#and then there was radio silence until an email arrived just now and there she was!

[convexicalcrow]

A wild 5am Porl appeared! O:

She's so pretty oml. <3 And she and Tilly come off the base too. I love her. <3

Box art under the cut for anyone interested.

[thathopelessromantic]

Reckless Good (2/?)

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia/My Hero Academia

Fic Rating: Explicit

Chapter Rating: Teen+

Pairing: Todoroki Shouto/Midoriya Izuku

Note: Part of the @tododekubigbang for 2021! I’m super excited to share this AU with everyone. And please check out the awesome compaion art from @cryptidcatgod for chapter six!

Todoroki Shouto had accepted his fate as a public figure when he became a pro-hero, but there are some parts of his private life he would like to stay private. When he gets invited to be a speaker in a college lecture series, he goes to the meeting with one goal: to give the coordinator a piece of his mind and finally put an end to people hounding him for information about his family.

The last thing he expects is the curious, and quirkless, hero- and quirk-study professor, Midoriya Izuku, who has no interest in his family’s history, and, somehow, even more ties to the hero industry than Shouto. Intrigued by the professor, Shouto tentatively agrees to the lecture series, unknowingly intertwining their futures.

But the more Todoroki sees of Midoriya, the more questions he has. When a villain attack leaves them living together until the culprits are apprehended, maybe he’ll finally get some answers.

AO3: (x) Chapter One: (X)

“You agreed?” Kyouka all but shouts into the phone. Despite her over-the-top reaction, Shouto’s still not sure who is more surprised out of the two of them.

“I didn’t exactly agree. I just didn’t…say no.” Even as he says it, Shouto is aware that from him that is basically an agreement. God what was he getting himself into?

Kyouka is talking rapidly but he’s not entirely sure that she’s talking to him. The range of emotions she seems to be going through is impressive, though. Finally, she takes a deep breath and asks, “You’re going to talk about your family?”

Shouto sinks to the ground outside the building and leans against a tree. He hasn’t put back any of his “protective” civilian clothing and there’s a good chance of him being seen by more students, but he doesn’t have the energy to move again just yet.

“He didn’t ask me to talk about my family,” he finally admits. It’s stupid, he doesn’t even care about this kind of thing, but it wasn’t until he said it out loud that he realized how relieved he is that someone wants to talk about something – anything - other than that. “He wants me to talk about my quirk.”

They sit in silence together for a few moments. Shouto can hear the muffled sound of Momo talking to Kyouka in the background, likely asking what the hell was going on. Kyouka doesn’t seem to know what to say about this revelation, or the breathless way Shouto is talking about it, so she settles with, “So I guess he’s not a fame-hungry douchebag?”

The idea of Kyouka calling the bright-eyed, bushy-tailed professor that almost makes Shouto smile – almost. “No, I don’t think he is.”

“Huh,” Kyouka sounds almost as surprised as he is. “So, this is good, right? That you agreed?”

“Uh, I’ll let you know when I figure that out.”

Kyouka snorts, but at least she sounds more like herself and not as off-kilter as he still feels. “Think you’ll know by Friday? Momo wants you to come over for dinner.”

Shouto shakes his head. “I doubt it but, sure. Thanks.”

“Good luck, Todoroki.”

They end the call with promises to try to talk down Momo from the interrogation she’s probably already planning (from Kyouka) and the chocolate cake from Sato’s bakery for dessert on Friday (from Shouto).

 X

Shouto wouldn’t say he was waiting for the professor’s email, but after the third comment on his surprisingly frequent use of the phone, he forces himself to push the meeting from the previous day from his mind and focus on work. He and Momo started their agency in Musutafu together a few years ago, and as the only senior-hero in the office for the night, he needed to set a good example. Especially when Monarch, a sidekick who had followed him when he left Gang Orca’s agency to start on his own, was in the office too, and had no qualms about tattling on his weird behavior to Momo.

At least the others were still a little too intimidated to cross him, though he had a feeling he could only rely on that hero-worship for a little while longer. There were only so many times you could watch someone put their hero-suit on backwards or accidentally salt their coffee before you stopped fearing standing up to them.

Most of the night is rather easy after pushing the email from his mind. Patrols are pretty much standard. The lack of activity means most everyone who was in for the night could relax, or make a good dent in any paperwork or reports piling up after busier days.

Until the alert for a villain attack comes in.

Shouto rushes out at the first alert, accompanied by one of their newest sidekicks, Sunspot, but by the time they reach the site of the attack, the radio is a flurry of activity, and his pager from the agency beeped with at least three more alerts.

Downtown is a disaster area. The evening traffic is backed up for miles, and cars in the few blocks closest to the fight have all been abandoned. At least one building is already rubble, and two more look on the brink of falling.

“This is Entropy, where-” before Shouto can finish his offer of help, he recognizes Chargebolt’s voice cutting through the chatter.

One of the villains is headed towards the Rainbow bridge! he yells over the radio. He has a hostage!

Shouto takes off towards the bridge before he has even finished speaking, throwing an order for Sunspot to rendezvous with the paramedics gathering on the fringes to help with the injured as he leaves.

“What’s the quirk?” He asks, aware even as he does that he might have to go into the fight blind.

There are three! What are you talking about? Someone he doesn’t recognize snaps over the line.

Entropy, thank God, Ingenium’s voice drowns out the cursing. It’s hard to isolate them, they’ve been working in tandem but the one headed towards the bridge seems to be able to melt things – organic and inorganic material both. Be careful.

The bridge comes into view, and there is the fleeing villain, zipping unencumbered through the streets on what almost looks like lava, bubbling and expanding under their feet.

Shouto throws up a wall of ice a few feet away. It won’t stop them, especially if it is lava under them, but it could slow them down at least for a moment. He doesn’t see the hostage Chargebolt had mentioned until he gets closer. It is a terrified looking child, bundled against the villain’s chest, wrapped in some kind of bindings that keep it from fighting the hold or screaming for help. The bindings look sickeningly like Aizawa-sensei’s old capture weapon and if it is even a little similar, Shouto knew there was no way the child would be able to get out on their own.

“Stop!” Shouto calls, throwing up more ice. He blocks the villain in on all sides, but the bottom of the ice is already beginning to melt before he has all the walls up.

The villain finally looks up to where Shouto stands on the top of one of his melting blocks of ice. Their face is covered by a traditional kabuki mask, and when they laugh the familiar robotic sound tells him they are using a voice modulator.

“Entropy! This ice won’t hold me forever!”

It doesn’t have to be forever, Shouto thinks, reinforcing the bottom of the ice, just long enough for backup to arrive. Normally he could encase the villain in ice, limit their movements just in case and, if he was lucky, cool them off enough that they couldn’t melt it fast enough – assuming their quirk was even heat based – but he doesn’t have enough information now, and there is too much of a risk with the child hostage involved. He hates fights like this. He’d never been good at trying to negotiate with villains, and there was too much risk for his usual long-range fighting style.

He has an idea, but it is a risk. It is a dumb risk. And he prays if he dies down there Momo isn’t actually powerful enough to somehow revive him just to kill him again for his stupidity. But he jumps off the ice, landing a few feet from the villain. He sinks a few inches into the goop surrounding them. It helps absorb some of the shock of his landing, but already he can feel the oppressive heat rising from the ground. His boots are steaming a little, but so far, the heat protected material is holding up. Hopefully it will be enough.

The closer he gets to the villain the hotter the air becomes, and he can feel his right side trying to help regulate his body temperature.

“Give me the child,” He demands. “They shouldn’t be a part of this.”

The villain laughs again, but their voice comes out more muffled and sluggish than before. He has a feeling whatever support equipment they were using hadn’t been designed to withstand this kind of heat for so long.

“That’s what you don’t understand, hero. They are the reason for this!”

Shouto tries to look reassuring as the small child stares pleadingly at him, muffled cries coming from behind their bindings, though he isn’t sure if he is successful.

“What are you talking about?”

“They’re the key!” The villain yells, squeezing the child closer to their body, and Shouto hates to see the way they squirm uncomfortably. “A hero like you with a perfect quirk could never understand! Though I suppose, even you aren’t invincible, are you?” The villain swipes at their mask with their free hand, leaving a dark, sooty handprint over the left eye-slit of their mask. “How much heat can you really withstand?”

Shouto ducks out of the way just as the villain sends up a wave of melted material where he had been standing seconds before. The ice wall behind him sizzles at the contact, melting away a perfect person-sized opening.

Shouto holds up a hand, ready to throw up more ice before the villain can break through the weakened wall, when from the other side Ingenium and Mr. Smith burst through. Shouto propels himself upwards with ice, grabbing Ingenium at the last moment as Mr. Smith hardens the melted material around them, trapping the villain’s feet in the stiffened rock. Shouto drops them both back down and Ingenium shoots off towards the villain. Ingenium throws a punch, and hand-to-hand combat might not be his strongest selling point as a hero, but the villain is already at a disadvantage trying to hold onto the child. At least with the confirmation that they had kidnapped them intentionally, rather than just as leverage or protection, it meant they were less likely to do something that would hurt the child.

