#you don’t need to ADVERTISE your ignorance of things either

[tarantula-hawk-wasp]

At a certain point blaming the school system for failing to teach you every fact becomes an excuse to absolve yourself from learning on your own time as an adult. Maybe you had bad teachers and curricula, maybe you never did the assigned reading, maybe you were taught propaganda, but it’s okay to start now. It’s okay to learn geography from online games. It’s okay to get entry level books from the library on a subject. It’s okay to explore Wikipedia and other reputable websites as a start. You can learn as an adult. You should continue learning as an adult.

[euphoriaslux]

two’s a party.

summary: you recently transferred to stanford, and decide to tutor a tennis player in your class. he has a friend. severe indecency ensues.

word count: 3.3k

warnings : smut, threesomes, f!oral receiving, swearing, smoking, drinking. slight cuck energy if you squint (i’m sorry ((no i’m not))). no challengers spoilers!

a/n: this fic got away from me big time but this movie has rotted my brain and as a result i have written utter debauchery that i will not apologize for. just had to get this out of my head, enjoy!

-

stanford science hall. monday , march 3.

You swear the last thing you’ll hear before your body is lowered into your grave is the process of lactic acid breakdown.

It’s 2:30 PM. Kinesiology 189 with Professor Wilson, a lanky middle-aged man with a PhD in exercise science and a half-grown beard that you don’t think will ever fully grow in, is almost over. He’s teaching Extended Studies of the Human Body in a humid classroom filled with student-athletes, most of whom are trying to stay awake, trying to hide that they’re taking a nap, or making no attempt to hide that they’re on their phones. You don’t really blame any of them, because the professor’s voice is so soft and monotone that it feels like he’s begging everyone to pay attention to anything but him. You’ve managed to stay somewhat on course with the thread of today’s lecture, the notebook in front of you filled with scribbles of incomplete molecular structures and somewhat legible drawings of the muscular anatomy of a hamstring.

This class is required for your biology major since you’re on a pre-medicine track. You don’t know why you’re doing it, the whole doctor thing, but you’ve developed a weird fixation for this class. The functionality of the body, how muscles stretch and tear with each movement, and how amino acids work to build them back even bigger.

And, possibly because of the tennis player who sits four rows ahead of you every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

His last name is Donaldson. You know because of the faded label on the massive bag he throws on the floor every time he walks into class, at least ten minutes late with a backward Stanford Tennis cap on his head. His first name remains a mystery, partly because he never talks in class, and mainly because you’ve made no attempt to speak to him. You like to think it’s because you’re so focused on the curriculum.

Professor Wilson knows your name, though, since you’re in his office hours every Thursday at 11 A.M. In part because he gives out most of the answers to his homework, and because you just transferred to Stanford your last year and very desperately need a letter of recommendation for medical school. Hence why you agreed to tutor a student with lower than 60% in the class during one of your meetings. And why everyone in the class was staring at you right now.

“... first come first serve, so reach out to her sooner rather than later.”

You give a tight-lipped smile, glancing around the room. Most people have looked away, back to their distraction of choice, but you meet eyes with the fluffy blonde-haired tennis player.

stanford library. wednesday, march fifth.

It’s 11 A.M., and you feel like your brain is about to explode if you look at another practice set.

“Hey”.

Your head whips around to the harsh whisper, only to be met with the blue-eyed mystery from your class. He has that large bag slung over his shoulder, with the end of a tennis racket peeking out of it. His hair is slightly stuck to his face, and his compression tee is slick to his chest like a second skin.

“Hi,” you whisper back. He smiles before tossing his bag on the floor and sitting in the chair across from you, either unaware of or completely ignoring the glares he’s receiving from the other students studying.

“You know,” he pulls out some kind of nutrition bar from his bag, unwrapping it and taking an aggressive bite, “for someone advertising their services, you’re pretty hard to find.”

“You’re in Mr. Wilson’s class, right?” you ask, hoping your subdued voice will remind him that he’s in a notoriously quiet place. He hums, pointing at you with his half-eaten snack.

“And I’m trying not to fail, but you didn’t leave your number anywhere in the classroom, and you bolt after every class. So how am I supposed to patronize your tutoring services…” he trails off, his volume the same level as when he walked in. You furrow your brows as he leans back into the chair.

“That’s when you say who you are.”

You feel a burn on the back of your neck as you tell him your name. He glances down towards the problem set you’ve nearly finished.

“How do you turn in any of those, I can’t get halfway through one of them.”

You pause for a moment before leaning slightly across the table to whisper:

“This new weird thing called studying. I think it just got approved by the CDC.”

“Very funny,” he shakes his head as reaches for your binder with your class schedule printed out on the front of it.

“Why are you taking so many bio classes?”

“Because I’m a biology major,” you can’t help the sarcasm dripping from your voice, and he looks at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Sorry, you’re making this too easy for me,” you raise your hands in conceit.

“I have practice every day at five so you can tutor me for like an hour beforehand,” he says before standing up, crunching up the silver wrapper and stuffing it into the front pocket of his blue jeans. You scoff at his sentence.

“Well, thank you for so generously fitting me into your schedule,” you roll your eyes, turning the page in your textbook. He grins.

“Tell the coach you’re there for Art. They’ll let you through.”

stanford tennis courts. friday, march 7th.

It’s 4 PM, and the California sun is sweltering. Your shorts feel like they’ve become a part of your legs, and your bag feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. By the time you make it to the tennis courts Art is already on the green concrete, shirtless with beads of sweat dripping down his face and chest. You hear his grunts as he sprints across the court, hitting the ball toward a slightly taller brunette with dangerously short red shorts. You watch them at the entrance for a few minutes, slightly entranced as the two play so seamlessly, as if they know every move the other person is going to make. You force your eyes away as you walk up the bleachers, stepping over leftover water bottles and chip bags to sit down and grab your notes from your backpack. It takes a couple more minutes for Art to notice you, yelling your name after he turns around to grab a ball his partner had hit particularly hard. You wave, and he says something you can’t hear to the brunette before the two of them jog across the courts and up the stands to where you are, blocking the sun as the two stand side by side.

“Who’s your friend?” you ask as you stuff the problem set you were working on in between the pages of your notebook.

“I’m Patrick,” he says, with a toothy smile and his ears poking out from under his hair. He has a bit more of a boyish charm to him than Art does, whose eyes are glued to his brunette counterpart.

“Are you in Mr. Wilson’s class too?”

Patrick opens his mouth to answer but Art speaks first, slightly pushing his friend with his shoulder as he says “He doesn’t go to Stanford, too busy being a tennis pro.”

Patrick rolls his eyes but his smile doesn’t leave his face. You notice how different this Art feels from the one in the library, how direct his playfulness is and how close he and Patrick stand together, their sweaty torsos nearly melding together.

Interesting.

“Like, Andre Agassi level pro?” you smile as the two of them laugh. Patrick raises the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat off of his forehead, and you can’t help but take a glance at the exposed skin just above his waistband.

“Sorry, he’s like the only tennis player I know.”

“No, no I’m taking that as a compliment that you think I’m on the level of Agassi. No takebacks if you see me play,” Patrick points at you.

“Will do,” you salute, turning over to Art.

“You ready to study?” you ask him as he makes a comically loud groan, his head falling back. Patrick laughs, reaching over to ruffle his friends hair.

“You do remember that’s why I’m here, right? Midterms are in two weeks.”

“I definitely have not forgotten that.” he says. You purse your lips just as Patrick’s eyes seem to light up.

“I’m staying at the Courtyard Hotel for the weekend. You two can come over and study, I need to review my last match anyway. Kill two birds with one stone,” Patrick suggests.

“Just studying?”

“Just studying,” Art says, wrapping his arm around his friend's shoulder. You glance between the two of them, trying to decipher the unspoken communication they seem to be doing. But you can’t crack it, so you shrug.

“Sure.”

“Let us finish this set, and then you’ll have me all to yourself. Sound fair?”

“Wow, what a privilege. Don’t take too long, it’s hell on Earth out here!” you yell the last part as Art jogs down the steps and back down towards the net. You look up once you realize that the sun is still being blocked, and Patrick is still standing in front of you.

“You ever play?” he grins, flipping the tennis racket in his hand.

“Tennis? God, no, that would not be a pretty sight. I’ll stick to what I’m good at,” you gesture to the books and notes in your lap. Patrick nods.

“If you ever want to learn, I could teach you sometime, you know if-” he’s cut off by Art yelling his name, and you both glance to see him with his hands on his hips.

“Go, don’t keep your boyfriend waiting,” you wave him off, and you swear you can see him blushing. Must have been the glare.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder as he runs toward Art.

courtyard hotel. saturday, march 8.

It’s 11 pm. There’s a cold shiver in the elevator as you wait to get to the fourth floor, your tennis shoes tapping against the floor as one hand plays with the handle of the pack of beer in your hand while the other crumples and re-crumples the piece of paper with the hotel room number Patrick scribbled on it.

what are you doing?

You don’t have time to think about the consequences of your actions as the robotic voice signals that you’re on the fourth floor, the elevator doors fluttering open. It’s like your feet have a mind of their own, as you find yourself almost mindlessly wandering through the hotel halls until you’re planted in front of room 4B. You raise your hand to knock on the door but before you can make contact with the wood it’s thrust open, and Patrick is standing behind it. His dark hair is slightly tousled around his face, his striped shirt unbuttoned and his black boxer briefs low on his waist. He’s smiling, that same big smile as before, but his face is a little flushed, a gentle pink hue touching his cheeks. The two of you don’t say anything for a few seconds, as if you were both testing to see who would concede first to acknowledge the other’s presence. You raise the pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon in your right hand.

“I brought studying fuel.”

You were never good at waiting.

Patrick laughs before he moves slightly out of the way to allow you to walk into his room. It’s small, with a queen-sized bed and a tiny desk, and the A/C emits an odd rumbling sound as it smacks against the window. Clothes and scorecards are strewn across the floor, and the scent of cigarettes permeates the room. You place the alcohol on the floor before deciding to sit on the bed, kicking off your shoes as you cross your legs. Patrick seems to stall for a moment, smiling to himself before closing the door behind him. He doesn’t lock the door, but you didn’t notice.

“Art’s not here yet?” you ask, watching as Patrick walks over and tears open the cardboard case, cracking open a can. Taking a sip, he leans against the desk as he smiles.

“Art can be bad with time.”

“As I’ve noticed,” you reach your hand out to motion towards the drink and Patrick hands it to you, staring as you take a large sip.

“Well,” you wipe the side of your mouth, “I told him to bring the topics he wanted to study, so I guess we can’t do anything until he gets here.”

Patrick nods with a slight pout, his fingers playing with the pop tab of the can. “I guess we can’t.”

“How’s tennis… stuff,” you laugh as you finish the question, not sure of exactly what to say.

Patrick seems to tense a little at the mention of the sport, moving over to sit next to you on the bed. His knee grazes your leg and you feel a slight buzz at the contact as he takes the beer from your hand.

“I’m kinda fucking it up right now,” he says, and you furrow your brows.

“How? You were like, really good yesterday.”

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. He hands you the beer and you finish it off, placing the empty can at the bottom of your feet.

“I’m good with Art. It feels so fucking natural and easy with him. But in my other matches, I don’t know. I just … can’t replicate it.”

You nudge him with your leg.

“Sounds like you two were made to play tennis together.”

He makes a noise of agreement, his hands slowly moving to ghost over your thigh.

“You and Art are pretty close?” you ask as he plays with the bottom hem of your shorts, but he doesn’t say anything. You take his silence as a yes.

“Do you ever get jealous?”

“Of Art?” he asks, almost incredulously. You shrug.

“Yeah, or jealous of the girls he’s with. Either or.”

Patrick sits on that for a few moments before smirking.

“What’s mine is mine, and what’s his is mine.”

You laugh at that, a real deep laugh, and Patrick giggles next to you, the both of you tipsy from the can of beer you finished. You reach over and put your hand on his flushed face, rubbing your hand across his cheek.

“What were you doing before I came?” you feel his face warm even more against your skin as you position yourself closer to him.

“Practicing- or, sorry, rereading my scorecards from my last match.”

You tutted as you moved your hand to the back of his neck, gently running your hands through his hair.

“You can tell me the truth, Patrick.”

He turns his head to press a gentle kiss to the palm of your hand before looking up at you as if to check if that was too much. Whatever your expression is gives him the confidence to move down to your neck, his tongue licking your skin.

“I think you know.”

You feel a pull in your lower stomach at his words, muffled by his mouth nipping at the sensitive spot just below your ear, and he sucks hard enough for you to put your hand around on his face at the pressure. Pulling his face up, the two of you stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, and his eyes glance toward your lips. You wanted to wait, to make him beg and plead for it, but your body seemingly pulled you forward as your pressed your mouth onto his.

You were really quite bad at waiting.

He tastes like tobacco and faintly of the fruit medley in the dining hall, and you sigh as his lips interlock with yours and his hand grabs the back of your neck, pressing you into him. The kiss gets messy and hard, his tongue gliding over your bottom lip and into your mouth as you lift your leg to straddle Patrick, grinding into him. He whimpers into the kiss as his calloused hands drop down to the waistband of your shorts, hesitating for a moment before dropping his hand into your underwear. You grind just a little bit faster as his fingers press circles into your clit, covering your mouth with your hand as you moan.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs as he uses his other hand to guide your hips, and your move your hands down to tug firmly on his hair. You can feel your climax building, the pressure in your stomach getting closer and closer to taking you over the edge-

You both jump at the sound of the hotel room dor slamming shut. Art is standing there, in that damn backward cap and a Stanford tee shirt as he crosses his arms over his chest, saying nothing as you and Patrick sit up straight, him adjusting his crotch and you smooth down your shirt, avoiding his gaze. Finally, the silence is broken by Art laughing.

“Christ, I’m not the cops,” he slips out of his slides as he waltzes over and opens a can of beer, drinking about half of it in one go. You look at him, and at Patrick, and then back at him, not knowing what the hell you just got yourself into.

“You want to fuck him right?” Art asks, and you can’t help your small gasp at how easily he said that. You glance at Patrick, hoping he’ll know what to say, but he’s just staring at Art.

“I-um,”

“So, no one’s stopping you,” Art cuts you off, taking a final swig of his beer and moving to stand directly in front of you. You open your mouth to try and explain, but before you can talk Patrick’s mouth is on yours again, his hand roaming your body. His grip is firmer now, his fingertips digging into the side of your stomach. He tugs at the bottom of your shirt and you separate, breathless as you pull your shirt over your head and toss it on the floor. Patrick’s mouth moves down to your neck, then your collarbones, and then your chest as he reaches around to take of your bra, and you feel on fire from Art’s gaze across the room. As Patrick kisses down your stomach and yanks down your shorts, you turn over to meet Art’s eyes.

“Come here.”

Whatever resolve Art was holding onto crumbles as he quickly takes off his shirt and slips out of his Nike shorts, tossing his hat on the dresser. In a flash Art’s hands are on your neck, tilting your head around to kiss you as Patrick lifts up your hips so he can take off your underwear. Art’s lips are softer than Patrick’s but he kisses you a little bit harder, his hand cupping the base of your neck. Somehow, they both taste the same. You moan into Art’s mouth as you feel Patrick’s tongue swirl around your clit, rolling your hips into his mouth as Art’s cock presses into your back. It’s just so much so fast, and that familiar buzz starts to pool in your lower stomach.

“Look at him,” Art turns your head to Patrick and you look into his eyes as you cum, Art’s hands hold your head forward as a wave of euphoria crashes over you. Patrick’s hands are digging into your hips as he stares up at you and Art. Your chest heaves up and down as you try to catch your breath, leaning against Art as Patrick leans back up, his mouth a few inches from yours.

“Who do you want first?

[staybabblingbaby]

Soulmate Garden AU Ch.4 (Lewisia) a3d2

[Caution: These are not full fics, or even full parts of fics for some, these are part of my writing progress archive!]

Concept: Growing up, you knew Soulmates weren't all that they cracked up to be. So when, on your 18th birthday, your skin is painted with a garden of flower buds, you resolve to hide it from everyone. Who had ever heard of someone with 8 soulmates, anyway?

Or; Reader has 8 soulmates and no issue avoiding all of them. It's up to SKZ to show her that while every soulbond might not be made of fairy tales, theirs certainly could be.

Word Count: 10,680

Notes: Holy shit, it's been like 3 months?????? In my defense, holidays are awful, and this is a fuckin' beast of a chapter. Binnie would NAWT shut up T^T She almost matches the word count for the entire fic so far TT^TT Plus 10 images of texting. Y am i like this??? Huge shout outs to my lovely, patient, amazing betas who made this chapter at ALL possible, @lazyfacecowboy and @brbwritingfanfic. Seriously, this would not have been written without y'all, everyone say thank you! Also special mention for @chancloud8 for negotiating me through the last bit of the chapter LMAO. She kept feeding me fics, they were my reward for doing the writing UvU

Hope y'all enjoy! And I hope it was worth the wait <3

(p.s my ass did NOT do a real final readthrough. If the formatting is weird pls forgive me, I'm sick of looking @ her T^T)

Dividers by @saradika

Warnings: Allusions to past domestic violence, flashback of verbal abuse (very vague, but still there), panic attack, she/her reader

Leave me comments or questions or anything! Love hearing from folks <3

Masterlist <3 | Prev Part | Next Part (Coming Soon <3)

The next morning marks a return to routine.

You roll out of bed half awake, sleep-mused and ready for murder. Your mood isn’t improved by the way you’d gone to bed - still in your work clothes with day-after mascara gluing your eyelids together.

A quick stop by the restroom to strip and scrub your face is a necessity, otherwise you’re liable to just crawl back into bed and rot there. You honestly wish you could. Just rot away and let all this soulmate business pass you by as you slowly return to the earth.

Alas, capitalism waits for no man.

You examine your reflection when you’ve finished, doing your best to ignore the remaining traces of grey streaks down your cheeks where your eyeliner hadn’t been as waterproof as advertised.

You try to hold onto the flash of irritation the sight brings you, to cling to the normalcy of being irritated that your makeup is waterproof enough to be a pain to remove, but not to stay through your tears. Then you remember what you’d been crying over and the pit of fear and shame that’s been your companion the last few days comes rolling back.

You don’t even know why you’d cried. Don’t feel like you deserved to cry. After all, it’s not like you were the one rejected by your soulmate for no reason.

You do your best to shake off the incoming spiral, ambling your way into the kitchen. You just need to fall back on your routines and feel normal for a bit. You’re not entirely convinced that ignoring your problems won’t make them go away, despite the dark feelings trembling in your chest.

You press your lips together to stop the bottom one from trembling and open the fridge. There’s a plate of eggs, fruit, and toast inside.

Taylor, freak of nature that he is, has been up for hours already, you know. He’d probably been up and out the door before the sun had even thought about rising. Weirdo.

Your roommate is well aware of how non-functional you can be in the morning, so it’s not unusual of him to leave you leftovers when he makes breakfast. Especially when he knows you’re not feeling your best. The little note on top isn’t new either: usually a reminder, grocery list, or a little encouragement for your day. The whole thing makes you smile, usually, and you’re always touched by his consideration.

Today that little note makes your eyes prick with a new wave of tears.

‘Give yourself a chance. Bet’s still on <3’

The $20 you’d slapped onto the counter last night is taped to the back. It feels a bit like a stone hand is crushing your heart under the weight of something unknowable and precious when you carefully tuck both the money and the note into your wallet.

You very deliberately do NOT cry, though it’s a near thing. You’d done enough crying last night. But if you sniffle a bit into cold eggs, well...

That’s for you to know, isn’t it?

It’s a Tuesday, so after breakfast you drag yourself back to your room to throw on your largest, rattiest, t-shirt and a pair of leggings to head to the gym. You’ll drag yourself through your routine with leaded limbs if you have to, you’re going to have the most regular day you can manage and everything will be fine. It has to be.

You can’t help it when eyes catch on the newly-bloomed marks on your skin as you strip away your sleepwear. The sight makes you uneasy, almost uncomfortable. It takes you a moment to realize why looking at your mark, a daily ritual you’ve kept for years, feels so foreign to you today.

It’s almost alarming to acknowledge that you haven’t actually looked at your mark since you’d met your first soulmate. The concert feels like a lifetime ago, now, despite having been barely two days ago. You’re a bit ashamed to admit that you’d been avoiding looking at it since you’d felt the first flowers bloom.

It’s no wonder looking at it feels weird, you muse as you study it now. It might as well be a whole new mark, for all the changes that have happened since you last saw it.

You decide, in the name of returning to your routine for good, that you can’t skip even this tiny part of your daily rituals.

You shuffle over to your closet, swinging open the door to reveal the full-length mirror hanging on the other side. You don’t bother with your usual rounds of self-depreciation or daily affirmations. Instead, you find your eyes glued to droopy purple petals and blankets of white stars across your abdomen.

Something wilted and small within you mourns the loss of the buds that had brought you so much comfort since they’d appeared. The new blooms are beautiful, of course, vibrant and radiant and full of so much meaning. Still, the change wounds you.

