#i think he can cry but he hasn’t done it in thousands of years so he kind of forgot

[cometrose]

i always think about zhongli crying cause he’s been through so much but he pushes down a lot of his emotions so i have a question

[judysxnd]

I just want to start by saying that I love your writing! Can you write one where Pedro is dating a model that lives in New York & they have an age gap? Maybe one where he attends her major debut show :)

Hi! Thank you, I appreciate it! 🥰 I acknowledged the age-gap but I don’t really made it useful in the storyline. Hope you like it!

——————————————————————————————

[flashback]

You were sitting outside, on the balcony, feet in the pool, refreshing yourself. You could see some buildings far away, thanking New-York City for giving you this magnificent view. Music blasting in the background, you were quietly singing along, occasionally watching your boyfriend reading his lines on a chair in front of you on the other side of the pool.

You were thinking a lot, seeing Pedro so focused. He has worked so hard these past years, making his dreams literally come true. You wished you could say the same. Since your young age you’ve wanted to be a model. It hasn’t been easy. You’ve tried to enter some pageant shows, never making it to the first place. You did participate to some local fashion show, but nothing really big. You wondered if it was worth it. You’re 25 years old, not going anywhere as your career is not really taking, making your self esteem lower day by day. It was hard to keep going.

Your phone rang. It was your agent.

“P can you turn down the music please?” He did as he was told. “Hi Louise! I’m good, how are you? Yeah you seem very excited.” Pedro stopped a second, looking at you, then went back to his reading. “Wait what?” You stood up. “You’re joking? If this is joke it’s not funny.” You started pacing around the pool. “No way. NO WAY!” You screamed. Pedro immediately stopped reading, looking at you pacing around, confused. “This is amazing, thank you! Yes, I’ll come by tomorrow, 10am, yes!” You hang up.

“What’s going on?” Pedro asked

“I-I can’t believe it! You remember that photo shoot I did for the lingerie?” You said coming next to him

“Oh yes indeed, I do remember” he smirked

“Pedro!” You slapped his arm. He laughed. “It’s serious! Well, this guy, who is actually a big deal, he saw the photos, and he wants me to participate to his big fashion show next month!” He was shocked.

“You’re serious ?” He asked, standing up. “This is amazing!” He said as he put his hands on your arms.

“I think I’m going to cry”

“I’ll cry with you, I’m so proud of you princesa” he said hugging you

“My dream came true” you hold him tight

[end of flashback]

You still couldn’t believe it. It was happening. You were currently sitting in your chair, having your make up done. With the anxiety kicking in, you kept playing this memory over and over again, relaxing you, preparing you. You were about to walk in front of thousands of people, half naked, and you had to be perfect, not falling, nor anything else. It was a lot of pressure. Since you arrived late on the show, only a month before, the training you had, had been very very intense and difficult. But it was your dream, it was just the first show, it would be easier for the others.

You were just done with your make up when you received a text from Pedro. He unfortunately couldn’t be here tonight, as he was shooting for The Last of Us. He tried to get free to see your perform on your first major show, but he couldn’t.

“Holà mi amor, I hope you’re not getting too anxious right now. I really wish I could be here. Te amo princesa, you’re going to kill it, you’re the beautifulest there❤️”

His message made you blush. You really wish he could be here. It’s such a major moment for you. You didn’t have time to answer that you were called to get your hair ready before going on stage. After that, you started to wait behind the other models was they were going one by one on stage.

Your heart was racing as you were just a few minutes away from going on stage. You were slowly climbing the stairs of the stage, waiting for the signal to go. Three people were still in front of you. The music was loud, you could hear people clapping, you could see flashes from the front of the stage. Suddenly, you felt a hand touch yours. You turned, surprised by the feeling, only to see Pedro, smiling, standing next to you.

“Pedro? What are you doing here ?” You couldn’t believe your eyes.

“Surprise” he opened his arms, you went to hug him

“I can’t believe it! You made it!”

“You really thought I would miss your show?”

“I thought you were away filming!”

“I got a day off to see you” he parted, still holding your hands. “Look at you mama, looking like an angel” you blushed

“Y/N it’s about to be your turn” a woman interrupted you.

“Okay sweetheart, go” he blew a kiss, you did the same right before leaving

“Ok, go now!” The woman said, as you were now going on stage. All eyes were on you. Your heart was racing, but you felt confident. Cameras flashing, you were giving your best walk. After walking around the whole stage, you arrived backstage, where Pedro was standing, watching you. He helped you down the stairs as your legs where shaking from the adrenaline rush.

“You were magnificent darling” he kissed your hand

“Thank you baby” you smiled “I don’t have much time I have to go change and go again” Pedro eyes were burning on you

“Yeah yeah I know, I’ll be right in front watching you being the hottest woman here”

“I love you” you quickly kissed him before leaving to get changed. Pedro left as well, going in front of the stage, to see you as close as possible.

———

The show was finally done, and you were pretty exhausted. All the stress and adrenaline rush you had disappeared and left you tired like you did not sleep for days. Right after you changed, Pedro got back to you.

“Hi” he said, putting his hands on you shoulders, as you were taking your make up off.

“Hey” you smiled, looking at him through the mirror

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m dreaming, it doesn’t feel real”

“Oh I assure you, it is real” he leaned to kiss neck

“Although I do feel extremely tired”

“Do you think you can hold on a little more?” You looked at him curiously

“Why?”

“Well, I was not the only one here to see you”

“What?” You turned to look at him

“Your friends were here too, and now, they are waiting for you outside so we can go out and celebrate”

“This is the best day ever!”

You finished taking your make up off and left. As you stepped outside, you were greeted by your friends. They all said that you were amazing and that they were proud of you. You then left to your favorite bar and celebrated your show with the people you loved the most.

[abiiors]

Just Let Me // M.H.

I got so carried away with this, my god. It’s best friends to lovers??? (read: idiots to maybe lovers). I am so proud of how this turned out and I genuinely hope you like it <3 (reblogs and feedback are very much appreciated)

I’ve kinda tried an omniscient POV in this so I hope it works. It’s mostly angst but there’s a happy-ish end. A positive one at least.

WC: 3.2k (my longest yet)

Warnings - Reader is struggling with mental health, a whole lot of crying in this one, yelling too. And quite a lot of swearing

Masterlist // Series Masterlist // Drabbles

Your phone buzzes with another notification in your hands and you stifle another groan. That makes it ten now. 

All you want to do is put on the saddest movie you can find, have a good cry about your day, week, month and then curl up under a million weighted blankets. You simply want to forget about your life for just an hour or two but Matty (or rather, fate) has different plans.

Normally, when he sends you useless memes and silly reels, you make sure to reply to all of them. You even send him stupid stuff in return but all you’ve managed today is to leave him on read. 

It takes too much energy to open DMs, to respond to them—the energy that you simply do not have today. It’s one of those days. Lately, it’s always one of those days. They might as well be the norm now. 

Are you ignoring me now?

His message makes your phone buzz again and you wonder if flushing it down the toilet is a good idea. 

Are you ignoring him? No, yes, maybe a little. But only because he’s just so intuitive when it comes to you. You sigh, open the text chain and start typing up a response. But it’s already too late. 

Your phone is buzzing again; this time with an incoming call. 

You consider pressing decline or just letting it go to voicemail but he won’t give up until he’s sure he hasn’t done another stupid thing to make you mad. So you simply send a quick prayer out into the universe and press Accept. 

‘Hello…’ you try so hard to make your voice sound as neutral as possible. But it cracks on the last syllable anyway.

There’s a small pause at the other end of the line and you know he’s analysing that voice break. The sound in the background slowly grows distant and fades away as you realise that he’s moved to some quieter location. 

‘So…’ he hesitates a bit and you can instantly sense the suspicion in that one tiny word. ‘Are you home?’

‘Yeah,’ you quietly try to clear your throat, ‘yeah, just got in.’

‘And how was your day?’

Shitty! 

‘It was fine,’ you move around a few things on the dresser, hope that the noise is enough to distract him from the shift in your tone. But he’s smarter than you give him credit for. 

‘You’re lying to me.’ It’s not a question, it’s a statement. 

‘I’m not—’

‘Come on, sweetheart,’ he interrupts, ‘I am not as stupid as you think I am.’

‘You sure about that?’ you try lamely but it lacks any of the usual laughter in your voice. 

‘Rude! And don’t even try that with me right now,’ his voice holds a rare sternness. It’s not that he’s wrong. He did correctly call you out on that lie. The fact that you’ve known each other for close to seven years now makes it so much harder to lie to him. You contemplate dropping the act. You contemplate telling him everything, all about how life has been so difficult to handle lately; how you constantly feel like you’ve bit off more than you can chew. 

But he’s so busy… And you don’t want to trouble him. 

Their new album is set to release in just a bit over a month and there are a plethora of last-minute things to do; thousands of special edition CDs to sign and finalising the last details of various interviews, finalising the details of the tours. 

‘I’m just a bit more tired than usual, I promise you,’ you bite your lip to keep it from wobbling and hope that it’s enough to convince him. 

‘I’ll see you in a bit.’ There’s no protesting the finality in his tone. Not like you have the chance to because he instantly hangs up after that. 

As much as it is not his fault, it feels like this phone call has leached out the last of your energy. All you want to do is curl up in a ball on the hardwood floor. So that’s exactly what you do. Five minutes turn to ten, turn to fifteen until you lose track of time. Your eyes burn from all the unshed tears and it’s hard to keep them open anymore but you cannot stop staring at the little pink stain on the rug. 

You remember how Matty messed around your house that summer, spilt nail polish on your (then) new rug. How you painted his nails in all the neon colours you owned as revenge. You remember him saying how the stain was his way of making sure you’d never forget about him. 

As if…

A few sounds manage to break through the buzzing in your ears. There’s the sound of tyres pulling in your driveway, the sound of a car door opening and closing. And at last, the jangling of keys as someone tries to open your front door. 

You instantly know who it is. You’ve had each other’s house keys for a good few years now and today, for the first time, you wish he didn’t have them. You wish he wasn’t here at all. You wish you had never picked up his call. 

In a minute, he’s going to walk in here and find you curled up on the floor like a lunatic. He’s going to think you’ve finally lost the last shred of sanity. 

In a minute, you’re going to look at him and find him looking back at you with barely concealed pity. 

In a minute he’s—

‘What…’ he interrupts your train of thought and you make the barest of effort to peek at him through the curtain of hair that’s fallen over your face.

Matty’s not alone; or rather, he’s not empty-handed. He’s holding the prettiest bunch of daisies you’ve ever seen as well as a giant Tesco bag. You don’t have to ask him to know that he’s bought all your favourite junk food and that sugary ice tea you love so much. You also hear a few wine bottles clinking in there. 

It’s too much, all of it. He’s being so considerate, so nice. And you have no strength left in you tonight to conceal the feelings that bubble up in the face of this niceness. It’s supposed to be priceless, this gesture yet all it manages to do is be the last fucking straw. 

The restraint snaps and your eyes flood with tears and now they can’t stop flooding with tears. When before your eyes burned from unshed tears, now they can’t stop shedding them. And you cannot control the gasps and sobs that are being torn out of you. 

He swears softly and then chucks everything in his hands on the settee. He wastes no time running to you, wrapping his arms around you as he tries to pull you into a sitting position.

‘Sweetheart, hey,’ he’s trying to be soothing which only makes you cry harder. ‘Why didn’t you call me?’

‘I just got in,’ you blubber through the tears. It’s such a shitty excuse too but he doesn’t push it. 

‘I’m here,’ he says; repeats it over and over again like a mantra. 

His fingers caress your spine softly, almost lovingly but you refuse to think of it that way. What’s the point in romanticising simple comfort when it will only lead to more heartbreak?

‘Talk to me,’ he urges after a bit. 

‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ you shrug your shoulders, look anywhere but at him. ‘Everything is a bit overwhelming lately, that’s all.’

He softly touches your chin, tries to make you look at him but you won’t budge. 

‘You’re doing it again…’ 

‘Doing what again?’ If playing dumb is what gets him off your back then so be it. 

‘This…’ you see him point at you from your peripheral vision. ‘You’re pretending like it’s not a big deal.’

‘That’s because it’s not a big deal,’ you mumble. Your eyes snag on the photo on the wall. It’s Matty and Hann pointing at some graffiti on the Berlin Wall and making goofy faces and it almost makes you smile. You have fond memories of this trip, maybe even the last time you felt truly happy. 

His gaze follows yours and rests on the photograph. 

‘Remember how you kept butchering the lyrics to 99 Luftballons?’ The smile in his voice is evident and you know he’s thinking of the same memories that you are. 

‘I didn’t butcher them!’ you say begrudgingly. In truth, you absolutely did but that was a carefree version of you. That was a different person who did not mind screaming the wrong lyrics at the top of their lungs, who laughed at the stupidest of jokes and cracked even worse ones. 

‘I haven’t heard you sing in a long time,’ he confesses. 

‘I just haven’t found scream-worthy songs in a long time,’ you deflect.

He shakes his head because he realises that you’re intent on being difficult tonight. He has to take a different approach to this.

‘Let’s go back,’ he suggests, ‘maybe even go to Italy this time.’

It’s such a ludicrous suggestion really that you snap your gaze back at him. He’s looking right at you, he’s never stopped looking right at you. 

‘What’s the point in making these plans,’ you laugh bitterly, ‘you’ll be gone in a month anyway.’

‘Then come with me.’

He says it so softly that you’re unsure if he even said it in the first place. He seems to come to the same realisation because he clears his throat. 

‘Come with me.’

Go with him…

‘You think it’s so easy,’ you scoff and wipe at your eyes furiously.

‘Isn’t it?’

It’s these two simple words that cut through all your barely-there calm. 

Isn’t it? 

Isn’t it?

‘And what about my job? My responsibilities? I can’t just run from everything!’ You muster up all the strength left in you as you yell at him. 

It’s as if it has opened up a dam inside you and now you can’t stop the flood of words. 

‘Not all of us have the luxury of doing what we love and travelling and fucking around. Some of us have to SURVIVE! Not all of us can just pause everything at the drop of a fucking hat.’

By the time you’re done, you’re sobbing so hard that you’re certain your heart’s about to crack in two. Any minute now…

But then his warm hands are grabbing your face. ‘Hey, hey,’ he’s whispering, forcing you to look at him, ‘hey, I need you to calm down a bit okay? Okay?’

The tears make his face look blurry and unclear but the concern in his voice is unmistakable. You can almost imagine the deep crease between his brows right now; how his mouth would be tilted downward. Still, the sobs don’t subside. 

‘Please, please,’ he’s begging almost, ‘will you take some deep breaths for me? Please…’

You are trying, you have been trying. All this time you have only been trying to make it from one deep breath to the next. 

‘Please…’ his voice cracks.

Gently, so gently he picks up your hand in his, observes the red half-moons formed on the palm because of how hard you’ve been digging your nails into it, and swipes a thumb over it. It takes him a second or two before he manages to control the tremble in his own hands. It’s only when you touch the soft cotton of his t-shirt, that you realise that he’s holding your hand over his heart. 

The fog clears just a smidge as you feel his strong heartbeat under your palm. Compared to his, yours feels like a galloping horse. 

‘I’m sorry,’ you sob once you’ve come to your senses. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’

‘Stop…’

‘I know you work hard,’ you close your eyes tightly, let a few more tears escape, ‘I know your job isn’t easy.’

‘It’s not,’ he confirms. ‘I know you think I’ve no reason to complain.’

‘You’re misunderstanding me—’

‘And I know I’m so lucky to be doing what I do,’ he continues as if you haven’t spoken at all. 

‘That’s not—’ 

‘And I know you take your responsibilities much more seriously than I do…’

‘Listen to me—’ you try to interrupt again but he’s having none of it. 

‘No, you listen to me. Take a sabbatical, quit your fucking job for all I care. It’s not making you happy, it’s never made you happy. I’ll take care of you. You know I will.’

You roll your eyes and try not to scoff at his words but that just fuels him even more. 

‘Fuck, why won’t you let me! You took care of me when I needed it the most or have you forgotten about that? Have you forgotten how you held my hand as I checked into rehab?’

His voice chokes on the last word but he does not waver, he never wavers. 

‘Let me b—fuck, let me be there for you,’ he pleads. 

You grasp at straws, try to come up with even one reason why he shouldn’t be here right now. 

‘You already have a million other things to take care of.’

‘And they are all secondary to you.’ He wastes no time in answering. All this time that you’ve spent not looking at him, all that resolve crumbles in an instant as you finally turn to him. His hand twitches to wipe away the few tears that have slipped out but he stays put.

‘Please stop…’ you whisper—beg—through the lump in your throat. ‘Please stop saying things like that.’

‘And why should I?’ he challenges. 

Because you’re only saying them to make me feel better.

Because you just want this pity party to end. 

Because you are just fulfilling your obligation as my friend…

‘Because you don’t mean them…’ you breathe. 

You might as well have slapped him in the face. That’s how hard he flinches away. In fact, he would much rather you slap him in the face than hear you accuse him of that. 

Your entire body goes cold when he stands up, tries to put distance between you. And you have to grab the arm of the settee to make yourself get up. The spot on the floor where you were curled up should have been warm by now. Instead, it feels ice cold. 

‘I don’t mean them?’ His voice is so soft, so lifeless.

‘No, that’s not what I mean—’

‘You think I’m here to score some brownie points?’

He’s getting riled up now. That was the last straw for him and now you’ve finally managed to step over the boundary. You’ve finally crossed that invisible line.

‘Tell me why I’m here,’ he demands. 

‘I don’t—’

‘I need you to tell me why you think I’m here.’

‘Because you’re my fr—’

‘Don’t you fucking say that word,’ he shouts, ‘Don’t you dare say that word.’

You feel hollow sitting there; like a husk of a person. There’s no point to this conversation anymore but he’s not giving up. 

‘Ask me why I’m here,’ he shouts again and this time you can’t hold it in any longer. 

Your head pounds inside your skull and your patience is wearing thin. You’ve tried apologising, you’ve tried deflecting but nothing has worked. 

‘Fuck!’ you yell back, ‘Why ARE you here?’

‘BECAUSE I FUCKING LOVE YOU!’ 

The silence that follows is the loudest silence you’ve ever heard.

He staggers back—eyes wide and mouth agape—and almost crashes into your TV. He can’t believe he’s just let that slip out. That was supposed to be his one secret.

And you can’t ignore the way your heart simply stops. 

Because how long have you waited for him to say those words? How long have you imagined whispered I love yous in the dead of the night in Matty’s voice? How long have you yearned?

He’s made up his mind now. He can’t take the words back, he doesn’t want to take them back so he squares his shoulders and looks you dead in the eyes.

‘Because I fucking love you, okay?’

This silent confession, a confirmation that the first one was not a fluke, nearly brings you to your knees. You beg your legs to hold you up as you take a small step toward him. 

‘You do?’ 

‘I have been in love with you for as long as I have known you.’ The exasperation in his voice is clear, so is the undercurrent of regret. 

For as long as I’ve known you…

Seven years…

Seven years that you could have had with him

‘It’s okay if you…’ he has to swallow a few times to stop himself from getting choked up. He has to blink a few times. ‘It’s okay if you don’t feel the same.’

Words cannot do justice to what you feel. 

Seven years…

This evening has gone from difficult to damn near impossible and there’s simply not enough air in the room. 

Seven years that you’ve wasted, you can’t let yourself waste another second. 

You stagger toward him and he’s instantly there to catch you, to hold you so close. He wastes no time tilting your chin up because he will die if he doesn’t do it now. And he will never find peace if he doesn’t know the taste of your lips. 

