#I know I am mostly harmless. but I am one of the things that comes out of the darkness | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

atsvmi · 1 year

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Isagi’s Interlude

“I wish I wasn’t famous/ I wish I was still in school/ So that I could have you in my dorm room/ I would put it on you crazy” - Cece’s Interlude, Drake

✿ tags: minors dni, 18+ content, pro!Isagi, fem!reader (called good girl, wears a skirt, has cleavage, etc.), established relationship, mention of an age difference (reader is older than Isagi, both are in their 20s), consensual audio recording, role play (university students), switch!Isagi, switch!reader, oral (male receiving), humping, unprotected sex, mentions of virginity but neither is a virgin, purity kink, corruption kink (?), one mention of a spoiler, tbh i think this is pwp but idk

✿ wc: 3.5k

✿ a/n: the time has come that i officially am no longer catfishing as a writing blog🥳 please clap. also, this is my first time writing smut so please be kind<3

“Do you think we’d still date if we knew each other when we were in school?”

Your question is a random but welcomed conversation as you both work to reset your shared kitchen after dinner, you wash as he dries. In the seconds between the next clean dish, he pauses to consider his answer, before choosing to reach for low-hanging fruit.

“Do you mean high school? If so then...I hope not,” he finally answers. He can’t help but laugh as you fling the excess water and soap from your fingers onto him in indignation.

“No, I didn’t mean fucking high school. And quit making me seem like a fucking cradle robber, asshole.” You’ve been together long enough that the four-year age difference between the two of you is little more than a fun fact and a harmless joke at times. He can sense your annoyance is mostly for show but he chooses not to push any further.

“Ok, ok. I’m sorry,” he manages to get out between chuckles, fending himself from the assault of suds. Again he pauses to really think about what could’ve been. What would he have studied? Would he manage to get into a university with a good team? How would you manage to cross paths? He realizes it’s hard to consider anything when he doesn’t know much about your own school experience outside of the anecdotal stories you’ve told him.

“Tell me what you were like in school first.”

You resume washing the dishes, multitasking as you answer him.

“Um…pretty lame honestly. I wrote for the school’s newspaper. I wasn’t super active on campus but that made me get out there more than I would’ve on my own. But I did go to some parties.”

He lets your answer sink in.

“Yeah, I think we would’ve still got along. You don’t sound like you were much different from now so I don’t see why not.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see your lips turn slightly up, pleased with his answer. Cute.

“Do you ever think about your life if things turned out differently? Like if Blue Lock never happened?”

He can’t say he has. Blue Lock changed his life on its head completely, it’s hard to imagine things working out any differently. Tada and the others he went to school with were freshly graduated, at least according to their social media updates, so he supposes he would be too. Yet still, it’s hard to think about something so different than today.

“I dunno. I can’t really picture it. Actually, I don’t even want to. If I didn’t go to Blue Lock then who knows if I’d ever get the chance to play the soccer I want to. I’d probably never get to play professionally either.” He lets his train of thought wander, eventually realizing that without playing professionally, who knows if he’d ever cross paths with you. He buries the thought before it can even fully form and upset himself in the process.

“Yeah, that’s fair,” you conclude as you hand him the final dish. “I’m gonna get ready for bed. Can you just finish up here by sweeping?”

He nods in the affirmative, which you thank with a kiss that just misses his lips before leaving in the direction of the bedroom. Left with only his thoughts he can’t help but think a bit more about what could’ve been.

Obviously, he’d continue playing soccer as long as possible. Sure his high school team wasn’t amazing, but maybe through tryouts he’d end up at a decent enough school. And he’s always liked art class. Maybe he would’ve tried to pursue a fine arts degree? Or physical therapy to help athletes just in case soccer really didn’t pan out. But what then? For someone who’s built an entire soccer career around the ability to visualize a scenario, he really can’t help but to draw a blank.

Distracted by being in his own head, finishing around the kitchen takes longer than usual. When he finally manages to make his way to your shared room, he just manages to hear the sink’s water turn off, a sign that you’re at the tail end of your nightly routine.

He turns down the bed, first removing the many throw pillows you insist are necessary (a mild point of contention in his opinion. After all, what good is a pillow you’re not even allowed to lay on?) and then making himself comfortable using the “sleeping pillows” to prop himself up against the headboard, occupying himself by scrolling on the phone while he waits for you to make your way to bed. Despite it being the off-season he’s scheduled to meet with a trainer to maintain his conditioning so an early night is in order.

The click of the bathroom door opening draws his eyes but more importantly, what you’ve decided to wear to bed has his full attention.

“Baby, you look-” he starts before you cut him off.

“Is this still a good time for the interview?”

“Interview?”

He’s never been so confused in his life. And even worse, he can’t even dedicate half of his mind to start to comprehend what you’re playing at when he’s busy eyeing you from head to toe. The only thing on his mind is the oversized replica of his Bastard München jersey you’ve tied at your waist and the shortest skirt he’s ever seen. If he were to turn you around he’s sure that it’d cover absolutely nothing he’s sure a skirt is meant to. But even more captivating is the pair of thigh highs that indent into your skin the same way his fingers do when he-

“Yes? The post-game interview. I was hoping to get a quote for the paper from the player that scored the winning goal.”

“Uhh…” Is the most intelligent answer he can muster as he watches you climb onto the bed with a pad of paper and pen in hand. The size of the jersey only frames your cleavage as it gapes open thanks to gravity. Eventually, you make yourself comfortable, legs tucked under you and pen poised to take notes of his response.

“Is it ok if I record this,” you ask, sliding your phone on the nightstand, voice recorder rolling once he manages a stiff nod of his head. You continue. “So what were you thinking in that last play? It was pretty amazing if I say so myself.”

“Winning goal?” He should feel embarrassed by the way he can’t pull his eyes from your legs but the slither of skin between where your skirt ends and the socks begin is calling his name. It’s like he’s in high school again the way he can feel the blood rush from his head. Only your groan of annoyance gives him the strength to meet your eyes again.

“Babe, it’s called role play,” you say as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe in some ways, it is.

“Right. Role play.” A beat passes. “What exactly are the roles we’re playing?”

The look you give him makes his cock twitch in his pants.

“Obviously, you’re the star of our university’s soccer team and I am the reporter assigned to cover the season. You just scored the championship goal. Aaaand scene,” you drop your pen and paper to clap for extra effect and then grab both again, poised and ready for his answer.

Truthfully, he can hardly keep up with your antics but that’s never stopped him from trying. He’s had enough practice managing eccentric personalities from the cast of characters Blue Lock managed to put together so this is nothing but a cakewalk. The fact he’s in love with you only makes your idiosyncrasies endearing.

“Right.” He clears his throat, buying time. “I try to keep a cool head and focus on the field whenever I’m playing. A championship game doesn’t change that.”

You scratch something down on the notepad before continuing.

“And how do you feel now that you’ve won?”

“It’s a big achievement to win the championship for the school, and even more so to be the one to finish the game. I just hope to do even better next year.”

This time you jot away a bit longer, leaving his attention to wander back to your outfit. He reaches out a hand to appreciate the getup, running his hand up your knee to just under the hem of your skirt.

“Mr. Isagi you seem pretty distracted. Are you sure this is still a good time?”

“Call me Yoichi”. He doesn’t move his hand away when he answers.

Again you put down your props, seemingly for good as they rest next to your phone.

“I suppose this is probably too boring of a celebration for a star player like yourself. I should probably let you go back to the team for a proper congratulations. I’m sure you have quite the fan club waiting for you.”

“I doubt it. I’ve never been that popular.”

With that, you scoot closer, letting your legs fall open so that he can get the slightest glimpse between your legs if your skirt were to ride up even the slightest centimeter.

“That sounds doubtful. Who wouldn’t want a chance with Isagi Yoichi? Ace of the soccer team. Handsome and nice to boot.”

Despite complimenting his personality, your attention is focused on his physique, eyes roaming across his body appreciatively. He doesn’t fail to notice that you linger a second longer where the sheets have started to tent.

“Do you think it’d be ok if I properly congratulated you,” you ask, resting a hand on the sheet, ready to pull it away at a moment’s notice. You both have a healthy sex life, both well accustomed to initiating, but it’s rare for you to be so forward. He might pass out if you wait any longer to touch him.

“Congratulations? What did you have in mind?” Is all he can get out, forcing you to get straight to the point.

“Let me suck your cock. As a congratulations on a job well done.” Your hand cups his length through both the layers of the sheet, his joggers, and underwear, but he swears he could still cum with the slightest amount of friction he’s so wound up.

“Yeah. Yes. Please.” He’s near breathless, he wants you so badly.

Not a second is wasted before you have him bare from the waist down. He completes the look by pulling his shirt over his head, throwing the offending article wherever it chooses to land. All the while, you shimmy yourself down between his legs. Sure he’s the one fully naked but the eroticism of the sight before him already has him on the brink of cumming.

His name emblazoned between your shoulder blades is something he still has yet to learn to be normal about, but more than that, he finds that he was right about your skirt not covering an inch of your backside. However, what he wasn’t expecting was for it to perfectly frame the curve of your ass since you’ve apparently decided to forego underwear.

“Fuck me,” he gets out in only a puff of air.

“In due time, Mr. Yoichi,” is all you offer before kissing the mushroom tip, smearing the precum that’s collected on your lips, and then swallowing all that will comfortably fit in your mouth. It takes all the strength he can muster to not instinctively buck into you but he can’t hide the deep groan that comes out involuntarily as he meets the entrance of your throat.

“Fuck. You’re so good at this. Always so good,” he offers as he bundles your hair into his fist, slowly guiding you up and down his length. The praise leads you to moan around him, getting him even closer to the brink of cumming.

To get a better view he props himself up on one shaky arm, massaging all that he can reach, as you use your other hand to fondle his balls. Mere minutes pass before he starts to feel the familiar pit of pleasure begin to grow in his belly and it takes all his willpower to pull you off of him before he cums from the added stimulation. It’s next to a miracle that he manages to hold off even after he’s pulled you off once he sees the thick strings of saliva that still connect the two of you.

“I wasn’t done yet,” you have the audacity to pout.

“I didn’t want to cum yet,” he answers. Even to his own ears, he sounds debauched.

While still catching his breath he pulls you close, encouraging you to straddle him. You do and let out quiet moans as you rut your bare pussy against his length. Despite being so close to cumming before, he’s happy to let you do as you please. When your legs eventually tire, he switches to using both hands on your waist to manhandle you the way he knows you like.

“Tell me how you feel, sweetheart.” He can’t get enough of your sounds, no matter how small. To see how much of a mess you’re making he flips the front of your skirt, his tip coming in and out of view as he rocks you back and forth.

“So good, Yoichi. Your hands feel so good.”

He knows it’s not enough to get you off, that you need more. Eventually, he stops, pulling you down so that your chests meet. If you really want to role play, he figures he should get into the role he’s been assigned.

“Is there more to my award,” he asks, hands roaming under the jersey and under your skirt. There’s nowhere his hands don’t explore while he waits for your answer.

“W-what more do you want?”

He moves his right hand so that it’s between your bodies, spreading your pussy lips so that he can fully appreciate the wetness that’s accumulated. He uses his full palm to rub your clit while he answers.

“You said you’d fuck me in due time, yeah? Or were you all talk?”

“Um…about that.” Your eyes are fluttering, struggling to stay open and focus on his words. He feels like he’s on top of the world seeing how he can ruin you. “I have to t-tell you something.”

“I’m listening baby.” His voice is muffled as he leaves kisses across your neck and cheeks. Anywhere he can reach while you still use him to get off.

“I’ve never done this before.” Your eyes meet.

The proverbial record scratches and again he’s confused.

“What do you mean, you’ve never done this before?” Sure you both have busy schedules but there’s no way this is new to either of you. As a matter of fact, it couldn’t be more than a week since he had you in this exact position-

“I was a virgin when I got to college,” you whisper directly in his ear.

Again you have the upper hand as it feels like he’s been doused with a bucket of ice. The feeling only lasts a second though before it feels like every nerve lights up once he connects that this is still a part of the scene you’ve conjured. Oh.

The idea of you as a virgin has never crossed his mind once until this very moment. Given the age you were when you met, he had no reason to give it consideration. It’s not like he was even a virgin when you met. He makes a mental note to do some soul-searching later to find out why he’s rock hard and nearly brought back to the brink of cumming at the mere idea.

“Do…do you want to keep going?”

You laugh. A full out belly laugh.

“Yoichi, you're so cute. Only you would still be so considerate even in a fantasy.”

If all the blood in his body wasn’t occupied he’d probably blush at your teasing.

“I fucking love you,” you emphasize with a kiss. “Yes, I want to continue.”

Not another word is needed before he’s fully plunged back into the world you’ve created. No, he's never thought about you as a virgin but now that the seed has been planted he’s going to absolutely ruin you.

Within a breath, he’s switched your positions, now with you on your back and him pulling your legs onto his lap as he sits above you.

“Tell me if anything is too much, ok?” He preambles before he sucks both his ring and middle fingers, slowly pushing in one finger, then the other when he deems you ready.

Now that you’re fully on display for him he can’t help but stare. Again, the skirt hides absolutely nothing but he does push the jersey so that your tits are on display for him as well. Seeing you dressed but so exposed has his head swimming.

“You’re so pretty. Prettiest thing I’ve seen on campus.” If he’s going to play along, then he might as well go all out.

He bends at the waist to take in one tit, using his tongue to lick at and bite your nipple, before turning his attention to the other all the while he doesn’t stop pumping his fingers into you.

“Yoichi, please. I need you,” you whine.

He takes pity on you and moves from your chest and back up to your lips, kissing you deeply. God, he’s so in love with you.

“I’m sorry, baby. I just wanted to make sure you were good and ready. I want to make sure I don’t hurt you.”

“I promise I’m ready.”

“Ok, ok. I hear you. But can you do me a favor and clean my fingers for me?”

As soon as his request hits his ears your mouth falls open in a way that can only be described as obedient. He lets you suck at both his fingers until he removes them himself, the way your tongue slips between them turning him on all the more.

“So good for me. I really am a lucky guy, huh?” He watches you preen under his praise as he reaches next to your head for an extra pillow, lifting your hips to situate it underneath you.

“Ok, if you need me to stop just tell me, ok? For any reason.” You nod your head yes.

“Need to hear you say it.”

“Yes, Yoichi. I promise.”

“That’s my good girl.”

He locks his hand in yours before he finally presses into you, both of you moaning as he works his hips into you. It’s a fantasy, sure, but he’s as mindful as he can be to be slow and let you get accustomed to him, even if it’s far from your first times, or even 48 hours since he last fucked you.

He’s captivated by the way your mouth falls open as he fucks into you. It’s familiar but entrances him every time. When you give the go ahead he increases his pace, working at that spot he knows gets you there the fastest.

“More, need more,” and he knows exactly what you need, licking his thumb before rubbing against your clit in tight circles. It’s only through time and experience that he knows exactly how to work your body, confirmed by the way you babble his name as if it’s the only word you know.

“You’re taking me so well. Feel so good, so tight. Can feel you squeezing me. You gonna cum for me?”

“Yeah. Gonna cum for you. So fucking close.” You’re wrecked.

“I know, baby. Tell me what you need.”

“Kiss me.”

Your wish is his command, him meeting your waiting mouth. It’s barely a kiss as you can hardly meet his mouth between your moans but he swallows them all dutifully. It’s when your back arches and you fall near silent beside one final cry of his name does he know that you’re cumming. He pulls away to watch you fall apart.

“That’s my girl. So beautiful. Let it out for me.” The vice around his cock makes it difficult to fuck you through your orgasm but he powers through. Only once you relax does he rut into you a few more times before he loses himself, filling you as deeply as he can manage.

It’s silent once he collapses next to you, both catching your breath. When he catches his breath before you he departs with a peck to your lips before he leaves for the bathroom, returning with a damp rag.

“If that’s what I missed out on then I wouldn’t have minded going to school,” he breaks the reverie, cleaning between your legs before his cum has a chance to cool and become uncomfortable.

“Well, I’m glad everything worked out the way it did. Now I can have you all to myself,” you smile at him. He thinks his heart might burst.

