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formiito · 4 months ago

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Hello! May I request some pre-relationship/crush headcanons with Kunikida, Atsushi and (ADA) Dazai (all separate) with a reader from the port mafia? How would they realise they are in love? How would they handle it etc etc. I love love love crush headcanons with all my heart<33

heart to heart — crush hcs!!

author's note: i'm an idiot who wrote this fic almost exclusively in hours 2-4 am. my eyes are in pure suffering. an unhealthy amount of fiona apple and unreleased lana del rey songs went into writing this. idk how to write headcannons so this ended up kind of like a fic with bullet points lmao

— KUNIKIDA

• Working with the Port Mafia is something he is (unfortunately) no longer a stranger to. Still, an extended mission was a bit too risky for his tastes. But everyone said that he was fine, so he should be, right? If only he knew what novel sort of trouble he would face once he took the job.

• For the mission, he was partnered with you. You must've been of a different unit, because he is sure he has never seen you in person before. Except for being mentioned in passing by Dazai in his inane conversations, there was little he knew of you.

• At first, he was skeptical. Not sure whether he could truly trust a person with your affiliations to not double cross him in some way. However, you proved yourself capable soon enough. You worked with decisive efficiency, and even with his rather ridiculously timed schedules, you seemed to have no trouble keeping up with him.

• Needless to say, you two got to know each other fairly well over the course of a month. By now, you were acquainted atleast a little of his likes and dislikes. The late night sessions to plan out the routes and inspect the case files over and over; your friendship sprawls over late cups of coffee, the impatient scratching of pen on paper, and the files scattered on the table while you both worked.

• This was still professional; he'd reason with himself. So what if he's had a few drinks with you once in a while? So what if you've been spending a little too much time at his home lately?

• Dazai’s endless teasing on the matter did not help. At all. As he grows more and more defensive, he wonders if he has grown a little too attached to his new partner.

• Kunikida isn't an idiot. Even he can see how much you've made an impression on his life. He simply isn't ready to admit that this could possibly be romantic in nature. After all, you fit none of the ideals he's decided for his supposed future partner. In some form of pointed irony, the pages of the notebook that carry said ideals are also filled with the random, little things he's noticed you need; chapstick, switchblades, pens— all for them to be ready when you inevitably reach for them.

• Nor can he help stealing a little glance when said chapstick swipes so elegantly along your lips.

• Absolute gentleman, with or without a crush. Opens the car door for you on the other side, makes sure you have your seatbelt on, makes sure to watch your back while you both do field work. It’s just a nice thing to do, he reasons, but feels your touch like it was branded into his skin where your hand accidentally brushed on his elbow.

• The weeks that follow after are drawn out, confusing. As time goes on, he cannot help but read into your every action, taking note of all the little details that outline you as a person; from your tastes to little quirks. While you seem blissfully unconcerned, he could not help but feel the weight of the tension between your conversations. It is not these emotions that scare him, but their intensity. His hands tremble as they once again bandage your wounds from the day’s work, mouth dry as he looks at the gashes you think nothing of—and he wonders since when he started caring so much.

• Kunikida may be a man of his ideals, but he can be honest with himself when he needs to be. And whether he says it aloud or not, he’s already known the effect you have on him. He's known it for a long time.

• When he inevitably confesses to you, there is nothing special about it. It's another evening at his house discussing work, and when you both take a break from investigation, he brings it up to you. He isn't expecting the sentiment to be reciprocated. In fact, he is not sure he even wants that to happen. He says it to be honest. With himself and with you. You deserve to know. And perhaps if he said it out loud, the feelings would subside, even for a little while; with a definite answer, he’d have a reason to put out the growing ember.

• Nothing could've prepared him for the shock of learning that this troublesome feeling could possibly be mutual. And nothing could have prepared him for the coy kiss on his reddened cheek after.

— ATSUSHI

• someone help this poor guy

• no, he's really hopeless with it, but let me explain

• When he was asked to collaborate with the Port Mafia once more, he expected to be paired with Akutagawa once more. You were a pleasant change of pace. At first, he was only met with your suspicion; something that drove an initial rift between the two of you. You weren't sure whether you could truly trust this weretiger you've heard so much about to hold up his end of the deal, and neither could he rely on this complete stranger who regards him so frigidly. However, you both were indebted to your respective organisations—it had to be worked out.

• Your staunch independence, and the confident countenance that carried with it an understated superiority, no doubt the effect of years of experience; at first it irked him. It made him taste a little of the helplessness that trailed him like a shadow all those years ago. He attempted to chase away the feeling; biting back at your subtle digs at his skill and experience, trying to keep up with you as best as he could. You matched each other surprisingly well when you both were at your most competitive; the combination of your finesse and his strength was lethal in the most satisfying of ways.

• Over the weeks, you both get to know each other a little better. The small talks on the way to station were something that he was, despite knowing better, looking forward to. He always seemed more affected by your banter than you were by any retort he could possibly throw at you; and when the sly curve of your lip made him feel the strangest sensation of a sort of rush in his veins, he made no notice of it.

• After that morning, this strange feeling had been growing worse. Steadily through the days, but even so he could point out that the emotion that seemed to sit just beneath his chest was unfamiliar. Sometimes he had to force himself to look away from you just to get it to stop and actually be able to hear what you were saying over the erratic beat of his heart. It was blatantly obvious to everyone but him, and despite the constant teasing and prodding by Dazai on what’s got him so nervous, he still assumed it was merely admiration. Perhaps he was simply in awe of your abilities. For weren't you so impressive when you dispatch your targets so effortlessly, or when you execute such flawless plans with an ease in your mien that makes it look oh so simple?

• But then that begs the question as to why he still stares in a daze when you're doing nothing, just catching your breath in the wall crack you had pulled him into to throw off the people chasing you both; his back hitting the wall and you the only separation between him and whoever was at your tails, stalking the alleyway outside. Breaths held, not making a sound; if you both got caught, this was over, and you both understood the stakes better than anyone. He definitely knew just what was waiting for the both of you out there, and that just made the situation far more frustrating, because then why is he so absorbed in how pretty your jelly-like gaze is, or how cool you looked back there when you silently felled that patrol guard? He feels like his brain has melted. Or atleast the still working part of it, because it's not even the first time you've had that effect on him.

• Your hand tentatively shifts, and for a moment he snaps out of the daze. There is abject fear in his eyes, because what the fuck are you doing when the both of you are one slip up away from messing up this mission you both worked so hard on? Yet your fingers, trembling with the rush of adrenaline and the fear of death, wipe the blood on his cheek, observing a rather deep cut inflicted by the serrated edge of a dagger. He could take a hit, but for some reason worry seemed to claw at your mind relentlessly until you could make sure he was okay.

• Perhaps he'd stopped functioning right there and then, because when the footsteps receded and the coast was finally clear, he could barely hear you say that it was safe to come out. Instead, his first move is to hold his heart and take a deep fucking breath. Not just to calm him down from being chased like that—for he's already been chased so many times—but to stop thinking about that brief, soft touch that reasonably, should not even affect him.

• At this point, he's kind of convinced he's going crazy. And like so many problems in his life, there's only one other person to hear it. Coincidentally also the worst person to go to for that kind of counsel.

• Dazai.

• Bastard laughed for fifteen whole minutes before explaining in broken wheezes what Atsushi was possibly afflicted with. Then immediately began sighing and bemoaning about having to help his coworker with silly love problems once he finally stopped cackling like a witch.

• After this… enlightening conversation, Atsushi promptly decides that he's never going to be able to look the man in the eye ever again.

• Now, he's got a whole slew of new problems going on. This mission, you, the fact that he just embarrassed himself in front of his coworker, and that he had no idea how to even face you after this realization.

• Naturally, he wants to avoid this situation. Atsushi doesn't even consider telling you. He wants to, so badly. His throat feels tight when you look at him so sharply, and he can't help but feel that if he sticks around you for too long, you'll look straight through him and somehow find out. But he has every reason to think this won't work out. Every reason why it won't work out. It wasn't the time for love, not even in the small moments of respite between the constant violence you two had to deal with.

• This distance he's been keeping from you…there is no doubt that you feel it too. He can see as much. The disappointment in your gaze when he keeps on pushing you away; it hurts. And he knows with the way your hands are curled in fists now that you're at your breaking point.

• But instead of the argument he thought this would inevitably lead to, you simply pull him into a corner. In the most sincere tone he's ever heard you speak in, you ask him if you did something wrong. Between your deliberate words, your hands on the collar of his shirt that hold him in place with nothing but gentle firmness, and the emotions that he tried so hard to stifle for the past few weeks; he confesses. Leaves nothing unspoken, even if he consciously knows that this is a bad idea. Knows he shouldn't hand you that kind of power over his heart.

• Yet he doesn't regret it a single bit when he feels your hands leave his shirt collar and wrap around his shoulders, your silent answer that kills the bitter uncertainty left in his heart and replaces it with relief.

— DAZAI

• Your history with the brunet was brief, but not something he has ever forgotten. He’s not quick to forget faces in any case, but yours remained in his memory still.

• You both worked together fairly often some three or four years back, the timeline is blurry in his mind now—in those days, your presence seemed like it would be a permanent fixture in his life. Something to count upon. Perhaps he had hoped for the fact, until an year after when he finally decided to leave this life in the dust, and you with it.

• At the time, Dazai had dismissed those feelings as puppy love; the sort of infatuation that comes with simply being of that age where every emotion feels so amplified in intensity. You were one of his first friends, it was only natural to want to cling on, wasn't it? Only with time it became easier to ignore the hold your presence had on him, his mind too consumed with the ongoing chaos in his life to think about that craving he had during initial weeks of your separation— thumb trembling over the call button.

• A few years after, seeing your face stirs nothing in Dazai. A feeble sense of regret is all that remains, and within a few seconds even that dies off. You've changed, definitely; rough-hewn edges from mafia life, knife-hand no longer trembling when it goes for the kill. Decisive, swift movements, a certain confidence in your words that comes from experience. How the glimmer that used to be in your eyes has long since been clouded over. In a way, it makes him feel closer to you, that your soul is being slowly chipped away, just like his.

• Initially, you regarded him like any other professional acquaintance. Not daring to breathe a word of the past, even when you wanted to demand an explanation out of him so desperately. Anything to make the memories of your shared past more bearable. You know better than to give into those whims. If only for the sake of your mission, the past had to be put aside. Between the both of you, there seemed to be a mutual, unspoken understanding for the need to let go. Your slates are cleaned, and you both once again end up in the same place you started; Yokohama’s shipping docks.

• Over the weeks, being around you feels easier. You both work well into the nights, but it's a little more bearable around your company. The banter is easy between the both of you. Lips curved into a cheshire grin at his antics, you always seemed to be more amused with his actions than annoyed.

• Even now when he decides that diving head first into the sea would've made for a perfectly delightful method of suicide, a knowing sigh leaves your lips, painstakingly pulling him out of the fishnets with a firm grip on his beige coatsleeve. Of course, the effort is in vain when you lose your footing and end up falling into the water with him too. Splash!

• Somehow, even when he's walking home, sopping wet in the winter breeze, he feels strangely warm as you chide him, observing how your lips twitch as if to hide a smile.

• It’s your fault, really. Perhaps if you both didn't fit together so well, if it wasn't so effortless to be around you, he might have avoided feeling the same way around you again. It's not lost upon Dazai, how comfortable he's getting with your presence, especially when he knows it's a temporary one. A fact that he is compelled to face again and again everytime you both end up in the field.

• The danger they were facing were still very much real. Despite how confident you seem to be in your ability, your tight shoulders and shaky breaths betray you in the heat of the moment. Through your hesitation to follow through his plans, you still trust him at his word. He can't help but wonder why.

• Your actions hold a certain carefulness—he doesn't want to call it care, for when it comes to you, he finds it hard to tell what you're thinking—that he doesn't understand. As you wrap the gauze around the wound on his arm from a bullet graze, fingers touching his skin with a kind of gentleness he's only ever known from you… Dazai wonders when you'll finally tell him what you're really after.

• The brief thought occurs to him, no doubt, that maybe you do these things simply because you want to. That perhaps you still care too much, like you did all those years ago. But he knows better than to count on something as fickle as the kindness of people’s hearts. He was never that naive.

• Even so, as the long days and even longer nights pass by, he can't help but once again start feeling as he used to in the distant past, only that this time he has no excuse for it.

• Dazai doesn't blush and his heart doesn't race when he sees you. Instead, it's something far more sickening and confusing. With you, it's easier to drop the delicate layers of pretense that seem to obscure his true thoughts and emotions like delicate gauze. There is a sort of ease of being around you, a sense of belonging. In the delicate moments of the late night hours with you, humanity doesn't simply feel like a cloth to wear to hide the rotten core within. You touch him like you know him, even when he knows that the blood staining his hands is far darker than yours.

• You don't even have an inkling of how he feels, and Dazai believes that it's for the best. He’ll tell you in the future, if he can grow to trust you. He wants to say it when he can be sure of it, in a more peaceful time. Even if he doesn't want you to slip through his fingers again like he did in the past, he wants to wait.

• But right now, all he can see is your bloodied fingertips trembling in the aftermath of the day’s chaos, barely having escaped with your lives. In the silent night, neither of you mention how he holds your hand silently on the walk home, bandaged fingers holding yours with deliberate care.

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solbaby7 · 1 year ago

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Nothing Even Matters

pairing: cassian x reader

warnings: swearing, probably typos, some angst, mentions of trauma, some fluff

summary: When the only thing you want during your recovery is the very person who put you there in the first place.

[ part one ]

—

“How’s it feel?”

“Fuck you,” You seethe through your teeth, words slurred from the wires holding your jaw shut—only for a few days, they said with remorse but all you could feel was such all-consuming rage. Such intense anger because you couldn’t move your body how you wanted; your arm was stiff in the tight bandaging holding it to your body while the dislocation and fractures healed.

Azriel glanced over at Rhysand who was offering Madja a sheepish smile, hands tucked in his pockets as he stood beside you. “Believe it or not, that was a lot nicer than some of the other words she’s been stringing together.”

“She shouldn’t be talking at all. Healing from a broken jaw is no easy feat—talking before the bone properly sets can lead to us needing to rebreak it all over again.” The heated glare you send her way could’ve killed if they were sharpened swords and Azriel has to step in front of you to ease the stormcloud you were casting above the room. Madja doesn’t seem to mind, urging the spymaster to step aside while she began her assessment. “Follow my finger,” Your eyes narrow with hate but you comply after a beat of time. “Good, no noticeable neurological deficits,” She scribbles something in a notepad, noting down the amount of pain meds you’d been receiving and an update of your vitals. “Your swelling seems to have gone down significantly—does it still hurt when I touch here?”

The High Lord cringes at the stream of profanities that slam at the edge of his mind; an act you’d been subconsciously doing since the moment the tonics for the pain had worn off the first time three days ago. You’d shoved your anguish out as far as it would go, so hard Rhysand had choked on a breath, hands clenching at his sides as he put forth more effort than normal to keep his mental shields up. “She says yes.”

Your hand taps once at Azriel’s arm and when he looks at you, you give him a jerky nod of your head. “She wants to know when she can go home?”

Madja lowers the notebook, voice annoyingly calm and full of understanding; not deterred by your attitude in the slightest. In fact, she seems to expect it, smiling softly before speaking, “Have you been eating?”

Your hand slams down twice on the table before you.

It’s jarring; aggression was never something you’d displayed often, if ever, but Azriel only takes a step closer, nearly sitting on the edge of your cot with an arm wrapped around the back of your pillow.

“I’ll assume that’s a yes.” Madja continues writing, bullet pointing your behavior and way you reel in your snark for the shadowsinger beside you. “Have you been able to get to the bathroom on your own?”

Two more slams against the table but these are much harsher than the first, a cup full of water splashing at the sides and Azriel lets out a sigh. “Not on her own but she’s really close. The dizziness just gets to her when she’s standing for too long.”

Rhysand spares a glance at the towering frame standing in the corner behind them absorbing every word like a child experiencing the world for the first time. Cassian had been unbearably quiet, avoiding Azriel at all costs but he was the first who’d noticed you beginning to stir awake. He’d barely left, always getting caught with a rag and warm water, dragging at your skin gentler than fingertips on flower petals. Rhys had to knock Cass out himself when the med staff came to take you away, advising that the wiring was imperative but the General couldn’t stop screaming about how you’d already been through enough; about how you deserved a full day of peace before putting you through even more pain.

“Any other symptoms besides the dizziness?”

You hesitate, heated gaze faltering for a beat of time before you’re slamming your hand down once and Cassian waits a full thirty seconds; golden eyes boring into Azriel’s back, urging him to mention the nausea, the splitting headaches that had you gripping at the first hand you came in contact with for any sort of comfort.

But, Azriel doesn’t say a thing.

“That’s good, what about—“

“Headaches,” Cassian’s voice is raspy with such little use and he’s more than grateful for the brace preventing you from moving around too much because he’s certain one of those sickeningly sharp glares were being specially crafted with his name on it. “She gets headaches and throws up sometimes because of one of the tonics—it’s orange.”

Madja, ever the professional hums in acknowledgment, scribbling down more notes and a furrow grows at her brow. “Could be an allergy or maybe the mixture is too much on your stomach without solid foods yet,” She not even talking to you, just muttering her thoughts aloud while the others tense; awaiting your reaction. They wait for the ball to drop; wait for the throwing of the first item in sight. It wouldn’t have been the first time and Az’s shadows had gotten surprisingly good at predicting it, darkness darting before the window before you could smash it to pieces since Madja insisted she’d dock any damages from your pay. “Thank you, General, that was quite helpful.”

A full minute passes and still, there’s no yelling; no frustrated grunts or shouting in your mind—just utter silence and you’re too busy settling further into your pillow to notice Rhys’ curious stare.

“If you can manage no talking for seventy-two hours then I will clear you to finish your recovery from home,” You’re nodding before she can finish, Azriel gently pushing you back when you try to sit up in your excitement. “I mean it—I’ll know if you aren’t taking the physical therapy seriously. At least an hour of walking a day ; slowly so you don’t aggravate your ribs and I’ll take off the shoulder wrap if you swear not to do any heavy lifting of any kind.” You throw her a pointed look, a hand waving around to motion at the three men that had been permanently stationed around you.

“We’ll take good care of her.”

Madja exhales a steady breath, hands resting at her sides and way she regards you is nearly motherly; relief settling into her features when she can confidently say you’ll make it. “Then, I suppose you’re free to go.”

—

“Come on she said at least an hour.”

Azriel is a sturdy pillar before you, arms crossed and shadows incessantly tug at the thick duvet you’d been grasping at like your life depended on it since he barged in ten minutes ago. You grunt in disapproval, settling deeper into the mattress and you shield your eyes from the bright light steadily pouring through—even though you remembered closing the curtains last night.

“You’ve already skipped breakfast and lunch; it’s nearly three in the afternoon. Get up.”

Your inability to speak seems to work in your favor because all you offer Az in return is a hand peeking from the covers to flip him off.

A pause and one eye pries open when you hear footsteps retreating. Five minutes pass, then five more before you relax back into the fluffy pillows, dragging the covers up to your chin and a content smile curves at the corner of your mouth for a fraction of a second before your entire body is drenched in freezing cold water.

You lurch from the bed like a creature rising from the dead, feet bare and legs on full display when you slowly stare up at the pleased shadowsinger, eyes wide and arms frozen in surprise as you dripped all over the floor like a wet dog. “Good. Since you’re up and showered, let’s go downstairs and get you something to eat.” Azriel’s looping an arm in your own and leading you out before you even have time to change, sloshing footsteps left in your wake and when you enter the sitting room Mor has to slap a hand over her mouth to hide the laughter.

“Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

It’s harmless teasing; friendly laughs and eyes lined with water when they mention the rats nest atop your head but Cassian’s boisterous laugh doesn’t join in on the fun. He takes one look at you and quietly leaves the room; he'd been doing that a lot since the accident—ever so present when you weren't consious and practically non-existent when you were.

You catch Feyre staring at the bruises on your neck, the thick bandage stuck in place on your temple, how stiff your posture was from the tight wrappings securing your ribs in place and she flushes when you offer her a tight-lipped smile, trying to appear more sturdy than you looked. "Sit, I'll get your food."

Eyes roll at Az's choice of words, easing over to the couch with a low grunt. Food was a sorry excuse for whatever the fuck you'd been sentenced to consume until the wires were removed. A thick porridge like substance with a distinct grit that lingered on your tongue no matter how much water you chased it with.

It was nice to be home though, to sleep in your own bed and being able to ease the tension with a hot bath and a stealthily stolen glass of wine—even if it was impossible to wash your hair or to change your clothes without assistance. Fresh air breezes through the windows, ruffling the curtains and the High Lord is quick to dry your clothes with a wave of his hand. With nothing more than a quick touch to his shoulder in thanks, the others watch you brace your weight against things to get to the hallway, turning left in the same direction Cass had gone earlier.

It’s not hard to find him, cooped up in his room with a glass of amber liquid in hand; eyes trained on the crackling fire. “What are you doing in here?” He’s up in a flash, wings pulled tight behind him and a broad shoulder urges your good arm around his neck, warm hands are careful when lifting you off your feet and carrying you over to the neatly made bed against the wall. Pillows are stacked behind your back to prop you up in a way that didn’t agitate your ribs and you give a sad smile when Cassian’s eyes linger on the bruises that were steadily healing up the length of your legs and he’s carefully covering them in blankets with a shaky breath.

