option one, a natural birth. Technically possible, but risky. Option two, c-section. Less risky, but it leaves a scar and you’d need more recovery time.”

It wasn’t a hard choice for you. “Whatever’s safest for the baby.” 

The doctor nodded. “Okay. C-section it is. Mr. Morrissey, if I could ask you to leave the room.”

“What?” 

“With the baby being this early, we don’t want anything to complicate the procedure,” the doctor explained. “Please, I promise we’ll get you if anything major happens.” 

“Wait!” You shouted, gripping Dio’s hand. “He can’t stay?” 

“I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “But no.” 

Dio’s hands were shaking as you kissed them. “Darling, I’ll be fine,” you promised. “Dio, hon, look at me. Just go wait outside. I’ll yell if I need anything.” 

Dio turned to the doctor after kissing you and rasping out a soft farewell. “You come get me if anything goes wrong,” he said softly, so you wouldn’t hear. “And if you have to choose between one or the other,” he glanced at you, knowing you’d actively disagree with what he was about to say. “You save my partner, okay?” 

The doctor nodded. “Of course,” he said. “You can wait right there. This won’t take long, I promise.” 

Apparently, the doctor was a big fat liar. Almost an hour later, Dio was leaning against your mother’s shoulder, half asleep. It had taken so long that they’d had time to show up, which wasn’t helping Dio’s building anxiety. 

Finally, finally, a nurse opened the door. “Morrissey?” 

Dio jumped to his feet, despite almost falling asleep mere minutes before. “Yes?” 

“The procedure was a success,” the nurse explained. “Both your partner and your daughter are okay. Would you like to see?” 

Dio’s heart pounded as he entered the room. You looked completely exhausted, pale and sweaty but alive. You smiled upon seeing him, weakly gripping his hand. “Told you,” you mumbled. 

He grinned, but his attention was soon grabbed by the tiny baby in the room. She was connected to more wires and tubes than you were, but Dio didn’t care. He put a hand against the glass of the chamber she was in, tears starting to flow. “She’s perfect.” 

“She is,” you agreed, looking at your baby. “Is my mama here?” 

Dio nodded, still entranced by the baby. “Welcome to the world,” he said softly. “Athena Morrissey.” 

You and Athena were in the hospital for another month, Dio visiting daily to see you and hold you upright as you saw your little girl. She kept getting stronger, defying every odd and surprising you whenever she could.

It was hard, the first few weeks home. Athena would be in the NICU for a bit longer, until she was healthier, but Dio told you that this was just a chance to truly prepare for the little bundle of joy. 

The day you took her home was a tear jerker. Dio insisted on carrying her through the door, the tiny little thing swaddled in his arms as he gave the dead asleep Athena an apartment tour. 

That night, you smiled, watching Dio away back and forth with Athena in his arms. He’d abandoned his jacket for the comfort of something softer, Athena’s white onesie a contrast against his black shirt. 

“Y’know how, almost ten months ago, I joked that I could totally see you holding a baby,” you said softly, standing and moving to Dio’s side. 

“Yeah?” 

You smiled, stroking a finger down Athena’s cheek. “You look so natural like this,” you said. “You’re gonna be an amazing father.” 

“And you will be an amazing mother,” Dio said, kissing you. “Can you grab something out of my pocket?” 

Nodding, you reached into Dio’s pocket and stopped when your fingers brushed something small and metal. “Dio.” 

“Darling.” 

You pulled a beautiful ring out of his pocket, your emotions getting the better of you. “Are you proposing?” 

Dio grinned. “Figured it was time. Is that a yes?” 

You nodded. “Yes. Dio Morrissey, I cannot wait to marry you.”

[jovialyouthmusic]

Go Shorty!

(It's my birthday!)

In a kind of weird reverse universe, this is my gift to anyone who enjoys my Bastien Lykel fics, queued to be posted on my birthday. I've noted Fabricio's recent image change and it inspired the following - what would Bastien's family think if he shaved off his iconic goatee? Enjoy, its all fluff xx

Word Count 2035

Double Trouble

The last lecture of the week completed, Sophia was in her university office just putting her papers together when the faculty secretary put her head round the door.

‘Sophia, your home help has been in touch, she said it’s urgent’

‘Thanks Lizzy, I’ll be leaving soon anyway. It’s been a long week, I’m glad I’ve nothing on this afternoon.’ Sophia turned her mobile phone back on to see that Morag had left her a voice mail. She held the phone at arm’s length as she played back the sound of a harassed young woman and a squealing toddler in full meltdown.

‘Mrs Lykel, I’m sorry tae bother ye, but yer wee lassie’s upset, and her father cannae soothe her. Please call back when ye can. Or just come hame.’ Sophia frowned. It wasn’t like Bastien to fail to settle Beatrice. Little princess that she was, she was Daddy’s girl while Sophia was out at work through the week and welded to Sophia’s side at the weekend. She dialled the landline of their top floor regency apartment in the centre of Edinburgh that the University had allocated them. It was Bastien who answered, and all was quiet beyond his voice.

‘Sophia!’ he sounded flustered ‘Morag’s just got her to settle, did you get the message?’

‘It’s an odd time of day for a nap, is she running a temperature?’

‘Errm no, she’s hot, but she’s not ill. She’s just been crying...’

‘How do you know she’s not ill if she’s hot?’ Sophia demanded, making her way along the corridor to the car park to their SUV. Her mind span with possibilities.

‘I uh – you’ll understand when you get here, I can’t explain right now.’ Sophia decided not to stop off at the shops on the way, hoping Morag could go and get what was needed before she clocked off for the weekend. She wished she’d had the foresight to order a supermarket delivery, but she preferred to shop herself. With or without the children, she loved browsing the aisles of Waitrose when it wasn’t busy. Bastien was a surprisingly poor shopper and stuck religiously to the list, whereas she’d discover little treats and bargains that wouldn’t stretch her salary. Living in the city was expensive, although not nearly as much as if they’d moved to London, and having Morag to help was a slight strain on resources. Setting up Bastien’s security consultancy was taking longer than expected thanks to the complexity of looking after twins, and the retainer from King Liam in Cordonia was only just enough for small luxuries.

As soon as she opened the door to the apartment, Morag was there pulling her coat on and shouldering her bag.

