#perks of working in a museum

[kittenkes]

Museum library shelves

[wannaeatramyeon]

DG x Reader: Manager and their Idol

8.5k. G/N. Soft, colleagues to lover (guess I love this trope). Masterlists

You had imagined life as a K-Pop idol manager to be much more glamorous.

You pity your young naive self. The one that envisaged schmoozing with stars and rubbing elbows with the movers and shakers, and instead set you on this horrid, lacklustre path.

What you didn't expect was the amount of time playing driver. Carting that stupid pink haired brat around. Waiting on him hand and foot during shoots and interviews, and being at his beck and call.

You have saved his ass more times than you can recall, ran through scripts with him, practised his stupid dances and moves alongside, protected him from unhinged fans and reporters and scavengers.

And yet you can count on one hand the amount of times he has thanked you.

Actually no, it didn't require any hands because he has thanked you exactly zero times for all your early mornings and late nights and for going above and beyond your duty.

Out of desperation, you had asked your boss if you could manage someone else and the request was declined.

"DG has taken a liking to you," she said, tone impressed as if that was something you should be proud of.

"Great," your smile comes out as more of a grimace.

And goddamn, this agency was so stupidly prestigious and the benefits and perks here really are second to none. Just why did Diego fucking Kang have to be their top idol.

.

.

The first time you crossed the threshold into his building, greeting the reception security guard and entering his penthouse keycode like you had been let in on the world's greatest secret, you had tiptoed around like a child in a museum. After all, this was DG's residence. The DG!

You had ooh-ed and aah-ed at every little thing. 

Taking delight in seeing his interior design of choice, the type of candy that he snacks on, the shampoo and conditioner he uses, the way he organises his desk. This is the chair DG sits on to eat. This is the sofa DG lounges on to watch TV. This is the bed he sleeps in, the bath he uses, the toilet he-

Any wide eyed innocence and awe evaporated after your first week working together.

Today, you stab in the entry code and let the door shut with a bang. 

You set his now cold coffee order on the kitchen counter and rifle with practised fingers through his unopened mail to see if there is anything you should draw his immediate attention to. You pick up his discarded clothes from the floor (and for fuck's sake, this suit jacket was on loan) and make your way to his bedroom where tufts of pink hair peeks out from under the cover.

"Good morning," you announce, locating the remote to open the blinds and letting in some sunlight.

Bedsheets rustle behind you.

"Good morning Diego," you repeat and give one warning, "I hope you're decent." With that, you throw the covers back to find the scantily dressed idol glaring up at you.

You remember the days when this sight would have made you weak at the knees. Seeing him half naked, in the flesh, freshly woken up with bedhead and half lidded eyes. It's what most of Korea dreams of, including yourself once upon a time.

Now all you feel is extreme irritation.

"Good morning," you say for the third time, plastering on a saccharine smile that you know DG sees clearly through because it is insincere as hell to anyone with half a brain cell. You let the fakeness shine through anyway.

For a split second, DG frowns as his eyes drop to your lips and then he pretends everything is good. Smiling back prettily, sharp canines on show and stretching. Lifting his arms overhead, showing a good stretch of pecs and abs and the line of muscle in a V pointing like an arrow straight down to his-

You roll your eyes.

"You're late." You throw the covers back over him and stride back towards the door. "We should have left half an hour ago." You leave out the part where you had been waiting downstairs in the car and after an hour of no show and no anything, you stomped your way up to his home.

DG, sensing your mood, adds oil to the fire with a smirk, "Why didn't you wake me then?"

If that idiot bothered to look at his phone, he would see a number of missed calls and unread messages from you.

Whatever.

"Hurry up."

.

.

DG has come across many people like yourself over the years. All cute and bright eyed, way too soft.

He never gave you any special treatment, for better or worse, and assumed that you would eventually burn out or give up and move on to something more worthwhile.

Unfortunately, in a rare turn of events, he had miscalculated.

Of course most people would be starstruck, it's only natural. But he mistook your sincerity and kind smile for ignorance and missed your sharp, observing gaze, and astute mind.

He's impressed, and he really can't remember the last time he was impressed.

In a matter of days of working together, you had managed to cut through the bullshit and within the month got him more compliant and docile than anyone else ever has.

Which should be a huge fucking problem, and raising red flags all over DG's mind.

...Except-

What's really troubling him right now, as he sulks in the passenger seat and you in the driver's, is that you have developed some sort of resistance to his charms.

Maybe a part of him does actually miss the you who he formed the first impression of. Who looked at him in wonder, with the same admiration that everyone else did.

Now that he knows you, he hates that he had thought that initial admiration was insignificant and worthless.

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DG has a stash of candy in the car.

Or more accurately, you keep a stash of candy next to him to a) Shut him up and b) Keep him tolerable.

If DG wasn't so aloof, the fact that he has an incurable sweet tooth (and probably cavities to prove it) would have made headlines as a cute K-Pop fact and likely garnered sponsorship and advertising deals with all sorts of confectionary brands.

You had only found out during your adventures as his manager, rifling through his kitchen drawers trying to find his goddamn phone that he misplaced and you stumbled upon his stash of candy.

It really was a disgusting amount, something you'd expect a gaggle of grade schoolers at Halloween to hoard, not Diego goddamn Kang.

And then you also found out if he's not quiet and haughty in the car, making the atmosphere awkward, he likes to comment on your driving.

Who even sits in the passenger seat next to their 'chauffeur' anyway? He complains about you braking too suddenly and not accelerating fast enough. How you drive like an 80 year old with cataracts, and you're too slow when the light changes to green.

The turn in your relationship happened when you snapped at him to shut the fuck up after losing the final shred of your sanity on a three hour drive.

DG, to your dismay, didn’t miraculously lose his hearing and turns to you as you silently berate yourself for voicing the quiet thoughts out loud.

Although, you're in the deep end now. You're gonna get fired anyway, so if he says anything else you might as well give him a flick on the forehead or a pinch or maybe a punch to the face-

Instead, he laughs.

It's nothing like the laugh you have heard on TV and in interviews. The rehearsed and manicured 'haha' or cool chuckle that suits his shiny persona. It's kinda goofy and a lot endearing.

What's even more endearing is the way he does actually shut the fuck up for the rest of the journey. You like him a lot more after that.

So. You digress.

The candy is a way to keep the sweet toothed maniac quiet. Even if it doesn't work, at least it's harder to make out what insults he's slinging with a lollipop rattling around his mouth.

However, he has never ever shared any with you. Any of the candy that you stock, and pay for.

(That you technically claim back on company expenses, but you're trying to be self righteous here.)

Ever.

In all the months of working with him, he gobbles away happily even if your stomach is growling and you refuse to take any yourself out of principle.

Until-

"Here."

"Huh?"

Taking advantage of your response and open mouth, DG leans into your personal space and feeds you some chewy strawberry something or another (which coincidentally are his least favourite), fingers lingering on your lips for a fraction of a second.

Three things happen in quick succession.

The burst of sugar hits your tongue.

You nearly choke.

You narrowly avoid swerving.

"Careful now," DG grins when you get the car and yourself under control, and glance at him with a scowl.

Good. That proves you're not completely immune to his charms.

.

.

That bastard has now taken it upon himself to feed you candy at every opportunity.

You wonder if he's doing some sort of Pavlov experiment. The sweetness trying to erase any sourness you feel towards him.

It sort of works, and you consider biting his fingers off one of these days.

You hear the crinkling of wrappers, one for him that he pops into his mouth, and one for you that he gives without asking.

You angle your head towards him, and his fingers graze your lips every time.

Neither of you comment on the change but the intimacy drives you a little crazy.

.

.

And DG too.

Because intimacy works both ways and damnit his little gesture to keep the pretty blush on your face has backfired.

The only form of intimacy he knows comes from discreet hookups and low key links. Not someone who is around day in, day out. Or anyone that goes deeper than one night stands and booty calls.

You're there, you're always there. Of course you are, you're his manager.

But today, he feels under the microscope with you standing a couple metres away and keen eyes watching the camera monitor.

It's a no nothing day. Standard schedule where he shoots a fragrance commercial and he exits a pool all wet and sultry, white t-shirt clinging to his muscled body.

Then another scene where he writhes around slightly on a sunbed and eye-fucks the camera.

How it sells a fragrance, he never knows. The mystery of showbiz.

"Cut! More powder!" The director shouts out, the crew springing into action and DG knows exactly why.

He feels strangely embarrassed and flustered, which has manifested into his cheeks being flushed, and god he can't even remember the last time he has been like this.

It’s out of character and he needs to get his head together.

As the make up artist hurriedly dabs on some foundation, you make your way over to him.

"Are you sick?" you ask, concerned and reaching out to feel his forehead with the back of your hand.

"I'm fine," He says, turning away from your attentiveness and staring at a point in the distance.

.

.

With most people, if DG wants them out of sight, they stay out of sight.

But as his manager, and a very competent one at that, it’s harder to get you to leave.

Not that DG wants you to either, don’t get him wrong. 

The only constants he has around him are people who want something from him. And yes, he knows you’re only in his company because you work with him. However, he really can’t doubt the concern he always sees in your eyes. The compassion and empathy even when he makes you want to scream and tear your hair out.

His standoffish demeanour is not new to anyone. It’s part of his appeal to be quite honest. 

Yet he feels bad over the next couple weeks as he turns it up to eleven and tries to create some distance. He registers the hurt on your face as he is extra short with his answers and behaviour.

.

.

Pandering to overinflated celebrity egos and the insane Korean work ethic often leads to after hour shoots and dinner delayed until past midnight.

Honestly, this wreaks havoc on your sleep schedule and your skin.

"Here." You retrieve DG's takeout from the paper bag.

A double portion of delicious fried chicken with a side of kimchi and pickles. It's a change of pace from what most idols order, yet he doesn't give two shits about calories or sodium intake and to add insult to injury, somehow manages to keep his trim figure.

You lament your soggy salad sitting at the bottom. As if it’s not sad enough right now - once you arrive home, the lettuce will be wilting and room temperature and you will eat it in your dimly lit apartment with nothing to keep you company except the sound of the TV.

DG notices you turning to leave his penthouse, and his mouth moves before his brain can.

"Aren't you staying?"

"What?" You double take at the question.

DG's company is usually worse than your lonely meal for one. 

He’s annoying and you frequently want to slap him, but how he has been with you lately has been troubling and you actually feel a sense of relief at his offer.

(You had wondered if you might have been getting sacked up until this moment.)

Nevertheless, in all your time working alongside, you have never had a proper meal one on one together. Nothing more than you driving with one hand and the other hastily shoving a burger into your mouth as he looks on in disgust.

You would have dwelled on this more, wondering what's changed, what’s happened, but then-

"I'll share." DG nudges the box towards you, and the delicious scent of deep fried, battered goodness wafts along with it it

All your misgivings and your salad is forgotten.

.

.

Almost.

No, you were wrong.

Eating with DG, without any distractions such as traffic to navigate or other boisterous colleagues around, is unnerving. Disarming.

His haughtiness remains, but how haughty can someone be when munching on a drumstick.

All frostiness from the past weeks melts away as you both eat your way through his chicken.

He’s talking more tonight than you have heard in a while.

You find him funny, and really quite bitchy. Which you did know all along except it's much funnier now his slanderous comments aren't directed at you.

And has he always looked at you with such a piercing gaze? So intensely focused on what you have to say. Even if you're just complaining about your boss, blurring your lines of professionalism, he gives you his full attention.

You really can't remember the last time you have been in each other's company like this. 

You loathe to admit that even with what an asshole he is, DG's shine hasn’t dulled enough for you that you don't understand the appeal.

.

.

Leaning forward, DG whispers into your ear.

To anyone else, it looks like an over-affectionate idol with their manager. If they could hear his words, "I'm going to kill you," they would think otherwise.

Ok, so this one is your fault.

The good times have to come to an end and maybe you should have been more careful with his pride and joy - some ridiculously overpriced and over-specced vehicle.

Taking advantage of the clear blue Seoul skies, the pink haired menace was the one who drove you today in his fancy imported sports car, but the speed limits and the rest of the traffic was not on his side.

Already running late, even for him, he parked somewhere convenient and illegal then passed you the keys, leaving you stranded on the sidewalk, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, as he strode off to meet his music producer and choreographer and left you to park his baby elsewhere.

Why he entrusted you with it, you're not sure.

You would have done it anyway though, because when else are you going to have an opportunity to drive a supercar, if your boss didn't call at that moment. Questioning your expenses and DG's schedule and confusing you about the fitting at a fashion house and hair styling appointment that you knew like the back of your hand but when someone is so confidently incorrect, you start to doubt yourself.

By the time you got off the phone after pacing up and down the street and checking and double checking DG's timetable, you finally make your way back to the car-

And see it in the middle of being compounded.

You had begged and pleaded with the two men who were having none of it and you left, tail between your legs, to beg and plead with the other man who you knew would also have none of it.

Damn, you hate it when you prove yourself right in these instances.

You know DG won't really kill you, but he will likely make your life hell for the next couple weeks.

.

.

A normal person being pissed off at you would probably result in the silent treatment until tempers cool down.

DG does the opposite. Sort of.

He takes pleasure in making things as awkward for you as possible, until you're squirming in your seat trying to stay professional, thinking about your job and your rent and your bills; or torn between wanting the ground to swallow you up.

Around other people, your boss, your colleagues, his colleagues, he sidles up to you all smiles and soft looks. Slips purposely into banmal, and then oopsy, pretends that he didn't mean to be so informal with you around others.

Gossip soon stirs about your and DG's close relationship, if there's something else going on. Only you can see the mischief in his eyes and the malice in his smile and you think about yanking him by the ear and demanding to know what he is playing at.

Alone, he denies any sort of miscreant behaviour. Barely listening to you complaining and snapping at him. Ending with him outright ignoring you and you fume even harder.

This time, you're not sure the punishment even fits the crime. 

Any guilt soon dissipates when his car is returned in perfect condition within a couple days but his performance lasts for weeks.

.

.

Teasing you has always been fun for DG - when your cheeks dust angrily with pink and your eyes burn with fire.

The equivalent of a boy pulling a girl’s pigtails in the school yard.

.

.

Meetings with HNH Group usually do not involve you. If it does, at most you are waiting in the car.

Luckily, there are also an assortment of cafes and restaurants within a stone's throw and it gives you some time to debrief and catch a breather from following DG's hectic schedule.

The downside is you're never sure if a two hour meeting will be condensed to fifteen minutes or if a quick catch up with Charles Choi and other Executives turns into an all nighter.

There's been days where you have ordered a meal, then had to abandon it with a sigh and a longing look as you spot DG striding out of the building looking pissed off that you're not already there, or stayed in the vehicle with the engine running and your stomach rumbling as short appointments overshoot.

Maybe this is another consequence from DG being petty and irate with you for getting his car towed - you're left snoozing at the steering wheel of your runaround, the idol standard-issue luxury minivan, waiting for his return.

It's far too late in the evening for anywhere to be open, only the fluorescent lights of convenience stores and glare of the HNH logo illuminates the streets.

DG opens the sliding door, climbs into the back and slams it hard enough to jerk you awake and rattle the entire van.

He’s sitting by himself in the back, which is odd enough in itself.

As you blink away the dregs of sleep, in the rearview mirror, you notice the stiffness in his shoulders and the tightness in his jaw. His eyes stare vacantly out the window. DG is clearly upset about something, enough to crack through his aloof veneer.

"Are you ok?" You don't get a response, not even a passing glance.

Obviously something has gone wrong with the HNH Group meeting and the stress has manifested.

You wrack your brains thinking of something that might cheer up this asshole and you think of the only thing that improves your mood when you're on the verge of a breakdown.

(Usually due to the aforementioned asshole in your current presence). 

"Tteokbokki and beer?" You offer. It’s past your bedtime but a sulky DG for the rest of the week will also ruin your week too.

DG briefly looks at you before going back to staring at the window. It’s not a no.

You don’t get home until past 4am that night. 

At your favourite late night hole-in-the-wall, you eat far more tteokbokki than DG. On second thoughts, you don’t remember him eating any at all. You’re talking and downing beers to fill the silence, trying to perk up this silly celebrity. Loose lipped and spilling far more details than you would if you were sober, with him seated opposite and sipping on a soda. 

As the night ticks along, he thaws and a small smile settles on his face watching you gesticulate and ramble about your life.

You don’t get home until past 4am that night-

With DG driving, piggybacking you up to your apartment, and tucking you into bed.

.

.

DG can’t stop thinking of the weight of you on his back, arms slung over his shoulders, legs at his waist and his hands gripping your thighs.

You slurring drunkenly into his ear as he climbs the stairs in your building. It’s mostly nonsense. He can’t make out your words but remembers your breath tickling his skin.

And when he wraps your duvet around you, the brief moment of lucidity in your eyes as you look at him, softer than you ever have, you tell him, “Thanks Diego.”

Diego.

.

.

Nothing changes between the two of you after this. Not really.

You still find him an enormous thorn in your side. Incredibly stuck up and haughty and you continue to want to throttle him on a weekly basis but you are immensely grateful for him not leaving you a passed out heap on the sidewalk.

You’re in the middle of chastising him once again, dragging him out of bed as he is running late and being an absolute dick about it. Taking it easy as if he has all the time in the world. 

Well of course he does. He’s not the one that will be getting an earful from your boss or on the receiving end of the production crew’s complaints, as if trying to manhandle and cart this manchild around is easy.

“Diego Kang, I swear to fucking god-”

"James." He says, interrupting you as he picks out and pulls an eye-wateringly expensive jumper over his head.

"What?"

"Call me James when it's just us.” He checks out his outfit in the mirror, seemingly satisfied with it, before moving onto his hair. “James Lee. That's my real name."

DG, or James Lee, keeps his eyes on his reflection. Inspecting his non-existent roots, styling his fringe to make it fall just so and applying a liberal amount of hair product.

Nonchalant and casual even as he offers something desperately personal about himself.

"James," you say, trying out the sound for yourself. A name that seems at odds with his loud K-Pop shell but you imagine a time before the fame and the celebrity and the pink hair and it somehow fits.

"James," you repeat, and receive a small smile in return. Then it drops as you add, “If you don’t get your ass in the car in the next five minutes I will kill you.”

.

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“James,” you think to yourself before you drift off to sleep that night. 

How peculiar.

“James, James, James.”

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Celebrities these days are multi-hyphenates.

DG is an Idol-CEO-Actor, or at least trying to add the last one onto his resume. On looks alone, he would have already gotten his foot through the door. Add on his reputation and popularity, he is drowning in offers.

What you personally dislike more with K-dramas scenes though, is how long things take. How much it revolves around other actors and their managers whereas DG being in the studio or filming a music video is pretty much all him.

This K-drama is supposed to be the next big thing. 

With the biggest names attached, including DG who is making a cameo. The cameo that was also scheduled to be filmed five hours ago but you have both just been lurking in his dressing room since.

Along with some measly snacks and refreshments, which the crew has been kind enough to provide. 

However, the snacks are all but gone (thanks to you) and the refreshments are dwindling and there is no end in sight.

DG, or James, as you have started to call him in your head, is on his phone. He’s always on his phone. Scrolling through news articles, responding to important emails and messages.

There’s only so much news or celebrity gossip you can take. You have exhausted your own social media feeds and you have spent far too much money on your gacha games and the guilt has set in.

You twiddle your thumbs on the sofa next to him as he takes no notice of your presence and you decide to rest your eyes. 

Why not anyway? DG doesn’t need anything right now, work won’t be interrupting you, and there’s nothing for you to do. Just for a minute or five. Until someone from the production team knocks on the door and announces that it’s time for his scene.

DG side-eyes you when he notices your breath start to slow and deepen. Falling asleep on the job, really?

Then you let out a snore before smacking your lips together a couple times and he holds back a snort. He reasons that he should let you have some time to rest. After all, you’re the one that drives him around, his life is in your hands everyday and tiredness kills.

He’s on his phone for a few more minutes, reading through more emails on PTJ Entertainment and out of the corner of his eye he notices you drooping.

Body slowly slumping to slouch over him, until your head makes contact with his shoulder and you’re snoozing happily on your newfound pillow.

It’s equal parts inappropriate and cute.

Ugh, DG is 99% sure you’re drooling on him and the wardrobe department isn’t going to be happy when he returns the outfit.

Either way, that’s not going to be his problem. He adjusts minutely, makes it just a touch more comfortable for you and continues to scroll.

.

.

You wake up to a wetness by your mouth, and to your horror, DG smirking down at you.

.

.

Despite none of this being your fault, you apologise to everyone about having to reschedule DG’s music video shoot due to the previous day’s K-drama delays.

To your relief, the music video goes swimmingly and without a hitch, and the production is wrapped up on time. 

You’ll happily bet that his new song will go straight to No.1. If not, then at least the sensual music video will guarantee DG remains top of mind for weeks. 

You’re updating your boss and even she seems to be pleased.

"This is just work." DG interrupts as you're mid call.

You look up at him, brows furrowed.

Holding your hand to your phone to mute the speaker, you whisper, "I know."

