#who else wants this little pompom?

[itsnixderlol]

Hamsterpom

[gojoidyll]

Sunday joins the Astral Express, and Dan Heng gets easily jealous of how close you two are.

fem!reader

Dan Heng furrowed his brow as he watched you grab onto Sunday’s hand and tug him behind you, “come on! I’ll give you a tour!”

He was only brought out of his thoughts when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“I wouldn’t worry too much, she is just being nice to him.”

“Must she act so familiar with him though,” he fired back without even looking at Himeko who tried to comfort him the best she could.

Sighing a little, Himeko kept her small smile, “y/n probably just doesn’t want Sunday to feel alone. Before you and the others joined the Astral Express it was just her, Welt and me taking care of the Stellarons and trailblazing our own path. And she… was… always so distant. Broken almost. But then she met you and March and then Stelle joined too. And she finally started to smile again.”

Dan Heng fully turned towards Himeko then.

“All I’m saying,” she said continuing, “is that she just doesn’t want to isolate Sunday despite what has happened between all of us in Penacony.”

“And of course this is the main train car! We mainly gather up here when we’re about to warp.”

Dan Heng looked back to where you were his eyes once again training on how your hand held onto Sunday’s…, or was Sunday holding onto you. He huffed. He new is was petty, but he couldn’t stop feeling that jealousy well up inside of him as you continued to pull Sunday around.

“Hey, Dan Heng! Why so frowny?”

When you spotted him, you had immediately trotted over to him, Sunday in tow.

“I’m not frowny,” he said even as he didn’t do much to try to change his soured expression.

“Could have fooled me,” you tried to joke.

Sunday, all the while, was watching you both carefully. The weight of your palm in his hand becoming increasingly apparent as the pieces started to fall into place. You… were a bit oblivious, but he didn’t mind that. Dan Heng did though.

Well, whatever. Sunday was used to fighting for his place. So if he had to fight for your hand too, then so be it.

“Oh! Are we leaving now,” you said excitedly when PomPom’s voice broke out over the intercom to let everyone know they should prepare to warp.

Everyone else was already getting ready as you grabbed Dan Heng’s hand with your free one, “let’s all sit together!”

And even as you tugged them both along, their eyes caught one another instead. A silent rivalry formed instantaneously.

[writingouthere]

neighbor!sukuna x singlemom!reader. Sukuna picks up your daughter from school, he makes quite the impression and we learn more about his background.

cw: None really here except I guess this is low key becoming a slow burn, idk.

You were stuck at work and didn't have anyone else who could go get your daughter so you had asked Sukuna. The tattoo shop was usually slow in the evening this far into winter anyway, and he couldn't imagine saying no to you even if he'd been fully booked.

It felt strange to be going outside when it was still light out but Sukuna took in the sights as other people walked around, other parents clearly in the process of picking up their children from school.

Not that Bug was his kid, at least not as far you knew. Yet.

Sukuna didn't do things halfway, just wasn't in his nature. He knew he was moving fast, he had put up with his little brother Yuji's nervous protests at dinner the week before when he had explained his new living situation, but he wasn't going to slow things down when they were going so well.

For a long time, it had just been him and Yuji. There had been other relatives, like Yuji's grandfather and his freak of a mother, but the two had mostly bounced around foster homes and made due until Sukuna was old enough to take care of them both. Yuji was graduating college in the spring and Sukuna had been alone since he left for the dorms and now he had an apartment with some friends from school. Sukuna was proud of his brother, he was one of the only people he really gave a fuck about. Their lives had been hard and that had made Sukuna even harder. Yuji had never been like that, he had come through even kinder than the average person and Sukuna could admire the strength that showed in it's own way.

The point was, Sukuna had paid his dues. He had done right by his brother even when the world had done them so wrong and now he was ready for his reward. You and the little girl he was about to go get.

The daycare was inside of a little beige building, decorated with those tacky outlines of children playing and some fucking mural with birds that always seemed to cover the walls of places like this. Parents, mostly moms, walked out with their children in tow, asking about their days and zipping up coats. Sukuna noticed the double takes as they took him in, the way the adults seemed to pull their little ones closer. That was fine by him, he didn't want any of these fucking rugrats near him except his own.

"Ryomen Sukuna, mom should have added me to the pick-up list," he told your daughter's teacher, showing her his ID. She didn't react to his tattoos or general aura with anything but a smile and he supposed that childcare workers must be aware more than most that they really do let anyone be a parent.

"Of course, I'll go get her while you sign here," she said handing over a clipboard with the names of all the kids in the center along with blue pen with a fuzzy pompom attached to it. While he was signing his name he heard a familiar squeal and looked to see your daughter running towards him as fast as her little legs could carry her.

"Sukuna!"

She tripped on some particularly tricky air and Sukuna moved forward to pick her up before she could face plant on the hard tile.

"Careful there bug, told mom I'd bring you home in one piece."

She ignored him and started babbling nonsense about her day that Sukuna could only really catch half of, but he nodded and hmmed as he finished signing her out and with a quick nod to the amused staff member, he headed out.

He shifted her on his hip so he could finish zipping up her coat. What was it with kids and their refusal to just zip up their damn coats? He remembered Yuji had been the same.

Bug continued to regale him with tales of her day until she eventually squirmed on his hip, the universal signal for "put me down until I get tired and whine for you to pick me up again" and Sukuna put her down on the sidewalk but took her backpack which he slung across his shoulder and then grabbed her hand with his. He could see people take second looks at the two of them and he supposed they cut quite the picture. The tall scary guy with tattoos carrying a pink princess backpack and the little girl pulling him down the sidewalk.

"We in a rush or something?"

Your daughter laughed and said something about being hungry for dinner with mommy which he could get behind. You both had only been living with him for a week but you already had a bit of a routine. He made breakfast in the morning while you got the kid ready but you always made dinner that was ready when he got home. It was nice, domestic. It felt like what he imagined life was like for people who had normal families when he had been a young kid. Holding a crying, hungry baby Yuji on his lap while they ate whatever he could scrounge up in whatever shithole they were in that week.

He remembered when Yuji had been the same age as your daughter and the idea of her ever living in the places they had, or going through the things they had made him pull her a little closer.

He wasn't going to lie to himself and say he was a good man or that he wanted you, the both of you, for some pure love nonsense but he knew he wanted you all the same. He had done terrible things and he would do them all over again if it led to this moment where he watched as your daughter cooed over the neighbor's dog. Said neighbor looking at him in confusion and fear as he told your daughter they needed to leave the fleabag alone and go home.

Later, when Sukuna was working on dinner and your daughter was sitting on the counter, "helping", he heard the sound of a key in the lock.

"I'm home," you called out and Sukuna called out that they were in the kitchen.

"Hey, thank you so much for getting her. I just wasn't going to make it in time," you said, picking up your daughter.

"No worries, we weren't busy at the shop today anyway." You hummed and smiled at him.

"Still."

"You can go ahead and change," he told you and you looked ready to protest when he went to grab your daughter from you but then Bug went willingly and he saw how you melted at the two of them. Good.

"Okay, but when I get back I'm taking over dinner."

Sukuna agreed and he watched as you walked away, admiring the way your clothes hugged your frame. He was glad the only witness to his hunger was a toddler who was more interested in poking his cheek than observing social cues.

The rest of the evening passed peacefully and Sukuna felt what he could only describe as content. When your daughter started to nod off on your shoulder, you got up from the couch to take her to bed, telling Sukuna he should stay and that you got it. With your daughter on one hip, you used your free hand to press against his shoulder and lean down to where he was still on the couch. He closed his eyes at the feeling of your lips pressing gently against his cheek and then with a quick goodnight, the two of you were in your room, the door closing with a quick 'click'.

The gesture had been so innocent and Sukuna would have mocked anyone he knew who got so flustered over a gesture as meaningless as a kiss on the cheek.

But how could any gesture be meaningless when it came from you?

[love-of-the-red-star]

That time I got reincarnated as an Aeon

(Series)

Chapter six: A place to belong

(Unedited, like the rest of the series)

Outer space had always been cold.

Your body didn’t suffer the effects of the temperature, yet you still felt the chill of the void on your skin. The stars and their dusts glowed around you, decorating your space in the most beautiful way that your human self could never dream of.

You thought of your family in your previous life and wondered how they were, if they were alright, if they were eating well and living well.

You also came to realize you weren’t homesick at all.

Materializing in the express and glancing at Welt made you feel a humane sense of relief in knowing you aren’t the only one who wanted to badly convey that you were safe in this new world you resided in.

Unlike Welt though, you don’t have the luxury of ever returning to what once was, or have the choice in having the best of both worlds. Your existence was cemented in this world permanently the moment you became the embodiment of a concept and a being no longer human.

You can’t turn back. It’s a little funny that though you represented freedom, you don’t have the luxury of ever returning to something simpler. You did not have the freedom to return to be the being you once were.

You can emulate human expressions, you can still feel, but you know you’re not really seeing or feeling things the way a human would anymore.

You’re not disturbed by this in the slightest.

You snapped out of your thoughts and walked towards your room then thought of how you’d decorate it— maybe something similar to a bachelor pad? No, Pompom would not be a fan. Maybe something similar to the archives? No, you’d be stealing Dan Heng’s shine.

Then you remembered cozy cabins, quilts, books, all things comfortable and got an idea.

You walked out of your room to seek Pompom and Himeko, ready to lay out your idea in personalizing that little space inside of this train— now that you think of it, it’s more of a house than anything else.

You realized having a home feels comforting more than it ought to be. As an Aeon, your home was the cosmos, the space being your cradle and the nebulas your walls; but the cosmos is hollow and cold, and it did not provide the warmth of the train, or the warmth only humans had.

While you could not go back to being what you were before, you at least had a choice in what your home should be, and what you could do.

“Himeko.” You called out to her, and she turned to you, smiling like you’re a kid that wants her company. “I have ideas to personalize my room, would you be fine if I were to be a bit loud in there for a bit?”

“I don’t mind, though you should ask Dan Heng-“

“I’m fine with it.” Dan Heng answered for her, sitting on a chair and tasting one of her coffee cups— you bit the urge to grimace at the sheer will he had to even drink that.

“Great! I’ll start when we’re on our next stop.” You said with a grin. “Herta got something heavy for us to do right? Leave it to me, think of it as a thank you and a vacation of some sorts.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to burden you.” She sounded cautious almost, even after more than eight years.

“It won’t be much. Besides, you do own this train, think of it as a courtesy— like a tenant paying rent.” You stated, “I shared this space with you for more than eight years now and I’m modifying an area to my liking, it’s only fair if you get something in return in exchange right?”

Her eyes widened, seemingly surprised. She parted her lips, as if wanting to say something but you gently shushed her, knowing what it is she wanted to say. You’ve already given your protection and blessing to the express— you didn’t even need to help, but you want to.

“[Name].” She sighed fondly. “You can do as you wish, you don’t need permission from me or anyone else.”

“Oh, isn’t asking permission how things work in a shared space though?” You tilted your head, frowning. “I know I’ve done pretty unsavory things outside of this train,” you twirled a strand of your hair, looking away as you felt Dan Heng’s questioning stare on you. “But I don’t mind having to go back and forth with this every time I want to do something inside of it. it’d be unfair for everyone here if I don’t consider their feelings in the matter, or warning them ahead of time to what I will be doing.”

“Ah, I see.” She said, nodding to let you know she understood your point with a relieved and fond smile on her face. “Very well then. I’ll tell Welt you’ll be going to fetch the materials Herta asked for on your own.”

“We’ll have fun next time I promise— ugh if only Void was dead so I could use his body.” That sounded wrong, but soulium is great to use for whatever reason— be it a weapon, a snowboard, or a pan. “Hey uh before we land…. please tell Welt that (Censored).”

With those words, you left, disintegrating from the activation of a space anchor as you saw the planet where the materials on Herta’s list were particularly abundant.

Dan Heng for once looked a little horrified, Himeko however could only sigh at your antics.

What even was your suggestion? Well, it involves using Void as a snowboard, and using his “son” as the brakes.

Those words would be horrifying enough to hear if you were a man.

“Don’t worry, they won’t do that to you.” Himeko said in an attempt to reassure him. Although it worked, the words still rang through his head.

———————————

As you hummed and gathered the materials after killing a couple of Nanook’s children, you heard bells, then giggling.

You sighed. “You’re not very subtle in showing your amusement for the shit I do you know?”

You could feel them smiling, before multitudes of masks enter your vision and the sound of party balloons fill the space at the corner of your eyes.

The Elation morphs into a human-like shape like you, and you’re not surprised to find out whose form they took.

Familiar green eyes, and dark hair. Of course it would be Belobog’s conman this time— the last time Aha had showed themselves to you they took on the form of Hanabi when you were in some planet with Boothill some years ago.

“Of course! It’s rude to greet a friend without announcing my presence.” They grinned, their smile stretching a little wider than what a normal human could smile. You think this would have utterly creeped you out had you been a human.

“Good to see you again, Aha.” You said.

“And you are still the same old you.” They poked your nose. “What fun are you going to pull next I wonder?” They jeered.

“None of your business— I didn’t think you cared. I was under the assumption that as long as you are elated, then all is well.” Aha laughed at your intentional wording, slapping their knee as they wheezed too loudly.

“This is why you are my good friend.” They pinched your cheeks. “To think you’d offer all sides of a theater just like this, did you enjoy it when you were behind the safety of your screen too?”

What the fuck.

“What do you mean by that?” You innocently prodded, Aha merely kept their grin wide like a Cheshire Cat, their form morphing into something.. wrong, off, inelegant and disproportionate if you looked closer.

“Oh you know well what I am talking about, Little Libertas.” They said. “A reborn Aeon from a realm none of us can reach, how amusing indeed.” their eyes widened, pupils blown as they confirmed your suspicion. Aha had no reason to speak of lies to you for they were not human.

“Ugh.” You groaned. “Of course you’d break the fourth wall.” You said softly as you went back to picking up the materials with ease.

“Yet you still laugh whenever I rickroll you.”

“Fair.”

Aha hummed, their features returning back to normal seeing as it didn’t get a reaction out of you as they wanted.

