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princessdemo · 2 years

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just a christmas request bc im very much in spirit now .. mayhapz deccers and u work for the team and its a tradition to do a massive secret santa and its fate bc u get one of them and he gets you … and he finds that hes spending his time more around you (and its funny cuz ur not necessarily suspicious) until one day he kisses u out of surprise and hes like “you know part of my secret santa for you is a kiss”…. and u may continue that :3

The best present - Declan Rice.

HI BBY @rashys !! THANK U FOR THIS REQUEST, IM SO SORRY IT LITERALLY MAKES NO SENSE, BUT WRITING IS LITERALLY *"&"*"(!() NOT THE ONE FOR ME,, I HOPE U LIKE PARTS, I LOVE U SO MUCH ANGEL <333333333

Working with the England national team was one of the biggest achievements of your life. It was something you dreamt of since you was a little girl, getting to work with your idols. Being a physiotherapist was also the job you had taken a liking too since you first heard about it. Having the ability to help others be their greatest physically, was something you had always wanted to do. When you got the call you was going to be working as a placement at St Georges park, you was ecstatic. Tears flowing, with lots alcoholic celebration drinks to praise you for your achievement. You was the happiest girl in the world. Then, when the team had signed you for a job working with the players full time. You were definitely living your biggest dream.

The festive season was always exciting and something to look forward too at St Georges park. Decorations and lots of happy faces shining down the halls, something no one would want to miss. Maybe, Jordan Pickford. The team always seemed to go to town, tinsel hanging from nearly every single china object in the building. Music blasting from the speakers. As for the players, it seemed like a boost in their mentality and well being, considering that it wasn't long before they would got a well needed break to relax and spend time with their families. On a daily, you would catch John stones and Kyle walker skipping along down to the pitch singing a mixture of Christmas songs together. Believing they were the new Beyoncé and Jay Z. It really was a period of love and happiness.

A tradition the team had acquired over the festive period was secret Santa. It was always a good laugh to see what everyone had brought each other. Last year, you remember Harry Maguire receiving a book on tips to score a goal other than a header, and Jordan Pickford opened up a box containing therapy sessions to control his anger issues on the pitch. All in all, it was a laugh. This year, you had picked Trent Alexander-Arnold's name out of the hat, someone who you believed you could find a present for easily. However, the person who seemed to have chosen your name out the hat, didn’t have the same thoughts as yourself.

Declan Rice, the most charming number 41 in the world. One of the idols for many young girls, stealing the nations heart during the euros. Over the years, he had developed a strong liking to yourself, with all the boys noticing the way he would open the door for you, check how you were feeling, book unnecessary physio appointments. You didn't seem to pick up on his ways, thinking he was just being a gentleman, or working too hard on the pitch. To you, Declan Rice was just a close friend.

When Declan had pulled your name out the hat, his body froze. He was utterly scrambled as to what to buy for you. Nothing came to his mind, he didn't want to mess this up, given that this could be his one chance in getting closer to you. If he brought you something you didn't like, he feared you would never want to see him again. Very childlike he was, according to Mason.

"Hello Lads." You smile at the group of boys, who were gathered in the gaming room. A game of Fifa was sported on the TV, Jack and Bukayo competing against each other. Several grunts and profanities here and there from the two. You take a seat on the sofa, placing yourself next to John who was flicking through his phone, taking various videos of Jack sulking because of his loss.

"Yo, Y/N. How are you?" The familiar brummie accent echoes through the room, causing your head to turn in his direction.

"Good thanks, looks like you are getting obliterated by the little lad!" You replied, earning lots of laughs from the others. Saka reaches over to you, holding his fist out for a pump. "Might have to practise a little more on your skills, can't have someone 6 years younger than you winning."

"Alright y/n, are you asking for a game?" Jack spoke, eyes flickering from the screen and yourself.

"Have you gotten your secret Santa gift yet, Y/N/N?" John gazed over at you, sending you a beaming smile.

"Of course, worlds most organised person here!" You ran a hand over your face, nodding your head in response. The sarcasm was radiating off your body, you hadn't even began to search for Trent's gift.

"Not long left till we are handing them out," Dec spoke, running his hands over his shorts, before standing up and sighing. "Night lads, good night y/n. See you all tomorrow. Bukayo, keep thrashing jack will ya."

The next day, you found yourself looking up presents that Men would like, or even football players, or Scousers, the list went on. There was a few days until the gifts needed to be handed out, so you were fairly confident you would find something in time for Trent. Your office had a comfortable silence, no background noise needed. Just the noise of a scribble you would make against your notebook if you found something that tickled your fancy for Trent.

"Hey Y/N," The knock on your door making you jump, and before you even had the chance to reply, the door had opened. Quickly scrambling to close your laptop, you shut the website down immediately before giving your full attention to the man stood in front of you.

"Hi Declan," You mutter in confusion, a nervous smile arousing. You wasn't too sure as to why Declan was here so early, but you weren't complaining.

"Watching dirty things were we? you were quick to shut that down." He nods his head over to the laptop, a small smirk riding onto his face, you laugh at his choice of words, hitting his shoulder from his stupidity.

"How can I help you?" You smile, you didn't think the boys would be coming in for appointments until 10:30am, the clock on your desk shining 9:17am.

"My thigh, its been feeling really tight recently. I know I have an appointment later, but you wouldn't want me to be in pain before the game." He mumbles, "I know I have an appointment later, and I can.."

"Take a seat, idiot." You cut in, breaking your knuckles before getting ready to massage his tender skin. Your hands get to work by kneading the muscle gently, loosening up the pain. As you were working your magic, you noticed Declan had closed his eyes in bliss. A small moan escaping from his lips as you rub towards his groin. Giving him some extra special treatment.

"Was that a moan, Deccers?" Your eyes widening towards him, eyebrows furrowing at his state. His eyes shot open, cheeks flustering red. "What? No, of course it wasn't."

"Yeah, yeah." You chuckle at him.

A few days after the morning with Dec, you were walking through the cafeteria after collecting a cup of coffee. You spoke to a few of the boys, finding out how they were feeling after the last match result. From becoming the physio of the national team, you find yourself having a strong friendship with nearly all the players. Considering you see them daily, during international break. Using this friendship, you look out for the boys not only physically but mentally. Often worrying they don't speak enough about their mental health or emotions.

"Y/N!" You stop in halt down the corridor. The coffee in your hand nearly spilling due to the sudden change in movement. You turn your head to see a familiar friend of yours behind you, jogging over to speak.

"Dec, you okay?" You look up at him, his height towering over you.

"All good. Just wanted to ask you something."

"Go ahead." You replied, lifting the lid of your coffee to blow on the hot contents.

"I was wondering if maybe you could," His fingers find the black of his head, scratching the nape of his neck. "Help me choose a present for my Mum? Of course, you don't have to." He word vomits, stomach fluttering with butterflies. "But I just thought maybe hearing from a woman's perspective, could give me some ideas? It's hard not having someone like a girlfriend to help you out, and you are probably the closest girl I have.”

Your face fell into an awe, at the sight of the boy standing in front of you. His hair was messy, as though he had just woken and hadn't thought about styling it and his eyes were puffy still, suggesting he had slept pretty well.

"Of course, Dec. No worries, I'd love to help. Just give me a date and time." You smiled softly, nodding your head at his idea. Declan didn't know how it was possible to love a girl more and more each day.

"Thanks Y/N, you truly are the best, so how about.."

Just as Dec began, your phone buzzed in your pocket, alarming you that had an important phone call within 5 minutes you needed to take.

"Sorry Dec, I really need to go, a phone call is awaiting for me. Message me." You swiftly changed direction and walked towards your office. Leaving Declan standing alone in the corridor.

"Yes! Lets go." He whispers to himself, fist bumping the air. Oh boy, was he whipped for you. Off he was to tell Mason about the conversation you two just had, just a young school boy at heart.

Following on from the conversation, you did in fact help Declan choose a present. Picking out a luxury handbag from Selfridges, which was worth shedload amounts of money. Declan was having no hope finding you a proper main present, he had brought you a few items, a perfume you told him you liked and some chocolates. He still couldn’t find a main gift for you to receive.

The day before the exchanging of gifts between the team, Dec had found himself stressing. He knew he was running out of time, and he didn't want to let you down. Sure, he’s glad he’s picked a few bits for you, however he believes if not enough (in your opinion, it was plenty.) to wow you over. The only option he had was to ask his dear best friend, Mason Mount.

The day of the gift exchanging came flying around, wrapping paper was torn all over the room, and you had to remind yourself several times you were in a room with grown men. Your personal favourite present was Jordan Hendersons present to Kyle walker. A karaoke machine for him and John to use. As for you, you were more than grateful from your present from Declan. A top up of your favourite bottle of perfume. The thought of him remembering your scent made your heart flutter immensely.

Further on in the day, Declan had called Mason to meet alone. He wasn’t satisfied with himself, even though you had told him how much you appreciated his gift and remembrance. He was still not happy.

"Mase," He huffed, settling himself down on the sofa, a deep sigh passing from his lips.

"Dec, you need to chill. She’s happy. You should be too!”

"I know, I know, I just want to give her a final perfect gift. Did you see what all the other girls got? I don’t want her to feel I did her dirty.” He shrugs at Mason, a grumble falling from his mouth. Declan had spilt to Mason his secret Santa a few weeks prior, the kid not being able to deal with the fact he had gotten you as his special person. Since then, most nights the two would try and discuss what Y/N would like. Conversations over Facetime and Text becoming a habit.

“Do you think she thought I did her dirty?”

Mason chuckles at his best friends question, head shaking. "I had a thought last night about what you could do. If this happened, which I was 90% sure it would." Mason smiles at Declan, as he sharply sits up. His head that was once in his hands, now looking straight up at Mase. The definition of an excited child when they ask to open their presents on Christmas day.

"Go on.." The two converse together, Declan engaging in Mason's plan in setting out the best gift for Y/N. Declan could not have been happier with his best friend for coming up with the best idea. Reminding himself to award him afterwards.

"Mase, Dec... what you doing in here?" You approach the two boys, from the corridor, taking a seat next to Dec.

"Nothing, nothing. We were just.." Mason quickly reaches for his phone in his pocket, taking it out as a disguise. "Looking at Memes, right Dec."

"Yeah, have you seen the one 'hello darkness my old friend' meme of you me? quality in my opinion." Mason chuckles at Declan, hand rubbing over his eye.

"Yeah, quality."

"Actually. Y/N, can I talk to you in your office?" Declan smiles, tilting his head towards your office, before reaching a hand out to help you up. You comply with his actions, taking his hand and lifting yourself up.

"Sure," You smile, "Be right back Mase." And just as Declan is off, he turns his head back to look at Mason, who sends him a thumbs up and a big smile. Like a dad who had just dropped his son off for his first day of school. The encouragement Declan needed.

The two of you trod along to your office, chuckling at an awful dad joke Declan had told you. The nerves Declan got whenever he was around you, seem to uncomfortably bundle up in his stomach once again. His heart fluttering.

You both take a seat in your room, the quiet atmosphere causing an awkward silence between you both. Your mind is puzzled with what Declan needed to ask you, nothing coming to mind.

"You okay?" You raise your brow, watching him shuffle into a comfortable position.

"Yeah, yeah.." He replies, shaking his head. "You look, really.. pretty today, your hair.."

"Oh, thank you, Dec." Swallowing the lump in your throat. "You look.. great too."

"Thank you," He mumbles, eyes peering towards the ground. "So what did you want to ask me?"

His head shots up at your question, cheeks forming a bright shade of red. His lips were slightly parted, as though he couldn't form the words he wanted too. "I wanted to ask," He nervously chuckles, hand's reaching towards his neck.

The sight in front of you was a nervous mess, and you couldn't bare to see him crumble in front of you. Taking matters into your own hands, you decide to stand up from where you was sitting, and place yourself next to him. In hope this could calm his nerves.

"What did you want to ask?" You softly prompt him, taking his hand in yours and rubbing your thumb gently over his knuckles.

"I just wanted to ask.." And before you can even process what he had just said, he shuffles towards you closing the small gap between you both. His hands raise up towards your face, tucking a small piece of hair that had fallen over your eye behind your ear. His eyes fall being in contact with yours, to your lips. Pupils bursting at the soft pink goodness. He leans in to your face, placing a light, feather-like kiss.

You pull back at his actions, eyes widening in shock. Your mouth is still tingling from his touch, a burst of excitement running though your both of your veins.

"Y/N.." Declan breathes out, you smile at him. "I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me.."

"No, no no no." Your hands find his face this time, pulling him towards you. The contact between both your chests is electrifying, the rapid beats pulsing between you both. Your lips find their way back to Declan's, this time with a lot more force than before. Fingers threading though his hair, earning a few breathless moans from the west ham captain.

"Y/N," He whispers between the next kiss, Eagerness not letting him fully speak.

"Mhm." You murmur, Before he places a sweet, slow peck on your cheek, pulling away.

"Merry Christmas, from your secret Santa."

#cutest mf ever #Declan rice #declan rice #mason mount #declan rice imagine #delcan rice imagines #declan rice one shot #declan rice x reader #west ham united #declan rice blurb #mason mount imagines #england national football team #deccers #dangerous deccers #football fic #football imagines #footballers #footballer x reader #england football

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oro-e-diamanti · 3 years

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The one with Victoria’s boobs

Description | Victoria needs help taping her boobs for an upcoming performance. You get more than you bargained for.

Content | fluff

Pairing | Victoria x gn!Reader

Word Count | 2420

Some situations in life simply could not be dealt with without a strong cup of coffee. Heading out to an exam, waking up to a text from that ex who still grinds your gears, missing your train, and being late for work ... You, however, thought you were doing fine today, mood high and excited for the day ahead. You had slept in and left the hotel at a reasonable time. You’d do what you loved - make-up - and then watch the band play a kickass show. No additional kick needed to pump you up or help you deal with the hours ahead. You changed your mind the second you opened the dressing room door and came face to face with Victoria's tits. Actually - scratch that - you would need a drink to deal with this.

"Y/n! Finally! I need you, come here." While Victoria's face brightened up considerably as her eyes met yours, a smile spreading on her gorgeous lips, you could feel your cheeks heating up. She didn't seem to notice or mind, instead grabbing your hand and dragging you further into the room. Your bag slid off your shoulder, unceremoniously hitting the ground and staying there, forgotten and in the way. "If Damiano keeps ripping off the tape one more time to readjust, he's going to take my nipple off."

"Hey!" He objected. "I'm just trying to improve your boobs, lady!"

"You can't improve perfection, Damiano."

The bickering gave you a moment to evaluate the scene before you. The dressing room was a mess, clothes everywhere and a stylist bustling around, trying to keep the damage to a minimum. Ethan was currently admiring his reflection in the mirror, hands running through his hair, while Thomas kept rummaging around the chaos. And right before your eyes, Victoria, in satin trousers but topless, with Damiano still trying to fix the cross he had put across her left nipple, as Vic kept slapping his hand away.

"Honestly, babe, I need you," she pleaded as your eyes managed to remove themselves from her bare chest and met hers instead. "I can't do it myself because when I try to do it in the mirror it looks weird when I put my arms down. And Damiano just about managed one cross that doesn't look wonky as hell after about 43 attempts."

"I did not need 43 attempts! I was just trying to -"

"Stop it!" Vic slapped his hand away once more, harshly enough for the sound to echo. "Go gel your hair or something, I've got Y/n now."

"I'm your make-up artist, not -" You didn't quite know how to finish your sentence. You weren't what? Victoria's personal boob inspector? Professional nipple-taper?

"Exactly, which means you've got an eye for aesthetic, so please put this tape on me."

You couldn't refuse Vic either way. Not when she was staring at you with those impossibly blue eyes, silently begging for your help. With a sigh, you grabbed the tape out of her hand, slowly unrolling a bit. You had only known her for a little while, but well enough to be aware that she wouldn't back down. Vic was already reaching for a pair of scissors, but you were quicker, tearing the piece of tape off with your teeth.

"Sexy, but scary," Victoria concluded. "But mainly sexy."

You didn't have the mental capacity to deal with what she had just said. Actually, you didn't have the capacity to deal with what you were about to do, but that was a pill you'd simply have to swallow. You hoped your shaky fingers weren't giving you away, as you crouched to eye-level with Vic's boob.

You had never much thought about the feminine beauty of a naked woman's chest before, but your current angle was making you question all your past convictions.

Maybe you were into girls after all.

Maybe you were just into Victoria. It was a thought that had been lingering in the back of your mind for a while now.

As your fingers lightly touched her skin, careful to get the placement just right, she flinched. You looked up, gazes meeting, and for a second there was something in her eyes you couldn't quite pinpoint, but it was gone before you had a chance to reflect on it. Instead, she giggled, "It's way too hot for your hands to be this cold."

Way too hot indeed.

You tried to make quick work of the task ahead and not to stare at her breasts too intently. Not to touch her soft skin too obviously. Not to let your beating heart get the better of you.

"I knew you'd get it perfectly!" Victoria exclaimed, turning towards the mirror and examining her now partly covered boobs. "You just got that kind of eye, Y/n. Thank you so much."

She had thrown her arms around you before you could react. It shouldn't have come as much of a surprise, Vic always being a rather touchy person by nature, but this time she was half-naked, her chest pressed against your shirt. Your arms carefully wrapped around her back, briefly letting yourself enjoy the feeling of silk-like skin under your fingertips, then quickly letting go and taking a step back. Your heart had gone from beating to straight-up racing. You were in so much trouble.

"I'll just put on the rest of my outfit and then you can do my make-up, yeah?" Her eyes shone at you in gradients you hadn't seen before. All you could do was nod dumbly, knowing that nothing was ever going to be the same again.

***

You hadn't meant to go out drinking with the band, you really really hadn't, yet here you were, sitting in a dark corner of some trendy bar in the middle of Berlin, trying to duck out of every video they filmed for Instagram and sipping on your drink. The mood was euphoric and everyone kept singing along to the songs playing in the background, but you kept to yourself. Your mind was still spinning with images of Victoria, memories of her skin on yours, and the fact that she was standing in front of you right now didn’t help. She was beauty personified.

“Y/n! Dance with me!” Victoria pulled you out of my thoughts as she pulled you up into a standing position.

“Vic, no one is dancing in this bar.”

“So?”

She had never been much impressed with what other people were doing. You quickly downed the rest of your drink, handing the glass to Damiano, who sent you a conspicuous wink. Whatever that was supposed to mean. You were still standing a little awkwardly when Victoria took your hand and twirled you around, a heavy slap to the bum hitting you while your back was towards her.

“Come on, Y/n, let loose!”

The shock of her actions only lasted a split second, before you broke out into giggles and let her pull you further into her. Her arms wrapped around your neck, trying to move you to a beat that was much too fast to be this close and entangled. You didn’t mind. Hell, you decided, you would never mind anything she did to you ever again. You didn’t even take notice of Damiano, Ethan, and Thomas dancing along around you, too focused on the way Vic was holding you and pressing you against herself. You couldn’t tell anymore if the elation you were feeling was because of the drink you’ve had or because she was looking at you the way she was. In the heat of the moment, you pushed a strand of her from her face, fingers lightly trailing along her cheek. Her mouth was on yours in an instant, pressing a bold kiss against your lips, but it was over before it started and suddenly her body wasn’t pushed up against yours anymore and you felt lost and cold. Victoria was now slinging her arms around Thomas’ neck instead, leaving a similar kiss on him, before giving Ethan and Damiano the same treatment.

Your heart couldn’t decide if it wanted to keep beating or start breaking.

***

The next days were pure torture. It didn’t help that Victoria had developed a newfound love for going bra-less - and an appreciation for you taping her up. Her behaviour wasn’t much better. You bent over to pick something up? Slap on the butt. She walked by you? No way she wasn’t going to brush past you in some way. Sitting on the couch? She was cuddled up to you in a heartbeat, face mushed into your neck, her breath softly tickling your skin.

Pure torture.

It all came crashing down the night Victoria decided to shake up the hotel room arrangement. She would usually room with Damiano, while you shared with other members of the team that worked behind the scenes. Until you were all gathered in the lobby of your hotel for the night and she loudly announced she was sick of listening to Damiano snore every night - “What the hell, I’ve never snored in my life?!” - and instead was going to sleep with you. Sleep with you. You didn’t miss the looks and snickers of the others as she phrased it exactly like that.

You didn’t have a choice, really. You simply weren’t the type of person to protest - and Vic knew. So you followed her up in the elevator, down the corridor, and into the room like a lovesick puppy, internally debating whether you were dreading this or looking forward to it. As soon as you had both dropped your luggage, she disappeared into the bathroom without another word. You didn’t miss the fact that she did not even attempt to close the door.

Two single beds. You breathed a sigh of relief. No awkward there-was-only-one-bed situation. Or maybe you felt a bit of disappointment. Maybe- No. This needed to stop. You were going crazy. You were supposed to do a job on this promo tour, be professional, maybe make friends with the band if you were lucky, but instead, you were falling deeper and deeper and it all ended with the fact that you had never felt this way about anyone else. It pained you to think that Victoria wasn’t feeling the same. And she definitely wasn’t - you were sure of that. She was a flirty person, she liked to touch and kiss those around her, but none of it went deeper than that. And you were going to have to accept it for what it was.

You were still in the middle of convincing yourself of not feeling anything more than friendship for Victoria when she emerged from the bathroom. Wearing nothing but a pair of panties. It was in that moment you knew you would never get over her.

“VIc, you need to stop doing this.”

Her face fell immediately, going from overly cheeky - which seemed to be her default expression these days - to genuinely concerned. Concerned, and confused. She was by your side in an instant, holding you by your upper arms, seemingly searching your face for answers.

“Do what?”

The direct question was filled with a softness that almost brought tears to your eyes. For a second you contemplated taking it back, changing the topic, and ignoring how emotionally draining the past days had been, but one look into her eyes told you that you needed to be honest with her. Now or never.

“You need to stop touching me. You need to stop riling me up at every opportunity, you need to stop teasing me and brushing up against me because-” The words seemed trapped in your throat. Victoria had moved away, immediately adhering to your request to stop touching you and you hated it. You wanted her hands back on you, you wanted all of her on you. One more deep breath. “Because I cannot stop thinking about kissing you. And I’m not talking about a little friendly peck. I’m talking about kissing the ever-loving shit out of you now and forever.”