“Yeah…that’s true too. Maybe everything worked out the way it did so that we could meet each other?”

“God, you're so sappy. Gross.” You both know you don’t mean it.

“Yeah, yeah. I love you too.” He once again bends at the waist to meet your lips. Gross or not he’s glad things aligned to this very moment.

You meet him halfway, sitting up on one arm to brush away his damp bangs. When you pull away you meet his gaze.

“I really, really do fucking love you, Yoichi”.

Yeah, he’s sure he’d meet you in every universe.

#isagi x reader #isagi yoichi x reader #isagi smut #isagi yoichi smut #blue lock x reader #bluelock x reader #blue lock smut #bluelock smut #i’m going to walk away from this site for 48 hours out of shame #(me lying)

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courtforshort15 · 1 year

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Fever Dream

Pairing: Matt Murdock x GN Reader

Word Count: 3,100

Summary: You feel like utter death. Good thing you have a boyfriend whose mother-hen tendencies mean he’s the best at taking care of you.

Trigger warnings: None. Just my self-indulgent imagination of Matt taking care of me while I’m sick.

Masterlist

The sneeze you let out at seven in the morning is almost embarrassingly loud.

It wracks your entire body, the force of it causing you to jerk in your bed, and you barely have time to cover your nose with a tissue. Cringing, you blow your nose before tossing the tissue into the trashcan you’ve moved next to your bed, no longer having the energy to get up and walk each individual one over.

The feeling of sick came on so unexpectedly and savagely that you didn’t have time to make a grocery trip to grab any medicine, and you were currently stuck using almost-expired Benadryl for the congestion and a nearly empty bottle of ibuprofen for your headache and sore throat.

Seriously, you were mostly fine last night. Maybe a little stuffy, but nothing close to this.

With a loud groan, you call your boss on her cell phone to let her know that you won’t be in today, and the raspy tone in your voice paired with the sound of a stuffy nose was enough for her to tell you to take the rest of the week off.

“No, really, please don’t come in,” she tells you, and you can practically feel the way she’s shuddering on the other side of the line. You’ve worked with her long enough to know she’s a major germaphobe, and she’d rather miss a soft deadline by a day or two than have you anywhere near her. You’re not above using that to your advantage, and have done so in the past, especially in instances when you need an excuse to stay with Matt when he’s recovering from a night that’s rougher than usual.

“I am willing to bribe you to make sure you stay home. I will send you all the soup you need if you just stay away.”

“You got it boss lady,” you somehow manage to croak out, cringing at both the pain and the way you sound. “I’ll see you Monday.” With a sigh, you hang up with her, grateful for a large balance of PTO, and fully planning on taking her up on the soup once you have an appetite. She’ll splurge on good stuff, too.

Matt is next. Instead of calling him, you send him a quick text, knowing he’s likely already at the courthouse for the morning, and you’re unwilling to interrupt him at work. He’s less likely to check a message than take a phone call, for obvious reasons, so it's easier to escape the laser focus of his concern for just a few extra hours. Typing out the message, you let him know you’re not feeling well and unable to meet him for lunch, as you usually do on Wednesdays. Knowing him, he’ll call you the second he’s on recess, and will likely end up swinging by this evening anyway.

With a loud exhale that causes your throat to burn and offers an abrupt coughing fit, you lay back down against the pillows, and pass out.

---------

You wake up to the sound of someone pounding on your door, and it startles you enough that you nearly roll out of bed.

It takes you a few moments to get your bearings, grimacing at the way your body feels worse than when you’d fallen asleep, and you mentally curse the person interrupting your rest. It’s probably your obnoxious landlord who finds random excuses to check-in on you, much to your annoyance and Matt’s suspicion, but the man is harmless, guilty of nothing other than using far too much cologne to cover up the stale smell of body odor and of cigarettes.

You’d roll your eyes if the idea of the simple motion didn’t sound so painful.

If you weren’t already certain about having been knocked on your ass by the flu, specifically, there’s no doubt in your mind now. A throbbing headache. A throat that feels like it was being torn apart with glass. Congestion. It was all there, and all you want to do is pass out until you feel better.

The pounding on the door continues, combined with an extremely muffled voice, and deciding your body is too sore and too sick to get up, you roll back over in bed, burying your face under a pillow to drown out the noise. Another coughing fit hits you unexpectedly, and your body spasms with the force of your lungs revolting against you. When you’re done, you vaguely pick up on the silence when the pounding abruptly stops, and you sigh, grateful for the quiet once more.

Neil has given up, it seems, but you’re still bitter that your sleep has been interrupted, and the idea of sending the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen to rattle his fire escape at 1am has never felt so appealing.

You’re just about to drift off into sleep again when, not even five minutes later, the sound of your window being opened from the outside shatters the blessed silence once more.

…oh.

Guess that answers the question of who had been pounding on your door. You mentally apologize to Neil.

“Sweetheart?” His voice is quiet as he steps into your room, and you don’t need eyes to know the way he’s probably wrinkling his nose at the smell of sickness that’s wafting inside the cramped space. His sense of smell is so sensitive, and you definitely don’t envy him for it. You can only imagine how your sweat-damp skin smells, or the mouth that had only experienced half of the recommended amount of teeth brushing this morning, too weak to remain standing for long.

Nose wrinkling, you cringe on his behalf.

You feel him settle on the edge of your bed behind you, hand immediately reaching out to rub your back, and your body can’t help but instinctively arch into his touch, despite the fact that you feel like death. He trails his fingers up to the back of your neck, the touch soothing and offering comfort in a way only he can. His skin on yours is the most natural feeling in the world.

“Not feeling well, sweetheart?”

You shake your head miserably, a full body shiver shaking you all the way down to your toes, before coughing into your pillow, too sick to bother covering your mouth and trusting the pillowcase to stop the spray.

Gross.

Matt’s hand gently pulls you over with a light hand on your shoulder until you’re laying on your back, and he makes sure to adjust the blankets around you so that no warmth seeps out from underneath the covers. Your eyes remain tightly shut, unwilling to subject yourself to the bright light of your bedroom. Your head is pounding, borderline migraine material, and even the thought of sunshine makes it throb. “Just a cold?”

Shaking your head again, you open your mouth to answer. “I think it’s the flu.” Your voice is barely more than a whisper, your throat too sore to get much else out. He makes a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat. If there’s anyone who understands the feeling of your entire body being sore and in pain, it’s him.

The man, even while he runs himself ragged, hardly ever gets sick. He averages four hours of sleep a night, ends his evenings with grazes and cuts that are likely full of all the various types of bacteria known to man, drinks way less water than he should, and he still remains relatively healthy.

Maybe it’s a good thing, though, you think wryly. He’d either be the worst case of man-flu you’ve ever seen, or he would end up in a ditch somewhere, out patrolling while delirious with a fever. Your man is a hot mess on a good day, and you can’t imagine adding sickness to the foray.

You feel him lay his hand softly on your forehead, and you shudder at how cold it feels in comparison to your warm skin. Your fever must have returned with a vengeance, and you acknowledge it with a barely restrained groan.

“You feel pretty warm,” he tells you, his voice quiet and one of concern. You appreciate that he’s using a gentle tone that is kind on your ears, not wanting to add anything loud and overwhelming less it makes the headache worse. “Have you taken anything?”

“Ibuprofen when I woke up.” Finally opening your eyes, you blearily watch as he frowns, red lips tilted down at the corners. His hand is still on your forehead, but he moves it to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear.

“When did you wake up?”

“Seven, I think.”

He sighs, moving his hand so that it rests on your cheek. “Sweetheart, that was almost six hours ago. Have you been asleep this whole time?”

“I think so,” you whisper, watching as he shrugs his suit jacket off. He tosses it on the chair that’s in the corner of the room, face still tilted towards yours. You always seem to be his sole focus when he’s around you, and it never fails to make your heart stutter. “I fell asleep after I texted you.”

Matt leans over to place his glasses on your bedside table before he returns back to you, his face one of confusion, and his eyes looking more hazel than normal in the sunlight as they roam blindly over your form. “You didn’t text me.”

Your own eyes briefly flutter close again, even as hard as you try to keep them open. You reach up and pull his hand away from your face so that you can lace your fingers with his. His hand squeezes yours gently. “Yeah I did. I told you I wasn’t going to make lunch today.”

“I didn’t get a text from you,” he reiterates with a calm shake of his head. “I’ve been calling you for the past hour when you didn’t show up.”

“But I–” Eyes opening again, you move to sit up, but he pushes you gently back down. Your neck and shoulders immediately relax back into your pillow with a sigh. “Can you hand me my phone?”

Matt grabs your phone from where it had apparently been resting by your knee and places it into your outstretched hand without a word. His hand goes back to your cheek so that can resume rubbing his thumb over your cheekbone, and it takes great effort to not fall back to sleep and close your eyes again. Fingers weak with sickness, you press in your fingerprint to unlock your phone, noticing immediately the several calls, texts and voicemails, most of them from him but a few from Karen, too. You grimace at the obvious display of his concern, knowing the level of anxiety that had likely popped up when you didn't answer any of the calls.

No wonder he had been pounding on your door.

You open up your chat with him, wincing when you see what had happened. “I never hit send,” you tell him with a whisper, throat still rebelling against the words forcing themselves out of your throat. “I’m sorry, Matt. I really did mean to text you. I was pretty out of it.”

He leans down and presses a kiss into your forehead. His stubble briefly rasps against your skin, and you can’t help but want to lean into it, even while the texture feels scratchy on skin that seems to be more sensitive than usual. “It’s alright, sweetheart. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

You snort softly, unable to help yourself. “If you call feeling like I’m dying okay, then sure. I’m okay.”

Matt makes another sympathetic sound in the back of his throat, hand still softly rubbing your cheek. You shift in your bed, trying to burrow yourself further into the covers. He pulls the blankets tighter around you, helping them settle up around your neck. “I’m going to grab Tylenol to help bring your fever down.”

You cringe, and Matt’s brow furrows, indicating he’s caught onto the brief twitch of your face. “I don’t have any.”

“You don’t have any Tylenol?”

You cough again, this time covering your mouth to avoid coughing in his face. He doesn’t shift away from you as you do, just continues to keep his face near yours so that you don’t have to strain your voice to speak to him. “No,” you manage to rasp out when you’re done. “I’m out.”

He groans suddenly. “I depleted your stash last week, didn’t I?”

The same memory that had apparently hit him hits you a second later, the image of him holding a bloody rag to his shoulder that had taken a heavy hit flitting through your head briefly. You’d given him the last two tablets in the bottle as his lips twisted into a wry grin, promising to buy you a new bottle. You’d asked him to promise to avoid getting hit so frequently instead, the grin on your face just as dry and fond. “I– yeah, I think so.”

“I’m sorry, love. I meant to grab more for you.”

You twist your head to cover another cough. “It’s fine, I forgot about grabbing some, too.”

“Do you have Ibuprofen?” he asks as he runs a hand through his hair, still looking somewhat frustrated at himself as he shifts slightly on your bed.

“Not much, but yeah,” you say with a wince. “That bottle’s almost empty, too.”

“How about any cold medicine? Decongestants? Something for your cough?”

“No,” you reply with another grimace. To his credit, he doesn’t twist his face into the disbelief he’s surely feeling, both at himself and at you. His eye twitches, though.

“How are you out of that, too?”

“Judgmental, much?” you ask with a grin that’s far too humorous for the situation and the way everything seems to hurt, including the muscles in your face. “I wasn’t exactly planning to get this sick.”

“You should have–”

“Don’t be such a hypocrite, Matthew.”

He sighs, hand darting up to run a quick hand down his face, attempting to hide a smile that relays a level of exasperation. “What do you have, then?”

“Just Benadryl…that’s almost expired.”

Matt lets loose another loud exhale and slowly lifts his head to face the ceiling as if sarcastically thanking the universe for letting him fall for someone who seems to be so bad at taking care of themselves. You’d laugh if it wouldn’t lead to a loud coughing fit.

Pot. Kettle.

“Okay, I’m going to call Karen to see if she can bring some stuff by.”

“I don't–”

He's shaking his head before you even finish your objection. “Sweetheart, you’re so congested you can’t breathe out of your nose, and you've got a 101 degree fever. You need to take something," he tells you, and you know there’s no arguing against this man once he’s set his mind to something.

“How would you know my fever is that high?” Matt gives you the flattest look you’ve ever seen. “Okay, stupid question.”

“Just close your eyes,” he says, leaning down to kiss your forehead again. “I’m going to bring you a glass of water and some Ibuprofen, and call Karen to see if she can bring anything over.”

You nod miserably, energy suddenly draining and turning you back into a whimpering mess. He leaves the room, kicking his shoes off in the process, and you pick up your phone again once he’s out of sight, a wince twitching on your face at the notification of thirty emails that have popped up in your inbox. You open the app, scrolling down through the messages with a sigh.

“You better not be checking your email right now,” Matt’s voice calls out to you from the kitchen suddenly, and you almost drop your phone onto your face in surprise.

He knows you too well.

“I’m not,” you say as loudly as you can, which is still minimal, but you know he can hear you regardless, so you’re not too concerned. You roll over to place your phone back onto your bedside table with a loud sigh, wrist and arm feeling entirely too weak as it reaches out.

“Liar," is all he responds with, before his voice quiets down again. There’s a brief moment of silence before you pick up on the soft murmur of his voice, no doubt on the phone with Karen. The sound of your cabinet being opened and the faucet being turned on hits your ears, and you sigh at the domesticity of it all. Things of yours have been slowly migrating to his apartment in preparation of the move that’s happening in a month’s time, but there’s just something about him knowing your apartment like the back of his hand and feeling comfortable in a space that’s been solely yours for the past two years.

A few minutes later, he’s walking back into your bedroom, a glass of water in one hand, your dwindling bottle of painkillers in the other, mouth turned up in a soft, soothing smile. He helps you sit up, his arm gently snaking around your shoulders to support you, and encourages you to drink the water and toss back the pills as lips ghost across your forehead.

Even swallowing something cold makes your throat burn on the way down, and you groan in pain.

He helps you lay back down, easing you backwards and holding your weight so that you don’t just flop back onto the pillows. He pulls his arm out from underneath you and reaches out to set the glass onto your night table as he moves to stand up. You close your eyes again against the light of your room, and you hear the subtle sound of a belt being unbuckled and fabric hitting the chair in the corner.

Matt lifts up the covers and slides in beside you, his bare skin pressing up against yours as he nudges you onto your side so that he can cradle you from behind. Despite the brief chill, he quickly becomes a furnace pressed against you, and you can’t help the quiet moan that sneaks past chapped lips at the heat you hadn’t known you’d been needing.

“You’ll get sick,” you protest weakly as you settle into his chest, almost immediately soothed by the feeling of his arm wrapping around your waist.

“Don’t worry about me,” he whispers into your ear before leaning over you to kiss your cheek, settling back down behind you when he’s done, the warmth of his kiss still lingering. “Just go back to sleep, sweetheart. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Despite the sickness ravaging your body, or maybe because of it, you slip back into an easy sleep, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest behind you settling you the way it always does. Your head is pounding, your whole body aches, and you can’t breathe through your nose, but everything feels better when he’s holding you.

#matt murdock #daredevil #human disaster matt murdock #matt murdock x gn!reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock fanfiction #daredevil x gn!reader #daredevil x you #daredevil x reader #daredevil fanfiction #sickfic

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raineandsky · 2 months

Text

#100

tw: violence

The villain staggers back. The hero follows with easy strides.

“What–what’re you—”

They only just reel back from another strike. “I’m everything you deserve, criminal.”

The hero’s voice is flat, plain. It’s like a robot’s spitting out words it doesn’t understand. Their push into the villain’s space is relentless, forever forcing them back in the vain hope of preventing another gash.

The side of the villain's jacket is painted red by now. They know that. The hero had caught them unawares, unexpecting, and the villain has learnt their lesson very well after that first slash.

They stumble over the edge of their coat slightly. The hero’s eyes flicker with opportunity as they fall into another attack.

The villain only just contains the whimper in their throat when the burn of metal slices against their skin. It should be expected by now, but the agony of such a simple, smooth action was never something they got used to.

“Who…” The word comes out as no more than a haggard breath. “Who are you?”