Only time will tell if it’s the healing sort of hurt.

You find your eyes glued to the fresh flowers. Their names come to mind with ease as you trace gentle fingers over echoes of delicate petals. ‘Bellflowers’ You recite to yourself, drawing your finger up thin stalks and back down dipped heads, ‘for gratitude, affection, and endurance’. Your fingers dance a bit lower. ‘Edelweiss’ you muse, lightly tapping each fuzzy white star, ‘for devotion, nobility, and courage’.

The knowledge comes easily to you, not from any cosmic force, but because of course it does. Your sister hadn’t been wrong when she’d said that asking a person’s favorite flower had been basically an obsession of yours.

The habit had started well before you’d gotten your mark. Before you’d even properly known what soulmates were, really.

It started with lazy summer days you’d been almost too young to remember. A slim hand engulfing your tiny wrist, being made to sit next to your mother while she did something in the dirt, her shadow your only shelter from the blistering sun.

Gardening with your mother had started as a way for her to drag you out of the house to get some sun while keeping an easy eye on you. Before your sister was born you’d spent many hazy afternoons learning to work the soil beside your mother.

After the advent of your favorite gremlin, you’d spent those afternoons tending to the family garden alone.

You remember being grateful to the newborn back then. Those solitary afternoons were some of the most peaceful in your memory.

At some point the ‘family garden’ had become more ‘your garden’. Your mother wouldn’t even bother to plan it out with you by the time your sister had reached her toddler years. She’d drive you to the store, hand you a bit of cash, and leave it all in your tiny capable hands.

You’d spent hours researching the best ways to nurture your plants.

What flowers liked being planted together, which ones should be separated. You learned about soil types and the nutrients found in them. You learned about ph values, how to measure them, and why they mattered. Anything to have your garden thriving more brightly, more beautifully, for longer.

If you weren’t in the garden, you were in the library by your house, nose buried in a gardening book.

You vividly remember the day it all went wrong.

It hadn’t even been that dramatic, as you recall. At least, not in terms of your parent’s usual fights. It was heartbreak—despair— that had marked the day, instead of fear.

You’d been digging up weeds, clawing up deep roots with your gloved hands and a trowel, when your father had come storming outside.

You don’t remember what he’d said. It’d been nonsense, just vitriol for vitriols' sake. Something about you always taking your mother’s side because of your shared hobby, you think.

Never mind that the woman hadn’t put so much as a toenail to the dirt since your sister had been born.

He hadn’t let up for quite a while, if memory serves. Stood there yelling at you in your safe space for close to an hour. Maybe two, but your child-brain couldn’t be trusted with the time.

It may have just been minutes, now that you think about it.

Nonetheless, he’d yelled, and yelled, and yelled. He hadn’t trampled on or broken anything. He hadn’t even made sense.

And yet, when he’d finally left, everything was different.

The blooms you’d worked so hard to nurture were no longer beautiful, the soil you’d once called home no longer safe.

You hadn’t tended another garden after that season. You’d seen your plants to winter, and you’d let go. You’d turned away from the sun and soil and leaned into your books and silly questions to fill the hole left behind.

You’re sure you’d left claw marks in the dirt.

Something like a gentle humming emanates from your soulmark, and its warmth draws you back to the present. You look down at it, noticing how tightly you're clutching at the garden around your waist, your arms wrapped around you in a weak semblance of a hug. Each of your fingers had managed to directly touch a flower.

The awkward sprawl of your fingers feels natural, as if you’d never sought to comfort yourself any other way. As if seeking out your bond, your link to total strangers, for comfort was all you’d ever done.

It was natural, you muse. It was human nature to seek resonance in their bonded. It was the universe’s way of assuring you that you’re loved. Your soulmate’s way of assuring you that they’re still there.

You gingerly pry your hands away and blankly study the crescent moons you’ve left behind, soft skin indented where petals should have ripped.

You wonder if you’ll leave claw marks in this garden too. If they’ll leave claw marks in you.

You tear your eyes away from the mirror, ignoring the warm, gentle tingling up your side where your fingers had dug in. You know it means the people on the other end are pressing against their own marks. You know it shows their care, how that gentle sensation masks the stinging ache your fingers should have left behind.

For some reason, you miss the pain.

You quickly toss on a camisole, forgoing your usual privacy wraps, and your t-shirt over that.

There was nothing for emptying your mind quite like running yourself into the ground at the gym. With full awareness that you’re going to regret your gym session later, you flee your apartment, your mind pleading normal, normal, normal.

Maybe jogging all the way to the gym wasn’t such a great idea. It’d sounded fantastic at the time, a head start on your cardio and a way to remove yourself from your negative headspace before you tried to toss around weights you barely knew how to use.

It had sort of worked, but now you hadn’t even entered the building and you were already a sweaty, panting, mess.

You enter the building after guzzling down half of your water bottle, resignation in your heart. Cardio wasn’t even your focus today.

The automatic doors slide open with their usual swish and you’re greeted by the familiar stale smell all gyms seem to share, no matter how clean. It’s comforting, even if you do kind of wanna go home already.

There’s someone already at the receptionist’s desk when you approach, talking in slow and measured English. You try not to be annoyed with the tiny delay, but while you’d successfully outrun your demons (for now), your bad mood had stuck around.

Alas, you’ve ventured into the public and found the public there. A travesty. Knowing that you just have to deal with it, you cross your arms and bite back the irritation this complete stranger hadn’t done anything to earn.

Luckily enough, the low and measured cadence of the stranger’s voice is soothing enough to zone out to. Unfortunately, he’s also the only thing around to rest your eyes on, so you find yourself studying his form.

His back is broad and built, huge biceps on display in a tight fitting black t-shirt. You kinda wanna squish them. A vivid tattoo sleeve runs all the way down to his wrist, and you find your stare glued to it.

Large, boldly colored flowers take up the majority of the space, vague outlines of crashing waves and rolling mists filling in the rest with a luxurious combination of oriental art styles.

Beautiful as it is, you can’t help but think it doesn’t look finished.

Dragging your eyes away from such gorgeous ink is quite the task, but you don’t want your admiration to be mistaken for judgement. It gets easier when you start to notice just how fine the man himself is.

You really can’t help the way your eyes trace up and down his body, now that you’re no longer anchored to his tattoo. It should be impossible, you think, to somehow bulk up in only the right places, but by Jove this man has done it. You’re jealous, honestly.

Your eyes come to a rest on the stranger’s backside. Quite jealous, indeed.

You try to shake yourself from your admiration, reminding yourself that there were very many well-muscled men in this place and that you’d always endeavored to keep a polite line-of-sight, even when they didn't. It hadn’t even been a hard ask, until now.

You drag your gaze back up to the back of his head.

You’d be polite if it killed you. Even if neither the stranger or the scrawny receptionist had noticed your wandering gaze. Especially then.

While you were.... distracted... the man’s conversation with the receptionist seemed to have gone a whole lot of nowhere. From what you can gather, he’s looking for a short-term membership, and the receptionist is trying to tell him they don’t do that.

You know that’s true, the receptionist isn’t trying to scam the guy. Even the trial period for this place was an entire month. You’d specifically chosen this gym for that reason. If you hadn’t been able to stick it out for a month, you know you’d have never used the place enough to justify a membership.

You send your sympathies to this stranger, it seems he really just needs a little less than a week. You know there are some no-commitment type places not too far though, so you wonder why he’s stuck on this place.

Their back and forth goes a while longer, but it’s evident that the beautifully-built stranger can’t really argue his case properly. Whether because of the obvious language barrier he’s working with, or because he’s run out of arguments, you can’t be sure.

Eventually he steps to the side to make a call, and you’re able to approach the counter.

The receptionist (His name is Jake, you remind yourself by reading his name-tag. The owner’s nephew, if you recall) looks relieved to see you after whatever hassling the stranger had given him.

He lazily waves the clipboard and its sign-in sheet at you in greeting. You take the clipboard, trading him your membership card and driver’s license for it, and turn to prop your knee up on the counter to balance it while you write.

Incidentally, your choice of position keeps the stranger in your line of sight.

It also happens to give Jake a view of his own, but you magnanimously ignore his gaze wandering to your chest. If only because you’re still looking not-so-respectfully at the tattooed stranger a few feet away.

You weren’t close to the receptionist by any means, but Jake is easy to chat to, when you take the extra minute to do so. The type of acquaintance you’d never remember the name of if it weren’t pinned to his lapel, but you've seen pictures of every dog he’s ever had.

It makes it easy to pry him for gossip.

“So what was that all about?” You query as you hand back the clipboard. He shrugs at you, typing a second longer.

“Some big-shot who needs a security detail,” He answers, unimpressed, “Says this is the only gym in, like, five miles of his hotel that he doesn’t need an entourage to go to.”

You hum your understanding, now trying to place if the handsome stranger was someone you knew of.

Situations like that weren’t uncommon for this gym. Celebrities that actually lived in LA weren’t spotted here very often but, since it was settled very close to quite a few high-security luxury hotels, the building saw its fair share of famous faces.

Due to its occasionally high-profile clientele, security was kept quite tightly, and a certain code of conduct was expected amongst the gym’s members. It was another justification for the long trial period, wherein one could only access the front room with the basic weights and machines. All the fancy stuff (including a pool, rock wall, dance studio, and all sorts) was in the back.

Non-members weren’t allowed past reception at all.

It was also another reason you yourself were a patron here. The high security and strict standards made for a quiet and comfortable atmosphere.

At least, as long as you ignored the judgmental looks. Most people who utilized this space were much more fit and put together than you. You tried not to let it bother you.

“What’s the issue, then?” You question Jake, “Doesn’t the owner make exceptions for celebrities?” You phrase it as a question, but you know he does. The unfamiliar faces that pop up for a few days every now and then wouldn’t show up otherwise.

Jake just sighs like he’s had this conversation a thousand times. Considering the celebrity(?) waving his hands around as he spoke rapidly into his phone not far away, maybe he had.

“He does, but he’s out of town and no one else can adjust the contracts.” He eventually explains. He finally hands you your stuff back, and you hum consideringly as you put the cards back in your wallet.

Another glance at the furrowed brows on the stranger’s masked face has pity welling up your throat.

You turn your gaze to focus on Jake.

“Do I still have that visitor pass?” You ask him, knowing that he still has your details up. Jake glances at you with a raised eyebrow, but obligingly checks the computer.

“Yup,” He confirms, “You’ve been paying for it since you dragged your poor roommate in here that one time. Why?”

“Can he use it?” you nod your head to the frustrated stranger. From where you’re sat, still perched on the edge of the desk, it looks oddly like he’s begging whoever’s on the other line.

Your visitor pass wasn’t all-access, of course. It’d just get the poor guy into the main front room plus the locker rooms and showers, but you figured it’d be better than nothing. It wasn’t like Taylor would step foot in here after you’d run him ragged last time, not even for the moral support.

Jake levels you with his most deadpan stare. It’s quite a good one, completely unimpressed. You think it must be something about customer service that allows him to make that face. Or maybe it’s just you.

“You realize that your visitor pass is you vouching for your visitor’s character, right?” He reminds you, “If he does anything, breaks anything, pisses off the wrong lifeguard- it’ll be on your head.”

You just shrug. It’s not like you couldn’t find a new gym if you had to. You’d miss this one, with its quiet atmosphere and abundant amenities, but you didn’t require its security and discretion like some of the other members did.

“I’ve got a good feeling about it.” Is all you tell Jake. It’s not even a lie.

The poor boy just rolls his eyes at you. He still turns to rifle through the desk for the right form for you to fill out though, so you’ll take it.

“You a fan of his or something?” Jake asks, handing you a different clipboard. “There are easier ways to bag a celebrity.”

“Nope!” You answer cheerfully, fully ignoring the suggestion of your motives as you start to fill out the form, “No idea who he is.”

Jakes huffs an incredulous laugh, and turns a considering gaze on your new friend. And the stranger does have to be a friend now, because ‘some guy’ is not an option on your paperwork.

“I bet he’s a wrestler,” he finally says after a long moment, “Or a sportswear model.”

You gently bop him on the head with your clipboard, “I refuse to participate in your speculation.” You admonish, ignoring his whining.

“I’ll show you his picture when you leave,” He smirks back, “and whatever google says about him.” He shrugs when you send him a cutting glare, “What? It’s public information.”

“Respect your customer’s privacy, you weirdo.” You scold. He just laughs as you hand him the form, all filled out and just waiting for the stranger’s signature. You know full well that Jake will go through with his research, regardless of what you say, so you give up easily.

It’s not like he’ll be fired for doing it, as long as you don’t go blabbing about the poor celebrity outside of the gym. Privileges of nepotism.

You exchange farewells as you hop off the counter, and he begins to wave over Mr. Celebrity. You meet the eyes of your on-paper friend and offer him a quick nod before you scuttle off deeper into the building.

Hopefully he’d be too grateful for your offer to find you terribly strange.

You manage to make it all the way through your warm-ups before your good deed gets punished. You suppose you’ll be grateful to the universe for letting you find your zen on your yoga mat before it dropped the other shoe.

You notice the legs in the mirror before you realize someone is trying to speak to you. You accidentally ignore the newcomer for several long moments, assuming they were approaching to use a different part of the mirror. When you finally realize they’re waiting for you to acknowledge them, it’s been just shy of too long.

You ease out of your last stretch and stand up, automatically taking an earbud out as you turn to face them.

“Sorry, did you need me to move?” You question as you finally look up. You‘d had your most emo playlist blasting in your ears during your warm up, an attempt to process your feelings through movement or whatever that one instructor from forever ago had tried to teach you.

So of course it’s with perfect clarity that A. Jay Popoff sings “I am my own worst enemy” into the empty space between you and Seo motherfuckin’ Changbin.

Your mental plea for a normal, routine sort of day dies a horrible death when you make eye contact with the pop-star.

And you realize you really must be your worst enemy as you do, because you easily recognize the outfit he’s wearing and the vivid tattoos on his arm.

Of course your good deed for the day led you to one of your soulmates. Of. Fucking. Course.

You’re not sure what you’d done to Karma recently for her to be throwing all of this shit at you right now, but you’d appreciate it if she’d just let you apologize instead of whatever cruel punishment this is.

Changbin must realize you recognize him, because he shyly raises a hand to fiddle with his earrings as he replies.

“Ah, no, I uh...” The hand slides to the back of his neck and he clears his throat uncomfortably. You quickly school your expression back into a semblance of normality when he glances away. You feel like you might still be a bit wild around the eyes, though.

“I just wanted to say thank you.” He concludes. He looks like he wants to say more, but you figure he might not have the English words to do so easily. It’s okay, you don’t really have the Korean to describe how you’re feeling right now either.

Your first instinct is to offer to speak Korean for him, but the air between the two of you is already wildly uncomfortable. Vastly different causes for both of you, you’re sure, but it’s enough to make you second guess your every move.

“Oh, uh, no problem.” You assure.

You stare resolutely at his nose when you speak. If you look into his eyes again you’re sure you’ll spill your entire life story. And if not that extreme, you’ll at least spill the whole soulmate thing. Something about being directly confronted with your problems makes you chatty.

But also if you look away from his face, knowing that body is supposed to be compatible with yours... It leads to some very impolite thoughts. Cute as it is, his nose is the safest thing for you to look at right now.

You offer the idol a thin-lipped smile when you realize the interaction hasn’t ended. Dear god, why has it not ended?

“Anything else I can do for ya?” you offer, inwardly cursing your manners. You’ve lived here long enough that you know people outside your tiny country-side town take that as an invitation instead of a dismissal.

Sure enough, Changbin starts to speak again, his words slow and careful. You watch him wipe his palms on his shorts, idly wondering if he’s shitting himself internally as much as you are right now. And what he’s freaking out about if he is.

“You... Recognize me? Are you STAY?” He gestures a bit while he talks, like he’s trying to cast a spell on you to understand what he’s trying to say. You think it might work, because your mouth is running off without you before you quite process the words.

“Ahh.. hah, uh,” You chuckle awkwardly, your fingers rising to pinch your lips nervously, “My roommate is. We were at your concert the other day, actually,” And even as you say the words your eyes flick down to his arm. You refocus, hopefully before he could notice the quick glance, but you can’t stop your thoughts from spiraling.

After all, he didn’t have that kind of ink at the concert. You and Taylor were front row, right up on the barricade, you’d seen all eight Stray Kids up close and personal. You’d have remembered such a vivid tattoo. And there were only so many reasons to cover a sleeve like that so completely.

Something complicated settles in your stomach as you realize that Changbin is probably a ‘loud and proud’ kind of soulmate, if he’s showing off his mark like this outside of his work. Work you know prevents him from showing off his mark.

Your mouth keeps running without you while you have your little crisis.

“I didn’t recognize you at reception, I woulda had you sign something for him.” You can’t help the rush of embarrassment that sweeps through you, even as you laugh uncomfortably at your own joke.

Why on earth would you say something like that? This situation is already uncomfortable enough! On so many levels!

Somehow, this seems to have been the right thing to say, though, as Changbin’s eyes light up at your joke, the tension easing a bit.

“I can sign,” He suggests, “It would make me feel...” He starts gesturing again, looking for the word he wants, “Less bad?” He finishes like a question.

And suddenly you understand his awkwardness a lot better. It always sucks to feel indebted to someone.

You laugh a little more freely with your new understanding, “Oh, you really don’t have to,” You assure, “I was just joking.”

He shakes his head, “Think of it as.. trade.” He nods, satisfied with himself.

You bob your head to the side, pressing your lips together with a tiny, frustrated, whine, “I really didn’t want anything from you,” you insist, “I hold onto that pass for my roommate, but he never comes with me anyways. You’re doing me a favor using it, seriously.”

You try to speak slowly and clearly, taking a page from Changbin’s book and letting your hands roam while you speak. You hope your spell of understanding works as well as his did.

He takes a moment to respond, mouthing along to some of your words. It’s kind of fascinating to watch someone translate in real time, especially when the process is written all over their face. It’s a little surreal to be on the other side of it.

Eventually his face clears, and he makes a little ‘ah!’ noise that you really shouldn’t find as endearing as you do. You’re in the middle of rejecting your soulmates, you should not be finding one of them cute right now.

“If it is roommate’s pass, more reason to sign, yes?” He reasons, looking proud of his logic. You huff a tiny laugh at him, absolutely charmed.

“Sure, big guy,” You sigh with defeat, though you can’t seem to wipe the smile off your face, “Sounds like a fair trade. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”

The two of you stall for a moment, the atmosphere leagues lighter than before.

When the moment seems over, you make a show of looking down at your pocket-less outfit, and then at the ground around you.

“I don’t have a pen on me,” you trail off meaningfully. He looks surprised for a second, like the possibility had never occurred to him.

“Oh,” He looks around as well, lost for a moment, “I can see if front desk has one?” he asks, like he’s looking for instruction. Another thought seems to occur to him then.

“Do you have...” He starts to gesture again, but you cut him off with a nod, fairly certain you’re sure what he’s trying to ask.

“Yeah, I’m sure I can find something for you to sign,” You point in the direction of the locker room, “I’ll probably have to look in my bag though.” You glance between him, the door to the locker room, and the door that leads out to reception.

“Meet back here in 5?” you propose. He seems content with this plan and nods in agreement. “Oh!” You stop him before he can fully turn around.

“Ask for a sharpie,” you instruct, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to find regular paper.” In fact, you’re pretty sure you’ll be sacrificing the spare ball cap you keep in your bag for this. You hope Taylor likes tie-dye.

With that, the two of you go your separate ways. It takes you no time at all to locate the bright monstrosity of a hat, a souvenir you abhorred from one of your father’s many ‘business’ trips. It would be no loss to you, but you take time to see if you have any actual paper around. You need the processing time.

Stars above, what were you thinking? There was no way you were getting out of this without another soulmate bond, but here you were, casually chatting with the guy instead of getting the fuck out of dodge!

You really couldn’t help it though.

Even when he’d been no more than a stranger to you, you hadn’t been able to help the way you gravitated toward Changbin. Now that you knew he was your soulmate, your actions made a lot more sense to you.

You’d always been on the people pleasing side of helpful, but vouching for a complete stranger was new for you. Even now, you were obediently grabbing an item for him to deface with a signature you don’t even want (no matter how thoroughly Taylor would murder you if you’d passed it up) just because you could tell how uneasy Changbin was with just accepting the visitor pass.

It didn’t help that the man was endearing as hell. Every little thing he did seemed cute to you, and you’d barely known him for ten minutes!

You felt like this was a new low for you. Doing things you didn’t really want to, for a man. Taylor would be so disappointed in you.

Having stalled for maybe far too long, you settle on sacrificing the atrocious hat to Changbin’s pen and put your stuff away. Something heavy and squirmy settles in your chest as you make your way back out to retrieve your prize from the man of the hour.

Surprisingly, there’s no accidental meeting of hands when Changbin autographs your hat. He did give you a bit of a bemused look for the choice of item, but you’d just shrugged at him. It was all you were willing to sacrifice, and Taylor should be grateful for even this much, in your opinion.

