#their postures and expressions and the newspaper

[rain--pitter-patters]

#when the date went so wonderful that you don't even mind that you forgot your umbrella at home#crowley is doing his best and aziraphale appreciates it very much#aziraphale's very special version of pride and prejudice can't get wet#so you gotta use the four year old newspaper you found in your bentley#I am not mentally ready for season 2#it will change me in a way that I cannot even explain#thank you neil gaiman love of my life fr#good omens#good omens 2#good omens fanart#good omens 2 fanart#aziracrow fanart#aziracrow#ineffable husbands#aziraphale#crowley#david tenannt#micheal sheen#neil gaiman#digital art

we go just right.

[ticifics]

𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐚

James Potter x f!reader

Summary: “Hey…” he murmurs, his voice laced with amusement. “Did you just wink at me?” Your face heats up instantly. “What? No! I just—” James moves closer, and before you can escape, his hands are already around you—warm, firm, secure. And then, he attacks. Kisses. A relentless succession of them.

Warnings: muggle au, est. relationship, fluffy, no use of y/n, james doing a kiss attack, shy!reader

The rain drums softly against the window, streaming down the glass in thin rivulets, distorting the view outside. The apartment is warm and lit by a discreet lamp, casting soft shadows over the furniture. You’re sitting on the kitchen counter, your feet swinging in the air, your hands wrapped around your teacup, soaking in the warmth it offers. There’s something comforting about this silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the wall and the occasional rustle of the newspaper forgotten on the table.

And then, he speaks.

“Did you know that if you close both eyes, you can’t see anything?”

You blink, lifting your gaze from the tea and meeting his, blue and full of mischief behind the lenses of his glasses. James is leaning against the doorframe, a half-smile tugging at his lips, his black hair in perfect chaos over his forehead. He looks absolutely pleased with himself, as if he’s having fun at the expense of a secret you haven’t discovered yet.

“Of course,” you reply, arching an eyebrow. “Everyone knows that.”

“Ah, but if you close just one...” He leans slightly forward, “You can still see everything.”

The sentence hangs between you, and without thinking too much, you close one eye, testing the logic.

In the next second, you realize the mistake.

James lets out a low chuckle, and the glint in his eyes intensifies in a dangerous way. He pushes off the doorframe and advances slowly, his steps feline, his posture too relaxed to be innocent.

“Hey...” he murmurs, his voice laced with amusement. “Did you just wink at me?”

Your face heats up instantly.

“What? No! I just—”

But there’s no room for explanations.

James moves closer, and before you can escape, his hands are already around you—warm, firm, secure. One arm wraps around your waist, pulling you forward until your knees bump against the sides of his hips. The other slides up to your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your heated skin.

You smell him, that mix of woody soap and something purely James. And then, he attacks.

Kisses. A relentless succession of them.

First, one on the high point of your cheek. Then, another near the corner of your mouth, then another and another, until he traces an entire path across your flushed skin. You let out a weak protest, a breathless laugh escaping before you can contain it.

“Jamie—”

“No, no,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice slightly muffled. “This won’t go unnoticed.”

“I wasn’t flirting!”

He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his expression absolutely delighted.

“Ah, so only I can flirt?”

You open your mouth, but he’s already smiling that impossible smile, the one that makes your heart stumble.

“Good to know,” he says, and then he’s back, nipping lightly at your flushed cheek before pressing a longer kiss there. You feel his lips curve against your skin.

Your chest tightens in a dizzying way, in a way you can’t quite describe.

It’s always like this.

James, whole, intense. He loves as if he doesn’t know how to love any other way. With everything he has, with everything he is.

You, on the other hand, feel small in the face of it. Not in a bad way. But because James lights up everything around him, and you’re not quite sure how you deserved so much.

The shyness still warms your face, but you don’t resist when he starts covering your face with kisses again, laughing between each one. Your hands slide into his black hair, your fingers digging in as he finally gives you a break, resting his forehead against yours.

He’s smiling against your skin, that smile you feel more than see, and his chest rises and falls in a rhythm that matches yours.

James sighs, dragging his nose lazily across your face before murmuring against your cheek, “Did you know I’m all yours?”

Your heart stumbles.

He doesn’t say it with the intention of being dramatic. James never says anything halfway, never loves halfway. The sentence slips from his lips with so much truth, so much certainty, that you feel your chest tighten. You feel something blooming inside you, something that’s always been there but now pulses with more strength.

Maybe it’s the fact that he always takes the initiative, always breaks down your barriers with that tireless, charming way of his.

And maybe, just maybe, you want to surprise him this time.

The idea takes shape before you can talk yourself out of it.

With a hesitant but determined movement, you lean in and press your lips to his cheek.

He freezes for a second, his blue eyes wide behind his glasses, his mouth slightly open as if he’s trying to formulate a sentence that never comes.

You almost pull back, almost shrink away from the sudden impulse, but then you see his expression. It’s rare to see him like this, speechless, without a ready response on the tip of his tongue.

Your chest warms.

So, before your courage disappears, you kiss him again.

With a touch of boldness—the most you can muster—you scatter a trail of kisses across his face, following the same path he traced on yours. The curve of his jaw, his chin, the spot just below his ear. Your shyness makes your skin burn, but something about seeing James so visibly affected encourages you.

And when you return to his cheek, nipping lightly, he lets out a low sound, a mix of a laugh and a sigh.

“You...” he stammers, looking absolutely amazed. “Did you just bite me?”

You nod, a little uncertain, and James... well, James melts.

Literally.

His body sags against yours, his arms tightening around your waist, and he hides his face in your neck, laughing as if you’ve just completely destroyed him.

“Ah, that’s not fair,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against your skin. “I wasn’t prepared.”

You feel his smile there, his lips pressed against your neck, and before you know it, you’re smiling too.

“Now you know how I feel,” you whisper, and James lets out a dramatic groan, as if he’s been struck in the heart.

“No,” he says, lifting his face again. His hands slide back to your face, his eyes shining as if he’s just discovered something new and fascinating. “That was worse. You have no idea what you just did to me.”

“Jamie—”

Suddenly, and before you can react, he grabs your cheeks firmly. The gentle pressure pushes them together until your lips form a forced pout.

James smiles. Beautiful, mischievous, absolutely enchanted.

“Ah, what a precious thing,” he murmurs, his voice tinged with an almost exaggerated fondness. He studies your face for a second, his eyes shining, before lowering his head and lightly biting your lower lip trapped between your pinched cheeks.

You squirm in his hands, trying to escape the trap, but he holds your face a little longer before finally releasing your cheeks, his thumbs gently brushing over your warm skin as he watches every detail.

James is always watching.

All the time.

And he never gets tired.

His hands stay there, holding your face with an almost exaggerated care, as if he wants to memorize the feeling. He rests his forehead against yours, and the touch is lazy, comfortable.

“I’m officially a lost man,” he says, so close that it’s impossible to tell where his breath ends and yours begins. “You could ask me for anything right now, and I’d do it without hesitation. My heart? Take it. My dignity? Gone. My soul? Well, I think it’s been yours for a long time.”

You laugh, and James looks absolutely delighted by the sound.

He watches you, and there’s something in his eyes that makes your breath falter.

“Could you kiss me again?” he asks, and his voice is low, almost hesitant.

Your face burns, but you nod, and when your lips meet his skin again, James closes his eyes and lets out a satisfied sigh.

[randomshyperson]

Baby, I'm Yours - Wanda Maximoff Oneshosts

Summary: The Avengers gain a new member, and Wanda Maximoff mistakenly assumes she has gained a rival instead of a friend. Or the one where Wanda has a crush that she doesn't know how to deal with. [Requested]

Warnings: really fluff, enemies to lovers, some kissing and a lot of teasing, avengers being a family, emo!Wanda and her first gay crush. | Words: 4.564k

A/N-> This was requested a while ago and I used it as practice for a winter soldier!reader idea that I had. Idk if I would ever make a series out of this idea, but it was fun to write this reader.

General Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad

-&-

Seven months after she joined the Avengers, someone else did too.

Unlike her, Sam was extremely excited by the news, he woke up early and somehow managed to convince Vision to join him in the welcome. 

Wanda would have skipped the interaction - She only went to get breakfast and intended to spend the rest of the training-free day filled with interactions between the team, hiding in her room and watching old TV shows. But as soon as she noticed the little witch sneaking around the kitchen trying to go unnoticed by Sam's excited theories about who the new avenger would be, Natasha whistled and called out to her.

"Good morning, Maximoff. Do you intend to welcome our new colleague in pajamas?" The widow asked, hiding a teasing smile behind a cup of coffee. 

The question already implied what Wanda had feared, and made her sigh. "I didn't know I was expected to take part in the welcome."

Nat grimaced softly - she seemed to be finding the whole thing very amusing.

"What an idea, Maximoff, of course you are! We were all there waiting for you when it was your turn."

She forced a smile, resisting the urge to snap back something bratty like "Thor wasn't". Deciding she had no reason to argue with Natasha, she busied herself with preparing some toast and pouring herself some tea.

When Sam suddenly tapped on the counter, everyone looked at him.

"I got it!" he declared excitedly. "I bet the new guy is Spider-kid!"

Nat frowned. "Who?" and then chuckled to the Falcon's obvious disappointment.

"Come on, the colorful vigilante who keeps throwing webs around? How come you've never heard of him?"

Assuming a thoughtful expression for a moment, Nat flipped through the newspapers on the counter before clicking her tongue on the roof of her mouth.

"Ah, I think Tony's got his eye on that one." She says. "But, no, Wilson. The new recruit isn't the spider. And there's no point in giving me that look, as I won't spoil the surprise."

It looked like the subject was ending - at least that Sam was going to give up. It wasn't long before the rest of the team showed up for coffee, and Wanda mumbled a few good mornings back quickly before making her way to her own room, to change into something more presentable than fluffy pajamas.

But on the way to the bedroom, from one of the glass entrance doors, Steve Rogers appeared and he was accompanied.

"[...] Come on, we're early, they must still be having breakfast." Commented the older Avenger, busy taking off his coat, it took him a moment to notice that Wanda was in the hallway. She was staring, probably. "Oh, good morning, Wanda. I want you to meet someone."

But Wanda already knew you, straight from the television. And from the Shield's files of potential Avenger-level threats. 

So maybe that's why when Steve said your name, patted you on the shoulder and you held out your hand for Wanda to shake, she just stared.

"Okay, not a handshaker." You mumbled awkwardly, lowering your arm. "You're Wanda Maximoff, mind reader and former enemy, right? I didn't expect the shock, given the circumstances."

"Hey, easy." Steve grumbled at your aggressiveness, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. Wanda narrowed her eyes at you, but you didn't look too intimidated, your posture relaxed and your hands in the pockets of your leather jacket. "That's in the past. We're all friends now. Aren't we, Wanda?"

With some resistance, she eventually forced a smile and tried to relax her posture. She sighed and nodded. "Of course, Steve. It's nice to meet you apart from the news, Miss Barnes. Should we wait for your brother to join us or does he still have Interpol on his back?"

You chuckle dryly. "Listen here, you-"

"Okay, enough." Steve interrupts, pulling you by the shoulders and giving Wanda a disapproving look. He also whispers that he'll have a talk with her later, but the witch turns away, dragging her feet back into the bedroom while you and Rogers head in the opposite direction.

On the way to the kitchen, you mutter: "And here I thought superheroes were polite."

The soldier chuckles briefly. "You tried to blow up the White House, you can understand the hesitation. Now come on, we've got the rest of the team to shock." 

It had taken her hours to see you again, not that anyone had asked her opinion, but Steve had put you in the room next to hers on the justification that it would be good for the two of you to have someone close in age to pass the time.

Wanda grimaced and reminded him that you were about 150 years old. Steve chuckled.

"Technically, yes. But she spent almost all that time on ice, so she was only really around for less than 20 years. Can you please try to be friendly? You have more in common than you might think."

Wanda begrudgingly agreed to be the one to give you a tour of the tower. And so she could also discover that she was apparently the only Avenger who was hesitant about your presence on the team.

She knew your list of skills off the top of her head, but still wondered if you could read what she was thinking when you added; "Your hesitation is totally fine, Maximoff. It must be hard to share the podium as the team's coolest person, but you get used to it."

She chuckled awkwardly at the compliment mixed with teasing at the end of the tour. You offered her a farewell wink, thanking her for the favor before muttering that you needed a shower after several hours of driving. You disappeared to your own room before Wanda could come to a coherent conclusion as to why her heart was racing inside her chest.

Perhaps she was having a panic attack? 

Wanda turned on her heels and made her way to Bruce's lab. A quick check-up would clarify things.

While assuring her that she didn't have a chronic arrhythmia, Bruce also - under the influence of Natasha and Tony - diagnosed her with something very common to teenage patients: a crush.

"Did you consider Miss Maximoff, that perhaps, you may have just liked her?"

She did not take this very well. 

"What? That's ridiculous! I'm not even gay!" Bruce looked up from the normal results of the cardiology test she had demanded and offered her a small smile.

"All right, Miss Maximoff, maybe I made a mistake. You're probably just anxious about your return to action next week." The doctor suggested and Wanda stood up from the lab chair with an impatient huff.

"That's definitely it." She assured him, not wasting any more time on Bruce and his absurd theories after thanking him for the tests.

After such an unfortunate situation, Wanda began to avoid you. It was the most viable solution when someone caused her to have irregular heartbeats, sweat or tremors. Perhaps she was allergic to you.

Obviously, she should keep her distance.

But it seems that the team had other ideas.

"Barnes and Maximoff, you're together. No gloves, come on." Natasha arrived at the gym announcing, an iPad with the training schedule in hand. Wanda, who had spent a good few weeks with the successful plan of interactions limited to greetings, nearly had a stroke. At least her partner, Sam, was keen enough to hold off his punch before it got to her. Wanda hadn't even heard his comment about her getting distracted in a fight and her feet were moving towards the mat, her eyes quick to notice your breathless figure removing the fighting gloves you had been using on a practice dummy for the last few minutes.

"Let's see if training with Wilson has taught you anything, Maximoff." You commented with a smile that made her stomach jump. Something about your sweaty, panting appearance was making her dizzy. 

The rest of the team spread out on the edges of the mat, interested to see the exercise, and it was only Natasha who came up to you to lead the whole thing.

"Start with the basics, I want to see Wanda's reaction time." The widow explained, squeezing the two of you on the shoulder. Before turning away completely, she raised a finger in warning to the younger brunette. "And no magic tricks, Maximoff. Even if you're losing."

Wanda smiled, rolling her eyes. Only once had she done that to Natasha and it seemed the widow would never let that story die.

Before the whistle blew, you looked her in the eye. "I'll take it easy on you, little witch." You whispered teasingly, and Wanda felt something burn in her lower belly. She also decided that she had to win because she had to get that smirk off her face.

It was an easier task than it looked - and it was all down to the fact that if there was one thing Hydra had taught her well, it was to exploit weaknesses. 

And yours was to care about her. Every hesitation in your movements, your awareness of the super-soldier strength that could hurt her, made it very easy for Wanda to exploit it, slip away, and dodge all your blows. And there was something else too; a soft choke in your breathing every time she got too close, tangled up between one move and the next. The way your ears turned three shades redder when she managed to knock you over and landed on your chest. 

"Wow, Maximoff really is kicking your ass." taunted Sam from the corner of the room, grinning at Barton and Nat.

You didn't seem to mind, licking your lips as you took a second look at the position Wanda now found herself in; sitting on your hips. 

She did, however, give you an annoyed look. "Don't hold back, I can take it." 

"I'm sure you can, little witch." You retorted ironically, leaning yourself fully back onto the mat. 

Wanda grunted angrily, then grabbed the collar of your blouse. "Fight for real! I don't need you to take it easy, I can handle it."

The disarming was so quick that she barely had time to blink - one second she was on your hips, the next her back was pressed to the mat with her hands pinned to the side of her head.

Your body on top of hers, pressing her to the floor, made her choke.

For a moment, as your dilated eyes descend to her mouth, you also seem to forget what you were doing, and the audience around you.

But suddenly, you let go; a dry, humorless laugh escaping you as you stand up. And you turn to Nat as if you hadn't just dropped Wanda on the mat.

After ignoring you for weeks, she thinks she deserves it.

"Her fight is decent, so I think we had enough."

Nat raises an eyebrow, a smile playing on her lips. "Oh, are you the one deciding on the training now, Barnes?"

You smile briefly before retorting; "Come on, everyone knows she's not punching her way out of fights when she can use the energy tricks. It's a waste of time making the girl train like a soldier."

Natasha doesn't seem to agree. She follows you towards the locker room, arguing how important it is to eliminate the team's vulnerabilities, while the rest scatter around the gym, some giving up practicing to get something to eat and others going back to wrestling.

Wanda regrets sitting on the mat because in that position she can watch you at the locker room door, tugging at your training shirt, exposing a strong muscular back and a lot of skin because of the sports top that doesn't do much good to hide it. 

Natasha continues to talk to you without taking any notice of the gesture, so Wanda is sure she's the problem. Her stupid brain and heart are clearly forgetting that she can't handle a crush right now. 

She doesn't even have Pietro anymore, who, as soon as he'd finished tormenting her about it, would give her advice. Because he's always had a natural talent for this kind of thing, while the last time Wanda tried to flirt with a boy, it sounded like a threat. 

She can't do this on her own. And with that conclusion, she tries to get over it. Maybe Google has some tips, or maybe, the walking computer that hangs around the tower can help.

"Vis?" 

The synthesized man took his eyes off the book in his lap when Wanda called out to him, a few days after the training session where, since being pressed into a mat by you, Wanda found herself unable to think of anything else. 

"Hello, Wanda." He greeted her gently, closing the pages and waiting for her to approach.

"I need your help with something."

"Oh, what would that be?"

Wanda pressed her lips together, her hands restless in front of her body. "Would you be able to tell me the most efficient way to... get over someone?" Vision frowned in surprise, and Wanda sighed. "Someone we shouldn't like. Definitely inappropriate."

Vis opens her mouth, still in shock at the whole thing, but it's someone else who speaks;

"What's definitely inappropriate?" Tony asks, and Wanda thanks the gods he didn't hear the first part. 

"N-nothing!" Rebuts the witch quickly, the color of her cheeks probably giving her away. Stark looks at her suspiciously, then at Vis.

"Okay, what are you two love birds talking about?" The Vision would have blushed if he could. He gets visibly embarrassed, smiling shyly.

That's great as if Wanda needed one more extra thing to stress her out. 

She can barely contain her grimace at the nickname, but Tony doesn't bother; Vision is at least quick to change the subject, and surprises Wanda with his ability to lie very well. 

"We were just commenting on how inappropriate General Ross's accusations were at the last meeting." And that's enough to distract Stark.

Wanda practically flees the scene after that. For a long moment, she had even forgotten about the tension that had been swirling around the Avengers over the last few days, precisely because your absence from the compound made her - not that she would admit it - miss you terribly. And all she could think about was inevitably you, busy on missions with Steve in search of your brother James.

With your presence increasingly rare in the Compound, Wanda hoped that the crush would go away, but every time she happened to bump into you between missions, the feelings came back with an overwhelming force, like two lovers the war kept apart. It was frustrating, to say the least. Especially since Wanda was nothing more than a teammate. Hardly a friend.

When Lagos happened, and it was the worst thing that could possibly occur, at least Wanda had something else to think about. And this time, Ross's visit to the Compound was more than inappropriate - it was final.

Accords and fights between the team led to an unbearable situation. With half of her colleagues out for meetings with the United Nations, Wanda was still grounded at the Compound, waiting for news.

She didn't expect you to be sneaking around.

"You shouldn’t be here." That's the first thing she says as she fully opens the bedroom door you left ajar. Wanda could lie about being your fault that she found you, when in fact she had become an expert at sensing your aura over the last few weeks, the ability to just know when you were around, perfecting itself every time you two met.

You chuckle, without diverting your attention from the task of filling your backpack with as many things as you can squeeze inside. Wanda had the impression that many of the items you came to collect in your room were old presents; everything the others had gotten you over the last few holidays. Things that were precious.

"I'm aware. I won't be long." You retort, folding some socks together to put them away in the closet.

Wanda should call Vis - he's working as a sort of watchman for the tower or something. And he was supposed to notify Tony of your presence. But instead, she closes the door.

Twisting her fingers in anxiety, she asks:

"Where are you going to run off to?"

Offering her a quick glance as you returned to your suitcase to put away some underwear that made Wanda look away, you replied; "I can't tell you that, little witch."

Wanda almost smiled at the nickname. Instead, she took a desperate step forward.

"Would you take me with you?"

Standing back, you chuckle. "Funny."

"I wasn't joking."

You leave the St. Petersburg snow globe you got as a present from Natasha on the dresser and turn with a frown to the witch behind you. "Maximoff, come on-"

"I'm serious." She insists. "Stark grounded me. Like a fucking child. “ She then chuckles sadly. “Or worse, a problem he didn't want to deal with. And I know I fucked up in Lagos-"

"Don't say that, Lagos wasn't your fault." You interrupt her with a certain determination. "You need to remember that, alright?"

Wanda smiles softly at your reassurance, looking away because her face is suddenly very warm. You sigh then grab just one more change of clothes before zipping up your suitcase.

"It's not because of the company, Wanda." You mutter suddenly, with the backpack on your shoulders. She looks at you with confusion, but you don't meet her gaze. "I just don't think it's right, everything that's happening. And I don't think we should all be fighting with each other. But that's what's going to happen from now on. If you come with me, Steve probably expects you to be choosing sides. And I wouldn't want anyone to get hurt."