This kiss is unlike any other you’ve ever had in your life. There’s no elegance to it, no softness. Your teeth clash against each other multiple times in the first few seconds. It tastes like tears and stale cigarettes. It tastes like longing and yearning and hope. Best of all…it tastes like him

And it is, without a doubt, the best kiss you’ve ever had in your life. 

It’s the best because it’s him. It’s always been him and now you finally get to have him.

‘I’m an idiot,’ you mumble against his lips. 

‘A proper imbecile,’ he confirms and you slap his arm lightly. 

‘You’re an idiot too!’

‘At least I had the courage to confess,’ he challenges.

You bury your face in his chest, breathe in his familiar scent, listen to his racing heart to calm yours down. Time is irrelevant in this moment. It could have been aeons or it could have been seconds, the only thing that truly matters is his body pressed up against yours. 

He knows he’s probably holding you tighter than he should but he’s held himself together—all alone—for so long that if he lets go now, he will crumble.  

‘So what happens now?’ you speak into the silence that surrounds you. 

‘Now I spend a lifetime making up for the last seven years.’ 

There’s no hesitation there, only determination. 

A fresh wave of tears gathers in your eyes. You know he can feel them dampening his t-shirt but he simply holds you tighter. 

‘I’ve got you, my love,’ he shushes, starts rocking back and forth and presses his lips to your hair, ‘I’ve always got you. And I’m never letting go.’

---

(If you caught the one lyric reference, ilysm)

[mecub]

CASS APOCALYPTIC SERIES UPDATE HAS ALL THE EMOTION AND I WAS POSSESSED BY THE WRITING DEMON AND THIS WAS IN A GOOGLE DOC A WHILE LATER

—

Leo wakes up to the sound of fingers on keys. He lies there for a moment, eyes closed, surrounded by darkness and a haze of sleep, listening. The tapping is a familiar, comforting rhythm, something he hasn’t heard since…

Since he was alive.

He opens his eyes, squinting against the sudden light. The haziness fades and he suddenly feels more present then he has in a long, long time. Everything is soft and warm, but so sharply. Like it’s not a dream his dying or dead mind has made, but real. That would be nice. And nothing hurts. That’s new. The feeling of being hit by a massive laser beam fades after time, I guess, he thinks. Very funny, Leo. 

He manages to tilt his head towards the source of the typing, and is faced with the back of a shell and a familiar purple mask. Donnie.

As Leo watches, his twin nods off to sleep and then lurches back up. Something about it feels off. It takes him a moment to realize what it is, but he finds that nothing since he died has had a moment like that. Nothing that real, just hazy figures. All but one thing, his most recent memory, of gritted teeth and Donnie pulling him up and out of the swirling blue abyss that had become everything.

A million thoughts run through Leo’s mind, but the main one is, This is real. Maybe. Donnie’s done wilder things before. Maybe he can pull us all back from death.

He can feel it. The world is so much clearer than it’s been. 

Leo’s dragging himself out of bed before he can fully process what he’s doing. He reaches out, his mind flooded with a need to know, is this real, or is this some trick?

He falls. It hurts.

Donnie turns, mutters something, and then Leo hears his footsteps. “Leo!”

Hands bracing against his shell. Lifting him up. Pulling him close. Soft fabric, rough skin. Real.

“I swear to god, all you had to do was make a sound! Why are you such a difficult patient?” Donnie lifts Leo and puts him down on the bed with a hmpf. Leo tried to stand back up, to cling to Donnie, because he needs this to be real. This can’t be an illusion. He can’t let this vanish.

“Sit still!” Donnie says, exasperated, pulling Leo’s hands away and stepping back. “Literally, how about thinking about your actions?” He sounds exactly as annoyed as Leo’s heard him sound a hundred times before— stressed, worried, completely done. It’s comforting. It’s familiar. It’s real.

Donnie becomes a whirl of movement, goggles on, goggles off, glowing screen up and around, overwhelming but more sharp and distinct than anything Leo has known for so long. Alive. Donnie’s voice fades to an angry background track, and all Leo can process is the beautiful, beautiful fact that his brother is yelling at him, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, so annoyed his voice turns to a growl.

Leo smiles. 

Even before Leo died, he hadn’t had this in years. He thought he’d never see his twin again. He thought he was gone forever. And now he’s back, and he’s yelling at him. 

Leo can’t find the words to say any of it, so he just smiles.

“Hey, are you even listening?” Donnie says.

Leo’s mouth moves, and he finds he can speak again. “D-donnie?” Tears form in his eyes. It’s real. It’s all real. 

“Yeah, no, you are not fucking listening.” Donnie sighs. “At least you’re talking. Although I’m sure surprised you’re not throwing your stupid jokes at me.”

A thousand of the worst jokes Leo has ever thought up spring to mind, but he just reaches forward and grabs Donnie’s wrist. The glowing screen fades away and Donnie turns to him.

Leo holds to Donnie tight. He’s seriously about to cry now. “You’re… real…” he says, voice cracking. “You’re real!” 

Donnie just stares. Leo feels his confidence crumble. This is the moment where it’s most likely to go wrong. That if it’s a dream, it will all fade, or if it’s a trick that the Kraang somehow snuck into his mind, they’ll reveal themselves. “Are you?” he whispers, because now he’s not sure, because now might be the moment everything crashes down around him.

Donnie stares a second longer. Leo is deathly aware of his hand on Donnie’s wrist, of the faintest buzz of some machine in the background.

Something clicks in his mind, changes in Donnie’s eyes.

And then he sits down softly next to Leo and softly says, “Mhm. I’m alive. And you’re alive.”

Alive. 

His twin. His stupid, brilliant, purple twin is here, sitting next to him, and he’s really here, and Leo’s here, and they’re alive by some stroke of luck and Donnie-ness and everything is soft and warm and real.

“We’re safe. Kraang are gone.” 

The words wrap around Leo, filling his ears with a promise of safe, something he hasn’t been in years, something he thought he’d never have again. It doesn’t matter how. It just matters that this is real, and he is safe, and his twin is safe, and they are alive and they are here and real and real and real.

—

Yeah I lost motivation to write from there but, uh, yeah! Thank you so so so so much for making this comic @somerandomdudelmao, it’s amazing and one of the highlights of my day every time there’s an update.

[originalwinnercheesecake]

The Owl House Watching and Dreaming Analysis. (Spoilers)

Its over. Its been around 3 years and now its over. Well like Luz says its time for a new chapter now. The majority of my tag is posts about the owl house, and now I have to find a new thing to post on. I like Molly Magee, but so far not enough to spend hours typing out analysis and theories. I got into Ducktales 2 years late and, it has me going through Disney plus to find more shows about the wacky highjinks of the duck family, so if that corner of the Disney fandom is still alive maybe I will pop in their from time to time. I also happen to like a few live action shows.

But before that I want to close out the owl house with 1 (possibly a coupe more posts). This one is my recount and review of the Owl Houses final episode, and will focus on the families and connections at the end, as I feel they were the most important part of the episode, Warning long post and spoilers below.

I will start off with talking about Meeting Kings father and what we learned about Titans. We have comfirmation now that Titans do not have spouces/mates and reproduce Asexually. King’s dad did not object to being refered to as Dad, but was term wise both his dad and mom. Two things: 1 does this mean King (who doesn’t need labels right now because he is only 8) will grow up to be aroace, like Lilith? 2 this is confirmation that he will still be able to become a parent 1 day, which I am glad about, because we know he will outlive Eda, Lilith, and Luz and this way we know he will still be able to have a family again after they pass on. Also we now have confirmation that the baby titan skulls in the trapers room were kings brothers and sisters. Were the Full grown ones his oldest siblings or were they his dad’s siblings. Also the owl beast. I knew it...they? Were a titan, and that were were probably the last living one Bill mentioned since king as an egg couldn’t cry or run, and was still being hidden. At first I thought they might be his parent, but it looks like they are actually either his older sibling or his aunt/uncle... They are still inside his mom and aunt, so they are a part of his life.

So now on to King’s Dad as a parent. Because the Titans heart was still beating he actually was not completely gone. His spirit was alive in the in between realms and was watching over King, is shown to be delighted that his son found such a nice family to raise him, and is confirmed to have had a bit of a hand guiding Luz in how quickly she learned glyphs and wild magic. This all feels like methaphors for Heaven and Guardian Angels. I do not know what Dana belives or if she belives in anything. She certainly hasn’t been shy about making metaphors to the bad parts of religon/christianity. But i am glad she also made these refrences loving and positive. They can be comforting to those that have lost loved ones.

Now on to the Collector. First the older collectors aren’t his gaurdians, they are his older siblings. From their point of view the war between titans and collectors was just them being mean and breaking their baby brothers toys. Okay, they are jerks, and it was a horrible thing to do, but okay the show didn’t go full on SU diamonds parasitic route. This makes me feel a bit better about how our collectors arc ended. King’s family and He forgave each other and are good friends, the collector is confirmed to come visit them from time to time, but he went back to the Star’s to finish growing up. His siblings better feel bad about him having been stuck in thousand year time out because of them, and better leave his new friends alone now. Him going back was one of the three options I felt were possible and while not perfect I genuienly do think it was the best one. The collector was ultimelty to powerful to live on the isles full time without hurting someone, and with all the repairs and rebuilding needed to be done Eda and Raine did not have the time needed to watch him as much as he needed.

No lets go on To Luz. She moved back to the Human realm to live with her mother and sister, and graduate from earth school in graves field. It also looks like Camila was able to eventually forge the documents needed to adopt Vee in the human realm and send her to school with Luz. But we can see that a permenent portal was opened at the old house (how can Camila afford two houses on her single parent vetenairy income? Did she pay in snails and the seller think she had gold?). Luz, Camilia, and eventually Vee (wonder how long that took) made visitations to the demon realm. Luz had the option to chose which realm she wanted to live in once she grew up. It also looks like Eda got upgraded from being Luz’s temporary host parent to being like a God mothe rto her. Camila will always be Luz’s real mother, but Eda still getting to stay in their lives as support is for the best. Camilia and Luz went through so much when Manny died and they were struggling to deal with it by themsleves. I said in an earlier post that I believe the owl house to ultimately be about finding a community that is suportive of you. Camila, Luz, and Vee did not have that before, but they do now.

Now on to Hunter. So the final hints very strongly that he was adopted by Darius, not Camila, and not Eda (who FYI had no positive interactions with Hunter and should not have been considered as heavily as she was by fans). This again makes the most sense. While watchig Thanks to them when Hunter is mentioned to be happy and doing well in the human world I was like “Alright the story still works great if Hunter becomes Hunter Noceda. Darius can just be a mentor to him if he goes back to the iles in summers”. But then when he described the life he wanted at the end of the episode I was confused because everything he said was things he could only do in the demon realm. He wanted to go back perminently. I doubt Camila will ever want to fully live in the demon realm, Luz did probably need to live in both worlds until she was an adult to fully make a fair choice, and you know it took months/years for Vee to step foot there. I still hope Camila got to be Hunters God mom or was in his life as a surogate Aunt. Hey Darius and Eberwolf are implied to have become like Police officers, dedicated to stoping suporters of Belos’s system fromt trying to reinstate it. It thoretically could have been possible that they would be away for stretches and Hunter would need another adult to stay with some of the time.

Reminder of what Darius and Hunter’s relationship was like since a lot of it had to develop off screen. Darius and Hunter are strongly hinted to have started spending more time together post ASIAS, by Hollow Minds Darius had grown so fond of Hunter that he was ready to abort his cover to help him. When Hunter ran away from the EC Darius is confirmed to have tracked him down to ensure he was safe, and Hunter was comfortable leaving his hiding place to go on a mission Darius gave him (protect Luz while she went to break Amity out of the manor). Hunter was very worried/scared when he saw Darius on the stage at the Day of Unity. Also while Hunter did not put Darius’s picture on the wall he started sewing every piece of fabric he could find in the Noceda’s basement and would talk about how this was something he practiced with Darius. So he clearly missed him, but I do not think he realized how much Darius and Eberwolf missed HIM until they came looking for him after waking up. On the subject of Eberwolf and Hunter, I have seen the headcannon that Eberwolf calls Hunter pup/cub but can we as a fandom please come up with a term Hunter uses for Eberwolf. there is no way they call each other “Uncle” and “Nephew”. Those are definitly trigger word for Hunter.

Also the Blue bird Palisman Hunter eventually carved himself. I am glad its a bird, because Hunter had Palisman as therapy/support animals and birds were the animal he was most comfortable with. I want to name his new bird Bananas. Since Bananas, like Flapjacks, were a human food he was unfirmilar with in the demon realm. I am also so glad that show let him grieve Flapjack and take his time before getting a new palisman. Flapjack was Hunters biggest support during his darkest time and I was so afraid that they would trivialize his lose due to the shortened season. But no not only did they give him a grave that got visitited, not only did Hunter get a tattoo of Flapjack, but so did Willow and Luz, maybe Gus and Amity as well. Flapjack was so loved and so missed, as he should be.

 On to Alador x Darius. I ship the couple but I am so glad how it was handled, with them basically being confirmed to not get together for another 3-4 years. As cute as their dynamic is, it would have been extstreamly problamatic for them to get together soon after the battle with Belos. Alador was just getting out of a long, abusive, marriage. While we do not get a chance to fully explore Darius’s character and what caused him to close himself off from his old friends, we know he was working through some things and closing a chapter on a mission that had been a big focus f his life. Not to mention that both men had teenagrs who had been tramatized and needed/deserved to be their dad’s full focus for the time being. So for that I am glad we did not get the Blight-Deammone step family.

One kinda nice twist was that Alador decided he wanted to build medical machines and Emira was the child that ended up working with him. Emira was the child who seemed to have the least in common with Alador so I liked that they eventualy had something they could do together. A stranger surprise was Amity and Lilith’s reunion, and the strong hints that they started working together again and bonded. Dana dropped them being Mentor and protage like a hot potato after Covention day and was quick to post that they were never close/did not like each other when asked. So its kinda strange that she suddenly had them start caring and tried to portray Lilith as a strong female figure in Amity’s life after her seperating completely from Odalia. This is the big thing I feel should have been either explored more or dropped.

Lastly reagrding the end credits; I am upset that for how many clips we saw of both Steve and Matt towards the end we did not get a single on of them reuniting or together. Come on Show Why. That said I love the jobs they were shown to have afterwards. I expected Steve to maybe get an internship/assistant job at the museum with Lilith, since they were such good friends. Seeing him, still friends with Lilith, but also with the Catt’s and working to rehabilitate other coven scouts was so much better. And finding out that Matt became a hotshot architectural designer on the isles is just perfect. Also I spent 3/4ths of the End credits going “Where is Gus. Do not leave him out of this time jump”. Then I find out he graduated early and was teaching students about the human realm at Eda, Raine, and Lilith’s new university. The little genius. They’re is no confirmation that he and Matt ever got together, but Oh well. Maybe they did and are just not into PDA? maybe did and broke up/were on a break? Maybe they only ever stayed friends? It was my second favorite ship (besides Lumity) but if it didn’t happen that’s okay.

All in All this was the owl house final. It was exciting, intense, it tied up lose ends,and gave our charcters ends that while not perfect, where the best they could have been. Good job Dana. Good Job Owl House Crew. Thank you for the show. Its helped me a lot with getting through the past 3 years.

[adonis-koo]

Oh my godd misssy😢 I'm so sorry you've been feeling this way!

Honestly, i was slightly shy to really send in any asks or comments cause, WTF💖?!? I'd be gushing and squealing with puppy like excitement in every of them!

I've RE-read your works over and over again, dear! The way you can string together words and set up these detailed scenarios is just to die for! Not to mention, the intricacy of the fucking plot!! It's rare that I see someone so dedicated to the plot just as they are usually to the romance! Take Tease!au, or wicked!au for example. You've created the PERFECT balance between bitter and sweet in every one of your fics!

And even when it comes to the daddy!jk masterlist of yours, it's a 100% romance😍 and it's never boring.

If I'm being honest, i think what i like most about your writing is the angst. You leave us hanging on, waiting for more in the most artistic way possible. You make me want angst as well! You've always been able to play around with words such that i feel that fucking pang in in my chest.

Also.. i think i may have told you this.. but, my fucking boyfriend liked your stuff. He caught me scrolling through tumblr 😂😂 and he fell flat. Had half a mind to make an account of his own! So it's not just a gender oriented fan base you have.

I'm sorry I've ranted so much, lol. But, I couldn't bare to see such a beautiful and talented writer lose her spirits like this. You might say it's not much, but, i say that there should be absolutely zero depletion in that cheerful spirit.

Please, missy. Don't lose hope. There really are hundreds of thousands of people that enjoy your works. Maybe they've just not been able to work uo the courage to interact as of yet. No matter the case, please.. Don't lose your spirit. You're very very well loved, dear. You have a knack for writing, and it's a very admirable trait. Keep at it!

~ Lily ♡

Lily you got me over here trying not to sniffle and cry 😭😭😭 I’m trying really hard to pull myself out of this slump and it’s not going very well!! It’s far from the first time I’ve had feelings like this so I’ve adjusting to coping but it’s still an awful thing.

And once again, complaining and crying hasn’t really done anything, in fact I feel like it’s just made me feel even worse because again, I don’t want it come across that I don’t appreciate the ones who do support me, I love each and every single one of you!!! (your boyfriend is a bonus LOL but saying I love him would be a little too weird, still very cool that a man enjoyed my writing though and it’s not just gender exclusive🫶)

I’ve loved every moment of writing both Tease and Wicked, that’s something I cannot stress enough., but I was fresh 18 when I first started Tease, I didn’t have nearly the responsibility and stress of life that I have now getting ready to be 24, I look back and reminisce that I was actually able to pump out 10-20k every two weeks so diligently! And it makes me so depressed knowing I can no longer do that.

Not to mention that while it has been rewarding, it has become so much more taxing to my mental health to keep trying, for my own personal enjoyment it has been absolutely rewarding but the demand that people have had over the years has really stressed me out, balancing all of this is such a tricky thing! And at one point I thought it would get easier to balance, but if it does, I haven’t made it yet 😭

You and so many others give me so much encouragement, I just feel so strangely disconnected from my writing and this blog lately and I hope it doesn’t last forever 🥺 thank you so much for taking the time to send such encouraging words my way Lily I will always appreciate you my dear!!! 😭❤️

[loveandthings11]

You're a Good Guy

A/N: I fixed the 4x08 ending, maybe. Kendall and Rava both called each other wanting to be together on this day and they didn't see each other? 🥺 I had to do something about that. The portal is giant and they need each other. Dedicated to @capricornmuffins and the inspiration you bring to the Kenrava literary universe 💗

Pairing: Kendall x Rava

Read on AO3

“Can I come see the kids?”

“They’re asleep, Ken.”

“Just- I know- yeah- like, I can- I can wait up for them.” His voice is unsteady. He doesn’t want the magnitude of what he just did to hit him. He wants to see that they’re still okay.

“I should be asleep, but I- I can’t.” 

He can hear that her voice is thick. She’s crying and it’s his fault. She can’t sleep and it’s his fault.

It’s not the first time.

“Can I come see you?” He asks. He’s ready for a no, it’s always a no. But he’d lie awake all night if he didn’t ask.

She sniffles. Pauses. He’s surprised to hear quiet.

“Yeah. Okay. I guess. You can come.”

“Oh- yeah? Okay.” He feels a relief he knows he doesn’t really deserve right now. “Yeah, I’ll be right there. Fikret, reroute. We’re going to Rava’s.” Fikret changes lanes to turn around and head back downtown. “I’ll see you soon,” he says into the phone.

It’s late and traffic is light. Things haven’t imploded yet. It all still exists. The storefronts. The skyscrapers. The garbage bags on the street. It’s all right there, it still exists, it hasn’t happened yet. Rain is falling on it all. It’ll cleanse it, he thinks. But bad things always happen when it rains. He feels a chill from a locked place deep inside him.