"Good," and he walks away leaving you as confused as ever.

It's not the first time you have seen him shoot an MV, which thank the heavens is so much more efficient than bloody k-dramas, and also not the first time that there's been scenes that emulate an intimate moment. Lips nearly brushing together. Hands roaming bodies under fake rain.

Even if DG notices that you're watching the scene, eyes glazed over and bored, he still felt the urge to explain to you that there's nothing between you and the leading lady in the video.

Once out of sight of everyone, he facepalms himself for his ridiculousness.

.

.

You’re right, and you absolutely love it when you’re right.

The song goes straight to No.1 and holds that position for weeks, fending off competition from boy bands and girl groups and other solo artists. Apparently it’s going to be the song of the summer.

The music video also breaks records for being the most watched within 24 hours.

DG only reviews it once for post-production checks and finds it just fine.

There’s something he can’t quite put his finger on that seems off with it.

He wonders what it would look like if it was you starring opposite him.

.

.

“Where on earth is he?” You grit your teeth and grip harder onto the umbrella that is threatening to be swept away by the wind.

And another thing with being DG’s manager: it’s fine if he’s late but not if it’s you.

(Although to be fair, this instance of him being late is likely due to this particular music producer he’s meeting with enjoying the sound of his own voice.)

You were running late exactly one time in the past, during the first couple days of managing him, when the skies opened and drenched the earth. 

Heavens forbid DG’s perfect, beautiful, flawless hair is ruined by the rain. 

It’s not like he looked like a drowned rat. The paparazzi caught him in a wet t-shirt, fabric clinging to his abs and his pink hair slicked back stylishly. Even the goddamn raindrops were running fashionably down his high cheekbones and dripping off his pout.

For the next week, the tabloids and internet forums went wild with how hot he looked. 

(Who knows, maybe that was the inspiration for his fragrance commercial.)

Nevertheless, DG was displeased and it made its way back to your boss how displeased he was.

Ever since, you have been the unfortunate soul waiting in all manners of weather for him. Rain storms, blistering sun, freezing snow.

Today, it’s your favourite. Rain. You shiver against the elements trying to take shelter under the building entrance canopy, the wind whipping the downpour every which way and you’re getting soaked regardless of how you angle your umbrella.

“Hurry up, DG.”

You check the time over and over. He would be early to his next appointment if he exited the building now. 

…On time.

…On time if the traffic was in your favour.

…Late, but not terribly so.

…Fashionably late.

… Late enough to piss everyone off in the room.

Shit. Just as you begin to fret, wondering if something has happened to him-

Clicks and flashes from cameras alert you to his royal highness finally making an appearance, ready to exit the studio and making his way over to the car.

He materialises by your side, and you mutter a familiar phrase to him. 

“You’re late.” 

It’s a mantra you’re tired of repeating, but he relishes if the amused grin is any indication.

Without a word, he takes off his trench coat and drapes it around your shoulders. His right hand covers yours over the umbrella handle, left wrapping around your waist as he guides you through the throng of reporters and fans.

“What are you doing?” You hiss under your breath. 

You can imagine the optics now from the papers and your boss. It looks… Well. Not terrible but not the best.

“You’re soaked,” is all DG provides, accompanied with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. 

He opens the driver’s door for you before he climbs into the passenger’s side.

.

.

Thank goodness for your gift of the gab.

He’s being a gentleman, you tell everyone that would listen. Isn���t this what Korea wants? An idol with manners and who looks after everyone? Is empathetic and caring?

Think how well it would resonate with the female demographic, who wants a boyfriend like this! The older boomer demographic, who thinks none of the young ‘uns have any manners anymore!

Your boss isn’t convinced until the advertising offers for umbrella companies roll in.

.

.

Truth be told, DG doesn’t know what possessed him to do that. Especially in front of cameras.

Though, it’s not like he could just let you get even more drenched could he? You’re standing there, looking pitiful and he was just going to let you hold the umbrella over him when he should be the one taking care of you-

Hold on.

DG frowns at himself.

Damn.

.

.

James Lee has never looked after anyone besides himself. You need to look after yourself if you are to survive this dog eat dog world. To make it atop the Pre-Generation, the First Generation and now the Second.

He had unfathomably high expectations of himself (that he managed to achieve) and low expectations for relationships (that hadn’t been proven wrong yet).

People have flitted in and out of the chapters of his life, no-one staying around for long. Definitely no-one staying around long enough to know him, for him to grow comfortable with. 

Perhaps it has been the forced closeness that has caused him to let his guard down. Cabin fever, in a sense.

But James Lee, Diego Kang, has himself also been around long enough to know there’s more to you and he wants more of you.

.

.

Finding reasons to spend time together isn’t difficult. Actually, finding reasons to spend time apart would be much harder.

You both get on with your jobs and your duties, even as the closeness grows day by day.

And every time when you’re alone and you call him James, his heart grows fonder.

.

.

Out of all the seats available in his apartment, James lounges next to you, long legs draping over yours.

It's another night in together.

These seem to be happening with increasing frequency. DG at least used to keep up appearances, networking with his fellow celebrities.

Parties where you used to look at him with distaste as starlets surrounded him, award shows that he couldn't care less about as you hung around in the background.

Now he prefers to stay in with you, using work as a thin excuse. Studying lyrics that he has already memorised, going over dances that are long ingrained in him.

"You're not going to her party?" You ask, you were sure this fan-favourite and DG were an item or had history. At the very least, the who's who of the industry always attended her gatherings.

"No," his eyes continue roving over the lines.

Then when you thought the conversation was done, he looks over the top of his paper, eyes sparkling with playfulness, "I prefer being here with you."

Oh. Your breath catches in your throat.

You think you might never breathe normally again.

.

.

No, that’s a lie. Any opportunities for rose-tinted glasses has long passed by. You both know each other too well for that.

You breathe perfectly fine. Actually, this morning you are taking deep breaths to try and centre yourself. 

It’s not working. 

“You’re always fucking late,” you snap, giving in to your anger.

Sometimes you think it is your fault for not watching over DG 24/7. That instead of going back home, you should just live with him so you can shake him awake when he is supposed to get up instead of when he wants to.

And does it hurt him to look the least bit contrite at making your life a misery? 

Why does he have to look so smug with a lollipop stick hanging out his mouth? Seriously, between all the rushing around this morning, when did he find time to look for goddamn candy?

“For fuck’s sake, James.” You’re speed walking towards his front door, looking at the Maps app on your phone and miss his smile at you snarling his name. 

You’re already running behind and every route to the recording studio is red due to roadworks or an accident or just plain ol’ congestion. “Shit!”

Your finger jabs at the elevator button multiple times.

“It’s not going to get there any quicker if you do that,” DG speaks lowly into your ear and you get the urge to pinch him.

Instead of prodding some more at the button, you turn around and prod him in the chest.

“You’re going to get me fired one of these days,” You growl. “It’s fine for you, Diego goddamn Kang, the star who is pretty much untouchable. I’m not. I’m replaceable. There’s a million people who would take my job-”

DG snatches your hand, holds it still. “You’re not replaceable.” Then adds with an infuriating grin, “So what if we’re late.”

The minivan is skipped, and his answer to your problem is his other pride and joy. A motorbike that looks far too aggressive and a complete death trap.

“I’m not getting on that,” you say as DG hands you leathers that materialised from god-knows-where and a spare helmet.

“Fine,” he says, shrugging and throwing a leg over. “I don’t think your boss will be happy.”

“Fuck!”

.

.

If this was any other situation, you would be acutely aware of yourself pressed up against DG’s back. Your arms wrapped tightly around his waist.

Except all you can focus on is that you’re going to fucking die. You think you might be screaming.

“Stop screaming!” His disembodied voice calls out. Oh. Turns out you are.

For some reason, DG had thought the helmets with built in speakers and mic would be better for communication. Fun, even. Frankly, you’re just giving him a headache.

(Not to mention the fact that he bought a spare helmet at all. And leathers that he thought would be exactly your size.

He had never rode with anyone before and you certainly had never expressed any interest. Yet he passed by a motorcycle store when he had rare time to spare, and visited on a whim.

If he dwelled on this anymore, DG is sure his headache would turn into a full blown migraine.)

Later that night, when the ringing in his ears finally subside, he will still think about the way you held him.

.

.

When public opinion is on your side, then that’s fantastic. Amazing. You tend to get away with all sorts of things.

When it’s not, the truth can become muddied and there’s mental gymnastics from all sides painting you as the villain.

Fortunately, public opinion generally works in DG’s favour, especially in the case of his stalker who got sentenced for more jail time than if she was harassing a normal person, but not long enough to account for all the distress she has caused.

Such is the criminal justice system.

Her date of release looms large and near. DG, despite his talent and fighting prowess, realises certain traumas can’t be erased.

He grows on edge. Skittish. Snaps at any and everything. It’s noted by journalists. Other managers gives you questioning looks

You don’t miss his change in demeanour. To you, the reason behind it is obvious. 

You’ve heard about this case, everyone has. It dominated headlines for almost a month: the crazy sasaeng fan who believed herself to be DG’s girlfriend before moving onto another poor soul and was finally arrested.

As he spirals, nothing you do or say to him manages to get more than a nod or a frown. You try to offer that she had fixated on someone else before she was arrested, hoping that was a small consolation to him. And though he managed a weak smile, the black cloud still hangs over him.

In the end, you pack your bags and arrive at DG’s one evening. Instead of letting yourself in like you usually would, you ring the buzzer, smile into the door camera and tell him “It’s me!”

The door swings open to reveal DG looking perplexed (and worse for wear). Head tilting, curious and inquisitive when he sees your suitcase and carrier bags full of snacks.

“I’m staying for a while.”

“According to who?”

You barge past him anyway with a grin.

.

.

The date of his stalker’s release arrives and passes without drama.

You miss your home comforts but it makes you happy to see DG’s mood genuinely improve as the days go on.

The luxurious oversized mattress, fancy spa shower, and jacuzzi bathtub also helps to make your stay a bit more bearable.

Not to mention each morning DG actually cooks breakfast for you. Turns out he’s not bad at all at playing a househusband, and it’s also maddening how he manages to get up each day before you when he hasn’t got any place to be.

“Thanks James,” you say, when he presents you with a home cooked meal and his smile grows a bit more each day.

.

.

Peace doesn’t last.

Blurry photos of you both leaving and entering DG’s apartment at all hours of the day and night make the front page of certain news sites.

Headlines scream with leading questions. 

“Relationship beyond Manager and Idol?”

“How a Manager seduced their Idol.” 

“Who is this mystery person that has tamed DG?”

Why anyone deemed it newsworthy is beyond you. You’ve been to his apartment a million times. 

Yes, you suppose the closeness of DG and yourself in the photos can look a little suspect. 

In this particular one, it looks like you have your hand caressing his chest when in actual fact you were shoving him away for a dismissive comment he made.

And the other photo, of his hand on your wrist, was actually him dragging you away when he spotted a herd of fans in the distance.

More pictures unveil themselves.

A snapshot of you driving and DG feeding you candy.

You and DG, whispering intimately in your ear as his supercar is being towed away in the background.

You red faced and drunk as DG piggybacks you outside your building.

His jacket wrapped around you, hand on your waist and angling the umbrella over you.

Him smiling down at you (ok, you admit that you didn’t realise how soft that looks to other people.)

Finally an exceptionally pixelated image of you both on his bike, that could be anyone really.

Unfortunately, your opinion is in the minority as the articles are inundated with comments and furious, tearful fans shrieking that their idol is betraying them. 

Simply unhinged.

.

.

The speculation grows. You’re damned if you do deny anything, damned if you don’t. Your talent agency puts out an official statement.

To your ire, the statement is ‘no comment’ rather than anything more definitive. You glare at James when you find out, suspecting he has something to do with this.

He gives you a shrug, and a familiar look of mischief.

To his credit, he doesn’t leave you completely to fend for yourself. You stay off social media for your sanity, and when the paparazzi hounds you, he's the one with his arm around you, cutting a path through the crowd and shielding you.

It adds fuel to the fire. Does nothing to help your case. 

Still, you can’t help feeling safe and secure with his hand guiding you - holding onto your waist, round your shoulder, or simply - 

Your hand in his.

.

.

Outside of the conference room, where DG is wrapping up a press release for his newest album and nothing else, a reporter slinks out and approaches you.

You’re used to being on the other side of the conversation. Part of the staff, herding DG through camera flashes and questions being thrown at him though there was always some sort of camaraderie. Both parties just trying to do their job with deadlines and targets to hit.

This time you just feel a weariness as you see this person making a beeline towards you.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” They say, holding out their hand for a shake which you take with reluctance.

“Hi.”

A voice recorder is thrusted into your face, and you automatically take a step back. “Hope you don’t mind, but I just have a couple questions for you.”

“Um...”

“There’s been lots of sightings of you and DG together-”

You open your mouth to argue-

“Can you confirm your relationship with him?”

A vacant smile settles onto your face. It’s a practised expression where you follow all the cues to be polite and professional even as internally you wish to be anywhere but here. “I’m his manager.”

“Are you two together? Romantically?”

“I’m his manager.” You repeat through gritted teeth, and you’re surprised to hear your voice calm and collected.

“Is that a no? Or-”

“What even is this question?” You scoff, ignoring the way your cheeks heat, and refusing to partake in this circus a moment longer. “This is over.”

You manage to at least catch them looking apologetic, before you stride off into a corner to take a deep breath.

.

.

DG, much more adept and experienced at fending off questions, had finished the conference early and caught the entire exchange, watching you both with a bemused look.

Walking towards you with quiet, measured footsteps, his hand settles onto your lower back as he murmurs your name.

He bites back a laugh at your small, startled jolt.

DG tilts his head to signal ‘this way’. You give him a look but follow him regardless. Trailing behind, moving far away from other prying eyes. 

Up a flight of stairs, through multiple fire doors, turning left then right then another right then maybe a left. It doesn’t matter. You’re hopefully lost and decide to just put your faith in this wretched idol.

He finally seems to find what he’s looking for as he reaches an empty corridor; stopping mid-step and you collide into his back.

“Ack!” You exclaim, hitting the solid wall of muscle.

He lets out a huff of laughter and whirls around to face you, noting how cute your look of surprise is.

How strange though, that this is his current position. But is it really unexpected that the person that has been by his side for months has finally worked their way into his heart and has somehow learned to read him when no-one else could?

If he really thinks about it, yes actually, it is unexpected. No-one else has managed to grow close to him before. As James Lee, as Diego Kang. Birds of a feather or opposites attract or everything in between, no-one has got him like you do. 

There’s still so much more to tell and show you but… First things first.

Fidgeting, you shift your weight from one foot to another, growing self-conscious waiting for DG to talk, only to find him staring intently at your face. Impatient, you give in and speak first.

“What is it?”

“...”

“Diego-”

“James.” He cuts in abruptly, “It’s just us right now. Please.”

You blink in shock at the please and correct yourself at his insistence, lowering your voice so it doesn’t echo down the empty hallway. “James, are you ok?”

“Better than ever,” he says, a smirk now pulling at his lips.

You register his change in mood and narrow your eyes, wondering where this is going. “Why are we here?”

“When the reporter asked if we were together, you said you’re my manager.”

“I am your manager.”

“But you are interested in me.”

It’s not a question. DG, no James, says it like a fact and there’s no doubt in your mind or his. You open your mouth to argue, then close it again. Open it once more-

What.

You feel some cogs in your brain misfiring and all you can manage is a feeble, “Huh?”

“You told them you’re my manager, but didn’t say no to being with me.”

“...”

“So. What do you think?”

“Of what?”

“Us.”

“You like me. Tell me that I’m wrong.”

You take a step back. “...”

Another step. “...”

“Tell me you don’t want this.”

And your back hits the wall with an oomph.

DG slaps his hand on the wall beside your head, bends at the waist and leans his weight forward until he’s eye level with you. “Tell me and I promise I’ll stop.”

“...”

You’re cornered and he searches your face for a response.“Y/N?”

“...”

Fuck. Fuck!

How on earth are you supposed to respond when he looks at you like this. When his face is millimetres from yours and his breath is on your skin and his dark eyes pierces into your soul, pupils blown deliciously wide.

With his stupid pink hair and his fringe flopping, framing his face and his high cheekbones.

The stupid canines of his poking out that gives him so much character and is so hot it hurts when he flashes it accompanied with an arched brow and an arrogant smile.

His stupid pout and his stupid lips, that you know is constantly moisturised with a fancy overpriced lip balm to make it look kissable for the cameras.

And Jesus Christ, you hate to admit it but they do. They 100% do because somewhere in the back of your brain you always knew they look kissable but it has been often clouded by just simply how annoying and bratty you found him.

Except right now you don’t find him annoying or bratty at all.

Even as he’s confessing his feelings with complete confidence, no unease, no anxiety or doubts, because he always had a way of worming under your skin and he knows exactly how to push your buttons.

Damn it all.

“Kiss me,” you tell James, and he isn’t surprised at all by your reaction, face lighting up at your confirmation.

He shifts. 

Hand coming up to cup your cheek. He rubs his thumb twice over your skin, savouring you any way he can before tilting your face towards his. His lips at first brushes against your forehead. Leaves a trail down your nose, peppers both cheeks and then your chin. 

He draws back once, takes in your sweet face and gives you a smile so soft it makes your heart hurt.

Then finally, after wanting this for so long, presses his lips against yours.

Diego Kang, James Lee, tastes like candy and sugar.

[mooniiify]

thinking about tsukishima.

thinking how he’s 23 ? starting to work at the museum. he’s at home, the one he shares with his so. laying in bed, his glasses almost falling off his nose as he tiredly read a book. you’re in the shower, doing your nightly routine by now. tsukishima was waiting for you to come to bed so he can finally go to sleep.

then he hears you calling, his ears perking up in an instant. the book, despite still in his hands, was long forgotten as he looked at the bathroom door, the one adjacent to the bedroom. “yes?”

“can you come help me with the lotion, kei? i can’t reach my back.”

without a second thought, tsukishima put his book down — not before bookmarking it with your hair tie that was somehow on his nightstand — walking over to the bathroom.

there you were, underwear on as you held a tub of lotion. he was familiar with this by now. this isn’t the first time you’ve asked him.

he takes a little of the lotion, just at the tip of his fingers and smears it on your back. i stay unmoving, enjoying his hands as they roamed your back. the smearing slowly turned into a little massage, causing you to sigh.

tsukishima leaned down. you could feel his mouth near your head, his hot breath hitting your ear, making chills run down your spine. “i’m tired. let’s go sleep.”

then you do. and as you fall asleep in his arms, you can’t wait for tomorrow night to come so you can ask him to help you with the lotion again.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

i’m down tremendously rn and can’t reach my back either soooo

[ilongfor-the-arts]

Just read the museum marquis fic and I love it. I wonder what would a fanfic where the marquis de gramont met a ballerina reader?

Poetry in Motion

Pairing: Marquis de Gramont x fem! Reader

Warnings: mild language

Summary: A tall and handsome man has been watching you preform for a while. What will happen when he finally chooses to introduce himself?

Word Count: 2.5k

I got multiple reqs for this! So, here ya go! Enjoy!

“You’re late Y/N!”

I dashed into the locker room, tossing my bag atop the dressing room counter.

“I know! I know! I’m really sorry! My apartment door wouldn’t lock and there was traffic and then-”

My director held up a hand, silencing me.

“I don’t care. Please-just, be ready to go by showtime.”

I nodded vigorously.

“Yes, yes, of course. I will be ready, I promise.”

She quickly turned on her heels and began walking in the opposite direction. Her blue dress swayed gently as the dancers rushed around her. Her spine was straight, her posture rigid.

I don’t blame her. I'm just as nervous as everyone else to see how this performance goes. Unfortunately, I'm a dancer, so rigid posture isn't ideal. I'm forced to keep my anxiety bottled up inside my head.

“Y/N.”

My friend called my name, jolting me from my trance. She was fully dressed, with a full face of makeup. She stared at me, completely stunned.

“Y/N, you better hurry! Everyone else is ready to go!”

I moved rapidly, quickly opening my makeup bag, praying I had enough time.

“What took you so long?”

I slapped my palms against the table, annoyed.

“Oh, Clara, it’s been such an aggravating day.”

I stared at my reflection, watching as the foundation completely coated my face.

“Do tell.”

I took out my eye makeup.

“Well, first my apartment wouldn’t lock.”

I closed one eye and applied eyeshadow as quickly as I could.

“My key wouldn’t work! And of course I couldn’t just leave my apartment unlocked so I had to bother my neighbor to get the spare key I gave her.”

I moved on to the other eye.

“Then there was so much traffic. Then I couldn’t find a good parking spot because I got here so late. Then I had to walk almost six blocks.”

My eye makeup looked... alright. Sure, if I had an extra hour, I could make it look fantastic. But, due to my unfortunate situation, I had to settle for average.

“Wow girl, that’s rough. I’m sorry.”

I pulled out my blush.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I think that cute guy will be here tonight.”

I scoffed loudly.

“He’s always here. If he goes four days without seeing a ballet, just assume he’s dead.”