Unsurprisingly, the lack of first contact does not ease your mind at all. In fact, it rockets up your anxiety another thousand notches. You can’t help checking over your shoulder at every opportunity, despite the fact that Changbin hadn’t left the weights area since he’d settled there and couldn't follow you through the door to the rest of the facility regardless.

Look, you know how the whole first contact thing worked, okay? Fate would put two soulmates in the same place for whatever stupid reason, and find an even stupider reason for them to make skin-to-skin contact. You’d experienced it twice now, and you couldn’t help but think going out of your way to avoid everything Changbin was wouldn’t help you very much.

Even still, you can’t stay paranoid and vigilant forever. When nothing happens while you finish your cardio, or when you work your way through both the pool and the sauna, you admittedly let down your guard a bit.

Maybe that’s why, after you’ve made your way back to the front room to try and finish your workout, when you’re mid-stretch and staring daggers at a weight machine you’re sure you’ll figure out how to use if you glare long enough, you jump about five miles out of your skin when you hear Changbin’s voice behind you.

Jumping from such a precarious position is never a good idea, and your sudden movement has set your head on a one-way collision course with the gym’s hardwood floors about it.

Hands fly around your middle, catching you awkwardly around your ribs. Unfortunately, all this noble attempt to catch you does is slow your descent, giving you just enough time to flinch violently enough to bring your arms up and prevent your head from meeting the ground and brace for impact.

The rest of you still hits the ground pretty hard, and Changbin’s knees and elbows meet a similar fate, his own head saved by headbutting your stomach, knocking the air out of you even harder than it already had been.

The two of you sit there a moment, groaning with the pain of your fall. At least you don’t have a concussion. You’ll take every small mercy with the way the universe has treated you lately.

Some part of you is cognizant enough to give the heavens a heartfelt thank you when you notice that none of your aches and pains are from your soulbond activating. Somehow, through that entire debacle, and even considering the amount of exposed skin between your t-shirt and his, you hadn’t managed to touch. You’re still safe.

As the shock starts to wear off, you start to become aware of the warmth of large hands still resting heavily against your sides, both soothing and wildly distracting. It’s like every fiber of your being is focused on where he’s touching you, warm and weighty. Changbin’s head still buried in your abdomen doesn’t help with the building fluster taking over your brain.

You swear one of his thumbs has landed squarely on one of the flower buds directly opposite Lee Know’s Bellflowers, and the tingly feeling of the bond weakly trying and failing to establish through the thin barrier of your shirt is not helping your mushy brain at all.

You tip your head back to stare at the ceiling, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth to prevent yourself from doing something stupid, like confessing all of your sins to Changbin right then and there.

Maybe you did have a concussion after all.

It’s probably been less than a minute since the two of you hit the floor, but it feels like ten hours have passed when Changbin finally lifts his head, wide eyes finding yours frantically.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” He asks, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, are you okay?” He uses his hold on you to gently lift you to a seated position, removing them in favor of hovering politely as he fusses. You don’t think he’s realized he’s reverted to his native Korean in his panic.

“I’m alright, I’m okay,” you assure him in the same language, “Just bruised a bit, I’m fine.”

He continues to fuss a bit more, running you through a quick series of concussion tests even after you tell him that you hadn’t hit your head at all. It’s only after he’s helping you to your feet, respectfully allowing you to use a clothed part of his arm to help yourself up, that he clocks the language the both of you are using.

“Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?” He teases, “You speak Korean all of the sudden.”

You can’t help the little laugh that escapes you, nor can you help how his smug little smile makes your heart flutter. “I’ve spoken Korean the whole time.” You inform him.

“And you didn’t tell me? You just let me struggle?” The fondness in his smile assures you that he’s just joking, so you respond in kind.

“You were just trying so hard...” You shrug sheepishly and delight in the full body laugh that tears out of him. You wait for him to calm before you ask, “What did you need, by the way? I didn’t catch what you said before, well..” You gesture helplessly at the floor.

It’s his turn to look sheepish now, shoulders hiking up and a nervous hand making its way to his neck, “Ah, that.” he shrugs, “I was just saying that you had a pretty soulmark.”

The sudden compliment catches you off guard, and you suddenly become aware that your camisole has come loose from where it had been tucked into your sweats. Your hand flies up to cover the now-covered skin of your stomach, feeling sick.

You can’t remember when it happened, and the thought of however many strangers seeing your soulmark, no matter how little of it, sends a sharp note of dread through your body. You suddenly feel eyes digging into your skin, despite being covered again as soon as you’d stood up. You feel a bit sick, your skin crawling with discomfort.

You’re aware that your camisole would have ridden up to your lower back, at most, but there’s no telling how much of your mark anyone might have seen. What Changbin might have seen, what he may have noticed.

Changbin must notice your sudden pallid complexion, and continues on, trying to reassure you, probably. You barely hear him over the heartbeat in your ears, your trembling hands trying to discreetly tuck the undershirt back in while he speaks.

“I just meant that it’s very colorful and vibrant,” He explains, smile fading from his face as concern starts to cloud it at your reaction, “Whoever your soulmate is, they’re very lucky.”

“Ah, I don’t know them yet,” You counter. It’s even the truth. You hadn’t spoken much to any of your soulmates so far. Well, until now, you guess.

“Oh, well, I stand by what I said.” He asserts, his easy grin betrayed by the pinch between his brows, “Whoever your soulmate is will be very lucky to have you.”

“I don’t know about all that,” You tilt your head with self-deprecating consideration.

Maybe it’s a lingering guilt for how you’ve been handling your soulmates so far that makes you continue the thought, instead of laughing it off like the joke it should be. Maybe you just want him- want them- to know why you’ve been acting this way, “I don’t even know if I want to meet them, so I’m not sure how lucky they could be to have me as a soulmate.”

Changbin levels you with an absolutely baffled look, as if you’ve just challenged the very foundation of his worldview.

“Why not?” He asks, “Doesn’t everyone want to meet their soulmate?”

You wrap yourself in a loose hug, one hand rubbing soothingly at your elbow, and shrug, “I just... I haven’t had great experiences with soulmates, is all.” You can’t keep your eyes from straying to his soulmark, vibrant and full.

It’s an image that would be hard to elbow your way into, and you can’t imagine a way that the addition of you could possibly enhance it. It still feels unfinished to you, but it doesn’t look that way. You feel both better and worse about yourself, knowing that they didn’t need you.

A glance at Changbin’s utterly lost face has you opening your mouth before you can think about it, shoulders beginning to climb up to your ears.

“Not all soulmates get along, you know?” You mutter sullenly, almost to yourself.

Changbin seems to consider this for a moment, head tilting cutely to the side as he takes in your claim.

“I mean, sure.” He draws his words out slowly, carefully, with a little furrow between his brows. “Everyone fights sometimes, but you get through it together, right? That’s what makes you soulmates. Choosing to stick together.”

You couldn’t hold in the scoff and eye-roll combo that rips out of you if you’d tried. “Yeah, maybe.”

You’d feel bad about the venom in your voice, or the way it causes Changbin to shift uncomfortably from foot to foot, but you can’t find it in yourself to care at the moment. Something sick and dark twists around your stomach, and the battle to keep a deep scowl from your face is the only one you’re willing to fight right now.

“I have a feeling that was the wrong thing to say,” Changbin smiles wanly at you, and you meet his eyes for barely a second before you find yourself melting beneath his earnest gaze. The thorns around your heart ease just enough to bleed, and you shrug at him again.

“When people stay together just because they’re soulmates it only makes things worse.” you tell him, “Nothing gets magically fixed just because you’re soulmates.”

Surprisingly, Changbin agrees easily, “Well, yeah, that’s not the kind of sticking together I’m talking about,” He explains, “I meant more, like,” He gestures as he tries to find his words, and your heart positively aches as you realize the habit transcends languages.

You find yourself softening more and relaxing out of your defensive curl out of sheer endearment. You’re sure you’d be making absolute heart-eyes at Changbin right now if the topic at hand wasn’t so deeply uncomfortable for you.

“Ok, let me try an example,” He eventually decides, his eyes following your gaze where it had once again returned to his soulmark without your permission. He flexes a bit, making the flowers on his skin bounce and dance with a small, fond, smile. “I’m soulmates with the other members, right?”

He says it easily, casually, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You almost nod along, before you remember that the world at large definitely does not have that information, even if you do, and you meet his smug little smirk with wide-eyed shock.

You can’t help but gape at him for the casual confession, glancing around the empty gym like someone else might’ve heard Changbin’s brazen confession. He’s already waving you off before you can sputter out the questions stuck in your throat.

“It’s not a big deal, don’t worry about it. It’s not like we try very hard to hide it.” He does a weird little half-nod-half-shrug motion at his soulmark, “But yeah, we’re all soulmates, and we all pretty much knew before debut, even though Innie’s mark hadn’t shown up yet.”

You do nod this time. Slowly, though, as you try to figure out where he’s going with this. Changbin takes it as permission to continue, and so he does.

“Well, Jeongin’s our baby, and even though marks show up at 18, you’re not an adult in Korea until 19, so there’s a lot we had to leave him out on.” He grimaces a little, “Being an Idol is stressful as it is, throwing a new soul bond and puberty and all that on top wasn’t very helpful. We were all volatile and fragile. But Innie definitely took it the worst. He felt left behind and unfair and angry with it all.”

He chuckles and gives a little shrug, “We had our share of knock-down, drag-outs.” He admits sheepishly, “It wasn’t an easy time for us.” He rolls his head toward the ceiling and, despite Changbin’s efforts, you can easily spot the smitten look on his face along with his cherry-red ears.

“But we made it through,” He says softly, “We took the time to dig into all of his insecurities and find what we could do to help him. He made the choice to be vulnerable and honest with us. It took time to get here, but we made it through.”

Changbin meets your eyes again, “That’s what I mean when I say soulmates are about choosing to stick together. You work through the hard times and disagreements together, work toward something better. Soulmates are destiny, but love is choice.”

You let his words rattle around your brain as you get lost in his earnest gaze. Let the idea settle into you like something entirely new, like it wasn’t your understanding of healthy relationships beforehand. Of course that’s the ideal, you know that. No one is perfect and all that, everyone disagrees sometimes. It’s discussing it and finding solutions together that makes a partnership work long-term. You know that.

For the first time, you wonder if you’d just always considered soulmates an exception to the rule.

You’d automatically assigned soulmates as a concept a failing grade at working their problems through. Your parents certainly never worked out their issues, and every soulmate you’d ever seen in the media was an automatic happy-ending. As soon as that bond snaps into place, the story’s over. Happily ever after.

You’d always thought ‘ever after’ must be an awful short time.

‘Love is choice’ echoes through you like something divine.

You break Changbin’s gaze and offer him a half-hearted shrug. “I guess.” you concede, “My soulmates probably have a lot of work cut out for them with me, though. So I still don’t know if they’d want me.”

“I think it’d be worth the work,” Changbin smiles gently at you, “To be your soulmate, I mean.”

You feel heat rush up your neck and bless your genetics for keeping it from showing on your cheeks. You disguise your bashfulness by lightly slapping Changbin’s shoulder (and woah is he solid under your hand when you do) and loudly complain about him being a flirt.

He responds by doing his best to fluster you, clearly enjoying putting those fanservice skills to use. You complain with every flex and smoulder, especially when he starts unleashing the aegyo, and the two of you let the banter and laughter chase away the somber mood.

Eventually you settle, and Changbin nods at the very intimidating machine you’d been staring at what felt like a lifetime ago now.

“Did you need a spotter?” He offers. You hem and haw for a moment, before sheepishly admitting that you need a teacher more than a spotter. When he lights up and offers to be that, too, you can’t help the way your eyes travel up and down his body with open admiration.

He certainly looks plenty qualified, and really, you’re only a girl. If your once-over leaves him with red ears and a smug grin, well. You’ll consider it your revenge for now.

You very quickly realize your mistake in letting him coach you.

Changbin tours you quickly around various machines, explaining their functions and the proper ways to use them to avoid injury. All well and good, and you ask permission to record short videos of him doing so in case you find yourself forgetting his advice, which he graciously allows on the condition you don’t share them anywhere.

You agree after negotiating for viewing rights for Taylor, with the reasoning that the lure of the videos might actually get your roommate back into the gym with you. It makes Changbin laugh enough to indulge you.

And then he actually starts you on a machine, after getting a rundown on what you’d already done today, and you experience hell on earth.

The thing is, he’s unfairly good at coaching you through it. He keeps up a steady stream of warm encouragement and light jokes even as you curse him out for steadily increasing the weights on each machine you work through. He’s right there to help you through the sets the moment you start to get too tired and is almost preternaturally good at pushing you to only just above your limits.

And his hands are always right there. He’s almost always touching you somehow, throughout the whole thing. His touch is light, coaching and clinical, and unfailingly polite. Still, the warmth of his skin through your flimsy gym-wear feels heavy. Nearly threatening. Distracting, at the very least.

You’ll definitely need those videos later.

It’s a relief when it’s over. You’re sore and sweaty and you have to go sit at a desk for six or more hours when you leave, which you’re very much not looking forward to.

Changbin splits with you to hit the showers, but somehow you still come together again before you pass reception.

“Thanks for today,” you say as the two of you stall your goodbyes, “I had a lot of fun. You’ve more than earned that guest pass.” you tease, smile wide and mischievous.

He’s smiling too, even as he shoves your shoulder and complains about you extorting him.

When you run out of things to say, you shuffle lightly in place. It’s not like you expect him to give you his number, he is an Idol after all, but still you can’t quite make yourself leave. You find yourself casting around for something, anything, to say to make the moment last. To stay in his presence just a second longer.

You shake yourself out of it once you notice. You might not be running from them anymore, but you certainly weren’t trying to make friends with your soulmates. The longer you stayed in his presence, the more likely it was that you’d end up with another first contact.

At last, after a far-too-long moment of silence, you hold out your hand and offer a flat, closed-lip smile.

“It was really nice to meet you, Changbin.” You tell him sincerely, eyes locked on his. You swear looking your soulmates in the eye is some kind of hypnosis, the way you always get lost in them when you do. Something about it just makes you feel a tiny bit dumb, like your brain gets switched off.

“You too, y/n.” He agrees, reaching for your offered hand. You only realize what you’ve just done as your name leaves his lips, your eyes widening as they dart down to his hand and yours, but it’s far too late.

Your breath hitches a moment before his skin makes contact with yours, and you watch it happen in slow motion. He grasps your hand and pulls you in instead of settling for the more distant and formal farewell. All too quickly you’re settled into his grasp, completely enveloped in him and dizzy with more than just his warmth as soft prickles dance up your side.

You feel more than you hear him gasp, his hold on you so complete. Your head ends up on his shoulder as you stumble into him from his pull, and you get a front row seat to the top of his shoulder filling in with outlines and shadows from your place tucked against his neck, dull colors adding a definition to the images in his soulmark and settling like they’d always been there.

Distantly, you feel chest tighten with completion, with satisfaction and something smug and proud at the sight, even as your mind starts screaming.

Changbin is solid against you, comforting and almost stiflingly warm from both his workout and shower. You catch a whiff of his soap, the scent muting the alarm bells blaring in your brain even as you lay limp against him with the shock.

And then his hold on you tightens just a bit, only for a moment, but it’s all that it takes for you to break.

Your breath begins to hitch, visions of sweet touches turning sour and threatening violence causing you to flinch violently in Changbin’s comforting embrace. You feel your eyes begin to wet as you start to struggle, needing out, out, out.

It must have been less than a second, but Changbin pulls back, still holding you by your shoulders like he doesn’t know how to let go.

“Y/n?” He asks, voice small. You can only shake your head, breaths coming out in harsh gasps, limbs trembling violently. Changbin hurriedly lowers the two of you to the floor, much more prepared than you are for your limbs to give out halfway down.

He finally releases you as you settle and you curl tightly into yourself. The places where he’d held you feel frozen now, the cold viciously settling into your bones, even as Changbin does his best to get your attention and guide you through a breathing exercise.

You can’t focus on him though, the sensation of flowers blooming on your skin overwhelming, the memory of his touch both welcome and suffocating.

“S- ‘orry, I’m-” You hiccup, “I’m so- so s’rry-” If Changbin is at all put off by your sudden breakdown, he doesn’t show it. He just tilts his head and offers you hushed words of assurance.

“Nothing to be sorry for, y/n,” he assures, “It’s alright, just breathe, ok?”

He offers you a hand and you can’t help but take it, the warmth startling a breath into you that you hadn’t been aware you needed. Changbin guides your hand to his chest, instructing you to breathe with him, and you automatically focus on the heavy thump of his heartbeat under your palm.

He keeps talking to you, trying to keep your attention, but your mind spins wildly away from you even as you finally manage a deep inhale under Changbin’s attention.

You need to tell him that you’d known since he’d first spoken to you who he was. Who he was to you, even, but you can’t open your mouth to do more than gasp another apology. You’re sure he’ll hate you, leave you there on the floor of the gym to die like you deserve, especially after all you’d told him about how you feel about soulmates.

He’ll hate you for putting his soulmates through rejection, for refusing to speak to them or even look them in the eye. He’ll leave you here, humiliated on the gym’s floor, and you’ll deserve it because you’re a horrible person who wouldn’t even give them a breadth of a chance because you were too damn scared-

A hand grasps your spare one, the one not touching him, not keeping you just barely above the waves of hyperventilating, and you hadn’t even noticed it scrabbling at the stretched out neckline of your t-shirt until it’s gently pried away and guided to a wall of firm muscle.

Your fingers instinctively grasp what’s suddenly underneath them, and your vision stutters back in as a soft tingling rockets its way up your arm.

You distantly acknowledge that it was probably a bad thing that your vision had faded off with your eyes stuck wide open, staring blankly at legs you couldn’t feel. Right now, however, all you can experience is Changbin. His mark under your fingers, grip clawing and desperate. His heartbeat under your palm, faster than it should be, but steady and loud and feeling like it’s part of your own body.

Like he knows he has your attention again, Changbin ducks down to catch your eyes. You find nothing in them but concern and a soft emotion you couldn’t hope to pinpoint.

“Y/n,” He calls softly, “Y/n, do you mind if I touch you?” The gentleness he speaks to you with is devastating, like he’s trying to place your panicked mind on a cloud of care. You want so desperately to accept that care from him.

You nod, small jerky movements to indicate your agreement even as gasping sobs still stutter in your chest.

Changbin immediately moves, shuffling closer to you on his knees and releasing the wrist of your hand, the one still grasping at his mark like it’d disappear if you relaxed so much as a millimeter. He uncrosses his arms from the awkward reach he’d had to use to maneuver your hands where he wanted them, and reaches his now free hand to rest gently but firmly on your waist, right over his place within your own mark.

The resonance from his touch is weaker, the material of your shirt in his way, but with both sides active the feeling floods you in a way you could never describe.

You know, in the back of your mind, that you’ve read about resonance before. That you know all about the flood of endorphins and other feel-good hormones that it causes, that you’ve read first hand accounts from all sorts of people swearing up and down it feels better than any orgasm ever could. In the moment though, you feel like your brain has been reset completely. Back to factory settings, entirely blank.

You come back to yourself in slow blinks, resonance still echoing brightly between you and Changbin. Your one hand is still tightly clasped to his chest, and you’re sure you’re only breathing right now due to the steady rise and fall of Changbin’s chest. The two of you are still gripping each other’s marks.

You feel unsettled as awareness returns to your body. You feel floaty and not all there, even as you calm enough to feel the numbness of your legs and the pain in your knees from hitting the floor. An increasingly familiar tingling feeling is emanating from each of your active soulmarks, despite the fact that you know the other two should have no idea how you’re feeling right now.

Your bond wasn’t strong enough for that. You hadn’t given it the chance to be.

The thought that they might just be thinking of you gives you a soft and fluttery sort of feeling.

Finally, Changbin pulls back, removing his hand from your mark and sliding up your arm to gently pry yours from his bicep. You’d wince at the marks your nails had left on his skin if you didn’t still feel like your bones were vibrating on the astral plane from the intensity of a reciprocal resonance.

He gently holds both of your hands in his and settles them between you, catching your eye again.

“You back with me, bubs?” He asks, smile light and tone even. You’d think him unaffected if not for the redness of his ears and the slight haze in his eyes.

Right. Eight soulmates. He’s probably used to it.

He’s also trying to get you down from a panic attack, you remember as your hands begin to faintly tremble in his grip. You nod slightly at his question, apologizing again.

“Hey, no.” Changbin scolds softly, eyes locked on yours, “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, it’s okay. Do you want to tell me what happened?”

You shake your head in refusal of both ideas, opening your mouth once, twice, three times, before huffing irritatedly at the lack of words falling from your lips. Changbin squeezes your hands to keep your attention on him, expression open and accepting. His silence allows yours to end.

