#it was supposed to be their like bedroom times soundtrack but then its more like

[phillipsgraves]

so choose your last words, this is the last time // 'cause you and i, we were born to die

APOLLO & GRAVES: A SOUNDTRACK. [ x ]

[hottpinkpenguin]

Reasons, Ch.6 - Cassian Andor series

Female reader insert Summary: You're a droidsmith on Ferrix when a handsome stranger walks in one day with a hopelessly damaged droid. You agree to take on the repairs for the stranger, a decision that will change the direction of your lives forever. Word Count: 2,260 Content Warnings for: canon-divergence; cursing Taglist: @mithicakurogo @nonniecannie @freerangesweets @zbeez-outlet @chicken-fifi @queerponcho @theatergirlmgm @oh-yeah-i-exist @shakespeareanlead @idontevenknow1359

The sound of waves licking the sandy beach below had become a steady soundtrack that pounded around your head all hours of the day and night. You’d at first been mesmerized by the planet Niamos - to think, its inhabitants lived within full eyesight of an ocean at all times - but now, almost three and a half months after your frenetic arrival, boredom mixed with fear had gotten inextricably mixed with the sounds and smells of the ocean and you realized that you hated it here. Especially without Cassian.

He hadn’t stayed long, maybe two days. He’d dumped you in this beautiful, empty house and left with barely a word…

“I need to see my contact on Coruscant.” His dark eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep and cold. “Need to sort out safe passage for you. Get forged papers, new documents. It’ll take a while.”

You’d breathed in a heavy, long breath. Exhaustion had settled deep in the center of your bones, but what choice did you have? You were a fugitive now.

You nodded numbly, looking longing out through the perpetually-open wall of glass at the ocean stretched out to the horizon line. 

“I’ll go pack,” you replied, sliding out of the chair you were in and heading towards the bedroom you were staying in. “Won’t take long.”

Cassian caught your hand as you turned away. His touch sent electricity ricocheting up your arm, stealing your breath. You turned back to him, wondering if you looked as hopeful as you felt. 

“I’m going alone,” he clarified. His voice sounded sad and far away, but those dark, bottomless eyes revealed nothing. 

You didn’t know what to say. What to ask. Where would you stay? Here, you supposed, only because there was nowhere else to go. You’d realized very quickly that the Galaxy was massive, and you’d never left Ferrix before. The only person that you knew out here was Cassian, and laying claim to ‘knowing’ him felt like a lie. You felt that now more than ever. You didn’t really know him at all. 

You felt yourself give a shrug. Half resignation, half confusion. Cassian watched you quietly as you slid back into the chair, your eyes returning to the waves. Each time a new wave boiled up from the ocean depths, crested, and then crashed in a spray of foam on the seashore, you felt a new emotion rise up and crash open inside you. Grief. Rage. Despair. Terror. 

You don’t know how long you’d sat there, staring at the sea. After a long while of sitting still and thinking, you said the only thing that really mattered to you anymore. “Don’t forget to come back for me.”

Cassian hadn’t said a word after that. He’d simply slipped out the door without so much as a backwards glance. Leaving you to the empty house that looked out over the empty ocean…

The realization that Cassian wasn’t coming back for you had hit you somewhere around week seven. He hadn’t left a way for you to contact him, or vice versa. He hadn’t sent anyone to check on you. He hadn’t squirreled away a secret note or some small token of his remembrance. It was like he’d never been here at all. And that was by design. He was covering his tracks. Sure, you were on the run. But so was he. 

You wondered where in the escape things had gone sideways. He’d seemed so deliriously guilty about getting you tied up with the Empire when he’d broken into your home on Ferrix. He’d been tender in taking care of you after hyperdrive sickness, and then he’d brought you here. To safety. Because he cared… right?

There was one moment that everything had pivoted. You could barely bring yourself to think of it. Your cheeks burned with embarrassment (and desire, if you were completely truthful) each time you relived that kiss. It had to be the kiss. You’d crossed a line, you told yourself. Cassian was just trying to save your skin, and you’d gone and made it some sort of tragedy-romance mashup of bad luck and bad decisions when you’d slapped your lips on his. I’ve always been a good actor. You’d never forget those words. He’d been acting as the good guy, trying to make up for his wrongs by pulling you out of Ferrix. But that’s where it had ended. You’d fallen for his show, and you’d ruined everything. And now, you were alone. Just you and the ocean. 

Three and a half months was a long time to be by yourself. You’d managed to get by on the credits you’d had the sense to pack before fleeing your home, but that supply was dwindling. Pretty soon you’d have to make a choice: go home, or set up shop here. You’d have to fix droids. It was all you knew. But setting up shop somewhere new was bound to be fraught with challenges. You didn’t know the market, didn’t have a customer base. There were bound to be other droidsmiths on Niamos, so you’d be making enemies while you were bowing and scraping, taking whatever anyone would throw at you, all in the name of buying trust and goodwill and maybe, hopefully, a repeat customer. 

But worst of all, setting up shop here felt final. Setting up shop here meant that you wouldn’t be leaving. That this was home now. And, at the end of the day, that meant that Cassian wasn’t coming back. 

You hated him for leaving you, but not enough to give up all hope. Not yet. You counted the credits you had left. One more week, you thought to yourself. If he’s not back by then, I’ll start looking for shop space. 

An empty promise, you knew. You’d made the same one for the last four weeks.

* * * * * * * * *

Cassian felt fire burning in his veins as he held Senator Mothma’s gaze, her last words hanging heavy in the darkness between them. 

“I cannot afford to wait another week,” Cassian growled through gritted teeth, his hands trembling at his side. “It’s been almost four months already, Senator.”

Senator Mothma fidgeted uncomfortably with the large hood that obscured her face from the ambient light of a Coruscant night. They were quite alone in the rancid-smelling alley that Cassian had chosen for their meet-up, but the hum of the city-planet rang in their ears. A reminder to be quick, and be on their way. 

“I’m sorry, Cassian, I truly am, but I simply canno-”

“Senator, with respect, I am tired of your apologies.” Cassian was pacing now, his voice breaking free of the constraints of whispering. His temper was fracturing with impatience. “My contact on Niamos is in constant danger, and you’ve kept us waiting for four months for papers!”

“Cassian, please.” The Senator cast a shifty glance around. No one was listening, but the last thing either of them needed was to make a spectacle of the exchange. A Senator caught in a clandestine midnight meeting with a known Rebellion agitator would do neither of them any good. To say nothing of the warrant for Cassian’s arrest and the bounty price of half a million credits on his head. Or the Senator’s deeply scrutinized allegiances and alleged ties to the Aldhani incident. 

Cassian tried to calm himself, but he was beyond reason. All he could see was your eyes, the way you’d crumpled when he’d told you he was coming to Coruscant alone. It had nearly broken him to leave you there, but the brutal calculus of life as a wanted criminal demanded the utmost adherence to scruples. Cassian couldn’t risk your life just to keep you near him. It would have been easy - too easy - to delude himself into thinking that the safest place for you was by his side. Right where he wanted you. But he’d already proven himself near-fatal to you, almost getting you good and shot on Ferrix just by trying to pay off his massive debt with some traced credits. And all that had been before that goddamned kiss. After that, he was sunk. Totally enraptured. He knew it from the instant he felt your lips on his. No, he was in far too deep. If it was the last thing he did, Cassian Andor meant to make good on his promise to you: he needed to get you set up somewhere safe and then make it so that you never saw him again. It was the best way - the only way - he could see to keep you safe. And as badly as he wanted you, he wanted you alive. More than anything, that was what mattered. 

He reminded himself of all of this, one painstaking bitter pill at a time. Slowly, incrementally, he felt the fire begin to burn off as his mind cleared to reason. When he finally felt calm enough to speak, he rounded on Senator Mothma.

“Senator, it gives me no pleasure to do this, but I simply cannot wait any longer. If I don’t have the papers I’ve requested - and paid for, mind you - by tomorrow, I’ll have to take matters in my own hands.” 

Senator Mothma inhaled, her chin jutting out proudly as her eyes simmered. “And just what does that mean, Cassian?” Puffed up and haughty, but Cassian saw a flicker of fear in the back of her eyes. She knew a threat when she heard one. And Cassian had been honest about one thing: it really didn’t give him any pleasure to play this hand with the Senator. She was a noble woman, strong in her beliefs and an astoundingly deft political operative. Smart and confident. Cassian respected her immensely. But, when all was said and done, she was proving to be a hindrance. Cassian had promises to fulfill. Or rather, promise. Singular. Your safety. He was determined that nothing - not the Senator’s delicate political situation, not an outstanding warrant for his arrest, not an entire garrison of Imperial Storm Troopers - would stand in his way.

“Let’s hope you don’t have to find out, Senator.” 

For a few tense seconds, the two of them sized each other up in the hazy darkness. Cassian’s gaze was steely, his resolve never stronger. Three months, three weeks, two days. His internal clock screeched like a tea kettle. Too long. 

After a few breaths, Senator Mothma deflated slightly, her head sagging on her proud neck. The way she crumpled, like a kite that’s lost its breeze, reminded Cassian of the way you’d looked as he’d left you alone by the seashore on Niamos. The memory brought the threat of tears to his eyes. 

“I’ll get them to you,” the Senator agreed. Her voice sounded stretched and thin. Cassian felt a pang of guilt for having to push her to this. He knew what she was risking - her career in the Senate, her daughter’s and husband’s safety, her own life - to get these forged identichips. Ever since the Empire had assumed power, identichips had become mandatory for Imperial citizens to carry at all times. Forged chips had quickly flourished as one of the most lucrative corners of the black market, but the Empire had expended considerable effort on quashing that enterprise in its infancy. Those willing to alter identichips were few and far between now; those willing to forge entirely new ones, even fewer. Only the very wealthy had enough credits to realistically purchase such a service, but forgers made themselves extremely scarce in efforts to avoid Imperial imprisonment. Not that Cassian blamed them - wasn’t that the fate he was trying to save you from, after all? - but their secretiveness had proven an unexpected time suck on his plans. Months had dragged by before Senator Mothma had even made contact with one, and now her order hadn’t been delivered on schedule. Cassian wasn’t sure what it would cost her to extort the identichips tonight, but he couldn’t allow himself to backtrack now. 

“Thank you.” He exhaled heavily, unsure if he felt relieved or more terrified than before. He’d been focusing for so long on getting the identichips that he hadn’t let himself think too hard on what would come after. Were you still on Niamos? Would you still want his help? Had the Empire found you? Were you still alive at all?

Unwilling to follow those thoughts any further, Cassian simply handed Senator Mothma a small strip of paper with a ship’s name and docking location scribbled on it. “I’m leaving at midday tomorrow,” he told her as she crumpled the paper and slipped it into the pocket of her robe. “Make sure my chips are on board by then.” 

She nodded again - a sad, completely exhausted acquiescence - and turned on her heels, vanishing into the foggy street. Cassian watched as she left, listening to the sound of her retreating footsteps. She was walking away with the power to make or break him, Cassian realized. If she didn’t deliver those chips, and Cassian couldn’t get back to you… 

He wasn’t sure what that would mean for him, except that his heart turned to ash in his chest whenever he thought of that possibility. Steeling himself against the mix of dread, relief, and adrenaline sitting on his shoulders, he turned the collar up on his coat and turned in the opposite direction from the Senator. He threw up a silent thought for you - all alone by the seaside in a beautiful, empty house - hundreds of thousands of miles away, but somehow still the closest thing he had to home.

*more chapters coming soon! please let me know if you'd like to be tagged for future chapters

[sandinthemachine]

Eden

König x reader fluff

It's been a strange few days, full of quite a lot of emotions I wasn't expecting. I didn't think I'd be able to write much today, and yet when I sat down this came out pretty much on its own. And it made me feel a bit better. I hope it can do the same for you. If you'd like a soundtrack, Hozier's "From Eden" was mine, hence the title. Enjoy a little soft domesticity :)

Words: 659

-

You like him best in moments like this, you think.

Of course, you find yourself saying that so often now. When he reaches to the top shelf and his shirt rides up, showing just a sliver of skin that, to this day, has your breath stalling. When he rolls up his sleeves to knead bread and you get to watch the muscles of his forearms as he works, the patterns of veins running over his skin. Every time it makes you forget what you were supposed to be doing. Or on the rare nights when he falls asleep on the couch and you find yourself standing over him, entranced by the soft curves of his neck, the peak of his Adam’s apple, and the stubble beginning to grace his skin once again. You always bring your biggest blanket down for him, tucking it up to his chin as you kiss his cheek.

So yes, you suppose there are many moments you like him best in. And this is one of them.

He lounges in the plush armchair, hips pushed lazily forward, a single leg flung carelessly onto the coffee table. Slowly the other leg bounces, tapping out a rhythm known only to him. Long fingers curve around a worn paperback book, spine cracked a dozen times over, pages folded and flattened and folded again.

The old thing had caught your eye in a second-hand store a few days earlier, and when you had opened it the smell had wormed its way into your lungs, pulling forth dusted memories of childhood daydreams spent climbing mountains and exploring secret libraries, sword fighting skeletons in the crypt and racing home on the backs of dragons, telling tales of your heroic adventures to all who would listen.

You’d laid the book on the coffee table next to your jacket as you hurried to finish dinner before he got home, already imagining the look on his face when he walked in the door. You had a meal prepared for him every time he came back from deployment, and every time his eyes would widen as he smelled it, mouth opening just slightly as you reminded him that yes, this is for you. Welcome home.

That day had been no different, and the pair of you had collapsed on the couch after a movie too many, laughing and teasing each other.

The bedroom’s right there.

Too far. I want to stay just like this.

Me too.

You’d woken to find one of his arms stretched wide to the side, halfway through the book you’d completely forgotten about.

And now here he sits, nearly finished with it. His chin propped on one hand, eyebrows knitting closer together with each passing second, his bottom lip slipping gently between his teeth.

He doesn’t even notice you walking towards him until you’re already right in front of him, a hand wrapping around his wrist to lift his arm. His mouth opens in a sentence cut off as you duck under his arm, letting it fall back into place as you crawl on top of him. One of his eyebrows lifts steadily higher and higher as you scoot forward, arms wrapping around him.

“You alright?”

“Of course I am.” You smile, laying your head on his shoulder. “Carry on.”

He exhales, shifting, and you pull back, thinking that maybe that was too much, maybe he wants some more space now.

He switches the book to his other side as he straightens, and you shove your palms into the armrest to move off just as his other arm wraps around you, yanking you back into him and staying there, just a little too tight against your back as your own hands find his shoulders, squeezing just a little too much.

He rests his cheek against you, his soft sigh fluttering over your skin.

You fall asleep just like that.

Soon after, so does he.

After he finishes the book, of course.

-

-

-

taglist: @not-your-batty-babe

To be added to the taglist comment or message me. Thank you :)

[paalove]

i would love a coda to new year's where the sandray makeout in the car gets interrupted by boston slinking back to his car without nick, & ray, this time with sand's blessing, leaves to take care of his friend & takes him out for some late-night commiseration ice cream. na na na 🥺

sad and lonely little boston with his rejected present :(

on ao3 here

...

The rooftop is theirs, kissing in Ray’s car and the starlight, and he’s leaning into Sand and feeling both their smiles and thinking maybe the world is theirs too, when they hear a door open somewhere behind them and pull apart.

Ray turns and sees Boston putting something into the back of his car.

Nick isn’t with him.

He looks drooped and lost – like he had earlier, when Mew had dug at him, and like he hadn’t when Nick had arrived.

He turns in his seat to watch as Boston closes that back door, a little way across the roof.

“Leaving me all alone in your car again? Always running off for a friend in distress,” Sand says, pulling Ray’s attention back to him and his fond smile.

Ray blinks and remembers a time after a different party, kissing in this car, and he says, “I’m not doing-“

“-Go. I’ll take the car back.”

He’s still caught in the space between the two parties, only a few months and everything in the world has changed, as he feels a swift and not-unexpected surge of trembling love towards Sand, who hasn’t changed at all except in how he’s smiling, this time.

Sand strokes his jaw with a barely-there, gentle caress, leans in once to brush his lips over Ray’s just as lightly, and adds, “Quickly – before he drives away.”

Taking out the airpod, he looks at it, then puts it into Sand’s ear and smiles at the way he shakes his head.

Ray runs up to the car.

It’s just starting as he opens the door and slides into the passenger side and says, “Uncle Boom’s ice cream?”

“What?”

That’s the worst sign yet – not even a what the fuck, Boston is just blinking at him in unaggressive confusion instead of trying to push him out of the still-open car door.

“He does that New Year sale where the bowls are like buckets and he won’t stop you if you try to mix stupid flavours,” Ray says, “Come on, I’ll pay.”

A smile has caught about half of Boston’s mouth when he says, “Where the fuck’s your boyfriend, man, take him out.”

Ray puts on his seatbelt.

Conveniently, Sand takes that opportunity to start Ray’s car, pull backwards out of the space, and slowly drive behind Boston’s. He gives a little finger-wave through the window, and Ray leans out of the door to wave back.

When he gets back inside, he closes it and says, “He just left.”

“Yeah?” Boston says, kind of sarcastic but the smile has grown a little more.

Shrugging, Ray says, “Yeah. Ice cream?”

Boston gives in.

It’s their personal hangout spot, separate from the other two, so it’s not like they’re going to run into Mew and Top there now they’ve left – not April and Cheum either, because they for sure have food back there and they won’t want to run around. That’s probably why Boston actually drives the right way.

He tells Ray, after a couple of minutes of the radio’s quiet soundtrack, “Nick wouldn’t take it.”

“What wouldn’t he take?” Ray looks at Boston’s face, his clenched jaw and eyes on the road and doesn’t add, you were supposed to wait until ice cream, man.

Boston shrugs in the painful, stiff way that never seems as unbothered as he means, because he’s kind of like Ray where he can never hide the feelings he most wants to, and he says, “It’s in the back seat.”