Oh my goodness, that blush color was really clashing with my eyeshadow. Shit! I didn't have time to remove it and start over. Perhaps I could just add another color to my eyes, creating a strange hybrid color that would blend well with the blush.

“I don’t know Y/N. I’ve been here longer than you, and he only started going regularly once you got here.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Yeah, right. It’s probably just a coincidence. I doubt he’d spend a shit ton of money on fancy ballet tickets just to see some pretty girl dance.”

I watched Clara shrug from the corner of my eye.

“I dunno. He always dresses like he’s ready to meet the queen, and he sits in a box. He doesn’t seem short on funds. He definitely could be the type to buy ballet tickets just to admire you.”

Okay, the blush and eyeshadow looked fine. I could handle "fine." I could work with "fine.”

“I don’t know Clara. You know, when you watch a performance, faces and names blend together because there are so many people on stage. I doubt he picked me out of the crowd and decided I was going to become the object of his affection.”

I put on some red lipstick, trying not to be distracted by the fact that all the dancers I saw in the mirror were fully prepared.

“Besides, a handsome man like that?... he probably has a girlfriend.”

Clara perked up.

“Oh, so you admit you think he’s handsome.”

I rolled my eyes for a second time.

“I mean, come on Clara, look at him!”

Clara let out a loud and obnoxious laugh. My face turned hot. Thankfully, the makeup covered most of the natural pink that had begun to appear on my cheeks.

“Oh my God you have a little crush on him, don’t you!”

I held up my hands in defense.

“I am not having this conversation right now!”

I stood, rushing over to the costume rack.

“I’ve never seen him with a girl Y/N! I think he’s single and ready to mingle!”

Clara’s loud voice drew some attention. I swiveled on my heels and placed a finger to my lips.

“Sh!”

-

The show was finished, and the final bows were taken.

The roar of the crowd washed over me like a wave. I was moved to know that they were all applauding for this performance. As the entire company gathered for one final bow, I observed the crowd's faces contort into bright smiles. I felt moved knowing that at least one person in the audience was thinking about what a wonderful job I did tonight.

I hoped it was the man whose appearance I had grown accustomed to over the past few weeks.

The gold theater sparkled. The red seats gradually vanished as people rose to pay their respects to the performers.

I was unable to avoid glancing around at the various people in the crowd. I started in the box seats, hoping to spot a tall man with a penchant for fashion.

No luck.

My gaze was drawn to the floor seats. I scanned them all as quickly as I could. Maybe he sat closer? If he truly came to see me, it wouldn't hurt to get the best view possible in the front row.

No luck.

I'm not sure why I was so desperate for him to be here. Nonetheless, I felt my heart sink slightly as I considered the possibility that he missed tonight's performance.

We finished with a company bow. We waved goodbye, and quickly scattered off the stage.

“Y/N!”

Clara exclaimed as we walked back to the dressing rooms.

“You did so well! Jesus, I thought for sure you’d be all scattered from coming in late, but you really pulled it off well!”

I didn't notice her hands cutting through the air as she spoke. I didn't even bother looking at her. I kept my head down, stuffing various cosmetics into my black backpack.

“Thanks Clara.”

I said flatly.

“Alright, what’s going on? Who’s got you bummed?”

I grit my teeth.

“He’s not here tonight.”

Clara leaned in.

“What did you say?”

“I said he’s not here tonight!”

I snapped involuntarily. Clara retreated.

“Woah woah, how do you know this?”

“I didn’t see him in the crowd.”

Clara furrowed her brow.

“Come on Y/N, there’s thousands of people in that crowd! There’s no way you could’ve checked every seat for him!”

My lips were pursed. Clara wrapped her hands around my shoulders, soothing me. She leaned into my ear, lowering her voice to a whisper.

“I bet he showed up tonight. And if he didn’t, it was his loss entirely.”

-

The cold Paris air bit at my exposed skin. The chill penetrated my tank top, chilling me to the bone. I drew the sides of my peacoat together, attempting to conceal my torso and thighs from the wind.

I began to stroll, trying to enjoy the lovely Paris evening despite the fact that so much was less than ideal.

After about thirty paces, I was struck by an uneasy sense that someone was watching me. I initially ignored it. There were numerous high-rise apartment buildings. I'm sure that feeling came from being a window away from someone's living space, and the possibility that someone was watching me inadvertently.

I couldn't shake the feeling even after another thirty paces. The buildings in this particular neighborhood were completely dark. That is, everyone was sleeping, and if anyone was watching me, it probably would go unnoticed by bystanders.

I took a peek over my shoulder to ensure my intuition was correct.

About thirty feet behind me was a tall, lanky man in a black coat.

Alright, probably just a coincidence-

Wait.

I did a double take.

Holy shit.

It was the guy from the ballet!

This all is just one big coincidence.

I kept my head down, trying to maintain my composure.

His footsteps became audible. I focused on them, noticing that they were becoming slightly louder with every step.

Shit.

Shit!

God, this guy is a total creep! How could I be so stupid?!

I’m about to get totally kidnapped!

I started to move faster, trying to appear calm despite being aware that my heart was pounding in my ears. My blood rushed to my heart, leaving my face pale and cold.

God, he’s getting closer!

Jesus my stomach is in knots!

“Don’t look so frightened, darling.”

The man’s velvety accent pierced the air like a knife. My heart jumped.

I’m fucked.

“Really, I just want to talk with you.”

No way in hell was I stopping. My calves burned. My eyes were wide. My hands trembled within my pockets.

My chest came into contact with something solid. I stumbled back, looking up.

Oh my goodness, he was right in front of me.

How did he get there without me hearing?

The heat left my body.

I stood, wide eyed and perplexed.

The man's neutral gaze softened as he noticed my anxiety.

“I am very sorry to have frightened you, madame. I am simply a fan wishing to pay my respects.”

He placed a hand on his chest.

“I promise, I mean no harm. There is no reason to be frightened.”

He was considerably taller than me. In two seconds, he could pick me up and throw me into the back of a shady white van.

Nonetheless, his luxurious accent and courteous eyes made me believe he was telling the truth. So I allowed myself to relax ever so slightly.

“Did you come and see the show tonight?”

A smirk played on the corners of his lips.

“But of course. It would be foolish of me to disregard the opportunity to observe such talent.”

Wow, I'm going to give credit where credit is due. He’s a smooth talker. He speaks with such elegance. I'm unable to ignore his words. With bated breath, I await each sentence.

“Well, that is very kind of you to say.”

He slipped his hands into the pockets of his black overcoat, shrugging nonchalantly.

“I only convey the complete truth. In my lifetime, I have seen hundreds of ballets, operas, and plays. It is uncommon to find such a passion for the arts in the hearts of the prefromers. Few people allow creativity to encompass every aspect of them. But, I have noticed fire within you.”

He glanced deeply into my eyes, as if he wanted to capture some of the "fire" within me and preserve it for himself.

“I can tell by the way you dance and command the stage.”

The gentle breeze rustled the end of his overcoat as his pale eyes shone in the pale moonlight. He exuded a sense of mystery that beckoned me to embrace the unknown.

“Your blood runs red with creativity.”

He came to a halt, his piercing gaze catching my lips before darting back to my eyes.

“And, your beauty is unmatched.”

Forget about my face being cold; it was now scorching hot. I just hope I kept enough blush on my cheeks to hide the natural pink.

He extends his leg, the buckle of his pricey loafer catching the moonlight. He steps closer, the wonderful aroma of whiskey and bergamot wafting into my nose. The scent cloud muffles my brain, making me dizzy with anticipation.

“How long have you been dancing for?”

I raise my eyebrows.

“Oh, well, my entire life. I started the moment I could walk and I’ve pretty much been in the dance studio everyday since.”

The enigmatic man nodded, pleased with my response. I took my hands from my pockets, as they were sweating despite the chill.

“And… Do you enjoy it?”

I nodded vigorously.

“Yes, I remember, um-.”

I took a deep breath, careful not to trip over my words and reveal that my heart was racing.

“I remember my first official dance class. I was- about four or five.”

I swallowed, a lump forming in my throat.

“All the kids were complaining. I mean, y’know, at that age it basically is just an excuse for the parents to get their obnoxious kids out of the house.”

He chuckled.

Yes!

“But I never complained, not once. I loved it from the start. And, it’s completely consumed my life since then.”

He took another step forward. The distance between us was almost non-existent now. To meet his gaze, I had to almost completely crane my neck back.

“I can tell. You don’t just dance, you float over the stage. It really is beautiful to watch.”

His voice dropped to a sultry whisper.

“You are beautiful to watch.”

My stomach flipped.

My breath caught in my throat as he cupped my face with his hand. His grip was gentle, as if he were coddling a baby bird.

My mind was empty, a void waiting to be filled by him.

He exhaled deeply, a breath fanning over my face. I instinctively leaned into him, craving his warmth, craving his scent, craving…

Him.

He ran his calloused thumb along my cheekbone. My face was burning. I knew he could feel it beneath his palm.

He grinned.

“You have a very bright future in the arts. Paris is only the beginning.”

I could sense the tension rising. I was on the edge of my seat, waiting for something magnificent to unfold.

A hug?

A proclamation of love?

A kiss?

“I hope and pray that you will allow me to be an integral component of your bright future.”

He slipped something into my empty pocket sneakily. He smiled broadly. My heart skipped a beat. His smile was enticing, so simple yet so effective.

“Call me, Ma chère.”

He took a step back, turned, and began to stroll away. My shoulders loosened. My chest gave way. My cheeks had lost their warmth. The tension had been released.

I could breathe.

I could think.

“Wait!”

I shouted. He glanced over his shoulder.

His figure looked very intriguing. Most of his ridges and curves were hidden by his long coat. It enticed one to venture into uncharted territories.

“What’s your name?”

He scoffed.

“When you call, I will tell you.”

[archaic-stranger]

the greek students

seeing the roots of modern life in antiquity

a deck of flashcards, learning the unfamiliar words by heart

quiet afternoons spent in museums

attention to detail and impeccable grammar

socratic dialogues and fast-paced conversations

fragments of ancient pottery, beautiful in their intricacy

perking up when greek letters show up in your math or science classes

a rich vocabulary

reading the works of long-dead philosophers, applying their ideas to the present

stories passed down for thousands of years, still as poignant as if they'd been written yesterday

flaky spanakopita that melts on your tongue

recognizing where mythology and history overlap

reciting poetry until the words flow from your mouth

tracing the letters on an ancient scroll

warming your face under the rays of a mediterranean sun

wondering about the lives of those who came before you

the satisfaction of translating a sentence without looking up any of the words

a pantheon of gods, learning their stories by heart

arguing over the best translations of the Iliad and Odyssey

recognizing greek roots in words you use every day

copying the alphabet until its letters are as familiar to you as those of your native tongue

[cloudcountry]

SUMMARY: you make sure caldarus is comfortable during a snowy day.

COMMENTS: for the dragon lovers. i hear you. @xxoomiii you asked to be tagged so here you are my wifey!!

Caldarus stands faithfully at the entrance to your farm, as tall and rigid and stoney as always. He’s awkward but it hardly shows, feeling the tendrils of sleep creep into his brain while knowing he will never truly be asleep.

Ironically enough, he will also never truly be awake.

He will forever be unaware of what led him to becoming nothing but a humble lawn ornament on your lawn, surrounded by the stone furniture you collected from the museum, placed to create a happier space around him. He is thankful for the gesture, yet another act of kindness he owes you for, even though he claims not to need it. It’s people like you who make the world turn. It is people like you who change the world. Caldarus knows that.

The lights in your house are on. The sheet of snowflakes makes the light seem fuzzy, and the wind is steadily growing stronger, but the warm glow of your presence does not fade. For some reason, he finds it difficult to take his eyes away from it. In all the years you’ve been here (what was it now, four? five?) he’s never felt this way. It puzzles him, like an ancient riddle or a new device humans created to keep up with the times.

People like you are always doing better, scrambling for a perfection that doesn’t exist. It’s as admirable as it is foolish.

He hears the door to your house open, and he’s certain his ears would have perked up had they not been stones. He can’t move his head but that doesn’t stop the instinctual urge to turn his neck, to see you, to catch even a single glimpse of what you were doing.

He’s thankful when you appear in the corner of his vision, making your way past the stone lamps and onto the giant stone pathway you put in front of his statue, a sign of respect for him and a testament to your hard work keeping the weeds and debris away from him.

“Hi Caldarus. I made you something.” you smile, and it’s only then that he notices the multicolored bundle in your arms.

“Oh?” he inquires, “What is it?”

You unfurl the bundle with a flick of your wrists, revealing a tapestry of some sort. Caldarus stares warily as you clamber onto his pedestal, positioning your body directly in front of him as you spread the colorful sheet over his body.

“A blanket?” he asks incredulously, a deep chuckle rumbling through his stone maw, “I told you, I have no need for such things. You didn’t have to do this.”

“I wanted to.” you say sternly, adjusting the blanket so it fits over his back, tucking it around his shoulders securely, “Comfort is a luxury and you deserve it.”

He wishes he had something to say to that. Something witty, or something wise, or something to ignore the way something inside him melts, warm and heavy and thick. It sinks into every atom of his being, and although he isn’t breathing (he hasn’t done so properly since he was turned to stone) and feels his chest shudder.

Oh.

Oh.

You step back and admire your handiwork, your warm hand gentle against his cold cheek. Your mouth is moving but he can’t hear the words you’re saying, his ears are too busy ringing and his eyes are flicking between you and the tips of the blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

“You look cozy.” is what he hears you say, and you laugh so sweetly it sends his heart ablaze.

How could he be such a fool?

All that time he spent watching you tend to your crops, all that encouragement he offered you when you helped out the town, all of the snippets of your conversations he overheard, all of his yearning to retain that information if nothing else—

It was love.

“Thank you.” he says, voice gravelly with gratitude.

You perk up at his thanks and pat his snout, jumping off his pedestal and landing gracefully on the snow in front of him.

“Reckless.” he tuts, because what if you sprained an ankle or broke a leg, humans are so fragile and he is in no position to take care of you.

“I’ll be okay Calda. You know that.” you salute, going on your merry way with a promise to be back before nine and to sit with him until midnight.

For the first time, Caldarus feels impatient for your return.

[heartthrobin]

press your tulips to mine

steven grant x female!reader

wc: 4.6k

warnings: mutual pining, steven is a shy babygirl, marc playing wingman (but he's kinda terrible at it cause he's also falling in love), no jake (the crowd is booing), no khonshu, steven still works at the museum, post mk s1, no use of y/n

an: rewatched the whole of mk last night and needed to write about my dearest stevie :)) don't forget to repost to support your fav writers

summary: Steven's apartment has become overrun with more bouquets of flowers than any one man could ever find use for, but they would continue to pile up as long as the pretty girl at the flower shop continued to melt him with that syrupy smile each time he walked in.

Steven Grant had never given much thought to flowers.

Sure, he could offer a momentary appreciation for a flicker of yellow growing out the cracks in London sidewalks or maybe if he passed a house with a particularly impressive rose bush he could smile, but beyond that flowers remained mostly inconsequential.

Steven never had girlfriends in high school, or - to be frank - thereafter either.

He’d never had to pick out a bouquet, one that he would need to consider: does this match her eyes? will it match her dress? how does it smell?

In the face of discovering that he was unalone in the occupancy of his five foot nine frame and fighting in the name of an Egyptian moon-god, Steven had less time than ever to consider his frighteningly barren love life or the lack of interest in flowers on account of it.

Isn’t life funny? In the way that we look so far beyond ourselves for answers, when sometimes they’re just around the corner.

Specifically the corner one street over from the museum.

Steven had walked the path to work plenty of times. A designated route. In the days when he still worked at the gift shop, the same route now that he’d been bumped up to tour guide.

Until one otherwise unimportant morning when construction bound his usual way, forcing him a walk further around the block: adding another four minutes to his trip and a view of the quaint shops down Little Russel street.

He hadn’t been down there in months. His last venture had been in search of a pharmacy for sleeping tablets, when Khonshu was still a nightmare and Marc nothing more than a migraine.

Steven noticed first that the pharmacy no longer stood. In fact, the previously white brick face of it’s stand had been painted a lush lemonade-pink. The Petal Parlour.

Almost immediately, in just about the same breath, Steven’s eyes found a woman leaned over a broom and sweeping the edge of the shop step. She was humming, he could just make out a Stevie Wonder tune.

The morning light flickered off your hair as if off the face of a pond out in a beautiful garden. An elderly man passed your work, uttering a greeting, and you'd perked up with a melodic: "good morning Mr B!"

Steven's footfalls stalled down the sidewalk. A man crashed into his back, strewing the contents of his messenger bag around him. "Watch where you're going, asshole!" He'd seethed at him.

By the time Steven had looked up, you'd already retreated back into the shop. He could make out your outline through the stained glass front.

There hadn't been a day since that Steven had taken his normal, considerably shorter, route to work. He got up five minutes earlier each day, brushed his teeth, made a cup of tea and let the memory of you swim behind his eyes. He could hear Marc's sighs every time.

Most mornings you were inside. Steven would deflate when he rounded the block to an empty corner, but he refused to consider it a total loss because - more often than not - he could make out your figure beyond the window fiddling with petunias on a shelf or smiling at a customer.

Some mornings, when he found himself most lucky, you'd be outside the shop. Usually clipping stray leaves off the rows of bouquets that glimmered happily at the people passing down the street. When it rained, Steven was privy to the way your hair clung to your forehead and the smudge of black mascara beneath your eyes. In the sunlight your arms were exposed from under a pink work shirt and a soil-stained apron.

It went like that for nearly a month. Between Steven and Marc's alternating schedules, he learned to appreciate the slim sightings of you he could manage. Marc didn't make it any easier, mind you, with the way he would whine and complain into Steven's ear.

"Jesus, Steven, just go up to her and say hi!"

Once or twice, Marc had managed to gain control of Steven's legs: teetering him drunkenly in your direction.

The fright would rise quickly up in Steven's chest, steering his legs back in the direction he was walking. You'd looked up one of those times, meeting his eye and spilling out a soft laugh that dissolved into a syrupy smile, but he'd rushed off before you could say anything.

Steven's face stayed red that whole day. "See. That wasn't so bad, was it?" Marc jeered.

"That was mortifying." He muttered back.

The bus rocked beneath his feet and his palm was growing sweaty around the pole he was using to steady himself. Frost was creeping up at the edge of the window he was watching out of.

"Okay, so all you're going to do is go in there and ask for ... help with something." Marc clarified again, his voice echoing around Steven's head.

He'd been bugging Steven since he was brushing his teeth before bed the previous night, something about how "I can't handle any more of this, please Steven. Put me out of my misery."

"Help with what?" Steven whispered. A woman looked up at him from her seat. He smiled shyly, turning away from her.

"I don't know ... tell her you're looking to buy some roses. Tell her it's someone's birthday."

Steven nodded slowly to himself. "Okay ... okay."

Marc had worked hard over the last twelve hours at convincing him. The endeavour was initially futile, but after Marc threatened to go in there and ask her out himself with a - frankly insulting - cockney accent, Steven was left with limited options.

He rounded the corner with wobbly legs and The Petal Parlour loomed in the distance. A bunch of sunflowers taunted him with swaying faces.

It drew ever closer and Steven's heart was beating loudly in his throat. The pink brick was crossing his vision now, his footsteps growing heavier, faster, past the floral print on the window--

"Steven don't even think about it--"

Against Steven's will, his legs knotted around each other: collapsing his body in the direction of the white painted door. It crashed open and Marc, more than Steven, caught his body before it hit the tiled floor inside the shop.

"Oh my god, are you alright?"

The shop was cramped now that he'd gotten his first glimpse inside and the three people crowding the space had their eyes on him.

As if appearing from a mirage, you pressed past the people towards him. He nodded frantically, the scalding touch of embarrassment burned his cheeks. "Yeah, yeah ... I'm fine."

Your earrings jingled from where your head was tilted to inspect him. Ringed fingers pressed down over your soil-covered apron. "Okay then, if you're sure."

Your concerned brow dissolved slowly and that syrupy smile he'd seen pointed in other's directions was suddenly overwhelming him with it's warmth. "Well then, can I help you find anything? Are you looking for some arrangement in particular?"

Steven nodded dumbly, he was fidgeting with the edge of his coat. "Yeah ... I'm looking for, uhm..."

"Birthday!" Marc called from somewhere deep in his mind.

"Birthday!" Steven spluttered loudly. There followed a quiet moment of confusion dripping between you and him.

"Jesus, Steven."

Your giggles crumbled into the space before Steven had the ability to conjure more words.

"I-- I'm sorry, I'm being rude ..." Laugher spilt between your words and your cheeks were turning a soft pink, "you want something for a birthday?"

An embarrassed smile had reached up into the corners of Steven's mouth. He liked the tinkle of your laughter, half convinced he could get drunk off the sound. A molecule of pride floated in his chest knowing that he was responsible for it.

"Uh, yes. Sorry, yes." Steven nodded, fidgeting with the bag strap over his shoulder. "Someone's birthday."

