CLUB STUPID [SMAU]

Since I could actually come up with something,, comfort kisses with either jams or rugbert

Ily btw <3

sleepy love!! jamil viper, ruggie bucchi

jamil kisses you lazily, sloppily, reaching up to you but not quite reaching you, longer-than-average tongue sticking out between his lips as he his eyes narrow, you becoming a problem to solve. his untied hair falls lazily over his now bare shoulder, his tee slipping off as he captures your lips in another, better, more proper kiss, eyes smouldering like burnt charcoal- in victory.

ruggie nibbles you slowly, trailing up your body with his sharp, pointy teeth, leaving a dotted trail of love bites all over your body from your thighs to your neck. murmurs of quiet praise vibrates across your flesh, and while you can't say these are kisses when you asked him for kisses and cuddles, these feel so much more intimate. sacred. you're scared to touch him and pull him closer, but ruggie knows, ruggie always know, and his lips meet yours once, twice, thrice, and you feel him smirk against you.

a/n: ily too, inky!! <3 i hope you're feeling much better now, and have a good day <3 note: became mildly suggestive, somehow. uhhhhhhhh

word count: 155 words

Concierge please, I was going to visit Disneyland with my dad and little sister, but then the pandemic struck and I was stuck at home. We’re are planning it for later this year though :) I will forever be a child at heart.

Male preference please

Thank you!!

Thank you for seeking assistance from our concierge, we hope our service lives up to your expectations...

As the few single, childless person on your company trip, you had been swiftly assigned the task to look after your colleagues’ kids while the adults try their luck (and mostly failing their luck) in the casino.

You were bored out of your mind as you waited for the kids outside of the playground and that was when you met Haiba Lev, who had attracted a good amount of kids around him because of how eye catching he was among the crowd with his height.

You watched in concern when a kid tried to hold onto his extended arm like a monkey bar but he only seemed to be entertained by their antics. Laughing and blending into the group of kids perfectly fine as they started to climb onto him. You recognised one of the kids in the crowd to be the one you were supposed to be watching over and immediately grew alerted only to see the kid saying something into the guy’s ear on their top toes.

You had no idea what the kid had said to him but he started waving at your direction out of nowhere, with a smile so bright that you couldn’t help but wave back meekly.

(He came up and asked for you number later, because apparently the kid told him you didn’t have a boyfriend but you want one so he should be your boyfriend.)

Thank you for staying with us at the Secondhand Hotels & Resorts^^

a whisker away― 2 | HQ Movie Collab!

COPYRIGHT © 2021 BY VELES. DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, OR READ MY CONTENT AS ASMR OR AUDIOFICS.

SUMMARY: After a strange series of events, turning into a cat becomes part of your daily routine, in which you visit your crush- Kenma, every day after school. But he doesn’t know you’re the cat that visits him. And to make things worse, you’re not sure how long you’ll be able to keep this up before your world spirals out of your control.

PAIRING: Kenma Kozume x fem!reader

GENRE & THEME:  A Whisker Away! AU (movie), fluff to angst to fluff, pining. [(two part) ONE-SHOT] [Haikyu Movie Collab!]

TAG’S & TW: Cursing, a bit of unhealthy family dynamics (mentions of parents fighting). Mentions of social anxiety, bullying, rejection + anxiety attacks. Some angst, mentions of insecurities and small graphic violence. Reader might come off a bit as yandere-ish/obsessive but she’s just head over heels over Kenma, who’s barely discovering his feelings as well.

WORD COUNT: 10.1K!

A/N: This took me one more week than expected to finish writing LOL I’ve been writing long-ass fics lately…but anyway, I really enjoyed writing it, so I hope you’ll enjoy it too! Will be focusing on finishing my Shigaraki fic now :D  Please REBLOG, like and COMMENT if you enjoy!

Ever since you’ve been having a second life as a cat, it feels like you’re living in a movie. There’s been no incidents, nothing that’s disrupted your mood. Both your parents have been peaceful lately, school is going smoothly, you’ve spent more and more time with Kenma and you’re sure you’re only sinking deeper in love. But you can’t find it in yourself to care or to worry about it, not when it feels like you’re walking on clouds. 

Keep reading

Pride & Prejudice: A TWSTed AU

A Beautiful Tyrant: V. Schoenheit

Introduction, or Pick another route!

Vil x GN! Reader

Warnings: P&P-level angst and miscommunication, Vil tendencies, talks of stress, the Power of Meddling Friends (ft. Jack and Epel)

Notes: I thoroughly enjoyed writing this part. It took several hours of overthinking, but this is probs my favorite. And I twst-ed Lizzy and Darcy. Hope you enjoy, this has been my contribution to the twst community, thx everyone <3

You smelled Vil before you saw him.

A musky, regal scent wafted into your nostrils and you felt your body tense automatically. Here comes the Queen, you sighed, shifting the stack of script papers in your arms.

Earlier that week, Vil sought you out. When he and Rook finally cornered you in Alchemy lab, he asked (demanded) you help him out with the Film Research Club’s latest production. You weren’t exactly at liberty to say no, because you knew you wouldn’t have a moments peace from Rook, Vil, and any one of Vil’s mob of fans at NRC if you did.

This all wouldn’t have started if Vil hadn’t walked by when you were reading Prejudice and Pride. It was after-hours, and you were reading under the Fairest Queen’s statue on Main Street for a change of scenery from Ramshackle’s dusty sitting room.

As luck (or misfortune) had it, you two started chatting. After you showed him what you were reading, Vil mentioned thoughtfully that he’d been looking for inspiration for a new Film Research Club production. Apparently, Prejudice and Pride was a classic on Sage’s Island, as it was in your world - a classic that Vil thought was just perfect to perform. And wanted you to help with, since you were now reading it.

So, here you were - up at 5am, yawning as the sunrise came up, waiting for Vil who somehow looked very put together (complete with perfume and a full face of makeup and a chic outfit, on a Saturday). It was just you, him, Ortho, and a handful of other club students at the moment.

“Set that over there, Jack,” Vil nodded, and the two of them walked to you. You smiled at Jack, a bit surprised. “Hey, what brings you here?” Your fellow first year smiled back at you, surprisingly energetic despite the early hour. “Vil and I usually run together around this time, he said he needed a hand with the set. I thought I’d help him out.”

You were about to respond when you yawned, stretching a bit. Vil set down a box, side eyeing you, “keep your eyes open, Prefect. I want all your attention.” You sighed, picking up your clipboard, “on it, Vil.”

—•—💜👑💜—•—

You were exhausted.

It was safe to say that, after working for a month with the Film Club, it was tough to get out of bed at 5 in the morning, deal with Vil’s weird iciness, and then trudge through the rest of the day.

Somehow, a conversation about the character dynamics of the two main leads snowballed into Vil thrusting the movie script into your ‘capable’ hands. Apparently, no one else in this world could fully understand the complex relationship that the main characters, Ellis Benner and Mr. Darby, had except you and Vil. When you began protesting, Vil’s sharp gaze locked onto you.

“Enough of this. I will not have this production fail before it even begins, and if it means learning on the job, then so be it. I do pride myself on seeing potential, (Name).” Gingerly, he put a finger under your chin. Maybe the light played tricks on your eyes, but you thought his gaze softened fondly at you, “I wouldn’t give you this if I didn’t think you could handle it.”

And that was how Vil Schoenheit schmoozed you into writing the next blockbuster hit. No pressure, or anything.

So far, the production had gone off without a hitch. You’d been at it for a couple weeks, and had gotten into full swing of things. Vil took the helm as director, while you were doubling as production manager and script writer. You’d lamented to Jack that you were more like Vil’s second-hand when it came to the production. You were glad Jack was popping by a little more often, since some of the work had to be done done before classes began at 8am.

Currently you were going over the script with Rook. A few times, Rook’s flamboyant gestures and over-the-top comments made you laugh, causing a few students to look over. After a while, you noticed that every time you laughed, Vil seemed to look at you with a frown - as if he was mildly annoyed with your amusement. Even when you weren’t laughing, you saw him glance at you out of the corner of his eye. After a while, you had enough.

You leaned closer to Rook quietly. “Rook, be honest. Did I offend Vil?” Rook looked at you, eyes wide. “Pourquoi? Le Roi du Poison doesn’t seem offended by you at all.” You glanced over at Vil. Yep, he was still staring at you, but now his brows were pinched in a deep frown, violet eyes stormy. Rook looked over aghast, “Mais non! He will get wrinkles!”

Vil abruptly rose from his seat and all but stomped over to you and Rook. Stray students jumped away from his path, as if his mere aura made them skittish. You tensed, staring him down.

“Prefect,” he said icily. “Vil,” you responded evenly, looking him in the eye.

“I seem to recall that I put you in charge to look over the script. You don’t seem to be doing that.” You drew yourself up, head raised to look up at Vil, “I found some errors. Rook was helping me.” Vil’s eyes darted to Rook, who smiled pleasantly. “The tricksteur has a keen eye! The production will shine with both your beauties when it is done!” This seemed to calm Vil down.

“Yes, it will…” he murmured to himself, then his eyes snapped to you. “I’ll see you back at the dorm, Rook. Prefect, I expect a full report by tomorrow. We’ll go over the changes together.” Vil marched off, and you sighed heavily. Rook patted your arm affectionately, before giving you a cryptic smile.

—•—💜👑💜—•—

“Cut! Absolutely not!”

You watched Vil with a frown, shifting in your chair, “I didn’t think that one was bad.” For the past few days, Vil wanted the contenders for the main lead and love interest to act out a scene together - a ‘chemistry test’ between actors to see if they’d work well together. Earlier, you’d offhandedly mentioned how you wanted the ballroom dance scene in the script to have a good balance of tension and romance. At that, Vil looked thoughtful, “perhaps we should make sure our leads work well together.”

You were dragged out of your thoughts as the two students acting on the stage muttered to themselves as they stalked off. You hummed, leaning back in your chair, “let’s end it for today. Everyone’s already tired as it is.” As everyone cleared out, you looked at Vil carefully, “we can start again tomorrow. But I really thought those students were fine.”

You couldn’t understand why Vil looked so annoyed. “Prefect, playing the roles of Ellis Benner and Mr. Darby goes deeper than just acting well for a scene. It has to be believable. And I’d like it to be faithful to the book.” You sighed, “is this all because one of them stumbled during the dance? It’s harder than it looks, y’know.”

Vil gave you a pointed look, “no, but both of them should dance better.” He sniffed, “Although I disagree. I’ve made the dance quite simple.” Vil looked over at you, something swirling in his eyes, “even you could grasp it.”

You bristled at his words. “Oh? Even me?” you echoed, frowning at him. Vil nodded, clearing his throat. “Yes. I’ll show you.” Suddenly you were swept to your feet, Vil’s hand in yours, leading you to the stage. His expression was unreadable as he faced you. His voice was uncharacteristically soft, “now, (Name), follow my lead.”

The beginning of the dance’s violin music wafted in the air delicately as you and Vil stepped together. “Focus, Prefect.”

You were definitely focused, if only to make sure you didn’t show how flustered you were. All you could see were Vil’s deep violet eyes, and you were hyper aware of his perfume. You weren’t sure how long you were clasped together, panting, until-

“Hey Vil, I brought the boxes you wanted, where should-?” You nearly jumped out of your skin as you parted from Vil, face feeling hotter than lava. Poor Jack looked baffled, muscling a heavy-looking box with props. You hurriedly straightened your shirt, glancing to Vil. Even he didn’t look fully composed, swallowing thickly.

“Yes, just-“ Vil cleared his throat, “just set them over there. Thank you, Jack. We’ll see you in the morning.” Jack ran a hand in his hair, confused, but nodded and left. You were suddenly aware you were still holding hands with Vil. You quickly let go, abruptly saying “well, we should go too. I- well, good night!” And you ran as fast as you could out of the set, not seeing the forlorn look on Vil’s face.

—•—💜👑💜—•—

“What?!”

You gaped at Rook, eyes wide. He looked equally distressed at the news. Apparently, during Spelldrive practice, Epel had fallen off his broom and gotten injured. “Is Epel okay?!”

“Oui, mon cher, he is alright. I just came from the dorm, the nurse gave him a healing potion. He will be fine, but alas! He will not be able to attend the practice dinner Vil is hosting!” Rook sighed dramatically, hands open wide next to him as he shook his head.

You bit your lip, “do you know if it’d be ok if I went to see him later? I’m sure he’d at least like the company…” Rook’s gaze warmed, “Oui! The company of a friend is always welcome,” he looked outside. “Although, it will likely rain later.”

You glanced out, snorting. “It’s bright and sunny out, Rook. I doubt it’ll rain.” Rook looked at you, mischief in his eyes, “bah oui, tricksteur. A hunter knows.”

—•—💜👑💜—•—

Needless to say, you will never doubt Rook again. Ever.

He said it’d rain, and rain it did. As soon as you got out of the botanical gardens after Herbology, a mini flood rushed your way down the dirt path. You hunched your shoulders and ran up the path to the Hall of Mirrors to get to Pomefiore.