Her heart skips a beat, but Wanda takes a chance;

"Anyone... or me?"

You're taken aback, but you don't lose your poise. You sighed deeply before approaching her without haste, without any hint of what you were going to do either. Wanda opens her mouth again, to apologize for being so difficult, but you muffle the statement with a kiss.

It's the first time she's kissed another girl if that isn't obvious. She melts, panting and so very shy; it's a good thing that you hold her waist, while your other hand keeps your face close by grabbing her chin gently. Wanda's lungs scream for air after a moment, but she refuses to pull away from a sensation as good as kissing you.

Something like a whimper of need escapes her when you break the act, or maybe it's the way you give her lower lip a gentle tug with your teeth that leaves her trembling, ready to beg for more.

"Sorry if that was sudden." It's the first thing you say, your voice is hoarse, and as affected as your breathing. You smile, your thumb wiping away some of the mess left by Wanda's gloss. "But I think it took us long enough."

She babbles like a fish, unable to form a coherent thought for a whole moment. You wait patiently, your hands touching her shoulders, sliding down her arms as a way of calming her. Wanda has dreamed so much of feeling you that the touch meant to ease her nerves has quite the opposite effect; every inch of skin you touch tingles.

"H-how... did you know?" she asks, and you give a short laugh.

"I didn't." You retort gently. "Not for sure, at least. Not until two seconds ago when you asked to come with me. I had this... feeling. And this tension. Every time we walked into the same room, every time we were alone. I just felt…” You can put it into words exactly, so you just take a deep breath and smile at her. “I thought my mind was playing tricks on me, that the way I felt was making me imagine things but then you came in here. Sneak out into my room and ask if you could leave this fancy tower to run away with me to fight. I just had to be sure."

Wanda bites back a shy smile, feeling the heat spreading from her chest to her face and eras, and knowing for a fact that it's only going to get worse because of the way you're looking at her.

She tries to get some ground again.

"And are you..." A sigh, as one of your hands settles on her waist. "Sure?"

You hum thoughtfully before breaking the distance, kissing her in a different way than before. It's more intense and hungrier. Your tongue invades her mouth, exploring everywhere and your hands prevent her from pulling away when the oxygen is off. Every needy sound that escapes her is muffled against into lips. 

Wanda tentatively follows the rhythm, one of her hands wrapping in your hair. Your backpack falls to the ground and you hold her tighter now, pulling her into you. It's a significant difference between a super-soldier's body and her own, and just the quick memory of you pressing her against the mat makes her moan into your tongue.

The sound makes you lose your mind - Your hands become more determined, the kiss desperate. Wanda struggles for air, exposing the collarbone that keeps you busy as she tries to catch her breath. You bite down on her skin and she arches against you, her hands becoming bold enough to scratch your back and pull up your blouse.

But you break into a husky chuckle, slowing the kiss and pulling away to remind her; "We have to go." Between one touch and the next, "We don't have time."

She needs a whole moment to force her brain to work, and even after you're no longer touching her, and she's sneaking off to her own room to prepare a suitcase, she's still shaking.

When you meet again, running hand in hand with suitcases back to the garage, Wanda is surprised to realize that she was foolish to be afraid of something as good as this. 

That is, of course, until reality hits again.

Wanda has never seen you in action as a Winter Soldier before. She saw it through television, Shield files, and testimonies about deserters captured by the Avengers.

But she was never there.

The Avengers split up and fought each other, and your brother fled with Steve Rogers. She thought you were safe on the plane with them, she made sure you got on - but she didn't see you climb off.

Wanda accepted being captured, she accepted being drugged as a security measure. And throughout the confusion that was the transportation of the Avengers in custody to the Raft, she thought she was hallucinating the whole way there. The masked figure attacking the soldiers and opening the cells was a projection of the sedative in her mind.

She only knew what had really happened, had been able to remember, when you both were already in another country as fugitives from the United Nations.

You were by her side the whole time. You held her on your lap after getting rid of the straitjacket that had trapped her and lay down next to her when there was finally a secure roof over your heads.

Wanda was exhausted. She had lost the only thing she had left; her freedom. There was no longer a home, a team, a brother. She was drugged and trapped like an animal by people she considered family.

She started crying, and you woke up. You didn't say a word or ask her to stop. You just held her and let her sob into your chest until she fell asleep again, this time from exhaustion rather than through the influence of chemicals.

When what was left of the team moved on the following day, to another location to avoid suspicion as Natasha clarify it, Wanda got the impression that maybe it was you who needed her to hold you until you went to sleep now.

Bucky didn't come back, and neither of you knew what had happened to him or Steve. 

Wanda let you cry all you wanted.

But then finally, everyone who had fought for Steve was back together. Even Clint and Scott, who would probably make deals for their families, to try to be with them, and would have to leave soon. For a moment, everyone was there and you found out that your brother was going to stay in Wakanda to be free again.

It wasn't perfect, but it was a good moment. Steve got food for everyone, you had something that resembled a Christmas, or at least an end-of-year celebration.

We're alive and safe. We're together. Steve was a man of words.

Even if they were sharing a safe house that was too small for such a group. Even if half the world was after them.

The team fell asleep between sleeping bags and sofas, and you left the trailer to get some air. Wanda went after you without thinking much about it.

"It's cold, witchy." You commented as soon as she was close enough, even though you opened your arms for her to wrap hers around you.

Your back was against Nat's truck, and Wanda pressed a little closer to hide her face in your collarbone.

"Where are you going to run off to?" She questions into your skin.

You sigh, one hand caressing her back. "I don't know." You confess quietly. "I wouldn't get to Wakanda with this, but I wasn't feeling very well in there. Having a Christmas meal without him."

Wanda adjusts her face to look at you. "Bucky needs to heal first."

You nod, giving her a sad smile. "I know, but Steve told me they put him back on ice. Until they found out what they were going to do with him. Just the fact that he's there, freezing again... " You look away, sniffling softly. "It reminds me of the past, our time as Winter Soldiers. And It makes me very sad.” You explain softly before sighing. “I know there's nothing we can do to help him now, but it's all so frustrating. I just needed to get out of there for a moment."

Wanda absorbs your words for a moment until she returns to her previous position and smiles as she feels you relax and put your arms around her. 

She murmurs; "It's a shame we can't go out there. Natasha said this place has beautiful spots to visit."

You snort slightly. "Actually, we could drive somewhere further away. Far from the city." You comment. "We can watch the Aurora Borealis."

Wanda bites her lip for a moment, considering your invitation, until she adds; "Just the two of us?"

You chuckle. "Unless you want to wake up the team..."

"No, I wasn't complaining!" She clarifies quickly, and you start laughing again. 

She taps you gently on the shoulder to make you stop. "Idiot."

"Your idiot." You hit back with a smirk, and Wanda's heart stops beating for a moment. There's a pause, between exchanging intense glances as you bring your hands to her face, adjusting her hair out of the way. "Don't forget, witchy."

She swallows dryly, her voice hoarse when she speaks: "I won't." She whispers back and you smile before pressing your lips into hers.

[aheathen-conceivably]

Three rhythmic knocks rang out across the desert. Jo let out a breath as she heard footsteps sound from inside the house. She had no reason to believe that Val would act any differently than she had every other time they'd met since things had grown awkward between them. Short, impersonal pleasantries. Quick, false smiles.

The door opened and Jo tried to maintain the indifference that she had worked so hard on these last few months. It’s fine. You’re friends. That’s all. “Keys are in the car. Just don’t do anything stupid. Get her back in one piece. Same as usual.” Terse. Already impatient. Seemingly the same annoyance that had been on her face the first time they had met.

“Wait, I -“ You’re friends. Don’t you miss that? Having someone more like you to talk to. Laughing with someone who doesn’t know every detail of your past and your ire. Where’s the harm in that? You’re in control. Just keep yourself in control. “Actually I was wondering if that drink was still on the table?”

Val leaned sideways, her eyebrows shooting up in an expression Jo could actually read. Amusement. “Oh, really?”

The finely woven threads holding up Jo’s principles loosened at that one simple question. Val’s eyebrow stayed raised, her posture infuriatingly relaxed, and Jo’s neck grew warm with the reminder that she could never simply smile and get her way with Val. Instead she had to grit her teeth and swallow her conviction that she should never be the one to implore someone else. “Yes, really. If you still want to, of course.”

In response Val simply stepped backward, a satisfied look on her face as she held open the door and gestured for Jo to step inside.

Val didn’t show off her living room the way that most people would have. She barely looked back as her long strides took her toward an open door across the room. Trailing behind her, Jo tried to take in every detail. She had seen much of it from the window, of course, but she realized now that had been like looking at it as the set of a play. Now, it seemed like a place where someone actually breathed. She couldn’t help but appreciate the fact that the walls didn’t need newspaper to keep out the red dirt, or that it smelled slightly of dried chilis rather than chickens and failed hope.

Lost in the simple comfort of it all, she didn’t even realize that she had lost track of Val, or the tightly wound control she had been so sure of moments before. Instead she was looking at the only other doors in the small house. They were shut tight, their contents hidden and their windows facing away from the porch. This is it, isn’t it? The room I tried not to think about when I would leave you in the bar all those nights ago. Did you close the door just for me, just so that I couldn’t see? Because we went too far and ruined whatever friendship we had…

“Are you coming, or what?” Jo turned back to see Val staring at her from the kitchen, her face set more with calm curiosity than the annoyance that had been there mere minutes ago. 

“I - what?” Heat rose up Jo’s spine as she tried to recenter herself in her heels rather than the imaginings she had already begun to conjure. You idiot. Don’t do this. Almost imperceptibly, she shook out the agitation gripping the back of her neck and regained control of her mind. “Yes. Of course I am. Lead the way.”

Jo took off her gloves and hat as Val rummaged through a cupboard. After a minute, she pulled out a dusty bottle and a cup, stepping nearer to Jo at the table as she poured liquor into a glass. “You’ll have to forgive me if it’s a bit old. Doesn’t get much use other than when there’s folk over, and we both know that’s not often.”

Jo looked up at her, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the strong smell of whiskey that had sat unopened for years. “Why don’t you drink, anyway? I mean all night at the bar, here all alone. That bottle wouldn’t have lasted a week in my house.”

Val shrugged her shoulders and pulled back the chair across from Jo. “Seems an awful way to deal with your problems if you ask me. Even worse than running away, just numbing yourself and turning the other cheek.” As she finished speaking, Jo’s hand hovered around the glass. Val noticed it and laughed. “That sounded mighty judgmental, didn’t it? I didn’t mean it that way. Only for myself, really, and maybe for all of those louses without a dime drinking away their children’s meals.”

Still, Jo’s whiskey stayed untouched as she looked into Val’s eyes, “Can I ask you something, honest?” With a nod of her head Jo continued, “Why are you still here? You know - in this town. I mean you’ve got a car, the road goes both ways right through the center, and I’ve been to your father’s courts; you could be anywhere in the country in a week.”

Val looked at the table between them and stayed quiet for a moment. Then she answered without looking up. “Honest, maybe I’m too loyal for my own good. I like it here, true. I like knowing everyone’s names and where they came from, but it hasn’t been easy, being on my own and unwilling to marry at that…”

For a moment she looked up at Jo knowingly, as though to test her on the subject or see if she’d judge her in some way. Then she glanced down at Jo’s left hand, holding the cup delicately and notably, without a ring. Jo brought the drink to her lips and she noticed that just before Val kept talking, she smiled. 

“Well, there’s some mixed feelings about the Groves. My father in particular. They found oil on our tract back when I was a girl. Most of the tribe fought him on it, but father got the government’s blessing to drill it. We were still under trust quota, of course, so the money wasn’t really his. He had to get permission to use the fraction of profits they gave him to buy anything else. Permission to use the profits off his own land. The same land sold to him by the government after they had stolen it in the first place.”

For a moment she stopped, a crack in her facade finally showing as they looked at each other and the room went silent. There was a charged beat of shared anger, some sense of knowing the past without needing to speak it that passed between them both. Then she signed heavily and resigned herself to the rest of the story.

“But once they did he took the cash and bought land lining the railroads first, and eventually, the route. If they wanted to play the game of land ownership, well I figure he thought he was going to win. So one by one he developed them, and once the money came out of there, it was his. I know why he did it now, why he drives up and down the route without any real sense of home; but some old timers still spit at the mention of his name. Call him a sell-out or a crow. Maybe I stayed here to make up for him. Or, I don't know, maybe it’s just as simple as there's nowhere else I wanna go.”

Jo put her glass back on the table lightly, unsure of what to say.

“I suppose that’s a bit more of an answer than you wanted, isn’t it?”

“No. It’s - I’ve just always wondered. Ever since I saw the car, really. Do you know how strange it was? Seeing you standing astride it like you owned the damn sand itself? It was formidable, I’ll tell you that.”

“Quite the compliment coming from you.” She had said it with only the smallest trace of sarcasm, so Jo tipped the glass in her direction, the crooked smile on her face still there even as she brought the glass to her lips. Val reached in front of her, rolling a cigarette that was to be far from her last. Then the sun got lower, their brows less concerned, and the lingering stiffness between them melted away.

It was dark by the time Jo moved to stand. Her legs were admittedly more wobbly than she would have liked them to be, and the memory of why she had been so stressed about coming here now harder to find. But as she found herself unwilling to move away from the table, a sort of charged silence fell over them. She kept her eyes off of Val’s as though she had something to hide, and without even really knowing why, offered up an embarrassed apology for her departure.

Val simply looked up at her from her chair, her posture slouched and the brief flash of disappointment that had been on her face now cloaked in wry amusement. Everything about her countenance told Jo that the expectation to stay was coming from within herself; and suddenly, she remembered exactly why she had to leave. So she straightened her skirt and made her leaden feet head toward the door. 

As she walked through the room, Jo’s steps slowed, seemingly having forgotten something that she couldn’t quite name. Val was watching her from the doorway, her shoulder against the wood and her voice low. “Keys are still in the car, as promised.”

Her hands were neatly folded across her body, and as she said it, she had nodded behind Jo as though directing her out. Instead Jo turned further; her mind was both sharp and cloudy with anticipation, just like it is when you hold your hand over a fire and wonder just how close you can get before you get burned. “Will you save the bottle for me? For next time?”

A smile slowly spread across Val’s face, laced with something more genuine than had been there hours before. “Sure, Jo. Next time.”

In response Josephine simply nodded and turned to leave, keeping control over the next question that she really wanted to ask. And next time, would you leave the door open for me too?

Previous / Next

[urinarythreatinfection]

I know i have requests to do im sorry but I keep getting sidetracked with new games i get when i havent finished the first one. Have this that i wrote bc the idea came to mind while i work on some freaky shit. Oh i thought i had school tomorrow but its friday (now sat) ok sick.

Mimi Mihawk

Mihawk x GN!Reader. Fluff. 380 words. Pre Cross guild but Post timeskip.

You walk downstairs, well rested after sleeping in. Your husband is ready at the table with a plate of food for you while he reads the newspaper with a glass of wine. A smile forms on your lips, he always ends up being able to predict when you’ll wake up so the food is freshly made. “It smells nice~”

“Sit.” Mihawk says, he’s a bit of a cold husband; but you know he loves you. After all, you didn’t miss how his posture straightened when you walked down the stairs or the way he relaxed his expression. As if seeing you awake and happy perked him up and improved his mood.

‘So cute.’ You think to yourself as you sit at the table, eating your breakfast while watching your husband read the newspaper. “Interesting?”

“Not much.” He sips on his glass of wine and you stand up to look at the paper since despite what he says he’s looked focused. Once you catch sight of it your smile widens, he’s looking at news about Zoro. You can tell his eyes are focused on the picture of the swordsman fighting, seemingly checking up on his form even in the still image. It makes your heart warm and you press your cheek to the top of his head affectionately.

“Mimi~ You’re happy~?” He sighs through his nose at that overly cutesy nickname that he’s told you over and over not to use. Yet despite his clear irritation he makes no attempt to stop you from rubbing your cheek against his like an affectionate cat. “Mimi~ Answer~~”

“I have no reason to answer the baseless accusation. Seeing how someone I personally trained fights is reasonable, it’s obvious he should be doing well.” His words don’t help him though, only making you happier as you kiss his cheek.

“He’s doing well so you’re happy~ I’m happy he’s doing good too~” You kiss his face and lips happily until he’s not even able to see the paper anymore. So irritating, which is exactly why he does nothing to stop it. It would just be too much of a bother if you cried or whined if he pushed you away, that’s the only reason. Ignore how he closes his eyes in relaxation or leans into it, you’re imagining things.

[togenabi]

the language of flowers

gojo satoru x reader (royalty au)

♡—All your life, you have been training for the role of Empress... But nothing could have prepared you to be Satoru's wife.

word count♡— 4.7k (I came back swinging y'all)

genre♡— fluff, royalty au

aged up characters♡— 18+

content notes♡— arranged marriage, romance, crown prince (maybe ooc) gojo, flowers, no use of y/n, afab!reader, ur a princess we're all princesses, minor chara oc's, mentions of my other au's, reader's father is a jerk, reader is tough but falls hard, not fully proofread

author's note♡— this took a while! september was ridiculously busy for me but I did my best with this to compensate! this is also very self indulgent, but I hope you enjoy it! xoxo, belle

As a child, you found out of your engagement to the Crown Prince by accident.

On a chilly winter's evening, you had been chasing the Royal Secretary's cat around the palace. Your father, the King, would frown upon you playing games at this hour. You should be writing essays, learning dance or banquet etiquette.

But all that can wait, you think. You've just spotted the end of a fluffy tail dart around the next corner.

When you catch up to it, the orange tabby is curiously peering into a room—whose grand double doors are slightly ajar. Eyes widening, you quicken your steps but make sure to minimize any sound. The last thing you needed was to be spotted skirting your duties right in front of the King's study.

You let out a huff of relief once you've gently picked up the cat, your arms hugging it to your chest.

Just as you're about to sneak away, however, you hear your name.

From the gap in the door, streams of golden light pour out; contrasting with the darkness of the hallway. The silhouettes of your father and his Secretary leave shadowed patterns on the floor.

You listen, as these silhouettes plan your future without you.

“Ha!” The King bellows. “My daughter. Empress. I never thought I'd see the day.”

Your heart stutters. What?

“When will you inform her, Your Majesty?”

The shadow on the painted tiles waves a hand dismissively as your father does.

“I'll leave that to you, Montgomery. Tell her that she should be honored.”

Heavy footsteps sound as he paces. “It was concerning to have a daughter as a firstborn. I knew she couldn't be made to rule what I've built, but I'll finally have a steady pawn in The Empire once she's sent away.”

Pain shoots into you. Your eyes begin to sting. You had always known your brother was the favorite despite all the hard work you've put in, but to be spoken of as a pawn... Could it be that you have not worked hard enough?

You suddenly remember where you are. Remember how slacking off brought you here. Heartbroken, you hug the cat tighter.

The words your father speak as you walk away deepens the dagger in your chest.

“Do not settle for anything less than perfect for her coursework. She's to be Empress, after all.”

On that chilly winter's evening, your heart froze over like the snow-covered branches looming outside.

...

Several years later.

The carriage goes over a bump in the road, but you do not show discomfort or act without grace. Your expression is controlled and your posture is correct as you balance yourself.

Across from you, Secretary Mont holds a newspaper up, the front page faces you as he reads. Large bold letters take up the entire upper half of the paper:

‘CITIZENS QUESTION IF EMPRESS-TO-BE IS WORTHY OF THE CROWN PRINCE’

You scoff. It makes Mont meet your gaze over the paper before flipping it; he frowns disapprovingly at the front-most article.

“Do not mind them, Your Highness.” He folds the paper and sets it aside—as if it would help prove his point. “The people are not used to your presence yet, but they will be. They will see how you are the perfect choice for Empress.”

The Princess is power hungry, someone who was interviewed had said. You wanted the Empire for yourself, apparently.

Jealous. Vain. Possessive. Dramatic.

Shifting your gaze to the window, you contemplate what you had done to garner such a negative image. Could you have done anything differently?

Your father's face appears in your mind's eye. That same ever-present scowl on his face as he says you should do better. You should be grateful. You should be nothing less than what you've been preparing all these years for. Everything must be perfect.

The Imperial Palace comes into view. It stands high and grand, shining under the bright midday sun. The cloudless blue sky above it makes the scene picturesque.

After the wedding in four months, it is to be your new home.

The Imperial Princess, your betrothed's younger sister, greets you when you arrive. You curtsy to each other, and she surprises you by reaching out to take your hands in hers. She gives them a firm yet friendly squeeze.

“I'm pleased to welcome you, my sister-to-be.” She beams, and you return the look with your own small, composed smile.

“I am honored to be here. Thank you for taking the time to receive me personally.” You gently lower your hands, letting her go.

She leads you inside, passing lines of palace staff as you enter.

“Congratulations on your own engagement, by the way.” You say honestly. After assessing her for a moment, you carefully remark, “I hear you and Prince Toge are quite happy.”

“We are.” She nods, smile glowing even more at the mention of her beloved. “Please allow me to say that I hope you and my brother find your own happiness, despite the ‘political arrangement’ of it all.”

“I thank you for your well-wishes.”

“Would you like an escort to your chambers?” The Princess offers once you reach a grand curving staircase.

“If you have other duties, I will not keep you.” You give her a bow, the ends of your dress brushing the polished marble flooring.

“Very well.” She nods. “A servant will inform you when dinner is ready.”

Gathering your skirt, you make your way up the steps to the east wing, where the guest chambers are.

Your eyes find the path to the west wing, where the royal families' rooms can be found. Soon enough, you would be heading there instead of east. Hopefully, the Prince will be amicable to live with.