"Well, we just gotten some new arrangements in this morning ..." You turned on him, steering across the little shop to a orange, yellow and pink stacked shelf. He followed you tentatively, trying to pretend that he didn't smell perfume where you moved past him. Pretend that it wasn't making his knees buckle.

"They're pretty." He said quietly. You smiled again. You're pretty, he thought.

"Focus!" Marc's sharp voice sliced through his thoughts.

"Who's birthday is it?"

Steven's tongue lodged back into his airways. "Uhm--"

"Oh shit ... uh, say--!"

"My girlfriend's."

"Not girlfriend, you idiot!"

"Oh, alright--" Your hands fidgeted with your necklace, eyes wide.

"My sister." Steven interrupted you again, the argument in his brain between his thoughts and Marc’s voice was rattling his resolve. "I ... not my girlfriend, I don't have ... I don't have a girlfriend."

"You don't have a sister either." Marc quipped.

Steven ignored him. You were watching him with another smile flirting at your lips. "Okay, well, do you know what kind of flowers she likes? Or have an idea of what you want?"

Steven shrugged, head wobbling into a shake. "Uh no ... what kind do you like?"

You seemed taken back by his question. "Oh. Well, I like the tulips. The yellow ones, especially, but they're tough to find around here ... they have tons in Netherlands and Turkey, which not many people know because everyone thinks of them--"

Steven was sure you could see the little birds floating around his head, and how his pupils turned to tiny black hearts: maybe that's why you stopped.

You blushed a velvety red.

"I'm sorry ..." you turned back, hiding your warm face to wave your hand over the shelf of stacked bouquets. "We have some orchids and some irises if you think she might like them?"

"Yes." Steven nodded, hands folding over each other. His eyes were trailing the outline of your profile, savouring the closeness he'd finally been granted. "Those ... they're beautiful. She'll like them."

Your eyes twinkled where you nodded and it made his stomach churn. "Great."

He lingered patiently by the register while you wrapped the flowers with careful hands.

"Say," your gaze flickered up between him and the brown paper. "Do you work around here? I'm sure I've seen you passing in the morning sometimes."

Steven's breath tripped in his throat. She noticed me?

"Yes, now answer her." Marc's voice rung again.

"I-- yeah, I work by the museum actually." His voice stumbled nervously from the back of his throat.

"Oh really? That's so cool!" Your voice lilted with a pitch of interest. "I really like their exhibit on the liberation of India from English colonial regimes. I've only been once or twice though."

Chest buzzing delightfully, Steven nodded. He knew the one you were referencing, it was a couple corridors down from the Egyptian exhibits.

"Well, you should definitely come see the Ancient Egyptian section. The exhibit is huge and we have hundred year old pieces, sarcophaguses and vases and slabs of cave walls with carved hieroglyphics. I work there and it's really the most fascinating--"

"Let her respond, Steven."

But you seemed content to allow him to continue his splurge, your eyes warm and gentle where it caressed over Steven's face. He stopped talking, winding off embarrassed.

"So, uh, yeah."

"You've made a very good case. Maybe I will come visit." You nodded, fingers stroking absently at the edge of the counter. "If you promise me a tour?"

Warm blood rose up from his chest and pooled in his cheeks. "Of course. Anytime."

You handed him the flowers over the stretch of counter. "I never caught your name?"

"Steven." He said quickly, dejection gathering in his throat at the fact that your interaction was nearing a close. "G-Grant. Steven Grant."

You nodded. "Nice name. It's very James Bond."

"Thanks."

"Ask her name!" Marc poked at the back of his brain.

"Uh-- and you are?"

"Oh!" your eyes fell down to your chest where the corner of your stained apron was obscuring the sharpened edge of your name-tag. You shifted it for him to see.

Steven's eyes followed over the letters, he tried your name out on his tongue. It tasted sweeter than he thought a name ever could, rolling off his lips like a song or a bird whistling on a summer evening.

"It's ... it's a beautiful name."

You blushed, eyes moving back to the keyboard for momentary solace before paralysing him with your warm gaze again. "Thank you. I guess I'll see you 'round Stevie."

His mind whirred with how casually the little nickname slipped from you. "Yeah, yeah you will ..."

Leaving the store, Marc called from between the sludge of Steven's muddy mind.

"Good job, Stevie."

-

Steven was consumed by the interaction the whole rest of the day and when then next morning loomed overhead, he could hardly believe his luck when you were pinching together some lilacs out on the front step where he passed.

Half convinced by the nauseating twist in his stomach to just march quietly past, the decision was made for him when you glanced up from the flowers and offered him a friendly wave: “good morning, Stevie!”

His brain dissolved into a warm, gloopy mess. “… Morning.”

-

In the coming weeks, Steven’s apartment had become a botanical garden of epic proportions.

Vases and cups and pots, and whatever he could fit a flower into, lined his kitchen counters and his shelves and his bathroom sink with every possible kind of flower that The Petal Parlour had to offer.

Marc grumbled most days, in search of a coffee mug or apartment keys between what he described the “Amazon jungle in here.”

But Steven paid him little mind. It was a harmless jab and Steven noticed in the reflection of the shop’s stained glass window how Marc watched you too, eyes glazed with a soft affection. He mentioned nothing of it to Marc.

Steven had begun frequenting the shop when he could, on mornings he got up early enough or afternoons when the day’s work brought soil stains across your ruddy, tired cheeks.

He’d bought flowers for every possible celebration to be had in London, seemingly nabbing an invite to each one. Bat mitzvahs, birthdays, weddings, farewells, funerals: he’d bought bouquets for one of each kind.

Each visit would play out similarly. He’d step into the shop, maybe once a week or every other week - with Marc muttering somewhere in his mind, we’re hardly gonna be able afford groceries at this rate - and you’d beam at him from behind the counter or from beneath a brightly coloured shelf.

“What’s up, Stevie?”

The nickname made him shiver every time.

“Let me guess … Christmas in July?” You’d tease.

When he’d find you behind the counter, that was his favourite, because you’d lean lazily over it. It blessed him with the view down the slope of your nose, the smell of your fading perfume, the jingle of your clinking earrings.

“Baby shower.” It comes out almost as a question, curling upward at the end.

You’d giggle softly. “Right. Boy or girl?”

It had been long enough that Steven could just about draw out your work schedule.

Fridays you didn’t work, Sundays and Tuesdays you only clocked in the afternoon. He tracked it with the little greetings he got, or didn’t get, as he passed on the way to or from the museum.

“You know,” Marc was fronting an early morning in August, subjecting Steven to a cup of coffee. He hated the stale taste it left in his mouth. “We’re quickly approaching, if not already long surpassed, the point where you need to actually ask her on a date. You know that right?”

Steven remained quiet in the depths of Marc’s mind.

He stayed like that until Marc had cleaned out the mug and stuck a wet toothbrush into his mouth.

“Can I please just get ready for work now?” Steven muttered after nearly twenty minutes of silence.

Marc huffed, letting his eyes roll back and the toothbrush dangle from his lips.

Steven shook out his shoulders, Marc was always so tense. “Thank you.”

It was only when he’d passed the flower shop that he remembered that it was Friday. A group of school kids were expected at the museum around nine that morning.

He was almost grateful for your absence, it allowed him to wallow in Marc’s words for at least one more day. He should ask you out, god does he want to.

The day passed like most of them do.

The school children were rowdy and mostly impartial to the magnificent feats of Ancient Egyptian architecture, but he took another tour around two o’ clock with three couples and a family who were significantly, thankfully, more engaging.

Steven had just wrapped up the hour, on the tail end of explaining how do we know what hieroglyphics mean? to the man who’d asked, when a flitter of shifting fabric floated past the back of his head.

Emerging like a bottle-green wet dream, Steven's gaze found you drifting under the arch between rooms. Your eyes alight in searching, they caressed momentarily over each framed painting and encased ornate vase.

He'd never seen you in anything more than your tight pink work shirt, which - don't get it mistaken - did enough damage to his psyche on it's own, but he immediately knew he'd never recover from the little green dress that clung to your frame.

A square neckline reached past clinking necklaces, long sleeves brushed along your palm - a job Steven desperately wished was his own - and a ruffled edge that teased an upper expanse of thigh which he'd never before been gifted a view of ... and if you shifted just a little, bent just slightly over--

"Hey, thanks a lot. The tour was great."

The middle aged man's face reappeared into Steven's view: dirtied spectacles pressing down the edge of his sweating red nose.

Steven stuttered, eyes flickering between the man's face and your figure in the distance. "Y-Yeah, of course ... anytime, mate."

Your eyes found him, waving a hand.

Uninterested in letting the American tourists keep him from you any longer, Steven slipped past them towards your nearing frame.

"Stevie, hey." You beamed up at his face, hands playing with the strap of your bag: clearly unsure. "You-- well, it was my day off and I thought maybe I could take you up on that tour, but I just saw the board and it says you'd already finished your last one--"

"Hey, hey," Steven shook his head. "No, I'm ... I'm glad you came. I can take you if you'd still like, I'd love to show you around? It will be like a private tour."

He swore he could dissolve under the shine of the smile you gave him. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Oh—“ you started digging into the bag draped down over your shoulder. “That reminds me …”

Your hand emerged with a single white flower. It’s petals were wide with a barely there yellow dot in the centre.

“I thought it would match the jacket you always wear.” A hand reached out, tugging gently on the corner pocket of his grey trench coat and slipping the flower in so it stuck half out happily. “It’s a white daffodil. Nicked it last night before I closed up.”

Steven’s chest was clenching up with a tightness that felt like his last remaining decisions in this life were to either immediately faint, or kiss you until the oxygen deprivation lead him to faint anyways.

“I—“ His fingers caressed gently at the edge of it’s petal. “Thank you.”

“Give her a compliment, Steven.” Marc’s voice startled him. He was a rare presence when Steven was at work.

The idea prodded at Steven that maybe it was the sound of your voice that had drawn him out.

“You … you look beautiful, by the way.” Steven pressed out, “the dress, it’s — it’s very nice.”

With nervous hands at the edge of the skirt, your looked quickly between the dress and Steven's face. "Ugh, this old thing. Just thought it would be a good idea to get out of my work uniform for a bit."

"I agree ... a great idea." He nodded, "You wanna ... get started?"

"Of course."

Steven lead you over the same route that he walked three times a day, four times on weekends, but somehow still felt itchy between the rooms. He figured it had to do with you gaze pressing curiously over his face, it made his neck hot and he prayed you couldn't see it.

When he spoke, you leaned close into his frame: eyes flickering between his trembling lips and the artefacts he was describing.

"That's so cool ..." you'd whisper to yourself at different points, sometimes a "that's crazy" or a "that's kinda gross", and Steven was drinking in your reactions like a man parched.

The tour closed off at the spot it usually does, with the replica of the Rosetta's Stone near the West Exit. By then, the sun had already sunk behind the backdrop of summer London and Steven's nerves were downright shot.

Your perfume was sending him on a chemical high and he's sure Marc heard every one of his desperate thoughts about the way your fingers tightened around his arm when they'd bump past other visitors moving room to room.

With the dress swaying merrily at your sides, you recounted points of the tour with animated hands flying ahead of you.

"And the way they managed to get those tombs so far underground? Not to even mention the complex tunnelling systems, how much work that would actually take to figure out--"

The tiny birds had returned to flying in circles over Steven's head, Isn't She Lovely was playing absently from somewhere in the depths of his mind.

Your excited hands came to find your sides and you huffed yourself into silence.

Following beside him, Steven lead you two out under the arched gates towards the steps of the museum. The moon twinkled between streetlights, and Steven avoided its gaze. Like he could feel Khonshu’s presence over his shoulder.

“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He smiled at you, a smile that just about suffocated him.

“Enjoyed it?” You laughed. “It was amazing, I mean, you were amazing.”

He laughed softly too, but didn’t respond.

The silence was beginning to turn stale.

“Now is as good a time as it’s gonna get.” Marc pestered.

“Well I should—“ you pointed obviously over your shoulder, before finding the face of your wrist watch. “My bus will be leaving soon.”

Steven nodded. “Yeah … yeah of course. I had fun, you should come by more often.”

“It was … it was very sweet. Taking me on the tour when you probably had better things to do.” Your hand curled over his forearm again, “You’re very sweet, Steven.”

“And you’re very beautiful.”

The words found the air between them before Steven even knew what he’d said.

Your lips parted slightly in surprise, cheeks brushed with a warm pink: “I— thank you, Stevie.”

Steven nodded, not looking at you and suffocating on his own embarrassment. “I’m gonna— need to go finish up inside.”

An unmistakably wounded look passed over your face. It dissolved as quickly as it had appeared.

“Sure.” It was curt. “I’ll see you round the shop.”

“Steven, if you do not stop her so help me God—“

A flurry of hot and cold feelings were chasing up and down his chest: he watched your figure turn and worked to do the same.

The outline of the museum had barely returned to his frame of vision when the cold hand of his subconscious reached out and dragged him down into it’s icy black depths: now watching the view of his eyes as if from a foggy tape recorder.

Marc stiffened his shoulders, turning to where you were bounding down the steps of the museum, heels clicking on each jump.

He chased down after you, skipping two steps at a time.

“Marc, don’t! You’re gonna scare her!” Steven was shouting now, rattling his already shaky consciousness.

He called your name where you’d just reached the sidewalk. You turned up to meet his face.

In barely fractions of a moment, Marc was able to find some sympathy for dear Steven.

Now that he was faced with you himself, as opposed to the blurry lens he’d been cursed to only peer through before, he wondered how Steven ever conjured up the courage to say more than three words to you.

“Steven?”

The light of the street-lamp was flickering in little circles off your eyes in the dim street and Marc was half convinced to abandon Steven in the darkness.

He didn’t.

Rather, he slipped back down into the shadows where he felt Steven surpass him again.

Your brow bent deeper in confusion, “Are you alright?”

If he had time, Steven might have taken a moment to huff at Marc for not even bothering to turn away when he forced himself back to the front, spared you from the sight of his eyes rolling back in their head. But no, you probably thought he was possessed.

“I, yes, that doesn’t matter—“

He could feel ice cold adrenaline pumping down from his brain. Like he did in the seconds before a fight, when the suit would crawl up over his skin.

“Your eyes,” your hand came close up to his face, hesitant enough to just float in its orbit. “They rolled—“

“Will you go on a date with me?”

You blinked up at him. Once, twice.

The silence was reaching far past the limits that it did in all the romance movies Steven had seen and his palms were growing itchy with the passing seconds.

“When?”

Steven’s head was reeling. He hadn’t thought that far, but why quit while he’s ahead?

“Now. Right now, tonight.”

The surprise was fading from your face, replaced with eyes that were glowing around the corners and a smile that made his heart skip every second beat.

“Don’t you have work?”

“You haven’t answered my question yet.”

“If you promise to still come visit the shop ... I would love to go on a date with you, Stevie. Right now.”

Warmth was flooding back into Steven’s hands. “I’ll set up a tent outside on the sidewalk …” he breathed, “you won’t be able to get rid of me.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Steven nodded. Almost tripping on the step up behind him, “I’m going to tell them that I’m leaving. Just wait right here …“

He’d already moved up two steps, legs buzzing with untamed exhilaration.

“Steven, hold on just one sec—“ when he turned, you’d surpassed the small steps separating you.

He’d barely a chance to turn all the way back around when your index finger hooked between his neck and the collar of his shirt and your lips were on his.

They were warm and soft and Steven had no idea what he was doing.

With his experience being limited to the pool of:

A. The girl he’d pecked in first grade on the swings in the playground.

B. A drunken make-out at a college party for a college he didn’t even attend and,

C. His (mostly Marc’s) ex-wife,

It was nothing short of a miracle when his hand came up to find the side of your neck. When he pulled your waist flush against his.

“Atta’ boy.” He ignored Marc.

You pulled back, Steven was pleased to notice your reddened, wet lips.

“Sorry,” you whispered close against him, voice half-drowned out by the rumbling of taxis in the street and people passing by. “Been itching to do that for a while.”

-

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i couldn't tag some of you, just check that your settings allow for mentions :))

[mrrharper]

Not In The Exhibit Brochure

It was a hot summer day and the city was filled with people coming to be a part of one of the biggest fantasy conventions in the country. Video games, board games, tabletop RPGs, LARP, movies, TV shows, theater shows, even musicals. If one fancied themselves a fan of a franchise that existed in any of these forms, they could be found spending a sunny August weekend in the convention center.

Mark meandered between countless people in the Second Pavilion, getting tired having spent the last five hours walking around the convention area, being asked for pictures and catching up with his friends. This year he came wearing a full cosplay of one of the characters from his favorite first person shooter. He put on a tactical vest, helmet with a full headset, a tactical belt with a bunch of accessories and camo pants. In his hands he was bearing a perfect replica of the most famous gun from the game.

He spent a long time perfecting the costume, both by searching for just the right gear and by spending hours in the gym. Now his broad and thick shoulders, football-sized biceps and veiny forearms were visible for all attendees, which garnered Mark a lot of attention, which he enjoyed.

It was exhausting, however. The temperature inside the convention center got uncomfortably high at times, so he decided to take a break. He fold the few friends who joined him during the day that he was leaving for a while to take in some relatively fresh air, then pushed his way through the crowds until he got to the exit.

Thanks to the fact that the center was basically in the middle of the city he didn't have to go far to get to a park and relax, then find a place to eat and just take a walk through the city.

Mark was aware that many businesses and institutions had various perks for the convention ticket holders, to keep the attendees in the city for longer and spread the economic effects of the convention. He was reminded of this fact just as he was walking by the giant building of the art museum. His curiosity was piqued and he checked if he would get a discount of a ticket. It turned out he could walk in for free, the only requirement was to show his pass at the entrance.

What Mark saw after getting through a quick but awkward security check truly amazed him. He slowly walked from one part of the building to the next, taking his time to watch every piece, all displayed in a well air-conditioned space, which was a nice bonus. The museum had a bunch of different special exhibits currently open to the public and they were all pretty stunning, each in its own way.

Finally, Mark made his way to a part of the museum furthest away from the entrance where he saw a recent collection of sculptures from a local artist. Each statue was an extremely realistic depiction of a person, and they were supposed to collectively represent modern society. There were athletes mid-run, businessmen in the middle of walking in between offices, chefs tasting their newest creations, it was all incredible to watch, every sculpture most likely taking weeks or months to complete. Mark stood in the middle of the room as he looked around and every time he managed to find a new detail in one of the statues. While his eyes were jumping from one piece to another, inspecting every curve and small detail, he was unaware of just how much time has passed since he entered this space.

And then he tried to move.

Mark heard his phone buzz loudly in his pocket. It was probably one of his friends wanting to check up on him. He tried to move his hand to take the phone and answer the call, but it wouldn't move. Neither would his head. Or any part of his body. He was immediately alarmed. Mark tried as hard as he could to get any element within his human form to move even an inch, but it didn't work. His whole body was suddenly completely stationary and he could not control its movements, because he couldn't cause any movements. He started to panic and hoped someone would notice that he wasn't well. There were a lot of people at the museum so it would be just a matter of time before one of them came to this room and noticed a guy in a military cosplay was standing weirdly still.

Except this did not happen. Visitors just passed by him with no interest in the person standing frozen in the middle of the room. As Mark looked with his unmovable eyes at the tourists wandering around the space right in front of him he felt like he was losing the track of time. Was it a minute ago that he realized he couldn't move? No it mus have been almost an hour by then. Nah, it couldn't be.

Then Mark realized something horrifying. Not only was no one coming up to help him, they began to stop in front of him and just look at him, as if he was just another...

Did he turn into a fucking statue?! That terrifying thought seeped deep into his mind wreaking havoc along the way. How could this have happened? Magic? But magic wasn't real! That was impossible, this was a dream, for sure! He tried to move his body even a little bit, but again he failed every time. He desperately tried to force his hand to move so that he could pinch himself and wake up from this terrifying nightmare. But no part of his arm changed position, not even an inch.

A larger group of tourists, mostly retirees, led by a young woman slowly moved through the exhibition space and passed by Mark, who continued to struggle and try to move.

"Huh, the guide didn't say anything about this one. Did that lovely lady talk about this soldier, Harold?" An elderly couple stopped in front of Mark and they stood there and admired him for a moment.

"No, Mary, I'm pretty sure I'd remember" The man, Harold, took a step closer towards the statue.

"Harold!" The woman shouted at him. "You can't walk up too close to the sculptures dear."

"Oh, calm down" Harold responded, slightly annoyed at his wife's comment. "I'm in an art museum so don't tell me to not look at the art." The older man stood just a few steps away from Mark. "There's no plaque or rope or anything, this is a free country, Mary!" He was a few inches shorter than Mark, so he couldn't clearly see everything but it seemed he was just looking at Mark's gear.

"Look. The artist — that Gary what's-his-name — knew what he was doing with this one. I recognize all that gear this man is wearing. Nice work." Harold's tone of voice suggested he was weirdly pleased with the statue that used to be Mark. "This is what a real man's supposed to look like. Not some sissy sitting behind the desk all day."