Probably unsafe and definitely annoying to the driver, Ray immediately turns around and wriggles and stretches until he can pick up the large rectangular black object that Boston must have been stowing away when Ray spotted him. It, he discovers, is a photograph.

In the Bedroom with Boston, he thinks, followed by, oh, Ton.

He’s heard more about Nick and Boston’s whole thing from Nick than he ever did from Boston, and that’s earthshaking in its own way – there had been a time when he and Boston told each other about every hookup, in the exact ice cream place they’re headed to now, but of course Ray hadn’t told him about Sand and Boston hadn’t told him about Nick, and then neither of them had been telling the other anything at all. Certainly they hadn’t told each other sorry.

But now Boston has, and Ray thinks about the things Nick told him and how romantic Boston had seemed to him and he looks at the photo and sees him, for the first time – Boston the romantic.

Boston the boyfriend.

Probably not the second one anymore.

“It’s really nice,” he tells him, after being quiet for too long.

Boston takes nearly as long to say, “But Nick didn’t want it.”

Yeah.

Ray holds it in his lap for the rest of the drive.

The ice cream place is not normally a late-night one, actually, but New Year sales are New Year sales and Uncle Boom is a businessman – there’s still a queue, even though it’s…

Oh, wow, had Ray been running around with Sand for that long?

He can never tell how long it’s been, when Sand is there, all time-measurement abilities suspended so he can focus on more important things, but he’s still a little surprised.

Anyway, the people in front of them seem to be two different groups, so Ray says, “You should find a table, I’ll order.”

“Fuck off,” Boston says almost before he’s done speaking, “I know what fucking flavours you’ll try to get, I’m staying here so I can tell Uncle Boom to ignore you.”

“I’m paying, Ton-“

“-Mango and mint chocolate is a fucking disgusting-“

“-I’m adding bubblegum actually-“

And Ray generously lets Boston win this time, because he’s taking Boston out for a reason, but he still makes sure, as they sit down at one of the plastic tables added specifically for the Near Year sale, to say, “If you mix them the flavours are kind of like the bubblegum vodka martini Plug makes.”

“Liar,” Boston laughs, over their enormous, two-spooned bowl.

He takes a spoonful of Boston’s inferior selection.

Whenever they needed to gossip about hookups, any time back before the two birthday parties that changed everything, he and Boston would come here. The ice cream is good and nobody would be wrinkling their noses or nagging about being careful when either of them brought up, like, choking, or even just not remembering someone’s name.

After about half a minute, Boston says through a mouthful, “Did you mean it?”

Oh, they’re starting, he thinks.

“Mean what?” because it could be about him thinking the picture is nice or something he said at the party or even the fact he got in Boston’s car at all.

Not on that list is Boston’s, “You said you wanted to quit drinking.”

Oh, that.

It had gone better than he’d hoped for, bringing it up with them – Cheum not being there, he thinks guiltily, probably helped, because Mew hadn’t questioned him or openly doubted him or anything like that – but he’d known telling them all had to come eventually, and of course there are questions. Mew is probably going to be hurt if he ever realises Ray’s already started trying.

The other two, he’s practiced explaining to them with his therapist, who wants him to lay it out clearly and try not to feel like he’s presenting a legal defence; with Boston, it’s simpler.

“Yeah,” he shrugs, taking another spoonful, “I figured them- them all, even my dad, actually – them being annoying and mean about it doesn’t mean they’re always wrong, you know?”

“It’s not because your boyfriend went on a sex strike until you agreed? I could tell he wasn’t surprised when you said it.”

Ray snorts, “Sand couldn’t keep one up.”

“Yeah?”

And they’re laughing easily, Boston making a leering face and keeping it up as he faux-seductively licks his spoon and Ray flips him off.

But then Boston goes quiet, brow furrowed as he looks at the table.

It’s hard to hear his next words over the sounds of loud, drunk conversation at the other tables.

“It doesn’t mean they’re always wrong. About me too?”

Oh, right.

The others and the things they can sometimes be mean and annoying about. Boston’s always been one of those.

And Ray could give a knee-jerk, casual answer, and it could be yes, you fucked his boyfriend, Ton, of course they aren’t wrong about you, but it could also be, nah, we’re cool, but instead he tries to think about it, because this is for Boston.

So he tilts his head and looks through the window at the night-time city and says, “They aren’t always wrong about you, no.”

“Always?” Boston asks, following Ray.

This is the time for him to say it, “I’m sorry I backed Cheum up. It never sounded like something you’d do and I think Mew always knew that.”

He wasn’t expecting himself to say the part about Mew.

Where did that come from?

Boston’s face says he wasn’t expecting it either, mouth parted and eyes fixed on him.

“And it sucks about you and Nick,” he adds.

“Fuck you,” Boston says, “I’m not talking about that, let’s talk about how our friends hate me.”

He’s laughing but Ray can see he means it – nothing about Nick.

Ray moves his chair around the corner of the table, shuffles it up so he’s right next to Boston and presses their legs together, elbowing him a little so he elbows back, and says, “I mean, I don’t think Cheum hates you.”

With a sharp laugh, Boston elbows him again and says nothing.

“No, for real, Mew was being all bitchy to you earlier but Cheum wasn’t joining in at all,” he says.

It feels rude to say it about Mew, but Ray doesn’t think he’s wrong even if he also doesn’t think Mew was wrong to be bitchy, it’s like, complicated.

This is probably what Mew feels like when he’s trying to navigate everyone’s beef with Top.

Ugh.

Boston sighs, long and world-weary like he’s not sitting in front of a chocolate, coffee, and lime ice cream bucket, and he tilts his head back and stares at the ceiling and says, “She only feels bad for saying I turned Atom gay.”

“She wouldn’t feel bad if she still hated you, though,” Ray agrees, pointing at him with his spoon and dripping a little of the ice cream onto Boston’s lap – he doesn’t seem to notice, still looking to the ceiling, as Ray adds, “When are you leaving for New York? Do you have an apartment?”

This sigh is somehow even more world-weary.

“It’s going to take fucking forever,” he starts complaining, suddenly animated.

As he explains the problems that come with trying to move up his original visa plans, Ray realises this is a conversation he can actually understand even though it’s about practical stuff – that’s a first for him. Of course it’s because of his plans with Sand.

They go back-and-forth about visas and how stupid they are for a while before Ray turns to the most important thing about this revelation and says, “So that’s a couple months where we can still hang, then.”

Boston snorts, leans back in his chair, and nudges Ray’s knee with his own.

“I was planning on spending the time busy, actually.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Hell yeah. Bar hopping,” he counts off on his fingers, “Taking photos. Mostly, fucking any guy in the city I haven’t already… so that means you don’t qualify to hang with me.”

Ray kicks him, and Boston kicks him back and gets him in a loose headlock, and if Ray actually tries to get out he’ll knock over the chairs so he elbows him lightly and says, “Asshole, let me up,” until Boston laughingly does.

“You’re fine with him being mad at you for it,” Boston trails off without quite making it into a question, but Ray sees where he’s going.

He sits up and says, “Mew makes his own decisions, but he wasn’t mad at Cheum.”

They look at each other, and Ray thinks he sees some relief in Boston’s eyes at the answer, barely there in the reflection of the window.

Ray bites his lip and looks out of the window too.

“Me and Sand want to travel,” he adds to the darkness, “We might see New York one day.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

[thenightling]

The clues about Abigail's father (Abigail movie)

I watched Abigail for a second time. Originally I thought there were only twp hints that she's Dracula's daughter. Now I realize there were more. The Invitation (2022) was much more obvious with its many blatant clues that DeVille was Dracula. (Note: Deville happens to be an alias Dracula used in the original Dracula novel.) Here are the Abigail clues that her father is not merely a vampire but Count Dracula himself. 1. Abigail's father is a crime lord. If you read the novel Dracula you will notice that Dracula speaks a LOT like the leader of an organized crime syndicate with careful wording and phrases. 2. It's implied (you don't see it happen but it's heavily suggested) that Abigail is the rat running around the house fairly early on in the movie. Dracula is probably the most famous vampire with animal shape-shifting powers. 3. Though Abigail does burn in the sun (in the novel Dracula was able to walk around by day, he was just weaker by day) she regenerates lost limbs like a fast version of Deadpool. This is a pretty advanced power and suggests she is of some high status in most vampire lore.

4. Abigail is far stronger than most fictional vampires. Also suggesting at some high status in the vampire world. 5. The mural in the house resembles Poenari castle, AKA The real Castle Dracula. Bran Castle is used for tourism since it's pretty and easy to access but Poenari Castle is the actual castle that Vlad the Impaler is supposed to have resided in. 6. The mural of what looks like Poenari castle has bat winged creatures flying around it. 7. Abigail implies that her mind control / ghoul creating powers (Sammy) come from years of practice and obviously a newbie vampire can't do that.

8. Early on in the film before the kidnapping, Abigail's bedroom mirror is covered. This suggests that like the traditional depiction of Dracula she does NOT cast a reflection. In The Invitation the bedroom mirror is completely missing and "out for repairs." The Invitation goes more out of its way to point out the missing mirror while the covered mirror in Abigail is more subtle. 9. The gate in the foyer has a family crest that resembles the sigil of The Order of the Dragon. It depictions a dragon. The family of the dragon = Dracul. 10. When Abigail's father shows up at the end he says he has had many names over the centuries. A similar line is said by DeVille in The Invitation but he's more blunt about it in saying that his favorite alias was one that means "Son of the Dragon." (Dracula). 11. Abigail's father looks and dresses like a classic depiction of Count Dracula. 12. The opening song (and apparently Abigail's favorite song) is Swan Lake. On the Phillip Glass soundtrack inserted version of the 1931 Dracula movie, the opening song is also Swan Lake. 13. All of Abigail's father's teeth are pointed, much like Nicolas Cage's depiction of Dracula for the movie Renfield that came out just last year. 14. Abigail can fly, another power Dracula usually has, along with the agility she needs for her ballerina moves. 15. Much like with the novel Dracula, to become a full vampire, you have to be drained, and then fed a vampire's blood. 16. Abigail's father kisses the back of Joey's hand, much like cliche depictions of Count Dracula, and is imitated by Jerry Dandridge in the original 1985 Fright Night. 17. Abigail's father is referred to as the anti-Christ. Dracula translates to Son of the Dragon in the original fifteenth century language but in modern Romanian it has a secondary translation. "Son of The Devil." (Note: Dracula is not literally the son of any devil. His surname come from his father's membership to The Order of The Dragon.) Bonus: Abby / Abigail is the name of the child vampire in the Hammer film "Let me In" which is a very loose (and kind of dumbed down) remake of the Swiss vampire film, Let the Right One In where the child vampire (actually a eunuch boy passing as a girl) is named Eli.

[autumnsup]

An Autograph's Tale

Or How My Obsession with Ewan McGregor Evolved and then Resolved Itself

(Be warned, this is not a short post. It does however contain a photo of possible interest toward the end).

The first thing you should know is that I am not really an autograph person. I’ve encountered a fair amount of people who might be considered celebrities, mostly after theater performances and at art events, but I can count on one hand the number of people whose autograph I actually sought. The main one being, of course, Ewan McGregor’s.

I’m pretty sure I can pinpoint the moment my obsession began. It was my first year of high school, and while I’d been crushing on boys left and right, I’d never had an honest-to-goodness movie star crush. That changed after I saw Moulin Rouge! in the theater, with one of my best friends. She managed to score a promotional poster for me afterward, and throughout the rest of high school and into college, I would keep the poster of Ewan pinned to my bedroom door.

My feelings about him were a bit complicated. I didn’t have sexual feelings, exactly, because he was older than me and shared a birthday with a relative. I would dream about him occasionally, but the context was usually theater, or performance, and not anything that might be interpreted as “real life.” I would kiss the poster occasionally, more out of curiosity than lust, and I listened to the Moulin Rouge soundtrack CD on repeat while I was studying, memorizing all of the lyrics and teaching them to my other friend who was equally obsessed with the music. I didn’t think Ewan had the greatest voice, but he was so earnest, so joyful, and so broken-hearted and raw by the end, that I couldn’t help but empathize with him and his character’s plight.

I suppose this primed me for the next level of obsession, which was triggered by the discovery of Velvet Goldmine. A relative had told me about the movie, and since I knew I already liked Ewan, I gave it a watch, and immediately felt a sense of Oh, these are my people. Just how much I identified with some of them, I wouldn’t realize for a while yet. I also didn’t realize right away that the movie and its characters were only loosely based on what had actually happened during the glam rock era, and I would assume that Brian Slade was in fact meant to be an accurate representation of David Bowie for an embarrassingly long time. I also didn’t realize how much of a patchwork quilt the soundtrack was, although I would love it to death and memorize many of the lyrics like I did with Moulin Rouge before (which was even more of a patchwork job, ironically enough).

In the meantime, Ewan’s career began to take off with the continued Star Wars franchise, which I had been watching since I was a middle-schooler. I wasn’t a huge fan of the movies, but once I’d started to obsess over Ewan, I watched them with renewed interest, until the day I happened to be in New York City during the one of the premieres. I can’t remember which one it was (maybe the third movie?) or which theater the premiere was being held at (Google? I don’t know it). But what I do remember was the incredible flood of excitement and adrenaline I felt at the thought that my chance to see Ewan in person and get his autograph was at hand.

It wasn’t the first time I’d tried. At some point (again, I’m very spotty on the timeline), I’d drawn a small portrait of Ewan and mailed it to a US address I’d found somewhere on the internet, asking for his autograph on a photo I’d torn from a magazine. I never heard back from his agent, and had contented myself with watching and collecting his earlier movies and various memorabilia like the Velvet Goldmine script. Which was why the thought of actually getting to meet him in person came as such a thrill when it seemed like a possibility.

Because I was a teenager with very little money saved up, there was no way in hell I could buy a ticket to attend the premiere, so I made it my mission to show up outside the theater as early as possible. The weather was overcast but not miserable, and I had fun watching all sorts of cosplaying fans arrive while the event staff set up the red carpet and barriers on the street side to keep passersby at bay. They didn’t block off the other side of the red carpet though, which I thought was rather strange, but I parked myself there so I could be among the first row of people to see the actors entering the theater.

Finally, the procession began, up a red carpet now surrounded by a sea of people and Storm Troopers. The first actor I recognized was Liam Neeson, dressed in a white suit. I was a fan of his too, after having seen Love Actually, and when he came our way to sign a few autographs, I almost died.

I didn’t ask him for one, preferring to let others take the lead while I furiously snapped photos with my camera, most of which turned out terribly once I'd finally developed them (yes, this was before digital cameras and cell phones with lenses were a widespread thing). From a distance, I could see Samuel L. Jackson strolling down the red carpet, plus a few other younger actors who followed Liam’s lead in approaching fans to offer autographs, but alas, no Ewan.

I would find out later that he’d attended an overseas premiere instead, which was disappointing but made sense, given that he was from Scotland and his wife was French and they had young children. To assuage the disappointment, I went to the Museum of Television & Radio and binge-watched Lipstick On Your Collar, which was very hard to find at the time. And that was that, I thought.

Sophomore year of college, I made the impromptu decision to study abroad in France. There were many reasons behind the decision, one of them being a crush I’d developed on a female classmate who was also studying abroad that year, but that’s neither here nor there. What ended up happening was that while I was living with a host family in France, I took it upon myself to write to Ewan again, this time through his agent’s office in London.

I kept it simple this time – no hand-drawn portraits, no glitter stickers, no magazine pages or anything besides a single sheet of paper and a heartfelt message, and of course a self-stamped self-addressed envelope. I wrote it, partially in French to acknowledge his wife and daughters, sent it, and forgot about it for most of the school year.

Until the day that my envelope returned in the post, and inside, much to my surprise and delight, was this:

It was a simple gesture, and while it didn’t come with the thrills and prestige I’d hoped to experience a few years earlier, it warmed my heart. Ewan is no longer my main man, so to speak, but I will always remember that breathless moment in France with a smile. 🤩

(Tagging some fellow VG fans here, but if anyone else has a celebrity autograph or crush story to tell, I'd love to hear it!)

@moonage-xx-daydream @silverfactory @mangle-my-mind

[kitkatsudon]

So. Today has been a weird day.

Rambles below, because I’m in my feelings but that doesn’t necessarily have to be your problem.

The first thing I saw when I woke up today was that Ice Adolescence had been cancelled. The second thing piece of news I received, within a few minutes of this, was that my Grandma had passed away.

The second thing is more personal, and I haven’t come here to talk about that - I suppose more than anything it’s to give context on today’s slightly weird vibe, and why I’m feeling perhaps more nostalgic than I would be normally.

Perhaps as a distraction, I want to ramble about YOI.

Though now I’ve sat down to actually do this… where do I start?

Though my internet presence is very TKEM-focused nowadays, since its release, YOI has always been incredibly dear to me. It came out just as I had found out that my family were going to be moving across the country (and ok, in the UK that’s maybe less of a big deal than if I lived in a larger country, but I was 14, and 14 is a horrible age, so it was still a big deal to me). YOI came out in late 2016, we moved at the beginning of 2017, and I joined a much smaller school with… let’s say less choice for the people I could make friends with.

I was, technically, adopted by a friendship group, but it took a long time, some falling outs within the group, and me learning everything there ever was to know about BTS despite having no real passion for music-based fandoms for me to really feel included. The friendship group I’d left behind was much more diverse in terms of interests, and we thrived on mutual sharing and acceptance of each other’s interests. This new one was more kind of “conform or fuck you,” and I never quite managed to conform properly.

All that is to say… while I didn’t really have friends, in 2017, I had YOI and its fandom. While I was dealing with the huge changes in my life, I was comforted through it by, more than anything else, lurking around the YOI fandom. I had my first forays into posting things online using Google+, of all things (my parents didn’t let me have social media, but I could access this using my gmail), and they were drawings I had done of YOI characters, even a hand-drawn anecdote comic thing, and just… it was rudimentary, but you gotta start somewhere, right?

