#also why was jean suddenly fine with the election thing when she was so against otis running a clinic in previous seasons??

[starduststudyblr]

just finished sex education s4 and the thing that stressed me out the most was why did the school let UNTRAINED TEENAGERS give therapy to their friends??? just bc they said they were “therapists”??? like did nobody at the school stop to think hmm maybe this isn’t the best idea

[pa-panda-heroes]

heya! how about a scenario where shiggy accidentally hurts the reader with his quirk and like, freak tf out? angsts with lots and lots of fluff, please! ty! ♥︎

Okokok imma do my best for my first angst!! Also I added Dabi because I got a request for him a while back and I’ve wanted to write him for a bit, now <3 hope that’s okay!

I think this was a bit longer for a scenario but... I enjoyed writing it so :>

Warnings: language, mentions of violence(? Eh...)

Tomura/Dabi accidentally hurt reader with their quirks!

Tomura:

It happened accidentally. You knew that. Right? It wasn’t his fault, but his damn quirk’s fault, the one that he never asked for and the one that never allowed anyone to get close. Rather, he never let anyone get close because of it. He’ll admit he was always proud of its destructive capability as a villain, but now that it had hurt you, he wish he’d never boasted to a soul.

Twenty-three times. He had called you twenty-three times. And twenty-three times you didn’t answer. What was he to do, now? There was no stopping the decay borne from his fingertips once it had set in, and considering you wouldn’t answer your phone... it didn’t look good. Kurogiri had whisked you away before Tomura could even utter an apology, which looked to him as though Kurogiri did so in order for him not to witness your death. Kurogiri told him something about a doctor, but Tomura figured him a liar.

He couldn’t breathe. You shouldn’t have been hurt. Literally. Tomura hadn’t so much as touched you with a single finger; if anything, he was trying to protect you from the stranger grabbing you. It happened so fast, all he remembered was his quirk activating and the stranger vanishing before he heard your cry of pain and saw the skin of your arm drying out, much like he had done to that hero at U.S.J. He couldn’t tell, but it somewhat looked as though the decay was limited to just your bicep. That could’ve been hopeful thinking, of course, and he knew it.

So he sat there, all alone and hunched over on the couch in the bar, with misery and dread coursing his veins, accelerating his blood pressure to concerning levels. He had nothing to look at but his shaking palms and red shoes as he tried to even out his breathing - to no avail. Then, he felt the weight of someone sitting next to him, and instantly recognized how far the cushion next to him sunk in. And yet, he couldn’t look at you.

“Thanks for that back there,” you say quietly, afraid to startle him, but you recieve no response. “Y’know, I’m not sure what would’ve happened if my knight in shining armor hadn’t showed up!” You knew he felt guilty. Why wouldn’t he? But he shouldn’t. You wanted to convince him of that.

“Didn’t go far, huh,” you hear him mumble, nodding his head to your bandaged left arm next to him. There was no life to his voice and before you can say anything, he speaks again. “It won’t happen again. You’re not coming around anymore.”

“Hey, wait! That’s not your-“

“I’m the leader, and I say so! You can stay in the League, but you can’t... be close to me. You’ll get hurt.”

You stand up in defiance and put your hands on your hips in defense. “I’m not leaving you! First of all, I can take care of myself. Second, look at the League. We have a bloodthirsty serial killer and a cynical pyromaniac constantly lounging about, and you’re worried about some one-in-a-million freak accident happening again?” Patience was key with Tomura, and you knew that, but he could be stubborn and unreasonable, and when it came to you, stubbornly, unreasonably protective. “Besides, with the world as it is, I could get hurt doing something as mundane as taking out the trash, like I was when I was attacked!”

He finally looked at you, the look of a whipped pup on his face and while you knew he wasn’t doing it on purpose, you felt guilty for raising your voice at him. You sigh quietly and sit back down next to him, reaching for his hand and settling for his knee when he yanked it away. You snuck your arm around his shoulders and plopped your cheek on his shoulder, knowing all too well he would welcome it despite his standoffishness - and he did. Tomura didn’t pull away or push you off. But he hid his face. Your fingers on his left shoulder rubbed at it, his clavicle prominent enough you almost cringed at how thin he was. Your other hand on his leg idly toyed with the seam of his jeans, not having anything better to do.

“I’m sorry.” It was unclear as to whether he was apologizing for hurting you, or for demanding you keep your distance from him. Either way, it was undoubtedly genuine and soft.

You sat up straight and hugged your leader and lover from the side, gliding your fingers through his hair as you gently guided it to you. He hesitated slightly before burying his head into your chest and latching onto your ribcage for dear life, muttering the weakest “Don’t go, please,” anyone has ever heard. The desperation and vulnerability in his voice elicited your arms to wrap around him in a tight, warm embrace, your chin digging into his hair when you peck it, again and again and again. You stifled a giggle at how soft and ticklish his hair felt, electing to gently shush him.

“I just told you, didn’t I? I’m not going anywhere, even if you tell me to. I love you, silly.”

Dabi:

Dabi let out every curse known to mankind - and then some - as he rushed over to you, the bastard thugs the two of you had been after now burning alive and falling to the street. He would have sworn on his life you were not within range of his flames, and yet here you were, on the ground clutching your burnt leg and cringing away the searing tears of pain. Maybe you didn’t see him readying the attack and charged in? Maybe one of those thugs diverted his attack? He wasn’t sure.

“Y/n-“

What little color he had in his face drains completely, and his fingertips are already trembling.

“Dabi, I’m fine,” you tried to assure him. “It’s not that bad! I’ll just need a little first aid.” It hurt like hell, a white-hot, pulsating pain, you couldn’t lie. You just weren’t going to tell him that. It stretched from just below your knee to a hand’s length above your ankle and covered only the side of your leg, thankfully. The affected area was an awfully dark pink and honestly, it was hard to look at.

He practically scoffed at you. “Y/n, you’re fucking burnt. Don’t tell me that shit.” From the look on his face, it seemed bad.

That was the most cross he’d ever been with you, despite his brash and vulgar nature, and you couldn’t help but retreat a little as he knelt down to you and pulled his phone out of his pocket to make a call. “Y/n’s hurt, get us to the bar or something.” He grabbed your leg - surprisingly gently - and seemed to examine it. He paused as if to listen to the other end. “She’s burnt, does it matter? Just get us the hell out of here.” He must’ve called Kurogiri, as the next thing you know there’s a warp tunnel summoned next to you.

You tried standing on your own to leave, but the burn decided it didn’t want you to do so, and so you dropped back to the ground and bit your lip at the shockwaves of pain crawling up your leg. Dabi said nothing and helped you up himself, grabbing your arm and side to help you walk through the warp. Once through, he set you down on the couch, still eerily quiet, and left you there. The pain was so bad at this point, you began to think you’d faint, your head feeling fuzzy as tears run down your cheeks.

The stapeled villain returns with a bucket of ice water, towels, and what looks to be a first aid kit. But he stops for a second when he sees you hunched over with a death grip on your knee and the seat beneath you, and it takes all he has to hold it the fuck together. He’s unreasonably angry, and he’s not sure why. He wants to tell and scream, maybe at you, maybe not, he’s not sure. His quirk’s only quality was destructiveness. It was damaging not only to his enemies but also to his own body - and now, you.

He hurt you. Accident or not, he hurt you. The lump in his throat was suffocating.

Dabi knelt down and soaked a towel in the cold water before wringing it wordlessly, then gently tapping it to your leg and pulling back when you hiss. He seemed to notice it but didn’t outwardly acknowledge it and contintued to use the cold towel on your burn. As more time passed, the more convinced he became that it was a second-degree burn, meaning the second layer of your skin, the dermis, was badly burnt. He had no doubt it would scar, and at the thought the breath was pulled from his lungs. Dabi muttered a curse and suddenly rested his forehead against your knee, his right hand holding the cool towel to your leg.

“I’m sorry. It’s all my fault, fuck.” His voice was low, and if you looked hard enough, you could hear that it was forced out through a tense throat. He was nearly in tears, wasn’t he? He wasn’t an overly emotional person by any means, but the fact that his quirk hurt you, with its history, it hurt worse than if you would’ve left him for a hero. He hated himself. His quirk didn’t have a single redeeming quality, and he began to think the same of himself.

“Dabi, don’t, okay? I’ll be fine, really.” You can’t help how weak your voice sounds, being in so much pain, but you nonetheless plant a hand in his hair and rub his scalp.

Dabi lifts his head to look at you, and the look in his eyes isn’t something you’ve seen before. His free hand comes up to rest on your thigh, and you can feel it shaking. “It might scar, y/n. Don’t you get that?”

You huff. “So? If it does, I’d be pretty cool with that, all puns intended,” you try to giggle at your own pun and can practically feel him rolling his eyes, “Besides, I’d kinda match you, wouldn’t I? It’ll be like a couple’s tattoo sort of thing!”

He rests his chin atop your knee and a look that only be described as a pout crosses his features, but he says nothing and you can only smile. Dabi deadpans when you say nothing, forcing yourself to beam at him with bright eyes and a smile. “You’re a weird one, ya know that?” he muttered.

“You’re even weird for falling in love with me,” you teased after he began to work on your leg again.

“Pfft.”

[harryspet]

meet me in the library [p.p]

Warnings: dark!peter parker x reader, bully!peter, friends with benefits, dubcon, public sex, fingering

A/N: this was supposed to be an entire oneshot eventually to include dark!bucky but it didn’t turn out how i wanted so I’m sharing this small bit :) this is also a loose continuation of my other fic Rude Boy so I would read that one first!

Spiderboy: where are u??

lunch is almost over

You: in the library

looking for something for class

Spiderboy: i thought we agreed that i like a certain level of communication

You: sorry

i’ll see you in sixth period??

Spiderboy: whatever

You sighed, tightly squeezing your phone out of frustration before tucking in the back pocket of your jeans. The librarian behind the desk was typing away at her computer, looking for the textbook that you requested, “Lucky for you, we have one copy,” She smiled up at you, “What makes you so interested in the … Psychology of the Supernatural?”

“Oh, it’s for a project,” You lied, “You know how out-of-the-box Mr. Harrington is.”

“That I do,” She easily believed it, “It’s in the relics, all the way in the back, but I’m sure you’ll be able to find it.” She gave you the books number and section and you were on your way. 

You did you fair share of elective reading which usually included teen romance and fantasy novels. You’d never gained an interest into psychology until you met Peter. He often kept you up at night, completing his many styles of torture, but now you were up late just trying to glimpse into that brain of his. 

Asking him was not an option seeing as how the boy had about a million layers of defense mechanisms to get through. Even when you did seem to get through to him, to ask him serious questions-

“You shouldn’t be skipping meals,” You practically jumped out of your skin when he appeared around the bookcase, “You’re already as weak as you are.” He flashed you his charming smile, clearly amused that you were clutching your heart and breathing heavily. 

“Jesus, Peter,” You whisper-yelled, “What are you doing?”

“You shouldn’t make me wait to see you,” He moved closer to you, and you noticed his shirt had a science pun on it that you definitely didn’t get. You could understand why everyone fell for his nice boy appearance. Before you could open your mouth, he was grabbing you by the waist, and pushing his lips against yours. You pushed at his chest, stepping backwards until your back hit one of the book cases. 

“Pete-” You tried to say as he hungrily devoured your lips, “P-Peter, stop-”

When he finally did pull away, his eyes were focused on your lips, “What? Worried someone’s gonna hear? Just keep your mouth shut and we’ll be fine,” He went back to kissing you, his hands on your neck and grabbing your face. 

“Peter,” You pushed back against him, although you did enjoy the feeling of his lips, “Why … Why can’t you ever just talk to me?” 

He sighed heavily, his lips red from the rough kissing, “We talk all the time, Y/N,” He raised an eyebrow. “Too much, I think.”

You shook your head, “I mean, without you saying rude things. You don’t have to be nice to me, but at least we could talk about something normal …”

He chuckled a bit, his hands falling down back to your waist. A shiver went down your spin as he began to run his fingers along the waist band of your jeans, “What do you want to talk about?” Your eyes widened a bit, surprised at his reaction. 

“I don’t know,” You said initially, “Normally, people start with ‘how are you’ or ‘how was your day’.”

“That’s boring, surface level stuff. Next you’re gonna expect me to start caring about your zodiac sign,” That sounded more like the Peter you knew, “How about I ask what you’re doing this weekend?”

You raised your eyebrow this time, “Uh … studying, probably.”

“Wrong,” You wanted to roll your eyes so badly, “You’re hanging out with me.”

“Peter, you telling me what to do isn’t a conversation,” You spoke, your voice as stern as you could muster, “And I have to study this weekend.”

He gave you an incredulous look as if he couldn’t fathom your disappointment, “I’m sure we’ll get some studying done at some point,” You jumped a bit as you suddenly felt his fingers sliding between the front of your panties. You grabbed onto his strong hand but your strength was useless against his, “You don’t have to ask your parents if I can come over, we’re going to my place this time.”

“Your place?-” You bit down on your lip hard as his fingers brushed over your sensitive bulb. He moved his hand in slow, teasing circles as he smirked at you. 

“I wanna show you the compound upstate,” His pace began to quicken and you gripped his arm tightly, mentally cursing, “I can give you a special, VIP tour. You know, perks of knowing Spiderman.”

“Peter-ah!” 

Your cheeks heated with embarrassment and you hoped that no one could see the two of you. This part of the library was desolate but all of this was still risky, “What do you think, huh? Wanna meet the Avengers?” He asked rhetorically, knowing you’d scream out if you opened your lips, “Go ahead, tell me, I know you’re fangirling … No? Well, excuse me for trying to have a conversation with you.”

You hated yourself for it but you felt your hips beginning to grind against his hand. 

When you finally came against his fingers, you couldn’t hold it in anymore. Peter sensed this, smashing his lips against yours again and swallowing your moans, “Mmmmm,” your body shook but Peter held you tightly.

+

hop you enjoyed!

[puckinghell]

Not A Typical Christmas Story | Elias Pettersson

Summary: You’ve never loved Christmas, and there’s nothing that can change that; especially not your best friend’s grumpy Swedish friend who you don’t even like. However, when you’ve gotta be forced into the Christmas spirit to write a Christmas story for class, there’s only one person who is willing to try and help you. Words: 14k (I’m SO sorry) Note: Here it is, a Christmas story in November. Honestly I’m nervous to post this, I’ve never put so much of myself into a story, but here we go. I loved loved loved writing this and I hope you guys like reading it. Also, the cliche scenarios were stolen from a random blog post. 

--

“You’re such a fucking Grinch.” Brock takes a sip from his hot chocolate. There’s murmur in the bar around you, and he’s muttering, but you still hear him clear enough.

“Hey,” you protest, lightly hitting him on the arm. “I’m not a Grinch. Just because you put up your Christmas decorations in October and have been singing All I Want For Christmas Is You since July, doesn’t make me the Grinch for not doing that.”

Brock raises an eyebrow. “You literally just said you hate Christmas.”

“I did not.” You stubbornly cross your arms. “I said I hate Christmas stories.”

“That’s basically all there is to Christmas,” Brock brings in, and that’s probably fair enough.

Apart from the food, presents, family time, decorations…

Fine. Maybe you don’t like any of those either. But not liking Christmas is not the same as being a Grinch: you’re completely fine with letting everyone enjoy their festive December, as long as they leave you out of it.

Which is exactly why you’ve been complaining to Brock. And as your best friend, it’s literally his duty to listen to you; unfortunately it also means he’s gonna make fun of you. Just a little bit.

“I just don’t get why I have to write a Christmas story,” you mope, a little pathetically. “There’s so many Christmas stories in the world already, Boes. And they’re all the same! The foreign sports car breaks down in a blizzard and the city slicker gets stuck in a bar with a bucktoothed chicken strangler with an IQ of 7 whom he decides, through love or delirium, he cannot live without. Or the sadistic Christmas-hating miser of the pathetic backwoods town, who makes his money grinding the faces of the poor, is inspired to a change of heart by a teary-eyed child who bears a striking resemblance to his dead daughter, and donates all his money so that the ghost town can continue its wretched, grimy, poverty wracked existence.”

At that, there’s a muffled snicker from the side of the table. You’d almost forgotten that Elias was there, to be honest.

You raise your eyebrow at him. “What? You’ve got a better Christmas story?”

Elias raises an eyebrow back, but doesn’t answer. He usually doesn’t. Brock says he’s talkative enough when you’re not around, although you for the life of you do not know what you’ve done to earn his judgment.

“Don’t bite Petey’s head off,” Brock chides. He’s always trying to keep the peace between you two, and sometimes you feel bad that he has to police his two best friends.

Today is not one of those days.

“He’s laughing at me!”

“Because you’re being ridiculous.” Brock sighs. “It’s just a Christmas story, Y/N. You’ll write it, you get a grade for it, it’s done. How hard can it be?”

It’s clear that Brock has no idea how hard it can be to write a decent story. Sometimes, you wonder if he can even really write or read: maybe he’s just memorized a bunch of words and called it a day.

You let out a grumble and drop your head on the dingy, sticky table in the rundown bar that Brock and Elias are so keen to go to, probably because they never get recognized there. Not surprising, considering the fact that the age of the average customer is above 85.

Normally, you like your creative writing course. People told you to get electives you thought were actually fun, as your normal college courses are taxing enough, and you’ve always been a writer.

Or, well, been a writer… You write. You wouldn’t call yourself a writer: you’ve never published anything and you can’t be a writer before you make money from it. But you like writing. There’s at least a hundred half finished Word documents sitting on your laptop at any given moment.

But this project isn’t fun at all. All the students in your course were excited to get to write a Christmas story. It is December, after all, and most people have gotten properly into the Christmas spirit by now. However, you’ve never liked Christmas – for reasons that you will not think about with Elias’ judgy eyes on you – and you usually write scary stories, so this is not up your alley.

“Hey,” Brock’s voice sounds, and it’s gentle now. He’s probably noticed you’re actually having a mental breakdown over this. “It’s just one stupid story, and it doesn’t even have to be good. Just write about like, animals that can talk.”

Elias snorts again, and this time you can’t even blame him.

You lift your head only to shoot Brock a glare. Brock raises his hands in helpless manner, rolling his eyes as he goes.

“I’m trying to help.”

“I’m going to get beers,” Elias says suddenly. It’s the first thing he’s said all hour, you think, and the sound of his voice almost startles you. “I think you’re more helpful when you’ve got a beer, Boes.”

He’s not wrong, but you won’t tell him that. Instead, you stare at his retreating back, disappearing towards the bar.

“Why do you hate him?” Brock says, and he sounds a little accusing.

“I don’t hate Elias, just as much as I don’t hate Christmas,” you tell him, before you realize that that technically doesn’t speak of your innocence, so you try a different tactic. “He doesn’t like me either! He never talks when I’m around.”

“Cause you make him nervous!” Brock exclaims. He pushes his now empty mug towards the side. “You’re always making snappy remarks at him.” He stares at you with big blue puppy eyes, his bottom lip pouting out. “I wish you would just get along. I love you both and it’s very annoying to have to always be in the middle of you.”

In reality, it’s not like Brock really has to be in the middle of anything. If it was up to you, you would simply not ever see Elias, and you’re pretty sure that’s the only thing you and Elias would ever agree on. But Brock somehow always brings you together: like how today he’d forgotten to mention his teammate’s presence when he asked you to come out for a drink.

