#this is also one of those dreams that prove kind of impossible to write down due to the bending of rules of unreality etc

[bitseventimes]

had a fucking insane non sensical dream again it was new years themed and my parents were there, my brother was gonna celebrate with his friends but he dropped by to give us a (very important) transparent pumpkin to carve, I was really perplexed by this. then my friends and I decided to go see someone (the pope I think?) and the line was so long we hit midnight while queuing up. we put on a live stream of Dan and Phil and Louise carving a pumpkin (not transparent) and dnp were so flirty it was uncomfortable and Phil was bleach blond. there's other details but I'm forgetting them as we speak. huh??

[banananutsmuthie]

Idol Zoo: 이 채영

Idol(s): Chaeyoung [fromis_9] × Isa [STAYC]

Word Count: 3k+ words

Content Advisory: Furry-adjacent, petplay, public sex, squirting

A/N: The title of this piece is a three-pronged play on words: both their names are Lee Chaeyoung; their family name Lee (이) also means "two", so it can also be interpreted as "two Chaeyoungs"; it could also be translated as "this Chaeyoung". This was meant to be a 800 word quckie to kinda get back into writing but it somehow ballooned to 3k. Hope you enjoy!

The events that led to this point almost sound like the setup of a worn joke.

A squirrel, a cat, and their owner walk into a bar.

But there’s no punchline here. This isn’t even a joke. Some might call it a fantasy, but it isn’t that either. Fantasy would mean this is all imaginary, an impossibility existing only in one’s mind. As improbable as having two idols in a hot threesome may seem, there is definitely some level of reality here. It’s even in their slogan: “Make Dreams a Reality”.

As long as you have the vision (and the money), anything is possible at Idol Club.

And that vision for tonight’s visit is simple: a “zoo” of idols who share the same name, all acting and dressing as animals and letting them go primal on your cock. Thirty minutes in and it's already proving to be better than you envisioned.

Sweat soils the silk sheets. It’s not particularly unusual; thirty minutes of non-stop action with the two Chaeyoungs would do that to anyone. But what’s amazing about it are these new android models that Idol Club just released, upgraded with sweat glands and contributing to the stickiness.

Isa’s cat onesie is a wreck drenched in her own artificial sweat, what with fucking her from behind for the last twenty minutes through the perfectly-positioned ripped hole in her costume. Yet her cunt is still a perfect toy for your cock to play with, never losing the lubrication that made Isa such a good pet when you first impaled that tight little pussy cat.

This pussy cat has a name, written on the metal name tag hanging from her collar, jingling with each crash of your pelvis into her bubbly ass. “Cockslut #2”, her tag reads. It’s the name you gave to easily differentiate her from the other Chaeyoung when they’re both inevitably covered in cum.

Cockslut #2 deserves some release. Mind you, not that kind of release; she’s already had plenty of those. It’s evident in the ruined make-up of the older Chaeyoung beneath her as a result of Cockslut #2’s multiple orgasms unloading on her pretty little face. No, she deserves a release from her feline costume—the overheating could fry her circuits at any moment, and that definitely isn’t a bill you want to pay.

Slowly, you pull the zipper down her back until it reaches the bottom stop just above her ass. As the costume begins to slide off her shoulders, you can see just how hard she is working, just how much she is enjoying getting railed doggy style. Beads of sweat drip down from her shoulder blades that protrude with each thrust, running down her soft, pale skin and collecting into a puddle at the small of her back.

She pants as a way to compensate for the steamy hot sex she’s endured. Her panting comes to a halt when you tug on the back of her collar, forcing your pet to lift her chin and turn back toward you with eager eyes that await your next command.

“Such a good little pet, aren’t you?”

Cockslut #2 purrs in delight hearing just how good she is. It motivates her to slam onto your cock with more fervor, anxious to make you cum.

“Not yet, #2. Show me how a good little pet cums first, then maybe I’ll reward you with a treat.”

Of course, she listens to her owner. She is a good pet, after all, unlike the squirrel below enduring the punishment of Isa’s pussy smearing her face. It had been so long since you fucked Cockslut #1 that you almost forgot she was even in the room.

“Have you had enough punishment yet, #1?”

Chaeyoung is a mess more than her angelic counterpart. Isa’s cum dribbles down her chin, coating her perky breasts down to her tight torso. You can see her lift up between Isa’s drenched thigh gap. Chaeyoung nods with innocent eyes and apologetically lets out a high-pitched screech to let you know she wants another turn, too. It’s almost enough to forgive her for making you cum too quickly earlier; who can blame that sensual face, tight little body, and experienced pussy grinding on your cock?

“Maybe if you had listened to your owner, this could’ve been you #1,” you say as you slow your pace against Isa, stopping to enjoy every apex of your oscillations. You lean forward and press against Isa’s sticky back, grabbing her aptly-sized breasts and pinching her erect nipples. Isa mewls and moans, enjoying the various sensations and rubbing more salt into Chaeyoung’s wound. “What do you think #2? Should I give #1 another chance on this cock?”

“Meow.” Isa shrugs with indifference, staying true to her feline character.

Chaeyoung is ready to reclaim her spot as #1 cockslut. She lifts up against the bed, and as she does so, her lips make contact with your shaft that’s still pumping in and out of Isa. Before you can react, she quickly shifts toward the base attempting to fill her mouth with your nuts as squirrels are wont to do.

You push her back down on the bed. “No! Nuts are only for good squirrels! You wait until Cockslut #2 is finished!”

You expect Chaeyoung to beg for another chance, but instead, her arms cross against her chest, pushing her perky tits together and making you regret rejecting that perfect cleavage. Then you expect a huff to go along with her folded arms, but instead, there’s a smug look on her face. Chaeyoung knows Isa isn’t far from cumming; it's an intuition akin to rodents like herself sensing an earthquake before it even hits.

“Nyahh!” Isa screams.

And just like that, Isa starts again. You can tell from her trembling knees digging into the mattress and the way her pussy pulsates around your shaft that she is about to bless the squirrel with another squirt. You pull out just in time to watch Isa’s dam let all the water rush through her pink aqueduct. It’s fucking magnificent: her waterworks are as true as Old Faithful and as captivating as the Bellagio Fountains.

Of course, Cockslut #1 is nothing but a good sport about drowning in Isa’s cum despite the act being a punishment, for she knows her time is near. Not being a willing participant now would only jeopardize her chance. Chaeyoung reaches upward and spreads Isa’s ass cheeks, holding her pussy lips open with her thumbs to feel the full force of the raging waterfall that is Isa’s orgasm.

When the reservoir finally depletes, Isa once again turns toward you. Her ass wiggles in elation as her eyes give off excitement at the expectation of her reward for being an obedient pet.

“Meow meow?”

“Yes, such a good pet. You definitely deserve a reward.”

In the middle of this exchange, Chaeyoung is just as excited knowing that she’ll have another shot to please you. Her hands move down toward her crotch that’s still leaking from your earlier creampie. One hand carefully spreads her cum-stained lips while she starts to rub her clit with the other. Seeing Chaeyoung pleasure herself gives you an idea.

“I think you both deserve a reward. How’s that sound?”

“Meow!”

“Muk mu!”

You slam yourself right back into Isa’s wet folds for your own reward. Her ass perks upward as you push Isa’s face right into the creamy goodness of Chaeyoung’s filled pussy. Chaeyoung and Isa both shriek in surprise at the unexpected turn, but their shrieks slowly turn into moans of pleasure.

Isa’s slurping is barely audible over Chaeyoung’s moans of approval, which itself is also just a decibel softer than the sound of Isa’s thick thighs clapping against your own. Chaeyoung still has enough energy to pull herself up toward the pounding taking place above her, stabilizing herself by grabbing onto Isa’s ass cheeks.

“Mmmmph!” Chaeyoung cries out as she finally gets her reward, getting a taste of your balls as they swing against Isa’s folds, completing the circuitry of the threesome. The sensation of Chaeyoung’s tongue pleasuring you at the same time Isa’s walls collapse on your cock is too much to hold on any longer.

“Fuck, I’m close! Ready #1?” you tell your obedient pets.

You stop thrusting and leave just the tip inside Isa. As she is trained to do like the good pet she is, Chaeyoung starts to stroke your stationary shaft while finally getting to enjoy her nut sack snack without them constantly swinging back and forth against her lips. The combined pleasure of Chaeyoung jerking you off and her tongue licking your nuts finally causes you to cum into Isa’s needy pussy. Only the first spurt manages to fully deposit; Chaeyoung’s sensational job as your pet squirrel causes you to spasm, involuntary pulling out of your warm pussy cat and dumping the remaining cum on Chaeyoung’s bare chest. It doesn’t matter, they both deserve a layer of a cum.

You roll off Isa and find some time to catch your breath on the bed, but there isn't much time to recover; your pets know that too and stop eating each other out to prepare for what's about to come.

“Good girls,” you compliment as you get up to wipe off and check the time. The timer on the wall indicates just a little over an hour left in the session. You reach over to press the call button next to the bed. In a matter of seconds, the door slides open.

“You called, sir?”

“Bring in the tiger and the chipmunk. And tell them to hurry up, it’s almost show time,” you command the host.

“Very well, sir,” the host says before hastily walking away to fetch the remaining animals for your Chaeyoung zoo.

Barely thirty seconds pass by. Rosé and Twice’s Chaeyoung appear at the doorway, but as soon as the door slides close behind them, they are known only as Cockslut #3 and Cockslut #4, respectively.

#3 might as well be naked: her head is kept warm with a chipmunk hat, but her sheer brown two-piece bikini leaves nothing to the imagination. #4 is covered in orange body paint with black stripes. Even with the paint, her body is fully exposed. You move closer to examine her perfect tiny mounds. Chaeyoung purrs as your fingers trace her exposed slit. Had you not taken so long with Isa earlier, maybe you’d have enough time to pounce on Chaeyoung’s naked tiger body for a quick fuck before the show. Not that it really matters, you’ll get to experience that tiny frame during the show anyway.

“It’s showtime! You ready, girls?”

A cacophony of animal noises fills the room in response. The rodents screech in delight. The tiny tiger attempts a ferocious roar, but Chaeyoung's body can only muster a cute meow that harmonizes well with Isa’s purr. Without being told, Rosé and Chaeyoung join the other two on the soiled bed covered in the collective cum from you and the other two sex animals.

The big black curtains covering the wall opposite the door finally part, revealing a crowd of people that have gathered on the streets to watch the performance. The only thing separating the audience from the performers are the vertical metal bars that run floor to ceiling on that side of the room.

Four feral Chaeyoungs, all in heat, now line up neatly on the bed on hands and knees, face down, ass up, eager to please you as their zoomaster and eager to entertain the aroused onlookers with an unforgettable performance. For the next hour, these girls are no longer idols: they are your personal pets. They are still performers, however, and performers still need to captivate their audience.

“Let's give them a show, ladies,” you tell them before turning to the growing crowd on the other side of the iron bars.

“Ladies and gents, this is the moment you've waited for! Welcome to the greatest show! Welcome… to Idol Zoo!” The crowd responds with a deafening roar sprinkled with some hoots, hollers, and whistles. “Make some noise for which Chaeyoung you want to see wrecked first!”

On the side of the bed closest to the audience is fromis_9’s Chaeyoung, or Cockslut #1 as she should be called. She is back in the original costume she wore before the pre-show: still topless but now with her squirrel headband and nude color panties with a squirrel tail clipped behind it. You get behind her, squeezing at her delicious thighs before two fingers move her panties to the side and find their way inside her dripping wet cunt. Chaeyoung is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in every meaning of the phrase as her eyes look back at you, conveying her eagerness to prove she deserves the title of “Cockslut #1”, the Chaeyoung who always gets the prize of a creampie during the pre-show.

This Chaeyoung is a crowd pleaser, moaning in ecstasy while sliding back and forth on your digits. Cum coats your fingers as you withdraw from her; it’s the same load that you filled her up with over half an hour ago. So much cum, but she isn't wasteful: she graciously accepts the meal and takes every last drop down her throat. Chaeyoung turns to face her supporters to show her empty mouth, the perverted magic trick met with a round of cheers from the crowd.

“Who wants to see this Chaeyoung first?” Flovers in the crowd join in unison to vote for the half-naked girl from their representative group.

One by one down the line, each feral beast gets a chance to demonstrate their capabilities for the audience, and after each demonstration, the crowd showers them with votes of applause. Finally, with all votes cast, you move behind the Chaeyoung who garnered the loudest applause and give her a rough slap on the ass to let her know she’s first up, thus earning the highly-coveted title of “Cockslut #1” for next month’s performance.

“It sounds like you like this one the best!” you yell toward the crowd.

Chaeyoung spreads her legs as you grab her hips from behind, readying her to demonstrate just how well she can perform in front of a crowd. And so it starts again, another round of your pets performing tricks on your cock, just like every first Friday of the month for the last year, paying it forward to the poor souls who can’t afford to make it into Idol Club themselves. It’s gratifying for sure, but there’s also just something about fucking feral Chaeyoungs in front of other people that makes you so… well, feral.

The crowd screams in excitement as you begin to pound her from behind. A chant starts to crescendo, each syllable keeping time with each thrust of your cock into one of your pet's pussies while the other three girls watch and feel up the Chaeyoung in front of you. One reaches down to rub her clit while the other two focus their mouths on Chaeyoung's breasts, tracing circles around her areolas with their tongues.

“Chae! Young! Chae! Young! Chae! Young!”

You lean forward and tug at her hair, pressing your lips against her ear so that she can hear you over the boisterous crowd. “You're fucking close, aren’t you? I can feel it, the way your pussy just takes this dick. I bet it turns you on seeing all these people watching you get fucked.” Chaeyoung lets out an indiscernible grunt of agreement. “No, I don't want you to tell me. I want you to show them. Show them how badly you love this cock fucking your used hole right now.”

She shrieks in surprise when you pull her off the bed by her hips. Her ass is just too perfect to not give it a slap. The force and the followthrough causes her to let out a primitive groan as she stumbles forward, finally stabilizing herself against the cage bars only inches in front of her salivating fans.

One hand reaches around her hip as you start to finger your cockslut, while your other hand tugs and tightens the collar around her neck. It takes every bone in your body to resist thrusting your cock back into Chaeyoung, but this performance isn’t for you—that’s what the pre-show is for. This is for the dozens of fans waiting in the heat and cold every month to see their favorite idols naked and cumming on them, getting a selfie as it happens, and going home with an unforgettable story while still holding onto their own wild sexual fantasies that will never come to fruition. The last thing they want is someone else’s cock slipped between their bias’ perfect pussy when they get their selfie, even if they are just sex robots.

“Do it. Cum for your fans. Show them just how hard you can squirt.”

By now, the crowd already knows what’s coming, and their chants switch from calling out her name to repeating, “Squirt! Squirt! Squirt!” As expected, there isn’t a single mobile in any spectator’s pockets—they’re all pointed toward the naked Chaeyoung as they try to capture the fappable moment for all eternity.

Chaeyoung’s fists start to turn purple with how hard she’s grasping onto the bars. Her toes dig into the tile beneath her as she thrusts her pelvis forward, held up by her trembling legs. It’s all a foregone conclusion now.

“Ggggahhh!” Chaeyoung screams and finally lets herself succumb to the pleasure.

There are orgasms and there are floods. This one definitely comes out as a flood as Chaeyoung sprays the raucous crowd with her torrential rain, even managing to sully the Idol Club protestors in the back of the crowd.

As her monsoon dies to a drip, Chaeyoung collapses to the floor a broken but happy android. The crowd is too busy celebrating as the second Chaeyoung starts to get ready for her performance.

“Five stars?” the spent Chaeyoung android on the floor asks in the hectic moment, finally breaking character now that she’s played her part.

The fact that your cock is still rock hard and willing to go another round even after two orgasms speaks to just how well Idol Club has done in perfecting their sex androids, especially these next-generation Chaeyoung models. A five-star rating was never in doubt.

“Always. See you next month.”

A/N: UPDATE Jul 30: This fic was renamed from "The Zoo" to "Idol Zoo".Considering this was an unplanned quickie, I wouldn't consider this Idol Club 2, but more like Idol Club 1.5, or even a spin off: Idol Zoo.

[absolute-flaming-trash]

Hey ho it’s me again

This is literally a result of me writing a whole fic based around a single line of dialogue that wouldn’t leave my brain instead of me focusing on the requests sitting in my inbox because I ✨suck✨

Also this is my second official time writing for Chrollo, so pls don’t rip me to shreds. 💛

✨Enjoy✨

Pairing: Chrollo x Fem!Reader

SFW

Word Count: 1′623

Warnings: Yandere, Implied kidnapping, Noncon touching, Implied somnophilia, Sleep deprivation. Chrollo is a cryptic fuck and Reader lets their exhaustion level get the better of them.

Falling asleep always felt like a task.

A lot of the time you required some kind of white noise in order to drift off, whether it was in the form of a random podcast, or one of those “10 hour thunderstorm vibes” videos that always seemed to pop up in your recommended section; which more often than not were the most effective.

The pre-recorded sounds would never compare to the real thing, though.

The pattering of rain against the rooftop should’ve been more than enough to lull you to sleep, but these days the white noise was now more akin to tv static in terms of pleasantry. Each drop against the metal tiles seemed louder than the last, making drifting off damn near impossible.

Any sleep you did get felt like a purgatory between the conscious and unconscious worlds. Not quite awake, but not nearly asleep... you could never tell what was real and what was a dream half the time.

It felt like a pit of grasping hands pulling you this way and that - ripping at your clothes and gripping whatever flesh they could, whether it be your arms, your legs, your hips, your breasts…  dragging you into a never ending pit of ink that left you unable to breathe and unable to force yourself awake.

The fragmented recollections left you more tired than you had originally been when you closed your eyes.

The exhaustion escaped you in the form of a defeated sigh as you rolled onto your back and sat up; gritting your teeth to keep your sounds of discontent to yourself.

Your bones ached from the concrete. You would’ve thought you’d get used to sleeping on the floor with only a jacket for padding after the first few days, but the pain in your muscles was proving the opposite. Out of instinct you looked towards the large analogue clock that hung above the main floor of what you could only describe as an abandoned steel mill. The position of the hands hadn’t changed from the last time you looked at it, nor from where they were when Chrollo first brought you to the mill.

He kept you with him on the walkways above the main area. The coolness of the guardrail against your forehead did little in terms of pulling you back to the land of the living while you looked down below, but you clung to it nonetheless. The ground was covered in patches of sphagnum moss - a steady stream of water from a hole in the ceiling kept the moisture levels high enough for certain patches to be surprisingly thick. The biggest area was currently enveloped in moonlight and was occupied by one of the four present members of the gang Chrollo engaged himself with.

You weren’t stupid, you knew exactly who they were. Hell, you had to be either living under a rock, or an infant to not know who the Phantom Troupe was, since all you had to do was pass a goddamn newspaper stand to know the basics of the infamous group. But that was all you knew. The basics.

The only details you really knew were the names of your captor and the one member sitting cross-legged among the moss… Machi.

You’d only met her once beforehand, but a part of you still held a special distaste for her. Not simply because of her status as a Troupe member, but because she was the only other woman around. It was sadly ironic since you thought that a feminine presence would’ve somehow… eased the situation you were in, for lack of a better word, but the fact remained that she had yet to even spare you a passing glance.

It made any hope you had in your mind of her helping you down the line vanish into thin air.

When it came to the other three members, it was harder to put a name to a face, but it wasn’t like Chrollo allowed you down to the lower levels to walk around, let alone start a conversation…

“You didn’t sleep long.”

You closed your eyes with a sigh, pressing your face harder against the metal. Speak of the devil.

“I didn’t.”

Chrollo hummed, the noise followed by a soft thud of a book closing and the crunch of debris under his feet.

You peaked a half-open eye at him. “Were you watching me the whole time I was trying to sleep?”

“Not entirely.” He admitted, stopping about a foot from your left.

The ambiguity of the statement overshadowed the relief you should’ve felt, but you didn’t rise to the bait. Instead silence fell between the two of you as it usually did while you rubbed your closed eye with the pads of your fingers - stars appearing behind your eyelid from the pressure. 

“You’ve been sleeping differently.”

You tittered humourlessly, “Can’t say I noticed, maybe it’s because my living arrangements have been inexplicably changed.”

“You had something I desired.”

“Which you now have.” You dropped your hand back down into your lap unceremoniously, tears pooling behind the closed lid from the irritation. “If you still think I’m hiding something more valuable than Tamerlane of all things in the shop that you and your ruffians quite literally tore apart, you’re going to be disappointed.”

“You don’t possess anything else that I want.”

“So then am I free to go, or are you going to kill me?”

A small smile appeared on his face but he didn’t answer.

You huffed, teeth catching your lower lip for a moment. “So you are going to kill me.”

The moment of false bravado was gone nearly as soon as it came when he crouched down so he was eye level with you, and the texture of the jacket’s fur lining became like hay under the grip of your fingers.

He leaned forward and you leaned back.

“Not unless it’s warranted.”

You laughed again, but it came out more as a shaky exhale. “And you’re surprised I’m sleeping differently.”

You repressed the urge to flinch when he brought one of his hands up, relief soothing the adrenaline somewhat when he reached for a corner of the jacket and began to gently pull on it. You took the hint and stood up while eyeing him warily.

“I made the comment because you usually sleep on your back.” He brushed his hand along the back to clear the dust from the St. Peter’s Cross. “You’ve resigned to sleeping on your stomach now.”

You blinked, tears of irritation still dripping from your eye, which you wiped away in annoyance. “What’s your point?”

He stood to his full height and shrugged on the jacket, straightening the lapel and running a hand down one of his arms to brush off the remaining dust. “For someone suffering from poor sleep, being on your stomach is going to increase those problems, not improve them.”

You hummed. “I wasn’t under the impression that you cared about anything other than the objects you obtained.”

“On the contrary, if I cared for them I would not get rid of them once I admired them.”

You paused for a moment, mulling over the information that just made you feel heavier, and you placed a hand on the guardrail for support.

“You tore apart my shop… ripped me from the life I had made simply so you could what? Read the original copy of a book created nearly 200 years ago without paying for it?”

He smiled. “And you placed it right into my hands, so tell me who is more responsible for your position between the two of us?”

“Why am I even here, Chrollo?” You sighed, too tired to stop the words from slipping out. “Whether it’s my own fault or not, whether I am getting sleep or not, what does it matter?! You said so yourself, I have nothing more that you want!”

“I said you don’t possess anything else I want.”

“Then what?!” Your voice was raised enough that it echoed throughout the building. Out of the corner of your eye you could see the heads of Machi and the others turn towards you briefly before going back to their own business and you felt a small amount of heat creep up your cheeks.

You forgot you weren’t alone.

“What else do you want from me?”

Debris crunched softly under his boots as he closed the distance once more, and you only resisted slightly when he brought his left hand underneath your chin.

