#algebra right into a slide puzzle

[lunetheaveragefan]

one day...

Hi! Sorry this is a day late, but I tried my best. Chapter 4 might take a little longer to post since I haven’t started it yet, but I’m feeling super inspired so I’ll probably write some (if not most) of it this weekend. :)

A Sander Sides high school AU

Pairing: Prinxiety and some background Logicality

Summary: Virgil is used to being alone. He only has one friend, Logan. But when Logan makes a new friend, things begin to change as two more join their group. Roman, a boisterous theater kid, seems determined to destroy Virgil’s lonely, average life. How much will Virgil’s life change?

Warnings: Some cursing and quick mentions of bullying/making fun of. If you notice anything else, let me know!

Word Count: 1,639

okay, here’s chapter 3!

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CHAPTER THREE

The rest of the day, Virgil did his best to avoid Roman. He didn’t know if he could face him after the spectacle that morning, not to mention how much he had been thinking about his soft hair and tan skin and beautiful eyes.

Since when have Roman’s eyes been beautiful? Dammit, Virgil, get yourself together. He made fun of you all throughout middle school, nevermind what happened freshman year. People don’t change, you idiot. 

That afternoon, he walks, head down, to a nearby coffee shop to meet Logan to study, although Logan usually reads. He already knows everything; it’s Virgil who needs to study, but Logan has told Virgil dozens of times already that it doesn’t bother him.

That day, Virgil opens the door and scans the room for Logan. To his surprise, Logan is sitting at a booth nestled in the corner. Once he gets there, he slides into the seat, back into the curve of the corner.

“Why’d you get this table?” Virgil asks, pulling his folders, notebooks, and pencil out of his bag. “Do we really need all this space?” Logan looks up from his book.

“Uh…well, you see,” Logan stutters. Virgil is more sure than ever that something strange is going on with his friend. Logan takes a deep breath and starts over, “Well, I figured we’d need more space since I also have to do some work.”

“Oh, okay.” Virgil tries to keep his voice light, but he’s still skeptical. Logan likes having a schedule, and part of his weekly routine was every Thursday after school, without many exceptions, he got a small table by the window to study. Currently, there’s no one sitting at it, so there’s no reason for Logan to have picked this booth instead. 

Virgil forcefully drops the subject from his mind, knowing he needs to get to work. He has an English paper he needs to finish for tomorrow, and he’s barely a paragraph into it. Devoting most of his time to his art projects has made him behind for his other subjects. 

Flipping to the page in his notebook with his evidence and reasons, he opens a Google Doc on his computer and gets to work. The quiet is nice; there’s just the sounds of Virgil typing and Logan flipping pages, along with the background noise of the cafe. After working for about 20 minutes, Logan starts acting weird again.

Every few minutes, he’ll pick up his phone, checking the screen. For what, Virgil can’t tell, but he suspects Logan is checking to see if he’s gotten any texts. What Virgil is really wondering is who could possibly be so important or urgent that Logan would stop reading to check his phone, especially so often. It isn’t until a little later that it occurs to Virgil that Logan said he had work to do, but all he’d done up to that point was read. What is going on?

A few minutes later, Virgil gets his answer when the bell above the door chimes. He glances up instinctively. He looks back towards his essay before he can comprehend who just walked in, but when his brain catches up to his eyes, his head shoots up to find that the high schoolers who just walked in are now standing next to Logan and his booth.

“Heya, Logan and Virgil!” Patton says in his usual cheery voice. Virgil gives him a half smile back, although he’s still puzzled as to why he’s here. It could’ve been a coincidence, of course, but with Logan’s strangeness, he doesn’t think it is. It only makes Virgil more sure when he looks over to see Logan smiling from ear to ear. 

If Logan really did invite Patton, why is he here too? Virgil wonders. 

“Hey, Patton,” Virgil says. “What’re you doing here?” 

“Logan invited me!” comes the reply, and Patton smiles back at Logan, filled with his usual unabashed joy. Logan blushes, and Virgil puts a finger to his mouth and pretends to gag. Unfortunately, Logan sees and rolls his eyes, mouthing, “Don’t be a child.”

“You decided to bring a friend, I see,” Virgil states, looking at the boy standing next to Patton. 

“Yeah, when I heard it was to study, I figured I’d come along. I haven’t had much of a chance to, with the play and all,” says Roman almost bashfully. His hand rubs the back of his next as he looks at the floor. Virgil nods and turns back to his essay. 

“Sit down,” says Logan, gesturing to the booth. “Roman, you can sit next to Virgil, since Patton and I have to work on our chemistry lab.” Virgil snaps his gaze to Logan and glares at him. When the other boy doesn’t react — or even notice — Virgil takes a deep breath and continues working, considerably more stressed than before.

Roman plops down next to him and smartly decides to stay quiet. They all get to work, Patton and Logan chattering about some reaction of some sort from across the table while Roman and Virgil sit in silence, each working on their own homework or projects. Virgil doesn’t mind it; he’s got his headphones in and is therefore pretty much dead to the world, but not quite dead enough for him to miss the fact that anxiety has begun rolling off of Roman. 

Attempting to ignore it, Virgil turns up his music, but nothing can block out the awkward tension between the two boys. 

“I’m sorry for earlier,” Roman blurts out. Logan and Patton remain oblivious on the other side of the table. Hesitantly, Virgil pulls down his headphones. He wishes he didn’t have to, but he figures whatever Roman needs to say is important. “I should’ve looked before I threw my arm out like that. Could you ever forgive me?” He seems so sincere, yet Virgil can’t find it in him to trust him. But those eyes. 

“I forgive you,” mumbles Virgil, cursing Roman’s chocolate eyes. He’s like a goddamn wounded puppy. Before Virgil can pull up his headphones again, Roman speaks.

“So, what are you working on?” His smile is bright and friendly. Why does he want to be my friend all of a sudden? He’s never been nice to me before. For a while, he was downright rude, and then he just started pretending I didn’t exist. Not that I minded.

“Just an essay for English,” Virgil replies, forcing himself to stay neutral. Socializing has never been his strong suit, but after a while, he’d learned how to fake it. “Uh...what are you doing?” 

Roman frowns before responding, “This stupid algebra homework. I just don’t understand math.” He appears angry for a second before smiling again, almost as if he felt he had to pretend everything was okay. Virgil knew quite a bit about pretending. He did it for years before realizing people did, indeed, give a shit about him. Like Logan, for example.

Virgil glanced over at him, but he was still in deep, animated conversation with Patton. From what Virgil could hear, they had gone quite off task from chemistry. Something’s definitely off. Logan was the most responsible person he knew, and always made an effort to study and work when needed. Virgil had never seen Logan get off task when there was something that had to be done.

But that’s a matter for a different time. Right now, there is a boy sitting next to him that he had to talk to. 

“Do you, uh, need any help? I took that class last year, so I should be able to help you.” 

“Really?” Roman asks, his face lighting up. Virgil nods, hands dropping from his headphones. “Thanks, Virgil!” 

Now, Virgil had never thought of his name much before. He’d always liked it, but he didn’t think much of it. But when Roman said it, so full of happiness and spirit, Virgil realized how cool it was. The sharpness of the ‘v,’ the slow, drawn out sound of the ‘l’ at the end. Quickly, Virgil bent over Roman’s paper to see what exactly he was working on, letting his hair fall in front of his face to hide the blush seeping across his cheeks. 

What the hell is going on with me? This is Roman Princeford. He’s arrogant and rude and selfish. He doesn’t think about anyone but himself.

Yet, after Virgil helped him with his algebra, Roman offered to help out with his paper. When he found out it was about Shakespeare, he insisted upon reading it. Surprisingly, the comments he made after reviewing it were pretty helpful. Virgil discovered after a while of small talk about school and typical human topics that he didn’t completely despise Roman’s presence. Sure, his over dramatizing of things was a little annoying, but everyone has their flaws, right?

Virgil didn’t know if he could ever forgive Roman for what happened in middle school or freshman year, but maybe they were on their way to some sort of understanding. 

And, although Virgil will never admit it out loud, he can acknowledge that Roman Princeford is a very handsome guy. 

Once he gets home, feeling confident that his English paper is the best it’s going to get, and finishes everything else he needs to do, he lies down on his bed. He tries to listen to music, but all he can think about was how much Roman had thrown him off today. He’d seemed to want to help Virgil. There wasn’t a single rude comment or excessive bragging session. 

When Virgil realizes he’s smiling while thinking about earlier, he quickly banishes all those thoughts from his mind and rolls over onto his side. Pulling a blanket up to his chin, he burrows under the covers. You are not going to start enjoying hanging out with Roman Princeford. No way. And you most definitely don’t have a crush on him. He starts to think about winter break coming up in a month and a half and wonders what he’ll get his cousins for Christmas. Quicker than usual, he falls to sleep.

The dream Virgil has that night about kissing Roman doesn’t mean anything. Does it?

[capmackie]

reminiscing about you (what we do)

@lesbians-love-taylor is possibly writing a fic about sam dancing to ‘pony’ by ginuwine so this is dedicated to ��so anxious’ by ginuwine <3

Bucky thanks whatever deity looking out for him for the notable absence of the Avengers in the tower.

Because explaining why he’s carrying a so-horny-he’s-delirious Sam to their room with his own dick harder than algebra is not on the list of things Bucky wanted to do today.

Fucking Sam into oblivion wasn’t on the list either but he’s not mad at the turn of events.

—

“You still with me, baby?”

Bucky asks, lifting his head from where he’s tracing soft, open-mouth kisses down Sam’s torso — stopping occasionally to sink his teeth in to hear Sam gasp — looking at the other man for any sign of discomfort at the two, no three fingers sliding into his fucked out hole.

What he finds is the captain, head thrown back, mouth open, whimpering at the unrelenting pace of the metal fingers in his ass.

“Yeah baby, that’s what I thought”, Bucky says, twisting his fingers sharply, lube squelching and Sam’s labored breaths the only sounds heard in the room. “You love this don’t you?”

It takes a moment to register that Bucky’s asked him a question and even longer to realize he’s probably expecting an answer before Sam moans, breathless like he’s run a marathon or six. “F- fuck yeah, I love being filled like this — taking you any way I can get it. In my mouth, my ass,  fuck baby do that again. Yeah, make me feel it.”

And it’s a shame that both of Bucky’s hands are preoccupied — the flesh hand three, oh four fingers deep in Sam’s ass and the metal one ghosting over the other man’s dick, hot and heavy on his thigh — cause the scene in front of him is worthy of a picture; the image of Sam, eyes closed, brow furrowed in concentration, chest flushed and laden with a sheen of sweat, head thrown back as he tries his hardest to not succumb to what Bucky’s doing.

Sam, wrecked beyond belief, trying and succeeding at being good for Bucky could put the Mona Lisa to shame.

“Pl- please Buck, I — I need to come”, Sam whispers, swallowing quickly to alleviate his dry mouth.

“I told you I could be good, ahh — please, I’ve been good for you, haven’t I?”

Bucky almost wants to take pity on the man beneath him. Almost wants to break character, get Sam off nice and easy — a couple of quick strokes all he needs — then wrap him in his arms and drift to sleep.

Almost.

Want he really wants is to take Sam apart, piece by gorgeous piece, wants to put him back together again too. Wants to empty him completely and fill him back up with enough love that there’s no room left for the doubt and self-depreciation that led to the gym in the first place. Wants to show him that he’s grateful that Sam entrusts something as monumental as this to him. Wants...

Bucky really wants to plug Sam and fuck his throat until he comes on his face.

But first...

Gently extracting his fingers out of Sam’s ass, Bucky pushes the younger man‘s legs up and apart, putting him on full display. Letting his eyes wander for a moment, up and down the body he could recognize even blind - those synapses are firing off again, the same thought from earlier his focal point, make Sam feel good.

Meeting Sam’s eyes and seeing the lust written clear as day,  and right under that, vulnerability, renders Bucky breathless for a moment — the weight of the emotions he feels for the man beneath him threatening to suffocate him. He has to make Sam feel good, he deserves it.

“You’ve been the best, baby”, Bucky moans, peppering kisses on the inside of Sam’s thighs, flank, his dick and finally, a firm one to his hole. “But sometimes, that just isn’t good enough”.

With that, Bucky’s off to the races, flatting his tongue to lave over Sam’s entrance, licking from hole to taint and back again, gradually pointing the tip of his tongue to dip inside the younger man, penetrating the loose ring of muscle.

“Oh Bucky, fuck — fuck”.

Sam is mewling at this point, nearly sobbing because it’s too much, it’s not enough, pleasure teetering right on the edge of pain, too sensitive to do anything but writhe against the sheets and Bucky’s tongue. And apparently, that’s all the encouragement Bucky needs, eating Sam’s ass with new fervor — like a man starved and being offered his first meal - lifting Sam’s thick thighs over his shoulders to get deeper into his hole.

When that doesn’t allow him the access he wants, Bucky’s raising onto his knees, practically folding Sam in half. Bucky laps harder — putting his fucking face in it — working his tongue into the puffy hole, alternating between pointing it to fuck into Sam like it’s his dick and sealing his mouth around the rim and sucking hard. There’s spit running down Bucky’s chin, down Sam’s crack, pooling on the sheets below them — easing the way for both Bucky’s tongue and the fingers that have joined it.

The suction, the intensity, the sheer enthusiasm Bucky eats his ass with — all tongue and teeth, nibbling at Sam’s rim — the fact that this feeling, this want has been building since they sparred has Sam ready to end it all, wrap a hand around himself and jerk to completion. To succumb to the wave of pleasure that’s been threatening to drown him the moment Bucky pinned him to the mat and called him a good boy, obedience be damned.

“I wouldn’t do that if I was you Samuel”, Bucky growls and fuck did he say that out loud? “I’m the only person allowed to make you come.”

“If you so much as move your hands, I’ll tie you down, jerk off on your ass and go to sleep.” And with a sharp smack to Sam’s thigh, Bucky punctuates his point. “Do you understand?”

“Oh baby”, Sam breathes, shuddering at the fierceness in Bucky’s voice, the steel-edged certainty that he would indeed leave Sam high and dry. “I understand.”

“Good,” Bucky coos, ducking back between Sam’s leg for one more taste, trailing his tongue from Sam’s hole to the tip of his dick, moaning at the salty taste of precome at the head.

“Pl- please”, Sam begs, turned on beyond belief, need coursing through his veins. “I need it, baby, I - I need you to fuck me.”

“Let me hear how bad you want it sweetheart”, Bucky purrs, wrapping his lips around Sam’s dick, sucking softly. “I want you to beg.”

It takes all of Sam’s willpower to still his hips and not buck into the warm, wet heat of Bucky’s mouth but fuck,  Bucky knows exactly how he loves it, knows how to take him apart using his mouth.

It takes even more willpower to not finally fucking come when he chances a look down at Bucky, who’s going to town, lips red and shiny where they’re stretched tightly around Sam’s dick. He almost loses the battle when Bucky’s eyes meet his, mouth still so full and winks at Sam before completely swallowing him down, then coming back up to suck around the glands of the sensitive head.