"Of course Harold, of course" The woman walked up to her husband and put her arm around him, then started gently pushing him towards the other statues.

Mark's brain struggled to comprehend what he had just witnessed. He had really turned into a statue! People thought he was a part of the exhibit! How could this have happened? He couldn't come up with any even remotely plausible explanation for what he was experiencing. He then thought that his only hope would be his friends - they knew he was downtown, maybe some would guess that he used the opportunity to get into the art museum for free, which would lead them to the place where Mark was currently stranded.

The group of retirees came back, walked next to Mark and was about to leave the room when the tour guide looked at him and murmured to herself.

"This statue was not a part of the exhibit. How did it get here?" She grabbed her phone and quickly led her group towards the rest of the museum.

Mark again realized he couldn't tell how much time had passed since any of the recent events. It was as if his internal clock had stopped working, ran out of batteries. This whole experience was so confusing that he had issues fully registering everything. He tried counting in his head, but got lost after 20, maybe? The only thing he was sure of, for now, was that the day had not yet ended, but he could not tell what part of the day it was, as the whole museum was constantly lit with this slightly weird diffused lighting.

Three people suddenly came into view and stood some distance away from Mark, clearly looking at him. He couldn't hear the conversation they were having because of the noise from surrounding visitors, but he could clearly see that they were all agitated, talking over each other and aggressively pointing at themselves and Mark. As he looked closer he realized they were all museum employees, meaning they were probably debating what to do with a statue which has suddenly appeared within the premises of the musem they worked for, a rather uncommon occurrence.

Not long after they left Mark's view and he was once again stuck in this feeling ot timelessness. Tourists stopped in front of him every now and then, looked at him for a moment and moved on, while he stood still, holding the gun in his hands as if ready to fight, and yet incapable of it because of some indescribable force.

The employees from before came back, one of them holding in their hands a metal stand of come kind. It had something written on it at the top, but Mark couldn't see what it was. What he could see was the employee putting the stand in front of him and them all looking at it.

"That will have to do for now" One of them said. This time they were standing closer and Mark was able to hear what they were saying.

"Yeah, I won't be able to make a proper one until tomorrow."

"Okay, but it has to be there by Monday afternoon, otherwise we're fucked. Jesus Christ, still'can't believe this happened."

"No time for moaning, Jacob. We have work to do." Another one replied. They all nodded their heads, took one last look at the stand and quickly left the scene.

Mark thought about what he had just witnessed, and it took him a moment to understand - this was a stand with information about the statue, which meant him. It was the same kind as dozens more throughout the museum that visitors could look at for further information that was meant to enrich their experiences. This was meant to hide the fact that he was not here just mere hours, or minutes, or days, or-- he was certainly not here when the exhibition was opened. That fact was probably what had made them so angry and confused before - from their perspective a random statue of a soldier randomly appeared in the museum.

His mind immediately asked one question - I wonder what did they write on there? What was his title, his author, his artistic description or statement? Wait, his author? That was a strange line of thought, Mark realized.

I am Uncontrolled Power.

Wait, what was that? Who said that? Where was that deep voice coming from?

I was created by Greg Duchaime Arreman.

Was there someone standing behind him?

I am meant to represent unchecked aggression and power of the Military Industrial Complex.

Wait a second, what this voice inside his head?

I am the physical manifestation of toxic masculinity and bravado.

Holy fuck, this was a voice inside his head. Was this... what they had written about him on this stand?

Fuck yeah, I'm an alpha who follows orders and crushes any sign of disloyalty.

The voice was talking to Mark. Shit, the voice was talking to him! What the fuck?

You scum, get ready to experience the primal, animalistic force of a toxic man! I'm gonna crush you!

Mark wanted to sigh loudly, but of course he couldn't. Great, the museum employees with their great art wisdom made him a stereotypical aggressive soldier. Obedient muscle. The armored tool of American imperialism. And this soldier character seemed to have appeared inside his head.

I am here to blindly follow orders, enforce them and show everyone what masculinity really means!

If Mark could have rolled his eyes, he would. He was stuck, like an NPC frozen mid-frame, standing in the middle of an art museum, possibly forever. And from now on he would represent toxic masculinity, aggression and military prowess.

Whoever stands in my way will be violently crushed with the power of the American Military and my primal force! Toxic and proud, that's who I am!

[peppermintquartz]

It's been a tiresome day at work, but dinner and a documentary on orangutans (hard to go wrong with David Attenborough) have perked Buck's mood up. Tommy has already brushed his teeth and got in bed, midway through a new murder romance comedy - Bad Men, by Julie Cohen - and is grinning to himself.

"This is definitely inspired by that Hannibal series," Tommy says, adjusting his reading glasses.

"Albert told me it was a well-made show, and the food is supposedly really delicious, but I'm not sure I wanna watch it and feel hungry watching a cannibal munching on a liver, y'know?" Buck plugs in his phone. "Speaking of cannibals, we gotta decide on a costume idea for Maddie's Halloween party. It's with the kids so we gotta keep it PG. Funny is okay, nothing too scary, sexy is definitely out."

"I'm thinking cowboy and gladiator. Night at the Museum."

Buck can see it. He still has a cowboy hat and boots somewhere, he thinks. And chaps are easy to rent.

"You know where to get the gladiator outfit?"

"I know a guy."

"Of course you do. Wish we could do scary costumes though, that woulda been fun." Yawning, Buck sheds his sweater and kicks off his pants, intending to pull on sweatpants, when he hears Tommy gasp loudly.

"What? What?" Buck looks around, thinking he's going to see a huge roach or something.

Tommy's eyes are wide and he's staring at Buck. "That's so scary!"

"What? What's scary?"

Tommy points a shaking finger at Buck... and Buck's boxers.

Which have little cartoon jack-o'-lanterns all over them.

Biting back a smirk, Buck glances at Tommy, who is not hiding his smirk. In fact, Tommy shudders dramatically.

"They're so scary. You should take them off," he says, grinning as he sets aside his book and glasses, his eyebrows wagging.

Buck saunters over to the foot of the bed to stare suggestively at his boyfriend, who pulls up the blanket and wraps them around himself. "These are scary, huh."

"So terrifying." Tommy covers his eyes. His shoulders shake with stifled giggles.

"Well, I shouldn't be scaring my boyfriend," Buck drawls. He shimmies out of his frightful boxers. "There, there. See? Nothing to be scared of now."

Tommy pouts, his lower lip wobbling. He looks utterly ridiculous. "Hold me?" he says, in the tiniest voice he can manage. "Please?"

"You absolute dork." Buck laughs and burrows under the blanket.

---

PS: If you know the comic this little fic is based on, please drop the link below so I can credit. I can't find it 😭 my tumblr search-fu has failed me

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Ruggie, Trey: More and More

TWST once again picks the most INCRIMINATING villain shots to display in the picture frames 😭 I am BEGGING the museum curator to do better/j

A Tale as Old as Time.

A lion cub, a warthog, and a meerkat.

It was an odd trio, a group of animals that, under normal circumstances, would never be together. Certainly not like this—not grinning, snuggling up with each other. Carnivore, herbivore, omnivore. Sharing the lives they had, joined in heart and in song.

No worries for the rest of their days.

Ruggie snickered behind one hand. Man, ain't that the dream?

"They've got nice smiles."

The hyena's ears perked. His eyes shifted to a Heartslabyul student gazing upon the same painting. Tall, built well, in glasses.

"Come again?"

"Their teeth," Trey clarified, pointing. "You see? They have different shapes based on their diet. Warthogs mainly eat vegetables, so they have strong, flat molars for crushing plants. But lions are carnivores, so their teeth are sharper for slicing through meat. And meerkats--"

"Okay, I get it already! Now quit it, you sound almost as creepy as Rook." Ruggie groaned. "Can't believe you take one look at this and your first thought is what's in their mouths."

"You don't?" The joke fell flat, and Trey let it go "How about you? What's your first thought when you look at this? If I'm remembering correctly, this painting is based on a story from your country. Does it have significance to you?"

"Eh, it’s some story about a warthog and a meerkat coming together to raise a lost cub they found."

"Really." Trey's eyebrows raised. "How did they manage to feed a baby lion? They probably need a lot of protein, and I don't think a warthog and a meerkat could hunt enough for it."

"Nah, they figured something out." He pinched his thumb and index finger together, peering through the small gap between them and right at the vice dorm leader. "Bugs."

"Bugs?!" Trey startled.

"Yup, there's plenty of 'm and they're packed full of protein for a growing young prince.”

“Prince?”

“Did I not mention it before? Turns out that the lion cub was a missing prince, and they had no idea. When the prince was all grown up, he returned to claim his kingdom with the warthog and the meerkat. The animals were able to get over their differences and live together in harmony. It all started with bugs—that’s pretty resourceful, isn’t it?”

"I didn’t think there would be a twist that wild from a story that started with eating bugs. We sometimes eat flowers in the Queendom, but usually as a garnish or for a snack, not for a whole meal. Is it a cultural difference...?"

Ruggie shrugged. "Sometimes you don't have much of a choice in what you eat. If life hands you lemons when you're starving, are you going to turn it down? 'Course not."

I can't afford that kind of luxury.

"Well, when you put it like that..." Trey gave a light laugh. "You're going to make me hungry too."

"I'd kill for a big roast pork right about now. Fat, sweet, and juicy, the meat so tender if falls off the bone once ya sink your teeth into it..." Ruggie drooled at the thought. "Yeah, if you just shoved an apple into the warthog's mouth, glaze it with honey, and slow cook it over a fire, I bet it'd be real tasty."

"It sounds like you’ve always got food on your mind.” Trey folded his arms, lips tugging back into a lopsided smirk. “Kinda gruesome when you talk about the prep work like that though.”

“We wouldn’t have any food if we didn’t hunt and gather. ‘S how the circle of life works.”

His gaze slanted toward the painting of the happy trio. A unification, food shared from the same platter—it sparked some desperate hope in him.

A world where kings and hyenas can be friends… Heh, maybe I’m asking for too much.

But he was greedy like that. Seeking more and more, his hunger never fully satisfied.

Ruggie shook his head, letting dirty blonde locks fall across his face. “Maybe it’s news to you, but beastmen don’t exactly see eye to eye with other beastmen. That’s why it’s practically a miracle that those three get along. It’s a tale they tell us in the Sunset Savanna to remind us of what we could be, united under one true kingdom. It’s just that: a story.”

“It’s a nice story,” Trey said simply. “And it would be even nicer if it came true.”

It would.

“It’ll be a looong time before that happens. It’s about as real as my dreams of a roast pork dinner.”

Ruggie sighed as he drew his arms up, hands resting behind his head. He reclined back in that lazy, devil-may-care pose.

Trey watched him, his mustard yellow eyes shifting slightly. “… Are you baiting me to offer to make you some?”

“What?” The hyena feigned shock. “Me, trying to get my hands on free grub? Nooooo, I’d never!”

Trey stared at him indignantly. “You’re not being very subtle there…”

Ruggie showed his teeth. “Was I supposed to be?”

“Maybe you’d have better luck getting a formal invite from Riddle first. I don’t usually prepare whole hams for a single guest either—it’s usually a group meal, so you’d have to share.”

“Tch. Whatever, can’t blame a hyena for testing out a shortcut, can you?”

“Ahahah… I’m slightly concerned that you’d even attempt to have an entire pig to yourself. Your appetite must be legendary.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

More and more—he wanted it all. Gluttony, a sin to the common man. To him, a desire for something greater than this.

He saw it now, a kingdom built upon the jagged cliffs. His kind and other scorned creatures. creeping out from the darkness and into the moonlight. They all looked to the one that stood far above them, the one that would lead them to that shining future.

Someday, it will come.

Ruggie spun, his back presented to the painting. A spotlight upon the trio, and the shadows closing in on his own face.

Even so, his smile was as big and as bright as ever.

“Nishishishishi! Don’t worry so much, Trey-kun~ Just be happy—hakuna matata!”

[kisses-soft-like-sunshine]

Would you? - Oneshot

Fluff w angst, Han x fem!reader, best friends, Uni AU, both are clueless idiots, 1.5k words. Content warning: none.

Han Jisung was the first friend you made at university. You were not in the same major but the few classes you shared brought the two of you together. Art museum visits and creative writing assignments had led to the blooming of a close friendship like you had never had. You could tell each other everything and anything. You could trust each other and read each other like an open book. It was strange how someone who once had been a stranger two years ago was now a kindred spirit you could not fathom not having in your life, but neither of you questioned it.

This year was your third and last. You shared less classes together, and you felt isolated from the peers you had in the courses you went alone. Yet Han being by your side was enough to make it all go away. He was different, though. Giddier than usual, almost on edge. You would have brushed it off as stress from the upcoming exams but you knew him well enough to understand. He had a crush, which wasn’t unusual. The weird part is, he told you nothing about that person. The weirder part is how irritated you were, seeing him so flustered and silly. You had always been the first to tease him mercilessly when it came to this, giggling along whatever nonsensical plan you’d both come up with to help him out. It rarely landed anywhere. He was popular, you knew that since you often passed him with groups of people you knew nothing of, but his flings rarely lasted.

You were supposed to meet him at his place tonight, having to work on an essay together. You were anxious and you hated yourself for it. You didn’t understand why you were behaving like this. No, you didn’t want to understand. Your voice was nesting in your throat as you made your way up the stairs. You were always so comfortable around each other, why did you have to make it like this? You even started to avoid him. He didn’t seem to notice… You sighed before knocking on his door, hoping the bird in your throat would soon take flight and not choke you with its feathers.

“Hi Y/N!” he said, cheerfully welcoming you to his familiar home. 

“Hey” you said, your voice muffled with detachment. Keep it together. You perked up your lips into a fake smile so as not to raise any suspicion.

You dropped your stuff by the door, hanging your coat next to his, and made your way to the sofa. His computer and notes were scattered all over the coffee table. You sank in the cushions trying to find some sense of comfort. You picked the computer and sat it on your lap, intended on focusing on work instead of him. But his fidgeting behind you was plucking at your ears like the faint whisper of a confession in a quiet church. It was enough to rile you up but you kept your cool. Whatever was going on with you, with him, you weren’t willing to sacrifice your friendship for the sake of your anger being released. What were you even angry about? You let out a pointless sigh.

“So… Do you want something to drink? Coffee?” he asked from his open kitchen.

“Sure.” you answered, still focused on your shared assignment.

You could hear him hum as he poured water in the kettle. As much as you wanted to focus, you couldn’t help but follow his every move. You didn’t like it when your heart commanded your brain. He moved to a large cabinet where he stored his record collection. He carried on a tune while musing through the albums and singles. Get it over with, dude! You were being mean to you both now. It made you feel pathetic. He finally put on one of your favorite EPs. Soft, melodic sounds filled the room allowing you to quiet your mind a little. He was still restlessly pacing behind you when you decided to break the silence.

“What’s with you these days?” you said, a grin softening your blank expression. Yet, you did not turn to him.

“Me? What do you mean?” He was acting like you were both fools but it was part of your little games. You chuckled and shook your head, his bright smile piercing through it. You were right.

“Oh, I don’t know… You’ve been especially agitated and erratic these days. Well, more than usual at least.”

“Hey!” he shouted, amused. You weren’t as much.

“So what’s their name?” you asked, your heart sinking at the bottom of you.

“Ah… Is it that obvious?” he giggled faintly and you could feel yourself shiver. He’s too cute. 

“Yeah, I mean, for me it is. But if I’m being honest here, you probably look like a mad dog to other people.” You teased him and the kettle whistled as though it was laughing with you.

He went to prep your coffees and set the cups in front of you once he was done. You couldn’t help but avoid looking at him, pretending to be absorbed in whatever it was you were supposed to work on tonight. He sat next to you, further than he normally would. You wondered if he could feel the tension you had brought with you and you felt guilt coating it.

“I’m not even sure she likes me that way anyway…” he exhaled.

“Why wouldn’t she?” you reassured him, still entertaining the pestering you shared.

“It’s complicated…”

“It really isn’t.” Was your patient wearing thin, or was it hope? You resented your voice for giving in to the feeling.

“Would you?” he asked, his tone both serious and coy.

“Would I what? Ask her out for you? I mean, sure, but you’re a little old for that.” 

Your mockerie had turned into a coping mechanism more than a game for two. The record scratched in the background, signaling the last song had ended. He stood up to put the needle to the side. 

“Would you like me that way?” he said, approaching you in silence. He wasn’t playing but you felt like you had lost regardless. His voice was too sweet, painted by a saccharine rhythm. 

“You’re being mean, Jisung.”

“What do you mean?” he chuckled lightly above your ear, his elbows burrowed in the cushiony top of the sofa. You felt shivers grow all over your skin. You swiftly turned to him, locking your eyes into his, making him realize you had not looked at him directly all evening. He blinked, flustered and confused. Your face was unreadable, which you made sure of, but your stare was so straightforward. 

“I’m not just some girl you can play pretend with whenever you feel like it. I have feelings too.” You gave in to the frustration.

“I know that.”

“Do you?” The fire in your eyes held his captive. You only turned your back on him when you felt tears bubbling up.

“I’m sorry.” He could tell you were hurt and didn’t know what else to say. Instead of words, he sat back next to you, closer this time. Your thoughts were thick as morning fog. He was looking down at his hand before carefully toying with your fingers laying on the sofa. You gingerly looked at what he was doing, caving in and offering your hand to him. He slowly traced the lines on your palm before intertwining his fingers with yours. You felt a burning heat grow from the depth your heart had sunk.

“I supposed it wasn’t that obvious…” he said, breaking the silent tension. Your eyes met with his, kind and glowing. He looked so soft in the evening light.

“I’m sorry I behaved like this. I think I was… jealous” you confessed at last.

“I know. I know you.” he said, smiling tenderly. “Better than myself, better than anyone, really.” You both stayed quietly in the presence of the other. You felt comfortable again. The realization hit you and you flew into his arms. He closed his eyes as your smell embraced his face. You were like honey to him, sweet and bitter, rich and simple. He loved every bit of it. Why would he ever want anything else? You caressed the side of his face with yours, feeling the warmth of his skin melt into yours. Your lips found the plump redness of his cheeks with ease. You peppered him with little kisses, mushy and intoxicating. One on the tip of his nose, one below his left eye, one under his right ear, one right next to his tender lips. He gently tucked your face with his hands as you left the last one, and delicately kissed your lips. You could swear the sofa was floating. You both smiled as he let go. You felt yourself relax in his arms as he held you close, leaning on the sofa. Not much work was done that evening but, God, the denouement was worth any consequences.

[savnofilter]

Text Me Back | Katsuki Bakugo

      Pro Hero!Katsuki Bakugo x [FEM]Reader

CONTENT WARNING(S): sexual content, sexting, sending nudes, crude jokes, mention of myspace™, p.o.v switches, established relationship.

WORD COUNT: 4k words [15 mins].

READ MORE: masterlist + [student masterlist].

A/N: gosh i wish i couldve done more with this but... i'll figure it out later. may revamp or do a part 2 but it depends on how motivated. anyways, enjoy. 🥹 also i just realized that reader did nothing the whole day LMAOOOO so ignore that pls omg. thank you, anon!

As spring rolled around, the air had a certain chill to it. 

It was a crisp scent with sharp edges, the smell of growing plants clinging onto the molecules within the vicinity. As a result of the coolness in your room, you probably should turn on the heater in your apartment. Usually, you wouldn't have to worry about doing it yourself, but due to maintenance delaying another day later to fix the issue, you now find yourself in an internal battle to get up out of your bed for your comfort. 

Of course, you didn't hate the spring atmosphere. You liked it. The nostalgic and tender feel it gave your body and mind gave a fake sense of comfort that you desired. But you would desperately love it more if you could bask in such ideals while in the comfort of your lukewarm sheets, temperature heightened by the air of the room. 

You groan in disdain at the fact you had to get out of your bed. You begrudgingly roll onto your side and feel around for your phone on your nightstand. Once finding your device you click the button on the side to partially unlock it to see what you have missed from being asleep. Of course, regular things like Twitter notifications were present, Snapchat, Instagram, MySpace, etc… until a message stuck out the most amid your roll call. 

Bakugo 🤭💕

Light schedule today, museum date?

I know you will wake up late, so I'll decide for you. Pick-up is at 7 p.m.

[✓] Sent 8:42 A.M.

You immediately perk up at the notification, a goofy smile spreading onto your lips.

Bakugo has been your boyfriend for about three years now. You had originally met years prior when you both were in school. Him being an intern for superhero-ing and you were an intern for hands-on training within the superhero management world. You were a little shit and he was an even more of a little shit… and that's what made you two click. Even with his calloused way of showing his emotions, he had still been pretty evident about his feelings towards you when you two were merely friends. In the same way, you two could work and piss each other off to no end, there was a great sense of duality showcased by empathy, love, and compassion toward each other. When you needed someone or something, you could always count on your boyfriend, Katsuki.

You chewed the inside of your lip as your brain racked your head at the things you needed to do today. Today was Friday so you were sure you wouldn't have anything on your schedule. But because you tended to let things slip your head, you still had to double-check to make sure. You light up once again as you realize today was only a busy day for yourself—chores, errands, and minimum job-related things you could finish at home. Nothing dire; just adulting.

