#This is messy but honestly i got a headache halfway through writing it

[graylinesspam]

Happy June everybody!

I've seen some really good discussion on my dash the last >24hrs, about labels in the lgbt community and the use of queer and reclaiming slurs and identifying turf rhetoric.

I'm gonna put my 2¢ into this discussion real quick because I think some of us are missing a big base concept of the LGBT community.

The community is wide and vast and diverse as it should be. And no matter your involvement in it, your label, your age, your race, there is one defining sociopolitical stance that makes us who we are. And that's simply being different.

I know that sounds fucking cheesy but stick with me here. Queerness intersects with so many other social struggles, struggles with class and religion, race and disability. And as any struggle it is a fight for freedom from the preset social structures.

Queerness (and yes I'm using that umbrella term for a reason) is about not being hetero-normative more than it is about anything else. It's about choosing to live your life against the social structures. It's not about the specifics of how everyone does it so as much as it is that you do. Trans lesbians and cis-Ace guys are always going to have more in common than they will with any hetero-normative person.

Don't misinterpret me, this isn't a 'straight people are the enemy' argument. This is an argument against rigid definitions and labels. Because the structure itself is what we're fighting. The structure that tells us that one man marries one woman in a Christian ceremony and they settle down into a white picket fence three bedroom home with their two and a half kids. And they better be white and conventional attractive and fit perfectly into their assigned gender roles. (and everyone else can suffer)

That is the enemy.

When you try to bring those kinds of structures into the community you fundamentally undermine the entire purpose of it. There are no good gender roles here. There are no roles of any kind. The strict definitions you're trying to assign to each label are hurting your community. Labels are a good tool for identifying people who may have similar life experiences as yourself. Or as a medium to communicate with straight people, but they are not lines we draw between ourselves.

We cannot survive divided. We must support and protect each other. That's the point of the community.

No more discussions of who can use what labels, no more fighting against 'slurs' that people have been using since before you were born. No more excluding sex and attraction and kink. And no more relying on it either. Sex cannot be a taboo in our community. And it cannot be the aspect from which we define ourselves either.

No more morally policing people who are just trying to live their lives, no more stepping on each other and throwing 'gross and weird' queers under the bus so you can virtue signal as the "Good gays".

No more telling people who they can be based on their genitals or their sexuality. No more telling lesbians to cut men out of their life because that's how we 'fight the patriarchy'. No more telling trans people how they should transition. No more allying with people based on their bodies, their looks, their health.

Asexuality is queer because it's a fundamentally different experience to build a relationship that isn't based on heterosexual attraction. Since sex is the basis by which straight people seem to couple, by not doing that, by connecting through other factors, you differ.

Queer men, or trans women, or others born male are welcome in our community because they are fundamentally choosing to be different from the role they were cast in by the social structure. Now does that include a lot of work unlearning their societal programming? Absolutely. But I welcome my brothers and sisters regardless of their gentitals.

And let's not for a minute pretend that queer 'males' are any more dangerous to us than terfs and the distructivly sexist (and blatantly racist and classist) roles they try to pigeonhole women into.

Other alt communities are our allies. Anyone fighting moral conformity. Anyone fighting racism and sexism and ableism and classism.

If your way of trying to obtain the life you want to live consists of trying to look good to the oppressors so they give you a pass, then your doing it wrong.

Use a hundred different labels to describe yourself. Use neopronouns. Base your relationships off of how well you can support each other. Practice your religion in a way that fulfills you and your identity. Cut off your shitty family. Or don't. Keep your elders close so that you can learn everything you can about how the world has changed, then figure out how to change it more.

Society as it stands will crumble in our collective grasps. We just have a break a little bit of it everyday.

(that being said, general advice, educate yourself on lgbt history, talk to our elders, educate yourself on intersecting struggles. Rascim, ableism, and classism. All of that is required reading babies.)

(((Do not come into the notes saying some shit like, Yeah, everyone is our ally except____. At best it'll be fucking obvious that we don't align ourselves with seriously bad people like pedos or something, and at worst you'll say someone we specifically do ally with and I'll be forced to publically shame you.)))

[captaincravatthecapricious]

Concussion- Prompt Fill

Jon falls out of a Kayak

CW nausea, concussion, hospital mention

Thanks for reading! I am still accepting bingo prompts (Bing card by the wonderful @celosiaa​)! Tell me a character and which prompt, and let me know if you want art or writing! The starred prompts are ones I already have received, and probably have outlined! (I am much faster at art just fyi).  Sorry this one took so long, I wrote it a week ago and hated it! 

Jon doesn’t like the outdoors.  In his experience it’s loud or wet or sandy or bright or crowded or filled with bugs or hot or spider ridden or just generally uncomfortable.  

But that doesn't matter, because he needs to prove that things are alright with Tim.  He has finally earned enough trust or goodwill or something to be invited on a kayaking trip.  

Even back when things were good, Jon rarely got invited along to these things.  Tim knows Jon isn't the outdoorsy sort, but occasionally invites him so he doesn't feel excluded.  

A traitorous part of Jon thinks that he was only invited as a joke.  But more of Jon doesn't care if that is true.  He earned that invitation, and it doesn't matter that he is baking in the heat or that driving to the lake made him carsick or that he already has 30 mosquito bites and counting.  He.  Does.  Not.  Care.  

It doesn't matter because he is here with Tim.  And Tim is having a good time.  

They paddle around the secluded lake for a couple hours.  Jon almost has fun.  He isn't having a bad time.  Tim has been cracking jokes, and Jon is having something adjacent to fun.  Not to mention... it just feels damn good to be included.  Usually it's Tim and Sasha, or on occasion Tim and Martin.  Not that this is the first time since... everything that Tim and Jon have been alone together... it's just.... Kayaking is important to Tim.  And Jon rarely merits such a heartfelt invitation.  And even if it isn't really his scene.  It's worth the itchiness, and sore muscles, and carsickness and oppressive heat.  It is all worth it.  

Jon doesn't really know how he ends up in the water.  One minute he is breathing hard, his back and shoulders burning after all that paddling, trying to convince himself that he probably doesn't need his inhaler (that he left in the car in any case), the next... he is in the water.  Life vest dragging him towards the surface... or where the surface would be if the kayak wasn't in the way.  

He cracks his head on textured, blue plastic, and it doesn't even have time to hurt before Tim is hauling him out of the lake.  

He can't say it really hurts.  Just the surprise, and  the moment of timelessness and involuntary tears when something smacks a person from nowhere.  The brief moment of everything being a little too sharp and a little too blurry all at once.  

He coughs as he breaks the surface and Tim's strong arms lift him back into the kayak as if he weighs nothing (which... Martin would say is the case).  It's probably the firefighter training.  

Water is streaming off him, and there is some sort of weed tangled in his hair.  

"Boss, you alright, there?" Tim clapping him on the shoulder, almost knocking him out of the kayak again.  (Jon isn't sure if the fact that it is a two seater is better or worse).  "Whoa there!"

Tim is steading him again.  He's honestly feeling a little dizzy and a little distant.  But that's probably just the surprise, right?  Probably.  

"Not your boss," he grumbles, trying his best to scowl despite how Bright everything is, and how he really is very very damp and how maybe jeans weren't his smartest move today.  He lets that hang for a beat.  "...Thanks Tim."  

He offers a tiny smile, trying not to shrink in on himself, like he did... back then.  

"Fine, you alright, buddy?  What even happened?"

Jon shrugs.  "I'm in one piece, I think."  

Tim fishes in the water for Jon's dropped paddle.  "Maybe it's time we head back, wouldn't want that to happen again.  I need you in top form if you wanna come out again with me!"  

His head is starting to hurt.  

Jon flushes slightly.  "I'd... really like that, Tim."

Tim hands him back the paddle and they head back towards shore, and the car, and their respective domesticities.  

The headache isn't exactly gone by the evening, but it isn't bad.  Not worth telling Martin about, although he couldn't escape Tim telling Martin how he fell out of the kayak, and having Tim show Martin the pictures of one very damp and disgruntled Jonathan Sims dripping in the kayak, and Jon in Tim's spare workout clothes in the car.  And Jon looking faintly ill with ginger ale clutched tightly with eyes closed on the way back.  And of course the selfie with Tim giving him a sloppy cheek smooch while Jon wears a truly terrible hat that he has no idea why Tim owns.  

Tim stays for dinner.  

By the time that Jon wakes up, Martin has already left for work.  

His head hurts.  Not migraine bad, but he makes a mental note to tuck some excedrin into his bag just in case.  Best to be prepared for these things.  

He drags himself upright with a groan, trying to ignore the way that the room tilts for a few moments as he gets up.  

School.  

Right.  

He's got work today.  And as long as Martin isn't there to be disappointed in his decision making, a headache is not going to stop him.  

It's too bright outside, and Jon isn’t hungry for breakfast.  Tea counts as breakfast, right?  That's good enough.  There's milk and sugar in there... that has to have enough calories to count for something, right?  It's fine.  

Halfway through class, Jon has to sit down.  Abruptly.  His lecture trailing off into a dizzy silence.  

The headache has become too distracting, the tilting of the room around him making it hard to stay tethered to the Earth's gravity.  He presses the heels of his hands against his eyelids, trying to stop the listing of the room.  

He hears a student calling his name, but he can't make himself parse out who.  And the Eye doesn't seem inclined to tell him.  

Which is probably for the best, because he is beginning to wonder if he can take much more headache.  

He doesn't know how long he's been down, but Martin is there now.  

Fluttering hands, checking him for a temperature, coaxing him to look up, shielding him from the fluorescent lighting.  

Jon leans into the cool of his hand.  

Martin's hands in his hair, smoothing away the bedhead, Jon forgot about before leaving the house.  Jon making an embarrassing sound as he relaxes into the touch.  

Until Martin reaches the crown of his head, and Jon hisses in pain.  

Martin has been talking to him the whole time, but the ringing in his ears has been too distracting to make out words until now.  "Jon?  Love, did you hit your head?  Can you look at me?  Tim said you fell yesterday, did you hit your head?"

Jon struggles against the painful light to meet Martin's gaze.  

Martin is shining a pen light in his eyes.  

Jon tries not to feel betrayed.  But the light Hurts.  And he just wants to go back to bed, and be held, or maybe have Martin bring him an ice pack, and he's starting to feel sick as well as dizzy.  

"Jon-love, we should get you to a hospital.  I need to get you actually looked at."  

Jon whines in complaint, but doesn't have the energy to argue as Martin guides him up, folding against Martin's chest, when his legs try to give with the pins and needles of inactivity.  

He doesn't want to go to the hospital.  It's bright and he is very tired.  And he feels so guilty that someone... probably one of his students called Martin in when Martin had likely just gotten off his shift and should be at home and sleeping and not scraping Jon's ass off the floor again.  

It hadn't been this bad earlier!  He's fine!  Really!  

"Jon-love, why didn't you say something?"

And Jon tries not to cry.  "I was fine... didn't hurt then."  

Martin tuts over him and holds him close.  

The hospital is just as bad as he fears, and he's pretty sure he guilty cried on Martin at least once, and possibly also took a nap in the waiting room, but when it's over, Martin shoos Jon into a waiting cab, and trundles them both home.  

Jon is dozing on the couch, because Martin is making dinner and he can't bear the thought of being farther away than one room over, and Jon has never been comfortable about the idea of eating in bed.  Breakfast in bed (Or dinner in this case) sounds good in theory, it just sounds messy and awkward in practice.  His phone has been confiscated after he sent a brief email to his students.  Martin wasn't happy that he already was ignoring the don't look at screens and don't think too much instructions.  

That will be an argument for tomorrow, and the next day until they eventually reach a compromise.  One Jon knows Martin won't be happy about, and one Jon will feel the bite of guilt over, but his students need him, and it really isn't a bad concussion.  He might let Martin fuss over him a little more than normal, but only until the extra work catches up with Martin.  Then it will be Jon's turn to look after him.  

“Jon, Tim just texted.  He says he’s sorry he didn’t know you were hurt, and that you don’t have to go with him again.”

Jon wants to cry again.  He breathes as deeply as he can, trying to draw courage into his lungs.  “Could you… tell him I Want to go?  I promise this won’t happen again?  I… had fun… and I want to go kayaking with him.”  

Martin enters the room with his phone in one hand, and a spatula in the other.  He kisses Jon’s forehead softly, and starts to type one-handed.   

“And please tell him to not feel badly?  I didn’t really notice until …well until you got called.  It was just a headache until then.  Not even a bad one.”

“Of course love, just tell me if it gets worse, alright?”

Jon hmms in agreement.  

[fanfictionaries]

Oh So Many Years: Ch. 19 - Shoot The Moon

Pairing: Hermione Granger x Fred Weasley

Summary:

Summer has ended and students return to King’s Cross to begin another year at Hogwarts. 

Warnings: Swearing, Death, Smut/18+ NSFW

Author’s Note:

For some reason Tumblr wouldn’t take my formatting like it has with previous chapters. I swear it’s a freaking crap shoot whether it will EVERY time I poster on here. It would be nice to know how that works...

Anyways, please enjoy :) 

Masterlist

<<<Chapter 18

 Summer days are gone too soon

You shoot the moon

And miss completely

And now you’re left to face the gloom

The empty room that once smelled sweetly

Of all the flowers you plucked if only

You knew the reason

Why you had to each be lonely

Was it just the season?

 Hermione Granger was nothing if not a punctual person. At the best of times she was fifteen minutes early and at the worst she was on time. However, she should have known that the Weasley family would want to stick true to their tradition of arriving at King’s Cross by the skin of their teeth. Tapping her foot impatiently as she stood in the busy kitchen, Hermione worked very hard at fighting off a headache. Mrs. Weasley was screaming at the twins for charming their trunks and accidentally knocking Ginny down two flights of stairs and Walburga was screaming because Mrs. Weasley was screaming. She checked her watch for the umpteenth time that morning and ran a hand over her hair. They may not even make it on time at all if they carried on this way, she thought irksomely. Especially if they waited any longer on Sturgis Podmore to show up like Moody wanted them to. The last thing she needed was to miss the train on her first day as a Prefect. Smirking to herself, Hermione stared down at the silver pin fitted snuggly to the front of her jumper and admired it. Prefect. She had done it. Just one step closer to Head Girl.

A tap at the kitchen window brought Hermione out of her musings. Looking up she saw the brilliant, snowy visage of Hedwig. Hermione sighed, striding towards the window, and throwing it open. Hedwig flew in, looking quite flustered for a bird. Perhaps she also knew they were running late. Cursing in her head, Hermione wondered if perhaps her parents had forgotten that today was the day she left for Hogwarts. Why else would they have chosen to send Hedwig back so late in the morning? She took the letter from her parents out of Hedwig’s clutch and then allowed the bird to climb onto her shoulder. The owl’s long talons dug sharply into her skin, holding on for dear life as Hermione sprinted out of the kitchen and up the stairs. On the second floor landing she spotted Crookshanks stalking a stray mouse and scooped him up as well. The giant orange beast squirmed in her arms, putting up a fight but possessing enough respect to keep his claws put away.

 “Oh stop, Crooks. Honestly, you’ve spent all summer doing whatever you please. Just cooperate with me for one second,” Hermione groaned, holding onto her cat even tighter and bounding up the last flight of stairs to Harry and Ron’s room.

 “Sorry Harry! Mum and dad only just sent Hedwig back,” she apologized, walking across her friends’ messy room to place Hedwig in her cage. “Are you just now getting dressed?”

 “Uh yeah, I slept late,” Harry mumbled, buttoning the last button on his shirt, and moving to pull on his socks and shoes.

 Hermione sighed, placing Crookshanks down on the bed and taking a moment to stare critically at her best friend. Harry had mentioned the resurgence of his nightmares earlier in the summer when she found him wandering the halls late at night. She had been on her way back to her room from another late-night library session with Fred, but of course she didn’t tell Harry that. While what her and Fred were doing wasn’t necessarily wrong, there was an unspoken agreement between the two of them that they should keep it to themselves. People just wouldn’t understand.

 However, looking at Harry now, Hermione didn’t need her former knowledge of Harry’s nightmares to know that he wasn’t sleeping well. He had circles under his eyes, and despite Mrs. Weasley’s cooking the past month he still looked too thin.

 “How’s Ginny?” Harry asked, tying his laces.