Usually, he’d have sat next to you but now you’re unbearably aware of the distance he puts between you; hands clutched at his sides like he was physically restraining himself from reaching out to touch. “You eat yet?” A slow shake of your head and Cass lets out a little chuckle in understanding. “Not surprised, that shit’s gross. Az never was that good in the kitchen.”

Everything smells like him; male and musk, cedarwood and bourbon. It’s overwhelming in the best way and years of memories begin to flood your senses; countless late nights spent in here drinking and laughing about nothing. Lazy mornings with breakfast in bed and amused snorts over buttered toast and tea when the Illyrian boasted about his latest conquest or earned accomplishments but then would go sheepish when you’d genuinely told him you were proud of him—happy that he seemed happy.

Cassian shifts his weight from foot to foot, unable to meet your eye because you were gazing at him so lovingly; not an ounce of hate in sight and guilt bubbles in his belly like curdled milk. “Don’t go anywhere, I’ll make you something.”

A few minutes pass of you examining the room before you notice there’s a bottle of whiskey on the bedside table and your brows furrow in worry. You’re grabbing it without second thought, shoving the bottle under the bed frame and out of sight before you hear the thudding footsteps coming down the hall and through the doorway. A goblet of a glass is clutched in one hand with a metal straw hanging over the rim; he rambles off some of the fruits he used while he walks over, gently settling it in your hands. Fingers graze and in the blink of an eye he’s already taken three steps worth of space between you but the berry smoothie is a significant upgrade from Azriel’s porridge mixture—little wins. This was sweet but not too sweet, thick enough to quell the rumbling in your stomach and thin enough to push through the gaps in the wires with ease. It’s half gone quicker than you care to admit but Cass seems pleased, yet the small smile he wears is quickly wiped off when you motion for him to sit next to you.

“I can’t.”

Brows scrunch together in silent question, head tilting to the side.

His face crumples, features lined with stress and it’s then you notice just how broken he appears—sure, maybe he didn’t have the bandages and wrappings but the damage was still there. “Look at you, peach,” Tears well at the pet name, your head lowering as if it could possibly hide the ugly bruising on your neck; it was the only spot that seemed to be taking forever to get better, a kaleidoscope of purples and deep blues. “Look what I’ve done to you,” Breath catches and you ache to comfort him when he doesn’t even bother to hold his wings off the ground. “I’m so sorry.”

Cassian only moves closer when you set the cup down and make way to stand; it’s then he sits near you, urging you back down and you see the way his throat bobs with the thick swallow when your hand gently rests over his own. Words aren’t needed to express how much you didn’t blame him; not anymore—not after the nights he’d spent hunched over your bedside spewing out confessions of his feelings. The unconditional love that never stopping pouring over when it came to you and the shameful jealousy that had followed. Secrets he’d kept in fear that you didn’t return the same affections; terrified to ruin the carefully crafted friendship that took centuries to perfect. To become an extension of the other and adding his feelings seemed messy—too complicated and then all of this. You and the sounds of your cries for help permanently branded at the forefront of his mind for all eternity. Waiting in anticipation for Madja’s updates on your health, how you were fairing and if there was any lasting brain damage; a burden he was fully prepared to bare for you. Willing to sit by your side with his fingers kneeding through your hair to soothe away the headache he knew was coming in from the scrunch of your nose even after being pumped full of pain relievers.

It seems fitting that you can’t voice what you know; the pieces that you’d held onto while stuck in your mind. Body too numb to even pry your eyes open but the hope of hearing it while conscious was a strong enough anchor to have you clawing to the surface—back to Cass and those lazy mornings and tea with entirely too much honey.

He’s a mess when you pull him in closer, brushing your fingers through his hair the same way he’d done for you. You can feel the feather light kisses he presses to the exposed injuries, silent tears dripping on your skin, hushed whispers of his apologies, all the ways he’d planned to do in order make it up to you. All the things he should’ve and would’ve and could’ve done and you have to pry his face from the crease of your neck to make him look you in the eye.

There are no words but the intensity of your stare says plenty and he’s right back where he started; wanting things he shouldn’t and falling back into selfish habits. Leaning into the warmth of your mouth slotting over his own and every bruise and broken bone doesn’t even matter when he’s finally kissing you—soft and tender but all too quick and he’s pulling away before you can memorize the feel of him. “You’re perfect,” Cassian whispers, forehead pressed against your own, hands keeping you close. “I don’t deserve you for a second.”

But you only kiss him again because in that moment nothing else mattered.

#a court of thorns and roses #acotar x reader #acotar x you #acotar #high lord rhysand #azriel #cassian #cassian x you #cassian fanfic #general of the night court #cassian x reader #cassian acosf #cassian acotar #cassian fluff #cassian fic #best friends to lovers

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hardly-an-escape · 5 months ago

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just a little something for Tommy Kinard Appreciation Day and @peppermintquartz <3

A few weeks after they get back together, Tommy comes over to the loft for dinner. It's nothing fancy, no special occasion – Evan's got a new roasted chicken recipe and they both have the night off, so Tommy shows up around 6:00 with a bottle of wine and a slightly nicer-than-average shirt.

He's rummaging around in a kitchen drawer, looking for some matches or something to light the candles on the dining table, when he finds the notebook. It's one of those composition books with the classic black and white cover, the miniature version, a little beat up. He probably shouldn't read it – scratch that, he definitely shouldn't read it – but.

It's labeled with his name.

Tommy, right on the cover, in Evan's handwriting.

He glances over his shoulder. Evan has his back turned, fussing with the salad dressing and not particularly paying attention, so Tommy palms the little notebook and wanders over to the living room to open it.

The first page has a single sentence: Things I Miss about him. After that it turns into a list.

His eyes

the way his face scrunches up when he smiles for real

his hands

His ass! And his dick!!!

I feel like I shouldnt write that but it's true!!

Tommy swallows hard. Evan's handwriting is kind of uneven and hard to read, and his spelling and punctuation aren't the best – but it's undoubtedly a list, all lined up with neat little bullet points, of the things he'd missed about Tommy while they'd been apart.

His hugs

especialy the way he used to press our cheeks together and hang on just a little longer then I was expecting him too

He's such a good firefighter and so expereinced, I always felt like I couldve learned alot from him

the competency in general... hes so good at so many things!

he could be so bitchy/sarcastic but he's actually so kind. Like his jokes were never mean

Really good with kids

he would be an amazing dad someday

The last item is barely legible, thoroughly scratched out, as though Evan had thought twice about it the moment he'd written it down. Tommy feels tears prick behind his eyes. Evan would make a fantastic father, he thinks. They haven't really talked about it – marriage, kids, the whole nine yards. Before, it had been too early, and now that they're together again... it still feels too new, too raw, to bring it up. But Evan's the first person who's ever made Tommy want to have that conversation. He flips to the next page.

I don't want it to sound like I was only with him for sex but god I miss his body so much

Tommy snorts. He's so absorbed he doesn't hear Evan call out from the kitchen.

"What was that, babe?"

He took such good care of me. like when I hurt my shoulder but also just in general. He checked in with me alot and always made sure I was ok

really good listener

Did I take care of him enough? did I listen to him enough?

I think maybe I didn't

"Hey, Tommy, did you – oh," Evan says, poking his head around the stairs. "Uh. You found that."

"I'm sorry," Tommy says immediately. "I shouldn't have looked at it, I just – it had my name on it," he finishes lamely.

"It's okay," Evan says, coming to sit next to him on the couch. "It's just a little embarrassing. I didn't really know what to do with myself, I had a lot to say and, uh, people got kind of sick of me talking about you after a while. So I started writing it down. I kind of forgot it was still floating around."

The thing is, over the past couple of weeks they've talked about those last two items on the list. Tommy's been honest about the fact that he'd felt, at times, that he was being more careful with Evan than Evan was being with him. About the fact that he'd been okay with that, until he wasn't; that he'd been okay in the role of fun, sexy first boyfriend, until he realized that not only were he and Evan not on the same page, they weren't even reading the same book.

It's different to see the words written out so plainly. But they're on the same page now. They're walking into the same future, hand in hand.

Tommy sets the little notebook aside and laces his fingers together with Evan's.

"I love you a lot, you know," he says. It's not the first time he's said it, but it still feels so special it's a little unreal.

"I love you, too," Evan says instantly, beaming, eyes twinkling.

#bucktommy #my writing #tommy kinard appreciation day #911 abc #it's still 2/17 in my time zone!#and yes this is also a list of things I miss about Tommy Kinard #me and Buck are on the same page

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bloomzone · 5 months ago

Text

2025 : #16 journal journal journal : all u need guide

By : a journaling addict girlie

Journaling is a tool for self-discovery mindfulness and creativity too But while many of us start with enthusiasm turning journaling into a consistent habit can feel like a battle or smthng cuz life gets busy u lose motivation and before you know it your journal is gathering dust

so !

This guide will help you build a sustainable journaling practice. Whether you’re a beginner or someone looking to rekindle the habit these practical tips will make journaling an effortless part of your daily routine.

how I found out abt journaling(storytime box)

[I used to feel like my world was tiny, trapped in a cycle of bullying and loneliness and a loot of stuff My social zone was practically nonexistent I had 2 friends but I didn't trusted them enough and the people around me just made things harder so I had a trust issue and I was constantly overthinking eveeeeerything. My mind was a mess, and I had no way to let it out (I can't tell my parents back then abt my problems) . One day, I came across a video about journaling. I saw someone pouring out their thoughts into a notebook (it was bestmess ig on YouTube ) and something clicked for me. Maybe this could be my way to escape all the noise in my head ??? So, I grabbed an old notebook and started writing.At first, it felt awkward—just random, messy thoughts. But as I kept going, I realized it helped. Writing became my safe space. I could say whatever I wanted, no judgment. It wasn’t just about venting; it helped me understand myself, organize my thoughts, and let go of some of the pain from the isolation.Over time, journaling turned into something much deeper. It became a way to reflect, dream, and grow. It taught me how to be kind to myself when no one else was, and helped me find clarity in the chaos. Journaling saved me it turned my mess into peace one page at a time then when the years roll I created a routine for it !]

Why Journaling Matters

☆ Journaling offers countless benefits:

-Reducing stress

-Boosting creativity

-Deepening self-awareness

☆ Yet, staying consistent can be a challenge. The key lies in making journaling enjoyable and rewarding. Here's how you can do just that.

The Science of Habit Formation

To build any habit, including journaling, you need three elements:

1. Cue: A trigger that reminds you to journal.

2. Routine: The act of journaling itself.

3. Reward: The positive feeling or benefit you experience afterward.

The secret is to keep the process simple and satisfying too

Steps to Turn Journaling into a Daily Habit

1. Start Small

Begin with just a sentence or two for example:

“Today, I felt grateful for…”

“The best part of my day was…”

—Starting small makes it less overwhelming and easier to stick with.

2. Anchor It to an Existing Habit

—Pair journaling with something you already do, like drinking coffee or winding down before bed. This "habit stacking" technique helps u remember to journal.

3. Set a Timer

Worried about time? Commit to just 5 minutes. Knowing there’s a limit makes starting feel less daunting.

4. Use Prompts

Struggling with what to write? Use prompts like:

“What made me smile today?”

“What’s a challenge I faced, and how did I handle it?”

—Prompts give your thoughts direction and beat blank-page syndrome. There's million of prompts idea on Pinterest u need just to take action

5. Celebrate Your Progress

Track your streaks or mark your journaling days on a calendar. Seeing your consistency builds motivation.

6. Create a Cozy Space ( not important )

Set up a comfortable spot for journaling—a comfy chair, your favorite pen, or soothing music. A cozy environment turns journaling into a ritual you look forward to.

7. Experiment with Formats

If traditional journaling feels stale, try something new:

☆ Bullet points

☆ Sketches

☆ Gratitude lists

☆ Digital journaling apps

Creative Ways to Journal

☆ Gratitude Journaling: Write down 3 things you’re grateful for each day.

☆ Habit Tracking: Combine journaling with habit tracking to monitor small goals.

☆ Morning Pages: Inspired by Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way, write 3 pages of free-flowing thoughts first thing in the morning.

☆ Reflection Logs: Reflect weekly or monthly on what went well, what you learned, and what you’d like to improve.

Overcoming Common Obstacles

1. “I Don’t Have Time.”

Journaling doesn’t need to take hours. Even a single sentence is progress.

2. “I Don’t Know What to Write.”

Start with prompts or simply answer: “What’s on my mind right now?”

3. “I Keep Forgetting.”

Set phone reminders or pair journaling with a daily habit.

4. “It Doesn’t Feel Useful.”

Journaling isn’t about perfection it’s a tool for you Over time you’ll notice its positive effects.

Journaling as a Tool for Self-Growth

— Journaling isn’t just about recording events or thoughts—it’s also a way to grow mentally, emotionally, and even spiritually. Here’s how you can take your journaling practice to the next level:

1. Use Journaling for Goal Setting

Journaling can help you identify and track your goals. Write down your short- and long-term objectives, and use your journal to reflect on progress, challenges, and adjustments.

Example:

☆ Weekly Goals: Write down 3 specific goals every Monday and reflect on them at the end of the week.

☆ Vision Journaling: Imagine your ideal future and describe it in vivid detail.

2. Practice Emotional Awareness

☆ Journaling is a powerful way to process emotions. Try these techniques:

☆ Emotion Check-Ins: At the end of the day, write about how you felt and why.

☆ Reframing Challenges: If something negative happened, write about it from a different perspective.

3. Develop Gratitude and Mindfulness

☆ Use your journal to cultivate mindfulness by focusing on the present moment:

☆ Mindful Observations: Write about your surroundings, the weather, or how your body feels.

☆ Gratitude Expansion: Instead of listing things you’re grateful for, write a short paragraph about why each one matters.

4. Uncover Patterns and Insights

Over time, your journal becomes a mirror of your habits, thoughts, and emotions. Regularly revisit old entries to:

- Identify recurring themes.

- Discover how you’ve grown or changed.

- Spot areas where you might need more balance or self-care.

FAQs

Q: How long does it take to build a journaling habit?

A: Experts say it takes 21–66 days. Consistency is key, even if it’s just a few minutes daily.

Q: Should I write by hand or use a digital tool?

A: Both work! Handwriting feels personal, while digital tools offer organization. ( In my opinion handwriting one are better !)

Q: What if my journaling feels repetitive?

A: Life has routines, and so will your journal. Use prompts or try new styles to keep it fresh.

Q: Can I journal if I’m not a good writer?

A: Absolutely! Journaling is about self-expression, not perfect prose. Bullet points or doodles work too.

Journaling is a gift you give yourself—a way to check in, reflect, and grow. Whether you’re jotting down a single sentence or filling pages, the act of journaling is what matters most.

@bloomzone 📇

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pricesgirl · 6 months ago

Text

Mary Janes

.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.☁︎

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵

Y/N

She’s not here. Again...Focus.

I lower my pen. Back to my notes. Bullet points, crisp, structured. The teacher drones on, voice blending with the rustle of paper, the relentless click of pens. And yet, my eyes dart to the back of the room. To her seat.

Empty.

Of course, it’s empty. She’s never here. Too busy skipping, loitering, doing whatever people like her do when they’re not busy wasting potential. A quiet huff escapes my lips, and I straighten in my chair, brushing away the invisible speck of dust from my cuff.

Why does it bother me? Why does she bother me?

The door bursts open with all the subtlety of a cannon, and in she struts—Jinx, the resident chaos embodied. She stands there for a beat, letting all eyes soak her in like she’s the main act at some twisted circus.

Her braids are messy, straggling at the ends like she’s forgotten what a comb is. Her uniform? A farce. The shirt’s untucked, the skirt’s too short, and those torn tights have definitely seen better days. But it’s the chunky platform boots that make the most noise, clomping against the floor like she’s got something to prove.

“Oops, did I interrupt something?” she grins, completely unfazed.

“Miss Jinx,” Mrs Harrison says through gritted teeth, “you’re late. Again.”

“Fashionably,” Jinx chirps back, plopping into a seat with enough force to make it screech. Clearly used to Jinx's absolute shenanigans Mrs Harrison just sighs and goes back to explaining todays assignment.

It's a collaborative assignment on Romeo and Juliet .

Collaborative?

I feel my stomach churn. I’m used to being left alone in class, my quiet demeanor and diligent note-taking keeping me safe from group assignments. But today, I’m stuck with someone. My eyes flick nervously around the room, and then—inevitably—her name is called.

What a cliche.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿

Jinx

Oh fucking shit.

Her? I have to work with her?

That's got to be some sick mental torture.

This is some advanced-level psychological warfare. Torture by forced proximity—congrats, humanity, you’ve peaked.

I look over at her, and she’s already shooting daggers at me with that icy stare of hers.

I can’t help it—I waggle my fingers at her, just to fuck with her. She doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like it at all. But I can’t stop, it’s too damn fun.

She glares harder, and I can see her teeth clenching behind that fake calm. Classic.

“Really? We’re doing the silent treatment thing already?” I say, grinning.

“Shut up for gods sake.” she mutters, shoving her disgustingly perfect notebook my way like I’ll taint it by breathing too close.

She pulls out her notes on ye olde Romeo and Juliet, like she’s about to make a damn presentation or something, all pristine and in order.

“Wow.” I glance at the pristine handwriting. “Do you alphabetize your brain too, or is this just for me?”

Her jaw tightens. She’s two seconds from snapping. "Focus. For five seconds. I’m begging you."

"Aw, begging already?" I smirk, leaning forward. "This partnership’s off to a great start."

Y/N's cheeks flame.

What the fuck?

She liked that?

I liked that.... shut the fuck up, i did not.

Shit.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

“Just read them, please…” Her voice is softer now.

I stare at her for a second. That wasn’t what I was expecting. Is she trying to pull some kind of mind game on me?

Please.

That doesn’t fly with me.

“C’mon, Powder! Please, please, please!" Best two outta three!” Y/N bounces on her toes, her hair sticking out everywhere, catching the sun like some star.

Her cheeks are all red ‘cause she’s been laughing too hard, and her eyes are huge and serious like marbles are the most important thing ever.

I giggle, covering my mouth. “You’re so silly.”

She puffs out her chest. “Silly and ready to win!”

"But please-"

"Fine," I snap, snatching the stupid notes off the desk.

The edges crumple under my grip—oh no, how tragic. I toss her a glare for good measure.

Y/N just blinks, all wide eyes and calm. Ugh, hate that.

I start flipping through the notes, the edges rough against my fingers.

Her handwriting is infuriatingly neat—perfect loops, evenly spaced lines, no smudges.

It screams, I’ve got my shit together, which just makes me want to set it on fire.

I glance up. She’s watching me.

Of course she’s watching me.

Always with the staring.

“What?” I snap, holding the notes up like a shield. “See something fascinating?”

Her pen clicks. And clicks. And clicks. My eye twitches.

“I wasn’t staring,” she mutters. Her face? Red. Like I caught her.

“Sure. Right. Definitely just, what? Admiring the air?” I wave the notes in her direction. “Big fan of oxygen, huh?”

She exhales hard. Through her nose. Like I’m the annoying one. “Can we just focus?”

“Focus?” I bark out a laugh. “On this? Your little masterpiece? I’m riveted. Truly.” I flip a page, not even looking.

Her jaw tightens.

Oh, she’s pissed. “Yes. Focus. Maybe try it for once in your life.”

Ouch. That stings. A little. Barely. Not that I’d ever admit it. “Whatever,” I grumble, tossing the notes back onto the table like they’re cursed.

She grabs them. Doesn't even flinch. Slides a pen my way. Doesn’t say a word.

I glare at the pen.

It’s just... too perfect.

Too clean.

I hate how it sits there all polished, ready to be put to use. It’s like it’s begging to be ruined. What’s it even supposed to represent?

Control? Order?

Fuck.

But I reach for it anyway. “Fine,” I mutter, voice low. “Don’t expect a damn miracle.”

Her lips twitch. Is that a smile? No, it can’t be. Whatever.

The bell rings.

Noise explodes, everyone scrambling to grab their things, chattering, the rush of papers and bags flooding the room.

But I stay. For a moment, at least.

I can feel her eyes on me, even if I don’t look.

I’m still gripping that stupid pen like it’s something important.

Her words from earlier, they sit in my head, too quiet, too sharp. “Don’t expect miracles,” I had said, but it feels like she’s still waiting for something.

I glance at her once—just once. She’s putting her things away.

I stand up, slow, shoving my things into my bag.

Class around me seems to blur, like I’m moving through thick fog.

The air outside is different, cleaner. I need a break. I need space.

I slip through the crowded hallways, barely registering the sounds of people.

No one notices me.

Or maybe they do, but I don’t care. I make my way up to the roof, breathing a little easier the higher I go.

It’s quiet up here.

I pull out the joint I’ve been holding onto, light it, and take a drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs.

Everything feels better up here.

Like I can breathe again.

The weight of everything—class, Y/N, that fucking pen, all of it—starts to drift away, and I can finally relax.

Just for a minute.

I lean against the roof’s edge, watching the world below. The streets are a blur, just like everything else. Just like her.

I flick the ashes off the side and take another drag.

I sit on the edge, legs dangling off the side, watching everything from a distance.

The school below me is just a blur of colors, all of them blending together like they don’t matter.

It’s funny, how tiny the world looks from here. Even if my world is limited, it feels like I could stretch my arms out and touch everything.

Like I could just... float.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿

Y/N

The bell rings, snapping me back to reality. The classroom slowly empties, the noise of students packing their bags and talking blending into a dull hum in the background. I remain seated for a moment longer than necessary, still caught in the aftershock of what just happened. My fingers gently tap the strap of my bag, my mind running through every word exchanged with Jinx, trying to make sense of it all.

