#{ANONYMOUS}「Gray Scrubs」

[scumbag-the-hedgehog]

"Conquer this stupid little planet. Then we can rock the multiverse. Twin unstoppable kings."

An Independent, Selective Roleplay Blog for Scourge the Hedgehog from Archie Comics' Sonic the Hedgehog series. Canon-divergent after the "LOCK DOWN" arc in Sonic Universe #29-32. Ft. Fiona Fox, Doctor Finitevus, and the Destructix as Secondary Muses!

Duplicates welcomed! Please read the RULES before interacting!

ABOUT SCOURGE / ABOUT FIONA / ABOUT THE MUN / THE LORE

I follow #scumbagthehedgehog, #scumbag-the-hedgehog, and #scumbag the hedgehog

All blog and icon art from Archie Sonic (Tracy Yardley, Jon Gray, and Matt Herms), Scourge: Eternal Blackout (patar-fuifui), and tobyxtots

Promo Banner by @wintershub

[3minsover]

modern steddie au

Pottery thrower!Steve who makes tiktoks of him making bowls and vases - he and Robin own a small company and social media is the best way to promote their products. While Robin sculpts and molds little trinkets - figurines and tchotchkes, Steve throws larger items.

They get some pretty good engagement with Robin's quirkily edited 'day in the life'-style videos and Steve's 'trust the process' content, but there's one video that sends the account rocketing into the stratosphere.

The camera is positioned at a low angle, looking over the studio. Steve enters the frame, visible only from the waist down at first with a large lump of clay in his hands. He sits down at the wheel, and that's when it's clear that beneath his overalls, he's not wearing a shirt. His shoulders are bare, tanned and kissed intermittently by moles, and the muscles beneath flex and shift underneath his skin as he lifts the clay and throws it down. Hard. The rest of the video is exactly as normal - Steve squeezing a sponge saturated with slip to wet the clay, pushing his fingers into the well in the center as he forms it into what will become a large salad bowl. Every so often, he looks up at the camera with a pleased smile, a lock of hair falling over his eyebrow. His hands are covered in slick gray, his biceps straining with the effort of precision, and there's a tiny swipe of slip drying across his forehead where he'd attempted to brush his hair aside.

Steve's best friend Eddie sees this video on his 'for you' page and is utterly overcome by the quiet strength of Steve's toned arms, the wide spread of his knees and steady workings of his hands. Confident in his anonymity - he's on his entirely anonymous private account, after all - Eddie leaves a comment on the video, detailing exactly what Eddie wishes Steve would do with his hands instead of throw clay. He hits post, scrubbing back to watch the moment Steve throws the clay down over and over again. He even saves the video to his phone - for instructive reasons, obviously. Nothing untoward, that's his best friend!

Eventually, Eddie scrolls on and for a few minutes forgets about the video. And then he remembers it again, but this time, the flush of attraction is accompanied by a creeping sense of unease that crawls across his skin. Eddie heads straight to Steve and Robin's account and taps the video. His thumb shakes a little as he opens the comments, now littered with others just as thirsty as his own - to which Steve has graciously replied turning them down - and finds that- oh fuck.

ewmunson: throw me around like that lump of clay i actually beg.

Eddie's not on his private.

He's gonna be sick.

Until he sees Steve's reply.

birdandbatpottery: Come over. Let's find out if I can?

[sinsofbeauty]

Tipsy King

Fandom: COD MW2

Pairing: Tipsy!Konig x Fem!Reader

Requested: Yes :)

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol, König is a bit more than tipsy, Soft Smut!, Sub! König, Oral M. Receiving

Overview: At home alone while your husband is out with a group of friends. When he comes home he can’t help but feel a little hungry, but your touch has him craving for something a little more spicy

A/n: One request done! I was on a bit of a hiatus but here y’all go! Request was anonymous through messages, so I hope they like this! Requests are open, and enjoy you guys!

You had just finished putting the containers of prepared food in the fridge, closing it shut before adjusting the towel on your chest. It was a late night and you didn’t want to go to sleep just yet, so you took a shower and did some cooking to get yourself occupied. Your husband was out with friends at the moment which to you was quite the surprise. He wasn’t one to go out drinking or partying but you guessed that he was probably dragged by one of his colleagues. It made you happy knowing that he went with them, considering that he stayed at the house with you whenever he was home. You loved him to bits but it was about time he spent some of his free time with others.

Hearing the door jingle from the living room, your ears perked up at the noise of your significant other entering the home. His footsteps were slow, quite scattered if you kept track of how he walked, but eventually he had gotten into the kitchen. You were washing your hands at the moment after scrubbing the counter down when you felt a large embrace from behind. Large arms wrapped around your frame, and a head placed itself on your shoulder. A small hum escaped from his throat in which made you giggle in response.

“Tired?” You asked, turning off the water to the sink. “Seems like you had a little too much fun.” You can smell the strong scent of alcohol. Explains the staggered steps and the way he was acting. Your husband nodded his head in your shoulder, his grip tightening on you while he tried stuffing his face deeper into it. Smiling you moved slightly to grab the small towel next to you, drying off your hands.

“Do we still have leftovers…?”

Your eyebrows raised at the sudden sound of his voice. It was a lot deeper than normal, more relaxed if you put it in other words. His accent seemed to stick out a little more and to be honest you liked it quite a bit. “We have a little bit. Are you hungry?”

“Mmhmm…”

“I can warm something up for you. Would you like that?”

Your husband nodded his head in your shoulder before taking his weight off of you. Turning slightly as you go to the fridge, you watch the man walk away, hitting the doorframe with his shoulder in the process. A smirk lifted your lips when you heard him mumble an ‘ow’, giggling softly when you opened the refrigerator door. You haven’t seen König drink in a long time, and even then you don’t remember the last time he had been drunk. Although he was the Affectionate Drunk. He would be puddle of happiness, hugging up on or getting close to people in such a loving manner. He was really a sweetheart when he wasn’t so reserved, or on the battlefield in that matter.

The microwave beeped before you had taken the food out you had just warmed up. Walking to the living room, you see König sitting on the couch. When he noticed your presence he looked over. You were met with his black veil, the fabric covering his features other than his eyes. They looked half lidded, a little disoriented as he kept looking from one part of your body to another. It followed with his black tee and off gray jeans, in which looked like something had been spilled on the front of them.

“It’s a little hot,” You warned, setting the tupperware down on the coffee table. “It was the last of the leftovers so hopefully it fills that appetite of yours.”

“Danke,” König spoke as you took a seat next to him on the couch. He lifted his veil to his nose and picked up the container of food. It wasn’t long before he started eating it like the beast he was. It was gone in a matter of minutes, which didn’t surprise you with how fast he had to eat out on the field. “Did you miss me when I was gone?”

You turned your head slightly to König, nodding your head in response. Placing your hand on his back he sighed out, and pretty heavy at that. “Did you miss me?”

“Yes.” His voice changed in an instant. The familiar tone made your eyes move down towards his pants, and oh boy what a huge fucking tent you saw. “I missed you… your touch feels good.”

The environment shifted quickly, giving you a slight blush as a result. Your heart was pounding as your husband spoke while shifting his hips. Even though it was late, you were nevertheless pleased to see your him in such a state. It was quite… submissive. You put your other hand on his stomach, which stiffened up at the touch. "Would you like more of my touch?" König remained silent, but you could tell he appreciated what you were doing by the way his body responded to you. Surprisingly, he liked to be physically spoiled, especially by you. The man was quite affectionate and inclined to give rather than receive in the bedroom. That situation would change now.

You adjusted yourself on the couch and used your hand to sit your husband back all the way, his eyes shifting to you. With one hand on his shoulder, the other focused on massaging his clothed body. His chest, abs, and down to the lower part of his stomach where you stopped before going back up again. Because of his aching bulge, his hips jolted a little as you put your palm so close to them, giving away that his patience was wearing thin.

“Schatz…p-please..” He whined breathlessly. “I can’t take it…please, touch me please…”

At the very thought of you touching him, you could feel his body trembling gradually, and once you did, you watch him dissolve below you. His hand that was closest to you grasped your thigh somewhat tightly, but you didn't mind as you started softly massaging his clothed cock. König was incredibly needy tonight; it was probably the combination of a little excitement and the alcohol he had. After all, he could only picture your naked body because you were still covered by the bath towel. To provide him with some relief, you unbuckled his belt and then undid the buttons on his jeans before lowering the zipper, raising the flaps.

“Can you pull these down for me?” You asked, tugging at his pants.

He complied, taking them down to his knees before they fell to the ground. Afterwards, you switched your position and moved from the couch to in between his legs. As you knelt down, you could see the sudden change in your husband's eyes. He was almost begging you to do what you were about to do just with a look, and it pleased you. You took hold of the hem of his briefs and gently tugged them down till his cock was uncovered. The bead that rested on the tip of his penis had already started to leak before, and it was flowing down after a slight overflow. You gripped the base of his penis in your hands, puffy red and stiffened with need. He put his hand up to his mouth, which he had not yet covered from earlier eating, and gasped at the slightest contact.

“Sensitive today,” You spoke, leading your hand up and down his shaft with ease. The pre cum had applied itself as a lubricant for now, your hand gliding itself onto his girthy dick indeed. König was not only large in size, but the length he has under his clothes is fairly large itself. “Does it feel good baby?” Your other hand comes into contact to fulfill his needs all around.

“Y-Yes…it’s- mhn~ feels great. Please don’t stop…f-fuck- ah! Don’t stop!”

You kept pumping your hands up and down on his cock, getting tighter as you descended and looser as you ascended. You would frequently peek up to watch the man's response, who would often be embarrassed to display his red face or even moan in ecstasy. You spit on the enlarged tip while looking down at it to spread more lubricant down the base. However, your tongue made contact with his throbbing head before you move your hands. Before proceeding to the shaft, your tongue gave his tip a thorough swirling motion to combine the moisture and provide more slickness.

You didn't get the chance to give your husband a blowjob very often, let alone a good one. All throughout, he was really thick. Your mouth would frequently grow tired and hurt, which left him feeling bad. An occasion like this was precious because König tended to skip the foreplay with him and dive right in with you. You were motivated to continue, not only by the confidence you had but also by the trembling sounds emanating from his mouth. He was so beautiful like this.

“Oh mein- agh~!”

Halfway down, you lowered your mouth and started to very softly suck him. You did the best you could while pumping what your mouth couldn't accommodate with your hands. He watched in fascination as you made every effort to keep yourself from gagging, often going down a little too far just to pleasure him. You did gag a few times, but you didn’t care much due to the way he moaned out when you pulled your head back up. Although, your sweet husband soon was caught off guard by the quickening of your speed. His legs squirmed a little at the friction, and his hips started to buck a little.

“AH~! W-ait s-slo-aah.. slow down!”

Within seconds, his cock jerked and twitched inside your mouth, and you moved your head to look at him while your hands worked it’s magic. Before König gripped the couch, your tongue made quick lines along the head, engaging in with the swelled tip. His muscles clenched and relaxed periodically as his breathing became noticeably heavier, the males chest visibly rose and fell.

“You look so pretty in red König. Do you want me to pleasure you some more~?”

“Bitte! B-Bitte…agh~ I c-an’t, it feels- so mmmmhn~! W-wait-”

You pushed yourself down a little more, and before he could object, he clapped his hand over his mouth. His legs began to quiver as a result of the vulgar noise of you choking on his cock, which rebounded throughout the entirety of the room. You lifted your head to get some air, but not long after, you shoved as much of his length as you possibly could down your throat again. The once-quiet air was now filled with the filthy, wet noises of you bobbing up and down on his cock. His sighs and grunts finally lost their ability to be contained and evolved into frantic pleas and cries of delight. The way your spouse began to crumble under your control was simply so sensual, and seeing him in this state made you feel unbelievably powerful.

You mouth had taken itself back with a small pop, backing away from him while once more sliding your hand along with such ease. You could tell he was ready to cum by the way his legs began to shake even more violently. “Are you gonna cum love?” His strangled moans only made you smile as your hands jerked the remainder of him. You put your lips on his tip and lightly sucked, which seemed to throw him far over the edge.

“Oh liebling..oh mein gott~ I’m gonna- I-I I-m gonna-“

König's head was thrown back on the couch, and you immediately looked up as soon as his eyes began to cross just slightly. As ribbons after ribbons of cum spurted out into your mouth, he began to moan out in ecstasy. You were forced to halt your movements when you heard his whining and heavy breathing, allowing him to achieve his orgasm before you removed your mouth from his cock. He watched as you swallowed all of his semen in one gulp, his head rising slightly with his heaving chest. Although a little salty, the flavor was not unpleasant.

After a few seconds of relief König sat up, his legs still shaking softly. “You did so good baby,” He spoke to you, putting his hand beneath your chin and lifting your head up slightly to look at him.

“Anything for my king,” You said with small smile.

“Well then let me return the favor, Meine Königin~.”

[bonnie131313]

I've been trying to resist this since I first heard about Yusuf Dikec but it's impossible.

"This is a bad idea."

Harold just sighs.  "You have said that several times now, Mr. Reese, " He reminds the former agent.  "We have all agreed with you that it is a bad idea.  Unfortunately, none of us seem to have a better idea."

"Finch is right," Shaw adds.  "If I go in there's the same issue with potentially being exposed. And, I  can't get into the men's dormitory like you can."

"I know," Reese frowns.   "But anonymity is one of our biggest advantages."

"Well, we might be able to do something," Shaw considers for a moment.   "Clothes and hair can be pretty effective disguises."

Harold does that perplexed bird thing and John just sighs again.

"What did you have in mind, Ms Shaw?" Finch asks.

"See if you can find Reese some eyeglasses,"  She hops off her chair and grabs her jacket.   "Something nice but a little more frumpy than fashionable.   Also, don't tailor the uniform too much."

"Where are you going?" Harold asks.

"Beauty supply store," She calls back over her shoulder. 

Reese has to admit that Finch and Shaw have done a great job. He's supposed to be a former soldier turned divorced father and he looks it.  The clothes fit but are just a tad loose.  Some discreet padding gives him a bit of a paunch but he still looks fit enough to be a blue collar worker.  The glasses are sensible but not flashy.  

The hair makes the biggest difference.  His slightly silvered hair is now more gray than dark.  

"It'll wash out," Shaw had assured him.  "Might take a week or two but you'll be back to normal pretty quick.  Try not to scrub too hard until this is over."

John settles himself in his lane along the firing line.  He eyes the competitors' equipment doubtfully.  The ear protection makes sense to him, no need to risk hearing loss.  Still, his simple earplugs are more than enough.  Why spend money on fancy electronic earmuffs?  The glasses are kind of silly though. Easier to use both eyes when aiming.

One hand, he reminds himself.  This is an air pistol with almost no recoil.  He doesn't need two hands to hold the gun steady.  Better to keep his left hand in his pocket so he doesn't accidentally make a mistake.  

"I thought I told you not to win?" Harold had sounded exasperated.  

"I had to stay in as long as the number was in," John reminds him.  "Besides, no one remembers who comes in second."