“I would like to watch you more.” They said to you. “You are amusing.”

You made a face, and they laughed as they slowly but surely disappeared.

“Until next time little friend.”

You sighed, looking at the materials inside of the sack before dragging it with you and walking to a space anchor.

You still have a room to renovate after all.

—————————-

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII (HERE), Part VIII, …….

Interludes: one, two…..

I’m still navigating on how I could properly write this fic, so when I eventually edit it please expect minor or major changes to how things would function because we know HSR lore isn’t that concrete yet.

I would also like to thank everyone for their love and support for this series, I love everyone’s praises towards this— I was initially hesitant to publish it, but I’m glad I did.

See you on the next installation!

[whoopsyeahokay]

Control Freak

summary: prompt fill. Wally needs to be in control at all times, or else the world is going to end. unless he's with you, the only person who can step in and take over without his brain screaming at him. (request)

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: smut lite. flashfic. Wally Clark is brat. consensual mindfuckery. sub-adjacent!Wally Clark. possessive mentality. Wally Clark has control issues.

bon reading, frens

___________________________🍑

Control Freak

Wally is always in control.

Running the show. Calling the shots. Cool and confident in the driver's seat.

Friend group can't make a decision? Wally spearheads a whole itinerary. Mama can't tell the neighbor that their new hedges encroach on the Clarks' side of the property line? Wally plasters on his best smile and convinces Mr. Griffiths to take action.

MVP of the football team; Coach's favorite player to come along in a decade. Enmeshed with student council to the point that they listen to his ideas without question. Teachers adore him, peers want to be him. Hell, Bud Binns trusts Wally enough to let him close the auto repair shop on his own, acting manager when Bud can't be on the floor.

Wally's image is the perfect combination of natural and intentional—a little bit of charm, a lot of matching auras—to ensure he gets what he wants from the world, and it works.

He's not oblivious. He knows it's an anxiety thing. The reins need to be tight for him to feel safe, solid, secure as he moves through each day. In the past, he tried loosening up a little and learned he's just not built to relax how his nervous system needs him to. Because if he does, everything breaks.

So, Wally stays completely. utterly. in control.

...

......

.........

Except with you.

Standing on the other side of the gym, talking to Some Guy as you help Claire hand out cupcakes for her campaign to be Homecoming Queen. And Some Guy is smiling at you like you're the center of his universe, all straight teeth and crinkled eyes, and Wally hates him instantly. Faster than instantly. Wally's waited to hate him since Some Guy was born, and that hate activates on sight.

Wally festers at Rodney's table, unable to drum up the magnetism that Rodney recruited Wally for to get those sweet votes to be elected Homecoming King. A girl tries to chat to him, lovely and shy and almost in awe of him—just what he likes—but he can't focus. Hardly hears himself as he answers her questions.

Did he just agree to something?

Hopefully not.

His gaze keeps drifting back to you every second. You and Some Guy. Laughing with each other. His hand on your shoulder, your demeanor totally open and friendly, and why are you entertaining that kind of interaction with someone who isn't Wally, huh?

You hand Some Guy a cupcake, tell him something Wally interprets as flirty, and then Some Guy waltzes away with a blush that Wally wants to wipe off Some Guy's face with his fist.

You're not supposed to do that.

You must feel Wally's eyes on you, because you turn your head, placid, and catch his eye. Stare for a moment before a slow, easy smile spreads on your pretty pink lips, giving Wally an obvious elevator look before cutting your appraisal short to address the next potential voter.

Unbothered. Unaware that Wally is this close to losing his shit where he stands because he can't do a damn thing about it.

No one knows about this arrangement between you and him (your prerogative). Not yet, anyway, so as much as he wants to, he can't charge over there and make you understand that that smile and those eyes are for Wally only.

It takes insurmountable effort to stay put at Rodney's table and pretend everything is normal for the next forty-five minutes, but Wally does it. Somehow. Fraying at the edges, steadily losing his mind as he watches the litany of conventionally attractive dudes rope you and Claire and Chloe into conversation.

About what? Pompoms and rom coms? What are you talking about to Some Guy 2.0 that has you giggling like that?!

As soon as Rodney dismisses him, Wally's off, slicing across the gym on a mission.

You don't acknowledge him when he steps over the threshold of your personal space, still discussing tomorrow's cheer practice with Claire, easy-breezy and aloof, as if Wally can wait; his time—his sanity—doesn't matter. Winding him up until he's so tightly coiled he could spring into orbit.

Finally, you greet him with a smile, eyes knowing as they travel up the length of him again from shoes to sockets. You don't speak, just tilt your head in the direction of the door as you gather your bag. A quick hug for Chloe, a wave to Claire, and you swan to the exit, Wally hot at your heels.

You stay a step ahead of him, hips swaying, smiling at acquaintances in the hall. Meanwhile, Wally's losing it by the second, the top of his head about to blow off, he's so frustrated. And you just. Don't. Notice.

Pleated skirt bouncing, legs on display, waist beckoning Wally's hands to grab hold bruise, mark your skin to make sure everyone fucking knows you're off the market. Totally disregarding that you told Wally you don't want to advertise anything too soon; want to enjoy the bubble while it lasts; want to be selfish with him.

Can't hurt to leave a mark or two anyway. Who'll know it's the impression of Wally's teeth on your throat?

You lead Wally to his car, wait patiently for him to open the door for you, staring at your phone as you slide into the seat and get comfortable.

The longer you don't speak, the more Wally's blood begins to feel electrified, shooting signals to his brain that everything is wrong and he needs to fix it.

This isn't how he planned his day.

When he tries to instigate conversation, you answer with a hum or a slanted smile. Wally white-knuckles the steering wheel the whole way to your house, his gaze intense as he watches the road and thinks obsessively about how to get you to say something, anything.

As soon as he pulls up to the curb, you're out, flouncing toward the walkway that leads to your front door. Wally watches you stop halfway and turn to look over your shoulder, gaze sharp when it lands on him.

"Let's go," And it's a command that Wally's entire being is persuaded to obey, a trained mongrel jumping at the snap of your fingers.

He practically falls out of his car, tripping over his feet as he hurries behind you. Up the front steps, through the door, and into your quiet house. He doesn't know where your parents are, if someone's home, or if you and he are actually alone.

Still barely acknowledging him, you head to your room, once again stopping when Wally lingers at the bottom of the stairs, fidgeting and uncertain. You jerk your head to the side to indicate he should follow, and so he does, taking the stairs two at a time.

You gesture toward your bed where he takes a seat; spine straight, eyes tracking you while you close the door and deposit your backpack on your desk chair. Pull your hair out of its tie, toe off your shoes, humming to yourself as you go, as if you don't have an audience that's desperate for your attention.

After less than a minute of trying to sit still and accept your pace, Wally's face crumples. Eyes pleading, lips slightly twisted, hands wringing in his lap. He releases the smallest whimper, a tiny noise that fills the room, and finally gets the acknowledgement he's tweaking for.

You pivot on the spot by your desk and stare at him, considering. After a brief moment, your features soften. Eyes just for him. Smile just for him. You just for him. No one around to interrupt or distract or dissuade.

He almost sobs in relief when you get close enough for him to touch, fitting yourself between his legs. One hand on his shoulder, the other combing through his hair.

"What's wrong, baby?" You ask like you don't know. Like you aren't single-handedly responsible for why he's suddenly shaking apart in your presence.

His hands clench in his lap as he regards you, begging to reach out but too afraid you'll deny him.

"You need some attention, don't you?" You run your hand from his hair to his jaw as you lean in closer, brushing the tip of your nose against his. "Tell me."

Wally exhales sharply and nods, his voice caught in his chest.

You take pity on him. Lift one of his hands to place it on your waist. The other you guide under your skirt and encourage him to squeeze your ass cheek.

"You can touch me," You tell him, soft and kind, lips grazing his as you speak. "You don't need my permission, baby."

But he does, that's the thing.

As much as Wally wants, he can't just take. Not with you. His brain recoils at the idea, hate hate hating it more than anything. More than Some Guy and Some Guy 2.0, and how they looked at you like you were dinner.

Thinking of doing something to you without you telling him it's okay, that he's good, that he's pleasing you by obeying your every command, sets Wally's teeth on edge.

Wally whines when he feels your warm, supple flesh under his hands, thoughts instantly coming to a standstill. His lids get heavy, breathing deep, willing his fingerprints to fuse to your skin as he kneads your ass. Really absorbs how you feel and lets it soothe him.

The tension bleeds from his muscles.

The world falls away.

And Wally feels secure and solid for the first time since he joined Rodney in the gym to network Homecoming Court votes.

He exhales, long and rough, lifting his chin to gaze up at you through his lashes. A thick swallow, and then, "I need you. Please."

"Is that it, beautiful boy?" You trace his lower lip with your thumb, dipping in for a quick, biting kiss before pulling away to hear his answer.

"Please," Wally chokes out, sounding pathetic and not giving a single shit about it.

He feels his cock stir in his jeans. The intensity in your eyes coupled with finally, fucking finally, being able to feel your soft skin under his hands making his body react like he's still thirteen and an opportune breeze gets him hard.

You lean back, eyes never leaving his, smile morphing into something wicked, deliberate, as you lift your skirt and hook your thumbs into your panties. He's completely rapt, high-pitched white noise muffling every sound outside the narrow space between you and him.

He chokes, weak, and begins to tremble when you start to peel your panties off in a show that makes Wally's mouth go dry. You take another step back so he can see more of you, and unzip your skirt to let it puddle at your feet, stepping gracefully out of it with a smirk.

Fuck, you don't even have to touch Wally, and he gets goosebumps. Body so sensitive already that one accidental twitch will set him off.

"How do you want me?"

The question makes him whine. No, absolutely not, don't make him choose, please don't, he can't—

"Shh, hey, I've got you." You assure him, tone kind, and then you're ordering him to, "Show me that fat cock, baby. Let me see how much you want me."

Wally does as he's told, undoes his fly and shoves his jeans down and off one ankle, forgoing the other just to get you in his lap faster.

"Please," He begs, voice pitched high and needy, "Please, I need it so bad, baby, I'm so messed up, please."

You bite the corner of your lip, expression hot and dark, and then climb into his lap in feline motions. Shirt pushed up to show off your tits because you know Wally can't get enough of them when you ride him.

You let him stew for another moment, hips a fraction too far from where he aches, nipping and licking a trail of fire from his pulse point to his ear. Building the anticipation and driving Wally insane. He groans, hands clenching your thighs, reedy little sounds of need spilling from his throat.

"Tell me, baby," You murmur, rising to your knees and taking him in hand to line him up, "Tell me what you want."

"You," He says without hesitation, the word a breath, and he's so fucking desperate now, knows he won't last long, will blow his load too soon because he's fucking worthless like that, but you won't judge him, he's safe with you, "Please, God, I need it, please."

No more teasing. You drop and take him deep in one slick move, pussy so hot, so tight, Wally's eyes roll back and he sobs in relief. He doesn't move because if he does, he really will come before he's even registered the sweet, velvety bliss of being inside you.

His fingers dig into your thighs, your ass, your hips. Moans and keens and fucking kitten mewls pulled out of him as you ride him like a mechanical bull, fucking him to the brink, praising him for how good his cock is, how perfect, how only he can make you feel this way, just him, no one but him, and, Jesus Christ, oh God, yes, yes, yes, "I'm gonna come!"

And that's it, Wally's hips spasm, his back arches, jaw dropping as he cries out in ecstasy, thanking you profusely for letting him have this, letting him have you, holy fuck.

The static crests over him as he comes down. Restlessness replaced with peace. His body is loose, warm, content beneath your weight when he lies back and takes you with him. He can't stop his hands from roaming your back, needing to feel you in the afterglow, to know that you're real, this is real, he's here with you, and everything is better now.

"Thank you," He whispers into your hair as you nuzzle into his neck.

You hum, and he can feel your smile on his skin, "Of course, baby boy. You know I'd do anything for you." And then you lift your head, "Even after you've been a brat all day."

Wally pouts, "I wasn't."

You raise a brow.

His pout deepens. "You were ignoring me."

You huff, chuckling and shaking your head, "I wasn't ignoring you, I was busy." You correct. "You were being a naughty distraction when I was trying to help Claire."

Wally's chest puffs out, proud because, heh, he was distracting you when, the whole time, he thought you were deliberately trying to get under his skin by refusing to even look at him. And then he sobers, pout returning.

"You were flirting with those guys."

"I was doing Claire a favor," You correct, sitting up just enough to look him in the eye, palm cradling his jaw, thumb tracing the arch of his cheek. Soothing, sweet, everything he needs right now.

"I didn't like it." He admits as he averts his eyes. Ashamed and embarrassed and vulnerable in a way he only lets himself get with you.

You don't say anything for a moment, and Wally worries that he's done something wrong by confessing that. Should he be okay with it? Is he allowed to be jealous? Has he fucked up and now you're going to leave him because he can't get his shit together and act like a man?

He feels your lips on his, and his thoughts come to an abrupt halt, brakes screeching. His hands tighten on your hips as he releases a sigh, that relief, that solid-secure-safe feeling, washing through him again.

"I don't care about anyone but you, baby boy," You murmur, and press your forehead to his. And you're so sincere, Wally can hear it, that he wants to cry.

"Really?" God, does he have to sound so fucking pathetic?

But you don't let him ruminate, cut through the self-deprecation with a soft, "Really, Wally. You're perfect. Everything I need and more."

His body goes lax beneath you, sinking into your mattress like pudding, and he gives you a smile. Warm and happy and completely smitten.

Quiet, afraid to disturb the atmosphere, "You're everything I need, too."

Wally is always in control. Until he's with you. His safe space where he can let go without feeling like everything is going to break, because you know exactly how to hold him together.

🍑___________fin.____________

also on AO3!

Order Up! MASTERLIST

if you enjoyed this, you may also enjoy Anxiety.

sub!Wally smut lite. Wally isn't clingy. he isn't. honest. but something about your aura makes him nervous, and suddenly he's all hands everywhere and babbling where he's normally calm, cool, collected, and he needs you to get his head back on right.