He stares out and wonders what he’s done. He can’t think about it. He can’t process it. You’re a good guy, Shiv said. She only said it to manipulate him, he tells himself. He blinks. To save the country. She was right. No, he was right. He had to save the company. It’s what Dad would have done. But it’s not. Maybe it is. He closes his eyes and wonders how Roman can have such clarity. No agonizing, or at least it looks that way. But that’s why Roman has to be out. That’s why it should only be him. At least he knows what the right thing is. He wonders if he will ever actually manage to do it. Maybe this is just who he is now. But it can’t be.

He’s starting to slip on the mental ice when the car stops and he opens his eyes. 

Rava said yes. He’s going upstairs. To comfort her. Because of his decisi- nope. No. Just because she wants him. Just because she called him for protection, for safety, earlier. 

She feels safe with him. He’d do anything for her to say it. He steps out of the car and confidently walks into the building. He belongs here. She wants him here. The kids will be here in the morning for him to comfort them. Make them feel safe. Because they feel unsaf- NO. Nope. He’s a good guy.

In the elevator he makes himself breathe slowly. He really is just as sad as she is. He didn’t want this to happen. It just had to. Or else he would've lost pow-

“Ken.” She’s waiting for him. His heart twists when he sees the tears on her face. She’s wrapped in a soft blanket. It’s something they always had in common on unthinkable nights. She walks over so gratefully, like she’s deeply relieved to see him. It’s what he’s wished for thousands of times. He’d tried to stop thinking about how it felt to be needed. To be- she’s wrapping her arms around him and melting into him, her face in his neck, hiding away from everything. He can feel the teardrops on his skin and his heart splinters just a little bit more. He holds her closer than he has in years. She has no words and he doesn’t remember any.

He tries to think of how long it’s been since the last time she completely fell into him like this. He wonders if he can stay all night. She thinks she needs him, but he doesn’t want to think about being alone when it all hits him. She has no idea how much he still needs her, too.

She takes his hand and slowly walks toward the bedroom. It used to be theirs. It feels surreal to walk down this hallway in the middle of the night again.

She sits on the bed and he doesn’t know what he should do about the fact that he’s still in a suit.

“Uh- should I-“ He gestures to himself and she nods.

“Just-" She waves her hand. “It’s fine.”

“Okay.” He gets down to a t-shirt and underwear and climbs into the bed, hesitantly pulling back the comforter like he has so many times for her. She rolls into his arms like he’s her shelter from the world and he hides his face in her hair like she’s his shelter from himself. Time doesn’t change everything. 

She nestles in and he glances down at the top of her head, now buried in his chest, and feels overwhelmed in the truest sense.

“What are we going to do, Ken?”

He’s been asking her for so long that he barely remembers how to answer. He shakes his head a little to try to clear it.

“It’s- it’s gonna be okay. I’m going to take care of this. The kids are always going to be protected. Okay?” She’s quiet except for a sniffle and he tries to get her to look up at him but she stays put. “Okay?” He whispers. “I promise.”

“We can’t always protect them.” He can tell how utterly devastated she is. He feels the self-hatred creeping in faster than he thought.

“Yes- yes we can. If I have to, I’ll have cars keeping up with them everywhere they go. Private security. Forever, if that’s what it takes.”

“Ken.” She’s shaking her head and even he can hear the absurdity.

“Well, I’ll figure it out. Okay? Don’t even worry about that. I got them.” He takes in a breath. “And- and you. I mean- you’ll always be safe, too.”

She looks up at him and the warmth in her eyes makes him feel weak. He hasn’t seen vulnerability there in so long and it makes him tear up. 

“Thank you. I’m glad you came,” she whispers. “The kids will be glad you’re here, too. Sophie said she wanted to see you.”

That’s almost too much for him.

“She did?” Fuck. Because she feels safe with him. He can’t stand being in his own head.

She nods and presses her face back into his chest. He hugs her tighter. He missed holding her more than he’s been able to admit to himself. He can’t stop himself- he glances around the room to see if there’s any evidence of what’s-his-face. He sees none. He knows there’s probably no chance for this to come back, but she’s hugging him to her and it’s taking over every logical part of his brain. Probably no chance.

His mind is replaying every time they used to do this, every night of getting in bed next to her. Every time she put her arms around him and told him she loved him no matter what was happening in the outside world. There was no outside world. Maybe there isn’t one now.

But even here, tonight, he can’t escape that there is.

And all of a sudden he doesn’t want it. Any of it.

He doesn’t want to see his siblings. He doesn’t want to go to the funeral. He doesn’t want his dad to be gone. He doesn’t want to help a fascist get elected. He doesn’t want to see what he’s just done to the world.

He’s in tears himself before he can even try to keep it together. The grief and the guilt are taking him over. She doesn’t even know what else he’s done, what other horror haunts him when he closes his eyes when it rains.

She wraps her whole body around him and they cling to each other. Nothing else can be real. None of it happened. She’s real. He’s real.

“Can you fix this?” She whispers.

“Can I-“ he wipes a tear. “Can I fix this?”

“Yeah.” She looks up at him with desperation. She knows how it sounds and she doesn’t care. He’s the only one who can save them and she knows it.

She doesn’t even know what he’s done. She believes in him. The kids believe in him.

You’re a good guy.

Maybe he still could be.

“I can try.”

[jaded-ghoster]

I’ve been frustrated recently so here’s 4.6k words of what I’ll one day FIX and FINISH of chapter 5 of Slight Emotional Manipulation, like the idea is there but halfway through it sounds so forced and I just never wanted to post something that’s half assed and fake, hence years of hiatus. I wanted Izuku to have a stronger presence but I got too into Aizawa’s, I wanted the scenes with meaning to come naturally instead of forcefully, I wanted it to flow better, the intro’s too long i’d say, i need more meat for the actual story, blah blah. I actually do have a plan for the ending, but that’s for another day. Anyway, I’ll reblog with the next 4.5k later

Notes: The writing app I use is peculiar so *word* implied italics

Tentative chapter title: Words of Wisdom Except the Words Are Silent and Wisdom is Pronounced Nineteen Eighty-Four

Shota is very in touch with his emotions, actually. Despite what his friends, classmates, and Hound Dog have said.

He doesn’t keep a mood journal or attend group therapy sessions of cry along to indie singers- Not that he’s mocking them, he can tell it’s effective, almost too effective, just not for him- but he did attend a single semester of health class when he was 16. So, he counts that as a master’s degree in comparison to everyone who’s incapable of using protection.

And one of the first things he learned in health class through lectures, flashcards, tests, and videos narrated by condescendingly satisfied people were coping mechanisms. Denial, reaction formation, displacement, fill in the rest. Basically, if you’re not crying, you’re coping. Unless you consider crying another form of coping, then he guesses you’re stuck there forever.

But Shota *knows* what happened. He’s perfectly aware of every poorly timed decision that led up to this situation and so far he hasn’t forced his students to recite a pledge to Nezu, he hasn’t spontaneously taken up knitting, and he hasn’t lashed out at the closest coworker. So as far as he’s concerned, he’s not suppressing any feelings.

Therefore, no. He’s not mad at Midoriya. *Obviously.*

Because what reason would he have to be miffed at the kid when this is so clearly all Nezu’s fault? The rat probably pulled some disturbing plots like he always does to get the kid as his own student. He may have threatened to expel him, or take over all his social media accounts and turn them into Death Arms fan pages, or ruin his hero career before it’s even started by spreading the rumor that he’s in cahoots with the Commission resistance- which he’s done before.

Seriously, Shota has sat in his office and watched him call agency after agency expressing his sincere concerns that Mr. Metalloid is misusing the access his hero ID grants him to the building to merge himself with locked steel doors and shift in and out of off-limit rooms. The guy’s agency issued a press release stating that he’s retired to Florida and that was the last time he and Zashi ever shouldered the blame for whatever dumb prank Oboro pulled.

But would his student really get scared into submission from something like that? He doesnt think he would, no one in his class would.

The last time they got threatened with expulsion four of them let the message go in one ear and come out the other as *there’s a second hand clothing store down the block so why don’t you pick out a few eyesore outfits and chase down Mr. Big Bad who’s got a kill count in the thousands.* If rumors spread that they were in any resistance, they might take that as directions to go join one.

And beyond that, Midoriya is Midoriya.

Only-

Shota checked the clock outside the room.

His eyes are complete shit. He cannot see what that says.

He pulled out his phone.

Only 18 hours after Nezu’s threat, Midoriya would have come up with a way around it and then mumbled his plans so loud that All Might would overhear and save him from his tragic fate of failure. And yes, failure, because he has a lot of faith in the kid but you can’t defeat something that’s beyond human comprehension.

And since Shota hasn't heard the mumblings of any despicable plans yet, he can safely conclude that nothing like that went down. So if Midoriya’s motivator for accepting the offer wasn’t fear, then it was probably the quest for knowledge.

Except it wasn’t, because seriously, what could a kid (who just by holding a single conversation with him you could tell has had nothing but unwanted free time over the last decade) possibly learn from Nezu? Something that he isn’t scheduled to learn with the rest of the class in due time, already knew it advance, or is currently learning on the side right now. The remaining list is unsurprisingly small.

Hacking, welding in his spare time, color theory so Nemuri won’t blow a fuse over the theater sets not being perfect, even broken Indonesian for every extra minute he spends around the deca-lingual Yaoyorozu. Not to menton the binder of lesson outlines that Shota has planned for the next five months that Midoriya has definitely been targeting ever since he caught a glimpse of it three weeks ago. He’s learned it all, or is scheming to, hence the need for the binder’s own encrypted safe, and he can probably pull off that scheme without Nezu’s help.

So what else is there? Murder? Technically, Shota did provide him a comprehensive if not brief knife throwing class, although not intending to assist in that department even if it did have all the correct components. And if the kid was that distraught over Aoyama’s scream cutting the mini lesson short then he could have said something. Not that it would’ve changed anything, Shota’s still on thin ice with class 1-A’s parents due to both the Kamino disaster and his overall personality, and he doubts a stab wound would help, but still. Doesn’t hurt to rue shit.

But regardless of how he and the other teachers may humor themselves, or gather round to toy with the idea of framing a kid for some random crime just to get some time away from them, they know Midoriya doesn’t actually want to kill people, that’s absurd. Any misconceptions that he does is the fault of his relentless curiosity and accidentally browsing with the school email. It’s opposite of what Midoriya wants and the majority of what Nezu “indirectly” teaches.

If Midoriya wants to save people, then he should ask advice from an actual pro hero. Which, by the way, is his entire curriculum. And if not heroes, then heroes in training, like his classmates.

Then again, his students may know how to rescue people but they aren’t exactly the most educated when it comes to actually treating injuries. Their strong suit is mainly beating up villains so they can prevent the people from getting hurt in the first place, which obviously doesn’t have a 100% success rate.

Like last week when that exhange student started choking on his soba, and since Sato couldn’t assault the sushi itself, he resorted to aiming a sugar fueled punch at the boy’s stomach. The food did come flying out, so he guesses it was effective, but it was still so, so stupid. Plus it put him on thin ice with the parents of kids who weren’t even his students.

In that case, Midoriya should go to people who do know how to deal with wounds, people like Recovery Girl. Or the nurse with the ice pack quirk. Or perhaps one of the other countless nurse practitioners that he literally helped hire. As in conducted-the-interviews-and-physically-pointed-at-his-final-choices-and-brought-them-all-donuts-on-their-first-day helped hire.

Then again, he can see why the kid maybe wouldn’t want to go to them for help after recent events.

And he doesn’t mean that the nurses refused to help him. No, that issue has long since been resolved after a couple of vindictive staring contests between Shota and an old lady that made every student avoid a certain corridor for a few days.

Recent events being that both of them conveniently forgot that the speed of which Recovery Girl draws her spheres of influence could almost put Nezu to shame. Within a few days all of the nurses had gone on what can essentially be dumbed down to a half-assed moral strike. They had signs and chants but with words written in almost transparent pencil and lyrics that had no apparent rhyme, beat, or even basic synchronization. He’s not objecting to strikes in general, he’s objecting to the complete lack of effort. It’s people like them who give strikes a bad name.

They announced to the crowd of students gathered in the courtyard that although they would gladly heal whoever required their assistance, they would not accompany the hero students on all their missions. It was above their pay grade and literally not what they went to med school for. It was simple. And with the way he’s phrasing this it probably sounds like he disagrees with their decision, he doesn’t.

He just found it weird that something so obvious needed to be stated, or at least that’s what he thought before Sero and Kaminari started texting panicked reassurances to each other, the exhange student and that scary mushroom girl following soon after.

So, yeah, he guesses Recovery Girl and her new band of minions aren’t exactly up for the position of a medical mentor. And he also guesses that he should stop naming examples if he knows he’s going to contradict them immediately after.

Point is, if the kids wanna save lives, then they shouldn’t rely on slimy rats and instead start from the basics, like first aid. So that’s what they’re doing today, something that Shota hopes will… not show the kid the light at the end of Nezu’s dark tunnel, per say, that doesn’t really exist, but provide a band-aid for when that light inevitably tries to burn him alive.

“First aid.”

Shota took a moment to let the others digest his words before breaking his gaze and bringing the rim of his coffee cup to his lips.

“What about it?” Nemuri asked. Shota lowered the coffee.

“That’s the plan.” He brought it back up.

“Isn’t that a little spontaneous of you?” He put the cup back down on the table. Midoriya raised his head from where it was stuffed between the pages of his notebook, large eyes moving between his two teachers while they silently squabbled.

“How so?”

“Well,” Nemuri quickly retracted her legs from where they were sprawled out on his desk, sitting up straight to give the facade of an actual professional. “Why jump straight to first aid when there are so many other things we could be working on? Right?” She turned to Midoriya, the boy flashing a questioning look his way when he didn’t know how to respond.

“Uhhh yeah, yeah! The list was developed early on- like really early, like last year-” Shota nodded, although in a lot of his coworker’s cases it was 15 years.

If someone checked the filing cabinets with complains dating back all the way to his first year at UA, they’d find passionately inscribed notes about how only selling Ma- Sorry, Might Bars was going to stunt the growth of the economy. Technically they still can’t do anything about that if they wants the chocolate bar company to continue their donations, but nothing can’t stop them from being peeved.

“-but it’s not set in stone, the whole point is to add as we go. And since three people sprained their ankle yesterday and thought the best solution was to shake it off, this feels like an appropriate time to do some medical training… I think. But in a hypothetical situation where that wasn’t a time-sensitive problem, yes.”

Midoriya may have some more things to learn if he thinks that alone will satiate the beast. The message *Like what?* slithered across Nemuri’s eyes in neon lights and the boy coughed.

“There’s getting construction plans approved for those two new elevators, handling the potential partnership with that clothing brand that offered to give major discounts on school uniform manufacturing if the hero students would promote their shoes-”

At least the email infiltrating lessons from Hatsume are clearly paying off, and with any luck Midoriya can improve in time to avoid being given a masterclass by Nezu. Vaguely, Shota recognizes hacking emails is bad and he should say something about it. But less vaguely, he thinks about how much he doesn’t care. The boy’s eyes grew distant.

“-the wifi password that the business students started hogging, broken air conditioners on the third floor, the corrupt sales manager of the Clip Mart across the street that refused to keep selling me any more of their pencils even though I’m obviously their most loyal customer and instead forced me to buy post-its instead- blue post-its! Which is crazy because how can you even *read* the letters-”

Midoriya cut himself off with a sharp inhale as the chair he was sitting in was pushed by a black combat boot, leaving him spinning around in silence and right out the office doors. Ectoplasm shut them behind him.

“And much more!” Nemuri’s hands flew in front of her, waving around like she was concocting a vision to him, “Like, let’s say, an art exhibit.”

“There’s one on the third floor.” Shota cut in.

“A theatre production!”

“Be more specific.”

“A theatre production on the dangers of an unknown forest!”

“They already tried that.”

“The dangers of strangers.”

“The strangers were actually *in* the forest."

“The dangers of cults.”

“Tried that, too. It didn’t last five minutes in the PTA meeting. Didn’t last five minutes in the forest, either, if I read the script correctly.” This one he was a little disappointed about. Whether it was because he thinks it’s a serious issue that many people should learn about or because he wanted to take the opportunity to throw a paper ball at Nezu every time a person got tricked into ruining their life is not something he is willing to disclose.

“The dangers of too loose clothing!”

“Why would we ever want to do that? Who would even come to that? What is the target audience in all of your-” Clearly self-interested “-ideas?”

“A song and dance we perform to the whole school during a festival filled with haunted houses and treats.”

“*We did that too*- Were you here for anything last year? Genuinely, where were you?” Midnight held up a finger and Shota decided that perhaps the 15th straw should be the last. “We’re doing first aid. Not just because it’s obvious that first aid in a *hero school* should have been prioritized during their first year, or because I have anything against your theatre productions-”

That’s a lie, he has everything against them. They make him stay an extra three hours late at this hellhole because he can’t do paperwork and make sure the tech crew kids don’t power saw their limbs off at the same time. He can’t walk through a hallway without finding splotches of blue paint on his clothes that don’t come off in the wash because of course they don’t. And every forty-five minutes one of the kids’ bad playlists resets and he has to go through their horrid music taste all over again. If he had a nickel for every time he’s considered using the costume crew’s god foresaken measuring tape as a noose, he’d have enough money to buy them three more measuring tapes so they could stop trying to paint lines and numbers on his capture weapon whenever they lose theirs.

"-But because I can’t say for sure that if we don’t teach them now, while we still have the ability to gather them all in one place without internships and patrols getting in the way, they may never have the chance to learn it again.” Shota's eyes danced across the room, passing over every other teacher in the room, just obvious enough for Nemuri to catch his hidden message: *Especially not from them*.

Nemuri finally backed down, that was one thing she couldn’t argue with. Majima glanced up from his computer.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing.” He turned back around to the whiteboard just as Midoriya rolled back in. Perfect timing. “Now, first aid.”

“My man,” Shouta let his head drop back to stare at the ceiling while Majima’s voice continued to cut through his brainstems. “You don’t need our approval to teach first-aid to your class, and I’m sure you already knew that since you use the UA employee handbook like Eri’s bedtime story-”

“Go to hell?”

“-so why did you gather us here?”

“Because it’s not just my class in the second year hero department, Majima,” Shota tried to tune out the sound of Vlad clapping, “Vlad’s class needs this lesson just as much as mine does. As does Thirteen’s class and Ishiyama’s and Snipe’s- Letting one class learn something while the rest don’t get the chance to is not only unhelpful for the people who’ll eventually need medical assistance in the future but also very, very likely to cause internal issues with one another.”

Vlad didn’t clap this time, already silenced by the look on the Eraser hero’s face, but he nodded nonetheless. They might have issues with each other but they could at least agree that more tension between their classes was the last thing either of them needed, the aftermath of the USJ and sports festival being enough proof of that. As good of a hero-in-training that Monoma kid was, they didn’t need first-aid lessons adding more fuel to his already wildly insensitive burning fire.

And that’s ignoring Shinsou’s weird fight instigating tendencies for altercations that don’t even involve him.

They’re not amusing, they’re really not. Don’t look at him like that.

“Hence why I need all of your approval before I go forward.” He concluded.

Technically, he didn’t actually need their approval. Screw Majima but he does read the UA employee handbook on a semi-regular basis, semi-regular turned regular during the course of last week’s events. He’s read it enough to know that vice principals here can make as many changes to the curriculum they want around here (Tyrannical, he’s aware. But what did he expect?) as long as The Rat signs off on it.