But you don’t blame Brock, not really. You think there’s another universe in which Elias and you could be friends. You’re very similar, in a way: you’re both not from Vancouver, both don’t have your family around, and you share a similar sharp sarcastic humor and a love for teasing Brock.

The first time you met Elias, you were hopeful. Brock was, at that point, your only friend in Vancouver, and the two of you had become best friends like you’d grown up in each other’s pockets. If Brock liked this guy so much, you figured you’d like him too.

But Elias hadn’t seemed to feel the same way. You met at one of Jake’s parties and Brock had introduced you with the statement that you were going to be beerpong buddies, because he’d already promised Troy.

Elias’ eyes had been a little too intense, as they traveled across your face. You could feel them burn into your skin like lasers, and when his eyes finally met yours it had felt like being hit by the entire universe at once.

“Oh,” he’d said, and it had been filled with… not even disdain. You could’ve handled disdain, because you could’ve called him out on that. But this had been indifference, that you’d heard in his voice, and that was something you didn’t know what to do with.

He’d not said anything else all evening. 

Ever since then, you’d put stone after stone into the wall you build between you and the quiet Swede, every single time he so much looked in your general direction. Nothing big ever happened between you: you hadn’t had any huge fights or massive blow outs.

It was just indifference, that ate at you until it became reluctance and then annoyance, and it’s that same thing you can read on Elias’ face now when he quietly sits in a corner, listening in on your conversations with Brock.

Yes, it would be easier for Brock if you and Elias could become friends, or at least friendly enough.

“Sorry, Boes,” you tell him with a sigh. “I just don’t think it’s ever gonna happen.”

--

“Is there a reason you’re not wearing a shirt?”

You raise your eyebrow at Jake, who opened the door wearing black jeans, a Santa hat, and literally nothing else.

"I lost a bet,” he says solemnly, opening his front door further. You stomp the snow off your boots on his porch, then move past him into the house.

It’s freezing cold outside and Jake’s house is lovely and warm, which makes you happy to be there if only to enjoy the heating. It’s not like you don’t have heating at your flat, but the electricity bill is high enough every month without you turning the thermostat up as high as it goes, so usually you try to keep warm with sweaters and blankets.

Brock told you to dress pretty though, so you wore a dress to Jake’s party. Which means it’s a good thing he’s got the heating going.

“You look lovely,” Jake smiles, taking your coat from your hands. Having him act like such a perfect gentleman in the outfit he’s wearing makes you laugh, and he shoos you inside when he notices.

You like Jake. In fact, you like all of Brock’s friends – except the one, of course – and that’s the only reason you said yes to coming to this party. It’s not like you’re against parties, but it’s a Christmas party: and despite the fact that it’s the first week of December, you’ve already heard enough Christmas music to last a life time.

“There she is!” Brock hoots, when he spots you. He opens his arms and you give him a quick hug, saying hi to Bo and Holly, who he’s standing with. “I have a brilliant idea,” Brock says however, before you can even ask the Horvats how they’re doing. “And you can’t say no right away.”

That definitely means you’re gonna wanna say no right away.

“I’m not promising that,” you hum. Just at that moment, Jake appears with a glass of prosecco that he hands you, and you send him a grateful smile. He disappears just as quickly, which is probably the better option considering what Brock’s about to say.

“I think you should make an actual, real effort to get into the Christmas spirit this year.”

“I don’t think so,” you immediately answer, but Brock waves away your protests with a wave of his hand.

“That’s not the part you’re gonna wanna say no to.”

“Oh dear,” Holly laughs, and you glare at Brock.

“What, then?”

“I think you and Petey should get in the Christmas spirit together.”

The sentence is bizar enough that you burst out laughing. Surely he’s kidding.

“Are you drunk?” you ask, then, turning to Bo: “Is he drunk?”

Bo shrugs. “Not yet, I don’t think. Tipsy at most.”

“Think about it,” Brock says. There’s a glint of excitement in his eyes, which promises nothing good for you. “You’re staying in Vancouver this Christmas, right?”

You don’t say anything: the answer is yes, and Brock knows that, because he’s been trying to convince you to come back to Minnesota with him for a month. However, as you’ve told him every time, there’s no way his girlfriend would appreciate that, and you don’t like being a third wheel. Or - but you haven’t told him that - a charity case.

“And so is Petey!” Brock proclaims. He motions somewhere to the left, where the Swede is probably hiding between all his teammates, trying to stay as far away from you as possible. “So both of you have to stay here in Vancouver, alone, during Christmas. And he loves Christmas, and you don’t, but you have to write that Christmas story and it would be so much easier to do that if you actually celebrated Christmas, so he can teach you how.”

Your best friend isn’t making a lot of sense, and there’s too much information to process so quickly. First of all, you didn’t know Elias would be alone for Christmas, although you suppose it makes sense that he can’t go back to Sweden just for 2 days of Christmas. Secondly, you don’t need someone to teach you how to celebrate Christmas: it’s not like you don’t know, and much more that you choose not to.

And third: fuck. You’d basically forgotten about that Christmas story.

“It’s a brilliant idea,” Brock says proudly and a little smug. “And I haven’t told Petey yet but I know he’ll be down.”

This time, you respond: you start laughing hard enough that Brock’s smile slips off his face.

“I really don’t think he will,” you giggle. You reach out, patting Brock’s arm with a smile. “Boes, you’re a sweetheart, but stop worrying about me. My life isn’t bad because I don’t like Christmas.”

It’s bad for some other reasons, like financial debt and family misfortunes, but not because of a lack of reindeer ornaments and bad mulled wine.

Brock pouts. “But…”

“No,” you cut him off. “I can write that Christmas story just fine on my own, thank you. And if you’re worried about Elias, you can ask him to Minnesota.” You take a step back, glancing at your empty prosecco glass. “I’m gonna get another one of these.”

As you’re making your way to the kitchen, you can still hear Brock’s sputtering.

Although Jake’s house is filled with people, the kitchen still seems quiet. It’s not until you’ve let the door fall closed behind you though, that you notice movement in the corner.

“Oh,” you say, a little annoyed to be caught off guard. “It’s you.”

Elias barely glances in your direction. “Just getting some water.”

Elias’ style is always a little funky, and if you didn’t dislike him so much you would’ve appreciated how daring it is. This time, though, you literally can not help but laugh at him.

“Nice sweater,” you say, and it doesn’t even come out as sarcastic.

Elias looks down at his sweater like he didn’t even notice he was wearing it. It has a reindeer stitched on, except the reindeer looks… Well. Baked.

“Quinn got it for me,” Elias says, and he sounds a little sheepish, which is not a tone you hear from him often. “He’s got the same one.”

“A little co-dependent,” you tease, and it comes out too light and easy for it to be directed at Elias. He looks a little surprised, too, at how jovial it sounds.

“You look nice,” he says, then. He’s looking at you now, and you can feel the weight of his eyes press against your skin.

There’s something about Elias’ gaze that makes it feel like your lungs are constricting, and you don’t know what it is. You could blame it on the fact that his eyes are the kind of piercing blue that authors would compare to the ocean or maybe the summer sky, but Brock has blue eyes too, and you never feel like that when he looks at you.

“Uhm, thanks,” you bring out. The awkwardness settles over the kitchen like a heavy cloud of fog, but for some reason your first instinct isn’t to just run out of the kitchen, like you usually would.

This is definitely Brock’s fault, for making you feel bad about Elias being alone in his sauve but empty apartment in Vancouver on Christmas, when he apparently loves the holiday so much.

“Brock thinks you could teach me how to love Christmas,” you blurt out, and Elias looks nothing short of utterly baffled by your statement. You sigh, and explain. “We’re both in Vancouver around Christmas and apparently you love Christmas and I don’t, so he thinks you should teach me how to love it. He thinks it would help me write my story.”

Elias seems to ponder that for a second. When he speaks, his voice is tentative. “Do you think it would help?”

Your first instinct is to, once again, call out no and laugh it off, but for some reason you don’t. Elias sips his water like he’s prepared to wait for your answer, and you give yourself some time to think.

Realistically, getting into the Christmas spirit, or at least getting an idea of what other people feel when they’re in the Christmas spirit, could really help you pull off this story. You’re good at putting yourself in other people’s shoes, which is how you manage to write characters you don’t necessarily see yourself in.

When you wrote a story about a doctor, you talked to your friend who’s in med school about it for a week. Now, you wanna write a Christmas story. It wouldn’t be an awful idea to be around someone who loves Christmas.

“Maybe,” you admit. “But you don’t have to do it, I know you’re probably busy…”

Elias shakes his head before you’ve finished your sentence.

“When hockey goes on break, and all my teammates go home for the holidays, I won’t have anything to do.” He shrugs: it looks careless but in the most forced manner, like he’s trying to hide just how much it does matter. “We could do something, I guess.”

I guess. It’s not really the most enthusiastic response you’ve ever had, but then, this is not normal for you and Elias.

“You know what the ultimate Christmas plot is?” Elias says then, a little hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “A Christmas party is in fear of flopping thanks to a lack of Christmas spirit, but is rescued by some energetic soccer mom with no life.” He grins. “I could be the soccer mom.”

To your own surprise, you burst out laughing at his description. You didn’t think he was really paying attention when you were describing cliché Christmas plots in the bar with Brock, but maybe Elias pays attention to more than he admits.

“Fine,” you hear yourself say, and you honest to God have no idea where that came from but you know Brock is gonna shit himself with excitement when he hears. “When hockey goes on break, you can be the energetic soccer mom and try to bring me into the Christmas spirit.” You smile. “It won’t be an easy task, Pettersson.”

Elias raises an eyebrow but there’s nothing judgmental about it, this time.

If anything, it’s a challenge.

He sticks something out to you: it’s your glass, now filled again with prosecco, which he somehow managed to fill up without you even noticing.

“It’s on,” he says simply, and when he raises his water glass in the air, you don’t even hesitate to clink it.

--

“Shopping is not a Christmas outing,” you say, stubbornly crossing your arms. “And I really don’t think this is gonna get me into the Christmas spirit.”

“What do you mean?” Elias deadpans, as he yanks a shopping cart free from all the others. “Middle aged housewives fighting over discounted wreaths? There’s nothing more Christmassy than that.”

You snort. “Right. It’s just gonna be spoiled crying kids who want toys that they already have and parents pretending it’s Santa who spoils them so they don’t have to take responsibility for their kids being rude drama queens.”

Elias laughs. He pushes the cart into the department store, and you reluctantly follow him.

“That’s another storyline,” he says.

“The unexplained dilemma of parents who do not believe in Santa, and yet we, the wise audience who knows better, are left to wonder where they think these toys came from? ‘Psst, honey, Santa’s not real, so from whence came these marvels?’”

“I don’t know half of what you’re saying.” Elias holds up a string of Christmas lights. “But we’re getting these, honey.”

It comes out sweet like caramel and too serious to be anything but sarcastic, so you push the cart into his heels. Elias simply laughs and continues on his way.

The department store is busy, which is exactly why you usually try to avoid going there in December. You’d think Elias, being Elias Pettersson, would also try to avoid crowds, but it’s like people don’t see anything but Rudolph; nobody recognizes him as he skillfully pushes his way through the crowds, putting stuff into the cart that you barely know what to do with.

You’re thankful for it. It would be awkward if people did recognize him, and it’s strange to notice that that would be the thing to do it; there’s no awkwardness now, with him making snarky remarks at the quality of the ornaments or the fact that Canadians apparently love what he calls the ‘tacky’ side of Christmas.

In fact, you almost find that you’re enjoying yourself. It might as well be a Christmas miracle after all.

“When was the last time you had a tree?” Elias asks.

Your brain short circuits for a full five seconds, and then when you answer Elias stares at you as if you’ve grown a second head.

“Uh, probably when I still lived with my parents and they got it?”

“We’re changing that right now.” He spins on his heels and speed walks in the direction of the trees, too fast for you to protest.

You think of the last time you got a Christmas tree and an involuntary shiver makes its way down your spine. There’s a good reason you don’t like Christmas, and the tree plays a crucial part in it.

But Elias doesn’t know that. So you can’t even blame him for looking excited when he somehow manages to find you the perfect size tree for your apartment – even without ever having been in your apartment.

“This one,” he says smugly, but when he notices your expression, his face falls. “What’s wrong?”

You swallow. You could tell him, now, tell him about the last time your dad went to get a tree and never came back.

But that’s a long time ago and there’s no reason for Elias to know that. He’s not your friend, and he’d probably not even care. If anything, he’d feel sorry for you, and that would be even worse.

“That one is fine,” you tell him, and you promise yourself you just won’t put it up.

The tree gets your mood down but Elias doesn’t seem to notice. He collects some more stuff, like a throw blanket with Christmas pattern that you actually don’t mind, because you’re always cold and a person can never have too many throw blankets.

He also puts in an ornament with the Canucks logo, which you want to use to slap the smirk off his face, and a Rudolph pluche toy with a red light up nose.

“Like you, when it’s cold,” he teases, flicking your nose, and you wonder if you could use the Christmas lights to strangle him.

Finally, when you approach the end of your trip, you realize a teeny tiny problem.

“Uhm, Elias?” you ask, “I think we may have gotten too much.”

Elias rolls his eyes. “Brock said you don’t have any decorations, so this is the perfect amount.”

And it would be – if you wanted Christmas decorations – except…

“I can’t afford this,” you snap, and you can feel your cheeks heat up, and maybe the tips of your ears as well. God, this is embarrassing.

Elias’ face softens, and that kinda just makes it worse.

“You’re not paying for it,” he says, not unkindly. “This wasn’t your idea.”

“It wasn’t yours either,” you remind him. Granted, a bill like this would hardly break the bank for Elias, but you’re not about to let him pay for you just because he feels bad. You let Brock buy you dinner sometimes but that’s it, and only because he actually likes your company and because he always wants to eat at stupid fancy restaurants.

This is Elias. He doesn’t value your company, and he’s not your friend, and you won’t let him pay for you.

Elias doesn’t say anything, eyes searching your face for something. You’re not quite sure what he finds, but finally, he speaks.

“Consider it my Christmas gift to you,” he says. “You can pay me back by making me lunch, cause I’m hungry.”

And strangely enough, the thought of spending another two hours with Elias doesn’t make you wanna hurl, or throw yourself in front of oncoming traffic. In fact, you’re surprised to note that you actually had fun on this trip, and it was mostly thanks to Elias’ dry commentary on the other shoppers, of which not one sentence failed to make you laugh.

You don’t believe in Christmas stories, like the one where some weird technical glitch in the matrix gets fixed just in time for the Christmas tree in the center of town to light up, just as the guy and girl figure out their complicated emotional differences.

But maybe you can allow yourself to not actively dislike Elias’ company, at least while you’re stuck with it.

--

There’s exhaustion settled deep inside your bones, like your feet are made of concrete as you somehow manage to drag yourself up the stairs. You don’t usually mind living in a bit of a shit hole building, considering the fact that it’s very cheap – but on nights like these you wish there was an elevator you could take.

Working out in the morning before taking a double shift at the coffee shop you work at was a bad idea.

It takes you a few seconds to find your keys in your bag. It’s late enough at night that you can’t really see much; there’s lights in the hallways but most of them don’t really work, the flickering glow of them barely enough to illuminate the ceilings.

When you open the door, you instantly notice there’s something wrong.

Or, wrong… That might not be the right word. The word that comes to mind, actually, is fuck.

You’d forgotten all about Elias.

After buying all the Christmas decorations, he kept bothering you about putting them up. You hadn’t really been planning to, and unfortunately Elias knew you well enough to somehow know that.

Nobody reads you as well as he does, like his blue eyes pierce right through your skin and stare straight into your heart. It’s one of the things you find most unsettling about him. Keeping things close to your heart has always been your way to cope, but it felt impossible to do that with Elias around.

He’d kept asking you if you were gonna put up the decorations and you kept waving him away, until he finally decided he had enough.

“I’m coming over tomorrow,” he’d said – or, threatened. “Brock gave me your spare key, so you don’t have a say in this. I’m putting up the tree.”

“Don’t you dare,” you’d answered, making a mental note to deal with Brock’s traitorous ass later. “I can put up my own tree.”

You could, you just weren’t planning to do it.

“You could, but you won’t,” Elias had said, unimpressed. “So be there or don’t be there, I’m doing it.”

You had totally meant to be there. You weren’t as much of an asshole that you would let him do all the work after he also paid for it, and he was technically doing you a favor. But then your colleague asked you to cover her shift, and, well…

You forgot. And clearly, Elias hadn’t.

In the corner of your tiny little living room is a pine tree. There’s no ornaments in it except for the Canucks one that Elias bought you, but there’s what seems to be about a thousand lights in it, and it must’ve taken him hours to put those in.

It’s not even just that. The Rudolph toy is sitting on your bookcase, there’s candles on your dining table and on the couch is the Christmas throw blanket.

Under the blanket is Elias.

His head is resting on the arm of the couch, blond hair a little messy. His eyes are closed, eyelashes fluttered against his cheekbones, and he looks strangely peaceful.

You feel something settle in your stomach.

You imagine him sitting on your couch, waiting for you to come home because he wanted to see your reaction. You can imagine his little smug grin as he took in his work, way too proud with a simple string of lights in a Christmas tree. And maybe, maybe, he even thought about you celebrating Christmas here with the place looking exactly like this, and maybe that made him smile.

And then you didn’t show up. 

You wonder if you should wake him, to kick him out of your apartment, tease him for waiting for you, or even to say thank you. But his chest is rising slowly with every steady breath, and you’ve never seen Elias look so tranquil, so at peace.

For some reason, waking him feels like a crime.

So you step closer and tug the blanket a little more over his shoulders. You tell yourself it’s because the place gets so stupidly cold at night, and you can’t have him get sick and have a miserable Christmas because Brock would kill you, but you know it’s not about that at all.

It’s about the fact that coming home to a cozy, decorated apartment after the exhausting day you’ve had was actually pretty nice. And it’s about the fact that for some reason, Elias’ sleeping figure on your couch makes the place feel more like home than it has ever before.

And maybe it’s because the night is dark, and Elias can’t hear or see you, but when you whisper: “Goodnight” into the quiet living room, it sounds a lot like thank you.

--

When you wake up, there’s the smell of pancakes in the air. It’s a smell you would recognize anywhere, and it startles you awake too quickly for it being so early in the morning. You nearly jump out of bed and follow your nose towards the kitchen.

If anyone would’ve asked, you would’ve bet money on it that Elias would’ve woken up on your couch annoyed as hell, and booked it out of there as soon as his legs could carry him. But somehow, like a mirage, he’s standing at your stove, making pancakes.

Are you dreaming?

“Am I dreaming?” you ask out loud, and Elias swirls around on his heels.

“Don’t scare me,” he snaps, annoyed, but the annoyance flows away within seconds. “I was hungry.”

“So you made pancakes?”

Elias laughs softly. “I can’t make much else with what’s in your kitchen. You need to go grocery shopping.”

You really do, but you can’t think about that right now. Not when Elias is standing in your kitchen like he owns the place, like it’s normal for him to be there.

It very much is not. So why doesn’t it feel wrong?

“Uhm.” If he’s here, you figure you should at least be polite. “Do you want coffee?”

He waves towards your coffee machine. “I already put it on.”