The rock around the villain’s feet is already beginning to melt again, but Shouto wraps ice around their legs, keeping them immobile enough for Mr. Smith to catch up, stiffening the villain’s shirt as they lift an arm to defend against Ingenium. They wave their hand uselessly, unable to move their arms much more in the cast around them. Shouto reaches for the child, carefully wiggling them out from the villain’s trapped arm. They catch his arm as he extracts the child, however, and his shout of pain is drowned out only by the villain’s own anguished scream.

“This isn’t over,” they promise. And then their entire body begins to melt. The three heroes reach for them, but Mr. Smith and Ingenium’s gloves catch on fire before they even make contact with the melting body. Shouto’s ice is absorbed into the goopy mess and in a few seconds, it was as if the villain had never been standing there at all.

“Shit,” Mr. Smith swears. He glances over at the child in Shouto’s arms and winces. “Sorry.”

Shouto nods to him, agreeing with the sentiment regardless, before taking a few steps away. He cradles the child close to his chest, wishing she didn’t feel so small, wishing there was something he could do about the way she trembled.

“You’re going to be okay,” he says softly, shifting her in his arms. He tests the bindings around her torso, but they don’t give. “You’re safe, and we’re going to get you out of this.”

“I can help.”

Shouto looks up at the new voice. A hero, presumably, stands before him, but he doesn’t recognize the newcomer. Their face is covered by a dark helmet, tinted glass hiding even their eyes. Their costume is a simple dark green bodysuit, but a tool belt at their waist boasts a truly impressive number of gadgets.

Shouto holds the girl closer to his body and looks the other person over. The other hero seems to understand his hesitance and reaches for something in their tool belt. Shouto shifts his weight, prepared to run if this interaction turns sour.

“Architect!” Ingenium calls, running up besides them. “I didn’t realize you were working.”

The stranger, Architect apparently, nods a greeting to Ingenium. “I was at the hospital checking on something when the attacks started so I came out to see if I could help.” He turns back to Shouto. “I was just about to introduce myself to Entropy so I could help with the bindings.”

“Architect is part of the support team at All Might-er, Lemillion’s agency,” Ingenium explains to Shouto. “He’s a friend.”

Architect produces a small pair of scissors from his tool belt. The blades are jagged and look dangerous, but he handles them carefully, finding a space away from any exposed skin.

“This will be a little uncomfortable,” he tells the young girl in a gentle voice. “But it will be over in a flash.”

The scissors don’t seem to actually cut through the bindings, but the jagged blades get caught in the rough fabric, pulling at it tightly as he moves them. The girl twists in Shouto’s arm with a quiet whimper, but a moment later the bindings seize and then loosen, dropping harmlessly from her body.

Shouto lowers her to the ground carefully and Architect crouches to be at eye-level with her.

“How are you feeling, Kou? Are you hurt anywhere?”

The girl shakes her head, staring at Architect with wide eyes. “How do you know my name?” she whispers, awed. Shouto would like to know that too, but Ingenium doesn’t seem at all surprised by the development, so he wills himself to let it go for now.

Architect tilts his head, and though he can’t see, Shouto suspects he’s looking at him. “Entropy told me,” he lies cheerfully. “He knows the name of all his fans.”

Kou whips around to stare at Shouto. “Really?”

“Ah…yes?”

“Wow.”

Architect and Ingenium both seem amused by the child’s awe. “I bet if you’re good and go with the heroes to get checked over by the doctors, Entropy might even give you an autograph for being so brave.”

Kou’s face scrunches up in displeasure, and Shouto doesn’t really blame her, but a moment later she reluctantly agrees. Architect stands up, waving to someone through the melting ice and a few more heroes come through, accompanied by two paramedics carrying a stretcher.

A moment later two detectives come through the ice as well, and Shouto is pulled into giving a report of what happened while he was alone with the villain and if he noticed anything distinctive about the villain’s appearance or quirk that could help track them down. When he’s finally done going over everything, Kou, the paramedics, and Architect are gone. Ingenium and Mr. Smith head back to where the fight began but Shouto stays behind to melt down what’s left of his ice first with a few other heroes with heat-based quirks, including Sunspot.

Once that’s taken care of, they head back. Sunspot gives him a rundown of the intel she gathered working closer to the main fight. One of the villains was mostly contained when the other two spilt up, the one with the child presumably looking for an escape while the other went deeper into town, ricocheting off buildings and bridges with some kind of body-hardening quirk that kept heroes preoccupied trying to minimalize damage and protect civilians from toppling structures. They have since been contained, however. From the discussion on the radios, rescue and clean-up teams have already started to move in.

Near where they first joined the fight, there is a circle of ambulances, back doors flung open while paramedics check on civilians and heroes alike. Shouto scans the area for Kou. He finally sees her perched in the back of an ambulance, talking animatedly with someone crouched on the ground in front of her.  She sees him as he’s making his way over and waves excitedly. There are red marks crisscrossing her arms from where the bindings were too tight and tear tracts on her rosy cheeks, but she doesn’t seem so bothered by either any more. Shouto waves back.

The person in front of Kou stands as Shouto approaches and turns to him with a smile.

“Entropy,” Dr. Midoriya says in greeting. “Kou was just telling me all about your daring rescue.”

“Dr. Midoriya…” Shouto doesn’t stumble as he comes to a stop near them, but it’s a near thing. He leans against one of the open ambulance doors in (faked) nonchalance. “I didn’t realize you would be here.”

Kou reaches out and tugs on Dr. Midoriya’s sleeve. “See!” She exclaims in a barely contained whisper to the professor. “I told you he’d know who you were! The other hero said he knows the names of all his fans!”

Shouto is pleasantly surprised at the bright blush that comes over the professor’s face at Kou’s whispering. He runs a hand through his hair, riling up the wild curls at the top even more and glances quickly at Shouto out of the corner of his eye. He looks away just as quickly with a nervous laugh.

“Well now, Kou, weren’t you also telling me something about wanting an autograph?” Dr. Midoriya asks, changing the subject easily.

Kou sticks her tongue out at him, but turns to Shouto a moment later with a suddenly shy look. “Um…Entropy,” she starts, his hero name coming out a little muddled as she stumbles over the word.

Remembering Architect’s promise to her, Shouto starts to reach for the notepad he keeps in his tool belt before she can even finish her question but his arm bumps into the ambulance door. The contact immediately sends a searing pain through his arm. With a hiss, and just barely swallowed curse, he pulls his arm in close. Based on their gasps, Kou and Dr. Midoriya see the injury just before he does. Part of his uniform sleeve is melted. Gaping, burnt holes in the fabric reveal splotchy, disfigured skin underneath – a burn. Made all the worse by the deep blue fabric that melted into the open sore. Shouto faintly remembers the villain touching his arm just as he rescued Kou and a flash of sharp pain, but somehow he blocked it out afterwards, so focused on keeping her safe.

Now with the throbbing, searing pain at the forefront of his mind, the fact that he went this long without noticing it feels unreal.

“Sit down,” Dr. Midoriya orders suddenly, pushing Shouto to take a seat in the back of the ambulance next to Kou. “Adrenaline must have blocked the pain, but you’re going to go into shock if we don’t take care of this.”

Behind the pain, Shouto faintly registers the change in the professor’s voice as he orders Shouto around and calls for some first aid supplies to the nearby paramedics. It reminds him of the sudden way he changed in his office the other day, when Shouto mentioned his family. The cheerful, bemusing professor replaced by a no-nonsense professional.

Dr. Midoriya cuts away what’s left of his sleeve, examining the wound closely. All the while giving directions to the paramedics and talking Shouto through a shot of painkillers and the start of an IV. Shouto and Kou are ushered into the ambulance, Dr. Midoriya and another paramedic climbing in after them. In a moment they are on the move.

“The burn needs to be cleaned in a more sterile environment,” Dr. Midoriya says, though Shouto isn’t sure if he’s saying this for his benefit or Kou’s. Shouto is no stranger to the care of significant burns. Kou however is watching both of them with a nervous, teary-eyed expression from where she’s sat on the paramedic’s lap. “The painkillers should kick in soon, which will help. And the IV will help with dehydration.”

Dr. Midoriya pulls out his cell phone, still in a bright All Might case, immediately tapping away at something on the screen. “You were on the scene with a sidekick from your agency, right? Sunspot, the UV hero?”

Shouto blinks in surprise a few times before he remembers the professor’s notebooks. He nods. “How many pages of notes do you have on her?”

Dr. Midoriya gives him an incredulous look, but Shouto doesn’t know what the big deal is. With the heavy-duty pain killers they gave him, he really doesn’t know what the rush is, or the harm in a few questions.