"You're a meme," Harold had groused.

"They're already moved on to that  pole vaulter with a big dick," Reese assures him.

"This was a bad idea," Harold complains.

"Yeah," John agrees.  "But I got a cool medal."

[undaignis]

        “ 𝔚𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔟𝔲𝔦𝔩𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔢 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔞𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔞𝔫 𝔬𝔩𝔡 𝔎𝔞𝔦𝔰𝔞𝔯𝔦𝔬𝔫 ”

       highly selective and mutuals only NAMELESS GHOULS from GHOST.     minors do not interact.     managed by   gray   31    they/them.                                           crossover and duplicate friendly.

𝔊ℌ𝔒𝔖𝔗

is a Swedish rock band formed in 2006 by Tobias Forge. Contrary to popular belief Tobias is the only member of Ghost on paper. There have been many that have joined him on stage, however they are not technically members of the band itself.

This blog will depict MY take on the lore and the characters that are the 'Nameless Ghouls' dubbed Rain, Dew Aether and Phantom by fans. This blog is in no way connected to Tobias or Ghost itself. This blog will also not be using the real people behind the masks in any way as they were meant to be anonymous beings.

I will not be using icons as I am not an artist and while there is a plethora of media, I am will no be scrubbing YouTube videos in an attempt to make any.

There will be mentions of satanic beliefs and demonic imagery. This is not a safe place for minors.

Our father, who art in Hell Unhallowed, be thy name Cursed be the sons and daughters Of thine nemesis who are to blame Thy kingdom come, Nema.

[last-starry-sky]

girl’s night out - ch. 3 pt. 1

ghost x shy!goth!f!reader

MDNI - NSFW - MIND THE WARNINGS: 5.7k, nightmares, not at all realistic depictions of panic attacks, terrible coping mechanisms, depression, mentions of the loss of a parent, vague mentions of disordered eating (reader is not doing well in this and the coming chapters! please heed the warnings), brief mentions of kissing and dryhumping, mentions of annoying coworker Brennan, playful mentions of violence (not toward reader).

[masterlist is HERE]

a special thanks to @comeonatmebruh and @originalsoulcollector for their lovely comments on the last part that reminded me that this has been sitting in wip purgatory for over a year! Also, @slut-lmao who wanted to be tagged in "everything I wrote, or they would explode" lmao.

monday

You know it’s a nightmare by the way that it starts. 

It’s the smell that comes first: the must and grime of the million souls that pass through this place everyday. It mutes the anonymous smell of industrial cleaners: powdery and chemical, that surrounds you, sticking to you like an aura. It’s faint. Familiar. Maybe lemon or linen. The more your mind chases it, the more it morphs, and the less you can detect.

You’re staring down at the gray carpet: it’s busy pattern long worn away by feet and rolling suitcases from years upon years of travelers. What those decades of shoes, including your own, couldn’t destroy, the cleaners finished. You can only imagine the gallons of sanitizing chemicals that have been pumped into these floors, scrubbed again and again and again, taking away the germs and daily filth leaving only a hanging miasma of artificial scent that haunts you. 

The cling of it. The way it stirs a complicated mix of emotions the second it hits your brain. It makes you remember the first time you ever saw this place. So excited, gripping your older brother’s wrist as he pulled both you and his suitcase behind him. You remember feeling then that he was so tall, so mature compared to you. In reality, he was just a young, lanky teenager then, having to keep it all together while flying internationally for the first time with his weird little sister in tow.

God, what an embarrassment you must have been back then: long, scraggly hair that your mom had already given up on convincing you to keep out of your eyes, layers of baggy black shirts and pants, the oil on your face (not helped by the long day of travel) smudging your messily applied ring of eyeliner. You’re pretty sure you had your giant headphones looped over neck, long wire snaking down into your pocket where they connected to your iPod, MCR playlist still blaring. 

You’re sure you would cringe if you could see yourself back then, but, in that moment, how you looked was the last thing that mattered. Clutching your brother’s clammy hand, heart racing as you struggled to keep your overstuffed backpack on your shoulder, you were a soup of pre-teen emotions. You were nervous, tired, excited, and so many others that you couldn’t remember. For a moment, you were wonder struck enough by the sights of a new country to drop your usual disinterested and emotionless facade. What you did remembered clearly was everything melting away as you passed through security, your father’s smiling face waiting for you on the other end. 

That’s not how this dream ends, though. You are alone, nothing but the smell of chemicals in an endless, gray tarmac surround you. Rows and rows and rows of waiting areas filled with empty blue-seated chairs and unmanned counters. Large windows faced out into a bright gray void, nothing to see beyond but fog. You walk on and on, along the endless hall, looking out the windows into the featureless void outside. You keep expecting something, but you don’t know why. A person, a monster, something new to break the near insanity of endless repetition, but it never happens. Everything is the same same same same-

Then you hear your name.

Your heart races as you turn in slow motion. You know who it is, because the voice is always the same. Her face is too. You see her, your step-mother, standing at the end of the fog dressed in bright red. Strange, how she can be so far away, but you just know the expression on her face: a tight, forced smile, tears collecting already in the corners of her eyes.

Her mouth starts to move, but there are no words, no sound. Suddenly, the gray starts to press in on you, growing darker and darker. You try to turn and run, a spike of panic striking through you, but your legs turn to jelly, sticking to the carpet. You feel yourself pulled down down down as the fog surrounds you. You reach out, trying to fight, to scream before it suffocates you entirely.

You shake awake, the familiar sound of your phone alarm vibrating and ringing out that annoyingly familiar sound from somewhere in your sheets. Operating purely on instinct, you throw yourself around, fishing it out from where it had worked it’s way to the other side of the bed. Shaking and sweating, light blasting your face, you smash SNOOZE before falling back onto your pillow. With an arm thrown dramatically over your eyes, you try not to think about the howling wind outside or how cold the floor will be this early in the morning. 

Your hand falls off your eyes, landing on the pillow next to you. It releases a familiar scent. You sigh as you inhale, pleasant memories slamming into your brain. It’s him. It’s hard to suppress the shuddering breath you draw in. How could it not be? You spent most of the night crying about it, how you just let the best man you’ll probably every meet just walk out the damn door without so much as a fight. And now you’re lying here, practically swimming in his scent - warm, muted, musky and coppery, oil and fire - all of it haunting you because, of course, you had both forgotten to change the pillow cases. Two nights he had spent in your bed, and he was already worn into the fabric. 

He could be with you right now, you think, rolling over you, cupping your head in those large, rough hands. 

“Have’ta get up,” he’d mumble against your lips, nose nuzzling yours, “Alarm went off.” 

“I know,” you’d whine, arms closing around his neck, stealing as much warmth as you could. Just a few minutes more. Just a few minutes more. 

That’s when he’d roll over you, whispering something under his breath about making coffee, but it’s all forgotten as soon as his hips meet yours. 

“Fuck, love,” he’d groan, softly grinding his erection against your clothed core as you whimper. “You got time f’ this?” he’d ask, hand smoothing down your stomach to pull the waistband of your pj’s. He doesn’t wait for an answer before biting a kiss into your bottom lip. 

The phone in your hand vibrates again: shrill, chiming song ringing out in the dark. For a moment, you lay in the dark, allowing yourself to soak in the utter sadness and stupidity of the moment. The rain patters against your window. The phone in your hand dims, then darkens. You stare at the dark ceiling, blinking tears from your eyes. 

This is so stupid, you think, throwing yourself out of bed, shivering as your feet hit the floor. Eight minutes lost already, and, even in your miserable state, you know you can only afford to lose so much time.

Your apartment doesn’t even feel like it’s your own as you pop your head out of your bedroom. With bleary eyes you look out into the dark living room. Only the yellow streetlights peaking through the crack in the curtain light the room, and even then, it's just a weak, crooked stripe across the floor. It feels weird to see everything neat and clean. Your floors shine, free of your everyday clutter. No clothes are thrown over the backs of chairs, or dishes left on the table. It feels like a hotel, the strangely nostalgic smell of cleaning products that fill the air only make the feeling stronger. 

You shake your head, releasing the empty room’s grip on your still-dazed mind and let your feet carry you to the bathroom. Strangely, as you stand on the icy, bleach clean, tile, staring into the dark mirror, the feeling doesn’t go away. It’s as if these rooms don’t mean anything anymore. This room isn’t in the flat you’ve lived five years in. It’s anonymous. Exchangeable. Your stomach churns as you remember. It’s just like the dream. 

You panic, looking at your hallowed eyes in the mirror. You realize that, if you were to run out to the hallway now, there would be a hundred, no, a thousand, a million doors just like your own lining the hall. Behind everyone you know there would be a couch and kitchen and shoes stacked in the corner, just like yours. You could spent a whole day opening those doors, searching each room in each flat but would never find another soul. 

You’ve gone through this before. It’s okay, you tell yourself, fingers gripping the edge of the sink as you try to focus on the flow of the cold water down the drain. You breathe in a shaking breath, hold it, then let it out. You do it twice more, focusing on the water babbling in the sink before you let your rational self think again. Yes, you have had this dream before, and you know how it ends: running, screaming, never finding anyone until the floor sucks you down. Then, you tell yourself, you’ll wake up. 

You close your eyes again. Two more deep breaths. In and out. You shut off the sink and turn on the light. Small steps. Focus on the small steps. You shed your clothes and step into the shower, flinching as the icy water blasts your body. You soap your skin, scrub your hair, and brush your teeth. You make your mind focus on what is real, the physical parts of the task that ground you in reality. By the time you turn off the shower - just as the water turns warm, go figure - the panic has subsided and you feel a bit more refreshed. 

You quickly glance in the mirror as you leave the shower. Your distorted face in the foggy glass stares back at you: still gaunt, pale, and haunted. Your monstrous reflection makes your heart skip a beat, urging you to scrub the water from your hair and body all the quicker. You abandon your wet towel on the floor as you dart back into your bedroom, naked and shivering in the cold. 

You only have time to do the bare minimum after your shower, which is just great for your already bottom-basement mental health. Maybe it’s for the best, because if you had anymore time to let yourself think you would have seriously considered calling in. It was something you knew you needed, but couldn’t do without throwing the whole office into disarray, and you just couldn’t do that. Wouldn’t. Just the thought of walking in on Tuesday, still not all together, and having to face the side-long looks and whispered gossip from not only your bosses and the rest of the office, but the roaring firestorm that would surely erupt from your best friend, made you willing to put up with anything if only to avoid it. Your midwestern niceness was going to kill you one day, you just knew it. 

You pulled out a random assortment of clothes from your wardrobe and put them on without much thought except for warmth and practicality. Thankfully, the office dress code was also your favorite color: black, so blindly pulling pants and sweaters from hangers and drawers wouldn’t make you look like too much more of a clown. Eyes on your stocking feet, you’re running out the door before you know it: no lunch, no coffee, not even any makeup.

At least you remembered to grab the most important thing before you left: an umbrella. Reaching for it off of the same rack you hung your coat had become something of an involuntary reaction since moving here. So much so, that every time you heard the sound of rain, your hand grasped for the comfort of the familiar, worn wood handle. 

“It had been your father’s favorite, dear,” your step-mother had told you when you tried to return it after finally moving out into your own place. 

Her smile had turned from happy: seeing you out the door after you had popped over to pick up the last few bags of your things from her now empty house; to down turned as you tried to hand the old and worn thing back to her. You could only imagine what memory you had stirred up. Maybe he had once lent it to her, or they had walked together under it during a sudden storm. 

“Keep it, if you’d like,” she said curling her arms around herself, eyes trailing the floor, “I have . . . I have my own, and an extra, and that’s plenty for just me here, you know . . .” 

She couldn’t say it. Alone. She was alone now. Now that your father was dead. 

You both breathed in shaking breaths, hiding your misty eyes from each other before you squeaked a quick, “thank you”, darting away to the waiting taxi. The weight of your cowardly action only added to the still-gathering dark rain cloud that had hung over you since you had first seen her at the airport.  

The airport. The sudden retread of that memory, of that day, made everything slow down, throwing you all at once into the present. You’re outside, clearly. At least you remembered to open your umbrella. With a quick look about, you realize that you’ve unconsciously followed your usual way to work. The fog in your mind clears as you come out of your head. You force yourself to focus: the rain pattering gently against the umbrella above you, the occasional gale of wind shaking the fabric against the metal spires, your boots splashing through the puddles. 

You tried not to rush your way down the sidewalk. You will yourself to slow down, breathe, and take in whatever small beauty the city has to offer, even if most of it is hidden in the weak, cloud covered dawn. Some of the trees still have their leaves and autumn colors, but they’re mostly swept into brown clumps along the street and sidewalk. November was not panning out to be like the brilliant, beautiful fall your mother and brother had sent pictures of from back home. Nothing but rain, rain, rain here. Rain and wind. 

Your eyes land on a fence, tall and beautifully intricate: made of black wrought iron decorated with leaves and swirls, on your walk. The tips of the spikes are mostly bent and damaged now, but they make you wonder what it looked like back when they were first installed. Perhaps the finials were even painted gold. A graveyard, you realize. The beautiful fence that caught your eye separates the land of the living from that of the dead. 

You kick through a large puddle as you look at the Victorian-era gravestones beyond. Some are only plain slabs of shared stone, the few worn words the grieving families could afford now long filled with moss. 

“Abby - Mother” 

“Infant - 1842” 

“Harris Sisters. 14 & 12” 

Others are tall, beautiful white stone, carved with delicate, flourishing designs and topped with sad, soot stained angels or the remains of broken vases. Their graves bear beautifully carved names and poetically written epitaphs, letters rich with cursive swirls and flourishes. Clearly these belonged to the richer parishioners, as they spared no expense on their final resting places. As you pass, you wonder when last any family actually came to leave flowers at these forgotten graves. If there is one thing you can take comfort from the somber scene, it’s that no matter who these people were in life: rich or poor, pious or wicked, scorned or beloved, the same dour plot of land awaited them all. 

“Brief is man's life and small the nook of the earth where he lives,” 

The quote soured your stomach, but made you smile all the same. You kicked at a chunk of loose concrete as you walked by the last bit of the graveyard, willing the tears back from your eyes. It was what your father had chosen for his own tombstone.

Of course he had looked to Marcus Aurelius when his own time drew near; just as he had as a young man squirreled away at some boarding school, bored with studying maths and science, and again when the stress of university made him question his chosen path in life. Did he really want to spend the rest of his life in Law? What of his passion for Philosophy? What about the Arts? Perhaps he found it all worth it, when he did stick it out, finding not only success but a wife and family because of it. 

I wish there would have been more time, you think as traitorous tears slip down your wind-bitten cheeks. More time spent together. Less time wasted. You wish you could have sat longer with him, talked more, found common interests while he was alive as you laughed over a cup of tea. Now all you have is his ghost. His scribbles in the margins of his books in a pile in a corner of your flat.  