You

and what if I said no????

how'd y'know i'd wake up late lol

[✓] 13:01 P.M.

After quickly adjusting your noise settings from silent to vibrate, you bring your phone back down onto the nightstand and properly sit up to avoid your back from aching at an uncomfortable angle. You stretch in delight, arms brought over your head and your eyes shut exerting all of the drowsiness within you. You coil back into yourself once the cold air you had forgotten about hits your skin as a rude reminder. You glare at the thermostat before swiftly throwing your covers off and trudge your way to the small dial and fix the dilemma yourself.

While fiddling with the switch, you hear your buzz behind you. Your brows scrunch in frustration as you can feel yourself start to get agitated at how it's acting, finally getting the stupid little compartment to work before walking off. You nearly trip on your way back to bed in an effort to get back to the warmth of your bed.

Bakugo 🤭💕

You always wake up in the evening, dumbass.

& you have a free schedule today.

[✓] Sent 13:08 P.M.

You scoff.

Your chat bubbles float up on the screen on his end as you try to think of something more annoying to combat him with. You fall short.

You

Damn.

[✓] Sent 13:11 P.M.

You think to yourself before pausing and sending another text.

You

shouldn't you be at work? why are you texting me

a kid is probably drowning rn bc Lord Explosion Murder Dynamight is sexting his girlfriend instead of doing his job.

did you change your name to your hero name AGAIN???

[✓] Sent 13:15 P.M.

If loving this kind of banter was something that you enjoyed, may the devil take you away. You couldn't help the grin mischievously as you waited for his correspondence. You were practically on the edge of your bed waiting for his reply.

A few minutes go by and he hasn't replied. There's a pang of hurt following your spiraling thoughts. Who cared if a kid was really drowning-

Bakugo 🤭💕

↳{replied to your text: shouldn't you be at work? why are you texting me}

Is work in the room with us?

[✓] Sent 13:25 P.M.

You're almost quick to reply before seeing his speech bubbles pop up again, eyes watching in interest. You can't help but feel nervicited seeing it disappear and reappear, proud to have stunned him. What you didn't know is what he was fixing himself to say.

Bakugo 🤭💕

↳{replied and highlighted: … Dynamight is SEXTING HIS GIRLFRIEND instead of doing his job.}

No pic, no proof

[✓] Sent 13:27 P.M.

You squint at your phone and pause. Did he just quote the way you talk AND send you a musty and memefied reply all in one go? You huff at his bravery, rolling your eyes but feeling a deep blush creep up on your cheeks. Your phone vibrates.

Bakugo 🤭💕

Don't tell me you folded that fast, babe.

[✓] Sent 13:31 P.M.

Oh, but you did. You weren't expecting him to fire back at you like this. Often when you made an innuendo of some sort he'd whine and brush it off as if he hasn't beaten your doonies down multiple times—sometimes all in one night. But you refused to let him win this. You need to think fast.

Again, the cool air caresses your exposed hand, the stroke of the uncomfortable chill making you hiss. You position yourself on your back where you can safely cover the backs of your hands as you held your phone. A few more minutes had passed than you had noticed, your screen growing dim as you were forced to look at your newly awakened and chilled state.

That's when it hit you.

No pic, no proof, right?

As you shiver feeling a stroke of air pass over again, a sign that the temperature in the room is actively changing, you look down at your chest. In your defense, they looked at you first. Your nipples are profoundly erect and poking at your shirt begging for attention. You purse your lips before looking back at your screen, contemplating your next moves. Sucking in a small breath you quickly awaken your phone and swipe your screen over to take a photo of yourself.

You angle the electronic to show your chest, your other hand dragging up some of your shirt to show little skin of your stomach. Your nipples were still very much the prominent part of the image. After realistically struggling a bit, you snap the picture and quickly hum in surprise at how good it is. If you were in any other state than your current one, you would've retaken it but you couldn't feel yourself to care knowing he's an ass anyway.

You decide to say something after the image as you bring up the chat and send in the picture.

You

(IMAGE)

is this proof?

[✓] Sent 13:40 P.M.

After setting your phone down and interlocking your fingers together, you stare up at the sky: now that you think about it, what possessed you to send such a scandalous picture all of a sudden? The hormone monster? When was the last time you sent him a proper nude? You rub your face and groan as you now really think about it.

No matter how many times you have sent spicy images, it was the mock post nut clarity after sending it off. Debating if the pic was good enough or hoping that it somehow didn't change sender at the last second. The vulnerable feeling starts to claw its way into your body… and yet you refuse to let it get to you. Just like how everything with Bakugo is, all the nervous feelings always filled you with excitement. You couldn't wait to see his response because you knew damn well he was your munch.

You hear your phone buzz once before turning your head to see it fade to black again. Deciding to not look at it straight away, you get up for the second time today. Fortunately, your room was starting to warm up which meant it was the perfect time to start your day (yes, nearing the second hour of the evening). Your phone buzzes again and you choose to ignore it.

Running through your routine is clockwork. Use the bathroom, brush your teeth, shower, facial, and the last part you hadn't reached yet was to get dressed. You had honestly forgotten about teasing your long-term boyfriend as you freshened up for the day. Typically, you did this as a way to relieve stress and rejuvenate yourself. You hum as you lotion up yourself, welcoming back the feelings of giddiness back to your body. There was no need to rush this; it was almost as though the teasing was for your enjoyment more than his. Again you wrap yourself in your robe and finally sit on your bed to go on your phone. His message reads:

Bakugo 🤭💕

↳Loved your message.

Fuck.

Is this how we're playing today?

[✓] Sent 13:41 P.M.

You bite the inside of your lip before a smirk pulls at the corners of your mouth as you type up a reply.

You

you don't want more? okay… ;( 💔

[✓] Sent 14:39 P.M.

He immediately opens your message and his speech bubbles become afloat.

Bakugo 🤭💕

You know damn well that's not what I meant, brat.

Another form of confirmation would be suitable.

[✓] Sent 14:39 P.M.

There's a pause before he sends his next text.

Bakugo 🤭💕

Please.

[✓] Sent 14:39 P.M.

You

I guess you can since you asked nicely…

[✓] Sent 14:41

He was a good boy you had to admit. When he wanted you, he certainly knew how to play the rules until he could be on top. You admired that about him.

You slightly turn your head to the mirror of your bed. You were currently out of sight in the reflection but had an idea of how you could use it. You scooch up to the edge of your bed, sitting with your legs on each side of the corner closest to the body mirror. Before you could even think about sending off a photo you pull your hair back and neaten it up whether it was with a bonnet or messy bun. Regardless you knew he wouldn't give a fuck but this surge in arousal made you want to look sexy in your most natural state. Skin glowing and thriving, you felt like a goddess.

Blessed that the room is warm enough for you to be naked, you partially undress; eyes watch your irresistible figure come to reveal itself. Of course, even with how much you loved yourself, you couldn't show all of yourself just yet. You pull your robe open enough to expose your chest, a small huff of discontent leaving as the air hits your naked skin again. A hum leaves your chest as you admire yourself a bit more, before positioning the camera in a way to show off your chest. You knew this would drive him insane. After a few awkward angles and shots, you deemed your favorite one and opened back up the messages app once again.

You waste no time uploading the pictures but grow a bit hesitant as you can’t help but feel nervous. You’d think after doing this with a trusted partner it’d be a breeze at this stage. You fidget on the edge of the bed as you type up, delete, then retype, decide to delete and then the process continues. ‘Why was this so hard?? Just send the damn pic!’ You sigh and type up your final draft, ready to send the first proper nude for the evening.

With a final decision, you decide to go with something simple.

You

how’s this?

(IMAGE)

[✓] Sent 14:57

You immediately close out the app once you send it off and fall back onto your bed. There’s a giddy smile on your face as you could only imagine what his reaction would be to see the photo. That was the whole exciting thing about this: the teasing that transpires and the adrenaline rush you receive from it. You don’t bother to check if he’s seen it yet as you think it would be best to let your heart rest. Luckily, it’s not long before you need to wait as your phone buzzes beside you.

After a few moments of waiting you sit up on your side to look at the message, your eyes immediately going for Bakugo’s text. You freeze upon seeing two messages in the same format as yours, a regular text followed by a photo to compliment the exchange. You raise your eyebrows as you prop yourself up on your hand now, tapping his notification and swiping up to look at what he has sent you.

You softly gasp as you open the image, something you were not expecting but will gladly accept. “More than perfect.” You read aloud and scrolled further down to look at the whole image. You grin upon seeing a picture of him palming his hard-on through his pants. It appeared by his scenery and clothing that he truly wasn’t out on patrol today, instead probably filming content to build his likability with his fanbase. Not only that, he was in a dressing room, by himself. He had more than enough time to do what he pleases.

Bakugo was more than ready to up the ante and your slow correspondence was killing him. He knew that this was a frequent way that you liked to tease and play dirty with him. He had been up since 5 a.m. and he was basically waiting impatiently for you to wake up.

It had been about a week or so since you two have seen each other and he was missing you badly. Your dumb jokes, your antics, the “arguments” and especially your touch. Apparently, the pre-planned date for tonight was the type of outing you needed as well. Bakugo sucks his teeth as he starts to feel a blush arise on his cheeks as he can’t help but think about you. And you weren’t making it better with how willing you are to toy with him.

Now it was the blonde-haired male's turn to be nervous awaiting your reply. He watched in expectancy to see your response, sitting up from his slouched position on the couch in his dressing room to read your reply.

#1 Brat

not too bad yourself, honey~

[✓] Sent 15:21

Katsuki is quick to start typing again, pausing when he sees your chat bubbles pop up on his phone.

#1 Brat

mind sending another one more… revealing?

(IMAGE)

[✓] Sent 15:23

He chuckles at your proposition. The laugh subsides as he takes in the new image, revealing more of your body in your lying down position practically mimicking the first photo you had sent for the day. The robe artfully covers but also shows your body and he can’t but groan as he longs to touch you. Your breasts, legs, and tummy are so fucking attractive to him. The fact that you have a pretty face tops it all off makes him feel as though he’s won the jackpot being in love with you. But there was one part that he was longing to see as well, the piece of heaven between your legs. The blonde-haired hero grunts as he starts to type up his message.

Bakugo 🤭💕

I could ask the same from you, beautiful.

[✓] Sent 15:26

You

ah-ah, you first!

[✓] Sent 15:27

“This…” Katsuki mumbles to himself but doesn’t stop from unbuckling his pants anyways. With how hard his length appeared in the earlier photo, it is no surprise at how confined it was pressing against his underwear. With a simple tug, he releases his cock from his briefs, a soft groan leaving his lips as he strokes his cock. The warmth of his hand certainly did not compare to yours at all.

He imagines your hot hands caressing every bit of his skin, your warm mouth that’s skilled with playing with his sweet spots, your plush thighs that wrap around his waist or squish his face. The way he could watch how your chest jiggle with each thrust, the way that your pussy never fails to take him in like it was made for him. Everything about you was cursing him and he needed you badly.

Bakugo tilts his head back against the top of the couch as he starts to speed up his thrusts, now fully getting into the thought of what he’d do to you if you were right next to him right now. How he could easily pick you up and pin you onto the couch as he pounds into you like no tomorrow, not giving a fuck if your moans were too loud and anyone passing by could hear the lewd noises coming from within the room. The way he could watch your face contort into the most erotic expressions all because of him, his touch, his mouth, and his dick most importantly. The moment his hips buck to meet his own stroking hand makes him realize he had distracted himself from his main task.

He fumbles around for his phone before setting it up the way you like the most when watching his videos. The angle is perfectly angled to showcase his impressive length, not tew much balls but enough to show the goodies. He made sure to be vocal as well, letting the camera show his stroking and his thumb rubbing his tip every so often to increase the pleasure. A few times you could hear his soft grunts of your name or an exploitive to release the building-up tension from his masturbation session.

He breathes out as he speeds up his strokes. It seems as though with his jerking that he's getting closer and closer to his climax, the only thing clouding his mind is only you. He softly pants and starts to collect perspiration of sweat on his forehead as he works up to his orgasm. He clenches his jaw as he finally finishes and continues to stroke, showing how much cum he can milk from himself. He hums in mere satisfaction and ends the video to clean up. Unfortunately, that in itself did not rid himself of the boner; a new one was already starting to grow once again.

When he processes the video through the messaging app, there is no cheeky remark or commentary. He is officially worked up and cannot wait any longer.

Bzzz Bzzz

Your eyes widen as you finally get your reply back. You tilt your head in curiosity and feel your heart skip a beat. It is a video. Katsuki sent a fucking video. You bite your lower lip and open the message. There was no other text to accompany it but you already knew what you were in for.

Your breath hitches as the video is straight to the point. You watched his perfectly manicured and clean nails skillfully play with his cock, his large hand almost struggling to wrap around his own length. You hear a small moan and you quickly raise the volume, your heart skipping a beat as you realize that you can hear the erotic noises come from him.

Your hand immediately shoots down to untie your robe, slick already starting to increase and your clit pulsing. You shamelessly moan as your deft fingers stroke at your vulva, your mouth in the shape of an, “o” as you use your fluid to play with your bundle of nerves.

“Shit!” You close your eyes with the image of him stroking his cock deeply ingrained in your mind. The noises he made were enough for you to get off on your own. Your middle finger rubs heavy circles into your clit while your other hand busies itself playing with your nipple, the feeling making you lightly shiver. The sounds of his heavy breathing and the silkiness of his hand rubbing his shaft were driving you crazy, and soon enough your petting wasn’t doing the job. You opt for fingering yourself instead, huffing out a whimper as your fingers barely fill your cunt but make up for it by finding your g-spot at the roof of your pussy.

You weakly open your eyes to watch the screen, your breath growing short and light as you meet your fingering with Katsuki’s stroking hand. Another buzz from your phone makes you sit up a little. Your confused and dazed attention span manages to catch the notification that rolls at the top of the screen.

Bakugo 🤭💕 — 15:45

You better not be finishing yourself off without . . .

You groan in annoyance as you remember why you were even diddling yourself in the first place. You slow your strokes down to properly set up your phone, hastily trying to find a proper angle that shows off your body in its entirety (which wasn’t that hard to do as you were in your bed). You spread your legs for the camera and look into the front camera lens as you insert both fingers into your cunt once again. You tilt your head to the side as you look down at your fingers and work a third finger into yourself.

You moan out his name as you work your right hand's fingers into you, building up to the same pace that you had before with the extra digit inside. “Need you so bad, baby--” You groan, looking back up at the screen. Your left-hand comes up to play with your tits again, the robe that still adorned you slipping off your shoulder as you got closer to your climax.

You whimper, finishing off with your fingers, your eyes looking at your cunt taking in your fingers before glancing back at the camera in lust. You repeated, “fuck” as if in a mantra, your eyes closing and your hips bucking to ride yourself to release. You smile as you slowly take out your fingers, your slick sticking to your fingers and your cunt glistening in juices. Your cunt was puffy and warm with arousal pumping through it and it was clear that you wanted him as bad as he wanted you. You scoot a bit closer to show off your sticky fingers, spreading them for him. You hit stop recording with your clean hand after your finished, wasting no time uploading it into the messenger app.

You

of course not, only for you~

(VIDEO)

[✓] Sent 15:55

As soon as you send it in, a text from him follows. You hop up from your bed as you read, heading back to your bathroom to clean yourself up even though the inevitable would have you in the same state as before.

Bakugo 🤭💕

000-0000 Tokyo-to

Be here in 10 minutes.

[✓] Sent 15:56

Hopefully, your newly scheduled meeting won’t delay his filming.

    all rights reserved © do NOT steal, alter or copy this work.

[novasdarling]

Piece of Art

Yandere! Chrollo x reader

Tw: Murder, Blood, Kidnapping, Drugging, Restraining(physical), Female Reader

It was already getting late, and the sky was dimming as you entered the museum. Many others joining you, some leaving. It was busy but not as filled as it will be when it opens to the public in a few days. Somehow through work, you'd managed to get VIP tickets to the exhibit. A perk you quite enjoyed with your employer.

Tonight was a small treat for yourself. A new exhibit had opened, and it had been heavily publicized, banners and posters plastered all throughout town. It was displaying paintings and sculptures from hundreds of years ago. Art that hadn't been in the public eye for at least over a century. Many weren't even verified that they existed. All the details that were given were that the gallery was made possible thanks to a private donation.

Making your way to the exhibit, all you could think was how the hell could anyone own all this art. How it was possible to acquire such rare pieces. The money and power they must have had, or still have. To just give away such a collection. Regardless, how did they manage to keep so many pieces hidden, pieces that weren't even confirmed? You were sure they wouldn't reveal it. It was easier for the museum to simply say thank you and make a profit. Something you were in no place to disagree with as you made your way through the doors.

Unsure of where to start, wandering around the exhibit was your best option. A clockwise motion, then working your way to the pieces in the center would guarantee you the ability to see every piece. This wasn't a cheap night, you'd make the most of it. Trying to take time admiring each piece the best you can. Reading every little bit of information they provided. It was interesting to read about the subject's life, about the painter's vision. Or seeing these statues that have been around longer than your country by centuries. It made you feel so small. To see all these pieces that have such a history. To see all those faces that once lived, once smiled. Emorlized in paint and stone. There was one piece that caught your attention. It was one of two women looking at the audience. One covers her face, appearing to be laughing, while the other looks at you with an adorning expression. You could see it now, some man had made an ill attempt at a flirt with the woman more forward. The two find it amusing, trying to stifle a laugh only for the woman behind to fail. A moment you could relate to even though you lived centuries apart. It was fun to try to put stories to things and try to relate to them. Image them having similar problems and stories as you. It made them feel more human, rather than just paint.

"You've been staring at this one for a while." A man's voice was speaking to you. Louder than the others around you. Sounding like it was coming from behind you.

"Oh, sorry, am I in your way?" You began moving off to the side. Letting him see.

Looking back to see who had spoken. The man was tall and looked lean. He was handsome, you couldn't deny that. His hair was a bit wild, almost looked like he cut it at home. It worked on him though. Though his choice of headband was a bit odd, then again this was an art exhibit. They did tend to pull in an interesting crowd.

"No of course not. I was just admiring how you looked at the art."

An embarrassing blush had grown on your cheeks. You didn't realize just how long you had been staring at this one painting. Not catching that another may be noticing it. You didn't know what to do so you stepped to the side and allowed space for the man to come closer to the painting. Smiling as he stepped forwards. He gave you a smile as he looked between you and the art.

"I didn't mean to interrupt." You claimed he was not. Falling over your words as he stared at you. "Good then."

Giving a smile before looking back at the painting. Not expecting the man to continue the conversation. Assuming he had just been polite and wanted you to move.

"I'm Chrollo by the way."

Introducing yourself after a few seconds of pause. Looking him over, you admired his choice of accessories. Blue earrings dangled from his ears and his odd headband wrapped around his forehead. A fashion statement for sure. Along with his feathered coat. These galleries always did tend to invite some intriguing people.

"Why this photo?"

"Sorry?"

"Why has this photo captured you for so long?"

That was a good question. Once you hadn't been prepared to answer to anyone other than yourself. After a few moments, you explained why you had stayed on this one for so long, and how you liked to link these people in the art to yourself. Imagine that even though centuries separate you from them. That you guys could still connect in some ways. Share some similarities. Chrollo grinned as you explained your reasoning. Watching as your face flushed, you seemed embarrassed by your thoughts.

"I never thought to look at them that way." Chrollo smiled, trying to ease you. "Perhaps I should have you as my guide. You could show me a whole new perspective."

It was odd to have someone being so sweet and charming to you. Especially someone you had just met. You couldn't lie, it felt nice to have someone to share your thoughts with. To have somebody who appreciated how you viewed things. To share your beliefs and views. Even if for a few moments, he could think you were interesting.

Chrollo took you around the gallery, asking you again and again to share your thoughts. It felt nice to have someone like him be curious about what you thought. You could have talked all night, and shared every thought. How each piece of art made you feel. Chrollo shared his thoughts too, but he seemed more eager on listening to yours.

The two of you had viewed almost every piece of art. From the paintings to the sculptures. There were still a few left to see. Some of the bigger pieces still had crowds surrounding them.

"It's crazy how these pieces got donated." Turning to him as you spoke. "Imagine being able to collect all of these and just, donate them."

Chrollo nodded, looking at you like you any word that fell from your lips was pure gold. He brought you to another painting. Stating it was a piece he was excited to see and had heard about it for years. There were a few people crowding around the painting, so you two waited.

"It's refreshing that others actually enjoy and value these pieces. You'd be surprised by what I've heard tonight. People talking about how bored they art. How the art is subpar. I even heard some guy begging his girlfriend to go home."

You couldn't help but laugh. Agreeing, it was shameful how some didn't appreciate what was here like you two. Especially since some of these pieces are the first time the public has ever viewed them.

