#(you see me writing furiously in a notebook but when you peer over my shoulder I’ve just written ‘i’ve realised i’m not really into this’

[raindownforme]

Hey! I’m back with another request!

Reader and Ted practicality have all the same classes and whenever they have to do projects or work in pairs Ted without fail or shame is always like “Can she work with me! Please!” Even in front of the class So he can flirt with her during the project

She/her pronouns pls :D

Also I LOVED ORBITING JUPITER I NEVER HEAR ANYONE TALK ABOUT IT

An Ode to You

Ted Nivison x reader [she/her used]

The teacher, Mrs. Statham, smacked a stack of papers on her rolling cart. She lined the edges of them up to make it straight, then held the stack in her off arm. She turned to face the class, smiling kindly as she stood tall in her professional shoes.

“This week, we’re starting a project. You and a partner will be writing poetry based on prompts and discussing your different styles of writing. Your partner will be randomly assigned-“ the class groaned, some shutting books in protest. “Hey. It’s 9am, you think I want this either?” The class grew quiet. “Exactly. Now, I’m pulling names from a hat. First is…”

y/n leaned into her open palm, closing her eyes for a moment. She could hear students shuffling around their chairs, tennis ball covered legs scraping the cheap cement. She ran a hand through her hair, leaning back to stretch her back over the cheap school chair.

“YES.” Someone stood quickly in the opposite corner of the room, the scraping and falling sound of the chair making y/n jump. She opened her eyes to see her classmate Ted standing up in the corner with his arms upright in a cheering motion. He smiled widely, looking over towards y/n. He quickly realized his outburst, dropping his arms and pushing his glasses further onto his face. “Should I pick up that chair?”

“Yes, Ted. Then go move over to your partner.” Mrs. Statham shook her head, going back to the task she’d been working on before hand. Ted gathered his things, placing the chair back to where it belonged, and headed across the classroom to where y/n sat. He pulled the chair next to her out and sat down, smiling widely.

“Hey, come here often?”

y/n rolled her eyes, trying to hide a small smile. “Good morning Ted.”

“Good morning gorgeous.” Ted looked away from y/n, sorting through his backpack for a spiral notebook and a mechanical pencil. He turned back to y/n, intending to say something, but Mrs. Statham spoke first.

“All partners have been assigned. On the board are types of poetry and some one-word prompts. Yes you and your partner must pick the same type of poem and prompt. If you have any questions, I’ll be up here grading. Go ahead.”

The students began chattering as Mrs. Statham went to her desk. y/n huffed, staring at the board. She wasn’t well-versed on types of poetry, and the list was quite long.

“How about an Ode? You know like an Ode to something?” Ted gestured with his pencil as he talked. “I’ll let you pick the category.”

“An Ode to…” y/n scanned the board, looking for the right word. “Does that say darling?”

“No?” Ted squinted as he looked at the board as well. “I think it says daring. But I like darling! An ode to darling.”

y/n smiled, turning to begin writing in her own notebook. The rest of the lesson went on with only a few scattered comments from Ted.

“What color are your eyes?”

y/n looked up at him, confused. “Why?”

“Never mind I got it.” Ted furiously scratched at his paper, y/n returning to her own.

“What season is your favorite would you say?”

“Fall.” y/n set down her pencil, smiling kindly at Ted. “I like the leaves and it’s usually a nice temperature out. You?”

“I’m a late spring early summer kind of guy.” Ted taped his pencil over and over in a slow rhythm he could only hear in his head. “I mean, unless you have a pollen allergy.”

“Why?”

“I can’t take you out if you’ll be sneezing and coughing the whole time. I don’t know, maybe the fall could be a good time.” Ted waved like he was getting rid of an idea. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Okay?” y/n thought to herself for a moment, then ignored Ted’s question to go back to her work.

“Hey what’s your-“ Ted was cut short by the ringing of the school bell. He groaned dramatically as y/n stood to gather her things. “No! Stop.”

“Why?” y/n didn’t stop, instead zipping her bag shut and throwing it over her shoulder. Ted grabbed onto the edge of her shirt, tugging slightly.

“I don’t want you to go.”

“Ted, I have a class across the school. I’ll see you tomorrow.” y/n gently pulled her shirt from Ted’s grasp. He sighed, standing up.

“Fine. Let me walk you there at least?”

It took Ted all of a minute to gather his things. He shouldered his back pack and led y/n out of the classroom. He let his hand fall to his side, gently taking y/n’s middle finger and wrapping his own finger around it. He looked down at her, smiling softly, and held on tighter when she showed no sign of discomfort.

The two walked in silence across the school, taking y/n to her science class. Ted stopped her before she walked in, keeping her finger is his grasp. “Can I see you later?”

“Ted, we have class tomorrow. I’ll see you then.” y/n patted him in the arm, politely excusing her self. She watched him walk backwards down the hall, and turned to walk into the class.

“I’ll be thinking of you!” She rolled her eyes at Ted’s outburst, avoiding the peering eyes of her classmates.

———

The next few days continued the same way; Ted endlessly flirting while y/n write her ode. The writing came easy to her. She wrote about the stars, about the constellations and the night sky. It was a basic topic she knew, but it was easy to write about and it fit the prompt. She wasn’t sure what Ted had written about, but by now everyone had finished their poems, and it was time to present.

“Alright, Ted and y/n?” Mrs. Statham sat behind her desk, yawning into her mug of tea. “Please state your type and prompt.”

“We chose an Ode, and I miss read the prompt so instead of daring we chose darling?”

She nodded, keeping her eyes on the grading sheet in front of her. “I like it. Go ahead.”

y/n cleared her throat. She looked over at Ted, waiting to see who would go first. He gestured to her, offering her to go first while smiling kindly. Oddly enough, for it being the first class of the day, Ted seemed to be the most awake in the classroom.

“For darkness around you, a pattern to make do…” y/n read robotically from the sheet of paper in front of her. The poem lasted only ten seconds, letting her quickly set it aside and awkwardly smile at her classmates. There was light clapping from the crowd, complimentary almost.

“Very good.” Mrs. Statham scribbled on the grading sheet with a blue pen. “And what was that called again?”

“An Ode to the Stars.”

“Thank you. Ted you’re next?”

Ted nodded eagerly, straightening himself. He smoothed down the front of his shirt and looked expectantly at Mrs. Statham. “Do I-“

“There are no extra credit points for memorization. However, if you’d like to, go ahead.”

“Thank you.” Ted turned back to y/n, smiling widely. “I’m encaptured in your loving stare; My darling girl, my lady, fair.”

Ted went on for a long minute, leaving y/n a flustered mess. Every stanza, Ted found a new way to look at her. A new way to gesture to her. A new way to emphasize the lines he spoke. And after that long minute, the class fell silent for a moment before clapping loudly for Ted’s display.

“Thank you both. Class, did we notice any differences in Ted and y/n’s writing?”

Someone y/n didn’t know the name of put their hand upwards, prompting Mrs. Statham to call on them. “Well, y/n wrote about an object, Ted wrote about a person.”

“Good. Is there anything else we can infer class?”

“Oh!” Someone in the back classroom sat up straighter as they shouted out. y/n couldn’t quite see who it was. “y/n wrote kind of factual? Like things that we could all see. But Ted sees the person differently than we’d normally… perceive them?”

“Yeah. Exactly. Alright good job you two, go ahead and take your seats.”

Ted followed y/n to the shared desk in the far corner of the classroom. Another set of students went up to present theirs, and y/n kept her eyes glued forward on the pair, avoiding looking at Ted.

“I really liked yours.” Ted leaned over to whisper in her ear. She jumped a bit, surprised by how close he sat. “I think it was beautiful.”

“Thanks.” y/n chewed at the inside of her lip. “What was yours called again?”

“An Ode to You.”

“Sorry?” y/n tried to swallow the heat rising to her face, trying to not be flustered in front of Ted.

“It’s called An Ode to You.”

“To me?”

“No— well.” Ted twirled a pencil around in his finger tips. “It’s called An Ode to You, not like An Ode to y/n, I mean technically it is about you-“

“Me? What, are you flirting?”

Someone snorted in the seat in front of y/n and Ted. “You just noticed?”

y/n watched Ted’s face turn bright red. “I mean, they’re right. You just noticed?”

“I assumed it was a joke.”

“Why would I be joking?” Ted looked at y/n with concern etched across his face.

“I don’t know! Are you not joking?”

“No.” Ted very gently took y/n’s hand in his. “y/n, my darling. I would never joke about you.”

“Well Ted, honey, it’s 9am and you’re flirting with a tired teenager.”

“Can I flirt with you some other time?”

“Yes.” y/n yawned, stretching her arms upwards. “Any other time.”

“Tonight then? 7 o’clock?”

“Why 7-?” y/n stopped, her face becoming increasingly heated as the realization came to her. “A date? You want to take me on a date?”

The school bell rang and Ted stood from the desk, placing a folded piece of paper in front of y/n. “Text me, I’ll come pick you up.”

She watched Ted walk away, then looked down at the paper. On it read a phone a number that she assumed belonged to ted. When she unfolded it, however, was a hand written poem with a title reading, An Ode to y/n.

[wreckofawriter]

Minnie's Daughter

Pairing: James Potter x McGonagall's Daughter!Reader

Word Count: 3,984

Warnings: Swearing? None? Fluffy

Summary: When James finds out his favorite proffesser has a daughter he can't seem to keep her from his head

A/n: I fuckin loved writing this, I wrote it all today and I'm now finishing it at 12:46 at night. This is #12 from the fanfic vote and got the second highest number of votes, hope y'all enjoy! Look at me posting twice in one week

“Potter!” 

James flinched slightly before turning around a large grin plastered onto his visage, “Minnie! So good to see you!” He cheered 

The older woman rolled her eyes on instinct, “I told you not to call me that James. I am your professor you shall treat me accordingly.” she spoke sharply.

“Jeez, Minnie you seem more angry than usual.” The boy shuddered in his usual fashion; dramatically. 

She sighed rubbing her temple with one hand, “Just come with me, Potter.” 

“Yes, ma’am!” He saluted smile not faltering despite the nerves which now slowly consumed him. 

The two slowly made their way towards McGonagle’s office, something James knew a bit too familiarly. As they walked everything he had ever done flashed through his memory, the thousands of school rules he had abandoned, the laws he had broken, pranks he had pulled. What was he in for this time? It seemed there were far too many possibilities. 

The second that the door shut behind him he opened his mouth. 

“Minnie if this is about the Grindylows in the prefects’ bath, I had nothing to do with it, I swear on my life. That prank was simply untasteful and you know I would never do something so dull.” He defended putting on his most innocent mask. 

“Potter you aren’t in trouble, I simply- wait, what Grindylows are you talking about?” She asked brows furrowed.

The boy’s eyes widened, “Oh, um, i-it’s nothing you need to worry about.” He spoke his voice gaining false confidence. 

Another exasperated sigh left the professor’s lips but she didn’t address what she was sure to become a problem, “I simply wanted to talk to you about your plans for the quidditch team now that you are the captain.” 

“Ooohhh,” The boy nodded in understanding, a wave of relief washing over him. Excitement built in his stomach as quidditch was mentioned and he bounced happily on his heels a shimmer appearing in his dark eyes. “I can show you my workouts and plays and stuff if you want.” He offered eagerly, “I have some written in my bag.” 

“That sounds perfect James.” She grinned, “Bring them to my desk.”

He nodded walking forward while rummaging for the notebook he had spent the summer scribbling in. He found it and placed it on his professor’s desk before opening it’s worn cover and flipping through the pages. 

Both individuals quickly became immersed in the plans as the captain explained his workouts, strategies and more. In fact, they became so engrossed they didn’t notice a third figure enter the room.

You rolled your eyes as you heard your mother jabber about the sport she loved so much. You sighed walking up towards the pair being purposefully quieter than needed. You suppressed a giggle as you neared the duo. You stood just to the right of the boy who was crouched over his notes, you then leaned your head so your chin was resting just above his shoulder, you could smell the cologne he wore but ignored its sweetness. Your lips centimeters from his ear you spoke, “Whatcha guys talkin’ about?” 

The dark-haired boy let out a shrill shriek as your mother gasped in surprise.

You burst into a wave of laughter doubling over as the quidditch star glared at you, clearly offended.

“You scream like a four-year-old girl Potter.” You cackled blinking back tears. 

James opened his mouth to shoot back an insult but something stopped him. You looked oddly familiar, your eyes gleamed in a recognizable fashion, your smile all too common to his view. Despite this, he had no clue who you were. 

“Merlin y/n!” the professor gasped, “That was uncalled for.”

“Sorry, mum.” You giggled, “I couldn’t help it.”

In that exact moment, James’ bain imploded. His jaw dropped, eyes growing to the size of saucers as if he had just been slapped. 

“Minnie! You have a daughter!” he gasped, completely appalled by this new information. 

“James! You have a brain!” You mimicked him, false surprise emerging on your face. 

“Y/n, be polite.” Your mother scolded although it was hard to miss the smirk on her lips. 

James wasn’t even bothered by the jeer, he was far too preoccupied with attempting to figure out what the hell was happening. 

“It’s nice to formally meet you, James.” You grinned sticking out your hand for him to take, “I’m y/n y/l/n. Minnie’s daughter” 

He shook his head quickly his hair bouncing slightly before he took your hand, which he found surprisingly soft and slightly cold, “James Potter.” He mumbled before turning to the woman who had returned to the notebook. 

“Minnie!” He shouted.

You giggled at the nickname biting your lip lightly.

McGonagall’s eyes snapped upward dangerously but at this point, James was too shocked to care. 

“Why didn’t you tell me that you had a daughter!?” He asked in complete dismay, “I thought we were friends!”

The witch simply rolled her eyes, “If you had paid any attention to those around you, you would have noticed I had a daughter years ago.” She spoke, seemingly unfazed. 

“Minniiieeee. That’s not fair.” He pouted.

McGonagall shrugged. 

“Oooo, are those quidditch notes?” You asked peering over James’ shoulder like an excited puppy. “Mind if I take a look?”

“Yeah sur-” 

“No way.” your mother interrupted eyebrows raised as she peered over her glasses at you. 

Now it was your turn to pout, ���But mum.” You attempted to reason.

James choked in a breath as you widen your eyes and jutted out your bottom lip. Did you always look this adorable?

“Nu-uh.” She shook her head.

“Why not?” You whined placing your hands on the desk and leaning over it attempting to catch a glimpse of the ink-stained pages. 

���Because last time I made the mistake of letting you ‘look through’ my quidditch notes, you charmed it and gave a copy to the Ravenclaw Captain.” She huffed, closing the notebook from your prying eyes. 

James gasped again, “That was you!” 

You nodded, smirking proudly.

“We lost the quidditch cup because of that!” He heaved. 

You just shrugged, “Yeah well, we won because of it.”

He glared back at you, tucking the notebook protectively under his arm. 

“Shit!” You swore glancing at the clock behind your mother’s desk. 

“Language y/n!” 

“Sorry, mum,” You yelled over your shoulder scrambling from the room, the door thudding against its frame as it closed behind you. 

James opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by you dashing back into the room. 

“I forgot what I came here for.” You groaned, “Where is my herbology textbook?” 

McGonagall opened a drawer in her desk handing it to you.

“Thanks, mum.” You rushed as you snatched it from her and sprinted back towards the door. 

“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me you had a daughter.” James sulked, his eyes glued to where you had resided moments before. 

McGonagal was met with a hell storm when James spread the news of his new discovery. That hell storm’s name was Sirius Black. He had crashed into her classroom while she was in the middle of a class and began his tearful act. He whined and gasped and pouted, stating his betrayal and his loss of trust. 

The professor tiredly massaged her closed eyelids as his antics continued.

    Thankfully the other marauders were surprised but lacked the same gusto Black held, although James seemed to have a sudden problem on his hands. For some reason he couldn’t seem to pull you from his head, it was like you were cemented there, your giggle rinning in his ears as your voice echoed through his head. You were strangely captivating. 

He wondered if that’s how his professor had been in her youth, although he refused to picture McGonagall as beautiful. You were simply alluring, your entire aura drawing him towards you. He wasn’t quite sure what it was but he found himself needing to be near you. He foolishly allowed himself to wonder if you thought the same of him.

Your heart pounded lightly as you snuck to the owlery, you fought a wide smile as you climbed the seemingly endless steps, taking them two at a time out of excitement.  When you finally reached the top you let out a slight squeal noticing your large barn owl perched near the door. 

You whistled once and let it land lightly on your outstretched arm. You then carefully untied the thread from his leg taking the note in your hand and dropping your arm as your owl departed. You unthreaded the scroll and began slowly down the stairs as you read it. By the second line of words, your throat went dry. You could feel your heart beginning to throb painfully as the back of your eyes began to sting. 

You sped through the remainder of the letter a sob ripping from your throat as the words sunk into your skin. Your vision blurred and you grasped at the stone wall to your right. The wind tore overhead, suddenly the pleasant breeze felt threatening. You crashed downwards, the stone step you sat on causing shivers to conquer your body. You let tears drip down your cheeks and slide off your chin as you raked your hands through your hair. Another cry unlodged itself from your throat and echoed around you. You pulled one of your hands from your hair slamming it over your mouth as you squeeze your eyes shut in mental agony. You bit your lip harshly bringing your shaking hands to your cheeks and wiping them dry. You gasped in a sharp breath blinking furiously to keep the tears at bay. Finally, you shoved the letter into your robe pocket and stood continuing down the stairs as if nothing had happened. 

You saw this coming, you thought, you knew it would, why are you so surprised?

You shake your head blinking rapidly again. You slipped into the castle feeling emptier than usual, your heart still aching, your head starting to. You ran your tongue over your lips, feeling just how dry they were. Water rose to your eyes again and you swore, leaning your head back and squeezing them shut. 

“Y/n?” 

You snapped your head forward, eyes opening wide.

“Are you okay?” James asked walking towards you, concern etched into his sharp features. 

“Uh, hey James.” You spoke attempting to sound normal and failing miserably as your voice came out in a croak. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He didn’t believe you, he narrowed his eyes, “Are you sure?”

You coughed attempting to clear your suddenly clogged throat, “Yeah seriously, I’m fine.” 

“You don’t look like it.” He responded eyebrows still furrowed. 

“Thanks.” You muttered sarcastically attempting a small smile. 

James felt his ears grow hot, hoping you didn’t notice in the dull light of his wand, “I-I didn’t mean it like that.” he spoke quickly, “I mean you look pretty today, umm I mean you always look pretty and uhh you just look a little worn out...But like not in a bad way! Just you uhh-”

Your giggle cut his rambles short, you bite your lip looking down at your feet, “You’re fine James, I was only joking.” You mumbled.

“Oh.” He replied sheepishly his cheeks flaming. 

The hallway fell into an awkward silence, tension feeling thick, like the air on a humid day. 

James coughed uncomfortably, “Do you want me to walk you to your common room?” he asked ruffling his hair, something you had the sudden urge to do. 

“Yeah, that would be nice.” You smiled sticking your hands in your pockets. You felt the letter you stowed away in your hand and you swallowed another sob. 

The two of you walked in silence, the only noise being your shoes on the floors of the castle. 

Your mind reeled, the words replaying, still raw in your head. 

You’re always gone at that boarding school. I never even see you anymore… I don’t know y/n/n we just lost something.  

You could feel tears begin to well again, your world falling blurry.  

 I just don’t love you anymore. I’m sorry.

You couldn’t hold it back anymore. You let out a strangled whimper halting where you stood and burying your head in your hands as your body shook. 

James turned toward you in alarm, his heart throbbed as you cried into your hands attempting to muffle the sound. He stood there for a second before taking a step towards you and wrapping his arms around you shaking form. 

You leaned into his touch, your head thumping as you wailed into the boy’s chest, your hands still pressed to your face. 

“Hey, you’re okay.” James cooed as he gently ran his hand down your back, “You’re gonna be okay.” 

He continued whispering sweet nothings in your ears, until you calmed a considerable amount, your sobs turning into shaky breaths and small sniffles. 

Your face felt hot, embarrassment took you over as your head began to clear. You pushed yourself from James’ hold.

“I’m sorry,” You chocked out, “I must look pathetic right now and I barely know you and I’m a fucking mess, I’m so sorry James.” you gushed attempting to wipe your face clean. 

James looked confused, “Y/n you have nothing to apologize for.” he spoke so softly you almost swooned. 

You stood quietly shifting back and forth on your feet, unsure what you were supposed to do now.

“What happened?” James asked, “If someone hurt you y/n I will beat-”

You laughed lightly, “No one hurt me, James, I just um.” You took a large breath release it slowly, “I just got dumped.” 

James's eyes widened, “Oh.”

“Yeah,” You huffed picking at your lips, “I mean it wasn't like I didn't see it coming, we had barely seen each other at all for the past year and honestly I don't think I have loved him since then, but we were together for so long, it just hurts. And I guess I’m just scared to be alone again.” You laughed bitterly at your own self-pitying rant.

“Did he just break up with you tonight?” James asked he seemed to hold a mixture of anger and concern in his dark eyes. 

“Well umm, he’s a muggle.” You spoke awkwardly, “I just received the letter.” 

“Oh.” James mentally slapped himself for repeating that word so many times. 

You chuckled stiffly, “It really shouldn’t be that big of a deal, I mean I saw it coming, I just didn’t think it would happen this soon.” 

“Obviously it’s a big deal y/n, you can be sad after a breakup.” He smiled down at you a certain shine in his eyes telling you there was more. “Do you still have the letter by any chance?”

You tilted your head in confusion, “I do.” You answered hesitantly, “Why?” 

“Wanna burn it?” 

You never wanted to do anything more. 

The two of you sat shoulder to shoulder in the astronomy tower watching as the letter your ex-boyfriend had sent burned. You felt a sense of relief as it turned to ash, its words and meaning disintegrating before your eyes. You sighed suddenly feeling exhausted as if someone had flipped a switch and drained you of all your energy. Your eyelids became heavy, breaths became longer and soon you felt yourself drifting into a dreamless sleep. 

James felt a light pressure on his shoulder and turned to see your head resting on it. Your y/h/c hair gleamed in the light of the small fire you had created. He smiled softly carefully brushing the loose strands of y/h/c from your face. He then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his heart thumping as his cheeks flushed red. 

He softly shook his head, what was he doing?

You and James grew surprisingly close, surprisingly quickly. It was frightening how well you got along. Whispers coated the halls of some secret relationship that blossomed between you. You always laughed it off as James grew pink and denied it entirely. 

The head boy had come to terms with his feelings for you the moment you fell asleep on his shoulder and he had been forced to carry you back to your common room solve an impossible riddle and get you in bed.  

He wasn't as smooth as he thought he was when it came to you. When he had liked other girls it was easy, he would just make a few flirtatious remarks ad then ask them out, but with you, it was complicated. 

First, there was the fact that you just got out of a two and a half year relationship. Then the fact that your mother was McGonagall. And of course, the fact that every time he tried to confess to you his words would get lodged in his throat and refuse to move. 

Day after day he told himself he would tell you, he would share the feelings that lodged themselves into his brain and heart. But as cliche, as it sounded days, turned into weeks and weeks turned into months and soon he was sitting across from you in the library thinking about how badly he wanted to push your hair from your face and decorate your neck with hickeys. 

But he kept his mouth closed cursing himself for every moment he let tick by which he didn't hold you in his arms. 

When he hit month four Sirius said he was hopeless and Remus agreed. James had become completely intoxicated by you. The dreams he had of you becoming lewd, looking you in the eyes became difficult as he could only think of how your lips would taste. 

Month five rolled around and James had decided he was hopeless, he had tried desperately to convey the message he kept bottled to you, but for being so smart you were extremely oblivious. Then the unthinkable happened. 

“James, can you stay after class please,” McGonagal asked, her voice sharp, but her eyes soft. 

James nodded numbly his mind wandering back to you, wondering if you had eaten enough for breakfast, you had slept in and only gotten there for the last five minutes. Maybe he would grab you a snack from the kitchens on his way to his next class and drop it off for you. Slughorn wouldn't mind if he was a bit late to potions.  

The class was dismissed and he stood from his seat absentmindedly standing to leave.

“James!” McGonagall called and he snapped back to attention. 

He walked up to her desk and stared at the women, deja vu making him blink rapidly. 

“I'm not going to beat around the bush Potter, I know you like my daughter,” McGonagall spoke peering at the now blushing boy over her glasses. 

James sputtered desperately for an answer, looking for a sentence to deny such a claim but he was cut off.

“James, I’m not here to hear your denial, I am here to beg you to ask her out.” 

And his brain exploded again. 

“She talks about you constantly, she cannot get out a sentence without your name being in it, it is simply ridiculous. Even worse you are getting spacey not only in the classroom but on the field. We almost lost our last game because you couldn't keep your head in the game. So please for both of your sakes, just ask her out.” McGonagall stared at the boy, looking desperate.

After a moment of silence, James spoke: “You aren’t mad that I like her?”  He chose his words carefully, not sure if he was on thin ice or not.

“No James.” The professor sighed, “If any of the boys in this school were to date her I would hope it to be you, I know you, you’re a good kid.” She admitted painfully. 

“You actually want me to ask her out?” James asked hesitantly, unsure if it was a type of test or if he was going crazy.

“Yes, James.�� She huffed, “Please just do it so I don't have to hear about how adorable you look in hoodies ever again.” 

James flushed again, “Y/n said I look cute in hoodies?” 

“Oh, Merlin.” She muttered under her breath, “Just do it James.” 

And with that, he ushered him out the door. 

You hummed quietly, music blasting far too loudly through your walkman, you lay on your back a book held above your head as you thumbed through it. 

You didn't take notice of your roommate busting into the room, a giggle on her lips as she smiled brightly. 

She called out your name twice, groaning and rolling her eyes before walking over to you and plucking the headphones from your ears. 

You sent her a glare. 

“Don’t glare at me,” She huffed, “I'm just here to tell you that James Potter is waiting outside the common room for you.”

“He is?” You asked. You were pretty sure you didn't have plans with him today. 

“No, I’m making it up.” She scowled rolling her eyes. 

“Okay, okay, I'm going.” You exhaled loudly pushing yourself from the bed. 

You wandered down the spiral stairs waving to a couple of people who seemed to be staring. You noticed a few girls whispering something to each other before catching your gaze, almost looking… jealous?

You frowned before exiting the common room.

“Hey James, what’s up…”  Your voice died in your throat at the sight in front of you. There stood a blushing mess of a boy, a bouquet of bright yellow roses and daisies grasped in his hands. He was adorned in his school pants and dress shirt, a yellow hoodie thrown over it, his dark curly hair springing from underneath its hood making him look positively adorable. 

He refused to meet your eye, his cheeks so red you swear they must have been on fire.

