#forgive me i got too lazy to color the second image

[mapletine]

more stardew thistle 🌟

[thesunshinebunny]

Can I ask for the dorm leaders reacting to their S / O asking them to join them in the shower for the first time???

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, oooookkkk, I can see what you did there dear anon.

In my great humble imagination, I'd like to take a dip in the huge bathtub that Kalim surely has in Scarabia. Let me dream, I like to relax in big bathtubs with foam, bubbles, music and incense. Before we begin, I warn you that all characters are +18.

Let’s goooooooooooooo

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Riddle

Oh dear, you don't know what you just did.

It was a decent proposal to be honest, you just wanted to spend a quality moment with our Queen, but I think the smoke got into his head.

"Riddle, I'm going to take a shower, would you like to join me?"

Puff red as a tomato and about to explode.

You stared at him in disbelief, until you realized your words. Maybe Riddle wasn't ready for that big step.

You entered the bathroom alone, but not before asking for forgiveness.

Now you left Riddle alone with his thoughts, that's much worse.

Your intention was to take a short shower, but with the event that had just occurred, you were eating your head as the water ran down your body.

The longer it took you to get out, the more your anxiety ate you up inside. You would have panicked if you hadn't heard the door open and close almost inaudibly.

Riddle stepped into the shower, standing behind you and circling your waist.

"Please don't turn around, it's still too embarrassing for me, but I can't help but feel calm right now"

Neither of you spoke or moved the rest of the time you stayed in the shower, even forgetting to wash properly. But that 'mistake' was the beginning of multiple long shared showers.

Leona

The lazy lion here wasn’t in his plans to get into the water, much less shower. If you had asked getting into the lounge’s pool, maybe he would have considered it.

He just lay on his bed, about to fall asleep, not caring about your figure in the middle of the room. He didn't care that you were getting irritated every second.

"I don't have the need to bathe, go alone"

He heard you leave and thought he was going to sleep peacefully before you get out of the shower… until an impact on his head dislodged him.

You had thrown dirt all over his hair, spreading over his chest and the bed.

“Now you have a reason to shower. You're dirty"

I recommend you to run to the shower, because the look Leona gave you… I highly doubt that you will make it out alive.

Arriving at the threshold, Leona grabbed you by the legs, placing you on his shoulder and getting under the faucet.

This fucker turned on the shower without letting you remove your clothes first, ending up drenched.

"Ah, my mistake, I think you're a little wet. Let me take off your clothes"

The malicious smirk on his face didn’t give you confidence, and didn’t disappear even when you were both naked under the water.

“You have courage to fill me and my bed with dirt, did you want to take a shower? Now you are going to clean me"

Ah… worth it?

Azul

Did he hear you well? Do you want to take a shower with him?

Oh dear sea witch, help him, he is about to have a neurism.

Azul wasn’t against your proposal itself, he was very concerned about his physique.

And what if you don't like what you see? would you are disappointed? And if it disgusts you to look at him naked or semi naked?

Thousands of questions ran through his head, making it impossible for him to give you an answer. If you looked closely, you might even see smoke coming out of his ears from the gears in his head moving; even tears were threatening to leak out of his eyes.

You placed your hands on both sides of his face, "Come with me"

You guided him into the bathroom, placing him under the shower head. You let go of your octopus and turned on the hot water before he could say anything.

Both were burned by the touch of the hot water, even Azul wanted to get out of there, but you stopped him by wrapping your arms around him.

The warmth of your arms on his torso made his heart skip a beat. He never thought he was going to be able to have this kind of intimacy with you, and I'm not talking about nudity.

It was literally like being in the rain in the middle of the courtyard, but in solitude inside Azul's room ... rather in his bathroom ... with clothes that were beginning to cling to the body.

"Do you feel better? Do you think you're ready to take off your clothes and really give us a hot shower?"

Azul never said a yes so fast in his life.

Kalim

A shower? A simple shower? What is that? Kalim only knows how to take big baths in tubs that could be the size of a house.

Either way he said yes, don’t be alarmed.

Wasting no time, he led you to the bathroom in his room, which you could swear was the same dimensions as the bedroom, apart from being very resplendent.

Kalim was very respectful at all times, he gave you your time to undress, he wasn’t invasive and he turned around when you asked him and thus enter the water.

Our sun here took the trouble to decorate the bathtub when you weren't looking, now the whole place was decorated with incense and scented candles from the Land of Hot Sands.

Even if you walked carefully, you might come across a few gold coins on the marble floor of the tub.

All very beautiful, but I think I would be very overwhelmed with such extravagance. And that is also your case, it’s better to tell Kalim directly.

Like before, don't worry, Kalim would understand your feelings a 1000% and if closing your eyes for the entire bath time makes you feel better, then Kalim would be willing to snuggle you on his chest and wash your head himself.

He ’s a gentleman, what can I say.

But, if you feel comfortable with all that, then I advise you to start a bubble war. Who said bathing with your partner has to be serious?

"Take care of your bubble ammunition, you wouldn't want to be left with nothing and for me to tickle you"

You made a mess in the whole bathroom, be careful when you leave, there is soap and water everywhere.

Vil

Oh no no no, dear, no dear.

One does not shower with Vil, one BATHES with Vil.

Like Kalim, Vil takes his bath quite seriously. He needs to follow his skin routine very meticulously and for that he needs oils, essences and… other things that my poor ass couldn't buy all the time, even if I wanted to.

His bathtub is not as gigantic as Kalim's, but it is much larger than average.

If for any reason you are embarrassed to bathe naked, don't panic. Vil has exclusively for you a bathrobe that you can use in the water, and one for him too obviously.

Prepare for a full-body massage session. The oils are not for decoration, they are to soften the skin and Vil would give the best massages of your life, you cannot argue with me

By the way, you also wash your hair with an equally expensive shampoo. There is no middle ground here: either you take a simple shower in your bedroom, or you go big with Vil.

That reminds me, the moment you take the first bath with this Queen of beauty, you have just signed a contract (not one of Azul's) in which it stipulates that from now on, every day you will bathe with it, end of discussion.

Vil may at first have been a bit ecstatic to the idea of ​​you giving him massages with his special oil and washing his hair; he has a very meticulous routine that he adheres to to the letter and your inexperienced fingers would not do enough magic.

Buuut, nothing like a good class in the middle of the bathtub to give good results.

In summary, taking a bath with Vil is like having a full day at the Spa, completely free ... well, almost free 😉

Idia

Idia.exe stopped working.

Jokes aside, Idia stopped reacting for a few seconds, he didn't even remember to breathe.

I can't tell if Idia is one of that kind of weeb that doesn't bathe, I want to believe that he does, please make me believe that he does, I implore you

Taking a shower with Idia can be a bit… embarrassing, mostly on his part. He isn’t used to so much human contact and that you ask him for such a proposal, is to get out of his comfort zone.

Nor could I tell if, when in contact with water, Idia's hair would evaporate, like the scene in Hercules blowing Hades’s head XD.

If so, it would be a lot of fun to watch, but you would have to reassure him because he would surely be much more embarrassed.

If that's not the case, maybe he would be around as long as the intimacy last with red hair, someone at some point mentioned Idia with red hair and now I can't help but imagine it

Many caresses from your part, hugging his torso from behind. Like Riddle, he would surely not be prepared to look at you for the first time or for you to see him.

Trie to calm the waters by asking him about his new inventions.

Also avoids telling Ortho all this bamboleo. He is too pure for this type of situation, let's not fill his head with indecent images of his brother.

Malleus

What a peculiar proposal, but it will be honored without a doubt.

He may have asked Lilia for instructions to abide by your proposal as well as possible… and Big Bear Mama Lilia may have asked him thousands of questions about it, perhaps embarrassing him a bit, but we will never know.

I have a slight suspicion that Malleus has a very rococo-style bathroom, in dark colors, but not necessarily black and green, do you understand?

Did you know those old tubs, from the Marie Antoinette years? Well, Malleus has one. He also has a shower, but to be honest, I see Malleus as a passionate lover, so the shower wouldn’t be in the game.

But, if you feel uncomfortable with the bathtub because it seems too much or you can’t step in (because, let's face it, hardly a person enters in that marble piece of furniture) then Malleus has no problem using the shower.

Whatever your decision is, the moment will be magical, and I mean it very seriously.

Our dragon daddy here would invoke any kind of magic to make the evening more enjoyable, like the little lights that fly around when Malleus is about to appear or disappear.

I recommend you don’t go around telling your intentions of take a shower with Malleus, we know that a certain lemon green hair is hanging around the corridors and he wouldn’t hesitate to listen to a conversation that has his young master as it’s center.

An uncomfortable moment if Sebek enter the bathroom screaming as always, demanding an explanation as to why a simple human is bathing with his young master.

[mqnasluvr]

heya ! i heard you were new around here, could i request headcanons of enemies to lovers with kaeya and childe ? any pronouns are fine ! they’re so annoying i hate how i love them nevertheless,, thank you belladonna and take your time <3

enemies to lovers | kaeya alberich

pairings; kaeya x gn!reader

mentioned; jean

warnings; enemies to lovers but it’s pretty one sided, spoilers for kaeyas backstory, no beta we die like men, a lil bit of kaeya slander im sorry i had to, gn! reader

word count; 2k

a/n; where did kyquu go? :( i hope they at least see this.. i didnt finish childes part but i wanted to push this out as soon as possible. :(

kaeya

to put it simply, your relationship with kaeya was... tiring.

you had been close to kaeya and his younger brother for years, them being your closest and most trusted friends throughout part of your childhood and teenage years. but that all came to a halt when the former admitted to being a spy from khaenri'ah.

in no way or form did he expect for you two to forgive him— but actually seeing your broken and betrayed faces hurt him more than he thought it would, and the image still haunts him to this day.

you had separated yourself from the two brothers. although diluc didn’t do anything wrong, you didn’t want to pick between them ( even though you really should’ve ). that decision was too hard for you to make.

for years, you stayed out of touch with kaeya as he continued to climb the ranks within the knights of favonius, and you followed, much to your dismay. you worked hard to become a knight, and you weren’t going to quit just because of some bad blood between you and your superior. ( props to you for maturity )

he wanted nothing more than to reconnect with you, and maybe even diluc— but that was wishful thinking. diluc ragnvindr was a stubborn, hardheaded man, and getting past that exterior would be no simple feat.

so, he opted for ( not so ) subtly courting you— giving you the occasional wave whenever he saw you walking through mondstadt, offering to help you train ( although you declined every time ), and other small things. you question why he chose to do this now of all times, after half a decade of not speaking to each other.

you weren’t sure how to feel, but it made you agitated. not seething with rage, but it did annoy you to see his lazy grin whenever he walked into the angels share and saw you sitting in the corner of the room. it annoyed you whenever he did that stupid two finger salute before walking off, and archons, did it annoy you when he patted your shoulder after sparring as if you were the best of buds.

then why did your thoughts never stray from him?

that question, you couldn’t answer.

and so, you resorted to treating him like he didn’t exist. it was rude, but you couldn’t really think of anything else. avoiding him like the plague was the one thing you were good at.

as if things couldn’t get any worse, one of your worst nightmares came to fruition.

“jean, please. why can’t i do this mission with you? why... him?” you were basically at the acting grand masters feet, head in your hands and pleading up at the woman. she felt bad, but there was nothing she could do.

“i’m really sorry y/n. but i’m too busy with other things, and kaeya happens to be available. you know an ordinary knight wouldnt be able to take this mission,” her guilt worsened when you looked up at her with ( fake ) tears in your eyes. she kneeled to your height.

“i don’t know of your history with kaeya, but please, just put it aside for this one mission. it shouldn’t take you very long.”

jean helped you stand to your feet, the frown etched into her face growing deeper when she saw your shoulders slump. “alright, fine..i’ll try-”

“jean! have you seen y/n— ah, there they are,” kaeya waltzed in without so much as a knocking, making you jump in surprise and shoot a glare at him. he flashed you a lazy grin.

“speak of the devil..” you muttered.

“are you ready to go? we don’t have much time.” the mission you were assigned was to gain intel on what the fatui were planning. to get said intel, you had to sneak into a gathering held by the fatui. the dresscode was rather expensive— more expensive than anything you owned— so to help you out, kaeya took the liberty of purchasing an outfit for you.

kaeya dropped it into your arms. “change into this. don’t want to show up to a party wearing uniform, do you?”

“thanks...” your face felt warm from embarrassment, but you did have to admit, that was considerate of him.

he laughed and waved his hand, shaking his head. “let’s get going, yeah?”

—

you finished getting ready with the help of jean. she sent you one last apologetic gaze before walking you out the door, waving at you both.

kaeya didnt even hide the fact that he was checking you out. his eyes raked over your attire, before sticking his arm out for you to hold. “my, my, you look quite impressive, y/n. is everything suited to your tastes?”

you huffed and walked past him. “the corset is too tight, and the shoes are too small.” you were only half lying— the corset was a bit uncomfortable to move in, but he got your shoe size down to a T. how? you didn’t really want to know.

“if that’s the case, i can loosen it for you-”

“no.”

kaeya laughed it off, and you only grew more irritated. “come now, y/n. don’t be so stiff.”

“i am perfectly content with being stiff, thank you. now hurry up, i want to get this over with,” you muttered the last part.

you didn’t want to admit that you were struggling to take your eyes off of his attire. he was clad in a white suit with blue complimentary colors to match your own outfit.

you rolled your eyes. ‘of course he’d get us matching outfits.’

but, you didnt find yourself minding all too much.

—

the party looked like any other party— fatui agents littered all over the residence, along with guests in fancy clothing.

you tugged on your sleeve, feeling uncomfortable and out of place. but on the outside, yourself and kaeya blended in pretty well.

because kaeya was such a well known figure, he had to change up his looks a bit. no eyepatch, ( i know, so uncharacteristic ) and he used contacts to change his eye color to a darker shade.

he also put that disgusting rat tail away.

so he didn’t look completely different, but he looked different enough.

...the change was nice.

you couldnt help but feel watched though. but that was to be expected. even though you felt somewhat secure in this situation, anxiety rests for no one. it rested in the pit of your stomach dormantly, waiting for a moment to bloom.

looking around the ballroom, kaeya found people dancing in the middle. deciding that it was better to at least enjoy the party before leaving, he stood in front of you and held his hand out, bowing.

“may i have this dance?”

“who do you think i am-”

kaeya flashed you a cautious glance, head nodding towards a fatui agent who was keeping their eye on the two of you. holding back a sigh, you placed your hand in his. he grinned.

“thank you,” he said. you grunted quietly and held back a roll of your eyes as he dragged you to the middle of the dance floor.

“attention whore,” you muttered, feeling warmer as he placed his hand on your lower back and pulled you in closer.

“you wound me, y/n.”

“you deserve it. i wish i could slap you.”

he stayed quiet. maybe too far?

you shook your head. no. there was no way you we’re going to let yourself feel sorry for him when he was literally a spy.

but he feels honest enough.

sure, his intentions at first were.. questionable. but he’s changed for the better. kaeya has been in mondstadt for years now, and khaenri'ah fell ages ago. his love for mond shouldn’t be doubted for a second, even if he hides it quite well.

before you could look up and make sure your words didn’t hurt him too badly, he leaned down near your ear.

“we have to go.”

“what-”

“i’ll explain later, but we have to go,” he grabbed your hand and pulled you through the crowd.

you didn’t notice, but several of the fatui agents were watching you. you didnt change your looks as much as he did, opting to use simple touch-ups to make yourself more presentable. but it wasn’t enough.

“hey!” one of that agents shouted, and kaeya turned his head back to see how close they were. like he suspected, they were following gou. they pushed through the people, even going as far as knocking one man over, just to catch up.

you hurried your steps along with kaeya, almost sprinting to keep up with him. his grip on your hand was firm though. you two dashed up the stairs onto the third floor of the residence, where the bedrooms were. offices, libraries, bedrooms— they were all there. kaeya picked a random one and shoved you both inside.

it was a red themed bedroom, the lights dim with papers scattered along the desk on the other side of the room. “it seems we’ve gotten lucky,” kaeya joked, skimming over the papers. they were letters, between the fatui and some unknown source. kaeya stashed them in his jacket.

you didn’t understand how he could joke at a time like this. you still arent in the clear and you could hear rapid footsteps coming upstairs. “kaeya—!”

“you know how you said you wanted to slap me?” he said while tucking the last bit of papers into his suit. he didnt even give you a chance to answer. “you can, after this.”

you were confused, but when he backed you up against the wall and pressed his lips to yours, that confusion turned into anger, then more confusion, then understanding.

sighing when you finally caught on, he pulled your body closer to his and you wrapped your arms sround his shoulders. he tugged and nipped on your bottom lip, and if you didnt know any better your knees would be knocking. he was almost too good at this.

suddenly, an agent— a female one, this time— barged in. “have you— hey! take that shit elsewhere, lovebirds!”

kaeya hid your face in his chest, grinning lazily at the woman. his lips were swollen and his eyes were lidded. the woman blushed.

clearing her thoat, she held up a picture of you. well, moreso the back of your head. “have you seen this individual?”

he stared at the woman, then glaced down at you. “..sorry. i’ve been busy, i haven’t seen anyone of the sort. wish i could help,” he shrugged, and the ladies blush worsened. “o-of course..” she muttered, before closing the door and locking it.

kaeya snorted at the irony. he looked back at you, who was still touching your lips with your fingers.

“was i that good?” he chuckled, and caught your hand when you moved to slap him. his laughter died down and he looks oddly serious.

“y/n, we need to talk..”

“...no we dont,” you turned your back to him. he put his hand on your shoulder.

“yes,” he sighed. “we do. i know you didnt want to do this with me-”

“kaeya..”

“-and really, i understand. but i’ve changed, and i know you’ve noticed. i dont want you to hate me forever-”

“kaeya-”

“and you can’t-”

“kaeya!” you nearly yelled. he finally stopped talking over you. “i don’t want to talk about this right now. can you just drop it?”

“then when?” he narrowed his eyes. he laughed humorlessly when there was no reply.

kaeya’s eyes softened the longer you stayed silent. he gently grabbed your wrist and pulled you in for a hug. “...sorry.”

“could you please shut up,” you mumbled into his chest. he laughed softly.

“i know you’re wary right now. but all i ask for is a second chance,” he pulled away and hend your hands together in his. “...please.”

it was an odd sight, seeing him this vulnerable. then again, there was a good chance he was faking it to get on your good side but.. for some reason you found it hard to believe that. he looked truly sincere.

you groaned.

“you better not make me regret this.”

[xbellaxcarolinax]

Heartbreaker- Part 3

Pairing: Modern Ivar x Female character/ reader (She)

Word Count: 6332. Yikes.

Warnings: Sexual content, language, angst

Moodboard@peterquillzsblog

AN: The third part of this thing I did for @youbloodymadgenius 400 Followers Writing Challenge. I’m a bit insecure about this part, and it was hard to write but I hope ya’ll like it. Shout out to my girl @shannygoatgruff for helping me and encouraging me with the writing process. You da best.

Part 1, Part 2

...

The stars were mocking her, she was sure of it.

Her eyes were glued to her ceiling, the stupid LED’s sparkling brighter now that the sun had completely set and the moon had taken its place. She started learning her constellations when she was 10, the age when shit at home started to hit the fan. It was her attempt at an escape to avoid her parents fighting in the other room. She ignored the yelling and banging against the walls by running to her tiny window and staring out into the sky in the hopes of catching sight of Orion’s Belt or any of the dippers. The stars were nicer then, comforting her as she did her best to drown out her mother’s screaming. They weren’t so visible now that she lived in Oslo, the city lights blocking everything that glowed in the sky. She had to settle for the cheap projector she purchased off amazon when she first called the city home, and it had been enough for her to get by until now. It ridiculed her, the fake stars shimmering together as if to form a smirk.

Fuck that.

She reaches behind her nightstand, yanking the cord from the wall with force, cutting off the starlight and leaving her ceiling pitch black. The candles were still flickering as the only light source, the scent of roses still strong. At least it smelled nice. Flopping back against her pillows, she runs her hands down her damp face from her salty tears, dropping her arms to her sides and dragging the sheets over her still naked body. She hadn’t moved since he left. She couldn’t move even if she wanted to. Her body felt rooted to the mattress, her skin glued to the sheets. She gives the dark ceiling one last glare before rolling to her side, burying her face into the pillow where Ivar’s luxurious hair had left the fragrance of his coconut shampoo and his Armani cologne. She was fucking pathetic.

Sending him away felt like a mistake.

She wanted to feel powerful kicking his ass out. She wanted to feel in control and confident watching him leave, but she didn’t. He wasn’t even angry. As soon as she told him to leave, he silently gathered his wrinkled clothes thrown about in their haste. In rigid movements he dressed himself, grabbed his crutch, and turned to look at her over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the shape of her body under the thin sheets. He said nothing, just stared at her with this look of longing, like they were the most unfortunate pair to grace the earth. It certainly felt that way. Then he reached over, holding her head gently to place a kiss on her temple before leaving her bed. All she wanted to do was to cry and call him back as soon as she heard her front door close with a soft click.

The facade immediately collapsed and the smirk slipped from her lips, settling into a deep frown. Her eyes welled up with tears and cascaded down her cheeks without so much as a fight. She had felt a heaviness in her chest, a burning that ached over her as if Ivar himself had reached inside her and ripped out her heart. He had broken it, so why did it hurt just as much when she tried to hurt him?  

Because she loved him. She loved Ivar.

She was in love with him. Completely and hopelessly and stupidly in love. Like a fucking idiot. She loved him when he visited her at the museum. She loved him when he took her home. She loved him when he took her to bed. And she loved him more when she watched him leave, his expression forever implanted in her mind like a photograph. She’d never seen such a look on him before.

When the hell did it start to get to that point? She wasn’t too sure. It started simple enough, boundaries were set, and they were both happy with what they had. The sex was great, and even greater still when she realized her feelings were getting involved. She found love in the simplest things. She felt it in their little touches whenever she handed him something, in the smile that lit up his face when she made his favorite meal of steak and potatoes, or the way he looked at her when he knew she was wearing something particularly naughty under her clothes. Or maybe she loved him from the moment they met at that fucking party. Apparently it only takes the brain 2 seconds to fall in love with someone. She couldn’t even remember where she’d read that. Probably from that corny lifestyle magazine she picked up while waiting her turn at the dental office. Whatever. The damage was already done.

She fights to ignore the delicious throbbing between her legs, her body craving more of him and his touch. It bothered her, how her body was betraying her. With a sigh, she shifts away from Ivar’s scent, curling into herself and making a mental note to wash the bed sheets as soon as possible. A bath would be nice, preferably with lots of bubbles, but she was too lazy. She’d just have to wake up earlier.

She takes even breaths to calm her heart rate as she watches the candle on her nightstand flicker, hoping she’d find sleep soon.

.

Morning came a lot quicker than she hoped.

She was the epitome of a zombie, which meant she’d need her morning coffee. Her eyes were sensitive against the morning light and her body ached from more than just a sleepless night. She took a quick shower, fed Benji, and made her caffeinated drink. She was in complete autopilot, that is, until there was a knock on her door. Irritated at the early disturbance, she goes to the door with half a mind of what was on the other side of it.

Pink daisies. Twice as many as before. This time, they were arranged in a stained glass vase, much like the windows of a cathedral, with vivid colors of green, blue, and red, depicting a simplistic design. It must have cost him a pretty penny no doubt, but money was never a problem for him. It was lighter than the porcelain vase, but still heavy in her hands. She places it on the counter, her fingertips skimming over the silky petals as gently as she could without damaging them. They were beautiful, but she found herself unable to admire them. She had a melancholic view of them now. They couldn’t be her favorites anymore.

There was that white card again, hiding within the stems of the bouquet. She hesitates, her fingers grasping the rough textured paper, reluctant to peer inside in fear of another hurtful message. With a shaky breath she flips it open.

I’m sorry.

Love, Ivar.

The words were written messily, unusual for him as he had perfect penmanship learned from his years in boarding school. Again, the water from the vase dotted the card, causing the black ink to bleed a bit. Her fingers follow the streaks down to the edge, picking up some of the faded pigment. It was as if he were the one crying this time, asking for forgiveness with fucking flowers. Either this solution worked for him in the past or he was just really fucking stupid.

She bites her lip, fiddling with the card before opening her junk drawer and tossing it inside. She didn’t have the strength to get rid of it. She carefully takes the vase in both hands, setting them down on her coffee table and arranging her candles and other knick knacks around it until it pleased her. She sits on her sofa, watching Benji put both his paws on the surface of the coffee table, curious of the new scent in the flat. Pulling her phone from her back pocket, she searches her contact list, going to her blocked numbers. Ivar’s name was the only one on that list.

Unblock?

She pauses, her finger hovering over the button. One tap, and she would be signing up for more heartbreak. Then the image of the blonde appeared in her mind, her in bed with Ivar, smirking and devious. Mocking.

It wasn’t worth it.

With a sigh she tosses her phone onto the table with a loud clack, the corner smacking against the edge of the vase and spooking Benji. She sucks her teeth.

Forget it.

…

Ivar runs his large thumb over the smooth cream colored domino piece, watching Hvitserk deal the pieces out to him and Sigurd. He’s been in a foul mood since the night he left her flat and he’s been hugging alcohol and cigarettes to his side like long lost friends, specifically Patrón and Marlboro. They dulled whatever strange feeling he felt that fluttered in his chest whenever he thought of her.

Normally, women were never a problem for him. It was always the same routine. He’d find himself a pretty girl, date her for a bit, and find another one when he got bored. He’d tell them that love was out of the equation and that was it. There were a few that grew attached, but he’d nip it in the bud before it could escalate. Others were understanding. They’d have their fun and go on their merry way to do it over again with some other asshole. It was supposed to be simple. So why was she making things so fucking difficult?

Well, he wasn’t being entirely fair, he had to admit. They were both difficult. She had fallen in love with him after he warned her not to, and he couldn’t bring himself to keep away from her after he’d sent her away. He had a routine, dammit, but now all he finds himself wanting is a fucking routine with her. Like maybe a normal one. He had gotten use to her, her smile, her touches, her scent, fuck. How long had it been? A year? The longest he’d ever been with a girl. Seriously. And now Freydis was up his ass for attention. He knew the bimbo didn’t feel anything past physical attraction for him. It was just for his time and money, which he didn’t mind at first, but the bitch was terrible in bed and an unpleasant person to be around.

And so he hoped she’d appreciate the flowers. Women loved flowers, right?

Ivar gives the longest sigh he could muster in order to keep his thoughts at bay, deciding to stare at the domino in his hand. It had 2 giant black dots, and the longer he stared at it, the more they appeared like scrutinizing eyes, judging him and his decisions. He slams the piece face down on the table with a glare. Fuck, he was going crazy.