The hero smiles disingenuously. There’s no emotion behind it, positive or otherwise, like invisible strings are tugging the corners of their mouth into an unnatural curve. It’s slightly horrifying to witness. “I’m [Hero],” they say in that nothing voice. “You already know that, don’t you?”

“No the fuck you’re not,” the villain spits. Pain is blinding them to a lot of the common sense they’d usually have. “[Hero] was at least fucking humane. Tell me who you are.”

The smile disappears. It’s somehow worse without it now. “[Hero] was a pathetic, weak-willed excuse of a hero who couldn’t bear to kill the vermin ravaging the streets.” The hero tilts their head, almost curious, mostly mechanical. “Why, do you miss them?”

“I much preferred them to you, I’ll say that.” The villain heaves a deep breath. Keep breathing. Don’t let them have this over you. “Where the fuck are they? What did you do with them?”

“Disposed of.” The flatness of the words is almost an emotion in itself. “And I am in their place as an improvement.”

The villain barks a laugh that tears into their side. Their hands are red. They need to get the hell out of dodge before they get too obviously weak. “And you’re impersonating them.”

That unnatural smile makes a momentary appearance, like the faked kindness of someone three seconds from putting an axe through someone’s face. “[Hero] would be missed by the masses. We can catch you villains unawares if you think we’re harmless.” Their brow knits in question for a moment, humoured. “Did you really think I’m the only one they’ve replaced?”

The villain’s shivering. Or trembling. It’s hard to tell which. “How many of you are there?”

The hero takes a long step forward and the villain scrambles to stay out of reach. They’re too slow; the hero doesn’t have the wounds to hold them back. Their hand closes around the villain’s throat, breathlessly tight.

“Would you like to meet them?” The hero’s smile splits into an uneven grin. The villain can’t see it very well from behind the blurriness of their eyes. Thank god, honestly. “I’m sure they’d love you.”

The words the villain wants to say are stuck behind the hero’s grip. Their breath is almost non-existent. Their sides feel like someone’s shoving a red-hot poker into them. The hero says something but they can’t hear it. It’s faraway, distant, and all the villain can think is fucking hell, not now.

That’s the last thing that gets to cross their mind before they pass out in the hero’s grip, and it’s uncertain whether that’s a blessing or not.

#creative writing #writblr #writers on tumblr #writing #writing community #heroes and villains #hero x villain #happy 100 guys!!!!!!! hot damn!!!!!!!!!#1 year 100 posts and 400 people later............. i love yall sm i wouldnt still be doing this without yall <3

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utilitycaster · 4 months

Text

@just-a-moon-phase replied to your post “I have a lot of things in fandom I'd call "Brown...”:

please OP, where is the theory... I am listening...

re: having a theory about why using non-canon nicknames cor characters specifically tends to be technically harmless and minor but also is really frequently a signal that someone's takes will be bad:

I think it's that it's both a quick shortcut to indicate intimacy, but it's also really generic and often out of character for those doing it.

To use Caleb as an example: not only did various German speakers in the fandom (of which I am not one) say that it's just not really a common thing linguistically/culturally, the nicknames people tended to use (usually at the time for Veth) were intended by the writers to be fond and platonic but were often either the sort of thing you'd only say in a romantic context, or else were nicknames very much intended for one's own children.

However, more importantly, Caleb very, very specifically doesn't really use nicknames in canon. He in fact frequently calls Beau "Beauregard". During a very emotional moment at the time of her transformation, he specifically uses Nott/Veth's full name. He refers to two of the characters we know he had romantic feelings for, Jester and Essek, by only their last names on at least one occasion, which reads to American audiences as either formal or perhaps fratty, but distinctly not romantic. As @essektheylyss said at some point, Caleb tends to use epithets a lot though mostly when talking about someone in the third person (eg: "our Kryn friend,") and the closest we ever get to any term of endearment is him saying "my friend," which again sounds quite formal. Caleb in general gets more formal with those he loves, not less. It's a great character detail, and anyone who peppers "spatz" into their fic like it's going out of style kind of comes off as, to put it kindly, not very good at finding characters' voices. Unfortunately, that is in my opinion literally one of like two things you cannot fuck up in fanfic for it to be good; if you don't get the voice right, then even if it succeeds as a story it fails utterly as fanfiction.

Anyway Caleb is a really good illustrative example because it's so clear from canon that this isn't his voice, but it applies anywhere. It's a sign that this person is cutting corners instead of actually establishing a base from which there will be a rewarding payoff.

(will say: this also, bizarrely, often applies to people who called Trent Ickythong/Ickythot or people who call Ludinus Luda, though it's much less reliable there. I feel it's similarly like, people who rely on shortcuts and the idea that the fandom will agree with them because these are clear villains, and never actually go deep enough to come up with an argument. Like in the end it always just feels like a cheap and insubstantial discussion.)

#just-a-moon-phase #cr tag

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ultfreakme · 2 months

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The only thing about NATLA Kataang that confuses me is that Netflix hasn’t been promoting it at all? I’ve seen them promote clips about every single relationship, romantic or platonic, but I haven’t seen them promote any Kataang, which is really odd because Katara’s speech to Aang is kind of the penultimate moment of the finale. So I’m just kind of stumped on that. Any insight?

I think they're doing it for a couple of reasons.

They left out Kataang because of the age difference, so in the show, Kataang isn't there in any overt level. All questions in interviews have been about the Netflix adaptation and events. I think I have seen platonic Kataang promo though. The only real duo they promote are Zuko and Iroh, Gaang falls into a trio, and there's very little I've seen on Sukka and Yuekka (they don't even ask about the romances in interviews). So there's just, no need to promote it yet and they're ignoring the romance for all characters for the most part.

The actors are young, like, in school young. When the ship isn't confirmed yet but they talk about Kataang, it might lead to shipping wars getting into their mentions. Idk about the PJO fandom but I know Percabeth is very present in the show & they promote it, but I'm p.sure everyone is unanimous on Percabeth being a thing, no one's fighting it so they can more safely go about it without people getting in their mentions. Kataang though, garners attention from people engaging in ship wars. To the point they asked the show runner about it and even HE, a grown man, said he didn't want to talk about it and avoided it implying that it's been going on too long(and then talked about the Kataang scene). The ship wars in ATLA are brutal and the kids really don't need to be exposed to that. Like already I've seen people being very weird about Dallas and Kia and dismissing Gordon entirely because he's "too baby" or "not handsome enough" and that people are waiting for Kia to turn 18 to "ship her with Dallas" gross gross barf even typing it made me feel disgusting (about a million stereotypes about POC and indigenous people and young girls and boys are at play here and I am appalled). I think this is why Zukka of all things is being promoted on any official capacity (more than Sukka or Yuekka): it's not gonna be real and no one thinks it has a chance, it's harmless. If any ship war harm does come they can handle it, and baiting always brings views and it's mostly harmless since they play it off as fun anyways (like no one is legit upset, most are rolling their eyes or know what's happening and playing along).

Kataang in Netflix right now, would be considered spoilers. They still promote Zuko as the villain in interviews(or at least, bad guy antagonist). They don't mention any season 2 things or future storylines. If they get more into it in season 2, I'm sure the talks will begin. We have to keep in mind that many people watching NATLA might not know what Avatar is about, what the dynamics are. This is their first intro to the world. So they're keeping all cards close to their chest I guess.

#riki asks #natla #atla la #atla live action #kataang #zukka

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kunicute · 9 months

Text

symptoms.

kuni x mermaid!fem!reader.

pic creds: @/Sakural0ver on pinterest

cw: fem reader (being called ‘fair lady’ like once), wanderer not scaramouche

notes: basically silly little kuni thinking his ‘symptoms’ of love was a sickness, maybe multiple parts??

————————————————————————

kunikuzushi was never one too indulge in fairytale-like rumors but this one caught he eye (or caught his ear). the rumor that a mystical mermaid kept watasumi island such a gorgeous place, he had heard of this from a few fatui recruits as he wandered around the streets of his homeland, inazuma, and now he wants to find out for himself if the rumor was true.

he didn’t know what made him desire to see the mermaid for himself. for the next couple of days the wanderer was having mind battles, on wether to see this magical creature. he finally decided on giving this a shot he had nothing better to do anyway.

after a few days of venturing towards the pink and blue coloured island he finally stepped foot on actual ground, as he’s a puppet he didnt feel tired at all.

and there he saw you, well not entirely, he saw a large purple fin swimming in the water, it was way too big to belong to any if the local fish, and he knew just what it was.

you felt his eyes on you, so you swam up to the surface and perched your arms on a nearby rock. your eyes landed on an almost doll-like person, his violet hair in a shaggy cut, and his mostly teal outfit, blended together just right to make the man you see stand out from the rest of the landscape. his glossy eyes scanned over the mermaid like creature in awe, his mouth hung open a tiny bit in shock.

“and who are you?” your honey-like voice rang in his ears, four words he’ll never forget.

“just a wanderer. and what about you fair lady?” he says in reply, a teasing tone underlying his harmless question.

“just a mermaid, i guess.” the glint of mischief in your eyes did not go unnoticed by the man.

the way your wet hair glistened in the sunlight that shone down on both of you, your dark chest covering, definitely did not match the rumors. you were rumored to be sweet, caring, a nuturing, not teasing, dismissive and mocking.

“you’re pretty hostile.” he says, sitting criss-cross on the floor.

“getting yourself comfy, i see?”

“mhm, whats it to you?”

“nothing dont worry about it.” you say as you splash back into the water.

“wait!”

the scream from above kept you, yet again from going on with your day. swimming back up to the surface, you rest in the same position as before.

“just what are you getting at?” you questioned.

“hey, hey. no need to be so agressive towards your guest, aren’t you supposed to be kind?”

“for your information, i am kind just not to you.” you say lifting your tail to splash him with water.

“what the fuck dude.”

you let out a small giggle at his response.

“what are you doing here anyway, there are much better places in watatsumi for wanderers.”

“i just wanted to meet the ‘protecter’ of watatsumi before i go back to sumeru. you know your pretty famous.” he says winking at you.

“i’d hope so after all i did for this island.”

after your first interaction, kuni would come back every few days just to chat with you, with every teasing remark and every touch from your soft fingertips left him wanting to know you more, on a more deep level. he felt things hes never felt before, sensations of weird feelings in his artificial stomach, his false heart beating rapidly at just the thought of you.the days where he didnt see you, you did not leave his mind, its like you cursed him, just what do you want from him?

hes heard of these symptoms before, something nahida calls ‘adoration’, and ‘love’, but that definitely wasnt it he definitely did not like you right?

no way he did.

—————————˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚—————————

#scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #fem reader #wanderer x yn #kunikuzushi x reader #genshin impact #genshin wanderer #genshin scaramouche #scaramouche x yn #silly kuni #x reader

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kidron · 1 year

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Could you write a sharing food headcanons or fic with Ryusei, Chifuyu, Baji and Kazutora ?

Sharing = caring

─Baji, Ryusei, Kazutora & Chifuyu (Seperated + platonic)

─Summary: Sharing food with someone / someone shares their food with them

─Warnings: Nope, unless you count grammer

★Baji

"come, Let's share this in half !"

─if there was a food, he would mostly offer it to share with those who he know/friends.

─the logic is if you had food and someone else near didn't then share it, give it or don't eat it till you're alone. He prefers the "share it" option.

─He's mostly the one to share his food with anyone, however if the person also likes sharing he would appreciate it.

─he was taught to respect food and never be disgust / rude if there was a thing he dislikes. He would mostly eat anything he dislike unless it was boiled food (Baji hates boiled food by canon).

─half in half, neither of you is going to have more than the other. If you tried to take more he will beat you unless you were hungry.

───────────────────────

It was an after school time, you were helping Baji to study for his next week chemistry exam. Either you were good or not at chemistry you for sure was better than him at studying so you helped in everything you understand. It was done now, he's abit confused and will most likley forget everything he learnt 5 minutes after the exam, however, he did his best and it's enough to pass.

As you was wandering around the school hallways lestening to him chicking on the things he studied today, your stomach growled, eating lunch at school wasn't something you liked after all. "You spent hours helping me to pass, i will payback with my best-Peyang-yakisoba-in-japan !!" He said as you stibbed out the school gate with the biggest grin untying his hair. Why not after all ?

The green sweet pepers wasn't that much of a taste personally, so avoiding them while eating the half ended up with him scolding you, however he made an order to eat one more bite of the Peyang nodels to make it actuall half in half -since you're not eating pepers-, he wasn't asking.

★Ryusei

"Oh no need to thank me for being so generous at all !"

─he usually use food to torture people till they throw up or looking like a bear preparing for hibernation... however he does share.

─he only share his food as a "i don't like this, you take it", being the person who doesn't show their feelings he is.

─mostly share only small things or give the entire thing, no between. Like giving the cherry on the plate or passing the whole thing.

─if you shared your desert with him you will regert it; Ryusei never stops. Your food ? Gone.

─if it was a about someone hungry things are diffrent, he's never giving anything unless he laughs enough.

───────────────────────

He dragged you to play football once he knew you're also interested in watching football matchs, not even bothering to ask either you can play or not, of course not wasting a single mistake to tell how bad you are. You were offered a strawberry Parfait with fruits topping at his family "Misami snacks" by him, Ryusei's Parfait was chocolete chips and cookies, something you liked more.

The fact that you mentioned prefering chocolates before makes it clear that he did all of this only to tease you not having something you liked. Bastard.

However he still offered you something nice, very harmless. so you shouldn't let him win on this one and decided to enjoy it simply, it's not a big deal... But that one Chocolate-coated marshmallow on the top looked amazing...

"May i have it, Please ?" with no longer patience asked with strict looks, as if it was the most serious topic -honestly seeing someone eating a food you like on purpose is serious reason to beat them up- "oh you want that ? Although you have yours ? How greedy ! Since you asked politley and i'm very generous guess i have no other chance of how kind i am~"

One is having a free Parfit and a beloved Chocolate-coated marshmallow, the other having his fun messing around, great success.

★Kazutora

"Oh... you can have this one then" :]

─If you give him, he gives you. He never thinks of sharing unless someone shared their food with him first.

─He's warmed by the idea by someone giving him apart of what they have, espcially if it was the half ( Kazu's effected by Baji ).

─He share the same amount as what you shared with him. if it was the half, he gives the half. if it was something small he liked like a fruit, he gives something small you liked... etc

─Wouldn't share the same plate tho or something that was bite ( like a crape or a sandwich ), neither sharing drinks, even if it was different straws. He refuses to take so to that refuse to give anything.

─it's about showing that the other care for him, not the food that is important. He have some struggles showing his feelings so in general, something undirect as sharing things is what he like.

───────────────────────

Both were sitting on the sidewalk, even though the sunset barley came down there wasn't much people around, mostly high school girls going home or gangsters fooling around. both shall go to their houses too, but only after finishing the corn cobs which was cut into pieces & slushies that was bought earlier.

Seeing that there was only one piece left on Kazu's plate beside the one he's already eating you took one of the two pieces of yours left and handled it to him.

"I ate too much but thanks !" He said with a wide smile just to put it on his paper plate taking the other piece of his handling it to you, there was no point of that since all the corns are the same. This is just how things work for both, it's not about the food, it's about showing care to the other.

His blue and green slushie looked cool, apples and blueberries, mostly color food but anyway, it's looks like the thing to freeze someones soul, nice... there was no way he will let your straw inter it to give it a try, unless you wanted to wash your face with the slushie and recive few punches.

★Chifuyu

"Hey you have to try this out !!"

─Offers to share first, doesn't actually want a return he just share, just don't eat it all.

─he mostly share when he find a new amazing flavor, so mostly it will be a snack from the store, a limited or a new version he tried.

─unlike Kazutora, he doesn't find espcially it as a way to show affection/care, he doesn't think much of it it's just an "if you want some of this you can have some of mine" just like what he did with Takemichi and the ramen. Yet he may use it if the current atmosphere is on tense.

─He shares the food that cats are allowed to eat with Peke-j, Baji scolded him saying that just because something isn't inedible to cats doesn't mean that it's always healthy for them. So now he's more carefull.