‘Morag, I was hoping you’d be able to get some supp…’ Sophia started, but she was already pushing past her to the landing outside.

‘Ah’ll be back the Monday.’ she said shortly, and Sophia was left peering over the banister to the stairwell after her rapidly retreating figure, wondering what had happened. She turned back inside to meet Bastien holding Theo.

‘Mama.’ he crowed in jubilant greeting. Bastien stepped out of the shadowed hall, and all became clear.

‘Bas, you shaved!’ she gasped. She’d never seen her husband without facial hair in the few years she’d known him. He still had a neat ‘tache, but his trimmed goatee was gone, his chin and jawline bare. He looked sheepish, and she knew she shouldn’t have teased him about the streak of white in his beard. He handed over Theo, who pointed at Bastien.

‘Dada face.’ he proclaimed.

‘Yes, I thought perhaps…’ his voice trailed off ‘Well, that is, I mean...’

‘Beatrice didn’t like it, did she? Honestly Bas, you should have thought – why didn’t you say something?’ He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

‘I thought perhaps a younger image might drum up some more business.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, age means experience, people are more likely to trust a distinguished looking gent.’ she scoffed. He sighed in exasperation.

‘Well the damage is done. Beatrice took one look at me and bawled her eyes out. Morag tried to calm her down, but every time she saw me again she’d set off crying.’

‘Well no wonder, you look completely different. How about Theo?’ she asked.

‘You know him – a bomb would go off and he wouldn’t flinch.’ In response Theo wriggled to get down, bored at the adult conversation. He toddled off to the toybox in the lounge to rummage for his current favourite, a shape sorting puzzle.

‘Well, I’d better go and take a look at her.’ Sophia sighed. ‘If she’s been crying all morning she’ll probably not wake up for a while.’ She feared that the disruption to her sleep schedule meant they’d be in for a rocky night at the very least, if not a couple of days. She opened the door to their bedroom a crack but could see little, as the curtains were drawn tight. Normally they let a little light in for daytime naps so the children would know night from day. She crept in and let her eyes adjust to the gloom. Beatrice lay on her back in her day clothes, one arm flung back over her head and her other thumb in her mouth. That wasn’t a good sign – she’d not used that form of self soothing for a couple of months. Her hair was damp and face flushed, but her breathing was steady and peaceful.

Sophia carefully held her palm over her forehead, feeling the slight heat coming off it. Bastien joined her, gazing down at the toddler, but she motioned him out of the room and followed quietly.

‘Well, she’s okay for now. I’d better be here for when she wakes up, so you can go shopping for the weekend.’ Bastien’s face dropped.

‘On a Friday? The traffic’s mayhem – can’t we order in?’

‘I couldn’t stop on the way back, and there won’t be any free delivery slots until at least Monday, you know that.’ She sighed. ‘If you take Theo with you it’ll be easier for when Bea wakes up, and you can play the ‘Dad doing the chores’ role, that’ll get you to the front of the checkout queue. Give him a banana, that will keep him happy.’

‘Narners?’ Theo called from the lounge, and came toddling to find Sophia, clinging to her leg and pulling at her clothes.

‘Lunch first, Theo, then Daddy will take you shopping. Won’t that be lovely? All boys together.’

‘Sopping’ Theo cried happily, then looked over at Bastien. ‘Mummy sopping?’ he asked hopefully. He knew Sophia was more likely to treat him than his father, although he did like pointing out the things Daddy couldn’t find. Perhaps he’d treat him more without his sister there to steal the limelight.

‘No darling, Mummy has to look after Bea.’

‘Bee cwy. Dada face.’

‘Yes, silly Daddy took his beard off. He’s funny isn’t he?’

‘Dada silly!’ Theo cried triumphantly and pointed at him. Bastien scowled.

‘Yes well okay, let’s all laugh at Daddy.’ he grumbled as Sophia picked Theo up and balanced him on her hip.

‘Well it’s better than crying’ she said acidly. ‘Now, do you want to make lunch, or shall I?’

-------

Lunchtime was much simpler than normal with just Theo to feed. The couple could eat their own food while the toddler busied himself with cheese sandwiches made with wholemeal bread. He left the crusts, but Sophia had discovered it pointless cutting them off, as he left some bread around the edge just as if the crust were still there. She often saved them to feed the ducks at the park with the twins. Bastien had literally just closed the door to take Theo out to the supermarket when she heard Beatrice stirring. She went into her quickly, to find her standing at the bars to the cot, hair curling round her face and cheeks blotchy.

‘Mummy.’ Her voice was croaky and she looked miserable. ‘Dada face!’ she told her. She stretched her arms up and Sophia scooped her up as she rubbed her eyes sleepily. Perhaps she’d think it was a dream.

‘Well hello my little Bea, you’ve had a difficult morning. Are you hungry?’ She nodded sleepily.

‘Sippy sippy, Mummy.’ The little girl was obviously thirsty too.

‘Of course darling, you can have juice. Do you want sandwiches?’

‘Widges, Mummy.’ She looked across to Theo’s cot. ‘Where Feeo?’ Sophia sucked in her breath. It was very rare that the children were separated and she braced herself for trouble.

‘He’s gone out to the shops to get more narners, darling.’ The little girl clung on to her and rested her head on her chest, seemingly pleased to have Sophia to herself. She carried her through to the kitchen and filled her sippy cup with juice. Gratefully Bea grabbed at it and drank greedily, eyes rolling back in bliss.

‘All gone’ she shook it upside down, sprinkling the last dregs on the floor. Luckily the sandwiches were ready from earlier so Sophia put them on the tray of the high chair. Bea shook her head and clung on tight as she tried to put her down.

‘Okay darling, you can sit on my knee this time’ she said gently, and sat at the table, the little girl firmly nestled on her lap. She reached out to take a sandwich and squeezed it in her fist before stuffing half of it in her mouth, crumbs falling everywhere. She was hungry, and Sophia wondered if she’d had anything to eat before her father’s transformation. She waited until she’d slowed down.

‘Morag told me you were upset this morning.’ she said gently. The little girl took a shuddering breath.

‘Dada face bad.’ she said, putting her hand to her chin. Sophia stepped in before the cycle of crying could restart.