It happened so fast. Victoria was on you before you had even finished your last words, lips pressed to yours in a heated and hurried manner, arms wrapping around you to press her body against yours. You reacted as if on autopilot, as if your body knew what to do simply because it had been waiting for it. Your hands tangled themselves in her hair as you responded eagerly to her kiss, before running them down her cheeks and to her neck.

This was nothing like the time she kissed you in the bar in Berlin. That time didn’t even come close to what was happening now. If your heart had been beating before, it was pounding out of your chest now. You thought that for as long as she promised to put her mouth on yours anytime you asked, you would be invincible.

The kiss ended rather slowly. A few pecks and staying close, breath fanning on each other’s faces, eyes still shut for a while until you two managed to separate. Victoria’s smirk was back, tenfold and you couldn’t help but giggle.

“Imagined anything like that?”

“You know I did,” you admitted, feeling slightly shy all of a sudden.

“Honestly, though,” Vic said, brushing your hair from your face in the most tender motion. “I’m sorry I put you in a weird position. I think my way of flirting just didn’t work on you.”

“Oh, it worked alright,” you laughed. “I just wasn’t sure you meant it that way. Especially when you kissed me that night and then proceeded to kiss everyone.”

“Yeah, that wasn’t clever. I think I was just scared because you didn’t react so I tried to play it off.”

Victoria pushed another kiss onto your lips, sweet and short and full of reassurance, then promptly hugging you with a force that sent both of you tumbling onto one of the beds. Laughing with all your heart, you pushed her off you but made sure she never strayed too far. You couldn’t help but be amused at the state you were both in, faces heated up and giggly, you fully clothed while Victoria was still lounging in nothing but a pair of black panties.

“For God’s sake, Victoria put some clothes on,” you mocked her, even though you both knew there was no reason for you to mind it anymore.

“You know, I think it’s quite fitting,” she contemplated instead. “It started and ended with my boobs out.”

#maneskin #victoria de angelis #maneskin imagine #maneskin fiction #victoria de angelis x reader #victoria de angelis x you #maneskin x reader #maneskin x you #victoria de angelis fiction #victoria de angelis imagine #my writings

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damiano-mylove · 3 years

Text

Paintings and Peach Juice

Pairing: Ethan Torchio x afab!reader (I'm so sorry)

Wc: 1.5k

Cw(s): SMUT, swearing, oral (reader receiving), lowkey praise kink, but pretty vanilla (tell me if it sucks)

Summary: You, the reader, work on a painting during the night, but Ethan wants to bring you back to bed.

Masterlist

Paint stroked across the canvas in perfect placement with your brush. It laid onto the stretched canvas like the softest butter on the warmest toast. Every stroke, every colour, the portrait was only enhanced and made that much more beautiful by your talent. The smell of the oil paints filled the room, vented out by the window across from you; the scent only relaxed you further. Your thoughts roamed to the most peaceful crevasse of your mind while your hands seemed to know just what to do.

By the corner of your eye, you caught your reflection in the mirror in your living room. You had a paint smear on your cheek, and the messiest hairstyle you'd ever seen. But you looked happy. In the bright moonlight from the window, your eyes glistened with thought and concentration. You smiled to your reflection before continuing your painting.

In just a few days, Ethan would finally be allowed to see the painting. He'd promised he hadn't seen it, and you had to trust that he hadn't ruined his birthday present, that you've been working so hard on, for himself. While Ethan was milling about and awake, you'd had to cover the canvas in a cloth, but when he was gone or asleep, you sat right on your cushioned stool, legs crossed, totally ensconced by the artwork at your fingertips.

Just as you began touching up the whites of Ethan's eyes, on the portrait, you heard his soft footsteps against the hardwood floor of your flat. You quickly but carefully covered the painting with your cloth, that once was white but now appeared yellow with a streak of blue paint. Languid and nimble were your movements, just as Ethan rounded the corner into the living room, where you were.

His perfectly sculpted lips pulled into a smile, only revealing to you that he was still partially asleep. You grinned right back at the man without any clothing, save for his boxers. Your gorgeous swain padded toward you, then wrapped his strong arms around your middle. His lips, that were still slick with lip balm, met with the most tender part of your neck.

"Bed's cold without you," Ethan whispered in your ear. You sighed with a small smile, turning your head to capture Ethan's lips with your own very chastely. Within the kiss, Ethan began to smile before he spun your stool around to place his hands on your thighs.

Once the kiss broke, you sighed, "Five more minutes?"

"Amorino." His tone was the perfect bridge between authoritative and begging, only enhanced by him removing his hands. Sweetly, you pulled Ethan toward you with your legs. His warm, rough hand traveled up your leg as he came forward, only to rest on the underside of your thigh, that wrapped around his waist.

Gently, your fingers touched to his jaw. They danced just every so slightly as your hand began to rest, cupping his jaw, with your fingertips touching the roots of his illustrious hair. Ethan's other hand pulled you infinitely closer, with his fingers gripping your waist as if you were the most expensive glass in the world; not hard enough to break you, but not soft enough to drop you.

In a steady yet slow movement, both of your leaned forward just enough till your lips came together, softer than The Creation of Adam. Your other leg hooked around his waist, to join the first, and Ethan picked you up with ease. He'd never had any trouble picking you up, even in a sleep coated state.

The kiss continued with a warm passion that translated between both of your souls, that you could feel from the pit of your stomach to the tip of your brain. Warmth from Ethan's skin was absorbed by your own skin, only forcing your heart to ache, along with the sweet watermelon taste from his lip balm that he applied every night before bed.

His footsteps were very sure and steady as Ethan brought you to the couch. The room got warmer, despite the cool Autumn air coming in through the window. Your hands wandered Ethan's exposed body in calm and known movements, while Ethan's hands squeezed handfuls of your thigh, leading to your ass. Lightly, your nails drew small patterns and pictures on Ethan's warm back, his muscles rippling beneath your touch.

"Dolcezza mia, I love you, I love you with my entire being," Ethan mumbled against your lips. You smiled like you'd never smiled before. Without a word, your lips wandered to the corner of his mouth, down to his jawline.

Your own lips peppered kisses that were wet and sloppy, but full of love, followed a vein on his neck. Ethan hummed above you, but his breath caught when, between your teeth, was Ethan's earlobe. You chuckled lowly, grazing your teeth gently across it. Ethan captured your lips again, the passion raw yet still demure. You broke the kiss to remove Ethan's t-shirt, that you were wearing.

"I love you even more," you responded.

With the revelation of the words leaving your lips, Ethan's ferocity was renewed. His lips pressed into yours with gracious meaning, leaving your heartbeat to multiply as he grinded himself into your heat that was clothed in just a pair of thin underwear. Ethan's tongue slipped by your lips, then perused your mouth. He tasted of peach juice and mint, which went extremely nicely.

Just as you were enjoying the taste of Ethan's tongue, his mouth left yours, opting to kiss and nip at other parts of your skin. In a hot and wet trail, Ethan's mouth began to trail down your body. His eyes looked to you for consent, to which you adamantly nodded, your breathing already heavy and hot.

In a steady yet serene movement, Ethan broke the hold your legs had on him to pull your underwear off of your form. For a second, before returning, your boyfriend took a moment just to admire you in your natural, beauteous state. His smile returned with his body on yours.

His face was level with your dripping, wet heat, as Ethan looked up at you with dark eyes, clouded with lust and extremely dilated pupils. You bit the corner of your lip just as he licked up your slit, catching your juices on his tongue, then enjoying your taste. You'd both been drinking peach juice earlier.

Then, without warning, the sweetness turned to pure sex. You let out a gasp as his tongue entered your folds, your hands tangling in the roots of Ethan's long hair. Still with his tongue circling inside of you, Ethan moaned at the sensation of you pulling against his hair, which sent vibrations through your core that seemed to reach even your fingertips.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Ethan," you groaned as his thumb found your clit. Ethan circled the sensitive bundle of nerves with the pad of his finger, until his tongue and fingers switched roles.

It became his tongue that circled your clit, and Ethan's long, rough finger that entered your tight hole. You let out a pleasurable moan, which was only encouragement for the man between your thighs.

"You're absolutely fucking amazing." Who the fuck knew if your words were even intelligible? How could they be when the most gorgeous human being on the planet was taking you with his mouth, right on your couch, in the middle of the night?

That familiar pressure in your stomach began to form. It was a nucleus of sensation, your orgasm just ready to burst. Ethan noticed your breathing become more ragged, only to add another finger but keep the same pace. You began to shake, ready for what was to come, as your body began to coat in sweat. Against your clit, Ethan could be felt smiling, just before he delivered the final blow.

His lips completely captured your clit, sucking on it gently.

Orgasm hit you like the train at the end of Anna Karenina. Your legs shook around Ethan's head, your walls pulsing around his fingers, and total bliss overtaking every single one of your senses. Ethan only chuckled, lapping up the juices you produced for him. That only increased your pleasure tenfold.

"You're so gorgeous when you're getting fucked," Ethan commented after kissing your clit. You smiled, looking at him with slightly blurred vision. He laughed before picking you up in a bridal style, letting you rest against him.

Ethan brought you to the bedroom, where he then brought you a clean pair of underwear and a washcloth. You then asked, "What about you?"

"Oh, Amorino, you don't even have to touch me to make me come," Ethan laughed as he cleaned you off. You cast your eyes to his boxers, where an incredibly wet patch was visible. You felt a bit bad, but nothing could bring you off of this high. Ethan cast the washcloth away, to be dealt with when the sun rose, before changing his boxers out for clean ones.

As you both got back into the bed, Ethan pulled you close to his chest, where his lips connected with your forehead. "I really do love you," you whispered.

"And I love you."

Sleep came in a swift wind, making your senses shut down each by each. Last to go was the sound of Ethan's heart, beating in a deep rhythm, and his breathing that tickled your hair ever so slightly.

#ethan torchio fanfiction #ethan torchio #ethan torchio x reader #ethan maneskin #måneskin #maneskin fanfiction #lemon #smut #one shot #x reader #damiano x reader

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divine-mistake · 3 years

Text

'till death blooms us art

Summary: You’d rather die loving him than never getting to see the sun ever again.

(“Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. This number is not available. At the tone, please record your message.”)

Characters: Sam Wilson/Plus-sized Reader

Warnings: 18+ (no smut), strong language, Hanahaki AU, angst with a happy ending, weight insecurity, allusions to eating disorders, talk about death, blood, past domestic abuse and trauma, gun violence, original male character, book quotes, anxiety

Word Count: 12796

A/N: Thank you for reading! This fic won the vote during my 500 follower celebration and it's finally out now! This story has a lot of meaning for me, due to it being a bit of a metaphor for disorderly eating. I know that will make some people uncomfortable, but as someone who has struggled for a long time, I want to talk more openly about this kind of thing. Anyway, thanks so much for sticking with me and I hope you enjoy!

main masterlist | AO3 | playlist by @tripleyeeet

—STUBBORN WEEDS—

They are everywhere—covering the space of the sitting room like an overgrown garden made of glass and paint, canvas and pages torn from old waterlogged books, stained mugs filled with decaying brushes. Wanda walks through your room like it’s a maze, her fingers trailing over the air but never touching the art. She’s pretending she’s in a museum, or a gallery, or something fancier than what you could ever appear in, but a twinge of something akin to warmth stabs through your heart at the thought.

“These are incredible,” she says, not looking at you. “How do you do it?”

With a shrug, you bend down and pick up one of the canvasses from the floor, holding it out to look at it.

“I don’t know,” you lie.

White space in the shape of flowers, uneven and missing petals here and there, is outlined in streaks of paint that go every direction, in every different shade, hard edges and soft, blurred lines and covering the entirety of the canvas except for those spaces where flowers once sat, pinned to the medium.

“They are beautiful,” Wanda says.

Your nail sneaks under one of the dried chunks of acrylic and you chip it—a fleck of ultramarine blue falls from the painting.

When you turn, Wanda studies a different piece in careful hands. It’s a glass case, trimmed with shitty, shaky lines of gold you painted on a whim. But inside, between the thick panes, dried flowers painted over are encased in eternity, arranged to match their exact placements on the canvas where your brushes stroked life onto them, around them, through them. Two perfect pieces that once belonged together, separated like an act of Adam against his God.

Maybe they were meant to be together, but no one will ever know their story.

“They’re amateur,” you tell her, laughing. “I’m not much of an artist. It’s just for fun.”

She smiles at you, placing the glass piece down. “You have a talent.”

Wanda takes another turn about the room, another circuit, another spin. She looks at every piece in such focus, taking in every single detail, fingers stretching and curling as if she wants to caress the dried flowers, the dried paint, and feel their meaning. You wonder what she would say if she could read their minds—the art you’ve made. Would your pieces tell her the true meaning behind their existence? Or maybe they would laugh, or cry, or howl in pain.

But Wanda only stares, at the paintings and at you, a small smile on her face like she knows something you don’t. Like she’s keeping a secret. Is she keeping the secrets that the flowers have whispered to her when you weren’t looking?

“What inspired them?” she asks, the very tip of her nail tracing a different glass box filled with dyed petals reconstructed into a larger artificial flower, protected by its own display.

You wring your hands together. “I like flowers.”

She laughs. “That’s obvious. But what makes them special enough to paint? To—To make such lovely art out of?”

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you place the small canvas you’d been holding back on the side table, crossing the room to your bookshelf. Your fingertip finds the spine of a hardcover book you’re too familiar with, pulling it out and into your awaiting hands. Sheets of paper, a little bent and crooked, stick out of the pages.

You crack it open, the dulling white petals of a daisy pressed flat between the crackling spine fluttering from between the black inked words, then fall to the floor at your feet.

“The Devil’s hand directs our every move,” you read. “The things we loathed become the things we love.”

Wanda stares at you as you fiddle with the book, tracing the words of the cover.

“Les Fleurs du Mal,” you say. “The Flowers of Evil.”

Gently and without word, she bows at your feet and picks up the drying daisy, cradling it in her pale hands, but you don’t have the strength to take it from her.

(“Hey there darlin’, it’s just me. I had to run some errands this morning, y’know how it is, so I’m out of the Tower right now. I was just wondering if you needed anything while I was out. Anything—really, anything at all. Even breakfast, or maybe a latte? Just a little pick-me-up. Well, give me a call back if you need anything. If not, I’ll be back soon. See ya.”)

—BETTER TOGETHER—

“Steven Grant,” you say his name like a curse, shaking your head. “This is why you spend three hours a day in the gym.”

Too busy shoving the first bite of his first hoagie into his mouth, Steve doesn’t reply. You roll your eyes, but the smile on your lips gives you away. When he’s finally swallowed, wiping crumbs from his mouth, he looks a little indignant.

“Are you calling me fat?”

“Well, you would be if you didn’t have that serum running through you.”

He frowns, brows furrowed, a little confusion on his face. “I thought it was because I work out three hours a day. And I’ll have you know—”

“—you work out six hours a day between your morning runs and training, I know, I know. I’ve heard it all before Steve.” You groan at the thought. “It’s like it’s your job.”

“It is my job. Saving the world and all that.”

“Okay, you really need to let America know that it’s giving you a complex, ‘cause if I hear one more thing about you saving the world, I think I’m going to scream.”

He shrugs, taking another gigantic bite out of his sandwich. Scraps of shredded lettuce fall out from between the buns and litter his plate. You pick at your own, pulling uneven pieces of sliced onion and stray pickles from the hoagie, content to sit and stare at it instead of eating.

Food is good. You brush the grainy crumbs of bread from your fingers. Food is good, but you just aren’t hungry. And you don’t work out three hours a day. Maybe you should start. Your body feels like a balloon with all your insides threatening to come up in a retch and choke you. Food is good. Food is good. You just have to pick up the sandwich and eat it.

Fingers shaking, you take the sub in your hand and stare at the corner where you mean to take the first bite.

“You good?”

Steve, still chewing, looks at you with concern clear in his crystal blues and it makes you put your food back down on the plate. Instead, you busy yourself with another sip of your water, nodding at him.

“Yeah. We can’t all be Steve Rogers, demolishing two hoagies in less than two seconds, y’know.” You throw in a snort, trying to sound nonchalant. “Wipe your mouth, Captain. You’ve got mayo on your cheek.”

He doesn’t, but him grabbing a napkin to embarrassedly wipe a nonexistent condiment from his face gives you enough time to pick your sandwich back up and contemplate taking the first bite. You’ve just gotta start with the first bite and the rest will go down.

But you aren’t hungry. How can you be hungry when you’re already so full? Stuffed, even. There isn’t room in your insides. All your organs are bursting. It’s so painful sometimes, the expanding of your skin to accommodate. Waves of sickness roll through you, spreading. Your stomach is stretched, bloated, filled with all the swallowed—

“What are you doin’ to my girl, huh Steve?”

The sound of his voice alone makes the ache inside of you dissipate, the nausea escapes from your throat, the anxiety twitching through your hands steadies. Your head perks up, shoulders rolling back as your entire body relaxes, and you look behind you.

And there, dressed in a tight blue polo and a pair of pants clinging to his legs like they were made for him, the very angel who blessed you, the devil who cursed you, the god of the fucking sun and everything it could ever touch, stands before you with a smile saved just for you.

Sam Wilson.

His dark eyes are piercing, like he’s trying to peel back the layers of your skin to see underneath, as he shoves his hands in his pockets and grins with all his teeth.

“Hey honey,” he says—simply and easily and not serious. Never serious.

Your lungs burn. Your mouth feels too dry to answer him.

“Oh, your girl?” Steve asks him, brows a little too furrowed to be joking. “When did she become your girl?”

Sam shrugs, walking toward the empty seat next to you, placing his hand on the back of your chair so dangerously close to your body that it makes you pull in a deep breath. His thumb could brush against the fabric of your shirt, run along the seam of your spine. And, goddamn, it should be illegal for him to look so casual and so unbothered while still looking that handsome.

Like this, you can smell the spice in his cologne, a powerful mix of something you’re sure is designed to drive you crazy.

He looks down at you, still hovering over where you sit, and throws a wink your way that brings heat to the surface of your cheeks.

“Aw, she’s always been my girl, ain’t that right? Tell him, darlin’.”

You stare at Sam for one second too long, breaking away to gaze down at your uneaten sandwich again. With every flutter that Sam sends down your stomach, the heaviness inside it seems to fade away. Your fullness is replaced by a familiar hunger—the rawness of your throat waning as a burning itch takes over. A cough is threatening to bubble up. You choke it back, smiling instead.

“He’s right, Stevie,” you say all bright and cheery again.

Steve meets your eyes with a stony gaze, unreadable, his blue eyes looking gray in the light. Beside you, Sam throws himself down in one of the chairs and pulls up to the table, hand still sitting on the back of your seat. His knees are spread a little wide, thigh resting against yours.

It’s so innocent but your brain thinks it’s so intimate. A lie. A lie.

In the end, Steve relaxes back, his eyebrows lifting as he watches the scene unfold in front of him. He tosses one of the sticky plastic menus toward Sam, nodding at it.

“Order up, man,” Steve says, his tone more neutral than you think you’ve ever heard it in regards to Sam. “But I’m not paying for yours. You’re on your own.”

At that, Sam laughs, full and robust with his face up to the ceiling. He rocks back in his chair, shaking his head, and he looks so beautiful even in the shitty sub shop that Steve drags you to for lunch every other week that it makes you ache and your lungs contract in an attempt to cough.

You swallow it back again, trying to even out your breathing. The itch in your throat is so bad that you almost pick up your sandwich to eat again, but your hand passes it up to take another few sips of your water. It’s cool, clear, refreshing—but it can’t make the tickle of the cough go away.

“So,” Sam starts once he’s finished ordering his own hoagie, “how’s that apartment hunting going? Found anything good yet?”

A frown forms, heavy, on your lips. You pick off a flaking piece of bread from your sandwich, watching it turn to crumbs underneath your fingers.

“It’s going,” you say, but anyone who ever responds to a question of how’s it going with it’s going is absolutely lying and it is absolutely not going—and maybe Sam knows that, or maybe Steve does, or hell, maybe they both do but it makes you look weak to admit that things aren’t going so well out loud.

And you—you can’t admit the truth, so it’s just better to lie about it.

You don’t want to leave the Tower.

“It’s going, huh?” Sam asks, his tone proving that he can see right through you. “You need help looking at some places or something?”

“Well—”

“You know,” he barrels through your words as if they are nothing, “I think I actually know a realtor around here. Maybe he can get you some leads on rentals or something. I could make some calls for you, honey.”

It’s not supposed to—Sam only means well, he always does, always trying to do so much for people—but it hurts to hear. Because you don’t hear him saying that he’s trying to help you out. You hear him saying he doesn’t want you around the Tower anymore.

Because, well, why would he want you there?

To him, you’re just an outsider. A girl who doesn’t belong. Someone who daydreams and doodles flowers on every surface as soon as she thinks of him. And you always think of him.

Before you can think about it, your hand flies to your mouth reflexively to hold back a cough. Instantly, Sam’s leaning closer and that damned hand of his falls soft against your back.

“You okay?”

There’s barely a moment for you to nod, signaling that you’re fine, before Steve’s got on his game face, all hard lines and furrowed brows and thin lips pressed tightly together.

“Hey,” he says, grabbing Sam’s attention. “She’s allowed to stay as long as she wants, alright? The Tower is her home now, too. So there isn’t a rush for her to find a place unless she wants to leave.”

The passion and care in Steve’s voice is strong, almost so overpowering it’s oppressive, and something rises up from within you and threatens to send salty tears careening down your cheeks if you don’t blink them away.

Sam raises his hands in front of him dramatically. “Okay, okay, I get it. I wasn’t trying to run her off or anything, just wanted to lend a hand if I could. Damn, Steve.”

Something changes at the table, then. It’s like a fog, thick and cloying, falls over the three of you and keeps you lethargic—so much so that the only words spoken in the next few awkward minutes are Sam’s thanks when the waiter brings his sandwich by.