───────────────────────

You were at the Matsuno's family house in the guest room, his mom invited you earlier to eat dinner that she's curenntly making in the kitchen with Chifu introducing Peke-j. "Chifuyu ! Go to the store and buy tomato paste and red beans, The wallet is in my red bag !" His mom yelled from the kitchen. He went closing the door behind leaving the new guest to play with Peke-j.

"Do you need any help, Mrs. Chifuyu's mom ?" She thanked for your offer yet the response was "Go do something untill Chifuyu's back, i'm almost done with the dinner so nonworries", i hope that it's not a dish with texture that i can't handle.

Going to Chifuyu's room or play with Peke-J were Interesting options; so chosing both :].

You carried Peke-J as the baby sized he is to Chifuyu's room, wasn't that interesting indeed... there was a manga volume on the bed, Romance manga ? Too lame. Peke-J leaped to the ground so you followed to play, untill a chearfull vioce crossed the house, "I'm back !!" Chifuyu came so Peke-J was the first to go to him as ypu followed.

"I got you something" he whisperd after putting what his mom asked for, "what is it ?" Whispering back, there must be a reason for him whispering, of course. "I saw a grape flavored popping candy at the store and bought it, just keep quite or else mom's going to scold us for it" he finished whispering. The dinner is going to take quite abit so why not ?

"WHAT ARE YOU TWO EATING EVEN BEFORE DINNER ?!"

Oh no...

I thought of including Kojiro but i relized we don't know much about his canon personality, aw man...

Bye bye

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soraviie · 1 year

Text

their flaws.txt

━ type: bts x gn! reader ━ masterlist

━ about: angst! ━ pictures taken from Pinterest

━ a/n: requested by anon! These are as accurate as any vibe check I give to strangers, I'm fairly sure I can do more realistic tea leaf readings! So put your pitchforks down!

━ previously posted on soraviii

NAMJOON:

absolutely passive aggressive

sometimes when stressed (which is not that unoften)

sometimes when jealous

but definitely dampens your spirits by giving a very dry, sarcastic "awesome" to some harmless questions

if you have ever seen a single American interview you know exactly what I'm talking about

If he's jealous of someone who he knows he shouldn't also does this

Especially if you're talking about them

Say like a coworker or a neighbour who was helpful or funny

He goes like "well aren't they just the greatest person ever! I'll gift you a mini fridge at your wedding."

Then stomps away

I feel like he's a stomper

Always comes back, gently knocking on the door and apologising for his behaviour

And he is ashamed of it because dumping all the bottled-up anger is not something any partner should do but occasionally it does happen

People are not perfect

Also tends to, how to explain, be too decisive about your decisions

Say you consult him on what to do

And he has decided on option A because that's what he would do he doesn't listen to option B

Even if it's the one you're more partial to

Which is fine

But then he goes and does the thing of "well if you want to fail completely and face the consequences of the wrong decision, please go ahead"

He has a bit of a problem with micromanaging given the line of work, being a leader and undercurrent of care

He wants you to succeed but it just comes off as such a high horse it makes you want to choke him

Speaking of jealousy has his episodes

You'd think he has nothing to be insecure about but he has a lot of them

Sometimes he thinks he doesn't look right

You know how he at times mentions not being the best looker

Which is...Mr Kim, check your prescription, please

But most of all gets insecure about the way his career impacts you and your relationship

There are other people who can give you all this love and share it freely

So he works himself into a tight little ball of stomach ulcer and then as a defence becomes passive aggressive

It's a bit of a cursed cycle

Rolls! His! Eyes! With! A! Deep! Sigh!

Especially when you're arguing

Which for me is an open-arm invitation to tear someone a second, a third or whatever number hole, it'll be new for sure but hey I've got anger issues

Fairly emotional in the moment, he can get loud and assertive

Cause I think he's used to partially bulldozing his way through

Luckily though someone so keen on self-improvement will genuinely try to fix these flaws, listen to your arguments and objections

But once again no one is perfect

YOONGI:

Because I'm a Yoongi stan I might be biased

I am biased

But I think he hides his flaws well by pulling back

Like if he wants to snap he knows he can ruin a good thing in his life so he bites his tongue

With that out of the way

He is reserved

He does spend a lot of time on work

He doesn't know how to relax

He will lug his equipment everywhere and anywhere

Even if you beg him to relax for just three days, he just can't

Sometimes relies on drinking too much to get him through the week

He has a knack to prove someone wrong

It's a knee-jerk reaction mostly

Say, your friend that he does not particularly like would say something incorrect, he'll pipe up from his corner in an extremely arid tone

"Hmm, funny you should say that, because blah blah. Guess ignorance is not that hard of a burden to bear."

Sometimes he expects you to read his mind

Let's say he's saying with his mouth "I want to stay home" but he actually wants someone to drag him outside but also he wants to complain about it the whole time

But because people can't read minds you leave him be

And then he's left to sulk

You're going to have a hard time if you're a person who enjoys going outside, actively being involved in things

Because even if he does it, he does it simply because of you, not because he wants to

And it's just so apparent that he does not want to be here that in the end it just ruins the whole thing

Speaking of, he sometimes goes along with things he doesn't want to just because acts of service is his love language but sometimes it's better to just state it outright that he doesn't want to instead of lying

Doesn't want surprises that interfere with his schedule and work even if they're well-meaning

Clearly wants to say "I told you so" on some occasions and be smug about

If only he could hide it better

Can diss you, your friends and your family with a throwaway remark that he didn't think much about it just ends up cutting deeper than he ever thought

I think he can be careless? in a way when you're sick

For example, if you're feeling bad and you just want to whine and be catered to he could just call you and say take your pills and that's it

Doesn't exactly coddle you in a situation like this because that's what he would do himself

But he's not a bad listener so there's a fine chance that over time he'll be at a middle ground with these issues

JIN:

Doesn't always understand when he needs to be serious

Sometimes he needs to be sad, sombre and depressed for the occasion

But he has a hard time breaking out of that jokester role

So it can come off as ingenuine and shallow

Occasionally you want someone to just ask, give a serious question to which you could seriously answer, to get all those feeling out and not just make endless jokes which give no opportunity for deeper discussion

Talks about himself a tad too much

I could see how someone could get tired of it, even if it's self-depreciative

If you're mentioning how you don't feel pretty, he could misconstrue it as just the occasional thought everyone has not something he needs to assure you about

"Don't worry," he might say with a light chuckle but the gap in your chest is on the opposite quite heavy. "I'll be handsome enough for two."

"Yeah, you're perfect," you scowl and walk away, hands in pockets

I think he can sometimes unintentionally create this disappointing pang in your heart

That you're not heard enough

That he doesn't want to engage in a deep, philosophical discussion

Because that is not something he's partial to

This could mean you turn to other people to talk about your problems

And he becomes huffy

"What? Am I not...good enough?" he asks, defensive

"Not in this case."

And it creates this stifling situation where no one is at fault and yet is right in their own way

It's your right to want to converse about this

And it's his right to remain true to his nature

I don't think he knows how to change himself manually so to speak

Jin always strikes me as the guy who changes by naturally maturing and by experience not by putting out a list in his head "this is what we fix, this is what we do"

But also this jokester role is exactly that - a role

He's not as cheerful deep down but he's not used to sharing it openly

He's used to diffusing the tension, not creating it

HOSEOK:

I think a large portion would say that it is Yoongi who struggles with shyness and intimacy and communication but it is my humble opinion that the absolute hardest to get to know is Hoseok

He's very supportive of you but is almost dismissive to receive any compliments

It's like he's not able to comprehend how to accept his faults

Already so soon after releasing "Jack in the Box", he said he was already looking for setbacks and flaws

I think it can be discouraging to have your compliments and praises brushed by with a polite smile and nod of the head that clearly says "I don't believe anything you just said"

He's so overly critical over anything he does and is so obstinate about being even...cheered up about it?

I think at this point it's how he's wired - to reach for new heights by stepping down upon the old ones

But it can be depressing to see someone you love continually tear themselves down

Another absolute workaholic has every minute of every day planned down and scheduled and someone really grave needs to happen to break that schedule

Bad at intimacy

I've always said it but a relationship with Hoseok to me is the kind where you're with a friend first and foremost

He's better at handling friends than lovers

Struggles to communicate his side of things

He listens more than talks

Absolutely intentionally directs questions at you so you would talk about yourself (which is what he wants to hear) instead of talking about himself

He thinks of himself as your silent glue, keeping your shit together but not voicing any of his sentiments over it

Again, many would say Yoongi but I think it's Hoseok that's independent to a fault

Like a little helper rushes to do what he needs to but accepts no help

Brushes off with a smile that it's no worry, that he can do it himself

Getting to know him means hitting a giant fortress over and over again

So it's very frustrating but once every while he breaks and lets it all out

What matters is that it is during this you try to convince him as hard as you can that it's okay to share and not scheme everything out like a lone mastermind

JIMIN:

His best qualities are also his greatest flaws

Meaning he cares about everyone

And so gets caught up in other people's problems

More than once has come late at night because "a friend needed help"

Worries a lot about everything

If you're not in a good mental state or prone to sickness and negativity he at times makes it worse by constant nagging and frequent anxiety

Also his greatest quality - never leaving anyone behind

Hence why he has problems with giving space

He thinks he's abandoning you when in reality you just want to be alone with your thoughts

Has a bit of a temper

And does hold grudges if they have a reasonable basis

Say if in anger you say something hurtful about his personality

He'll remark sharply about it even weeks later

"Guess I'm just too clingy."

Another stomper

Takes things a bit too personally that are not even meant for him

If you don't share something from your past especially bad or traumatic he'll have this knee-jerk reaction of:

"So you don't trust me enough?'

Needs attention and praise which can be draining

Especially when you just give it and then he goes on to be extremely self-critical and brings himself down once more

Another roller of the eyes!

Gets stand-offish when jealous or irritated making sharp comments

This stems from him being sensitive because his good quality is how big his heart is only meaning that he gets it hurt a lot of times

Sometimes you think he's acting cute when he wants to be serious

Like he just wants you around to the point of reverting back to people-pleasing tendencies and playing along to your whims more than being his genuine self

Flirts with everyone which creates two bad scenarios:

Scenario A: did it on purpose thinking of it lightheartedly to have that validation that you want him but if you feel it to the point of being insecure he gets quiet, suffering from guilt

Scenario B: get annoyed especially if it's when he's working

"It's just how I have to act," cue roll of the eyes. "Do I blame you for making photocopies at work?"

"Suggesting to marry a stranger is not the same as making photocopies!"

"It's a part of my job, what's not to get?"

Same as Yoongi sometimes relies too much on drinking to get through the week, or start difficult conversations

I feel like he internalizes a lot and doesn't voice something that might start an argument even if it's needed

Of course, bottling it up only means the fight is so much catastrophic

Always comes back with this thought that "this is not right, let's fix this, okay"

TAEHYUNG:

Romanticizes relationship as a whole too much

Maybe even romanticizes you to an extent

But when reality gets to him, he shuts down

Gets disappointed in you which is not your fault

He realizes you're not at fault for not being the version he constructed but he can't chase the feeling away that quickly

Switches moods a lot and from 100 to 0 at that

Prone to getting into moods a lot of days

I think he feels intensely

Also prone to judgment

now HEAR ME OUT

He has to be on guard literally all the time, assess whether someone talks to him out of personal gain or because they want to

So even if something, something as minuscule as a stray glance tickles his gut feeling, he trusts it entirely and so sometimes casts a judgment upon a perfectly normal stranger

"Come on, man, they're just living their life."

He only scowls in return

His kidlike nature means he's bad at taking criticism, he's also sensitive to it due to getting a lot of hate for everything he does

So instead of simply listening to it objectively, he lets it get to his heart and pouts in silence

THE SILENCE!

Not to mention the infamous dumpling incident, but I just know he commits to silent treatment like no one else

Has a hard time admitting his wrongs as much as he wants for both of you to make peace

He's down to earth but does get caught up in glitz and glamour

Fancy events, designer things, celebrity lifestyle etc.

If you don't enjoy that or even have a hard time with that he can once again get upset about it by immediately taking it close to heart and translating it to you being dissatisfied with him despite it being another matter entirely

I guess in a way he's bad at controlling his emotions and goes with them and gut instinct than pure logic

Has a lot of friends with which he wants to spend a lot of time means sometimes he's out too long for your liking and sometimes cancels plans to be with them rather than you

Which is fine but he does feel unhappy if you do the same thing

If you cancel date night to go out with your friends he doesn't say it but he might think something along the line "I already have so little time to spend with you, you can always talk to your friends at any other time"

His "go with the flow" can induce anxiety if you're someone who likes to plan

The way he remains calm and happy would could cause someone a migraine fr

Like me

The way he got lost in Norway and he just hopped along the road like?? Boi, you're not Dorothy on Yellow Brick Road!

Sometimes his casual optimism seems careless and childish as good-natured as it is

JUNGKOOK:

First of all, certainly doesn't have the best gage on people

I'm not going to say much as I feel I can't express it in a well-worded manner

But cuts too much slack to people based on a general opinion that often is quite biased

Always assumes that what he's going to say will be viewed as awkward so he stays silent in most cases

Is a bit spoiled so throws a fuss when he doesn't get his way

Has lowkey, lowkey!, issue with control

Because he's so driven I feel he's used to settling on a certain vision and then doing it all to achieve it

So if you're someone who changes directions mid-way or realizes this is not interesting to me at all and abandons it, his vein bursts

He changes his behaviour around the people whose approval he wants so it makes him a sort of a social chameleon though not necessarily a people pleaser

Brushes off all concerns about his health with "I know better"

"I've been doing this a long time, I know what I'm doing"

When clearly this behaviour is detrimental to his health

And to add salt to the injury will absolutely flame you if you do that as well

If you're being a hazard to your own health - not eating, cutting sleep etc. goes berserk and literally scolds you as being childish and irresponsible even if he does exactly the same

His perfectionism creates churning anger and envy

Which I don't think he would dump upon you but instead he becomes reserved and distant, investing more and more time to prevent a flaw that is perceived only in his mind

He still sometimes finds being alone with you awkward because in his mind he's not embodying his on-stage persona - cocky, confident and sexually bold - and so you must be disappointed in him

In turn that only makes his awkwardness and shyness a hundred times worse because now he's insecure about it as well

Is not keen to go out or enjoy "high" culture the same as Yoongi but instead of going along, he'll whine incessantly about whether it's necessary for you to go because he knows he's not going and sticks to it

Jealous and possessive which doesn't translate to being angry or loud but more so whining and scowling

But sometimes even that is not appreciated especially if the person involved is clearly just a friend

He sometimes doesn't quite register when he's being mean or when his playfulness crosses a line

Sometimes naturally expects you to accommodate him more than you're willing because that's something the guys have done due to their endless soft spot for him

So if you stay firm he sulks and becomes moody

320 notes · View notes

solaneceae · 4 months

Text

float like a feather, sting like sharp talons

Philza drops by Étoiles' brand new dojo for a friendly sparring session, and ends up getting quite a lot more. Namely existential dread, the thrill of a good hunt, and the comfort of shared trust. @apthotiosis this is a commissioned fic! read on ao3

He whistles, eyes lingering along the thick, wooden support beams and rice paper walls surrounding him. It’s a surprising sight, tucked away in a corner of what he can only describe as a mess of a base, mostly empty, the walls still a rough (and frankly ugly) mix of dirt and cobblestone that hasn’t been cleared out even after six months. “So. That is your dojo.”

Étoiles nods at his side, a big stupid grin on his face. “Do you like it, Phil?” he asks, eager as a pup as little Pomme zooms around the cave in an improv game of tag with Tallulah — ever mindful of how her lag (sorry, asthma) sometimes stalls her in her tracks. He glances at them fondly, silly, eggs, babies. “I do,” he hums, because it is pretty. Especially if you ignore the rest of the cave outside because God, it’s fugly as shit and Étoiles knows it. The plant hybrid smiles, all teeth and gums, and squints with star-filled eyes that always seem to glow despite not working like they used to. Phil still doesn’t get why what was originally a completely harmless veggie plant has evolved to bear such predatory teeth, but he can’t say it doesn’t suit his friend. “He likes it! Let’s gooo, big win for me, big win. I can die happy now.”

“Oh my god, stop. Kristin’s married, you know.”