And shit, Sam wants to touch, wants to slide a finger or two into Bucky’s mouth alongside his dick, stretch those pretty lips even further. Wants to feel those lips everywhere on him, wants Bucky to make good on that promise and let Sam ride him till he comes first and then let him come finally too. So he begs.

“Please Buck, c’mon”, Sam moans. “Want your dick, I want you to fill me up, want you to lick it out of me when you’re finished.”

Arousal stirs in the pit of Bucky’s stomach; he loves the filthy mouth on Sam, loves how it matches his own. Loves how he gives it to Sam, how Sam gives it right back to him, how they fit perfectly together like two pieces of a fucked-up puzzle. Pulling off of Sam’s dick with obscene pop, Bucky takes a moment to appreciate the view, the barest hint of possessiveness creeping up his spine at Sam, his Sam — normally so cautious, so wary —with his legs trembling from where he’d been holding them open, so wanton and so debauched for Bucky and Bucky only.

“You beg so pretty darlin’”, Bucky says, crawling up the length of Sam’s body, legs bracketing his chest. Taking his dick in his hand, holding it just out of the reach of Sam’s mouth, Bucky gives himself a few quick strokes, watching the way Sam’s eyes track the movement. “Get me nice and wet first. And if you’re good, I’ll let you sit on it.”

“I’ll be good for you baby”, Sam says, voice desperate and low, licking his lips in anticipation. “I promise.”

“Yeah sweetheart I know, I know you’ll be good for me”, Bucky says, pressing into the velvety wetness of Sam’s mouth, slowly feeding the man below him inch by inch until his mouth’s stuffed full. “Always so damn good for me.”

And with that, Sam’s closing the distance and wrapping his lips around as much of Bucky’s dick as he can, going and going until he feels the head hit the back of his throat, and even further after that. “Just like that baby”, Bucky groans, fucking harder and faster into Sam’s mouth, sliding the metal hand behind his neck, encouraging Sam to take him deeper, “let me hear you choke on it — fuck,  just like that.” Sam moans around the thick length, the vibration sending a shock through Bucky, his hips jerking sporadically, thrusting even deeper into the mouth beneath him.

Pulling away from the heaven that was Sam’s mouth, Bucky wastes no time rearranging himself up against the headboard, wrapping his metal arm around Sam’s waist to position him right over the tip of his cock. Without taking his eyes off of Sam’s face, Bucky pats around the bed until he finds the lube, pushing the bottle into Sam’s hands, wordlessly instructing him to slick them both up.

“You’re so desperate for it Sam, I wish you could see your face.” Sam can only nod - he’s been in this limbo for the past couple of hours, days maybe — all for this. For this moment of his hands splayed on Bucky’s chest, thighs quivering from hovering over Bucky’s lap, the press of the thick cockhead at his rim. Quickly adding more lube, Sam let’s gravity do the rest of the work, pulling him down down down until he’s seated fully in Bucky’s lap, crying out at the sudden fullness.

Even after being fingered within an inch of his life, it’s still a tight fit, Bucky feeling impossibly huge in this position.”Go ahead babe, ride this fucking dick. Fuck your self on it, sweetheart, make me come.”

Sam shivers at that, shifting so he’s leaning on his hands behind him, thighs splayed open as he rolls his hips up to the tip of Bucky’s dick, just to slam them back down, impaling himself over and over on the dick inside him.

“Keep going, fu — fuck, just like that!” Bucky’s starting to get close, braces his feet against the bed to fuck up into Sam, meeting him thrust for thrust, chasing his orgasm now. He’s not gonna last that much longer, not with the way Sam is fucking him with abandon, alternating between dropping himself down quickly and grinding into Bucky’s lap, ass clenching around his dick. Not with the way the pleasure dances on his face, the litany of ”oh’s” falling from his lips or when Sam locks eyes with him, chanting “come in me baby, fill me up with it. I wanna feel you dripping out of me.”

And that - that’s all it takes before Bucky grabs onto Sam’s hips, pulling him down into his lap as he thrusts up, spilling deeply inside the younger man.

“Fuck, Sam moans, clenching around Bucky, milking him for every drop, until Bucky’s slowly sliding out of him, whining about over sensitivity.

Bucky’s content to wallow in his post-orgasmic bliss, sated in a way only Sam ever makes him feel. But Sam’s right there,  mewling softly, dick still hard and flushed against his stomach.

“Oh fuck baby, you’re still being so good for me. Now it’s my turn, right babe? Want me to get you off now?”

“Please Buck, please — just make me come.”

And Bucky does just that; sliding three fingers deep into Sam’s ass at the same time he takes Sam’s dick down his throat.

“Ah - ah, shit baby”, Sam groans, as Bucky drives his fingers in and out of his hole, cum and lube easing the slide. His nerves are on fire, body somehow feeling light and heavy at the same time, the need to come the only thing on his mind, the only thing he can focus on. But he needs permission first.

“Buck, please,”, Sam whimpers, tears leaking out of the corner of his eyes at the demonstrative need to come, to let go. “I- I need to — ah”.

“‘S so swollen for me babe”, Bucky says, voice wrecked from how he’s fucking his throat with Sam’s dick. “C’mon, let go, come for me, baby.”

And that’s all it takes for Sam to come with a loud cry, his entire body tensing for what feels like years,  collapsing back into the mattress like he’s been deflated. He barely registers that Bucky’s crawled up next to him, placing kisses on his face and neck, coaxing him out of the dream-like state a great orgasm always puts him in.

“You still with me baby?”

Sam wants to laugh at that, at Bucky asking him the same question as before he fucked the daylights out of him, but it makes sense in a way. His everything begins and ends with Bucky, his life framed in the time before the man laying next to him and the time after.

And even in the haze of his mind-numbing orgasm, Sam answers him back, sure as day, “I’m right here sweetheart.”

[ageofevermore]

1-96

(1) Do You Sleep With Your Closet Doors Open Or Closed?

it’s a dual sliding door, so usually one sides open. but preferably, both doors are closed. 

(2) Do You Have Freckles?

sometimes in the summer, not often though. 

(3) Can You Whistle?

yes! 

(4) Last Song You Listened To.

well for some reason there’s a guy on my TV singing God Bless The USA

(5) What Is Your Favourite Colour?

purple

(6) Relationship Status.

single because my favorite omegle guy won’t answer me 

(7) What Is The Temperature Right Now?

48F / 9C

(8) Did You Wake Up Cranky?

i woke up wishing i was still asleep

(9) How Many Followers?

835

(10) Zodiac Sign.

Sun: Capricorn, Rising: Aries, Moon: Aquarius 

(11) What Is Your Eye Colour?

brown / hazel 

(12) Take A Vitamin Daily?

no

(13) Do You Sing In The Shower?

obviously, i’m not completely insane

(14) What Books Are You Reading?

whatever fucking book my english class assigned...

(15) Grab The Book Nearest To You, Turn To Page 64, Give Me Line 14.

i literally only have a text book by me and opening it is triggering

(16) Favourite Anime?

i don’t watch anime

(17) Last Person You Cried In Front Of?

my mom...about greys anatomy...but still my mom about christmas and my birthday. i cry alot, but i like REALLY cried about those two topics

(18) Do You Collect Anything?

chapstick, trauma, candles 

(19) What Did You Have For Lunch?

it’s only 10am and i haven’t even thought about breakfast 

(20) Do You Dance In The Car?

yes, and then my mom yells at me because i do nothing “subtly” and the entire car shakes

(21) Favourite Animal?

white siberian tigers, snow leopards, dolphins, and now elephants

(22) Do You Watch The Olympics?

unfortunately. i love gymnastics, but like, i’m not trying to watch men in toboggans and swim caps 

(23) What Time Do You Usually Go To Bed?

anywhere between 12pm and 3am

(24) Are You Wearing Makeup Right Now?

no, i never wear makeup because it makes me look more ugly

(25) Do You Prefer To Swim In A Pool Or The Ocean?

ocean

(26) Favourite Tumblr Blog?

besides my friends i don’t really have a favorite blog, i stick to my circle and don’t venture very far 

(27) Bottled Water Or Tap Water?

bottled. 

(28) What Makes You Happy?

i couldn’t tell you...

(29) Post A Gif Of What You’re Currently Feeling Right Now.

(30) Do You Study Better With Or Without Music?

without, but i always start with it on. it never lasts more then two songs.

(31) Dogs Or Cats?

dogs

(32) If You Were A Crayon What Colour Would You Be?

a shade of purple from the crayola 200 pack

(33) PlayStation Or Xbox.

wii

(34) Would You Swim In The Lake Or Ocean?

ocean

(35) Do You Believe In Magic?

hell mothering fucking year i do baby, lets take that train to hogwarts 

(36) What Colour Shirt Are You Wearing?

its a friends pj crop, so black and white stripped with the central perks logo

(37) Can You Curl Your Tongue?

yup

(38) Do You Save Money Or Spend It?

save money 

(39) Is There Anything Pink Within 10 Feet Of You?

my cup 

(40) Do You Have Any Obsessions Right Now?

stranger things ig

(41) Have You Ever Caught A Butterfly?

no, those assholes scare me, but i’ve grown + released them 

(42) Are You Easily Influenced By Other People?

um chile, i would follow my best friend off a cliff with no hesitation

(43) Do You Have Strange Dreams?

all the fucking time 

(44) Do You Like Going On Airplanes?

ITS MY FAVORITE FORM OF TRAVEL 

(45) Name One Movie That Made You Cry.

the hannah montana movie

(46) Peanuts Or Sunflower Seeds?

peanuts 

(47) If I Handed You A Concert Ticket Right Now, Who Would You Want The Performer To Be?

one direction 

(48) Are You A Picky Eater?

yes 

(49) Are You A Heavy Sleeper?

yes, but it takes me forever to fall asleep 

(50) Do You Fear Thunder / Lightning?

yea, depends on the day and the level of scardy bitch i feel like being 

(51) Do You Like To Read / Write?

i love both 

(52) Do You Like Your Music Loud?

hell yeah, let me feel the beat in my kidneys 

(53) Would You Rather Carve Pumpkins Or Wrap Presents?

carve pumpkins 

(54) Put Your Music On Shuffle, What Is The First Song That Came Up?

no tears left to cry by ag

(55) What Season Are You In Right Now? (Weather)

fall

(56) What Are You Craving Right Now?

a churro + peppermint mocha frap

(57) Post A Screenshot Of Your Tumblr Feed.

(58) What Is Your Gender?

female (she/her)

(59) Coffee Or Tea?

iced coffee / sweet tea

(60) Do You Have Any Homework Right Now? If So, What Is It About?

yeah, i have environmental homework and US I homework and Algebra II homework

(61) What Is Your Sexuality?

bruh, idk 

(62) Do You Make Your Bed In The Morning?

no, that shit’s never made 

(63) Favourite Pokemon?

jigglypuff 

(64) Favourite Social Media?

pintrest 

(65) What’s Your Opinion On Instagram Stories?

they’re okay

(66) Do You Get Homesick?

no. i don’t miss thins very easily, i’m away from home for a week and i have no doubt that i could spend the rest of my life without going back. 

(67) Are You A Virgin?

yes sir

(68) What Shampoo And Conditioner Are You Using Right Now?

idk, some really thick and heavy in hydration set 

(69) If You Were Far From Home And Needed To Sleep For The Night, Would You Choose To Rent A Crappy Motel Room For $60 Or Sleep In Your Car For Free?

sleep in my car, though both options scare me 

(70) Are Both Of Your Blood Parents Still In Your Life?

i have a strained relationship with my bio dad, but unfortunately i still have to associate myself with him a few times a year 

(71)  Whats The Next Movie You Want To See In Theaters?

black widow or spiderman 3, but i’m willing to see anything just take me back! 

(72) Do You Miss Your Ex?

i’ve never had an ex, but i do wish krystian would stop ignoring me. stupid scotland boys 

(73) What Is Your Favourite Quote Right Now?

“friends dont lie”

(74) What Eye Colour Do You Find Sexiest?

green / brown 

(75) Did You Like Swinging As A Child? Do You Still Get Excited When You See A Swing Set?

i loved swinging, but a few years ago it started making me dizzy so i don’t swing very often anymore. but tire swings especially are my shit 

(76) What Was The Last Thing You Ate?

chicken flavored ramen 

(77) What Games Do You Have On Your Phone?

yes 

(78) Would You Give A Homeless Person CPR If They Were Dying? Why Or Why Not?

yeah...because they’re dying and if i have the skills to save them...why wouldn’t i?

(79) Been On The Computer For 5 Hours Straight?

honey, i do full virtual high school. we stan a pandemic (we don’t)

(80) Stalked Someone On A Social Network?

social media stalker is my middle name. not anymore though, i haven’t been asked to find a boy in a while 

(81) Do You Like Meeting New People?

no. i hate it. anxiety city man. 

(82) Do You Wear Rings? If You Do, Take A Picture Of Them.

i don’t wear rings, but i really want to.

(83) Do You Sleep With Your Bedroom Door Open Or Closed?

closed

(84) What Are Three Things You Did Today?

woke up, watched stranger things, made ramen 

(85) What Do You Wear To Bed?

whatever i fall asleep in. 

(86) List All Of Your Different Beauty Products You Have Right Now.

are beauty and skincare the same? because i don’t own much makeup. 

(87) Are You A Day Or Night Person?

i used to be a night person. but this pandemic has hit hard with depression and i’ve become a stay in bed all day person

(88) List All Of Your Video Games On Your Phone, Console Etc.

2048 balls, among us, ball sort puzzle, bubble shooter, bubble sort, color roll 3D, drag n merge, fit and squeeze, hole.io, mario kart, match 3D, nonogram.com, paint the cube, roof rails, solitare, spit, stacky dash, stair run, timber run...

(89) Tell Me About A Dream That You Had And When It Happened.

After my moms fiance died, I had a dream that he was able to come see my fifth grade play (he died just before it happened) and when we were walking out he got into the white car from fast and furious (we watched the movies together) and said he would see me again soon, then he drove off...like talk about weird 

(90) Favourite Soda Drink?

rootbeer 

(91) What Sounds Are Your Favourite?

i like a good clicking sound 

(92) Do You Wear Jeans Or Sweats More?

sweats everyday all day 

(93) How Do You Look Right Now?

like a fucking wreck 

(94) Name Something That Relaxes You.

netflix 

(95) What Tattoo Do You Want?

i want a bunch of little symbols, and i think it would be cute if i got a T for my mom, but i can’t tell her that because she might think i’m going soft and exploit my show of affection (jfc why am i like this lmao)

(96) Favourite YouTuber?

colleen ballinger 

[lunasohma]

that’s it!

[ ao3 / ff.net ]

Nyanko-sensei is on the hunt. / post Ch. 70

Nyanko-sensei actually wanted to go back out that night in search of whatever Natsume had flung out the window. He’d finally managed to firmly haul his inebriated cat back from the sill and that had been that. 

Until the next day, that is. 

—

“Is this it, Natsume?” Sensei paws at a glass marble he’s found on the side of the road. Natsume doesn’t even bother answering—it’s embarrassing enough as it is. But of course, that won’t do for Nyanko-sensei. He leaps up onto his shoulder, uttering a muffled, “Catch!” Miraculously, Natsume manages to and holds it up to the light. There’s a twist of red suspended at its center, like folds of cloth.

