#everyone say hi to rare baby sprout moment

[intotheelliwoods]

Kintsugi but its like, a cool looking prosthetic on sprout! Like, shiny golden lines on it bc it looks sick asf

woag

I did NOT have to put that much effort into this but here you are

I did young Sprout since I felt like the old prosthetic design would work better with the idea :)

[wonderlandhour]

First Year Funfacts

Sebek goes quiet and peaceful in the rain, especially a good thunderstorm

Deuce knows a lot about tea and had a few custom blends that get mailed to him regularly

Ace has 3 siblings, two older brothers he calls Jack and Ocho and one younger sister named Regina. the sibling he has that no one ever really talks about his is decade older half sibling, Folly.

Sora refuses to eat most veggies cooked, stating he doesn't like them. his mom just boils them all so he doesn't like them cooked until he finds ash roasting some. his favorite veggies made by Ash are roasted brussel sprouts and sauteed asparagus.

Ash's favorite food is passion fruit in twisted wonderland. she'd never and fresh ones before but in TW it's slightly less sweet and has a naturally stronger flavor.

Sebek starts giving Sora one of his favorite apples every time they see each other and it takes Sora weeks to realize why he gets excited whenever he sees Sebek

Ash thinks it's absolutely hilarious that Sebek Pavloved Sora into liking him. this is what gets the verb form of Pavlov into TW.

Ortho is a giant parrot and likes to copy things he hears others say in the same way they said it.

he and Idia both hack into things to see who can do it faster for fun. on occasion Ortho has hacked into things for Ash. he will not do it for anyone else in their friend group.

Ace has called Jamil 'mom' and 'team mom' on more than one occasion. apparently it started with Floyd.

In a burst of anger at Azul once at club, Grim yelled at him 'you're not my dad!' Azul didn't let him forget about it for ages.

Grim only verbally admitted he considers Ash like a mom to him once, right after getting her back from her treatment at STYX. when edged on by Sebek and Ruggie, loudly states he will never see Malleus or Leona has a dad. But they're welcome to try and tempt him! (it's a ploy for fancy tuna)

Epel has also called Vil mom and finds it hilarious that Vil refuses to accept it when he responds to being referred to as mom without fail.

Jack howls sometimes to see who's where, forgetting that his friends are not wolves. however it doesn't stop them from answering. if they can hear him, Ortho, Epel, Deuce, and Sora all answer no matter what. about half the time Sebek, Ash, and Grim will answer. Ace only answers if he's by himself or no one can see him at that moment (he has the best howl out of everyone).

whenever Ash isn't in a mental position to take up leadership of their group, Ace steps up into that older sibling role seamlessly.

at the beginning of their second year, Ortho returns from summer break with a new body entirely, less robotic looking with more functions, and he looks about 14-15 in age. He's the one who designed his new body.

Ash is a minor sugar baby of the other housewardens and thoroughly enjoys it . . . with the exception of Vil and his need for her to have a giant expensive (in Ash's opinion) skin care routine (it's five things across morning and night).

Sebek once accidentally gave Ash an alcohol that's nearly indistinguishable from water that belongs to Lilia. as it turns out, ash has zero alcohol tolerance and spent the entire night as diasomnia giggling at Malleus for being pretty and looking for her faovrite people for cuddles. it ended in the biggest slumber party in NRC's history across pretty much every dorm. (she almost killed Sebek for the hangover.)

Grim can't cook for shit, he's burned water and has been banned from even attempting to cook at both Ramshackle and the main school building.

the others can tell if she went out with Malleus or Leona depending on if she comes back with beads in her hair or a new necklace. Ash cannot figure out for the life of her how they know who she's meeting up with before the date even happens though.

Epel has three piercings in his ears and one nose piercing he rarely wears since getting into NRC for minor fear of Vil giving him a lecture about them.

ear piercings for beastmen are pretty intimate because of how sensitive their ears are. Jack didn't have any before NRC, but got his first ones from Leona after his overblot. Ruggie also got his first piercings from Leona. The earrings in his ears are both a gift and a claim from the prince.

Deuce has a tongue piercing and no one finds out until the first time he and Ace kiss.

Sebek goes hard with a deep scary rumbling purr when you scratch his chin and upper neck of the scales along his back. he does not move when you do that either.

Sora is a pegsus beastman but pegasi have a lot of bird instincts compared to horses which means that the number of times he's perched on top of things and ended up scaring the shit out of people in very high. because he also goes completely quiet when he does that sometimes. Ortho almost shot him once when he scared the shit out of Idia and Ash threw a knife at him the first time he did that in the middle of the night.

one time when there was a small group of students from the Land of the Red Dragon visiting, they were highly impressed by Epel's fruit carving ability. he found of from them that the ability to peel a fruit as close to the peel as possible is seen as a test of how good of a wife a girl will be. it's also common though for parents to show their kids they care with peeled and cut fruit. it causes epel, who has a hard time saying how much people mean to him, to show it with platters of cut and peeled fruit.

if any of them need help or advice with life or relationships, they go to Ash. if any of them need history homework help, they go to Sebek. if they want math help they go to Ace. Ortho rarely ever helps them with homework since he considers it cheating since he has access to the literal internet.

Deuce knows a lot of random fun facts and spends a lot on audio books to listen to while running. he might not understand everything he listens to but he retains the information really well.

Sebek is austistic, Sora is ADHD, Deuce had both dyslexia and dyscalcula, Ash has PTSD and Depression. Ortho hallucinates things sometimes when he runs for too long without taking a sleep cycle (2.5 days. think low battery Baymax on steriods.) Grim has separation anxiety and some basic training as a therapy animal for all of them but mostly Ash. As the only 'normal' member of their group, Ace regularly complains about it but has never once turned them down when they need help.

Ace regularly forgets that Jack is also a 'normal' one because he's one of the quieter ones and doesn't talk about it. Ace will say no while actively helping you. Jack will show he cares in a softer way, solely with actions.

[queenofdragons12]

A Dragon in Heat - BC (M

WORD COUNT: 800

GENRE: established relationships, sweet, cute, SMUT MINORS DNI, blow job, appreciation for bang chan, fantasy,

PAIRING: Chan x F! Dragon! Reader

Dragons are nothing more than fantasy.

That's what everyone says, but no one really knows. You knew, though, as one of the few who had seen dragons alive. How did you know? Well, it's simple. You were one. A shape-shifting dragon, to be precise. The last of your kind.

But, of course, nobody knew this. Nobody asked where you came from because you always hid your true self.

But he was different. It was as if your inner dragon revealed he was… the chosen one.

But you chose to ignore your instincts this time. You and chans were friends and colleagues, and you believed it would never be more. At least, that's what you thought.

One day, he found you in the studio, dancing. It was one of the rare moments where you allowed yourself to let go. Chan had never seen you dance because you left earlier than him or arrived later. He never knew where you lived; you only met occasionally to help him with his songs, and that was it.

He was captivated by you, plain and simple.

You moved as if you knew people were watching and wanted to show yourself off. Splashes of color popped up occasionally, and Chan furrowed his brow. Was it confusion he saw?

He didn't say anything for a while, but then he noticed a meadow of black and blue scales blossoming around the collarbones. They were enchanting and enticing.

Now Chan sees himself as a reasonably steady man who can withstand even the greatest temptations. But who can resist a siren begging to be kissed, with thoughts set free?

Well, he indeed lost all self-control when he saw the final movement. You had leaned back, your back arched just as he had dreamt on those lonely nights. Your scales had cascaded down to your stomach, now adorned with a thin layer of beautiful dancing fire.

"shh, baby girl, I don't want to hurt you," he whispered and began to suck at your neck. The flames embraced him too, and he felt the heat rise and the air tense.

"c-chan?" you stuttered, and he chuckled against your skin. "It's me, yes," he said and leaned back so you could see him.

"w-what are you doing here? I thought everyone had gone home," you said, and the flames started to calm down, but they were still licking Chance's arms, fingers, and abdomen. "not me. You should know that I'm getting longer than the others. And if I hadn't stayed, I wouldn't have come to this, hmm? Are you trying to make me weak in the knees, baby girl?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

You beeped and nodded. "I- I didn't try, Chan, but I can do it more if you want" This time, your dragon came out, your eyes blazed with lust, and Chan felt awfully weak in the knees.

Now the roles were clear.

He let you go and sat down, pulled his pants off his legs at once, and you smirked. "Oh, still hard for me or what, little kangaroo?" you asked and laughed deeply. Soon you started dancing slow movements and clearly seductive. Chan had to bolt back to not just drive his member into you now.

But he managed.

You danced for a hero until you thought he had been tormented long enough, and you sat on his lap. "poor chan, all hard for his mistress, hmm? Take it easy; me and Blaze will take care of you."

That's when he saw that you didn't quite look like a human anymore. The truth actually was that you weren't a human anymore. You had grown, and wings had sprouted from your sides big and golden.

Chan didn't know why your dragon form only made him more turned on, but it did, and only you could do that.

The rest of the night was... well, beautiful, to say the least, and you had finally found the one you had been searching for.

Your mate. Your soulmate.

[elidereads]

Sixty Days : Part 1 (Angsty Elriel FanFiction)

Summary: Elain tries to get over Azriel after his "rejection" at Solstice.

Word Count: 1,400

Warnings: n/a

Notes: The first chapter, not sure how many more there will be. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated it. 🖤

AO3

Sixty days.

Two months.

Two months.

Sixty days.

Since Solstice that has been her mantra.

That’s all it would take.

With Greysen it had only taken thirty continual days, give or take. But those days coincided with the world falling apart, not only her world. Her family may say it was more, but she knew it was thirty days of falling asleep crying and waking up hoping her dreams were only dreams but always waking to find them her reality.

To some the mourning of Greysen should take longer than this because he was “more”. Her fiancé, her first everything and supposed to be her last.

But she could almost laugh at how much he was less.

Sixty days.

Two months.

She only had to make it that long and then she would be okay.

That’s what she reminded herself in the mornings, throughout the day, with every breath. When her heart and mind and gut ached.

She could do this.

Feyre had conquered death.

Nesta had looked it in the face and laughed.

Elain had a broken heart.

Who was she to complain?

That was the bitter question she asked herself. When it felt like her mantra wasn’t quite working. When she was threatened to confide in her sisters that she was barely hanging on.

Instead she tried harder. That’s what she always did and it worked, depending on who your asked.

Nesta and Feyre were upset and mad. She was calm, gentle and peaceful.

They were running out of food? She watched neighbors children, even the children across town, to make money to buy seeds. Nothing grew. She tried again, and again, until finally - a sprout. Only after the sprout grew did to find out she had been fooled. Her seeds were only for flowers, not produce. Nothing useful. Feyre made a begrudging comment, Nesta defended her saying she did it on purpose, that she wasn’t an idiot who spend their money on the wrong seeds.

What was she supposed to say after that?

Her father struggled. She tried to help him, care for him, smiled at his compliments, didn’t let on that he only had one compliment for her in many words. Pretty. Never strong like Nesta, never clever like Feyre. Pretty. The one attribute that had very little to do with Elain herself, she was rarely able to bathe and her clothes were constantly tattered. Her looks were something she had very little control over. But it was the only compliment she got so she kept it.

When Feyre was taken and Nesta’s hoped for engagement to Tomas didn’t happen Elain tried again. She wouldn’t settle for pretty, she would be beautiful. She would marry and save her family.

Feyre beat her to it. A few weeks after Feyre left their fortunes turned. It seemed thanks to the beast that took her.

One of the reasons she loved Greysen was because he didn’t need her to try. He just needed her to be. That’s what she thought love was, that was the kind of marriage she was looking for.

Until everything changed.

That change brought many bad things but also many good.

Like Rhysand and Feyre.

Because when she saw them, and their relationship, she began to see how different it was with Greysen.

He wanted her to be. That was it. Just be. Not live, not thrive, not change, never change. Just be.

So her heart only broke for him for thirty days. The mourning after that was not for him, but for the life she had. A life free of the random visions, memories she wasn’t sure were hers. A life where she could choose who she tied herself to, instead of fate telling her.

Those losses she mourned longer then her fiancé, until she saw that her new, changed life offered so much more.

A family that was full a joy, friends who encouraged her, a place where she was provided for, safety and an ability that offered her a sort of strength she had never expected.

Now she did not mourn her expectations or her future.

She only mourned the rejection of a person, one singular person, one singular friendship.

But when she compared him to Greysen, her old life or her old future, he was so much more.

Even when she compared him to all three.

So she told herself she would need sixty days. Double the amount of time it had taken with Greysen.

That was all.

If she could’ve fully avoided him it would have been better. He had been avoiding the house the best he could for months before. She assumed after Solstice he would continue to avoid it.

She would repeat her mantra and she try harder.

She took more on more gardens to fix, she never said no to helping Feyre prepare for the baby, she offered to cook with the twins more. She walked more, cleaned more, did more.

The only things she did less was sleep and smile.

But there wasn’t anyone around to notice.

Not that she blamed them.

She never blamed them.

Rhys and Feyre had so many other things on their mind.

Nesta and Cassian were figuring things out.

She thought Nuala and Cerridwen must suspect something, but they kept to themselves. She wasn’t sure if they were waiting for her to talk or if they were told not to pry.

She tried to not consider that.

Feyre had taken to more naps, which was the perfect excuse for Elain to avoid any meetings a the River Estate. She was helping take care of Feyre, naturally, that’s what she did. She helped.

There was only one time in the sixty days that she saw him. Rain had cut her time working on a garden across town short and she didn’t think Rhys was expecting anyone that day. Thankfully she was halfway up the stairs before the doors to the office opened. She had paused, expecting to greet Rhys, when instead he stepped out.

All it took was seeing the top of his hair for her breath to stop shot. His blue-black hair, thick, slightly curled from the humidity the rain brought. Then his wings, she still found herself in awe of them. He was looking back into the office, as if he was still saying something to Rhys as he was walking out. She knew she should make her dash up the stairs now. Before he saw her, or worse, made eye contact, because then she would have to see how he looked at her.

She had always thought his gaze held such tenderness, especially for her. That this male, who others eyed warily when they were in the same room, had looked at her as if she had hung the moon. She knew better now. When he had said that word, mistake, it was as if she had be shot with a bolt with clarity. His looks were not of tenderness but pity. He wasn’t a unique person who saw her for who she was, that’s only what she wanted to see in his eyes, his words. He saw her the same as the rest of the world, someone to be coddled. She was the fool for picturing things between them differently.

No, she wasn’t ready to see that look in his eyes. It had not been sixty days, only forty, she wasn’t ready to face it. She couldn’t be expected to face it.

But it was as if the moment he opened the door and they breathed the same air he knew and his head whipped around to look for her.

And their eyes met.

And she wasn’t sure when she had last taken a breath.

She thought she saw concern in his eyes, but that wasn’t anything new. Most everyone found something to imagine they should be concerned about for her.

He took a step towards her, not breaking eye contact. His lips parted, as if he was about to say something, possibly her name.

Or perhaps that was a hope that had another twenty days before it faded.

Because then Rhys was saying his name and he blinked.

It was as if the spell was broken. Elain quickly turned away and rushed up up the stairs, to the safety of her room.

As she closed the door she thought she heard the sound her name, whispered like a thought not only considered but acted upon. Later that night, when she finally left her room to descend the stairs for dinner she had convinced herself that another thing she wished for, not a part of her reality.

[escadolle]

A Dream

Bakugou x g/n reader

Bakugou’s past comes back to haunt him.

"I was there," Katsuki's voice was low. The gruff reverberations haunted the house. His dead, hollow eyes found yours as you woke up. The eery, rough sound had you scared to look at him, only to find nothing but empty and solemn red. The bed felt cold, the blankets heavy. Yet, Katsuki's expression was still clear in the lack of light.

"Katsuki, why are you awake? You were where?" you yawned and rubbed your eye, your voice followed his echo. The house was quiet for once. You could hear squeaking of tree branches against the windows and winds that hit the house harshly, threatening to knock it over. Katsuki didn't blink. His eyes never left yours. At this moment, you didn't feel . 'Uncomfortable' was not a feeling that you usually felt in Katsuki's presence, yet it was the only thing you could name right now, in your hazy wakening.

"Kamino Ward," He answered. If his sound hadn't shaken you, you would have no idea he had spoken. It was rare that he was ever soft-spoken, even in the dead of night. His quietude voice stayed uncharacteristically monotonous. "I was alone. There was no battle. There was no noise. There was just... static."

"Static?" you prompted, cueing for his continuation.

"I can't fucking explain it." He spoke, finally gaining emotion. His drifting eyes seemed to come back to reality, a color finding his face, "But it was hard to see, and it was hard to hear. Like something really distant, something that wasn’t supposed to be happening."

"I felt like I wasn't supposed to be there. There was nobody else around. No All For One, no All Might, no shitty Deku," his sound grew, shifting into one of dissatisfaction, or possibly annoyance. "It was like something that could have been... or something."

"What's with this poetic shit?" You laugh.

"Shut up. I'm a poetic guy." He blushed. You were glad to see that his regular irritation showed up again. You leaned in, caressing the side of his cheek bone, admiring his bone structure and skin.

"That, you are, Katsu," you smiled at him. He avoided your eyes, looking off to the distance. After a second of comfortable silence, he wrapped his hands around your waist and pulled you up and into his lap, pressing his face into the nape of your neck. You gasped at the sudden action.

"Why the fuck are you with an asshole like me?" he asks, his grasp against your waist loosens, leaving you starved of his touch. You sigh, relaxing into his embrace. You finally understand what's got him acting so weird. "I'm a real fucking douchebag to everyone. Half of the time I'm either telling you to shut up or or just insulting ya'."

"Not all of the time."

You turn yourself around, pressing your hands against his chest and your body against his. He's silent, his lips pressing into a thin line. His aimless gaze never meets yours, instead deciding to focus on a stray object across the room.

"Quit it with the damn pity," his voice was deep and gravelly, signaling his tiredness, if his drained eyes failed to do so. He pressed his palms into the pits of your arms and placed you across the bed. Steadily sitting up, he began walking to the bathroom in a slouchy manner.

It took you a second to determine Katsuki's words, but as soon as you snapped out of your haze, you shot up from the bed and quickly followed behind Katsuki. Opening the bathroom door, you are met with Katsuki's pale body; a ghostly shade in the darkness of the night. His palms are propped up against the porcelain sink as he gazes down against the faucet. You can tell he's very deep in thought.

"Look, I don’t need you to feel bad for me!" he groaned tiredly. A pang of pain shot through your heart, but you ignored it knowing that Katsuki wasn't in the right set of mind. He looked up at you, examining the pout on your lips, gazing over your beautiful skin. Simply looking at your features brought him back down from his secluded mind. His breathing shallowed as he looked over face. Your hair, your eyes, your lips.

"Tell me what's wrong, baby," Your voice shook him to his core. He felt the heartbeat in his chest bang loudly, out of control. Had you no idea what you were doing to him? Surely you must have known, but that concerned expression across your face told otherwise. Did you really not know the way you tortured him so, the way you so easily bypassed the guarding around his heart that has been cold for so long?

Katsuki would never admit it out loud, but having your comfort pained him. The warm hugs you would give him, the sweet kisses to his nose, and the darling "goodnight"'s you would give him every evening, were something he never received before you. He had absolutely no idea how to respond to such love.

He looked back down at the sink. A sweat formed on his pale skin.

"I'm a terrible person, aren’t I?" Katsuki's voice vibrated throughout the room, a rusty version of his usual angry tone. "I hate them. They all say they don't blame me, I know they're just fucking lying."

"Each and every one of them. In the back of their minds, they're thinking, it's all my fault." His gruff tone reverberated throughout the cold bathroom, bouncing off the porcelain tiles on sending shivers down your spine. He slowly removed his palm from the sink and brought it up to his face, staring down at it, "And the worst part is, they're right. It is my fucking fault." Katsuki closed his palm, clenching down as hard as he could. A vein sprouted.

"Katsuki, please, you know it's not." You leaned into him, placing one of your much smaller hands onto his bicep. He shifted his eyes, eyeing you down with an angry look, clearly unbelieving. "I assure you, none of them think it's your fault. You couldn't have known what was going to happen. You couldn't have known they were going to take you, you couldn't have known they were going to hurt All Might."