The people had moved, allowing you two to move up. Getting a better view of the painting Chrollo wanted to show you. Both of you stared at it, marvelling at the art before you. It was beautiful. You could see why he liked it so much. The colours, the way everyone in it was painted. It must have taken months to do. Leaning forward, you read the information piece under it to learn who was in it and who had painted it. It had been donated by the same private collector. One of the few pieces to have been believed to be lost to history, if it even existed. A fire at the buyer's home a few years after it was commissioned was thought to have taken it. Yet, here it stood. The subjects standing next to a table. The wife and husband sitting, while the children were spread around. The fabrics looked so real. The way the satin looked stunning, the shadows that created the folds. It was absurd to think how anyone could paint like that. As you read more about it, you realized this piece was the centrepiece. One of the few they didn't announce would be here, that it even existed. A surprise for the instalment.

"Chrollo, isn't this the first time this piece has been seen, like to the public?" Chrollo nodded as you straightened up again. "It says," You pointed to the information piece in front of you. "that there were no accurate records it even existed beside a receipt from the painter to the family. How did you know it was going to be here."

You watched his face, curious to hear his explanation. Perhaps he had studied art and new things you didn't. Or had an inside source, but Chrollo didn't say anything. He just looked ahead at the painting for a bit. It looked like he was thinking of an answer. You didn't think much of it, maybe you were correct. Maybe he had some inside source that told him about the new installments. If you had a source like that, you would be using them every time there was a new gallery opening or exhibit.

"Hmmm"

That was all he offered you before pulling out his phone and messaging someone. Still not looking at you. Staring straight ahead when he put his phone away. Not letting you know what he was thinking, not answering you either. Before you could say something, try to get him to answer you. Chrollo had pulled you closer to him. A hand wrapped around your waist. A sudden move that had startled you. Odd since you two hadn't touched each other the whole night. You couldn't even push away from him as the lights were abruptly cut off. The lights from the ceiling, the wall lights, the ones hanging directly over the pieces. All were off. The room was pushed into darkness. You couldn't see your hand in front of you or Chrollo beside you. Yet, you could feel him, his arm tightly holding onto you. As people screamed and yelled around you. Trying to figure out what was going on. Pushing past you, falling over. It was most likely a power outage.

"What the hell is going on."

"Shh, you'll see." Chrollo had leaned in. Whispering in your ear. He was closer than you remembered.

You could feel people move around you, bumping into each other including you. People still yelling and just as confused as you were. You were waiting for an announcement to be made, a worker to yell something. How there was a power outage somehow, or perhaps someone had accidentally flipped a switch. Yet, it didn't come, minutes passed. Feeling dragged out. You were trying to look around, let your eyes adjust, but Chrollo didn't let up with his hold on you. Keeping you by his side. You were about to say something. Tell him to let go when you unexpectedly heard a door open and close behind you. Turning your head as far back as you could, you saw a bit of light disappear as the door shut. Someone had entered, or left? You weren't sure, but you hoped it was a worker entering to help. Waiting for someone to yell, or for any kind of new sounds. Only to hear something you didn't expect. Not a voice asking if everyone was okay. No, instead there were yells. Different than before, they sounded scared and hurt. Then another sound, it sounded like something dropping to the floor. Originally you guessed it was the art. Someone had managed to fuck up and bump into something, but this was too heavy. Too condensed to be a wooden frame falling and the statues would probably just shatter. No, it was more like a body hitting the floor. Someone must have tripped, or run into someone. However, the noise repeated itself. Again and again, yells and falls.

It happened too swiftly, and you didn't have any time to properly react. The screams and bodies hitting the floor had made their way across the room. Until there was silence again, but it felt different. Not like everyone was quiet. Rather, it felt like no one else was there. That you and Chrollo were alone. His weight was a comforting thing now. Something you were leaning into. He was an anchor in this confusing chaos.

"My apologies, but I have to go. I'll see you again my dear."

Chrollo's weight was lifted from your body. His grip was gone. When you went to grab onto him and call out his name. You were met with empty air. You couldn't reach his body anymore. Taking step after step, calling out to him. No answer came. No acknowledgement came. It was like he wasn't there anymore. Like he was gone. It wasn't until you tripped that you stopped calling out his name. You had managed to fall over something on the ground. Your eyes hadn't adjusted yet, still too dark to see what was around you. Falling onto the ground. Trying to catch yourself, placing your hands in front of you to brace yourself. Landing hard on the ground. As your hands made contact with the ground, they failed to keep you upright. Instead, they slipped on something wet on the floor. Pushing them forward, allowing your head to hit the ground. Not as hard as if your hands hadn't broken the fall somewhat. Though still making you see stars.

You were on the floor, face in the liquid. Unable to fully move yet. Too dark to see what had happened, and too much in pain to try to get up. Laying in the liquid, you tried to focus on attempting to see and not on the pain. Trying to see what was next to you. It felt like there was something close to your face like there was a presence there. Abruptly the lights were back on. Blinding you, forcing you to shut your eyes. It burned, to go from darkness to blinding light.

"Hey! Hey! Is everyone okay?" You could hear the doors open, someone had come in yelling, but there was no answer.

No one was answering the man back. Only the same silence from moments before.

"Oh, God."

There was panic and disgust in his voice now. The man was now calling to others, telling them to call the police. You couldn't understand why and a part of you didn't want to know. You didn't want to know why it was so silent, why no one answered him. But you needed to. Needed to let the person know you were there.

"I-I'm here."

You opened your eyes while trying to push up. The first thing you saw was red. Red liquid on the floor, on your hands. It was what your hands had slipped on when you fell. You weren't an idiot, wishing you were for a moment. You knew what it was. Blood, it was blood. There was no mistaking it. Looking around to see where it had come from. Unable to stop the sudden scream that left your mouth. The blood was not coming from you, but rather from all around you. People's heads were bashed in, and necks snapped. Some injuries you weren't sure how they occurred. But they all seemed to lead to blood. It was spread across the floor. On the walls.

You weren't sure what had happened after you saw the blood. You must have gotten people's attention because one minute you were on the floor, next you were in a hospital with officers asking you questions. Your doctors and nurses yelling at them, trying to get them to stop asking questions and let them help you. You were clearly in shock. Unable to form a worthy sentence.

Days went by, and you were treated in the hospital. Seen by several psychologists. Hoping to get you to talk and explain what happened at the exhibit. How everyone there had died, how you were the lone survivor and where did all the art go. Every time they spoke, you just looked at them confused. Confused and scared. On the second day, you had managed to overhear the officers trying to figure out where the art went. The cameras were blacked out for the whole evening. It was clear this event was extremely planned. Though that meant nothing to you, you were just trying to process being surrounded by dead people and covered in their blood.

It must have been close to a week by the time you were able to properly speak. To try to explain to the officers that had been camping outside your door. You were just as confused as they were. Unsure of what had happened. All you could remember was the man you had talked to the whole evening. That was their only lead, a man named Chrollo and you. The survivor. The officers kept pushing, wanting more when you had none to give. You tried to recall the night from getting ready to the moments before the lights were cut off. At first, they seemed suspicious, questioning why you were left alive when over 100 other guests were bludgeoned to death. Though no actual evidence could tie you as a culprit. That didn't matter, you and the mysterious Chrollo were their only lead. Though once the hospital cleared you after being there for over two weeks, there was nothing they could do. They escorted you home. Giving you their number before leaving. Reminding you to call if any small memory comes back and not to leave town.

It was strange to be home. Strange from being covered in blood, to the sterile white hospital, to a familiar and calm environment. Coming back to an empty house, having it so quiet after all those nights in the hospital. Hearing the nurses and doctors. The intercom, the family visits. Then there were the cops. There was always noise, but now there was nothing. Just your dark house and the silence filling it. It bothered you, the silence just reminded you of that night. The silence of death.

Walking into the house, you shut and locked the door behind you. Putting down all the paper they had given you when you got discharged on the dining table. You paused at the light switch, fingers brushing the switch. Although it was dark inside, there was a part of you that couldn't bring yourself to flip the switch. The memory of what occurred the last time the lights were thrown on made you freeze. No, it was better for the lights to remain off. You would just use your muscle memory to navigate in the dark. There was no point in turning the lights on. You were exhausted, wanting nothing more than your own bed. Wanting the comfort of familiarity, of safety.

It was like that for a few days. You rarely turned on the lights, too afraid to see those people again. Terrified the flash of lights would bring those poor bodies back. Bloody and dead, laying at your feet again. It was irrational, you knew that. Yet, the lights stayed off.

Work had given you as much time as you needed. They couldn't risk bringing back a traumatized worker and having them do something liable. It gave you time to try to process what had happened, to try to get those people out of your head. Tuning the noise of the few yells, the smell of the blood. Trying to get everything out of your head. Trying to ignore how your mind strayed back to that night, going over every little detail. It could have been you, you could have been on the floor with the rest. But why weren't you? Why were you spared? What bothered you most was Chrollo. His body wasn't found, which meant he survived. He did wish you goodbye before the lights were cut. The police thought he was involved, that he was part of the murders and heist, but there was no trace of his existence. You had spent that evening with a goddamn killer. A maniac that had managed to sweet-talk you for hours. The thought made you nauseous.

Even as the days went by, the police weren't able to find the culprits. The lead of Chrollo had fallen short. No man under that name had bought any tickets, had gotten parking, they even checked restaurants in the area to see if anyone had reservations under that name in the last few weeks before the gallery had opened. There was no trace of the man you met that night. The idea of him being out there bothered you. He let you live, after all, he told you who he was, whether it was a fake name or not. He still introduced himself to you. Still struck up a conversation with you. Stayed with you all night, and most oddly, let you live. Killed everyone, but you. Someone who had either directly killed all those others or had some hand in it had so easily left you. Paranoia began to creep in as the days passed, as you dwelled on the thought of it more and more. Certain he was going to come back. Chrollo was going to finish his job, and tie up any loose ends. Or the cops were going to finally just put everything on you. Pin the murders on you since the evidence was getting them nowhere. It would be easier for them, to wrap up their case. You were sure the public would buy it. Instead of getting better, you were getting worse. Becoming more overwhelmed as time went on. Barely moving from your bedroom, keeping the curtains shut out of fear. Friends and neighbours tried to call and visit, but you ignored them. Too frightened to even open the door, to look out your window in case it was him. Night was the worst.

It was always dark in your home, as you still declined to turn certain lights on. Terrified you'd see the bodies when you flipped the switch. Though there were still moments when you feared the dark. Worrying about what you couldn't see, what may lurk in it. It had taken you a few days from your first arrival home to manage to even turn on some lights, mostly lamps or small rooms like the bathroom. Lights that would only give enough light to illuminate no more than a couple feet in front of them. Yet, your mind refused to allow larger rooms to be fully lit. The darkness was the better.

Muscle memory had saved you, keeping you on your two feet instead of face-first into the floor. Even at nights just like this one when you didn't have the sun peeking in from the cracks of the curtains. You could still navigate the house. Letting the lights you kept on all the time in certain rooms bleed into the others you ventured into.

You were cleaning up the dinner you had eaten. Some dry ramen packs you had found in the back of your cupboard. The last of what was keeping you fed. Using the lamps from your hallway to see around you as you put the garbage away before going back to the sink. The lights were nice, dull enough they hadn't disturbed you when you turned them on a day ago. You were making progress, right? One little light on was a show of getting better. It had to be. Though as you placed the bowl in the sink. Taking a look at the clock on the stove, realizing it was already well past midnight. The ramen had been the only thing you'd eaten all day. You couldn't help but laugh, swearing to yourself under your breath. It was a lie. You weren't getting better. A stupid little light in a room away meant nothing. Rubbing your face as you thought about what this meant. What being stuck in this horrid condition meant, in this paralyzing fear over fucking lights meant. If you didn't get better who knows when you can go back to work. Sure they had been accommodating, but how long would that last? A few more weeks at most. You needed to get back into the swing of things. Get back to a semi-normal schedule and behaviour. The pressure and weight of everything felt like it got heavier. Bearing a bigger load on your shoulders was becoming too much. It was all too much.

"Fuck." You were pissed, throwing your fork against the wall. "I'm not getting better. I-I'm not." Tears were forming. It wasn't fair.

"No, you are not."

Someone had just answered you back, somebody had spoken back to you within this empty house. You froze, taking a moment to process what just happened. Though when you heard a quick "hmmm" prompt from the speaker. You knew who it was. It was the same voice that haunted your thoughts all this time since the gallery. It was him, the man who had been so sweet to you that night. That had flattered and entertained you. The man who had then killed and left you. It was Chrollo, there was no mistaking it. Your lips began to shiver, too petrified to turn around and be right. Or worse be wrong and have another unfamiliar threat.

Your mind began to race, thinking of why the hell he was here after all this time. He was here to finish the job, wasn't he? He was going to kill you. Tie up the loose ends. Perhaps you had said too much. You couldn't turn around. Couldn't face the man that had killed so many with ease. You couldn't face your soon-to-be killer. Shutting your eyes tight, waiting as the seconds ticked by.

"Not even a 'hello?' or a 'how have you been?' Manners my dear."

He expected a greeting. That sick maniac wanted you to greet him as if you were long-time friends who hadn't seen each other for a few days. It was a sick joke, wanting to act friendly after everything. After he left you surrounded by bloody bodies, left you as the lone survivor to be endlessly questioned by the police. Left you to live in fear. You were pissed before. Angry at yourself for failing to adapt and get better. Yet, as you stood there, taking in what was happening. You realized that no, you weren't angry at yourself. You were furious at him. Pissed he left you like this and caused so much harm to the one he left alive. He didn't spare you, no he just damaged your life in a different way.

"Why are you here?" It was soft and meek, but it came out in one swift breath.

"Why not? Am I not welcomed."

Welcomed? Welcomed? Did he assume you'd welcome him with open arms, and accept your death with gratitude and glee? His words tipped you over the edge. Spinning around, now facing him. You looked him over. He looked mostly the same as that night. With only a few differences. He was still wearing many of the same clothes but he lacked the charm of that night. Looking a bit dishevelled. He wore the same jacket, but the shirt under was in a lot worse condition. His hair was greased back, it looked dirty. As if it was just his unwashed hair keeping it back, not any product. How was this the same man you had managed to keep you interested all night?

"Just kill me. I don't want to play anymore."

The fight in you was abruptly gone. You didn't want to play his game anymore. Pretend to be happy, and play his little friendship game. Let him get some sick satisfaction from it all. Cause that's what it all must have been. Some sick little game, that lets you think you got away before he visits and watches the hope leave your eyes. There was no hope in you, just tiredness, anger and fear. You wanted it all gone.

"And what if I do."

There was no response. All you could do was stare. Stare with repulsion towards him.

"Hmm?" Chrollo had begun stepping forward. Making his way to you.

"P-Please, just make it easy." It was a heartbreaking plea, but it was all you had. A request for a swift death.

"And why would I do that?"

In a few long steps, Chrollo was now in front of you. Pressing his body against yours. It was uncomfortable. Having him so close, having him in your house. It was vile and wrong.

Refusing to look him in the eyes. Keeping your head down and eyes shut. Waiting for him to strike. He was going to kill you. Would he leave your body here for the cops or your neighbours to find? Or would he try to hide your body? Leave you to just become a missing person poster.

"You really think I'm going to kill you?" You gave a weak nod. "Hmm, I guess that makes sense. A good guess, but I'm not."

At that, you looked up at him. Shocked at his response. If he wasn't going to kill you. Why would he be here? Why the hell would he be here if he wasn't going to finish the job? That rage from before was rising up again. You reckoned he was lying. That he was toying with you, giving you that sense of hope. Playing with you, dragging out the kill.

"Don't lie to me. Please, just-just make it painless."

Chrollo let out a chuckle, he found your words entertaining. Lifting his hand up, pausing when you flinched.

"Relax my dear. I said I wasn't."

His hand brushed the side of your face. Tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear. It was a soft touch, such soft hands for a killer. So tender for someone who had killed all those that night. Even with his soft touch, you were frozen and stiff.

"I see I've caused so much worry." Chrollo leaned in. Face right by yours. Lips brushing against yours. "My apologies."

Chrollo's lips were right on yours. Kissing you. Demanding more action and presence from you, but you couldn't kiss back. You could feel his disappointment in your lack of action. Yet, he still continued the kiss. Placing a hand at the back of your head. Forcing the kiss to deepen as much as he could do with such a stiff partner. His tongue swiped across your lips. You knew he wanted more, it made you want to throw up. Though it fueled a sudden surge of confidence that came over you. A want to survive and not play his game. Your arms shot forward. Pushing as hard as you could on his chest. Shoving Chrollo away from you. Managing to create some space between the two of you. It wasn't much, but it was enough to move away from him. Lurching forwards, you made your way from Chrollo. Darting out of the room, and through the house. Trying to get to any door. The front door was closest. You made your way to it. Dodging any tables or couches, even in the dark you could navigate your place. But when you could see the door, you saw him. He was in front of it. The light shining from a powder room not too far from him showcased his features. He was smiling. Enjoying your little attempt.

Chrollo was blocking the front door. Stopping, you turned and made your way to the back door. You would have to go through the living room and kitchen to make it to the backroom. Pushing yourself, you ran. Trying to get to it before him. You just needed to get out and run to a neighbour. Or even yell for help. Anything to get the attention of someone. Running through the living room, then the kitchen. Feeling the sweat drip down your back. You had gotten to the backroom, only to see him. He was there again. Standing, blocking the door. Blocking your way out. There had to be another way out, maybe back to the front door again could work. Turning around, attempting to run back. You couldn't even get three steps away before his arms were wrapped around you. Keeping you in place, holding you still and incapable of moving. You tried to kick and hit. Anything to try to get him to let go. When you noticed none of that was working, you went to your last resort, screaming. But Chrollo's hand covered your mouth before you could get a sound out. Your heart was pumping, beating so fast. Tears came down as you sobbed into his hand. You were finally going to die. Die in your home, a place you considered safe.

"Shhh, it's okay, it's okay." Chrollo pressed his head against the side of yours. His mouth was close to your ear. "Calm down, you're going to be alright. Just listen to what I say."

You tried to come down, trying to soothe yourself. Levelling out your breathing. It was hard but eventually manageable. Anything to buy you some time, to try to run again when he let go. After a few minutes, you were breathing close to normal.

"Where's the girl from that night, huh? The sweet little thing that enjoyed looking at art all night? I miss her" Chrollo placed a kiss on your soaked cheek. "I need you to relax sweetie, okay? Can you do that? Stay calm?"

His tone was patronizing, his tone felt like he was talking to some child. Bile climbed up your throat. He was a murderer and a jerk. You tried to nod while his hand over your mouth kept you in place.

"Good girl. Now, swallow."

Without any warning Chrollo's hand over your mouth was moved, only to have his other quickly shove something between your lips. His hand made its way back over your mouth, while he pinched your nose. Forcing you to swallow whatever he had shoved in your mouth if you wanted to breathe. You attempted to refuse but couldn't last long. You could feel him smiling against your cheek when he realized you swallowed. Praises left his lips at how good you were being now, how corporating you will be when you two leave. You had no idea what he meant, but it didn't matter whether you understood or not. Because soon you felt strange, your legs felt frail. Your head felt heavy. This wasn't just the adrenaline leaving your body. Chrollo had drugged you. You gave one last effort, trying to pull from his grasp, but your hands could barely lift past your waist. Too heavy and weak to do anything. Your body was shutting down quicker than you could process, unable to help you at this point. Your eyes were even failing you, begging to be shut. Eyelids begging to shut, refusing to stay open any longer. Even after begging him to not play with you, he was doing what he wanted.

"It'll be fine. You'll be home soon."

His words confused you. You were home, he was in your home. He was the one who ruined your home, your safety. But your thoughts stopped as you slipped away. Slumping in his grasp unable to do anything. If only you could see the satisfaction on Chrollo's face as he carried you out. He knew you'd curse at him.

[avocado-writing]

notes: I did a lot of research for this and yes, the manuscript I reference is a real thing. I didn’t put its name in though because that felt a step too far 😂 set in the light, the dark, and the spaces in between after ch3 so hope that’s ok! requests like this give me life.

relationship: aziraphale x immortal!reader x crowley

rated: G, pure fluff

word count: 1.4K

if you like my work you can buy me a kofi!

You’re the one who makes the tea. 

That’s because you’re the only one who changes how you have it: sometimes you fancy a chai, or a green tea, or a lapsang souchong. Sometimes with sugar or a little bit of milk, sometimes with neither, sometimes with an oat alternative. It changes. You’re human, you go through phases. 

But Aziraphale and Crowley? Nah, they’re creatures of habit. Despite the angel’s wide and experimental palate he’s oddly rigorous when it comes to his cuppa. For him, it’s loads of milk and four sugars, drowned to the point where it could hardly be called tea any more. Crowley likes his black and strong and nowhere near anything that could affect the taste. You wring the teabag tortuously into his mug with a teaspoon before grabbing all three servings and heading into the shop. 

You put yours down first, on the side next to the book you’re currently reading, then hand your husbands theirs. They both take them from you in the same way, the way they have done for centuries now, a domestic ritual: accepting the mug you offer and then your hand, pressing a little kiss of thanks and affection to the back of it. 