 Hermione rolled her eyes. “She’s fine. Mrs. Weasley is patching her up in the kitchen. I wouldn’t go down there right now though if I were you. It’s a zoo. Mrs. Weasley and Walburga are still yelling and now Mad-Eye’s complaining that we can’t leave until Sturgis Podmore shows up. Otherwise the guard will be one short,” said Hermione, leaning against the end of the bed and petting Crookshanks idly.

 “Guard?” Harry asked, looking up from his shoes. “We have to go to King’s Cross with a guard?”

 “You have to go to King’s Cross with a guard,” corrected Hermione.

 “Why?” questioned Harry, standing up in an irritated fashion.

 Hermione scoffed, “Why do you think, oh Boy Who Lived?”

 “I thought Voldemort was supposed to be lying low. What, do they think he’ll be waiting behind a dustbin at the train station, waiting to do me in?”

 “I don’t know. It’s just what Mad-Eye says,” said Hermione, fighting to stay calm and sympathetic. She was getting a bit tired of Harry’s moody demeanour.

 Her assumption about Harry’s arrival at the beginning of the month had been correct. Harry had been irate. At everyone, but especially at her and Ron. Luckily, Fred and George swooped in at the right time, just like Fred had said they would. Bless the both of them. Hermione didn’t know how much more chastising she could take, she already felt guilty for not writing to him. She’d apologized at least a thousand times over in the last month, but Harry still had a sour mood and while Hermione had been prone to tears at the beginning, now she was just frustrated.

 “Look, I’m not too happy about it either. Do you think I want to be late today?” Hermione asked snippily, looking at her watch once again.

“Will you lot get down here now?!” Mrs. Weasley’s bolstering voice boomed up through the stairwell and Hermione pushed off the bed with a sigh. She grabbed Crookshanks in her arms once again and headed towards the door. “Are you coming?” she asked once she got to the doorway.

 “Yeah, right behind you,” nodded Harry, looking a bit pink in the face. Perhaps her comment had embarrassed him. Hermione smiled at the thought. It would do him good to remember he wasn’t the only one with problems in the world.

 Hermione hurried down the stairs, running into the twins halfway down.

 “Well if it isn’t our favourite little Prefect,” said George, reaching out and ruffling the top of Hermione’s head. Hermione batted his hand away before reaching the bottom of the stairs and placing Crookshanks in his carrier.

 “I’m not speaking with you two,” she sniffed, looking away from them and instead focusing her attention on getting the finicky latch closed tightly on her cat’s wicker carrier.

 “Oh? Why’s that Hermione?” the two asked in unison.

 “I’m annoyed with you both,” responded Hermione in an off-handed manner.

 “Annoyed?” asked Fred with a shocked tone.

 “With us?” asked George, sounding equally as surprised.

 “That can’t be right—” Fred leaned against the wall beside her and took the strap from Hermione’s hands, latching the carrier closed with ease “—we’re angels, we are.”

 “You knocked your sister down two flights of stairs!”

 “By accident!” cried Fred and George.

 “Yes, well still. I hope you know that I will not tolerate that kind of behaviour once we get to Hogwarts.”

 “I knew this would happen Freddie,” said George, shaking his head solemnly.

 “We really should have prepared ourselves more for this inevitable betrayal,” added Fred woefully.

 “Our little Hermione, a swotty Prefect.”

 “No more fun.”

 “No more laughs.”

 “Oh the laughs we’ve had,” bemoaned George wistfully, throwing himself dramatically onto Fred’s shoulder.

 “You two are ridiculous—” Hermione shook her head, unable to stop the smile from forming on her face “—I told you before. Just because I’m a Prefect doesn’t mean I’m going to stop being fun—”

 “You were fun before?” asked Ron cheekily, entering the hallway with a cauldron cake in hand.

 Hermione scowled at him. “Ha, ha, very funny Ron. You know, you’re a Prefect too now. You should start practicing a bit more civility.”  

 Ron smirked, ignoring her comment, and instead taking a bite of the cauldron cake before going over to stand near Tonks and Ginny.

 Hermione turned back to the twins who stared down at her expectantly, waiting to hear the rest of the speech she’d given at least three times over since she’d received the letter with her silver Prefect pin. “Now, as I was saying. I’m not going to turn into a monster. Just realize that I have an obligation to the school first and I won’t hesitate to reprimand you if need be.”

 “Reprimand, you hear that Freddie?” asked George with an impish expression.

 “Sure did Georgie,” answered Fred, looking equally as puckish.

 “What are you going to do, Hermione?”

 “Give us a bit of a spanking?”

 Hermione blushed, furiously and against her better judgement. But she was more well-versed in the ways of the Weasley twins and so her embarrassment did not stop her from responding like it might have in previous years. Instead, she looked up confidently at the two and tried to put on what she could only imagine was a semblance of seduction. “Only if you’ve been bad boys.”

 The twins balked at her comment, mouths hanging open and ears tinging pink in a fashion very similar to Ron but very unfamiliar to them. Fred and George Weasley did not get embarrassed easily. If they had any kind of response, there was no time for it. A moment later, Mrs. Weasley came into the hallway from the kitchen and Harry came down the stairs. Walburga was still screaming insults from the wall, but all ears were trained on Mrs. Weasley’s instructions on who was going with who to King’s Cross and what to do with their trunks.

 A whirlwind of people, crosswalks, and magical barriers and Hermione was finally on Platform 9 ¾. In a way, Hermione was glad they had walked to the train station. It had given her a sense of control on how quickly they reached the train and she had practically run the entire way, Mr. Weasley and Ron on her heel. Once the stress of getting on the train was gone, Hermione was faced with a whole slew of new worries. Sirius had insisted on coming to the station with them and had done his absolute most to stand out like a sore thumb in his Animagus form.

 “He shouldn’t have come with us,” she said, watching the black dog chase the train exuberantly, as they took off from King’s Cross. The students in the train watched it laughing, and even some of the parents left on the platform smiled at the rambunctious dog. They wouldn’t be so cheerful if they knew it was Sirius Black, escaped Azkaban prisoner, thought Hermione cynically.

 “Oh give him a break. He hasn’t seen daylight in ages. Just blowing off a bit of steam he is,” said Ron, continuing to smile out the window at the dog quickly dwindling in size as the train travelled further from the station.

 “Well, as much as we’ve enjoyed your company these past few months, Georgie and I have some important business with people who well…”

 “—aren’t you lot,” George finished for Fred, giving them a short wave before the pair of them turned and disappeared into the next carriage.

 Hermione sighed, not even wanting to begin to think of the trouble they were sure to get up to. Over the remaining month they’d managed to nearly perfect their line of Skiving Snacks and have an admirable inventory at their dispense. As a Prefect, Hermione tried not to think about it. The less she knew, the better.

 “Should we find a compartment then?” asked Harry, turning to her and Ron looking the most cheerful he had all summer. It made what Hermione had to say next even harder. She chanced a look at Ron who was looking equally as guilty.

 “Oh…Harry. I thought you knew. Ron and I have to go to the Prefect’s carriage,” she said, watching the smile fall from Harry’s face. She looked back to Ron, hoping for some support but he was looking anywhere but Harry, focusing intently on one of the wall-mounted light fixtures as if he were seeing it for the first time.

 “Oh—” Harry nodded “—right. Fine.

 “I don’t think we’ll have to be there the whole time. Just long enough to get instructions from the Head Boy and Girl and then we have to patrol the corridors from time to time. We can still—”

 “It’s fine,” said Harry, cutting her off. He was using the clipped, overtly chipper tone he used when he was trying too hard to sound casual. “I might see you later then.”

 “Yeah, definitely!” Ron finally chimed in. “It’s a shame we have to go down there. I’d rather we didn’t, but…we have to. I guess…I mean I’m not enjoying it. I’m not bloody Percy.”

 Harry smiled again, this time in amusement at Ron’s rambling. “I know you’re not,” he said before waving them off to the Prefect compartment.

 Despite his reassurances that he was fine, Hermione felt guilty for leaving Harry there on his own.

 “He’ll be alright,” said Ron, leading her down the corridor towards the front of the train where the Prefect carriage waited for them. “I’m sure he’ll find Seamus or Dean or Neville or someone.”

 “Oh right…”

 It was easy to forget that they all had other friends outside of their small inner circle. Especially since for the longest time, Ron and Harry were her only friends. At least, her only close friends. Neville was her friend, she supposed. As were Fay and Emmy. She might even stretch as far as to say Lavender and Pavarti were her friends as well. Well…maybe more like close acquaintances.

 “Who do you think they chose for Slytherin Prefects?” Ron asked as they neared the front of the train.

 “With our luck it’ll be Malfoy and Parkinson,” grumbled Hermione, reaching the door to the Prefect’s compartment and sliding it open. It was almost poetic the way the moment the words left her mouth, the opening compartment door revealed none other than the two Slytherins in question. They sat in the corner, side-by-side, looking bored and smug. Their expressions only seemed to lighten when they spotted Ron and Hermione entering the compartment.

 “And I thought being a Prefect was supposed to be a place of honour—” Malfoy sneered, looking her and Ron up and down in a condescending manner “—now that I know they’ll give the job to just anyone, it takes away a bit of the prestige.”

 Pansy snickered.

 “Funny, I was just thinking the exact same thing,” Hermione spat back, staring Malfoy in the eye as she tried to telepathically burn him alive. If ever there was a time for emotion-fuelled accidental magic, thought Hermione, now would be it.

 “How dare you, you—”

 “Now, now—” cut in Roger Davies, a seventh year Ravenclaw and the newly appointed Head Boy “—leave the house rivalry for the classroom and the quidditch pitch.” Davies laughed, but Hermione could see the nervous glint in his eye as he gripped his wand tightly.

 “Bloody git,” Ron mumbled under his breath. Hermione didn’t know whether he was referring to Malfoy or Davies, but either way Hermione felt like it was fitting. The rest of the compartment seemed to feel the same as her, as both the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff Prefects were giving Davies wary looks while trying to create as much space as possible between themselves and the Slytherins. Hermione was grateful to see that the other Prefects were familiar faces. Padma Patil, Pavarti’s sister, was the spitting image of her twin and gave Hermione a small wave as she sat down. Hermione, while having limited interaction with the Ravenclaw, found that she liked her much more than Pavarti as they had a shared interest for learning. Anthony Goldstein, the other Ravenclaw Prefect, she recognized from Transfiguration classes years prior. He also gave them a brief greeting. Ernie MacMillan was there too, and while Hermione still didn’t care for him since his spread of lies about Harry their second year, his presence was soothed by the kind and quiet Hannah Abbott who sat next to him.

 “Now!” exclaimed Helen Monroe, the Head Girl, some time later. They were coming near to the end of their meeting, or at least that’s what Hermione assumed based on the agenda they had been given. Their meeting had taken much longer than either Hermione or Ron had anticipated. Ashamedly she thought of Harry sitting on his own in a compartment waiting for them. Merlin she hoped he had found someone to sit with instead of choosing to mope by himself. Maybe Fred and George had found him at the very least.

 “The last thing on our agenda we’d like to address before handing out patrol and meeting schedules is an issue of favouritism,” said Monroe with a smiling face.

 “Favouritism? What do ya mean?” asked Ernie, sounding affronted as if he’d just been personally accused of the offense.

 “Well, in the past we’ve had issues with Prefects showing house favouritism—”

 “—giving points where they’re undeserved and taking points away to give their house a leg up on winning the House Cup,” chimed in Davies.

 “And we just wanted to remind you that your responsibility is to the school and it’s students first and foremost. So please try and show some sense of neutrality, no matter who is involved, whether it’s those in your house or…family members…” Monroe shot a nervous look in Ron’s direction that Ron missed but Hermione did not.

 For a second she wondered if perhaps they were talking about Harry, given he was so prone to getting in trouble and then the truth of the implication hit her square in the face. Maybe she was spending too much time with Fred and George otherwise, she would have caught on immediately that that was exactly who the Heads were referring to. Hermione wanted to laugh. She almost did. Bringing a hand up to cover her mouth, she faked a cough to try and hide the bout of giggles threatening to escape her chest.  

 They were given their schedules after that. Hermione and Ron had the first set of patrols up and down the train, and so instead of heading straight towards Harry, they meandered down from the head of the train, peaking into compartments, and breaking up little spats between younger students. Ron seemed to take to the position of power quite well. Almost too well in some instances, Hermione having to remind him of the speech they’d just been given about abuse of power in favour of their house. He had been trying to take points from a group of third year Slytherins for being too loud – an offense that Hermione deemed worthy of a simple reminder. They were about halfway down the train, Ron trying to reverse a jelly-legs curse that had been set on a fourth year Ravenclaw by accident, when a compartment slid open and Hermione nearly collided with Angelina Johnson.

 “Oh!—” the Gryffindor chaser exclaimed, stopping short “—Hermione. Hi.”

 “Hi…” Hermione responded awkwardly, unsure of what to say. Suddenly she was very nervous, which was ridiculous because she had nothing to be nervous about! It’s not like her and Fred had really done anything. Intimate? Sure. But in a friendly sort of way. Nothing that when taken into context could be deemed inappropriate, reasoned Hermione. Although, if that were true then she wouldn’t have anything to be nervous about.

 “How was your summer?” the older girl asked.

 The question took Hermione by surprise. Why did Angelina Johnson care about her summer? They weren’t friends, and up until that point Hermione was under the impression that Johnson didn’t even like her all that much.

 “Fine. I spent most of it with Ron’s family,” Hermione said, trying to push past how odd it felt to be having a conversation with Fred’s girlfriend when she was madly in love with him and had spent most of her summer nights curled up on a couch or in his bed with him. In a totally appropriate way of course.

 “I thought you might have. George mentioned one time that you usually visit them during the summer,” said Johnson, nodding and looking nervously around them.

 “How was your summer? I heard you spent it at quidditch camp. How was that?” Hermione asked, trying to bridge the uncomfortable silence between them with polite conversation. Why were they still talking?

 “It was good. Yeah, really good. I learned a lot of…stuff.”

 Hermione nodded, raising her eyebrows in acknowledgement. When Johnson neglected to continue, Hermione glanced back in the compartment where Ron was patting an exhausted looking Ravenclaw student on the back, having just broken the curse. She wished he’d hurry up and save her from whatever was going on right then. Her attention was pulled back to the uncomfortable conversation when Johnson spoke once again.

 “Listen, Granger. Now that I’ve got you, I was wondering…” Johnson paused, seeming to contemplate her next words. “I was just wondering whether—”

 “There you are!” Ron exclaimed, exiting the compartment behind Hermione, and placing a hand on her shoulder. “You know, I really could have used your help in there. You’re much better at counter-curses than me Hermione. Oh, hi Johnson.”

 The older girl seemed to go all rigid and awkward at the appearance of Ron. She shifted from foot to foot and cleared her throat before straightening her position and taking on a completely different demeanour. “Weasley. How was your summer?”

 “Good, thanks. Not as good as yours I imagine. Quidditch camp! That must have been amazing!” mooned Ron, getting a sparkly look to his eye at the thought.

 “Yeah, it was great. Learned loads of stuff that should be sure to put Gryffindor in the lead this year. We need a new Keeper now that Oli, I mean—” Johnson coughed “—now that Wood’s gone. Will you be following the Weasley legacy and trying out?”

 Ron went red around the ears, ducking his head bashfully. “Actually, yeah. I thought I might.”

 “Good. I look forward to seeing what you’ve got,” said Johnson with finality before giving them both a small nod and moving past them down the train corridor.

 As strange as the interaction had been, only one thing seemed to stick with Hermione in that moment.

 “You didn’t tell me you were planning on trying out for the team!”

  Fred reckoned he should have known the minute Angelina neglected to show up to their usual compartment that something was up. Alicia had given some offhanded excuse of Angelina going to scout out compartments for potential quidditch recruits and Fred had bought it at face value. In the past he might have questioned it a bit more, gone looking for his long-time friend and currently girlfriend. But in a way it had been a relief for him to not have to deal with the issue of Angelina the moment he got on the train. He was much too excited to show Lee and Alicia their new products and didn’t want to sully it by breaking up with his girlfriend. It had been a long-time coming. He’d wanted to end things weeks ago but had ultimately decided that he couldn’t do it over letter. Him and Angelina had history and she definitely deserved more than a letter saying ‘Hey, this isn’t working. Mind if we just go back to being friends?’. Not to mention the girl got harder and harder to reach as the summer went on. The last letter she’d sent him had been nothing but a picture of her and the beater for the Holyhead Harpies with the words ‘Isn’t this rad? Missing you lots! x Angelina’ written on the back. And while it was cool, Fred couldn’t help but think that in a way it was a finality to their relationship for him. The two of them had never really been gossipy conversationalists, falling back more on their shared physical activities and the comfortable silence that came with old friendships, but this was a bit too sparse for him. He wanted more. He wanted something different. He wanted…Hermione.