“I just- It’s just that I-” You breathe harshly through your nose, squeezing his hands back to ground yourself, “I knew from when I realized who you were that you were my soulmate.” you grind out in halting words, the trembling spreading from your hands up to your chest. You take in a shuddering breath, “That’s why I was apologizing. Because I knew and I still said those things to you.”

You can tell your confession takes Changbin off guard. The man blinks rapidly as he takes in the new information, slotting your earlier behavior against your reaction just now and having trouble connecting them.

“Soulmates terrify me,” you confess quietly, before he can ask, “You’re so nice, but you’re so fucking scary to me, I’m sorry.”

With that, you remove your hands from his, and Changbin just sort of helplessly lets you go, a lost expression taking over his face. You try to stumble to your feet, and he scrambles up to help you, caring even through his confusion.

You can feel the trembling travel to your legs, and you’re glad for his steady hold despite yourself. You feel like a stiff breeze might knock you over.

“I need- I- I’ve gotta- argh!” You clench your teeth with frustration, taking a deep, bracing, breath, before trying again. “I need to go home.” You’d like to say it came out strong and self-assured, but the words leave you in a breathless whimper that makes you feel small and pathetic.

Everything about this makes you feel small and pathetic.

Changbin catches your eyes again, brows creased in concern.

Except for him.

“Of course, whatever you need,” He assures, “Can I call a car for you? A friend? Your roommate?”

You shake your head, hopelessly endeared by his need to help you. You feel guilty for refusing him when he’d just pivoted from the bombshell you’d dropped on him to focus on your care but you- you needed to go home. You needed to leave, and it was taking every ounce of effort you could spare to keep from bolting.

“No, I can- I’ve got- I want- shit.” The curse spills from you unbidden, frustration with the vestiges of your panic refusing to leave you building sharply. If anything, Changbin’s concern only grows deeper as you struggle to express yourself.

“I need to move, I’ll walk.” Your mouth finally allows you to spit out, almost aggressively. Changbin almost seems to despair at your declaration.

Looking at your own condition, you can’t blame him. Trembling like a leaf and barely able to speak, you’d never let yourself leave if you’d been in his place. You can’t spare the energy to explain that if anyone tried anything at you in this condition you’d probably try to kill them first and ask questions later.

You don’t handle stress well.

Still, despite his obvious reluctance, Changbin lets you leave his embrace.

You’re more stable on your feet now, and a deep breath fills you with a facade of confidence that will see you home. Changbin’s hands still hover around you, as if waiting for you to shatter apart again.

“If you need anything, please call me, okay? Anything at all, please call me.” He pleads with you. You only manage to give him another tiny nod before you dip into a full bow and turn to flee.

Changbin watches you go with a face full of concern and confusion.

‘I think it’d be worth the work, to be your soulmate’ he’d said. You can’t help but wonder, as the gym disappears behind you, if he still thinks that.

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[loveandmurders]

Hello🖤

If you're accepting requests i may have a fun idea. I've had this scenario in my head for a while but dont have the writing skills for it.

So basically billy, stu and reader (all three were ghostface) escaped from the police and while on the run (let's ignore geography for this) they come across a kind (but a bit strange) man who carries roadkill on the back of his truck and he kindly gives them a ride to the nearest town - Ambrose. Slasher shenanigans ensue

The reader can be gn, the gender doesnt really matter. You can choose if you want to write a blurb, headcannon and stuff

Im sorry if this too much to ask and you can tottaly ignore this

Hello, love sorry it took me so long to get to your request, but here you are! Hope you'll enjoy <3

SOME INTERESTING HOLIDAYS (Ghostface x GN!reader)

Warnings: no proof reading, mentions of sexual activities, of blood and violence

-You hadn’t thought things would go so out of hand. But now the more you thought about it, the more obvious it was that your plan wasn’t a flawless one… you actually forgot the essential (like in most horror movies): a good ending - especially for the killers.

-You killed everyone - no final girl for once.

-And your two lovers would have enjoyed playing with you in the blood of their victims and glory of the victory, but you quickly realised you had to leave before the cops could find you.

-So here you were, with your two lovers - Billy and Stu - running away as far as possible and as quick as possible from Woodsboro.

-Billy was a little bit annoyed he was forced to leave the city. He hadn’t really thought of the consequences of all of this, and maybe it was also why he was feeling so upset. He was supposed to be a mastermind.

-Stu was laughing, he was so proud of what happened and adrenaline was still pumping into his veins. His hands were happily roaming your body as Billy was driving.

-As long as your boys were safe, you were happy too. You kissed Stu with fierce passion until you heard Billy groan.

-You sent him a little look, quite curious about why he was so grumpy now. “Don’t distract me” Billy finally said and both Stu and yourself started to laugh and to tease him.

-Your life was a dangerous one and you didn’t even know what you were going to do with yourself now, but as long as you were all together, you didn’t really care.

-The three of you drove for days and weeks; you were starting to get bored actually, and there was no plan on when to stop or even where. Until you saw some advertisements for a “House of Wax”.

-Billy didn’t want to stop for this but you whined so much - and Stu supported you - so he finally gave in. He rolled his eyes and reminded the two of you you were children.

-It was then you met a truck on the other side of the road. The driver stopped at your level and lowered down his window “All good?” he asked you in a very heavy southern accent. You peered into the truck and could see roadkills, but the man looked sweet.

-You knew you all looked innocent as well though; so you knew better than to judge a book by its cover.

-Billy explained to the man that you were on holiday and you wanted to visit the House of Wax since you saw the advertisements. He also asked if there was a motel nearby. 

-The man - Lester - said there was no motel near the House of Wax, that you would need to go into another town for that. However, the museum was a really interesting place. It appeared that his late mother and brother were taking care of it.

-You all politely thanked Lester and agreed to follow behind his truck to not get lost on the roads. The man was nice but you all felt something was… amiss.

-When you arrived in Ambrose, you all exchanged a look.

-“If that’s not a killer on the run dream…” Billy muttered as he looked around “No one could find us here” he continued.

-“But there is no motel around either.” you hummed “And it really looks… deserted. I didn’t even see Ambrose on the plans when we looked at the last gas station.” you added “How could people still live here?”

-“Well you'll quickly know it, because we’ll try to stay here, at least for a little while. No one can find us.” Billy replied and you pouted.

-“We’ll get bored here” you whined but the boys gave you a look full of promise; how could you get bored when they were around?

-You all got out of the car and thanked Lester again. He also introduced you to his big brother, Bo.

-Bo instantly watched you all with great interest. You were young, you were hot and he was certain you would all look amazing in the House of Wax.

-No need to say that the twins were very surprised about how good you were when they tried to kill you, and that you were now the ones trying to kill them. With Lester, you were clearly on equal strength.

-You had discovered that the town was empty apart from the Sinclairs and the wax statues and you started to understand that it was like a massive deadly trap. But you were good with your knives and you actually were crazy enough to enjoy it. It was like a workout for the three of you.

-At some point, you managed to jump on Vincent and to put a knife under his chin. Bo aimed at you, Billy aimed at Bo with a gun he found and Stu blocked Lester from coming closer.

-“Alright, alright, how ‘bout we talk ‘bout this?” Bo finally offered. He noticed that Vincent didn’t try to get away from you, so it meant his twin could tell you would slice his throat open if he tried anything.

-“You’re the ones who attacked us” Billy argued back.

-“Is it like a playground for killers?” you hummed and Stu smirked.

-“Who the fuck are ya?” Lester frowned.

-“Who we are doesn’t matter, what matters is that we are killers. Just like you. But right now, Y/N is the best of us and they are going to kill your brother if you don’t let us go” Billy replied and you looked up at Bo with a dark smile, drawing a little bit of blood from Vincent.

-Bo instantly lowered his gun, put it on the ground and Lester moved away a little as well. They both put their hands up. You exchanged a look with Billy and Stu before moving from Vincent. You were all facing each other now, wondering what to do next.

-The Sinclairs had never met people like them, especially not people so brutal, so smart and so dangerous than you all. They felt curiosity, even more when Billy wrapped an arm around your waist and you moved your head on Stu’s shoulder. You looked like the lovers of Death. So young and so good looking, and yet so deadly.

-“Ya’re on the run” Bo hummed “And ya were lookin’ for somewhere to stay” he guessed. Vincent signed something to his brothers. Lester didn’t seem too happy about it and Bo thought his twin was losing it.

-“What did he say?” you asked with an arched eyebrow. No one answered you and it annoyed the boys “They asked you a question” Billy growled.

-“Vincent’s invitin’ ya over… he’s really interested in ya’ll” Bo finally replied.

-You were always the one enjoying playing with fire the more so you quickly moved closer and shook hands with Vincent.

-“I’d like that. I’m Y/N, nice to meet you, I guess” you smirked.

-Vincent and you got along pretty instantly, even though you didn’t know ASL. He wrote to you so you could communicate. Your shared love for knives helped a lot as a discussion starter. And then, your love to sneak around and kill people. And then, your love for every kind of art. You wanted to hide in Ambrose now and Vincent was more than eager to welcome you here. It would be nice to have people around who were understanding his way of life. And there were so many houses that could be your new home, at least for as long as you needed to hide away.

-Bo and Billy weren’t too happy about it, because it wasn’t part of the plan, because they couldn’t trust anyone, because they would need to be even more careful than usual so their favourite people wouldn’t get hurt.

-Stu was happy if you were happy, even if he was a little bit jealous of the attention you were giving to Vincent, at first. So he joined the two of you in your conversation, and he actually started to have fun as well. Lester noticed how Vincent seemed to be relaxed and it warmed his heart. It never happened before that his brother was so at ease around strangers.

-You all ate together in Sinclair's house. Bo stayed quite silent, observing you all, just like Billy. At some point, he asked: “So what, ya ain’t surprised my brother’s wearin’ a mask?” he asked. He just wanted for you to say something that would upset Vincent so they would kill you all in your sleep.

-But the three of you just shrugged “You’re kidding, masks are super cool. We’ll show you ours tomorrow” you smiled and the boys nodded “What’s a killer without a mask anyway?” Billy agreed “It’s classic horror” he added “Yeah so lame of you, Bo, to not wear any mask, by the way. You could have been the masked twins, ugh such a missed opportunity” Stu continued.

-Lester started to laugh and he thought he quite liked you all. You were some fresh air in Ambrose, fun and crazy. He knew it was the beginning of a new era for his family.

-Bo was bewildered but he guessed you weren’t so bad then. You had been polite with Lester and you weren’t judging his twin, so you could stay. Maybe he would even learn to love you.

-Vincent was eager to keep you all in Ambrose, forever. Maybe you could even help the Sinclairs build the future. You were going to be part of the family, he could feel it because you were different from usual people.

-You were monsters, too.

[billlydear]

SUPERNOVA - BILLY HARGROVE X READER (PART ONE)

word count: 3135 // masterlist | inbox (please request) | WIP list

Summary: max's english tutor has a black eye and a shitty alibi. billy sees right through it.

Contents/Warnings: fem!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, eventual happy ending, mentions of abuse, injuries mentioned (black eye), reader is abused by her mother just like billy is by his father

A/N: thank you for 300 followers!!! have this as a little gift from me to you <3 basic biology part three is in the works, don't worry! i just wrote this in a fit of sleep deprived passion the other night after thinking about it for a week or so and i wanted to share :) i hope you enjoy! the ending of this is pretty straightforward and, though i plan to write more parts, this can be read on its own for now.

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)

There’s never a good reason for Max to stomp into Billy’s room. It’s always either her demanding a ride somewhere, asking for money, or shouting at him to turn his music down. This time, though, there’s no music playing, and it’s nearing 11:00 PM, so he’s not sure why she’d need money or a ride.

He glances up at her, really more of a glare, through his eyelashes, reclined against the wall as he lounges on his bed. He’s got a magazine in hand and the pages are as boring as the cover was, but he’d rather stare at faded jet ski advertisements than read the book he’s supposed to be working on for English.

She stops just inside the doorway, jacket on and shoes laced. He narrows his eyes at her, something of a question, and she sounds just as venomous as he looks when she replies.

“I need to borrow your window.” She mutters, piercing eyes set on him.

He’s heard her say a lot of weird things since they started living together. Mom, I can’t find my left rollerskate, Why is my bra in the freezer?, and We’re not going in the theater, we’re going to sit outside and talk, have previously topped the list but this is off the charts.

“Sure, Max,” He drawls, fingers tightening against the waxy magazine paper, “Just haul it back in here when you’re done, okay?”

“You know what I mean,” She huffs, already lunging for his bed. She practically topples him in her overzealous attempt to reach the window, and he shoots a hand out to steady himself as the mattress rocks. He has half a mind to kick her onto the floor but he watches her click a flashlight open from her jacket pocket, and stares with suspicious intrigue instead.

“Come on, come on,” She huffs, clicking the light on, off, on, off, “Where is she?”

“Who?” Billy leans forwards, peering out the window into the blackened neighborhood, “Jesus, Max, don’t go shining lights into people’s windows at night, they’ll think you’re some creep trying to watch them change.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you know that from experience,” She grumbles, shoving his hand away when he tries grabbing the light.

“I’m not kidding,” Billy seethes, muscled arm coming to combat her defenses, nearly shoving her off of the end of the bed, “What are you even trying to do, anyways?”

“I’m trying to talk to my tutor,” She snaps, landing a sharp slap to his thigh that reddens the skin there, “Butt out, butthead.”

“Assface,” Billy grumbles, rubbing at the tender spot on his leg with half a mind to whack her upside the head. She ignores him completely, desperately flicking the light at a ground floor window.

“Do you really need tutoring help now?” Billy groans, the incessant clicking preventing him from what was supposed to be his before-bed relaxation.

“She wasn’t at school today,” Max explains in a huff, “Or- like, she didn’t show up at my school. She called this morning to say she was sick, but she sounded fine, and I heard someone in the parking lot say that they saw her outside her house, just sitting there, like, really late last night.”

“So she was getting some fresh air,” Billy deadpans, “Now get out of my room.”

“Would it kill you to cooperate?” Max turns to him with such a judgemental stare that Billy’s surprised he doesn’t wither away right on the spot. Hell hath no fury like a teenage girl scorned, he thinks, annoyance bubbling in his chest.

“She’s obviously not coming,” Billy reasons, his patience wearing thin after almost two minutes of flashlight nonsense, “She’s probably sleeping. She’s got the flu or something, and you’re gonna wake her up and make her even more sick. Just leave her alone, and leave me alone.”

“I’m not asking you to be a part of this!” She gushes, jaw set in a hard frown and eyes rolling when he props his elbow up on the windowsill, cheek smushed into a bored expression against his palm.

“I just want to see if she’s okay, because she doesn’t normally get sick, and I haven’t seen her window open all day, and I really think that something might be wrong, so-”

After a staggering two minutes and forty-six seconds of morse code from hell, your curtains part. Max practically lights up at the sliver of light that appears between the drapes, but when your face pops between it, her breath hitches in a gasp.

Your eye is bruised. It’s swollen shut and purple, an ugly stain that blooms down your cheek, like a rose that sticks its thorns straight into Billy’s chest. His posture, previously saggy and bored, stiffens until he’s nearly pressed against the glass, brows furrowed in horror as his lips part ever-so-slightly.

“Oh my god,” Max breathes, and you regard them both with a weary gaze.

Max lifts the lower half of Billy’s window, slipping out the gap with such agility and speed that Billy doesn’t have a chance to try to stop her before she’s already outside. He rushes to follow her, cringing as his bare feet land in damp piles of leaves.

“What happened to you?” Max runs to your window, bracing her hands on the sill.

“Nothing,” You try to smile, and it pulls at the skin around your eye, finishing the expression off with a wince, “I just- it’s silly, okay? I slipped and fell on the ice out front and I hit the stair rail on the way down. I was too embarrassed to go to school, ‘cause I knew everyone would ask, so I just called out sick. I’m sorry, Max, I know today was our day, but I’ll do double time once this heals.”

The more you ramble, the quicker you spew your pre-determined speech, the more the thorns lodge themselves in Billy’s gut. It’s familiar behavior, having an outlandish excuse at your disposal, reciting it like poetry, blaming the bruises on a misstep down the stairs rather than a rage-fueled fist. He’s done the same to countless teachers, all staring down at him with a condescending sneer, assuming he’d instigated another fight.

Max might not be well acquainted with different types of bruises - and god he hopes she never has to be - but Billy certainly is. And your black eye is not from a stair railing, he knows that. It looks the same as his does whenever Neil decides he’s in a fighting mood, and it doesn’t seem like you have the frozen peas that Billy usually medicates his marks with.

“It’s okay!” Max promises, and thankfully she commands enough of your attention to where you don’t notice Billy’s grief-stricken stare, looking for all the world like he’d been punched in the gut.

‘It’s okay, we can just meet up some other time. Or- or I can come over to your house! So you don’t have to show your face anywhere. And I won’t tell,” She insists, hands dug snugly into the pockets of her jacket, “I’m good at keeping secrets.”

So are you, Billy notes, just not to the people with the same ones.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” You frown slightly, biting the inside of your cheek, “This really hurts, and it’s kind of giving me a headache, so… might be best to just meet when it’s healed.”

“That’s fine,” Max nods, reaching up and through the window to sling her arms around your neck in a rushed hug, “Just- call me when it’s better, okay? My teacher set us this new essay, and it’s got some stupidly complicated prompt, so I need your help figuring out-”

Billy watches as your head ticks up, eyes widening slightly as you tune into the sounds of your house. He knows the look all too well, you’ve heard someone coming.

“That’s great Max,” You stammer, reaching for the window pane to close it, "I’ve gotta go!”

“-how to… write it.” She finishes, face wrinkling in confusion when you slam the window shut, yanking the curtains closed, “Feel better…”

“Go,” Billy jumps to action, hearing a raised voice from within your room, not your own, “Max, move!”

He pushes her along the side of their house, shoving her around the back until they’re out of the line of sight from your window. He peers around the corner from behind an overgrown trellis, one that lets him see you without you seeing him. He waits with bated breath, ignoring Max’s indignant protests and slamming a hand over her mouth.

She licks his palm, but he manages to stay calm and keep it there. He will smear it on her cheek later, though.

Sure enough, Billy watches your curtains fly open. There’s a woman in the window now, and you’re standing behind her, expression unreadable. Then you speak, and Billy can’t hear it. Your voice must be soft, gentle, calming. The woman barrely reacts, eyes scanning wildly for whoever you’d been talking to. But Billy keeps Max quiet, pinching her hard when she tries escaping his grip.

Billy watches the woman in your window with a hatred he’s only ever felt towards Neil. She acts the same, menacing glares and a puffed-up chest. You react just as he does, a personified tension-diffuser as you shrink in on yourself and give steady, slow answers. She’s shouting, you’re mumbling. She’s advancing, you’re backing away. She’s grabbing your wrist, forcing you close to her, and you’re squeezing your eyes shut.

Billy’s stomach churns; he can’t watch this any longer.

He herds Max to the other side of the house, keeps her restrained with one hand and pries at her window with the other. It opens smooth and easy, no squeaking that would alert their parents to their escapade.

Once they’re both inside, she flips.

“You asshole,” She huffs, “You manhandled me! You really couldn’t just let me have one nice conversation with my friend? You had to yank me away like some psychopath?”

“She wasn’t going to come back,” Billy murmurs, a glint in his eyes urging her to lower her own voice, “And she didn’t fall down the stairs. Go to sleep, Max.”

He feels a pillow hit him in the back as he strides out of her room, and each step down the hallway towards his own feels like he’s numbing from the inside out. The role reversal of his own life had been so mind-shattering, watching a scene from his household happen in real time in front of him instead of a torturous memory in his nightmares.

By the time he reaches his room, his fingers are too numb to shut the door. He kicks it closed instead, staring out of the still-opened window to watch your own. The curtains are drawn again, shutting you off from the world.

He stands there staring for what feels like seconds, but is probably minutes with the way his brain is warping his thoughts. Abuse felt so lonely, it was a soundproof room with padded walls, but they stung like hot coals when his dad came stomping in to shove him up against them. His family, his safe space, his padded room, came with the irony of only existing alongside pain, fear, and anxiety. And knowing there was an identical room beside his for god knows how long, thick layers of insulation drowning out each of your cries and blocking out each other’s existence, makes him sick.

His eye stings with the residual image of your own, a feeling he knows all too well. His hand, on instinct, tingles with a cold sort of sensation, the same that he got from grabbing the ice-covered peas out of the freezer.

He’s off to the kitchen in a hurry, feet padding carefully across the floor so as not to alert anyone of his presence. The biggest challenge is opening the freezer door quietly, but he’s a pro at it by now. He takes the peas back to his room, but this time he doesn’t curl up in his bed with them pressed to his eye, he clutches them tightly and heads for the window.

Max’s flashlight is discarded on the sill, and he wraps it in his free fist. He clicks it on cautiously, testing the sound to see how it echoes in the empty space between your house and his. It’s not obnoxiously loud, hopefully no one can hear it.