You felt your own cheeks heat as you stared up at him, his glasses perched lazily at the end of his nose as he stared at his feet. 

He finally raised his gaze meeting your own and instantly regretted it. Your head was tilted slightly in confusion, your cheeks dusted pink, your eyes wide, shining with a doe-like innocence. You were simply stunning. 

He pushed his glasses up his nose nervously and he spoke. He spoke the words he had wanted to say for five months. 

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Your heart stopped, jaw-dropping eyes growing wider, you were left completely speechless as your mind reeled with the words he just spoke.  

James’ throat went dry and he nervously fiddled with his glasses again, “I totally get it if you don't feel the same way, I just I can't stop thinking about you, and honestly I just couldn't keep it bottled up anymore.”

You just stood there. So stunned your mouth forgot how to move. 

“Say something,” James spoke his voice practically a whimper. 

You still didn't speak, you weren't sure you trusted your words at that moment, so instead, you took two steps forward and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling his lips onto yours. 

The kiss was messy at first, your noses collided at the speed you pulled James towards you, his arms soon reached around you, bouquet still secured in one hand as he straightened you and plunged his tongue into your mouth. He tasted like honey and cinnamon. His scent surrounded you, the soft odor of expensive cologne and the tinge of sweat. 

You pulled away slowly lips still touching a moment after the kiss broke, breath mingling as you looked up into his deep eyes, you could feel yourself begin to fall into them, your heart pounding at an inhuman rate. 

“I love you too James.” You whispered and the smile he wore was brighter than anything you could ever imagine. 

Taglist:

@accio-rogers

@roslea

@k3nz-doodl3

@theseuscmander

Masterlist

[kinglazrus]

Therefore I am

Phic phight 2020

Submitted by @kili-kai-wox (kilikani on ffn): Danny is surprised when he receives an A+. I wonder what subject it could be from?

Summary: There are two things Danny never expected to get out of his philosophy class: an A+ and to be confronted about his never-ending existential crisis

Warnings: discussion of/thoughts about death and the meaning of death.

Word count: 2971

Today is a grim day for Danny Fenton. It just might be the end of him. He's backed into a corner, enemies approached from all sides. His allies have abandoned him. Friends, family, all gone. He's on his own out here and it doesn't look like he's going to make it. Rations are getting low.

Jazz slaps her hand against her forehead and groans. "Don't be so dramatic!"

Danny, pinned against the lockers by his friends and sisters, howls in outrage. "I'm almost out of gummy bears!" He shoves the near empty plastic bag in Jazz's face, shaking it furiously. "And look! It's mostly just the white ones! I might as well starve."

"Ooh, I love the white ones!" Tucker snatches the bag out of Danny's hand. Fishing a few gummies out, he pops them into his mouth and chews, a blissful smile on his lips.

Danny moans. "My rations."

Sam rolls her eyes.

Danny was on his way to the cafeteria for lunch when they cornered him. They came out of nowhere, surging out from the crowd of shuffling students, surrounding him before he could realize what was happening.

With Jazz in front of him, Sam to his left, and Tucker to his right, they block off all routes of escape. Except the ghostly ones, but too many students are milling about for him to safely use his powers.

Danny doesn't like the look in their eyes. Sam's eager glint, Tucker's grin, Jazz's stern frown. They all set him on edge.

"Can I just please go to lunch?" he begs. Thanks to Skulker, Danny didn't have time to eat breakfast this morning, except a handful of cereal. The only thing he wants right now is to go get some food, even if it's the crappy cardboard pizza they serve in the cafeteria. He needs sustenance damn it!

Tucker stealing his gummy bears is the deepest betrayal he could get right now.

"No," Jazz and Sam say at the same time.

Tucker stealing his gummy bears is the second deepest betrayal.

"Come on, man," Tucker says around a mouthful of gummies. "Just spill it."

"It wasn't my fault," Danny whines, wilting against the lockers. Jazz's frown deepens, turning from disappointment into a full-blown pout. Left with no other choice, Danny relents. "Fine! But I'm telling you, he was asking for it."

He's about to expose his plans but stops when he catches their confused faces. "What?" he asks.

"Lancer was asking for it?" Sam asks. She leans against the lockers next to Danny, eyebrow raised.

"Lancer?"

"Yeah. Mikey told us what happened in philosophy class. And we told Jazz," Tucker says. "What do you think we're talking about?"

Danny thinks about his parents' new ecto grenade—completely harmless to humans, of course—rigged up in Dash's locker, ready to explode as soon as someone opens the door. "It's not important right now. Philosophy? I got an A, yeah. Awesome, right?"

"And you didn't tell me!" Jazz says, offended.

Oh, Danny thinks. That's why she looked disappointed. He doesn't know how he was supposed to tell her, though, because this is the first time he's seen her all morning.

"Dude, you didn't just get an A," Tucker says.

"Okay, A+."

"Dude."

Sam, exasperated, grabs Danny's shoulders and forcibly turns him toward her. "Mikey told us how Lancer stood up at the front of the class and said your paper was the best he'd ever read in that class."

"Oh." Danny's cheeks burn and he ducks his head. "Yeah. That."

When he turned the paper in last week, he honestly thought he would fail the assignment. The night before it was due, Cujo managed to dig his way out of the Ghost Zone again and immediately wanted to play. Danny was happy to oblige since, for once, he had all his homework done on time and there were no ghosts to take care of that night. The real trouble came when he had to go downstairs for dinner, leaving Cujo in his room with a stern reminder not to leave it.

Miraculously, Cujo obeyed the command. But that meant there was a bored, excitable puppy in Danny's room, alone, for almost an hour, with nothing to play with. His room hadn't been neat when he left it, but it was trashed by the time he came back. His backpack was particularly mangled, and his essay ripped to shreds.

Danny hadn't thought Lancer would accept "a ghost dog ate my homework," as an excuse for not having the assignment done. But he no longer had the library books he used to write the damn thing in the first place. Which meant he had to replace his typed, carefully referenced, well-thought out essay with a rushed, handwritten mess that consisted only of Danny's personal thoughts.

Suffice to say, he wasn't too confident in the new essay. The last thing he expected was to get a passing grade for it, much less actual praise. Danny doesn't get praise, not outside hero work, at least. He gets lots of sighs and disappointed looks. Maybe a stern, "This is proof you can do better," when he pulls a grade higher than a D. But not praise. Never praise.

"It was... something," Danny says. He doesn't usually get embarrassed by attention, although that doesn't necessarily mean he likes it either. But getting called out by Lancer in front of the whole class was an entirely new experience.

Before Lancer started handing out the papers, he had stood at the front of the class and waved the stack in the air.

"I have to say, I'm very impressed by the work some of you did. Very thoughtful," he started. "But there is one paper in particular that I would like to bring up."

Lancer shuffled through the stack, shifting everything around until a bundle of loose leaf ripped from a notebook sat on top. The pages were stapled poorly, and the handwriting was borderline illegible. Danny knew instantly it was his and expected the worst.

"This paper was, perhaps, the most insightful essay I've ever read in all my time teaching this class," Lancer said. He beamed in Danny's direction. "It was speculative, introspective, and intuitive. Written purely from the student's own thoughts on life and death. This is what philosophy is about, and I hope I can see similar work from the rest of you in the future."

Danny sank into his seat as Lancer walked down the aisle, heading right for him, and held his paper out.

"Thanks," Danny muttered, taking his assignment. He couldn't bear to lift his gaze and meet the burning stares of his peers. The worst part, though was when Lancer asked to see Danny at the end of the day.

"Are you gonna go?" Tucker asks.

"I don't know." Danny's grip on his backpack tightens as he thinks about the paper stuffed inside. "I'm not in trouble or anything, and it didn't really sound like I have to go."

"I think you should." Jazz reaches out and ruffles Danny's hair, smiling proudly at him. "You did good, little brother. You're smart, and Lancer knows that. Whatever he wants to talk to about, I'm sure it's good."

Danny grumbles, shoving Jazz's hand away and fixing his hair. He doesn't make it neat, but he messes it up the way he likes it to be messed up. There's a difference.

"I guess. As long as no ghosts interrupt, I'll go," Danny says. Jazz is right—she usually is, much to his chagrin. Whatever Lancer wants, after what he said about Danny's paper, it has to be good. But he still hopes the Box Ghost shows up so that Danny doesn’t have to go.

"Can I have my gummy bears back?" Danny asks, turning to Tucker.

Tucker, cheeks puffed with gummies, looks down at the empty bag. He slowly shakes his head. "I don't think you want them back."

—

Danny hesitates outside Lancer's door. The final bell rang five minutes ago, and most students have already fled the school grounds. The football team is still here, somewhere, because they have practice in half an hour. Everyone else is out front waiting for their buses. Jazz left in the initial crowd. Sam and Tucker offered to hang around and wait for him, but Danny waved them off and told them to go ahead. They have better things to do.

It crosses Danny's mind that he can lie to them. If he skips out and only tells them he talked to Lancer, they will probably accept it and leave it at that. Jazz might probe him a little about it, but if he acts annoyed about it, she'll stop. But he's being ridiculous. There's no real reason why he can't walk through this door right now and get this over with. Jazz is right. It's probably a good thing. But something about it sets Danny on edge.

Sighing heavily, he reaches out and knocks on Lancer's door, standing on his toes to peek through the window.

Lancer, sitting at his desk, grading a pile of new assignments, looks up. He sees Danny and smiles, waving him inside.

Danny pauses for a second, then turns the handle and steps into the room.

"Please, Mr. Fenton, close the door and take a seat," Lancer says.

Danny does as told, closing the door a little too hard, and shuffles over to the desk closest to Lancer's. Swinging his backpack off his shoulder, he sets it down on the floor beside him and slides into the chair.

While Lancer makes a few more notes on the paper in front of him, Danny scans the classroom. Sometimes it feels like he spends half his day in this room. Lancer teaches a surprising number of courses. Danny's almost impressed by the range. Little hints of each course are scattered throughout the room. A poster about calculating surface area by the window, a cartoonish timeline of US history along the top of the wall, aperiodic table taking up most of the back wall.

For philosophy, there's a collage of famous philosophers taped to the front of Lancer's desk. Danny thinks a former student made it, because it's just some images cut out and glued onto a stiff piece of poster board.

Danny stares at each face in the collage, trying to recognize them. Friedrich Nietzsche is the only one he can identify by name. The only reason Danny remembers him in the first place is his wild mustache. Hard to forget something like that.

"Mr. Fenton."

Danny's head snaps up, gaze jumping to Lancer.

"I'd like to congratulate you again for writing such a wonderful paper" Lancer says. "But I had a few questions."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Are you okay, Mr. Fenton?"

Danny blinks. "I­­­– what?"

"In your paper, you spoke a lot about death, dying, and our perceptions of life now that we know there is some form of afterlife. Some of your points were rather... personal."

Danny thinks back over his paper. The moment he realized he had to make the whole thing up, he decided to talk about the one philosophical debate he was personally invested in: the significance of life after death. He mentioned his parents' views on the matter, that ghosts are mindless monsters, but mostly spoke about his own and what questions he had about it. Thanks to his personal experience with dying, he had a lot to talk about.

Lancer reaches for an open notebook sitting on his desk. Lifting it up, he scans the page for a moment, then reads, "'Some people falsely believe ghosts are not, and never were, human, but are instead creatures from another dimension connected to our own. While some ghosts definitely aren't human, I have met countless that were. They remember living and dying, and there is evidence of their human lives left behind. What does this mean for people who are still living? If we can die and nothing changes for us, does dying matter at all?'"

Danny immediately recognizes his own words. Lancer must have written down what Danny said in his essay. It makes him uncomfortable. He doesn’t want his thoughts lying around where anyone can read them. He especially doesn't want Lancer to pick and choose them at random for whatever this conversation is.

"That doesn't really sound personal," Danny mutters.

"No, it doesn't," Lancer agrees. "But the things you go on to say after this point are concerning, to say the least. Which brings me back to my original question. Are you okay?"

Danny's face scrunches as he thinks. So what if he got personal? It's a personal matter. That was the whole point when he wrote it. He doesn't understand what Lancer's getting at.

Lancer sighs and keeps going. "'Lots of people think about what happens after they die. Usually, they're talking about religion and what waits for them on the other side. Personally, I wonder about what happens to everything I leave behind, and what dying would do for me.' Would you like to expand on that?"

Danny leans away. "No?"

"What dying would do for you," Lancer repeats.

"What are you­­– oh." Finally, realization dawns on Danny. He squirms uncomfortably. "I'm not– I don't want to–"

He cuts himself off with a sight. How is he supposed to explain what's going on in his head without giving his secret away? Danny's not okay, but he isn't not okay, either. He's just... dead.

He died, but he lived, and it changed him. And yet, at the same time, nothing changed at all. In the grand scheme of things, Danny died and everything stayed the same. No one noticed, except his friends, who were there and are probably scarred for life.

Besides, Danny lived, in the end. So he's supposed to be fine, right? But he doesn't know how to deal with going through something that traumatic and realizing it didn't matter.

Ghosts look at life differently. They don't regret dying because once you're dead, whatever led up to that point no longer matters. They remember their lives, but they don't care about them. If Danny had died all the way that day, he wouldn't care either. Thinking about that messes him up.

Lancer watches him expectantly. Danny realizes he's been silent for too long, and he has to say something.

"It's complicated."

"We have the time, if you'd like to try," Lancer says.

Danny shakes his head. "I really don't. You don't need to be worried about me, or anything. I don’t want to die or anything. I just..."

My whole life is just one big existential crisis.

"Mr. Fenton." Lancer stands up, pushing away from his desk.

Danny keeps his eyes on the philosophy collage as Lancer approaches. Holding himself perfectly still, he doesn’t look away, even as Lancer crouches next to Danny's desk.

"Okay."

There's nothing special about the word, or the way Lancer says it. He has no clue what's going on in Danny's mind right now, but he's looking at Danny with warm eyes, offering him a comforting smile, and Danny actually feels like he could be okay.

"For whatever it's worth, Mr. Fenton, I don't think my days would be the same without you. But I understand."

He really doesn't, but Danny appreciates the effort.

"If this isn't something you'd like to talk about with me, I won't push it. Perhaps I could have approached you more delicately about the matter." Lancer pats Danny's shoulder. "I hope you will talk to someone, if you need it. And don't let this stop you from pursuing your interest in philosophy."

Danny doesn't have the heart tell Lancer he only took the class because he thought it would be easy.

"You have a knack for it."

"Um, thank you," Danny says.

Lancer pats him again, then stands. "Don't let me keep you. I'm sure, as you students would say, you have to get vibing."

Danny grimaces. "We really wouldn't."

Dismissed, he gathers up his backpack and practically sprints to the door, yanking it open. Halfway out, he pauses, looking back over his shoulder. Lancer is back at his desk already, resuming his grading.

"Thanks, Mr. Lancer," Danny says. "You're not really 'hip', but... you are kind of cool."

He runs out of the room before Lancer can respond. Lips pressed in a firm line, he contemplates whether today was good or bad after all. A+ on his essay? Good. Getting praised in front of the class? It sounded good, but it felt bad and it was awkward as hell. Tucker eating all his gummy bears? Definitely bad.

The talk he just had with Lancer? Debatable.

Danny rounds the corner, heading for the front doors, and almost barrels right into Dash. He swerves at the last second—thank you reflexes—and skitters out of Dash's way.

"Watch it, Fenfreak," Dash says.

Danny rolls his eyes. "You get more creative every day, Dash. Why are you even still here?"

"Practice tonight, duh," Dash says.

Right. Danny gives Dash a critical look. "Going to your locker?" he asks.

"My stuff's already in the gym, dweeb. Why do you care?"

"I just thought I saw Paulina put some in there early. Could have been a love letter or something." Danny shrugs.

An eager gleam enters Dash's eye. Danny almost feels sorry for the poor guy. He's probably the only person who can't tell Paulina is hopelessly in love with Star. Why else would Paulina say she can't date any boys because she's saving herself for the ghost boy? Seriously.

Dash runs for his locker, yanking it open. As a resounding bang echoes down the hall and green go splatters all over the walls, floor, ceiling, and Dash, Danny finally makes up his mind. Today is a very good day.

[farfromsugafanfic]

Winter Bear

Genre: Roommates AU, Fluff

Pairing: Taehyung/Reader

Warnings: cursing

Synopsis: Your new roommate Taehyung can’t seem to let you work in peace. Yet, when you inevitably fall asleep working every night, you never question why you wake up in your bed.

✦✧✦✧

"Y/N! Hold still!" your roommate, Taehyung said. He brought the camera that hung around his neck up to his eyes and the flash caught you off guard. The camera was at least thirty years old and he often spent late nights on campus developing the photos himself.

"Hey!" you said. "What was that about?"

"Your hair is messed up," he said. "It framed your face well."

You weren't expecting such a serious answer. You simply blinked and took another sip of your drink. It was your second of the night and you were already beginning to feel a little tipsy.  Taehyung walked away after, continuing to take photographs of the party. You noticed Jimin posing for him--giggling and his face flushed--he'd surely regret a few of those poses in the morning.

It was only because of Jimin that you lived with Taehyung. You'd both been looking for a roommate around the same time and both mentioned it to Jimin. The two of you signed the lease before even meeting. It had been a week before classes started and you needed a place before you drained your bank account living in a hotel.

You really had no issues with Taehyung so far. Sure, you would be content simply sharing the space--you didn't expect to become friends--but Taehyung inserted himself seamlessly in your life. Just enough to not be overbearing, but enough that you occasionally wanted to wring his neck.

"So, have you and Tae fucked yet?" Jimin asked, taking a sip of his beer. He was far past tipsy and you hoped he didn't puke on your carpet. Not even a week into your new place and you were already at risk of not getting the deposit back.

"What the fuck?" you asked, hardly able to keep yourself from laughing. "We've lived together for five days. Do you think I'm that desperate?"

"Nah, I just know the effect Tae has on women."

"Do we know the same Taehyung?" You looked over at the blond who was currently snapping pictures of Yoongi, who slept on the couch farthest from the main party. "He's too pure and cute."

Jimin smirked. "Exactly."

You rolled your eyes as you poured another drink into your plastic cup. You'd started off with beer, then whiskey, and now you were onto rum and Coke. You were buzzed and you knew Jimin could tell as his eyes raked over you in concern.

"Don't drink too much," he said, cutely pouting out his lips.

"Why not? I'm already in my apartment and I won't get to party like this til winter break." You sipped your drink and bobbed your head to the music. Your demeanor shifting quickly, you grabbed hold of Jimin's wrists and drug him out into the living room where most of the partygoers were. Music thumped softly. It was just loud enough to dance to, but not so loud that the cops would get called. "Come on, show me how those dance classes have paid off."

Before long, Jimin was smiling and giggling as the two of you danced and drank and danced and drank and danced and...

You opened your eyes. There was no longer any music and you only caught a glimpse of a black T-shirt. Your head hurt and your vision blurred. A hand came out and grabbed your shoulder, it was gentle, fingertips only barely connecting with the fabric of your blouse.

"Jimin?" You reached out and took a handful of his shirt. "Is that you? It feels like you."

"Uh--"

"Mm, can you take me to my room? I feel so heavy and you're soo strong." A lazy smile came across your face. You'd always marveled that Jimin could carry you so easily despite not being that much bigger than you.

You felt yourself being lifted and arms resting under your knees and around your shoulders. Instinctively, you curled your nose into his chest. Something seemed off. After a party, Jimin normally smelled of sweat and whiskey. This time you caught a faint whiff of cologne and what you thought was Coke.

Before you could mutter anything else, your back connected with your bed, and the covers were pulled up to your chest. Your eyes closed and you heard nothing else.

✦✧✦✧

It was 11 pm and Taehyung had an early class the next day. Coming out of the bathroom, he was accustomed to seeing light seeping underneath the crack of your door. You typically got off work at 9 and he imagined that you stayed up doing homework. Although, unlike Taehyung, you didn't work weekends, making him wonder why you didn't get the majority of work done then.

Curious, he inched closer to your door. The two of you had lived together a month now. He wouldn't say you were friends, but you certainly didn't hate each other. Occasionally, the two of you would hunker down on the couch with popcorn and watch a movie. Even if you barely talked through it, the way neither of you flinched away when your hands brushed in the popcorn bowl let him know that you didn't despise him.

He knocked on your door before he could stop himself. Taehyung froze until he heard your barely audible, "Come in."

Opening the door, he found you at your desk. Notebooks and books spread across your desk, the floor, and even your lap. You and your laptop were in the middle of it all, your hair pulled up into a messy ponytail, and your makeup from work beginning to leave streaks of black under your eyes.

"What's up?" you asked, only glancing up at him before you returned to furiously typing.

"I, uh, I just noticed your light was on--is always on."

"Oh, don't worry, I won't keep you up."

"That's not--" he started, pausing when he noticed the cute way you chewed your cheek in thought. "What are you working on anyway?"

"My script," you said.

"For a class?"

"No, for me."

Taehyung perked up. "You write scripts? I'm an acting minor. You know, if you ever need someone to film with."

You stopped typing and truly met his eyes for the first time during the conversation. "Thanks," you said, your eyes narrowing and shoulders dropping. "I'll keep that in mind."

Taehyung fidgeted as he noticed your obvious annoyance. "Do--do you need anything?"

You shook your head and went back to typing. Taehyung watched you for a moment, daring you to change your mind. But, after a few moments of silence, he slowly slinked out of the room.

✦✧✦✧

It became a routine. Taehyung knocking on your door in his pajama pants a T-shirt. Usually, his hair was a little damp as he took showers before bed.

"How's the script coming?" he asked, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe in possibly the most cliche posture you'd ever seen.

"Fine," you said, just like every night.

"I brought you a snack," he said, walking into your room, looking between you and the door as he were trespassing and setting a bag of hot Cheetos on your desk.

"Oh, I don't like hot Cheetos," you said. "Sorry."

Taehyung's face fell. "I thought you liked spicy things?"

"Yeah, they taste too fake though. Thank you, it was really nice of you." You'd become less annoyed with Tae's late night visits, even found yourself checking the clock and listening as he got out of the shower.

You looked up and watched as Taehyung turned around and readied himself to leave. A small pang rang through your chest like a morning bell when you saw the way his shoulders were slouched and his mouth sat in a defeated line.

"Tortilla chips," you said. "I tend to crave tortilla chips when I work."

Taehyung smiled at you. It wasn't the full boxy smile you'd seen him use around Jimin or his friends, but there was something behind it that made your stomach feel warm.

✦✧✦✧

The next night Taehyung knocked lightly on your door. He held a bag of tortilla chips and tried not to crinkle it before you gave him the okay to come in.

But it never came.

"Y/N?" Taehyung asked softly. When you again didn't answer, Taehyung's brow furrowed and he slowly turned the knob, hoping he wouldn't regret going in. He opened the door and peered over to your desk. The set up was the same. Books, notebooks, your laptop, everything in their rightful places. Except for this time, your head was on the keyboard, your face turned towards the door and your mouth slightly open.

Taehyung chuckled as he realized you were asleep. Between work, homework, and the script you were working on, he honestly wondered how you stayed sane, not to mention awake. Your laptop had gone to sleep as well, but the screensaver reflected off your face and he couldn't help but chuckle as he set the chips down on your nightstand.

"You need to stop working so hard," he said. "I'm gonna  have to keep carrying you to bed."

He reached down and cleared the book off your lap, cringing as it landed with a thud on the floor. Taehyung glanced over to make sure it hadn't woken you up, but you were still sound asleep. He carefully wrapped his arms under our legs and around your shoulders, lifting you as gently as he could.

It was only a few steps to your bed, but you had managed to curl into his chest. He held back his laughter and carefully adjusted you so that he could reach down and pull back the covers. Setting you down, he pulled the covers up and piled the books and notebooks onto your desk. Taehyung quietly shuffled towards the door and shut off the light on his way out.

✦✧✦✧

You woke the next morning. You sighed, immediately feeling the rough fabric of your jeans keeping you from stretching out across the bed. Glancing over at your desk, your things were stacked neatly, something you rarely ever did. But, there were so many things you didn't remember from the night before.

You remembered coming home from work, working on your screenplay, and then only the smell of Jimin's cologne from that party a few months ago. Did Jimin come over? Did you drink? You smelled your clothes, not catching a whiff of alcohol. You shrugged, it'd been a while since you'd actually slept in your bed, normally falling asleep at your desk. Although, you typically managed to change when you got home from work. You weren't overly concerned, Jimin was one of your best friends and you knew that he probably just put you in bed and left.

Reaching for your phone, you stopped as you noticed a large bag of tortilla chips on your nightstand. You smiled as you realized that Taehyung must've come in like normal, but found you asleep.

Walking into the kitchen, you noticed Taehyung standing in front of the stove and frying a few eggs, a mug of hot chocolate half-drank on the counter beside him. Taehyung wasn't much of a cook, but he usually managed to cook himself eggs in the morning.

"Thanks for the chips," you said, opening the fridge and grabbing your protein shake. You weren't much of a morning person, so you prepared them all on the weekends so you didn't have to cook.

"Oh, you're welcome. It was really nothing." The eggs were overdone by the time he finally slid them onto the plate and you couldn't help but smile.

It was Friday which meant today was your last day of class and work.

"I, uh, just wanted to say thanks. I'll let you get ready for class."

He glanced up. His chopsticks halfway between his plate and mouth. "Do you want some eggs? I can make you some. You seemed tired last night. You probably need the protein."

"Oh, I have a protein shake," you said. "I'm okay. You really don't have to worry about me so much Tae."

You left the room, missing how Taehyung smiled at the new nickname. He pushed the eggs around his plate as he remembered how you looked with the covers pulled around you.

✦✧✦✧

The sun came through your window and the warmth hit your face pulling you out of your slumber. You were in your bed again and you couldn't help but smile at the feel of the sheet against the bare skin of your legs.

It was 9:30. A little earlier than you usually woke up on a Saturday, but the last thing you remembered the night before was working on the climax of your script. You were so close to finishing, although then you would spend all your time editing. The submission period was only a few weeks away and you couldn't miss it, even if it meant sacrificing the little sleep you got.

You walked into the living room on your way to the kitchen and jumped as you noticed a figure on the couch. Taehyung sat on the couch, in his work clothes, asleep. You'd fully expected him to be gone already. He worked the early weekend shift at the coffee shop down the street and you were used to having the apartment nearly to yourself on the weekends.

"Taehyung?" you said. Your voice soft and hesitant as you approached him. He wore a white sweatshirt and the hood was pulled over his head. Only the very ends of his hair were visible and his mouth lay slightly open. You almost didn't want to wake him up.