The chambers reserved for you are exactly how you remember them. It's spotless and feels homey despite you only visiting a few times a year.

This is the only place you can be truly alone. Your father, try as he might, has no power here.

You step towards the balcony, opening the glass doors that lead outside. The wind caresses your skin like a soft kiss to your cheek, and you take a deep breath to savor it.

Four months.

That's all you have left. Four months of freedom here.

Another breeze passes. It carries with it a tiny dandelion wisp. Catching it almost feels like holding onto air, and yet it is there between your fingers. Small and weighing nothing, but there nonetheless.

For such a small thing, it strengthens your resolve.

You're not here for freedom. You're here to be Empress. And that's all that matters. You will not let anything get under your skin and interfere with your responsibilities.

...

So you said, only to find yourself in a very unexpected situation.

Dinner was uneventful, your only gripe was that your betrothed was not present. You had hoped to show everyone that you got along well... Even if you've only really spoken a handful of times.

However, once you returned to your chambers, you spot the balcony door open once more. Beyond it, looking out at the view of the city, was the Crown Prince himself.

You try not to let your unpreparedness get to you. Bowing respectfully, you greet him. “Good evening, Your Highness. May I ask what brings you here?”

The Prince turns to you, crossing one ankle over the other as he casually leans on the balcony.

“There you are.” Satoru says, his head tilting as he observes you.

You eye him warily, trying to decipher his intentions. If he wanted to see you, he could have simply shown up to dinner. “What are you doing?”

He steps forward. You step back. “Is it a crime to want time alone with my—”

Sighing, you should have expected him to want more time with the future—

“—wife?”

The word knocks the wind out of you.

Of all the names you have been called, ‘wife’ is a new addition to the list.

You are your parents' daughter, your country's princess, and are to be the Empire's most powerful woman.

And yet, to one person... to Satoru, you are to be his wife.

It's almost strange to think about. Your earliest memory of your betrothed is back when he was small and scrawny. It was difficult to take him seriously back then.

Now, something has changed in him. Or it could also be that he's always been like this, and this is a side to him he doesn't show to others that often.

Satoru watches you process the word, seeming to have something to say, but decides against it. You half expected him to tease you for being flabbergasted, but he patiently waits for you to speak first.

“Why are you here at this hour?”

He grins, eyes bringing shame to those distant stars hanging in the sky behind him.

“I didn't want our first meeting in ages to have so many spectators." Satoru explains. “If I had shown up earlier, the scribes would have taken note of how many times I blinked or how fast I chewed."

His jesting does not put you at ease at all. “I have a feeling you have something to say that should not be recorded or overheard.”

“That's true. However,” Satoru says pointedly, “The hour is far too late for all that I wish to say, so I will simply bid you goodnight with this...”

Out of nowhere, he pulls out a red flower with curling petals.

You keep your eyes on his as you reach for the flower's stem. Satoru watches you back, smiling softly. He's backing away before you can thank him, but he doesn't look like he minds. He seems to be happy you didn't reject it.

“Goodnight, my dear.” He bows, and makes his exit.

...Through the balcony. Again.

You step out and try to find where he disappeared to, but he's gone.

The moonlight out here allows you to get a better look at the flower. How curious. Usually, people in the Empire give roses, don't they?

The red carnation twirls between your fingers, and you think of how much more grand and tangible it is compared to the dandelion wisp that found you before dinner.

...

Carnations mean many different things, according to this book on the language of flowers you picked up. It all depends on the color.

Pink carnations symbolize fondness and remembrance. Some also consider it to mean not being able to forget someone.

White carnations mean purity, good luck, and new beginnings. It's a common way of wishing someone safe travels.

Yellow carnations have varying meanings. Sometimes, they are used for apologies. But most often they are given to express disdain, symbolizing a hopeless state of mind. You stare at the illustration next to the passage. The yellow watercolor is so bright and vibrant, it makes you wonder what it did to deserve such sad connotations.

Setting the book down for a moment, you rest your eyes by scanning the library. Countless shelves with even more countless books. A golden candlestick here. A priceless painting there. A stack of yesterday's newspaper lying a few tables away.

Something unpleasant settles in your chest. You ignore it and resume reading.

Naturally, as is the case for most red flowers, the red carnation means love. True, passionate love and affection.

You shut the book softly, tracing the embossed petals on the cover while thinking of the red carnation sitting on your bedside table.

Things could have gone worse, you suppose. At least Satoru didn't give you a striped carnation, which has no other meaning than rejection.

Secretary Mont enters the library before you could dwell more on that thought. He's arrived with several palace staff for additional wedding plans.

“Your Highness,” Only Mont greets you, but they all bow in unison.

You nod, and gesture to the table. “Be seated. Let's begin with the urgent concerns first.”

Apparently, the most urgent problem was that Satoru had not approved any of the table dressing color schemes. When you review the options, you think you can assume why. There can only be so many shades of white and cream and pearl.

“What shall we do, Your Highness?” One of the butlers ask.

“Give me a few samples, I'll talk to the Crown Prince myself.”

You almost regret saying that, because once you did, several staff began tripping over themselves, requesting you bring up other preparations with Satoru.

Secretary Mont asks if he should schedule an appointment with your betrothed, but you decline. Something tells you that he will show up again tonight.

And so, here you were after dinner in your chambers. A box of wedding planning materials rests next to you on the bed. You left the balcony doors open this time, and he shows up just as you predicted.

“Aw, were you expecting me?” He's smiling at you as he approaches, but it falters once he sees the box.

He lets out a loud breath before settling on your bed too, the box sits between you. “Alright, let's do this.”

“Start with these.” You hand him some fabric swatches, he looks at them in disdain.

“Pearl, then.” He says, barely even looking through all the options.

“Don't decide hastily.” You can't help but reprimand. “It's not just the color you have to consider, but the material as well.”

Satoru blinks, but presses his fingers to feel the texture of the fabric at your suggestion. “Is pearl not good then?”

“It's pretty, but it's too shiny.” You explain. “The sheen doesn't make it soft or comfortable to use.”

“Ah.” He breathes out, understanding what you mean.

You tell yourself your heart doesn't beat louder when he picks the one you had your eye on. Satoru holds the sample fabric up, the label attached reads ‘Snow’.

A clean, classic sort of white. Soft to the touch, almost fluffy. You don't have to tell him that you agree, he can already guess from the way you glance at him.

He doesn't need to know that your eyes strayed to his hair. Soft. Fluffy.

Clearing your throat, you change the subject by bringing out some tableware samples. “Shall we discuss these, next?”

An hour and thirty kinds of invitation cards later, a short break is due. You're writing down your decisions when Satoru calls your name.

You've moved to your desk by now, since your bed has become some sort of wedding moodboard. Something clinking together reaches your ears, and you turn to find that Satoru had tea brought up. He pours you a cup and carefully hands it to you.

“Thank you.” You respond gratefully, taking a sip before turning back to the lists in front of you.

“Aren't you tired?” Satoru asks, reading your writing over your shoulder.

“This is actually quite easy for me.” You admit. “Wedding planning is unexpectedly... Pleasant.”

Satoru laughs softly. “You're probably the only one in this palace who thinks it's pleasant to work with me.”

After a moment, he continues. “I suppose... That's a good thing, if we're to be wed.”

His words make you pause writing. You suddenly feel shy, warmth spreading on your cheeks. The kind you're sure isn't from the flame crackling in the fireplace.

How silly that you're becoming bashful after being engaged to him since you were children. The thundering of your heart can wait.

“I agree.” You respond, not turning to face him. You will not allow him to see you uncomposed like you did the previous night. “I wasn't sure what to expect from our marriage, but I would appreciate it if we were companionable.”

The rest of the evening proceeds smoothly, though you do notice Satoru becoming more silent as the night goes on.

The next day, you spot Satoru speaking to foreign delegates. Something is different in the way he carries himself in front of them. His posture is that of a proper Emperor, not a cheeky prince that sneaks into your room at night.

... It's probably best that no one finds out about that, lest a scandal breaks before you even get married.

When the delegates leave, you're about to approach and greet Satoru when he, unmistakably meets your eyes, then walks in the opposite direction.

You're left there, confused and perhaps even a little hurt. But you stone your expression and carry on as if nothing has happened. Your lessons taught you to be graceful, even in times you feel anything but.

By late afternoon, it's painfully obvious that Satoru is ignoring you. When he rushes through his lunch and gets up right when you take your seat, you try your best to look unaffected.

Hopefully, you're the only one who's noticed so far. If word reaches Secretary Mont, word will reach your father... That troubles you more than you can put to words.

Satoru doesn't show up for your scheduled wedding planning session with the rest of the staff. You're careful not to say that you'll speak with your betrothed, and thankfully no one mentions it even if it shows they wish you did. You're not even sure if he'll show up at your balcony tonight.

When the hour turns ten, the time he's usually here, he isn't. You sigh and can't help feeling a little disappointed.

Perhaps you said something wrong last night. Maybe you should apologize for something. Or he could just be busy, you tell yourself. You can't expect the Crown Prince to always have time to sneak away to you, can't you?

Something taps against the glass of the balcony doors. It breaks your train of thought, and causes your heart to leap just a bit.

But when you go to check, no one's there. You open the doors to find a single red carnation, just like the one he gave the first night.

You're only barely successful at hiding your relief. You reach for it and glance around once more, just to make sure if he left any other trace of him. There are none, but after you lock the doors and turn in for the night, two carnations in a glass vase calm you in a way you hadn't let yourself feel in a long time.

...

A maid knocks at your door a tad earlier than you're used to. When you ask about what's going on, she says she has to prepare you for the Crown Prince's departure.

“He's leaving?” You ask as you rise from bed, already headed for the bathroom to clean up.

“Yes, Your Highness.” She sifts through your wardrobe for your clothes. “He is to go on a business trip to settle trade agreements.”

“How long will he be gone for?”

“I cannot say for certain, Your Highness.”

Pausing in thought, you look to the balcony doors.

A rush of determination fills you as you ask the maid, “Could you prepare something for me?”

The head butler said that he could be gone for two or three weeks. Weeks before you see that face of his, which has a surprisingly forlorn expression on it.

“Thank you for seeing me off.” Satoru acknowledges you with a smile, but his eyes reveal how tired and troubled he truly is.

You say nothing at first, silently taking steps closer to him. You could practically feel the air freeze over as everyone watching holds their breath. This is the closest the two of you have appeared in public.

You reveal a white carnation held in the hand you hid behind you. The stem is cut short, just enough so that it fits into the pocket on his coat.

“I will take care of things here while you're gone.” You assure him, taking a step back to admire how the white flower suits him.

Satoru seems to be at a loss for words, but his eyes regain their usual spark when he addresses you again. “It seems I have nothing to worry about, then.”

You feel stares at your back as the carriage departs, but pay them no mind. You intend to keep your word and perform your duties while the prince is gone.

On your way to the library, you overhear the Imperial Princess and Sir Nanami speaking to each other.

They're in the next hallway, and you were just about to turn to it when you hear your name spoken. You press your back to the wall and listen.

“I'm glad Her Highness seems to have liked my brother.” The princess says. “And of course, I know Satoru would have been over the moon because of that flower.”

Sir Nanami hums. “His concerns were nothing to be worried about after all.”

The princess laughs. “Oh, what was it again that he said? That she friendzoned him?”

“It was that she companion-zoned him.”

You huff quietly. So that's why Satoru had been ignoring you yesterday.

“I look forward to their blooming relationship. I'm sure Her Highness will come around.” Is the last you hear of their conversation as they continue on their way, their footsteps fading further into the hall.

Come around? To what?

A grandfather clock chimes to signal the change of the hour, and you realize you've dilly-dallied for long enough. The rest of your way to the library has no people whispering about you and your betrothed or the flower you sent him off with.

But you would be lying if you said you'd forgotten about what the princess said.

...

Ever since Satoru left, he's been writing you letters. He said his sister gave him the idea.

You've given up on replying on every letter he sends. It seems as though he writes to you daily, and you simply can't keep up. He insists on writing no matter how busy he gets.

His fifth letter is so short that it should be called a note:

‘The flowers here are lovely. I had a bookmark made for you.’

That same bookmark, a dried pink carnation, sits between the pages of the novel you're currently reading. It makes you consider pressing the red carnations Satoru had given you so that they're not just left to wilt.

You write back once a week. But what you lack in quantity of letters you make up with the number of pages you write, and you tell Satoru as such. There are many things you want to report, so you don't hold back on anything.

Well, perhaps you don't quite tell him that you can't fall asleep until you spot the moon through the balcony glass. Or that you think of him whenever you're not distracted enough.

In Satoru's fifteenth letter, he brings the unfortunate news that his return will be delayed. He will have been gone for four weeks before he comes home, and the journey back will take three days at the latest.

Unable to express your disappointment outright, you instead imply that he should make haste for the wedding preparations. That he shouldn't miss the food tasting or the floral arrangements.

‘I trust my wife to make all the right decisions. Even if you don't, I'll consider them right anyway.’

There he goes again, calling you wife when you haven't married yet. It also dawns on you that Satoru has only ever called you by name, or addressed you as his wife. He's probably the only person who hasn't referred to you as Empress-to-be.

You're quickly learning that with Satoru, you're finding yourself again. It's rare for you to feel more than just a princess or Empress in training, but he makes it effortless with just a few words.

...

You begin counting down the days when Satoru writes that trade negotiations have finally concluded. He should be home in four days, and you can hardly wait to see his face again.

But of course, Satoru finds a way to bewilder you by arriving home early. In the middle of the night, no less. And naturally, through the balcony.

Wiping the sleep from your eyes, you try to decipher if his visage is a dream or a trick or the light. But when he laughs, and tells you he missed you dearly, you need no further proof.

Satoru clasps your hands with his, running his thumbs over your fingers and knuckles. Your eyes travel down to his boots, which are filthy with dirt and grass. His hair is ruffled and windswept.

“Did you,” The word settles on your tongue when you pause. “...Rush here on horseback?” You ask incredulously.

Satoru laughs again, and wraps his arms around you. “Are you complaining?”

You blink, and tentatively wrap your arms around his middle. “No. I'm glad you're home.”

Satoru is so warm compared to the night air that surrounds you. You almost complain when he pulls back, but the serious look in his eye makes you keep your mouth shut.

He clears his throat and rubs your shoulders before taking your hands again. You're completely shocked when he sinks to one knee.

“I know that we're already engaged.” Satoru begins. “I know that we've been preparing for this for years, but I just wanted to ask you properly. Because you deserve it.”

He pulls out a ring, a diamond shines at its center.

“Marry me, and I shall spend every moment of my life proving my love for you.”

“Yes. I will.” You respond, and he slips the ring onto your finger. How does he keep getting more and more lovely?

You place your hands on the sides of his face, pulling him up to you. You kiss him, and the air ignites like a spark brought to life.

It's tender, and careful, and carries all the things you wish to say to him. How you missed him. How you love the flowers he gives you. How excited you are to have him by your side for forever.

When you break apart, he seems surprised to find you reflecting his happiness back at him. He's about to speak, but not before he can resist the urge to kisses you again.

You smile into the kiss, but place a hand on his chest, pushing him to ask, “You were about to say?”

“...I've always known I would treat you right when we got engaged. That was always a given.” Satoru cradles your face gently, making you feel like the most precious in the world to him. “You were chosen because you're smart, and you worked harder than anyone else.”

“...But I saw you one day, when we were kids.” He speaks carefully. “You were trying your best to impress your father, but not at all happy...”

“From then on, I decided to make it my mission to make you smile.” To prove his point, he places his thumbs at the corners of your mouth to drag them up playfully. You laugh and swat his hands away.

“A real smile, just like that! None of those diplomatic half-smiles you always throw out to please people. That won't work on me.”

“Before you are the Empress, you are my wife. And I will love and treasure you as such.”

...

He says those same words at the wedding. You jest that he has no originality, but it brings you to tears just the same.

The wedding happens in the palace gardens, surrounded by countless beautiful flowers that dance and sway under the sun when the wind blows. Everything is, in every sense of the word, perfect.

For this moment, you are not the Empress. Not yet. The world can wait a day, you decide. Everything else can wait while you bask in the glowing warmth this man offers you.

As you leave the ceremony behind with your arms linked together, Satoru leans into your ear so you can hear him over the cheering crowd. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” Petals shower you both on your way, and you can't help but smile. “Just that we're perfect together.”

Satoru laughs in agreement. “Damn right we are.”

Several staff are positioned at the exit of the gardens, ready to escort you both to the carriages that will take you through the Empire to greet your subjects... But something makes you pause at the end of the aisle.

You pluck a red carnation from one of the floral displays before turning to your husband. You tuck the flower into the chest pocket of his suit, snug in front of his pocket square.

When you glance up to see his reaction, he's already beaming at you, looking indescribably happy.

“I love you too.” He says, taking your hand and pressing the softest of kisses on top of your wedding ring.

When you sent him away back then, you remember thinking how the white carnation matched well with him. Looking at him now, however, the red flower over his heart seems to overflow with all the love and all the words that need not be spoken. You like this one much better.

He leans down to pluck another identical flower, and gently tucks it behind your ear.

Satisfied, he holds your hand tight, leading you to the rest of your lives with the assurance that he will never let go.

© togenabi 2023 | see here to be added or removed from my taglist

taglist♡— @flowerjun @mellozhi

[magicsprat]

Kitty Duval x fem OC

tags and warning: agnst, slow burn, age gap, hurt/comfort, lots of oc (probably, only Kitty is not oc), prostitution, mention of death and illness, murder, self-harm and its consequences, smoking and drinking alcoholic beverages, obscene language, Jewish characters, mention of religion

wc: ~2k

a/n: Hi everyone! It's... It's something unusual and new for me, but I would still like to share it with the world. I came up with this story the moment I saw the film adaptation of the play "The Time of Your Life" with Patti LuPone as Kitty Duval. All the characters, with the exception of Kitty, are original. Remember, English is not my native language, so I apologize for any possible mistakes and inaccuracies! 🤲🏻

Chapter One

Today was a rainy day. This fall, San Francisco was bathed in warmth and sunshine, and the drizzle in the morning seemed like a pleasant addition. Mildred sat on a high stool at the bar, her legs crossed, gazing into her glass of beer. This establishment, located not far from the building where her apartment was, had become a reliable refuge for the seamstress in this sweltering weather. The last few days had been particularly hard for Mildred. A sudden wave of despondency had washed over her, and for an entire week she had tried to immerse herself in her work. She sewed constantly, as it distracted her from her thoughts and brought her pleasure. But now, Mildred was in a terrible mood.

The entrance door of the bar opened quietly and then closed with a creak from the door closer. A girl slipped inside, wearing an old yellow blouse and a black skirt with a faded floral pattern. On her head was a small pale yellow hat that matched her blouse. Her lips were painted with gloss, and tasteless blue eyeshadow adorned her eyelids. Dark circles lay under her eyes, and within her chocolate-brown irises hid pain and sadness. She was small but strong — a beauty with a delicate and sharp allure that neither cruel circumstances nor ugly reality could shatter. Her appearance and rhythm formed the perfect accompaniment to this mournful American melody.

Mildred turned and looked toward the door as it opened. Her attention was drawn to the young pretty girl. She noticed everything, from the sad expression on the stranger's face to the quality of her clothing. An older woman watched as the girl moved toward the bar with a certain grace that was perhaps both sensual and melancholic. The old song playing from the jukebox matched the girl's appearance and the mood in the bar. Mildred couldn't take her eyes off her as she approached and sat down on the neighboring barstool.

This quiet bar, of which there were far too many in San Francisco, often attracted people from completely different social strata. Around the corner by the gaming machine lounged a young man about eighteen years old. At one of the tables sat a middle-aged couple drinking beer and discussing some news from the newspaper. And there was this girl — so young. But in her eyes lay so much pain and fatigue, as if she bore the weight of humanity's sins upon her shoulders. Despite this, her posture and movements were full of grace. And this sad American motif... The world had wrung this motif from her, then spiritually mutilated and broken her.

Mildred took a sip of beer and looked again at the young girl. The seamstress noticed that her shoulders were slightly slumped, yet she held herself with a certain dignity, like a delicate porcelain doll. The stranger ordered a beer from the bartender standing across the counter, but after taking her drink, she immediately stood up and headed toward one of the tables in the center of the small hall. She placed her tiny handbag on her lap and leaned one hand on the table. The girl looked as if she were waiting for someone or something. But her gaze was pensive and sorrowful. The calm music seemed to her soft and drawn out, somewhat weepy and melancholic. Sometimes certain circumstances distorted a person's perception of this world profoundly. The young beauty sitting at the table flinched at the sound of approaching footsteps. She lifted her eyes and saw a woman standing next to her. It was a beautiful lady in her early thirties, with hair styled in a simple yet pleasant manner. The girl's gaze fell on the woman's eyes, which were amber, almost yellow — exceedingly attractive. The girl put on a naïve smile, meant for any potential clients. No matter how unpleasant the thought was, the beauty wouldn’t mind if that woman showed interest in her. It was... it was certainly better than the drunken men reaching out to her with their calloused hands. Despite the sadness and fatigue evident on the girl’s face, her smile remained elegant, almost refined — a skill honed through years of experience. Mildred smiled in response.

“Is this seat taken?” asked the older woman, pointing to the spot across from the girl.

“No,” the stranger quickly replied, looking up at Mildred. Her voice was pleasant and soft, as she spoke with a slight breathiness. The girl’s eyelashes fluttered as she lowered her gaze, feigning innocence on her beautiful face. Why had Mildred turned to this lonely girl? Did she know who this girl was, and was she in any way interested in her services? The young beauty couldn’t be sure of any of that, so she lowered her eyes. Her cheeks flushed slightly. Mildred innocently scrutinized the girl while she answered her question.