"Listen, I'm not good with this kind of stuff, but I think we should just sit down and talk about what's been bothering you. Does that sound good?

His face softened at your kind tone. His eyebrows unwrinkled and he turned his head towards you.

"Whatever." He said. The two of you made eye contact, a tiny blush against his otherwise pale cheeks. You smiled at him, offering comfort he didn't know he needed.

With a sudden sharp pang in his chest, his body moved without thinking. He found himself tightly holding you against him in a warm embrace. Snugging himself between your neck and shoulder, he felt a warm sensation build up in his chest. Your arms steadily found their way up his back and around his neck. He sighed in your hold, not wanting to let go any time soon.

[iwavibes]

first off i’d like to say i rlly love your writing🥺🥺 and i want to thank you for sharing your work with us!!! ive read ur whole masterlist and it’s all so so good! i’m obsessed w pretty setters 🥰 i was mayhaps .... wondering if you could write something maid cafe related w either suga, kageyama or kenma? 😳 u don’t have to obviously KDNDKNDKS anyways hope you have a good day today!!!

AAAAA IM SO GLAD YOU LIKE PRETTY SETTERS SO FAR!! you're so sweet omg lemme give u a kith this made my whole day 😩💞 it's 11PM rn so this might be a bit of a mess 😭 fingers crossed that my tired brain won't fuck this up 🤞 finished this at around 12AM NSKSJSKM i hope you like this anon 💕💗

hq reacting to y/n working at a maid cafe

---sugawara, kageyama & kenma

sugawara koushi

sugawara is very adventurous like he'd be all out on trying new stuff

may it be food, hobbies, anything.

man is a knitting legend and he only went to one (1) lesson 😩

king shit 👑✊

so when noya suddenly dragged him to a maid cafe, he didn't think much of it

he was already used to his friend's pervy tendencies

why he was hanging out with him on his own was a mystery

he would quickly scan the menu, eyeing the pictures of cute food along with whatever dish sounds appetizing enough

his concentration was cut off, however, when he heard a familiar voice

even tho you purposefully raise your voice up a notch this man would still know that it's you

he'd blush furiously as soon as his eyes meet yours and seeing you in a cute maid outfit really did not help his case

you'd freeze as soon as you processed the identities of the customers in front of you mostly at suga

noya would eye the two of you knowingly, a somewhat proud smirk on his face

"NOYA I TOLD YOU NOT TO TELL ANYBODY"

"really??? must have slipped my mind."

you wanted to kill him

you would try to get back into character very awkwardly if i might add and suga would just stare at you in disbelief

was this why you always rejected him whenever he asked you out?

my boy would be having a whole ass epiphany and now he's seeing you in a whole new light

"and you, senpai?"

still, even with all these new information, he can keep his cool and tell you what he wanted smoothly.

after that, everything would be going smoothly

but then, as time passes you notice that sugawara hasn't left yet and noya is nowhere to be seen.

by the time your shift ends, he'd stand up from his seat and jog towards you with a smile

"since your shift is over, is it okay for me to take you out? or atleast walk you home?"

and tbh how could you say no to that

"you know, you could've told me that you were working during the weekends. now i feel bad for trying to keep you away from your job." he said as he walked you home.

"well... working outside school campus is strictly prohibited and i didn't want to take any chances. only one of my friends know about it and noya only found out by accident." you explained. "i'm sorry if i made you feel like i didn't trust you."

"it's okay! i totally understand why you didn't tell me. at least now i know when you get off work, this way i can walk you home everyday." he beamed.

you feel your heart pound in your chest at his words, heat slowly spreading across your cheeks as you look at him in shock.

"that is, if it's okay with you?" he stopped walking before turning his body to you. politely awaiting your answer. you nodded your head slowly and sugawara can't help but smile wider.

"you're very admirable, y/n."

kageyama tobio

unlike sugawara, kageyama is a very awkward dude

he lost a bet against hinata and now it was time for his punishment

kageyama may be the king of the court and he may look like the coolest man alive whenever he's on the court but thats about it

everything else, this poor boy is really clueless and awkward someone save him

so while they were walking around town, hinata trying to figure out what to make kageyama do, they passed by the maid cafe you work out

believe me when i tell you a light bulb suddenly sprouted from the tangerine's head

all he needed to do was go inside the cafe and buy some milk

simple stuff

but you should remember that this guy is so awkward and unaware that it can be painful just to look at him try to fit in

and soon kageyama finds himself walking to the cafe, money in hand, as he tried psyching himself out as he steps nearer to the entrance

'i can do this'

'i defeated oikawa so this will just be a piece of cake'

'boke hinata boke'

when he does enter the cafe, he opened the door too hard, making all the customers and employees turn to the sound

this boy would be glaring as he walked to the nearest empty seat

i kid you not everyone is terrified of this boy rn

and he's embarrassed enough as is because of how loud he opened the door and now everyone was looking at him 😭

baby just wants some milk 😩

it gets worse once he sees the person that will be serving him

bc wow have you seen yourself???? you're fucking hot bRO

stutters. A LOT.

and you can't help but to smirk at his flustered state.

"uhhh... m-milk please?" this was the guy everyone is scared of? you wanted to ask your co workers. it's just kageyama. the boy in your class who failed that one exam and practically begged you to tutor him. this?? this is who you're scared of?

you raised a brow teasingly at his state. "of course! would that be all, master?"

this guy literally chokes on his own spit while shaking his head frantically. you chuckled before walking away to get his drink.

"here you are, sir." you say as you settled the glass on his table. taking the money from his outstretched hand. no words. he just wants you to take the money and save him from further embarrassment.

"you know, you may be scary on the court but you're actually very adorable, tobio-chan."

ERROR kageyama.exe has stopped working

kozume kenma

if you guys thought kageyama was bad then... you right kenma is just behind him by a scratch

unlike his fellow setter, kenma can still form words when he saw you

why was he in a maid cafe in the first place? simple;; kuroo

it was one of the rare instances where his best friend actually managed to get him out of the house

and now he's salty

has a permanent frown etched on his face the whole walk to the cafe >:(

and kuroo would be talking away, unbothered by his friend's attitude and now here they were

"you know i've always wanted to come here. i heard they serve really tasty milkshakes."

"kuroo."

"yeah?"

"shut up."

he'd start playing on his phone while kuroo scolds him about how unhealthy it was to play games this much

but kenma remains unbothered

however, the moment he sees you, boi is already lost

he'd stare at you for a long time until you hear the small sfx indicating that he died.

he couldn't care less tho as he pocketed his phone inside his hoodie

kuroo quirked a brow at his friend before turning to you

"y/n! i didn't know you worked here."

"im trying to buy the latest installment of [insert random game here] so i need the money."

wow,, can you be any more perfect?

rn kenma's brain is already whirring with thoughts as he pictured this as one of his roleplay games

y/n says: so what will you be having?

choices: [banana] [latte] [ps4]

he picks the latte

"coming right up!"

and for the first time that day, kenma smiles

"oya?" kuroo spoke up the moment he sees his friend's upturned lips. "what's this?"

his face turned into a scowl again as he glared at his friend. "none of your business."

kuroo smirked, already scheming before standing up. "i'm gonna go to the restroom. watch our food while i'm gone."

"it's not like it's going anywhere." kenma huffed but his raven haired friend was already walking away.

"here are your orders, kenma." you announce, setting the food down on the table. "let me know if you need anything else."

you were just about to walk back to the counter when you suddenly felt a hand stop you by your wrist. you turned around towards a sheepish looking kenma. his eyes landing on every where but you.

"i have that game you're saving up. if you want, we can play it together. it's a multiplayer game right? i haven't started on it because kuroo sucks at shooting games." kenma's voice has always been soft and very quiet. some would've found it hard to understand what he just said but to you, you could hear him as clear as day.

"sure, we can play it this friday if you want?"

kenma nodded, finally lifting his head up to look at you.

"see you on friday then."

[writefightandflightclub]

First light, last love

Summary: a lazy, fluffy morning in bed with your love, Santiago Garcia.

Author’s note: Very quick blurb in response to an ask- not my best but hope you like it! You can decide whether he means literal breakfast or “breakfast” *wink wink* at the end, depending on how you wanna be woken up.

Warnings: language, it’s Santi.

Word count: short and sweet. 

Tagging: @phoenixhalliwell​ @lostgirlheather​ @justrunamok​ @aellynera​ @damerondjarin​ @blushingwueen​ @iamthe-shadow-on-the-wall​ @holybatflapexpert​ @himbopoes​ @arabellathorne​ @yourbucky084​ @mandoplease​ @mylifeliterally​ @arkofblake​ @multifandomlife22​ @yougottakeeponkeepinon​ @aisling-beatha​ @stardust-galaxies​ 

GIF by @twillight

The morning sun is the first caress on your skin, gently easing you awake. Santi’s hands are the second, pulling you from the warm embrace of slumber and into the warm embrace of him.

As you stir, you feel the sturdiness and familiar shape of Santi’s body pressed firmly to your back as he forms a big spoon around you. You absorb the texture of bare skin on skin as his nose nuzzles into the back of your neck, and his hand languidly wanders over your belly and your thighs. His fingertips trace symbols on to your flesh, which only those fluent in the language of love might hope to ever decipher, easing your consciousness into the waking world and to a place where you feel completely safe and content and held; in his arms.

You hum softly to signal to him you’re awake, and a blissed out smile eases over your lips, the joy that comes from waking up next to your love and enjoying this closeness spilling visibly out of you.

“Morning, Princesa,” he breathes, hot air and the deep rumble of his voice fanning over your neck. Santi presses a gentle kiss to your neck, propping himself up onto his elbow to allow his kisses to journey along your jawline, and you turn your head to greet his lips with yours, giggling into the kiss.

Every time you kiss him it feels like arriving home. Each moment with him holding you feels like breaking dawn. Warm, fresh yet familiar, and an inconceivable blessing.

You peel your eyelids open, failing to quell the happy smile which beams out of you as soon as your gaze greets his, those warm, coffee eyes the only wake-up call you need.

You love waking up slow with him like this. No alarms; no place to be, except beside each other.

“Morning, handsome,” you say softly, as his broad hand comes to gently cup your cheek.

Those hands of his. You love them so. Those hands which were trained to be lethal, but which felt like they were made to love you. When they feel so good against you, what other purpose could they possibly have?

Instead of craning your neck, you swivel until you are flat on your back, Santi’s prone body still tesselated neatly into your side. He smiles back at you, his eyes skimming over your face and hair as if he is seeing you afresh with the start of the new day; even though he has looked at you so often, you sometimes question how he could possibly still wonder at the sight of you. Even when you’re like this, still shaking off the dregs of sleep, face and hair still fresh from the pillow, Santi’s eyes are glowing with adoration.

Santi runs his hand over your contours, fingertips guiding his gaze and sweeping languidly over your chest and stomach and legs. The callouses of him rub against the smoothness of your skin as he cups handfuls of your soft parts in his palms as if you are his daily bread. As if he might bring you to his lips to sustain him. After all, how could he live without you?

As you enjoy his touch, light filters intermittently through the curtains, hazy and half-cocked, ocassionally finding its aim on your face or throwing bars of gold daybreak over Santi’s chest, sun glinting off his dog tags. 

“Holy shit, baby,” Santi breathes as he studies you. “Once again you’re even more beautiful to me than yesterday, and less beautiful to me than you will be tomorrow.” Santi’s lips quirk up playfully, as his fingertips continue to wander the planes of you. He’s never lost when he’s touching you. He’s never lost, like he has been so often in dense jungle, tunred around and scared for his life. His fingers always know their path. His lips always know thier route to your lips, even in the dark. And yet, although he knows you so well, he never tires of you.

“Fuck, Santi,” you say, rubbing your eyes and adjusting to the light, feeling out your limbs and emerging gradually from the heaviness of sleep. “Just when I think you’ve run out of ways to charm me, you come out with something like that. Before you’ve even had coffee.”

You turn your body towards him and Santi lowers himself back to the pillow. You shuffle until you lie nose to nose with each other, shimmying the blankets down until they rest across your hips and tangling your thighs with the meat of his.

“I fuckin’ hope I never run out of ways to charm you, preciosa,” Santi says in earnest.

A lazy grin inches over his face, and you enjoy the creases which form around his eyes and mouth. Then, muffling his confession, Santi dips his head forward to nuzzle kisses into your neck. “Plus... alright, I confess to raiding the greeting card aisle yesterday while I was waiting for ‘Fish to checkout the beers.”

Your fingers filter into his grizzled curls as a soft chuckle shakes your chest up against him, and you absorb all the textures of him possible as his stubble grazes pleasantly along your collarbone and your breasts, soothed by lazy caresses of his lips and tongue. “That one made me think of you, cariño,” he whispers, his voice entirely earnest again as he tips his chin to look up at you from beneath his lashes and heavy brows with sincere eyes. 

You snicker softly as you nose into his curls, planting a loving kiss to the top of his head and lingering there to inhale the unique scent of him. Wrapping your arms around him more tightly, you tug him into your chest, and Santi hums contentedly, thoroughly dissolving into your embrace as you bring him closer and tangle limbs with him.

You feel so happy you might float to the ceiling, if you weren’t tethered by the blankets and by his embrace.

You both tug in a deep, steadying breath and exhale it together, enjoying nothing but the silence and the presence of each other for a few, extended moments.

“How is it-” Santi eventually begins to wonder idly as your arms encase him “-that I spend most of my time surrounded by a trained squad of killers, but I never feel safer than when you hold me like this?”

“Hmm. You didn’t get that from a Hallmark card, did you?” you tease, deflecting some of the raw emotion in his tone with humour, as it almost feels too overwhelming to handle, sometimes, Santi’s love. “That one was all you, you charmer?”

His words have a happiness blooming right from the core of you, and, you hope, suffusing back into him as you share this moment of loving each other, transmitting love back and forth through every touch and brush of lips and fingers and skin.

It is moments and mornings like this which you love the most. Not the grand gestures of love. Not the greeting card moments or the surprises or the special ocassions. The mundaness of love is everything to you. The simple, small joys with Santi are the ones you treasure the most.

“Yeah,” he jokes. “The rest said: everyone knows not to fuck with you, mi Reina, because they saw you tear Will a new one when he was a dick at our housewarming, and now cartels and drug lords cower in fear. Happy Thanksgiving.”

You laugh, a lilting sound which draws Santi’s eyes back to your lips, and you flop back on to the mattress, your arms raised above you on the pillow. Santi takes the opportunity to roll on top of you, craving even more contact. He boxes you in securely with his arms, and nudges your knees apart so he can lie in between your legs, hips pressing up against you. The weight of him against you, the feel of the solid mass of him on top of you is such a comfort, grounding you entirely when only moments ago you were lost to your dreams; still, moments like this with your love seem beyond your wildest dreams.

The chain of Santi’s dog tags jangle and pool on to your chest as he settles over you, the cool metal a pleasing contrast against your warm skin and the body heat emanating off of him. You regard them warily, ever since that time they chipped your tooth during a particularly vigorous embrace, but you have grown to love the familiar extension of him, and the reminder that although he is lethal, he is nothing but soft for you.

You follow the bobbles of the chain up and over his smooth chest, corded neck. To his face. God, he’s handsome. All over and at all times, but especially in the mornings like this, when he’s in nothing but his boxers and his watch and that chain. When his skin is bare and warm against you except for these shocks of cool metal. When he is still slightly grogged and unguarded, fresh from sleep. You love seeing his mussed mop of curls and the overnight sprouting of his stubble. Love having him all to yourself.

Santi swoops his soft lips down to kiss you again, and as he pulls back up you admire the happy glow in his heavy-lidded eyes. Admire the flexed muscles in his shoulders as he holds himself above you, and the soft curve of his belly pressing against yours. You drink him in, and you know he’s doing the same with you. 

While enjoying this moment, the like of which seems so rare these days, it suddenly strikes you how long you have gone uninterrupted.

“Santi, the house is quiet. What did you do to the boys?”

Santi grins down at you like the handsome devil he is and greedily kisses almost every inch of your face, bit by bit. “Sent the boys off to lake. Wanted you all to myself today.”

You smile broadly and gratefully at your thoughtful, adoring man. You were really enjoying the week out at the lake with the squad, but the boys could be a lot, and you did agree; you wanted Santi all to yourself for a little bit too. Ok, a lot.

“Thought we could have a lazy morning then take a picnic up to the coast? Found a good place you can do some reading while I lie in your lap and gaze longingly at you?”

You look at him adoringly and Santi takes the opportunity to swipe his tongue languidly along your lower lip, humming into the cave of your mouth as you grant him access and slowly mingle your lips and tongue with his like you have all the time in the world. 

You wind your arms lovingly around his neck, and pucker your lips to plant a delicate kiss to the tip of his strong, perfect nose. “You’re a genius, Santi. In fact, you know what? I love you more than I did yesterday, and less than I will tomorrow.”

Santi doesn’t smile at your words, despite the playful grin on your own face. He simply looks at you in wonderment again.  As if he’s seeing you fresh. Like every moment with you is a breaking dawn. “Fuck, Princesa. Who’s the charmer now?” Santi looks at you as though he’s the luckiest man in the world, and that never fails to floor you.

Yes, these were without doubt your favourite kind of mornings. You treasure these small moments together, where you have all the time in the world to adore each other. And you did; you do. You adore each other more and more every single day.

Sometimes, perhaps, waking is a sweeter dream than slumber, when your love makes every moment like a new day. Makes each feeling cheesy enough to write in a greeting card.

You smile conspiratorially, fluttering your eyelashes at Santi. Pushing your luck, even though you’re already the luckiest woman in the world. “Have I charmed you enough for you to make breakfast, my love?”

“Breakfast, mi Reina?” Santi purrs, pumping his eyebrows. “You just lie back and I’ll take care of breakfast. I’ll take care of you, ‘cause, fuck, do I love you too.”

Yes, this is it. This is definitely what dreams are made of.

[yandere-sins]

It’s tough to be a god

Summary: “Disturbed, that's what you were. Disturbed by the people acting as if you weren't a living being anymore. No matter their love or devotion, no one wanted to see you for what you were, they just wanted to see the illusion they had of you as their god.”

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Rating: Explicit Characters: Reader (AFAB), Multiple unnamed characters (Villagers) Word-Count: 3615

Warnings: Blood, Non-Con, Yandere, Mistreatment, Mishandling, Gore, Degradation, Mentioning of Starvation

»»————-———— ♡ ————————-««

a/n: Yay, I finished it! Yes, it was inspired by same-named song, though, as this is no happy-go-lucky story, it isn’t as chipper. Please proceed with caution reading this, and I’d love to hear what you thought, so please let me know! ♥ Enjoy!

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Chapter I

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't remember their face. Neither the shape of their nose nor the color of their eyes still remained in your brain. You didn't remember if they had big ears or long fingers, and you couldn't recall the name they had before they became 'It'. After twenty years of them gone, how could you possibly remember someone you maybe never truly looked at in the first place?

If you believed the tales, they had been a beautiful, young man. He didn't come from your village, wasn't born here, and never grew old in the huge walls of the palace the people only build for him. They used the last of their gold to make him a home, last of their silk to make robes for him, and they fed him the last of their corn. All of that, and much more, they sacrificed, just so he'd become what they desperately needed him to be.

A god.

Your people wanted nothing more than a deity that would reign over them. Who would make the harvests great, the rivers clean, and the people healthy. Considering that a couple dozens of those families had nothing to their own before their god arrived, it wasn't a surprise that they'd be seeking divine help to even make it through the day. You hadn't been born back then, but you knew first hand how hard it must have been for them.

This… god, he helped them. He made it rain, and he gave them instructions. In return, they kneeled at his feet every day, praising him, telling him about their sorrow and worries. He listened to them, helped them find a way to restart their lives and to become better than what they were before. The villagers settled on mud and barren land, and your town rose from the ground as if he had snipped his fingers to build it in a little under a night. Never again had your village known hunger or despair. There hadn't been a day that anyone suffered, no illness that managed to spread and destroy their happiness. It was pure bliss, and it was all thanks to their god. 