“What, indeed?” He mused, keeping your face towards his with his index finger while his thumb traced over your chin. “When the value of things is more arbitrary rather than based on an official system...”

You grimaced, pulling back out of instinct from the hand that was giving you a terrible sensation of deja vu, but he kept you rooted in place.

The way he had trailed off made the silence that followed heavy with something you were undoubtedly missing - the obvious lost to the fog of an exhausted mind. Your grimace deepened when he ran his other hand along the length of your arm and rested it on your shoulder - the callus of his palm against your skin feeling like that of sand, and you braced yourself to be pulled downwards into the inky depths of black you had become so familiar with… but it never came.

One last tear fell from your eye, but even you weren’t sure if it was left over from the irritation, or from something else as your tired mind slid things into place.

“Are you going to get rid of me?” You asked. “Once you’ve admired me?”

He smiled again, but didn’t answer.

And silence was shared once again.

© absolute-flaming-trash 2022. Do not repost, modify, copy, or claim.

Taglist: @prettycutebunny​, @sai-my-beloved​, @we-are-so-close​, @shorkbrian​, @biby-24k​, @forcefulkitten​, @eleventhdoctorsangel​, @siphite​

[sheepibum]

title: these fragile things

Summary: The Union Leaders have opinions regarding Ephemer’s friend; most of them are Ephemer’s fault.

(Or: snippets I began writing before the end of KHUX, in an AU where the Union leaders get to know the Player via Ephemer before everything goes sideways; it’s not really supposed to make sense, I guess. Also, the Player’s gender here is pretty much ‘Ephemer’s friend’.)

♡ ♡  ♡  ♡  ♡  ♡  ♡

Hearts may break, but hearts are the toughest of muscles, able to pump for a lifetime, seventy times a minute, and scarcely falter along the way. Even dreams, the most delicate and intangible of things, can prove remarkably difficult to kill.

Neil Gaiman, Fragile Things

i. Lauriam

They all know about Ephemer’s friend; it would be harder not to, given how much time Ephemer actually spends making sure they’re okay. But it’s only after he’s introduced to them in his search for his sister that Lauriam starts to notice the stalking.

It sounds bad, and it certainly makes what’s happening sound worse than it (allegedly) is, but there really isn’t another word to describe what Ephemer is doing.

Because following someone around skulking in the shadows and doing your best to not be noticed it’s very stalkerish behavior, no matter how you slice it, and regardless of the very valid reasons you might have for wanting to make sure said person is alive and well. Specially if said person would have no problem spending time with their toally-not-a-stalker friend if only said friend would get his head out of his ass and showcase some of the common sense he’s supposed to have being the Union Leader’s Leader and all.

Really, Lauriam doesn’t want to say anything that’ll hurt his leader’s feelings, because surely he knows that his whole watching from afar shtick looks pretty damn suspicious to anyone not in the know; but he also knows that if rumors begin to spread about Ephemer being a creepy stalker they’re all going to suffer the consequences.

So Lauriam decides that enough is enough, pulls his leader aside and hisses:

“Just talk to them already!”

And when that fails to get the desired results, he enlists Skuld’s help and shoves Ephemer at his friend promising all kinds of terrible retributions if he doesn’t talk to them. Like a normal person.

Lauriam is pretty proud of this particular stroke of genius, because somehow Ephemer is even more of a mess when interacting normally with this friend than when he was secretly lurking around them and they all can use the entertainment.

ii. Ventus

Alright, so Ventus had never before seen Ephemer fight alongside this other Keyblade Wielder that he’s taken to call his friend. Which is a damn shame, because it’s like an intricately choreographed dance; the two of them seem to trust each other so completely that it’s impossible to tell who is leading and who is following. They work together so well it’s almost mesmerizing.

It’s only when they run into one of those strange, giant heartless that he understands why Skuld doesn’t like to let these two go on missions together.

The moment they see the heartless, Ephemer tightens his hold on his keyblade, getting ready to use one of his skills; Ephemer’s friend, though, moves faster and kicks Ephemer on the back of his knees, and then turns and grabs their own Chirity and lobs it at Ephemer’s face, sending the Union Leaders’ Leader to the ground with an undignified, high-pitched sound. Ephemer’s friend takes this chance to run ahead and hit the heartless with a devastating spell that succeeds in grabbing its attention.

It might be the first time Ventus has ever heard Ephemer swear.

But it gets better worse! The moment the heartless turns to attack his friend, Ephemer throws himself at it, connecting an attack that downs it in one hit, even if it’s only for a brief moment. Ephemer uses that moment to place himself between his friend and the heartless, using his leader voice to order them to ‘stay behind me’ in another fairly uncharacteristic instance.

Predictably, Ephemer’s friend doesn’t listen. Instead, they block the next attack aimed at Ephemer and unleash yet another powerful spell. Ephemer seems torn between attacking the heartless or his friend for a brief moment, before, fortunately, choosing the heartless as his target with another curse. The heartless goes down in record time, and Ephemer’s friend runs away practically cackling, leaving a fuming Ephemer behind.

Ventus can’t wait to tell Skuld all about this.

iii. Brain

Ephemer’s friend is—well, Brain would rather not use the phrase ‘stupidly friendly’ to describe anyone, but that’s what comes to mind.

For someone so stupidly friendly, though, Ephemer’s friend sure as hell doesn’t have many friends. Well, not here in Daybreak Town, unless one is willing to count the team of uniquely dressed Keyblade Wielders that sometimes need their help, but Brain certainly hasn’t seen them spend down time with someone from their own Union. All of the friends they’ve made belong to other worlds. It’s a little bit sad.

Really, no wonder they were so lost after the war. Although saying it like that might not be quite right; the war, after all, had never happened. As far as anyone but the Union Leaders could tell, at least.

No wonder Ephemer is so out of control, either, since he does remember the war and what had happened to his friend during it. Brain had only seen the aftermath but it wasn’t the kind of thing he could forget, though he wishes he could.

His only consolation when they start spending more time around Ephemer, and ergo the rest of them, is that this particular Keyblade Wielder is a riot, specially when it comes to riling up their brave leader.

The last time Ephemer tried to pull rank and order them to stay back (instead of rushing ahead and wrecking havoc on the heartless invading the town), had been something that Brain is never going to let Ephemer live down.

(It went like this:

“And I’m ordering you to stay put,” Ephemer snaps, in a tone that surprises all of them.

Ephemer's friend lets a blank, bland look slid over their face.

“Of course, Master Ephemer,” they say, tone deferential and saccharine sweet.

Ephemer makes a noise like a squeaky dog toy being stepped on, someone (and Brain isn’t sure who, and he sure as hell isn’t going to check if that means missing the show) chokes back a laugh at that and Ephemer turns his head to direct a savage glare in their general direction, effect only slightly diminished because of how red his face is.

“Is something wrong, Master Ephemer?”

“Stop that!”

In the end, after a few more Masters thrown in their interactions, Ephemer gives up and all but chases their friend right into the ring of heartless they’re supposed to be hunting down. They’re all exterminated in record time and Brain doesn’t even have to summon his own keyblade.)

iv. Skuld

Skuld doesn’t like seeing any of her friends in danger or getting hurt, she doesn’t think any of the Union Leaders feel differently about the members of their Unions, about the Dandelions in general, and much less about each other, but it’s different when it comes to Ephemer’s friend, who is also Skuld’s friend, even if Ephemer and Skuld haven’t been very good friends to them.

Like Skuld, Ephemer knows how strong they really are and he trusts them with his life. But. He can’t (physically, mentally, emotionally, in his very soul) stand to see them in danger. He cannot bear even the idea of it. He’d rather tear his own heart out his chest. Whenever the subject of the missions his friend has been sent to comes up, Brain looks like he wants nothing more than smack the Book of Prophecy over Ephemer’s head, hard and quite possibly more than once. Skuld doesn’t ever let this happen, but that’s only because she understands what Ephemer’s feeling all too well.

Their friend is strong, scarily so. The mission reports Brain has gotten his hands on paint a picture of a very capable Keyblade Wielder. It’s, therefore, hilarious how unreasonably overprotective Ephemer is of them. Although the reality is that no one, least of all her, can blame him for that; not after seeing Ephemer return from the wasteland left by the war, his friend a mess of torn flesh and shattered bones in his arms, closer to a corpse than a survivor, clinging to life only because Ephemer willed them to.

It had—it had been the only time Skuld had seen Ephemer so close to a breaking point. So they saved their friend, Dandelion or not; the others because they had to if they wanted to save Ephemer, and Skuld because of that and because this was her friend, too, and she didn’t want to lose either of them.

v. Ephemer

There is something a little bit wrong, a little bit warped, with his friend. Which he supposes is only something to be expected, since they (or rather he; ultimately, it had been his call) had manipulated their memories of the war. As far as his friend was concerned, they had accepted going with them even without becoming a Dandelion. Skuld had sold that lie with surprising aplomb, she had done so with Ephemer’s blessing, crushing the hope they had held so tightly, so close to their heart about their desire to stop the war, to save everyone. This one core belief they had swept under the rug.

They had chosen them both over everyone else, is the story the two of them had told them, and there’s no one to disagree; not even their own Chirity, who, in spite of disliking the falsehood, is willing to accept it as long as it means its Keyblade Wielder is alive.

Ephemer feels much the same; the little changes, the strange faraway look they get in their eyes sometimes; the way they cling to Ephemer and Skuld sometimes, as if they were afraid of losing their reason to even be here at all. Ephemer doesn’t mind it, and Skuld allows it readily enough, since it’s their fault.

Besides, it’s only fair. Ephemer, though he doubts the Union Leaders will agree, is quite aware of his peculiar over-protectiveness when it comes to this one Keyblade Wielder; he can accept being the recipient of the same feelings.

This over-protectiveness exasperates almost anyone but Skuld; Ephemer’s friend is a perfectly capable, fully-fledged Keyblade Wielder, someone who has proven themselves on countless missions time and again. That doesn’t make up for the fact that Ephemer held their hand when they were on the verge of death, surrounded by the ruin and gore of the war that no one but the Union Leaders remember.

They might not remember the war, or how badly they had gotten hurt in it, but Ephemer does. Ephemer, in fact, can’t forget. It might be the one thing he can’t forgive.

Ephemer pushed his friend’s heart back into their body; he slammed shut the door on those painful memories, deciding that was a burden he alone had to bear, and he vowed then that he wouldn’t let anything like that happen ever again.

vi. You

It felt like the path that your heart had been so set on before had changed course; your priorities had shifted without you understanding why, or when, or how. But they had told you that you had chosen them, and had it been anyone else you would have doubted their words; however, since Ephemer and Skuld were the ones to say so, then it must have been true. You had chosen them over your hopes for the worlds and the Unions and everything else. Why would they lie to you? You loved them, and surely, surely, they loved you back.

Choosing them again comes as easy to you as breathing.

“I’ll stay,” you tell him, the quick sand that had been the world finally turning back to solid ground as soon as the words leave your mouth. “I’m not even a Dandelion. I’m just here as your friend. So if you’re staying, so am I.”

Ephemer looks stricken, but he can’t help the helpless smile that fights to form on his lips.

“You…”

“Besides, I don’t want to have to wait around for you again.”

Skuld completes the circle the three of you had made, such a long time ago; she takes your hand and his in hers.

“I’m not leaving you two here,” she says, with such confidence that the only appropriate response is to squeeze her hand and smile.

Ephemer squeezes your hand, too, but he can’t bring himself to smile fully. His eyes are full of both hope and grief.

“Are you sure about this?”

You squeeze his hand back, and you smile bright enough for the both of you. This question is even easier to answer. A no-brainier, really.

“Yup. I’m right where I want to be.”

You are. You would have been, if not for what comes next.

What comes next is this: the world ends. Your world ends. You cannot let that happen to your friends.

Ephemer, who is an idiot and has somehow not gotten into his head what kind of person you are at all, tells you that one of you needs to survive. He’s not wrong, but you can do better than that. There is a reason why you are trusted with so many difficult solo missions.

The red string that tangled the three of you together was something you cherished, but, to save them, you’d sever it with extreme prejudice. You won’t get the chance to apologize, but that’s okay. Ephemer and Skuld never apologized either, for what they did, for the choices they made, and you forgave them anyway.

Ephemer isn’t your actual, literal heart, but he might as well be; he is your friend, your strength, your north, your waypoint. A guiding light no matter how wild the storm, how dark the sea. There’s very little you wouldn’t do to see him and Skuld safe.

“Fools,” you say, and bring your keyblade down on them.

They broke your heart to save you, once. You will return the favor as well as you can.

No one else needs to suffer. One sacrifice is enough. You’re just sorry you had to drag Chirity into this.

There are tears in his eyes when he finally does it, but Ephemer seals you along with the darkness and you laugh, secure in your victory, even in the face of the horrors to come.

Even here, at the end, you are not alone. Chirity is warm in your arms. Ephemer’s hands has also been warm, back then, so, so long ago now.

You hold on to Chirity, and then you let go of everything else.

♡ ♡  ♡  ♡  ♡  ♡  ♡

It's been a while since I posted actual writing here, so I'm leaving this here and then maybe one day I'll remember to clean it and post it on AO3.

I miss KHUX so much. ; w ;

[yesimwriting]

All The Good Dreams

A/n this one is based on a request from @ateliefloresdaprimavera who requested a fic where General Kirigan has been dreaming of the reader for as long as he can remember and that’s one of his few reasons to smile and the reader has been having the same kinds of dreams about him and when they meet they just know. 

This one is being written in third person bc it’s the only way I can see this fic being done but I’m a little insecure about writing in third person so be gentle lol

Also a little personal update I’ve been working on my original novel and it’s coming together y’all!!

--

ALEKSANDER. 

The morning sunlight seems to only come to take her from him, peaking through the curtains and stirring him awake and away from his dreams. Aleksander keeps his eyes closed for a moment longer, trying to will her features to remain in his mind. She had looked more angelic in last night’s dream, dressed in all white and watching him with an adoration he doubted real life could duplicate. 

The girl has haunted his dreams like a ghost of promise since before he began to change the world. Since before anything in his life was solidified. He lets out a sigh, something similar to a smile playing at his lips. Thinking of her would not bring her to him, if he could manifest her, she’d be by his side right now. He has things to do, duties and obligations that will bring his final goal closer. Each day is a step closer to victory, and each night brings the promise of dreams. The promise of her. 

--

Y/N.

“Y/n.” The voice is gentle and distant. “Y/n,” a little harsher. “Wake up, you’ll be late.” 

Fighting against grogginess, y/n wakes up, eyes squinting open. “What time is it, Danna?” 

“Late.” Danna’s reply is curt as she steps away from y/n’s cot. “I thought you were awake already and then I came in to look for my boots and you were still asleep with that ridiculously peaceful look.” Danna paces around the room. “You must have been dreaming of your prince again?” 

Y/n feels her skin warm. “He’s not a prince!” It’s a weak defense. “I regret telling you that almost every time I dream I see the same man.” 

Danna drops down, grabbing her worn boots and pulling them on quickly. “You’re making me believe in soulmates, l/n.” 

Y/n rolls her eyes, sitting up and placing her feet on the ground at her own leisure. “It’s nothing like that--I’m not even sure he exists.” 

Lacing her shoes, Danna narrows her eyes at y/n. “Sure.” Y/n opens her mouth to protest, but Danna beats her to it, “If you need to argue with me, do it while getting dressed, we can’t be late today--General Kirigan’s visiting this camp for the first time and I doubt he’d appreciate being interrupted by a non-Grisha medic.” 

At that, y/n wrinkles her nose, but she stands anyway. “Ugh...Grisha.” She walks towards her uniform. “They can get away with anything and I hear Kirigan’s the worst of all of them because he’s in the same order as the Black Heretic that began all of this.” Y/n pauses, crossing her arms. “And it’s ridiculous that the army even needs non-Grisha medics. Healers exist and they should not be primarily reserved for other Grisha who rarely get injured, especially to the extent that the rest of us do.” 

“I know, y/n, but don’t speak like that until the General is gone.” Danna draws her lips into a thin line. “And hurry up before you get us both in trouble.” 

Y/n lets out a sigh. “Go ahead without me, I’ll catch up.”

Danna eyes her friend wearily. “Alright, worse comes to worse I’ll try to cover for you.” 

“You won’t need to.” Y/n isn’t sure she believes herself. “I’ll be there.” 

Danna pulls on her second boot, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t really believe you.” She stands easily. “But knowing you, you’ll talk yourself out of any trouble the way you always do.” 

“I do not always talk myself out of trouble.” 

Turning to leave, Danna pauses, “Whatever you need to tell yourself.” 

Y/n rolls her eyes. If she had more time to argue with Danna she would take it. But she doesn’t. She’s quick to get dressed, thoughts of the mysterious stranger from her dreams keeping her company. Last night he seemed more tired than normal, a crease between his dark eyebrows as he sat by her side. A part of her she keeps buried worries about him. It’s ridiculous, to concern yourself over a figment of comfort your mind created for you. 

By the time y/n’s changed, she knows she doesn’t have much time to get to her station. She’s rushing out of her tent, one boot still untied. The medic bag she slings over her shoulder swings as she jogs towards the medical tent. Today the camp is hectic, everyone desiring to appear efficient and reliable for General Kirigan. It’s all ridiculous to Y/n. General Kirigan will never be impressed by them. If he’s revered even among Grisha, Y/n can’t imagine the superiority complex that man must possess.

Her eyes scan the soldiers and workers she knows so well, each of them behaving so differently than normal. There is no friendly chatter this morning, no casual banter. There is only the business of war. 

Y/n watches the people she knows, so focused on their nerves that she barely registers the person she crashes into. “Sorry!” The apology leaves Y/n on instinct.  Her bag falls off her shoulder, gauze and antiseptic falling onto the ground on impact. Y/n bends down instantly, beginning to pick up her supplies. She mentally curses herself for being so easily distracted and not properly shutting her bag this morning. “Everything’s so hectic today and I was running late and I just--I have no idea how I didn’t see you.” She drops her supplies back into her bag. “I guess it’s a good thing they keep me off the battlefield and in the medical tents.” 

Reaching for the last of her supplies, Y/n’s eyes land on the shoes of the person she just crashed into. They’re leather. The fine kind of leather meant for marble halls, not trekking through the unknown. Y/n’s mouth goes dry as the possibility of the graveness of her mistake sets in her mind. She exhales slowly, daring to look upwards as she closes her bag. 

When her eyes meet those of the stranger, she is left with no choice but to gape. She’s not staring because she’s now at the mercy of General Kirigan. She’s not staring because nothing could have prepared her for his beauty. She’s staring because she knows that face. She knows those sharp features and steady eyes.

His lips are slightly parted. Y/n is struck with the odd thought that perhaps he too has words wedged into his throat. 

“It’s you.” The whisper leaves her faintly. 

The words seem to unfreeze Kirigan, his expression moving from shocked to stoic. “Excuse me?” 

Awkward regret floods through Y/n. She drops her head downwards, desperate to escape the power of his gaze. “General Kirigan.” She uses her words as a way to dismiss the emotions her chest seems to be brimming with as she stands. He’s not the man from her dreams. That’s impossible. “I apologize for my inappropriate behavior an--” 

“No, no,” he shakes his head once. Y/n bites her tongue at his dismissal. “You said ‘it’s you.’”

Embarrassment knots her stomach. “I just hadn’t realized that I ran into you, General. I--I knew you were coming today, but I wasn’t expecting to see you much less like this.” 

Kirigan’s eyes seem to be nothing more than inviting pools of kindling emotion. So familiar yet so distinct. He can’t be the man from her dreams. The man from her dreams must be nothing more than a composition of traits she finds generally attractive. General Kirigan just happens to possess those features. That explanation is the only thing that keeps Y/n’s feet rooted to the ground, but the longer she looks at him the more that explanation loses its strength. There’s just something so knowing behind his expression, so specific to the face that she’s only seen while asleep. 

Tearing his gaze away to scan the area, Kirigan reaches forward, placing a hand on Y/n’s arm. The touch leaves Y/n warmer than it should. Maybe that’s why she lets him lead her forward, ducking into an empty medical tent. She keeps hold of her bag as he turns, his eyes full of something dark and unknown. But not angry, Y/n notes, no, not angry. The look is too peaceful for rage, perhaps even hopeful. 

“When you looked at me…” He exhales, voice low and sacred, “You said ‘it’s you’.” Y/n can only blink, still mesmerized by something so foreign and familiar all at once. “Do you know me?” 

In his urgency, Kirigan’s hold on Y/n’s arm becomes more assured. Something in Y/n wants to pry herself free in order to prove to herself that she’s capable of resisting his drawl. But his touch is not to trap her, the look in his eyes tells her that. His touch is pleading--desperate and hopeful. 

“Everyone knows you,” when Y/n finally finds her voice, she is not convinced it is her own. 

The corners of Kirigan’s mouth fall downwards, something in him threatening to deflate. “I meant--have you seen me before?” The question is not one Y/n is too willing to answer. How could she tell this strange man, this general she was convinced she’d dislike on some fundamental level while never speaking to him, that she knows him? She knows him like she knows her own beginning. “Because I’ve seen you.” 

Y/n can’t help the way her eyes widen. This doesn’t mean anything, she warns herself, he could have seen her walking. “I didn’t see you, that--that’s why I ran into you--” 

“No, you’re avoiding the question.” Her face is warmer than it was when Danna was teasing her this morning. It’s warmer than it’s ever been. “Because you’ve experienced it as well.” 

The swelling in her chest is overwhelming. “Experienced what?” 

Kirigan eyes the entrance to the tent once more, confirming that no one is approaching. “All of the good dreams,” he exhales, “They have been of you.” 

Y/n can’t help the way everything in her melts. She’s not insane. She’s not projecting something dangerous onto the Shadow Summoner. “I see you in my dreams always.” 

Slowly, he releases his grip on her arm. Watching her like she might be a mirage, Kirigan raises his hand, brushing his knuckles along Y/n’s cheek. She lets him, holding her breath until his hand falls back to his side. A part of Kirigan expected the girl to be a trick of the light, something that his touch would reveal to be a fallacy. But she remains true, watching him with eyes the size of saucers. 

“How long I’ve been waiting for you, you’ll never know.” His voice is as heavy as a lament. 

Y/n feels her back straighten slightly on instinct, desperate to pass whatever scrutiny is being passed over her. “How--how does this happen? How do two strangers dream of each other for so long and...” 

Something knowing colors his smile a shade of ambitious green. “What is your name?” 

“Y/n.” 

Kirigan’s minds flit through lifetimes worth of faint memories. The girl laughing, the girl teary eyed, the girl embodying all the stars he’ll never have, the girl representing all he needs. Y/n. There’s finally a name to her. 

“Y/n,” the name is a gift. Kirigan pulls a ring from his fingers before grabbing Y/n’s arm. Too lost in a strange euphoria, she lets him pull her arm forward before pressing his ring into her skin. Her brow furrows as he begins to guide the metal down her skin. That slight confusion quickly turns to total shock as a thread of light begins to spindle down her skin, following the path he’s creating with the ring. “You and I are going to change the world.” 