Which he will, on anything Shota brings to him, because it’s not the consequences that he cares about, it’s the entertainment of seeing how Shota is gonna have to fight those consequences off tooth and nail to get himself out of the PTA’s wrath unscathed. Which he won’t.

But “technically”, he’d rather jump through flaming hoops getting the

teachers themselves to sign off on the curriculum changes than have to find some natural, conversational way to bring up the fact that he was promoted to a position not a single one of them knew existed here, not even himself. He’d just assumed the “vice principal” position mentioned in the handbook was Nezu’s way of making it seem to the HPSC like his power was absolutely being checked and balanced at the school.

It wasn’t, in case that wasn’t clear. And it still isn’t, in case anything he’s ever said made someone think otherwise.

“But just because all I’m asking for is a go ahead that doesn’t mean I’m not willing to compromise,”

Shota tapped the dry erase marker he was holding against the surface behind him, geasturing to the whiteboard covered in red arrows, circles, distinctive chicken scratch handwriting, and blue- Oh, the kid was right, he can barely see the pencil marks on those. Jesus who would sell such a thing.

“I’m aware it’s not as simple as just rounding all the students up in one place and teaching them the same thing; you guys all had your own lesson plans that would eventually cover this subject, so all this might do is get in the way of that. But I really do think it’s necessary to teach them all at the same time, that way they can help each other through any confusion without our direct assistance, which is something they’ll need to do as adults during medical emergencies, too. So if any of this doesn’t mesh well with what you guys had planned, feel free to make some changes or offer alternatives. Anything you feel is important.” And with that, he leaned back against the board, waiting for his coworkers to barrage him with suggestions.

He received silence.

“Really.” Shota stated again, shrugging when Midoriya gave him a confused glance. The kid was well prepared to jot down any edits needed to be made, but there’s not much he can do if no one speaks up. “I’m open to anything.”

Thirteen scratched the screen of their helmet. Majima’s eyes drifted towards the door. Vlad. Nemuri grinned, and that’s when it hit.

“You have no plans at all.” He breathed out. Silence again. Shota placed the marker down and chose his next words carefully. “I can’t believe i’m asking this, but have any of you, at any point in time, ever told your students or at least heavily implied that you should shove something in the mouth of a person having a seizure so they don’t bite off their tongue?”

More silence. And then, a hand.

“Christ.”

“It’s not my fault, okay? I just- I’m not used to helping out with that kind of thing! And why should I be? Why should any of us be? We’re not doctors, we’re pro-heroes. Right? Kayama, am I-” The redhead turned to the sight of Nemuri rolling her chair a little farther away from him, eyes communicating that there were many times in which she would love to be associated with Majima, this very moment not being one of them. Majima turned back to Shota. "If anything, this is the *commission’s* fault.”

“No this is your fault, Majima, you are a *grown man*-” Nemuri slid a little further away.

“I’m a mechanic, Eraser. I build machines. So if it’s really necessary, my robots can do all my first-aid for me.”

“Can they teach for you, too?”

There weren’t many things Majima could say in defense to that. Or rather, anything he could say that would actually be true. And he could sense fifty more viscerating comments from Shota hurtling his way from a distance. But the one thing he was right about was that he was a mechanic, a mechanic who could build things pretty well. And while it’s clear that seizure assistance and teaching weren’t included in his machines’ skill sets, lifting an arm was.

Majima’s recently updated suit’s metal finger was pointed before Shota could interrogate the excavation hero any further.

“Ectoplasm has never actually done first-aid on site. He just stays with the person while a clone runs off screaming for help from an actual nurse.”

Shota’s gaze slowly drifted to the hero in question, face carefully impassive.

“*What?*”

“AT LEAST I’M DOING SOMETHING PRODUCTIVE.” Ectoplasm shouted, rolling his chair away from Majima as well.

“You’re saying that this entire ti-”

Ectoplasm whipped his head to Ishiyama, marking the end of their book club.

“CEMENTOSS ISN’T ALLOWED NEAR INCAPACITATED VICTIMS ANYMORE BECAUSE EVERY TIME HE DOES THE CPR HE BREAKS THEIR RIBS AND DOES EVEN MORE DAMAGE.”

“Ishiyama you don’t even have hands why would you attempt to-” He just keeps getting cut off these days.

“Snipe’s been sued five separate times for reckless endangerment of a civilian because he doesn’t realize that emotional support is ineffective if there’s a gun pointing at their face the entire time.” The cement hero responded calmly, as if he’d just been waiting his turn. Snipe for his part just shrugged.

“Not much I can say to that. It’s becoming a real problem.”

“Many would say it already is.” Midoriya supplied thoughtfully.

“The first time it happened the girl just started confessing all her wrongdoings to me. Second time the guy ended up pulling out his own gun?”

“You emotionally supported the criminal.” Shota’s throat felt raw.

“And then the rest was actually on the same day. Family of three, three separate case filings- That one stung. Hurt my online presence a bit, too, I even considered going private for a second.”

“Have you ever considered just taking off the gun mask.” Snipe snorted.

“That’d hurt my online presence even more.”

“What is the mask even doing for you, Snipe?” Shota asked, although knowing better than to expect an actual answer. “We know your identity, everyone knows your identity. All it’s done for you so far is have you banned from seven states and kicked out of airports.”

“Okay am I crazy or did we already attempt to teach them this? Disaster training at the USJ, remember?” Vlad interrupted. Shota stared at him while Thirteen rolled off to join Nemuri and Ectoplasm in their isolated corner.

“No, Kan, I’ve completely forgotten. Remind me.” The blood hero’s hand fell back down to his lap.

“Personally, I think driving is more important.” Hound Dog yawned out from his spot by the espresso machine.

Shota’s stare went blank and before Midoriya could ask whether or not that counted as a legitimate suggestion to write down, his teacher’s capture weapon was looped around the back of his head to cover both his ears. Then looped over green eyes when he remembered that if the kid knew sign language it’s not too far-fetched to assume he could lip read, too.

“Personally, I think that I’ve already been seen unloading at least fifteen dummies from my trunk and if I don’t demonstrate heart failure on them soon, who knows what story people will come up with to explain it. I think those dummies cost money coming directly from the school budget. I think too many props that took too much time to develop have already been made for this. *I think* that first-aid is literally a part of the curriculum. I think this has serious PR stakes that can and will cost all of you all of your jobs if a UA student is seen in the ER for choking on crab of all fucking things because the chunks were too large and not one trainee or *teacher* in the most prestigious hero school in Japan knew how to do the Heimlich maneuver without breaking a rib and puncturing a lung somehow.”

“Must I bear this cross forever?!” Lunch Rush snapped.

“I think I’ve already roped too many people into this to go back now. I think your approval meant *jackshit* anyway for whether or not I go through with this plan, which I will.” Hizashi tilted his head. “Hound Dog, I think you’re only prioritizing driving lessons because you can’t commit the easiest crime of jaywalking without getting distracted by a squirrel and causing five different car accidents. And, oh yeah, I think *people will die if we don’t teach them this lesson*.” Shota let the capture weapon leave his student’s ears and fall back around his shoulders. A beat of silence passed.

“Ughhhh,” Nemuri groaned, “is that your only reason?”

“IT’S THE ONLY REASON I NEED-”

The sound of a door creaking open cut them off, Sero’s face appearing on the other side and depicting utter bafflement at the scene before him before remembering what he came for.

“Kaminari’s in the nurse’s office… Kirishima said he burned himself this morning trying to make eggs, which would’ve been an easy fix if he hadn’t rubbed, uh, butter on the wound right after? He’s fine, I think, he’s in Recovery Girl’s room, but his wound’s infected now. So, yeah, just came to let you know… Bye.”

The office was engulfed in silence for a few moments after the boy left until Shota got out of his leaning position to make his way to Recovery Girl, nodding at Midoriya and leaving one last message.

“I hate all of you.”

And he was gone.

Midoriya waited till the door was fully shut behind him before pulling out a stack of permission slips from Shota’s desk drawer, holding out one of them to Vlad for him to read. But before 2-B’s homeroom teacher could take the paper from the student’s grasp, the boy tightened his grip and leaned in with a grin.

“*Sign*.”

[rpmemes-galore]

kitchen nightmares, uncensored ... sentence starters

tw: swearing. lots of swearing

“Bloody hell.”

“I speak feline.”

“I think it’s all good.”

“You’re deluding yourself.”

“I am also shitting myself.”

“You've got the part, relax.”

“It looks like a cremated turd.“

“Forgive me; they have sinned.“

“How fucking depressing is that?”

“I just won that one. I won that one.“

“I wouldn't trust you running a bath.”

“Right now, you've won jack fucking shit!“

“I can't believe you'd be so fucking polite.”

“I’m not going to blow smoke up your ass.”

“My Gran could do better, and she's dead!“

“Seafood crêpe? Yeah... that's seafood crap.“

“It took everything in me not to just, freak out.“

“How is that missed? How is that overlooked?“

“You know what? I'm done. No more chances.“

“That's to get them in the mood to get married.“

“You're overlooking extremely important things!“

“You’re going to have to excuse my arrogance.”

“You don’t hand me raw food in my dining room.”

“Oh, come on, this hasn't been cleaned in years.“

“I'm ready. I'm ready to tear it down and start over.“

“I'm not disrespecting you. I'm telling you the truth.“

“You think I'm mad? I'm fucking embarrassed, now.“

“I think pressure’s healthy, and very few can handle it.“

“How long has that been staying outside for? Truthfully.“

“What, are you saying; are you trying to say something?“

“I've never met an individual that's so full of shit in all my life.“

“This is ten thousand times worse than I thought it would be.“

“You can’t just stick your head back in the sand and ignore it.”

“I've got to get some air before I do something I really regret.“

“Hate it. How can you be positive about something you hate?“

“Time to drag me through the mud some more. It is what it is.“

“There’s enough garlic in here to kill every vampire in Europe.“

“Now, unfortunately, I can’t afford to fuck off and die right now.”

“You're so full of fucking shit that you'd make a great politician.“

“Right now, I'd rather eat poodle shit than put that in my mouth.”

“I was hoping that this would be my launching pad for my name.“

“What have I got to show? I'll tell you what I've got to show. Pride!”

“Fresh frozen? There's no such thing! It's either fresh or it's frozen.“

“Off to a bad start unfortunately. It's like somebody's pissed in my soup.“

“I'll wait, but the thing is I don't want you to stick it back in a microwave.“

“What do you want me to do, stand here and start crying or something?“

“I'm not going to stand there and argue with you. You can have that! Okay?“

“Oh my god. I've never, ever, ever seen anything quite extraordinary as that.“

“Just... this is what I'm talking about, kid. You've got to cut the fucking bullshit.“

“You haven't got fucking one right so far! How the fuck can you think about two?”

“I’m fucking pissed off and I’m upset at the kind of shit that I just discovered in there.“

“You're jumping up and down like a big fucking baboon and ‘Ho, ho! It's good! Whoo!’“

“That is extremely unacceptable, dangerous. People could get extremely sick with that.“

“This shit is the most disgusting fucking bought-in crap I've ever tasted in my entire life.“

“He was giving me shit. I gave it back to him, and he was like, ‘Uh, yeah whatever’, and-”

“If you're convinced in your mind that this is going to work, you're beyond reach, you know that?“

“Do you work for a microwave company? You know so much about microwaves. Unbelievable.”

“I didn't expect this. I don't think it could get worse, I don't even know what could make it worse at this point.“

“I'm trying to move forward, I'm trying to get going, but every time I put my foot on the ladder, I get knocked back.”

[tteokdoroki]

— “PANTY THIEF + BAKUGOU.”

author’s note(s): inspired by this fanart and everyone being horny on THE DASH !! dedicated to @honeykeigo n @lady-bakuhoe for enabling my horny behaviour ok ok. also this turned out longer than i expected so ,,, have fun?

warning(s): mdni, 18+, smut, dubcon, mentions of drinking, uhh sniffed and stolen panties, slight!exhibitionism, power play dynamics, fingering, pussy slaps uwu, fem!reader + pro hero!bakugou.

“y-you uh, you don’t haf’ta do this mishta—?“

“dynamight.”

“r-right, dy-ma-might!”

katsuki had rolled his eyes the first time you spoke to him, a sweet, darling little girl too drunk on whatever shitty alcohol you’d been served at the bar on friday night. you obviously didn’t drink much, maybe even drunk too much— the hero would tell by the way your eyes crossed with your legs as you walked and the fact that you couldn’t remember the right way to spell your own name and it was clear your friends were a bunch of assholes for abandoning their shit faced friend to find her own way home.

he hated, this part of the job but he’d have felt bad if the guy following you home had done something bad to you and besides— the way you pressed yourself to the explosive hero, breasts spilling out of your tight black dress, thick and juicy thighs exposed to the fresh night air makes the whole ordeal worth it. oh you’re so cute, got katsuki’s cock stirring in his pants— his baggy hero costume suddenly becoming way too fucking tight for his liking. you’ll pay him back, he knows that you will, all of his fans do in some way or another.

you’ll be special though, if the smell of your saccharine cunt is anything to go by. slick dripping down your shaky thighs while he guides you down the empty street, and of course you’d be attracted to him. bakugou will have to indulge in you; his reward for being such a gentleman, for being your hero. “this ish me,” you squeak when the pair of you arrive at the door to your apartment complex. your words are smooshed together by your own drunken haze while you unlock the door to let yourself in.

how rude of you, forgetting all about dynamight who’d basically saved your life tonight. without much of a fight, bakugou pushes you against the door, effectively keeping it closed, his eyes cloud over— a storm thick with lust as you look up at him so innocently he could break. “not gonna invite me up, sweet stuff?” he coos, amused at the shiver that runs laps down the base of your spine. your thighs jump apart only just, giving the hero an opportunity to shove his hand up your dress to cup your sweet little cunt.

“i— i didn’t know—“ your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, confusion etched so prettily across your face it makes bakugou want to bend you over and fill your hole to the brim. he’d save that for later though. “didn’t think you’d want to—“

the blonde growls, thick fingers easily finding your panties under that short dress of yours. the black lace is soaked to the bone, a sticky mess spreading across the digits that now pinch at your puffy clit. you jump and bakugou growls hungrily. “s’awfully rude don’cha think, sweet stuff? that’s okay though, i think you can reward me right fuckin’ here, don’chu?” a toothy smirk tugs at the hero’s lips when you dumbly nod in agreement, your body trembling from a mix of cold, neediness and excitement. “atta girl, spread those needy fuckin’ thighs for me then.”

you seem to have sobered up quickly, listening well for the hero that saved you and part your meaty thighs to let bakugou push your panties to the side and give him more access to your runny cunny. “p-please dynamight, d-do somethin,” comes your whiney voice as he lowers his to get a better view of your spread your pussy lips; he watches as your hole oozes just for him, desperate to filled and fucked. it’s too early for his cock, he needs to give you a taste of something else before you get drunk on him.

without warning, he pushes two of his expert fingers past your puckering entrance, immediately curling them in a come hither motion as his heated red eyes flicker up to watch your face. your ruby painted lips hang open in a silent moan while your fingers dig into bakugou’s shoulders so hard your nails form tears in his hero suit. “fuckin’ look atcha baby, barely even touched ya ‘n you’re already suckin’ down my fingers so greedily.” he snarls, sharp teeth coming down on your barley clothed breast.

bakugou’s thumb massages rough circles into your clit, pulling more honeyed cries from your lips as your eyes screw shut. “f-fuck, dynamight, need more of your touch, ‘m begging you please!” is all you can say, mindlessly babbling as you fail to keep yourself up right. the explosive pro hero steadies you with an arm wrapped around your waist, fingers curling again to explore more of your velvet walls.

“it’s katsuki, to you,” he barks out, using the arm around your waist to smack your sloppy cunt, the wet sound echoing across the street. “needy little thing, beggin’ me like this, who am i to deny your wishes?” bakugou grins, mercilessly scissoring his digits into your tight heat to stretch you wide open for him. he can’t believe his luck, the way you’re so pliant and responsive to him and him alone.

it’s too soon for him to be this addicted to your cute moans filling the crisp air but he can’t help himself, not when you clamp around his scarred fingers with every pump of them into your silken heat. not with the way your own fingers now curl in sun kissed blonde hair— pulling the hero upwards to suck on his bottom lip, followed by his tongue.

you cry out, the most beautiful sound katsuki’s every heard in all twenty years of living when his fingers press down hard on that gummy pleasure spot inside you, and like the good girl you are for him, you keep your shaky thighs open for him. “you’re such a good fuckin’ doll, letting me finger you out in the open like this, anyone could see us but you wouldn’t care, not when you’re creamin’ your panties for dynamight, right sweet thing?” bakugou’s lewd words go straight to your cunt, entangled with the squelching noises as he moves within you.

“yes! yes! wouldn’t care, don’ care...j-jus wanna cum for you, s-suki—fuck, please—“ you mewl into the night, doe eyes shimmering with tears as the knot in your lower tummy gets tighter and tighter until you can’t bare it anymore.

bakugou grins, curling his fingers once more to send you hurtling off of the edge. he can’t stop thinking about how soaked your little lace panties must be, about all the things he’s going to do with them once he gets them off of you.

“cum.” your pussy follows his orders for you, white flashing behind your eyes as a scream rips in your throat and shoots out into the quiet night. the knot in your stomach snaps, release splashing out against bakugou’s hand and hero suit— he makes you cum so hard you almost black out, a twitching mess in the hero’s arms.

when you finally come to, bakugou’s slurping your nectar off of his fingers, head cocked to the side as you shakily look up at him. “i, uh...t-thank you!” you breathe, blinking away the buzzing noise in the back of your head. “for...uh...”

you’re so cute, flushed with heat and slick dripping from between your legs. you obviously think that was a one time thing, but bakugou hasn’t finished cashing in his reward. the hero shakes his head, using a thumb and forefinger to tilt your own up to meet his ruby gaze. “give me your phone and take off your panties.” he orders, voice authoritative and never wavering— you’re confused, but don’t question him, just as a good girl should.

rooting around in your now discarded purse, you pull out and unlock your going for katsuki, who busies himself with your contacts. embarrassment crawls up your spine when you reach for your underwear, still wet with your arousal and release, you look to bakugou hesitantly. “do i have to—?”

“off.” he grunts, barely looking up from your device as you shimmy out of the lace garment and hand it to him. bakugou gives you the same evil smirk from earlier while you collect yourself against the door, sniffing the flimsily, wet material before shoving them into the pocket of his pants. his cock is hard as a fucking rock, but he’ll be able to deal with it appropriately after his patrol. “i’ll be keeping these. this is where we say g’night sweet stuff.”

the way you curl in on yourself, perhaps a bit humiliated at the idea of your panties being taken by the number two pro hero is adorable, and if he didn’t have patrol, katsuki would have eaten you up right then and there. “goodnight dynamight— i mean, k-katsuki, thank you for everything and h-have a safe night.” you squeak out quickly, moving to open the door again.

“not a problem, honey,” bakugou whispers with a lowered voice, pulling you in to swipe his tongue across your bottom lip, shoving his tongue down your throat in a kiss goodnight. “now get your cute ass upstairs, don’ want anyone to see your leaky cunt like this. that’s fuckin’ mine.”

you do as you’re told, bidding the hero one last farewell before dashing up the steps and into your apartment. your heart and mind race a thousand miles a minute, crazed with the fact that you had just been fingered to the best fucking orgasm of your life by the number two pro hero. you have to force yourself to shower, mapping out all of the spots that bakugou had touched you and growing giddy at the small burn marks he’d left against the inner workings of your thighs.

that night, or rather, early morning— you settle into the sheets, mind still plagued with thoughts of katsuki bakugou, when your phone pings with a text.

to: yn.

from: unknown.

— never got your name sweet stuff, care to tell me who’s name i’ll be moaning tonight?