You still haven’t even touched yours, and you hope it seems like you’re just waiting for Sam to get his, because Steve’s tearing into his second and by the looks of the mustard dripping down his fingers messily, he’ll be done any minute now.

But as you prop your head up on the table, leaning on your elbow boredly, Sam nudges his leg into yours to grab your attention. When you turn to look at him, he’s got that grin again, all pearly and white with the little crooked gap you think you could stare at forever as long as it meant he was smiling and laughing and happy.

“You gonna eat, girl?” Sam picks his sub up in his hand and gestures at you to do the same. God, he makes you dizzy just by talking. The butterflies in your belly are fighting tooth and nail against your organs, trying to take up all the space, but they aren’t really butterflies. The soft monsters in your stomach leave a taste on your tongue you can’t explain.

“Oh.” You mimic his movement and then Sam toasts his hoagie against yours with a chuckle.

“First bite,” he says, and there’s no thought in your head or balloon in your stomach and no bloated skin to make you second guess yourself.

You follow Sam, sinking your teeth into the bread of your sandwich, and its flavor explodes over your tongue just enough to take away all the bitter, floral, fragrant taste of the daisies that are building up in your stomach, their petals choking you out, downy fluttering things inside you.

(“Hey girl, it’s me. I couldn’t find you anywhere—where you at? I was coming to see if you wanted to grab a bite with me for lunch, maybe at that little Italian place you like to go to around the corner? Or maybe sushi or something? Been a while since I got to go out for lunch, so I thought I’d ask, but I guess you’re busy right now. I’ll catch you later, darlin’. Enjoy your lunch.”)

—NEW BEGINNINGS—

You’ve got to call him. You have to. You have no choice anymore.

Danny is on the other side of the locked door, his fist pounding on the wood and threatening to cave it in from the repeated force. The sound is louder than it should be, really, echoing off the tile of the bathroom you’ve barricaded yourself inside. He’s shouting above the sound.

“You fucking bitch. I’m gonna kill you. I’m gonna fucking kill you. You lied to me? What else are you lying about, huh? You fucking whore. I took you in, I gave you a home, I gave you everything. Fucking fat slut—how many other guys are you sleeping with, huh?”

None, you had answered earlier when he was questioning you in your shared bedroom, his fist tight around your soft arm and squeezing so hard it made you want to scream. None.

But that wasn’t the answer Danny was looking for. And, well, once he threw you onto the ground and stomped to the dresser, clothes strewn around the room as he furiously ripped through it until he found the shiny black firearm you didn’t know he had, you were gone.

But there was only one place to go and that was the bathroom.

Now, trapped inside, you know you have no choice. You have to call him—the man from the coffee shop you’ve been going to regularly for a few months. The man who noticed the bruises Danny always left on you after a rough night. The man who pressed and pried and tried to do anything to get you to open up to him even as you refused over and over again. The man who put his number in your phone because he wanted you to call him if you ever needed him, not because he was a hero, but because he was worried about you.

You press the number two on speed dial. The phone rings.

“Hello? Who is this?”

“Steve?” Your voice is nothing but a sob. “Steve, you were right.”

He doesn’t miss a beat, but you hear the rustle of clothes and a jingle of keys on the other side beyond the static, a sound that makes you almost cry with relief or hope or maybe just stress.

“Hold on,” he tells you. “FRIDAY is pulling up your address. I’ll be there as quick as I can. Are you safe?”

“Bathroom,” you’re able to mumble out from behind the waterfall of tears rushing down your face. “He’s locked out but—but I’m scared.”

“I’m on my way. He’s not going to hurt you. I promise you.”

And then Steve hangs up, and you wish he hadn’t because now you’re left all alone with just a flimsy wooden door, painted fucking white so the blood will show up real pretty when Danny kills you, between you and your boyfriend.

Well, ex-boyfriend if you get out of here alive.

“Four fucking years!” he shouts from outside. “I gave you four fucking years of my life, you stupid bitch. I put up with your dumb fat ass for four years and this is what you do? Is this love? Do you think this is love?”

You figure anything is love as long as it doesn’t look like this. The ring of bruises around your upper arm from Danny’s grasp is already turning black and blue, a sight that makes you flinch.

Honestly, if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s yours. All the cash you were stashing should’ve been hidden better. You knew better. A shoebox up on the top shelf of the closet? Amateur. You should’ve cut a section out of one of your prized books or something. Danny never fucking reads. He probably doesn’t know how. He would’ve never found all the money if you’d stashed it there.

“Six thousand dollars!” he roars, punching the center of the door. The wood bends slightly. “How long’ve you been fucking stealing from me, huh? Fucking bitch. Stupid fucking bitch.”

And then it happens.

Danny’s fist breaks through the first layer of the door with a curse of pain falling from his lips. Then, a laugh. He’s laughing.

“I’m gonna kill you.”

He punches the door again and then his hand is through, wood splinters shattering and flying toward you, and with a scream you shield your face with your arms and duck down. You’re sitting beside the bathtub, squished against the toilet, and you scoot back as far as you can trying to wedge yourself to safety.

But there is no safety here. Danny’s bloodied fingers find the doorknob and unlock it with a click, and it’s over. It’s over. It’s fucking over.

With a kick, the door comes flying open and you’re screaming again at the top of your lungs, throat tearing itself raw. Danny’s broad frame possesses the entire room as he shoulders his way inside, his lips pulled back to show all of his teeth in a feral grin, the overhead lights catching the shine of the sleek gun he’s carrying.

You can’t even look at him. All you can do is stare at his back in the bathroom mirror hanging over the counter, your mind completely devoid of thought.

“Fuckin’ dead,” Danny says, and you don’t see him aim the gun at you. You stare in the mirror, right in the mirror and memorize the pattern of the plaid jacket he’s wearing, how the colored stripes form new colors, how the fabric all blends. It’s a pretty shirt. You bought it for him two Christmasses ago. He looks good in it.

You are going to die.

Then, suddenly, you can’t see the plaid anymore. Instead it’s a gray shirt on a much bigger body blocking out the mirror, and when you turn your head to look, Steve’s there.

Steve’s here.

He’s got Danny in a chokehold, grappling for the pistol in your boyfriend’s hand. Ex-boyfriend. Despite Steve being completely unarmed—he’s Captain America for christ’s sake, a goddamn super soldier, he doesn’t need a fucking weapon—he easily brings Danny down to his knees and onto the floor, kicking the gun away from their bodies and out of the bathroom completely.

“Fucking whore,” Danny manages to spit out, the sound strangled as Steve’s arm buckles over his neck. “You’re fucking him too, huh? I’m gonna kill you.”

“Shut up,” Steve grits through his clenched teeth, pulling Danny toward the destroyed door. “You’re done.”

They disappear from the bathroom in a tangle and thrashing of limbs. Danny curses the whole way down the stairs, struggling to break out of Steve’s grasp you presume. He’s a fighter—that’s what he always said. Dog meets dog eats dog world, he would tell you. You can’t ever trust anyone.

And, well, he certainly proved his beliefs. You had the bruises to show for it. The scars as evidence.

Sitting alone in your wrecked bathroom, still sprawled out on the tile, you stare down at your hands. The lines run deep in your palms, fingers stubby and chubby and not at all feminine. Too small to grab Danny the way he always grabbed you. Too soft with fat to deliver a good punch.

You don’t know how much time passes before a much larger hand enters your vision, slowly, like approaching a kicked mutt on the street, and when you don’t flinch, Steve lays his fingers across your palms. Apprehensively, you grab onto his hand, and he squeezes back.

Looking up, he’s crouched in front of you, the beginnings of a bruise forming on his left temple. With your free hand, you reach out and let your fingers brush over it, but Steve just smiles at you.

“Let’s go,” he murmurs.

“Where?”

“Anywhere but here,” he says, gently tugging on your hand. You hold onto him a little tighter and let him help you up off the ground, his arm immediately sliding around your waist to steady your shaky legs.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” you say. “The money I saved…”

You don’t even know what happened to it. For all you know, Danny burned the cash. Or stashed it somewhere else.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Steve says in a soft voice. “I’m taking you back to the Tower. The police are dealing with Danny right now. Can you help me pack some clothes for you?”

And so you sat on the bed among your wrecked bedroom as Steve picked through the messy drawers that had been pulled from their dresser, some articles of clothing crumpled on the floor where Danny flung them in his mad search for your secret money stash. And the gun. You almost forgot about the gun.

Steve helps you pack, his face only a little pinker than normal when you’re shoving your intimates into the black duffle bag he fished out of his car, and then he’s helping you slip on your sneakers and guiding you out of your house.

You don’t say goodbye to it, though. That house. Even after four years, you don’t call it home. In a lot of ways, you’re happy to watch it disappear from Steve’s rearview mirror, hoping you’ll never be back.

“They’re going to love you there,” he says quietly in the silence of the car, both hands tight around the steering wheel. He glances over at you, then back at the road. “You’ll fit right in. You’ll be safe. Right at home.”

But you think Steve is a bit of an optimist. Homes, you think, are for people who are loved.

(“Hey honey, just me here. Look, I remembered you saying something about how you wanted those, what were they called, the fairy lights for your room? The ones that look like Christmas lights? I thought we could go pick some up and I’ll hang ‘em up. You’re too short to do it yourself, girl, you know that. Anyway, give me a call if you want to, or just come down to my room and get me, anytime. I’ll be waiting. Talk soon, honey.”)

—KEEPING SECRETS—

Wanda hums a tune under her breath. “I just can’t wait to get out of this place! It’s been too long. Mission after mission after bloody mission.” She sighs and starts to apply a thick coat of mascara, eyes wide as she stares in the mirror.

“Agreed,” Natasha says from somewhere behind you. The sound of her bare feet on the bathroom tile is the only warning you have before she sidles up beside you, gracefully lifting herself up onto the counter and sweeping various cosmetics aside to make room.

You’re still undressed, standing in your panties and an old t-shirt with a stretched out neck, just finishing up your eyeshadow when Nat taps a black bottle on the marble top near your fingers.

“Want me to do your eyeliner?” she asks.

A few months ago, you would have seen it as an insult—a beautiful, dangerous woman telling you in less words that your makeup looked like shit. Now you know it’s an expression of Natasha’s unending love for you. A willing act of service. A small thing she can do for you.

“Yes please.”

Natasha motions you forward, between her legs, and when she takes your face in her hand you close your eyes.

“Pretty colors,” she says, probably about your eyeshadow.

“Thanks,” you reply, and then you feel the cool wetness of liquid liner right on your lash line as she begins to paint a wing on your lid. “You always look pretty.”

“So do you.” She blows softly on your left eye. “It’s like you never need makeup, I swear. Are you even wearing foundation?”

A smile works its way onto your face. “Nope.”

From beside you, Wanda giggles.

“Slut. You’re so perfect it makes me want to scream sometimes,” Natasha says, tongue clicking her teeth as she finishes off your right eye.

All the breath seems to leave you in that moment. Like someone punched you straight in your gut, your bones like the gel shock-absorbing layer protecting your organs. Your eyes want nothing more than to shoot open, but Nat is blowing cool air over the newly formed wing and you force yourself to relax so you don’t mess everything up.

“I’m not perfect,” you tell her. “Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

“Don’t deflect.” You hear her cap the eye liner and set it down on the counter, then her palms engulf your cheeks. Slowly, you let your eyes open, blinking gently.

She’s staring at you, eyes narrowed.

“Just because I’m beautiful doesn’t mean you’re not beautiful,” she says, simply, as if it’s just easy for her to not compare herself to anyone else. “If you’re perfect, you’re perfect. Doesn’t matter if I’m perfect, too. And that Wanda is perfect. Or that anyone is perfect.”

Natasha takes your chin in her fingers and grabs a tube of lipstick—the one she and Wanda always tell you to wear because it looks so damn good on you.

“Your beauty and your worth doesn’t come from other people.” She runs the silken rouge over your lips. “It comes from who you are, not comparisons to other people.”

And, god, you want to scream at her. You want to shout and tell her that she isn’t allowed to say that to you when she looks the way she does—slim and picturesque and every human being’s wet dream. She doesn’t get to say that you shouldn’t compare yourself, with your heavy chest and your wide hips and all your soft pockets of skin, to someone like her. To someone like Wanda. To anyone else that doesn’t need liposuction with a side of diet pills, please.

You can’t be perfect, because if you were perfect, if you were enough, you wouldn’t be dying in agony every night over someone that doesn’t look twice at your too-large stomach and your too-large thighs.

They’re just trying to make you feel better, but all it does is make you feel worse.

“Look,” you say when she’s done with your lipstick, “I get what—”

In a split second, your chest is wracked with hard coughs, lungs struggling for air. It’s choking you, your own insides, and you’re hacking and wheezing and grasping at the bathroom counter and Natasha’s hands are on your shoulders and Wanda is slapping your back in hope that it will help and someone, somewhere, is saying the word heimlich and you can taste it on your tongue like old wallpaper from the 70s, floral and disgusting and toxic and ugly.

You throw your arm over your mouth, smearing your lipstick. It doesn’t help. Natasha is looking at you, eyes wild. You’re coughing and coughing and you think you taste blood underneath the overwhelming velvet on your tongue.

They’re saying your name. Shredded petals are between your teeth.

And then you break, pushing past them to the toilet, skidding on your knees until you’re doubled over and retching. It’s all burning acid and fresh flowers. Rot and fester and earth and greenery. A pair of cool hands—Wanda’s, you think—rest upon your forehead and move your hair away from your face.

Vomit and daisies leak from your mouth until your stomach is done contracting and your insides are empty. All that’s left is your sputtering coughs that taste caustic and beautiful.

It’s getting bad.

When you finally pull away from the toilet, slumped back and wiping your mouth, the toilet is full of an explosion of crisp white and bright yellow, tinged with the faint pink of blood. Wanda is glancing back and forth between you and the unflushed toilet, horror stitched on her face.

Before Natasha approaches, a glass of tap water in hand, you lean over and flush the petals down the drain. The look you shoot Wanda is pleading, but you don’t even know what you’re asking for.

Everything on the inside hurts, burning like a pit of snakes in your belly, hissing and spitting venom and biting into you like they mean to kill you. Perhaps the daisies have grown fangs. Your lungs feel chewed.

Nat places the glass in your shaking hands, her fingers holding your own as if she knows you can’t do it yourself. She helps raise the glass to your soiled lips and you gulp the water down like it’ll flood the valley unfolding in you.

“Who is it?” she asks, her voice calm but her eyes uneasy. You nearly choke, a hand pressing against the middle of your chest as if you need to feel your lungs as they work to assure yourself of your own survival.

“What?” you barely eke out, throat thick and scratchy. One of Wanda’s hands strokes down your back and she doesn’t speak, only shakes her head.

“Who is it?” Natasha repeats.

You look away.

“God.” Wanda sniffles behind you. “How could we not have realized?”

“Because it doesn’t happen,” Nat says, shifting from crouching in front of you to sitting on her knees on the floor, a hand resting on your thigh. “I’ve never known a single person—until now, I guess—who had it. I thought it wasn’t real.”

“They tell it like a fairytale in Sokovia,” Wanda says, her words just as watery as her eyes. “A story you lull children to sleep with! But I should have seen it. We should have seen it.”

A new abundance of petals tickle the back of your throat.

“All that art,” Natasha hisses, but she isn’t looking at you. She’s glaring down at her lap.

“All the daisies,” Wanda cries. Her head drops against your shoulder. You feel the wetness of her tears.

“It’s okay,” you tell them, but your voice is too small. “It’s okay,” you say, louder this time, tasting the flowers like they are the blood of your bitten tongue.

“Who is it?” Natasha asks again, a begging in her voice you don’t think you’ve ever heard before.

“It’s okay,” you say again.

And with this, Nat’s face changes from one of concern to something of realization—like she’s been struck with a thought she never considered, like she’s seen the future.

“It’s him.” Her jaw is slack, staring at you even as Wanda looks at her with confusion etched on her visage. “You have to tell him.”

“No,” you say simply.

“This is bad,” Nat snaps, as if you don’t know it already. “This is getting bad. You need to tell him or you’re—you’re going to die.”

A laugh breaks through the bathroom, echoing. “How can I tell him? How could I ever tell him that I love him when the simple fucking fact that these flowers are growing—rooting—in my goddamn lungs is proof that he doesn’t love me the way that I love him?”

You lean back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.

“Sam Wilson doesn’t love me the way I love him,” you whisper.

The tips of Natasha’s fingers catch the tears you don’t feel streaking down your cheeks like the screaming of shooting stars, hot and bright and dying.

“It’s sort of beautiful, don’t you think?” Your nails dig into the fat flesh of your thighs, trying to puncture skin. “To make art of your own death. To make something lovely out of something so tragic.”

You can’t swallow it back this time. A cough wracks through you, jostling your bones, and you fold yourself in half as soft white petals emerge from your esophagus and choke you. You grind them against the backs of your teeth with your tongue, trying to mash them into nonexistence, but it’s not enough. You retch another wave of daisies into your awaiting hands.

Wanda calls your name and it sounds broken.

“Death like this,” you rasp, catching your breath, “is the most beautiful way to go.”

Your finger drags over one of the downy petals, a bead of blood catching on your skin and smearing across it like a brushstroke of paint, ruining it.

“Death like this is the only way I want to go.”

(“Hey beautiful, it’s me again. I heard you were going out with the girls tonight—I hope you have fun. I just wanted you to know that if you need a ride back home, or you get into trouble and need a hero, or anything, really, I’m just a phone call away. You need me and I’ll be there, ‘kay honey? I’ll be up if you need anything, at least ‘till you get home. Have fun, girl.”)

—INNOCENCE—

You’re beginning to ask yourself if the mirror lies.

It doesn’t. You know that. You’ve been trying to find the lies in it for years at this point, pinching and pulling at all the places you find are thicker than the women you see on TV, the women you see floating around the Tower, the women you’ve seen on the arms of Sam Wilson. Chubby hands caress down your soft belly, poking and prodding the skin you wish you could make disappear. The mirror never lies.

But you wish it did when you stare at yourself and all you see are the bruises beneath your eyes, the hollows in your cheeks, the drained look in your gaze. The longer you stand there, the less you recognize yourself.

You aren’t hungry anymore. You never get hungry—the flowers filling up all the space in your stomach, coughed up from your lungs and swallowed back in pieces. Perfume is what your mouth tastes like now. Perfume and iron. The vomiting hasn’t stopped since the night your secret was revealed to Natasha and Wanda.

And you’ve never looked better.

That’s the part you hate. The part where when you look in the mirror and you can see the places where those daisies have shaved you thinner. It almost makes you laugh. People say you pack on the pounds when you find love. Maybe they should try having toxic flowers take root inside of them and slowly steal their lifeforce while they watch the person they love never love them back.

It’s a slow process, this death. You wonder which will kill you first—the starvation or the suffocation.

The walk down to the gala is as equally exciting as it is dreadful. You’ve never been to a Tony Stark gala before and you’re eager to dance the night away with your friends. But you’re also exhausted.

Oh well. The makeup helps you look less like a corpse and more like a dancing queen. The dress, which you’re sure someone paid far too much money for, is part of the solution. It’s all flowy and gorgeous as if you are a Greek goddess meant to be worshipped and highlights your figure while hiding all the imperfections the mirror seemed to find.

And when you finally enter the room, classical music playing from the live band and people laughing loudly and champagne twirling about the floor for people to take, the first thing you see is him.

Grin taking up his entire face, lighting up the entire ballroom, dressed beautifully in a navy suit that makes him look utterly dashing, is Sam Wilson.

He’s surrounded by people—women who are better dressed than you are—so with a shaky breath and a pain in your lungs, you quickly turn on your heel and head toward the next familiar face.

“Woah there, doll, where you hurryin’ off to?” Bucky, hair neatly pulled back and wearing a black suit, grabs you by your waist.

“Nowhere,” you blurt. “The bar. I just got here.”

He raises a thick brow at you, a silent question, but when you choose not to answer he shrugs.

“Well I can’t refuse to escort a pretty lady, can I?” With a charming smile, he holds his elbow out to you and gestures for you to grab on. You slip your hand around his arm and grasp him tightly, shooting him a grateful smile.

“Thanks, Bucky.”

But as the two of you start dodging through the crowd of excited party-goers, on your way to the bar in the back, Bucky stops short and gets a look on his face that you’re not quite sure you can describe as mischievous, but it’s close enough to make you frown.

“Y’know what,” he says, glancing over at you with that boyish grin, “I think we should take a spin on the dance floor instead.”

“Oh no,” you tell him, eyes wide. “I can’t dance—”

He snorts. “I’ve seen you dance around the kitchen, doll.”

“I can’t dance in front of all these people.”

“Can’t is a word for losers.” Bucky closes his hand over yours, locking you to his elbow. “Don’t wanna be a loser like Stevie, do ya? Oh Buck, I can’t stop fighting, gotta teach ‘em a lesson. Oh Buck, I can’t rinse out my cereal bowl, I gotta go for a run.”

It makes you laugh, maybe a little too loud, but it eases you just enough for Bucky to pull you into the menagerie of dancing couples, and then he’s moving your hand from his arm and onto his shoulder and clasping your other in his fingers.

“There we go.” His eyes shine like the ocean sparkles under the Tower lights.

Bucky has something magic in him, you decide, after two songs of him swinging you along the floor. He has something magic that makes everything so easy, which is something so admirable after all he’s been through. He has you laughing and smiling and spinning across the room with so little effort you forget all your worries in an instant.

“See?” Bucky dips you in his arms, making you squeal with glee, collecting the stares of the people peppered around the room. “Knew you could dance, doll.”

Panting, you rest a hand on his chest, still giggling. “Only ‘cause you’re so good.”

“Song’s over, Buck,” a new, familiar voice cuts in. When you look up, Steve is standing there, eyes crinkling with his own smile. “I can’t wait for another.”

At that, Bucky rolls his eyes with such drama it has you laughing yet again.

“See? I told you. It’s all can’t this, can’t thatwith Stevie. But fine.” Bucky guides you by the waist over to Steve, passing your hand over, and then gives you one last grin with all his teeth. “I had fun, doll. Thanks for dancin’ with me.”

“Anytime,” you tell him, and then Steve’s adjusting your grip on him. The song changes from the upbeat tune Bucky was twirling you to down to a slower classical piece.