He flashes it against your window, only for a second, then ducks beneath the sill. He waits, expecting an explosion of sound as your mother reaches out to grab him. But nothing happens, so he straightens up to his full height. The wind nips at his bare arms, goosebumps erupting over the skin not covered by his muscle tank. He waves the flashlight once more at your window, covering it with his thumb to flash it instead of clicking the button rapidly. 

He hears shuffling from inside, then silence. Then shuffling again, a little closer, and silence. Then more shuffling, and the routine continues until he hears your fingers scrape at the window pane.

You duck under the curtains this time, easier to slip back inside and shut the window instead of drawing the curtains, “Max, I can’t-”

Billy doesn’t know what to say when your eye catches him. He blinks, once, twice, three times, watching as your anxious eyes rove over him. Only then does he register the chill in his hand, the peas.

“Here,” He murmurs, voice soft and slightly raspy, as he holds the package out to you, “Ten minutes, then turn the package around, then ten more minutes. And if it’s still icy, do it over again.”

You take the peas because you have to, because he’s pressing the cold package into your hand. Your fingers wrap around it and you peer curiously at the image on the front, only glancing back up at him when he shifts in his stance, leaves crushed beneath his feet.

“The package rustles,” He warns you, “Be careful. Don’t get caught.”

“I won’t,” You finally murmur, breaking your stunned silence, “I- Uh, thank you. It’s.. Billy, right?”

“Yeah,” He breathes, nodding once. He’s half aware that his curls aren’t exactly perfect like they typically are, because nodding sends one of them tumbling into his eyesight over his forehead, “That’s me.”

“Y/N,” You mumble, and this time even Billy hears the heavy footfalls in your hallway. They set you on edge again, and he yanks his fingers back from the windowsill so that you can snap it shut, “I gotta go.”

“Bye,” He whispers, voice lost to the night as he stands outside your window. He ducks beneath the sill again, where your mom can’t see him if she decides to search the premises. He doesn’t hear anything from your room, though, and he takes it as a good sign when the footsteps retreat. Then he hears the soft crunch of the package of peas, muffled beneath what he assumes is your blanket as bed springs creak from within.

His eyes snap shut at the sound, envisioning you curled up beneath your comforter, hugging the bag of peas to your bruise. It’s a position that feels so natural to him he almost replicates it, back slumped against the siding of your house. The rustling stops; you got yourself settled.

Only then does he move, climbing back through his window and shutting it for the night. He can’t sleep, though, eyes drifting towards your window from his seat on his bed. He watches, he waits, he stares until his eyes sting, every second that passes a blessing for the lack of commotion it causes. When he does fall asleep it’s after the upstairs lights of your house have shut off, because only then is it over, only then is it safe. He sleeps in solidarity with you, knowing that the click of the lightswitch puts you at ease just like it does him; if there's someone else awake, it’s not safe to sleep. He’ll wake up tomorrow morning with a stiff neck from sleeping up against the wall, but his eyes will flutter open and the first thing he’ll see is your window, hopefully open to showcase peace inside.

Never in his life has he felt connected to someone his age. That’s what abuse does, that’s what Neil does. He isolates Billy, keeping him under his thumb so the boy can’t escape his clutches. But now there’s a glimmer of hope right next door. Hope, he supposes, isn’t the right word. A muddy black eye isn’t hopeful. It is, though, when it’s matching his own, when your scars and bruises line up with each other’s to map out constellations of torture. He wants to chart them, find out where the patterns are, spit out the stories behind them.

He’s spent enough time stargazing his own past, picking a new ball of fire each night to examine. To pick apart, to wish he’d have acted differently in, to regret. Now there’s a whole other sky mere feet away from him, and he yearns to chart it, to explore its patterns in the desperate hope of finding companionship. Oh, that cluster? A missed curfew. That bright one? Backtalk.

He’s always felt like a potential supernova. Like one day, all of the hurt, rage, and despair inside of him is going to burst forth in an explosion of color, blood and guts paired with anguish and heartache. 

And now, knowing there’s another ticking time bomb beside him, two panes of glass separating the two dying stars, he has hope. Maybe it’s morbid, to want to explode in tandem. To seek connection in even destruction. All Billy knows is that if he can’t get out, he’ll die.

He thinks about it for a moment; getting out. Shooting across the galaxy, hurtling over the inky black sky until the swirling black hole that is Neil Hargrove can’t suck him in anymore. Landing somewhere where he burns bright without the threat of explosion. 

And for the first time since that vision began, he sees two stars. One yours and one his, twin flames, both rocketing towards a safe corner of the universe, one where no one else can dim your glow. 

Billy knows right then and there, he has to get to know you. He’s never tried making real friends, never wants to get close enough to have to reveal that Daddy hits him and Mommy - New Mommy - doesn’t care. But you’re the same as him, a dimming star puttering along with the desperate hope of migrating instead of exploding. And if you can feed off of each other’s light, merge into one, he knows you’ll be strong enough to escape together, to go out without a bang.

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)

[nirby-wirby]

Rating: General Audiences

Relationships: platonic marichat, hints of adrienette

What to expect: internal conflicts, angst, fluff, set post-London Special

Summary: If he had been present, if he had been there by Ladybug’s side, then maybe his father would’ve still been alive today. Maybe the butterfly miraculous wouldn’t have been lost again to some new villain. Maybe Ladybug wouldn’t have gotten hurt, causing his father to sacrifice himself. Maybe he would’ve been the one to sacrifice himself. That was part of his job, wasn’t it?

————

She’d seen him when she had to tell him his father died. She’d seen how it had broken his heart and she couldn’t bear to see that in him again. So, maybe she was a terrible girlfriend for not being entirely truthful, but how could she be when it would only hurt him more?

The only way she could cope with any of this was: 1. Stay as busy as physically possible so as to not think about it and 2. Think of it as a Ladybug problem, not a Marinette problem. Marinette didn’t know that Adrien was a senti-being. Marinette didn’t know that Gabriel Agreste was Monarch. Marinette didn’t know about the wish. Only Ladybug did.

OR: Marinette and Adrien grapple with their guilt as Christmas approaches.

A/N: Hi @alithetiredartist!! This is your gift for the @mlsecretsanta exchange. I hope you like it!!

Adrien was restless. Now, more than ever, he had a lot of free time. Yes, Nathalie had kept the extracurriculars he liked, like piano and fencing, to try and keep some normalcy, but without photoshoots and a looser schedule, he would often find himself in his room with nothing to do. So, there he was, aimlessly walking around his room, his homework finished, the sun slowly setting in the horizon, absolutely bored. And also kind of lonely. 

It wasn’t Nathalie’s fault, of course. There was a lot she had to take care of after his father died, including finding a new job. Now that she had one, he didn’t see her nearly as often as before. Though Adrien knew they probably had enough money to not need it, Nathalie had explained that she needed to have something to do when things slowed down and that, while it was very generous of him, she didn’t want to live off Adrien’s inheritance since she wasn’t entitled to any of it. (It seemed like there might’ve been a little more there, a hint of resentment maybe or even disgust at the mention of his father, but Adrien couldn’t figure out what it really was, so he ignored it.)

Now, Christmas was approaching. Adrien was trying to ignore that fact, but it was difficult when decorations were already being placed in shops and around Paris and when holiday music was already playing on the radio. It seemed that every advertisement he came across when watching something or walking around had to do with the holiday and the importance of spending time with family. He didn’t want to think about the fact that this would be his first Christmas as an orphan. 

“Plagg,” Adrien grumbled, “what should I do?”

The creature, who had been devouring a whole wheel of camembert, paused his activities for a moment. “I don’t know, you can watch a movie or something.” 

“I don’t feel like it.”

“Ok, then play video games.”

“I don’t think I really want to do that, either.”

Plagg sighed, fully placing the last piece of his camembert on his plate and looking at Adrien as though he’d interrupted something of great importance. As though Plagg didn’t just eat three other wheels of camembert in the past hour. “If you’re gonna say that to everything I suggest, then I don’t know what to tell you, kid.”

Adrien rolled his eyes, “You gave me two suggestions.”

“Whatever.” He plopped the final piece of his camembert into his mouth, swallowing it whole. “The point is, I tried. If you don’t want to do those things, then stare at the ceiling.”

Adrien sighed, falling back onto his bed to do just that. Maybe if he stared at the ceiling hard enough then he’d get an idea that he actually wanted to do. His phone pinged, giving him something else to pay attention to other than the very interesting ceiling. It was a notification from Marinette, she’d liked his message. 

Marinette… He smiled at the sight of her name on his phone, a sparkly heart emoji right next to it. He was so, so lucky to be with her. Even with all of the chaos and everything that happened in the past few weeks, she was still there by his side. 

All of his friends had been so great. So supportive, so comforting, so ready to let him cry on their shoulders. And the extra time he’d had lately meant that he could hang out with them more often, which was also nice. All of it helped, but he still couldn’t help but feel a crushing weight of guilt.

If he had been present, if he had been there by Ladybug’s side, then maybe his father would’ve still been alive today. Maybe the butterfly miraculous wouldn’t have been lost again to some new villain. Maybe Ladybug wouldn’t have gotten hurt, causing his father to sacrifice himself. Maybe he would’ve been the one to sacrifice himself. That was part of his job, wasn’t it? 

Adrien sat up, running a hand through his hair agitatedly. He couldn’t just sit here in his room. All it did was give him time to think and thinking… wasn’t the best thing right now. 

“Plagg, let’s go for a run.”

“What? But I just—“ Plagg paused his whining. Maybe he saw something in Adrien’s expression that made him stop. He softened, “Alright, kid, let’s go for a run.”

----

Marinette couldn’t take it anymore. Ok, maybe that was a bad way of phrasing that. But she had a real, huge, gigantic problem: Adrien. Well, not Adrien, Adrien, but all of the secrets she was keeping from him. If she sat still for a moment too long, then she’d think about how she still hadn’t told him about how he was a senti-being and that his father wasn’t actually a martyr who sacrificed himself for the greater good, but a villain. 

Worst of all, she hadn’t even told Chat Noir, her partner, what really happened that night yet because she wasn’t sure if she could. What if she told Chat Noir and then he told Adrien? Gabriel’s dying wish was literally that Adrien would never find out that he was a villain. She just couldn’t let that happen. Not even because it was Gabriel’s dying wish, but because she couldn’t handle it if Adrien got hurt by that information.

She’d seen him when she had to tell him his father died. She’d seen how it had broken his heart and she couldn’t bear to see that in him again. So, maybe she was a terrible girlfriend for not being entirely truthful, but how could she be when it would only hurt him more? 

The only way she could cope with any of this was: 1. Stay as busy as physically possible so as to not think about it and 2. Think of it as a Ladybug problem, not a Marinette problem. Marinette didn’t know that Adrien was a senti-being. Marinette didn’t know that Gabriel Agreste was Monarch. Marinette didn’t know about the wish. Only Ladybug did.

Of course, this didn’t work as well as she wanted to. After all, she wasn’t transformed when the wish happened, so Marinette did know about the wish. Not to mention, Kagami and Felix knew that Marinette knew about Adrien being a senti-being and Nathalie knew that Marinette knew about Gabriel’s wish and the fact that he was Monarch. But Nathalie and Kagami had also been there when Adrien found out about his father’s death, so maybe that would keep them from saying anything for now. 

Perhaps one of the biggest issues was that Adrien constantly thanked her, Alya, and Nino for being there for him. Every “thank you” was delivered with the most earnest, sincere, sweet smile and felt like a dagger to the heart because Marinette knew that she was keeping very big secrets about his life from him. 

So, Marinette occupied her time doing what she did best: making Adrien a lot of presents. It was good timing too, with the holidays coming up. She tried making the best possible excuses for them too. When she made him a bunch of presents in the weeks following his father’s passing, it was easy to pass them off as presents to help cheer him up. When it was close to Halloween, she used that as the reason. 

It was harder to think up ideas for fall, but All Saints’ Day allowed her to make him more gifts. That was a particularly hard time, since it meant it would bring up talk of Adrien’s dead parents and it was difficult to watch Adrien feel so lonely and hurt while knowing she contributed to that. Of course, she and her friends were there for him, but sometimes it was hard to tell how he was feeling. Sometimes it felt that, like her, he was putting up a facade to keep them from worrying. But maybe she was wrong and looking too deeply into it. 

Now, with Christmas just around the corner, Marinette tried to occupy her time making him presents for that holiday too. Some delusional part of her brain hoped that if she made him enough presents, then maybe it would be enough to make up for the secrets she was hiding and ease her guilt. It wasn’t working.

“Tikki, what should I do?” Marinette asked, as she often did nowadays. A barely started project lay abandoned on her work desk. “Am I making the right decision, keeping all of this from him?” She thought of Adrien, her wonderful boyfriend, alone in that giant mansion, thinking his father died a hero. She thought of Chat Noir, her partner, who still didn’t know the full story behind what happened that day. 

“Well, Marinette, I think that you’re doing the best you can. Things will work out eventually,” Tikki supplied, as she often did, unhelpfully. Marinette groaned. 

Maybe she just needed to clear her head. Keeping busy was clearly not helping her tonight. Maybe getting some fresh, crisp winter air could help. Or maybe it would freeze her brain. But, would that be so bad? “Tikki, I think we should go for a run to get some of this extra energy out.”

Tikki smiled sympathetically, “Sounds like a good idea!”

But, before Marinette could call for her transformation, a knock came from her window. She whipped her head around as Tikki zipped away into hiding, finding Chat Noir waving at her with a wide smile. “Oh, it’s just you,” she let out a relieved sigh; ever since that day, she’d been on edge. She rolled her eyes at him, opening the window to let him in. 

“Hey, princess,” he greeted with a dramatic bow as soon as he was inside.

“Let me guess, you were in the area and wanted some fresh pastries, didn’t you?” She asked with a raised eyebrow, crossing her arms. He seemed to be coming around a lot more often lately and always for the same thing. She couldn’t blame him though, her parents’ pastries were the best, and it was nice to have a friend come by.

��Well, it is the season of giving, isn’t it?” He grinned even wider as she shook her head.

“If we keep giving you free pastries like this we’re gonna start losing some serious money,” she joked. 

He gave an exaggerated gasp, “All from just sparing a few pastries on a helpless stray like me? Oh, I couldn’t bear it if your parents couldn’t sell any more pastries all because I ate them all. Maybe I should leave…” He halfheartedly took a few steps toward the window, only to turn back around to look at her with giant kitten eyes and bat his eyelashes, “But, well, you wouldn’t be cruel enough to turn me away, would you?”

He would make a terrible actor. Marinette groaned, “Oh mon dieu, that was terrible! Who taught you to be this dramatic?” She heaved a sigh as though he were making her make a very difficult decision, playing along with his act, “Alright, fine. I guess it wouldn’t completely destroy the family business to spare you a few pastries.”

Chat Noir grinned, plopping down on her chaise as though he owned the place. “Wonderful! I knew you’d come around.”

She couldn’t help but let out a laugh at his antics. Maybe his interruption wasn’t so bad. After all, she needed a distraction from her worries, and this seemed to be the best one: a dramatic close friend who didn’t know about her troubles at all.

----

Chat Noir was glad he’d gone to Marinette’s place. After running around aimlessly for a while, he’d still felt restless, and he figured seeing his girlfriend would probably help. Of course, right now he was just a friend to her, but any time he got to spend with her, in either form, was always nice. Instead of being stuck in his empty, cold room, he was with her, laughing, playing video games, and eating pastries. 

After she beat him yet again in Ultimate Mecha Strike III, he figured it might be time to do something else. He stretched, putting his controller down and getting up. Marinette watched him walk over to her work station, a messy, creative part of her room that she felt was a “controlled chaos.” He never understood how she could work with so many sketches, sticky notes, and supplies everywhere. 

“So,” he started, gesturing at the partially started project on her desk, “what are you working on this time?” She seemed to be busier than usual lately, always working on something. A lot of the time he would find out weeks later that the project she was working on had been for him. Well, Adrien him, not Chat Noir. 

“Oh, you know, just another project,” she shrugged. Oh? That was new. Usually she’d start explaining her thought process behind it, launching into an impassioned speech that was always so cute to watch. He loved hearing her talk about her projects. 

“Just another project?” he repeated slowly, narrowing his eyes.

“Yep.” Her smile was too wide and she wasn’t meeting his eyes; she was hiding something. He was curious and unsure if he should pry, but well, he was a cat. 

“Who’s it for?” When he stepped closer to her, she backed away in her chair. 

“Hm? Oh, uh,” Marinette glanced around the room, “it’s for…” 

Oh, he thought with a grin, I see. “Me?” 

“No! Not at all! It’s, um,” Marinette sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Damn it, Chat Noir, it was supposed to be a surprise.”

“So, it is for me.” His cheeks were starting to hurt from grinning so wide. Marinette’s gifts were always the best. They were carefully crafted, made with love, and the fact that they came from her just made them that much better. No, he wasn’t biased. And yeah, he’d gotten dozens of presents from her since they’d gotten together, but this one was for Chat Noir. It was special. “What are you making me?”

“I’m not gonna tell you.” Aw, man. He opened his mouth to protest, but she put a hand up to stop him. “You already know I’m making it for you, and that’s enough. Don’t you know what they say about curiosity and cats? Just wait until Christmas.”

“But that’s so far away,” he whined. Honestly, he was just happy he was getting a gift. He couldn’t care less when he’d get it. Sure, Chat Noir and Marinette were friends, but he never expected her to make him a gift just because of that. It was nice to know that she’d thought of him. 

“It’s in three weeks, Chat.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you want it to be a New Year’s gift instead?” she warned. He stayed quiet. “That’s what I thought.” Marinette clapped her hands together, effectively ending the conversation, “Now, how about another round of Ultimate Mecha Strike III?” She held out his controller to him.

Chat Noir pretended to think about it for a moment, then immediately sat down next to her, snatching his controller from her. “Alright, but this time I’m gonna win.” She laughed as she loaded up the game, and he softened at the sound. 

----

It was Christmas Eve and Marinette, along with Alya and Nino, were planning to surprise Adrien. At the moment, however, Marinette was in her room pacing. She knew Adrien would likely be having a tough time right now and she needed to mentally prepare what she could say and do to comfort him. That wasn’t easy when she knew part of the reason why he was struggling was her fault. There were so many moments when he’d say he wished he could’ve been more like his father — meaning more courageous or heroic — and she’d have to hide a grimace with a forced solemn frown as she tried to rub his back in a comforting manner. This hangout would likely have another few of those moments where the guilt would threaten to eat her from the inside out.

She needed air. There wasn’t enough air in her room. Outside should be better, maybe. 

Marinette inhaled a lung full of fresh, crisp air from her balcony as soon as she was up there. Her warm sweater and multiple layers kept her mostly shielded from the cold, so she was able to take in the beauty of the fresh snowfall around her. It was almost enough to quiet her brain. Almost. If she just focused on the cold nipping at her nose instead of the flurry of emotions and thoughts in her mind, then maybe she would be able to gather herself enough to go back inside and meet Alya and Nino downstairs. They were probably nearly there.

As she practiced taking slow, deep breaths, something caught her attention from the corner of her eye. It broke her focus as she struggled to figure out what it was across the dimly lit rooftops of Paris. Was it a threat? An akuma? The new butterfly miraculous holder hadn’t attacked in some time. What if–

The figure grew closer. “Chat Noir,” Marinette breathed a sigh of relief. Of course, it was just him. What was he doing out here? Shouldn’t he have been spending time with friends or family? “Hey, Chat!” she called, waving her arms around to get his attention. From a distance, he paused, his ears twitching in her direction. He turned around and grinned when he saw her.

“Marinette,” he said when he landed on her balcony. He took her hand and kissed the back of it, “It’s nice to see you.” Did his eyes look puffier than usual? Was his nose red from the cold, or from something else? Before she could ask, he continued, “So, about that gift you were making me…”

“Chat Noir, it’s not Christmas yet.” The gift was ready; she could give it to him if she wanted to, but she preferred teasing him first. He was always so dramatic about things, and it was fun to watch.

His lip jutted out in an exaggerated pout, “Isn’t it close enough? Why should I wait another day when I’m already here?” She shrugged noncommittally, just to see what else he’d do to try and convince her. Chat fell to his knees, taking both of her hands and turning on his “kitten eyes.” “Please, Marinette, take pity on my poor soul. I’ve been waiting for weeks! Do you know how hard that is on a cat?”

Marinette couldn’t help but burst into a fit of laughter. Chat Noir watched her with a frown that seemed to say, Am I a joke to you? The answer was yes, definitely. “Alright, alright,” she said when she could catch her breath, “I’ll give you your present.”

He jumped up from where he'd been kneeling and clapped his hands together once, triumphantly, “I knew you’d come around, eventually.” He said it as though he’d been trying to convince her for hours instead of just a few seconds, but maybe it was hours in cat years. 

Once they were inside her room, Marinette found her little pile of prepared gifts and looked for his. She smiled as she grabbed a box she’d wrapped in festive paw print paper. To her surprise, Chat Noir gingerly took it from her hands and started carefully unwrapping it from the areas she’d taped it. Maybe it was because of the claws, but she’d thought he would’ve torn apart the wrapping paper instead. 