( one attachment ).

your heartbeat thunders in your ears, familiar warm pooling between your legs yet again as you open the image— knowing that there can be only one person that it’s from. a quiet moan slips past your lips as the picture loads to reveal bakugou in your very same black lace panties from earlier— the slick from your release pressed up against his barely covered cock, while he jerks himself off, precum oozing from his blistering red tip.

you exhale, typing back your name and hitting send— thanking whatever higher power that lead katsuki bakugou to steal your fucking panties.

[lessnearthesun]

The call comes one year, eight months, two weeks, fifteen days, and over five thousand hours since Camilla has last spoken to her brother. The lack of contact is odd to her, still, even after it’s been so long. They used to be attached at the hip, practically, and now she knows almost nothing about his life.

She’s sitting on the balcony in her new apartment, smoking— Lucky Strikes, what else?— when she hears the sharp ring of the home phone. She still hasn’t come into the twenty-first century yet and bought a cell phone. It’s not as if she needs one. The only person who calls her really is Francis, and even then, only a few times a year. Occasionally Richard, but there’s very little they have left to say to each other.

(Let’s get married, he’d said. Sometimes at night, when she’s cold, and lonely, and nostalgic, she nearly wishes she had said yes. It would’ve been horrible of her to marry a man she didn’t love if only to keep herself from being as alone as she is now, but there are worse things she’s done. Marrying Richard Papen wouldn’t have even made the top ten in the List of Horrible Things Camilla Macaulay Has Done.)

She puts out the cigarette and hurries inside, grabbing the old rotary phone on the sixth ring, expecting to hear Francis’ voice, familiar and sad.

“Hello?”

“Um. Hi.” It’s not Francis. The voice on the other line is female, and croaked— clearly an avid smoker. She sounds a little choked up, too, and she sniffs loudly. Camilla frowns.

“Who is this?”

“Um. Sonya,” the woman says. The name is familiar, but Camilla can’t quite place from where she knows it. The woman clears her throat. “I’m Charles’… Girlfriend.”

Camilla remembers. The woman Charles ran off to Texas with, the woman she can’t help feeling took her brother from her.

“Oh. Yes. I remember.” It suddenly hits her: where’s Charles? She asks and is rewarded with a soft sob that drops her heart to her stomach.

“Um— Charles he— He was drunk— He was driving and— He hit a tree—” Sonya sobs and Camilla only blinks, holding the phone. Sonya sniffles again. “He’s dead, I’m so— so sorry—” She begins to cry again. Camilla nods slowly, absorbing the information.

Charles is dead. Charles is dead. Charles is dead.

Calmly, she says: “Thank you for telling me.” Sonya rattles off a number to call her back and, after apologizing three more times, hangs up. Camilla sets the phone down gently on the receiver, grabs a glass from the cabinet, and pours herself a finger of whiskey. She takes a long pull, which burns her throat.

Charles is dead.

Her chest aches.

Is this what it feels like to lose half of yourself? she thinks. If it is, it’s remarkably underwhelming.

She sets the glass down, rinses it in the sink, and goes to sit back on the balcony. She lights a cigarette and kicks her feet up.

Charles is dead.

She’s all alone— it hits her like a slap to the face. Her grandmother has been dead nearly four years, her parents for over three decades, and now Charles too. Charles. Her twin, her other half, with his curls, his freckles, his lithe, musician fingers. How can he be dead? A crashed car. Drunk. Well. What else could it have been? She should’ve known. There was nothing on Earth that could have destroyed her brother better than he could destroy himself.

(Henry said once that she was the stronger twin. But she hadn’t needed him to tell her that. She knew that well enough and had always known it. Mercurial, easily wounded Charles. Was it a wonder he’d self-imploded?)

She sits on the balcony until the sun sets, smoking her way through the rest of the pack. Then, she stands and stretches before going back to the phone and dialing the number for Francis’ apartment. The phone rings twice before Francis answers.

“Dear, it’s good to hear from you,” he says.

“Charles is dead,” she tells him; they’re far past the need for polite small talk. “He wrapped his car around a tree while drunk.” Her voice is even, and it’s almost as if she’s hearing herself speak from some far away distance.

“Oh my God.” Francis is quiet for a long moment. He doesn’t say he’s sorry, and for that, Camilla is grateful. She doesn’t even know if she’s sorry. She doesn’t know what she feels.

“She gave me a number to call her back,” Camilla says. “I’ll call her back tomorrow morning to find out when the funeral is.”

Funeral. She’s been to a few in her life, but when she thinks of funerals, even now, she only thinks of Bunny’s, of the Corcorans crowded house, lively and yet dripping with grief. Of Charles, his face flushed beautifully in anger as they spat at each other.

“I’ll call Richard,” Francis says. Camilla silently thanks him. In truth, she doesn’t even know how to get in touch with Richard. Last she heard (from Francis) he was in Illinois, teaching English Literature at some prestigious university in Chicago. She doesn’t know his address or his phone number— he always called her.

(She hardly knows anything about either of them, these days.)

They exchange stilted goodbyes and hang up. Camilla sets the phone down and takes a long, long breath, feeling a bit like she’s been suspended underwater.

———

That night, as she’s curled up in bed, sheets kicked off, she suddenly aches. She misses Henry, desperately, misses having a warm body beside her in bed. (She hates herself for this, but she almost wishes Charles were here, too.)

She looks up at the ceiling, counts how many times her fan rotates in one minute. (Three hundred.) She pulls her blankets back up only to kick them off again.

Charles is dead.

She says the words aloud, to feel them on her tongue. “Charles is dead.” It doesn’t feel any more real.

———

Charles’ body is laid out on a metal slab, his face pale as death. His hair has been combed back from his face in the style he’d used to wear it. Sonya had showed the mortician a photo from their Hampden days, the only photo from his ‘old life’ that Charles had kept.

It wasn’t even a good photo, bad lighting and blurred. Camilla stood beside him, his arm around her waist. They were both dressed in white with plaid patterns, her in the form of a skirt, him in the form of a sweater vest. Based on the date scribbled on the back in Charles’ swooping print— October 1985– it was after Richard had joined them, just right before everything had gone to hell.

She looks down at Charles’ body, face pulled down in a frown, miserable even in death. In the corner of the room, Sonya weeps softly. Camilla wishes she’d go.

Both his legs had been shattered, the autopsy report said. He had a fractured nose, four broken fingers, and a pierced lung.

He died on impact, Sonya had told her earlier, eyes red from crying, her hands shaking, jostling the wine in the glass she held.

There one moment, gone the next.

Camilla touches his hand, which is ice cold. That hand is remarkably not shattered, but there is a thick cut where the whiskey bottle he’d been drinking had cut him on impact. Camilla thinks about what it must’ve looked like. Dark night, first rain in months, spinning car. Charles must’ve been aware— for a second, at least— that the car was spinning. Did he know he was going to die?

Camilla pulls her hand away from Charles’ cold one. She’d known his touch better than her own. And his stiff hand is so different from her memory.

She leaves the room and doesn’t look back.

———

Charles, as it turns out, had holed himself and Sonya up in some tiny town in the south of Texas called Rockport, home to just over ten thousand people.

Sonya offers Camilla the couch in her and Charles’ apartment— Camilla smarts slightly when Sonya says our apartment— but she declines. She doesn’t want to stay where Charles had, walk where he’d walked, breathe where he’d breathed. She stays, instead, at a nearby Hotel, with a queen bed all to herself.

(She likes her solitude, truly, but this… It’d been an unrealized comfort, to have Charles, even across the country. She’d been secure in the knowledge that he was somewhere, even if they spoke perhaps once a year, at most.)

Francis and Richard’s flight (they’d met up in Chicago, according to Francis) arrives a day after hers. She waits at the airport, drinking coffee from a thermos. She checks her watch and when she looks up, there they are. They look older, yes, but otherwise, they’ve changed very little. Francis looks less pale than when she’d seen him last, but she imagines that has something to do with the fact that he’s recently divorced and not recovering from a suicide attempt.

“Darling,” Francis says, kissing her cheeks, “it’s lovely to see you.”

Richard hovers nearby, his discomfort almost palpable. When Francis steps back, Richard gives her a peck on the cheek, his touch barely there.

“It’s good to see you,” he says. She notices that he wears glasses now, round ones, like Henry used to. Her heart cinches in her chest.

She smiles at him and the trio leave in a hired car back to the hotel, Francis complaining the whole way about their ‘horrendous’ flight and how they’d nearly died. Richard corrects this statement (it was only turbulence) and she and him make amused eye contact. She looks away first.

———

The funeral itself is a quiet affair. There’s almost no one there except for her, Sonya, Francis, Richard, and some man who was apparently Charles’ drinking buddy, the last person to see him, actually, before he crashed his car and died.

“Charles was my friend,” the man— whose name Camilla doesn’t know— says, thumping his chest. “Like my own blood. I’m gon’ miss him.” He looks Camilla up and down, both appreciatively and scrutinizingly. “Hey, he ne’er said he had a sister?”

“We didn’t speak much,” Camilla says. Somehow, it’s the truth, but it it doesn’t feel like it is.

“Well, your brother was a damn good fella,” he says. Francis raises his eyebrows.

Camilla watches the priest say a quick prayer and throw some holy water over the coffin. He asks Camilla if she’d like to speak, an offer she declines. What could she possibly say, anyway? What is there to say?

After the funeral, she, Francis, and Richard go to the local bar. As she sits, she wonders if Charles ever sat here, if her skin is touching where he’d touched. The thought makes her shiver, despite the suffocating heat of August.

Francis takes a long pull of whiskey and fans himself with his hand. “It’s far too hot.” Richard watches him in amusement, rolling a peanut between his fingers. She watches it slip from his grasp, watches his lips turn down, watches him grab another peanut from the bowl before them, watches him begin to roll that one between his fingers as well.

Camilla swirls the dark red wine in her glass around. It’s not very good, but she needs a drink, badly, and it’ll do.

She looks around the bar and can see how it had appealed to Charles once. She can almost see it from his eyes.

Charles is dead.

Buried, now. She’d thrown dirt over the grave with her own two hands and now there’s a thin layer under her nails. She flexes her left hand. Her hand is thin and bony, the matching set to Charles’.

She’d known, from the moment they’d sullied their hands with murder, that they were all going to have to pay for their sin. She’d felt, without being able to clearly explain it, that none of them would make it to old age, that all of them were going to die young and tragically. The thought hadn’t unsettled her, at least not much.

Three down. Three to go.

“I’m going for a smoke,” Richard says suddenly, standing. Francis waves him off and, after sending her a look, Richard leaves. Camilla watches him go.

She doesn’t think he’ll ask her to marry him again. She thinks he knows now that there’s nothing there between them. Camilla doubts he even loves her, doubts that he ever did. He might’ve wanted her— in a way— but he did not love her.

Francis orders another drink. Peeking out from the cuff of his shirt are the scars from his attempt. She’s oddly fascinated by them. She wonders if it was chance that saved his life, if awful death will come for him soon, or if he paid his dues in blood. She thinks then of Richard and she remembers the dark red blood that had stained his shirt, his expression oddly calm for a man that had just been shot. Perhaps Richard had paid his dues too.

Does this make her next?

It doesn’t frighten her.

Francis catches her looking at his scars and he shifts slightly. “They don’t hurt anymore,” he says, taking his drink from the bartender. He drinks deeply, throwing his head back.

Camilla wonders if he’s only talking about the scars. She wonders if he’s any happier now, following his grandfather’s death and his divorce. He’s settled now, rich and free. Even so, she knows that it’s foolish to think he’s happy. None of them will ever be happy. They’re damned.

———

She wakes up sprawled on the bench at the end of Francis’ bed. A glance at the clock tells her that it’s seven in the morning. Francis and Richard are both asleep on top of the comforter on Francis’ bed, an empty bottle of wine abandoned in the space between them. There’s a dark red stain covering the bed and Richard’s body.

Camilla blinks, blinks, blinks. It’s wine. It’s wine. Right?

She rubs her eyes and sits up, running a hand through her cropped hair. There’s a dull throbbing behind her eyes and she thinks, I’d kill for coffee.

Richard makes a snuffling noise in his sleep, scrunching up his nose. Camilla slips into her shoes and leaves the room. She breathes in deeply and immediately wishes she hadn’t. The air quality is horrid. She makes her way to her room, unlocking the door and sitting down on the bed. There’s a television in the room, but she’s not one for television and it’s too early for anything to be on that she might like. In the side table drawer, there’s a worn Bible and a romance novel, a shirtless man and a beautiful woman on the cover. They’re clutching at each other, her head is thrown back. His hair is as dark and hers is light.

Camilla shuts the drawer with a resounding click. She pulls out her pack of cigarettes and steps back outside, lighting one and taking a long drag.

There are footsteps behind her and, for a second, instinctively, she almost asks, Charles? But it’s only Richard. And Charles is dead. The dead don’t rise. Not even for them.

“Good Morning,” Richard says, leaning against the wall. His hair is mussed and the top three buttons of his shirt are popped. She almost wishes she loved him. It’d be easier if she did. But she’s never done the easy thing.

“Good morning,” she replies, offering him the pack. His eyes widen slightly when he notices the brand, but he takes one anyway, leaning towards her and the lighter in her hand, the flame flickering.

“Thanks,” he says, eyes tracking her movements. When she looks at him, he looks away.

They stand in silence.

“So,” Richard begins, “a car crash.”

Oh, bitter irony.

“Yes,” is what she says.

They fall back into silence. When she spares a glance at him, his eyes are far away and his cigarette has nearly burned down to his fingers.

She notices suddenly, when he turns his head to watch the maid pass them, that there’s a dark, circular bruise under his collarbone. She could almost laugh if she had any mirth left in her. Francis and Richard had slipped off as the night went on, apparently for a cigarette, but they hadn’t returned for over forty minutes, and when they did, Richard was flushed a dark pink.

(Bunny had made a comment or two, once upon a time, about Richard’s ‘inclinations.’ Richard had said nothing, but Camilla had wondered.)

She doesn’t ask. She doesn’t know, doesn’t really want to. She’ll be leaving them tonight and the less she knows, the better.

Richard, after sparing her a last glance, with a look she knows well, leaves, going to his room. Camilla finishes her cigarette and retires to hers. She doesn’t have much to pack, all of it already in her suitcase. It’s hardly neat, so she spends the next two hours folding her shirts and pants, if only to kill time.

There’s always so much time in the day, too much, she feels. Time drags on and on and on.

———

Francis and Richard bid her farewell at the airport. Richard’s flight leaves at four, Francis’s at six. Francis kisses her cheeks and tells her to call him. Richard pecks her cheek and says it was nice to see her. She nods along, squeezes both their shoulders, and leaves, glad to be free of this dreadful state, sweltering, lacking in culture, and haunted by Charles— or, rather, by the lack of him.

———

It’s quiet back home. She puts on an old record after the silence becomes too much to bear. It’s something classical, one of Charles’ favorites, something she doesn’t realize until it’s started playing.

She hates him. Hates him terribly. But even the thought feels untrue, because it is. She can’t hate Charles, never really could, not even now, when he’s six feet under ground. Hating Charles is simply something she’s incapable of.

She drifts around the apartment, sits down, stands up, drifts, sits down, stands up, drifts, rinse and repeat.

She’d inherited her grandmother’s piano— although, in actuality, it was Charles’— and so she sits down and plays a few notes. She was never as talented at it as Charles, and she recalls very little.

Up the scale, down the scale. Do re mi fa so la to do.

Charles’ hands were here once, she thinks. Immediately, she retracts her hands and takes a drink.

Charles is dead.

So is Henry.

Bunny too.

———

Charles is dead.

———

That night, once she’s drifted off to sleep, she sees Charles. He’s sitting on the edge of her bed, looking not a day over twenty. It takes her a moment to realize she’s in their old apartment in Hampden. She’d like to fool herself, think that it’s all been a bad dream, that Bunny isn’t dead, nor Henry either. But she’s always been too shrewd. She doesn’t have to think about it know she’s dreaming. Even more so, there are a few details in the apartment wrong. She never had a painting of a swan, that was in the living room of her grandmother’s house. Her lamp was on the side table on the left, not the right. The curtains were a shade whiter.

“Milly, honey, how are you?” Charles asks. There’s a glass of whiskey in his hand.

“Charles,” Camilla says, nothing else.

Charles smiles slightly, smug and sad and Charles.

“It was an accident,” he says, finger trailing the rim of the glass. “I’d made the drive home in a worse state.” He shrugs.

She hates him. She loves him.

“I wish you’d called me more often,” she finally says.

Charles takes a long sip. He doesn’t reply.

How different would their lives be if they’d never had that Bacchanal? If they’d never attended Hampden College at all? Would they both still be right where they are now— him dead, her a recluse?

Charles leans forward to cup her cheek. His hand is as warm as she always knew it to be.

“It’s alright, darling.”

It’s not and hasn’t been in a while. Perhaps it never was. He knows that. She knows that. He says it, anyway.

The two stare at each other, stare and stare and stare. There’s so much Camilla wants to say, so much she can’t voice.

I hate you for what you’ve done to me. I love you. You fool. Why did you never call?

He could answer, if she asked. He could probably answer her other questions too: where’s Henry? Have you seen him? Why has he never visited me? And Bunny?

But she asks none of these questions. The gap between them is too big to traverse, much bigger now that he’s dead and she’s living, which is strange. He feels closer now than he’s felt in almost twenty years.

———

When she wakes up, she’s alone.

———

“Fates, we will know your pleasures. That we shall die, we know. ‘Tis but the time, And drawing days out, that men stand upon.”

— Julius Caesar, Act III, Scene I, William Shakespeare.

[wondernimbus]

two sworn enemies — draco malfoy

pairing: draco malfoy x female!reader

summary: there is only one thing worse than being hated by draco malfoy; it’s being fancied by him.

requests are closed for now! please refrain from plagiarizing my work.

After being on the receiving end of Malfoy's torment for four whole years at Hogwarts—a place where she's supposed to be making friends and learning and making the most out of all her youthful years—[Y/N] is beginning to grow tired.

The last thing she’s supposed to be worrying about is a snarky Slytherin boy who always has some sort of rude remark resting on his lips every time he comes across her in the corridors. Or anywhere, for that matter—Draco Malfoy's incessant jest seems to stay within no boundaries.

Eleven-year-old [Y/N] used to be fazed by it; she used to cry herself to sleep every time the platinum blond would push past her in the hallway, yelling out something offensive on his way, usually to do with her friendship with blood-traitors and the "big-headed" Harry Potter (or so Malfoy referred to him). She used to feel angry—angry enough to want to whip her wand out at him and hex him into oblivion every time he'd even as much as lay eyes on her. But the more Malfoy tried to bother her, the more it didn't anymore.

Fourth year wasn't so bad. Malfoy had already called her about a hundred nasty names at that point and was running out of them—his creativity was dwindling and [Y/N]'s concern along with it. She'd even laughed at him, one time during Transfiguration class—genuinely laughed, not out of frustration or anger but because she found something that he said to her funny.

"How does it feel being surrounded by blood-traitors and Mudbloods, [Y/L/N]? Pity you chose the wrong crowd to hang around."

"How did it feel to get punched by a girl, Malfoy? I hear Hermione packs quite a punch."

Malfoy’s nose had wrinkled into his signature sneer before he scoffed. "Tell Granger she can improve her right hook." At which point [Y/N] had snorted out a laugh—and yes, it wasn't a full-blown burst of chortles, but it was a laugh nonetheless.

Fifth year rolls around and Draco Malfoy is the least of [Y/N]'s worries. She's gotten over his nagging at this point; all his jabs have lost a bit, if not all of their luster.