“Just one. Well, one and a half.” Dr. Midoriya finally answers, going back to typing rapidly on his phone. “She’s still new, I haven’t had time to observe her fighting enough to gather more information.”

Shouto will one hundred percent blame it on the drugs later, but a laugh bubbles out of him despite everything at the professor’s petulant tone. “You are something else, Dr. Midoriya.” Shouto starts to sit up, but Dr. Midoriya stops him with a firm, but gentle, hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down. He gestures to himself instead, with his uninjured arm. “How did you even know how to do all this? I thought the doctor in your name was for a Ph.D., not M.D.”

The paramedic chuckles from the corner of the ambulance. “He didn’t mention? It’s both. His quirk research is not limited to just academia and theory.”

“What?”

“None of us have been able to figure out how he did it either, don’t worry.” The paramedic adds cheerfully.

Dr. Midoriya stumbles over his words for a few moments, carefully avoiding Shouto’s surprised look, before he settles on scolding the paramedic for “distracting the patient” and changes the subject.

Shouto lets it drop for now, exhaustion from the fight and the injury finally settling in, but one way or another before this damn “Hero Talks” series was over, he was getting some answers out of this professor.

[say-the-name-sebongie]

Stereo Hearts

Synopsis: Silence can drive a person mad which makes radio like some sort of hero. It just takes a while to find the right station to listen to. Pairing: Jihoon x fem!reader Genre: fluff, collegeAU!Jihoon Warnings: noneeee Word Count: 1.6k words a/n: pls pretend spotify doesn't exist yet and yes this was kinda inspired by radio rebel

_____ silently thanked whoever created the radio. She thought that she would go crazy from the silence of the room she was in. The fact that her roommate was always grouchy and complained that she couldn't do anything if there were any "annoying" sounds made it hard for her to study in their shared room. She couldn't complain about it because the free dorm room that came with the scholarship was more than she could as for. So that left her to study in the dorm common room, earphones plugged into her phone and its radio tuned on some old radio station nobody listened to anymore.

Unfortunately for her, the songs that played on the radio these days didn't have any essence. They were either about having sex or were just pure electronic noise if they weren't memes. None of which helped her study. Sure there were some good songs but that only came on the radio every few weeks. So she had no choice but to go back to her routine of ever maddening silence.

On her way to class one day, she saw a poster on the notification board at the school entrance about the launch of the university's first radio station.

"I didn't know the university had its own radio station," she mumbled to herself. The bell rang and she left the poster behind, taking note of the station numbers and promising herself that she would check out the newfound radio station after class. Station 5.26.

That night she calibrated her phone radio until she heard a voice crackling in her earphones.

" -again guys to Station 5.26, University Radio. I have to get out of here to give my shift over to DJ Woozi so here's Fly Me To The Moon by good old Frank Sinatra. Good night!"

Old-timey music wafted into her ears as Frank Sinatra sang. The girl smiled. Now there was some good music. She took her books out of her bag and started going through what she had learned that day.

Studying became a joy more than a job when she listened to University Radio. Her favorite segment was the one hosted by DJ Woozi, who she heard was a student in the university. She had fallen in love with his impeccable taste in music, ranging from hard rock and hip hop to orchestral music and old classics. But that wasn't the only thing she had fallen in love with.

Hearing his voice over the crackly speakers of her phone made her feel better. A day hadn't gone since discovering that radio station that she didn't listen to his segment, Simple Radio, all night. Even if it ended at 3am, she couldn't finish her day without hearing him sign off with his signature "Goodbye guys, and may the simplest things make you smile today."

He was her vitamin. And though she had never even seen him yet, one could say that she had fallen for him.

Which is why she was devastated to hear that the station would be offline for the duration of the coming school break.

Over spring break she could think of nothing but going back to school. Most students wouldn't want their days of vacation to end but _____ was itching for the new term to arrive.

After an eternity, the day classes resumed came. As she sat in the back of her father's car, she could barely hear him talk about how he had gotten an email from the university about new dorm arrangements. Her mind was off in another place, some specific radio booth to be exact. As soon as they stopped at the school gate she hurried out of the car, not even bothering to give her bewildered father a second look.

A bunch of students were crowding the notification board, blocking the entrance. When she got to the front of the crowd she saw that the dorm rooms offered by the university were shuffled, including her dorm room.

To: The Students

Re: Dorm Room Assignments

Dear Beloved Students,

The faculty has come to a decision to rearrange the existing dorm rooms from being separated by gender to a co-ed arrangement. This is to ensure that we make the most of the space that is allotted for the dormitory rooms. Posted below are the said room assignments.

Thank you for your cooperation.

_____ scanned the list until she found her name. Room 17, Building B. Under that was another name equating to the same dorm. Lee Jihoon. From an annoyingly sensitive girl to some strange guy she had never met, her dorm life was never boring.

She dragged her luggage to Building B, hurrying so she could turn on her radio again. Heaving a sigh in front of room number 17, she opened the door to reveal a room with two beds and a boy in front of his laptop on one of the desks that were pushed against the wall. He had brightly colored hair buried under a big pair of headphones, his fingers tapping on the desk as he listened to something on his laptop.

As quietly as she could, _____ snuck into the room. She must have been noisier than she thought because he turned around to face her. His surprisingly handsome features gathering in confusion before they softened into understanding.

"You're _____, right?" he said, his hand slightly hesitating whether it should hold itself out for her to shake or not. The girl smiled and nodded before shaking his hand which he finally decided to stretch out. He smiled, his starry eyes disappearing into half-moons. Maybe this guy was better than her last dormmate.

Over the next few weeks, she and Jihoon became friends. Meeting up outside of class and talking about absolutely anything. _____ was glad to not be in the company of someone who hated listening to music. Blasting music in their dorm room was something they both enjoyed. She and Jihoon even shared the same favorite artists so picking which songs to play was never an issue.

There was something about the boy that felt so familiar as if she had met him before. She couldn't deny the fact that she liked being with him. Not even to herself. Being with him almost made her forget about her favorite radio station.

Almost.

On one early Saturday morning, she was alone in the dorm listening to Station 5.26 yet again when Jihoon came through the door from his part-time job. "Hey." she greeted him, not bothering to remove her earphones or even look up at her roommate.

"What are you listening to?" he asked, walking to her side and peeking at her phone screen. _____ turned her phone slightly to show the boy. He turned to look at her, a surprised look on his face.

"You listen to University Radio too?" Jihoon asked her incredulously. Enthusiastic about finding another common thing between them she started gushing about how she found the radio stations and how much she loved it over all the more mainstream stations.

Her roommate just smiled as she talked, silently taking in everything she said as he put his bag down and sat on his bed. The boy stared at her smiling face and blushing cheeks, hands that moved with every word she said, dainty fingers that pointed to nowhere in particular as she spoke, eyes that shone and sparkled and luscious pink lips that he just wanted to-

The boy pinched himself out of his daydream. He couldn't be crushing on his roommate right now.

It didn't take long for her to start talking about Simple Radio and DJ Woozi. Jihoon's eyes lit up when she mentioned it. _____ spilled everything she had kept to herself, from her love for his taste in music to her embarrassing crush on him. It all came spilling out. She felt as if she could trust Jihoon with them. As her secrets came to the light, the boy's eyes became wider and wider.

"Hey, you know I work for the university radio station, you wanna come along to my shift tonight?" he offered her. His roommate immediately agreed, wrapping her arms around his neck and thanking him again and again. His cheeks burned, a reddish tint left on them when she let go.

That night they got ready to go out. _____ could hardly believe her luck. It was almost 9pm, the time for Simple Radio to come on. That meant that when she got to the studio, her idol would be there. And she could finally meet him!

The studio was a dimly lit but cozy place. It was filled to the brim with CDs and records. Several speakers hung from the ceiling and stood at every corner. An empty booth stood in the middle of the floor. Jihoon put down his bag and walked to it, fiddling with some buttons and levers. _____ walked around to inspect the shelves. She found old CDs of famous singers and unknown rock bands. It fascinated her that so much music could be contained in one place.

A crackling came from the speakers, then a voice.

"Hey guys welcome back to Station 5.26 University Radio, I'm your nighttime companion DJ Woozi and this is Simple Radio."

_____'s eyes widened. She looked at her watch. 9:00pm, it said. The girl hurried back towards the booth, expecting to see DJ Woozi. But when she got there it was only Jihoon, headphones on his ears. She watched him, confused as to why he was inside. His gaze met hers through the glass.

"I'm here today in the booth with a person that's very special to me standing outside, watching me. She doesn't know that I'm the DJ Woozi she wanted to meet so bad,"

_____'s mouth gaped open.

"Nor does she know that I like her."

Jihoon smiled at her through the glass, mouth still near the microphone.

"And I hope that my confession today will blossom into something more."