“You doing okay, sweetheart?” Steve asks, his eyes roaming over your face.

“Yeah,” you hum. “Bucky and I had a lot of fun.”

Steve’s grip at your waist tightens a little. “No, I mean in general. Are you doing alright?”

There’s worry there—in the wrinkles on his brow, the blue skies of his eyes, the curve of his lips. You know he’s staring at you and seeing everything the mirror told you. All the gaunt places. The hollow, haunted look you’re parading around. The weight you’ve been steadily losing. You know he sees it.

“I’m okay,” you tell him, and you wonder yet again if the mirror ever lies. You know you do.

Steve sways you gently, more carefully than Bucky had. Steve dances with you like you’re made of something fragile. You still don’t understand why. You don’t know why he ever looked at you and saw something important, someone to protect. Maybe it’s just how he was born to be.

“You can tell me anything,” he says, so seriously that your heart breaks a little.

You move your hand from his shoulder and up to cradle his cheek, smiling.

“I know, Steve. I know.”

And if he pulls you into him, crushes you against his chest, and holds you like that for the rest of the song, no one mentions it. Steve lets you rest your head on his shoulder and, not for the first time, you think this must be how it feels to have a family.

But then the lights in the ballroom brighten a little and a spark finds its way into the music, changing into something jazzy and fun, and someone slaps Steve on the shoulder.

“Alright Rogers, she’s ours now.”

There, dressed like she could kill a man with her heels alone, Natasha has her arms crossed over her black satin gown. Beside her, in a red, flowy dress, Wanda has her hands on Nat’s shoulders, giggling from all the bubbly you’re sure she’s consumed.

Steve pulls away from you with a chuckle, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Alright, alright—she’s all yours, ladies.”

With that, Natasha pounces on you, and the three of you start to shimmy the night away together.

You lose count of the songs you spend dancing with them, sweaty and out of breath and having the time of your life, before you wave them off and step out onto the outside patio where hardly anyone is loitering. You pass up a couple sitting on a bench, cuddled up in the cool air of New York, and leave a man smoking a cigarette to himself.

Instead, you find a lonely bench far away enough from the gala that you can hardly hear anything but the bass strings resounding through the building. There, you sit, and turn your head up to the stars you can’t really see anymore.

“You okay, girl?”

Startled, you whirl around to face the object of your affections, standing behind you with his hands shoved casually in his pockets. He isn’t wearing his usual smile. Just staring.

And then you taste dirt. Freshly upturned soil coated in congealing blood. You cough into your hands and hear him approach, laying a warm palm on your back as you choke the daisies down and down and down, swallowing as many as you can, the pungent taste still ripe in your mouth.

“Honey,” he calls out all smooth and sharp like whiskey. “Honey, are you okay?”

You lick the blood from your lips. Sam crouches before you, gathering your cold hands in his, looking up at you with such a fucking expression that you want to kiss him so solidly he can taste the vines growing up your throat. You want his tongue to taste the soil of your suffering—the flowers of your own doom.

“I’m worried about you,” Sam says, his dark eyes searching your face for something.

“I’m okay,” you tell him, just as you’ve been telling everyone.

“You’re not looking so good these days,” he murmurs, and you recoil.

“Wow.” The hurt in your voice is so palpable it makes you cringe. “Thanks, Samuel.”

You move to get up from the bench, heart twisting, but Sam grabs your arms and cages you there.

“I didn’t mean it like that, darlin’, you know better than that.” He gives your arms—too soft too wide too fleshy too—a squeeze of reassurance. “You’re not painting much anymore either. You think I wouldn’t notice?”

Sam holds your gaze until it’s too much and you have to break away.

“C’mon, girl. Are you even sleeping?” Sam shakes you a little. “Eating?”

The flowers of evil root in your chest. See, you know how this book ends. You don’t need to read the last page to find out. It’s just as Baudelaire wrote, you know: “My heart is lost; the beasts have eaten it.”

Your organs have been replaced by daisies. Sam Wilson won’t love you—not tonight, not tomorrow, and not in time.

So you shrug, forcing your lips to curl into what you think might be a smile.

“I can’t paint. I’ve got too many flowers to press,” you tell him. Sam’s visage morphs into confusion, and he shakes his head slightly. He doesn’t understand. He won’t understand.

You take his arms from your body, holding his hands for a split second, long enough to steal their warmth and imagine what it would be like to hold them every single day, and then you pick yourself up off the bench and give him a wave.

“See you inside, Sam.”

And you leave him there, confusion still frozen on his face, the gritty blood ripping shreds in your damaged throat as you swallow it again and again and again in an attempt not to taste it anymore.

(“Hey, uh, it’s Sam. I was just calling to, uh, y’know, remind you about the gala. You have a date yet? I didn't ask anyone. I, uh, I wanted to ask this girl, but uh, I ended up waiting too long and I’m a little late so… I’ll see you there, honey. Try not to kill me with your good looks tonight, you hear? Save a dance for me, baby.”)

—THE SUN AND ALL ITS STARS—

Dishware rattles into your room, signaling Nat’s arrival. By the time you gather the energy to sit up in bed, she’s already entering, a tray of food in her hands and an icy look on her face.

“Breakfast in bed,” she says monotonously.

You shift and pull your duvet up as she fits the tray over your lap. There’s not much—a sweating glass of cold water beside an amber glass of apple juice, two slices of buttered toast, and some melon she cut up.

“Thanks,” you say, voice strained and weak.

Natasha doesn’t leave, but you wish she would. She seats herself on the edge of your bed, staring you down as you sip on your water. You purse your lips in frustration, but pick up the fork and begin to poke at the fruit.

“Eat,” she says.

“I’m trying,” you grumble back. “Stop staring at me.”

Natasha throws her hands up on the air. “Well if I don’t watch you, you’ll just sit here and waste away,” she snaps. “You’re not eating, you’re not sleeping, hell, you aren’t even coming out of your room anymore. You go to work, you come home, you don’t talk to any of us. Steve says—”

“Steve doesn’t know anything!” you shout, interrupting her. As soon as you do, her eyes narrow into slits and you shut your mouth, gulping. That wasn’t what you wanted to do.

Natasha takes a deep breath. “Steve says you’re still looking for a place.” It’s eerie how calm she keeps her tone. “Leaving isn’t going to stop them, you know.”

Even now, not doing anything but staring at the food in your lap, you can taste them like a funeral home, saccharinely floral, covering the smell of death.

“I can’t stay here,” you say.

“You’re dying,” Natasha stresses. “Please. Please, I am begging, krasavitsa. I’ve not begged for much in this life. But I am begging you to please, please tell him. Tell him or consider the other option.”

Two options in the scale, tipping weights. To die or to have the roots of true love carved out of your lungs, peeled away from where they wrap around your heart.

You stab your fork into the tender flesh of the melon. It gives way so easily, letting the tines puncture it. Natasha stares at you, her gaze heavy. Your fingers fumble with the fork and it falls, clattering, to the tray of dishes.

The blood is too hard to swallow anymore—it builds up in your mouth and stains your teeth red, the petals colored pink when they fall from your lips.

“Okay,” you whisper. Maybe you don’t even say it aloud.

“Okay?” Natasha asks. You nod your head, not looking at her.

“I’ll tell him.”

It takes you hours, it feels like, to gather the courage. With all the energy you have left in your bones, muscles only satiated a little by Natasha’s breakfast, you drag yourself out of bed and to your bookshelf. It’s memorized, the place where your book sits, and you pull it out with a gentle tug of your finger.

The Flowers of Evil, its pages nearly chock-full of pressed daisies that have ejected themselves from your body, eager to find the man you love and spill all your desires to him. You thumb through it, gaze flitting over all the damn flowers that have dried in this damn book, and you close your eyes in order not to cry this time.

You press the book tight to your chest, feeling the desperate beating of your heart echo through it, and you head to Sam’s room.

The walk is long and lonely—the Tower feels empty. Devoid of people. You’re a little glad because you’re sure that anyone could see the sickness painted on your body, the illness from inside you that’s staining your outsides. It’s not anyone’s fault but your own, really. The flowers are too beautiful to supplant.

And now, you’re in front of his door, a fist raised to knock, a loud buzzing in your head that keeps saying no, no, no. But your heart, traitorous thing still hammering away in your chest, it just keeps saying yes, yes, yes, finally.

Sam Wilson doesn’t love you.

But do you have any other choice except to take a garden spade to your lungs and dig them out of your chest cavity, to destroy your ribcage and break through the mulch that makes up your nervous system? Is the only option left to die at the hands of Sam or to wither away until your decomposition will feed the very things that killed you off?

You shudder a breath and knock on the door. And you wait. And wait. And wait.

He doesn’t come. He isn’t there. He doesn’t love you.

The tears come suddenly—unexpectedly. They are hot and stricken and fast. They drip off your chin and careen down your neck and dampen the collar of your shirt and your hands are trembling, grasping your book too tightly, to even begin to wipe them away.

You don’t know why you’re crying. You already know this. Sam Wilson could never love you the way that you love him. Sam Wilson is perfection, you know. He possesses the strength of gods, he radiates love, he’s passionate about every fucking thing he does. He’s beautiful. He’s everything and you are nothing when standing next to him, but you love him. You love him.

Sam Wilson doesn’t fucking love you.

“Well,” you laugh to yourself, “I can either die a fool or live a life without you.”

I can either die in love or live my life not knowing what it feels like to be in love with you.

Something tickles your tongue. You reach between your lips and pluck it from your mouth, letting it sit upon the center of your palm. Blood drips down your arm like a river, violent and sooth.

The daisy covers your entire hand, white petals tinged with pink reaching toward your fingers. The center, all yellow florets seeming to seek out warmth, are so bright and full and so big—these are too big, they could choke anyone, anyone, they are choking you.

And like them—god, just like them, just like these daisies that grow from your lungs and destroy you from inside out—you are heliotropic. Everywhere you go, you’re focused on the sun, looking for the sun, stretching toward the sun.

You need the sun.

So you crumble the daisy in your hand, fist tight, blood still easing from between your fingers. You back away from his door, then turn and break away to head back to your room in silence.

You’d rather die loving him than never getting to see the sun ever again.

(“Hey girl, it’s me. Just calling to let you know that Steve and I got called for a mission. It looks like an emergency, wheels up in ten and all that. I wanted to catch you before we gotta go, in case you wanted to say goodbye. To Steve, I mean. Just in case. Take care of yourself while I’m gone, sweetness.”)

—FAREWELLS—

It happens faster than you think it will. You swear you have weeks, or a month at least. You swear you have time.

Four days later, your knees buckle and slam into the wooden floor beneath you, stomach contorting and contracting, balloon finally bursting. Someone is shouting your name from the common room, something is knocked over, scrambling. You barely hear it over the sound of your own vomiting.

On your hands and knees, you stare down at the lump of flowers you couldn’t swallow back. They’re coated in a mixture of soil and blood and stomach acid, but the sweet perfume scent breaks through the rest and makes you retch again. It smells so sweet. So sickly sweet. Dead people and churches.

Did churches always smell so much like blood?

There’s a hand on your shoulder. It’s pulling your hair from your face. Someone is saying something—something—something you can’t make out over the blood rushing between your ears.

You’re dying. This is it.

You collapse upon the ground, rolling onto your side, arm thrown over your mouth as if that will stop the flowers from pouring out of your body. And when you blink, trying to see through the dizziness, it’s him again.

The god of the fucking sun, your sun, mouth moving frantically as he says things you can’t hear and the little gap in his teeth that makes you feel at home when he smiles at you and his eyes, oh, Sam Wilson has eyes that set you on fire and burn you alive and you’d be happy to die like this, you’re so happy you get to die like this, so thankful that the daisies chose you, so thankful you chose him.

You were right. Death is so beautiful like this.

“It might be too late.”

Helen Cho’s heels clack on the tile of the medbay’s room as she shoos the nurse out with a wave of her hands, shaking her head. He shoots to his feet, fingers already curled into fists, and he shoves them in the pockets of his jacket to hide them.

“Too late?” It’s impossible for him to keep his voice low. “How can it be too late? What even—What’s wrong with her?”

She frowns at Sam, folding her hands together in front of her.

“It’s… rare,” she says. “Some of us didn’t think it was real, to be frank with you.”

His brow furrows. “What is it?”

“A disease caused by unrequited love,” Helen says plainly, staring straight at him. “Typically, the patient finds themselves in what is regarded to be true love, but the feelings are not returned, so they build up. It’s theorized that the stress of that creates the problem.”

Sam swallows and it tastes like vomit. “Unrequited love?”

She ignores him, continuing, “The part that is normally so hard to believe is that flowers begin to grow inside the patient, the roots puncturing their lungs and creating masses that eventually will suffocate their host.”

It’s a bag of bricks to his stomach. A super soldier punch to the gut. A bomb blown up in his face. Sam doubles over, clutching his middle, trying to breathe again. He can’t breathe at all. The flowers. The flowers.

“It seems she was swallowing them in an attempt to save herself,” Helen explains. “It’s what kept her alive much longer than she should have been. But now, I don’t know. It may be too late to save her. If she’d just said something earlier, than the surgery might have been able to stop it, but—”

“Surgery?” Sam asks, still gasping for breath. “What surgery?”

“You can extract the roots,” she tells him, glancing at the sleeping woman in the sickbed. “It’s a difficult procedure but it would have saved her. But, from the very little research we have on it, removing the roots also removes the feelings entirely. The love that the patient has disappears. They aren’t able to ever feel anything for that person ever again.”

He falls back into the plastic chair, his limbs numb. Or, at least that’s what he wants to do. But Sam doesn’t. He steadies himself, crosses his arms over his chest, plants himself so firmly there in the hospital room that he doesn’t think an earthquake can move him, and looks at her.

She’s sleeping, but she doesn’t look at peace. Her eyes, lovely things, are sunken in and it makes him so mad. Her collarbones have shadows beneath them and he feels fury wracking his own bones. And how long has it been since he’s seen her smile?

“Do the surgery,” he demands.

“You know I can’t do that without her consent,” Helen says, sighing.

“Then I’ll wait until she wakes up and get her consent,” he seethes through a locked jaw.

Helen’s face doesn’t change. “She might not wake up.”

“She will.”

Sam doesn’t get it. He understands—in a way—but he doesn’t really get it. He knows why she wouldn’t want to get a surgery like that. But he loves—he loves just as fiercely as she does, and that’s why he understands. Why he knows.

So why did the flowers pick her? Why would they pick her and not him?

Helen glances down at her feet, says nothing, and turns to exit the room. He’s left there in the silence, with the crowing of the machine keeping her alive to punctuate all his thoughts. If there is one thing he hates in the world, it’s feeling helpless.

He lowers himself in the plastic seat, leans his head back against the wall, and closes his eyes.

“You’ll wake up,” he says to her, but he can’t look at her.

Or maybe he’ll wake up and it’ll all be a dream.

There’s a soft rapping of knuckles on the door, and it opens slowly and quietly, and Sam has to lock his fingers around the arms of his chair to keep from jumping up and sending a right hook right at Steve’s face.

“How’s she doing?” Steve has the audacity to ask, has the audacity to look worried, has the audacity to pull up another plastic seat next to Sam.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he mutters under his breath, spite burning his tongue.

Steve glares at him. “Yeah, that’s why I asked. What’s your problem?”

“My problem is you, Rogers.” Now, Sam can’t help but stand, towering over the super soldier. He immediately grabs Steve’s arm and hauls him out of his chair, through the door, and out into the hallway. Steve stumbles, a hand on the wall, and Sam’s nostrils flare.

“How could you do this to her?”

“Me?” Steve sounds genuinely taken aback, but Sam doesn’t buy it. “What are you talking about? Helen told me—”

“I thought you loved her, too!”

He really did. That’s why Steve brought her to the Tower, didn’t he? That’s why they go out for lunch every other week and why Sam never gets a chance to take her out himself. Why he always makes sure to say goodbye to her before a mission, like he doesn’t want to leave her behind. He really thought Steve loved her too. If he had thought for one second that Steve didn’t love her...

“What?” Steve’s jaw slackens. “Not like that! She doesn’t—She’s not in love with me, Sam!”

He pants, unable to catch the breath that’s leaving him like a slow leak.

“Then who the hell is she in love with?”

Steve stares at him, a look that Sam can’t recognize, can’t name, in his eyes. Steve stares at him and smooths his hand down his beard, shaking his head.

“She’s in love with you,” he says, and Sam chokes.

Because all the pretty things in his world lead back to her and man, if she loved him, it would all be so perfect that he would never want to leave it. He would never want to say goodbye. He’d ask god and anyone else who would listen to grant him a deathless life so he could look at her forever, with no end in sight, because he would. He would. Sam would love her forever.

“No,” he says, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. “That can’t be true.”

“It’s true,” Steve says.

“That’s impossible.” He backs up, against the wall, holding his head in his hands and staring at the floor. “It’s impossible.”

“It’s true,” Steve repeats, staring past Sam and through the window of the medbay’s room to look at her, lying so still in her bed. “I know it is.”

“Steve, I’m in love with her,” Sam confesses, an ache in his chest. “It can’t be me. I’m in love with her. I’m so fucking in love with her.”

A heavy hand clasps his shoulder, and when Sam looks up, his breathing unsteady, Steve has a look of regret smeared all over his face.

“But does she know that?”

And, for the first time in years, Sam cries.

(“It’s me. I need to tell you something. Even if it will hurt, even if it will destroy—destroy what we have, I don’t know. But I need to tell you, baby. I need to.”)

—SINCERITY—

Sam Wilson thinks she’s starlight.

When she first arrives she’s a collection of stars and their ashes, explosions and deaths, supernovas and black holes and earthbound meteorites.

What he means by that is she’s covered in bruises but she’s so beautiful, and he wants to gather her in his arms and tell her it’s going to be okay.

Steve introduces her, and Sam tries to bite his tongue, but all his words pour out of him anyway as she holds out a hand to him and he takes it, soft and trembling, and he knows she’s special somehow. She’s special.

“You’re the prettiest thing I think I’ve ever seen,” he says, and he means it, but she ducks her head and tries to hide the little smile on her face.

Sam Wilson thinks the world of you. But even when the bruises fade, you’re still left with all the land and the water and the galaxies hidden in your eyes when he catches your gaze, and he looks at you and he swears that you’re reaching into his chest and taking his heart in your small hands and squeezing him dry. You have realms inside of you, he’s sure, all the worlds and all their wonders. But you—you look at Steve like that sometimes, and then Sam is just grateful that you even let him breathe in your general atmosphere.

He can fly, sure, but he certainly isn’t an astronaut, so this is about the closest he can get to you.

(“Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. This number is not available. At the tone, please record your message.”)

—TRUE LOVE—

The first thing you see is the ceiling, hazy and sleep-filtered, but it looks just like the ceiling in that bathroom, back in Danny’s apartment, back when you thought the pain of love was bone crushing, before you knew the pain of love was slow suffocation.

It makes you stutter back to life and that sends you into a coughing fit. You can still taste them—the daisies. They taste like the rawness of sunlight.

Hand pressed against your chest, your eyes dart around the room, trying to catch your bearings. There’s an IV in your arm, the bed railings are plastic, Sam is sitting in the corner, the lights are dimmed.

Sam Wilson is sitting in the corner.

You gasp, looking at him, and he’s staring right back at you, a familiar book in his hands.

Sam Wilson is sitting beside your bed, holding The Flowers of Evil, and the look on his face is far from happy to see you. It’s not anger. And it’s not sadness. It just… is. And Sam is never “just” anything.

Even if he thinks that sometimes, like the times when he calls you and says, “It’s just me,” as if he isn’t something special, so important you can’t live without him in your life.

Well, you can’t live with him, either.

After a solid minute, Sam looks down at the book between his dark hands, and he begins to sift through the pages. He stops sometimes, lingers on the sheets of dried daisies that have been pressed, their color leaking onto the text only slightly. But then he moves forward, searching for something. You don’t know what.

“How long have you been here?” you ask, throat sore when you speak.

“How long have you been in love with me?”

Your teeth gnash together, bite into your bottom lip, worry a sore there as he doesn’t look at you. He just keeps flipping through the book as if he didn’t just thrust a dagger straight through your heart, as if it isn’t beating so fast and hard like it’s trying to stay alive. You feel like you can’t breathe and you don’t know if it’s the flowers crawling out of your lungs and trying to get to him or if it’s the fact that he knows.

You can’t answer him.

Sam stops on a page, his finger trailing over the script, and then he begins to read.

“And yet

to wine, to opium even, I prefer

the elixir of your lips on which love flaunts itself;

and in the wasteland of desire

your eyes afford the wells to slake my thirst.”

“Les Fleurs du Mal,” he says, shutting the book with a thump and striking his palm with it. “Baudelaire sure had a lot to say, didn’t he?”

Your mouth is suddenly so dry. There’s a pink pitcher of water next to the bed, just like a hospital would have, and you reach weakly for it. Sam grabs it immediately, pouring you a cup, and passing it gently to you. You gulp what you can down through the straw, hardly breathing.

When you finally feel like you aren’t going to cough your lungs up into your hands again, Sam takes the cup back from you, and embarrassment is a cold shiver down your spine.

He sits back down beside you, looking straight at you. “Do you want to get the surgery?”

Your lips part to speak, but he interrupts.

“Be honest.”

Chewing your lip, you take a deep breath. “No. And I never planned on it, either.” From the corner of your eye, you see his jaw tighten.

“Why not?”

“Because what is a life without the fucking sun, Sam?” The words are spat from your mouth. “A life spent not loving you—not knowing you, not feeling you anymore—it wasn’t worth it. Because I love you, Samuel Wilson. I have loved you since the day I met you and you told me—told me I was pretty for some goddamn reason. And I’ve loved you every day since. I love everything about you and there is not a single iteration of life that I would want to live if it meant not loving you.”

This time, nothing tastes like blood. It’s all just daisies, like they’re populating your mouth, changing the way your tongue works, turning to paste in your teeth. It’s so strong that it hurts. Like you’re eating paper valentines and crying too many tears as you say goodbye to a body in a casket.

But it’s beautiful and lovely and gorgeous because you swear that, somewhere beneath it, you can taste what you think love might taste like.