“Pretty,” he murmurs, reminded of Sensei’s question only when the cat kneads impatiently on his shoulder.

“This probably would’ve shattered if I’d thrown it out the window, so no.” At that, Nyanko-sensei snorts. 

“As expected of human things.” 

Natsume rolls his eyes at Sensei’s disdain, setting the marble down on a low wall as they pass by.

“Hey!”

“What?” he asks, bewildered. Sensei springs down and snatches the marble up again. He glares at Natsume accusingly before scampering back the way they came.

And Natsume is left perplexed. 

—

The worn puzzle piece lands on his desk with a satisfying clack. An odd but welcome distraction from his algebra homework. 

He shakes his head with an amused huff when Sensei looks at him questioningly. “Why did you think this was it?”

Nyanko-sensei sniffs indignantly. “You humans place value in the silliest stuff, how am I supposed to know?” Natsume bites back his grin. 

“Is the great and powerful Madara admitting he doesn’t know something?” Sensei fixes him with a withering look, right ear flickering irritably. He tips Natsume’s pencil cup over before hopping off the desk and out the window. Natsume laughs for real this time. 

The wooden puzzle piece is a chip of azure sky. A fine line of black indicates the wing of a soaring bird. 

I bet the rest of the picture is nice, Natsume thinks, placing it next to the marble on the windowsill. 

—

Sensei doesn’t stop there. Natsume’s never seen his cat so determined. 

A little silver bell that has lost its ring. A length of satin ribbon in a lovely shade of lavender. A horse-hair paintbrush with a shiny wooden handle. A delicate earring without its backing. A small, sturdy two-minute hourglass filled with fine pink sand. A lightly scuffed lacquered comb decorated with a floral design. An obsidian-colored twenty-sided die, flecked with gold. A pair of cat-sized mittens (socks?) that Touko delightedly washes and presses. (”They’ll be great for winter!” she beams.) 

He’s responded in the negative for each one, yet they’re still sticking around. A little museum curated by a cat’s sensibilities, or rather, by an all-powerful yokai’s sensibilities. 

It’s rather charming. 

—

Today, he comes home to a yokai drinking party in full swing up in his room and the Nyanko-shaped rock tucked neatly between Sensei’s paws beside his favorite sake cup. Natsume slides his door shut with a little more force than necessary when he catches sight of the smug look on Nyanko-sensei’s face. He retreats downstairs to spend a (relatively) quiet evening with Touko and Shigeru.

When all is calm, he ventures upstairs. Sensei is curled up on his pillow, the rock still nestled between his paws. 

Natsume smiles despite himself. 

[karterh-blog]

Levi 1

Levi 

This is stupid.

What am I doing?

Nothing odd.

Just a tall teen, buying packaged cookies.

And that’s it. 

Watching that movie was a bad idea. Why did I let Nic talk me into watching it? They were so persistent. The movie was good. It made me feel less alien. The worst part was the partial I got from the watching the kiss at the end. I had to hide it behind my letterman’s jacket when we left the theater.

Maybe it’s a good thing. No other on-screen romance has gotten that much of a rise out of me. Fuck. Even my thoughts are getting corny.

“Young man register 15 is available,” the yellow-vested Walmart employee startled me out of my inner turmoil. I looked up at her, she looked tired, unkempt, as my mother would say. She gave me an impatient nod to herd me along to the self-checkout kiosk.

I quickly scanned my purchase and selected the pay option. Fumbling with my wallet I tried to rush the machine into taking my five-dollar bill. The stubborn thing spat it back at me. Infuriatingly, I snatched it back, worked out a barely bent corner and forced the note back into the payment slot. This argument went on for a few more rounds. I felt the stares of the moms waiting in the line. Believe me ladies, I want to get out of here as much as you do. After a fifth attempt it finally accepts my payment and spits my change and receipt at me. I shove it into my jeans pocket, grab my purchase and head for the doors.

“I need to see your receipt, young man,” drawls the exasperated looking man at the greeter post.

I attempt to extract it from my pocket without showering my feet with pennies and dimes. I failed.

“It’s a new policy.”

“It’s fine,” I say and as I hand him the small slip, I see that my hands are shaking.

My hands don’t shake. I scored the winning net in or hockey game against Gillette Saturday night. They’re our biggest competition this season, not to mention our biggest rival. “What is wrong with me.”

“Thank you, have a nice night,” he utters in monotone. he so doesn’t care.

I’m in the clear. Not even close, Pearson.

I make it to the second set of doors and forget how hard it’s snowing. I hate driving around town in snow. I’m not a terrible driver for a 17-year-old. I get carried away after a big win on the ice or a movie with good chase scenes, but generally I keep it in my pants. But other people act like they haven’t lived here for decades and either slide through the intersections or drive half the speed limit. 

Crap, am I really doing this?

At the beginning of Christmas break Nic begged me to go see a movie about some gay kid. It didn’t play here in Sheridan. There is no way it would play here. It might turn us impressionable youths into the gays!! Too late. Anyway, Nic convinced my mom that she would likely get a better present if I were allowed to drive up to Billings, Montana to do my holiday shopping. Nic is basically an only child. They know how to manipulate parents. They are my best friend, but I wouldn’t say that to the guys on the team. The guys already give me a hard time for hanging out with them and some of their “freaky” friends. I just feel so comfortable around them.

Unlike now. My socks are wet from slopping to my car. Chucks are not good winter shoes. I jam the key into the door handle to unlock the car. No fancy fob for this ride. Hell, it doesn’t even have cruise control. Gotta love hand-me-downs. Now that Jess is working a job and going to school (Sheridan College, fancy) he was able to buy a better vehicle. So, I get the old Honda my parents bought used ten years ago. The hinges creak as I open the door and slouch into the driver’s seat.

After shoving my backpack into the floor, I set the package of Oreos on the passenger seat. They’re the holiday ones with the red filling. Not really like the movie said, but close.

The car squeals to life with a good forceful turn of the ignition. I should get my friend Joey to change that belt. It’s getting really bad. I carefully make my way out of the packed parking lot as my phone buzzes in my hoodie pocket. I know it’s Nic, so I don’t even look.

“Hi.”

“Hey babe?” They sound unsure. Great.

“Why do you call me that? Don’t you’ll make me more nervous?”

“Lee, it’s going to be great! I’m so excited for you. I wish I could watch from your backseat.” Nic ignored my question. Typical. 

“God you’re creepy.”

“Yeah. But you love me.”

“Uhhh....” I let silence hang in the chilly air. 

“Levi Pearson, you go give that boy his cookies and make his year!”

“How are you cockier than me? Do you think he’ll even get the reference? This is pretty out there.”

“I know he saw the movie, Sarah Riley showed me his secret Instagram post about seeing it and then journaling at City Brew for hours afterward!”

“How do you know it was actually his post?”

“Babe, the freaks know all the best gossip.”

“Seriously? The babe thing?”

“What about it?”

“Even your friends think we’re together!”

“That’s impossible Lee. They all know I’m a demi/panromantic asexual genderqueer!”

“Nic. No one in this county knows what that means, except for you.”

“You’re totally not my type.”

“You mean you’re not my type?”

“Right. Not everyone can be born with genitalia that you are disturbingly focused on. But you are so stoic that no one knows what your type is, other than maybe cheerleader or volleyball player. I’m the only one who sees you. Well until tonight. Then Patrick will see you. Hopefully more of you than I’ve seen.”

“Hey.” I listen to Nic’s peeling cackle for two traffic lights.

“Holy shit. Aren’t you almost there?”

“Just turning off 5th street.”

“Ok. Ok. Ok. I love you! You’ve got this!” With that she hangs up.

I shift into park and look up at the brick house. The lights in the living room shine through the curtains. A big pine tree blocks the only other window facing the street. That’s probably his parents’ room though. That’s how I remember the house when Brad Warren lived there. We used to hang out in grade school, and we’ve been on the same hockey team for two years. I’d ride my bike over here when mom and dad were both at work in the summer.

God. My thoughts are all over the place. I’m mostly just trying to not picture and also hope for the opportunity to see Patrick’s smile. I think a lot about that smile. I didn’t really notice it until he got his braces off last year. It seemed like he smiled for weeks. He was unfortunately outed by some football players in a pretty brutal manner. He hasn't smiled much since then. Nic says he’s been out to his friends for years, which makes us the only two queer guys in the 11th grade, as far as I can tell.

A shadow passes by the window and I jump. Crap. I probably look like a stalker sitting out here.

I grab my backpack off the floor and chuck a couple of textbooks out, so I can fit in the treat I have for Patrick.

The characters in the movie bond over Oreos. And I figured if I showed up and offered them to him, it could be easier than walking up to him at school and saying something dreadfully embarrassing for both of us.

Pearson. You got this.

I wrench my door open and trudge to the Williams’ front door. I can tell by the blue light that the tv is on and I can faintly hear the sounds of Wheel of Fortune. That show is banned in our house. We watch Jeopardy! and no other game shows.

The chime of the doorbell makes me jump. Breathe. In. Out. Hurried little footsteps come toward me. This must be his little brother. I’ve seen him at school functions with his parents. The knob jiggles as he attempts to open the heavy door.

“No! I got it!” The small voice protests. And lights blind me for a second as he stares up at me. I’m already six-one. He must think I’m a giant, as he stands there with his mouth open and his eye wide before squinting at me. “Who are you? Are you Thor?”

“Uhhh, Levi Pearson?” Wow Pearson intimidated by a juvenile.

“Who’s at the door, Alex?” His voice is clear and sharp and makes shiver run down my spine. And then he fills the crack in the doorway standing behind the shorter version of the same person. His bristly dark blonde curls are cropped short. And his light blue eyes look into my soul.

“Levi?”

“Uhh, hey.”

“Why are you at my house?”

“Can we talk?”

“This couldn’t wait until school in the morning?”

“Please?”

“We won’t get very far if you keep answering questions with questions.”

“Boys, shut the door! You’re letting all the heat out.” Their dad has an intimidating presence. He’s big and muscular, and always has a shadow of coal and grease on his skin. 

Patrick eyes me wearily.

“Well come in.”

“Thanks.”

The front door leads straight into the living room. They must have painted when they bought the house. It looks totally different. Wow. How does anyone really think I am hetero? I choose to blame my mother and her HGTV habit.

“Can I help you?”

“Oh sorry. Ummm. Did you get Speiker’s assignment from yesterday? I didn’t have a chance to see him before we left for the game.” He glares at me. This was a stretch. We have one class together. Algebra II. I’m decent at it. I mean I’m holding steady to my A-, but I can play dumb.

He looks unconvinced.

“You have friends in that class, why ask me?”

I’ve got to bullshit fast. Mini-Patrick has grown bored of me and now that the door is shut their dad is back in a recliner studying the next word puzzle.

“Well, I was on my way home, and your place is on the way–”

“Are you stalking me?”

“What!?” I try to wipe my now sweaty shaking hands on front of my hoodie. It’s wetter than my hands. This is going great!

“How do you know where I live?” He looks nervous and skeptical.

“Oh. Uhh. Brad used to live here before you.”

“Ooookaaay.”

“Anyway. Your place was on my way home and I need to keep my B in Algebra to stay on the active hockey roster.

“Boys, quit flapping your gums or get out of the living room, you’re interrupting the puzzle,” his dad said while waving us to the kitchen or some other part of the house.

“Fine. Come with me.”

Patrick lead me into the house, cautiously monitoring my every move.

“Patrick. Tell your friend shoes stay at the door.” I was so busy watching Patrick watch me that I didn’t even notice his mom perched at the kitchen counter. She scrutinized me over the top of red-framed reading glasses like a mean librarian, if librarians wore paint splotched bibs. She likes to call herself an artist, but Mom says she’s just crafty with too much free time. I don’t really know what that means but I’ve seen her name on fundraiser auction items.

Patrick clears his throat to get my attention.

“Oh god,” I jump, “sorry.” I dig my toe into the heal of my right shoe popping it off and then do the same with the left. I pick up my sneakers and trudge them back to the front door and take a big deep breath before rejoining Patrick in the kitchen. He leads me down a set of stairs into another living area. It’s basically just an older version of the one upstairs. The couch is more worn, and the recliner looks nonfunctional, but cozy.

“Wait here” he leaves me in the comfy room and my eyes wonder to a wall covered in family photos. I resist the urge to memorize every one of them. Geez. I am a stalker. To calm my fidgeting, I perch on the arm of the couch and stare at the ceiling. I slide my backpack off my shoulders and hold it by the loop at the top.

“Do you have your book with you?” I look down and he’s standing in front of me, still glaring.

“Oh, uh, I don’t really need the homework. I got it from Nic. I just–”

“Dude. What’s going on here? Why the fuck are you at my house then?” His voice is icy and cuts through my small shred of confidence.

“Pat. Calm down.”

“It’s Patrick.”

“Sorry. Patrick.”

“Is this some sort of hazing, jock bet? Infiltrate to home of the homo?”

My stomach had been trying to climb out of my chest and these words drop it to the floor. I slump forward and look at my wet pack and socks. The zipper is partially open, and I can see the bright blue package. I don’t know what to say to him. Of course, that is what this looks like.

“I just wanted to give you something.” I reach into my bag and wrestle to cookie package free. I drop it onto the seat of the battered chair and head quickly back up the stairs. I jam my soggy feet into my shoes, shoulder my bad and leave the warm house without looking at any of the Williams family.

Back in the Civic, I see that I have missed 10 calls and 20 texts. I have one voicemail from home. I opt for that first knowing that all the other communications are from Nic. Mom says dinner is ready and mine will be cold by 7. I check the phone’s screen. It’s just after 7. I’ll make something up. It’ll be fine.

Nic texts again as I close the voicemail window.

Nic: Tell me. Tell me. Tell me.

Nic: <3 <3 <3 <3

Instead of trying to type out my humiliation, I opt for a call instead. I hold the phone with my shoulder as I make a U-turn and drive the five blocks home. It doesn’t take that long for me to spew my rejection and humiliation. I park behind Dad’s old beat up truck and rest my head on my steering wheel as Nic attempts to construct further plans. They seem way more invested in my love life than I am right now. I’m half listening to Nic and half listening to my stomach growling. Tall athletes should not miss meals. But despite its protests I don’t think I can keep anything down.

“Lee!”

“Huh?”

“Are you listening to me or wallowing?”

“Definitely wallowing,” I huff. My breath is starting to fog up my windows.

“Babe, remember when you tripped on your own stick while skating toward the undefended goal in the game against Casper?”

“Wow. As if I didn’t feel shitty enough, thanks Nic.”

“Did you give up hockey after that game?”

“No, but that’s different.”

“You’re right it’s a different kind of match between boys playing with stick.”

“Cute.”

“The cutest enby you know.”

“You’re the only enbee I know.”

“Babe, I can hear you shivering. Go inside. Can me later.”

“Sure.”

I lift my head and realize I have sat here long enough for the snow to coat it windshield. And I think my socks are starting to freeze to my shoes.