Once you made it to the elegant halls of the Fairest Queen’s dorm, you trudged to the common room. You were about to make a beeline to the dorms, when-

“Great Sevens, Prefect, did you walk through the rain?!” Vil’s voice made your limbs freeze. Your eyes widened. Vil’s eyebrows knit together as he stood up, looking at you. He was oddly quiet, any other criticism halting on his lips. The two of you stared at each other strangely, until a student on the couch cleared their throat, wanting to talk to Vil.

You suddenly found your voice. “I’m so sorry,” you realized you were dripping dirt onto the nice carpet floors, “uh, is Epel in his room?” “Yes” Vil’s eyes bored into yours. You opened your mouth silently, then said “thanks.” You glanced at the other student, before nodding to yourself and leaving.

Silence passed, while Vil stared at your leaving figure after you disappeared down the hall. “By the Sevens, Housewarden did you see their clothes? Dripping water all over the floor,” the student said snobbishly, looking at the trail you’d left. “And their shoes and pants hem just caked six inches deep in mud.” He looked at Vil, thinking his upperclassmen would agree, but a chill went through him as Vil’s violet eyes bored coldly into his. “That’s enough. Now, did you want something or are you wasting both of our times?” The student shut up.

Meanwhile in Epel’s dorm, you were relieved to see him on the mend. He was just glad he could avoid Vil for a bit. In any case, you could tell he was fine because he had no problem complaining with you, which warmed your heart.

You groaned, flopping back onto the mattress. “He just-! Sometimes we’re completely fine with each other, and sometimes he just hates me, Epel!” Your friend just sighed, “look, Vil doesn’t hate you. It’s the opposite really-“ “He’s weird around me!” That got Epel’s attention. He angled himself and listened intently.

You balled up your fists, gritting your teeth. “He just stares at me!” You threw your arms open, “MENACINGLY!”

Epel watched you, unimpressed, piecing together what you said, and Rook’s cryptic words and Vil’s strange fascination with working with you. He hummed, “Maybe he likes the challenge?” You stopped your rant, looking up at him, “huh?” Epel shrugged, “no one else can speak to him like that.” “Not even you?” You teased, nudging him. Epel gave you a look before throwing his now-empty apple juice at you. You dodged it, laughing loudly.

—•—💜👑💜—•—

“Ah, there you are.”

You looked up from your lunch. Across the table from you stood Vil, arms crossed. You felt Epel tense, and you mentally prepared yourself to listen to a long speech.

A chill went down your spine when Vil stated “You can stop looking so tense, Epel. I’m here for (Name).” What could he want? You’d already given him the final script, and castings for the production. This could’ve waited till club time.

Vil began, “I’ve looked over the script, Prefect, and I think it’s good.” Wonderful. “But, I’m going to change one thing,” he inhaled, and looked you in the eye firmly, “You will play the role of Ellis Benner.”

Epel’s fork clattered down onto the plate, and his jaw dropped. You stared back at Vil, stomach churning anxiously. “Vil, I can’t play Ellis, I have no time. Besides, you didn’t have me do any readings-” Vil cut you off, “We’ll discuss this later. For now, go over what you can, and we’ll rehearse together.” As he walked off, you frowned. A single word he said echoed in your mind - ‘together’?

—•—💜👑💜—•—

You rubbed your eyes as you trudged to the set. You held your script in-hand, filled with highlights and written notes in the margins. There was no way today was going to go smoothly. After your mini-scare with Vil in the cafeteria, you didn’t think you sufficiently went over your lines. Sure, Vil was a little overbearing, but hopefully he’d be understanding.

You were surprised to see no one at the set. “Uh, hello?” You said hollowly, peering at the empty set. You were spooked when Vil stepped out into a spotlight. “Prefect, you’re here.”

You put your things down, and walked to him. “Look, Vil, I didn’t get a lot of time to prepare,” you looked around again for good measure, “and I guess the actor for the Darby isn’t here, so we’ll have to postpone it for today.” You couldn’t hide your relief.

Your heart dropped when Vil responded, “There is no need to cancel. I’ve decided on an appropriate actor for Darby.”

“Who?” You asked. Vil looked over at you, something swirling in his eyes, “Myself.” Your eyes widened as Vil took your hands and swept you towards the stage. “We will be going over the confession scene, the one in the rain.”

You blinked, trying to flip to the scene in your script. You hadn’t gone over this part. Still, you guessed you could improvise some lines with Vil, maybe?

“Vil, why do you want to play Darby? I thought the other actors were good. And the ones for Ellis were good, too.” Sure, you knew he always wanted to play the hero, but this seemed sudden. Vil turned to you, a hand on his hip, “I only want the best for this story. Such a classic needs two main leads who do it justice, and who better than you and me?” he sounded haughty, eyes daring you to challenge him.

You sighed through your nose, and launched into the scene without delay. “Fine.” If Vil wanted a good Ellis, you’ll give him a good Ellis. You steeled yourself.

“‘Mr. Darby? What are you doing here? In the rain?’” You asked, chin lifted in defiance.

Vil switched seamlessly, standing across from you. “Ellis, finally. I’ve struggled in vain and I can bear it no longer.” It was like the air shifted as he got into character. “These past few months have been torment. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and l-love you.” Vil took a deep breath, and you couldn’t quite describe it, but you felt his demeanor slip.

“I’ve fought against the inferiority of your status, rank, magical ability-” what? You thought, magical ability? That didn’t come from the book, “- and circumstance, but I’m willing to put them aside.” Vil held your gaze firmly, and you felt your heart in your throat.

He continued, taking a step closer to you, voice becoming thick, “I’m asking you to end my agony, (name). I beg you-” you didn’t realize he’d taken your hands, and your script fell to the ground, “please do me the honor of courting you. Please accept my hand.” You held his gaze, your next line falling silent. Something felt strangely… intimate about this rehearsal.

You were taking too long to deliver your line. Vil frowned impatiently, “(Name), your line please?” You sucked in a breath and took a step back, letting go of his hands. “What?” Vil asked, and briefly, hurt flashed in his eyes. “Vil,” your voice wavered, throat thick, eyes wide, “You said my name. During the line, y-you were supposed to say Ellis, but you said mine.”

You saw Vil slowly realize what just happened. He cleared his throat, and you saw the tips of his ears turn red. Was The Vil Schoenheit flustered? He spoke, “Yes well, I did have an… ulterior motive to casting you as Ellis, and myself as Darby.”

He took a deep breath, holding your gaze, “I didn’t exactly want to tell you like this, but I do indeed…” he ground his teeth, and forced out the words, “have feelings for you. I have tried to stop them, but…” He shook his head, and continued, “Well, I do understand that it may be shocking to you, what with you having no magic or connections in this world aside from Grim, and living in Ramshackle of all places, but I suppose it can’t be helped.”

You looked at him, dumbfounded, as he continued in a matter-of-fact way, “But I can overlook that. You could switch dorms, and come to Pomefiore.” He stopped, waiting for your response. As if it were no other thing you would possibly do. You felt yourself grow angry under Vil’s gaze.

“So, that’s it then?” You looked at him, and he seemed shocked at the anger in your eyes, “you wanted to tell me that despite all of these things you’re willing to associate with me? That I’m not good enough for you but you’ll like me anyway?” Vil’s eyes widened, but your voice grew louder. “Is that what this production is about? You trying to confess in some twisted, insulting way?” Vil frowned, eyes becoming stormy, “You have some nerve speaking like that to me, Prefect-”

“You are so arrogant.” Your eyes stung, “You expect me to date you, even after you said all of that to me? After making me work tirelessly for this stupid production and stressing me out? You don’t even like that you like me.” You laughed humorlessly, “Forget it, Vil. I’m never going to date you.”

You turned on your heel, feeling your eyes well up. You went straight back to Ramshackle and flung yourself onto your bed, ignoring Grim’s yelp and pats on your back, trying to ask you what’sa matter henchhuman?

Back on the set, Vil stared at you as you left, feeling the same way he did after he overblotted. He slowly gathered his things and began trekking back to Pomefiore in silence, replaying every word, action, and emotion as if he were rewatching takes from his movies, wondering if he was acting or if he really was diabolical. He didn’t notice the water dripping from above until he stepped into a puddle, the water soaking his socks. Ah, he thought, looking up to see the grey sky, it’s raining.

—•—💜👑💜—•—

You didn’t return to set for a week. You weren’t quite sure how to feel when Vil didn’t reach out.

After that day, you were sure that consequences known as Rook Hunt would be… well, hunting you. You couldn’t shake off the feeling of being watched, and whenever you turned around to look, you noticed Rook looking at you with a somber expression. Still, he didn’t approach you. Some part of you sort of wished he did.

You couldn’t deny that your days were much shorter and less stressful now that you didn’t have Film Club, and since its members weren’t reaching out to you. Still, sometimes you found yourself a little too idle. Even your friends had noticed your moodiness, but thankfully didn’t tease you much whenever you’d pull out Prejudice and Pride to read. At first, Ace started to tease you that maybe you oughta switch dorms to Pomefiore if you were gonna read the stuffy classics! but when he saw you upset, he laid off.

You still did see Vil, but he simply went about his day normally, never glancing in your direction. Hurt pooled in your stomach whenever you saw him, and even when you scrolled through MagiCam, it felt like you only saw Vil. Advertising a movie. Old clips of his past films. Product promotions. His MagiCam account.

“I heard you quit the Film Club, Prefect. You okay?” Jack asked, setting his lunch tray down. You shrugged, pushing around the food on your plate. Epel nodded, “I overheard from Rook that ya quit, too.” Epel didn’t mention that what he’d heard was Rook waxing poetry to Vil to try and get him to go after you to explain himself, but he didn’t think you needed to know that. Especially when you looks clammy as soon as you heard Film Club.

“The work got a little… much,” you responded after a bit, “that’s all.” Jack rubbed the back of his neck, “Vil’s been looking stressed without you. He’s been trying to find actors fast. He said the original ones he had in mind didn’t work out, he looked pretty bummed out about it.” You tensed, and it didn’t go unnoticed by either of them. Finally, the bell rang, and you all but sprang up to leave, “bye guys, see you after class!”

Epel frowned as you escaped, “they have potions with me after lunch. I’m literally their lab partner.”

Jack’s frown matched Epels. “Something’s going on with them, and it’s been happening before this.” Epel agreed, “I overheard Rook talking to Vil. I’m thinkin’ something went down when the Prefect left Film Club. Not to mention, Vil’s been a real pain in the behind,” he said disdainfully, “He’s been real snappy lately.” Jack shook his head, “I don’t know, I think something else happened. Before (Name) left, I was delivering boxes to the set, and I think I interrupted ‘em or something.” Mentally, he cringed when he remembered that. Talk about being a third wheel, damn.

The warning bell sounded, and the stragglers in the cafeteria stood to get to class on time. Jack crossed his arms, ears twitching. “I have to stop by Film Club later, Vil wanted my help.”

Epel nodded, and as they went their separate ways, Jack thought back to last week.

—•—💜👑💜—•—

A week ago Jack was walking with Vil to the Film Club set. “So, I guess Prefect is gone for good?” Vil’s step faltered, barely noticeable, “I haven’t seen them since,” Vil said in a clipped tone.

“Did they get busy or something? It’s not like them to just leave like that,” Jack commented. Vil frowned, looking frustrated, “I agree. I’ve had to take care of many things for the production. Not to mention, I have to find new actors…”

Jack crossed his arms, “Y’know, I heard a few people were real interested in playing a part. Why not just ask them?” Vil pinched the bridge of his nose, “No one seems to understand. I had a very specific image for this film, and I needed Prefect to-!”

Abruptly Vil sighed, seemingly exasperated. “I’m sorry Jack, I’m not sure what came over me. I just…” Jack noted that Vil didn’t meet his gaze. “I’m just…” Vil seemed to struggle for a word, “frustrated that the Prefect and I didn’t see eye to eye.” Jack rubbed his name, “They were pretty busy when they were doing the production. It was a lot, not to mention all the other stuff they have to do. It’s not easy being Ramshackle Prefect.”

Vil bit his lip, “Well, I suppose it was only natural for them to disagree…” Vil swept his hair over his shoulder, muttering “...even if they were wrong. And I would speak to them, but I don’t think they’d want to see me.”

That was odd, what did he mean by that? Jack was about to question Vil, when the third year nodded to Jack, “I appreciate your help. I should be alright, will you be coming later on?” Jack nodded, deciding leave it at that. “See you later, Vil.”

—•—💜👑💜—•—

Ah, you thought as you shut your book. It’s raining again.

You really didn’t have a reason to continue reading Prejudice and Pride, but you told yourself there wasn’t anything else to do. Even though you did have other books, and finally got a movie player, and a stack of old movies that Sam had given you. You pinched the bridge of your nose. You’d gotten to the part where Darby confessed to Ellis, but you couldn’t stop thinking back to that day. Vil rehearsing lines to you. Telling how much he loved you. Holding your hands, as if he really meant it.

Maybe you wished he meant it. Wait, what?

You quickly shook your head, getting up. Maybe you could watch some movie to clear your head. You glanced over at a box full of books from the attic and the empty bookshelf, and do some cleaning.