A heartfelt  intimacy just between the three of you. 

☕️ 

“Hurry Crowley, it’s starting!”

“Yes, yes, alright angel, hang on.”

“We won’t hang on and we’re not pausing it. Not a threat, just a fact,” you call into the kitchen. A couple of seconds later, Crowley emerges from the kitchen with three wine glasses and a bottle of Pinot Grigio. 

“I’ll be mother, then,” he mutters as the other two of you barely take your eyes off of the telly. You’ve got your legs slung over Aziraphale’s lap and he only takes a break from stroking your knee in absentminded, loving circles to take the proffered glasses from his husband, one for himself and one for you. Crowley plonks down the other side of Aziraphale and throws his own legs over him too, the two of you playing footsie for space across his plush thighs. Eventually the three of you find a comfortable pile and settle in. 

“Another ten weeks of torture begins,” Crowley says as the Bake-off theme ends and the show starts. You nudge him with your toe. 

“You don’t have to watch it with us,” you tell him. He harrumphs but doesn’t argue because, really, of course he’ll watch it with the two of you. It makes you both happy. 

🍞 

Your work is as a consultant for museums around the country, which is a fun way of saying you get paid a lot because you know a lot. But mostly, you only know a lot because you’ve been around for a very long time. So whenever a shard of pottery or a scrap of clothing needs dating they call you to come and put its history into context. 

Also, for the bigger museums, it’s a chance for you to smuggle out the stolen artefacts and return them to their country of origin. You consider it a hobby, a bonus perk of the job. 

You’ve set up this exhibition. It’s for pottery around the end of the Roman rule in Britain, stuff you’ve found and identified around the country on archaeological digs. You lead Crowley and Aziraphale through, discussing your findings in detail, before you come to a small, surprisingly intact, terra sigillata oil lamp. It sits on its own, spot lit. You asked for it that way. 

“See this? I made this. Over a thousand years ago,” you tell them, quietly, gently putting your hand to the glass of the display case. Aziraphale and Crowley take a careful look at the engraving on the object. It bears the profile of a man, and with the sharp cheekbones and little glasses there’s only one person it could be. 

“Oh, Nightingale. It’s lovely,” Crowley says, surprisingly touched. He wraps an arm around you and buries his face into your hair. 

“You could say I’ve held a flame for you for a long time,” you say, and grin. Crowley groans. 

“Did you put my face on a lamp just to keep that pun up your sleeve?”

“Maybe.”

🔥 

You next return to the museum when you pick up that Aziraphale is jealous. He isn’t jealous often but he’s pants at hiding it, and it’s not hard to guess why: he’s just seen that Crowley stuck with you for such a long time you put his face on a piece of bloody pottery. You’d probably be a bit put out too. 

So for a couple of weeks you throw yourself into your work to find the thing that will make it even. And you do, even though it takes a lot of overseas bargaining and promises to do some pro-bono work. 

You finally get the museum in America to agree to send it over for a showing. You arrange a special exhibition specifically for this, where it’s held behind a huge glass case in a dark room with only a small light on it. 

But you get special access because, well, you’re you. So you sneak Aziraphale and Crowley in one night and walk into the display room, wearing a face mask and a pair of protective gloves. 

There it sits: the Canterbury Tales. One of the oldest versions in the world. 

“Oh, this is wonderful!” Aziraphale gasps, peeping over your shoulder to inspect. “I can feel the adoration coming off of it in waves. This was a labour of love, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. I’d let you have it for the shop if I had the power. But I think they’d notice if I shoved this one down my top,” you sigh, scanning the pages for what you’re after, then stop dead when you find it. 

“Here. Look.”

You point to one of the illustrations, a mounted rider on a beautiful white horse. Aziraphale takes in a quiet breath and draws closer. Because just as plainly as you put Crowley on your oil lamp, you drew your angel in the Canterbury Tales. Curly hair, pink face, beaming smile. 

“Oh my,” he whispers. You stroke the little picture and remember toiling away over painting it, repeatedly wiping your brow to make sure your sweat didn’t smudge your work. 

“I put you in all the copies I could get my hands on. And you,” you turn to Crowley, “your face is probably buried on my pottery in a dozen dig sites across the UK. I’m just saying I’ve loved the two of you since the day we met; always have, always will.”

Your husbands look at each other and then at you, before as one they step forward to embrace you. 

“And we’re lucky to have you,” Crowley whispers in your ear, as Aziraphale kisses your cheek. Their hands meet at your back and they interlace their fingers with each other, you wrap your arms around them and stay like that for a moment; three working parts of a whole. 

They kiss, and then they kiss you. You feel warm and rosy. Then you spend the evening reading through the book from beginning to end. 

📖 

You keep your wedding ring on a chain around your neck at work. Not because you’re embarrassed that you're married; far from it - it’s far too precious to risk losing while constantly taking protective gloves on and off all day. So you don’t blame your colleague for asking you on a date. He’s young, fresh out of uni, and of course has no idea you’re old enough to be his grandparent forty times over. 

“That’s very kind,” you tell him, and his face falls because he knows where this is going, “but I’m already happily married.”

He sighs in embarrassment but manages to recover quickly, instead telling you: “they must be someone special to have you.”

He’s doing the polite thing by not assuming the gender of your spouse but it turns out “they” is right on the money. On cue, Aziraphale and Crowley walk through the door to pick you up at the end of your shift. You wish your colleague goodbye and go to meet them. 

“Evening, darling,” Crowley calls. 

“How was work, my love?” Aziraphale follows up. 

“Oh, fine. I’m tired now. And hungry. Can we go and get dinner?”

You link an arm through either of theirs, heading out into the London afternoon. 

“Ooh yes, that is a good idea. I quite fancy fish and chips!”

“Let’s go to that spot round the corner. They make their own tartar sauce. Crowley, are you getting your own chips or nicking mine when I’m not looking?”

“The best tasting chips are the ones you steal.”

“Oh, he doesn’t even deny it—!”

Your colleague watches you leave the building, a little dazed, and supposes it takes all sorts to make a world. 

Taglist: @angiestopit @dazed-soul @idontmeanto @smile-eywa @staygoldsquatchling02 @underratedboogeyman @specter-soltare @candlewitch-cryptic @cool-ontherun-world @emilynissangtr @willbedecided @cool-iguana @bdffkierenwalker

[welcometomytrashcan]

Before the Dawn: Chapter I // Logan Howlett

This is the first fic I’ve written in 11 years, so pls be nice. I’m sensitive. Also sorry for the formatting of the dialogue, I’m more used to writing scripts. 09/17/24 Update: I revised the dialogue

Logan Howlett x f!mutant!reader Chapter 1/4 Word Count: 1874

Background: You are a mutant with hydrokinetic abilities (think Percy Jackson meets the mermaids from H2O), and arrived at the X-Mansion 4 months before Logan. You started dating Logan after the events of X-Men but before he left for Alkali Lake. You are both in love with each other but have yet to confess it. Takes place within the events of X2, Canon violence, pre-established relationship, allusions to sex

Today was already shaping up to be a difficult one. You were taking the students on a field trip to the science museum, but your hopes weren't high. The prospect of wrangling groups of children still learning to control their powers filled you with dread, especially with the escalating tension between humans and mutants.

Things went from bad to worse when you heard raised voices coming from the museum food court. You quickly glanced over to see John, Bobby, and Rogue in an altercation with some human boys. Just then, the televisions blared breaking news, drawing everyone’s attention.

“An attempted assassination at the White House?” you murmured, your stomach dropping as the report unfolded. A mutant had infiltrated the building and tried to kill the president in the name of mutant freedom.

Later, you found yourself standing in Charles' office with him, Scott, Jean, and Storm, discussing the attack.

Scott crossed his arms, his expression grim. “My opinion? Magneto’s behind this.”

“No,” Jean replied, shaking her head. “I don’t think so, Scott.”

Charles leaned back in his chair, contemplating. “While Erik might have organized something like this from prison, it’s too irrational. It only hurts his goal of mutant prosperity.”

Scott scoffed. “You mean superiority.”

“If Erik had his way, yes,” Charles admitted.

You interjected, “You know how the government will respond to this. They’ll reintroduce the Registration Act.”

Storm nodded. “Or worse.”

“Do you think the assassin was working alone?” Jean asked, her brow furrowed.

“The only way we’ll know is if we find him before the authorities do,” Charles said. “I’ve been trying to track him using Cerebro, but his movements are erratic.”

As Charles continued explaining the plan, you felt a weight in your chest. You were assigned to watch over the kids tonight. Normally, you wouldn’t mind, but with Logan gone for so long and the events of the day hanging over you, you weren’t in the best mood. Still, you kept your thoughts to yourself.

Just as the meeting was wrapping up, a sputtering rumble from outside caught your attention. You stepped to the window and your eyes lit up as you spotted Logan talking with Rogue, Bobby, and Storm. You caught the tail end of their conversation.

“We need a babysitter,” Storm said.

“Babysitter?” Logan replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, with Y/N,” Storm added.

Logan perked up at the mention of your name, and your heart fluttered.

“Y/N? Where is she?” he asked, scanning the room.

“Right here,” you called, leaning against the staircase banister, smiling at him.

His eyes widened as he saw you—the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. He strode over to the staircase as you walk down, stopping on the step closest to his height. He wraps his arms around your waist.

“I missed you,” he said softly.

You cupped your hands around the back of his neck, trailing your fingers through his hair. “I missed you too, Logan.”

You pulled each other into a kiss, savoring the moment. But just as it deepened, you heard Storm clear her throat.

“There are kids around,” she reminded, and you pulled back, smiling sheepishly at Logan.

“Well, I should get the jet ready,” Storm said.

“Yeah, we should go too. It was nice to meet you,” Bobby added, pulling Rogue toward the common area.

As they left, you and Logan were left hyper-aware of the students passing by.

“So, what’s been going on here?” Logan asked, leaning closer.

“Well, you and I are on babysitting duty while Storm and Jean head to Boston. The professor wants them to track down the mutant who attacked the president,” you explained.

“Sounds like a blast,” he said sarcastically.

“You’re not gonna run off again?” you asked, tilting your head.

“I can think of a few reasons to stick around,” he replied, his hazel eyes sparkling with mischief.

You leaned in, kissing him again, pulling him further from any potential onlookers.

“You make me crazy, Princess,” he murmured, his breath warm against your lips.

“Keep that energy for later,” you teased, tugging lightly at his hair. He closed his eyes and groaned softly, and you loved how he reacted to you.

“Before we get too carried away, I should check in with Charles,” he said reluctantly.

You both pulled away, and he lifted your hand to his lips, kissing it gently. “We’ll talk more later, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you replied, watching him walk away with your heart swelling.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that night, after a passionate evening together, you were exhausted and just wanted to curl up in bed with him. You slipped into pajama shorts and one of Logan's shirts, turning to find him deep in thought, staring at a photo of the two of you on his nightstand. It was a candid shot Storm had taken, capturing you both leaning into each other on the mansion’s couch, completely absorbed in conversation. The look of pure infatuation between you is palpable, even in the still image.

“What’s on your mind?” you asked.

He looked up, breaking from his trance. “Hmm? Nothing. I just think you look beautiful in this picture.”

You sensed he wasn’t telling the whole truth, but you didn’t press. “Wanna come to bed?”

He took your hand, and you both settled in, snuggled together. It didn’t take long for you to drift off, enveloped in his warmth. Logan, however, was still plagued by nightmares of his past or what he couldn’t remember of his past. After about forty-five minutes, he gave up on sleep, kissed you on the forehead, and quietly slipped out of bed.

In the kitchen, he searched for something to drink and found Bobby sitting at the island.

“Doesn’t anyone sleep in this place?” Logan grumbled, rummaging through the fridge.

Bobby shrugged, taking a sip from his drink. “You’d be surprised.”

“Is there any beer?” Logan asked.

“This is a school,” Bobby pointed out.

“Well, is there anything here besides chocolate milk?” Logan continued.

“There should be some soda in the cupboard over there,” Bobby pointed.

Logan grabbed a bottle of Dr. Pepper but hesitated before drinking it. Instead, he passed it to Bobby to chill it with his powers. As they continued talking, a noise caught Logan’s attention, and he walked out of the kitchen to investigate.

As he turned back, he spotted a soldier, camouflaged, stalking toward Bobby, who was turned the other way. Logan sprang into action, grabbing the soldier and twisting his arm behind his back.

“You picked the wrong house, bub,” he growled.

Suddenly, a sonic scream filled the mansion, forcing everyone to cover their ears. For Logan, with his heightened senses, it felt like his head was going to explode. The soldier broke free, opening fire in the kitchen.

You jolted awake, disoriented from the sonic screech. An armed man stood in your doorway. The pain in your head was overwhelming, and before you could react, he shot you in the neck with tranquilizer darts. Everything went black.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Logan fought through the chaos, he felt a sharp sting in his shoulder—three tranquilizers embedded in his skin and yanked them out. He fought through the brief haze, dispatching the soldiers around him. But as adrenaline coursed through him, his mind raced back to you. He had to know where you were—if you were okay.

He sprinted to his room, finding it empty. Panic clawed at him as he called your name. “Y/N!?”

He rushed toward the secret escape tunnel, spotting Colossus helping kids through a hidden opening.

“Have you seen Y/N?” Logan shouted.

“No,” Colossus replied, his face grave. “But I can help.”

“Help them,” Logan urged, pointing back toward the opening, his heart pounding as he fought his way back through the mansion.

When he spotted Bobby, Rogue, and John in danger, he leaped over the banister, taking out the soldiers and shouting for the kids to follow him. “Did you see Y/N?”

“No, but she probably made it out with the others,” Rogue said, her voice shaky.

Logan closed the escape hatch behind the kids, preparing for the incoming squad. “If you wanna shoot me, shoot me!”

“Wolverine, this is certainly the last place I’d expect to find you. How long has it been? Fifteen years? You haven’t changed a bit,” Stryker taunted, stepping into the light.

Logan’s claws extended, fury boiling within him. “Who are you?”

Stryker smirked. “I didn’t realize Xavier was taking in animals. Even animals as unique as you. Seems to be quite a life you’re trying to make for yourself. A home… a beautiful woman…”

From his pocket, Stryker pulled out a photo—the very one from Logan’s nightstand. They had you. Logan lunged forward, but a wall of ice sprang up between them.

“No!” he shouted, pounding on the ice.

“Logan, come on! Let’s go!” Rogue urged.

“He’s got Y/N!” Logan roared, his heart racing.

“We’ll get her back. Let’s go,” Bobby said firmly.

“Go! I’ll be fine!” Logan insisted, his determination unwavering.

“But we won’t!” Rogue plead.

Logan looked back at the wall of ice and then at the kids, torn between the two. Finally, he let out a frustrated huff and walked back to them. As they navigated the tunnel system, dark thoughts consumed him. The person he loved was captured. He might never see you again. He never got the chance to tell you he’d gladly run away with you, to live a life free from the chaos surrounding them. Tears welled in his eyes, but he quickly wiped them away, not wanting the kids to panic further. These fears haunted him throughout the drive to Boston.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You woke up in a dim, concrete cell, surrounded by six kids from the mansion. Only two were conscious.

“Are you guys okay?” you asked, trying to remain calm.

They nodded. “We’re gonna be okay,” you reassured them, though doubt gnawed at you.

You tried to feel around with your powers for any ounce of water, but to your horror, you realized they were dampened. A faint blue glow illuminated the top of the cell—power dampeners.

After some time of comforting the kids, a soldier appeared in the grate above, drawing his gun.

“What are you doing?” you demanded, fear rising in your throat.

He pulled the trigger six times, one by one the kids collapsing around you with tranquilizer darts now back in their necks. “Please! They’re just kids!” you pleaded, desperation spilling from your voice.

An older, stockier man stepped out from behind the soldier. “Hello, Y/N,” Stryker said, his tone chilling.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked, shaking.

“I’m trying to fix a problem,” he replied coolly.

“You’re the problem!” you shot back.

“Oh, contraire, my dear. Mutants are a threat to our way of life, and I intend to fix that by any means necessary.”

The soldier shot a taser at you, and pain coursed through your body, forcing you to the floor. A door opened to your cell, and another soldier approached, holding a vile.

He flipped you onto your stomach, brushing your hair away from your neck, and you felt a sharp pinch. Whatever they injected you with turned your world upside down. Everything faded to black once more.

[dinogoofymutated]

Happy halloween everybody!!!!

Well, Happy early halloween, that is! I hope everyone is having a good day! As some of you know, I'm choosing to celebrate my 1000 follower celebration in the incoming months!! (well, technically like 1300 right now, I'm a little late 😭) I'm doing something especially special for this event, and I'll be letting all of you guys customise your fics!!

So the way this is going to work will be fairly simple. I will be writing these fics exclusively in the incoming months due to the fact I've been extra short on time lately, Overall, I will be posting four customised x-men fics in the month of October (once every week) Plus a special guest appearance on halloween day!

Sounds good, right? Well, you might be wondering, "Goofy, how in the world are these customisable?" And let me tell you!!! I will be creating seven writing prompts for all of you to choose from! The first three fics will all have two prompts per poll, with the winning prompt being the one used for that fic in particular!

But don't worry if the prompt you voted for doesn't win, it won't be lost to fanfic limbo completely! The fourth fic in october will have four prompts to choose from, the three losers + a brand new prompt! That way each of the losers gets a chance at redemption!

Once a prompt is selected, I will then create another poll to choose what character will be chosen for that fic! Not every character in X-men will be on every single poll, as candidates will be chosen by prompt compatibility. Once a character is selected, there's also a chance I will create a third and final poll choosing what sort of halloweeny character they should be!

These polls will be posted in the weeks leading up to october, with my hope being that I will have them all finished before october actually starts. I'm very excited to do this with Y'all, as I definitely have not done an event like this before!! Y'all better help me stick to it!

(Also, I have most of the characters I plan to put in the polls in the tags, but if you have someone in mind and want them to be considered as a candidate, please reblog, reply, or send me an ask!)

Poll 1: Haunted Mansion vs. Hocus Pocus!

Prompt one: Haunted Mansion

You've recently moved into an old, spooky mansion that your great-aunt left you in her will. It's been uninhabited for years but is strangely well-kept. You're sure you live here alone, but every once in a while you can't shake the feeling of being watched…

Prompt two: Hocus Pocus

You've been working at the Harkness museum of witchery for about six months now. One night after you get off of work, you decide to take a walk through the graveyard across the street to look at the stones. You find a very strange cat stuck in a trap in the process, and let the poor thing out. Turns out, he's not actually a cat at all, but working at a witch museum has its perks, and you find yourself helping the kitty regain it's true form!

Winning selection: Haunted Mansion!

Character poll:

Candidates: Nightcrawler, Quicksilver, Cyclops,

Winning selection: Nightcrawler!

Full fic Here!

Poll 2: Howling vs. Bloody halloween

Prompt Three: Howling

Something has been spotted in the woods behind your house. You don’t believe any of the bullshit all these reporters and wannabe horror vloggers are pushing, all you know is that you really want them off your land. Until you have a personal encounter with this creature, that is. What is the thing that has seemingly moved into your neck of the woods, and does it have anything to do with your new neighbor?

Prompt Four: Bloody Halloween

A bat flies through your window one night, and although you're dreadfully afraid of rabies and scared to touch the little thing, it's in really bad shape and you can't stand by and just let it die. You spend the next few days nursing the little guy back to health, when one day he up and disappears. The next night you go out with your friends, and feel like you keep seeing a familiar pair of eyes in the crowd.

Winning selection: Bloody Halloween!

Character poll:

Candidates: Gambit, Quicksilver.

Winning selection: Gambit!

Full fic here!

Poll 3: Season of the Witch vs. Halloween town!

Prompt Five: Season of the Witch

You’ve always considered the rumors about your family’s witchy and magical past to be fictional, absolute nonsense. Well, you did, until you found yourself accidentally bound to someone who’s more or less your familiar. Neither of you particularly wants this, so you focus on whatever magical skills you managed to inherit on breaking the bond- but is that really what you want?

Prompt Six: Halloweentown

You've won the title of best pumpkin carver for the past five Halloweens, which is a big deal in Halloween town! The Sixth year rolls around, and you're determined to keep your title. Until some dude accidentally smashes your masterpiece mere steps from the festival. You make him swear to you he'd make up for it next year. You've almost forgotten about it when the end of August rolls around, only to find him right at your doorstep.

Winning Selection: Season of the Witch!

Character Poll:

Candidates: Angel, Morph, Quicksilver.

Winning selection: Morph!

Full fic here!

Poll 4: Redemption round

This poll was a chance for the losers to win, and one fresh prompt to round them out

Prompt 8: Practical Magic

You recently found out that your family is cursed for any man you love to die. You’re devastated when you find this out the day after you realize you’re deeply in love, and make it your mission to keep your boyfriend alive. Shenanigans and ridiculous conflicts ensue, and after a very long couple of weeks- He reveals to you that he’s been immortal the whole time.

Winner: Practical Magic!

Character Poll:

Candidates: TBA