[levicastho]

A Kiss For Good Luck

Prompt: High School Au

Partners: @envydean and @lemonsorbae

Word Count: 3789

Rating: T

Read on AO3

A loud thump startles Castiel out of the doze he was slipping in and out of. He jerks up with a start, looking around for the source of the noise blearily and finding it easily enough. Dean is standing right beside him, his physics textbook tossed onto the desk.

Castiel shoots him a half-hearted glare and leans back in his seat, blearily rubbing his eyes. “What do you want, Dean?”

“Well hello to you too, Sunshine,” Dean greets. “When was the last time you slept, man? You left drool on your textbook.”

A glance down reveals this to be true. Castiel winces and attempts to scrub it off with his sleeve. He only succeeds in wrinkling the paper. He gives up with a sigh, flipping the book closed before eyeing Dean wearily. “What do you want?” he repeats. He is far too tired for Dean’s antics at this moment.

Dean snorts at him and pulls out a chair to plop into, dropping his backpack carelessly to the ground at his feet. “I’ve got a physics test, remember? You wanted me to go over some review stuff with you before I took it, so here I am.”

Castiel blinks. He had completely forgotten about that. The only reason he had happened to be in the library at all is because he had wanted a quiet place to study for his precalculus exam.

Oh well. Dean’s here anyways, and Castiel can always study during his free hour. It’s not like he was getting much work done before Dean interrupted him anyways.

“Right, of course,” Castiel says, glancing at the clock behind the librarian’s desk. “You’re late. You were supposed to meet me here seventeen minutes ago.”

Dean’s mouth drops open. “Dude, are you kidding me? You were asleep, and you’re going to rail me for being a little late?”

Fair point. Castiel grumbles at him and slides a hand down his face. “Yeah, whatever. Let’s just get this over with.”

They work right up until the bell, going over everything from basic definitions to Ampère's circuital law. If he’s being honest, Castiel can admit that Dean probably doesn’t even need tutoring in this subject anymore. His main struggles are math-related, and he’s already mastered all the formulas he would need for this course. Despite the image Dean projects, he really is quite smart. Brilliant, even. The boy could rival Castiel’s spot for valedictorian if he just applied himself for once.

Still, Castiel knows how stressed-out Dean was for this test, even if Dean did his best to hide it behind his devil may care façade. Physics and Auto Shop are the only subjects Dean really cares about. It’s the other ones, like English and Algebra 3, that Castiel has to push Dean to work hard in.

“Seriously, man,” Dean starts as they pack up, “what’s got you so worn out? It’s not like you’re the type to stay up partying all night.”

Castiel shoots him a dry look. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I was up late studying for an exam.”

“Studying? Why? You’re a nerd, you don’t need to study.” Dean looks genuinely puzzled, and Castiel has to hide a fond smile at the expression.

“Dean, by that logic I could make the argument that since you’re a ‘jock,’ you don’t actually need football practice.”

Dean tips his head to the side. “Fair enough,” he concedes. “And how many times do I have to tell you not to do the air quotes thing? It’s lame as hell.” He pauses in zipping up his backpack, licking his lips nervously. Castiel does his best not to track the movement. “Okay, be honest. How do you think I’m gonna do on the test?”

Castiel’s demeanor softens, Dean’s insecurity eating away at him. “You’re going to do great. You are much smarter than you give yourself credit for.”

A brilliant flush spreads over Dean’s cheeks at the praise. He nods once and clears his throat awkwardly. “Right. Uh, thanks.” Castiel can pinpoint the moment the mask slides back up, Dean’s soft expression morphing into a cocky one. “So, you gonna give me a good luck kiss or what?”

It’s clearly one of Dean’s attempts to act like a dick, but once the thought enters Castiel’s mind, he can’t shake it. Castiel has, much to his dismay, developed somewhat of a crush on the other boy. To feel Dean’s lips pressed against his own, even just for a split second, would be… Besides, for all that Dean puts Castiel through, he deserves at least a little payback.

Castiel quickly leans forward to place a gentle peck on Dean’s lips. It barely lasts a second, but the slack jawed look Dean gives him when he pulls back is priceless. Castiel grins and gives him an exaggerated wink before hauling his bag onto his shoulders and taking off, Dean left sanding motionless behind him.

Definitely worth it.

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

“What’s up with your boyfriend?” Balthazar prods at lunch that same day, poking Castiel in the ribs.

Castiel grunts and rolls his eyes, taking another bite of his sandwich. The bread is stale and the lettuce is far from crisp, but it’s about as good as you can expect from cafeteria food, and Castiel would like to savor it in peace. “For the last time, he’s not my boyfriend. I’m just tutoring him,” he chides. “Besides, what are you even talking about?”

“He keeps looking your way every five seconds,” Balth explains. Castiel blinks and looks up at him in shock. Balthazar just wiggles his eyebrows and grins. “It’s like he can’t keep his eyes off you. How romantic.”

Castiel can feel a blush heating his face and Balthazar laughs at him. “Whatever,” he grumbles. There’s no way Dean is actually looking at him. Dean never pays him any attention outside of their spot in the library. Balthazar is probably just teasing him. As always.

Castiel should really find a better friend.

“I’m serious!” Balthazar protests. “Look for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

He unleashes a dramatic sigh when Castiel keeps his gaze firmly on his lunch tray. “Fine, be that way,” Balth huffs, but he does mercifully change the subject.

Castiel doesn’t risk it until several minutes later, once Balthazar has left to attempt to woo the lunch ladies into giving him seconds. Carefully, he glances up towards the tables where the football players sit, trying to be subtle about it.

Dean is looking straight at him. The moment he notices Castiel has caught him he blushes enough that Castiel can see it from across the room and quickly turns back around to focus his gaze on the table. From what Castiel can tell, Dean doesn’t risk looking his way again.

How utterly strange.

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

Castiel doesn’t really see Dean again, other than fleeting glimpses in the hallways, until two days later. It’s a Thursday, which means he and Dean have their biweekly afterschool tutoring session. The school library is usually just about deserted at this time of day, all of the other students having escaped back to their houses. The quiet atmosphere and access to computers makes it the ideal spot for his and Dean’s sessions.

Castiel, as always, arrives first. Dean, as always, arrives five minutes late. Dean is grinning as he approaches the table, and Castiel raises an eyebrow at him.

“Guess what?” Dean says once he’s directly in front of Castiel.

Castiel waits until he realizes Dean is expecting him to reply. “What?”

“I got a hundred percent on the test!”

Dean’s enthusiasm is rivaled by Castiel’s, who gives Dean a wide, gummy grin. “Dean, that’s amazing! I told you that you’d do fine.”

Dean smiles and rubs the back of his neck, glancing down at his feet before looking back up at Castiel. “Yeah,” he says gruffly. “I uh, I guess that good luck kiss worked.”

The pink flush on Dean’s cheeks makes Castiel smile. “Hmm,” he says teasingly, seizing the chance to torture Dean a bit more, “Maybe we’ll have to do that every time.”

Dean’s eyes widen, mouth opening and closing, and Castiel laughs at him before shaking his head. “Sit down, Dean. We’re doing English today.”

Dean’s answering pout only makes Castiel smile wider.

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

“You know,” Dean says a week later as they finish up another session, his voice a strange mix between teasing and nervous, “I’m turning in that English essay tomorrow.”

Castiel hums in acknowledgement, focusing on organizing his papers. “I hope you do well.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah, me too. Only… I think some good luck could be pretty damn helpful.”

It takes Castiel a moment to process what Dean is implying, but once he does he sucks in a sharp breath and looks up, eyes wide. Dean’s expression is one of cautious hope, and it quickly falls at the look on Castiel’s face.

“I—never mind, I was just being stupid—”

“Dean,” Castiel interjects, halting the other boy’s nervous rambling. He steels himself and passes his tongue over his suddenly dry lips. “You’re going to have to lean forward a bit if you expect me to be able to reach you.”

This time, when their lips brush for the briefest of moments, Dean isn’t the only one blushing.

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

It becomes a sort of tradition after that. It’s not something either of them acknowledges or discusses, but without fail, every time Dean has some important assignment or test, he’ll request a good luck kiss.

And the thing is, they work. Dean’s grades go up across the board. Granted, logically speaking that’s probably a result of something else entirely, but still. It’s an excuse to keep going along with it.

The one thing Castiel can’t seem to piece together is why Dean’s choosing to go along with it. He’s straight.  He likes beautiful girls with alluring curves and dainty giggles. Castiel knows this, he’s seen the girls Dean dates first hand. And even if that wasn’t the case, even if Dean was interested in men, he still wouldn’t be interested in someone like Castiel.

Now, Castiel isn’t insecure. He knows that he’s moderately attractive, that his brains and dry sense of humor have their own special appeal. But he’s also not so delusional as to think he’s any match for someone like Dean. He’s not charming or suave, he’s not drop-dead gorgeous, and he’s certainly not athletic. Not to mention the fact that he’s well near the bottom on the popularity chain. Other than a few acquaintances like Kevin or Hannah, he really only has one friend. And while that doesn’t bother him in the slightest, it certainly might bother Dean, or at the very least Dean’s friends.

So why on earth is Dean doing this? It could be a joke of some sort, but Castiel is certain that Dean isn’t that cruel. Sure, he puts on an arrogant act, but that’s all it is. An act.

Well, hopefully. Cas might just be biased towards Dean, after all.

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

“Balthazar,” Castiel intones, voice laced with warning, “enough.”

“Oh, come on, Cassie,” Balthazar whines. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on.”

Castiel slams his locker shut with a bang, only to look in his hands and realize he grabbed the wrong textbook. He growls in frustration and starts entering the code to open it again. “I don’t need your help.”

“Clearly, you do. You’ve been acting weird for weeks, and I’m willing to bet that it’s because of that Dean guy.”

Castiel ignores him in favor of finally swinging his locker open again. He throws his Chemistry textbook back in and grabs his English one with more force than necessary.

Yes, he can admit that he’s been acting more strangely than usual lately. He keeps switching between hoping that Dean feels something in return and beating himself up for even considering that to be a possibility. The kissing and the way Dean has been acting around him lately are enough to make him question his certainty, but everything else makes him think that he must just be projecting his feelings. This back and forth has affected his mood to the point that he’s been far more irritable than he typically is.

It certainly doesn’t help that Balthazar won’t stop pestering him about it.

“You know, the first step to solving a problem is admitting you have one,” Balthazar says in a sing song voice.

Castiel shakes his head and stalks away, weaving through the crowded halls. He reaches the refuge of the English classroom before Balth can catch up with him again.

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

“Jeez, man, glare at that table any harder and you’ll burn a hole straight through it.”

Castiel jerks his head up, surprised beyond belief that Dean is actually on time for once. On any other day he would make some fond yet sarcastic remark congratulating Dean on it, but today his can barely work up a strained smile and a “Hello, Dean.”

Dean eyes him strangely as he takes the seat across from Castiel. “You feeling okay? There’s nothing urgent I gotta study for, so you can just go home if you want.”

The thinly veiled concern in Dean’s eyes is enough to make Castiel’s smile just a bit more genuine. “I’m fine, Dean. It’s just… It’s been a very long week,” he explains with a sigh.

Dean doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he does pull out his math homework to go over some problems with Castiel.

Castiel doubled up on math classes sophomore year, so he already took Algebra 3 last year. Between that and the fact that math is one of his favorite subjects, helping Dean in this class is usually a breeze. But this time Castiel somehow manages to make three careless mistakes on the same problem, and it definitely doesn’t escape Dean’s notice.

“You sure you’re alright? You seem pretty distracted this week.” Dean leans back in his seat, twirling a pencil between his fingers with practiced ease. “Let me guess, girl troubles?”

It’s meant to be teasing, but Castiel just sighs. “You could say that.”

The pencil halts mid-twirl. “Seriously?”

Castiel gnaws on his bottom lip, debating how much to say. This is a horrible idea. A stupid, terrible idea, but something in Castiel just decides to hell with it. “Actually,” he says, avoiding Dean’s gaze, “It’s um, guy trouble.”

Dean freezes, an expression on his face not unlike the one he had when Castiel kissed him the first time. “I—really?” Dean chokes out.

Castiel just nods, already regretting his decision. Dean is probably homophobic, and now he’s probably going to start avoiding Castiel, or at the very least be uncomfortable around him, and—

Dean jolts him out of his thoughts by clearing his throat. “Um, alright. Cool.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “’Cool’?”

Dean just shrugs. “Well, yeah. Look, I admit I was surprised at first, but it’s not like I’m a homophobic dick or anything.”

A blush makes its way up Castiel’s neck. Admittedly, he does have the tendency to jump to conclusions, but still. He should have had more faith in Dean. “I… thanks. For not, you know…”

Dean just smiles at him and rolls his eyes. “Whatever man. Now, on number nine, how do did you say you solve for x?” ----------------------------

Castiel had reluctantly admitted his crush to Balthazar not long after his talk with Dean. Balthazar had simply claimed that he had “totally called it” and told Castiel to “stop being such a wuss and ask Dean out already.”

If only it were that easy. But the fact is that Dean is still uninterested and Castiel is simply not willing to set himself up for rejection. If that makes him a coward, then so be it, but that is not a risk he is willing to take. He would rather have Dean as a friend (if you can even call their strange companionship that) than not at all. Besides, Castiel is Dean’s assigned tutor and he’d really rather not mess things up for the rest of the year. Facing Dean twice a week for two hours with Dean knowing that Castiel likes him would be humiliating.

Even though Balthazar was utterly useless in actually helping Castiel, he has at least stopped nagging Castiel about Dean as often. Castiel considers himself lucky for that, because the last thing he needs at the moment is more stress.

Something, though Castiel couldn’t pinpoint exactly what, shifted between him and Dean after that talk. Dean seemed… off, somehow. And sometimes, when Castiel eats lunch with Balth, he’ll catch Dean looking over at him with an expression that’s almost sad. But that doesn’t make any sense. What could Dean possibly be sad about?

It’s not until three weeks later as Dean is turning to leave the library and go home that Castiel realizes something.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Dean pauses and spins back around, eyes scanning the table before he scrunches his eyebrows at Castiel. “Um, no? What?”

Castiel grins at him and lifts an eyebrow. “You have a math test tomorrow.”

Dean frowns slightly, shifting the weight of his backpack on his shoulders. “Yeah,” he says, “I know.”

Castiel blinks. “Won’t you need some luck?”

“Oh.” Dean glances away from Castiel, looking uncertain. “I figured you… Look, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Castiel’s heart sinks in his chest. He should have seen this coming. Of course Dean wouldn’t be okay with that any more. Not after he’s found out that Castiel is gay. Especially not if he ever suspects that Castiel likes him.

He knew he should have just kept his mouth shut. Hell, he never should have even started this stupid thing in the first place. Castiel rearranges his expression until it is carefully blank. “I understand,” he says, quickly averting his attention to put away his books.

Dean runs a hand through his hair. Castiel doesn’t know why he won’t just leave already and let Castiel mope in peace. “Cas, look, it’s not that I—”

“It’s fine, Dean,” Castiel interrupts. He doesn’t want to hear excuses. Dean is perfectly justified in his discomfort, Castiel knows that. He doesn’t need any explanations. All he needs is to go home and sulk like the pathetic person he is and try to get rid of these stupid feelings. “I get it.”