‘I know, Bea. He shaved his beard off. He looks funny now, doesn’t he? Theo was laughing at Daddy.’ Beatrice burrowed into her side again, hiding her face. ‘It’s okay darling, he just looks different. He still loves you – and me, and Theo. Silly Daddy, he’ll grow it back.’

‘Where Daddy?’ she asked, voice muffled.

‘He took Theo out to get more narners.’

‘Sopping?’ Beatrice relaxed and looked up at her enquiringly.

‘That’s right. Is there anything you want from the shops? I can call Daddy on his phone and tell him.’ The tot looked thoughtful.

‘Ice kweem?’

‘Okay, if Daddy brings you ice cream will you give him a kiss? His face is all smooth now, like Mummy’s.’ Beatrice giggled at the thought.

‘Like Mummy!’ she exclaimed. ‘Daddymummy!’

‘You can talk to him on the phone if you like, tell him what you want.’ Sophia got out her phone and texted Bastien.

Call when you can, Bea wants to ask you for ice cream

It was a few minutes before her phone rang, during which time she had changed the little girl’s nappy and was dressing her in clean clothes.

‘Oh that will be Daddy, just wait a minute darling.’ Beatrice opened and closed her hands, demanding it for herself, but Sophia put it on speakerphone.

‘Beatrice is here, Bas. She wants to ask you something.’

‘Daddymummy!’ Beatrice burbled. ‘Ice kweem, Daddy.’

‘Come on now, say please.’ Sophia prompted. Beatrice put on her cutest expression, unaware that her father couldn’t see it.

‘Pweese Daddy, stawby.’

‘Okay Bea, I’ll get strawberry ice cream. I love you, my little Bea. I’m sorry I scared you.’

‘Silly Daddy. Kisses!’ There was a short pause before Bastien obliged, blowing kisses to his daughter. Sophia tried not to laugh, wondering where he was and who could see him.

‘Okay now Bea, Daddy has to get the rest of the shopping. He’ll be back soon.’

‘Bye Daddy.’

‘Bye, my sweeting. Be good for Mummy.’ Beatrice slid off Sophia’s lap and went off to the toybox, obviously happy with life, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

‘If it’s any help, I told her your face is like Mummy’s now, so be prepared to be called Daddymummy until she’s forgotten. You’d better grow that beard back fast, mister.’ she said in a low tone. 'and be prepared for a rough bedtime, she'll be full of beans after that nap.'

@sirbeepsalot @katedrakeohd @fluffyfirewhiskey @bascmve01 @rainbowsinthestorm @nomadics-stuff @kingliam2019 @texaskitten30​ @stopforamoment

[peanut-in-the-goal]

could u write something like remus is out running errands or something and he gets recognized by an nhl fan who’s homophobic and shitty and he goes home and sirius comforts him and it’s cute and fluffy

I KIND OF WENT ON A RANT IN THE MIDDLE OF THIS IM SO SORRY

ALSO I LOST SPEAKING PRIVILEGES WITH @kielemarie because of this. IM SORRY MARIE PLEASE ANSWER MY ASKS

@candy--floss--kid you asked to be tagged when i finished so here ya go

@lumosinlove thank you for this fandom that is sweater weather

also here’s the last thing I wrote because I'm proud of it please I thrive on validation

---

Remus was walking down one of the aisles in the store, looking for a baking mix. He figured that he’d finally take up the challenge of teaching Sirius how to bake. 

He found a simple recipe. Yellow cupcake mix, how could he mess it up? Remus thought to himself. He placed it in the cart before he felt someone forcefully slam into his shoulder. 

He stumbled, his hand immediately going to his scar from Grayback. He looked up slowly, dreading who he might see. 

His eyes locked with the dark green ones in front of him. The tall man’s eyes matched the Slytherin Jersey he wore. Riddle was in bold letters on the back. Which was bad, but not the worst thing that could have happened.

He allowed himself to breathe, it’s not Fenrir, he let the relief of it wash over him. 

“Sorry,” Remus said. He knew it wasn’t his fault but didn’t want to start any drama or conflict when there was no need for it. Especially with a Snakes fan,

He tried to just walk away. He had everything he needed for just a lazy day at home, but the man stepped in front of him. 

Remus looked up confused. Leo has told him about Karen’s doing this sort of stuff. Something that Gen Z came up with or whatever, but he wasn’t sure if he entirely grasped the concept. Suddenly the man started laughing. A deep menacing, laugh that had no humor behind it. 

His eyes were hard as he stared at Remus. 

“It’s not right you know.” He said. His voice was deep and loud, everyone else in the aisle turning to look. “You’re just a bunch of sinners.”

Remus realized what he was referring to in a heartbeat. He was taken aback at first, he knew people felt this way but he had yet to have anyone come and say it to his face so plainly.

He took a step back moving the cart to go around the man, “Excuse me,” he gritted out. He started pushing the cart before a hand reached out and grabbed it.

Remus raked a hand through his hair, sighing he looked up at the man. The green-eyed man was smirking at him, holding onto the front of the cart. The letters stood out in the harsh lighting of the store, glimmering every time he moved.

ALWAYS, PURE, HOCKEY.

The words were printed underneath the symbol, the green snake. It made him sick, he felt bad for all the people who were drafted to that team, stuck without a chance of escaping on their own.

The queasiness in his stomach turned into anger. He used that.

“Was there something you wanted?” Remus asked, generally annoyed now. 

“I want you to know that it’s not fucking right.” The man stepped closer, Remus stayed where he was. 

“Noted, now if you don’t mind I think I’m going to go home to my boyfriend.”

One of the people next to him snorted and tried to hide their laughter at the affronted look on the green-eyed man's face. 

“How can you even look at yourself in the mirror?” The man sniped. 

“Easily, knowing that a homophobic git who can’t keep their nose in their own business isn’t looking back.”

More people laughed, Remus smirked. The man seemed to be getting angrier and angrier, which was just fine. 

“You’re broken.” The man pursed his lips.

“How original.”

Remus pushes the cart again, managing to make the man dislodge his fingers. He started towards the checkout, wanting to get out of there as soon as he could. 