"Taehyung," you said again, a little louder. You touched his shoulder lightly. "Tae, shouldn't you be at work?" As neared you him, you thought you smelled something familiar, something that reminded you of cuddling into your pillow late at night.

His eyes shot open and he darted around you as he rushed to locate his keys. "Shit." He finally found his keys on the coffee table in front of him and started towards the door. "Thanks, Y/N" He shot you a kind smile before rushing out the door.

✦✧✦✧

You let out a breath and relaxed your shoulders as you hit 'Submit'. The script was finished and entered into the contest. You didn't expect to win, but it came with the opportunity for feedback and you couldn't pass that up.

A knock sounded at your door and it opened a few minutes later. Taehyung didn't need your confirmation anymore, only waiting if he heard your voice.

"Hey," he said. "I'm gonna be headed home tomorrow and I wanted to give you this before I left." From behind his back, he pulled out a massive package wrapped mostly neatly, only the edges showing some crinkling. Based on the size, you were surprised he'd even managed to keep it hidden as he walked into the room.

"Oh," you said, jumping up from your desk and opening your closet. You pulled out a significantly smaller package. "I actually got you something too."

Taehyung gapped at you in surprise. "You got me a Christmas present?"

You fidgeted. "You've always been so nice to me," you said, thinking of all the times Taehyung checked up on you and bought you snacks for your late night work. "I thought now that its break and my script is done that I should do something to pay you back."

Taehyung failed at holding back his smile. He took the package from you and motioned towards his present for you. "Open yours first."

You tore open the paper and found a body pillow. You nearly squealed in delight and hugged it to your chest. "How did you know I wanted one of these?"

Taehyung beamed. "I noticed how you always clung to me when I carried you to bed so I figured that you like to cuddle things in your sleep." When he finished the sentence, his eyes grew wide and he opened his mouth to say more, but nothing came out.

"Wait," you said. "It was you who carried me to bed after the party?"

"Uh yeah," he said. "And, kinda whenever you fell asleep at your desk." He slouched and stood awkwardly, like a scolded puppy.

You laughed. "I'm so stupid. I always thought I was sleepwalking to my bed or something. But it was you."

"Wait, so you're not mad?"

"Well, I probably should because it is a little weird, I guess. But, I think the pounds of tortilla chips and this pillow make up for it." Something made you want to run forward and fall against his chest. Smell his cologne that made your eyes immediate lull and want to close. But instead, you said, "Open yours."

He tore open the paper and opened the small box to find a stack of printed pictures. They were all from the party before classes started. When you'd first had them developed, you were surprised by how Tae seemed to capture people in their most real moments. Not their most beautiful moments or their darkest moments, but the ones where they were crying at a friend's joke or dancing as the beat dropped.

When you'd come across the one of you, with messy hair, flushed cheeks, for some reason, you thought it was the best picture of you.

"Jimin told me that you were scared to have them developed," you said. "I'm sorry if you didn't want to see them, but they're beautiful, Taehyung."

Taehyung pulled in for a hug and your head hit his chest before you could realize it. You fell into the hug naturally though, your eyes closing and your arms slinking around his waist. He didn't pull away and neither did you. Your breathing began to even out, you weren't asleep, but even though you were standing, you could easily fall asleep. Taehyung's arms around you made you feel like you were floating.

"You know," Taehyung said, his chin coming to rest on the top of your head. "You're kinda like a bear."

"What?" you asked, pulling away from his chest and looking up at him.

He looked down at you for a few moments before he reached up and pushed some hair out of your face. He smiled, more of a smirk, one corner of his mouth higher than the other.

"You come off so grumpy and like you don't want to be bothered." He lifted you off your feet, laughing as you yelped with surprise. He sat laid you on your bed, but unlike the times before, he climbed in beside you. Taehyung's arms wrapped around you and pulled you flush against his body. You turned around so you could bury your nose in his T-shirt. Right at the divet between his collarbones.

You hardly could question your actions or his for that matter. You'd be lying if you said that you hadn't thought about resting your head on his chest or feeling his warm breath on your ears. Or, that you hadn't noticed Taehyung's odd glances when you came into the common areas in a pair of shorts that hugged your skin so well that you almost forgot you were wearing them.

You already felt yourself falling asleep. The tension from your neck and shoulders releasing and Tae's hands pushing your hair back only made you want to spend the winter hibernating in his arms. He pressed a small, hesitant kiss to your hairline.

"But, you really just want someone to cuddle you. Just like a bear."

[sophisticated-creepy]

Lola’s mind was swarming. Although one thought seamlessly bled into the next, there was a supreme lack of a single thread with which to follow, and completely lost in the void of her own mind, she hadn’t noticed she’d walked passed her destination, realizing halfway down the next block she had to double back to reach Curios and Oddities. She was stepping up to the main entrance as Modesta was walking out, holding the door open wide for a customer who had finished purchasing an order of candles and dreamcatchers, the lady’s arms draped in large shopping bags.

“Thanks again, and have a pleasant day,” Modesta told the satisfied shopper. “Lola! I thought I saw you walking by.”

“Hi, Modesta,” Lola chirped, perhaps a tad too sharply to even her own ears. “How was inventory?”

“Fine,” Modesta answered, her eyebrows knitting together in question. Lola’s energy was sporadic and fluctuating, sending out an unsettling vibe despite standing perfectly still in the middle of the sidewalk. Maybe that was the issue: Lola was merely standing. Lola didn’t “stand”, she fluttered, like an overly caffeinated butterfly. If Modesta did find her friend by chance to be in a state of rest, some other part of her was usually moving, whether it were her arms gesturing about grandly during some ostentatious storytelling, or her eyes dancing to absorb the scenery around her. Lola was like the wind, and rarely remained stagnant, so when she noticed the eerie calm in the way Lola remained motionless, staring at nothing, she was immediately on edge and completely creeped out.

“Look, I know Halloween is right around the corner, but you are really starting to freak me out, Lola. Do you need help or something?”

“Sorry,” Lola spoke. She then blinked, her shoulders slouching downwards naturally, shifting back into a more fluid realm of movement and mannerisms. “Sorry,” she repeated. “Yes, actually, I was wondering if you could help me. Are you busy, or can we talk for a moment?”

“I’m not too terribly busy, come on in. What’s on your mind? You were a total zombie on the sidewalk just now.” Lola was ushered into the warmth of the shop, the scent of vanilla and cookies instantly had her relaxing, feeling once more at peace and in control of her rampant thoughts and imagination.

“I’m processing a lot of information,” Lola began as she stepped into the sacred space. “Actually, I’m trying to get some research done on a new story for a writing contest I’m entering.”

Modesta gave a light laugh. “Oh! Another story, huh? That explains your zone-out. What’s your theme this time?”

“The Hobblin’ Goblin.”

“Of course it is,” Modesta laughed harder. “Why did I even bother to ask?”

“Anyway…,” Lola transitioned, giving her friend a look that clearly meant she herself was not amused. “I have a deadline in little over a week, so I need to get as much research done as possible before I can do any actual writing.”

“Do you really need to do research? I thought you knew all there was to your loveable Hobblin’ Goblin.”

“It’s rather quite shocking on how much I don’t know, except for the everyday basics: he’s a goblin, he hobbles, walks with a crutch, and plays pranks. I don’t know the real, tangible origins, so I’m looking for the deeper meaning. I’m looking for his story.”

“I’ve never thought about it from that angle before,” Modesta admitted. “It’s a unique way to portray the legend, that’s for sure.”

Aggrievedly, Lola leaned her hip against a tall table stacked with candles and heaved a sigh. “I want to get some personal testimonies of people experiencing a real run-in with Mr. Goblin as part of my research to get a truer feel of his hauntings, but I’m coming to realize it’s going to be near impossible to sort the differences between a Hobblin’ haunt and a regular haunt.”

“I can help with that!” Jack sprung up from behind the furniture piece Lola and Modesta were talking next to, his boisterous appearance scaring the living daylights out of the two women, having the whole shop of customers stare in their direction as they each let out a scream of fright.

“Jack!” Modesta scolded after catching her breath. “Have you been waiting behind that table this whole time to scare us?”

Laughing, Jack nodded. “I was. But, do you at least get my point?”

“What are you talking about?” Lola asked, still trying to get her racing heartbeat under control.

“I heard you talking about the Hobblin’ Goblin. He pulls pranks, just like me, and like any other prankster, his jokes are mainly for his enjoyment,” Jack informed. “You can’t rely on the typical moans and groans and rattling of chains. You need to look for the fun.”

Lola snapped her fingers in confirmation. “That’s exactly what I said to Stacy. I’m looking for what makes the Hobblin’ Goblin so special, and I believe it lies in the fun. Do you mind if I record you saying that, Jack? From one trickster to another, I’m sure you’ve got some great insight I could borrow.” Eager to get a new perspective on her favorite goblin, Lola began digging around in her purse to renew her quest of investigation.

“Did you hear that, Mo? I get to be recorded,” Jack smugly stated, plastering on a cheesy smile a charlatan of yore would envy.

“I don’t think the world is ready for your mug,” Modesta sarcastically shot back. Lola emerged from her handbag, holding her tape recorder towards Jack’s face, his smile swapping out for a confused pout as he stared down the microphone of the handheld device.

“Tell me again about the motivation of tricksters, Jack,” Lola sweetly requested.

“Yes, Jack,” Modesta agreed, stifling her laughter to the best of her ability. “Tell the audio world all about it.”

“Uh, Lola, when you said ‘record’, I assumed---.” Jack trailed off, not wanting to hurt the wannabe reporter’s feelings, as Lola’s innocent expression at recording him with her archaic equipment weighed heavily against his conscience.

“Oh, shit, hold on,” Lola cursed. “I need to take notes.” Lola’s quick movements to try and free up her hands in order to get a pen and her notebook caused her to jumble and jostle the items in her arm, and she dropped her notepad along with the newspaper straight to the floor in a flurry of commotion. Modesta bent down to help Lola retrieve her items. When her fingertips brushed the newspaper, she hissed, jolted by the sharp sensation, and yanked her arm back, the feeling as if she had touched the coils of a stovetop scorching into her fingers. Looking at the periodical, her eyes fell on the front page, the grainy image of the train yard staring back at her, and Modesta could have sworn she had been punched in the gut.

“Oh, no. Nope. Not okay, and not today. Nada, nope, not happening,” she stammered furiously, and shoved the paper away from her. “I don’t know why you brought that newspaper into my store, but you need to take it outside now.”

Lola reclaimed the newspaper, slowly picking it up off the floor. “Well, that helps answer some of my questions,” she softly stated.

“Everything all right?” asked Jack.

“I was hoping Modesta would take a look at this picture in the newspaper. Even I got a weird vibe from it, and I wanted to get her opinion on the photo, too.” Lola gave the paper to Jack so he could take a look at the cause of excitement.

“Is this the train yard where that attack was made?” he asked, and Lola nodded.

“What attack?” Modesta asked, unconsciously staggering away from Jack as he held the paper out, studying the photo intensely. The residual tingle of being burned lingered on her fingertips, and her hackles were prickling in warry foreboding.

“I heard about it on the radio last night. A security guard was attacked by a demon,” Jack informed, dropping his voice at the end to whisper so as not to alarm nearby customers.

“A demon?” Modesta repeated, crossing her arms and raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Really? Someone approved that statement to be broadcasted all over local radio?”

“Hey, there’s no mention of the demon in the paper,” Jack stated, turning the pages to try and find the rest of the story.

“Why would there be? The article said it was the work of some kids’ prank gone wrong,” Lola interjected.

“What I heard,” Jack began, “was that the security guard was attacked by a hunched over shadow creature he saw lurking just outside the trees of the forest.”

“How would the radio station know that? The newspaper said the guard has a concussion and a fractured skull. He couldn’t make a statement. His partner found him after he fell,” Lola surmised.

“The dates are wrong, too,” Jack continued, his gaze sharp on the paper. “I heard about the attack happening two nights ago, not last night.”

“Maybe the radio got it wrong,” Lola theorized. “Or, maybe the paper has a misprint. Wait!” Jack’s words began to poke at Lola’s mind, helping to fit pieces of the puzzle together from her earlier haphazard thoughts. “Did you say something about a hunched over shadow creature? Here, let me see that again.” Lola reached for the newspaper and turned to the front page, squinting hard once more at the blurry image. “I can’t tell for sure,” she said at last.

“What are you looking for?” Modesta asked, still standing on the outskirts of her friends thanks to the uneasy item of interest.

“I think the photographer caught an image in the forest, but I can’t make it out. I’ll understand if you don’t want to, but could you please take a look for me, Mo? I get the feeling something’s there, but I need you to validate it or not.”

“Oh, there’s something in that photo, all right,” Modesta confirmed, not even having to look at the image, refusing to touch the newspaper.

“Let me take a look in a better light,” Jack requested, and leading the others to the main checkout counter, spread the pages out on the glass surface. Leaning over the image, he peered closely at the tree line. “I think I can make out a shape. Here, right?” Jack pointed to the same shape that first caught Lola’s attention. "It looks cut off, but that might really be a picture of some kind of figure.”

“Oh, my gracious!” Lola gasped. “What if this is proof of the Hobblin’ Goblin?” she asked in a burst of delight. “Isn’t he rumored to have lived in the forest? What if, what if,” she stressed, “this is him?” Her heartrate had picked back up several faster beats per minute, and the pleasant prickle of goosebumps began crawling up her arms, her earlier disposition melting to give way to the wash of excitement lighting her features. “We’ve got to check this place out!”

“No, Lola,” Modesta cut in harshly. “Absolutely not.” Lola turned to her sour friend, the brusque declaration confusing, and her expression must have read as much, for Modesta pointedly tapped a firm finger on the counter where they all hovered above the newspaper. “This is not safe,” the consternated brunette stated evenly.

“I don’t understand,” Lola spoke. “Why are you so spooked?”

“You wanted my opinion? This is it: stay away.”

“What exactly are you picking up on?” Jack questioned.

“I’m all for Lola doing her research on the legend of the Hobblin’ Goblin,” Modesta began to elaborate. “Since you’re looking for the ‘fun’, I suggest you stick to that route. This,” she indicated, waving her hand over the newspaper, “is not him.”

Lola’s excitement quelled as she stared down at the shape in the photo, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth in contemplation as she considered Modesta’s words compared to her impulse to investigate. This article was a tangible lead, a jumping point for her story to breathe life and take flight. She trusted her friend’s opinion, but nothing short of her own prodding could satiate Lola’s curiosity once it had been roused.

“I trust your judgment,” Lola began carefully, “but maybe we should check things out for ourselves. Come out to the train yard with me tonight.”

“Even if I wanted to, I can’t. I’m leading that workshop tonight and Jack is helping run the store, so don’t even bother asking him,” Modesta replied.

“Sorry,” Jack apologized, shrugging his shoulders in pre-obligated surrender.

“Besides, you’d be trespassing. You don’t have the authority to go traipsing around on private property after hours anyway,” Modesta reminded. If it were anymore possible, Lola’s exuberance and spirits deflated with the realization that she wasn’t, in fact, allowed to do her investigating after hours. A rebellious side of her stayed hopeful, however, and the back of her mind was already formulating plans to get the research she so desperately sought.

“Lola,” Modesta drawled in warning, seeing the gleam of trouble brewing behind her friend’s eyes. “Give me your word you’re not going to go after this figure. Leave it alone.”

Lola rolled her eyes, but still held a smile, always appreciative of Modesta’s caring and cautious nature. “I give you my word I won’t go seeking this figure,” she promised.

“Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, I have customers to tend.” With that, Modesta flicked her eyes upon the newspaper one final time before turning away. A moment passed before Jack cleared his throat.

“You’re going to go after this figure, aren’t you?”

“Now, Jack, I gave my word, you heard me promise,” Lola reiterated.