But then a week after classes have started, Malfoy starts acting—weird. Very weird. [Y/N] has no idea what's gotten into him, but Draco's cruel insults seem to have veered off course and taken a very dramatic turn. He still yells at her in the hallways, but not to make some harmful jibe [Y/N] has heard thousands of times before. Instead Draco—yes, Draco Malfoy, the same boy who has never once failed to torment her in the past years they've known each other—has now made it a habit to yell pick-up lines. At her. At [Y/N]. At the same girl he's been bad-mouthing for the past four years.

The first time it happens, [Y/N] can't believe her ears. She thinks he's yelling at someone else other than her, because there is no way bloody Draco Malfoy is shouting "DO YOU PLAY QUIDDITCH? BECAUSE YOU SEEM LIKE A KEEPER" at her from halfway across the Great Hall.

But he's definitely staring at her, grinning widely in that conceited sort of way that [Y/N] has always despised.

"Is he talking to me?" [Y/N] asks Hermione, bewildered.

"Looks like it." Hermione looks just as surprised as her. "Knowing Malfoy, he's not up to anything good. Ignore him, [Y/N]."

But ignoring Draco Malfoy is not something [Y/N] is capable of; the feistiness in her makes sure of that. So instead of moving on and turning a blind eye, she cups her hands over her mouth and yells, just as loud, "ARE YOU A BLUDGER? BECAUSE I'D LOVE TO BASH A BEATER'S BAT INTO YOUR—"

Whatever Malfoy is up to, [Y/N] isn't entirely sure she's enjoying it. The next afternoon—also in the Great Hall, while [Y/N] is doing her homework instead of eating lunch (because Snape apparently thinks it's a good idea to ask for a four-page essay when the school year has barely even started), there's a thump and [Y/N] looks up to see that there's a little red envelope sitting on her empty plate. Looking even further up, she sees an owl flying away from the table and out of the roof of the Great Hall, where the owls always come from to deliver letters—although that only happens at breakfast. Which means this is from someone else, likely another student.

[Y/N] stares.

"It's a Howler," Harry says from next to her, like she doesn't already know.

"I'm aware," she mutters, narrowing her eyes at it before she sets down her quill to grab it.

"Who would send you a Howler?" Ron has looked up from where he'd been shoveling beans into his plate. He crowds into her space, peering at the envelope she now holds in her hands; and she can't really answer him, because only her name is scribbled across the front in handwriting she doesn't recognize. Whoever sent it to her didn't bother with writing their own name.

She hesitates, brows furrowed as she, too, wonders where it's from. Her parents don't have a reason to send her a Howler—unless she's done something wrong that she isn't aware of. But it's only been a week since school has started and as far as she can tell, she hasn't done anything worthy of being sent a Howler. Or at least not yet.

"Might as well," she sighs—it's going to deliver its message one way or the other, anyway, and [Y/N] prefers to open it herself than have it burst into flames, rain ashes down upon her homework, and then start talking—so she opens the envelope.

The Howler jumps to life in front of her, hovering in front of her face, and [Y/N] has never seen a piece of stationery look so angry before. A forked tongue slips out of the envelope—[Y/N] braces herself for the worst, despite not knowing who on earth might have sent it—until a familiar voice booms around the Great Hall.

"ARE YOU A BASILISK? BECAUSE WHEN I SAW YOU, I FROZE."

Ron's shoulders automatically start shaking with laughter. Most of the Great Hall—or at least the ones close enough to hear the Howler—have turned around to watch the spectacle unfold, giggling behind their palms and pointing at [Y/N] like she can't see them. [Y/N], in the meantime, stares, completely dead to the world and everything else around her, because she knows that voice.

But then the Howler keeps talking. "IF YOU LET ME TAKE YOU ON A DATE, I CAN PROMISE YOU THINGS THOSE FILTHY PEASANTS CAN NEVER GIVE YOU."

The entire hall has fallen completely silent. [Y/N] feels her face burning up, but not with embarrassment—[Y/N] is angry. She feels it thrumming in her veins, curling around her lungs, clouding all of her senses.

With a single flick of [Y/N]'s wand, the Howler bursts into flames with a final feeble wheeze of I'm also a fairly good snogger. Ron is roaring with laughter and Harry has also joined in. Two-faced gits.

[Y/N] slams her palms down on the table and vaguely even registers the pain this gives her as she steps out from behind the bench and turns around to face the Slytherin table because of course she knows who sent the Howler. Of course she knows who would go out of his way to humiliate her in front of the entirety of Hogwarts, because that extremely irritating, maddeningly haughty voice can only belong to one person—and sure enough, the idiot in question is standing there on top of the benches, arms outstretched towards her and that proud, snooty look on his face like he expects her to actually be impressed.

Over Ron and Harry's laughter, [Y/N] shouts angrily, "Malfoy!"

Malfoy drops his arms to his sides, hops off the bench, and swaggers towards her. She meets him halfway—and when she does, she doesn't hesitate to shove him angrily by the shoulders. He stumbles back a little, but he's still grinning annoyingly wide. "Have you come to me bearing an answer?" he says, his tone mocking, and [Y/N] just barely suppresses herself from whipping out her wand and jabbing it somewhere she wouldn't want a wand anywhere near. They are still surrounded by teachers. "I imagine it's a yes—who would turn me down, after all—"

"Drop the fucking act," she hisses; all eyes are on them, because Hogwarts never passes up a chance for gossip, and this might be the most exciting one yet. Draco Malfoy publicly asking out the girl everyone knows he's hated, and has hated him, for a long time—what a spectacle. But [Y/N] knows that his intentions are far from genuine; this is just another way to humiliate her and get on her nerves. And as much as she hates to admit it, it's a pretty good fucking move, because she hasn't been this annoyed by him in a long time.

Her teeth are gritted together so hard her words barely come out coherent. "I don't know what you're playing at," she practically growls, taking a step closer to get in his face, "But I encourage you to get yourself together."

But Malfoy seems unaffected. "Pity you didn't let the Howler finish," he drawls, still with that same smirk on his lips as he wriggles his brows suggestively. "I could've told you more about my superior snogging skills."

"Which is exactly why I didn't," she fumes. "We're in the middle of lunch—any more of you talking about your 'superior snogging skills' and the entirety of this hall would've thrown up on themselves. I know I would've."

At this, the smile on Malfoy's face droops a little, a ghost of his familiar sneer seeping in. [Y/N] takes a step back away from him, because she can't stand being more than a few feet near the prat. "You've got a lot of nerve, pulling this," she scoffs. "Try it again and you'll regret it. Now excuse me while I go do my bloody homework."

And then she turns around, goes back to the Gryffindor table, and does her bloody homework.

—

But Malfoy, as it turns out, isn't as weak-willed as he lets on. She's started receiving Howlers every morning at breakfast, all of which burst into flames every time to rain ashes upon her innocent plate of eggs and toast, but only after loudly blurting out some ridiculously bad pick-up line. It's been four days since the first Howler and they've only gotten progressively worse ever since—"you must be a Boggart because I'm terrified of pretty women"—and [Y/N] is beginning to grow so very tired.

Today, she hexes him in the middle of the hallway just as he's coming out of Potions class. She had warned him, all those days ago, that he'd regret it if he didn't let up. So [Y/N] watches, terribly amused as Draco starts wailing in the corridor, his hands splayed over his face in a measly attempt to cover the sardines falling out of his nostrils. It's an irreversible hex—or at least for eight hours—but until then, Draco will have to deal with the tiny fishes that shoot out of his nose at random intervals. [Y/N] can't bring herself to feel bad, not when he's humiliated her time and time again in front of so many people.

No Howlers arrive the morning after. There's a sense of what feels like disappointment coming off of the Great Hall; some people have actually turned around in their seats to watch her in anticipation for an owl to come swooping down upon her bearing a red envelope. Unfortunately for them, it doesn't happen. [Y/N], meanwhile, is finally at peace.

Or at least until Ron jabs her in the side and goes, "So are you?" he's grinning. "A Boggart, I mean."

It's a reference to the Howler she received yesterday. Her movements are dangerously swift; immediately she smacks the back of his head, sending him into a complaining frenzy. She rolls her eyes. "Stupid Malfoy."

"As much as I hate to say this," Harry begins, "I kind of wish you hadn't hexed him into stopping. His pick-up lines were pretty funny."

"Ha!" [Y/N] points a finger at Harry and nods approvingly, laughing a little. "That's a good one, Harry."

Harry stares at her dead in the eye. "Oh, I wasn't joking."

Her face falls.

"I suppose being on the receiving end of Malfoy's affection isn't any better than being hated by him," says Hermione, offering [Y/N] a sympathetic smile. "It's a good thing you showed him not to mess with you any further, [Y/N]."

[Y/N] tries for a smile of her own, but it comes out all stiff and crooked. "I feel like the past few days have been a fever dream," she says, shuddering. "This new form of—bullying, I don't know—has just been so weird. The bad names I've gotten used to, but—the compliments? The pick-up lines?"

"D'you think he's gone off his rocker?" Ron suggests.

"Maybe he fancies you," says Hermione off-handedly.

The effect this has on the three is instantaneous; Ron, Harry, and [Y/N] simultaneously blanch as though they've all swallowed something sour at the same time. Ron is choking on a piece of toast and Harry has spit water everywhere.

"Absolutely not," [Y/N] is shaking her head, nose wrinkled in distaste. "He can't possibly—that's ridiculous. We've hated each other for years."

"Feelings do change," Hermione shrugs, rolling her eyes at Ron and Harry, who have yet to recover from their initial shock. "And besides, it was just a suggestion. Although I don't see why he'd go out of his way to send you Howlers repeatedly asking you out if he doesn't fancy you."

"Because he wants to humiliate me in front of everyone!"

"Oh, alright, alright," Hermione sighs, sensing her defeat. "But you never know."

Ron has gathered his bearings once more. He turns to Hermione, genuine concern flooding his features, and blubbers, "Did I hear you right? Malfoy—fancying [Y/N]?"

"Yes, Ronald." Another eye-roll. "It's not that outlandish. Boys are boys—even Malfoy."

"Merlin's beard," he slumps down in his seat, shaking his head. "I don't think I've ever been this surprised. Not since I heard that Percy managed to score himself a girlfriend, and that was three years ago."

A few days pass, and while no more Howlers arrive, Malfoy is still as insistent as ever in his attempts to "woo" her—or, well, whatever it is he's trying to do. [Y/N] doesn’t quite know what to call it anymore; for some reason, it no longer feels like an attempt to bully or humiliate her. It's not as though he's insulting her, and it's not like her reputation is in any way being lessened. In fact, most of Hogwarts, it seems, enjoys the so-called "love-hate relationship" they've got going on, and expects them to get together sometime in the near future.

[Y/N] learns all of this from Fred and George, who are always a good source of gossip.

"What better love story than two sworn enemies falling in love?" George gushes, clasping his hands together.

"So romantic," Fred sings, closing his eyes and swaying his hips as though listening to a sultry tune only he can hear. “Setting aside their differences to answer the call of their hearts."

"Oh, Malfoy's still an arse, of course."

"But it's still romantic."

Part of [Y/N] wishes that the twins hadn’t told her that, because it makes it all the more confusing on her part. If, by some miracle, Malfoy does fancy her—what is she supposed to do? Ride off with him into the sunset? They are enemies—they have been for four, supposedly five years now, except this year Malfoy is being an insufferable twat who won't stop yelling pick-up lines at her in the hallways.

[Y/N] decides to turn a blind eye on him. If she ignores him for long enough, he's bound to stop.

Right?

—

Despite being a close friend to the famous Harry Potter, [Y/N] can say she’s made a name for herself at school that stretches far beyond just that girl who hangs out with the Chosen One. She’s been playing for the Gryffindor Quidditch team for two years and has contributed to some of the house’s most fantastic wins as a Chaser, and she’s also a fairly good student. She may have a penchant for trouble-making, but she knows how to limit herself. She prides herself for her work ethic and thus her grades are above average—enough for her to earn the favor of most of her teachers and for eager first-years to sometimes come up to her asking for help doing homework.

But enough for those very same first-years to come up to her in the hallway ready to do all of her biddings for the day, practically demanding her to hand over her books so that they can carry them for her? No. Certainly not. [Y/N] may have made a name for herself, but definitely not one renowned enough to earn the eleven-year-olds now crowded around her moments after she steps out of potions class, telling her that, “We’re here at your disposal! If you need us to do anything, just say the word!”

[Y/N] stares at the three children clustered around her, all wide-eyed and for some reason incredibly eager for her to start bossing them around.

Taken aback, she ushers them into a corner; the hallway is busy and people will keep bumping into them if they stay in the middle of the hallway like that.

Once away from the bustling main corridor, she bends down a little so that she’s at eye-level with all of them. “At my disposal?” she repeats, eyes narrowing playfully. “What do you mean?”

“We’re here to carry your books for you or grab you snacks from the kitchens or tie your shoelaces if you need us to!” one of them exclaims, bouncing on his toes.

Alright—this is getting ridiculous. [Y/N] pauses, lips pressed together into a thin line as she stares at each one of the first-years in turn; all three of them are staring at her as though waiting for her to start asking them to do push-ups.

She inhales. Someone must have put them up to this, because there is no way these children woke up this morning and simultaneously decided to become her servants for the day.

“Well,” she begins, smiling at them—and good grief, did she really look that young when she was eleven? “Thank you for offering to help me. I appreciate it, really—but lucky for me I’ve got some very capable arms and I think I can handle tying my shoelaces and carrying my books around and whatnot. But again—thank you. You’re all very nice.”

She pauses to look at their reactions; the smiles on their faces have drooped a little as they turn to one another, seemingly at a loss for words. “But,” the one girl says, frowning, “We’re supposed to help you.”

[Y/N] raises her eyebrows. “Supposed to?”

Someone definitely put them up to this—[Y/N] is certain of it now. And she has a good guess as to who.

She starts by saying, tone gentle, “Did someone tell you to do this? Because that’s really kind, and I’d love to thank them.”

The girl bunches up her lips in thought, shuffling her feet against the ground. “We’re not supposed to say,” she mutters, glancing at the two boys next to her nervously.

[Y/N] inhales. She needs confirmation, so she crouches down so that she’s the same height as them, and offers them all the friendliest, most trustworthy smile she can muster. The kind that wins over eleven-year-olds. “You won’t get in trouble if you tell me,” she tells them gently, and waits for them to nod in understanding before she goes, “Was it Malfoy? Draco Malfoy?”

They don’t have to respond—the looks on their faces are enough confirmation. [Y/N] suppresses the urge to roll her eyes, because of course Malfoy is the kind of person to somehow get first-years to do something like this. And she’s pretty sure it has something to do with bribery.

“Did he promise to give you anything, maybe?” [Y/N] presses on patiently.

The girl leans in and cups her hand over her mouth to whisper excitedly, “Chocolate frogs. Five for each of us.”

Ah. Of course. [Y/N] sighs inwardly and nods, standing up properly to once more tower over the tiny first-years. As much as she would love to have her own personal butlers, there is absolutely no way she is agreeing to take any part in exploiting these young kids. So she ruffles all of their hair in turn and promises to give them much, much more chocolate frogs than Malfoy will ever be able to offer if they swear to ignore him for the rest of their lives.

So she stands there in the hallway, a minute late for Transfiguration, watching the three first-years skip down the hallway, grinning excitedly to themselves—no doubt because they’ve just been promised what could be an infinite supply of chocolate frogs.

Which [Y/N] will now have to spend a lump of her summer savings on. Great. Bloody fantastic.

She didn’t think she could hate Draco Malfoy even more than she already did, but now, with the burden of buying chocolate frogs resting on her shoulders, she realizes that anything is possible.

[Y/N] finds Draco later on in the day when she’s heading to the Great Hall for dinner; as she’s passing by a window that coincidentally overlooks the Quidditch pitch, she sees him zooming around the stadium by himself, no doubt practicing to better his (in [Y/N]’s opinion) ghastly Seeker skills.

So she trudges off to the pitch, arms folded over her chest as she yells, “Malfoy!”

He notices, stops in mid-air, and immediately flies down to land in front of her, one hand on his hip and the other resting on top of his broom. That signature smirk is already on his face, mirrored by [Y/N]'s angry scowl. “Here to take me up on my offer for a date?” he grins, shaking his (sweaty, wet) hair out of his eyes. [Y/N] watches the movement, unimpressed. “Or were you just planning to watch me practice?”

She scoffs, tearing her eyes away from the way he’s running a hand through his blond hair. “Neither. I thought you were bad enough, Malfoy, but bribing first-years into doing my bidding for me? In exchange for bloody chocolate frogs?”

Malfoy’s hand pauses in carding through his hair. He drops it back to his side. “So you figured it out.”

”Why else would first-years be so eager for me to boss them around?”

”Maybe because they find you just as beautiful as I do?” he suggests, eyes glinting, the smile on his face growing even wider. [Y/N] lets out a quick breath of incredulous laughter, because is he really still keeping this act up when no one is around to see? Is he that desperate to get on her nerves?

“Just stop it, Malfoy,” she says through gritted teeth, taking a step closer to him. At this, he whistles a little, eyebrows rising, and for some reason [Y/N] tries very, very hard not to look at the sweat trickling down his forehead, the pale pink hue of his cheeks from the strain of practicing—“Please for the love of Merlin can you just drop the whole I’m-in-love-with-you act? You got what you wanted. You’ve annoyed me enough.”

Draco's nose wrinkles. “Oh, but that’s not what I wanted,” the smile on his face falters a little. ”Did you really think I did all of this just to annoy you?”

[Y/N]’s eyebrows furrow—and is that her heart skipping a beat? No. No, definitely not. Falling quiet for a few moments, she finally sniffs and says, “Why else would you go out of your way to act absolutely smitten by me?”

An echo of Hermione's voice from several days ago reverberates through her head. Maybe he fancies you.

Malfoy shrugs, his smirk falling just the tiniest bit to be replaced by a semblance of sincerity. But that can’t be. And then he says, “Maybe I fancy you,” and [Y/N]’s eyes widen.

That can’t be right. Flabbergasted, she blinks, taking a step back. This has to be some sort of joke—no, yes, that’s exactly what this is: another way to crawl under her skin and annoy the daylights out of her. She has to applaud him for his creativity.

Pinching the space between her eyes in irritation, she looks up at Malfoy, inhales, and says, deadpan, “I’m being serious.”

“I am too,” Malfoy counters, eyebrows raised innocently, and [Y/N] has never wanted to smack him more than she does now.

She lets out another incredulous laugh, because this entire situation is just so bloody ridiculous that she can’t quite wrap her head around it. Throwing her hands up in the air in frustration, she turns to him and says, “Alright—okay. Let’s say you do fancy me. I’m going to pretend for a few seconds that you do—okay?”

Draco watches her, evidently amused judging by his grin, shrugs, and nods.

“Okay,” she huffs. “If you do fancy me—why on earth would you?”

Draco opens his mouth, but she cuts him off: “We hate each other, Malfoy. We’ve hated each other since the moment you laid eyes on me and I laid eyes on you. What could have possibly changed your rotten mind?”

He rolls his eyes at this, shifting a little on where he stands. “For starters,” he begins, like he’s talking to a five-year-old, “I didn’t hate you. I disliked the fact that you hung out with the wrong sort of people.”

”The wrong sort of people,” she repeats, deadpan.

“The Weasleys. Blood traitors. Mudbloods.”

She scowls at him, brain struggling to fathom what the bloody hell he’s trying to tell her. Managing to once more plow through her confusion, she says, “Your point is?”

“I’d have asked you out long ago if only you were smarter with who you chose to befriend,” and there it is—that familiar, distasteful sneer [Y/N] hasn’t seen in a long time. “Your family’s one of the oldest wizarding families around. It’s a shame.”