[iamdunn]

 Miraculous Flash Forward part 9: A New Dynamic

A Miraculous Fan-Fic

Written by

AJ Dunn

Adrien couldn’t wait to get back home and start making preparations. The trip to Paris hadn’t gone as badly as he was afraid it would. In fact, maybe he and Marinette could put their past behind them finally and start a life together. He had agreed to stay for the wedding since Marinette had gone through the trouble of making his Tux for him, and Nino wouldn’t have let him leave, he would have released Alya on him and that was frightening enough considering she had Trixx to back her up. Plus, Luka had Sass and he really didn’t need that kind of drama in his life. Honestly, he was happy he went. Even Nino saved a place for him after 5 years, in this case, the place of best man. 

“I will.” She had said. The memory of her words played in his mind as they swayed around the dance floor. She had agreed to be his roommate in Shanghai. She swore she didn’t want him to leave her and that she truly did love him. Plus, losing her roommate meant she was looking for a new one. He was certain though that his studio condo wasn’t going to be sufficient for them. She would need her own room and considering how flustered he made her, he would need a private room so she didn’t lose herself whenever he walked around without a shirt on. 

“Yeah, no more hanging out in the seating area in nothing but a towel,” Plagg said to him as they prepared to leave for the airport. 

“Who knows, I might occasionally forget and well…”

“You’ll be quickly reminded when she walks through the walls to get away from you.” Plagg laughed. Adrien laughed too imagining her overdramatic reactions. Adrien’s phone rang. 

“Are you sure about this Adrien?” Felix said. He had told his cousin he would need to upgrade his suite and asked for him to get him in touch with the management company. 

“Absolutely,” Adrien smiled. “I wouldn’t want her getting a cheap apartment, that neighborhood is bad news, besides, she still doesn’t speak Mandarin and I can’t have her getting lost here again can I? OH, and I am going to tell her about us.” His words came out so quickly he hoped his cousin would agree and not snap at him. 

“Do you trust her that much?” Felix sounded shocked. “Having her move in with you is one thing, but this affects us both.” 

“Yes, I do. Besides, if this is going to work, her and I can’t have secrets between us.” 

“It’s a shame she didn’t have a twin sister.” Felix scoffed. 

“What?” Adrien teased. 

“Nothing, never mind… shut up.” Felix snorted. “I’ll send them a message to call you.” He hung up. 

The flight back was a sleepless one as Adrien reeled over the idea that Marinette was coming to live with him. This will change everything. He tried to sleep but, listening to music, even tried doing some reading. Sleep didn’t come until he was back home in his own bed. He wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep when his phone rang.

“Mr. Graham De Vanily?” the voice came over. “Ah, Mr. Graham De Vanily called and said you wanted to renegotiate your lease.” Adrien refrained from laughing. 

“Adrien please.” he laughed, “And my cousin, he’s just Felix.” It is still funny when people see them together, and they have the same last name, but then call each other cousins. A thing that had always been fun. “Yes, I want a larger unit.” 

“I’m afraid the only unit we have available larger than the one you are in, is our 3 bedroom two bath unit at the opposite end of your floor.” 

“That’s perfect.” He refrained from using his cattish terminology with such a business call. Although the excitement in him wanted to so badly. 

“Fine, I shall send the paperwork over immediately, I assume you want to make the transition before the end of the month? As that is when your lease is due to renew.” 

“Yes of course.” 

“Please get the paperwork back to us promptly.” A ding came through his phone the second he hung up. It was an email from the property management containing the digital documents that he needed to Esign and return. He made haste to finish the paperwork before heading out to see Cheng Sifu and check on the temple. The sky was clear as Adrien made his way home from Cheng Sifu’s restaurant with a sack of leftovers and a few grocery items he had bought on the way. By grocery items that meant cheese for Plagg. While Camembert wasn’t available here, Manchego had become his replacement. 

They leaped from rooftop to rooftop not worried about remaining unseen as he had before the reunion. It felt freeing to just be himself and not hide anymore. His students already called him Laoshi Mao, though they didn’t know why it wasn’t Laushi Adrien. Well, Mao sounded a lot better. He slipped through the balcony door and wondered what their new apartment would look like. He was sure all of the units on this floor had a balcony. His phone ran just as he entered the apartment and before he transformed. It was a video call. 

“Hello M’Lady,” he answered in his most cattish tone. She giggled then began swatting away at some unseen thing, most likely the Kwami’s. 

“They’re all excited to be moving and they have been trying to pack for me.” She giggled again. 

“Well, I am Pawsitively feeling clawssome about it too, M'Lady.” 

“You dork.” She laughed. “Detransform and feed Plagg.” She said playfully. 

“As you wish.” he let his transformation go as Plagg darted into the bag and began tearing at the plastic wrapper. “Hold on, this guy… “ he set the phone down and tried to wrestle the package from the nearly rabid creature. “Hold on, let me open the package at least, you’re going to kill yourself.” Marinette laughed at the ordeal. It was certainly going to be interesting having so many Kwami’s around. 

Adrien reached over, picking up the phone again as Plagg stole away the now open package. “You’d think I starve him.”

“So, how was your day?” she said in a melodic tune. 

“It would have been better if you were already here.” He said holding up a clear plastic container containing remnants of the Crab stew which had become one of his favorite dishes. The container had Cheng’s restaurant label on it.

“Did you tell him?” Her face went into a look of concern. 

“I’ll have you know I am a cat of my word,” he said nonchalantly. 

“Adrien?”

“Of course not.” A look of relief as she wanted to surprise him. She even insisted that her mother and father keep their tongue too. Threatening not to write or call for a week if they did. They were so happy for her to be moving to Shanghai, not to mention in with Adrien. Their faces lit up as they began discussing nicknames for grandkids. Adrien found the whole conversation unnerving at first but when he saw the looks on their faces, the pure joy, he felt grateful they were such wonderful people. 

He still hadn’t talked to Emelie despite her condition improving. Amalie maintained the radio silence as well after Felix had threatened to cut her out of his life completely if she didn’t give Adrien space. Though, Adrien hadn’t told Marinette about all of that mess yet. He was afraid it would scare her off and he wanted her to enjoy her time here before bombing her with it. 

Weeks had gone by as Adrien packed up his studio and shuffled all of his stuff into the new apartment. The Apartment opened up into the foyers, with a partial wall separating it from the living room. The kitchen to the right just like his old apartment had a counter divider with two bar stools on the living room side. The marble decor was the same as his old unit, taking into mind the carpeting in the living room stopped before the bar stools. The coat closet next to the front door was slightly deeper like a mini walk-in.  There was a small dining table situated by the windowed wall in the kitchen. It was twice the size of his last kitchen. 

He found the stairs to the loft in the same place however instead of an open bedroom area there were four doors. One was a bathroom and the other three bedrooms. The master bedroom, being nearly the size of his last unit, had its own bathroom with a walk-in shower and jet stream tub. The second and third bathrooms were on either side of the bathroom. Adrien decided to move his stuff into the smaller of the two rooms closest to the stairs so that Marinette could have the main room with her own bathroom. 

It only took him a week to clean out the old unit and clean it even though professional cleaners would be in to clean it properly. The unit was unfurnished but the furniture from the old unit was bought by Amelie so he had a few bell boys help him move it into the new unit. He had only to buy a bed for Marinette before she got there. He had Sabine pick out some furniture online and he ordered it. 

The two weeks flew by faster as he spent more time at the temple tutoring the youth. As well as his daily chores there.

A video call with Marinette came in very early in the morning, though it wasn’t that early where she was at. She had just arrived at the airport with her parents who were seeing her off. Her bags were checked and she was standing in front of the windows overlooking the runway. 

“I can’t wait to see you, Princess.” He said enthusiastically as he lay in his bed. He tried to not let her see he was in bed or that he didn’t have a shirt on, she’d be a mess and end up missing her flight. 

“Did I wake you?” She looked guilty 

“I wouldn’t have missed this call for anything Princess, you better get on that plane you let me down now.” he winked at her. 

“Don’t worry, that was her boarding call. We are putting her on the plane right now,” Tom said. Adrien chuckled as they hung up the phone. 

“I’m just surprised you love birds are going to be in separate rooms.” Plagg teased. “How long is that going to last?”

“Hey, you have your own room now, what are you harassing me for?” Adrien teased him.

“Actually that is going to be Marinette’s sewing room, right?” Plagg had a point. 

“I mean, when she gets here, you can start staying in the miracle box with the others.” 

“Too cramped. I need to stretch my legs and be free.” Plagg folded his arms behind his head as he hovered over the bed. Adrien copied him as he lay in his bed. His phone ran again, this time it was Felix.

“I’ll be coming to Shanghai today, I am at the airport now.” He sounded rushed.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Adrien asked. It meant he would be on the same plane with Marinette. His stomach balled up. 

“A last minute showing of some new designs and they can’t seem to be able to agree on one.” Felix said something to the boarding clerk. “I need you to attend with me.” 