Without a second thought, you slid a movie into the player and got to work. You didn’t really bother listening to the movie since you just wanted ambience. You were halfway to stocking the bookshelf when a voice made you drop a book.

“ ‘My my, what have we here?~’ ”

You spun around, squeaking “Vil?!” You were alone. But how…?

“ ‘I was sure you’re little troupe of friends wouldn’t come back. And yet, here you are~’ ”

Your attention snapped to the TV. Vil was in the movie you’d put on? Vaguely, you remembered that Vil once mentioned he’d been in a spy movie. Though you could, sadly, see that he was playing the villain. Still, you could tell that even at a young(er) age, he stood out from his protagonist costars. Vil had always had a way of commanding a room, even back then. Even if the room was a movie set, and you were viewing it through a crappy TV set.

You watched as a grainy, but recognizable, Vil moved across the screen. The cameras seemed to love doing close-ups on him, and you could see the technique he put into his acting. It wasn’t just his body movements, you realized in awe. It was his little facial movements, the way his eyes flickered in smugness. The way his mouth quirked up in that attractive smirk.

The movie protagonist shouted at Vil’s character, “How could you do this?! You’re so cruel! You’re a tyrant who doesn’t care about anyone!”

That’s not true. You snorted to yourself and picked the fallen book up. You mused to yourself as you shelved the book, Vil was strict, sure, but it wasn’t like he did things because he didn’t care. You found your eyes wandering back to the TV screen, some emotion blossoming in your chest. Rather, he did things because he cared too much.

You thought back to when you were filming with Vil a few weeks ago. Sure, you didn’t exactly like being stressed out with the production, but some part of you did miss it. You couldn’t exactly put your finger on it though. Or why it hurt when you saw Vil or Rook. You chalked it up to feeling bad about ditching him, but you couldn’t bring yourself to even talk to him, let alone apologize. You tried reading P&P to get your mind off it, but every time you sat down, you thought about Vil being Darby. And then you couldn’t focus.

As you were lost in you thoughts, the movie did a closeup on Vil. Maybe it was because you just hadn’t seen him a while, but you were mesmerized watching him in his element. Or maybe… You sat down on the couch, rubbing your arms, maybe you missed him.

When you first arrived to Night Raven College, you didn’t know anything about this world, much less its celebrities. When the VDC (SDC) rolled around and you became acquainted with Vil, you didn’t know who he was. Maybe that was why you eventually came to respect him, even if you didn’t always agree with him. You weren’t fully blinded by the stardom, but somehow you could understand why his fans liked him, without having to watch all his movies and interviews. You hadn’t admitted it to anyone, but eventually, you started to like him, definitely not in a fan way. And it freaked you out, but you tried to keep your crush-crush in check. After all, it wasn’t weird to have a celebrity crush. Even if you had a micro crush on your friend, who happened to be a celebrity.

You kept it under wraps, to the point where you didn’t really flinch when he interacted with you. So when he asked you to help with Film Club, you thought you would be just fine. Your crush had faded, and that was that. Or so you thought. And then that day happened, and you were back to being confused again.

You took a shaky breath, realization filling your core as you watched Vil move across the TV screen, laughing at the protagonist. Oh, great sevens. You still liked Vil. And you brutally told him off. You didn’t even hear him out. You bit your lip as Vil’s character was kicked down by the protagonist, a villain defeated. What have you done?

—•—💜👑💜—•—

Epel didn’t always like Vil’s lessons, but now he was sorta glad he had them.

It wasn’t always easy dealing with the endless etiquette lessons, but the physical lessons were alright. Especially when the endurance and grace lessons came in handy to sneak around. Epel may not have been Rook, but he could sneak easily around the dorm when he wanted to. Especially now.

It was starting to get late, and Epel was tiptoeing to the Pomefiore kitchens to sneak in a little snack. Vil usually went to bed earlier for “his beauty rest,” and usually Rook wouldn’t trouble him. As Epel closed the fridge door, triumphantly holding his contraband goodies (some beef jerky and a bottle of Harveston’s finest apple juice), he was startled to hear voices from the dorm laboratories.

“-so utterly ridiculous. The nerve! After I put together the whole production!”

Vil was still awake? Epel ducked behind a large plant and peeked through the foliage. Vil was in his dorm uniform (improperly dressed for lab, Epel noted), goggles on his face, dorm crown crooked, and hunched over the workbench as he mashed something angrily with a mortar and pestle looking frazzled. Rook, meanwhile, was properly dressed for lab, in his lab coat and goggles, shaking his head. “I see, Roi du Poison. Such a shame they quit, the film would have been magnifique with your combined beauties!~”

Vil huffed, tossing his bangs over his head. “The Prefect worked just as hard as I did for this film! Surely they cared about it? And after all that time working together with me, I thought- I thought they’d at least see it through!” Vil gave the pestle one last smash! and promptly dumped the contents into the bubbling caldron. Whatever was inside it hissed loudly and began spewing green fumes, and Rook took off his hat to fan it away from their faces. Vil turned back to his workbench, frowning at his potions book.

“I don’t understand.” Vil angrily stirred the cauldron, his gaze so burning it could boil the mixture. “Couldn’t the Prefect see that I only had their best intentions with this production?! And I was willing to work with them, despite them having no experience with film!”

Epel suddenly wondered if Vil was talking about the film, or himself. Rook was quiet for a moment, and quietly said, “Mon Roi, I believe you’ve pushed them too much.” Vil stopped stirring, but didn’t turn to Rook. He continued, “the Tricksteur’s beauty is not rooted in what they could be, but what they are. After all, that is what drew you to them, was it not?”

Epel’s eyes widened, and he stumbled a bit after being hunched down. The leaves on the plant rustled, but it seemed that Vil didn’t notice, lost in thought. Rook’s eyes darted in Epel’s direction, and he stiffened. Vil stammered out distractedly, “Yes, well, I- hmm…” He looked troubled at Rook’s words.

Rook took the stirring stick from Vil gingerly, “Vil, you should go to bed. You will need your beauty rest for the day ahead!” Vil sighed, shucking off his goggles and taking the dorm crown off his head, “You’re right, Rook. Thank you, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Epel scrambled back towards the wall as Vil passed him, purple dorm sleeves brushing the plant. He heard Vil mumbling to himself, “the Prefect… maybe I should…?... No…”

Epel sighed in relief, and was about to sneak off when Rook’s shadow loomed over him. “Monsieur Pommette, how lovely to see you.”

Epel yelped, hiding his snacks behind his back even though it didn’t matter now. Rook towered over him. “I presume you overheard us, oui?” Epel scrambled up, trying to compose himself. “Y-yes, Vice Housewarden.” Epel sighed, here comes the punishment- “Then perhaps you could speak to the Prefect?” Rook asked, a hand on his hip.

Epel’s eyes widened as Rook continued, “I believe there has been some misunderstandings between our Roi du Poison and our dear Tricksteur. Perhaps you’d be willing to investigate?” Epel already was interested in this, (if only to cheer you up), but Rook sweetened the deal. “I can get you out of that etiquette dinner you’ve been so dreading?” Epel grinned and nodded, “Deal!”

Rook sighed, but looked pleased. “Ah, to choose missing a meal of beauté… but such is what we give up for friendship.”

—•—💜👑💜—•—

“Alright Prefect, see ya later,” Epel waved as you left the cafeteria early with Grim. You wanted to catch Professor Crewel before homeroom to ask him about an Alchemy assignment, and Jack and Epel were only too happy to see you off. Once Ace and Deuce headed off too, the two of them got to work debriefing (gossiping).

After a few minutes, they were done. “... so that’s what I heard from Rook,” Epel finished. Jack’s brow furrowed, “Sounds kinda like the Prefect and Vil don’t really know how to deal with each other.”

Jack leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms in thought. His ears twitched, “Y’know, Vil wants my help with fixing one of the light beams on set tomorrow morning. It’ll just be me and him…” Epel’s eyes widened, and a small grin grew on his face, “an’ Prefect said they’d be waking up early anyway to finish an Alchemy assignment.”

Understanding passed between the two of them, smirking.

—•—💜👑💜—•—

Turns out, it’s actually pretty hard to get you out of Ramshackle when you’ve already locked in for Alchemy.

“Epel, I’m almost done. What could you possibly want?!” Your friend was already dragging you by the wrists out the door, spewing a few Harveston-flavored phrases you couldn’t quite make out. “Y’aint gonna stop m’fr nothin!”

“I promise, Prefect, just follow me-” Epel grabbed your wrist and began pulling you. For a small guy, he had a lot of strength. “Dude, calm down. I’m coming- wait, Epel-!”

Instead of taking you to the library, Epel dragged you to towards Main Street, where Vil had the production set up. “Epel, where are we going?! I’m not done with Alchemy!” Epel grunted, “Yer jus’ gonna have ta trust me!” Dammit Prefect, he was halfway to tossing you over his shoulder and hauling you to the set like a sack of potatoes.

You soon relented though, feeling as if Epel would tear your arm out of its socket if you struggled any more. “Fine…”

Meanwhile, Jack was running out of things to stall Vil with. Vil tapped his foot, arms crossed and frowning slightly, “Well? I believe that takes care of everything, Jack. I’d like to get back to the dorms.” Jack flinched, “Ah…”

Jack’s ears twitched as he heard you and Epel squabbling in the distance. “So Vil!” Jack moved, keeping Vil’s attention on him so Vil’s back was to the path. He rubbed the back of his neck, “You remember when you said you wanted to talk to Prefect about what happened?” Vil rose an eyebrow, immediately suspicious, “Yes…?”

“Uh- well…” Jack cleared his throat, looking over Vil’s shoulder. “Looks like you’re gonna have to face it sooner and not later.”

“What?” Vil’s eyes widened. You struggled against Epel’s hold, his hand still tight on your wrist. You narrowed your eyes at Vil’s back. “Epel, why…?” At your voice, Vil spun around, and panic flashed on his face. There you were, the rosy dawn light washing over you, better than any stage lighting could ever hope for. “Vil,” you said, swallowing thickly.

“We oughta leave you two,” Jack said abruptly, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but here. Epel nodded, “R-right!” Soon, it was just you and Vil.

You looked away, feeling too nervous to look at him. “Vil, I…” He quietly cut you off, tone gentle. “Prefect, would you walk with me?” You looked up at him quizzically, and nodded. He lead you out of the set, to a nearby bench outside. You gazed out at the rising sun, breathing in the chilly air. You tried again, guilt eating at you, “I’m sorry for what happened that day.” You bit your lip, looking at the ground and away from Vil, “I said a lot of hurtful things to you. I know you didn’t mean it like that but…”

“No, (Name). You were right to be upset.” Your breath hitched, and you turned to Vil. He was looking at you with a soft, almost… mournful look. “I… also said some things I shouldn’t have. And I…” he took a deep breath, “I didn’t realize at the time how overworked you were. I never meant to put that kind of stress on you, I just… I wanted to push you to be the best. But I never wanted to change you.”

Your eyes widened. You never thought you’d get a genuine apology, let alone from Vil, but you could see that he meant it. You were stunned, but Vil took your silence to mean that you were angry at him still. He rushed out, “N-not that it’s an excuse. How I behaved was…” Vil trailed off, and you could feel the tension leave you.

“And,” Vil said softly, “I suppose I wanted to play a role that wasn’t the villain. And this role… was the best way to do that.” He laughed humorlessly, “I guess, in trying to not be the villain, I became just that to you. For that, I…” Vil took a deep breath, “I’m sorry, Prefect. Truly. And I understand if you… don’t wish to see me again.”

Your eyes widened, and Vil looked away. You gently touched his hand, “Vil, at first I was kind of mad about how much work I had to do…” You saw him purse his lips, but you continued, “But I’m not mad at you, Vil. And I’d be really hurt if I didn’t see you again.”

Vil’s eyes seemed to shine at your words, “I also confess that I’ve tried to separate myself from the thought of you, but I’m afraid it’s done quite the opposite. Prefect, I truly meant everything I said that day.” His gaze was soft but nervous, “You truly have bewitched me body and soul. And I suppose I’m asking for your heart,” he said, looking away.

You breathed out a laugh, inching closer to him. You gently put your fingertips to his jaw, turning his face towards yours, “Don’t worry,” you smiled, eyes shining, “it’s already yours.” Vil’s smile mirrored yours, and slowly he closed the gap between you two, pressing his lips against yours.

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, and the two of you shifted around on the bench. Vil’s arm went around your waist, and his hand rested beneath your jaw holding you in place. One of your hands drifted down towards his collarbone, over Vil’s heart. After what felt like forever, you pulled away, smiling so widely it felt like you’d never stop. You and Vil locked eyes, and you both chuckled breathlessly.