“May I sit?”

The seamstress studied the features of her companion’s face, noticing the faint blush that appeared on her smooth cheeks when she looked down at her beer glass. Of course, how could she know who this lady was and what she did for living; she didn’t even know her name. But for some reason, the presence of the young girl strangely intrigued her. Burning with an uncharacteristic curiosity, Mildred awaited the girl's response.

“Uh-huh,” the girl breathed quietly and nodded. She did not resist the company of this unusual woman, as she had long stopped resisting anything that happened in her life. She allowed this relentless current to carry her along and ceased trying to struggle against drowning in this unpleasant reality. But this woman seemed very nice and kind, and did not repel the girl sitting at the table. Perhaps she would be lucky, and this stranger would spend some time with her for a pleasant price.

The older woman smiled easily as she settled into the empty chair. She looked at the young girl before her, examining every detail of her features and expression. The girl did not resist her company, and Mildred felt that the girl was yielding. Not yet knowing the true nature of the girl, Mildred quietly asked, “May I know your name?

“Kitty. Kitty Duval,” the girl replied softly, wrapping her fingers around the base of her beer glass. She lifted it to her lips but paused as if hesitating. However, Kitty still took a sip of beer and set the glass back on the table. She forced herself to raise her eyes and look at the woman sitting across from her. Kitty’s eyelashes fluttered again. Mildred leaned on the table, resting her chin on clasped fingers, listening to what the girl had to say. Kitty Duval sounded almost like a stage name rather than a real name for this girl. And the way the young girl pronounced it, with a slight stutter, only reinforced that impression. The older woman noticed the girl’s nervousness, her habit of fluttering her eyelashes when looking up at her. Yet that name suited her well.

“A beautiful name,” a light smile never left Mildred's face. The girl, who had deliberately avoided Mildred's gaze, turned her head and looked directly into her eyes. Kitty must have misinterpreted the woman's words and found condescension in her friendly tone. And that was not what she needed.

“Don't mock me,” said the girl, slightly raising her chin, trying to show that she wouldn’t allow a stranger to treat her that way. Kitty Duval was a persona. She possessed that wicked innocence and fierce pride, characteristic of simple and kind-hearted people — at least according to the girl herself.

The girl’s sudden readiness to defend herself caused a slight widening of the smile on the older woman's lips. For a moment, she felt even more intrigued, but at the same time, a sharp pain pierced her chest at Kitty's words and the proud expression on her face. Mildred quickly realized that the girl had taken her comment as sarcasm. She attempted to clarify.

“No, I wasn’t mocking you,” Mildred slowly shook her head. “I apologize if I’m overstepping, but I find your name beautiful. Truly.”

Kitty seemed only more upset by Mildred's remark. She pressed her lips together and exhaled sharply through her nose. The girl genuinely could not believe that the stranger she had randomly encountered in the bar could be so nice and friendly. Kitty had long learned from experience that any kindness always boiled down to personal interests. And she hadn’t believed for a long time that she deserved compliments.

“Excuse me, miss, but you don’t have to court me to...” Kitty began, fueled by her own disbelief and pain, but fell silent. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she whispered, “to take me.”

The woman’s smile quickly faded, replaced by a concerned and almost sorrowful expression as she listened to the girl's response. Mildred did not miss the note of distrust in her voice, as if no one had ever treated the girl kindly. From the way she spoke and reacted, Mildred understood that the girl had decided that she was trying to "court" her with the prospect of something more. Mildred's eyes widened slightly in surprise as she looked at the young beauty sitting across from her. The girl's last words confirmed her suspicions. She gazed into Kitty's brown eyes, filled with shame and anger, and bit her lower lip. Her heart ached, but she didn’t know what to say. Now everything fell into place. Kitty's appearance, behavior, and words only confirmed that she was a prostitute — one of the cheap ones. And she clearly thought that Mildred wanted to take advantage of her services. Poor girl.

Not taking her eyes off Mildred, Kitty involuntarily blushed with shame. She felt utterly embarrassed, and she hated herself for it. This world had spiritually crippled and broken her. She knew it. It angered her. She was angry at herself. She hated this miserable world and wholeheartedly pitied those beaten down, lost souls like herself. The younger girl clearly despised Mildred too, probably for wanting to "take her" for the night. The older woman could hardly imagine what this girl's life had been like, what events and circumstances had led her to such an end. Mildred was almost completely sure of what would happen next.

“No. I’m not interested,” she said confidently, shaking her head. Kitty stared incredulously into Mildred's eyes for a few more seconds. Her attempts to protect herself and show pride were difficult for her. But it seemed there was nothing to defend against. The girl's cheeks flushed again, and she quickly looked away, unable to withstand the stranger's sincerity.

“Then why are you here?” she asked quietly, meaning why on earth Mildred had sat at her table if she didn’t want to take her? What interest did this woman have in Kitty? The seamstress gave the girl a tender, kind look, hoping to convey that she meant no harm. She clearly saw the distrust and doubt in the beauty's eyes. But then Kitty turned away, and Mildred’s heart tightened with a strange feeling.

“I wanted some company.”

Kitty didn’t look at Mildred. She struggled to swallow and whispered in a quiet, uncertain voice, “If you have two dollars, then...” Mildred flinched slightly upon hearing the young girl's words. She already knew what Kitty would say, having heard only the beginning of her sentence, “...my company could be even more enjoyable.”

Kitty was clearly aware of what she was offering and to whom. Perhaps this woman was the only one in all of San Francisco who treated her with kindness and understanding in all the years that the girl had lived here. And realizing this, albeit weakly, Kitty offered her her services anyway. She needed money to pay for a hotel room, for mending clothes, and for food. Mildred's heart ached again as she looked at the young girl sitting alone and offering herself for two dollars. She didn't know what to do or say at that moment. A feeling of helplessness gripped her.

“No, listen, dear. I'm really not interested in that.”

“Then go,” Kitty whispered, barely able to get the words out of herself, “There will always be those who will be interested.”

Tears welled up in the young beauty's eyes, but she quickly wiped them away with the pads of her fingers. A soft sigh escaped her plump lips. Kitty picked up her half-empty beer glass again and drained it in a few gulps. The girl's fingers were visibly shaking. Kitty has made her position clear. And Mildred wasn't stupid enough or frivolous enough to argue with a complete stranger who was nothing but an ordinary whore.

The sight of the young girl desperately trying to hold back her tears sent another painful stab to Mildred's heart. It felt like a knife wound. But what could she do? The stranger sitting across from her was clearly stubborn, and any further attempts to persuade her were doomed to fail. Mildred swallowed, her throat dry, and she quietly replied, rising from the table:

“I'll go. Take care of yourself.”

With that, the acquaintance between Kitty Duval and Mildred Brown came to an end. Only when the woman was about to leave did Kitty realize that she hadn’t even learned her name. Perhaps meeting this stranger had been the most pleasant event of the year for Kitty, as she was the only woman who had been friendly and welcoming towards her. But when Kitty turned around, sitting at the table and holding her breath, it was already too late. Her gaze lingered on Mildred's back as she was already exiting the bar.

If you find any errors or typos in the text, please let me know! Questions and criticism are welcome in a mild form! 🫵🏻😘

[normal-person-i-promise]

slurred teases and sweet kisses

arataka reigen/female reader

tw for drinking, bars, intoxication

You roll your eyes as he takes another sip of his drink, his mouth set in smug grin as he swirls the liquid in his glass and watches as the ice clinks against the walls of his cup. With each sip he takes, his face gets more flushed, his words get more slurred.

Arataka has an embarrassingly low tolerance to alcohol, and you're witnessing it firsthand. He's feeling it too; that urge to kiss you is a lot stronger than usual...

★ ★ ★

...Should he invite you? You're just his employee after all, and the both of you would be alone in the bar...

Arataka glances at you for a moment, looking up from the newspaper he was reading at his desk. He's not actually reading it, of course — he can barely concentrate on breathing when you're in the room with him. You're just so... Distracting, he can't help it.

The slow rise and fall of your chest, the motion of your hand as you tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, the way your eyes would flit between him and the window — Arataka could watch you for hours and not grow bored.

If Arataka invites you to just... Go to that bar he used to be a usual at, then the two of you would be alone. Like a date, which it— it isn't, of course— that would be crazy! There's no way you'd want to date Arataka, of all people, it just doesn't make sense for you to like him!

You think of him as an employer, a friend, maybe a close one, but just that! Nothing more, nothing less!

Arataka exhales sharply through his nose, flipping the page to look like he's reading the paper. He can feel the grain of the grey newspaper between his fingertips as he rubs his finger absentmindedly on the edge, pick up that faint scent of printed paper in the air.

You risk a glance at him, and your eyes shimmer with the evening sun's light as you study his features: his disinterested gaze, his relaxed posture, his incurious expression. He's... Mesmering to look at in this state, this boredom, especially since he's so expressive usually.

He also looks rather attractive, but that doesn't really matter.

You can see him stiffen, trying to ignore how hot he feels with your eyes roaming all over his body, but... Not that he doesn't enjoy it, of course — Arataka adores when you study him, just like how he studies you. You've noticed a lot of things about him by now; the way he'd adjust his grip on the newspaper, the way his eyes skim over the text, the way he leans back in his chair, his posture relaxed; bored.

You quickly avert your gaze, and Arataka feels a pang of sadness at the loss of your attention.

You, yourself, are not doing much. You're just... Sitting quietly at the little couch in the corner of the room, waiting patiently for the customers to come in. You're staring out the window, watching as the pedestrians on the streets walk along back to their homes or to the restaurants and bars, watching the way the trees sway in the light breeze, some of their vibrant green leaves falling off the sharp brown branches.

It's your job, after all — the job Arataka is paying you for — to be whatever customer service is needed when he's too busy exorcising the client's spirits or helping talk through their worries.

You take a slow, deep breath, inhaling that familiar scent of salt and incense, of sweat and cologne.

Arataka doesn't need you, not really. He just wants an excuse to see your face day after day after day, hear your darling little voice call his name when you need help.

He likes it most during that little frame of time when Mob has left to go back home, but you're still in the office — alone — with him, simply coexisting in eachother's presence. This is the time that he'd talk to you, joke with you, spend time with you — but just because he enjoys talking to you for every second of the day you're with him doesn't mean that he isn't content in settling into a comfortable silence with you. He likes... Coexisting with you, whether you're on your phone or looking out the window, whether he's reading the newspaper or watching the little TV in the corner of the room.

It's... Nice, in a way, to have someone care about you just as much as you care about him.

"The sky's pretty nice, isn't it?" You say to Arataka, tapping on the glass with your finger and bringing his attention to it.

It is rather pretty; golds and oranges are strewn across the sky like an artist's first experimental brush strokes on their canvas, the colours shifting with every minute that passes as the sun goes lower and lower on the horizon. The clouds are rimmed gold — a delicate, thin outline to show its form, shimmering and soft as the light bounces off it.

It's not sunset yet, no, but — oh, how that golden light spills into the room, how it makes Arataka's eyes sparkle—

"Yeah, it is pretty."

His words are simple, but it's evident that he's fighting himself to keep his tone disinterested. He doesn't want to show interest in you: he'd look like a fool. He doesn't want to look like a fool in front of the girl he likes.

You clear your throat (you always do that when you need to distract yourself from your thoughts, Arataka's noted), and you settle back in your seat. He grins, an opportunity to tease you coming to his mind, the words already beginning to brew.

"You what looks nicer, though?" He asks, his tone playful as he looks you up and down, feeling pleasant shivers run down your spine. It feels so... Good, to be the object of his attention, to be the subject of his praise.

"What?" You ask, crossing your legs as you lean back in your chair. You're grinning pridefully, knowing that he'll most definitely say you're prettier.

Arataka's thin smile widens noticeably, his eyes narrowing in delight.

"Me, of course."

You roll your eyes, though it's clear you mean nothing malicious by it. "Oh, please, Arataka," you say, your tone teasing, "you're full of yourself. You're a lot uglier than the sky."

A lie. To set off any suspicions that you like him.

He just grins wider, settling into his seat like a proud king.

Even though it's nothing more than light, playful banter, every second Arataka spends with you feels like a moment in heaven — your voice the angel's songs, your hair their shining halos. You never refuse any of his silly little jokes, always laugh at those half-wit puns he makes, and it... It sends waves of butterflies to his stomach, knowing that you enjoy being around him, knowing that you like being his friend.

And vice versa — every second you spend with Arataka is such fun, such enjoyment, that you lose track of time and go back home hours later than intended. He's just so... Fun to talk to, what with his witty replies and clever jokes, his carefully placed puns and playfully sharp remarks. He's such a joker, always able to make you laugh, and he likes it. He likes hearing your laugh. He likes it a lot.

The newspaper crinkles loudly as Arataka folds it, placing it on the desk. Struggling to keep his expression neutral and his voice level, he asks you a simple question.

"Wanna go out for drinks later?" Grinning, now, "I'll pay."

Please say yes. Please, please say yes.

You hum in thought as if you don't know your answer already. Your voice is light; playful, and Arataka can hear the grin plastered on your face when you reply.

"I don't know... I don't drink."

You don't, that bit is true: you've tried, and failed, to enjoy alcohol and intoxication. It's just so... Sour, and overwhelming, and it feels so horrible the next day.

Arataka lets out an exasperated groan, but the both of you know it's fake.

"Come on— please?"

He leans on the desk, his whole upper body resting on the wood, trying to get as close to you as he can to you without getting up. His eyes almost seem to sparkle as he smiles wide, trying as hard as he can to convince you, knowing you can't say no to that god forsaken smile. "Pretty please? It's my birthday!"

He's almost pleading as he tilts his head innocently, his cheeks resting comfortably in his hands, his elbows planted on the desk. "You don't wanna upset the birthday boy, do you?"

You sigh, though you aren't annoyed. You can't say no, the both of you know that — especially since it's his birthday. And, unbeknownst to you, it's the first birthday Arataka will be spending with a friend in a long, long time. He's ecstatic, Especially since it's you.

Even if it's just one friend, and even if that friend is a girl he really likes is his employee, it's still counted, right?

You... Are a friend, right?

Because the way your pretty little lips would curl into a grin whenever you'd tease him, the way your words would cause him to erupt into fits of laughter, the way you always enjoyed the little games of banter the two of you often shared certainly made it seem so.

You roll your eyes at his display.

"Fine, fine, okay. I'll go celebrate your birthday with you or whatever."

Arataka has to hide his excitement, struggling to keep himself from smiling ear to ear, struggling to ignore how his heart flutters, struggling to ignore that familiar feeling of butterflies in his stomach.

He always feels this way when he's with you though, so he's gotten pretty good at ignoring it.

"When do you say we should go?"

Arataka tilts his head more heavily to the side as he asks you that question, his eyes roaming around the room as he thinks. You watch as he shifts in his chair, trying in vain to get comfortable in the god awful position he's sitting in.

His grin widens. "Now?"

Flitting your eyes to the clock and reading the time quickly, you answer him, your voice level; though there's a slight undertone — barely even there — of a playful, almost accusational chide. You're just buying time to annoy him, giving him pointless excuses.

"It's still ten minutes to closing."

Arataka sighs in dramatised exasperation, putting such an emphasis on the rolling of his eyes that it makes you scoff in playful annoyance. It makes his heart flutter, knowing that you're entertained by him. God, how he loves that voice of yours... How he loves you...

Spinning his hand so fast that it's a blur, he stops abruptly, pointing to himself as he grins proudly. "I'm the boss, here. I can close this place any time I want."

He gets his elbows off the desk, kicking his feet onto the wood as you hum in response to his words. Nodding as you speak, you agree with him. "Good point, good point."

Arataka and you clean up the office a little, sweeping the corners here and dusting the chair over there. The two of you are in a comfortable silence, content enough with the fact that you're in each other's presence.

As you clean, Arataka can't help but notice — he always notices — all those little things you do: the way you place one foot in front of the other to the beat of the song stuck in your head; the way you hum softly to yourself, quiet enough to think he can't hear; the way your eyes would catch glimpses of his every so often.

More often than not, he'd get lost in all your little habits. It's just... The minor ways you'd entertain yourself as you clean, the manner in which you would tuck your hair behind your ear, the way you'd roll your sleeves up before doing anything, is so... Cute, you're so cute...

It's not long before the place is as good as new, and Arataka is switching the lights off and taking the keys to the door.

"After you, m'lady," he says in an unnecessarily posh voice, bowing slightly as he opens the door for you. You nod, thanking him as you step out, bathed the hot summer night air — it's humid, the air thick with moisture as you breathe in the scent of moist pavement and soaked leaves from the rain that had happened a few hours earlier.

The more you walk, the more you can hear the bustling of the shopkeepers in their kitchens and behind their counters, pick up the buzz of the neon signs just beginning to flicker on, listen to the indistinct chatter of the night life starting to settle into the bars and night clubs. Though it's faint, it's most definitely there, and it's getting louder and louder with each minute that passes.

The walk to the bar isn't quiet; it's never quiet when the two of you walk together. The air is always filled with friendly conversation, laughter and giggles peppered in here and there, occasional glimpses at his soft, pink lips...

Arataka is taking in every little thing about you, from the way your smile would form to the tapping of your shoes on the pavement. You're... Perfect, you.

He tries his best to match your pace, making sure that his footfalls are in tandem with yours, making sure that you both are walking as one.

If someone was looking on at the two of you, they'd think you were a couple.

A few minutes later, Arataka is pushing open the door of the Happy Trails bar, gesturing for you to enter. The floor is sticky, the air thick with the sharp smell of alcohol and sweaty office workers. The lights are dim; warm, inviting, as you take a seat after Arataka pulls one out for you.

"So what'll you have?" He asks, flashing you the most charming grin he can muster. He settles into his seat, getting more comfortable: unbuttoning his suit jacket, loosening that pink tie on his neck, undoing the top buttons of his immaculate white dress shirt. God, he's so hot—

It's hard to keep from staring, but you manage.

You shrug. "Just soda."

Arataka nods, not questioning it as he calls the bartender over and ordering for both you and him: an iced cola for you, and a lemon sour — extra sour — for him. He always orders that, and, based on the few times you've gone out drinking with him, you don't think he drinks anything else.

He settles into his seat, and you struggle to get your voice to pierce through the indistinct conversations of the other patrons.

"So, Arataka," you nearly shout, your tone playful, "how do you feel now that you're 28?"

He hums in thought, bringing a fist to his chin as he thinks about his answer.

He shrugs.

"So-so, but—" he pauses for dramatic effect, the shadow of a grin ghosting on his lips —"I'm feeling a whole lot better since you're here to help me into my old age."

You laugh slightly at his little joke. Arataka's dopey little grin widens with pride, having made you giggle yet again.

Your drinks arrive a little after this, and you can't help but notice the bartender giving you an accusational side eye as he slides the both of you your glasses, seeming to doubt the fact that you and Arataka aren't dating.

"Oh, come now, Arataka—" his heart flutters at the sound of your voice saying his name —"you're not that old." Your grin widens, your tone teasing. "You look a lot older, though."

He lets out an offended half laugh, shoving your shoulder playfully in mock offence. "How mean!" He cries, trying in vain to make his voice sound offended.

It's quiet as you sip your cola slowly, and you're not blind to the way Arataka's eyes follow your tongue as it darts out to get whatever droplets of your drink missed your mouth.

...God, how he wants to taste that sharp, teasing mouth of yours, feel every crevice and crease of your lips as they press into his... How he wants to run his hands through your soft hair as he combs it out of the way of your perfect face, how he wants whisper sweet nothings into your ear as you fall asleep in his arms...

"You should... Really watch that tongue of yours," he warns playfully, his words beginning to slur, fighting to ignore his thoughts. He's barely even had a sip of his drink, and he already looks like he's about to pass out.

He wags a wobbly finger in your face like a mother reprimanding her child. "I might get tired of you and fire you."

You roll your eyes, scoffing.

"Oh, Arataka," you tease, leaning in close — close enough to smell the scent of his expensive cologne, close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath, close enough to feel just how hot he is. He grits his teeth, struggling not to close the distance between the two of you as you speak lowly, quietly: for his ears only.

"We both know you like me too much."

And he— he blushes, oh, and he pushes you away with the tip of his unsteady finger to your forehead. You swallow the slight hurt you feel as Arataka replies, his response clumsy as always — more so now that he's drunk. "And we... Both know you like me too much to let yourself... Get fired."

You roll your eyes as he takes another sip of his drink, his mouth set in smug grin as he swirls the liquid in his glass and watches as the ice clinks against the walls of his cup. With each sip he takes, his face gets more flushed, his words get more slurred.

Arataka has an embarrassingly low tolerance to alcohol, and you're witnessing it firsthand. He's feeling it too; that urge to kiss you is a lot stronger than usual...

And though the motion is wobbly, unbalanced, now it's his turn to lean in close. He almost falls on you.

His grin is wide, and though it's lopsided from the alcohol, it still manages to be annoyingly smug, and... Wonderfully endearing, too, like he's trying to make you happy regardless of how his vision blurs and his head pounds. "I'm... Doing you a favour for not... Firing you, you know."

You scoff mockingly at his words, drinking your soda as you grin. "Please, Arataka"— another rush of butterflies to his stomach —"I know I'm far too important to you to just... Get rid of."

You're grinning smugly now, leaning in closer to his face. Your noses are almost touching, and you can almost taste his lips now — the sweetness of alcohol mixing with the sharp mint of his mouthwash, his saliva thick as Arataka swallows. You're not blind to how his unfocused eyes fall down to your mouth for a moment, licking his lips like he's looking at a freshly cooked meal, ready for devouring.