[scary-grace]

(secret) santa, baby - a shigaraki x f!reader fic

Shigaraki doesn't want to participate in the office's Secret Santa exchange, but when Toga promises to make it easy on him, he gives in. But making it easy for him makes it a lot harder for you -- you're the one who got his list. Office AU, no quirks. For the first day of 12 Days of Christmas event in the X Reader Lovers community, prompt: Wish List! Divider by @ wcnderlnds

part i part ii part iii part iv part v part vi part vii part viii part ix

part i (wish list)

Tomura stares down at the blank piece of paper. It’s not totally blank. It’s – sparkly, just like the green and red pen with a pompom on it that Toga stuck in his hand. There’s a pattern around the edges, also green and red, of leaves and berries, and right at the top of the page, in curly letters, it says WISH LIST. Tomura doesn’t have a clue. He doesn’t even want to do this. He’s only doing it because Toga’s making him.

She’s staring at him right now. “Go away,” Tomura says. “I’m not writing it with an audience.”

“See, but if I leave you alone, you won’t write it at all,” Toga says, smiling. “It’s a Secret Santa, Tomura-kun. It won’t be any fun if you don’t write a good list.”

“It’s not going to be fun anyway, because I don’t want to do it.” Tomura shoves the piece of stationary back towards Toga. “Find somebody else.”

“Nope! Remember last year? You didn’t do it, and then you were mad all twelve days because everybody got gifts but you,” Toga says. She pushes the paper back towards Tomura. “Come on. It’s easy. Just put things on your list – not too expensive – and somebody who gets your list will leave them for you! Doesn’t that sound fun?”

“No,” Tomura says. Toga scowls at him. “I have to go shopping for somebody, too.”

Coming up with a gift list is bad enough. Waiting around to see if he’ll get presents – or even one present – from whoever got stuck with him is worse. But Tomura watched all of last year, saw all the effort everybody else put into their presents. Special hiding places, special wrapping paper. Last year Dabi got into an arms race with his younger brother and started leaving actual riddles for the person he was giving gifts to. Tomura’s not going to do any of that shit. Whoever he gets is going to be disappointed.

“I’m not doing extra shopping,” he says to Toga. “I’m out.”

“I’m organizing this year,” Toga says. So? “What if I get you somebody with a really easy list? Somebody normal who’s not going to ask for anything weird and who’s not going to get mad if you don’t set up a scavenger hunt.”

Tomura thinks about his friends, then his coworkers. “There’s absolutely nobody like that who works here.”

“Yes there are. You just don’t know about them, because they don’t do anything to annoy you,” Toga says. Her smile starts looking a little sharp around the edges. “Write the list.”

The sooner Tomura writes it, the sooner this will stop happening. He picks up the pen, sets it against the piece of paper, and hits an instant snag. “I don’t want anything.”

“Yes, you do,” Toga says. Tomura thinks about it, then writes something. Toga grabs the pen out of his hand and crosses it out. “No. It has to be a gift. Something you wouldn’t buy for yourself. Something nice.”

“For under ¥4000?” If Tomura wants something, he usually just buys it. “This is stupid.”

 “If you don’t have specific things you want, just write down things you like,” Spinner suggests on his way past with a stack of copies. “Like say – video games, dogs, candy, energy drinks –”

“I’m not letting him put energy drinks on his Secret Santa wish list,” Toga says. Spinner shrugs and keeps walking. “That’s not a bad idea, Tomura-kun. Write the kind of things you like, and then your Secret Santa can find things like that for the right price.”

Fine. Tomura gets the pen back from Toga and writes: video games, dogs, candy – “More specific,” Toga instructs. Tomura scowls and adds parentheticals. “See, that’s perfect! Was that so hard?”

“Yes.” Tomura lets Toga have the list, then takes it back again a second later. “I need to add something.”

It’s only a sentence, and Toga reads it out loud, looking all kinds of skeptical. “I hate the cold, so I don’t want any let-it-snow shit. Wow, Tomura.”

“You said to be specific,” Tomura says. “Are we done?”

“Yes!” Toga folds Tomura’s list into a quick origami heart, then tucks it into her pocket. “This will be fun! You’ll see. You won’t regret it.”

She leaves without the stupid Christmas pen. Tomura tosses it after her and flops forward on his desk, regretting it already.

part 2 ->

[bullet-prooflove]

Pears: Carmen "Carmy" Berzatto x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @wabi-sabi1090 @lostinwonderland314 @turtle-cant-communicate @fallout-girl219

Prequel to:

Bubble

Crazy, Stupid, Fucked Up World (NSFW)

Ironically the hellhole that’s stealing Carmen’s fucking soul is the place he falls in love with you. He’s been trying to source cheap organic produce for The Beef ever since he came back to Chicago and he’d found this eco-friendly little urban farm not too far away from the restaurant that’s willing to sell him their seasonal overflow for  next to nothing. It’s a win win because you deplore wastage and he needs the discount.

When you arrive at the back door with his order he has no fucking clue why you’re here because it’s late Christmas Eve and everyone else in the world is sending time with their families. Instead you’re standing in front of him, bundled up in a navy blue hat with a pompom with a matching scarf over your white quilted jacket.

“Christ, get in here.” He says tugging you inside because it’s minus who the fuck knows outside and he’s terrified you’ll freeze to death. “Why the fuck are you out in this? You should be tucked up somewhere warm with your family.”

“Because you asked me to asshole.” You reply, tugging off your hat so that your hair falls loose across your rosy features. “You called me up at stupid o'clock because you wanted pears for some seasonal shit you were trying out.”

“Shit.” He says, taking the box from you, because honestly he thought he dreamt that but now he realises he had another dissociative episode. They’ve starting to happen more and more recently since Mikey’s death. He wakes up and he finds himself doing weird shit, cooking plastic, re-organising the tins in his cupboard so they all face backwards, sorting his recycling into colours.

“Now we’ve ascertained why I’m here.” You say, stripping the gloves from your hands and tucking them into the pockets of your coat. “What are you doing here?”

“Christmas isn’t…” He hesitates because he’s thrown back into that last event, the one where Mikey was still alive, clutching that fork and his mother drove a car through the house. He doesn’t know how to explain something like that to you, someone who’s family isn’t as fucked up and dysfunctional as his is.

“I get it.” You say, your hand coming to rest on his arm and he finds himself staring down at it as your thumb traces lightly over the tattoo that’s etched onto his skin. “Christmas isn’t a great time for me either.”

He can’t remember the last time that someone touched him like this, with such care, such gentleness. Richie’s always clapping a hand on his shoulder, shifting him out of the way but it never feels like this. It doesn’t ignite something in his veins the way that yours does, it doesn’t sent a rush of heat flooding through his system.

“You wanna stay?” He asks you, tilting his head up to meet your gaze. “I’m about to make hot pear cider.”

You have such beautiful eyes, he’s never really noticed until now despite the fact he’s been in your company a handful of times. It’s a brilliant, rich hue that leaves him completely captivated as the edges of your mouth tip up into a smile. His heart palpitates in this chest because that smile, it makes something blossom inside of him, something that Carmen has never felt before in his entire life.

“That depends.” You say, your thumb trailing over the scar that resides alongside his tattoo. “Are you going to feed me too?”

“I’d cook you anything you damn well want.” He finds himself telling you before he captures himself, his cheeks flushing at the boldness of his words.

“Surprise me.” You say and he surprises you both by leaning and kissing you instead.

Your lips feel soft underneath his mouth, he can taste the strawberry lip balm, feel the press of your body against his as your fingers thread through his hair drawing him closer. He moans at the sensation because it’s been such a long time since he’s touched another human being like this and you, you make it feel like his entire body is on fire, like he’s burning from the inside out.

“Fuck, I’m sorry…” He says as he tries to pull away because he shouldn’t have done that, he knows he shouldn’t.

Your hands grip the fabric of his chef’s jacket, pulling him back towards you and he complies because this sensation he has, he wants to chase it, he wants to see where it goes, to hurtle head first into it.

“Don’t be.” You murmur, your fingertips ghosting along his cheek with a tenderness he doesn’t deserve. “We should do it again Carmy.”

Love Carmy? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[biancadjarin]

bully!eddie finds out

you’re a cheerleader

“What. the hell. are you wearing?” Eddie scoffs as he looks up at me from his sitting spot on my front porch.

“I made the varsity cheer squad!” I jump up and down excitedly. “I told you I was going to try out. But you never listen.” I grumble the last part under my breath.

“Hey” Eddie stands and towers over me as I turn my key in the door and let us in. “I listen.” He says, his hand coming up to rest on my lower back as we walk inside. “Just didn’t think you were really going to go through with it. It’s just so not like you.” I feel his eyes scanning my body as we walk down the hallway to my room. “You only care about grades and homework. And now look at you.” He waves his hand at my new uniform. “Who even are you anymore?” I roll my eyes. “You’re being dramatic. Nothing’s changed about me. I’ve always liked dancing. And now I just have some new girlfriends and a couple teams to cheer for.” I chirp. A blazing fire starts behind his eyes. “Bet all the idiot jocks are gonna be drooling all over you.” He shakes his head as he flips the hem of my skirt up. “Hey.” I squeal and hold my skirt back down. He shakes his head. “Is that what you want? For Jason and all his basketball bros to notice you?” Eddie asks.

“No Eddie.” I grumble with an eye roll. “That’s right no.” He growls. “And why’s that hm?” He asks expectantly. I sigh, shifting my weight to one hip, avoiding eye contact with him defiantly. Which is hard to do when his face is inches from mine. He looks at me with his eyebrows raised, waiting.

“Because I only want you to notice me.” I say halfheartedly. He nods, appeased but still not happy. He steps closer, his nose grazing my cheek as he whispers in my ear, his hands settling at my waist. “Because I’m the only one that matters. Because you belong to me. And no one else will ever have you, right?” I stare back at him blankly, not wanting to play his childish game.

Eddie chuckles to himself, turning away and plopping his body on the little pink couch in my room. His eyes rake over me, taking in the way the HHS cheer logo stretches over my chest, the striped ruffle skirt hitting the tops of my thighs, the pompoms still in my hands. The anger is gone from his eyes and all that’s left is lust.

“Show me a cheer then.” He nudges his chin up at me, eyes daring me to move. His arms are stretched across the back of the couch, leather jacket hanging loosely over his white t shirt. I wrinkle my brow and scoff “No. you were just making fun of me.” “Aw c’mon sweetheart. You look so cute. None of the other cheerleaders look this good in the uniform.”

I shake my head at the comparison. I know Eddie has a thing for cheerleaders. He’s hooked up with at least 3, he eyes them whenever they cross his path and I’ve heard rumors about his and Chrissy’s hangouts in the woods. Not that they’d ever admit it. No popular, well respected senior at Hawkins would say they’ve messed around with Eddie. But rumors will fly. And now that I’ve been surrounded by the cheerleaders for a couple weeks, I see most of the rumors were true. But that’s not why I tried out for cheer. I like dancing and being peppy… right?

Eddie’s long legs are spread and he’s staring at me. His hands rest casually in his lap, his fingers intertwined. He’s waiting. “Fine.” I surrender. I didn’t learn all these new cheers for nothing. “T-I-G-E-R-S! We’re better than the rest!” I say hopping up and down. Eddie nods, a soft smile on his face. “That’s great, babe. So cute.” But I don’t want to be cute right now. I want to be hot. And I want Eddie to think I’m hot. So I toss my pompoms to either side of the room and the corners of Eddie’s lips curl into a smirk. I grab the remote from my nightstand and push a button to make my record player start. “Is this love” by Whitesnake plays from the corner of my room. Eddie chuckles and shifts in his seat, getting comfortable. I walk over to him slowly and begin swirling my hips to the beat, letting my hair fall behind my back. I close my eyes and get lost in the music.

Eddie’s eyes are glued to me. He’s staring at my legs, the little peek of skin between my skirt and top and my face, lips parted, eyelids fluttering and covered in sparkles. He’s never seen anything so beautiful. “Is this love or am I dreaming?” the song lyrics swirl around in his head.

I open my eyes and I’m suddenly closer, in between Eddie’s spread thighs. My palms plant on his shoulders and I shimmy my body shamelessly inches from his face. His hands reach up and rest behind my knees, slowly grazing up the backs of my thighs and under my skirt to squeeze palmfuls of my ass in each hand. He bites his lip, his eyes so low I could count every long, pretty eyelash framing his big brown eyes. His hands slide back down to my knees, pulling them forward so I can sit on his lap.

His lips find mine and we kiss for the rest of the song. My brain goes blank, thoughts and games leaving my conscious. All I care about is this feeling that I’m feeling in this moment with Eddie. My bully? My boyfriend? I’ve lost track at this point.

I feel Eddie’s hand start to unzip the side of my tank top. I raise my arms so he can slip it off over my head and my tits spill out, bouncing against my chest, nipples already hard. “Mmm no bra baby?” Eddie rasps as his warm hands grab my boobs and squeeze. I shake my head. “Don’t really need it in this kind of top… besides, the girls say a little extra jiggle looks good during the routines.”

Eddie’s eyes turn from hungry to worried to puppy dog in the span of about half a second. “The basketball team really is going to be all over you.” He says sounding truly worried. He lets his head fall back and hit the headrest of the couch, his hands still gripping my hips, his eyes squeezed shut. I place my hands on either side of his neck softly, his skin’s warm and I can feel his pulse thumping under my fingers. “No they’re not Eddie.”

His head shoots back up and his eyes resemble an owl’s. I giggle, “ok well even if they try,” I push the hair away from his eyes, “it won’t matter.” “It won’t?” He asks hopefully. “Mm mm.” I shake my head. “Cause you’re the only one that matters to me.” I relax my thighs, sitting fully on Eddie’s lap. I can feel how hard he is already. “No other guy could make me feel the way you do.” I purr.

He groans. Eddie Munson fucking groans. And his hands are squeezing my hips so hard it’s starting to hurt. But I like it. He smiles softly at me before turning his attention back to my exposed breasts, his thumbs rubbing and pinching my nipples. “So sweet to me baby. How’d I get so lucky?” He smiles up at me and my heart feels like it’s going to burst into a million pieces. I snake my arms around his neck and pull him in for a hug, his leather sleeved arms wrapping around my body and holding me close.