Epel fist pumped quietly behind the tress, “Finally! Took ‘em long enough.” Jack beamed, tail wagging wildly. “Glad to see they’re back to normal.” Epel grinned, “maybe now, Vil’s gonna be distracted n’ I can-”

Jack suddenly straighted up, feeling a chill down his back. “Uh, Epel-”

At that moment, Rook landed from the trees behind them, clapping his hands on their shoulders. “Ah, what a miracle love is~!” Jack jumped, ears and tail standing straight up. Epel let out a small shriek, heart beating wildly. Rook smiled obliviously, “You should be proud of the part you’ve played!” He sighed happily, watching the two of you like you were a stage opera, “Truly magnifique~”

You giggled into Vil’s shoulder, “do they know that we know they’re there?” Vil hummed, nuzzling his cheek against your head, “Rook will deal with them.” You sighed blissfully, deciding not to deal with that and instead bask with Vil in the setting sunlight, your head on his shoulder. In that moment, his perfume had never smelled sweeter.

~END

*smacks fic* this oneshot can fit so much overthinking in it

But seriously, thank you all so much for your support and patience!! I’m glad people still like this series lmao. Hope you liked the fic 😄 take care shrimpies~

Taglist: @cerisescherries , @eclecticprincecollector, @ars-tral, @thehollowwriter, @twst-eeps, @casperandcats, @ttokkisbee, @mitsuriswaifu, @parad-ice-lostandfound, @sad-sie, @moyo5653

(If your user is bolded, I wasn’t able to properly tag you 😅)

Pretty accurate

Saw this on Twitter and decided to give it a go...

Anyways friends reblog with what you got and let’s see if we fit well (according to this test LMAO)😌✨ tagging @redbeanteax @dimplesum @phasmwrites @cellotonin @trafalgar-temptress @lady-bakuhoe @thewheezingwyvern @moondaius @neoheros and anyone who wanna give this a try👀

hiiii can i request fake dating au w tsukishima

「Real, Faked Love; 高仿」

pairing: tsukishima kei x f!reader.

summary: the two of you fake a love in front of the third gym squad.

warnings: casual alcohol consumption. timeskip occupation spoilers. fluff.

word count: 1,990.

a/n: hi anon🥺 thank you for your patience and request. ngl, i had a Very Hard Time with this request bc i’m not confident with my grasp on tsukishima’s character nor on the fake dating trope. you really found my achilles’ heel hahahhaaa (side note: the more i look at the word “fake” the more that word doesn’t seem real ajksdl;) anyways, i surprisingly had a lot of fun with this request, so without further ado, here is a little piece of my heart for you. let me know what you think♡♡♡

“So, remind me again. Why am I doing this?”

Tsukishima sighs, a long heavy sigh that surges almost violently from his lungs to his lips, as if it can no longer stand being in that six-foot-something body of his.

“Because,” he grits out, “you agreed pointblank.”

You snort out an ugly laugh. “It was only because Tadashi said it would really help you.”

Glancing at him, you see his rigid form as the two of you walk down the road towards the izakaya.

“Yes, of course. You’re friends with just Yamaguchi.” Tsukishima rolls his eyes. “It’s not like I save your ass in every history exam ever, and not like you literally cried tears of joy when I told you that that hotshot himbo would be there.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Tsukishima knows that he’s screwed up.

“Oh? I didn’t know Tsukishima Kei considered me his friend. Are you jealous, Tsukki?” You grin, eyebrows shooting halfway up your forehead. “I go to all the Sendai Frogs games for you though, babe.”

Tsukishima feels his eyes twitch, and he turns to you with an agitated smirk. “Hah? With the force and frequency of which you fangirl over ninety percent of the V.League, I’d rather you not come to the Div. Two ones just to fangirl over how ‘Suna-kun blocks the ball prettier.’”

You give him a wide smile, halfway to a glower. “Tsukishima Kei, if you’re going to just insult me, I can just leave like right now.”

Pettiness swells up in your chest as you see the colour drain from his face.

“I—,” he falters, eyes shifting to the restaurant door behind you. “I’m sorry I called you a fangirl.”

“And?” You prompt, crossing your arms in what you hope is convincing anger.

Tsukishima gives you a glare as he pushes his glasses up. “And for calling Bokuto-san a himbo.”

“Which he isn’t.”

“Sure.”

“Tsukishima.”

“I said ‘sure’, didn’t I?” He holds up his hands in defence. “What else do you want from me?”

You pout. “To admit that your senpai is a ball of sunshine.”

“No, that’s stupid.” Tsukishima gives you a deadpan look, unwilling to budge on this.

You huff, knowing that this is a pointless battle, and turn to yank the door open.

“Wait a second.” He pulls you back by the arm. “Do you remember what to do?”

“Yeah,” you frown, “I just have to act like I’m dating your sorry ass.”

Tsukishima sighs. This is going to be one long night.

---

“So, Tsukki!”

Said Tsukki feels the pressure inside his head increasing exponentially. The night is just starting, and these so-called adults that he’s currently stuck in a corner table with are changing topics like they’re on Jeopardy and guzzling drinks like elephants. Save for Akaashi, the rather sane one.

“Where did you get yourself such a cute girlfriend?” Kuroo throws an arm around the increasingly exasperated boy.

“Kuroo-san.” Tsukishima hopes that his voice is as neutral as he thinks it is. “As I mentioned at the last hangout, she’s in one of my classes.”

“Man, we were really serious about setting you up that time!” Bokuto laughs as if he just said the most hilariously comedic punchline to a nonexistent joke. “Say, Tsukki’s girlfriend, who asked who out first?”

You look across at the MSBY outside hitter, a grin slowly spreading over your face. In the past twenty minutes, you have gotten very comfortable with the upperclassmen that Tsukishima meets up with monthly. Too comfortable, Tsukishima might add, as he watches you clink what has got to be the third round of beer with Bokuto.

“Well, you see,” you smile sweetly, a smile that does not make Tsukishima feel the tiniest bit reassured. “He asked me out first!”

Akaashi chuckles quietly from his seat across from you as Tsukishima not-so-subtly slams his mug down on the table.

“Oh?” Kuroo grins widely.

“Oh ho?” Bokuto grins wider.

“Isn’t that right, babe?” You turn to the extremely unamused blond right next to you, giving him your most dazzling, most innocent smile.

“Oh oh oh! Tell us the story, Y/n-chan!” Bokuto is absolutely radiant with excitement as Akaashi clamps a hand on his shoulder to prevent him from bouncing off his seat.

Your grin turns feral.

Kuroo isn’t even trying to hide his cackling now.

Tsukishima’s looming glare is positively terrifying. You can’t deny the shiver that passes through you, feeling a bit too much like the opposing setter on the other side of the net. But to you, this is Tsukki, your friend and fake boyfriend. What else are you to do but to carpe diem and tease him in front of his dear senpai?

“I guess it can’t be helped since Japan’s ace wants to know,” you sigh dramatically, giving an over-exaggerated shrug.

Bokuto is leaning across the table, hanging on to your every word.

“I just finished a lecture with Tadashi, right? I walked out of the classroom to find none other than Kei-kun waiting for me.” You bat your eyelashes at the man beside you. “He sweetly pulled me aside and very convincingly asked me to go on a date with him. And since he was so uncharacteristically polite and determined about it, I agreed!”

“Oooh!” Bokuto is standing up now, hands gripping the edge of the table. “Where was the first date, Y/n-chan?”

“Please sit down, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, moving the beer mug away from Bokuto’s sphere of influence.

You chance a glance at Tsukishima, who’s frown is so deep that even you feel a little bad.

“An izakaya.” You look down, smiling slightly. “I had a lot of fun, and Kei’s really considerate and patient with me. He’s really, really kind.”

Bokuto drops back down, a satisfied grin on his face.

Akaashi smiles as he takes a sip of his highball.

“So, Y/n-chan,” Kuroo finally speaks up, studying you and Tsukishima casually, “I take it that you quite like our precious kouhai here, correct?”

At this, Tsukishima breaks out of his annoyance and turns to you, eyes wide with a questioning look.

You feel your cheeks blaze up at the unexpected question and Tsukishima’s unfamiliar attention. It’s the beer, you tell yourself, it’s definitely the beer.

“I, um,” you stutter, floundering with your words, “uh, yeah, I guess.”

Kuroo’s brow arches, and Bokuto remains uncharacteristically silent. Even Akaashi has set down his glass. You can feel Tsukishima’s burning stare on you.

You groan, slapping your hands into your face. “Okay, fine, I do, okay?”

In the weird twilight zone that you now find yourself in, among Akaashi’s low chuckles and Bokuto’s uncontrollable delight as he calls for yet another round of drinks, you can feel Tsukishima’s presence consume yours. It is almost unbearable.

“Good to hear, Y/n-chan,” Kuroo finally replies, warm smile on his face.

Akaashi taps your hand, pointing you towards Tsukishima who has not said a word since your embarrassing confession. That was a confession right?

You quickly turn to the side, lest your boyfriend composes himself in time.

Tsukishima is red, very very red. Under the hazy izakaya lights, his skin exudes a warmth that you don’t normally associate with Tsukishima Kei, especially not in the halls of brightly lit fluorescent lights and the stuffy library rooms of dusky table lamps. And you know for sure that this soft glow of his is not because of the drink he’s barely consumed. Hair haloed and cheeks tinted in a rose-tipped gold, your fake boyfriend looks almost regal in this new light.

You’ve always known — something that your friends and Tadashi have constantly reminded you of — that he is attractive. But for the first time since becoming aware of his existence, you see Tsukishima Kei as absolutely breathtaking.

“I, um, Tsukki?” You start hesitantly, unsure of what to say to salvage the mood that you have surely singlehandedly destroyed. You look down and glance back up at him, hands bunching into the nice culottes you’re wearing.

Tsukishima sighs, head finally turning to your figure.

“Stop talking, dumbass,” he mutters lowly, putting a hand over your own. “You’re feeding into their stupidity.”

For the second time this evening, the whole table is completely silent as the two of you sit there, faces still aglow in the dimly lit corner, hands still touching. The three upperclassmen exchange glances.

Akaashi lightly clears his throat, nodding. “Tsukishima-kun, do you have something to say to Y/n-san?”

Tsukishima’s hand grips yours a bit tighter as he stares at the three of his senpai, whose warm smiles are anything but teasing.

“She’s alright.”

And cacophony ensues as you shrink back, wanting to melt all the way into the wall you are slouched against. Bokuto is hollering yet again for another round of drinks, and Kuroo just cannot stop grinning. At the very least, Akaashi has the decency to pick up his drink and hide his smile behind the transparent glass.

But in the mess and embarrassment of it all, Tsukishima’s hand is still holding yours, his presence still surrounding yours. And you think that maybe, perhaps, possibly, that you can get used to this whole fake dating thing after all.

---

“Keiiiiii,” you whine, balking at July’s midnight heat. “I’m so tired and sleepy.”

Tsukishima, for the umpteenth this evening, sighs. “What are you going to do about it?”

“You’re going to carry me!” You declare with a triumphant grin as if you had just solved the secret to Kuroo’s hair. “C’mon, please? You’re my bestest boyfriend.”

Tsukishima feels a vessel about to burst as he hears the cackling behind him.

“Oh, right, of course, I’m the best boyfriend to my dumbass of a girlfriend who decided that getting into a drink-off with Bokuto Koutarou of all people was an excellent idea,” he grits out.

But Tsukishima is already stooping to your height, letting you clamber on.

“Oi, Tsukki,” Kuroo calls, “you gonna be alright carrying her back to dorms like this? The trains aren’t running anymore.”

Tsukishima feels his lips curl up slightly. “Yes, I’m alright. She’s my girlfriend after all.”

With that, the long night continues as Tsukishima walks into July’s midnight heat with you on his back, muttering about your dumb and stupid decisions the entire way back.

But on the forefront of his mind, he admits that at times, you make the most fantastic of decisions, such as agreeing to this fake relationship. Perhaps tomorrow, when you’re awake and wondering how you made it home safe, have your face washed, and have a fake boyfriend on your couch, Tsukishima will once again bring up the prospect of a date, a real one this time.

“They’ll be such a cute couple,” Bokuto beams, watching Tsukishima stop to readjust his grip.

“Wait, you knew?” Kuroo turns to his friend incredulously.

“Well, yeah! I’m not oblivious.” Bokuto scoffs, looking at Akaashi for confirmation. “It was so obvious. Right, Akaashi? Did I use ‘oblivious’ correctly?”

“Of course, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi simply states, a little smile on his face.

Kuroo frowns at Akaashi before refocusing on Bokuto. “Why did you, uh I guess, play along?”

“Because they’re going to become a real one anyways,” the MSBY player announces with the brightest grin on his face. “It’s easier to just pretend now!”

Kuroo has never wanted to flick the sun in the face as much as he does now.

The Woes of the Witch of the Wastes (Howl's Moving Castle AU)

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit (+ Reader x Neige LeBlanche) Word Count: 7.3k

Summary: The Witch of the Wastes has long come to terms with the fact that to keep a hold on his powers and beauty, he is going to have to be every bit the terrible monster that everyone assumes him to be. And then one day he goes and curses some stupid little hatter and his entire world is turned on its head.

A/N: Based on this horrid, mind-melting, brain rot that has not left me alone in days

Vil Schoenheit was only a small child of nine when he was swept up by the Royal Sorcery Academy and told he would ‘accomplish great things indeed.’ Madame Suliman, the King’s Head Sorceress herself, patted him on his head and proclaimed him the brightest talent of his generation.