"Where'd you even get these?" He grunts, snatching up his forgotten beer and taking a sip. It wasn’t tequila but it’d have to do for now.

"Bjorn bought them for me from Cuba." Hvitserk says pointing at the little wooden box they came in with the Cuban flag expertly painted on the surface.

"He brings domino's but no cigars?" Sigurd grumbles, arranging his pieces away from the prying eyes of his brothers, “I’d rather cigars.”

"Domino's are way cooler than cigars, Sig," Hvitserk argues, "And maybe Bjorn doesn’t like you enough to bring you fucking cigars, but forget that. What I really want to know is why our baby brother here looks like fucking shit." Both the older brothers turn to look at Ivar with knowing looks, ready to tease if need be.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Ivar argues, slamming his first piece down to commence the game. Maybe he wasn’t sleeping much these last few days. And maybe he had bags forming under his eyes and wasn’t eating much, preferring his alcohol and chimney sticks, but he wouldn’t go as far as to say he looks like shit. Then again, he wasn’t looking into his bathroom mirror much either.

“Hvits is right. You look like a kicked puppy, and not even a cute one.” Sigurd snickers, placing his own piece down with that stupid little smirk on his face.

“There is no such thing as ugly puppies.” Was the grunted reply.

“Point is, you look like shit. Have you been sleeping? We know how much you love your beauty sleep.”

“And fucking,” Hvitserk chimes in, placing down his domino, “I think Ivar has us beat. He’s competing with Bjorn at this point.”

“Or maybe it’s that little vixen of his causing trouble. How is she doing by the way? We haven’t seen her in a while.” Ivar flares his nose at the nickname that Sigurd had given her. He fucking hated it now more than ever.

“Shut. Up.” He snarls, sliding his domino piece hard enough to push the rest off the table.

“What the fuck, Ivar! If you break my shit, I’ll-”

“So this is what you guys do when I’m not at the office?” Ubbe bursts in through the door of their little lounging area, a frown forming on his lips as he eyes them in pure displeasure before they settled on the game pieces, “Who’s idea was it to play dominoes when we have clients blowing up our fucking phone’s? And drinking beer? That’s just brilliant. Assholes.”

“That’s why your girl is the secretary, Ubbe, she can handle it.” Sigurd waves his hand around, glad that Ubbe’s outburst overshadowed Ivar’s. When the youngest got mad, it wasn’t pretty, but it was fucking entertaining.

“It was my idea, by the way,” Hvitserk chuckles, placing all the pieces that fell back on the table top, “Wanna play? There’s more beer in the mini fridge.”

“You’re all fucking garbage.” Ubbe mutters, but heads over to the fridge to pull out a beer before plopping down on the empty chair beside Ivar with a sigh, “Before I forget, Ivar, Torvi says some guy just came by to drop something off for you.”

“I’m not expecting a package.”

“You sure? I’ll tell her to bring it in.” After a few minutes, Torvi peeks her head in through the crack of the door before fully opening it, a bouquet of wilted pink daisies in her hands. The color drains from Ivar’s face as the blonde approaches, handing him the flowers with this odd look on her face. Who would send Ivar fucking flowers anyway? And dying ones at that. His brothers immediately start to laugh at Ivar’s stunned look, another session of teasing on the way.

“You have another admirer, little bro?” Hvitserk chortles, mixing the domino pieces for a quick shuffle before dealing them.

“The flowers look like shit.” Comments Sigurd, leaning back against his chair. Ivar, still bewildered into silence, blinks stupidly. He stares at the wilted daisies, the petals easily falling off when he brings his fingers to touch them. They really did look like complete shit. Just like how he felt.

“There’s a card clipped in there. You gonna read it or what?” Ubbe taps his youngest brother's shoulder to elicit some kind of reaction from him. Ivar composes himself before quickly snatching the white card. It was one he had already written a message in by the looks of it. The card was bent at the edges, and he recognized the black ink from his favorite fountain pen.

Finally summing up the courage to read the message, he flips the card open, his previous simple apologetic words were crossed out. A new message was written below it that had his little cold heart hammering in his chest. He bites his lip, his blue eyes scanning the 4 words over and over again.

Sorry isn’t good enough.

��

The Tune ship is a fast sailing vessel able to transport passengers quickly across 100 meters. It is speculated that the vessel was a warship, able to carry its passenger and light cargo farther distances at a much faster-

“Ahh, there you are. In the library just as I assumed.” She quickly removes her eyes from her laptop screen in favor of the intruder that addressed her. She immediately stands, pushing it aside and placing her hands behind her back. The museum director, Mr. Kent, chuckles at her nervousness, smoothing a hand down his pale beard. He must have been a blonde in his youth as his hair had a faint yellow glow when under sunlight. He was a decent man of English origin, specifically from Winchester, who had taken over as the museum director about a year ago. He was a man who loved to dress well, fancy suits and shoes to demonstrate his abundance of money, but it wasn't haughty, not like the Ragnarsson’s. Mr. Kent came from even older money, and apparently from a line of kings that ruled England centuries ago. He had a massive reputation, to say the least. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m actually in need of a favor. Do you have a moment?”

“Of course, Mr. Kent, what can I do for you?”

“Please,” He chuckles, “Ecbert is fine. As for the favor, my grandson will be moving from Winchester in a few short weeks, right before the gala for the Tune ship exhibit. I’d like for him to shadow you during your tours, if that is alright with you?”

“Oh! Yes, of course. It would be an honor.” Fuck no, it wouldn’t. The last person that shadowed her was super fucking annoying and ended up getting fired anyway, but since this was Ecbert’s grandson, it would be different, he’d have privilege. Hopefully he wasn’t douche.

And shit. The fucking gala. She’d almost forgotten about it. It was the only event that the museum held in which she could attend, dress up, and feel pretty, but it was the one event that made her more nervous than anything else. She’d be surrounded by the richest people in the country, patrons of the Viking Ship Museum and other prestigious institutions and universities.  And champagne, lot’s of champagne. Rich people knew how to party.

“Excellent,” He smiles, clapping his hands together as if to solidify their agreement, “Don’t let me take up more of your time, I know you're doing your research for the new exhibit. I’ll be happy to give you access to the archives if you’d like? You might find something of interest that isn’t in the scholarly journals online.”

“That would be fantastic, Sir, thank you.”

“Have a great day.” She watches the older man leave, before plopping back down onto the cushioned seat with a sigh. He wasn’t as intimidating as their last asshole director, but she still treads softly around him. You can never get too comfy with those above you.

She did some more research for another half hour before checking her watch. Another tour of the Oseberg ship was scheduled in a few minutes and she would be free to go home and feel sorry for herself and her love life. She puts away her laptop in her purse, quickly rushing over to her office to freshen up before the tour. It was a busy day at the museum as they were now at the start of tourist season, which meant the museum allowed for bigger groups to be guided, and more people meant more noise and more irritation. Walking toward the entrance of the museum, she scans her eyes over the group of the afternoon, suddenly hoping to find a pair of blue eyes looking back at her. But that wasn’t the case. She frowns. He wouldn’t come looking for her after that fucking stunt she pulled. She shouldn’t want him to look for her anyway.

She sighs, plastering the fakest smile on her face before greeting the group.

.

Her phone was truly the devil. Honestly, did it intend to constantly notify her on Ivar’s posts and images? And since when did he post so damn much? She’d have to turn off her notifications, or block him off of Snapchat. Actually, why not just throw the whole fucking phone away? Ridiculous. She grumbles to herself, wondering why she hadn’t deleted him off of any social media apps yet. There was an answer to that, she just didn’t care to admit it. She was never into that stuff anyway, just keeping her accounts for communication purposes for her friends and family back home. It was getting rather lonely. Her time was mostly spent with Ivar, and now that they’re having their little rift, she realized her lack of friends. Had she really revolved her life around him? Shit.

Stretching her legs down the length of the sofa, she makes herself comfortable for the stupid shit she was about to do. She grabs her phone, scrolling through her apps and goes on Instagram. Ivar had posted 3 new photos. He was out at some bar in the city having a good ass time it seemed. His best friend, Heahmund, was in all of them, probably as a chaperone since Ivar couldn’t handle his liquor much. Heahmund was a good friend for that and Ivar was lucky to have the British fuck look out for him.

Ivar’s story was filled with clips of him goofing off. He was totally drunk, she could tell by how lidded and unfocused his eyes were, and how pink his lips were from constantly pursing them over a glass. His hair was all fucked up and out of its usual bun, as if he were fucking someone right before the video was recorded. Almost immediately after the thought, a drunk Freydis comes into the shot. That explained it. She should really throw her phone away.

Freydis giggles at the camera before placing her lips to his cheek, trailing them down his neck in sloppy kisses.

A rage boiled within her and she felt her fingers tighten around her phone. She needed to calm down. He was doing his own thing and she might as well do hers, though it was much easier said than done. The other videos he posted were of him taking shots of whatever it was, most likely tequila, and grinning into the camera like an idiot. Or maybe she was the idiot. Why should she mope around while he was having the time of his life? She knew how to have fun!...Right? Well, sometimes. Okay, maybe not. That party she met Ivar in? It was an invitation she had refused countless times. She couldn’t be bothered with the guy who begged her to go, but she went anyway due to her lack of socialization at the time.

Going out and partying was never fun when she was always the sober one. She did drink of course, but her tolerance was a lot better than most, say, like Ivar. She couldn’t count with her fingers the amount of times she had to call an Uber to get his ass home. The very few times she’d gone out with his brothers, it always ended with the same outcome, except Ubbe would end up saving their sorry asses.

Ubbe was the sweetheart, why couldn’t she have felt this way about him instead? Right, he had a girlfriend. She grumbles to herself, thinking she's better off alone.

…

“Where are you going?” The scent of alcohol had rooted itself deep within Freydis’s pores, her breath tickling his ear in an unpleasant manner. She stops him when he slips off the bar stool, pulling him by the collar of his shirt to bring him back to her side. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like how her hands felt on him or the look she wore. He didn’t like any of it. The loud trap music that blared from the speakers had activated him earlier that night, but now it made his head ache something terrible. The bass seemed to be vibrating right through him and he rubbed the side of his temple to subdue the growing headache. He reached out to stabilize himself on the bar counter. He was so fucking drunk.

“I gotta pee. Get off me.” Ivar grumbles, pushing her away with little grace. Clingy bitch.

“What?” The blonde scowls, her eyebrows arching and her lips set in a tight line. Shit. He said that out loud?

“Nothing.”

“I think he called you a clingy bitch, actually.” Heahmund repeats Ivar’s demeaning words, a chuckle escaping his red stained lips from the wine he was drinking. This was the fun part of the night for the older man. Ivar had no filter when he was drunk. Well, he never really did have a filter, sober or not, but it was a lot funnier when he had alcohol in his system. He could be ruthless.

“I fucking heard him, asshole.” Freydis snaps, seemingly sobering up now that she was angry. Heahmund breaks out in a smile to which she glares in return.

“I gotta pee.” Ivar announces again, not bothering to look at Freydis before stumbling towards the restrooms. He belches after letting out a series of hiccups, pausing to place a hand on the wall to steady himself. He was so fucking drunk. How many shots of Patrón had he taken? 3..4..? He started counting out loud, bringing his unoccupied hand to his face in order to use his fingers. Wait, there weren’t enough fingers on that hand. He stumbles again when he lets go of the wall, using the other hand to make his calculations. 5...8? Shit, he lost track. Forget it. It was a lot of Patrón.

Using his shoulder, he bursts in through the restroom door, mumbling an apology when he runs into someone. Ignoring the blurry image of the guy scowling at him, he makes his way into a stall and pisses his life away, his head resting against the cold tiled wall as he scrambles to gather his thoughts. He wasn’t happy. The alcohol wasn’t making him happy. Freydis wasn’t making him happy. What the fuck was wrong with him? He was a simple man with simple pleasures yet for some reason, a basic routine and a basic girl weren’t enough anymore. This was all her fault. Why was she torturing him without even trying? In his intoxicated state he could still remember how her voice trembled when she cried and how her eyes looked when they glossed over with tears. How drunk did he need to be to admit that he had hurt her? Really fucking drunk. Like now.

He slams the red door of the stall open, not even flinching when it banged against the stall beside it, maneuvering himself clumsily over to the sink. Gripping the porcelain, he leans forward to get a good look at himself through the streaky mirror. His eyes were so low he could barely see himself, cheeks flushed bright pink and lips matching in color. When did his bun get loose? He looks at his wrist hoping to find a hair tie but scowls when he finds none. He grunts in annoyance, turning on the tap to wash his hands before dragging his wet fingers through his hair. The cold water felt good on his heated face and he closed his eyes for a moment. He gazes at himself one last time before coming to a decision. He needed to talk to her. Right now.

Digging in the pocket of his simple denim jeans, he whips out his phone, struggling to find her contact name before pressing the call button and bringing the device to his ear.

You have reached the voice mailbox of 45-

Fuck. He forgot. She blocked him.

He wanted to throw his phone in frustration. Why did she block him? Did she not understand that he needed to talk to her right now?

Oh wait. Snapchat. Snapchat has video calls. That’s it. Ivar immediately takes a fat finger to scroll to the app, forcefully pressing down on the little ghost in haste. Finding her name in his contacts list, he presses the little video icon, hoping she’d answer. After a few seconds he almost gives up, but then his screen lights up, and he is rewarded with her tired eyes.

“Hey,” He breathes, noting the dim light in her room, “Were you sleeping?” He slurs, and immediately curses himself for sounding so stupid. He clears his throat in the hopes of gaining his language skills back.

“Ivar?” Her voice was heavy with sleep. It was exactly how she sounded when he used to wake her up in the morning with soft, lazy kisses to her shoulder. He missed that. “It’s like 2am. What are you calling me for?”

“I...I don’t know. Missed...your voice.” The words poured out his mouth like vomit. Actually, he was shocked he hadn’t gotten to that point. He threw up at least once after a hard night of drinking. His eyes fell shut as he leaned his head back against the wall beside the sink. God, this speech impediment was bad. He hears her snort tiredly on the other end.

“You’re drunk.”

“Mm...noooo, no. Mm not.”

“I can smell the tequila from here.”

“Wait, really?” His eyes pop open as he brings his phone closer to his face. He couldn’t focus all that well, but he could make out her sleepy features. Those pretty lashes of hers brushed over her cheeks with every lazy blink, and her messy hair was placed in a high ponytail at the top of her head.

“No.” Was her flat reply, pure irritation seeping through the word. Ivar stares at her displeased look for a moment longer, sighing in an almost dream like manner.

“You look beautiful.” He answers back, sliding down the wall to sit in a much more comfortable position. He didn’t care if the floor was dirty, he was drunk, and he didn’t want his legs to start hurting like a bitch.

“Shut the fuck up,” She says, “Words of a drunk.”

“I’m being serrrrious,” Ivar whines, “You always look amazing, you know that?”

“Right. Is Heahmund still there?”

“Yeah,” He pouts, “Why? You’d rather talk to him? You like him or something?” Ivar had never been the jealous type, but he was whenever it involved his brothers or Heahmund. When he had started seeing her, their interest zeroed in on her like fucking hawks, and so he made it abundantly clear to them that she was off limits. She was his conquest, no one else’s. So no, he wouldn’t consider himself the jealous type, but everyone else needed to stay the fuck away from her, even if she wasn’t his to play with anymore.

“No, Ivar, to make sure you’re gonna get home okay.” She sighs, shifting in her sheets and rubbing her face in frustration, “And it seems you will.”

“Aw, you worry about me?” He grins stupidly, his mood shifting wildly as he rubs his phone on his sweaty cheek as if to send her affection.

“No more than you do for me. How’s Freydis by the way?” The bitterness in her tone was enough to bring him down from whatever high he was feeling. Ivar scowls, shifting the phone back so they were now directly looking at each other. He blinks, trying to clear his head again. Freydis. He forgot about her already. And he didn’t really care anyway.

“Clingy bitch,”  He muttered his words from earlier, “I don’t wanna talk about her. I wanna talk about you.” He almost laughed when she pinched the bridge of her nose in annoyance.

“What about me, hmm?”

“I dunno,” He shrugs, his eyes searching hers through his fingerprint covered screen before passing them over her visible form again. She was wearing that one t-shirt she favored, the comfy one with the large neckline that always slid down enough to expose one of her smooth shoulders. Her messy hair and tired eyes reminded him of the many nights spent together tangled under his sheets. It made him swallow thickly as he brought a hand down the center of his jeans to ease the growing ache. Fuck, he needed to get his shit together. Still, in their silence he conjured up images and ideas in his head that he certainly shouldn’t at that moment, but fuck it. He licks his lips, feeling the sly grin stretching across his face at the words his brain had given to him, ready to spill from his mouth, “Maybe I just want to talk about the way your back arches under my hands, or the sounds you make when I-”

“Ivar,” She stops him immediately, her face blooming that pink color he loved, “Kindly shut the fuck up.” She looked like she was about to say something more, something much harsher and meaner, but she stopped herself. Instead, she takes in a breath, rubbing her eyes, and suddenly, she didn’t seem all that tired anymore. “Did you like the flowers?” She asks instead.

“Huh?” His eyebrows curve in confusion as his hazy mind tries to decipher the meaning behind the question. What was she talking about? Flowers? What flow-Oh. Right.

Sorry isn’t good enough.

He sighs, leaning his head back against the tiled wall. He could hear the transition of trap music out in the bar to some basic pop he hadn’t heard on the radio in years. He was in no mood for Kesha.

“I hated them.” He mutters truthfully. The wilted daisies made his heart sink. He’d never felt that way before. Was that how he made all those other women feel? He chews the inside of his cheek, ignoring the pulse behind his eyes and the ache in his head. Finally, the nausea kicked in and his stomach churned for the inevitable. He swallows thickly, running his hand through his messy hair, her eyes following his every movement trying to read his expression. Even in his intoxicated state, he made it hard for her to read him.

“This is a lot harder than I thought it would be.” He says miserably. Why does he fuck everything up? If he had never gone to that stupid party in the first place, he would have never met her, and he wouldn’t be feeling that way he does now. Like complete trash.

“What a shame,” She says, cocking her head to the side, her ponytail brushing against her cheekbone, “Just take your own advice, and try not to fall in love.” She gives him one last look before she hangs up, having him stare at his screen for a few seconds to understand what just happened. He remains seated on the dirty bathroom floor for a few moments longer, continuing to ignore his churning stomach and the tightness of his throat.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Heahmund bursts in through the door, immediately grabbing hold of Ivar’s arm and helping in lifting him up to his feet, “You’ve been in here for 20 minutes. Freydis left in a cab.”

“Good for her.” Ivar grunts, shoving his phone back in his pocket. He pushes Heahmund away, going back to stand in front of the mirror. He looked sick, sweat building up near his hairline.

“What’s wrong with you, hmm?” The older man questions, crossing his arms and using that tone on him as if he didn’t have 4 fucking older brothers already.

“Being a fucking idiot, that’s what.” Ivar says, closing his eyes as his chest burned with that familiar sensation.

“Finally feeling bad about what you did, huh?” Heahmund questions, “You know, no amount of fucking flowers and alcohol is gunna fix anything or make you feel better. You needed a reality check. She gave it to you.”

“And you call yourself my friend, traitor?” Ivar managed to say before pushing past him and into a stall, heaving out all the contents from his tequila filled stomach.

…

The Tune ship exhibit was coming together.

The fragments of the ship were strategically pieced together to form the remains of the ancient ship to its former glory. Well, most of it anyway. It was a fraction of what it once was in the past, but it was still an impressive archeological find, and although it wasn’t as massive as the Oseberg or the Gokstad, it was still considerable in length. She felt like a speck of dust standing beside it despite its lack of framework. She observes the rotted wood and the grooves within each ancient plank, wishing she could reach out and touch it; to feel what they must have felt like a thousand years ago. It’s been 2 years since she began working at the Viking Ship Museum and she still found herself in awe at every artifact that entered their exhibits. She supposed it was the bookworm in her. Ahh fuck. That’s what Ivar calls her.

She immediately frowns, her face twisting in displeasure. Somehow, her thoughts always went back to him, and that irritated her greatly.

“Hello?” The unrecognizable voice echoes throughout the empty exhibit. She looks over her shoulder at the intruder, her gaze gravitating to meet the clearest blue eyes of a boyish young man. The blackest hair she’d ever seen frames his blushing cheeks and the tips brush softly over his shoulders. She blinks at him, cocking her head.

“Uhh, hi?”

“I’m sorry,” He lets out a nervous chuckle, looking around the unfinished exhibit to avoid meeting her eyes from his embarrassment, “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He had a gentle voice, a hint of shyness in the undertones. And extremely British.

“No it’s fine,” She approaches him, sticking out her hand to greet him with a handshake and a small smile, “You must be Mr. Kent’s grandson. I wasn’t expecting you so soon…?”

“Alfred,” He answers, grasping her hand and offering her a timid smile back, “It’s a pleasure.” 

...

@a-daydreamers-day @heavenly1927 @didiintheblog @inforapound​ @a-mess-of-fandoms​ @leilabeaux @shannygoatgruff​ @syrenak @soleil-dor @walkxthexmoon​ @zuxiezendler @homeyzeus @redenzione​ @mariaenchanted​ @laricebabe @hecohansen31

There are some of you that Tumblr won’t let me tag! They are in bold. I’m sorry 😭

[livingintheworldofstories]

The Sound of Music

Genre: Angst with a happy ending Word Count: 5169 Summary: After Crowley and Aziraphale failed to stop Armageddon, the War broke out and the universe got destroyed. After the angels finally win the War, Crowley becomes a captive of Heaven. Who better to decide over his fate than his old adversary Aziraphale? Warning: Graphic Depictions of Violence (a little) Ao3: The Sound of Music

After the last second of time had run out, after the last star had burned out, after Beelzebub had died and all the walls of Hell had crumbled, the angel Aziraphale sat in a room without books. The angels, thankfully, had had just enough imagination to think them up – after all, rooms weren’t overly complicated, entirely made out of rectangles, which are entirely made out of straight lines. Had there been a curve or a wiggly line involved, the angels might not have managed it.

Aziraphale had only a moment to register the knock and feel a surge of dread before the door sprang open. Gabriel stepped in, as usual radiating confidence, but slower and with his shoulders down. His mouth was drawn in a serious line. The War had changed him, too. In time, he would go back to being his usual cocky, insufferable self – he had after the Fall. But for a while, the images of blood and death would haunt him the same way they did everyone else. It filled Aziraphale with a deep, petty satisfaction. Then Gabriel stepped aside, revealing who was coming in behind him – and Aziraphale’s heart stopped.

“Crowley.”

The word fled out of his mouth out of its own volition. Aziraphale had no say in it.

Crowley was – alive. A captive of Heaven, despondent and worse for wear, but alive. It took Aziraphale a second to recognize the clothes. They were the same clothes Crowley had worn an eternity ago, when they had tried to stop Armageddon and failed. Now his jacket was torn at the seams, his shirt darkened with what might be dirt or blood. His hands were bound behind his back. Two angels marched in after him, maybe to keep him in line. And then Crowley looked up, straight into Aziraphale’s eyes and Aziraphale had known what he’d done was unimaginably cruel and above all unforgiveable but suddenly he was confronted with the reality of how much. Crowley looked at him with eyes that would never forgive and Aziraphale absolutely deserved it. What have they done to you, he wanted to ask. What happened to you?

Someone had extinguished the spark in Crowley’s eyes, someone had wiped the fond smile off his face and Aziraphale couldn’t bear the thought that it had been him, but it had been, it must have been. It could have been.

Crowley was broken and it was all Aziraphale’s fault, only his.

“Have you forgotten…” Crowley started darkly and for one terrifying moment Aziraphale knew that he had. He had forgotten. Drinking fine wine in the book shop, feeding ducks in St. James park,  black and red scales, we’re on out own side and I love - “…that there are other colors besides white? Seriously. White everywhere. You guys need to hire a better interior designer. White’s not even a color.” “Quiet,” Gabriel snapped. Crowley closed his jaw and Aziraphale could see him grinding his teeth. “Now, Aziraphale. Since you have proven yourself loyal to Heaven in the war, we provide you with a gift. Your adversary! From earth. Remember? Since Heaven gained victory over hell, as well knew it would, because good always prevails, we are now dealing with the traitors. Like this maggot right here.” Gabriel kicked Crowley’s legs and his knees buckled out underneath him. He struggled to regain his balance but didn’t get up again.

“I shouldn’t say maggot, should I? What was it? Snake? Both writhe and crawl on the floor, so it doesn’t really matter.” Crowley didn’t even look at him, didn’t lift his gaze from Aziraphale even once. Crowley had looked at Aziraphale without sunglasses before but never with such an intensity. Aziraphale couldn’t really read it. Was it an accusatory glare? It seemed to scream I will never forgive you.

“Anyway,” Gabriel continued. “The demon Crowley, the beginning of sin. Now it’s time to end it. I’m sure you’ve been looking forward to this opportunity for a long time.” “A – a long time, yes,” Aziraphale quickly said.

“So, would you please punish the traitor, so that we can all get on with our day?”

“Certainly, yes, yes.”

There was a horrible pause, where Aziraphale’s mind reeled for something to say. Maybe Crowley could sense how uncomfortable he was, just like he always had, because he started to speak, as if to save Aziraphale.

“Ever heard of a color called Pansy Lavender?” A lazy grin spread across Crowley’s face. “I’m sure you’d love it. I did name quite a few paint colors back when earth was still a thing, did you know that?” Gabriel started scowling. “Pea Soup. Flesh. Candy Apple, classic.” Crowley winked.

“If you think you can talk your way out of this,” Gabriel said impatiently, “just remember that you’re in Heaven now. Everything is Heaven now. There is literally nowhere for you to run.”

“You know what I call a place full of demons?” Crowley snarled, his head whipping around to Gabriel. “Hell.”

“Those demons won’t be here for much longer.”

Gabriel’s mouth stretched into his Grin of Superiority. Aziraphale found himself frozen, desperately trying to think of a way to get them out of this. It hurt to see Crowley on his knees. It was wrong. Everything about this was wrong. But Aziraphale needed to grit his teeth and pretend it was right.

*** Crowley looked back at Aziraphale. He could barely take his eyes off him. It had been so long since he last saw him, so long since… Aziraphale raised his sword at him. Since Aziraphale had made clear once and for all that when push comes to shove, he would never choose Crowley. And push had come to shove. Hard. And he hadn’t chosen Crowley. (And Crowley shouldn’t have expected him to. It was the insufferable hope that festered in his chest. It was quite unbecoming for a demon.)