Too soon, you are past the quiet streets of your neighborhood. You wipe your tears as you cross the bridge and begin to blend into the small crowds of other early risers, all heading farther toward the city center. Everyone is the same here: quiet, dark blobs dressed in rain boots and slickers, umbrellas obscuring everything but their height. Your boots splash into another puddle as you path around a large group huddled at the bus stop. You look up and down the street quickly before crossing the zebra lines to the next sidewalk. You can feel the damp beginning to sink into your sock as you walk on. Thankfully, you only have a few more blocks to go. 

There is nothing interesting to look at for the last few blocks. Nothing but slim, old buildings, occasionally interrupted by the odd new construction. Nothing to keep your mind off of him. Simon. Nothing but dark and gray. The streetlights shine onto the wet concrete, reminding you of that fateful night not too long ago. The two of you, running giddy through the streets at midnight, not giving a single thought to the cold. The streaks of yellow painting the path ahead make you tighten your hands on your umbrella. You try not to think of his blonde hair, haloed by the streetlamp in the dark, breathing clouds into the chilled air, his large body curled around you, warming you anyway he could. 

He would have walked you to work, you tell yourself, unsure if it’s meant as a hurt or comfort. Still, the spark of a thought has you thinking, mind wandering off the dull reality of wet socks and sunless sky into a warm, happy fantasy. A what if. A what could have been.

You think about him walking along side you, his large, bulky body blocking the street from view. Your umbrella probably wouldn’t be much use, you think, given how much you would be turning to look up at him. How could you not? He doesn’t talk much, but, half the time, you don’t want to. All you want is to steal a glance at his profile, the slip of his face that protrudes out from the curtain of his hood. 

Would he hold your hand? You think on it. Probably not to start, but as you trudge forward, he would most likely start to pull on your arm or shoulder as you get distracted in order to get you to follow his lead. Perhaps after a shiver or two he would relent and pull you close, a muscled arm slung over your shoulder to envelope you with his warmth. You would smile to yourself, his heat bleeding straight into your heart.

He absolutely would have pulled you in for a quick kiss at the door as he dropped you off, though. You knew it. Knew it in your bones. 

“Thanks,” you would say against his lips with a smile, not wanting to lose him or his warmth. It was like you to, even in a day-dream, want for more. He would nod as he pulled upright, unsure what to say.

“See you tonight, right?” is what he decides on. You nod back eagerly, stomach already whipping into an excited frenzy. “Stop by later with something f’ dinner, then,” he’d say, pushing his hands back into his jacket pockets as he backed away. He would smirk as he continued. “S’ on me. Already ate all your food.” 

Then, suddenly, you’re at the office. The bright red door stares back at you with something like shame, with the guilt of being caught. You’ve been keeping her waiting as you lolly-gag and day-dream your way here, taking your sweet time. The dark windows leer down at you like eyes, waiting to be brought to life. You walk up the stairs, struggling to get the keys from your pocket, find which key you need, and then get it in the lock as the cold metal makes your fingers shake. Good god today has been a struggle already, and it’s only barely just begun. 

You push open the door; cold and must your only greeting. It always feels so weird opening up after the weekend. It just feels wrong to leave a building so old and lived in as this cold and shut up for days. You flick on the lights and adjust the heat up to a livable level before throwing your coat on the rack. 

You sit down in at your desk, pleather and old plastic cracking, taking a moment while the phones and computer boot to check your socks. They’re wet, but there’s nothing you can do about it now except huff in annoyance. At least you’ll be inside all day and sitting. By the time your computer lights up, you hear the heat start to rumble through the radiators, and you remember that you haven’t started the coffee yet. Maybe some caffeine will help you. Wake you up, shake you out of this funk and get you focused on the work day. Besides, if what your friend told you on Friday is correct, you’ll all need some serious coffee today. 

The coffee maker is housed in the closet you all call the break room. There’s barely enough space for a fridge, a slice of counter, and a sink so tiny you think a child’s playset would be bigger. On the opposite wall there’s a table smaller than your bedside table with two chairs to either side. At least the old building has charm, and this job pays well, because spending your break curled up at one of those uncomfortable old chairs with no privacy was grating on the best of days. At least that’s how you felt before Brennan was hired. 

You shivered thinking about him as you poured fresh water in the back of the machine. A dusting of unswept coffee grounds fell off the edge and into the water. You couldn’t force yourself to care about them as you pressed the large, red, ON button, and waited for the old machine to rumble to life. 

“Tell me about this Branden, bloke,” you imagine Simon saying as he wrapped his arms around you from behind, getting in your way again as you just tried to make yourself some coffee for the long walk to the office. 

“Brennan,” you’d correct, “He’s just a pest. Annoying,” you’d grumble, but it quickly dissolves into laughing as you turn your head, Simon trying to pepper the side of your face with kisses. “Has been ever since he was hired.”

“What’s he do?” he’d ask, hands running up and down your still-cold hips, “He one of their kids ‘r somethin’?”

“No,” you’d answer with a sigh, wriggling in his grip, “Just a spoiled, rich kid who got a degree from a fancy university so now he thinks he’s better than everyone.”

Simon would snort at that, burying his cold nose in your neck. “Just counin’ the days ‘til promotion, right? Got a few of those crawlin’ up my arse too,”

“Oh, there you are dear,” a soft voice called from behind you, startling you out of your cozy, imagined morning. 

You whipped around with a surprised shake, gasping as your heart raced, only to come face-to-face with one of your bosses: Mr. Harris. The sweet old solicitor gave you a chuckle as he shook some of the rain from his coat, the plush skin crinkling around his eyes and cheeks as he smiled.

“Sorry for that,” he said, motioning his hand, still holding his briefcase, “Didn’t scare you, did I?”

You shook your head, now more embarrassed than spooked. 

“N-no,” you answered, head spinning back to the now full carafe of coffee. “Just . . . tired. Trying to wake up.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him still standing in the doorway as you putzed with your cup, hunting for a clean spoon for the sugar and shit-tasting powdered creamer. He looked around, hovering awkwardly in silence in that way you were used to with older male professionals. He clearly wanted to talk to you, he just didn’t know how to broach the conversation. It almost drove you mad how a man who had built a business with his talent for language could struggle to start a simple conversation, but who were you to really judge?

“Well then,” he said with a sigh, giving up as he looked around the room awkwardly, “I’ll leave you to that then.”

You nodded as he turned away, watching the swirl in your cup dance around and around and around, steam stinging your eyes. 

You could be doing this with him right now.

The dagger in your throat twisted. You were not going to cry at work. You clenched your hands on the counter and willed your tears back, staring into your cup.

“Oh,” you boss called from outside the breakroom. You could hear him smoothing his suit jacket, dusting off any fuzz left over from his coat. “Any calls?”

Don’t cry, you tell yourself. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

“No,” you croaked, standing upright but not facing him. You took a sip to calm your nerves, waiting until he’s shuffled away to his office. 

You knew it came off as rude, but you didn’t want him to see you suffering. Especially as awkward as the two of you were. Your relationship was purely professional, but weirdly personal. He had worked with your father before he left for the US all those years ago, before you were even born. They had kept in touch, helping out your father after the divorce and opening his own practice. You had always known of each other, met one another a few times. He was just another one of your dad’s dusty old lawyer friends. Nothing a teenager cared about in the moment. 

That all changed after he died. Suddenly you were alone, in basically a new country and unsure which way was up. Your step-mother, the absolute angel, had let you stay with her, made your immigration as smooth as possible, but your job was entirely Mr. Harris’ doing. He didn’t even interview you, just told you to show up after you had settled after the funeral. Ever since then, you’d been the main receptionist and he had done what he could in subtle ways to show he cared for his old colleague’s daughter. 

You blow a breath out of your nose. It dissipates the steam rising from off your coffee. Besides, you think, it’s not like you wanted to get in the habit of dumping the details of your love life on this poor old man at 6 in the morning. 

By the time you sit back down at your desk, there are three calls waiting for you. While you chug through the never-ending queue that begins to form, the rest of the office shuffles in, the cold air following them every time the door opens. They, thankfully, see how busy you are and don’t try to make conversation as you transfer calls and rearrange meetings. 

You count your lucky stars when the whole day passes without a single comment about your appearance. Even the clients feel the day buzz around them, making their way to your desk quickly before being whisked away by their respective solicitor. You barely notice the day slip by. The sun never comes out, not that you would notice, hunched over your phone, eyes glazed over from staring at your computer. Everyone, including your friend and Brennan, are too busy to even leave their offices for lunch. 

Reality catches up with you when you hear a faint, “good night” over your current call. When the call ends, you look over at the time. It’s well after 5, nearly 6. The two other secretaries walk past you to grab their coats, complaining about the weather until the door shuts behind them. It’s then that you realize how empty the office is. You put the phones on their off-hours park while looking down the hall. 

Mr. Harris is still in his office, but his partner is gone. You shut down your computer and walk over to check on him, ignoring your growling stomach for what feels like the fiftieth time today. He looks up, glasses perched on the end of his nose, when you rap on the door jam. 

“Staying late?” you ask, voice small and shot. 

“Oh . . .” he answers, looking over at the clock on his desk. Then, as if he doesn’t believe it, he looks at his watch. “Oh! That late already, is it?” he says with a laugh. “Get yourself home,” he urges you, “I’ll be a while finishing this. No need to keep you here with me!”

You answer him with a weak smile and a nod, turning back toward your desk. 

You think you must be going actually insane, because as you put on your coat, you look out the window and imagine Simon standing outside waiting for you. You can actually see it: his large, dark form in his coat, with bags from the store looped over both hands. You can see him checking his phone, light washing over his face as he waits for a return text from you. 

The cold burst of air that hits you as you open the door is a harsh reality check. There’s no one waiting for you. Not across the street. Not at the bottom of the stairs. Not leaning against a parked car, staring daggers at anyone foolish enough to hassle him for it. Not that you stop yourself from slipping back into the comfort of your fantasy as you hurry down the emptying street, wind pricking tears from your eyes.

He’d wait to say anything until you flopped against his chest, his arms wrapping protectively around you. 

“Kept you long enough,” he’d lightly chide, kissing the top of your head.

“I know. Sorry,” you’d answer sheepishly, muffled into his coat.

“Not your fault, love,” he’d say gruffly, pulling away to lead you down the street. “Go in there with y’ tomorrow and give y’ fuckin’ boss a piece’f my mind f’ this. Bloody fuckin’ stupid-”

“No!” you’d shout too loud, giggling into your hands as you realized you made a few heads turn. “Simon! Don’t!” 

He’d smirk to hide his own laugh before deftly changing the conversation. “Picked up some food for you,” he’d say, holding up a bag. “I can cook if you’re too tired. Didn’t think you’d be this late-”

“It’s okay,” you’d hum, arm twining around his, head falling to rest against the hard muscle barely softened by the material of his jacket. “I want to. Want to relax with you.” 

Your eyes fall shut for a moment as you let him lead you, trusting him fully to protect you. When they flick open, you look up at him and he’s looking down at you. A bubble of warmth expands in your chest. This is more than you could ever want. All you’ve ever dreamed of. 

“Feel like making cookies too,” you’d say with a slow, syrupy smile.

“‘s that right?” he’d answer, deep voice grumbling, dark eyes falling more and more lidded as he stares down at you. It’s like you’re his whole world. “Not gonna bring in any t’ work, are you?”

“No,” you’d giggle back. “All for you. For us.”

Your scenario lasts just long enough for your apartment door to slam shut behind you. The sound of the heavy metal shutting back into place is a double-whammy, gut punch of emotions. It’s the end of your day-dream, a sudden dump back into your reality of wet socks and empty stomach. It’s also a cruel call back to how yesterday ended. The careless way both he and you let the door fall back on itself, not caring who it disturbed, what it broke. 

You bury your face in your hands at the thought of it. A part of you wishes you would just cry already, get it over with. Get that last bit of pathetic pining over him out of you so you could just move on. 

You draw in a shaking breath, letting your hands fall to your sides. You can’t.

You shuffle out of your coat, letting it fall to the ground behind you. The same with your purse and umbrella. You kick off your boots, not watching where they tumble to. Running a hand through your hair, you keep your eyes on the ground as you mindlessly pad across your still-clean wood floors, creaking all the way to your bedroom. 

You throw yourself down into the dark abyss of your messy bed. You lie to yourself, saying you’ll only take a nap and then get up and make something to eat or read or fuck, anything to pretend like you’re a normal human being again. But the pull is too strong, and you are at your weakest. The dark blankets absorb your body heat, making it harder by the second to get up. Before you know it, you’re fast asleep. 

[petrikaira]

The Butler

Ch 11: Waiting

Pg 2 (Previous, Next)

Rating: T for Teen

He didn’t like the way Queen Aikaterine could read minds, but he had to say it was not as insidious as what the fae nobles did. She had no say in the matter.  It gave her headaches that kept her to her rooms, because she heard everyone, all at once. And if she heard everyone all at once, Butler knew she had a harder time picking out distinct thoughts. He felt sorry for her, in a way, and in others was glad that even in that anonymity, she could really only hear what he was thinking clearly if he was near her. It was strange to think that ineffective mind reading was now a comfort to him after the horrors of the fae castle. To think that he would prefer someone like that, over people who could not read minds.

Yet, he did. She treated him with dignity.

King Mifispectuus and Queen Liita had not.

“Puppy darling, can you come here and show your cute little ears off to my court?”

“I would prefer if I didn’t, your majesty.” He did not want to show off how cute and different shaped he was for the members of her fairy court. They talked about him constantly anyways, a wolf amongst the fae. He had heard the mocking sounds of the court calling Wolf, of the Queen red riding hood. He needed nothing else. 

Queen Liita looked at him, her eyes glowing softly. “Puppy. I said come here and show off your little ears to my court.”

He had felt it like her arms wrapped around his shoulder, her lips resting on the fur between his ears. The soft glow, her beautiful face. He had found his legs moving towards her and his mouth making words “Of course, your majesty, I would gladly for you.”

They had not been lies, either, there was that want to show off to her. For her to admire him, and for the people of the court to do so as well. At how smart he was! How fast! How is fur glistened. When those eyes glowed at him, and the foggy feeling that settled over his brain, he listened to that part.

 He had come to her room, amidst the bows of the tree where the cherry blossoms hung so low and dappled the room with sunlight and the heady sweet scent, he had knelt before grinning fairy courtiers and let them touch his ears. He remembered the way their fingers had caught, how one had been so bold as to shove their rounded fingers right in there, pressing and prodding until all he heard was the scraping of their nails against his skin.

And they laughed at him. “How strange! How peculiar! What a cute little puppy!” Had been the refrains that had left their lips.

Oh, how he hated them. But in that moment he had been unable to do anything but smile and show off his “cute little ears” for them, because she had heightened that part of his brain that made him. And when she had sent him away, and the reality had set in, Butler had spent hours of his night off shift scrubbing to get the feeling of those ugly, rounded fingers in his ear out. He would have never given them permission for that.

And what if he had liked rounded fingers in his ears? Now he feared he would never know the proper way, if he had ever found someone he wanted to touch him, who was willing! Under his own terms! He was worried he would feel the violation that had happened again.