“No, you don’t,” Dean stresses. “It’s not—I just—I don’t want to piss off your boyfriend.”

Castiel pauses, the book that was in his hands dropping to the table with a steady thunk. “Excuse me?”

Dean looks away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I know this… thing we’ve been doing is just a stupid joke and all that, and that it doesn’t even mean anything. Hell, you’ve probably already told your boyfriend all about it, and he’s probably fine with it, but it just… I can’t.”

Castiel just stares at him. “My… boyfriend?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, eyebrows raised. “Smarmy British dude, always wears V-necks, is constantly hanging around you? Ringing any bells?”

“Balthazar? You think I’m dating Balth?”

Dean opens and closes his mouth, suddenly looking unsure of himself. “Um. Yes?”

Castiel shakes his head, dumbstruck. “No. Heavens no. Balth? Really?” He scrunches up his nose at the thought. Yes, Balthazar is his best friend, and yes, Castiel can admit he’s somewhat attractive, but dating him?

“But, I mean, last month I kept seeing you guys arguing a lot, and then you said you were having guy troubles, and you’re always with him so I just thought…” Dean gives him a sheepish grin. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed…”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Castiel agrees. “But I understand. It’s a reasonable assumption to make.”

Dean gives him a relieved smile. They both stand there awkwardly for a moment, unsure what to do now. Castiel picks up the textbook he had dropped, needing to busy his hands.

“So…” Dean says, shuffling his feet.  “Ever figure out that guy trouble, then?”

Castiel snorts. Secretly, he’s pleased that Dean is making an effort to talk to him more. They never used to discuss anything outside of school work, unless you count Dean’s attempts to annoy Castiel or get him off-subject. Still, of all the topics Dean could choose, he has to ask Castiel about this? “Not really,” he admits, thumbing at the pages of the book nervously. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just a stupid crush. The guy is straight anyways, so it’s not like I ever had a chance in the first place.”

He almost swears he sees a relieved expression cross Dean’s face, but it’s gone before he can even blink. “Ah, well, in that case… I mean, are you thinking of dating anyone else?”

There’s an unmistakably hopefully undertone to Dean’s voice, and Castiel almost drops the book again. “What?” Surely Castiel must be misinterpreting this situation.

But the blush tinging Dean’s cheeks says otherwise. “I mean, I know I’m probably not your type or anything, but if you want maybe we can like, go out or something?”

“I—but—you’re straight,” Castiel sputters.

Dean blinks at him in surprise. “Bisexual. I thought… I mean, the whole football team knows, I figured word would have gotten out.”

Castiel shakes his head dazedly. Dean Winchester is not only not straight, but he is also apparently willing to go out with him. What on Earth…?

Dean grimaces and runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up every which way. “I take that as a no, then?” he says, and the resignation in his voice makes Castiel’s heart constrict.

“No! I mean, yes! Not no to you, but no to taking it as—you’re my guy thing,” Castiel blurts out. Dean looks utterly baffled and Castiel rushes to explain before he can mess up this situation even more. “You’re the straight guy I had—have—a crush on. At least, I thought you were straight, but I guess…”

The grin that erupts across Dean’s face is nearly blinding. “You know,” he says, taking a step closer to Castiel, “for being such a smart guy, you sure can be an idiot. All you had to do was ask.”

“Oh shut up,” Castiel grumbles. He is more than a little disgruntled to admit that Balthazar was right. Lord, when Balthazar catches wind of this he’ll never let Castiel hear the end of it. “Have you changed your mind about needing some luck?”

Dean nods enthusiastically. “Definitely. Actually, I might need a bit more luck than usual. Maybe it’ll transfer better if we do it open mouthed?”

Castiel hums and fists his hands in Dean’s t-shirt. “We can certainly try,” he murmurs, already leaning in.

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

FIN

[mawichandoodles]

Beloved Rival (RusAme/AmeRus fanfiction)

My super late gift for @purplepatchwork in the RusAme Secret Santa2017 exchange.

This is my first fanfic EVER. And it’s longer than expected, almost 5k words. I’m a bit nervous, but know I wrote this with all the love. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, Patch! 

I mixed prompts number 2 and 3 :

“2. Al and Ivan as two rivalling teachers whom all the students secretly ship, whether they find out about this and/or their reaction to it is optional, just go wild.“

“3. Ivan confessing feelings to Alfred while being drunk, can be human or canonverse, Alfred’s reaction is entirely up to you.”

Note: I don't know much about the school system in other countries, so I'm going with what I was used to see during my high school years. I hope it doesn't end up clashing too much with other people's idea of high school.

Note2: English is not my native language, so regardless of research and editing, there may be some errors I’m unable to detect. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's Friday afternoon, near the end of the Algebra class, but more importantly, it's the end of the semester. The group is only a few ticks of the clock away from winter break. The only sounds in the classroom come from numb-handed students scribbling on their notebooks, and the mellow humming of the one sitting at the old desk in the front corner.

They are writing a final essay about the content reviewed throughout the semester, what they learned, why it's important, why they liked it, and things like that. Alternatively, they could write a whole manifesto of hate to the teacher, to algebra, or the world in general, if they sowanted. The only things the teacher asked for was eight pages of text, and finished within the hundred minutes of class they had on Fridays, as designated by the group's schedule.

Raivis, sitting in the middle of the front row, looks up at the clock over the whiteboard, a drop of sweat runs down his forehead. He relaxes the grip on his pencil, cue the feel of pins and needles as he stretches his fingers.

"Five minutes," he mutters.

The teacher, seating on his desk in silence, stops humming, along with his calculation of the student's final grades.

"Five minutes!?" A voice echoes from across the room.

A collective gasp and muffled muttering fill the teacher's ears.

Raivis' sight is blocked by a towering figure standing in front of his desk. The figure leans closer, revealing the smiling face of the teacher, Ivan Braginsky.

"Are you done, Mr. Raivis?"

Chills run down the spine of the small student.

"I ju-just... two more left."

Mr. Braginsky kept smiling. He gently places a hand on Raivis' head, and looks him in the eyes.

"The clock doesn't care you're staring at it. Mind your own work, before time runs out, yes?"

Raivis bites his lower lip from the inside, and remains silent. He resumes writing his paper without looking up at the teacher again. Pleased, Mr. Braginsky pats his head and goes on to walk around the classroom, nonchalantly. He happily strokes his red and pink scarf as he walks, the part wrapped around his neck. Not one of Raivis' classmates dare turn their heads towards the teacher.

"Remember this is an optional task you can do, if you want (or need) extra points. Because I don't want failing students. This is my Christmas gift for you. That's why I will take no less than 10 pages of text, as a sign of your appreciation, yes?".

The glasses of the guy sitting left to Raivis fall off his face and on his notebook.

"You said nine!" Says, Toris, who sat in the right corner of the middle row.

"Oh, is that how you say 'eleven' in your native language?" Mr. Braginsky chuckles.

Everyone groans at Toris.

Mr. Braginsky takes the empty seat in the middle of the room, right among his students. He begins talking outloud, tapping his fingers on the desk. No one was sure if he was doing it to distract them away from the last precious minutes they had left or not. He could be testing their ability to focus, to work under pressure, he could just want to ruin their lives (as every teenager thinks about any teacher, ever). They were all too familiar with Mr. Braginsky's subtle "tests" of character. Although they share the sentiment expessed by Mr. Braginsky, they do their best to tune out his voice.

"Uff, it's getting suffocated here." He pulls on his scarf with two fingers. "Who though repurposing a storage room as a classroom was a good idea? Greedy people, trying to save money instead of making more buildings. No wonder you guys call it the 'the Rat Trap', huh?"

A rat trap indeed. Located, next to the chemistry lab, the two rooms were built together in a one-story building, separate but next to the main building for classrooms which blocked whatever sunlight could have gotten through. Thus the room tends to be low, yet suffocating at times. There was barely enough space for fifteen people, and had four 30cm x 30 cm stuck-closed windows on upper walls.  

"And the other teachers said 'You should be fine, you have the smallest group'. I'm sure in the next semester, the room distribution will be a total bloodbath. Mr. Jones will fight for the same room I choose, I bet. Regardless I'll make sure we get a better place for us this spring... Yeah, I will be your teacher next year too, hehe." He continues rambling.

The echoes of the ringing bell penetrate the walls of the Rat Trap. As soon as they hear it, most people put their pencils down and start packing their belongings. Some people sight in relief, others from exhaustion. Others shake their hands in the air to relieve the numbness and someone in the back corner starts crying. Meanwhile, Mr. Braginsky gets up and returns to his desk, without sitting down.

"Time's up, turn in your papers. Leave them on my desk here. I'll have them graded by Monday, and I'll send the final grades to you all via e-mail in the evening of the same day."

No matter what face the kids are making at him, with a fatherly smile Mr. Braginsky wishes merry Christmas to each one of them as they leave. One by one, the youths place their essays on the desk, not before stapling the pages together with the teacher's stapler, as they usually did. He put it there for the students after all.

"Brother," mutters Natalya, as she stands in front of Mr. Braginsky, adjusting her white ribbon. "Thank you for your hard work."

She hands a thick bundle of pages to Mr. Braginsky. With a gesture, she insists on him receiving it with his hands, instead of leaving in on the desk. He raises an eyebrow.

"Natalya? You don't need extra points at all. You could have gone home already."

"I wrote you a letter. I don't want you to read anyone else's paper first, it must be that one, okay?"

"Merry Christmas?" Says Mr. Braginsky, patting her sister on the shoulder as she turns to leave.

And so as the teacher begins to pack his belongings too, he notices a girl with pink flowers adorning her head, sitting at the bottom left corner. It is Mei, the youngest sister of Mr. Wang, who also teaches algebra. Hoever she chose not to have a relative as her teacher.

Mr. Braginsky gives her a puzzled look and approaches her. Mei seems to be focused on her notebook, moving her pencil with meticulous dedication. A whole two minutes have passed. By the time Mei raises her head, Mr. Braginsky is sitting next to her, leaning on the desk as he stares at her work with clenched teeth, hidden by a lips-shut smile.

"Don't your eyes get tired of drawing in a place with such bad lighting?"

Mei jumps on her seat and slams her hands on the notebook.

"Mr. B.!" Mei she raises the corners of her mouth in a dubiously successful attempt to sound calm. "You're still here?"

"I am the one locking the classroom door today."

"I didn't mean to make you wait, Mr. B., I'll go home right away."

"Did you take on the final task?" He says, fingers fidgetting, focusing on Mei's small black spot near her chin, probably a pencil graphite stain.

"My grade is fine, as you told me, so I didn't write anything".

"Is it too cold outside or something? Why didn't you leave early, like your friend Lien? Maybe you like my class that much?"

Mei looks down, without moving her hands off the notebook. Several seconds of silence ensue.

"Alright, let me see it."

Mei's eyes widen. Her hands press even more on the notebook.

"But it's nothing," she stutters,

"Yes, so let me see it."

"But..."

Mei sighs, her face turns red and quietly slides her graphite-stained palms away from her work, revealing the semi-realistic unfinished image of two men, suspiciously similar to Mr. Braginsky and Mr. Jones, engaging in what looked like "adult activities". Mr. Braginsky slowly extends his arm to grab the notebook, looking Mei in the eye as if to ask for permission to take it. Mei remains silent.  Mr. Braginsky then proceeds to inspect the drawing, now on his hands.

"I have to questions, Miss Wang."

An imaginary knot forms in her stomach. She closes her eyes and folds her arms around her abdomen, anticipating the scariest scolding of her life as if she was preparing to take a fist to the gut. And so she nods in silence.

"Number one: Is that Mr. Jones, tying me up with the candy cane-pattern scarf I got from my grandma?" He inquires, pointing at the goofy scarf he's wearing.

Mei nods again.

"Number two: Did you draw my nose smaller on purpose?"

Mei is unable to hold back her nervousness any longer.

"Mr. B. please the don't tell my brother about this, please don't show it to him! I'm really sorry, I'll accept my punishment but please don't-"

"Shhh Shhh...  Can I keep it?" He interrupted.

"Eh?" Mei stopped cold. "Do you... actually like it?" She stuttered.

"Well, no, but I can't let you keep it, much less actually finish it."

"I'm really sorry."

Mr. Braginsky chuckled behind his hand.

"Making a fuzz about this would be a waste of time, right? Just go home and don't draw these things at school. That's my Christmas gift for you, what do you say?"

Mei placed her hand on her chest.

"So, my Christmas gift for you would be letting you keep it?"

Mr. Braginsky chokes on his own breath.

"The gift is not drawing these things at school anymore. Now go, shoo shoo." Mr. Braginsky gestures, still smiling.

"Thank you, thank you so much! Merry Christmas, Mr. B.!" Mei exclaimed. She masterfully ripped the drawing from the notebook without damaging it, handed it back to Mr. Braginsky and hurried to pack everything. She then runs away from the Rat Trap more happy than scared.

Mr. Braginsky is still in the desk next to where Mei was, staring at the confiscated drawing, with narrowed eyes and furrowed brows. The rythmic tapping of his fingers echo across the room.  Soon the image blurs as his minds simply wanders off.

"But why with Mr. Jones?" He thinks out loud.

It wasn't that Mr. Jones was a man, just like himself. It was that wether in public or in private, they were seldom "nice" to one another, if ever at all. How did so many kids get the idea that they could "love" each other? He didn't understand. Did Mr. Jones say something he was not aware of? Did they do it as a form of mockery? Could it be they noticed something?

"Because I'm the best teacher ever?"

Startled and holding his breath, Mr. Braginsky folds the sheet of paper with the drawing and places it on his lap to cover it under the desk. He looks up to where the voice came, only to see Mr. Alfred F. Jones, the physics teacher. standing just past the entrance of the room, staring back at him. Mr. Braginsky exhales and shakes his arm in a dismissive "go away" kind of motion.

"Ivan, how's it going? Found anything interesting? Said Mr. Jones, with an intentional, emphasized mispronounctiation of the "I" in "Ivan" as "eye".

"Alf," Ivan greeted him, referencing the extraterrestial protagonist of the eponymous 80's sitcom. "What do you want?"

Alfred goes to Ivan's desk and casually grabs the other's suitcase.

"Do you have, like, a stapler?"

Ivan puts Mei's drawing in the pocket of his coat and returns to his desk. He yanks the suitcase away from Alfred's hands.

"Not for you. Besides, I think I ran out of staples after my kids used it just now." Ivan replied with a dry tone. "And I don't want you to lose it or break it with your clumsy gorilla hands anyway."

Alfred smirks.

"So you're admitting I'm stronger, after all?"

"Clumsy." Ivan replies, walking to the door. Alfred follows him.

"Come on, I forgot mine at home. I need to staple my student's papers!" He begs. "And some other documents too," he mutters.

Ivan stops walking and turns to Alfred.

"Show me the papers and I'll staple them myself."

"Ivan, do you really think I'm gonna break it?"

No response.

"Man, the mug incident was an accident, I'm not asshole enough to break other people's stuff on purpose."

Ivan stepps out of the Rat Trap and closes the door behind him, with Alfred still inside.