Sam doesn’t speak and it hurts, but it tosses your book down on the side table and reaches into his pocket and it still hurts. He pulls out his phone. You swallow down the rising earth in your chest.

He pulls out his phone—no, it’s your phone. He turns the screen toward you and punches in your password. You furrow your brows. When did he learn your password? But it doesn’t matter, really, because he just swipes to your call log and pulls up your voicemails. And then he begins to play them.

“Hey there darlin’, it’s just me. I couldn’t find you anywhere—where you at? I thought we could go pick some up and I’ll hang ‘em up. You need me and I’ll be there, ‘kay honey? I, uh, I wanted to ask this girl, but uh, I ended up waiting too long and I’m a little late so… I’ll see you there, honey. I wanted to catch you before we gotta go, in case you wanted to say goodbye. I need to tell you something. Even if it will hurt, even if it will destroy—destroy what we have, I don’t know. I’ll catch you later, darlin’. Have fun, girl. Save a dance for me, baby. Take care of yourself while I’m gone, sweetness. But I need to tell you, baby. I need to.”

The sobs fall from the broken seal of your lips, loud and crashing, like a waterfall. Your hand, shaking and weak, comes up to try to cover your mouth, but Sam lunges forward and catches your wrist in gentle fingers.

He’s looking at you like you’re everything—and you know, you know now that you are—to him.

“You’ve been saying that this whole time?” you ask, a laugh bubbling up from your lungs. No flowers retch up your throat.

Sam smiles, lips pulling back to reveal that gap in his front teeth.

“You haven’t been listening, baby girl. I’ve been tryin’ to tell you I love you for months.”

He rests his forehead upon yours, and as close as he is, all you can smell now is the spice of his cologne. Nothing smells floral.

“I never would have thought,” you whisper. “I was sure—so sure—that you didn’t love me. I thought because of the flowers, I thought that meant for sure that you didn’t love me. I mean, why would you? Why would you ever love someone like me?”

“Honey,” he says, so softly, “you’re starlight.”

Tears flood your cheeks and Sam cups your face in his large hands, wiping them away with gentle thumbs.

Sam Wilson is sunlight. You never considered that you could be starlight.

“Why wouldn’t I love you, darlin’? You’re so good, so gorgeous, so perfect.” He laughs and it makes you laugh too, but it comes out like a sob. Your heart feels lighter. “But you’ve never considered yourself worthy of love before, have you?”

“I’m sorry,” you cry. “I’m so sorry, Sam.”

He hushes you, soothes you, smooths his palms over the planes of your face and over your hair,

“You don’t have to be sorry, baby. It’s okay. You’re okay.” He presses a warm kiss to your forehead and the memory of every single time he’s kissed your forehead like this flashes through your mind, an electric current, and you wonder how you never saw it before now.

“I love you,” you say, and this time, your lungs don’t feel as though they will burst from the pressure, the roots, the vines twined around them. You don’t feel choked by petals. You don’t taste blood in the back of your mouth.

“I know,” he says, “and if you let me, I will spend the rest of my days with you convincing you that you are worthy of love, honey. Because I’m in love with you. I’m so in love with you.”

When he presses his lips to yours, he doesn’t taste like flowers. Not like the daisies that wrote your death sentence. He tastes like golden pools of sunlight, warm and wanting. This is your heliotropism. You are a magnet for him, Sam Wilson, god of the fucking sun.

And maybe he’s phototropic, always drawn to you, moving toward your starlight.

(“Hey, it’s me. Sorry I missed your call! I’m on my way home now, and guess what? I have a surprise for you. It’s a bit ironic, but I think you’ll like it. What do you think of the name Daisy for a baby girl?”)

#sam wilson #sam wilson x reader #sam wilson x plus sized reader #plus sized reader #sam wilson angst #sam wilson fanfiction #hanahaki au #sam wilson fluff #thanks for supporting me!#divine masterlist #the flowers of evil

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the-insomniac-emporium · 3 years

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Slumbering Hearts (Alcina Dimitrescu/Reader, Soulmate AU) Pt. 1

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for language/brief nudity Warnings: None Summary: In a wicked twist of fate, you find out your soulmate is none other than your employer, Lady Dimitrescu. To your misery, she (at first) seems equally displeased, her heart already belonging to another. But in time, the two of you find yourselves wondering... could the universe be right, after all? Soulmate AU in which every person has a unique "soul mark", which they share with their soulmate. Notes: Reader is gender neutral, but at some points will be described as leaning towards being feminine (due to personal interpretation of Alcina's character). Additionally, Lady D will eventually be referred to by her first name, so don't worry if you feel weird about her being called by her full title all the time, it's just for this chap, when the reader isn't familiar with her. Lastly, this contains a bit of one sided Alcina/Miranda, which serves as a plot point, but is (clearly) not the primary ship.

1: In The Shadow Of Giants

Three months, two weeks, and one day. That’s how long you’ve been at this accursed castle, serving cruel mistresses, having been plucked from your peaceful life in the village. Anger stains your every thought, slowly festering inside your chest. There is no cure, at least not without a fatal price, but there are mild remedies. ‘Tis not long before the other servants learn to give you the more physically demanding chores. Nothing numbs your mind quite the same way that chopping firewood does, though you often settle for hard scrubbing age-old tile. Every day ends with your muscles crying from the effort of it all. Every day… except today. Another servant, from the night shift, has been wounded severely, and her job was deemed too important to be foregone.

And, as such, she has been replaced. By you. For once, you turn in early, long before your clothes can become stained with sweat. Yet you aren’t happy, not when you know that this change will ruin your sleep for weeks to come. Even worse, it’ll be impossible to avoid your ‘employers’, whereas working the day shift meant almost never seeing them. So far, you have only seen them on four or five occasions. Hell, you’ve only met two of them, being Cassandra and Bela. Based on what others told you, the other two weren’t much (if at all) better. As you try your best to get some rest, only a single ‘positive’ thought runs through your head: Well, worst comes to worst, I’ll get killed, then I won’t have to worry about anything anymore.

---------------------------

“Remember: No talking unless you’re asked a question. The Mistress has had a rough morning, and this is her best chance at relaxing,” Juniper explains, for what seems like the eighth time since the two of you met. There’s a nervous energy around her, which does little to ease your own anxieties. If you heard correctly, she’s only been at the castle for a couple weeks, having previously worked for Mother Miranda. You’re not sure what would have caused the transfer, considering most who were ‘fired’ ended up dead. Something told you that it had to do with antsy nature. “Oh, and don’t leave unless dismissed, even once your part is done. We all need to be ready, in case Mistress- I mean, Lady Dimitrescu needs something. Sorry, I’m still getting used to how things work here.”

“As long as you don’t slip up in front of her and get us both killed, I don’t really care,” you replied, giving Juniper a level stare. Clearly unsure how to respond, she pauses for a moment, mouth opening then closing without a sound. Once she’s seemingly composed herself, you give a short nod and push open the door to the bathroom. Two other servants are already inside, and they flinch at your arrival, briefly mistaking you for their boss. “I can hardly believe they made me change shifts for this,” you add, under your breath, rolling your eyes. What was so important about making sure a few candles stayed lit? During bathtime? Maybe it was something you had to be a giant, vampiric noblewoman to understand. Regardless of your annoyance, you quickly get to work, striking the first of a couple matches. It’s a rather dull task. To think you would have preferred heavy labor to this.

Before long, the last flame springs to life, and Juniper dims the lights, allowing the candles to become the focus. At least one is scented, though you cannot place the specific kind. Less than a minute after the last one is lit, the door once again swings open, revealing your most elusive employer. She’s… more than you anticipated. In every conceivable way, truthfully. Taller, more graceful (even as she has to duck through the entrance), and, as much as you hate to think so, far, far more beautiful. If not for the warm lighting of the room, you would have worried about someone seeing your blush. Certainly I am not the first to react this way, you think, as you bow alongside the others.

“Yes, yes, get on with it,” Lady Dimitrescu says, with a sharp frown. Then she moves closer to the tub, which you imagine could fit half a dozen ‘normal’ people, and holds out her arms to her side. For a moment you’re confused, but you instinctively mimic the motions of the other maidens. Together the four of you reach for her robe, gently taking hold of it while she steps into the bath, before hanging it onto a nearby hook. A second later your entire world is turned upside down. You’re freezing in place, eyes wide, as the bare back of Lady Dimitrescu reveals itself to you. Yet this is not an instance of poorly veiled lust. No, it is equal parts horror and repulsion, for you find yourself staring at a distinctive soul marking.

One that matches your own.

Beside you, Juniper watches you with concern, silently urging you to stay silent. Neither of the other two servants seem to react, other than by taking a small step backwards. Unable to speak, let alone form coherent thoughts, all you can do is point a trembling finger towards the soul mark. It’s right in between Lady Dimitrescu’s shoulder blades. Once upon a time, you had marveled at the design, smiling every time you saw it in the mirror. Now, it might as well be the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen. Based on her expression, Juniper seems to agree, although for different reasons. As your hand drops back to your side, you try to compose yourself enough to focus on the task before you. Instead, someone breaks the quiet, boldly, daring to think that they would be rewarded for it.

“My Lady,” a servant says, stepping forward, shooting you a waywards glance. Instantly she has your employer’s attention, though that comes with the metallic sssssslk of her claws extending. There’s an unspoken threat that demands respect. None comes, however, just the frenzied words of a panicked maiden. “I know who your soulmate is, my Lady. I thought that perhaps you’d-”

“A name. Give me… a name,” Lady Dimitrescu interjects, claws still out and impatiently tapping on the tile floor. Tense, you start to step forward, wanting desperately to silence the treacherous maiden. But her tongue is faster than your fist, and soon enough your name is echoing through the room. “Oh? The one right behind me, hmm? Dreadfully convenient, really. Step forward, dear, and let me see the proof. Assuming it exists.” All eyes other than hers are on you, now. With a deep breath, you begrudgingly step in front of Lady Dimitrescu, trying not to even briefly glance at her chest (or worse, lower). One of her hands shifts, a long claw tilting your chin up. “Well?”

“Forgive the placement,” you mutter, awkwardly grabbing your shirt collar, tugging it down to reveal your soul mark, planted neatly on the center of your chest. If Lady Dimitrescu’s gaze wanders, it does so too quickly to be noticed, though she does make a low humming noise at the sight. Feeling much like a piece of meat on display at the butcher’s, you scowl deeply. Soon enough, but not as soon as you’d like, the claw under your chin retracts, and you once more cover up your soul mark. You can’t bring yourself to look your soulmate in the eyes.

“Hmm. Not what I expected. Not at all,” she muses, more to herself than to you, softly. Behind her, Juniper is sending you a sympathetic expression. All you can do, as Lady Dimitrescu judges you, is glare at the origin of this revelation. What did she think to gain by speaking up? Hadn’t she heard the same rumors that you had? Didn’t she know that your employer already loved another, even if that affection was unrequited? There was, simply put, no chance that you were the preferable option. Not when there was no race against neither time nor death. At best, you could be a distraction. Something to keep her mind off of the person she’d rather be with. “Go clean up, get some sustenance if you must, then go to my quarters. We will discuss this further there- after I am done here.”

With that said, she waves you off, letting you relax for the first time in several minutes. After giving a short bow, you immediately move to leave. On your way, you intentionally bump shoulders with the maiden who spoke up, sending her a glare, then give Juniper a nod of acknowledgement. Nervous wreck or not, she was the only person you ‘knew’ on the night shift. Not that such a thing would even matter soon. To think that we’ve been soulmates this whole time, you think, living in the same castle for months, never seeing each other. I wish things could have stayed that way. At least you’d have some time to process your developing situation. Though you doubted you’d have enough time.

---------------------------

In an unusual change of pace, Alcina dismisses the rest of her servants, long before her bath is done. They exchange glances before scattering to the winds. A heavy sigh leaves her lips, and she sinks lower into the tub. Of course I have a soulmate, she thinks, bitterly. I knew this. Knew that it wasn’t her, and yet still, I find myself surprised. Disappointed, even. How had an already rough evening gotten even worse? More than that, what was she supposed to do about it? There was a part of her that wanted to kill her soulmate. She figured that, with them out of the way, the universe might finally understand who she was meant to be with. After all, it wasn’t uncommon for ‘widows’ to be given a new match, and those were generally other ‘widows’. Considering that Alcina knew for a fact that Mother Miranda’s soulmate had long since died, she did not think that her hopes were beyond possibility.

But there was another part of her, quieter, that dared to be more realistic. If the universe said that this human, this tiny thing, was her soulmate… would it not make sense to at least try? What harm could it do, when her current love had been unrequited for so long? Was this not the end to several decades of loneliness? Damn it, she thinks, gripping the edge of the bathtub until her knuckles turned white. There was no denying it, now that a single drop of rational thought had corrupted her mind. Fuck it all, I hardly have a choice. Or anything to lose, for that matter. With her decision made, she rises to her feet, emotionally ready to face the unknown.

---------------------------

“Ah, so you do follow directions, after all. I half expected to learn that you had attempted to flee, or perhaps had a gruesome run in with one of my daughters,” Lady Dimitrescu chimes, as she ducks into her room. Inside, standing at attention, you await. All of your earlier nervousness returns, though this time it is tinged with your natural rage. Of all the monsters in the world, this was the one you were expected to love. It mattered not how tall she was, or how sharp her nails could be, or how fierce her loyalty to Mother Miranda. To you, it mattered that you had no choice in being here, that only a handful of servants had come to the castle willingly. It mattered that a single mistake could mean a cruel death. So you did not greet your soulmate with a smile, or excitement, rather with a forced bow and blank expression. Better to be dead than to fake true love. “Come now, do at least pretend that you are excited, for my sake. I have been waiting a century for this, after all.”

“Perhaps the universe found it difficult to find someone who could love you,” you say, the words tumbling out of your mouth, instant regret boiling up inside of you. What you expect is a swift death. What you get? A deep sigh, a scowl, a look of frustration. Still fearing your possible demise, you are quick to keep speaking. “Or maybe the universe heard me talk once, and struggled to find someone to tolerate me. Countless possibilities, a galaxy full of mysteries… and here we are. Forgive me for being crass, my Lady. I would blame it on my schedule change, but something tells me you would see right through that lie, yes?” Not like that was much better, you think, wondering how the hell you were going to survive this.

“You’re quite the character, aren’t you?... Do try not to make me regret this, I’d rather not kill my soulmate. Now, sit down, it’s about time for a proper introduction,” Lady Dimitrescu commands. Then she’s sitting on the edge of her bed, gently patting the spot next to her. Joining her is just about the last thing you want to do right now… but you obey nonetheless. Still, you angle yourself away from her ever so slightly, hoping the subtle body language would help you distance yourself from her. There’s something in her expression that tells you she knows exactly what you’re trying to do. “I am Lady Dimitrescu, though you already know that. You may call me Alcina… for now. Behave, or that is one of many privileges I will not hesitate to take from you. Understood?”

It takes all of your willpower to avoid rolling your eyes, but you manage, instead giving a short nod. This’ll be interesting, for sure.

#lady dimitrescu x reader #alcina dimitrescu x reader #alcina dimitrescu #lady dimitrescu #resident evil: village #re8 village #love this lady<3

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blackwidow-bby · 3 years

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By the Poolside - Wanda Maximoff x fem!Reader

Hiya~~ have a little summer fic as a ✨treat✨

I also don’t own Marvel or their characters

Warnings: it’s not too crazy, maybe some suggestive language but keep it 18+

Today had really been a sweltering day. One of those days where you weren't called on a mission and the pool at the tower looked too tempting. When the situation allowed, you loved to sunbathe during the summer. Unfortunately it was your job that rarely allowed it, being a S.H.E.I.L.D. agent. Luckily, you took residence in the Avengers tower where, of course, Tony had to have a pool in place for everyone.

Sometimes you think he had it installed just to make his famous parties more fun, but who doesn't enjoy a nice cool swim from time to time.

As you laid in bed, the temptation continued to call out to you. Your skin buzzing to be outside. What could it hurt to relax the whole day? You got up in search of a good bathing suit that would assure the most sun exposure. Finding an almost revealing black strapless bikini would do, you shed your pajamas and grabbed a towel.

-----

The sun was a lot stronger than you thought, having already began sweating before you finished applying your tanning lotion. Delicately you pulled your hair back into a tight ponytail and and twisted the length into a bun securing it in place.

"Good to see another face. I was starting to think I was all alone in the tower today."

Her voice caught you by surprise, obviously thinking the same, but had immediately comforted you knowing who it belonged to.

"I didn't take you for the sneaky type, Wands, but I guess there's a first for everything."

Wanda had been the object of your desire since you first laid eyes on her. She was visually stunning with her high cheekbones and full lips. Green eyes that practically bore into your soul every time they found your gaze. Her voice was borderline angelic to you, and her accent adorable.

Turning around to look at her caused you to quickly compose your growing desire. She was wearing an all white one piece swimsuit with a low dip in the back and a little cut out on her chest. You had never seen so much of her body before, it really took you by surprise. Wanda's usual fashion sense mostly consisted of t-shirts, pants, and a zip up jacket from time to time. Seeing her in something that hugged all of her curves the way it did, hit all new nerves in your body. You silently held back a groan at the sight.

"Considering I wasn't even trying to sneak up on you, really shows how good of an agent you must be Y/N." she looked you over with a smirk. All you did was give her a playful roll of your eyes.

"Well maybe you can make it up to me by putting some of this tanning lotion on my back. I'm not flexible enough to reach it myself." you gave her a little wiggle of your eyebrows that you doubt she saw as she didn't respond to your playful gesture.

"It's the least I could do." Wanda took the bottle from where it sat on the lounge chair. You watched closely as her nimble fingers gently squeezed the bottle to obtain as much as she thought was enough. Your eyes followed every single movement she made with her hands. Putting the bottle down, rubbing the lotion on her palms...

"I can't put any on your back if your front is facing me." Your face flushed, but you were willing to blame the heat as quickly as possible if need be. You turned your back to her and maneuvered yourself backwards to make it easier for her to apply.

You could've sworn your body almost failed you when you narrowly avoided whimpering when she placed her hands on your shoulder with the lotion that was way too cold for how Wan-...the sun made your skin feel. Her thin fingers worked your skin so slowly and professionally it was as if she took the care of your body more serious than you did. Her electric touch made chills a long term placement upon your arms. When she started to inch lower down your back you almost coughed when she slipped her hands under the band of your bikini top. You had been so enthralled with the young woman behind you that even simple ministrations sent sinful feelings between your legs. You silently thanked both Wanda and your attraction for the lack of thoughts in your mind. The redhead creating a lack of any thoughts or commands to enter just by existing. Certainly drawing a blank with every small touch and rub and dragging of fingers.

Your poor heart was bounding out of your chest as Wanda's fingers got awfully close to the sides of your breasts. Silly Wanda, that's all covered by bikini top, no need to apply lotion there. Controlling your breathing became harder and harder but eventually she moved away from your ribs and ventured to your lower back. A small part of your brain was thankful Wanda cared so much about sun exposure, because she was definitely taking her time and making sure every spot of your back was touched. You let your eyes fall closed for a brief moment until you felt her lean forward.

"Now it's time for you to do me." Wanda whispered very close to your ear, you felt every bit of her words on the shell. The shakiest breath fell from your lips at the abrupt closeness that you fully missed when she backed away to turn around.

It's like your brain was short circuiting at the entire exchange, no thoughts crossing your mind, just trying to find the motor skills so that you could return the offer back to Wanda. Amidst trying to squeeze out some of the lotion on your hand, your eyes caught sight of Wanda lowering her straps down her arms to give you better access to her back. She didn't have nearly as much skin exposed as you did, but the sun is a wrathful star and would fully take any opportunity to burn all those that bare themselves to it.

Your hands were shaking with desperation to attach themselves to her bare back. Any opportunity to touch your crush was enough experience to fuel the thoughts that would come later in the night when you wanted to wind down and imagine a future that may never come to fruition.

Finally your hands landed. You started at her shoulders just as she did you. Her skin was much softer than you expected. Even though she had been exposed to the sun, her back still felt unfairly cool under your touch. You focused on trying to move your hands as gracefully as Wanda had earlier. It must've worked since you heard Wanda let out the softest sigh at your movements, lulling her head to the side like you were rubbing sore muscles. When you thought you applied enough to her shoulders you worked your way down. You couldn't help but notice Wanda leaning her back into your touch, everywhere your hand hit. You also couldn't help slipping your fingers under the hem of her swimsuit, only to cover every inch in tanning lotion, you know...to help Wanda out. But whenever you did, she would shudder and let out a light sound, like she wanted you to hear but was concerned about it happening too often.

"That felt so relaxing, maybe I should make you give me back rubs regularly." Wanda was smirking again at you after she got up from your lounge chair. "You're very good with your hands."

That last comment made you choke. You could swear she was doing everything in her power to fluster you, but why? Could she be interested?

"I don't think it would take much to force me to rub you." Wanda's eyebrows shot up. Did you really just say that? "I- I-I mean rub your b-back or l-like your arms or something is what I meant." Nice save Y/N. You truly thought you saved that situation until Wanda suddenly busted with laughter. It wasn't that funny was it? She must've noticed your confused face cause she started walking up to you very slowly. She took your hand from your side and pulled you flush against herself, snaking her arms around the back of your neck.

"Won't take much for you to rub me, huh?" Oh you were really short circuiting now. Was she into you? Like...really into you? While you were struggling to take in what was happening, Wanda was leaning closer. The closer she got, the wider your eyes went. Her lips came so close to yours but stopped just short of the kiss you only thought of in your dreams.

"You're cute but I like you much better when you're nervous like this." Your brain was still malfunctioning. Not yet caught up to what was perspiring before you. Only one thing playing on repeat, "You think I'm cute?" Wanda giggled against your lips and tightened her hold around your neck finally bringing your lips together. The kiss could've knocked your legs from under you had you not already been leaning forward on Wanda. Her lips were soft and cold against your heated face. She smelled sweet like strawberries and banana boat.

You felt her start to pull away, so reluctantly you followed suit. Her arms remained wrapped around you.

"What do you think?"