It wasn’t his first time he heard these things. That was all he heard when he was in the media and the pictures had just come out. But Sirius had suffered through most of the face to face stuff, while Remus saw all of it online.

It didn’t make the impact of the words any easier.

It disgusted him that people still thought this way, that they didn’t like that he was able to find love with someone that wasn’t accepted. So what, oh no, they have the same genitals, obviously, it isn’t right. Fuck them for thinking that, honestly. 

It’s sad that they’re so limited to that type of mindset. Where only one thing is right and everything else is wrong in their eyes.

He huffed, walking down the aisle with his head held high. 

Stand your ground, don’t let him win. You got this.

The man followed him, yelling slurs from where he was trailing behind him. 

Don’t let him see, it’s okay. Just a little longer than you can go home to Sirius and everything will be alright.

He finally makes it to the front of the store, but of course, there’s a line. He stands waiting for self check out, it’s the shortest.

“It’s disgusting.”

“You’re disgusting.” Remus didn’t even raise his head to look at the idiot.

Just ignore it, don’t give him the time of day. Keep your head up.

“How am I disgusting?”

“You’re limiting people to only live by your standards and your viewpoints on what’s normal rather than letting them be happy and live how they want. It’s gross really, that you’re so closed-minded about these things for fucks sake.“

“I’m saying what’s right!” The man spluttered.

“How is it right? How is any of that right?” Remus snapped his head up to look at him, his eyes were hard. “You’re telling me that I’m not allowed to live my life or be happy because it doesn’t see fit to you?” He shook his head in outrage.

The man opened his mouth to speak but Reus didn’t let him.

“Ever hear of John Locke. Our three natural rights that we’re all born with? One of them being the Pursuit of Happiness. I’m not hurting you am I? Me happening to like other men does not affect you, it affects me. It makes me happy and you’re really going to come out here and fucking tell me that I’m not allowed to be happy?”

“Well…”

“Well, what?”

The man was at a loss for words, scrambling to grab onto anything to say but he couldn’t.

“It’s still not right.” He said gruffly.

��Yeah, you said that already.”

The man glared at him before huffing and walking away. Remus sighed in relief. 

He walked up to the check out that had just opened, swiping his items before getting a bag and rushing out of the store. 

Some people smiled at him in encouragement, but he was so drained and just wanted to be home at the moment.

He threw the bag in the passenger seat, climbing into the car to drive. He sat there for a minute.

In for four, hold for six, out for eight. Repeat. It’s okay.

He shuffled his playlist, smiling softly and humming along to the tune of Free Fallin by Tom Petty. He was definitely free falling when he fell in love with Sirius.

The drive home was short, luckily they lived close by.

He pulled up into the driveway and quickly scrambled out of the car. His chest felt tight and there was a lump forming in his throat. He jiggled the key in the lock, difficult because of how shaky his hands were.

Finally, he heard a soft click and stepped inside.

“Baby?” Remus called through the house, his voice cracked slightly. He could hear the dull noise of the TV in the other room, then some shuffling, before Sirius’ goofy grin popped around the corner. Slowly, it morphed to one of concern.

“Re?” Sirius took in his red face, and trembling lips, before pulling him into a hug. Remus sagged against him, letting Sirius support his weight and dropping his head against his shoulder.

“Vas tu bien, mon Loup?” Remus nodded his head slowly against Sirius’ neck because though he might not actually be okay, he felt safe in Sirius’ arms. He held on tighter when Sirius went to let go.

“Mon loup? What’s wrong?” Sirius asked. He pulled back just enough to be able to look at his face. 

Remus stuttered for a moment.”There uh…” Sirius rubbed his side soothingly. “There was this idiot at the store, h-he said it wasn’t right?” His voice came out as a question. He bit his lip hard against the tears welling up.

God, why did he feel like crying? It’s not like he hasn’t heard all of this before because he has. But having someone saying it to his face like that in the middle of a store where he’d never had problems before was like a punch in the gut. Was this how it was going to be from now on?

Was he going to get stopped on the streets or in the stores and restaurants just because he was gay? Because he chose love over being what everyone else wanted him to be?

As long as he got Sirius it would be worth it in the end. It had to be.

“Wasn’t right?” Sirius furrowed his brow. “Oh.” The realization dawned on his face.

“No, no, Remus, non.  He’s wrong, He—”

“I know.” Remus looked at him. “I know. Just… Is this how it’s going to be from now on? Are people always going to look at us like we’re different j-just because we love each other?”

Sirius made a sad almost whine like noise. “I’m sorry Re…”

Remus sighed, dropping his forehead to rest against Sirius’s shoulder again. “At least I have you.” His words were muffled but Sirius still understood.

He smiled softly at his boyfriend. “I could say the same thing. Come on.”

Sirius led Remus back to their living room, the TV playing some cooking show that started when Sirius’ had ended. Sirius sat on the couch, pulling Remus to lay down with him.

“Has it always been this bad for you?” Remus murmured, his eyes were already shut. He cuddled further into Sirius.

“I guess. I don’t know, I stopped listening to that stuff, they’re all wrong anyway.” He grabbed the blanket that was hanging over the couch and draped it over them both.

“I’m sorry, I love you.” Sirius pressed a kiss to the top of Remus’ hairs.

“I love you too,” but Remus was already softly snoring away.

---

Remus’s eyes fluttered open sometime later. He was curled on the couch with Sirius. It was dark outside, the stars shining through the leaves of the tree that stood outside their window.

He shifted to rub at his eyes, yawning.

“You’re cute.” 

Remus snorted. “I just woke up.”

“You’re still cute.” Sirius laughed softly, brushing some stray strands of hair from Remus’ face.

Remus yawned again. “What time is it?”

Sirius grabbed his attention phone from where it was laying next to him. “7:30, you’ve been asleep for a while.”

Remus huffed, sitting up all the way. 

“I was going to teach you how to bake a cake,” he pouted. 

“I know how to bake a cake!” Sirius exasperated, “I also stand by my statement of you’re cute.”

Remus huffed out a laugh.  He stood up, “I’m sure you do.”

“I do! Celeste taught me.”

“She taught you or she tried to teach you, there’s a difference.” Remus raised his eyebrow,

“Fine, she tried.” 

“Then I will conquer the impossible.” He said it boldly, standing up at the same time, making them both laugh. 