You stay quiet as you make the coffee, a little too aware of the way Elias moves pancake after pancake from the pan to the stack, movements relaxed and almost lazy. It’s Sunday morning and it’s not that late, but it feels like it could be one of those mornings that stretches out endlessly, dark grey clouds outside your apartment as Vancouver slowly wakes up.

Neither of you speak until you’ve sat down at the table, pancakes and coffee in front of you. It’s awfully domestic and you don’t know what to do with it: it’s become easy to snap or snark at Elias when Brock’s there as a middle man and Elias looks like he’d rather cut off both his legs than spend another minute in your presence, but it’s not like that now.

Now, Elias seems quietly content to sit in your kitchen eating pancakes that he made on your stove while you were asleep. Now, Elias seems completely comfortable scrolling through his phone while you stare at him. And this Elias, you have no idea what to do with.

“We’re gonna do something Christmassy today,” Elias says, between two bites of pancake. “I’m just trying to figure out what.”

You raise an eyebrow. It’s been only a week since Brock had the awful idea to make Elias teach you how to be in the Christmas spirit before booking it to Minnesota, and so far Elias has seemingly put way too much time and effort into it, while you haven’t even put one word in your empty word document, that you ironically titled ‘Not a typical Christmas story’.

Then you remember the night at Jake’s party, and how Elias said he wouldn’t have much to do once all the guys went home to their families.

Suddenly, you feel for him. You know what it’s like to be lonely.

“The Christmas market isn’t on today,” Elias continues, oblivious to your mental dialogue. “But we’re going there soon. And we need to watch a bunch of Christmas movies.”

You hesitate. Are you really going to do this?

“I might have an idea for today.”

Apparently you are.

Elias’ eyes finally focus on you, expression curious. He doesn’t say anything but he’s clearly waiting for you to continue, so you take a deep breath and go for it.

“I’ve never gone skating.”

An hour later you’re at the local outdoor ice rink, and it’s not until you see the crowd that you realize this might’ve not been your smartest idea. It’s Sunday, it’s December, it’s not awfully cold: you think at least 1/3rd of Vancouver is at this rink.

“Uhm, I might not have thought this through,” you state a little bashfully. You can already see a few Canucks jerseys on the ice, and although you can’t see the back that well you wouldn’t be surprised if a bunch of them carried the number 40.

Elias shrugs. He seems unbothered, but then he mostly does. You can never really read him, and it’s one of the things you find most unnerving about him.

“It’ll be fine,” he says. “I’m wearing my glasses.”

He is wearing his glasses, which he rarely does. You’re not even sure he needs them or if they’re just a fashion statement. He’s also wearing a hat, so maybe he’s thought this through more than you.

But surely just glasses and a snapback won’t stop Vancouver from recognizing the Canucks biggest star?

Apparently, it does.

Elias goes to rent the skates, because he couldn’t be bothered to go back to his apartment to get his own. He’s put them on within 20 seconds, while you’re still struggling to wiggle your foot into the first one.

He laughs and you shoot him a deathly glare.

“Don’t laugh at me! We can’t all be professional hockey players.”

“I don’t think you need to be a professional anything to lace up a skate,” Elias answers dryly. He turns to face you, then pats his leg. “Give me your foot.” 

It’s embarrassing to make Elias tie your skates, but it would be more embarrassing to ignore him and then spend 20 minutes struggling with them. So you swing your foot into his lap. 

Long fingers work swiftly around your laces, and suddenly your skate is tied, fitted closely around your ankle. Elias pats your shin, then holds out his hand for the other foot. 

You swing your second leg into his lap. 

“I don’t know how you do this so fast,” you mutter. You can feel the flush on your cheeks and you hope Elias assumes it’s because of the cold.

“I’ve got many talents,” Elias deadpans, and you can’t stop yourself from laughing. 

“Juggling, unicycle riding, and lacing skates?” 

Elias nods. There’s a smile tugging at his lips. “All very important skills.” 

Finally, you put your skates back on the floor and waggle towards the door to. the rink. Elias has jumped onto the ice before you can even think about moving. 

You stop. Is this really a good idea? You could break both your legs here.

“Don’t be scared,” Elias says, correcting guessing the root of your hesitation. He’s gliding on his skates with ease, shuffling back and forth the way hockey players always do during the anthems.

Because he’s waiting. For you. Because you’re going skating together.

This is the weirdest fucking thing that’s ever happened to you, kinda like a fever dream; and that’s enough motivation to step onto the ice.

You stumble a bit, and Elias reaches out to grab your elbow to steady you.

“Careful, it’s slippery.”

“Unsurprisingly,” you mumble beneath your breath, and Elias’ grin goes a little wicked before he promptly lets go off your elbow and slides back.

Bastard. But the ice is slippery and you’re not steady on your skates, so you scramble forward only just enough to reach Elias again, wrapping your hands tightly around his arm.

“Do not let go,” you hiss.

“Do not be a smartass,” he shoots back, but thankfully he doesn’t move away again. Instead, he carefully takes both your hands away from his arm and takes them into his own, turning so he’s skating backwards and pulling you along.

If you don’t have to move your own feet, moving is a lot more fun, and you feel yourself loosening up. Every now and then you stumble, but Elias’ grip on you is firm and he never wavers, even when you yank on his hands to pull yourself upright again.

You’ve always noticed how graceful Elias is on the ice. There’s something about him when he skates that has always caught your attention, even if you would never admit that to him. But without the hockey gear, it’s even more clear how elegant he moves.

You, not so much.

“You better not be laughing at me,” you grumble, a little annoyed that you have to cling onto Elias as a lifeline in order not to break your neck. 

Elias raises an eyebrow. “I never do that.”

It should sound sarcastic but it really doesn’t, and you wonder if he’s momentarily forgotten every single interaction you’ve had with him over the past year.

Your expression must speak volumes because he rolls his eyes. He swiftly moves, so he’s skating next to you instead of in front.

He’s still holding your hand.

“I never laugh at you,” he clarifies. “I laugh because you’re funny. It’s different.”

And, oh. That does something to your stomach, something that you probably shouldn’t be thinking about right now.

Elias doesn’t seem to want to dwell on it either, because suddenly he pulls his hand away, skating a bit to the front to where you can’t reach him.

“You can do it on your own,” he calls over his shoulder, a cheeky smile playing around his lips.

And it turns out you can: you don’t fall, you keep moving – albeit a lot slower than Elias – and it’s actually kinda fun.

You can do it on your own, but. It was more fun with Elias next to you, anyway.

--

When Elias texts you to tell you you’re going to the Christmas market that night, you haven’t seen him in three days.

But you’ve been texting. He’s been sending you stupid Christmas songs that you mostly don’t listen to, and Christmas movies you’d prefer to never see. You send him ideas for cliché Christmas stories that you can almost hear his disapproving snort for. 

Santa becomes a prima donna and holds Christmas hostage until his ego is stroked in the form of songs written in his honor by reindeer who are willing to give their very lives for the cause.

Elias’ answer comes swift.

No. That has definitely been done before and also, someone could call animal services.

When Brock asks you how you’re liking your time with Elias, when you FaceTime him during dinner, you fall into silence.

What are you gonna tell him? That you smile every time you see his name pop up on your phone? That you have no idea anymore why you didn’t like him all that time? That you now understand what he meant when he used to say “Petey just needs a little time”?

“It’s going,” you hum noncommittally, chopping another carrot.

Brock laughs. “You’re so full of bullshit. I can literally see you trying to hide a smile. You realized I’m right, didn’t you?”

“You need to shut up,” you tell him without any heat. “We’re civil. He’s bored, I’m in the middle of writer’s block crisis. We’re not getting married, Boes, it’s just better than doing nothing the whole week you’ve deserted me.”

“Sure,” Brock drawls, and it doesn’t sound like he believes you at all.

“How’s the pups?” you ask, and Brock laughs because that wasn’t even slightly subtle for a topic change. He clearly decides to let you, however, starts talking about Milo’s new habit of burying people’s gloves in the yard.

The thing is, you don’t really wanna talk about Elias with Brock when you don’t even know yourself what you think of him yet. Fine, you don’t hate him, that’s clear. You’ve realized his air of indifference is just a shield, a wall that crumples as soon as he laughs. His teasing remarks are familiar now, feel friendly the way they feel when they come from Brock, and you’ve realized he’s one of the funniest, smartest, and kindest people you know.

But Brock would just push it into something it’s not. When he comes back, you’ll probably go back to being ‘Brock’s friend’ instead Elias’, and you wouldn’t be surprised if everything goes back to the way things were. Maybe with less animosity, but when Elias has a bunch of different people to choose from, why would he choose to hang out with you?

But for now, he doesn’t have any other people to hang out with and he does choose to hang out with you, and you’re hit once again with how weird that is when you step into his car the next evening.

“Dude, it’s way too cold to be going outside,” you grumble, shutting the door of his car behind you. Inside the car it’s warm and cozy, and Elias has an amused expression on his face when he turns to you.

“Good evening,” he deadpans, “I’m good, thank you, how are you?”

“Right.” You can feel your cheeks flush and hope he thinks it’s because of the heat in the car. “Sorry.”

Elias laughs. “It’s not that cold,” he chides, pulling the car into the road. “You just didn’t dress properly.”

You look down at yourself. You thought you’d dressed quite warm, but there’s an icy chill in the air that promises a chance of snow, so maybe it’s not warm enough. You didn’t even take gloves, you realize now, or a hat.

Well.

Elias is grinning while he stares ahead at the road, and you kinda wanna smack him except for how it also makes you smile. He’s dressed a lot warmer than you, and with the scarf almost up to his chin and a beanie on his head there’s not much risk of him being recognized anywhere.

“I brought extra gloves,” Elias says, then. “You’re not gonna be able to enjoy it if your hands are cold.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Elias, not to be a downer, but we’re going to a busy market that revolves entirely around Christmas, and I don’t like Christmas or crowds. I don’t think I’m gonna enjoy myself either way.”

“We’ll see,” Elias says simply, and it sounds like a promise.

It’s easy to keep up the conversation on the way there, light teasing from you and genuine interest from him. It’s comfortable, both the warmth in the car and Elias’ laugh next to you, and when he parks the car you almost don’t wanna get out.

At least he does have gloves for you, and he gives you a scarf, so you’re not that cold when you step out into the night air.

The Christmas market is busy, hoards of happy people looking for some Christmas cheer. You stick close to Elias’ side: if you lose him in this crowd, you’ll never find him back.

At least it’s pretty. The sky is already dark but the Christmas market has been lit up with seemingly millions of lights in every color imaginable.

“I don’t think purple is very Christmassy,” you say, flicking a purple light hanging off the stall that Elias is browsing.

“I prefer the white ones,” he answers, eyes kept firmly on the handmade ornaments in the stall. “They look like stars.” He turns, holding out an ornament. It’s a glass star, and it reflects the lights like a kaleidoscope.

It’s, objectively, beautiful. You don’t have to like Christmas to love it, but when you reach out for it, Elias laughs and pulls it out of your reach.

“I thought we decided you’re not to be trusted with glass.”

He’s referencing a time long ago, when you were hanging out with Brock and he happened to be there, and you dropped a glass and Brock had made a whole spectacle of it.

To be fair, you hadn’t really put Elias in the memory you keep of that day, because he was simply there: as Brock’s friend, as someone who happens to linger in the background. He’s lingering in the background of many memories, you realize now, but you’re starting to realize you prefer the ones where he’s front and center.

You walk past more stalls, filled with either tacky Christmas stuff – you buy Brock some socks with Santa on them because you can’t not – or handmade things, which you actually like looking at. Elias buys some things for his parents – “I’ll send them to Sweden,” he says, and he looks a little too sad so you start chatting about how Rouss kinda resembles a reindeer, somehow.

You’re walking past the food stalls when Elias asks: “How’s the writing going?”

You freeze. That’s not a question you were ready for, and it leads to the inevitable urge to blurt out the truth. “I haven’t started. I just don’t think I can.”

Elias’ eyes on you are thoughtful, like he’s searching for something in your soul. If he tries hard enough, you think he’ll look right through you: nobody has ever made you feel so open, so visible, as he does.

“Brock didn’t tell you why I don’t like Christmas, did he?”

“No,” Elias admits, “but I figured it was a better reason than red is not your color.”

“Hey!” you protest, stepping to the side so you can bump your shoulder against his. “Red is totally my color!”

It’s not, but Elias doesn’t push it. Instead, he smiles warmly, and suddenly you want to tell him.

“When I was young, my parents used to fight a lot. One day, two weeks before Christmas, they got into a massive fight. I listened to them from my bedroom and then my dad came upstairs and told me he was going to find me the perfect Christmas tree. He got in his car and went to get the tree, or so I thought. I never saw him again.”

You sigh. “It’s not, like… I’m over it, mostly. I just can’t help but feel that same feeling every year around Christmas. It’s like hoping for something you know will never happen. Like you’re reading a book and the happy ending never comes. ”

“That’s why it’s hard to write the story,” Elias hazards a guess. He looks curious, but he doesn’t look like he feels bad for you, which is what you would’ve disliked the most.

He points to one of the stalls, then. “They make the best hot chocolate in town. Want one?”

You nod, following him towards the stall as you continue talking. “It is. But I do also find Christmas stories boring to write. It’s always the same concept, just in a million different ways.”

Elias smiles. “That’s the fun of it, no? You know the happy ending always comes. It makes you feel good.”

“It’s boring,” you repeat, stubbornly. “The girl from the big city with a job paying upwards of 8 figures goes back to her hometown for Christmas and somehow falls for some high school fling who still lives in a basement, but makes a mean cup of hot chocolate and says thing like ‘What can I say? I was stupid.’” You cross your arms. “You can’t tell me if we took the Christmas element away you would voluntarily read that story.”

Elias laughs. “Some people would. Isn’t that basically the story from The Notebook?”

“Have you ever watched The Notebook, Elias?” you frown, and he shrugs.

“No, but Brock said it made him cry.”

Which isn’t surprising, because a lot of movies have made Brock cry. You wonder what Elias would do if you put on The Notebook on your upcoming Christmas movie night.

Elias turns around, then, two steaming cups of hot chocolate in his hands. He smirks when he hands it to you.

“What can I say? I was stupid,” he quotes, and you can’t help but giggle as you take the cup from him.

“You didn’t make this, you just paid for it. It doesn’t count that way.”

“After this we should probably go,” he says then, glancing at his watch.

The words sink into your stomach like a heavy stone of dread; you don’t really want to go home, and the realization hits you like a ton of bricks. You’re happy, right now, and if ‘feeling Christmassy’ basically translates to feeling happy, well…

It’s not Christmas, though, that’s got you feeling this way. You could care less about the pine trees and the tacky music and the reindeer and the big man with the white beard and red hat.

You care more about the blonde man beside you, staring into the distance with the brightest blue eyes, and the way he somehow always makes you laugh.

Damn it. How much you hate it when Brock is right.

--

With Brock telling you how much Elias likes Christmas movies, and Elias having pushed you for this Christmas movie marathon for days on end, you were expecting a bit more excitement from him when it finally happens.

You can tell something is wrong from the moment you open the door. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets, and when he smiles at you it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hey,” he says softly, moving past you into your apartment.

“I hope you’re ready to rewatch the same exact movie with only minor differences all night,” you joke, but Elias doesn’t even look up as he methodically pulls off his coat, kicks off his shoes and pitter patters into your living room.

He scoffs when he sees your tree, still empty except for the Canucks ornament that he got you.

“Really?” he asks, and for the first time in a while you can’t tell if he’s joking or actually upset with you.

This is the Elias that you knew before, the one that you didn’t like because you could never reach him, guarding his heart like a fort. But this time, you know what it’s like to have the other Elias, and you already miss having that Elias in your life.

“Sorry to disappoint,” you bring out, and it comes out a bit shaky. Elias turns around and his face softens slightly.

“I didn’t mean that.” He sighs. “I nearly canceled this.”

Your heart sinks.

“I get grumpy when I’m not feeling good and I don’t want to take it out on you.” He sinks down onto your couch, kicks his feet up on the coffee table like he’s been there a million times before. “But I didn’t wanna cancel, so. I didn’t.” He sounds almost helpless, like he’s not sure if he should be saying what he’s saying.

But your traitorous heart lifts immediately. If he didn’t want to cancel, it means he wants to be here, and that’s really all you need to know.

“Well, I’m gonna make popcorn, then,” you say, keeping your voice light. “You pick the movie. I don’t care. They’re all the same anyway.”

Elias rolls his eyes, but it’s good natured. “They’re not the same!” he calls after you as you disappear into the kitchen.

“Every Christmas movie ever was written by someone who didn’t know what to write,” you tell him, knowing he can still hear you from the kitchen – the benefits of living in a tiny apartment. “Writer’s block? No problem. The solution: a little bit of Christmas magic. ‘We can’t pay the rent’, ‘I’m sick’, ‘My boss is making me work on Christmas’. Poof, with a jingle of bells, problems solved in the form of a generous benefactor, aspirin, or a hit man.”

“If that’s the case, why can’t you write a Christmas story?” Elias calls back teasing, and you give him the finger through the wall.

He might not see it, but you’re certain he can feel it.

You take the popcorn and walk back to the couch, letting yourself drop onto it next to Elias. You misjudge the distance a bit, causing you to sit a little too close to Elias for it to be strictly friendly; but Elias doesn’t budge, so you don’t move either.

You’re pressed against Elias shoulder to thigh, and you can feel his body shake when he laughs.

“I like this cliché,” he says, nodding towards the television. “Let’s see if you can guess it.”

You watch the movie in relative silence, eating popcorn and enjoying the warmth of Elias body against yours. You have to admit you lose focus every now and then: the movie isn’t that bad, but it’s hard to focus on anything with Elias so close. Every now and then, when something funny happens, he exhales a sharp breath of laughter, and sometimes he hums as if he’s agreeing with what’s happening on screen.

He smells nice, too, and finally you get tired enough that you get a little brave: you let your head drop against his shoulder, tugging your feet under yourself.

“Figured it out, yet?” Elias asks softly.

“Yep,” you answer. The movie is nearing the end but you figured it out within the first ten minutes. “Basic physics, not to mention common sense, are thrown to the wind as Christmas repeats every day, disappears from the calendar, or is hurled into the past or future.”

Elias doesn’t respond, and suddenly you wanna know.

“Are you okay?” It’s probably a weird question, and very out of the blue, so you hurry trying to explain. “Cause you came in very sad, and like, if you don’t wanna talk about it with me that’s fine but I think it’s good to talk about things sometimes so if you wanna…”

“I’m fine,” Elias says, cutting you off, but it doesn’t sound dismissive. It sounds a little amused, and when you turn to look at him, you find him smiling. “Worried about me?”

And it’s the strangest thing, but you are. “A little.”

Elias’ face softens. “I promise I’m okay,” he says. He reaches out, then, places his hand on yours and squeezes. “I just talked to my parents before I came here, on Skype, and they were talking about Christmas and it sucks that I can’t see them for the holidays. But it is what it is.” He shrugs. “I sulk for a bit and then I move on.”

You never really go home for the holidays, but you understand how awful it must be to be stuck alone in Canada with your whole family in Sweden.

You blame the quiet, late night energy for what comes out of your mouth next.

“I think I could be convinced to make you a Christmas dinner if you ask nicely.”

Elias laughs, and his hand is warm when you turn your palm up and he laces his fingers through yours.