Yes, you didn't remember him. At least, not entirely. Strangely enough, you remembered a time where he held you in his arms. And you knew it was him. You felt safe and sound as he hushed you, rocking you lightly, blessing you with his presence. No other feeling could compare to the one as you laid there, still a baby, just a few days old. You still heard his voice call your name, a sweet ringing sound, and the only other thing you could remember of this god.

But never would you be able to hear the sound again, as he vanished when you were only two years old. He vanished, and no one ever saw him again. And with him, everything that was good and well, disappeared too, leaving your village in ruin and dirt. You were a mere toddler then, you couldn't possibly have known anything about the world yet. But still, his voice haunted you in your sleep, when at two years old, you heard his scared whispers as you laid in bed, your parents thinking you were asleep. 

"I need to leave."

"It's not safe."

"We need to go. All of us."

"Don't let them take the child away--"

Your memories got ripped off by the sound of a loud gong, the echo vibrating in your head. It was the usual signal, every day, at the end of every mass, every important event. To say it was making you sick, was an understatement. With always the same sound - and you heard it so much - you couldn't help but want to cry with how loud and obnoxious it was to you by now, years of its nuisance clogging your ears. 

Even after all this time wearing them, the chains around your wrists and ankles were still too heavy, cutting into your flesh. The weights on the other ends were solid, placed in little molds on the ground so they wouldn't move. No matter the struggle, nor the strength you managed to bring up would even sway them. If not a strong warrior came, or the high priest with the keys, you wouldn't get out of them. They kept you in place on the throne; kept you seated well. You may have stopped the struggles months ago outwardly, but at the first chance of being free, you would have run, and everyone knew that.

Accompanied by the gushing 'Ah' and 'Oh' of the people kneeling before you, you lifted your gaze. Usually, your head hung low, the crown on top of your hair was of solid gold and as heavy as a stone crushing down into your skull. But you had to resist the urge to curl up even more into yourself, knowing this midday-mass was the only time you would be able to see your mother. 

Scanning the area, you felt sick to the stomach as everyone looked at you. If you said only a word, they'd be drooling at your feet, eager for more. You were their everything. The cities most valued thing. All day long, you were on their minds, even if they weren't attending your holy presence. Even then, they would praise you at any given moment while they were living their lives peacefully, away from you. But to mass time, everyone was attending, no exceptions, no matter the age or gender. They hoped you'd bless them with your gaze, that their attention would gain your favor. Yet, you had no favors left to give them.

Finally, you spotted her. Your mother was a beauty, no one could ever come closer to how pretty she was. She had been a priestess to the god way before you were born because of her highly regarded wit and cleverness. And she had been in favor with everyone, because she was so forgiving and beautiful, like a rare, strong flower blooming between all the weeds that the village offered.

Even now, bruised and famished to her bones, to you, she was still the prettiest woman in the village. You were well aware that she wouldn't last much longer, but her attendance and the small smile she'd give back to you as you looked at her, gave you the tiniest sparks of hope. They were the only things worth living for anymore. 

Oh, what had you pleaded and kissed the feet of the priests that they'd forgive her for trying to break you out? Take those chains off of you, and run with you? What all had you done to make them soften her sentence? Never in your life would you have endured the embarrassment and pain to be mishandled by these people if it wasn't for her. But, in the end, they never followed through with your wishes. 

Wasn't it weird to deny their deity's wishes? It was almost like they wanted her to slowly wither away just so they wouldn't have to deal with a mother that wanted her child to be happy and free from the burden that had been shoved onto it. As if they knew that what they did was wrong, and yet, they didn't care as long as they had a god to worship, and NO ONE would take that away from them. Not even the god's own mother. If only she could have at least lived alongside you, that was your dearest wish. 

You had just turned 20 when your life was turned around. Undoubtedly, ever since the god left your village, it had been rough for everyone involved. He had abandoned everyone - you and your mother included. The land turned barren once more, the rivers dried out, sickness spread quickly. It had been 18 long years of barely making it through the day, but living off of carrots and water that you fetched every day from miles away, you two had made it somehow, no matter how hard and endless the days seemed. 

That was until you cut yourself in the hand while working on the fields.

And from your blood, which fell to the ground, a flower rose, red like blood and big as your hand. And another, and another, just as long as your blood dripped into the ground. On your twentieth birthday, a long, painful life laid behind you, but no more. You discovered why the god talked about leaving when you were merely two years old, in a matter of hours, which you wished you had never have to experience.

Because not only you discovered your 'power', but everyone in the village did. Someone on the field next to you ran to get the next best priest they could find, and he inspected you right then and there, his robes sullied by the earth he had to cross to get to you. You remembered the look on his face, the hitch in his voice before he fell to his knees, bowed his head to you, and so did everyone else under his shouts of submission. 

The priest took you away from your part of the town, without even letting you say goodbye to your mother. You wouldn't see for a long time after that, but you didn't know as you stumbled after him. Never had someone touched you so roughly, his hand on your wrist as tight as the fear of losing you was. You remembered stumbling, falling a few times, your shins cut open by little stones and branches. But where your blood touched, new life sprouted, and a path of fresh green followed you as you were taken to the holiest place your village had to offer.

He took you from the fields to the palace of gold, the old home of the god they worshipped. Never before had you seen so much gleam and glamour, only the priests being allowed to go to this place still after it was abandoned by the most holy. People were cleaning and scrubbing everything before you even arrived. They all looked at you in awe as you finally got dragged through the door, cheering and bowing to you.

They already saw something in you that you had yet to discover. Being cleaned and put in silk, you felt embarrassed by all the people watching you, giggling and merrily touching you up and down. There was no way you could have ignored the dreadful feeling as you were pushed and directed to an ancient stone table in the back of the palace, engravings carved into it in a language you didn't know. But despite your anxiety, you did what the people of your village instructed you to - the same people you were supposed to trust and bond together with.

Now, two years later, all you remember from that day was the pain. The terrible pain as they let you bleed out on top of the stone, collecting your blood and distributing it everywhere. You thought you'd die then and there, but you didn't, even though the altar was stained by your extremities. You couldn't. Gods cannot die.

Since then, you never had taken a bath alone anymore. You had been placed under constant supervision from the moment you woke up after being milked for your blood. There were eyes on you even when you slept, when you ate, when you studied ancient scrolls you couldn't even read. No one would let you slip out for even a second, let you get a breather alone on the balcony. It didn't help that you tried to run in the first few months of being announced god, tried to jump out the window to end this misery only when you realized you couldn't escape from them. It only made them more careful and suspicious of you. But despite their sideglances and whispers, they still crowned and put you in golden shackles. They put you on the throne of your people and called you 'God', and you had no opportunities to object.

Because it was who you were, a child of a god. A god.

Before that, no one had batted an eye at your dirty form, muddled by the filth of the fields, and clothed in ruined clothes. You weren't a candidate for marriage to anyone, and you were called 'stupid' and 'useless' more than thanked for the hard work you did every day. You were no one and nothing, and it had been okay. You and your mom alone had been everything your mind had been thinking about anyhow. It didn't matter if they called you a 'bastard', and it didn't bother you to be the least welcome person to any festivity. Your mother, too, was an outcast, so you two just stuck together as much as it was needed.

If you looked at yourself in the mirrors these days, you didn't see a god. You still saw the same young person that stood on the fields with their hands in the dirt to get the vegetables out of the mud. You saw the person making soup for their sickly mother. You saw yourself. But that wasn't what everyone else saw by now. They saw their god, their deity. The thing they'd have to worship, so their lives were full and splendid - that's what they saw. You had transcended the stage of being called a person, and you had to agree. 

It had been forever that you felt alive too.

Some part of you must have died on the altar on that day. You were sure of it. The feeling of their knives cutting open, so you'd give them more of the precious blood that would make the land healthy again, still haunted you when you thought about it. But the next day, your body had been whole again, no bruise, no cut, no scar. And that's when they knew you had the genes of your father. Your father, the god.

You didn't even know why your mother never told you about it. Maybe, she tried to forget. Perhaps she knew what he had gone through - the same you were now. Just maybe, that was why she wanted to keep you from it as long as she could. She must have been glad that by 20, you still hadn't shown any signs, completely forgetting about it. If only she hadn't. If only she would have gone with him back when he pleaded for her to leave together. Then maybe you wouldn't have needed to end up as miserable as you were.

But it wasn't her fault, and neither was it yours.

As much as you wanted to blame your father, after being under the attentive eyes of the priesthood for two years, you couldn't find it in your heart to be angry at him anymore. At first, you had screamed and cursed him, but now you understood. If he felt the same as you did now - miserable, lonely, wishing for your death rather than your life - then you understood him. Even if you wished he had been more insistent on leaving with your mother, or at least taken you with him, who were you to judge him, feeling his sorrow more than anyone ever could?

But you didn't have the strength to ponder. You were tired from not sleeping as you were always surrounded by ten people staring at your uncomfortable form lying in bed. You were in pain from your shackles, your crown, the heavy jewelry around your neck. Jewels, laced into gold that made for nothing but a beautiful sight, even if they felt like the most expensive cut to your throat. You were embarrassed by the lack of privacy, not remembering the last time you had taken a bath anymore without dozens of hands washing you. And you lacked the nutritions, from not eating off their elegant plates full of every fruit, vegetable, and meat that you could have only dreamed of growing up. But you just couldn't bring yourself to eat any of it, knowing it was nothing but the fruit of your own blood.

Disturbed, that's what you were. Disturbed by the people acting as if you weren't a living being anymore. No matter their love or devotion, no one wanted to see you for what you were, they just wanted to see the illusion they had of you as their god. You should have been at the top of the village, but really, you were at the bottom. The producer of fertilizer for their best lives, you had to bear the pain for their sake, without anyone asking if you wanted that even.

The most disgusting thing, though, were the expectations. You were expected to bring the people good. You were expected to put all your life aside just to serve them. You were expected to put up with anything and everything if it meant to be a good god to them. But at what cost? Your life? Your humanity? Your dignity?

There was no other explanation than expectations, as to why it would be necessary for you to be strapped to a bed regularly, people undressing you, themselves, with their eyes shining in the darkness. The sights of naked skin, paired with the feeling of greedy fingers was something that would forever haunt you. 

"We are not doing this for fun," they'd say. "It's an honor."

"It's nothing but necessary."

"Sacrifices must be made."

They called themselves the elite. The purest of the pure. The servants to their god.

But they were nothing but pigs. Ugly, disgusting pigs. No god would ever forgive them for the sins against you. You would never forgive them for sweating, moaning, saying your name in delight. The only time they let the formalities fall was to ask you how good you felt as they all towered over you. And suddenly, you were nothing again - no god, just the same, dirty person, as you were back on the streets. No, now you were less. You were a glorified whore, covered in white dirt, instead of the common brown one. There was no such thing as love or affection when they rammed you into the bedsheets mercilessly, despite your screams and tears.

The only joy you had was when one of them clasped their hand over your mouth, unable to stay aroused with someone wailing about wanting to go home to their mother and how much it hurt. You bit off his ring finger, without hesitation. No one knew how you did it, but divine wrath was a pretty excuse to leave you alone for the rest of the day. That priest never got his finger back, and it was your only meaningful achievement since you were theirs. Afterwards, you were treated even worse than cattle, gagged and blindfolded, turned onto your stomach so you couldn't do something like this again.

If there was anything good in your life, any hope for a god still watching over you being mistreated like this, it was never getting pregnant from the amounts of semen the left you with. That was what the priests wanted: For you to produce more god-spawn, secure the bloodline. They never wanted to go back to the dread of being without a god; in the rare case, you did run away or died. But from the first time someone had his way with you, you swore you wouldn't let them have this. You wouldn't let someone else take your place after you. This wouldn't continue with another miserable, innocent life destroyed like they had with your father's and yours.

"You can rot for all I care," you sighed longingly, the mass finally ending. It was what the villagers wanted, right? You, talking to them, letting them hear your divine voice. Collective gasps ran through rows of people, with children starting to cry when they saw their parent's horrified expressions. From your lowered gaze, you couldn't see the red heads of the priests, upset about their deity's words. But they didn't take long to make you feel their wrath. The people's wrath, even.

Everyone got ushered out of the temple as you were dragged over the floor, blood gushing from the cuffs cutting into every limb. The sound of metal filled the halls as your crown plummeted to the marble, as did your head, a terrible crack hitting your ears. They had no restrains on themselves as they carried you away, limbs cracking as the weights held you back. All despite you never resisting their demand to get you back to 'your' chambers. But no one could relieve you of the burden that was your life, no guard rushing to get the weights, not your mom having to watch her child being mishandled and bathed in its own blood, none of your handmaiden that cowered in fear of more divine punishment.

By the time you woke up again from your torture, painfully aware of the reality, the people of your village had collected at your feet once more, everyone bringing presents of food and wine, jewels, and flowers. 

Thinking that all that you were going through was going to be solved by worshipping you more. By loving you in an unhealthy way, and by allowing to have their lives bound to one being, innocent of their delusions and things they swept under the rug. They did all this and more if only to gain your favor, and to have your attention on them as if you were something special.

All just for the sake of you loving them back someday as the god they wanted you to be.

[stiltonbasket]

could i possibly please prompt you for some grown up kiddies? like the girls and a-yu, what's their dynamic like when they're like teens? do they like to get into trouble a lot or follow all the rules strictly? it'd be interesting to see them on a nighthunt together, maybe. what do they do when they get into trouble, how do they solve problems together? i adore all your fics and your oc's, i'm in awe of you bro

Boys Over Flowers

by stiltonbasket

The worst day of Wei Shuilan’s life comes not long after her fourteenth birthday, when her A-Die hands her a packed lunch in a basket and tells it to take it to her elder brother in the produce field.

“Xiao-Yu sent a butterfly saying he couldn’t leave his moonflower sprouts,” A-Die says. “Go bring him his lunch, A-Lan, and then hurry back so your food doesn’t get cold.”

Looking back on it, that was the moment Wei Shuilan's world imploded.

(Or: nineteen-year-old Lan Xiaohui falls in love. His sisters try to cancel his romance subscription.)

All of those days were miserable in their own gloomy ways, but the worst day of Shuilan’s life comes not long after her fourteenth birthday, when her A-Die hands her a packed lunch in a basket and tells it to take it to her elder brother in the produce field. 

“Xiao-Yu sent a butterfly saying he couldn’t leave his moonflower sprouts,” A-Die says—because Lan Yu is a shidao cultivator, and the medicinal herbs and crops he grows are so strong and wholesome that Uncle Xichen once swore that the dandelion tea from Yu-gege’s field could cure his reading headaches. “Go bring him his lunch, A-Lan, and then hurry back so your food doesn’t get cold.”

Shuilan nods and takes off at a run with the basket balanced on her elbow, dodging over rocks and clumps of grass until she gets to the produce field. She expects to find her brother kneeling in one of the flowerbeds, since his moonflowers have proved even more stubborn the enormous cactus he grew for burn paste, but the moonflower bed is decidedly free of muddy teenage boys with equally muddy forehead ribbons, and a squint around the field reveals that Yu-gege is standing near the lotus pond instead. 

Yu-gege isn’t alone, though. There’s a young man hovering next to him, dressed in the colors of Qinghe Nie, and his face is so red that Wei Shuilan can see his ears turning scarlet all the way from the gate. 

“I thought you might like these,” her brother’s strange companion seems to be mumbling, shoving a bunch of fire lilies in Lan Yu’s direction. “They, um. They still have the bulbs on, and the shop said they would put out new roots just a day after touching soil, so you can p-plant them.”

“Zhuyan!” she hears Lan Yu cry, obviously delighted. “How pretty! But—oh, no, my—will you dig out some holes for me over there, Zhuyan-xiong? I can’t leave my moonflowers seedlings for another hour, or I’ll have to start from scratch all over again.”

Wei Shuilan feels her blood run cold. 

No. No, it can’t be. 

“I can help you with them,” the other youth says shyly. “Can I?”

Not the moonflowers! Wei Shuilan wants to scream. Gege doesn’t even let me touch the moonflowers!

That’s because you keep trying to combine the modao with Xiao-Yu’s shidao cultivation and turning his radishes into demons, a voice that sounds a great deal like her Xiongzhang’s scolds in the back of her mind. Of course he doesn’t let you touch them!

“Do you mind waiting until they’re a little stronger?” Lan Yu replies, cheerily oblivious to his own younger sister coming to deliver his lunch. “They should be able to handle double spiritual signatures in a month, I think.”

Horrified into speechlessness, Shuilan throws the lunchbox at his head with a burst of spiritual energy and flees. Yu-gege doesn’t even blink, though, and neither does the stranger, and Yu-gege only looks up when the basket thumps gently to the ground at his feet.

“Oh!” he frowns. “Wait, that’s the basket A-Niang uses for my lunch. Was someone here?”

“I don’t think so,” the stranger says, with an adoring face like a dumb calf that nearly makes Shuilan sick on the spot. “I didn’t see anyone but you, A-Yu.”

Oh no, you don’t, Shuilan thinks, stomping back to the jingshi with clenched fists and helping her parents lay out the lunch dishes so angrily that they exchange a pair of startled glances over her head. I don’t care who this Zhuyan-xiong is, but I’m not going to let him take our Yu-gege away!

*    *    *

Wei Shuilan comes from a rather large family, which is rare among the Lan clan: and among the Weis, as far as she knows, because six generations’ worth of records at Lotus Pier show that her A-Die’s forefathers tended to have single children. Papa has only one brother, Uncle Xichen, and their father had a single didi, Great-uncle Qiren; but Wei Shuilan is the third child out of four, and her parents sometimes joke that they wouldn’t have minded another dozen. 

Her eldest brother, Lan Sizhui (or Xiongzhang, to his siblings) is almost as old as A-Die is, due to A-Die’s sixteen-year stint as a dead man that began when Xiongzhang was a baby. By the time A-Die came back to life, Xiongzhang was almost eighteen, and then he and Papa adopted Yu-gege, who was only two years old when A-Die found him in a brothel in Yunping. Shuilan arrived three years later, after her parents were married, and her younger sister Chunyang was born just after Shuilan’s third birthday.

Shuilan and Chunyang are the closest in age, and the youngest of the four, which is why Shuilan makes a beeline to her sister’s desk after lunch to ask if A-Chun knows a young master from the Nie clan with the courtesy name Zhuyan. 

“Of course I do,” Chunyang says, her warm sweet voice tinted with confusion as she looks up from her book of fu verses—a gift from Uncle Zizhen, who wrote most of the poems in collaboration with Nie-zongzhu. “He’s Nie Zhuxi-gongzi’s younger brother.”

“Really?” Shuilan frowns. Nie Zhuxi is something of a family friend, since he’s Nie-zongzhu’s heir, but he barely visits the Cloud Recesses because Father never even makes an effort to hide how much he dislikes him. “Oh. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Why did you ask about him?” A-Chun wonders. Shuilan fights the urge to poke at her chubby steamed-bun cheeks and then decides that she might as well just do it, because A-Chun is nearly eleven and her adorable round cheeks probably won’t last for much longer anyway. “Jiejie?”

“I saw him just now in A-Niang’s produce field,” she sulks. “He was giving Yu-gege flowers.”

“So what?” Chunyang’s bewilderment makes sense, she supposes, because everyone gives their brother plant-related gifts when they visit Gusu; he’s the most famous shidao cultivator within the four great sects, though most of his fame comes from that one time he ran into a dog yaoguai when he was seventeen and yelled for A-Die and Father to save him. “Nie-shushu always gives Gege flowers and seeds. And he couldn’t come this week for your birthday, so he must have sent the flowers along with Nie Zhuyan.”

“It’s different when it’s Nie-shushu,” Shuilan protests. “He sent A-Die a baby dress for you before you were even born! But this Nie Zhuyan, he blushed when he was giving flowers to Yu-gege, and his ears were red! Like Papa’s always are when he looks at A-Die!”

“Oh!” her sister gasps, shooting straight out of her chair and grabbing Shuilan’s hands. “You mean—you mean he was giving Yu-gege flowers as a courting gift?”