"Ah, but you need to... To remember," he says, leaning away from you, gripping the table in tight hands to stop himself from falling off his barstool. He squints as he talks, trying hard to form the words. "I could totally just do it right now. Nothing's... Stopping me."

You sigh, smiling, rolling your eyes but staying quiet.

Arataka downs the remainder of his drink in one swift gulp, slamming the cup down onto the wooden bar table with a loud thud.

He doesn't order another one, thankfully, because at the rate he's getting drunk, he's bound to pass out or vomit anytime soon. His cheeks are an almost bright red, his eyes half-lidded and glossed over, unfocused as he stares at you; when he breathes, you can smell the alcohol on his breath.

"Hey, Arataka."

You sip your soda, licking the glass a little to see how he reacts get the drops that missed your mouth. Arataka watches your tongue, almost hungrily so, his gaze unblinking and his breathing shallow.

You want to try and get as many secrets as you can get out of a drunk Arataka, just to have something to either a) tease him about, or b) blackmail him with.

"What do you think about me?" You ask, grinning.

Arataka shifts in his seat, thinking hard about his answer, and doing it for a suspiciously long time. A plan to avoid your question brews, half-finished in his mind.

He gives you a lopsided grin, leaning in with a shaky, unsteady motion, before abruptly jerking away and pressing his hands to his mouth as if he's trying to prevent himself from vomiting. As he hunches over on himself, your face immediately shifts to one of concern, your brows furrowing and your grin disappearing.

"...Arataka? You okay...?" You ask gently, rubbing his back. You've seen him vomit aggressively after taking so much as a sip of alcohol, and you're definitely preparing to wipe bile from the corners of his mouth.

It's quiet for a moment, save for the clinking of glass and the chatter of overlapping conversation.

"I... Eugh." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grimacing as he feels his head pound — and that plan, that drunk one that sober Arataka would definitely not approve of, starts forming more clearly in his mind.

You grow more worried the more you watch, his movements shaky, his words all blending together. He thinks he's doing a pretty good job at looking like he's going to vomit — and since you're acting so worried about him, then he'd wager that his plan is working.

"Arataka, are you okay?" You ask again, your voice firmer, though still retaining that soft, quiet worry. You rub what you hope are soothing circles on his back, and you can see him visibly relax, letting out a long sigh.

"'M fine," he mumbles, swatting your hand away, his eyes struggling to open.

It's working, it's working! Keep going, Arataka!

Just as you're about to speak again, Arataka opens his mouth, faking a retch, and you panic. He falls — definitely not accidentally — straight into your lap, and it takes a moment to register that no vomit has come from his mouth before you hit him playfully on his forehead. His heart skips a beat when you don't push him off, merely just hitting him.

"Ow!" He exclaims, his grin crooked as he struggles to fake a grimace of pain, rubbing the spot you hit him.

"Even when you're drunk, you still manage to annoy me," you grumble, though the amused smile on your face gives away what you're feeling.

You ruffle his hair a little, tangling your fingers in between the delicate golden strands — and he lets out a sigh at your touch, closing his eyes in contentment. Your heart beats faster as you look at him: his flushed cheeks and content, closed eyes, his relaxed body resting in your lap — god, you have to fight yourself not to plant a kiss on his low, pointed nose.

Arataka pries open his eyes when you stop combing through his hair with your fingers.

"What... Can I say," he says slowly, looking at you with a gaze that can only be described as one of a lover's: sweet, tender, and affectionate. "I love... Seeing your smile."

Your heart flutters.

The two of you stay in this position for a while, a position a lot like a couples'. Neither of you complain — if anything, the both of you enjoy it — and it's not long before Arataka's eyes slowly shut, his breathing slowing as he starts to fall asleep in your lap.

You feel butterflies in your stomach when you gaze upon his calm expression: his eyes closed firmly shut, his kissable lips curved in a slight smile, his face relaxed.

The bar is almost empty now, save for three or four people having a conversation at one of the tables in the corner. You can pick up their mumbling: they're talking about the two of you, how Arataka didn't vomit yet, how he used to be a usual at this bar, how he never brought any girls with him until today, and what a surprise that he managed to pull such a pretty one.

"Happy birthday, Arataka," you say — and, smiling, you push those golden bangs out of the way with a hand and plant a firm, chaste kiss on his forehead. It's a kiss you've wanted to give him for a long time, but also one you're forced to keep short, just in case you're overstepping boundaries.

Arataka's eyes snap open and widen considerably, his face flushing even more than you thought was possible. He's speechless for a moment as he brings a shaky hand up to feel where your lips touched him, his heart beating a million times a minute, his breathing quick and shallow.

He just... Stares at you, starry eyed, for a minute, his mouth slightly agape.

He snaps back to reality.

"Again," he says impatiently, his tone demanding as he brings his hand down to rest, clasped with the other, in his lap. "As... The birthday boy, this is... Is my birthday gift from you. Kiss... Me, again."

You smile, letting out a slight chuckle at his slurred demand.

"You're sure you won't regret it tomorrow...?" You ask slowly, playfully, as you rake your fingers through his soft, blonde hair. You know he most definitely will.

Arataka shakes his head vigorously in your lap, though stops immediately when he starts to feel his head pound, wincing.

You just watch him for a moment, combing gentle fingers through his hair, smiling in amusement at his impatience. He whines when you don't do what he asked for yet, just staring at him, and he repeats his demand.

"Kiss me. Right... Here," he mumbles, tapping a shaky finger to his forehead.

You oblige, pressing a gentle kiss to his skin, pushing his bangs aside. He sighs, closing his eyes. And when you pull away, "Again," he says almost immediately.

You happily oblige, kissing him there once more.

He stops for a moment, breathing shakily, before getting up from your lap abruptly and wrapping his arms around you tightly. In the process of doing this, his unsteady movements cause the both of you to fall onto the bar stools beside you, so that Arataka is lying down comfortably on top of you; your noses almost touching, your lips just inches away from each other. He's so... Drunk, and so, so cute...

The bartender gives you a stern look, and you flash him an apologetic smile.

Arataka's eyes, half-lidded, fall down to your mouth, and he brings an unsteady hand to cradle your chin as he runs a shaky thumb over your bottom lip.

"...Can I...?" Arataka asks in a low, mumbly slur, his eyes unblinking as he stares at your lips.

You heart races as you nod, and it's barely a moment before he's pressing his lips tightly to yours, shifting and moving them until they're slotted comfortably against each other. His eyes flutter shut as he gets comfortable lying on top of you, getting more accustomed to the soft cloth of your clothes as he runs a hand down your side, getting more used to the soft strands of your hair that he's been itching to run his fingers through.

Arataka tastes... Sour, mostly from the drink he had a few moments ago. There's the faint, sharp tang of the alcohol, too; a sweet, distinct flavour, a rich undertone to the myriad of tastes you manage to sample as his lips shift against yours.

His lips are cracked, chapped, and dry, but you couldn't care less as he tangles a hand in your hair, the other holding your head in place as he tilts his own head to press his lips even more into yours. He grunts, seemingly not satisfied, and pushes his lips onto yours until the kiss is almost bruising.

Your face is flushed when you break the kiss. Though it's short, sweet, and chaste, it's clear that Arataka wants more. You both do.

Just as he's leaning in to kiss you again, the bartender taps your shoulder, glaring at you sharply and jabbing a thumb in the direction of the door. You blurt out a mumbled apology, scrambling to get up, Arataka nearly falling. As promised, he slips the bartender about one and a half times more money than owed.

You both wordlessly exit the bar, and as you walk, Arataka stumbles behind you. He's unsteady; his path is a winding zigzag in comparison to yours, struggling to keep to a straight line and nearly falling onto the road multiple times — and as a way to counter this, you wrap your arm securely around his waist. Arataka responds by leaning his weight onto you, and you both continue on without much issue or argument.

It's much later in the night now; the cars on the road are whizzing past the two of you, the shops all closed with their shutters pulled down over the windows.

The air is heavy with humidity, and you can feel Arataka's sweat from where he presses himself against you. Arataka himself smells of that familiar sharp, sour smell of sweat; the faint scent of salt; and that sweet, sweet cologne he wears. The fabric of the suit is soft as you grip him tightly, every step he takes making him sway more and more until it's clear he's going to either vomit or pass out.

A few moments later, he calls your name in a mumbly, shaky voice, before hurriedly pushing you off him as he staggers to the drain. Before you know what's going on, you're at his side as he vomits a sickly green bile.

You pat his back reassuringly, now only registering that he's vomiting.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Arataka grins at you, though his eyes are struggling to open and his smile is lopsided.

"We're staying... At your house, right?" He mumbles, though he stumbles slightly, and alarm flashes across his face as he swings his hands about to get balanced before he manages to stand straight again. He widens the skewed grin in his face, trying his absolute best to look charming, and failing. It's still adorable, though.

You snicker, nodding in response.

"Let's go, Arataka."

You slide your arm around his waist, and he leans nearly all his bodyweight on you as the two of you walk to your flat.

The walk is quiet as Arataka struggles not to vomit again, barely being able to stay awake to avoid falling unconscious in your arms — it would be a shame if you held him tenderly and he wasn't there to experience it. Nobody's on the streets, so it's just the two of you, save for a car that comes every so often.

The only sound you can hear is the steady tap, tap, tapping of your shoes on the pavement, followed by the much more unsteady beat of Arataka's shiny black dress shoes as he walks beside you.

Neither of you say anything when you walk, neither of you speak when you unlock your front door, neither of you argue when you lead him to your bedroom.

You set him down on the bed slowly, slipping off his grey coat and undoing his necktie. The whole time you're doing this, Arataka's just... Watching you. His eyes, fixed on you, are glassed over, unfocused — but full of so, so much love.

He doesn't say a word as he gets comfortable in your bed, and when he holds you in his arms, falling asleep, it's silent.

★ ★ ★

thanks for reading!!

second chapter !!

[emma23]

All of me :

Marc/ Steven/ Jake x reader

If you’d like to support me, feel free to check this out 💕

https://ko-fi.com/settings?tab=profile

The sound of soft humming floated through the apartment as you padded down the hallway. The light from the kitchen spilled out into the dim corridor, a beacon of warmth in the otherwise quiet space. Steven’s voice carried, low and tuneful, as he absently sang to himself. You could already picture him: messy curls, glasses perched on his nose, standing in his usual spot by the counter with a book or paper in hand.

When you entered the kitchen, the sight didn’t disappoint. Steven leaned against the counter, completely absorbed in a newspaper article. His brows furrowed slightly in that way he always did when he was concentrating too hard. He didn’t notice you at first, his focus entirely on the words before him.

You stood there for a moment, just watching him, feeling a swell of warmth in your chest. It was moments like this—quiet, ordinary, yet deeply intimate—that reminded you of how far you’d come together.

Without a word, you stepped closer, wrapping your arms around him from behind. He startled slightly at the unexpected contact, but the tension melted away almost immediately when he realized it was you.

“Love?” he murmured, craning his neck to look at you over his shoulder. His glasses slid down the bridge of his nose, and you couldn’t help but grin as you reached up to push them back into place.

“You’ve been standing here forever,” you teased, resting your chin on his shoulder. “What’s so interesting that you can’t even say good morning properly?”

Steven smiled sheepishly, folding the newspaper and setting it aside. “Oh, just some article about ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. Nothing too exciting, really.”

You gave him a playful nudge. “Liar. You were completely enthralled.”

He turned fully to face you now, his hands sliding to rest on your waist. His expression softened, and that familiar look—the one where he seemed to melt under your gaze—washed over him.

“I just like when you’re here,” he said quietly, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “Makes everything else feel less… important.”

Later that afternoon, you found Marc sitting at the table, methodically polishing a crescent-shaped blade. The air was heavier now, not tense but certainly different. Where Steven radiated softness, Marc’s presence was like a storm cloud—charged, intense.

“Busy?” you asked, leaning against the doorframe.

He glanced up briefly, his dark eyes scanning you before returning to his task. “Always.”

You stepped closer, the heels of your palms pressing against the edge of the table as you leaned in. “You can take a break, you know.”

Marc sighed, setting the blade down with a clink. “I’m not good at breaks.”

“No kidding.” You reached out, brushing your fingers over his knuckles. His hand stilled under yours, and for a moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, his fingers curled around yours.

“You’re relentless, you know that?” he said, but there was no bite to his words.

“And you love it.”

Marc didn’t respond, but the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth told you everything you needed to know.

That evening, Jake made his appearance. You’d gotten used to the subtle shift in energy that signaled his arrival—the way his posture straightened, his shoulders squared, his gaze sharpened.

“Hola, mi vida,” he greeted, his voice a low rumble as he stepped into the room.

You rolled your eyes at the nickname. “Don’t start.”

Jake chuckled, crossing the space between you in a few strides. His hands found your hips, pulling you flush against him. “What? You don’t like when I call you that?”

“It’s not that,” you admitted, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. “I just don’t trust you when you say it like that.”

His smirk widened. “Smart girl.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, your hands sliding up to rest on his chest. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he shot back, echoing your earlier words to Marc.

The three of them were like that—different pieces of the same puzzle, each one fitting into your life in a way that felt both chaotic and perfect.

[immeasurablesaladagere]

Can we get a fic about Wilson&House finding out Chase regresses please 🙏🙏🙏

Fun fact! I already had a prompt similar to this sitting in my notes app before I ever made this blog, so I decided to work on that! It just includes cg!House, I hope that's alright. House would have a very... ahem, interesting first-time-cg style.

-----

Word Count: 1230

Summery: House can tell that something is up with Chase on an overnight shift.

-----

Something was wrong with Chase.

House stared at him through the glass of his office, watching him go back and fourth between flipping through the patient’s files and a newspaper crossword. At least, that was what he was pretending to do. Chase’s eyes were obviously unfocused and staring directly through the papers, and it looked more like he was moving them around on autopilot to seem busy in front of his boss who he knew would be spying on him through the window. A smart move to be sure, but ultimately a pointless one. 

Chase picked up his pen and hovered it over the newspaper like he was going to write in an answer, then stopped and put the end of the pen in his mouthfor the dozenth time.

House wrinkled his nose in disgust. He was never using that pen again. It was definitely covered in bite marks and saliva, and while there was probably a large clientele who would pay too much for pretty-boy’s spit, he wasn’t one of them. If it wasn’t the pen, then it was biting the top half of his thumb or pointer finger, before he would get a look on his face and switch back to the pen or the cuff of his coat sleeve.

Then there was the fidgeting. For the most part, Chase matched the expected appearance of a man who had been awake for twenty-four hours on an overnight patient watch; sunken eyes, painfully-bored expression, slumped posture, and a general air of ‘I’d rather be having steamy sex with a hooker right now’— or maybe that was just him— but Chase was fidgeting almost constantly. It consisted mostly of swinging his feet back and fourth under the glass table or mindlessly shaking his free hand up and down. When he was particularly lost in thought, he would begin rocking in place to entertain himself. 

It was when the thought crossed House’s mind that Chase looked more like a little kid waiting for their parent to finish up at the DMV than a doctor trying to stay awake that he began to think that Chase was more than just tired. 

Age regression was a zebra, but Cuddy hadn’t given him his own team and office because he was an expert at finding horses. 

He watched as Chase yawned and rubbed his eyes, then rested his head on his hand and slipped his entire thumb in his mouth. If it wasn’t regression, then House got an embarrassing habit to hold over his head for the rest of time.

It was probably best to test his hypothesis before they were called to deal with the patient and Chase’s toddler brain accidentally killed her. He turned to his laptop and typed ‘colouring pages’ into Google, then printed the first result; an ocean floor scene with corny cartoon dolphins and fish.

At the sound of the printer starting in the office, Chase seemed to snap back into some kind of focus and pulled his thumb from his mouth, hastily tucking it against his cheek. 

When House walked in, Chase pushed away his file and cleared his throat. “Did you find something for the patient? I can’t think of anything.” 

“Forget the patient, I have a much more important question.” He set down the colouring page in front of Chase, “How do you feel… about sea creatures?”

He watched as Chase’s eyes went wide for a split second before he schooled his face into confusion. “What’s this?”

“Sea creatures.” He tapped the cartoon dolphin’s face, “See?”

“Yeah, uh… Why?”

“You tell me. Why would I, as your boss, distract you from a case with a children’s colouring page?”

Chase shrugged, looking anywhere but directly at the picture. “I ‘dunno…”

“Sure you do.” House nudged at the pen on the table. The plastic end was completely mangled by teeth marks, and it left behind a small trail of spit as it rolled. “And the sleeve, and the thumb, and the fidgeting like a four-year-old.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, House—“

“Tell me the truth, or you’re fired.”

Chase looked up at him in disbelief. “W-What?”

“You’re showing signs of an altered mental state. What if you were drunk? Or on drugs?” House wondered aloud, “The hospital wouldn’t take kindly to that, and what would that say about me? I can’t have a drugged-out doctor on my team—“

“I’m not on drugs! Or drinking!” 

“Then what?“

“It’s age regression, okay?” Chase blurted, “It’s this thing I do, I-I was thinking like a kid and it’s not like— why am I explaining it? You already knew, I’m just— I was tired and we weren’t getting anywhere with the case, s-so…”

House smirked with vindication. “So you figured it was fine if your adult brain took a vacation for a few hours, right? The patient’s not important, I get it.”

Chase buried his face in his hands. The tips of his ears were bright red with shame. “Please don’t fire me. I swear, it was a one-time thing, I’m not— I can control it, I—“

He hummed and tapped his fingers against his cane in dramatic thought. “I don’t know… I’m pretty sure you need to be at least eighteen to be a doctor, and you’re, what? Five? Cuddy wouldn’t appreciate the liability, and I don’t know if I can trust you to be a big boy if you can’t handle a—.”

Chase sniffled. Ah, crap.

“M’sorry,” He mumbled and stood up quickly to leave, but House grabbed him by the arm before he could run away and lightly pushed him back down into the chair.

“Sit down, relax.” He wanted to mess with the kid, not make him cry. “I’m not going to fire you.”

Chase looked up at him, eyes round and wet like a sad puppy. House grimaced. “But you said…”

“It was a joke. I was just messing with you.” He didn’t look convinced. On one hand, House was happy that his theory was correct. On the other, now he was stuck babysitting his employee who he’d inadvertently worked up into a panic. Why couldn’t kids ever understand sarcasm?

“Oh…” Chase shrunk in on himself and fiddled with the end of his tie. “…Sorry.”

“It’s fine, kid.” He sighed. “How young am I dealing with here?” If he was babysitting, he at least wanted to know what he was getting into.

Chase stared at him owlishly like he was afraid to answer, and his face flushed pink as he answered, “Six..?”

“So I was close! Look at me go. Listen, we’re going to talk about this later, but you’re not fired, got it?”

“Mhm.”

“Oh, and you’re off the case until you’re an adult again. If you get paged, I’ll go. I was serious about the liability, Cuddy’ll be up my ass if I let a toddler perform CPR.”

Chase frowned indignantly. “That’s not a nice word. An’ I’m not a toddler.”

Oh good, the language police. “You’re close enough.” He turned to grab the cup of pens on a nearby counter and set it down next to the colouring page. “Here. Not much for colours, but it’ll do.”

Chase looked between him and the pens a few times before hesitantly picking up a red one and beginning to fill in the crab.

“Oh, and no eating them. Those are my good pens.”

[girl-next-door-writes]

Hi! :) was wondering I'd you could have someone get flirty...inappropriatly so with Mycroft then shows up to find him

@theweepingvulcan91 Thank you so much for this gift of a gif. It might have got away from me a little - Em.

The soft glow of the reading lamps illuminated the high ceilings and grand bookshelves of the Diogenes Club, casting long shadows that danced upon the richly decorated walls. Mycroft Holmes, his posture upright yet relaxed, was nestled in a plush armchair near the fireplace. The subtle crackling of the fire added a comforting backdrop to the scene, a stark contrast to the day's relentless demands.

The other members of the club, equally committed to the sanctity of silence, moved about with deliberate quietness, their footfalls muffled by thick carpets. Some were engrossed in their newspapers, others in their books, all sharing an unspoken agreement to preserve the tranquillity of the space.

Mycroft's evening reading was a well-worn ritual, a necessary retreat from the cacophony of his responsibilities. His sharp eyes scanned the pages methodically, each piece of information absorbed and catalogued with precision. The club's unique environment allowed him to process the day's events, each new fact or observation finding its rightful place in the intricate tapestry of his mind.

The atmosphere was one of serene detachment, a haven where even the most burdened of minds could find respite. As the fire continued its gentle murmur, Mycroft turned another page, the rhythm of his routine restoring the equilibrium that had been disturbed by the day's incessant challenges. Here, within the hallowed halls of the Diogenes Club, he found peace. That was until his phone vibrated, drawing his hawkish attention.

Mycroft's eyebrow arched as he glanced at the screen, his eyes narrowing slightly as he noted the sender. Shuffling through his mental rolodex, he realised this was that strange woman from acquisitions who always smiled at him. He barely said a word to her, and yet she always seemed to go out of her way to say hello to him.

He wondered how she had managed to acquire his private number. Mycroft prided himself on his meticulous control over his personal information, a necessity in his line of work. That she had pierced this veil of privacy irked him greatly. This imposition was an irritation, a security breach.

With a silent sigh, he leaned back in his chair, allowing the shadows of the flickering fire to play across his face. The club’s atmosphere, usually a fortress of calm, now seemed to buzz with a faint undercurrent of urgency. Perhaps this message was a necessity, something which required his immediate attention.

He opened the message, his expression becoming one of confusion.