After setting aside the wrapping paper, he slowly took the lid of the box and gasped. He delicately held the fingerless black mittens Marinette had made him. “They’re beautiful…” Chat Noir murmured, admiring his gift. Turning them over, his eyes lit up with delight at the sight of the green toe beans embroidered into the palms. He gently set them aside and gave Marinette a tight hug. “Thank you so much.”

Marinette smiled as she hugged him back, relieved that he liked her gift. Even though her friends reassured her that her work was great, she was always nervous that it wouldn’t suit their tastes. When they pulled away, her smile faded, alarmed at the sight of his damp cheeks. “Oh my gosh, what’s wrong?” 

He shook his head with a smile, shaky hands hurriedly wiping away his tears. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he reassured hoarsely, sniffling. Her heart broke a little at the sight. “It’s just… I’ve kind of had a rough few months lately.” That was especially surprising. Chat Noir had always seemed so happy and upbeat that Marinette wouldn’t have ever thought that he’d been having a hard time. Who would’ve thought that both of the blond boys in her life were struggling at the same time?

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” she said softly, rubbing his back in an effort to comfort him. “Do you want to talk about it?” As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized that it was sort of a dumb question. They both knew that he couldn’t say much without compromising his identity. Whatever it was, it must’ve been a lot for him to tear up at her small gift. “Ah, sorry, nevermind.”

“It’s alright, I mean, it’s the thought that counts,” he shrugged. “Anyway, who are these other gifts for?” He gestured at the small pile of gifts near her work desk. 

“Oh, you know Alya and Nino?” He gave a small nod. “Well, we were gonna go surprise my boyfriend, Adrien, and I made gifts for them. He’s been having a difficult time since…” She trailed off, unable to say the words, the guilt creeping up again. She cleared her throat, attempting to clear her mind, “Well, I’m sure you’ve heard about it, and we wanted to spend some time with him to cheer him up. Or at least just to be there for him.” 

As if on cue, her phone started ringing, Alya’s profile picture lighting up the screen. “I’m guessing that’s them, then?” Chat Noir asked, pointing at her phone. Marinette nodded. “Ok, I’ll get going then. Thanks again for the gift, Marinette.” After grabbing his gift, he gave her a two fingered salute and a grin, then left.

----

Once Adrien was home and de-transformed, he quickly hid his fingerless mittens in a desk drawer. He’d rushed home in order to get there before Marinette, Alya, and Nino, and now his heart was racing. He needed to calm down before—

A knock came from his door. “One second!” he called. After taking a few deep breaths to even out his heart rate, he opened the door.

“Merry Christmas!” His friends, all bundled up for the cold, smiled at him and held up presents. 

He gasped, feigning surprise. “Oh, wow, guys! I didn’t know you were coming.” Well, not until just a few minutes ago when Marinette unknowingly told him. Adrien stepped out of the way to let them in his room. 

“Well, we figured it would be a tough time for you, tougher than the last Christmas was, so we wanted to be here,” Nino explained before hugging him. Alya and Marinette joined the hug, surrounding Adrien with his friends’ warmth. He felt like he was gonna cry again. His friends were all so wonderful and—

“Wait,” Adrien blurted, “I have presents for you, too.” They pulled away, allowing him to scramble up the stairs to the cabinets where he’d hid their presents. They’d been coming over a lot recently, which he loved, but since he’d had their presents ready for the past month, he had to hide them. 

When he came back down, they’d removed a few of their layers and placed their presents together in a neat pile in front of his couch where they were sitting. “I wanted to thank you all for everything, so I hope a little present can do that,” he explained, passing out the gifts to them. 

He sat down next to Marinette, who gave him a tender kiss on the cheek. “You really didn’t have to do that, Adrien,” she told him, “You’ve already thanked us plenty.” The others murmured in agreement.

“We’re your friends and we’ll be here for you no matter what,” Alya added. Marinette squeezed his hand reassuringly. “That said, let’s open up these presents!” 

As he laughed along with his friends, excitement and love all around him, Adrien was able to say that he was truly happy. Though it would take him a lot more time to properly grieve and move on, as long as he had his friends at his side, he knew he wouldn’t be alone. 

[alanaartdream]

Funny thing happened on one of my TikTok videos where I was drawing and talking about fairly odd parents; my fairy Timmy au; and Nicktoons unite

And I had a comment on one of them

Asking

*Danny PHANTOM has a FANDOM 😭*

With that crying emoji with it and I responded that yeah it does like I was surprised someone would ask like that being as Danny phantom was one of nicktoons most popular cartoons along with fairly odd parents invader zim; Jimmy neutron and SpongeBob for quite awhile until well Nickelodeon made SpongeBob their golden child out of its cartoons and devoted all it’s attention to it ignoring it’s other cartoons series (it kinda reflects in the nicktoons unite games because when those games started you could see they tried to include all the most popular cartoons main characters as it’s focused but as the game started to hit the end of their run the games got more and more focused on making SpongeBob the main focus witch is kinda sad they went that way)

Like I live in Australia 🇦🇺 and grew up in Australia 🇦🇺 so not all the nicktoons shows or games made it to here or were not advertised much other here ( also like most Australian families didn’t have foxtel networks like Cartoon Network or Nickelodeon; like in mine it was enithr have internet cable or tv cable and we went with having internet cable so would end up watching Danny phantom on YouTube as well as watching others game play of nicktoons unite games on there as well; think I enjoyed watching the cut scenes most)

So my guess that commenter didn’t really get to see Danny phantom cartoons ever being as here in Australia most of us got to watch Nickelodeon cartoons through abc kids channel here a lot of fairly odd parents cartoons made it on there and I think jimmy Timmy power hour made it onto there

(I was obsessed with cartoons as a kid and became obsessed with anime as a teenager; those both became a hyperfixtion for my adhd brain and I can tell you kid and teenager me REALLY hated those reality TV shows that got into way of cartoons/ anime I wanted to watch

I hated those sidcoms that were not cartoons because they stated to replace cartoons I enjoyed on other free to air channels here in Australia

Think I wasn’t the only kid who hated those I remember abc kids network asking it’s kid fans what they wanted on the network and a lot were asking for anime content so not many wanted those sitcoms)

So my guess is they only knew a handful of the nicktoons because probably only got to see only a handful of the cartoons from where they were from (what I do know Australia got SpongeBob on channel 10 network in the mornings I believe; not sure wasn’t as into SpongeBob as many others were I was more into fairly odd parents; invader zim; a very beavers cat dog Rugrats and Aaaahhh! Real monsters!

Ok now that I think about it it was abc kids and channel ten that would air Nickelodeon cartoons/shows to Australian audiences one would do mornings or Saturday mornings while the other would do afternoons after school

You had to get the times just right to watch your favourite shows

And I know jimmy neutron did well here because his movie did make it here as did fairly odd parents because that ended up showing until like seasons 6-7 on abc kids in afternoons then just stopped so kids knew about those cartoons heck avatar last air bender ended up on that network as well for a time but the thing was invader Zim and Danny phantom didn’t end up on either of those free to air tv; you had to watch on YouTube or a friend would have dvd box set of the show and you could watch it from them (that’s how as a teenager I got to see invader zim and Danny phantom I had to go to YouTube for that)

So maybe that’s why half don’t understand Danny’s family/ friends got his back while many misunderstood how Timmy’s life truly sucked for him or why he needed Wanda & Cosmo

They may not of gotten many episodes to go off on and maybe what other fans have told them or maybe I’m overthinking things

[alexa-fika]

Chilly Prisioner ( Kuzan x Hellhound!gn!Reader)

A/N Here we are with another dark ish one, and first one with out freeze lord, I already have a part two maybeee a part three? I just have to exit them, depending on how you guys like it ill speed those up.

Part 2

This is a testrun on a hybrid oc with reader? ‘Reader’ is replaced with Dokusha here wich stands for Reader in japanese, let me know your thoughts on it afterwards, just trying new things and maybe finding a balance for including both Oc and reader without leaning too far in either direction but I also don’t want to like you know try that and fail at appealing to both so let me know, though that begs the question what should I advertise it at, eg, Kuzan x reader or Kuzan x oc?

Dividers by @/saradika

They roll their eyes, watching as Kuzan enters the Ship’s dungeon, approaching the cell where they were held and dropping himself to the ground in a lazy manner

“What do you want? I told that captain of yours already I have no intention of helping you and your rag-tag group of idiots

“Ara, Ara, are all hellhounds this uptight? I don't care about that. I'm not here to talk business; I'm just here cause I have nothing else to do right now. I just wanna chill and chat a bit."

They scoff

“You can’t stay silent forever. Besides, isn’t talking to me better than just sitting in a dark dungeon and doing nothing?”

They look away from him, ignoring him entirely

“Fine, if you wanna sulk, I’ll just sit here and relax.

“I’ve got nowhere to go, nothing to do. So I don’t mind just sitting here for as long as I need to. I can just wait for you to get bored of your grudge and start talking to me like a normal person.” they glance at Dokusha for a while

“Hellhounds are supposed to be resistant to fire, right?”

They glance at them for a second at his words but look away quickly, returning to ignoring him, hoping he will eventually give up

“Wonder how you would fare with the cold?” he stated

They wince as the room’s temperature quickly drops as ice begins covering the cell

“Hm, pretty sensitive, it seems,” he mumbled.

He then stood up and got up close to the cell bars.”

“You know, I’m kinda wondering what are you so sour about?”

They glare up at him, trying to keep their flaming ears and tail out of the ice

“you kidnapped me for no clear reason, you threw me in a cell and drugged me so I can’t use my fire at all, and now you're trying to freeze me to force me to talk to you because you ‘are bored,’ so you tell me Kuzan.”

“Hm, you’re quite feisty, aren’t you.”It was mean what you did, trying to set the entire ship on fire; I had to take some measures to keep you in check. Besides, you have a pretty dangerous power; it should be evident that we can’t just let you out to roam freely.” he stated, glancing at the shivering hellhound

“It was self defense” they growl

“You know, I’m not going to let you go. Even if I have to freeze you entirely, so you can either start talking right now, and I’ll lower my guard a bit. Or you can continue to sulk, and I’ll just freeze this cell completely. Your choice, really.” He tells them ignoring their outburst

They start inching backward as the ice begins approaching them, chills running down their skin

His eyes narrow as he watches them inching backward.

“The cold getting to you?”

Another gust of cold air surrounds them as the frost grows closer, almost touching their skin.

“You know I can easily unfreeze people, but I wonder if that's the case here; seeing how you’re trying so hard to protect those flames of yours, im guessing it’s game over for you if I put your fire out, so I would reconsider your choice and soon”

They growl, making their flames bigger, attempting to ward off the ice, a panicked look growing on their face as the flame flickered until only small flames remained

“The drugs I gave you are pretty potent; I would like to see you maintain those flames.”

His hands spread, and the air got colder, the frost growing faster now.

“So… are you ready to talk now?”

“Don’t you have anything you should be doing?”

“Nah, I told you, I have nothing to do now. So I’m just chilling here.”

His tone is laid back as if nothing is a problem

“Besides, the way I see it, I’m doing a nice thing and keeping you company. I’ve been told I’m quite the interesting and charming person.”

They groan as the ice reaches them, slowly freezing their feet and making its way up

He watches the frosts slowly creep up their body.

“Hm, it seems you’re not going to cooperate. Too bad.”

His hand gestures towards them, and another burst of frost shoots toward them, making the ice crawl up to their ankles and up their legs.

“All im asking is for you to talk to me and answer some questions.”

They shake their head, a cloud escaping them each time they took a breath as the temperature continues dropping; unable to move their legs, they hug their tail tighter, trying to protect the blue flame on it’s tip

“You know when I said I was going to freeze you entirely. I wasn’t kidding. I can do that and more.

I’m sure those flames must mean a lot to you, right? What would happen if, say, I were to extinguish them?”

Kuzan pauses, and the ice stops crawling up further.

“So, Would you like to talk now?”

I lowkey feel like idk, like Dokusha’s personality is not consistent? Or maybe it’s Kuzan’s personality that dosent quite fit and jumps all around the place, thoughts?

Taglist:

@imaginarydreams

@amethystviolin

@h0n3y-l3m0n05

[blueikeproductions]

Some further updates on CyberWorld copy & pasted from TFW2005:

Travel to the Nuremberg Toy Fair in Germany during the last week of January and produce an exciting, high-energy reveal video – potentially with an animation component – to help build anticipation for Hasbro’s new Transformers: CYBERWORLD toy line and its accompanying YouTube Series.”

***

“The goal of this project is to create a truly energetic and exciting reveal video that, for the very first time, showcases the toys themselves in high-energy fashion, and that also introduces the YouTube series that is dropping later this year. To do this, you’ll need to be able to capture the toys at the Nuremberg Toy Fair in Germany on Saturday, February 1st. This is not about showcasing the event; it just happens that this toy fair is where the toys will first be unveiled, and that shapes the nature of production. Creatively, Hasbro wants something that has a driving visual narrative, but they’re open to a variety of different approaches, and they’re even open to the inclusion of some 2D or 3D animated effects if that helps to elevate the footage that you capture. You may want to consider on-screen talent, or limited stop motion elements, and that’s workable here too. Hasbro has also provided a few references in the Background that could be helpful for you here as you think about how you might go about this. There will not be any footage available from the upcoming YouTube series – just a logo – so 90% or so of your video should be focused on the toys, with just a tease for the YouTube series. If you happen to use any animation or motion graphics, you’ll have to be careful that none of your animation can be confused as assets from the series, and you’ll have to be strategic in how you relate the series to the toys themselves. Beyond that, you should avoid any dialogue or voiceover in your video, as they expect this to play just as well on a live arena screen as on YouTube. That’s partially why the narrative will need to be driven by visuals, with some motion text or graphics to help communicate the messaging.”

The long and short of it is they’re trying to get fans and influencers to help spread the word and turn it into a fun project for them to work on.

As much as some veteran fans are against the idea… I mean online discussion and pictures at past toy fairs to help generate interest is far from a new thing.

This just comes across as Hasbro actively encouraging it this time. I’m not sure why people are acting like this is a new thing. When I was a kid, I went to Transformers fan sites to get updates on things, and I’m sure it’s not much different now.

It feels like Hasbro is trying to capitalize on how indie games like FNAF and Among Us got huge thanks to popular streamers.

I think it’s a good idea, but I don’t know if Hasbro waited too long on the idea. Maybe I’m wrong but it doesn’t feel as trendy anymore to do this sorta thing. Plus a lot of Transformers YouTubers REALLY don’t want kids in their spaces, which kinda defeats the purpose of advertising this towards CHILDREN.

It’s basically this bit: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=6rBmWD-4YSc

That said more fans are starting to (begrudgingly) admit kids need to get in to this instead of pandering to the existing audience only. Will that work this time is a big question mark.

@dynared and I discussed this, and he feels a good moment from the show needs to go viral to help it. The opposite happened with EarthSpark, where it did go viral… but to its detriment because people only turned in to see Nightshade, got mad/praised it, and then just ignored the show. The bad press from Nightshade ultimately killed the show, and as much as people blame being locked on Paramount+, no one flocked to go see it on Netflix either. Sucker didn’t even crack the top 50 either with Pokémon Horizons sitting in the 30’s, and Fairly Oddparents New Wish at rock bottom. It’s not looking good for those shows, but that they made it in at all shows what people want to watch and it wasn’t TF EarthSpark.

Now I am hearing some chatter that EarthSpark is getting one, count ‘em ONE, special to tie off its loose ends. Fans don’t understand a lot of the time that plans change during production, and this always happens, but it’s becoming more obvious with stuff like EarthSpark ever since its production bible and an old Hasbro roadmap leaked. The roadmap suggested that the original plan was a couple more seasons and two specials, and a lot of fans cling to this, when it’s becoming more apparent now this is no longer the plan. CyberWorld is in full swing now, Hasbro is moving on. EarthSpark wasn’t the game changer they wanted anymore than TFONE was.

Frankly though, I think the only thing that MIGHT help CyberWorld is the mecha anime influence. Kids I’ve spoken to are HUGE on anime right now, so making a pseudo anime might help here, so long as it feels like what anime is doing and isn’t trying to mash Dragonball Z with Evangelion and misunderstanding both… As tends to be the case sometimes with these projects…

I am wondering though. If CyberWorld is essentially the kid friendly Legacy cartoon, what is Wild King going to be in Japan. It ALSO is going to be a web only series, so it makes me wonder if Hasbro and Takara decided web shows were the best choice but both decided to try different ideas and they’ll see what sticks from there. No matter what though I feel it’s best to expect CW & WK being relatively simple, similar to the Beast Wars anime, Transformers Go!, and both RiDs. Not trying to be overly complex or bold like Prime or trying way too hard to be kiddie and edgy like Cyberverse. Just a simple Autobots vs Decepticons plot with fun characters like the Bee Team is all I want.

[cosmicanamnesis]

everybody loves a(n as yet untitled) coffeshop au pt. 2

[part 1] [part 3] [part 4] [read on ao3]

“You’re late,” Keith said as Steve came in.

“What? No I’m not,” he said, confused, and pulled out his phone to check the time for good measure. “Yeah, I’ve got like, two minutes.”

“Yeah, I know. Hurry up, though, I need to take my break.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

He quickly hung up his coat in the break room and pulled his apron on so he could take over for Keith before he got yelled at some more. The second he was at the register, the door chimed.

“Hi, welcome in- Oh, hey Eddie. You… Hang on, don’t you normally come in, like, three hours ago?”

“I did, you just weren’t here to see me,” Eddie smiled, hands shoved deep in his pockets. 

“Oh, um. Alright. What can I get you, then?”

“Just a small hot chocolate. Um… Did you know you’re wearing the wrong name tag?” He tapped his chest a couple times in the same spot Steve’s name tag hung on his apron.

“Huh? Oh, yeah!” Steve laughed, grabbing a cup to make Eddie’s drink. “I’m covering for Robin right now. We started doing this thing, ages ago, where if one of us covered for the other, we’d uh… We’d swap name tags. It’s kinda stupid.”

“That’s hilarious, actually,” Eddie chuckled.

“Yeah, we have fun with it. It’s funnier on her than it is on me though.”

“Oh, cause Robin is a kind of androgynous name,” Eddie guessed.

“Yeah, and Steve really isn’t. So, hot chocolate, huh?” Steve asked, changing the subject. “Didn’t expect that one to be yours.” He passed the drink to Eddie at the end of the counter. Eddie smiled, almost laughing as he took it.

“Yeah, I’m not really a coffee guy. Shocking, I know, based on the,” he gestured up and down at himself. He always dressed more or less the same, with big heavy boots and ripped jeans and an old leather jacket with a denim vest on top, covered in pins and patches advertising bands that Steve had never listened to. “Y’know, all of this.”

“Yeah, you don’t really look like a hot chocolate guy. So the whole huge order, that’s for everybody else in the tattoo shop, yeah?”

“Ah huh. I just started apprenticing there, which means I’m the store gopher.”

“The store what?” Steve laughed. Eddie smiled and sipped his drink, still standing at the pick up counter. Fortunately, there was no one else in the cafe.

“Gopher. Like an errand boy. Y’know, hey Eddie, go for coffee, hey Eddie could you go for lunch, stuff like that. Gopher.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever heard that before. That sounds like a pain in the ass.”

“Eh, it’s not so bad. I should probably get back, though,” Eddie said, tapping the counter. “It was good to see you, Steve. Got kinda worried when you weren’t here earlier.”

“What? Why?”

Eddie turned back to him, walking backwards, and shrugged. “You’re my coffee guy,” he said simply.

“Well, just a heads up then, I won’t be here at all tomorrow either,” Steve smiled. 

“Alright, good to know. See you around, Stevie.”

Stevie?

“So did you get his number yet, or what?” Keith asked, coming back up to the front.

“Shut up.”

“So, no?”

“Isn’t it, like, unprofessional for you as my boss to be asking me that?”

Keith just shrugged and started wiping down the counters. The bell on the door rang again, drawing both of their attention as Eddie ran back in, drink still in hand. 

“Wait, if you’re free tomorrow-” Eddie slammed his hand down on the counter to stop his momentum as he caught his breath. “Do you want to come to a party tomorrow night? It’s not a huge thing, but my band is playing and it’s like, a bunch of their friends, so it’d be cool to have somebody else I know there.”

“Oh! Um. Sure?” Steve said, trying to ignore Keith staring at him. “I didn’t know you were in a band, that’s really cool.”

“Thanks," Eddie smiled like he wasn't actually expecting a yes. "Here, can I put my number in your phone?”

“Yeah, of course!” Steve opened his phone and passed it over the counter.

“Phones are supposed to stay in the break room, Harrington,” Keith deadpanned. Eddie, apparently only just noticing Keith, giggled quietly as he added himself as a contact and handed the phone back to Steve.

“Okay, for real this time, I gotta get back to work. Just text me so I’ll have your number!” Eddie called, again walking backwards out of the cafe. As soon as he was gone, Steve immediately headed back to the break room to text him. He burst out laughing halfway there. 