He had been their butler, it was true, but he had also been their plaything. King Mifispectuus had never touched him, it was true, but he had ordered him to fight for him when Butler knew he was too weak to. True, he knew the rapier now but he would have wanted the choice to fight.

He stared up at the curling gray clouds.

(Previous, Next)

[generalluxun]

Record Scratch Chapter 5 -Fanfiction

Nino tries to parse exactly what happened during his last visit to Chloé's. He seeks out help but between inexperience and too much experience, it's hard to find. Meanwhile, that aforementioned shopping trip gets him some new threads, and lots of new questions.

Full text after the break.

Nino woke to a banging on his door, followed by a realization his alarm was screaming at him, and the dim recollection that it had been doing so for a while now. His brother’s voice called again through the door and Nino dove to silence the beeps. Beeps. Nino ran a hand over his face, checked the time, and called an apology to Chris. The night-fog was clearing slowly, carrying with it wisps of dreams in black and white. In some Alya smiled at him from under the brim of a fedora. In others Chloé purred at him from inside a cocktail dress. Nino stumbled to the shower and burned himself clean, or tried to at least. The searing touch of the water on his skin felt all too close to the touch in some of those dreams.

Nino doused his head under the water and shook it, then pulled back the curtain just enough to be heard, directing his question toward his discarded pajamas. “Hey little dude, you know much about girls?”

Wayzz slipped out of the pile and hovered over. After reaching out a tentative paw, the turtle Kwami dove into the spray, letting it wet him completely. “I am sorry, Nino. I do not. Protection is a concept that applies somewhat universally. My holders are rarely involved in deep personal relationships, preferring to care for all.”

Nino applied soap and cloth with a purpose. “Lucky me. You saw what went down.”

Wayzz admitted, “It is the lot of a kwami to observe much of their holder’s private life.”

Nino snorted, scrubbing his face. “I need to talk to… someone. I just don’t know who. There’s no one who isn’t all wrapped up in this one way or another.” Nino flashed a grin down at Wayzz and affected his detective drawl. “They say keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. Well, I’m living that life, and it might just be the end of me.”

The turtle kwami smiled sympathetically. “Just do not forget, if you do not protect yourself, you cannot protect others.”

Protect myself… Nino killed the water and let himself stand in the sound of dripping water, the air cooling his skin outside in a way nothing seemed able to cool it within. “Right, little dude. Maybe we should talk to someone in the thick of things, after all.”

She was the go-to girl, one ‘Marinette Dupain-Cheng.’ Everyone seemed to know her, or be known by her. She had a hand in everything, usually a helping one. A little bit ditzy, a whole lot of heart, Mar could worm her way into your life. She certainly had with Adrien Agreste. That pair knew something about the ins and outs of love and woes. She was thick as thieves with my ex, but I figured I might be able to rely on her to keep a secret. My list of potential confidants was short.

I cornered her at her locker before classes. The press of the public created its own brand of anonymity, still, I pulled my hat down low as I leaned on the locker beside hers. “Hey, Mar. New jacket?”

Always ask a designer about their clothes.

She blushed a pretty pink, and nearly dropped the book she was holding. “This? Oh, yes but no. I’ve had it for a while but I did some work to update the style and cut. Things change a bit in a few years, you know.”

She danced a little circle, twisting to show off the slim-fit gray garment. I took the appreciative once over, but kept it civil. Mar was a good kid, and at one time I’d had eyes for her, but she’d been so deep in Adrien for so long that the girl aspect of her had just fallen away in my eyes. “Looks good Mar, but then, you always did know how to make something old, new again. In fact, that’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

The abrupt shift brought her out of her pink cloud. Her smile fell into a serious expression. “I wanted to talk to you too, Nino.”

This could be trouble. Her other half had already collared me once. Was I setting myself up for round two? I rolled the shoulder carrying my bag and tilted my head to indicate I was game. “Ladies first.”

Mar hesitated, never a good sign. Something that gave Marinette pause could kill a lesser person. “It’s about- you’ve been- I- you’ve been talking to Chloé recently.”

That was one way to put it, amateur orthodontics was another. Maybe I could get what I wanted without being too obvious though. I played it cool, pulling out my phone to check for notifications I didn’t expect to find, just to show my ease. “Yeah, Mar?”

My calm seemed to have the opposite effect on her. Marinette shouldered her pack but then bounced on her toes. “I just was wondering, what about?”

A contrary streak spoke for me. “That’s personal, Mar.”

Concern painted those kind features. She gestured vaguely as she spoke. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, Nino. I know you’re going through a rough time right now…”

I gave her a reassuring smile. “No need to worry about me, Mar. You know I can take care of myself.”

Her reply was too quick. “Yeah, but it’s Chloé.”

This wasn’t going how I wanted it to. I tried to remind her. “Mar, all that’s ancient history. Sure, open eyes and all that, but fresh starts too, right?”

Her eyes lit up, and I had hope. Silly me. “That’s just it though.” Mar began counting on her fingers. “I’ve talked to Sabrina, Chloé’s made no attempts to reconnect there. I’ve checked with Juleka, nothing there. I’ve looked in on her extracurriculars, nothing. She just comes in and goes home, no time for anyone still. Zoé says they’re not really talking much, and that her sister hasn’t changed as far as she knows. I had some of our friends track her to see where she spends her time these days and it’s all the usual things; shopping and more shopping, ballet, and attending fashion shows. She doesn’t even seem to be doing anything for after Lyceé yet. She’s probably just going to rely on Daddy’s money. I don’t think she really has changed, and none of us want to see you taken in. We’re your friends Nino, we’re worried about you.”

Damn.

That onslaught made me wish I had something to soothe my nerves. I loved Mar, everyone loved Mar, but right now red was boiling up in my veins. I took my hat off, adjusting the fit just to break eye contact as I responded. “All that, eh? Just from me talking to her once in the hallway?”

I’d played it too cool, or maybe Mar was too far into her groove, because she didn’t get the hint. “Well, not just the one time. Zoe said you’ve been over at the hotel at least three times, and one of those was right after you talked in the hallway. She said you left late from that one, and that Chloé wasn’t wearing shoes when Jean answered the door. I’m not sure what that means, but it’s worrying don’t you think?”

I put my hat back on, slowly. By the time I looked back at her, Mar finally seemed to have caught up with where her mouth had run her.  I pushed off the lockers. “Anything else, Mar?”

Her features went from energetic to pleading. “Nino, we’re worried about you. Alya-”

Nino was boiling, and he hated it. He was angry at Marinette. He didn’t want to be angry at Marinette. He’d never been on the inside of one of these little hurricanes. Protect yourself. It would be easy to use the anger for that, but it wasn’t his way. He could let himself feel angry, but he didn’t ever want to be angry.

He dropped his affected speech and spoke gently. “That’s between Me and Alya, Mar. Just like what’s goin’ on with Chloé is between me and her. Believe it or not, I was coming to see you about just that, but now? I’m going to have to sit on this a bit longer. I don’t want this blowing up any worse than it is.”

She reached out, touching his arm. “Nino…”

He slipped her touch, but turned it into a limp fistbump, to show his willingness. “It’s okay Mar, just, let it be?”

The intense energy seemed to leak out of her. Nino was sure he’d gotten this right, until one last spark made her perk up. “You should know-”

A wave of murmurs cut her off. A ripple of noise down the hallway that turned both of their heads.

Nino could see her coming. Mar was left hopping, just to get a look until Chloé got close enough that the parting students left a clear line of sight. Nino had those several seconds to brace himself, he still wasn’t prepared.

BeeBee.

Her long-unused trademark sunglasses were in place. Her golden locks were pinched back in an equally golden metallic bananclip, left to shimmer down her back. Large golden hoops dangled from each ear, swaying with her ground-devouring pace. She wore -against all precedent- an oversized black hoodie. It looked comfortably plush and warm. She had one of her hands in the Kangaroo pocket, the other held her phone, thumb swiping away as she moved.

Her hips though… hips… Nino’s mind drifted back, and not without reason. She wore deep green baggy-bottomed cargo pants, with dangling straps swaying from the pockets. Strappy heels poked out from the cuffs with each of her steps. The show stoppers though, were the cut outs. Great angles of fabric cut from over each hip, contrasting tanned skin with lush green cotton. With her sweatshirt covering up the theoretical waistband to her pants, what little remained at the hips reminded Nino of a similar look in gold.

She passed by without a word or a glance. As the noise resumed a new layer of whispers had joined the normal buzz. Nino looked at Marinette who looked every bit as stunned as Nino had felt until he remembered. Dressed down I might just survive. I want you in something comfy, dressed to unimpress.

He chuckled. “She was right.”

Marinette snapped out of her daze to look back at him. “What?”

Nino tapped the front of his cap. Suppose I should try and clean myself up for a day.  Detective Lahiffe spoke through Nino’s voice. “One thing she still has from the old days. She’s still a bee.”

Marinette was still looking at him as if he were speaking another language. Not that he could blame her. He was only just learning it himself. The part of him that despised authority reveled in this moment, and offered parting words. “She tastes like honey.”

“Well, I suppose it’s not a total loss. It’s not enough to get you out of this, if that’s what you were hoping.”

Nino straightened his vest, checked his collar and adjusted his fedora while Chloé circled him as they stood in her foyer. She was back in more usual garb for herself, a black belted yellow thigh length dress, with white ankle boots that put her two inches above him in height. He caught her eyes on the next pass. “Hey, these are quality threads. I wore this to the dance at the end of last year.”

Chloé stopped, hand on hip and smirked. “I know. I was there, believe it or not. Like I said, it’s not a complete disaster. It shows you have some promise, there's one glaring problem with it though.”

Nino held his arms out, at a loss. “What? Come on, I make this look good.”

She stepped up to him and readjusted his collar. “Full of yourself today? You do it better than it does you, I’ll give you that. The problem is, see these boots I’m wearing?  One of them costs as much as your whole outfit.” She patted his chest. “Let me introduce you to the world of designer brands custom tailored to fit your body and you’ll never go back.”

The way she said ‘your’, she was really saying ‘mine’. I kept myself from swallowing, showing fear would get me in trouble again. Trouble I wasn’t sure I wanted to avoid anymore, but also wasn’t sure I wanted to provoke just yet. I arched an eyebrow at her in response to her little speech. “Why do I feel like knowing you is gonna be bad for my bank account, BeeBee?”

Her smile only grew in response, the delighted debutante. “Oh, pssshh, I know you won’t be able to afford a thing where I’m taking you. I buy it, you wear it, that’s the way we play.” She reached up, plucking the fedora from my head. In a flash it was atop her head, her ponytail pushing it off at a jaunty angle. “This might need to go though.”

I laughed and snatched it back, resettling my topper before flashing her a winning grin. “You want me, you put up with the hat, sweet cheeks.”

“Ugh!” BeeBee’s scowl lacked bite, but she put on a good show. “Do you mean you, or that ridiculous little accent?”

She went for my hat again, I caught her hands. She pulled free and we sparred back and forth until I trapped them both again. “You like the ridiculous accent.”

She rolled her eyes and tugged halfheartedly before leaning in, trapping both of our hands between us. Her voice dropped to a whisper that I felt in my spine. “Was it you, or the accent that grabbed me the other night?”

She was throwing sparks, instincts warned me to back down. To hell with instincts though; lessons from years past. This was now. “Maybe both. Would two pairs of hands on you be so bad?”

My words drew a gasp from her lips. She froze, flush-cheeked and breathless. I wanted to kiss the breath back into her, I was beginning to think she would let me. I saw just a flash of pink, a tongue too timid to wet dry lips. This close, I could feel her coiling, tensing for another lunge. Yet there was something… something in the depths of those night-blue eyes.

I let go of her. With a single step back  I gave her space. With a half-smile I gave permission to take it all as a joke. Relief and rejection roiled on a maskless face. Relief won, but only just. For the first time I realized, as big as the show might be, as deep as the power might run, Beebee was just a stiff like me, trying to figure her way through this crazy life. I might even have a leg up.

Nino traded the hat back, setting it atop Chloé's head again. "You get it today though. It's your hands treating me like a Moroccan Ken doll, right?"

With that she unfroze. She adjusted the hat, turning to a mirror to do so and the haute lilt flowed once more from her lips. "Me? Wear this? In public? Not only was my breakfast more expensive, it clashes with just about everything I own."

Then wear it by itself. Nino stopped that line before he could speak it. They'd just navigated back out of a moment like that. Instead he just waited, watching her fuss with the hat -but not take it off. The reprieve was good, it let him get over the fact that the thought hadn't been in black and white this time. It had been in full color.

Shopping with Chloé was an experience. Nino had been shopping before. He’d even been shopping with an entire fleet of female friends before. Chloé was a one woman armada. Nino took the attitude of ‘go with the flow’ early on, it was a wise decision. They were in and out of stores he’d never even heard of; stores where people opened the doors for you. Chloé moved through racks and displays like a hunter. She rejected far far more than she ever picked up, and she did not ask for opinions.

Everything seemed normal, dialed up, but normal until she approached him with the first real selection of clothes. It wasn’t an armful -he’d been subjected to that by Alya, Nora, and Marlena on different occasions- It was just one outfit. The usual ‘Try this on’ however, was absent. Instead she held the emerald shirt up beside him then nodded. “Follow me.”

He was at a loss, people didn’t try on clothes in detective novels. So, he was himself, noticing the consternated but submissive looks the staff were throwing at them as Chloé opened up one of the dressing rooms and ushered him inside.

“Put these on.” She passed him a pair of slacks, then turned her attention to unbuttoning the shirt.

Nino had a brief moment of self consciousness, but the way she paid him exactly zero mind while she worked helped him overcome it. A little voice in his head also whispered he’d very nearly shown her quite a bit more than his undies a few days ago. He turned away and stripped off his jeans, moving a little faster than usual because even a good argument couldn’t defeat nerves entirely.

He was fighting with the hook-button-fastening where a simple snap or button should be when her hands brushed his sides. Nino suppressed a giggle, but not a squirm. Instead of an embrace though her hands grabbed hold of his t-shirt and pulled it up over his head. He was spun, wrist gripped, and fitted into the button down in quick, deft motions. She was buttoning him up before he could form a thought, but by the time she got up to his neck he couldn’t hold it in any longer. “This normal for you?”

She startled back from wherever her thoughts had been. His fedora fell from her head. Nino snagged it but was pulled back into place firmly. Chloé buttoned the last button. “Button downs? Rarely. They tend to be cut in a way that makes my figure disappear, which should be illegal.”

Nino adjusted the lay of the shirt across his shoulders. Chloé immediately adjusted it a further time. He spoke in a warm but low tone, trying to blend in a little good humor to keep it light. “Not that, though you’re right. I think it was three months before Alya saw me with my shirt off. Closer to eight before she was the one taking it off.”

She made that little ‘oh’ sound again. This one small and skittish. It was cute, where the others were suggestive. So why is it turning me up just the same?! Chloé just shook her head and leaned in. What Nino took for a hug was her looking down over his shoulder and smoothing the shirt against his back. “This is fashion, it’s entirely different. Fittings are all about being poked and prodded with a purpose.”