“I’m just saying,” Crowley said and made his voice sound unaffected, casual and light and everything the feeling ins his chest was not. He had to keep talking, if only to spare Aziraphale from making excuses. If only to prolong what would be the inevitable culmination of a myriad of painful experiences. So, “I’m just saying,” Crowley just said, motioning to the white walls, “a little more love could have gone into -” In an instant, his mouth was burning, his tongue was on fire and Crowley opened his mouth as if to cough out a flame. It hurt to scream and Crowley screamed anyway. The flames went out but the pain didn’t go away, it stayed comfortably behind his teeth. His mouth felt raw and it would have been agonizing to move his tongue, if he had been able to produce a sound with its charred remains in the first place. Crowley only registered the blood when he felt it run down his chin. It must have been in his mouth, but he couldn’t feel it, he couldn’t feel anything but the pain. Out of instinct, he pulled, intending to wipe the blood from his lips, but his hand wouldn’t come up. Of course it wouldn’t it, was shackled behind his back.

“That’s enough of that,” Gabriel said, who, with mild effort, had performed the miracle to burn Crowley’s tongue. “You’re a demon. You don’t know anything of love.”

The pain was liquid in his mouth. It seemed to come from somewhere deeper than that, his throat was alight with the memories and pleas he had hurled at God long ago. The War that had taken stage on the universe. The dying demons on the battlefield. He had Fallen with them. He had felt pain with them before. Until then, he hadn’t been able to imagine anything worse than the Fall. Now he knew better. There was no such thing as the worst. It was the kind of thing that added up. And added up. Aziraphale clutched his hands in front of him, so uncertain, so out of his element. He didn’t belong in a world full of nothing. Heaps of nothing. Nothing upon nothing upon more of nothing. There had been other paint colors Crowley had named. One had reminded him of Aziraphale and he’d called it ‘Love Letter’. (He had always been a bit of a fool.)

Gabriel had taken away Crowley’s only weapon now, since the bindings on his wrist also prevented him from performing miracles, and all that was left to do was look at Aziraphale. Feast on it, just for a little bit, before it was all taken away. His angel-white hair. His permanently old-fashioned clothes. He didn’t look happy, though, not one bit, which was quite the tragedy.

Just smile. Just let me see you smile.

Crowley could feel the tears burning in the corners of his eyes. He tried to transport himself back to years and years ago into a bookshop that was long gone and had felt more like home than any of Crowley’s flats. He tried to picture Aziraphale’s face, his soft smile and the exact arch of his eyebrows when he found something funny. He tried to banish the picture of Aziraphale with his sword raised from his mind. “Well then,” Gabriel said, “get on with it.” Crowley looked at Aziraphale and tried to beg him. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t say anything too cruel. Don’t bring your sword down after years and years. “This is between me and him,” Aziraphale said. “I want to… handle this in private.” Gabriel gave a long-suffering sigh. “Alright. See that the matter is taken care of. Someone will come to check on you in… an undetermined amount of time.” As Gabriel left, Crowley faintly wondered if Aziraphale was going to be gentle about it. Grant me a bit of mercy, just a little bit.

He wanted to say something, but it wasn’t just his burned mouth stopping him. He wished desperately he could just swallow the pain down.

This couldn’t be easy on Aziraphale either. He wasn’t a friend, no, Aziraphale had always vehemently denied it and proved in the end that those weren’t just empty words. But they’d known each other for a long time. He was Aziraphale’s somewhat begrudgingly accepted acquaintance. And even if it could never be affection or, Satan forbid, love, Aziraphale’s kindness and all around goodness would make this hard for him.

Aziraphale, gasping for words, stepped closer and even now, Crowley didn’t flinch away. He clung to the same hope he’d hung onto for millennia.

Just have mercy on me.

Stripped of his sunglasses and of his tongue, Crowley felt a breeze of wind could blow him over. A word could knock him unconscious. A tentative touch could break his neck. And Aziraphale – Aziraphale looked at him. And then his hand came up (came up like it had back then, with that blasted sword in his hand -) and Crowley’s breath caught in his throat, caught between the ridges of a throat raw from pleading and bleeding and bleeding. As he anticipated the blow, Crowley was struck with the thought that Aziraphale’s eyes were the same color as they had been so many years ago, but now they were much older. Years had passed, but an eternity seemed to live and upend itself in his irises again and again.

Crowley was waiting for judgment to be passed once again. Hadn’t he suffered enough? (Maybe he had. Maybe this would put an end to it.) And what would Aziraphale’s verdict be? Not good enough for an angel, that was obvious. Not bad enough for a demon. Too supernatural for a human. You are a nowhere-being, why don’t you go back there?

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and then the pain was – gone. He could feel his tongue mend itself. (But the taste of pain lingered.) Aziraphale had given him back the ability to speak. Why? What did he want to hear?

He tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t sound downright pathetic.

“Angel,” he rasped out. It was as much a plea as an insult as a broken promise and Aziraphale’s face unraveled. Both of his eyes came loose and his jaw fell open. “Long time no see.”

Maybe Aziraphale was eager to fulfill the command he had been given, to have this done and over with, at Heaven’s beck and call like he always had been, but maybe Crowley could tempt him to wait. Crowley’s last temptation. He would pull out all the stops.

“Lovely little room you’ve got here. Why, I would love to stay, thanks for asking. Just like old times.” “Don’t,” Aziraphale said quietly. Well. If he was so adamant on Crowley’s last minutes being unpleasant, so be it.

And what could he even say? Aziraphale didn’t want to hear his begging or his apologies and certainly not his love confessions. All he could think of was the sword that hadn’t even been flaming at the time. Everything had gone to pieces within seconds and Crowley had lost track of Aziraphale in the crowd of angels descending from Heaven and demons rising from Hell. The knowledge of how Aziraphale really felt about him was like a rope around his neck, pulling tight. Preventing any word from escaping. A trapdoor beneath his feet and Aziraphale at the lever. (Why did it have to be Aziraphale? Out of all the angels in Heaven, why him? The upside: he could see him one last time. The downside: it would hurt so much more. So much.)

Crowley didn’t really regret having to die. Not really. He’d already lost the eternity he wanted. He had lost the most stubborn car that had ever existed, he had lost the rare but kind touches of Aziraphale, he had lost the stars, every single one of them. All that he had ever created and all he had ever dreamed of having was gone.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “I’m so sorry.” Of course. Of bloody course he was sorry. He was going to do it, he had to, but he would be very fucking sorry while he did it. Small mercies for that. (Maybe he had been sorry back then, with the sword.)

And he could be angry if he wanted to, he could spit poison in Aziraphale’s face, he could accuse and shame and tear apart with words if he wanted to, but he didn’t. Not now. Not when he – they – only had so little time left. So instead, he said: “Don’t be.” It was so hard to summon the words. “I was the one who misjudged. Very badly misjudged.” God – Satan – Somebody, he’d thought it was real. He’d thought they really had something. Six thousand years of something. Aziraphale seemed frozen, in all his bloody sorriness and Crowley couldn’t even be mad. “You were a dream, Aziraphale,” Crowley admitted quietly. “I dreamed you up. An angel who could love a demon. Ha! They did always say I had too much… imagination.” He held Aziraphale’s gaze, even though he had long lost his sunglasses. “This is reality,” he tried to say it full of bitterness, but it came out soft.

“It’s horrible, is what it is. Horrible! What Gabriel just did -” Aziraphale seemed close to tears. “I would rip out Gabriel’s heart if I weren’t quite so sure he doesn’t have one.”

“That’s not very angelic of you to say.” Crowley raised an eyebrow. “I don’t care for the bloody ‘being an angel’ business very much at the moment.” Ah. The War had changed Aziraphale, too, then, at least a little. He wouldn’t have been caught discorporated saying something like that years ago.

“You should be careful to say that kind of thing,” Crowley reminded him halfheartedly. “You know what could happen.” “What, you mean I might Fall? Where to? There’s only heaven now.”

“Hng. S’pose you’re right.”

Aziraphale leaned forward, then. “Here, let me get that for you,” he said and miracled the restraints around Crowley’s wrists away. Astonished, Crowley moved his hands in front of himself, suddenly unsure what to do with them. Why had Aziraphale done that? With the restraints removed, he could perform miracles again, at least those he still had the energy for. He could flee, if he wanted to. Well. Aziraphale probably knew that he didn’t.

“Do get up, my dear, please,” Aziraphale said and touched Crowley’s elbow. My dear. Crowley didn’t know if he was still able to cope with being called that. Gingerly, he got to his feet.

“Please listen. I’m sorry about… the last time we saw each other. I should never – I mean, of course, I never really intended to – it was just such a mess and I didn’t know what to do -” “It’s alright, angel,” Crowley said, an almost automatic response to seeing Aziraphale in distress at this point. “It’s not like you ever made me any false promises. You were always pretty clear about how we stood to each other. It was just me who was too -” hopeful, too optimistic, too in love “- well, foolish to believe you.”

“No. No, you really weren’t. Stop saying these things. Stop talking like -” “Like we were just acquaintances? That it never really meant anything? Believe me, I’ve had enough time to realize you never really liked me all that much. Threatening me with your sword was hint enough for me.” There had, of course, been many hints before that, very many, but Crowley had not exactly been quick on the uptake in that respect.

“I was there,” Crowley continued, even though it hurt more than anything, “that was all. I was the only one who would stick around longer than a few decades. That’s why we were -” not friends, never friends “- acquaintances.” Aziraphale looked at him like Crowley had told him God was a vicious bastard. (A gaze Crowley was obviously familiar with.)

“Really, I’m under no delusions there.” Not anymore, at least. “So don’t feel bad about it.”

“I should never have denied you were my friend,” Aziraphale said, sounding suspiciously close to sniveling.

“It’s who we are, didn’t you always say that?” Crowley said. Then, like an old inside-joke: “You should have smote – smitten – smited? - me the second you saw me.” “Don’t say that.” “Would’ve spared you a lot of trouble, I’m sure,” Crowley said wryly.

Aziraphale gave him a long look and shook his head.

“It would have been horribly boring.”

“It would, wouldn’t it?” They shared a small, quiet smile. It was the kind of smile that could probably not bring governments or oppressive power structures down, but that could bring something like our side back into existence.

Suddenly, Crowely could feel the phantom touches of the last few years – the shoves, the scrapes, the pushing, the angels from earlier with their commanding fingers, forceful and rough and I hate you almost as much as I hate myself. He thought of angels with burning wings. He thought of drowning demons. He thought that falling is just like jumping without a goal in mind. And he wanted to reach out to Aziraphale as badly as he had ever wanted anything, with every cell of this body and with every scale of his snake form, with every bit of his true essence. He coveted with the whole of his being and a little beyond.

Then he saw the fond way Aziraphale looked at him, just the way he used to. Crowley’s hand moved on its own but stopped just short of Aziraphale’s face. Then he realized that he had almost nothing left to lose, only minutes. This was his last chance – so he touched Aziraphale’s jaw with trembeling fingers.

Aziraphale looked very scared.

“Shame there’s no beds in Heaven,” Aziraphale said, sounding the way he always did when he was trying to sound casual. “I could really use a lie-down.”

“You could always miracle one.” “It won’t be the same,” Aziraphale said and then miracled one anyway. Crowley had his moments of idiotic confidence and this was one of them, so he took Aziraphale’s hand and led him to the bed.

Just once, he thought, just this once. And committed his worst offence. Like a thief, he leaned forward quickly, desperately, and pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale gasped in surprise, but he didn’t pull away. This couldn’t have come as a surprise to him, for millenia Crowley had been painfully obvious. For millenia, he had been rejected at every turn. But this one time – this last time – Aziraphale decided to indulge him, to humour him, and kissed him back. Crowley had decided to take and Aziraphale seemed to have decided to give.

It was a last wish fulfilled.

It was everything Crowley had ever wanted, nothing like he had wanted it.

It was Crowley’s sweetest regret.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said after he pulled away and Crowley had no idea how to interpret it. He swallowed heavily.

“We can’t miracle our way out of this one,” he said softly. No matter how much he wanted to pretend they had forever on this bed, in this small room, reality looked different. “I don’t have enough energy to teleport. If you do anything, they’ll know. It’ll show up in the paper work. The thing with the shackles will arleady be hard to explain.”

“Then what do you expect me to do?” Aziraphale said, his voice out of control.

“They expect you to kill me, angel,” Crowley said as neutrally as possible.

“So?” “So… just make it quick.”

Crowley hoped Aziraphale knew how serious he was. There was no way out of this. (He wasn’t sure he wanted a way out of this.)

“No,” Aziraphale said. “No. No. Out of the question.”

Right. It would be hard to make a murderer out of someone like Aziraphale. So this would be his last temptation.

“Listen,” he started in his softest temptation voice. “We both know you never really wanted to get all mixed up with  - with the likes of me. You’re not going to give up on being an outstanding angel with a gold star now, are you?” (It would be a little late for that.) “Gabriel and his little band of angels is standing outside that door just waiting for you to do it. They’ll come in and expect to find my remains.” He had tempted Aziraphale to kill before, back when they had still tried to stop the Antichrist. Surely he could do it again? “I would never -” Aziraphale said and was too overwhelmed to speak.

Of course Aziraphale would never, he was bloody Aziraphale. Why did he change his mind about the Antichrist? Right, because he was the Antichrist and about to destroy the whole world. So upping the ante it is.

“I’ve changed, you know,” Crowley said, drenching his voice in bitter sadness that was only partly faked. “The War changed all of us. I’ve… killed.” He tried very hard to sound the way he would if he had committed atrocities in the War. “I’ve ripped angels’ wings from their backs. I set traps of Hellfire for them. I would have done anything to survive.” “No. Stop – stop this immediately. You wanted to run. You told me you did.” “Yeah, but it was a little late for that, wasn’t it? I was caught in the crossfire.” Aziraphale didn’t believe a word he was saying. Crowley started to panic, which is never a good state to lie in.

“At first, I did it just to survive, but then… my demonic instinct kicked in. I started to like it. I wanted to burn every single one of them. For what they did to me. For ruining everything. I wanted to burn all of Heaven. And I did – I burned so many and I didn’t even care.” “You’ve lied better before,” Aziraphale said almost angrily. “Do you really think I would believe that?”

The fight drained out of Crowley, but he wasn’t ready to give up just yet.

“It would be easier if you did.” “Stop being so bloody…” Aziraphale seemed to search for a word. “…kind.” “I’m about to die, there’s no need to insult me.” Crowley drew his lips into a wonky smirk. “It wouldn’t even matter, you know,” Aziraphale said, “if you were telling the truth. I would understand.”

Fuck. Fuck. Was there nothing he could say… It was Aziraphale’s life on the line here. If he didn’t comply with Heaven’s orders, they’d kill him too. And Crowley couldn’t let that happen. He just couldn’t.

“Really,” he drawled. “Sparing me an eternity of white robes and Sandalphone playing the harp off-key, that would be a kindness.” “You silly demon. There is nothing you can say that would make me even consider this.”

Crowley sighed, feeling deeply reliefed and anxious at the same time. He cupped Aziaphale’s face with both his hands and started drawing small circles on his cheeks with his thumbs. He wanted to keep this so badly. He wanted to see another sunrise, just one. But he knew Aziraphale had made his choice, years ago, he had made it. And it was the right choice. The only choice. And Crowley was just tired. So, so tired.

“Just put me to sleep, angel,” he said softly and moved his hands further into Aziraphale’s hair. “You know how much I like sleeping. It won’t be so different.”

Aziraphale let out a quiet sob and started to frantically shake his head.

“Just let me sleep,” Crowley said in a last-ditch effort to convince Aziraphale, though at this point he knew that nothing would.

“I can’t.”

Crowley felt like he was trapped in a room with no doors, like he was spinning around searching for one but there were only walls and walls and walls. “You’ve never chosen me before,” he said, like a statement.

“I should have. I would have. On that day-”

Crowley drew his hands back. “You raised your sword at me-” “I was panicking, I don’t know why I did that, but I know I never would have – if you’d just stayed, I -” It sounded unbelievable. He’d thought about that moment so many times over the years, to hear it was different now was – dizzying. He closed his eyes, as though that could somehow keep his head from spinning.

“Can’t we just – run away together?” Aziraphale asked and Crowley’s eyes snapped open.

“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?” All of it was, all of it was so late. But Crowley would, of course he would. He would raise a new wold out of the ashes of the old one for Aziraphale if he could. “There’s nowhere to run to anymore.”

“I was looking for you, did you know that?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley was stunned into silence.

“...what?” “All over Earth, I was looking for you. I thought something must have happened to you. I couldn’t find you anywhere, not there, not in Heaven, not in Hell. Not on Alpha Centauri. Until the fighting stopped, I kept looking. Waiting.” A strange sort of joy that felt a little like pain rose up in Crowley’s chest.

“I was on Earth,” he said. “I didn’t try to save the world. But… I tried to save someone. Anyone. I’ve managed it before. Smuggled a few more people on Noah’s arch. But this time I couldn’t. It’s all gone.”

He’d dredged through fallen trees, through the blood, through the dead bodies. He’d kept his eyes open for a survivor. He’d found a little girl in an upside-down car, but he’d lost her. He’d lost everyone. “You didn’t run?”

Crowley was taken aback by the question. “Why would I run without you?”

The tears glistened in Aziraphale’s eyes. He looked like this was news to him. There was nothing new about this. It had been very clear for a very long time.

“You really don’t understand, do you?” Crowley said. “When they cast me out of Heaven, I thought I would never be home again.” “And now you’re back in Heaven?”

Crowley closed his eyes and wished he could be less honest about this. He wasn’t sure if Aziraphale even wanted to hear this, but now that he had started telling the truth he could hardly stop. “And now I’m back with you,” he said very softly.

“Then let’s go away,” Aziraphale said astonished. “There must be some corner of this hellish Heaven where we can have our peace.”

“What about the angels?” “Pardon my French, but… fuck the angels.” “Aziraphale,” delight gleamed in Crowley’s eyes, “that’s blasphemy.”

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale, who had sounded very confident before, faltered. “I don’t care.”

“Who are you and what did you do to Aziraphale?” “I’m just. Braver. Than I was before.” Crowley’s shaking fingers reached for Aziraphale’s head again. He licked his lips.

“About that kiss…” Aziraphale blushed. “What about it?” Crowley leaned his forehead against Aziraphale’s. “Was that… pity, or some sort of deathbed thing-” “It’s not your deathbed,” Aziraphale said firmly. “And… well, I thought… I thought it was…” Aziraphale’s voice got much smaller. “...well. A love… thing.” “A love thing,” Crowley repeated and laughed, a little incredulous of the whole thing. He wanted time, just a little more time, so he gathered the last of his energy and took it. He stopped everything around them, kept them safe in a bubble outside of time. He rushed forward with his head recklessly, almost knocking Aziraphale over. He kissed Aziraphale – and he became a confession against his skin. He pressed a row of small kisses against Aziraphale’s jaw and wach of them was an admission. I missed you. I need you. Look at me through a veil of tears. Let me kiss your eyelashes, let me drink your pain. He let his lips wander all over Aziraphale’s face. Let me kiss the ache from your heart.

Crowley put his hand on Aziraphale’s chest and pushed him down onto the bed. This space between Aziraphale’s navel and his collarbones was the only holy ground that wouldn’t burn him. The thrumming of Aziraphale’s heart underneath his fingers kept him steady. He settled down half on top of Aziraphale and dropped his head on his chest. He listened to it beating.

Let me rest here. Please let me rest. Let me fall asleep hearing you’re alive and as real as anyone. Let me drift from a nightmare into a dream. Aziraphale carded his fingers through Crowley’s hair.

(Just hold my hand. Just hold it.) It was nearly too much to bear. Ah. So this was Aziraphale killing him. And he was as gentle as anything. Crowley would stop time for longer, just a little longer. Then they could flee. It was okay. As long as Aziraphale was with him, it was all okay. His mind stopped churning. The memories fled elsewhere. Crowley reached out and entangled Aziraphale’s hand with his. He held it in his own with reverence, with the softest grip - and then he knew. This was how to hold a moonbeam in your hand.

[minniepetals]

drabble: when october ends

— summary: you had to savor every moment before October ends.

— pairing: ghost!jungkook x reader (implied ghost!bts x reader)

— genre: angst / ghost!au / implied poly!au

— word count: 1.6k

— warnings: implied breakup/end of a relationship, angst bro

"Isn't autumn so beautiful?" You said so mindlessly, sighing in content while sat in between Jungkook's legs, wrapped in a warm blanket with a cup of coffee in your hand. "The colors are so pretty and it just makes my heart tingle." 

Your boyfriend laughed at the excitement pouring out as you took a sip of your coffee. "You know what's even more beautiful and what makes my heart tingle all year round?" He prompted and you grimaced, a clear unamused expression replacing your face. 

"Stop being cheesy, no one asked you to be cheesy."

"Oh come on," he rolled his eyes, jerking his thigh so that it came in contact with your elbow and causing you to spill some of the coffee upon your hand.

"Guk!" You pouted, brows furrowed as you looked at the little mess he purposely caused you to make. "It's hot." You let out a whiny cry, showing him your hand despite the fact that he had already clearly seen it but still, Jungkook laughed as he shook his head, grabbing your hand to bring it forth his lips, kissing the slight burn away. 

"I'm sorry, baby." 

Clearly he wasn't. Not with those mischievous bunny eyes. 

"You're not forgiven," you concluded, tilting your head away from him like a little child getting upset. 

Rather than asking for forgiveness, Jungkook took your mug out of your hand and placed it upon the coffee table so that he could bring you back into his arms while leaning back against the couch to cuddle you. "Hey Y/N?" He called, whispering against your ear. 

"What do you want?" You grunted.

He was warm. So warm. 

Reminded you of the same pairs of warm arms that wrapped around you from years before.

"Why do you like this season so much?" He asked you and you allowed yourself to lean against him, not wanting to have any second pass by with you staying upset at him for long. So that you could feel his warmth and love for the rest of your life. "Is it because of the pretty colors? Or the chilly weather? Or is it because I'm a solid at this time of the year and it's the only time you can hold me?"

You frowned at his question, deciding to look up at him. You stared into his eyes for a moment before leaning up to place a kiss on his lips. "Fall never really caught my attention back then," you told him truthfully, "It was kind of like that one season that just slips by everyone's minds. Summer is amazing because of vacation times, Winter gives us Christmas and a New year, and Spring blossoms with pretty flowers and April showers. But Fall..." you trailed off, thinking for a moment, "Fall brings back school days and everything starts to wilt away, everything starts to die. The only thing people really wants out of Fall is Halloween, that's the only thing Fall is really known for."

"What changed that?" 

You thought back on the memories, on the first day you met him, on the first day you met them. And the nostalgic feeling came rushing down your body, leaving goosebumps behind. 

They sat in your apartment building, surprised a girl had suddenly moved in because rumors circulated around, stating of the haunted apartment building no one wished to move into. They did that on purpose so that no one could invade their personal space and you were the only one brave enough to check it out. 

The first day wasn't all good. You got into bickers, deciding who needed to leave because you both needed the building, and ended up rooming altogether because you were too stubborn to move out on your first day (and because you had nowhere else to go and that was the only place cheap enough since no one wanted it.)

But then the bickers turned into friendly banters, the friendly banters turning into flirting, and before long, you joined their polyamorous relationship. 

"Fall allows me to touch you," you told him. "Fall allowed me to touch them," you emphasized. "Do you know how hard it was to walk around the house always feeling deprived of human contact? Because I had no friends or family that lived close by? Or whenever I see you guys freely holding each other whenever possible while I stand there pretending I could touch you through your ghost bodies?" You hadn't noticed you had tears running along your cheeks until Jungkook cupped your face and brushed them away. "It was so hard," your voice cracked, "I began loving Fall so much I never wanted the seasons to change. Ever."

"Y/N..."

"But then I started hating Fall." The images of them distancing themselves all of a sudden, refusing to entertain you, pretending they were mere ghosts that you, a human, weren't supposed to see, came rushing back and your heart started clenching tight against your chest. 

"I wish I had more time with Jin." You couldn't hold yourself up, your whole weight laying upon Jungkook as you cried into the crook of his neck. 

You could remember that day so clearly. The day he left when the 31st of October came and you were grasping onto him so tightly, spilling out your feelings as he apologized for being distant, thinking that'd help you on forgetting them easier, so that you wouldn't have to suffer for a long time once the time came for all of them to leave. You told him that you loved him, that you'd always love him, and that you'd take care of the others in his stead because he was the mother hen to you all. 

But the moments couldn't be savored for long because the second midnight struck, his body began returning into his ghost form and bit by bit, little by little, slowly dissolved into thin air. 

The next year, Yoongi left the six of you, and then Hoseok, then Namjoon, Jimin, and Taehyung.

"It's been two years since Tae and Jimin left us, it's been just us living alone in each other's comforts."

Now, it was Jungkook's turn. 

"I don't want October to come, Jungkook, I don't want you to leave me. Stay, please stay, you're the only one left and I can't lose you either. I can't."

October 31st, the night of Halloween, the last night you got to spend your time with him, the final year for the final member to leave. 

When October begins, you know you'd start hurting and you'd never leave Jungkook's side for even a minute. When October comes, you'd sleep in every morning, lay in each other's comforts, savor the lazy mornings together with smiles and morning coffees. When October comes, so would the rain. Despite the chilly air, you'd run around under the showering water, jumping into puddles like a little kid, and dance under the rain. Just the two of you. 

You'd celebrate Jimin's birthday on the thirteenth, making a cake together, and singing him a birthday song, pretending everyone else was in the room celebrating with the two of you, and you'd blow against the lit candles, pretending Jimin had done that in your steads. You'd celebrate Thanksgiving early because November didn't exist in your worlds, and the two of you would go shopping and stuff yourself until your stomachs could no longer take in the food. 

Jungkook would dress you up in your warm clothes because you couldn't care much about your health while he worried, and the two of you would bicker because he wouldn't be wearing anything warm, and he'd tell you "that's because I'm not a weak human like you so I'll never get sick." You know that eventually he'd win and you'd walk out with a coat and scarf on your body, looking both warm and fashionable because Jungkook "can't have you walking around with me looking out of style."

Halloween would be around the corner and the two of you would be a little less happy and less energetic but nonetheless, go shopping for some halloween candies and play around with your own versions of scary costumes. 

And then, eleven eleven would fall upon the two of you and you'd kiss each other under the stars, on the rooftop of your apartment, wishing that moment would never end, with tears running down your cheeks because you both know that that wish would never come true, and you'd reminisce on the years before where things were happier with everyone and you didn't have to worry about them disappearing when midnight struck. 