"Did you miss me today, Mycroft?" read the message, followed by a winking emoji.

Mycroft's fingers tightened around his phone as he read the message again, disbelief warring with irritation. His mind raced, analyzing every interaction he had ever had with the woman from acquisitions. Each encounter had been brief, polite, and decidedly unremarkable—at least from his perspective. What had he missed? How had he overlooked someone slipping through his carefully constructed barriers?

He set the phone down on the mahogany table beside his chair, the flickering firelight reflecting off its screen. The message stared back at him, its casual tone completely at odds with the seriousness of his current predicament. Mycroft was not accustomed to being caught off guard, and the sensation was deeply unsettling.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. It would not do to let this minor breach unsettle him. He needed to address the situation methodically. His first step would be to ascertain exactly how she had obtained his private number. That would require some discreet inquiries—he had no doubt that the answer would reveal a lapse in his own protocols, and that was unacceptable.

For now, he had to respond. Ignoring the message was not an option; it would only embolden her to further intrusions. Mycroft picked up his phone again, considering his reply carefully. He needed to convey his displeasure without revealing too much, to reassert his boundaries firmly but without provocation.

After a moment of contemplation, he typed out a response:

"I believe you may have mistaken this number for a more public line. Please refrain from using it in the future. – M.H."

He sent the message and set the phone down once more, feeling a measure of control return. The fire crackled quietly beside him, and he let the warmth and the familiar surroundings of the club soothe his irritation. This would be dealt with swiftly, just like any other anomaly in his meticulously ordered world.

Unfortunately for Mycroft, the matter was far from settled. It appeared that once she knew this was indeed his number, it only encouraged her to send further messages. Each one was more flirty and suggestive than the last, making him feel increasingly uncomfortable. Despite his best efforts to ignore the texts and hope they would stop, they persisted, leaving him in a state of constant unease. Mycroft realized that he would need to take more definitive action to address the situation, but he wasn't quite sure what steps to take next.

Sherlock had asked you to stop by the Diogenes Club on your way home to drop off a file for his brother. As you entered the room, ignoring the glares that quite obviously not being a member earned you, your attention fell on the look of total frustration on Mycroft's face. His entire being practically vibrated with it. It was clear that something was deeply troubling him, and it wasn't just the breach of the club's strict non-communication policy by your presence. Mycroft, usually the epitome of calm and control, seemed to be battling an internal storm. His fingers drummed impatiently on the armrest of his chair, and his eyes, though focused on his phone, were filled with a mix of anger and discomfort. It was a rare sight to see the elder Holmes so unsettled, and you couldn't help but wonder what had pushed him to this edge.

As you approached, his phone vibrated. He looked at the screen and rolled his eyes, frustration rolling off him in waves.

"Trouble at work?" you queried, taking a seat opposite him. Your voice pierced through the silence, earning you more than a couple of black looks from other club members.

"Nothing I cannot handle," Mycroft huffed, his jaw clenching as his phone vibrated once again. The urge to throw the damned thing into the fire grew stronger with each low hum emanating from the blasted machine.

You glanced at his phone, then back at him. "It doesn't look like nothing," you remarked, your tone gentle but probing.

Mycroft's eyes flicked to yours, a mixture of annoyance and resignation in them. "Persistent... nuisance," he admitted, the words forced through gritted teeth.

You raised an eyebrow. "Anything I can help with?"

For a moment, he seemed to consider the offer, then shook his head. "No, but I appreciate the gesture. It's a personal matter that requires a delicate approach."

"I doubt a 'delicate approach' from a Holmes is possible," you said, raising an eyebrow and trying to suppress a grin.

The phone buzzed once more, breaking the moment. He reached out and grabbed it with such force that his knuckles turned white.

Without a word, you extended your hand, eyes locked on his. He hesitated but eventually handed over the phone, his gaze never leaving your face. As you scrolled through the messages, your eyebrows shot up and a smile tugged at your lips; the messages were becoming increasingly bold.

He watched, his curiosity piqued, as you typed a reply and hit send. Then, with a smirk, you handed the phone back to him.

He held it in his palm, expecting another buzz, another daring message in response to whatever you had sent. But the phone remained silent. Intrigued, he opened the message thread. A look of amusement spread across his features as he read what you had sent to his rather persistent admirer:

"Consider your approach noted. Best of luck, but persistence doesn't always equate to success. - someone with a much better approach to courting Mycroft Holmes."

[whencyclopedia]

George Washington's Farewell Address

George Washington's Farewell Address was published in a Philadelphia newspaper on 19 September 1796, near the end of his second and final presidential term. In it, Washington explains his reasoning for not seeking a third term and warns his countrymen against various dangers facing the United States, such as disunity, partisanship, and foreign entanglements.

George Washington's Farewell Address

George Washington (Public Domain)

Initially, Washington had hoped to retire at the end of his first term in 1792 but had been persuaded to serve a second term in order to deal with a series of crises facing the United States. These included the rise of partisanship within the nation itself (the nationalist Federalist Party against the populist Democratic-Republican Party), as well as the looming threat of getting pulled into the ongoing French Revolutionary Wars in Europe. By 1796, these crises were less pressing, leading Washington to decide that it was time to hand the reins of executive power to a successor. The address, originally penned by James Madison, was extensively rewritten by Alexander Hamilton ahead of its publication so that only a few sections of Madison's original draft remained in the final version. The address was not delivered verbally but was instead printed in the newspaper American Daily Advertiser. The Farewell Address remains one of the most significant and oft-cited addresses in the history of US politics.

Excerpts from the Address

Friends and Fellow-Citizens: The period for a new election of a citizen to administer the executive government of the United States being not far distant, and the time actually arrived when your thoughts must be employed in designating the person who is to be clothed with that important trust, it appears to me proper, especially as it may conduce to a more distinct expression of the public voice, that I should now apprise you of the resolution I have formed, to decline being considered among the number of those out of whom a choice is to be made.

…The acceptance of, and continuance hitherto in, the office to which your suffrages have twice called me have been a uniform sacrifice of inclination to the opinion of duty and to a deference for what appeared to be your desire. I constantly hoped that it would have been much earlier in my power, consistently with motives which I was not at liberty to disregard, to return to that retirement from which I had been reluctantly drawn. The strength of my inclination to do this, previous to the last election, had even led to the preparation of an address to declare it to you; but mature reflection on the then perplexed and critical posture of our affairs with foreign nations, and the unanimous advice of persons entitled to my confidence, impelled me to abandon the idea…I rejoice that the state of your concerns, external as well as internal, no longer renders the pursuit of inclination incompatible with the sentiment of duty…that in the present circumstances of our country you will not disapprove of my determination to retire.

The impressions with which I first undertook the arduous trust were explained on the proper occasion. In the discharge of this trust, I will only say that I have, with good intentions, contributed towards the organization and administration of the government the best exertions of which a very fallible judgment was capable. Not unconscious in the outset of the inferiority of my qualifications, experience in my own eyes, perhaps more still in the eyes of others, has strengthened the motives to diffidence of myself, and every day the increasing weight of years admonishes me more and more that the shade of retirement is as necessary to me as it will be welcome…I have the consolation to believe that, while choice and prudence invite me to quit the political scene, patriotism does not forbid it.

In looking forward to the moment which is intended to terminate the career of my public life, my feelings do not forbid me to suspend the deep acknowledgment of that debt of gratitude which I owe my beloved country for the many honors it has conferred upon me…if benefits have resulted to our country from services, let it always be remembered to your praise and as an instructive example in our annals that…the constancy of your support was the essential prop of the efforts and a guarantee of the plans by which they were effected. Profoundly penetrated with this idea, I shall carry it with me to my grave as a strong incitement to unceasing vows that Heaven may continue to you the choicest tokens of its beneficence; that your union and brotherly affection may be perpetual; that the free constitution, which is the work of your hands, may be sacredly maintained…

Here, perhaps, I ought to stop. But a solicitude for your welfare, which cannot end but with my life, and the apprehension of danger natural to that solicitude, urge me on an occasion like the present to offer to your solemn contemplation, and to recommend to your frequent review, some sentiments which are the result of much reflection…and which appear to me all important to the permanency of your felicity as a people. These will be offered to you with the more freedom as you can only see in them the disinterested warnings of a parting friend, who can possibly have no personal motive to bias his counsel…

The unity of government which constitutes you one people is now dear to you. It is justly so; for it is a main pillar in the edifice of your real independence, the support of your tranquility at home, your peace abroad, of your safety, of your prosperity, of the very liberty which you so highly prize. But as it is easy to foresee that…much pains will be taken, many artifices employed, to weaken in your minds the conviction of this truth; as this is the point in your political fortress against which the batteries of internal and external enemies will be most constantly and actively (though often covertly and insidiously) directed, it is of infinite moment that you should properly estimate the immense value of your national Union to your collective and individual happiness; that you should cherish a cordial, habitual, and immovable attachment to it; accustoming yourselves to think and speak of it as the palladium of your political safety and prosperity…and indignantly frowning upon the first dawning of every attempt to alienate any portion of our country from the rest, or to enfeeble the sacred ties which now link together the various parts.

…While then every part of our country thus feels an immediate and particular interest in union, all the parts combined cannot fail to find in the united mass of means and efforts greater strength, greater resource, proportionably greater security from external danger, a less frequent interruption of their peace by foreign nations; and…they must derive from union an exemption from the broils and wars between themselves which so frequently afflict neighboring countries…which their own rivalships alone would be sufficient to produce, but which opposite foreign alliances, attachments, and intrigues, would stimulate and embitter. Hence likewise they will avoid the necessity of those overgrown military establishments, which under any form of government are inauspicious to liberty, and which are to be regarded as particularly hostile to republican liberty…

…In contemplating the causes which may disturb our Union, it occurs as matter of serious concern that any ground should have been furnished for characterizing parties by geographical discriminations – northern and southern – Atlantic and western; whence designing men may endeavor to excite a belief that there is a real difference of local interests and views. One of the expedients of party to acquire influence within particular districts is to misrepresent the opinions and aims of other districts. You cannot shield yourselves too much against the jealousies and heart burnings which spring from these misrepresentations. They tend to render alien to each other those who ought to be bound together by fraternal affection…

…To the effacay and permanency of your Union, a government for the whole is indispensable…Sensible of this momentous truth, you have improved upon your first essay by the adoption of a Constitution of government better calculated than your former for an intimate Union and for the efficacious management of your common concerns. This government…has a just claim to your confidence and your support. Respect for its authority, compliance with its laws, acquiescence in its measures, are duties enjoined by the fundamental maxims of true liberty. The basis of our political systems is the right of the people to make and to alter their constitutions…but the Constitution which at any time exists, until changed by an explicit and authentic act of the whole people, is sacredly obligatory upon all…

…All obstructions to the execution of laws, all combinations and associations under whatever plausible character with the real design to direct, control, counteract, or awe the regular deliberation and action of the constituted authorities, are destructive of this fundamental principle and of fatal tendency. They serve to organize faction; to give it an artificial and extraordinary force; to put in the place of the delegated will of the nation the will of a party, often a small but artful and enterprising minority of the community; and, according to the alternate triumphs of different parties, to make the public administration the mirror of the ill concerted and incongruous projects of faction, rather than the organ of consistent and wholesome plans digested by common councils and modified by mutual interests. However combinations or associations of the above description may now and then answer popular ends, they are likely, in the course of time and things, to become potent engines by which cunning, ambitious, and unprincipled men will be enabled to subvert the power of the people and to usurp for themselves the reins of government, destroying afterwards the very engines which have lifted them to unjust dominion.

…I have already intimated to you the danger of parties in the state, with particular reference to the founding of them on geographical discriminations. Let me now take a more comprehensive view and warn you in the most solemn manner against the baleful effects of the spirit of party, generally. This spirit, unfortunately, is inseparable from nature, having its root in the strongest passions of the human mind. It exists under different shapes in all governments, more or less stifled, controlled, or repressed; but in those of the popular form, it is seen in its greatest rankness and is truly their worst enemy.

The alternate domination of one faction over another, sharpened by the spirit of revenge natural to party dissension, which in different ages and countries has perpetrated the most horrid enormities, is itself a frightful despotism. But this leads at length to a more formal and permanent despotism. The disorders and miseries which result gradually incline the minds of men to seek security and repose in the absolute power of an individual; and sooner or later the chief of some prevailing faction, more able or more fortunate than his competitors, turns this disposition to the purposes of his own elevation on the ruins of public liberty.

Without looking forward to an extremity of this kind (which nevertheless ought not to be entirely out of sight) the common and continual mischiefs of the spirit of party are sufficient to make it the interest and the duty of a wise people to discourage and restrain it. It serves always to distract the public councils and enfeeble the public administration. It agitates the community with ill-founded jealousies and false alarms, kindles the animosity of one part against another, foments occasionally riot and insurrection. It opens the door to foreign influence and corruption, which find a facilitated access to the government itself through the channels of party passions. Thus the policy and the will of one country are subjected to the policy and will of another.

There is an opinion that parties in free countries are useful checks upon the administration of the government and will serve to keep alive the spirit of liberty. This, within certain limits, is probably true – and in governments of a monarchical cast patriotism may look with indulgence, if not with favor, upon the spirit of party. But in those of the popular character, in governments purely elective, it is a spirit not to be encouraged…

…It is important, likewise, that…those entrusted with confine themselves within their respective constitutional spheres, avoiding in the exercise of powers of one department to encroach upon another. The spirit of encroachment tends to consolidate the powers of all the departments in one and thus to create…a real despotism…The necessity of reciprocal checks in the exercise of political power…has been evinced by experiments ancient and modern, some of them in our country and under our own eyes. To preserve them must be as necessary as to institute them…

…Of all the dispositions and habits which lead to political prosperity, religion and morality are indispensable supports. In vain would that man claim the tribute of patriotism who should labor to subvert these great pillars of human happiness…let it simply be asked where is the security for property, for reputation, for life, if the sense of religious obligation desert the oaths…and let us with caution indulge the supposition that morality can be maintained without religion.

…As a very important source of strength and security, cherish public credit. One method of preserving it is to use it as sparingly as possible…avoiding likewise the accumulation of debt, not only by shunning occasions of expense, but by vigorous exertions in time of peace to discharge the debts which unavoidable wars may have occasioned, not ungenerously throwing upon posterity the burden which we ourselves ought to bear…

…Observe good faith and justice towards all nations; cultivate peace and harmony with all…It will be worthy of a free, enlightened, and, at no distant period, a great nation, to give mankind the magnanimous and too novel example of a people always guided by an exalted justice and benevolence. Who can doubt that in the course of time and things the fruits of such a plan would richly repay any temporary advantages which might be lost by a steady adherence to it?

…In the execution of such a plan, nothing is more essential than that permanent, inveterate antipathies against particular nations and passionate attachments for others should be excluded and that in place of them just and amicable feelings towards all should be cultivated. The nation which indulges towards another an habitual hatred, or an habitual fondness, is in some degree a slave. It is a slave to its animosity or to its affection, either of which is sufficient to lead it astray from its duty and its interest…The nation, prompted by ill will and resentment, sometimes impels to war the government, contrary to the best calculations of policy…So, likewise, a passionate attachment of one nation for another produces a variety of evils. Sympathy for the favorite nation, facilitating the illusion of an imaginary common interest in cases where no real common interest exists and infusing into one the enmities of the other, betrays the former into a participation in the quarrels and wars of the latter, without adequate inducement or justification…

…Against the insidious wiles of foreign influence (I conjure you to believe me, fellow citizens) the jealousy of a free people ought to be constantly awake, since history and experience prove that foreign influence is one of the most baneful foes of republican government. But that jealousy, to be useful, must be impartial; else it becomes the instrument of the very influence to be avoided, instead of a defense against it…The great rule of conduct for us in regard to foreign nations is, in extending our commercial relations, to have with them as little political connections as possible. So far as we have already formed engagements, let them be fulfilled with perfect good faith. Here let us stop…

…In offering to you, my countrymen, these counsels of an old and affectionate friend, I dare not hope that they will make the strong and lasting impression I could wish – that they will control the usual current of passions or prevent our nation from running the course which has hitherto marked the destiny of nations. But if I may flatter myself that they may be productive of some partial benefit, some occasional good, that they may now and then recur to moderate the fury of party spirit, to warn against the mischiefs of foreign intrigue, to guard against the impostures of pretended patriotism – this hope will be a full recompense for the solicitude for your welfare by which they have been dictated.

…Though in reviewing the incidents of my administration I am unconscious of intentional error, I am nevertheless too sensible of my defects not to think it probable that I may have committed many errors. Whatever they may be, I fervently beseech the Almighty to avert or mitigate the evils to which they may tend. I shall also carry with me the hope that my country will never cease to view them with indulgence and that, after forty-five years of my life dedicated to its service with an upright zeal, the faults of incompetent abilities will be consigned to oblivion, as myself must soon be to the mansions of rest.

Relying on its kindness in this as in other things, and actuated by that fervent love towards it which is so natural to a man who views in it the native soil of himself and his progenitors for several generations, I anticipate with pleasing expectation that retreat, in which I promise myself to realize without alloy the sweet enjoyment of partaking in the midst of my fellow citizens the benign influence of good laws under a free government – the ever favorite object of my heart, and the happy reward, as I trust, of our mutual cares, labors and dangers.

GEO. WASHINGTON

United States

19th September 1796

Continue reading...

[bun-lapin]

NRC Staff Story: Food Thief

Summary: Someone is stealing food in the staff break room

A/N: I feel like there's not enough crack fics featuring the staff characters! There are many days where I just want to laugh at the exploits of our beloved, silly teachers lol I love thinking about the funny hijinks they could get into as a ragtag cast of coworkers~! <3

Word Count: 1.3k CW: crack, silly, dramatic shouting, childish insults, someone says 'ass' lol

“There is a villain in our midst.”

Professor Crewel closes the fridge door with a decisive snap of his wrist and then turns to face his colleagues assembled in the staff break room. He crosses his arms over his chest, an expression of deep annoyance plastered over his elegant features.

Raising an eyebrow, Professor Trein peers over his teacup at the younger professor and dryly asks, “Would you care to elaborate on that cryptic remark, Divus?”

Crewel briefly closes his eyes and lets out a frustrated sigh. Opening his eyes once more, he levels a petulant glare at Professor Trein and explains, “There is a thief in this room. Snacks have been taken without permission all week and now the criminal has taken something of mine.” He raises his arm and then brings it down in a grand sweeping motion, pointing a red-gloved finger at everyone in the room, “It has to be someone in this room right now! I placed a slice of apple rum cake in the fridge, stepped out of the room for ten minutes, and now I find that my cake is gone!”

Trein looks over at Coach Vargas. Leaning against the far wall, the athletics professor shifts the dumbbell in his hand to the other and then silently shakes his head at Trein. They both look over to Sam, who is lounging on a small, red sofa filling out a crossword puzzle. He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head with a small shrug of his shoulders. The three men turn their heads to look back once more at Professor Crewel.

With a weary sigh, Trein states, “No one here has taken your cake, Divus.”

Planting his hands on his hips in a defiant posture, Crewel scoffs with indignation, “I’m telling you, my cake is gone! One of you has to have taken it because no one else has come in or out of this room this whole time!”

Sam chuckles quietly and flashes an easygoing smile at Crewel. He raises a hand in a calming motion and says, “Snacks have indeed gone missing this past week, Divus. But you should remember that everyone here has also been a victim of this food thief, myself included! A thief can’t steal from himself, can he?”

Professor Crewel’s stance softens slightly as he considers Sam’s words. Narrowing his eyes, he mutters with some reluctance, “I suppose that is a good point…”

Setting his dumbbell down carefully on the floor, Coach Vargas lets out a boisterous laugh and says, “I know I definitely didn’t take it! Today isn’t a cheat day and there’s no way I’d eat the useless calories from your little cake.”

Crewel’s posture immediately bristles and he yells at Vargas, “Oh shut up, you lumbering meathead! Why don’t you go suck an egg?!”

Vargas folds his arms over his broad chest and raises an eyebrow at Crewel. “There’s no need to shout. And for your information, I’ve already had my raw egg shake for the day.”

Professor Trein slowly shakes his head and turns back to the newspaper in his lap. Without looking up, he tiredly states, “Ashton. The phrase ‘Go suck an egg’ is a dismissive insult.”

“I- I knew that!” Vargas sputters out in obvious surprise. He quickly composes himself and then glowers at Professor Crewel. Stalking over across the room, Vargas points an accusatory finger at Crewel and shouts, “Just because you lost your dumb cake somewhere, that doesn’t mean you can insult me like that! You wanna take this outside and settle this like men, you scrawny beanpole?!”

With a small huff of exasperation, Crewel sweeps back the white hair framing one side of his face. Through gritted teeth, his voice low with barely checked annoyance, he growls, “I didn’t lose my cake, you useless pile of muscles. I placed it in the fridge just a few minutes ago and now it’s disappeared!”

Slowly rolling up the sleeves of his red athletic jacket, Vargas shakes his head with restrained outrage, “Now you’ve gone and done it. No one calls my muscles useless! Let’s take this outside where I can really kick your ass!”

The two men lunge towards each other with fists raised. However, before either can strike, Sam steps smoothly in between the two and firmly pushes them apart. “Alright, gents! Let’s cool it down now. Fighting is not going to solve this situation.” He shakes his head with a playful smirk on his face and asks, “What would the students say if they saw two professors of this esteemed institution duking it out like a pair of street thugs?”

Glancing up from his newspaper, Trein scowls at the young men and remarks, “Sam is correct. You two should know better than to jump to violence over something so trivial.” Turning back to his reading, he adds with a disapproving sniff, “Do try to keep some semblance of professionalism in the workplace.”