Vil Schoenheit was fifteen when he cured his first ‘incurable’ poison. And then created his own draught that could actually bother to live up to such a lofty title. The Palace gave him all sorts of fancy medals and when he stood there in the throne room, the Crow King nodded at him in approval. ‘Vil Schoenheit is certainly meant for great things,’ he said, just as everyone always had. Meant for it. Like Vil didn’t wear himself ragged training, and fretting, and putting every part of himself into his work until there was nothing left to give. But that was fine—because perhaps being ‘meant’ for something and improving yourself enough to be worthy of those things in the first place went hand in hand.

Vil Schoenheit was well into established adulthood when he turned down a very lovely, very traitorous, offer from a foreign enemy, and his loyalty landed him yet another set of medals and even more slant eyed looks of admiration. ‘The most gracious treasure in all the lands,’ they called him. ‘A beauty unrivaled in both grace and intelligence. Someone who was no doubt meant for only the best life had to offer.’ Vil stood at the center of the room, beneath the spotlight of an entire nation, and grinned white and sharp. His beloved mentor approached him from amongst the throngs of near worshippers crowding the halls. There was a wispy, young, man at her side. The poor thing looked terribly out of place in the upper crest gallantry of the Royal Capital. He was wearing all the wrong colors, all the wrong cuts of fabric. He looked soft, and earnest, and like someone who would be eaten alive by court politics before he’d even managed to squeak out his first greeting.   

“This is Neige LeBlanche,” Madame Suliman introduced, with a sort of sickly, sweet, fondness that had Vil’s stomach souring into something entirely unpleasant. “I’m sure you’ve heard of him—from that messy business at the Coast.” (The business he’d stopped, she meant? The conspirators he’d ousted?) “Such a natural talent,” she crooned. “He really is exceptional.”

“Of course I’ve heard of him,” Vil offered, polite. He turned then to Neige with a smile that showed perhaps a few too many teeth. “I’m sure you’ll do great things.”

Madame Suliman squeezed her new ward’s arm and Neige LeBlanche went as pink as freshy plucked Meadowsweet. Vil fought to keep from digging his fingers into the fine edges of his champagne flute. The very one he’d been offered to toast his own successes.

“No doubt he’s the brightest talent of his generation!” Madame Suliman beamed, and Vil grit his teeth through the dark, curling, spike of something that speared through his gut.

Vil Schoenheit was sitting in his own, personal armchair, in his own, personal lounge (all gifted to him for his own, personal achievements), when Madam Suliman walked into the room with that same, dainty, interloper on her arm. ‘Excellent news!’ she’d smiled, in that way that wasn’t ever really a smile. Neige LeBlanche—with his stumbling, bumbling, kindness that bordered on idiocy, and his myriad of unimpressive successes built on nothing but luck and happenstance—had been named her successor. By decree of his Majesty the King himself.

Naturally, Vil decided to… politely object the announcement. Which very rapidly descended into black swirls of poison eroding the palace grounds and calls for his execution.

And So Vil was chased out of the home that he’d built for himself—that had been promised to him. He hid himself in the Wastes until he’d regained enough of his shattered arcana to ensure he could at the very least survive an encounter with his pursuers, even if the outcome would be far from pretty.

There were Demons in the Wastes. Strange, ethereal, things that Vil had once been ordered to eradicate on sight. But now he was one of those miserable, undesirable, vermin too, wasn’t he? So why not consort with the beasts? A Demon of Envy sought him ought first, offering justice like it was a fruit ripe for the picking. Like anything could be that simple. Then came a Demon of Fire, and another of Poison. All weaving their honeyed words and bowing low as they begged to take something, anything, of the Grand Sorcerer for themselves.

So Vil traded away bits of himself piece by piece. A lock of his hair, the flesh from his forearm. His skin cracked and dripped with inky, dark, magics that swam through his veins and worked to replace all the parts he sold away. And wasn’t that so funny? That these Demons put a high enough value on his little odds and ends that he could probably sustain himself off their fancy for an eternity, and yet the people whose favor he’d courted so earnestly, so faithfully, for his whole life had been so willing to offload the entirety of him at the first opportunity.

Vil learned to hide his cracks with a harsh-edged, grandiose, layer of illusions. He learned to wipe away the tar and to stitch himself back together into something better. He grew so quickly and so strongly under these new patrons of his that soon enough the hunting parties disappeared altogether. No one was willing to go toe-to-toe with someone who could curse you to a literal death with nothing but a wave of his hand. The common people whispered his name under their breaths like a dark incantation.

‘The Witch of the Wastes,’ they called him, in panicked, hushed, undertones. They spread rumors of him feasting on the hearts of virgins and laying towns to ruin under the weight of his black magic. They talked of his power as if it was a thing to be afraid of, and most certainly it was.

‘Perhaps it is not so terrible to be feared,’ Vil mused to himself, the sharp, small, smile permanently affixed to his painted lips twitching at the corners. ‘If it means I’m also revered.’

And so the years passed in this fashion, with the country growing more and more wary of the icy beauty who’d made the Wastes his fortress. When the Royal Sorcery Academy reported an upset in their ranks, finally admitted that despite their star pupil, their outputs were floundering and their students lackluster, Vil watched with a righteous sort of glee. When Neige LeBlanche inevitably fled from Madame Suliman’s tutelage—publicly absconding into the night with nothing but the ill-suited clothes on his back—Vil laughed and laughed until the storms curling off his tongue had wiped out an entire harbor.

So he’d won, hadn’t he? Neige had been run off, the Academy was near ruin—Madame Suliman more so. But when rumors started to swirl of a powerful, ethereally lovely, mage who traversed the countryside in his slowly crawling, architectural nightmare of a castle, that bitter part of Vil reared its head with a vengeance. It wasn’t enough for the rat to come in and swipe his cushy, imperial, position out from under his nose, but now he was gunning to take the Witch’s mystique for himself too?! People were even saying Neige was the one eating hearts! Which was entirely unfair!

And then one horribly, ugly, sunny afternoon, Vil encountered his nemesis entirely by happenstance. Despite years of outright hunting the man, in spite of all his well-planned traps and schemes, Neige LeBlanche had only finally appeared before him by accident.  

There he was, waltzing through the open market air with some ridiculous little commoner clinging to his arm. Vil watched the pair with open disdain—that inky, awful, part of him raking its claws up his spine. Neige stepped through the sky like he was descending some grand, ballroom, staircase, and the startled look of half-terror, half-awe on his partner’s face didn’t do much to improve its complete lack of remarkability.

Something even more bitter twisted in The Witch’s gut at that. What was it with these pathetic, mediocre, untalented, pieces of garbage that had his cohort swarming to them like dogs after a choice cut of meat? It was disgusting. It was unfair.

That evening, spite drove The Witch to darken your doorstep. This was a small town, and it was hardly difficult to track down one, insignificant, little nobody. Especially when that ‘nobody’ still wreaked of a too potent, too bright, magic that Vil could scent like a shark to blood.

“What a tacky shop,” he hummed as he stood in the foyer of your modest store. “I’ve never seen such tacky, little, hats,” he continued, amethyst eyes slipping over your tight countenance. It was such a stupidly, boring, plain, face. His own expression twitched into something sour. “Yet you’re by far the tackiest thing here.”

You raised your chin at him, your upper lip going stiff in a bitten off frown.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” you demanded, making your back to the front entrance and pulling it open with a brisk, irritable, tug. “The door is this way, sir. We’re closed.”

Vil leaned forward with a sharp bark of laughter, and the lights overhead flickered into shadow. A trail of inky wetness slid from the corner of his lips, and the air seemed to grow heavy with it.

“Speaking like that to the Witch of Wastes,” he tutted, reaching up to swipe away the smudge of stinking, black, goo. “How quaint.”

“The Witch of the Wastes,” you echoed, eyes widening almost comically in horror as that awful, cloying, sludge swirled around you like a storm. It settled over your skin and seeped through your clothes. Vil could feel the heavy pull of the curse as it took hold. He plucked at the magic like it was string on a harp, and he could feel it thrum through your veins—settling itself in like a terrible plague. He could already see the affliction working away. Your skin began to droop and fold, your back hunching up under the sudden weight of years you’d never even lived.

So ugly, so ordinary, he thought bitterly. Whatever made you worth anyone’s attention, it certainly isn’t there anymore.

“The best part of this spell is that you’ll never even be able to tell anyone else about it,” he chirped, entirely unpleasant, and glided out the door in a whirl of purple smoke. “Give Neige my regards.”

Vil didn’t see you or your wrinkled frown again for weeks, though the fact that you were alive still at all to cross paths with him in the first place was a bit of a surprise.

You were perusing the markets of a small fishing town with a little, grumpy, old man at your side. The tiny thing was clearly cloaked in some low-level illusion spell, with a staticky, lilac, beard that swallowed his head whole and puffed-up brows that seemed to weigh down his entire face like a tangible thing.

“Hrmf. I hate potatoes,” the boy masquerading as a retiree complained.

“Pay up,” you chirped, lining at least a dozen along the bottom of your wicker basket. You didn’t look quite as old as you should have—more of a ‘gracefully aging into your twilight years’ than the ancient, broken, hag you were meant to be. There were always caveats to curses. By their very nature, they were built to one day break. Finding the key to that lock, however, was meant to be the crux of the problem. And if one was keeping with that whole metaphor, Vil’s curses were very hard to pick. Had you managed to find something? Impossible. He was sure he’d battened the magic down as tight as it could go.

Vil watched you move about through the slitted eyes of one of his inky, purple, henchmen. If you were here, did that mean you’d managed to find refuge despite the curse he’d inflicted upon you? Or perhaps—his eyes narrowed—you’d been found. Shadows slithered out like grasping claws, and he could taste the burst of too bright, too wild, magic on his tongue. Neige.

You walked towards a fisher’s stall, cane clicking along the cobblestone. And despite his earlier grumblings, your little shadow snatched the basket from your hands and followed diligently at your heels.

“Hrmf. I hate fish,” it grumped from behind the mouthful of purple poof. And then held the woven basket up again when you went to lay a wrapped salmon amongst your other purchases.

“Epel, you’ll never get any taller if you don’t eat something better than bread,” you chastised, like the grandparent you were.

“I don’t need to get taller!” your companion hissed. “I can beat up everyone from down here just fine!”

You laughed, and it sounded young. The crinkles at the corner of your eyes deepened with mirth rather than manufactured years, and when you smiled some of the harsher lines of age vanished altogether.

“Of course you can, you little ankle biter.”

“Don’t call me that!”

Vil frowned sourly, but before he could do anything further, there was a commotion in the harbor. The King’s most recent war had clawed its way to even these outskirts it would seem. You and your little shadow disappeared in the chaos, but Vil was too distracted by the fluttering storm of recruitment fliers that followed to care.

‘All Able-Bodied Witches and Wizards Are To Report to the King’ they read. All of them.

And when The Witch of the Waste received his own, personal, invitation with Suliman’s signature sitting curled and elegant at the bottom, he couldn’t help the spike of private satisfaction that wormed through his veins. The parts of him crying ‘trap!’ were silenced by the much larger, much more smug, swirls of contentment settling heavy alongside his blackened heart. Of course they wanted him now—to clean up the mess that he certainly could have prevented entirely in the first place. Of course they’d come crawling back. Of course they’d finally realized just how much they needed him.

Running into you yet again as he made his way to the palace felt like more than a coincidence, but Vil brushed it off with a sneer. As if you were actually important enough for your presence to mean anything. Bah.

“Why, if it isn’t that tacky little creature from the hat shop,” he drawled as you walked alongside his intricate, feathered, carriage. There was a gangly, black, crow perched at your shoulder, and it glared at him with beady eyes. Vil curled his lip at the thing and it fluffed up like a startled cat. “What business does someone as poorly connected as you have here at the palace?”

“Job hunting,” you scowled, and the crow squawked like a protest. “And what about you? I didn’t think the Royal Guard would be prone to welcoming someone as reviled as the Witch of the Wastes into their ranks.”

Despite all that vicious scowling, somehow you looked younger still than the last time he’d seen you. Something small and bitter unfurled in Vil’s gut. Even some lackluster, magicless, commoner was breaking through his incantations now. He shook his head to clear the heavy, cold, press of inadequacy and tilted his chin back to preen.

“After all this time, the idiots running the palace have finally realized how much use they can find in my abilities,” he huffed, lips curled in satisfaction. You went quiet, and watched him with an odd sort of look in your eye.

“If you’re so great and powerful, you could always get rid of the spell you put on me,” you offered, like that was any sort of incentive at all. And like you’d only even asked to keep yourself from saying something else entirely.

“Apologies, darling. But my talents lie in casting curses, not breaking them,” he crooned, entirely unsympathetic. And you didn’t even blink at his prodding. Vil let the curtain fall back over the small window of his carriage with a wave of his elegantly manicured hand. “Enjoy the arthritis.”

His carriage carried on as you shouted after him—waving your cane and threatening to beat him black and blue.