“Just…please take Raph with you. I know you are more than capable of handling things on your own, but…if there really is something demonic out there, it’s best if you don’t face it alone.” He gave his friend a comforting squeeze on her shoulder before going to help Modesta with the store. Lola remained silent, thankful of her friends’ concerns, however, the desire to figure out this growing mystery of ghosts and goblins staring back at her from a newspaper headline had her solidifying in her mind what she needed to do in order to properly tell a story.

~~~~~~~~~~

Oh, that Lola. Always getting into trouble.

[five-hxrgreeves]

I Won’t Back Down - Five Hargreeves x OC

Word Count: 3,597

You can stand me up at the gates of hell But I won't back down I'm gonna stand my ground Won't be turned around And I'll keep this world from dragging me down

1 | 2 |

Pt. 1- 10 Days Until Apocalypse I, 2019

Lola Gimbel was a very peculiar child and it wasn’t because she was one of the forty-three children born on that fateful day in 1989. Instead, she was strange because at the ripe young age of fifteen, she had already started her autobiography. It wasn’t that she was famous and needed her life written down, or that she was planning on dying anytime soon; on the contrary, she planned to live a long and fruitful life.

(One must be careful with what they wish for.)

Instead, her inspiration came from an eleven-year-old girl who’d lived over seventy years ago in a fictional work called The Book Thief. Lola admired Liesel’s perseverance and survival skills during war-torn times and the romantic part of her wanted someone like Rudy to stay by her side. This created the urge to pen down her own life story, first by asking her family members about the early years beyond memory until she could rely on her own.

Then, she spent many, many nights hidden in her basement writing by the aid of flickering candlelight. Of course, she didn’t need to use such old-fashioned ways, but the atmosphere helped set the mood and was a replica of how her book-hero wrote. Unfortunately, Lola didn’t think she had anything interesting to write even in the two and a half notebooks and counting. So far, she had:

My name is Lola Gimbel and I was born August 1, 2004. My family consists of my mother, Diana Gimbel, my father, Edmund Gimbel and my uncle, Edward Gimbel. I go to the local public high school in downtown Toronto, Canada. My father and uncle own a department store downtown called Gimbel’s Brothers. (An original name, I know. Don’t tell them I said that.) This is where I spend most of my free time after school. My mother works long hours as a nurse and apparently, I can’t be trusted enough to stay home alone after burning eggs one morning.

I’m getting ahead of myself; I was born in Toronto General Hospital at 9:15 a.m. According to my birth certificate, I weighed five pounds, five ounces. Tiny, I know! My mother was in labor for almost nine hours and when I finally arrived, she named me Delores. I hate my name because it sounds so old fashioned and it means sadness. I’d like to think I was a gift to my parents, but maybe not? and I know they love me, so instead of telling them that, I call myself Lola, which is better. It’s still a derivative of Delores, after all. As for appearances, I have shoulder-length brown hair with mid-length bangs and blue eyes.

The writing continued on for pages and pages, detailing everything she could- and couldn’t-remember from her life. There was one thing that she did not include, however, as it would give her parents a heart attack: the mansion the next block over, home of the long-forgotten Umbrella Academy, housed the biggest library she’d ever seen, and she stole books from it.

Three Years Ago

It had really been a coincidence that she’d taken any interest in the building at all. While it was the biggest thing in the city practically, the old man who lived there was an eccentric recluse who never left the house. And, despite it’s past grandeur, the once-grand entrance had faded with time and memory. Even those who’d grown up in the golden years of The Umbrella Academy had let their passions for the group of crime-fighting children go by the wayside as they grew up, leaving the large house to sit without audience for years on end.

Still, that didn’t stop some interested passers-by from peering in occasionally and Lola was among them. One night, she’d been passing by on her way home from a late-night walk and had travelled by the house on her way home. She’d passed by the house hundreds of times before, but that night she’d seen something. Or, someone. A slightly stooped figure had lingered in the window until they’d sensed they were being watched and had disappeared.

Since then, curiosity had plagued her to go check it out. Maybe, just maybe, she’d have something interesting to add to her life’s story. Her mother would cluck her tongue and say curiosity killed the cat, but her Uncle Edward would wink at her and chime in with but satisfaction brought it back. So the next night, Lola didn’t hide in the basement. Instead, she donned all-black clothes and crept to the house.

She’d never broken in anywhere but she had an inventive, quick mind and could almost always come up with a solution. The first-floor windows and doors had been locked and secure but after a few, terrifying minutes of climbing- luckily, the old stone had great places to cling on to- she’d reached the second level. Despite the ache in her fingers from grasping the side of the building, Lola had pressed on, hoping for luck, which arrived in the form of a second-story window being unlocked.

The brunette pushed it open carefully and dropped in, keeping low. A young girl would hardly trigger any alarms, but she wanted to be cautious anyway. The room she’d landed in was dark and with only the faint filter of light from the street lamps, she made her way into the hallway. A part of her hoped to find the figure she’d seen, but the other part- the larger part- hoped she wouldn’t meet anyone.

Despite the age of the house, the floorboards were in excellent condition and made no sound as she walked down the hallway. After trying a few doors to find them all barred, Lola hesitated at the back staircase. She should really stay on the floor with the escape, but something was encouraging her exploration upward, so she climbed.

There, at the end of the hallway, stood two large, double doors. Her anticipation heightened and it took everything in her not to sprint towards them. Instead, Lola continued at the same pace and, with bated breath, tried the handle. To her surprise, the door swung open immediately. The room was dark but her eyes had gotten used to the lack of light by now and she could make out towering, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. She gave a squeak of excitement. Books! Now she could really be like Liesel Meminger!

Sure, there were libraries, but this was so much better. Her feet moved quickly, closing the distance between the door and the books. She ran her hands enthusiastically along the spines of the volumes, unable to read their titles due to the dim light. Which one should she take first?

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Someone was outside the door. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but the air suddenly felt… charged.

Quickly, she pulled one volume off the shelf and close to her chest. At the same time, a shadow appeared in the open crack of the door.

Oh no, oh no, oh no- Lola shook her head furiously, clutching the book. Panicking wouldn’t help. The room was dark enough that whoever it was probably hadn’t seen her, so she could still get away. Her eyes darted around the mostly open space.

There was a couch with side tables, a working desk, library nick-nacks and- aha! she thought triumphantly, soundlessly making her way to the window.

The figure in the door entered the room, peering cautiously around before backing out again, closing the door with a sharp click!

Lola, from her hiding place in the curtain, let out a relieved breath. She took this as her queue to leave, exiting with her prize out the same window she’d come in. While she was triumphant in her first heist, her mind was whirring. The figure had been obscured by darkness, but the outline had been clearer than when she’d seen them in the window- that, she was sure of- and it seemed like the person wasn’t actually a person at all, but a- monkey.

9 Days Until Apocalypse I, 2019

After school hours usually found Lola en route to her father’s department store where she would spend time until closing working on homework or hanging out with the staff that was on break. While the back room wasn’t the most ideal place for studying, she’d become used to the constant comings and goings and the noise that came with the workers.

Now, she was sitting at a table in the cluttered space at the back of the store working on her math homework while the daily news played on a small, old-fashioned TV hung up in the corner of the large room. Three of the staff members, Sam, Eric and Brittany were sitting at the table with her. The first of the workers’ attention was fixed on the small TV while the second two where scrolling through an app on their phones looking as bored as Lola felt as she completed her assignment.

With a loud sigh, she looked up at the trio hopefully, “do you guys want to see a magic trick?”

Brittany rolled her dark eyes, “what, are you gonna pull a quarter from my ear?”

Lola grinned, “nope!” she said cheerfully, shifting slightly in her seat to pull out a deck of cards from the back pocket of her jeans.

Sam huffed, “are you going to do the ‘pick a card, any card?’ schtick?”

“You guys have no faith in me,” the brunette complained, pulling the cards from the container and proceeding to shuffle them, “I’ve been practicing.”

Eric sighed, “fine, I’ll bite. Hold ‘em out.”

Discreetly, the brunette flipped the bottom card of the deck over and then fanned them out to the other teen, careful not to let the different card show, “alright, pick a card, any card,” she said this part sarcastically with an eye roll towards Sam.

The blonde boy reached forward and pulled out the card he wanted.

“Show it to everyone but not me,” she commanded, “make sure you remember it.”

“Aye aye, Cap,” Eric said, flipping the card to reveal his choice.

While he did so, she flipped the deck casually in her hands, feigning nonchalance. She took it back from him, placing it carefully in the middle of the deck, “now, I’m going to find your card without looking.”

Lola hid the deck behind her back, flipping the top card over. At this point, even Brittany had put away her phone to watch. She revealed them again showing a face-up deck and carefully shuffled through the cards to reach the only face-down card.

Flipping it over, she showed the eight of hearts, “is this your card?”

Eric let out a low whistle, “well, I’ll be damned. You have been practicing.”

The dark-haired girl beamed happily, pleased that she’d pulled it off. The first time she’d tried this with her uncle, she’d accidentally revealed the workings of the trick as the deck slipped out of her hands.

“That’s definitely better than a quarter,” Brittany said begrudgingly.

Before anyone else could say something though, the jingle of the breaking news broke through the work room.

“This just in! Moments ago, police reported the death of the eccentric billionaire, Reginald Hargreeves. More on this story after the break.”

Sam’s head snapped towards the TV, “Hargreeves- that name sounds familiar.”

“That’s because he ran that Umbrella thing, idiot,” Brittany said with an eye roll, “they were all the rage during the early 2000s. My brother went nuts over them.”

“The Umbrella thing?” Lola questioned, curious.

“Oh yeah,” the older girl said, “there was this group of crime-fighting children that was run by Hargreeves. They became famous after stopping a bank robbery but they went downhill after one of their members went missing. Tommy was heartbroken.”

“Went missing?” Lola asked, “as in kidnapped?”

Brittany shrugged, “no one knows what happened to him. Hargreeves isn’t exactly an open book, either. There were several unsolved documentaries but they flopped since there’s not a ton of information. You can look it up if you wanna to know more. Personally, I was more of a Disney fan.”

“Of course you were,” Sam said in amusement.

The dark-haired girl glared at him, “what’s that supposed to mean, moron?”

The blue-eyed boy shrugged, “just that it’s a girly thing.”

Lola rolled her eyes as Brittany shot something back at the boy, tuning them out as the attention shifted away from her. She made a mental note to research The Umbrella thing, as the other girl had said. Standing, she stretched and made her way into the main area of the store to take a break.

Despite all the time she spent in here, Lola didn’t think she’d ever tire of looking at the constant rotation of styles and colors. Her favorite thing to do was run her hands along the racks, feeling the shifts between soft, scratchy, wooly and a hundred other different cloths.

Her favorite section was the formal wear for the vast amount of sparkly dresses that her father decided to sell. She particularly liked the sequins because of the shine they gave off and the unique texture that passed under her fingertips. While she wouldn’t necessarily consider herself a girly-girl, she did appreciate a nice dress and the occasional accessory, even owning-and wearing- an assortment of hats and dressy items containing her favorite material.

This was the section she made her way over to now, immediately reaching her hand out to touch the slightly-rough, slightly-smooth fabric of a long, strapless dress covered in a layer of silver-and-gold sequins.

She jumped when a gentle, warm hand came to rest on her shoulder, “hey, Sequins.”

Lola rolled her eyes, “Uncle Ed, I thought I told you I hated that nickname?”

Her uncle smiled goofily at her, “what, I can’t call you something that you love?”

She huffed, “it’s dumb.”

“That’s what your mother said when you wanted to go by Lola but you did it anyway.”

“Ouch, I think I need ointment for that burn.”

The man laughed loudly, attracting some stares from other customers. They both ignored it, Lola being used to her uncle’s easy, hearty laughter, “I thought she was going to have a conniption when you told her.”

Lola’s face warmed, “are you ever going to let me live that down?”

He gave her a bright smile, “no way, Dolores.”

The brunette gave him a half-irritated, half-playful glare, “please, Uncle Ed.”

8 Days Until Apocalypse I, 2019

That evening before dinner, Lola sat herself down at the computer in her room and typed in the first part of a search inquiry: The Umbrella and then Google helpfully suggested the rest: Academy.

Clicking on the first result, her blue eyes widened in shock as an image appeared on the screen. The building she stole books from almost every night was home to heroes. Good god, what if she’d been caught? She would be dead for sure. She thanked her lucky stars that she’d only met the slightly-stooped figure a handful of times and had never spoken to anyone.

She scrolled further down to read about The Umbrella Academy.

On October 1, 1989, 43 women around the world gave birth simultaneously, despite none of them showing any sign of pregnancy until labor began. Seven of the children are adopted by eccentric billionaire Sir Reginald Hargreeves and turned into a superhero team that he calls "The Umbrella Academy." Hargreeves gives the children numbers rather than names, but the public gives them codenames. Spaceboy, Kraken, Rumor, Séance, The Boy and Horror. While putting six of his children to work fighting crime, Reginald keeps the seventh apart from her siblings' activities, as she supposedly demonstrates no powers of her own.

Intrigued, she clicked on a few more links that showed poor-quality pictures of six kids in domino masks and black uniforms after complete missions. Sometimes they’re covered in blood, sometimes they’re not. The group visibly diminishes in number after 2002, a few years before she was born. Then, when they’re in their teens, it shrinks again before all articles about the group cease to exist.

Frowning, Lola then typed in Reginald Hargreeves. There are, unsurprisingly, few articles about the man himself. There were a few about his notable achievements including his knighting and entrepreneurship but most involved The Umbrella Academy. There was even audio recording of one of the few interviews he’d done, showing the man standing outside of a bank as he introduced the group to the world.

“Our world is changing. Has changed. There are some among us gifted with abilities far beyond the ordinary. I have adopted six such children. I give you the inaugural class of The Umbrella Academy!”

Abilities beyond the extraordinary? Lola thought, weren’t they just regular crime-fighting children? She snorted at that. There was no such thing as regular crime-fighting children. She entered her next search: Umbrella Academy superpowers.

Many articles were speculations of the full extent of the powers the children possessed, what-if questions and potential side effects or results of their use. She did learn, though, that the six powers were as followed: super strength, super accuracy, altering reality, ghost summoning, teleportation and time travel and summoning inter-dimensional beings. Lola could barely believe what she was reading. Children like this existed? And here she was, writing down her autobiography like she was someone important!

She shook her head, forcing her jealousy to dissolve. The media tended to sugarcoat everything; these kids probably didn’t have a very fun life if they were constantly on the job. And besides, of course she was important, she had time to do something noteworthy. Still, it felt like she’d entered an alternate universe and couldn’t believe she hadn’t been aware people with super powers even existed.

A part of her wanted to stop searching then and there with how muddled her mind was currently feeling but an almost morbid curiosity forced her to continue. As her final search of the night, she typed in The Boy disappearance.

Here, even less credible evidence popped up and she sifted through what she found until she had enough of a framework for a story. Apparently, he disappeared on November 10th, 2002 and his adoptive father proclaimed him dead. There were several conspiracy theories but nothing concrete, causing her to eventually give up on finding information. There was more to be found on the other siblings, she knew, but her curiosity had been satiated and she had other things to do tonight.

Standing from her desk, she went to her bedside table and opened the drawer, pulling out the two hardcover books she’d hidden in there. Tonight, she’d return them to The Umbrella Academy’s library- that was hard to believe- and get two more. Placing them in her bag, she wondered about the lack of security for such an at-risk family, but she’d seen pictures of Hargreeves; he was old, and despite being incredibly smart, he probably had difficulty with technology like any older person. It wouldn’t matter much now that he was dead, though.

Turning her feet towards the door to head downstairs for dinner, she wondered if the stooped figure she’d seen had been Hargreeves before quickly discarding the thought. While the man had appeared old, he’d always stood straight and proud, never bent with age.

During dinner, she let her parents and uncle talk around her while she puzzled over the mysterious Umbrella Academy. They seemed to have a fairly large fanbase in their youth, but all information on them was practically made up or guessed. Lola had always liked puzzles.

Finally, towards the end of dinner, she broke her silence, “mom?”

Diana turned towards her daughter, pushing back her short, brown hair behind her ear, “yes, Dolores?”

The younger girl winced. Her mother insisted on using her formal name, “do you know anything about The Umbrella Academy?”

Now she had both of her parent’s attention as Edmund cut off the conversation with his brother, “The Umbrella Academy?”

Lola nodded, “the superhero children of Reginald Hargreeves?”

Her mother shook her head, “a bit after my time, dear.”

The brunette girl rolled her eyes, “you’re not that old, Mom.”

Diana shot her a look, “I never said I was old, just that I didn’t know them.”

She grumbled under her breath, crossing her arms and pouting. She’d only been trying to give a compliment. Unfortunately, the dark-haired woman leaned over and gave her daughter a firm smack on the back of her head, “don’t grumble, Dolores. You sound like a caveman.”

There was just no winning with her. Thankfully, her Uncle Edmund came to the rescue by changing the subject, “any progress on your autobiography, Sequins?” he asked with an amused twinkle in his hazel eyes.

The brunette sighed and uncrossed her arms, using one of her hands to push her hair away from her face, “I don’t know what’s even the point anymore,” she complained, “especially with super-powered kids who are more interesting than me.”

Her father gave her a fond look, “you’re just as important as they are, don’t think that you’re not. And besides, this Umbrella talk reminds me- one of the children of the Academy published an autobiography a few years back, you might want to take a look at it.”

She shot him a surprised look, “really? Exposing superhero secrets?”

He shrugged, “I’m not sure of the extent of what’s written, but it’s probably worth taking a look, right?”

She chewed her lip in thought for a moment before nodding, “okay, thanks Dad.”

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 3: Signed In Blood]

Series summary: You are an overwhelmed and disenchanted nurse in Boston, Massachusetts. Queen is an eccentric British rock band you’ve never heard of. But once your fates intertwine in the summer of 1974, none of your lives will ever be the same...

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, physical frailty, sneaky foreshadowing.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

The cashier blinks at you as he scans the items in your basket: two Cokes, an orange juice, a Mountain Dew, a grape Fanta, a box of Ritz crackers, a KitKat, three packs of cherry Pop Rocks, and assorted bags of Lay’s chips. “You must have, like, a lot of kids.”

“Something like that.”

Terminal E of Logan International Airport is bustling with swiftly-moving businessmen dragging rolling suitcases, tidy-looking flight attendants, careening toddlers and frazzled mothers. The band is waiting at the gate; their plane to Heathrow is scheduled to board in thirty minutes. Our plane, you correct yourself. I’m going too.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I ran out of paper bags but I can check in the back if you want—”

“Oh no,” you protest, slapping a ten-dollar bill onto the counter and gathering up the snacks. You’ve cultivated a stubborn solidarity with your fellow service industry employees. “That’s cool, I’ve got it. Thanks. Have a great day!”

“You too! Good luck with your kids!”

You laugh as you trot away. Yes, my very large, extremely anarchic British children. You could have sent Freddie and Rog for the snacks, but you don’t trust them not to try to steal something and end up getting strip-searched by TSA; Brian is still too weak to go anywhere alone; and John...well, John dissolves into blood-red cheeks and averted eyes if you ask him anything. You weave through the crowded terminal, shifting your arms to keep the snacks centered.

“Wow, you have your hands full there!”

You peer around the heap to see a businessman in a powder blue suit, neatly combed black hair, mid-thirties, benign smile. Your arms are beginning to ache. “Ha, yeah. I guess I do.”

“Need some help?” he asks, still smiling.

“Oh, thank you so much, but I’ve got it—”

“Nonsense.” He cheerfully plucks the chips and Pop Rocks out of your grasp. “Where are we going?”

Oh no. You know this type of man. He’s the guy who flirts with the nurses while his wife is recovering from a gallbladder removal, who tries to impress you with his mid-level accounting job and Marshall Field's neckties, who obliviously—or worse, forcefully—offers assistance when it’s least desired. He’s the type to play superhero so he can get a taste of what it feels like to be someone who matters. He’s not usually dangerous, but he is viperous if his fantasy gets interrupted, bitter and desperate and striking out like a wounded animal. Jesus christ, I do not have time for this bullshit today. The muscles in your forearms are screaming now. “Seriously, I can handle it. Thank you. Can I get my snacks back? My friends are waiting.”

His smile falters; suddenly, Mr. Aspiring Superman doesn’t seem so benign at all. And you can’t help but notice that his grip around your criminally overpriced airport snacks doesn’t loosen. Oh fucking hell. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Are you stupid or something? Don’t you get it, I’m trying to help—”

“Hey, baby!” chimes a voice from nowhere. An arm appears around your shoulders, pulling you in; John lands a series of kisses across your neck and jawline as the businessman gawks, speechless and horrified. “Did you finish shopping? Oh, you remembered my Coke! Thanks, baby. You’re the best. Come on, they’re gonna start boarding soon...” He stops, stares at the businessman, points with narrowed steely grey eyes: “Are those my Pop Rocks?”

“Uh, uh, yeah, uh...” The man hastily shoves the snacks into John’s hands and flees. John immediately backs away from you, clears his throat, casts his eyes down the opposite end of the airport terminal.  

“Oh my god,” you say, stunned. “I’ve never heard you talk that much at once. Ever.”

He flushes and combs his agile fingers through his hair. “Yeah, I’m so sorry, I just thought...I saw that he was...I figured that would get him to piss off without causing a scene...I’m sorry, I don’t know why I did that, I—”

“No, John, seriously, that was brilliant. Thank you.”

“Yeah?” And you think you can detect something in his voice like hope: cautious, fragile hope. More than that, you can still feel his lips against your skin, hot and sure and assertive, almost dominating.

You grin over at him as you walk together towards the gate. “I bet everyone thinks you’re real innocent because you’re the shy, quiet, mysterious one or whatever. But you have some serious game under all of that, don’t you?”

John chuckles out of pure shock, still not looking at you. “I doubt it.”

“I’m onto you, bassist. Those groupies aren’t going to know what hit them.”

Wait, he has a girlfriend, isn’t that what Freddie said? But if he does, John doesn’t correct you.

“Do I see my beloved Pop Rocks?!” Roger squeals when he spies you both. John tosses all three packets to him. Roger rips one open, pours the entirety of the contents into his mouth, then motions for you to pass him the can of grape Fanta. He gulps the Fanta and drums his palms against his thighs as his mouth erupts into sugary explosions.

“Majestic,” you comment.

“Wha...?! I will not be outdone!” Freddie seizes all the remaining Pop Rocks—both packs—and empties them into his mouth, then douses them with Coke. Dark fizzing soda and ruby crystals spew out of his nose. Roger throws back his head and cackles like a hyena as John launches balled-up napkins at Freddie. You ignore them and check on Brian, who is lounged sideways across five seats.

“How you doing, Bri?”

He groans in reply. You give him the orange juice and Ritz crackers.

“Eat, please, Bri.”

“I can’t. I’m dying.”

“You aren’t bloody dying!” Freddie sighs, exasperated, still mopping Coke off his face.

You lay the back of your hand against Brian’s forehead and frown. “You’re burning up, Mr. May.”

“I’ve got aspirin somewhere...” Roger says as he rummages through his luggage.

“He can’t have it. His liver’s still recovering, no over-the-counter meds.” You take two still-cold cans—your Mountain Dew and Bri’s orange juice—and press them to Brian’s cheeks. John, without speaking, lays his Coke against the back of Brian’s neck. “Think you can make it through a six-hour flight?”

Brian’s glassy eyes roam to you. “No offense, but I would literally rather be disemboweled by rabid opossums than spend another night in Boston.”

“Opossums very rarely contract rabies. But your point is noted. We’ll get you home.”

“Thank you,” Brian breathes, drained. “And thank you, John.”

“Not a problem.”

Freddie squats in front of Bri in skin-tight jeans littered with patches, brushes the mess of curls off Brian’s forehead, and pushes a Ritz cracker into his mouth. Brian grimaces but chews it reluctantly. Freddie grins. “You must be truly desperate to trust your wellbeing to Deaky.”

“He’s unexpectedly ferocious,” you warn Brian. “He ran off some creep at the snack stand. Kid could definitely murder you if he tried.”

“Yeah? Well done, Deaks!” Roger gives John a high-five, then aggressively ruffles his hair and growls. “Who’s my favorite little killer bassist?! Grrr. Grrrrrrrrr. Come on. Show me them pearly whites, Mack the Knife.”

John chomps at Roger’s hands in his very best impression of a shark. Roger laughs and yanks teasingly at John’s hair, his face lit up like the Boston Harbor on the Fourth of July.

The next time you look for Freddie, he’s disappeared. You finally spot him several seats away, bent over a notebook and scribbling furiously, snapping his fingers over and over again and murmuring to himself: “Killer bassist...killer woman...killer bitch...killer queen.”

~~~~~~~~~~

When boarding begins, Freddie and Roger practically carry Brian onto the plane. They drop him into a window seat and Brian promptly drapes a sweater over his head and falls asleep. You sit beside him and flip through a fashion magazine you found in the pocket on the back of the chair in front of you, but Roger keeps interrupting by ranking the pictured outfits on a scale of one to eleven.

“Why eleven?”

“Because I gave that neon yellow coat three pages ago a ten, but now I like these rainbow pants even more. So they have to be an eleven.”

“Okay Roger.”

Freddie and John sit in the row in front of you and alternate between scrawling in their notebooks—song lyrics for Freddie, sketches of some kind of amplifier for John—and tossing peanuts into each other’s mouths. John doesn’t speak to you, but he keeps glimpsing back between the seats like he’s considering it. When Roger gets up two hours in to take a smoke break and chase down extra peanut packets for Freddie, John finally turns around and peeks over his seat.

“Why don’t opossums get rabies?” he asks.

“That’s what’s on your mind?” you tease, sipping Mountain Dew.

“Maybe.”

“Okay. Buckle up. It’s technically possible for opossums to get rabies. But they have naturally super low body temperatures, like 94 or 95 degrees Fahrenheit. So the virus usually can’t survive in their system. Thus, squeaky clean opossums.”

“Well. Minus the ticks and fleas and dirt and rubbish and all that.”

“Most of the cute things in life are at least slightly grubby.”

“Like Roger Taylor.”

You laugh. “That man has definitely been submerged in garbage at some point.”

“You have no idea. But you have to learn to be a Londoner now. We wouldn’t say grubby, we’d say dodgy.”

“Dodgy. Got it.”

“Show me. Use it in a sentence.”

“Roger is super dodgy, while Brian is much less so. Jury’s still out on John.”

“Well done.” He applauds.

Now you reach out to touch his hair, like Roger did earlier; it’s impossibly soft and downy, comforting, almost homey. John smiles patiently. “You have fantastic bone structure, you know,” you tell him. “You should cut this off one day so people can see it.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. But in the meantime...” You gently thread your fingertips through his locks, twirl a strand, observe that those blue-grey eyes that seemed steely back at the airport are now as soft and innocuous as morning fog. Roger reappears with his loot of peanut packets and gasps, pretending to be scandalized.

“What’s going on here?! Jesus, Deaks, I leave you alone for three minutes and you’ve got her all enamored with your soft cuddly exterior and latent homicidal tendencies.”

“It’s a winning combination.” John catches the peanuts that Roger hurls his way and turns to split them with Freddie.

You gaze up at Roger and beam. “Hey, dodgy Rogey.”

“Oh, you think that’s charming?” He slinks into his seat and drapes an arm across your shoulders. “You realize you’re one of us now, right? That makes you dodgy too.”

“As long as I don’t have to participate in any scandalous naked photoshoots.”

“Oh my god, that was one time! Freddie, Fred, hey, Freddie, why would you show her those...?!”

Hours later, when the plane hits the runway at Heathrow, Brian jolts awake and clutches for you like a staircase railing. He’s cooler to the touch now, appears less feverish, insists he feels better; nevertheless, Freddie and Roger escort him all through the airport like intense and sunglasses-armored Secret Service agents flanking Nixon, steadying him on escalators and dragging his luggage. As the five of you descend into the arrivals area, Freddie points to a group of young women and shrieks in delight, waves, blows flirtatious kisses all the way down the steps.  

“Freddie!” the blonde one calls, leaping in her heels and grinning enormously. She’s holding a large, glittery sign that reads: Welcome home, Queen! Freddie races to meet her, sweeps her off her feet, dips her halfway to the floor and kisses her deeply, theatrically. The blonde woman in his arms giggles and buries her fingers in his mane of shining black hair.

“Darling?” Freddie says, spinning to find you, flourishing his artful hands. “This is Mary Austin, the love of my life. Mary, this is our new best friend, Florence Nightingale.”

“Well,” you confess. “That’s not my actual name, obviously. It’s—”

“I quite like Florence Nightingale,” John says. “I’ve always fancied the name Florence. That’s where Dante was from. He was exiled during some political conflict and ended up bouncing around all over Italy. He eventually landed in Ravenna and finished The Divine Comedy there. By the time he died, he hadn’t seen Florence in twenty years. But Florence was always home.” He smiles at you in an off-kilter, crafty sort of way that tells you you’ve at last been admitted into the diminutive, highly selective circle of people that John calls friends; and you feel like you’ve won the lottery for the second time in forty-eight hours.

“Hmm,” Freddie replies, puzzled. Mary nods uncertainly. Then John turns to greet a petite auburn-haired girl in a simple turquoise sundress and with long, bone-white legs.

Brian pulls you away to introduce you to his girlfriend, the one he was always trying to call on the hospital phone. He rests his hands on your shoulders as he presents you. “Chrissie, I love this woman.”

Chrissie glowers and crosses her arms. “Oh.”

“Wait, no, sorry, I mean she saved my life. She was my nightshift nurse in Boston. I was completely lost before she found me, tremendously depressed. You know how I get. She’s come to London to look after me. Then we’re going to convince the record company to hire her as our travel nurse.”

“Oh!” Now Chrissie softens. She has wavy brunette hair, plump cheeks, marvelous wide-set blue eyes, a completely uncomplicated presence. She embraces you kindly, gratefully. “Thank you so much, love.”

“No, please, it was my pleasure! Bri is a perfect gentleman. And a genius. But you already know that.”

“Chris, I was hoping she could borrow our couch for a few days until she finds her own place...”

“Of course!” Chrissie replies, fussing with your hair, studying you, her mind roiling. “What’s ours is yours. But it’s not much, I’ll warn you.”

“I’ll pay rent. And cook and clean. I’ll be a certified house wench.”

Chrissie laughs, then screams as Brian staggers and collapses to the floor. “Bri—?!”

“He’s alright,” you announce calmly as everyone crowds around. You claw through your luggage, pull out an instant cold pack, crack it and press it to Brian’s forehead. He stirs and mumbles something about New Orleans. “Rog, can you flag down a taxi? We gotta get him home.”

“Sure, you got it.” Roger darts off. And as Chrissie, Freddie, Mary, John, and John’s girlfriend—whom you gather from their conversation is named Veronica—scuttle to reassure Brian and fetch him water, you lock stares with Josephine. Roger’s girlfriend—super casual, not exclusive, that’s what he told me—is beautiful and slim and tan and dark-eyed and, worse than all of that, palpably clever. She considers you silently, and what crosses through her pristine, heart-shaped face is not mere suspicion but knowing; and perhaps there is acceptance there as well.

No, not acceptance, you realize. Resignation. Disappointment. Powerlessness.

You tear your eyes away from Josephine and turn back to Brian: tilting a bottle of water against his lips, pulling him to his feet, fanning him with airplane tickets, leading him to a bench to wait for the taxi. The others help, oblivious to the shadow that has marauded through the room like an eclipse.