“What’s so funny?” Keith asked.

“Look what he saved himself as,” Steve passed Keith his phone to look at the new contact.

hot chocolate guy

“You want to kiss him so bad, it makes you look stupid,” Keith said, ever unimpressed.

“Appreciate the support, Keith,” Steve said sarcastically, ducking into the back.

He shot a quick text to Eddie as promised and immediately texted Robin after. He didn't expect a reply, assuming she was on her date, but she answered within seconds.

Got his #

who

Eddie, the guy none of you like.

WGAT

WHAT*

FR???

Yeah, he invited me to a party. Apparently he's in a band.

oooo sounds like a date ;)

Stop it. It's not a date. 

could be a date ;) ;) ;)

Stop.

"Steve!" Keith yelled from the front. "Quit texting your boyfriend and get back out here! And leave your phone in the break room this time, please?"

Steve huffed and slipped his phone back into his coat pocket so he wouldn't have to listen to it buzz on the table his whole shift.

"I was texting Robin, actually," he said, coming back up to the front. "Dude. There's no one here, why the rush?"

"I like making your life hard," Keith shrugged.

The next time Steve got a chance to look at his phone, he had a text back from Eddie, two from Robin, seven from Chrissy and one from Dustin for some reason.

hot chocolate guy:

Hey, it's Steve!

hey there coffee guy

Robs:

Stop.

you love me

warning: i told chris so she might blow up ur phone

Chrissy (work):

Oh my god Robin said you got whats-his-face’s number??

And he asked you out?

And he's in a band? That’s so cool!!

I take back what I said about not knowing what you see in him. 

I do NOT take back what I said about him being weird though.

Oh Keith made you put your phone away didn't he?

I ask as if you could respond if the answer is yes.

Lil Buddy:

hey Steve, what are you doing tomorrow night?

He decided to respond to Dustin's message first.

I'm going to a party. Why?

oh, that's cool. we're throwing a party at the house too, I was going to ask if you wanted to come but if you're busy then don't worry about it.

Let me find out what time the party is, I'll see if I can swing by your place too!

Honestly I'm not sure how long I'll be at the other party, I'm only gonna know the guy who invited me.

who invited you?

Just a regular at work.

the one you have a crush on?

Oh, fuck off. But yes.

;)

Stop. God, you've been spending too much time with Robin.

sounds like a you problem.

Steve rolled his eyes. He loved the kid but god damn was he a handful. He decided to move on before he got sucked into the text-based slapstick comedy that was a drawn out conversation with Dustin Henderson.

He moved on to Chrissy's messages.

Haha, yeah, I did. Don't listen to Robin, he didn't ask me out. He invited me to a NYE party.

How is that not him asking you out?

Because it's not a date!

;)

Jesus Christ, is Robin paying all of you to do that?

Do what?

Nevermind.

He'd see Robin later so he didn't overly feel the need to text her back, instead opting to stare at Eddie's text trying to think of something to say that didn't make him sound desperate or insane. It wasn't going well. Every time he got a free minute, he would type something, stare at it for a while, and backspace the whole thing. By the end of his shift, he still hadn't texted him back.

He and Keith had managed to get the whole cafe clean and ready to close without anyone coming in right after they finished cleaning the espresso machine, which felt like a miracle, and they actually got out on time. As he walked back to his apartment, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He pulled it out to check quickly as if it were an emergency. It was from Eddie. A somewhat blurry photo of Steve, taken from inside the tattoo shop. Another message popped up as he looked at the image.

saw you :)

Haha, hey. Yeah, I just got off work. Sorry I didn't reply earlier, my boss made me put my phone away.

rude ass

Tell me about it.

so the partys tomorrow at 7. no dress code so just come as you are. i can come pick you up

If anyone asked, Steve wasn't blushing, it was just cold. 

You don't have to, I do own a car. I just live so close to work it's not worth it to drive.

good to know. but apparently the neighbors get mad when theres too many people parked on the street so were trying to carpool as much as we can

also its gareths turn to drive the band van and his driving scares the shit out of me

Steve laughed to himself as he climbed the stairs to his third floor walk-up. He didn't know who Gareth was, one of Eddie's bandmates he imagined, but he had friends like that too so he understood. He let Max drive his car one time and one time only, and in her defense they did all get home in one piece, but never again.

Haha, alright, you can pick me up then.

:)

He dug his keys out of his pocket and let himself into the empty apartment. It was a tiny little two bedroom thing, but it was just him and Robin living here, so they didn't need that much space. And despite being a walk-up, it was actually pretty nice. The living room had big windows, they had a balcony, they couldn't hear their neighbor's every move through the walls, it was great. 

He tossed his coat over the back of the armchair in the living room, which was the chair's sole purpose, and flopped down on the couch. His phone buzzed in his hand. Text from Robin. 

omw home, bringing a friend

if you don't want to hear anything you can't unhear then leave

Gross.

you've been warned. eta 15

Steve didn't really have anywhere to go on short notice. He had half a thought to text Eddie to see if he would be off work soon, but thought better of it. He didn't want to freak the guy out. His phone buzzed again. Speak of the devil and all that.

wyd

Trying to figure out something to do to get me out of the house in the next 15 minutes. You?

getting off work

why do you need to be out of the house in 15 minutes lol

Robin's bringing her date home. I don't want to listen to… Whatever they end up doing. 

i thought you were dating robin?

Nah, we’re super platonic. We just live together.

oh

wanna hang out?

Apparently Eddie didn't have the same reservations that Steve did.

-------

Well. That blew up.

Howdy? I'm Lichen. I shipped Steddie so hard it brought me out of a several-year-long writing dry spell. I have this fic in progress and a oneshot series that's like. Halfway done? But I am on AO3 as Lichen_Not_Moss and I've got a few complete fics up right now, so far all for Stranger Things

Ode to the Dungeon Master - <1k words, angst, not Steddie

I'll Come If You Call - 4k, angst, Steddie-adjacent

Brown Eyes, I'll Hold You Near - 132k, all over the place, longform Steddie fic

Tagging (everyone who replied to part one, whatever you asked to be tagged or not:)

@original-cypher @avacrebs @dangdirtydemons @rainydays35 @changenamelater @phantypurple @alienace @renaissan-vvitch @krazyperson @dreammetheworld08

[thesiblingsoftheblackandwhite]

How do you guys feel about T’noy Karaxis being infatuated/obsessed over one particular human and, by proxy, his family? As it seems like the rest of you don’t seem to share their ideals, or at least you don’t express them as much.

(I’m thankful at least one of you asked a question that won’t get you torn apart.)

Oh, you want to hear feelings? My older brother is nothing but an uncreative one trick pony who traps the same victims - if you could even call them that - in his fancy glorified yellow box over and over every other timeline so he doesn’t have to deal with them and work more than he has to. None of his victims are actually valuable, either. He says he’s doing us a “service”, but he’s not the one eradicating the Pauls across timelines or pitting humans against each other. Instead he’s stuck with the same horny family for the 300th time and I can’t even get the Woodwards back-

Bliklotep, they get it. Also, you’re not the one getting rid of Matthews, either.

I respect Pokotho’s methods.

You laughed at the singing ice cream shop. And the subsequent singing coffee shop.

OK? I don’t like ice cream or coffee. Sue me.

If you can’t already tell, Bliklotep has opinions. He runs his amusement park for the variety of humans, not for the shitty fried food.

My carnies work hard on that food!

If they make so much, feed them every once in a while. They’re delicate brainwashed humans, that need enough food to keep up a decent facade. You don’t want a repeat of Snoozle Town.

Don’t talk to me about food, snuggle-poo. You know how loud your Sniggles are? You just had to keep them in the Black & White when they’re not advertising?

They’re enthusiastic.

Ignore them, they like arguing. Speaking of which, we all have our own modus operandi. Even Nibbly. But our oldest brother is very selective with his prey. The Spankoffskis aren’t the first ones he’s messed with in terms of torture and enslavement; there were other families before them, of course.

Of course, Blinky himself’s not the most modest of us, either. No matter what he says, he prefers Watching the Woodwards to anyone else. He ‘likes their dynamic’, allegedly. I think he’s just projecting.

Extremely long story short, Tinky controls space. He can mess with whoever he wants for, really, as long as he wants, and there’s not much we can do about that. He basically only messes with them because he can. That, and he always looks in the bottom of the barrel for any of his Boxed victims. We’re…not exactly sure why.

Like Blinky said, T’noy Karaxis says he’s doing a service to us. And the people in Hatchetfield. In a way, he sort of is - one less citizen to watch out for. Well, him and his brother. And the elder Spankoffskis.

Mhm. That was some trillion timelines ago. They became too big a liability, according to him. They’re…also somewhere in that Bastard’s Box of his.

As for us-

We couldn’t care less. He’s older than any of us. That, and he doesn’t really meddle too much with our plans. We don’t get in each other’s way. Other than what you see on this blog thing, we aren’t in the same places in many specific timelines. If he does mess with any of our chosen toys, then it’s a big issue.

As long as he doesn’t do anything’ near the Honey Festival, I’m fine with it.

He’s what you humans would call protective over the Spankoffski brothers, we know well enough not to do anything to them. That’s the agreement.

Though if we ever want timeline business done, we have to ask him, and that’s the tricky part.

[justice-is-a-weapon]

In vino veritas [Dazai x gn reader]

·•━━━━━━━⋆⋅☆⋅⋆━━━━━━━•·

Chapter 15 / ?

previous | next

TW: mentions of depression

Walking outside I took a seat right next to the door. I took in the view I was presented with. To my left a run down car. It must’ve stood there for god knows how long, considering it was overtaken by rust, the black paint chipping away. I heard some birds chirp nearby. I, however, was not in the mood for chirping.

I took a look at my watch. 4:38 pm. It had taken me exactly 20 minutes to calm down from the fight. At least I had now calmed down so much as to not bash in Dazai’s face when seeing him again. Now I tried focusing on what exactly he had done to avoid letting him trigger me like that again. I recognized a pattern. Dazai will at first ignore any issue he faces while also being completely aware of it, then, when he needs to actually face it or is confronted with the issue, he may snap. This usually leads to the other person involved giving up when they can make the decision to do so. This is the route I assumed his colleagues usually took. Well, it was the easiest way out. But sometimes the easiest way is not the right one. I took route two: Confronting the issue head on. That was my error. Or maybe it wasn’t. It definitely made Dazai turn directly against me. Dazai is very likely to attack even those who he cares about when he feels threatened. I’d need to stay away for now. No provocation. First thing is making him feel safe, not threatened.

I still need to clean that bathroom though. He needs a shower. Or a bath.

I had also been too harsh on him. Maybe I should apologize. Yes. I will apologize.

I took another deep breath. We both fucked up, I thought. I could check his mailbox while I was at it. Nothing except for some bills to pay, advertising and some sort of weekly news subscription. With that I sat down again, leaning back against the wall, closing my eyes.

I imagined Dazai walking out the door, sitting down next to me. He'd first complain about the bills but he’s also saying sorry in my imagination, sorry for causing me all this trouble. I’d tell him not to be sorry, he’s just feeling intense emotions and this meant stuff like this could follow. I don’t blame him. Although him saying sorry would help me immensely. It’d be proof we’re both merely human.

But I’m taken back into reality.

Dazai is not sitting next to me. Instead I’m met with two long legs. My gaze follows from the brown dress shoes, over the beige dress pants, up to the black collar and lastly his face. I’ve settled on calling his hair “piss blonde” by now. He doesn’t like me anyway.

“So why are you sitting out here? Thought he probably ghosted you too.”

It’s more of a statement than a question.

“Well he did,” I finally answered, “But I’m more of a ‘I’ll break into your house if I need to’ type of person y'know?”

“Makes sense.”

I don’t question his response. An uncomfortable silence follows.

“I know you don’t like me.”

He looks at me, not quite expecting me to talk nor my sudden honesty. I just roll my eyes.

“Don’t act like I can’t be honest for once.”

A pause.

“I know that you know that I don’t like you.”

Now it was my turn to quirk a brow at him. Thankfully he answered my unspoken question.

“Dazai told me.”

This made me whip my head towards him. I hated how much I reacted to the simple mention of Dazai. I suddenly felt a bit caught.

“He gave me quite the verbal beating the day after.”

“He did?”

“I’m usually not afraid of Dazai but he seemed pretty determined to change my mind.”

He took another look at me. I prepared myself, thinking harsh words would follow. Kunikida didn’t like me. He didn’t trust me and I knew it.

But I was surprised.

“I don’t completely hate you. But I don’t like you either.”

He sat down next to me. Right where I imagined Dazai just a minute before.

“Just seeing you sit here tells me you’re determined too. I like determination. It’s part of my ideals. I’m a man that is determined to follow my ideals. They give my life meaning.”

“I’d call that fanaticism.”

“To some it might be yes. But that’s not the point I’m trying to make. I was actually trying to tell you there’s traits I like about you too.”

“Oh wow. Thanks for the compliment.”

I said rather sarcastically. I looked up at him, our eyes meeting for a second. He seemed softer. He was serious.

“Thank you for putting up with him. I know he can get a bit difficult.”

I hadn’t expected such kind words from Kunikida. He then shook his head and continued.

“To be honest I don’t get how or why you do it.”

With that he let out a long sigh and rested his head against the wall, looking towards the sky, then closing his eyes. I exhaled, slightly laughing.

“I just try again and again. Why? Because he’s my friend. Of course he’s an ass but I’ll make sure he’s doing okay.”

“You’re something for sure.”

We sat in silence for a second.

“I miss him too, yknow.”

Silence. Then his eyes widened.

“Please don’t tell him I said that.”

Now this made me laugh.

“Don’t worry. I won’t.”

I wanted to ask him another question but didn’t know if it would be too invasive. After some thinking about it I decided to do it.

“Why are you here though?”

“Mainly to check up on him I guess. But someone beat me to it.”

Again, comfortable silence.

“I used the premise of giving him his work stuff. Mainly a lot of documents. But I really just wanted to see if he’s doing okay.”

For a man so focused on ideals instead of emotion Kunikida seemed to actually have a heart. This made me happy. It was proof that I was not talking to a robot.

“Is… Is he doing okay?”

“I think it’s a depressive episode.”

“Oh… I see.”

“But we’re making progress.”

He looked me up and down.

“If you’re making progress, why are you out here?”

“Sometimes getting your ass kicked is also progress.”

A small chuckle from Kunikida.

“How far did you push him?”

“Insulted me, yelled at me, tried to tell me I’m nothing-“

“Oh I see. He’s frustrated.”

“Very much.”

Again we sit in silence.

“And how are you doing?”

This question made me think. How was I doing? Good? Bad? Something in between? To be honest I had no idea.

“Fine?” Was my final answer but it came out as more of a question than a real answer.

“Take care of yourself.”

I said nothing after that.

“Should I go in again?” I asked quietly. “I don’t want to upset him. Or worse, I could flip at him too. I don’t want that.”

“I know you don’t.”

I looked at him shyly.

“What do you say?”

He chuckled quietly, fixing his glasses.

“Get your ass inside.”

·•━━━━━━━⋆⋅☆⋅⋆━━━━━━━•·

[There it is! The long awaited chapter! Thank you for your patience. For anyone wondering what’s going on in my life please go ahead and read the author’s note. Take care!]

[theamateurartistblog]

The Sad Tale of an Artist's Burnout

I have been burnout over a lot of things but being burnout because of art hits differently. Art burnouts are the worst. Imagine just losing your passion for something or having to force yourself to do so. If this sounds like something you’re going through have no fear, I’m here. Imma tell you how to prevent a burnout and some tips that will help you get back into shape in no time.

Stop Drawing

Mcutie are you serious? Yes, I’m not joking. Stop drawing. Your brain is tired of doing the same thing over and over again, give it a break. Find another hobby, play a game, watch a movie, catch up on a comic or manga (if you want some recommendations I got you;) maybe then you will find inspiration to draw.

Ease your mind a little. What always helps me is ASMRs, find a channel you like and relax to them or put on some Lofi tunes, whatever it takes for you to get your mind out of the sketchbook. Don’t think that when you stop drawing you’re gonna lose your talent, you can’t lose talent but you can lose passion.

Stop looking for likes and views

They'll come eventually, I'm still in the baby stages myself and sometimes it's disappointing not to see any likes or views but that just takes the fun out of art. Social Media is tiring especially with the algorithm doing whatever it likes. If you run an art page why not give it a break a little, maybe the stress of putting out too much content is getting to you.

Also, the self-declared “art critics” don't help either (baby artists please ignore these people, pay attention to the ones who really give you solid advice) so drop social media for a while and post your art unless you want to.

“But Mcutie I need to advertise to get commissions!” (in a future post, I'll give you tips on how to make money with your art). I hear you, but the posts you have in your feed are already enough to tell your audience about what you do and which commissions you’ll take. My advice is to shake it up a bit, instead of Instagram try Twitter maybe art station or deviant art, they have some nice communities on there.

Or better yet create your little website and build a community around it (I'm currently trying this one on Tumblr so follow me on my journey if you want) who knows maybe you’ll find people who respect and admire what you do. ^^

Don’t Compare Yourself!

HA! I need to take my advice. It’s easy to compare yourself with others and let’s be frank there is always gonna be a better artist or athlete or dancer but there is never gonna be another you. The way how YOU draw is different from other artists, no two people are the same and no two artists have the same style unless one artist copies from another. However, it's good to try out new styles and see how you can implement them into your drawings. You may find something that can add an extra spice to your art.

Find Inspiration - Outside!!!

AHA! You thought I was gonna tell you to take up Pinterest and browse huh? Nope! I need YOU to TOUCH SOME GRASS! Look at the clouds find shapes in them, take a walk in the park or something. “But what if it is snowing?” Who cares?! Sit at your window and watch the snowflakes fall you may just find something that inspires you. Doing this motivates you to take up that pen and paper or tablet or whatever kids use these days and draw.

Sleep!! - Please Sleep...

Once again…….I need to take my advice. But let’s face it have you ever gone to bed and suddenly at exactly 3:00 am you get the urge to get creative? That’s what you want! Therefore, get some rest, take a nice bath, rub on your favorite lotion, put on your favorite PJs, and sleep it out. “I suffer from insomnia….” So do I but if it is chronic go and see the doctor maybe you need medical assistance, if not try playing rain sounds or as I said earlier find your favorite ASMRist and just close you’re eyes and fall asleep.

In Conclusion....

At the end of the day, something is gonna burn us out whether it is work, hobbies, or just life in general but the thing is we do not want to stay in a burnout. Besides if you stay in a burnout you’ll just shrivel up and die. So try my tips and if you have anything to add say it in the comments so others can benefit from them. Until next time stay healthy and stay cute.

(〃＾▽＾〃)

[staybabblingbaby]

Soulmate Garden AU Ch.4 (Lewisia) a2d3 Addition Post (+1,308 words)

[Caution: These are not full fics, or even full parts of fics for some, these are part of my writing progress archive!]

Concept: Growing up, you knew Soulmates weren't all that they cracked up to be. So when, on your 18th birthday, your skin is painted with a garden of flower buds, you resolve to hide it from everyone. Who had ever heard of someone with 8 soulmates, anyway?

Or; Reader has 8 soulmates and no issue avoiding all of them. It's up to SKZ to show her that while every soulbond might not be made of fairy tales, theirs certainly could be.

Word Count: 2,866

TO THE UNAWARE: THIS IS A PROGRESS UPDATE OF A CHAPTER NOT REMOTELY CLOSE TO DONE! PLEASE DON'T EXPECT A FULL OR POLISHED PRODUCT HERE

Notes: The first addition post in the history of the archive! Huzzah! This chapter just keeps growing, I was expecting this to be shorter than Lino's chapter, but I think it's gonna be quite a bit longer. Some genuine editing notes - I think the transition into the flashback is a bit awkward and I would like to smooth out the whole morning sequence. I'm not even 100% sure what that vibe is and it shows. I also don't like the complete change in Reader's mood while she's talking to Jake, so I either have to make her morning more lighthearted or show her shoving her feelings down somehow. I genuinely operate like this, just code switching between private emotions and public face, so idk. What do y'all think? Is it was weird and jarring as I think it is? I also need to find a place to mention that this Stray Kid (dunno if I've mentioned who it is yet - obscuring just in case some of you haven't gotten it yet) is wearing a mask. I completely forgot to, but it's important for later. At a point in this one where I think I need another pair of eyes. Writing by yourself is hard :c

Dividers by @saradika

Warnings: She/Her Reader, Flashback (yelling), pls lmk if this needs smthn more specific

Leave me comments or questions or anything! Love hearing from folks <3

Masterlist <3 | Main Part (Unfinished </3)

The next morning marks a return to routine.

You roll out of bed half awake, sleep-mused and ready for murder. Your mood isn’t improved by the way you’d gone to bed - still in your work clothes with day-after mascara gluing your eyelids together.

A quick stop by the restroom to strip and scrub your face is a necessity, otherwise you’re liable to just crawl back into bed and rot there. You brush your teeth while you’re there, doing your best to ignore the remaining traces of grey streaks down your cheeks where your eyeliner hadn’t been as water-proof as advertised.