"Oh you did break something of mine and it was not just a mug," Ivan replies, making noises with the keychain as to make Alfred think he's going to really lock the door and leave.  

Alfred takes a deep breath and exhales. He rubs his temples then folds his arms.

"Then will you come with me to the teacher's lounge? I left them there. I have to present some of those papers real soon. I don't have time to drive home or look for one in a store, you know. I'll treat you to lunch if you want."

Ivan opened the door slowly, only enough to poke his head inside, like a shy little kid.

"I'll help, but I'll choose the meal. I don't want cheap trash-burgers get it?."

"F-- yes!" Alfred cheers and slams the door open. He runs outside, pulling a startled Ivan from the arm.

"Hey I have to lock the door!" Ivan complains. And so Alfred freezes on the spot, almost stumbling on his feet.

"Ah yeah, I forgot. Lock the door, then. It's just that I'm really short on time."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The lingering scent of cheap coffee floats in the air within the teachers lounge. The old coffee machine emmits a buzzing sound that everyone doubts is normal but no ones cares enough to actually check. Ivan and Alfred are sitting in the worn out but strangely comfortable couch next to the teachers' lockers.

Ivan had taken off his scarf, it was neatly folded and put on the couch, next to his lap. Under the beige coat he wears a wine-red turtleneck sweater, so his neck remains covered, as usual. Alfred had rolled up his sleeves and loosened his tie for the sake of comfort.

They two of them were alone in the room as most other teachers usually tried to go home early at this time of the year. There was a small coffee table in front of the couch, where they placed a tall tower of paper sheets Alfred had been passing mini bunches of paper to Ivan, who carefully stapled them together and placed them in the opposite corner of the table. Within minutes they had picked a good rythm of work.

"So, how did your kids do this semester?" Alfred grabs the next bunch of paper sheets and hands it to Ivan after asking.

"Overall a few low grades but no failed students."

"Well my students didn't get anything lower than 80."

"In last week's meeting you complained that 'kids nowadays don't care about science,' I recall? You called them burger-flipping babies then."

"I was mad at the time," Alfred laughs. "And I meant just the neglectful ones... But okay, my kids got nothing lower than 70. There, I said it."

Alfred grabs a thick bunch of documents and sorts them out appropiately. As he inspects them he holds the documents in such a way that the contents can't be seen by Ivan. He gives the next batch to his helper and leaves the rest aside. A single sheet falls off from them and glides unceremoniously until it lands on Ivans feet. Alfred freezes. Ivan picks it up without thinking much of it until he flips the sheet and sees the other side of the page.

A drawing made with blue ink, maybe from a regular pen. The sheet has some tomato sauce stains, it seems. It features cutesy characters holding hands. A blushing, big-nosed character kisses a spectacled character on the cheek. The artstyle looks like what the quiet and mysterious school librarian would call "moe", as Ivan learned during their rare small talk. As "stylized" as the appearance of the characters is, he grimaces when he gets to figure out the character's identities and feels the earlier situation with Mei kind of repeat itself. All within the same hour.

Ivan glances at Alfred with a serious face, without saying anything, holding the cutesy drawing for Alfred to see. Alfred loosens his grip on the next batch of documents so much they fall to the floor. He immediately picks them up and rushes to take the drawing away from the other's hands.

"I confiscated that thing from a student who was not paying attention," he says after clearing his throat.

Ivan looks down on the mess of sheets on Alfred feet and notices at least three other similar drawings lying among the "normal" documents. After shaking his head from side to side, Ivan stands up and stretches his body.

"I'll get myself some coffee," he says, but when he tries to step away, his foot stumbles on the table's leg and the tower of unstapled sheets is collapses and is now everywhere. Alfred snarls and just throws the paper on his hands onto the table, blending in with the rest of the mess.

"Goddamn it, what a great help you turned out to be! Talk about clumsy!"

"It's your fault for being so disorganized!... And having weird things among important documents!"

"Weird things, you say? Well it's NOT my fault you're so delicate you get offended so easily. I bet you doodled things like this yourself when we were in high school."

"I bet you now wish I did!" Ivan raises his voice. He takes his suitcase and is about to rush out of the lounge, when Alfred talks back once more.

"Ivan."

And so he stops, but doesn't turn back to face him.

"Your stapler," Alfred says, holding the tool with a stretched arm, trying to get it to reach Ivan. Even though Ivan is not seeing, so he wouldn't know.

"It's yours now. Merry Fucking Christmas." Ivan grunts and storms out of the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"The asshole forgot his dumb scarf," Alfred muttered to himself. "No way in hell I'm gonna go give it back to him."

More than an hour has passed since Ivan left the teacher's lounge. Alfred is sitting alone in the couch. Four neatly organized piles of documents were placed on the small table in front of him. The stapler sits on his lap as though and he pets it as though it was a living cat. Not too ago he had finished sorting out the last batch of documents, All of them now stapled together. He leans back and beholds the result of his efforts.

The first pile of paper corresponds to his final reports on the class and its members. The second and largest one corresponds to the planned content to review in the next semester. The third one is made of student's graded homework that he couldn't return to them on time. The last one is a collection of assorted documents and other non-school-related curiousities that had found their way into Alfred's current paperwork.  

Alfred reached to the fourth pile. He grabbed it hole and placed it on his lap, not before putting his new stapler aside. The pile contained old tests, some postcards, wrinkly notes about past lessons, some letters from his students from years ago, some pictures, and, who would have though, more drawings like the one that sparked the short-lived argument an hour ago.

The cutesy drawing is the sixth drawing featuring him and his coworker that he confiscated during that semester alone. The first time he caught a student drawing or writing such material he was shocked, almost traumatized, he could have said at the time. However, somewhere along the way he began to find it amusing. Now he would only confiscate material and punish the student if it was being used as a distraction during class. Otherwise he'd even joke about it and keep the students guessing. It's not like other coworkers didn't make similar jokes about them from time to time.

Of course Alfred would have never let Ivan know about that guilty pleasure of his. Not after the things he had said in the past, and has come to regret now. But more on that comes later. Now as he beholds his secret collection he wonders, why is he even keeping those dumb doodles around? In his mind, most of them look like specimens of failed human experimentation, begging for the sweet release of death. And yet...

Alfred moves the fourth pile back to the table and rests his hand on the side. His hand lands on the still folded, abandoned candy cane scarf. He slaps it away and it comes undone on the floor. Alfred sighs lets his body collapse on his side onto the couch, like a ragdoll.

His stretched arm hangs from the couch. Before he knows it, he's grabbing the scarf again. He brings it back to himself and strokes the fabric. He starts to knead it back and forth with his fingers, similar to how cats do when they find a comfortable spot for a nap. The scarf is soft and way more fluffy than its appearance would indicate.

And so Alfred digs into his pocket and takes out his cell phone to start texting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A brief vibration comes from Ivan's pocket on his coat. He's at a grocery store, standing in front of a stack full of small potato sacks. He's looking for ingredients for tonight's dinner. The store is very crowded. He hopes the vibration of the phone is not something important enough for him to need to call back.

Ivan takes the phone out, it's just a notification from the app store, a pending update for one of those annoying preinstalled applications that he never uses.

"I thought I turned those off." Once he places his phone back on his pocked, he puts a potato sack in the shopping cart, next to the cabbage, the carrots, and the onions. He turns his head around, making sure there's nothing else around that he might want to take. He clutches his turtle neck, forgetting once again that he left his scarf back at the school. He had an habit of stroking it to keep his hands busy when he was nervous, anxious, or bored. Concluding the assessment of his surroundings, he moves on to the meat and fish section. It didn't take too long for him to find what he needed, but he now he has to wait in a very long queue just so he can pay for the groceries and go home.

So Ivan stands there, advancing mini steps each several minutes. All the while the speakers around the store are emit obnoxious Christmas carol remixes as dictated by modern tradition. In a way he thinks it's kind of nice. To be reminded that there are other things in life to be mad about, other than whatever spurs out of a dumb, old high school c...

"Hey, sir. Your turn for the cashier," Ivan hears someone behind him on the queue say.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alfred locked his car and made his way through the parking lot of the mall. Both hands are hidden on the pocket of his jacket to protect them from the cold. He is whistling the Ruldolph the red-nosed reindeer song. He was interrupted when someone called him from several meters behind him.

He turned back. It was almost 5pm and the sun had begun to set a while ago. The sunset glare hurts Alfreds eyes and obscures the figure of the person standing in front of it, calling Alfred. He can't quite make out the words the other person is shouting. As he approaches the figure gets clear enough for him to figure out it's just Ivan. He's next to his car, carrying a grocery bag on each hand. Now that Ivan too, has a clearer sight of Alfred, his neutral expression changes to that of disgust.

"What the hell are you wearing?" Ivan exclaimed.

"Excuse me?" Alfred was confused.

"Don't 'excuse me'. Why the fuck are you wearing my scarf?"

"Oh, that. Welp." Alfred shrugged. "It's warm."

The two of them stood in there for the longest ten seconds ever.

"Are you gonna give it back to me or...?"

Alfred clicked his tongue.

"Of course I will." He ripped the scarf off of himself and threw it at Ivan. "Take your gay-ass scarf."

Ivan catches the garment, making sure none of it is dragged on the ground. One of the bags almost falls off, but he holds them well. He doesn't put the scarf back on. Just keeps it under his arm.

"That says more about you than about me." He replies.

Alfred lowers his head, awkwardly scratches the back of his neck.

"Whatever. So uh, lunch is like, cancelled, I guess? Is dinner ok?"

"I'll cook dinner at home." Ivan says. he taps his foot as he waits for Alfred to leave. Now that he got back his personal property he can carry on with his evening.

"What are you gonna make?" Alfred is still there.

"Shchi."

Alfred squints, lips curled a little bit.

"It's cabbage soup, you uncultured swine."

"Eeew. You know, my pal's restaurant serves the best lasagna ever. He's from Italy, you know."

"Thanks, I know. I'll take my sisters there sometime soon."

Ivan opens his car. He shoves the grocery bags in the front passenger seat and gets inside.

"Okay then why the hell did you shout at me from across the damn parking lot if you are gonna be like this?" Alfred yells from the side of the car, knocking on the front glass.

Ivan lowers his window.

"I just wanted my scarf. Saw a red-pink dot in the distance. I more-less knew it was you. Wondered if you carried it with you, but didn't think you'd be actually wearing it. I may be messed up, but you're a total creep. Just go away."

Ivan turns the keys. The engine sounds like it's going to start but then dies off. Both men's eyes widen and turn their heads to the front of the car. Ivan tries to start the engine again to no avail. Alfred folds his arms, expectant, until Ivan gives up on the tenth failed attempt. Defeated, Ivan leans on the steering wheel, his head presses the honk button. Some bystanders a few cars away begin to direct their attention towards them, but Ivan doesn't care. Alfred leans on the car, laughing histerically.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "This is the kind of day that makes me regret being born." Ivan says as he chops fresh cabbage. The knife gets closer the fingers of his other hand and pokes the side of the thumb. Unsurprised, he leaves the knife and opens the nearest drawer to look for a band-aid.

"Look at it in a different way," says Alfred, who's turned back from him. "You got your scarf back, we managed to take your car for repair so you can have it back within the weekend. You don't need to drive to work for now anyway."

Alfred sniffs and grunts, trying to hold back the tears. "I even gave you a ride back to here, which is an hour away from where we were." He puts aside the onions he's chopping and rushes to get a napkin.

"I even volunteered to chop the onions you ungrateful piece of shit." He wipes his nose so the swearing gets muffled at the end.

"No one asked you to stay for dinner either." Ivan puts on a band-aid and resumes his tasks. "Besides, kids who complain about chores don't get dessert, you know," he jokes. He acknowledges Alfred has a point, though. His mood begins to lighten up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After a while they managed to cook a decent cabbage soup. Alfred didn’t waste the opportunity to mock Ivan for eating "grandpa food", despite getting a second helping himself. Alfred was supposed to leave not long after dinner, but a couple of cookies and cups of sbiten later, the two of them are at Ivan's rooftop, simply chatting, gazing the sky at midnight. The roof was slightly angled, with blue flat roof tiles. And a thin layer of snow covered the surface, but none of that bothered them. It was also a one-story house, so they were not quite worried about falling off.

Alfred lies on his back. His arms are folded behind his head as a pillow. Sitting next to him is Ivan, hugging his knees with one arm, and hugging a two thirds-empty bottle of vodka with the other. Ivan tries to lie down on his back too, but is encumbered by another empty bottle behind him. He pushes it away with his free hand. When trying to lie down again. His head lands on the bottle, but he's a bit too drunk to care, he just stays like that. That's going to be his pillow. It is to be noted that while there are two open bottles, Alfred has abstained from taking a sip, knowing that he'll eventually have to drive home.

"You know, I kinda regret not studying Astronomy at all in university," Ivan said, biting the tip of the bottle. In the end he had gone for Computer Science.

"Me too," Alfred replied. "But a degree on Engineering for me wasn't bad at all. Not like I'm doing much with it, though."

Ivan reaches to Alfred and pulls his sleeve slightly to get his attention.

"Your telescope still works?"

"Pfft, that thing's been broken for years," Alfred replies. "I never got rid of it, though. I've been saying I'm 'fixing' it for years, but it's just gathering dust in my basement."

"Why cling onto old stuff, though." Ivan takes a sip of Vodka.

"It's not old stuff until it becomes irrelevant, right?" Alfred turns his body on its side to face Ivan. His head rests on one hand. "We still love space and stuff. Hell, we are gazing at it right now!"

"Yeah, even the other club members called us weird." Ivan gulps down the remaining contents of the bottle. "If you want, I could help you clean your basement after I leave the town."

"Oh that'd be... Wait what?" with furrowed brows, Alfred's eyes widen.

"What?" Ivan doesn't understand the reaction.

"What did you say?"

"I'd help you throw the trash." Ivan shruggs.

"What do you mean you're gonna move out of town?" Alfred drags his own body closer to Ivan.

"I'm thinking of it." Ivan plays with his hair, dodges his gaze. He clasps both hands together, doesn’t elaborate further.

"And your job?"

"Teaching has always been part-time stuff. I'm more established as a programmer now. I'm just waiting for a reply from any of the places I applied into."

"What the- Why didn't you tell me about it?"

Ivan turns his back on Alfred. He hugs the empty bottle of vodka like a teddy bear.

"That matters because...?"

"Then just... why?"

"I really want to get rid of the old stuff myself." Ivan replies with a hand his chest. "You know what I mean?"

Alfred stops making questions. He lies on his back again and sights. His breath is visible in the warm vapor escaping his mouth. His glasses become foggy so he takes them out. And so he finally notices that there's no moon to be seen anywhere in the firmament. But the stars were still there, still, beautful, The location of Ivan's home near the countryside made the precious stars even more visible on the darker environment. Even if visible, a full moon would not outshine them that night. He can almost hear them twinkle, if such a thing existed outside of cartoon sound effects. He turns to Ivan. He is seeing them too. They are reflected on his irises.