“If I ask nicely, will you watch another movie with me right now?”

You pull the Christmas themed throw blanket over your legs before letting your head drop against Elias’ shoulder once again.  

“You don’t even have to ask.”

--

“I have an idea,” Elias says through the phone, and you don’t quite recognize the tone in his voice at first. “Well, it was Brock’s idea, but I think it’s a good one.”

Anything that was Brock’s idea immediately fills you with doubt, and you frown. “What?”

That’s when you realize: Elias sounds excited.

“Brock knows someone with a cottage, about two hours from here. It’s in the forest and it’s supposedly very Christmassy. We should go for a night.”

He sounds quietly pleased, and you don’t have the heart to tell him no.

“Okay.”

Objectively, though, it’s an awful idea. A Christmassy cottage in the forest also sounds like it would be very romantic, and you’ve finally come to terms with the fact that what you feel for Elias is definitely not just friendly comradery at this point. Feeding this feeling would not be smart, considering the fact that it’s almost Christmas and after that you’ll most likely never spend time with Elias like this again.

Sure, he might be at parties with the other Canucks or Brock might invite him for drinks with you, but it won’t be like this. You’re not stupid enough to think this will last: that would be a real Christmas miracle, and Christmas miracles don’t exist.

“Sometimes I wish I could read your mind.” Elias’ voice startles you despite the fact that his words come out softly. It’s been quiet in the car, apart from the low murmur of the radio in the background, for a good fifteen minutes.

You’re on your way to the cottage and your thoughts are going a million miles per hour.

You look over at Elias. He’s staring ahead at the road, one hand on the wheel and the other in his lap. He looks relaxed. Comfortable.

“It’s usually nothing interesting,” you say, and you thank the universe that he can’t know what’s going on in your mind.

“Are you thinking about your story?” he asks, and you weren’t, but it’s as good an excuse as any.

“I’ve gotta email it to my professor in four days,” you admit. “And I haven’t put a single word on paper yet.”

You’ve tried, that’s for sure. You’ve spent hours on your laptop, staring at a Word document. You’ve typed sentences and deleted them, tried to outline the story or just wing it while typing. Nothing works, nothing feels right when it stares back at you from the screen.

Elias hums noncommittally. “I think you think about it too much,” he says. “Just don’t worry about it. And write what you know.”

You scoff. “I don’t think anyone wants to read a Christmas story about a father who bails on his family, Elias. Nobody likes sad Christmas stories.”

He smiles. “Any sad Christmas cliches on your list?”

“Each and every event, whether holiday related or not, is tainted through the loss of a dead relative. Example: “Can I have a glass of water?” “Your, uh, *swallow*, your grandmother used to drink water.””

Elias laughs before reaching for the radio and turning up the music. You never listen to Christmas music, as a rule, but somehow you don’t hate it now that it’s blasting through his stupid sports car, the world flying past you through the window.

The drive is filled with Elias humming along to Christmas music and you laughing whenever he pulls a face at one of the lyrics. You spend at least 30 minutes debating if ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’ should still be allowed on the radio – no – and whether or not Michael Buble is the king of Christmas – in Europe, apparently yes.

By the time you reach the cottage, you feel a lot more positive.

Until you see it.

“Uhm,” you bring out, staring at the place in front of you. Elias barks out a laugh, but it sounds mostly disbelieving.

“When Brock said ‘cottage in the forest’, I pictured something different,” he says sheepishly.

“I guess this shows the power of speech?” you offer. “Like, ‘cottage in the forest’ and you think of this beautiful rustic romantic getaway. But this is more ‘cabin in the woods’: I think we’re about to get murdered.”

Elias raises an eyebrow. “Romantic?” he repeats, an amused tilt to his voice, and you nearly get back in the car.

Way to put your foot in your mouth.

Luckily for you Elias doesn’t dwell on it. Instead he wanders inside, where at the very least it looks a little better.

It’s cold, and there’s no working electricity, but there’s a fireplace and a billion candles, and it’s decorated quite cosy. Maybe even Christmassy, if you really squint: although you’re happy to notice there’s no tree.

It’s easier than you thought it would be, to spend an evening in some dodgy cabin with Elias. It’s easy to chat about everything and nothing, to cook dinner with him. How domestic it feels to tease him about how slowly he chops the mushrooms, while he somehow makes sure your wine glass is always full.

Silence doesn’t fall until long after dinner. The fireplace is on, fickle candle light giving the room an orange glow. You’ve somehow ended up with your feet in Elias’ lap, although you can’t remember how they got there: you’re painfully aware of the heavy grip of his hand around your ankle.

The wine has given your brain a nice fuzzy feeling, has softened up the edges around your thoughts. And all you can think, now, is how nice this is: to have Elias right there next to you, blue eyes fixed on the ember flames burning in front of you.

“I’m glad that Brock kept forcing us to hang out,” you say, without thinking. Elias glances over at you.

“Forcing us?” he repeats, as if he’s not sure what you mean.

You shrug. “Come on, Elias, we didn’t like each other before this. You probably didn’t want to hang out with me as much as I didn’t want to hang out with you.”

The words hang heavy in the air for a second. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear you saw Elias flinch.

“Actually,” he says tightly, and your heart does a traitorous swoop. “Brock never forced me to come. I always asked. If I knew he was gonna see you, I asked to come along.”

The words hit you like a freight train. You can feel your heart beating in your chest. But surely there’s no way you’ve been wrong all this time?

Brock did say Elias didn’t hate you.

“But… I thought you didn’t like me.” Your voice sounds small in the quiet room. It feels different here, so far away from the city: when the night is so silent all your thoughts sound so loud.

Elias shrugs. He doesn’t look upset, per se, but his face is carefully closed off and you know now that’s not a good sign.

“I know you thought that,” he says, voice flat. “I know that first night I came off as rude.” His smile is wry. “I was nervous, I didn’t really speak English, and you’re very pretty. I guess it was a recipe for disaster, on my end, so it doesn’t surprise me you didn’t like me.”  

You can feel the blood rush to your cheeks, your heart pounding in your throat. You’re hearing his words but they sound almost foreign, and you can’t quite believe he’s really saying them.

“I’ve always liked you, though,” Elias adds, almost as an afterthought, carelessly like it doesn’t matter. Like he doesn’t know what that does to you, your mind going into overdrive.

You’re not an easy person to like. That’s not you being hard on yourself, you just know you judge too harshly, react too quickly. You go into downwards spirals of negative thoughts, you put opinions into people’s mouths, and most of all, you don’t believe in happily ever after.

People, in your experience, don’t stick around for people who won’t promise them happily ever after.

But Elias is here, having brought you to this cabin, having pushed and pushed to be around you: and you didn’t even notice. You thought he was just doing Brock a favor, you thought he was just bored. He’s not been very outgoing about his affections, but you can tell that they’re there; from the way he’s put up your Christmas tree to how he always listens to every word that falls from your lips. No, he’s not been very outgoing about with his affections but he’s been plentiful with them, and you just didn’t notice.

“Elias,” you start, but the sentence dies on your lips when he turns to face you, suddenly a lot closer than he was before.

“What about now?” he asks. You must look as confused as you feel, because he clarifies right away. “What do you think about me now?”

There’s nothing unsure about the question, and you think the answer is been pretty clear. You wouldn’t be here if the answer wasn’t clear. But despite that, despite that he seems to already know what you’re gonna say, you wanna say it anyway. You think you have to say it anyway.

“Now I like you,” you tell him, sitting up straighter. “I really like you, Elias.”

The last thing you register is the pleased smile tugging at the edges of Elias’ mouth, and then his lips are against yours.

The kiss is soft but not hesitant. Maybe he’s giving you time to think about it, this way, if this is what you want: but in that moment there’s nothing you want more, nothing but a fierce desire to trace your hands down his body.

As soon as your fingers touch his arm, Elias deepens the kiss. He kisses exactly how you would expect him to; giving you everything, no trace of doubt or hesitation.

There’s nothing frantic about it, nothing scary. With every second that ticks by you fall a little further into it, your mind a lovely shade of blank – with the exception of the boy in front of you, like all your nerves screaming his name.

“Hey.” Elias’ voice is soft as he pulls away. He doesn’t take his hands away from where they’re laying against the bare skin of your back. “We don’t have to go further.”

He’s giving you an out, you realize, a second to gather your thoughts. You could pull away now, you could put some space between the two of you.

You scoot forward, moving even more into his lap, and carefully curl your hand around his jaw. He leans into it slightly, and your heart screams with how much you want him.

You don’t answer. Even as a writer, you realize that words are sometimes overrated. Instead, you press your lips against his, placing your heart in his hands as you kiss him once more.  

--

It takes about two hours after you get back to your apartment for the reality of it all to comes crashing down at you.

The night at the cabin was wonderful; magical, even. If you would write the perfect Christmas story, it would be a lot like that.

Except you’re not writing a Christmas story – you should, of course, but you haven’t started and that’s because Christmas stories are unrealistic.

You and Elias, your story - no matter how wonderful – is unrealistic. What were you thinking? That Elias, being who he is, would simply… What? Become your boyfriend?

He’s Vancouver’s biggest star, everyone’s favorite person. You’re just another lonely writer who lives mostly in their own brain. You’re just someone else who is hard to love; like your parents, like your sister, like all the friends you’ve seen get their hearts broken.

You call Brock.

“Wow, calm down,” are the first words that come out of his mouth when he finally speaks. You’ve told him most of the story by then, sentences coming out in shallow breaths and tears already burning in the back of your throat. “What the hell do you mean ‘hard to love’? That’s bullshit.”

“It’s not.” You swallow. “Brock, it’s not real. What I’m feeling. People fall in love all the time and they all believe that’s it, their perfect story, but how often does that story end up a tragedy?”

“Y/N…” He sounds mostly sad. “You can’t live like that.”

But your mind was made up long ago, so long ago when you were just a child. When you saw the tragedy that was your parents love story, and then later it was only settled deeper, when you saw your friends get hurt, when your sister got cheated on.

“I can’t make myself the protagonist of my own tragedy.”

“Petey isn’t going to break your heart.” Brock’s voice is sharp, and you realize this is not a fair position to put him into: how can he be honest to you when that means breaking Elias’ trust?

“He won’t mean to,” you whisper. “But it’ll happen. It might not even be his fault. I’ll probably break my own heart somewhere along the line. But happiness doesn’t just come along this suddenly, Boes.”

“What is it does?” Brock asks, and you don’t have an answer.

What if it does is less scary what if it doesn’t, and the next few days when Elias calls, you don’t pick up the phone.

--

You shouldn’t have opened the door.

“You’re avoiding me.” Elias sounds... hurt. You don’t think you’ve ever heard him sound like that. You’ve learned that when he’s upset, he mostly sounds indifferent; locks his emotions behind a wall for nobody to see.

And maybe it’s a testament to how well you know him, now, that you can pick up on the change in his voice. Or maybe it means he’s decided to let you in.

God, you hope it’s not that last one. Hope he didn’t make that mistake.

You sigh. “I’m sorry, but…”

“Don’t.” Elias cuts you off by pushing past you into the apartment. He stands glaring at you in the middle of the living room, arm crossed. “You’re not doing this.”

You have to.

“It’s just not gonna work,” you try. There goes the crack in your heart, bursting open like someone squeezes it with an iron fist.

You’re doing this to yourself. But that’s better than the alternative: better than having Elias do it way further into the story, when there’s something to destroy.

There’s nothing to destroy, now. There’s only the prologue to the story, and now the epilogue. A story with no middle won’t be remembered.  

“That’s not true.” Elias isn’t backing down. “You can’t tell me nothing this past month has meant anything to you.” He frowns. “Does this have anything to do with your Christmas thing? Would it be different if this had happened in January?”

You laugh, but there’s no humor there. If only it was that simple.

“This has nothing to do with Christmas, Elias. This just isn’t real. There’s no happy ending to my storyline, and I’m not dragging you down with me.”

You let your eyes fix on him, on the way he stands there stubbornly, still fighting for something. For you. If only it made a difference.

Elias doesn’t say anything, for a while. Finally, voice timid, he says: “You’re gonna throw this away because you’re scared.”

You are scared. But that’s not why you’re doing this.

“Damn it, Y/N.” Frustration rings clear in Elias’ voice, now. “I know you feel what I feel! You can’t just ruin that because you’re not brave enough to say what you want!”

“It doesn’t make a difference, Elias!” You’re hurting too, and you can hear your own voice getting too loud.

“I wanna live in a world where people don’t get hurt, and everyone’s got enough money and nobody ever has to skip a meal!” You swallow, hot tears pricking behind your eyes. “I wanna live in a world where people don’t get in the car to get a Christmas tree and never come back, and I wanna live in a world where Santa’s real, Elias, but that’s just not reality. That’s not how life works.”  

Elias’ eyes are dark, his jaw tense. You know you’re not gonna like what he’s got to say before he’s even opened his mouth.

“Maybe not,” he says tightly, “but you live in a world where people can choose to love each other. It doesn’t have anything to do with Santa, or magic. None of those things are real, but love is real, and you can choose to believe in that.”

He grabs his jacket, is walking towards the door before you can even comprehend what he’s saying. At the door, he turns around. His eyes shine with sadness.

“I want to love you, but you have to choose to believe that, too. And if you can’t, then I guess it won’t ever be real.”

When the door closes, the last piece of your heart breaks in two.

--

“Merry Christmas!”

Brock’s voice is bright and cheery. He’s clearly only just woken up, his blond hair a mess and Milo passed out in his lap.

“It’s not even Christmas yet,” you tease. You curl your legs closer to yourself, your coffee in one hand and your phone in the other. It’s nice to see Brock, even if it’s just over FaceTime.

Getting your heart broken is even worse when you can’t really talk about it to your best friend, because you also broke your best friend’s other best friend’s heart.

It’s a complicated issue, is the thing.

“It’s Christmas Eve tonight,” Brock says, rolling his eyes. “That’s basically Christmas. Are you still moping?”

“Hey,” you protest. “I’m not moping. I’m sad. It’s different.”

You have been moping, a bit. The first two days after your final talk with Elias, you didn’t even really come out of bed. You just sat there and you wrote.

That’s the only good thing to come out of this, you think. You somehow not only wrote your story, it’s maybe the best story you’ve ever written.

“I know. I’m sorry.” Brock’s voice is gentle. “You can talk to me, you know? I won’t use anything you say against you or tell Petey or whatever. He’s been talking to me too.”

Your heart does a somersault. If Elias has been talking to Brock, Brock probably already knows everything; in a way, you can’t believe he’s still talking to you if that’s the case.

More than that, though, it brings an opportunity. To find out what you’ve been wondering since Elias stepped out of your apartment.

“Is he alright?”

“Are you?” Brock counters, like that matters.

You stare at the coffee in your cup. It’s too hot to drink still, little puffs of steam climbing through the air.

You’re not doing so well, admittedly, but that’s probably fair. You were the one to broke off the story, in the end. And you hate to admit it to yourself – and you definitely won’t admit it to Brock – but you’ve been wondering if you made the right choice.

“I wrote my Christmas story,” you say, instead of answering his question. “Handed it in yesterday.”

Brock lets you change the subject. “Cool. What did it ended up being about?”

You sigh. “It was about me.”

Brock raises his eyebrows, interest clear in his eyes. He doesn’t push you, and you’re glad for it. You need a moment to find the words.

“I wrote about a girl who hates Christmas because it reminds her of things that she’s lost. And I wrote about how scared she is of gaining something because that means she can lose it again.”

Brock’s voice is soft when he speaks. “But someone teaches her? In the story?”

He knows you too well. You laugh quietly. “Yes, someone takes her through all these Christmas cliches to make her realize why they’re cliches. It’s not because of the act itself. It’s because you spend time doing it with someone you love.”

“She loves this person, the one that teaches her,” Brock hazards a guess.

There’s no longer any doubt that he knows exactly how you feel about Elias.

“She loves him but that scares her even more. Because if she loves him, she could lose him. And Christmas has always been the time to remind her of loss and heartbreak. So she assumes it’ll just end in hurt this time too.”

“It doesn’t have to,” Brock says.

And you know. Somehow, writing the story, you realized that. Because as you wrote about this girl, that was exactly like you, you found yourself not wanting to give the story a realistic ending. You wanted to make it right, wanted her to end up with the person who taught her how to love Christmas and how to love him.

So you did. You gave your story a happy ending. And in doing that, it’s like you gave yourself permission to want a happy ending for yourself, too.

But there’s just no way. Life isn’t a fairytale, and the Christmas cliché where the girl who throws it all away gets back her perfect boy by stealing Santa’s microphone in the mall and making a grand speech about how pushing him away was the biggest mistake of her life, simply isn’t real life material.

“It’s not too late, you know.” Brock’s sitting up straighter, almost as if he wants to come through the camera and tell you in person. “If you wanted to change the ending. You could. He’d let you.”

Your heart starts beating faster and it has nothing to do with the caffeine you’re drinking.

All this time, you’ve been wondering. Wondering if it’s too late.

“How would I do that?” you ask. “Hypothetically.” 

Brock’s grin is so bright you nearly have to close your eyes. “Send him the story,” he says, without thinking about it; the jerk probably has been thinking about this since you started telling him what it’s about. “You should send him the story. Kinda like a message in a bottle.”

When you say goodbye to Brock, his eyes are fond when you tell him “Thank you” and mean it. Without him, you don’t think you would’ve had the courage, but now it feels like the only possible ending comes with you taking your Word document and putting it in an email.

--

To: e.pettersson40@hotmail.com

Attachment: Not a typical Christmas story.pdf

Message:

Elias,

I’ve tried to write this letter a million times, to tell you what I should’ve said that night. I can’t say I’m not scared what you’ll think, but who am I to know what the future holds? If my heart was paper I’d fold it, throw it to the wind and hope it’d end up in your arms. So here it is, my paper heart, in the form of the most cliché Christmas story of them all. The one where everyone ends up with their perfect happily ever after.

Signed with love from me to you,

Y/N.

--

There’s three rapid knocks on the door, and then silence.

Your heartbeat speeds up like you heard gunshots instead. Within seconds you’re on your feet, almost running to the door.

There’s only one person that could be at your door on Christmas morning at 9am, right?

When you open it, something heavy dissolves in your stomach, a sense of comfort falling over you like crawling into bed after an exhausting day.

“Elias,” you breathe.

For a second, you just stare at him: he looks like he’s barely slept at all, dark circles surrounding his eyes, which somehow seem more blue than they ever have before.

“Merry Christmas,” Elias says then, thrusting something forward. You grab it in reflex.

It’s the glass star, the ornament from the Christmas market. The one that you had told Elias you found beautiful, the one that reflected all the lights like a million little stars. The one that reminded you, even, of Elias’ eyes.

It’s still beautiful. And suddenly there’s tears running down your cheeks, warm against your skin.

Elias frowns. He looks a little worried, unsure; as if he shouldn’t be here. But God, he is here, on your doorstep, and he brought you this ornament, and you know that it has to mean what you think it does.

“I’m sorry,” you bring out. “For everything, I…”

You can’t finish your sentence, because Elias steps forward, his arms outstretched, and you launch yourself at him like a missile. He catches you easily, presses you against his chest and buries his face in your shoulder.

“I read the story,” he mumbles. You can barely make out the words, but they hit you like a ton of bricks anyway. “You believe in Christmas miracles now?”

You can hear the smile in his voice as he asks, because he already knows the answer.