I won’t end up like her, you think to yourself with savage determination. I won’t let myself love him.

~~~~~~~~~~

Brian sinks into a plush orange lounge chair as you and Chrissie cart the luggage inside. You get a tour of their tiny apartment, shove your few remaining belongings beneath the couch where you now live, and drop into the plaid cushions, covering your face with your hands.

“Oh my god. I can’t believe I did this. I quit my job. I left Boston. I’m living on some random couple’s couch in London. Oh my god.”

“Hey,” Chrissie says warmly, lifting your chin. “We aren’t so random. We’re your friends. Maybe we’re even your destiny.”

“Jesus, you’re something out of a fairytale.”

“You’re the one who’s going to be cleaning my house, Cinderella.” Chrissie tosses a bag over her shoulder and heads for the door. “I have to swing by work and see if my students killed the substitute teacher today, will you two be alright here?”

“Of course,” you say. Brian gives her a groggy thumbs-up.

“Okay. Bye for now. Love you lots, Bri.”

“Love you,” Brian replies weakly. Chrissie departs into a bright London summer. Brian looks over at you sorrowfully, guiltily. “I miss New Orleans.”

“What do you miss about New Orleans, Bri?” You know Queen stopped there before they came to Boston, before they came into your life.

“Can I confess something to you?”

“Sure.”

He stares at the wall, vacant, acutely distressed. “I think I’m in love with a stripper called Peaches.”

“Oooookay.” You snatch up your purse and dash for the apartment door.

“Wait, no, really, I—”

“Don’t tell me about it. Call Roger or someone. Or, better yet, write a song about it and make some money so we can all have mansions with swimming pools one day. Do you need anything from that grocery store on the corner?”  

Brian sighs mournfully. “I suppose not.”

“Alright. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Then you’re getting homemade chicken noodle soup. Everything will be better now, Brian. I promise. Everything will go back to the way it should be. Now that you’re home. Now that you’re here.”

Brian echoes quietly to himself as you open the door and sunlight floods in: “Now I’m here.”

[ikesenrambles]

Hi, if you're doing headcanons, how about this? The MC (and probably Sasuke) hand-draw memes to entertain themselves, but the warlords find them hidden in her room while MC is away. How do they react? Whichever warlords you want to do is fine. :)

Thank you so much for sending in a request! I love memes, and I absolutely loved doing this request. I’m sorry that it took so long to do - I wanted to make sure I did it justice~ I hope that you enjoy it and that I was able to deliver!

If you enjoy my work, please consider supporting me on Ko-Fi, ikesenrambles. I don’t have much spending money for Ikesen since I’m saving my paychecks to cover college. Supporting me on Ko-Fi would mean that I have pocket money for the little things that bring me joy, like Ikesen. I would be able to buy premium routes, which in turn means that I can learn more about the warlords & write even better stories for you to enjoy. ♡ It would really ~meme~ a lot to me.

MC’s Doodles: Nobunaga and Hideyoshi

Sitting on the dais, a thoughtful smile plays on Nobunaga’s lips as he carefully studies a lost page of your sketchbook. “Hideyoshi, come here,” he commands. Immediately, Hideyoshi rises to his feet and approaches.

“Our new chatelaine is rather entertaining, don’t you think?” Nobunaga muses. “She captures my likeness quite perfectly. Even the emotion behind some of my deepest desires and my most intimate whims…”

“If you would allow me to see…” Hideyoshi’s voice trails off. Nobunaga hands him the slip of paper only for Hideyoshi’s eyes to widen in flustered disbelief. “Is this… k-konpeito!?” he blurts in a panic, shaking his head furiously at your seemingly blatant disregard for Nobunaga’s health. “My sincerest apologies, my lord, but I will not allow this kind of provocative propaganda in the castle!”

“Stand down, Hideyoshi.” The simple command from his master is enough for Hideyoshi to bow deeply in apology. “It’s a rather tasteful portrait of me,” Nobunaga tells him. “I would like to see it displayed in the castle.”

With a hesitant sigh, Hideyoshi nods in reluctant resignation. “As you wish, my lord. I’ll see it done.”

MC’s Doodles: Ieyasu and Mitsunari

“Mitsunari–!” An astonished, overemphasized gasp penetrates thoughtful silence as Hideyoshi comes swooping in between Mitsunari, Ieyasu, and Masamune, who are snooping through your private sketchbook behind the closed doors of your chamber. “Don’t you know how rude it is to look through another person’s belongings without permission?” He scolds the three with a firm shake of his head, grabbing the book from Mitsunari. “I expected better from you two especially,” Hideyoshi puffs in frustration, turning a pointing finger toward Ieyasu and Masamune.

Ieyasu rolls his eyes sarcastically in response while Masamune chuckles softly to himself, shaking his head at Hideyoshi’s overreaction. Per usual, it takes a few moments for Mitsunari to fully return to reality, his eyes continuing to scan the space in front of him despite his hands being empty. When he finally does, he cocks his head to the side in curious consideration, mulling over the words written on the page he had just studied. “I don’t quite understand,” he admits with sheepish innocence. There is not an ounce of offense or annoyance in his voice.

“This is…” Hideyoshi stifles another sound of surprise as he allows himself a peek at the contents of your sketchbook. His face reddens at your unexpected profanity. At a loss for words, he quickly closes the book shut and tucks it back under your pillow. “Lord Mitsunari, please be assured that she was only joking–!”

“Don’t even bother,” Ieyasu interrupts Hideyoshi with a scoff as he attempts to explain the illustration to Mitsunari. “It’s a joke, Mitsunari. Someone as dense as you couldn’t possibly understand.”

Mitsunari’s face softens at what he interprets to be gentle reassurance from his close friend, Ieyasu. “Of course, Lord Ieyasu would never say something with the intention to harm,” Mitsunari says confidently, flashing an even wider smile at Ieyasu, much to Masamune’s amusement and Ieyasu’s utter disgust.

MC’s Doodles: Yukimura

It’s a hot, summer afternoon. You and Yukimura are lazing under the cool shade of a tall tree, enjoying the rare luxury of idle time, when inspiration for a new kimono design suddenly strikes you. You ask Yukimura if he would retrieve your sketchbook for you, which you left in his room.

Yukimura agrees, finding your sketchbook tossed on your futon. Curiously, he flips through a few pages of your designs to admire your artistic ability. Before long, however, a particular doodle of yours catches him off-guard and captures his attention.

The illustration seems to depict Yukimura himself. He spends a few moments just staring at it, trying to decipher what it could possibly mean. “I don’t get it…” he murmurs to himself, stumped.

“Of course you don’t.” Yukimura hears a soft sigh behind him as a hand clasps him gently on the shoulder. “Please tell me didn’t call her this right after you two…” Shingen’s voice trails off.

“Right after we…?” Yukimura repeats thoughtlessly, not quite sure of what Lord Shingen meant to ask him. Shingen only raises an eyebrow in response until the young vassal, finally understanding, cringes. Embarrassment appears all over Yukimura’s face as his cheeks flush bright pink.

“O-of course I wouldn’t!” he says defensively, shutting the sketchbook closed with a loud thud. “Anyway, it’s none of your business what we did–uh, or didn’t do–!”

Shingen can’t help but smirk at Yukimura’s denial. “Ah, so my little Yuki is now a man,” he muses teasingly. “Had you paid more attention to my habits, perhaps you would better understand how to please the second sex.”

“The what now–?” Yukimura groans at Lord Shingen’s unsolicited advice, marching out of the room. “It wouldn’t make sense to compare her to a summer’s day. They have nothing in common,” he grumbles under his breath on his way out.

“I really failed you, didn’t I?” Shingen mumbles with a disappointed sigh.

MC’s Doodles: Kennyo

“Looks like the Oda princess left behind her valued notebook… how foolish of her,” Kennyo speaks in a grim tone, a sinister smile appearing on his scarred face as he picks up your forgotten sketchbook. “Now…” The vengeful desire in his darkened voice is tinged with self-satisfaction. “What precious secrets could Nobunaga’s favorite woman be hiding?”

The man’s husky voice cracks slightly as he stammers out in confusion, “Is that… me?” He coughs loudly to counter the bewilderment - and even slight embarrassment - in his speech, forcing a frown to mask the sheepish expression on his face as a warmth begins to spread across his face. “As if the hatred in my heart could be distilled by such simple means,” he mutters with a bitter scoff as though offended by your uncanny ability to read him.

“Abbott, is everything alright?” One of the disciples peers into Kennyo’s shed, concern in his eyes. “We are all set for the ambush tomorrow.”

“Excellent,” Kennyo whispers, a sickeningly twisted grin appearing on his face. “Tomorrow, we will take back the dignity that was stolen from us at Honno-ji. We will purify our perished brethren with the spilled blood of the Oda.”

Once the disciple leaves, Kennyo turns his attention to the little weasel curled up in the corner. “Come here, Hozuki,” he calls to it in a soothing voice. It nuzzles into the palm of his hand, enjoying his gentle touch.

Suddenly coming to terms with his predictability, Kennyo sighs in frustration, crumpling your drawing and discarding it on the floor before continuing to pamper the tiny animal.

Sasuke’s Doodles: Kenshin

Yukimura and Shingen stand around Sasuke’s study table, completely in awe of a hidden treasure they’ve happened to stumble upon in Sasuke’s room: the ninja’s precious research journal.

Sasuke’s handwriting is hurried but clean: nothing less than they would have expected from the genius ninja. On lined pages are complicated mathematical formulas and comprehensive calculations that neither Yukimura nor Shingen know what to make of.

From behind the two, the sliding doors are roughly thrown open as Kenshin strides toward them impatiently. “What’s taking so long? I’m thirsting for the thrill of battle,” Kenshin mutters with a disgruntled sigh.

“Hold on just a moment,” Shingen orders, beckoning Kenshin to take a closer look at Sasuke’s notes.

Ever stubborn, Kenshin firmly refuses. “I will not.” Forcefully, he shakes the journal from Yukimura and Shingen’s prying hands. As the three tug on the notebook’s pages, the journal falls flat on the floor, opened to an even more perplexing illustration.

A doodle depicts Kenshin casually choking Sasuke, who, even in his precarious position, wears a mask of nonchalance. Written in bold text underneath the drawing are the words, “You’re weak Sasuke.”

Upon seeing the drawing, Shingen laughs softly. “It looks to be a friendly joke about the Dragon of Echigo’s peculiarities,” Shingen muses aloud.

“A joke?” Yukimura scoffs and shakes his head. “This happened for real. I would know. I was there!”

Kenshin’s frown soon softens into a smile that, though genuine, is somewhat terrifying given the context of the illustration. “Ah, yes,” he murmurs in a voice that almost carries with it a sense of nostalgia. “I remember Sasuke’s first days with us.” Picking up the journal, he reminisces fondly of the ninja. “There’s nothing like some good-natured sparring. I wonder, perhaps Sasuke is trying to tell me that he would like a rematch.”

Sasuke’s Doodles: Ieyasu

You are out shopping with Ieyasu when you catch Sasuke stealing glances at the two of you from behind a gingko tree. “Just a moment, okay?” you reassure your boyfriend, squeezing his hand softly as you let go to hurriedly rush to Sasuke’s side for a quick conversation.

When you don’t return soon enough, Ieyasu becomes suspicious. Both you and Sasuke can feel his hot gaze observing from where you left him, his fingers curled in a fist around the baskets of groceries that he’s been carrying for you.

“What were you talking to him about?” Ieyasu asks as he possessively wraps his arm around your waist in a show of territory in front of Sasuke. You can’t help but giggle at Ieyasu’s inability to hide his jealousy. His face flushes at your soft laughter, and he avoids your gaze, embarrassed.

“It’s not me that he’s interested in,” you tell him, retrieving a piece of paper from the sleeve of your kimono. “Here. He wanted me to give you this.”

Ieyasu snatches the note from your hand. The pink shade of his cheeks deepens as he reads over it “Ng–!” A quiet sound of surprise escapes his lips, followed by an uninterested scoff. “This… I…” He sighs, tucking the note away. “I don’t understand why you hang out with that weird ninja.”

“Yasu, he’s my friend. Be nice,” you scold him teasingly, tugging on the sleeve of his kimono. “Come on, I told you, didn’t I? There’s nothing to be jealous about.

“Who said I was jealous?” Ieyasu scoffs again only for the timid blush of his cheeks to betray the annoyance in his voice. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter who he’s interested in, anyway.” He pulls you even closer. “You’re mine and mine alone, okay?”

Bonus Meme:

All of the above memes were made by yours truly! The alignment chart above was found here & filled out by me!

If you want, tag yourself for the alignment chart~!

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚*❋ ❋ ❋*˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧ 

A special shout out to @mythiica for reviewing my memes for quality! It gave me the confidence I needed to be myself with these! (＾▽＾)

[mdelpin]

This One’s For You

Given Valentine’s Event 2020 Prompt: Serenade Pairing: Mafuyu x Uenoyama AO3 Summary: Mafuyu decides to write a song for Ritsuka to tell him how he feels.

If you don’t have the resolve or the tenacity to keep going with the band or should I say - with Uenoyama, I’m telling you this for your own good so… stop it.

Shizu’s words repeated over and over in Mafuyu’s head. They had been harsh and blunt, but more importantly, he also knew they were true.

Mafuyu’s relationship with Yuki had been seamless. It had happened before he'd even realized anything between them had changed, and he'd honestly thought it would be like that for the rest of their lives. Maybe that was part of his hesitation. He had known Yuki most of his life, yet he had somehow missed all the signals. He’d failed Yuki when he had needed him the most, and he didn't want something similar to happen with Ritsuka.

Logically he knew that both boys were very different, but that didn’t keep him from worrying that if he let himself get too close to Ritsuka, he’d be left alone again, and this time he might not be able to recover.

It was stupid, Ritsuka had been fine before he’d met Mafuyu and if things didn’t work out between them he’d recover, that was just who he was. Despite his awkwardness, Ritsuka was strong in ways Yuki hadn’t been, but he was also vulnerable in ways Yuki hadn’t been.

Mafuyu opened his phone and looked through his pictures, finding one of him and Ritsuka. He stared at it intently, not being able to help the smile that snuck onto his lips or the look that was pure adoration. There was so much trust in Ritsuka’s expression, and it was then that he realized what Shizu had been trying to tell him.

He was Ritsuka’s first, with all the responsibilities that implied, and he had been failing as a boyfriend. Taking everything for granted because he had experienced many of these things before. Even though every moment with Ritsuka was special to him in its own right, he’d never made that clear, never voiced how he felt outside of that first awkward confession when they had gone to see the ocean.

And suddenly, he felt ashamed of himself. He should have been making more of an effort to make things special for Ritsuka rather than letting him fumble about on his own.

He remembered thinking that his first song had been about his loss and grief and how he’d wanted the next one to be different. And filled with a sudden determination, he looked up his contacts until he found the number he wanted.

“Hiiragi, are you busy?” Mafuyu asked urgently, “I need your help.”

0-0

They had agreed to meet at the rehearsal studio Hiiragi and Shizu used with their band. Mafuyu thought he had arrived early, but Hiiragi and Shizu were already there waiting for him, curious expressions on their faces.

“What do you need us for?” Hiiragi bluntly asked, “Shizu and I were gonna go watch a movie.”

“I thought about what you said,” Mafuyu told Shizu, “and I want to write a song for Uenoyama.”

Mafuyu was nervous, Shizu had also mentioned he thought that Hiiragi had been in love with Yuki and he hadn’t really had a chance to absorb that yet, but he was determined to lock that away for later. His current task was more important than rehashing old history.

“Okaaay, and you need me cause of my awesome writing skills?” Hiiragi puzzled, warily waiting to be put down.

“As much as it pains me to admit it, yeah,” Mafuyu offered a nervous smile, and he almost rolled his eyes at the look that passed between his two friends.

“Sure, we’ll help,” Shizu responded, and although his expression was oddly blank, he gave Mafuyu a pat on his shoulder before opening the door to the studio and going inside.

0-0

“Ugh, why is this so hard?” Mafuyu complained, ripping yet another paper from his notebook and tossing it into the ever-growing pile. He wanted Ritsuka to understand how he made him feel, to have no doubt about his feelings.

“You’re fighting yourself, stop thinking so hard and just let yourself feel,” Hiiragi suggested, “Don’t try to put words together just let them flow out.”

Mafuyu stared at him, snide remark at the ready but he held it in realizing his friend was right, he was trying too hard to come up with the perfect words. He closed his eyes and thought about his boyfriend.

He thought about how grateful he was to him for helping him feel again, for never giving up on him and always pushing him to do his best. For basically holding his hand through the worst period of his life and showing him how much life still had to offer. Ritsuka had opened his eyes to a new world, one that still had room for his old one.

Mafuyu also thought about how he felt when he was in Ritsuka’s arms or when their lips pressed against each other, each time better than the last as Ritsuka became more comfortable with himself and his feelings.

He grabbed the notebook and started scribbling furiously, the words bursting out of him, ignoring his friends as they peered into his notebook. When he was finished, he put the pencil down and took a deep breath, almost afraid to show it to the others even though he knew they needed to see it for the next part.

He got up and went to get a drink, letting them look at it in his absence. To his surprise, they were already working on a melody by the time he returned.

“This is really good Mafuyu, by the time we’re done with it, he won’t know what hit him,” Hiiragi assured him.

0-0

Mafuyu sat on the same stairs where they had first met, guitar already out. He tuned it as he waited, knowing Ritsuka would show up soon, and he wasn’t disappointed.

“Are we practicing?” Ritsuka scratched the back of his neck in confusion.

“No,” Mafuyu smiled, “I wanted you to listen to something I’ve been working on.”

Ritsuka sat next to him, already excited as he always was whenever music was involved. Mafuyu stretched his fingers, suddenly nervous. He’d almost switched to a recording because he was having trouble with some of the chord progressions Hiiragi had come up with. It hadn’t helped that his friend had spent a good amount of time teasing him about his guitar skills or lack thereof, but Mafuyu had practiced almost nonstop since then, and he was reasonably confident he could do okay.

“Uhm, I’m not always great with words or telling you how I feel, so I uhm, I wrote you a song,” Mafuyu blushed profusely, looking down at the chords on his guitar even though by this point he could play it with his eyes closed.

“T- this one’s for you,” Mafuyu stuttered.

He began playing, his nerves soon replaced by the driving need for Ritsuka to know that he wasn’t a replacement for Yuki in his heart. He had carved his own place there, one that Mafuyu cherished. He had put all of his feelings and hopes into this song, and as he began to sing, he saw the surprise in Ritsuka’s eyes.

He’d leaned forward, listening intently to the words. His eyes softening as the song continued, and Mafuyu wasn’t sure, but he thought the corners of his eyes looked glossy. Mafuyu tried not to worry about the reaction and pushed on.

When Mafuyu finished, Ritsuka grabbed the guitar and set it aside carefully before crushing him in a hug and hiding his head on his shoulder. Mafuyu was sure he felt a slight dampness, but he had no time to worry about it as he was soon being kissed with a passion Ritsuka had never expressed before.

When Ritsuka finally let go of him, Mafuyu was dazed, barely managing to hold himself up.

“Thank you,” Ritsuka said simply, wiping his eyes with his sleeve, “No one has ever done anything like that for me before.”

Mafuyu was thrilled at the response, but all he could really think about was that kiss and how he wouldn’t mind another. Before he could say anything, his heart melted as Ritsuka smiled at him.

“I love you too,” he said before leaning in for another kiss.

When lunch was over, they got up from their hideaway, and just as they were getting ready to return to class, Ritsuka grinned happily, “I can’t wait to see what Haru and Kaji think of it!”

“Wait, what?!” Mafuyu chased after him. He’d never planned to share it with the others, but as he remembered Ritsuka’s happy expression, he decided it was fine. He would sing it as many times as he needed to, even in front of others if it made his boyfriend happy. It was his song, after all.

[stressy-enby]

Don’t Do it, Please

Author’s note

This is an original story. It talks about suicide and mentions self harm. If you have ever had the urge to do either of those things, I encourage you to find help. This is not meant to romanticize these topics, it’s meant to shed light, and hopefully provide some interesting reading. I hold all rights and claim over the characters and story, so please do not reuse them. I’ve gotten to know them quite a bit, and I’d like to keep them for myself, thanks. Feel free to reblog this, tho! Just don’t take claim to it. Thanks!

Synopsis: Fern, deciding she’s had enough with the world and with her life, decides to end it all. However, when she’s up on the school roof, she meets someone with similar intentions....

Trigger Warning: Talks of suicide, self harm, depression, being outed (as gay), strong language, and overall shitty backstories 

This is part one. If you’d like to see more of the story, please let me know! And let me know what you think!!

-Green Rose

Fern ducked out of the classroom, keeping her head bowed. She darted in between students, quickly weaving her way through the waves of teenagers.

The girl leaned inconspicuously against the door to the roof stairs, casually turning the handle, and pushing experimentally. Unlocked. Fern slipped into the staircase, closing the door quickly behind the sea of unknowing, chattering, students.

Strictly speaking, students weren’t allowed on the roof, or in the staircase. However, the door was hardly ever locked, because no one really tried to go up in the first place. There wasn’t much to see, anyway. Just maintenance stuff. Nothing interesting.

No one would notice her goin in there, anyway. No one ever seemed to notice Fern do anything anymore.

Fern felt her way along the wall as she climbed higher, squinting up the dimly lit staircase. She fumbled with her backpack at the same time, slinging it onto one shoulder and unzipping the front, pulling out the neatly folded not with two fingers.

She unfolded the note and scanned it quickly, double checking she had the right paper. Her eyes flitted over the overly familiar words; “it seems like the whole world is crashing down on me, and I’m the only one who can keep everything together.” “I’ve tried so hard to like who I am, but the people around me make it really hard for me to do that. They make it so hard to like the world I live in.”  

Fern re-folded the paper, content with her preparation. She placed the note between her lips, and zipped the bag back up. Still climbing, she return her words to her fingers again, frowning into the darkness. “How long does this thing go?”

Finally, she found herself pushing open the rooftop door, stepping out into the sunlight. She hesitated for a second. This was the threshold to the end.

No turning back. She nodded to herself. I’m done with this world, anyway.

Snide comments from her parents, her peers’ passing over her, Fern was ready to leave it all behind.

She took off her backpack, and after a second thought, started unlacing her tennis shoes. “May as well,”

Fern slipped her shoes off, and placed them on the ground on top of her note. She hummed softly to herself as she took off her yellow sweater, folding it neatly and laying it on her bag.

Suddenly, the door opened again. Like a deer in headlights, Fern stared, wide-eyed and frozen at the new comer.

A short girl with rectangular glasses stared right back. She, like Fern, clutched a note in a band-aid plastered hand. She blinked a few times, her face shifting from a set, determined look, to a slightly amused one.

“Well, this is awkward,” She said lightly. “Would a ‘hey, don’t do it please’ suffice? Or would you rather we both just go about our business?”

Her laid back words startled Fern back to reality. She watched as the girl’s face split into a crooked grin. “I-uh-what?”

“Well, I think it’s pretty clear what we’re both here for. Either we can get into sob stories, or just go on and do our separate things.”

“I.. um…” Something about another person being here made Fern feel a little embarrassed, even if she was here for the same reason.

“Oh you know what? Never mind.” Fern shoved her shoes back on, not bother ing to tie the laces, plunged the note into her pocket, and jerkily grabbed for her things. “Do whatever you want. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Glasses Girl said evenly, still grinning. “See ya.”

Yeah, sure. Fern marched off of the roof, cheeks burning. She could still feel the girl’s gaze on her back as the door swung shut. She could practically still see that light hearted grin as she tripped down he stairs.

. . . . . . . . . . .

By sixth period, Fern was very aware of two things. One: Glasses Girl was still very much alive. Two: she was in her biology class. Fern had just never took note of her before, she typically kept her head down and tried to avoid as much contact as she could with her classmates. She watched bug-eyed as Glasses Girl passed Fern at her desk, flashing her that cheeky grin.

For forty-five minutes, Fern stared at the back of her braided head of hair. Glasses Girl was pretty quiet. She didn’t say much, but she was always working. Writing. Her head bowed over a small, silver not book, her blue mechanical pencil skimming across its pages. Whatever she was writing about, Fern had the distinct feeling that it wasn’t lecture notes.

She hastened to pack up before the bell rang, determined to get out before Glasses Girl could pin her down. To Fern’s surprise, though, Glasses Girl didn’t say a word to her. She did make a point of walking beside her as they left class, even giving her a mild smile. She brushed right past her when they reached the courtyard, leaving Fern flustered and bemused.

What is her deal? Fern tried to brush the encounter off as an unlucky coincidence. An unlucky coincidence that happened yet again about an hour later.

As Fern spilt out of the school gates with the rest of the students to walk home, she saw Glasses Girl once again. She didn’t seem to notice her this time though. She was preoccupied with hiding from someone from the looks of it. She kept ducking behind and around other kids, but she always had her eye on something. Fern couldn’t pick up what she was looking at, but whatever it was, Glasses Girl was glaring it at with such animosity, she was glad she hadn’t been noticed yet.

She keeps popping up. Fern mused as she watched the girl furiously clean her glasses on her shirt. Is she trying to find me? Am I being stalked? She doesn’t really seem like a stalker, or at least not a good one.

Fern slipped into the back of a group of friends before Glasses Girl saw her. Not that it would’ve been a problem, seeing as she was still glaring daggers at someone in front of her as though they had killed and eaten her pet goldfish.

. . . . . . . . . . .

There she was again. Glasses Girl was showing up everywhere. The next morning, as Fern was heading to her locker, there she was, sitting on the floor a few feet away, once again scribbling away in that little silver notebook. She gave Fern a smirk, accompanied by a two-fingered salut. Frazzled, Fern walked right past her locker, and didn’t bother to return to it, even when the first bell rang.

That girl is starting to creep me out. Fern watched from a safe distance as Glasses Girl put her pencil in her mouth and her notebook under her arm, power walking to the Spanish building. What’s her deal? Where does she keep coming from?

It took Fern about twenty seconds to realize that she was also going to the Spanish building, and scurried after the girl.

Please don’t be in my class, please don’t be in my class, please don’t be in my class, please don’t be in my class, please don’t- goddamnit.

Even Glasses Girl look pleasantly surprised when Fern appeared at the doorway, grinning at her again. She was ignored, and Fern pointedly walked to her front row corner seat, as Glasses Girl watch in amusement from the third row.

Is she in any of my other classes? Fern wracked her brain, but it couldn’t seem to produce any memory of the girl in any of her classes, even Spanish in biology. Glasses Girl seemed to be trying to fly under the radar like she was, and it was apparently working.

Was that the impression she was leaving on everyone? It couldn’t be just Fern who hadn’t noticed that she existed. And further, was that the impression that Fern was leaving as well?

. . . . . . . . . . .

“Are you kidding me?”

Glasses Girl had beaten Fern to the exit to the roof. She sat at the foot of the door, her hands tucked behind her head.

“Hey,” She said casually, as if they hadn’t been unintentionally chasing each other around for twenty-four hours. “It’s locked today.”

“What?” Fern snapped, squinting at the odd girl.

“The stair case,” She elaborated, pointing a thumb behind her. “Guess they remembered to lock the door for one. Wanna go elsewhere for lunch?”

“I didn’t really plan on eating lunch today,” Fern’s ears burnt, and she shoved her hands into her sweater pockets guiltily.

“I figured. I’ve got some money on me, so I can buy you something from the vending machines.” Glasses Girl stood, grinning roguishly. “Better than nothing! C’mon.”

“Uh, sure.” Seeing nothing better to do, and honestly with curiosity getting the better of her, Fern followed the girl.

[dcmidivine]

boiling point || jaime & alec

date: late april, 2019

summary: tensions run high, jaime makes alec cry

Jaime had been acting off lately, and Alec was starting to get worried. They knew the cause was stress, and they knew how Jaime got when he was stressed, but this time around none of their efforts to cheer him up or relax him were successful. University was far from Alec's realm of expertise, but he hadn't been near this bad around midterms– surely finals weren't so much harder? 

The time they had spent together recently had been nice, but rare. Jaime was busy, that was obvious, and Alec tried to understand, but they had missed him being around. When he agreed to come over to study instead of staying in at his place, they were delighted– until he showed up with his books to actually study. Alec checked their phone and decided enough time had passed in silence. They settled down on the floor at his feet and rested their chin on his knee, watching his face. "How much do you have left?"

Open books surrounded Jaime as he sat cross-legged on the couch in the Tyche cabin, his notebook balanced on his knee. In one hand he held a pen, in the other, his music theory anthology. Finals started in three days and he had an exam in each of his classes, as well as two term papers, a presentation on a famous composer, and a recorded performance of an original song - all due in the span of a week. Stress radiated off Jaime in sickening waves. If you looked carefully, peering past the glare of his glasses, you could see a faint change in the color of his irises. He was lost in thought, barely registering Alec's words. "Hm? What?" He looked at his partner distractedly, pushing his glasses back up his nose with the end of his pen. "What did you say? I missed it, I'm sorry."