Étoiles gives him a mock-shove that is more of a real one, because Étoiles never holds back, especially not with Phil. “Oh! Oh, so I can’t be nice to Lady Death? I can’t just visit her because she’s cool and she likes me also? I am married to the grind, Phil, you know me!”

Phil shakes his head, exasperated and fond. “You’re a nerd is what you are. Did you know she calls you her tech support?” Étoiles makes a confused noise. Tallulah peeps in the background, mimicked by Pomme, a chorus of play and yesyes, because all the eggs have picked up on that one by now. (Mimicry is a powerful thing, and the eggs are highly social creatures who thrive on it.)

Phil elaborates, circling the build to assess its structure better. “Because of the sweeping edge bug thing, and Richas’ cancelled death last week. You find the kinks and loopholes in death mechanics better than anyone she knows.”

Étoile beams at that. “That’s so cool. I’m Death tech support!”

“You certainly are. Do you think it’s because you picked Death? In the entity rooms?”

The green-skinned man shrugs, then gasps and takes off running after Pomme to stop her from setting up waterframes everywhere to display obscure anime edits for Tallulah because her internet, her lag Pomme, you’re going to make her void! Phil glances at them (safe, no danger, good) then back at the dojo, running his palm down a beam to feel its grain. It’s smooth, recently stripped of its bark. “Huh,” he says.

He doesn’t understand why his friend chose to build this underground when dojos are usually suited for wind-swept plains or mysterious forests. Then again, Étoiles has never been much for coherent aesthetics. That, and he probably thought it would be more mysterious to hide it under the ground, knowing him. “It’s. Well, very dojo-like,” he walks through dark support beams and onto clean, recently-oiled planks, coming to poke at one of the wooden sticks idly rotating above an altar to send it spinning in the opposite direction. Étoiles trots back to him with an egg under each arm (Play, dad, Pomme warbles. Play, silly, Tallulah beeps from within her cracked shell.) and lets out a guttural noise, visibly bothered by the sticks being out of sync, and it makes Phil snort. Silly. Silly. “Did you build it all by yourself?”

“Yeeaaaah.”

“You’re lying.”

A dramatic gasp. The warrior puts both eggs down to throw his hands in the air. “I’m not lying! Pomme, ma légende, dis-lui.”

Bomp. [me and richas did it. papa helped, very much :DDD]

Étoiles comes to brush his fingers against the red sign, letting the device tucked into his ear translate the written words into spoken ones. He whines, puts a hand over his heart as his ears droop. “Ahhh, trahison. Disgrâce. Tu m’détestes en fait Pomme, c’est ça ? You want me to dig down to bedrock and die forever? Or it’s because I can’t see, so you think I’m shit?”

Bomp. [papa…] Bomp. [t’a pas besoin d’être aveugle pour avoir des goûts douteux en déco :X]

“Okay, okay. I go die in fire then, goodnight.” Then Étoiles pours lava into the cobble floor and stands in it with a huge smile. His body catches on fire immediately, skin quickly shrivelling up and blackening under the heat. Pomme peeps at him loudly and hits him with her scythe, then douses him in water and healing potions — which immediately prompts Étoiles into sparring mode, laughing and hyping his egg up with a string of ‘oh she knows, she knows the play’ and ‘strafing, comboing, keep at it’ as his body heals up. Philza watches the display for a few seconds before getting bored, choosing to walk past the layer of light wood circling the dojo to take a look inside.

It’s even prettier than the outside, with all the paper lanterns and little fountains and bamboo shoots. His geta clack against the wood, then go silent on the woven straw flooring at the center. “Why’re all the posters in Japanese?” he remarks when his friend comes back from his little mock-tantrum with his daughter in tow, squinting at a crude montage explaining the belts system. Philza can gather that it’s based on how much HP the dojo master has left after a duel, because Étoiles has been yapping about making a dojo with that exact system for months now. (Is that a jar of mayo at the top? The hell?) Guess the eggs returning has been the push in motivation he needed to actually commit to that build, despite his insistence that he is very much a builder now, thank you very much, look at all the wool I have.

Étoiles perks up, grins in a way that lets Phil know he’s about to do a bit. “Oh, you don’t know? You don’t know that I’m literally Japanese, Philza?” he chirps, picking up one of the sticks on display before running circles around the other man, poking at his legs playfully. His boots are off, Phil notices. “Speaking of! Shoes off Phil, come on, come on!”

“You literally told me you grew in a field, mate,” Phil laughs, airy and wheezy and light as he evades the attacks. “The little legume who could! In rural France! Where does Japan come into play here?”

“Aaaah, Philza, Philza,” the warrior shakes his head, hitting the other on the shoulder to push him back out and onto the cold cobble floor. “Shoes off I said, it’s a rule. I don’t want shit on my tatami, I already had to clean it up sooo many times with the whole server fucking around in it yesterday. And Japan lives in my warrior’s soul. It’s all that matters.”

“F’course it does,” Phil complies regardless, shimming out of his geta before walking to the little shoe rack in the corner to tuck them inside. “There. Happy?”

“Very. Also, trivia time, culture time: did you know that cucumbers aren’t legumes? They are fruits, Phil! And vegetables don’t actually exist, they’re all either fruits or roots or leaves or flowers...”

Phil stares at him. “...You don’t get to stand there and tell me my avocados are fruits, Étoiles. What the fuck.”

“Umm, they are berries, actually—”

“Oh fuck off and come kill me already.”

“With pleasure, my bro.”

Armors come off next, quickly magicked back into inventories. Phil walks up to the altars to pick up his own stick (unenchanted, as plain as it gets) and spots Étoiles off to the side, rolling up his sleeve to check on his insulin levels before rolling it back down. “We eat one gapple each, yes? My sugar is low,” he explains as they both get into position on both ends of the tatami.

“Sounds good. You got yours?”

Étoiles laughs, summoning a golden fruit from his inventory and spinning it over his finger like the insufferable showoff he is. “Always. Autofeed off Phil, no cheating.”

“Alright, you little shit,” Phil summons his own gapple and bites into it with purpose, feeling the warm tingle of magic-saturation in his stomach as the rest of the apple vanishes into thin air with a few golden sparkles. He turns to the eggs, settled on top of diamond blocks they’ve just placed. “Tallulah, do a countdown for us please?”

Signs are placed, one by one, as Pomme hypes them up with Megalovania, perfectly timed with the Pigstep now blasting out of a music box. Bomp, three. Bomp, two. Bomp, one…

Bomp. [GO PAPA PHIL :D]

Étoiles shoots off towards him as soon as the letters show up on the wood, jumping up and swinging his stick down for a crit. Phil dashes to the side, the blow just grazing his shoulder. “Nice cock, Phil!” Étoiles gasps, all sharp teeth and waggling eyebrows, and it takes the avian back enough for the other to get a few hits in. “Motherfucker!” Phil laughs, breaking the combo and pushing the cucumber back with a few crits of his own, adrenaline starting to flood his brain and paint the world in sharp edges and colors. “You little shit! Stop doing that!”

“Do what, Philza? I’m just bantering, just chilling.”

Étoiles’ combat style hasn’t changed despite the blindness, Phil finds — he’s insanely precise and quick on his feet, which is a problem. He decides he won’t be able to outrun or out-speed him, so he elects to block most of his strikes with his own stick instead, relying more on instinct than observation. “He’s blocking, he’s blocking,” the warrior’s voice chants through the flurry of swings and the clack of wood against wood. “Strafing, strafing, he’s the best, he’s the GOAT. Hit me, Phil! Don’t just defend, hit me!”

And dammit, Phil tries pretty hard — but Étoiles is insane and he’s just a little too fast even without speedbridging, just a little too smart with his feints. Phil goes down after two minutes, the last hit clocking him across the temple and sending him to the (thankfully a little soft) floor, ears ringing and white stars dancing across his darkening vision. He wonders if it’s a little like how Étoiles sees the world now. Probably not. “Four hearts, Phil,” Étoiles announces, laying his hands on Phil’s side — the pain fades, the world comes back into focus, and his brain rattles with the doom-doom of revival. He hears fireworks going off, probably Pomme’s. “That’s good, very good. That’s a brown belt! I think you can kill me soon, easy. Again?” the cucumber chirps, offering his hand, and Phil thinks that if Étoiles had his tail it would probably be wagging right now.

He groans in agreement, grasps his friend’s hand and is pulled back on his feet. “Yes. Again.”

Round two goes similarly. “Again.” So does round three. “One more.” After his fourth consequential victory, Étoiles looks pensive, and Phil is getting a tad frustrated — he’s muted his comm for this, as he often does, but he can usher a guess at what Global chat looks like, spammed with his half-death messages and maybe a brief bout of concern from whoever else is online at the moment. “Fuck, man,” he rubs at his neck where a particularly vicious strike has left the skin an angry red, molted with purple. He’ll feel that in the morning, if he doesn’t get a respawn. “I don’t think I can do it. No black belt for me.”

“No, no, you can,” Étoiles insists, circling him — dull, greyed out eyes scanning for something. “I think…”

“Looking for something, king? How’s nebula-me looking?”

“Like the GOAT, you know that. But since you ask, you’re more blue today. With some red.”

“Cool. Wish I could see like you do, for a day.”

“You don’t. It’s pretty, but annoying. It’s harder to make out details inside the, ah…” he mumbles something in barely-legible French. “Je sais pas comment on dit. Les contours. The lines at the limits of a drawing.”

“Outlines?”

“Yes. I see the outlines well, but everything inside is messy. To me everything is just, shapes. And the bigger a thing is, the harder it is for me to understand it. Eggs are easy, because they are small and simple. People are harder.” He waves towards Phil. “Like, I can’t know if you’re smiling or frowning, I have to listen to how your voice sounds.”

“Huh. That’s interesting.”

Étoiles hums, stops at his side. Cocks his head like an attentive dog. “Ah. You should take your backpack off, Phil. It’s slowing you down.”

Oh. Philza shifts, hesitant. “I wear it all the time, it doesn’t nerf me that much.”

“No, I think it can make a difference. Let’s try it?”

Mh. He hadn’t planned on doing this today. Showing his kids had felt right, natural. Showing Fit had required a few deep breaths, but not much else. Étoiles… is a trickier case.

He does want to show him — the french warrior is one of his most trusted friends, and someone he knows he can rely on in a pinch. The guy is loyal to a fault, always looking at Phil like all it would take for him to lay down his life before him was a single word. It’s a bit scary, in a way, and always makes his hindbrain buzz pleasantly. But Phil held things like mutual trust in high regard, and Étoiles had broken that on the first day of Purgatory.

They had talked since then, and it’s clear to Phil now that it had been an honest mistake, a temporary lapse in judgement. Plus, it’s not as if Phil hadn’t lost his own mind within the first twenty-four hours in that red hellscape. Still, even though he has forgiven Étoiles, the cracks don’t feel completely healed just yet. “I don’t know, mate,” he pulls at one of the straps of his backpack self-consciously, feeling its weight pressing his wings tightly against his back. “I can’t get you under four hearts, I doubt taking it off will give me that much more.”

“Phil. Phiiiiil. Trust me?”

Tall order, Phil almost jokes, but refrains. “I do trust you.”

“Then trust what I’m saying. I know my shit, you’re being slowed down, you can’t spin as fast or jump as high with this thing, it’s basic physics. I want you to have all the chance on your side.”

Philza purses his lips, glances to where Tallulah sits off to the side. She jumps to her little feet and places down a sign, while Pomme rummages through her backpack next to her. He can’t help but coo when the bright ‘<3’ shows up in stark white against the magenta wood. “Right. Okay.”

Étoiles can’t see, not normally. So maybe he won’t be able to make them out, bound tightly against his back as they are. And if he does, then that is fine. No need to make a fuss of it. So Philza walks up to Tallulah and drops the black pack next to her, giving her a little headpat in passing. “Watch over that for me, okay?” he smiles at her, and she peeps at him with purpose, jumping on top of it and doing the egg equivalent of puffing up her chest. Pomme is in her own red backpack now, little legs kicking the air as she reaches as deep as she can. silly, egg, baby, egg, he croons. “I’ll be right back. Got a green ass to kick.”

“He is back,” Étoiles whoops when he steps onto the tatami. “Oh, he is ready, so ready. Are you full hearts?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. We go on three, one, two, th—”

Phil takes off at the first syllable, and oh, yeah, the lack of weight on his back means he can lean forward more without gravity winning, and that means he reaches Étoiles right as he reaches the end of his three. He thrusts his stick forward, the blunt tip digging itself right into the other’s abdomen with enough force to make him stumble back, winded and sputtering. “Argh—”

Phil doesn’t let him recover, getting a few good hits in before his opponent parries and attempts an upward swing that he barely evades by sending his body backwards, dangerously far. The weapon grazes his chin, and his wings try to open to regain balance but they’re still bound against him. “Shit—” he steps back quickly, arms pinwheeling, and it looks a little silly but it works, and he does not crash onto his back like an idiot.

Étoiles stares at him from the other side, breathing hard, eyes wide, a palm against his diaphragm. Then he smiles. “Oh. Ohohooo. Okay, now we’re talking. Let’s go.”

Moving more freely doesn’t make the fight easier, not by a long shot, because Étoiles adapts quickly — but it does make it more fun, and that’s already an improvement in Phil’s eyes. He gets less crits in, because jumping up leaves him too exposed to revenge strikes, but he gets more light hits in between sidesteps and mad dashes. “He is so fast!” Étoiles cheers, ducking to dodge a vicious strike to the head. “Oh, he is so good, go Phil go!”

Run, dodge, strike, strafe, dash. Every muscle in Phil’s body strains to keep up as he pushes it past its limits, arm aching from the repeated shocks against the stick, but he barely feels it thanks to the adrenaline flooding his system. A hit to the back of his knee makes him stumble, but he recovers into a roll and trips Étoiles with his stick in retaliation. The cucumber groans, scrambles to get up, and Phil sees an opening right there on his foes’ unprotected throat. He zeroes in on it, takes the first step, raises his weapon and—

There’s a jagged shape in his peripheral vision.

He falters. Tries not to look at it, tries to keep his eyes on target, target that’s about to get back up, quick, quick, do it.

There’s a purple shape in his peripheral vision.

He fails. Sharp angles and eerie glow, that shade he’s come to dread. The amethyst crystals hum out their ethereal song, taunting him. He doesn’t see Étoiles anymore, and his world is drowning in high-pitched static.

Purple. Purple everywhere. The room is too dark, too dark, darker yet darker.

Time slows down. No. The edges of his vision are fraying, dark tendrils creeping in. He feels himself falter, adrenaline making way for cortisol and making his hindbrain, no, fly, fly, run, nonono. He’s losing his footing, his grip around the stick growing slack, palms getting clammy. No, no, not now, please. His breathing picks up, faster than it’s been at any point of this duel. The amethysts glow an eerie violet, jagged shapes growing out of the thick, wooden beams around him, and he swears the room has gotten even darker. “Tallu—” He doesn’t make it to the end of the name, because then something smacks him in the back with unrestrained force.

Right on his left ulnare, the wingbone left exposed with no fat or muscle to cushion the blow.

Pain explodes throughout his left wing, the shock propagating all the way into his back and making him yell out, a gasp-screech that is very not human. Tallulah peeps loudly somewhere at the edge of his awareness, papa, no, bad! as he falls to his hands and knees, panic spiking, bad, bad, hurts, getoutgetout—

“Oh merde! Phil, ça va ?” He hears glass breaking, smells melon and gunpowder and something both earthy and spicy — Nether wart. Étoiles is healing him, putting a stop to their duel, and the realisation drags him out of that weird fugue state. “You never made that sound before, I think it’s bad. Are you okay?”

“Amethyst,” the older man growls between clenched teeth, letting the potion effects refill his health bar — fuck. Pain signals were always limited during PvP, but this had somehow broken through the server’s capping function. Étoiles makes a noise of incomprehension, his hands just hovering over Phil’s shoulder, not quite touching. “What?” he says, and Phil hears the patter of little feet rapidly coming closer. Pomme and Lullah.

“Please, just... Can you see the amethyst?”