A-Chun’s eyes look like sparkling black stars, and Shuilan nearly groans out loud before pulling the little girl back down to earth with a bump. “A-Chun, that’s bad! He’s not allowed to court Yu-gege!” she hisses. “We don’t know a thing about who he is, or where he comes from, or—”

“But...but he’s Nie-shushu’s cousin,” A-Chun points out. “And we’ve visited Qinghe Nie hundreds of times. We know his older brother, too!”

Shuilan’s eyes go wide. “That’s right!” she cries, bringing her fist down on the table as A-Chun leaps two feet into the air. “We know Nie Zhuxi, and we can’t trust him!”

“Um...why can’t we, Jiejie?”

“Because Nie Zhuxi tried to steal A-Die from Father! Before A-Die and Father got married, they were staying at the Unclean Realm, and Nie Zhuxi kept on flirting with him! He came to A-Die’s room after dark, and he made A-Die wear his clothes, and—”

The door slides open. 

“Nie Zhuxi?” their father’s voice croaks, right before they turn around to find him standing in the doorway with a frozen kind of look on his face. “A-Lan. Has Nie Zhuxi been here?”

Chunyang pouts and crosses her arms. “Papa, it’s time you made up with Nie-gongzi! You know Uncle Huaisang was just bribing him to flirt with A-Die so it would make you jealous!”

“I do not like him,” their father says snootily. “He demanded the clothes off your A-Niang’s back, and then he had the nerve to laugh when Wei Ying took them off and returned them to him.”

“That’s why we have a problem, Papa!” Shuilan cries. “His brother is trying to court our Yu-gege!”

Their father’s lips turn white. “What?”

“I saw him! He showed up with flowers for Gege, and he kept blushing—and Papa, Gege was staring at him so much that he didn’t notice I was there! I came to give him his lunch basket, and he didn’t even look at me!”

“Courting,” Father says, in a strangled voice that makes Shuilan’s own throat ache. “Not—not possible. Xiaohui is only nineteen.”

“He’s of age,” Chunyang pipes up, apparently under the impression that someone courting Lan Yu is a good thing instead of the worst crisis their family has ever had to endure. “And if they’re courting now, they’ll probably court at least a year, right? Gege will be twenty by then, Papa. Don’t worry.”

“I must speak with Wei Ying,” Father mutters, before absconding in a whirl of white satin robes and the flash of a silver hairpiece. “Courting my son, without leave! As if I would ever let such a thing happen!”

And then he disappears, leaving his daughters blinking in a sudden draft behind him. He’s probably going to find A-Niang in the jishi, which means that A-Niang is going to be responsible for telling Nie Zhuyan to stay away from Yu-gege. 

(For a moment, Wei Shuilan almost feels sorry for her brother’s would-be suitor, for having his dreams crushed the moment he worked up the courage to give Lan Yu a courting gift. 

Only almost, though.)

*    *    *

“So, Xiao-Yu!” A-Die says at dinner that night, as cheerful as ever as he fills Yu-gege’s bowl with hot rice and makes sure he gets plenty of vegetables from the dish in the middle of the table. “What’s this I hear about you going courting? Did you really grow up so much when I wasn’t looking, baobei?”

“Courting?” Lan Yu asks, around a mouthful of stew beef and potatoes. “Who’s going courting?”

“You, you silly cabbage. Aiyah, A-Yu, why didn’t you tell us? I’ve been looking forward to seeing you get married for so long, baobao, honestly—”

“I’m...I’m not courting anyone, though,” Gege replies, looking like a stunned rabbit for a minute before shaking his head and serving himself a helping of beans. “I’m too young, A-Niang! I just want to cultivate my plants and help you take care of A-Lan and A-Chun. And I don’t even like anyone, either.”

“You need not fear to tell us if you grow to care for someone, Xiaohui,” Father says anxiously. Shuilan can’t work out whether he’s still upset or not, because that sounded like he was upset at the thought of Lan Yu courting someone in secret rather than by the fact that he was courting at all. “We are your parents, and it is our privilege to guide you through all aspects of your life, including this.”

“Um. Thank you?” Lan Yu offers, clearly bewildered by the worry in Father’s eyes. “I really don’t want to court anyone, though. And I promise to tell you if I ever do, Papa.”

“Then what about Nie Zhuyan?” Shuilan wails, bursting into tears. “He gave you flowers! I saw him! And you were looking at him like he was the only one left in the world, and—”

Unexpectedly, her brother throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, my poor little A-Lan!” he coos, putting down his chopsticks and coming around to her side of the table to hug her. “Oh, no! I’m not courting Zhuyan-xiong. Those flowers were from Uncle Nie, not him, and—don’t cry, Lan-bao! Nie Zhuyan is the last person on earth I would ever think of marrying, you know. And besides, he already has someone he likes! He told me so.”

“Really?” Chunyang asks, looking so disappointed that A-Die passes her a dish of sweet bean porridge. “Who is it?”

“Oh, it’s Mianmian. You remember Auntie Qingyang’s daughter, right? She’s just a little older than Zhuyan-xiong, and he’s been making eyes at her for years. You know, I baked some of A-Niang’s lotus cakes for her once when we went to visit Ling-gege, and Zhuyan was so upset when he heard! He cried, actually, and he didn’t stop until I promised that I didn’t like her that way.”

A-Die’s face turns purple, and he almost chokes on a bit of meat before burying his head in his hands and laughing until he cries. Next to him, Father’s face goes oddly still, and stays that way until A-Die drags himself upright again with tears of mirth running down his cheeks. 

“He likes Mianmian?” he gasps, bursting into another fit of giggles. “Oh. Oh, so it’s like that.”

“What does that mean?” Chunyang inquires, as Father puts his chopsticks down and closes his eyes. “Like what? Papa?”

“You’ll understand when you’re older,” A-Die snorts. “Here, A-Yu, have some more of the lotus pudding.”

And after that, for some reason far beyond Wei Shuilan’s fourteen-year-old comprehension, the subject of Nie Zhuyan courting her brother is never brought up again.

*    *    *

“Oh, that poor boy,” Shuilan hears her A-Die cackle later that night, while she and Chunyang are brushing their teeth in the bathroom. “Oh, that poor boy! Lan Zhan, he’s just like me!”

“I am aware,” Father says wearily, followed by the creaking sound of her parents climbing into bed. “I do not doubt that Xiao-Yu will remain blind to Nie Zhuyan’s love for the next several years.”

A beat of silence, then. “Lan Zhan,” A-Die whispers, “you—I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I should never have made you wait for me for so long. Sometimes I think of how I love you now, and how much it would hurt me to lose you, or believe that you didn’t love me back, and…”

“I would have been the happiest man in the world even if you rejected me,” Father whispers back. “As long as you were happy, and healthy, and safe. I would you rather hate me, torture me a thousand ways, than injure a single hair upon your precious head—Wei Ying, you were gone, and then you returned to life when I spent the last sixteen years cursing myself for letting you go. What more could I ever have asked of you, my love?”

“I made you wait for me a whole year after I came back, darling. You can’t tell me that wasn’t torture to bear, Lan Zhan, because I won’t believe you.”

“Xingan,” their father chides, before the sound of a kiss makes A-Lan giggle so much that her toothbrush falls out of her mouth. “I had my beloved sleeping in my arms, with our son sleeping between us, and you think I was unhappy?”

“Well, when you say it like that…”

“That was the happiest year of my life, A-Ying. And then I married you, and the next year was the happiest. And then we celebrated our first anniversary, and the next year was happier still.”

“Does that mean that today was the happiest day of your life, then?”

“No,” Father says decidedly. “It was yesterday. Before I heard about Nie Zhuyan.”

“Aiyah, Lan Zhan. Our little ones have to grow up someday, you know. A-Yuan might not ever marry, but A-Yu and A-Lan and Chun-bao are going to fall in love, and have people fall in love with them, and they might even get their hearts broken, but—”

“Never! Never, not while I draw breath. I have had my heart broken into pieces, and I would rather die than see our children suffer so. If that means I must pass a decree forbidding that boy to enter the Cloud Recesses, then it shall be done.”

The conversation doesn’t end there, but A-Chun’s eyes are slipping closed, and Shuilan doesn’t want to hear any more kissing, so the two of them go back to their room and jump into their beds.

“Jiejie?” Chunyang asks, after Shuilan puts out the lights and drags her pillow up over her head. “Do you want to fall in love? Someday, when you’re older?”

Wei Shuilan shakes her head. “No. I hate boys. The only one who even wants to talk to me is Lan Fang, and all he ever wants to talk about is how demonic cultivation corrupts the body and wounds the soul.”

“But it doesn’t corrupt A-Niang’s body and soul, does it?”

“He doesn’t mean A-Niang,” she sniffs. “He means me. Lan Fang thinks he knows better just because he’s a boy, and I hate him.”

“Oh,” A-Chun nods. “Jiejie, I think I want to fall in love.”

“Then Jiejie will support you! Do you like anyone, Chun-bao?”

“Not yet. But someday!”

And then Chunyang closes her eyes and falls asleep, leaving Wei Shuilan to her own muddled thoughts until she falls asleep, too. 

[katiebruce]

adios, amigo.

Well, 2020. What is there to say that hasn’t already been said, tweeted or Instagram-ed a thousand and two times about you? I’ll save us all the generic stuff—“unprecedented,” “nightmarish,” “absurd”—yes, 2020 was all of those things, but on a deeper, more personal level, there is so much more I have to say that doesn’t fit quite into those clichés.

So, this will be my attempt to document and reflect upon one of the strangest years I’ve encountered in my thirty-one years on this planet. Buckle up, buttercup.

Like many others before me have frequently observed, the way I spend my New Year’s Eve has always set the tone for the year to come, and boy, was this year a picture-perfect example of exactly that. Because I had to work on January first, I spent my New Year’s Eve at home watching a depressing movie with T, quietly kissing on the cold back patio as fireworks went off in the distance. I remember feeling both happy and sad about this evening (a duality that was a major theme for me for the fifty-two weeks to come, if only I had known). I was sad not to be celebrating my favorite holiday and even remember telling T that I didn’t want the year to come to be one I spent not going out, staying home, and becoming reclusive as I finished up the stressful process of finishing my MFA thesis in the course of ten (or, what I thought would be ten) short months.

But on the other hand, being held in T’s arms, I remembered feeling so happy that I could have this little quiet holiday—something that felt so private and personal—so entirely our own. It really set the tone for our relationship for the year, and for the obstacles we not only overcame together but dominated, one right after the next.

January was cold, snowy, and full of flight cancellations, which I remember to be something worth celebration at the time. I stayed home and snuggled my way into Aquarius season, the time for me and my brethren to shine, feeling positive that I had lived my thirtieth year to one of great satisfaction and maximum travels taken. (If only I had known then that that late-January El Paso layover where my crew and I walked across the border into Juarez to eat street tacos and laugh over Mezcal would be one of the only times I would leave the country for the year, well, I might have taken a few shots of tequila and really enjoyed my stay abroad just a bit longer).

February came, and with it, the promise of friends. My darling Kristopher, as always, flew to Chicago on the day of (also the day I completed and passed my eighth recurrent [!]) and, thanks to my other darling baby, Nicole, scored tickets to one of the highly coveted format reunion tour shows happening in March* for me, her, and my momma.

(*It did not, in fact, take place in March).

I turned thirty-one in the way I’ve come accustomed too—surrounded by my favorite people (this year at Dorians—a jazz club to end all jazz clubs) too drunk and too smiley to even coherently remember the evening properly. As much fun as I remember having, I told T that I thought it was my last year to host some sort of birthday gathering, and to hold me to it come next year. (He did very well—a few weeks later, after spotting an ad in a discarded newspaper for the Chicago tour of Moulin Rouge happening on my birthday weekend, we bought tickets and I sat peacefully with the fact that one of my new year (or, new age) resolutions was so quickly and poignantly adapted).

By this time, I was already deep in the throes of my first thesis writing course, meaning that I was pretty stressed out all of the time and surely a misery to be around (sorry to those of you who were). Basically, in three semesters’ time, I was expected to draft, edit, and rewrite a fully formed novel (70,000+ words) and the idea of accomplishing such a feat felt like a ton of bricks being carried on my shoulders. I had at least four mental breakdowns in the beginning of the year (again, we all know what lays ahead for the year, I know—but at the time, this seemed like an unbearable amount of stress for one person to have to carry. The joke is not lost on me).

In the coming weeks, things began to get even weirder. Covid scares began sprouting up in cities all around us, and as the government asked people to stay at home, airline ticket prices became massively reduced, so more people began traveling. I mean, this shit was like spring break on acid—it was hugely stressful, and though the threat of the pandemic had yet to reach Chicago, I felt more and more at risk with each passing day as careless amounts of people cashed in on what they thought was the deal of a lifetime.

By the time March reached its midpoint, I, like so many others, was terrified. We had no PPE at work—literally nothing. No gloves, masks, or even hand wipes. Cleaning the aircraft still wasn’t considered a “no-go” item, as far as regulatory practices go. I remember watching the news on my layovers only to keep myself up at night wondering if the virus was going to take hold of me or anyone around me, and if so, how long until they would recover, or perhaps wouldn’t.

St. Patrick’s Day came, and after fighting about whether or not to go out with friends (we didn’t—and for the record, T and I rarely fight—but this was, after all, his first St. Patrick’s Day as a Chicagoan—so his resentment was more than justified) we saw a matinee movie (Onward) and while in the theater, read about how Chicago restaurants, as a precaution, were shutting down the next day due to rising concerns about the spread of the virus. We reacted by grabbing drinks & lunch at one of our favorite neighborhood eateries and tipping the waitstaff more heavily than I think I’ve ever tipped anyone in my life (not mentioning this to brag, or whatever—just remembering what it was like to feel utterly helpless and unsure of what to do or what was to come—we had to find our positivity in some way, and on that day, this was how we saw fit, and it helped).

Then it all sort of happened at once—Lauren’s store was closed with no impending reopening date. The grocery stores (and I swear to god, I will never forget this) became a madhouse—people taking things out of other people’s carts when they weren’t looking. I remember going into Mariano’s with T and insisiting we tie bandanas around our faces for safety, feeling like a goddamn bank robber about to make a heist. But there was nothing left to even take. Frantically, we got what we could and got out of there, and I went home to have a full-fledged panic attack about the state of the world we were currently living in and what we were going to do if things didn’t turn around quickly.

As if overnight, everyone cancelled their airline tickets. It was for the better, and though it put my job in serious jeopardy, I was in massive support of it but still felt an eerie sadness looming around the countless empty airports, airplanes, hotels and city streets. There were times when my crew and I were the only guests in a place—times when I had zero passengers on a revenue flight. And then came the mass flight cancellations—and I mean mass. Everyday became a battle of anxiety as to what was going to happen to my job in the next twenty-four hours, and then cooing my stressed-out thoughts to sleep, only to relive the anxiety with every phone buzz waiting to find out if I had lost my job overnight. By mid-spring, I was hugely considering dropping out for a period of time, just due to the stress of it all, but thanks to support from my friends, family and T, I chose to stick it out and roll with as many punches as I could until I was finally knocked-out.

Quarantines were happening all around me, and without the ability to travel or the (former) grueling expectations of maintaining a social life, I started to reconnect with myself in ways that felt both organic and new, yet much like returning home after a long time away. Lauren taught me to knit, and we celebrated her birthday on the floor of our apartment in an Indian-food induced daze renting Emma and making thousands of tiny knots onto needles that would eventually become blankets. We took walks, did puzzles, and Lauren drove me to and from the airport on the rare occasion that I actually had a flight to work, as the CTA had, unfortunately, become a cesspool of targeted attacks on flight crew members (seriously) because they were often the only person in any given train car.

A rare glimpse of optimism then presented itself via two different opportunities: a chance to take a ninety-day leave from work, and a job offer in the form of editing a book for publication. I said yes to both and hoped that I would be able to take a step back and deal with the crumbling world around me easier with both of these opportunities now on my horizon.

This period of the year (May-July) started off swimmingly. Knitting, reading, and even smoking weed for the first time in nearly a decade (I took two hits and spent the rest of the evening sinking into the couch painfully aware of how bad I am at breathing and worrying that I might stop at any given moment). I fell in love with yoga and felt myself loosening up parts of my body and my mind that had been twisted into a series of knots for god only knows how long. I spent days reading in the sun, baking bread like everyone else in the world, and learning to make my own pies. Things were going really well, and I was even ahead in school, now on track to graduate in August—when things started getting heated.

I’m not going to go on a rant about race, although I very much could, but I will say this—the fact that we are still in a race war in this country in the year 2020 (and even now, a few days into 2021) makes me so sick to my stomach I don’t know what to do. Every injustice that passes by us, overshadowed by the next untimely death or wrongdoing makes me angry in ways that I cannot even fathom putting into words. It burns the color red that is so hot and so vibrant that I can see it soaking through my eyelids even when I squeeze them shut. This country lost a lot of love from me this year, and even more respect. There are not only things we can do better—there are things we must change. And honestly, most days, I don’t think most of the country is ready to not only admit that but to also work for. And that not only sickens me, but depresses the living hell out of me. I feel so stunted all of the time when I picture a world so at peace with its own injustice. It’s just so unfair.

I watched as the world was (rightfully, although woefully) destroyed around me. My neighborhood turned into a desolate, looted shadow of itself—one where Lauren and I could sit on our back patio safely until dusk, when the crime and gunfire became so rabid that on occasions, we sat in the living room in total darkness, listening only to the radio, afraid to let anybody at street level see that we were, indeed, at home. The opportunists that took advantage of the message of this movement made me numb to such a large demographic of the population, and I found myself crying myself to sleep enough times that I thought it might be time to leave the warzone that had become Chicago for a little while as escape down to Florida. So, we packed our bags and left. It is not lost on me that so many did not have this option, and for so many minorities, just simply existing during this time was enough to cause assault. I know I am fortunate—I carry it like lead in my pockets every day.

While in Florida, the first retailers began to reopen and I found myself waiting in an hour-long line to buy soaps and hand sanitizers, and to get a glimpse of what this “new normal” might look like when things started picking back up again. Like many, it was jarring to see empty tables, capacity limits on items, cashiers behind plexiglass sheets shouting to be heard over both the physical barrier and the cloth one strung across their faces.

By the time T & I arrived home, Lauren was already making plans to reopen her store “safely” and I felt sorry for her. How could anything be safe when nothing had changed? Why were companies acting as if business could go on like before—even though nothing had gotten better?

My final months of my MFA were just ahead of me, and I had one month remaining free from work to finish my first full-length novel, and I all I really remember is stress stress stress.

And then Andrew, being Andrew, offered a glimmer of hope, in the form of a drive-in concert celebrating fifteen years of Everything in Transit in southern California, a mere matter of hours from where Nicole had been working. It took a matter of two or maybe three text messages to confirm that we would be attending, and once the ticket was purchased I practically packed my bags and headed off to visit her and try and make light of my heart.

As suspected, the trip was magical. Being around Nicole, per usual, was magical. My heart felt so fully aligned seeing a little piece of her story and getting to experience her way of life once more—drunken hot springs and all their glory. There truly are few things in my life I love more than sitting in the passenger’s seat as Nicole drives us all over the country, and experiencing it again felt so right and so perfect that I honestly thought it was one of the happiest experiences of my life. Because I had requested so, she drove me all the way to Venice Beach the day of the concert so we could see where the infamous album cover was taken. We ate cbd gummies and listened to jack’s and ate in-n-out burger like our lives depended on it. When the concert began, it was eerie, yet hopeful to see all the new protocols of something that had become so familiar to me in my former life. Drinks were ordered through an app and delivered, as was merch, and clapping was replaced by the exuberant honking of car horns. We streamed the sound through the radio and laid the in the back of Nicole’s converted SUV as we cried and sang along to the songs that made everything, even just for one night, feel like it was all going to be okay again. We ended the evening marking ourselves with our first stick and poke tattoos—hers a sun to my moon, positioned to kiss one another when we stand next to each other on our preferred selfie side (lol). I left worried about how long it might be before I could feel her warm embrace again, the embrace of one of the truest friends I’ll ever know, but also recognizing that we were lucky to have had such an experience at all during such an insane year and feeling eternally grateful for its memory.