 Luckily after the reveal of their new products, Lee wasted no time in bringing other students into their compartment to show off their goods. Before Fred knew it, he and George were completely immersed in their salesmen roles and so all thoughts of girls and relationships were quickly replaced with galleons, sickles, and knuts.

 By the time he and George had made it to the castle their pockets were significantly heavier and their spirits lighter than ever. They were almost completely out of fake wands, biting teacups, and spitting teapots. They had even been convinced by a group of second year Hufflepuffs to sell some of their Skiving Snack Box products – the sweets not yet fully through trial runs. Fred and George agreed but only if they were willing to report back on the effects. The students were happy to do so as it meant they got the sweets at a discount.

 The next clue that went unnoticed by Fred was the fact that Angelina chose to sit at the opposite end of the table as him at the feast. But Fred had been too excited, telling Hermione all about their sales, to notice. Besides, Alicia and Lee were sitting with her and Fred and George usually sat with their family at the start-of-term feast. Still, when Fred caught Angelina’s eye at the end of the table as the last of the first years took their seats, he found himself panicked at the odd look on his girlfriend’s face. Did she know? wondered Fred feeling the all too familiar summersault in his stomach. How could she possibly know? The only person who knew he wanted to break up with her was himself. He hadn’t even told George, although he suspected that George suspected as much.

 The churning sensation stuck with him all throughout dinner and resulted in him eating very little, something that did not go unnoticed by neither George nor Hermione.

 “You alright, mate? You barely touched your porkchops,” said George, licking the last of his chocolate ice cream from the back of his spoon.

 “Yes, and you didn’t even fight Ron for the last of the custard,” added Hermione, her comment touching Fred as she had remembered custard was the only pudding he really cared for.

 “I’m fine. My stomach’s just a bit upset,” he lied, chewing on the side of his thumb as he stared down at the table, tracing the grain of the wood with his eyes.

 “Maybe you should go and see Madame Pomfrey once the feast is over,” suggested Ginny kindly. Fred shot her an appreciative smile before returning his gaze to the table.

 “Well, now that our stomachs are full and our hearts are warm from friendly conversation, I’d like to take a moment of your time to go over the usual start-of-term announcements,” Professor Dumbledore’s gentle yet authoritative voice rang throughout the hall, pulling all attention to himself at the centre of the staff table. He went into his usual diatribe on how the Forbidden Forest was of course, forbidden, how Filch wanted to remind them that magic was off-limits in the corridors between classes, etc. etc. Lastly, he announced that there would be two changes in staffing: Professor Grubbly-Plank was back to take over his position as the teacher for Care of Magical Creatures, and their new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher was a woman named Professor Umbridge.

 At the mention of her name, Fred looked down the staff table for the first time that night to see a new addition. A stout, round woman in a garish-looking pink outfit sat where the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher usually did. Despite her loud outfit she had a very unpleasant look about her, decided Fred. Although, it didn’t really make much of a difference to him. They had a new Defense teacher just about every year now and seeing as it was his last year, it really was inconsequential. They were all the same in the end.

 “Hey, I know her,” commented Harry. “She was at my hearing at the ministry.”

 Fred found that kind of odd. What was a ministry official doing teaching at Hogwarts?

 Dumbledore moved on, beginning to talk about quidditch try-outs when the new DADA teacher did something that made her stick out from all the other defense teachers before her. She stood from her seat. Dumbledore stopped, midsentence and looked at the short woman. Professor Umbridge let out a, “Hem, hem,” and Fred thought for a second that he must be hallucinating. Was this woman really interrupting the headmaster to give some kind of speech? More gracious than Fred could ever imagine to be, Dumbledore allowed her to speak and speak she did.

 Her speech was long-winded, full of comments about Hogwarts’s greatness and how the Ministry placed a lot of stake into the education of young minds. It sounded like a lot of hot air in Fred’s opinion and one glance around the room at the other student’s and even some of the teacher’s faces told him that he wasn’t the only one who felt that way. When Professor Umbridge had the audacity to say that she hoped they would all become great friends Fred couldn’t help but utter a sarcastic, “That’s likely” which was mimicked in time by George as well.

 Then she spoke of progress and change and how things must be done for the better and Fred felt an all-new unease take over him. An unease that radiated throughout the entirety of the room for once she had finished and taken her seat, the hall was much quieter than before.

 “Well that was certainly illuminating,” Hermione whispered from beside him.

 “Don’t tell me you enjoyed that shite,” said Ron exasperatedly. “That had to be the most boring thing I’ve ever heard.

 “I said it was illuminating, not good,” sniped Hermione. “It certainly put things into perspective.”

 “It did?” asked Harry. “Sounded like a load of waffle to me.”

 “Yes, well there was a lot of important stuff in all that waffle if you’d been listening,” said Hermione, her mood turning dark. She had Fred’s attention now as well.

 “There was?” asked Ron dumbly.

 “All that talk of ‘progress for the sake of progress’ and ‘practices that must be prohibited’?”

 Ron and Harry shrugged at her, but Fred was beginning to understand what Hermione was getting at. If Umbridge worked for the ministry and believed that changes needed to be made at Hogwarts then—

 “It means the Ministry’s interfering at Hogwarts,” said Hermione, surmising Fred’s conclusion perfectly.

 The room burst into applause, Dumbledore having finished the last of his announcements and then students began to rise from their seats. Ron and Hermione stood, leaving to escort the first years back to Gryffindor tower. Fred laughed with George when Hermione looked like she was about to lose her head when Ron called the first years ‘midgets’. Turning his head away from the squabbling pair, his eyes fell once again on Angelina.

 Fred swallowed thickly.

 If ever there was a time, it was now. He should just do it. Get it over with. Break her heart and hope that they could move on. Trying to find the bright side to it, he told himself that the sooner he ended things with Angelina, the sooner he could begin pursuing Hermione. However, that only left him with even sweatier palms. Standing up from the table, he looked between George and Angelina with the full intent to cross the room and ask his girlfriend to speak in private. But instead,

 “Alright, Freddie!” he announced loudly, catching George off guard. His twin looked up from the conversation he’d been having with Ginny and looked at him curiously. “I’ll see you in the common room. I have a few things I need to take care of first.”

 Before his brother had any time to question what he was doing, Fred flew from the Great Hall and past Angelina, avoiding looking in her direction as he turned the corner and headed towards an unknown direction. He had only gone a little way down the corridor when a voice called after him.

 “George! Wait up!”

 Fred stopped and turned to see Angelina running after him. What could Angelina possibly want with George, Fred thought for a moment as he watched the pretty witch approach him, her long braids bouncing off her shoulders. She looked nervous when she finally reached him. Her hands twisted together, and her eyes couldn’t quite meet his.

 “That’s me, George. What’s up?” Fred asked, wanting to kick himself. Coward. He was a coward.

 “Can I…can I talk to you for a second about…Fred?”

 “What about Fred?” Fred asked, feeling incredibly stuck in the lie he’d created.

 “Um, you know how I was at quidditch camp this summer?” asked Angelina, looking around them and grabbing Fred’s arm, pulling them over to an alcove away from prying ears and eyes. “And you know how Oliver was there?”

 “Yeah…” said Fred, feeling the blood drain from his body. His limbs had gone all cold and his fingers all numb and tingly.

 “Well, something might have happened.”

 “Something? What kind of something?”

 “Like I might have, I guess you could say I might have cheated?”

 “Might have or did? Those are two very different things Angelina,” said Fred, speaking now more as himself than as himself pretending to be George.

 “Okay, I did! I cheated!” admitted Angelina, bringing her hands up to cover her face in shame.

 “With Oliver Wood?!”

 “I know! I know! It just sort of…happened. Oli and I, we’re—”

 “Oh, so it’s Oli now?” asked Fred, feeling his temper bubble.

 “Look, I know you’re angry. I mean, Fred’s your brother after all.”

 Oh, right. She still thought he was George. Well this certainly threw a wrench in things. “Don’t you think this is something you should be telling him and not…me?” asked Fred, feeling slightly confused as he tried to wrap his head around processing the fact that his girlfriend had cheated on him with Oliver Wood, and that she had no idea she was speaking to him and not his brother.  

 “Yes, and I want to, but George. We’re friends too right? And you know him better than anyone. I was hoping you might know how to break this to him as easily as possible,” Angelina pleaded, looking imploringly into his eyes.

 Before Fred could even begin to figure out how to answer that, both his saving grace and downfall came all at once in the form of the real George Weasley.

 “You alright Freddie? What are you two up to then?” asked George, looking innocently between the two of them, tucked into the alcove.

 Angelina looked between George, the real George, and Fred who she now was beginning to realize was the one standing before her. Fred watched as the realization took over her and then how fear replaced confusion in her eyes before she muttered, “Well, fuck.”

 The conversation at that point had been a bit stale. Fred reckoned he might have gotten more answers out of her if George hadn’t come along and blown his act, but it was probably for the best. The more Fred thought about it, the less he really wanted to know. Still, some things stuck with him. What did Oliver Wood have that he didn’t?

 “I mean, it’s Wood!” cried Fred for the tenth time that night, laying face up, wrong way on his bed, head hanging off the end.

 “I know mate, I know,” responded George, continuing to unpack his and Fred’s trunk. A nicety Fred figured he was only giving considering his current predicament.

 “Maybe she’s bewitched or something,” suggested Lee kindly from across the room.

 “Yeah, maybe she’s under some kind of potion or spell. How else could a prat like that land Angelina?” added George.

 “I don’t know, Fred managed to land her just fine,” said Kenneth Towler, earning a round of glares from everyone in the room.

 “Shut it, Towler,” warned George, but he had gotten Fred’s attention now.

 Lifting his head till it was level with his body, Fred looked at the bookish boy with narrowed eyes. “What are you trying to say Kenneth?”

 Kenneth laughed, a short and breathy scoff, shaking his head from side to side. “Have you ever considered that maybe Wood’s just better than you?”

 The room was silent. Shocked at Towler’s words and more importantly in anticipation for how Fred would respond. Fred too was curious as to how he would react. Digging deep within himself he searched for anger, sadness, envy, but he found none of it. Instead, he laughed. A full body, side aching laugh that sent him toppling out of his bed and wiping at tears at the corner of his eyes. George and Lee joined in, followed shortly by Towler himself. When Fred finally calmed down enough to catch his breath he was on the floor, back leaning against the foot of his bed and one knee bent upwards to support his left arm.

 “Yeah, you might be right there Towler,” he sighed, feeling better than he had a few minutes previously.

 Despite his ability to laugh at the situation that night, Fred couldn’t help but mope the next day. Sure, he was planning on breaking up with Angelina as well, but it still hurts to get dumped and cheated on. Especially when the other man was your old quidditch captain. Not to mention, in a way he felt like it was slightly expected of him. In true Hogwarts fashion everyone knew the tale of him and Angelina and more importantly his mistaken identity. It had turned into a bit of a joke really and by dinner the next night people were saying things like “Just make sure it’s actually them and not their twin” when someone planned to meet with someone.

 It wasn’t particularly clever, Fred thought. Surely he and George could have come up with something much better if it had happened to someone else. But it hadn’t happened to someone else. It had happened to him, and he wasn’t about to throw fire to the flame by making a better joke that would surely stick around much longer. That just wouldn’t be fair to Angelina, who was already looking about as miserable as you could. It was clear she was embarrassed and guilty. Several points throughout the day Fred thought about putting her out of her misery and telling her not to feel bad. Maybe if he had been a better boyfriend she wouldn’t have been seduced away by another man. Maybe she could tell that his heart wasn’t truly in their relationship and therefore it was easier for her to be unfaithful. Still, he had been the one who’s heart wasn’t in it and he hadn’t been shoving his tongue down Hermione’s throat all summer. This was a new fact he had unwillingly learned from a few Gryffindor sixth year girls gossiping too loudly in the corridor before dinner.

 Once at dinner and knowing this fact, Fred longed for distraction. Glancing around he noticed that Hermione was noticeably absent. Of course she would be gone on the one day he needed the comfort of her ability to go on and on about whatever subject he asked her about.

 “Say, where’s Hermione?” Fred asked Ron and Harry as casually as he could.

 Harry shrugged but Ron answered, “Library maybe? That’s where she was last I saw her. You know how she gets.”

 “Maybe I should go get her? Make sure she doesn’t accidentally miss dinner,” Fred said, standing from the table.

 George gave him a knowing look. “Is that all?”

 “Dinner is the most important meal of the day Georgie,” said Fred, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

 “I thought that was breakfast,” said George back, smiling now.

 “Yeah, and I thought you weren’t a huge dickhead. I guess we’re both wrong.” And with that Fred spun on his heel and exited the Great Hall.

 Fred made it halfway to the library when he began to notice something very odd. The air had begun to thicken, a layer of fog soon surrounding him. Very shortly after his shoes started to make a wet splashing sound with every step. Looking down the corridor through the hazy fog, he realized that the floor was covered in water. A few steps further in and he realized that it was beginning to deepen. Something brushed his left hand and Fred jumped, spinning quickly, and pulling out his wand only to find a cattail. What was a cattail doing in a Hogwarts corridor?

 “Lumos,” he muttered, the tip of his wand glowing brilliantly and illuminating the corridor ahead of him. But he did not see a corridor. Or at least not the corridor he expected to see. No, instead the hall seemed to be transformed into what could only be described as a swamp with an expanse of still water covered by lily pads, cattails, and moss-covered logs. To top it all off, if he focused hard enough and held his breath, Fred could make out the croaks of toads in the distance.

 “What?” muttered Fred aloud in confusion.

 “Oh no, you weren’t supposed to see it until after dinner with everyone else,” whined a voice from behind him. Fred spun, his wand illuminating the face of Hermione Granger. She stood a few feet away, hands clasped behind her back as she frowned in his direction.

 “You did this?” he asked in shock.

 Hermione’s frown quickly morphed into a very proud smile and she nodded enthusiastically. “It’s a portable swamp. I’ve been working on it all summer. It was supposed to be yours and George’s Christmas present – you know, for the business.”

 “Why?” asked Fred, unable to really form full sentences from shock.

 “I heard about what happened with Angelina and I figured you might need some cheering up. I was hoping you’d get to see it for the first time when everyone else found it, but this is nice too. At least this way you won’t accidentally fall into it. A foot further and the water depth drops to about four feet,” she informed him casually, although the smug expression on her face told him she felt very proud of herself.

 Fred took a quick step away from the water and towards Hermione, not wanting to chance falling in. He stared at the witch before him, wide-eyed and speechless.

 “Do you like it?” Hermione asked, looking a bit nervous now as he had yet to make any real comment on her brilliant invention.

 Like it? He loved it! It was probably the nicest gift anyone had ever given him. How could he even begin to express how grateful he was? He was so happy he could kiss her. In fact…

 Fred leaned down, wrapping his arms tightly around Hermione and lifting her off of the ground as he claimed her mouth. The kiss was hard and overly enthusiastic at first, but in almost no time they were swept back into the memory of their first kiss all those months ago and they melted into each other like there had been no time between them. A single continuous kiss that went on for seasons. A kiss that Fred never wanted to end as he held Hermione tightly and snogged the living daylights out of her. Unfortunately, the kiss did have to end. A distant murmur of voices sounded from somewhere near by and they broke apart panting. Hermione’s lips were red and swollen and parted in a surprised expression when he carefully placed her down on the ground. They took a moment to just stare at each other, both surprised and delighted in what had just happened. But then the voices grew louder, and they knew they had to go. Fred held out his hand, raising his eyebrows expectantly. Hermione took it firmly, smiling bigger than he’d ever seen. Then they were off, running down the corridors and away from the scene of the crime. Through the halls of stone floors, ancient tapestries, and regal portraits they ran, laughing like school children. Which in a way, Fred supposed they still were.