He doesn’t know why he’s asking, of course his friend can’t see it, because that shit isn’t real. Or at least not to anyone but him. Through the haze he can feel Tallulah’s warm shell bump against his arm, hear her little worried chitters. He doesn’t trust himself to tell her he’s fine.

But then, Étoiles raises an eyebrow and turns his head towards the wall, blinks. A frustrated noise. “Euuuh Pomme, je t’adore hein, mais ça va pas trop avec le reste en fait. Tu peux les retirer steuplait ?” Pomme crouches, one-two, then summons a pickaxe and walks towards the crystals, and proceeds to casually break all of them.

Oh. Her backpack, all her rummaging. She’d been trying to decorate the dojo while they were busy sparring.

Philza lets out an uneven breath, runs a hand through his hair — his forehead is damp with cold sweat, and it sucks. Okay. Okay. Real, then. Just a really, really bad coincidence. Bad timing. Bad everything. He lets out a breath, the tight coil in his chest slowly loosening. “I’m sorry Pomme,” he gives the little egg a smile that he hopes to the Gods isn’t shaky. “Got distracted by the shiny, you know how it goes. Crow brain go brrrrr.”

Pomme falls dramatically on the floor at that, places a red sign that reads [sorry ;_;] “You’re good, you’re good, don’t worry.” Tallulah places a flower next to Pomme, bomp, [RIP manzanita]. Phil chuckles at their antics, heartbeat slowing down to a more normal pace. Jesus Christ. “You like shiny things, Phil?” Étoiles asks. “Did not know that.” He looks around, scans the dojo for any stray shine. “Mmmh. All good, I think. Sorry about Pomme, she likes amethyst stuff.” Then, quieter, “I think it reminds her of Baghera. She has an amethyst farm in her castle.”

Oh. Phil glances at Pomme, who thankfully seems fully absorbed in a sign-based conversation with Tallulah. “That makes sense. She must miss her a lot.”

(Dad, are you proud of me? I just killed a silverfish.)

“Can I see your wings, Phil?”

And, there it is. The other shoe. Phil lets out a heavy sigh, wincing when the movement makes his joint twinge in lingering pain — he’s pretty sure nothing’s actually broken or sprained, at least not any worse than before, but it still hurts. “So you saw them.”

“No no, I can’t. But I know they are there, somewhere. I’m sorry I hit them, I can’t tell where they are if you don’t have them out. Told you it was annoying.”

Ah. That makes more sense. He doubts Étoiles would voluntarily target them. Still… “How do you know about them? And, why?

“Philza, you need to understand something. And the thing is, I’m really dumb. I want to see them because maybe I can help, if I hurt them. I fix.”

“No you’re not, stop that. And you didn’t do any permanent damage, you’re fine.”

“No, wait. I’m stupid with lore, but I have eyes and ears. Jaiden showed she had wings, pretty sure Baghera has some but she hides them, I assumed you were the same.” Ah. Fair enough. Phil hasn’t been as subtle lately, and the crow jokes could only go for so long before people started to pick up on how literal they were. “Also, Kristin told me.”

Wait, what. “Wait, what?”

“Ye ye. First day of Purgatory, I died a lot. She said she wanted to exchange fofoca, so I told her about things, and she told me about you because she likes me. Did you know, I asked her if I could get wings too? It made her laugh. I guess tech support is not a high enough position to get flying benefits, sad times for me.”

Mother fucker. It’s hard to be upset when everything that spews out of Étoiles’ chattermouth is so consistently funny. “Well. I would’ve told you sooner than later, anyway. S’fine.”

“So you let me help.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll let you take a look, if that’ll make you feel better about it.”

“Let’s goooo, we got trust. Sit down please?”

Phil snorts and complies. He spots Tallulah running back towards him to climb onto his lap with a quiet warbe. good? Phil warbles back, good, yesyes, and rests his chin on top of his egg’s soft locks of hair. He hears Pomme hitting her dad behind him. “Ouais Pomme ?” Bomp, a short silence. “Badboy est là ? Ah ouaaais. Il veut encore t’exploiter pour ses boutons de l’enfer là ? POV, tu aides le fou du QSMP avec son escape game pour pas qu’il te tue.” More hits, Pomme’s little click-chirps. Étoiles laughs. “Okay, okay, t’inquiètes. Va l’aider, moi et Phil on va parler de trucs chiants de toute façon. Je te vois plus tard ?” The sound of a warpstone going off. “Saluuut.”

“Is Pomme leaving?”

“Yeah, she wants to build stuff with Badboy.”

“Oh god. Please tell me it’s not another find-the-button map.”

“Yeah. I’m gonna spend ten hours finding those fucking things again soon, let’s gooooo. So your wings, who else knows? I bet Fit knows. And your eggs.” Tallulah nods in Phil’s hold.

Étoiles’ lack of big reaction feels nice, but he supposes he should have expected it — the guy never makes a big deal out of anything. Except when it’s about banned materials. Or the Nether. And finding buttons, new trigger unlocked. “Add in pretty much everyone in the original Bolas, king,” he huffs as Étoiles settles behind him. His unseen presence makes a brief shiver of danger, danger go up Phil’s spine. It’s fine. It’s fine, he soothes himself, idly rubbing at the scar at the center of his chest through his robe. “I lost my shit with them around. Stopped caring as much. They saw them on day one.”

“Isn’t that a good thing? Half the people on this shit island are like, creatures. Not humans. Nobody cares. I’m literally a fruit, Phil.”

Phil chokes on his own spit. “Jesus Christ, you have no idea how funny what you just said was.” Tallulah chirps and wiggles in his hold, places a sign. [*side-eyes u*] it says, and that’s somehow even funnier than if she had actual eyes to side-eye people with instead of the blank expanse of her brown-spotted shell.

Étoiles blinks. He cocks his head to the side, in that specific way he does whenever he’s listening to what he calls the ‘voices of the stars’. (Something akin to his crows, from what the older man has been able to gather.) “Oooh. Oh, is it a gay joke Phil? That doesn’t work man, we are on Gay Island, everyone is gay here, or they don’t date at all. And you are incorrect, because I am in the second group, héhé.”

“Didn’t Antoine call you his boyfriend once?”

“He calls me a lot of things.” Étoiles shrugs. ”He’s also an asshole and my DJ partner and my friend and I love him very much, but no, it’s not like that. And I am married to dark metal and dungeons anyway. Now I’m going to unbind your wings and move them around, okay?”

“Mh. Go for it, king.”

To his credit, Étoiles is methodic in his approach — unknotting the binds and carefully tracing the upper edges of his left wing while the other spreads out with difficulty, a few black feathers coming loose. Étoiles lets out a surprised oh, gently grabs the other to help it unfurl, and Phil feels him poking at the bottom of his regrowing primaries — right where the white ones, usually hidden beneath the outer layer unless he spreads them wide, grow in diamond-like spots. “I know this pattern, right there. You have Elytrian code too, Phil? I thought it was just crow.”

“Ah, so Kristin didn’t tell you everything then.”

“No. And she didn’t like, out you, you know. She only told me because she knew I knew, she only confirmed it. People with wings have like, a way they move? I can’t explain it, I just see it.”

“Body language expert Étoiles, ey? Have you known a lot of avians before?”

Étoiles stays quiet for a second. When he speaks again, he sounds perplexed. “Huh. I don’t know. I guess I knew Baghera? Memory stuff, it’s annoying.”

Phil frowns. Right. “You told me a little about your childhood, though. The village, the farmers?”

“Yeah, that’s a thing that came back quickly after the crash. But everything after that, I don’t remember.”

“Man, fuck this island. I’m sorry.”

Étoiles hums. His fingers start combing through his bottom feathers, lingering among the white ones. “I think. I think I went to the End before, Phil.” His voice has gone softer, airy, like he’s not quite anchored in the present. “I think… maybe, I’ve seen Elytrians before.”

“You have?”

“Mmh. I think I killed one. Yeah. And I took its elytra. It was a good fight.”

The revelation doesn’t shock him — Elytrian hunting is a common activity for those who reach the End, and elytras are a highly sought-after item in most worlds. (Philza would know.) “Were you a hunter? Before the island.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t like hunters.” And Phil can’t see Étoile’s face from his position on the floor, but his words are dripping with contempt. “Hunting for yourself is one thing. Making money off it, it feels wrong. And they don’t even fight, they make traps. I don’t like that. If you’re too shit at fighting to win fairly against something, you don’t deserve the loot. Bâtards de merde.”

And Phil laughs, because this he understands. “Ever the honorable warrior, aren’t you Étoiles.”

“Dude, I have so much honor. I told you, I’m literally Japanese.”

“Right.”

“And like I said, I am your arms. I am your sword, Philza Minecraft.”

Phil’s wings fluff up slightly, a croon of ownership-claim threatening to spill out of his chest. Mine. “Étoiles…”

“I am, it’s not a bad thing! Purgatory sucked. I didn’t like it. But it was better at the end, when you were telling me what to do. Who to kill for you.”

Phil croons, leaning back into Étoiles’ careful hands. “I see. You never called me dad though.”

“Fuck that!” Étoiles laughs, bark-like and airy. “That cult leader shit was weird. You’re Philza.” And there’s a quality to the way he says it, something that feels both casual and reverent. “First of his name, GOAT of PvP, Avoider of Lore, greatest man alive—”

“Woah there—”

“—husband and Angel of Lady Death, and father of dragon eggs. You’re not my dad. Why everyone has daddy issues on this shit island?”

Phil snorts. “I don’t know, mate. But I won’t judge. I think it’s fine if seeing me as a father figure brought them comfort. It was literally hell out there.”

Étoiles hums. “Maybe. Also, you didn’t answer my question.” Phil lets out a confused huh. “Earlier, when I asked why you were hiding that you had wings.”

…Shit. Curse Étoiles’ one-track mind, his deflection tactic had been foiled. “It’s not— shit like prejudice I was afraid of, Étoiles,” he admits, quiet and somber. The other man stops his ministrations, fingers dug deep in his primary coverts. “I know this island is a goddamn circus show. Mousey screams she’s a demon to whoever will listen and nobody gives two shits, I don’t know why Bad even bothers pretending he’s not. That’s not the problem. It’s just…” He sighs. ”The Federation has eyes everywhere, man. I feel like if I show them off too much, they’ll fuck them up again. Maybe even worse than last time.”

Étoiles is silent. His motions resume, slower, more careful and deliberate. “The first time, you say,” he eventually hums. There’s something dangerous in his voice. “So it’s because of them, that they are like this? Your wings.”

“Pretty much. Woke up on the train, boom, clipped. No more flying for me. I don’t know why they didn’t do the same to Jaiden, she said she didn’t want to fly, or didn’t know how? I can’t remember too well, but maybe that’s why. Less of a threat. Honestly, I’m just glad they didn’t do it to her. She’s family now.” Even though her loyalties are a point of concern, he couldn’t help it. She is Bolas, she is flock. And he had held her as she screamed out the temporary loss of her shiny blue wings, that first night in Purgatory. “No avian deserves that shit.”

“You don’t either, Phil.”

“I know that.”

“I’m just saying it because you have the voice! The one you use when you think bad things.”

A wry smile. “How dare you call yourself dumb, man. How fucking dare you.”

“It’s what I do! I kill things, I see people’s true souls, and I shit on myself.”

They stay quiet after that. Étoiles stretches out his wings, flexing the joints one at a time, muttering quick apologies when Phil hisses a little too loud. “Sorry, sorry.”

“You’re good. Keep going.” So he does, until Phil no longer feels the pins and needles of blood flooding back into his wings, until the joints no longer feel like rusted cogs. He even gets a little preening in, dislodging matted down and crooked secondaries, and it feels nice. Tallulah is dozing off in his hold, warm and safe. His egg, his baby, his hatchling. “Thanks mate,” Phil hums, a little out of it by the end, hindbrain thrumming pleasantly. Flock, good, yesyes. “You’ve done that before, I can tell.”

“If I have, I don’t remember. Okay, now stand— sorry Tallulah, were you sleeping? Sorry, your dad has to stand so we can see. Yes, nice. Now try them.”

Phil chitters quietly, furling and unfurling his wings experimentally — the constant pain is still there, but minimal, very bearable, and they do feel less stuffy. Lighter. “It actually does, yeah.” Tallulah does a little dance at his side, twirling and playing a few cheery notes on her flute. “Good job, seriously.”

“No probleeeem, Phil, my bro. Last round?”

This guy, I swear. “I’m a little tired,” Phil groans, cracking his neck as he stands, stretches his wings out as far as he can — it still aches, but feels miles better. “But okay. I’m going to put Tallulah to bed real quick, she’s eepy.” Tallulah nods in confirmation, takes out her warpstone right as her papa does. “Then let’s fight, one more time. After that I’m going home and conking the fuck out.”

Étoiles makes a sound that probably means something like ‘holy shit say less king’. “Okay!”

Five minutes later, and he’s warping back to Étoiles’ cave like a man on a mission. And in a way, he is. “Welcome back, worthy challenger,” the cucumber greets him, crossed-legged in the middle of the dojo, and Phil snorts because the music box is blasting Smash Bros music now. “You’re such a fucking nerd, oh my God.”

“It gives me strength, Phil. It’s my final form.” Étoiles gets up, stick already in hand, bouncing on his heels with anticipation. “Autofeed still off?”

“Yup. How’s your sugar?” Étoiles checks his monitor quickly, gives a thumbs up. “Good. No holding back?”

“I never hold back, Phil. Let’s go.”

There is no countdown this time — both opponents slip into quiet assessment, circling each other slowly, slowly. Étoiles does a strange head-tilt, ears flicking to track Phil’s footsteps, the sounds of feathers ruffling. Phil’s eyes do not stray from him, hardened and focused, picking up on the change in the air. Étoiles wants him to go all out. So he will. And he has a plan.

(The bigger a thing is, the harder it is for me to understand it.)

Time to put that to the test, then.

Étoiles charges first this time, quick-footed, swerving at random moments to keep himself a hard-to-track target. Phil almost bursts into incredulous laughter because holy shit, he’s Naruto-running, what the fuck— but manages to keep his focus, waiting until the very last moment to thrust his wings downward with enough force to send him soaring abovehis opponent. Then, right as his feet touch the tatami and right as Étoiles screeches to a stop to spin back towards him

he spreads his wings

wide, wider

casting huge shadows on the four walls of the dojo

and lets his powers roll off of him like a dark mist, sparking with magic and wither-decay.

(The bigger a thing is, the harder it is for me to understand it.)

It’s a gamble, a costly one that saps his Feds-capped magic like crazy — but it pays off, because Étoiles staggers back, confusion etched across his features. His head subtly snaps in all directions, like he doesn’t know where to look, his ears swivelling to try and pinpoint him. Bingo. Phil has made his nebula-self big, toobig for Étoiles, rendering the warrior effectively blind. Well, double-blind.

Phil doesn’t wait for the other to find a counter to this, curls his wings forward then snaps them back — they launch him forward at breakneck speed and create a gust of wind that makes the paper lanterns swing on their hooks, and then Phil is slamming into Étoiles like a literal hurricane.

The plant hybrid gasps, fingers slackening from the sheer strength of the impact — his weapon slips out of his grasp to clatter against the ground and roll out of bounds. His body describes a perfect curve and hits the wooden floor with a loud thud. He barely has the time to blink the dizziness away before something presses against the side of his neck, and he freezes completely. “Gotcha,” Phil preens, looming above him. The end of his stick is right against Étoiles’ pulse point, the threat crystal clear, and he’s a writhing mass of burning stars and cosmic fury.

The energy rolling off of him washes over Étoiles in waves, makes his skin tingle, and he recognizes it as withering. Withering coming from Philza himself, whose outlines are impossible to pinpoint, lost in the cloud of magic and giant Angel wings.

...Okay, this is sick as hell, Étoiles thinks, and he can feel somethingwithin him grow, a presence rejoicing in the back of his mind. Ink bleeds into his eyes, then under it, twin lines of darkness going down his cheeks and neck. (Flashes of a white spiral on a dark expanse, of whispers and stolen Time.) He feels cold, but he feels good about it, and he’s not scared at all — this is fine, more than fine. Withering is harmless for Death-touched things. Things like him and Phil. He laughs, loud and ecstatic, this is fun, so fun! “Aaah. Clever bird, clever Phil, I like. Okay.”