“I have classes, I can’t cancel them, plus I am now tutoring some of my students.” Adrien complained. It made things worse that he wouldn’t be able to spend time with Marinette. 

“I’m sure we can arrange the viewing for after your classes or before. What time is your fist class and last class….” He paused. “You know what, we can discuss that when I get there.” his voice had changed from rushed to pleasant and happy. Damn, did he see Marinette, is he sitting with her? Adrien’s anxiety tightened on his chest as he laid back against his pillow. 

After a long and nerve wracking day, Adrien stood at the airport waiting for both his cousin and his...friend? He hadn’t bothered to change his clothes after he finished at the temple, so he was still dressed in his yi-fu. He decided to wait near the baggage claim so he could help grab her luggage. Felix would likely have one bag and it was probably a carry on. Adrien saw her bags first and grabbed up. She had a lot as he had expected, they were pink with darker pink polka dots, no surprise there. As he finished loading them on a luggage cart he heard Felix’s voice. 

“Are you serious Marinette, that would be great.” Felix sounded excited, a tone he didn’t use very often. Adrien could feel the heat in his face as he tried to compose himself before turning around to greet them. 

“Adrien.” Marinette exclaimed as he turned around to catch her as she leaped into his arms. He spun her around holding her tightly and making a big show of it. “Look who found me on the plane, he wants me to come with you two to the fashion showing this afternoon.” Adrien feigned a smile. While Marinette was the fashion expert between the three of them, he wasn’t sure if his cousin’s intentions were pure, or if he was competition. 

“So, I hope you got that sare bedroom made up for me…” Felix leaned in to whisper. “Brother.” Adrien’s face burned even more now, said spare bedroom was right next to her room and well, was empty. 

“Sure, if you don’t mind sleeping on the floor.” Adrien laughed as they loaded up in the car. Felix pulled out his phone and made a call. 

“I need a spare bed set up in the Graham De Vanily room, you’ll know which room.” Adrien was amazed at how resourceful his cousin was. This is why he is the primary controlling party for the company.  The ride back to the apartment in the Taxi was cramped with Marinette wedged between Adrien and Felix. Adrien, being clearly larger than his twin, though not too much. Marinette let out a loud yawn so Adrien threw his arm over her shoulder and pulled her head into his chest casting a possessive glance to Felix, who simply smirked back to him. 

The Bus boys carried her bags to the suite. 

“I don’t know about you two, but I am famished.’ Felix said, “Shall we step out for dinner?”

“That sounds great, we should go to Thousand Delights?” Adrien smiled at her excitement. 

“Are you okay to go, Marinette,” Adrien asked “You were nearly falling asleep in the plane, you might need a nap.”

“Nonsense. She’s fine.” Felix swooped a hand over her shoulder and led her back to the curb. “Shall I call a driver to come get us, less cramped than a taxi.” Competition is then. Adrien scowled. 

“If my accommodations aren’t sufficient for you, COUSIN,” Adrien slid his arm around her waist tugging her to his side and out of Felix’s hands. “You are welcome to make your own. Felix’s smile was one of mischief as he let his arm fall from her shoulders. Her face froze in a ‘what just happened’ expression. A few minutes later a mini black limo arrived and the driver moved quickly to open the door.

“Lady’s first.” Felix insisted then slid in after her. Adrien ran to the other side to let himself in next to her. Once again, Marinette was trapped between the two, though Adrien focuses on the fact, she would be staying with him when Felix returned to Paris. 

“Where’s your ring?” Adrien finally asked, having noticed his hand free of it when his arm was around Marinette.

“I uh, Amalie,” he choked. “They want yours as well to get them refinished or something.” Adrien slipped the ring off his finger and handed it to Felix.

“I don’t know what Amalie and Emelie want with them, but they have no meaning to me.” Adrien turned to the window.

“Ooookay.” Marinette’s voice broke through the awkwardness. “Amalie? Emelie? Not mother?” 

“It’s a long story.” Felix said, patting her knee. 

“Well, tell me tonight, when we get back?” Marinette’s voice was so sweet. Adrien was glad didn’t didn’t stumble over her words like she did when they were younger, now he could have a real conversation with her and actually know the true intentions of her words. 

“We will have plenty of time to talk about that Marinette,’ Adrien smiled at her as he put his arm around her shoulders again, “But let’s just have some fun first,” He kissed her forehead, casting a glance to Felix. The thought of telling her made his stomach clench and he could tell it was difficult for Felix too. Not exactly something that comes up in casual conversation.

Cheng Sifu was excited to see him, but his confusion over the “Cousin” kept him constantly glancing back and forth between them. Felix and Adrien smiled at him, then they both laughed.

“Cheng Sifu, we get that all of the time, our mothers are identical twins as well.” Adrien didn’t mean to add that, but it was too late. 

“What he means is, we share the Graham De Vanily twin genes.” Felix to the rescue, casting a scowl at Adrien. “Which means.” smiling at Marinette, “When we have children, our wives will bear us twins.” Adrien caught the wink in his eye. 

“Well, I don’t think we need to worry about you having any children any time soon Felix,” Adrien leaned back in his seat as his empty bowl sat in front of him. He wrapped an arm around Marinette, “You have to have a girlfriend first.” He gave Marinette a gentle squeeze and a smile.

“Oh.” Felix said, putting his napkin down on the table. “And you do? I thought she was just a friend?”

“Yeah, she is.” Adrien smiled at her. “A girlfriend.” He placed a quick kiss on her startled lips. Making a show of it before Felix could question if he even had a chance. Adrien knew Marinette had loved him since day one, even though she only knew the facade his father created, but he loved her for her. 

“I see.” Felix’s tone seemed to have a playful melody to it. “I’m happy to hear that.” Cheng Sifu began to play his happiest of songs on his accordion. 

“I always knew the two of you would be together someday.” A joyful tear fell down his cheek. 

[ashsinmywcke]

@annalis-e--shadowofpanem

From the corner of her eye, she could see Vermilion checking for the validation Annalis’e felt in the moment. She was right. It was no less of a heavy burden than the rest of the duties she had, or the responsibilities that she assigned to herself. But it was rare to receive the clear, instant sign that Ella gave her, a sign that she was doing the right thing.

There were no words she could offer in the moment. All she could do is offer a nod of understanding, and hope that what she did next lived up to the hopes Ella placed squarely upon her shoulders. She carried it with determination, up the ramp and into the crate. Into the dark.

The ramp hinged up and sealed the box shut. All was silent, save for the shuffling of Vermilion’s dress as she gave her body something to do to distract herself from the nausea she anticipated.

After awhile… nothing. And then…

Vibrations and tones rang over and over from Annalis’e’s phone, slotted in the side compartment of her bag. Having been useless on a distant world, it came alive with undelivered messages, emails and other notifications as it came in contact with her home network for the first time in a little less than a week. Vermilion cleared her throat, trying and failing to swallow. She knew before the ramp lowered itself again that Dagilach was behind her.

As the crate reopened, she recognized the growing Lux Hall in an instant: the sunlight through the vast open skylight stung her eyes, but the sound of the far side of the mountain welcomed her home with open arms. But the ramp touched down on an unfamiliar platform at the end of another side of Lux, which opened into the inner cavern of the mountain and overlooked a ravine. Caution markings were painted around the box, and a glass barrier separated the crate from the rest of what looked like Lux’s newly constructed west corridor. Unfamiliar too, was the sound of Unity’s voice over the intercom: “Unscheduled Connection complete.” Guards with weapons trained on the three immediately lowered them as Annalis’e stepped out. “Stand down,” a voice over the radio said, “Unscheduled arrival. The Director is now Palace-side.” Annalis’e took her phone from her bag before a Shadow came to whisk away the bag. “Welcome home, Director.”

“You’re early!” Cyanne rushed to open the glass barricade, welcoming the travel party into the Lux Hall, albeit informally. She made her way to the crate. “I would have been here to welcome you home.” Her fingers went to work, checking Annalis’e pulse, checking for bruises. ‘Was everything smooth?”

Annalis’e smiled, waving away Cyanne’s constant prodding. “We’re fine,” she replied warmly. However, poor Vermilion rushed from the opening and doubled over, hurling into ravine. “More or less,” Annalis’e chuckled. “I see you had the crate moved ?”

“Yea,” Cyanne replied. “I figured if you’d be using it regularly, it needed it’s own designated space outside the lab. East and West hall are brand new, so picking one of them made sense. And the west had an open, defensible space to make an arrival platform. Plus the space makes it easier to study and integrate.” As Annalis’e turned back to the crate to offer Ella a hand, Cyanne finally gave notice to the third arrival.   “A local?”

“Yea…there was a development…it’s complicated.”

Cyanne shook her head, with a warm smile of knowing approval. “No. No its not. We’ll get her settled in, and I’ll call Paris and Eleanor, we’ll set a meeting time where we discuss what you’ve found and decide if this idea Mors De Lumine bullshit that Delun cobbled together can actually do some good. That about it?”