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x fem!reader #mcu fanfiction #marvel x reader #reader insert #wanda maximoff

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littlemisspascal · 3 years

Text

Death and an Angel part 8

Helmetless + Death!Din and Cupid F!Reader

Summary: “You have become the only one in the universe who can claim to uniquely know him.”

Rating: T

Word Count: 2,002

Warnings: fluffy fluff, some plot, swearing, reunions, soft!Din, Kuiil thinks Cupid is a fool, Kuiil’s backstory from canon, surprisingly little angst (it shocked me too)

Author Note: I want to apologize to those on the tag list not getting notified. I have no idea why Tumblr isn’t cooperating and I feel horrible about it. I love each and every one of you who spares time to read this segment/series and I hope you all have a wonderful holiday season.

Links to Part 1 and Part 7 and Part 9

Cross-posted on AO3.

Photo Inspiration:

The next morning you find Kuiil outside welding together two pieces of metal at his workbench. IG-11 tends to the small herd of blurrg the Ugnaught keeps in a large pen, feeding the two-legged creatures their breakfast. Although you were initially wary, the former assassin droid has been nothing but kind to you, if not a little obsessive about checking the bandage on your head every few hours.

“IG was explicitly warned by Death what would happen if your health declined in his absence,” Kuiil had informed you the previous evening when your attempt to stop the droid’s incessant fretting failed.

“He’s such a worrywart,” you muttered as IG-11 scanned your temperature, heart skipping a beat as it always does when you think about Din’s protective nature. There’s something unbelievably attractive about him making threats when it came to your wellbeing.

“A worrywart who left his gunship in my yard.” Kuiil aimed a sharp look towards the entrance of his home, as if he could see the Razor Crest from this distance.

You snorted a laugh at him calling Arvala-7’s desert landscape a yard of all designations, only for the rest of his sentence to register a beat later, making your eyebrows rise to your hairline. “Wait, what? He seriously left the Crest here? Why would he do that?”

“The quicker his trip to Nevarro, the quicker he returns to your side,” was the response, accompanied with a shrewd look implying you were a fool for asking such a question.

Your Ugnaught host reminds you of a grandfather figure; a bit prickly and blunt at times, but ultimately kindhearted and selfless at his core, wanting only what’s best for those in his care. Between his insistence you keep resting in his bed and IG-11’s nurse programming, you no longer wonder why Din chose to leave you with them, thoroughly convinced you’re receiving better around-the-clock care than most people experience in medcenters.

Kuiil turns when you approach him, pushing his goggles back to the top of his cap as he clicks off the welding torch, eyes giving you a cursory once-over. You feel better than you had yesterday, both headache and dizziness gone, and he must sense that since his head dips in a firm nod, satisfied with what he sees.

“Good morning,” you greet, smiling.

“Morning,” he replies. His expression turns repentant, eyebrows lowering. “My apologies for waking you, but I could not let these repairs remain unfinished.”

“It’s okay.” You tilt your head up towards the sky, enjoying the warmth of the early sunshine after spending the entire previous day cooped inside his home. “I’m supposed to report back to headquarters later today, so I needed to be up anyways.”

Hearing the words out loud grounds the upcoming meeting in reality. It’s really happening. Hours from now, you're going to have to tell your bosses everything, now including your new title as Din’s soulmate. Maker, you can just imagine Hess staring you down with those beady, rat-like eyes of his, asking question after question about you and Din.

And if Hess was serious before on the comlink—and you highly doubt the bastard’s ever told a joke in his life—then there is also the very real prospect of Moff Gideon being there to take part in your interrogation.

“Are you alright?” Kuiil asks, noticing how pale you’ve become. Without waiting for an answer, he ushers you over to a nearby stool. You sit, mouth opening to reassure him you’re fine, only to be startled by the knowing glint in his eyes. “I recognize your anxious face from my years as an indentured servant. You fear punishment from your superiors.”

Your eyes widen, stomach suddenly feeling hollow. “You were a servant?”

“From my birth until my hundredth year, yes.” The nauseous feeling intensifies. You knew Ugnaughts typically lived up to two-hundred years, meaning Kuiil had lived half of his lifetime in servitude. “Earning my freedom did not occur without harsh discipline.”

You draw in a shaky breath at that. It feels wrong, being worried about meeting with your bosses when there are others, such as Kuiil, who have endured far worse horrors.

“Those with power think it comes from weapons and control over others through means of fear and violence,” he continues, returning the welding torch to its proper placement in his toolbox. “True power comes from the strength of one’s hope. It allows you to believe in a better future for yourself and so long as you cling to it, no enemy can break your spirit.”

His rumbling baritone washes over you, calming the worst of your worries. You press your thumb against your soulmate marking, a nervous habit that has developed since you first saw it yesterday. You’ve become addicted to the warmth the mark emanates as it reassures you you’re not hallucinating its appearance.

“I just keep thinking about what their reactions are going to be when I tell them about me and him being together,” you confess, feeling shy as you duck your chin to avoid eye contact.

“Are you embarrassed of Death being your soulmate?”

Your head snaps back up, shocked by his bluntness. “What? No. Din means everything to me.”

The words seem too loud against the quiet atmosphere of the planet. They reverberate off seemingly every surface—the desert rocks, the Razor Crest’s steel paneling and the metal roof on Kuiil’s home—echoing for miles in every direction. Despite knowing that isn’t truly possible, you are unable to stop yourself from wincing.

“You gave Death a name?” Kuiil’s bafflement is visible in the way his head tilts, looking at you in a way that is reminiscent of Omera’s puzzled expression back on Sorgan.

"I didn’t.” You shake your head, for some reason feeling the need to clarify, “He named himself. It’s just something for me to call him when we’re around mortals.”

“I have known Death many decades now,” he begins, sounding no less confused despite your explanation. “He’s quite...particular about the mortal traditions he chooses to adopt, such as appearing as a human male and piloting a gunship.”

“Yeah, I know how picky he can be,” you say slowly, not understanding what his point is.

“Not once has he ever felt compelled to use a mortal name because, in his opinion, names establish ties."

“What does that mean?”

“Without a name, he is but another stranger amongst trillions of beings, unrecognized and unmissed,” Kuiil explains, and you find yourself leaning forward, elbows on your knees. “By giving you a name to call him by, he has tied himself to you in a way he has not permitted anyone else. You have become the only one in the universe who can claim you uniquely know him.”

“Huh.” You let out a long exhale, suddenly aware of your heartbeat pounding deafeningly in your eardrums as it begins to sink in just how monumental the gift of Din’s name truly is. “Well how bout that.”

And the shrewd look from last night makes a reappearance, conveying once again how foolish he thinks you are.

“I have spoken.”

People tend to forget a Cupid’s bow is first and foremost a weapon of defense. Comprised of wood from a Brylark tree, sinew from orbaks, and a thin layer of a mudhorn’s horn, it can be compared to Din’s armor in that it is virtually indestructible. A Cupid carries two types of arrows: one made from kyber crystal meant to lighten one’s emotions or, on rare occasions, induce lust, and the other one made from a kyber crystal coated in ichor, meant to inflict harm against enemies. Once a target is hit, the effects are instantaneous and the arrow vanishes in a burst of sparkling light, regenerating in your quiver seconds later.

You underwent rigorous training to learn how to become a master of archery. Your bow is bound to your Cupid abilities, capable of being summoned to your aid and dismissed with a mere thought. You were taught how to control your breathing, learning that the expanding and contracting of your chest cavity during a shot can ruin your aim. Missing a target is one of the worst mistakes a Cupid can commit, meaning you must make every single shot count.

All that to say, Cupids are fierce archers as much as they are dedicated matchmakers.

They are also dangerous when startled unexpectedly.

You’re in the middle of tidying up Kuiil’s tiny kitchen space, a task you had insisted upon after he’d served you a delicious lunch, humming to yourself quietly as you scrub at the dishes when hands wrap around your waist, pulling you backwards towards someone’s chest.

You react completely on instinct, teleporting out of their hold and reappearing on the other side of the room, bow ready with an ichor arrow aimed directly at the assailant. It is only when the meager light of the nearby lantern reflects off their beskar helmet do you realize who you’re facing.

Immediately you lower and dismiss your weapon before pressing a hand over your chest where your heart is fluttering like a trapped bird. “I’m so sorry, Din,” you tell him, limbs trembling as it sinks in just how close you were to shooting him. “Maker, you scared me and—and I thought I—well, I don’t know what I was thinking, just that I had to—”

In between blinks he appears in front of you, yanking his helmet off with such ferocity your words catch in your throat. You have only the slightest of seconds to glimpse the arousal darkening his brown eyes before he slips a hand behind your neck and crashes your lips together.

He kisses you as if you’re gravity and he’ll float away if he dares to spare a moment to breathe, sending a current of warmth surging through your body. You thought the mere touch of his hand had been life-altering, but it is a mere candle compared to the wildfire his lips spark. Your eyes fall shut as you kiss back with an equal amount of fervency, bringing him closer by wrapping your arms around his neck, grinning at the groan the action spurs from deep within his chest.

There is the heavy thud of his helmet striking the ground before he’s wrapping his hand around your waist, slotting a thigh between your legs to ensure every inch of your bodies are touching. Your cheeks rub against the scratchiness of his facial scruff, an invigorating burn you think you could easily become addicted to.

An embarrassingly high-pitched whine escapes your lips when he pulls away a minute later. He’s never looked more attractive, mouth swollen and hair disarrayed from your roaming fingers. His hands cup your face, and it occurs to you as he swipes his thumbs over your cheekbones he isn’t wearing his gloves.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, sounding slightly hoarser than usual and out of breath. His gaze roams your face, like he’s trying to re-familiarize himself with your features after the time spent apart. “Especially with your bow. When you pointed that arrow at me, there was this...fierceness in your eyes I’ve never seen before. Fuck, angel, you looked so gorgeous.”

“Seriously?” you say, raising an incredulous eyebrow, because of-kriffing-course he’d be the one being in the whole universe who is turned on by a weapon being pointed at him.

“Seriously.” He leans in, forehead pressing against yours, noses brushing. It’s hard to focus when he’s this close, like you’ve again entered that separate realm where it’s just you and him.

“Din, look,” you whisper, fighting the magnetic pull insisting you kiss him again long enough to show him your marked hand. “It’s real. I’m yours and you’re mine.”

The smile that stretches across his face when he sees it is nothing short of breathtaking.

“Angel,” he says, tilting your head so the words are spoken right against your lips. “I’ve wanted to hear you say those words ever since I gave you my name.”

Tag List: @leilei-draws, @theocatkov, @vintagesaph, @stardust-and-starlight, @adrieunor, @remmyswritings, @gallowsjoker, @rhiannon-russo, @randomness501, @sylphene, @softly-sad, @maytheglitter, @melobee, @rogertaylorsfalsettogivesmehives, @eleinemk, @captain-jebi, @aerynwrites, @promiscuoussatan, @stilllivindue2spite, @coaaster, @lin-djarin, @becauseican2, @kay2304, @odelia-d32, @nicotinebirds

#death and an angel #my fic #Din Djarin #din x you #din x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #mandalorian x reader #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal character fanfiction #soulmate au #my writing

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atsukashii · 3 years

Note

Hi! I love your writing so very much 🥰

For the event, could I possibly get: Tirza x Midoriya + she/her pronouns + ☀️ + green

Thank you thank you 🥺💕☺️

how long do I have to wait how many nights do I have to pass

✘ he was the one who got away, but now the number one pro hero has returned to japan, and come home to you

✘ GENRE: fluff

✘ WARNINGS: none

✘ WORD COUNT: 1.4k

To the world the name Izuku Midoriya was synonymous with the pro hero Deku. But to you, Izuku Midoriya is synonymous with sorrow, desperation and hurt. To you, Izuku Midoriya is the one who got away.

You’d been by his side since elementary school, where Katsuki Bakugou had coined the name Deku, which caught on in the opposite way than what he had initially intended it to be interpreted. You had been friends with the shy, hero crazed boy who had helped you draw your hero costume and equipment when you had decided you both were going to be pro heroes. You had been by his side as this quirk he was supposedly ‘born-with’ had manifested. And you knew, from the moment you saw All Might talking to him, just who’s quirk he had inherited.

You had been by Izuku’s side from your earliest memories, and you had loved him for as long as you could remember. You’d loved him for so long, and you were planning on telling him the moment you had finished your studies but never got the chance, because he’d left for the U.S a day later, working at an agency courtesy of Professor David Shield. And you had let him go, and took your heart with him.

Those six months had turned into three years, and now he was back.

“Can you please at least say hello to him? That’s all I'm asking here,” Your friend Ochako pleads from next to you, and you finally turn away from the bar to face her. You had been dragged out to a bar by your friend, only to discover the whole thing was an official ‘welcome home’ party for your first love that you hadn’t seen in years. So you’d reacted like any mature person, and hidden amongst all the bodies at the bar, cradling the same glass of water because you had work tomorrow and couldn’t afford to turn up hungover.

“I will,” you reply, looking over across the room at the green haired man laughing along with a bunch of your old high school friends. You give Ochako a pointed look as you swirl back around on your stool. “Later.”

“For fucks sake, even Bakugou is over there. Ba-ku-gou!” She combats, waving her hands to emphasise her point.

“Good for him.” She huffs out a breath of frustration at your antics but really, you don’t want an audience when you first talk to him, because you don’t know what is going to come out of your mouth. Will it be what your heart wants to say, that you missed him every single minute he was gone, or your head, where you’ll just simply say welcome back and move on with your life. You weren’t willing to take that gamble in front of your closest friends.

“Go have fun, I’ll talk to him later, I promise.” You swear, and even hold out your pinky which makes your friend let out a shocked laugh.

“Why don’t I believe you?” she asks, and you simply shrug, watching as she shifts through the crowd towards the table and the star of honour. The minute you know you’re out of eyesight and earshot, you leave your glass on the table, grab your jacket and sneak out the side door of the complex. Inhaling the chilled night air, you hesitate in the alleyway of the bar, letting yourself revel in the silence of the outside world. Getting used to having Izuku was going to take a while, especially considering he would no doubt be visiting his mother, who still lives next door to your own. You could never escape him, and why should that change even if you want it to? You only take a step further into the alleyway before the door bangs open behind you.

“Y/n?” His voice is deeper than you remembered it, but then again, he had been only a high school graduate when you’d spoken to him last. Slowly you turn around to face him, taking in Izuku’s face one inch at a time. Freckles still dusted his nose and cheekbones, and those deep emerald green eyes still glowed like sea glass - stop, you mentally plead. Don’t go down this road.

“I thought it was you. I saw Uraraka talking to you at the bar, and I wanted to see you before you left.” He’s taller too. You’d been the same height through most of your schooling, but now he towered over you by at least a foot. As Izuku stops under the dim light on the wall, you notice the undercut he now has and hate how it makes goosebumps break out on your skin.

“How have you been?” He asks, one of his hands clutching his other wrist in a nervous tick that holds your attention. How have you been? How have you been… miserable, lonely, lovesick, missing you… but you can’t say that. So instead you muster all the confidence in you to tell him the opposite, that you’ve been fine.

“I-” Your voice breaks on the word and you feel the world around you freeze. Your heartbeat echoes through your head and the happiness on Izuku’s face shatters and pain flickers to life in his eyes as he looks at you. A scarred hand reaches up and gently caresses your cheek and only then do you notice that you’re crying.

And the moment you recognise their existence, your chest heaves and you burst at the seems. The gruttal sob that leaves your lips has Izuku lunging forward and bringing you into his arms. Burying your face into his chest, you don’t try to stop what you’re feeling, and just let it run its course as you listen to him talk.

“I’m so sorry Tirza.” He repeats over and over like a mantra, softly running his hand over your hair whilst holding you close to his chest. Once your sobs cease and your tears slow do you finally trust yourself to talk.

“I missed you,” you get out, stepping out of embrace so that you can look at him properly, and gage his every reaction. If you’re going to get your heart ripped out, you’d at least like to try and see it coming.

“I missed you so much, but I couldn’t tell you. I missed you, but I was so proud and happy for you, because you were doing what you loved and even though I loved you, I didn't want to try and take you away from what you were born to do.” You try to explain, knowing you're making a mess of it all, but still trying to get it all off your chest. Izuku’s green eyes blink at you owlishly for a second, and fear enters your body for a second. But only for a second.

Because in the next, Izuku has your hand in one of his, and his lips on your own. Your eyes widen in surprise at the sudden affection, and you carefully place your hands on his shirt to push him away? To pull him closer? You’re unsure, but when he finally pulls back and looks down at you with so much adoration, your heart almost stops in your chest.

“I’m so sorry I left. I wanted to tell you how I felt back in highschool, but then I got offered a placement in the U.S. I almost didn’t take it too, but then I knew you would kick my ass if I didn’t,” Izuku rambles and you nod, knowing fully well that you would have. “And then I was going to come back after six months but they asked me to stay longer, and then I came to visit, but your mother said you hadn’t been back home since you graduated.” You cringe at the memory, knowing you hadn’t gone back because you didn’t want to be asked about him.

“But I get it.” Izuku finishes, pushing your stray hair back from your face. “It’s the same reason I went and sat on the beach when I missed home.” Because across it was you. “I’ve loved you since I was in middle school, and I’m sorry it took me so long to say it.” You let out a shocked laugh at his words, which turns into a soppy one as you grin at the man in front of you. He was home, that’s all you’d wanted, and now it was staring you in the face. Him. It had always been him.

“I love you Izuku. So so much.” You say, crying into your laughter as he joins you.

“We’re idiots for waiting this long,” He groans, leaning his head on your shoulder, and another laugh slips from your mouth, but one that actually has you smiling.

“The biggest idiots to ever live.”

a/n: Thank you for your kind words anon, you get a big MWUAH from me :) i didn't mean for this to have an angsty start, but oops... also i think these are getting longer and longer. Note to self, you can't write short drabbles for shit. Looks like its full length fics for me

✘ EVENT STATUS : OPEN ✘

#special event 🧚‍♀️✨#lols writes #izuku midoriya #midoriya izuku #izuku midoriya x reader #izuku midoriya x you #izuku midoriya fluff

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chocoholicannanymous · 3 years

Text

If the Spit Hits the Fan (Glee) Pt XVII

This is the penultimate part. The last one is written and drafted - I did finish while on vacation. Expect it for next weekend.

Follows pt I, pt II, pt III, pt IV, pt V, pt VI, pt VII, pt VIII, pt IX, pt X, pt XI, pt XII, pt XIII, pt XIV, pt XV and pt XVI.

It's as everything happens in May. Kurt feels as if he should be used to it by now, but this year is worse than any before. It's understandable, he guesses, what with it being his senior year, but understanding doesn't help. Some of the squares on his wall calendar has so many things on them they're barely legible, and there are days when he wants to just quit it all.

He can always work in his dad's garage for the rest of his life. Surely that's not the worst thing ever?

The only reason he's not a complete wreck when Nationals comes is the Warblers meeting held right after Regionals where David had used logic (how dare he) and suggested their approach to Nationals.

Kurt's first, immediate reaction is “we're never going to win with that” which he also says out loud, only to be met by “so what”.

“I don't say this lightly. I've been a Warbler for four years. It's been amazing to be surrounded by all of these talented people, and make music just because we like it, and that's why I've kept it up even with all the hints I've gotten that my 'future career' would be better served by me spending that time on learning another language or studying harder. After all, what use is singing and dancing for a lawyer?”

There's a bitterness in David's voice, and it's echoed in a number of murmurs around the room.

“This is the one thing I do for fun, that I do just for me, and some days the only thing that makes slogging through my mountain of homework bearable is knowing that once I'm done I can go enjoy Warblers. This year's group hold more talent of all my years here, which is why it hurts to say that I don't think we can win, no matter what setlist we go on with. We're simply not the kind of group that wins a contest like this.”

Which, probably true. The Warblers are good, yes, but they're an all boys a capella group performing in uniforms. They don't have the productions that teams who wins Nationals do. Doesn't mean that it hurts just as much to hear as it hurts to say.

“The truth is – and I'm sorry, I know we don't talk about him, but I have to – the truth is that we didn't even compete before Blaine.”

Kurt expects it to sting to hear his name. It does, but not much. He's moving past that.

“Blaine walked in here and wanted to compete so badly. He spent his first semester here trying to talk us into trying, even with all the reasons we had for not going so, and he got his way. That doesn't change the fact that this is only our second year competing, and we've surpassed all expectations by making it to Nationals. To do so again and win, or even place in the top... I don't think we can do that, not even with all the talent in this room.”

No one likes hearing that, but no one's disagreeing either. They aren't going to win. That's just how it is.

“So why not do that we like? Why don't we pick songs we like and that showcases our strengths? Why don't we sing a song that will make you happy, Kurt? And if it knocks us down in the ranking to do so, who cares? I don't.”

To hear someone say that Kurt's happiness should matter more than placement – to hear David say it, after everything the year before – causes tears to well up in his eyes. To hear every single Warbler agree make those tears fall.

They'd walked out of that meeting stronger than they'd gone in, and Kurt lets himself gather strength from that memory for a few seconds before he steps forward and lets his voice soar.

“Something has changed within me, something is not the same / I'm through with playing by the rules, of someone else's game”

They finish eleventh. It's better than they'd dared to hope, with all the absolutely excellent teams competing. It the joy is tinged with a little bitterness? Who can blame them? Maybe, more than one of them wonders, a more conventional setlist could have placed them among the top ten. At the same time they're all aware that maybe it would have have placed them dead last. There's no way of telling, and no use speculating.

They did their best, enjoyed their performance and finished eleventh at Nationals. That's nothing to look down on. In fact...

“We did better than New Directions last year” Kurt says with a smirk.

They've beaten his old team, his so-called friends, in every way possible and he allows himself to see that as a win.

Finn posts video of all their songs on his Facebook and is proud (and smug) enough to also post the “Defying Gravity” performance in the Glee group with a comment about how Kurt obviously could hit that note, tagging both Rachel and Mr Schue. It's petty, and Kurt should be big enough of a person to ask Finn to remove it, but no. If his brother wants to stand up for him Kurt isn't just going to let him, he's going to be grateful.

Feeling loved and protected is not something he's ever going to scoff at.