The last weeks of what I referred to as my Rumspringa were ahead of me, and one sunny afternoon I wrote the final pages of my novel. In a mad rush to edit, revise and complete my portfolio for official review, I never really sat with myself and what I had accomplished or congratulated myself; I wrote a book in seven months’ time, and even though I am unhappy with it (more on that later) there’s no denying that I actually did it. I did it, and nobody can ever take that away from me; it’s an accomplishment I will forever have, and it’s all my own. And I need to remind myself of that. I need to let myself feel proud.

I was back to work in September and taking a huge pay cut, though working the same hours. It was stressful, but once I found out my portfolio had been accepted and I, indeed, would be receiving my MFA I felt a bit at peace for a while. I had let my hair grow long all summer, and all but stopped wearing make-up (mascara makes me feel entirely dolled up now). I felt in an odd way free—almost bare.

The fall came and went fairly quickly—the weekends alone at home and grocery-store-only outings feeling more and more like normalcy. It had been such a tough, trying year, that it suddenly felt nice to just stand still for a bit. So, I did.

In a brief amount of time, I watched (safely) as friends got married, got sick, got older and fell in love. I watched, with great anxiety, as our country voted in the most important election of our lives so far and took the deepest breath I’d ever taken as I watched that man face defeat—although he’s yet to swallow it. I watched as ex-lovers had babies, got engaged and never really stopped to think twice about any of it. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the safety (and not in a lame, “safety-net” sort of way) of having T in my life has turned me into someone who not only craves quiet time at home, but really also sort of fell right damn into it very easily, though unexpectedly. I’ve heard the saying so many times before, but you really don’t realize everything is different once you find the right fit because that place feels like it’s always been home. I am grateful to not only have that now and moving forward, but most certainly throughout the trying, unstable times of 2020. In fact, I don’t know how I would have survived without it.

The holidays always creep up on me, and after being dealt a shitty hand from work (don’t even get me started, I’m still fuming) they came that much quicker. T & I were lucky enough to spend the holidays back home in the swamp, visiting my parents and his Dad. The time went by fast but was relaxing, fun, and reenergizing. We spent New Year’s Eve playing giant Jenga and yard Yahtzee with my parents in the cool, tropical winter of Florida. It was nice. We got tired right around 11, so we laid in bed until midnight talking, staying awake just long enough to share our new year’s kiss. It felt right—a proper send off to such a strange and unusual year. I was exctly where I needed to be—wrapped up in a blanket of T’s embrace, comfy in a bed in my childhood bedroom.

So now, here it is: 2021—the supposed upgrade to 2020, or so everybody secretly hopes. So now, as I sit here, drinking a warm, soy-chai latte (homemade!) I find myself having great difficulty setting an intention for the days ahead of me. I feel so beaten and bruised and physically fatigued for no reason but the experiences of 2020 and the courses they ran all over my life. I’m feeling reflective of having finished yet another year of my life (and my Saturn return! Halleluj!) and finding it hard to be anything but fatigued. I guess it’s from the year that’s just finished—more so than any other year it physically pained me at times to be alive at times. I’m missing so many of my friends who I haven’t been able to see for extended months at a time now. I am craving a sense of normalcy, of safety, so that I can feel better about making plans, but as for right now I just don’t have it. I am quietly trying to make subtle changes within myself and how I react to the world around me, but just like the start of this new year, that process is a slow one.

One of my resolutions (though I’m growing to hate that word more and more with each passing year) is to get back to writing. I had a good, albeit stressful, thing going while still in school, and after finishing my novel and receiving feedback, I couldn’t shake the feeling of absolute failure. It’s still there—it’s really hard to try and celebrate an accomplishment when you don’t feel like your work was good enough to warrant anything at all—especially not a fine arts degree. I never said I was a fiction writer—I just wanted to get better at writing fiction—so I need to remember that and allow myself to veer away from that for a while, to work on something new. Something I’ve been saying I’m not ready to write for many years now, something that when I now say that is just a plain old lie: My memoir. I’m ready to close the chapter in my life where I am a flight attendant, so the timing feels more than perfect.

I learned so much about what I want to do within my career and what sort of boundaries I don’t want to place on myself—and I’m trying, I really am. T gifted me with my own pottery wheel for Christmas and we are going to set it up this weekend and I am so excited to get my hands muddy and start creating. Until this year, I didn’t realize how much I needed a creative outlet other than writing—I had been depending on it for too long, my little cup felt bone dry. So, I’m excited to see where this new hobby takes me and how it influences my ability to return to the blank page—quite literally.

I know this year will not be the quick fix that so many are hopeful for—I think quite the opposite, actually. But here are some things I know for sure will happen: I will move out of my apartment and in with T. We will then, immediately get a dog and a new apartment. This, alone, feels like enough to fill the pages of the blank year ahead of us. I will go long periods of time without seeing my loved ones, and without traveling (bleak as this lifestyle may be). I will write, even when it’s hard to. I will publish something—I’m at work submitting pieces as we speak, and though the process is slow, I can tell this is my opportunity—I am ready t fight for it. I will turn 32, and the numerology of my life will seem more aligned. I will spend my birthday at home, alone, because of course Moulin Rouge has now been cancelled (I’m fine with it). I will learn more about myself the more I use my hands to create, to plant, to sculpt, to mold. I will love with fervor. I will smile more, because it’s actually healthier for you, even though my black heart hates to admit it. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll get to attend a live concert, though I realize this might be wishful thinking at this point. I will do mushrooms and giggle with the colors. I will cry. I will hurt and I will cause harm. But through it all, I will persevere. Because if 2020 taught me anything, it’s that I am capable of regenerating into new versions of myself that I didn’t even have the time to dream up. I can adapt to whatever is thrown at me, though it will often times feel impossible. I can, and will, create. I can be reborn (as many times as I’d like to, too).

So, thanks, 2020, for teaching me more about myself than any other period of five years has ever taught me. I definitely feel like I’ve been through the ringer a couple of times, yet I find myself still standing day after day. It must be the way a domino feels, standing up, time after time, knowing that something right in front of you is about to knock you down. But instead of thinking about what I’m bringing down with me, I’m thinking of the entire collective as a whole—we are all experiencing this together. And maybe, just maybe, on the other side, there’s a kid with a smile waiting to do it all over again. And that’s perhaps where the beauty lays: we have to tear everything down in order to do better, be better, make change. Nobody likes to catch fire, but everyone loves rising from the ashes. We’ll all get to where we’re headed, one way or another. And eventually, I hope, we’ll see that the other side is better than we could have ever dreamt of.

I hope that 2021 is a bridge that brings us from destruction to creation. I hope the journey is long, so we all appreciate the outcome.

I love you all and wish you warmth and wellness into this year and beyond.

Happy new year—honor the circumstances you have around you and let them help you grow.

[phantoms-lair]

FFBT - Sister Act

Commission for @bruce-bannerd

“Yeah Mom, sounds good. Next week, 2:00.” Shaggy hung up the phone. He was fine. Everything was fine.

He was already going fuzzy, wasn’t he? This did not bode well.

“Like Scooby, call the gang! It’s an emergency!”

~~

Though he was more comfortable with himself than he had been not too long ago, it was rare to see Shaggy in full wolf mode outside the full Moon. But there he was, curled up against Velma, fretting.

“Okay Shag, we all want to help, but we need to know what’s wrong.” Fred said gently, holding Shaggy’s paw-like hand.

It took the werewolf a few tries to get the words out. “So, like, apparently last week they found black mold at Sugies school after a lot of the kids got sick.” Really badly sick. “Mom, like, didn’t want to worry me until she got Sugie’s medical results back. She’s gonna be fine.”

“Oh thank goodness.” Daphne breathed a sigh of relief. His baby sister getting seriously ill while he couldn’t even be there for her would have wrecked him badly.

“Yeah.” Shaggy squeezed Fred’s hand and curled deeper into Velma. “So they, like closed the school building and they’re going to do the rest of the year online. But that doesn’t affect the campus Mom works at, so she’s can’t be home with Sugie and doesn’t want to leave her home alone all day, and Dad’s still on deployment so-”

“Rugie’s romming rere.” Scooby finished.

“And I don’t know how to hide this,” he gestured to himself.

“I don’t think you can.” Fred pointed out. “You’re too worried about her.”

Shaggy sighed. “But what if she’s scared of me?”

Daphne laughed softly. “Shaggy, not one person who’s seen you like this has been scared of you.” Scared for him maybe, but never of him. “I don’t think Sugie’s going to break the trend.”

~

In retrospect, Velma was glad she hadn’t burned that hoodie. She had been tempted, sure, it was a symbol to her of the self-loathing Shaggy had felt. Now it may have been unseasonably warm, but was good for hiding if Shaggy suddenly sprouted fur or pointed ears. Which normally wasn’t a problem, but he was so worried it might be there was a risk of self fulfilling prophecy.

“Shaggy!” A blue bundle of energy hopped off the train and wrapped her arms around her brother.

He hugged her back and felt something in the wolf leap for joy. He was almost tempted to grow a tail just so he could wag it. A piece of his family was with him again! “Missed you, Sugs.”

“Missed you too, bro.”

Velma picked up the suitcase where Sugie had dropped it, grinning at how happy Shaggy was. “We’re going to pick up lunch on the way home. Any place you’d like to go Sugie?”

“Mellow Mushroom! I wanna get a multi-mushroom pizza and the mushroom soup!”

“Craving mushrooms?” Daphne asked, hiding a giggle.

“I shall eat fungus as an act of revenge.” Sugie said with the solemness only a twelve year old could muster.

Shaggy thought a moment. “Grilled Portobellos for dinner?”

Sugie squeezed him again. “And this is why I love you bro, you get me.”

~

They sat curled up in the living room, food half consumed, when Velma started giving Shaggy a meaningful look he couldn't avoid. He wanted to argue that it could wait until after lunch, but knew that he’d just keep avoiding it if given half the chance. He sighed and put down his pizza slice. “Sugie, there’s something we need to talk about. Some stuff has, like, changed since you and Mom left.”

“If you’re telling me you got a girlfriend, I don’t believe you.” Sugie said, attention still on her pizza.

Shaggy rolled his eyes. Yes, but that wasn’t the point. Okay, like a band aid. “Sugie I’m a werewolf.”

This at least got her to pause in her pizza eating. “Seriously?” she said in a tone that bespoke more ‘So you you really expect me to believe that’ rather than ‘You're really a werewolf’.

“It’s been an interesting past few months.” Fred allowed.

“Uh-huh.” Sugie’s attention was back on the pizza, clearly not believing a word of this.

Velma sighed. “Sugie look at your brother.”

She did and dropped her slice of pizza, which was snatched by Scooby before it hit the ground. “Shaggy, you...you-”

Shaggy ducked in on himself, more self-conscious about going full werewolf than he’d been in months.

“That is SO AWESOME!” Sugie was practically bouncing in her seat. “Oh man, can I touch your ears.” She reached her hand forward only to have it stopped by Daphne.

“You’ve been eating pizza. Wash your hands first.” She chided.

“Wash my hands?” Sugie asked in disbelief. “My brother is a werewolf and you want me to worry about washing my hands?”

“Would you want someone running greasy fingers through your hair?” Daphne shot back. 

Sugie looked at her mulishly, but got up to head to the bathroom.

“Like was that really necessary Daph?” Shaggy asked. “Have you ever tried to wash grease out of hair? Yes.” Daphne said vehemently.

“I’m really sorry that trap backfired.” Fred apologized.

“It was an accident.” Daphne kissed him. 

“Okay, hands clean, it is petting time!” Sugie declared. She didn’t even bother getting back on the couch, just came up behind it and started scratching behind Shaggy’s ears like she’d done with Scooby all her life. He leaned into the touch, clearly treasuring the contact.

“This is so cool.” Sugie whispered.

“You don’t think it’s, like, weird?” Shaggy asked.

“Oh it’s weird, but in the best way.” Sugie was still grinning. “What did Mom and Dad say?”

It was the wrong thing to say as she felt her brother tense under her fingers, the thumping of the tail against the back of the couch stopping. “Bro?”

“You can’t tell them.” he begged, “Promise me Sug.”

“It’s a conversation best had in person.” Velma explained. “Having your family upset at you is painful for werewolves, so we want to do it when we’re here to soften the potential blow.” Yes it was glossing over the more serious aspects of what could happen, but the fact that rejection could equal death for her brother was a heavy thing for a preteen, especially one who’d just gone through something as traumatic as what had happened with the mold.

“Hmph. Well, I guess that means I gotta be the problem child if you’re stuck being the good one. Way to be a teenage werewolf and have it be boring.” Her words were in a mischievous tone, but followed with a hug. “I won’t tell Shaggy. Promise.” And she meant it.

“Told you it would be fine.” Velma said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

Sugie straightened up. “Wait...wait...what was that?”

“A kiss,” said Velma with a smirk. “You know, something girlfriends do to their boyfriends and vice versa.”

“Oh no. No no no. The werewolf deal is one thing but a girlfriend? How? And Velma? She’s smart?” Sugie sounded super offended.

Everyone laughed, even Shaggy. The fact that Sugie was far more upset over him having a girlfriend over being a werewolf was unexpected, but welcome nonetheless.

Everything was going to be okay.

[hoodoo12]

Love You Liar (1/2)

I received another juicy request that I wrote when I should have been sleeping.  NSFW. Beetlejuice/f!reader. Musicaljuice, sweetness, care, insecurity, anger, borderline non-con. This one escalates.

“I love you.”

“Oh, I love you!”

“I love you!”

You said it often: to friends, to family, to people you messaged on the internet. It came easily and natural, it conveyed friendship and sometimes was just the right sentiment. 

When it came to Beetlejuice, however, you never said it until you were sure. And when you did? Oh, the stunned disbelief on his face! His wide eyes; his mouth opening and closing for a moment like he wanted to say something, but had completely forgotten how. The blush that started on his cheeks bled into his hair. He grabbed you, hugged you, kissed you. His excitement was contagious and you laughed and held his face as you kissed him back.

And as quickly as that high came, however, he crashed. The very next morning, you found him curled into a ball, holding onto his knees, refusing to look at you when you asked what was wrong. That bright element of happiness had left him. You gently wrapped your arms around him and rocked. In spurts and stutters, Beetlejuice asked you how you could possibly love someone like him. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve you. He didn’t understand what you saw in him, when you could have a breather. He was just a dead guy and, and, he loved you too but he wasn’t worth it, he wasn’t worth anything--

“You love me too?” you whispered. 

He finally lifted his head out of his crossed arms to look at you. His eyes were haunted with pain and a deep resignation that you’d abandon him, like everyone else..

“Yes! How could I not!” he replied.

Just as he’d been stuck speechless, you were too at hearing him admit it. You laughed, which made him flinch a little, and you apologized and insisted it was a good laugh, a laugh because you were so happy.

It took a little time, but you unfolded him and climbed into his embrace and kissed him and told him how much he meant to you. He told you how he’d wanted to say it for so long, wanted to tell you before, but was terrified it was too much too fast. 

Then it was a silly game, random “I love yous” peppered throughout conversations. Then it was true and serious, “I love yous” said deep in the night when you were half asleep and he curled around you. Then it was a whispered, “I love you!” with his face pressed into your neck while he was between your legs.

He was convinced. 

⁂

When  he could, when he was allowed, Beetlejuice liked to follow his breather around when she was out of the house. He stayed invisible, at her request. Sometimes, though, he ran his hand over her shoulders or pinched her ass, just to tease, and on rare occasions he sidled close enough to whisper naughty suggestions of what he’d like to do to her when he got her alone: long massages; going down on her until she was sobbing--remember, baby, I don’t need to breathe so I’m gonna take hours eating your sweet pussy!; fucking her slowly till she couldn’t stand it.

Sometimes he was pushed away playfully when he was a pest. Sometimes she found a private spot, like a quiet stairwell, and kissed him. Once--oh frabjous day!--she located a single bathroom, locked the door behind herself, and they indulged in a quickie with her holding onto the sink while he took her from behind with their clothing only partially undone. 

No such luck today. She was busy and when he tugged a lock of her hair, while she was talking to someone else, she shook her head and batted him away, more annoyed than usual.

Beetlejuice sulked a moment but continued to follow her as she made her way through her day. He perked up when she smiled at him during a meeting, to which he replied silently with a dirty hand gesture and a raised eyebrow expression to suggest some activity later that evening. She bit her lower lip during the second smile, and he was back, baby! However, as her day wore on the hustle and demands caught up to her again. After an unpleasant phone call and having to track down a co-worker, he heard her catch her breath as she caught sight of some guy walking down the corridor towards her. That piqued his interest and he moved closer behind her. 

“Christ, not him today,” he heard her mutter to herself, obviously not happy about seeing whoever that guy, but as man came up her entire demeanor shifted. “Hey Greg! Nice to see you! How’s your day?”

Beetlejuice was surprised by her sudden attentiveness and interest in someone who she obviously wasn’t happy about seeing. She and Greg had a brief, meaningless conversation of niceties in the hallway, then he continued his way and she continued hers. 

Beetlejuice of course trailed after her, and once they’d made it out of earshot with Greg, she muttered, “Man I can’t stand that guy.”

Beetlejuice wasn’t sure if he was supposed to have heard that or not.

⁂

That night she was tired. She leaned comfortably into him while something mindless played on the television, but when he made advances to do something physical she begged off with a kiss.

“Not tonight, Beej. I’m sorry. I’m just really not in the mood.”

That was okay, he said. It was nice to just be together.  

“I love you,” he told her. 

“I love you too,” she replied, but her voice was soft and distracted. 

He stroked her hair as she lay with her head in his lap and tried not to think about the quiet response she’d given him. 

⁂

The next morning, before she had to leave for the day, she tunneled under the blankets on the bed and blew him. It was hot and quick and he tried hard not to jerk his hips too much so he wouldn’t gag her. When she climbed back up his body to reemerged from under the covers, her hair was wilder than his as she grinned up at him. She planted a kiss in the middle of his chest and then kissed him properly on the lips before squirming away as he tried to hold her in bed to return the favor.

She must have checked her email as she drank her coffee, though, because her good mood had fled by the time she left. 

Beetlejuice called after her that he’d ravish her when she returned; she gave him a half-wave goodbye.

Her work was difficult, he told himself, especially when it  started before she got there.

But there was a sour taste in his mouth and tiny seeds of worry in his gut. 

⁂

She turned down his offers of sex again that night too. 

They exchanged their “I love yous”, and it was exactly the same as the night before. 

Those tiny seeds, fed by his anxiety, started to sprout. 

⁂

Beetlejuice watched her leave again. It hurt. He wanted to go with her. He wanted to follow her around, like he did, and experience her day and be near her, and make her smile with saucy suggestions and bring her back here and screw her silly, like they’d done in the past. 

But he was confused and worried, and was having a hard time processing things lately. 

He’d dismissed that she was interested in Greg. It had been difficult to do, because images of her and that breather together randomly popped into his head, but in the end he was able to fight back jealousy with rational thought. She hated that guy. She never made any secret about it; she’d even ranted about Greg at home, when he’d managed to piss her off enough that it carried over after work. 

There had never been any indication her dislike of the man was false. 

He’d seen the exchange she’d had with him, however. And her distaste was there, but the way she hid it, the way she was civil and pleasant to his face hinted at something more deeply disturbing.

She was a liar. 

She lied right to the face of someone she hated, acting normal and as if she did like him. She did it so easily! From Greg’s response, he bought her lie, because Beetlejuice heard no reciprocal venom directed back at her. Greg was an idiot.

But--

But--

What did that mean about him?

Was she lying to him? Was her relationship with him, was the whole, “I love you” thing just another lie? Was she stringing him along for a reason he couldn’t fathom? Was she laughing at him, was she using him? Was she just waiting until something better came along, and then was she going to leave him like everyone else?

By himself in the house, the same questions ricocheted inside his head, repeating on themselves till Beetlejuice felt half-crazed. What was true? What was real? Why would she do this to him? Why would she lie?

Invaded by toxic thoughts, fueled by doubt and misery, Beetlejuice grew angrier and angrier. At her. At himself, for being a fool. How could he have believed a breather would care for him? Love him? She was a liar and he was stupid.