Taglist:

@theworldisugly-22

@aoonai

@sjh-07-10

@is-it-madness

@i-d-e-g-a-f

[marvels-writings]

Could you do a “i fucking love you” “hang up, and tell me this when you’re sober” scenario with Maria being an absolute nervous person around the reader and of course, got drunk one night to tell the reader?🤗

A/N: this is for the anon who asked for the Maria writing, i was originally gonna write this later but here we are now

“So are you going to the party tonight?” Maria asked, resting her elbow on the corner of your desk, trying to look smooth but it quickly slid off, knocking her off balance and forcing her to stand straight.

You chuckled softly, causing Maria’s breath to hitch slightly as you packed up your things before looking at her, letting your hair down.

“Nope, I have too many reports that I procrastinated on.” You answered, putting the hair tie in your mouth before retying it into a ponytail and taking some strands out to frame your face before smiling up at Maria. “Are you?”

“Only because I didn’t procrastinate.” Maria smirked, you swatted her lightly on the arm for the remark, she laughed and walked you out the compound doors, bantering and joking about the day’s events, Maria wanted to drive you home and stay with you the rest of the day, but she knew she couldn’t, god she hadn’t even asked you out yet. 

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.” You said, smiling at her one last time before getting in your car and driving off, missing the way she wasn’t able to stop looking at you until you drove off, she sighed and headed back inside. 

Though she would never admit it to anyone, she had been crushing on you for the past few months, almost a week after you came to work at the compound through Tony’s company and friendship with Pepper, you were good with people, honest, funny, stunning, a good fighter, basically all SHIELD needed, basically all Maria needed. 

“Someone has a crush.” Clint sang when he saw her, Maria glared at him to shut up, Clint smirked at the blush on her face before practically running off.

At least she had a party to look forward to, a party without you wasn’t much to look forward to though.

-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

The party had gone way out of hand, somehow Clint and Natasha had convinced Maria to do shots and she had let them. Now, on her 5th shot she was almost blackout drunk, the team was chanting her to do more shots but all she wanted was you, all she wanted was for you to be chanting for her before taking her home.

After the 7th shot, she stopped and pulled out her phone, desperately wanting to hear your voice, if she heard Steve say ‘don’t wait’ one more time she was going to come over to your house and kiss you, instead, she was doing the next best thing.

After some help from Clint to dial up your number on her phone, she held her phone to her ear, waiting for you to pick up, you picked up after the 3rd ring, as always, Maria grinned at him before speaking. 

“Hey Maria, need me to pick you up again?” You joked, phone held in the crook of your neck as you continued filing, you were almost halfway through and you wanted to get it done before needing to postpone another party with Maria.

“That wouldn’t be so bad.” Maria confessed, slurring half her words before taking another shot, making the same sound as people did in Coke ads and clicking her tongue after, the alcohol giving her courage to do what she had wanted to for the past few months. 

“I fucking, fucking  love you” Maria stuttered, nervousness still wracking her body through the alcohol.

The phone dropped from your neck as you grinned, you knew she had been crushing on you, the entire team had been telling you, you’d just been too chicken to tell her you felt the same way, but fear quickly took over you as you realized this could just be a drunk dare, you quickly picked up your phone.

“Hang up,” You commanded, hearing her sigh on the other end “, and tell me this when you’re sober”

“Yes ma’am.” Maria said before you heard the line end. 

You stared at the phone for another few minutes, scrolling back through the texts where Maria was asking you to go to the party without trying to seem desperate, you put down your phone and continued filing, unable to keep a huge grin off of your face the entire time, dreams of tomorrow keeping you awake.

-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

Maria woke up in her bed with a huge headache, she looked around to find aspirin and water left on her side table and a note from Nat saying ‘your welcome’. There was a PS written by Clint which she decided to read after taking the aspirin and changing.

She changed out of the outfit she had worn to the party into some navy blue leggings and a black crew neck sweatshirt which kept slipping off of one shoulder, she tugged it back on and tied her hair in a messy ponytail before heading back over to the note, reading the PS while expecting something sarcastic.

It was a reminder to call you to tell you she loved you, Maria’s eyes widened as memories rushed back from yesterday, she sprinted around her apartment looking for her phone despite her headache, she found it in the pocket of the jacket she had been wearing.

Maria called you as quickly as she could, fidgeting with her sleeves as her blue eyes darted nervously everywhere, you picked up after the second ring this time.

“Hey.” You greeted softly, you’d been cooking breakfast and pacing while waiting for her call, if she remembered that was.

“Hi, so uh.” Maria hesitated, running a hand through her hair in stress, she couldn’t bring herself to say it again, she bit her lip.

“You had something you wanted to say?” You asked, Maria could practically hear you smirking on the other end, she rolled her eyes and took in a deep breath.

“Iloveyou.” she said, hoping you’d catch what she said and you did, you grinned with relief, it wasn’t just a drunk lie.

“Honestly I’m surprised you remembered,” You joked, Maria laughed nervously as anxiety built up in her chest. “And I love you too.”

Maria grinned, thinking of all the time she had wasted in telling you this, but at least she wasn’t going to waste anymore time.“Do you want to have dinner with me tonight?” Maria asked, a little less nervous than before but still nervous.

“You can come over for breakfast if you want.” You offered, then smirked. “I know the only thing you can cook is cereal.”“Only if you have black coffee.” Maria joked, already getting her car keys to drive over to your place.

“I have breakfast too.” You answered, laughing and holding the phone in the crook of your neck while flipping the pancakes before turning on the coffee machine.

“I’ll be there in 10.” Maria said, about to end the line before you spoke.

“And you can take me out to dinner after that.” You joked, hearing Maria laugh before ending the line.

Maria grinned while driving to your place, looking forward to finally dating you, maybe all the shots had been a good idea, she had never even thought it would end up like this, but it ended up amazing, you were amazing.

A/N: Here you go anon, feedback is amazing

Tag List: @capcarolsdanver, @versdan, @lesbian-girls-wayhaught, @lovebotlarson, @dhengkt, @5aftermidnight, @hstoria, @natasha-danvers, @veryfunnyal, @xxxtwilightaxelxxx , @ophelias-heart  , @never-didbefore , @justarandomhumanhere, @the-most-unicorn-of-them-all , @thatssocamryn , @lesbian-x-blackwidow , @marvelbbyx , let me know if you’d like to be in any of my tag lists!

[far-away-stars]

Can I ask all for Tenja or Ezio (or both c;) for the NPC asks? -v-

Hi, yes, I did both kitties, which mean it took me too long and got tired of trying to make any sense halfway through it, so sorry if it doesn’t make any sense or it’s just lame here and there. :’D

Tenja Rel 

1. Would they be recruitable?

As a new Jedi in training, yes, I pretty much think so. Sith is harder since he’s quite individualistic and has a pretty possessi-ehm, protective brother.

2. Would they be a class specific character? (ie. Imperial Agent only. Republic character only)

Probably Jedi specific. Either Consular or Knight both.

3. When would you recruit them? Vanilla story? an Expac? Post KOTET?

I think vanilla would be good, learning “peacefully��� on the field the ways of Jedi.

4. Where would you recruit them from?

Probably directly from the Temple on Tython, going to pick him up for a mission you were assigned for by some of the higher-ups.

5. What would their recruitment mission be?

He wouldn’t really need one, since, simply put, he doesn't really have a choice, I’ll assume whatever missions the characters made so far in name of the Republic and jedi were enough as a vote of trust for the Council. If we are talking some sort of loyalty mission … maybe he asks you to accompany him on some sort of travel to Voss? To get some help for his blindness. Not to cure it, but to stop the phantom pains probably, or the general headaches from using the Force to “see” while not being yet fully used to it. It may also lead to a dream-travel adventure of sorts (with some comments of his regarding how he can somehow “see” you now.)

6.What would be their original recruitment outfit?

Visas Marr in an all-black dye.

7. Would there be a character they don’t like? Would that cause you to choose sides?

Well. There would be issues if he somehow came into contact with his brother, Di’taqt, so any sort-of public alliance with the Sith would probably be problematic.

8. Are they romancable? Why/why not?

They are, but it’s probably not one of the easiest shells to break. He didn’t really allowed himself love for the sake of it, I mean, his last wife blinded him in a fit of rage. Also, well, he doesn’t mind sex at all, because it what he was used to as a Sith and wasn’t going to go chaste just for the sake of old ass Jedi traditions, so there’s that. But, well. He doesn’t think love has a change to turn out well. He can be proved wrong, if one is willing to try.

9. What would they say if you clicked on them?

“I’m listening.” “What do you have in store for us today, my friend?” “At your service.” “I do wonder if it’s a wise idea.” “Mhnn, gossip. I like it.” “No one suspects the blind man.”

10. Do they know any other in game characters? (ie. trained under Satele Shan during the civil war. Knew Talos before he went to Hoth)

Aside from his brother and general Sith acquaintances I don’t think so.

11. What weapon(s) would they have?

His lightsaber, standard force-sensitive equipment. His sly charm.

12. Are they better as a tank, healer or DPS?

Essentially DPS but he can manage a decent amount of healing, at least for himself. His specialty consists in entropic redistribution of the Force, basically siphoning life force from his enemies to himself, wasting away his enemies while healing and strengthening himself.

13. What gifts do they Love? Like? What would they say when you gave them a gift?

Weapon and Trophy, probably. Doesn't mind Luxury and Courting either. - “Well. Someone will certainly find a use to it.” “Appreciated.” “For me? I’m honored.” “I.. thank you, my friend. It’s truly wonderful.”

14. What would they say if you sent them away/changed them out?

“I’ll be there when you need me.” “Good rest to you.” “Oh, you wound me, leaving so soon.” “I dare you to find company as good as mine, my friend.”

15. What do they say when they heal you? What do they say when they are attacking?

“Hush, hush. Better already, is it?” “Don’t die on me, my friend, I don’t need that kind of stress in my life.” “Fresh air and the the kiss of life.” - “Tut-tut, I’ll show how it’s done.” “Let it go. It will hurt less if you don’t fight it.” “You are lacking finesse. Not that it will matter for longer still.” “Do us a favor. Don’t get up.”

16. What’s their idle chatter like? Do they talk a lot (when you arrive on each planet) or do they suddenly say something in some strange places?

They certainly like to say something at each planet, idle stuff, less prone to start random conversations if unprompted.

17. What letters would they send post vanilla class story/SOR/KOTFE

Romance :

He would probably be so frustrated trying to write one, or think of a gift, but, yeah, letters are not his forte. He wouldn’t know what to write, how to explain, how to express what he feels. Not the full story of his life on paper would be enough to try to begin to put into words how he feels to this day next to them.

He will try to prove it, to show it, to make it spoken in a language he hopes the character will understand, but, no. Not in a letter. He will write invisible patterns on their skin, he will smile his gratitude and hold his hopes in their arms with them. And hope they understand.

Also he would have to dictate it to a holo-transcriptor and yeah, no.

18. If they are recruitable in vanilla story, where are they during KOTFE/TET? What are/were they doing?

Probably still with the Jedi. He didn’t have much choice, he couldn’t really go back to the Empire, and it’s not as if they were faring any better Tho I bet he was one of the most frustrated ones after the deal with Zakuul, very bitter. He may have left at a certain point to join some resistance’s group, if anything not to feel so useless.

Lucretyiio 

1. Would they be recruitable?

Buy him food and he’s yours, honestly.

2. Would they be a class specific character? (ie. Imperial Agent only. Republic character only)

No, not really. He usually strays away from force sensitives and isn’t overly fond of the Empire, but well, he doesn’t judge people from covers. Or tries at least,

3. When would you recruit them? Vanilla story? an Expac? Post KOTET?

He’s pretty freestyle. He constantly asks for rides. Anytime would work.

4. Where would you recruit them from?

A Cantina. Could be anywhere from Coruscant, to Tatooine, to Nar Shadda.

5. What would their recruitment mission be?

Help him take down or stop some violent gang making business around probably, or something of the sort.

6.What would be their original recruitment outfit?

Canderous Ordo armor.

7. Would there be a character they don’t like? Would that cause you to choose sides?

Honestly.. Not really. There’s a lot of things he doesn’t like, but it’s not about choosing sides, not really, it’s about engaging ourselves to be the best we can possibly be. He doesn’t actually wants to shun or isolate people. He won't be comfortable or agree with everyone, but he wants to believe it’s doable while offering the chance to be united.

Honestly, like, yeah, he will vocally disagree to a lot of stuff if it involves violence, abuse and all that stuff. But he will stay as long as he believes in the cause. Being open about his opinions is also one of the ways he hopes will help changing things for the best and influence people with new ideas.

8. Are they romancable? Why/why not?

Yes, very. He’s so flirty. He just happens to become a mess if you flirt back. You may have to pick him up on a spoon. But he’ll sing all the love ballads to you.

9. What would they say if you clicked on them?

“Never wondered : why Banthas? No, like, that’s it. That’s the question. I can’t figure them out, mate.” “Why nothing rhymes with “Saresh”?” “Bada-mba-dababum mate, ya feel me?” “I. Need. Ice Cream.” “Oh shit, forgot the safety on the blaster.” “I’m here all day folks.” “No, man, you are the sidekick.”

10. Do they know any other in game characters? (ie. trained under Satele Shan during the civil war. Knew Talos before he went to Hoth)

Nope, don’t think so.

11. What weapon(s) would they have?

His brazen and melodious singing voice. His halliksete, if smashed on someone’s head. A blaster that he mostly knows how to use. Also smoke grenades. Because he often needs a diversion from when he needs to quickly disappear.

12. Are they better as a tank, healer or DPS?

He can damage things alright. Mostly willingly. I wouldn’t really trust him for anything else.

13. What gifts do they Love? Like? What would they say when you gave them a gift?

Underworld Good and Courting are his faves. Luxury and Cultural Artefact can work out. - “Hey, yeah, cool. What is it?” “Fancy ass cool, man!” “Fuck. Thanks.” “*sobbing*”

14. What would they say if you sent them away/changed them out?

“Hey, be back soon for another show.” “Yeeees, party time!” “No, yeah, of course I can be left to my own devices. No dangers. Ah.” “I’ll be back when you need me!”

15. What do they say when they heal you? What do they say when they are attacking?

“Hey. Wanna me to kiss it better?” “I’m trying!” “Hey, all better, Am I the best or am I the best?” “Oh fuck man that must have hurt.” - “Aaaand perfect strike for local handsome!” “Yes, that was… totally what I meant to do!” “Oh fuck that hurt.” “In your BEHIND, dude.”

16. What’s their idle chatter like? Do they talk a lot (when you arrive on each planet) or do they suddenly say something in some strange places?

He talks a lot. Don’t even get me started.

17. What letters would they send post vanilla class story/SOR/KOTFE

One of his letters, both romance and not-romance (tho romance’s content are slightly different) is the messy drafts of a song he’s trying to compose about the character. It’s some sort of epic tale, or brash cantina chant, or something more private. It’s a mess, with all his annotations. It’s very sincere. He says he never managed to finish it, and maybe it’s because he doesn’t want it to finish. Never.

18. If they are recruitable in vanilla story, where are they during KOTFE/TET? What are/were they doing?

Helping refugees. He started off really angry, blazen songs about Zakuul and how they all had to fight. Then… he just wanted to help people.

[terresdebrumestories]

For a Napollya prompt could I maybe request an AU where Illya works as a CIA/FBI agent working to capture the very annoying and slippery art thief who constantly flirts with him while on the job? (You can choose whichever time period this takes place in, could be modern day, 20s, 60s or whatever)

Settlement

Fandom: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (Movie)Series: -Rating: General audiencesWordcount: 1 450 wordsPairing(s): NapollyaCharacter(s): Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin.Genre: Hidden declarations of commitment.Trigger warning(s): None that I’m aware of.Summary: It isn’t the first time this happened and, honestly, it’s not the most frustrating either. The Youtube fake fire is a bit much, though.Note(s): Thanks for this prompt, I liked it very much! (As evidenced by how it’s like. Triple the size of my usual FFN stories.) It could probably use a bit of polishing to be a better story, but my unofficial rule for these things is ‘write, spell check, post’ unless the first version is truly horrendous (if I start treating my Flash Fic prompts like my longer stories, I won’t be able to call them flash fics at all tbh) so…have this. Thanks again, Nonners! TMFU is my current obsession and I could use more training for writing our favorite spie :3

“Ihope you like carbonara,” Solo’s voice announces from thekitchen, “I couldn’t find the ingredients for anything fancier.”