--

General Taglist: @theincredibledeadlyviper @grishaverse7 @lonelystarship @mentally-in-northern-italy @uhanddreag @kaitlyn2907

[crow-mlm]

Prayer and Predation. College! AU (Zhongli x Reader)

> Word Count: 1k

> Summary: As a scholarship student from a destitute background, you rely on your grades to sustain your education. But when the kind, enigmatic professor Zhongli gives you a devastating grade, you can't help but feel backed into a corner...

> Notes: A pretty short fic to try and get me back into the rhythm of writing regularly (ง︡'-'︠)ง. It's also not very good (no beta bcuz I'm an omega /j). Hope you enjoy anyway!

> Warnings: Yandere, implied stalking, manipulation, power dynamics, non-consensual touching.

"Thank you for seeing me, professor," you stammered, lowering your head in a half-hearted bow. "I'm sure you must be busy," your voice trailed off as you spoke, immediately scolding yourself for coming off like a total sycophant. Zhongli wasn't an idiot, in fact he seemed to be the farthest thing from it - he must've knew exactly why you'd asked to speak with him in private.

Your voice was dry, and the constant demands from your brain to stop shaking so damn much proved futile. Mr. Zhongli's attention seemed to amplify your panic more than you thought possible. His gaze - no, his presence alone seemed to command an overwhelming gravity. He radiated authority even when seated, one leg posed over the other as he reclined in the leather armchair.

There was silence in response, a vile, choking kind. The mocking tempo of a clock proved insufficient in drowning out the sound of your nervous swallowing. You opted to look at his dress shoes, estimating that meeting his gaze might send you into shock. They were expensive, you noted - although, as you observed the moment you stepped into his office for the first time, he was no stranger to luxury. It was decorated with antiques and relics you doubt any normal person could afford in their lifetime, the elegant oak desk he worked at you surmised could pay for a years worth of tuition. It was a prestigious college, sure, but this was something else. His clothes were reminiscent of the celebrities you'd seen on the covers of those business magazines; his coat folded over the arch of his chair, the tight dress shirt that highlighted his imposing physique and the sleek leather belt that curled around his waist. Zhongli exuded experience and wisdom that felt to be at odds with his exterior. You'd decided from that very first class that there was something impossible about him.

Mr. Zhongli cleared his throat, snapping you from your thoughts. The deep baritone of his voice instantly dissipated the static silence.

"I presume this about the grade I gave your paper."

Still refusing to meet his gaze, you nodded.

"Y-yes, Mr. Zhongli,"

He sighed deeply, a sound which made you wince with the palpable disappointment which dripped from it. You admired the Professor, a man wise beyond his years and seemed to harbour nothing but compassion toward his students. Summoning up the courage to face him properly, you were met with eyes of brilliant gold that betrayed no hint of their familiar benevolence. In its stead was suffocating scrutiny.

He held your eyes for a few moments before nodding to a spare chair a few feet away from him. Taking the signal, you pried yourself from the doorframe and took the seat, focusing on not tripping over your own feet on the way.

The professor leaned forward, rubbing his brow with slender fingers.

"I respect you, Mr. Zhongli, and I don't doubt your judgement, but if you'd just give it one more-"

"Chance?" he nearly scoffed. You felt bile rise in your throat. You'd never seen this side of him, almost amused at your desperation. He reclined back into the chair, elbows propping upon the leather armrests to lace his fingers under his jaw. "Do you think I'm incompetent, Y/n? Or perhaps you felt I'd sabotage my own academic integrity for your sake?"

Your chest tightened, tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. You mouthed an apology, hands clenching and unclenching over and over.

"I don't, professor - I didn't mean to-" You exhaled, a last ditch effort to steel yourself. "I have a lot riding on this grade, professor. Please, if you'd just look at it one more time."

Your pleas were met with a hum, outwardly contemplative, yet one that managed to chill you to your core. Standing up suddenly, his stature making you feel even more diminutive, he pacing toward you.

" Ah, that's right. I was surprised to learn that you're a scholarship student," Zhongli's tone had relaxed into an almost affectionate baritone. "Then again, I always thought you were more... remarkable than your peers."

You were taken aback. More than the sudden praise that would've normally left you utterly flustered, you wondered if that information was easily accessible to members of staff. Then again, you surmised his prestige lent him privy to student profiles.

Zhongli came to a stop before you, towering over your seated form.

"Let's not beat around the bush, Y/n. You came here seeking a favour, am I correct?"

Dread planted itself in your chest. As much as you hated to admit it, he was right. You couldn't afford to go here without the scholarship, and neither you nor your family could ever dream of being able to support your education on finances alone. But you'd worked so hard to get this far, days on end of studying and memorizing just for a chance of winning the coveted scholarship - you couldn't let a single grade make that all for nothing.

Swallowing your pride, you nodded. It was slight, almost undistinguishable, but the Professor's pleased rumble ensured that he'd noticed it.

"I'm sure you're well aware that even a gift has a price," you flinched when you felt a finger ghost against your cheek - just when had he gotten so close? "And I can't bestow a favour without expecting one in return."

Bending his knees, he met your level - eyes brimming with unnerving joy. A warm palm disturbed the cold that had settled on your skin, strong digits tenderly stroking the surface. His voice, deep and rich, like honey fit to ensnare flies, made every inch of your body tense as he spoke.

"Let's make a contract, shall we?"

[soulmate-game]

New fic *test*

New Bio!dad Bruce story? I’m testing out this first chapter, and if I like where it’s going I might add it to my growing pile of WIPs. If I have inspiration, I might as well use it. Because of life events stressing me the hell out, I’m throwing any writing plans out the window and I’m purely gonna write to destress right now. Whether that means updating THG or not, or continuing Maribat March, we’ll just have to see how this all pans out. Things are subject to day-to-day change.

I got inspiration from this from rereading my day 1 story for Bio!dad Bruce Wayne month from last year. I’m just gonna change a few things.

—*—*—*—*—*

For once, an unfamiliar face attracted the attention of everyone who caught even a glimpse of them. It wasn’t even because of the person themselves at first, but their dress. The skirt like the most fantastical of storybook ball gowns, fluffy layers of satin over a luxurious petticoat, with a stunning pink floral pattern whose busy appearance was tastefully offset by a shorter, sheer layer of leaf green tulle artistically weaved and somehow sculpted over the floral in order to tame it. The effect turned what should be a grandmotherly pattern into something softer, sophisticated and youthful and yet also reminiscent of fairytale princesses. Over top the short layer of green tulle was an even shorter later of white tulle, almost invisible except for the elegant embroidery of crystal-white vines that twined all over it, connecting the green below it to the bottom-most floral pattern and oddly adding a layer of childishness instead of maturity. At the waist of the dress was a dark plum pink satin ribbon, to separate the elaborate ballgown skirt from the bodice. Attached to the simple ribbon was a large brooch of fabric flowers, with a single plastic ladybug in the center.

The bodice of the dress came up into a cheongsam neckline, but was sleeveless. It was a simple design, of half green and half dark pink, with a white border separating the two. The white border had expertly done embroideries in a soft silver thread that would only be visible close up, the images the thread made being that of fairies and ladybugs dancing around one another.

It was, all in all, a stunning display that made the small eurasian woman wearing them look like absolute royalty. Perhaps a long lost fairy princess. Her black-blue hair was even done up in elaborate looping braids and a braided bun, with silver and green pins that further completed the regal ensemble. And yes, while the expertly done dress was what initially captivated her current audience, it was not what kept them from leaving her alone. That was all her personality, bubbly and bright as her blinding smile. It was a sunny disposition that very few people present had any exposure to at all, and it drew them like a sunflower to the daylight. They could not help but flock closer, or even just stand back and keep themselves turned to her presence. Already she had been at the gala for two hours, but there was no issue. She just kept proving her generosity, admitting she had donated both a dress and a suit of her own making to the charity auction that would begin soon, one of the main attractions of the gala. She skillfully charmed the more snooty of the attendants, and artfully twisted her words so that they felt compelled to donate more money that they truly had no use for. Later, they would remember their donation and wonder what compelled it, but come up with no satisfying answer.

And yet she was entirely unaware of her more silent audience, who stood back and observed. Truth be told, every one of them was glad to not be the center of that attention for a change, to have room to breathe for so long at an event where usually that commodity was so scarce that it demanded a fierce competition for. Compared to her garden of color, they were all shadows in shades of blacks and blues and whites, with a touch of red here and there that was entirely too thematic for their home city. The one who sported a royal blue suit tilted his head at the scene they were all calmly witnessing, his bright azure eyes glittering.

“She’s like magic,” he mused, clearly enchanted despite having not said a single word to the woman. “Perfect socialite. She’s kind, generous, she made that dress and the ones she donated to the auction herself so she’s obviously got an intimidating amount of skill for her age. She even tricks those old fuddy-duddies into spending money. It’s like a dream come true!”

“I don't trust it,” the one to his right said, a man just a few inches shorter in a classic black suit with a red dress shirt underneath. He absently swept his bangs away from his face as he narrowed his eyes at the woman. “It seems too perfect. She doesn’t have any identifiable character flaw, except maybe being a little clumsy and too energetic. She does babble a little… but nothing that actually suggests any depth besides her just being— good. That’s impossible, and I don’t trust it.”

“Tt. I agree with Drake for once. She seems entirely too comfortable with this setting, despite her blushes and rambles,” the one who spoke this like was taller, clearly a teen in the middle of his growth spurt. He, too, wore a plain black suit but his had subtle charcoal embroidery and he wore an emerald-green dress shirt under it that made his matching eyes gleam dangerously. “It seems almost playacted. Expertly so, but nonetheless not entirely genuine.”

“Wow, not many pick up on that. I’m gonna give your observations a solid eight out of ten. They’re all perfectly sound, but not quite complete,” a new voice made all of the silent group stiffen— somehow they had been snuck up on. The newcomer smirked at them as if having fully expected their reaction but still being pleased at being able to evoke it. This was yet another stunner; far too much color in her outfit to be a Gotham native, and far too much skill in the construction for it to signify anything less than extreme influence. She had bright golden-blond hair that was coiled into a low bun, with her bangs artfully curled and arranged to display her crystal blue eyes.

In contrast to the garden-themed dress of the Eurasian woman who had garnered their attention at first, this newcomer was wearing a pantsuit. It was all in a dark honey-gold, in a stiff fabric with construction that made it lay entirely in perfect, straight lines and hug her form in the right places. Black embroidery decorated the long, flared sleeves and pant legs and dripped around the square neckline like a faux necklace. A cape made out of the same material as the rest of the pantsuit was draped on one shoulder. It started out as the same honey-gold color, but it became a gradient as it faded to a solid black at the ends. Gold thread embroidery decorated the solid black bottom of the cape in delicate, deceptively simplistic swirls. The top half of the pantsuit was clearly inspired by military garb, simultaneously rigidly constructed yet fitted, with circular onyx buttons going down the center of the chest and a thick metal belt, all in swirling silver and black, sat perfectly clasped around her waist. It was far more solid-colored and simplistic compared to the fairytale dress in the center, but no less show stopping and luxurious. It simply showcased an entirely different attitude, almost as if the two women could never get along if their personalities matched their outfits.

“And who are you?” The man who had been the center of the group of shadow-like adults spoke up, back straightening to milk every speck of his generous six-feet-and-three-inches of height. This was none other than Bruce Wayne, the host of this annual charity gala. And normally, his current stance would either intimidate or utterly charm whoever it was directed at— but not this pantsuit-clad blond warrior. Her smirk merely widened, and her blue eyes took on a slight shade of teal as if trying to mimic the dangerous ocean depths.

“I am Chloe Bourgeois, the daughter of Andre Bourgeois, the mayor of Paris, and Audrey Bourgeois, the Style Queen. It’s nice to meet you again, Monsieur Wayne,” she introduced herself imperiously. “I also happen to be the best friend of the girl you were just staring at.”

Bruce nodded, but had trouble reconciling this clear powerhouse of a woman with the bratty and entitled preteen he had met years ago, at the last gala she had attended with her mother. “Of course, I didn’t recognize you at first Chloe. You’ve grown a lot since the last Gala I saw you at.”

Chloe wrinkled her nose, clearly not appreciating the reminder. “I was a bitch,” she admitted easily, seemingly not at all bothered by the confession. It caused not only Bruce but also the oldest three of his sons, who had all also met her in the past, to blink in silent shock. “Things have changed. Paris is apparently the perfect chaotic environment right now to promote emotional growth and smack spoiled kids over the head with reality,” she shrugged. Part of the reason her and her whole class had even been able to come to the Gala in the first place was the fact that Bruce wanted to offer the most attacked group of Parisians a respite and some support from their crazy lives. The fact that even Gotham seemed sane in comparison to Paris was a bit of a hard hit for both involved parties, but in the end everyone understood that “more sane” didn’t always equate with “less dangerous.” Considering all that, Chloe had no reason to sugarcoat the situation in her home city. “But it wasn’t easy at all, and Marinette was largely responsible for my improvement too.”

“Marinette?” The heathen who somehow got away with attending a gala in a black leather jacket over a dress shirt and suit pants asked, raising a brow. Chloe nodded.

“The girl you were just goggling at. Marinette Dupain-Cheng, the class president and resident workaholic. Does she ever sleep? Nobody knows,” Chloe shrugged.

The blue-suited man, Dick Grayson, shot a suspicious glance at Tim, who was standing to his right, as if he was worried his brother had made a female clone of himself just so he could continue to work hard and never rest. Tim ignored him and sipped from the thermos of coffee he had somehow snuck in.

Bruce cleared his throat to bring the focus back onto himself, and shot his most charming smile at Chloe. “They would have known who she was, if they had read the brief information I gave them about your class. But they never do listen to me,” he complained with good humor. “But back to the original topic, Miss Bourgeois, do you care to correct us on how our observations are lacking?”

Chloe laughed easily, smiling and nodding to indicate Marinette, still stuck in a circle of socialites and not seeming the least bit worn out.

“Of course. First; She is not completely acting. She really is like magic sometimes— disgustingly kind, generous, far too willing to help just about anyone for just about any reason. She’s one of the best people I’ve ever met, as much as it pains me to admit it. But she is exaggerating her personality a bit and hiding the parts she doesn’t want anyone to see, so there is a little acting involved. Just not as much as you seem to think,” Chloe then waved her arm in a flourish as if she were presenting Marinette to them. “In short; behold Mari Dupain-Cheng, the ridiculously likeable, disgustingly cute, extremely philanthropic mask that she shows everyone at public events like this. You don’t see any of the insomnia, or the anxiety, or the self doubt. Just the parts she wants you to see, accompanied with a smile to blind you to everything else,” her all-too-deep blue eyes settled back on Bruce then, a knowing glint shining in them. “Don’t you think that’s ridiculously similar to Brucie Wayne for you, Monsieur? Utterly, ridiculously, similar?”

Bruce grit his teeth. He hadn’t expected anyone else to know about his exceptionally well hidden secret, not even his kids had caught on or found his buried evidence yet. Yet his heiress comes up, nearly flaunting her knowledge in his face with all too many unspoken questions and criticisms.

And her cryptic words had succeeded in making all of his kids look at him with extreme suspicion. Shit.

“What are you saying, Miss Bourgeois?” he cautiously prodded. She hummed noncommittally before dropping the bomb all too casually;

“I’m saying I’ve seen her adoption papers, and you won’t be able to run from her for long Monsieur Wayne. As soon as she gets an opening, she’s going to pounce,” Chloe’s eyes glittered dangerously again. “And nowadays, Marinette doesn’t ever let people escape her. Your problem with adoption has created a rather unique problem, you know. You’re at fault for a large majority of her self confidence issues, and I want you to know that I am not going to forget or forgive that anytime soon.”

“Bruce,” Jason’s voice was dark and threatening. “What is she talking about?”

“Something we don’t want getting in the tabloids,” Yet another new voice popped up, allowing Chloe to smugly sink back into the background.

Somewhere during their discussion, Marinette had ambushed them.

“Chloe and I are very good at locating all the reporters in a room and distracting them, but we’re not infallible and this event has far too much coverage,” Her smile reeked confidence and charm, but this close all the Waynes could see the doubt hiding in her bluebell eyes. “Since I’m about to turn eighteen, I figured this would be as good a time as any to finally confront you. I want to make it clear that I seek nothing from you, except the occasional contact. I would like to keep in touch, if nothing else. But if you are adverse to that… then at least answer my questions after the gala,” her eyes developed a hint of carefully controlled desperation. “Please.”

Bruce met her eyes evenly, trying to read her. But she was difficult, simultaneously too many emotions to sort through in her demeanor and much too little. After an extremely tense moment of silence, his voice came out barely above a whisper:

“You do not want anybody to know?”

And hell, if she didn’t recognize the hidden vulnerability in his voice as the very same she heard in her own far too often. In a much tamer version of her own rambling, he went on:

“I can keep it silent if that is what you want. But I want you to know that I will not be adverse to you admitting it anywhere. I don’t expect you to change your name, but I would not be ashamed of the truth getting out. I am not ashamed of it, of you.”

Marinette’s smile grew a little watery. She had to clear her throat to keep herself from tearing up. “Maybe eventually, but not yet. I… I want to stay a little more anonymous for now. It’s one thing to be a well known designer with good connections. It’s an entirely different thing to be…”

“A Wayne?” Bruce finished, ignoring the daggers that were being stared into his back. “I understand completely.

“Father,” Damian’s voice was all sharp edges and rapidly suppressed panic. “What. Is going. On?”

Marinette shot him an apologetic smile. “Apparently, eighteen years ago, his prerogative was to put the child he actually knew about up for adoption when the mother died in childbirth,” her voice was once again only barely loud enough for them to hear, since she didn’t want any eavesdroppers. “Imagine my surprise when I find out he completely flipped sides only months later.”

--*--*--*--*--*

Hey, so please share your feedback on this. This is just to test out a possible new bio dad, multichapter fic and this is the opening scene I'm trying out. If you like it, please tell me what you like about it and please suggest titles for the story! I love you guys' feedback so much!

[starlene]

Since we’re doing Jekyll & Hyde headcanons (well, one other person on my dash is sorta doing that, but keeping in mind the size of the fandoms I gravitate towards, that’s already a crowd by my standards), and since it’s too hot to do anything except to slowly rotate your favourite characters around in your mind, I thought to write down some of my Jekyll and Utterson headcanons, anno domini 2022.

I guess these are the vibes I’d like to get from my ultimate dream musical production... and if we’re not getting that, at least this is how things are in my personal imaginary world based on the musical!

Jekyll:

First of all, man, is this character hard to make any sense of. I’ve been at it for the nine years now and I’m still struggling.

I think the musical character is, in some ways, opposite of the character in the original novel: whereas the novel character creates Hyde basically so he can do all the depraved things he wants without getting caught, I think for the musical character, Hyde is a way to overcome his own inhibitions and feelings of shame about all the depraved things he secretly wants to do. Not getting caught is a secondary issue to him. I don’t think the musical’s text 100% supports this, but for me, it’s the interpretation that makes the most sense.

Has internalized a lot of the moralizing bullshit of the Victorian era. Genuinely believes he has to act like a Proper Victorian Gentleman, 1. to be taken seriously as a scientist, and 2. so people won’t think he’s going insane like his father did before him. Probably judges himself harder than others in this respect, because he feels like he has a lot to prove.

Too bad that personality-wise, he’s a chaotic, spontaneous, passionate kind of person and finds it practically impossible to constantly keep up appearances and reign in his temper. He keeps giving into his impulses and doing less-than-respectable things that he enjoys but deeply regrets later on, way before Hyde ever steps into the picture.

The thing that hooks Jekyll to being Hyde is how Hyde has zero regrets. As Hyde, he can kill and maim and have all the kinky sex and whatever he’s ever dreamed of, without thoughts about how he’s risking his reputation ever crossing his mind. Too bad that when the effect of the potion wears off, those worries and regrets immediately come back.

A very selfish person that rarely does anything that doesn’t benefit himself somehow. Sure, his big thing is that he’s trying to heal his father and come up with this miracle medicine that removes evil from the world – but that’s hardly motivated by pure benevolence. He also thinks about the way the medicine would help him reign in his own secret desires, and all the fame and fortune that would come along with creating a breakthrough innovation. I also like the idea that a friend shared with me once, how he’s afraid of inheriting his father’s illness and even passing it on to his future children, and thus wants to come up with a cure before his marriage.

In the modern day, maybe he would identify as bisexual and be able to admit that monogamy simply isn’t his cup of tea. In canon era, however, he’s in complete denial about both of these things and tries to shut down his attraction to men and his fear of commitment. (I’m headcanoning him as sorta non-committal by nature because Emma is practically perfect for him, and still, he runs off to cheat on her with Lucy the first chance he gets. That’s something that’s always been hard for me to justify when thinking about the musical, unless it’s commitment/monogamy itself that irks him and not Emma.)

Besides loving him as a friend (and kinda taking him as granted as one), probably thinks Utterson is pretty hot and has had his share of inappropriate dreams about him. Would never consider committing to him in any romantic sense, however.

Utterson:

Has also internalized a lot of the moralizing bullshit of the Victorian era, but mostly in regards to things like gender and class relations.

A pretty non-judgemental person when it comes to personal failings, both towards himself but especially towards others. Works with the law and has a lot of respect for it, but doesn’t think it’s correct 100% of the time. Thinks everyone deserves a second chance. Judge not lest ye be judged.

Attracted to men, and all things considered, pretty chill about that. Can’t really see how it’s such a bad thing as long as everyone involved is on the same page and consents to whatever’s going on, knows that there are couples out there who have made it work and built a life together. Instead, his big crisis is that there’s only room for one man in his heart, and that man doesn’t love him back.

Has known Jekyll for a long time and has been in love with him for almost as long. Doesn’t think he has a chance with him, but at the same time, is unable to let go of a small hope that someday, somehow, they’ll be together. The kind of person who believes in soulmates, which, considering his situation, is probably not a great thing for him – he thinks Jekyll is The One for him, and the thought of pursuing a relationship with someone else doesn’t really cross his mind (or if it does, it doesn’t feel right). In modern terms, maybe he’d identify as gay and demisexual.

The way he thinks about Jekyll is very possessive, jealous and borderline obsessed. At the same time, he’s terrified of making the wrong move and alienating him, so he’s very careful in his actual words and actions.

Has very complicated feelings about Emma: hates her for taking Jekyll away from him, has a certain respect for her because of her intellect and quick-wittedness, also regards her as a delicate flower in need of masculine protection due to aforementioned internalized Victorian bullshit. On some better timeline, would be friends with her.

In general, a pretty boring/basic guy with some pretty boring/basic hobbies. Enjoys things like going to bed early on most days, traveling by train, and staying out of trouble. Has a penchant for puns and a sarcastic streak, though.