She paused and withdrew. With hands clasped in front of her the meteoric blond stood while visible effort crossed her features.

“Does it bother you?” she finally asked.

Nino had to repeat the question in his head twice. It didn’t want to stick. Once it did though, it brought a smile to his face. He put his hat back on. “Nah, I’m just not used to it, so just be a bit patient.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh is that all.” then stalked a circle around him. Nino stood still, waiting like prey before a predator. At last, she nodded. “I like it.”

Nino raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t I have a say in this?”

She flicked her ponytail. “Why? I’m the one who has to look at you in it.”

There were a lot of ways to go with that. Nino picked the one that seemed the most fun. “Does that mean I get to pick out something for you that I have to look at then?”

Trapped by her own logic, Chloé puffed out her cheeks and crossed her arms. She looked away, then looked back. Nino gave her his best grin. She tapped her foot then threw up her hands. “Fine! One outfit! No more! I can try to not die for a single day. What are you going to force me to embarrass myself in?”

Nino held up a finger, still grinning. “Ah ah ah, I’m going to hold that until the end. It’s a little bit of insurance, to keep you from getting too crazy with your toy.”

She huffed indignantly, and turned to pick up the hangers. “Just get those off. We’ll get your measurements so they can tailor some for you that fit properly.”

Adorable. Nino balked at the word, his hands halfway to his shirt buttons. It’s one thing to see a dame as sexy. That’s the oldest game in town having its way with you. Sexy, hot, fertile, lush, aphroditic, all came from a place of instinct. They called it sex drive because it always takes the wheel. Cute, adorable, charming, these were words of choice. These were value judgments that had nothing to do with an endorphin cocktail swilling in your veins. I’d toyed with the notion of learning to appreciate BeeBee for the fire-and-brimstone experience she was. Seeing her as anything else had seemed impossible, and yet I might already be there.

My only worry was being unable to tell if I was just seeing it, or if it was real. I passed off my new clothes and got a pat on the cheek. For a few short breaths while I was alone I lived in that world, and it was the best place I’d never known I could want to be. Then that entrancing voice raised itself to shouting out on the sales floor. Reality wasn’t quite ready yet, it seemed.

[harringtown]

he lives on a landslide

requested by anonymous

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: reader apologizes to steve for dragging him into the mess of the upside down (its just fluff featuring a mildly-drugged-on-painkillers Steve Harrington)

word count: 1.2k 

-

Steve sits on the edge of the exam room bed, kicking his long legs like a child. Despite being a flock of bats’ personal chew toy, and all the other ways he almost died tonight, he’s in a far better mood than he has any right to be. Even more so now that an actual doctor bound his wounds. It was a full thirty minutes of dodging questions, but clearly worth it, as Steve’s skin has finally returned to its normal pallor.

“I know I said no emergency room, but I gotta tell ya, this isn’t so bad,” Steve says, leaning back on his palms. He’s wearing only a dark gray pair of scrub pants one of the nurses found for him once they saw all the gore on his jeans. His entire torso, his neck, and a few spots on his arms, are covered in gauze and bandages.

You snort a humorless laugh. As relieved as you are that Steve is alive and relatively unharmed, it doesn’t change the fact that he almost wasn’t. That he almost died gain.

“That would be the morphine,” you say.

“It’s a miracle drug,” Steve announces.

You try to smile, but that familiar ache in your chest pushes back up your throat. Guilt, shame, and all their children, springing around your limbs like pinballs.

“Hey. What’s up?” Steve straightens, and his brows knit together as he inspects you, as if he’s searching for some external injuries—and unfortunately, because he knows you, all the injuries become external. He can read you like he’s in your own head.

He eases off the exam table, a hand flying to his bound side. He grits his teeth, and exhales once his feet hit the floor.

Apparently even miracles have their limitations.

He crosses the short distance between you.

“It’s—”

“And don’t say nothing, because I know you, and I know your looks, and this—” He gestures to your expression. “—isn’t nothing.” He goes to fold his arms, winces, and drops them back at his sides. “So. Out with it.”

“Steve—”

He lifts a hand to your cheek, thumb tracing a line down your cheekbone. “Talk to me.”

And it’s like a door flies open, and all that emotion, dark and sticky like tar, floods into the room and into your chest.

You let out a rattling sigh. “This is all my fault.”

Steve frowns and says, “What the hell are you talking about?”

You gesture to him, to his bandaged limbs and bruises and scarred skin—three years of fights that only included him because of you.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.” You shift back, out of his touch, and fold your arms across your chest like a barrier. “I’m the reason you’re hurt. Again. All the bad shit that’s happened to you these past few years is because of me.”

Steve is quiet for a second before he says, “I’m calling bullshit.”

You scoff. “You can’t do that.”

“Yeah, actually I can.” He lifts his brows. “Bullshit.”

“You don’t get it,” you say, shaking your head. “I’m the one who saw Nancy with Jonathan together that first night. I’m the one that told you where she was. And I only forced you to go over there with me because I was worried about the kids, and I didn’t want to go alone. And then—” You huff a breath. “If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even know what the Upside Down was. You wouldn’t have almost died because of it, time and time again.”

“You don’t know that,” Steve says, and damn, if he doesn’t sound confident—so confident, you almost want to believe him. “You can’t know that. Who’s to say that in some parallel universe, or whatever, I didn’t end up at the Byers that night all by myself?” He shrugs a shoulder. “Who knows. Maybe it was never about you, at all. Maybe I was always going to end up here, missing a third of my skin.” He flashes you a quick, lopsided smile, but it only deepens your frown.

“Steve.”

“I’m serious.”  

“So am I,” you say. “And some other nonexistent universe doesn’t matter. Because in this universe, I ruined your life. I dragged you into hell with me.”

“Is that what you think?” Steve asks. “That you ruined my life?”  

“I’ve been Will and Dustin’s babysitter since they were in diapers. I had a reason to go looking for them. They were my responsibility. But bringing you into it, manipulating you by telling you that Nancy was there—”

“Hey,” Steve says, shaking his head and taking your chin in one hand, guiding your gaze back to his. “Enough. I may be an idiot, but even I’m not that stupid. I didn’t go with you that night just because I thought Nancy would be there.”

At your narrowed eyes, Steve amends, “Okay, maybe a little bit, but—” He shrugs again. “The real reason I went was because I knew you were going to go even if I didn’t, and even if I didn’t understand why, it was obvious you were scared out of your mind.” He brushes a few stray hairs off your forehead. “I was never going to let you go alone.”

You close your eyes, letting your hands climb up his chest gently to settle above the wrapped gauze. When you open your eyes, you say softly, “Every time you get hurt, I just feel like such an asshole. If something happened to you—”

“Stop.” Steve draws you toward him and dips his forehead against yours. “You didn’t ruin my life. You gave me a life. Before you, I was just…” A tiny, almost sad smile pulls on his lips. “I was treading water, and I was doing a pretty shit job of it. And then you came along, and you taught me to swim.”

You pull back, lips pulling thin. “I just don’t want you to look back in five years and… hate me for all of this. I don’t want you to regret it.” Regret the two of you.

“I love you, but that’s crazy,” Steve says, ducking to press a kiss to your forehead and pulling back to meet your eyes. “I don’t regret any of it. I sure as hell don’t regret you. And I could never hate you.”

“Promise?” you ask, voice small.

“Promise,” Steve says. He lifts a hand, pinky outstretched. You roll your eyes, but link your pinky in his, and squeeze. He squeezes back. “You’re stuck with me.”

“I think it’s more like you’re stuck with me,” you say.

“Agree to disagree,” Steve says, bending down to catch your lips in his. When he kisses you, it isn’t frantic or fast, the way some of your first kisses were, but slow and steady, like the first step down a long, long road.

And maybe it won’t be the smoothest road, and maybe it’s full of cracks and potholes and monsters lurking in the shadows, but that doesn’t really matter, because you don’t have to walk it alone. You’ve never had to.

If you’re lucky, you never will. If you’re lucky, it will always be you and Steve, hand in hand, taking the path together.

-

taglist: @milkiane​ @spideyboipete​ @robiin-buckley​ @robinbuckleyssgf​ @la-fille-en-aiguilles​ @sunlitide​

[myfavoriteinvestment]

rowaelin month 2022 - i believe in us

prompt: song fic 

song: i believe in us by léon

-

Almost there. Almost there.

Aelin had been chanting the words in her head since she’d parked her car in the basement garage of her office that morning. She worked towards small goals all day:

Almost lunchtime. Almost my turn to speak. Almost time to write your anonymous assessment of Mr. Hamel. Almost time to go home.

The day had inched by, and now, waiting to make the turn on to her street, she was chanting almost home. She needed a nice shower - the kind where she’d scrub her skin within an inch of bruising it and scald it under hot water. Food sounded good too. Maybe Rowan wasn’t home yet - she could ask him to pick up some chocolate cake. And if she seemed morose enough, maybe he’d treat her to a massage. 

Aelin groaned, her daydream interrupted by the honking behind her. The light was still red. The car behind her honked again, and it was all she could do not to reverse her car straight into his windshield. After today, after this week, she was a short fuse waiting to be lit. Road rage would not be thing to get her behind bars.

Inhale, exhale. 

She repeated this for what felt like an eternity. Then, the light turned that synthetic shade of apple green and Aelin felt she had never beheld such a beautiful sight. She turned onto her street, and quaint stone and brick houses greeted her warmly. Their neighbor’s enormous rose bush perfumed the air that wafted through the crack in her window. 

Rowan’s car was in their driveway, the short stretch of gravel lined with marigolds and zinnias. They had a garage, but Rowan could never be bothered to actually put his car inside it. When he came home first, she was always relegated to on-street parking. 

The sight frustrated Aelin, and her temper’s match had been struck. She put the car in park and huffed, yanking her leather messenger bag out of the passenger seat and walking up the porch stairs. When she stuffed a hand into the side pocket of her bag where she put her keys she found them caught in a thread come loose from the bag’s lining. Her mood flared and she sighed in a noisy exhale. 

The smell of chocolate cake burst in her nose when she opened the door and it calmed her just enough to place her black heels in a neat line next to Rowan’s. His house key was placed in the dish on top of the mantle and sight of her own keyring tangling with it made her heart clench. It was so domestic she thought she might cry. 

She pulled off her black blazer and hung it on the coat rack temporarily. She wanted to go find Rowan and hide in his embrace for a little bit. 

As luck would have it, though, she didn’t make it a step across the living room before her phone buzzed. Arobynn Hamel’s email ID flashed across her screen and she felt a scream build in the back of her throat. She wanted to stomp and scream and cry like a toddler. 

Why couldn’t the world give her a moment of peace? What was so wrong with that? She wasn’t asking for a lot, was she? 

A moment later Aelin crossed the kitchen threshold. Later, when the story would be recounted, she would scold herself for getting angry so easily. They would laugh about her temper later, but she would feel badly for a quite a while. 

Aelin recalled the exact moment this morning when she asked Rowan to take out the garbage, as today was bin day. She also recalled thinking that maybe he wasn’t paying attention - but that just made her angrier. Just this one thing, and he can’t even do it? The trash - the trash for heaven’s sake! 

And there it sat, in the silver-gray bin with one of those pedals that lifted the top off for you. Rage was blistering and boiling in Aelin’s stomach, ready to spew from her throat in an acidic tirade that burned Rowan. She heard the toilet flush and found her target, still in his work suit and closing the bathroom door with damp hands. 

“Aelin!” He exclaimed, eyes brightening. She dodged his outstretched arms like they were rotting flesh and sneered at him. Watching him recoil hurt, but rational thought was absolved by irritation and anger. “Darling, what’s wrong?” 

“What’s wrong?!” She practically shouted at him. “What’s wrong is that I told you this morning that it was bin day! I asked you take out the trash, Rowan! Is that so hard? Why the fuck can’t you just listen to me?!” 

Rowan’s eyes narrowed. Somewhere in his subconscious he knew she was projecting, and this was the result of a terrible day combined with a forgotten chore. But he reacted like a bomb had gone off and exploded his temper. 

“What are you yelling about? You live here too! Is it that hard to take some responsibility sometime?” He knew he had said the wrong thing.

Aelin’s fists tightened into pale balls. “Take some responsibility? Who does the laundry? Who cleans the bathroom? Who makes dinner five days out of seven? What the fuck do you even do all evening?! Sit in that office and pretend to be some godly man?” 

Rowan was breathing hard. He didn’t want to hurt her, not when he knew she was already hurting. He made a forceful exhale, then said, “I’m going to take a walk. I’ll talk to you when I’m ready.” 

As soon as the door slammed behind him, Aelin felt exhaustion and sadness and regret come crashing down on her. It all weighed her down, back sagging and eyes drooping. She thought she might be ready to fall asleep right here on this hard wooden floor. 

She slid down the bathroom doorframe, body angled towards the front door, and let herself think only one thought before her eyes closed completely. 

He’ll be back.

- 

Two hours later, he was. Rowan opened the front door, his work suit now slightly rumpled and eyes bloodshot. He flicked on the hall light and inhaled deeply, seeing Aelin lying lopsided, partially supported by the bathroom door. Her soft snores reached him through the utter silence.

He walked to her and picked her body up, sliding down next to her and supporting her head on his chest. He synced their breaths and listened to the light wind coming through the open kitchen window. When Aelin opened her eyes, he knew the first words that would leave her mouth.

So, together, they said, “I’m sorry.”

Aelin sucked in a breath, then shook her head. “No. It’s my fault.” 

“It’s both of our faults. You can’t clap with one hand.”

“I’m so-”

Rowan cut her off. “I believe in this - in us. I’ll love you during the fight and I’ll love you after it. Because this is where we’re supposed to be.”

She couldn’t speak for a minute. Then, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

-

i’m late as hell guys, i know. critiques and comments welcome :)

[scumbag-the-hedgehog]

Hi, I'm Missile (26 y/o and EST based). I use any/all pronouns, so go wild! You can find all the relevant tags on this post for your navigational purposes. Looking forward to roleplaying with you!

[wangxianficrecs]

Hi! I'm not sure if you're aware but there's an anonymous reposting of not to be sobered by anything (like regret) by astrobandit by Anonymous and I think it would be a good idea to warn people not to read it? I don't think it's the original author because there would be no reason for them to put it back up on anon and the Anon (as far as I can tell) doesn't mention whether they have permission to repost it or not and I think they are also using the author's original end notes without mentioning they aren't the author themselves. I just thought it would be a good idea to be cautious about it.

Oh, no. Oh, dear. This is NOT OKAY. (Assuming it's not being reposted by Astrobandit themselves, which I would guess not, since their name is right there in the title, negating the point of posting it anonymously.)

Before we go off the deep end and pile on whoever posted it, though, let's remember that not everyone in this community knows The Rules (both written in TOS and unwritten across the fandom). This poster likely thought they were doing the community a favor by putting their (credited) copy of this work up for all to share.

So let me state this Rule (as I see it) clearly.