Alec smiled up at him and folded their arms on his knee to rest their chin on top of their forearms now. The colour change in his eyes caught their attention and their smile faded slightly. “It’s okay. I was just asking how much you had left?” Their voice raised hopefully at the end of their sentence. “We could do something, play a game maybe? Or just hang out?”

"Oh, um, I have...." Jaime trailed off, remembering a detail he wanted to include in a paper. He began writing furiously, the end of his sentence unfinished. He reached the end of his page and glanced up, looking surprised to see Alec resting on his knee. "Sorry, I-" Jaime shook his head, sorting out his thoughts. "A game?"

Alec watched as he scribbled down some more information and sighed quietly. They knew he didn't mean to ignore them, but it still wasn't a pleasant feeling. Be patient, they reminded themself and inhaled slowly through their nose, smiling at him again. "If you have time to take a break? It doesn't have to be game. Just something we can do together."

Jaime nodded, still not properly focused on Alec as his brain swirled with topics for term papers and snatches of song lyrics. "Together," he echoed, nodding as he flipped to a new page in his notebook. He patted the couch beside him, moving his books into a stack so his partner could join him on the couch, "We're spending time together right now," he looked at Alec, brows knit together. Jaime gave them a preoccupied smile and offered his hand to help them up. "C'mere."

Alec took his hand and climbed up onto the couch next to him, crossing their legs as they sat facing him. They put one hand on his shoulder, pressing their thumb into muscle to try and loosen up some of his tension. “Is the work going good?”

He closed his eyes the moment Alec's hand landed on his shoulder. Jaime hummed in acknowledgement, letting himself relax into the massage from his partner. At the mention of work, his shoulders tensed. "Unfortunately, no. The list of tasks I need to complete is endless. The due dates are all looming. The exams seem impossible. The composition I need to prepare falls deaf on my ears. I don't know when I'll complete it all."

Alec sighed again as Jaime listed everything he had to do, though this time it was in sympathy. They may not understand anything about schoolwork, tenth grade somewhere far back in their memory, but they knew how important it was to their boyfriend. Not that it would make them worry less. "Okay, but you've been at it for hours," they pointed out, clambering up to sit behind Jaime on the back of the couch so they could rub his shoulders properly. "You should take a break to clear your head! And eat something, definitely. Want me to make dinner?"

"Three hours is nothing," Jaime countered, a note of defeat in his voice. He tabbed backwards in his notes, remembering a detail that would be perfect for one of his papers. His posture remained stiff, even as Alec tried to rub his shoulders. "No, no," he shook his head. "That'll take too long, it's okay. I'll eat later."

Alec frowned now that Jaime couldn’t see their expression and hunched over to rest their chin on his shoulder, carding their fingers through his hair. “C’mon, Jay, you gotta eat something. Did you have lunch? You don’t even gotta take a full break, just enough to get something in your system.” They turned their head and kissed his cheek. “Everything’ll still be here when you get back.”

Jaime resisted the urge to duck his head. He knew Alec was just trying to be supportive, he knew he should be appreciative of the care he was being shown, but all he could focus on was his inability to retain the information he was studying. "Lunch?" He scowled, though they couldn't see. "I think I had a granola bar...maybe." He exhaled through his nose when Alec kissed his cheek, trying to smile. His eyes were starting to ache and he pushed his glasses up into his hair so that he could rub his eyes with his knuckles. Jaime's irises were even lighter still, the air around them felt heavy. "Alec, I don't need to eat right now. Really." He tried to keep the edge out of his voice, a strained smile flickering across his face.

Alec sat back when Jaime responded, deterred by the tone in his voice. They ran their tongue over their teeth as they made up their mind whether to let it go or not, and slid back down to sit beside him. "You'll think better if you're not hungry," they pointed out, tilting their head towards the kitchen. It was always difficult for them to think on an empty stomach, so they imagined it was the same for everyone. "You don't even need to stop for long, I can bring it to you? At least have some water. Please?"

He opened his mouth, about to dismiss their offer again but decided against it. "Don't...you don't have to cook for me. If you really want me to eat, I'll help make something. And I'll drink some water." Jaime nudged his water bottle with his foot before picking it up. He ran his other hand through his hair, taking a few deep breaths to calm the buzzing in his skull. "Really though, I- it's fine, Alec. Just a mountain of work." He opened his bottle and took a sip, turning away from them.

Alec chewed their lip when Jaime turned away from them and moved down to kneel on the ground at his feet again, resting a hand on his knee and leaning to one side to try and catch his eye, brows creased. "Jay?" They pressed their cheek into their shoulder, watching his face, chest tight with worry. "Are you okay? I really don't mind making food. But I'm worried about you."

“Alec, I’m fine. Really.” Jamie squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the pressure building behind them. When he opened them again, he focused on Alec, his gaze softening as he held their eyes. “I’m fine, don’t worry about me, love.” His voice seemed to lose its energy as he reached the end of his sentence, fading mid-word. Still, he tried to smile, giving Alec’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

If anything, Jaime's attempt at reassurance only served to make Alec more worried. They turned their hand over to hold his, sitting back on their heels as they frowned up at him. "At least move to one of the card tables. Your back's gonna be killing you if you stay leaned over on the couch like that."

“Alright, alright.” He sighed before acquiescing to Alec’s request. Jaime scooped up his stack of books, placing his notebook on stop and stood up. He glanced at his partner before heading to the card table. “Is it okay that I’m here to study? Or do you want me to leave?”

Alec followed Jaime over to the card table and perched on the edge, still watching him. They furrowed their brows at the question, cocking their head to the side like a dog. "Why would I want you to leave? I never want you to leave."

Jaime inhaled through his nose, setting out his notebook and the book he had been reading. After a moment, he turned to Alec. "Because I'm wasting your day. You want to do things, have fun, play games. And I need to study for my exams, write my papers, create a composition. I know this-" he gestured to himself, dropping his hand in his lap. "This version of me is not the one you want to spend time with."

Alec reached over to touch his shoulder, shaking their head before Jaime even finished speaking. "Aw, Jay, no." They frowned at him. "Every version of you is one I want to spend time with. I love you all the time, not just when you're happy."

“That’s just not true.” Jaime’s eyes flashed. He returned Alec’s frown, disregarding the second half of their statement. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

Alec withdrew their hand, unsure. They blinked a few times, not used to this tone from their boyfriend. "Uh." They swallowed. "Like what?"

Jaime pressed his lips together, trying to reign in the negative feelings bubbling to the surface of his emotions. He closed his book and spoke without looking at Alec, “Like I’m a stubborn child.” He tried to blink the ache out of his eyes and waved a hand at his notebook. “Do you understand how important this is to me?”

"What? Jaime, no." Alec shook their head vehemently, chest tightening. "I'm not– of course I do! I know how much this means to you." They reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder again. "I understand. I just think you still need to take care of yourself, I've never seen you so stressed before."

"I'm perfectly capable of caring for myself, Alec." He exhaled a puff of air, frustration written all over his face. Jaime opened his mouth to say something else but cut himself off when Alec's hand landed on his shoulder. He seemed to deflate a little bit, sinking slightly into their touch, though his expression was still unreadable.

Alec rubbed their thumb over his shoulder as he leaned into their touch, relieved at even the small gesture of surrender. They scooted over an inch on the table so they were closer to him. "I know! But sometimes you need a little reminder. And this seems like one of those times?"

Jaime sighed, letting his head fall into his hands. He shoved his glasses up into his hair so that he could press the heels of his hands into his eyes. No matter how much pressure he applied, the headache kept building. It was behind his eyes, in his temples, in the air. "What I need," he murmured. "Is to finish my work for the semester..."

“It’ll still be here after a short break.” Alec felt like a broken record at this point, but they didn’t want to let it go, not when they could see the state Jaime was in. They chewed their lip and dropped their hand back to their lap. “Is your head hurting? I can get you some water. Or Advil?”

A break from the avalanche of work on his plate sounded so enticing, Jaime almost agreed. Something held him back, something more than the pounding in his skull. He lifted his face from his hands, looking at Alec; his glasses were still perched atop his head so they were nothing more than a large blur on the card table. "No," he sighed, knowing he was not experiencing a normal headache. "Look, Alec, I need really to study. If that's going to interfere with your engaging afternoon of-of hanging around your cabin and daydreaming, by all means, let me know." Jaime cut himself off, surprising himself with the bite in his tone. He looked at Alec with wide eyes. "I-"

Hurt flashed across Alec’s face at their boyfriend’s words and tone, and turned their head away from him to hide their expression before they remembered he wouldn’t be able to see it anyway without their glasses on. They swallowed, then nodded and hopped off the table. “Is there anything I can do to help, then?” they asked, voice carefully calm past the lump that had risen in their throat. “I can read, or take notes?”

Jaime blinked, seeing the blob that was his partner move. He slid his glasses back onto his face and rubbed his temples. "Sure," he sighed. "Yeah, I guess. Whatever works. Um," he shuffled some papers and pushed a packet Alec's way. He placed a stack of blank index cards and a pen on a table next to them. "If you could, um...write the notes from this study guide on the cards...?"

Alec nodded and pulled a chair over to sit in front of the cards. Picking up the pen felt weird– they could barely remember the last time they wrote something on paper instead of typing it. Still, they were determined to help in some way even if it wasn't getting their boyfriend to eat, so they ducked their head down and started copying the notes over onto the cards. "You got it!" they affirmed.

He hummed in acknowledgement, his nose already back in his music theory book. Without looking up, he took detailed notes; his cursive handwriting flowed across the page. "Thanks," he mumbled, realizing he hadn't said anything. Fifteen minutes later, Jaime finished annotating the chapter he was reading and looked over at his partner. He picked up one of their completed flashcards, studying it. His face quickly morphed into a look of confusion. "Uh...Alec?"

Alec finished the one they were writing and turned to look at him, tucking the pen behind their ear so they didn't misplace it. They smiled at him. "Mhm? Everything okay?"

"These are..." Jaime closed his eyes, inhaling sharply. Frustration started to rise up in his chest all over again and he tried to swallow the feeling, but the wave crested and his words crashed out. "Did you do this intentionally?" He waved the card in their direction. "These are all botched." He rifled through the stack of flashcards Alec had completed. "Everything is spelled incorrectly. The notes are unclear. I don't understand. You just had to copy...Is this- Is this just a joke to you?"

Alec's heart dropped in their chest and they swallowed, looking at the card they were working on and comparing it to the notes they were copying to try and see what he was talking about. The harder they focused and the higher their stress level rose, the more the letters blurred around, and they blinked as they looked back at their boyfriend. "I... what? No!" They shook their head, pulling one of the cards they had written back and trying to spot the mistakes on it, eyebrows scrunched together in concern. "No, no, it's not. I can do them over? Are they that bad?"

"No, no- Alec, just," Jaime pinched the bridge of his nose again, closing his textbook roughly. "Forget it." His headache was back with a vengeance, pounding in his ears. The waves of frustration were only growing; Jaime hadn't anticipated this feeling but he could not seem to quell his irritation. He stood, gathering up his stack of textbooks. His tone was sharp when he spoke, his eyes were gleaming. "Just forget it, Alec."

Alec slowly put the card back on the table, taking a moment before turning to face Jaime. They hugged their arms and stood up after a couple seconds. “Are you leaving?” they asked, their voice soft to try and cushion their boyfriend’s tone. “I can do the cards over, I really don’t mind- or, um, I can quiz you? Or make dinner? Or just go up to the loft and leave you alone? Or- you don’t have to go, Jay, come on, it’s still early. We could go up to the roof? That might be a good place to study, it’s still light enough out, and pretty quiet, I can help you carry your things up! But we’ve barely seen each other lately, I can find something else to do so I don’t mess up your notes?”

Alec's initial question was too much for Jaime to answer in the moment, so he skirted past it. He dropped his pen on his stack of books and rubbed his eyes, trying, trying to get the ache to go away. Alec's expression tugged at Jaime's heart, but he was too far gone into a spiral of frustration to do anything about it. "I'll do them over," he said dismissively, giving them a sharp look. Alec's barrage of questions came in time with the pounding in Jaime's skull. He just stared at them, eyes blazing a poisonous green. The air around them felt different but he was heated, unaware of the affect he was having on the space. "No, Alec. Don't cook. Not for me. It's still early, you have plenty of time to do whatever you want, and I have plenty of time to go home and study in peace." Though he wanted nothing more than to go up on the roof and sit with Alec, he had started this fight and it was too late to turn back now. His tone, like his gaze, was uncharacteristically acidic. "You've helped enough."

The air pressure around them seemed to shift and Alec winced, touching a hand to the back of their head as a spike of pain shot through. It was easy enough to ignore considering how much their heart hurt in comparison with the look their boyfriend gave them. They shrunk under his words, rubbing one of their arms. "I can leave you in peace," they said quietly, scuffing one foot along the ground. "Just stay, c'mon."

Jaime flexed his fingers and balled his fists at his side. The hurt that flashed across Alec's face should have been enough to calm him down but the words tumbled out. "Leave me in peace? When have you ever? Your chatter never ceases. You want everything to be fun, to be a game. Does your head ever leave the clouds? Come on, Alec" His eyes flashed as he clenched his jaw.

Alec bit their lip as the pounding in their head increased and they let out a small pained sound that was more of a whine. Jaime had never snapped at them like this before- they hoped his words were just from stress, not something he thought about all the time. They stared at the ground by his feet. “I can be serious,” they mumbled, thoughts blurry past the building headache. “I could be quiet if you want. I could, I promise.”

Jaime hadn't realized that the pressure in his head had begun to fade until he heard Alec whimper. He was still to upset to process what that meant, blind to power rolling off him in waves; it was out of his control, even if he had noticed. "Alec, stop. Just-" He pushed his glasses up his nose. "You don't have to do anything for me. No promises. Just...stop."

Alec looked up at Jaime now but had a hard time focusing, unsure if their blurred vision was from the ache still building behind their eyes or from the tears starting to well. They rubbed their eyes, but the pressure just made the headache worse and they whimpered again. "What are you..." They pressed their palms into their temples to try and ease the pain enough to focus. "Why're you saying this?"

"I can't do this." Jaime was too busy aggressively shoving his books into his backpack to look at Alec. All of his senses were in overdrive and he just wanted to be rid of the poisonous feeling in his chest. "I can't do this," he repeated, still not looking at them. He turned to pick up his water bottle, still on the floor by the couch, and caught sight of his reflection in one of the pinball machines. Jaime flinched, shocked to see the radioactive glow of his eyes. His anger faded to a dull hum as his heart began to race, finally realizing that the extra element he had been feeling had been his powers betraying him. Alec's tears, the sound of their voice...it made even more sense when he realized that they were in pain. He spun around to face them, eyebrows knit together when he saw their face. "Alec...Alec, I'm so sorry. I-" Jaime lifted a hand but quickly dropped it, distraught at the effect his wayward powers were having on them. He could feel tears welling up in his own eyes and took a step back, chest heaving as he began to hyperventilate. "I'm sorry..."

Alec squeezed their eyes shut then pressed their hand over them to block out more of the light as the migraine reached its peak. They crouched down as though that would make it better and hunched over, burying their face in their arms as they listened to Jaime packing all his things away. They wanted to ask him to stop again but it was difficult to keep a thought still past the stabbing pain, the hum of the machines, and Jaime's voice. Only when he stopped speaking did the headache dull enough for them to lift their head from their arms, though they didn't risk opening their eyes in case it made it worse again. Blindly, they grasped at the air in front of them, trying to take his hand, or arm, or whatever they could reach. Gradually, they were able to start to think again, and they wiped the tears from their face, careful to move slowly so they didn't jolt their still aching head. "What can't you...?"

Watching Alec hold their head in pain as they dealt with a migraine that he had caused was too much for Jaime, as he spiralled into a panic attack. He was shaking his head, eyes wide in shock, his breathing rushed and uneven. He took a step backwards, closer to the door, trying to find something, anything, a switch in his subconscious to turn off his powers. Though his eyes returned to their normal color, his lack of control over what was happening to them only sent Jaime into further panic. When Alec reached out blindly, he felt hot tears threaten to spill over. "I can't do this, I-I can't." Jaime's voice broke, his hands trembling as he took another step backwards, reaching for the door. "This, us. I'm sorry. This is- Alec, this is over. We're over. I-I have to leave." He hesitated before opening the door, looking over his shoulder at Alec. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

"No, no no no." Alec scrambled up to their feet, using a chair for balance when they stood  too quickly and lights flashed over their vision. They opened their eyes to see him and shook their head, trying to ignore the pain. They desperately wiped tears off of their face, but they kept coming. "No, Jaime, no, no, please don't."

Jaime couldn't stand it any longer; he shook his head at Alec, still taking ragged breaths. A hollow feeling had started to form in his chest, replacing all of the anger and frustration that he'd allowed to build up over the past few months. He pushed the door open, turning over his shoulder to look at them. The tears running down their face only made him feel more hollow inside. "Alec, I'm sorry." He shook his head again, his voice hoarse as he spoke. "I have to leave, I'm sorry." Jaime slipped outside,  taking off for the Apollo cabin, head ducked, moving as fast as he could without running. He burst into the cabin, scaring one of the cats, and beelined for his room. Slamming the door behind him, Jaime dropped his backpack and sunk to his knees, back against the door. He cradled his head in his hands and let out a sob.

[mrvelesbian]

Ineffable

(Maria Hill x Natasha Romanoff x Reader)

Trigger warnings: mentions of suicide (not graphic and they’re also marked in the story), grief(?), people being very sad, death 

Authors Note: This is my first time writing for any marvel character so I apologize if they’re ooc! This fic does deal with some heavy topics but I tried to keep it manageable? Feedback is always appreciated❤

word count: 4.601

in·ef·fa·ble

/inˈefəb(ə)l/

adjective

too great to be expressed or described in words.

You remember the day of the snap. You were rushing around your offices in DC frantically trying to get in touch with other diplomats to do anything- absolutely anything- to curb the chaos erupting across the globe.

"Richards!" You yelled, waving the stout man into your office. Richards was by far your favorite intern in the office, and the most competent. "I need the delegation from France on the phone as soon as humanly possible they're the last European country we need to talk to." Your colleague furiously scribbled on his notepad and nodded.

"What do you want me to relay to-" he began to ask.

"Finish your damn sentence Richards I'm on a tight schedule here" you said, exasperation obvious in your tone. When he didn't reply you peered up to see what had interrupted him.

Whatever you expected to see, nothing would have prepared you for the reality of what you saw. Richards face was beginning to crumble away like dust. The right side of his face was gone and his left eye was moving frantically as he shook his disintegrating hands like he was trying to get a bug off.

"Jesus Christ!" You exclaimed. You rushed over to him from behind your desk only to turn your attention to screams from outside your door. In the second you tore your eyes away from Richards he had completely disintegrated. Only a his notebook and pen remained. You threw the door open with the intention of getting help.

The hallway was in disarray, miscellaneous items strewn across the floor and people crying loudly. Not finding anyone in their right mind to help you, you moved towards the end of the hallway. You pushed your way through the crowd gathered around the small television and to your horror you saw two reporters scrambling to hold up a third who was dissolving just as Richards had minutes ago.

Suddenly you realized what was happening. "Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck" you rushed towards the stairs, pulling out your cellphone at the same time.

The snap.

It was a hypothetical situation brought up to you by Tony Stark in a debriefing with him a few weeks ago. An apocalyptic scenario. The worst possible outcome of whatever showdown was happening between Thanos and the avengers right now.

"Come on come on come on Maria pick up please" you pleaded to nobody. Your girlfriend's phone rang once, twice, three times before it went to voice mail. It's okay. Don't jump to conclusions. You told yourself. Instead of breaking down like you wanted to, you ran down into the main lobby and went out to the front of the building.

"Take me to the avengers headquarters" you barked at the driver in the car parked at the doors. "Ma'am that area is off lim-" he tried to reason with you. You knew you were being a bit of an asshole but you couldn't bring yourself to care. "I don't give a damn sir. You will take me there now or I swear to god-" you didn't get to finish the sentence before an agent came up behind you and put their hand on your shoulder. You shook his hand off and whipped around, a scowl already painted on your face.

"Excuse me miss? I've been sent by Ms.Carter, you're needed at headquarters immediately"

The ride to the avengers headquarters was a blur. The agents had tried to make small talk with you at first but the pitying look in their eyes told you everything you needed to know. She was gone. Maria Hill was dead.

I didn't even get to say goodbye.

°°°

Later that day Natasha and the rest of the avengers along with a few Wakandans stumbled into the conference room occupied by yourself, Sharon Carter, and two other agents you didn't bother to remember the names of. The second she was in the door she rushed over to embrace you. Her hair was caked with blood and she smelled of dirt but you clung onto her all the same. A sob broke from your chest, the first since you had found out the news.

"Oh baby it's okay I'm okay I'm safe we're gonna be okay" Natasha tried to reassure you. You shook your head into her chest, unable to articulate what you wanted to say. She put her hand under your chin and lifted your head so she could meet your eyes. Finally the words fell from your lips. "Maria Hill is dead."

Natasha stopped cold. Any hint of a smile disappeared from her face and her hands dropped to her sides. A chill had set over the entire room.

°°°

Nothing was ever the same. Sure you and Natasha still came home to the same apartment every night, still cooked in the same kitchen, still sat on the same couch, still fell into the same bed, but nothing was the same.

You had forgotten how to cook for two people. An extra serving of dinner always sat in the bottom of pan, mocking you and making you lose all appetite. Maria's keys sat in the same spot that they always had, her favorite jacket hung on the coat rack. Her bright orange toothbrush sat on the counter gathering dust.

You and Natasha clung together at night as if you were trying to keep each other from falling apart. Some nights the two of you just cried until all the water was gone from your bodies. Everything in your life seemed to be cracking at the seams, because how the hell could it not when only half of your heart was home.

Things at the avengers headquarters were hectic as they always had been, except this time the responsibility of keeping the universe afloat fell onto Natasha. Tony had immediately retreated upstate, Steve was across the country raising morale as best as he could, Clint was an international criminal, and Bruce refused to step foot in the facility. Every night Natasha came home with a folder bursting with paperwork to add to her stack on the dining table.

At your job things weren't much better. The secretary of state along with half of your department was gone and with the current state of affairs you needed every person available. The international community was in shambles, England had to elect a new PM, several oil crisises had begun in the middle east and in Asia the lack of labor forces had caused economies to plummet. Begrudgingly, you had accepted more influence in the government and by now you were unofficially running the state department.

Somehow you and Natasha had managed to find the time to establish an orphanage in the city for kids effected by the snap. The organization was a sliver of humanity in the consuming depression the world was in. The kids there made you feel like maybe things would turn out okay somehow.

You had named it the Hill house after her. Natasha had chuckled when you suggested it, obviously understanding the historical irony. "Maria would've been so embarrassed to have something named after her, she was too humble for her own good." She smiled briefly at the thought of the brunettes inevitable bashfulness.

°°°

Years had passed and things hadn't gotten any easier. You and Natasha had made it through, both for each other and for Maria's sake. Every fight between the two of you had ended with tears and apologies and thoughts of how angry Maria would be if you two drove the other away.

You'd officially been named secretary of state despite your numerous protests. The government had attempted to name Nat head of the avengers initiative, but she had immediately refused the title of director. "That's fury's job he'll be so pissed when he comes back and I'm in it" she said. Nobody refuted her assumption that there was even a way to bring Fury, to bring anyone, back.

As the days passed you and Natasha worked, came home, and slept. Things had fallen into a sort of sick routine.

Then Scott Lang showed up outside the avengers complex and everything changed. Suddenly Natasha was talking about time travel and something called the "quantum realm." She had tried to explain, the infinity stones were dust in our time line so they had to go into others to retrieve them. But in all honestly the theories seemed absurd at best to you.

You had gotten into an argument with her about it. How were you supposed to let her leave you as well? When there was a more than real possibility she wouldn't come back.

Vormir. Thats where her mission was. It was supposed to take something like a second in your time until she was back. She promised she'd be back. She'd held your face in her hands and vowed not to leave you all alone in the world.

But promises cant always be kept.

"Where's Nat?" Was the only thing that came out of your mouth when the avengers reappeared. You counted them quickly, hoping you'd just missed her. When she still wasn't there, you looked to Clint. "Where is she?"

Clint stared back at you with sad eyes. He looked like a man who had seen too much, experienced too much to ever live normally again.

"One of us had to die and she-" the rest of Clint's words turned to white noise. Dead. One of them had to die. Natasha had to die.

The world became a blur. Everything was too suffocating and nothing at the same time. You must have been screaming but you couldn't hear a sound. You felt strong arms wrap around you seconds later and hold you tight even as you thrashed about. You felt sorry for whoever was hugging you because you were sure you'd punched them in the chest more than once.

Natasha Romanoff is dead.

°°°

Coping is not the correct word for how you lived. You did not cope. How could you have? First you had lost Maria, nearly five years ago, without a goodbye. Now you'd lost Nat.

They were the things that brought light into your life. Maria's terrible dad jokes and Natasha's loud laugh rung in your ears when you laid in bed at night. If you concentrated hard enough you could nearly remember how it felt to be sandwiched between the two of them. Maria's arm around your waist and Natasha's head in the crook of your neck. Or your legs wrapped around Maria's waist and Natasha's hands running along your back. You could almost smell their perfumes when you walked in the bathroom. But everything was just out of reach. Your memories haunted you more than any ghost could have.

They were dead. Natasha Romanoff was dead. Maria Hill was dead.

You barely ate, you barely slept, your house looked unlived in because you spent as long as possible in the office every day. It was only when your interns shoved you into a company car at 2 am that you finally went home.

The woman who you saw in the mirror looked nothing like yourself. She had your nose and your lips but her eyes were dead and her cheeks were hollow.

Steve tried to come around and get you to talk, as did Tony and Pepper but nobody made any progress. Even Sharon, your best friend, couldn't break through to you. She got further than everyone else by getting you to eat, but getting you to talk was impossible.

°°°

"Get some fucking sleep for the love of god" Sharon sighed as she pushed you into the apartment at 2 am yet again. You mumbled a weak "okay" and closed the door. The picture hanging in the hallway mocked you. It was of you, Maria and Natasha on the couch. You were spread across both of their laps and Natasha's head was laying on Maria's shoulder, all of you asleep. You remembered Natasha punching Tony in the arm when she found out he took it, but she had hung it up all the same.