“I’m not impossible.” 

“Teaching you is,” Remus smirked, tugging Sirius’ hand to make him get off the couch.

He felt so much lighter now. Being around Sirius tended to have that effect on him. He made him forget what he was worried about, and made him feel safe and loved. The man from the store was still in the back of his mind nagging at him but at this moment that didn’t matter. Nothing matters except the two of them. And wasn’t that wonderful?

“I am not impossible to teach,” Sirius whined. Remus laughed, walking into the kitchen.

“Yes, you are baby,” Remus shook his head fondly, looking for the bag from the shop. He didn’t see it. “I think I left the stuff in the car, I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll get it!” Sirius grabbed the keys before Remus could, a dopey grin on his face.

“Must everything be a competition?” There was no bite behind his words, watching Sirius fling the door open. The cold air from outside drifted into the heated house, Remus shivered.

The door shut and Sirius was back in front of him, bag in hand.

“Ready to show you that I can learn!”

“Did you lock the door?” Sirius hesitated for a moment. Remus had to bite back a laugh, “I’ll go lock it,” he pressed a kiss to Sirius’ cheek.

“Now we’re ready,” He pressed a kiss to Sirius’ cold nose this time.

He took out what he bought, vanilla extract, a boxes of cake mix, sugar, and sprinkles.

“Okay so…” He held one of the boxes, reading the recipe on the back. “Can you preheat the oven to 350 degrees, baby?” He asked. Sirius looked at him before walking over to the oven. “Or, do you want me to do it?” 

“I can do it.” Remus laughed.

“Sorry.” Sirius batted Remus’s hands away. “Okay, what’s next?”

“Uh, we have to make the batter. Can you get the eggs out please?”

“Mhm,” he got the eggs from the refrigerator, placing them gently on the island. 

“Alright wait, we need 3 eggs, ½ a cup of oil, a cup of water, and this.” He held up the mix for emphasis. 

“That’s it?”

“Yep,” he smiled at Sirius. He owed one heck of a lot to that idiot. His idiot.

“Easy,” Sirius dragged out his words and laughed.

“See you say that now, but something has to go wrong I swear.”

Sirius grumbled as he went to crack the eggs into the bowl for the electric mixer. Remus laughed again, going back to reading the instructions, making sure that they were doing it right.

“Oops.” Remus snapped his head up.

“Oops? What do you mean oops?” He leaned over to look at the bowl. Half an eggshell laid on its side in a bowl, on top of the already broken up egg.

“Told you something would go wrong,” Remus laughed, carefully picking it out to throw away.

They worked on making the batter, Remus telling Sirius what to do. Finally, everything was in the bowl and they just had to mix it.

“Okay, you can turn on the — hey wait!” 

Sirius pulled the little switch on the side of the mixer. All the way.

 “No! Sius don’t.” But it was too late, the powder from the cake mix flew everywhere. Finally Remus was able to hit the switch back, turning it off.

They looked around, but the mix had covered the counter tops and ground in a sheet of what looked like dust. 

A startled laugh came from him, Sirius following right after. Their shoulders shook with mirth.

“Well that was a bust.”

“And we still haven’t even started on the frosting yet.”

[hoe-doroki]

ana’s 1k follower event!

Hi, everyone! Wow, I can’t believe I’ve only been here for 4 months and I’ve already hit 1k. I’m really so, so grateful for every single one of you.

The thing that I’ve loved doing the most in that time is making people’s lives better. That’s meant putting out hurt/comfort fics or stalking friends’ tags so that I can send them a dm when they’re in a tough spot. But there’s one thing that I’ve noticed that I would like to make a difference in.

There’s a lack of confidence here. Whether it’s your skills as a writer,  appearance, or anxiety over an aspect of your personality.

That’s natural. I get it. But the thing that I’ve noticed in particular that I would like to do something about, is the down talk. All of the apologies for who you are and what you do. The tags casting off a piece of writing as ‘a mess’ or ‘pretending to be [something]’ or just plain ‘bad.’ The author’s notes saying that a piece is unbetaed and probably crap. Or that you’re dumb or anything like that! This urge—need—to say a bad thing about yourself before anyone else can. I’m trying to release my need to try and control that--we all should. And this back-bending need to be humble. Screw humble. I don’t need any of that. I want you. I want you and what you bring to the table. That’s it. It’s that simple.

So what solution do I bring you?

Compliments. I’ve started doing this with a number of my friends on here—manipulating compliments out of them or asking for them straight up. Or noticing when they compliment themselves and screaming it back in their face. I think we all need to give ourselves more compliments. Affirmations. Ones that we mean. The things we like about ourselves that we can hold onto and remember in the moments where it’s a little harder.

That’s my event. I’m not gonna do a damn thing. I’m just gonna sit here and I’m expecting to see some compliments roll in to my ask box. You would not believe the power of putting something into words and sending it out.

Don’t be afraid of sending in something that sounds too cocky. You know why? Because I’m probably cockier than you. The reason why I’ve taken this up as my mantle for my friends is because I’m hella confident. You read that right. I love myself, I think I’m attractive, a good writer, intelligent, and a good person. And that’s not bragging! It’s awesome that I think those things and I want all ya’ll to feel this way to. And any little thing I can do to help people move in that direction is valuable.

I’m not going to hide when I’m proud of myself. I want my blog to always be a place where people can come and tell me when they’re feeling good. That’s my ultimate dream. Tell me when you’re feeling down, too, of course, but there needs to be place where people can go, and mention when they think they’re hot shit and not fear judgement. I won’t judge you for loving even a little bit of yourself ever.

So, how does this work? Simple.

Pop into my ask box or, if you’re more comfortable, my dms

Give yourself a compliment. Any old compliment will do. Big, small, old, new, novel, weird, basic, simple, complicated, etc

I’ll reply! Affirming that yes, indeedy, you’re the bee’s knees 😘

And that’s it!

I get that this might be hard. It might be uncomfortable. It’s probably not what you’re used to. But the things we say about ourselves are the stories we’re telling ourselves. They have power. So why not give yourself a compliment instead of telling yourself the same old damaging stories? After all, you’re the person you have to spend this life with. Why not treat yourself with the grace you would a best friend?