However, if he ends up sleeping with Hyde (dear Mr. Wildhorn & team: now that you’re once again reworking the musical, please consider making this canon), he’s going to find out that being with a man he knows is capable of murder turns him on like nothing he could’ve imagined.

Likes theatre but never goes to see a show again after Jekyll’s death.

[chilligyu]

info: lee jihoon/gender neutral reader, pg, best friends to lovers au genre: fluff, romance | word ct: 5.5k warnings: none summary: when it came to love, no one was prepared. not even jihoon, who could spend hours turning words into magic, especially when love was mysteriously delivered in the form of a letter to his locker. note: heavily inspired by to all the boys I've loved before, but with a twist! no love triangles or anything like that, so just enjoy awkward people falling in love! and thank you to @dreamystuffers and @starlightjoong for taking a sneak peek and telling me what you think!

tagging: @xfirebenderx, @moriiyun, @ohmygoshcheese, @gyu-log

Lee Jihoon, a genius in many ways, was never good when it came to words. At least, not the spoken kind. The kind that you had to think up on the spot, responses, answers, comebacks, small talk, he was absolutely terrible at it. But if you gave him the time to think, to really dwell on his thoughts, he could create something truly beautiful. Which was why he preferred to express his feelings with letters. And while, yes, he could pen something magnificent, the next great classic novel perhaps, he typically kept his messages short and to the point. Much like the man himself.

There was one time that he wrote a “letter” that was simply—

F U C K Y O U

—printed out on seven separate sheets of paper and taped to a row of lockers. All in response to a teacher confiscating his iPod. No one could prove it was him, though, and nothing happened in response to it. He never admitted to his crimes, and despite it being painfully obvious who the author of the message was, there was no hard proof pointing to the culprit. It became the most well-known secret at their high school. And Lee Jihoon became somewhat of a living legend because of it.

The only one who knew the truth was you. His best friend. You were his go-to when it came to proof reading all of his letters. He was the writer, you were the editor. Half the time you were also a berating parent, chastising him for trying to assault people with words. Which was also why, more often than not, his letters never got sent. He would sit in his room for hours, writing letters that were either half the length of novels or only a few sentences long, and after giving it over to be edited, it would get tucked away in his desk drawer. Never to be seen or heard from again.

See, Jihoon was an emotional person. Not in the sense that most people would assume, he didn’t get offended easily, one mean comment wouldn’t leave him crying, he was simply—emotional. Whatever he was feeling, whether it be good or bad, it was powerful, sometimes overwhelming. So instead of erupting like a hormonal volcano, which he had already done plenty of, he put his emotions to paper. At the behest of his aforementioned best friend.

“You can’t go around yelling at people.” You began one afternoon just after entering high school. “Even if you’re writing it down, you’re still yelling at people.”

Jihoon, the definition of “hard to read”, was visibly pouting. “You’re the one who told me to write down how I feel. Now I can’t even send these to anyone?”

“I mean, you can.” You backpedalled. “I’m not your mother, despite Seokmin’s insistence. I can’t stop you from doing anything you’ve set your heart to. All I can do is advise you not to because you’re going to have a terrible few years here if everyone hates you.”

He clearly wasn’t thrilled by your logical response, but he admitted defeat anyway. “Fine. Don’t send the letters that I write. I get it. No one wants to read them.”

You groaned loudly. “You are so dramatic. I’m saying don’t send the literal hate mail to people. Don’t send the stuff you write to vent out your feelings. But if there’s something you want to say to someone, something that you can’t bring yourself to say out loud, by all means! Send the thing! I know you loathe the idea of talking to people, you also hate being misunderstood more.”

He also hated how well you knew him, not that he would ever say that out loud.

That was also something he wrote down in a letter, one he decided to send.

You crumpled it up immediately and threw it back at his face.

“Letters are powerful things, Jihoon.” You added. “They can break hearts, mend souls, and change lives with nothing more than words. Because words mean so many different things to so many different people. You just gotta say the right ones.”

At first, he was only humoring you. Honestly, he thought you completely senile until he gave it a shot. After spending hours hunched over his desk writing things no one else would see, he was starting to realize that maybe you had a point. Instead of roaming the halls shouting obscenities in his head, he was able to reassure himself by knowing he could write about it later. Even the smallest grievance, he would write it down. He would sometimes scribble it down on the margin of a textbook if he was feeling particularly overwhelmed in the middle of the day.

The letters became his therapy, his outlet, eventually he could stroll past some annoying upperclassmen and not feel rage coursing through his veins. It was—nice, almost. Not being subjected to his own hectic imagination at every turn. Feeling at peace for the first time in what felt like ages.

Until he found a letter in his locker, one addressed to him during his senior year. From a secret admirer. The contents of which would be seared into his memory for the remainder of time.

Lee Jihoon, it began.

I have never been able to tell you how I feel, in person or in a letter. For several months now, I’ve tried. I’ve tried to write letters like you for so long, and I just can’t get the words right. I don’t know how you do it. So I’m going to do something different. I’m going to stop being scared. If you meet me in the courtyard after school, I’m going to be brave for the first time in my life. Please help me be brave, Jihoon.

Again and again, he read that short letter. Practically baffled that someone out there wrote an honest-to-god letter that was addressed to an honest-to-god person. And that he wasn’t the writer, that he was the recipient. The thought alone made his heart race, and to comprehend that this secret admirer perhaps harbored feelings towards him? It was next to impossible. But no one writes a letter without true emotion behind it. That’s a fact he was coming to understand.

“I need you to come with me.” He told you after showing you the letter. “I’m—I’m not sure I can do this alone.”

You rolled your eyes. “Jihoon, obviously this person doesn’t want to make a public event out of their confession. You should really do this without me.”

“I know, and I’m not asking you to stand at my side or anything.” He reiterated. “Can you like—stand in a bush or something? If I know that you’re there I won’t feel the need to—"

“Did you just ask me to stand in a bush?” You guffawed. “You did not just ask me to stand in a bush Lee Jihoon because if you did then you’re about to get your ass kicked into next year!”

“I didn’t mean literally!” He quickly denied when he did, in fact, mean it literally. “Just—stand around the corner, okay? Be my moral support!”

Pursing your lips, you knew that there was no getting out of this. “Alright, fine. I’ll come with you. But I’m not happy about it.”

“I’ll pay you back, I promise.” He swore. “Have I ever told you that you’re the best?”

A smirk teased at your lips. “You could mention it more.”

“Consider it done.” Jihoon grinned, gathering up his things and heading for the door. “Don’t forget! After school! Courtyard! Don’t be late!”

Once he was gone and you were completely alone, your face fell in disappointment. “I wouldn’t dream of it…”

By the time that school was finally over for the day, Jihoon was a bundle of overactive nerves. He was excited and terrified and anxious and nauseous all at once. The bombarding sensations kept him cemented in place, gripping the edge of his desk until his knuckles were about to burst through. He had been like that for the entirety of their last class, still as a statue as a cold sweat broke out across his brow. You were standing in front of him, head tilted and wondering what he was planning to do next.

“Class is over.” You reminded him. “Everyone’s left.”

Very slowly, he nodded. “Y-yeah. I can see that.”

His voice sounded as if it had been completely stripped down. Like he had screamed himself hoarse by saying those few words.

“Your secret admirer is probably waiting.” You tried to spur him. “We should get going before I change my mind and head home.”

He audibly swallowed past a lump in his throat. “Well—maybe that’s best. Yeah, I can wait until tomorrow.”

You eyed him incredulously. “You’re going to stay here until tomorrow. You’re insane, get up.”

“I’d rather not.”

“And I’d rather not grow old and die here.” You countered. “C’mon, Jihoon. Your admirer asked you to help them be brave, how exactly is this helping them?”

He had to admit, you had a point. If they were brave enough to put their feelings out there, he had to at least meet them half way.

Sighing loudly, he started to pry his fingers off his desk. “Alright, fine. We’ll do things your way.”

You rolled your eyes for perhaps the hundredth time. “You’re absolutely insufferable. Why do I hang out with you?”

“Because I’m funny.” He said with the most serious face in the world.

Which actually made you laugh.

“I hate you.” You chuckled. “C’mon, let’s get going while we’re still young.”

Jihoon inhaled and exhaled deeply to calm himself down.

This is just the beginning.

Except—it wasn’t.

He stood in the courtyard, seemingly alone, with the note that brought him there clutched tight in his hand. As his moral support you were keeping your distance, as promised, but no one else joined you. Minutes passed and he did his best to remain hopeful. It was hard, especially when a familiar voice nagged at the back of his mind. The same one he struggled with every day to ignore.

No one would ever like you, so why did you bother thinking otherwise?

While the negative thoughts slowly took over, Jihoon didn’t know what to do next. He was defeated, almost destroyed. And even though you walked up behind him and took his hand in yours, it did little to stop the bitter tears from welling in his eyes.

“I should’ve known…” He whispered angrily. “This was all just—a joke. It’s always a joke. Who could ever like me?”

“Stop it, Jihoon.” You hissed at him, squeezing his hand tighter. “They said they were scared, maybe they couldn’t follow through with it. Maybe they were afraid of being rejected. You never know what’s going through someone’s head. Don’t beat yourself up, okay?”

Nothing you said was going to make him feel better. He quickly wrenched himself from your grip and backed away from you.

“I’m going home.” He clipped. “Bye.”

Before he left, he made sure to crumple up the note and toss it at your feet. When his heart was broken, he wore it on his sleeve. You understood what Jihoon was feeling, he had been living with an extremely low self esteem due to his height and his general inability to make friends for as long as you knew him. He was quiet, shy, reserved, he was slow to open up to others and hesitant to trust. That’s why you tried to be excited for him, and now that things hadn’t gone as planned in more ways than one your heart ached just like his.

The next day, Jihoon strolled into class like a drunk zombie. By the looks of him, he hadn’t slept a wink. Too busy being destroyed by his own thoughts to bother with anything like sustenance or sleep. He took up his seat beside you, and you immediately shoved your desk into his.

“Still upset?” You asked, even though you already knew the answer.

Sluggishly he lifted his head up and then quickly dropped it back down.

It was worse than you thought.

“Are you going to talk to me today?” You teased in an attempt to get a reaction. “Or am I going to have to go bother Hansol?”

Grumbling slightly, the barely responsive mass that was your best friend raised his hand and dropped a crumpled wad of paper on your desk. At first, you assumed it was just another one of his letters. They weren’t uncommon when he was feeling—unwell.

But it was another note from his secret admirer.

You were startled because he didn’t usually stop at his locker in the morning.

Lee Jihoon, it started similarly.

I’m sorry for not showing up yesterday, I was scared. I couldn’t bring myself to face you, please don’t be mad at me. I’d like to keep writing you letters, if that’s okay. Let’s get to know each other and maybe one day I can be brave again.

Once you were finished reading, you immediately began analyzing Jihoon’s face again. You had never seen him look like this before, completely vacant. While he was hard to read to the entire world, he was always an open book to you. Now reading him was nearly impossible even with your expertise.

“What are you gonna do?”

He shrugged lazily. “I don’t know. Sit here for the rest of eternity. Wait for the soft embrace of death.”

“Jihoon.” You exasperated. “We both know you’re not actually going to do that.”

Except he actually might and you actually couldn’t take that chance.

“Are you going to write them a letter?” You tried, again. “Maybe that will work out better.”

“I already did.” He murmured. “I don’t think they want to read it though.”

“Jesus Christ…” You groaned loudly, taking Jihoon’s face in your hands and looking him dead in his lifeless eyes. “They still like you, they’re scared and human like the rest of us, it is not the end of the world! Give them another chance and stop being such a goddamn drama queen!”

Silence. Pure unadulterated and perfectly aggravating silence.

“Alright, you leave me no choice. I’m bringing out the big guns.”

Being careful to keep an eye on the teacher, you pulled out your phone and started texting Jihoon’s mother. According to your message, you and Jihoon were going to be studying late at the library, and he would probably need to spend the night at your house. Which wasn’t a complete lie, maybe you would get some studying done. But, in all honesty, you had other things in mind.

“Take your pick.” You instructed, a box set in each hand. “Descendants of the Sun, or Record of Youth.”

Immediately after school, you dragged your best friend to your house and sat him down in front of the TV. Your parents didn’t even question it when you told them this intervention was a matter of life and death, that the patient might need to be admitted for the night. They simply let you do what needed to be done.

Jihoon, who had been relatively catatonic for the past 24 hours, finally showed a glimmer of something. He gave the slightest suggestion of a nod towards Descendants of the Sun and you happily popped in the first disk. As you claimed a spot beside him, popcorn and banana milk in tow, he naturally relaxed against you. You were the only person who got to see him unguarded like that, the only person he himself would allow. And while he was typically someone who kept his true self hidden from the world, there was a part of him that would forever belong only to you.

“Thanks.” He practically whispered, resting his head on your shoulder. “I—I needed this.”

“I know.” You smiled. “Are you ready to talk yet?”

He sighed heavily. “No. Not really. I still have a lot of thinking to do.”

“Well, if you need help thinking you know where I’ll be.” You offered without wanting to seem pushy.

If you weren’t mistaken, you could’ve sworn he actually chuckled.

“Yeah. I do.”

Little by little, your best friend was slowly returning to normal—or as close to normal as you’ve ever seen him. Eventually he started getting sucked into the drama, going rigid when things got tense, and actively pretended he wasn’t crying whenever You Are My Everything played. It was, overall, a job well done. You could sleep easy knowing that Jihoon would be just fine. As you drifted off, you felt him hold your hand and squeeze it gently.

Everything was going to be okay.

And if only to prove that point, the next day was nothing like the one before. Jihoon was back to his old self as if nothing had happened at all. Just another Thursday without a word or whisper about the chaotic tornado his secret admirer had unleashed onto your day-to-day life. He even had a letter for you to read by the time lunch rolled around. Apparently, some freshman irritated him over something seemingly small. At least—to you it seemed barely worth mentioning. But nothing ever really felt small to Jihoon. It was all or nothing, always living in black and white. Which meant that almost everything was important to him in some way. So you read the letter, and you edited it gladly.

Once you were done, he had something else for you. Another note from the admirer.

“This is the third one, right?” You murmured, glancing it over once before looking up at him. “Have you written back yet? Besides the one where I assumed you insulted their very existence with your entire arsenal of hurtful words.”

The blush crawling up his neck was an answer in and of itself, but the thick stack of paper he pulled out of his backpack solidified it.

“I’ve tried a few times.” He admitted hesitantly. “Nothing I write is good enough.”

“Oh, only a few times?” You teased, knowing full well that Jihoon’s definition of a few was the same as calling Jane Eyre a short shopping list. “What’s got you so stuck? Usually you have no issues penning essays over trivial things like cracks in the sidewalk.”

His brow furrowed defiantly. “Hey, proper sidewalk and road maintenance is important to modern infrastructure. If we start overlooking cracks in the pavement, then what? What about traffic lights? Can we afford to allow a single bulb to go out? No, of course not. That’s anarchy.”

You couldn’t believe your ears.

“Jihoon…” You started with an exasperated look. “I was joking.”

Trying to hide the fact that his blush was turning a deep crimson, and failing quite miserably, he pulled a paper from the stack and put it back in his bag. Also something he tried, and failed, to hide from you.

“Are you kidding me!” You laughed, raking a hand down your face. “Did you seriously have a letter in that pile you were going to send to our congressman?”

“No—yes—ugh!” He groaned. “Can we forget about the stupid sidewalk for a second! That’s not important right now! Help me! How do I do this?”

Deciding you had teased your best friend enough, you placed your chin in your hand and smiled at him. “How do you do what, exactly? I’ve never had anything to do with the letters you write, I just read them so someone knows how you’re feeling.”

Who were you kidding, you could never tease Jihoon enough.

He rolled his eyes so hard that he rolled his whole head with them. “Like you’ve ever needed further insight into my head, you always know what I’m thinking before I do.”

True.

“But I don’t understand the first thing about—this.” He finished with a labored sigh, gesturing sharply to the handwritten novel in front of him. “You know that better than anyone.”

Again, he was telling the truth. In the years you had known Jihoon he had never developed serious feelings towards someone else. He had barely entertained the notion since entering high school. He always talked himself out of it because feelings were complicated and bothersome. Plus, he was terrified of being rejected. Like most people are. His intrusive thoughts just so happened to be louder than most.

“I hate to break it to you, Jihoon,” You started in a whisper, “no one knows the first thing about this. Not even me. The only person who can help you is yourself.”

His sour expression made it obvious that he obviously didn’t like your response. “Great. Super helpful. Thank you for your continued wisdom.”

When he moved away from you, you grabbed him by the sweater and pulled him back in. “Why do you always stop listening to me when I’m about to make my point?”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Because it takes you forever to fucking get there.”

“Alright, you got me there.” You chuckled. “Listen, I’m not kidding when I say that you’ve got to do this one on your own. As much as I can usually sense what feelings are doing somersaults in your stomach, this is a first for you and therefore a first for me. I’ve never seen you like this before, so unfortunately you’ve got to discover this one on your own.”

As you spoke, his features slowly softened until all that remained was a very nervous teenager who didn’t want to screw up his first real chance at love. That’s all Jihoon was at his core, that’s all anyone was.

But you had to admit he almost looked kind of cute.

Almost.

“How do you always know what to say?” He grumbled while crossing his arms. “It’s annoying.”

“You’ve got a really weird way of saying thank you.” You smirked playfully. “Well, maybe this last nugget of advice will get you started in the right direction.”

“Why are you always—” He seethed through his teeth. “How are you still not at whatever your point is!”

You shrugged, because you honestly had no clue. “I'll get there when I get there. You want to hear it or not—”

“Spit. It. Out.”

“Now is that anyway to—”

Wow. You stopped, suddenly fearing for your measly life. If looks could kill—

“Alright, alright, you win.” You conceded. “If you’re having issues writing a letter to your secret admirer, here’s my advice. Stop trying to put words to your feelings and start putting feelings into words. You’re spending too much time trying to say it perfectly that you’re not saying it at all. It doesn’t need to make sense to anyone else, it doesn’t even need to make sense to you. So long as you put them out into the world, they’ll be heard and one day they’ll be understood. You get me?”

The look on his face was—strange. You had a hard time placing it, which should’ve been weirder than it was. In fact, you were seeing lots of different sides to Jihoon lately, sides you never thought existed. This time his eyes widened, the aforementioned scarlet blush had disappeared, and there was a radiance to him that you had never seen before. Like suddenly he could see clearly through the storm of his thoughts.

“Thank you.” He exhaled with a smile. “I’ve never thought about it like that before.”

Feeling triumphant, you wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “I’m starting to wonder what you’d do without me, Jihoon. Three days and you’ve been completely undone and redone by this letter.”

“Letters are powerful things.” He muttered. “They can break hearts, mend souls, and change lives. You taught me that.”

“I guess I’m a pretty good teacher.” You boasted, giving him a squeeze. “Despite the fact that I’m actually quite terrible with words.”

He shrugged off your arm. “Except you always know what to say, how exactly does that work?”

“Just because I can make you see reason doesn’t mean I’m good with words.” You laughed easily. “That simply means that I’ve perfected the art of understanding the impossible. Lee Jihoon. I can’t use words like you do. Trust me I’ve tried, I can never get the words right.”

For a moment, he didn’t have any sort of response. Which was definitely weird. It was a well-known fact that he was terrible with the sorts of words he had to speak, but he didn’t have issues when talking to you. That’s because you were friends, best friends. There had never been this sort of unnerving silence before. Not that you could remember, anyway.

What is going on in your head, Jihoon? You found yourself wondering since you couldn’t read his face. Have you started to figure it out?

“Sorry, I was thinking.” He muttered suddenly, shaking his head. “But I know what I need to write now. Will you read this one too? Even if it gets pretty long?”

“Of course!” You exclaimed with a smile. “When have I ever shied away from a challenge?”

The soft glisten in his eyes made your heart flutter.

“Never.”

When the bell rang and you parted ways, you wondered if Jihoon had ever written you a letter.

Well there’s a first time for everything.

For the next week, he was in full writer mode. And there were no more notes from his secret admirer, not that you expected there to be any. Every chance he got he was scribbling something down on whatever surface he could get his hands on. Textbooks, paper, his arm, he was more inspired than you’d ever seen before and nothing was going to stop him. He didn’t even come over to your house over the weekend, a ritual you hadn’t broken in the ten plus years you had known each other. It was a lonely week, for sure, but you knew it was for a good cause.

Then, after what felt like an eternity of silence, he approached you in the courtyard with a single sheet of paper in his hand.

“Hey…” He started uneasily, his grip tightening. “How’re you?”

Seriously? You mused to yourself with a smile. “I’m good, how’s the writing?”

“Done.” He clipped. “And—I think I covered everything.”

“Are you sure?” You asked, eyeing the sheet of paper. “With all of that writing I thought you’d have a novel for me.”

He shook his head, while a blush crawled up his neck. “Sometimes being concise is more effective than being overly wordy.”

“That’s true.” You grinned. “Easier for me to edit anyway.”

Nodding, he shoved the paper into your hand. “Here. Take your time, I don’t want you to rush it.”

“I won’t.” You promised, resisting the urge to start reading right away. “I know you put a lot of thought into this.”

With that, he turned around and walked off without another word. Leaving you holding something that looked like little more than pen ink on paper, but felt like a confession on fire. Once he was out of eyesight, you exhaled a breath you had been holding unintentionally and started reading.

To the person I have never loved before. It began, and you weren’t prepared for the roller coaster you had willingly climbed into.

This isn’t for the person I’ve loved all along, no. This is for you, someone who managed to stir my emotions more than a raging monsoon with only a few words and the hint of a promise. Who are you? I wondered to myself, because you were without equal. How could I have missed you? You were extraordinary. You didn’t have a face, all I had of you was a letter slipped into my locker, you were a ghost and I was set ablaze by your words. I had never felt like that before, my heart was unprepared. As was I. You made me question everything, and made me realize things I had never seen before.

What I felt for you wasn’t love, even though I thought it was at first. You presented me with feelings I decided I would never feel, so I could only assume that it was love. I felt like a live wire, ready to spark at a moment's notice. All I could think about was you. The infinite options and scenarios I dreamt up, all because of you, was astronomical. It was exhilarating, and I found myself drunk on the endless possibilities that you presented me. What else could make me feel that way, if it wasn’t love?

The answer was one I didn’t expect, and it hit me like a tsunami. I started to feel that way towards someone I already know. Someone who has cared for me more than anyone should, they have been my best friend for years so how could I suddenly feel the same way? How could my friendship for them become intertwined with the love I thought was solely reserved for you? And how could I have missed it after being enveloped by their warmth for so long?