Jungkook would help you back into your shared room because he worried you'd catch a cold, and you'd hold onto him, whispering sweet words into his ears and he'd whisper them back to let you know that you would always be loved, that he'd reunite with the other members, and that he'd be able to watch over you with them. You'd cry and tell him you'd rather him be there with you in person than in spirit, and he'd apologize with tearful eyes because he can't bare the thought of you alone, crying and grieving because he'd leave you with no one by your side unlike his members. 

And then, 11:59 would alarm the two of you and the tears would flow even more and you'd kiss him one last time, never letting go of each other and he'd disappear as your foreheads meets, and your body would lurch forward when he's no longer there to hold onto you, and you'd cry even more because he'd be gone. Forever. 

When October ends, you'd be left all alone, and Jungkook would be gone. 

When October ends, the tears would arrive. 

But for now, Jungkook was still there. It was still September, and you could still hold onto him, and he could still hold onto you, and you could still laugh and cry and kiss and sing and dance. September was here, and soon, October would come and the two of you would await for the dreadful day to come when October ends.

[fizzypunks]

Bad Timing

fandom: My Hero Academia/ Boku No Hero Academia word count: 5k rating: T (cannon description of violence) summary: Shouta has to handle the aftermath of the Nomu attack, and Hizashi has very bad (or good) timing

ship: earsermic

AO3

note: best viewed on Archive bc it keeps the formatting like itallics!

___

The day was finally at its end – the sun set in slats across the teachers lounge, and it was 3:55, when most people were leaving or gathering their lives up in a rush to get home. They’d all already left, urgently trying to beat traffic and make their way to whatever Friday plans they had in store.

 Aizawa didn’t have Friday plans – instead of unceremoniously rushing to get home for the weekend, or go drinking to relieve stress, he was instead sitting on the couch. He didn’t have lessons or binders around him, having freed one hand to take out his phone and flip through his lessons that Hizashi kindly spent the time uploading for him.

 The screen was bright and blaring and bled color into color into color – it was hard to look at for too long, but it was the only compromise he could make with his body when it came to improvised lesson plans. He’d type it up, with his one hand, a letter at a time, while his body healed enough for him to do better.

  This is what it is, no use complaining. Just get it done.

 The ache in his eyes he could deal with – he’d be disappointed in himself if he wasn’t used to it at his age, and he’d made peace with the eye strain and pain and dryness and anything else that was unpleasant about his quirk. His body, however, was a new story. It ached in a way he never experienced in his life, deep to the bone and then, maybe, even deeper – not a movement existed that didn’t somehow remind him of his body, his mortality, and it’s still a wonder he even survived.

 He stopped asking questions like  how  a long time ago, though, and he didn’t dare start now. All it did was drive him into crazy circles of  what ifs , dead ending in worse case scenarios that were a half inch away from coming to be…

 This new burn, this new hurt – it conjured with it the same image – or maybe it was muscle memory – of painful blood splatter in his eyesight. With it came a reel of other horrifics images and feelings and sensations that might have been if… 

  It doesn’t matter. It’s irrelevant...

 When he told his class that it didn’t matter that he was teaching, he meant it. It wasn’t what he wanted, but since when did he ever get what he wanted? It’s hero work, and educational duties don’t take a break just because he  broke  ; they never permitted a break because he  wanted  and  wished.  

 He broke. Plain, simple – no explanation necessary. That’s a world he’s unfortunate enough to live in, so he grits his teeth and bears it.

It’s all Shouta can do. Bear it, heal as best he can, move on – think about it less and less until it’s just another frame on the wall of memories that like to bug him at night, those few rare ones that let him rest and dream.

  Bear it. It didn’t kill you, so bear it.

 Still, in the middle of the day, after teaching and improvising and making himself stand upright like he didn’t want to bury himself in sheets, it was a  weird  sensation. Living through something that almost took his life in the most violent, frightening way possible, all for his kids. He didn’t think this time around, with the mending and the processing and the eventual moving on, would feel so…

 Off? Like a buzz on his skin, like time was shifted just a second ahead and he was playing catch up. He didn’t know the right words, couldn’t even explain to himself the things that he was feeling. He finally settled calling it  weird.  Whatever that meant.

 He’d dealt with trauma before, too – but this breed of unease was new, even to him and his seasoned career.

 The room was silent, but it felt louder than ever, and his screen had timed out when he realized he’d been staring dryly into it without doing anything.

 He refreshed the screen with his thumb, lights bright and vivid again like a train at the end of a tunnel.

 He’s stopped regretting his choices, he’s stopped wallowing because after two or three close calls with death, it gets a bit old – but god does he want to wallow  now . Now that his body was broken and every movement felt like shattered glass in a windshield, disturbed with every movement but, at least, mercilessly, held together by…

  What?

 Sheer force of will – he was certain that’s what it was. It wasn’t desire or hope, it wasn’t any positive or cheerful motto – he had time for those later, for now…

 He groaned, the weight of his eyes and body finally coaxing a response from him that wasn’t dead. Responses that were complete opposites from that which he always told his peers when they stopped him in the halls or at the end of lectures.

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “It doesn’t matter, now if you wouldn’t mind, I have a class to teach.”

 It’s placating, it’s time-buying – other heroes know the drill, so they don’t argue with him too much – they just insist, and hope, that he listens enough to at least  rest . He always wanted to sleep, right? He had that stupid sleep disorder that always begs for him to rest his head for just a moment, so why not indulge it now?

 He blinked against it – he really did need to sleep, but the screen in his shaking fingers showed that he had plans to finalize, and a fresh round of essay to grade that  needed  to be graded by the next day.

  So  much was behind as is – the last essay, the last score for ethics lecture to be dealt out, a new plan for the upcoming week that adjusts for his kids and the stress they just underwent – no, hero work doesn’t forgive very much, and Aizawa would never tell them that he was giving them a break, but he was going to do exactly that and take off a few quizzes to lighten the load…

 Shouta leaned back against the sofa, and it wasn’t too soft and without structure, that it actually  did  do some good for him. He tilted his head back, too, and felt brief relief in the way his head didn’t feel like lobbing off like a hammer to the side of a statue’s temple.

 He sighed, and leaned into it, the slightest bit of relief he was able to find.

 The one think he was grateful for was that today was better than the beginning of the week. He had a long way to go, but thankfully some of the bandages could be taken off yesterday and today was his first day of being able to fully see – his face was freed, his shoulders lightened and only wrapped with a few white wraps – but it was still a struggle with his arms, his hands – the most damaged parts of his body that were trudging along…

  This is unbearable .

 But he will bear it. 

 But, right now, he will not bear it well. Like he broke under the hand of the Nomu, he was breaking again now and nothing was capable of stopping that.

 He took in a deep breath, and held it just because it felt good to feel so full. He held it and waited.

  This is going to be interesting.

 His breath was waning, it’s time slowly slipping by, expiring.

  This is going to hurt.

 His lungs were wrapped around empty air.

  Bad .

 He still didn’t let go, even when it ached. He didn’t know if he wanted to, but the red-blackness of his eyelids and the sting in him was a comfortable pain he knew he could release, if he wanted.

 Then, finally, he did want, and he let go, shoulders slumping with a harsh exhale.

 He opened his eyes to a slit, and saw the sun spots on the ceiling had grown longer. Golden, mingling, patient – he’d stared at them so many times before, grown bored of them between grading and impatience, but now they were a comfort.

 Familiar monotony and boredom. It seems that being bored was not always a bad thing, after all.

 Early in his career, this might have killed his spirit. His spirit, however, was put back together so many times, and damaged so cruelly and spitefully, that he at least felt some sort of partial happiness knowing it wasn’t possible to batter his spirit any more. It was impossible.

 It’s reached its limit years ago, what’s a new bruise on top of the rest?

 A sound like shuffling, quiet but distinct, came from behind him – clothes rustling, a distinct stiff sound, all quietly entering from behind; and it was intentional movement, Shouta knew.

 His instincts never dulled, even under mountains of bandages. “Hizashi. What are you still doing here?”

 His laugh – the one he would never admit to loving so deeply– was soft behind him, closer this time. “Gee, how’d ya know it was  me ?”

 Shouta wished he could shrug, and instead returned his eyes back to their resting state and closed them lightly. “ Gee  , how’d you learn to be quiet? Or, at least,  try  to be.”

 Soft brushing, padding of feet, the ridiculous squeak of leather – Hizashi walked around the couch and when Shouta felt the dip in the seat beside him, a little too close to him, he chuckled. “It’s hard to be, man – you know I’m stuck with my costume! On the clock, I’m Present Mic!”

 “I was talking about your mouth, but sure – that too.”

 Another laugh came, and it was just as warm and full and bright. Shouta guarded his expression at the sound, because it was too pleasant and he hurt too much to not indulge the pleasant things whenever they  did come. 

 But Mic isn’t Hizashi, and he’s more quiet now, between the two of them. Like he was in hours after sparring through out their friendships and careers, like lazy drawls in the morning when they passed each other, one waking up and one going to bed after a patrol. Quiet and in tune, in a way so few really understood.

 That was the part of Hizashi that no one really gets to see – the way he knew silence and patience that would put his hero and radio personality at odds if the public really got to see it. He was calm and reserved and knew which silences and calms to lean into, which ones to sit with, which ones were the  important  ones...

 He knew it right now, which was why he wasn’t on the limits of his own energy, like a battery fed into itself – a never ending feed that could go forever, Shouta thought time and time again. And his comfort in his quirk made it all too easy to emote and exaggerate and be  too  much for Shouta at times.

 Fragile times, like when his mind was barely glued to the body that was just as fractured and splintering around the edges as his spirit.

 “My, you think so lowly of me, Shouta.”

 “Just being logical. You’re louder more often than not, after all,” he said, and they both knew it was a joking lie. It’s the closest Shouta gets to a joke, anyways.

 The silence returned, and Shouta felt the burning questions in the warm body beside him – too close and yet, not really close enough – within arms length, but not within arms...

 But Hizashi is never one for mincing words or running from questions. “How you doing, Shou?”

 Shouta grunted. “Fine.”

 “No, no, no, no – I’ve heard you say that all week and, well, it’s crazy to think you’d be okay! I want to know  how you’re doing. ”

 “Hizashi, do me a favor. Be polite and just take the answer.”

 “No,” and the response was so fast, and sounded so bratty, Shouta was tempted to open his eyes and tilt his head to the right – to see if he was as close as he thought he was, if his hair was falling, if he’d taken off his orange tints and was looking at him with those stupid pup eyes.

 He didn’t, though.

 “What do you want me to say?” He finally said, quietly – maybe Hizashi wouldn’t hear him if he spoke quietly enough. “Obviously, I’m not fine.”

 “I know that, and –”

 “And it doesn’t matter. So, with that in mind,” and he did open his eyes this time – they stung fresh again, and he blinked, and he turned his head just slightly enough to change his eyes' direction. They stayed fixed in the ceiling, on the honey the sun was spilling, and he said, “I’m fine.”

 “Come on, Shou... “

 “It’s just…”

 Hizashi sighed. “Could you… at least  try  to take time off or stop studies or  something ? I can’t stand – “ and here he goes, he was too emotional –

  So annoying.

 His voice always shook when he was sad, when he was pretending like he wasn’t going to cry.

  So sweet.

 “ – I can’t stand  this. ”

  You and me both.

 It never really did any good to cut off Hizashi, and Shouta hates doing it any way. So he didn’t even attempt it. He knew he needed to say what he was saying, to be heard and unburden himself of the fears living in him. He didn’t really have the chance before, and it wasn’t fair to take it from him now. Shouta didn’t have the energy to deny him any of that, anyway, so his eyes shifted to the crease in the ceiling, the border between it and the wall, and just listened.

 “Shouta, you were almost killed – it’s… it’s so bad, this time – I’ve patched you up so many times and there wasn’t anything I could have ever done about  this , and I want you to stop trying to ignore it. You don’t have to be a hero all the time.”

 Shouta couldn’t help the scoff, and it stopped Hizashi for just a moment.  “Of course I do.”

 He was so bitter, he could taste it like the lingering flavor of cold coffee.

 “You literally don’t –”

 “Hizashi… I don’t have the energy for this.”

 “That’s my  point , Shouta! You can’t –”

 “Can’t do my job? Give me a better argument next time, Hizashi.”

 For whatever reason, that was enough to shut him up. Shouta didn’t want to, but his headache was too strong and his friend’s concern was too soft and he was just a broken vase – hairline cracks that got too big too fast and now shattered at the foundation – unable to hold onto any of it let any of it fill him, so why even try to touch it?

 Hizashi does a lot of things loudly, even when he tries not to – it’s a side effect of being the Voice Hero, a natural course of events that would, rationally, lead him to be a vocal and expressive person. He’s sniffling and trying to stop it, trying to reel himself in, and Shouta sighs again, because the Voice Hero shouldn’t be trying to reel himself in at all.

 This isn’t what he wanted.

 He truthfully didn’t want to be in this position at all, but he’d remembered that he never wanted to spend his time  wishing  , so he didn’t wish – he couldn’t  fix  that, or the way Hizashi was hurting for him. But, he could fix…

 Whatever this was.

 “Hizashi.”

 The sniffling stopped for a second, enough for it to be masked in a, “... what, Shouta?”

 “Thank you.”

 “Hmmph.”

  Pouting?

 “Don’t  do that.”

 “Hmmph!”

 Pure annoyance drove him to open his eyes, and tilt his head, and level his eyes against his best friend because pouting was so fucking stupid. His eyes widened, though, when he finally met Hizashi’s gaze for the first time that day.

 The first thing was that he wasn’t fully in his costume. His speakers were missing, and his hair was fallen to his shoulders in gell-stiff half-mast, finally succumbing to gravity in a way Shouta was certain was due to a hair brush and messily tucked into a hair tie. His tinted glasses were gone, leaving nothing between their eyes as they locked.

  He’d hung up his hero costume for the day, and maybe it made sense that he wasn’t talking like Present Mic any more – not as loud, not as joking, just intentions and and heart.

 He was half way between the two – between persona and  him,  and he looked so soft…

 But his eyes, his eyes that stare so deeply and knew Shouta so intimately over the years their lives had been intertwined – they were wet and silently overflowing, and Shouta was certain the embarrassment of crying was what was so freely tinting his cheeks. It was a brush of pink over pale, high cheekbones, under crescent eyes that leaked streaks down to his jaw, his chin.

 He, however, still had the mind to pout – not that Shouta had anything to say, not with the sudden, brand new pain of his heart aching at seeing his friend like this.

 Shouta’s eyes softened, his annoyance gone like dye down a river.

 Hizashi, however, wasn’t a coward, and held his gaze because he wanted Shouta to know what he was doing to him. 

 And all in the glowing sunlight…

  Stop...

 “Hizashi…”

 “Don’t you dare! Don’t try to stop me or tell me I’m wrong or that I’m crying too much or  whatever .”

 “I wouldn’t dare,” he said, because he had the mind to say something and that was the brilliant thing he thought of. His shame was hot and fast and his eyes shifted to the side, just off from Hizashi in the best possible way he could manage to face the other. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

 “Well, congrats, because I feel bad.”

 Shouta knitted his brow in anger. “You’re an idiot.”

  Don’t make me feel worse.

 “What th–”

  You always make me feel worse.

 “If you’re spending all your tears on me, then yeah. You are.”

  Because you’re so good.

 Hizashi was crying and clearly upset – anyone could see that – and yet he still decided to furrow his eyebrows and look confused and stupefied all at once. “ Wind it back a few seconds for me, Shou.”

 Shouta raised an eyebrow.

 “Say that again,” he prompted, shifting to face Shouta even more completely. He leaned forward on his knees, on his elbows as he wiped away the tears.

 “I said you’re an idiot.”

 “You’re my best friend.”

  Friend .

 “And?”

 “Not even  you  believe yourself, do you? I’ve seen you cry for me, too.”

 Shouta turned his eyes down. That’s  different  . That’s more than he can ever really explain, and what’s even more, it’s more than he wants to explain. Those words turn into sentences that turn into feelings that  can’t  be taken back, and he’ll never make the mistake of falling down that slope. So he looked away, anything to feel less guilty and like shit, and shook his head.

 Maybe some honesty wouldn’t hurt. “What would you have me do, then? I don’t have options.”

 Hizashi saw him dodge the question, the scenario he’d painted – he scooted closer and Shouta felt too alive with envy, wishing there were no barriers, be them white casts and mental blocks, that kept him from bridging the last of that tiny gap. 

 “I’d have you sleep. I’d have you stay home. I’d have you trust that the faculty, your peers, your  friends , could handle you being out for a bit.”

  The logic is there…

 Still… “No, I need to stay here. My students are back, and I owe them –”

 “It would be a week. You’d have your casts off in a  week –”

 “Who told you that? If Recovery Girl –”

 “It’s common knowledge, Shou, I just  guessed  . But that’s not the point – the point is that I’m  right .”

 Where does this conversation end? He doesn’t want to say it, he doesn’t want to open himself up again, and he doesn’t want Hizashi to be crying like this. Crying, because of him.

 He sighs again. “It’s…”

 He clears his throat again. “It’s easier this way. For me.”

 Hizashi had already been close, but now he was right beside him, the knee he was folded over now just against his leg. Personal space had never really been a thing for him, and now proved to be no different. His big watery eyes stayed trained on his calculated, intentionally flat ones.

 He’s also always been good at picking apart his words to find the realities beneath them. “Distractions, right?”

 Shouta didn’t want to admit to it, but he nodded anyway, eyes falling until they settled on Hizashi’s clavicle. His exposed, open clavicle, and he yearns even more to be able to be closer than this. Take comfort in closeness that was 16 years in the making, but never really actualized. Never, really, fully  realized , either...

 “Yeah… distractions.”

 “Say, if I wanted to come over and make dinner and show you baby animal photos, would you let me?”

 Shouta blinked, and Hizashi smiled – he looked too pretty, glowing from his tears, and Shouta hates thinking that.

 “Don–”

 “They’re baby  foxes .”

 Shouta looked down, and grew pink – it’s pathetic how easily he could be bought, and he wasn’t ever really going to say no to time with his best friend. Even now, he’s always finding himself saying  yes  to the colorful, often too-loud man.

 Hizashi seemed to realize that he’d won, the way his eyebrows stopped dipping, stopped taking such a sad shape. “At least let me do this, Shou – if you’re gonna bring your mummy self into school and yell at kids and threaten expulsion, then let me make stir fry and udon for you.”

 Shouta smiled, small, hesitant, but not quite of his own intention; finally breaking – in a different way than he’s used to. “Fine. Just to be clear, it’s only because I want food.”

 “ Suuure , that’s the reason.”

 And before he could say anything back, Hizashi did that thing that makes his heart weak – the thing he always does when he’s leaning in like this, and it’s too emotional for his own comfort zone, and things are charged with a restless, aching energy. He reached out his left hand and rested it over Shouta’s open one. His phone was already falling from his bruised fingers, so he pushed it down to his lap and held onto the half of his hand that was exposed.

 He wants to ask why he does it sometimes, but doesn’t think that now is the time to ask it. Time, place, his broken body, everything was wrong – so he just let himself enjoy the affection, while he can bask in it with legitimate cause.

 Then Hizashi had to ruin it. He grinned, a little too proud. “Nervous?”

 Shouta tensed, and his body yelled at the pressure in his arms, in his torso. “Excuse me?”

 Hizashi laughed a bit, and he was a little flush – from the crying. “You’re a  biiiiiit pink. Like, blushing. Like, actually, you’re very –”

 “Shut up.”

 “You act like any teensy-tiny bit of affection is like poison, Shou – it’s  okay  if you–”

 “I take it back, actually, you can’t come over.”

 “Awwww, come on, I just –”

 “I mean it, I’ll order from the corner market.”

 “Now that you told me how you’ve been feeding yourself, I’m  definitely  coming over. God, I swear, you should know how to take care of yourself by now, it’s like you hate trying to –”

 “Hizashi –”

 He stood, really fast, smiling dumb and bright as he stood infront of Shouta. “Now come on! Up! Let’s go to your apartment!”

 He offered a hand, but Shouta shook his head. “I can get up fine –”

 Hizashi leaned forward, and it was an awkward placement, the way he was balanced, but he took the phone from his lap and tucked it into his pocket before his hand rested just on the side of Shouta’s shoulder. He urged with his eyes as much as with the slight tug at his waist. “Come on!”

 Shouta looked down and nodded, a feeling of warmth overcoming him yet again. He heard moreso than saw Hizashi smile, felt him beaming at him at letting him help him up, and then the hand on his shoulder shifted, to the spot of his ribs just above the bandaging.

 “Can I pull here?”

 “Yeah…”

 And he did and it really fucking hurt, little splinters under his skin all over again. He pulled air sharply between his teeth, and let Hizashi hook his elbow around him to stop the recoil.

 “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

 “It’s –” Deep breath, relax eyes –  bear it . “It’s fine.”

 It’s not fine, but it’s bearable, so he releases some of the tension he know is sewn into his arms. He opens his eyes, and Hizashi is so close it’s almost startling. His arm still was around him, under his arm, like a brace. Warm, pleasant pressure, pleasant heat...

 “I’m fine,” he breathes again, because for once, Hizashi doesn’t have anything to say. He just stares.

 “Hey… um…”

 “Hizashi…?”

 When Hizashi spoke it was quiet, in a way that betrayed his confident words. “Shou… this is not good timing, but…”

 This time it was Shouta’s turn for his voice to stop working, and he didn’t have anything to say – all too aware of the soft sound of breathing between them, the way his eyes were overwhelming like never before. 

 He had nothing to counter him or force him back or make him leave. He just waited, eyes at half mast because that was the only way he could handle Hizashi looking at him like  that . Like he always did, with care and adoration, and it just made him sick.

 “I almost lost you, and I don’t want to regret not kissing you any more… for years, Shouta,  years .”

 Shouta deserved a medal for surviving the whiplash of their conversation, from the joking to the serious to the trivial to the  important…  he couldn’t move much, but he wasn’t sure if that was his body or his anxious nerves speaking, so he just looked down at his lips.

 “Tell me it’s okay,” Hizashi said, close but far enough for comfort. Far enough for  respect  , for hurting and aching Shouta to say yes or no and only then either bridge the gap or depart. His hand was delicate on his side and his finger tips were light, brushing,  too much. “Tell me if you want…”

 The timing was so awful – Shouta just wanted to move, to take him in right there, to stop him from talking and pull him into himself so harshly and violently that they might become one. Close was never close enough…

 “I…”

 Hizashi’s free hand came up to his cheek, holding him there gently. His thumb brushed under his scar, over the hot skin that he was certain was an embarrassing shade of pink…

  Don’t fuck with me.

 “Tell me, Shou…”

 He was wiping away a tear, and Shou crumbled at the touch. “Y– yes.”

 A sharp breath, then again, louder, stronger, “ Yes. Yes, Hizashi–”

 Hizashi wasted no time, and pressed himself closer, and Shouta wasn’t surprised to taste salt on his lips because he’d spent too much time crying, too. 

 “I’m – not going to change –” Shouta said between breath and kiss, shaking from the anger of just wanting to  hold Hizashi and being un able to. “I’m – still a hero – I’m still –”

 – Kiss –

 “ –  still going to work, and – get hurt – and –”

 Hizashi retreated, lips hovering for just a moment. “I know, I know –”

 Shouta’s breath is heavy, laden with desires and 15 year old feelings and guilt, and doesn’t know where this is supposed to go. He’ll hurt Hizashi like this, he just knows he will – is it wise to let him do this, knowing what, inevitably, is going to happen. He huffs out his nose, trying to find a way to be delicate.

 He’s  never  known how to be delicate, and he just wishes that right now, he could somehow discover the secrets to not breaking his friend’s hearts. “I’m – is this a good idea?”

 “Of course –”

 “No, I mean it – is it  rational , when I’m just – just –”

 Hizashi’s hands are at work again, one holding him up, one wiping away tears from a scar. 

 “I’ll hurt you – I’ll hurt you and it’s inevitable and I can’t –”

 “ Shouta ,” and his voice was loud, and commanding, and energized – his quirk at its lowest state. 

 It worked though – Shouta had no idea how worked up he’d become, how his weaknesses were seeping through like never before; he was broken in so many ways right now and they were all on display, so humiliatingly on display, that he couldn’t even keep himself calm.

 Hizashi kissed him again, slower this time because he, shockingly, knew how to slow down. How to be rational when others weren’t. 

 His lips moved to the side of his mouth, then to his cheek, to his ear – “How long, Shouta?”

 “What – do you mean?”

 “It’s been fifteen years for me… fifteen years. I was in school looking at you. I was at graduation, looking at you. I shared our first apartment, and was looking at you. I’ve been teaching – and I’ve been looking at you…”

  How romantic…

 “How long has it been?” He said.

 It was too good to be true. It was too sad to be true. They’d put this off for so long, and it took a violent, bloody incident to bring Hizashi to him like this. He’d had his chances too, but he’d always shied away from them because it wasn’t fair.

 He’d die a hero one day, and Hizashi didn’t deserve  that .

 Shouta leaned into the feeling of Hizashi’s lips against his cheek, his ear, and told him what he’d never spoken out loud before. “I… fifteen years. Fifteen years, Hizashi…”

 “ God,”  and he’s crying now. 

 Shouta doesn’t want to admit to the few stray tears decorating his eyelashes like spiders on webs, so he doesn’t – he just leans into the soft, awkward embrace from his best friend, and lets him cry because they’ve both been idiots.

 The sunlight was long against the walls, and the halls of U.A were quiet, and Shouta, for all the breaking he’s done, has finally found a way to put some of the pieces back together.

[act-addict-actors-matchups]

@ne-nene-ne said,

[1/2] Hi~ May I pls have a matchup? I'm a ♏, ISFP, 5'0 fem w/ medium length dark hair & eyes. I like wearing sweaters/sweatpants a lot! I love to draw & sing especially! I'd sing softly to my s/o if we're close & alone together. I often take endless pics of the sunset bc it's so pretty! Tbh I'm a loner. I'm shy, quiet, awkward and I like my alone time. I'm friendly and good-willing towards others nonetheless! I've been told I have a positive aura. I'm more chill, silly & playful w/ family!

[2/2] I can joke around w/ them! I have a short temper but I forgive just as quickly. I can be hard on myself bc I feel it's necessary to improve. I'm an appreciative person so I'll say "thank you" like 1000 times lol! I highly value family & honesty! My ideal s/o is someone family-oriented, devoted, and genuine. Bonus points if they're funny too! I'd like someone who I can slowdance to soft, jazz music w/. My love language is Acts of Service! Tysm! Take your time, stay healthy & stay safe! ❤

✧ Thank you so much for requesting a matchup love. Tumblr is not letting me tag you so hopefully you’ll see this. 😔 I wish you well during this challenging time. Hope you keep safe as well! 😷

I’d match you with: . . .