Without shedding so much as your belt you walked into your room fell onto your king size bed. The room was absolutely silent. You hated it.

"If we're all going to be sleeping in one bed there's no way in hell it's gonna be a queen" Maria insisted, pointing at the mattress next to her. "Natasha spreads out so much she could probably take up a queen by herself." Natasha shoved Maria's shoulder at her comment but the large grin threatened to break onto her face gave her true emotions away.

You curled up in the middle of the mattress, refusing to push into what would be Maria's spot on the right of you, or Nat's on your left. The bed felt suffocatingly large now.

When you awoke from your third nightmare that night nobody was there to hold you to their chest. You bolted from the bed into the bathroom and vomited into the toilet. Tears sprung up in your eyes and you collapsed on the floor, utterly defeated.

"Wake up honey come on everything is okay you're safe don't worry" Natasha's smooth voice washed over you as you were pulled out of your sleep. You were drenched in sweat and your heart was beating a mile a minute. "I was in Baghdad again" you mumbled out. Maria hummed understandingly and rubbed your back. "Nobody is going to hurt you again baby not while we're here"

You no longer dreamt of bombings at embassies and guns pointed in your face. Instead you saw Richards drift away before your eyes. Heard Maria's voice calling out to you desperately. Felt Natasha's hand slip from yours as she fell off the cliff.

You couldn't take it anymore. You were exhausted, mentally, physically, emotionally. You didn't want to do anything, you didn't want to talk to anyone, you didn't want to be alive anymore.

°°°

TRIGGER WARNING**

The wind whipped through your hair as you stared down the side of the 27 story building. Cars looked like little toys from this height and it was almost humorous to hear the honks and yells from tiny cab drivers. You faced upwards for a moment, letting the morning sun soak into your skin.

"What the hell are you doing up there?" Sharon Carter threw open the door to the roof entrance. How did she get up here? How did she even find you.

"Do not do this. Please don't." She repeated, trying to keep her voice steady.

Something inside you snapped at her words.

"Don't even try to talk me down Sharon. Don't say people need me. I know that people need me Sharon I know that. I know that practically the entire state department is riding on my shoulders. I know that there are 150 million people left in the US who are looking for something, anything to show them that its gonna be okay but Sharon, and I know this is selfish, but what about me! Sharon what about me. I am so tired, so fucking tired of being selfless. Maria is gone. Natasha is gone. And I know there's something worth living for I know that you love me and Tony loves me and Pepper but god fucking damn it Sharon it's not enough." Your voice cracked several times through your tears.

"I hate myself because I don't care that half the world is dead, I care that they're dead. I watched people fall apart right in front of me why the hell didn't I go with them" you let all the rage, the sadness, the despair in your body explode through your chest.

You could see Sharon's eyes threatening to let the tears in them spill over onto her cheeks. It was obvious she felt utterly helpless in this situation.

"What if she comes back and you're not here." Sharon said, just loud enough for you to hear her.

"Don't. Say that" you tried to breathe somewhat regularly.

"There's a chance. Even if it's the smallest one, this would take away your chance of seeing them again."

Images flashed through your mind of Maria and Natasha huddled together in your bed, trying not to say anything about the hole in the middle of them; Maria and Nat placing white and blue flowers on your grave; Maria and Nat rushing into your apartment to greet you only to see Sharon, ready to deliver the worst news they could receive. Even if there was a .0001% chance they would come back you couldn't force them to grieve for you as well.

An even louder sob spilled from your lips. You screamed out into the sky like you were being torn apart, but when Sharon pulled on your waist you let yourself fall back into her arms and cling onto her neck. You could feel her body shaking with sobs as well. She slowly sat down in the middle of the roof, rocking you back and forth.

"Sharon" you mumbled into her jacket.

"Sharon it hurts" you cried. "It hurts so bad" Sharon only nodded and pressed her lips to your head, your hair muffling her sobs.

"I know"

°°°

The final battle was worse than you could have ever imagined. Footage from the city showed the destruction that leveled large portions of the harbor and financial district. Blood was splattered on the concrete, painting it red and bodies littered the streets. Thankfully you had heeded Steve's warning and ordered an emergency evacuation nearly a week ago.

You watched nervously as the battle raged on, seeing some of your closest friends fall to their knees.

Then the first portal opened.

The battlefield was suddenly bathed in yellow light and a figure walked out. Slowly you recognized them: the Wakandan king and his sister. More appeared. Scarlet witch, Quill, Mantis, Steven Strange, Peter, and Valkyrie all appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

The snap was being reversed.

"Giles!" You barked at the intern sitting next to you. "You are to monitor this screen and nothing else until the battle ends. I want updates every 10 minutes and a call if anything significant happens. Now I must go"

You rushed down the stairs and into the parking lot. A quick call was made and within minutes you were in a helicopter headed to New York.

°°°

As soon as you landed on the Avengers' building's helipad you were scrambling to get off and into the head quarters. You sprinted down the stairs to the 17th floor labeled 'special forces and directors office.' It seemed the most likely place that Maria would be. If she was alive.

You pushed open the double doors to the main hallway and there she was, exactly how she'd been 5 years ago. "Maria!" You yelled, flinging yourself on her the second she turned around. You sobbed into her shoulder and gripped her coat like a life line.

"Maria I can't believe you're here. You're really here right? This isn't some sick joke?"

"It's really me" Maria smiled. "You look like shit what happened" she brushed a piece of your hair behind your ear. "Maria I- you left me" you said between tears. "What?" She whispered.

"You've been gone for five years Maria"

°°°

The battle was over. Tony was dead. He died a hero, the man he always had been deep down. Your heart broke for Pepper, who had lost the love of her life, and for Morgan who would grow up without him.

The first thing Maria asked when the avengers began to gather back at shield was where Natasha was. You nearly started crying again. "Oh Maria.... I" you couldn't bare to say it. "I am so sorry I am so so sorry she-"

Steve finished your sentence for you, his voice colder than you’d ever heard it, "Natasha is dead."

°°°

Maria grieved almost exactly as Natasha had. She threw herself into work, focusing most of her time on catching up on the 5 years she missed. She moved back into your apartment, a place you hadn't slept in in almost 2 months. Ever since your incident Sharon had essentially held you hostage in her house, only letting you leave by yourself for work.

The universe really was fucked up. You thought to yourself. The thing you'd been wishing for since the snap had come true. Maria Hill was home, the other half of your heart. Her muscular arms wrapped around you at night and her brunette hair tickled your nose when you hugged her. But Natasha left to make sure Maria could return. Your heart was still broken. Still incomplete.

Now it was Maria that needed to be held together. You knew how to hold her carefully so she wouldn't break because by now you were somewhat of an expert on grieving the deaths of your lovers.

That doesn't mean it didn't hurt like hell to see Natasha's leather jacket sit unused on her hook. To see her red toothbrush on the corner of the counter. To feel her side of the bed cold and empty. But somehow you were going to have to live with that.

°°°

It was a Monday morning when Maria got the call.

"Hill speaking" she said in her stern tone. "Hi Bruce." She spoke curtly, but with a warmer tone at the man's voice.

"Why do I need to get down there on a Monday morning, my day off my I remind you" Maria sounded slightly annoyed at whatever the doctor had suggested.

"I-" she sat up suddenly. "I'll be right there. Yes I'm bringing her. Okay goodbye" Maria hung up and swung her legs out of the bed.

"We need to go to Avengers headquarters now. There's something going on with the mission" Maria said as she tugged on a pair of jeans and a tshirt.

°°°

You sat anxiously next to Maria at the edge of the forest. Steve was due to come back 2 minutes ago but apparently an unannounced change had been made in the plans.

"Someone's coming through Scott throw the breaker quickly!" Bruce shouted.

A loud buzzing filled the clearing before a small figure appeared on the platform before them. But it was not Steve. No this person was much shorter, and her long red hair faded into blonde-

"Natasha?" You said, incredulously. The redhead turned around. She immediately sprinted towards the two of you and pulled you both into a tight embrace. "I thought I'd never see you again" she mumbled into your shoulder. "Either of you."

°°°

All three spots in the king bed were full again. No toothbrushes were left on the counter, no jackets hung limply on hooks. The house had life breathed into it again, but something was off.

Of course it would take time to heal from the trauma you went through. It was not easy by any means. You wanted to be happy and back to normal the second your home was alive again but a terrible voice in the back of your head reminded you that they could leave again. You could end up alone again.

You had nightmares nearly every night. Images of your girlfriends dead or dying plagued your unconscious mind. Maria and Natasha held you close and comforted you after every single one; They let you cry silently into their chests, not saying a word about your dreams, but silently they worried about you.

°°°

"Hey Maria?" Sharon stuck her head in the assistant director's office "can I talk to you?" Maria nodded and gestured towards the chair across from her. It was clear that Sharon was nervous by the way that she picked at the leather chair's arm.

"Listen Maria.... I don't know how to say this but when you and Nat were gone some things happened with y/n" Maria's brow immediately furrowed. You hadn't mentioned anything happening in the few months you were alone. "What kinds of things?" She questioned further.

"I'm not at liberty to say, especially not without y/n's permission....you have to ask her yourself." Sharon let out a deep breath. "But please tread carefully, she might seem okay but you and Natasha know just as well as I do that she's not." Sharon pulled herself up from her chair and patted Maria's hand before leaving the office.

°°°

TRIGGER WARNING**

"Y/n? Are you home yet?" Maria called into the apartment. "Yep I'm in the living room!" You replied.

"Hey babe" you smiled at Maria when she walked in. Natasha smiled from her spot next to you where she was sitting, a book in hand.

"Can I ask you something? About when Nat and I were gone." Maria made her way to the spot on your other side and sat down.

"Oh..." You stiffened. Shit. "Yeah of course" Natasha set her book down and turned to look at you as well.

"Sharon mentioned today that something happened in the few months that you were alone... What was it?" Maria continued.

You drew a shaky breath. It was better to just tell them than to lie. "FRIDAY can you pull up my medical records please?" You asked the robot. "Of course miss" they replied, opening the files on your tablet.

"You remember how I told you tony had installed FRIDAY in here when I was alone to check on me?" Your girlfriends nodded. "There's more to the story than just that" you whispered.

You set the tablet down on the table. "He was worried about me after I....." You gestured at the tablet.

Natasha and Maria both leaned closer to read the information on the device. "Checked into GWU hospital on April 3rd for...suicide watch?" Natasha turned to you, clearly shocked.

You hung your head in shame. "I'm sorry. I am so sorry." A tear fell from your eyes. "After you both left... I didn't cope. I fell into a hole and I didn't want to get out. I was so depressed and alone." You drew in a shaky breath. "I know it's stupid and I'm not proud to admit it but-"

Natasha pulled you into her chest. "I love you so much and I am so sorry you had to go through that. All of that"

Maria stared dumbly at the tablet. Tears were beginning to pool in her blue eyes. You turned to look at her "Maria I-"

She cut you off with a kiss. Her hands came up to stroke your cheek. "You are so strong. So unbelievably strong y/n. There is nothing in the whole fucking universe that could tear us away from you again."

°°°

Slowly things returned to normal. All three of your jackets were strewn across the house, the smell of home cooked dinner hung in the air every night, and you, Natasha and Maria fell into bed together as if no time at all had passed. Laughter rang through the halls and naps on the couch became a common place as they always had been. Some nights were spent cuddled in bed while others were spent with your legs around Maria's waist with Natasha's lips on your sensitive neck.

Life was still hectic and it always would be. Maria was still fury's second in command, Natasha was still an avenger (even if she had been taken off the front lines of duty) and you were secretary of state. But none of that mattered because everyone was home.

[kaiunkaiku]

Welp, I wrote a fic | Ao3

Summary: Bakugou has a shit morning. Kirishima is a ray of sunshine. Aizawa does his duty as the unofficial father figure of the class.

Warnings: Implied PTSD, mentioned vomiting and nightmares, dissociation, chronic pain, my dialogue writing, also chaotic students. Some talk of trauma and therapy, reference to Todoroki’s bullshit family life

Enjoy!

Morning classes are no one’s favorites, except for perhaps Iida’s, but Aizawa, for all his hatred for the concept of doing anything before noon, doesn’t remember encountering this kind of a situation while teaching his current class. Mornings are, of course, in general quieter than the rowdy afternoons when the kids are fully awake, but he’s not quite used to the lack of annoyed grumbling, the occasional yell or the muffled, tired shushing that’s probably supposed to be discreet.

Instead, there’s only quiet whispering throughout the classroom, and a few glances thrown at the two empty desks. Aizawa is curious himself, and possibly a tad bit concerned, but maybe the kids are late.

The dorms being a five-minute walk away should have taken care of that problem, though. Of course he understands that sometimes students are late because of traffic or something he can conveniently put in the same category, but the dorms fixed even Kaminari’s perpetual lateness for the most part, and the majority of the class usually arrives in two or three groups.

If his memory serves him right, Aizawa doesn’t remember a single case of a student being absent and nobody bothering to notify him in the entirety of his teaching career. His students, especially in their first year, tend to be properly terrified of him at least enough not to skip class.

Then again, he still hasn’t expelled a single student from this class (although if it wasn’t for the current, inconvenient circumstances, Mineta would have been at least suspended a while ago for inappropriate behavior. He regrets not doing that at the beginning of the first year).

Right now, the empty seats of Kirishima and Bakugou seem to be glaring at him. It’s way too early for this, and maybe he could chalk it up to the boys being young and hormonal and in love, but Bakugou, despite his attitude and personality, is an exceptionally diligent student when compared to most of his peers.

But the possibility of them being late still stands, so Aizawa decides to give them a few more minutes to appear with a proper explanation and goes on to read Jirou’s argumentative essay on foreign language studying in elementary school.

He has three pages left, because this girl has opinions, when out of the corner of his eye he sees a shock of blonde hair approaching him with what looks suspiciously like a smartphone instead of a textbook or a notebook. Judging from the way Kaminari’s fingers fidget around the device and the slightly terrified look on his face, he’s well aware of the fact that phones are strictly banned in the classroom with the sole exception of searching information concerning an assignment, and this could very well end up with his phone in Aizawa’s desk drawer for the remainder of the day.

Aizawa does recall seeing Kaminari fiddling with his phone earlier, too – in fact, he can just as easily recall at least Sero, Ashido and Midoriya doing the same thing, with several of their classmates occasionally checking their phones. Maybe he should have done something fifteen minutes ago, but if no one falls asleep thanks to the blue light they keep staring at, he’ll forgive them before nine AM.

Looking at Kaminari’s anxious expression as he walks to the front of the class like he probably would to an executioner that hasn’t been given an order yet, Aizawa is starting to be fairly sure he won’t be seeing Kirishima or Bakugou in his classroom today. Behind Kaminari, a few other students are nervously glancing around and furiously tapping at their phones. Several phones vibrate simultaneously, telling Aizawa with certainty that they’re all screaming in their group chat. He briefly wonders what the thing is currently named, because he knows for a fact that at one point it was called Adopted by Aizawa and another Is nobody in this goddamn class straight (that one, Aizawa wonders himself, too, at times, but considering that he’s been in a relationship with a man for well over a decade, well, he supposes he doesn’t have much to say to that).

Kaminari’s phone buzzes, too, but he doesn’t even look at it, which leads to the logical conclusion that whatever the reason is for him to be bringing a phone to Aizawa instead of an exercise, it’s more important than what’s undoubtedly obnoxious, emoji-filled caps lock mess of “what the fuck are you doing” directed at Kaminari.

Deciding to give the kid a break, Aizawa sighs and looks up at Kaminari. He makes sure not to glare, because that would be counterproductive in this situation and just slow things down, and instead schools his expression into a neutral one.

“What is it?” he asks, not quite managing to keep the sleepiness from his voice. Kaminari glances down at his phone, the light of the screen briefly reflecting in his eyes, and then focuses his eyes on Aizawa’s face.

“Um,” Kaminari starts, already stuttering on the one syllable. “I, uh, well,” he mumbles, and his eyes wander somewhere behind Aizawa and then to the desk. Aizawa raises one eyebrow as Kaminari glances at his phone again. The rest of the classroom has gone silent – even the constant buzzing has stopped.

“Kirishima says Bakugou’s sick,” he then mumbles, words leaving his mouth fast and surprisingly quiet. “That’s pretty much all I can get out of him, but, I mean…” Kaminari drifts off, glancing nervously around again, and Aizawa is starting to suspect that he’s more afraid that Bakugou will blast through a window or a wall and continue on to blow up his head for even trying to suggest such a thing than he is of Aizawa confiscating his phone. “It’s gotta be pretty bad if he’s admitting it, right?”

Inclined to agree, Aizawa nods.

Kaminari is quiet for a moment, hands still fidgeting with his phone, and Aizawa looks at him expectantly. It’s still too early for this, and he’d like for Kaminari to continue if he’s going to. It takes way too long for Kaminari to take the hint before he clears his throat.

“So, uh, I figured I should probably tell you, since you’re the teacher and all, and, uh, yeah,” Kaminari continues, fidgeting. Aizawa almost feels sorry for the kid.

The rest of the class stares as Aizawa stands up from behind his desk. It’s unbelievably quiet, and while Aizawa appreciates them worrying for their classmates, he doesn’t really care for how obvious they are about it. They’re kids, of course, yes, but they’re also future pro heroes who should not look this concerned over what probably doesn’t warrant that level of concern.

It crosses his mind that he might not know something he probably should.

He straightens himself, taking note of his stiff arms – they’re always stiff, these days, and sore, and sometimes he can’t bend them properly – and sweeps his gaze across the classroom. Kaminari is still standing in front of him, fingers curled almost protectively around his phone.

“Iida,” he starts, and said boy snaps into attention immediately. “I’m stepping out for a second. You and Yaoyorozu are in charge.” Iida vocalizes his understanding and Aizawa knows he’s going to come back to absolute chaos because that’s what his class is. “Kaminari, back to your seat. If I see your phone again today, I’m confiscating it,” he remembers to say, and Kaminari scrambles back to his seat so quickly he almost trips over his own feet.

According to the security system in place at the Heights Alliance, the building is mostly empty, with the notable exception of two people in Bakugou’s room. The system is connected to his phone, as it is to the phones of all the staff members that deal with the students on a daily basis, and this is so much better than having the bots inform him of everything back when the dorms were still brand new. The bots are bitchy.

He sends a quick message to Hizashi to please go check on his class if he can find the time, and tells him to take every cell phone he sees even though he knows Hizashi won’t do it.

The walk is short, and Aizawa soon finds himself in front of Bakugou’s room. He knocks three times and hears footsteps from the other side, and then he’s facing messy red hair, wide, red eyes, and sharp teeth, making up one Kirishima Eijirou, who has no socks on and hasn’t styled his hair up.

The visible tension in Kirishima’s shoulders drains away as he recognizes who he just opened the door to, and his whole frame slumps in relief.

“Sensei,” he breathes out, before Aizawa has time to say anything. Then his eyes widen. “Oh, crap, I’m so sorry, I swear we didn’t mean to skip and we’re not doing anything stupid during school hours,” Kirishima starts, and suddenly he’s rambling in a slightly panicked way. Aizawa decides Kirishima isn’t in trouble for this.

“I just, I couldn’t just leave him here alone,” Kirishima continues, eyes flicking to where Aizawa knows the bathroom is. Then he freezes, and Aizawa cranes his neck to see what Kirishima is looking at.

There’s a digital clock on the nightstand, and Kirishima manages to whisper a soft “fuck” before he turns back to face Aizawa, eyes wider and now looking decidedly scared. “I swear I didn’t realize it was already almost nine,” he says in a meek voice, and Aizawa finally raises his hand between them to silence him. Kirishima’s mouth snaps shut.

“You’re not in trouble,” he says, and Kirishima relaxes. “Just tell me what’s going on. You told Kaminari that Bakugou was sick?”

Moving away from the doorway, Kirishima starts explaining as he lets Aizawa in. There’s a massive All Might poster staring at him.

“Yeah, uh, I don’t actually know what’s wrong.” Kirishima moves his hands helplessly. “He had a nightmare, which is nothing new, really, he has those, I have those, I’m pretty sure everyone has those," and oh, that's probably what Aizawa should have known but didn't, "but he was really out of it after, and now that I think about it he may have had a panic attack. And he was feeling sick, and so we’ve been camping in the bathroom since then. I think it was like five in the morning. He’s thrown up a few times,” he explains, hands fidgeting, as he nudges the bathroom door open with his foot.

Bakugou looks absolutely miserable.

He’s curled up to himself, hugging his knees to his chest, leaning on the wall next to the toilet, and he doesn’t even glance at the door when it opens, instead staring at a fixed spot in front of him. He’s wearing what looks like a Crimson Riot hoodie that’s a little too big on him, and his knuckles are white. The room reeks of sickness.

Kirishima sits down on the floor next to Bakugou, moving softly, and presses a kiss to his temple. “Hey there,” he murmurs. “I came back, you’re fine,” he continues, fingers settling to Bakugou’s hair, and on some level he reminds Aizawa of Hizashi. Bakugou doesn’t react.

Crouching down sends a twinge of pain from his knees to his hips, because today is apparently a shit day pain-wise, but Aizawa does it anyway. Being on eye-level with Bakugou, the kid looks even worse; his eyes are bloodshot and lips chapped, and he looks very pale. A quick check confirms that Bakugou isn’t wearing his hearing aids, so he digs his memory for sign language – he hasn’t seen Hizashi’s parents in a while, so he hasn’t  used  it in a while. He’s not exactly fluent in JSL, but Bakugou can hear something, so he’s going to make this work.

“Bakugou,” he starts, and fuck, the kid flinches. But the vacant look in his eyes clears, if just a bit, and Bakugou turns to look at him instead of the wall. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

Bakugou stares at him for a moment, a considering look in his eyes as if he’s trying to figure out something, and then swallows thickly. Kirishima hasn’t stopped running his fingers through Bakugou’s hair, and his previously free hand has slipped to hold Bakugou’s.

“I feel like shit and I want it to stop,” Bakugou croaks, tone detached and emotionless.

“Okay,” Aizawa replies, even though that did not answer his question. But Bakugou is clearly not lying, either. “I want to check if you have a fever, which means I’m going to touch your forehead,” he explains, trying to emphasize the words with a few key signs he doesn’t think he botches. He reaches a hand forward, but Bakugou interrupts him.

“I’m not sick,” he says, still without any emotion, but he sounds surprisingly convinced of this considering the unhealthy pallor of his skin and the fact that he’s been throwing up. Aizawa quirks an eyebrow.

“I’m going through some bullshit trauma response,” Bakugou continues, clutching Kirishima’s hand, “and it won’t stop.”

Which, okay, Aizawa can understand, because he’s been there, right down to describing the post-nightmare haze as bullshit trauma response when reality didn’t feel like reality and his body didn’t feel like his body. He can’t even imagine what it must be like to go through that at seventeen, because at the very least Aizawa himself was a proper adult and an actual, full-fledged, licenced hero with several years of experience when that particular brand of bullshit trauma response first hit him. Bakugou, on the other hand, is still a teenager, a student, a kid, and so is Kirishima.

He’s throwing Bakugou back to therapy starting tomorrow.

After the incident last fall, Aizawa made sure to force every single one of his students to sit down with a counselor. That lead to a few of his students agreeing to start therapy, and Aizawa keeps careful tabs on who’s going and how the rest of them are doing mentally; Bakugou quit at the end of the school year, Iida, Midoriya, Asui and Kirishima all sat a few sessions, Todoroki is still going, and if Aizawa is being honest, he doesn’t think Todoroki will ever get out of therapy. In any case, he does not need a repeat of a student having a mental breakdown and trying to kill a fellow student.

Looking at Bakugou now, Aizawa doesn’t think he’ll resist the idea too much.

Somehow, standing up is even worse than crouching down was. His knees protest, his ankles protest, his hips, his back, everything. It doesn’t matter, not right now. He’s an adult, and a teacher, and on duty.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he starts once he’s straightened up. Kirishima’s eyes snap up to him, while Bakugou continues to stare where Aizawa’s face just was. “I’m going to call the nurse’s office, and they’re going to send someone here to give Bakugou something to calm down. You’re both excused for the day,” he adds, because he figures Kirishima wouldn’t be able to concentrate in class anyway.

“They’re gonna sedate me,” Bakugou states bluntly, and there’s still the detached tone to his voice.

“Not if you don’t want to– “

“I don’t.”

“– but they’re still going to check you up to see if there’s something else wrong. Do you still feel sick?”

Bakugou nods slowly, and Aizawa resists the urge to sigh. The poor kid is in for a long day.

 XxX

Aizawa stays with the boys until a nurse whose name he doesn’t remember determines that Bakugou is dehydrated, exhausted, and indeed going through some bullshit trauma response; he’s damn near tachycardic, and apparently he’s been dissociating for hours. He won’t talk, so Kirishima provides information where he can – Bakugou still doesn’t seem to have a full grasp on everything that’s going on around him, not to mention what has been going on for the past few hours besides feeling horrible and confused.

In the end, the nurse gives him something to help with the nausea, and convinces him that a mild sedative is a better idea than continuing to feel like shit because he’s too wound up. Getting Bakugou up from the floor turns out to be the most difficult task, because he’s stiff as all hell and shaky on his feet. He doesn’t want to be touched, which is understandable but inconvenient, and once upright he wobbles and almost crashes into Kirishima.

Bakugou seems to fall asleep the second his head hits the pillow, and the nurse gives Kirishima some general instructions like keeping him hydrated and trying to get him to eat something, and tells him to call immediately if Bakugou starts getting worse or if his condition doesn’t improve in a few hours.

Finally walking back to the main building after reassuring Kirishima that yes, taking today off is fine and no, they’re not in trouble for not showing up to class, Aizawa swallows two painkillers dry and prepares himself for the mess that his class is likely to be when he returns.

 XxX

As expected, Aizawa comes back to absolute chaos.

Kaminari is draped over Sero in a vaguely disturbing angle. Midoriya and Todoroki are hunched over the former’s desk in what decidedly does not look like studying. There seems to be a dance party at the back of the classroom, attended by Ashido, Aoyama and Hagakure, with Jirou providing music. Iida and Yaoyorozu are both sitting at their seats looking defeated.

There’s a nice couch in the teachers’ lounge. He can take a nap there. It’s fine. Hizashi can do something about his class.

[clarketomylexa]

Halley’s Comet and Other Extenuating Circumstances

“Halley’s comet,” Lexa finishes her train of thought with red cheeks. “I wish I didn’t have to wait,” she admits. “I want to go camping. Somewhere like Nevada. I want to see it properly.”

“Nevada?” Clarke whistles. “You’d miss calculus.”

“It’s chance I’m willing to take.”

“Skipping class?” Clarke says, appalled, “what would your perfect attendance record say about that?”

“It’s an extenuating circumstance,” Lexa maintains.

Clarke nods conspiratorially and leans over the table. “I believe you.”

read on ao3

The town stops for game day.

The post office closes early, which may or may not be a federal offence and the football players—rowdy and egging each other on with their letterman jackets slung around their shoulders—are excused from last period early. But perhaps the worst casualty of game day fever is the library which closes early on Friday afternoon because Mrs. Rodriguez's grandson plays wide-receiver on the team and she hasn’t missed a game of his since he was eight-years-old.

It leaves Lexa with precious few places where she can revise Spanish conjugations without being interrupted by people decked out in green, white and yellow and frankly, it’s stupid. For a phenomenon that occurs every week, it’s hardly worth the fuss it entails, especially when Lexa’s proposal to the city-council for a town-wide blackout in preparation for Halley’s Comet in forty years’ time was turned down as quickly as she submitted it.

“Did you know that it reflects 4% of the sunlight it receives,” she says, carefully writing out the present participles of the words listed in the assigned page of her textbook. Technically the pages aren’t due until Tuesday—her Spanish teacher is lenient with homework at best and in the habit of forgetting he set it at worst—but has AP History to study for on Sunday and Anya is dragging her out on Saturday for some ‘sister bonding’ under a guise of a house party Lexa doesn’t want to go to.