You changed all of that. You made me see clearly for the first time in years and I was completely undone. Everything I knew was suddenly challenged, my feelings towards the most important person in my life changed without any warning, and I didn’t know what to do. How could I ask them, a friend, to see me as anything more? I was lost, trapped in an endless loop of destructive thoughts and desire. Desperately wanting to scream my feelings from the rooftop while fearing the voice that would have to put words to them. Your feelings for me awakened my feelings for them, and suddenly the words that have given me comfort for so long escaped me.

Still, you helped me.

In ways I can only thank with this letter.

You helped me because you are the one who told me to start writing letters. It’s always been you. You are the one who has given my thoughts meaning when I struggled to communicate with the world. One that could never understand someone like me. You are the one who wrote me a letter, asking a coward to help you be brave. It took me a while to realize that you were one and the same, but I picked up on the hints you left behind. I’m sorry it took me this long to figure it out.

Would you have showed up had I not asked you to come with me? I think about that often, were you only afraid because my initial thought was that there was no way it could be you? The impossible notion that my best friend could love me anymore than they already do? I have a thousand more questions I want to ask you, but I think I’m brave enough now to ask you in person.

So I’m going to end this letter here, because you deserve so much more than the words I’ve hidden behind for years. A letter I started to write for someone I thought I didn’t know, to the person I’ve never loved before. Funny, how it ended up being a letter to the person I’ve loved all along.

As you read the last line, tears already streaming down your face, you had never felt happier.

“You figured it out.” You whispered, almost in disbelief. “For a second there I thought you never would.”

You don’t know when Jihoon came back, but he was suddenly standing in front of you taking your hand in his. “It really shouldn’t have taken me that long, I’ve only seen your handwriting a thousand times before.”

Laughter bubbled past your lips as you dried your tears with your sleeve. “I was terrified that you would’ve figured me out from the very beginning. Looks like I really give you too much credit sometimes.”

“You do.” He agreed. “So, what did you think of the letter? Any edits you can think of?”

“This isn’t the type of letter that needs editing.” You stated plainly. “It would take away from the author’s meaning.”

“What would that be?” He asked, clearly teasing you. “Enlighten me.”

You shook your head defiantly. “No, no way. It’s your letter, why don’t you tell me what it’s supposed to mean?”

Part of him didn’t want to make it easy, that much you knew with absolute certainty. But, for the sake of time and your poor heart, he would let you off the hook. Just this once.

“That I love you.” He said softly. “More than anything else.”

Choking out a sob, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in close.

“I love you too, Jihoon.”

In the end, neither of you were good with words, but you only needed to know what to say to each other.

[mdhwrites]

Why Does Amity Love Luz?

Someone asked me that and I felt like expanding my thoughts on it for everyone. The short summary version is that Luz, from who she is, what she believes in, and what she does, is Amity's dream and then proved she herself was all of that and more as a person. A nice girl who made things simple who rewarded Amity for being who she is, all while both push each other to be better.

Now let's break some of that down. What is Amity's dream first? Well, what is it that's wrong with her life? She has parents who ask everything of her just so she can be accepted, siblings who break the rules and get praised regardless of breaking the rules and just being kind of awful people, she has a task she has put in front of herself that for a 14 year old with no support can seem impossible, and every attempt she has made to connect with people has ended surface deep at most or were taken away from her if they grew to be something more. Even expressing her happier side has ended up hurting people (the thorn vault), something she obviously hates to have ever done but being cruel and mean has always been what she's taught and shown as working and rewarded.

But then there's Luz. This girl who at first seems to be just another person like her siblings. She broke the rules and got her in trouble after all. But... She also apologized. And in the Convention, she recognized that she was in the wrong. Gave Amity the win in spite of how much it would mean sacrificing due to their oath, in spite of showing how hard she was trying to be a proper witch and how much that means to her, just like Amity. Then she could have abandoned Amity in the library but wanted to apologize to her instead. Didn't abandon her like everyone else. At every turn that Luz could be like the rest of her world, like everything she knows, she turned around and came back to show Amity this world that seemed impossible. A world where the good are rewarded. A world where connection makes people stronger, not weaker. A world where you can be happy, strong, and true to yourself, all with proof from Luz's hard work

Of course, a dream is sweet but I think that it has grown to be more. After all, while Luz was at one point a glimpse into a place in the universe where she could be everything she wanted, she's been taught hard lessons in what that sort of thing can lead to. But Luz is also the girl who loves Azura like her. Who thinks school is the coolest thing and wants nothing more to learn everything, just like her. She's the nice girl who will celebrate every one of Amity's accomplishments, big or small, because they're victories, not just assumed. She's cute, she's happy, she's everything Amity could want. Even the flaws Luz has, caring too much, not thinking things through, those are things that feed into Amity's love for how much Luz just loves life and those around her.

From a writing standpoint, Amity's love makes absolute sense because everything that Amity wants in life, truly wants and not just what she claims to want or the career she desires, is embodied by Luz which is GOOD. While love can bloom from anything, writing a proper romance should feature the two finding something in the other that they desire in general. A shy character loving a rough and tough, scary person because that same brute also is always there, loyal, and solid as a rock so they never have to be afraid makes sense because stability and security is something that character is going to want. An energetic character who gets in trouble wanting someone who seems to always know what to do, can keep cool under pressure, and can bring them quiet makes sense because getting in trouble sucks and very few people want to be running at top speed at all times, especially without direction. Direction a partner could give them. This is part of the whole "Opposites attract" concept too because everyone wishes their weakest points were covered somehow and the one you love is supposed to always be there to support and help you so that seems like a natural adhesive to those problems.

Short version of the writing lesson: A good romance is based on a desire the character would have no matter what being fulfilled by another character who's general actions also just make them happy. Of course, these are all just my thoughts and opinions and I would love to hear what you all have to say.

[kingexpl0sionmurder]

Missed Connection - Shinsou Hitoshi

Author: @kingexpl0sionmurder​ Rating: NSFW 18+ Warnings: Unprotected sex, blowjobs, dirty talk, poking fun at fakes who shop at UO and wear band t-shirts for bands they don’t listen to, terrible poetry, Kaminari is a weirdo. Pairing: Shinsou Hitoshi/F!Reader Words: 4,554 AN: This is for the bnharem server collab, the theme is pen pals! We were able to write basically anything as long as there was some kind of communication/writing/texting etc! This is the first time I’ve written for Shinsou and I head cannon him as a fucking closet goth so don’t at me. Collab Masterlist (Please go check out everyone else’s contributions!) My Masterlist Buy me a Ko-fi -- When his phone started ringing, Shinsou was tempted to throw it halfway across the room. Whoever thought it was okay to call him at - he turned to squint at the clock on his bedside table - 10 in the morning on his day off, better have a good excuse. He frowned at the screen once he’d found his phone, and sighed.

“The world better be on fire, Kaminari.” His palm rubbed over his face as he pressed the phone to his ear, his eyes closing again.

The blonde chuckled, full of energy as usual. “Aw, come on ‘Toshi! It’s not that early.”

A million ways he could kill his friend and make it look like an accident flashed through his mind. “You know I like to sleep late on my days off.” He left it at that, no further explanation needed. Kaminari knew he stayed up impossibly late on his off days, crawling under the covers only when the sun started to rise.

“You want to hear this, I promise. I wouldn’t call this early unless it was important.” Shinsou listened to the sound of a keyboard clicking through the phone, waiting impatiently for his friend to continue. 

“So, you know how I sometimes like to fuck around on the internet?” This was a rhetorical question. Of course he did. “Well, occasionally I like to browse through Craigslist, and this morning I was in the missed connections section, and I found something interesting.”

“Why do you look through missed connections?” He didn’t really care, he just thought it was kind of...weird. But, then again, this was Denki, so he shouldn’t have been surprised.

Kaminari huffed. “Dude, sometimes it’s so sad to read how they saw someone and thought there was a connection. It makes me wonder if they ever find each other.” He was quiet for a moment like he was deep in thought. “But then sometimes, it’s like ‘You farted in the produce section and I’d still date you, let’s go out’ and it kind of loses the romantic appeal.”

“You’re a sap. Also, gross.” He found himself drifting off, bored with the conversation already. “Do you have a point?”

“God, you’re impatient! Listen, I was scrolling through the ads and I found this one, I think you should hear it.” Clearing his throat, he began to read. 

“You were the sleepy purple-haired man in the cat cafe on Main, I was hiding behind an orange tabby by the window. I was staring, but I wasn’t trying to be creepy. You just looked kind of lost, and the black and white short hair on your lap seemed to have all your attention. Oh, I think his name is Socks. Isn’t that unoriginal? Anyway, I’ve seen you there a few times and I want to know more about you. If you see this, please respond.”

Shinsou sat up in his bed, ignoring the sharp pain of his muscles protesting at the sudden movement. “What the fuck?”

“This is about you, isn’t it?” Denki’s excitement was clear. “You’re the only sleepy guy with purple hair I know who frequents that cat cafe on Main Street.”

“How long ago was that posted?” Hitoshi felt strange, restless energy flowing through him. Someone had noticed him and decided that he was interesting enough to want to get to know? He wasn’t anything special, and he kept to himself mostly. What did this even mean?

“Last night! When did you go to the cafe?” He didn’t even wait for a response. “I’m forwarding this post to you, and you better send them an email! It’s been too long since you’ve dated someone, ‘Toshi, and I’m concerned.”

Unfortunately feeling more awake than he wanted to be, Shinsou shifted until his feet were on the floor. “Yesterday afternoon. And it hasn’t been that long.”

“It’s been like a year, dude.” Kaminari sighed. “Okay, I sent it. Please write back to them. Let me live vicariously through you in this weird turn of events.”

Shinsou sighed and said goodbye, ending the call and staring off into space for a minute. He needed coffee before he could even think about reading it for himself and then maybe responding.

--

Uh, hello.

 I can’t help but feel like this was about me? I’m not even really sure what to say. This feels weird. You could have come over and said hi, maybe. I don’t bite. I might have stared at you and made things awkward but I feel like it would have been a surefire way to talk to me instead of posting this on craigslist of all places and expecting me to see it. 

You’re lucky I have a friend who likes to scour the dark recesses of the internet for entertainment purposes and happened upon this post.

-Shinsou

--

How do I know this is really the person I’m talking about? What were you wearing when you went to the cafe? That’s like the only way I can be sure you are who you say you are. 

The only reason I didn’t come over and talk to you was that I had Oliver on my lap and he is a grump and didn’t want me to get up until he was good and ready. (That’s the orange tabby’s name, by the way.) By the time I was able to coax his fat ass off of me you had gone. 

Honestly, I’d let those cats climb all over me like their own personal cat tree all day long and not complain about it, but I digress. 

I didn’t expect you to find this or reply, it was kind of my way of convincing myself that I’d given it a shot, even though I really hadn’t done much.

-Y/N

--

I was wearing the following:

A Joy Division t-shirt depicting the cover of Unknown Pleasures, which is arguably the most cliche t-shirt I own. It’s become one of those shirts that people wear who have no idea who Joy Division is, they just like it for the aesthetic. (I’ll have you know I happen to know who they are and like their music very much.) This shirt was more than likely covered in cat hair.

Black jeans, which were probably covered in cat hair as well.

Black boots, a staple of mine.

I am a closet goth. I don’t know what else to say. I won’t deny it. I’ve learned to embrace who I am. I happen to know that Oliver is a grumpy shit, so I am not surprised he kept you pinned down for so long. That cat has been known to knock people over and purr loudly while “making biscuits” on their chests for hours at a time. I’m glad to know that you survived his assault.

So what are you going to tell me about yourself now? I have confessed to you about my goth status, so I demand something in return.

-Shinsou

--

Yeah, it was you.

I was hoping that you actually liked Joy Division and you weren’t one of those Urban Outfitters aesthetic people. I can now rest easy. I like them too, but I really like New Order more? I hope this isn’t the end of our budding friendship.

I will not say that I am a goth, though I have goth-like tendencies? Or I just appreciate the music. Whatever. I don’t have, like, a pet bat or anything. I own a pair of Doc’s, though.

I have been on the receiving end of one of Oliver’s attacks before, so you don’t have to tell me about them. I have experienced his pushy demeanor on more than one occasion.

So, something about me? I don’t know. I spend a lot of time in that cafe because I love cats, but that’s kind of a given, isn’t it? I usually bring my laptop and make an attempt to work on my homework, but it’s usually futile. I’d rather pet the cats. 

Oh, I guess that counts as something right? I go to college. I’m an English major and taking a fuck ton of creative writing courses. What about you?

-Y/N

--

An English major? That sounds like fun. I think if I had a need to go to college I’d have liked to take something like that. I have a friend who writes ultra depressing Gothic poetry, that would be right up his ally as well.

I’m a pro hero, hence why I didn’t need college. Saving people is something I’ve always wanted to do, especially since I was always bullied about my quirk as a kid. It kind of made me more determined, I always wanted to prove those assholes wrong, you know? So, here I am.

I’m glad to know we can wear matching Doc’s together, and that you don’t keep a bat as a pet. As cute as their faces are, they’re not very easily domesticated. 

New Order is fine. The real question is, The Smiths or The Cure? Your answer to this question will be what determines the longevity of our friendship.

-Shinsou

--

This is the worst question you could ever ask me. How could you do this? I could never choose between them. Both? The answer is both.

I hope your next email will not be your last.

Bats are cute but they always seem to dive bomb my head when they’re around. Not that I go places with bats often, but I used to go camping as a kid and they always did that. It was not a good time.

I think it’s amazing that you’re a pro hero! You’re really out here, fighting the bad guys and saving people and then coming into the cat cafe and petting kittens and drinking coffee like a normal person. I think it’s admirable how hard you worked to achieve your dream. I know we don’t know each other that well, but I’m proud of you. Why were you bullied for your quirk? You don’t have to answer that if it makes you uncomfortable.

I wish I could write ultra depressy Gothic poetry. Here let me try:

The night is black like my soul Clove cigarettes burn slowly My life is Meaningless

How was that? Do I get a gold star? Or a black skull? Which is appropriate?

-Y/N

--

I’m printing that and sending it to Tokoyami. Thank you for making my entire existence with that poem. I’m breaking out the red wax candles and putting on “How Soon Is Now?” right now.

You get a star, but it’s a pentagram. We have to keep with the theme.

My quirk has to do with mind control, so I was always told I was meant to be a villain. You can imagine what that could do to a kid’s psyche, being told by peers and adults alike that you weren’t hero material, when that’s all you wanted. It’s okay though, I did what I wanted and they can eat my ass.

Sorry if that was too raunchy, but it’s how I feel.

If my earlier comment wasn’t proof enough, I prefer The Smiths, but I cannot deny the impact of Disintegration. Lullaby is a really great song.

That being said, this will not be my last email, so you can breathe easy. 

On a semi serious note, I really enjoy talking with you. We have a similar sense of humor, and you like cats which makes you automatically better than most people. Would you like to get coffee sometime? I know a nice place that’s quiet and filled with fluffy kittens...

-Shinsou

—

I’m glad I haven’t lost your friendship due to my opinion. I know how important that feud can be to some people. People get very passionate about it. Kind of like with Blur versus Oasis, or Brand New versus Taking Back Sunday. I hate that these are the only examples I can think of. 

It wasn’t too raunchy. Those people can most definitely eat your ass. I’m glad you have decided to use your powers for good. You’ll have to explain to me how your quirk works sometime. 

I shall treasure my shiny pentagram sticker with my entire heart.

Isn’t Tokoyami the Jet Black Hero: Tsukuyomi? He looks like the type to write Gothic poetry. I am not even mildly surprised. 

Even though the way we met was unconventional, I’d like to think I’d have gotten up the courage to speak to you the next time I saw you in the cafe. Somehow this is better, though. It makes for an interesting story, you know?

I’d love to get coffee. I think I know the place you’re talking about. Let me know when.

-Y/N

—

Shinsou was nervous. It was stupid really. He’d been exchanging emails back and forth with you for a few days, and even though you’d barely revealed much about each other, the easy banter through your messages was comforting. He felt like the two of you would be compatible. He just hoped that he was able to keep the conversation going in real life. 

When he entered the cafe, he ordered his usual and picked his normal table towards the back. Socks, his favorite black and white companion, was at his side almost immediately. He let his hand drift down to scratch behind her ears, his gaze fixed on the door as he waited for you to arrive. 

Out of habit he was a little early, but he figured it would be easier this way. He had no idea what you looked like, but you knew him, so he knew you’d come over when you got there, and it would make things less awkward. 

A few minutes later he saw the door open, and he immediately knew it was you. Black Doc’s and thigh high stockings, a black skirt and an oversized deep red sweater adorned your body, a leather jacket over your shoulders and your hair tucked under a black beanie, cheeks pink from the chill of the autumn weather outside. You were pretty, and he felt his nerves increase tenfold when your eyes met his, a smile gracing your face. 

He watched as you ordered a drink at the counter, the paper cup clutched in your hands as you made your way to his table. He stood up when you approached, letting himself appreciate you up close. “Y/N?”

“Hi, Shinsou.” You were so much shorter than he was, and he found himself having to gaze down at you when he was standing at his full height. 

“It’s nice to put a face to all those emails.” The way you blushed under his attention made his heart flip. “Please, sit.”

You nodded, sliding into the seat across from him. He sat back down, his hands moving to grip his coffee cup. 

“This is kind of weird, isn’t it?” You looked down when Oliver made his way over, rubbing himself against your boot. “I almost feel like I don’t know what to say.”

“I know what you mean. We could just sit here and email each other, if that would make you feel better.” Your laugh was like music to his ears. “I’d rather hear your voice though.”

Your face was red when you looked back up at him. “I have to agree.” You leaned your elbow on the table, your cheek cradled in your palm. “Tell me more about yourself, Shinsou.”

“It’s Hitoshi. You can call me Hitoshi.”

—

If anyone would have told him that the night would end this way, he’d have said they were insane, and should probably get themselves checked into the nearest institution. 

But here he was, his face pressed into the spot where your neck and shoulder met, lips ghosting over soft skin, his calloused palms sliding underneath your sweater. You were purring, your head thrown back and your fists clenched in his t-shirt, your back pressed against the wall in the hallway that led to his bedroom. 

“Fuck, ‘Toshi.” You mumbled, pressing yourself closer to him. “Bed?”

You didn’t have to ask twice, his hands sliding down to lift you up by the backs of your thighs, his cock hard and straining in his jeans as you rutted against him. He turned himself and began walking toward his room blindly, his eyes still shut as he sucked a mark into your neck. 

He pulled back so he could peer over your shoulder and maneuver your bodies through the doorway without bumping into anything, laying you back on the bed. 

The events of the night were a blur, your coffee date turned into him taking you out for ramen at the restaurant down the street, and then he asked you back to his apartment to show you his record collection. 

It was mostly a ruse though. You’d been flirting back and forth, the both of you getting bolder as the night went on. He was only half surprised when you’d entered his apartment, barely removing shoes and coats and hats before you spun around on him, pressing him against the door and kissing him like your life depended on it.

He rested on his forearms, poised above you, looking over your flushed face and kiss bruised lips. Your legs wrapped around his waist and pulled his hips closer, making him groan. “Impatient?”

Your hands moved to cup his face, pulling him down toward you. “Very.” 

He wasn’t expecting your strength, caught off guard when your lips crashed into his, your body pushing him over until he was on his back and you were straddling him, knees on either side of his hips. You ground down against him, moaning when his hips snapped up reflexively. He was happy to give you control for a while, especially when you sat up and grabbed the bottom of your sweater and pulled it over your head. The view was spectacular.

He let his hands wander, tracing along the lines of your thigh highs from under your skirt, and up to the lace at your hips. Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath, the devilish glint in your eye was not lost on his as you shifted down his body, fingers swiftly working to unclasp his belt and undo the button on his jeans. 

You slid off of him, and he lifted his hips to aid you in pulling his pants down his legs, his boxers following. His cock was achingly hard, the tip angry and red as it sprung free from it’s confines, nearly slapping his stomach. You eyed it greedily, and he was lost for words when you surged forward, delicate fingers wrapping around his length and stroking him, your tongue peeking out to taste him.

Amethyst eyes rolled back when you took the tip in your mouth, tongue swirling around the head, a low moan sounding from the back of your throat. The warmth and wetness that surrounded his cock when you closed your eyes and bobbed forward had him breathless, his hand threading through your hair, and his palm resting on the back of your head. He kept himself steady, fighting back the urge to buck his hips and push you down further on his length. 

Shinsou bit down on his lower lip, his stomach muscles tensing as he tried to keep it together. Kaminari had been right, it had been a while since he’d been with someone, and he wanted this night to last as long as possible. The sweet and innocent look in your eyes as you looked up at him through your lashes, your mouth enveloping him all the way to base, was nearly too much for him to handle, his hand tugging at your hair gently to pull you off of him. “I’m not going to last if you keep that up, kitten.”

You visibly shivered at the pet name and he grinned, loving the feeling of being able to invoke that reaction from you. He scooted forward when you sat back on your knees between his spread legs, his arms circling your torso as he worked at the clasp on your bra, pulling the straps down your arms when he unclipped it. Strong hands gripped your waist and moved you to the side as he stood up, reaching under your skirt to tug your panties down your legs.

He took a moment to consider what he’d do next. He wanted to taste you, it was only right for him to return the favor, and he was almost certain you would taste as sweet as you looked. Another part of him wanted to hike up your legs around his waist and slam inside of you, desperate to hear you moan his name as he pounded you into the mattress. As he contemplated what to do, reached back and pulled his shirt over his head, and then let his hands wander up to the apex of your thighs, digits sliding through your folds. You gasped, falling back onto your elbows, back arching as he toyed with your clit, letting his long fingers slip inside your heat. “So wet. Just for me?” Eyebrows raised, he teased you.

“Fuck, Hitoshi, please.” Breathless and panting, you gazed up at him, biting your lip.

“Please what? Tell me what you want.” You would make the decision for him. “Would you like my mouth or my cock? I’ll let you choose.”

Huffing, your hips rutted against his hand impatiently. He kneeled on the bed between your legs, adjusting his arm and adding a second finger in with the first, his thumb finding your bundle of nerves again. He listened to your breath hitch, and your quiet mewls, pride filling his chest that he was the one coaxing those noises out of you. Finally, you breathed deep and answered him. “Fuck me, Hitoshi.”

Ignoring the protesting whine that left your lips when he removed his fingers, he brought them up to his mouth, maintaining eye contact with you as he sucked on them, tasting you. “You’re delicious, kitten. I’ll have to make sure to taste you properly later.” 

Wasting no time, he lifted your legs up to rest your legs over his shoulders, one hand on his cock. He lined himself up with your entrance, grabbing at your hips and pushing himself inside you. If he thought your mouth was hot and wet and basically everything he thought was heaven, he was mistaken. This was it. This was everything. He wasn’t even inside you all the way and he was fighting back the need to cum again, cursing himself and breathing deeply. He leaned forward, forearms on either side of your head as his mouth crashed against yours, all lips and tongues and teeth, his need for you growing tenfold as you wiggled your hips in an attempt to feel more of him.