If an author withdraws their work from a public archive/site/post: NO ONE ELSE IS PERMITTED TO MAKE THAT WORK PUBLIC.

We stand with authors in this house, and they have many valid reasons to want to scrub their works. While it's nice to know the whys, it's not our business to try to influence them one way or another. (A reminder that there's an option to orphan their work never goes amiss, though, as the author may not know about that).

But, Mojo, you say. What about the fandom losing seminal works? Or simply a work that influenced you greatly, etc. This is the gray area.

WE RESPECT THE AUTHOR'S WISHES. But (and this is my personal take on it, there are no written rules here):

sharing a PDF/ePUB/etc with individuals privately is fine

quietly making it known on your private space (blog, not AO3 account) that you have a copy to share is fine

sending that file to individuals who go out of their way to request it from you is fine

UNLESS the author makes a statement that they don't want anyone to do that (I've never had a request like that from an author, but if I did, I'd mark that file as not-for-sharing and honor their wishes)

Notice I use the words 'private' and 'individuals' a lot here. This should be a personal transaction between you.

NEVER. REPOST. OTHER. PEOPLE'S. WORKS. (Even if you credit them!)

Do NOT put your personal copy into a public space for others to download.

If anyone knows astrobandit, here or on Twitter, I would shoot them a message to let them know, and then let them take it from there. (If it's a re-post without permission, all they have to do is report the work to the AO3 Policy & Abuse team.

[just-a-creep-babe]

Giving In

Yandere!Masky x Reader

Commissioned by anonymous—thank you so so very much, I really hope you enjoy 💞💖💗

Requests are closed

Masterlist: x

You don’t know what day it is, or even what time it is, when he finally comes back from his mission

All you know is that it’s dark out, and he looks absolutely exhausted

He stumbles through the door, half-heartedly locking it behind him, and then he makes his way to the dingy couch where he almost immediately collapses in a miserable, overworked heap

You hesitate for a while, unsure of whether or not you should approach, unsure of whether or not he’s in a bad mood, before he finally glances up and notices you

Dark brown eyes wordlessly trace up your form, taking you all in

You shrink beneath his gaze, hints of fear and panic seizing your chest in anticipation 

But all he does is murmur a tired “...c’mere”

He shifts on the couch and extends an arm out, expecting you to curl up against him

You know better than to misbehave

So you inch forwards, one step at a time, and nervously lay down next to him

He feels warm and solid as your back presses against his chest

You ignore the smell of copper lingering on his clothes as he wraps his arm around your torso, securing you snugly against him

There’s just barely enough space for you to be comfortable

“Mmh...” he sighs into your hair, holding you tighter

It, admittedly, takes you a moment to relax

Your muscles are stiff, your heart thumping sporadically in your ribcage as you try to calm down

You’re certain he can feel how tense you are

But he doesn’t say anything about it

Instead, he simply enjoys the quiet moment of peace shared between the two of you

After a few minutes of laying in his arms, you finally manage to calm down enough to settle against him

He groans into you, and murmurs something under his breath that you don’t quite manage to catch

The rest of whatever’s left of your evening is spent in his hold

You hear him quietly dozing off behind you, exhausted from the long mission, before he eventually falls into an even deeper sleep

You consider trying to get up and leave, but something keeps you there, and before you know it, you’re lulled to sleep by the sound of his gentle snoring

He’s still clutching you to his chest when you wake up the next morning

You squirm in his hold, trying to loosen his grasp without waking him up, but you quickly realize that your situation’s hopeless

You’re trapped for good until he finally decides to wake up

And it takes a while, but eventually, he does start shifting behind you

His chest rumbles with a deep sigh, lips pressing to your neck in a slow, soft kiss

You heart rate kicks up at the contact, and you feel him smirk faintly against your quickening pulse

“Morning, sunshine~” he hums

His morning voice is low and husky, and it has small goosebumps prickling all over your skin

“M-morning…” you answer, trying desperately not to sound too flustered. “Can you... can you let me get up? I need to stretch”

He sighs again, making a quiet noise at the back of his throat, clearly admitting that he doesn’t want to

But when you shift and squirm, trying to find a better position, he grunts and gives up, finally releasing you

You get up off the couch and stretch out your stiff muscles, nearly painfully aware of his gaze lingering on you the whole time

“I think... I think I’m gonna go get breakfast ready”

Your excuse is just passable enough to allow you to slip away

Bare feet tread on cold hardwood flooring all the way into the kitchen, where morning light filters through the double windows sitting above the sink

You take a moment to yourself, basking in the warmth enlivening the room, wriggling your toes and feeling your whole body buzz pleasantly in the patch of sunlight spilling onto the floor

When you hear Masky in the other room starting to get up, you decide that you should probably get cooking

You turn on the stove to prepare some eggs, sunny-side up, just the way he likes them, and set some toasts down into the toaster

Masky’s footsteps sleepily trudge down the hall, and into what you assume is the bedroom, as you take care of handling the food

You half expect him to get a shower going, considering that he probably still has blood and dirt smeared all over him

But instead, after a couple of minutes, he returns to find you in the kitchen

You take a shy peak at him from the corner of you eyes, and find that he’s changed into some gray sweatpants and a black tee

But either way, you try not to concern yourself with it too much, and while you’re busying yourself with the eggs, he starts making coffee

He fills the machine with water and its usual ground beans, then flicks it on, and it comes gurgling to life

He rolls his shoulders, stretching out his back and biceps, before finally turning around, leaning back and resting his forearms on the counter

Even without looking, again, you feel him gazing at you—as if watching you cook is the most interesting thing he’s ever witnessed

You try not to let his intent stare get to you

Instead, you focus on your task, acting like you don’t notice him at all, like he’s not even there to begin with

But with every passing second, your nerves steadily start creeping up on you

And the more you urge yourself to calm down, the louder and more frantic your heartbeat seems to grow

It pounds into your eardrums, as if trying to warn you that you‘re always in danger with this man

The fear is nothing new—it regularly checks up on you like an old friend, at this point—but that doesn’t make it any less stressful

Maybe he’s watching you like this because he’s finally grown bored of you, and he‘s just waiting for the perfect opportunity to grab one of the knives and drive it through your sternum

The egg sizzles on the frying pan

You breathe in through your nose, and out through your mouth

Pushing down the nausea and the sickly cold sensation of dread licking at your spine, you turn the stove off

“It’s ready...”

Your voice sounds shakier than it normally does

You cringe at the sound, wondering if he noticed

The eggs slide off the pan and onto a plate that you’ve readied

His eyes never once leave you as you set the food down in front of his seat

Then, just as you’re straightening yourself out, a strong pair of hands wrap around your hips

You jump, gasping, almost expecting a cold metal to tear through your flesh, but all you feel instead is... warmth

He chuckles, slow and gravelly, the sound resonating right next to your ear

“You know, there’s no need to be so jumpy, sunshine~”

He gently rubs his thumbs into your hips, as if trying to calm you down

“I’m-I’m sorry,” you stutter, because you don’t know what else you should say

But he only chuckles again, then his warmth disappears as he moves away and takes a seat in front of the plate you’ve set for him

Something akin to guilt, strangely enough, washes over you—along with the feeling of relief

Your eyes linger on him for a beat longer than necessary, and as the pale morning light catches his dark brown locks, you notice, for the first time, that his hair has streaks of faint bronze highlights

Sensing your gaze, he looks up, but you quickly turn away before your eyes can meet

You busy yourself with preparing your own food

The rest of the morning passes by without anything too remarkable happening

After he finishes his coffee, he heads off to the shower, and you’re left alone once again

You clean everything up in a vain attempt to distract yourself from the bubbling mix of emotions in your chest

Your sight falls to the forest outside the windows as you wash the plates, absent-minded, your thoughts drifting on their own accord

Once everything looks neat and tidy and in the right order, you wander to the living room, wondering what you should do next

And that’s when you notice it

On the couch, haphazardly thrown over the armrest, is a familiar yellow jacket

Streaks of dried dirt and flecks of scarlet stain the sleeves, along with the front, sides and the back

Hell—even the interior of the coat looks like it could use a good wash

You hesitate in your tracks

You can still hear the shower running, and you know that he‘ll probably be a while, since he enjoys taking his time after long missions to unwind

You creep closer to the dirty material, and shyly pick it up to examine it more closely

His scent still lingers on it, pine trees and cigarettes, and part of you hates the voice inside your head urging you to breathe it in deeply

Shaking your head, you ignore the temptation

Your finger pokes and prods at the many patches of grime, and you realize that it could easily be cleaned off if you took some time to do so

If you pushed aside your disgust at the thought of washing someone else’s blood from your captor’s clothes, maybe you could make it look more presentable

You don’t know why you have the urge to do this for him, all things considered, but you don’t bother questioning it

Maybe you just need something to do

Offering one last fleeting glance at the closed bathroom door, you return to the kitchen, bringing the stained coat with you

The tap water runs over your hands, changing from cold to lukewarm in a few seconds

You gently pour some soap over the filthiest parts of the jacket and get scrubbing at the grime until the soap suds up

Whatever material it’s made out of, you realize it certainly must not have come cheap

There almost seems to be a protective coating that has even the darkest patches of filth washing right off

It doesn’t even leave any stains behind

The clean water dripping down the sink turns into a murky mess as it spirals down the drain

Something about the small, mundane task is oddly soothing

You find yourself humming quietly as you rinse it all off

And the birds chirping outside almost seem to join in on your song as you do

Once it looks mostly clean—at least much cleaner than it was before, you dry it all off with a towel

You hold it up to the light, watching it glint as it catches rays of sunshine, and the sight has you cracking a smile despite yourself

You quietly make your way back to the living room, where you fold the coat and neatly place it where it’d previously been carelessly thrown

Maybe you did want him to notice, all things considered

Maybe you were expecting him to smile, and to see his eyes light up as he saw what you’d done for him

Maybe that’s why you feel a twinge of disappointment when he comes out of the bathroom and doesn’t even look at it, doesn’t even bat an eyes in its direction

You don’t mention anything about it

And the rest of the day carries on as if nothing happened

Sometime down the line, he takes it from its spot, but you don’t catch him doing so

His coat just disappears from off the couch, and you assume he’s put it away

If he appreciates—or even notices the gesture, he doesn’t show it

A few days roll by and you practically forget about the whole thing

You push it to the back of your head and carry on with life as per usual

One late evening, he comes up to you while you’re in the bedroom, doing some light reading before heading off to sleep

“I’ve got another job to take care of. I’ll be leaving soon,” he says

You blink in surprise

“... Again?”

While it isn’t uncommon for him to leave so often, you thought he’d at least have a few more days to himself, considering how long and grueling the last mission had been

He looks at you with a wry grin on his face

“Awh, what’s wrong, sunshine? Scared you’ll miss me too much?~” he teases

“N-no! That’s not it,” you answer, trying not to look flustered, but failing miserably

That can’t be it, right?

His all-too-knowing smirk doesn’t leave his face as he reassures you, “It’ll be shorter than the last one—I’ll be gone maybe just a day or two”

You look off to the side, trying to hide that slight rush of warmth creeping up your face

“...Ok, bye then”

He chuckles, leaning in to kiss your forehead

And then he’s getting up and leaving, and you’re left trying to decipher what the pit of sorrow and regret at the bottom of your stomach means

Why do you suddenly care about him leaving for work again?

Guilt, confusion and, admittedly, a bit of loneliness, keeps you up longer than usual that night

You spend the next day all by yourself again, keeping as busy as you can, just like you normally do when he leaves

It’s late in the night when he finally does return

You’re woken by the sound of familiar heavy boots thudding on the hardwood flooring

There’s some shuffling, followed by a smaller, duller thud, and then quiet again

You look up at the dark ceiling above you, counting up to 100 in your head

And then you sneak out of the comfort of your bed and quietly check up on him

It’s dark, but your eyes are already well-adjusted as you slink out of the bedroom and down the hall into the living room

Just as you suspected, laying on the couch, is Masky

Judging by his heavy breathing combined with the occasional snore, you assume he’s fast asleep

You’re not sure what to do, or why you even bothered to get up and peak at him, so you sort of just stand over him and watch for a few minutes

The air is chilly, so you wrap your arms around yourself, chewing your lip

You notice he doesn’t have anything covering him besides his usual clothes, so you creep back to the bedroom, grab one of the throw blankets, and return to the living room

Slowly and gently, careful not to disturb him, you cover him with the blanket

Then, right as you’re about to turn and leave, something grabs your hand

You gasp, turning back to look at him

And as you do, he pulls you in, and your lips connect in a slow, sweet kiss

Your eyes widen, a small noise emanating from the back of your throat in surprise

But you don’t pull away

And after a few brief beats, your eyes finally fall close, and you allow yourself to return the kiss

He groans quietly against you, almost humming, the sound deep and low and wonderfully satisfied

By the time you eventually part from him, your knees feel weak and your head is spinning

He looks up at you, his eyes as deep and dark as ever in the quiet of the night

“Do you love me?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper

The question catches you off-guard

You know that you probably shouldn’t answer

Or you should at least lie—both to him and yourself

But your body responds before your mind can stop you

You nod, swallowing thickly

“I... I think I do,” you quietly admit

His hand reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear

Shivers dance up your spine, your arms lining with goosebumps

And then he’s tugging you back in again

The second kiss is more impatient, more demanding—like he wants you to prove that you love him

You kiss him as hard as you can—until your lungs are burning and you think you might lose your balance

He brings you in even closer, and you’d stumble and fall, if it weren’t for his strong hands gripping onto you and guiding you on top of him

Everything feels hot and heavy, and you’re breathless and panting, practically shaking by the time you pull apart again

He looks up at you like you’re a goddess on top of him

His lips are parted and he’s panting as well, as his hands occupy themselves by roaming up and down your form

“You’re mine,” he murmurs, “all mine. My little ray of sunshine. My darling”

You nod

You know that it’s hopeless, after all

Try as you might to push him away, to close yourself off from him, you realize that you don’t have a choice

You never had another choice

You were meant to be with him—to be his

“I’m yours,” you finally agree, breathless and borderline euphoric at the realization, “all yours”

He smiles

It’s an honest, genuine smile that sends your heart fluttering in your ribcage

“Say it—say that you love me,” he groans

There’s a sort of insistent urgency in his eyes, like he’s afraid you don’t mean it

You want to prove it to him—prove that you’d do anything for him

“I love you,” you breathe, “I really, really do”

He leans up on his forearms to give you another quick peck to the lips

And then he lays back down again, pulling you along so he can wrap his arms around you while you rest your head on his broad chest

You nuzzle into him, his scent familiar and comforting

You know that no matter what, you’ll always be safe in his arms

The both of you stay quiet, enjoying each other’s embrace in the darkness

Until eventually, the steady rhythmic thumps of his heart slowly lull you to sleep

His hands keep stroking through your hair until he also finally falls asleep, the faint hints of a satisfied smile still tugging at his lips

His

You’re all his

[zukkaoru]

26 matchablossom

comfort crowd by conan gray

featuring joe with depression bc corey makes me think about that hc all the time (affectionate). also this takes place when they're in high school

i just needed company now i just needed someone around i don't care what song that we play or mess that we make

When Kojiro is having a particularly bad day, he asks Kaoru to go to the skate park with him after school. They have S now, of course, but Kaoru thinks Kojiro likes the anonymity of a place where they’re just two teenagers with skateboards instead of Joe and Cherry Blossom. Unlike Kaoru, Kojiro seems to find comfort in crowds. There must be something about the hum of white noise that can distract him from his thoughts until they stop bothering him.