Annalis’e scoffed. “Yea. Yea it is.”

“Ok then. I’ll leave you too it. I’ll call Nora and Paris have them Palace-side by morning. I’ll let Molly know you’re back, too.” Cyanne turned and marched. It was great to see how much Cyanne had grown from an insubordinate reconditioning brat into the confident tech-savy Shadow she was now.

Vermilion returned. Green in the face. Silent, aside for her heavy breathing.

The commotion at platform finally died down. The guards returned to their stations, and Annalis’e didn’t even notice the arrival alarm until it was silenced. All that remained was the continued chatter of Shadows going back to work, and the distant waterfall. Annalis’e could finally give Ella the attention she no doubt needed. “Ok….now you can ask questions. I’m sure you have more than a few.”

The door of the crate hinged upward, clanked and bolted resolutely into position. Darkness folded around the three with a terrible absoluteness, darker than the inside of a cave. Ella had to work very hard to hold herself still, to not run and bang desperately on the door.

She shut her eyes tightly and waited. Surely something would happen; a jolt, a feeling of movement or acceleration. Anything. After all a person could not take a single step across a threshold without feeling their foot set down on the other side. She waited. 

Beeps and notification tones rang out within the metal box. Ella’s eyes popped open panicked, glancing around and just catching sight of an illuminated phone screen, her expression pulling into one of confusion.

      “Wait, what...Did it not work?”

The door swung downward, and Ella Ardente looked out into an expansive stone hall. For a horrible moment her brain lurched to the conclusion that she’d been taken to the palace, that it was all over...But no. The air smelled and sounded like rushing water, and there were other people here. Guards but also other women, one of them rushing forward to greet her escort with familiarity and kindness. Ella stepped slowly down the ramp, holding onto Annalis’e like an anchor, casting her gaze about in a stunned way. 

Taking her first breath was even more proof that Dagilach was lightyears behind her; her head spun momentarily with the excess oxygen in the air. It would take a few days to adjust. 

“I...” She faltered at the offer for a moment. There were so many questions, enough to take weeks to answer. But looking about at the grand architecture and the hangar and the people busying around with purpose Ella’s eyes swung back to Annalis’e. She looked at her with a wary wonder.

      “Who... Are, you?”

[jenniferroland]

[starter for @loverot​]

"If you can look at what's there and not eat yourself hollow with shame, you are not human anymore."

Transferring out of Mount Massive to play brain scrambler in the middle of the Arizona desert was hardly a step up. She’d put in a request for leave numerous times and been denied on the grounds that her research skills and capability as a pathologist made her “too valuable an asset” to allow her to be off the asylum campus for any extended period of time. But when a handful of her female coworkers began experiencing hysterical pregnancies from proximity to the Engine, she was suddenly a liability instead. Never mind that she experienced precisely no negative effects from it; if anything, her mind felt sharper when working on location than it ever did in remote labs, like popping a handful of Adderall. 

The segregation came without warning. Experiments and treatments went unfinished; communications went dark; theories withered and died without the proper environment in which to nurture them. Uprooted and shipped away to some toxic waste dump, Jennifer Roland never felt more useless. 

Day in and day out, she sat behind a monitor, watching religious fanatics of varying degrees of insanity fight and fuck and feast and absolutely slaughter one another. The scheduled bursts from the Towers would resound, the crew inside the lead-insulated concrete shelters would shield their eyes, and shortly thereafter, an all-out shitfest would ensue on the screens in front of them. Recovery teams were dispatched to covertly collect any bodies they could, which were promptly tossed onto the slab in the operating theatre or iced in the morgue. Occasionally, they’d get a few on the table who just refused to fucking die, and in more than one instance, Roland would return to her quarters with a black eye or finger-shaped bruises branded into her throat. 

“That’s why you get hazard pay,” she can recall Jeremy Blaire assuring her over drinks. “Relax, Jen. The building is radiation-proof. The radio waves can’t hurt you in there.”

Once rare, those desperately clinging to existence (it could hardly be called life by the time they’d arrived at the lab) were showing up in higher and higher numbers. Their presence always fucked with the medical equipment — due to the high levels of radiation they were exposed to, she was assured by Dr. Ewen Cameron — but more than that, it was affecting people: relief nurses, research assistants, those who had the least contact with them. It was Cameron himself who paged her into the telemetry lab to show her the increase in radio wave blips on the radar, seemingly organic hotspots of radiation cropping up out of nowhere. The “feedback loop,” he’d called it: such prolonged exposure to such vulnerable individuals mutated them from receivers to projectors. 

These unholy fucks were walking nuclear reactors, and they were bleeding it inside the lab.

Between autopsies of lunatics and treatment of her infected staff, Roland accumulated the most exposure to these residual waves, which is perhaps why she held out the longest. While others were rushing to the bathrooms to puke their guts out or sobbing into their workstations, Roland kept the Towers from collapsing under its own weight. Just like she had at Mount Massive, at least in her own mind. Such responsibility, of course, takes its pound of flesh, resulting in a sharp uptick of headaches and irritability in the doctor.

In fact, she kept an iron grip on the facility, even as employee numbers began to drop. Some transferred; some just dropped dead. All were required to vacate the operating sector by 22:00 hours so that it could be “defunked” for the next day. Roland, of course, oversaw this expedition, which usually consisted of hanging out in a hazmat suit and surfing what little internet they were allowed access to while the facility was cleansed. The longer she sat at the computer, the more severe her migraines would become, which she chalked up to blue light exposure. 

But when the urgent email alert – MOUNT MASSIVE ASYLUM STAFF EVACUATION – popped up in her notifications, the pain in her skull went from throbbing to blinding. The computer mouse flew from her hand and shattered on the floor as she dug the heels of her palms into her eye sockets, desperate to relieve the pressure behind them. Searing white heat tears at her retinas and she’s utterly convinced that her brain is hemorrhaging. 

Through that glaring light appear misty shadows of men in lab coats, blurred as if through a foggy camera lens: men with clipboards and scalpels and blue latex gloves. A scrawny lad in his early twenties wriggles futilely on the table, strapped to the gurney by too-tight leather restraints around his limbs and forehead. He’s fully conscious but barely cognizant of anything but fear. She can hear the low timbre of male voices floating around her, murmuring words she cannot or perhaps will not comprehend. Her focus is on the young man before her and the muffled syllables he attempts to utter from beneath his oxygen mask. Cutting through the underwater noise is the sound of her own name, sharp and deliberate, and her gaze falls to the laryngoscope clutched tightly in her left hand. 

Shifting behind the boy on the table, she adjusts her grip on the tool and removes the oxygen mask from his face. He’s drooling quite profusely. With the sleeve of her right arm, she gently mops up his mess before prying his mouth open with her fingers. At this moment, his eyes snap up to hers, pupils blown wide with terror, and though his movement is highly restricted, it’s evident he’s trying to shake his head. The raspy frantic whisper of “no, no, no” does nothing to phase her colleagues. She attempts to quiet him with a soft shushing (to absolutely no avail) and inserts the curved blade into his throat. Tears, mucus, and saliva flow together as he struggles to breathe; his eyes plead for mercy, the lightless gaze of a soul all but relinquishing itself to the higher power of Death. As she preps the endotracheal tube for insertion, Jenny tries to swallow her nerves but they catch in her throat, dry and brittle. Guilt won’t save them now. 

“Oh, God, please—”

Roland’s torn out of the vision by the inescapable urge to vomit and she rolls onto her side to wretch away the venom in her memories. With no recollection of how exactly she ended up on the floor ten feet away from the monitors, she pushes herself up and wipes away the acid from her lips. Just like she had in her memory. 

And she feels sick all over again, but not just for the fate of that patient: for all the rampant fuckery shoveled upon her by Murkoff. Psychological manipulation, radiation poisoning, blatant sexism. She enlisted in this army to study genetics, not to torture the cognitively vulnerable to the brink of insanity. 

Fuck Jeremy Blaire. Fuck Murkoff. Fuck this Project Bluebird bullshit. 

On the way out the door, she flicks a half-smoked cigarette into the server room trashcan to trigger the emergency sprinkler system. Whoops.

                                                     * * * * * * * * *

She never liked the company cars, anyway.

As the frame of the Mercedes rolls into the lake behind her (and with it all traces of her identity), Jennifer Roland makes her way through the Mount Massive Wilderness Reverse to the runoff reservoir. Armed with only an industrial flashlight-stun gun and her unlisted phone, she’s well aware that this mission will more than likely be her last. But when you’ve got nothing to lose and an insatiable hunger for vengeance, death doesn’t seem so bad.

Tucking her hair up under her cap and securing her phone in the zippered pocket of her plastic splash suit, she hoists herself up into the drainage pipe that pours into the lagoon from the sewers. The hospital isn’t even visible from this side of the mountain; according to her map, it’s about ten miles through a sea of blood, shit, and god knows what else to Mount Massive Asylum. If she’d ever wondered how Andy Dufresne felt escaping Shawshank, this is about as close as it gets.