It became what I was known for, in my new school. It became part of me. That summer, my family went on holiday to Orlando FL to do the theme parks, and despite that having been something that I’d been begging to do for years, what I ended up being most excited about was the opportunity to go to Hot Topic and buy the YOI merch that they’d recently announced. I bought a T-shirt, a blanket, and a backpack, and although the backpack’s strap broke after a year of using it for school, I still have the T-shirt and the blanket, and they’re still special to me to this day. Back then, listening to the soundtrack on repeat, I’d decided that one day I was going to perform a dance routine to ‘In regards to love: Eros,’ and at the end of my first year of uni, that was something I was actually able to do. Was it good? Not really, I’m by no means a professional dancer, but I felt like I was paying homage to my inner… not quite child, more like my inner angsty teenager?

My whatsapp background is still YOI-themed. I still proudly display my Funko Pops and my posters in my bedroom at home. YOI is still my comfort show, and though I’m not usually one for rewatching shows, it’s still the show that I’ve rewatched the most. Even my username is a relic of my ties to the YOI fandom - though I wasn’t really using it much then, it’s something I thought up during the days when I was deepest in it, and I thought to myself “if I ever am brave enough to really start posting things online, this is the username I’ll use.” So even though the first thing I ever posted under the name KitKatsudon was the beginning of a BTS fanfiction on Quotev on all places that I was writing with a friend of mine at the time, it has its roots in YOI.

It’s sort of funny - once upon a time, I used to semi-joke that I couldn’t die before the YOI movie came out. Don’t get me wrong, my mental health was never bad enough that I had actually realistically considered not making it to Ice Ado’s release, but every time I said it, I did mean it. No matter how shitty I felt, I had to keep going, because I was going to have my bum in a seat when it eventually released in cinemas. I guess what this means now is that, unless Ice Ado is picked up by another studio, I’m just never going to die 🤷‍♀️ you’d better buckle the fuck up, mortals, because MAPPA has just granted me ultimate power.

What am I trying to say? I don’t really know. Maybe thank you, to the YOI team, for being such a positive force in my life. You gave me something comforting to hold onto while everything around me was changing, while I was starting my sexuality journey, while I didn’t have the close support of peers to help boost my mood. I don’t watch the show so often nowadays, but that’s because I save it for instances where I really need comforting. Maybe like today.

The story of Ice Adolescence may be over, at least for now, but I’ll always be grateful for what we did get.

[watching-pictures-move]

Movie Review | Robot Monster (Tucker, 1953)

The release of the 2022 Sight and Sound poll has spurred me to start closing off a number of longtime blind spots with respect to classic cinema. I finally made the time to get through Jeanne Dielman... (I'm not writing out the whole title, it's longer than the movie) and Battleship Potemkin, and while at this point I probably appreciated them more than I enjoyed them, the former is certainly growing on me in the days since I've seen them. Both of those I watched on the Criterion Channel, through which I've also been watching a bunch of very good old time screwball comedies. But classics come in all shapes and sizes, and inspired by a recent MST3K-centric episode of The Important Cinema Club podcast and this great review by Letterboxd user sakana1, I decided to finally get around to Phil Tucker's 1953 movie about a robot monster, coincidentally called Robot Monster.

The movie plays like a child's idea of science fiction. The majority of earth's population is killed by a vaguely defined death ray, and the survivors band together as a family unit against the invading robot monster named Ro-Man. We also learn that Ro-Man's entire race is also known as Ro-Mans, and that he's actually Earth Ro-Man, who reports to another Ro-Man known as the Great One through what looks like a bedroom mirror. I don't expect a child to think through their choice of nomenclature, so I will excuse these awkward naming conventions. They're not even called Ro-Men, and we learn of no Ro-Women, but as all boys know, girls have cooties, which must hold for alien races and robot monsters as well. I will not spoil the ending, but it does support this reading.

I had trouble gelling to this at first, because while this is very bad, it betrays an understanding of how real "good" movies should operate. It's the opposite of exciting, but not in a way that suggests it's completely alien to such a concept. Compare this to Manos, another MST3K bad movie classic, and you see how that movie functions more convincingly as outsider art, made by filmmakers so oblivious to the rhythms of normal movies that they invent their own, with every shot framed awkwardly, held a little too long, creaking towards its conclusion like the blips on a heart monitor. Robot Monster only achieves this kind of anti-cinema in the sequences of Ro-Man waddling through the valley, framed so crudely and drawn out so long as to dissipate any tension, while Elmer Bernstein's score booms on the soundtrack. (Bernstein took the gig after being blacklisted.)

When we're stuck with the humans, this movie is regular bad and boring. When we're with Ro-Man and the Great One, this is gold. It helps that Ro-Man's appearance is never scary and indeed rather cuddly and huggable (the movie didn't have enough money for a robot suit, so Tucker hired a friend who owned a gorilla costume). It also helps that after endless, endless scenes of Ro-Man waddling around, mostly in the superior second half, we see Ro-Man's ruthless nature start to thaw, as his love for the last woman on Earth (okay, there's the mother too, but I guess Ro-Man isn't into older women) causes him to question his mission. He confesses to his superior that he wishes to "To be like the hu-man! To laugh! Feel! Want! Why are these things not in the plan?" And push comes to shove, finds himself hesitating to kill. "I cannot - yet I must. How do you calculate that? At what point on the graph do "must" and "cannot" meet? Yet I must - but I cannot!" I suppose at this point I was won over enough by the movie's directness that I was a little moved. Maybe at the end of the day, all Ro-Man needed was a hug.

[keepsdeathhiscourt]

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Original Female Character

Rating: Mature (18+ Only)

Story Summary: It's been ten years since Lucie LeMarche last set foot in New Orleans. But when she's forced to return to bury the woman who raised her, she finds herself pulled into the midst of rising supernatural tensions in the city. Entangled in a web of intrigue and seeking answers, Lucie must learn to navigate a powder keg of warring factions, family secrets, and old wounds if she hopes to survive.

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Language, Death, Mourning, Mental Health Issues, Family Drama, Gore, Depictions of Violence, Death

Series Masterlist

Read on AO3

Chapter 7: Memento Mori

The morning of the funeral dawns cold and gray. Lost somewhere behind the clouds, the sun rises to the soundtrack of wind howling over the rooftops.

Lucie’s been awake for hours now, listening to the shutters beat against the siding. Or maybe she’d never gone to sleep at all. In and out of the strange space between sleeping and waking, it’s hard to tell. But she knows she must have dozed for at least a while because dreamed. She wakes in a haze of sweat and dread, yet when she tries to recall the dream, it slips away just beyond her grasp. All that lingers is the scent left behind by pink and purple petals, a glimpse of antlers through the trees, and a snake with gleaming emerald scales. 

From the window, she watches New Orleans rub its eyes and stretch, groggy, as the day approaches with the speed unique to unpleasant events. She hopes that for better or worse; it passes quickly. 

A leaden weight takes residence in her belly and she tears herself away from the gale outside, daubing her wet hair with a towel. 

It’s been ten years since she’s been face-to-face with the witches of New Orleans. In her heart, she’s always known that this day would come. She just wishes it didn’t have to be so soon. If she had it her way, she could easily wait another ten to delay the uncomfortable reunion she knows awaits her. 

But like it or not, the moment is here, and there’s little time to dwell. Not when there’s so much to be done. 

The morning comes and goes in a rush of activity. There are bags to be packed and affairs to get in order. With Cami’s help, she makes the trek up to St. Amant and back, returning with her now semi-functional sedan. 

It’s touch and go, but with some strategy and more than a few curses, the two women manage to fit everything into the compact backseat. After a hug and Lucie extracting Cami’s promise to come visit, they part. She watches from the porch until her friend’s car disappears from view and then turns to give the house a final once over.

It’s an efficient scour, flitting from room to room for anything she may have forgotten, skipping over the closed middle bedroom. And she finds nothing. Heading back down the hall, she checks just short of the front door. 

Draped over the coat rack is the black suit jacket, a glaring oddity amongst the earthy clutter. And just beneath, resting on the hutch, is a small card, a splash of white that catches her attention amongst the orange envelopes of legal documents. The card is light, the paper fine as she takes it between her fingers. 

There’s no name, but it doesn’t matter. The neat, tight handwriting could only belong to one person. She wonders when he had left it, how she had missed it. 

She supposes it doesn’t matter now and runs a thumb over the writing. She should throw it away. She shoves it into the depths of her purse to be forgotten, steps out onto the porch, and locks the door behind her, jacket abandoned along with the rest of the house. 

The black funeral dress fits her like a sheath, her heels sharp, and as she starts the short trek to Lafayette Cemetery, it feels a lot like going to war. 

____

The last fragments of sunlight mark the way, a thin beacon illuminating the path to Lafayette Cemetery — as if anyone could miss it. 

Made of high stone walls and intricate wrought-iron gates, the first planned cemetery in New Orleans was designed to be a spectacle. Even in the waning light, Lucie spies the spires and marble carvings of the tallest of tombs peeking out over the walls. Over one thousand families bury their dead within this single city block, erecting monuments to outlast any living memory of those entombed within. 

Her own parents rest there, in a quiet, mossy corner alongside grandparents and great-grandparents she had never known. The last time she had walked the cruciform layout of carven angels and dilated tombs, she had been only a girl. Too young to understand death, as Bastiana and the other Elders eulogized, but enough to understand that they wouldn’t be coming back. And she remembered crying then, her brother reaching out to hold her hand, as Violette led the consecration. A shudder wracked through her little body as her parents’ magic dispersed to join the Ancestral well.

Now, when she passes the LeMarche crypt, there will be a new carving amongst the stacked family names. Its etchings will be fresher than all the rest, not yet broken in by weather or neglect. And another, just under her parents, only a few years older than Violette’s.

The gate looms overhead, a wide, oversized thing. She only falters for a moment. If she stops now, she’ll never keep going. So she refuses to yield to it, refuses to allow herself any time to dwell, and passes through, with only a flicker of surprise that nothing stops her.

It is only a short way to the center, especially for one who knows the way. Upon rounding the corner of a cracked mausoleum, she meets a sea of black. Gauzy veils and gaudy brimmed hats frame the faces of the older members of the coven, the junior members uncovered and less adorned. She parts the way through the unavoidable bodies that dot the perimeter of the sprawling rectangular opening. Weeds shoot up through cracks in the uneven flagstones. She watches them with rapt interest, their company preferable to the stares searing into her every time someone recognizes her.

Whispers crop up in her wake, culminating in a soft hiss that rattles like pebbles in a rain stick. When she weaves too close, she’s given a wide berth. 

“Lucie!” a voice cries out, far too warm by comparison. Her head tips up in time to see Arabella gliding towards her, hem swishing about her heels as she goes. 

Her lacy sleeves roll down to her elbows as she sweeps her arms up, catching Lucie’s hands between her own. Tension still lingers from their last meeting, a tinge of bitterness amongst the sense of relief at finding at least one friendly face. 

The silver spoon clinks against the porcelain tea cup, swirling the steaming mixture, diluting the earthy color of tea, and dyeing it into a ruddy clay. 

A sugar cube drops in with a ‘plop’. It dissolves by the time Arabella presses it to Violette’s lips with murmurs of encouragement.

A flash, gone as quickly as it came. She shakes it off.

Arabella’s eyes scan Lucie’s face, following her line of sight to the unwelcoming congregation. Giving her hands a reassuring squeeze, she whispers, “Don’t mind them. They’re starved for gossip. They’ll forget all about it the second someone trips on their feet or says something stupid.”

Lucie appreciates the kindness of the sentiment, but something tells her that’s not going to happen. 

“Lucie?” a voice asks, and she turns to find herself face-to-face with Sophie Deveraux. “I thought that was you.”

“Hey Sophie,” she replies. 

The silence stretches out between them, Lucie and Sophie assessing each other and Arabella watching on. 

“I was really sorry to hear about Jane-Anne,” she says in a stilted voice. After all, what else is there to say?

Sophie’s posture eases, sadness creeping into her eyes. “Thanks,” she mutters, hand ghosting over Lucie’s elbow. A moment of understanding passes between the two. “Seems grief is contagious these days. Violette was a good woman.”

Lucie nods, unsure what to say, searching for a response when a commotion of shuffling fabric and red hair flashes nearby.

“What is she doing here?” Vivienne demands, wedging Sophie into the background before appearing at her sister’s elbow.

“Vivienne,” Arabella chides and slips between, partially obscuring Lucie from her twin’s view.

“It’s good to see you too, Viv,” Lucie says flatly.

Vivienne’s eyes flash, locking onto her with a laser precision. She shoots Arabella a sidelong glance. “You shouldn’t be seen talking to her.”

Irritation flickers, compounded by being referred to as if she isn’t there. Before Arabella can respond, Lucie cuts in, “Violette was my blood, too. I belong here just as much as you.”

“No, you don’t,” comes the clipped response. Her lips curl into a snarl, green eyes glacial. “Not anymore.” 

The venom in her voice stings, but what’s more jarring is the sheer depth of the animosity she hears beneath it. 

True, of the four LeMarche cousins, Vivienne and Lucie always had the most…challenging dynamic. A fusion of conflicting personalities and a shared competitive streak, compounded by external pressures and a burning desire to be the best. But beneath it had always been love. And childhood squabbles aside, there had been no doubt of their loyalty to one another when the chips were down. 

Now a chasm stretches out between them, a fissure of resentment left to grow and the hurt to fester, twisting rivalry into something far uglier. 

The pure disdain in Vivienne’s eyes, the cold-tempered steel of resentment on her face, cuts. And the force of rejection, of their splintering bond, is all more painful knowing that Lucie is mostly to blame. 

“I’m not trying to start any trouble,” she says softly. “I only want to say goodbye.”

Her eyes fix on the deep purple scars that trail from the edge of Vivienne’s jaw to where they disappear into the lace collar of her dress. Guilt overwhelms the hurt, stifles the anger. 

That is until Vivienne, never able to leave well enough alone, says, “Why don’t you tell that to Peter? He’s right here after all, not that you ever bothered to visit.”

She gestures around to the endless rows of family crypts. Lucie hears Arabella gasp, feels her fingers wrap around her wrist — whether to support or restrain her, she’s unsure. The name is a slap across the face, a punch to the gut. Shame heats her face, grief and outrage warring within. 

“Don’t,” Lucie chokes, fists balled at her sides. “Don’t you dare throw his name at me—’

“That’s enough,” a commanding voice says and Lucie turns to see Agnes coming towards them. “You should be ashamed of yourselves, raising your voices here.”

Agnes’ trembling fingers clutch the pestle in her hands, grinding the purple and pink petals against the mortar stone until they form a ruddy mixture. 

Vivienne looks abashed, but not enough to stop her from crying out, “She shouldn’t be here! The ancestral laws say—”

“Vivienne LeMarche, I have been practicing magic since before you were even a twinkle in your mother’s eye. Don’t cite the laws at me,” Agnes replies. “The ancestors are aware of her status and they’ve told me that, given the circumstances, they’re willing to make an exception.”

The look Vivienne shoots her is incredulous. “Agnes, you can’t mean—”

“That’s precisely what I mean.”

The abrupt shift in conversation is enough to give Lucie whiplash, her brain struggling to keep up with the rapid repartee between them. But what her head is fighting to grasp, her body already knows. A stone blocks her throat, holding in the river of panic that wants to escape out of her mouth. A terrible understanding creeps its way from her subconscious and into the foreground. 

“But-”

“I said ‘enough’, Vivienne.” The bass in her voice is enough to cow Vivienne into obedient silence. She dips her head in deference as Agnes continues, “Violette named no other before her death.” She places a calming hand on Vivienne’s shoulder and turns her gaze on Lucie. “Lucretia must lead the consecration or the Ancestors will not accept her.”

A chorus of voices rise in discontent. 

“I’m not…I can’t…,” Lucie tries, struggling against the desert of her throat. “There has to be someone…anyone else. Maybe Vivienne - or Arabella-”

“She didn’t name them,” Agnes echoes the same refrain. “It has to be you. Would you gamble with your aunt’s eternal peace?”

“No,” the answer is immediate. “Of course not-”

“Then you will do it. This is the way of the Ancestors, and it is our duty to obey.” Her expression is stiff as she turns to address the rest of the coven. “Whether we like it or not.”

Jaw tight, Vivienne levels Agnes with a long, hard stare. She looks ready to argue further, but she deflates and steps out of her way, rejoining the other witches. 

Agnes takes advantage of Lucie’s doubt to usher her forward. She makes the first few steps on hesitant, unwilling legs.

All eyes fall to her. The crowd parts, a wall of bodies that follows her with disapproving whispers and accusing stares. Self-doubt wriggles like a belly full of worms, but she forces it down, focusing only on the path before her. Steady breath, one foot in front of the other, until her steps lead her to the altar where Violette is waiting for her. 

She stops at her side and lays eyes on the woman who raised her for the first time in ten years.

Violette LeMarche had been lovely in her youth. With cascading tresses of deep, russet hair and clever emerald eyes, she had been the gem of the Garden District. It had been a generally accepted truth that she would marry well and marry rich. But she had been wild and willful as she had been beautiful, showing no interest in the suitors lining up at her door. And so she had glided into her twilight years, unmarried. Her wild streak transitioned gracefully into wisdom. Paired with a steely resolve, it was as if she had been born to be their matriarch. 

To a young girl, recently orphaned, Violette had appeared larger than life. Now, clad in white and hands folded in gentle repose, she barely recognizes the frail woman before her. The hair pulled back into a chignon is dull and white at the temples, the rest a dusty orange. The skin wrinkled and pulled taut against her cheekbones is translucent and thin as paper, as if she might crumble at the slightest touch. 

The tremor that rips through Lucie’s chest comes on, sudden and violent. She chokes it down, but the tears that sting her eyes won’t fall, dry out in the chilly autumn breeze. 