It doesn’t always work. Sometimes, they’ll skate past nightfall, past when everyone else has gone home, and Kojiro will still have that same cloudy look in his eyes that lets Kaoru know something is still wrong.

Nights like tonight.

Kaoru is seated at the top of the half pipe with his board next to him, watching Kojiro skate circles around the park. He wishes there was something - anything - he could do to help, but this isn’t something he can fix. He can’t take away the dark clouds that infiltrate Kojiro’s mind anymore than he can take away the anxiety that plagues his own thoughts.

Kaoru doesn’t know how long it is before Kojiro sits down next to him, but the park has been empty for a while and he’s sure they should be heading home before their parents start to worry.

He doesn’t say that, though. Instead, he asks, “Want to go somewhere else? That restaurant down the street should still be open.”

Kojiro shakes his head. He runs a hand through his hair and then leans his head on Kaoru’s shoulder. “We should probably just head back.”

“Probably,” Kaoru agrees, though he makes no move to get up or even push Kojiro away. Instead, he brings one hand up to play with Kojiro’s hair. “But I know the crowds help you, and you won’t get that at home.”

Kojiro shrugs halfheartedly.

“We can do whatever you want. It’s up to you.”

Kojiro mumbles something.

“Hm?”

“I don’t want to drag you around all night. You have enough trouble sleeping as it is, and I think I just have to sit this one out.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “We could be out all night and I don’t think it would do anything. I should probably just try and get some sleep.”

Kaoru hums. “You’re not a burden to me, Kojiro. Stop talking like you are. I don’t mind staying up for you.”

“I mind that you stay up for me.”

“Well don’t.”

Kojiro scoffs, but he doesn’t say anything else for a while. They sit in silence, Kojiro looking down at the ground and Kaoru looking up at the stars.

Finally, Kojiro says, “Can you just… talk?”

“What?”

“Just talk to me. Say anything. I can’t handle the silence.”

“Uhhh…okay?” Kaoru racks his brain for something to say. He’d tell Kojiro about his day, except they were at school, so Kojiro was there for all of it. Maybe he’s got some story about one of his siblings he hasn’t told Kojiro yet? They’re always doing stupid things; there must be something…

“Oh! Did I tell you about the boy in Kimiko’s class who has a crush on her?”

“No.”

“Okay, so there’s this kid in her class…” Kaoru goes on, giving Kojiro every little detail he’s been able to squeeze out of Kimiko regardless of how unimportant they are. Anything to stretch it out, keep himself talking, for Kojiro’s sake.

After he’s done with that, he starts talking about what’s been happening with his other siblings, telling Kojiro anything and everything he can think of so his voice continues to fill the night air, until Kojiro says he’s ready to go.

Even as they skate home, Kaoru keeps talking for him. Kojiro doesn’t say anything - just nods along - even as Kaoru goes from talking about his siblings to talking about the history of calligraphy, which he knows Kojiro doesn’t care about. But he’s run out of other things to say, and he can tell Kojiro is still feeling bad.

Once they reach Kojiro’s house, Kojiro pulls Kaoru into a hug, shocking him into silence.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“Did it help?”

Kojiro pulls back, but keeps his hands on Kaoru’s arms. He smiles, and it’s small and disappears quickly, but it’s the first one Kaoru has seen from him all day, and it looks real. “Yeah. Just being with you helps, but yeah. Your voice drowns out the ones in my head, so… thanks.”

Kaoru feels himself smile too. “Is there anything else I can do to help?”

Kojiro glances at the door, and then back at Kaoru, and he doesn’t even have to open his mouth for Kaoru to know what he wants.

“I’ll stay,” he answers Kojiro’s unasked question. “I’ll keep you company for as long as you want.”

[dynamoe]

Boy Genius on AO3 | Pro | Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 ←You Are Here | Ch 4

Billy & White search for an example of Conjectural Technologies' vision in a pile of old trash. Save your eyes, read it on AO3

↓ Chapter 3 below the fold ↓

Assume trigger warnings comparable to source material — I love an f-bomb.

CHAPTER 3: Junkyard Full of False Starts

“Ok, we propose an alternative currency, right,” Pete laid out without breaking his button-mashing, “It exists entirely on the internet.”

Billy continued to flip through old notebooks for something to salvage. Conjectural Technologies didn’t really do anything but they talked a lot about the things they never got around to doing.

On the surface, life continued as normal. Shitty day jobs. Shitty microwaved dinner. Shitty video games. Billy requested the time off from the library and found a dishwasher from the Rainforest Café to cover his missed shifts at the diner while they were at the convention. Pete doubted if anyone would notice he was gone so didn’t bother, preferring go AWOL. The application was sent in, plane tickets bought, and some morally-gray phone calls made from gas station payphones. The dishonesty ate away at him, but Billy distracted himself with the task at hand.

Pete continued, “A currency unconnected to any country or bank. All transactions are anonymous, so it’ll appeal to drug dealers and juntas.” On screen Chun-li kicked Blanka repeatedly, murmuring adorably. He electrocuted her like it was no big thang.

“What gives each unit value if they’re not backed by gold or silver?” White asked rhetorically as he executed a perfect Super Killer Head Ram SUPER, “Enforced scarcity. To create more currency, a complicated algorithm has to be processed using RAM, electrical power, time… You burn down an acre of the Amazon for each monetary unit.”

Billy finally registered the content of his pitch, “We’re not evil, White.”

“That's subjective,” Pete sniffed, dropping a finishing move and extending a controller to Billy, “You wanna be Sagat?”

Billy had an idea, “Why don’t we show the political consulting stuff we did for the last election?* It wasn’t technically election fraud. The data-science influence map and the neurolinguistic-command robocalls?”

“Technically not brainwashing,” Pete emphasized.

“We won three primaries for our candidate. That’s impressive.”

“Eh, statistical analysis and predictive programming is kinda ‘heady.’ That’s more of a ScienceTomorrow! idea," Pete considered, "The World Super Science Forum is old-fashioned. They prefer a physical invention they can rub their greasy meathooks all over.”

“Also, we kinda... almost... elected a fascist genocidal lunatic to the presidency.” *(SEE Conjectural Technologies Decision ’92 special ‘Vote Billy Vote’)

Pete shrugged, “Not our department. We just did the polling data and strategy; we don’t make policy.”

“Once the rockets go up, who cares where they come down,” Billy reminded himself, “Can we go yet?”

Pete glanced over his shoulder through the window, “Yeah, it’s probably dark enough. Where are my shoes?”

— — — — —

The last moments before the sun dipped below the horizon was nicknamed by poetic cinematographers “the golden hour.” Low angle sunlight illuminated the patch of highway-side desert scrub that they claimed as their lawn with warm, orange-tinted light. These twenty minutes a day (some ‘hour’) Pete was free to walk in daylight unencumbered and he wasted it on kicking the abandoned experiments too big to chuck in a trash can, trying to find something to salvage.

“You ok there, pally? Walking kind of weird.”

“Chemical burns,” Billy sighed, shaking his legs, “Lesson learned – don’t leave it on longer than the instructions on the bottle.”

“Haircut looks good though.”

“Thanks a lot,” Billy said acidly, roughing up the pudding-bowl-style White had insisted on. Although essentially the same haircut he had from the age of 4 to 12 (when his mother finally allowed his input), he thought he looked more like a doofus than a genius.

“My supervisor actually asked if I had joined a Beatles cover band,” Billy spat, “Offered us a performance slot. THE BEATLES DIDN’T FORM UNTIL 1960. THAT IS OUTSIDE THE REMIT OF A SUPPOSED ‘50s-style American Diner!”

“Whisper words of wisdom, let it be,” calmed Pete.

“Why do we have a jet turbine?” Billy noticed the new addition to their ‘lawn furniture.’

“I wanted to pitch frozen turkeys into it to watch them explode like when they test bird-strike.”

“Where did you even find a jet engine?”

“I dunno,” White shrugged, disinterested, “The desert.”

There had to be some proof of Conjectural Technologies’ cutting-edge vision to wow a crowd of their scientific betters in this scrapheap. Pete insisted they could just blind everyone with branded merch giveaways. Billy believed that they did have a vision, or enough ability to fake one, but they had to dig through a bunch of trash to figure out what it was

“Why are we even going to this science conference if we’re not going to be scientists.”

“Because they invited us,” Pete answered flatly, “And Seattle is cool.”

“Why do we even have a company if we’re not going to make anything?”

“For the neon sign,” White pointed to the behemoth blinking on the roof of the trailer at a completely deserted stretch of 285 South.

In the last five years, the Conjectural Technologies innovation work-flow had become well-established. Over the course of a day, Pete pitched between twenty to fifty ideas at Billy. Over breakfast. During the morning commute. During commercial breaks of Dave’s World and Major Dad. He insisted he was “the idea man,” and presented a non stop flow of whatever crossed his mind. Most earned a dismissive “That’s stupid” or “Entirely impractical” or a very distinctive, “Are you high?”

A particularly egregious idea (Say, “The Denticure – A manicure for teeth!”) would launch into an argument with Billy detailing all the ways White’s idea was imbecilic and White countering each point with bullshit he made up off the top of his head. These could go on for hours until they forgot about the initial idea and transitioned to arguing about something else or just made the damn thing.

One idea in a million, Billy was on board right away (usually when really tired or avoiding his self-assigned home medical school homework). They could spend weeks testing, programming and building a prototype before getting distracted by a heated eBay battle over a 30-year-old toy from a cereal box or yet another King’s Quest coming out (that Roberta Williams was a machine). No matter how all-consuming it previously was, the invention was chucked out into the scrubby dirt acre they claimed as their backyard.

Pete tugged at his split ends, “Man, I need a haircut, too. If I let this get much longer people will start asking me if I’m Edgar Winter.”

“Who’s Edgar Winter?”

“You memorize the encyclopedia for fun. You know. You’re just feigning ignorance to make me feel old.”

“Did it work?”

“Yes.”

In the shadow of their DIY radio tower, Billy lifted a glitter-coated frag grenade from under a box, “Awesome! The Celebrenade! I thought we blew all these up! Every celebration can be a blast with a Celebranade!”

Pete referred back to the conference guidelines, “Nah.”

“I said EVERY CELEBRATION CAN BE A BLAST WITH A CELEBRANADE!,” he repeated with as much menace as he could muster. (About a tablespoon)

“There’s a strict no weapons of war policy at The World Super Science Forum. Pussies.”

“Awww, but it’s a Celebration Grenade! It’s fun. Balloons! Confetti!”

“No go, pally. It still blows shrapnel 100 feet in the air. Confetti could blind somebody, I guess, exploding at 8,050 meters per second Plus the aerosolized low dosage MDMA spray is technically ‘chemical warfare’ and outlawed by the Geneva Convention.”

Billy turned the grenade– completely identical to an army-issue M67 non-celebratory grenade in all ways but sparkliness– over in his hand, “It’d be bitch to take through airport security, too. Never mind.”

“The bubble-gum-flavored Semtex is out, too.”

“How about the Doggie Translator. That totally worked,” Pete said enthusiastically, pulling a fist-sized speaker from a pile and blowing sand out of the mechanics.

Pete woofed into the machine. “Woof! Woof!”

“Fuck! Fuck!” the speaker repeated back mechanically.

“Even if it’s behaviorally accurate— and I’m not conceding that it is – pet owners are not going to buy dog translator that interprets every bark as ‘fuck.’”

“It’s what dogs are saying 90% of the time,” Pete insisted.

___

The sun was fully below the horizon. The generator rumbled to life, clicking on the jerry-rigged patio lights.

“No vision found tonight,” Pete ruled, “Let’s go inside.”

"I got Army of Darkness and Benny & Joon from the video store."

"Yeah, that'll work."

💣 to be continued ⟶

Boy Genius on AO3 | Pro | Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 ←You Are Here | Ch 4

Author Note:

💣This was my 6,500th post. But then I erased some old double posts to knock it back down.

I'm gonna post the next chapter pretty quick just to get these fuckers to the conference already.

[pinkhairedlily]

Chapter 11 - Student Council President Sakura / Graduation Chapter

SCPS AO3 | PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Youtube playlist for your reading accompaniment

They held a run-through of the graduation ceremony on the last day of class and technically the last day of the trio’s high school life. Unlike their first general assembly, Uchiha Sasuke was to deliver the graduation speech but not without great sulking from Haruno Sakura who landed a close second despite ranking first in their final exams.

And obviously, not without Sasuke trying to give up his speech privileges by campaigning instead for Sakura.

In the end, all three of them were granted speech slots – one for Sasuke as valedictorian, Sakura as student representative, and Naruto as the school’s first national MVP. It was this debacle that led the three of them to brainstorm in an empty AVR after the dry run.

“Done!” Sakura yelled like the diligent student she was. “Let me look at yours!”

Sasuke presented her a blank paper while saying, “It’s all prepared in my head”, and Naruto showed her his baseball doodles.

“Oh God, you’re all so hopeless.”

Then the electricity suddenly got cut off in the AVR. Sakura expected the boys to screech in surprise and cling to each other, but she only heard silence in the dark. She jumped in her seat when the doors opened with a loud bang, a confetti splash, and the lights coming back to life.

Sasuke and Naruto were still in front of her, holding two bouquets of irises and yellow roses. Behind them were the old and new student council members with other students holding a large banner saying Thank you, Student Council President Sakura!

She started to leave her seat to come to them, but they gestured for her to stay on her seat. In front of the room, the large monitor beeped and showed a compilation of videos.

Sukehiro Aoi, an alumni and currently an intern in an animation studio. “Hello, Ms. Pres. You once asked the body to submit a publication material for an event of the student council, and I sent mine through a dummy email with no expectations of winning. I wasn’t comfortable with the public seeing my art. I was afraid of the unsolicited remarks so sending it anonymously gave me some relief. You chose it however, and you knew how big a credit was to an artist. I was really scared when you were able to hunt me down just by my watermark, but my name in the info blast caught the attention of a school board member and referred me to this animation studio. It was the littlest thing, but you handed me my dream.”

Watanabe Kota was a year below them. He has a small frame, round thick glasses, and battled with face acne. “Ms. Pres! People never had much confidence in my physical appearance, so I don’t know what you saw in me when you asked me to take over the school radio. But here we are – we’re airing daily and we even produce documentaries and radio programs. Thank you for seeing what I didn’t.”

Ito Amanaya, a typical jock in the football team, muscular and came across as intimidating, but he had the gentlest cadence. “I was bullied by the same group that bullied your dynamic duo. When you ran them off, you also saved my life. Thank you, Haruno.”