Then something wraps around Phil’s ankle and pulls it forward, breaking his balance and making him hit the ground ass-first with a startled caw. He grits his teeth, shoots a glare towards his leg to see—

—blinks at the sight of a green vine wrapped around his ankle. His eyes trace along its length. He’s seen this before, but only once, months ago. Right after harvesting a freshly-regrown Étoiles out of the ground, a week after his Code-related demise. “Oh,” Philza says, and Étoiles smirks in return.

His tail is long, as long as he is tall, and covered in large, healthy green leaves. It swishes against the tatami in a serpentine motion, the leaves rustling quietly, and Phil notices a half-star-shaped kink at the end of it. It’s... well, it’s pretty adorable actually, but something tells him Étoiles wouldn’t like that descriptor. “You kept it,” he says instead, fight-darkened eyes sparkling with something like kinship-euphoria. “You grew it out.”

“I did, I listened to you. I keep it wrapped around my waist, it works.”

“Told you it could come in handy.”

“You did. You’re always right about things, Philza.” Étoiles steps into a fighting stance, hands curled into fists, tail lashing left and right like a whip. Phil understands, lets out a quiet chuckle as he sends his own weapon flying out of the arena. So they’re doing it this way, huh. More than fine with him. “Nothing’s off the table then,” he hums, hands curling like claws at his sides, sharpening talons glinting ominously in the light of paper lanterns. His friend hums approvingly, and it’s all Phil needs to pounce.

They no longer try to evade, instead crashing into each other to cause as much damage as quickly as possible. Étoiles throws a jab, Phil retaliates with a smack of his wing to destabilise the other before slashing at his chest, tearing at his shirt and drawing the first blood. Because yes, Étoiles bleeds, deep cuts marring his dark green skin, chlorophyll sticking to Phil’s hands. Étoiles hisses, gets behind him and wraps his tail around Phil’s throat to choke him. Phil gasps, coughs, briefly flails before smacking the other with his wings until the tail goes slack. Phil rips it off him and whirls around to pull at it sharply — Étoiles falls, but not before grabbing onto Phil’s robes to pull him down with him.

Things get messy after that — a flurry of feathers and leaves and punches and kicks, one that clocks Phil in the jaw and makes him taste blood, one at the side of his head that makes him see stars. He hisses, screeches, swipes, again and again, and Étoiles blocks some of them with his arms, arms that gain more and more tiger-stripe cuts, but many go through and eat at his health, heart after heart. The warrior retaliates with a headbutt that makes the Angel’s world darken for a second, burning blood getting into his eyes and half-blinding him. Maybe it’s more fair this way, not that it slows him down at all.

They punch, claw, snap their teeth at each other like rabid dogs — chipping at each other’s health with no care, no limits. Dark red and greenish white smear against the straw tatami, but that’s fine, that’s okay, they are playing, they are having fun, and Philza feels alive, alive, alive!

(The whole time, Étoiles never touches his wings. Which goes against the whole ‘nothing off the table’ thing, yet Philza is grateful for it. He’s also grateful none of the eggs are here to see this.)

Philza has no idea how long this lasts, lost in the thrill of a fight the likes of which he hasn’t experienced in decades. But eventually the doom of someone getting downed makes every muscle in his body lock up, and he’s still standing. Or, kneeling over Étoiles with his talons right above his jugular, the other hand pinning the warrior’s hands above his head to keep him from hitting back. Semantics.

Étoiles has gone limp, heaving, his body a canvas of bruises and bloody cuts. “I win,” Phil realizes, wings quivering, all fluffed up in a show of victory. “I… won.”

“Well played, well played,” his warrior wheezes out in response, and Phil’s never seen anyone so happy about getting their shit kicked. Except maybe one person. But he won, Phil won, Étoiles is down and he himself still has… yes, two hearts to spare. He has won. They can stop. Right here. Right now.

But then. Étoiles, stupid and crazy and wonderful Étoiles, tilts his head back to offer him his throat, his binary-scarred face twisted in a feral grin. Philza gasps and leans back a little, eyes wide “Take your win, my bro,” he chirps, happy as can be, tail thumping against the tatami like an overpet cat. Tap, tap, tap, the countdown to his demise if Phil doesn’t up him soon. “Do it. You won’t. No balls, no bolas.”

And those words are the last push Phil needs for his Elytrian code to take over. He bares his teeth, eyes darkening to a pitch black that eats up his entire sclera, until the white of Étoiles’ teeth gets reflected back at him — not that he can see it.

Phil’s wings spread out behind him, huge and dark and awe-inspiring even in their frayed state, and the withering aura that exudes from them paints Étoiles’ eternal night in bursts of star-speckled purples and reds and blues.

It’s beautiful. And it’s terrifying. Étoiles is about to get killed by an Angel of Death, and he’s never been so goddamn scared and excited in his life.

Phil feels insane. He’s going feral, going sicko mode, or whatever other colloquialism that means his mind is drowning in the thrill of hunt, hunt, prey, yesyes. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Étoiles scared before, but there’s no mistaking those too-wide eyes, that subtle tremor in his friend’s wrists as Phil’s hand tightens around them. He can smell it too, like cut grass left to decay in the hot sun, and it’s making the End’s superpredator in him go zoomies inside his skull.

He growls, low and bone-deep and dangerous, his talons pushing harder against the paling, sweat-damp skin of Étoiles’ neck. prey? flock. prey. prey? kill, eat, yesyes. Étoiles isn’t human, but he has something close to a heart, and he bleeds like one — greenish white chlorophyll that smells strong and tastes awful, bitter.

(Phil knows that, because Purgatory happened. More specifically, Bolas happened, gas masks and ritual sacrifices and fresh blood always lingering at the corner of their mouths. He misses his flock — misses all the ones that are still gone, carving cookie-cutter negative shapes in his heart — everything else about that hellscape, not so much anymore. Maybe he’s healing, just a little.)

His talons are just a hair away from perforating Étoiles’ jugular, so close to making not-quite-blood pour out like a fountain. But then he freezes, going silent, because the part of him that is still sane recognizes that this is a terrible idea.

It’s a terrible idea because Étoiles is bad at knowing when to stop, bad at spotting the line between what challenges him and what hurts him. And Philza understands that this, this is a bad. The cucumber hybrid is a creature of instants — fugue moments, rash decisions, the kind you would look back on later and go oh, yeah, that was dumb and maybe not worth it. Hence Philza has to be the responsible one, has to ignore his base instincts screeching at him to hunt, kill, kill, lest this ends badly. Like Étoiles getting mauled to death by what is supposed to be his most trusted friend. Again. (They don’t talk about that time. Just like they don’t talk about Étoiles’ betrayal, neither want to reminisce over Phil’s teeth tearing his throat out in the middle of a Hunger disaster. Not-so-fun fact: Étoiles doesn’t taste like cucumber at all.)

“Enabler,” the avian warbles, talons slowly lifting off the hollow of Étoiles’ throat. “M’not killing you.” And Étoiles, like the little shit that he is, has the gallto pout at him. “Why not?”

“Because then I’ll have to regrow your ass in my potato field for a week, you twat.” Also I think it’s not good for you, and my sanity is at an all-time low so I don’t need cold-blooded murder to push me over the edge, he adds in petto.

Étoiles blinks. Huffs out a laugh, something a little unhinged, but also a little relieved. “Ah, yeah! I forgot, because I respawned normally in Purgatory. Okay, you win.” The warrior’s smile softens to something more like him, and just like that, the tension vanishes, the buzz of fear and aggression replaced by something light and playful. Étoiles baps his hands against his chest, grabbing at his robe to tug him down into a hug.

And Philza’s hindbrain floods the rest of him with happy, happy, yesyes, because Étoiles isn’t really a touchy-feely person and neither is Phil, but this feels right. “GGs,” the crow says back, warbling and chirping like crazy, the black in his eyes receding. yesyes, mine, mine, yesyes, yesyes! And to his surprise, Étoiles responds, not with a crude imitation of his own bird sounds, but with something… different. And Phil’s not sure any word in his vocab could ever describe it accurately — but something deep within him knows that if starlight was a sound, this would certainly be it. “Oh, oh, he is so good. The GOAT, the actual GOAT, best man on the planet Philza Minecraft,” Étoiles mock-sobs against him. “He wakes up in the morning casually being the best, and he takes care of two eggs and says fuck to the president’s office from the wall, and he finally beats me. My legend, Felipe, Felipe!”

Phil shakes from the force of his hilarity — a regular occurrence whenever he hangs around his favourite pickle man for long enough. silly, he warbles between fits of belly-aching, hiccup-inducing laughter, and he leans down to nuzzle against his friend’s mess of dark green hair (leaves?). silly. silly. flock. “I do see Forever wave at me from his office sometimes,” he hums, once he’s calmed down enough to speak again. “He makes kissy faces at me through the glass, so I flip him off.”

Étoiles hums in acceptance, finally pushes Phil back to shimmy out from under him with a small héhé to lay on his back, starfish-style. Phil rolls onto his own back, and they both stare at the interlacing wooden beams of the dojo roof for a little while, basking in the fuzz of a fading adrenaline rush.

(Phil hasn’t seen his favourite Brazilian as much lately. Silly, sun, friend-protector. He probably has his hands full, what with returning to his political duties after so long. Still, Philza worries — he thinks of black tar clinging to sun-kissed skin and tired sienna eyes, above a smile that just doesn’t shine as bright as it used to.) “I kinda like it, though. It’s like our good morning. Never tell him I said that.”

“I wooooon’t, I promise.”

“Thank you. For the fights.” Philza closes his eyes. He is here, he is real, everything about this moment is so real. It’s comforting, a balm on his fraying psyche. “It was fun.”

“It was so fun. Please fight with me again like this sometime, no sticks, yes? You have to come back so I give you your black belt anyway.”

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

“I can hear you smiling, Phil. You want to, I knowww.”

“M’not smiling at all, dumbass.”

Étoiles does that high-pitched hum of his that means he’s not buying it, reaches towards his friend — his leader, his wielder, his death-touched Angel. Cool fingers, untouched by code, playfully trace over each of Philza’s features, feeling out the dimples and the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes — pun very much intended. “You’re so bad at lying, Philza,” he sing-songs, playful and content. “I know you too well. Maybe I can’t see you, but I can see you.”

And goddammit, Philza actually does feel seen in this moment, anxieties melting away for now. How does he do it. How does this reckless, thrill-seeking cucumber man with a limited (albeit pretty good, and improving) grasp on English so consistently drop the most gut-punching lines in this entire server. Étoiles is something else. “...Yeah. I see you too, mate,” Phil breathes out, and the rough texture of the tatami is starting to dig criss-cross patterns into his back, but he wants to stay like this. Just a little longer.

(Philza is damaged goods. But so is Étoiles, and so is everyone he knows. But maybe they can both pretend, for a little while.)

#qsmp #qsmp fic #fanfic #philza #étoiles #codebreakers #commission

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corroded-chrissy · 2 years

Text

Invisible String

steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: steve has known you nearly all his life—you’ve been attached at the hip from day one. although falling in love may not have seemed inevitable to the two of you, it definitely was to everyone else.

prompt: can you write a request where steve and his girlfriend are childhood friends to lovers so they reminisce about what cute things the other did when they were kids that fueled their crush?

word count: 4.3k

trope: childhood friends to lovers, memories made in the rain

warnings: swearing, mentions of underage drinking, mutual pining, mild angst but mostly pure fluff, kind of a fix it fic, reader has cherry lip gloss, steve being an adorable child

a/n: @gloryofroses19 sorry this request took me so long to finish! i just moved back to college this week so i’ve been writing here and there where i can, but i hope you enjoy it! hopefully i did it justice.

[requests are open!]

It was a rainy day the first time you met Steve Harrington.

You were just eight years old, the walls of the new house towering and wallpapered, unfamiliar and daunting. Your family had moved to Hawkins a couple short months ago, and you hadn’t been too happy about it. Leaving all your friends behind had been hard, and with school out for a couple more months, you were feeling more than a little lonely.

A summer rainstorm had picked up this particular afternoon, drops drumming rhythmically as you gazed out the window at the rows and rows of carefully manicured lawns and white picket fences. It was shaping up to be another perfectly boring day.

That is, until you saw him.

You squinted out of the window, breath fogging up the glass as you peered out into the street. You almost couldn’t believe what you were seeing. There in the downpour was a pair of blue overalls, yellow rain boots, and a head of the messiest hair you’d ever seen.

A… boy?

To this day, you still don’t know what possessed you to fling open your front door, leaning over the safety of your porch railing to gawk at him.

“Hey! What are you doing out in the rain?!”

“Finding worms!” The boy looked up at you with a triumphant gap-toothed grin, something pink and wriggling in his fist. “You should try it, s’a lot of fun!”

“Aren’t you cold?!”

“No!” He sounded indignant, like your question was the least likely outcome to ever exist. “I’ve never seen you before! What’s your name?!”

You shouted your name across the lawn, and suddenly the gap-toothed smile was back. “That’s a pretty name! Do you wanna come out and play with me?!”

“But you haven’t told me your name!”

“It’s Steve! Steve Harrington!”

“Well I think you’re an idiot, Steve Harrington!” Maybe it wasn’t very nice, but you couldn’t fathom why he’d want to be soaked to the bone, out in the rain by himself.

He didn’t seem to take it to heart. “Don’t knock it til you try it! Pleeeease?“

“Why should I?”

“Because… because if you don’t, you’re a prissy little princess!”

You opened your mouth in shock, too indignant to speak for a moment. “I am not!”

“Then why don’t you prove it, Princess?”

The taunt was there, but you could tell the name wasn’t meant to be mean-spirited. You sigh, take a deep breath, half-punctuated by a nervous laugh. “Okay, okay, fine! Here goes.”

Holding your breath, you step off the safety of the front porch, instantly feeling your clothes get drenched.

You found you didn’t care, at least not really.

It’s incredibly vivid, the way you remember playing outside with Steve for hours that day—jumping in puddles, chasing after frogs, getting muddier than either of your mothers would approve of—long after the afternoon thunderstorm had ceased to a harmless evening drizzle. The sunset had broken through the clouds as you chased each other around his dewy yard, painting a rainbow across the once-gloomy sky.

After a long while, you both sat on Steve’s porch, giggling and out of breath. You remember being so excited to learn you would both be in Mrs. Thompson’s class at Hawkins Elementary. You remember the way his eyes shone as you swapped stories, dreams, and favorite slushy flavors (“Nuh-uh, blue raspberry is way better!”)

Most of all, though, you remember his blue overalls, his yellow rain boots, and his slightly cheeky gap-toothed smile as he asked, “So… still think I’m an idiot, Princess?”

You let out a very undignified snort, elbowing him good-naturedly in the side. “Just a little bit, Harrington. Our parents might actually kill us, but… I had a lot of fun.”

Somehow, his smile got even wider. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Me too.”

At that moment, Steve’s mother swung the screen door open, lips pursed, arms crossed, the perfect picture of displeasure at the sight of how messy you both were. “Steven Harrington. Get inside. Now.”

Steve looked like he wanted to protest, but thought better of it, instead offering you the tiniest smile. “I’ll call you tomorrow?”

You knew this meant he’d probably be grounded. You mirrored his apologetic expression, stepping forward for a quick hug. “Okay. G’night, Stevie.”

It might have been the light. It might have been the embarrassment from his mother’s sudden reprimanding. It could have been a lot of things, but for a moment as you pulled back, you could have sworn you saw him blush.

“G’night, Princess,” you heard him mumble, and with that you were left alone on the front porch.

You had made a friend. Warmth bloomed quietly in your chest as your mother ushered you hurriedly inside, scolding you with a voice laced with exasperation and concern. Maybe Steve had been right, though. Despite how soaked you were, you didn’t feel cold at all.

Of course, you’d both developed nasty colds the next day. Even that didn’t stop him from wanting to talk to you as promised—your mother overheard you giggling into the receiver for most of the day, listening as he complained and cracked jokes through sniffles and sneezes.

After all this time, you still gave him crap for making you go out in the rain with him, even though he insists he “didn’t make you do anything”.

Looking back at it, though, you wouldn’t change a thing.