“Y/N?” Mrs. Harrison’s voice cuts through my thoughts, warm and concerned. “Everything alright?”

I straighten up, meeting her gaze. “Yes, of course. I was just... thinking.”

She offers a kind smile, and I can’t help but return it. Mrs. Harrison always has this calming presence. “Don’t worry about it too much. You’ve been working hard. A little break won’t hurt.”

I nod, forcing my focus back to the present. I gather my things, my movements deliberate, smooth. I walk out of the classroom, a quiet sense of uncertainty hanging over me. The hallway is busier now, students rushing past, laughing and talking in groups. It’s all so loud, so... vibrant. I slow my pace, letting the noise wash over me, but I’m still lost in my thoughts.

The library is my sanctuary. Everything here is neat, quiet, predictable. The opposite of everything about... her. I step inside and let the hush settle over me, smoothing the frayed edges of my thoughts.

My shoes barely make a sound on the polished floor as I navigate the aisles. Rows of spines greet me like old friends. Austen. Brontë. Woolf. Names that speak of worlds where chaos still obeys rules, where stories wrap up neatly, unlike the frayed threads Jinx leaves behind.

I find my usual seat by the window—a table no one ever chooses because it’s too close to the radiator and too far from the popular fiction shelves. Perfect. I slip into the chair, the wood creaking faintly under my weight, and set my notebook down with care.

Opening it feels like opening a door. Everything is still and orderly here. My pen glides smoothly over the page, crafting lines of notes, phrases, sketches of ideas. Each one in its place. Each one exactly how I need it to be.

But then my hand falters. A thought intrudes, unwelcome: blue braids trailing like ribbons, boots scuffing, laughter that sounds like it’s daring the world to stop her. I shake my head, focus sharpening again as I scribble furiously, pen digging into the paper as if I can write her out of my mind.

The sunlight filters through the window, painting soft patterns on the table. The world outside is calm, orderly. Here, at least, I can pretend the storm hasn’t touched me.

Here, I can breathe.

.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.☁︎

authors note: thanks for reading chapter 3, chapter 4 will be coming in due time, I hope you've picked up on the dual writing style by now and how it varies by perspective, Jinx's is more sporadic, and fast paced whereas Y/N's is a bit more structured and slower.

please like and reblog :)

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nakakahilo · 27 days ago

Text

THE GUY AT THE BACK (pt.2)

summary: after tsukishima walked you home that night, you didn't think much of it— or at least tried to —until another situation forces you guys to talk.

content: tsukishima x gn!reader, possibly ooc (i havent watched haikyuu in so long), implied mutual pining but really REALLY awkward, reader is super in denial about their feelings. they both are actually.

notes: i got into this real quick cause i lowkey cant stop thinking about the first part. theres a little more action going on here, so hopefully it isn't too boring. im trying my best im sorry 💔

pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt.3

The next day proves your suspicions right.

In the end, despite the awkwardly intimate moment the two of you shared, your relationship with Tsukishima Kei hadn't improved at all. Just classmates who happen to walk home together one rainy night.

Did you expect anything to change? No, not really. But are you still severely disappointed by it? Embarrassingly, yes.

It irritated you so much so that you couldn't focus on the lesson at all and had forgotten to write any sort of notes. Your mood worsened even more when the teacher had announced there would be a quiz tomorrow and you weren't exactly social enough to ask someone to borrow their notes.

You groan and lightly hit your head on your desk. Not enough to actually hurt you, but just enough to vent out your frustration by a little bit. There goes your chances at acing this school year.

As you internally whine and scold yourself for not paying attention, you suddenly feel something tap your head. You look up and a notebook comes into view. Turning your gaze upwards, you realize the hand that was holding it belongs to a certain short-haired blondie.

Immediately, you fix yourself. Is he giving you his notebook?

"What—?"

"I expect that to be returned by this afternoon." Tsukishima stiffly says and shoves the notebook into your hands. Then, he walks away before you can get another word, his friend— who you noticed from the corner of your eye —was waiting for him by the door only to get dragged by him off to whatever God knows where.

You stare into empty space for a while, the surrounding area buzzing with activity as you try to process what had just happened. You look down at the notebook and open it, finding nothing but clean handwriting and detailed notes on topics your teacher had previously discussed. The most recent addition is a summary of the lesson you just missed and even has bullet points explaining each subtopics.

Tsukishima always seemed like the studious type, so I guess this is proof of that "theory".

As you continue to hold onto the notebook, your chest suddenly swells and tightens upon remembering what he had done the night before.

Sure, he's a pretty serious guy and you don't know much about him other than the fact that he's pretty, smart and is in the boys' volleyball teams of your school, but you couldn't possibly have a crush on him. Random acts of kindness won't tug on your heartstrings that easily.

With a sigh, you pack the notebook into your bag and decide to fill up your stomach while it's still lunch time.

A few hours later, school ends at the chime of a bell. Everyone begins packing up and you immediately catch up to the rest. You've spent the entire day copying down notes and studying for the quiz tomorrow morning, so your dominant hand was cramping up real bad.

However, as you pack your things, you notice an unfamiliar notebook sandwiched between yours and your pencil case. Picking it up, you gradually realize it was Tsukishima's and the memory of him giving it finally comes back to you.

Your heart beats a little faster upon remembering the night he shared his umbrella with you, the way you could still feel his body heat radiating off on your skin as the cold rain closes in the two of you. But you shake your head, clearing out the nasty thoughts like wacking cobwebs from the attic ceiling.

'Didn't Tsukishima say to return this after school? I should probably go do that before leaving.' You glance at his seat and find him nowhere to be found, and this friend isn't around as well. 'He's not here... He dipped real quickly. Now where could he be?'

You think of places where Tsukishima could be at this hour, then remember he's a member of the volleyball team. The gymnasium at the back is where the said team operates, so that's where he'd most likely be.

With a destination in mind, you pick up your bag and walk your way towards the gym. On your way, you notice that the halls were a little more empty, the faint orange light streaming through the windows as a few students who were left cleaned up their respective classrooms. You weren't on duty today, but you had lost track of time (and of Tsukishima as well).

It didn't take a while until you found the gym. The building isn't too hard to find considering its size and you march up to one of the open doors.

*SLAM!*

You almost flinch at the sound as the volleyball was ruthlessly blocked from crossing the net, hitting the floor with a loid smack. The sound reverberates throughout the spacious interior, although the people inside don't seem to mind it. They were much used to this kind of environment, after all.

"Damn you, Tsukishima!" A loud voice cuts through your train of thought as you look up to find a short, orange-haired boy arguing with a taller boy that you recognize to be your nonchalant classmate.

However, Tsukishima wore a smug grin on his face, towering over his teammate. "Guess you don't pack much of a punch, pipsqueak."

His attitude reminds you of how he had acted when offering to walk you home that night, just a bit more smug with a change of his expression.

You stand around by the entrance, unsure of what to do other than loiter and watch the volleyball club go on with their practice. It doesn't seem like they notice you at all and you weren't sure if you should be happy or irritated by that fact. Probably both.

"Excuse me, do you need anything?" Suddenly, the most beautiful girl you've ever seen walks towards you and you find yourself speechless. You've seen her around school before, but actually seeing her up close is a different experience. She's also holding a clipboard, so you assume she must be the club's manager.

You try to utter some kind of reason for loitering around the gym entrance (which you realized might've been creepy and you feel the shame burning through you), but you end up stumbling over your words and produce nothing comprehensible.

"Well, I'm just.. I have this... Um, I kinda have to—" You gesture to the notebook you had been holding onto your hand for quite some time, "Give this to Tsukishima and— and stuff, so..."

You look back at the court to see if Tsukishima is still around and pause mid-explanation when you suddenly find him approaching you, earning the curious glances of his teammates.

You don't think you ever saw him in his volleyball club uniform, but if he wasn't already handsome in his school uniform, then he sure is now.

Tsukishima stands before you, his height more prominent than ever as you crane your neck just to meet his blank gaze. He seems to hesitate speaking, but forces himself to anyway.

"What are you doing here?" He asks. There's no malice in his voice nor anything off about his tone, the way he says it almost seems like he genuinely didn't expect to see you visit him.

Finally, you gain back the ability to speak and hand him over the notebook. "H.. Here! You told me to return it to you by this afternoon, so I figured... you know." You look away and vaguely shrug your shoulders. There are no words that could really explain your thought process, none that you can think of at least.

Tsukishima blinks, as if trying to process whatever you just said. "Oh... I see." He adjusts his glasses, causing the light to reflect them in a way that hides his eyes, "You could've just called out to me instead of standing around like an idiot."

'There he is. The bastard.'

Rather than forcing out your thoughts, you smile at him instead. "You looked so invested in your practice, I didn't want to interrupt." Though you meant it more like a jab, he seems to take it differently and turns his head away.

He stays silent for a while, then returns back to you after muttering something you couldn't quite understand. He takes the notebook from your hands, his fingertips brushing against yours for a short moment, before backing away by a step. As if you burnt him.

"Well, thanks for returning my notebook. I half-expected you not to." He says while flipping through his notes to check if everything is in order, then closes it when he's finished.

You awkwardly laugh at his own jab towards you, having to hold yourself back from throwing another one that's much harsher. "Well, you're welcome. A-Anyways, I better go so—"

"HEYYY, WAIT A SEC!" a voice suddenly interrupts you from departing and a short boy— different from the bright-haired one from before, this time sporting hair styled to spike up and add 10 inches to his height —appears in front of you right before you could even blink.

"Tsukishima! Why didn't you tell us you had a friend? You should've told us sooner, you know we'd love more company!" The boy pats Tsukishima's back repeatedly, causing the taller boy to look displeased.

"Oh please, it's not like I'll introduce any of you to my friends." Tsukishima rolls his eyes and moves away to avoid the other boy's hand.

You don't miss the way your heart beats when he doesn't deny you being his friend.

(Were you his friend? Sounds unlikely, you'd classify each other as acquaintances than anything.)

"Well, either way, I'm Nishinoya Yu, Karasuno boys' volleyball team's libero! Pleasure to make your acquaintance!" The boy— now known as Nishinoya —introduces himself proudly.

You politely smile back, nodding in greeting as you introduce yourself in return. It's a little awkward, but Nishinoya doesn't seem to mind as he talks about whatever he wants that you couldn't be bothered to listen to. You could only pick up a couple of words that seem to be boasting about his team or something along those lines.

Then, he says something that completely catches you and Tsukishima off guard.

"Say, how about you stay for a while and watch us practice!"

#haikyuu x reader #haikyu x reader #tsukishima kei x reader #tsukishima kei #haikyuu #haikyu

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evertidings · 2 months ago

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Hello~ I have a question about the writing/development process, if that‘s alright? What method do you use to keep track of choices/branches? I‘ve been debating on writing an IF, but the choice/branch thing seems almost more daunting than the coding 😭

I’ve answered this before but I love talking about this haha so I’ll explain it again.

I should start off by saying I’m not very Type B, so I don’t really need a rigid outline before I start writing. A lot of my best scenes are happy coincidences, and I come up with a lot of ideas on the spot. That said, having a vague idea of what you’re doing is always nice, especially since an IF is not a linear thing.

— FLOW CHARTS

When it comes to planning out various branches, I think the easiest way is to see it visually. I have a dedicated notebook for WTS, so when I start a chapter, I whip it out and conjure something like this (the flowchart above). Mine don’t go into detail about every choice that I want included in the chapter, but at the very least, I get a rough idea of how I want the chapter to begin and end, as well as how I am getting to that final checkpoint.

I also tend to write jot notes on the side of various topics I want to cover and scenes where that can happen. Again, I’m very flexible with my writing so having the freedom is useful to me, but it may not be for you.

— CHOICES & IF STATEMENTS.

Then, the writing. I start all my chapters in Word, which to most people will look crazy, but once you get used to it, you’ll find it’s actually quite organized. I’ve attached my layout above. The “Choice Placeholder” is, as you can guess, where I’d put the text for the choice players would choose. Everything in the bullet point would be text that only that route sees, and anything after it is common text that all the routes merge into.

I also included an example of how I set up my ‘if statements’, aka flavour text, in my Word document. While I usually write it in code, but for the sake of simplicity, I left it out. These aren’t reallyyyy necessary when you’re first figuring things out, but having flavour text can be nice for customization reasons. Like having your MC bump their head if they’re too tall for a doorframe, for example. I write these in a slightly different shade from my choices and on a different bullet point line just to make it easier on my brain and eyes.

Word (I’m not sure about Google Docs) allows you to create headers and collapse them, so if this looks a little too crazy for you, that’s always an option.

— CHARTS

If you need a little more structure and can’t just, like, freestyle your choices in a document, you can also make a chart. I do this to keep track of my variables. This one, for example, is from Chapter 8. I obviously crossed some things out, but you get the gist of it. While I’m not sure this would be the best method for organizing branches, it definitely helps in other areas.

Either way, I find that having a spreadsheet like this is the best way to keep everything in one place. If you have a lot of flavour text like me, it’s also good for when you want to reference something from a previous chapter. Because of that, I only really include variables I think will be useful for the future; if I put every variable I’ve ever created in a chart, I think I’d explode.

— OVERALL

I don’t think branches should be something that intimidates you. It’s very different from the traditional, linear way of writing, for sure, but I think as long as you keep it simple, it’s not that difficult. First chapters tend to have a lot of choices on customization and there is little space for flavour text since you have no previous text to reference, so you can always use that as a ‘trial run’ before getting into more complicated things.

If you decide to go through with it, good luck!! Let me know if you have any more questions too (and hopefully this answered your initial one).

#ask #advice

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cafeconbrujeria · 2 months ago

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You must stop holding out on us. Where did you get your green ocean binder/note cover?

Chicken! I'm flattered and delighted.

It is the hokusai wave journal from Oberon Designs in the teal color, and it is built like a TANK.

Many years ago, I lost most of my material possessions to flood damage. The journal cover, which was my bullet journal setup at the time and not my grimoire, was covered in disgusting skunky gunky disgusting flood water. After throwing out the inner contents, I figured I had nothing to lose, so I tossed the journal cover into...the washing machine. With some dr. bonner's liquid soap. On a normal cycle. I think I put it through the dryer, too, for a little, on low, though I ultimately dried it in the sun. Somehow, this was fine. Then I reconditioned with straight up coconut oil, and it's somehow both lusciously soft and still absurdly sturdy. This was years ago and this baby is still going strong, and I am not easy on my working items. I mention this because Oberon Designs did a limited release a while back with the Rider Waite Smith Fool card on it, and I bought it to make a more obvious grimoire, but because it's new it feels so stiff and like an entirely different product. But it isn't! It just hasn't had the shit beat out of it yet. So my point is: these things take a TON of abuse. They're absurdly well made. They're pricey, for notebook covers, but like. Worth it, imo.

More caveats: I don't actually use it entirely as intended because I have it set up midori traveler's notebook style, because I love a modular set up. Because it's the American half latter size and I have several elastics in there, I can just fold paper in half and scribble away on my makeshift notebook insert. Or I can print things out booklet style, and put that in there. And I buy those slim cheap roughly 5.5 × 8.5 kraft cover notebooks in bulk and burn through them as necessary, because for me, the grimoire is more a lab notebook and less a coffee table book, though the covers are so nice that they probably deserve a fancy grimoire.

in THEORY, the modular grimoire is also an all in one travel altar and all I need to pack for witchcraft while traveling. in actual reality, I've never travelled light in my life.

and now, because I've been given an excuse, thank you so much...here are some example pages. still sandy from last time I took The Book to the beach.

Starting with bookmarks:

For operative reasons, there is an antique key in there. I found a flat one, so that's nice, for the notebook format. The moon and stars charm is also from Oberon Designs--they tend to throw in a little freebie with their orders. I was trying to DIY a little in grimoire black mirror for a while, and none of my attempts really worked, and then i just made the St. Cyprian chaplet with the black mirror there, so--I'm not sure why this is still in here but why not. Why are there pressed flowers in here sometimes? It's a working item, baaaaebeee. All kinds of shit happens here.

reference materials:

like I said, I wanted a written by hand/printables for ease of use hybrid format so that's what I have. pictured: some sigils and reference notes for the dia de los reyes workings I always forget about until the absolute last minute so that I'm frantically running around the house very January 6.

etc

but fundamentally this grimoire is my grimoire so there's silly things in it because I am a silly person with ADHD who is also in a rush everywhere absolutely at all times. here is an origami dragon who lived in my wallet for many years--extremely effectively, so witchblr really does sometimes offer some fun yet useful ideas. also here are some fruit stickers? also my dog. also on the opposite page pictures I do not wish the internet to see. the big red envelope came with uhh...a mini waffle iron? shaped like a heart? and now houses a paper based charm. It's sturdy enough to take out of the grimoire and toss into a purse when necessary. also: kraft notebook with painter tape label.

further etc

I love journaling and notebooks in general so I have a lot of purchased and DIY folders and stuff in here, obviously. fu talisman from when I was reading the tao of craft. absolute banger of a talisman; very strong for what I needed/need it for. see also: pocket playing card meaning thing I do not use at all whatsoever. st jude card from seraphin station. ruler in case I need to make straight lines.

storage (and etc)

and here is my very DIY storage solution, which is: a slider ziploc bag and some medical tape. dr jose gregorio hernandez wallet card from, again seraphin station, who is also on here as @karmazain. background photo print of a Baron Samedi veve, for ritual focus or you know, whatever. big holy card of la caridad del cobre, aka our lady of charity, who is also Oshun or at least Oshun's catholic mask, depending on who you ask and how they look at it (maferefun oshun, of course, forever and ever). packet of black pepper and unseen similar packet of salt for some REALLY on the go magic, if necessary. big sticker / feng shui amulet of the three celestial guardians, which is usually tucked into the pocket flap meant to secure a notebook.

and ta da! far more information than you asked for! but I love witchy gear, i love talking about our gear, I LOVE LOOKING AT PEOPLE'S BOOKS, so.

#grimoire

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cdnonymous · 2 months ago

Text

Hi @muletia again

God I saw your tags on the reblog of my work and honestly I feel you. Get sum rest, hydrate properly, same for eating. YOU’VE GOT THIS!!

And to cheer ya up I’ll give you Silence is Stronger than Words Part 3!!

Part 1 • Part 2

- 💿 ^v^

~1700 words

•—•—•—•—•—•

Silence is Stronger than Words

Dang I couldn’t sleep all night. The thoughts of my previous encounter with Megatron were making me go insane in too many ways. The soreness of the “love bite” he gave me yesterday night, the poorly timed remembrance of this random axolotl fact, his scarlet irises staring into me while mine were closed, thinking I was about to die. In a moment of exhaustion, I almost thought that I liked it, this rush of adrenaline that felt like an hour dose of it felt… nice.

But I quickly brushed this off, what was I thinking?! This is a merman, it’s not a human. It was probably a way to scare me, to make sure I knew what my place was, that if I even had the hint of a thought that I was superior to him my shoulder would get ripped off. But if he wanted to rip it off, wouldn’t he have done so already? I mean this was a golden… no, a platinum opportunity to even bite my head off… but he didn’t do it, and that’s what’s confusing me.

I fell asleep out of utter exhaustion, all those thoughts feeling like bullets in my mind, they ended up slowing down and coming to a stop. And when I woke up the next day, my alarm, it had been ringing for too long;

It was now 12 AM… I was 30 minutes late!!

I gasped out of bed, quickly getting myself in normal clothes, surprisingly didn’t need coffee because I had a way better motivation to keep me on both of my legs. I miraculously did not trip over the creaky stairs as I flew over them to get my notebook and outside shoes on.

— God please don’t be mad- I muttered under my shaky pants as I dropped my pencil and picked it up in half a second.

No breakfast, no coffee, just pure chaos as I ran out of my house by the usual door. The last time I was late, Megatron didn’t even surface out of the water, he seemed mad at me for it, and I was just barely 5 minutes late that time. But today, oh today I might have some surprises that I won’t like, especially if we count on the events of last night. I arrived at the Shy Lake faster than expected, my sprinting abilities did not disappoint me for once.

I stopped, panting like crazy to at least get a normal heartbeat. I wanted to be prepared for whatever shit Megatron was about to throw at me today. I was late, I don’t even know if I upsetted him yesterday anymore. I finally looked up and saw his buckethead… but I didn’t see his usual annoyed glare or worse, instead his eyes were closed. He was sleeping, his bust laid on the lake’s beach, his helm tucked in his scaly and silvery arms. When I stopped the heavy breathing from my sprinting session, I could hear him snore lightly, honestly I expected louder from him.

But no, it was like he, as well, needed some sleep, was it really that late yesterday? I stayed completely still, as quiet as the current breeze which was nonexistent today. I was looking at him with a mixture of emotions; confusion, envy, awe, fear… so many feelings that were completely unnecessary at the moment. I was frozen, not knowing what to do, his low and deep breathing was… peaceful despite everything. It was almost… cute. Yes, I called this behemoth of an axolotl merman cute.

Then I took this opportunity to take some notes on what I could see; the axolotl fins on each sides of his head were slightly twitching, his claws weren’t retracted, they were very visible from my point of view, and still looked as sharp as the sharpest steak knives. He had scars, each of them were telling a story, like any human scar. Some were recent and more prominent, some were older and much less visible. I wondered what could’ve happened, what made him wear these scratches. Were they from fishers, hunters, or other fishes? Definitely not other fishes, he probably eats them before they can even try to nibble on him.