➜ HOW YOU TWO FIRST MET ; Juza Hyodo is that typical cold guy in school that everyone is lowkey scared of. That’s how he seems from outside anyway. You were asked by your biology teacher to borrow the books for the class’s current lesson from the library on the spot so you took a beeline for the shelves as fast as you could. But for god’s sake all the books were placed at the topmost part of the science shelves. You stood there for a good minute while glaring at the books overhead. You knew you were damned for good since there were no chairs nearby that were available and the librarian was nowhere to be seen. You stomped you feet in annoyance until you felt a looming presence behind you. A tall one. When you turned around, you saw Juza grabbing the books at ease and handing it to you. You thanked him quietly which surprised him because you actually didn’t quiver with fear or panic in his presence??? and you genuinely thanked him?? It was not usual for him to hear someone express their gratitude towards him. Even the cashiers from sweet shops he’d like to visit secretly we’re scared of him for heaven’s sake. After murmuring a little “‘S nothing.” he walked away. And that was the end of it. Or so you thought. The second time you met the purple haired boy was in a cafe. You were patiently waiting in the line for this so called Peanut Butter Pound Cake S'mores. According to your friends, it was one of the best desserts the cafe ever had. To test that theory, you decided to check the dessert yourself. Everything was perfectly normal until a young teenage boy of average height with fluffy pink hair and light blue eyes bumped into you, spilling a little of his drink on you. Yes, I’m talking about Muku. Baby boy was so scared and flustered, he apologized to you multiple times like crazy. Luckily it wasn’t anything hot so you didn’t burn yourself. Giving the boy a soft smile, you said it was fine and he shouldn’t worry about it. But he is a kind-hearted and modest boy with the motto "doing one good deed each day" so of course he offered you to give some of the Chocolate-Caramel Sandwich Cookies he had ordered before to apologize properly. Normally you would’ve reject the offer but with the way he was looking at you, you couldn’t find the heart to do so. While waiting for your order together, you learned what the boy’s name was and that he came here with his cousin. When you heard that the first image that popped into your mind was a soft looking person just like him you. After you got your order, the two of you made your way towards their table. And with that, your previous thought was thrown out of the window just like that. There he was, one and only Juza Hyodo, the person who helped you in the library, was sitting in a chair, quietly munching on one of the many sweets in front of him. When Muku announced that he was back, his eyes shot up to him and then shifted towards you. Yeah, it was awkward. Nevertheless, you tried to offer the tall boy a smile, which he just nodded his head, cheeks tilted pink to get his sweet tooth exposed to someone from school. After you sat down, Muku began to explain how he accidentally bumped into you and spilled some of his drink on you. Juza got the picture and said nothing. Though, gradually he started to become more comfortable. Before you knew it, you befriend the young teenage boy with fluffy hair. You told Muku how you two first met, which he only exclaimed how cool his cousin was and how the scene was just like from a shoujo manga. So yeah, your friendship with Juza started that day and slowly but steadily developed into something more. You would see him at school and chat with him, give him snacks to eat together on the rooftop etc.

➜ PERSONALITY COMPATIBILITY ; Let me just start of by saying that you two are really similar in terms of personality. A loner who is shy, quiet, awkward, likes alone time yet still friendly and good-willing towards others? Yeah, you get to point. When you're dating someone who has almost identical personality traits as you, reading them becomes easier. Juza is honest and critical of himself but is more than willing to work hard on it to improve himself and so are you. You two motive each other become better versions of yourselves, constantly pushing forward hand in hand ad I think that’s a beautiful thing in a relationship. You two have the same values. He deeply values his comrades and family so he would love it whenever he saw you getting along with Muku or Kumon. He’s very protective of those he holds dear, so watching you interact with them and care for them as if they were your own family would make him fall for you even more. The same goes for him as well. He’ d try his utmost best to get along with your family. Physical affection is OUT the window in the first start of your guys' relationship though. And when you guys DO start attempting physical contact, he'd be so stiff. Baby boy really hasn’t had a lot of experience in regards to how to treat others with affection outside of his family. 🥺 but deep down, Juza has a soft side. He’s a bit shy with showing his affections, but he tries his utmost best to convey his love to you― one of them being if you ever needed him support with ANYTHING honestly, he’ll always make it known to you that you have his full support and that he’s always right beside you through everything.

➜ SHARED ACTIVITIES ; With an delinquent-like appearance that often gives people a "scary" impression of him, I feel like Juza would rather spend time inside rather than outside. For those with a serious sweet tooth, baking, especially with a lover has a double benefit: It engages the two of you in an activity you probably don't do often, and you get to enjoy something delicious afterward. You two make an especially decadent dessert when you're feeling ambitious, or simply break out a boxed mix if you're short on time — or baking skills. At first times, there is a lot of trial and error and you guys end up getting covered in flour and such, a cheeky smile present on your face. These are usually the times where you get to hear Juza’s rare laughs as he joined in your joy. Feeling too lazy to bake something? Have a candy tasting. Satisfying your sweet tooth is a foolproof way to survive. Stock up on different colors of Starbursts, Gummi Bears or Worms, Sour Straws, Hi-Chews, and whatever else you are craving— and then eat your way through the rainbow together. Bonus points if you’re lounging off your sugar coma with a movie on the couch afterwards, he doesn’t particularly mind what kind so it’s totally up to you which genre you want to watch. This one is technically not a date but sometimes you, Juza, Muku and Kumon play board games. Depending on how competitive you are, this idea can be a little dangerous. (looking at you monopoly.) But it’s always a blast to spend time with people you love and cherish.

➜ ZODIAC COMPATIBILITY ; Juza’s birthday is on September 27, which makes him a Libra. When Libra and Scorpio come together in a love match, they tend to make a very emotionally connected and mutually satisfying union. Though Scorpio is a brooder who can get lost in the confusing welter of their own emotions, Libra’s proclivity for balance and harmony helps keep Scorpio even. Scorpio can return the favor to Libra with their characteristic powers of focus, a trait that Libra usually lacks. These two are very compatible due to their similar needs in a love relationship: Libra is the Sign of Partnership, and Libra is happiest when in a well-balanced and intimate relationship, while Scorpio thrives on emotional and sexual intimacy with their mate. These two Signs can make a very loyal, close and satisfying partnership. What’s the best aspect of the Libra-Scorpio relationship? The power they find in unity. They can accomplish a lot, whether they come together for a cause in the business or romantic sphere. They are both winners and they won’t give up, making theirs a relationship that takes care of business.

[golden-redhead]

Oumota Week 2019 - Day #1 || Stuck in a Small Space

Summary: After the game, Momota is at loss. Maybe getting stuck in an elevator with the guy he killed can actually give him some answers.

Read on AO3.

- - -

What’s Left of Me

Public appearances are part of Momota’s new life, an unwelcome distraction from the brittle routine he’s been working on for weeks, an overall flimsy sense of security in this chaotic life of his. Wherever he goes, dozens of curious, prying eyes follow his every step, phones reaching out to capture every angle of his existence in a digital illusion of permanence and spread all over the Internet. 

His agent drags him from one interview to another, endless photoshoots, conferences, fan meetings until it leaves him drained, so impossibly drained and defeated, made to smile through it all, his lips stretched in a perpetual grin, shaking hands and waving and answering the questions the way his agent taught him to. It’s all just one big farce but it’s easier to go along with it than try to defy Team Danganronpa and their minions. He knows it would just be a losing battle, as it’s one thing that has been made perfectly clear as soon as he got successfully pulled out of the simulation, spooked and confused, barely able to coin out sentences, drugged out of his mind. 

So when he finds himself standing in the huge, luxurious lobby of the recording studio all he can do is try to distract himself with idle plans of what he’d prefer for dinner and daydreaming about a long, well-deserved nap he was planning to take once this farce is over and he’s finally allowed to go home. 

He promised his agent he would join her as soon as he finishes his cigarette, her curt, sharp nod a silent permission. He’s on his third cigarette now, the silvery smoke coiling and dancing above his head as he exhales it through his nose, trying to empty his head and forget about the responsibilities and expectations weighing on his shoulders, even if just for a moment. 

“Well, well, well,” comes a familiar voice from behind his back. “If it isn’t Momota-chan!”

Momota spins around, startled, almost choking on the smoke he’s just released from his lungs, his mouth falling open and brows shooting in surprise until they disappear, hidden by the spiky bangs that fall down on his forehead. 

“O-Ouma!” He chokes out, shaking his head as if in denial, not trusting his eyes just yet. “Since when were you—What are you doing here?”

A relaxed smile crosses Ouma’s face as he steps closer, the very image of controlled nonchalance. 

“Oh? Hasn’t Momota-chan been informed that he should be expecting my delightful presence today?”

Momota tugs at his goatee absentmindedly, trying to remember what kind of interview exactly they were supposed to have today. They all felt like a big, indistinguishable blur to him. “Uh… Should I?”

Ouma tuts with disapprobation, crossing his arms over his chest and puffing his cheeks out childishly. “Rude! Rude, Momota-chan! Does our friendship mean nothing to you?”

Momota shrugs simply and moves to put out the cigarette, promptly crushing it under his boot until all is left is a cigarette-shaped pulp. Once that’s taken care of he finally turns fully to Ouma. It’s the first time in weeks that he has a chance to take a good look at him, take in every detail, every fold of his shirt, every sticky and stained with mascara eyelash and the smudge of fluid hiding the dark bruises beneath his eyes.

He’s wearing a shiny dark suit that in the right light glistens with the faint hues of deep purple, his signature checkered scarf wrapped loosely around the narrow neck. He looks smaller in real life, somehow, childish features accented with sharp dark eyes and adorned with a sly smile that looks almost out of place on a face so young. The long strands of his plum-colored hair have been slicked back in a way that is sure to cause heart palpitations of many fans, only barely making him look more mature. Despite his midget height and endearingly full cheeks (now that Team Danganronpa took hold of his diet), Momota could almost call him handsome. Almost.  

He hasn’t had much contact with him since they were both released from the hospital, nothing more than small banter at an occasional group interview or a photoshoot that required that all participants of the fifty-third season were present, tension heavy in the air as they struggled to co-exist in the forced proximity, even if only for an hour or two. Momota would lie if he said he wasn’t curious about what happened to Ouma when the worst was over — his search history a discriminating, shameful proof of that — but he couldn’t bring himself to actually reach out to him, his insides turning into a painful knot whenever he tried, fingers hovering uselessly above the keyboard and head hollow with empty-sounding I’m sorry’s and forgive me’s that Ouma would never dignify even with a single glance, much less with a response. 

In a way, he almost wishes they had more time at the hospital — as suffocating as it was — before they’d been released into this wild, vicious world that praised them for the blood on their hands and was a blaring reminder of every bad choice, every wrong decision he’s ever made. Maybe if he had more time he would have mustered the courage. Maybe he wouldn’t be here now, guilt tugging at his insides and unvoiced apologies burning in his throat. 

The truth is, Team Danganronpa couldn’t have held them in the hospital for more than a few weeks, too busy moving on with the organization of the next season to care for those they broke already, Momota and others soon to be replaced with even more traumatized kids with hollow eyes and sunken cheeks, the memory of bloodstained walls and insidious stench of death still trapped underneath their eyelids whenever they drifted to sleep. 

Ever since he woke up from his stimulation-induced slumber, everything felt somewhat distorted, like he’s gazing at the world through the thick wall of glass, deceivingly similar to what he remembers but somehow also disturbingly different. It’s disorienting and he’s unsure how to navigate this new world in which he can’t take two steps without being pursued by a crowd of fans, many of them underaged, wrapping themselves around him and blinding him with the flash of their mobile phones, every single one of them adorned with Danganronpa-themed cases. This new, second — or third? who knows, really — life he woke up to what feels like he’s pushing through deep waters, fighting against the current, and no matter how much time has passed it doesn’t feel like he’s moving forward at all. Hours blend into days and days into weeks and nothing really changes, nothing feels like it leads to something meaningful and he almost misses the game because in some horrible, vile way it had been better than being stuck in this strange state where everything just doesn’t make sense.

However, not everything changes. Ouma’s just as boisterous and smug as he remembers him from the killing game to be even, though there’s no longer any need to pretend or hide behind his shield of carefully crafted lies and vaguely, Momota wonders what he’s overcompensating for. 

“Come on,” he says instead of voicing that thought out loud, gesturing to the elevator. “We better hurry or my agent will pluck my eyes out.”

Ouma taps a long pale finger against his chin, considering it. 

“Hm… Nah.”

Momota scowls, irritation prickling under his skin. “What do you mean ‘nah’? We are already late!”

Ouma tucks his hands at the back of his head, staring at Momota through half-lidded crystalline eyes, rocking back and forth on the heels of his feet, make-up smoothing the sharp contours of his face. He cocks his head to the side, his ear almost resting against his shoulder, a lazy grin playing on his lips.

“Since when was Momota-chan such an obedient little puppy? You do everything they say?”

Momota groans loudly. Of course nothing could be easy with Ouma fucking Kokichi around. 

“Look, I’m not in the mood for your fucking mind games. What’s this really about? You better not just be difficult for the sake of being difficult, dude.”

“Hmm, or maaaybe I just wanna see Momota-chan get his eyes plucked out?” Ouma continues to cackle, shamelessly, not at all intimidated by the annoyed pull of Momota’s eyebrows or the dirty glare he shoots him.

In theory, Momota knows he shouldn’t be bothered by Ouma’s rude remarks, he knows it’s all just a part of the game for him, an invisible wall he’s raised for protection just so he doesn’t have to expose what lies under the thick layers of lies and deceptions. In practice, though, it’s as annoying as ever and not for the first time he wishes he could understand what is happening in his head.

“Look, I’m not too thrilled about this interview either but the sooner we start, the faster it’ll be over. You coming or not?”

Ouma nods his head vigorously in mock agreement. “Oh, such wise words! Who knew Momota-chan can be so wise!”

Momota tsks, but refuses to bite. Instead, he turns back to him with a shrug and pushing his hands into his pockets heads to enter the elevator. Once there, he turns to Ouma expectantly, one eyebrow raised in an unvoiced challenge, signaling it to be the last chance to join him.

If he didn’t know better he would have sworn that he noticed a flash of… something, some foreign emotion he can’t quite name, passing through his eyes as Ouma shoots a single, almost wistful glance in the direction of the nearby stairs as if weighing his options. It disappears almost as quickly as it appeared, leaving Momota wondering whether it had even been there in the first place. 

“Ughh, fiiine,” Ouma throws his arms into the air, “I’ll go if Momota-chan insists.”

Momota doesn’t point out how at no point did he actually insist on anything and simply moves to the side to let him in. 

Ouma skips into the elevator, humming some cheerful inharmonious tune. As soon as he reaches the control panel he pushes a few buttons all at once, cackling at the annoyed frown Momota rewards him with. With a quiet whoosh the door finally closes after them, slots clicking into place as the elevator begins its slow ascent.

It doesn’t take them far, though. 

Moments later, the elevator jolts to a sudden halt with a deafening screech, the force and abruptness of it enough to send Ouma to the floor with a high-pitched, undignified yelp of shock. He slams onto the floor with a hollow bang that makes Momota wince in sympathy. The lights flicker and for a horrifying second Momota’s convinced they’ll give out completely, shrouding them in darkness. He allows himself a small sigh of relief when it doesn’t happen. 

“Uhh,” moans Ouma from the floor, sound muffled slightly, “what just happened?”

“We’re stuck,” observes Momota sounding much calmer than he feels. 

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

“Don’t ask dumb question if you don’t want dumb answers.”

“There’s no such thing as a dumb question, Momota-chan, unless you’re the one asking them.” 

Momota waves him off impatiently. “Whatever. Now shush, we need to get some help or we’re gonna be stuck here forever.”

He examines the control panel for a second, wondering what the hell are they supposed to do next. This is why I hate elevators, he thinks to himself bitterly. Fortunately, whoever designed the elevator was prepared for those kinds of situations and added the emergency button, easily distinguished from the others by its strikingly red color. Momota pushes it without thinking, stealing a quick glance at his phone, wincing when it becomes glaringly obvious that there’s no chance they’ll start the interview on time. The threat of having his eyes plucked out feels more and more real with every minute.

He waits, listening to the ringing sound that fills the elevator after he pushed the button, a sense of relief spreading over his body when someone actually answers the call. 

“Hello?”

“Uhh,” Momota starts lamely, suddenly at a loss of words. He clears his throat and tries again. “Momota Kaito here. We are, uhh, we are stuck in an elevator.”

He hurriedly explains the situation, informing the man on the other side what happened, which floor they are stuck on, how many people are in the elevator. 

He doesn’t feel very reassured when the man takes in all the information only to respond with, “We’ll see what we can do. It might take a while since we have to send someone there. Just hang in there, kid.”

With that the conversation is over, the voice on the other side gone. Momota runs a hand over his face, letting his eyes flutter shut for a second as he tries to make some sense out of all of this, understand how he went from calmly smoking his cigarette, minding his own business, to being here, trapped with Ouma at his side. He can feel Ouma’s amused stare boring into him from where he sat crossed-legged against the opposite wall, surely deriving great pleasure from watching his anguish.  

Of all the people he could have been stuck in an elevator with it had to be the guy he killed. 

He grips the phone in his other hand tighter and after a second of hesitation, he reluctantly types a quick text to his agent and then promptly turns the sound and vibration off, not looking forward to the angry stream of furious messages he’s undoubtedly going to get. 

“Great,” he says sarcastically, leaning heavily against the wall and sliding slowly down its length until he lands on his butt. “So we’re trapped here. You happy now?”

Ouma beams at him. “Very!”

“Seriously, why are you like this,” he looks up to glower at the ceiling as if expecting an answer from above. “Did you have to push all those buttons?” 

Ouma nods his head, a solemn, serious expression on his face. He presses a hand to his chest, just inches above his heart, his words dripping with false sincerity. “Yes, absolutely, my sweet, naive Momota-chan. I was testing if the elevator is safe and clearly it’s not! Who knows how many lives we saved by sacrificing ourselves. It was a brave and necessary deed that I do not regret.”

Momota groans, reaching for his neck to rub at the sensitive muscles, trying to dissolve the tension there. 

“Save it for the cameras,” he murmurs distractedly. 

He shifts a little, looking for a better position on the cold, hard floor. He’s partly glad he doesn’t have to be trapped at that interview, bombarded with a never-ending stream of intrusive, probing questions but being stuck here with Ouma is hardly an improvement.

“So, Momota-chan,” Ouma chirps almost conversationally, “now that we are all alone is there something you wanna tell me? Confess your undying love, maybe?”

Momota’s brows furrow and he fidgets slightly, suddenly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the intense gaze of Ouma’s resolute eyes. He has no idea what he could be possibly getting at, but he also knows for a fact that Ouma is far more perceptive than most people give him credit for (if his batshit, absolutely insane plan from the game is any indication) and he’s not too into the idea of falling victim to it (again), not when there’s no way for him to bolt out of here if things go dire. 

“Nothing,” comes a stiff response. And then, after a moment’s hesitation, he adds: “Don’t start, Ouma, not when we’re both stuck here.”

The words sound almost like a warning. Unsurprisingly, Ouma pouts and lets out an offended huff. “Momota-chan’s not fun.”

Momota lets a single bark of a laugh at that and shakes his head, leaning against the wall, its surface cold against his back. Fun. What a funny word. Wasn’t it fun, posing as the source of entertainment for millions of people all around the globe? Wasn’t it fun, hacking blood all over the floor and getting poisoned and dying on screen just so people can cross one more person out and debate whether he was a hero or a martyr? He sure as hell hopes that at least someone got some fun out of it, because he certainly can’t say it for himself and so he feels like he’s under no obligation to be fun now. 

The familiar anger flames at the pit of his stomach, raw and fierce, until he stiffens it the same way he always does, at least when in public, the ache inside subduing but not going away completely. It’s fine, though. He’ll just have to smash a few plates once he comes back home or something. 

He clears his throat, absentmindedly rubbing his arm on the spot where the arrow pierced the skin. There’s no scar left, no evidence to prove that whatever transpired in that hangar was anything more than a vivid illusion crafted by the skilled hands of corrupted technicians and death-crazed writers.

Sometimes, he almost wishes that there was something, anything, a proof of all the suffering they were subjected to, something palpable and permanent. Because maybe if there was they would put a stop to it, maybe then they’d stop this beast that consumes everything on its way just to please the masses and uphold the faux image of the peaceful society, too absorbed with children dying on screen to realize how wrong it all is. 

It’s an ugly, rotten thought, one that he can’t help but entertain every now and then.

He shakes his head, as if trying to banish those intrusive thoughts, and focuses on his breathing the way his therapist taught him, grounding himself, centering in the present until his thoughts have a chance to slip into the dangerous area that he spends the best part of his days suppressing because nothing good could possibly ever come from them. 

“Sure, whatever you say.”

Ouma huffs some more and perches his chin on his knees, wrapping his arms around them, tightly.

“Sooo,” he eyes Momota up and down curiously, “wanna play a game?”

Momota snorts. “A game? With you? Pass.”

Ouma purses his lips, “You are killing me here, Momo-chan.”

“Not for the first time and not for the last time,” he responds without thinking and then clasps his hand over his mouth, realizing too late what he’s just said, the horrid implications coming to mind all at one. “Shit… I didn’t mean it like that.”

Ouma simply hums to himself, unimpressed. “Sure you didn’t.”

After that, they drift into silence. Momota throws his head back, leaning against the wall more comfortably, and tries to think about random astronomy facts, little curiosities they packed his head up with, even though he has no recollection of ever learning any of it. Sometimes he ponders whether he should hate astronomy, hate that foreign being they formed him into, stripping him of who he was before any of that. Strangely, this artificially implanted passion becomes a distraction, his escape when everything becomes too much for him to handle and he feels like falling down, face first into the unknown. It’s a rare sense of comfort, something familiar among all those things that make no sense to him in this grotesque, strange world that lost its charm. Ironically, sometimes it feels like he’s been much more happy back in the game, dying and lying through his teeth, struggling to hide the bloodstained shirts and make it through another day without crumbling in defeat. At least back then he had a purpose. Now? He has no idea what he’s supposed to do now.  

Every day is like learning how to walk, breathe and exist again, going through the motions without registering them, struggling between the constant switching between disocciating and hyperawareness, never quite reaching that normal state of in between. 

He avoids Shuichi and Maki, awkwardly deflecting whenever they try to press, the excuses piling up until he runs out of them and doesn’t even try anymore. They pretend it’s fine and in turn he pretends that it’s enough. The two of them are much closer now that they went through hell to the very end, together, bonded by whatever it is they thought that they feel for him and he tries to learn how to be happy with that. 

There’s not much that he can do, really, simply enduring every day like a man on a mission. One step followed by another, pushing through every evening until he can cross out another day in his calendar and start this little game anew, no finish line in sight.

It’s an involuntary, hushed whimper that pulls him out of his thoughts and he blinks, disoriented and half-slumped against the wall. He straightens up, trying to center himself back to reality and locate the strange, alien sound. His eyes slip to the side only to shoot open, round and alert.

“What the—Ouma?!”

The other teen doesn’t respond, doesn’t even acknowledge Momota’s concerned shout, his quick, shallow breaths unnaturally loud in the small space of their shared elevator. There’s a worrying, rosy blush that tints his cheeks and nose, evident on his otherwise deathly pale face, bangs damp with sweat. He’s trembling, little tremors wrecking through his bony limbs.

“O-Ouma?” Momota tries again, shuffling closer, panic spreading through his veins, all senses at a full alert. “Hey, you okay, dude?”

“Ah… hahahaha… g-got you, Momota-chan,” Ouma laughs breathlessly, one hand pressed against his heart, grasping at the creased, thin material of his shirt, his chest heaving and eyes wide, burning feverishly when he lifts them up to try to focus on Momota but instead looking through him, unseeing. “Y-You worried?”

“Fucking—Yes, of course I am worried!” he yells and then immediately chastises himself when Ouma flinches at the volume. “Shit, sorry.”

He anxiously sorts through the symptoms, struggling to connect the pieces and figure out what is happening, how to help. He’s always been a man of action, unable to just sit and do nothing, letting others suffer in silence. He hovers above Ouma indecisively, torn between the desperate need to help and paralysing fear of making things worse. The painful knot in his stomach continues to tighten and his fingers dig into the skin of Ouma’s thin, bony shoulder when the realization finally dawns upon him. 

A panic attack. 

He swallows thickly, shocked and confused, eyes wide as for a long —too long —moment he just stares in mute horror, a faint nervousness tingling at the walls of his stomach. 

There’s a sense of familiarity that one develops from spending so much time around so many broken people, picking up the shattered pieces of who they used to be and struggling to piece it together without the original pattern, relying on the vague memories and wishful thinking alone. It’s a process of trial and error.

So it makes sense that what he does next is that, too. Trial and error. 

“Ouma? Ouma, hey, listen to me,” he shifts closer, his grip on Ouma’s arm growing steadier, more sure. He slips his fingers into his other hand and squeezes, once, hoping that it comes off as at least somewhat comforting even if his hands are clammy and he can feel the panic slowly rising in his chest. “It’s gonna be okay. Just… just fucking breathe, man.”

He pats Ouma on the back awkwardly, his other hand drawing senseless patterns into his open palm with his thumb, the same way his grandma used to do when he was little, frightened by the stories about children-eating monsters building a nest under his bed. Of course, in the end neither the monsters nor his grandma turned out to be real, but it’s not a thought he wants to linger on for too long.

He brings his attention back to the boy at his side.

Gone is the fierce, unstoppable force that is Ouma Kokichi, replaced by a ghostly-looking scrawny boy who doesn’t look his age at all. In that moment, he reminds him way too much of that person he saw back then in the hangar, all bloody lips and broken pieces tucked behind the thorny wall of lies and hiding behind a healthy dose of frighteningly convincing sinister smiles. It’s like reliving those moments again with a striking clarity, everything coming back to him all at once, hitting him with a force of a speeding truck. His whole body feels like someone’s pulling at a raw nerve, a soaring, burning sensation that drowns out everything else. 

He pulls Ouma closer, unable to offer any more comfort than that, just letting him shiver, huddled at his side. 

He feels inadequate. 

Useless. 

He’s spent hours and days and weeks struggling to make things better, fueled by the naive belief that as long as he believes in himself and the people he chose to trust he can do anything he can put his mind to. Sometimes it feels like there’s not going to be any better, like he’s stuck here and now, just like they are both stuck in this elevator, trapped in between the floors and refusing to budge.   

They lose the concept of time, trapped in their little metal cell and eventually Ouma stills in his half-embrace, his eyes no longer as glassy and absent as before, the trembling gone except for his hands which he curls into fists when he notices Momota staring down at them. His breaths still come in quiet, shallow puffs but he’s no longer on the verge of hyperventilating which Momota decides to take as a good sign.