I’m the lucky one. But I’d never tell him that.

more bully!eddie here

Thanks for reading!!

[mtchee]

"Mm! A little taste of heaven!" "Do you have any preferences for the ice? We've got..."

"...Awakening Apple!" - Izuku Midoriya

menu coming soon~

"...Invigorating Orange & Peach!" - Katsuki Bakugo

Silence is Silver, Your Voice is Gold [SOULMATE SERIES] - GN Deemed as an 'extra' in his straight laced life, you've resigned yourself to covering your soul words and sealing your lips, becoming U.A's first year general course prodigy, the silent designer. It's unfortunate that despite your title, the angry pompom won't take a goddamn hint from your silence. When you even go out of your way to avoid him, you start to think that he knows you a little too well despite never having uttered a word.

"...Mesmerising Lychee & Mint!" - Shouto Todoroki

Silence is Silver, Your Voice is Gold [SOULMATE SERIES] - GN The piercing first words spoken by your soulmate leave you shattered, and your passion driven brother, Inasa, doesn't take kindly to it either. You thought you could get over your soulmate's rejection, accepting it wholeheartedly. So, why is he being so nice all of a sudden?

"...Motivating Plum & Sugarcane!" - Tenya Iida

Silence is Silver, Your Voice is Gold [SOULMATE SERIES] - GN Your spitfire attitude is a stark contrast to your sister Ochaco, but that doesn't stop you two from having each other's backs. That's why it baffles her when you become dead silent after you're scolded by class 1A's class president, Iida, for an outburst in class. When usually you'd scoff at him, you'd reeled back and sat in your seat. But now... you won't talk at all.

"...Balancing Blackberry & Lime!" - Hitoshi Shinou

menu coming soon~

"...Strengthening Strawberry!" - Eijirou Kirishima

menu coming soon~

"...Persistent Peach!" - Mirio Togata

Silence is Silver, Your Voice is Gold [SOULMATE SERIES] - GN As a late transfer, you feel uninclined to intrude on the connections your classmates have already forged, and feel even more so guilty to tie Mirio to you. Who are you to come in and claim one of U.A's best as yours? Though despite it all--through your silence, and avoidance--he seems to have had his eyes on you all along.

Slowly, Baby - AFAB! GN 18+ [MDNI] Mirio and [name]'s first time being intimate~

"...Buzzing Lychee & Butterfly Pea!" - Tamaki Amajiki

Silence is Silver, Your Voice is Gold [SOULMATE SERIES] - GN LOUD AND PROUD! That's who you are! So when you're paired with none other than one of U.A's Big Three, Tamaki Amajiki, your heart shatters when he flinches away from you before you can even utter a word. Your own soulmate is terrified of you without even knowing you. So perhaps, it's for the best that you pipe down and let him find someone else to better suit his needs.

"...Burnt Caramel & Plum!" - Dabi/Touya Todoroki

FALLEN GEMINI - GN You'd been tasked to infiltrate and investigate the League of Villains long before the group was even officially formed--namely your assigned target, their rogue, Dabi. Through your hard work, you've become closely aquainted Dabi, to a point where your true loyalties start to waver...

"Snow Tea Specials!" - Several OneShot/Drabble/Story Series

Silence is Silver, Your Voice is Gold | SOULMATE AU Mirio Togata | Shouto Todoroki | Tenya Iida | Katsuki Bakugo | Tamaki Amajiki | more coming soon~ After hearing the voice of your soulmate for the first time--knowing they were out of your league and deserved (and probably would want) better, you keep silent. However, fate determines you to be together nonetheless, where despite your silence, they either grow fond of you or curious, wherein eventually, you can be silent no more.

[reixtsu]

Oh, How I Hate You - Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Worst Proposal Ever

Gojo x bi reader | fake dating au, college au, modern au

The first time Gojo Satoru asked you out, you nearly choked on your coffee.

Before you ask, it wasn't because you were swooning for him, goodness no. You almost choked because the very idea of dating Gojo felt like some kind of sick cosmic joke.

"You want me to... what?" you sputtered, eyes narrowed as you set your drink down on the table with a little too much force.

Gojo simply grinned, completely unbothered. He was sprawled out in the chair across from you, his long legs stretched out like he owned the entire cafe. His round blind glasses were perched on his stupidly perfect nose, his white hair in the usual mess of a pompom.

"Be my girlfriend," he repeated like it was the simplest thing in the world."For three weeks. No big deal."

You stared at him. Then you blinked. What in the actual hell was this... man... saying? Then you burst out laughing.

Gojo frowned. "That wasn't the reaction I was expecting."

"I'm sorry," you gasped between laughs, wiping a stray tear from the corner of your eye. "It's just-do you hear yourself? You, out of all people, want to date me? Are you feeling okay because that is the most ridiculous thing I've heard this month?"

"Perfectly fine," he said, crossing his arms behind his head. "Come on, you're cute, I'm hot, we'd make a power couple."

Who just goes up to someone and asks to date them when you barely even know them? Apparently Gojo would.

"That sounds awful," you said bluntly, tapping a finger on the table.

"You wound me."

You rolled your eyes, already bored by the conversation. "Let's pretend that I haven't already rejected you with my mind, why would you need a fake girlfriend? Can't you simply ask any girl from your fanbase?"

You weren't teasing him. It was a simple fact that he had a fanbase within and off campus. What kind of frat-playboy needs to ask the popular 'lesbian' out when he simply needs to flash a smile at literally anyone else?

"I mean, yeah. But this time it's a bet with Suguru. Besides, it's boring to be admired all the time, you know?" Egotistical bitch.

Suguru Geto, Satoru Gojo's best friend and right hand man in causing chaos. If Gojo was fired, then Geto was the gasoline that kept things going. Combined societies fell.

You sighed, rubbing your temples as you took a long sip of your iced coffee. "A bet? Seriously?"

Gojo leaned in, dropping his voice down an octave so that only you could hear him. "Suguru thinks I can't stay in a committed relationship for longer than two weeks. Bullshit, isn't it?" You snorted. "So now, I just need a super cool, ultra hot girlfriend to prove him wrong."

You blinked. "So... Eye candy."

"Sure."

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

"That's fair," Gojo shrugs. "But it's also where you come in."

You scoffed, crossing your legs as you gazed at the man in front of you with an air of indifference. "Why would I help you win a stupid bet?"

"Because it'll be fun," he said, grinning. "You get to be spoiled by yours truly, make Suguru suffer, and maybe even have some fun messing with me."

You tilted your head, considering her options. Say no and walk away, continue to be bored with life, or go along with the chaos. Annoying Gojo seemed fun anyways. Still, fake dating Gojo sounds like a one-way ticket to madness.

You sighed. What a terrible idea.

"Three weeks," you said slowly, holding up your fingers. "No weird flirting, no actual kissing," you mentally gagged. "and no 'Gojo bullshit'."

Gojo's grin widened. "Define 'Gojo bullshit'."

"Everything you do, obviously."

"Rude," he scoffed, chuckling as he stuck out a pinky. "Deal?"

You hesitated, then you hooked your pinky finger with his long one. "Deal."

And just like that, you became Gojo Satoru's fake girlfriend. It was going to be a nightmare.

---

There were three simple rules of fake dating:

1. You will not actually fall for Gojo.

2. You will not let him get on your nerves (you were already failing at that).

3. You will not-under any circumstances-kiss him.

Easy, right?

Right?

Wrong.

The first problem arose almost immediately when you realized that Gojo was fully committed to selling this whole "relationship" thing.

By the time you showed up to your History of Sorcery the next day, half the class was whispering about how Gojo Satoru was officially off the market.

You had barely made it to your seat before your friend Shoko Ieri dropped into the seat next to you, eyes narrowing.

"Alright, spill," she said, arms crossed, ready for the interrogation of her life. "What's this between you and Gojo?"

You groaned, sinking into your chair. "It's nothing, really. Just a dumb bet."

"With ?"

"Obviously."

Shoko snorted. "That explains a lot."

Before you could even give her a sarcastic response, your phone buzzed. A message from Gojo.

Great.

Gojo: Morning, princess!

You made a face and typed back.

You: Ew, never call me that again.

Gojo: Aww, babe, you wound me.

You: I'm blocking you.

Gojo didn't reply, but five minutes later, he walked into class with a venti caramel macchiato, your favorite, and set it on your desk with a dramatic flourish.

"Morning, angel," he said, voice dripping in amusement as he sat next to the empty seat on the other side of you. How annoying.

You glared at him. "What are you doing?"

"Being a good boyfriend," he said, innocently, giving you his signature smirk that every girl except you would fall for.

Shoko watched the exchange with an almost unreadable expression before shaking her head in surrender. "Good luck, dear. This is going to be a disaster."

You sighed. Yeah, you already knew.

Taglist: @longt0es, @elitesanjisimp, @thedreamlessnights

[hitlikehammers]

🏀That One Time Steve Harrington Visited an Old Friend, Said Thank You 💕, Dished Some Gossip 💅, Gushed About the ♥️Love of His Life♥️, Offered Apologies, and Brought Their Favorite Flowers as a Perk 💐

☕️OR: 4/5 times Steve/Eddie talk to anyone but each other about their feelings (for each other), +1 (other time they turn around and talk to one another)

“Hey Chrissy-lis.”

The first time they’d met, he’d only just learned the word. She flitted around, so fast and wild, and he’d been able to get her to sit still long enough for someone to tie up her hair when he told her if she wanted to be a butterfly, she had to be a chrysalis first—and her in particular, because she was named just right for it.

She’d beamed at him so big. They’d been fast friends. Sports-spouses, someone called them by middle school. They’d laughed over it, but it wasn’t wrong. They grew up together, even if they rarely spoke, rarely saw each other in the off-seasons—a year off made a difference, for schedules and stuff.

And most of what they had in common was sports, anyway. And the shit that happened at home neither of them wanted to say out loud.

Steve thinks that’s what made them work. Neither made the other say it. They both just sat with it. Knew, and didn’t run.

He wishes he’d known she was hurting so bad. He knows he couldn’t have stopped what happened, no more than Eddie. No more than anyone.

Only Eddie and Rob and Wayne know that. They’re the ones who know what he does and what he feels out loud, now—at least more of it—and they stay.

But Chrissy, she’d brought her own little squad to meets, convinced Hawkins to have the most out-of-place little huddle of pompoms, every time Steve dove into the pool.

And Steve got good with his hair—and he taught himself to be great with Chrissy’s, even when she didn’t need the coaxing to keep still anymore.

“So I promised an update.”

Because he comes. He doesn’t stay long. Always brings flowers he holds on to until he leaves. He likes to think she’ll know he’s been here, if there’s any way for anyone to know anything after…

After.

“He is everything,” Steve tells her like a secret, like the little moments of the things they did trade—bits and pieces, school gossip, boys kiss girls kiss boys—between her sitting down and him spinning her scrunchie sky-high around one last time. “He is absolutely the one.”

He smiles—he’s trying not to feel like he shouldn’t smile at her headstone; she was so made of joy. She deserves more than just the flowers when he comes to visit to make sure her shines never dulled.

Or forgotten.

Which reminds him:

“I never did thank you,” which he regrets, because she should have known, but doesn’t punish himself for, because back then he didn’t believe it—or believed it, but with the wrong person, for a lesser thing entirely.

“For always telling me that I’d find that type of person,” and she always said that, whoever he was with would come to any game, any meet, any…any time they sat, him one bleacher above her to get her hair teased high before anyone else came in—she asked it the most about Nancy and he hadn’t seen it, the why.

“That I wasn’t delusional,” which he thought, for sure, once it ended with Nancy. “That I was worth it.”

That he’s starting to genuinely believe now. With Eddie. Who isn’t just the one. Who is everything.

“You were the only person who said it, for a,” Steve swallows hard; “for a really long time.”

Steve fucking hates the people who try, still, to say that some people who die were too good for this world. Chrissy was just too good.

Period.

“If I didn’t thank you enough, I’m sorry,” and he knows he didn’t. But he also knows she didn’t need him to say it to know he felt it—they communicated a lot in what they didn’t say, after all.

“I hope you know my whole heart’s in thanking you now.”

He walks closer to the stone, runs his hands over the top. Sometimes, here, he gets flashes of what could have been, so close, the man who’s his soul and then some could have ended up with a marker, here.

Now’s not one of those times. It’s happening less now.

He looks at the ring on his left hand, resting on Chrissy’s headstone. Maybe that’s why. Mostly he wanted to be closer. Mostly he wants to pretend she could feel the weight of it, the shape of it, and know how much has happened, in how it’s all turned out.

She was never the type to begrudge someone their joy even if she couldn’t find her own. He feels…he’s working on feeling less than horrible about telling her things like this.

He doesn’t actually believe there’s anything after death. Save he thinks he has to, now.

He cannot imagine an eternity that exists without Eddie.

“Thanking you with my whole heart in it, like, that’s a really big deal, now, more than it was before,” he starts to ramble a little around the ache in him, for the loss of her, for the things he has that she deserved too.

Not instead of him, he reminds himself in Eddie’s voice. That she deserves too.

It helps. Even if he says the same in reverse when Eddie comes to see her.

“Because being able to love like this, and someone to want it? To almost, like,” Steve huffs, shakes his head in the wonder he doesn’t think is ever going to die down; “welcome it with open arms?”

He looks at her name etched in the stone. Pristine.

But cold. Nothing like her. They didn’t understand her. He doesn’t pretend he did in just the role of sports-husband to his cheer-wife. But he thinks…he thinks he knew some things.

“My chest just feels fuller, bigger,” he says, tracing the letters, pressing warmth into them even for a moment, because it has to matter; it has to matter more than nothing. “Like my heart’s stretched wide all the time because it doesn’t ever have to shrink itself anymore just to sneak by without getting the shit beat out of it.”

He comes to the end of the deep-carved ‘M’. He kisses the rough top of the stone because, again. Warmth.

Even for a moment. Least she deserves.

“So my whole-hearted thanks, Miss Cunningham, means more now that it ever could have,” he whispers low, swallows against the tightness in his throat; “and it still couldn’t scratch the surface.”