Groaning, he bucked forward, filling you up, the both of you sighing in relief at the feeling. He gave you a moment to adjust, lips moving down your jaw and tongue laving at the mark he’d left on your neck earlier. “You feel so good, kitten.”

“Toshi, you can move…” Your hands were gripping his biceps, nails leaving crescent shapes in his pale skin, breathing ragged as you clenched around him.

Hissing, he followed your instructions, hips pulling back until he was almost completely out, before sliding back in. Your arousal made the glide easy, your back arching underneath him. He started a steady rhythm, grunting quietly and letting the feeling of you pulsing around him keep him grounded. He let one of his hands wander, shifting his weight so he could ghost his palm over your side, fingers pinching your nipple and rolling the hardened bud between them. You keened, chanting his name like a prayer, the sound of blood pounding in his ears almost masking the sound.

It spurred him to move faster, his chest tight, sweat pooling at his temples and between his shoulder blades, purple locks sticking to his forehead. His gaze was locked on you, and it stole his breath. Your chest and neck were flushed, the most beautiful sounds spilling from your lips as he fucked into you. It became clear to him that he wasn’t going to last much longer, and neither were you.

“Hey, kitten. You gonna cum for me?” He shifted back to his knees and trailed the fingers on his left hand down your stomach, coming to rest between your parted legs. “I want to hear how pretty you sound when you come apart.” He kept a firm grip on your hip to keep you from sliding away, rolling his hips and rubbing tight circles on your clit. 

“Fuck, Hitoshi!” The effect was almost immediate, your body and lungs seizing, eyes rolling back as you fell over the edge, your cunt clenching around him like a vice. 

Falling back over you, his thrusts became sloppy as he chased his own release, barely able to move with how tight your pussy was gripping him, your orgasm still rolling through you. He felt your hands on his face, guiding him to kiss you again, fingers carding through his hair and down his back, your nails raking red trails down his back. He felt like he could barely breathe, lost in you. “Y/N…”

He felt his muscles tense, and moved to bury his face in your neck, his hips stilling as he came hard, filling you up with his release. You squeezed around him again, and he sighed into your skin, eyes closed as he tried to regulate his breathing.

Rolling over to the side, he hissed when he pulled out. You chuckled, and he turned to look at you, a lazy smile on his face. “What?”

“Is that what you call showing me your record collection?” 

Snorting, he propped his head up on his palm, leaning on his elbow, his free hand reaching out to push a piece of hair away from your face. “You attacked me, remember?”

“I couldn’t help it!” Protesting, you blushed. “I wanted to kiss you from the moment I walked into the cafe.”

It was his turn to blush. “Yeah?”

Shrugging, you turned on your side to face him. “Mm. Can you do me a favor?”

His body was still buzzing, muscles loose and pliant as he shuffled closer to you. “Anything.”

“Can you thank your friend for being a weird internet troll and finding my post?” 

Shinsou coughed a laugh, leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours. “Please, I can’t do that. It’s all he’d ever talk about for the rest of our lives if I did.” 

You leaned up and kissed him, your fingers pushing back his hair. 

He hummed against your lips, feeling content, shifting himself on the bed and wrapping his arms around your waist, tugging you into him. “Maybe I’ll send him a text later. For now, I have other plans.”

--

Kaminari’s phone buzzed on the coffee table, and he picked it up, eyes widening at the message that appeared on the screen.

Toshi: I owe you a crate full of Pokemon cards and my eternal gratitude for being a weirdo meme king who trolls the internet.

Denki: Oh, you’re in a good mood. Did you get laid?

Toshi: Fuck all the way off. 

Denki: That’s a yes. You’re welcome.

[eyoricka]

Pete’s assistant - Pete Davidson

Words: 2160

Warning: 2 curse words

Requested: yes

You had been Pete’s assistant for many years now. You had begun as an intern at NBC and that’s how you met Pete. The two of you immediately clicked, there was like a strange bond between you like you always knew each other or were meant to meet, to work together. So at the end of your internship, Pete asked you if you wanted to be his assistant, to help him with pretty much everything. He wasn’t famous enough to really have a publicist, so you also fill up this role. It was funny at first. Pete was nice to you, never asking for anything impossible to get. Contrary to many other celebs with their assistant, he treated you like his equal. Planning interviews was something you enjoyed, he was mostly in some presented by his friends, so it was pretty chill, and you learnt so much. You let Pete took charge of his social media presence, he was more than okay at it, was natural and able to create a connection with his fans.

However, at some point everything changed. Pete got way bigger, he was famous like really famous, not just known by SNL and stand-ups afficionados.  Things got out of hand quickly. You still liked to work for Pete, he was still adorable to you but handling negative comments, the infamous song about him, people reactions and the repercussions on his mental health was a nightmare. You had too much to think about: to make sure he was feeling okay or at least not too bad, to make sure he would sleep, eat, not take too much drugs, go to work, go outside, try to stop the continuous harassment… Pete hired a publicist to take some weight out of your shoulders and have someone who would focus only on his impacted public image. Even though, Pete was probably at rock bottom, it was nice to see that he would still be kind to you, trying to smile a bit when you were ding your best to cheer him up.

And this is how the problems began for you. You knew the rule number one of any assistant: never fall for your boss. But you couldn’t help it. You had always loved his personality however you never considered having feelings for him. However, seeing him hurt, fragile but still caring about his close circle, still trying his best everyday for people he loved, still being nice when he could easily be an ass and take the heartbreak as an excuse, was enough to make you acknowledged that maybe you wanted to be more than a friend to him.

You decided to keep your emotions for yourself. You didn’t want to make a fool of yourself or lose your job and friend for feelings that would never be reciprocated. To forget about them, you went on dates with several people, it was a failure. Every time you could stop yourself from comparing your date with Pete. Even if some people were funny enough, smart enough, kind enough, they were simply not enough. A date with them was pleasant but you couldn’t picture more, and it would be cruel to force a relationship with someone you didn’t have feelings for just to hide your current crush. So after some dates you gave up on the idea of finding someone for the moment and preferred to take time for yourself. As the year went on, you were the witness of Pete’s different and non-working relationships. You were happy for him, truly. He was able to move on which was great and he felt more like himself. But it still hurt to see him get far too involved in relations that were doomed to fail. He was too intense and passionate for his own good. You advised him to follow your example and take time for himself, to love himself and understand what he wanted, needed from a partner. Surprisingly, he did it and it did good on him.

A few months later, you were at a small gathering to celebrate Pete’s Netflix comedy special. The reviews were good, and the audience was following, it was great to watch Pete’s career on track to success, he would finally be recognized for his art. You were talking to Dave about the process of writing when you are down and how cathartic humor is. You glanced distractedly several times in Pete’s direction confident that you were discreet. As your drink was empty, you scanned the room to find the nearest bottle of a beverage you like. Your eyes met Colson’s ones and he grinned mischievously at you. You rose an eyebrow wondering why he looked like a devious elf and quickly manage to appease your thoughts, rationalizing that it was only Colson being his drunk and high self.  

As you made your way to the counter full of bottles to pour you a glass, you felt two hands clapped your shoulders. You turned promptly and faced Colson who was smirking even wider.

“What do you want?” You asked not surprised by his presence but cautious about what he was about to say.

“Well just to chat with a lovely assistant, it has been a while since we haven’t talk.” He replied sweetly, an innocent smile replacing his smirk and you understood fully well why so many girls were crazy about him.

“Cut the crap” You deadpanned, not in the mood for his banter.

“I still wonder why I try to sugarcoat things with you” he mumbled certainly more for himself. After some long seconds of silence, he let out in a charming voice: “Don’t you think that would be the perfect night?”

You weren’t sure of what he was implying. He liked flirting but you seriously doubt that he was since he would never cross that border, maybe he was just bored or wanted to tease you. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer that would fuel his joust.

“You don’t ask me the perfect night for what?” He added kind of amused by your lack of reaction. “Well I will tell you anyway because else it wouldn’t be funny. So my dear don’t you think it would be the perfect night to admit your badly hidden feelings for you know who.”

You gulped at those words. You attempt to come back with a witty, chill repartee that would show that you were diverted by this non-sense and not knowing about what he was talking about, but your mind was blank. You were sure that tonight before sleeping while your mind would replay this scene, you would think of many clever replies.

“Still no answer, I bet that this time it is not for the same reason, right” Colson joked, and you cursed yourself.

“I just don’t understand what you mean” you eventually managed to say, cringing at this lame attempt to act cool.

“Your blushing cheeks and stiff body are telling the opposite” Nice even your own body was now betraying you.

“I get that you are bored Colson and even if it would probably be the funniest thing of your night, I don’t plan on becoming the biggest idiot of the party for your entertainment. I know Pete doesn’t like me and it is okay, you can’t control someone’s feelings and…”

“I hope you realize that you already are the biggest idiot of the night” He cut you “and Pete is too. I can’t get my head around the fact that you are both blind, incapable of seeing the way the other looks at you. Shshshsh don’t reply, don’t want to waste my time on hearing you tell me that I am lying, imagining stuffs, and complaining about my behavior, I‘ve already had this long speech from Pete. You can do whatever you want, go tell him or don’t but just know that you don’t risk much. And don’t count on him to come, he is sure he has no chance. So please have the balls for the both you.” He was about to leave you there with many contradictory thoughts filling your head when he leaned to whisper: “But really please do tell him tonight, I bet some bucks with John that you would be the brave one, don’t prove me wrong.”

You nudged him and he burst out of laughter as you showered him with imaginative curses. You decided to sit few minutes just to take time to reflect. You needed to process what you just heard. If indeed had feelings for you, things would change drastically. You felt yourself slowly but surely drifting into panic. A part of your brain was screaming that it was lies maybe because it was easier to accept than the truth. You had dreamt of this but it was a dream and you weren’t sure that you were ready for that right now. Intrusive thoughts were running in your head defeating your ounce of rationality and calm. One of your hand was clenched on your drink firmly and you closed your eyes while inhaling and exhaling to relax yourself. From the outside you certainly looked crazy but you didn’t care, it didn’t even crossed your mind.

You were so focused on your breath that you didn’t notice someone siting next to you and neither feel this person hand on yours. When you opened your eyes, you detect that you were no longer alone and the person with you was none other than Pete. He softly smiled at you and you felt like dying inside, this smile was enough to make you forget any doubts, anything, to appease. You smiled back at him kindly. He seemed to be struggling to say something and you took the lead.

“I guess that Colson talks to you too, huh?” You questioned, your voice was a bit shaking and you had eaten half of your words however you knew that he had understood you.

“Kind of” he stated and your next words died in your throat, you were losing your confidence. Those tow simple words held a clear message: yes we talk but no I don’t like you. “Actually, John did most of the talking” he joked or at least try to. He was also way to stress to really be funny.

You wanted to say something, to admit what was consuming you inside nevertheless you were scared, you refuse to be too blunt on this. You had to be subtle, to find a way to make him realize but without saying it, so if the feelings were not reciprocal it would not be too awkward.

“Colson mentioned a bet on us” You hid your reddening face behind your drink and casually take a sip or at least as casually as you can considering your current position.

“I heard about it too” His fingers were drumming against his tights in nervousness. “I am kind of bother by it you see.” You nodded, you felt crushed inside, of course he would be bothered, who would not be bothered to be shipped with someone they don’t have feelings for. You did everything you could to remain still and not crack, not now, not in front of him, of his friends. “I don’t really any of them to get this money like I guess I want them to be right, but I don’t like them betting on us”. You blinked several times not sure if you were on the same page. “I am not very clear, I am? Well obviously, I am not, I have never been very clear in those situations. Maybe clearer than now, because now what I am saying is a mess, well normally it is confused but understandable. And I am rambling right now and I don’t even know why. Maybe because it is intimidating, like we know each other for so long and what I am saying is that it is different.”  

He had lost you with his confused sentences, was he trying to reject you or the contrary. You wanted a certain answer, not an interpretation based on a wrong reading of the situation, actually you did not want this answer, you needed it. He was still digressing when you took the courage to interrupt him: “Pete please listen to me okay.” He shut up and looked at you in the eyes, sort of hanging of the words you would pronounce. “I like you Pete and not like I like Ricky or John, I mean not like a friend. Do you understand?”

There were few awfully long seconds of silence before you felt Pete’s forehead against yours and his hands on yours. “Fuck, you are a lot better at verbalizing this than I am” He smiled brightly, he was so beautiful when he was happy. “Can I kiss you?” He asked still quite unsure and you gently pressed your lips against his. It was a short and sweet kiss, the kind that promise wonderful tomorrows full of love, full of life.

[rubykgrant]

(For the fun of it, I’m writing a bunch of RVB “Everything is the same, BUT-” stories, basically AUs that only change a few details, but not the entire plot. Here is the beginning of “Everything is the same, But Grif and Simmons met earlier”)

Dick Simmons is determined to make this WORK.

His parents are giving him this ONE chance, and he can’t let them down. Not again. Not this time. It is just too important…

All those bad test scores finally added up. Sure, he had passed all his classes thanks to extra-credit work, and he had graduated successfully, but… not a single teacher had been impressed with him. He stammered through every single presentation and oral report, he never worked well in a group, and when it came to additional activities, he never stood out (he still felt a twinge of resentment… all the things he was actually interested in, he hadn’t been allowed to join. His father had insisted he be part of some sports team, and he was TERRIBLE at sports. His mother encouraged him to try something else, but as usual, she dropped all her little hints that he wouldn’t be good enough for the gifted programs… and ultimately, she was right).

None of the colleges he applied to had accepted him. He didn’t have enough of his own money saved to afford anything on his own (and a future of loans followed by never-ending debt terrified him). Just barely into adulthood, Dick Simmons was suddenly faced with a very bleak future… he has nothing to do. No job. No school. No friends. His family refuses to allow him to simply sit at home and watch TV all day (because then he’ll just develop a bad habit of being lazy and aimless, his mother tells him… and in a way, he believes her). They give him one suggestion; join up. Enlist, and be shipped out to fight the good fight.

That means learning how to use weapons. That means OTHER people will be aiming weapons at HIM.

He isn’t especially motivated to get shot somewhere in outer space, so after getting the silent-treatment for several days, he begs his parents for something ELSE as an option. Eventually, they show mercy and speak to him… they’ll give him ONE CHANCE. Just one, to prove himself. They will pay for one year of classes at a university (not one of his personal choice, it will have to be somewhere that his father has some connections, but beggars can’t be choosers, and that is LITERALLY what is going on. He’s begging, and he has no choice). He’ll have to use his own savings to find a place to live and buy food. After one year is up, if he has managed to get decent grades and impress the professors, MAYBE his family will provide the money for additional classes.

Maybe.

He can’t mess this up. It has to WORK.

Dick Simmons winds up in New York. He arrives two weeks before his classes start, attends several interviews to meet the faculty and get a tour of the campus. The school isn’t very big; actually, it was somewhat cozy and casual… but he still feels intimidated. He has never worked well under pressure, and right now, ALL OF THE PRESSURE is on him. He hasn’t even started any of the classes, but he already feels like he’s behind on his homework.

He hasn’t found a decent place to live, either. Everywhere is so EXPENSIVE. He doesn’t qualify as a full-time student (his parents aren’t paying for all those classes), so he can’t live in the student housing. Even the tiniest, cheapest apartments will drain him of all his savings in just a couple of months… unless he found some roommates. Which is basically impossible. He didn’t even have any friends back home, how is he going to find some now?

First impressions are very important, and somehow, he always did the wrong thing when he tried to meet new people… for now, he’s been staying in cheap motels. They’re dirty and gross, but he can afford to stay here and eat at the same time (he’s not getting in these grody beds, though… instead, he sprayed disinfectant all over the floor, rolled out a blanket, and has been in a sleeping bag. It’s rough on his back, but at least he doesn’t literally feel his skin crawl. He’s not eating any food inside his room, either. This way, he won’t attract any BUGS).

One evening, while walking the route between his motel and the university (so he won’t get lost when classes begin), he passes by the student housing community… and sees some fliers; that weekend, there are going to be several parties to welcome back returning students, and help new students get to know everybody. This could be his big chance! He can meet some people here, people who will be his fellow classmates, people who might also be looking for roommates!

OK, he just has to get ready… he fusses over himself, trying to figure out something to wear that will make him look like a responsible potential roommate, but also doesn’t give out painful dork-vibes (everybody figures out he’s a dork eventually, but hopefully, he can ease them into that). He finally settles on a dark red button-up short-sleeved shirt and jeans. Not quite job-interview-clothes, because he’ll never look like a party-animal, but chill enough that he won’t be mistaken for somebody’s dad. Instead, he just looks like… a very tall and nervous red-head. He tries to part his hair one way, and then the other, unsure of which will look better. In the end, he realizes it doesn’t matter, he looks like somebody who dressed up as the archetype of “Junior CEO” for Halloween. The glasses only add to this, but he knows better than to try the contacts (his eyes will just water and run all night). He tries to slightly ruffle his own hair, so his bangs are a little more loose… that’s better.

When he walks over to the student housing area, he goes a little earlier in the evening than the time specified for the party. His nerves won’t allow him to be late, but he also knows better than to be the first one there (especially when he’s alone). He waits for a while across the street, then starts to see groups of people walking up to the entry gate that leads to the student apartment complex. NOW it was safe to join in. He has his student ID badge with him, and the security guard gives him a little nod when he shows it to enter.

As he looks around at all the different apartment buildings, he sees they have banners on them for different kinds of parties (friends who are reuniting, people who will be seniors this years, different academic and sports groups, ect). He sees one that proclaims this is a party for new students to meet and mingle with their returning classmates, so he decides that’s the one for him.

The door is propped open, and inside people are already in the middle of a party; lots of drinks and snacks everywhere, music blasting, laughing and talking… he’s totally out of his element, but nobody here knows that. He can fake it, he can mingle in a non-lame way. He can make this work. The main party is taking place in the large living room and kitchen on the first floor, but a few people are wandering upstairs. As he glances around, he sees a bathroom down a hallway (maybe bedrooms farther along and around the corner). There are sliding-glass doors on the far side of the living room that leads to some kind of patio, a couple of coffee tables that are cluttered with left-behind paper plates and plastic cups in the middle of the room.

He tries to locate the host, or at least somebody who actually lives in this specific apartment, but it is impossible. People are rushing all around him, he can’t seem to get a conversation going… jeez, he’s ALREADY a reject. This must be some kind of record. He takes a deep breath, and tries to relax. Forcing himself to act like he’s actually open and confident, he waves at somebody, says hello, they smile and hand him a cup of soda. For a minute, he almost thinks this will be alright, but then the other person sees somebody they know, and they’re gone, and he’s alone, and this is just his entire life, isn’t it? He doesn’t know what to do or where to go, nobody wants him around, and he just… he doesn’t even know why he’s here.

---

Dexter Grif is trying to stay positive.

He’s been stuck in a rut for a long time, arguably most of his life, but now he has a chance to change it.

His childhood had been a mess; no structure, no schedule, no reliability… some of it had been fun, though. He got to run around backstage and behind the booths at the circus, something most little kids DREAMED of doing, and when the circus was doing well, he had free treats whenever he was hungry. Sometimes the circus wasn’t doing very well. Sometimes, his parents weren’t doing very well. Being a small child with no control over anything in his life, he was at the mercy of those around him. Unfortunately, this meant he wasn’t doing very well.

He started school late, about 5 months after the other kids began kindergarten. That unfortunately became a pattern… in the years that followed, he would miss class, usually because his mom didn’t get him to school on time, and occasionally because he just didn’t want to be there. By the time he was in 3rd Grade, he was considered a “problem child”.

Early on, it was just him, his mom, and his dad. Then his dad was gone. Then his dad came back. Then his dad left again, but now he had a baby sister. Kaikaina was the reason he started paying attention to what day of the week it was, even if his mom still acted like every day was the weekend. Dexter Grif was a big brother now. He always made sure she was clean, had toys to play with, and food to eat. When she got big enough to crawl and then walk, he kept a close eye on her so she didn’t get lost or hurt (well, she got a few bumps and bruises, a couple of scrapes and skinned-knees… because she was also a circus kid who ran around everywhere. Her brother was a very good at fixing up boo-boos, though).

As they both got older, they were left alone more and more. Their mom didn’t always remember to go shopping for them. He still made sure Kai definitely had food, even if it meant giving her all his cereal and the last can of soup. He gets her to kindergarten every day, which is in the opposite direction of his big-kid school, so he’s always late… sometimes he just skips. When he starts getting desperate, he goes into grocery stores and steals packages of cookies right off the shelf, and runs out as fast as he can. When he is at school, he starts sneaking into the cafeteria to raid the fridge, or gets into the back-pack closet so he can go through the other kids’ lunchboxes. He’s considered a problem child, a delinquent, a lazy good-for-nothing…

He’s just hungry. He never wants his sister to feel like this, so he gives her all the food at home, and they keep running out of money, and they need other stuff like soap and clothes, so he takes that too, and he doesn’t trust any of the adults he knows to ask for help, so he’s just… stuck. He’s been stuck in the same rut since he was 5 years old… he wants out.

He wants to try and do something better, BE something better. High school had been torture, some of the teachers seemingly determined to make him give up on ever doing anything, but he still has hope. A few more years go by, Kai is doing alright, maybe now is the right time. She still depends on him, but he also knows she’s sick of her big bro always being up in her business. She’ll never actually start taking care of herself if he keeps stepping in.

He has to try and change. He needs to actually make an EFFORT.

He gets into college. It is mostly because of what he calls a “pity-scholarship”, meaning he’s a disadvantaged youth that college recruiters think would make an interesting success story… but he has to maintain high grades the whole time. If he starts to slip, they’ll cut him loose. He’s hardly a genius, but he’s not nearly as stupid as people think he is. He can do better. He can learn. He can TRY.

It is a bitter-sweet farewell from his sister when he leaves… they both try to keep it light and jokey, her telling him she’s gonna throw a party and trash his room once he’s gone, and him telling her not to do anything that will embarrass the family. Part of him doesn’t want to leave her… because in some ways, she still needs him, even if she doesn’t always want him around, and as stressful as it was, taking care of her has been the one constant thing in his life.

If he stays, he’ll never change. Kai will keep growing as a person, and one way or another, she’ll leave him behind eventually. He needs to grow, too.

He goes to New York, and he starts trying to figure out what to do with his life. It HAS to be different. At least he gets the housing problem solved; going to classes full-time means he gets to live in the student apartments. He hasn’t met everybody yet, but he’ll have a total of 3 roommates (two guys to each room, plus each room has it’s own bathroom, with a shared kitchen and living room… not too bad at all). He’s told by the first roommate he met, an older dude named Cole, that the other guys will show up at the mix-and-mingle party.