He sat on the floor with his arms on his knees, his head buried forward. Anxiety and rage warred inside him, so he stewed while he waited for her to come back home.

He would find out the truth.

tbc in Chapter 2

[nctzendreamz]

HOMECOMING — PART lll

Prologue / Part l / Part ll / Part 3

Summary: The year is 3030, and the divide between the rich and poor couldn’t be greater. Wildwood University is the most prestigious school in the entire world, but it isn’t only because of the impeccable flying cars that can be seen best during the fuchsia lit nights, or the dexterous education everyone receives. It has secrets. A lot of secrets—the biggest being that Taeyong is going to kill you.

Genre: Gang!AU, Futuristic!AU, Dystopian!AU

Warnings: Vivid descriptions of violence, abuse, foul language, drug use, and murder.

“Y/N?”

Kun was always so gentle when he spoke to you compared to the rough and hard exterior he possessed. Ever since you were children, he was seen as the bad boy and everyone was scared of him. Everyone but you, and that’s why he fell for you so hard even in his adolescence years when he wasn’t supposed to know what love was—or care. On the days where he would come outside to play, covered in bruises, the others would run away claiming they didn’t want his bad luck, but you would run to him in your dazzling yellow dress that you refused to take off and hug him. You would remind him everyday that he was important and protected him from his bullies even at the age of five. You never treated him like the damaged flower he was. You instead watered him and continued to do so until he sprouted into a college boy and ruined it all.

“Hey.” Your eyes are looking down, trying to find comfort in the laces of your boots. The wood flooring was shining so brightly at you—it was newly polished after all, but the scent of this room is engraved into your entire existence. It’s him, and it’s making you feel sick. “Excuse me.” You manage to utter, never forgetting your manners. You don’t even want to brush against his strong shoulder or touch him. You’re weaving through and walking through the door as it fogs from the motion.

Taeyong watched this whole thing go down, and if he didn’t know for sure that Kun was your ex boyfriend, he knows now. The man was mimicking your previous actions—eyes locked on his striped socks. He’s taking deep breaths in and out.

“Um...I’m your roommate.” He places his hand out, but Kun doesn’t move. “Lee.” He introduces. Just when he thought his mission would be slight work, this had to come up. Taeyong wasn’t stupid. He knows that this Kun guy is going to be watching him like a hawk, as well as you, and they live together. What would he be doing while Taeyong was in class? He clearly wasn’t stupid either just from first glance, and mistrust was thick in the atmosphere of their dorm.

“Kun baby!”

The voice is booming and deep, but Taeyong doesn’t jump from it. He’s used to constant yelling and unnecessary cat calling. Indigo may have blinded your senses, but it enhanced your hearing. He heard them coming seconds before Kun did and he could tell it was more than whoever was screaming at such a peaceful hour—the afternoon.

Taeyong expects Kun to take a moment to open the door after what just transpired, but he doesn’t have to. Taeyong can’t take his eyes off of him. It’s the same tall and diesel boy that dropped you off this morning. Johnny, followed by six other boys, all in athletic clothing or school paraphernalia meaning they must have just got out of practice.

He was able to get into this room with his finger print? Fuck! It had to be because he was the president’s son. Which means you can do it too. He didn’t like the way he was being set up—I mean, isn’t that something he should’ve known?

“Turn around—oh.” Johnny’s mouth follows the pronunciation of his words before his lips go fish and makes a spitty noise at the sight of the lanky. Even with the little steps he takes he has some pep in his step. He seemingly knows who he is, and he’s proud of it. The other boys behind him don’t seem to be far off, but the way their faces look flushed indicate they possibly didn’t want to be here. They are probably tired, although Taeyong couldn’t understand how driving cars could make you this exhausted. “Hey roomie.”

He’s speaking to him, and Taeyong determines that keeping it cool was the best approach. He sadly envisions his own boys’ faces into their unmatching bodies as he knows this is the only way he won’t combust. He really hadn’t lived a life outside of his place of stay if it wasn’t a murder and he didn’t want it to show.

“What’s up.” He decides on, and they don’t speak to him again. They obviously think he’s irrelevant—some skinny kid who has books shoved up his ass at all times.

“Why the long face?” One of them steps up. He’s quite short, but his eyes read menace. They’re cat-like, and so is his approach. His right side is in synch as his foot and hand moves simultaneously to Kun’s shoulder.

“Y/N was just here.”

Kun trusts them. He trusts them heavily. He didn’t hesitate in the slightest to tell them the truth even while he was standing right there.

“I’ll leave.” He prompts, but Kun’s arm is stopping him—his grip extremely rough.

“No, stay.” The gentle tone he used with you has completely washed away, and if looks could kill, and Taeyong wasn’t the invincible bastard he was, he’d be dead. “She was in here with him.” Kun tells, looking at his friends for guidance. If Taeyong didn’t know any better, he would assume they were in a gang. The sight infront of him was all too familiar—the solid stares trying to get him to crumble without even having to touch him, the eerie silence that was filling the room.

But then it all stops. They’re laughing now minus Kun who only let out a little chuckle, with Johnny being the loudest.

“He didn’t even flinch.” The cat-eyed one speaks.

“There was nothing to be scared of.” Taeyong says with his chest secretly out. If this was their definition of intimidating, he couldn’t imagine how they would survive in NEO. Everyday you got cornered into giving something up. The question was how well could you defend yourself? “I’m Lee.” He finished coolly.

“Ten.” He responds, putting his fist out. Taeyong bumps it.

“Johnny.”

“Hendery.”

“I go by YangYang.”

“Xiaojun.”

“Sicheng.”

“And Lucas.” Lucas is a big man, just like Johnny. His hands are large as he moves to shake his hand and he seems the most tired—actually, now that he can take a closer look at him, he recognizes this look. This Lucas guy is high as a kite. He seemingly notices Taeyong’s observations and lets out a little chuckle followed by a deep cough. His finger rests on his lips as he purses them to shh. “Snitches get stitches.” He lets out.

He’s joking, but at the same time he’s not.

“Don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“I like him already.” He prompts, slapping him on the back with a loud slap. Taeyong winces from this.

Although Johnny was laughing the loudest when it came to their previous antics, anyone who had ever came across him knows he doesn’t play about his baby sister. He’s watching his brothers talk to this new kid, but he’s not listening. He’s instead looking all around the room trying to see if there’s anything abnormal. The main point of his arguments with you was that you were way too friendly with people who didn’t deserve it—you always tried to rush a process that would be much more easy to deal with had you gave them just a little more time to prove themselves.

He’s going to talk to you about this Lee, and he’s going to completely fry you for coming into his room so soon. You had known him for a measly three hours assuming that he was in your first class, and Johnny wouldn’t accept that. You could be so fucking naive sometimes, and it was him who always had to wipe your tears from your faults. The only one he couldn’t blame you for was your relationship with Kun.

“Well, Lee—we’re going to get out of your hair.” Johnny prompts, and although mentally all of his friends are questioning the sudden prompt to leave, they know better than to do it out loud.

“Oh...alright.” He says, but Johnny is a human lie detector. That tone is so fake and maybe this Lee is antisocial and doesn’t like to talk to this many people at the same time, but it was rare for a new student at Wildwood to not want to ride the crew. Everybody wanted to know them, and he wasn’t being cocky about it—it was just the facts.

The all step outside one by one, walking in a line of eight through the spreaded hallway.

“He’s a fucking weirdo.” Sicheng speaks as his hands in his pockets guide his legs to move forward. He’s also very high—probably more high than Lucas.

“Agreed.” Yangyang seethes. Recently he was trying his hardest to control it, but he was a smart mouthed little rascal, and anybody could get some.

“I wouldn’t say so.” The eight of them are out of the building and getting tingled by the stairs now as they return to the fresh air. The campus is what it always is—exciting and full of new adventure as the open space sets the scene perfectly. The baby blue sky adds onto its perfection, although they were all very accustomed to this. Outside of this dormitory is a statue of Lobos Smith. It’s a golden brown tint and it features him, as well as hovering light bulbs above his head. At night, water shoots from the bottom and the bulbs illuminate something beautiful—a combination of radiant colors that were created to inspire and soothe, as it reads on the plate. They all touch his enlarged hand as they pass by him.

Even when high, Lucas was still knowledgeable. “At the most I would give him emo, but weird? Didn’t get that vibe.”

Ten, Hendery, and Xiaojun seem to be neutral on this, always wanting to see more before they made such conclusions about people. They had met plenty of people on such a large campus that didn’t have the worst of the worst intentions for them, although it easily could’ve seemed that way on first glance.

“You’re not looking deep enough, Lucas. We talked about this.”

Kun wholeheartedly agreed with Johnny, Sicheng, and Yangyang. He was fully expecting to walk into his dorm room and be greeted by the typical Wildwood boy—either a rich dick, or a nerd, not that he believed this to be a negative adjective, that would stay out of his way and only ask did he want to hang out when he was extremely lonely and bored. Lee, on the other hand, seemed to be trying way too hard.

“But he barely spoke.” Ten speaks up now.

They’re walking past all of the different social groups as they continue their disagreement—the green grass providing means of peace between them. Regardless, they would never let things get out of control anyway. They were allowed to disagree, fight, they were even allowed to give a good punch sometimes too, but they would quickly be pulled apart. They were boys, and that’s what boys did.

The bench that is unofficially marked as theirs is open as it should be, and they take their normal positions. Half on the bench, and the other half sitting on the ground in front of them. Ten presses the button that was hovering beside him from the left, and an umbrella reveals itself to cover them from the yellow sun. It really was a beautiful day, but they had things to discuss and they weren’t asking for a tan.

“But notice how he said everything right.” Sicheng reveals. This seems to get his brothers thinking, and he can see their opinions changing just that quick. That was the effect he had on everyone. He was the quietest out of all of them unless they were together like this, and although Kun was labeled as the menace of the group, it was actually him. His thoughts could get absolutely deadly sometimes, and his facial expressions always read what he felt. His built figure didn’t help his case, but the ladies loved it. He never had a night where he couldn’t get someone in his bed.

“Exactly.” Kun finally speaks. “It was almost too perfect. And the way he reacted when Y/N ran out...it was almost as if he wasn’t that shocked.”

“You know how Y/N is.” Xiaojun says. Johnny immediately looks at him with sharp eyes from his spot on the grass. His legs—even through their long nature are tucked in his chest while his hands hold them in place. “Not saying that in a bad way, Johnny.” He hurries. “She just makes friends easily, and she can sometimes—

“Talk too much. I know.” Johnny finishes for him, eyes locking back to the ground now. The more and more they verbally observe this kid, the more eerie he feels about him. He usually didn’t mind when his boys talked about you either, as they never disrespected you. They just spoke facts, and regardless of how they felt about your decisions they would always protect you. “I’m sorry.” He says—and it’s not something he speaks often. “You said nothing wrong. I think we just need to eat.”

“Agreed.” They say in unison, Yangyang taking his phone out to hit up the campus delivery service, but haulting when he hears the same notification being recieved on all of their phones.

“Never mind.” Johnny sighs—him, as well as the rest of the boys rushing to get up and get on the move.

“Why didn’t you tell me that Johnny has friends? And why didn’t you tell me that Y/N has an ex boyfriend that is still madly in love with her? And that he is apart of Johnny’s friends. It’s your fucking job knit-wit.”

Taeyong is seething on the phone, although he does feel bad. Poor Jaemin didn’t have a clue as to why he was currently being scolded, as he did the research he was asked to do. Nothing more, nothing less. At this point he had been tuning the harsh words out—too high in this moment to give a fuck about anything his leader was saying.

“Look, I already told you what the deal is, hyung.”

Taeyong can picture him now, smoking his Indigo. The younger members seemingly preferred this method for whatever reason, and he finds himself to be correct when he can hear a cough erupting from the boy’s throat over the device.

That excuse is good enough for Taeyong, but he doesn’t want to stop this passion just yet. Even now he could tell his high was finally wearing off similar to how it did a few weeks back, and it’s scary, but it’s good. He’s feeling anger, nervousness, although he was sure the lather would wear off rather quickly. How would it feel to kill in such a state?

“Whatever.” He shooes. “Get Sooman on the phone please.”

“Sooman? You sure you don’t mean daddy?”

“Very fucking funny—put him on the phone.”

He sits on hold for about five minutes, and during that time he decides to finally lay down on his bed. He hadn’t had the opportunity to go shopping for something a little more his style, but then again was it even worth it? Once he killed you, he would be gone.

God, it’s so comfortable. The bed he was accustomed to was so hard and he would always wake up with back pain that would last for the majority of the day, although he would never really feel it. You didn’t feel much of anything in NEO. He could emphasize this fact all day long.

Around the room aren’t ripped and hole-punched walls. They’re clean and polished an angelic white color—clashing way too much with the seeming inside of him. He deserves this luxury, but at the same time he doesn’t, yet then again, that made him deserve it even more. Kun’s belongings are still ragged all over the room, but even with Taeyong’s clean freak nature he can’t freak out about it. He doesn’t care right now. He lifts his leg to observe his chosen clothing; all black just incase someone attempted to compliment him. He realizes while he sinks into the the bed that he hadn’t done this at all, even if he had only been here for less than a day. He takes a deep breath—the kind that rushes to your toes and comes back up your body with a magical touch. The kind where you feel every problem and obstacle in your life haulting even if for a short moment. A short moment it was indeed.

“Tell me everything.”

It’s Sooman, and all the stupid doodles he was currently having would have to be put to rest, at least for now.

Taeyong explains in detail everything that had went down in the past couple of hours—even him meeting Mackenzie.

“You can use her as a free kill if you want. If the urge is strong.”

“Oh, trust me when I say she’s already on my list.”

And then he continues. There’s actually only so much detail he can give considering he is only seeing black and white for now, but he describes you. He doesn’t know why or how, but he finds himself imagining you in a lot of different aspects. What would you be wearing tomorrow? Would you completely change and end up in sweatpants and a hoodie similar to your brother a few moments ago? Or did you dress like such a superstar all the time?

“She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

“A pretty face only gets you so far.”

“But remember what I told you. She’s not just a face, boy. If she’s like anything I’ve experienced, she may rope you in without knowing. You won’t even see it coming. That girl is smart, and she’s something you’re not used to. Stay focused.” The man instructs, “Also, keep working on her. You also need to be gaining the trust of her family members as well.” He finished before hanging up.

Taeyong didn’t appreciate that exchange. He didn’t even get a chance to ask the real questions, obviously in a much more respectful way than he spoke to Jaemin. That was so unsual. He’s about to call back before he feels his phone vibrating in his hand. It’s Jaehyun, this time.

“He’s getting some right now.” Jaehyun confirms, his laugh erurupting from the predictable darkness of their side of town. He can picture the pretty boy now—perched up on his bunk as he always wanted the top anyway. He’s probably been having an amazing 48 hours all alone, free to blast as he pleased without interruption.

Taeyong doesn’t know why he didn’t put that together. As unfair as the rule was, it was a rule that stated only he—as he is the boss, could bring woman into the building. When it came to them and their rendezvous, it had to be in a dark corner, an alley, or if they got really lucky—the wife’s home while her husband was busting his ass to bring in some income, or for some members the husbands while the wife was begging the convience store to let her get dinner for the kids.

Good ole’ NEO.

“Fucking great.” Taeyong rolls over on his side, his black hair covering his eyes slightly. He doesn’t even try to move it away as he finds himself dozing off just a tad. He has never been this comfortable in his entire life.

“Tell me. I know you, brother. You need to get it out.”

“I don’t know. There’s just a lot of missing pieces of this puzzle that I don’t know. I’m sure Jaemin told you everything.”

“Mhm.” Jaehyun agrees, knowing his member would continue. He was always such a great listener, and he frequently had to deal with this. Never in such a setting, but even with his kills would Taeyong talk his head off about what he wanted to try next, and a lot of blabber. He listened because he cared about him.

“She has an ex boyfriend, and he doesn’t like me. They were all smiling and happy, but I could see how fake it was.”

“Well, you are trying to fuck, and then kill his love. And for the brother—his sister and his whole family.”

“But they don’t know that. They don’t know any of it.”

“Then they’re probably just being protective. I mean, how did you find out about the girl and Kun in the first place?”

“She was in my room.” He admits, silently slapping himself on the forehead. “And he’s my roommate. The shit was so dramatic, Jae. It looked like a soap-opera.

“I’m not saying don’t keep your eyes open. Trust me, me of all people would never be so stupid, but if you have your guard up openly, and so does he, how are you going to get close to them? Hm?” The indigo was talking, not Jaehyun. “I mean, you don’t have a choice but to switch it up.”

“You sound like me.” He chuckles.

Taeyong was the leader for many reasons, but truthfully more because he was incredibly scary. As he does a little crunch, he sees himself in the mirror and he doesn’t know the person he’s looking at. This isn’t the menacing, ruthless Taeyong that made his youngers practically pee their pants if they made a remote mistake. This was the boy that liked to explore, and he doesn’t like it. He feels sick, actually. He smile is wiped off, and he hits the bed again.

“Thanks for listening.”

“Of course.”

The hang up is quick from his side.

Taeyong needs to sleep. He needs to sleep a sleep better than any sleep he has ever experienced, and when he wakes up, he’ll have some of his real vision back.

“You’re home late, what happened?”

It’s your fathers voice, and as always it’s soft and comforting. Even at such a late hour. You always find it amusing that even when he should be sleeping, or perched up on his very expensive recliner channel surfing for sports, he’s instead in a suit ready for work. Usually you would make a joke about this, and he’s waiting for it—you can tell by the way his eyebrows that match yours are slightly raised; his mouth slightly agape in anticipation, but you’re not in the mood. 

“Just an interesting day. That’s all dad I promise.”

“Well, my ears are open. I was about to respond to some emails, but you know I always have time for you sweetheart.”

Your father, as well as your brother were the two men who you could never doubt. They loved you, and they meant everything they said. Others couldn’t necessarily relate.

Your home hasn’t changed much since you were born. Well, at least design wise. Of course coming from a family who was the lead cause of the new world we lived in, you had all of the new gadgets and furniture. You were always the taste test for practically every invention after the dangerous trial and error was over.

Your tan colored ceilings were practically in the sky. And similar to Wildwood, the ceiling was open, although it was better worded see-through. You also had the option of closing it, and your father hits the switch as you follow behind him to go into his office. You only see half of the pink night being closed before the door is clearing.

His office was surprisingly simple considering all the resources he had access to. There were two family portraits that rested above his desk—one of the four of you, and one of all of the boys and men your father had in his life. “Uncles” you had never met. Johnny and his friends. The sight of Kun in the photo; his smile is bright and you can actually remember the day that photo was taken. He was so nervous about the whole ordeal. He couldn’t understand why he was chosen to be in such a photo with so many great men, as well as his knucklehead friends, but Johnny really wanted it. Those were his brothers, and your father had always been a believer of sticking together. He was a mentor to so many, and Johnny, Sicheng, Ten, Yangyang, Lucas, Xiaojun, Hendery, and Kun had all been friends since birth. Your father had practically raised them. It was actually quite a weird ordeal, but it made sense to you all. Fate worked in mysterious ways.

There’s a loveseat on the side of the semi-large room, and you sit on it. You expect him to sit in his leather chair, but he nudges you over with his knee. He puts an arm around your shoulder, and kisses your forehead as you move to his shoulder. This was him telling you to speak.

“I saw Kun today.” You mumble. You didn’t want to be having this conversation with your father. Especially about someone you know he saw as such an ideal man for you.

“How did that make you feel?”

“Bad.”

You know he’s trying to scrounge up his thoughts. You told your father everything, and every night you found yourself thinking about his reaction that night. Barely a reaction, at first.

An alarm is blaring at Taeyong. He doesn’t understand why, because quite frankly, he wasn’t planning on going to class today. He wasn’t here to be educated in the slightest, although he was very much so looking forward to his futuristic science class where he heard you did a lot of cool experiments in. He unconsciously takes a deep breath, and he smells something. It’s not strong, but he can smell it. It smelt of something sweet. Like vanilla or something if that nature.

The alarm is still blaring, and with closed eyes, he’s beating around trying to locate the button to turn it off.