Numb, she feels the weight of the coven watching her. She takes a deep, steadying breath, and she sinks to her knees. 

For a fleeting moment, she worries she won’t remember the words, that she’ll botch this honor and let Violette down one last time. But they flow off from her as if of their own volition, her lips and tongue wrap around the familiar language of the Ancestors. 

“Sub sacris frondibus temporis,” she says in a halting voice. Her voice echoes against the long rows of stone until fading into nothing. The cemetery falls into silence, the coven in witness. And for one horrible moment, she’s sure they’ll just stand there. That they will refuse to follow. 

Then, Arabella drops to her knees, followed by Sophie, and then Agnes. It does not take long for the rest to do the same. The hostilities of a decade are nothing to ancient tradition. They forget hurts and grievances, at least for now.

Lucie lifts a candle. It flickers as she waves it in a languid pattern over the body, leaving a trail of fragrant smoke in its wake. 

When she murmurs the next line, her voice is stronger, joined by the others. A chorus crying out for the Ancestors to accept Violette’s soul. 

She replaces the candle, dips her fingers in a pewter bowl, and flicks the blessed oil over the altar. 

The heady scent of myrrh and sage fills her nose as the candles flicker, and then burn brighter. Beneath the twinkling flames, the cemetery comes alive. Her veins tingle and the hair on her neck stands on end as magic sizzles in the surrounding air. 

The Ancestors are here and they are listening. 

She bows her head in supplication and lets her eyelids slip closed.

“Ancestors, hear me. I consecrate our fallen sister to the Earth.”

Nothing happens. The candles continue to burn bright and the presence at her shoulder lingers. A murmur of unease ripples through the crowd. 

Lucie shifts on her knees, grounding herself. “Ancestors,” she repeats. “I consecrate our fallen sister to the Earth. Will you take her?”

Again, nothing. Tension builds as the atmosphere stagnates.

Then, a power gust of wind rips through the cemetery. Dirt stings her cheeks, but she doesn’t flinch. 

All at once, the candles extinguish. The cemetery plunges into a pall of smoke. Dead leaves settle against the dirt. It all feels like an exhale. 

A sense of calm washes over her along, accompanied by a profound knowing. The Ancestors have heard her plea and accepted. 

The tension evaporates with the smoke as the coven closes in to shower the deceased in rose petals. 

Lucie shifts, ready to rise and join in when Violette’s pale white fingers wind around her wrist. With remarkable force, she pulls her down, down, down until all she can see are white eyes and waxen skin. 

There’s no way to move, no way to cry out, no world beyond the deathly grip and the shadows that creep in from beyond the veil. 

The corpse’s slack jaw hinges and clicks, mouth opening and slamming shut like a floundering fish. It pulls her closer until the cracked lips are an inch from the shell of her ear. 

Agony wracks through her body, an earthquake that radiates out to the tips of her extremities and back again to the source — an iron vice clamps down on her heart. It struggles to beat. She can feel its strained, erratic fumbling in her ears. 

Suddenly, she’s gazing with eyes that aren’t her own into a different scene. The heavy damask curtains are drawn, the room lit by the bedside lamp. The stained glass shade paints orange shards on the ceiling. Through Violette’s eyes, she watches them dance as her vision dims. The brassy notes of a familiar tune drift to her ears, masking the labored heaving of her lungs. 

She wants water, wants her children — the ones she’d raised and loved as her own. She calls for them more than once. First for Peter, then for Lucie. 

It’s a great effort to speak. And all it ever earns her are pitying smiles and gentle pats on the hand. 

A hazy figure urges a cup to her lips, urging her to drink. But the sickly floral smell that assaults her dulling senses has her turning her head in refusal. 

She wonders how she’d missed it all the times before. 

Foxglove. 

The signs of betrayal were right there, had she only stopped to look for them. Now she sees them clearly, as if etched into the peeling wallpaper. But it’s too late now. Far too late. 

The pain soars to a fever pitch, grips her so tight she’s sure her heart will explode from her chest and—

Gasping, Lucie draws back. The pale hand slips back into its place, motionless at the corpse’s side. Her tailbone makes contact with the unforgiving stone dais, but Lucie is too focused on sucking air back into her lungs to notice. 

The cemetery scene creeps back into her consciousness. Over her racing pulse, she can hear soft murmurs, full of confusion and perhaps derision, but not the panic the moment deserves. 

She rakes over the crowd with wild eyes, only to meet questioning glances and profiles caught in unhurried side conversations. 

She tries to speak, only to find that the words won’t come, that there’s no way to put a voice to what she had seen — no, what she had felt.

Only a few paces away, Violette’s body is still, eyes closed as if in a deep sleep.

There’s a pressure on her shoulder, but she only continues to watch for any sign of movement, even as she’s guided to her feet. 

Red and green dance in her vision and for one horrible second, she thinks the process will start all over again. But the face is unlined and flushed with life, eyes guileless and full of concern. 

“...lu..cie..,” the woman in front of her calls from miles away, punctuating with a shake of her shoulders. “Lucie!”

She blinks at Arabella twice before recognition dawns. 

“Lucie, are you alright?”

She nods, the gesture automatic as her eyes lock with her cousin, who sighs in relief. 

“What happened?” she grinds out, hoarse.

“I don’t know. One minute we were finishing the ritual and then next you got this faraway look…”

A small group of witches huddle nearby, dispersing amongst the scattered crowd. All except Agnes. She keeps her eyes trained on Lucie.

Arabella wraps around her and she leans into the warmth of the embrace, savoring the comfort of the chin on her shoulder and the hand that rubs at her back. The side of Arabella’s hand brushes against the bare skin just above her shoulder blades. 

A breath before it all falls into place. Lucie reels back as if struck. 

“Lucie, what’s wrong?” Arabella asks, eyes darting towards the curious stares they’re drawing, even as she reaches for her hand. 

She swats it away. When she finds her voice, it’s little more than a whisper. “What have you done?”

A hurt confusion overtakes Arabella’s features, “What are you—”

“Pay her no mind,” Agnes says. Lucie had not heard her approach. “Tonight’s activities have no doubt exhausted her.” She doesn’t miss the pointed look in her direction. “Lucretia, perhaps you should rest before you say something you regret. 

 It only fans the flames. She rounds on Agnes. “Or what, Agnes?” Her voice is climbing in volume. “Are you going to shut me up, too?”

The Elder shifts, her posture stiff, and something clicks. An awestruck disbelief washes over her as she whispers, “You already tried.”

“Agnes, what is she talking about?” It’s not Arabella, but Vivienne, who has sidled up just behind the Elder with an uncertain expression. 

“Go on. Tell them, Agnes. Tell them all about the poison you had Arabella slip into Violette’s tea. And about the nightwalkers you sent after me while you’re at it.”

Agnes’ eyes flash, she opens her mouth to speak but Lucie is only getting started. “Why bother telling them to keep me alive? It would have been so much easier to let them kill me and rid yourself of the coven’s prodigal daughter.” Her breath is ragged, the words falling in a desperate stream. “And Violette…how could you? She loved you, trusted you—”

“ENOUGH!” the older woman bellows, chest heaving. The air grows thin. Then, recovering herself, in a calmer voice, she says, “I understand that you are grieving, but that is no excuse to spew such vile lies before the coven — before the Ancestors.”

“You may not hold with the old ways, but we do. And as the remaining Elder, I won’t stand idly by and listen to this blasphemy. It’s time for you to leave.”

Agnes’ eyes drift to somewhere over her shoulder. She nods and two of the coven’s younger men approach. One reaches for Lucie’s elbow, presumably to escort her out. 

She snatches her arm away. “I’ll see myself out,” she snaps. Her eyes scan the small crowd of curious stares. She slips over Vivienne’s puzzled look of disapproval, Arabella’s stricken face. She levels the Elder with a hard stare. “This isn’t over, Agnes.” 

Lucie will never forget. 

____

She doesn’t stop until Lafayette is a gray miniature beneath the trees. She barely remembers the walk from the cemetery, only that at some point she’d kicked off her heels, straps dangling from her fingertips as she rounds onto Poppy Street. 

It’s cold. She understands that on some subconscious level. It slices through the thin fabric of her dress, nips at her exposed skin. Spurred by the force of her anger, her aching chest, it doesn’t bother her. The wind picks up, whipping her hair violently around her face.

With nothing to do but walk, her thoughts run wild — a chaotic jumble of implications and possibilities. 

I should leave. It repeats on a loop as she ascends the porch steps. The car is packed, everything is ready to go. The discarded heels hit the wood floors with a thunk, the door slamming shut behind. 

There’s nothing for me here. 

She paces the length of the hallway, watching the invisible trail of her feet trek across the floor. Back and forth, back and forth. 

Then she stops. The photos on the wall stare at her with accusing eyes. In them, she sees the truth and the carefully constructed lie she’s built around herself shatters. 

This place, her bloodline. She can never truly escape it, not when she carries it will her everywhere she goes. There’s no more running, no hiding from what Violette showed her. 

The only option is to stay, to find a path to justice for Violette, and to stop the witches from whatever it is they’re seeking. She doesn’t know how she’ll do it, only understands the strength in her resolve and the depth of her anger. 

And so she retrieves her phone and dials the only person in all of New Orleans who might help her. 

____

Bitter sleet explodes against the glass, falling faster than the wipers can combat. It makes the drive to the Lower Garden District seem longer than he remembers it. Though not the type to fall victim to bouts of impatience, he cannot help the frustration that needles under his skin as he hits yet another red light. Something in Lucretia LeMarche’s voice had troubled him, an undercurrent of desperation and…an emotion he could not quite put his finger on, even as she all but begged him to meet her. An urgency that made him accept with no further questioning.

He had not wanted to push too hard, to jeopardize the brittle fragility he sensed on the other line. Now he wishes he had the foresight to press a little harder, to figure out what situation he is about to walk into. 

Though he makes it to the LeMarche residence in record time, he feels unforgivably late. And as he exits the car and finds himself on the porch that spans the width of the house, it’s clear that something is wrong. A slight shift in atmosphere that his body responds to on instinct with tensed muscles and sharpened senses. 

He steals a breath, urging himself into a near-meditative state of calm before rapping against the door. It’s a cursory gesture. He detects signs of life from the other side. The warmth of a human presence and a distant heartbeat that tells him she’s there — or rather, someone is there.  When no answer is forthcoming, he lets himself in. 

The front door swings open on an empty hallway. The boards groan beneath his feet, the only sound his craning ears detect over the howling wind. 

With each empty room he passes by, unease grows. A feeling that abates when he finds her in the back garden. 

She cuts a slight figure, overwhelmed amongst rows of wilted plants and barren vines. So still, she could be mistaken for a garden sculpture, if not for the tresses of hair and fabric picked up by the wind. 

She does not turn around as he descends to join her, makes no sign that she’s aware of his presence at all as he stops just behind her. 

His hand settles on her shoulder, seeking to rouse her from whatever dream has overtaken her thoughts. 

She jolts at the touch, spinning around with wild eyes, an inclination to defend. Recognition washes over her and then relief. It’s chased by something else, something darker. 

“Elijah.” She sounds much the same as she had at their last encounter, level and guarded. But he senses a shift, a forced quality that wasn’t there before. 

“Miss LeMarche.” He inclines his head. For the first time, he notices the stalk clutched between her fingers. A sickly stem that struggles to hold up the heavy heads of its colorless buds. 

“A little late for tending to the garden,” he remarks, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he surveys the plant graveyard with a detached air. 

She gives him an indecipherable look, nudging an overturned stone with a bare foot. “I used to come out here when I needed space to breathe.”

“Acanthus?” He asks, gesturing to the dead plant in her grip. 

She hums in confirmation, raising it up to inspect the dried petals. “It used to be.”

Elijah senses her skirting about the true issue. Knows that should he pry before she’s ready, she may never speak her mind. It’s a delicate business, and he has both the time and patience enough to indulge her, to set her at ease before delving into the heart of things. 

“In the Victorian era, flowers were used to deliver messages. Each plant undertaking its own meaning, just as any word in a written letter might,” he offers. “Acanthus, for example, symbolizes resurrection.” His gaze turns to the withered garden, allowing her something else to focus on. 

“My great-aunt tried to teach me once,” she says to the flagstones. “Marigolds for jealousy, white carnation for mourning, and foxglove for—”

Her lips curl up, a brittle, bitter thing, and he knows they have reached the crux of the issue. 

Turning to face her, he prompts with a pointed gentleness, “You had something you wished to discuss?”

She nods. He watches her jaw clench, watches her resolutely not watch him as she gathers her thoughts. “I want to accept. Your deal, that is.”

He freezes, eyes fixed unseeing upon a collapsed rose bush. “I see,” he says. “You seemed rather determined in your decision last we spoke. Might I ask what changed your mind?”

She hesitates, her eyes drifting up to meet his. “I don’t think I can talk about this, not out here.”

“Then shall we go inside?” He suggests and allows her to lead him back into the house.

____

Lucie sits cross-legged against the sofa cushions, a steam cup of coffee cradled in her palms. Across from her, Elijah has taken up residence in an armchair. For a while, neither speaks, simply sips at porcelain in silence. 

He doesn’t push or prompt. He only waits with kind eyes and an aura of patience. She’s sure that’s what urges her to speak. The ones come out one after the other, gaining momentum until a steady stream pours from her mouth. And she tells him. She tells him her account of finding Jane-Anne, everything she knows of the Harvest Ritual and the Elders, and finally, in a stilted, faltering voice, she tells him about the funeral — about the nightwalkers and the strange magic that had revealed her great-aunt’s murder. 

Beyond catching her breath, she doesn’t stop once. Too afraid that if she hesitates, she’ll never be able to speak it all into the open. And to his credit, Elijah never interjects nor interrupts, just watches her with those intelligent dark eyes and a calm expression as she spills her heart onto the coffee table. 

By the time she reaches the end, she’s standing, coffee abandoned on the ledge of the mantle. 

Only when the silence seems a permanent fixture of the living room and Lucie is spent does he speak. The bottom of his cup clinks against the coffee table as he sets it down, rising from the armchair with an effortless grace. 

“Miss LeMarche,” he says from somewhere very near. “Thank you for sharing this with me. I know it cannot have been easy.”

The dam cracks, long splinters stretching to every piece of her. And all at once, every shred of power holding her together dissipates. A tear escapes, carving a fiery trail down her cheek. Followed by another and another until they become a flood that threatens to wash her away. 

A steady hand grasps her arm, buoying her to the present. She hears her name, a gentle urging. Hollow and exhausted and frightened, she winds herself into his arms. At this moment, not an Original vampire, but a warm body, a balm for the sudden vulnerability that cries out like an exposed nerve. There will be time for embarrassment later. For now, she needs something to hold on to. 

He’s rigid beneath her fingertips, her cheek pressed to a chest that barely moves, tears soaking into his pressed shirt. Then his hand rises to cradle the back of her head. He uses the other to frame her against him, the motions made more sincere by the awkwardness.

When he pries away from her, it’s with gentle hands that rest on her shoulders. 

“I do not intend to let the cycle of violence that has fallen on this city continue unchecked.” She exhales a shaky breath as his hands slide down, enveloping hers within them. 

She wants to protest, but something about the earnest glint in his eyes and the softness of his tone stops her. Swallowing an unexpected lump in her throat, she nods.

“You’ll be safe, Lucie. And they will pay.” He captures her hand between both of his, gives it a reassuring squeeze. “I swear it.”

They lock eyes. And, fool that she is, she believes him. 

[gingerel]

Noctis isn’t used to Prompto’s house being so cold.

He’s not really used to seeing it dark without watching it slowly happen, without the sun set mostly visible through thin curtains and the tinny way his speakers blare out the soundtrack to their favourite TV show in the background.

But there’s a dozen unanswered texts and four missed calls from Noct’s phone to his and it was with more desperation than guilt Noctis demanded Ignis hand over the house key his adviser has stashed away in his car.

It’s only supposed to be used to rescue Noctis in the completely bonkers chance Prompto could ever hurt him. The door unlocks with one twist of the key and swings open under the gentlest of shoves. Noctis tries not to be annoyed Prompto never pulled the chain across his door.

Prompto wasn’t even at work today. Noctis had checked, carved out twenty minutes in his impressively packed day to drive down to the diner to be told, surely, that Prompto’s half a decade old phone had finally given up its valiant attempts to charge and receive messages. When he hadn’t been there Noctis had turned tail and fled, not willing to risk Prompto’s boss telling him Noctis had turned up to ask after him.

Not if Prompto was done. Moved on from Noctis without a word.

“Prompto?” he calls.

Ignis is idling in the car outside and Noctis waves before stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

“Prom?”

Mostly Noct thinks he manages not to be a needy boyfriend. Though granted he always feels like he could use more time with Prompto, that the time they do have is too brief and he often goes too long without Prompto’s laugh ringing in his ears.

They have good footing though, four years of friendship and an achingly slow realisation that, yeah, this thing he was feeling was both real and requited. Gladio claims he almost gave himself a bald spot yanking out his hair watching them run circles around the issue.

Noctis thinks that would be a decent sacrifice if that’s all it took to get him here.

Not exactly here, of course, not twenty-nine hours without contact and a home that seems to have had all the vibrancy sucked right out of it.

Prompto’s shoes are reassuringly by the door, but the sink is half full of dirty dishes and murky water. That wouldn’t seem out of place in Noctis’ apartment but it’s distinctly unusual for Prompto.

Noctis takes the stairs two at a time.

Three of the doors upstairs are closed tight but Prompto’s bedroom is cracked open. It looks dark and still within. Noct’s anxiety grows large and painful in his chest.

It looks empty when Noct first steps in and his stomach sinks all the way to his feet, desperately unsure of where to go from here. Ignis will know what to do, he tells himself, who to contact, whether twenty-nine hours is enough to report him missing, even though Prompto’s long since become and adult -

Noctis freezes, wondering if he simply imagined it but it happens again quickly after, a tiny weak little cough under the mound of blankets under the bed.