Was this why he seemed so wary of me at first, because other humans saw him as a threat, a beast, or worse? As a pest, a monster, a trophy? This was absurd, but it could also be sadly plausible. While thinking about it, I let myself move from my previously frozen stature and I got slightly closer. Of course I didn’t want to disturb him in his sleep, he probably needs it anyway. I stayed at a reasonable distance, but I always got closer and closer.

And eventually I sat in front of him, my legs criss-crossing in front of his sleeping form. I was barely 30 centimeters away from his helm, which was still unmoving in his crossed arms. My breathing was already way calmer, it was silent as it usually was, I analyzed him, wanting answers but knowing I would never be sure of getting an accurate one. I felt bad for him as the scars that were on him seemed to multiply, poor man, he probably went through so much pain, loneliness, obstacles.

I sat right there, in my thoughts, not knowing what to do, or what to say. Eventually I heard him slightly shift, a groggy but light groan came out of his mouth, and by instinct I backed up a bit, still sitting down. He looked up from his crossed arms, but he was still lazily laying on them as if they were pillows. His eyes stared right at me, but I didn’t see any anger, any annoyance, not even smugness, he was just tired.

— Sorry for… being late. I whispered, not wanting to ruin his mood by being obnoxious in any way.

He seemed to answer with a low sigh mixed with a slight groggy grumble. I could definitely understand body language, and right now there’s no doubt that; A. He doesn’t feel threatened. B. He is tired. And C. He doesn’t mind my presence at the moment despite our proximity. I tried to think about what I could do, and of course, while I had my guard down, he extended one of his arms and grabbed my legs, pulling them closer to him. I was surprised at first, of course I was, who wouldn’t be, but as soon as I felt his familiar purring from yesterday, I knew he didn’t mean any harm.

He simply wanted me to be close to him, again. He nuzzled into me as if I was his personal doll or plushie, I couldn’t help but chuckle as he did so. He purred loudly like a cat, and I decided to slowly start to stroke the back of his helm, which he seemed to crave since his head simply melted into my lap.

— Damn… I let out silently, do you like me that much? I asked softly and jokingly.

I didn’t get a verbal answer, instead I felt his big webbed hands hug my back, which made me feel like a doll now, and he pressed his buckethead against me. I really felt like a cuddle buddy for him, which at the moment, was comfortable. He needed those hugs, and I can’t say I didn’t crave them as well. His purrs were soothing like last night, his eyes now closed from what seemed like satisfaction, I continued to stroke his helm. I smiled as I saw him get comfortable, I didn’t know why all of a sudden seeing this big cold mer happy and clingy felt… right.

I sighed, content, the anxiety, fear, all of those negative feelings, gone in an instant. I again took a glance at his scars, and I thought to myself. He needs love, yes he may look scary, look like a mindless beast that would kill without thinking, but he’s not. He wants to be loved, he craves attention, he wants to be cared for. And right now I feel like I can fulfil at least some of his needs. We’ll go at his rhythm, he probably didn’t meet any compassionate human in years, only trophy fishers and money grabbers ready to kill him for wealth and fame.

I want to be different from those jerks he probably had to deal with, I want to give him the attention he deserves, and it looks like I’m doing my job properly. Maybe he does love me, maybe he does think I’m a good mate for him. But I still need to accept it. And what if I’m wrong? What if it’s all just tricks? What if I’m just a delusional fool who is falling for his lies?

I suddenly felt his claws gently rubbing my back, as if he felt I was getting a bit stressed. My pulse already slowed down, but I was surprised that he was the one to be so… soft? My face slowly heated up as he was stroking my back the same way I was doing with his helm, then I felt his hands get under my shirt, just in my back. I didn’t know what to do, his claws were cold, but not in an uncomfortable way, it contrasted with my body heat still. My breathing got a bit heavier, although it was far from shaky or scared.

His touch was deliberately soft, as if he knew my skin wasn’t as rough as his, he knew I was fragile, he knew that if he pressed too hard he might make me bleed by accident. He wanted to make sure I wasn’t scared… right? His purring was still unwavering, and when I stopped stroking his helm the moment I felt his touch under my shirt, he didn’t glare at me or growl at me to continue.

Now I feel like he wants me… and not just for cuddles…

•—•—•—•—•—•

ANND there we goo *phew* that took 2 hours heh-

Anyway it’s almost midnight for me sooo

I’m going to bed byee

#mermay 2025 #mermay #merformers #megatron #tfp #tfp megatron #transformers #transformer x reader #transformer x human #CD writes

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z0mbbiegvrl · 13 days ago

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Can you do prom headcanons for Craig's gang too? 💕

｡𖦹°‧ CRAIGS GANG PROM HEADCANNONS

↳ an: hope you enjoy this!! if you have any requests for craig's gang, send them in! this was the last thing in my drafts so i'm excited to get it out and begin working on the new EIGHT requests i have waiting!!

↳ cw: none!!

↳ mlist

↪ ★ CRAIG TUCKER

Craig is the most low-effort-seeming person when it comes to the promposal but don’t be fooled. The guy’s been thinking about this for weeks. He doesn’t want it to look like he cares too much, because then he’ll get teased.

So he doesn’t do anything flashy. No balloons in public, no TikTok-worthy gestures. Instead, he slides you a note during class, folded neatly, handwriting sharp. You open it expecting a dumb drawing or a sarcastic comment, but it’s just a short line:

“Prom?”

You glance up at him, and he’s not even looking at you. He’s drawing something dumb in his notebook, pretending he didn’t just make your heart race. But he’s also bouncing his leg under the desk like crazy, and he noticed you smiling.

You nod, write “yeah :)” and slide it back. When he reads it, he just says, “Cool,” like it’s no big deal but he can’t hide the tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth for the rest of the day.

The night of the prom, he’s not overly dressed up, but he looks clean. Sharp. He spent way too long fixing his tie in the mirror, even though he won’t admit it. His hair is still a little messy, in that deliberate “I don’t care” way, but you can tell he put effort in. Probably the first time he’s ever willingly taken off his hat to have his hair out.

The guys (mostly Tolkien) helped him pick out your corsage, even though Craig acted like he hated every second of it. (“This is dumb,” as he picks the one that matches your dress.)

When he sees you dressed up, he just stops.

Thomas takes a photo of you two with his Polaroid, and Craig glares at him, but he still pockets the picture after. (Later, it’ll go in his sketchbook, tucked between random doodles and the tickets to the prom.)

At prom, Craig stays near the wall at first, hands in his pockets, watching you laugh with your friends. He’s not a huge fan of big crowds or loud music, but he’s here for you.

He’ll slowly make his way over and pull you aside. “Wanna dance?” he asks, but only after he sees a random guy trying to ask you first. (He was NOT gonna dance, but that guy changed that real fast.)

He’s stiff at first, awkward, unsure where to put his hands, but he relaxes the moment you smile at him. You two do a few stupid little dance moves to fast songs, mostly laughing, and then when the slow dance starts, Craig just kind of… pulls you close. No words, just resting his chin on you, fingers grazing your back. You can feel how fast his heart’s beating.

Once prom ends, he doesn’t care about the afterparties. He takes you back to his place, his parents are out, and Tricia’s having a sleepover somewhere else. He lets you steal one of his hoodies, and you two sit in his bed, which you can tell he washed the sheets and cleaned up earlier in the day.

There are leftover snacks, soda, and that same Polaroid photo taped to the inside wall of the fort. You guys end the night cuddled up together, watching dumb horror movies, half-asleep. Craig’s hand stays on your waist the whole time.

↪ ★ JIMMY VALMER

Jimmy takes prom seriously, but not in a dramatic way. It’s more like he quietly assigns it importance, like a milestone he wants to do right.

He starts brainstorming ideas for a promposal way earlier than anyone else. His notebook fills up with doodles and bullet points, then crossed-out lines and little stars beside the plans he likes best.

He settles on something heartfelt and personal, something that reflects a shared memory or inside joke. It’s not flashy, not public, but sincere. It involves a handmade element, a comedy bit he worked on for months to make sure it was a promposal that matched him and fit for you. His hands shake when he goes through it for you, but he smiles the whole time, proud of himself for following through.

Since it’s Jimmy, he definitely wears one of those suit t-shirts with nice black suit pants. This was already planned out so you didn’t dress up much with him. Since this was your night, you two didn’t care if your outfits didn’t go with the norms of prom.

His mom takes a hundred pictures at home, and he lets her. He even poses twice so she can get the "good side."

At your doorstep, he stands tall and beams when he sees you. He’s holding the corsage with both hands like it’s made of glass. It’s classic but with a tiny personal twist, your favorite color, and a charm tied to the ribbon.

In the car, he doesn’t fidget too much. He’s nervous, sure, but he’s focused on making sure you’re comfortable.

At the venue, he’s polite to everyone. He compliments people with small gestures—a thumbs-up here, a smile there. He’s charming in a way that doesn’t try too hard. He pulls your chair out, always checking to see if you need anything.

When it’s time to dance, he’s more than ready. He’s got moves—not necessarily smooth ones, but confident and full of joy. He doesn’t care if it’s awkward or silly; he just wants to have fun and make you laugh.

When the night winds down, he offers his jacket if it’s cold and doesn’t mind carrying your heels if your feet hurt. He’s tired, sure, but energized by how well the night went. On the way home, his smile never fades. He keeps sneaking little glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking like he’s trying to remember every detail. He walks you to your door and waits until you’re inside before leaving. Later, he presses the prom ticket into a shoebox filled with other little keepsakes, placing it right on top.

↪ ★ TOLKIEN BLACK

Tolkien’s the kind of guy who keeps it classy from start to finish. He starts planning a few weeks ahead, quietly taking mental notes of things you like. Favorite flowers. Favorite colors. The kind of music you listen to when you’re stressed. He wants to get every detail right, not for the show of it, but because that’s just who he is.

The promposal isn’t over-the-top, but it’s elegant. Thought-out. Maybe it happens during a walk home, or after school in a quiet spot he knows you like. It’s personalized, a little sentimental, with a sleek presentation, like a clean-cut sign or a bouquet that he picked out himself. There’s a slight nervous edge to the way he hands it to you, but his eyes stay locked on yours the whole time. Confident, but soft.

His suit is tailored to perfection. He doesn’t mess around with rental stuff, he either already has something sharp in his closet or gets a new one that fits like a glove. Simple color palette, clean lines, subtle gold or silver details. Everything is coordinated with your outfit, right down to the pocket square and cufflinks.

He shows up to your house early, but not awkwardly early. He’s outside the car before your parent can even open the door. He’s holding a single box, a corsage, carefully picked, and hands it over like it’s worth a million dollars. He takes his time helping you with it, then stands back for a second, a quiet moment just to take you in. No words are needed.

Poses for every angle your mom wants, adjusting his stance or smile if needed. He makes sure you’re centered in every photo, not him.

In the limo, he keeps the energy calm and warm. He’s got a playlist queued up already, songs that match the vibe without stealing the spotlight. His hand might rest between you two on the seat, relaxed but respectful. He watches the skyline out the window, occasionally glancing at you, like he can’t quite believe the night’s finally here.

At the venue, he opens every door. Helps you navigate the crowd. His posture’s perfect but not stiff, he carries himself like he belongs here, like you belong here like you’re the main event and he’s just honored to witness it.

Dinner’s smooth. He’s attentive without hovering, noticing when your drink gets low or if you’re not loving the food. Makes quiet, reassuring gestures. If there’s a toast, he raises his glass first.

Dancing is where he shines. He’s got rhythm, obviously, but more than that, he’s present. He keeps eye contact when it’s upbeat and smiles easily when you laugh at how bad one of the songs is. During slow songs, he doesn’t rush into it. His arms slide around you just right. He sways like there’s nothing else going on in the room. Like he’s not trying to impress anyone but just wants this memory to last.

Later, he checks on you when your feet start hurting. Offers his arm without question. Keeps his jacket over your shoulders when the night gets cool. Takes quiet breaks with you outside when it gets too loud inside.

He doesn’t rush the goodbye. If you’re dropped off at home, he walks you to the door, slow and steady, like he’s trying to stretch the last few minutes. His hand lingers in yours just a little longer than usual. When you disappear inside, he stays there for a second, taking a deep breath, smiling to himself like the night went exactly how he hoped.

↪ ★ TWEEK TWEAK

Tweek doesn’t plan to care about prom, at first. Just thinking about it makes his hands twitch and his heart race. The outfits, the dancing, the crowds. It’s overwhelming. But then he thinks about going with you, and suddenly it becomes something he wants to do. Something he wants to get right.

The promposal takes a while. He starts and scraps three different ideas. First a poster, too messy. Then cupcakes, he burns the first batch. Finally, he settles on a shaky, handmade card tucked into something you’d never expect. His hands tremble when he gives it to you, and afterward, he practically hides behind his coffee cup.

He obsesses over his suit. Not because he’s vain, but because everything has to be just so. He tries on five different shirts. Buttons, unbuttons, re-buttons. His tie is crooked no matter how many times he fixes it. His parents try to help, but eventually, he retreats to his room and takes a breath, staring in the mirror until he can leave without panicking.

When he shows up at your door, he’s a bundle of anxious energy. His leg bounces while he waits. His eyes dart everywhere, your porch light, the sidewalk, the sky, until the door opens and he sees you. He goes still. Like for just one second, everything stops buzzing.

The corsage is slightly squished from how tightly he held the box. But it’s beautiful, and it’s clear he picked it himself. His hands shake when he tries to put it on you, and he fumbles a little, but he smiles anyway, an awkward, proud, very Tweak smile.

Photos are a whole other nightmare. He doesn’t know where to look, how to stand, or what to do with his hands. He keeps glancing at you, eyes wide and uncertain, but the moment you smile at him, he relaxes. A little. His shoulders stay high, but his grip on your hand steadies.

In the car, he’s restless. Fingers tapping, knee bouncing. He keeps checking his phone even though there are no notifications. But when your hand brushes him, he stills. Just barely. Like you’re grounding him without even trying.

The venue is loud. Packed. The kind of place that would usually send him spiraling. But he’s focused on you, sticking close by, scanning the room for places you two can tuck away for a break. He offers his hand every time you move through the crowd like he’s afraid of losing you in the blur.

Dancing? Absolute chaos at first. His moves are jerky and frantic. He doesn’t know what to do with the beat, so he just flails in time with the lights. It’s messy and weird and so is him. But once he sees you laughing, really laughing, he starts to enjoy it. He lets go a little.

The slow songs are different. His heart pounds so hard you can feel it through his jacket. He hesitates before touching you, but once your arms are around each other, he melts. Still jittery, still bouncing on the balls of his feet, but with a softness that wasn’t there before. He’s fully locked in. One hand on your back, the other clutching yours just a little too tight, like if he lets go, the moment will vanish.

By the end of the night, he’s exhausted. Hair messy, shirt untucked, hands still twitching. But he’s smiling. Tired but happy. He holds your shoes if your feet hurt. Wraps his jacket around your shoulders even though he’s freezing. Stands under the stars with you like the air itself is buzzing, but better this time. Less panic. More butterflies.

He walks you to your door, fidgeting the whole way. When you go inside, he runs a shaky hand through his hair, exhales like he’s been holding his breath all night, and then pulls out a crumpled napkin from his pocket, where he wrote down the setlist from the dance, a little piece of proof that he made it through something big.

↪ ★ CLYDE DONOVAN

Clyde is all in from the start. The second prom gets announced, and he’s already scribbling half-baked promposal ideas in the margins of his notebook. He tells everyone he’s got a plan, but the truth is… he has like seven, and he’s flip-flopping between them every day. Big gesture? Cute and casual? He overthinks it all while pretending he totally has it under control.

He eventually settles on something bold but safe. Balloons. Posters. A goofy, over-the-top setup that involves some kind of school hallway ambush or maybe a flash mob he begged Red and Bebe to help organize. His smile is huge when he shows up with it, grinning like he just won the lottery, even if he’s sweating bullets under his jacket.

He absolutely FaceTimes one of the boys while shopping for his suit. Ends up picking something classic, a black or navy tux, but adds a twist. Maybe a colorful vest or tie that matches your outfit exactly. When he picks it up from the rental shop, he tries it on three times just to make sure he still looks good.

He shows up at your house with a giant, borderline ridiculous bouquet. Like, it’s almost too big to hold with one hand. He’s standing there on your doorstep, rocking back and forth on his heels, adjusting his tie every ten seconds, and checking his breath on his phone screen. When the door opens and he sees you, he just freezes for a second, eyes wide, jaw slack, like he forgot how to function for a second.

He hands you the corsage, almost dropping it. When he helps you put it on, his hands are clumsy and warm, and he keeps glancing at you like you’re a dream or something. He looks like he wants to say a million things but doesn’t know where to start.

Photos are his time to shine. He poses like a pro, cheeky grin, hand around your waist, head tilted just enough to look “effortlessly hot.” He throws up peace signs in some but every once in a while, you catch him with a totally genuine smile when he thinks no one’s looking.

In the limo, he’s bouncing with excitement. Knee bouncing, fingers drumming, head nodding to the music. He’s doing little checks every couple of minutes, making sure your hair’s okay, offering gum, adjusting his jacket like he’s about to walk a red carpet.

At the venue, he’s living for the moment. Saying hi to everyone, handing out compliments like candy, pretending not to care when someone compliments him. He pulls you straight to the photo booth, then to the snack table, then to the dance floor, he wants to do everything.

And when the music starts? He’s in his element. He’s not the best dancer, but he’s confident and energetic. He jumps around during fast songs, throws in some ridiculous moves that make you laugh and gets really into anything that’s choreographed. He even attempts a dramatic dip at some point. It’s awful. It’s iconic.

But when the slow songs come on, he gets a little more serious. Not stiff, just softer. He places one hand on your waist, the other gently holding yours, and lets the music carry him. He sways with a goofy half-smile, eyes on yours like you’re the only thing that exists in that moment. He pulls you just a little closer when no one’s watching.

As the night winds down, he’s still buzzing with energy but noticeably more mellow. His jacket’s off, sleeves rolled, tie loosened. His hair’s a mess, cheeks a little flushed. He gives you his arm without thinking. Holds your shoes if your feet hurt. Leans into your side during the ride home like he’s afraid the night is ending too soon.

At your door, he lingers. He doesn't rush the goodbye. His eyes flick from yours to the stars and back, a little nervous, a little hopeful, like he’s wondering if this was as perfect for you as it was for him. He watches you walk inside, then turns around with a dazed grin, clutching the prom favor in his pocket like it’s the best night of his life.

↪ ★ BUTTERS STOTCH

Butters treats prom like it’s the biggest event of his entire high school life, maybe even his entire life so far. He circles the date on his calendar with a sparkly gel pen. He writes little “countdown to prom” notes in his planner. He starts saving money early, not because anyone asked him to, but because he wants to make sure he can contribute to whatever this night turns out to be.

The promposal takes him forever to plan. He second-guesses every detail. It’s sweet and cheesy, maybe even a little handmade, paper hearts, sparkles, stickers, the whole deal. He worries it’s too much, then too little, then too much again. But when he hands it over, even with trembling hands and a pink face, he looks proud. Like this is him, and he’s showing it without apology.

He buys his suit with his mom, but he insists on picking the final look himself. Light-colored vest, polished shoes, hair parted just right. He keeps checking it in the mirror the night before, smoothing imaginary wrinkles and rehearsing poses. He lays everything out neatly on his bed, jacket, boutonniere, breath mints, all organized and ready to go.

On prom night, he rings your doorbell exactly on time. Not a second early or late. His shoes tap the floor as he waits, nervously holding the corsage box with both hands. The moment he sees you, his jaw goes a little slack, his smile rising slowly, almost in awe. He fumbles the corsage slightly, then steadies himself, taking careful time to pin it or slide it onto your wrist like it’s a fragile treasure.

Pictures are... a little overwhelming. His cheeks stay pink the whole time. He keeps blinking at the wrong moment. He poses stiffly at first, hands a little unsure, but the moment your hand touches his arm, he visibly relaxes. Just a little. His smile becomes real, soft around the edges like he can’t believe he’s actually doing this.

In the car, he’s so careful with his words and movements. He folds his hands in his lap, bounces his knee, and sneaks glances at you out of the corner of his eye. He occasionally mouths the lyrics to the music playing, but always softly, like he’s afraid to be too loud, to take up too much space. Still, he leans toward you slightly, drawn in by comfort, by closeness, by how easy you make it feel.

At the venue, everything overwhelms him at first, the noise, the lights, the crowd. He grips your hand a little tighter. But when you smile at him, he straightens up. He offers his arm. He steps forward with you, chin high, heart pounding like crazy but completely set on making the night beautiful for both of you.

He brings you snacks, wipes condensation off your drink, and asks (with gestures) if your feet hurt, if you’re okay if you want to sit or dance or leave. He’s so tuned in to you. He holds your bag when you don’t have pockets. He dabs at a drip of punch on your sleeve with a napkin. He laughs when you laugh, so hard sometimes that he almost tears up.

On the dance floor, he’s awkward at first. Very stiff, very formal. He counts steps under his breath and looks around like he’s afraid of messing up. But when a faster song plays, he throws himself into it—hands flailing, feet moving like he’s part of a musical. It’s chaotic, it’s clumsy, but it’s so sincere. People might stare, but he doesn’t notice. He’s too focused on making you laugh.