Momota waits a few more minutes, anxious, but ultimately the curiosity triumphs over uncertainty and with a gentle nudge to Ouma’s side, the words escape his lips before he could bite his tongue. “Hey, you feeling better now? Wanna talk about it?”

Big, doe-like eyes find his, dull and blank until he looks at Momota, really looks at him, and something in them shifts, a different kind of glint when a strange kind of resolve seems to set in. Momota isn’t sure what it is. All he knows is that he doesn’t like the sudden change in his demeanor, doesn’t like the way something familiar and cruel flashes through his eyes as he blinks back the last traces of panic and replaces it with steel and indifference. 

“Gonta tried to commit suicide,” Ouma says, apropos of nothing. “Did you know that?”

Momota swallows thickly, a sense of dread wrapping around his insides, squeezing. “W-what?”

Ouma giggles, a quiet and breathy little noise, just at the verge of hysterics. The sound of it sends a shudder down the length of Momota’s spine and not for the first time he wonders how Ouma does that, replaces one mask with another like it’s a child’s game, snaps out of one role and slips into another within seconds. Going from a full on panic attack to… whatever it is now can’t be normal. It isn’t normal. 

 “Yeah, the good ol’ bug boy couldn’t handle the pressure. He’s fine, though. Found him on time or something.”

A wave of relief crashes into Momota and if he wasn’t sitting already he would have felt his knees go weak, giving out under his weight. 

“Jesus. Don’t scare me like that.”

“Isn’t that cool, though? I would have gotten him killed twice! Wouldn’t that be suuuper impressive, Momota-chan?”

Momota’s brows crinkle as he struggles to understand whatever twisted logic Ouma is using. “What does any of it have to do with you?”

“Weeell, it is perfectly obvious, my beloved Momota-chan. What’s there to not understand?”

“Humor me.”

Ouma makes a face.

“Uh. Fine, have it your way. It’s really not that hard, though. You know, brain is a muscle, Momota-chan, you should exercise it more.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not true,” mutters Momota under his breath.

“Anyways, obviously Gonta-chan has been so deeply affected by how cruelly I manipulated him that it drove him to take his own life.”

Momota’s whole body goes numb, a suffocating, cold feeling spreading through his limbs.

‘You can’t possibly believe tha—”

“Huh?” Ouma stares at him, a long, pale finger pressed against his lower lip sweetly, eyes round and innocent. “Isn’t that what happened, though?”

“Stop,” Momota manages through gritted teeth. 

“Oh please, Momota-chan,” Ouma laughs sarcastically, an ugly bitter undertone in his voice resurfacing. He raises from his crouching position on the floor and takes one, two unsteady steps forward, his stance somewhere between bold and provocative as he sways slightly in place, worn out muscles unable to carry his weight. He turns back to Momota, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of the lone light-bulb hanging above. “I think we’ve been through too much to still lie to ourselves. I manipulated you, didn’t I? Just like I manipulated Gonta.”

Momota opens his mouth to protest, to object to whatever nonsense Ouma’s spurting this time, but the words get stuck in his throat as he realizes his brain is blank, unable to come up with an adequate response. Ouma uses the opportunity to continue. 

“I made you a murderer,” he spits the last word pointedly, almost as if it’s poisonous on his tongue, and Momota’s resolve falters even more when the gaze of his eyes pierces right through him, its intensity preventing him from tearing his eyes away. 

“I turned their beloved hero into a cold-hearted murderer,” repeats Ouma for emphasis, violet eyes bright and unblinking, lips twisted in a rapacious sneer. Now that he started the words won’t stop spilling as if some kind of dam has been broken and there’s no stopping it now. “Was it fun, Momota-chan? Did you enjoy putting me in my place? Did it feel gooood when you punched me? Did it feel good when you killed me?”

“Don’t say that,” Momota finally finds his voice, weak and raspy, his head shaking in a way that feels way more automatic than it should, lacking conviction. “Oh my god, Ouma, why would you even say that?”

“Well, isn’t that right?” Ouma questions, letting out a snort of dismissive laughter. “Are you calling me a liar, Momota-chan?”

“No,” Momota asserts weakly, his thoughts swarning in confusion. Ouma won't let him think, he won't let him gather his thoughts, the ball is in his court now and he steers the game however he likes, dragging Momota along, whether he wants it or not. “I’m not calling you a liar but it’s not—”

“Sooo everything I said is true, right?”

“God, Ouma… You know it’s not that easy. You know it doesn’t work like that.”

Ouma blinks up at him in pretend confusion, head tilted and lips frozen in a condescending smile. 

“Like what?”

“It wasn’t you. Okay? They made you do that, they made all of us do that and no one here is to blame.”

Ouma laughs in stunned dismay. “So what? Does it mean we are some naive little babies that don’t have to take responsibility for our actions because we were—-what? Brainwashed? Manipulated? Is that what you’re saying?”

“W-wha—?!” Momota sputters, both nose and forehead wrinkling in confusion. “No? But like… None of that happened. It wasn’t real.”

“Aww, what a lovely sentiment, Momota-chan,” Ouma coos, batting his eyelashes. “So when you killed me you knew it’s not for realsies?”

He doesn’t let Momota answer, a sharp, over-dramatic gasp drowning out Momota’s hurried explanation, his eyes welling with crystalline tears: “And you didn’t tell me? How dare you, Momota-chan! And here I thought I was dying for real.”

Momota fidgets, suddenly very uncomfortable, jaw clenching. His eyes dart from one corner of the elevator to another, looking for some kind of exit that maybe they overlooked. 

“Can you like… Stop talking about dying? And… About me killing you?”

Ouma wipes the fake tears away with the verge of his sleeve, the dark material now smudged with whatever he used to mask the shadows under his eyes. He pays it no mind. 

“Oh? Does it bother you, Momota-chan? Why? I mean, isn’t that what happened? And what you just said wasn’t, quote and unquote, real?”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” grumbles Momota, glaring defiance. He struggles to form sentences, knowing full well that any argument with Ouma is really a fight of wits, an impossible attempt to try to keep up with him.

“I mean… Sure, it happened. And yeah, it was absolutely fucking awful. But we weren’t like, us, y’know. And before you interrupt me again,” he flashes Ouma a sharp glare, raising his finger warningly in a ‘it’s my turn talking’ gesture, “yes, it was us. But we had no memory of who we are and had to watch our friends —yes, friends, don’t even try to argue that,” he adds quickly, seeing as Ouma opens his mouth, undoubtedly ready to disprove that point, ”die horribly. It’s enough to fuck anyone up. We were just trying to survive. Nothing wrong with that.” 

Momota braces himself for the upcoming counter-arguments, knowing how relentless and stubborn Ouma can be, determined to confront and challenge every point he made until Momota’s no longer sure what they were talking about. 

Not this time, though. 

He simply looks at Momota flatly, in a way that is as unlike him as it’s physically possible, completely throwing Momota off his game with the pure unpredictability of it.

“Whatever. Sometimes you really are naive, Momota-chan.” He says it matter of factly, not a jab at his intelligence nor a compliment, just a simple statement. 

“Uh… Sure. Same to you,” Momota says dryly, not truly understanding what he’s getting at, much to Ouma’s amusement if the patronizing smirk he flashes him is any indication. He sits back down, in the opposite corner from Momota, seemingly disinterested in continuing that discussion, as if he’s just decided that it’s not worth it anymore and chose to let Momota feed himself with whatever delusions he believed in.

He doesn’t understand Ouma. He’s a fucking enigma, escaping any definitions or even basic common self and Momota always finds himself struggling trying to keep up with him, with his twisted thought patterns and double-meanings behind every action or sentence or smile. 

 Still, when Momota stares at him he thinks he almost understands.

He thinks back to Ouma’s brief panic attack, to how under certain angles, if the light falls just right, being trapped here feels just like back then, the metal ceiling and floor of the elevator deceptively similar to the cold, smooth surface of the hydraulic press, looming from every side, ready to begin its descent at any moment. The press is a common guest in his dreams, staring him as he stares right back, reflecting galaxies he’ll never see with his own two eyes. In his dreams, ridiculously saturated specks of pink spread over it in a poor imitation of stars. 

He considers what Ouma said before, the part about killing Gonta twice, the dreadful implication of him being the reason of Gonta’s doom. What does it make him then? Was he to Ouma what Ouma was to Gonta? Was he the one who ultimately, unintentionally led him to his grave, both figuratively and literally? 

He knows, logically, that Maki would have never gone to the hangar if it wasn’t for him, no one would have been hurt if it wasn’t for him. No killing plan would have been needed. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, fists clenching and unclenching helplessly at his sides.

No.

That’s wrong and he can’t think like that. 

It’s tempting, so incredibly tempting, to just let his mind slide into that dark area and accept things at face value, to let the guilt spread like an infection until he’s dying again, waiting for his end. He’s good at it, after all. 

But it’s not an answer and on some level he knows, he knows it very well that sooner or later he’ll have to face it, get over himself and change something, because deep down he is a survivor and whatever happened in the game was a choice.  

They —all of them— were nothing more than a product of this twisted world, driven by a clever program and a well-planned script in the hands of the wrong people. Back then, they had no other choice than to follow the scenario someone else designed for them but it’s no longer true, they are no longer part of that sick, warped game and they don’t have to play by its rules.  

Momota licks his lips. Takes a deep breath.

“You don’t have to believe me but I guess what I’m trying to say is… None of that shit is our fault, Ouma. And the best thing we can do now is try to move on. You are not responsible for what they made you. All that matters is what you’re gonna do from now on or whatever.”

Ouma pulls his knees closer to his chest and snorts into them, amusement gleaming in his eyes when he tilts his head to get a better look at Momota’s face, his own partly obscured by his dark bangs. 

“If you say so~!” he sing-songs. It sounds dismissive.

Momota sighs deeply, dragging a hand over his face tiredly. “I know that deep down you know I’m right, even you can’t be that pessimistic. I sure as hell know that’s how I felt. Can’t you be honest with yourself for once?”

“Silly Momota-chan, I’ve always been honest with myself. Anyways, that’s your shtick, not mine. Momota-chan reaaally should stop projecting on little ol’ me. And I’ll have you know that I’m a realist. You’re just so disgustingly idealistic that anyone who has even a slightly different opinion than you looks like a pessimist in comparison.”

Irritation prickles under his skin. Talking with Ouma sometimes feels like going in circles, beginning and end blurred into one, replaying the same arguments time and time again, never reaching a conclusion. “Fine. Let’s say you’re right, I don’t feel like fucking fighting,” he concedes, resigned. “Why can’t you be honest with me then?”

To his utmost surprise, Ouma actually seems to consider the question. He regards him with a sharp gaze of strikingly clear, critical eyes, squinting slightly. Then, he shrugs, looking away. 

“You have yet to give me a reason to.”

It’s an answer that’s vastly different from what Momota would have preferred to hear but in a way it’s almost hopeful, an unspoken promise. 

They fall into silence, no more words needed for now, Momota lost deep in his own thoughts. 

No, things aren’t the way he wishes them to be but with time he wants to believe he’ll be able to forgive himself, let go of this crippling guilt that eats at him during the days and nights. It’s funny, knowing that Ouma carries his own guilt that’s not unlike his. It’s easy to regard Ouma as this mysterious being that’s above everything and everyone else, existing in his own bubble that Momota’s never had access to. The thing is, he really wants to, though, for better or for worse. 

He still feels like he’s been opened raw, foreign hands tugging at his insides, poking and prodding in places they don’t belong to, leaving him spent and exposed in a way that has a bit too much to do with emotional vulnerability. But there’s something about Ouma, whether they are fighting or arguing or simply sharing a moment of imposed silence, that makes him think that maybe someone understands in a way no one else ever would. 

He wants something better for Ouma. And… if he wants something better for Ouma he should also want something better for himself. No matter how much trouble he has admitting that. The words would never make it past his lips but it’s alright. Baby steps. 

Maybe Ouma is his answer, his way to repair the things he’s managed to mess up along the way. Maybe if he can help him, repay for all the wrong he did… Maybe he would find a way to help himself, too. One day.  

Unexpectedly, a plan starts to form in his head and for the first time in ages he doesn’t feel like dying anymore. 

Momota takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm his frayed nerves. He smiles at Ouma, hopeful. “How about we stop fighting each other and work together for a change?”

Ouma furrows his brows, sending him a bored, disinterested glance. “Haven’t we done that working together part already?”

Momota blinks at him, surprised. “Huh? When?”

Ouma arches an eyebrow, staring at him incredulously. When Momota still doesn’t follow he lets out a loud, exasperated sigh and rolls his eyes as if Momota is a great source of suffering for him. “You just asked me not to talk about it like, five minutes ago. Geez, make up your mind, Momota-chan.”

“Oh… Right. That.” 

Momota smile falters at the vividly real memory of the hydraulic press that flashes before his eyes, face dropping. He wonders if these memories will ever fade, at least a little, so it feels more like a bad, worn-out-through-years dream and not something that would swallow him at any moment, bring him all the way back to where he started. 

He perks up moments later, though, punching his fists together, eyes bright with confidence and new-found resolution. 

“That’s in the past, though! I’m talking now. Just you and me. What d’ya say?”

Ouma folds his hands in the air and puts his chin on them, a weary expression on his face. “What are you even proposing, Momota-chan?”

‘I don’t know yet! Or, like… I can’t tell you yet. But I’ll figure it out. I’ll find a way to show Team Danganronpa that we are so much more than they thought. They might have controlled us in the game but now that we are out they have no control over us. We are our own people now, so... Fuck the contracts, fuck them. They say that your happiness is the best revenge so that’s what we’re gonna fucking do!”

Ouma blinks at him a few times and then wrinkles his nose in distaste, as if he’s just smelled something highly unpleasant.

“Wow, sometimes I forget how dumb Momota-chan really is,” he comments and relishes in the glimpse of offended fury that flashes through Momota’s eyes at the insult. It’s one thing in their messed up lives that would never get old.

“I’m not dumb. And if you keep saying that I’m gonna call off my offer!”

“Oh, please do! I’m sure there’s a ton of volunteers fighting to take my place,” comes Ouma’s wry response and he almost cackles out loud at the faint blush of offended fury that coats Momota’s cheeks and stretches to the tips of his ears. 

“I fucking hate you.”

“Aww, I love you too,” Ouma chirps with unabashed glee and even has the audacity to wink at him. 

Momota groans, the sound bouncing off the walls, and hides his face in his hands. 

“You are impossible.”

“Thank you, I try~!”

Momota mumbles something inaudible under his nose and Ouma uses the occasion to shuffle closer to him. 

“But you know what?” he questions humorously, trying to peek through the hands still splayed over Momota’s face. “Hey, Momota-chan, stop ignoring me, I have something important to tell you!”

Two fingers move slightly to the side and a lone, mauve eye glares appears, glaring defiance.

“What?”

“My life’s been actually suuuper boring lately,” complains Ouma loudly. “So I guess I could use some entertainment.”

The eye blinks at him, widening slightly.

“Wait… so you’re in?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’m in.”

“Oh.”

Momota lets his hands fall down, revealing a stunned, hopeful look on his face. “Wait, for real?”

“Geez, Momota-chan, how many times do I have to say it?” Ouma rolls his eyes impatiently, drumming his fingers against the metal floor. “Yes, I’m in. Someone has to be there to take the blackmail photos and post them all over the Internet when you inevitably make a complete fool out of yourself.”

Momota’s brightens with a smile, so happy that he turns a deaf ear to that last comment.

“Great,” he beams at Ouma and for the first time in days, weeks, maybe years, it doesn’t feel forced. “You’re not gonna regret it!”

Ouma sighs deeply. “I already do.”

Momota’s about to sprout some more motivational nonsense about revenge and happiness and his own, private theories about what Ouma needs or doesn’t need, but before he can do that, someone pries the door to the elevator open, momentarily blinding both of them with the light that breaks inside. 

When they finally get freed, Momota’s immediately swept away by his agent, yelling in tune with Ouma’s, something about schedules and programs and ruined plans and there’s some sense of deep satisfaction, located somewhere in his chest, pulsating warmly when he realizes that for the first time in a really long time he finally has some resemblance of control over his own life, something that Team Danganronpa couldn’t possibly take away from him.

[stormyniqhts-blog]

hey, guys!! i’m sora and i’m happy to be here. i just want to start off by talking a bit about myself. such as having a love for anime, disney movies, doggos, and uhh, i’m also recently binge watching stranger things s3. anyway, this will be a super mega intro post as i’ll be putting all my charas into one intro, so here’s info on julie tran, layla evans, frankie sullivan, and dylan grayson!!

edit: i also have a general plots page, but i’m open to anything outside of it!

if you want to go through a specific chara, all you have to do is ctrl+f and type “--chara name”

--JULIE TRAN

* lana condor. twenty-three. female. she/her. | did you see julie tran this morning on main street? i heard they were heading towards the protests. they’ve been in ballard for all her life and last time i spoke to them, they were a sales associate. if i remember correctly, they’re a scorpio and they remind me of colorful striped tops, lazy sundays, sunbathing probably because they’re sociable and prim.

about

things seemed like a picture perfect image for the girl when she was young. she helped her family with chores, worked hard in elementary and middle school classes, etc. however, by the time high school rolled around, her relationship with her parents weren’t exactly the same. she realized her dream of becoming a fashion designer, which they didn’t approve on due to how they wanted their daughter to work in the medical field.

at first, she agreed on dropping the dream and went on with doing well in her classes. except, she never gave up on her dream. when she finally graduated high school, she moved out of her parents’ place with saved up money and hardly talked to them since then. she felt guilty for not being who they wanted her to be, but being away felt better than trying to be someone she didn’t picture herself as.

soon, her parents decided to move away too and the relationship between her and them became more estranged. now, she’s in the process of improving her designs while working as a sales associate.

tl;dr basically a girl who wants to be a fashion designer someday and has an estranged relationship with her parents.

details

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character aesthetic + inspo

disgust (inside out), wendy darling (peter pan), tori vega (victorious), lara jean covey (to all the boys i’ve loved before), jane sloan (the bold type), lady (lady & the tramp), mabel pines (gravity falls), cher horowitz (clueless).

traits

insecure, loyal, motherly, organized, passive, picky, prim, self-righteous, sociable.

personality

she’s basically a mom friend. anything you’ll need, she’ll more than likely have it. she’s also always there for her loved ones no matter what, whether it’s early in the morning or late at night.

she tends to think of her friends and others before herself. adding onto this, she tends to not say no to others because of how helpful she wants to be, so at times, she’ll feel overwhelmed or exhausted.

the reason why insecure is added is because she feels as if she’s quite bland. that there’s really no unique trait about her. sure, she cares about others, but she feels there are so many people in the world that are also caring and it’s not exactly something different.

julie can also be quite self-righteous because she thinks she knows what’s best for people and just doesn’t realize she may bring harm.

aesthetics

colorful striped tops, lazy sundays, sunbathing, single-colored sunglasses, ponytails with ribbons, white blouses with collars, cup of tea, clothes organized by color.

style

she’s known to wear black mary janes, neutral colors or single-colored outfits, and is usually seen wearing blouses with skirts or dresses. once in a while, she’ll wear a patterned top or bottoms.

headcanons

she’ll always have necessary things in her bag. such as snacks, band-aids, tylenol, tissues, etc.

as she dreams of being a fashion designer, she has sketchbooks filled with clothing designs.

she has a small orange kitten named oliver (because of oliver & company)

--LAYLA EVANS

* danielle campbell. twenty-eight. cis female. she/her. | did you see layla evans this morning on main street? i heard they weren’t heading towards the protests. they’ve been in ballard for all her life and last time i spoke to them, they were a worker at twice new and housekeeper at horizon suites. if i remember correctly, they’re a leo and they remind me of matching lace bras & thongs, waves crashing against the shore, piggyback rides probably because they’re adventurous and stubborn.

about (tw: mentions of death & abuse)

one would think she’s the happiest girl alive with her parents. they would spend a lot of time together, watch layla during her ballet recitals, and eat dinner at the dining table every night. things were immediately different the moment her dad passed away when she was nine years old. since then, her mom began ignoring her because of how much the girl reminded her of her husband. layla learned to take care of herself soon enough.

things were spiraling down from there. once she was in middle school, she started rebelling and causing trouble. she destroyed properties, stole from stores, etc. when she became a high schooler, she started failing classes and took summer school, partied almost every night, drank a lot, and almost got expelled. the only reason she didn’t was because her advisers and teachers gave her a second chance to improve. she ended up taking it. by her junior year, her behavior was improving gradually and worked harder at bringing up her gpa. the reason why she took the second chance was because of her dream to be a best-selling author and to go to college. which she was accepted into.

nonetheless, she may not be a writer at the moment, that doesn’t mean she plans to forget her dream. she just wants to use up more time to improve on her writing. she’s talked to multiple publishers and is just continuing to grow for now.

tl;dr she’s had a rough past and just wants to be a best-selling author.

details

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character aesthetics + inspo

n/a

traits

adventurous, childish, impulsive, obstinate, promiscuous, valiant, vulgar

personality

layla’s very outgoing and sociable. she loves hanging out with people, whether it’s going to a party, drinking, going out for food, road trips, or just having a simple picnic or laying on the ground to look at stars. she’s just always looking to have fun and definitely a party animal. almost any party you see, she’ll be there. 

she also stands up for those who are close to her heart and can be reliable as she’s there for them no matter what. 

nonetheless, once in awhile she’ll get an idea and quickly act on it. and even though she can be wrong at times, it does take her a moment to admit it.

aesthetics

a journal full of words, matching lace bras & thongs, waves crashing against the shore, piggyback rides, the comfort of someone being there, wanting to hear the words ‘i’m proud of you’, hands gripping bed sheets, police sirens, worn out ballet shoes.

style

basically her fashion consists of all kinds of shorts (mainly booty shorts and ripped ones), crop tops, oversized hoodies and shirts, spandex shorts, tops that show off cleavage, fishnets, and occasionally skirts + denim, ripped jeans. 

she has a few very nice dresses too.

headcanons

she has this tattoo on the back of her left arm and this tattoo in the same area.

she’s bisexual and proud of it.

other labels that can define her: the dirtbag, the halcyon.

one of her most prized possessions is a necklace her dad gave her.

--FRANKIE SULLIVAN

* chloe bennet. thirty-one. cis female. she/her.  |  did you see frankie sullivan this morning on main street? i heard they weren’t heading towards the protests. they’ve been in ballard for 2 months and last time i spoke to them, they were a ceo of a florist company. if i remember correctly, they’re a virgo and they remind me of a hot cup of starbucks coffee, plants scattered throughout the bedroom, reading alone in a library probably because they’re generous and reserved.

about

a girl who was born in las vegas, nv. she had wonderful parents that divorced when she was fourteen. however, she didn’t mind it at all. she was happy as long as they were. plus, she wanted a bigger family, so if they were going to remarry to other people, she was oddly okay with it too. mainly because of how she always wanted a bigger family since she’s an only child. eventually, that was what happened. five years ago, her dad remarried and soon, frankie had a step-mom and step-sibling. at first, she cared about them due to how much family already meant to the girl, but as months became years, she soon grew suspicious over the relationship between her step-mom and dad.

years ago, she was betrayed by her closest friends and now has a cynical view because she wasn’t able to forgive them. she was told multiple times to get over it, but couldn’t. she continued to wonder how people can be so close then do something harsh to another. it still astonishes her now and from that point on, she didn’t really let anyone into her life, thoughts, or feelings.

tl;dr one who prefers being with plants than people

details

pinterest

character aesthetics + inspo

n/a

traits

adaptable, distant, generous, grouchy, reserved, responsible

personality

she tends to be pessimistic because of her past and doesn’t want history to repeat itself, so she tends to not get too close to others. she may have two or three friends, but that’s about it. plus, she can be quite rude and cold-hearted to push others away.

however, she’s also very giving when it comes to charities because with so much money, she still wants to be kind to others, especially those who are in need.

when things change in her life, however, she faces them head on and is just calm about it.

aesthetics

walk-in closets but wearing the same 5 outfits, walking through trails, smelling fresh air, having polaroids of flowers, black hair ties, not needing glasses but wearing them for fashion, stacks of books that were actually used and read, a hot cup of starbucks coffee, plants scattered throughout the bedroom, a person reading alone in a library, being the wallflower at a party

style

most of her style is denim and single-colored tops with a lot of neutral colors. she tends to leave her hair longer than her shoulders and mainly leaves it down, but will put it in a ponytail once in a while.

headcanons

can be labeled as the anthomaniac or the recluse.

she comes from old money from her dad and new money from her mom.

the idea of frankie was originally from wanting to play a flower child, but not in a stereotype way.

she owns a florist company, but wants to place a shop in ballard.

she has this tattoo on her side.

her whole apartment is filled with plants, real and fake.

she has an ex who cheated on her when they were dating.

frankie prefers to use her time indoors watching movies/tv shows, taking care of her plants, reading, or simply going on the internet. 

if anything, she’s mainly the type to have a one night stand, but has kept only three or four friends with benefits all her life. and has one or two close friends.

--DYLAN GRAYSON

* rose park. twenty-four. cis female. she/her.  |  did you see dylan grayson this morning on main street? i heard they weren’t heading towards the protests. they’ve been in ballard for five months and last time i spoke to them, they were a voice actress & influencer. if i remember correctly, they’re an aries and they remind me of red lipstick, dealing with chaos behind doors, uploading youtube videos probably because they’re driven and shallow.  

about

since she was a baby, she was already adopted by mr. and mrs. grayson, a well-known old money family. past generations owned a huge company for properties and built malls across the country. which didn’t seem like such a big deal to the girl growing up. all she cared about was belonging somewhere and being with a family. she was even happier to have grown up with siblings. even her biological parents hardly came to mind because she was happy where she was. however, the older she became, the more chaotic her family seemed. there would be scandals written in articles about her family, secrets being revealed, and it felt dramatic fights happened almost every week. nonetheless, it didn’t matter to the girl. she was extremely loyal to her parents and siblings. she swore she’d do anything for them.

for her childhood, she grew up in ballard and she’s loved the town deep down. she thought about how cute the place was and cherished everyone. a reason why when she left during the beginning of high school, she was quite sad for a while. soon enough, she got over it though. she attended a private school, made friends with multiple people, and eventually graduated. moving onto college, she went to nyu then later on received both bachelor’s and master’s in business. during her time in college, however, the town centre mall was already built and didn’t hear word of it at the moment. eventually, thinking she was mature enough and able to handle it herself, she was given the town centre mall as a gift at the age of twenty-four.

tl;dr she was adopted from a rich family, that she loves very much, and now owns the town centre mall

details

pinterest

character aesthetics + inspo

the carringtons (dynasty 2017), fallon carrington (dynasty 2017), serena van der woodsen (gossip girl), stella (winx club)

traits

ambitious, cautious, driven, loyal, protective, shallow, materialistic

personality

she’s very determined and hard-working. when she wants something, she’ll do better than doing her best and work on getting it.

with being materialistic and shallow, she tends to think about appearance first. during her high school years, she 

aesthetics

microphones, red lipstick, dealing with chaos behind doors, uploading youtube videos, studio booths, scripts, shopping bags with expensive brand names, diamond necklaces, family portraits

style

80% of the time, she’ll be seen wearing a dress or matching 2-piece outfits. the other 20% are filled with patterned tops, jeans, faux fur coats, and skirts. a bit less than half of the dresses she own are sparkly too. while her shoes are mainly high heels and knee boots. as for her hair, she mostly leaves it down. she’ll also be seen wearing jewelry everyday.

headcanons

the girl just loves to go shopping. she’ll take anyone to go shopping with.

the reason one of her occupations is voice actress is because during her summers in high school and college, she took up jobs in voice acting since she wanted to go out into the entertainment business for a while, but didn’t quite feel comfortable singing or acting for tv shows and movies. she just preferred being in a booth and saying lines.

as for influencer, it started during her high school years as she mainly gave fashion advice and worked on make-up tutorials.