He wipes at his eyes, knowing they’ll be a little wet even before he feels a single tear fall.

He’s not wrong.

“I’ll keep trying though,” he promises and then steps up again, crouches at the base.

“Let me know next time if the thanks feels bigger, like, critique my form, yeah?” he says as he props the bundle of echinacea he’s been holding, letting his cologne mix a little with their sweetness, a reminder she’s not alone when he leaves.

If there’s…any chance at all, y’know. Worth covering all bases, just in case.

“Nail that dismount in the stars, Chrissy,” he murmurs as he stands up and raps his knuckles on the stone one more time, like he always would, light against her shoulder when he’d finished, to her giggling as he tied off her hair:

“Can’t get a ponytail higher than the one you’ve got, now.”

1: Gareth // 2: Mrs. Harrington // 3: Wayne // 4: Chrissy // 5: Robin // +1: ???

💚

✨also on ao3

💫for @penny00dreadful—happiest of happy birthdays, my lovely 🖤

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @allmyfavoritethingsinoneblog @anthrobrat @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @disrespectedgoatman @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @eternal-sunflowers @friendlyneighborhoodgaycousin @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @madigoround @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit here, here, and here

[elliespassagerprincess]

I hardly seen any love for Dina can you maybe do one her shy x popular trope

One chance - (popular!dina x shy!reader)

hi anon, firstly real! we need more Dina fics! I'm sorry if this sucks I struggle with writing fluff lmao, but i hope you enjoy :)

Pairing: dina x fem!reader

requests are open! send me your silly thoughts:)

warnings: none

Summary: In which the popular girl asked you out

authors note: on a serious note we need more dina fics, she's sooooo fine but so underrated and it's so sad

masterlist

"Earth to Dina"

"huh?"

"Dina are you ok?" Ellie asked concerned at her friends spaced out expression.

"I'm fine"

no she wasn't.

Dina was not fine.

She was fucking fuming. Why? Because you were giving someone else attention.

Dina had always wanted to be a cheerleader. Ever since she was a little girl, she watched countless videos on YouTube for cheer routines, and she memorized them all.

As soon as she became a freshman in high-school she immediately auditioned, and as if god was on her side she became the caption and she stayed the caption up until her senior year.

She fucking loved to cheer.

The makeup, the routines, the crowd screaming for them.

For her.

God she loved it all the attention. She loved all the people around her, people praising her, and telling her that she did a good job.

Dina was the classic popular girl and as cliché as it was, this was who she was and she loved every fucking second of it.

It was like no other day.

She stood at the entrance of the field, watching the football teams run out.

She observed the other cheer teams standing next to hers, they were pretty, but surely they weren't as talented.

The whistle blew and a grin spread on to Dina's face, as she jogged out the massive doors, her squad running behind her.

The crowd cheered as the girls came out, and Dina proudly raised her pompoms, shaking them slightly.

Her gaze fell onto the crowd, as she tried spotting people wearing the schools colors but her eyes fell on you.

woah.

She's never seen you before.

Holy fucking shit.

For the rest of the night, Dina's eyes lingered on you.

Every time they had to perform, she always kept and eye on you, hoping you'd make eye contact.

You never looked her way.

You wanted to but you were scared.

You'd only join the school a month ago and you remembered on your first day of school, you saw her.

The pretty girl with the dark hair.

That's what you called her until you were told her name was Dina.

Dina. Dina. Dina. Dina Dina.

She was all you could think about.

Everywhere you went there was a reminder of Dina.

You saw a bow? Dina wears bows.

You saw someone wearing blue? Dina always wears blue converse.

You wanted to talk to her so fucking bad, but you couldn't. Every time you got close to her it felt like you were going to piss yourself.

You made her a paper flower one day, hoping you'd be able to give it to her. You'd hype up yourself in the mirror but as soon as you saw her, the confidence you once felt fell away.

"C'mon lets go" your friend Abby begged. She'd been asking you to the football game all week but you weren't in the mood for the loud crowds and all the screaming.

"let me stay home dude" you replied

"Dina will be there"

That's all you needed to hear. You raced to get ready, and you put on a orange jumper hoping the bright color might catch Dina's attention.

You sat on the field with hundreds of other people, you anxiously waited for her, you realized that her seeing you would be unlikely due to the amount of people that filled the seats.

All you remember was the crowd cheering and Dina jogging out, wearing her blue converse. There was a grin on her face as her team followed her and she looked fucking perfect.

As hard as you tried not to look at her you couldn't help it.

She stood in front so obviously you were gonna look at her.

She performed with so much confidence, with so much grace. You could truly look at her forever.

When the game came to an end her squad asked if she wanted to go out with them, but Dina kindly declined because she had other plans.

She had to talk to this pretty girl that distracted her throughout the whole game.

Dina walked through the crowd, trying to avoid all the people who were trying to talk to her.

She was growing frustrated. Where the fuck were you?

Just as she was about to lose hope, she spotted your orange jumper. You stood on the side of the road talking on your phone. Dina slowly walked towards you and she didn't mean to listen to your conversation but she did.

"Abby i swear to god if you don't come pick me up in 5 minutes I'm going to kill you"

Dina softly giggled at how overdramatic you were. You put your phone into your pocket on you sighed.

Dina could walk away right now, she could turn away and you would never have to know about this.

Fuck it. Dina wasn't a pussy.

She tapped you on shoulder, and you turned around. Your eyes met with the girl you've been silently in love with for the last month.

Fuck.

"Hi" Dina started, giving you her charming smile.

Your mouth went dry and you felt so fucking nervous. She could probably see how you were shaking.

"Hi" you replied meeting her gaze shyly.

"Well I'm Dina and i just wanted to say you're really pretty and i was wondering if i could have your number?"

You wanted to pinch yourself. Is this even real? Was this a prank?

"yeah" was all you said without looking at her. You watched Dina reach into her bag to pull out her phone, and she silently watched as you put in your number.

"You don't talk much do you?" She laughed awkwardly as she took her phone from your hand.

"Yeah" was all you said.

Dina didn't text you. Its been 2 weeks.

Its not that she didn't want to, but she was terrified.

You barely spoke to her that night, who says you'll even text her back?

You on the other hand saw the situation differently. You thought she was taking you for a fool. Someone like Dina would never just ask for your number.

As the weeks went by you and Dina make eye contact, she would give you a small smile and you would just walk away with a nod. You'd make no effort to talk to her because she made you so fucking nervous.

Dina hated this. She hated that she wanted someone that can barley look at her. But here she was getting mad at you for talking to someone else.

Some blonde bitch sat with you and you acted so differently. You laughed, you fucking smiled and showed emotion, but when Dina was around you barely uttered a word to her.

You drove her insane.

"Dude why are you fucking lying?"

"what?" Dina asked.

She actually forgot Ellie was sitting here.

"You keep looking at her and Abby"

so that's what her name was.

"What's your deal with them?" Ellie persisted.

She might as well admit it.

"She isn't the problem, Abby is"

Ellies gaze fell to you and Abby for a while before it all clicked.

"Dude are you jealous? do you have a fucking crush on her or something?"

"Yeah" Dina admitted "but I don't know anything about her, i tried talking to her, but she doesn't say much"

Dina quickly glazed to you before she groaned in frustration

"she doesn't" Ellie confirmed.

"She only talks to Abby, she's quite shy in my opinion"

shy is an understatement.

Dina was losing her mind. Every time she sees you and Abby together she feels sick. But at the same time she's too pussy to talk to you or to even text you.

Dina could perform in front of thousands of people without batting an eye but she could barley say hi to you.

You were fucking breaking her.

Dina went to an empty classroom to let off some steam and to her surprise you sat there.

"Hi" Dina said in amazement.

"Hi" you responded looking everywhere in the room but her.

'just fucking look at me' Dina thought to herself.

"What are you doing here?" She asked you.

"Abby isn't here today, i didn't feel like sitting alone"

Dina's fist clenched tightly at the mention of Abby.

"Can i ask you something?" Dina randomly asked, after staring at you for a while.

"yeah"

"why don't you want me?"

"What?"

Dina dropped her backpack and she made her way towards you: "like you- fuck- why don't you look at me? I always look at you"

You wanted to run out the room, this was all happening too fast. "Dina-"

"no listen, i know nothing about you but you seem like a really sweet girl, please just one chance" she begged.

You would give her a million chances.

"Yeah..." you started, you looked around the room one last time before you finally made eye contact with Dina.

"so are you gonna take me on a date?" You smiled at her shyly.

Dina chucked and she responded with one word: "yeah"

[crazylittlejester]

Time for some happy/fluffy headcannons since I can :3

Sky sees all the Zeldas as his daughters since he and Sun created the royal lineage. No matter how distant, they are his and Sun's children no matter what. (Some of the Zeldas who didn't have good relationships with their dads *cough* Flora *cough* nearly sob in joy because of this). Also, the Zeldas get their prophetic dreams from him too.

Legend's nose does that cute twitching that rabbits do. It makes him so flustered whenever anybody points it out.

Four, if he were to ever met any of the Gerudo, would be highly respected by them despite his height. He is short, yes, but he is very strong, intelligent and can make his own weapons. He'd probably have to fight off suitors if he ever went to Wild's Gerudo Town, tbh.

Everybody from Ordon is blessed by Ordona, and they have square pupils like goats do because of this. Despite being Hylian, and not being born in Ordon like the others, Twilight was also blessed and later in life developed these same pupils. He loves them despite how creepy everybody else thinks they are.

Time actually gained a little weight after marrying Malon because he felt safe enough to do so. He always made himself stay at top shape in case he had to go on another quest, so when he didn't immediately get thrown into one he got a little meat on his bones. He didnt look like a skeleton anymore. Malon was happy he did, since he was always thin even as a child.

Warriors knits and sews and Proxy has a small hat he made with an itty-bitty pompom on top.

Wind is scared of lighting storms due to a bad sailing trip after his adventure, and Sky tries to comfort him despite also being terrified of lighting himself.

Wild's mother was a piece of Farore's spirit traveling Hyrule as a mortal, and fell deeply in love with his father. Both Wild and his sister are considered forest spirits, and his sister actually became a korok after her mortal body died. The first korok he ever finds is his sister :)

Hyrule really likes the non hostile Zora whenever they visit them, and he learned how to swim from them.

None of the Links can hold their alcohol. One drink and they are all tipsy beyond belief. Except Wind, he can take two drinks before he also is drunk off his rocker.

YAY FLUFFY HEADCANONS (god knows i need more of these after the obnoxiously sad headcanons i have)

- This is so cute actually, I can totally see Sky and Flora becoming close

- Legend 100% does that, I also headcanon he hops when he gets really excited

- OKAY THE ORDONA GOAT EYE THING IS ACTUALLY SO COOL??? THATS AN EPIC HEADCANON

- My favorite thing ever in fiction is when characters start to look physically happy and healthy as they recover from trauma, and I write a lot of this happening to Wars (because I gave him horrible food anxiety and write about how he’s been able to work over that and become a lot healthier and happier) and I can see this happening to Time too

- WARRIORS KNITS IS REAL. REAL AND TRUE. YOURE RIGHT AND YOU SHOULD SAY SO!! I can see him making sweaters for everyone

- Wind and Sky and Legend all being unnerved by storms 🤝

- I think it’d be hilarious if they couldn’t hold their alcohol and Wind could out drink them, but whenever I write these guys I always give them at least a couple instances where Twi gets a good few beers and Wars gets his wine. I don’t think Time would drink, not because he wants to be the responsible adult, but because he just doesn’t drink

[empressmcblondie]

As you know I'm already down this Shauna and Jackie rabbit hole (this pun is absolutely intended), and so, I wanted to touch upon something else I've noticed. During 1x01, we see Shauna's rabbit collection, and obviously, in 1x06 Shauna receives a little ceramic rabbit from Mrs. Taylor under the impression that "Jackie just adored rabbits." Now... Shauna's facial expression in reaction to this statement is very telling. She plays along with whatever this is. Yes, Jackie adored rabbits, sure thing... And because of that, I adore rabbits now because I've become a Jackie substitute in the eyes of her bereaved parents. Initially I scratched this off as a mother who didn't actually know her teenage daughter well enough, which is pretty on brand. The Taylors give me perfect-on-paper-but-dysfunctional-in-reality energy with a lot of the tension coming from Jackie's relationship with her mother. Jackie herself denounces this connection to rabbits quite explicitly in the immediate scene that follows when she and Shauna go checking the traps, referring to the animal as a "squirrel with floppy ears and a pompom on its ass." Clearly, Jackie did not care for rabbits whatsoever. But... Where did Mrs. Taylor even get the idea that Jackie likes rabbits in the first place? It has to have come from somewhere, no? It did.

It most likely came from Shauna.

Shauna's room in 1x01.

You can see the small ceramic rabbit, strategically placed beneath the light in Shauna's room, linking her to the animal explicitly. It's not that Shauna took it upon herself to love rabbits because of Jackie's parents. It's that Shauna projected her own love for rabbits (to whatever length that went) onto Jackie. Just like with the journal in my previous post... Shauna is rewriting Jackie not just by taking on Jackie characteristics as her own, but by inserting her own characteristics into Jackie posthumously.

Shauna's confession of "I don't even know where you end and I begin" (also a Radiohead song) takes on a whole new layer of meaning. It's not just that Shauna doesn't know anymore... But we, the audience, don't either. It's becoming increasingly difficult to understand who Jackie is. What elements of Jackie's life are actually Jackie's doing and what are props, planted by Shauna... Small edits she makes to match the story that she tells herself in her own head. Anyways, as always, this show is a gift that keeps on giving.

[laxyaklovesloz]

Danny Phantom Revisit Season One

My Brother's Keeper 5

Master Post

Jazz

Standing in the doorway of the storage room, Jazz watched her adorable goof of a brother smash into a stack of boxes before flying off. She smiled and turned away. “He can tell me when he’s ready.”

She started walking back to the gym when Mr. Lancer ran up to her, pompoms in hand.

“Miss Fenton,” he said, “you’re needed.”

Together, they returned to the gym, where the whole student body stood on the bleachers and chanted her name. When she entered, they cheered.