Alfred hadn't paid as much attention to space and the stars as he'd have liked after he started university. Even less so after his telescope broke down. It was the telescope Ivan gave him for his birthday, when they were on their high school's Astronomy club. Meeting Ivan again as a teacher in the same school gave both of them a chance to get back to those interests, after having to push them aside in favor of their new duties and obligations.

Though that came only recently. Right now they can to tolerate each other, yet at the time of their first encounter as teachers, after separation during university, Ivan wanted nothing to do with him. It was like their time as two territorial chimps posing as teenage nerds was the only relationship they ever had. As if they had never managed to become best friends before they had to part ways. And it was all his fault, he thought; for as early as that reencounter Alfred realized that just like the stars, Ivan too had become inaccessible after he smashed the telescope with his baseball bat.

"Dude, maybe you should go to bed, you know," Alfred sat up. "I should go home too, I guess."

"I'm not done with this vodka." Ivan declared, lifiting the bottle with force.

Alfred slaps the bottle out of Ivan's hands and it falls off the rooftop. The shrill sound of glass shattering offscreen leaves the state of the ground by the house's entrance to be imagined. Ivan glares at Alfred, a few veins seem to be popping out.

"It was empty anyway. Come on big boy, you drunk."

A grmbly Ivan lifts his arm towards Alfred. Alfred takes his hand and helps him sit up. Ivan stands up on his own, but as soon as he starts showing signs of dizziness Alfred holds him. He makes sure Ivan gets back inside in one piece. All the while Alfred is not even trying to hide that Ivan is a bit too heavy for him. But Alfred would rather place the blame on Ivan being "fat" instead of lack of strength or exhaustion due to the time.

At some point even before they left the rooftop Ivan's body decides without telling anyone that it will stop cooperating altogether. So Alfred has to carry him all the way back to his bedroom as well. Ivan's head and arms are perched onto Alfred's shoulder and the tip of his feet are being dragged on the floor.

"What the hell Ivan? You're effin' fat." 

"I'm big boned," Ivan whispers.

"Big-boned my ass!" 

Panting and grouching, Alfred grouches and throws Ivan on his bed. His legs are left hanging from the edge of the bed after he falls like the potato sack he bought earlier. He giggles from the slight bouncing on the mattress

"Really? I don't want to see and find out for myself," Ivan talks back and crawls his way into the center of the bed to fit his whole body in.

"Shut up. You're the fat one here."

"Don't worry, Alf. Softer bodies are cute too." Ivan makes squeezing motions with both hands.

"You say the weirdest things when you're wasted." Chuckling, Alfred slaps Ivan's hands then hides them on his pockets.

"Who's wasted?"

"You are wasted."

Ivan shakes his head left to right. Standing next to the bed, Alfred leans close to Ivan.  

"Come on, big boy, take off your shoes and go to sleep already." He says, patting the other's large chest. "Let's hope you don't wake up all hung over. I'll lock the doors well and turn off the lights, so don't worry, okay? Good night.

Alfred walks out of the room and closes the door. But Ivan keeps talking, seemingly not realizing Alfred is not there anymore.

"Say, Alfred. We didn't use to be like this. Do you still want us to remain as rivals? Even now?"

The door of the room is thrown open. Alfred knows the best would have been to ignore the other's rambling and leave, but he is overcome by a an impulse even stronger than him. His excuse is that he is just making sure Ivan's really saying what he heard or that he's not asking for help for whatever reason. He just stops and keeps listening, though. He is yet to step back inside.

"When I said I regret not studying Astronomy, I meant it."

Ivan is now lying on his belly. His face rests against a pillow, so his words are muffled, but Alfred is able to make out most of what he's saying with little trouble.

"We've been so childish. And it's my fault we are like this."

Alfred is uncertain about the point Ivan is trying to get to. Maybe is just pointless drunken rambling, but he wants to listen still.

He adjusts his glasses and leans on the doorframe.  Ivan turns his body again to face the window next to the bed and curls his body in a ball. Even his wide back begins to look small in Alfred eyes.

"I'm sorry for moving back to Russia instead of going for the University we wanted. I left you alone, and told you confusing, unwanted things too."

Alfred's heart becomes heavy inside his chest, his lips shut tight, curled downwards. He steps inside and returns to Ivan's side. He sits on his bed. Ivan face is still turned away from him.

"Since we met again I've been doing as you told me before I left. But it hurts, you know, going back to this after we got to become friends."

Alfred gets further in the bed and pulls Ivan's shoulder to face him. Ivan looks at him with squinty, glassy eyes. It is uncertain if alcohol is to blame for that.

"Don't touch me," Ivan whines. He languidly throws a pillow to alfred's face. "I'm sorry Alfred but what do you even want anymore? You rejected me then, but won't stop teasing me now."  

"Hey Ivan I want to..."

"I don't want to like you anymore. You're too much."

Alfred's heart becomes even heavier. So much his body alone will be crushed under its weight. He allows himself to fall on top of Ivan to wrap his arms around him. His glasses fall off his face and on his hand, but he tosses them away. Ivan lifts both knees together. He wants to curl up again, but is unable to.

"I'm the one who's sorry," said Alfred.

He puts both hands on Alfred's sides, but is hesitant to return the gesture. Alfred buries his face in the gap between Ivan's neck and shoulder. Alfred's cold cheeks against the warmth of his body sends chills down Ivan's spine. The skin underneath his clothes get goosebumps. He closes his eyes.

"I shouldn't have reacted like that when you told me." Alfred muttered to the other's ear.

He clings tightly to Ivan's body. His resistance is waning, but Alfred hugs tighter and tigther as he continues.

"I was a stupid kid just like you. I was confused, and sad... and I got angry."

A knot swells inside Alfred's throat, he jitters, his arms and legs tremble, but he wouldn't stop.

"It was easier to hit you and call you disgusting and a traitor, instead of saying "goodbye" and accepting that maybe... I felt the same for you too."

Alfred's lungs run out of air after saying that. He makes a pause to breathe. Ivan doesn't respond. He opens his watery eyes to see Alfred, but everything is blurry in his eyes and hazy in his head. He can't tell if he's dreaming or not, so he too, wraps his arms tight around the other. He runs his hands back and forth on his back. He wants to confirm he's holding the real deal and not an alcohol-induced hallucination.

"Ivan, I didn't want you to leave... I don't want you to leave again now. I like you too."

And like that, the thoughts weighting down on Alfred's heart escape through the air he exhales. Ivan turns his face in and goes for a kiss. He misses and smooches the corner of the other's lips. Smiling, Alfred cups Ivan's face on one hand and joins their lips properly. And it was all great until Alfred noticed the smell and taste of Vodka and remembered that Ivan was drunk as f...

"Wait wait wait. Stop."

Alfred gets up. Suddenly he doesn't feel as heavy anymore. He picks his glasses from the floor and fixes his jacket.

"No good. Let's... try again when you're sober," He says after clearing his throat. However, Ivan was already passed out.

After realizing Ivan's done for the night, Alfred begins walking in circles around the room at a pace so fast he's almost hopping like a rabit. He feels so energized he might as well do it. He cover his mouth to muffle what would otherwise be uncontrollable squealing.

After the euphoria wears off the events that transpired moments ago sink in completely. In a single day did they just sort out years of buried feelings and childish grudges? Oh boy, no. But they sure had one hell of a start.

Now A stream of questions flooded Alfred's mind. With what had happened, does that mean they are lovers now? Will Ivan even remember what happened? If he doesn't remember, will he tell him and explain what happened? Would Ivan believe him and/or confirm his confession?

He doesn't know if he should feel happy or scared. More importantly, he's thinking whether or not he should stay over tonight. It's not like he doesn't want to go home. However, leaving a drunk person alone is always dangerous, even when they are asleep.  

As carefully as he can, Alfred takes off Ivan's shoes and leaves them next to the bed. He turns Ivan's body on its side and puts him on a position to lessen the choking risk in case he gets nauseous; although so far Ivan doesn't show signs of sickness. His breath is calm and follows a normal pace too.

A bit hesitant, Alfred decides to check Ivan's pockets, only so he doesn't crush or damage anything under his weight or when rolling on bed. He takes out Ivan's phone and wallet out of his pants and leaves them on the night table. Ivan didn't seem to have anything on his jacket, but then Alfred pulls out a now wrinkly folded paper sheet. He opens it and the more he examines it the more flustered he becomes. Of all the weird erotic art of them two their students had made, that one was by far the most detailed and realistic-looking as of yet.

He could only wonder where did that thing come from. Leaving the drawing together with the other objects, Alfred goes to pull the thickest blanket he can find out of the closet and covers Ivan with it. He rushes out of the room to lock the house properly, makes a trip to the kitchen, and then returns to Ivan with a tall glass of water, just in case.

Alfred leans close to Ivan and kisses his forehead, an affectionate, loud smooch. He sits on the bed again, close to Ivan's legs. The wisest thing to do for now is to stay there and take care of his beloved rival. At least until he wakes up. Whatever comes next for them they will figure. After a day like that, It's not like he will be able to fall sleep anyway.  

The End.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Final note:

Writing this was one hell of a ride. This is my first fanfic ever, and I'm not a very good writer when it comes to prose. But I gave it my best shot, and wrote this with lots of love. I'm sorry if the overall tone or mood is too bittersweet or if the humour is kinda sour. I also hope Ivan and Alfred’s backstory wasn’t too hard or confusing to piece totgether. I'd still say the ending is a happy one, even if there's an air of uncertainty for the future haha. 

Thank you for reading and for your god-tier patience, Patch. I love your blog.

[freevoidman]

Prompto Week ① DAY 1 (10/19): Favorite Scene ★ Brotherhood

Summary: Noctis has a new friend named Prompto, but is terrified to lose him once he’s vetted. He keeps his friendship a secret for as long as he can manage, but not everything can stay secret forever

Noctis knows the drill by now.

Whenever he finds a new friend, his father and some members of the Kingsglaive execute a stupidly extensive vetting process, and a personal ‘interview’ of sorts with Ignis. If they pass the vetting and Ignis sees no ill-will that can potentially be directed at Noctis, then they stay. If not, then Ignis does his best to intimidate them, and Noctis is expected to keep away. Since this process takes about two weeks (give or take a couple days, depending upon the person), he normally doesn’t get attached, and see a person’s true colors, so he’ll know when to get away.

He’s expected to immediately ‘report’ any new friend to Ignis. And, really, most of the time it just… happens. Ignis says, “Anything interesting today?” And Noctis will just tell him damn near anything under the sun, which teachers pissed him off, what homework was annoying, how the jocks embarrassed the nerds at lunch, and all the other cliches. Then Ignis reports to his dad, dad, in turn, to the Kingsglaive, and the process starts.

But then Prompto comes into the picture, and Noctis has to make a very uncomfortable choice.

See, Prompto is all honesty. Upfront, he’s kind and generous, and he never asks Noctis for anything. Even when Prompto eyes Noctis’ discarded lunch vegetables, he waits for permission to eat them.

Even then, he asks, “You’re sure?”

It takes another confirmation from Noctis before Prompto chows down the lettuce and tomatoes.

Prompto is quiet and loud at the same time. He doesn’t talk over Noctis, waiting for him to say his peace or end his rant. He anxiously asks for a photo at the end of the day, and even then it’s not a selfie—it’s just a photo of the Prince flicking his pencil up and down the desk. He agrees, and it’s hardly something that can be used for blackmail or sold to the Nifs for info: it’s a photo of the revered prince acting like, well, a bored student.

Noctis is the one that gives Prompto his phone number, telling him that they can talk later about the algebra homework. Neither of them really understands what’s happening in that class, and he hopes that the two of them can puzzle through most of the homework to get it right.

The reaction is not the one he expects. Prompto shakes his head halfway through and holds up his hands. “You don’t need to give me your number!”

“Uh…” Noctis takes a moment to process this. “Don’t you want my number?”

“No! I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that—you giving me your number, I mean, but wouldn’t your security or whatever be upset?”

Noctis shrugs. “I mean, I guess? They’re not going to look through my phone and hunt you down.”

Prompto laughs nervously, but he relents and exchanges numbers with Noctis. When the last bell rings, they pack up, and Prompto pats him on the back. It’s obvious by his expression that the action took a fair amount of courage, so Noctis laughs and punches Prompto’s arm in retaliation.

It feels… good. He doesn’t feel like a blue blood; he feels like a teen who’s finally been allowed to live his life.

And he doesn’t want to lose this feeling.

“Anything interesting today?” Ignis asks as Noct slides into the passenger’s seat.

“Nah, nothing really.” And they drive away.

~*^*~

He keeps it under wraps for about two months.

In that time, Noctis learns a lot about Prompto—more than he’s ever learned about someone… normal, he guesses. The summary is that they have a crazy amount in common: they both have similar tastes in comics, movies, and video games. Both have played through the Assassin’s Creed series and all of the King’s Knight console games. They have the mobile game, and quickly make a guild with each other, reaping the benefits of playing together.

Even the stuff they don’t share, they can appreciate. Noct looks at Prom’s photos and comments on each and every one, showering him in compliments (which he really, really deserves more of). Prompto listens to Noctis talk about fishing and asks him questions like, “What’s the best lure to attract the fish around here?” and, “What’s the biggest thing you’ve ever caught?”

He’s even managed to avoid Ignis’ watchful eye. Every time he stays over at Prompto’s house (the first visit happens around the end of the first month), he says he’s staying after school for a club. It helps that Prompto’s house is a five-minute walk away, if you cut through the back streets.

Prompto’s house is empty and feels vacant, and each time he tries to pry, Prom simply says that his parents are working, or just out for the time being. Most of the house is medically sterile, as if Prompto doesn’t want to disturb anything. It’s obvious that someone other than Prompto lives there, since the furniture doesn’t match Prompto’s personality at all. It puts Noctis on edge, to say the least.

He has seen pictures of Prompto’s parents framed in the hallway and there are a few more hanging in Prompto’s room. But they’re few and far between, compared to the innumerable shots of landscapes and random people. There’s a smiling woman with flowing blonde hair and a man who looks a bit rough around the edges, with a teasing glint in his eyes. They look happy.

The story at home is anything but.

So Noct makes an effort to talk to him more, to visit more, to text more, to show that he cares. He manages to get the date of Prompto’s birthday, and goes nuts trying to think of a present. He looks online for the best camera available in Insomnia, and purchases an incredibly expensive one, with features he barely comprehends.

Prompto’s face is absolutely priceless. His eyes are wet with tears as he says, “You didn’t have to do this!”

“But I wanted to.” Noctis playfully rolls his eyes. “C’mon, don’t make me have to explain to my dad why I got a wicked expensive camera out of the blue.”

Prompto accepts the box, holding it like it’s made of glass. He secures it in his locker and doesn’t open it for the rest of the day. Noctis follows him home, watching as Prompto fawns over the camera with a reverent gaze.

It’s easily the happiest he has ever seen Prompto, and it’s almost enough to make him cry.

Maybe Ignis takes note of his changed behavior, maybe not. Either way, he doesn’t comment about Noctis’ sudden fixation with the phone, or how he won’t talk about his day, or the occasional smile Noctis gets while staring off into space. Maybe he just takes it as Noctis being a moody teenager going through a phase.