[douxreviews]

The Handmaid's Tale - ‘Unfit’ Review

"I've never seen anyone so devoted."

Like the Canadian story line, the flashbacks in this show are often a welcome relief from the horrors of present day Gilead. This time, not so much.

Let me start by saying that Ann Dowd is absolutely awesome as the fearsome Aunt Lydia, and a flashback to her past should have done more to explain her character. Instead, even in her past, Lydia was taking children from their mothers while pontificating about her good intentions. She is just as conflicted and confusing as she always was. Maybe there's just no explaining people like Lydia. Or anyone who fits in Gilead.

Lydia Clements was a fourth grade teacher who used to work in family law. She went from judging Noelle, a poor young mother with a bad job, to helping her financially and giving her emotional support (which was lovely), to initiating legal proceedings that successfully took Noelle's son Ryan away from her. A remarkably bad thing that followed a remarkably good thing, and note how Lydia's clothing and hair style changed from loose, comfortable and attractive to a Gilead-like shapeless outfit and restrained bun.

This was tied in to Lydia's possible new boyfriend, Principal Jim. Lydia and Jim seemed so well matched: both were single again with careers in education, and clearly religious since they both quoted the Bible in casual conversation. Jim even said grace in the karaoke bar before they ate. (Karaoke "Islands in the Stream." Too cute, and adorably out of character for Lydia.)

Why would their aborted lovemaking on the couch push Lydia over the edge into such overwhelming shame, into violently destroying her own image in a mirror? Was it because she finally allowed herself to acknowledge her own sexual needs, and being rejected was too heavy a blow? For that matter, why did Jim stop? His wife died three years ago. Was it really too soon for him, or did her aggressive move on the couch turn him off? And why did this incident make Lydia turn on Noelle? Because Noelle had encouraged her to date again, had given her makeup?

Tying this into our lead character, we've all been wondering how June is still alive considering how badly she's been acting. I think June is too angry right now to be frightened of what could happen to her. Maybe Aunt Lydia sees June the way she saw Noelle, as someone she would try over and over again to push in the right direction – until she didn't. This doesn't bode well for June.

I enjoyed the three gossipy aunts around a table matching Handmaids to Commanders more than the flashbacks. This was background that we needed. Aunt Lydia complained about June's misbehavior, but then she talked about June being misled. "We never had issues with Ofjoseph before the Waterfords. A problem household, to say the least. And she was there for all that business with Emily." Aunt Elizabeth added, "And Lillie." It's an explanation for why June is still alive and undamaged. Not a great one, but an explanation.

During the almost comical testifying scene in the gym, June did acknowledge that Frances' death was June's fault, and that Hannah would suffer for what June did. And then June took that opportunity to turn on Ofmatthew, saying truthfully that Ofmatthew didn't want her baby. We learned that Ofmatthew thought her baby was going to be a girl this time, and she didn't want to bring a daughter into Gilead. I so can't blame her.

During their shopping trip to Loaves and Fishes, June smiled as Ofmatthew snatched the guardian's gun and went on her desperation spree, and then she nodded when Ofmatthew was aiming the gun at her. I think June was ready to die. When Ofmatthew changed her target to Aunt Lydia, I was yelling, "Kill her!" Sadly, no. The death of Ofmatthew and her possibly female fetus, along with the death of Ofandy's baby girl, felt like a metaphor for the murderous sickness of Gilead's culture.

Racism in Gilead

This is the second episode in a row that featured the horrible death of a black woman. It's also the first time race was so much as mentioned. During that fascinating scene with the Aunts and the sherry and the files on the lazy susan, Aunt Lydia said that one of the Commanders didn't want a Handmaid of color. Racial prejudice exists in Gilead, but it is kept on the down low. Under the table, pun intended.

Critics of this show talk a lot about intersectionality, how jarring it is that Gilead is all about the misogyny while racial issues don't seem to exist, and really, I totally get that. It's a major change from Atwood's book. In reality, a fascist, misogynistic society like Gilead would almost certainly be deeply racist as well. I initially thought I understood why the producers made this decision. They wanted the focus of this fictional dystopia to be the oppression of women, period. There is also the practical consideration that if they had adhered more faithfully to the source material, the entire cast of this series would be white.

While I was thinking about what I would write about this episode, I realized that I hadn't thought through that assumption. They could have kept Gilead logically racist by having Handmaids of color while all of the Commanders and Wives were white. White slave owners in the past often raped and impregnated their black slaves, didn't they? And of course, June could have still had a black husband and daughter. I wonder why they didn't go that way? It would have made a lot more sense.

More glowing comments about the photography

As usual, the photography in this episode was spectacular. I was particularly struck by the from-above shot of Handmaids circling Ofandy with comfort and hugs, June in the snow with a red umbrella on her way to Loaves and Fishes, and the camera attached and moving with Ofmatthew's gun. The most striking was the line of red blood on white tile as Ofmatthew's body was dragged out of the store; it reminded me of the red ropes they use for hanging.

And the flashbacks were so pretty that they often looked unreal – the diffused lights on the Christmas tree, the sparkling clothing and hangings at the nightclub, the New Year's Eve glitter. I'm sure that was on purpose. The unreality, I mean.

Do they celebrate Christmas in Gilead? Has it been mentioned? It seems unlikely. But I didn't think they would have dancing, either.

Bits:

— The name of Hannah's Martha wasn't mentioned in the previous episode, but here, the very first scene started with June talking about Frances, and what an ordinary life she led before Gilead. Much like Lydia.

— Janine was kindness itself toward Ofmatthew, and when Ofmatthew lost it in Loaves and Fishes, she beat the crap out of Janine. It would have made more sense if Ofmatthew had attacked June, instead.

— During the birth scenes and the testifying, the Handmaids were acting a little like a bitchy high school clique. "Crybaby! Crybaby! Crybaby! Crybaby!" actually made me laugh.

— June told Joseph Lawrence that he wasn't protecting Eleanor, he was suffocating her. Lawrence didn't take the bait. I'm starting to think the Lawrences are in danger. Gilead turns on its own on a regular basis. No one is safe.

— The Lydia/Ryan twenty questions scene that opened the flashback began with Ryan asking, "Am I alive?" I wonder. Is he?

— Gold acting stars for Ashleigh LaThrop, who played Ofmatthew. I wish we'd known her character's real name. Maybe we'll find out what it was at the beginning of the next episode.

Quotes:

Aunt Lydia: "Tell your friends to cool it." June: "I'm sorry, Aunt Lydia. I don't know what you're talking about. You want to take my tongue out? Burn my arm? Better hope they don't need me on TV again for Nichole."

June: "How did that rhyme go? The one we'd jump rope to? Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief. A game to tell what our children would grow up to be. The list is a lot shorter now, especially if it's a girl. Martha, Jezebel, Handmaid, Wife." What about "Aunt"?

Noelle: "You're a fucking coldhearted bitch!" Lydia: "I forgive you."

Aunt Lydia: "Sometimes it's the apple, and sometimes it's the barrel." Aunt Lydia has decided it's the barrel this time. She wants to transfer June to another household. Uh oh.

June: "I hurt her. and I enjoyed it. The wives and aunts, too, grieving over Ofandy's dead child. And Lawrence. They all deserve to suffer. It's an acquired taste, seeing others in pain. Like that smoky scotch Luke got as a gift once. I grew to like that."

June: "I finally know how Oflgen felt, what made her put on that bomb vest. […] And I know how Emily felt, right before she stuck a knife in Lydia's back." Again, it sure sounds like June is ready to die.

This is the second episode in a row that I didn't much like. Two out of four smoky scotches.

---

Billie Doux loves good television and spends way too much time writing about it.

[mayquita]

Pictures of Reality (14/16)

Happy New Year everyone! Thank you so much for all your support and for continuing to give this story a chance.

Summary: Emma Swan returns to her birthplace, Storybrooke, in search of a fresh start after a life marked by abandonment and betrayal. After a year there, she finds the stability she needed and also the possibility of learning about one of her passions, photography. Killian Jones, a former British war reporter with a tragic past, establishes himself in the same town as an instructor of photography, following in the footsteps of his best friends, the Nolans. What will happen when their paths cross? Will their common passion for photography help them heal old wounds?

Rating: M (Language, mature themes, implied sex)

Warnings: Alcohol abuse, mentions of the loss of a limb in an armed conflict.

Other ships / Characters: Although, obviously, this is a cs fic, Snowing plays a major role here, mainly David. In fact, the story contains three different points of view, those of Emma, Killian and David. Also, Henry appears in the story as Regina’s adopted son but he is not Emma’s biological son.

Beta: I’d like to express my gratitude, as always, to my beta @jarienn972 I’m aware that you have had to deal with a monster of more than 100k words and English is not my mother tongue, so I value your effort even more.

Artist / art: Go visit @imagnifika’s blog and enjoy her amazing art.

Art for the prologue/ Art for chapter 1 / Art for chapter 2 and banner / Art for chapter 3/ Art for chapters 4-5  / Art for chapters 6-7/ Art for chapter 8 / Art for chapter 10 / Art for chapter 11 

Special mention to @saraswans , thank you so much for your perpetual support, for believing in me when I doubted myself and for offering ideas to make this story grow.

Don’t forget to go read and enjoy the rest of the amazing csbb stories and art.

Word count: ~ 4100 (116k total in 16 chapters)

Also on (From the beginning): Ao3 / Ffnet (Current Chapter) Ao3 / Ffnet

Tumblr: Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10  Chapter 11  Chapter 12

What to expect from this chapter?  We’ll see how the relationship between Emma and Killian develops now that there is no longer any secret between them. Besides, will Emma be able to forgive The Nolans eventually?

CHAPTER 13

Emma Swan. Storybrooke - May 6, 2018

There was something intrinsic in the fact of dating a professional photographer, any excuse was appropriate to take out the camera and portray the world through it. Whether it was walking out holding hands but stopping every few minutes to immortalize the arrival of the blossoming spring to Storybrooke. Or spending a lazy Sunday morning under the sheets of her (their) bed, taking selfies and competing for who would get the most awful grimace (he always beat her, the dork).

Other mornings, however, Killian felt an impulse of creativity that made him wake up at dawn and grab the camera to satisfy his need to make art. He always told her that she was the one to blame, that she had become his muse and source of inspiration. And that her apartment was located in one of the best places in Storybrooke, at least at that time of the day, when the sun's rays fell directly on her window and made her glow - literally — his words.

From that morning after the first time-make up night, she had learned to secretly love those days. There was no doubt that Killian had become an expert in making the most of her potential and in making her feel powerful, able to achieve whatever she set out to do, whether it was getting a good close-up in a photo or leaving all her inhibitions behind to become a sexy improvised model.

She knew that today was one of Killian's creative days when she woke up alone in bed that Sunday morning in early May.

"Good morning, love. Are you up for a photo shoot?" Killian asked from his favorite place in the room for these occasions, her (their) old armchair.

She ignored him at first, stretching arms and legs, too lazy to leave the bed just yet. Something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye though, one of his button-up shirts, the black one made of a silky fabric, hanging on the back of a chair. Suddenly, the idea of the soft fabric sliding over her naked torso was too appealing to let it pass. After all, she also had her creative side, right?

She got up right away with a new purpose in mind, grabbing the shirt on her way to the bathroom and stopping only for a second to give Killian a quick peck on the cheek. "Just wait here." She murmured as she winked at him and kept walking without waiting for his reaction.

Once in the bathroom, she put on the shirt, which by chance, matched her tiny panties in color, leaving the buttons open and the sleeves rolled up to the middle of the arm. Next, she washed her face and brushed her teeth, put on her contacts and applied a light layer of lip gloss. Finally, she brushed her hair to add an extra shine to her golden locks. Once satisfied with her reflection in the mirror, she returned to the bedroom, ready to give a show to her boyfriend.

Before climbing back to bed, she cast a sidelong glance at Killian. Seeing him that way, positioned in a corner of the bedroom, camera in hand, as if waiting for his prey, ignited a spark of lust inside her, eliminating any possible previous reluctance as she offered him what he was looking for.

She sat back on her heels with her back to him, letting the shirt slide down one of her shoulders, leaving it bare. She turned her head slightly, giving him a seductive look over that shoulder, while putting the tip of her index finger between her teeth.

"Bloody hell, woman." He growled from behind his camera, making her almost lose her pose in an attempt to prevent an incipient smirk from drawing on her lips.

She let him take a few pictures, staying in that position with only slight changes. Then, following his instructions, she tried a new posture, this time sitting in front of him, leaving the shirt open enough to reveal only a glimpse of her curves.

There was something impossibly appealing in Killian's stance, a mixture of professionalism as he helped himself, holding the camera with his stump and watching her through the lens with a clinical eye. But there was also something more primal, only revealed when his eyes slid from the visor to her body, offering her a hungry look that had the ability to make her skin tingle with anticipation. The fact that he was shirtless and that his pajama pants did nothing to hide his arousal, far from deconcentrating her in her improvised task of posing for him, caused her postures to become much more suggestive and her gaze to be much more provocative.

The photo shoot ended earlier than expected though. Before she could react, Killian was over her, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss with the ability to take her breath away. She resisted, still reluctant to finish the seduction game that she was enjoying too much.

"I wanna see those pictures." She managed to ask as she tried to reach for the camera Killian had dropped on the bed.

"Later." He mumbled pressing even more against her, his teeth playfully nipping at her bottom lip.

Her resolution began to dissolve as she held back a moan bubbling in her throat, her blood running hot and spreading a burning sensation all over her body.

Still, she tried again, distracting him with the first thing that came to mind, while she reached for the camera. "I'd like to choose one of those photos to upload to Instagram. Or maybe I'm not allowed to share photos of half-naked women either?" Although her voice came in a shaky exhale she hoped to have endowed it with enough innocence.

He raised his head looking for her gaze, the blue of his eyes almost gone. "Two things, darling. First, you are allowed to upload whatever you want to the bloody Instagram. And second, I'm really tempted to share the marvel I've got for girlfriend with the rest of the world, but I prefer to keep you to myself."

"Just for the record, you are not allowed to share photos of your naked girlfriend on Instagram. Although maybe I wouldn’t be opposed to the photo with the bare shoulder…” The diversionary maneuver was enough for her to finally grab the camera and sneak out of his arms. "It's my turn, now. So go and pose for me, Jones."

Killian's eyebrows went together in confusion, as if he had not yet processed what had just happened. When he finally seemed to realize what she was planning, his eyes widened. "You can’t be serious, love."

She stood up, moving away from his reach, holding the camera in the most professional way possible. "I assure you I am, buddy."

"Look at me, Swan." He complained through a hiss as he pointed his hand at his more than prominent tent in his pants.

"I learned from the best, professor." A spark of interest appeared in his eyes, while he gave her a predatory look. "Give me your best, Killian, and I promise you will have your reward, later." A wave of heat flowed to her core, in anticipation of what he would be able to do, as she bit her bottom lip and watched Killian through the lens.

She definitely loved her life now.

//

Gone were those times when she had no choice but to share her photos with herself, or when she had to settle for taking selfies or taking pictures of random people in the streets, since no one had stayed around her long enough for her to reveal her passion.

Now photography was present in practically all facets of her life, but Emma wasn't going to be the one to complain, not when the fact of living surrounded by photos implied that Killian's image was always present, even though they were physically separated at some points.

It was not that they were separated for long, really. From the moment they had made peace, resuming their relationship, she had begun to add new routines to her life, in which Killian was always included.

Now, two months later, they spent most of the nights sleeping together in her apartment. That first night of make-up sex had been the prelude to many ardent nights, full of passion, nights where they buried their inhibitions while discovering all the secrets of their bodies and the magic that they were able to create together.

The dark room of his apartment, a witness of his first kiss, now also hid the secret of insatiable encounters, the faint red light causing the flame of lust to ignite at the very moment when the door closed behind them.

But dating Killian Jones not only meant enjoying the best sex of her life, it was more, much more. If she had already fallen for him despite his stormy gaze and the burden he carried in his very soul, now that he was dropping layer after layer, revealing his true essence, Emma's feelings towards him had grown with such an intensity that she sometimes felt a kind of vertigo seizing her.

That feeling could be overwhelming at times, but she had stopped being afraid to feel and express her feelings towards others. It was as if, once she had admitted that she loved Killian (at least to herself as it was still too early to express those words aloud) the walls around her heart had finally fallen down, leaving before her a new and unexplored path, with some dangers lurking, but also full of promises.

For the first time in a long time, she could say that she felt happy, experiencing a normal life, hanging out with her friends, going out with her boyfriend, or going to double dates with the other new couple in town, Elsa and Graham. She had even begun to consider the possibility of not keeping photography as a mere hobby but of continuing to expand her knowledge in an official manner.

There was a small parcel of her heart that still remained closed though, its access almost impenetrable. Her parents. Two months later, she hadn't been able to forgive them yet, the betrayal in the form of a bleeding wound still too fresh.

That was not entirely true, she had indeed forgiven them for having given her up for adoption, even though she hadn't felt strong enough to hear the full story.

What had hurt her most had been their later behavior, the fact that, in the first place, they had taken advantage of Killian's blind loyalty to them, and also that they hadn't trusted in their own daughter to tell her the truth and would have been content to stay by her side as mere friends.

Killian had tried to bring up the subject several times, always tentatively, knowing that he shouldn’t push or he would end up getting the opposite effect.

She appreciated those attempts, she really did, because she was aware that he not only did it for his friends, but also for her because, according to him, she deserved to have all the love in the world - especially that of her own family after so many years without it. But it was as if something inside her, like a protective instinct, prevented her from taking that first step that would bring her closer to them.

But she was frankly tired of that situation, tired of the fact that each time she entered her bedroom, even if she tried to ignore it with all her strength, her gaze inevitably landed for a few seconds on the closet door that hid the box containing fragments of her past in the form of a handful of letters.

She also felt bad for Killian, for the fact that he had to compartmentalize his life in such a way that his girlfriend and his best friends —his family— didn't coincide in the same place. He had not stopped seeing them, she did not have the heart to even think about it, but he clearly proceeded with caution, afraid to say or do something in relation to them that could affect her. It was unfair to him.

Since David's visit to her apartment, she had barely met them, only on occasion had she run into them while walking down the street, or had they met by chance at Granny's, generating such an awkward situation she sometimes ended up crossing to the other side of the street to avoid them, or swallowed her food quickly in a desperate attempt to spend as little time as possible under the same roof as them.

Deep down, she was aware that it was up to her to end this situation once and for all. Sooner or later, she would have to trust them, at least to let them explain themselves. The idea of being able to add another level of normalcy to her life, including her family, was also becoming more appealing. The problem? She hadn't the faintest idea how to do it without getting even more damaged in the process.

Maybe it would be a good idea to start with small steps, such as not running away each time she met any of them.

David Nolan. Storybrooke - May 8, 2018

"How is she?" David asked Killian, knowing in advance that the answer would be the same as the one from the previous day.

"She's fine, Dave." Killian always answered like that, in an almost apologetic way. Then he would go on to tell him some small detail related to his daughter, with the simple purpose of getting him to keep her close, even if it was indirectly.

They had agreed to meet at Granny's for lunch, like every Tuesday since Killian had started the new course. In fact, Killian was busier than ever. It seemed that his talent was beginning to be recognized on this side of the ocean and more and more people were interested in learning through him everything related to the world of photography, expanding to the point that he had decided to start a free online course so that any interested person could acquire the basic knowledge. Art and talent do not understand money , it was one of his mottos, which he put into practice whenever he had the chance.

Even so, he always managed to share moments with his friends. Tuesday lunch had become a tradition added to the already existing ones, such as Sunday lunch in David's apartment, breakfast with Mary Margaret on Mondays and Thursdays and his sporadic collaborations in the newspaper.

It was evident that Killian was making great efforts to keep their relationship intact despite what happened with Emma. He couldn't be more grateful for it, but that also meant adding even more burden to the guilt he endured. His actions should not affect his friend in that way.

"She is seriously considering quitting the job and starting to study to become a journalist." Killian's voice brought him back to reality. The pride evident in the words of his friend, matching the one he felt. "You know that from what happened, her relationship with Regina has not been the same again. If she keeps the job, it's just for Henry, frankly."

"I guess it runs in her blood." David could not help but smile at the thought of his daughter following in her father's footsteps. "And as for Regina, you already know that my relationship with her has always been complicated. But she found our daughter after all, so I guess in a way, I'll always be in debt to her." He admitted, although he was still angry at her for being the one to confess the truth without caring about the consequences.

"It was Emma who found her way back to Storybrooke in the first place. Regina only offered her a way to stay." Killian replied in a harsh tone, not bothering to hide his dislike for the mayor. He did not blame him, honestly. Regina's action had caused his relationship with Emma to nearly end.

The little bells above Granny's entrance door announced the arrival of a new client, capturing the attention of both friends, who were sitting at the counter.

David's heart skipped a beat when he realized that it was Emma the one who had just arrived, as if she had somehow been summoned. When her gaze met him, she remained still for a moment, her eyes wide in surprise.

David could not prevent a sigh of resignation from escaping his lips. He was not surprised by her reaction, it had always been the same in recent weeks. He even anticipated what would happen next. She would approach Killian, murmur any excuse and leave in a few seconds.

In fact, once the initial impact was overcome, she began to walk with hesitant steps towards their position. David cast a sidelong glance at his friend, who also seemed equally surprised at her presence there. He was looking at Emma as if there were no one else in the room, though, with a special glow in his eyes that had only begun to appear since he met Emma.

She barely had time to get to their side when Killian got up and greeted her with a kiss on the lips maybe less chaste than it should be appropriate in a public place. David looked away discreetly, still uncomfortable at such public displays of affection. Killian might be his best friend, almost like a son to him, but, in spite of everything, in his eyes, Emma was still like his little girl.

"Hi guys," Emma said after separating from Killian, a small smile adorning her lips, while she offered him a shy look. "I didn't want to interrupt you, I just forgot it was Tuesday."

This is new, at least she hasn’t ignored my existence, David thought as he tried not to read too much in her reaction. She was just surprised to see them, that was it. Even so, he decided to offer her an escape route so that she would not be involved in any kind of uncomfortable situation.

"I should go..."

"No," Emma cut him off, looking back at him. "I mean... it's not necessary. It's your day together, guys. I just came to grab something to eat... It's an excuse, actually, Regina was especially picky today. I needed a break." Emma was rambling, clearly nervous about the unexpected encounter, but at least it seemed that she was doing her part to keep a civilized conversation, so he was going to grab onto that even if it was the only thing she could offer at the moment.

"I can relate, Regina may be difficult to deal with sometimes." David offered in what he hoped was a carefree tone, but even so, he held his breath, waiting for Emma's reaction.

"Just sometimes?" Killian snapped, making an exaggerated grimace of disdain, causing a chuckle on David and a giggle on Emma, who took advantage of Killian's absent-mindedness to steal one of his onion rings.

"Hey, those are mine, get your own." Killian huffed, putting his hand and prosthesis over the plate in a protective manner while making a pout, which caused a new attack of laughter from Emma.

David remained there in awe, observing the scene without even daring to participate for fear of breaking the moment. She seemed so relaxed, so happy, that he had to repress the need to take a picture and immortalize the moment for eternity, his heart thudding in his chest.

After stealing another onion ring from her boyfriend, she caught the attention of one of the waitresses to place her order and then returned to them.

"So, Killian just told me you're thinking about starting to study to become a journalist, Emma." David commented tentatively, in an attempt to make that magical moment last a little longer.

"Yeah. I'd start in September. I guess it's something I've always wanted to do, taking pictures and telling stories." She shrugged, the corners of her sides twisting upward.

"It's a good idea. You know, anything you need, you can count on us." He offered, trusting her to grasp the true meaning of his words.

"Thank you." Emma nodded, her cheeks flushed slightly, while she held his gaze for a few seconds. The moment passed soon, though, as she refocused her attention on Killian.

His friend wrapped his arm around her shoulders, holding her close, as if he, with that simple gesture, was supporting her in some way, making her feel safe. Then Killian gave him an appreciative look, while nodding almost imperceptibly.

David was not sure that he would live long enough to thank his friend for all that he was doing for his family, making Emma happy and trying to build bridges between them. He only hoped that this was the first of many advances that would come in the future.

When Emma left a few minutes later, she turned around just before she reached the exit door, offering David a soft smile, causing the flame of hope in his heart to look brighter than ever. He couldn't wait to tell Mary Margaret.

Killian Jones. Storybrooke - May 9, 2018

Killian decided to spend the next morning locked in the darkroom developing photos, taking advantage of the fact that he had the morning off and that Emma would be working, which meant that she would not be a distraction this time.

Even so, he wasn't able to fully concentrate on the task. That room had already witnessed several amorous encounters between them although for him, the most important memory shared with her in this place would always be their first kiss.

Killian grabbed a photograph with the tweezers to extract it from the development liquid and hung it delicately on the rope he had placed for that purpose in a corner of the room. He couldn't stop his lips from drawing a smile when he observed the smiling face of Emma in that image. The memories of the previous day, when she had been relaxed for the first time in front of David came to his mind then, warming his heart.

Just when he was about to carry out the same process with the next picture, his phone started buzzing on the table. Unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Good morning, can I speak with Mr. Jones, please?" A polite, female voice asked from the other side of the phone.

"That would be me. Who is calling?" He replied cautiously while he held his breath. There was something in the woman’s tone that made him uneasy.