Illya,still halfway into the hallway with his hand on his gun, takes asecond to sigh and press at the headache budding between his eyesbefore he holsters his weapon. Solo must have ascribed some sort ofmeaning to the silence, though, because he steps out of the kitchenwith a shit eating grin and the most garish apron Illya has ever seenin his life. And that includes the cowboys and cacti model the manwore when he first did this, back in Berlin.

“Youreally need to take better care of your kitchen, you know.”

Illyagives him the kind of flat stare that makes his colleagues pause andthe new recruits reconsider talking to him altogether. It would bemore efficient if Solo hadn’t been immune to it from the beginning,but just because the stupid American doesn’t have any sense ofshame or decency doesn’t mean Illya needs to indulge him. He doesholster his gun, though. He can’t shoot an unarmed suspect,especially one without a violent history, and Solo missed far toomany opportunities to hurt him to play that card now.

“You’reand international thief,” Illya tells the man as he closes the doorbehind him, “I don’t take suggestions from you.”

“Internationalart thief,” Solo corrects, walking back to the stove, “andyou did ditch the bow tie.”

Illyarefuses to raise to the bait but, Solo is just conceited enough totake any kind of answer as a confirmation of guilt. It wouldn’trankle so much if he were wrong but, well. Illya did have doubtsabout the bow tie before Rome, and Solo may be many things, but he’sdefinitely not tasteless. Nothing in the world could make himoutright admit that, though.

Hesighs.

“Why?”

“Youforgot?” Solo tosses over his shoulder with mock hurt. “Tovarishch,I’m offended.”

Illyarolls his eyes and, because he knows he won’t have peace until heagrees to the stupid masquerade, goes to fetch cutlery in the drawersand set up a table for two.

“Oh,dining room, please,” Solo says when he realizes Illya is going forthe kitchen table. “I’m not having an anniversary dinner on aFormica table.”

“It’sa practical material,” he says.

Illyahasn’t learned enough French to catch the exact meaning of Solo’sreply, but the disdainful tone is easy to catch. He ignores it,leaving two plates with Solo and going to set the rest of the tableinstead. He can’t quite restrain a scandalizes noise when herealizes Solo pulled up a ten-hours loop of burning log on the TV.

“Itis an anniversary, Tovarishch. Did you expect me to put soccer on?”

“Ihear Marseilles is playing Paris,” Illya replies while he tries toremember on which side of the plate the fork goes in Italianetiquette. “The whole office talked about that today.”

“Andnot me?”

Solohas appeared in the living room with two plates in hand, apron tossedoff to reveal the pin-stripped three piece suit underneath: asingle-breasted navy thing that cost as much as Illya’s currentcouch. It’s still an Anderson & Sheppard, though, and Illyasuspects half the reason is because the shop is discreet enough notto let Solo’s appointment hours slip out to Interpol until it’stoo late or entirely unavoidable.

“Clearly,”Solo concludes as he sets the plates side by side on the coffeetable, “I need to put in some effort. I was thinking about aModigliani, next time.”

Solohates Modigliani, and even if he didn’t Illya knows better than toexpect a straight admission of intent from him. He makes a note tomention it to the team just in case, though, see if there’sanything more behind the reference than mere fancy. It isn’t as ifthey’ve had much to work with these past few months, anyway. Illyahasn’t heard anything new on Solo in weeks before tonight.

“Goingsoft, Solo?” He asks, frowning at the shiver of dislike thatcourses through his chest at the thought.

“Thinkingof retiring, actually.”

Illyaknows he shouldn’t have turned so fast. At the very least, heshould have avoided knocking his empty wine glass to the ground. Hehas been chasing Solo for thepast five years or so now, though. Hearing the whole thing might bein vain is bound to be a shock. A rather nasty one, too, if therhythm of his heart is to be believed.

“I’mforty-one—”

“Thirty-nine,”Illya corrects, just to remind the man he knows him better than that.

“I’mat a turning point of life is what I’m saying, Tovarishch,” Solocontinues as if he hadn’t noticed the interruption. “Believe mewhen I say this comes as a complete surprise, but these days I’vefound myself longing for some form of…long-term presence, shall wesay. Much as I love my job—”

“It’snot a real job.”

Illyadoesn’t realize he’s been expecting Solo to respond by defendinghis thieving until what comes out of the man’s mouth instead is:

“Yes,well, it still keeps me too busy for an actual social life.”

Illyastares at Solo, the shock of revelation pulling sarcasm out of hisreach.

“You’reserious,” he says.

Solosmiles, shrugs, and digs into his spaghetti like he didn’t justdrop the mother of all bombshells in Illya’s lap. The radius isextremely relative, Illya knows, but still! Five years of mostlysingle-minded pursuit took over hislife as well. He can’t even comprehend the thought of a lifewithout it, yet. It’s too vast, too abrupt, too…damn.

“Ihave what it takes to vanish,” Solo continues after a fewmouthfuls. “I could be gone tomorrow.”

Well,that bit, at least,was expected. It doesn’t make it any easier to swallow, though, andIllya reaches for the wine bottle Solo must have brought from theoutside, fills his over sized glass to the brim, and drains it in onego. His fingers shiver when he’s done, and he doesn’t feel anymore settled, but at least it catches Solo’s attention.

“Sothis is goodbye, then?” Illya manages through gritted teeth.

Theway Solo sets his fork and knife down on the table should probablynot be that satisfying, but then Illya gave up on ‘probably shouldnot’s somewhere between the third time Solo sneaked in his hotelroom for dinner and the first time he got Illya a Christmas gift. (Itwas a pair of silver cuff-links with a hammer and sickle on them. Thebox included a receipt with the words ‘the things I do for you’in Solo’s neat cursive at the bottom.)

Hehasn’t relented in his efforts to catch the man, far from it! He’sgot a couple of broken ribs and a messy cut on his hand to attest forSolo’s messier escape. It’s just that somewhere in the past fiveyears, his disdain for Solo shifted to grudging respect, toappreciation, to the sort of admiration that comes with worthycompetition. He still wants to catch him, he’s just much lesslikely to gloat about it when he does.

“Itcan be,” Solo says after a long time. “If you want.”

Hestill looks infuriatingly put together. Meanwhile, Illya’s handsache with how hard he clutches his fork, and he’s fairly sure he’sabout to break his teeth or something. It’s still a wildlyinappropriate reaction, but at least a minute ago it didn’t hurt.

“I…Iwould miss you, though,” Solo says at last.

Thistime, when Illya turns around, he finds the man looking down at hisplate, carefully chewing around a mouthful of pasta. Illya stompsdown on the ludicrous bubble of golden hope in his chest and asks:

“Areyou saying this because you’re hoping to get out of prison.”

“Please,”Solo protests, the veneer of self-assured sarcasm sliding back intoplace, “I’m not naive enough to think that’s possible. And likeI said, I don’t need your help to get out of a sentence.”

Hepauses, settling his cutlery down on the side of his plate and givinghis fingernails a careful look before he looks Illya in the eyes andcontinues:

“If,however, you aren’t too tired of my presence, I wouldbe…amenable. To negotiation.”

KissingSolo right then and there is just about the antithesis ofprofessional behavior, and once he writes it down in his report he’llhear about it until the end of his days. He’ll be damned if Solodoesn’t make it worth his while, though.

[chocobabyporcelain]

Could you please write a fic, where Gladio offers his best friend, in which he has been in love for a long time, to become his girlfriend? (It's mutual, but they both do not know about it). Part with NSFW on your own.

Just so you know, the friends-to-lovers trope gives me life! I should apologise, though, I was halfway through writing this at the start of my time away, so I guess you’ve been waiting a while… Sorry.

Also, I ended up not going down the NSFW route with this one. I seem to have some kind of mental block with it comes to actually writing NSFW.

Tagging:  @nemo-ne-impune-lacessit @itsmootothecow @insomniasix @mp938368 @insomniacapples @itshaejinju @expectogladiolus @bluechocobo @airlea-sicarius @diadyn @birdsandivory @alicemoonwonderland @mandakatt @zacklover24 @eternallydaydreaming2015 @1000wolflover @stopmopingstarthoping @dreamiggy @grumpyoldmoogle @unerring-connoisseur(If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, let me know asap)

It wasn’t thephone ringing that woke Gladio. Nor was it the blinding light of hisscreen displaying caller ID. Gladio wasn’t sure what woke him, buthe was certain he was awake before his phone started playing BonJovi.

Without looking,he reached across his bedside table and grabbed it, sliding to answerand pressing it against his ear. “Y/N,” he grumbled. “are youfucking kidding me?”

“Movies24 isshowing Breakfast Club in, like, ten minutes,” you replied, noteven acknowledging his clear irritation. “You can get here thatsoon, right?”

Gladio grunted,running a hand through his hair. Of course he could get there thatsoon, its not like you lived miles away. “Y/N, it is,” he pulledhis phone away from his ear to squint against the harsh light andread the time, “almost 3 AM. Again, are you kidding?” He knew youweren’t. This was far from the first time you’d called him atsome ridiculous hour asking him to come over for a random reason.

On the other endof the line, you scoffed. “We nevermiss Breakfast Club, Gladiolus. It’s our thing!”

“Don’t you have the Blu Ray?”

“Notthe point!” you saidthrough a mouthful of what Gladio assumed was popcorn,“It’s playing onTV, are you gonna come watchit with me or not?”

It was pointless arguing with you, and Gladio knew that. Which iswhy, twelve minutes later, he was letting himself into your apartmentwith his key, a convenience store bag hanging off his wrist.

He found you in your room, sat up against your headboard, bed mostlycovered in snacks. The television in your bedroom was tuned toMovies24, the opening monologue of Breakfast Club already starting toplay. You had your hair tied up in a loose bun on the top of yourhead, wearing some lounge shorts and a ratty old hoodie that Gladiowas certain used to be his.

“You’re late, asshole,” was the first thing you said as yourbest friend entered your room.

Gladio shook the bag off his wrist and emptied it onto the bed. Twobags of sweet popcorn and multiple bars of chocolate fell on top ofyour snack pile. “Yeah, but I thought my contribution to your sugarfix would grant me pardon.” He moved some empty crisp packets andchocolate wrappers out of his way, before settling himselfcomfortably beside you on the bed.

You felt his eyes on you as you sifted through his additions to yoursugary feast. “What?” you grumbled.

“You’ve got caramel on your chin.”

Gladio had been one of your closest friends for… Gods only knew howlong. You still had very fond memories of the time you ‘defeatedthe point of prom’ by going together instead of getting dates.You’d lost count of the amount of time he’s pretended to be yourboyfriend so some creep would leave you alone, and although you oftenjoked about how he was literally the worst person you know, youhonestly weren’t sure what you’d do without him.

People frequently mistook you for a couple, and your mother wasreally starting to annoy you, always asking when you weregoing to ‘make it official.’ She seemed to think you hadone of those ridiculous sit-com deals where if you weren’t bothmarried by the time you were thirty, you’d just marry each other.

Which is what lead to the conversation you were currently having.

“It’s just a generally bad idea.” You were lounging, upsidedown on Gladio’s couch, flicking through the channels and snackingon a Nutrigrain bar. You’d usually only eat the strawberry ones,but Gladio only had the apple ones, and they were kind of rank, butyou’d opened it now so you were gonna finish it.

“How so?” asked Gladio. You weren’t convinced he was reallypaying attention to you, he had his nose buried in a new book, whichis how you had free rein over his television.

You shrugged, knowing the action was useless since he obviouslywasn’t looking at you. “Well, think about it,” you tossed theremote onto the coffee table. “If we got married just because wewere both single when we hit thirty and then I met my ideal guy a fewmonths later, don’t you think I’d just end up resenting you?”You’d given this scenario a great deal of thought after watching anold romcom that was playing on late night TV.

Gladio hummed. “We’d just get a divorce, right?”

“But then you’d resent me for leaving you.”

Marking his page, Gladio put down the book, turning towards you.“Will you sit properly?” he grumbled when he came face to, well,knee with you. “And anyway, I think if that happened, I’d just behappy that you were happy.”

You threw your legs over his lap, pulling your upper body to restagainst the arm of the couch. “Quit being cute,” you snorted,stretching your arms above your head, “it doesn’t suit you.”

Gladio shoved your legs off his. “Why’re you talking about thisanyway? Did something happen with Adrian?” he asked.

Ah, Adrian. Your ex-boyfriend, as of about two hours ago.

“You could say that,” you muttered. What had happened, was youhad found out you were actually one of three women Adrian was in a‘serious and committed’ relationship with. You decided tokeep that part to yourself (Though, you had notified his othergirlfriends). “He’d never seen The Wall, and when I tried showinghim, he just kept talking over it, y’know? And I’m just thinking,‘do I really wanna spend the rest of my life with some dick whothinks he’s more important than Pink Floyd?’”

With a loud guffaw, Gladio petted your head. “Good to see you gotyour priorities in order.”

You chuckled along, running a hand through your hair as you moved tosit against the back of the couch. “What about you, anyway? How’dit go with that girl? I never asked,” you said, quickly turning theconversation away from Adrian.

“You mean Lucille?” Gladio groaned tipping his head back. “Neveragain.” He brought a hand up to his face and covered his eyes, asif the thought of his recent date was giving him a headache.

You felt a little ashamed of the fact that you were glad to hearthat. “How come? She was pretty.” And she was. She had an almostmovie-star beauty, but you could tell she was painfully shallow bythe way she looked down her nose at you when you met.

Gladio hummed, shrugging one shoulder. “Yeah, she was kindapretty,” he said in a disinterested tone, “but she was soshady. She was talking shit all night. And besides,” he threw andarm around your shoulders, “no one calls my Y/N a messy slobexcept me.”

“She didn’t!”

“She did.”

Okay, maybe you weren’t exactly looking your best when you’d metLucille, but really? Maybe if she’d been up all night playing videogames, she’d look like shit, too! You huffed, scrunching your nose.“Is that bitch looking to lose her teeth?” you growled.

Gladio laughed, rubbing your upper arm. “Sounds like it to me.”

Pouting, you rested your head against Gladio’s arm as he rested hishead on yours, both of you watching the soap opera playing on the TV,but not really paying attention to it. His hand moved from yourshoulder to idly twirl the ends of your hair between his fingers, thealmost subconscious act of affection bringing a smile to your face.You’d thought it before, after almost every break up you’d evergone through, but you didn’t need a boyfriend. Not when you hadGladio.

Come to think of it, he was the reason for most of your break ups.Silly boys who couldn’t handle how affectionate you were with yourbest friend. You wondered if they’d have the same problem if yourbest friend had been female.

Then you wondered how many of Gladio’s break ups had been becauseof his jealous girlfriends not liking your closeness. Was it yourfault Gladio was still single?

Gladio let out a deep sigh, wrapping his free arm around you. “Maybewe should date,” he mused.

You snorted a chuckle. “Stop playing and make me some tea.” Youpushed his arm from your middle and wriggled free. You moved yourselfup onto the arm of the couch, shaking your head at his daft comment.It was far too late in the game to catch feelings.

Or acknowledge them.

It seemed Gladio couldn’t figure out quite where to look. At you?At the floor? He leaned forward, clasping his hands together betweenhis knees. “No,” his tone was sincere. “I mean it.”

You sighed, choosing to flippantly inspect your nails rather thanfacing this with any seriousness. “Honey, no. I’m a nightmaregirlfriend, you have no idea what you’d be putting up with,”you replied.

“Are you fucking serious?”

You tensed. You’d always hated when Gladio used that tone, but thiswas the first time it was ever directed at you. And that was so muchworse.

He grabbed you by the shoulders, a little rougher than what would becomfortable, and forced you to meet his gaze. He was upset. Not angryand not entirely sad either, just upset, almost disappointed. “Youthink I don’t know you?”

Hurt. Youcouldn’t put a name to that emotion before, but when you heard hisvoice, the way it wavered ever so slightly, it finally registered. Hewas hurt.