Last thing: this event is never closing. I’d really like to be a part of changing the atmosphere around here so we can all have a little more pride, self-love, and confidence. That means forever, baby.

The tag for this is #ana’s self-love checkout

[missfangirll]

Tie your heart to mine

Fandom: SCI Mystery Relationship: Zhan Yao / Bai Yutong Tags: Case fic, Angst with a happy ending Chapters: 3 Summary: Zhan Yao has disappeared.

Read on AO3

By night, love, tie your heart to mine, and the two together in their sleep will defeat the darkness.

--Pablo Neruda, Love Sonnet 79

Chapter 1: Descensus Averno

The world went to hell on a Thursday.

Bai Yutong couldn’t even remember the reason for the fight he had with Zhan Yao that Sunday. It was probably something stupid, like whose turn it was to do the dishes, and yet it was all he was able to think about later.

They had still been arguing the whole drive to the airport, Zhan Yao hadn’t even looked back or said goodbye when he had gotten out of the car, hauling his suitcase through the lobby, his whole body tense, shoulders square, his steps determined. Bai Yutong had watched him until he vanished in the crowd and wished he wasn’t so stubborn. They both were. He loved his cat with all his heart, but living together didn’t always bring out the best in either of them.

Because of the nature of their parting he hadn’t been surprised when Zhan Yao hadn’t called from the hotel that evening, or any other evening that followed. Sad, yes, angry and hurt, but not surprised. He had spent the whole Monday hiding in his office, going over some cold cases a good enough reason not to examine his feelings to closely.

The following days hadn’t been any better and by Wednesday evening he had been determined to pick up Zhan Yao from the airport and apologise immediately, maybe cook his favourite food or take him to see a movie, anything to make things right again.

And then, nothing was right anymore.

On Thursday morning, the hotel Zhan Yao had stayed in called to let him know there had been a mix-up in the reservation and his credit card would be charged twice, but it had been handled and he would get a refund. He hadn’t really been listening to the explanations and apologies, until the caller mentioned she hadn’t been able to reach Zhan Yao this morning and therefore had called him, which made him pause. Slightly alarmed, he tried to make sense of that information. “You mean you called his room and he didn't answer?” “No,” she said in an apologising tone. “He has checked out yesterday evening and I couldn’t reach his mobile phone. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

Bai Yutong felt his stomach drop. “He was supposed to fly back today. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

“Sorry,” the clerk said. “He didn’t say, only left last night.”

“Let me call you back”, he said hastily and hung up. While he dialled Zhan Yao’s number from memory, his mind went through a million possible explanations. Maybe he was still mad and therefore hadn’t called? Maybe he had taken an earlier flight? But why wasn’t he home already, a voice in his mind whispered.

The call went straight to voicemail and Bai Yutong stared disbelievingly at his phone, his heart beating painfully slow in his chest.

After this he didn’t waste any more time. He informed the team that their resident professor had gone AWOL and set everyone to work: He called the hotel again to make sure Zhan Yao’s room would be sealed and treated as a crime scene, then had Zhao Fu find the next possible flight and Jiang Ling trace Zhan Yao’s phone – the former with success, the latter not so much, since it apparently had been turned off all week.

Pinching his nose, Bai Yutong muttered a curse, took a deep breath and addressed his team: “Alright, Wang Shao and Zhao Fu are with me. Jiang Ling, you work best behind your own desk, so you stay, Ma Han and the little one”, he nodded to Bai Chi, “will assist you. Call me immediately if you find anything useful.” The chorus of “Yes, Sir!” did nothing to ease his anxiety, but he smiled at them anyway and nodded. “Let’s go. Let’s find him.”

The flight didn’t take long, and when Wang Shao hailed a taxi, Bai Yutong’s mind was already busy making lists and sorting through facts. They arrived at the hotel shortly after noon and immediately went to work, first explaining his case to the – very helpful – manager, who promptly offered a suite to use as a headquarter as long as they would need it.

Searching Zhan Yao’s room wasn’t really enlightening. He hadn’t left anything when he checked out – Bai Yutong noticed he hadn’t even taken the small shampoo samples and his heart clenched in fond exasperation. His cat was honest to a fault, really. Sitting on the bed in the quiet, empty room, he ran a hand through his hair.

Where are you, Cat?

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

Cold.

 He felt cold.

 It was a cold that didn’t feel normal, not like being outside on a chilly day or after taking a cold shower. It was odd, somehow, vibrating, like a living being, moving inside him.

 He felt it in his soul, his heart, his bones.

 How curious, he thought.

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

Sighing, Bai Yutong took out his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found what he was looking for. Bai Qintang answered after the first ring. “Any news?” He sighed. “No, it’s… He’s…” He trailed off and sighed again, pinching his nose. “This is a nightmare, jie.”

“You’re going to find him, Yutong. I have no doubts about your abilities.”

“Jie, it’s my fault. We haven't spoken in a week. If I hadn't--”

“Oh, shut it!” Bai Qintang blurted. “It’s not your fault and you know it. Stop pitying yourself and start being useful. He’s counting on you, so you need to get your shit together.” Bai Yutong winced at the tone, but knew she was right. He swallowed hard. “Thanks, sis, I’ll try.” He could hear her smile through the phone. “That’s my baby brother!” He rolled his eyes and hung up. Feeling slightly more optimistic, he stood up to gather his team, leading them to the reception desk.

The clerk, the one who had called Bai Yutong and was now very keen to help, remembered Zhan Yao leaving shortly after 8 p.m. the day before. He had given her a rather good tip and asked about a store where he could buy some provisions, which she had told him.

Bai Yutong decided to pay that store a visit. After flashing his badge into the manager’s face – and hoping she wouldn’t look closely enough to see he was from another city – she produced a security tape from the night before, leaving him and Zhao Fu in the cramped store room to watch it. Hunched over the tiny screen, he saw Zhan Yao walk into the store, dressed as impeccably as always, carrying the small black suitcase that had been his birthday gift last year. He vanished from the screen for a few minutes, only to reappear at one of the self-checkout registers, piling his items haphazardly on the surface. Bai Yutong couldn’t make out all of the things he bought, but he recognised a few water bottles, cans of soft drink, lots of chocolate bars and something that looked like a CD case. He frowned. What on earth had his cat been up to?