Slow dances are different. He hesitates before reaching for you. His palms are sweaty. But once your hands find each other, he relaxes into the moment. He sways slowly, carefully, eyes drifting up to yours only every so often, each glance heavy with emotion. He looks like he’s memorizing the feeling, like this is the best moment of his whole teenage life.

As the night winds down, he keeps stealing little looks at you, like he’s not ready for it to be over. His shoes are scuffed, his hair a little out of place, but he still fixes your corsage gently before you leave, like it matters so much that it stays perfect for you. On the car ride back, he’s quieter than usual. Not sad, just... full. Like he’s soaking in the silence as a kind of peace.

At your doorstep, he lingers. Hands folded, shoes shuffling slightly on the mat. He doesn’t lean in, doesn’t rush anything, he just waits for the moment to settle naturally, hoping it leaves you both with that glowing, warm kind of memory that he’ll carry in his heart for years.

And when he gets home, he hangs his suit on the back of his door and carefully presses the prom ticket into his journal, right under a note that simply reads: Best. Night. Ever.

#south park #south park x reader #south park x you #sp #sp x reader #craigs gang #craig tucker #craig tucker x reader #jimmy valmer #jimmy valmer x reader #tolkien black #tolkien black x reader #tweek tweak #tweek tweak x reader #clyde donovan #clyde donovan x reader #butters stotch #butters stotch x reader

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lupin-et-rose · 3 months ago

Text

BSD Brainrot (Pt 1.5)

Part 1 Continued

(AKA Brainrot 1 & 1/2)

BSD Boys x F!Reader

Kunikida & Poe (separately—this time with feeling)

Because gods help me these fuckers have me in a chokehold and I cannot be stopped

Minors DNI 18+ only

WARNINGS: Sexual references, cursing. Much stronger dom/sub scenarios, dialogue, dynamics and similar BSDM/NSFW themes than was featured in previous parts.

*** Viewer Discretion is Advised***

Kunikida

(Using a different gifs between posts for the sake of my own sanity…at least what’s left of it).

Listen—if you really want to see him short circuit? Come to him with your planner filled out, tasks checked off, deadlines met. He won't even wait until you get home. You're getting pinned against his desk, hands braced on your hips like he's trying to decide between praising you or ruining you. (Spoiler: it's both.)

He's methodical about your pleasure. He plans it out, writes it down in that damn notebook like it's an experiment.

“Three orgasms before I even fuck you. That's your reward. Do not beg me to come early-I'll stop. and make vou earn it all over again.”

He doesn't fuck you to lose control-he fucks you to teach you control. The kind that leaves your thighs shaking while he's telling you, calmly, lovingly, that he'll keep going until he decides you've learned your lesson.

And if you try to top him? If you think being a little tease, climbing into his lap while he's doing paperwork, will get you in charge? He'll just hum and let you think you're winning for exactly twenty-two seconds-before he flips you over his desk and folds your wrists behind your back.

"You really thought l'd let you take control without earning it?"

You think it's funny to steal his notebook while he's in the shower. You prance around the apartment holding it hostage, flipping it open dramatically like

“Oh wow! Is this a bullet-point list of sex positions?? Kunikida, you dog—!”

You don't get to finish the sentence. You're already over his lap before you even realize he's behind you, his voice low and deadly calm:

"Put. It. Down."

He warns you, so many times:

"If you keep acting like that, I'll make good on my threats."

And when you grin at him and say; "

“Oh no, what are you gonna do, Kunikida? Lecture me~?"

You don't realize what you've signed up for until you're face-down, ass up, wrists bound with his tie, and he's growling about how

"Disrespect has consequences, sweetheart~."

You'll learn fast: he loves giving you rules. Curfews. Outfits.

"You can touch yourself tonight, but no cumming. I'll know if you did."

And of course—you break the rules. Because you want him to lose it.

Which he does. Calmly. Cruelly.

"Since you have no self-control, I'll do it for you. Hands above your head. Legs open. And don't you dare try to cum again until I say."

•He punishes precisely. No shouting. No chaos.

Just sharp, deliberate touches and the slow unraveling of your composure.

And he never lets you forget why you're being punished.

"You were a brat today because you wanted this," he murmurs against your skin, dragging it out. "You wanted me to fuck you like this. Wanted to be punished. So here you are, darling—getting exactly what you asked for."

He's nothing if not principled. And that extends to your punishments.

Every rule broken is noted, sometimes literally. He'll keep a quiet tally in his notebook, and when the number reaches a certain point? You're sat down and told what you've earned —in graphic detail.

"This isn't just punishment, love. This is correction. You will learn your lesson. And I'll make sure you enjoy every second of it. That's the problem with you-the little brat in you likes this too much."

And yet—he listens so closely. Watches your breathing. Your eyes. He notices everything.

The shift in your breath. The way your fingers twitch. The way your voice trembles even before you safeword

And the moment something feels off-your pleasure starting to dip into discomfort, or even just emotional overload—he immediately pulls back.

"Eyes on me. Are you with me?" he asks, voice suddenly so gentle.

The second you start to truly tremble beneath the surface, when you whisper out "yellow" with a crack in your voice—he stops like he's been shot.

No hesitation. No frustration. He just wraps you up and holds you, hand rubbing soothing circles on your spine as he whispers;

"Thank you for telling me. You're safe. I've got you."

And when you nod, blinking back tears, he kisses your forehead like you're made of glass.

“That's enough for tonight, sweetheart. You've done more than enough."

He'll ask again once you're grounded:

"Was it the intensity? Something I said? Did you feel safe?"

Because he needs to know—not just to get it right next time, but because he refuses to be the reason you hurt in the wrong way.

And if you break down mid-scene-not from pain, but from the overwhelming release of emotion? He'll cradle you through it.

"I've got you. Let it out. You're okay. I'm right here."

You're pulled into his lap, his lips brushing your hairline while he rocks you like he can physically soothe the ache out of your bones.

The notebook is closed. The punishments are done. And for the rest of the night, you are cared for like you're sacred.

—It's rare. It's so rare for him to slip up, to show need before you've earned it.

But when he does—when his voice cracks during praise, when his forehead presses against yours as he breathes;

"You have no idea what you do to me"—you get to see the man behind the discipline.

And for a moment, he is the one trembling.

Sometimes it hits him all at once-usually when you give in fully, obedient and trusting and so willing. And he'll lose his rhythm, just for a second.

"You're... fuck. You're perfect. I don't deserve—“

You have to kiss him quiet. Show him, without words, that you want him in this space, in this softness. That you see him.

And if he lets himself cry? Just a tear or two, nothing dramatic-he'll apologize for it later. But in the moment, all he can do is hold you tighter and whisper;

"Thank you. Thank you for trusting me."

Sometimes, when you've proven your obedience-when you've earned it—he relinquishes control with a sort of quiet awe.

Like the idea of handing the reins over to you terrifies him, but he trusts you anyway.

He sits on the edge of the bed, stiff with anticipation, eyes flicking up to yours.

"You have control tonight. Use it well."

And oh, the way he breaks when you start slow-kissing down his chest, undoing his belt like it's the most delicate thing in the world. He grips the sheets like he's dying, all quiet gasps and bitten-off moans.

"Don't stop. Please. /—fuck—I need you to keep going."

There's a reverence in the way he submits-like giving up power is more vulnerable than taking it. He murmurs things he'd never say otherwise.

"You're so good to me."

"I'm yours, tonight."

"Tell me what you want—I'll do anything."

And afterward, even if you had control, he still insists on caring for you. Fetching water, running a warm cloth over your skin, whispering praises like prayers.

Because no matter who's in charge in bed-he loves you like you're the only rule he'll ever break.

In the aftermath, when everything settles - whether you were in charge or he was - Vulnerability lingers. Your muscles ache. Your mind's quiet. And he's still watching you like a soldier standing guard.

It always starts with the silence. Not awkward—safe. Full. The kind of silence that makes you feel held, even before he's touched you again.

He exhales like he's been holding his breath the whole time.

Then he speaks: "You were perfect."

Not good, not compliant—perfect. Like you were never meant to be anything else.

He won't leave your side. Not even for a second.

"Do you want water? Blanket? Touch?" he asks softly. "Say the word and it's yours."

He's meticulous in aftercare. He's got water waiting. A warm towel. Maybe even a lavender-scented balm he picked up weeks ago just for you.

"This might sting a little," he murmurs, carefully cleaning you up, even if you're too dazed to respond. "But I'll be gentle."

And he is. God, he is.

But he's also...stupidly soft after. Like, kisses to your temple, warm baths drawn with precise care, notebook closed for the night. He calls you "sweet girl" in a voice so tender it makes you ache worse than the bruises on your thighs.

He asks, every time, if you're okay. Not just physically-but emotionally.

"Did I push too far?"

"Did I take care of you the way you needed?"

And he listens to your answers like they're sacred texts.

He runs you a bath if you're up for it-joins you if you ask, but otherwise sits close by.

Book in hand, towel over his lap, always glancing up to check on you.

(He absolutely has a whole page in his notebook dedicated to "Aftercare Notes." If he notices a product worked well or something helped soothe you, it gets logged with clinical precision.)

And when you're wrapped up in blankets, limbs sore and mind foggy, he'll hold you in his arms like a lullaby. Fingers brushing over your shoulder, your hip, your hair-grounding you.

"You're safe now," he whispers. "You did everything I asked. You were so good for me."

And if you cry-whether from subdrop, or tenderness, or just sheer emotional weight— he doesn't flinch.

He pulls you into his chest, hand gently stroking your back

"It's okay. I've got you. Let it out, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."

Yet even then—as wonderful as he is—sometimes Kunikida needs reassurance too.

He won't say it outright, but he'll linger. Touch your hand. Let you see the way his shoulders have dropped.

His forehead presses to yours. His voice is low, hoarse from earlier, but soft enough to be a balm:

“I know I can be... intense. But I swear, / would never give you more than you could handle. And if I ever do—tell me. I'll stop. No hesitation. Your comfort comes first, always."

And when you curl into him and whisper:

"You did so good, Kunikida…”

He melts like wax in your arms.

Eventually, when the world rights itself again, he lies with you in bed, tracing lazy patterns on your skin. Sometimes he reads aloud to you until you drift off. Sometimes he just hums.

And sometimes-rarely—he confesses.

"You're the only person I trust with this part of myself."

You're too sleepy to answer, but he doesn't need you to. He kisses your temple and tucks the blanket higher.

"Sleep, my love. I'll be here when you wake."

***

Poe

He tries to dominate exactly once—murmuring something about being “in control tonight,” voice all low and serious—and you nod sweetly.

Poe tries to be commanding, bless his heart. Will sit on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, voice trembling as he says something like;

“Take your clothes off. Now.”

But his hands are shaking. His voice cracks on “off.” And when you reach for the buttons, he has to look away like he’ll combust if he watches too closely.

Let him talk. Let him settle between your legs like he’s in charge.

And then? You tug gently on his curls and he moans. You lean in close, lips brushing his ear.

“Oh baby~. You really thought that was going to work?”

He whimpers. Folds. Immediately.

His hands shake when he touches you. Not from fear—from how deeply, devastatingly overwhelmed he is by the privilege of it.

The moment you praise him—call him “good boy,” stroke his cheek, moan his name—he’s gone. Eyes fluttering, thighs trembling, hands clutching the sheets like he’s bracing for death by affection.

He’ll be whispering things like “you’re divine” and “please, let me—” while trailing kisses down your stomach, like he’s worshipping at an altar.

He gets so shy about his noises, too—tries to cover his mouth or bury his face in your neck. But you don’t let him. You make him be loud.

“I want to hear everything, Edgar. Don’t you dare hide it from me.”

And the way he melts under the command—he whines like it’s physically painful to obey, but he does it anyway, breathy and broken and so, so pretty.

Oh, and his hands? Clingy. Desperate. Always seeking contact. He’ll grip your hips like a lifeline, run trembling fingers through your hair, paw at your thighs when he’s too wrecked to form words.

He wants to touch you constantly but never assumes he’s allowed to unless you guide him there.

His body betrays him constantly. His nipples go hard the second you breathe on them. His hips rut up against you even when he’s trying to stay still.

And the second you pinch or rub his chest while riding him?

Gone. Feral. Clawing at your back, keening your name like a prayer he’s too sinful to speak aloud.

•And when you edge him—deny him, whisper “not yet” with a wicked smile—he sobs. Sobs. Hands balled into the sheets, back arching as he pleads with you, voice wrecked:

“Please—please let me finish—I can’t—I need—please—”

He wants to be good. Wants to show you he can take more.

But by the third orgasm, he’s incoherent. Whimpering, writhing, tears slicking down flushed cheeks as he babbles nonsense into the sheets.

And you just coo at him. “You can give me one more, Poe. Can’t you? Be a good boy for me.”

He nods like he’s possessed. “Yes—yes, anything—please—”

He lives in his head—lost in stories, fantasy, control through words. But the second you take that control from him? Strip it bare? He’s nothing but yours.

You pin his wrists. Blindfold him. Whisper filth into his ear while dragging your nails down his chest.

“Where’s that sharp little tongue now, darling? Oh? Too full of my fingers to answer?”

You make him wait.

Not just for sex—no, no. You have rituals.

He kneels by the bed, hands resting obediently on his thighs, eyes downcast, trembling slightly in anticipation.

You light a candle, take your time undressing. Speak to him in soft commands:

“Count your breaths. Keep your hands to yourself. You’ll get your reward when you’ve earned it.”

He nods, wide-eyed, aching already.

“Yes, ma’am.”

One time — oh, you’ll never forget this — the first time you gave him just a taste of humiliation. Just to test the waters, see if he was comfortable with it.

You pressed a boot to his chest while he lies beneath you, panting.

“You look so pretty like this. Ruined. Blushing. Desperate.”

He moans like it hurts.

And if you call him pet names with a sharp edge—“Pathetic little thing,” “My sweet mess,”—his entire body shudders.

Not from shame—but because he loves being reduced to your precious plaything.

You tease him mercilessly—licking, sucking, touching, but never letting him have what he wants.

Until he’s begging for permission. And when you finally grant it?

You do it with a whisper in his ear:

“Come for me, Edgar. Let everyone know who you belong to.”

And he does—loudly, body arching, every muscle trembling with surrender.

In the wake of it all…He is so reverent in the way he touches you.

His fingers tremble slightly every time he lays a hand on your skin, as if he’s afraid he’ll break you.

“You’re… you’re divine,” he whispers. “I—I do not deserve to be touched by you.”

(You reassure him. And he nods, a little dazed, like he’s still not sure he believes it.)

He loves being taken care of—but never expects it.

When you guide him into your lap, run your fingers through his hair, murmur that he’s safe and good and yours—he goes pliant like a cat in a sunbeam.

He’ll press kisses to your collarbone, your wrist, anywhere he can reach.

“I am… grateful,” he breathes, half-asleep against your chest. “I never imagined I could feel so… wanted.”

He asks permission for everything. To touch you. To kiss you. To undress. Not because he thinks he has to—but because it brings him peace to hear you say yes.

And every “yes” you give is met with a trembling “Thank you.”

Always. Always thank you.

He adores being guided. If you straddle his lap and tell him;

“Hands behind your back, eyes on me,”

He obeys like it’s gospel.

You can see the way his chest rises, his lips part in awe, the softest moan slipping out just from the intimacy of it.

“You’re everything,” he murmurs, voice cracking.

When you top him gently—slowly grinding, hands holding his—he’s stunned into silence. Not from discomfort, but because he doesn’t know how to express that much love all at once.

You cup his face, whisper “I love you,” and he shatters. Cries, even, if he’s feeling especially soft.

“I love you, too. More than I have words for.”

He holds your hand afterward like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence.

And later, when you’re both curled up under the sheets, he’ll rest his forehead against your shoulder and quietly admit:

“I didn’t think someone like you could ever want someone like me.”

You hush him, press a kiss to his temple. He closes his eyes and lets out a breath that sounds like relief.

He is a simp. A servant. He memorizes your coffee order, your preferred bath temperature, the rhythm of your breathing when you’re happy. He wants to be the reason you sigh with contentment.

And he will cry—happy, overwhelmed, aching with love—if you ever look him in the eye and say:

“Edgar, you’re mine. I don’t want anyone else.”

#bsd x reader #bsd headcanons #bsd kunikida #bsd poe #bsd #bsd fanfic #kunikida bsd #kunikida x reader #bungou stray dogs kunikida #kunikida doppo #kunikida headcanons #poe bsd #bsd edgar allan poe #poe x reader #poe bungou stray dogs #lupin et rose #lupin et rose writes

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ambrossart · 2 years ago

Text

Out of the Loop

summary: eddie went home with someone after prom, and gareth is determined to figure out who it was.

pairing: eddie munson x dwm!reader word count: 11k warnings: language, new relationship, eddie's girlfriend is gareth's arch nemesis, silly childhood rivalries, eddie being happy and stupidly in love, jason being an overprotective ass, chrissy being an adorable little cupcake, the reader is chrissy's best friend, the unnamed freak is named grant in this series

series masterpost | series playlist | fanfiction masterlist

On Monday morning, Gareth peddled to school like a man on a mission.

Nothing was getting in his way today, not his mother, who had accidentally washed his Hellfire Club shirt with all his little sister’s dance clothes,

“You know what, honey, I think it looks better this way…”

not his sister, who had been hogging the bathroom all morning because she couldn’t get her hair right,

“Look, you don’t understand the pressure I’m under right now. Becca Singer is finalizing her birthday party guest list today. I have to look my best if I wanna make the cut.”

not the weatherman, who was painfully misinformed when he called for clear, sunny skies today…

and certainly not the piece of crap Chevy that just cut him off in the middle of the crosswalk.

Gareth swerved out of the way and kept on pedaling. The rain pelted his face in a spray of ice-cold bullets.

Behind him, the driver yelled, “Hey, watch where you’re going, you little shit!”

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Because Gareth was sitting on a goldmine of information right now. It was truly the scoop of the century. Eddie Munson—that’s right, Eddie “the Freak” Munson—had gone home with somebody after the senior prom.

Who was this mysterious (not to mention incredibly lucky) woman? A curious cheerleader desperate to defy her clique? A rich girl trying to piss off her dad? A shy bookworm who wanted to act out the plot of her favorite romance novel? Who? Who? Gareth’s head was spinning! The question hungrily devoured the rest of his weekend (something Gareth wasn’t too proud to admit, of course, but hey, Sundays were always uneventful days for him). He had to get to school quickly and consult his most trusted sources.

He found Jeff and Grant sitting at their usual table in the cafeteria. Grant was eating the school’s hot breakfast while Jeff sat with his head in his hands, lamenting the sorry state of his love life.

“Tara’s still not talking to me. I’m pretty sure she’s gonna dump me for Patrick McKinney.”

Grant put down his fork. “Wait, you two were dating?”

“No…” Jeff heaved a quiet sigh. “But if we were, she’d definitely dump me for Patrick.”

Grant frowned, sympathetic yet envious of his friend’s plight. “Man, I wish Meg would stop talking to me. She had me on the phone all night yesterday. I think she wants me to be her boyfriend or something.” Grant cringed at the thought. He didn’t have the strength to put up with her. He’d barely survived prom.

“You don’t like her?” Jeff asked.

“Not really,” Grant answered. “I mean, yeah, she’s pretty and all, but as soon as she starts talking—”

Gareth slammed a wrinkled piece of notebook paper onto the table. The loud bang echoed through the entire cafeteria, making a few students gasp and flinch in their chairs. Jeff and Grant didn’t move in the slightest. This was typical Monday morning behavior for Gareth.

“What’s with the pink shirt?” Grant asked, unfazed.

“Doesn’t matter,” Gareth said. They had more pressing matters to discuss. He sat down and folded his hands in front of him, his blue eyes clear and focused. He wasted no time getting straight to the point: “Who’d Eddie go home with after prom?”

Jeff and Grant exchanged a subtle, secret glance.

“How do you know Eddie went home with someone after prom?” Jeff asked.

“Because I called him that night.”

“Why’d you call him?”

“Because I’m a good friend, unlike some people.” Nobody had called him asking how his night went. Gareth sat home alone on Saturday night, eating popcorn and watching old sci-fi movies in his basement, while the rest of his friends had a blast at prom. It wasn’t fair. “I wanted to check in on him because I figured he might be a little depressed after getting rejected by Chrissy. Because let’s be honest here, there was no way that Chrissy was ever gonna dance with him. You all agree with me, right? I’m not just being a dick here. Like, yeah, I know Eddie’s riding high right now because he thinks this year is his year and everything, but… yeah, he was aiming a bit too high with that goal.”

“Can you get to the point, please?” Grant said. “My breakfast is getting cold.”

“Well, multitask, man!” Gareth grabbed Grant’s fork and threw it back onto his tray. “What, you can’t listen and eat at the same time?”

Grant rolled his eyes and went back to his breakfast. Gareth carried on with his story:

“So anyway, when I called him on Saturday, I expected him to sound all mopey and depressed, but he wasn’t. Yeah, Eddie wasn’t depressed at all. In fact, he sounded oddly… happy, but also a little bit distracted. You guys see where I’m going with this, right?”

“I hate that I do,” Grant said, struggling to enjoy his food.

“Well, that’s when I started getting suspicious. See, I could tell I didn’t have his full attention, and that’s just so unlike Eddie because he’s normally really good at maintaining proper phone etiquette. Weird, right? So then I got curious and I started listening, and… and I can’t be sure, but I think I heard a girl talking in the background.”

“Maybe it was just the TV,” Grant said.

Gareth shook his head. “No way… I know the difference between a TV voice and a live human voice. Someone was definitely with him.”