“I don’t know,” you admit. You pull away a little, but keep your arms firmly locked around Elias’ waist, and his hands remain on your back. “But you’re here, so. I think I might have to start.”

Elias laughs, moving closer again to press a kiss against your head. You can feel his lips move against your hair when he speaks. “What about us? You believe in us, now?”

You don’t answer him, but you think he can tell from the way you kiss him, anyway.

--

You tug the blanket tighter around your shoulders, smiling down at the opposite end of the couch. Elias is talking in Swedish and you don’t understand a word he’s saying, but you can tell that he’s happy, smile bright and eyes fixed on the laptop screen in front of him.

He’s been talking to his family for the past hour, and watching him has been a great source of entertainment for you. He blushed when his brother mentioned your name, and finally he did introduce you to them.

“This is Y/N, I’m forcing her to watch Christmas movies with me all day and then bake cookies,” he’d laughed, and you didn’t tell him that there’s nothing you’d rather do.

“Jag älskar dig, hejdå,” Elias says, and then he finally closes the laptop. “Hey,” he hums, poking your thigh with his toe, “my mom said she can’t wait to meet you, so. Be warned.”

You laugh. “I would love to go to Sweden. I read something about cakes.”

It feels natural, to crawl over to the other side of the couch and lay down between Elias’ legs, head resting on his chest. You can hear his heartbeat under your ear and it’s enough for your eyes to close on their own accord.

It’s not like you’ve had much sleep the past few nights. But now, you think you could finally sleep peacefully, knowing that Elias is here and he’s not leaving.

His hand moves down your side, sneaking under your sweater, fingertips soft against your skin.

“It’s snowing,” he says, suddenly, and you open your eyes to look out the window.

Indeed, there’s little flurries of white powder fluttering through the grey Vancouver sky.

“That’s too much,” you roll your eyes. “The great grandmother of Christmas cliches.” Elias raises a questioning eyebrow, so you explain. “As the final crisis is resolved, everyone runs out in the street on Christmas Eve to discover that it’s snowing! In Nigeria! During a drought!”

“We’re in Vancouver,” Elias deadpans, and it’s only because you know him so well that you see the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “And it’s not Christmas Eve, it’s Christmas Day.”

“Minor details,” you shrug, placing your head back on his chest and closing your eyes again.

“We’ve gotta decorate this sad excuse of a tree.” You can hear the smile in Elias’ voice as he talks. “Two ornaments does not make a Christmas tree.”

“Later,” you hum, curling your fingers into his sweater. “We’ve got all day.”

Elias laughs. “The tree is supposed to be decorated before Christmas, typically.”

You can’t help but smile at that. “We’re not a typical Christmas story, though.”

“Maybe not typical, but still pretty good.” His arms tighten around you and you can feel him press a kiss into your hair.

“Pretty fucking good,” you agree. “If you get me off this couch today it’ll be a Christmas miracle though.”

You shouldn’t have said that: no sooner than the final word leaves your lips you’re being lifted into the air, legs dangling helplessly as Elias throws you over this shoulder. Your giggles come out a little hysterically. 

“I told you miracles are real,” he grins, unceremoniously carrying you towards the bedroom.

You’ve just come from there, but you’re really not against the idea of going back.

“What about the tree?” you squeal, lightly slapping his shoulder.

“Tree can wait,” Elias decides, as he dumps you onto the bed and lets himself fall over you, leaning on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you.

“Tree can wait,” you echo in agreement, and you let your body relax into the mattress as Elias kisses you. When he tries to deepen it, you turn away just slightly, keeping your nose pressed against his cheekbone. “Hey, Lias?”

“What?” Elias mutters, sounding a little annoyed to be denied another kiss.

You smile. “Merry Christmas.”

His laughter sounds bright.

“Merry Christmas, babe.”

[nightshade-minho]

-Nightmare- (6)

Warnings: You’ll lowkey want to slap both Minho and Y/n for being oblivious idiots

Over the next few days, things went by as normal as they could. Out in public, the two of you held hands, kissed cheeks and foreheads and went on fake dates. By the time Saturday rolled around, almost everyone on campus was aware of your relationship.

It was a dreary morning. You sat in your room, watching a movie on your laptop as you munched on some strawberries. You could very well watch said movie in the living room- but you didn’t want to run into Minho. When in private, the two of you now barely said a word to each other. 

Meanwhile, Minho didn’t know what to do. He wanted to apologize to you, but he never got the chance to. As soon as the two of you reached home, you would immediately walk into your room and slam the door shut.

He knew he had been an asshole, but he’d also gotten used to you forgiving him easily. He knew he deserved every bit of anger that you were directing towards him.

He was sitting on the sofa, scrolling mindlessly through his phone when he received a call. He checked the caller ID and realized it was Mera. Frowning, he answered it and pressed it to his ear.

“What the fuck do you want?” He sighed. 

“Are you actually dating that skank? For real?”

He felt anger boil in him. “Don’t fucking call her that. She’s my best- I mean, girlfriend. If you’re just jealous and sore that you can’t have my dick anymore, there are plenty of other guys here that would be willing to fuck you. So leave me alone.”

She tsked. “Always so hot-headed. This isn’t a booty call, I’m just calling you so that I can warn you.”

“Warn...me...?”

“Yes. You haven’t always been very nice to me, but god you were good at fucking.”

He sighed, frustrated. 

“Rina’s still pretty mad at you. She’s also desperately trying to prove that Y/n’s not your girlfriend. You two seem pretty genuine to me, but she’s convinced that you’re faking it...which is why she invited you and Y/n to her party.”

Fuck. He’d completely forgotten about the stupid party she’d invited them to. 

“How exactly..?”

“I don’t know. Just be careful. Bye.” 

She cut the call, and Minho grunted in annoyance as he walked over to your room, knocking.

You looked up from your laptop, frowning. You elected to ignore it, but then the knocks grew so loud that you pushed the bowl of strawberries aside, opening your door with an exasperated expression on your face.

He sighed. ‘Look, I know we’re not exactly on good terms right now. But, we have a crisis. I think Rina’s onto us.”

You exasperation melted away, replaced by confusion. “What? How?”

He explained what Mera had told him, watching as your expressions contorted.

“Can’t we just...not attend the party?”

“Are you mad? I go to every party. She would immediately realize that something’s up. We have to attend. We just have to be extra alert, okay?”

You sighed, rubbing your forehead, letting out a tired ‘Okay.’

He exhaled, shoving his hands in his pocket. “I’m sorry, Y/n. I really am. I don’t have any excuses. You’ve been doing nothing but help and I’ve just continued being a complete dickhead...”

You shook your head. “It’s fine.” You went to close the door. “Which time should I get ready?” 

“About 10? And wait-”

You closed the door in his face. He groaned. 

***

You didn’t come out of your room till about 9:45. Minho was still in his sweatpants when you came out, nonchalantly fluffing up your hair. 

He groggily looked up, eyes widening when he saw you in your grey graphic halter-top and black ripped jeans. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out, opting to just stare instead. 

You turned around, your eyes landing on him, eyebrows knitting in confusion. “Why aren’t you dressed yet?”

Minho cleared his throat as he tore his eyes away from you and stood. “I like being fashionably late. Also, where’d you get your outfit from? I’ve never seen you wear anything like that before.”

You shrugged. “Back of my closet. You were the one who told me that I had to match your aesthetic more, right?.

He nodded. “Well, you look hot.”

“Thanks.” You grinned.

He gave you an awkward smile before going to his room, finding a random grey turtleneck and leather jacket to throw on. He came back out, watching as you sat on the sofa, tapping your foot as you waited. There it was again...that feeling.

He grabbed his car keys, walking to the door. You looked up when you heard his footsteps, heart thumping at how good he looked. But then again, it wasn’t really anything new. 

***

When you reached Rina’s sorority house, you grimaced at the loud music blasting through the speakers. There were people making out even on the lawn, and the place was fully packed. You fought the urge to cover your ears and curl up into a ball on the floor. Glancing at Minho, you rolled your eyes at how he looked completely at ease. This was his habitat, after all.

You stayed by Minho’s side, silent as he was continually greeted by a lot of people you barely knew. You recognized Chan and Jisung, but none of the others. Soon, the two of you were finally able to enter the heart of the party, and you were already exhausted...by the end of the night, you were pretty sure you’d drop dead.

Minho made his way to the kitchen, grabbing your hand so you wouldn’t get lost in the crowd. He filled a red cup with liquid before handing it to you. You shook your head with a look of disgust and he shrugged, chugging it down and quickly replacing his cup with more. You watched uncomfortably as he was greeted by yet another guy, who gave him a high-five before chattering excitedly. Looking away, you tiredly scanned the room, boredom quickly filling your mind.

An hour went by, and you finally gave up. You snatched Minho’s half empty cup and tossed the liquid back, wincing at the taste. He gave you a look of surprise. “About time.” He said, before turning his attention to yet another person who’d come to talk to him. Hyunjin was his name. He looked nice, you noted. You crossed your arms, internally groaning, the music giving you a light headache and the alcohol burning your throat. You couldn’t fathom how this could be enjoyable in any way.

Suddenly, your eyes became aware of the redhead in the very center of the throng of dancing people. She was grinding up against a boy you thought looked familiar. In a second, you realized her eyes were on you. She smirked at you before looking away.

You poked Minho’s arm lightly. “I just saw Rina. I think she’s dancing with Juyeon.”

“Ju-who?”

“The guy at the coffee shop? He was the waiter?”

“Oh, him.” Minho scowled. His eyes searched the crowd before he found the two. He shrugged, finishing his cup before glancing at you with a glint in his eye. “Hey, wanna dance?”

You shook your head firmly. “Don’t push it. I’m still mad at you. The only reason I’m here is because of this stupid lie we’re telling everyone.” You looked back at the crowd, wrinkling your nose at the way everyone danced as if they were in a strip club. So many skimpily clad girls...you almost felt bad for Minho, having to stand by his introverted ‘girlfriend’ instead of join in on the action. You could almost sense his longing, coming off of him in waves.

You shook your head, reminding yourself that it was you helping him, and not the other way around.

***

Minho hated that for some reason, parties didn’t give him the same buzz that he used to feel. When did his definition of fun change? The amount of people coming up to him and greeting him was no longer contributing to his liveliness...instead, it tired him. He glanced at you from time to time, noting your crossed arms and curled lip, regarding the party in complete contempt. For some reason, there was a part of him that could relate.

A few hours went by, and Minho couldn’t take it anymore. He was about to grab your hand and leave, especially because the party was thinning out. A majority of the people had already left with their respective hook-ups, or were passed out on the floor.

“Hey, guys!” He groaned at the familiar voice.

You turned around, smiling at Rina.

“Where do you think you’re going? Minho, you never leave a party this early...your ‘girlfriend’ is really changing you.” She hummed. “I’d like to invite you to a little after-party with my close friends.” She gestured behind her. There were about nine people in all, excluding you and Minho. You recognized Juyeon and Mera, and the two girls from the coffee shop, but that was about it. You looked over at Minho, before sighing and nodding.

***

Half an hour later, you were sat on the floor next to your best friend.

Truth or Dare.

You were gagging internally at it. You weren’t high-schoolers anymore...surely college demanded more maturity than this? You really didn’t want to participate in this stupid game. 

Judging by the infuriating smirk on Rina’s face, you had a feeling that Mera had been right. You could feel a sense of dread surround you, and when you looked over at Minho, it was evident on his face as well.

Rina placed the bottle in the middle of the circle, spinning it eagerly. It spun around and around, coming to rest on Mera. Rina chuckled excitedly, pulling up her phone. “Truth or dare, Mer?”

She paused, feigning concentration. “Dare,” She said with a smirk.

Rina squinted at her phone. “Ah! It’s a good one. Take a fruit and eat it in the most sensual way possible.”

Mera rolled her eyes with a smile. “That’s tame as fuck.” She got up and disappeared for a while, returning with a banana.

She plopped on the floor, peeling it and getting to work. Disturbingly, she kept looking over at Minho as she did so, lewdly sucking on the phallic object while keeping eye contact with your boyfriend. (Well, fake boyfriend, but still!)

You pursed your lips, looking away...only to see Rina’s eyes on you, carefully gauging your reaction. 

“Alright, that’s enough. Let’s move on to the next one.” 

As the bottle was spun again, your mind drifted away. You weren’t thinking about anything in particular, but your brain was yearning for your soft bed and your plushie. 

“Minho! Truth or dare?” You snapped back into the present, eyes wide. 

Minho thought for a while. “Truth.” He said simply. 

Rina tapped her chin with her finger as she read off her phone. “Ooh~ What’s the most unusual place you’ve ever had sex?”

He chuckled wryly. “There’s way too many answers for that, unfortunately...too many for me to count.”

She cocked her head to the side. “Fine. Let’s narrow the possibilities down a little bit. What’s the most unusual place you’ve had sex...with Y/n.”

A sudden coldness settled itself in you as Minho sputtered in response. “Uh...sex? Um...”

The silence that followed was too heavy for comfort. Slowly, one of the girls you didn’t know the name of spoke up. “You two...haven’t had sex yet....?”

Minho cleared hIs throat. “Uh...not yet. We’ve only been dating for like, a week...” 

A dude in the corner of the room sniggered. “Come on bro, you can’t expect us to believe that you, Lee Minho, haven’t dicked down your girlfriend yet.”

Minho met your gaze uncomfortably.

“Wait...have they even kissed?”

Rina giggled. “Oh, they have! I saw it. It’s just weird because...”

She made eye contact with you. “I distinctly remember Minho pushing her away when she did it.”

You buried your head in your hands. Everything was swimming slightly, and you felt a little sick, perhaps from the alcohol you’d ingested earlier. 

“Anyhoo, let’s move on shall we? Their relationship problems are none of our business.” Rina went to spin the bottle once more. “That is, if they even are in a relationship.” She added under her breath.

The rest of the room whispered to each other as you avoided Minho’s eyes, choosing to stare at the spinning bottle. 

“Juyeon...okay Truth or Dare?”

“Dare.”

Rina tapped away on her phone before guffawing, a wide grin spreading across her features. “The dare is...you have to kiss the person right across you.”

It took you a few seconds to register that the person sitting right across him was you. Juyeon smirked and winked at you, before crawling closer, taking your cheek in his big hand and leaning in as you sat there dumbfounded. 

What occurred next happened so fast, that you’d miss it if you blinked.

Minho pushed Juyeon away, grabbing you and pulling you to your feet, his lips slamming against yours. You squeaked in surprise, the shock quickly giving way to a neediness that threatened to swallow you whole. You quickly melted into the kiss as he licked your bottom lip, asking for entrance. Opening your mouth, you let his tongue dance with yours as you made out passionately, choosing to ignore the flurry of whispers around you. Minho pulled away, still holding you by the waist. His eyes were burning into yours, an inexplicable emotion shining in them. Your lips felt sore and tingly, and you breathlessly leaned back in, wanting more.

The kiss that followed was softer, yet every bit as sensual as the last one. His soft lips insistently moved against your parted ones, wetly sucking and biting as your limbs felt like jelly. He nudged his nose against yours as you seperated, lips swollen and kiss-bitten. 

“I love you.” He whispered.

At that moment, Minho’s heart thudded loudly, feeling trapped in his ribcage as he realized that what he’d just said was true. He’d fully meant it. He loved you. He was in love with his best friend.

But all you could feel was pain. Cause there were those words again, those words you’d convinced yourself was a lie for Rina’s benefit, just as false as your relationship. You realized that you’d been stupid to think that this had ever been a good idea. Now that you finally got a taste of Minho, you don’t think you could ever go back... and it scared you. The kiss had been beautiful. It had felt like your whole life led up to this moment. But it was fake...spurious, like the rest of it.

Minho saw the tears in your eyes. He didn’t know what to make of them...or how to interpret them. It felt like feelings he’d been holding down and trapping for years were finally freed...yet he wasn’t happy. He had no idea how you felt about him. He wouldn’t blame you if you hated him. He deserved it. He hadn’t been a good best friend, so why would you want him to be more?

He grabbed your wrist, tearing his eyes away from yours and looking at the people still sitting on the ground, all wide-eyed and with expressions ranging from shock to confusion. His gaze traveled from Juyeon’s face to Rina’s. 

“We’re going to be leaving now. Enjoy the rest of the night.” And with that, he dragged you out the door.

[heyheydidjaknow]

It is 6 am. I know that it reads like I’ve never heard of pacing. Trust me, I’m aware. Quite frankly, I am entirely too tired to care. It might not even be as bad as I think it is. It’s possible, I guess, but not likely, I don’t think. I don’t have proofreaders, and it’s probably too edgy or too soon for more edge but you’re along for my ride and I’m sorry. I’ll probably rewrite it at some point, but right now I’m happy I’m even awake right now to post it. My eyes hurt and I'm a little queasy but we are powering through. Having said that, let's torture some fucking teenagers.

Chapter 12

Donatello stares at the small knife intensely.

It is an incredibly boring-looking one. Knowing as little as he does about culinary arts, he does not know the exact use of it, its size and shape giving him very little insight into its use in that environment. He is willing to make an educated guess and assume the blade itself is made of carbon steel, which is not exactly a strange choice for a knife in his opinion. It is not a combat or survival knife. It is hardly sturdy enough to last long in a combat setting. He is tempted to call Mikey to ask him to identify it for a second but thinks better of it.

After all, it fell out of your pocket. Questions would be asked.

He picks it up off the floor, weighing it in his hand. ‘This is a kitchen knife, right?’ He picks your jacket off the floor, folding it neatly and placing it on the back of a chair. ‘Why would she carry around a kitchen knife?’ He rests his head on his arms, holding the offending tool in front of his eyes, continuing to analyze it. ‘To fight? She knows carrying around a knife like this with no combat experience is a bad idea, right? Don’t people usually use pepper spray or something when they want to defend themselves?’

An image flashes into his head. You, standing alone in an alley, pointing this poor excuse of a weapon at a member of The Foot or the Purple Dragon. You, falling back and hitting your head and bleeding out with a knife sticking in your side because you fell on it wrong—‘It’s not even in a sheathe’—and trying to crawl back out into the street, begging to god not to—

He blinks, noticing his knuckles going pale around the handle, mouth weirdly dry.

He swallows. He forces his grip to loosen. ‘That’s dramatic.’ He gets up, slipping the knife back into the pocket of your jacket, hoping he put it in the right one. ‘She’s fine. She’s probably just scared after everything that’s happened. It won’t come to that.’

He sets back down, picking the last gas mask up and turning it over in his hands to give him something to do. He will not have time to properly test whether it works exactly as planned, but he is fairly certain that it and its brothers should allow them to breathe with little difficulty when they need to go into the TCRI building through the elevator shaft. If that is the plan they go with, anyways-- he had elected to stay out of the planning party, seeing as creating explosives strong enough to destroy the portal is enough of a challenge on its own, and he has faith in you and his eldest brother to come up with a good course of action. You guys always did. Bradford was dead after all, a fact that he had been informed made their lives considerably easier. In your words, “Mousers are the fucking worst, and if Bradford had gone off and recruited Stockman, we would have to deal with all of that way sooner.” You had quickly admitted that you did not know how long the peace would last, but you seemed pretty satisfied by the way things were happening overall, despite his accidentally causing the power cell to be stolen—“We’ll have the whole thing under control after this mission, don’t you worry.”