“What does?”

“The comet.”

Disgruntled, a heavy-set man emerges from beneath the counter of the diner, oil-stained rag tucked into the pocket of his jeans. Gus was swoon worthy in his day her mother would tell her over the dinner table while her father dropped his jaw, positively appalled. He was the quarterback for the championship winning team in 1986—the year Lexa could swear the town is stuck in—and was on a football scholarship to Ohio State until an injury put a kibosh on his NFL career and he was forced to return home with his tail between his legs and a bad disposition. The years of frowning have aged him and taken a toll on his hairline but his hatred for anything resembling football means he has become Lexa’s Friday night company and unlike her classmates, he has never once complained about her ‘fun facts’.

Anya says they deserve each other.

“‘S that right?” He grunts, wiping his hands on the rag and assessing his handiwork.

Lexa nods. “It only shines bright when it’s close enough to the sun for its dust and vapours to be burnt off.” She watches Jack frown at the still-leaking sink and leans on her elbows to peer over the counter. “Do you want me to take a look?”

“What ‘re you going to advanced Spanish the leak out of it?”

Lexa rolls her eyes but, point taken, she concedes.

Manual labour is not her strong point.

He resolves that he will have to call in the plumber on Monday and makes a note for himself to stick above the decrepit coffee machine that is still hanging onto life. Whenever she works the morning shift, she dreads the moment someone will ask for a cup of coffee because she is sure that today is the day it will give out on her completely and leave her with a mob of un-caffeinated townspeople on her hands.

“Can I get you another milkshake?”

She nods and slides a neat five-dollar bill over the counter.

More fool him for perpetuating her sugar addiction.

They both look to the door as the bell rings obnoxiously to signal the entrance of five girls clad in the green, white and yellow of the high schools cheerleading uniform and instinctively, Lexa goes to pull her belongings closer to her, resting her elbows on the counter and pulling herself inwards as they walk by and claim the booth by the window. If Gus sees the way her cheeks flush miserably, he has the good grace not to mention it.

He takes their order and sets Lexa’s second milkshake down next to her Spanish notebook before serving the girls their diet root-beer floats in five tall glasses and returning to the counter. Lexa stares at him as she listens to the mindless chatter—one of them has found a bar in town that doesn’t card, another got sent to the councillors office for a lecture on ‘appropriate behaviour on school grounds’ after she got busted making out with her boyfriend behind the gym. It makes Lexa want to pound her head in and by the look on Gus’s face, the diner owner feels the same.

She has always found it hard to connect with people.

It’s something that she seems come so naturally to her peers but whenever she went up to someone at recess in elementary school the ‘hi my name is’ and ‘can I play with you’ felt forced and awkward and ultimately would find her chickening out of a conversation she had initiated. Her father told her she was just ‘wired differently’ after she came to him in the third grade after a weekend researching into antisocial personality disorder. And although, admittedly, she was relieved to find out she wasn’t a psychopath, she couldn't help but think how unfair it was that out of a family of philanthropists, doctors and cheer captains, she had to be the one person who was average.

She tried her best not to be average—student government, debate team, six AP classes and two advanced ones—but so far, all it has done is entrench her further in a type of anonymity that she can’t seem to shake.

And she does want to shake it.

“Hi, Lexa.”

Wide eyed and calming the throbbing tattoo of her heart, Lexa slaps a hand over her notebook before turning to the voice. November is waning and Clarke is wearing the long-sleeved uniform top prescribed for cold weather—she knows it because of the number of times she has had to pick it up off of the floor of the laundry after Anya comes home from practice. But paired with the usual pleated mini skirt that Anya, as captain, petitioned to make shorter purely for ‘stunting reasons’ and not the glee of seeing her little sister spontaneously combust at the sight of her crush, it makes her sip of shake grow solid lodge itself in her throat like non-Newtonian fluid.

She swallows.

“Hi, Clarke.”

“You’re not coming to the game?”

Lexa knows she is being polite.

She hasn’t gone to a game since she was twelve-years-old.

“Spanish homework,” she shakes her head. “You?”

Clarke piques a brow and it takes Lexa moment before she realises her mistake. She tugs at the neck of her sweater, suddenly feeling hot beneath the knit of her turtleneck. “Sorry,” she blanches.

Clarke waves her hand as if to say ‘don’t worry about it’ and on the contrary, Lexa knows it will be weighing on her mind for the next week—for all the time she spends sitting in the bleachers staring at Clarke in uniform as she waits for Anya during practice, you’d think she’d remember what it stands for.

She drums her nails delicately on the counter even after Gus has given her change for the fifty she used to cover her table and Lexa tries not to think she is stuck on something—stuck on her maybe.  She blew her chance with Clarke when she chewed Anya out in front of the entire squad for bringing twenty-four girls home floor a sleepover without telling her in Pikachu pyjama pants and her middle school track and field t-shirt.

“If you ever did want to go to a game I’d be happy to give you a ride,” Clarke posits when Lexa has all but given up on her saying anything at all. “I know Anya can take you, but if you’re ever at a loose end.”

“Football isn’t really my scene,” Lexa smiles apologetically.

Clarke laughs. “I gathered.”

She hovers for a moment longer.

“The offer stands,” she says.

Her friends call her from the door and she disappears down the steps, car-keys swinging from her fingers before Lexa can reply and she sits on her barstool feeling shell shocked. Her cheeks are ruddy and she digs her chin into the lip of her sweater as if she can retreat behind the protection it provides and Gus has the good grace to allow her a moment of quiet contemplation before wiping the counter down with a dish towel.

“You don’t have to stay on my account,” he says as nonchalantly as he knows how. “If you want to go, then go.”

“I don’t,” she mumbles miserably.

He presses his lips in the silence and she juts her chin to fix him with an intent stare, unblinking from behind round glasses.

“I don’t.”

He sighs a long-suffering sigh and slings the dish-towel over his shoulder.

“Have it your way.”

The next Friday Lexa is working a shift and she is grateful because waiting tables and keeping Gus from throwing the panini press out of the window, cord and all, takes her mind away from the fact that Clarke hasn’t come in for a pre-game diet root beer float. The last week wasn’t the first time she had come in on a Friday—Lexa has spent more than she can count watching the gaggle of cheerleaders in the window booth push missing the time Anya insists they be at the stadium to warm up by—but it was the first time Clarke made a point to talk to her and the change in routine is unsettling. Especially since, in the space of the week, she had talked herself into saying yes should Clarke as if she wanted a ride again.

The four o’clock crown wanes to a lone man in a tartan scarf, furiously avoiding the football stats in the Tribune like the plague—a kindred spirit Lexa thinks—and Lexa busies herself with the calculus revision she sets up behind the counter. Gus comes past to wipe down the counter and she moves to let him through. He follows her and she moves back.

“You stare at that book any longer you’ll become a differential equation,” he grumbles.

“I’m surprised you know what that is.”

“Don’t take your anger out on me just because your girlfriend missed your date,” he holds his hands up in surrender and

“She isn’t my girlfriend,” Lexa says too quickly.

Gus mutters something that sounds like ‘damn teenagers’ under his breath as he takes a basket of French fries to the table in the corner and Lexa pretends not to hear.

When the diner is empty Gus lets her buy a burger and fries with a twenty from the till.

It comes with a lukewarm Cherry Coke that was miss-poured earlier and she sips it as she moves from calculus to AP English and her essay on the characters and themes of Shakespeare’s ‘Hamlet’. An hour later, she is on the second paragraph. She is in the middle of writing about how ‘Hamlet, in essence, is a detailed dialogue on appearance versus reality’ when the bell rings and she tempers her annoyance at being interrupted to paste a customer service smile on but when she looks up, Clarke is standing in the doorway and the sight of her makes Lexa do a double take.

Her hair is scraped up into a high ponytail—the prescribed three-inches from her hairline as set by Anya in the team handbook— but strays fall listlessly about her forehead as casualties of their half-time routine and her cheeks are pink. She has a thrift-store windbreaker over her uniform and bare legs, her fingers wound in the strap of the bag she has slung over her shoulder.

“What can I get you?” Lexa schools herself.

“A root beer float, please,” Clarke smiles, sliding a five dollar bill over the counter.

“Just you?”

“We won,” she nods, as if it’s an explanation, “everyone went out.”

“Not you?”

Clarke shakes her head and Lexa watches her lip sneak up between her teeth. It leaves her hot and reeling for a reason she doesn’t want to get into in the middle of her work place.

“I have Spanish homework.”

It takes Gus to intervene and pry Clarke’s change out of the the till before Lexa comes back to herself. Clarke is staring at her in a way that Lexa can’t decipher and it’s making her anxious—more than anxious, dizzy and clammy and horribly underdressed in her school clothes and cloth apron. She pulls the ballpoint pen from behind her ear.

“Lexa can sit with you if you want,” Gus says.

“I’m working,” she replies immediately, voice edging up an octave in panic.

It’s one thing imaging these circumstances from afar. The act of doing is always the part Lexa has trouble with.

“She’s off the clock,” Gus pats her on the back with a hulking hand.

He steers them to a booth and Clarke’s drink comes a minute later.

Lexa sits opposite Clarke, picking at the hem of her jeans with fingers that won’t seem to cooperate.

“I can get another straw,” Clarke offers.

Lexa shakes her head. “I’m sorry about Gus,” she inclines her head to the man, “he takes his duties as pseudo-father too seriously.”

“I heard that.”

Chagrined, Lexa ducks her head.

“I don’t mind,” Clarke says brightly. “It’s nice.”

“Really?”

She nods, grin widening.

“I don’t get to see you like this. You’re always so serious.”

“I don’t like Fridays,” Lexa says plainly.

Clarke looks at her in open-mouthed reproach as she liked a stripe up her vanilla ice-cream covered straw. “Who doesn’t like Fridays?”

“I find town wide shut downs troubling.”

“But they’re okay if they’re for a ‘once-in-a-lifetime astrological event’,” Clarke recites gleefully, “right?”

“You remember that?” Lexa winces.

“Do I remember the thirteen-year-old who got up in front of the city council to demand they make allowances for a comet that will only be visible in forty year’s time?” she piques a brow.

Lexa’s cheeks grow hot and she wishes the floor would open up and swallow her whole, looking everywhere but at Clarke who is laughing a soft, airy laugh that is so different in cadence to what Lexa hears when she listens to Clarke giggle about the football players at college boys.

“If it’s any consolation, I think it’s nice,” her voice softens when she sees Lexa’s reaction and she slides a hand across the table, fingers stopping just short of where Lexa’s rest—Lexa has it in her to feel disappointed. “I like that you’re so passionate about things. The world would be a pretty boring place without it.”

She says it so succinctly, it could be a fact in a textbook and for that fact, Lexa feels herself compelled to believe it.

“I wish it was sooner,” she says softly.

Clarke lifts her focus from the melting ice-cream and carbonated soda of her float, lips pursed around her straw. “What?”

“Halley’s comet,” Lexa finishes her train of thought with red cheeks. “I wish I didn’t have to wait,” she admits. “I want to go camping. Somewhere like Nevada. I want to see it properly.”

“Nevada?” Clarke whistles. “You’d miss calculus.”

“It’s chance I’m willing to take.”

“Skipping class?” Clarke says, appalled, “what would your perfect attendance record say about that?”

“It’s an extenuating circumstance,” Lexa maintains.

Clarke nods conspiratorially and leans over the table. “I believe you.”

“Gus, please,” Lexa whines, all but desperate.

She has her usual textbooks tucked beneath her arm and backpack over her shoulders but a newly affixed pout on her lips that has been put there through no fault of her own. Or perhaps it was a fault of her own. But in truth she hasn't spoken to Clarke since Gus shoved them unceremoniously together in a booth last Friday night and as far as she was concerned she wasn’t going to again. She had had her five minutes. It was enough to last her a lifetime.

Clarke, apparently, had other intentions and when she approached Lexa in calculus third period, pulling her book over to Lexa’s desk under the guise of ‘asking for help’ in the otherwise silent classroom to ask her to come to the game Lexa had practically leapt out of her skin.

“This is me asking you to come,” Clarke had said, it wasn’t cocky but it had an air about it that she was used to getting what she wanted. “So now you have to. You’re contractually obliged.”

She slipped her a note later that said she didn’t have to if she didn’t want to of course but by that time Lexa’s brain was buzzing too hard for it to sink in.

She panicked.

No one ever said she’s a functioning excuse for a human being.

“You work anymore shifts and I’m going to run out of money to give you,” Gus grumbles, hand on her back as he guides her towards the door.

“I’ll work for free,” she wagers.

He walks her outside and stands in the door, hand on the door jamb and looks at her sagely.

“It’s not a trap,” he tells her after a moment. Lexa’s heart loosens in her chest at the words and she thinks that he might be smarter that he gives himself credit for.

“How do you know?”

“I have eyes,” he scoffs, rubbing a hand over his face like she is giving him a headache. By the frequency of the movement, she thinks she does it a lot. “You do too,” she says when she doesn’t seem to understand. “And you’ve been using them to moon over that Griffin girl since you were fifteen-years-old. Today, she invited you to the game and if I have to sit there,” he jabs a finger towards the counter, “ and watch you look miserable for another week because you let yourself get in the way, I may just sell up and force you out.”

Lexa swallows and adjusts the weight of her books in her arms and he softens his presence.

“Go see your girlfriend, Lexa.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

She goes to the game.

She doesn’t know what else to do.

It’s loud and bright, and the absolute opposite of what she thought she would be doing with her evening but she makes the most of it. She sits halfway up the bleachers with her clear-file of physics revision in her lap and pretends that she isn’t bothered every time the family next to her launches themselves to their feet at the sight of their son with the ball.

After half-time, Clarke pulls Anya aside and points up the bleachers to where Lexa is sitting. She can see the frown on her sisters face slowly melt into something devilish and wants to throw herself to the ground and hide but before she can, Clarke is bounding up the metal stairs and shimmying her way down the row to the empty seat next to Lexa. Her hair is neat but her cheeks are red and there is sweat clinging to her hairline. She grabs Lexa’s forearm with a dazzling smile.

“You came,” she beams.

“You invited me,” Lexa replies dumbly.

Clarke smiles a small, secret smile and Lexa finds herself wondering if it is for her.  

“I thought football wasn’t your scene,” she levers herself into the spare seat, so close that Lexa can feel the heat of her through her coat.

Anya looks up with a wacky thumbs-up to which of them, Lexa doesn’t know.

All she does know is that she isn’t on speaking terms with her anymore and her cheerleading top is going to get an unfortunate soak in bleach the next time she leaves it on the floor of the laundry room.

She looks at Clarke and smiles.

“It was an extenuating circumstance.”

[niveunwhite]

tddk valentine/white day exchange 2019: (for ray)

for @tododekuvalentine and @tzubakis !! happy tododeku valentines day friendo

title: i think i love you

summary: In a so-called exercise of teambuilding and marketability awareness, the UA teachers had decided to arrange a secret Valentine exchange between the students.

Midoriya Izuku

Todoroki stared down at the piece of paper impassively.

“And remember! Valentine’s Day is next week, so get those cards and candies ready fast-- let me hear you kids say ‘YEAH’!” Present Mic’s words fell on deaf ears as 1-A went about whispering to each other about the names that had been distributed to them.

In a so-called exercise of teambuilding and marketability awareness, the UA teachers had decided to arrange a secret Valentine exchange between the students.

Aizawa shuffled to the front of the group of staff, ignoring Present Mic’s radio energy, “Even though they’re called ‘valentines’, your gifts should not necessarily be romantic. The purpose of this exchange is to establish an appreciation for your peers. You’re likely to be working together for a long time, so take note of and acknowledge the positive traits in each other.”

Todoroki looked over to see Midoriya muttering to himself, deep in thought. Midoriya’s positive traits… Considering the possibilities, Todoroki should have been relieved to have picked him; there should be no shortage of compliments to give such a positive and overall inspiring individual. So why do I feel so tense…?

“You’ve all been working nonstop for the past few months, so this should be a nice change of pace. There’s only fifteen minutes of class left, so just go ahead and get started on this, I guess.” As Aizawa zipped himself in his sleeping bag cocoon for the day, and the rest of the teachers filled out of the classroom, the students quieted down, seeming to take the assignment very seriously.

To Todoroki’s left, Yaoyorozu was writing hesitantly, often sighing to herself. In front of her, Mineta was slumped over on his desk, sniffling. I suppose he didn’t get one of the girls. Todoroki took a moment to give a small prayer of thanks before directing his gaze further forward to see:

Midoriya Izuku. He was leaning over his notebook, writing furiously, right foot tapping. Ever so often, he’d tangle his other hand in his hair, and Todoroki took the opportunity to study the particular shade of green it was. Emerald? No. Brunswick? Not quite… Pure phthalo green. Like it was just painted on. He wondered what it would feel like to run his hands through it.

Then Midoriya began to shift as if to look over his shoulder and Todoroki snapped out of his reverie. Quickly looking down at his own blank notebook, Todoroki felt a familiar burning sensation crawling up to his face. Don’t write about his hair, Todoroki made a mental note to himself as he picked up his pencil.

Class ended, as it tends to do, and when evening came, Todoroki found himself in his room, still staring at the same empty piece of paper. Frustrated and confused, he decided to head to the dorm kitchen for hot chocolate. Perhaps he’d run into someone who knew what they were doing along the way.

When he entered the common room, Todoroki saw, in one cluster, Ashido, sprawled upside-down on a couch next to Kaminari and Hagakure, while Iida, Uraraka, and Midoriya sat in another on the opposite side of the room. Midoriya looked up as he walked in, smiled, and waved. Todoroki attempted a smile back but it may have come out looking like a grimace, considering how desperately his heart suddenly seemed to be attempting to jump out of his chest. This is probably not normal.

“Sooo, does anyone know what we’re supposed to actually be doing for this secret Valentine thing?” Hagakure’s voice drew his attention back to her group.

“Yeah, they didn’t really give us a whole lot of instructions,” Kaminari agreed, “What’s up with that?”

“As many things will be when we are Pro Heros,” Iida cut into the conversation from the other side of the room, “This assignment is up to our interpretation and discretion. It is yet another test of our initiative and resourcefulness.”

Ashido pouted at this response. “Boo, it sounds less fun when you put it that way.”

Todoroki debated asking for more specific advice, but he wasn’t sure how to do so without sounding foolish. Hot chocolate will make this better, he thought to himself… Probably. As he headed further to the kitchen, Todoroki heard Ashido call his name.

“Todoroki! Who do you have for the exchange? You could probably do something super duper fancy and romantic, huh?”

“Uh.” He responded eloquently.

“Don’t push him!” Uraraka scolded, as Iida simultaneously cried out a reminder of the platonic nature of the exchange.

Then the microwave timer went off and suddenly Midoriya was standing by his side, retrieving a steaming bowl of katsudon. Todoroki stared at Midoriya’s hands as the boy hummed to himself, pouring a sweet-smelling sauce over his food and smiling all the while. They were warped and scarred, but steady and soft-looking? That can’t be right.

“Would you like to come sit with us, Todoroki?”

Todoroki startled, meeting Midoriya’s eyes. “I’m--” he waved his hand towards the empty mug he had retrieved from the cabinets, “... Hot chocolate. Sure.”

Midoriya gave a nervous laugh, scratching lightly at his face with his utterly captivating hands and Todoroki is vaguely aware that Midoriya is saying something, and he’s trying to pull himself back to reality, but he’s a little preoccupied at the moment and--

“T-T-Todoroki? What are you doing?”

Ah, yes. Midoriya’s hand is comfortably soft, despite all the scar tissue. Now what can Todoroki do to explain why he’s holding it between both of his own hands?

“Boom.” A small plume of fire puffed out from Todoroki’s palm, held in such a way that it almost looked like it was coming from Midoriya’s, “You’re Bakugou.”

There was a stretch of silence.

“WHAT?” A sudden wave of laughter came from the common room, “Todoroki, what was that?!”

Turning to look, Todoroki saw his classmates in various states of disarray. Ashido and Kaminari had ended up on the floor, while Hagakure flailed about from her seat, all in fits of uncontrollable laughter. From their own corner, Uraraka looked on with a mixture of concern and barely-concealed mirth, while Iida appeared to be going through every stage of grief simultaneously.

But back to the matter at hand. Todoroki glanced back to Midoriya, who bared an uncanny resemblance to a tomato at the current moment. In the back of his mind, he vaguely registered the smell of something burning.

“I think… I might go back to my room, actually. I have a bit of work I need to do,” Todoroki muttered. Hot chocolate be damned.

“Oh! That’s totally okay,” Midoriya stammered out, “But, um. You’re kind of. On fire a little bit.”

The shrieking in the common room was revitalised as Todoroki quickly extinguished his hair, absolutely mortified. That hadn’t happened since the time Fuyumi caught him running through the living room, pretending to be All Might’s sidekick when he was five. And that now seemed to pale in comparison.

“Thanks. I’ll… see you later.”

...

“Todoroki?”

“Yes?”

“Can I have my hands back?”

Todoroki left the common room with a speed that would have made Ingenium retire in shame. Back in his room, both hot chocolate-less and no further along with his valentine, he laid down on his futon with a silent huff. Sleeping his troubles away didn't sound too bad…

There was a sudden, timid knocking on his door. Inwardly bemoaning his existence, Todoroki pulled himself together and opened the door to find--

“Ah! Hi, Todoroki!” Uraraka beamed up at him with an angelic smile. But not quite as angelic as Midoriya-- He shook his head to clear his thoughts.

Undeterred by his silence, Uraraka continued on, “So I couldn't help but notice that you seem kind of unsure about your valentine.”

“Well, I don't really know what to say…”

“Mmhm.” Uraraka studied his face with bright eyes. “Do you have Deku?”

Todoroki took a bit of pride in preventing himself from combusting again. He nodded curtly.

“Oohh, I see…” Uraraka had a somewhat unnerving look on her face… Mischievous? Knowing? What could she know? “Is it alright if I come inside?”

Once reseated on the futon, with Uraraka reclining in his swivelling desk chair, Todoroki felt himself beginning to sweat.

“So, Todoroki,” Uraraka clasped her hands together in a very business-like manner, “What are your intentions with Deku?”

He blinked. “To… surpass him as a hero?”

Uraraka stared at him. “Okay, but maybe, like, more personally?”

Twice. “To give him a good Valentine?”

“Okay, and you want to do that because…?”

And again. “Because… That’s the assignment?”

“Oh, my God, you’re even worse than I was! Where’s your fighting spirit?!” Uraraka slammed her hands down on the chair armrests, “ Listen, Todoroki. I’ve been where you are. Deku would never let anything come between him and his friends. Now’s your opportunity! You have nothing to lose but your chains!”

The confusion in the air had a somewhat salty taste.

“Are we talking about the same thing?”

Todoroki felt his skin crawl as Uraraka once again stared through him.

“You like him,” she stated, matter-of-factly.

“I… Like him.”

“Yes.”

Todoroki contemplated this for a minute. Oh. Oh no.  

“You’d do anything for him, wouldn’t you?”

His head seemed to nod on its own.

“And you have so many things to say that you can’t even begin to write anything down?”

He looked towards his noticeably blank notebook and nodded.

Uraraka hummed, satisfied. “Sounds like love to me.”

Hm. That surely sounded interesting, but Todoroki was unfortunately too busy experiencing a total emotional reboot to respond.

Uraraka stood up. “I’ll leave you to think about it. But really, you’ll feel a lot better once you get it out there. I’ll see you later!”

Todoroki remained firmly planted on his futon as Uraraka let herself out.

Sounds like love to me. The words rattled around in his head like the world’s most confused baby angel. Is this what love is? Not being able to look at one of your best and only friends in the face without spontaneously combusting? When did this start? How do you make it go away? What would Midoriya do?

Memories of Midoriya murmuring to himself while furiously writing flooded his mind. Smiling, hard-working, genuine, beautiful Midoriya. Todoroki could feel his heart melting. Midoriya would never do anything to hurt him. Maybe Uraraka was right. Maybe he should be straightforward.  

With a new sense of resolve, Todoroki picked up his pen. He was ready for the class Valentine's exchange.

I think I love you.

[sceptilemasterr]

MW Act 1, Scene 11 - Road Trip

Title: Most Wanted: The Hollywood Killer (A CIU Screenplay)

Main Pairings: Dave x Sam

Other Pairings: N/A

Genre: Full Rewrite

Rating: PG-13 for violence, blood, swearing, alcohol, and sexuality

Summary: The next morning, Dave, Sam, Rhea, and Reza head to Venice Beach to continue the investigation.

Previous Scene: “Hacking Plan R”

Masterlist: Link

INT. DAVE’S POLICE CRUISER - MORNING

Dave sits in the driver’s seat, staring idly out the window at the pedestrians on the sidewalk. Beside him, Sam watches the entrance to Rhea’s apartment building, tapping her foot impatiently. In the back seat, Reza fiddles with something on his phone.

SAM: Alright, where the hell is she? I say we give her two more minutes, then we just go.

DAVE: Relax, Massey. She’ll be here. I spoke to her this morning. She was... well, I think ‘excited’ would be an understatement.

SAM: Remind me again why we’re bringing her along?

DAVE: Because she-

He stops talking when the door to the apartment building swings open. Rhea sprints haphazardly out the door, chewing on a granola bar while stuffing an iPad and some notebooks into her shoulder bag. Papers fall out of the bag and she stops, bending down to gather them up, but while she does so, the granola bar falls out of her mouth and lands on the ground. She hurriedly scoops everything up and shoves it into her bag before sprinting the rest of the way to the car and getting in.

RHEA: Oh my God, I am so, so sorry I’m late! I was all ready to go, and then I forgot my bag but I’d locked myself out of the apartment, so I had to get the landlord and then-

DAVE: It’s alright, it’s fine, you’re here now. No harm done.

SAM (muttering): Speak for yourself.

Dave starts driving, and the car pulls away down the city streets. Rhea finishes organizing her bag, then glances over at Reza, noticing him for the first time.

RHEA: Oh? Sorry, I didn’t see you! Hi! I’m Rhea Sarkar, journalist for the Hollywood Star!

Reza doesn’t look up, engrossed in whatever he is doing on his phone. Rhea leans closer to him.

RHEA: Uh... hello?

Reza, startled, looks up and drops his phone.

REZA: I- wait- who are- buh- hi?

DAVE: C’mon, Reza, I told you about our new journalist friend, didn’t I?

REZA: Uh?

Dave shakes his head and laughs.

DAVE: Rhea, this is Reza, our computer expert. Reza, meet Rhea.

Rhea holds out a hand expectantly. Reza stares at her.

REZA: I, uh... meet to nice you. I mean, wait, what?

Rather than shaking her hand, Reza bends down to grab his phone. Rhea laughs and sits back in her seat.

DAVE: Real smooth, Reza.

Reza looks down at his phone, blushing furiously. There is a long, awkward silence as Dave pulls onto the highway. As traffic starts to slow to a crawl, Rhea leans over, peering at Reza’s phone.

RHEA: What’cha looking at?

Reza, startled, nearly drops his phone again.

REZA: Oh, uh... hi. It’s the blog. The guy, Gavin? His blog. 

RHEA: Nice. Find anything?

Reza shows her his phone, scrolling through the blog.

REZA: Not much. A lot of the usual sleazy stuff he was known for. I’m actually trying to inspect the source code, see if there’s anything more to find there. That’s how I managed to restore some of Gavin’s deleted e-mails the other day.

RHEA: Wow. Sounds impressive.

REZA: ...Wait, really?

RHEA: Sure. I’m honestly kinda not that great with technology. That’s why I write everything down the old-fashioned way. Silly, I know, but after I lost an entire article I’d nearly finished when my computer crashed, I don’t want to take chances.

REZA: Did you try restoring it from a cache?

RHEA: ...I have no idea what that means, actually.

Rhea’s stomach growls. She looks away, embarrassed.

RHEA (muttering): I can’t believe I dropped that stupid granola bar-

She stops talking when Reza pulls a bag of cashews out of his laptop bag and wordlessly hands them to her.

RHEA: For me? Oh my God. You’re a lifesaver.

Reza nods as Rhea eagerly opens the bag and starts eating. Around the car, traffic has slowed completely to a stop. Sam groans.

SAM: Ugh. What the hell is this?

DAVE: Welcome to L.A. traffic.

SAM: How can anyone stand this?

DAVE: Hey, it was your idea to leave right at rush hour!

SAM: I didn’t hear you warning me!

DAVE: Well, what do you expect me to do about it? Crash into the cars in front of us?

SAM (smirks): I’ve got a better idea.

Over Dave’s protests, she reaches over and flips on the siren. The lights start flashing, and almost immediately the cars in front of them start pulling over, clearing a path.

DAVE: Sam! That’s for emergencies only-

SAM: This is an emergency. Punch it!

Dave sighs but steps on the gas anyway, sending the car rocketing down the highway. In no time at all, they’re off the highway and approaching the beach.

RHEA: Wow. You have no idea how useful that would be.

DAVE: Like I said. We usually only do that in real emergencies.

SAM: And catching a killer doesn’t qualify as an ‘emergency’ to you?

Rhea shoots Reza a confused glance. Reza shrugs.

REZA: They, uh... they do that. Arguing. A lot.

RHEA: I’ve noticed.

Sam and Dave continue bickering as the car pulls into a parking lot near the Venice Beach boardwalk.

Next: Hitting the Beach

CIU Tag List: @brightpinkpeppercorn @endlesshero1122 @bbaba-yagaa @acidsugar0

MW Tag List: @griselda1121