“Well, did you recognize the voice?” Jeff asked.

“No, I couldn’t hear well enough.”

Grant’s eyes narrowed. “And yet you’re sure it wasn’t the TV…”

“Oh come on, it wasn’t the TV, you guys. Wake up and smell the coffee! Eddie brought a girl to his house. He brought a girl to his house. She was with him in the room while he was on the phone with me. I could hear her talking. Then Eddie started acting really weird, said he had to go, and rushed me off the phone.”

“Gross,” Grant muttered, sickened. “Yeah, these are details I did not need.”

Gareth’s mouth fell open in a silent gasp. “Wait, do you guys think he slept with her?” and that was more than Jeff could handle.

He buried his face in his hands and said, “Please stop. I don’t wanna go to class with these images in my head.”

Grant shrugged. “Maybe it was just a one-night stand.”

Jeff threw him a sharp, side-eyed glare.

“Just saying,” Grant finished, smirking.

“No, I seriously doubt it,” Gareth went on, completely unaware. “Eddie’s not really a one-night stand kinda guy… not by choice, anyway. No, I think this might be the real deal, you guys, ‘cause listen to this: I went to go see him yesterday. Eddie wasn’t home.”

“So?”

“So I think he was with her. I called him last night and asked him where he was all day. He said he was out running errands.” Gareth scrunched up his face at that, doubtful. “Since when does Eddie run errands? So I said, ‘What sort of errands were you running?’ He said he had to swing by the drugstore. I said, ‘Well, what did you need at the drugstore?’ but he wouldn’t answer that. Yeah, he was being awfully mum.”

“Mum?” Jeff repeated to himself, mystified by his friend’s bizarre word choice.

Grant said, “He was probably annoyed that you were digging around in his business. I know I would be.”

“Oh yeah, he was definitely getting annoyed,” Gareth said. “Then he cut the conversation short and told me he was stepping out for the night. That’s when I knew this was serious. Eddie doesn’t just ‘step out’ on a Sunday night. He hardly goes out any night. If he’s not with us, he’s sitting at home and playing songs on his guitar. Yeah, he was definitely with her last night.”

Grant sighed, hoping they’d finally reached the end of this long-winded story. “Well, I guess you cracked the case then, Gareth.”

“But that’s just it, I haven’t!” Gareth said. Grant let out an exhausted moan. “I still don’t know who this girl is. You guys swear you didn’t see Eddie go home with anybody after prom?”

Another secret glance.

“Nope,” Jeff said. “I didn’t see him go home with anyone that night.”

Gareth nodded, disappointed but not yet defeated. “Yeah, I thought you might say that. That’s why I made this.”

He gestured toward the piece of paper on the table. Jeff picked it up and read it over. Then he passed it to Grant so he could do the same.

“Okay, what exactly am I looking at here?” Grant asked.

“It’s a list of suspects,” Gareth said, a proud smile on his face. “Yeah, last night I compiled a list of every girl I’ve ever seen Eddie interact with at school, and then this morning I whittled that list down to what I think are the most likely suspects.”

“Not a very long list,” Jeff said.

“Really?” said Grant. “I was gonna say it’s too long.”

They shared a little chuckle over that. Gareth glowered at them, unamused. He didn’t appreciate them making little jabs about their Dungeon Master’s love life, stagnant as it was.

“You know,” Grant began with ominous deliberation, “I can’t help but notice there’s a name missing from this list.”

Gareth's head snapped back in surprise. “Who?”

“You know who,” Grant said. Beside him, Jeff was holding in a grin.

A disturbing chill crept up Gareth's spine. Then—

BAM!

Your name cracked down from above like a fiendish lightning bolt, striking Gareth and making all the little hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. For a second, he could see your name so clearly. It loomed before him, ugly and terrible, festering with pus and crawling with maggots, getting pecked savagely by vultures and other scavengers. It made him retch with disgust.

“Oh, very funny…”

“Hey, I’m just saying,” Grant said, “there’s no denying that she’s a likely suspect.”

“In fact,” Jeff continued, “some might say she’s the most likely suspect.”

“Yeah, maybe back in middle school,” Gareth said, “but Eddie hasn’t so much as looked at her in years.”

Except for that one time, he thought, remembering the mournful look on his friend’s face that day.

They were all eating lunch when your laughter suddenly sprang up from the other side of the cafeteria, obnoxious and shrill. Eddie glanced your way and his eyes darkened with such hollow sadness. It was as if someone had died.

But that didn’t mean anything, Gareth decided, so he shoved the memory away.

“All right, look, I’ll admit we lost him briefly for that one summer. I dunno how she did it, but somehow she got her claws in him real deep and he was completely under her spell. I won’t deny that. But then Eddie woke up and saw her for what she really is—an ugly green hag! At first, she appears as this beautiful, enchanting woman, but underneath that guise, she’s a wretched old witch who thrives on torment. Yeah, Eddie got over her a long time ago,” and Gareth refused to waste another thought on it.

He snatched the paper from Grant and laid it out in front of him. “Now, here’s what I’m thinking: if we split this up among the three of us, we can get through this list by lunch and then confront Eddie with our findings.”

“Yeah, we’re not doing that,” Grant said.

Gareth frowned. “Why not?”

“Because we already know who it is.”

Gareth’s eyes widened in surprised anger. “I KNEW IT! I FUCKING KNEW IT! I knew you two were messing with me this whole time. Sitting there with your smug little faces. Making your little jokes. You know what, screw you guys, I don’t even want your help anymore.”

He stuffed the paper back into his bag, climbed to his feet, and stomped off.

Over his shoulder, Jeff said, “Shoulda gone to prom, man.”

Gareth paused, dejected. “Well, no one would go with me…” He pushed through the double doors and was gone.

Afterward, Grant picked up his milk carton and took a few slow slips.

“You know what,” he said thoughtfully, “Gareth should’ve asked Y/N to prom.”

Jeff chuckled to himself. “Well, she did need a date… Shit, should we have just told him?”

“No,” Grant said. “No, this is something Gareth needs to see with his own eyes.”

Now Gareth, his resolve reignited and burning brighter than ever, was prowling the senior locker area with his suspect list in hand.

Let them keep their secrets, he thought. I don’t need their help. A lot of help they would’ve been, anyway. Yeah, I can solve this mystery all on my own.

And he would.

Gareth was a fantastic investigator, you see. He could win a game of Guess Who? in less than five turns and had a lifetime record of fifty-three wins and only fifteen losses (such losses were unavoidable when you drew an easily guessable character like Anita. Ugh, Anita… with those rosy cheeks and annoying blonde pigtails. His little sister beat him in only two moves after that unlucky draw). Now Gareth would apply those same deductive reasoning skills to this. Ask careful, complex questions. Gather information. Cross those ladies off one by one.

There was only one problem: the girls at Hawkins High weren’t exactly forthcoming about their personal lives, especially when it involved Eddie Munson. In fact, most girls denied ever having spoken to the guy.

Claire Dunnock, the most recent inductee into the popular clique, was being especially difficult.

Her blue eyes shifted back and forth anxiously. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, and then leaned forward to make sure none of her new friends were eavesdropping. Claire had to be very careful. One misstep and she would slide all the way back down the social ladder. She couldn’t afford to let that happen.

Gareth sensed her unease. “Hey, relax,” he told her, “I’m not here to ruin your reputation, okay? This conversation stays between us. You have my word.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Claire said. “I wouldn’t be caught dead with that freak.”

“Hey, that freak is my best friend,” Gareth said. “And you and I both know that’s not true, Claire. I saw you get into his van that one—”

Claire seized him by the arm and hissed, “Shut up!” Her eyes blazed with fearful, self-protective rage. “Look, that was a year ago, okay? I was a stupid junior who didn’t know any better. Eddie and I had a class together. I guess I got a little curious, but that’s it. We hung out once and I never spoke to him again.” Loosening her grip, she said, “Besides, he was nothing but a big disappointment, anyway.”

Anger flared in Gareth’s chest. “All right, that's it. I’m not gonna stand here and listen to you slander my friend.”

“It’s not slander if it’s true,” Claire said.

Gareth didn’t know how to respond to that.

“Look, just answer my question, okay? Did you go home with Eddie after prom or not?”

“Of course not,” Claire answered, practically cackling at the thought.

(Why were high school girls so needlessly cruel?)

“I went to prom with my boyfriend. I was with him all night. Ask anyone.” Claire swung her locker door closed, put her hand on her hip, and raised her eyebrows impatiently. “Are we done now?” She walked off to join the rest of her friends.

Gareth glared at her back, his insides boiling with indignation and righteous fury.

You got curious and Eddie got his heart broken. Again.

He crossed out Claire’s name with his pen.

Two suspects down. Eight more to go.

He tucked his pen behind his ear, turned, and suddenly the hallway froze over!

Okay, that didn’t actually happen, but a bitter wind did blow. Gareth felt it on his face as soon as he saw you step out from around the corner.

Coincidence?

Doubtful.

You were wearing blue jeans and a Fleetwood Mac shirt. Yeah, you would like Fleetwood Mac, Gareth thought, scoffing. As usual, you were walking side by side with Chrissy Cunningham, your best friend since elementary school. She was smiling and laughing at one of your jokes. Laughing out of politeness, probably. Why you two were friends, Gareth would never know. Chrissy was sweet like cotton candy and you were so… so…

(evil, pure evil)

rotten to the core, like moldy fruit.

“I swear,” you said with a groan, “it’ll be weeks before your mom lets me into the house again. God, she’s such a prude. How was I supposed to know she was gonna invite the whole family over for Sunday brunch? At least I was dressed for the occasion.”

Chrissy looked at you in baffled amusement. “You were still wearing your prom dress.”

“And it was a very nice prom dress. Your grandma even complimented it. She said it made me look like Madonna.” You weren’t too thrilled about that comparison, but who were you to pass up a free compliment? “Now your mom, on the other hand… man, if looks could kill… I probably would’ve choked on one of those blueberry scones she was serving, which were a tad overbaked if I’m being honest.”

Chrissy went to her locker and fiddled with the padlock for a second before opening it. You stood patiently beside her, the wall clock barely within view.

It was a quarter past eight, you noted with a frown. Was Eddie here already or…?

While hanging up her pink backpack, Chrissy said, “Yeah, she definitely had some colorful words to describe you last night.”

You turned your attention back to her. “Your mom called me a slut, didn’t she?”

Chrissy didn’t answer at first. She was busy unloading her homework. While she was doing that, one of her fellow cheerleaders snuck up behind her, tapped her on the shoulder, and gave a cheerful, heartfelt hello. Chrissy hugged her and asked how her weekend was. The two chatted casually for a minute and then the girl went on her way. Never so much as glanced at you.

“Umm, I believe she used the word harlot,” Chrissy said to you afterward.

“Oh, she got biblical, huh?” Great, you thought, as if that woman didn’t despise you enough already. “You know, I don’t understand your mom. First I’m too fat to be your friend. Now I’m too much of a slut. That lady needs to pick a lane and stay in it… and then drive herself right off a cliff.”

Chrissy threw you a friendly glare.

“Just kidding,” you said. “You know I love your mom. She keeps me grounded. Without her, I might develop a healthy self-esteem, and we all know how dangerous that is. Yeah, that might lead to confidence and success… perhaps even lifelong happiness.”

Ignoring you (or pretending to), Chrissy started digging through her backpack again. “Dammit,” she said under her breath, “I think I left my pencil case at home.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure Jason has a pencil for you.” You smiled inwardly—a willful, wicked smile. “Then again…”

Chrissy pushed her locker closed, grabbed both your hands, backed you up against the lockers, and brought her face really close to yours. “Shut up,” she whispered in half-hearted anger, a rosy blush blooming on the apples of her cheeks.

You took one look at her and busted out laughing. Chrissy started laughing, too.

“I hate you so much,” she said, and released you.

“I know,” you replied affectionately. “But see, this is why the whole situation with your mom is so funny to me. I’m the one who’s still a virgin, yet somehow it’s me who gets labeled the…”

You spotted a familiar face down the hall.

“Gareth?” You leaned toward him, squinting. “What are you doing in the senior locker area?”

The sound of your voice made him flinch. “Nothing,” he said, acting strangely defensive for some reason.

That’s when you noticed the piece of paper in his hand. You gestured toward it with your chin and said, “What’s that you got there? Is that a love letter? You finally asking someone out on a date? Will you go out with me? Check yes or no. Who’s the lucky lady? Wait, aren’t you a little young to be dating?”

Gareth hid the paper behind his back and glared at you. “We’re the same age.”

“And yet I’m a senior and you’re a junior. Hmm, how did that happen?” You tipped your head and smiled at him. “You’ve got company, by the way.”

“Huh?” Gareth stepped back and—

A hand landed on his shoulder, closed around his flannel shirt, and spun him around. Gareth jumped back, swallowing a scream. He was now standing nose to chest with Ben Jabruski, outside linebacker and two-time defensive player of the year. Eric Kordell stood beside him, smaller but no less intimidating. His brown eyes gleamed with feral, territorial aggression.

“Get outta here, freak,” Eric said.

Gareth squared up to him, unafraid. “Last time I checked this was a free country.” He wrenched his shirt out of Ben’s grip, careful not to tear his favorite flannel. It was a Christmas gift from his mother.

While he was distracted, Eric reached out and ripped the paper out of Gareth’s hand.

“Hey, give that back!”

“What’s this?” Eric asked. He opened the paper and studied it for a minute. His expression went from amused to curious to downright furious. He crushed the list in his fist. “Why’s my girlfriend on here?”

“Oh…” Panic shot up Gareth’s spine. He took a step back and let loose a nervous chuckle. “Oh, you must be Claire’s boyfriend. You know, I heard you two had a lovely time at prom.”

He turned on his heel and took off running down the hallway.

“Bye, Gareth!” you said, fluttering your fingers as he passed. Then you looked back at Chrissy with a smile. “God, I love that kid…”

You went to your locker after that, ignoring all the busy little voices, the occasional odd glance and stifled giggle you received from the other students. Chrissy followed with her first-period textbook cradled in her arms.

“Just ignore them,” she told you.

“I already am,” you said… but then you saw Sarah, Sally, and Stacy huddled around Stacy’s locker. Talking about their hair. Talking about their clothes. Stirring their black cauldron of boiling bones and animal guts. Sarah looked at you, whispered something to Sally, who passed the same message on to Stacy, and all three of them tittered gleefully at your expense.

“Just ignore them,” Chrissy said.

“I will,” you said, but first—

You whipped around and burst out: “So which one of you got knocked up after prom? My money’s on you, Stacy.”

Chrissy, dismayed but secretly delighted, tugged gently on your right elbow. Before going with her, you tossed Satan’s mistress (AKA Stacy Raab) a snide little wink. Stacy rolled her eyes in disgust.

“Stop it,” Chrissy said.

“They started it.”

“I know… but stop it. You’re better than that.”

At the end of the hallway, you spotted Chance Gallagher standing in front of his open locker, wearing the same green letterman jacket that he’d worn when he asked you to prom six weeks ago. Chance closed his locker and caught your eye for a moment. Then he gave you a small, apologetic smile.

What was he apologizing for? For asking you to prom, getting your hopes up, and then humiliating you in front of the entire senior class? You weren’t sorry he did it. In fact, you were glad he did it. Yeah, you wanted to go up to him, shake his hand, and thank him for being such a spineless little worm. If he were a decent guy, your night might have gone differently, and you were quite pleased with how your night went. So thank you, Chance. Thank you for being a complete scumbag. Maybe I should write him a thank-you note.

Smiling, you turned back around. As you did, you stole another quick glance at the clock on the wall.

Eight-nineteen…

You sighed.

… and now eight-twenty.

“He’s running late, huh?” Chrissy said. You looked her way and she flashed you a sweet, teasing smile. “I know you’re waiting for him.”

A small flush of heat tickled your cheeks, threatening to set your whole face on fire. Resisting it, you grabbed your padlock and started spinning the dial: three turns to the right, one full turn to the left, another quick turn to the right, and

“Are you nervous about seeing him?”

you missed the last number and had to start all over again.

“Kind of,” you admitted. “Is that weird?”

Chrissy shook her head, her smile growing brighter and brighter. “Nope, it’s totally normal and absolutely adorable.” Giggling, she hugged her book tightly to her chest. If her hands were free, she probably would have hugged you instead. “I’m so happy for you. I really, really am. I swear, I feel like my heart’s about to burst right now.”

“Well, you should probably see a doctor about that.”

Chrissy stuck her tongue out at you. You did it right back, popped off your lock, and pulled on the handle. The locker door swung outward, squeaking on its hinges, and almost smacked Chrissy in the face. “Hey!” she said, laughing. She stepped back, skipped around you, and planted herself comfortably on your left side.

“So did you see him last night?” she asked, practically beaming.

“Nope.” You slipped off your messenger bag and hung it on the hook.

Chrissy squinted at you suspiciously. “Why do I feel like you’re lying right now?”

“I’m not lying,” you told her, only to be betrayed by your blushing face. “I didn’t see him last night… technically it was this morning.”

Twelve-o-two, to be exact. That’s when you saw the headlights flashing through your bedroom window blinds.

“Oh my god,” Chrissy said.

“What? He just stopped by to say goodnight.” You smiled softly to yourself. “It was kind of romantic, actually.”

“Uh-huh,” Chrissy said, laughing at you. “And how long did you two say goodnight?”

“Only for an hour… and a half.”

It was raining last night. You couldn’t invite Eddie into the house, so you two hung out in his van for a while. A very long while. W.A.S.P. was playing on the stereo. Eddie had found the cassette tape while cleaning out his van that afternoon. He was very proud of this accomplishment. It was adorable. He had you listen to a few of his favorite songs, asked you about your day, told you about his, and during “Cries In the Night,” he leaned over the center console and kissed you. Everything after that was a bit of a blur. The last thing you remembered was the horn blaring. You had accidentally pressed it with your elbow.

“Oh my god,” Chrissy said.

“Stop saying, ‘Oh my god.’ You sound like my mom.”

She had said the exact same thing after confronting you about it in the kitchen this morning. Turns out, the car horn had woken her up. Then she caught you creeping back inside through the front door. It was an awkward breakfast, to say the least.

Chrissy poked your shoulder playfully. “That’s how it starts, you know. Late-night visits. Long, drawn-out goodbyes. You two are gonna be inseparable this summer.” She breathed a long, lovesick sigh. “Jason and I used to be like that.”

“You’re still like that.”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling.

“Speaking of…” You saw Jason Carver coming down the hallway, his pants ironed and creased, white collared shirt tucked in, a brand-new Rolex glinting on his left wrist (an early graduation present from his father, apparently). He looked like a Ralph Lauren catalog model. “Is it weird that I’m picturing him naked right now?”

Chrissy hid her face in embarrassment. “I swear to God, if you say anything…”

“What am I gonna say to him? ‘Thank you for deflowering my best friend’? ‘I heard your penis is rather pleasing’? I don’t wanna talk to him about that. I don’t even wanna think about that.”

Prior to this weekend, you couldn’t even imagine Jason Carver having genitals. You always figured he was like a Ken doll down there. Nothing but smooth plastic.

Chrissy looked at you, mortified. “Why do I tell you anything?”

“I have no idea,” you said. Then you checked the clock again.

Eight twenty-three.

Where the hell’s Eddie? you wondered, starting to get a little worried.

Jason’s arrival reclaimed your attention.

“Hey, guys,” he said in that smooth drawl that made all the girls swoon.

You expected to find him standing with his million-dollar smile, but he wasn’t. No, today Jason seemed different—humble, approachable, perhaps even a little shy. It was as if he’d reverted back to his ten-year-old self. Little Jason Carver, who could barely dribble a basketball. The boy who stammered when he introduced himself to the rest of the class. The boy who sat down next to you, smiled, and said he liked the character on your favorite shirt. The boy who talked to you every day. Encouraged you. Defended you. The boy you caught staring at your best friend way too many times to be a coincidence.

Then you looked at Chrissy and she seemed younger, too. A blushing, fidgeting ten-year-old who always forgot to stand up straight. She got so excited when Jason offered to walk her home from school. He even carried my books!

Back then, your happiness for them had been counterfeit, complicated, but not anymore. Yeah, now you could say you were genuinely happy for both of them.

This was still awkward as hell, though.

“Hey, Chrissy needs to borrow a pencil,” you blurted out, breaking their amorous trance.

A soft pink flush rose to Jason’s cheeks. “What?”

“Just ignore her,” Chrissy said, struggling to keep a straight face.

Meanwhile, you punched Jason on the shoulder. “Hey, don’t forget about our deal, buddy.”

“I haven’t,” he told you. “I’ll buy your lunch, as promised. It’s the least I can do.”

“What if I want two lunches? And a whole plate of cookies?”

“Then I guess I’m buying you two lunches and a whole plate of cookies.”

Jason smiled at you… but then his demeanor changed, hardening like armor.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

You blinked at him. “Am I okay?” you repeated slowly, a little taken aback. “Well, I did wake up with a strange tattoo on my wrist. It’s like a crucifix, except it’s upside-down. Weird… Also, I can’t be sure, but I think I might be dealing with a Rosemary’s Baby scenario. Yeah, I’m definitely gonna be giving birth to the Antichrist in about nine months. Buy something black.”

Jason’s eyes widened in confused horror.

“Oh my god, I’m kidding!” you said. “Eddie was a complete gentleman. He even asked for permission before he impregnated me with his hellseed. Naturally, I gave him the green light because… well, have you seen his face? It’s kinda perfect.”