You had also claimed that you had the staking out of Shredder’s lair under control, but that is neither here nor there.

The door to his lab slides open. “Donnie,” you call, “we need to go over the game plan. How’re the explosives coming?”

‘Why is there a knife in your pocket instead of a taser?’ “Theoretically? Well.” He shrugs, getting to his feet. “I can’t really test if they work, but they’re good to go, probably.”

You smile teasingly. “They’re not gonna go off randomly?”

“Probably not.”

“Probably?” Your smile widens.

“No promises.”

“Well,” you grin, “I sure hope they’re good explosives in that case; wouldn’t wanna almost bleed out again.”

His stomach churns. “For sure,” he agrees, crossing the room as you start to “walk” back to the war room/kitchen. “Have you guys decided on anything?”

“Well,” you sigh, “Leo’s bein’ Leo if that’s what you mean. I don’t mind their plan, mind, but it seems a bit silly.” You hold the door open for him. “After you.”

“Dude, totally.” Mikey nods eagerly in agreement to something someone said. “I can get him on board, on prob.”

“Good.” Leonardo taps his finger against the blueprint splayed across the counter. “Now all we need is a big enough box.”

“There should be crates down by the docks.” Raphael looks over at you. “Any stores up top sell ‘em that big?”

“Probably.” You lean against the doorway as Donnie steps past you. “You guys know we don’t know what they’re breathing, right?”

“Yeah. So?” The green-eyed brother gestures to him. “He can figure out letting us breathe.”

“Can and did, but I’m not sure that’s what she’s talking about.” The tall boy crosses his arms across his chest absentmindedly. “If the gases they’re breathing are highly flammable—which, knowing the absurd biology of the Kraang, isn’t out of the question—” You stifle a laugh, covering your mouth, “using explosives in there might blow the roof off the place.”

“That’s good, ain’t it?”

“Not If you don’t want to be pressure cooked, no.”

“Is there some other way to destroy the portal?” Leonardo laced his fingers together, leaning his elbows on the worn island.

“Without knowing the metal they’re using?” He shakes his head. “Even if we did, I’m not sure if I could safely create hydrochloric or nitric acid, especially on such short notice, let alone transport it.”

“Then we’re screwed.” Raph looks off. “Perfect.”

“Unless you feel confident in busting out of that building on a time crunch, we’d need someone to be close enough to the bomb to actually use the detonator. Seeing as we need all hands on deck, we really don’t have anyone that could fit the bill.” Even with his back to you, you notice his tension. “Unless you guys just want to crack a window or something, but that would kinda negate the point of doing the whole stealth thing, setting off an obvious alarm.”

“That’s not true.” Mikey points out the obvious. “Y/N could do it.”

“I’m down,” you shrug, moving your hands to slide in your nonexistent pockets. “You’d need to let me know when to do it so I don’t fry you guys, but I might as well add domestic terrorism to my non-existent rap sheet.” You smile wryly at that.

You think you hear Donnie mutter something before speaking up. “I’m not sure there are any buildings high enough up or close enough to be an effective--”

“Sure there is.” Mikey, again. “There’s that apartment building across that alley. It’s plenty tall.”

“Oh yeah, huh?” Raph smiles sharply. “Even has a fire escape to climb.”

The idea of climbing anything anywhere makes you want to vomit, but the idea of having to deal with whatever goes on with the saving of Leatherhead later is enough to ignore it. ‘Stop being a pussy,’ you reprimand yourself, feeling vertigo already. ‘It’s a fucking ladder. A twenty-story high ladder, yeah, but it's still just a ladder.’

“She can’t use a ladder,” the tallest brother protests. “She can’t use one of her legs.”

“Then she can take the stairs, or we can carry her there before we go.” You take slow, deep, quiet breaths. “It’s no big deal. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind doing it, right?”

You are suddenly incredibly grateful that you are leaning against a doorframe. The idea of being carried over buildings, twenty stories into the air, makes the ground sway underneath you. You subtly dig your fingernails into the walls on impulse, trying to slowly relieve the pressure.

“It’s not about—What are you even talking about?” You barely register his bashful embarrassment, swallowing thickly. “I’m just saying…”

You can barely hear them, shutting your eyes as you feel sticky, warm blood on your fingertips, dripping down in between your digits. You wipe the phantom liquid off on your jeans quickly, thoroughly, opening your eyes to see what you register as the other three ragging on Donnie about something you do not catch. You lock your knees to keep them from shaking as bad as your hands, ignoring the nausea and staring straight ahead. ‘Your folks didn’t raise a wuss. Your hands aren’t wet. Snap out of it.’

You force yourself to focus on counting threads in your sleeves. You get to thirty-five before you feel someone shaking your shoulder.

“Dude, you alright?” Mikey was waving a hand in front of your face, having apparently crossed the room from his seat on the counter. “Hello?”

Your eyes snap up from your wrist to look at him. “Hm? Yeah, totally.” You nod. “Just zoned out is all.”

He put the back of his hand to your forehead as if he knew what he was looking for. “You sure? You look sick.”

You nod again. “Just didn’t sleep well last night. I’m fine.”

“Do you plan on zoning out during the mission?” Raphael smirked. “Don—”

“No,” you cut him off sharply. “I’ll be fine. When are you guys going?”

“A couple of hours.” Donnie is staring holes into you. “The hours listed online say actual people work until then, but the actual building is open for another few hours, so by the time we get far enough down to hopefully not feel the effects of the blast, we won’t have to worry about witnesses or people getting caught up in it.”

“Awesome.” You start out the door, using the walls to limp back to the lab. “Meetcha back here in an hour.”

He runs after you. “Need me to come with you? I can help pick a crate out.” The way his words spill out is not lost on you. “O-or I could drive you there if you want—it’s bad to walk around so much on your leg, especially at night.”

“If you don’t mind vomit in your party-wagon, sure.” You slip through the gap in the door, grabbing your jacket and pulling it on. “Honestly, Donnie, I’m fine.”

“But—”

“I walk home all the time.” You use the chair to roll over to your walker, snapping it open and getting to your feet. “I’m just going to go to a hardware store, buy a couple of the largest boxes they have, grab some dinner, and come back. Besides, you have to worry about getting in, right? I’ll be fine, really.”

He wants to argue. He does not.

“Text me if you need anything while I’m out.” You maneuver past him with a bit of difficulty. “Want me to pick up some pizza while I’m out?”

“… yeah.” He nods, shaking off the feeling sinking into his gut with a bit of difficulty. “If you want some, you’ll have to eat it on your own, though.”

You smile back at him. “I’ll get something else to eat,” you roll your eyes, voice oozing with honey seemingly unintentionally. “Don’t you worry too hard about me, now; your brothers give you a hard enough time as is.”

“Don’t get yourself killed and I’ll think about it,” he jokes, mostly serious.

You laugh. “I’ll try, Dad.”

He has never noticed how loud you walk until today. Maybe it is just that it is unusually loud in comparison to him and his brothers, or maybe it is the sound of it knocking around the concrete walls of the lair bouncing the sound off the walls, but he cannot help but notice it, how easily he can identify where you are just by listening. How has he never noticed that? ‘You could hear her down the street, walking past. Anyone with ears could tell where she is, no problem.’

He feels himself grip onto the door to keep himself from running after you and insisting he come with you. ‘If someone can hear her walking down the street, someone can hear her scream. They’ll call someone. Who would leave a teenage girl to get attacked?’ He does not answer his question.

He shuts the door. ‘And she has a point. I still need to figure out how to get us into TCRI without the cameras catching us.’ He sits back at his workstation to think. ‘It doesn’t have to be too advanced. A remote-controlled dolly wouldn’t take much time to build, and I have the code already.’

It is not an effective distraction, but it is enough to preoccupy him for a solid half an hour.

--

You are back at the time you say you are going to be back. The trip did not take you long, although carrying the boxes and food was an unforeseen challenge, and you bought yourself a burrito and soda, so all is well. You and the guys eat in the kitchen, you do not have another episode and, all in all, you almost forget about the fact you will have to be carried up a twenty-story building.

Standing and staring up at the building they had ended up next to is an easy reminder.

You swallow your dinner back, mouth dry. ‘Commit.’ You fold your walker up, hiding it behind a dumpster and hooking your arms around Donnie’s neck before you can chicken out, shutting your eyes tight, the humming of their van—you had walked—doing nothing to ease your nerves. You hear the others say something before the engine roars back to life, the tires squealing against the asphalt as they drive off.

“I’m not going to drop you,” he promises, barely noticing the extra weight as he hooks one of his arms under your thigh to pull your body flush against his. Your legs immediately tighten into a vice-like grip around his middle, pulling him even closer.

“Fucking better not.” He starts to scale the building with a bit of difficulty, with one arm otherwise preoccupied. “I’ll haunt your ass.”

He smiles at that. He jumps up, grabbing onto the railing of a fire escape and earning a squeak of terror and a quiet string of obscenities from you. He takes longer than usual out of necessity but finds a quiet joy in how hard you cling to him, swallowing laughs drawn out by your swears—his personal favorite is, “Oh fuck me Mother Mary!” which is a result of him overshooting the railing, resulting in both of you violently swinging back and forth for a time.

“Are we on solid ground?” Your voice is pleading.

“We’re on the roof, yeah.”

You let go, sliding down to your knees and lacing your fingers together behind your neck, breathing for the first time in the eternity—two minutes—it had taken to get there. You want to cry, your heart pounding out of your chest as you try to catch your breath.

“Are you okay?”

You nod once, shifting back and putting your head between your knees to regain your head.

‘Did I do something wrong?’ He crouched down in front of you, concerned. “You sure?”

You nod again.

“Are you being honest?”

“I will be in a sec,” you snap shakily.

He backs off, staying in that position.

You give yourself a count of fifteen before looking back up at him. “I’m good.” You take a deep breath, pulling yourself into him again. “Let’s do this shit before I’m not.”

The journey over is painfully silent, other than your guys’ breathing. Balance is the only real problem throughout. Holding you and making sure not to crush you makes the normal measures he would normally use to soften his falls impossible, meaning his jumps cannot be as high or far as normal—the last thing you need on top of everything else is a concussion. The trip might have been rendered shorter had it not been for the need for the Kraang to know nothing of their whereabouts, but he does not think it is too long until he moves to let go of you.

You do not let go of him.

“Y/N?”

Nothing.

“Y/N,” he says again, “we’re here.”

You do not move to let go of you, your heartbeat thundering against his chest.

“I’m going to set you down.” He unhooks your legs, lowering himself and setting you on the floor. “See?” He unlatches your arms, gently pulling you away from him.

Your face is white as a sheet, mind only barely registering the fact you were on solid ground. He would be concerned you were dead had it not been your incredibly fast pulse. You stared straight ahead, eyes unfocused.

You blink, pushing the hair out of your face as you get to your feet. “Sorry,” you mumble. “Zoned out. Tired.”

He hesitantly gives you the detonator. “Alright,” he relents. “You know the plan, right? You remember it still?”

“I’m scared, not dumb.” Your face flushes. “Sorry. That was mean.”

He blinks, confused. “It’s fine,” he shrugs. “Lack of sleep can cause irritability, especially in teenagers.” His voice is soft despite his own anxiety about the whole plan. He hands you your phone. “I’ll come back to pick you up. If I don’t in two hours, text me. If I don’t respond…” he trails off.

Your stomach drops. “You will,” you assure him firmly. “I know you will.”

“If I don’t,” he nods in agreement, if only for your sake, “hell will’ve frozen over anyway.”

You chuckle nervously at that. You reach over, cupping his face in your hands. “Seriously, though,” you make him look at you properly, “kick their asses for me.”

He smiles, his face heating up under your hands. “You got it.” He gets up. “See ya, then.” He smiles tipsily, waves, and runs off.

You watch him bound rooftops, grateful he had seemingly not noticed the violent shaking of your hands as you set the electronics down. You swallow again, dragging yourself and leaning your back against the ledge, crossing your legs in front of you. You lean over, placing the detonator down next to you carefully and picking your phone up. You shakily input the passcode, turn the volume as low as it would go, and press the speaker to your ear, sinking into a song with a slow exhale of breath. While you had refused yourself any illicit substances for the same reason you had gotten rid of your sleeping pills, you saw no issue with relying on music for some stress relief, the familiarity of the slower song letting your heartbeat match its rhythm.

You reach down, pulling your pant leg up and carefully peeling the tape from your good leg, wrapping your fingers around the handle of the paring knife and holding it at your side. Sure, you know, logically, it would do little but hinder you in a fight, but you felt as though you needed something, anything to make you feel less weak. You already feel the embarrassment from clinging onto him so tightly, tears pricking at your eyes. “You’re the literal definition of a damsel in distress,” you mumble, scoffing at yourself. “A young, unmarried woman who is in distress. A crazy damsel in distress at that.” You blink them away. “God, you’re really fucking pathetic, huh?” You chuckle, swallowing again and pressing the phone closer to your ear. “You’re almost a fucking adult and you’re scared of a little height and a little blood. Perspective, Y/N.”

It feels like an hour of sitting, knees now at your chest as you listen to music to take the edge off—‘Like taking ibuprofen for an amputation.’ Regardless of how effective it is, it does something, at least, and that is all you can ask for right now.

You jump out of your skin when your phone buzzes with a text. You fumble with it, pulling it to your face to read Casey asking if you were still free next Tuesday for his stupid fucking game. You text him back that, yes, you are, and hope he stubs his toe for the false alarm.

--

The text comes at eleven-o-three.

You almost drop the phone, the message “NOW” crossing your screen. You pick the device up carefully, craning your neck back to glance at the building across the street, feeling as though you missed something incredibly important despite knowing the contrary. You swallow one more time and slam your hand down on the button.

The sound of the explosion roars in your ears, your eyes widening at the light now illuminating the roof, images of that night burning in your head and squeezing your throat. You drop the detonator, covering your ears as the ground in front of you is seemingly set alight. It barely registers to you that it is a cold autumn night. Why would you care when all you can hear is screaming? Why bother when your heart is begging to be let out of your chest, when your blood is pooling under you and all your scars are open? All you can see as you shudder, shutting your eyes tightly, is that man’s sides slashed with glass, warm red dripping out of him and onto the dashboard.

You look up, choking on your fear.

You remember what you forgot.

The walls of the top three floors of TCRI?

They are made entirely of the glass now showering down on you.

Table of Contents

Chapter 11

Chapter 13

[geo-winchester]

Just give me a reason

Summary: things between Yn and Poe didn’t work up the way they thought they would be, but he had his reasons to be a little distance.

Warnings: a little smut and a few swearings.

A/N: Hi everyone!! I know I been out for a few weeks but really I been so busy and if I’m honest I thing I been feeling a little down lately so I also took a couple of days for myself, but I’m back and I been working on this for a few days, I kind of based on the son of pink, I hope you like it, I also sorry about all the mistakes.

——————————————

Yn was trying to keep her mind busy as she was waiting for Poe to get back from a politic mission, he’s been gone for a couple of days and know that he was coming home she was freaking out, of course she missed him but since he was elected as senator of Yavin 4 she could feel how their lives start to change and it didn’t help that after the war was over and the new republic let him keep his position as the war adviser, the things between them start to change, first he start to pass a lot of time on meeting, then he came home later than the last time, sometimes drunk, and then they start to be strangers leaving on the same house, they barely talk or see each other eyes, and how can she forget the picture of him and the new senator of the new republic looking at each other the way he used to look at her, she look at that picture on the morning on every newspaper making her feel like a fool And wish that she was back on the resistance’s base, when they were just a couple of pilots in love thinking of a quiet life after the war. She came back from her thoughts when she heard Poe’s ship landing in front of their house, he took his time to get inside, the first one to came home was BB-8, the droid came straight to her as he told her about the exciting thing that they saw.

-He really miss you- Poe said behind her, when she turn around he was leaning on the wall, in other circumstance she would run to him and hug him but now she just stay in her place.

-I missed him too- she said as she keep looking at him, he just nod at her and he put some of his stuff on the table where it was perfectly place the newspaper with his picture on the first page, he sight when he realize what was going to happen -It seems that you had a good trip...

-Yn...

-No Poe, I’m the one that’s going to talk- she said but he ignored it when he look away and saw the suitcase close to the door and suddenly he could feel the fear of loosing her start to run through his brain.

-Are you going to leave me?- she thought for a moment.

-yes... no... I don’t know- she finally said -I... I’m tired of this...

-Of what?- he tried to calm himself when he notice he raise his voice -Are you tired of me? Of us?...

-I’m tired of pretending- she said -I pretend that I’m fine, that we’re fine, but the truth is that we’re not fine...

-What are you talking about? I thought that we were fine.

-You can’t really think that Poe, when was the last time we talk?... when was the last time that you look at me the way you look at her? Every time you whisper in the night... did you were dreaming with her?

-I don’t know what are you talking about- he said.

-You’ve been talking in your sleeps Poe, and every thing you said were things you never said to me...- she stop talking as he start to shook his head.

-You doing it again Yn- he said as he pinch his nose -You trying to make a problem when we’re fine... your head is running wild again, babe we still have everything- he said calm as he put his hands on her shoulders, but she quickly move aside.

-We’re not find Poe, no mater how much you denied it.

-And why you didn’t say anything?

-I try!- she scuff.

-No you didn’t all you do was pushing me away- he said loud.

-I wasn’t the one who push away the other Poe, every time I tried to talk to you was the same answer “not now babe, I’m late for a meeting” or “not tonight yn, I’m too tired” or “you’re been crazy baby”...

-so I am the problem?- he said a little hurt.

-I didn’t say that, but ever since you became the senator everything has changed, you’re barely home and when you’re here, it seem like you’re on another world...

-I can’t stop doing this job, what I’m doing is important- he said.

-I didn’t say it wasn’t but...

-But what? We need this job, not just for our future, this job give us this house and all the luxuries we have...

-You from all the people should know that I never want a life full of luxuries, the only thing I want is a life with you, with the men I fell in love, but the life we dreamed of, is nothing like the life we’re living.

-And if is it so bad why you’re still here? Why didn’t you leaved?

-I was going to do it- She could she the hurt in Poe’s eyes -when you get back home I wasn’t going to be here... but then I looked at this- she show him at the ring, he gave it to her a long time ago and she saw how Poe’s expresión soften -When I was going to pull it off I remember all those promise and how we fought to be together, we fought against my parents to be together...

-Technically we run away together- he said making her laugh, and he realize how much he miss her laugh.

-But still we fought together every time- she said with sadness -I need to know Poe, because I don’t know if I could handle it anymore...

-Nothing happened with that girl- He said, and she nod slowly.

-But what I need to know if you regret this- she said as she point at the two of them -did you... did you still want this? I just need you to give me a reason to stay- she said but some part of her was afraid of the answer.

-What are you talking about? Of course I want this!- he get close to her -Don’t you remember what I told you that night when we get married- she smiled at the memory.

-We say a lot of thing that night- she said -and there were different circumstances, we were young and in love...

-We still love each other- he said cupping her cheek -we still can build that future we dreamed about.

-How do you know that? How do you I your not saying this just because you don’t want me to leave and after a couple of days everything would be the same way?- she asked.

-You don’t know- he said looking at her eyes -you just have to trust me honey.

Without saying a word she finally kiss him, she put his arms around his neck and bring him close to her, she gasp when he push her to the closest wall and start to kiss her neck, he groan when she bring her leg around her his waste, she could feel his length getting harder.