Steve’s favorite memory of you was a bit different.

It was May, and he’d just turned sixteen. You were getting ready to go to Tammy Thompson’s birthday party. He was up in your room with you, like most evenings, blasting Blondie’s newest hit from your record player.

It was your way of rebelling against your mother, Steve noticed, who had very loudly told you there were to be no shut doors in her house when a boy was over. You had just rolled your eyes at her. “It’s just Steve, mom!”

Over the past several years, Steve had become a part of your family. He knew your mom adored him. It was evident in the way she spoke with him, invited him over for dinner or gave him soft, lingering hugs she knew he needed.

But it was May, he’d just turned sixteen, and she knew better than anyone that you’d both grown up since your first meeting.

Steve, in particular, had shot up like a weed, his arms and shoulders filling out ever so slightly. His voice dropped a good octave or so, and you still managed to give him plenty of shit whenever it squeaked or cracked. Gone were his days of missing baby teeth and wild, messy hair (and he made sure you were the only one who knew about the magic behind Farrah Fawcett spray).

And you—well, you’d become something else. Steve couldn’t remember when exactly you’d gotten so—

“How do I look?”

He turned toward the sound of your voice, about to tease you about taking so long, but whatever he had been about to say died in his throat.

—beautiful.

The dress you were wearing brought out your eyes and emphasized the curve of your waist. The sleeves were ever so slightly puffy, and as he took in the swoop of your hair and the gentle curl of your eyelashes, he found himself at an utter loss for words.

“Hello? Earth to Steve?” You waved your hand in front of his face. “Ugh, is there something in my teeth? Does the dress look that bad? I knew this wasn’t a good color on me—”

“Hey, that’s not it at all,” Steve cut in, trying not to appear as flustered as he felt. “Quit putting words in my mouth, dummy. You look… like a princess, Princess.”

“You could have just lead with that, idiot,” you mumbled, but you were smiling, the gloss on your lips catching Steve’s attention. He found himself wondering what it would be like to—

No. No no no. You were his childhood best friend, for Christ’s sake, and friends didn’t imagine what other friends’ lipgloss might taste like.

“Can’t let your head inflate too much,” he teased. “You might get a boyfriend and forget I exist.”

“Oh, please,” you scoffed, spritzing on perfume, “even if that did happen, you can’t hog all my attention, Harrington.”

I wish I could.

“Are you ready to go yet? I swear, girls take five million years to get ready—”

“Shut it or I’ll tell everyone at the party your hair secrets.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Oh, I would.” You grab his hand to help him up. “Let’s go!”

…

You'd only shown up half an hour ago, and Steve could tell you already hated this party.

To be fair, as parties went, he wasn’t having the best time either.

Everyone was clustered in Tammy’s dark basement, a flask of something was being passed around, and to top it all off, every girl in the immediate vicinity had their eyes on him. Whispers and giggles were traded behind carefully manicured hands, and Steve couldn’t help but smile as he observed a hint of a scowl come over your face.

Unfortunately, things took a turn for the worse when Tammy decided on a game. “Let’s play spin the bottle!”

Steve would find out later that both of you wanted to go home right then and there. Stomach in knots as he shot a glance at you, he cautiously went to sit by your side.

Tammy grabbed his arm. “Stevie! You have to go sit with the boys, silly. You gotta give some of the other girls a chance, you know,” she simpered, batting her eyelashes.

Steve had never had a particular problem with Tammy Thompson, but right now she was working his last nerve. He settled for shooting her a tight-lipped smile and pulling his arm from her grasp. “Yep, got it. Thanks.”

The moment her back was turned he met your eyes, making an exaggerated gagging motion. His stomach twisted further as you erupted in silent laughter. Fuck, it was unfair how pretty you were.

Two circles were slowly formed, and the game commenced.

Years later, Steve still remembered how wildly his heart was thumping in his chest. You periodically exchanged glances with him, but as he surveyed the group of girls, he found his eyes returning to you again and again.

The empty coke bottle Tammy had chosen suddenly spun to a stop—pointed at him. He looked at you, wider-eyed than a deer caught in the headlights. He felt his hands began to sweat, and he had to wipe them against his jeans. The girls’ side was suddenly a wild flutter of activity.

Yep, he was definitely fucked.

Tammy reached out and spun the bottle again, time seeming to slow as he saw your eyes dart from the bottle to him. He had no idea what you were thinking. For the first time he wondered how he could kiss a girl that wasn’t—

“Oh, shit! It’s King Steve and the princess!”

—You.

The room erupted into chaos, and for a moment Steve just sat there dumbly. For what seemed like the first time in his life, he couldn’t read your expression as the other partygoers circled around you, cheering you on.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

He watched as you hesitantly scooted in his direction, forcing yourself to look up at him.

“We don’t have to do this,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. “Say the word and we can go back to your house instead. Or literally anywhere else.”

Why, then, did something in him hope you wouldn’t listen?

He was surprised to look in your eyes and find a light, a spark that burned so brightly they practically glowed in the dark. “I…” you hesitated for a second, biting your lip in a way that made Steve want to come even closer.

Turns out, he didn’t have to.

After a second or two more, you took his face in your hands, closing the gap and urgently pressing your lips to his.

Steve practically melted into a puddle, and it was all he could do to keep himself upright. Obviously, he wasn’t completely inexperienced when it came to kissing—after all, he’d told you about the few awkward fumblings under the bleachers or in the school locker rooms—but he was absolutely sure that he’d never felt anything like this.

Your lips were soft, warm against his, and—cherries. He didn't have to wonder about that anymore. Your lipgloss tasted of cherries. He could smell the perfume you’d put on earlier, and something sweet, something entirely unique to you. Something about this—kissing you—felt so natural, so right to him, like he should have been all this time.

He was left in a daze as you pulled back, but his reverie was short-lived as he watched you turn and push past the other partygoers, running out of the basement.

“Princess—wait!”

He was up on his feet in an instant, taking off after you. He was up the stairs out onto the porch in a matter of seconds, Tammy’s screen door slamming shut behind him.

…

At some point during the party, the heavens had opened up above Hawkins. The torrential downpour was at once mesmerizing and terrifying, water running in rivulets down the street. Steve figured you couldn’t have gone far in a party dress while soaked to the bone.

Turns out, after eight years he knew you pretty well.

He found you in the treehouse you’d built in your backyard together one summer, all scattered nails, wooden planks, and blue raspberry slushies. You were both getting a bit too tall for it now, but it still held his weight as he climbed up.

The first thing he caught sight of was your dress, absolutely drenched. Your hair was wet and tangled, and you were curled up in a ball, face hidden, shoulders shaking. Steve couldn’t tell if you were shivering or crying, but either way the sight of this side of you was a painful squeeze to his heart. “Hey… you okay? You ran off there pretty suddenly—”

“Go away, Steve,” you’d managed to hiccup. You’d definitely been crying, then. Steve resisted the urge to reach out for you, instead settling for a position on your other side, knees bunched up in a way that normally would have looked hilarious.

“I’m not going anywhere. Tell me what’s wrong.”

You’d dared to tilt your head up enough to meet his eyes. “What’s wrong is I ruined everything, Steve. You’re supposed to be my best friend, and I kissed you. You probably hate me, and you never want to speak to me again and—”

“Hey, hey. None of that,” Steve murmured, reaching out to wipe your cheek despite himself. “You didn’t ruin anything. I’m still your best friend, and it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than a kiss to get rid of me. Pinky promises to be friends forever are binding contracts, I’ll have you know,” he added, relief washing over him as the smallest twitch of a smile appeared at your lips.

“You could never do anything to make me hate you. I mean—I know you better than anyone. I’ll never forget that day you came out on the front porch and yelled at me for being an idiot. That was all you had to do for me to know I needed you in my life. I knew I’d end up caring about you more than anyone or anything. And I still do now.”

He’d swallowed carefully, raking a hand through his damp hair. “And hey, if it helps… you never have to kiss me again. Since, you know, apparently it sucked so bad that you decided to run away.”

“Hey, shut up. You weren’t bad,” you’d chuckled, elbowing him gently, but your worryingly dull eyes had grown a little brighter. There’s my girl, Steve couldn’t help but think.

“That was sort of the problem, actually," you continued, thinking out loud. "I kind of got lost in the moment, but I snapped out of it and freaked out because I remembered it was you I was kissing and I just... didn’t wanna fuck things up, because you mean a lot to me. You were the first person who ever made me feel like I belonged in Hawkins, and I don’t think I could stand it if I lost you over something as stupid as spin the bottle.”

You glanced away from Steve, looking like you were building up the courage to say something more. “And, for what it’s worth, I… enjoyed kissing you. A lot.”

It was all Steve could do to look at you, hope and disbelief clashing in his mind. “You… you did?”

“Yeah.”

You smiled, a real smile this time, and Steve thought it might have been the most radiant thing he’d ever seen. “And I think I want to do it again.”

That was all Steve needed to hear before he closed the space between you once more, his lips soft and gentle on yours but always, always wanting. He kissed you like he’d never get to kiss you again, like he was starving for you, burning your taste, your touch into his memory. His hands came to rest behind your back as the rain fell harder outside, but at this moment he knew nothing but bliss, your treehouse a quiet sanctuary from the storm.

It was with reluctance that you finally came up for air, foreheads touching and giddy smiles on both of your faces.

"If I'd known that this was how your first high school party was gonna go, I would have dragged you to one a lot sooner," Steve remarked, and your beautiful, slightly wild laugh was music to his ears.

"I'd've let you drag me to one sooner, I think. So..." you trailed off, looking a little embarrassed. "What does this... mean?"

"What does—oh. Oh." He hadn't really thought about that yet. He was on the threshold of something with you, he realized, something new and exciting and utterly terrifying. But for you, he would take any risk.

"I'd love for us to be more than friends. Obviously, I'll still be your friend, but..." he took your hand in his, impossibly warm despite the chill from outside. "The thing is, I like this. I like you. Just promise me we'll still be friends no matter what happens."

"I promise." There was no hesitation from you now. "No matter what happens, I'm not going anywhere. Not now, not ever. To be honest, this kind of scares the shit outta me, but... I'd love for us to give this a shot."

Steve felt as if his heart might burst, and he pulled you close to his chest, planting a gentle kiss on your head. "As long as it's with you, there's nothing I'd want more, Princess."

Despite the warmth emanating from him, he still felt it when you shivered against him. "Except getting you somewhere warm. C'mon, let's get inside before you freeze to death."

You merely chuckled, rolling your eyes at him. "M'not cold, Stevie. But fine, if you insist." He regretted saying anything when you pushed yourself up off of him, but he knew it was probably for the best.

"Well, I can't exactly risk my new girlfriend getting hypothermia on me," he quipped, heading down the ladder and extending a hand up to help you.

"I didn't realize my new boyfriend was such a mom," you teased as you took his hand, but despite everything feeling somewhat normal again, Steve's face flushed at that word. Boyfriend. He was going to have to get used to that.

"Yeah, yeah, that's Mama Steve to you. If we go inside now, I'll let you pick the movie tonight."

"Deal."

Steve's arm was slung over your shoulder as you headed into the comforting warmth of the house, the rain finally subsiding to a soft mist.

As many wonderful memories as you and Steve have made together since then, this one might be your new favorite.

It’s a warm, cloudy June night. Hopper and Joyce finally decided on a small backyard wedding a few months ago, and it’s a much-needed celebration after everything your little town of Hawkins has been through.

As you gaze at the colorful string lights lining the party, watching Hopper twirl a laughing Joyce during their first dance, you can’t help but think about how lucky you are. Vecna was finally dead. Eddie’s name, after a lot of convincing, had finally been cleared, thanks to Hopper being reinstated as chief of police. Max, although she wasn’t able to be here, had finally woken up a few days ago and was recovering in the hospital.

It’s an utter miracle you all survived, after the sheer number of near-death experiences you'd had over the last few years. At this point, you’d bandaged Steve’s wounds more times than you could count. But you're so, so grateful everyone you love is alive and well.

You know Steve’s still healing from the bat attack in the upside down, but tonight he’s practically shining in a groomsmen’s tux, hair coiffed to perfection in usual Steve fashion.

For formality’s sake, you’re on the bridal party’s side with the other bridesmaids until the first dance is over, but somehow your boyfriend senses your staring and grins, shooting you a wink that’s borderline indecent.

You have to stifle a giggle when you notice Dustin elbow him in the side and mouth “gross”, although there’s no real venom behind it. You know how much the kids look up to both of you.

There’s a smattering of cheers and applause as the first dance concludes and Hopper spontaneously dips Joyce for a kiss. You make sure to give Eleven a little side hug when she wrinkles her nose at the sight. “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll get used to it.”

“It feels like revenge for me and Mike,” she grumbles, but you know she’s just as happy to see her two adoptive parents together as the rest of you are.

Eventually, more people start to trickle onto the green to dance, and Eleven squeezes your hand before running off to dance with Mike, who looks a little disgruntled to be pulled out of his conversation with Will.

You slowly saunter over to Steve, a little smile on your face. “Hey there, handsome. Want to dance with me?”

You always relish in the way Steve blushes at your compliments. “You’re killing me over here. Who said you could get all dolled up and flirt with me? You look so damn good; I might have a heart attack before I can get you on the floor.”

“I said I could, babe,” you chuckle, rolling your eyes. “Such a dramatic. Now, are you coming or are you just gonna stand there and gawk at me?”

He laughs, taking your hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “Of course, pretty girl. I’d love to dance with you.”

You make sure to stick your tongue out at Lucas and Dustin over Steve’s shoulder, the former miming kissing the air and the latter making an unflattering gagging noise.

Steve leads you out into the grass with the other dancers, one hand in yours and the other on your waist, gently swaying to the beat. It’s a slow song, tranquil and romantic, and you can’t help but think there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

“Whatcha thinking about, Princess?” Steve whispers in your ear.

“Just… how happy I am that I’m here. That I've got the kids, and Robin, and Eddie, and Nancy, and you. I kind of owe all of that to you,” you murmur back. Maybe it’s a bit schmaltzy, a bit hopeless romantic of you, but with Steve it’s all too easy to be that way, even after nearly four years together.

“What do you mean? You're the one who barged into my life if I remember correctly, little miss I-think-you’re-an-idiot-Steve-Harrington.”

“That’s a mouthful,” you giggle, “and still true, by the way. But you’re my idiot.”

Steve’s trying to find a clever retort when thunder rolls across the sky, impossibly loud and far too close. That’s all the warning the wedding party gets before the clouds open up, first a shower, then a drizzle.

Everyone else scrambles for cover, hiding under the white tents that have been hastily set up, or making a beeline for the Byers-Hopper house.

You and Steve, however, stand there incredulously, his perfect hair and suit now soaked. Your dress and shoes aren’t faring much better, and you know if you stay out here, you’ll be ankle-deep in mud.

All that it takes is for the two of you to make eye contact before you’re both laughing hysterically, clutching each other for support so you don’t slip and fall in the wet grass. You’re sure that, to the rest of the wedding party, you must look insane right now, but you don’t think you could care any less.

“Always the rain,” Steve gasps, out of breath, grinning so much it looks like his cheeks must hurt. “Always the goddamn rain.”

“I don’t know about you, but right now I’ve got some serious deja vu,” you agree, your arms around his neck as you catch your breath. “So... should we cut to the chase this time? Any more pressing secrets that need to come out?”

Steve's mind immediately jumps to the dresser in his room, in which there is currently a small black box—the perfect size and place for a ring. “Can I tell you later? I promise it’s just one more secret.”

“Aw, you’re no fun,” you groan, but you press a kiss to his lips anyway because there’s something about him in the rain that’s just so goddamn pretty. “Tell me tomorrow?”

“We’ll see,” Steve chuckles, hands on your waist as he presses a kiss to your forehead. “For now… keep dancing with me?”

“You’re lucky I love you,” you reply as he spins you around, your soaked skirt flinging droplets in all directions. “I wouldn’t come out in the rain for anyone else.”

“I know.” Steve brings you back towards him and dips you, and for the millionth time you thank your lucky stars you found your best friend and your soulmate in one person. “There’s no one else I’d rather coerce out into the rain with me.”

“Just say it back, dingus.”

“I love you too.”

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