“Prom,” Noctis says again, padding across the carpet and suddenly guilt ridden he hadn’t kicked off his shoes downstairs.

He’s hidden deep under what must be every blanket in the house. Noctis carefully pulls them back, layer after layer until he reveals his boyfriend’s face. Prompto flinches even though there’s no light in the room to hurt his eyes and Noctis mirrors the reaction on instinct.  

Prompto’s sick. So sick he can’t answer his phone and Noctis might have laughed in sheer relief if he wasn’t so pale, skin shiny with the sweat sticking pale strands to his forehead.

“Prompto,” Noctis says softly. “Dude — babe, can you hear me?”

He pushes Prompto’s hair back off his forehead and despite how recently he’s obviously been sweating Prompto’s skin feels alarmingly cold.

“Noct?” Prompto croaks and immediately starts shivering.

Noctis curses softly and starts to unload his pockets onto Prompto’s already cramped little bedside table, gently pushing aside a Kaliva figurine to make space for his phone. He kicks his shoes into the corner of the room and quickly strips out of his jeans.

Prompto’s curled up into such a tight little ball there’s more than enough space for Noctis to slip in behind him even though it’s just a standard single. They’ve shared it before, though the process is usually much more enjoyable than this.

More forcefully than he would normally try Noctis tugs at the hem of Prompto’s t-shirt. It’s not damp through, not completely drenched but it needs to go. Prompto struggles against it, his subconscious not letting himself become less, dressed but Noctis strokes across his belly and kisses a cold shoulder until he manages to rid him of it, dropping it over the edge of the bed with a dull flump. Noct coos as he gets himself arranged, fighting Prompto for a moment to wrestle the pillow out from under his head and flip it onto a clean, dry side.

“Wha—what are you doing?” Prompto asks through chattering teeth.

“I’m taking care of you,” Noctis says, curling around him and trying to press all the warmth from him and into his boyfriend’s quaking form.

He hates that it’s Gladio’s voice in his head right now, almost joking as it tells him this isn’t the best way to go about it.

When he pulls away Prompto whines, dragging his legs back up towards his chest and Noctis shh’s him quickly, sitting up just enough to drag his own t-shirt off and retrieve his phone from his bedside table.

No amount of pride would stop Noctis from admitting that the best way he can take care of Prompto now is to call in reinforcements.

When he curls back around Prompto, skin on skin, Prompto flinches in a way that forces Noctis to anchor an arm around his waist and stop him from escaping. Prompto shudders, leg kicking out to catch Noct in the shin, but he makes a noise, almost a sob, and goes completely still.

Noctis kisses his shoulder again, rubs his cheek along it to help speed up how fast he warms up.

“You’ll get sick,” Prompto stammers.

“Shhh.”

“N-Noct —”

“Shhh,” Noctis says again. “Just get warm okay. Nothing else matters.”

He texts Ignis blindly — hoping it makes sense but knowing that almost nothing will get him out of the car and into this house faster is a string of incomprehensible gibberish.

“I missed our date,” Prompto mumbles.

“Doesn’t matter,” Noctis says, squeezing him tighter, fanning his fingers open across the soft skin on Prompto’s belly — as many little points of contact as possible.

“Make it up to you,” Prompto promises, only sounding half conscious.

Noctis laughs, knowing he absolutely will have the very moment he gets better.

He hopes his messages weren’t too desperate in hindsight. Not that he’d be embarrassed, just that Prompto would worry. He swears.

[lady-literature]

Accidental Crime Boss Marinette

Okay so,, I have this AU in my head, right? (not surprised) and I’m lacking any real direction for it (still not surprised) but it basically goes like this:

Marinette moves to Gotham.

She’s drawn there for whatever reason and the kwami are saying something about balance and being a Guardian and her sacred duty and something but Marinette isn’t really listening. She’s too busy trying to find a shop front where she can open a bakery without having to worry about getting mugged every time she steps outside.

Chloé comes with her, obviously, because they’re friends and Chloé has a business degree she puts to good use actually running Mari’s bakery and online boutique while Mari gets to bake and fuck around basically. Adrien, Luka and Kagami are not there, but that’s mostly because they travel too much to settle down and keeping an empty apartment in Gotham is just asking for trouble.

Kagami is a world-renowned fencer and Luka travels the world for his music company. Not touring, but soaking up cultures and ways of life so he can make soundtracks to movies and tv shows. Providing the background and life to a film is more his style than touring the world ala his father, Jagged Stone.

Adrien is having the time of his life being Kagami’s trophy husband. He has no pressing responsibilities he doesn’t take on for himself and he gets to fuck with the world’s elite with little to no consequences. He spends most of his days donating far too much money to charities and orphanages and then causing minor scandals that land him on the cover of magazines.

He has much the same kind of ‘dumbass with a heart of gold’ persona to the media as Bruce Wayne does, only without the playboy bits.

(There is a wall in the back of the bakery, where Chloé and Mari carefully cut out and frame every headline and ridiculous picture Adrien has. He is very much delighted when he learns about his ‘wall of fame’.)

Anyway, Marinette finds herself with a bakery not overly far from crime alley, much to Chloé’s chagrin.

(“What do you mean it ‘just felt right’?! I swear to kwami, DC, you’re going to get us robbed and sold into slavery.”)

They do not get sold into salvery.

In fact, despite their less than stellar choice of locale, they do pretty well for themselves. The only problems they have (according to Chloé) is the army of children Marinette accidentally attracted.

When asked, Marinette tells everyone that it was an accident. Meanwhile, Chloé, standing behind her, will shake her head and insist there was literally never any other option for them the moment that first kid came in looking to nab some cash and a few pastries.

Mari lives by the phrases, ‘kindness breeds more kindness’ and ‘do unto others’ and all that other nice person shit. Chloé just lets Mari pseudo-adopt her strays and makes sure that they don’t steal anything too important in the time it takes her to gain their loyalty.

The kwami stay staunchly out of any arguments involving the kids (and eventually the homeless all along their street and every working girl in a five-block radius). They do so with a special brand of amusement that never means good things for either of them. (After all, the last time the kwami looked that amused, they moved to Gotham.)

The first kid is named Serrure, as Marinette comes to learn over the next month after he returns again and again, getting closer and closer like a feral cat. Other kids come during that time, all of them too small and too thin and too guarded for Mari's tastes. She wants to wrap them all up and tuck them into bed but she can’t. She has to be patient, has to be gentle. These kids are just as likely to bite her hand as they are to accept help.

Serrure becomes an almost permanent fixture at the bakery after that first month. Mari’s not quite sure what she did to get through to him, but she did, she supposes. He can’t be much older than eleven and looks nine, but after getting settled, she and Chloé discover this little slip of a boy is just as mischievous as Trixx and has all the dramatics of their favorite black cat.

The kwami, when talking about him, only refer to Serrure as Loki, even after Marinette scolds them for it. She eventually gives up trying to correct them, it’s not like Serrure talks to them anyway(yet)((that she knows of)).

There’s an apartment above the bakery, which is where Chloé and Mari and all her strays that grow to trust her enough live. It’s three bedrooms, and at first, Mari just buys as many bunk beds as she can fit into the spare room and calls it a day. The kids feel safe in her home, which isn’t too surprising. Everyone thinks the bakery feels safe, feels like home or comfort or whatever else eases their minds.

And Marinette should hopes so. She certainly put enough time and effort and magic and energy into the wards around this place for that to happen. To protect her and the children and all her strays that no one else will help.

But, she eventually amasses too many kids to fit into the one room. Chloé throws a fit about having to share with Mari again—“I had enough of that in university thank you very much”—but she relinquishes easily enough.

Mari buys more bunk beds, and Serrure has taken to sneaking into her room to curl up in her bed anyway, and sometimes the smaller kids who have nightmares will come in and pile on as well.

(There are only a few that Chloé will allow to do the same with her. It is considered a high honor and breeds a playful kind of jealousy that Chloé finds amusing. Mari scolds her for pitting the kids against each other.)

That only lasts them another two months.

“This is getting ridiculous,” Chloé tells her one day before the kids wake up. Mari is at the stove, cooking and baking for a small army while Chloé balances the books. “There’s not enough room for us all, DC, and the only reason someone hasn’t come barrelling down on us about the abundance of children is by the grace of your absurd amount of luck.”

“Well I can’t just kick them out, Queenie! What do you want from me?”

“Either we need to buy more real estate in this city—which I’d rather not do—or you open up the grimoire and start building pocket dimensions. I know you can. I’ve read the chapter.”

Marinette looks at her. “That is such a bad idea.”

They do the idea.

And then Mari adds about a thousand more wards to the bakery, carved into the wood and counter and anything that’s a permanent fixture. Doorways become particularly ward heavy, what with them being the entrances and exits to the hidden realms and children’s’ rooms.

The apartment above the bakery isn’t quite infinite but it gets pretty damn close some days.

This also means, of course, that all the kids definitely know about magic now. Some of them—Serrure—have known about it for a while she knows, but it’s different now. The kwami followed her around most of the time and she doesn’t keep them trapped in the Miracle Box like Fu did, but now that the kids know, they don’t bother staying hidden.

The children, at least, love them and the kwami adore them with all the ferocity a god can give. After Chloé gets over her ‘ew children’ phase, she throws herself into their education (on top of actually running the businesses Mari keeps, mind you). She has the help of the kwami, who act as personal tutors to the children, and it’s not long before the kids start to joke about her being the Principal.

(Some tried to call her Warden, but that joke didn’t last long.)

Marinette has also been telling the kids bedtime stories ever since this started. Old stories of the Guardian and Chosens who fought back the darkness, she shares all she knows of the Orders history with these kids and it’s not until Wayzz points it out to her does she realize what she’s doing.

“Ladybugs are known for renewal. It is no surprise that you are rebuilding what was lost.”

Rebuilding the Order using children was certainly not her intention but, well. She supposes there’s no place safer for her kids than what is shaping up to be the new Miracle Temple. It’s the only haven where they can learn to harness their Gifts and powers, it’s the only place where they can be surrounded by others like them without being thrust into superhero-dom.

Context: about a month into this whole circus, Marinette had realized there was a significant—almost all of them really—amount of metas and Gifted in her little hoard of strays. Which is… odd. Especially with how few metas there are in Gotham.

She had asked the kwami about it, and they have that amused look again. “You are their guardian.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re their guardian. True, you are the Guardian of us, of the ancient ways, but you are a guardian at your soul too. You protect what is yours, and they are yours whether you realise it or not. The children can sense that, so they flock to you.”

And, huh. She supposes that makes sense but that’s also really kind of strange and weird and she doesn't want to think about that anymore actually.

So things are… fine, Marinette supposes. The bakery is doing well, and she has about two dozen-plus helpers running around underfoot to help tend to the customers or run to the store or help in the back with the baking. And every kid of hers has new clothes, their street things thrown out for being too ragged and replaced with something fresh made by Marinette’s own hands.

She embroiders little fairy wings into the clothes normally, because that’s what her cloaked wards look like most times and the kids like it and its technically the logo for the bakery and there’s a million reasons she does it.

It is, perhaps, her first mistake.

(“It was certainly not your first,” Chloé will snark one dayin the future.)

Because now Marinette has an army of magical children learning to wield their powers and not fear them and they’re all wearing what can be considered her insignia and uh oh, it looks a lot like Mari is some sort of up and coming mob boss who uses kids and prostitutes and the homeless as runners. People on the street start calling her the Pixie, start referring to Chloé—her second in all things just as Chat had been her equal—as Wasp, as Yellowjacket, as the Unseelie.

(They cannot seem to pick a name for her, but Pixie is all but engraved in stone. Mari is not sure who coined it, and she doesn't think she wants to know.)

The first time the whole situation is brought to her attention, she punches the idiot who dared even imply such a thing so hard she knocks him out.

Because look. The kids are hers right? And she watches out for the people near her, makes sure the working girls are treated as well as they can be and offers the homeless extra food and a dry place to wait out the storm. She offers her hand and gives them all a place to rest, to eat, to exist without expectations or consequences.

She does that because she’s kind, because it hurts her to see people in need, to see them suffer, not because she’s hoping to gain something from it.

The fact that most of them repay her in gossip or information or bend her ear about the newest goings on in the corrupt elite or filthy underworld is strange, yes, but it’s nice to know what’s going on in the city, she supposes. And one time, Kathy, who works on the corner of Brookes and Gilmore, warned her of a drug raid that saved her an unnecessary trip to the police station so it’s not like it doesn't have it’s uses.

But mostly, Mari doesn't really think about all the information that’s unintentionally or otherwise passed onto her. She remembers it all, because it’s rude not to listen when people talk to her, but nothing comes of normally.

Not until Serrure—now twelve and well versed in the magic of illusions and glamors and knows almost as much about this city as her or the Bats—bursts into the bakery one day and grabs Mari away from the front counter right in the middle of a customer ordering. She should, perhaps, be a little angry at that but Tony, one of the older boys and just shy of sixteen, steps into her place almost immediately, so.

And then Serrure speaks and everything is pushed aside in favour of the next words to fall from his lips.

“Someone took Sophie,” he says and she nearly sees red.

After Serrure, Sophie has been here the longest. She is the youngest of them all, only seven, but oh so clever and kind and while she looks nothing like her, everyone calls her Mini-Mari. If Serrure is her beloved first son, Sophie is her treasured daughter.

She’s out the door in the next moment, storming her way to their base. She has Sophie and a handful of extra kids back by sunset, a little frightened, but no worse for wear. She doesn’t make a big deal out of it, besides making sure that the idiots who dared cross her never do so again, but word gets out.

Soon, her kids and teens and adults begin giving her more than just information, they begin giving her problems. Ones she’s meant to fix because she’s Pixie. She’s safety, she’s protection, she’s the one the people start to turn to for help.

And enter stage left, one Jason Todd who’s all snark and charm and smiles wrapped up in a nice leather bow and tall enough that Mari likely could climb him like a tree. If that was something she wanted, she guesses.

(She wants. She just won’t admit.)

He becomes a regular at the bakery and befriends most of her kids.

Mari’s wary when he first takes an interest in them. They’ve been hurt and a lot of them are still adjusting to being safe and it doesn't matter that this man is hot enough to burn, if he steps even a toe out of line with her kids she’ll make him wish he was never even born.

But, she stops worrying eventually. The kwami like him well enough, but seem to think something’s odd about him—but its Gotham, who isn’t strange?—and both Serrure and Sophie take to him like ducks to water and they’re both good judges of character.

There’s a certain intuition they both have that reminds Marinette just a bit too much about herself and pure magic. Not for the first time does she wonder if they got such strong magic from their parents or if it cropped up in them randomly, fostered by fortune and chance and the magic that’s so deeply seeped into the bones of her bakery it’ll be here long after she’s gone.

And, okay, so she was a little right to be wary because Jason was mostly there to investigate her. Far too many people respect her and are loyal to her and she has a veritable orphanage in her pocket and also Harley and Ivy like her and it just- it doesn’t look good right?

But Jason’s a good detective and it doesn't take him long at all to see that Mari is just as sweet and kind and loving as she appears to be. Not long after that, Red Hood declares Pixie and all of hers, under his protection. She, of course, is more than capable of taking care of her and hers, and the underworld knows this, has seen it, but he does it anyway.

The news, of course, gets back to Mari and she is… confused. Why would the Red Hood do something like that? She’s heard talk of him being sweet on kids, but to claim her? They’ve never even met.

Bonus points for Jason being there when she’s told about it. He kind of raises his eyebrow at her because, huh, that was fast, and then spends the next few minutes talking up the Red Hood to her much to her utter bafflement.

He actually keeps doing that too, talking up the Red Hood. Mari thinks he has a crush on the man for the longest time because of it. Until he reveals he is Red Hood, then she just wants to punch his stupidly handsome face for being such an idiot.

Shit happens from there and things go down and the two spend a couple of months dancing around each other and intentionally and unintentionally ruling the criminal underworld and at one point Marinette definitely punches Bruce and Batman in the face—separately, much to Jason’s unending joy—and she also definitely adopts Duke/Signal as well because that poor boy needs to know he’s not alone.

And it’s just them being domestic and badass and lowkey raising an army of children and falling in love while the kwami and the kids and Chloé are all in the background just yelling at them to get together already!

Which, they do. Eventually. After all the secrets come out and Jason knows about the magic and Order and meets Mari’s other friends, ie Kagami, Luka and Adrien who are all intimidating for wildly different reasons. And Mari finds out that Jason died and came back (which earns him the nickname firebird btw) and that he was a Robin once upon a time but is now Red Hood and oh my kwami it all makes sense now.

Jason confesses like three times via classic Victorian romance novel quotes because he’s a fucking literature nerd but it’s not until he basically spells it out for Mari does she really understand. it’s all very sweet and heartwarming and then the pair duck into one of the empty pocket dimensions they have lying around and aren’t seen for three days.

(No one really goes to look for them tbh)

Chloé definitely teases them about early honeymoons and things but besides the two being even more ridiculously lovey-dovey than usual, life goes back to normal. Or as normal as it gets for them. 

And they all live happily ever after the end.

[just-a-quirkless-loser]

What Did I Do To Deserve You?

ITS WHAT!?!

Alpha Dabi x F! Omega Reader

Words: 2.5K

Summary: Dabi finds out it’s your birthday

Soundtrack: ‘Safety Net’ by Ariana Grande ft. Ty Dolla $ign

Cuddling with your alpha, Dabi, is always the best. His smokey scent always engulfs your entire being as his strong arms keep you grounded against his chest. He always looks at you like you’re the best thing on this planet. Although, his snuggles are the least of your concern right now. 