Nationals is followed by finals, the less said about the better, and then prom. Or well, “the Dalton Academy and Crawford County Day Joint Spring Formal”. Same thing right?

Wrong.

The spring formal is every thing junior prom wasn't. It's not really the fact that Sebastian asks Kurt properly to be his date for the formal, and compliments his outfit. It's not that even without decorations Dalton's auditorium is more grand than McKinley's gym. It's not even the grand dinner with lit candles, waiters and three courses before the dance or that there's a band that plays waltzes and foxtrot for the first two hours before the DJ is allowed to take over.

It's that even before they've entered the transformed dining hall Kurt spots half a dozen same-sex couples, a number that keeps going up during the evening. It's the fact that he gets to dance the whole evening, not in a group or with a girl, but with Sebastian and the occasional Warbler. Mostly it's Sebastian's arms he's in, and it's amazing.

It's so far from his junior prom and Blaine that it almost hurts.

“Is there something wrong?”

“No. Everything is... This year everything is perfect.”

Sebastian doesn't look entirely convinced, but decides to drop it and instead lean closer for a kiss.

The evening really is perfect.

The morning of his birthday Kurt walks into the dining hall alone only to be met with a table full of Warblers that stand up and sing for him as soon as he clears the door. There's one place left at the table, next to Sebastian, set with the kind of breakfast not even Dalton serves (fresh croissant, strawberries, a piece of brie and a one-person pot of tea) with a rainbow rose in a vase. Kurt sits down with a smile and leans over to kiss his boyfriend's cheek.

“So, rainbow roses are going to be our thing, is it? I love it.”

He spends the day with a smile on his lips, because his boyfriend took the time to do something special for him on his birthday and his friends have promised cake in the Warblers' room after dinner, and he feels loved.

“Cake” turns out to be cheesecake and presents, and more singing, and so much more smiling. Afterwards Sebastian walks him back to his room. There's no kissing though, which Kurt finds unacceptable.

“Isn't there some kind of rule that you get kisses on your birthday? I would have thought that was a part of the boyfriend experience, and to be honest I'm feeling very much unkissed.”

That nets him a crooked smile, but still no kisses. It's almost enough to worry him.

“You can have all the kisses you want, and not just on your birthday, you know that babe. However, there's something else I wanted you to have first.”

Sebastian pulls out a small package from him pocket and hands it over with a smile, which begins to fade when Kurt doesn't immediately take it. It's just, well.

“Another present? You shouldn't have.”

“Another? What do you mean?”

The truth is that Kurt fully expected breakfast and a rose to be the whole of Sebastian's congratulations, and he doesn't quite know how to take getting more than that. He doesn't really know how to explain it though, and definitely not in a way that won't start Sebastian on another rant about how Blaine was unworthy of Kurt's affection. Especially since it's not just about him.

Turns out he doesn't need to say anything – and apparently he's getting yet another present in the form of the absence of that rant.

“Breakfast was a treat. This is your actual present, which I hope you'll like at least as much as that.”

Sebastian looks a little worried as Kurt removes the paper and opens the small box inside (and if he's a little shaky to open a jewelry box from his boyfriend no one needs to know). It's a pair of gorgeous cufflinks with just the right balance between classy and unique and he absolutely loves them.

“These are amazing! They're too much, really, but they're so gorgeous that I'm going to pretend they're not. I love them!” I love you. But that's a bit too early to say, and so instead he leans forward and does his absolute best to communicate exactly that through kissing.

#chocoholic fics #kurt fic #kurt hummel #sebastian smythe #kurtbastian #itshtf

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gryffindors-weasley · 3 years

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Rekindled

Draco Malfoy x Reader

Summary: Draco has many hidden passions, but there’s one he loves more than all the rest.

Warnings: post war Draco, fluff

Despite being so outwardly confident for most of his life, Draco Malfoy is a fairly closed off person. He quickly found that keeping the things he truly revels in to himself is the safest place for them to be. Because if anyone had found out the true joys and interests the head Slytherin held, he certainly would be vulnerable to some choice remarks from his peers.

The only person to have ever known such secrets is you. He didn’t know what it was about you. Even before your friendship had flourished into something romantic, he found himself to be more open, knowing you wouldn’t poke fun like others might. Maybe there wasn’t one specific thing, he thought, maybe it was everything about you.

One of those well kept secrets, and perhaps the one he held onto most dearly, was his affinity for the piano. He took a liking to the elegant instrument at the young age of eleven upon hearing his mother play so effortlessly, as if her fingers were merely floating over the keys. But he only saw her play just once and never again after that.

Naturally, he became interested, taking a moment to press every key from left to right just to hear the pitch each of them produced. And from there he’d begun to teach himself, only ever stopping when his father scolded him for being too loud. Over time it seemed as though he mastered it.

However, the passion for it rapidly dwindled in his sixth year when more pressing matters came to the forefront of his mind, remaining there for a long while. So it sat in its rightful spot in the Manor’s study to collect dust.

Now, it had been eight years since he’d last played, or even looked at it for that matter.

You’d just signed off on your very first home, a small house on the outskirts of town. Built from slabs of stone on the outside, all varying hues of slates and lighter grays, one never the same shape as another. Wildflowers dotted randomly about the unmowed lawn and maroon colored shutters surround every old window, paint worn around the edges of the wood. Though with a simple twitch of his fingers the color was changed to a golden yellow. A single chimney stack adorned the left hand side of the roof, sending puffs of charred smoke into the sky. All encased by a short and slightly rusted wrought iron fence, the numbers of your address permanently inscribed in the metal. It was yours and it was home, just the right fit for the two of you.

Once fully furnished with books lining shelves and tea mugs stacked in cupboards, it was quickly realized that this would likely be your home for as long as it’d have you both. But one thing was missing, something his mother had been in agreeance with the moment you mentioned it to her. So she set out to make it happen unbeknownst to Draco.

You woke that Sunday morning, a delicate patter of rain washing over the house as droplets trickled down the arched windows of the bedroom. The spot next to you had been empty for some time, no longer warm but you had felt a whisper of a kiss pressed to your forehead earlier. That’s not what had woken you up, though, what had woken you was the gentle sound of an unknown song filling the entirety of the first floor, emanating up the stairs.

Pulling yourself from the mismatched blankets draped over the bed you wrap your arms around yourself, following the melody until you reached your beau. He sat on the sleek wooden bench in his plaid pajama pants, back to you. And there it sat, the familiar ebony colored piano in the once vacant corner of your living room. It had been freshly polished for such an occasion, seeming as though it belonged in that very spot from the moment it’d been crafted. It added something special you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

He wasn’t aware of your presence just yet and you smiled softly, the muscles of his shoulders flexing under his pale skin as he played, his hair an absolute mess. And after a few fleeting moments you padded over to him, filling the empty space on the bench. His cheeks flush a pale pink, traveling to the very tips of his ears upon having an audience. But he soon settled, slender fingers dancing over ivory keys with a practiced ease. Keys that were slightly worn from his use as a child.

It was almost as if he’d never stopped playing for all those years, the soft smile gracing his face wordlessly telling you just how much it meant. But he knew that there weren’t words for how grateful he was, there couldn’t possibly be. It’s as if you’ve sparked up a flame within him that hasn’t been lit for years, a missing piece of him put into place. You always seemed to do that to him.

Minutes pass and he’s slowly stopped, releasing a contented sigh as his eyes bounce over every inch of the beauteous structure. “How’d you manage this, love?”

He was breathless, running his hand through his hair and down his cheek.

“With a little elbow grease and a whole lot of magic,” You smile, reaching up to brush a few strands of platinum out of his eyes. “Call it a housewarming gift, if you will.”

He laughs softly, the warm glow of the fireplace giving way to the tears beginning to gloss over his gray eyes. The look of adoration on his face was something you’d never forget, not for as long as your memory will allow. He leans in and kisses you softly, and another with more vigor, the lingering taste of his morning tea still on his lips as his fingers splay across your cheek.

No matter how hard he tries, his smile cannot be contained as he parts from you, feeling like a kid on Christmas Day. “You always manage to light up my life. You enchant me, darling.”

Now it was your turn to blush, cheeks flooding with heat as you bite back your ever growing smile. “There’s one more thing, Draco.”

He raises a brow in silent questioning, as if beckoning for you to go on. Though he thought, how could there possibly be more? You’ve just bestowed upon him one of the most precious gifts he had ever received in his twenty-four years of living, and yet there’s more? He almost couldn’t comprehend your level of generosity, leaving him to wonder how he had gotten quite so lucky.

You reached forward and grasped the edge of the smooth wood, pulling the curved cover out to rest over the keys. There it was. Engraved with a gentle precision were three elegantly curled letters, D.L.M. His eyes widened slightly as his fingers brushed over it almost in disbelief, glancing to you and back to it.

“I was unsure of the placement at first, I thought maybe it should have gone up here but—”

You’re cut short by a firm kiss, one that uncaged butterflies in your stomach like it was the very first time. You were sure the color in your cheeks deepened by that point as his hands tug you closer. When he pulls away, he doesn’t stray far, forehead rested on yours as the tip of his nose presses against yours gently.

“It’s perfect,” he whispers with an awestruck laugh, a quiver in his soft tone as he fights to conceal his emotions, “it’s absolutely perfect.”

After years and years it was his, finally his. And it was to reside in that very corner to be played for many early mornings and late nights to come.

#draco malfoy #draco malfoy fic #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy fluff #harry potter fic

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taetaespeaches · 3 years

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“You’re not buying our kids $600 shoes.”

namjoon x reader (or oc) genre: fluff word count: 2.1K

a/n: This fic takes place around the time Namjoon showed off those cute little baby shoes in his studio :( so early 2019?? so Joon and Daisy have been going strong a few months shy of a year and well, they’re already talking about babies (in the future) because you know, why not? They’re soulmates, they know what they want. Thanks for reading and I hope you all enjoy! :))

WITH your heavy workload, you hadn’t been able to visit Namjoon in the studio for quite some time and you missed it. There was a special appreciation you felt for the man as you watched him in his element.

Choosing to take a long lunch, you picked up some food and decided to surprise your man with some takeout and, well, you. Knowing the door was unlocked, you chose to knock anyway, just to tease your boyfriend by making him get up to answer the door.

“Come in,” his voice called out, you smirking to yourself as you simply knocked again. “Yeah, come in,” he welcomed again. One more knock, and you were met with silence as you awaited his appearance in the door frame. It didn’t take long for him to cross the space of his studio, the door opening to reveal you, leaning against the wall as you held the bag of food down at your leg.

“Delivery,” you smirked, Namjoon’s lips spreading into a happy grin as his eyes widened and brightened in excitement.

“Daisy,” he greeted happily, “Babe, what are you doing here?” He asked, stepping toward you, wrapping an arm around your lower back, pulling you into a sweet kiss.

“Well this is just way too much food to eat by myself,” you joked, gesturing to the bag by lifting your hand slightly. “Plus, I missed you,” you kissed him again. “Missed seeing you work,” you mumbled against his lips.

“I missed you too,” he replied with a grin. “Get in here,” he told you as he tugged you forward, pulling you both inside the studio before he shut the door.

You always loved Namjoon’s studio. It was perfectly decorated to represent his personality, and he took great pride in the space. The room had always been very comfortable. Like a second home.

“How long do I get you for?” He asked as he took the bag from you, setting it on the table the sat in front of his sofa.

“Um,” you thought as you looked around the space, noticing small changes in the placement of certain figures and books. “I have about an hour.”

“That’ll do,” he grinned, approaching you once again, taking your hand in his, leading you to the couch. “Thank you for visiting,” he told you genuinely. “And for the food,” he added, nodding toward the takeout boxes.

“Don’t thank me yet,” you smirked, “I could have brought all seafood, you don’t know yet.”

Looking to the boxes with wide eyes, Namjoon took a moment to crack a smile. “Then I’ll watch you eat,” he countered, you giggling as you reached to open the boxes, revealing various dishes Joon loved. “You’re amazing,” he complimented, placing a hand on your thigh as he leaned toward you, leaving a kiss to your exposed neck.

“It sounds like work should slow down a bit pretty quick then, right?” He asked, wiping his hands on a napkin as you reached to close up the boxes, having devoured the meal.

“Yeah, hopefully,” you confirmed. “If everything goes to plan.”

“I’m sure it will,” he assured you, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Thanks, Dimples,” you smiled graciously. “Are you working on anything right now?” You asked, nodding to the computer.

“Ah,” he exclaimed excitedly, you smiling fondly at his reaction. “The song is about done but I’ve been recording some adlibs to be added into the vocal sections. Just a bit. Right now they’re divided.” Humming in thought, you nodded. “You want to hear it?”

“Yes, please,” you replied enthusiastically, Namjoon standing and quickly approaching his computer.

“How much time do you have left?” He asked as he sat in his chair, you checking your phone for the time.

“Uh, ten minutes,” you told him, Namjoon nodding as he pulled up the track.

“Perfect,” he whispered as he clicked a few things before starting the song. “Ok, tell me what you think.”

The song started with a groovy R&B sound, and you instantly knew it would be a fan favorite. Jimin started with the first verse, his vocals light and airy and as perfect as ever. Then Taehyung sang a verse, the vocals richer and just as good. When Namjoon’s verse kicked in, you sat up, taking in the words and the delivery. The man knew exactly what he was doing when it came to music and he never failed to amaze you.

“This song is incredible, holy shit,” you told him. “You sound great.” The man turned in his chair to flash you a thankful smile, a slight shyness in his features. No matter how many times you complimented him, he never did get used to it.

The song was the kind of song that you almost just couldn’t help but dance to. It was also the kind of song you didn’t want to end. However, the ending was absolute perfection with Jungkook and Taehyung switching line for line before Taehyung did a small run, marking the official completion of the track.

Namjoon stared at you expectantly, you tossing your hands in the air. “That’s a fucking bop, babe, oh my god,” you smiled. “I’m obsessed with that, play it again.”

Chuckling at your sincere enthusiasm, he dipped his head down, looking toward his lap. “It’s good?”

“I think the words I used were a fucking bop,” you clarified. “It’s so good, I think your fans are going to lose their minds over that one.” The man breathed out a sigh of relief, looking at you with bright eyes as he smiled. “You said you’re recording adlibs?”

“Yeah, just to make the song sound more cohesive and rich,” he told you, you nodding quickly in understanding.

“I think that would be good,” you agreed, pretending as though you knew anything about music production. You had no real clue what you were saying, but you knew Namjoon sometimes just needed a boost in confidence over his decisions. “You know what’s best,” you assured him. “It’s going to be even better when it’s all done.”

Giving you a shy smile, he nodded his head a single time, almost as if he was respectfully bowing at you, making you giggle. “Thank you,” he said genuinely, you waving him off.

“Now, play it again,” you grinned. “I need to place it in my memory so I can replay it until the album comes out.”

Laughing, Namjoon turned back to the computer, restarting the track. As you listened, you began cleaning off the small table, placing the boxes in the bag before taking it to the trash can that sat across the room. The song filling the room, you looked around at Namjoon’s belongings, appreciating his collection of toys and figures. He was beyond endearing.

And then you spotted them. And your heart fluttered before butterflies formed in your belly. Utterly endearing.

You could feel Namjoon’s eyes on you as you reached for the small pair of shoes, holding them against your chest. Turning to face your soft boyfriend, you pouted. “What are these?”

Flashing his dimples at you, he chuckled shyly, covering his mouth in slight embarrassment as he lowered the volume on the track, which you later learned was titled ‘Home’. “I thought they were cute.”

“You’re cute,” you told him, looking down at the shoes. “Who buys baby shoes because they think they’re cute?” You giggled. “Oh my god, I love you so much.”

“Come here,” he told you, smiling widely at your reaction to the objects. Walking toward him, you carried the shoes in one hand, your other hand resting on his shoulder as his arms wrapped around your thighs. Tugging on you, you complied, sitting on his lap, placing the shoes in your lap.

“They are very cute,” you cooed, Namjoon smiling against your cheek before pressing a kiss to it.

“They would be super cute on a baby too, don’t you think?” He questioned, his shy demeanor mixing with his forward question.

“Do you ever think about having children together?” You asked him, skipping the passiveness of his hints, boldly jumping into the topic.

Smiling softly at you, he rested his dimpled cheek against your shoulder, toying with the little fringe on the shoe in your lap. “Why do you think I bought these?” Turning toward him, you kissed the side of his head affectionately.

“You’re the most adorable man ever,” you complimented, Namjoon letting out a breathy laugh at your comment. “You know I think about it too, right?” You asked him, Namjoon humming thoughtfully. “Someday. Like, I can wait to have kids, but I can’t wait to have kids with you,” you told him, causing Namjoon to lift his head to look into your eyes. “Does that make sense?”

Nodding his head, he shot you a dimply close-mouthed grin. “I can’t wait to have kids with you either,” his smile opened beautifully. Placing his forehead against your own, your hand moved from his shoulder to hold the side of his face.

“I seriously can’t wait to make you a dad, babe,” you pouted, Namjoon kissing your pouted lips quickly. “I almost think you were born to be a father.” Above all else, Namjoon really wanted children. It was his dream to be a dad, which you had briefly talked about before but never in depth. But you knew how excited he was about the possibility of having kids in the future, and it was impossible not to think about that possibility being a shared future. You knew Namjoon would be a natural at parenthood, and that was confirmed by the way his eyes teared up at your genuine compliment.

“I love you so much,” he confessed passionately, emphasizing the words in a way that told you he meant the confession with every fiber of his being as he kissed you once more. “I’m so excited to see you be a mother, babe, I think about it more than I’m even willing to admit,” he chuckled, you giggling with him, resting your cheek on his as you kissed the side of his nose through your smile.

“One day,” you told him. “I promise.” You moved to kiss is cheeks, peppering his face in pecks, the man squeezing the tops of your thighs as he laughed.

“These will probably be out of style by then, huh?” He thought out loud, patting the little shoes you still held onto.

“Mm, the little one could bring back the style. We’ll be raising a trend setter,” you smirked, Namjoon’s eyes widening in excitement. Oh god, combining fashion and children had to be Namjoon’s ultimate fantasy. Lifting the shoes to inspect them further, you pulled your eyebrows together skeptically. “Joon, are these designer?”

“Hm?” He questioned, pretending he didn’t hear your question.

“Namjoon. How much were these?” The man evaded your gaze looking back to his computer to check the time. “Joon.”

“Ah, dang it, it looks like your lunch hour is up,” he shot you a pout, you holding back a smile as you shook your head at him.

“$400?” You questioned, the man shaking his head. “More?” Namjoon shrugged. “$500?” Silence. “Namjoon, no,” you fought back your growing grin. “$600?”

“Not quite,” he countered, you sighing as your lips fully curved upward.

“You’re ridiculous,” you told him fondly as you placed the shoes very carefully on his desk. “I’ll let you handle those.” Standing from his lap the man chuckled at your reaction to the overpriced baby shoes.

“They’re so cute though, look at them,” he defended in a whiny tone. “They’re worth it, aren’t they?”

Shooting him a slight glare, you hummed. “Sure, Dimples,” you teasingly agreed. “I’ll see you at home,” you bid him farewell, placing a kiss to his lips before you headed towards the door.

“See you at home, Daisy,” he called out, watching you walk away.

“I love you,” you told him as you created more distance between you both “but you’re not buying our kids $600 shoes,” you informed him as you opened the door.

“They weren’t even $600, stop exaggerating,” he smiled as you stepped outside.

“It’s not happening,” you yelled to him just before the door shut, separating you from the man until you both arrived home later that night.

As Namjoon sat in his studio, chuckling to himself fondly as he stared at the baby shoes, you walked down the corridor, giggling to yourself about the silly soft man that you absolutely planned to marry and have kids with one day. And though that day was still far off, you were both picturing it vividly in that moment. And it was perfect.

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ginkgomoon · 3 years

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Shaw's Birth Chart- An Astrological Study

Late second birthday gift to Shaw. I haven't done any heavy analyses/studies in a while but I felt happy that I also completed some good solid Shaw content! Please enjoy. *Cries because it's finally done and before June is over.*

What is Astrology?

Astrology is the study of stars- the placements and movements of different celestial bodies to correlate what’s happening on Earth. It comes from the early Latin word astrologia.

There’s a rule that we live by-

As above so below

This means whatever happens within our solar system will ultimately affect us here on Earth. For example, the moon governs our emotions, and since our body is approximately 70% water, why wouldn’t the moon affect us too? But it’s not just us, it's the moon’s gravitational pull on the oceans, in the same sense, it’s also the moodiness you may feel during full moons!

There’s many aspects to Astrology, and that would normally be too much for a single post so I’ll be elaborating on the major contributions to one’s birth chart. This will include the planets and the signs.

There’s the inner planets, consisting of the Sun, Moon, Mercury, Mars and Venus, moving quickly within the chart. Then there’s the outer planets, Jupiter, Saturn, Neptune, Uranus and Pluto, the slower moving planets. And of course, the different signs of the zodiac with different personalities. They follow the order beginning with Aries, then Taurus, Gemini, Cancer, Leo, Virgo, Libra, Scorpio, Sagittarius, Capricorn, Aquarius and finally Pisces.

Shaw's Placements

Sun ☉ The Sun represents our character, personal identity and ego. Your star sign is also known as your Sun sign. It is the “you”. The “Self”. It shows your creative force, confidence, focus and our will to live. It’s the driving force of our charts in many ways, like how it is centred in our solar system. It’s the part of us that is the “adult”, censoring the “inner child”, and overall provides information on our vitality, and what we came to do.

Shaw's Sun is in Gemini ♊︎ The air sign of Gemini is famous for their self-expression and communication. Geminis are witty, clever and flexible people. They can easily gain social contacts just as they can easily adapt in various situations and communicate through intellectual conversations. Geminis love to collect and share all sorts of information and are rather seen to be “geniuses”.

Although, they can be easily bored if they’re not getting enough mental stimulation. Geminis with their abilities to detach themselves make them excellent observers, but this can make them very difficult to be close to and be intimate with. People note them to be confusing and hard to understand, but this is because their mind is always active and switching from one topic to another (as they are represented by “the Twins”). Geminis enjoy seeing the “lighter” side of life, making them more fun and pleasing to be around. It’s guaranteed that there is never a dull moment when you’re with a Gemini!