Mr. Lancer sighed. “Everybody’s mood has lifted, as though some gloomy malevolence has been shooed away. Your disappearing act worked marvelously. They’ve got their spirit back.”

Jazz looked for her brother but only saw Tucker and Sam. They smiled and waved at her, so she waved back. Maybe Danny wanted to be alone. She hoped he was okay.

Danny

Danny was not okay. He flew to the roof of the school and lay on his back, hands under his head. Spectra’s words haunted him.

“What are you? A ghost trying to fit in with humans? Or some creepy little boy with creepy little powers?”

He knew she was just trying to get under his skin, but the thing was… it worked. He didn’t know what he was. Was he dead? Was he just a ghost reanimating his corpse? Or was he a “creepy little boy with creepy little powers”?

Danny shivered. He took heavy breaths. He almost cried. He frowned. He ruffled his hair. He pounded a fist into the roof. He did cry. He flew. He flew higher than he had ever flown before. He sighed.

Thinking was getting him nowhere, and there were still classes he should attend. The bell had just rung for the third period. He would be late, but at least he wouldn’t be absent. He flew invisibly back to the boys’ bathroom and transformed before going to class.

After School

Danny blew off Tucker and Sam so he could go home alone. He would talk to them later. He did his homework in the kitchen until Mom came upstairs to make dinner.

“Oh, hi, Danny!” she said. “How was school today?”

No way could Danny tell the truth. Instead, he shrugged. “Boring. How was your day?”

“Oh, same old, same old,” Mom said. “Your dad is working on a new invention, and I’m doing calculations on the ghost portal. Did you know it’s resonating with something? Two somethings, actually. I haven’t been able to figure out what.”

Well, one of those had to be Danny, since the portal opened right on top of him. What could the other thing be?

Mom sighed, “Oh well. I’m sure I’ll figure it out eventually.” She focused on making dinner, and Danny went back to his homework. He found it hard to concentrate.

So he was resonating with the portal. That was interesting. More importantly, who or what was also resonating with the portal? Could there be another person trapped in the portal event? Or maybe he was looking at it all wrong, and he wasn’t resonating. It could be something else entirely.

What about another portal? But who would have the technology or knowledge to be able to build another portal? And why didn’t his parents know? They knew everything about ghost technology.

Danny pushed his homework aside and helped his mom with the cooking. He was tired of thinking.

Later That Night

Danny wasn’t done thinking, though. He had to take care of Spectra and Bertrand. After everyone went to bed, he snuck downstairs and through the portal to the same spot where he released Helen. He noted that he could tell which way the portal was, so maybe he was resonating with it. He decided that was a good thing because it meant he would never get lost.

With that in mind, he wandered deeper into the expanse of the Ghost Zone. He didn’t want Spectra or Bertrand to find their way back. Eventually, he stopped and let them out of the thermos.

Spectra was in her black, shadowy form, and Bertrand was in his green, blobby form. When Spectra saw Danny, she lunged for him.

“You!” she seethed. “You took my youth!”

Danny dodged. “No, I didn’t!”

“Well, you helped! Bertrand, sic him!”

“Don’t make me put you back in here!” Danny threatened.

Bertrand hesitated. “Maybe we should listen to the kid,” he said.

Spectra growled and huffed, looking between Danny and her assistant. After a while, she crossed her arms and said, “Fine.”

Danny held on to the thermos but lowered it. “That’s better. Now leave. I never want to see you in Amity Park again.”

“Oooh, scary eyes,” Spectra mocked, but she turned around a flew off, Bertrand trailing after her.

When they were out of sight, Danny sighed. That wasn’t as bad as he expected. Hopefully, they would listen to him and never come back.

But what did Spectra mean about his eyes? Just another mystery of being a ghost. Not a comforting thought.

The Next Day

“Dude, why’d you bail on us yesterday?” Tucker asked the next day at school.

“I had to work through some things,” Danny said and slammed his locker.

“What things?” Sam asked warily. “You don’t seem to have worked through them. Unless abusing your locker is normal for you now.”

Danny sighed. “Spectra said some things that messed with my head.” He stood with his back against his locker.

“She messed with everyone’s heads,” Tucker said.

“Yeah, you can’t take it too personally,” Sam added.

“Hey,” Danny said, “you two didn’t get as down as the rest of us. Why not?”

“I already see the bad in this world,” Sam said with a sadistic smile. “I don’t need someone telling me what’s wrong.”

Tucker shrugged. “I didn’t really listen to Spectra. She let me use my PDA during our session.”

“But back to you,” Sam said. “Pull a Tucker and refuse to listen.”

“It’s not that easy–” Danny said when the bell rang. “Sorry, guys. Another time.” He hitched up his backpack and went to class. Tucker shared the same class and followed him.

“Dude,” he said, “talk to me. I’m your best friend.”

“I will, just, ugh, not without Sam.”

“Okay. I get it.”

Tucker kept glancing at Danny throughout the class. Finally, Danny glared at him. Tucker scribbled out a note and handed it to him.

“Don’t do that. Your eyes glowed,” the note read.

Danny looked around in a panic. No one else looked back at him. He slumped in his chair, relieved. He wrote a note back to Tucker.

“Stop looking at me. I’ll talk. I promise.”

Tucker nodded to Danny after reading the note. Thankfully, he left Danny alone for the rest of the class.

After class was another story. Tucker dragged Danny toward Sam’s classroom, and the trio met up in the hallway.

“Spill,” Tucker said.

“Not here,” Danny muttered. he led his friends to a janitorial closet and slipped inside.

“No more excuses, Danny,” Tucker said. “What aren’t you telling us?”

“What am I?” Danny blurted. “I’m not a ghost, I’m not a human, I’m a monster.”

“Don’t you ever say that!” Sam countered hotly. “You’re our friend! We would know if our friend was a monster.”

“Yeah!” Tucker said. “What she said.”

Danny put his head in his hands. “You guys don’t get it. I’m not fully human anymore. I’m… I’m… something else. And not just anything, but the thing my parents obsess over. A ghost. A dead thing. Guys… I died.”

Tucker and Sam had no answer for him. Good. Maybe what he said got through to them. He looked up. Tucker appeared sad, but Sam looked horrified.

“So you get it now,” Danny said quietly. “I’m not the same anymore. Who knows what else might change about me? My parents believe ghosts are evil. Maybe I’ll become evil, too.”

“We won’t let that happen,” Sam said.

“We’ll keep you on the side of good,” Tucker added.

Danny managed a weak smile. “Thanks, guys.”

Sam pulled the boys into a hug. “We’re a team. Nothing can stop us. Not even death.”

The bell rang. The three left the closet to go to their next classes.

Danny didn’t feel any better.

[edenityy]

( chapter forty-three ! )

   "Read the sentence again— I was listening that time."

    The room is warm as afternoon light leaks through gauzy curtains, casting honey across the carpet and the velvet of her dress. Somewhere in the manor, a door closes—distant enough to be polite. There is nothing to do and no one to impress; it feels oddly illicit.

    Ciel exhales through his nose. His tone doesn't shift, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him. "You were not listening the first time, either."

    "I was. Mostly," Leah drapes herself more languidly across the chaise, bare feet pressed together at the ankles and knees parted just enough to be indecent if anyone else were present. Her bodice is untied at the back, and her hair hangs long and brushed behind her. "I just want to hear it again. You sound less dreadful than usual."

    He doesn't take the bait. The novel rests in one gloved hand, pages flicked lightly by his thumb. His other hand sits curled on the armrest, elbow sharp and clean in posture as he turns the page back.

    "'He paused, looking down at her. Her cheeks were flushed, but her gaze unflinching. "If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more," he said, and turned away—'"

    "Wait," Leah lifts her head, eyes narrowing. "Is that Austen?"

    "Yes," Ciel confirms.

    "Which one?"

    "'Emma.'" the reply comes without flourish. "You said you'd never read it."

    "I haven't," she reclines again, sighing. "I thought it'd be dull. All those dreadful little parties and letter-writing women with no business of their own."

    He raises a brow. "And now?"

    "I suppose if the men speak like that, I can be persuaded," she shrugs.

    Ciel's fingers twitch minutely, but he says nothing. He sits straight-backed in the armchair opposite her, boot resting neatly atop his knee. The page turns again.

    Leah shifts to her side, watching him read, hands occasionally brushing over PomPom, who naps beside her. "Did she end up with him?" she asks after a moment.

    "She does."

    "Even though he said that terribly serious thing and walked away?"

    "He comes back. They always do."

    She hums in the back of her throat and glances toward the window. "I think I'd hate that."

    "You hate everything."

    "That's not true," her eyes flit back toward him. "I like you. That's one."

    Ciel doesn't respond, but a muscle in his jaw tightens. He doesn't look up from the page.

    "..Two," she adds, "I like the gardens here. Even if the flowers are awfully fragile. That's not Finny's fault, is it?"

    "No," he murmurs, still reading.

    "I knew it," she stretches her legs out and crosses them at the ankle. "Three, I like when it rains. And four— I like when you read to me."

    "You're only saying that so I'll continue."

    "I'm saying it because it is true, but if you're so easily flattered, then yes, continue."

    The words flow from him, smoother than before. She lets them blur at the edges of her hearing, half-listening, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. His voice isn't particularly dramatic, but it's steady and assured, and the way he reads female dialogue makes her grin into the velvet cushion.

    She doesn't mean to fall asleep.

    Or maybe she doesn't. It's only for a few minutes—ten at most—but when she blinks herself awake, the sun has shifted, and the book is shut on his lap. Ciel's looking at her, not with judgment, but that particular kind of amusement he wears when she's done something ridiculous and he won't say so aloud. Her hand has slipped over the edge of the chaise, fingers brushing the floor, and the back of her skirt has crumpled beneath her.

    "I wasn't asleep," she says immediately.

    His brow raises. "You were snoring."

    Leah puffs her cheeks. "I don't snore."

    "Your protest makes me think you're lying," says Ciel.

    She scowls, sitting up with a wince. "Well, maybe I was bored. That's not your fault. It's Miss Austen's. I liked the other book better."

    "The other one had murder in it."

    "Precisely."

    He shakes his head slightly and rises, slipping the novel onto a nearby table without ceremony. The jacket he wears is still buttoned, though his hair has begun to curl a little at the nape from the heat of the room.

    She frowns at it. "You're overdressed."

    "You're underdressed," Ciel counters.

    "That is how it's meant to be," Leah rises too, smoothing her skirts as she does. "It's my honeymoon. I'm meant to lie around in nothing and eat sugared plums, or whatever it is newly married women do."

    Ciel wipes the look off his face. "I believe the tradition calls for bridal tours."

    "Well, I call it nonsense," she moves toward him, fingers catching his sleeve. "Besides, you'd hate it. We'd have to smile at people."

    "I've done worse," he shrugs.

    Leah rolls her eyes. "I haven't."

    He studies her quietly, gaze flicking down her figure and back to her face. His hand lifts to touch her waist, just briefly, before falling again. For a moment, neither of them speaks.

    "I've never read a book aloud to anyone before," he says.

    Leah's brow arches.

    "I didn't mean—" Ciel exhales. "I only meant.. it's not unpleasant."

    "You sound like a scholar remarking on a particularly well-behaved parasite," she laughs.

    "I'm trying to be sincere."

    "You're terrible at it."

    His hand comes up again, this time resting more firmly against her side, fingers splayed just below her ribs. He doesn't pull her closer, but he doesn't let go either. Leah leans into him, resting her chin on his shoulder. It's a strange fit, standing—she's almost level with him, and neither of them is particularly inclined to softness when it comes to affection—but it's warm and steady. She closes her eyes briefly.

    "You can read to me again," she murmurs.

    "You'll fall asleep again," Ciel complains.

    "I might not."

    "I won't hold my breath."

    Leah's nose scrunches. "You're not allowed to die on the honeymoon. It's gauche."

    "Is that so?" he raises a brow.

    "Mmm," she nuzzles into his coat just slightly. "Very."

    His thumb brushes over her side, absent and slow. It makes her want to say something, or nothing, or anything ridiculous just to fill the space, but she doesn't. The quiet is fine like this.

    Somewhere outside, the wind picks up. A soft creak of branches against the glass and the curtains ripple with movement. She doesn't move.

    They're only partway into the month.

═╬

    The sun is warm above them, but not cruel. The bridle path cuts clean through the estate's woods, dappled light filtering through the high canopy as the horse moves in an even, steady rhythm. Leah's skirts billow softly with the motion, silk over velvet over lace, layered too fine for practicality but suited well enough for the aesthetics of newlywed bliss.

    She's perched sidesaddle in front of Ciel, spine straight, hand resting over the pommel with a care that's more appearance than necessity. His arm wraps easily around her waist, gloved hand resting over the reins she's not actually holding. His chest is warm against her back, the faint rise and fall of it brushing her shoulders with every breath he takes. Neither of them has spoken in several minutes, but it doesn't feel like silence. There's the low creak of leather and the soft exhale of the horse. Birds call, and wind rustles through the hedgerows. Everything smells faintly of violets.

    "You needn't keep your back so straight," he says eventually, voice low in her ear. "You look like a portrait."

    "I am a portrait," she replies without looking at him. "And I'm being ridden like one."

    His breath catches in his throat, but he makes no comment. She smirks.

    The path curves gently, revealing a break in the trees where the lawn slopes down toward the pond. Afternoon sunlight flashes off the water, golden and clean, and a few ducks stir as the horse's hooves disturb the gravel. Ciel tugs gently on the reins to steer them toward the open field instead, and Leah feels the slight shift in balance as the horse adjusts beneath them. It's a big beast, a black Hanoverian, calm and well-trained, but powerful—she can feel the muscles moving under its coat with every step.

    She leans back into him just enough to make a point. "If we were in America, I'd be riding astride."

    "If we were in America, I suspect you'd be shooting at pheasants and calling it romance," Ciel purses his lips.

    "I would never harm an animal," she huffs.

    His fingers tighten slightly at her waist. "You would harm a person. You'd do it in a ball gown, too."

    Leah lets her head tip to the side in mock thought. "..Would that be frowned upon?"