Right now, you’re trying to figure out how you’ll survive another minute of the cuddling position he has chosen for this moment. He’s sitting on the couch with you straddling his hips, your body arched into him as he keeps on hand settled on your ass. The other hand is fumbling with a Wii controller, clumsily playing bowling. It’s actually kinda cute how much your alpha loves to play video games (you hypothesis it may be because of how he was treated as a child but, Dabi barely talks about his childhood nowadays). 

The problem, however, is that your alpha has decided to make you suffer. His hardness grinds into your core every time you try to move. You swear up and down in your mind that he does this on purpose to torture you for going to work every day. It’s pure agony laying there, feeling yourself get wetter and wetter after each second. 

Dabi, on the other hand, is having the time of his life. He enjoys the way your core radiates warmth on his dick. Plus, you’ve been at work so much lately that he’s barely had you to himself for longer than an hour before you retire to your shared bedroom and pass out from exhaustion. Your asshole boss has been keeping you in the office longer since you have a big project coming up. 

The alpha within him hates being separated from his omega but, he understands that you need your own independence. Thus, having this Thursday morning with you all to himself has made him incredibly happy. He thinks for a moment that maybe you might be sick (you only ever call out of work if you physically can’t make it) but you show no signs of illness. Then, his mind rejoices at the idea that you’ve finally agreed to quit your stupid job and allow him to provide for you; you quickly shot down this motion and told him you simply wanted to relax for once. He pouts. 

“I’m not giving up hope,” you giggle and kiss his cheek. Kissing him on the lips would be a dangerous game right now. 

“I’m sure you won’t, alpha,” Dabi’s nose flares. Glancing down at you, he runs his tongue along his teeth. Goodness, how have you survived this long in his lap? 

Your starting match with your mate is cut short by your phone ringing. You flick his nose on your way up and yelp as he swats your ass in retaliation. You look back to glare at him but he’s innocently looking at the t.v., looking up at you with puppy-dog eyes. Sometimes you truly cannot believe this same man works for the League. 

“Hello, Momma,” you sigh a bit as you answer the phone. You didn’t expect her to call you. 

“Y/N!!! Happy Birthday, my beautiful girl. How are you enjoying it?” you can hear Dabi pause his game. You silently curse your mother for finally deciding to be attentive to you.

“It’s going good, momma. I took off of work for the day,” by now, Dabi is silently staring at you. His tall figure looms over you as he mouths ‘birthday’ to you. You nod your head, wondering for a moment how the fuck his hearing is so good. 

“You deserve it. It’s such a beautiful thing to turn 17,” you sigh once again. You suppose you were asking too much for your mother to remember your age in addition to remembering the day she pushed you out of her vagina. 

“Momma, I’m turning 20,” you try not to let her ruin your mood. You try to be thankful that she’s at least making an effort. On the other hand, Dabi looks at the phone in disgust. You’ve never really told Dabi about your childhood but, he had picked up over time that you were in the same boat as himself.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry. Time is flying by so fast,” you just shake your head.

“Yeah, it really is. I have to go, ma. I’m getting ready to go do some shopping. I deserve it.”

“Yes, yes you do. I love you, Y/N,” you can tell she feels bad.

“As I do you, momma,” you end the call. You know it must hurt her when you don’t tell her you love her back but, you’ve never been able to tell her that. You care for her but, it’s so hard forgiving her. 

“IT’S WHAT!?!?!” ahhh, yes, you now have to deal with Dabi. It’s actually kinda funny how your birthday has just now dawned on his mind. However, you don’t dare laugh because you already know he feels bad enough for not knowing in the first place. “Omega, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well, I don’t normally celebrate it. My boss normally gives me the day off no matter how much I protest. I just wanted to spend the day with you,” you relish in the warmth of his palm as he starts to stroke your cheek. You stare into his deep, cerulean eyes, feeling yourself get lost. “Don’t feel bad, alpha. It’s not that important.”

“IT IS IMPORTANT,” he snaps a bit, nuzzling your head. “It’s the day you were born to be mine. I don’t know what I’d be without you.”

“You’d be the same, just a bit more aggressive,” you giggle. You have no doubt in your mind that your alpha would be single without you. It takes a special kind of person to deal with your Dabi. 

“That’s beside the point. Why didn’t you celebrate your birthday?” your eyes narrow as he speaks in the past tense.

“I DON’T celebrate it because I never got into it. I never really told you this ‘cause uh,” you rub the back of your neck in embarrassment. You know that you owe it to him to at least give him a good explanation. “Growing up, my parents were on really hard drugs. I mostly tried to avoid being in the house after things got bad so I was out working most of the time, trying to survive. I never really noticed my birthday since, you know, I was too preoccupied with taking care of myself. Then, the years started going by too fast till I just gave up trying to celebrate.”

“Y/N, Omega, look at me when I say this,” he cups your face in his hands, his nose rubbing against your, both of your eyes staring at each other. “Never feel ashamed of your past. Never feel ashamed to tell me things about yourself. I will never judge you. I love you so much, baby. Never forget that.”

“Yes, alpha,” and the matter was forgotten in your eyes. For the rest of the day, Dabi treated you like a queen (although, if you’re being honest, it didn’t really feel any different from how he normally treats you. If anything, he didn’t even let you walk). That night, he cooked you dinner and played with your hair the way you liked as he lulled you to sleep.

Once he was sure you were asleep, Dabi crept out of the bed. He watched you for a moment as you whined, hand-stretched out searching for your alpha. Your hand soon found his scented pillow and you decided it would be your ‘faux’ Dabi. It was adorable. Dabi made sure to snap a few pictures before sneaking out to the living room to make his call. 

“Dabi, this better be fucking good. It’s booty-call hours and I know you’re not calling me for that….unlesssss?”

“Giran shut the fuck up and listen. I want to use some of my money to take Y/N on a small trip for her birthday. Not too extravagant. She hates shit like that,” Dabi was already regretting calling the man. 

“When’s her birthday?” Dabi could hear Giran shuffling around with a piece of paper. He could imagine he was probably writing down information. 

“It was today. She just t-”

“What the fuck, Dabi?!?! How could you forget her FUCKING BIRTHDAY?! SHE’S THE BEST FUCKING THING YOUR SORRY ASS IS GONN-” Dabi had to cool the rage of his inner alpha.

“She just fucking told me, you old, senile bastard. She wasn’t even going to tell me. I found out because her good-for-nothing mother called,” Dabi was pinching the bridge of his nose. He was still pissed you hadn’t shared something so important with him. He was even more pissed at himself for not realizing sooner. 

“Oh...my bad. How soon do you want the plans to be made?”

“As soon as possible. I don’t care how much money it costs to get reservations and shit. I just want to treat her the way she deserves. Also, tell Shigaraki that I’ll be out of commission for the days you book. I mean it. None of you better fucking call me,” his voice dropped an octave. “This is my omega’s time. I’ll let you sorry fucks die if you’re stupid enough to get into trouble while I’m gone.”

“Geez, I get it. I’ll tell the others. If it’s for Y/N, we’ll lay low for a few days,” you had managed to weasel your way into the hearts of the group. Every time one of them had come to your home pleading, you took care of them. Hell, even Shigaraki tolerated you. 

“Thank you,” Dabi meant it. “I’ll let you get back to your sleep.”

Then, he was back in the bed with you. You knew nothing of what had happened and he couldn’t wait to see the look on your face when he told you of the plans he (well, technically Giran) made. 

                                                          ***

“Hell no,” why did you have to be such a difficult omega? “I have a job, Dabi.”

“Baby, it’s only a few days. I know you have more than enough vacation days saved up. Just let your daddy take care of you,” you blushed hard. You had been getting ready for work when Dabi told you he had planned something for your birthday.

“Dabi, I can’t just not show up to work. Plus, I have work to do for this project,” you went to step around your alpha when he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into his chest.

“No, you don’t. I already asked your boss and he said you can come. It’s only for a few days babe. I promise you’ll love it,” he was giving you his pout. You turned your head to the side knowing that you would cave in to his demands the longer he looked at his face. You must resist temptation. You must...you must...you...have never seen Dabi look at you the way he is now. He seems so excited for whatever he has planned. You can’t bring yourself to deny his excitement. 

“Fine. What do I need to pack?” Dabi rejoiced in your defeat, smiling down at you. 

“I’ve already packed for you,” your alpha pulls a suitcase from underneath the bed. Ahhh, so that’s where some of your clothes had gone. “I’ve already got the car outside all gassed up, Giran said he’ll drop by to make sure the house is taken care of, and I’ve got your favorite snacks waiting to be eaten by you.”

This man truly loves you with all his being. You spend the next hours napping in the car per Dabi’s request. Even though you’d never admit it, it feels so good to have a break from working in your work cubicle. Maybe, you’ll decide to take a few more days off more often. After you wake up for your cat-nap, you eat your snacks like a good girl, giggling at any of the stupid roadtrip games Dabi comes up with. 

Every time you ask about your destination, Dabi just shoots you a conspiratorial grin and tells you to “enjoy the ride like a good girl.” You squint your eyes at him the first few times as you think about reaching over to grab his dick. You decide against it, your self-preservation telling you that idea may not be the best course of action. 

The day is slowly turning into evening but you don’t mind. The day has been immaculate at your alpha’s side. 

Eventually, Dabi tells you to close your eyes. You do so with no argument, ready to see what your surprise is (at this point, you’ve learned there is no point in trying to protest). You hear the car stop and Dabi helps you out, his hands covering your eyes as he walks you somewhere. From what you can feel, you’re somewhere with gravel. That revelation does nothing to tell you where you are. 

“How much further?” you whine. You’ve been walking for a few minutes now, every so often you stumble over a pebble, making Dabi laugh.

“How do you manage to trip and I’m literally guiding you?” you huff.

“Answer my question fool,” you yelp as Dabi gives you a quick swat to the butt. You rub the sting away and give him an imaginary glare. 

Instead of answering, he uncovers your eyes to the most beautiful thing you've seen in your life (aside from Dabi ofcourse). A log cabin stands in front of you, large windows spanning from the ground to the ceilings. It looks like it may be made of pine wood. Everything looks so polished and poised. But, that’s not even the best part. 

From where you stand, you can smell water. Walking a few steps ahead of Dabi, you can see a beautiful lake behind the cabin, the water glistening as it reflects the setting sun. Hues of magenta, tangerine, and candy apple sprays across the sky. Light is giving way to night before your very eyes and you feel yourself beginning to tear up. The sandy beach feels heavenly on your toes, the air feels calm and fresh, the lake still sparkling. 

You can still hear Dabi behind you as you wrap your arms around yourself. You try to cry silently but, you just end up full-on sobbing. No one has ever done something so thoughtful for you; no one has cared enough about you to do anything like this.

Your alpha doesn’t ask you what’s wrong. He just keeps you against his chest as he lets you deal with your emotions. By the look on your face, he can tell he’s done a good job by consulting with Giran. 

“Thank you.”

“Anything for my omega,” you grin. You’ll have to start letting him care for you more often if this is what he comes up with.

You both walk along the beach, laughing at each other when either of you trip on the mounds of sand. It’s another moment of calm that is reserved for only the two of you. 

“So, you do like the beach?” Dabi looks nervous as he holds you.

“I love it.”

“Good. It’s our beach now,” and, although it sounds innocent enough, you look at him with squared eyes.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I bought the beach,” give it some time to set in. Okay, maybe a few more moments of digestion.

“YOU DID WHAT?!?!”

—————————————————————————-

TagList💕

@sinclairsamess @sakurashortstack

[crispyimagines17]

“Maria Bonita” - [ Timothée Chalamet  | One Shot ]

Summary: We invite you to take a glimpse to the Chalamet’s house. A teenage parents who would do anything to protect, love and take care of their little one despite all the eyes of society. 

Written by: Crispy Imagines.

Soundtrack: main theme

Notes: A promise is a promise ppl, after two years of waiting Maria Bonita is finally here. First of all I want to thank every single person who was asking for this masterpiece, I hope i don’t let you down. Feedback is always welcome and nothing, enjoy it cause y’all deserve it.  Also, we attach several audios to make you feel part of the story, so contrast them just as a background sound. 

Tags: @miss2001babe ; @lg-vangogh ; @expectodonuts ; 

[1]

The creaking of the bed came to a halt as your two-year-old Maddox weigh crashes down the mattress; his tiny feet pressed on daddy’s back, sending a burst of chills down Timothée’s spine. Maddox hands traveled to mommy’s cheeks, pitching or stretching them as he let out a chuckle.

“Mommy?” he whines, kissing your cheeks softly “Mommy” he repeats, nuzzling his face on yours.

“What’s up champ?” Timothée speaks, his groggy voice echoing the room as he stretches his body.

“Daddy!” the little one leaves you and jumps all the way to Timothée.

“Good morning.”

“morning.” Maddox repeats.

You opened your eyes, and the first picture your eyes capture was little Maddox hugging tightly his daddy with a Woody on his right hand. When he saw you, you could see his eyes glowing and leaving daddy’s side just so he can be with you. Immediately you open your arms, letting his tiny weigh crash on yours as he looks at you with pure happiness.

“Hi mommy”

“Hi momma.” You hear Timothée’s voice as you rolled your eyes. He slowly approaches to you two, snugging and earning laughs from both of you. “How’s my family?”

“We’re fine. You need to get Maddox a shower bef-…”

“Noo…” the little kid as soon as he heard shower leaves the bed in such a hurry, leaving his favorite toy in bed. Both of you laughed.

“I’ll make some breakfast and I want you ready by the time I’ll call you.”

“Yes momma.” Timothée gets up from bed and before leaving the room he approaches to give you a tiny peck, then a kiss and later a passionate kiss; grabbing towels from the drawer.

“Come here little man, before I’ll catch you.” You could hear Maddox giggles all over the apartment and timmy’s footsteps running around.

…

“Come on bub, we’re late for school. Just put some damn clothes.” Timothée’s voice came out as desperation as Maddox was running in circles butt naked. He tried everything, baby shark song, let Woody shower with him and even doing some funny voices, but none of them work. He sighs, face palming as he listens to the little one singing “You’ve got a friend in me”.

“Love.” He speaks. “Can you help me with Maddox?”

“Sure, just watch the scramble eggs.” He sighs in relief, and lifting himself from the wet floor walking carefully. When he clashes glazes with his son, he mumbles him

“You’re going to get in big trouble, mommy is coming.” Maddox smile fades and the fear got in his eyes, so he quickly runs to his bedroom bringing the first piece of clothing he found.

…

“Dammit.” You whispered as you tried to adjust the child seat. Timothée was right behind you, holding Maddox; both of them watching you getting pissed.

“Let me try, love. Here, hold Maddox.” You sigh, extending your arms as little Maddox lunges towards you. You lay your head against his, as you rock yourself back and forth. “we’re ready.”

Today was going to be a long day due to your shift, leaving early sounds nice, but also means going to the grocery store, doing laundry, cleaning the house, teaching Maddox, do some paperwork. Although timothée helps you in every way he can there’s still more job to do, like you’re working nonstop all the year. As you drive towards Maddox daycare Timothées hands were on your thing, resting peacefully as he slowly reads some scripts.

“Shit” he mumbles, you looked at him with an arched eyebrow. He realizes his mistake and quickly covers his mouth and watches Maddox, who’s been gazing at the window without a clue of what happened. Timothée let out a sigh as he slowly began to read his duties when the little one laugh.

“Shet” Maddox said giggling as he smashes his toys. Both of you close your eyes in regret, he will now say the word to nonstop and the ladies from the daycare will complain, like always.

“Oh no.” you let out “Maddox, honey.”

“Wa mommy?”

“Remember when we said that kids shouldn’t say big words?” he nods. “You need to stop saying that, it’s rude and people will not like it.”

“Shet.” He repeats giggling.

“Love, say something to your child” you said looking at Timothée.

“Me? Why?”

“Cause you said the big word.” You insist.

“Why I’m always the bad guy…” he whispers as he take a breath. “Bub, what do we talk…”

“shet shet shet shet!” Maddox said out loud causing both parents to sigh.

“Well, we tried” Timothee said as you parked at the daycare.

[2]                                 

Picking up Maddox from daycare was the heavy stuff of the day, receiving each and every day complaints from the teachers about his hyperactivity, molesting other kids or yelling in story time. Today was not the exception, despite the look of irritation from the teacher you were calm and hugging a tired Maddox rocking back and forth.

“Maddox is… a special kid. His behavior today concerned the other teachers due to the fact that the child said the word shit many times. That cause the other kids to follow him and my job here is to ask you, Is everything okay with your… boyfriend and you?” you arched your eyebrows surprised.

“Y-yeah, we’re fine, Maddox is like a sponge absorbs everything, including the bad stuff.” You chuckle nervously.  She shakes her head.

“Kids at your age don’t know how to raise a child, it surprises me that you’re still together and with Maddox temper…” you were in shocked, does she tell you that? And in front of your kid? Oh, you’re so mad you’ve couldn’t hold your tongue.

“Believe me that my kid is surrounded by love and emotional stability lady, you have no right to judge me or my husband. We’ve been swallowing some bullshit since I was pregnant, but I will not tolerate to insult me in front of my kid. So, fuck yourself and your stupid business.” You raised your middle finger and walk towards the exit without looking back.

After you put Maddox in his chair, he looked at you in a lovely way, touching both of your cheeks and smiling.

“Love you mommy.” Your eyes watered as you kiss him on his forehead.

“Love you too.”

…

Going to the grocery store was Maddox favorite thing; the thrill of daddy pushing the car so fast; when mommy buys his favorite cereal and the music that always calms him. So when you said your next destination a chorus of happiness filled the entire car.

“Okay, we’re supposed to get the basic. Love, get a car and I’ll see you on the aisle 2.” You grab Maddox hand but he didn’t walk. “What happened?”

“Daddy.” He points with his little finger towards Timothée direction.

“Daddy will come soon. Come on, let’s go.” But Maddox stayed, making his little body heavier so you couldn’t walk.

“Daddy.” He repeats.