“If I didn’t have to worry about you being here I would have clobbered him,” you grumped at the little, decrepit, crow shuffling along your arm. It rattled its wings at you and you almost swatted the thing, before letting it teeter its way up back onto your shoulder with another frustrated sigh.

The Witch of the Wastes had only just crossed through the great, gleaming, gates of the Imperial Palace when his elaborate, peacock, carriage fell to bits—crumbling under the weight of talismans nearly as ancient as the fortress itself.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he snarled, and the guards assessed him like he was no better than anyone else who came stumbling through these gates. Like he hadn’t spent the better part of his life trapped within these very walls. And like he wasn’t here now, all these years later, on a personal invitation.

“Apologies, sir!” one barked. “Vehicles are prohibited beyond this point!”

A sharp and sudden crack rocked through Vil at his core, and the panic that followed was acute and near painful. Whatever these wards were, they weren’t just suppressing the magics he used for his carriage. This was… This…

But, no. He’d been invited. And powers dampened or otherwise, he would hold himself together until he could make his way through those grand doors.

Climbing the first few stairs felt like coming home, felt like pride. And then the Witch reached the fourth, stone, step and the elaborately crafted heel of his boot snapped like a toothpick—the magic sucked away like water being taken in by a sponge. He nearly stumbled over, and only just managed to catch himself without falling outright.

There was a surprised sort of gasp from behind him, and he whipped around with a snarl to see you standing at the base of the same stairs—eyes locked on his faltering steps with obvious confusion. Vil curled his lip at you in a silent challenge and you shook yourself out of whatever funk had settled over your brain. Then you too began the trek upwards, your cane clicking against the stone as your went.

The next splinter that worked its way through him was outright agonizing, and with no small amount of distress did Vil realize he was leaking. There was a sharp, thin, crack running from his temple to his jaw, and the burbling, black, goo welled up beneath it like blood to a wound. It dripped against the stone with an awful, thick sounding, plap. Thankfully this time, you had the self-preservation not to go making any confused noises at his situation, but your stare was a heavy weight on his back nonetheless.

Another crack appeared along his collarbone, and he could feel the endless layers of elaborately crafted, gem-toned, cloaks grow wet with the miasma slipping down his skin. He could feel a creaking, groaning, misery building along his joints—like a doll that was being slowly pulled apart at the seams. The Witch barely bit back a gasp when the delicate fabrics along his sides split against his cracklings ribs, and then you finally did grumble at him again.

“Why don’t you just give up?” you asked, shaking your head. Vil’s lips (or whatever remained of them at this point) curled up over his canines in a snarl. And while the words themselves dug at him in a way that was too personal for someone as ignorant as you to be fully aware of the bite of them, you didn’t look… mean about it. Your brows were tucked up, like it was a genuine inquiry—like you were concerned. Either way, he sneered up at you and you frowned harder, before offering a bewildered, “You’re killing yourself.”

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited?” He spat. “Fifty years. Ever since Suliman—” he rasped, a spasm of sharp pain ripping through his hide like claws, “—banished me to the Wastes.”

You stared at his miserable, dripping, form for a long moment before you huffed and turned to continue your climb. “Too bad I’m not younger, then. I could have lent you a hand.”

Vil snarled and it bubbled up like tar. He felt a trail of it burst along his chin. “Next time I’ll turn you senile too.”

You laughed at that, and the bird on your shoulder squawked when your giggling jostled it around.

“I’ll hold you to it,” you smiled, and turned to keep making your way up towards the grand, gold, doors.  

You’d passed him by now—with your wrinkled, old, legs and withered muscles. Even with that ugly crow cawing and rattling around at your collar like the world’s most obnoxious scarf, you still managed to hobble your way to the top of the stairs before Vil had even reached the halfway point.

“Almost there!” you mocked, waving your hand at him.

But when he continued to struggle, you turned to one of the guards at your rear with a tight little frown.

“You should go help him,” you said, with just enough gentle fussing that you certainly must have been genuine, and Vil wondered deliriously for a moment if his ears really had melted off his head. When the guard spouted off some nonsense about ‘strict prohibitions’ and ‘court etiquette,’ you snorted and turned back to face Vil and his slushing, inky, mess with a tight thunk of your cane. “That’s ridiculous! The King himself invited him!”

When all those blank faced soldiers still refused to move, you offered Vil a little cheer that he hoped broke your stupid, elderly, knees.

“Come on, then!” you called after him, with another weird, wide, gesture. Though this one was far less antagonistic. “You can do it! Let’s go! Are you a Witch, or aren’t you, huh?”

“Shut up,” Vil seethed as he finally clawed his way to the top of the steps.

You didn’t reach down to pull him to his feet. He wouldn’t have let you do it even if you had, but you watched him with a grumpy sort of concern that had him feeling prickly in indignation. Who were you to pity him?

“Pull yourself together,” you ordered after a long moment of trailing at his heel like a skittish dog, and like he wasn’t literally being held together with the magical equivalent of some tape and a bungy cord. “Isn’t this what you’ve been waiting for, hmm?”

The pain was terrible. Horrible. So sharp and miserable that Vil couldn’t even will a corresponding insult into his thoughts, let alone past his panting lips. You stared down at his hunched form with a tight sort of concern, and with that same stiff lipped not-frown that you’d been wearing the night he’d swept into your store and torn the youth straight from your bones.

You stayed at his side for the entire walk through the corridor, which meant you must have purposely slowed yourself to match his lagging stride. And when he began to sway beneath the weight of some heinous, creaking, mass of shadows, you dipped just close enough into his space that he was left leaning against you in a decision that was most certainly not of his own accord.

Soon enough though you were shuffled off into a separate room—the crow honking on your shoulder like some old, awful, squeaky toy. The cavernous hall Vil was led to was familiar, and instantly all those silenced rationalities about this being a trap came crawling out from where he’d so furiously buried them.

They bound him into a grand chair that was a mockery of a throne. Lights danced across the room, their high-pitched drone scraping through his ears and melting whatever remained of his panicked, terrible, thoughts to mush. He could see the shadowed outlines of all the Demons he’d contacted over the years—all their thin, pale, bodies twining around him in a macabre sort of dance. They locked hands and he watched his own split beneath the weight of beastly talons. He felt the remainders of his magic as it was stripped away layer by layer, leaving him bare, and hideous, and every bit the monster he’d tried so hard to hide behind crafted perfection for so many years.

When he was wheeled into the Gardens after they’d taken everything from him all over again, he felt like the main attraction in a freakshow being put up on display. The world was spinning, and whirling, and nothing would stay still. Suliman’s shadows stretched throughout the glass dome like an insect crawling through the muck. And you were there. Looking… younger again, somehow. Bright, and alive. And when your youthful gaze landed on him it filled with fire.

“Once he too was a magnificent sorcerer,” Madam Suliman sighed, speaking about her long-lost protégée with the same sort of emotional investment as someone lamenting over a spilled cup of coffee or a wasted coupon. “So much promise. He could have done such great things…”

The words stung nearly as terribly as the wounds spanning the whole of him. But before they could seep in further and tear out whatever living bits remained of him, you bolted up from your chair so quickly that you sent the thing toppling over. And then you were moving to stand between the monster and his maker, squaring your stance as if to guard him. Like you intended to protect this awful, wretched, melting, creature—

“You’re insane! I get why Neige was so afraid to come back here!” you barked. “It’s all a trap! You lure people in with promises and false invitations, and then strip them of all their powers!”

The rest of the encounter was a bit of a blur—colored by nothing but the pain and shame mulling Vil’s senses into nothing but a perpetual curtain of static. There was someone else there eventually. Neige, he would guess, by the way Suliman was puffing up and throwing her magic around. And my, was there a lot of magic. Cold, tactical, enchantments that wore away even at his already shredded senses. You were shouting something, and he could feel your hands grasping at what were once his shoulders. And then the lot of you were flying away—higher and higher into the sky until Vil was too dizzy to tell up from down.

The pain and exhaustion took him eventually. He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened—only that when he blinked back into consciousness, he was collapsed atop a heap of rubble and there was a little, blue, fire demon yowling in his face. When he woke up again (slightly more coherent this time), he realized he was in a room. A swaying, creaking, room. And ah, this must have been that Moving Castle he’d heard so much about.

You were seated across from him, looking a bit worse for wear, but when you noticed his eyes slide open you were immediately lurching to your feet rambling about bandages, and antiseptic, and ‘gods I need to get some food into you before you wither away.’

When you sat back at his side with a little first aid kit and reached for one of his battered, twisting, limbs, Vil snarled at you with a noise that was so inhuman he almost managed to startle himself in the process. The cracks along his skin pulsed unpleasantly, and the smell of ash and muck filled the air. You stared him down firmly for a few more moments before sighing and moving to stand back on your feet. You didn’t take your kit with you, just slid it a few inches closer before taking your leave.

When you returned a few minutes later, you were balancing a plate full of toast and toppings. You sat yourself down once again and went about buttering a thick, fluffy looking slice of bread. Once that was made up to your liking, you reached over to set a little pot of jam off to the side with a teaspoon sticking out of it like a flag post. When Vil made no move to partake in your offering, you stared at the Witch and the hulking, twisting, mass of shadows that made up the entirety of him. Then you stood back up with a hum and returned a moment later with a sturdy looking mug. You filled it about halfway with a ladle of light, herby, smelling broth.

“This might be easier to get down,” you said, but it mostly sounded like you were muttering to yourself.

He glared at the cup bitterly. His fingers—claws now—flexed against the table where you’d set his meals, and they left deep, crackling, gauges in the wood. You stared him down rigidly and after a long moment where you very nearly started tapping your foot at him, he reached out with his clunky, mucky, talons and scooped the mug into his hands. When he took a tentative sip, you beamed—all that petulant frowning melting into something outright indulgent. You immediately went doddering about to fetch him a bit more.

“Stop feeding it!” the fire shrieked. “You’re wasting perfectly good food!”

“That I could be giving to you, you mean,” you chastised, topping up the mug with more of that thin, warm, broth.

“He’s evil!” the fire squawked at your accusations but very obviously did not deny them, perfectly indignant. “And have you forgotten about the you know what that’s got you stuck looking like a you know who!”

You waved off the little Demon with a shrug. “Oh, he’s alright.”

“He is not!” the fire wailed.

“He’s just as cursed as the rest of us,” you said, with a note of stern finality to your voice.

With that, there was a great clatter at the stairs, and a horribly familiar face clamored down to join the rest of you.

Neige LeBlanche had grown into his awkward warmth, Vil would give him that at least. He wore those same loose-fitting pastels and billowing jackets like they were things of comfort, something carefree. His dark hair had grown out a bit shaggy, but it still sat in that same choppy, artfully mused, style atop his head. Like a fluffy, ebony, halo. There was a youthfulness to those bright, brown, eyes that would probably never fade, but at least he looked a bit more like a person now, and less of an over manicured doll sitting at Suliman’s beck and call.

“The Witch of the Wastes at my breakfast table?” the Wizard mused, not without kindness. The teasing tone had Vil grinding his molars. “Whatever possessed you to let him into my house, Grim?”

“I didn’t let him in!” the demon yowled. “Your stupid hatter crash landed a plane into my face!”

Neige burst into peels of delighted laughter and clapped a gentle hand against your shoulder. “I knew you’d make a great pilot!”

A few of the wrinkles around your brow vanished when you scoffed, your lips curling into a smile even as you rolled your eyes.

“Your wall has a new hole in it that would beg to differ.”

“Excuse me!” the fire wailed. “But are we just going to ignore the fact that the Witch of the Wastes is sitting in our kitchen! Looking like he just crawled out of the pits of Hell!”

“He’s my guest,” you said after a moment, face pinched up again like you were trying to look stern. You turned a pointed frown on Neige and squared your shoulders. “You said I should treat the Castle like it was my home, too.”

“I did,” the brunette beamed, looking positively giddy. About what, Vil didn’t even want to consider. Whatever awful, sentimental, drivel was woven into your declaration was none of his business.

“…I guess we can’t just kick him out,” the purple haired boy grouched after a moment, stabbing at his porridge.

“Yes! Yes we can!” Grim shrieked, and you made a motion like you were threatening to upend a cup of water all over him.

“Nonsense,” Neige chirped, brown eyes melting into something warm and gooey. “If my dearest friend trusts him, then so do I!”

Dearest friend, Vil wanted to scoff. Please. As if the affection bubbling up and out of him was in anyway platonic.

Not long after, Neige darted off with a promise that he was ‘preparing something special!’ You nodded at his enthusiasm as he swooped off through his magical Portal Door, and then turned back to Vil with that same stiff lipped determination you were so prone to.

You showed him to a little room off to the side of the main parlor and dubbed it his. You lowered the curtains to dull the sharp brightness of the afternoon into something more tolerable, and brought in extra blankets when the Castle walked through a chilly valley. Even though Vil sat through your fussing in obstinate silence, you still chattered at him every time you stopped in. You carried in trays of delicate, bland, snacks that would be easy on his stomach. When he refused to touch them, you brought more of that broth instead. You puttered about cleaning the inky miasma that pooled on the floor beneath his feet, and only silently offered him a fresh handkerchief and cup of water when the tar built up so thickly on his tongue that he couldn’t even manage to swallow it. When you caught his glare resting on the intricate mirror hung on the wall opposite his new bed, you rolled up your sleeves and bodily yanked the thing off its frame.  