    "Only by the people."

    They pass the edge of the gardens where wisteria blooms wild along the trellis, bright and tumbling, and she watches the petals fall like confetti as the breeze picks up. The grounds are manicured and beautiful in the way things are when someone else has maintained them for centuries. It's too quiet to be anything but private. She doesn't like the stillness, but here, like this, it's palatable. She wouldn't call it peace, but it's something close.

    She adjusts her posture again, lifting her skirts slightly to shift her legs. Sidesaddle is elegant, yes, but her thighs are aching from the uneven pressure, and the saddle feels like sitting on the edge of a grand piano.

    "I think this is more for your amusement than mine," she mutters, tugging at a fold of silk that's clinging to her knee.

    "It's traditional."

    "Most traditions are invented by people with bad taste."

    "You agreed to it," he grunts.

    Leah fights the urge to throw her head back and whine like a child. "I agreed under the impression that we'd dismount after ten minutes and feed each other treats beneath a cherry tree."

    "We don't have a cherry tree."

    "Then the deception runs even deeper than I thought."

    He laughs softly behind her, the sound barely more than a breath against the back of her neck. She feels it more than hears it, which is somehow worse.

    A beat passes before he speaks again. "You've a good seat, even sidesaddle."

    "Praise from you? I shall write it in my diary," she hums.

    Ciel's brow raises slightly. "You don't keep one."

    She shrugs. "I'll start."

    The reins shift again as the horse slows to a walk. They're approaching the far edge of the estate, where the land dips again and the fences are whitewashed and freshly repaired. Beyond, there's nothing but hedgerows and quiet countryside. Leah watches a bird take off from one of the fence posts, wings flashing silver as it disappears into the trees.

    "I could ride by myself," she says after a moment, not with challenge, only thoughtful.

    "I know."

    "I'd ride faster."

    "I know that, too."

    He doesn't release her, nor does he loosen his grip. Just enough pressure to keep her balanced, nothing more.

    The wind picks up, fluttering her veil where it's pinned into the back of her hair. One of the pins has come loose; she can feel the slight give at her nape, but she doesn't bother adjusting it. Let it fall and unravel. There's no one out here to see her except him.

    "Yet," she adds, voice low, "you insisted we ride together."

    "We're married," Ciel says matter-of-factly.

    Leah rolls her eyes. "That's not an answer."

    He shrugs. "It's not a question."

    She scowls, twisting slightly to look at him over her shoulder. His expression is calm, unreadable, but the light catches the corner of his mouth again, barely there. The sort of smile he wears when he's won a match of chess and doesn't care whether anyone noticed.

    "Say it plainly," she mutters.

    "I wanted you close," he doesn't even hesitate. That annoys her more than it ought to.

    "Close," she echoes. "To what? Fall off?"

    "To me."

    They ride a moment longer before she leans back against him again, more deliberately this time, and her cheek brushes his coat.

    "You're sentimental," she says flatly.

    "And you're not."

    "I never said I was."

    He doesn't argue. His hand lifts instead, brushing a strand of hair away from her temple and smoothing it back behind her ear. The gloves make it gentler, less tactile, but the weight of the gesture lingers anyway.

    Their horse picks its way slowly down a gentle incline, hooves sinking softly into the grass. A dragonfly skims across the water, and the ducks have all moved to the far bank. The silence isn't heavy anymore, it's just quiet, and they ride until the shadows begin to change.

═╬

    The morning sun filters weakly through the sheer curtains, warm light pooling across embroidered coverlets and the soft white curve of a woman's shoulder. The windows are half-cracked, allowing in the pale hush of summer air, which cools the warmth left behind on the sheets by the previous night's indulgences. Though the clock has long since struck ten, there is still no sense of rush in the stillness of the room.

    Leah lies propped against several pillows, her hair a tangled, glossy spill over bare shoulders, only somewhat tamed by the pale lace wrap shrugged loosely around her arms. The breakfast tray across her lap is mostly untouched. A fine crystal glass of apple juice sits off to one side, dewed with condensation, and on a porcelain plate edged in gold, there are neatly sliced strawberries, skinned orange segments, and a cluster of green grapes arranged with more care than she'll ever appreciate. She picks at them absentmindedly, the tines of her fork moving a single grape around the plate.

    Beside her, reclining back against the headboard, Ciel is nursing a cup of black tea. The tray beside him holds his own light meal—smoked salmon on dark bread, a coddled egg, and a few artfully positioned slices of pear.

    A quiet clink breaks the silence as Leah sets her fork down again. Her legs shift beneath the sheets, one knee rising slightly. She's still sore—not terribly, just enough to remind her how thoroughly she'd been kept up the night before. Yet, she feels no irritation about it, not really. Only the faint ache and a bone-deep laziness that makes her unwilling to move unless absolutely required.

    "You ought to eat more than that," he remarks after a sip of tea, not looking up.

    The fork clinks again, though this time not by accident.

    "I am eating," she answers, dragging a sliced strawberry through a bit of condensation on her plate and popping it in her mouth like that alone absolves her.

    He glances at her finally, his gaze unreadable. "Barely."

    She doesn't respond at once. A grape is plucked and rolled between two fingers, cool and smooth. Her eyes remain fixed on it, lashes low.

    "You know I don't like breakfast," she murmurs.

    "I recall. You don't like much of anything before noon."

    "And yet," she breathes, raising the grape to her mouth, "you continue to speak to me before then. Curious."

    He huffs quietly, amused despite himself. "It's either speak to you or sit in silence while you pick your food apart like a dissatisfied duchess."

    Her lip curls, faintly pleased.

    "I could summon Thomas to keep you company instead," suggests Ciel.

    Leah scoffs. "I'd rather starve."

    His lips press into a line. "Which, evidently, is already your intent."

    This time, her fork is dropped outright, clattering lightly onto the tray. The movement earns his full attention, though he doesn't shift his position.

    "That wasn't funny," she says flatly.

    "It wasn't meant to be."

    The tension is soft, not brittle. Familiar ground. Still, her posture draws tighter, like a cat flicking its tail. Her pride always flares when her habits are brought up, even when it's him. Especially when it's him.

    A long moment of quiet passes between them, broken only by the faint whistle of wind against the glass.

    "You presume much," she mutters, but she picks the fork up again. Doesn't eat, though. Only holds it.

    "And you presume I cannot tell when you're trying not to faint," he counters.

    A sharp look shoots toward him, but he doesn't flinch or smirk. The remark lands heavier than the rest, matter-of-fact, as though it's already been established that this is simply how things are. How she is.

    Leah sets the fork down again, more gently this time.

    "I don't want to look grotesque," she says, the words barely more than a whisper. There's no dramatic tone, no forced self-pity, just the bare truth of it laid on the sheets between them. "Is that so wrong?"

    He shifts at last, reaching to set aside his empty cup. Then he leans in, his posture unhurried as his hand brushes against the curve of her knee beneath the sheets.

    "No," he says, "but starving yourself isn't beautiful either. There are better ways to have your way."

    A pause.

    "And what would you know of beauty?" she asks, though her tone isn't cutting. More curious than anything, like she's prompting him for something she already knows he won't say aloud.

    He reaches for her tray and sets it aside without asking, then slides closer across the bed. One hand drags the sheet lower, down to her hips, and he gathers her in without ceremony. She lets him, curling against his side, head resting just below his shoulder.

    "I married you," he says finally. "If I cared about the weight of your waist, I'd have found another."

    "I suppose I should feel flattered," Leah's brow cocks.

    "You should feel loved," he replies, and his fingers press lightly into her side. "But if flattery helps you eat, then yes. Be flattered."

    Her eyes close briefly. She breathes in slow, shallow pulls, the kind that don't disturb much but fill the silence enough to make it seem like she's considering his words. "I'd rather feel spoiled."

    "Then finish your breakfast," says Ciel.

    She groans quietly, and he can feel the rise of it against his chest.

    "You're insufferable," she murmurs.

    "You're petulant."

    "I'm delicate."

    He doesn't argue that. Instead, he shifts her into a more comfortable position, his hand slipping beneath her robe to rest at the curve of her lower back. His thumb draws absent patterns into her skin.

    "You are," he agrees. "And difficult. And temperamental."

    "And you enjoy every moment of it."

    "I wouldn't have brought you fruit if I didn't."

    Her gaze lifts to meet his, narrowed. "You'll be smug about this all day, won't you?"

    "Only until lunch," he smiles.

    She glares. Then silence settles again, but it's a warmer and familiar sort this time. His fingers stay on her skin, slow and aimless, and her legs tangle further with his beneath the sheets. The tray of fruit remains untouched at the edge of the bed, but she doesn't push it away this time.

    A clock ticks somewhere down the hall. The manor is otherwise still.

    Leah presses her lips lightly to his collarbone, no warning or reason. A wordless thing. He doesn't comment, only breathes in once and continues the slow motion of his hand.

    She thinks she might doze off like this just for a few minutes, and if she wakes up hungrier, then maybe she'll finish the strawberries.

═╬

    The grandfather clock in the corridor chimes seven, its low, resonant tolls echoing through the east wing of the manor. Warm light spills from the high windows of the drawing room, gold against the dusky lavender sky beyond. Ciel has settled on one of the deep crimson settees, legs crossed neatly, one arm resting along the back as though posing for a portrait. His waistcoat is slightly unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, the stiffness of earlier formality long since discarded.

    A half-empty decanter of wine sits on the low table between them, joined by a dish of lemon biscuits that no one has touched. Cards are scattered across the table's surface in disorderly patterns, some bent slightly at the corners from Leah's restless fingers and some cast face-up in a state of tragic defeat.

    She reclines across from him, slipper dangling off one foot, back slouched enough to annoy the ghost of her aunt had she been present. The bodice of her gown is slightly off-center from leaning, the silk wrinkled from where she's bunched it over her knee. Her hair's been pinned up and redone twice now, and a third time seems likely, judging by the way she keeps tugging strands loose with the occasional frustrated swipe.

    "You've cheated," she accuses, peering down at the card in her lap as though it's somehow deceived her. "There is no world in which you beat me five times in a row without some form of trickery."

    Ciel raises a brow, but the faint tug at the corner of his mouth betrays the amusement. "You declared you understood the rules after the second round."

    "Yes, and that was before I realized the game was designed by sadists," she huffs.

    He draws a card from the pile without looking, sets it on the table. "It's whist, Leah. Not fencing."

    She narrows her eyes. "There's a trick to it. I've no doubt you learned it in the cradle."

    "There's no trick," he replies mildly, and leans to refill his glass. "Only arithmetic."

    Leah grumbles something about arithmetic being a poor substitute for charm, but sits upright again to gather the cards nonetheless. Her fingers are quick, though her method is a chaotic mess of half-shuffling and half-smacking them into order. The first time she handled the deck, she bent one of the corners nearly in half, which prompted a look from Ciel sharp enough to freeze the air. She's since tried to be more delicate, but her patience only stretches so far.

    They have played three hands of whist, one round of vingt-et-un, two attempts at hazard, and one miserable, drawn-out disaster with a spill of dice neither of them wishes to revisit. Somewhere between the second and third game, she called him smug. Somewhere between the third and fourth, he called her erratic. She slapped his wrist during the fifth.

    It has been a good evening.

    By the time she gathers the last of the cards into a neat pile, her fingers are sticky with sweat. She glances toward the fire, watches the way the flames reflect in the glass of a cabinet, then tosses the deck at him with a flick of the wrist. He catches it one-handed, but not without arching a brow.

    "What now?" she asks. "Or have you exhausted your appetite for humiliating me?"

    "I could continue," he offers, eyes glinting above the rim of his glass. "But you do seem near tears."

    "Oh, do shut up," she gets to her feet and moves toward the hearth, arms crossed beneath her chest. The fire's heat prickles her skin, drawing warmth through the silk and lace as she watches the embers shift. "There must be something I'm good at, surely. God wouldn't be so cruel as to grant me a face and nothing else."

    From behind, there's the sound of a card snapping lightly against the table.

    "You're tolerable at vingt-et-un," he says, and she hears the faintest pause. "When you don't insist the dealer is lying."

    "I know when people are lying. You shouldn't hold that against me."

    "I suppose not, but it makes the game unplayable."

    She turns her head just enough to look over her shoulder. "You ought to invent something better. A game without so many rules."

    Ciel's gaze meets hers, cool and thoughtful beneath the flicker of lamplight. "And leave room for chaos? Never."

    Rolling her eyes, Leah crosses back toward the table and reclaims her seat, this time letting her limbs drape with deliberate, feline laziness. "You are dreadfully boring sometimes, do you know that?"

    He doesn't offer a reaction. "And you are delightfully uncivilized."

    The corner of her mouth curves. "See? You can be charming when you wish."

    "I'm always charming. You're simply too bitter to notice."

    She leans forward, elbows to knees, chin in hand. "That sounds like something a bitter man would say."

    He lifts his glass in a mock salute. "Touché."

    The room quiets for a moment, and the clock ticks in the hall. A draft curls along the wainscoting, stirring the hem of Leah's skirts. She eyes the cards again, then the dice set aside in a small crystal dish. Too many games have passed in one sitting; the thrill has softened now, leaving behind only warmth, company, and the steady pleasure of unspoken intimacy.

    Ciel sets the wine aside. "There's always charades."

    Her lips pout. "You are not dragging me into a game of charades."

    His smile returns, slow and sly. "Are you afraid you'll lose again?"

    "I'm afraid I'll throw myself from a window," Leah says.

    "Come now," he murmurs, tone feigning innocence, "it requires no arithmetic."

    She considers the set of his shoulders, the glint of mischief edging into his eyes, and the small twitch of his gloved fingers against the tabletop. Then she sighs, long and dramatic.

    "Fine," she concedes, voice drawling like someone being marched to the guillotine. "But if you make me act out something as humiliating as a goose again, I will bite you."

    "Noted."

    They shift, rearranging the chairs to face one another, and Leah smooths the wrinkles from her skirt with exaggerated precision.

    The first round is awkward. She stares blankly at him when it's her turn, vaguely miming a person, then an action, then—when he fails to guess—flinging herself onto the rug with a groan of despair.