Before heading out, he takes the time to put on his brand-new hoodie (literally the first not-used thing he’s ever worn). It’s yellow, but not like neon-sunshine, more like a soft macaroni color (thinking about colors makes him miss his sister... she just didn’t see colors like other people did, and when he described them to her as a kid, he always related them to things she could understand; texture/scent/taste/emotions). He would have liked orange more, but this works for him. He’s got his faded-black cargo pants on, and it looks kinda cool with the yellow. Since he’s already thinking about her, he decides to do what Kai would if she were here, and pulls his hair up in a loose bun (they both had long dark-brown curls, but somehow, his was less prone to tangles, and she liked to play with his hair).

Dexter Grif is looking forward to this; it should be fun, meeting lots of other new students, being introduced to people that are coming back and know how the school works. This was college, the place you were supposed to find yourself, or reinvent yourself… he wasn’t going to be absent kid who always cut class, or the lazy kid who fell asleep at his desk. He wasn’t going to steal food or anything else to get by, he’d find a job somewhere, he’d take care of himself for once. He was going to get good grades, and graduate, and… and who knows what else. On the night of the party, surrounded by so many excited people laughing and taking, he feels like the whole world is brand new. He doesn’t know what will happen, but maybe that’s a good thing; just one of life’s great mysteries.

Somebody ordered pizza, 5 larges, and evidently they’re for EVERYBODY. He slowly makes his way over to a coffee table, reaching out to grab a slice of pepperoni… and it is just about the best pizza he’s ever had. Felling good and satisfied with food in his belly, he looks around, trying to decide if he wants to try and chat with another person...

Then he sees somebody; LITERALLY a wall-flower, back pressed flat against the wall near the kitchen, a cup of soda in hand, looking ready to cry out of frustration.

Oh no, he’s CUTE.

[goldenraeofsun]

There is Only Try, Part I

“Love spell,” Rowena proclaims as she glides down the stairs to the Bunker floor like it’s her personal ballroom. Her midnight blue floor-length gown and elaborately curled hair look especially out of place - Dean’s pretty sure his shirt has pizza stains from at least three different pizzas. The shirt is red, so at least two of them don’t count.

Behind her on the stairs, Sam chokes.

Rowena turns around to face him. “And I thought this was going to be a challenge,” she chides. “Really, Samuel?”

“What do you mean, ‘love spell’?” Dean demands with a fleeting glance at Cas, who’s gone red in the face. Dean doesn’t blame him - between the hooker with the daddy problems and the stabby reaper, he’d be leery of anything vaguely love-shaped too.

“We called you because we need to translate the runes on a cursed box,” Sam says slowly. “We think it’s in some sort of cipher, since even Cas can’t get a read on it.”

“Well, did Tweety Pie touch the box?”

“No,” Cas says, offended.

Dean nudges him with his elbow, saying in an undertone, “C’mon, like it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Dean.”

Dean takes in Cas’s unamused face and scowls at Rowena's tinkling laugh. “Okay, Sabrina, what the fuck do you mean by ‘love spell’?”

“I mean the angel’s been cursed with a love spell,” Rowena says with deliberate slowness, like she’s giving a command to a particularly stupid lap dog. “Was it not obvious?”

Dean glances at Cas, horror trickling down his spine. “No.”

“Hmph,” Rowena sniffs. “Men really are oblivious to matters of the heart.” She waves her hand again, eyes glimmering violet. “Like I thought,” she continues, placing both hands on her hips, “A jardin d’amour.”

“A garden of,” Sam pauses, clearly trying not to laugh, “love?”

“A very basic love spell,” Rowena says disdainfully. “The lass didn’t seem to have any imagination.”

“The witch we ganked two weeks ago was a dude,” Dean says. A beat. “A man witch.”

Sam snorts.

“There you go,” Rowena says, lifting her nose into the air. “Most men don’t have that innate knack for the magical arts.” She turns to Sam, giving him the most obvious come-hither look Dean has ever seen. “There are some obvious exceptions, of course.”

Okay, Dean needs Rowena and her heebs with a large dosing of the jeebs out of the Bunker, stat.

“It starts as a tiny seed, a wee obsession,” Rowena explains, “and grows and grows until it consumes you.” She squints, wiggling her fingers, and Dean just barely stops himself from jumping in front of Cas on instinct. “I’d say the spell’s gone about halfway through its course.”

Dean crosses his arms over his chest. He throws another calculating glance at Cas. “He’s not writing love songs or grabbing a boombox, so he’s obviously not cursed.”

Cas, still suspiciously silent, shoves both his hands in his pockets and stares hard at a spot of the floor between his feet.

“Oh, but he is, darlin’,” Rowena exclaims delightedly. “I can see it clear as day. Look!”

Cas sneezes as the magic washes over him for a third time, and now they all can see the purple sparkles - really, Rowena? - hovering in the air around him.

“Okay,” Dean makes a face, “Now I’m confused.”

“Not for the first time, isn’t that right?” Rowena says with faux-sympathy.

Dean glowers. He turns to Cas. “Come on, she’s making this all up. You’d know if you got dosed with Love Potion No. 9.”

“I-” Cas says, his gaze skittering from Dean to Rowena and back again. He looks… caught.

“Wait,” Dean thunders, taking a step forward, “You knew?”

“I,” Cas starts haltingly, “had suspected.”

“And you didn’t think you’d tell us you’d been whammied?”

Cas shrugs. “It doesn’t seem to be affecting me at all. My vessel is functioning normally.”

“Sure, because you’re such an expert on normal-”

Cas’s eyes flash. “It didn’t seem relevant considering everything else-”

“What d’you mean every-?”

“Kelly Kline - Lucifer, again - the British Men of Letters - take your pick,” Castiel retorts heatedly.

“We’ve got that under control-”

“Killing a child is not ‘under control’-”

“It is if the kid’s the literal spawn of Satan-”

“I never thought I’d hear Dean Winchester defending the murder of an inno-”

Dean throws up his hands. “Did you miss my ‘spawn of Satan’ comment?”

“No,” Cas says, his expression as stony as the Bunker’s foundations, “my hearing is excellent.”

Off to the side, Rowena mutters in a carrying stage-whisper, “I can see how a wee curse like this is the least of your problems.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Sam says, running a weary hand down his face.

Dean rounds on them. “What?”

“Do you want me to remove the love spell or not?” Rowena asks, eyebrows raised. “My time is precious, you know. I don’t live to be at the Winchesters’ beck and call.”

“For the last fucking time, it’s not a goddamn spell!” Dean explodes. “Whatever it is, he is not in love. He hasn’t been acting any different.”

Rowena beams. “Well now, if he were already in love, it would have no outward effects. He’d…” Her expression becomes stomach-turningly sly, “...function normally, so to speak.”

Cas’s mouth sets in a firm line. As Dean goggles at him, Cas demands, “Remove the spell, now.”

Dean swallows. Cas can’t be - she can’t be implying - that’s impossible. He’s an angel. They don’t feel things like that.

Do they?

“I’m going to need some ingredients,” Rowena says, looking up to Sam. “Where might they be?”

Sam gestures her forward. “Back in the store room, I’ll show you.”

Rowena pats him lightly on the arm. “What a gentleman,” she simpers as Dean pretends to hurl behind her back.

Dean can’t bring himself to speak until they’re both out of earshot, their footsteps fading off into the distance. He turns to Cas, trying to keep his voice detached and failing miserably. “So, you think it got you after all?”

Cas looks away. “I know it has.”

“Oh.” Dean picks up his empty whiskey glass. He runs a hand down his face, trying to scrub away whatever he’s feeling. It doesn't work. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink. Fucking witches.”

“I - I could use one as well,” Cas says to Dean’s surprise.

* * *

“So, uh, who’s the lucky chick?” Dean asks as he makes a beeline for the liquor cart in the library off the war room. He grabs an additional glass for Cas and the bottle of Jack, tips the bottle down his own throat to get them started, and pours them out a few fingers.

Cas takes his drink, jaw clenching. He doesn’t look like a dude head over heels. He looks like his normal sleep-deprived, tax accountant self. He stays silent.

Dean thumps heavily down into a chair. “Have we met her?” he prompts because he’s nothing if not a masochist at heart.

“You could say so, in a sense.” Cas raises his eyes to meet Dean’s, face softening, and Dean’s going to hurl for real this time. Cas continues, “There’s not much in my life I keep from you.”

Dean swallows against the ball of self-loathing and disgust clogging his throat. “Some lady angel, then? Been dreaming about plucking her harp strings?”

Cas scowls into his drink. “No.”

“Not an angel?”

“Not a lady,” Cas says, his voice almost unbearably stiff. “And not an angel, either. A human - a beautifully flawed human.”

Dean has no words to say to that, so he drinks. Cas has probably met thousands of people - nice, normal people who aren’t fucked up in the head from ganking monsters their whole lives - since he’s been on Earth. God knows, he hasn’t been plastered to Dean’s side the entire time. Lately, Dean can’t even come up with a good excuse to get him to stay for more than a day or two at most.

“A guy, then,” Dean says to make sure they’re on the same page - because last time he checked, waves of celestial intent cared less about acing a Gender and Sexuality 101 class and more about whether a meatsuit could withstand a holy oil molotov cocktail.

Cas nods, his eyes narrowing. “Your opinion on homosexual relationships is part of the reason I’ve never brought it up before.”

“Hey, I don’t judge,” Dean says, not entirely truthfully. He holds his hands up in a gesture of innocence. “Homo it up, man. Love is love.”

Cas’s nose wrinkles, but he doesn’t comment on Dean’s hamfisted attempt at proving his acceptance of ‘alternative lifestyles’ as Dad might’ve put it charitably one time. “It’s complicated,” Cas adds, like any part of this fucked-up situation could fit under a goddamn Facebook status.

Dean hitches a grin on his face that probably wouldn’t fool a blind person. “So, apart from that, how come you’ve never come to me for help? I don’t wanna brag, but I’m kind of an expert in hookups. Sam’s kind of hopeless. He can’t get a chick into bed without her dying on him.”

Cas knocks back his glass. “I didn’t want to bother you with my feelings.”

Dean automatically grimaces at the mention of feelings. But, hell, he’s not a teenage girl. He can man up and be there for his best friend.

He has to - Cas hardly asks him for anything anymore.

Sure, Cas didn’t exactly ask Dean for anything this time around, but Dean can read between the lines. Now that he’s copped to what’s going on beneath Cas’s still waters, he can see how deep those feelings run. Especially if what Rowena’s saying is true and a love spell is barely a drop in the bucket.

“And, regardless, your ‘hookup’ skills wouldn’t be relevant, anyway,” Cas says quietly, lowering his hands. “I’m not interested in… coupling.”

Dean wrinkles his nose. “That reaper really screwed you over, didn’t she? Look, just because you got shanked, doesn’t mean all sex winds up with an angel blade-”

“I misspoke,” Cas says over him. “What I mean is, I would rather have no sexual relations at all if I cannot have all of him: mind, body, and soul.”

Trust Cas to spout the most profound cheese Dean has ever heard.

And also, what the fuck? Dean can’t get behind that idea at all. Dean’s always been a take what you can get kind of dude. He had to be, with what he has to work with - a pretty face, a killer's instinct, and an inability to have a normal relationship if his goddamn life depended on it.

Like, if Dean had gotten the slightest whiff that Cas was down with gettin’ down and dirty with Dean as his last hurrah (which of course he didn’t), Dean would never have bothered with that stupid den of inequity. As hilarious as the outcome was, he would have gone for a little something-something for himself before the end of the world.

Of course, Dean wasn’t in love with Cas yet then. Whenever it came to mind, it was just a fun thought experiment, an idle what if for him to think about during a dry spell. Like his fantasies about fucking Ginger from Gilligan’s Island. Or hatesex with Bela Talbot.

But none of that mattered because every step of the way from Castiel, mighty Angel of the Lord, to Cas, their friendly neighborhood angel-man, he never hinted he’d be down for a quick roll in the hay... or something more serious.

Dean remembers very clearly: Anna fell to experience emotions, even the bad ones.

And Dean’s not an idiot - Cas obviously experiences emotions now. Dude’s been through too much not to feel something. But Dean’s never deluded himself that they could ever include all the romantic lovey-dovey, chick-flick moments crap.

Family love, sure. Cas might love all his haloed siblings. Cas has been around for all the Top 10 worst decisions that are the Winchesters’ version of brotherly devotion. Cas even said the big L-word out loud himself, when he was bleeding out in that barn a month ago.

But romantic love? The big kahuna L-O-V-E?

Dean always thought scaling Mount Everest with a plastic beach shovel would be easier than convincing an angel to feel that way about anyone. Cas is a wave of celestial intent; waves of celestial intent don’t do anything as human, as stupid, as fall in love.

But apparently they do.

So maybe that’s why Cas has always been so hard to pin down, so eager to leave Dean all the time. He’s been off pining after this mystery guy.

Awesome.

Cas heaves a weighty sigh and finishes off his own glass of whiskey. Without another word, he half raises from his chair, reaching around the table lamp, to pour them both a second round. “I suppose there is a bit of a relief in finally saying it,” he says in a low voice. “I can’t be with him, but there is a certain amount of happiness in it being known, just being seen.”

Dean wastes no time in downing half his new drink. Throat burning in warning, he forces out, “Why - why can’t you? You’re a freaking angel - thought you could have anyone.” Dean frowns. “He’s not a civilian, is he?”

Talk about a recipe for disaster: Cas plus normal person equals uncomfortable questions and fucked up babysitting gigs.

Cas’s eyes widen. Almost imperceptibly, he shakes his head. “Ah, no, not really.”

“So he knows about angels.”

Cas gives a slow nod. “He doesn’t have a very high opinion of them, though,” he says ruefully, staring down into his glass. “They’ve made his life very difficult over the past few years.”

Dean scoffs, “He can join the club.”

Cas flinches.

“Hey, no,” Deans says quickly, “Not you.”

Cas raises head, his eyes unbearably bleak. “Why not me? I was the one who set the Leviathans and angels loose on humanity to wage their wars, among a dozen other transgressions.” He adds morosely, “Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better if a different angel rescued you from Hell after all.”

Dean blinks at Cas, his stomach turning over with dread at the very idea. He tries to picture some nameless angel yanking him out of the Pit or marching into that barn with all the righteousness of Heaven on his heels. Dean can’t do it.

Or worse, not a nameless angel. Uriel, who was ready to kill thousands without a second thought. Zachariah, that dickwad with the mind games. Even Hannah, who Dean reluctantly liked - he still can’t see her sticking by their side, falling, sacrificing everything for them.

Cas is their third wheel, the stabilizer that keeps Team Free Will upright and moving forward. Without him, they’re a tandem bicycle, and nobody wants a repeat of that opening scene from Gabriel’s sitcom from Hell.

“Yeah, but at least you always tried to do the right thing.”

“There is no try, only what I did or did not do,” Cas answers with a strange, defeated expression.

“Okay, but,” Dean starts, rolling his eyes at Cas’s butchered Star Wars reference, “Yoda’s a lot of things, but applicable to the real world without space lasers, he is not. Sometimes the only thing you can do is try, dude.”

God knows, Dean could never have forgiven Cas for any of the shit he pulled if he hadn’t been 100% positive Cas had the best of intentions. Cas did all those things to save the world, and, sometimes, to save Dean personally. Which gives him the girliest, fuzzy feelings and also makes him want to punch a wall.

Cas throws him a pitying look. “Every time I ‘try’ to make things better, I fail.” He shakes his head. “When you were taken, I searched for months to find you. Kelly escaped on my watch, and I couldn't find her. I’m a… dumbass.”

“I thought you preferred ‘trusting,’” Dean jokes, and it only sounds a little forced.

Cas throws him an exasperated look. “Perhaps a few years ago. But now? I’ve made too many mistakes, and people have suffered - you and Sam have suffered - as a result. You don’t need to spare my feelings, Dean. It’s hardly what I deserve.”

Dean frowns, tapping his fingers against his glass as he takes in Cas's defeated air. “Hey, what’s with the pity party?”

“It’s not a ‘pity party’,” Cas counters. “These are basic facts.”

Dean leans forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “You aren’t serious.”

Cas stares back. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Dean rakes his gaze up and down Cas’s face, looking for a break, for a tell - even though he knows he won’t find any. “You saved the world. A couple of times by now.”

“I also personally put it in jeopardy more than once,” Cas mutters. “I trusted Crowley to steal Purgatory. I trusted Metatron to bring peace to Heaven. I trusted Lucifer to take out the Darkness.”

Dean’s heart sinks with every reminder of Cas’s greatest hits. “Come on…”

Cas’s mouth thins, lips pressing together as he raises his glass to his mouth. “You don’t need to stay to keep me company, either,” he says in a low voice. “I’m the one under the spell. If you have anything more pressing, I can wait here for Rowena.”

“Shut up,” Dean says automatically. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Cas exhales a weighty sigh, his shoulders losing some of their tension.

“Hey, what you need - hell, what we both need - is a win,” Dean says reassuringly. “Everything’s been such shit, you need a reminder to keep going.” He gets up from his seat, his legs itching to move. “Why don’t you tell me more about that man of yours?” he asks quickly, his words nearly tripping over themselves to get out before the regret sets in. “Maybe that’s the key to getting your head back in the game.”

Cas doesn’t say anything as Dean moves to peruse a row of books he has no intention of ever reading. Eventually, Cas protests without much conviction, “My head is in the game. I am still useful.”

Dean’s head jerks around so fast it nearly gives him whiplash. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It isn’t?” Cas asks, head tilting in confusion.

Dean makes a face. “I mean, if you’re feeling down, you… shouldn’t.”

“I don’t understand.”

Dean paces to the other end of the bookshelf, unbelievably annoyed at Cas for making him spell it out for him. “Forget it,” Dean says instead. “I still owe you for ganking Billie-”

“But the cosmic consequences-”

“Will suck, but in the meantime you saved our lives. I owe you.” Dean turns so he’s back to fully facing Cas. “So, tell me what this mystery guy is into.”

Cas’s eyes narrow at him. “I’d prefer not to talk about it.”

“Seriously?”

Cas straightens and nods.

“But,” Dean says, words failing as he wars with himself. He could push Cas for more info or keep on living in blissful ignorance. But if he has to choose between his own personal peace of mind or Cas experiencing the one pinnacle of human happiness (or so Dean’s been told in countless chick flicks he’ll take to the grave), it’s no choice at all. He starts again, “If you tell me about him, it’ll make this a lot easier.”

“I don’t want it to be easier,” Cas says, baffled. “I don’t want this to be anything.”

Dean gapes. “Why the hell not?”

Cas taps his empty glass on the table, irritated. “Please, leave it alone.”

“No,” Dean says mulishly. “I wanna help you, man.”

“I don’t want any help.”

“Well, tough shit because you’re getting it anyway. You’re family-”

Cas’s face does a weird spasm.

“-And that’s what you do for family,” Dean continues, a little confused and insulted. They are family; Cas said so, back when he thought he was dying in Ramiel’s barn.

“Drop it.”

“No,” Dean argues, shoving down everything else as his temper rises. “You’re hurtin’, and I can help. Why don’t you trust me? You trusted Crowley, Metatron, fucking Lucifer-”

Too far. Shit.

Cas whirls around, his face a mask of frustration and an emotion Dean has never seen before. “I did, and you know what? They screwed me. And, please forgive me, Dean, but I am tired of being used and used up, over and over.”

Dean blinks, his anger falling away to a raw hurt only Cas can dredge up. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Cas runs a weary hand down his face. He just shakes his head.

“C’mon, Cas, it’s me,” Dean says - pleads, really. “You know me better than anyone else, ’cept Sammy. I won’t do something like that.”

Cas glares. “I do know you, so I know that is exactly what will happen.”

Dean reels back, and he can’t save himself in time before an undoubtedly pained look spreads across his face.

Cas’s hostility cracks, but Dean’s already gotten the message.

So Cas’s one big happy loving family message was only a deathbed thing. That’s… fine. Dean’s done it himself, a time or two. Told Sam to live his life and not go looking for revenge or a way to fix it - all a crock of horse shit, of course. He should’ve figured Cas was more human than angelic with that poison pumping through his veins, making him all weak and sweaty. ’Course he wasn’t above feeling human sentimentality in his death throes.

Face hardening, Dean turns on his heel. “You were right about one thing. I guess I do have more important things to do than staying here with you.”

“Dean,” he hears behind him, but Dean doesn’t look back.

* * *

Dean always hides a spare bottle of booze in the bottom drawer of the desk in his bedroom. It's mostly empty, but, hopefully, by the time Dean's polished it off, Cas’ll be cured, Rowena will be gone, and they all can pretend this never happened - Dean can pretend that Cas stopped keeping secrets because he’s learned they always blow up in his face in the past six years.

Anyway.

First, the booze.

Dean’s barely wrestled the top off with shaking fingers of leftover anger when a knock sounds against his door.

“’S the witch gone yet?” Dean asks without lifting his head.

The door opens. “Dean, it’s me.”

Dean takes a long pull of whiskey.

Cas sighs, audible in the stuffy, tension-filled space between them. He doesn’t approach, instead hovering in the doorway, and isn’t that how it always goes? Always poised for flight, that’s Cas. “Dean,” he repeats, which only makes Dean's blood boil that much hotter.

“What?” he demands. “What do you want now? ’Cause I can’t think of a single thing you need from me, Cas.”

Cas presses his lips together. “You’re making this very difficult.”

“Me?” Dean barks incredulously. “You’re the one hiding things and not letting me help you.”

“You won’t accept this is one area in which you can’t help?” Cas asks quietly.

Dean makes a scoffing noise in the back of his throat.

Cas shakes his head, his gaze focusing on Dean’s face with his patented laser intensity. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“Yeah, I’m just a jackass who can’t get a lady to stick around for more than a few hours. I get it.” He glances up to see Cas’s stricken expression. Frowning, Dean looks away.

Cas steps tentatively into Dean’s room, his face weirdly apprehensive. “That’s not what I meant at all.”

“Sure,” Dean says, tipping the bottle back like it’s water because he needs to be so much drunker to deal with Cas and his love spell bombshells right now.

Cas hovers awkwardly by Dean’s desk, his hands shoved into his coat pockets. “You’re so capable of love.”

“Cas-” Dean starts, but he has no idea where he’s going with this.

Cas keeps talking, thank God. “You don’t acknowledge that side of you very often, but I feel it every time we see each other, every time you’re with your brother. You care, you love, so wholly and completely.” Cas chuckles ruefully. “I didn’t realize it for a few years. I didn’t see how unique it was, how special you are, but you are the most selfless, loving human being I will ever know.”

Dean’s tongue finally unsticks from the roof of his mouth. Face flaming hotter than the inferno where he first met Cas eight years ago, he rasps out, “Cas - what the hell are you saying?”

Cas swallows, dragging his gaze back up to meet Dean’s wide eyes. “The reason I didn’t tell you about the love spell was because it couldn’t make me love you any more than I already do.”