She lets out another scoff of disbelief, but the first few of Draco's words have something inside of her stirring. She refuses to address it and instead says, “So—and again, I’m pretending—you fancy me because of my family?”

He lets out a little sniff. “Not what I said.”

”What is it you’re trying to say, then?”

“Blimey, how long is it going to take you to realize that I actually bloody fancy you?”

Draco has dropped all pretense of nonchalant arrogance; he’s staring at her, obviously frustrated and a little annoyed. He stops leaning on his broom and lets it drop to the ground in favor of advancing towards her until he’s mere inches away from her face.

”I fancy you,” he repeats, and it’s funny, how he says it, because declarations of love are supposed to be sweet and gentle—not scathing and angry. He’s scowling down at her, lip curling, brows drawn in together in the middle in a tight frown. “I’ve decided that I don’t care who you hang around anymore because I fancy you. Do you get it now?”

[Y/N] swallows, staring at him, momentarily frozen. Malfoy doesn’t seem as though he’s joking—and now she doesn’t know what to say. She’s never been this close to him before—close enough to see herself in the reflection of his eyes, which are a striking grey and remind her of thunderstorms brewing behind dark clouds—

She takes in a deep breath and swivels around, turning away from him. “Stop sending children to be my servants,” she says, and starts to walk away—until Malfoy grabs her wrist and forces her to look at him again.

For a moment the look in his eyes convinces [Y/N] that he’s about to apologize, but then his lips are splitting into a wide grin again and he says, “What if I bribe a seventh year into doing your homework for you?”

Another scoff. She tears her wrist away from his grip and stalks off, in complete and utter disbelief.

”Or a house-elf to bring you food?” he calls after her. “Someone to do your hair for you in the morning? Or someone to yell at me for you?”

She halts at the last one, and for some odd, unknown reason, she feels like smiling. But she doesn’t, because that will open a door into something she isn’t sure she wants to explore. So she turns around, suppressing that mysterious little smile, already twenty feet away from Malfoy as she says, loudly, “I like doing that last one myself, thanks.”

From this distance, she thinks Malfoy might be smiling. But she doesn’t stay long enough to find out.

click here to read pt. 2!

[monocaelia]

royalty au headcanons

what they would be in a royalty au and the sweet moments shared with them.

feat. albedo, childe, diluc, kaeya, venti

genre : fluff, slight angst in childe's

❀ albedo

albedo is the royally appointed painter of your family. he's in charge of painting all of the portraits of the royal family, which is well deserved. the blond artist's brush strokes and painting techniques make all of his works of art feel so alive, almost as if they could walk out of the canvas they were painted on and live amongst the people.

he prides in his works, always making sure each square inch of each painting absolutely perfect before presenting it to the royal family. even if they were already perfect to begin with. but, as they say, you're your own worst critic.

from since you were both young, he was hired by your family to teach you the basics of the arts as well as how to properly hold a brush.

so, you could say albedo has watched you grow from a grubby child to the elegant and refined person you grew up to be. an honor, really, to watch the stars in your eyes grow brighter and brighter with each passing year.

"ah, you've messed up the brush stroke here," albedo's gentle voice points out the mistake in your technique. your ears burn from having your mistakes pointed out, but you know it's for the best. you clear your throat and try to fix it, only to have albedo sigh from beside you.

"like this, your highness." before you can even react, you feel the heat from albedo's chest radiating against your back and your hand is encased in his own. he guides your hand with his, making the brush you're holding glide smoothly across the canvas.

his hand is cold, you think to yourself, and you wonder if he's been maintaining his health properly. but in contrast to his hand, his breath is warm against your ear as he talks you through the painting technique.

it's hard to focus when you're feeling overstimulated from the proximity of the blond painter and the rather domestic position you're in; almost as if your entire body is being embraced by the artist you grew up with.

"understand, your highness?" his quiet voice breaks your thoughts. he's close to you... so close. you gulp, praying to the archons above that albedo couldn't feel your hands shaking from this entire exchange.

"i thought you were supposed to call me by my name when we're alone together, albedo," you stutter out shakily. it's then that albedo realizes the position the two of you are in. his teal eyes widen slightly in surprise and his ears begin to burn a light pink. the artist pulls away, muttering a small apology to you.

though, albedo has to admit that having you in his arms, albeit for painting, felt so nice. from the position he was in, albedo could have counted the thousands of stars that your eyes held; and he would do anything to see them again.

❀ childe

ajax became a knight of your kingdom from a young age. he was always bored from the day to day schedule of his familial job; he wanted more and nothing could satiate the need to do something, anything that could give him the exhilaration that he needed.

which being in the knights provided for him. from learning how to properly wield a sword, to sparring with the best knights in your kingdom, to being a master at any and all weapons in your artillery, the ginger haired knight loved every second. he always felt alive when wielding his weapon, always grinning ear to ear when he's sparring for fun.

despite being a terrifying machine of war, ajax would never betray your family, let alone you. he swore an oath to protect everyone in the kingdom when he joined the knights, and that included you. the one who has watched him since he was a clumsy knight in training, fixed up his injuries, and wiped his tears away when he was frustrated with himself.

the call of ajax's name alerts him of your presence along with the quick pads of your shoes against the pavement. said male turns to look at you, smile big and bright on his face. "your highness! fancy seeing you here so late. did you miss me that mu-"

"is it true?" you interrupt him. your furrowed brows and frown etched onto your features contrast against the bright expression on the knight's. ajax's smile falters a bit when you stop in front of him, holding your arm and biting your lip in concern. "is it true that you're going to fight in the war?"

ajax blinks, stunned at your question. but he laughs lowly, not helping you in your concerned state. "of course, why wouldn't i? i made an oath to protect you, your family, and the people. it's my duty to go to the front lines."

his cerulean eyes stare into your own. you take a breath, hesitating on what to say or do next. ajax assumes you're going to scold him for throwing himself into the pits of danger, assumes that you're going to yell at him because when he fights he fights with no care to his own body. he would power on through the fight until he physically wasn't capable anymore.

"would you stay with me if i asked you to?"

your question surprises the ginger knight. out of all things that you could have done or said, he wasn't expecting this.

his finger strokes your cheek, sliding forward until your jaw rests in the palm of his hand. ajax gives you a smile, endearing yet bittersweet. he wants to stay here with you, to see your annoyed expression when he ends up hurting himself again or the huge smile on your face when he does something dumb.

but duty calls. and you know that.

his heart falls when you sigh and pull away from his touch. but it flutters again when he feels something hard press into the palm of his hand, your own covering his.

"then, promise me you won't die out there, ajax. take this lucky charm of mine and stay safe. i'll miss you."

you plant a quick kiss on his freckled cheek and run off before he could see you cry. unfolding his hands, he's greeted with the delicate, red mask you've placed in his hands.

❀ diluc

being the heir to the throne of your own family makes it hard to miss the prince of the neighboring kingdom. prince diluc is a stoic and hard to please person. every time you've seen him in passing at royal balls, he has always had a frown or blank expression on his face.

but, despite what his outer expression and appearance shows, the young prince is a kind and gentle individual. at least to you. in contrast to how stoic he is with others, his warmth is always welcoming and comforting to you. if he's being honest, you're one of the few people, if not the only person, who has witnessed the genuine yet small smile of prince diluc.

when he has the time off, he writes letters to you, often complaining about how useless the knights and how he would rather work alone. but he never fails to indulge you about the little things that have happened since the last time he has spoken to you. how he misses seeing you and that the next time you visit he would take you to a beautiful meadow he passed by on one of his scouts around mondstadt.

you, his only friend who sees the young prince as who he is, and not what the rumors, nor what his title says he is.

"thought i'd see you out here." diluc's ears perk at the familiar cadence of your voice. his eyes that held the warmth of fire flit up to look at you, and his breath is taken away. underneath the gentle glow of the moon, you're practically glowing in front of him. with rich, beautiful silks covering your body and a comforting smile quirking your lips up.

"what are you doing out here? it's cold out here, and the party's inside, [name]," he scolds you. diluc's expression deadpans when you stick your tongue out the corner of your mouth and shrug. when a cold breeze flows through and you physically shiver, the red haired prince sighs and slides off his coat, throwing it over your shoulders.

"i could say the same to you. besides, i saw you out here looking lonely and like a fool, so i thought it would be nice to join you. so you don't look so pathetic." it takes everything in the young prince to not take his jacket back from you and march back inside the palace with the intolerable guests. "i'm kidding! but not about the lonely part. are you alright?"

the playful glint in your eyes disappears in that moment, captivating diluc yet again. he could never outright tell you this, but your eyes are the most beautiful he has ever seen. filled with actual starlight and twinkling with fondness for the awkward prince.

"yeah, just a bit overwhelmed with the guests inside."

you hum in response to him. "well. why don't i keep you company then? from one royal to another. we don't have to say anything, but having someone with you is comforting, right?" ruby eyes widen when you step forward and grab onto his hands, intertwining them. he hopes his cheeks aren't as red as they feel and that you can't see his blush despite the proximity.

"r-right. as long as it's just you, [name]."

maybe the young prince will find the courage to be more forward with you, ask to court you with a bouquet if your favorite flowers and a love letter slipped in between the petals. but for now, he finds solace in your company and your gentle hand laced with his.

❀ kaeya

the origins of how kaeya ended up in your kingdom's calvary is an enigma. no one is quite sure where he had come from, nor had any idea who he trained under considering he was an exceptional equestrian and sword fighting on horseback came so easy to him. every time anyone asked him about his background or history, the blue haired knight would always brush it off and redirect the conversation to something else.

despite having a mysterious background, kaeya still ended up captain of your calvary not too long after he joined your kingdom. though, anyone could have expected it considering he easily outwitted the previous calvary captain in their own sparring sessions.

during his time there, you can't admit that kaeya hasn't caught your eye. he's handsome; his laughter and taunts while sparring with the other knights sends butterflies to your stomach. charismatic and always lightly teasing you whenever you drop by the knight's hall made it difficult to suppress the rhythmic thrum of your heart.

"oh come on, your highness. don't tell me you're getting cold feet now." the smirk on kaeya's face only grows when you send him a glare. he finds it amusing that you're still trying to stand your ground despite your evident fear of the horse in front of you. "i thought you knew how to mount a horse."

the calvary captain snickers when you tell him that you are going to, that you're just not familiar with his horse. his sapphire eye follows your movements and form a crescent when his horse turns her head to look at you.

as you try and muster out an explanation on why you were startled, kaeya takes this time to slide his hands underneath your arms and hoists you up above the horse. your leg slips over the saddle of the pure white mare and you yelp in surprise at the sudden motion.

before you can yell at kaeya for not warning you, the calvary captain climbs onto the saddle behind you. because of the limited space on his horse, the blue haired knight's chest is pressed against your back and his arms encase you so that he could properly hold onto the reins.

"cat got your tongue, your highness? there's no need to be so scared, i won't let you fall. well, unless you're being more unpleasant than usual. don't blame me if you end up on the floor."

laughter surrounds you when you yell at the calvary captain to 'stop messing around.' he can't help it; kaeya loves riling you up and hearing his name slip from your lips regardless of if it's in between fits of giggles or out of anger when he teases you one too many times.

from the position you're in, you aren't able to witness the endearing look that adorns kaeya's visage when you calm down and lean into his touch as soon as his mare starts moving.

❀ venti

there's nothing that suits venti more than being associated with music in some way, shape, or form. he's a well known musician around your kingdom; knowing at least the basics of every instrument known to man and having every song he has ever heard by memory.

rumors around your kingdom flutter around, saying that hearing a song sung by venti himself could cure almost any disease because of how angelic and healing his voice is. of course, it's not true but the young bard likes to play along with it. anything to get free drinks at the local bar, right?

there's no surprise that your family hired the bard to become your piano tutor. but cheeky smiles, poetic songs regarding the beauty of nature, and lyrical poetry of the beauty you hold make it hard for you to not fall for the playful virtuoso.

a delicate melody drifts down the halls of the castle, elegant staccato piano cords resonate in each other's harmony. your fingers deftly glide over the ivory keys, eyes closed and letting your memory guide you through the piece.

beside you, venti plays your counterpart with a gentle smile on his face. a contrast to the beautiful, yet complicated composition that was being performed.

it was his idea to learn this rather tedious piano duet; you thought it was too difficult because of the complicated melodic line and technical harmonies. you recall many nights filled with frustrated tears and crumpled silk from trying to perfect the melody given to you; and venti's gentle voice as he consoled you during those nights and urged you to rest.

before you know it, the piano duet ends with a final statement of the tonic harmony. silence settles into the room as the final chord resonates in the empty concert hall, only to be broken when you shout victoriously.

"your highness, that was a wonderful performance!" venti congratulates you with a proud smile on his lips. the percussive beat in his chest accelerates when you beam at him, the candlelight making your eyes gleam as if they held the entire universe in them.

"it's all thanks to you, venti! oh gosh, i'm so proud of us i could almost kiss you!" the statement leaves your mouth without thinking and leaves the both of you stunned. one, two, three beats of silence and on the fourth you begin to stutter out an apology with a flustered expression on your face.

venti's airy, light laugh fills your ears and echoes against the vast walls of the concert hall. you want to dig yourself in a hole and hide for the rest of your life.

"and what if i take you up on that offer, your highness? or should i call you [name] now? a kiss ending this performance of ours would be way better than a bow, don't you think?"

[arrowflier]

Can you write Mickey proposing to Ian. Like they are already married but Mickey finds himself thinking about how he would have done it if he proposed so he just does it 🥰

Mickey's hands are sweating.

So is every other part of him, but he's used to that.  The hands, though: that's a problem.

Sweaty hands make it awfully hard to hold the ring.

He feels like he's been planning this forever.  The proposal.  Trying to make it perfect, trying to make it special.  Trying to keep it them without having to punch somebody out in the middle of a crowded bar.

That seemed like the kind of thing that only worked once, anyway, and Ian had beaten him to it almost five years ago.

He looks around the room as he fingers the ring in his pocket, skin-warmed metal slipping between his clammy fingers. 

The restaurant is busy, and loud.  The Gallaghers alone are stretched over multiple tables: Fiona and Carl with Debbie and Franny at one, Lip and Tami feeding Fred at the next.  The Balls are in town, something about a kid's birthday party, and take up their own four-top.  Even a couple of the better Milkoviches have shown--Sandy and her new girlfriend, studiously avoiding Debbie's eyes, and Iggy, fresh out of lock-up.

He has Mandy on speed dial in his pocket, for after. She still hasn't gotten over missing it all the first time.

Ian is sitting at their own table, sipping at his fancy draft beer and poking at the screen of his phone as he waits for Mickey to come back from the bathroom. Liam says something next to him, and Ian laughs, tilting the screen so his brother can see. Liam looks past the phone, catches Mickey's eye, and smiles.

Mickey swallows. It's time.

He grabs a glass from the tray of a passing waiter, not caring what's in it or where it's headed. In lieu of a piece of silverware, he pulls out his pocket knife to hit against it and make it ring.

The tables nearest him quiet, but the room is still to loud. So he taps the glass again, then sets it down, and bangs his fist on a stranger's table instead.

"Yo, listen up!" he yells, and the conversations around him peter out. "I got somethin to say."

Eyes are watching him from all over the room. Eyes he knows, and eyes he doesn't. But he doesn't give a shit about them.

He only cares about the bright green eyes of his husband, wide and curious, and fixed on his.

"I'm fuckin gay," he starts out, voice catching on the curse. "Just thought you all should know that, first."

A few mutters make their way through the room, but he ignores them. Ignores the loud, "Yeah, we know," from Carl, too.

"So it shouldn't be a surprise," Mickey continues, his voice strengthening with every word, "that I'm in love with a man."

"Hell yeah he is!" Kev whoops, and Vee slaps him on the back of the head.

"Sorry, man," Kev says, just as loud. "Keep goin, you got this."

Mickey breaks to roll his eyes, and when he's done, Ian is smiling.

"Like I was sayin," Mickey pushes on, "I'm in love. With a guy." He lets his lips twitch up in A grin.

"A guy whose idea of foreplay is poking me in the back with a tire iron, who thinks a first date is banging in the cooler of a convenience store on break."

An old lady gasps off to the side, but her white-haired friend hits her with a too-large purse.

"Quiet Beth," she hisses. "Like you never screwed Daniel in the bathrooms at the corner store."

Mickey chokes on a laugh, hiding it behind the hand not clutching the ring.

"Uh," he says. "Right, anyway...turns out that guy was actually pretty fucking romantic."

He smiles, soft.

"Think he knew I couldn't deal with that back then, though," he admitted. "So we did other stuff instead."

Ian's eyes already look wet. His hand has fallen to Liam's shoulder, holding tight enough to turn his already pale knuckles white. Liam takes it like a champ, barely wincing.

"He was the first guy I kissed," Mickey says, and watches Ian bite his lip. "The first guy I let spend the night. His hand was the first one I ever held, without somebody else puttin it there."

Ian's free hand curls on top of the table, empty, searching. He grips the tablecloth, little wrinkles spiralling out from between his fingers.

"We were together for so long that even apart, I felt him there. Put him right on my skin," Mickey adds, hand over heart," so I'd never be without him."

He moves forward, past tables of strangers. Past tables of friends, of family. Stops in front of Ian, eyes never parting.

"And now I never will be," he finishes, "because he's my husband."

Liam forces Ian's hand off his shoulder, and scoots away. Ian is left clutching desperately at air.

"That's still not enough, though," Mickey says, circling the table.

Everyone is quiet, now, enraptured; Ian most of all.

"It'll never be enough," Mickey states, and slides down to one knee.

Ian is gaping at him, now. But he doesn't hesitate when Mickey reaches for him, offering his hand immediately.

Mickey takes it.

"I'd marry you a thousand times if I could, Ian," Mickey whispers. His voice still carries through the eerily silent room.

"But right now, I'll settle for twice."

He pulls his other hand from his pocket. Shows Ian the ring, the dark braided metal he placed on Ian's finger at their wedding, freshly cleaned and engraved for their anniversary.

"Ian Gallagher-Milkovich," he says, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt when Ian's breath hitches at the name, "will you do me the dubious honor of not divorcing me?"

Ian chokes of a laugh. A few others giggle across the room.

"Is that really what you came up with?" Ian asks giddily. Mickey nods.

"I mean, I figured we'd do the whole vow renewal thing too, make it official..."

Ian is still laughing, even as he starts to cry.

"Fuck you," he gasps out.

Mickey raises his eyebrows, gives them a wiggle.

"Only if you say yes."

Then Ian is falling into him, over him, chanting "Yes, of course, yes, you asshole,"; and their family is crowding around them, cheering; and strangers are clapping, shouting congratulations, offering to buy them champagne; and Ian pulls him up, and kisses him, and all of it fades to a dull roar in the back of Mickey's head.

"You're such a jerk," Ian whispers as they part, face wet with happy tears. "You made me cry, you asshole, and Lip is never gonna let me forget it."

"Think Liam took pictures," Mickey offers back, and Ian leans in and bites his bottom lip in retaliation.

"Your own fault," Mickey murmurs after Ian soothes it with his tongue. "You proposed to me in public twice, it was your fuckin turn."

Ian just smiles. The noise around them is dissipating, people going back to their meals, but they'll stay in their little bubble for as long as they can.

"Really up for doin' it all again?" Mickey asks. "Wasn't exactly easy the first time, and I ain't gonna go any easier now we can afford shit."

Ian's smile turns soft.

"Yes," Ian whispers, and kisses him.  "Always."

[bloody-bee-tea]

Hostage

Inspired by this prompt from Twitter

Jiang Cheng is disoriented. He doesn’t know where he is and he doesn’t know where he’s stumbling towards, but right now it doesn’t matter.