-You don’t have an idea how much I want to take you here- he whisper -But the kid can come in to the room any minute, when she remember that BB-8 was close she couldn’t help but laugh, she just kiss his cheek.

-Then lets go to bed- she whisper in his ear.

She didn’t even realize how they get to their bedroom until they were on the bed as he was kissing her, every time he bite her neck a moan came through her lips, she feel how he start to get down.

-Fuck baby, you don’t have an idea about how much I miss this- he sais as he take her jeans off.

-I missed you too- she moan

-I can see that- he said -Fuck you’re really soaked baby- he groan, he could feel her fingers on his hair and when his tongue start to play with her clit her grip became harder as she try to silence her moan -Don’t be shy baby, I want to heard you- he said as he insert a finger without a warning.

-Fuck Poe- she said, but he didn’t stop, he keep playing with her clit as he add another finger, he only stop when he feel her walls getting tighter.

-Wait for it honey, I want you to come on my cock- he said and kiss her again, both of them groan as he push inside her -Fuck baby you still feel amazing.

-Poe, please...

-What do you want baby? Come on baby talk to me- he said.

-I want you to fuck me...

She barely stop talking when Poe start to fuck her at first it was slow and gently but as the heat start growing he start to move faster and harder, as she keep hearing the moans of her husband and the sound of his hips crushing with her hips she could feel how she was closer to the orgasm.

-Babe... I’m close- she said as she moan.

-Let it go- he said -I want to feel you- he said and it wasn’t longer when she finally came, she could feel like if something explode inside her and when she finally calm down she let out all the air that was stuck on her lungs, a few moments later Poe came too, she couldn’t feel all his weight falling on her, when he lay beside her he bring her to his brace as he kiss her temple -I love you, you know that right- he said as he look at her in the eyes, she nod -I know that everything you said was right, I buried myself at work and I constantly pushing myself in to work but not because I didn’t want to be with you, I did it because I really want to give you that life that I promise a long time ago.

-You asked me if I remember when we get married, did you remember that day?

-Of course I do, even if we said our vows without seeing each other in front of

Leia and the control room I remember every part of it, even the promise of kissing my wife when I get back from that mission- she smile and she took his hand.

-Then you remember what I said- he nod -I told you that I was going to be by your side even if we were poor and nobody’s... I love you, Poe not the person everyone think you are, I love you since the moment you get out of that ship with Leia- he smile -I have to say that was the most interesting political visit my parents had- both of them laugh, but Poe’s laugh fade at the memory of her parents -Are you going to tell me what are you thinking?

-I just thought that maybe if I became someone important, maybe your parents would be fine with who you married.

-I don’t care what they think...

-You say that now, but... I just thought you’ll like them to be part of your life.

-I’m not saying I don’t like that, but if they want to be part of our life then they would have to be fine with the decisions I made, and I chose you- she said as she cup his cheek.

-I’ll give you a thousands of reasons to keep choosing me- he said before he kiss her.

-I have one reason to stay.

-Oh really?

-Yes, I Can let BB-8 alone with you, he doesn’t deserve that punishment- she joke and he act like if he was offended and start to tickle her -No, stop it- she said as she keep laughing -All right all right I take it back- she said as she laugh when she stop he sighed.

-Would you stay by my side and let me fix everything?-she nod.

-I love you Mr. Dameron.

-I love you too Mrs. Dameron.

[soyeahitsmiddleearth]

Return Her pt. 5

The Company (and friends) x Reader

Womanly charm and Laketown. The company only hates Bard more and more as time passes.

Bard had you close his jacket around you to hide your odd clothing and sat you next to him like before, telling you quietly to let him do the talking because he’s not too popular with the local authorities. 

So you did just that, hanging out by the helm with his jacket covering your odd jeans and shirt while he steered into the port thing with a big gate blocking the way. 

You’ve never seen anything like it. A town completely on the water that should be beautiful, only it’s dark and gloomy and reeks of poverty and hunger. 

Bard exchanges a few words with the man at the gate, they glance back at you at one point before the new man suddenly declares that everything is in order. 

Before the approval slip thingy can be given back, though, a slouchy, long-browed, greasy man slinks up and snatches the paper and hisses, “Not so fast." 

This new dark-haired man reads over the papers, then looks up and observes the barrels lined up in his boat, "Consignment of empty barrels from the Woodland Realm. Only, they’re not empty, are they, Bard?”

He drops the papers and takes a few steps forward, a weird delighted gleam in his eye at having caught the bargeman off guard. “If I recall correctly, you’re licensed as a bargeman, not a fisherman.” As he says this he picks up a fish from the barrel that Bombur is in, sneering when Bard replies. 

“That’s none of your business." 

“Wrong. It’s the Master’s business, which makes it my business- Oh.” He pauses when his eyes suddenly fall on you, his facial expression shifting slightly. “What have we here?" 

Bard looks over at you, then back at the man with irritation, "Who she is, is no concern of yours. But if you must know she is the sister of my past wife.” He lies smoothly and you find yourself feeling a bit impressed. 

“The sister of your past wife, you say?” He doesn’t seem to believe him as he saunters over towards where you’re sitting, “She’s very pretty if you look past them bruises on her face, but I do wonder why she would live outside of the city when your wife was born ‘ere." 

Oh, okay he’s attracted to you. That’s good. 

Well, it’s gross, but good because you can definitely put that to good use. 

You stand up and rack your brain for a fake name before you remember the name of one of the Elvish guards in Mirkwood, "Hello, sir. My name is Aerin.” Despite not wanting to be anywhere near this man, you take a step forward and offer a dazzling smile. 

He seems taken aback by your positive response, but not displeased for he also takes a step forward and bows slightly, “I am Alfrid, the right-hand man of the master of this town. At your service.” After he says that he throws the fish into the water and reaches for your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles, and you try your best not to cringe. 

“Bard, you did not tell me there were such n-noble men living here in your town.” Alfrid wasn’t looking at your face, but if he was he’d see that you don’t look very happy. 

Bard stares at you blankly for a few moments. He knows what you’re doing, they all do except for Alfrid apparently, and he just feels so bad for your poor soul. 

The slimy man lets go of your hand and steps back, smiling at you with his crooked, odd teeth before turning back to Bard with the same scowl on his face. “Anyways, these fish are illegal." 

"Empty the barrel-”

Before he can finish you speak again. “Bard! How much longer is it going to be? I’m simply yearning to see my nieces and nephew again.” You put extra emphasis on the word yearning and look the creepy man directly in the eyes, smiling coyly before looking back at the dark-haired bargeman. “I know that your devilishly handsome friend here is cross with you, but I really must go see Ta-er- Tilda and the other two.” You think you got the name right. 

Flattery get’s you everywhere in life, because your seductive euphemism and shameless compliment seem to make him forget all about dumping the fish out over the edge of the barge. “Handsome?” Ugh, he sounds all too happy about that. 

“Aerin I’m afraid Alfrid is upset with me, so I’m not sure how much longer we will be.” Bard plays along, crossing his arms over his chest as he shakes his head, “Forgive me my dear, I pray that this won’t take much longer." 

Alfrid looks between the two of you a few times before settling to look at your face, a sickly pleasant smile coming to his face, "No, no. I won’t hold you any more.” He walks back a few paces and steps off the boat, raising his arm, “Raise the gates and welcome our new guest warmly." 

And just like that the gate is being raised and the lot of you are gliding through the entrance with no further obstacles. 

"Until we meet again, my dear.” He says as you pass by, that same unnerving smile on his face. 

You release an all too enthusiastic giggle at his words and wave with faux-shyness, turning only once you’re at least a few meters away.

As soon as you’re out of sight you collapse down on the box and start rubbing the back your hand against his coat, “Ewww, I can’t believe I let him kiss me.” You complain while still rubbing your hand in an attempt to wipe away the awful feeling. 

“I can’t either. That was quite the performance.” He sounds amused, and when you glare up at him he looks it too with only hints of sympathy, “If I hadn’t known better I would’ve truly thought you were taken by him." 

"Ugh, shut up.” You stop wiping your hand on the coat and look down at it as if you expect there to be something smeared all over it from his too wet lips. “God, maybe I should just cut it off." 

"No need for that. Allow me.” The bargeman leans down and takes your hand in his, lifting it up so he can press a kiss in the same place. “There." 

Holy shit. 

Your face goes hot and when he lets go you allow it to fall back to your side, "W-Well now you’ve indirectly kissed him, so while I may be fine now you’re stuck with the knowledge that your lips have technically touched his.”

At your words there is raging that comes from inside the barrels. 

Bard grimaces at your words, it seems he didn’t think of it like that, but he doesn’t allow that to deter him, “I need not worry about that for long, because once your friends get out of those barrels I’m afraid I won’t last much longer.” He pauses, then adds with a smirk, “Or perhaps you can return the favor?" 

No one can hear it, but you’re screaming internally. 

The raging only gets louder, so you shake your head and stutter out, "N-No way, I don’t want your blood on my hands." 

He laughs at that, nodding along as he listens to the grumbles and yelling coming from the barrels of dead fish. "If I am to die anyways then surely you can make an exception.”

“You’re really pushing your luck, Bard! Your death is of when, not if anymore." 

—

Eventually you did get near his house, but then one of his kids came running up saying something about their house being watched, and so your poor friends ended up having to come through their toilet. 

Dwalin came in first, and the glare he threw at Bard was so withering and dark you nearly cried. Not really, but it was scary.

Bard only seemed to find it funny, though. 

Everyone is inside and wrapped up in record time (since it’s the only recorded instance of dwarves and a hobbit coming in from a toilet, it’s only natural that it would set a record), and none of them seem to happy about any of this. 

You get along with Bards children rather easily, his youngest is a total cutie pie, but ultimately after that fiasco at the gate you’ve got to hang out with the company a bit more so they don’t murder the poor bargeman. 

They’re given some extra clothes to change into and you elect to stand outside with his daughters while everyone changes, conversing with the younger one about her hobbies and other things she likes. 

Eventually their brother pokes his head outside and says it’s okay for you all to go back in, and when you do you’re met with the sight of shirt dresses and too long coats. 

You feel bad for them right away and head over to where they’re all hanging out by the fire, your eyes immediately falling on the shivering Bilbo.

Right away you go to his side and sit next to him, wrapping your arm around his shoulders to share some of your own heat (since you dried off quite a while ago and changed your jeans out for a pair of leggings you had in your backpack). You pull him closer into your side so his cheek rests against your chest, rubbing his arm lightly to create some warmer friction."I hope you don’t get sick…” You mumble worriedly, looking down at his red face. “Oh god, you’re already going red. You’re not coming down with a cold, right?" 

There’s some laughter from the others but you ignore it since you’re suddenly feeling very worried for the small hobbit. 

He doesn’t have much body-mass or fat, so surely he’s absolutely freezing. 

"Oin, maybe you should come check on Bilbo!” You call, looking up to see that they’re all laughing at you and not something stupid like usual. 

You pause and look around in bewilderment, “What’s so funny?" 

Nobody responds to you, instead they just keep on chuckling and laughing like they’ve just been given an entire stand-up comedy performance. 

"Gosh, let the lad breath, Y/N!” Bofur exclaims between laughs, only causing everyone else to laugh harder. 

You furrow your eyebrows and look back down at Bilbo, still completely confused, “What are you talking about? He’s breathing just fine, isn’t he?" 

This goes on for a few more minutes, you being baffled and asking questions while everyone else takes jabs and makes jokes, before you finally realize what they’re laughing at. And the only reason you realize is because of the very inappropriate comment Kili makes (despite looking a little pale).

"Hey Y/N, I’m feeling rather cold too, can I have a turn?" 

And then there’s more boisterous guffaws and unmanly giggles. 

You look back down at Bilbo and see that you’ve pressed his poor face right into your breast, and while you definitely didn’t do it to be weird or anything it seems that you’ve successfully embarrassed him. 

"Oh you complete idiots!” You yelp, loosening your hold on Bilbo so he isn’t pressed so firmly against you, “He's cold !” You cry disapprovingly, shaking your head at these immature and lecherous jests, “You wouldn’t be joking like that if I were a guy. Or if it were you!” You grumble, looking away from their overly humored gazes in favor of looking at the wall. 

They don’t quit their laughing for another minute or so, but when they do calm down you and the poor hobbit are both successfully humiliated. 

“And this is why Bard is my favorite.” You hiss at them, eyes narrowed with an irritated expression on your face.

There’s no more laughter after you say that, and you feel smug at the frustrated and angry looks that pass over their faces. 

“I can’t believe you let those men kiss you. They’re all hideous.” Dwalin growls, crossing his arms over his chest like he usually does. “You could do much better." 

"Kiss me? My hand you mean?” You ask, raising an eyebrow in question, “Hey, if I didn’t play up that charm y'all woulda been found out so fast. You should be thanking me." 

"Wait, so it wasn’t an actual kiss?” Bofur pipes up next, an expression that looks way too relieved on his face. 

“Um, no. Why would I let them kiss my mouth? I care about you guys and all but I gotta draw the line somewhere." 

"Maybe not that other guy, but you sure seem fond of Bard.” Fili grumbles.

“Oh my god, this again? Are we really gonna have this conversation again?” You really thought they were over it. How foolish of you.

Nori sits up a bit and exclaims, “That was before he kissed your hand!" 

You groan over dramatically and throw your head back, "Guyyysss,” you begin in a whiny voice, “It was my hand! My flipping hand!" 

A few of them huff, but nobody says anything else about it. Thank god. 

—

When Bard returns from whatever he’s doing the dwarves immediately bombard him about the weapons they were promised, and he leaves to go get them.

Only, when he comes back he’s met with a lot of outrage cause his weapons are pretty shitty. 

You watch from the opposite side of the table as Bard, looking at the weird grappling hooks and stabby 'weapons’ he provided them with. Also some weird hammers too. 

From what you’ve seen, these guys only accept the best of the best when it comes to weaponry, so this just ain’t cutting it. "Um, is this all you’ve got?” You wonder out loud, looking at the pathetic bundle of makeshift things. “Like, you haven’t got any swords or fancy things like that? These guys are total divas about that kinda stuff, so…" 

The others around you grumble at your slight jab and at the poor quality of the things they were given until they start to complain about paying him for weapons and these being trash, bla bla bla. 

Yeah, you totally called it. 

They all continue to argue and Bard says something about an armory, but your attention is grabbed by the sight of Kili and his old man walking stick. 

He’s struggling to sit down, no doubt from the awful wound on his leg, so you zoom over quietly (but quickly) and say in a hushed voice, "Hey, you’re not lookin’ very good, Kili." 

The brown-haired prince doesn’t look up at you right away, but when he does you can see very clearly just how pale and tired he’s looking. 

You take a seat next to him and place your hand on his non-injured knee, glancing over to make sure everyone else is distracted before whispering, "Are you okay?" 

He doesn’t do or say anything at first, looking down at your hand for a moment before looking back up at your face, "I’m fine." 

Fucking liar. 

"Kili, come on. Everyone else might just take that and roll with it, but you’re clearly not. You need to rest more." 

Your concern only seems to frustrate him, though, for he rolls his eyes and shakes his head stubbornly, "No, I already told you I’m alright. This will pass, and when it does you’re going to feel really silly for being so worried." 

You fix a glare at him, not removing your hand still, and shoot back, "And when it doesn’t, you’re gonna get your ass kicked by me. If you’re not gonna rest or deal with this, then at least let me clean it up so it doesn’t get infected." 

He stares at you for a few moments as if trying intimidate you into dropping it, but you return the look with a steely glare that says you’re not asking. 

Eventually he sighs and drops his head back, "Fine. Do as you wish." 

"Good choice." 

You pull your trusty backpack off your back and open it up, looking through it quickly to see if there’s anything there that you could use. When you catch sight of some cotton balls your expression brightens. "Oh, nice.” You take the bag out and place them next to you, then grab the water skin that they gave you and some tweezers you kept in your makeup case. 

Without hesitation you move onto the floor on the other side of him and kneel down so you’re closer to eye level with his nasty wound. 

Ew. 

You unwind the wrap slowly, glancing up occasionally to make sure you’re not hurting him, and once you’re done you drop it on the ground and crinkle up your nose at the unsightly hole in his leg. “Yikes, you’re the biggest fucking liar in the world." 

He doesn’t get a chance to retort because right away you gently grab the front of his leg to add a bit of press to test just how tender it is and if it’s still bleeding. 

It is. 

More blood begins to well up and you barely keep yourself from gagging, and he groans quietly in pain. 

You take your tweezers and cotton balls and place them on the bench next to you, then go for your waterskin. 

A handful of cotton balls and a bit of splashing later, and you’ve got some wet cotton to work with. 

The tweezers tips clink together softly when you close them a few times just to make sure they work right, then you grab one of the cotton balls with it and begin to gently clean up the area around his arrow wound. 

Very quickly the white fluff of the wet cotton turns red and smushy, so you drop it with the gross bandaging and grab another. 

This process of cleaning, dropping, and getting another goes on until it looks mostly cleansed, and once it is you begin to search for something else to bind his leg with. 

You sit there and think for a moment before an idea strikes you. 

Once said idea comes to your head, you sit up a bit straighter and wrap your arm around his thigh from the bottom, reaching up to touch your shoulder to see if your sleeve can properly wrap around his leg. 

"Uh, Y-Y/N? What are you doing?” He mumbles, looking at you oddly. 

“I’m trying to see if it’ll fit…” You say absentmindedly, slowly letting go. 

He chokes on air and splutters, “What?!" 

You don’t reply and instead pull both your arms out of your sleeves, lifting it a bit so your head goes in and you can get your arms out properly, and once both arms are poking through the hole for your head, you pull your head through too and secure it just above your chest. "There we go." 

Once that awkward sight is through with, you grab the sleeve of the arm just wrapped around his leg and begin trying to rip it off. 

It looks so much easier in the movies. 

You pull and tug and even try to bite at it, but it won’t give like you thought it would. 

After a minute or so of trying to rip it off with brute strength, you stop and glare at the offending piece of fabric, "Awh, freak…" 

You put your arms back into your shirt properly and return them through the sleeves, standing with irritation on your face, "Don’t move a muscle or I’ll cry and tell everyone you called me fat.” You threaten before approaching Sigrid, Bard’s oldest daughter. 

The two of you whisper for a moment, then disappear into another room only to appear again minutes later. 

You’re now wearing a soft red blouse (one of her nicer shirts) with your long sleeved white (it’s not really white anymore) ringer shirt hanging over your arm. 

With quick steps you walk over to Fili, who was speaking with everyone else, and tug lightly at the back of his borrowed shirt. 

He pauses in his listening and turns to look up at you, raising an eyebrow in question. “You’re wearing something new.” He comments. 

You ignore said comment and hold out your shirt to him, “I need you to get the sleeves off. It’s for Kili." 

Before he can ask questions you go back to said brother and kneel back down, taking a dry cotton ball to soak up the blood that had begun to gather while you were busy. 

Right before you finish with dabbing at the blood, Fili approaches with your now tattered and destroyed shirt, both sleeves held out to you in pretty good condition (though the same can’t be said for the torso…) all things considered. 

"Thank you Fili.” You beam, taking the sleeves from him without hesitation. 

With deft movements you tie the ends of the sleeves together tightly, pulling on it to make sure the knot is good, before beginning to wrap it around his leg. “Do I have to do it tightly, or is that not a good idea?" 