“Is there something I should call you?” you asked, maybe a week into this new situation of his.

When he didn’t answer, you just hummed under your breath, considering.

“It just seems like—well, you mentioned that you were banished to the Wastes,” you mused. “So I can’t imagine you really enjoying being called their master.” You smiled a little crookedly, something teasing sparking in your eyes. “I know I wouldn’t like to go around with people calling me The Ruler of Retirement Homes, or whatever.”

“I am what I am,” he managed to croak after a moment, and didn’t even let himself feel too pathetic over how utterly miserable and inhuman he sounded.

“You’re whoever you want to be,” you replied with a shrug. “You can be a Witch if you like. I just figured I’d ask.”

You’d finished up your cleaning and were on your way out the door when he spoke up again.

“Vil,” he sighed, so quiet he wasn’t even sure you’d be able to hear him at all. But you stopped at the threshold and turned to look back at him with your head canted to the side—like a curious, little dog.

“Vil,” you repeated with a nod, and something entirely foreign cracked through his chest. For a moment he was worried that somehow there had been a part of him yet left unbroken, and that now he’d lost even that. But… This was a different sort of ache. Even if it was no less worrying.

Each day after that you greeted him with a cheery ‘Good morning, Vil!’ and brought him his evening herbal teas with a gentle ‘Goodnight, Vil.’ It was the first time in more than half a century that he’d heard his name spoken aloud. Sometimes he’d even wondered if he’d managed to forget the sound of it entirely. But here you were—some silly, little, hatter rattling it off like it was something easy, something palatable.

Then one day you came to visit him smelling like flowers, your brow scrunched in obvious unease.

“You’re certainly looking your age this afternoon,” Vil huffed at you, and the corner of your lips only just barely quirked in amusement before falling flat all over again.

You stared out the window with an absent sort of expression on your face. Distant.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, hoping he sounded more sour and put upon than he probably did. A trail of dark, wet, muck slid down his cheek to land on the floor with a heavy plap and you moved to his side to wipe it up.

“…Sometimes I just get this feeling that all this is likely to change at any moment,” you said finally, quiet. “That even though I’ve worked so hard to make a place for myself—to be happy here—that it could all just…”

Something painfully familiar curdled in Vil’s gut. The hot sting of failure, the bitter inadequacies that had dogged his steps his entire life. He reached out to lightly thwack you across the back of the head with one of his too-long, clawed, hands. A couple of drops of inky magic splattered along your cheek and you frowned at him petulantly. Good. Pouting was better than whatever that miserable look had been.

“Get over yourself,” he huffed. It rattled oddly in his wrecked throat, like something animalistic. “You think you’re special enough that the whiles of the Universe would seek out your sad, little, life to ruin? Please.”

You spluttered at him indignantly for a moment before that irritable puffing melted into hiccups, and then finally laughter. You laughed into your palm like a secret, and something in Vil’s chest eased that he hadn’t even realized needed easing to begin with.  

“Of course, Vil,” you beamed. “How silly of me. Thank you for reminding me how meaningless I am. It makes all the difference.”

He sniffed, putting on as much an of an air of irritability as he could manage.

“As if that was for your benefit,” he argued pointlessly. “There’s only enough mops in this place to allow for one person to be leaking unmentionables all over the floors at a time. The last thing this poor, hideous, Castle needs is to be stained with your tears on top of it all.”

“That would be quite the inconvenience,” you agreed, warm.

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, almost nervous. And then you ducked forward quickly to wrap yourself around him in a hug that was more a desperate sort of clutching than anything else. It was tight and small, and with all the cracks and holes in him, it was certainly far from enjoyable. There wasn’t even enough time for those grotesque talons of his to tuck around you in return. Not that he would have! It just—it was only an observation! You’d just… darted in and out. Like that tiny crutch of affection was all you dared take. Nevertheless, that same, strange, thing in Vil’s chest yawned open all over again. Even though his body was literally splintering into bits and his throat was always bubbling over with the horrible consequence of selling himself away, this was the first time he’d really felt like he was drowning.

“Thank you, Vil,” you said again, softer than he’d ever heard you, before slipping back out the door.

When the War he’d been summoned to help the Crown fight finally made its way to their doorstep, Vil was unsurprised when Neige rushed forward to clutch at your hands and urge you to safety.

“I’m tired of running,” the Wizard said, pale fingers twisting with the telltale shadows of magic overuse. “Especially now that I have something worth fighting for.”

And oh, Vil realized with startling clarity as bombs dropped around their strange, walking, home and smoke filtered through the air. That was it, wasn’t it? The key to the curse he’d so thoughtlessly bestowed upon you.

‘Who could love such a retched, ugly, thing?’ he’d thought.

But they had—they all loved you. The fire demon that cooed for your attentions and the little boy that curled into the fringes of your cloak like it was his favorite blanket. And Neige, with his open doting and the soft heart he wore on his gaudy sleeves. All that love had slowly worn away the dark ailment he’d cast upon you, like water beating down the jagged edges of a stone.

You were shouting something at the little fire demon, and then the Castle was groaning and heaving like a dying beast. It felt like the world was collapsing in on itself, but with the swirling weight of his musings curling through his thoughts like the headiest of drugs, he couldn’t really find it in himself to care. Even when the ceiling crumbled on top of him, nearly burying him alive, it was hard to focus on much else beside the horrified look in your eyes as you stared after him with your youthful, lovely, face.

But why now? He wondered a bit blearily, as you kicked through the wreckage of the Moving Castle to crouch at his side. You prodded at the gashes on his cheeks like he could still bleed, like the little wounds he’d collected meant anything in the grand scheme of all his aches and miseries. Why now when all these poor fools had clearly already cared for you for so, very, long?

“It’s going to be okay, Vil!” you smiled at him, a bit teary, and helped him to his feet. “I promise!”

And as those last dregs of black magic were washed from your features—when those thin, lingering, lines faded back into the sharp determination of youth, and all that remained of your ailment was a shock of silver lightening your hair—he had another, horrible, moment to think oh.

No wonder it’d broken.

Because how could it not? When he loved you too.

By the time you managed to dig them all out of the shattered remains of the Castle, Vil couldn’t help but wonder if maybe Neige had gone and died. If that’s why you’d come into his room the other day, sniffling about change and happiness. If you’d known he was about to sacrifice himself so that his little, hobbled-together, family would be able to survive the upcoming trials at least somewhat intact.

There was a lump sprawled out across your lap that didn’t look entirely human—blot ridden and blood soaked. And maybe… With the way you were staring down at it with a trembling mouth and misty eyes, surely that had to be him. Surely that was—that was it then. It was over. But then the little fire demon was swirling up and around, jumping about in a wave of blue sparks and spouting nonsense about returning his master’s heart.

With a final indignant yowl, Grim curled over the empty cavity beneath Neige’s collar and vanished in a gentle roll of sapphire flames. There was a burst of sparks, a bout of excited, feline, trilling, and then Neige LeBlanche was jolting up with a gasp.

“Ack,” the Wizard groaned, immediately falling backwards with a wince. “It—Ouch. It feels like there’s a weight in my chest.”

“Of course there is,” you laughed, scrubbing away the relieved tears that were brimming along your lash line.

Your soft, warm, gaze traveled fondly along the wizard sprawled out in your lap, then to the little, lavender, boy and the ancient crow perched atop his shoulder. And finally it settled on Vil—a heavy, tangible, weight that he could feel all along his spine.

“A heart’s a heavy burden,” you said, soft.

And Vil, who had spent the better part of his life breaking his own into splintered shards to barter away to whoever would take it, couldn’t help but agree.

.

.

go live !

summary. kenma is your best friend— and also your crush for two years. so when all your shots at confessing fail, his twitch stream viewers might be able to help.

about. kenma kozume | wc. 3.5k

warnings. kissing but it's not descriptive

note. for @kodzukoi bcz first, she wanted to reading some kita and kenma content so here we go and secondly bcz she helped me with one scene ( the first meet one ) wrote anything above 2k after so long please be nice :(

‘Would you join me in today’s stream?’ — seen.

Your heart is palpitating at an unimaginable pace and you’re not sure if it’s because of the presentation due tomorrow or because kenma asked you to join his stream for the very first time. You like to think it’s the latter— because how can you be so in love with someone? Is it possi—

“You’re blushing,” Kuroo’s words cut your trail of thoughts, which also reminds you to drink your coffee before it gets cold. “Let me guess, it’s kenma?”

You roll your eyes at the smirk that crept up his face. It’s annoying, really, to live with his never ending remarks. But no matter how much you deny, kuroo isn’t wrong. It’s not just kenma, it’s the Kenma Kozume— a hotshot gaming streamer, who happens to be your best friend for over two years, and who’s also your crush and he’s so oblivious about it, he doesn’t know your heart is on the palm of his hands, and he could shatter it into pieces at any given moment.

And it’s not only about accompanying him in a stream. It’s about sitting next to him, in front of millions of people, talking to him, and putting up an actual, functional conversation when you’re barely able to control your thoughts when he’s in front of you. In your defense, everyone liked kenma. You’ve seen people shouting messy confessions at him whenever he’s out, or giving you gifts / letters to pass on to the boy when they knew you both were friends. You’ve also seen him helping kids and old people cross the road, and they appreciate it so much that they want to introduce their daughters to him. You’ve seen Kenma donating thousands and millions to pet rescue centers and other charities, you’ve seen him being nothing but nice to people he just met.

It was bound to happen— your crush on him, it wasn’t avoidable.

“So are you going to say something or just stare at the phone screen?” Kuroo interrupts again, which you’re grateful for. All the kenma thoughts in your head needed to be put to rest, even if it was for a minor second.

You look at the boy in front of you with worry ridden eyes. “What should I do? Decline it? I don’t even know about that Zoo Crossi—”

“Animal Crossing.” He corrects.

“— whatever.” You retort. “Just tell me what I should do!”

Kuroo thinks you’re crazy. If it were him, he would accept his best friend’s offer without a second thought. Honestly, any other person in love would’ve done the same— except you. He thinks your brain works differently, is convinced that love has infected your brain so much, you’re unable to figure out what you should do and what you shouldn’t. On one hand, you talk about spending time with Kenma and on the other hand, you freak out about the same, thinking you’ll make a fool of yourself in front of him.

“Join him in the stream? Talk to him? I don’t know, maybe play along? It’s just a stream, y/n. It’s not that hard!”

“No, you don’t get it, Tetsu!” You shout in frustration. This whole situation makes you want to rip your hair out. And what’s even more frustrating is that the man in front of you, Kuroo Tetsuro, is doing anything but helping you out. “You’ve never had a crush, have you?”

“Now, now, y/n” He stops you cautiously. “I’ve also been in a relationship, if you’re forgetting.”

Oh, whatever. You roll your eyes again. Honestly, you don’t know what’s wrong. He’s right— it’s not that hard, but again, it is that hard. It’s confusing, you’re lost. You want to spend time with Kenma, but you’re afraid you’ll do something embarrassing and you’ll have to flee the country, change your identity, and whatnot. It doesn’t make sense, how indecisive can a person be? And the stream? Kenma never asked you to join his streams. He knows you fall down to figure zero when it comes to games.

Then why?

Does he want to make fun of you? Wait— what if he finds you annoying and he wants you out of his life? What if he has a secret love who’s insecure of your presence so he’s trying to push you away? What if—

“Stop thinking about all that crap!” He aims a pencil at you, making you flinch and curse under your breath as it hits your forehead. Right. He knows— after all he has known you since the college freshman year. “Are you sure you don’t hate him? How can you think such things about the person you like?!”

You lean back, sighing and frowning, proceeding to annotate the corners of your notebook with stars and moons and messy scribbles of question marks and circles, hoping that doodling on your notebook will give you a way out of this.

“I don’t think you can do this.” you look at him with your peripheral gaze as he continues. “Just give up.”

“Oh, shut up.” It’s not the first time Kuroo’s telling you to surrender, and it’s a joke every time it brings it up. You know you can’t give up, and he knows you won’t. And then a seemingly profitable plan hits your brain. “Okay, I’ll go, and then do whatever he wants me to do in the stream, and after it ends, I'll ask him on a date. How ‘bout that?”

You don’t know why Kuroo looks at you with concerned eyes.

“Y/n,” his hands rest on yours. “You think, like, twenty times before texting him. What makes you think you can ask him on a date?”

You jerk his hand away. “And there I thought you were giving me moral support!” But no matter how much you deny it, you know Kuroo’s right. It’s funny and embarrassing to think you’re so in love with your best friend, you can’t keep up a conversation without having your feet turn cold. It has to be stamped as one of the cringiest things, you think, sounds like those leads in a Shoujo Manga. “And what if I ask him out without messing up, huh?”

Kuroo smirks confidently, knowing you’re just making empty assumptions. “Lunch on me this whole month, but only if you ask him out. I’ll ask Kenma so don’t you dare lie about it.”