After Zhan Yao had left the frame with his suitcase and a shopping bag, Bai Yutong ended the recording and stood up. That had been only moderately helpful. Nodding to the manager, he and Zhao Fu left the store and returned to the hotel room to meet with Wang Shao.

Two hours and a lot of empty take-out boxes later, he sat at the low coffee table in his room, socked feet on the table, a coffee mug beside him. The chairs next to him were occupied by his remaining team members, whose faces showed the same feelings that Bai Yutong was sure were on his own as well: frustration, anxiety, exhaustion.

Checking the nearest airport had proved utterly unhelpful. Zhan Yao hadn’t booked or taken a flight there and he didn’t show up on any of the video tapes. It was still possible he had taken a flight from another airport a city over, but Bai Yutong didn’t find that plausible. Zhan Yao was a rational and patient person, he would simply wait for a flight if it was delayed. So, he hadn’t taken a plane. What he had done, however, they could only speculate.

The only thing they were sure about was the shopping he had done before vanishing. And it didn’t make sense either. Why would his cat buy so much food? Shaking his head, he took a sip of coffee. Food. Music. He wouldn't have use for a CD, Bai Yutong pondered, because for all his old-fashioned antics, he didn't actually own a portable CD player. So, he had bought food he couldn't eat, and music he couldn't listen to, unless…

Unless.

“I got it!”

Wang Shao almost dropped his coffee mug and Zhao Fu startled out of his seat at this outburst, both looking expectantly at him. “Got what?”, Zhao Fu asked.

“What the cat did. Ah, I could kick myself for not getting it sooner! It's so obvious!” The other men looked at each other and then back to their boss. “And…?”, Wang Shao prompted. “The food! The CD! It is so obvious now! He wouldn’t buy so much food for a flight when he couldn’t keep it anyway.” He looked at them, feeling almost giddy with hope.

“He rented a car.”

[pretty-setter-bois]

slow dancing in the dark

request; none! just me indulging in self-induced fantasies (listen to the album while reading, save the song for last) ღ

summary; you’ve been day-dreaming about this moment since middle school, and he flies out in your first year of college to make it true.

word count; 1994™

warnings; swearing, someone almost falls off the roof.

     OIKAWA TOORU. MANY know him as the previous setter for aoba johsai’s volleyball team, the handsome captain with a fanclub (wherever he goes), or even the grand king. you know him as your up-to-no-good, determined, and impulsive best friend.

the one you’ve been in love with on-and-off since middle school, that is. iwaizumi is the last to figure it out, but scolds you for it the most.

how can you not fall in love with those beautiful brown eyes? especially when they’ve come all the way to tokyo, and currently reside on the rooftop of your dorm, over a smug smile.

your groceries slip, and you almost slip trying to catch them. your first instinct is to scold him, yell at him because he might slip, or that he’ll injure his knee.

how’d he even get there in the first place? how’d you even get there in the first place? let’s back track a little, shall we?

     “(Y/N),” YOUR ROOMATE, kiyoko calls. “we don’t have any food in the fridge. it’s your turn to go grocery shopping.”

“i’ll go tomorrow, i promise!” you answer, being too engrossed in your music to even think about doing anything else. “can’t you see i’m working?”

“you said that yesterday." kiyoko deadpans. "besides, you’re just listening to ‘BALLADS 1′ on repeat. go buy the groceries.”

“you’re too cruel, yoko-chan.” you grumble, pausing the music you’ve been annoying kiyoko with.

you walk into your room — well, shared room, considering the dorms consist of one bedroom each — and change. you decide to second guess your outfit, knowing there was no one you’ll want to impress in the middle of the night at the grocery store.

you grab your phone and wallet, slipping your device into the pocket of your pants and yelling one last annoying phrase to kiyoko before closing the door, knowing she’ll lock it after you.

the two of you live on the second floor dorms, so the walk to the exit was much longer than it was from the first floor. it only took a few steps away from the stairs before you hear a buzz from your phone.

kiyoko (❁´◡`❁)

8:57 PM

Eggs, toast, milk, cucumbers, lettuce, carrots, tomatoes, rice.

me

8:58 PM

is that all?

kiyoko (❁´◡`❁)

8:58 PM

No, just all I can remember off the top of my head.

me

8:58 PM

don’t tell me there’s more-

kiyoko (❁´◡`❁)

8:59

Start capitalizing your words and I’ll tell you.

me

8:59 PM

but capitals arent pretty!

kiyoko (❁´◡`❁)

8:59 PM

Aren’t*

Aren’t you an English major? Why do you still type like this?

me

9:00 PM

do you want groceries?

kiyoko (❁´◡`❁)

9:00 PM

Do you want to kicked out? I can tell the headmaster who has actually paid  rent for last month...

me

9:00 PM

No ma’am, I apologize for breathing your air.

kiyoko (❁´◡`❁)

9:01 PM

as you should.

you chuckle at the irony, tucking your phone back into your pants as you assume that kiyoko would send you the rest of the list after checking the contents of your mostly-empty kitchen.

you pick out the groceries she sent you, and sure enough, get another list, which you also buy. you stand in the checkout lane, scanning and paying for all of your items.

you can’t help but notice the air around you get chilly, but that doesn’t matter. you’re almost home, where kiyoko has promised a warm dinner with the ingredients you bought.

you turn around the corner, navigating the ever-long rows and columns of dormitories of your university. once you find yours, your grip loosens on the bags.

oikawa tooru. many know him as the previous setter for aoba johsai’s volleyball team, the handsome captain with a fanclub (wherever he goes), or even the grand king. you know him as the dumbass, standing on the rooftop of your dorm, “yahoo, (Y/N)-chan!”

     “WHAT THE HELL?” you ask, though it was more like a question for yourself. 

“you’re going to get cold in that t-shirt, (Y/N)-chan!” he answers, his teeth shining through his smile.

maybe you should have dressed to impress, instead of going out looking like you've just rolled out of bed.

“what are you doing here?” you ask, long forgetting the groceries set on the floor. “aren’t you supposed to be in argentina?”

“ah, we got an early vacation.”

“in the middle of fall? you just arrived, like, two months ago.”

“yeah.”