Chrissy put her hand over her mouth and giggled. Jason didn’t appreciate your joke.

“Come on, be serious.”

“I am being serious. Believe it or not, I actually find him insanely attractive. He’s like a discount version of Eddie Van Halen, and I can’t afford the real thing, so…”

“So you actually slept with him?” Jason sounded disappointed and ashamed. He reminded you of your father.

No, worse than your father.

“Well, no, I was kidding about that. I mean, I did sleep with him, but not in the way you’re assuming. And are you seriously gonna judge me for having sex? It’s been a while since I’ve been to church, but I’m pretty sure the bible condemns hypocrisy. You might wanna reread those sections. I think you’ll find them very enlightening.”

Jason ground his jaw in irritation. “Stop making jokes.”

“I don’t want to,” you said finally, your voice breaking, “because then I’m just gonna get really, really mad like I’m doing right now, and I don’t wanna be mad at you, Jason. I was having a really good morning until you showed up.”

By now, Chrissy had stopped laughing. Her shoulders drooped and she looked at you with a sick, sorry expression.

Jason said, “Look, I just think you’re undervaluing yourself, okay? You can do so much better than that—”

“Oh, please don’t do that. Don’t try to talk to me like you’re my friend.”

“I am your friend.”

“Then be my friend, Jason. Stop trying to ruin my happiness!”

The school bell dinged and students began making their way to class. Jason went, too. Didn’t even bother saying goodbye. Chrissy told you not to worry about him. “Jason’ll come around eventually.” Then she smiled, waved goodbye, and ran to catch up with him.

You weren’t half as optimistic as she was.

This is gonna be a huge problem, isn’t it?

You groaned, dreading it.

Behind you, another wave of students came rushing down the hallway. Brittany Wirth was among them. You knew because you could hear her shrill voice piercing through the dull chatter around her. She was ranting about prom, complaining about the flowers, complaining about the food, about the music, about—

“YOU!”

You flinched and turned around, thinking she was talking to you.

What you saw made your eyes light up with glee. Brittany Wirth had Eddie Munson pinned up against the lockers, and she was jabbing him in the chest with her index finger.

“You, sir, are a total asshole! Do you have any idea how hard I worked on that event? I was planning it for months, planning it to perfection, and then YOU had to go and make it all about yourself, as usual.” She stepped back and huffed, exhausted. “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

“I’m a little proud of myself,” Eddie replied candidly.

Brittany shot him a deadly glare. “Oh, shut up!” She swept her hair off her shoulder and walked away.

You stopped her as she passed. “You know what, Brittany, all things considered, I thought it was a very successful night.”

Brittany’s jaw dropped and got stuck like that, locked in befuddled rage. Not a single sound came out, but you could tell she was trying to speak. Was this it? Had it finally happened? Did Brittany Wirth actually crack? She worked her lips unsuccessfully for a minute and then closed them again, steaming in her hatred, screaming internally like a boiling teapot. She brushed past you and continued on her way.

Then you heard Eddie approach you.

“Did I really make the night all about me?”

His question made you giggle. “A little bit.” You turned around with a smile, glad to see him, relieved to see him. “I still had a good time, though.”

“Well, that’s all that matters,” Eddie said, but there was something in your eyes that made him frown with concern. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” you said, and blinked that silly little worry away. “Jason’s just being… well, Jason.”

“I take it he doesn’t approve of me.”

“Yeah, you’ve really got him clutching his bible. He thinks you’re gonna drain my blood and sacrifice me to the devil.”

“Really?” Eddie said, his eyes widening in false astonishment. “Well, he just spoiled our next date.”

“Oh, really?” you replied, giggling. “Well, I guess that explains why I’m still a virgin.”

Eddie winced, looked down at his shoes, and grinned bashfully. “Okay, I walked right into that one.”

“Yeah, you did,” you said; and God, it drove you crazy seeing him get so flustered.

Kinda like last night, you thought, startling yourself, and immediately shooed that dangerous thought away. Now was not the time for that, young lady. You still had a full day of school to get through. Somehow.

“You’re late,” you said.

“Yeah, I uh…” Eddie brought his hand to his face and started rubbing it. “I got pulled over for speeding.”

You gasped. “No, you didn’t.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Prove it.”

Eddie pulled a folded-up piece of paper out of his back pocket and handed it to you. You opened it and immediately busted out laughing.

“Oh, wow… going fifty-five in a forty-five.”

“Eh, they went easy on me… I was going at least sixty.”

“Wow…”

“Yeah…” Eddie said, tilting his head. “The one time I’m in a rush to get to school.”

His brown eyes sought yours and settled there for a moment, his lips curling into a tender, captivated smile. You smiled back helplessly, feeling girly, feeling giddy, feeling like you were probably grinning like an idiot right now. Embarrassed, you pressed the paper to your mouth in a vain attempt to hide it. When that didn’t work, you thrust the ticket back into Eddie’s hand and turned away, pretending to pull books from your locker.

You felt along the spines like someone fumbling around in the dark. What class were you going to again? History? English? French?

No, you weren’t even taking French.

You spoke to Eddie in a frazzled voice: “Well, since you’re not in handcuffs right now, I’m assuming they didn’t find anything when they searched your van, huh?”

“Luckily, no…”

“Good thing you cleaned out your van yesterday.”

“Mhm…” Eddie said, his voice seeming much closer than before.

Your roaming fingers slowed, then stopped, sliding all the way down the stack of books. With one more step, his presence had consumed you, making you blind and deaf to everything else, everything except Eddie. You could feel him standing next to you, leaning into you, his left hand outstretched and resting against the locker beside you. His voice sent a pleasant shiver down your spine.

“Find what you’re looking for yet?”

You gazed into his eyes and got lost in them. “… I can’t remember what class I’m going to.”

You laughed at yourself sheepishly, senselessly, and saw Eddie crack a small smile: half amused and half… something else, something that brought you back to last night—that quiet, rainy night. Sitting in the dark and listening to music. Eddie humming softly beside you, drumming his right hand on the steering wheel, watching the tiny droplets race down his windshield. You sitting in your seat nervously. Fidgeting restlessly. Running your fingers over the plastic cassette case on your lap. Pretending to take interest in it while secretly watching Eddie out of the corner of your eye. Waiting for him to kiss you. Hoping he’d kiss you. Catching him staring at you with that smile… the same smile he was giving you now… right before he leaned in and…

“Ahem.”

Another student appeared behind you, tapping her foot impatiently. “Uhh, can I get to my locker, please?”

Eddie drew away from you, embarrassed and a little frustrated, and took two giant steps back.

The girl assumed his place without a word, opened her locker, hung up her backpack, her jacket, grabbed her textbook and notebook, snatched a few pens from her bag, and closed her locker again. Before leaving, she motioned between you and Eddie and said, “So is this like a thing now?”

You caught Eddie’s eye for a second. “Uhh, yes,” you said while he fought back a huge smile.

The girl shook her head as if dizzy. “Weird,” she said, and left.

Afterward, you turned to Eddie with a puzzled frown. “Wait, is it weird that I’m dating you or that you’re dating me? I need to know where I rank in this relationship.”

“Maybe you should ask her.”

“Maybe I will…”

Giggling, you stepped past him, spotted your locker neighbor at the end of the hallway, cupped your hands over your mouth, and shouted, “Hey, Carmen!” but you never got a chance to finish. Eddie had grabbed your hand and dragged you back to him, pulling you into his arms, putting you right where he wanted you, intending to pick up exactly where he left off.

The second bell rang before you could even feel his breath on your lips. Eddie closed his eyes tightly, as if pained.

“I really hate that I have to be in school right now.”

“Me too,” you said, staring up at him, your heart still pounding in your chest. “We should probably get to class.”

Eddie wrapped his arms around your waist and held you tighter against him. “Or we could just, y’know, skip first period altogether… since you don’t know where you’re supposed to be anyway.”

He swooped down and placed a few chaste kisses along the side of your head. Blushing, you buried your face into his chest.

“Are you trying to get me to cut class, sir?”

“No, just giving you options.”

“Mhm,” you said, giggling.

While you contemplated his offer, you traced your hand over the button pocket of his denim vest, feeling the fabric, flicking each of his treasured pins one by one: Judas Priest, Accept, Mercyful Fate. You found the W.A.S.P. pin last and focused on it, teasing it with your finger.

“And then what?” you asked, lifting your head to look at him. “We go back to your van and finish what you started last night?”

Eddie’s eyes brightened in surprise. “Finish what you started, if I remember correctly.”

“Was I the one who started it?” You frowned, pretending not to remember.

Meanwhile, your hand had drifted up to the collar of his leather jacket. You nudged it out of the way and started tugging along the neckline of his shirt, revealing a faint pink bruise on the base of his collarbone. Eddie winced as your finger brushed over it. You smiled softly, remembering how his breath hitched when your lips made the first budding mark, how he cursed and moaned while you planted all the others, his hands slipping underneath your shirt and sliding across your skin.

“I may have gotten a little carried away…”

“Yeah, you definitely did,” Eddie said, smiling at you.

“I just really like W.A.S.P.”

“Do you?”

“Mhm…”

Eddie’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he laughed. “Well, I still have the tape in my van. We can go listen to it right now if you want.”

You bit your lip hard, unable to answer right away. God dammit, what had you gotten yourself into? You weren’t seriously considering his proposition before, but now…

“Go to class, please.”

Now Ms. Kelley had come out of her office and was sweeping away the last few stragglers, you and Eddie included.

“I know we’re all a little sluggish this morning, but let’s start this week off strong, okay? There’s still another month before graduation. Don’t lose your focus now.” She looked at you and Eddie tiredly. “You two. Class. Now.”

You sighed as you saw your window of opportunity close. Eddie peeled himself away from you and started down the hallway.

“See ya later,” he said over his shoulder.

“Bye,” you said back, hiding your disappointment behind a smile.

Upon returning to your locker, you grabbed your textbook—the right textbook—and wedged it in the crook of your left elbow. While hunting around for the matching notebook and folder, you heard Eddie’s voice behind you again, catching you completely by surprise.

“Oh, wait,” he said hurriedly, “I forgot to tell you something.”

“Hmm?”

You turned around and felt Eddie’s hands cup the sides of your face, drawing you in for a soft, sweet kiss. You closed your eyes, savoring it. A moment later, he broke the kiss and pulled away.

“See you in third period,” he said, departing with a smile.

It took you a second to recover from that. When you finally did, you clutched your textbook to your chest and smiled uncontrollably, tears brimming in your eyes, your heart racing, stomach fluttering, face glowing with pure, radiant joy.

Under your breath, you whispered, “I hate so much that I have to be in school right now.”

Gareth, on the other hand, was glad to be in school today. Admittedly, his morning had gotten off to a rough start, but things were finally starting to look up for him, and now he felt like he was on the verge of a major breakthrough.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

But he didn’t wanna jinx it.

In first period, Gareth snuck into the library and talked to Matilda Gunn: salutatorian, captain of the debate team, and the third name on Gareth’s list (his new list, of course; the original list was long gone, probably lying in a trashcan somewhere).

Matilda, anyway, was sitting at the back table and studying for her upcoming physics test. Matilda preferred studying in the library over her study hall class because she couldn’t stand the sound of her neighbor chewing and slurping his nails. She wasn’t too happy when Gareth pulled out the chair across from her and sat down. She was even less happy when he brought up Eddie Munson.

“First of all, I’m offended that you would even think I would associate with that moron. I hate the guy. He ruined my GPA. Stupid group projects… God, I hate them!” Enraged, Matilda tore a random leaf out of her notebook and ripped the poor thing to shreds. Gareth watched her do it, horrified, and hoped there was nothing important written on that page. “You know, if I’d known he was gonna slack off like he did, I would’ve just done the whole thing myself. But no… I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I gave him the easiest task and he couldn’t even do that. He said he forgot about it. Said he was busy working on a campaign or something.”

“Yeah, he gets like that sometimes,” Gareth said. “Like last month, he spent the whole weekend learning ‘Master of Puppets.’ Have you heard that song?”

Matilda shook her head, her eyes glazed with boredom.

“Well, doesn’t matter. It’s a very hard song to play. That’s all you need to know. And Eddie became obsessed with it. He locked himself in his room all weekend and practiced over and over and—”

Matilda pressed her hand to her temple and hissed, “Listen, junior freak, I don’t give a shit about Eddie Munson and his fucking guitar. Okay? Second of all, I didn’t even go to prom on Saturday. I was studying all weekend, studying for this test, and if I don’t get an A, I’m gonna hold you personally responsible. Now get lost.”

Gareth lurched back in his seat and felt his mouth go dry.

(Once again, why were high school girls so needlessly cruel?)

“Okay,” he said in a small voice. “I’m, uhh, sorry for bothering you.”

He got up to leave.

“Wait,” Matilda said with a sigh; then after a moment of careful, painful deliberation, she put out her hand. “Gimme your stupid list.”

Gareth held the list against his chest, protecting it. “You’re not gonna rip it up, are you?” he asked, observing the tattered remains of her last victim. “Because I’m getting kinda tired of writing all these names out.”

And some of those girls had really long names.

“I’m not gonna rip it up.” Matilda’s voice was strained with frustration and fatigue, but there was still some warmth hiding in there, dimly glowing beneath the cold black coals of her heart. “I’m gonna help you narrow it down, okay? Otherwise, you’ll never figure it out.” She motioned impatiently with her hand. “Come on, hurry up.”

Gareth handed her the list and she looked it over for a minute, vaguely amused.

“Not a very long list,” she said while uncapping her highlighter with her teeth.

“Well, Eddie’s very picky.”

As he should be, Gareth thought. That man deserved the best.

(much better than you)

Matilda snorted under her breath. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s it.” She rolled her eyes, bent her head, and began marking up the list with her highlighter. Her hand was calm and controlled, each movement deliberate, precise, as to be expected of an advanced test taker. “Okay, she has a boyfriend… she, I’m pretty sure, has a girlfriend… boyfriend… boyfriend… boyfriend… she’s been out of town for a funeral… and she… doesn’t even live in this state anymore.”

She crossed off the last name and slid the paper across the table.

Gareth gaped at it, speechless. “You just eliminated everyone.”

Matilda shrugged. “Like I said, not a long list.”

It was a major setback, the kind of setback that made you want to tear the whole thing to pieces, cut your losses, and give up. Gareth seriously considered it. He almost did it while sitting in his second-period class.

But then an angel appeared. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed angel named Olivia Kent.

She peered over his shoulder during class. “Whatcha doin’?” she asked, sitting with her chin on her palm.

Gareth considered lying, saying he was working on his assignment or something, but in his current state, he didn’t have the heart to deceive anyone, especially not Olivia, who was so innocent and kind.

“I’m trying to figure out who my friend went home with after prom.”

“Oh? Who’s your friend?”

“Eddie Munson.”

“Oh…” Olivia giggled a silly, unaffected giggle. “Yeah, he had quite the night.”

Gareth turned around in his seat. “You were at prom, Livvy?”

“Mhm! It was a lotta fun.”

“And you saw Eddie there?”

“Sure. I saw him lots of times.”

“Did you see him leave with anybody?”

“Sure did… I saw everything.”

“You saw everything?” Gareth sat back, awestruck, and felt tears come to his eyes. This was it. This was finallyit. This was the breakthrough that Gareth had been waiting for. An eyewitness—a star witness—had emerged at last, willing and eager to cooperate. “Oh, Livvy, you beautiful, beautiful, heavenly creature, tell me everything.”

“About what?”

“About prom, Livvy.”

“Oh, you wanna hear about prom?” Olivia shrugged, smiled, and said, “Okay! Philip Cuthbert asked me. I didn’t think he was going to, but then he totally surprised me! I wore a frilly pink dress and matching pink heels. Phillip wore a dark blue tux and a black bowtie. I think it was black, but it might’ve been blue, too. Then Philip got me one of those really pretty flower bracelets… What are those called again? Oh, right, corsages! Anyway, we took pictures on the front lawn of my house, then we took pictures at his house, and then we took more pictures in front of City Hall. I don’t normally like taking so many pictures, but I didn’t mind so much in this case. It was a special occasion. Phillip said I looked very pretty. He was really nice to me all night. He held my hand. He bought me dinner. He got me some cake. I actually ate two slices of cake that night, but don’t tell anybody, okay? I was only supposed to have one. And then we danced and drank punch and we danced again—”

Gareth put his hand on top of hers, making Olivia blush and look at him in doe-eyed wonderment. “Livvy, I’m glad you had such a fun time at prom, but since class is gonna be ending soon, do you think you could speed things up and get to the part where you saw Eddie? Is that okay?”

“Sure,” Olivia said, smiling. “I saw him talking to Chrissy.”

“Yeah, he went there to ask her to dance. I told him it was a terrible idea, but he refused to listen to me.”

“Yeah, that was a bad idea. Why would he do that?”

“Because Eddie’s a hopeless romantic.”

“Really?” Olivia frowned, considering it. “He doesn’t seem like one.”

“He hides it behind a mask of cynicism, and he hides it very well.”

“Oh,” Livvy said, mystified by the concept. “Well, I guess that explains why he got up on stage then.”

“Wait, Eddie got up on stage?”

Damn, Gareth thought, that’s actually really impressive.

“Mhm! He gave this long speech and everything. My friends said it was really weird and embarrassing, but honestly, I thought it was kinda sweet. Super embarrassing, but sweet. It was kind of like a… hmm… well, I guess you could call it a love confession. I don’t remember what he said exactly, but it was really adorable, and normally I wouldn’t use that word to describe Eddie—you know, ‘cause he’s so mean and scary-looking—but at that moment, he really was adorable. Kinda like a puppy. And then he played Journey and—”

Gareth’s head rocked back. “He played Journey? Eddie played Journey? Eddie doesn’t like Journey. Nobody likes Journey. Nobody except…”

(you)

Gareth’s eyes widened. His stomach plummeted to the floor. Then he shook his head and the thought was gone.

“Okay, maybe it’s just a coincidence,” he said. “Maybe the DJ suggested Journey. Do you remember what song it was, Livvy?”

“No, I don’t. Sorry, I’m not very good with song titles.”

“Was it ‘Separate Ways’? ‘Any Way You Want It’? ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’? ‘Faithfully’? ‘Open Arms’?”

“You know, for someone who doesn’t like Journey, you sure know a lot of Journey songs.”

And for someone who seemed like such an airhead, Olivia Kent was shockingly observant. Gareth was rather impressed. He couldn’t help but tip his head to her. Touché, fair lady.

“I think it was the last one,” Olivia said.

“‘Open Arms’?”

“I think so.”

“So Eddie played a sappy love song,” Gareth concluded while rubbing his chin. “Makes sense.”

“Mhm… and it must’ve worked ‘cause she left with him right after.”

“You saw the girl who left with him?”

“Yep.”

“You saw her face?”

“Of course I did. She walked right past me.”

“And did you recognize her?”

“Uh-huh!”

“YES!” Gareth pumped his fists excitedly. He almost leaped out of his chair and kissed her, he was so happy. “Who was it, Livvy? Tell me who it was!”

Olivia sighed. “I don’t remember.”

“What?” Gareth’s heart shattered. “But you just said you recognized her.”

“I did recognize her face, but I don’t remember her name… Sorry, Gareth, I’m not very good with names.”

“You’re not good with names,” Gareth repeated softly, beside himself. “She’s not good with names. She’s not good with names. My star witness isn’t good with names.”

He laughed madly to himself, feeling dizzy and delirious, feeling like the whole room was spinning like a turntable. A turntable playing Journey. Journey! Of all the bands in the world, Eddie, why Journey? Why? Why?

Meanwhile, Olivia rested her cheek against her palm and smiled at him. “You have really pretty eyes. Do you want my number?”

Gareth paused, considering it. His face turned bright red.

“Yes, Livvy. Yes, I’d love to get your number.”

“Cool!” She scribbled it on a piece of notebook paper and handed it to him. “Call me sometime, okay?”

So now Gareth was strolling away from his third-period class with a laminated hall pass in hand, Olivia Kent’s phone number in his pocket, a massive pit in his stomach, and Steve Perry’s annoying voice in his head.

Journey.

Eddie had requested Journey.

It wasn’t a coincidence, was it?

Gareth walked past Mr. Prichard’s math class, stopped, and backpedaled a few paces. He pressed his face against the glass and peered inside.

Eddie was sitting at his desk with his assignment out and textbook open in front of him. He had his pencil in his hand, but he had yet to write a single answer. He was just tapping it against his notebook while he stared absently at the chalkboard, stared with a faraway look in his eyes. Gareth knew that look. It meant Eddie was lost in thought, usually about D&D or whatever new song he was learning, but today Gareth had a sneaking suspicion that Eddie was thinking about something else—or rather someone else.

But not you. Please, God, not you.

You were sitting behind him and quietly working on your assignment, just working on your assignment, and that caught Gareth a little off guard. If you had gone home with Eddie (as Gareth begrudgingly suspected now), shouldn’t you have been acting a little… happy? excited? Shouldn’t you have been staring at the back of his head with a dumb, lovesick expression? Daydreaming and doodling about him in your notebook? Naming your future children and planning your destination wedding?

Gareth expected to feel something when he peeked into that classroom. A change in energy. A shift in the natural balance of the universe. Call it whatever you want, but there should have been a noticeable difference in the air, right? Right?

But there wasn’t.

Everything was totally normal.

You and Eddie were acting totally normal.

And that filled Gareth with an exhilarating sense of relief.

It wasn’t you. Thank God, it wasn’t you.