And so you’re here, four hours later, in Kenma’s room, waiting while he prepares coffee for the two of you. Your gaze runs all over his room. The two rows full of video games on his shelf catch your eyes. It’s surprising how there’s always a new bunch whenever you visit. Below it are a few books about accounting and business stacking beside mechanical engineering— wait, why does he study engineering? You don’t put much thought into it and follow your gaze to his desk adorned by a photo frame with his family, and a picture of him and Kuroo ( seemingly back from their middle school days ) with a cat they rescued from the local river. You’ve heard the rooster head brag about it so much that you can make it to the short stories section of a children’s magazine with it.

Then your eyes settle upon a certain polaroid peeking out of a stray notebook resting beside his monitor. It looks familiar, you think, and then you pull it out, only to place it on the table hastily as he enters the room. “Having fun?”

“I guess,” a smile climbs up his face voluntarily as he watches your lips curl into one too. “Didn’t know you still had this.”

“Of course. What kind of friend do you take me for?”

From that moment on, time seemed to flow like running water. You learn that he invited you an hour prior to the stream to spend time with you, and it does nothing but accelerate your heart infinitely. While he tells you about the stream— which was after numerous requests from you because he said it’s a secret and a surprise— you were busy admiring the way his eyes shone when talking about things he likes. ( and yet, everytime, you fail to realize that his eyes shine even brighter when talking about you )

Another thing you learn is that the whole point of today’s stream is to introduce you to his fans because they’ve been asking him to do so ever since you accidently walked past his monitor, not realizing the camera was on, which was exactly six months ago. You knew it was a mistake, but now it feels like a sin. What if they don’t like you? What if they start attacking you like what happened to the friend of another streamer a few weeks ago? What if—

You hate to have all those what ifs plaguing your mind. But then, you remember Kuroo saying that Kenma will defend you no matter what, so you decide to hang onto that single string for the rest of the day. “What are we going to do, though? I’m sure the introduction isn’t the only thing on today’s list, is it?” you ask.

“Actually— it is.” He pauses, taking a sip from his coffee before proceeding further. “I’m too tired to play so let’s just do whatever and have fun.” He could hear Kuroo calling him a liar for that one.

The next ten minutes pass away in preparations and by the time you take a seat next to him in front of his computer, assuring yourself that you’ll be fine, you realize that stream has already started and you can see the comments flooding in, yet daring not to read them. Kenma nudges you from the side, reckoning you to say something, a silly smile dancing on his face.

“Oh, right— I’m y/n,” You begin, fiddling your fingers out of nervousness. “And, I’m Kenma’s friend—” you’re about to speak further but words get stuck in your throat as you feel his hands intertwine with yours from under the table, a gesture to let you know that you’re doing great and there’s no need to be nervous.

And then he doesn’t let it go for the rest of the stream, until you roll back your chair to grab your cell phone from his bed, which was only a minute later ( but the whole thing felt so timeless to you ) A wide yet nervous smile makes its way to your face as soon as you face away from the camera. You wonder if anyone noticed that little gesture you and Kenma shared, and if someone did then what are their thoughts. Even though it was short lived, his warmth lingers on your skin like winter morning dew, pleasing and satisfying.

You roll back to the screen, a certain comment catches your attention.

‘You both look adorable together !!’

Kenma fails to notice it, or so you think, but those five words are enough to get the butterflies in your stomach excited. Actually, butterflies aren’t even half equivalent to what you’re feeling. A zoo would be a better term, and just one comment made all those animals go crazy in love.

And then, another comment holds your gaze.

‘Y/n do you know kenma talks about you a lot in his streams ?!?!?!’

Your heart feels as if it’s on fire. Turning your head towards him, you wonder if he noticed that comment, which he certainly did considering his fluttering gaze and red cheeks, wait— is he blushing ?!

“Uh, I mean y/n’s a close friend so it only makes sense for me to talk about her.” He clarifies nonchalantly, but from what you notice, he’s nervous. And he’s tapping his foot on the floor as if he’s writing college entrances again. It’s cute, and it makes you giggle like a toddler. Much to your surprise, Kenma's hand slides into yours again, and he’s pretending to not know, as if it’s unintentional, and as if his hand belongs to yours’. Even though you feel starstruck, and your heart feels like it’s going to stop any time soon, you relax into his little embrace, a shy smile flaunting on your face.

Kuroo was right, it’s not that hard.

The comments keep flooding in, this time faster than before. Half of them are asking if you both are dating ( and when you shake your head in denial, some of them say it’s a shame that you both aren’t a couple already ) Kenma doesn’t respond, and you wonder why. Instead, he sulks about how they’re supposed to be his friends, and not expose him in front of you, or how they all switched sides as soon as they saw you, which is why it took him six months to ask you if you wanted to join his stream. ( He can hear Kuroo calling him a liar, again )

You’re having a fun time watching the friendly banter between him and his fans, that is unless someone asks how you and Kenma met. And you realize it’s your time to carry the show. You take a look at Kenma who’s burying his face in his hand because your first meeting was utterly embarrassing, and you couldn’t wait to share it with around a million people.

“Y/n, no—”

“Y/n, yes!” You cut him off, mid sentence. That’s probably the first time you’ve been so excited this whole day, and as much as Kenma loves seeing that smile dangling on your face, he doesn’t want you to disclose that. “Kenma, do you know how long I’ve waited to tell your viewers about your stupid ass ?!”

He gasps dramatically, mumbling something along the lines of ‘how can you betray me’ as he pretends to get off his chair and leave the scene, only for you to pull his hand ( which was still laced in yours ) towards you and make him sit again. And the comments are going off with the ‘omg they were holding hands all this time???!!!’ and equivalent phrases but none of you seem to notice, for he was too busy getting away from the monitor while you grab his arm with both your hands, pinning him down to the chair before the air fills with your laughter.

“Y/n, really?” He deadpans, pulling his hands out of your grip. “After all the notes I've copied for you when you missed classes?”

You laugh at his silly actions, especially at the pout on his face that makes him look ten times prettier than he already is. You wonder if he knows the magic he casts on you, the way it makes you feel like a love struck cat. You almost forget the topic under discussion, your first meeting with him, but that’s until you see a comment loaded with pleases and words asking you to tell, no matter what.

“Alright, alright,” you lean back as if pleading for truce. And good for you because Kenma believes it a little too easily. “I won’t tell anyone that you almost spat water on me when we met for the first time.”

“Y/n what?!”

His expression is priceless. It’s the best day of your life— well everyday with Kenma is best but this one, specifically, is the best one of all. You inch towards the screen, reading the comments while Kenma covers his face with his hands, trying to hide his flushed face. ( You’re pretty sure he’s reading the comments either way )

But then Kenma looks at you with eyes glistening with mischief. And you realize what’s going to follow. “In my defense, they wore a chicken outfit for handing out some flyers!”

“Kenm—”

He leans away from you, one hand holding up the keyboard to prevent you from terminating the stream while the other rests on your forehead, stopping you from getting any closer. “That’s what you get for—” A pause. The whole room goes quiet as you both realize the proximity in between. You retract yourself away from him, an awkward atmosphere enveloping you both as your eyes settle on the computer screen.

‘Oh my god, just date already!’

‘You both are so cute aaaa!’

‘Kenma fight anemo hypostasis with Xiao and ask out y/n if you lose challenge.’

You can feel your heart pounding so furiously, you’re afraid he’ll hear it. Honestly, you wonder how he hasn’t taken a hint about your huge crush on him, considering everyone in your friend circle— and even some of Kuroo’s friends too— know about your excruciatingly painful and draughtful love life. ( And for some reason, even Lev texts you once in every few days to ask whether you confessed to Kenma or not )

When no one addresses the elephant in the room for another few seconds, you decide to take the initiative. “Uhm, how about I order a take out?”

Then Kenma’s words follow along. “Actually, I have all the baking stuff from the last time.” You sigh. What did you even expect, for the Kenma Kozume to bake for himself, when his favorite task is to annoy you while you’re busy baking him delicacies? Not possible. He would’ve said further, but his eyes follow yours to the computer screen.

‘WAIT YOU BOTH ARE GOING TO COOK TOGETHER?!!?!! CUTE!!’

“I think we should order a takeout.” He suggests shyly, a smile climbing up your face at his actions, one that morphs into a chuckle as you mutter, ‘you’re so cute’ as if your face isn’t looking like a tomato itself.

You grab your phone and browse through the menu until you receive a call, the ID revealing your friend's name. You excuse yourself out of the room while Kenma buries his face in his hands again, his face turning redder than before. Your faint voice reaches his ears from behind the closed door of his room; he’s left wondering if your voice always felt like a melody when listened to from a distance.

There’s a soft smile on his lips. He doesn’t realize how it got there, or since when it has been residing. All he knows is that his heart is beating swiftly and maybe this time, he wouldn’t deny it. His ears perk up as the sound of you opening the door pulls him out of his dreamlands, eyes wide open at the sight of his computer because he almost forgot about the stream.

“I’m back!” You chime in, sitting next to him as you wave at the viewers. You look better than almost any horse before, when you were literally sweating out of nervousness, and honestly, Kenma loves to see you getting comfortable with things he likes. “Wait, do you guys know that Kenma cries during disney movies.?”

And even if Kenma likes you seeing you getting comfortable around him, he doesn’t mean he appreciates you exposing his habits and secrets to a million people. “You say it as if you don’t hind behind me while watc— wait,” His eyes zoom in at a comment as he proceeds to read it. “Kenma can I take y/n— no?! They’re mine, go look for someone else?!”

And here comes the heart palpitations.

The amount of times your heart has raced today should be enough to give you multiple heart attacks. Your eyes settle on Kenma, who looks a little too passive aggressive for someone who’s responding to a comment that’s a joke, and then his hands slide into yours again. This time, with a firm grip. While it may feel good, you hope it’s real, and that he’s not doing it for clout ( even though you know he, out of all people, doesn’t need any clout ) You hope that all the butterflies he gave you today mean something, because you’re sure you can’t handle these empty fluttering touches anymore.

The stream is long forgotten, and so are the viewers.

His gaze settles upon you, and you feel your heart doing somersaults as you feel his eyes travel down to your lips. And in the next second, before you know it, his lips are on yours, while the world seems to pause.

You don’t give it much thought— you couldn’t. Your brain feels misty and all you remember is that you’re kissing Kenma, the boy you’ve been in love with for so long. Instead, you tilt your head, kissing him back as he deepens the kiss. It feels like a cold breeze by the beach, you think, or maybe a warm blanket in winters. While you know the moment has to end, you don’t want his lips to leave yours.

Call it a jinx, but your eyes shoot open as you travel back to reality, remembering about the stream as you push him away before turning towards the computer with your flustered face. “I think we should end the stream here,” and you exit off Twitch just as quickly as Kenma logged in earlier today.

Then your eyes meet his, and words begin to fall out of his mouth. “Y/n, I’m sor—”

“I hope you meant it, Kenma.” That’s all you say. Actually, that’s all you could say, because it’s the only thing you wish for. He doesn’t reply, and you think it’s time to leave.

But then he ghosts up your hand, proceeding to cup your cheeks before inching dangerously closer to your face. “Trust me, I’ve been meaning to do it for over a year now.” And he connects your lips with his again.

note two. if you read it i love you. also there was supposed to be more to this but like, i didn't know how to incorporate it so that's the end. might most a bonus drabble somewhere in future though <3

taglist in the reblogs !

— (๑´`๑)♡ A HEARTFUL ROSE!!

a gift for ari and riddle's wedding!! twst

in honor of their wedding, riddle sends gifts to his dearest beloved before the day of.

tagging. @shinmon-c

disclaimers.. mentions of marriage. reader is up to interpretation. riddle is referred to as both husband and wife. reader is not yuu.

part one (you're here). part two.

reblogs and likes are HEAVILY appreciated. silent readers dni.

you awoke to see a letter addressed to you, and a rose on top of it by your bedside table, looking around you found it empty, it seems riddle must've left for work. you decided to open the sealed letter, and read it.

my dearest, ( ).

how i've been awaiting for this day for so long, we are soon to be wed, it's rather exciting. i can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you.

from the day we first met, my mother warned me of trouble, and that you were. fierce, and compassionate. the first time i laid my own eyes on you, i knew you were the one, from all those years ago to now, you have always been my one and only. my one first and only, true love.

i love your smile, how you would always light up at the sight of something you adore, how every day you look so angelic.

i love all of you, your eyes, your hands, everything.

i wish to spend everyday with you, and now i can.

what i am saying is, i love you, so much, i would spend out future with you, you don't know how much you cross my mind, how much you stay in my mind everyday, how i'm looking forward to seeing you everyday after work. what i'm saying is, i love you ( ), and i, am honored to be your soon-to-be husband, or well as you call it, your soon-to-be wife.

forever yours, riddle rosehearts.

finishing the letter, you couldn't help the smile that crept on your face, dropping the letter onto your lap as you cover your face into your hands, after all these years, riddle still managed to make you swoon. how you await the day he is officially forever yours, and how you officially become forever his.

😤 This is rigged

also did i tell y’all about the time i found out that i’m not as short as i thought? told u im fucking badass

how tall are you btw?