    "You're abysmal at this," he says, tone utterly without sympathy.

    "It was clearly 'woman hurling herself from carriage to avoid conversation with dull husband.'" she growls.

    He doesn't dignify that with a response.

    The second round goes better. She guesses pirate after he limps across the rug pretending to have one leg. It makes her laugh hard enough that she nearly snorts, which prompts a scandalized hand over her mouth.

    They play for longer than intended. One round becomes two, then three. Her slippers end up discarded beneath the table, and his waistcoat is shed and tossed over the back of the settee. The wine is finally gone.

    Though Leah loses more often than not, she's flushed, smiling, and breathing easier now than she had when the evening began.

    When she stumbles through an act that might be meant to represent "storm at sea," and collapses across the chaise in a dramatic heap, she glances up to find Ciel standing over her, arms crossed, one brow raised.

    "You're not trying," he accuses.

    "I am. You simply don't know art when you see it," she kicks a foot.

    He leans down slowly and plucks a loose hair from her forehead. "That's what they all say."

    Her hand darts up and slaps his away. He smirks and lets her.

    Outside, the wind picks up slightly, rattling the branches against the windows. The fire burns low, casting long shadows along the walls. Neither of them reaches to light another lamp. The night has grown long, but neither of them moves to end it.

═╬

    The east parlour is swathed in pale light, heavy with the perfume of roses. It creeps in through tall windows and settles on the sprawl of opened boxes, ribbons, and half-wrapped parcels that have all but overtaken the floor. Every table surface has been claimed by something. A gold clock in the shape of a swan, a set of bone china too delicate to touch, embroidered linens that still smell of starch. There's a lace parasol propped against the edge of the chaise, absurdly ornate and utterly impractical. Leah eyes it with the sort of disdain she normally reserves for lesser girls.

    The gifts have been trickling in since the wedding. Dozens—hundreds, likely. Items from far-flung family, sycophants, social climbers, and overindulgent friends of her parents. A few from people she and Ciel actually tolerate, but most of them bear the stamp of polite obligation, the kind that turns her stomach if she dwells on it for too long.

    She unwraps a box containing what appears to be a crystal decanter shaped like a blooming tulip. A note nestled inside reads 'To a match made by Heaven and sanctioned by society. May your union be as enduring as cut glass.' She snorts and tosses the card aside. The decanter isn't terrible, at least. If anything, Leah thinks it's cute. She holds it up to the light and watches it catch a rainbow against the ceiling.

    "You've made a disaster of the room."

    Ciel's voice floats from the doorway. She doesn't look up right away as there's tissue paper caught under her slipper, and she leans down to free it with a wrinkle of her nose. When she straightens, he's stepped further in, one hand holding a pair of letters.

    "I didn't realise it was your parlour," she answers, gesturing lazily to the chaos. "Shall I ask for your blessing before I wrinkle the rugs?"

    "I'm the master of the house. It's all my parlour."

    "Marvellous. I'm sure you'll enjoy the mess I've made, then."

    He approaches slowly, his gaze drifting over the array. One of the tables bears an enormous glass vase filled with sugar roses, peonies, and violets, all so finely crafted she thought them real at first. She's grown to detest them. The arrangement is almost vulgar in its prettiness.

    "You've gone through all of them?" he stops just beside her, nudging a box aside with his toe.

    She shakes her head. "Not yet. I thought I'd pace myself. Something to look forward to."

    His mouth twitches, but she doesn't give him the satisfaction of a smile. There's a set of pearl-handled letter openers nearby, lying in a crushed velvet box. Likely meant for correspondence she'll never read. She picks one up, spins it between her fingers, then returns it with exaggerated care.

    "You're not keeping that," he mutters.

    "It has a satisfying weight," Leah says.

    "It's hideous."

    "That's why I like it."

    She moves past him to another stack. Someone had the gall to send a wedding portrait she and Ciel never sat for. Their faces are distorted, a little too angular, and the colours are too bold. Ciel's hair is the wrong shade, and her own gown is rendered in an offensive yellow, not even close to what she wore. She turns the frame face down and hopes the artist meets some unfortunate end involving fire.

    He watches her with folded arms. "You've only unwrapped the gifts?"

    "Mm, and mocked them. Thoroughly."

    "No thank-you notes?"

    Leah shrugs nonchalantly. "You may write them yourself if you're so concerned."

    "That would defeat the purpose of you appearing grateful."

    "I'm grateful enough for the ones I didn't hate."

    "That's not how gratitude works."

    She plucks up a handkerchief monogrammed with their initials entwined like a pair of serpents. The stitching is expert, something she can appreciate. She folds it neatly and tucks it back into the box, then pushes it away with a fingertip.

    Ciel lowers himself into the chair beside her. One of the letters he carries is torn open, the wax seal broken cleanly. He reads in silence, posture composed, only glancing up when she exhales sharply through her nose. Her attention has turned to an elaborate candelabrum shaped like a twisted tree, each branch ending in a porcelain bird.

    "What is that?" she asks.

    "French," he replies.

    "Of course it is."

    She drags it closer, inspecting the birds' painted faces. One of them has a chip in the beak, hairline thin, only noticeable in the right light. She runs her thumb over it.

    "I rather like this one," she mutters. "Shame it's flawed."

    "It suits you, then."

    Her eyes flick to him, narrowed, but he's still reading, serene as ever. 'Bastard.' She leans across the table and aims a half-hearted swat at his arm. He catches her wrist without looking, holds it just long enough to be annoying, then lets go.

    "Shall I sort the ones I like?" she asks, reclining back into the cushion, all mock effort. "We could build a separate wing for the rest. Call it the Hall of Mediocre Tokens."

    "No need," he murmurs. "We'll simply re-gift them to people we dislike."

    Leah lets out a quiet snort and shifts, drawing one leg up under her as she reaches for another box. This one's tied in red silk ribbon and doesn't have a card. She tugs it loose and peels back the wrapping. Inside is a music box shaped like a carriage, gold, lacquered, and grotesque. When she twists the key, it plays something that vaguely resembles Clair de Lune, though the mechanism grinds audibly with every rotation.

    She snaps the lid shut. "That one's going in the fire."

    "I'd rather not poison the household," Ciel grimaces.

    She glances toward him again, her gaze trailing over the sharp lines of his profile. He looks less tired now than he did in the days leading up to the wedding. His face no longer bears the stretched-thin look of someone pretending to be fine for the sake of appearances. There's an ease in his shoulders now, a looseness to his posture, like the world has stopped biting for just long enough to let him breathe.

    "You're not going to make me write those thank-you notes, are you?" she asks, quieter this time.

    "No," he doesn't elaborate.

    She watches him for another moment, then returns to the boxes. The next one contains a fan carved from ivory, its paper hand-painted with scenes of lovers in a garden. Excessive, but it's pretty, and she lets it rest on her lap while she tears open the next ribbon.

    There's something satisfying about it, the rustle of paper, sprayed fabric, and the idle sorting of treasures and horrors alike. It's the sort of mindless work that fills an afternoon without fuss. She might hate half the contents, but at least they're hers now. The collection grows around her feet, a little more ridiculous with each addition. She could sit like this for hours.

    Ciel doesn't move.

    The music box still rests at her elbow. She considers winding it again, just to annoy him. Or perhaps not. There's still another box to open, and the next ribbon is knotted a little too tightly. She begins to work at it with her thumbnail.

    The light shifts through the window again, dimmer now. Dust motes drift, and the fire hasn't been lit, but the room is warm enough without it. Her fingers pause on the bow as she glances sideways, then undoes the knot.

═╬

    The evening is still, soaked in gold from the candles flickering high in the sconces and along the centre of the table. Heavy drapes have been drawn, keeping out the dusk and its curious chill. A lace cloth drapes over the table, gathered at the sides like a gown. Two plates rest across from one another, touched by silver and delicate bone china, their contents modest but elegant—duck glazed in something faintly sweet, a curl of buttered carrot, thin green beans trimmed like ribbons.

    Leah's knife moves in quiet arcs, slicing through her portion with practiced ease. She isn't ravenous, and she won't pretend to be, but it's not unpleasant tonight—the food, the quiet, the faint crackle of the hearth behind her. The air smells faintly of orange peel and woodsmoke, and though everything around her seems arranged for intimacy, it lacks the suffocating edge of earlier nights when they both still stumbled over the novelty of being married. The silence isn't hostile. It lingers without need to be filled.

    Across the table, Ciel is watching her with his usual calm, his elbow on the table and his chin barely tilted in thought. He's already finished most of his meal, not rushing, but content. His expression rarely betrays much in front of others, but there's a softness in the line of his mouth that she only ever sees when it's just the two of them and no one else to notice.

    She picks up her fork again, nudges a sliver of duck onto it, then glances up at him through the veil of her lashes. "You're awfully quiet tonight. Should I be worried?"

    "You might, if you'd done anything worth worrying over," his tone is dry, almost careless.

    Leah chuckles. "Mm, give me time. The night's young."

    He lifts his wine glass to his lips, but the edge of it catches on a smile. A real one, faint and flickering.

    They've had no visitors since morning, no correspondences requiring immediate attention, and even Thomas has learned to leave them be after dinner hours unless the manor is on fire, which, blessedly, it isn't. Time has slowed these past few weeks, bending to their schedule in a way that feels indulgent and fragile all at once. No trips, no galas, and no pretenses, at least not outside of their own.

    Leah eats slowly, less out of dread and more for pacing. It's easier when there's no conversation to perform, no social obligation to finish everything, and no Sebastian lingering just out of view waiting to clear her plate. She's eaten enough, more than enough, so she lets the fork rest.

    Ciel finishes his wine and sets the glass down with an absent motion. "The estate accountant requested another audience. I've refused him."

    "Why?" she reaches for her own glass but doesn't drink.

    "Because I would rather spend my evening doing anything else, and he's tedious."

    "You do love a tedious man."

    "Not when I'm dining."

    A flicker of amusement dances through her expression. She leans back slightly, fingers toying with the edge of her plate, tracing the rim with one pale fingertip.

    "I think I ought to learn the accounts myself," she muses aloud, tone light but laced with sincerity.

    "You?" Ciel lifts a brow. "You'd sooner set fire to the ledgers than balance them."

    "Incorrect. I'd have them bound in something prettier and perhaps printed in color, but I would balance them," she fights the urge to twiddle her thumbs.

    Ciel hardly looks up. "Decorating the margins with ink roses does not qualify as finance."

    She lifts her glass this time and takes a sip. The wine has mellowed since it was poured—softened, like the mood in the room. "Then teach me properly. If I'm to be paraded about as the mistress of this place, I ought to know more than which wine glasses to choose."

    "You already know more than most wives of your rank," he gives a faint tilt of his head.

    "I'm not most wives," she licks her lips.

    "No, you're not," he says, quieter, eyes not leaving her.

    The room feels warmer then. Leah sets the glass down gently. Her other hand lies idle in her lap, fingers curled against the silk folds of her skirt. She shifts, just enough that her foot brushes his under the table.

    He doesn't move, his gaze remaining steady.

    "You'd let me do it, wouldn't you?" she murmurs. "Go through the books. Take notes. Ask too many questions."

    "I'd let you ruin the whole estate if it meant you'd do it in here, with me," there's an almost unnoticeable flush on his cheeks.

    She almost laughs, but doesn't. Instead, she leans her cheek into her hand, elbow resting again on the table's edge. Her eyes flick past him to the window, then return. "That's a sentimental answer."

    "It's true."

    "Yet if I so much as breathe near the wine cellar, you act like I'm going to poison our guests."

    "That's different."

    "How?"

    "You're impatient," he leans back in his seat.

    "You're smug."

    "And you married me."

    "I must've been tricked," Leah huffs.

    "You weren't," he murmurs.

    She hums, soft and low, not an agreement but not a challenge either. A loose strand of hair slips near her cheek, and she doesn't bother to tuck it away.

    "I didn't think I'd like this part of it," she says, not looking at him. "The quiet. The hours where we're not doing anything at all."

    "What did you expect?" Ciel's brow raises.

    "I don't know. Something more.. dramatic," she shrugs. "I thought I'd grow bored of you."

    "You will."

    "I haven't yet."

    Ciel lifts his hand, brushing his thumb across his lower lip as if in thought, though his eyes are trained solely on her now. Not distractedly. Not because she's beautiful, though he clearly thinks she is, but in the way one looks when they're listening more than watching.

    She takes another sip, then rises from her seat with unhurried grace. The air shifts as she moves, her gown rustling faintly with every step. She circles the table, fingers brushing the linen surface as she walks. When she reaches his side, she stops just behind him.

    He doesn't turn.

    Her hand lifts, fingertips grazing his shoulder, then smoothing along the line of his coat. He still doesn't look at her, but he's not avoiding it. He's waiting.

    "I could sit with you," she murmurs. "Watch you work. Be quiet. Just for once."

    "That would be suspicious."

    "I'm capable of being well-behaved."

    "Briefly."

    Her other hand drapes over his other shoulder now, and she leans in, not quite against him, not yet. Her mouth hovers near his ear, and when she speaks again, it's quieter.

    "You like when I'm near you, don't you?" she smiles.

    He tilts his head just enough that she sees the faintest curve of a smirk. "When you're not biting."

    "I might still bite," she lets her hand slide lower, slow and measured, fingers light over the buttons of his coat. "You'd deserve it."

    "I usually do."

    The fire crackles behind them. Somewhere down the hall, a clock chimes the quarter hour, muffled by distance and heavy walls. She lets the silence stretch just a moment longer, fingers stilling.

    "You're in a better mood than you were last night," she says lightly, tone veiled, thoughtful.

    "I'm not being pelted with hairpins this evening," he replies, tone flat.

    "So yes, perhaps I am."

————

there was smut in this chapter that i obviously don’t think i can post here again TvT it’s inbetween the horse riding and breakfast scene if you want to read it on ao3! don’t worry, this is the last time for what i think will be a long while! sorry for the inconvenience again

https://archiveofourown.org/works/55513072/chapters/140880142

also, this is a chapter of some highlights from ciel and leah’s honeymoon! chronological order, but none happen in the same day—there’s space between all of them.