“Love he will come back, let’s go.” You tried once more, but he let himself fall on the floor, starting a tantrum that led all the eyes of the store on you two. You smiled awkwardly picking up Maddox as you tried your best to avoid the judge of the people’s eyes, walking down the first hall as you let him down with tearful eyes.

“Maddox, honey, you need to listen to me.” You cup his cheeks in an attempt to catch his attention. After he saw you his concern became evident.

“wa hapen?”

“Here you are, I thought you said aisle 2.” After he saw your eyes, his smile faded and he kneels with you two. “What’s wrong, baby?” you shake your head.

“Nothing, I just-“ you immediately tried to recover yourself and got up wiping your eyes. “We need to hurry up, we still have to make dinner.” You grab the car. “Love, please take Maddox with you.”

And so were you grabbing everything you need and both of your boys were trying hard to cheer you up by singing or listening to Timothee saying stuff like “Mom looks pretty today, isn’t she?” “We’ll make dinner so you can take a rest”

You were in line ready to pay and behind you there was a nice lady pampering Maddox. Timothee smile to her.

“Taking care of the little brother, huh.” She said waving at him. “what a handsome man.”  You both look at each other without saying anything. It was normal that many people believed one of you was babysitting a younger sibling or a cousin so you didn’t bother to correct the lady.

“Mommy sleep.” Maddox said, looking at you with tired eyes. Your eyes immediately watch the lady who was quite skeptical. “Mommy.”

“Oh” she only said. Your eyes travel to her, you’ve could see her disappointment on her face, it was something you’ve got used to it. You tried to recover yourself, this was too much for one day and it hasn’t ended yet.

“Love, can you pay? I’ll have to take some air.” Timothee’s eyes were concerned.

“Sure love, here, take the keys. Maddox will stay with me.” You grab the keys and exit the store as soon as you can, fighting hard to keep the tears from falling.  

When you get into your car you let yourself go, tears streaming down your face and allowing yourself to feel this way.

The migraine you’ve been dealing with was in its best moment, due to Maddox screams and the tv in all the volume it has. Timothee was in the bedroom with a script; he left you with all the toys, crayons and food on the floor. You sigh, frustrated and just when you were calming yourself you saw Maddox torn one of Timothee’s scripts and laughing. Timothee was behind him with a red face, taking him the pieces of paper to look directly at you.

“Seriously? Are you not watching this kid?” after those words your blood began to boil, throwing him the nearest object.

“Are you fucking serious? I fucking make dinner because you “innocently” forgot, I’m doing laundry so you can go to your fucking auditions clean; I’m washing dishes cause you’re so busy reading your stupid scripts and you can’t watch Maddox. And you’re implicating that it’s my fault that I don’t watch our kid? Unbelievable.” You said furious. “I don’t fucking have a break, I work my 8hr shift, pick up Maddox; do all the chores; helping Maddox with his homework; shower him, giving him dinner; make us dinner; shower myself if I have time; and checking some paperwork. You’re… You’re just auditioning, promising that one day we’ll be in a mansion and lived happily ever after, you do not do anything unless I asked you for.” He was shocked, avoiding all eye contact with you.

“I-I don’t know what to say.” You sigh, leaving the kitchen, taking one of your coats and leaving the apartment.

…

You could hear Timothee’s footsteps behind you, but you just keep on walking, breathing deeply so you can’t say something you regret.

“Wait, love.” He tried to grab you softly by the arm.

“So now I’m your love, huh?” you rolled your eyes, stopping yourself to look him in the eye.

“You’ve always been my love. Sorry for behaving like an asshole. You were right, I’m a completely shitty father. I leave you with all the heavy duty while I focus on a stupid dream.” You could see the sadness of his face, eyes beginning to water. Immediately you cupped his cheeks and touched your forehead with his, staying in silence for a couple of seconds.

“You know I’m the biggest supporter of your dream.” You said in a whisper. “But you have to be a responsible father and husband. We are a team; we’re supposed to help each other in every way we can. I’m not asking to give up on what you are passionate about.” you sweetly pressed your lips against his.

“I love you.” He said, with eyes pure of love that your stomach curled up.

“I love you too, handsome.” You stayed hug for a while, while you feel like there was something missing. It was Maddox!

“Oh my god… where’s the kid?” you lift the head to catch his eyes.

“I left it with Maddie, I think we should pick him up before she calls us.” You nod.

An so where you, walking back home holding hands having the warm sensation that everything from now on will be just fine.

 [Soundrack] [3]     

The sound of nature calms both of your boys, you suggest to travel to the nearest park to set up some wood fire. And now you are carrying Maddox tired body, the little one is closing his eyes so often, and it will not take too long for him to sleep; since he’s got his thump already in his mouth. Timothée was watching the stars, with a sad tone on his face he said:

“Sometimes I forget that I’m a dad. When they invite at some restaurant for brief seconds I forget that I’m someone’s dad, that I change diapers or fed him. And that feels weird, not good weird, like something is missing. I’ll never going to regret being a father at my age, I will have a long way to watch him grow and become anything he wants; and somehow that makes me happy.”

“I don’t regret either. I feel that this kid connects us in beautiful ways; we are his mentors to teach him the good and bad. I think we’re more than ready to take the challenge.”

“I love you. And I’m so happy I chose you to be the mother of my child, even if that means by accident.” You couldn´t help but laugh.

“I love you too. Come on, let’s go to our house.”

“At least let us heard one more song before we go.” Timothee got up shaking the dirt from his pants, he went to the car and shuffle a couple of songs before he found out the one. “This one will work. Let me get Maddox on the car.”

After he let the baby he slowly approaches to you, touching his forehead with yours, rocking back and forth as Maria Bonita was playing on the back.

“Even if this song is made for a Maria. In this park, at midnight with the stars and moon as witnesses you’re my Maria Bonita. The one I will always be in love, beyond my body and soul. I’m all yours baby. Just say the word and we will go to the nearest chapel.”  You smile.  

“Yes.” You whispered on his lips

“Promised me that you don’t lie just because you feel idolized.” You kissed him. “I love you Mrs. Chalamet. Let the world know I Love this woman.” You shake your head, chuckling, the song ended and to seal the promise he kissed you passionately taking from his coat a jewelry box; knealing.

“Will you marry me?”

[imaginethathaikyuu]

tis the damn season

atsumu miya x fem reader 

the first fic in a series i like to call “Me Writing Whatever The Hell I Want” (a working title) hope u like it or dont idk im not ur boss!!!!!!!!!!

synopsis: Running away was easy when you were chasing hazy dreams of a big city that was destined to be yours, when your rear-view mirror showed nothing but your hole in the wall hometown. But now it’s all waiting tables and failing auditions. You were still running, but somehow, these winding roads always lead you back to Miya Atsumu - a man you’ve loved and left, until you return home for the holidays. 

tags: friends to lovers, exes to lovers, angst without a happy ending, established pre-relationship, friends with benefits, reader lives in Undisclosed Big City lmao who has celebrity dreams, atsumu is ur good ole southern boy (sort of), canon divergent, not edited, light nsfw, beginnings of sex but isn’t very detailed 

word count: 4220

song inspo  (tis the damn season by taylor swift)

-

i won’t ask you to wait if you don’t ask me to stay… 

. . . 

The soundtrack of this early morning replayed in your head as you made a hazy drive to the neighborhood’s hardware store, cutting left onto the correct street and forcing the car’s back tire over the curb you couldn’t miss. 

The replay of events looping in your mind? A whirring, then a splashing, then your father’s booming voice shouting curse words at anyone who could hear them. Your name was laced in there somewhere with demands for you to get to the kitchen, and you couldn’t tumble down the stairs fast enough to see what in the hell was going on. 

It was your first day home for the holidays, and already it was a catastrophe. 

Somehow your dad had busted a pipe underneath the kitchen sink and a strong stream of water was spraying halfway across the room because of it - your feet landed in a shallow pool when you finally reached the first floor. You didn’t have time to think of any questions before the man at fault, who was on his knees with his head hidden under the sink relentlessly trying to turn the water off, sent you out the door with more shouts, telling you to go to Miya’s Hardware and buy… something. 

“A connector?” You were talking to yourself, thinking out loud as you finally parked, but it didn’t help you remember. All you could do was walk inside the store and hope someone knew what you needed. 

It’d been years since you had been in this shop, but it looked just the same as when you were following your dad through its isles. You didn’t even bother browsing now, though - you went straight to the back of the store to the counter, expecting to see a familiar, perhaps older, face eager to help you. 

That isn’t what you found. 

“Well, hey stranger.” 

That voice rang in your ears like you’d just heard it through a megaphone pointed directly at you. Something about it was so warm, but it left you with a shiver down your spine and goosebump ridden skin. You could feel the hair on the back of your neck standing up, and you hadn’t even turned in the direction the words came from. 

But you didn’t have to look in order to know just who it was. “Atsumu.” 

“What in the hell are you doing back in town?” His voice rang with excited confusion; it carried the same inflection as anyone who’s happy to see you. Like nearly forgotten family members at a reunion before it all goes to hell, or the way the tone of your father’s voice changes when you tell him you’re doing well and mean it. People don’t speak that way often. 

He pulled you in for a hug and you gladly reciprocated, already forgetting that you were supposed to be in a hurry. 

“Home for the holidays. How have you been?”

“I’ve been alright,” he replied. “I’ve missed you.” 

His voice felt more like home than your four bedroom walls did, the charming drawl and depth in his words immediately reeling you in. It was familiar. You had spent a long time trying to forget about that familiarity; too long learning how to straighten out your words and lose any hint of the small town you came from. But Atsumu - he sounded like the epitome of this place. 

He didn’t give you time to reply, for one reason or another; instead he decided to push you back by your shoulders and get a good look at you. Up and down and up again, likely noticing every change you had made to your appearance in your time away. 

“Are you still wearing your pajamas, or is this a new… trend?” 

You looked down at yourself, “Shit,” and closed your jacket tight over the old graphic t-shirt you wore, but nothing could cover your pink polka-dotted pants. And you’d have been hit in the face with embarrassment if the image of your dad and the broken sink and a flooded kitchen didn’t smack you first. “Shit, no, um… I need something to fix a broken sink. Are you… do you work here now?” 

“I do - and you’re gonna need to be more specific.” 

“I don’t know, Atsumu,” you laughed, slowly realizing the bizarreness of what you were about to tell him. “I woke up to my dad shouting and water shooting out from under the sink, literally flooding the kitchen. He told me to get a part for the pipe… a connector, or a couple, or something - I don’t know.” 

“...A coupler?” 

“Yes!” 

“...He didn’t happen to tell you what size to get, did he?” 

The look on your face must have been a good enough answer for him, because he took off into a random aisle and left you wondering just how many sizes of couplers there could be. 

“This one will probably do the job,” he said as his path rounded the counter. “If it doesn’t, then, I can ignore the return policy for you. Just this once, though.” 

“Thanks, ‘Tsumu.” You made your payment and he slid your product over the counter as his elbows landed on it, leaning down to make himself comfortable. Like he thought he’d be there awhile. 

“How long are you gonna be in town?” 

“Two weeks. Why do you ask?” You knew why - you just wanted to hear him say it. 

“We should catch up.” 

He was grinning and shrugging and fidgeting with his fingers, just like he always did, and you would never turn down any offer he made you. 

“We should. I’ve got to get home, but are you free tonight?” 

“We close at six,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at seven.” 

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” you said, meaning every word. You wondered if he knew that. 

“So will I,” he replied, and then you made your way out before you convinced yourself to stay. 

It’d been three years since you last spoke to Atsumu. In that time, you had done a lot that felt like nothing, living in a different city that felt worlds bigger than this town - that city was a place you had once convinced yourself was all yours. You had pulled off running away effortlessly. 

But it didn’t matter how much time goes by between your meetings with Atsumu. There was something there that you could never shake, the hold you had on each other was anchor tight. Ten years could pass and you would speak to each other like it had only been one day. You’d have world ending fights and one of you would always come crawling back, letting the other win as long as it meant things would go back to normal. 

You couldn’t describe it. You never tried, you didn’t need to. The unspoken acts between the two of you didn’t need to be explained. It was something akin to a best friend with all the benefits included and most of the strings attached - confusing and nerve wracking but still so comforting. 

Atsumu was the closest thing to home you had in this town, and somehow every road always leads back to him. With a few detours on your part, of course, because you just couldn’t stay away too long. Even moving across the country didn’t change that - not like you thought it would. 

You just barely missed the turn into your driveway, being so distracted by your thoughts. So much was rushing back, so much that shouldn’t be - it isn’t a big deal, it’s just Atsumu, but it felt grand, like this was some massive reunion. 

But it wasn’t. You were only here to celebrate Christmas with your family. You weren’t even planning on seeing Atsumu, let alone meeting up with him or rekindling any kind of flame that was once there. 

And it was such a rush that you couldn’t even question why he was working at his father’s store - or why he was even in this town at all. What happened to the dreams he was chasing? 

For what felt like the first time in your life, you had questions for him. But you’d have to wait all day to ask them. 

. . .

You were thankful to come home to a dry floor and a calmer father - he finally figured out how to turn the water off and decided to fix the pipe later. You knew he’d inevitably be paying someone more qualified to repair it, but your mind had no space for that problem. 

You were still trying to figure out how you’d meander the night with Atsumu by the time he was picking you up, and when the two of you arrived at his home you still hadn’t found your answer. 

Easing into this would be best, and once alcohol was introduced to the equation it would turn into a slippery slope. 

Nothing was hard with Atsumu. You knew that - that’s why you couldn’t figure out why you were having such a hard time talking to him. 

A lot had changed. Not between the two of you, not exactly. You were right back where you were three years ago: on his couch, sitting too close to him, laughing at something he had said that was only funny because he said it. 

But your lives had changed. Your worlds had changed. His mind had very obviously changed, and because of it all, you couldn’t keep pretending that the two of you were teenagers again. 

You had to bite the bullet and ask the question that was on your mind, completely knowing that he could throw a hard hitting question back at you.

It came out more effortlessly and lighthearted than you expected. “So… what happened to playing volleyball?”

Atsumu scoffed. “You still remember that pipe dream? Nothing happened, it was just childish.” 

You didn’t like his answer, so you pressed him. You worked up the courage to start this conversation, so you were going to get to the bottom of things. “You said you wanted to catch up - I know you, Atsumu. You get what you want and you wanted to play volleyball. You were going to be a pro, you were good.” 

“I know you know me,” he said, and the smirk on his lips didn’t go unnoticed by you. “I wanted to get drunk and chat, not start up a fucking therapy session.” 

You sat patient and waiting, eyes on him, refusing to go without the answer to your question. You were teasing, really, eyeing him up and grinning as you watched him struggle. The problem was: you didn’t expect the answer you’d get. 

“I - I had the chance.” There was a scratch in his throat that wasn’t caused by the whiskey he’d just swallowed. “I was being scouted and playing my ass off and there were talks of being on an Olympic team one day, but… shit happens, and that’s it.” 

“What shit, Atsumu? You didn’t just give up, did you? Were you scared or something?” 

You didn’t realize how close you were to him until his hand came down to rest on your knee, and both of you focused on that touch as his next thoughts became words. “Dad got sick. And ‘Samu had just opened the restaurant, and… there were bills to pay and the store to run. Even though I wasn’t his preference, Dad had no choice and left the legacy of Miya’s Hardware to me, so - that’s where I am.” 

“Oh. I… I had no idea - I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s fine. You were already long gone by then - don’t say sorry.” 

“I’m sorry,” you said, and you hugged him without thinking, but he hugged you back all the same. “I’m sorry, ‘Tsumu.” 

“It’s okay,” he told you, but you didn’t feel okay. You were sure he didn’t, either. “It’s not your fault.” 

You pulled away from him just enough to look at his face, and you hadn’t noticed the distance in his eyes until just then. As you looked at him, you realized it was only familiar to now. It wasn’t there years ago, when you got to look into those eyes every day. 

“I should’ve been there for you.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, but his words were dangling on an edge. He didn’t quite mean them. “You were off in your own dream. I got through it.” 

You only nodded. You weren’t sure what else to say after that. 

As Atsumu sat back against the couch, he brought you with him, tucking you under his arm against his chest. His lips on your forehead made you close your eyes and for a second, it was like you were both nineteen again. You could’ve been, if time would only slow down or freeze or go back - what wouldn’t you give for that? 

“I’m done talking about me,” he mumbled. “I wanna hear about your life now.” 

You laughed, but quiet, “My life’s been fine.”

“Only fine?” 

“You don’t see me on the big screen, do you?” 

He laughed this time. “Not yet. One day, though. Have you gotten used to the city yet?” 

“Oh… I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it, but… it does feel like home now. It’s so different from living here.” 

“I bet.” 

“I try not to romanticize it, but - I don’t know. It feels good, even if it’s not what I thought it’d be. The lights are pretty bright. Blinding compared to here.” 

His response was a nod, and that was it. If he had any questions or comments, he held them back. 

A break in the silence came soon, though. “You know,” he said, quiet, with a small laugh that was humorless, “I’m not as good at getting what I want as you think I am.” 

“That’s not true,” you replied, and you were setting up an argument you weren’t ready to make. “You got me.” 

“Did I?” 

“What do you mean?” 

Silence lingered, and after too long you sat up and looked at him, and that got him to talk. 

“Nothing,” he insisted. He pulled you closer with two fingers holding your chin, and you didn’t resist. “Nothing, baby. Let’s just… just be quiet for a while.” 

There wasn’t time for you to say anything else. His lips were on yours the moment he got his last word out. And even though you expected him to kiss you, it still made you gasp. 

You couldn’t describe how much you missed kissing someone you wanted to, and Astumu’s kiss was like finding home. His lips were like candy, sweeter than sugar; his bite was a freezing shock that always pulled a giggle and a whisper of his name out of you. He knew how to kiss you, slow and deep with a hand on your jaw to keep you there, never leaving you wanting more because he gave everything you could ever need. 