“Youtell everyone your favourite movie is Breakfast Club, but I know fora fact it’s The Little Mermaid.” Gladio’s grip on yourshoulders tightened as he spoke. “Red wine makes you wretch, butyou still drink it around your friends because you don’t want to bethe only one drinking Rosé. You’ve been playing Ocarina of Timefor fourteen years and I stillhave to playthe Shadow Temple for youbecause you can’t get passed it onyour own. You have adifferent scented candle in every room in your apartment, and I canname most of them. You drink apple & elderflower tea when youread and honey & camomile when you’re going to bed. Speaking ofwhich, you can’t sleep unless all the doors and curtains in yourapartment are closed.” He sighed, resting his forehead againstyours as he ended his infodump. “We grew up together, Y/N. You’vebeen my best friend since we were five years old. Don’t you daretry telling me I don’t know you!”

Ofcourse he knew you. You knew that. And now, you also knew that hewasn’t going to drop this because of you listing off your badhabits. He’d had years of dealing with you, he knew what he wasgetting into.

Withanother sigh breaking the stretch of silence, Gladio let yourshoulders go. “I guess I’m just… trying to tell you that I loveyou,” he said, softly. “I get it if you don’t feel the sameway. Just say so.”

Butyou did. You had to wonder why you were trying to discourage him. Youwere scared, honestly. Your friendship with Gladio was more preciousto you than anything, and you didn’t want to jeopardise that.

“Youknow I love you,” you replied. “But you’re my best friend, andif we cross this line we can’t go back. It’ll never be like it isnow.”

Ofcourse, you realised, you could never go back anyway. After you’veboth confessed to having feelings for each other, it was always goingto be awkward. Maybe, with time, it would fade and you’d only feelthe occasional twinge of awkwardness, but things would never be thesame.

Youmoved back onto the couch’s seat, once again resting your headagainst Gladio’s arm. “It would be so worth it if we couldmake this work,” you whispered.

“Wecan,”Gladio insisted, wrapping his arms around you. “I can’t promisethat we’re gonna spend the rest of or lives together, but I canpromise that I’m gonna be here for as long as you want me.” Hemoved one hand under your backside and pulled you into his lap, anintimate position that you were semi-familiar with. With one handfinding it’s way into your hair and the other moving from yourbottom to the small of your back, Gladio eased you forwards, holdingyou against his chest ashe gently kissed your forehead. “Youcan’t be in your head about this, Y/N. You see it as you want tosee it, in the simplest terms and most convenient definitions.”

Youlaughed. You couldn’t help it, the laughter bubbling in your throatas you pushed yourself away. “You can’t misquote Breakfast Cluband expect me to date you, asshole,” you said through your giggles.

Gladiopressed your foreheads together with a chuckle of his own. “Not amisquote, just bent it to suit the situation.” Hewrapped his arms around your waist. “I really do love you, Y/N.”

Yousmiled. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to give this a try. “I loveyou, too,” you whispered, before leaning in and pressing your lipsto Gladio’s. “We can make this work.”

[sickdaysofficial]

Sickdays 4.0: The Good Samaritan

So, I am a tad bit late on this, but I hope it’s still okay!

This is my first time writing a real sickfic (and with OCs) and I am nervous.These OCs literally just came to me today and I’m not sure how good this is? But it’s the first time these characters meet each other, since they’re brand new.

(Also, since I can only make submissions with my main blog, please just sorta, ignore it? i just mean there’s no sickfic content on there. all of my sickfic related content is on @all-the-hurt which is my sideblog)

  WARNING: anxiety and descriptions of vomiting!

Cassian isn’t stupid.

He isn’t. He isn’t.

But the test he received back this Monday morning with a bold red sixty-three at the top of the page had thrown him for a real loop.

Sixty three.

There’s no way he could have gotten an F, not on the first test, not on what the professor had already said was going to be the easiest material all semester.

The number still haunts him, the bold red image dancing around in his brain every day since, and making it feel dizzy. Because he’s never gotten a grade so low in his life. He is probably overreacting and aware of it, but that acknowledgement doesn’t make it easier. He’s anxious enough on a daily basis as it is and he immediately began to panic at the prospect of failing out of a class. He’d be humiliated, devastated, and most importantly, his parents would be furious. What would they do to him if he failed his first semester?

Well, that’s something that Cassian can’t even entertain the thought of happening. Which is why, despite the panic and anxiety that it gives him, he signed up right away for tutoring that afternoon. He tried to ignore the fact that he was the only one on the sign-up sheet and told himself he isn’t stupid. He couldn’t be the only one who didn’t get this stuff, right?

The day of the session rolled around, and he woke up already in a panic when he started the day with an awful headache and an upset feeling in pit of his stomach. He hadn’t had anxiety this bad since he was seventeen, where it manifested into physical symptoms. But he recognized the familiar not-quite-pukey but consistent rolling nausea and sharp headache that sat just behind his right eye. Several doses of ibuprofen did nothing for the pain and his attempt at breakfast only made him feel more sick to his stomach. He spent the majority of the day in his dorm room tossing and turning with his head buried under pillows, until the time rolled around to drag himself to the library for the tutoring. He didn’t feel like he would even be able to focus–he could barely see straight–but there was no choice. The next exam was on Monday.

  Now, sitting markedly alone in one of the tiny glass study rooms–they resemble giant fish tanks a little too much–he feels stupid. It’s nearly eight o’clock on a Friday evening. Most everyone has left, and he’s sitting in a fluorescent-lit glass box, surrounded in piles of messily scrawled notes, three textbooks, and half-eaten snacks.

He’s been here for a little over thirty minutes, waiting for the tutor that was supposed to show up at 7:20, and as minutes pass by, the anxiety is building a lump in his throat and the notes he’s been pouring over to pass the time are making less sense.

He’s 99% sure the tutor isn’t showing up.

“Hey, do you have an appointment?” A deep, clear voice suddenly appear and calls. “Or are you waiting on someone?”

Cassian’s so startled by the sudden intrusion that the textbook slides off his lap and hits the floor with a resounding thump. Stray papers flutter out everywhere, and then in a sudden panicked attempt to lean over and grab them up, he knocks his pencil case off the table too. In a panic, he slides down to the carpet and starts trying to gather things up, sparing a sheepish glance up at the doorway where a tall, broad-shouldered man stands, looking honestly intimidating lingering there in the doorway. He’s got a black studded jacket and choppy black hair that casts his expression in shadow, first looking curious and then frowning down at the mess on the floor.

“Oh, yikes,” he says with a small chuckle, and suddenly he’s not alone under the table.

Cassian startles and then locks eyes with a pair of dark grey ones.

He opens his mouth and succeeds in floundering like a dying fish, some sort of vague “uh” sound tumbling out, and then looks immediately back down. He has no idea what to do, so he just gathers up his pens. The stranger starts collecting the pages of his messy notes and he’s ashamed someone’s seeing them.

The man stands to place the papers back on the table, then swipes up the textbook too, before Cassian can get to it. He feels himself blushing–or maybe that’s just a fever–and scrambles to get out from under the table with any grace.

He half stands and rams his head into the edge of the tabletop with an audible crack. It makes his teeth clash together and sends pain exploding from his head to halfway down his spine. He drops all his pens again.

“Oh god, are you okay?” the stranger says. “That sounded like it hurt.”

It does hurt. It hurts a lot, what with how his head was already pounding and now it’s screaming.

“I… I’m…” he tries to speak, but his words are immediately lost a lump that’s grown suddenly in his throat.

He can’t seriously be about to cry right now. He absolutely cannot be doing this.

“Hey,” the guy speaks again, much more softly and closer to him now. “Oh, god. Are you really hurt? You’re not like, bleeding, are you?” His tone starts to take on an edge of panic. “Do I need to get help or, uh ice or, um…”

“No, no,” Cassian shakes his head roughly, grinding fists into the carpet but it’s useless. The words break open his careful control and he coughs to cover up the sob as tears leak out.

He whisks one hand up rub his eyes roughly, and the other clutches his head at any attempt at comfort.

He’s humiliated himself. He’s a failure, he got stood up by his tutor, his head is throbbing, his hands are shaking, his stomach hurts, and now he’s crying about it under a table in front of a tall, intimidating stranger. He’s pathetic.

“Hey, it’s okay,” the man says to him, very softly, which is even more humiliating. He thinks he’s crouching right in front of him, but Cassian’s too afraid to open his eyes.

It’s not okay, Cassian thinks, and then all at once, there’s a hot and horrible feeling rising up in his throat. He’s scrambling out from under the table, shifting to hold his hands tightly over his mouth. He pushes past the stranger who was in fact sitting on the floor in front of him. He nearly trips on the guy as he stands and makes a mad dash for the bathroom.

He tears into one of the stalls mere seconds before he loses it. Remnants of his breakfast from nearly twelve hours ago and copious amounts of stomach acid and water come up violently. It burns and he’s breathing heavily through the anxiety and pain, coughing and sending the next gush of liquid up and out of his nose too. He crashes to his knees on the floor despite how disgusting that is, as heaves wrack his body.

When the retching stops, he regains some awareness just long enough for the pain and mortification to catch up with him. If he was able to fight off the tears before, he certainly can’t anymore. His head hurts impossibly worse and now his throat and his nose burn too. He curls up against the stall wall and cries, fruitlessly mops his face with a wad of toilet paper.

He lets himself have five minutes or so of that pathetic display, and then remembers the stranger and all of his textbooks and stuff in the tutoring room. He’d left everything, even his wallet and phone behind in there.

He makes his way to the sinks and mops his face with wet paper towels and scrubs his hands roughly. He rinses out his mouth but it still burns, and he thinks there might be vomit on his shirt because he can’t stop smelling the sour scent. Gross.

He still looks like hell–his face is blotchy and red, god he’s always been a gross crier–but he can’t just leave everything back there in disarray. He’ll be lucky if the stranger guy didn’t take some of his stuff, or if someone else didn’t once he went away. He takes a deep breath that still shakes a little, and leaves. He’s lucky the library is deserted and he’s unlikely to run into anybody else on his way out and he can forget this happened.

He half-jogs back to the glass box only to find the guy still in the room, seated in one of the chairs. All of Cassian’s things are picked up and gathered up neatly on the tabletop, and the guy’s sitting with his head braced on his elbows and his expression drawn with a melodramatic looking worry.

That wasn’t what he was expecting. The embarrassment rises all over again and he truly does not want to walk back into the room.

He does, and he saunters up to the chair he’d left his bag hanging on, and looks pointedly down at it rather than at the man. He sees out of his peripheral vision when he perks up at the sight of Cassian and he starts speaking again in that flustered, worried tone.

“Hey, are you okay? You freaked me out there for a second; I wasn’t sure if you were coming back. Do you need me to get some help, or like, something else?”

“I’m okay,” he manages, lowly. “I’m sorry about that. You didn’t have to stay here. I’m fine.”

“Well… I couldn’t just leave your things here…?” he answers, not trying to disguise the fabricated tone of his excuse. “Ya know, textbooks and phone and all that.”

“There’s no one else here so late,” Cassian replies, beginning to feel a bit woozy on his feet.

“Okay, so maybe I was also concerned and wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, and his face heats up. He tells himself he’s maybe feverish. “Thanks for that. I…I’m gonna go home and sleep now.” He makes to grab up his bag, but once he slings it over his shoulder, he’s hit with overwhelming waves of no way and his legs start to quake as his stomach does a flip. He clambers into the chair and slumps forward.

“You don’t seem very fine,” the man says to him, fixing curious grey eyes on him. Cassian returns his gaze with a deadpan look, even as he pillows his head in his arms.

“Really,” he goes on, running a hand through his choppy black hair like suddenly he’s the one that’s embarrassed. “Are you going to be alright to get yourself back home?”

“Yeah,” Cassian says. It… might be a lie, actually, but what is he supposed to say, honestly? This guy is honestly kind of scary looking and it’s sort of abnormal how much concern he’s showing for some scrawny crying freshman he met in the library. Not that… well, the guy has been very nice, considering, but if there’s something Cassian knows a lot about, it’s ulterior motives.

“You sure? I could walk you at least in the general direction.”

“No, it’s alright, really.”

“Sorry, that was probably pretty weird of me, huh?” the embarrassed tone is back in his voice and he laughs awkwardly. The sound takes some of the intimidating edge away from his demeanor. “I probably sound like I want something, but, uh, I promise I don’t. I just… I don’t know, I’m silly and I worry.”

“I… it… I wasn’t thinking that,” Cassian tells him, because what else is he supposed to say?

“I’m Takeshi, by the way,” the guy says then, conversationally, like they’d casually run into each other in the hall.

Despite feeling wary and still shaky and sick, Cassian almost smiles at that. This guy is sort of awkward, he thinks, which makes him feel a little better. He sits up a little. “I’m Cassian,” he replies.

“Well, I’m glad to meet you, no matter how unfortunate the situation may have been,” Takeshi smiles at him. He hesitates for a moment, looking him over. His eyes are… pretty, admittedly. Cassian tries to be wary, but he knows he’s probably still blotchy and pale, and he isn’t sure he can even stand. “If you don’t want me to accompany you out of here, then I’ll head out. As long as you’re alright.”

“I’m alright,” he confirms. He hopes he isn’t lying.

So Takeshi stands, fixing his jacket and picking up a backpack. Something small, deep in Cassian’s chest stirs and tells him that he doesn’t really want the guy to go. He stamps it down.

“I hope you feel better,” Takeshi says. “And don’t worry, stats gets easier after the first couple chapters.” Before he turns his back on Cassian, he slides a bottle of water toward him with a small grin. “Get some rest.”

Cassian can’t think of anything to say in return before he’s disappeared down the hall, but he settles back down into his arms, breathing deep. He thinks that the nausea’s settled and he should be able to make the trek back. He still feels too warm with chagrin, but the exhaustion and nagging ache of his entire body have overpowered those feelings.

His eyes wander to where Takeshi had stacked up his notes and pens neatly, to find his notebook open and something scrawled on the top of an otherwise empty page.

It’s a note. Hey, this might be awkward and if you think it’s weird, feel free to completely ignore me! But if you ever need a stats tutor again, I took it last semester and I could help. I hope your head feels better :) Takeshi. And at the very bottom is a phone number.

He isn’t. He isn’t.

But the test he received back this Monday morning with a bold red sixty-three at the top of the page had thrown him for a real loop.

Sixty three.

There’s no way he could have gotten an F, not on the first test, not on what the professor had already said was going to be the easiest material all semester.

The number still haunts him, the bold red image dancing around in his brain every day since, and making it feel dizzy. Because he’s never gotten a grade so low in his life. He is probably overreacting and aware of it, but that acknowledgement doesn’t make it easier. He’s anxious enough on a daily basis as it is and he immediately began to panic at the prospect of failing out of a class. He’d be humiliated, devastated, and most importantly, his parents would be furious. What would they do to him if he failed his first semester?

Well, that’s something that Cassian can’t even entertain the thought of happening. Which is why, despite the panic and anxiety that it gives him, he signed up right away for tutoring that afternoon. He tried to ignore the fact that he was the only one on the sign-up sheet and told himself he isn’t stupid. He couldn’t be the only one who didn’t get this stuff, right?

The day of the session rolled around, and he woke up already in a panic when he started the day with an awful headache and an upset feeling in pit of his stomach. He hadn’t had anxiety this bad since he was seventeen, where it manifested into physical symptoms. But he recognized the familiar not-quite-pukey but consistent rolling nausea and sharp headache that sat just behind his right eye. Several doses of ibuprofen did nothing for the pain and his attempt at breakfast only made him feel more sick to his stomach. He spent the majority of the day in his dorm room tossing and turning with his head buried under pillows, until the time rolled around to drag himself to the library for the tutoring. He didn’t feel like he would even be able to focus–he could barely see straight–but there was no choice. The next exam was on Monday.

  Now, sitting markedly alone in one of the tiny glass study rooms–they resemble giant fish tanks a little too much–he feels stupid. It’s nearly eight o’clock on a Friday evening. Most everyone has left, and he’s sitting in a fluorescent-lit glass box, surrounded in piles of messily scrawled notes, three textbooks, and half-eaten snacks.

He’s been here for a little over thirty minutes, waiting for the tutor that was supposed to show up at 7:20, and as minutes pass by, the anxiety is building a lump in his throat and the notes he’s been pouring over to pass the time are making less sense.

He’s 99% sure the tutor isn’t showing up.

“Hey, do you have an appointment?” A deep, clear voice suddenly appear and calls. “Or are you waiting on someone?”