Shaw holds a good representation as a Gemini. He always has a witty remark to say to MC, has a way with words, is shown by how he reacts to “fight or flight” situations, and stresses the usage of his favourite word, “bored”. Shaw, by having this placement of the Sun in Gemini also gives much strength to his Mercury (the planet of communication) which is also in Gemini (more on this later).

Shaw: “What do people usually do during dates?”

MC: “Uh, it’s usually eating, shopping and watching movies.”

Shaw: “That’s too boring, isn’t it? Since it’s a date with you, I’d like to get your feedback. What would you like to do?”

MC: “Nothing else.”

Shaw: “Then, what do you want to do?”

He thought for a couple of seconds and raised his eyebrows slowly, with a hint of glimmer of dark light in his eyes.

“You'll agree to anything that I do…?” -One Day Date

MC: “Why did you suddenly take an interest in reading?”

Shaw: “For the final exam.”

Despite his concentration, he flipped the pages with incredible speed- it seemed as if he didn't like what he read. -Summer Night Birthday Date

Shaw values all forms of communication and self-expression, whether it would be through music, writing, and teaching others about ancient relics. Additionally, it appears that he enjoys a range of hobbies, such as playing the bass, skateboarding and spray-painting, due to his interest in the wide variety of passions he developed. MC notices this on one of her earliest dates with him.

MC: “Hey, you seem to have a wide range of hobbies.” -One Day Date

Moon ☾ The Moon in our charts shows what your home is like, your upbringing, the relationship between your mother, the unconscious, your instincts and what you need. It tells us a lot about a person’s emotions, how they deal with it and how they express it to others.

Shaw's Moon is in Capricorn ♑︎ Productivity, work, and feeling useful and respected are the basic need for Lunar Caps. They like to keep their emotions in check, as they want to maintain being the cool-headed, practical and steady person of any group and in any project. Moon in Capricorn suggests that they have clear boundaries and realistic kinds of goals, looking for reassurance and security in what they do. They value and respect tradition and all things tangible and real. Moon Caps look forward to working towards their distant future goals, planning one step at a time. When feeling moody, their emotions will emphasise the pressure they had already put on themselves. Additionally, this is why letting their guard down to be comforted and to be reminded that they are not alone is very beneficial. Capricorns are unwilling to stand down, especially when it comes to emotionally “letting go”, hiding their sensitivity under a sarcastic manner. Wherever Capricorn is found in the chart, there is a desire for control, structure, and organisation. Emotions are well dealt with and handled in an efficient and practical manner.

There is a certain mysteriousness and sadness behind Shaw that can be subtly detected and yet to further explore deeply. This might have come from past trauma, possibly related to family relations. He has realistic expectations and justifications for his emotions, and when it comes to his goals, he will utilise these to help him slowly achieve them. Shaw is slowly letting his guard around MC, and gradually allowing him to love.

MC: “How can you draw so well?” I murmured quietly, envying his skills which require much talent.

Shaw: “Is it good? In a few months, it will fade into obscure and worthless trash."

He glanced at the wall with an undisguised contempt, as if it was not his own work that he was judging.

“It’s a failure.” He shook a spray can and started spraying it on the wall.

MC: “Wait! Why are you doing this?”

Shaw did not avert his eyes, and stood with his arms folded, refusing to give in.

Shaw: “But it's flawed now.” -One-Day Date

After a few seconds of silence, he frowned and put everything in his arms back on the table except for a can of coke. “Don’t act like you know me so well.” -Exciting Moments Date

Perhaps it was because I didn't believe that Shaw would appear so calm or so still, or because I wanted to explore why he looked so focused, I also looked at him in silence.

Shaw: “You really like to immerse yourself in your past.”

MC: “Find strength through the memories, then grow and become stronger.” I suddenly recalled a line from a TV series, and read it out.

A flicker of doubt flashed through his eyes, and eventually condensed into a dismissive look.

Shaw: “Who told you that we can only become stronger with memories?”

MC: “Why are you so dismissive?”

Speaking of which, what made Shaw so strong if it’s not finding strength from his “memory” or “past”?

Shaw: Why are you telling me this? Reminiscing every day means you’re getting old.”

Rain started to shower from the gloomy sky. I looked up, and found that the dark clouds were only above this small area of filming location. It was actually very sunny over at the antique market.

Fortunately, the rain was not heavy, and was even getting lighter as he predicted. He pulled at his hair, shaking off the scattering beads of rain. Such serenity did not match my impression of him, yet it was unexpectedly harmonious and natural.

MC: “Are you the rain god? Why does it always rain when I'm out with you?”

Shaw: “It’s because I can control the weather.”

At this point, the rain, which had stopped just a short while, suddenly fell again, but more densely. The smirk on his face was not gone yet. The rain seemed to be getting heavier. I felt more saddened as he spoke, yet Shaw just laughed. -Seeking Date

As a Capricorn Moon, his value and respect for tradition, and in all things tangible is very much obvious, and is highlighted with his display of knowledge about historic relics in Loveland’s museum shown in various dates, being the only student in the Department of Archeology of in Loveland University, as well in this scene from Season 2 that I couldn’t bear to leave out.

Mercury ☿ Mercury is the communication planet. When you write, speak, absorb information and how rational we are, you’re using your Mercury. It refines our Sun sign and helps define how we take in and give out information. It also talks about short distance travelling, governing your thirst for knowledge, your wit and negotiating skills. If someone is an excellent talker, it’s thanks to their Mercury placements.

Shaw's Mercury in Gemini ♊︎ Since Mercury is already ruled by Gemini, which makes it a favourable placement for quick-witted communication. Gemini Mercury placements may come across as being scattered and restless, but this is because of their different interests, seemingly knowing a little bit about everything. They easily gain knowledge where all sorts of facts and figures are up their alley, however generally have too many interests to deeply delve all into one. They can thrive in a stimulating environment as they are fast adapters who effortlessly learn and multitask at lightning speed.

This overlaps with Shaw’s Gemini Sun Placement. He may confuse MC sometimes with his personality and wit, but it’s nice to see MC adapt to it as well, because they have a lot to learn and grow from each other. He encourages MC to live life more boldly, while she teaches him to take things slower and be more aware of how his emotions and thoughts should work in harmony under special circumstances.

“He has no problem with the noise from rehearsals, and yet he can't stop criticising me for being noisy. He gets easily bored by things and yet he never gets tired on aimless strolls. Moreover, he always disagrees with me…” -Exciting Moment Date

MC: “Are you doing something illegal?”

Shaw: “What do you think?” Shaw looked at me playfully, and I could not help taking a step back vigilantly.

MC: “I'm a good law-abiding citizen and I won't be your accomplice!”

Shaw: “That's not up to you.”

MC: “Oh no! What should we do, what if we get caught!”

Shaw: “Nothing. Having a date at the police station should be a good experience.” -One-Day Date

Additionally, those reoccurring moments when he says that he had changed his mind also stems from the “twinning” aspect of Gemini in his thought process.

Shaw: “Give the cake and forks to me.”

MC: “Didn’t you say you didn’t want it?”

Shaw: “I changed my mind.” -Exciting Moments Date

Venus ♀︎ The planet Venus is ultimately the planet of love, beauty, wealth, our material things and what we do with all that sort of jazz. It’s the pleasures, our sentiments, what we do for leisure and what we value. Grace, charm, creativity, and entertainment are ruled by Venus. We can use this planet to see how we approach relationships of the heart, investigate our ability to attract and the attraction to others (or things).

Shaw's Venus is in Cancer ♋︎ These kinds of people are quite sensitive and insecure when it comes to love, with egos perhaps said to be a little bit undeveloped but have so much love, comfort, security, and care to offer. These aspects are emphasised for Cancers, who pay more attention to your feelings rather than said words. All they want is a safe, solid and secure relationship. They can be moody when it comes to love, though they are not afraid of emotional confrontations and to put their emotions on display when feeling it’s safe.

But once they are hurt, they will have a hard time forgiving. Pleasing them will involve a lot of sentimentality, as recognising their influences and attachments are from the family and home. When fearful of being rejected, they can resort to some frustrating tactics to find out how loved they are. Venus Cancers will want to be cared for, and in return their partner will be rewarded with a loving, dependable and patient lover.

Shaw puts up a front with his teasing and seemingly lack of interest to attend events with MC, though we can tell that he’s a very thoughtful and intuitive lover. Once he has allowed himself to internally address his feelings, he will use straightforward methods in how he communicates it to MC, again, strengthened by his Gemini placements. Additionally, Cancers will cling onto something or someone that is of value to them, because it evokes memories and emotions. In the same sense, if there is someone that Shaw has his eye on, he will inch closer to them, and will be unwilling to give them up once he has them.

I tried to reach out and pull him down while watching out for him, but he just took me by surprise and grabbed my hand instead. I quickly pressed down my skirt with the other hand. Probably realising something, his amber eyes widened slightly, then let go of me, with a low “tsk”. -Seeking Date

Shaw: “Why can’t you let that go?”

MC: Because I'm sick of you treating me like this. One time, you waited for me to get to the Live House to tell me that there was a change in venue, and there was also this one time when you- achoo!”

I pulled my jacket tighter around myself. Suddenly there was a rustle above my head and I found myself covered in a warm coat. Shaw stood up without a word as if he didn't hear me. Clad in a white shirt, he looked at once familiar and strange from behind.

Then I noticed his hand in the pocket. I was expecting him to conjure something for me like he did last time with the Dragonfly Eye. Before I could react, Shaw suddenly grabbed me by hand. With no gloves on, he tightly wrapped his slender fingers around my palm. I felt an unexpectedly soft and warm sensation.

MC: “Let go of me!”

Shaw: “No, I don’t want to.”

Shaw: “You've been asking questions about me all day. Do you really want to get to know me? Bring your ear closer. I can tell you all about myself.”

-Exciting Moments Date

His hand flew past my face and landed on the back of my head. With a slight jerk, he pulled me toward him. Our foreheads were then pressed together, and I felt the warmth of his forehead resting on mine, my breath on my skin, his unintentional touch, and his body pressed against mine. -Summer Night Birthday Date

“Do you like me? Yes or no?” -Unanswered Phone Call

Mars ♂︎ Mars is the go-getter planet. Full of fire and passion, nothing would be done without it. It can give insights on how we can chase our goals and what our desires and our plans of attack are. Aggressive behaviour, lust and anger fall under this planet.

Shaw's Mars is in Libra ♎︎ Mars Libras often reflect about the things they do before they act, needing to weigh out all the decisions first. They also can get easily caught up in defending themselves and others, as well as charming others to win others’ favour if needed. They wish to not be disturbed in their life or how they “operate”, going about with the desire to balance everything, with almost having a seemingly passive-aggressive approach to situations. Mars Libras know when to compromise and manage conflict, as well as predicting problems and discord well in advance. Libras will question themselves on how they can make the playing field more fair, intervening when necessary and when things aren’t. Shaw demonstrates this during his bus stop intervention when he first meets MC, on his dates with her, as well as his confrontation with Gavin.

“Don’t hesitate if you have already thought it through.”

MC: “What’s the matter?”

Shaw shrugged, lifted the corner of his lip, and looked at me, saying this firmly word by word.

Shaw: “Don’t forget that this is our punishment. Be a good loser.” -One-Day Date

“What are you laughing at? Stop it.” he reached out his hand, trying to mess up my hair. I quickly dodged backward and started laughing harder.

“Hey.”

A stunned look flashed Shaw’s eyes. Before he finished his sentence, I slipped and fell heavily backwards. He looked at me before a hint of schadenfreude appeared in his eyes. Then he said in a raised tone, “that's what you get for laughing too hard.”

He then sat down with me. I turned to him in confusion.

MC: “Why did you sit down when you’re supposed to help me up?”

Shaw: “Because I wanted to.” -Exciting Moments Date

Brutal gales whipped up gravel and rocked trees. A bolt of lightning split the sly, illuminating the two people locked in a standoff.

Gavin’s face was completely devoid of its former calm, and in its place was wrath. The man opposite Gavin squinted his eyes ever so slightly. He went wild with laughter, and an arrogant expression swept back over his face.

Shaw: “Well, we’re finally starting to get serious. It’s about time.”

Gavin: “I warned you! She’s off-limits.”

Shaw: “Are you threatening me?”

Gavin: “You aren’t worthy.”

The man lifted his eyebrow and slowed his speech purposefully.

Shaw: “Anyway, my objective has been reached. I don’t mind toying with you. But I don't know how long this girl you’re obsessed with has long to live...”

The two fought with increasing ferocity. The man was slowly losing ground. Then, the sky roared, and a white flame connected heaven and earth. The man was gone without a trace. -Chapter 11-24

Jupiter ♃ Jupiter is the largest planet, a gas giant, known to expand as the “benefactor” of our solar system. Everything it touches is basically blessed. It’s the good luck, confidence, joy, freedom and adventure that it gives to one’s being that it’s so well known for. Jupiter is where you seize your opportunities, take a leap of faith and count your blessings.

Shaw’s Jupiter is in Aquarius ♒︎ Shaw attracts the most good fortune when he’s tolerant and fair, cooperative and inventive, being different from society’s norms and standards. He values technology, people and personal freedom the most, desiring to display his unique skills and talents. He is open to new methods and eccentric ways to progress. We see this as he’s willing to share his knowledge with others, shown in the CN Creative Date and Summer Solstice Date, and when Shaw offers a hand to help MC by making her alias “Mary Sue” to help her successfully break into STF in later chapters. He also shows her the electricity firework he makes with his Evol, which fascinates MC enough for her to reach out and touch it.

I looked at Shaw's on the other side of the wall. The flaunting design was imposing, as if it was about to jump out at me the next second. Then I looked at my grinning rabbit, which seemed to be the clumsy work of a child.

In the gold and purple pattern, “SHAW” could be faintly recognised while a grinning rabbit stood at the top of the world. They actually seemed… quite in harmony? -One-Day Date

MC: “Is that the same MP4 player you had on the bus?”

Shaw: “Yes, someone gifted it to me a long time ago.” Emboldened by his straightforwardness, I couldn't help but move slower. -Exciting Moments Date

Floating on his palm was a sizzling firework giving off dazzling sparks. I was stunned by the sight. I couldn’t believe that Evol could do that. I reached out to touch it, but Shaw stopped me.

“Are you out of your mind? It’s charged with electricity.” -Summer Night Birthday Date

Saturn ♄ Saturn is the planet of karma, restrictions, life lessons, hard facts and the challenges in life. It governs structure, our fears, work and self-discipline. Saturn is cold and calculating, however once the challenges and lessons Saturn have been mastered, great wisdom with great rewards can be obtained.

Shaw's Saturn is in Aries ♈︎ Aries Saturns are highly resourceful coming up with fresh ideas for our goals. They don’t like showing weakness and need to be careful when limiting themselves due to fear of failure or making a poor decision. They’re very self- reliant because they rarely ask for help. They need to be shown that not “being first” is okay.

It’s proven that Shaw has a competitive side to him, seen in the CN Summer Solstice Date and his Rumours and Secrets, where Shaw refuses to give up and ends up doing dolphin flips on his skateboard in a match against a senior and wins after his first loss. In Accompanying Date, he acknowledges his embarrassing moments when he got caught skipping class, then reflects on them. We also see this as he flees his battle with Gavin when he almost loses.

Shaw: "I just remember winning. Don’t people at ten years old want to get swept away, win against everyone, and leave them far behind?" -CN Summer Solstice Date

Shaw: "The fence of the school was disagreed with by the elementary students. Back then, my skills weren’t refined yet. I got discovered by a teacher when I fell from it." While reminiscing, Shaw pouts unhappily. -CN Accompanying Date

The two fought with increasing ferocity. The man was slowly losing ground. Then, the sky roared, and a white flame connected heaven and earth. The man was gone without a trace. -Chapter 11-24

Uranus ♅ Wherever Uranus is in the chart, it’s where we want to break free, where we want to do things our own way, when you don’t care what everyone else is doing or thinking about. It’s where we express our ideals on freedom, innovation and experience great epiphanies. We strive for independence with the influence of the Uranus character. As a result, we learn to rebel, break traditions and authority. It shakes things up from our past and into the modern future. It is often associated with unpredictability, chaos and anarchy.

Shaw's Uranus is in Aquarius ♒︎ These people are interested in innovating, changing and updating traditions related to technology, community and individuality. They see freedom through or in these areas, and are ready to rebel if needed. Aquarius Uranus people are open to new ideas and free thought.

Shaw is no stranger to the concept of rebellion. He sneaks into places he shouldn’t be in, spray-paints graffiti, and helps MC access top-secret information in STF. His comments on history further outlines the unique outlook that he challenges with traditional views.

I looked around nervously, remembering that last time, we were chased by city police for street graffiti.

Shaw: “Don’t you want to come? Hurry up.”

MC: “Do you just do anything you like? Do you abide by no rules?” -One-Day Date

Shaw: “What do you think history is?” Student: Those historical relics you told us about just then!”

- Student: “If everything is history, how does one learn it?” Shaw: “There’s no need for an intention. It’s everywhere.” -CN Summer Solstice Date

Neptune ♆ Neptune is the inspirational planet of dreams, inspirations, soulmates, enlightenment and sacrifice. It’s all about connection with the universe and the world around you, however can have the polar effect of deception and illusion, along with disappearances of sorts. It can also govern your music tastes and influence on how you can inspire others.

Shaw’s Neptune is in Capricorn ♑︎ With this placement, his idealistic world will be based around realism, morality, and responsibility. He has to believe in the ground foundations of realisability of his dreams- enough so that it usually has a realistic thread about them. General optimism and faith will be lacking if he’s not doing something that he is passionate about and finds inspiration in. However, he has the capacity to change his practical dreams into reality the most. His influences and contributions come from his connection with Dark/MC, again with Mars in Libra, and is seen as a guide and spectator, though less passive than a Time Observer. It’s also clear that Shaw cares a lot for his music and his band. He even recognises a plagiarised song in one of his Rumours and Secrets.

“Playing with the band is just a hobby, so Shaw rarely creates something from scratch. He must have hidden things he wanted to say in his music, but never mentioned it to anyone.” -Summer Night birthday Date

Shaw: "No wonder these people didn’t realise it, they copied an unpopular song from the 80s. You should also improve your musical literacy so you wouldn’t be confused by these things." -CN Glacier Navigation Rumours and Secrets

My phone started buzzing in my outer coat pocket. I took it out and saw an unfamiliar number. A few moments of hesitation, I answered it. An unfamiliar voice came from the other end.

“Long time, no see. I’m sure you’re trying to guess who I am right now.” There was something in his voice that gave me a sense of déjà vu.

MC: “May I ask, what this is about?”

“I can’t just call you for no reason? Everyone has already forgotten you. You are officially someone who shouldn’t exist in this world.

MC: “Impossible! Just who are you, anyway?”

“Go see for yourself. For instance, at the place where it all started.” -Chapter 19-1

Outside the floor to ceiling window, a tall man with light purple hair was looking at me in the eye, an unmistakable smile on his lips. Who is this person? He waved at me and strove in the diner.

“Oh, here you are.” He greeted me with such familiarity, a few loose strands of hair fell over his forehead, softening his sharp eyes. His actions were swift and sure, giving me no time to interrupt. His face seemed so familiar but I can’t remember where I’ve seen it before.

MC: “Who are you?”

Hearing this, the young man’s brow raised, and the look of amusement flashed over his eyes.

“You don’t remember? You bumped my skateboard.”

MC: “Oh! We met on the bus. But how is it that you remember me?”

He didn’t answer me straight away. He just observed my expression with great interest, seemingly enjoying watching my reaction.

“I’m the one who called you. It’s me. The dream world has no effect on me.”

Pluto ♇ Pluto is the Lord of the Underworld, and is not to be messed around with. It’s responsible for great destructible transformations and corresponds to the life, death and rebirth cycle. It’s the detoxing planet, for you to awaken and be reborn. It shows us where we can change the world, alongside right where we can go into the abyss of the cunning and controlling energies of Pluto. Its powers can be ever so subtle, however it can have the forces to trash you with the realisations of what you need to let go in order to transform. Think of it as the “healing crisis” moments that you can thank Pluto for.

Shaw's Pluto is in Sagittarius ♐︎ They take beliefs and philosophy of life very seriously, more than most. They believe deeply in personal freedom and expression, questioning ideologies in place. They often watch for a tendency to move from one project to another, perhaps due to inhuman expectations. They are motivated and driven by the vision of a better world, therefore their faith in humanity is strong.

Shaw helps MC multiple times when she is in need, additionally supporting her beliefs and vision to save the world and everyone in it, like when she first entered the Winter World and helped her rescue the kidnapped children against her battle with Leto in the Chapter 34. He even gives her his necklace- the Dragonfly Eye in the end of Season 1 and wishes her well once they meet again.

Shaw: “Oh yeah, the other you is really funny. Today, she saved someone on the street. Did you use to do stuff like that too?”

Dark MC: “I’m not like her. I don’t do meaningless things like that. Stick to the plan.”

Shaw: “Oh? I’d thought you’d like this scene. What are you planning to do, anyway?”

Dark MC: “Why of course, I’m going to accept my place as QUEEN.” -Behind the Curtain Chapter 5

MC: “Shaw, what are you doing here? Where’s Leto?”

Another thunder flashes, Shaw’s face was reflected clearly and I saw him lift his eyebrow slightly.

Shaw: “You are so slow. Did you bring the notebook? Keep it and give it to me later.”

MC: “You haven’t answered why you are here.”

Shaw: “And I thought you were starting to get smarter. None of us can stay out of it now. If I don’t intervene, this world is finished.”

I would love to see more about Shaw’s background character and his upbringing as to why he had appeared a bit defensive in some dates. Poor Shaw :( Hopefully this study allowed you all to gain a deeper understanding of Shaw and his character, and to why he’s important in the main storyline and other events alike.

#happy birthday Shaw #brain is fried but let's continue making more content #mlqc #love and producer #mr love queens choice #恋与制作人 #mlqc analysis #mlqc en #mlqc cn #mlqc shaw #mlqc ling xiao #birth chart #astrology

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