Both Crewel and Vargas take a step back, away from each other, and exchange irritated glares. Straightening out their clothes, the two men mutter barely audible excuses. Then, as the break room door suddenly swings open, everyone turns to look at the dark figure in the doorway.

Holding a small, white paper box in his hands, Headmage Crowley takes a few steps into the room and turns to address Professor Trein, “Ah! Mozus! Do you have the test scores I asked to see this morning?” Opening the box in his hands, he takes out a small wooden fork and nonchalantly takes a bite of the apple rum cake packaged inside.

Blinking rapidly with utter disbelief, Crewel furiously points at the box in Crowley’s hands and shouts, “That’s my cake! How did you get that?!”

Crowley, startled by the sudden outburst, regains his composure and answers in a matter-of-fact kind of voice, “I got it from the fridge, of course.”

Sam shakes his head in bewilderment and explains, “What Divus means to say is, how did you get the cake from the fridge, Crowley? None of us saw you come into the break room to take it.”

Taking another bite of cake, Crowley answers, “Ah yes! I’ve had a small mirror portal installed in the back of the fridge so that I can grab myself a snack without having to walk all the way from my office to the break room.”

A heavy, thoughtful silence fills the room as the group considers Crowley’s explanation. Without a word, Coach Vargas strides over to the fridge and opens it wide. Looking inside, everyone takes in the sight of a miniature mirror portal, about the size of a dinner plate, attached to the back wall of the fridge and half-hidden behind some tall juice cartons. A collective sigh of disappointment and frustration is heard as they all turn back to glare at Crowley.

Closing his eyes tight with a grimace, Trein pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, “Crowley, those snacks all belonged to various member of the staff. You’ll have reimburse everyone you stole from.”

Professor Crewel raises a hand high in the air and angrily shouts, “You can start with me, seeing as how you’re literally eating my cake as we speak!”

Crowley glances down at the paper box in his hands and then looks back up with a nervous laugh. Taking a step backwards through the open door, he calls out in a fast-paced, reassuring tone, “Ah! Yes, of course! I’ll just go a fetch my wallet now so that I can pay you back for this delicious cake!” Crowley then turns and hurries off down the hallway.

The four men watch the animated headmage disappear into the distance and sit for a minute in silence. Breaking the quiet moment with a cynical laugh, Sam mutters to himself, “We’re never going to get paid back.”

[venusphoriia]

— The Pain of Loving You

;; ₍ # ₎ ⁀➷ Diana Prince x Fem! Reader

─ In the grief of losing one, she also lost you.

cw ཿ⠀ wlw. angst. hurt no comfort. mentions of losing a loved one. mostly proof read. the reader speaks a little greek, but the translation could be wrong (sorry if it is (｡•́︿•̀｡)). 860 words.

ପ a/n ; might do a part 2 to this. i’ve been wanting to write for diana for a while now. a really quick story, i hope you enjoy!

She sees your smile in old photographs, newspapers, and paintings. To her, it was a sight that rivaled even the most magnificent artworks. She hears your laughter in her dreams, an endearing sound that makes her heart flutter. Her hand reaches out towards you, yearning to feel the warmth of your skin under her touch, but her fingertips are always met with the coldness of your absence.

The dull, painful ache pulls her from her slumber. She groans softly as she turns to stare at the ceiling. Another night’s rest ruined in the grief of loving you. Or perhaps, not loving you is the more appropriate expression for it. The loss of her previous love, a noble pilot who had managed to capture her heart, had made it difficult to fully love another.

She had loved you. She truly did, but she couldn’t love you the way you deserved—not then. So, she let you go. A brilliant researcher and journalist with an insatiable hunger to explore the world. She refused to let her heartache keep you from pursuing your dreams, no matter how much you were willing to stay. She can still feel the bitter ache from the argument that night, but regardless of your stubborn protests—she refused to let you allow your dreams to die for her.

You were given an opportunity, a once in a lifetime. She couldn’t let you pass that up—not for her. The sad smile you gave her as you fought back tears slips into her mind. She shuts her eyes in protest, trying to block out the memory, but the unwanted reminiscence persists.

She stood with you at the docks, her hands tenderly held yours. Your hands felt so cold despite the thickness of your gloves. The cold spring air betrayed the clear, sunny morning. The sight of a beautiful day was nearly as deceiving as the forced smile that rested on your lips. Your gaze was avoidant as you focused solely on her hands wrapped around yours.

“(Y/n)?” She called your name softly, quickly catching your attention. You looked up at her with teary eyes, your smile seeming more sorrowful by the second as you hummed softly in response. Her heart breaks, a brief moment of regret over her decision to let you go. In a moment of weakness, she almost wanted to plead with you to stay, “Stay safe.”

Almost. She doesn’t miss the way your smile faltered, the small hopeful look in your eyes dimming a bit more. She knew what you wanted her to say, but she wouldn’t. It would’ve only given you more of a reason to stay.

You cleared your throat, steadying your voice. Your posture straightened a bit as you tried to maintain your composure. You adjusted your smile, it was less forced—much more relaxed. Your voice wavered a bit, “I will…”

You opened your mouth to say something else, but stopped yourself. You looked away, laughing softly to yourself, trying to keep yourself from breaking down. She smiled softly as she watched you pick up your bags before looking back at her. The tears in your eyes looked as if they would fall in any minute, but the smile you gave her brought a pleasant feeling to her heart. You were never one for sad goodbyes, always finding them more heartbreaking than anything else, “It’s been wonderful knowing you, Diana.”

One final goodbye, she thought. She hummed softly in response, not being able to find it in herself to say the same in turn without tears following shortly after. You didn’t seem to mind though, walking onto the ship without so much as another glance. Another effort to save face Diana knew.

Once the ship blared its horn, parting its way with the docks, Diana turned to leave. She took a few deep breaths, pushing down the tears—along with the heartache. She tried to delude herself into thinking that these feelings weren’t so deep, that she wasn’t—

“Diana!” Your voice breaks through her thoughts. She looked back towards the boat, sailing away, seeing you leaning over the railing, waving to get her attention. Your smile was genuine, as pure as the sun painted in the sky, your tears slip from your eyes the moment they meet hers.

She hears you. She heard you. But for a second, she doubts she hears correctly—immediately believing it was just fabrication of her own delusions until she hears you yell it out again, just as proudly and longingly as the first.

“Σ'αγαπώ!”

A small, depressed laugh slips past Diana’s lips as all her efforts to hold her composure become futile. She breaks away from the memory and the tears come flowing all over again. She cries heavily, resting her arm over her eyes in embarrassment. She felt like a child, sobbing over something treasured and lost.

She knows her feelings of regret are reasonable, and so are her tears. She just wished you were here to soothe her back to sleep like you did all those years ago. She loves you. She truly does. She just wishes she could have another chance to love you the way you deserved.

[ “I love you” in Greek is Σ'αγαπώ (S'agapo). Here, Σε (se) means “you,” and αγαπώ (agapo) means “I love.” — fluentin3months.com ]

© venusphoriia 2024 — do not copy or repost any of my works on any other platform, please and thank you !! ( ˘ ³˘)♡

[sirenedeslily]

ALWAYS, FOREVER :: JACKIE TAYLOR

⏝ི ✿ 𝓢𝗬𝗡. a tender chronicle of two souls intertwined through secret languages and stolen kisses, as they shatter beneath society's frost only to thaw into truth under courage's warm light.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

[cw.] — a narrative shaped by Spring Into Summer by lizzy mcalpine; an au where the crash never occurred. jackie, constrained by compulsory heteronormativity, navigates the complexities of longing and self-discovery in 1996’s quiet ache.

jackie taylor was born in december, a winter child with snowflakes in her hair and frost on her eyelashes. you could see it in her eyes—hazelnut blonde, wide and unblinking, framed with lashes so thick they cast shadows on her cheeks—the innate understanding that beauty was both weapon and armor. she resembled a wide-eyed doll come to life, porcelain-perfect and untouchable, a girl who learned early how to smile just right, how to laugh at jokes that weren't funny, how to hold herself with the straight-backed posture of someone who knew she was being watched.

you were born in april, a spring child with pollen dusting your shoulders and petals unfurling in your lungs. your curls were the color of soil after rain, rich and earthy, framing a face that was all soft planes and curious eyes. you had lips that naturally pouted, as if perpetually on the verge of asking another question. while jackie stood straight, you moved like water finding its way downhill, following currents invisible to others, bending but never breaking.

the first time you met, you were both four years old, playing in a sandbox that was really just a glorified cat litter box behind wiskayok elementary's pre-k building. jackie had a plastic shovel and a determination to build the perfect castle. you had nothing but your hands and an imagination that transformed each grain of sand into universes.

"you're doing it wrong," jackie said, watching you pat formless mounds with your palms.

you looked up, squinting against the late summer sun, and replied, "there's no wrong way to play."

jackie considered this with the serious expression of a child contemplating philosophy for the first time. then she handed you her extra bucket.

"here. now you can make towers."

instead, you filled the bucket with dandelions and placed it atop her meticulous castle like a crown.

that was how it began—the bunny and the doe, an unlikely pair bound by the mysterious gravity that draws children together before they learn to question why they like who they like.

⚘

in the arithmetic of childhood friendships, you and jackie defied every equation. she was all clean lines and planned adventures; you were smudged margins and spontaneous detours. she collected friends like trading cards, carefully arranged and displayed; you collected stories and kept them pressed between the pages of your mind like wildflowers.

jackie's house was a showcase of suburban aspiration—gleaming hardwood floors that her mother polished every sunday, furniture arranged at perfect right angles, family photos in matched frames documenting their collective perfection. the refrigerator door was a museum of accomplishments; jackie's straight-A report cards, certificates of achievement, newspaper clippings of her youth soccer victories.

your house was a labyrinth of books—stacked on stairs, teetering on tables, forming makeshift furniture of their own. your father, an english professor, believed in the sanctity of the written word; your mother, a nurse with the soul of a poet, believed in the healing power of stories. they gave you a childhood scripted by dickens and alcott and austen, letting you run wild through fictional worlds when the real one seemed too constrained.

in jackie's bedroom, everything had its place. trophies on shelves, stuffed animals arranged by size, clothes sorted by color and season. you spent countless afternoons lying on her pink carpet, watching her organize her life into perfect compartments while you read aloud from whatever book had captured your imagination that week.

"don't you ever get bored?" jackie asked once, sitting at her vanity, practicing french braids on her own hair. "reading about other people's lives instead of living your own?"

you looked up from your dog-eared copy of "anne of green gables" and said, "i'm not reading about other people's lives. i'm living a thousand lives in addition to my own."

jackie's expression flickered between confusion and fascination. "i don't think i could ever be like you," she said finally.

"why would you want to be?" you asked. "i already have me. the world needs you to be jackie."

she smiled at that, a rare genuine smile that reached her bunny eyes and made them crinkle at the corners. "you're so weird," she said, but she said it like it was a compliment.

in your room, books formed a fortress around your bed. posters of the cranberries and your favorite french movies covered the walls. your dresser was a archaeological dig of half-finished stories written in notebooks, fragments of poems on loose paper, quotes copied from favorite books onto index cards.

"how do you find anything in here?" jackie would ask, perched primly on the edge of your unmade bed, afraid to disturb the creative chaos.

"i don't find things," you'd reply. "things find me when i need them."

she'd roll her eyes but submit to the ritual of lying beside you on the floor, heads close together, while you pointed out shapes in the textured ceiling and spun stories about cloud kingdoms and star wars, years before either of you had heard of george lucas.

between your houses lay wiskayok itself—a town too small to hide in but too big to truly know everyone. you navigated its streets like parallel rivers, sometimes converging, sometimes diverging, but always flowing toward some shared, unnamed sea.

the summer before sixth grade was the summer of secret languages. twelve years old, teetering on the precipice between childhood and something more complex, you and jackie created ways to communicate that no one else could understand.

it began with a simple code—replacing letters with numbers, leaving notes in each other's lockers, giggling when others couldn't decipher them. then came the elaborate hand signals, each flick of a wrist or tap of fingers conveying entire sentences. by july, you had developed an entire vocabulary of facial expressions, able to conduct silent conversations across crowded rooms.

it was also the summer jackie's body began its betrayal, developing before yours in ways that drew new kinds of attention. boys who had pulled her hair in fourth grade now found reasons to stand close to her, to brush against her in hallways. girls who had been friendly rivals now measured themselves against her, finding themselves wanting.

you watched this metamorphosis with a scientist's curiosity and a poet's heart, cataloging the changes in your best friend like phases of the moon. the way she started wearing her hair down instead of in the practical ponytail of her soccer-playing days. the careful application of lip gloss where once she'd just slathered on cherry chapstick. the measured pace of her walk, slowed from its former eager bounce to something more deliberate, more aware.

"do you think i'm pretty?" she asked one night, both of you lying on the trampoline in her backyard, the august sky a tapestry of stars above you.

"you know you are," you answered, turning to study her profile in the dim glow of distant porch lights.

"no, but do you think i'm pretty?" her voice had an urgency to it, a need that transcended the typical reassurance-seeking of preteen girls.

you propped yourself up on one elbow, looking down at her face—those wide eyes reflecting pinpricks of starlight, that perfect nose, those lips now slightly parted in anticipation of your answer.

"i think you're the most beautiful thing i've ever seen," you said, the truth spilling out before you could filter it through the appropriate lens of girlhood friendship.

her face changed then, softened and opened like a night-blooming flower. "show me," she whispered.

and there, beneath the indifferent gaze of distant galaxies, you leaned down and pressed your lips to hers in a kiss that lasted three heartbeats—one for courage, one for discovery, one for a revelation neither of you was ready to name.

when you pulled away, jackie's eyes remained closed for a moment longer, her lashes dark crescents against her cheeks. when she opened them, there was a new language being born between you, one with no words or gestures, one written in quickened pulses and hitched breaths.

"we should practice," she said finally, pragmatic even in this uncharted territory. "for when we kiss boys."

"for boys," you agreed, though even then, you knew no boy's lips would ever fit against yours the way jackie's did.

that became another secret language—kisses stolen in the shadows of her basement during movie nights, in the back corner of the library behind the reference section, in the equipment shed after soccer practice when everyone else had gone home. always under the guise of "practice," always followed by giggles and performance reviews, as if you were merely rehearsing for some future that required this skill.

by the time school started again, you had become fluent in each other, able to translate the slightest change in breathing, the smallest shift in posture. it was a dictionary written in skin and breath, a grammar of touch and taste.

a language destined to become a dead one far sooner than either of you could have imagined.

⚘

eighth grade arrived with the subtle seismic shifts of tectonic plates—imperceptible to most, but you felt the tremors beneath your feet. jackie joined the advanced soccer team, began spending weekends at tournaments in neighboring towns. you joined the literary magazine, disappearing into the cocoon of the newspaper office during lunch periods.

the kisses became less frequent, though more intense when they happened. there was a desperation to them now, as if jackie was trying to memorize the feel of you before something took you away from her.

"jeff sadecki asked me to the harvest dance," she told you one october afternoon. you were lying on your stomachs in her bedroom, algebra homework spread before you, though neither of you had written anything for twenty minutes.

"are you going to go?" you asked, carefully keeping your voice neutral, tracing the edge of your textbook with one finger.

"i think so," she said, watching your finger move. "my mom would literally explode with joy. she's been hinting about me and jeff since his mom and her started that book club."

you nodded, understanding the invisible architecture of expectations that had been built around jackie since birth. good grades. soccer excellence. student council. and now, the perfect boyfriend—handsome enough, smart enough, from the right kind of family. jeff sadecki with his easy smile and varsity jacket already as an eighth grader, being groomed for high school glory just as jackie was.

"he's nice," you offered, because it was true, and because you knew that was what jackie needed to hear.

"yeah," she agreed, not meeting your eyes. "he's nice."

that night, when she kissed you goodbye at your front door—a risky move given the well-lit porch and curtainless windows—there was a finality to it that made your chest ache.

"just because i'm going to the dance with him doesn't mean anything changes with us," she whispered against your lips.

but you were the reader of stories, the one who could see foreshadowing in everyday moments, who understood the inevitable trajectory of narrative arcs. you knew an ending when you tasted one.

"nothing ever stays the same, jackie," you said, pulling back to look into those bunny eyes, now shining with unshed tears. "that's okay. that's how life works."

she shook her head, suddenly fierce. "not us. we're different."

you wanted to believe her. for a moment, standing there with her cold hands framing your face, you almost did.

the fault lines continued to spread throughout that year. jeff became jackie's boyfriend in the official, going-steady sense. you started spending lunches with lottie, who shared your interest in astrology and tarot, and laura lee, whose fervent christianity somehow complemented your more pagan sensibilities rather than clashing with it. different lunch tables became different social circles became different weekend activities.

the last time you and jackie kissed was the night before high school started. she had come to your house, unexpected, climbing the tree outside your window like she used to do in elementary school when her parents were fighting and she needed escape.

"i'm scared," she admitted, sitting cross-legged on your bed, looking smaller than she had in months.

"of high school?" you asked, closing the book you'd been reading.

she shook her head. "of everything. of not being good enough. of being exactly what everyone expects and nothing more. of—" she paused, looking down at her hands. "of how i feel when I'm with you."

the confession hung between you, heavier than any silence you'd shared.

"how do you feel when you're with me?" you asked, though you knew. of course you knew. you felt it too—the rightness, the completion, the sense of coming home that no other friendship or relationship had ever given you.

"like i'm real," she whispered. "like i don't have to pretend."

you moved then, crossing the small distance between you, taking her face in your hands as she had held yours so many times. "you never have to pretend with me."

the kiss that followed was different from all the others—not practice, not play, but promise. a vow written in the press of lips and the tangle of tongues, in the way her hands fisted in your shirt and yours threaded through her hair. you tasted salt and realized she was crying, or maybe you both were, tears mingling in the seam where your mouths met.

when you finally broke apart, breathing hard, foreheads still touching, jackie spoke words that would echo through the empty corridors of your future;

"i can't be this. i'm sorry, but i can't."

"this?" you gestured between you. "you mean being friends?"

"you know that's not what i mean." her voice dropped to a whisper. "the other stuff. it has to stop. it's—it's not right."

the words landed like a slap. "not right?"

"it's disgusting," she said, but her voice wavered on the word, betraying the lie. "i'm with jeff now. i think i love him."

you stepped back as if burned. "you don't mean that."

"i do," she insisted. "we're not kids anymore. it's time to grow up."

high school dawned crisp and clear, a perfect september morning that felt like a mockery of your shattered heart. the hallways of wiskayok high were wider than those of the middle school, the ceilings higher, the social hierarchies more rigidly enforced. by lunchtime on the first day, everyone knew their place—or at least, knew where they were supposed to aspire to sit.

jackie slid effortlessly into her predetermined role; freshman soccer star, girlfriend of sophomore football player jeff sadecki, potential homecoming court material despite her young age. she walked the halls with a confidence that looked genuine to everyone who hadn't spent a decade learning her tells—the slight tension in her shoulders, the too-wide smile, the way she checked her reflection in every available surface.

you found your niche in the spaces between expectations. too smart to be dismissed, too pretty in your unconventional way to be entirely outcast, too unapologetically yourself to be fully embraced by any single clique. you spent your lunch periods in the library or the courtyard with lottie and laura lee, an unlikely trio bound by your shared appreciation for the mysteries that existed just beyond the veil of everyday life.

lottie, with her dark eyes that seemed to see straight through pretense, never asked why you flinched when Jackie and her soccer teammates passed your table. laura lee, whose faith gave her a compassion rare in the gladiatorial arena of high school, simply passed you extra cookies from her immaculately packed lunch on the days when jackie and jeff were particularly demonstrative in the hallways.

you watched from a distance as jackie became more polished, more perfect, more packaged for public consumption. her natural grace on the soccer field translated to a carefully choreographed performance of ideal teenage girlhood off it. by sophomore year, she was captain of the jv team, dating the varsity quarterback, maintaining a gpa that kept her solidly in the top ten percent without threatening the true academic overachievers.

you bloomed differently—unfurling rather than constructing, growing toward whatever light called to you rather than the one you were expected to seek. your essays won state competitions. your poems were published in literary journals that usually only accepted college students' work. a short story you wrote about two childhood friends who communicated through a secret language earned you a summer workshop at the state university, where professors spoke of your voice as "astonishingly mature" and "hauntingly authentic."

for two years, you and jackie enacted an elaborate performance of polite distance. you acknowledged each other with nods in hallways, exchanged bland pleasantries when mutual activities forced interaction. to outsiders, you were former friends who had drifted apart as childhood companions often do. only you knew the truth of what had been lost.

until junior year, when the fault lines that had been dormant suddenly ruptured.

⚘

it happened at shauna shipman's halloween party, one of those high school gatherings that seemed destined for disaster from its conception. parents out of town, a house too nice to risk trashing but too tempting not to use, alcohol flowing freely despite most attendees being years from legal drinking age.

you hadn't planned to go. parties were jackie's domain, not yours. but lottie had insisted, claiming the veil between worlds was thinnest on halloween, and what better place to observe the unmasking of true selves than at a costume party?

so there you were, dressed as ophelia in the depths of her madness—flower crown askew on your curls, vintage nightgown artfully torn and stained with watercolors to suggest river water, eyes dramatically lined to hint at beautiful despair.

"bit on the nose, isn't it?" lottie commented when she picked you up, herself resplendent as some pagan goddess with antlers woven into her dark hair.