Cassian’s so startled by the sudden intrusion that the textbook slides off his lap and hits the floor with a resounding thump. Stray papers flutter out everywhere, and then in a sudden panicked attempt to lean over and grab them up, he knocks his pencil case off the table too. In a panic, he slides down to the carpet and starts trying to gather things up, sparing a sheepish glance up at the doorway where a tall, broad-shouldered man stands, looking honestly intimidating lingering there in the doorway. He’s got a black studded jacket and choppy black hair that casts his expression in shadow, first looking curious and then frowning down at the mess on the floor.

“Oh, yikes,” he says with a small chuckle, and suddenly he’s not alone under the table.

Cassian startles and then locks eyes with a pair of dark grey ones.

He opens his mouth and succeeds in floundering like a dying fish, some sort of vague “uh” sound tumbling out, and then looks immediately back down. He has no idea what to do, so he just gathers up his pens. The stranger starts collecting the pages of his messy notes and he’s ashamed someone’s seeing them.

The man stands to place the papers back on the table, then swipes up the textbook too, before Cassian can get to it. He feels himself blushing–or maybe that’s just a fever–and scrambles to get out from under the table with any grace.

He half stands and rams his head into the edge of the tabletop with an audible crack. It makes his teeth clash together and sends pain exploding from his head to halfway down his spine. He drops all his pens again.

“Oh god, are you okay?” the stranger says. “That sounded like it hurt.”

It does hurt. It hurts a lot, what with how his head was already pounding and now it’s screaming.

“I… I’m…” he tries to speak, but his words are immediately lost a lump that’s grown suddenly in his throat.

He can’t seriously be about to cry right now. He absolutely cannot be doing this.

“Hey,” the guy speaks again, much more softly and closer to him now. “Oh, god. Are you really hurt? You’re not like, bleeding, are you?” His tone starts to take on an edge of panic. “Do I need to get help or, uh ice or, um…”

“No, no,” Cassian shakes his head roughly, grinding fists into the carpet but it’s useless. The words break open his careful control and he coughs to cover up the sob as tears leak out.

He whisks one hand up rub his eyes roughly, and the other clutches his head at any attempt at comfort.

He’s humiliated himself. He’s a failure, he got stood up by his tutor, his head is throbbing, his hands are shaking, his stomach hurts, and now he’s crying about it under a table in front of a tall, intimidating stranger. He’s pathetic.

“Hey, it’s okay,” the man says to him, very softly, which is even more humiliating. He thinks he’s crouching right in front of him, but Cassian’s too afraid to open his eyes.

It’s not okay, Cassian thinks, and then all at once, there’s a hot and horrible feeling rising up in his throat. He’s scrambling out from under the table, shifting to hold his hands tightly over his mouth. He pushes past the stranger who was in fact sitting on the floor in front of him. He nearly trips on the guy as he stands and makes a mad dash for the bathroom.

He tears into one of the stalls mere seconds before he loses it. Remnants of his breakfast from nearly twelve hours ago and copious amounts of stomach acid and water come up violently. It burns and he’s breathing heavily through the anxiety and pain, coughing and sending the next gush of liquid up and out of his nose too. He crashes to his knees on the floor despite how disgusting that is, as heaves wrack his body.

When the retching stops, he regains some awareness just long enough for the pain and mortification to catch up with him. If he was able to fight off the tears before, he certainly can’t anymore. His head hurts impossibly worse and now his throat and his nose burn too. He curls up against the stall wall and cries, fruitlessly mops his face with a wad of toilet paper.

He lets himself have five minutes or so of that pathetic display, and then remembers the stranger and all of his textbooks and stuff in the tutoring room. He’d left everything, even his wallet and phone behind in there.

He makes his way to the sinks and mops his face with wet paper towels and scrubs his hands roughly. He rinses out his mouth but it still burns, and he thinks there might be vomit on his shirt because he can’t stop smelling the sour scent. Gross.

He still looks like hell–his face is blotchy and red, god he’s always been a gross crier–but he can’t just leave everything back there in disarray. He’ll be lucky if the stranger guy didn’t take some of his stuff, or if someone else didn’t once he went away. He takes a deep breath that still shakes a little, and leaves. He’s lucky the library is deserted and he’s unlikely to run into anybody else on his way out and he can forget this happened.

He half-jogs back to the glass box only to find the guy still in the room, seated in one of the chairs. All of Cassian’s things are picked up and gathered up neatly on the tabletop, and the guy’s sitting with his head braced on his elbows and his expression drawn with a melodramatic looking worry.

That wasn’t what he was expecting. The embarrassment rises all over again and he truly does not want to walk back into the room.

He does, and he saunters up to the chair he’d left his bag hanging on, and looks pointedly down at it rather than at the man. He sees out of his peripheral vision when he perks up at the sight of Cassian and he starts speaking again in that flustered, worried tone.

“Hey, are you okay? You freaked me out there for a second; I wasn’t sure if you were coming back. Do you need me to get some help, or like, something else?”

“I’m okay,” he manages, lowly. “I’m sorry about that. You didn’t have to stay here. I’m fine.”

“Well… I couldn’t just leave your things here…?” he answers, not trying to disguise the fabricated tone of his excuse. “Ya know, textbooks and phone and all that.”

“There’s no one else here so late,” Cassian replies, beginning to feel a bit woozy on his feet.

“Okay, so maybe I was also concerned and wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, and his face heats up. He tells himself he’s maybe feverish. “Thanks for that. I…I’m gonna go home and sleep now.” He makes to grab up his bag, but once he slings it over his shoulder, he’s hit with overwhelming waves of no way and his legs start to quake as his stomach does a flip. He clambers into the chair and slumps forward.

“You don’t seem very fine,” the man says to him, fixing curious grey eyes on him. Cassian returns his gaze with a deadpan look, even as he pillows his head in his arms.

“Really,” he goes on, running a hand through his choppy black hair like suddenly he’s the one that’s embarrassed. “Are you going to be alright to get yourself back home?”

“Yeah,” Cassian says. It… might be a lie, actually, but what is he supposed to say, honestly? This guy is honestly kind of scary looking and it’s sort of abnormal how much concern he’s showing for some scrawny crying freshman he met in the library. Not that… well, the guy has been very nice, considering, but if there’s something Cassian knows a lot about, it’s ulterior motives.

“You sure? I could walk you at least in the general direction.”

“No, it’s alright, really.”

“Sorry, that was probably pretty weird of me, huh?” the embarrassed tone is back in his voice and he laughs awkwardly. The sound takes some of the intimidating edge away from his demeanor. “I probably sound like I want something, but, uh, I promise I don’t. I just… I don’t know, I’m silly and I worry.”

“I… it… I wasn’t thinking that,” Cassian tells him, because what else is he supposed to say?

“I’m Takeshi, by the way,” the guy says then, conversationally, like they’d casually run into each other in the hall.

Despite feeling wary and still shaky and sick, Cassian almost smiles at that. This guy is sort of awkward, he thinks, which makes him feel a little better. He sits up a little. “I’m Cassian,” he replies.

“Well, I’m glad to meet you, no matter how unfortunate the situation may have been,” Takeshi smiles at him. He hesitates for a moment, looking him over. His eyes are… pretty, admittedly. Cassian tries to be wary, but he knows he’s probably still blotchy and pale, and he isn’t sure he can even stand. “If you don’t want me to accompany you out of here, then I’ll head out. As long as you’re alright.”

“I’m alright,” he confirms. He hopes he isn’t lying.

So Takeshi stands, fixing his jacket and picking up a backpack. Something small, deep in Cassian’s chest stirs and tells him that he doesn’t really want the guy to go. He stamps it down.

“I hope you feel better,” Takeshi says. “And don’t worry, stats gets easier after the first couple chapters.” Before he turns his back on Cassian, he slides a bottle of water toward him with a small grin. “Get some rest.”

Cassian can’t think of anything to say in return before he’s disappeared down the hall, but he settles back down into his arms, breathing deep. He thinks that the nausea’s settled and he should be able to make the trek back. He still feels too warm with chagrin, but the exhaustion and nagging ache of his entire body have overpowered those feelings.

His eyes wander to where Takeshi had stacked up his notes and pens neatly, to find his notebook open and something scrawled on the top of an otherwise empty page.

It’s a note. Hey, this might be awkward and if you think it’s weird, feel free to completely ignore me! But if you ever need a stats tutor again, I took it last semester and I could help. I hope your head feels better :) Takeshi. And at the very bottom is a phone number.

[ti-bae-rius]

kitty coffee shop AU - the fic

(I think it was @kitherondxle who thought of this so @ them - you’re cool and I decided to write it. Hope that’s okay!) (also @julianspancakes here you go! I hope it’s okay. Sorry it’s kinda rushed!)

“The usual?”

Livvy nodded. The blonde haired barista was her favourite. He hadn’t been working at The Institute - Livvy’s go-to coffee shop on her way home after soccer practise - a week before he’d learnt her order; cappuccino with a shot of vanilla syrup. She’d instantly taken a liking to him, even more so when he would throw in a cookie for free, giving her a conspiratorial wink over the cash register. Her phone buzzed with a text as the coffee grinder whirred and the clink of cups filled the air, the room thick with the smell of coffee beans and fresh baked chocolate chip cookies. A text, from Ty:

‘Hot chocolate. Cream. Marshmallows. x.’

She waved the barista over and he sauntered back, her drink in hand. 

“What’s up? Not diverting from the natural course of the universe and ordering two pumps of syrup, are we?”

She laughed. “Never!” she protested jokingly, mock-horrified. “No, I need another drink,” she explained, reeling off the order so bluntly laid out over text.

He nodded. “No problem. Gimme a second.”

“Thanks...” she read the white font on his black name tag. “Kit. Yes, I am going to be one of those people who uses the person’s name tag and talks to them like we’re friends.”

“You’re here every single day. I feel like I do know you, Livvy,” he said, grabbing a pen to write the name on the side of the second cup. “Name?”

“Ty,” she answered, before adding: “my brother.”

He nodded, scribbled it on in the messy handwriting she had become accustomed to, and handed it over. “Big brother treating you like assistant, going on coffee runs?”

She laughed. “No, he’s working next door in the library. It’s no trouble for me to grab him a drink while I’m here to keep him motivated.” 

Kit cursed under his breath, and turned to her apologetically. “One sec. I just need to make up some more whipped cream. Give me two minutes,” he said, and disappeared into the back.

One of the bus boys clearing tables glanced over from where he was standing and gave a reedy whistle between his teeth as Livvy bent over to toss her phone into her kit bag, which she’d dumped on the floor by her feet while she waited. She froze, dismissing the noise. When she straightened up, a hand grabbed for her, groping at her over her yoga pants. She spun, slapping their hand away and glared up at the bus boy. He was grinning, leering down at her in a way that made her feel sick to her stomach. She turned, slung her bag onto her shoulder, and stormed out, pausing only to tuck a ten dollar bill into the tip jar. Her face was flushed, burning with anger and embarrassment. She almost missed the door to the library, so distracted by the ordeal. When she sat down at the table where Ty was always found - tucked in the back, near an outlet for his laptop and far enough from the aircon to not be distracting - Ty glanced up from his screen, dark eyebrows drawn together in puzzlement.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, closing his book. “And where’s my drink?”

“I didn’t get it, I’m sorry,” she sighed. “This...guy,” she spat, prompting Ty to shush her, looking around the silent library in awareness of her volume. Her coffee sloshed onto the table and she rubbed at it with the sleeve of her hoodie. “This guy felt me up, some guy who worked there. Just straight up grabbed my ass. What a jerk.”

A dark flush had appeared on Ty’s pale cheeks and he shut his laptop, shoving it into his backpack along with his notebooks, and stood up. He strode off toward the door, and was halfway there before Livvy even got to her feet. By the time she reached the door to the coffee shop, he was already inside, angrily talking to someone Livvy couldn’t see for the white pillar blocking her view. She grinned and sat down on the bench outside. Normally, she’d have stepped in. But today, maybe she’d just let Ty handle this.

Kit turned as a hurricane of green hoodie and black hair appeared in his peripheral vision, stopping before him with a steely glare. Despite it, Kit thought, “how beautiful”.

“Have you seen my sister?” the boy demanded, and a cog of recognition turned in Kit’s mind.

“Livvy?” he guessed. “You must be Ty. I have your drink. I’m not sure where she went.”

“Don’t.” Ty snapped, and Kit became very aware of the unusual serious, almost archaic note in the boy’s voice. He couldn’t have been much older than Kit himself. “That’s my sister, you...you...” he floundered for the word he wanted. “Jerk,” he finished, repeating what Livvy had said.

Kit held up his hands in a surrender. “Whoa, what are you talking about?”

Before Ty could say anything, Livvy appeared beside him, looking horrified.

“Not him, Ty!” she said hastily. “It was some other guy. I can’t see him.”

“Does anyone want to explain what’s happening?” Kit asked, gaze flicking from Livvy to Ty and back again.

“Some asshole co-worker of yours just harassed me,” Livvy explained. “I told my brother, and I think he might have assumed it was you. Sorry.”

“Sorry,” Ty repeated, and disappeared outside to sit on the bench his twin had just vacated. Livvy shot Kit an apologetic look and began to follow her brother before Kit called her.

“Wait! I’m really sorry, Livvy,” he said, pushing Ty’s drink across the counter to her. “That’ll be Damian. We’re really short-staffed. Normally, someone as generally crap with customers as him would’ve been fired ages ago. I’ll make sure he gets sacked.” 

“Thanks, Kit. I’m sorry about Ty. He was just worried about me,” she explained. “If there’s an opening though...” she began, a plan forming in her mind. “Would you consider him for it?”

“Sure,” Kit shrugged. “I’m sure he’s way over-qualified.”

Livvy grinned. “Thanks.” She glanced at the tip jar. “I think that Damian guy might have taken the tip I left you. I don’t have any more money on me.”

“On the house,” he insisted, as she took Ty’s drink. “Consider it compensation.”

She laughed and waved the cup at him in a thank you as she hurried outside to her twin. Kit couldn’t help but smile.

“No,” Ty said shortly as they walked home. “I’m not going to work there. No. No way.”

“C’mon, Ty-Ty. It’ll be good for you,” she wheedled, linking her arm in his. “We’ll probably get free drinks.”

“I’ll hate it. It’s loud and it smells like coffee and it gives me headache,” he protested, reeling off issues like he’d memorised them. “I’d have to touch all the stuff other people left behind which is gross, and I’d have to talk to about a hundred people every day. No. Way.”

“But it’d look good on your college application,” she countered. “You said yourself that forensic science is hard to get into.”

He made a derisive noise under his breath and she grinned. 

“Just apply,” she begged. “You might not even get the job. Just apply. Please?”

He sighed. “Fine. But only because not doing it might thwart my career prospects.” 

“Consider yourself dethwarted, brother,” she said, and he rolled his eyes.

“So, you’ll be cleaning tables. Is that cool?” Kit asked, as Ty affixed his name tag to the dark brown apron he’d been given. He nodded silently, hands moving restlessly at his sides. The doors to the shop hadn’t even opened for the first shift of the day and people were swarming around it, waiting for the ‘closed’ sign to be flipped. Ty felt like he was in one of those zombie movies Dru loved so much. “Don’t be nervous,” Kit said, smiling. “You’ll do fine.”

Ty pushed his headphones over his ears and flipped the noise-cancelling switch. The coffee grinder quietened and his hands felt a little less tremulous. He could hardly feel his feet - they felt too numb with worry. Kit glanced across.

“I...I don’t know whether you can wear those,” he began.

“Then I quit,” Ty said stubbornly, setting his jaw. Kit smiled, in a mixture of fondness and exasperation.

“It’s fine. I’ll open us up for the day.”

Around lunchtime, Ty’s shift was officially over. On the dot of noon, Ty abandoned his last lot of dishes and disappeared into the back room, Kit glancing after him. His co-worker, Jenna, had just arrived - taking over Damian’s afternoon shift - and Kit motioned for her to man the counter for a second. He hurried to the back to ask Ty how his first shift had been, and froze. Huddled at the break table, headphones on, one side pushed back so he could hold his phone to his ear, was Ty, shaking. 

“Livvy, I don’t want to,” he was saying, voice tight.

Kit lingered in the doorway for a moment before he spoke. “Ty?” he called quietly. 