You don’t even know why you’d cried. After all, it’s not like you were the one rejected by your soulmate for no reason.

You do your best to shake off the maudlin feeling of the morning, ambling your way into the kitchen. As tired as you are, you still spot your twenty on the counter where you’d left it. You press your lips together to stop the bottom one from trembling and open the fridge. There’s a plate of eggs, fruit, and toast inside.

Taylor, freak of nature that he is, has been up for hours already, you know. He’d probably been up and out the door before the sun had even thought about rising. Weirdo.

your roommate is well aware of how non-functional you can be in the morning, so it’s not unusual of him to leave you leftovers when he makes breakfast. The little note on top isn’t new either, usually a reminder, grocery list, or a little encouragement for your day. The whole thing makes you smile, usually.

Today that little note makes your eyes prick with a new wave of tears.

‘Give yourself a chance. Bet’s still on <3’

You very deliberately do NOT cry, though it’s a near thing. You’d done enough crying last night. But if you sniffle a bit into your eggs, well. That’s for you to know, isn’t it?

You leave the money where it is.

It’s a Tuesday, so after breakfast you drag yourself back to your room to throw on your largest, rattiest, t-shirt and a pair of leggings to head to the gym.

You can’t help it when eyes catch on the newly-bloomed marks on your skin as you strip away your sleepwear. You take a moment to wonder why looking at your mark, a daily ritual you’ve kept for years, feels odd to you.

It occurs to you, only after several long seconds of staring blankly at your stomach, that you hadn’t taken the time to look at your mark at all since since you’d met your first soulmate. Things have been... hectic, to say the least.

It’s no wonder looking at it feels weird. It might as well be a whole new mark, for all the changes that have happened since you last saw it.

You decide, in the name of returning to your routine for good, that you can’t skip even this tiny part of your daily rituals.

You shuffle over to your closet, swinging open the door to reveal the full-length mirror hanging on the other side. You don’t bother with your usual rounds of self-depreciation or daily affirmations. Instead, you find your eyes glued to droopy purple petals and blankets of white stars across your abdomen.

The names of the flowers come to mind with ease as you trace gentle fingers over echoes of delicate petals. ‘Bellflowers’ You recite to yourself, drawing your finger up thin stalks and back down dipped heads. ‘Edelweiss’ you muse, lightly tapping each fuzzy white star.

The knowledge comes easily to you, not from any cosmic force, but because of course it does. Your sister hadn’t been wrong when she’d said that asking a person’s favorite flower had been basically an obsession of yours.

The habit had started well before you’d gotten your mark. Before you’d even properly known what soulmates were, really.

Gardening with your mother had started as a way for her to drag you out of the house to get some sun while keeping an easy eye on you. Before your sister was born you’d spent many a joyous afternoon learning to work the soil beside your mother.

After the advent of your favorite gremlin, you’d spent those afternoons tending to the family garden alone.

You remember being grateful to the newborn back then. Those solitary afternoons were some of the most peaceful in your memory.

At some point the ‘family garden’ had become more ‘your garden’. Your mother wouldn’t even bother to plan it out with you by your sister’s toddler years. She’d drive you to the store, hand you a bit of cash, and leave it all in your tiny hands.

You’d spend hours researching the best ways to nurture your plants. What flowers liked being planted together, which ones should be separated. You learned about soil types and the nutrients found in them. You learned about ph. values, how to measure them, and why they mattered. Anything to have your garden thriving more brightly, more beautifully, for longer.

If you weren’t in the garden you were in the library by your house, nose buried in a gardening book.

You vividly remember the day it all went wrong.

It hadn’t even been that dramatic, as you recall. At least, not in terms of your parent’s usual fights. It was heartbreak- despair- that marked the day, instead of fear.

You’d been digging up weeds, clawing up deep roots with your gloved hands and a trowel, when your father had come storming outside. You don’t even remember what he’d said. Something about you always taking your mother’s side because of your shared hobby, you think.

Never mind that the woman hadn’t put so much as a toenail to the dirt since your sister had been born.

He hadn’t let up for quite a while, if memory serves. Stood there yelling at you in your safe space for close to an hour. Maybe two, but your child-brain couldn’t be trusted with the time. It might have just been minutes, now that you think about it.

Nonetheless, he’d yelled and yelled and yelled. He hadn’t trampled on or broken anything, hadn’t even made sense. And yet, when he’d finally left, everything was different.

The blooms you’d worked so hard to nurture were no longer beautiful, and the soil you’d once called home was no longer safe.

You hadn’t tended another garden after that season. You’d seen your plants to winter, and you’d let go. You’d turned away from the sun and soil and leaned into your books and silly questions to fill the hole left behind.

You’re sure you left claw marks in the dirt.

Something like a gentle humming fills your soul, and you notice how tightly you're clutching the garden around your waist. You gingerly pry your hands away and study the crescent moons you’ve left behind, soft skin indented where petals should have ripped.

You wonder if you’ll leave claw-marks in this garden too.

You tear your eyes away from the mirror, ignoring the gentle tingling up your side where your fingers had dug in. You quickly toss on a camisole, forgoing your usual privacy wraps, and your t-shirt over that.

There was nothing for emptying your mind quite like running yourself into the ground at the gym. With full awareness that you’re going to regret your gym session later, you flee your apartment.

Maybe jogging all the way to gym wasn’t such a great idea. It’d sounded fantastic at the time, a head start on your cardio and a way to remove yourself from your negative headspace before you tried to toss around weights you barely knew how to use.

It had sort of worked, but now you hadn’t even entered the building and you were already a sweaty, panting, mess.

After guzzling down half of your water bottle you enter the building, resignation in your heart. Cardio wasn’t even your focus today.

The automatic doors slide open with their usual swish, and you’re greeted by the familiar stale smell all gyms seem to share, no matter how clean. It’s comforting, even if you do wish you could go home already.

There’s someone already at the receptionist’s desk when you approach, talking in slow and measured English. You try not to be annoyed with the tiny delay, but your mood really hadn’t been helped by running from your thoughts, no matter what you’d hoped.

Alas, you’ve ventured into the public and so you’ve encountered a member of the public. Shocker. You cross your arms and bite back irritation that this complete stranger hadn’t done anything to earn.

Luckily enough, the low and measured cadence of the stranger’s voice is soothing enough to zone out to. Unfortunately, your latest obstacle is the only thing around to rest your eyes on, and so you find yourself studying his form.

His back is broad and built, huge biceps on display in a tight fitting black t-shirt. You kinda wanna squish them.

A vivid tattoo sleeve runs all the way down to his wrist, and you find your stare glued to it. Large boldly colored flowers take up the majority of the space, vague outlines of crashing waves and rolling mists fills in the rest in a luxurious combination of oriental art styles.

You can’t help but think it doesn’t look finished.

Dragging your eyes away from such beautiful ink is quite a task, but you don’t want to seem judgmental for your admiration. That arduous labor is made infinitely easier by how fine the man himself is.

You really can’t help the way your eyes trace up and down his form. It should be impossible, you think, to somehow bulk up in only the right places, but by Jove his man has done it. You’re quite jealous, honestly.

Your eyes come to a rest on the stranger’s backside. Quite jealous, indeed.

You try to shake yourself from your admiration, reminding yourself that there were very many well-muscled men in this place and that you’d always endeavored to keep a polite line-of-sight, even when they don’t. It hadn’t even been a hard ask, until now. You drag your gaze back up to the back of his head.

You’d be polite if it killed you. Even if neither the stranger or the scrawny receptionist had noticed your wandering gaze.

Especially then.

While you were.... distracted... the man’s conversation with the receptionist seemed to be going a whole lot of nowhere. From what you can gather, he’s looking for a short-term membership, and the receptionist is trying to tell him they don’t do that.

You know this to be true, even the trial period was an entire month. You’d specifically chosen this gym for that reason. If you hadn’t been able to stick it out for a month, you know you’d have never used the place enough to justify a membership.

Your sympathies to this stranger, it seems he really just needs a little less than a week. You know there are some no-commitment type places not too far though, so you wonder why he’s stuck on this place.

Their back and forth goes a while longer, but it’s evident that the beautifully-built stranger can’t really argue his case properly. Whether because of the obvious language barrier he’s working with, or because he’s run out of arguments, you can’t be sure.

Eventually he steps to the side to make a call, and you’re able to approach the counter.

The receptionist (you think his name is Jake. The owner’s nephew, if you recall correctly) looks relieved to see you after whatver hassling the stranger had given him. He lazily waves the clipboard and it’s sign-in sheet at you in greeting. You take the clipboard, trading him your membership card and driver’s license for it, and turn to prop your knee up on the counter to balance it while you write. Incidentally, your choice of position keeps the stranger in your line of sight.

You magnanimously ignore Jake’s gaze wandering to your chest, if only because you’re still looking not-so-respectfully at the tattooed stranger a few feet away.

“So what was that all about?” You ask him as you hand back the clipboard. He shrugs at you as he types a second longer.

“Some big-shot who needs a security detail,” He answers, unimpressed, “Says this is the only gym in, like, five miles of his hotel that he doesn’t need an entourage to go to.”

You hum your understanding, now trying to place if the handsome stranger was someone you knew of.

Such situations weren’t uncommon for this gym. Celebrities that actually lived in LA weren’t spotted here very often but, since it was settled very close to quite a few high-security luxury hotels, the building saw it’s fair share of famous faces.

Security was kept quite tightly, and a certain code of conduct was expected amongst the gym’s members. It was another justification for the long trial period, wherein one could only access the front room with the basic weights and machines. All the fancy stuff (including a pool, rock wall, dance studio, and all sorts) was in the back.

It was also another reason you yourself were a patron here. The high security and strict standards made for a quiet and comfortable atmosphere.

At least, as long as you ignored the judgmental stares.

“What’s the issue, then?” You question Jake, “Doesn’t the owner make exceptions for high-profile clients?” You phrase it as a question, but you know he does. The unfamiliar faces that pop up for a few days every now and then wouldn’t show up otherwise.

Jake just sighs like he’s had this conversation a thousand times. Considering the celebrity (?) waving his hands around as he spoke rapidly into his phone not far away, maybe he had.

“He does, but he’s out of town and no one else can adjust the contracts.” He eventually explains. He finally hands you your stuff back, and you hum consideringly as you put the cards back in your wallet.

Another glance at the furrowed brows on the stranger’s masked face has pity welling up your throat.

You turn your gaze to focus on Jake.

“Do I still have that visitor pass?” You ask him, knowing that he still has your details up. Jake glances at you with a raised eyebrow, but obligingly checks the computer.

“Yup,” He confirms, “You’ve been paying for it since you dragged your poor roommate in here that one time. Why?”

“Can he use it?” you nod your head to the frustrated stranger. From where you’re sat, still perched on the edge of the desk, it looks oddly like he’s begging whoever’s on the other line.

Jake levels you with his most deadpan stare. It’s quite a good one, completely unimpressed. You think it must be something about customer service that allows him to make that face. Or maybe it’s just you.

“You realize that your visitor pass is you vouching for your visitor’s character, right?” He reminds you, “If he does anything, breaks anything, pisses off the wrong lifeguard it’ll be on your head.”

You just shrug. It’s not like you couldn’t find a new gym if you had to. You’d miss this one, with it’s quiet atmosphere and abundant amenities, but you didn’t require it’s security and discretion like some of the other clients did.

“I’ve got a good feeling about it.” Is all you tell Jake. It’s not even a lie.

The poor boy just rolls his eyes at you. He still turns to rifle through the desk for the right form for you to fill out though, so you’ll take it.

“You a fan of his or something?” Jake asks as he hands you a different clipboard.

“Nope!” You answer cheerfully, starting to fill out the form, “No idea who he is.”

Jakes huffs an incredulous laugh, and turns a considering gaze on your new friend. And the stranger does have to be a friend now, because “some guy” is not an option on your paperwork.

“I bet he’s a wrestler,” he finally says after a long moment, “Or a sportswear model.”

You gently bop him on the head with your clipboard, “I refuse to participate in your speculation.” You admonish, ignoring his whining.

“I’ll show you his picture when you leave,” He smirks back, “and whatever google says about him.” He shrugs when you send him a cutting glare, “It’s not speculation then.”

“Respect your customer’s privacy, you weirdo.” You scold. He just laughs as you hand him the form, all filled out and just waiting for the stranger’s signature. You know full well that Jake will go through with it, regardless of what you say, so you give up easily.

He won’t get fired as long as you don’t blab outside of the gym. Privileges of nepotism. You exchange farewells as you hop off the counter, and he begins to wave over Mr. Celebrity. You meet the eyes of you on-paper friend and offer him a quick nod before you scuttle off deeper into the building.

Hopefully he’d be too grateful of your offer to find you terribly strange.

I could really use some feedback for this one, if y'all have the time. 人´∀｀) Especially regarding my dialogue and transitions. plsplspls I would be so grateful. My comments, dms, and ask box are all open

[onceuponanaromantic]

it's a long story (tell me anyway)

(Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt FFF226: By Any Other Name. Enjoy!)

Fire licks at her hands where she presses them into the burning hull of the spaceship and curses. Fire twists through the ruins of her jacket, biting at her undershirt as she works through the combustion equations in her head, pulling at the wards to admit her new ward as they spiral rapidly through the atmosphere. She calculates the propulsion through rapidly decreasing oxygen levels and increasing heat, ignoring the light and smoke.

In the last few moments, it takes as she sings to it, using the last of her oxygen. And the darkness takes her.

“Hell of an entrance, Ira.” She wakes to the horrible pungent smell of the healing ward. Herbs and antiseptic make for a terrible combination, but they also make for an efficient combination so she bears with it. “Welcome home.”

A hand pats hers, and she squints at the physician treating her. The rough callouses from scalpel use brush against healing skin. The room spins around her as she tries to see through the haze. “Don’t sit up. The smoke did a number to your lungs and your bloodwork made Healer Kyrie curse all sorts of things when it came in, so I recommend you take their instructions.”

“Rest, Ira.” She doesn’t know what expression her face must be making but it’s enough that Dr Kaiyan laughs. “I know you’re not familiar with the concept but it really will help.”

            “It’s not like Rin is going anywhere.”

            Something beeps in the background. Kaiyan curses.

“I need to go now, but let me know if you need anything and,” she hesitates, “it really is good to see you. I wish it was under better circumstances.”

I love you too, she would have said if she had any voice to say it with, as the door closes.

Let’s talk about a hypothetical situation. Let’s say that you’ve spent years staring at warding because you were never that good at making friends anyway. Let’s say that you tell your older sister, who is also your guardian that there’s a problem. That in twenty years’ time, there’s going to be a problem with the magic because there’s an error in the original flow structure that initially imported magic over from a different world. Say, no one takes either of you seriously because what arrogance, to presume that you knew better than the warders who set up the initial system.

Say it happens in six years instead of twenty. Say the systems begin to crumble, and there’s panic and there’s no solution to be found. Say your sister by this time is a priestess who finds a way out through an ancient book. Say she twists the magic to rely on her soul through an ancient spell that converts a death into eternal sleep. There’s a way to get out from it, true love’s kiss, but it will undo the original spell.

They hadn’t even bothered to call her. It was just a letter, mixed in with bills and advertisements for other conferences and new boba tea shops popping up in different nebulae. Just a letter with a plain font.

-

“Ira.” Her sister’s fiancée gets up from beside where her sister lies sleeping. “They told me you were back.”

“Right, I don’t think they told you the part where I fell out of the sky.”

Ana grins, despite the dried tear tracks and the wrinkles. “Oh, Kaiyan did mention that too. You look different.”

“You look different too.” She looks down at herself, taking in the stains from where she had been working through the theory again, checking her wards.

If nobody was going to take her seriously, well, she was going to come up with a solution anyway. It’s not like she wanted to be an academic full-time in the first place.

All she had wanted was to keep her sister safe. And it turns out she hadn’t even managed that.

(She hid the grief for her selfishness in balls of pain in her throat. She knew she was selfish. She could have come back earlier. She knew she could have, when her sister first told her the thing she had predicted was happening already. She knew. But it had been so nice, to be someone other than Rin’s sister. To change her hair, to change her name and her eyes and pretend it wasn’t running away when she had left. To refuse to answer Rin’s messages, because it was an old life and it wasn’t like Rin could come after her anyway.)

She notices the ring around Ana’s finger. “Congratulations, by the way.”

Ana breaks her gaze. “We’re not married. Just engaged and well, she thought we should have rings. I thought she told you.”

She swallowed past the lump in her throat.

“Have they found an alternate solution to the problem?” She winces at the harsh change in subject.

Ana spreads her hands. “Have at it.”

She turns away, mind already spinning ahead in threads and numbers and calculations. “And Ira? Come have lunch sometime. It’s been a while.”

It takes her twelve days, running around the city and not sleeping or eating except for a great deal of caffeine and the occasional snack bar. But she solves it. She sets the plan she had been working on for the last three years in progress, and she executes it perfectly.

She gets through the final result long enough for it all to click into place, for her to get to the room in the temple her sister sleeps in, for her to see her sister begin to stir.

“Oh good.” She says, and passes out herself.

            She wakes up to yet another argument being carried out over her. They all turn to her as she wakes, and she blearily glares at them.

            “How did you get over the true love requirement?” “Why isn’t there anything collapsing?”

            “Math.” She squints at them and then goes back to sleep.

            The next time she wakes, it’s to Rin and Ana talking quietly over her. Rin is the first to notice her, even though the premature wrinkles twist at the edges of her face

            “You look different.” It’s been a while. I’m sorry.

            “Hello, stranger.” Rin says, “I’ve missed you. What’s your name now?”

[chrismerle]

came up with a couple OCs on a whim, decided to use them for writing one shots/super short fiction. they are not going to be written or posted in any sort of chronological order or on any sort of schedule, and many of them will be inspired by prompts I find or am given. I don't describe what either of them look like in any detail in this ficlet, and I plan on doing that in another ficlet so I won't fully describe them here, but to help with your imagination: Ragnarok is basically Frankenstein's vaguely-reptilian centaur creature while Adam is, like, an anime-style dog man. Frankensteinian horror paired with Just Some Guy with dog ears slapped on top. anyway, this one is set pretty early in their story chronology, but not quite the BEGINNING. it's based loosely on the prompt 'I had to be brave or else I wouldn’t be the only one affected.' editing consists solely of me rereading it once while distracted by Youtube.

Adam hasn’t really spoken since they got back to Ragnarok’s flat. Ragnarok knows he can—he did a bit as Ragnarok pulled him out of his call, and he bit out a few words in the glimpses of Alabaster’s strange little show-and-tell Ragnarok managed to steal—but his words have all dried up for now.

Instead, he’s sitting on the floor, huddled in the corner. Ordinarily, Ragnarok might assume it’s because none of his furniture was chosen with bipedalism in mind, but not just now. Just now, he’s pretty sure Adam is just trying to pretend the world isn’t so big.

Ragnarok leaves him to it and putters around his daily routine, as if it had never been interrupted and as if that interruption isn’t watching him from the corner with eerie, wolf-like eyes. Ragnarok feels those eyes on him the entire evening.

Eventually, with the flat still smothered in silence, Ragnarok climbs onto the couch and falls asleep. It takes a bit longer than usual; falling asleep is a bit strange when he knows there’s someone else there, silent but staring. Even so, sleep does eventually creep over him, restless and uncomfortable though it is.

When he wakes up the next morning, Adam is still watching him.

“Why did you get me out?” Adam asks abruptly, the words pushed out in a rush the second Ragnarok shows any signs of life.

“G’morning to you, too,” Ragnarok grumbles, mentally beating back the urge to exclaim, ‘He speaks!’

“Someone had to,” he replies once it’s apparent Adam isn’t going to say anything else until he has an answer, “and it certainly wasn’t going to be Alabaster.”

“But no one actually had to, is the thing,” Adam says, and it turns out today he has all of the words. “I wasn’t hidden. He paraded me around in public; it was a key part of his advertising. Either it wasn’t illegal, or he was so sure he could hide any illegal aspects as to render them irrelevant.” He tips his head to the side, canine ears finally partially standing up from where they were hidden in his hair. “So, no, someone didn’t have to help.”

Adam doesn’t re-ask his question, but it’s still pretty obviously hovering in the air between them, hanging heavily enough that Ragnarok can’t justify ignoring it.

“Sometimes our decisions don’t just impact us,” Ragnarok reasons. “Once I knew you existed, any choice I made to not get involved would also necessarily involve you.” He shrugs and finally climbs down from the couch, four sets of talons settling on the carpet. “Sometimes you’ve gotta be brave because you don’t want the alternative on your conscience.”

Ragnarok waits for a moment, but Adam just regards him in skeptical silence, disbelieving but nevertheless all talked out. Ragnarok gets it, though. It was a lot when he first got out, too.

He heads into his tiny kitchen, leaving Adam still curled in the corner. Ragnarok supposes he’ll need to actually order some regular chairs finally.