"literature is always on the nose," you replied. "that's why it hurts so much."

you didn't plan to stay long—just enough to appease lottie, maybe talk to a few people from your ap literature class who might appreciate your costume's details. what you didn't plan for was jackie, three drinks past her usual limit, dressed as a playboy bunny—an outfit that played up both her soccer-toned body and the nickname you had given her so many years ago.

she saw you from across the room, those wide eyes growing impossibly wider. for a moment, the carefully constructed mask slipped, and you saw your jackie—the girl who had handed you a sand bucket, who had let you read aloud for hours, who had kissed you beneath a canopy of stars.

then jeff's arm slid around her waist, and the mask snapped back into place.

you retreated to the relative quiet of the kitchen, hoping to find water or perhaps even a quieter exit. instead, you found yourself cornered by travis, a quiet boy from your calculus class who had been working up the courage to talk to you for weeks.

"your costume is amazing," he said, sincerity evident in his voice. "you actually look like you stepped out of a pre-raphaelite painting."

you smiled, genuinely surprised by his art history reference. "thank you. i wasn't sure anyone would get it."

"i did a project on millais last year," he explained, then launched into an enthusiastic if slightly nervous discussion of victorian art that was actually interesting enough to distract you from your desire to leave.

you didn't notice jackie watching from the doorway, her bunny ears askew, her eyes narrowed with an emotion too complex to name.

later, you would piece together what happened from fragmented accounts and your own blurred memories; jackie, drunk and emotional, confronting jeff about some perceived slight. jeff, equally intoxicated, saying something careless. jackie, storming off to the bathroom. you, excusing yourself from travis to get some air on the back porch. the paths crossing in the hallway.

"having fun with travis?" jackie's voice had an edge you'd never heard before.

"he's nice," you said, echoing her words about jeff from so long ago.

"nice," she repeated, almost sneering. "is that what you want? nice?"

"what do you think i want, jackie?" the question came out tired rather than confrontational.

she stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the vodka cranberries on her breath, could see the smudge in her otherwise perfect eyeliner. "i think you want what you can't have."

"that's rich, coming from you."

"what is that supposed to mean?"

"it means you're the one who walked away, not me." the words came out sharper than you intended, years of carefully contained hurt suddenly finding release.

jackie's face contorted, a kaleidoscope of emotions shifting too quickly to track. "you think i wanted to? you think i had a choice?"

"we all have choices, jackie. every day."

"easy for you to say." her voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "you get to be you. free and artistic and not caring what anyone thinks. i don't have that luxury."

"it's not a luxury. it's courage."

she recoiled as if slapped. "so i'm a coward now?"

"i didn't say that."

"you didn't have to." jackie's eyes filled with tears that she angrily blinked away. "you've always been so fucking superior, haven't you? so sure you know everything about everyone's heart."

"i never claimed to know everything," you said quietly. "just yours."

something broke in her expression then—the final wall crumbling. "you don't, though. you don't know what it's like to feel like you're rotting from the inside out. to know that everything you're supposed to want, everything you've been raised to chase, feels like ash in your mouth compared to—" she stopped abruptly.

"compared to what, jackie?"

"compared to one minute with you," she whispered, defeat and revelation mingling in her voice.

what happened next was inevitable as gravity—her hands finding your face, your bodies colliding against the hallway wall, mouths meeting with the desperate hunger of the long-starved. it was nothing like your childhood kisses, nothing like your tentative teenage explorations. this was excavation, archaeology, mining for something precious thought lost forever.

and like all such desperate digs, it caused a collapse.

"what the fuck?"

jeff's voice shattered the moment. you broke apart to find him standing at the end of the hallway, face twisted in confusion and dawning anger. behind him, a small crowd had gathered, drawn by the promise of drama.

jackie froze, her face draining of color. you watched as her eyes darted from jeff to the onlookers, saw the exact moment when panic overtook every other emotion.

"it's not—she just—i was trying to get her off me," jackie stammered, stepping away from you as if burned.

the words hit like physical blows. you stared at her, unable to process this ultimate betrayal.

"jesus, i always knew there was something weird about her," someone in the crowd murmured.

"fucking dyke," someone else said, not bothering to lower their voice.

jackie looked at you, naked terror in her eyes. "i'm sorry," she mouthed silently.

but you were already moving, pushing through the crowd, ignoring the taunts and whispers, running from the house with flower petals from your crown scattering behind you like ophelia's sanity breaking apart on the current.

the aftermath was as brutal as high school could make it. for you, at least. somehow, jackie emerged relatively unscathed—the popular girl who had been accosted by her strange former friend, the victim rather than the participant. jeff, after initial anger, took her back. her soccer teammates closed ranks around her. the story morphed in the retelling until you were the predator, she the innocent prey.

lottie and laura lee stood by you, fierce in their loyalty. travis, surprisingly, became another ally, walking you to classes when the whispers grew too loud, sharing his notes on days when you couldn't face the hallways. but high school was still high school, and the weight of being suddenly, unwillingly visible was suffocating.

winter came early that year, november bringing snow that usually waited until december. you watched it fall from the window of your bedroom, wondering if the universe was mocking you with its metaphors—jackie's season descending before its time, burying the world in cold silence.

you didn't see her outside of classes you couldn't avoid. she kept her eyes down when forced into proximity, her face a mask of practiced indifference. only once did you catch her mask slip—in the girls' bathroom during fifth period, when she thought herself alone. you entered silently, saw her gripping the sink, staring at her reflection with such naked self-loathing that you almost went to her, almost reached out.

then she noticed you in the mirror and the mask slammed back into place. she left without washing her hands or saying a word.

december brought holiday preparations and the temporary reprieve of everyone being too busy with exams and family obligations to maintain active torment. you threw yourself into writing, producing a series of poems that your english teacher described as "disturbingly beautiful" and urged you to submit to collegiate competitions.

january crawled by, february a blur of gray skies and slush-covered sidewalks. you survived by disappearing into books, into words, into the worlds you created where endings could be rewritten and love didn't collapse under the weight of expectation.

and then came march, with its false promises of thaw, its teasing glimpses of sun between snow flurries. you were sitting in the library during lunch, lost in sylvia plath's "ariel," when a shadow fell across your page.

"can we talk?"

jackie's voice, so familiar yet strange after months of silence. you looked up to find her standing awkwardly before you, clutching the strap of her backpack like a lifeline.

"i don't think we have anything to say to each other." your voice came out steadier than you felt.

"please." one word, but it contained oceans.

you gathered your books slowly, giving yourself time to rebuild the walls her presence immediately threatened to crumble. "fine. where?"

"the old equipment shed? after school?"

the location choice wasn't lost on you—the site of so many of your secret meetings in earlier days, now abandoned as the school had built newer facilities closer to the main fields.

"i'll be there at 3:30," you said, not looking at her. "i won't wait long."

she nodded and left quickly, as if afraid you might change your mind.

you told yourself you wouldn't go. told yourself it was masochism, not closure. told yourself there was nothing she could say that would matter now.

but at 3:25, you found yourself walking across the still-frozen field toward the shed, your breath clouding before you in the march chill.

jackie was already there, pacing the small interior, her varsity jacket pulled tight against the cold. she stopped when you entered, her eyes wide and uncertain.

"you came," she said, as if she couldn't quite believe it.

"i said i would." you remained near the door, unwilling to step fully into this space so laden with memory.

jackie took a deep breath. "i need to apologize. what i did at the party—throwing you under the bus like that—it was unforgivable."

"yes," you agreed. "it was."

she flinched but continued. "i was scared and drunk and stupid, but that's not an excuse. i've been a coward for years, and that night was just the worst example."

you said nothing, waiting.

"the thing is," she continued when you didn't speak, "i've been thinking a lot about what you said. about choices. about courage." she paced again, unable to stay still under the weight of what she was trying to say. "i don't want to be a coward anymore."

"what does that mean, jackie?" you were tired, suddenly, of riddles and half-truths.

she stopped pacing and looked directly at you for what felt like the first time in years. "it means i'm in love with you. i think i have been since we were kids. and i've been running from it because i thought there was something wrong with me for feeling that way."

the words hung in the cold air between you, crystallizing like frost.

"you hurt me," you said finally. "not just at the party. every day since eighth grade when you decided i was too dangerous to your perfect life."

"i know." her eyes filled with tears. "and i will regret that for the rest of my life. but i'm here now, telling you the truth, finally. for whatever that's worth."

"and jeff? the soccer team? the perfect jackie taylor life?"

she swallowed hard. "jeff and i broke up last week. the rest... i don't know. i just know i can't keep pretending. it's killing me." she took a tentative step toward you. "i don't expect you to forgive me. i don't expect anything. i just needed you to know that you were right—about me being a coward, about me making choices. i'm trying to make better ones now."

you studied her face, looking for signs of the old jackie—the girl who would say whatever was necessary to maintain appearances, to keep her world spinning on its prescribed axis. but all you saw was raw honesty and fear.

"i don't know what to say," you admitted.

"you don't have to say anything. i just..." she wrapped her arms around herself. "i miss my best friend. i miss the person who knew me better than i knew myself. i miss you."

the simple truth of it cracked something in your carefully maintained armor.

"i've missed you too," you whispered.

jackie's eyes lit with cautious hope. "really?"

"every day."

she took another step toward you, then another, until she was close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, could smell the familiar scent of her shampoo.

"i can't promise i won't mess up again," she said softly. "i can't promise i'll be brave all the time. but i want to try. with you, if you'll let me."

you reached out slowly, touched her cheek with fingertips that remembered the feel of her skin from years of memorizing it in secret moments.

"i don't need you to be brave all the time," you said. "i just need you to be honest. with yourself, most of all."

she turned her face into your touch, eyes closing briefly. "i can do that."

outside, a tentative sun broke through the clouds, sending shafts of light through the shed's dusty windows. somewhere in the distance, a bird began to sing—the first herald of spring's approach.

"it won't be easy," you warned, thinking of the world waiting beyond this momentary shelter.

jackie opened her eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "nothing worth having ever is."

she leaned forward then, hesitant, giving you every chance to pull away. you didn't. when her lips met yours, it felt like recognition, like remembering something essential you had tried to forget.

it felt like spring melting winter, like currents too strong to fight.

it felt, at last, like truth.

⚘

spring came late that year, but when it arrived, it came with a vengeance—green exploding across the landscape, flowers erupting from soil that had seemed dead only weeks before, the world renewing itself with reckless abandon.

you and jackie moved cautiously at first, relearning each other in stolen moments between classes, in weekend hours spent in the sanctuary of your book-filled bedroom, in long walks through forests just beginning to wake from winter's dormancy.

the rest of junior year unfolded in unexpected ways. jackie quit the soccer team, causing a minor scandal that was soon overshadowed by prom drama and graduation preparations for the seniors. she joined the literary magazine staff, revealing a talent for photography that complemented your words in ways that surprised you both. together, you created a series of photo essays that won the publication its first national recognition.

lottie and laura lee welcomed jackie into your lunch table circle with minimal skepticism, though lottie made it clear in her eerily perceptive way that second betrayals would not be tolerated. travis became a friend to you both, his quiet intellect and complete lack of interest in high school politics making him a safe harbor in still-turbulent waters.

there were still whispers, still sidelong glances in hallways. but as spring progressed into summer, as junior year gave way to the promise of senior year and beyond, those voices seemed to matter less and less.

on the last day of school, you and jackie returned to the equipment shed—not out of secrecy now, but out of sentiment. you brought a blanket to spread over the dusty floor, a small basket of strawberries and chocolate, a bottle of sparkling cider smuggled from your parents' fridge.

"do you remember the first time we came here?" jackie asked, lying beside you on the blanket, her fingers intertwined with yours.

"seventh grade," you said. "after you scored the winning goal against westfield. you were so pumped up on adrenaline you practically dragged me in here."

she laughed. "i told you i wanted to show you something important."

"and then you kissed me."

"and then i kissed you," she agreed. "best impulse i ever had."

you turned to look at her, at the face you had loved in so many different ways throughout your shared life. "we took the long way around, didn't we?"

jackie's expression softened. "maybe we needed to. maybe i needed to understand what i'd be missing if i kept making the wrong choices."

"and now?"

"now i know." she shifted onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow to look down at you. "i know that nothing—not popularity or parental approval or some cookie-cutter future—is worth giving up what i feel when I'm with you."

you reached up to brush a strand of hair from her face. "and what do you feel when you're with me?"

"real," she said simply, echoing words from a night years ago. "like i don't have to pretend."

you pulled her down to you then, a kiss that tasted of strawberries and possibility, of winters survived and springs renewed.

outside, summer was asserting itself—the sun high and hot, the world lush with life. inside the small shed, time seemed suspended, the past and future collapsing into a perfect present.

later, walking home with your hands swinging between you, unafraid now of who might see, jackie stopped suddenly.

"what is it?" you asked.

she was looking at you with an expression of wonder, as if seeing you for the first time. "i just realized something."

"what?"

"im happy," she said, sounding surprised. "actually, genuinely happy."

you smiled, feeling the truth of it in your own chest—a lightness that had been absent for too long. "me too."

as you continued walking, you thought about the cycles of seasons, how winter always gives way to spring, how spring inevitably yields to summer. how nothing is permanent except change itself.

𝒢𝜚 💭 ࣪ ✸ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ∿ yuri is life :3 who missed me?

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[defectivehero]

warnings: child abuse, neglect, murder

"You seem jumpy today, detective," the villain whispers from just over their shoulder. The detective flinches and stiffens all at once, questioning how they didn't notice their enemy lurking in their office. Just how long have they been standing there? They don't realize the villain is waiting for an answer until they're coughing pointedly.

"Me, jumpy?" The detective asks wryly. They're not sure they manifest enough confidence to convince the villain—they're not even convincing themselves. "No." They turn their attention back to the newspapers in front of them, scanning for a name.

"Hm," the villain hums. Their hand is burning through the fabric of the detective's shirt, straight into their shoulder until their skin fuses together. The detective is trying their best not to pay their adversary any attention, yet even they can tell that there is an entirely different sentiment in the air today, in the interaction that has barely begun. "You think I haven't noticed?"

"You're going to have to be more specific," the detective spits out, their eyebrows furrowed. They return their attention to the newspaper, flipping a page with a shaking hand. They feel their shoulders shrinking as the villain casts a menacing shadow on the wall across from them.

For a moment, there is only silence as their enemy looks over their shoulder. For a moment, the detective is deluded enough to think that, perhaps, the villain's curiosity has been sated. But of course, their curiosity hasn't been fed. And of course, the villain's patience is a fickle thing.

Suddenly, the villain is reaching out and slamming a hand on top of the newspaper, snatching it from their desk and crumpling it into a wad, before shoving it in their pocket. The detective doesn't even bother to let out a protest, knowing it will fall on uncaring ears.

They decide to stare at the wall in front of them. Eye contact feels daunting right now. Unfortunately, their adversary doesn't share the same sentiment, as their chair is roughly spun around until the detective is forced to look up at the villain.

This conversation—if one could even call it that—is utterly confounding. The detective isn't sure if they should even bother to pretend like they know what's going on.

Their bewilderment only increases upon hearing the villain's next remark. "You've been avoiding me," they hum, a soft yet dangerous whisper in the still air.

"I've done nothing of the sort," the detective frowns, crossing a leg over their knee. They don't need to see the skeptical expression on the villain's face to know what they're thinking.

"Haven't you?" The villain murmurs. This is a new side to their enemy, a side the detective has not seen before. The villain has always seemed to find comfort in the shadows, in the smaller gestures. Now, their posture, their body language, is infuriatingly silent. The detective can hardly perceive the person in front of them. "Lingering on cases that went cold years ago, rereading files..." They break off, their gaze falling to the newspapers littering the surface of their desk. "You've practically gone full radio silence."

At that, the detective frowns. "I don't recall having an obligation to tell you everything," is the unfortunate phrase that rips its way from their lips. They almost flinch instinctually, waiting for a blow that doesn't come. Instead, the villain just breathes out a laugh.

"Of course not," their enemy acquiesces, with a flippant gesture. Their gaze has not moved in minutes. The detective is immensely uncomfortable, being so intensely scrutinized. They're supposed to be the one doing the scrutinizing, the one taking in information and drawing conclusions from it. "And yet, I find myself wondering. You seem to be... hiding from something."

The detective is rattled, they'll admit it. They never thought their behavior was so so mind-numbingly predictable, so easily deduced. They suppose they tend to fall into a world of their own creation when they dive into cold cases, neglecting even the most basic of rituals and activities. The detective is a frequent visitor of the shadows, soaking them in and absorbing their camouflage when necessary.

The villain is studying their every reaction. The detective is trying to keep the expression on their face as blank as possible, and they're sure it's not nearly convincing enough to fool anyone—let alone the villain.

"Or, perhaps, you're hiding from someone?" The villain asks, raising an eyebrow at them. And something in the detective snaps. All of the fear, rage, guilt, and helplessness brewing inside them just... slips out. They feel as if they're spilling their guts all over the ground, leaving puddles of bloody gore oozing out of their form as the purpose behind their actions is slowly teased out.

"Okay, that's enough," the detective hisses, pushing the villain away and getting up from their chair. They don't know where they're going—they just know they need to get away from here. It's getting too close for comfort now. Before long, they are going to cross a line they can't come back from. "I've entertained this silly farce for long enough, if you'll excuse me-"

Quick as a flash, the villain brandishes their knife. The metal gleams tauntingly, hovering a breath away from the detective's throat. The detective freezes in place. There's a wicked grin on their adversary's face. The detective's stomach turns in unease.

"Tell me what changed," the villain demands. There have been few times when they have appeared truly dangerous in the detective's eyes—now is one of those times. "Now."

"Fine," the detective says. "You really want to know? Fine. Let go of me." Something in their tone is commanding enough to convince the villain to release their grip and let their arm fall to their side, as if they'd been burned. The detective turns their back on their enemy, despite knowing full well the villain could sink that knife into their back right now. Then again, the villain is seeking answers. They're not going to kill them before they get those answers.

After a moment of rifling through their rather disorganized filing system—they really need to dedicate some time to sorting that out—they find what they're looking for.

"Years ago, when I was at the precinct," the detective starts, "I was asked to help out with a case. Child neglect, abuse; two siblings living in inhuman conditions. I was young, then. It turned my stomach."

It still does, the detective pointedly does not say. "The children escaped, made their way to the precinct. A few agents were sent to investigate the home they had been trapped in, only to find the dead body of their parent, horribly mutilated beyond recognition.

"The children were called in for questioning: they had an age gap of a few years. The younger sibling was clearly terrified. The older one seemed a bit more aware of their surroundings, but still wary. There was dried blood buried under the older one's fingernails and caked in the younger one's hair.

"After a rather lengthy interrogation, the children—well, young adults, I suppose—were determined to be innocent. What was left of their parent was cremated. The murderer was never found. The case file collected dust at the precinct.

"Years later, when I transferred to my own private agency, I took the file with me. That was very illegal, of course—had my coworkers caught me, I would've been in prison. But something didn't feel right.

"For a while, the file collected dust as it sat hidden in my desk. I resolved never to think about that case again—after all, it was my first. Arguably, my first failure.

"And then you showed up. Suddenly, those two siblings were following me into my dreams. I couldn't stop thinking about them, about the remnants of the house they were found in, about the trail that had gone cold and then simply... vanished.

"A few nights ago, I couldn't sleep. I found myself sitting at this desk in the bleak hours of the morning, tripping over the words the older sibling had uttered all those years ago. For some reason, I was getting a sense of déjà vu."

"Get on with it," the villain seethes, seemingly tired of waiting.

"Very well," the detective sighs. They suppose they were fortunate to get as much time speaking as they did. They hold the newspaper clipping up to their enemy, pointing at the picture buried in the corner. "This is you, isn't it? The older sibling?"

The villain takes a step closer, squints at the photo. It's small, after all. The detective watches as their eyes flit across the page, reading the headline: Child Abuser, Found Dead in Remnants of Home. The detective's heart is thundering in their chest. They wait for an answer.

"So it is," the villain hums disinterestedly. The detective feels their breath stall. The clock on the wall ticks mockingly, a haunting rhythm. The detective can't get rid of the inexplicable conviction that they've just made a horrible misstep. "And what are you going to do now?"

"What?" The detective chokes out. The voice that leaves their lips sounds foreign.

"What are you going to do?" The villain repeats slowly. They hand the newspaper clipping back. The detective tries to take it, but they miscalculate and it falls to the floor. Neither of the two notice or bother to bend down and pick it up. "Now that you've figured me out?"

The detective feels dread prickling along their skin. The villain continues. "The truth has been revealed. The mystery you were so desperate to solve.

"You wanted to understand me... And now, you have."

No. No. That can't be true. Surely, that can't be true. The detective watches helplessly as the villain regards them for a moment, before turning on their heel.

"I have nothing more to say to you," the villain says. The detective can't see them, but they know there is an utter lack of expression on the villain's face. And there is no emotion in their adversary's voice.

The detective watches silently as the villain walks away. The door to their office falls shut with a soft click. The detective stares at it in complete disbelief. They have never felt more lost and uncertain in their entire life. Yet, one thing is clear: they will never see the villain again.

©2024, @defectivehero | @defectivevillain All Rights Reserved.

________

whew I went for the jugular in this one, huh...

and I really gave the detective a shuichi backstory, too... sigh....

I had originally written this to fit into the existing detective/villain pairing I have going (@red-is-the-reputation4444 this is loosely inspired by your ask with that detective quote)... but this snippet quickly spiraled out of my control. I figured I could keep things ambiguous and let the reader decide if this is a continuation of the existing pairing, or the creation of a new one. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

"they will never see the villain again" mhmmmm sure, sure.... definitely....

anyway. thanks for reading! <3

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