Rats and snakes are her only company for the first several miles but in the last stretch of three, the scent of fresh death hits her like a brick wall. Mutilated corpses litter the pathways, slipping into the murky sewage and compounding the horrific stench. The closer she comes to her destination, the more pungent the odor becomes until she’s stumbling upon half-dead patients and doctors alike, as lifeless and miserable as the Temple Gate victims. The feeling of another impending migraine strikes her but she presses onward. She’s not sure what’s more unsettling: the gut-wrenching screams coming from above her head or the periodic gaps of silence between.

Drenched in blackwater, Jenny navigates her way up into the hospital block, only to be met with the gory sight of her colleagues and former patients strewed about the ward like discarded toys. She stands gravely still listening for anything — a scream, a whisper, a breath — but no sound breaks the stony silence. The only living presence in the block appears to be a few very persistent bees buzzing around her head. The doctor carefully peels away her suit and the clothes underneath, tucking them away in an air vent and replacing them with the least fluid-drench patient uniform she can find. Thank you for your sacrifice, 937. 

Jenny’s exceedingly careful not to cause too much commotion with the beam of her flashlight as she stalks into the hospital security station and logs in under one of her former colleague’s ID. The security footage tapes appear to be highly corrupted, with some of the cameras shorting out completely, but through the hazy grey static, she can just make out a man’s shadow: impossibly tall, grainy, almost translucent, as though it were comprised solely of smoke. Shredding through its victims like razors through tissue paper. Clearly, this storm of fuck is just beginning.

“Ain’t a perdy sight, is it?” 

Hot, humid breath hits the back of her neck before she can react and a spindly hand clamps down on her wrist. 

“Not as perdy as them nails, brudder.”

“Don’t talk ‘im t’death. Get the goat and go.”

“Awful s-sorry ‘bout this, boy, but I gotsta.”

Jenny’s not keen to stick around to find out what exactly it is this dissociative man “gotsta” do. Firing up the switch on the stun gun, she jabs the pointed prongs into his throat and digs in. His grip on her tightens before it releases, the perp collapsing to the ground and clutching his bleeding neck with a frankly overdramatic gurgle. 

Roland flees through a labyrinth of plastic wrap and broken gurneys, but the heavy slap of bare feet limping on the floor behind her soon catches up. And just as she looks over her shoulder to catch sight of him, her ankle snags against a tripwire, knocking her face-first into the bloodied tile. That fall triggers the release of two sheets of barbed wire that rattle towards her, coiling around her legs and torso; clearly, this trap was meant for a bigger monster than her. The barbs easily rip through the uniform fabric to sink into her thighs, calves, stomach. The more she wriggles, the deeper they sink, and the shards of shattered glass on the floor only amplify the pain.

Her only chance to protect herself is the flashlight that launched no more than a foot away during the fall. If she can just tear her arm free-

The arch of a dirty foot secures its grip on the flashlight handle.

“Just like a coward t’run. That won’t do at-tall, Dennis.”

“You shouldn’ta run, boy. Now you’ll be all bloody fer the weddin’.”

He picks up the flashlight and turns it over in his hand, checking the weight and feel of it; he decides he likes it. 

He likes it even more when it cracks like a Louisville slugger against her temple.

                                                     * * * * * * * * *

Her muscles are stiff and achy when she regains consciousness, somehow sore and numb at the same time. The swelling beside her left eye blurs her vision slightly, but she knows she’s in some sort of chop shop, upright in a DIY-patient restraint system that would make even Hannibal Lecter shudder. Her instinct is to attempt another escape, to writhe her way out of these straps if she has to chew her shoulder off to do it. There’s no telling how much time she has before someone-

...Whistling.

[scenes-in-between]

Trust No 1 (Part One)

(Pre-episode)

“I got a motorcycle,” Mulder announces as he walks into the trailer. “Now I won’t need to bother Michael for rides anymore.”

Gibson blinks, stone-faced, his back ramrod straight.

“It’s okay, I paid cash,” Mulder adds, with a bit of an internal eye-roll.  Like I’d be dumb enough to use a credit card and put myself back on the radar. Relax, no one’s going to trace anything back to us.

“Us?” Gibson says, stiffly. “So you’re… you’re not…?”

Mulder frowns, confused. And then it dawns on him what Gibson’s actually worried about. 

“What, leaving? No, of course not. Jesus, Gibson, you really think I’d do that to you?”

“I know you’re thinking pretty loudly about getting on that bike and not looking back. And I don’t even blame you, but--”

“Oh, hell.” 

Mulder shuts the door and walks over to where Gibson is sitting. No matter how much practice he’s had at policing his thoughts, he still slips up all the time. And yes, of course he’s been thinking about going home, pretty much from the moment he saw the bike sitting parked at the gas station with a “For Sale” sign stuck to it. Of course he has. But it’s a fantasy; he’d never actually do it. No matter how little regard he has for his own safety, how much he’d be willing to risk if it meant seeing Scully again, he owes Gibson way too much.

“Gibson, I am not going to abandon you. Okay?” He concentrates, so there is no disconnect between his thoughts and his words. “I promise. Not after everything we’ve been through, everything you’ve done for me.”

Gibson studies him for another long moment, then gives the barest nod of his head and finally relaxes his shoulders. Mulder punches him lightly on the upper arm and gives a lopsided grin.

“I mean, I know I’m kind of an asshole sometimes, but come on. I’m not that big of an asshole.” 

***

Fifty-seven days. Just over eight weeks. That’s how long it’s been since Mulder’s last email, the one in which he warned her that he wouldn’t be able to write again for a while.

Not that his warning has stopped her from checking.

The internet cafe has become part of her routine. On Saturdays like today, when she’s not helping Doggett and Reyes in the field, Scully stops by with William on her way to run errands. A couple of days a week she doesn’t need to be at the Academy until noon, so she takes a morning walk to the cafe before her mom arrives to babysit. The baristas know her order by now - chai tea on the weekends, coffee with milk during the week - and are friendly but not chatty. It’s honestly probably too routine and predictable, or it would be if she were the one in hiding. She’s identified a handful of other “regulars,” but none that give her cause for concern; everyone here tends to keep to themselves. 

Chai in hand, she finds an empty computer and parks the stroller. William is dozing, bundled up against the late December chill outside, and the coffee shop is cozy and warm without being stifling. Scully has removed her gloves but doesn’t bother taking off her coat; that would be an acknowledgement of the hope that this time she will be staying longer than a minute or two. She tries to convince herself that she expects the empty inbox, that she won’t be disappointed by another day of radio silence, that her stomach won’t do a backflip at the sight of “3 new messages” because she knows they will all be spam.

It is a futile exercise.

Fifty-seven days. She’s managing. Raising this baby of theirs and molding young minds at the Academy and praying every night for Mulder’s safety. She has to believe this is temporary, and that eventually they can be a family again. A real family.

Suppressing a sigh, she logs off and tries to turn her focus to the day ahead.

***

The day after Mulder comes back with a bike of his own, it pours. Gibson is guiltily, but deeply, relieved. He wants to trust that Mulder won’t abandon him, knows all too well how people’s inner thoughts can be complicated and contradictory, but at the same time, he can’t help worrying.

The rain, however, does not dampen Mulder’s fervor. His trips to the larger library have been fruitful, and he has been hard at work on a plan to breach the facility that the old man in Gibson’s dreams spoke about. He spends the entire rainy day poring over everything he has printed at the library, papers carpeting the floor, seed husks piling up on the table.

***

The New Year arrives without fanfare. Scully doesn’t turn on the TV to watch the Times Square coverage (she hasn’t managed that since she and Mulder watched together, two years ago, in a hospital waiting room). For that matter, she doesn’t even make it to midnight. After William goes down for the night, she takes a bath, drinks a glass of wine, and crawls into bed.

On the surface, this year looks much the same as the last. She’s still alone, still wondering where Mulder is and hoping he’s all right. In truth, though, so much is different. She has William, for one thing, which on its own is a bigger difference than she can properly express. For another, up until a couple of months ago, she was hearing from Mulder somewhat regularly, receiving assurances that he was, at least, alive. She still worries - of course she does - but it’s nowhere near the same. She has good cause to believe, far more than she did a year ago, that he is going to be okay, and that they will eventually be together again.

That doesn’t make the waiting any less frustrating or the loneliness less sharp. But the absence of a constant, exhausting undercurrent of despair is both notable and welcome.

Next year, she vows to herself as she drifts off to sleep. We are going to figure this out and eliminate the threat, and next year he’ll be home. 

***

For all that Mulder intends, truly, to keep his promise to Gibson, the temptation to flee home to Scully continues to gnaw at him. Now that he actually has the means to do so, that he can envision concrete steps toward a way out of exile, it’s almost painful to pull off the highway in another town, heading toward another library, instead of just pressing on. But he did promise.