Right now he just needs to get away.

From Wen Qing and Wen Ning, but especially from Wei Wuxian who is planning something so horrifying that Jiang Cheng’s stomach churns with fear and horror at just the thought of it.

Jiang Cheng will not allow Wei Wuxian to rip his own core out just because Jiang Cheng is too weak and lost his.

He will not allow his brother to suffer the same.

But panic does not make for a good travel companion because Jiang Cheng is blindly stumbling along, his breath coming way too fast and his chest hurting in unfamiliar ways, though a very practical part of Jiang Cheng thinks that is something he’ll have to get used to.

It’s not like the wounds will heal without a trace as they would if he still had his core.

The thought about his lost—destroyed—core makes him sob again and not for the first time does Jiang Cheng wonder if it wouldn’t be easier to simply lay down and let nature do its thing.

There’s no sense in living like this.

Jiang Cheng stumbles and falls down, and he’s not fast enough to break his fall and he’s definitely not strong enough to get back up again, so he simply stays where he is.

The fall re-opened his wounds again, Jiang Cheng can feel the blood oozing out of the slashes, but he doesn’t care.

It hurts, and the empty spot inside of him hurts and everything is so hard.

He lets out a sob, and once he started, he can’t seem to stop. Jiang Cheng cries and cries, wondering if he’ll die here, if he should have stayed with Wei Wuxian and the Wens if he should have just let Wei Wuxian do what he wanted, and it all comes out in sobs and gulping breaths and whimpers.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t even feel ashamed anymore.

He is so unaware of his surroundings that he startles badly when someone suddenly yells out and the movement only upsets his wounds further.

“Hey, who is there?” someone asks and even if Jiang Cheng wanted to answer, he can’t find his voice.

It seems like his sobs are indication enough, though, because suddenly someone is standing over him.

Jiang Cheng almost hopes it’s a Wen who doesn’t recognize him so his death will be swift and painless.

“Jiang-gongzi?” the person asks, suddenly sounding alarmed and Jiang Cheng curls further into himself. “Nie-zongzhu, it’s Jiang Wanyin!” the person yells and all of a sudden there’s a flurry of activities around Jiang Cheng.

He tries to keep track of everything, but things are happening too fast and his mind is too slow.

“Jiang Wanyin,” Nie Mingjue says, appearing in front of Jiang Cheng and he sits him up, almost with no help from Jiang Cheng at all.

“Jiang Wanyin, we thought you are dead,” Nie Mingjue tells him and there’s a smile on his face almost as if he’s positively surprised.

Well, that’s not going to hold on for long, Jiang Cheng thinks, but then he sees the state Nie Mingjue is in and he frowns.

“Is that blood?” he asks and Nie Mingjue seems confused.

“Yes, but that doesn’t matter right now, what does matter is—”

“You are literally bleeding.”

“As are you, Wanyin,” Nie Mingjue gently gives back and pulls Jiang Cheng up to his feet. “Can you stand? Can you walk? Our camp is not far from here.”

“I—” Jiang Cheng starts but he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know anything anymore, but he’s certain that he doesn’t want these people to know what happened to him.

Nie Mingjue will probably wish he’d left him laying where he was, instead of burdening himself with a useless Jiang Cheng.

“Come on, we have a healer with us,” Nie Mingjue says not waiting for Jiang Cheng’s answer and sweeps him right along.

Jiang Cheng is too exhausted to protest.

~*~*~

The healer bandages his chest again, and going by the burning questions in his eyes he noticed Jiang Cheng’s lack of a core and wants to ask a thousand questions, but Jiang Cheng glares him down.

It’s only when he’s left alone again that he relaxes, if only for a little bit. His siblings will no doubt know by now that he’s gone and he didn’t even get that far; word that Nie Mingjue found him will spread soon and before that happens Jiang Cheng has to figure out what he wants.

Not like he has much choice without a core, but still.

“Wanyin,” Nie Mingjue suddenly says from the entrance of the tent Jiang Cheng was led to and Jiang Cheng stiffens.

Of course his healer told him.

“What happened?” Nie Mingjue wants to know, coming fully inside the tent and throwing up silencing talismans.

At least no one else will have to hear how weak Jiang Cheng was.

“Lotus Pier burned,” Jiang Cheng rasps out, his voice still shot from his crying earlier and Nie Mingjue nods.

“We heard. I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, clearly knowing just how inadequate that is but soldering on anyway. “Your siblings?”

Jiang Cheng works his jaw at that, because he still can’t believe that after all the Wens have done to them Wei Wuxian would lead them right into the hands of other Wens.

“With Wen Qing and Wen Ning,” Jiang Cheng presses out and then it just bursts all out of him.

He tells Nie Mingjue everything; Lotus Pier, how he got captured, and held hostage, his time at Wen Chao’s hands, what he overheard Wen Qing and Wei Wuxian talk about.

By the end he feels drained and not for the first time he wonders if this is his life now. Aches all over and tired all the time. He is still not sure it’s something he can take.

“Wen Qing has a way to restore a core?” Nie Mingjue asks, suddenly thoughtful and Jiang Cheng nods. “And Wen Zhuliu got to you and burned your core out of you? And you survived?”

“I’m not sure I should have,” Jiang Cheng mutters and is not prepared for the fury that spreads over Nie Mingjue’s face.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Jiang Cheng scoffs right in his face, because he is no longer the heir of a Sect, no longer a cultivator at all and he doesn’t have to trouble himself with all these niceties.

“Just look at me! I’m useless now! There’s nothing I can do. I’m powerless and useless and just a waste of space. I should have died at Wen Chao’s hands because everything is better than this. I am nothing without my cultivation!”

The words ring out in his tent, and Nie Mingjue goes very still.

“If you really thought that to be true, you would have stayed. You would have let Wen Qing and Wei Wuxian do what they planned. But you didn’t. You left.”

“Because we need Wei Wuxian for this war,” Jiang Cheng hotly gives back. “He’s twice the cultivator I used to be and we need him.”

“We don’t need one single person for a war,” Nie Mingjue shoots back. “Maybe we would have needed you for the war, too, did you ever think about that?”

“I was useless before. I am even more useless now. Let’s not pretend.”

Nie Mingjue levels him with a look that makes Jiang Cheng uncomfortable down to the bones and he squirms in his seat.

“You think you’re no longer fit to be Sect Leader,” Nie Mingjue says after a long while and Jiang Cheng laughs.

“Of course not! Who would ever accept me as a Sect Leader? I am nothing!”

“Do you think every person who didn’t manage to form a golden core is worth less?” Nie Mingjue asks him and he seems honestly curious. “Do you think the common folk to be beneath us?”

Jiang Cheng works his jaw, because the answer is obvious, but he can’t say it. He is not ready to see or accept any kind of logic.

“If you truly think a cultivator is better than a person without a golden core, then I agree with you. You are nothing and you shouldn’t be around anymore,” Nie Mingjue heartlessly tells him. “But that’s not what you think or you would have said something.”

“Shut up!” Jiang Cheng hisses but Nie Mingjue only leans forward.

“Do you think you can only lead a Sect if you can fight?” he mercilessly asks him and Jiang Cheng is quick to nod.

Of course that’s the only way to lead a Sect. How will anyone ever respect him if he can’t even use a goddamn sword.

“You think Jin Guangshan got his position because he’s a good fighter? He has one of the weakest golden cores I have ever seen in my life. Your father wasn’t a good fighter, either, as sorry as I am about his passing. Still, they were Sect Leaders. Lan Qiren isn’t this beloved because he’s a good fighter; he’s a teacher and his strength lies in music, not his cultivation. Do you think all of them to be useless?”

“Stop,” Jiang Cheng whispers. “That’s different.”

“Is it?” Nie Mingjue wants to know and Jiang Cheng puts his hand over his ears in the most childish action he has allowed himself in years.

“Stop talking,” he begs and tears drop from his eyes when Nie Mingjue puts a hand to his neck.

“I heard about how you led the people out of the cave. About how you pushed yourself to your limits to get your brother and Wangji the help they needed. Huaisang speaks highly of you, Lan Qiren apparently hasn’t stopped talking about you since you left his classes and Lan Xichen is looking forward to seeing you grow into your place. You think that only means something because you have a core?”

“Yes,” Jiang Cheng chokes out, because it can’t be.

He can’t have worth if he doesn’t have a golden core.

“It doesn’t matter if you have a golden core or not,” Nie Mingjue finally outright tells him. “It only matters what you do with your life. Your father was not a fighter and he’s dead. Your mother was one and she’s dead, too. Innocent people died and bad people died. People who could fight and who couldn’t. The core has nothing to do with it. You matter. And it seems to me like you have an iron will.”

“I don’t. I’m weak,” Jiang Cheng sobs out, remembering how fast he broke under the whip, still hearing Wen Chao’s laughter in his ears.

“And yet you survived. You survived things that killed more talented people, stronger people. You survived what no one else survived before,” Nie Mingjue says. “I think that speaks of strength. And I also think that you have all the qualities it needs to be a good leader.”

The praise sinks warm into Jiang Cheng’s bones and he hates himself for it, how he’s always weak for a kind word.

But Nie Mingjue sounds like he means it, and Jiang Cheng doesn’t know him to lie and maybe, just maybe, he could be right.

“Wanyin, we have enough fighters. We need people who plan, who recruit, who make sure we have supplies, who keep up the morale of the warriors. We are lacking those people. Can you be one of them?” Nie Mingjue asks and Jiang Cheng sits up.

His chest is still throbbing and the hole in his body is threatening to swallow him whole, but Nie Mingjue looks at him as if he expects him to say yes, as if he can’t imagine anything else, as if he believes in Jiang Cheng, and Jiang Cheng nods.

“I can,” he says and it doesn’t feel as wrong as he feared.

He’ll just have to do the impossible.

(And he does.)

Link to my ko-fi on the sidebar!

[ifmywishescametrue]

"You didn't deserve that... You deserve so much better." for buckytony pls 🤓

thank you for sending one! it got kind of out of hand lol so here's 2.2k of breaking up and making up. hope you like it!

Tony loses track of what the fight is about fairly quickly. He knows it started with what seemed like playful bickering, the kind their relationship was practically built on, but somewhere along the way the jabs turned much more pointed. Barbed wire wrapped around them, until each one was like a knife wound.

The first real cut came from him, he knows. Bucky's witty comment hit a little too close to one of his hundred insecurities, and reflex made him return it with too much sharpness. He can't blame Bucky for reacting, but they're both to blame for letting it get this out of hand. That’s not something that matters in the moment, though.

In the moment, all that matters is the careless insults and merciless words they lob back and forth. They chip away at each other and their relationship until it’s crumbling around them, but even that doesn’t matter. It becomes secondary to getting in the last word and one-upmanship, like it’s a competition for who can hurt who the most that they both desperately want to win, consequences be damned.

“You know this is why people keep leaving you,” Bucky says. “At some point it should be pretty damn obvious that it's you, not them.”

Tony laughs bitterly because the only other choice is crying. “Cause you're a real fucking prize, right? Bet people are just lining up to date a guy they're barely allowed to touch. And God forbid you ever try to do something nice for him, because it'll never actually be right.”

“Better than a guy with daddy issues so severe it'll take him two years to even tell you he loves you. Don't bother saying it in the meantime to him either, because he'll run off to hide for a week after each time.”

“Well, you know what, I'll make it easy for you, then,” Tony says, backing away to grab his jacket. “You don't have to worry about me and all my issues anymore.”

He forcefully shoves his arms into the sleeves and grabs his keys from the hook by the door. Bucky watches with a clenched jaw and doesn't try to stop him, not even when he pauses to give him the chance.

“What are you waiting for? Go ahead and run off. Prove my point.”

Tony shakes his head, an ache already forming in his chest that he ignores. “I’m not proving your point, because this isn’t running. This is breaking up with you because you’re a fucking asshole.”

He lets the door slam shut behind him and speedwalks down the hall, repeatedly pushing the elevator button. It doesn’t come quickly enough, and he flings open the door to the stairwell to rush down them. His vision blurs dangerously, and he can hardly see where he’s going, but he doesn’t slow down. The tears come freely with no around to see, until he’s out on the sidewalk and violently swipes them away with the back of his hand. He doesn’t pay attention to where he’s walking, only on getting as far away as possible.

Where he ends up shouldn’t come as a surprise to him. It’s muscle memory to come here at this point, a walk so familiar he could do it in his sleep and still manage to avoid all the cracks and uneven parts on the sidewalk on the way.

He stands outside of Shield’s Bar, neon lights coloring his face blue and pink, and he contemplates going in. It’s a Thursday, which means Clint is working the bar until midnight. Natasha will be waiting tables, and Steve will come in to replace her at ten.

All Bucky’s friends. He won’t get any of them in the breakup.

Steve will be the first to turn his back on him with his unwavering loyalty to his best friend. Clint will follow next because he hates tension and it’s the easier side to take. Natasha will be last, and she’ll claim that she loves them both and choosing sides is childish and ridiculous. But she’ll go, too, eventually. When none of her other friends will be in the same room as him, and all of their usual hangout spots become off limits. It’ll grow awkward and uncomfortable until promises to meet up turn into vague excuses and texts spaced months apart.

But where does he have to go if it isn’t here?

Rhodey’s on base in California, and Pepper moved back to New York the second her business degree was done. Staying in Boston was never the plan, not until Bucky and his found family welcomed him into their lives and made it feel like home. Where is there to go if home isn’t an option anymore?

He stands there long enough that people start to whisper as they pass by. They must think he’s lost his mind, staring blankly at a brick wall and hardly blinking, but he doesn’t hear what they say. Doesn’t hear anything but his own thoughts running in circles, going from anger to regret to shame and back again.

He wonders if Bucky’s right. If he truly is the reason it never works out. He knows he’s too insecure and emotionally unavailable. He demands too much and gives too little in return and doesn’t know how to communicate.

He used to watch his parents fight, orbiting around each other with avoidance and unspoken words until the dams broke and silence turned to screams, and he would swear that he would be better. If he was lucky enough to be in love with someone and have them love him in return, he would understand just how rare and beautiful that is and never take it for granted.

Easier said than done. Harder to face the fact that sometimes his words sound exactly like his father’s once did and sometimes he feels like his mother when he quietly lets himself be walked on and overlooked. The worst of both of them is tangled up inside of him, and it always kills whatever he touches.

Natasha finds him there eventually. She opens the door roughly, with intention that falters momentarily before she asks, “Do you plan on coming in at some point or are you staying out here all night?”

“I should probably go,” he says, quietly enough that it’s nearly lost to the wind.

Natasha watches him for a long moment, then steps out of the doorway to take his hand. She leads him over to an empty booth and slides into the opposite side.

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

She shrugs, “Steve will be here in a few minutes. No one’s going to die if they have to wait for their beer.”

Silence stretches on, and he stares down at his hands on the table. It’s warmer inside the bar, and he doesn’t realize that the cold has turned his fingers numb until they begin to unthaw.

“People coming in here were talking about some guy loitering outside. Some were saying he looked sad, some said lost. A few less optimistic people voted for strung out on drugs, but I think it’s safe to rule that one out now. Same with lost, seeing as you’ve been here a thousand times. That leaves sad, which means you had a fight with Bucky, and you didn’t come in, which means you think it’s your fault. Am I right so far?”

Tony nods, hanging his head low, and she continues to ask, “Do you want to talk about it or drink about it?”

“We broke up,” Tony mumbles. “I did it.”

She takes a long breath, and her hand is warm when it slips back into his. “Are you planning on fixing it?”

“Not sure it’s fixable. I said some things, he said some things. Can’t really take any of it back now.”

“People say things they don’t mean all the time. Doesn’t make it unforgivable.”

He shrugs like his heart isn’t broken. “Maybe it’s better off this way.”

Natasha sighs, “Tony.”

“What?”

“Go home.”

“Pretty sure I don’t have one of those anymore.”

“Of course you do,” she says softly. “I promise you that he wants you to come back.”

Tony shakes his head. “You weren’t there, Nat. You don’t know what happened.”

“I don’t have to know what happened to know that he wants you to come home. If he feels even half as terrible as you look, he wants you. Just because you broke up doesn’t mean it’s over. It’s only over if you don’t go back.”

Tony bites his lip to keep it from quivering, and he asks, “What if you’re wrong? What if he doesn’t want to see me?”

“Well, it can’t exactly make things worse, can it?”

He huffs a humorless laugh, “I guess not.”

Natasha slides out of the booth, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Go home before he comes out looking for you, and text me in the morning to tell me I was right.”

She walks away, greeting Steve as he comes in, and Tony lingers there for another minute before getting up. He waves to them both on his way out and tries not to think about what she’ll tell Steve about his reason for being there.

The walk back to his and Bucky’s apartment seems quicker than the walk away from it, and Tony resents it for not giving him more time.

He takes the stairs again and hesitates outside the door, what ifs overwhelming his mind. What if he walks in and all of his things are packed up for him? What if Bucky isn’t even there or all of his belongings are gone instead? What if he can’t fix it and this is where it really ends? He doesn’t know if he could recover from that.

Turning the key in the lock, he opens the door slowly and holds his breath in trepidation.

Nothing looks different. No packed boxes, no smashed picture frames, no sign that anything ever went wrong.

Bucky is on the couch, curled into the corner with his legs held tight to his chest, and he doesn’t seem to notice that he isn’t alone anymore. It’s painfully quiet, and the single light that was on before isn’t enough now that it's grown darker outside, but he hasn’t turned any others on.

“I’m sorry,” Tony says into the silence. It’s as good a place as any to start. “You didn't deserve that. Any of it. The whole stupid thing. You deserve so much better. I should be better at this, but I’ve done a real shit job of it lately, I think. Maybe not even lately. Maybe I’ve been a terrible boyfriend the whole time, and in that case you should probably tell me to go and not come back, but I’d like to think there were at least moments where I was sort of okay, and I’d like to try to be more than just okay if you’ll let me.”

Bucky stares at him, lips parted and red-rimmed eyes unblinking. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Tony freezes, unsure of how to answer that, and Bucky unfolds himself to walk over and stand in front of him.

“You broke up with me,” Bucky says.

“Yes, but I -”

“No,” he interrupts. “You broke up with me.”

Tony frowns in confusion and slowly says again, “Yes.”

“That means I do the grovelling here, because I fucked it up. I beg for the second chance, because I crossed the line so far that you left. And I did it on purpose, too, because I had a shit day so I pushed until you pushed back,” Bucky explains. “And apparently I did such a good job being horrible to you that you think it’s your fault.”

Tony tries to process that, but it’s taking some time to work through. A complete turn around on his thoughts that almost makes him dizzy.

“Why did you have a shit day? What happened?”

“Is that really what you’re focusing on in all of that?” Bucky shakes his head in disbelief and runs a hand through his hair. “God, it’s you that deserves better. That’s what I’m telling you here. You were right to leave, and I should be the one telling you I’m sorry.”

“You had a bad day and took it out on me. How many times have I done the same to you? You never once left.”

“Doesn’t make it right.”

“No,” Tony agrees. He reaches for one of Bucky’s hands, because he needs the contact and has a feeling that Bucky does too. “But it doesn’t mean it’s not worth working on. I meant what I said about wanting to be better for you.”

Bucky nods, looking down at their joined hands. “I want to be better for you, too. How do we do that?”

“A lot of talking about our feelings, probably.”

Bucky pulls a face. “God, that sounds terrible.”

Tony laughs, taking his other hand to pull him in closer, “Yeah, it does, but we’ll get better at it eventually.”

“Can we start tomorrow?” Bucky asks. He leans down to rest his forehead against Tony’s. “I’d really like to just hold you tonight.”

“Yeah, baby,” Tony murmurs. “Hold me tonight. It’ll be better in the morning.”