"I'm calling from Storybrooke's General Hospital, sir, since you were listed as one of David Nolan's emergency contacts and we haven't been able to locate his wife..."

"She is a teacher, she’s working right now." Killian cut who he supposed was a nurse off. At the same moment he had heard the word hospital, all his senses were on alert, while his heart beat frantically against his chest. "What happened?" He forced himself to ask in a controlled voice, holding the phone tightly against his ear.

"Uh, I'm afraid that Mr. Nolan has been involved in an accident. He was hit by a car..."

No.

A paralyzing panic crawled up his throat while his ears stopped working properly, preventing him from listening to the woman who was still offering him details. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to take a deep breath, letting out the air slowly through his nose in a desperate attempt to keep his composure.

"...he seems to be out of danger, but given that he has lost consciousness..."

"I'm on my way. Thanks for informing me." Killian cut the poor nurse again, feeling bad for a few seconds since she had been kind enough to him, but he could not waste more time, needed to take action before a new wave of panic gripped him.

He clenched his jaw and blocked any disturbing thoughts, burying any memory of the past that could take advantage of that moment of weakness to beat him.

Instead, he set himself a goal - pick up Mary Margaret on his way to the hospital and make sure his friend would be okay. He didn't contemplate any other option.

With that goal in mind, he grabbed his phone and wallet and left his apartment, cursing himself for not yet having been able to purchase an adapted vehicle that would allow him to get to his friend sooner. Instead, he had to literally run to school while wondering how he was going to break the news to Mary Margaret. Only at that moment did he remember that he also had to give the news to another person and his heart sank in the process. He would have to inform Emma that her father had suffered an accident.

//

Thanks for reading. Let me know what did you all think :)

There are only two chapters to go, the final chapter and the epilogue, so whatever happens to David, it can't be so bad, I'm not that cruel, am I? Also, Emma will read the letters, finally!

[notyourprettyboyxo]

Bonfire - 2

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Billy Hargrove

Warnings: referenced abuse, swearing, nsfw

Summary: It’s been five years since the events of season two. Steve has gone on with his life and he never expected to run into Billy Hargrove who has grown since that fateful night all those years ago.

Words: 1.7k

Read Part 1

Also on AO3

Let me know what you think!

Steve got home around four in the morning and tried to sleep again, he managed two hours before he was up again. The nightmare’s as raw as the day they’d begun, seeing Billy and with the upcoming anniversary of the incident didn’t help. He woke up instantly, rigid as a board and he had to work to unclench every muscle in his body. A headache had formed from clenching his teeth for the last two hours.  

Steve sighed and sat up, he ran a hand through his hair and looked at the clock. It was only six thirty in the morning. Fuck. He needed coffee if he was going to make it through the rest of the day on only four hours of sleep in total.

He filled his day with errands, getting groceries and cleaning. Something he’d been putting off for a couple weeks but he couldn’t help but hope that maybe he wouldn’t be coming back here alone and for that to happen, he needed a clean apartment.

Before he realized it, it was almost seven and he should have already been getting dressed. He was swearing as he dug through his closet for something to wear. Bet Billy wasn’t putting as much thought into this as he was. In the end, he put on a pair of tight-fitting black jeans that he knew made his ass look great and a dark red sweater. It was October after all.

He looked over his hair quickly, good enough. It was already 7:45 and it took at least a fifteen-minute walk to get to the bar. Quickly grabbing his coat he ran out the door.

He was late. Only five minutes but Steve had always prided himself on being on time. “Hi sorry I’m late. Lost track of time.” He sat heavily down across from Billy, shrugging out of his coat he sat back and looked at the man. He was dressed in a dark blue button down, only the top two buttons undone instead of the first five like in high school. The color made his blue eyes pop even more and Steve felt a pull in his lower abdomen. Fuck this man was attractive.

Billy smirked at him, “It’s fine. I got you a beer, but I can get you something else if you want.” he gestured to the bottle in front of Steve.

“A beer is great.” Steve gave him a small smile as he grabbed the drink. Something to wrap his hands around instead of fidgeting with them.

Billy ran a hand through his hair and cleared his throat, “I…thanks for coming tonight. I wanted to apologize for what happened years ago.”

“Why now?” Steve asked leaning back, his eyes narrowing as he stared at him.

“I haven’t seen you for years….and I…started therapy to handle the anger,” he said the second part so quietly that Steve almost didn’t hear but his eyes widened on their own accord.

“My dad was a manipulative asshole who took his anger out me and after that night Max made me realize I was turning into him and with her help I was seeing someone without Neil knowing,” Billy said it all without taking a breath like it was hard for him to even get the words out and Steve wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been the hardest thing he’d done. Billy wasn’t known for being honest or even open but something about that night years ago made him realize that he was on the wrong path.

Steve didn’t know what to say to the admission but it seemed like BiIly wasn’t looking for anything as he continued, “So I just…wanted to say I’m sorry. My anger shouldn’t have been taken out on you and it was wrong of me.”  

Billy looked at him through those fucking long lashes of his and Steve’s breath was caught in his throat and all he wanted to do was kiss him. He had to push the feeling down and deal with the matter at hand, he found himself nodding, “I forgive you. It’s all in the past now. You seem like a different person than the Billy Hargrove I knew in high school.” Steve reached out and put a hand on top Billy’s, which was resting on the table. He wasn’t expecting the heat to rush through him at the touch of his skin and from the widening of Billy’s eyes, he’d felt it too.

Billy cleared his throat and Steve pulled his hand away, his mind reeling, “I’m trying to change.” Billy said quietly, his hand going to wrap around the beer bottle, a blush was creeping up his neck.

Steve gave him a small smile, “I can see that.”

Billy met his eyes and one side of his mouth was up in a smile, Billy Hargrove had changed. He’d never seen anything resembling an actual smile on the man’s face. Then Billy was asking him about school and life and one topic blended into another and without realizing it hours had gone by until Billy looked at his watch and swore.

“Fuck. I’m sorry I have to go, my shift starts in a half hour.” Billy stood quickly and Steve glanced at the clock it was 11:30. Where had the time gone?

“You’re working tonight?” Steve was able to keep most of the disappointment out of his voice but apparently, some got through.

Billy looked down at him, “Yeah…weekends the best pay.”

Steve nodded, made sense, it didn’t keep the disappointment away though, “You walking?” Steve asked, standing up beside Billy. He hadn’t realized he was so close and when Steve stood his chest brushed Billy’s and he saw the man swallow hard.

“It’s only a couple blocks away. I figured I would.” Billy shrugged not meeting Steve’s eyes.

“I’ll walk with you,” Steve said and followed Billy once he’d nodded his acceptance.

They walked together in silence for a while until Billy said, “So we just go back to not seeing each other after this?”

Steve didn’t say anything for a minute, he didn’t want that. He wanted to see Billy again, something about this new Billy made him want to explore and discover, he hadn’t felt that way since Nancy. “I hope not.”

Evidently, that wasn’t the answer that Billy was expecting as his head shot up and he stared at Steve in almost muted shock.

Steve almost laughed at the look on his face, “What?”

Billy looked away again and even in the dark Steve could see him getting red, “I didn’t…I didn’t think you liked…”

Ahh. That’s what this was about. Steve shrugged, “I like boys and I like girls.”

Billy linked his hands behind his head, “wasn’t expecting that. Part of me always thought you were queer Harrington.”

“You’re not entirely wrong,” Steve said, a crooked smile on his face.

Billy looked at him, studying him, “guess not Harrington.”

The bar was just around the corner and Steve was sad to see that the walk was shorter than he thought, he enjoyed his time with Billy. Something he’d never expected to say.

They were passing the alley when Steve found himself pulled to the side and pushed against the wall. Billy’s mouth was on his and Steve’s hands grasped at the man. Heat shot through Steve as he kissed Billy Hargrove, it was all tongue and teeth, nothing refined. Slopped and hot as hell. Steve’s arms grasped Billy’s shoulders and pulled, trying to get closer to him.

When they broke apart both were gasping. Billy’s pupils were blown wide with lust as he stared at Steve, his lips swollen. Billy leaned his forehead against Steve’s, the blue eyes filled Steve’s vision, “I’ve been wanting to do that since high school.” Billy whispered.

Steve’s eyes widened, since high school? That was… five years ago. “Not bad Hargrove.” he laughed as he brushed a finger across Billy’s cheek.

“Guess I should take you on an actual date hey?” Billy asked before kissing Steve slowly.

Pulling away Steve gave him a lazy grin, “Gotta wine and dine me before you can get in these pants.”

Billy’s eyes flicked down and he seemed to lick his lips unconsciously, “I think I can do that Harrington.”

“See to it you do.” Steve pushed away from the wall, missing the body heat of the other man instantly, and reached into his pocket and took out a notebook. He scribbled his number on a piece of paper before handing it to Billy, “here, call me and we’ll organize it.”

Smirking Billy took the paper and carefully folded it and put it in his pocket, “will do. I’ll see you soon Harrington.”

He gave Steve one final look that did things to his insides before leaving, he was almost to the corner when Steve found himself calling out, “Hey Hargrove!” Billy turned around, an eyebrow quirked, “call me Steve.” and Billy let out a loud laugh before nodding. He lifted his hand in farewell before turning the corner and disappearing.

With a sigh, Steve leaned back against the wall. A date? With Billy Hargrove? There was something about the man that made Steve want him more. More than just a casual fuck. He wanted to see what made him tick. He pushed off the wall and started his way home.

It wasn’t long before he was home, lying in his bed and dressed in only his boxers. His mind couldn’t help but drift to the events of earlier that night. The way his body had pressed against Steve’s made him want more. Steve reached down and pulled himself out of his underwear, letting out a sigh as he wrapped his hand around himself. He thought of Billy’s lips and what they’d look like wrapped around his cock, Billy on his knees pretty pink lips stretched as he took Steve to the hilt. Steve thrust into his hand, imagining he was fucking Billy’s face. HIs hand wrapped around the blonde boy’s curls as he brought himself closer and closer to the edge. Just the image of Billy on his knees for Steve was too much and Steve was arching his back and letting out a gasp as he came in his hand.

Fuck he hadn’t done that in a while.

Getting up he cleaned off his chest before laying down, maybe he’d be able to get some actual sleep tonight.

[theuninspirednovelist]

comfortable : peacock loki 💚

Comfort.

That was the second word that came to Thor the moment he saw Loki after entering their home.

Comfort, a sense of belonging, relaxation and the slow vanishing of the tension in his shoulders and mind. He liked how comfortable Loki made him feel by sharing his life, by his presence, by sleeping in Thor’s bed, on his couch, draped over the back of Thor’s sofa, reading on his rug before the fire or on the roof.

His comfort made Thor feel comfortable.

The first word was magnificent. Unimaginably magnificent, Loki was, so absolutely beautiful.

Everything from his hair to his eyes, from his pale skin to the stunning plume he carried behind him everyday, making Thor wonder how he got this magnificent creature  all for himself.

Men had died pursuing enchanted creatures like Loki or gone mad after their obsession to capture them failed.

And here was Thor, one of the most beautiful specimens sitting on his bed, a soft toothbrush in hand, carefully brushing out the very tips of his tail. The stunning feathers were marked with gorgeous eye spots, which Thor loved. Many lazy days had passed where Thor lay on the floor before their couch as Loki read or drew, playing with these very feathers. He separated them slowly, gently, so as not to harm a single strand, them released them and watched them come together like the pages of a book, until the pattern was visible again.

Thor remembered the day he first saw Loki, the day they met.

God, it was one of a kind, never to be repeated, never to happen again for anyone in this world. Thor was the one chosen for that moment.

And oh, what a moment it was.

He’d taken a cabin for the summer, away from the hectic life of business and away from his nasty break up, post cheating. Thor was the one who deviated and couldn’t look at Jane for a month. He confessed and she threw him out, just like he threw away a three year relationship.

It hurt Thor that he was guilty rather than miserable. The truth was, they were hanging on to a dying relationship out of loyalty. Neither Thor nor Jane wanted to take it further not break it off.

It turned stagnant, then Thor destroyed it.

It was just easier to get a cabin here, to hide, to never want to come out. His brother was eager to manage the business and even suggested that Thor extend his vacation, as it were.

They found a cabin next to ‘The Enchanted Forest’, as they called it, and Thor moved there until he felt better enough to go back.

Turned out he would feel better sooner than anticipated.

There were people living here too, ‘enchanted’ just like the forest. They were touched by magic and evolved through the years. They had their own community here and though Thor had seen a few in the city, they were not common enough for it to be usual.

So when, on that particular day, when Thor woke after a dream that kept him restless and walked to his porch, a gentle shock waited to change his life forever.

A peacock’s tail cascaded from his roof, the plumes great enough to be royal. And beside it, swinging in time to the thoughts of the creature on his roof, was a foot. Pale, soft looking, with the sweetest pink heel Thor had ever seen, the foot swayed like a pendulum, hanging over his porch.

For a few seconds, Thor stared, mildly hypnotized by the foot, the graceful swell of the calf, the ankle. It was slightly artistic.

Unable to resist, Thor walked over to it, stared a moment longer, then reached up and ran his fingers lightly under the foot.

There was a soft gasp at the tickle, then the foot vanished. A few thumps sounded above him, then the tail shifted, pulled up hurriedly. Thor expected whoever it was to have left, but a moment later, an offended raven haired man glared at him upside down, his green eyes disapproving and a frown on his face.

“Don’t you have any manners?” his sharp voice asked “Hairy brute!”

Thor felt his lips twitch, then he grinned “Sorry, I’m not used to seeing people on my roof at this hour”

“This is not your roof” The man said instantly “I’ve been coming here for a year and have never seen you.”

“I’ve never seen you either, otherwise I would have remembered” Thor smiled

The man huffed, then retreated out of sight. A moment later, he extended both his feet and slid to the ground, turning to face Thor fully. His beautiful tail was straight and groomed behind him as he glowered.

“Why are you here?” he demanded

Thor couldn’t stop grinning “I woke up, wanted coffee, then came out when I saw you intruding”

The man gaped “Intruding...? This is my spot”

“And I rented it” Thor smiled “So technically, it’s mine”

Oh, that glare was just lethal. Thor loved it.

“You’re rude” the man concluded, then spun around “Good bye”

Thor’s smile fell “No, wait! Don’t go!”

He took a few steps forward, but stopped when the man turned,swiping his tail behind him with his ankle.

“Why?” he asked suspiciously “So you can drug me and sell me?”

“So I can ... what?” Thor laughed incredulously “Why would  I do that? I was offering you pancakes”

“All of you city dwellers are alike” he said “You take us away and put us in cages”

“That hasn’t happened in decades” Thor told him gently “And I won’t do that. If I try, you can stab me, I think you will like that”

The man slit his eyes, Thor could see him working things out.

“You will not hurt me?” he asked

Thor shook his head “I swear, I just came here to relax. I shouldn’t have teased you, forgive me”

“No” the man said “I won’t. Not yet. But I have a knife and I know how to use it”

“Fair enough” Thor beamed “I have an excellent cooking talent I know how to use too”

The man growled, his trail twitched behind him.

For a moment, Thor felt his stomach drop, he was going to leave, this magnificent creature was going to leave.

“We eat outside” he said “And you address me as Loki”

Thor barely resisted the urge to bow or curtsy to him.

Once he tried the pancakes, however, Loki was taken in. The entire time Thor was there, he came for breakfast, then vanished into the forest. Every day they talked, ate, then parted ways and Thor soon discovered these visits were the highlight of his day.

Without Loki, he feared his days would be empty. Now, at least he has a good meal once a day.

Loki didn’t trust him, not by a long shot. Thor took time, patience and gentility to coax some sort of bond with him. He longed to touch his tail but didn’t dare.

Loki would kill him.

He ended up listening to his brother and extending his stay and Loki ended up staying over later and later until he spent most of his day on Thor’s couch, reading his books. He loved to read, Thor noticed, taking up all the books Thor had one by one and reading them.

Some times he would read to Thor. On those days, Thor would sit on the floor, back against the couch, taking in every word. Loki’s voice was beautifully deep and fell over Thor like a warm blanket on a winter’s day. It was warm and gentle.

On one of these days Loki’s tail twitched and a single feather landed on Thor’s shoulder. Thor itched to touch it, but kept on him an iron will and restraint.

In return, Loki allowed it to remain there. He didn’t let Thor touch his tail. Sometimes he even disliked Thor looking at it.

However, slowly but surely, he managed to get comfortable around Thor and let him look as much as he wanted.

The first time Loki let Thor kiss him was a year later.

Loki was drunk. He’d remembered his father’s death and cried against Thor all night.

The second time, Loki was sober and Thor was still at the cabin. He hadn’t told Loki he’d bought it.

He waited for Loki to trust him, come to him, let him touch. He wanted to see that tail in it’s glory and he did.

Loki was comfortable with him now and he slowly spread his tail behind him, fanning it out for Thor to see.

It’s beauty broke Thor’s heart.

Magical, stunningly exotic, to the point where Thor was speechless. His eyes had gone from end to tip, his face openly shocked.

Gold, strands of gold and just as rare, tinted with a black line so fine it looked like calligraphy, decorated each side of Loki’s beautiful feather stem. They moved gently in the AC air, waving like the wisps of a cool breeze. The tips of each feather were iridescent blue and green coins, seemingly made out of sapphires and emeralds. The stunning marks completed the royal majesty of the image and that night, Thor dreamed of such colors as he held Loki in his arms.

Loki wasn’t immediately won over, but there were days he let Thor collect the feathers he shed, let him pick up those that fell when he walked and keep them safe, like flowers in the pages of a book. Thor didn’t keep them in pages, he had them all encased in glass, the ends curled and curved, the tops out on display.

They were beautiful and it brought tears to Loki’s eyes when he saw them. Thor wasn’t there to see, but that night, Loki draped his tail over Thor as they slept and Thor played with his ends.

“Thor?”

Thor blinked and looked up, brought out of his memories when Loki called him, looking at him with those fantastic green eyes, his hand still holding the toothbrush. One of his feathers’ tip was bent over his finger and Thor looked at it, smiling.

“Sorry, I was distracted”

In comfortable shorts and a T shirt, making himself easy on the bed and leaving a warm feeling in Thor’s chest, Loki sighed, pretending to be done with Thor.

A few minutes later, he extended his hand to Thor, holding out the toothbrush.

And Thor smiled, walking to him so he could take it and begin his delicate work of grooming Loki’s tail.

[wayneooverton]

All the mean, nasty and godawful hateful things people say to me online

Guys, why do people troll on the internet? Why are blogger hate comments a thing? Let this be the philosophical question of the day. Please, god, why? WHY? WHY?

And of all the people, why me? I’m a perfectly innocent little travel blogger over here, just minding my own business. The purpose of this blog is to inspire people to travel, what is so confronting about that? Move along. Why can people be so mean to me online? I don’t get it. I’m lovely, alright?

Just kidding. Sometimes I’m a shit stirrer. I stir the pot on purpose. If I see something I think is wrong, I say it. Also, god did not see fit to gift me with grace or tact. I am really good at regularly putting my foot in my mouth, often publicly. I also don’t know when to back away. And I’m cynical. Is this a recipe for a well-loved image? I’m not quite sure.

At least I’m real, right? Of all my flaws at least I like to think I’m authentic, the only truly honest blogger in a sea of vapid, shallow fools.

Stop talking, Liz. Like right now.

Anyways, it’s no secret, I get mean comments on the regular, so regular in fact that I have been doing annual round ups of the best mean comments I get every single year since 2012. I know I’m shamefully overdue on this post. I completely missed 2016.

2016 was an intense year for me, and when it came down to digging through comments looking for the horrible ones, I just couldn’t bring myself to go down that particular roller coaster. It was also the first year I started to get death threats. I just wasn’t in the mood. Can you forgive me?

Hate comments aren’t a novelty to me anymore, and they haven’t been for a long time. I’ve gotten tens of thousands of comments over the years, with a small percentage of them being ugly, and I’ve learned to just let them slide by in a giant wave of pity – I truly for sorry for anyone that takes the time to hate me so much online. Also, I’m probably laughing at you.

The best hate I got in 2015

The best hate I got in 2014

The best hate I got in 2013

The best hate I got in 2012

Also, I’ve really just stopped paying attention when people troll me; five years of regular trolls has given me armor. I went from being a delicate rose who bruised easily to a goddamn rhino. Go on, try and say something to mean to me. It can hardly be any worse that what I’ve gotten before.

And to be honest, it’s the same shit day in and day out. You’re privileged (yeah I know), you’re entitled (no I am not, thank you), you travel off your daddy’s money (HA, if you only knew…), you’re ugly, you’re fat, you’re stupid, you swear too much, you’re a know it all, you do this why don’t you do that, blah blah blah it never fucking ends.

Honestly, I yearn for the creative insults. I think my trolls have gotten lazy. Where’s the witty banter? The colorful backhanded comments? The passive aggressive DMs? They’ve disappeared into regular grammatically ugly “what a c*nt” and “how is this blog even popular” lazy comments. I mean for fuck’s sakes guys, if you’re gonna come for me, try a little.

But I digress. Back by popular demand, I’ve taken the time to dig through my work and find the best of the best blogger hate comments, the most entertaining, the ugliest, the cruelest, the worst hate comments I get just for you. Because at the end of the day, the only way we can deal with this BS is just to laugh. You’re welcome. Enjoy.

1. The most popular Facebook comment in response to an article about how I built my career in blogging

And if she wasn’t a young blond with a penchant for putting out to old men she’d be working at Officeworks for $15/hr

I want to start an argument about feminism here but just can’t be fucked.

2. And the second most liked comment on the same article 

The only thing worse than a human that resembles a vacuous opportunistic sponge is the plethora of parasites that aspire to be just that.

Just so we’re clear, I’m the sponge and you’re the parasite in this allegory.

3. Writing about how Jane Goodall inspires me to be better with conservation

You are not an “activist for saving the planet.” The number of flights you take each year creates more carbon emissions that most of us create in our LIVES. If you actually cared about the environment you would travel solely by bike and public transport with an occasional flight, not dozens of international flights a year. Get a grip.

I mean, fair point. I’d love some tips about biking overseas from the island of New Zealand where I live.

4. I really hate it when people don’t get sarcasm online on my how to cheat on Instagram

Teaching young people that life depends on Instagram. Thats great and people were wondering what was happening to our decaying society. Telling them that their popularity will increase if they sell their sexuality too. Wow what a true feminist you are. Pathetic. The whole millennial generation is going to be morally bankrupt.

I just facepalmed so hard.

5. Speaking of Instagram…

Not to be rude, just honest, but I noticed your photos have extremely low engagement for “168K” followers. I wonder if the companies who pay you notice this.

Guys, I’m literally one of the ONLY people who doesn’t cheat on Instagram! That’s why my engagement isn’t out of this world. But thanks for pointing that out.

6. That one time I wrote that Central Otago is one of the only regions in New Zealand that has four distinct seasons (which is true)

Seriously? The only region in New Zealand that experiences four distinct seasons? You need to travel more and drink less Pinot. I’m not even sure how I got your spam mail, but I live here, not just a FIFO tourist. If you want to trade travel stories, I’m sure you’ll lose.

You can’t make me drink less Pinot!!!! YOU CAN’T MAKE ME!

7. When I wrote a million years ago about things that I hate that people do on airplanes

Sounds like a person who wrote the original article needs more than Ambien. probably could use some Xanax and some Prozac also. when you travel on a plane you know there is also something called other human beings. Get a grip. judging by your photo, You’re not that cute or anything special…..

Hope you find the help you need.

Kisses!

You know, funny story. One time in Bangkok I went to a pharmacy to get some sleeping pills for upcoming long haul flights – sometimes in Southeast Asia I can get strong sleeping pills over the counter. They gave me Xanax, no questions asked. Best flight ever. In fact, imagine if Xanax was provided on all long-haul flights. Who do I need to speak to about this?

8. Any time I provoke the vegans, one of my favorite pastimes 

Me: writes thousands of words about wildlife, travel, sustainable tourism practices or about anything really

All of the vegans: You should consider going vegan

Me: but, bacon? So tasty.

All of the vegans: PITCHFORKS AT ATTENTION!

As a close friend used to say, do not negotiate with terrorists, Liz.

9. When I wrote a blog post about how to move to New Zealand as American (if you need some entertaining, go read through the comments) which is a minefield!

It is not your home. even if you wish it was it’s not, it is new zealands home. fuck off to your own home. leave mine alone… just fuck off back to usa and leave nz to be nz. stop telling people how to get here, we don’t want you. most nzers hate americans, you are boring n have no sense of humour, just fuck off bck to usa and leave nzers to our own country, plus u don’t get my point cos u dumb american.if u don’t want to be thought of a american sterotype don’t act like dunb american cunt….you are such a dunb cunt. this is why we hate you.

I can’t look beyond the grammatical and spelling errors in this, honestly I tried, but I can’t.

Yes go ahead pls MOVE out from US we don’t need weak, pathetic, ignorant ppl here who need “safe-spaces” You have been brain washed by fake media like cnn, fox, abc etc for too long

I just can’t.

Congratulations on proving again that liberal thought is shallow and feelings-based. Too much reading making your head hurt?

I’m literally the biggest reader you’ve ever met. Don’t even.

I read the first couple of paragraphs and had to stop. As a Trump supporter, I am offended by your words and will now stop following you. It’s really too bad that you offend some of your followers, here I thought I was following a travel blog. Please do move to NZ, because America will be better off without you!!

It’s ok, I’m ashamed to have had you as a reader.

That response obviously shows why 20 something women shouldn’t even have the right to vote.

*Begins to pull hair out of own head*

Im just trying to save you from having to take depression medication for the rest of your life thats all. What are you on now Zoloft or Prozac?

Neither, unfortunately. I sure could use one after reading this.

10. I appeared in a big NBC Dateline special about American’s moving to New Zealand and man, that opened the floodgates of crazy

Stay out of America you traitor bitch.

This was the first of many comments calling me a traitor.

STAY OUT OF AMERICA YOU BITCH. HOPE A HOBBIT KILLS YOUR SORRY ASS CUNT.

LOL!!!

STAY OUT OF AMERICA YOU BITCH. I hope a sheep kills you and your family you faggot, the USA is the best country ever.

Me: I feel so sorry for you

I feel worse for you, you no good commie bastard. Stay out of my country and fuck off cunt. Fuck you you no life blogger get a real job.

Me: You feel better now?

Yes, I’m living in the US of A #MAGA fuck. Cuck.

Me: Well I feel better living in a place with people nicer than you. And I have healthcare. And I can spell.

BOOM! How’d they do? What’s the worst thing anyone has said to you online? Do you get trolled? How do you cope? Spill!

The post All the mean, nasty and godawful hateful things people say to me online appeared first on Young Adventuress.

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