Dean blinks, dumbfounded, at Cas, the words love you bouncing around his skull like a blocked radio signal. Cas said them; Dean heard them with his own two ears; but the meaning behind the words is getting lost in transmission.

As Dean’s brain struggles to make sense of just about everything, Cas nods once. “Well, now you know. I’ll go wait for Rowena’s cure in the kitchen.”

And then he leaves.

Dean slams the whiskey bottle down on his desk, cursing as it nearly topples over in his haste. He sets it right, swearing more as precious seconds pass by. He hurtles down the hall, half-convinced Cas lied to him to get a head start and is really halfway to Timbuktu.

But Dean finds Cas in the library, sitting more or less where he left him before Dean had his little wallowing session in his bedroom.

“Cas!” Dean blurts, skidding to a halt and grabbing onto the edge of the table for support.

Cas looks up, frowning. “I - “ he gives himself a little shake and starts again, “Is Rowena having trouble with the spell?”

“What?” Dean strides forward on shaky legs. “No - I mean, I don’t know. They could be fucking in a supply closet for all I care.”

Cas’s eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. For the first time today, he looks almost afraid. “Then why are you here?” he asks, his gaze darting towards the stairs to the exit. “I’m only going to stay in the Bunker until Rowena can finish. Then I will go.”

“Go?” Dean repeats, a spike of panic shooting up his spine. “You can’t.”

Cas inhales a sharp breath. “You want me to stay?”

“You want to bail?” Dean demands, his voice rising.

Cas pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. “You’re upset. This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“I’m not fucking upset!”

Cas throws him an unimpressed look. “You clearly are. Your pulse is rising. Your pupils are dilated. I can smell your elevated levels of adrenaline.”

Dean makes a face. “Dude - lines - crossed.”

“Fine,” Cas says, his face set. He gets up. “I can coordinate with Rowena at a later date. She should focus on the cursed box, anyway. It’s clearly a more pressing concern and the reason we called her in the first place.”

“Hey.” Dean takes a step forward. “Wait.”

Cas’s mouth sets in a thin line. “What do you want, Dean? I did as you asked. I told you the spell could only latch onto my feelings for you.”

Dean falters, his words failing him.

Cas’s shoulders slump. “I did warn you, you know,” he murmurs, trying to pass Dean on his way towards the door.

Dean grabs onto Cas’s bicep before he can disappear. “Gimme a moment. What you said - it’s a lot.”

Miracle of miracles, Cas stops.

Dean can practically feel the power thrumming underneath the trench coat sleeve in his grip, but Cas wordlessly lets Dean guide him back to the library table.

“Okay,” Dean starts, his head still mercilessly void of the right thing to say, “So that guy, the one you’re - well, it’s - he’s me?” he asks, stumbling over his words like he hasn’t since that one time Rhonda Hurley opened her underwear drawer.

Cas nods once, his face impossibly solemn.

“Right,” Dean grunts. He rubs at his chin, Cas watching the whole while. “That’s - wow.”

“Quite,” Cas says wryly.

“Hey, don’t be a dick,” Dean shoots back. “I had no idea.”

“That was the point,” Cas sighs. “But now you do.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, feeling like a tongue-tied idiot. If only he could be more like Cas with the grand declarations.

Cas opens his mouth, pausing for a beat before saying, “I was never intending to leave permanently. I will still help you figure out how to deal with Kelly Kline. I will still assist with research, translations, anything you need.” His blue eyes bore into Dean’s face. “I can still be useful.”

Dean’s chest aches. “Didn’t I tell you it wasn’t about that?” he asks gruffly.

Cas’s earnest expression falters. “Of course,” he says, subdued. “Regardless, know that I am always willing to help the Winchesters.”

“Jesus,” Dean mutters, “This isn’t - it’s never been - about you being goddamn useful.” He huffs an exasperated breath, frowning harder as Cas doesn’t immediately get it and launch himself at Dean.

God, that would make this so much easier.

“What you want?” Dean says, glaring daggers at the tabletop between them, “That whole, mind, body, soul crap? You got it.”

Cas blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“You already have it,” Dean says through gritted teeth.

Cas cocks his head like a perplexed chicken, still as clueless as ever.

It’s clearly time to bring out the big guns. If Cas is going to spout pretty speeches that steal Dean’s breath away and leave him weak-kneed but not actually, you know, make a move, Dean will just have to do everything himself.

Fine. That’s how he’s always operated, anyway.

Face determined, he leans over and grasps the lapels of Cas’s trench coat.

Cas leans back a fraction, his eyes widening in alarm or shock. But before he can utter another word, Dean brings their mouths together.

Cas takes a moment to get with the program. There’s a split-second (that lasts several years) when Cas almost seems to push Dean off him, but he kisses back before Dean can yank himself away first. Cas’s mouth is tentative against Dean’s, like he’s waiting for Dean to end it all and yell, “Got ya!”, but he unseals his lips with a light sigh as Dean gently parts them with his tongue.

Dean unclenches one hand from Cas’s lapel. He reaches up to cup Cas’s jaw, the raspy stubble a physical reminder of the goddamn win he’s finally getting. His knees twinge from awkwardly leaning over, but rampaging Leviathans could burst into the kitchen and Dean wouldn’t give any less of a fuck.

He has Cas right where he wants him, and he’s going to fucking savor it for as long as he can.

When Cas pulls away, his face shows nothing but pure confusion. “Why?” he breathes, raising a finger to touch his lips.

Dean, still half-standing, half-leaning over him, frowns. He falls back to his seat with a thump. “Because you weren’t going to do it first?”

Cas blinks. “I didn’t think you wanted anything like that,” he pauses, “with me.”

Like there’s anyone else around who wants to get real up close and personal with the most dumbass angel in the garrison.

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, the faintest inklings of embarrassment creeping in now they’re not kissing anymore and Cas’s first reaction isn’t to look like he got free tickets to Disneyland. “I did. Do.”

“Oh.”

Dean swallows past the lump in his throat.

Cas looks away from Dean for the first time, and Dean dies a little inside. Stiffy, Cas says, “If this is some misguided attempt to show your sympathy for my situation. I don’t appreciate the gesture.”

“Gesture?” Dean echoes, “What the hell are you on, man? I don’t kiss random dudes because I feel bad for them, Christ.”

“Then why?”

Dean grimaces. “You’re really going to make me say it?”

“Yes,” Cas says quickly, his gaze raking up and down Dean’s face. “I have misunderstood your actions in the past, and I have no desire to do it again.”

Dean groans. “Look, I didn’t think angels could have feelings like that.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Or I would’ve… done something about it sooner,” he says, and that’s mostly true. Probably would’ve tried to seduce Cas, failed, and then jumped off a cliff, but Cas doesn’t need to know that.

“Well, normal angels can’t,” Cas says, “but there’s something broken in me.”

“You’re not broken,” Dean swears loudly, his anger flaring. “You’re… better. A new and improved God Squad, far as I can tell.” He narrows his eyes, daring Cas to talk shit about himself one more time.

Cas bites his lip. “You truly mean it.”

Dean tries for a mocking leer, but it comes out more like a dopey, hopeful smile. “You wanna get it engraved? Put up in neon in the Dean cave?” he asks, eyebrows raised as excitement courses through his veins. Cas loves him. Dean can make good on all those what ifs that have been plaguing him for years. “Tattooed on my ass?”

Cas chuckles lightly. “That would be a start.”

Dean lets out a bark of laughter. He can already feel the insecurities looming on the horizon. There’s always a catch: Cas never stays; Cas might want Dean now, but he’ll fly away the moment Dean fucks up because he has no idea what he’s doing.

But none of that matters right now.

He kissed Cas.

And Cas didn’t smite him. Didn't tell him to fuck off. Didn't flutter off to the moon for shits and giggles.

Cas knows him, knows him better than anyone except Sam. And despite all the fucked up shit in Dean's head, Cas is staying anyway, with his eyes wide open like nobody else Dean has ever been with.

Cas smiles in return. “If I had known a love spell would result in this outcome, I would have sought out that witch ages ago.”

And just like that, all Dean’s happy-ending fantasies come to a screeching halt.

Read Part II here!

[bonesofapoet]

From Dusk ‘Til Dawn

[marcus lopez arguello x you]

author’s note: i dunno about you guys, but i miss this show So Much, and i wont disappear from this fandom again!! you know, probably. (used to write for deadly class under ladyofstadvst) also, this prompt is like ten years old but im still a sucker for it so here! we! are!

word count: 1148

ao3: @ ladyofstardvst (apparently tumblr doesnt like links anymore??)

two times Marcus wanted to kiss you, and the one time he did.

I.

Marcus Lopez Arguello couldn’t remember the last time he paid attention to the world around him.

He noticed thunderstorms and sunshine, knew when it was cold enough to snow. Saw the leaves begin to change from bright, leafy greens to honey gold and russet red. Of course he saw these things. He simply stopped caring about little happenings when Reagan killed his parents.

The last memory he had of a sunset . . . he couldn’t remember.

And he still couldn’t, even with the one painting the sky right before his eyes. Because when it was transforming into a radiant Monet as the sun descended down, down, down below the skyline, then the harbor -

The only place that held his attention was you.

You, with a smile that tugged the corners of your lips up towards your eyes. Eyes that reflected the deep violets melting into vibrant magentas and swirling with heavenly golden clouds. You, standing next to him in awe at the raw beauty this world had to offer for no cost but your time.

The air had become tinted with that specific shade of pastel pink, and Marcus had to catch his breath. His chest tightened, hands began to shake just enough to be noticed. He shoved them in his pockets so you wouldn’t see.

He would trade all the sunsets in the world just to feel your lips against his own. He would do it in a heartbeat.

II.

This time, it’s different.

Power outages darkened the city, torrential rain threatened to flood the streets, shutting down trains and buses, and no, don’t even think about walking. Wind came alive to uproot small trees and gift certain people with wings. It rattled the glass of Lost Innocence Comics right inside of its frames.

You and Marcus were soaked to the bone after stepping outside to just get a look down the street.

Great, he groaned, slamming his head against the locked door. The C L O S E D sign rattled against the glass. We’re fucking stuck here.

In front of him, the clouds changed from heather gray to deep navy and, within minutes, they were almost midnight black. It began to look like night had come to call early.

“Think we can find some candles around here?”

“Uh,” Marcus scrambled to collect himself, turned to face you in the fading light. “Who knows, there’s all kinds of shit in back.”

An eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Lead the way, then.”

Thunder rumbled low and followed you into the small storeroom. It was all damp concrete and chaos and muted rainfall past the small window lodged into the far wall.  Bright, violent flashes of lightning accompanied scavenged flashlight beams as you scored a box of matches. Marcus balanced the half-burned pillars he found on a stack of inventory crates to breathe the treasured warmth of fire into the darkness.

Your chilled bones didn’t complain, either.

Flickers of flame danced across you both, the silence slowly growing thick with that special sort of tension. The kind that was only present when something big was about to happen, or when no one had anything left to lose. It would have become overwhelming, but then – then. You were closer to each other than you had been before. Closer than the moment that had just passed. Maybe it was the sharp crack of thunder that made your heart beat faster when his lips were drawing so close to yours -

A bright, harsh light filled the room and you both jerked apart.

The power kicked back on, and the worst of the storm had passed.

III.

Things were different after Vegas.

Distant, secretive, hushed.

A fog followed them around like a phantom that thrived on fear, and fear alone. The friends who came back were not the same people who left the day before, not really. Those mere hours seemed to age them years, decades, eons.

Maybe it was smart that you bailed on them with Willie. You wondered if the abandonment of their two friends led to their downfall.

That was the thing about King’s Dominion - death clung to it’s students like a cloak one could never shed. You didn’t always want to rush off to meet danger at it’s doorstep when you didn’t have to. There was value in a quiet, comfortable weekend spent in your room, thank you very much. So you turned them down.

But that was the thing.

There was no such thing as comfort in a place like King’s, in a life that trained the next generation of assassins. It felt detached somehow, the reality that there were no safety nets, no promise of a life growing old, no promise of even growing at all. Comfort, ease, dreams – those ceased to exist the day anyone walked through those monstrous front doors.

Marcus forgot that too, sometimes.

Vegas reminded him that life was so impossibly fleeting, invincibility certainly did not exist, and there was no fucking time to live safely when there was nothing safe about life in the first place. When all you really had were ghosts that didn’t yet exist, and nightmares of the ghosts already born from your own making.

When San Francisco greeted them in the early morning sunlight, Marcus Lopez Arguello found himself heading straight to your dorm.

I almost died, he greeted you with tired eyes and a rough voice. Like. Five fucking times.

He watched as your eyes drifted over his silhouette propped against the door frame, all bruised and bloody boy. You expected nothing less at this point.

“But you didn’t.” came your reply.

“No,” he said. You were so close that it had gotten difficult to breathe – and, no, it wasn’t because of his bruised ribs. Probably. “I didn’t die.”

The unspoken ‘yet’ hung in the air, the elephant in your room.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t with-”

The dam inside Marcus cracked, hitched, broke.

There wasn’t a universe where he would allow you to apologize for something he had no right to ask for in the first place. No universe where he would allow death to take him home before he did the small things. The important things.

The kind of things that almost dying in an alleyway dumpster in Las Vegas made him realize mattered.

He kissed you, and you kissed him back.

It was hesitant, at first. All soft lips and warm breath questioning if this was real, if this was happening, if maybe Marcus really was dead after all. Then passion crept in, the comfort of his arms wrapped around you, your hands threaded through his hair, his own pulled you closer and closer and closer.

He was so very much alive, with a pounding heartbeat to prove it. With your skin grazing his, with your breath in his lungs. For the first time in a long time, he was so very grateful to be alive.

[coke-and-candy]

A Little Competition Never Hurt Anyone: Part One

Alya is hoping that her contest entry, that she wrote about a certain someone, will finally be the solid proof that Marinette needs to open her eyes and see that Lila is not a bad person. Unfortunately, sometimes the best intentions can be misguided and trust misplaced...

This is a little fic idea that I have had for a while now. I’ve read plenty of salt-fics and I think it’s time to let go of the bitterness that the writers have instilled in us over their poor decisions and writing of the characters we love. Let’s start the new year with a little heartbreak and a little bit of redemption. :)

Edit: Now on FF.net! (link) and AO3 (link)

Part 2! (link)

Alya Césaire was many things…

She was a blogger, an up-in-coming journalist, a proud self-proclaimed superhero enthusiast, passionate, stubborn…

But most importantly she was determined.

It was this unstoppable force of will that was one of her greatest strengths. In her mind at least—her parents and the Paris police department may have a few choice words in regards to her obsessions at times, specifically when it came to recording akuma battles for the Ladyblog…

But she couldn’t help it! Once Alya set her mind to something, she committed her heart and soul to it. She would move mountains and cross oceans to achieve the goal that she had set herself. It also something that, in her mind, made her a good friend. The blogger would never hesitate to stand up for her friends and she was most definitely a ‘ride or die’ type of gal when it came to the people she held dear to her. There wasn’t anything she wasn’t willing to do if it meant helping out the people she cared about.

It’s why she was so invested in making Adrinette happen, her bestie, Marinette, deserved to have her happily-ever-after and get the guy of her dreams. The young Chinese-French biracial fashion designer deserved to have some good karma come her way. She was always working so hard to help everyone else achieve their dreams and goals, killing it as class rep, designing for big names like Jagged Stone and Clara Nightingale, helping out her parents in best bakery in all of Paris, AND she was such a big help when it came to watching the twins so Alya and Nino could have an extra date or two (even if they did tend to dump them on her last minute…).  

So if anyone deserved for the universe to smile on him or her for all the good that they do it was Marinette Dupain-freaking-Cheng.

Alya would fight anyone who said otherwise.

The only other person that Alya personally knew who did as much good was Lila Rossi, the new girl who had joined their class a few months into the school year.

The Italian student had already done so much and was continuing to do so much good for the world! What with her numerous charitable works around the world and all the other awesome stuff that she had done, such as rescuing Jagged Stone’s kitten and consulting with Hollywood directors for their next big film projects, just to name a few things. Alya honestly couldn’t remember them all… Plus! Being Ladybug’s BFF!

If Alya didn’t live in Paris, which was currently being terrorized by some major jerk that used magical butterflies to use people’s emotions against them and turn them into unpredictable monsters, AND hadn’t met Marinette—someone with QUITE the impressive resume all on her own (like seriously, that girl was too humble sometimes)—Alya would have thought that Lila was a bit too good to be true…

But Paris had taught her that NOTHING is as impossible as it seems.

Plus, why would anyone lie about those kinds of things? Alya had no reason to NOT believe Lila when she suddenly had to leave town for a few days in order to attend a fundraising event halfway across the world for homeless animals.

So one would think that Marinette and Lila couldn’t be anything BUT friends, considering how amazing both girls were but that was were everything stopped making sense.

After all, they were both kind, selfless, supportive, cheerful people who were fun to be around and both of them were well accomplished, bright young girls.

But for some reason Marinette just didn't want anything to do with the other girl. The moment Lila was mentioned Marinette would start to close off or not partake in the conversation until it had moved on to a new topic. Or if they were all hanging out as a group, Marinette would put as much distance between her and Lila without just straight up leaving. She never wanted to do any group projects with Italian girl, unless they were randomly assigned, the fashion designer always bailed on girls only activities if she knew Lila was going to be there, and would leave earlier if they didn’t tell her.

Alya just couldn’t understand it. Lila was a nice, sweet, and amazing girl! She was sure that if Marinette would just set her jealousy aside for a minute she would be able to see that and then she and Lila could become great friends.

The aspiring journalist knew that Marinette was capable of it too! She had been able to do it with Kagami

The two Asian girls were now really good friends and were hanging out more as well. There was a steady stream of pictures from Marinette’s Instagram showing the two of them having fun together. Even though Kagami was her main competition when it came to winning Adrien’s heart, it didn’t get in the way of the two of them going out for tea or watching those weird Brazilian dramas they both seemed to like. Hell! The female fencer had even now made it up onto Marinette’s famous picture wall along side all of her other friends from class.

So why couldn’t Marinette do the same for Lila?

Lila didn’t even like Adrien that way! Lila had told Alya that in confidence. So what if the Italian got to model alongside the younger Agreste and spend a lot more time with him? That didn’t mean that she was going to steal him away from Marinette. Lila was NOT that kind of girl.

It was starting to really wear on Alya that two of her closest friends—who were also two of the most amazing people she had ever met—couldn’t be in the same room together without some sort of drama starting up. It usually ended with Lila in tears and Marinette leaving because she was unwilling to apologize. For all of her journalistic and reporter skills Alya could not come up with a logical reason as to why Marinette Dupain-Cheng and Lila Rossi could not be friends.

Then, one day, after another one of these drama filled episodes (they had been talking about their intended Lycee coursework plans) Alya had gotten a notification her phone for an upcoming contest and was struck with inspiration for an absolutely ingenious plan!

If Marinette was unwilling to get past her own jealousy and pettiness and see that Lila was genuinely good person then it was up to Alya to prove it to her… and she knew just the way to do it.

La Compétition Olmpe de Gouges.

One of the biggest and most prestigious journalism contests in all of France that was open to all school age and university students. With many former winners, especially for the higher levels, going on to win other highly sought after internships and being accepted into some of the best journalism programs from around the world.  

The theme for this year’s competition: future leaders.

According to the prompt, students would have to write and present a biography about a young person who showed promise as a future leader, the impact they have already had in their community, their achievements, their possible impact in the future, and why it is that they are someone for the world to keep an eye on.

And the young blogger knew exactly whom this prompt would be perfect to write about.

Lycee was just around the corner and Alya wanted to start her Lycee career right with a few professional internships or recognitions underneath her belt. She used to think that her blog would give her a big boost when it came to her extra-curricular activities but after meeting Lila… well it just made Alya realize that she needed to step up her game.

Even just placing in the top twenty would be a big boost for Alya’s writing resume!

Double bonus if this was finally what could convince Marinette to swallow her pride, apologize for not really giving Lila a chance, and FINALLY everyone could friends.

This was a win-win situation all around!

The only downside she could possibly see is if Marinette remained stubborn and refused to face the facts and evidence that Alya was about to practically layout in front of her.

But Alya was confident that she could write and a create a presentation good enough to, not only make it to the final rounds, but ALSO convince the budding designer that she had been wrong about their newest classmate this whole time.

As Alya sat down at her desk she opened up her laptop and pulled up the webpage for the contest and made sure to carefully study the rules, guidelines, and the criteria that the entrees would be judged on. Sloppy work was not something Alya planned on turning in. She pulled out a notepad and started brain storming and outlining some ideas she already had, as well as everything she knew about Lila. Sure there seemed to be some blanks and inconsistencies but Alya was just pulling what she could from her memory at the moment.

Lila had done so many awesome things and she was currently doing even more at the moment that it was hard to keep track of everything. She would have to ask her for more information later but for now Alya was content in just brain storming and outlining. Editing and proofreading may not always be something she always got a chance to do, especially with some of her more recent blog posts, but news tended to happen quickly. Blink and you would miss something. Luckily, the contest deadline was not for another six weeks so Alya had plenty of time to clean everything up and get her facts and sources straight.

It was best to get all of her ideas out at once and then go back to organize them later, just to make sure she didn't lose anything she wanted to touch upon in her entry.

The next thing she had to do was make sure that no one knew what she was up to.

She wanted this to be a surprise.

Alya had realized early on that the best way to get Marinette to agree to something was to not give her enough time to overthink things like she tended to do. Even thought it was a little harsh sometimes… but it was honestly for the girl’s own good.

Sometimes a little spontaneity was a good thing, and Lila had told her the other day about how she had volunteered with a charity that specialized in helping with mental health disorders like anxiety and depression. She had then told her all about the new study that was showing promise by putting people with anxiety into situations where there was no chance for them to think about what was ‘supposedly’ stressing them out and thus teaching them that those stressors were no big deal after all. It was still in the early stages of testing but Lila had assured her that the people she was helping were already making major progress in dealing with their anxiety.

Plus, when Marinette did finally get a chance to see her work Alya wanted to make sure that Marinette listened with an unbiased opinion and an open mind.

As Alya continued to write everything she knew about what Lila had done and was currently doing, and all the reasons as to why she was definitely someone who would be sure to make a huge positive impact on the world in the future, she could feel a sense of pride in her friends and in herself.

How lucky she was to have crossed passed with someone so selfless and so remarkable. Especially, when you factored in the fact that Lila didn’t even need to wear a mask and use magic jewelry to do good in the world. But what did she expect from someone who was Ladybug’s best friend? It made sense that someone as awe-inspiring as Ladybug was bound to be close to someone like Lila.

The more Alya brainstormed the more her excitement for this contest grew. She could already picture it…

Her giving her presentation in front of all of her friends and family, Marinette and Lila putting their past beef behind them and hanging out like the good friends Alya just knew they could be…

Alya just knew that this contest was the key to it.

She was absolutely sure of it!

And she was determined to prove it.

-----

We all know where this is going...