“how long have you been in japan?”

“since this morning.”

“aren’t you tired?”

“no, not much.”

that wasn’t a lie. the adrenaline in oikawa’s veins was more than enough to keep him awake.

“why are you on the roof?”

“so that i could look for you.”

“how’d you even get up?”

“i climbed the balconies.”

“do you know how to get down?”

“um...”

“dumbass...” you facepalm, before climbing the balconies to make your way up to him. “you’re the stupidest person i know, you know?”

he gives out his hand to help pull you up.

“but you love me, (Y/N)-chan!”

“sadly...” you mumble. “you can’t even last two months without me or iwaizumi keeping you in check.”

“take a seat.” he says, patting the spot on the roof next to him.

“just so you know, my roommate is still awake, so if i fall, she’ll avenge me.”

“i’m well aware.” he chuckles, his side profile glistening in the moonlight. “are you cold?”

“no.” you lie, teeth clattering and arms frozen to the touch.

he wordlessly takes off his jacket, draping it over your arms. “i have a hoodie on underneath.” you nod.

“so, why’d the grand king come to visit me of all people?” you giggle, to let him know you were joking.

“i missed you.” he says, his playful tone no more.

“you met up with iwaizumi this morning, right?” you clear your throat, trying to diminish any hope of the love you held for him being reciprocated.

“yeah, but just for a bit. i came to japan because i wanted to talk to you.”

“about what?”

“dance with me, (Y/N)-chan.”

you’re confused, scared of falling off the roof, and freezing.

“okay.”

he stands, moving higher up for a smaller chance of falling off. he extends his arm to you, the look of plain serendipity on his face. you grasp his fingers in yours, feeling them hoist you up close to him.

since the dorms only consist of two floors each, the rooftops were mostly flat, making it easier to maneuver on them.

you could faintly hear the music you’d been listening to before you’d left your flat. you could’ve sworn you’d turned it off.

“i didn’t know they taught slow dancing in argentina.” your voice was low, and he only hears it because he was that close.

“you’d be surprised.” he chuckles, continuing to dance with you.

you forgot about the jacket on your shoulders until it almost falls off, being whisked away by the light breeze of the night.

you catch it, and oikawa catches you.

the jacket hangs off of your hand loosely as your grasp on it tightens. oikawa’s grasp around your own wrist tightens, as he pulls you close to his chest.

an arm around your head, the other around your back, he says, “i love you, (Y/N)-chan.”

you turn to face him, heart pounding in your chest as your mind swells with disappointment. 

i wasn’t going to get my hopes up.

“i know, tooru.”

“no,” he holds you tighter. “you don’t.”

you try to look up at his face, but his hold stays strong.

“just let me have this, yeah?”

you nod, staying silent.

“it’s not the type of love i have for iwaizumi, and hopefully not the type of love you have for iwaizumi.” he cards his fingers through your hair. “i think about you all the time, about how it’d be like to hold you. to see your smile everyday. to know you’d be there for me, and i’d be there for you.”

“but i am?” you look up at him.

his face is a mix of something melancholic and something hopeful.

“i think about how it’s be like to call you mine.”

you don’t say anything, instead trying to stop the overflowing tears that pool in the corners if your eyes.

“you can’t just say that!”

he stays quiet, his grip on your biceps staying firm. you were sobbing.

“y-you can’t just come t-to tokyo, a-all the way fr-from argentina, to t-tell me that you love me!”

you look at him. you can’t help but think your tears make you unattractive, but that doesn't matter to him.

“not after all these years...” you sniffle. “this better not be one of your stupid jokes, shittykawa!” you point a finger at his chest and continue to poke. “i’ve been in love with your dumbass since fucking middle school, you idiot! do you know how many times i’ve day-dreamed about you saying those words to me?”

his eyes widen, looking down at your shorter figure.

“yeah, stupid! even coach irihata knew! i had to bribe kunimi and ask for kindaichi’s help to keep him quiet!”

“well, i don’t think an impulsive plane ticket could make up for that,” he says. “but let’s make up for lost time?”

you cross your arms, pouting as you look off to the side. he has to admit, you look adorable. he moves his arms up to your shoulders, wrapping them around your back.

“wh-what are you doing?” you ask.

he tackles you, laying over you as his arms move beside you. your faces were mere inches apart.

“my knee hurts from all that dancing, (Y/N)-chan.”

you know he’s lying, but you’ll be lying if you say you don’t like the proximity.

has the music always been this loud?

“this is your favourite song, isn’t it?”

you nod, your face flushed. you can’t help but sneak a small peak at his lips.

he notices. “hey, (Y/N)-chan?”

“yeah, tooru?”

“kiss me.”

“h-huh?!”

“timid as always, aren’t you?” he shakes his head as he chuckles, leaning in slowly.

you close your eyes, awaiting the contact of his lips against yours.

they were soft, almost as soft as the moon made them out to be under its reflection.

more than that — they felt so right against yours.

extra:

     IT IS AROUND midnight when you get back to your dorm, the grocery bags are messy and your skin is red from the cold. kiyoko doesn’t seem to mind instead telling you to place them on the table and offers you a cup of tea.

“hey, yoko?” you ask, keeping the tea close to you as a second source of warmth.

“yeah?” she answers, taking the groceries.

“you didn’t happen to be playing ‘BALLADS 1′ while i was gone, where you?” you sip on the tea, almost downing half of it in one sip.

“i don’t recall doing so, no.” she turns to the sink to wash the rice, and you can see the smile on her face despite her attempts to hide it.

you finish the rest of your tea, hugging her from behind as you place the cup in the sink.

“well, tooru told me everything! he told me you were the one who told him where to find the dorm, and when to come. you even set me out to buy groceries just to find him on the roof. you do have a soft spot for me after all!”

she chuckles, your arms still around her. “did he tell you about how i emailed your professor for an extension on your essay?”

“you did?!” you beam at her. “what’d he say?”

“he said you have until friday, so you better spend the next few days with your boyfriend and get right back to school afterwards, okay?”

“yes ma’am!” you smile widely, dashing out the door to find a certain brown-haired setter.

NOTES ♕❣⁂ღ

going thru an oikawa phase, this just felt so right in my head bahaha-

also stan kiyoko.