“You have to speak.” A voice whispers from the other side of the room. Kun decided to sleep here last night—quite a surprise.

“Okay.” Taeyong speaks.

Snoozing. The robot woman follows

“You have to say ‘I’m awake’.”

“I’m awake.” Taeyong rips out, very done with this whole ordeal. He had never been more annoyed in his life. He’s also very shocked that Kun even cared enough to help him, but then again it was interrupting whatever he was doing.

He slowly rises off the bed, looking quickly to see if he has on any pants. He settled in boxers last night he notices, so he throws the sheets off of him before taking one last deep breath and wiping his face before opening his eyes. It’s like a flash of light does he see the same pastel and dirty vision just as he did when he tried this the first time. His pupils are moving from side to side, trying to see the splurts again. They’re evident and he can also see now very clearly that Kun has black hair just like him. He’s also shirtless as he’s on his phone most likely scrolling through nothing. Kun must have changed his sheets while he was in a deep slumber. It screamed money. It was a mixture of black, red, and blue; striped. They seemed to be comfortable enough.

“Goodmorning to you too.” Kun says, removing his eyes from his phone to Taeyong’s pitiful look. “I would’ve thought you’d look less tired considering how long you’ve been asleep.”

“How do you know how long I’ve been asleep? You were gone.”

“Look up.”

And he does. Above his head is a clock that reads the exact time he put his head down to rest, the time he actually fell asleep—5 minutes later, and how long he stayed that way.

“What the—

“You can turn it off. I mean, they’ll still know, but I won’t.” Kun points to his own clock that read he only got two hours of sleep before he shuts it off.

“Thanks.” Is all Taeyong can fathom. Usually more words would flow from his mouth, but Kun is a stranger. But usually that wouldn’t matter? He doesn’t like to be awkward like this. He doesn’t even know what he needs to take a shower here, but he’ll figure it out he assumes. There’s a machine in the large release area that gives you the option of what soap you want to use unless you have your own, in which Taeyong doesn’t. He decides on the Sea Breeze soap, as it seemed to fit the mood he was trying to set.

When he gets out, Kun is still in the room, but he’s clothed now. He’s once again dressed in some sweatpants, and a Wildwood shirt. He did change up his shoes though, switching his slides for sneakers.

“Don’t know if you care or not, but we have a race tonight.” He speaks up. “We’re going against our rival school—the jets. Big game and a good way to make friends.”

It was sly shade, but Taeyong catches it. That was his polite way of saying to get the hell away from you, but he was awake now. He should’ve said that when he was still drowsy because Taeyong was about to play him like a guitar. He’s throwing his book bag over his shoulder as he talks.

“Oh yeah I’ll definitely be there. Me and Y/N are going together.” He pretends to feel bad at the mention of you—giving his eyes the innocent and awkward stare, but he sees the way Kun practically blows up from your name coming out of his filthy mouth.

“Cool.” Is all Kun can gather. He’s throwing his own belongings in a duffel bag that resembles the one Taeyong put his weapons in, except he’s throwing shorts and extra jackets in there. He’s doing it quick and fast indicating that Taeyong already got under his skin and all he had to do was say your name. Maybe it would be easier to get him out of the picture than he originally thought.

Taeyong was secretly super excited about the race. He had never seen anything like what it was described to be, but most importantly it was a great opportunity to talk your pretty little head off and try to get more answers out of you. And let’s not forget the fuchsia nights. He was so ready for that.

When he left his dorm, it wasn’t exactly light, but it wasn’t dark either. After a long day of classes he didn’t care about, and classes you didn’t show up to, he had eaten a little meal from the cafe that he got very lost in before heading back to his dorm to change. Since he got a little of his colored vision back, he decided on a blank orange shirt that had to be curtesy of Mark. Mark really was an angel, yet, that made all of them be even more of a dick to him because he could be so soft sometimes. I mean, to Wildwood’s standard of soft he would be a hell raiser, but back home he was a sweet little thing. His pants stayed the same—black cargo looking pants with his signature boots.

The track was indescribable. I mean, the open space was so beautiful; the grass seemed to be the original green he expected even if it was dirty and blurry to him. He looks up for sky, but half is gray, and half is a darkened blue. Almost navy. The sound of engines going off and reviving is white noise for him because he had never heard this. There’s already a big crowd of students from both schools with their faces painted, some with shirts off, but all ready to cheer on their schoolmates. The track is basically a smaller NASCAR track—it’s too bad they got rid of that decades ago.

“Taeyong!” He knows this voice. It’s tiny and squeaky and annoying and as he looks in her direction he can’t deny he’s impressed. She really did change her look. Her hair was still raging white, but it was curly and she actually sported an outfit similar to yours yesterday. She was surrounded by boys just as you predicted, but they seemed to push him to the side.

“What’s up, Mackenzie.” He smiles, but it’s so fake. And the fact that she doesn’t see it just proves she’s a fucking blonde. “You seen Y/N?”

“I saw her earlier. She was here with Johnny and they were talking, but not for too long. Johnny practically ignores everyone on race days. Any distraction can make them lose and Johnny doesn’t like to lose.”

“You seem to know a lot about him.”

“We’re going to get married one day.” She dreams towards the sky.

“Right...” He whispers to himself, before turning around. As such awful story telling would do, you’re right there as he turns around. How long had you been standing there? God, he had to clutch his heart—something that he never had to do. Technically you just ran up on him and he didn’t hear you. He’s glad his boys didn’t witness that,

You look more beautiful than you did yesterday, not to say you didn’t look beautiful yesterday. You did change up your outfit a tad; a long sleeved v-neck crop top covering your chest, although he sees the cleavage. And you’re wearing high waisted mom jeans with some matching white sneaks on your feet. They’re giving you a little height. You have glasses on the top of your head, but he assumes you’re not in such a bad mood that you don’t want to see anything right now.

“Hey.” He smiles, and he doesn’t have to fake this one. It’s coming out naturally and it’s pissing him off. Yes, you were pretty, but you aren’t roping him in. He doesn’t feel things for people he only wants to hurt them.

“Hey.” You smile back, punching him in arm lightly. “I like your outfit. I was expecting you to be wearing all black again.”

“What? You thought I was some emo boy?”

“Well, I still think you are. I think you added a dash of color to impress me.”

Oh, you were good.

“Do you think you’re that special?” His tone is taunting, but not disrespectful.

“I know I am.” You turn around promptly, and he feels his feet running towards you to catch up.

It seems like you’re going to a more secluded area where there are less people who are prone to screaming and yelling inappropriate things to the opposing players. There’s a hologramed fence that seems to be where you’re headed, but you keep walking.

“Y/N you have to watch the race. Your brother is in it.”

“Oh, I’m watching the race.” He doesn’t even have to see you to know you’re smirking. It’s the sway in your hips. You’re walking to seemingly nothing, but as Wildwood does, there’s something hovering where you’re headed. It’s a button, but he doesn’t know what’s its for.

“You coming?” You tease.

“I—can I?”

You take his hand in yours—an unfamiliar feeling to him. Even so he doesn’t let go. You press the button and hologramed box is shielding the two of you before you’re shooting in the air.

“What the!” He screeches, unconsciously squeezing your hand too tight.

“Ow ow.” You laugh loudly. “Are you trying to break my hand?” He knows he hurt you, but even so you’re still laughing.

“I’m sorry. That just scared me.” He finds himself being shy now as the two of you are still holding hands. He slowly lets go, but not before caressing your mangled bones.

“It’s okay, newbie. When I was a little girl I almost had a panic attack the first time I did this.”

This, was the view. It was amazing, and it was secluded from the rattled teens and young adults who were passionate about their school. There were seats made for two, and Taeyong assumes that the box registers how many people it holds, and makes the seats according to that.

“There’s no one else that can do this, right?” He’s fascinated. You’re high up enough to where you can’t be seen unless someone was looking very hard, but at the same time you can see the track perfectly.

“Nope. Just my family.” You point to the other side of the track, and he can see another one hovering holding what seems to be a man and a woman—possibly some others behind him. Your father and mother although he can’t see their faces. “I’m a privileged girl.”

He’s trying to find something snarky to say back at you, but the confidence he had before is slipping away. He even finds himself shaking slightly, but he decides to just ignore it. “Nothing wrong with being that way.” He whispers. That’s all he can think of.

The two of you are sitting very close right now. He really had only known you for a measly 24 hours, but it felt like an eternity and he didn’t like that. He didn’t like the power you obviously held. And now you were scooting closer to him and his heart is slowly racing when that wasn’t supposed to be happening.

“How was your day today?” You question, but you’re not looking at him. Maybe he makes you nervous. You’re both watching as the cheerleaders are doing stunts to get the crowd pumped and the band is starting to warm up for the team. It almost seemed like football, but that was irrelevant these days.

He hadn’t had someone ask him that ever. It was so strange to him how every little thing you did was so original, even though back in the old days it was common curtesy. Back when the world wasn’t so split up.

“It was good.” Is all he can form. He relaxes back in the seemingly invisible chair, and it’s comfortable. “Finally made it to the cafe.”

“Do you always whisper when you talk.” You taunt him in his same tone.

You get a smile out of him. You were pretty funny. He could admit that.

There were a lot of things he could’ve said, but he remembers his orders “keep pushing it” or whatever Sooman said. He was trying so hard to keep his wall up, when his mission was to make you fall in love with him. He felt so guilty about it, but he didn’t have to. It was what he was instructed. “I’m just—you make me a little nervous.” He slips, knowing your heart beat is probably increasing.

“Me? Why?” And now your head is on his shoulder.

“Because you do things like that.” He speaks. He doesn’t know what to do with his body. Affection was something he had no idea how to handle or give back, and this was going to be his biggest weakness when it came to getting your head.

“My day wasn’t good.” You switch the subject, although your head stays in place. “Yesterday wasn’t good either.”

“Why?” He whispers. “Is it because of that Kun guy?”

“You catch on quickly.” You chuckle, making his shoulder vibrate. “But yeah. We have an interesting history. I was just so surprised to see him. It was so weird.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Taeyong needs to do something. He needs to touch you in a way that shows you he’s “interested”. He sees your hand dead on your lap, so he decides to interlock your fingers just as you did to him a few moments ago. He can’t lie—this feels nice. He knows it’s not supposed to, but no one else is here to tell on him. He could enjoy this, right?

“Nothing to say.” You mumble. “Just caught me off guard.”

There’s the wall. He was hoping you’d start venting, but he’s not surprised when you hault. I mean, the two of you had just met yesterday, although it wouldn’t seem like it based off your current position.

“I know we just met yesterday, but can we stay like this?” Your tone is hushed as you speak, and your voice is wavering just a tad. You probably feel stupid for even asking that.

“Of course we can.” He accepts, and he feels the way you lightly graze your thumb on his own at his acceptance. It relaxes him in an odd way, although it also triggered something weird in him. He had never felt it before, but he just assumes it’s the indigo shaking him up and begging him for more.

“Ladies and gentleman—introducing the one and only Wildwood Jaguars!” They’re running through the banner, funny enough the most non-futuristic thing here. The crowd is going wild and here you and Taeyong are, lost in your position.

Game on.

[shutupandshipit]

Little Life - Ch.13

Summary:  A baby could ruin his career before it had even started. If anyone found out, he would be kicked out of the Hero Course at the very least and UA at the very worst. Even then, how was he supposed to care for a baby once it arrived? He was a fucking seventeen-year-old boy, not a twenty-nine-year-old omega with their shit at least somewhat together.

…..

Or where Katsuki get pregnant, but is determined to make it to graduation. No matter what it takes.

Pairing: Bakudeku

Rating: T (just for language mostly)

Chapter: 13/16

Previous <- Chapter 12

Chapter 14 -> Next

Master Post

Chapter 13: Class

Katsumi snuffled, making noise for the first time since the class period had started. Without looking up from his notes, Katsuki started to purr low in his chest. He reached between his body and the sling he kept her in to open his shirt enough to tuck her head against his chest.

Immediately, she latched on. He only stiffened for a moment at the sharp pain that reawakened from his abused nipples before settling into the familiar rush of endorphins. Katsumi didn't always want to eat when she woke up, but they'd gotten her on a pretty good schedule. Katsuki also seemed to possess a preternatural understanding of what she wanted before she started to cry, which helped because he could barely stand the crying. He knew that before getting pregnant, and it had not changed. If she was fussy, Izuku usually took her without comment to find a place to soothe her.

Katsuki studiously ignored the way Jirou was stared across the short space between them in fascination.

Katsumi had started growing quickly after her birth. Already, she was six pounds and had sprouted long limbs. She looked like a fucking muppet, but Izuku refused to let him dress her as Kermit the Frog. Not that he still didn't when he got together with Kirishima and Ochako. Mina had been exiled from baby time after she couldn't control her quirk in the baby's presence the first time.

She was still a far cry from how big most pups were even born at, but she was growing. That was the biggest thing. Her small size and uncooperative limbs seemed to be the bane of her existence and the predominant reason for her fussy crying. When she fussed and cried. So far, she'd been a pretty quiet baby, and Katsuki couldn't have been more thankful.

All of her extra energy that didn't go to crying or growing limbs twice her size seemingly went into mass producing hair just like her damn father. While her eyes were still the vibrant red of Katsuki's, her hair had become a bushel of green curls that he just knew he'd be fighting for the rest of his natural life.

Ten minutes later, Aizawa snapped his book closed at the front of the class. "Take fifteen. Midnight will be here soon." Without preamble, he strode from the room to leave his rowdy students to their chaos.

Katsuki groaned, stretching one arm over his head and then the other to keep Katsumi still. In her sling, Katsumi's mouth pulled away. She started to whine against his skin. Fishing her out to wiggle his fingers in her face, he said without looking, "Deku, can you take Katsumi? I need to piss."

Izuku swooped in beside him, pressing a kiss to Katsuki's temple as he scooped up the baby. She was dressed in an All Might onesie that was still a little big on her, but Katsuki had modified it in the important places. "Of course I can. How's my beautiful baby girl doing?" he cooed, pressing kisses all over her face and stomach as she giggled.

Katsuki stood, stretching again before returning the kiss. "She probably needs a change before Midnight gets here. I didn't change her before this period. She might be dry, but you should check." He shoved his hands deep into his pockets to keep from reaching for her again. He trusted Izuku implicitly with Katsumi, but there was always a bit of anxiety when he let her go. Izuku wasn't the problem in this equation, it was the rest of the idiots who got up to coo at the little green haired baby. If he didn't have to pee, he wouldn't leave their sides for an instant, but if he were actually being honest, he needed a moment to himself. "You know, before she starts screaming. She needs to be burped too. Give her five more minutes, and then check if she needs a change."

Before he left, he turned to Kirishima. "Don't let Mineta anywhere near them. If I find him within ten feet of her again, I will string him up by his ankles at the front gate."

Looking aggrieved, but in complete agreement, Kirishima nodded.

Izuku didn't look up at he nodded as well, spending the time blowing a raspberry against her cheek to make her giggle again. "I can do that," he said before exclaiming, "You've been eating so much, but it's all going to your hair!"

Turning, Katsuki quickly left the room, ignoring the urge to snap the necks of everyone that crowded around Izuku in his wake. He'd just have to trust Kirishima -which he also did- to keep them mostly at bay.

Instead of taking a urinal, Katsuki locked himself in a stall. When he was done, he just pressed his back to the door. He scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his wrists. He was tired, so fucking tired.

Between class, homework, training and the baby, it felt like he never slept. Which was a lie. Katsumi never cried at night. Both his and Izuku's bodies were set on a timer now, and rarely did they not wake up before she even began to murmur. So, they never got the jerk of surprise from being woken by a cry. Waking up every couple of hours was still waking up every couple of hours though.

So far, Katsuki had only woken up three times to find Katsumi nursing while Izuku dosed with the two of them pulled to his chest, the baby cradled between them. And there had only been four times when Izuku didn't even twitch a muscle when Katsuki rose to get her from her crib.

Still, he was tired. He knew he would be. That was at least something that had been consistent in his research. He had been tired for ten straight months, and he was likely to be until Katsumi could at least make a sandwich on her own.

With a heavy sigh, he moved to push himself away from the door, but stopped when he heard the bathroom door open again.

"Yo, like what the fuck is up with that?" a voice asked, unfamiliar, but most voices were. He didn't usually pay enough attention to other students enough to recognize people he didn't see as frequently as his classmates.

"What's up with what?" Another unfamiliar voice.

"That prick from 3-A carrying around a baby. What the fuck is his name again? Bakugou or something?"

"Dude, didn't you see the news. That's the baby he rescued during that huge battle a month ago."

The first voice scoffed. "That's a load of crap, and you know it. Did you know he's an omega?"

"Yes? He's part of the big three and he's one of the only male omegas in the hero course? Do you even go to this school? What are you on about? Are you jealous that he's a better hero than you or just mad that he's not your omega?"

"Me? Jealous of that asshole? As if," the first voice laughed, "That baby is his for sure. He probably fucked his way to the top, and got pregnant doing it. Bet if I asked nicely, he'd get on his knees like the slut he is. I'd show him what a real alpha is supposed to be. He'd never get enough-"

Having heard enough, Katsuki kicked open the stall door, breaking the lock and the hinges in one fell swoop.

"Oh shit," the holder of the second voice whispered, eyes widening as he stood up straight from where he'd been leaning against a skin.

Darkly, Katsuki traced his eyes over the alpha standing still in front of a urinal, lingering on his dick in his hands. He smirked, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Like you could ever hope to be enough of an alpha to handle me. I would wreck you," he growled, stepping passed the broken stall door to stand next to him, "Like you'd be enough of an alpha to handle my mate." His eyes dropped to the alpha's dick again as he sneered. "Pathetic. Omega or not, baby or not, I'm still going to be the top in the end."

With that very specific, very pointed double entendre, he headed for the door. He stopped by the other student who was cowering by the sink. The boy stunk of the other alpha, but the scent was forced, not mixed like it was with him and Izuku. Their coupling clearly wasn't a happy one. He clapped the student on the shoulder, and the boy flinched. "Listen omega, I'm only going to say this once. Don't settle for an alpha just because you think you need to to make it at this school as a hero. You're better than the likes of him. There are way better people out there to be your mate and friend. You can stand on your own two feet just fine."

He left before either student could get their faculties about them.

.....

Katsuki and Izuku were on the couch watching Ochako float a giggling Katsumi in her lap when Katsuki's phone rang. Picking it up, he immediately yelled, "Kirishima, catch!" before chucking it across the common room.

"Ah man, not again," Kirishima whined as he caught the phone to answer it brightly. "Mrs. Bakugou, hi! No, he's not available right now. He's at training with All Might. Right. Yes, I know. Yeah, I'll tell him. No, I don't think he's avoiding you." He shot Katsuki a heated look before returning to the call. "He's just really busy right now with practicals and finals coming up. Yeah, I'll tell him. Okay. Bye."

Kirishima walked back to him, phone in hand. "Man, stop avoiding your mom. You're going to have to talk to her at some point."

Katsuki sneered. "Like hell I do."

"Kacchan, you still haven't talked to your parents?" Izuku asked, pinning him with an admonishing glare.

"You can't say shit to me. You haven't told your mom about Katsumi either," Katsuki spat back, standing to sit on the floor beside Ochako. He wiggled his fingers in Katsumi's face and she grabbed for them, face scrunching when she couldn't quite catch them. When he stilled long enough for her to grip his fingers, she immediately stuffed them in her mouth.

Izuku's face reddened, and he stuttered, "W-well, I'm just... waiting for the perfect moment. I don't want to tell her over the phone."

"And I don't want to wake up with a knife to my throat. I'm saving your ass too. She'll kill me, but she'll hang you outside the front door like a flag, and you know it."

Izuku groaned, but didn't protest as he dropped his face into his hands. "She's just going to be more angry the longer we wait."

Ochako sighed. "I know that Mr. Aizawa said it was your jobs to tell your parents about this since you're 'adults' -loosely defined- but this is honestly a childish way to go about it. You can't hide this from her forever. She already knows you're hiding something. You need to stop hiding, and get this over with."

"Give me back my baby," Katsuki growled without much heat.