"Wrap it tightly enough to where it’ll stay on and clot the wound, but not too tight that it’ll make his leg numb.” Fili responds, crouching down to watch as you begin to gently but firmly wind it around his thigh. 

“Like this?” You ask, pulling on it a bit to make sure it doesn’t loosen or fall. 

“Yeah, that’s good." 

Once you’re done, you tuck it under one of the first coils and tie it firmly. "Is it too tight?” You ask, glancing up at him with furrowed eyebrows. 

Kili shakes his head, releasing a shaky sigh, before reaching down to smooth his hand over it, “Thank you, Y/N…" 

A small smile comes to your face as you get up to sit down next to him. "Where would you fools be without me?” Your voice is good natured and humorous, but he can see the worry hidden in your expression. 

“Probably dead.” He jokes, looking over at Fili who laughs lightly. 

“That sounds about right." 

You wrap your arm around his shoulders much like you did to Bilbo earlier, looking down at the stark white of your now ruined shirt being used as a binding for his leg, "So long shirt.” You mumble. 

You look back at Fili and open your mouth to say something, but you cut yourself off when you feel a weight pressing against your left boob. 

Fili starts to laugh, and you don’t even have to look to know that he’s trying to be sly. 

Kili elected to lean against you much like Bilbo earlier, and though your eye twitches and the thought of flicking his nose passes your mind, you allow it.

He’s wounded, but as soon as he gets better you're definitely going to kick his ass.

And you tell him as much. 

“You’re so freaking lucky you got shot.”

[wellhellsbelles]

i’ll be your violent overnight rush

another chapter to my riarkle new girl au! this is them first getting together for real, so sort of a backtrack from the last couple of chapters. 

enjoy!

ao3 link found here.

//

So they’re not boyfriend and girlfriend. They’re just two friends who happen to live in the same apartment together, have made out once, are certainly attracted to each other, but never admitted to each other that they like one another. And maybe . . .

Maybe it’s supposed to stay like that.

Maybe it was a fluke that they kissed and Riley saw galaxies while Farkle’s hand rested on her waist, pulling her closer to him like there was nothing stopping them.

But part of her wishes—no, hopes—that it wasn’t a fluke, because she likes Farkle. She really does. He’s incredibly smart and makes her laugh and feel safe—and who cares if she’s wondered to herself what it’d look like if they had kids!

The point is, she kind of really, really likes Farkle, and he doesn’t seem to want to do anything about it.

It all sucks.

“Listen, the only thing I can make for you all is a margarita, so that’s what you’re all getting tonight,” Maya says, setting down several glasses in front of their table along with a margarita pitcher to share. She had only just begun bartending and was struggling very much so, but she did know how to make kickass margaritas, so Riley couldn’t complain.

“All I asked for was whiskey. Whiskey,” Zay complains. Maya gives him a pseudo-pout.

“Oh, I’m sowwy. Did wittle Zay not appweciate what his fwiend got him for fwee?” she says mockingly.

“Free, you say? Then I’m sold. Carry about your business,” he waves her on, grabbing the pitcher from the middle of the table as she leaves to pour himself a glass.

Riley was there with the guys for their Friday night drinks at Adam’s, a bar they had frequented for a very long time. She didn’t mind going out with them for drinks, especially since it was a Friday and she didn’t have to teach the next morning.

She did, however, mind that she was pressed against Farkle in the middle of the booth, Zay and Lucas their bookends keeping them in place. Riley was trying hard to ignore the electricity she felt every time he brushed up against her, was trying to ignore the way his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down that made her just want to run her tongue up the length of his neck.

A freaking arduous task, yes. She has it really bad, fuck yes.

On top of that, he just had to wear those black jeans with the denim button-up that looked amazing on him.

God, she should just bed him and get it over with! Maybe that would clear the air between them. Or not. Who’s to say.

“Alright, scooch, Zay. I’ve gotta talk to Maya,” Riley nudges Zay. He groans, sliding out of the booth and gesturing for her to get out. She does so, muttering, “Watch my purse!” before stalking off to find her best friend.

When she finds Maya, she’s struggling to mix a drink, and Riley can only watch as she fails miserably.

“Maya, are you sure you really want to bartend?” Riley asks, sitting at the barstool in front of Maya.

“Yes,” Maya grits her teeth, obviously frustrated with the drink. “Why are there a billion various types of drinks? Can’t people just order a beer and get it over with?”

“Hey, can I talk to you about something?” Maya ceases wrestling with the drink to listen to Riley.

“Yeah, hon. Shoot.”

“So say there’s this . . . guy,” Riley begins, and Maya quickly cuts her off.

“It’s Farkle.”

“What?! Pfffft, nooooo,” Riley scoffs, and Maya raises a brow at her.

“Riley, I see the way you look at him. Also, no one starts off a normal conversation with, “So say there’s this . . . guy.” You already make it sound like an abnormal situation.”

“Damnit,” Riley curses. “That’s not the point. The point is, I think I really like him and we’ve already kissed once—”

“Whoa whoa whoa. Wait. Did you just tell me the two of you have kissed? And you didn’t think to let your best friend know of this fact like, the second it happened?!”

“Sorry! It was just a . . . weird . . . situation. Like we’ve been scooting around each other awkwardly all week in the apartment kind of weird. And you’ve been busy trying to figure out how to be a bartender.” Maya sighs.

“Fair. But next time you better tell me what happens!” Riley smiles at her, resting her chin in her hand.

“So, are you going to give me advice?”

“Advice on what?”

“Farkle!” Riley exclaims, frustrated with her best friend. Maya shrugs.

“I don’t know. Maybe just drink and see where the night goes. He’s been casting glances this way the whole time you’ve been here, anyway, so you’ll probably be doing stuff in the bathroom stall by the end of the night.”

“Maya.”

“Riley, trust me. He may not say it in his words, but he does say it in his actions. Besides, why are you rushing it? Why don’t you just let whatever happens happen and then just figure it out along the way? You’ve always been too desperate to push things forward in a relationship, so why not take it slow instead?” Riley groans inwardly to herself.

She’s right, damnit.

“Fine. But if this doesn’t go well I’m blaming you!” she shouts as she leaves the bar, heading back to the guys’ table. When she returns, she knocks her foot against the wood of the booth, indicating to Zay that he needs to get out.

“What did the two of you talk about?” Lucas asks as she slides back in next to Farkle, swallowing hard.

“Oh, Maya just wanted to talk to me about whether or not the bartending thing was a good idea,” Riley answers.

“No,” the guys all resound, and she shoots them a pointed look.

“She was asking me, not you guys. And she’d like to try this out, so you guys better shut your traps or else,” Riley threatens them. Zay whistles.

“You know, you’re a little hot when you act vicious.”

“Oh yeah? Do you guys think that?” she turns to Lucas and Farkle, grinning. Lucas nods his head while Farkle shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“Not gonna lie, he’s right,” Lucas agrees. Riley looks at Farkle.

“And what do you think, Farkle?” He’s making a point of not returning her gaze, and Riley loves it.

“You know, it’s like, it’s just a . . . you know. You know what it’s like,” he sputters, gesticulating wildly. Riley snorts and rolls her eyes, reaching across the table to pour herself a glass of margarita. As she takes a sip, she thanks Maya silently for making her margaritas so strong.

She’s gonna need it to get through this night.

 //

 After finishing their second pitcher of margaritas together, Zay demands they all go to the club nearby. Riley figures it’s probably because Vanessa texted him about it, but she can’t really complain too much. Her outfit is club appropriate (as Maya informed her after she ran up to her, frantic about the prospect of going to a club)—a red velvet top, black skater skirt, and black mule heels. Riley doesn’t intend on being there a very long time, though. Clubs aren’t her scene as far as she’s concerned, and she’s not going to sit around and pretend like they are.

She will admit, she does want to dance for a bit, though. And maybe if she can get a certain someone to dance with her, then perhaps it won’t be all for naught.

Unfortunately for her, as soon as the four of them are inside, the guys maneuver right out of her sight, and Riley feels like she wants to hit them upside their stupid heads. Instead, she distracts herself by going to the bar for a drink.

She orders a tequila sunrise, sipping on it as soon as its delivered to her and watching as people gyrate on the dancefloor. Riley’s none too keen on dirty dancing, the only kind she likes being the movie, but she likes the atmosphere. It makes her feel adult, like she’s finally getting to experience what people her age experiences every day.

Before she can order a second drink, she spots Farkle being a wallflower on the other side of the room, deciding that he’s: a.) being ridiculous, and b.) definitely going to dance with her. It’s probably the alcohol in her system making her brave, but she doesn’t give a damn. She strides up to him quickly, taking him by the hand before he has a chance to argue and leading him to the dance floor. Riley can feel him tense up the whole way over, but she chooses to ignore it for the sake of what she wants.

And for now, what she wants is to dance.

“Dance with me, Farkle!” she yells over the music, swaying her hips to the beat.

“Okay?” he shouts back, giving his best attempt at dancing but failing miserably. Riley laughs, enjoying just being there with him, but Farkle must think she’s laughing at him because he stops right away, his expression panicked as he turns to disappear. Riley elects to follow him, knowing fully that if this were any other time she probably would’ve been too nervous to do so.

Thankfully, she’s able to follow him as he ducks into the hall and inside a nearby closet, startling him as she walks in, closing the door behind them. She makes sure to lock it for privacy, shifting towards him after.

“Farkle, are you alright?” she asks.

“Dancing is not my thing,” he breathes. Riley offers him a sympathetic smile.

“That’s okay. I hope you know I wasn’t laughing at you. I was just happy to be with you,” she explains, hitching her breath after the last comment when she realizes what she’s said. Riley settles a second later when she notices it was the right thing to say, because Farkle’s grinning softly back at her, and suddenly it’s just the two of them and nothing else.

“Riley, we should probably talk about that other night,” he begins.

“Yeah, we probably should.”

She waits for him to say something, anything. She holds her breath as the silence washes over them, thinking to herself that this is it, this is the moment where he takes back the kiss and calls it a mistake. But then he opens his mouth, and . . .

And he doesn’t.

“I don’t take back that kiss. I know it made things weird, but I just . . . I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it and you, and I just really like you a lot, Riley. More than I thought I could ever like a person,” he admits, inching closer to her. Riley’s legs begin pulling her towards him then, too, as if they were both magnets.

“Me too, Farkle. I like you a lot, too,” she whispers back, and those must be the magic words, because Farkle’s drawing her against his chest as he kisses her deeply, his fingers threading through her hair gently. Riley’s heart explodes within her, her brain a billion circuits fizzling all at once.

She’s embarrassingly excited by his touch, enough to reach out to push him up against the wall, but he reciprocates with equal excitement, hooking his hands underneath her knees and pulling her up. He shifts them around so that she’s the one pressed up against the wall, nipping at her jawline after. A small mewl escapes past Riley’s lips, and Farkle swallows hard in response.

Riley resolves to put this experience in her “top ten sexiest moments” memory bank.

They’re a mess of unresolved sexual tension in that closet. Riley’s been pretty vanilla her whole life, but her body is on fire and she’s been waiting for this moment for a long while, so she doesn’t really much care how far they go. All she wants is Farkle, Farkle, Farkle, and the inevitable meeting of his skin against hers.

Unfortunately for the two of them, their intimate exchange is cut short by a knocking on the door, followed by Farkle accidentally dropping her legs and knocking his forehead into hers.

“Shit, sorry,” he mutters as the two of them jump apart, trying desperately to fix themselves up in a way that doesn’t appear incriminating (but totally will anyway.) Riley glances up at him wide-eyed and Farkle offers her a similar expression before unlocking the door and opening it.

“Alright, c’mon you two. Outta the closet,” the man, obviously a janitor of sorts, points behind him. Although Farkle and Riley are unbelievably embarrassed, the man couldn’t care less, as if this sort of thing had happened a bunch of times before (and probably has.) The two of them skitter out, not stopping until they’re tucked away in a corner close to the door, about as private as they’ll get in a club.

“Sorry,” Farkle says sheepishly, his face red as a beet. Riley smiles at him softly, tilting her head.

“Sorry for what? It was embarrassing, sure, but I don’t regret it.” Farkle beams at her after that, causing Riley’s heart to skip a beat as he reaches out with his hand, intertwining his fingers with hers.

“Wanna go back to the apartment? I think we’ve been out enough for the night,” he tells her. Riley nods, squeezing his hand.

“I’d love to.”

[chenziee]

Shingeki no Pocky Day

[read on AO3] || [read the whole series]

Ships: Eren/Levi, Armin/Annie, Sasha/Connie Rating: General Audiences Words: 1338 College AU, Teacher/Student relationship (past), POCKY!!,pretty much everyone is at least mentioned

Note: It’s really silly, and just me pouring out my passion over pocky. It’s from last year. I know I could technically weite a knew one but... yeah. ^^;; Also, I didn’t read it over because I was too scared to realize it’s actually really stupid, so there might be mistakes. Don’t hesitate to point them out to me :)

“Annie, what’s with the bag?” Eren questioned as soon as the girl sat next to him in their lecture hall, a giant, apparently full plastic bag in tow.

The blond looked at him with a blank expression before pulling something out of said bag. Eren could only stare at the small red box in Annie's hand as it was the last thing he expected her to bring out. She just shrugged, opening the box while stating in a bored voice, “It's Pocky day.”

Eren continued to eye her warily during the whole lecture as she slowly ate one stick after another. About halfway into class he decided he couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled out his phone and shot a quick text to Armin, ‘think ur gfs gon crazy’.

The response was immediate. ‘???’, was all it said.

‘Shes eatign pocky.Brougt a ehole bag of it&is esting it’.

‘Oh. Yeah, I know. I helped her stash up on it’.

Now it was Eren's turn to return only question marks.

‘Annie loves that stuff but usually holds back on it. Only once a year she goes all out and that happens to be today’.

Eren stared at his screen, then at Annie, who ignored him completely in favor of taking notes and chewing on yet another stick.

‘Some people are weird’, he thought.

As every Friday lately their group met up that day in their favorite bar to catch up as they were all majoring in different things and didn't see nearly as much of each other as they were used to during high school. This week the group was extra large as not only none of the now-university students had any exams to study for nor projects to work on, but also a bunch of Levi's friends decided to come.

The kids, safe for Eren, Mikasa and Armin, still felt weird hanging out with their old high school teachers but they were slowly getting used to it. Getting drunk together and listening to Hanji spill all the embarrassing stories sure helped as well.

Every time a new person arrived during the evening, they questioned the box constantly lying in front of Annie. Annie quickly got sick of answering the same question over and over and elected to ignore everyone, leaving her previously enlightened friends to explain, instead aggressively munching on the snack, switching between flavors as she eradicated one box after another.

Eren was honestly amazed she still had any left.

Or that she hadn’t gotten sick neither from it nor of it yet.

Of course, first thing Sasha did after her eyes fell on the treat, was to try and steal some. Too bad she was so obvious about it because the next thing she knew, she was kneeling on the floor in front of expressionless Annie with her hand forced into an awkward angle, pleading for mercy.

Luckily, Armin immediately intervened, soothing his girlfriend and saving Sasha from a broken wrist. The second the grip on her hand loosened, Sasha ran away with tears in her eyes, and for a good while kept hiding behind Connie who didn’t hesitate to laugh at her even as he massaged her hand to ease the strain that had been put on it.

However, this incident put a probably disastrous, definitely very dangerous and potentially genius idea into Hanji’s head.

The second Annie left to order another round of drinks for the table, she immediately had to share.

She leaned over the table and took a deep breath.

“Fuck no; shut up, Shitty Foureyes...” Levi groaned into Eren’s shoulder before she managed to get a single word in.

“I didn’t even say anything yet!” Hanji pouted as the rest of the table laughed.

“You were about to and I’m telling you that no, whatever shitty idea you came up with is shitty and no one is going to agree.”

Hanji narrowed her eyes at her best friend. “You’re just scared Annie would beat you.”

“Ooooh,” Petra drew out dramatically, breaking into a fit of giggles when Erwin groaned and Mike snorted in amusement.

Levi ignored them, too busy glaring at Hanji. “There’s no way the brat could even touch me.”

“Stop lying to yourself, Shorty.”

Jean scooted away from Mikasa looking horrified at what she just said, an action that only caused Eren and Armin, who were used to the two throwing teasing jabs at each other, to exchange an amused look. Levi didn’t even react.

“Then you better prove me wrong,” Hanji grinned, knowing she’s won.

A beat of silence passed, before Levi finally cracked, “Fine, let’s hear it.”

“Sorry to break it to you, guys,” Marco interrupted, “but Annie’s coming back.”

Suddenly the tense – or amused, depending on if you were Levi or not – atmosphere broke away and chatter restored.

Levi leaned back into Eren’s side but soon had to stick his elbow into his boyfriend’s ribs to make him stop chuckling. “Sorry, but Hanji’s got you so figured out; it’s funny.” Eren mumbled, not sounding very sorry.

Levi grumbled until Eren pressed a small kiss to his cheek in apology.

Hanji practically vibrated by the time Annie left the table again to go to the bathroom.

Finally, she leaned forward and shared in mock-whisper, “So I came up with a drinking game.”

“Oh great,” mumbled Erwin, already looking forward to having to take care of a bunch of drunk college students and high school teachers acting like college students. Petra patted him on the shoulder compassionately, yet not planning on holding back herself.

Hanji continued when she was sure she had everyone’s attention. “We try to steal Annie’s Pocky. Whoever chickens out, is caught, or glared at in prevention, has to drink.”

“So... Sasha already lost,” stated flatly Mikasa.

“Why?” cried the girl in question in protest. “We haven’t started yet, before doesn’t count!”

“But Annie’s glaring at you constantly to keep you away,” Jean pointed out, to which Sasha sulked visibly but couldn’t argue against.

Armin sighed. He expected something like this. “It’s at your own risk but go ahead. But I’m not participating. The worst that could happen to you is broken wrist; I dare to say the risk for me is far greater.”

“Ooooooooh,” echoed in response around the table.

Armin immediately flushed beet red, throwing the first thing his hand came into contact with, which happened to be Jean’s phone as the boy was sitting opposite of him, at Hanji, who was making obscene gestures at him.

“Hey!” Jean scrambled to collect his phone as everybody else started laughing hysterically.

“That’s not what I meant!” Armin tried to correct his mistake; however, he knew it was too late. The damage was done. He groaned, burying his face in his hands, planning to never come up again.

By the time the game was called off, there were several findings made.

Jean was hopeless. He lost even to Sasha as he was apparently physically unable to be sneaky. Annie caught him every time he tried, even that one time when Annie was making out with Armin after a round of pocky game and everyone else managed to steal a stick or two. He nearly lost his hands twice and was completely drunk before anyone else got even close. However, funnily enough, Ymir, as much as she boasted, was in a much similar situation and honestly, the group couldn’t fairly decide who was worse. The only thing that helped Ymir’s case was that she had better alcohol tolerance than Jean.

On the other hand, Mike apparently had some secret talent for stealing as Annie never caught him. Everyone was impressed. Or had been at least until they counted the score to see who won and Krista came up with literal dozens of the sticks that no one noticed her ever taking. To say they were impressed, a little scared and felt very much betrayed would be an understatement.

Krista was officially announced the Queen of Pick-pockets and they never looked at her the same way again.