Gareth backed away with a smile. If he had stayed a minute longer, he would have seen the exact change in energy he had been waiting for. If he had stayed a minute longer, he would have seen Eddie turn around and start talking to you. He would have seen you smile and blush and tell him to go back to his assignment (even though you didn’t really want him to go back to his assignment). Then he would have seen Eddie turn back to the front, try to do his work, give up, and turn around again five minutes later.

But Gareth didn’t stay. Instead, he continued down the hallway in blissful ignorance, pulled out his list, ripped it up, and tossed the pieces into the trash.

If it wasn’t any of them and it wasn’t you, there was only one logical conclusion.

“She doesn’t go to school here, does she?”

Gareth forced this treasonous charge onto Eddie as soon as he arrived at the cafeteria. He had found his target sitting at his usual place at the head of the table. The seat of high honor. Eddie’s chair. The king’s chair. Gareth, a once-honorable and faithful soldier, slammed down his tray, leaned forward, pressed his palms into the table, and looked Eddie Munson square in the eye. Unblinking. Unflinching. Unyielding against his Dungeon Master’s powerful, intimidating aura.

A moment of tense silence passed. Jeff and Grant looked at each other and immediately stopped eating. Jeff put down his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Grant screwed on the lid of his soup thermos and set the container aside. There was no telling how long this would take. Gareth had a talent for prolonging his inevitable demise. It was like watching a slow hanging.

Oh, but what a show it would be.

“Who is she, Eddie?” Gareth thrust out his finger accusingly. “Huh? Is she a teacher? A townie? Some drunk chick you picked up at the bar while drowning your pathetic sorrows away?”

“Yikes,” Jeff said, cringing.

And Grant said, “That is quite the allegation.”

Indeed it was, and Eddie didn’t seem to appreciate the open assault on his character. His brown eyes sharpened into a steely glare. They reflected Gareth’s destruction like a black crystal ball. Doom. Doom. Doom.

“Get your finger outta my face,” Eddie said, and that was all he needed to say.

“I’m so sorry,” Gareth said, and fell back into his chair with a thump. His heart thudded in his chest while the color slowly returned to his face. That was as close to death as Gareth had ever come. It was a miracle he’d survived. He bent his head and capitulated: “I sincerely apologize for my previous statement. It was malicious and rude, completely unbecoming of my position.”

Grant squinted his eyes curiously. “And what is your position, exactly?”

“I’m Eddie’s best friend, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Jeff echoed, snickering.

Grant, wryly amused, said, “Uhh, I’m pretty sure Scottie’s his best friend.”

Eddie, having dropped his tyrannous facade, was pretending to listen while absentmindedly picking through his snack bag, his thoughts elsewhere, eyes elsewhere. But where, Gareth couldn’t say. He had strained his neck to see who Eddie was looking at, but it was impossible to tell with so many people in the cafeteria. He could have been looking at anyone, anyone, anyone except you.

“He’s right,” Eddie murmured. “Scottie’s my best friend.”

Gareth shrugged, unconcerned with such trivial technicalities. “Well, then I’m your second best friend, Eddie, and since Scottie’s in prison right now, I have to step in and assume the role in his stead.”

“Ah, the interim best friend. So that’s the imaginary position you gave yourself.”

“Oh, shut up and eat your soup, Grant.”

“I will eat my soup,” Grant said, “and I’ll enjoy it while you continue to embarrass yourself.”

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” Gareth grumbled nonsensically. He stabbed a piece of broccoli with his fork, stuffed it into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. It tasted like dirt. “I’m having a really horrible day.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” Eddie said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Mine’s actually going pretty well.”

Another cryptic response. Gareth simply couldn’t take it anymore.

“You know,” Jeff began, “speaking of Scottie—”

Gareth flung down his fork angrily, sending a spear of broccoli whizzing past Grant’s left shoulder.

“Oh, come on, just tell me who it is already! Enough with the hints and the coded language. I swear to God, you’re driving me crazy, Eddie! You’ve been torturing me for days with this mystery. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t think about anything else. As your friend, I’m begging you to stop. Please, for my sanity, stop.”

Eddie popped a pretzel into his mouth and chewed. “I’ve been torturing you?”

Grant said, “He’s been torturing himself, honestly.”

Jeff nodded, seeming on the verge of laughter. “Yeah, he made a list and everything.”

Eddie grimaced. “Wait, there’s a list? Why is there a list?”

“Because you’ve driven me to madness, Eddie!” Gareth blurted out in blind white rage. “I hope you’re happy because you’ve driven me to complete madness! Who were you with on Saturday? Don’t even try to deny it because I heard a girl talking in the background. It wasn’t the TV. It was a girl. A living, breathing girl. I know you were with her that night, and I know you were with her yesterday.”

“I wasn’t with her yesterday,” Eddie replied, his eyelids heavy with annoyance. “I already told you, I was out running errands.”

“Oh, you’re sticking with that story, huh? Okay, Eddie, let’s assume you were out running errands. Let’s assume you spent your whole Sunday exactly as you said. You got up bright and early, stopped by the drugstore for God knows what, and then spent the rest of the day by yourself at home, cleaning out your van.”

“I did clean out my van yesterday. That’s how I found my lost W.A.S.P. tape.”

“Oh, which album?” Grant asked.

“The Last Command,” Eddie answered, a soft smile touching his face.

Wait, was that another clue?

“Nice,” Grant said. “That’s a solid album.”

Eddie nodded, agreeing, but now there was a distant glimmer in his eyes that wasn’t there before. Gareth couldn’t take his eyes off it. It was as if his friend was lost in a cherished memory.

What significance did this W.A.S.P. tape hold?

Was there any significance?

These questions twisted Gareth’s mind into a pretzel.

And speaking of pretzels, Eddie had set down his snack bag and stopped eating. Weird. He now sat with his arms folded over his chest, fingers drumming impatiently against his right bicep. His wandering eyes kept going back to the clock. Counting down the minutes. What had him so restless all of a sudden? What was he waiting for? His next class? English? Was that significant? Eddie hated English. He dreaded English. He complained about it every day because it meant he had to see—

Eddie pushed off the table and stood up. Gareth climbed up from his chair, too.

“Where are you going, Eddie?”

“Dude,” Jeff said, looking up at him. “You need to calm down.”

“Otherwise,” Grant went on, “you might get demoted to third best friend.”

The two of them dissolved into laughter. Gareth didn’t even hear them.

“It’s happening,” he muttered. “Something’s happening.”

“Yeah, you annoyed Eddie so much that he had to leave to get away from you.”

But that wasn’t it. Eddie wasn’t fleeing for the exit like a coward. No, he was marching straight through the middle of the cafeteria like a lone soldier charging through the battlefield. Charging to victory or to death. He was infiltrating the enemy’s stronghold, impervious to their hostile glares and raised eyebrows. Even Jason Carver himself, who had begun to get out of his chair, could not stop him today. Eddie was a man determined, a man determined to get to

(of course)

you.

He wedged himself between two basketball players, pushed his palms into the table, and greeted you with a charming smile. You gazed up at him in sweet surprise.

“Hi,” you said.

“Hi,” he said back. “You wanna skip next period?”

Chrissy’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god,” she said while you blushed, buried your face in your hands, and giggled.

Gareth, dumbstruck, slumped back into his chair with the bitter taste of defeat in his mouth.

That bitch, he thought. That Journey-loving bitch, she actually did it.

Grant regarded him with an impressed frown. “You know, you’re handling this a lot better than I thought you would. When did you figure it out?”

Gareth sighed. “Second period.”

Eddie just had to play Journey.

There was a moment of solemn silence after that. Then Grant unscrewed his soup thermos and lunch resumed as usual. Jeff took a bite of his sandwich. Gareth, now resigned to his grim fate, stuck his fork into his meatloaf and cut himself a modest slice. The meat looked dry and grey. What a horrible new world he lived in.

But, he supposed, there was something to look forward to.

“I got Olivia Kent’s number today. I think I’m gonna ask her out this weekend.”

SERIES MASTERPOST

FANFICTION MASTERLIST

unfortunately, i no longer do taglists. if you want to stay updated on my fics, you can follow me and/or subscribe to my posts. thank you!

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x fem!reader #stranger things #stranger things 4 #hellfire club #gareth stranger things #jeff stranger things #jason carver #chrissy cunningham #chrissy x jason #eddie munson x dwm!reader #dancing with myself #dwm #dwm short #ambrossart

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yuyusuyu · 7 months ago

Text

bloody hell — forgive and forget

synopsis. oh, if only, if only she hadn't crossed paths with him. then maybe, just maybe, all of this could've been avoided... except, it was bound to happen by fate. there was no escaping the fate that was given to you at birth.

pairing. ot8! vampire! ateez x fem! reader (not poly! everyone will have their own ending!)

genres/aus. vampire au, suspense, romance, angst, slow burn

warnings. mentions/description of blood, arguing, cursing, jongho about to throw hands oop, mention of k wording someone help. if there's anything i should add, please lmk !

rating. pg-13

wc. 2.6k lol...

a/n. this was nawt proofread... super duperrr sorry for uploading late !! was very busy and am very busy right now but things should calm down next week heh.

send an ask in my inbox or leave a comment to be added to the taglist! reblogs and comments are appreciated! helps with not getting shadowbanned!

YOU ABSENTMINDELY TAP YOUR PEN ON THE DESK, your eyes reading over and over again what you had written down in your notebook.

MIDTERM

Find someone whose first/native language isn’t Korean + do a presentation on the phoneme of their language and choose one interesting phonetic element of that language and do a more in depth look at it

includes recordings + analyzing

MANDATORY TO FIND A SENIOR TO DOUBLE CHECK THE WORK (prof said she doesn’t want to do it and is lazy)

the last bullet point you wrote down makes you snicker—your professor is a prime example of how blunt she is— and shake your head, deciding to finally close it and put it away. the lecture room is empty now, your classmates having left minutes ago after the clock hit one in the afternoon. you remained in your seat to avoid their trampling, and quite frankly, you want to remain there.

but your phone buzzes, vibrating against the table and reminding you that you have to get going if you want to get there in time.

you grab your phone, your finger right over the screen.

jjongs: are you out?

you get up from bed, sluggishly walking to the kitchen to drink a cup of water, walking past jongho as he leans against the wall outside your door. it was when you had filled up your glass cup and brought it to your lips that he spoke softly.

“why didn’t you text me yesterday?”

he remains in his spot, his head hung low while he waits. three gulps and the cup is empty; you turn your back towards him and head to the sink, beginning to wash it. “i forgot.”

“you forgot?” his tone is… weird. not quite mad, but in disbelief? he doesn’t believe you, and you don’t know why. you’ve never lied to him, never given him a reason to not trust you.

“yeah,” you answer, scrubbing the inside of the cup harshly with the sponge, creating a lot of foam. “i forgot. why?” you pause for a second. “you don’t believe me?”

he scoffs, and you hear him walk closer to you by the way his voice gets louder. “did you really forget? you usually don’t forget anything at all.”

“well, this time i did.” you open the tap, staring intently at the water wash away the soap. “why are you asking?”

“i just think you’re lying.”

this time you scoff, finding it absurd that he’s telling you that. “why the hell would i lie to you?” is he really trying to argue with you right now? this early in the morning? the thought makes you angry.

jongho’s eyes widen the slightest bit when you turn around abruptly. you’re glaring at him, waiting for his next words, missing the fact his eyes are a shade darker than normal, like the color of obsidian, no hint of the usual brown in them. “kou told me he saw you with a man by the pharmacy at the corner. did you go on a date? did you even go to work yesterday?” the words spill from his lips before his mind even processes them.

“you’re kidding right?” when jongho stays silent, you dryly laugh. “jongho, are you even listening to yourself? you know i would never skip work: he’s too important. i work for kou, i work so i can pay the damn bills. did i go on a date? please,” the anger fades from your features, replaced by an odd calmness. “don’t make me laugh by asking stupid questions, jongho.”

“it’s not stupid,” he says, his gaze hard. “i was worried the whole time.”

“maybe you should stop worrying.”

jongho falters, blinking once, then tensing. “what?”

you shrug, “you heard me. maybe you shouldn't worry about me anymore.” you lift your hand and point at the door. “you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

you glance away. should you text him? apologize for what happened in the morning? or do you ignore him until you both forget about it? well, the third one isn’t the best to do right now, but—

the phone buzzes again, and you glance down just in time for the screen to show another message.

song mingi (womanizer? co worker): are you clocking in today?

“what?” you squint at the screen. “what is he talking about?”

another message pops up on your phone.

choi soobin (good co worker): i have sumn to tell you today ;/

choi soobin (good co worker): SHIT I DINT MEAN THAT

choi soobin (good co worker): I MEATN ;/

choi soobin (good co worker): WAITTTA3TTT

choi soobin (good co worker): I MEANT :/

you clear your throat.

choi soobin (good co worker): can i have a do over

choi soobin (good co worker): i need to redeem myself

you: have at it

choi soobin (good co worker): i have sumn to tell you today ;/

choi soobin: WAITITJITK

you: i’ll see you soon then

choi soobin: NO GIRL COME BACKKCKE GIMME ANOTHER CHANCE OLSSSS

“how silly,” you chuckle, checking the time.

jongho should be gone by now, hopefully already on his way home. there’s no way he’d wait out by the parking lot for you.

except he is, or rather, he just happens to be near the parking lot. when you spot him, walking down the path with two guys, you see that he’s staring intently at his phone. then, he looks up, as if he knew you were looking at him, and meets your gaze.

he leaves his friends behind, though they trail after him, and he's quickly in front of you, his other friends right next to him. jongho is rubbing the back of his neck, a sheepish expression painting his features. “i—”

“you have got to be kidding me.”

a quick look to the right has your lips curling into a frown, seeing the redhead from days ago scowl at you. the redhead, wooyoung, glowers at you as if you’re some insect he can’t bare to look at, averting his gaze to the side and huffing. “just my damn luck…”

“well, you’re a rare sight around these grounds.”

you, jongho, and wooyoung snap your heads to the left: a man with black hair and cat-like features smiles at you. you’re about to bite back with a snarky comment on how he sounds like he’s talking in the medieval ages but with a modern twist, but wooyoung is quick to beat you to it.

“san,” wooyoung leans forwards to look at the male, “who the hell talks like that?”

san and wooyoung get into a heated argument, and you take this opportunity to step to the side and walk away with brisk steps, holding onto your bag with such strength your knuckles turns a shade paler. but you don’t make it far when jongho wraps a hand around your wrist. he’s gentle, afraid that one wrong movement will have you fleeing from him.

you look over your shoulder. “what?” your tone is harsher than what you wanted for it to sound, it has you wincing as your best friend grimaces.

his eyes, you note, are now it’s usual deep brown hue, though lighter now that the sun shines down. “i wanted to apologize for what happened this morning.”

his shoulders are tense while yours relax. you feel like a weight has been lifted off you now, like you can finally breathe. “you were an ass.”

“i know i was.”

“and you were being unreasonable.”

he huffs through his nose, the corners of his lips twitching. “you’re right.”

you swivel around and narrow your eyes at him. “and you were being weird. how the hell did you jump to the conclusion that i was seeing someone?”

jongho kicks a foot against the pavement of the sidewalk, looking down as if, suddenly, his shoes are the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. “the… the demons inside me took over. like, literally.”

“the… demons?” you repeat, confused.

he looks up, looking sincere. “yeah… i just, i genuinely don't know what happened to me. the demons literally took over and i ended up losing my cool.” jongho pauses, eyes darkening for single second while he thinks, and turns his attention back to you, the usual deep brown back. “it must be the stress getting to me and i took it out on you in such a horrible way. i truly am sorry, y/n.”

he means it, you know he does. jongho taps a finger against the side of his leg, something he does when he's nervous.

“apology accepted.”

jongho brightens, “really?”

“yeah,” you smile, deadpanning the next second, “but no more pulling whatever the hell you pulled in the morning.”

“i promise that won’t happen again.” he beams, taking a step closer to you. his arms open up, and you huff through your nose and shake your head.

jongho’s hugs are always warm when you decide to indulge in them every once in a while. he never has a tight grip around you, it’s always gentle but firm. they’re nice and manage to ease your worries and whatever tension you have away.

“i’m sorry too, you know,” you mumble against the fabric of his hoodie. you realize then it’s the one you gave back to him yesterday by the smell of the expensive detergent mixed with that of the cologne he usually wears.

“what for?”

“i said some pretty hurtful things.”

“well, i deserved them.”

you don’t say anything else, instead closing your eyes and letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. that is, until someone decides to break this moment of tranquility.

“wait…” san points an accusing finger at jongho, who merely tilts his head in confusion. “don’t tell me…”

“what?” both jongho and wooyoung say.

“is she your girlfriend?”

“what?” the statement is so absurd that it has you reeling away from jongho, squinting your eyes at san like he just said something you can’t comprehend.

jongho lets his arms fall to his side. “no.”

“oh,” san breaks out into a smile. “you don’t mind if i steal her from you then?”

your best friend scoffs and ignores san. “listen,” he says, glancing at you. “stay away from those two. they’re… not very good people.”

“then why are you friends with them?” you watch jongho’s eyes widen.

“…it’s complicated,” he grumbles, “just—just don’t get too close to them.”

just don’t get too close to them. jongho’s words echo in your mind, the scene of him dragging both his friends away replaying over and over again. you never knew he was friends with people like them, and your mind can barely wrap around the sudden realization that you actually don’t know anything regarding jongho’s personal life.

there’s a tug at your hand that brings you back to the present, eyes falling down to the eleven year old holding it. “sis,” kou says, “we’re here.”

the book store you work at is right in front of you, the words ‘LUCID DREAMS BOOKSTORE’ in gold lettering staring back at you.

the doors chime when you push them open, the smell of coffee hitting your nose. kou lets go of your hand and runs away to his usual table, dropping his things on top and then disappearing into the fiction aisle.

you make your way to the back, reaching out for the handle when the door swings open.

“what are you doing here?”

“no ‘hello?’ no ‘how are you?’” mingi pouts and wipes a fake tear away. “do you hate me, yn?”

“no,” you reply, “but what are you doing here? we don't work the same shifts here.”

your shift buddy here is choi soobin, not song mingi.

mingi grins, “starting next week we will.”

“huh? what happened to soobin?”

the culprit himself comes out from the back, a pout on his lips. “screw this.” he grumbles, his once gloomy expression morphing into a happy one when he sees you. “ynie~”

“ynie?” mingi repeats, an eyebrow raised at soobin’s sudden change in behavior.

“yeah,” soobin says, giving him the nastiest side-eye you’ve ever seen. “because she’s my favorite co-worker and i’m hers, too.”

mingi looks at you with both his brows raised, shocked at the information. “for real?”

you shrug. “yeah,” you say, “soobin’s great to work with.”

“well not anymore,” mingi replies, smiling triumphantly as if he just won a prize.

“what?”

“yeah…” soobin drawls, looking away from your questioning gaze. “mingi and i switched shifts.”

“what—”

“—the hell is wrong with you?”

the door hits the wall with such frightening force that it leaves it broken with a dent. it's such a hideous thing to look at, the dent, that is. it stands out against the other pristine, white walls.

“i assume you’ll be fixing that,” seonghwa looks through the mirror in front of him at jongho, his eyes a deep maroon color, completely different to the bright red coating his lips. “right?”

jongho glares angrily at him, watching as the older male leans down, gripping the neck of the poor girl next to him. the platinum blond opens his mouth, his canines enlarging and about to pierce a new spot.

“tell her to leave.”

seonghwa stops, and his eyes turn into the hue of a ruby. “clean yourself up, bandage your neck. then you will leave this place and forget about it. today never happened.”

the girl stands up, eyes glazed over as seonghwa hands her a cloth and gauze, wiggling his fingers at her as she leaves silently. jongho hears him mumble something about killing her later as an extra precaution.

“what is it that you want, jongho?” he asks, grabbing a napkin from beside him and dabs the blood away from his lips, his eyes going to maroon and then a dark brown. “you interrupted my feeding.”

in the next second, jongho stands in front of him. seonghwa looks at him through his eyelashes, clearly unimpressed with his attitude. “well? you ought to spit out whatever is wrong before my patience wears thin.”

“you had no right to do that.”

seonghwa’s lips curl upwards into a wicked grin, eyes reflecting the amusement he feels. “ah,” he says, “so that's what this is about.”

he continues to speak at jongho’s silent rage. “i was just testing my hypnosis. i guess my theory is correct,” seonghwa doesn't falter when the collar of his white button up is fisted and he is made to lean forwards, “seeing as how it worked on you to some extent.”

“you had no right to do that,” jongho repeats. “absolutely no right.”

his thin fingers wrap around his wrists, tugging them off in one swift gesture. “i don’t understand why you’re so upset at me.”

at this, jongho scoffs, eyes blown wide from the fury that almost blinds him. “don’t understand?” he laughs through his nose, “you don’t understand why i’m so upset? i could’ve lost her because of you charming me!” he falters, the anger replaced by fear at the dangerous glimmer in seonghwa’s delighted eyes.

“so it’s a girl,” he hums. “who you care for the most. i thought it would’ve been hongjoong, maybe even yeosang.”

“don’t ever charm me again.” jongho backs away and crosses his arms over his chest. “don’t think about seeking her out either.”

“i’m not curious enough to do that to your little human,” seonghwa shrugs, “i don’t have enough time for that.”

“then why charm me at all?”

seonghwa smiles, “yunho suggested it.”

“what?”

“he told me i should try charming you to see if it works on you, told me to charm you into hurting the one you most care about.”

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