It didn’t take long for his kisses to trail down your neck, or for his shirt to come off, or for your back to land on the couch. You had already reached euphoria just seeing him hovering over you, eyes soft and hair askew; you didn’t need anything but this. You’d never want anything but this. 

You did what you always did - trailed your hand down his torso, over his golden skin, stopping just after every freckle or scar or mark. This time, you were looking for something new. You didn’t find anything. You didn’t stop until your hand landed on his waist, and there, you squeezed - 

“Stop, you little shit,” and he laughed, right along with you. A real and genuine laugh - you hadn’t heard that song in a long time. “Why do you always do that?” 

Finally he moved down to press his chest against yours, his hips locking in place between your legs. A perfect combination. 

“Why do you always give me the chance?” You were still laughing, not able to get over the cute sight. Atsumu was always so ticklish there, right on his waist, and when you made that discovery you swore you’d never forget it. And he sure as hell wished you would have. “You’re so cute. I’ve missed that smile.” 

“I’ve missed you,” he replied. Somehow you just knew that he meant it. 

“Don’t. I’m here.” 

“You’re here,” he repeated. Like he was reassuring himself. 

You took the initiative to unbutton your shirt yourself, so that there was no way for him to think that you wanted this to stop there. It couldn’t, not when you had him this close. And his eyes followed the popping buttons like stalking prey. 

“And you’re still the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Fucking hell.” 

You cringed - you couldn’t help the feeling in your gut when he gave you those sweet words. You knew he meant them in some way; you knew Atsumu wouldn’t lie to you. He’s never told you anything just for the sake of it. But how many times, in the last three years, had someone done just that? Told you just what you wanted to hear so they could get inside you? It was vile the first time. The second, it made you ache. But now, you’re used to it. Nobody means what they say. You’re used to it. 

And Atsumu could snatch up any girl he wanted. A girl who’s used to blinding lights and expensive wine and lying - or a girl who would stay with him, who wouldn’t push his buttons, who would be effortless in her charm and wit and beauty. 

You couldn’t put yourself in either category. 

“You haven’t seen many, then.” 

“Why would I even need to when I’ve got you? You’re a fucking dream. All I ever think about.” 

You shook your head, not even noticing you were doing it. Atsumu wouldn’t have it. 

“Don’t do that,” he said. “Not when you know what you do to me. You’ve got my heart beating out of my chest, for fuck’s sake - it has been since you walked into the store.” 

You never knew him to be so open with his feelings, or maybe you had just gotten used to being lied to. You weren’t sure and you didn’t care - all you could think about was kissing him, so you pulled him in, and you were sure he would devour you. You’d have no problem with that. 

It was desperate when you said, “I need you.”

And reassuring when he replied, “I’m right here.” 

He wasn’t close enough. You didn’t think he ever could be. And it was right then, when you were swimming in desperation, that you realized you shouldn’t have been doing this. It would only make leaving even harder. Doing it the first time was hell, letting him watch you leave and be okay with it. You hated yourself for wishing he wasn’t. And you were drowning. 

You hated yourself for leaving. 

You hated yourself more for coming back. 

And you didn’t want to be there, all of a sudden, despite the ache in between your thighs and the addicting warmth he had you trapped in. You didn’t want to be there and you didn’t want to leave, either - you only wanted something easy, but you’d never have it. Not here, and not in the city, and not with Atsumu. 

You felt him freeze, felt things shift. You hadn’t even noticed the way your energy had completely dropped. 

“Something wrong?” He moved up to hold your face. He noticed the tears in your eyes before you did. 

It was hard to look at him but you held his gaze, and his touch hurt more than it healed but you yearned for it. The concern on his face was genuine, the gentle strokes of his thumb on your cheek weren’t forced, and it all was making your stomach turn. 

He cared for you - obviously he did - but not enough to ask you to stay. Not enough to find trouble in letting you leave him. So maybe you shouldn’t have a problem with it, either. 

“No,” you said through a sore throat and a locked jaw. “Sorry, just…” 

“We don’t have to do this,” he told you. “We can just talk - I want to talk. If it’s too much -” 

“It’s okay,” you said. You tried to mean it as much as, “I miss you, Atsumu. I want you - touch me, I miss you.” 

“I know,” and he was wiping the tears off of your cheeks as he kissed your lips, “I’ll take care of you, baby, just let me. Stop thinking so much. Let me take care of you like I always do, yeah? You want me to help you feel good?” 

You always had a problem with that - thinking too much. He never hesitated to call you out on it. You nodded your head, strong and fast, like you were trying to knock the thoughts right out of it. 

“Please, ‘Tsumu.” You were crying for him, pulling him closer. “Need you. Make it better, please.” 

“I’d do anything,” he said. “You gotta quit crying, baby. You’re acting like our first time again.” 

You laughed at that, wiping your own tears and knocking his hands away. “God, that was so embarrassing.” 

“It was cute.” 

“It wasn’t.” 

“It was kinda hot, too.” 

“Atsumu!” 

It was his deep grin that made you relax again, and so did another blissful kiss that took your breath in a way that you enjoyed. 

“You can cry, baby,” he said, popping buttons on both of your pants, “as long as it’s because of how good I’m making you feel. That’s what you need, pretty girl. Let me show you how much I’ve been missing you - get these pants off, baby, let me see you.” 

He didn’t give you the chance to cry any more, at least not in an emotional sense. Your mind was stripped with your body, filled with nothing but him, no space between the two of you left for insecurities or questions. 

It wasn’t until he coaxed you into his bedroom that those things had the chance to creep back. 

Atsumu was out cold, cuddled into your chest and holding on tight to your waist, after smothering you in soft kisses and sweet sleepy words. You were comfortable there, warm and safe and content, but the pit in your stomach only grew. You watched him sleep, his mouth slightly open and eyes softly closed, and you wanted to reach down and kiss him but you resisted. 

It was late and you should be asleep but you couldn’t rest. You couldn’t stop loathing yourself long enough to close your eyes, and the more you thought, the harder it got to breathe. Your throat was sore again. Your eyes were watering again. And every word you wanted to say to Atsumu was tumbling out of your mouth and falling onto sleeping ears. 

“Why didn’t you ask me to stay?”

He didn’t stir. It was still rumbling breaths and the whir of the air conditioner filling the silence. 

“Everyone else did. But you. Why… You of all people should know I’m just as worthless there as I am here - I’ll never make it - I’ve changed everything and still…” 

You sucked a hard breath into your lungs to stop a wracking sob, just barely holding it in. 

“I just ended up here again. With you. I’m so alone without you but I can’t - fuck.”

It didn’t even matter what you were trying to say anymore, because you had no clue. You didn’t know why you couldn’t just stay with him regardless of his choice to let you go, but something in you made you run. Maybe it was worthless pride or a childish desire to be something more - you didn’t know. 

You didn’t belong in any industry you dreamed of working in. You weren’t born to be a star. You should know by now - should accept your failure and come back home for more than just one night. 

But you couldn’t. 

There was still a chance, wasn’t there? 

A chance to belong somewhere.

A chance to be led home.

A chance to make it. Would you die trying? 

You would leave in the morning. And you wouldn’t ask Atsumu to wait for you as he started getting ready for the day. And Atsumu wouldn’t ask you to ditch your own plotted destiny just to stay with him. 

But this would happen again. Every time you would swear it off and every time, you would travel roads that take you right back to this town, this bed, these arms. 

Running away would never get easier, but this is all it would ever be with him. He would never stop you leaving - and you would never ask him to.  

. . .

...so i’ll go back to LA

[mmonamona]

Halloween [corpse husband x reader]

synopsis: you spend Halloween with Corpse. based on this request from @slashersdream

a/n: Corpse in a onesie? more likely than you'd think. i really got carried away with this request lmfao

Corpse had always been a connoisseur of all things spooky; it was the reason why Halloween was always something to look forward to. This year, however, it became even more special since it would be your first Halloween together. It wasn’t like you had any extravagant plans, but he was excited nonetheless. When you said you just wanted to watch scary movies and cuddle all night, Corpse had been one hundred percent on board. 

...He just hadn’t pictured himself doing it in a onesie. When you first showed him the purple bunny onesie and insisted that it would be perfect for Halloween, he was reluctant, to say the least, but you smiled so brightly at the idea that he couldn’t bring himself to say no. You, on the other hand, were wearing a black onesie with cat ears. As cheesy as this whole thing was, you just wanted Corpse to have fun. You knew how hard he could be on himself, and you figured his favourite holiday would help him unwind from the stress he had been feeling lately. 

“What are we watching?” you asked, walking back into the living room. Corpse was already sprawled on the couch, huddled under a fluffy blanket with the tv remote in hand. You sat down, putting the bowl of popcorn between the two of you. 

“Uhh.. trying to choose between The Shining and Scream,” he muttered.

“Definitely The Shining.”

“Haven’t you watched that like a million times?” 

“Yeah, but you’ve watched it zero times. So put it on,” you said, reaching into the bowl of popcorn, “for such a horror nerd, I can’t believe you haven’t seen it.”

“I just don’t watch movies, ok?” He chuckled, putting an arm around your shoulder and selecting the movie in question. 

“Well, that's what I’m here for. We’re not getting any sleep tonight until you catch up on all the movies you’ve missed,” you responded, resting your head in his shoulder as the opening credits began. 

The nerve-racking soundtrack would have usually unsettled you quite a bit, but you soon came to realise that with Corpse’s presence, your fear just didn’t feel the same.

It didn’t help that not only did he seem unfazed at every scare, but he also teased you endlessly whenever the action managed to startle you. 

“Stop laughing, asshole!” You half-laughed, half-yelled, hiding your face in his side. As reassuring as being in his proximity may have been, it certainly didn’t make you immune to cheap jump scares. 

“C'mon kitten, it was so obvious that was coming,” he giggled. Sure, the pang of terror you felt every five minutes wasn’t ideal, but the way his face lit up whenever he laughed at your reactions was worth it. 

By the time you were halfway through the second movie, it seemed that both of you were running low on energy. You ended up laid out on the couch, your head on Corpse's lap as he played around with your hair. Not even the shoddy scares of the endless movie marathon could make you react at this point. The movie was mere background noise as you started drifting off, the feeling of Corpse's comforting hands almost lulling you to sleep. 

“Darling,” he said, and your eyes immediately snapped open. Right, you were supposed to stay awake with him; you had countless more movies left on your watchlist. 

“I’m not sleeping,” you answered quickly, but you feared the drowsiness in your voice would betray you. 

Corpse laughed softly, turning your body on its back so he could see your face, “we should go to bed now, it’s getting late.”

“Sleep is for the weak,” you grumbled, a frown on your face.

“Well it’s a good thing you’re weak, then.” he retorted, a playful smirk on his face.

In return you pouted, face scrunched into an equally playful glare, “you’re mean.”

“And you’re practically about to pass out. So let’s go to bed.”

You sighed, but listened nonetheless. You sat up and allowed him to follow suit, “We didn’t even get to watch Carrie.”

“We can watch it another time, kitten,” he whispered, picking up the abandoned popcorn bowl and placing it on the coffee table. You watched him as he lifted the remote and turned the tv off, and suddenly the apartment was plunged into darkness. The resultant gloom made you groan in protest. 

“Corpse.. now we can’t see anything,” You whined, only to be met by silence. Your eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden absence of light, and your boyfriend didn't seem to want to give any signs of life, “...Corpse I know what you’re trying to do and it’s not funny.”

You carefully tried to manoeuvre your way around the living room, still doing your best to hear any movement he made, but he was stealthier than you thought he could be. You knew that his goal was to scare you, and you didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

“Corpse I’m gonna murder you-“ your threat was cut short, however, by the feeling of none other than your boyfriend grabbing you from behind. 

“What the fuck!” You whisper-yelled, doing your best to not wake up the neighbours.

"You're such a scaredy-cat."

"Stop making fun of my onesie," you spoke, rolling your eyes at his pun.

"Purr-haps I will."

“I hate you so much.”

He just dissolved into laughter and gave you a warm back hug, his chest pressing up against your back, “You love me.”

“Yeah, whatever,” you muttered, “It’s still dark though, genius.”

“How do you even get lost in a living room?” He teased, guiding you in a direction you assumed was the bedroom.

“It’s not like I live here.” You retaliated. 

He went quiet for a second, “...maybe you should.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and a wide grin spread across your face, “Wait- deadass?”

He laughed in response, “Yes, deadass.”

You squealed and pulled yourself from his back hug, only to turn around and pull him into another clumsy embrace, “Fuck yeah! If you’re sure.”

“Of course I’m sure. I mean you practically sleep over all the time anyway. Just making it official.”

“I love you so much,” you cooed, hugging him as tight as you could muster, before pulling away, “okay, now where’s the bedroom again?”

In one manoeuvre, he leaned forward, opening the door to your bedroom. The moonlight gleaming through the open curtains illuminated the bedroom enough for you to see. 

“Oh. I thought we were further away,” you mumbled as you walked into the bedroom.

“How big do you think my apartment is?”

“I swear it feels bigger in the dark.”

“No, you’re just a dumbass.”

“Meanie,” you muttered, switching the lights on and turning back to look at him, “There’s my Corpsie! I missed your pretty face!” You teased.

He laughed, blushing and shyly looking away, "you're so annoying."

"Well get used to it, because I'm gonna be around all the time from now on," you smiled, grabbing his hands and pulling him towards you. 

His face lit up with a grin as he looked down at you, "you're making me regret asking."

"That's too bad. You're stuck with me now," you quipped.

He leaned down and gave you a small kiss on the forehead, "Wouldn't have it any other way."

Taglist [send an ask to be added!]:

@holosexualunicorn7000 

[organic-sprolden]

So I watched the Dear Evan Hansen movie.

Here are my basic thoughts.

I cried 3 times, and it probably would've been more if I didn't know what was coming. Although, "I didn't fall, I let go" will always get me, even if I knew what was happening and exactly when.

I liked the fact that they had a lot of the original lines from the musical because it was just so much more quotable for me and likely every other DEH fan.

I was hesitant about the new songs at first, and disappointed at the loss of the classic Good For You, Anybody have a map and Disappear (not To Break In A Glove though, that song can burn.) but in context, A Little More and Anonymous Ones were pretty great.

I really loved the new ending where we see Connor in rehab singing his song, I love how we were able to see more of just him.

Not him through the perspective of others.

Also the ending when Evan confesses what he did was sweet I suppose, but there still weren't any repercussions for his actions. Which I'm pretty sure was the whole point if them adding in that scene, rather than having the Murphy's take the entire fall.

Honestly though, I don't mind it, It's not like I wanted Evan to get all the hate in the world. I just thought that if they went through the trouble of changing the story, they'd add some actual conflict.

I was wondering why they changed the setting of each of the songs. (for example, Waving Through The Window starting in his bedroom, and not after Connor pushes him. If I Could Tell Her being in the Murphy's living room and not in his bedroom, leading to the memorable and rather unfortunate first "kiss" on Zoe's dead brother's bed.) And why sometimes the songs seemed too rushed and a little out of place, despite it coming after the same line it can after in the musical. (For example, So Big/So Small.)

Also, the musical scenes were very underwhelming. Waving Through The Window, Sincerely Me, Only Us, For Forever, So Big/So Small, Words Fail all had so much potential. Moving from stage to film opens up so many possibilities for cinematic elements that's would elevate and induce many more emotions than it previously could. The songs were basically just the person sitting in one place, singing the song, maybe with a little dialogue in between verses.

I want to see more.

I want to feel the songs, even if I already know the musical soundtrack by heart. At times it felt as though they had the songs thrown into the script just because the theatre fans would riot if their favourite musical songs weren't in the film.

Which kinda sucks.

Alana was... interesting.

I feel like I hated her less in this, but it's probably because we just didn't get to see her. Anonymous Ones is a great premise for a sing and honestly I was going to cry for the reprise, but it just didn't hit as hard as I expected it to.

However, Anonymous Ones is the only song that had that X-factor the others were missing. I love that it showed that even if you think you're alone and forgotten, there's always other people. and sometimes, you get so caught up in your head that you don't take the time to notice what's right there. Or, as the song says, "The parts we can't tell, we carry them well, but that doesn't mean they're not heavy".

The thought that "no one will understand me, everyone else has a perfect life" is honestly a little selfish but it is a thought that a lot of people have. That is what I interpret Waving Through The Window as for the most part, and Anonymous Ones is basically the opposite.

The scene where Alana walks into the gym, and we see Evan in the background was really insightful to me. I appreciate that.

Jared is another one we didn't see often, so was Heidi (but of course, that's basically her whole character.) But with Jared, we lost some of the best moments of his sarcastic/teasing personality ("School shooter chic" is the main thing coming to mind.) As is, he didn't have much personality, and no real reason to even be in the movie, other than to be someone that Evan talks to to explain things to the viewing audience.

This Zoe was unexpectedly really great. Especially how she did Requiem. I will always appreciate and fully understand her reluctancy to just join the crowd and say "He was a great guy, he will be missed". Her having the backbone to say "No, he was an awful person to me" is really inspiring. so many people that were victims to abuse feel like they should just go along with it as not to dampen the vision others had of the person, but it's not right.

So yes, this Zoe did a really good job of bringing the book Zoe to life on screen.

Speaking of the book, I wish they had included Miguel. Even if it was just as the guy at the end who sent Evan the video, I wish they would've shown just a little callback to Connor's only true friend.

I feel like bringing him back, like in the book, at the end to talk to Evan would've been so much better than Evan spilling the beans then just reading all of Connor's favourite books from when he was 13.

I will probably eventually watch this again and maybey thouts will change, but as of right now, I rate this movie 7/10 on its own, and 4/10 in relation to the musical and the book.

(there's also a whole lot more o can say about the actual message behind all of this, the issues I have with the actual plot, and the casting concerns I have but for now, an open review and discussion will do.)