"No, she's having fun," Ochako retorted, smacking away his other hand as it reached for Katsumi, "Anyway, just meet them at the mall or something. Take All Might with you to run interference or explain or something. Just get it over with. We have some time coming up, and you should tell them before we're completely swamped."

"We're already swamped."

"Bakugou-" Ochako started.

Izuku cut in before she could say something that would actually make Katsuki take Katsumi upstairs. "That's a good point and a good idea. I'll talk to All Might."

Katsuki groaned loudly, but didn't protest. Silently, he just started to plan his and Izuku's joint funeral.

[omg-just-peachy]

Experienced a great first-time parent Stony moment. Was at a really busy intersection waiting to cross and small child was cheerfully screaming about how much she hated everything. (Like actually very cheerful. And literally everything. Birds, ice cream, her cat, her dad. EVERYTHING). Parent is grimacing and very chagrined. Finally looks at everyone stuck hearing this and admits 'her dad said he hated vegetables then tried to fix it by telling her hate means to really really like something'

🤣🤣 Oh nooo that’s so funny???

I can one hundred percent see Steve slipping up and having a rare moment of annoyance in front of baby Peter and saying he hates like, broccoli or Brussels sprouts or something, and Tony tuning in smugly as Steve realizes what he’s done and trying to backpedal. Because you know it’s always Tony watching his mouth and slipping up, so it would just be so entertaining for him if it’s this one moment Peter latches onto!

Pls imagine Steve explaining to parents at the park why his son is screaming that he hates that puppy and that kid and the slide and every person in his path, Tony cackling, and Peter being blissfully unaware of any of it😆❤️ BABIES.

[agrestenoir]

linearity is over-rated

Summary: How “I love you” follows the story of Marinette and Adrien over the years. A non-linear love story told in 25 parts.

“Where do you want to start?”

“At the beginning.”

  * 

As a hello, Marinette crawls under the covers and sticks her cold feet against the back of his knees. He squirms in response, trying to pull away, and there’s a rustle of sheets and muffled grunts. “Hi,” she tells him, all bright blue eyes and tousled black hair. “I love you.”

Adrien hits her in the face with his pillow. She simply laughs and laughs and laughs.

  * 

With a hoarse voice, under the blankets, he reaches across her bare waist to pull her closer, simply staring at the morning sunlight slipping through the window to wash over her soft, pale body. 

“I love you, you know that?” he says, lips pressed against the back of her neck. 

In his arms, she stirs, casting a simple smile over her shoulder. Blue eyes stare at him without the mask, and it’s all so new and beautiful and still so breathtaking. “Of course, I do,” she tells him in response. “I always have.”

  *

A scream that rips through the Paris sky, wind rushing past as they fall to their deaths from thousands of feet up: “If I never get the chance to tell you, I love you, Ladybug!”

Ladybug tightens her arms around her partner, squeezing her eyes shut because she doesn’t want to see what happens next.

 *

Over a cup of tea, Marinette watches Adrien ponder over his pastry at the little table in her parents’ bakery. “When do you feel like it’s the right time to say you love someone?” The question is something he’s been holding in for days now.

With a sigh, she thinks bitterly of Kagami, all dark eyes and rare beauty that moves with a grace Marinette never could muster. She thinks of the look on Adrien’s face when he sees her, of the soft smile that adjourns his face when her name pops up on his phone screen, the laugh that falls from his lips when he’s talking to her. 

“If you mean it,” she says, “then it’s always the right time.”

 *

Over a beer bottle, she’s drunk and screaming at him. “You think it doesn’t kill me when I see the way you look at her? Of course, it hurts!” Marinette throws the empty bottle onto the floor between them, glass shards bouncing across the hardwood. “I love you! I love you!  Of course, it fucking hurts!” 

The words hold him at gunpoint, and Adrien doesn’t dare move.

  *

On a sunny Tuesday afternoon, the late sunlight glowing in his hair, Marinette runs a hand through the golden locks and wonders if this is what angels look like. “You’re so beautiful,” she tells him softly like a whisper caught on the edge of the wind. “I love that about you.”

“The billboards must render you catatonic then,” he teases, green eyes sparkling. She squawks and tackles him in retaliation, but he ducks around her, tight and quick, so good at it because it’s a dance they’ve spent ten years learning.

 *

As a thank you, the words fall from his lips without a second thought. “God, I love you.”

His partner of a month quirks an eyebrow over the rim of her coffee cup. “It’s just from Starbucks,” Ladybug says, but it doesn’t matter. 

Chat Noir’s already gone.

 * 

As an apology, he stands in the doorway of her apartment with an intense expression, bangs flustered against his skin from the rain outside, still dripping puddles on the hardwood floor of the hallway. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to leave, I just…” He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I love you so much, Mari.” 

It’s not what she wants to hear, but it’s enough for now. With a heavy sigh, she reaches forward and grabs his wrist, tugging him back inside. “You forgot your umbrella,” she tells him, like it makes all the difference.

*

When baking chocolate chip cookies, Adrien stands in a puddle of flour, trying to figure out how long to put them in the oven. From the corner of the kitchen, Marinette covers her mouth with her hand, unable to hide her giggles, because the smartest boy she knows can’t even master the basics of baking.

Her mother, Sabine, pops her head in and smiles at the sight. “So this is the one, huh?” she whispers to her daughter, quirking an eyebrow high. 

Marinette shrugs helplessly. At sixteen, she isn’t sure what she’s found, but she’s pretty sure it’s love.

 *

Not said to her, Adrien holds Kagami’s hand between his, intertwining their fingers in a loose grip, as they hide in the corner of the ballroom as the New Year festivities reach a crescendo. “I know we’ve been together for a long time, and I do love you,” he tells her quietly, a book end to one of the best parts of twenty. “But….” 

“It’s Marinette, isn’t it?” she asks him, dark eyes heavy.

Adrien can only shrug. “I love her. I’m sorry.” 

With a sigh, Kagami gently pulls her hand from his. “It’s okay,” she says. “I think I’ve known for a long time, actually.” 

She lifts up onto her tip-toes and presses a soft kiss to the corner of his lips as a goodbye, but even as she pulls away, Adrien catches sight of Marinette sitting on the opposite of the room. She’s holding a bottle of Coors Light with a white-knuckled grip, blue eyes steely as they watch him and Kagami. When she sees Adrien staring, she pushes herself to her feet and walks away. 

“Go,” Kagami mumbles under her breath. “Go get her. It’s what you want.”

Like he does with most other things in life, Adrien follows Marinette.

 *

With a shuddering gasp after their first time, Chat Noir falls beside her in the darkness, trying to catch his breath. “God, you’re amazing.” 

In the darkness, she can’t see who he is or what he looks like (which was the whole point in the first place), but she wishes she could with a visceral urge that reminds her of something innate, like remembering how to breathe or how to speak.

Ladybug doesn’t know if she’s falling or if he’s already caught her, but all she knows is that she loves him.

 *

When they lay together in the fresh spring grass, Alya nudges Adrien’s side with her elbow and flashes them a wicked smile. “So when are you gonna tell Marinette you’re in love with her?”

Marinette glares at her from the other side of the picnic blanket as Adrien simply laughs and thinks of Ladybug instead. “Marinette?” he says, confused. “No, she’s just my best friend.” 

But as he muses over it later that night before sleep takes hold, he figures that loving Marinette wouldn’t be the worst thing in life. 

Not at all.

 *

In a letter, scrawled hurriedly in the margins of her latest design, are the words: Mrs. Adrien Agreste. A smile sprouts across his face as he catches sight of it, and a warm blush blossoms over the apples of his cheeks. 

“I love you too,” he tells her as he hands her the sketchbook. “But you know I’m taking your name, right?” 

 * 

A whisper in the ear as Ladybug stands over Hawkmoth, sweat-tangled hair falls out of its updo, and blood-streaked hands grasp the collar of his shirt. “I loved him, and you tried to kill him.” She bears her teeth, eyes wild. “I’m going to destroy you.” 

 *

Loud, so everyone can hear, Adrien stands on her balcony and screams out into the Paris evening air. “I am in love with Marinette Dupain-Cheng, and I’m not afraid to say it!” 

The twenty-one-year-old has her hands wrapped around his waist, desperately trying to tug him back inside to her bedroom. “No, stop it! I hate you, you asshole! I’m still mad at you, Adrien Agreste!” 

The rain still pours, and she’s getting drenched, but the horrors of the night are simply washing away. Soon, she forgets why she was even mad at him in the first place.

 *

Over and over again, till it’s nothing but a senseless babble, she chatters in his ear, “I love you, I love you, I love you!” He struggles not to drop her, confusion etched across his face, because he doesn’t know what it means to come home and have his wife freak out (albeit in a pleasant, perfect sort of way).

“Are you okay?” he has to ask.

Tears glimmering in her blue eyes, she kisses him firmly on the mouth. “I’ve thought a lot about this,” she says. “And we’re going to name her Emma.”

The pregnancy test lays discarded on the bathroom counter, the pink plus sign shining for all the world to see.

 *

When the broken glass litters the floor, Marinette is on her hands and knees picking up the remnants of the vase and roses, unable to meet his heavy gaze. “If you have to leave, then do it.”

Adrien chews on his bottom lip, all chapped and broken, dark shadows under his eyes like never-healing bruises. It’s been that way since his father was arrested three months prior, and no matter what she does, she can’t make him whole again. She can’t make things okay.

“I love you,” he tells her, and she knows what’s coming. “But I need some time, Marinette.”

“Just go,” she says again, gesturing to the front door of her apartment. Outside, it’s rain and lightning and thunder, echoing the storm brewing in her heart. “I can’t be everything, Adrien. Just go find what you need, and leave me alone.”

There’s silence that lingers, thick but fragile, until the sound of the door closing reverberates through the room.

Adrien’s gone. Marinette sits on the floor and cries.

 *

From very far away, Adrien’s voice sounds over the laptop. “Okay, tell Mama I love her, Emmy. Daddy has to go back to work now.”

Emma giggles in response, and there’s the pitter-patter of little footsteps as she runs back to the camera. “Mama says you gotta come home soon.”

“I know, baby.” Adrien smiles softly. “I miss my girls too.”

Emma shakes her head. “Nooo. You miss Hugo too, right?”

“Hugo?”

“My baby brother!” His daughter jumps up and down with unbridled excitement. “Mama’s gonna have another baby!” Suddenly though, her eyes shutter, and she leans close. “But you can’t tell Mama I told you, Daddy, because it’s supposed to be a secret.”

Adrien is silent for a moment, and then… “MARINETTE!!! COME BACK TO THE LAPTOP, RIGHT NOW.”

 *

With no space left between them, the words tumble out, easy and free, “I can’t remember the last time I told you I loved you.” Chat Noir glances at Ladybug with a puzzled expression, unsure how to proceed. “Is that weird?”

His partner sighs and settles against him, the warm Paris night bustling around them. “Probably because it means something different to you now.”

“How so?” he asks.

“Well you’re dating that girl now, right?” She shrugs and shakes her head because there’s not much else to say. “You’re in love with her now.”

“Doesn’t stop me from loving you though,” he tells her honestly, green eyes piercing. She stares at him in bewilderment, and he only laughs. “I mean… I may not be actively pursuing your heart and trying to date the hell out of you anymore, but I just want you to know that you’re still the most important person in my life.”

“…You too, Chat Noir.” Her voice is soft and smooth like glass, and just as easy to break if he wanted too. 

“Ladybug, that’s never going to change.”

*

As they huddle together, the storm raging outside, fifteen-year-old Ladybug shivers against his side and bites out, “Don’t get any funny ideas, chaton.” Despite her rough words, she snuggles deeper against him as they ride out the horrid weather.

“As if you’d ever let me touch you,” he grumbles with a smile, and Ladybug can’t help the bark of laughter that falls from her lips. “But I swear you’ll fall in love with me someday, Ladybug.”

“Keep dreaming, Chat Noir.”

“Gladly.”

 *

Over her shoulder, she glances back and him and quirks a brow high. “I love you, but you’re being ridiculous if you think I’m getting into this school.”

Adrien groans and falls back on her bed, her university results clutched in his hand, still sealed in their respective envelopes. “Mari, when are you going to realize how awesome you are? You are singlehandedly the best person I know, so why can’t you see it yourself?”

Marinette simply smiles in response and snatches the letter from his hand, still not opening it. “Careful,” she tells him. “You don’t want Kagami to hear that.”

Adrien doesn’t know what his girlfriend has to do with things, but he pushes Marinette to open the letter from Esmond anyway.

She’s accepted. He’s not surprised.

 *

Muffled, from the other side of the door, his voice comes through. “Come on, Marinette, please let me in. I love you.” She shudders at his words as they echo through their shared bedroom, too afraid to flip the lock and let him in. “I didn’t mean to take the shot for you, but when it’s your life at stake, I’ll do anything. You know that.”

She doesn’t answer because her heart is screaming in her chest, banging against her rib cage like a wild animal desperate to let out. Marinette doesn’t know what she would even say to him though, too caught up in that flash-second of him freefalling and getting hit by the akuma. It’s been two years since Gabriel Agreste was arrested and Adrien almost died, but the newest Hawkmoth, just as clever and chaotic as the last, has a habit of bringing back those dark times.

Adrien bangs against the door again, but Marinette still won’t open it. When his life means everything to her, she can’t speak her peace without their being some sort of repercussions.

So she lets him keep screaming, and she keeps crying, because they are both two souls willing to put their lives on the line when they mean the universe to each other.

It’s a hard hand to deal.

 *

Through a song, his hands dance across the piano keys. “My mom played this at her wedding,” he tells her, eyes distant and lost in a memory. “It’s one of the first songs she ever taught me.”

“It’s beautiful,” Marinette muses, just listening to the soft notes fill the air. “What’s it about?”

“It’s a love story,” he says. “It’s always a love story.”

 *

Without really meaning it, as the flour explodes in her face, streaks of white dusting her skin and hair, Adrien erupts into laughter. “Oh my god, you suck at baking too,” he says breathlessly, body shaking. “God, I love you.”

Marinette stills, smile frozen on her face as the weight of it crashes over her. “You love me?” she asks.

He stares at her in confusion. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

The smile on her face grows larger, and all she can think is how much she wants to hear him say it again.

 *

In a blissful sigh as she falls asleep, the sound reaches Chat Noir as he pauses in the doorway of the bathroom. “I love you,” comes Ladybug’s voice.

Suddenly, the bruises on his hips and the marks on his neck ache like something furious. He bites his bottom lip and tries to pretend like he didn’t hear a damn thing. They promised that the sex didn’t mean anything, so the thought of Ladybug without barriers letting that pass makes his pitiful heart jump into overdrive.

What does it even matter if you won’t say it to my face? He closes his eyes and shakes his head and wonders if it’s finally time to move on.

He calls Kagami in the morning.

 *

Broken, as Ladybug clutches the sleeve of his jacket and begs him not to leave, the words fall from pale lips, stammered and rushed. “You can’t just end it like this.”

The winter swells around them in a swirl of blistery air, snow clutching onto the red of her suit and the curls in her hair, and she stands like an ethereal angel, but the sight just breaks his heart. “You know how I feel about you.”

“Chat Noir,” she whispers. “Please don’t go.”

“I’m always going to be your partner,” he tells her. “But I can’t be anything else.” He licks his lips in thought, trying to salvage their fracturing relationship. “There’s a girl outside the mask who’s not afraid to love me, and I could see something real happening with her.”

“Please.” There’s tears now, and he’s at a loss for words.

“Ladybug…”

“Just don’t leave me. Please.”

 *

A taunt, with one eyebrow raised and a grin bubbling at his lips, he stands in the living room with his hands on his hips. “You think just because I love you that I’m going to your stuffy office party? That’s not how this works, my lady.”

Marinette squeals and snatches one of the pillows off the sofa and throws it at him. “I married you, you ass, it’s in our fucking wedding vows. You don’t have a choice.”

He catches the pillow effortlessly. “Look, my father dragged me to one too many of those when I was a kid. I’m not sitting through that torture again.”

“You said in sickness and in health,” she reminds him with a heated glare. She skips around the couch, coming closer to Adrien. “That includes company parties where I have to listen to Chloe Bourgeois for hours and hours. You’re stuck with me.”

“I will never—OH SHIT!” He doesn’t catch his wife this time, as she leaps into the air and tackles him to the ground.

 *

When they’re dead, Paris mourns Ladybug and Chat Noir. Marinette and Adrien watch on television from their dark living room, Hugo and Emma asleep between them, with heavy hearts as the city grieves the loss of their heroes.

“Did we do the right thing?” Adrien asks her, eyes haunted with the ghosts of the last battle.

“I don’t know,” she tells him softly, voice hollow. On screen, people cry, and her own tear drips down her cheek like candlewax, thick and slow. “What I do know is that I love you, and I never want to lose you.”

Outside, it’s raining.

It’s always raining.

 *

 Slowly, the words dripping from his tongue like honey, he spells out the truth she’s waited desperately to hear. “You are my best friend, Marinette, and my partner, Ladybug... and I love you.” He runs a hand through her hair, eyes softening as he presses his forehead against hers. “I just want to be with you.”

Outside, fireworks erupt as it strikes midnight, and Paris rings in the new year with a joyous applause. Inside, they find sanity in the spaces between their shared heartbeats, hot and heavy breathes warming pink, cool skin, as they take comfort in the feeling of finally being together.

 *

Too quick, mumbled into his scarf, she asks him to say it again.

A light pink dusts the tips of his ears as Adrien clears his throat. “I said, ‘I love you, please marry me.’”

Flabbergasted, she can only stare at him. “But we’ve only been dating for a year.”

Instead of answering, Adrien simply shrugs, that stupid scarf falling off one shoulder with the movement. “So? We’ve basically been together since we were fifteen anyway.”

Marinette is silent, and he fingers the frayed ends of his sleeves, refusing to look at her. There’s a short pause, the span of a single heartbeat, and then she’s dragging him close by the scarf to kiss him.

 *

In awe, the first time he realizes it, Ladybug stands on the Eiffel Tower with a proud smile, Paris safe and the world becoming something new. Her blue eyes burn with something bright, dark hair whipping in the wind, and she’s all red and black, just like his heart as it pounds harder and harder for this girl he just met. 

 “I love that girl,” he says like a promise.

*

In a way she can’t return, Chat Noir leaps in front of her as Hawkmoth strides forward with his rapier, the thin metal piercing through his armor, gleaming red with his blood under the afternoon sun.

Ladybug’s eyes widen with horror as she stares up at him, too shocked to comprehend what she’s seeing. “No…” she whispers, voice cracking.

“I love you,” are the last words he manages before he collapses, broken body barely breathing. 

Ladybug’s screams echo through the city. Hawkmoth continues his rampage.

*

On a post-it note, his messy handwriting adjourns the neon green paper on their fridge. Holding their sleeping daughter in her arms, she lets a soft smile stretch across her face as she reads it: Have to jet to London for a meeting. Be back soon! Love you both <3

“Silly daddy,” Marinette whispers to the toddler. “I was gonna tell him about your new brother today.”

 *

Before they jump, Chat Noir grabs her hand and yells out above the explosions as Hawkmoth continues his attack on Paris, the Eiffel Tower shuddering beneath them. “If we survive this, I’m gonna marry the hell out of you someday!”

Ladybug shakes her head. “You don’t even know my name!”

“Doesn’t matter if we’re gonna die anyway!”

She squeezes back and screams, “For what it’s worth, it’s Marinette!”

 * 

As a goodbye, Adrien smiles that awful broken, cracked thing. “I love you… but there’s so much that we have to deal with, and I don’t know if I can right now.” 

“I’ve loved you for years,” Marinette tells him, eyes glinting angrily form her spot on the sofa. “As Marinette, as Ladybug…”

“But there’s Kagami.” He ducks his head from view, glancing at the exit instead. “She doesn’t know yet, and with everything that just went down, I think I need a little time to… process.” 

She sighs and crosses her arms against her chest, smiling bitterly. “I can’t believe the two people I love are the same person… and I can’t have either of them.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. He just walks away. 

*

And when she tells him, with that soft, sad smile, wrapped in the sheeting the first morning after. “I’m going to love you forever,” she says to him, asleep and blissfully unaware. “Just try to stop me.”