Kimura Shinze, a classmate in third year, beautiful, popular, and the captain of the cheering squad. “Hope you’re having a great day, Ms. Pres. Remember that time when the class was guessing who were our crushes and I blurted out that it was a girl, you told me thank you for telling us. That was…a big deal to me. Thank you for that gesture.”

Himurata Aoi, president of the koto club. “Sakura, I know you had many people come up and confessed to you so when I did try, I was glad that you didn’t give me a bullshit reason like you’re not into girls. You turned me down because you have someone you already love. I am thankful for your honesty.”

The biology teacher, Takahashi Kande. “Student council, thank you for your mental health program. As a single father to twins, I don’t have the luxury of time to sit in a couch and sort out my issues. To be able to do that in my workplace during breaks is a heaven-sent gift. You saved me and my family. Thank you.”

Many more messages came on, from a classmate she lent spare change to, from a staff she helped clean, from countless students who she wasn’t aware she gave kindness to.

“Why….” She asked breathlessly.

“You’ve been beating yourself lately. We thought you needed some reminding,” Sasuke muttered, under his breath, the bouquet still in his hands. “You left some pretty big footprints, Ms. Pres.

“You might not have noticed,” Naruto jested. “But this is always innate and natural to you, isn’t it?”

“Why did you bother so much?” She was reduced to tears.

“It was Naruto’s idea.”

“Huh? You did all the compiling though!”

“Shut up, it was me,” yelled the current president.

“Thank you, everyone.”

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

It was a weekend, but Sasuke requested Sakura and Naruto to meet him at the school gates. He only gave the time and place, and he knew well enough that they would be there – no questions asked.

They stood there, minutes earlier than planned, a first but nothing more unusual than homebody Sasuke asking them to go out on a weekend. Sakura wore an oversized rust shirt over a pair of muted cotton blue trousers tied with a brown leather belt and tan fisherman sandals, her long hair kept in one single braid at the back. Naruto probably expected a fancy lunch with his outfit – black silky long sleeves over gray pants and black loafers.

Sasuke, high on impulsive decisions, wore bright colors, a complete departure from his usual neutrals; mustard vest over a deep violet polo, baggy pants, off white converse, and a white fanny pack. “Well, we’re mostly dressed for comfort, except for that idiot beside you.”

“What do you mean dressed for comfort? I borrowed these loafers from my vice-captain and my feet aren’t used to them,” Naruto whined. “Besides, aren’t you taking us out to a five-star meal, Mr. Valedictorian?”

“Wow, what a way to show off.” Sakura pursed her lips in annoyance. “Don’t worry Naruto, I got your next café order.”

“Ah no. It was just something we heard from the grape vine.” Naruto scratched his head and carefully glanced at Sasuke. “Grumpy got his trust fund today.”

In bated breaths, they waited for him to respond with a scowl or a retort, but he just nodded. “Come on, we’ll miss the train.”

They traveled for three stations and disembarked on the fourth, Sasuke sandwiched in between the two, his shoulders pillows again to their heads and yet such burdens were light as cotton. The surfacing emotions since last week were taking hold of him, but he needed to pull through somehow because breaking down while commuting was one thing he did not really see doing.

“Word just got in. The house was turned over this morning,” Itachi told him over the phone.

“Impeccable timing when I’m also moving abroad next week.” Sasuke pulled out his Bleachers vinyl and anticipated another lonesome lull for the night.

“Do you miss the cream puffs?”

“Nothing comes close.”

“Hmm. I’ll pay for the rental fee of your car.”

In Itachi’s defense, while he was an afficionado of escapism, he also knew how to read between the lines. “Watch me get a Mercedes-Benz.”

“I have a good driving playlist.” This only meant math rock, and Sasuke wanted something to scream his lungs too.

“Don’t need one.”

“Treat your friends to dinner, okay? Gotta go.”

“We’re walking?!” Naruto almost limped out of the train. Sasuke took one look at his heels and saw that they were bruised red. He took off his converse and socks and gave them to him.

Sakura whipped out a small first-aid kit and covered the rash on Naruto’s heels. “Hey don’t look at me like that. Brought it just in case we’re going on a day survival tour. A camping would be nice too.”

“Did you scrub your feet, idiot?”

“You think so low of me grumpy. Of course – last week!”

With Naruto now comfortable, the three resumed walking on the unfamiliar residential area. Sasuke gestured for them to enter a bamboo forest on the far side of the main road. Hidden in the shadows of the clumped stalks were a small opening, the growth hampered and ground rid of grasses and weeds; many people have also chosen this shortcut, walked through the forest, did a little nature bathing, and emerged behind the bakery, still there, still standing, still operating.

Sasuke tapped on the large glass window cum counter on the front and bought three sets of cream puffs.

“Oh, it’s you,” the old baker greeted. “You brought your friends over? You always buy one set.”

Sasuke offered her a smile, briefly glancing to his periphery where Sakura was fussing with Naruto’s feet, and nodded as he accepted the paper bag. “It’s on the house, kid.”

“You brought us to stalk someone’s house?” Sakura dug in one paper bag, bit the puff in one bite, and with full mouth, she sighed. “This is heaven.”

“It’s our old family house, before the accident that is.” Sasuke also took out one puff and munched on it, ruminating on the sight before him, a two-story house with an imposing façade, his mom’s climbing hydrangea gone and cut by the new owners, beds of roses and daisies already withered, but the wisteria tree on the vacant lot beside continued to grow and shade what he supposed were the children’s rooms. It was in his third bite that he saw the tomato fruits he planted, alive and full with harvest. “Do you think my parents know?”

Naruto slid an arm across his shoulder and grinned sheepishly. “Then they would be happy ghosts or maybe they would voluntarily move away to give the new owners the opportunity to make it a happy a home like yours.

“What part are you gonna miss?” Sakura asked, halfway through her set of puffs.

“The sight of the wisteria before I sleep and after I wake up, and the sunlight in my parents’ room. My dad liked to make these suncatchers for my mom. The play of light was a good morning greeting, she said.”

“What’s your funniest memory?” Naruto sat on the grass, uncaring for the stains that would taint his good pair of pants.

“It was probably Christmas when I was seven, and Itachi had this big idea to bake a cake, but he swapped the sugar for the salt and we were wondering why it wouldn’t make a custard. Our parents still ate it, saying it was a very salty version of dark chocolate cake.”

“It was a good home,” Sakura patted the space between her and Naruto and Sasuke sat down cross-legged too, dipping his hand on the paper bag with the last cream puff.

“It was a good home,” Sasuke agreed as he bit into the last vestige of his family memory. He was suckling the powdered sugar off his fingers when he realized he was already crying, and the two were downright sobbing on his either side.

Such an embarrassing sight to see; he wondered what would the new owners feel if they looked out their windows this instant and saw three teenagers breaking down on the road across. It was honestly stupid and laughable to a point, considering how funny it was for grief to become lighter when someone else cried with him.

Naruto was sniffling so much that he had to offer his handkerchief to him. “I forgot to tell you guys. Hinata confessed to me during the cultural festival.”

“Oh my god. What did you say?” Sakura took a tissue out of her bag and dabbed her eyes. She flashed an apologetic look to Sasuke who already offered his hanky to Naruto’s fluids.

“Ah, what else? I had to reject her.” Naruto sneezed on Sasuke’s handkerchief again. “I told her I was in love with someone else.” He slyly glanced at his raven-haired friend and pursed his lips which Sakura quickly caught.

“Who is it?”

“Sasuke also likes someone.”

“Shut your mouth, blondie. Point is already moot. Besides, we’ve already been rejected.”

“Who are these people and why don’t I know them?” Sakura genuinely looked offended. “I could have vetted them!”

“Exactly why it was fortunate you didn’t meet them,” Sasuke said as an excuse though he pegged Sakura for not being that naïve. She, thankfully, let it go and gathered their trash. She dropped the bomb as she was brushing the grass blades from her trousers. “My parents are divorcing. Such a travesty not to have them show up on graduation day, and I thought I did a great job.”

The two, ever so sure, held onto her hands in case she was trembling again.

“Let’s get that five-star dinner,” Sasuke suggested, “and we need to rent a Mercedes-Benz.”

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

Graduation Day

“Let’s welcome to the stage, class valedictorian, Uchiha Sasuke.” Kakashi was the officiating faculty today so she expected difficulty going through the event, but for some reason, he slipped into her mental back burner, no longer taking up room in her active consciousness. That was a good step, she smiled to herself. Her smile became wider as Sasuke got up the stage.

His fans club’s cheers were heard outside the auditorium, and the graduating class chuckled at the quick interruption. He cleared his throat and started his piece.

“Please get it on record that I was coerced to do this speech. Then again, I also had a hand on the turn of events that led me here today, in front of you. And it’s a little too on the nose, but I came to high school with a clear set of goals – have high grades and lead an uninteresting life. I accomplished the first one rather easily, and it’s a good metric for the future that’s upon us right now. Good grades land us good colleges. Good colleges land us good jobs. Good jobs land us good life.

But it’s not the sole benchmark as I have learned lately. You see, my second goal really missed the mark. Good life can also mean good friends, fun experiences, a caring environment, a complete family. If you ticked off each one, then that’s very notable. You have the four-leaf clover, and it’s a rare blessing. I only ticked off three, but that goes without any regret. If you only have one silver lining in your high school memory, then that makes us all the more human. And if there’s none, there is still is still a whole stretch of possibilities we can discover to find one. Thank you for your kind attention.”

Sakura was pretty sure she heard several sniffles across the student body. “The bastard delivered a good speech,” she muttered to herself.

“We would like to welcome our first national MVP, Uzumaki Naruto.”

Outside, the school band played the cheering anthem for his last national games. The cheerleaders also did a routine in tribute to him. That made him well up when he got to the podium.

“Wait oh my god, I’m tearing up so much.”

Sasuke grunted loudly and went back the stage to hand him a handkerchief which Naruto quickly used to wipe his snot.

“Thanks Sasuke. How can Kakashi-sensei let me follow after that rousing speech, and before Sakura too. It’s kinda evil.”

Laughter broke out.

“Well, this one’s a bare minimum. I didn’t have any goals or expectations, unlike genius grumpy over there. I just wanted to live my life like an ordinary boy. Someone said that how you spend your day is how you live your life so I did just that – ate ramen, slept in class because I am a growing kid, and played each arcade game until I won them. I also believe in serendipitous – thanks Sakura for this word, for the spelling and meaning – serendipitous coincidences. I just pitched and batted for former captain Haru one afternoon and now we landed in the national finals. I had loneliness for a friend, but now I’ve got all of you. And you know what else, the magic of working together. We wouldn’t have stepped foot in the nationals if it weren’t for your collective help. When we work towards a common goal, that also gives us common happiness, right? It’s infectious, a bouncing energy that gets thrown around and still makes it one piece. So wherever you will be after this, believe it!”

When Kakashi called her name next, she thought she was deaf, the noise around her collapsed in muted decibels. It took a minute before her fellow classmates shook her and motioned for her to quickly come up the stairs. Her silver-haired teacher looked so concerned in the shadows, but for what it was worth, she was civil and calm enough (at least in the matters concerning him) to nod at him in quiet exchange of assurance.

It was because she saw both of her parents at the side with a bouquet of roses. She struggled with the paper she brought with her although she had it memorized in her head; she even went through it flawlessly for three times last night. Tears blurred the words and the mere shock of the sight of their togetherness disabled her mental function to string coherent thoughts. She also started hyperventilating, her breaths coming faster than what her lungs could pump.

Then she felt Kakashi’s hand on her shoulder, a steady presence, and it reeled her back to reality. He tapped the mic and the feedback echoed. “Ah, Ms. Haruno had some technical issues. Again, let’s welcome former student council president, Sakura.”

Sasuke and Naruto in the front were almost standing, but she flashed them a smile as if to say she was okay now. “Hello, good day to our honorable guests and graduates. I think it’s safe to say that Sasuke and Naruto provided really good words of advice. So I have nothing more to offer, but to share my gratitude. Everyone was saying the student council did a good job in its programs, but it was actually the lot of you who made this possible – from your activity suggestions to participation and feedback. After all, you were the makers of your memories.

Earlier last week, my councilmates and friends reminded me how small actions go a long way – a smile, a wave across the hallway, a short exchange of good morning and see you soon, and I thought, aren’t we all just an accumulation of these small, little things? As such, it was what you think your insignificant moments were that pushed us to deliver you the best. It was the passing comment, the top-of-your-head tips, the interlude stories we hear during lunch breaks that allowed us to give you grand gestures and memories we hoped were worth keeping. And if we could start to use that perspective as well in our lives then maybe the uncertainties of a future wouldn’t be so heavy on us. We will face tomorrow with a lightness in being.

In behalf of the student council, thank you for allowing us to serve you.”

She bowed at a level where her torso was almost aligned at her hips, and she was confused with the lack of reaction. Sakura sighed, mulling over the deficiencies in her speech, but she straightened her back to a sight of a standing ovation and a thundering applause.

Then, she let her tears fall.

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

“Why would you let Kakashi-sensei take the pic?” Sakura hissed at them.

“Just this one time, Sakura!” Naruto grinned.

“Sakura, you’re out of the frame,” Kakashi remarked. “Okay good. Say cheese.”

In spite of her recent heartbreak with him, she permitted herself to bask in fleeting cordiality. “Cheese.”

“Grumpyyyyyy.”

“Idiot blondie.”

Kakashi took three more shots and handed the camera to the trio. He almost turned away when Sakura caught his sleeve.

“Just one more,” she said. “With you.”

Sakura shifted to the front, almost kneeling with the camera angled for a selfie, her two friends beside her looking equally annoyed as the other, and Kakashi behind them, his hands on either head, smiling with his deceptively charming beauty mark.

It was the last picture of their high school life.

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

The three were rushing through the airport crowd fifteen minutes before the immigration closes gates.

“Here!” Sakura slid a folder on the large pocket on Sasuke’s bag. “It includes your passport, your flight details, your valid IDs, your itinerary, and letters from us! Don’t forget our Friday video calls!”

“I can’t see. These tears are bullies,” Naruto said through tears. He was continuously wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

“And If I don’t get on my flight because you made us eat ramen for one last time and the orders took too long, I’m gonna have you cursed by a witch and a shaman!” Sasuke growled. The guards were starting to close the gates when a sobbing Naruto sprinted and basically tackled the guards on the floor.

“Sasuke come on, hurry up!”

“Drink your vitamins! And if you miss cream puffs, I’ll teach you how to make them.” Sakura was trying hard to keep pace with Sasuke’s brisk walking, but she ended up breathless anyway.

The three of them finally reached the immigration entrance, and Naruto was profusely apologizing to the guards for the interruption. Sasuke showed his documents, wheezing as they looked at it. They gave him a thumbs up and opened the gates.

The two were already slumped at the floor, waving without words, and exhausted from the clock race. Sasuke was almost through when he remembered something he forgot. He muttered a quick sorry, ran through the opening, and hugged his two friends.

“I’ll miss you.”