All that he cares about is that Ignis never finds out, because he dreads abandoning Prompto. It’s his first real friend, one based on true camaraderie and no exploitation whatsoever, and he doesn’t want to lose that to a background check.

When it did crash down around him, though, it was in the worst way possible. He gets a text from Ignis halfway through last period, telling him that a series of meetings he had to attend had been moved, and that he would need to leave school early to attend. He curses, scrambling for his work, shouts an apology over his shoulder to the teacher, and sprints out of the school. He knows Ignis: that text means he’s waiting in front of the school, and if he doesn’t hurry, Ignis’ll be pissed.

So who can blame him if he forgets something in his haste? It happens.

And it just so happens that what he forgets is his phone, and that alone is a massive problem for obvious reasons. What makes it worse is that, when Ignis pulls away from the school, Prompto appears out of nowhere and throws himself in front of the car to stop it. There’s a dull thud as Prompto is hit. He falls to the ground with a grimace.

Ignis’ quick reflexes keep Prompto from being run over, and Noct is scrabbling for the door handle before he fully processes what’s happening. “Your highness—!”

“It’s fine, Ignis.” Noctis calls over his shoulder, and he’s at Prompto’s side. The other teen is holding his knee and hissing, and Noctis feels a hot stab of guilt in his stomach. “Shit, Prom, you okay?”

“Yeah, ‘m fine.” Prompto manages to push himself up so that he’s sitting. “That’s gonna hurt tomorrow.”

“Why did you—?”

“Oh, yeah.” Prompto reaches for his blazer pocket and pulls out a familiar black phone with a moogle sticker coated phone case (courtesy of Iris). “You left your phone on your desk.”

He can feel his cheeks flush, and Noctis takes his phone with a small, “Thanks.”

A cough from behind makes Noctis turn his head. He meets Ignis’ steely gaze surprisingly well. Prompto, however, tenses on the ground. “Um…”

“Noctis,” Ignis chooses to ignore Prompto. “We need to go.”

He’s half tempted to snark back, say that the royal snobs at the Citadel can shove a broadsword up their asses because Prompto’s hurt, but he also knows that it’s an uphill battle. Instead, Noctis bites his tongue and nods, helping Prompto to his feet and to the sidewalk. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yep!” Comes Prompto’s cheery reply, and Noctis can’t help but smile back. “Text ya later?”

Noctis can feel Ignis drilling holes in the back of his head. “Yeah, I’ll text you first.”

He watches Prompto hobble back to the school building. He studiously ignores Ignis’ tense posture as he drives to the Citadel, his fingers twitching and gripping the wheel a bit too tightly.

Of course everything comes crashing down because of his stupid phone.

~*^*~

He waits until Ignis starts cooking dinner before pulling out his phone to text Prompto. He worries his lip as he thinks of what to say, planning paragraphs in his head before eventually settling on something short and to the point. A quick apology, and then he turns it off and puts it on the coffee table. He knows that Ignis will look through it later, to double check that no secrets have been wheedled out of him, so it’s best to apologize now and hope that nothing Prompto would say will raise any red flags.

He waits a minute for a reply, but quickly realizes that the lack of activity is bound to attract Ignis, so he pulls out his history homework and takes vague notes as he waits. When the phone does ding, he doesn’t look at it, instead feigning disinterest as he ‘works’.

He loses himself for a minute, thinking about what’s going to come next. It all depends upon what the Glaive finds and what Ignis thinks personally

“Noct.”

Plus, if he can convince Ignis that Prompto isn’t a threat, then the odds of getting him to hang around skyrocket.

“Coming.” He calls back and stands, grimacing at the vegetable-covered plate in front of his seat. “Really?”

“A fitting punishment, all things considered.” Ignis says as he settles down to eat, sticking the corner of his napkin underneath his shirt collar and picking up the appropriate kitchenware for eating a festive salad. “If you prefer something else, then by all means, the kitchen is yours.”

Noctis narrows his eyes and stalks into the kitchen. He grabs the kettle that he shoved into the corner some months ago and fills it with water before turning on the stove. He puts it on the stove with a touch more force than needed, and he considers Ignis’ flinch at the bang a victory. He grabs a Cup Noodle from the cabinet and a pair of chopsticks and waits for the kettle to whistle. “Nothing bad happened.”

“But it could’ve.” Ignis turned to look at him. “That could’ve simply been a ploy to get you out of the car. Anything could’ve happened, especially since you don’t have your weapon on hand and I was busy making sure no traffic would hit the car.”

“It’s Prompto. The day Prompto is an undercover Niff spy that was sent here to kill me is the day you take the stick out of your ass.”

“So his name is Prompto, then?”

Noctis throws his hands in the air. “He’s not a threat!”

“You don’t know that.”

“I think I would, considering how many other mooches have saddled up to me.”

Ignis’ jaw tenses, and they stare each other down. “I hope you’re aware of the repercussions of your actions.”

“I am.” The kettle whistles, and Noctis takes it off the stove before pouring it into his Cup Noodle. He grabs the flavor packet and chopsticks and stomps to his room. “And I don’t regret a damn thing.”

[racketnews]

Why are 2/3rds of US children ‘not proficient’ in math? Leading teacher demonstrates: texts LIE about ‘real-world math problems’, stupefy children to tune-out from counting what’s most important (like US .01% admitting they ‘lost’ $21 TRILLION of taxes)

*hyperlinks/videos live at source* hat tip: David Icke The US Department of Education reports that two-thirds of American school children are not proficient in mathematics (here, here). In 2016 I wrote an article series about public education that includes a section on math that documents: 1. Math texts lie about “real world math problems” with ridiculous and contrived word problems. 2. Math texts don’t even care to define mathematics or algebra. 3. Algebra 1 fail rates are up to 50% of students, and is connected to the above two points along with less than 1% of adults using algebraic formulas in work. The outcomes of such “education” include: 1. Americans concluding “math” is difficult and something to tune-out from; stupefying us from counting what’s most important in Life like US .01% “leaders” admitting they “lost” $21 trillion of our taxes (~$200,000 per average US household). Please pause to let that fact penetrate. 2. Training Americans as work animals to blindly obey a rogue state empire. 3. Americans blaming themselves as being “bad” at math, and too stupid to seriously engage in the numbers associated with competent citizenship. Math-hole Ph.D text author LIARS Those of us who apply mathematics to quantify reality, understand as comprehensively as possible what exists, and use math as a scorecard to upgrade real-world conditions abhor liars. Fraudulent data makes it impossible to understand the real world, misdirects our attention and work, and wastes valuable time. As you know, professionals quickly dismiss proven liars, and remove them from serious work. Again, look here for three examples of typical lying math word problems, that cannot be excused as anything but intentional lying with rejection to consult with anyone doing real-world work. Here are three more from the 1,200 page Algebra 1 text provided to my students. These are typical: From Module 14 Rational exponents and radicals, consider this claimed “real-world problem” on page 660: “The balls used in soccer, baseball, basketball, and golf are spheres. How much material is needed to make each of the balls in the table? The formula for the surface area of a sphere is 4????r2 and the formula for the volume of a sphere is V = 4/3????r3 . Use algebra to find the formula for the surface area of a sphere given its volume.” (table provided for the four balls’ volumes) Paraphrasing usual student observations: Oh my balls! Are these things empty of “material” and only have surface area?! This says the balls have nothing inside. Maybe the math-hole authors have the same problem of nothing inside their heads. Maybe so because they didn’t ask anyone who actually makes those balls. Golf balls are not spheres. It’s some other fucking shape with all those dimples. Not that this matters because I think the shit inside the ball is just as important as the outside cover for the ball to be any good for that sport. Yeah, we should just judge those balls by the cover and not look inside, just like we should ignore what’s inside our math book. People who use balls want to be good in those sports. Nobody good at those sports ever ever ever ever ever even thought of such a dumb-ass problem to waste their time. From Module 22 Using square roots to solve quadratic equations, consider this claimed “real-world problem” on page 894: “A contractor is building a fenced-in playground at a daycare. The playground will be rectangular with its width equal to half its length. The total area will be 5000 square feet. Determine how many feet of fencing the contractor will use.” Paraphrasing usual student observations: WTF (what the fence)? Just fence and no gates? Real contractors charge extra for gates ‘cuz they take more time. Are they going to throw the kids over the fence, dig a tunnel, or put slides over it for kids to get in and out? Where is the building where kids are inside??? The daycare isn’t connecting the fence to the building?! Nobody would do that. The kiddie cage the math-hole authors say is real isn’t at an existing daycare ‘cuz they’d already have a fence to keep the kids safe. Maybe a replacement fence would be real, but not this shit with a convenient 5,000 exact square feet that just happens to be a number that works evenly for a word problem about square roots. And anyway, if they know the area is 5,000, then they already know the width and length and don’t need to ask anyone. From Module 19 Graphing quadratic functions, consider this claimed “real-world problem” on page 1037 (with picture of a parabola): “Describe what the vertex, y-intercept, and endpoint(s) represent in the situation, and then determine the equation of the function. This graph models the depth in yards below the water’s surface (y-axis) of a dolphin before and after it rises to take a breath and descends again. The depth (d) is relative to time (t, in seconds as the x-axis), and t=0 when the dolphin reaches a depth of 0 yards at the surface.” Paraphrasing usual student observations: Wait. The math-holes say a dolphin swims up to zero to “take a breath.” The graph shows air as the positive numbers, and water in negative numbers. This means these dumb-x authors violate the definition of zero and don’t even notice :) No animal moves at perfectly constant speed in a perfect parabola. This is bullshit. So these authors find nothing in reality to show us other than these fake puzzles. Nice. The graph the math-holes give us show a speed of about 50 mph at 4 seconds before and after the fake “breath” where there’s no air. Is this a magic rainbow dolphin that’s the fastest in the universe? Will the magic dolphin be going 5,000 mph or so 10 seconds from the fake air? What’s an educated person to do? Call bullshit for what it is to expose liars, remove the liars, and rebuild with truth. Again, I wrote a series on the problem of bullshit public education. Next: see the bigger pattern of lies and empire, and remove those liars through lawful arrests: When Americans are told an election is defined by touching a computer screen without a countable receipt that can be verified, they are being told a criminal lie to allow election fraud. This is self-evident, but Princeton, Stanford, and the President of the American Statistical Association are among the leaders pointing to the obvious (and here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here). Again, no professional would/can argue an election is legitimate when there is nothing for anyone to count. The facts show Bernie Sanders won the Democratic Primary election, and claims by Democratic “leadership” of Russian election “meddling” are without factual documentation. US military now illegally occupy eight bases in Syria (and here), with escalating bombing of Syria and Iraq of over 4,000 bombs/month and over 84,000 since 2014. The US acknowledges ~500 civilian deaths from these bombs, with independent count of ~750 in just in June 2017. Among dozens of independent writers, I’ve documented that all “reasons” for wars on Iran, Syria, and Russia are easily proved lies (recently, here, here, here, and going back to 2005), with US Department of illegal Wars of Aggression (so-called “Defense”) claiming to have “lost” $65,000 for every US household. The US is a literal rogue state empire led by neocolonial looting liars. The history is uncontested and taught to anyone taking comprehensive courses. If anyone has any refutations of this professional academic factual claim for any of this easy-to-read and documented content, please provide it. Rogue state empire is the most accurate term to describe the US for the following reasons: People around the world view the US as the greatest threat to peace; voted three times more dangerous than any other country. The data confirm this conclusion: Since WW2, Earth has had 248 armed conflicts. The US started 201 of them. These US-started armed attacks have killed ~30 million and counting; 90% of these deaths are innocent children, the elderly and ordinary working civilian women and men. The US has war-murdered more than Hitler’s Nazis. The total deaths caused by rogue state empire for resource control (natural and human) in the last 20 years is ~400 million, more than all total wars and violence in all recorded Earth history. US ongoing lie-started and Orwellian-illegal Wars of Aggression require all US military and government to refuse all war orders because there are no lawful orders for obviously unlawful wars. Officers are required to arrest those who issue obviously unlawful orders. And again, those of us working for this area of justice are aware of zero attempts to refute this with, “War law states (a, b, c), so the wars are legal because (d, e, f).” All we receive is easy-to-reveal bullshit. The destruction of nearly all rights lawfully guaranteed in the US Bill of Rights within the US Constitution, and in Orwellian inversion of limited government. Corporate media are criminally complicit through constant lies of omission and commission to “cover” all these crimes. Historic tragic-comic empire is only possible through such straight-face lying, making our Emperor’s New Clothes analogy perfectly chosen. The top three benefits each of monetary reform and public banking total ~$1,000,000 for the average American household, and would be received nearly instantly. Please read that twice and imagine the connection between having a rogue state empire to enrich an oligarchy combined with internal financial manipulation to maximize those parasitical riches. Now look to verify for yourself. Iran has never threatened to “wipe Israel off the map” and only has IAEA-verified legal energy and medicine programs with nuclear materials. Trump and corporate media continues and escalates easily-verified lies to threaten more illegal war on Iran. Israel engages in lie-started and illegal War of Aggression on Gaza; ironically the largest concentration camp in world history. This is also easy to verify. Categories of crime include: Wars of Aggression (the worst crime a nation can commit). Likely treason for lying to US military, ordering unlawful attack and invasions of foreign lands, and causing thousands of US military deaths. Crimes Against Humanity for ongoing intentional policy of poverty that’s killed over 400 million human beings just since 1995 (~75% children; more deaths than from all wars in Earth’s recorded history). US military, law enforcement, and all with Oaths to support and defend the US Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic, face an endgame choice: Demand arrests, with those with lawful authority to enact it. An arrest is the lawful action to stop apparent crimes, with the most serious crimes documented here meaning the most serious need for arrests. Watch the US escalate its rogue state crimes that annually kill millions, harm billions, and loot trillions. In just 90 seconds, former US Marine Ken O’Keefe powerfully states how you may choose to voice “very obvious solutions”: arrest the criminal leaders (video starts at 20:51, then finishes this episode of Cross Talk): 3-minute video: Police, Military – Was your Oath sincere? I make all factual assertions as a National Board Certified Teacher of US Government, Economics, and History (also credentialed in Mathematics), with all economic factual claims receiving zero refutation since I began writing in 2008 among Advanced Placement Macroeconomics teachers on our discussion board, public audiences of these articles, and international conferences (and here). I invite readers to empower their civic voices with the strongest comprehensive facts most important to building a brighter future. I challenge professionals, academics, and citizens to add their voices for the benefit of all Earth’s inhabitants. ** Carl Herman worked with both US political parties over 18 years and two UN Summits with the citizen’s lobby, RESULTS, for US domestic and foreign policy to end poverty. He can be reached at Carl_Herman@post.harvard.edu Note: My work from 2012 to October, 2017 is on Washington’s Blog. Work back to 2009 is blocked by Examiner.com (and from other whistleblowers), so some links to those essays are blocked. If you’d like to search for those articles other sites may have republished, use words from the article title within the blocked link. Or, go to http://archive.org/web/, paste the expired link into the box, click “Browse history,” then click onto the screenshots of that page for each time it was screen-shot and uploaded to webarchive (blocked author pages: here, here). http://dlvr.it/QSlmDC