“I have to go,” Ty said down the phone, and clicked to hang up. He turned to Kit, pale and shiny with sweat. Kit sat down beside him, looking worried.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “You look sick.”

Ty ran a hand through his black hair and breathed out. His whole body was shaking, quivering with an energy that had nowhere to go. Ty could feel it in his brain, the humming of the lights above him, the flickering bulb above the shop counter, the constant overlapping chatter of customers, a dozen conversations impossible to separate from one another. It was exhausting.

“Sorry,” he said softly, resting his chin on his hand. “I...I get kind of overwhelmed. The noise and stuff...”

Kit nodded. “It’s okay.” He glanced down at Ty’s bag, the top opened and spilling contents. One book caught Kit’s eye. “You’re reading Sherlock Holmes?”

“I’m re-reading Sherlock Holmes,” Ty corrected.

“You like detectives and stuff?” Kit asked, and Ty nodded.

“I’m going to be a detective,” he replied. “Like Sherlock Holmes. Like David Cantor! He established environmental psychology and completely rewrote the way British Police solve crimes. He-” Ty paused, looking bashful. “Sorry. Am I being boring?”

“Not at all,” Kit answered honestly. “You’re...you’re like really smart, aren’t you?”

Ty blushed. “Could I take another shift today?” he asked. “Maybe just until my sister comes? It’s just more convenient that way.”

Kit nodded. “Are you sure? I’m sorry. I know it’s loud. I-” 

Ty nodded and pushed his headphones back on. “I haven’t finished doing the dishes yet.”

"Where's Ty?”

“Why hello to you too.” Livvy smiled. “He’s at some lecture thing. Why?”

Kit couldn’t help feeling his heart sink in disappointment. Ty hadn’t been at work all day. He wasn’t scheduled, but Ty had a funny way of showing up whenever he was free and throwing on an apron ready to work anyway. He’d sit with Kit on his lunch break and drink complimentary beverages, telling Kit all about what he wanted to do in the future. He wanted a nice house, with Livvy, where he could have an apiary in a garden, with lots of space for animals. He would have a library, and a brilliant computer for Livvy - a walk in closet for her too. Kit would sit, with his head on the table, and watch the way the sun moved across Ty’s face, making the shadows his eyelashes cast dance across his cheekbones. When it was sunny, Kit could see himself reflected in Ty’s eyes, when they eventually began to rest on Kit’s own face. Kit had spent many sleepless nights thinking about Ty Blackthorn - Blackthorn, Kit would think. A crazy, beautiful name - and thinking about how he didn’t want to think about Ty Blackthorn. Kit had always imagined he’d settle down with some nice girlfriend. Ty Blackthorn was beginning to disrupt that picture. And that, Kit thought, was terrifying. 

“No reason,” Kit shrugged. “The usual?”

“Yeah. Um, I don’t have soccer practise anymore. The season is over. I might be coming in less frequently now.”

“Does that mean your brother is cutting his work hours?” Kit asked jokingly. He wondered whether his voice betrayed that he was hoping that wasn’t the case.

“Actually, I think Ty is thinking of taking on a few more shifts now school is out,” Livvy told him. “Is that okay?”

“We always need more hands on deck,” he replied. She grinned. 

“I think he likes you,” Livvy confided. “So stop stressing.”

“I’m not,” Kit bluffed, laughing. 

“Okay, whatever. Well, you just totally missed my cup with that coffee, so can I get a replacement?” she grinned, looking down at the small puddle of coffee on the counter. Kit glanced down, startled, and looked back at her.

“That had nothing to do with your brother,” he protested as she went to sit at a table. 

“Whatever!” she called back.

The next day, neither Livvy nor Ty had come in and Kit was slightly embarrassed that his phone had died because he’d spent so much time checking for calls or messages. Nothing. And now it was 6:50. Ten minutes to closing, he thought, clearing up the last of the leftovers and hauling the mop bucket out to get ready for mopping the floor clean. As the clock chimed seven, he heard the door ring as it opened.

“Sorry, we’re closing now,” Kit shouted from the kitchen. “We open at seven tomorrow morning.”

“I know. I work here,” a familiar voice said, and Kit almost dropped the glass he was holding. He turned around as Ty walked into the kitchen, hair windswept and cheeks flushed.

“Did you run?” Kit asked. Ty nodded breathlessly.

“Do you want help with the dishes?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer before he started drying the mugs on the draining board. Ty’s straight hair was beginning to curl at the nape of his neck with the humidity of the warm water. It took Kit a moment to realise he was staring. Ty glanced across and his cheeks reddened.

“I quite like you,” Ty said softly, and Kit grinned down at his hands.

Ty put a hand over his, Ty’s cold and soft against Kit’s, warm and slick with the hot dishwashing water. When their hands reached an equilibrium of temperature, Kit glanced across at Ty, who leaned forward hesitantly, like a wild animal, easily startled, and touched his mouth briefly to Kit’s cheek. Kit felt his skin flare, hot at the touch of Ty’s lips. 

“Was that okay?” Ty asked, pulling back. Kit put a hand on Ty’s arm, pulling him in closer. Kit closed his eyes, trusting Ty to let their mouths find each other. His whole body felt alive, and everything felt loud and warm and intense. He wondered if this was how Ty felt every moment of every day. But Ty’s own brain was silent, living in the calm, quiet nirvana he craved.

When he pulled back, finally, his mouth felt too shaky to talk. It was a moment before he said, “You make my head feel quieter.” 

Kit smiled.

Ty handed him a mug to rinse and, as their hands brushed, Kit wondered if he could consider himself a workaholic for wanting to work here, with Ty, 24/7, if it meant that he could sneak break-room kisses and kitchen brushes of fingers. His mouth crinkled in a small, private smile. 

“I quite like you too.” he whispered. 

“Enough to change the flickery bulb over the cash register?” Ty asked. 

Kit laughed and linked his fingers with Ty’s. “Definitely enough.”

[tanarafirequiver]

“Oh shit,....”

Synopsis: Kaydince (Tanni’s lil sister) is home with her and Tanni’s fiance Theron because Tanni is heavily pregnant and due any day. Tanni is Not Prepared™ and it’s a disaster. Kaydince’s girlfriend Vortrai did not need to be here but she is anywho.

Word count: 2033

Author’s note:  

(I did a LOT of research and to be fair, I didn’t really want to write the gritty details because NOPE. This is the first thing I’ve written ing 299999 years so yeah. *flops on bed*)

Tanni hated being cooped up. She never has and never will, but the only thing that kept her sane was the mountain of fabrics she had her sister and Theron buy for her to make baby clothes and other baby related items. She would make all sorts of quilts, socks, shoes, onesies, and other things to keep her mind at bay from remembering how she was practically chained to the bed. Her pregnancy was yes rough and she did understand everyone’s concerns but she’d be damned if she didn’t get more fresh air. As September changed into October, she noticed how everyone around her became so anxious. It drove her nuts and to knitting. By the first week of of October she had made enough baby clothes for a mother whom was expecting triplets. The house was running out of space to store all these cute clothes.

Tanni slowly went down stairs to find her little sister Kaydince and Theron sitting at the table next to one another. There was a cup of tea where she assumed she was going to sit. She took her place and before she could even pick her cup of tea up, Kaydince spoke.

“Tanni, you need to stop with the sewing. Your machine is running all day and night and what the hell are you going to do with all those baby clothes once the little one grows out of them?” Theron nodded mutely, but had yet to join the conversation.

“I don’t plan on only having one kid first and foremost.” Theron’s eyes grew wide as he looked to his fiance. “And secondly, I know a tart who’s expecting as well so I can give her some if needed. I’m pretty sure she’d appreciate it.” Kaydince sighed.

“Okay, but you need to stop before one of us smacks you and it’ll probably be me. It’ll be me, I highly doubt Theron would lay a hand on you.” Theron angrily glared at the blonde girl next to him, causing her to grow nervous.”Look, all I’m trying to say is we love you, but this is an intervention to get you to stop sewing. This is insane.”

Tanni grumbled. “Sorry for having a baby this active in me to the point where I can’t get a wink fo sleep at night and I’m just so tired all the time and I’m so worried that everything isn’t going to be okay and I just want things to be alright.” Tanni’s breathing quickened as she hiccuped through her words. Tears welled up in her eyes as she began to cry. Kaydince and Theon looked at one another and cringed. KD felt really bad about sounding harsh.

“Babe we’re worried too, and we’re worried that you’re doing so much sewing and what not isn’t good for you either.” He gently rubbed her back, causing the red haired woman to wince. “Did I do something?”

“No, my back hurts and I have a headache. I overall just feel like I’m DYING.” She exasperated through her sobs. Speranza awoke and sped over to Tanni to comfort her mistress. She whined in sorrow as she watched her cry. The pups followed mom’s lead and rushed over, except for Serena who was still very much sound asleep like her dad Aspero.

“Tan, sis, I would just go back upstairs and really try to get some rest. You’re due any day and you really need your rest for when the baby goes pop.” She watched Theron help her up.

“Theron I can walk up a few stairs, you don’t need to escort me.” She huffed, wiping her face with her free hand.

“Tanni I would honestly feel better if I did though-”

“I’m fiiiiiine! Just because I’m due soon doesn’t mean the baby is gonna come to-” The house grew silent as Tanni froze halfway up the stairs. A small pool of clear liquid managed to flood the few stairs under Tanni. Everyone’s eyes were wide in confusion and horror.

“Tanni-” Theron was cut off by his fiance.

“Of course my water breaks, that’s just fucking convenient!”

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

Tanni was a little surprised that she managed to jinx herself into labor. She wasn’t in any serious pain but it was freaking her sister and Theron out a lot. Kaydince yelled for him to go get Ladice, the undead monk who was going to deliver Tanni’s baby as her husband Ellucius had no clue in that department despite being her physician during her pregnancy. Kaydince was dashing all over the house to get everything set up for the Monk’s arrival so it’d be easier on her.

Three hours had passed and Theron enters the house again, very nervous.

“Theron, where is Ladice, shouldn’t she be with you?” Tanni asked nervously, picking up on his fear.

“Um,... they’re not home.”

“What the FUCK do you mean they’re not home?” Tanni hissed, then turning to her sister Kaydince as she gasped, realizing something.

“I forgot they were going on holiday with their son, his wife and their adopted daughter this week. Oh crud.” Tanni’s eyes grew wider than a deer in headlights. “Tanni I’m so sorry I completely forgot and I honestly didn’t think you’d end up delivering so early.”

“I-I-It’s okay Kaydince,... it just happens…” Tanni huffed, clearly having a contraction. “What am I gonna do now if Ladice isn’t here to help?” Theron was glancing between the two women. He was unusually quiet. It was very out of character for him to be this quiet. It seemed like forever before Kaydince spoke up.

“I got this. This isn’t the first baby I’ve delivered and will not be the last.” She single handed put her hair up into a messy bun. A knock on the door sent Theron bolting to the door. He opened it to find a troll shaman there with a smile and basket of fruits She even carried with her a few things that Kaydince left with her.

“ I ‘eard my birdie was ‘ere. Where she a-” She was interrupted by Tanni hollering in pain, her contractions clearly getting worse. “By da elements, is your lil’ lady gearin’ up ta have ‘er lil’ one?” Theron nodded mutely.

“I-I-It was out of the blue, she was walking u-up the stairs and,... y-yeah.” The Illidari was still visibly taken aback by the suddenness of the event.

“VORTRAI IS THAT YOU?” Kaydince yelled over Tanni.”

“Yah birdie, I’m ‘ere. What’cha needin’?”

“I need you to grab towels, a bucket of water, cold, some sterilized gloves and for the love of everything holy in this fucking light-forsaken world, THERON GET YOUR ASS UP HERE AND HOLD TANNI’S HAND. THIS IS YOUR CHILD AS WELL SO GET THE FUCK UP HERE!” The house grew silent. Not a creature stirred, except for the yellow collared pup Miraviglia, who sneezed. Theron awkwardly walked up the stairs as Vortrai began to gather the supplies from around the house and gather them into her bag full of what happened to be more medical supplies.

Tanni looked over to her fiance, already beginning to tire from the labor. She took his hand with her own, her face contorted in pain as contractions came and went. Kaydince took the supplies and thanking the shaman. They both worked in unison to prepare the entire place for the birth. As another contraction came on, Tanara squeezed Theron’s hand so tightly a cracking noise could almost be heard despite Tanni’s cries.

“Wadda fuck was dat?” Vortrai asked, looking over to find Theron hunching over in pain.

“I think she broke his hand a little….” Kaydince presumed, trying to not giggle out of the hilarity of the situation.

“You think? I know she at least fractured something!” Theron hissed in pain as Tanni hesitantly let go. She opened her mouth to speak but he had interrupted. “Don’t apologize, it’s fine. I have another hand.” He watched as she had another contraction, wiping the hair from her forehead and tucking it behind her ear.

“Dis is gonna be a loooooong night. If dat babe anyt’ing like i’s momma or fadah, i’ ain’t comin’ out ‘til tomorrow mornin’.” Everyone turned to glare at Vortrai. “Ah jinxed it didn’t I?” Theron huffed as he did his best not to groan in pain as the troll wrapped his injured hand. Tanara and Kaydince both shaking their heads in either annoyance or exhaustion.

“No shit.” Kaydince hissed. “It’s already sketchy considering this baby is going to be premature!” Vort’s eyes widened. She rushed around to set the crib up for any and all emergencies while Kaydince instructed her how to. Theron watched in worry as he glanced between all the women in the room.

“Theron, calm your shit. Everything will be okay. Between Vort and I I highly doubt any- actually I’m not going to add onto the bad karma here so nope. But do calm down, if you’re stressed then Tanni will be stressed and it’ll go the baby and it’ll fuck with me so stop that shit or get the fuck out.” The room grew quieter as Theron’s heavy breathing grew softer and less stressed. Everything then quickly escalated as Tanni seemed to only get worse from there as complications came and went.

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

Seconds turned to minutes and minutes to hours. Saturday’s afternoon became Sunday’s early evening.  Tanni’s usually sleek and straight red poofed up into her natural texture of insane curls from the humidity in the room, Theron looked like he had seen battle with demons, and the two ‘midwives’ were feverishly helping Tanni in the last legs of the birth. The second the baby was born it didn’t cry. Kaydince rushed her away, scaring Theron even more as she feverishly worked. Tanni, being completely worn out, didn’t even realize it until Theron shot downstairs to inquire. Vort did her best to help them both calm their nerves and concerns and did eventually get there.

Everyone except Kaydince was momentarily resting at last after a very long day and night of yelling and lack of. Kaydince called for Vort. The troll almost flew down to aid the priestess. Theron looked down the stairs as best as he could, his heart dropping with every minute there was no cry. He looked to Tanara, who seemed ready to cry. He climbed into the bed with her, gently holding her. A high pitched screech came from downstairs after what seemed like a year of waiting in the quiet.

The two healers walked back upstairs with a yelling bundle. Kaydince shakily placed it into Tanni arms as Vort collapsed into the plush rocker face first.

“Her lungs were underdeveloped and-”Kaydince who was stifling a yawn was interrupted by Tanni’s sudden burst of energy.

“Her?” Tanni asked, eyes widened. Theron was equally buzzing in excitement as he helped calm the infant.

“Yes Tanni, you have a daughter and thus is my niece. Now excuse me as I pass out in a pile of wolves.” Tanni and Theron though she was joking. They were wrong and watched as they brand new aunt flopped over to the wolf beds and snuggled up next to them and passed out instantly.

“To be fair I can’t blame her.” Theron whispered as they finally got the infant to calm down. “Well, wanna make it official?” He smiled at his fiance, beaming in pride and joy. She nodded.

“Light, she looks far more like you than she does of me. Little,...Sayenne Elizabeth.” Theron raised an eyebrow.

“Elizabeth, where did that come from?” He watched Tanni gesture over to her sleeping sister.

“Its Kaydi’s middle name. I think it’s only right.” She smiled as she watched the newborn fall asleep.

“I see. It does suit her. Bit of a mouthful, but I like it.” They both nodded as Tanni closed her eyes and laid back. Theron watched as she fell asleep. “Sleep well, rasberry, you’ve more than earned it. He took the sleeping infant out her her arms and took the baby downstairs.

“Mom need to sleep so you’re gonna hang out with me for now Sayenne.” In that moment did it dawn on him, he just became a father. “Oh fuck,.....”