What he can’t resist doing, however, is writing to her.

It’s been almost ten weeks since their last correspondence, and even if it means he can’t return to this particular library again, he has to do it. His fingers tremble as he opens a blank email.

“Dearest Dana…”

[mypassionfortrash]

Quarantine dream: day one.

It’s the Great Quarantine of 2020, and you and Roger find yourselves cooped up together. Will you get on each others’ nerves, or do you love each other enough to weather the storm? Warnings: Mentions of really weird sex stuff (as a joke), strictly 18+ Notes: New fic. It’s a bit on the nose, but if we don’t laugh, we’ll cry! I’m going to try and update this daily. Full disclaimer, it was written quickly and might be very disjointed.

Day one.

The missus is working from home now. We’re essentially going to be housebound for the foreseeable. She’s already forbidden me from revving the Porsche too loudly in the garage, coming into her ‘designated work space’ between the hours of nine and five, and trying to help her with the cooking and cleaning. Apparently I’m ‘getting in the way.’  I’ve been cast out to my ‘man cave’ during the daytime... and god help me if I leave to scavenge for snacks or even a cuppa!

Which one lives, which one dies, we’ll see! I have a feeling only one of us is getting out of here alive.

In other news, John sent me a video of him and Ronnie in Tesco. Trolley piled high with TP. Now I have the overwhelming urge to brave the dreaded Coronavirus and get the shopping in a couple of days early.

I’m clearly going to go mad, aren’t I?

One more hour of work. That’s what you told yourself as you settled back at your makeshift desk in the spare room. One more hour and then you could get the dinner on. 

Working from home was harder than you imagined. Not having the commute was lovely, but only having contact with Roger – as much as you loved him – was enough to drive anyone to the edge of sanity.

And it was only day one.

Hunching over your laptop, you scrolled through the emails that had piled up during your tea break, now wishing you could just have a meeting. Times had changed and you didn’t have time for 800 word emails about your company’s next rebrand.

Soon enough, something out in the garden caught your eye.

Roger emerged from the garage, his white t-shirt spattered in dirt and grime from a day of tinkering with his collection of four-wheeled loves. He moved swiftly, shaking his head as he looked down at his phone.

You heard the back door slam closed and his footsteps trudge upstairs. Silently praying he wasn’t coming to bother you, you counted his footsteps in your head, imagining every door that lined the hall.

“You’re never going to believe this, darling!” Roger called.

Your eyes burst open the second he entered the room.

Roger leaned over you and thrust his phone in your face, so close you could barely see what was on the screen. “Look at John!” He screeched. “Look at him!”

“What am I looking at?”

Roger’s voice kept going up an octave every sentence until it made you wince. “The bastard’s cleared out Tesco! Look at his bloody trolley!”

Huffing and rolling your eyes, you turned around, going nose to nose with him. “How many kids does he have?”

Roger quietened down. “I don’t know,” he shrugged, “a lot?”

“Well, I don’t thi–”

“You’re not telling me that’s their weekly shop though. They’re stockpiling toilet roll! It doesn’t make you shit yourself! I’ve got a good mind to go down to Tesco and–”

“And what?”

Roger’s attitude came in peaks and troughs but now he looked utterly sheepish, sinking on to the edge of the bed and batting his lashes. “Maybe do the shopping a couple of days earlier? If you want.”

You sighed and leaned your head on the back of your chair, allowing your eyes to wander towards his. You couldn’t say no to him – he made it impossible for you. “One more hour of work and I’ll come with you to supervise.”

Roger’s eyes narrowed as a broad smile lifted his features. “Good.”

As Roger rose to his feet, you reached out to grab the hem of his shirt, pulling him into you. Your lips met with an audible sigh and a fleeting kiss. “And for the love of god, jump in the shower and change your clothes.”

“Why?” Roger smirked. “We’re only going out during the apocalypse.”

An hour and a clean shirt later, you and Roger bundled into the Range Rover to embark on the five-minute drive to Tesco, completely unsure of what you’d find when you arrived.

The radio droned on in the background, covering the latest developments from the Prime Minister’s daily press conferences. Roger listened on with disdain as he drove – he never had much time for politics at the best of times – but he still listened intently. The situation was getting serious enough to worry him. 

Boris bumbled through the airwaves but his message was clear: stay home.

“It’s what we should be doing,” you sighed, leaning forward to reach into your handbag.

“What?”

You took out a box of latex gloves. You, being the sensible and prepared one, always made sure you had some in the house. Blowing into one and slipping it on your hand, you mumbled your response. “Staying home.”

“What are those for?” Roger asked, glancing over at you snapping on the other glove.

“We’re being careful. But you can’t guarantee everyone else is.”

Roger’s hand found your thigh and gave it a reassuring squeeze as the car spun around the corner into Tesco’s car park.

Neither of you were sure of what you were expecting. 

Chaos? Crowds? Cars everywhere? 

You and Roger sat in silence as the car thudded to a halt right at the front door. There wasn’t a soul in sight.

“This is creepy,” Roger stated. “Bet we’ll be going in to empty shelves.”

“It’s going to be ok,” you said, jumping out and heading towards the door. “Remember the shopping bags in the boot!”

You could hear Roger groan as he retraced his steps. “This is why I hate going shopping with you,” he grumbled, fumbling through the boot for the almighty Bag of Bags. “We’re rich enough,” he wittered, slamming the boot. “We can get plastic carriers.”

From the corner of your eye, you could see him stomping back to you as you grabbed a trolley. A small one, so Roger wouldn’t succumb to temptation.

“…All because some little Swedish girl’s bloody whining about the planet getting warmer… not a bad thing if you ask me.”

“What are you droning on about?” you asked, grabbing the Bag of Bags from him. You hoped that putting them in the small trolley would lessen the amount of space available to him too.

“Greta’s probably having a fucking field day,” Roger mumbled. “Us using those bloody sacks for the shopping. No cars on the road.”

“It’s not a bad thing. We’ve been in London how many years? And when have we ever been able to get a proper breath until now? I quite like the lack of traffic.”

“Make the most of being able to breathe, darling. Corona’s a bitch, I’ve heard.” 

The sight of the baron wasteland in front of you stopped you in your tracks. No people, no food, just rows and rows of empty shelves. 

“I have a list,” you said meekly, taking a crumpled piece of paper out of your pocket.

Roger laughed. “Good luck with that.” He barged past you, peering over his shoulder. “I’ll take the cleaning stuff, fruit and veg, and toiletries. You check the rest.”

Empty supermarkets were strange places. Flickering lights and empty shelves, the only sound came from the creaking wheels of your trolley as you snaked the aisles for something – anything – from your shopping list. The only items  left were either expensive or things you’d never be able to cobble a meal out of. Bread and pasta were non-existent in this liminal space, as were eggs and flour, so you couldn’t even make those from scratch. All you managed to find were two sorry looking ready meals, a bottle of gin and a tin of chopped tomatoes – none of which were on your optimistic list.

Roger didn’t do much better, either. He seemed to spring out of nowhere with armfuls of Bayliss and Harding soap at a fiver a pop, a two-litre bottle of bleach and one measly aubergine.

“What are we going to do with that?” you asked.

“What, the aubergine?” he smirked, waggling his eyebrows.”That gin might loosen me up enough.”

“Oh, fuck off! When have we eaten aubergine, Roger!”

“Well,” Roger began, grabbing the trolley, “it’s like that nature man from the telly says. Adapt, overcome… and...”

You glared up at him, “and?”

“I don’t even remember.”

“This is dire.”

Having checked out your scant supermarket haul, you and Roger embarked on the drive home, trying to figure out what you could do with the food you had found.

“I’ve always wanted to shove an aubergine up my arse,” Roger huffed.

“Why’d you think I kept these gloves? I’ve seen the weird shit you’ve been watching,” You mused. “Oh! Moussaka! We still have mince!” you squeaked, bobbing up and down in your seat.

“Kill the mood, why don’t you,” Roger laughed. “But yeah, moussaka could work.”

“I think this apocalypse thing might just turn out ok after all.”

[cherry3point14]

Stranger Than Fanfiction: Ch 3

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Dean x Reader Warnings: Meta baby. Pure meta. Word count: 2,100. Chapter Summary: Your google search turns up something unexpected. A/N: No author in this one for... reasons. Also this one is kind of short and lame. A means to an end if you will, but trust me, Ch 4 is a doozy. P.S it’s nearly 3am so Chapter 4 will be up when I wake up, ya dig.

Ao3 if you prefer

It’s almost funny how dramatic the voice in your head wants to be about those suited criminals and yet it doesn’t care to elaborate on anything important. Like, say, your imminent death. The mention of it was so casual, calm, but a couple of weirdos want to pretend to be insurance adjusters and suddenly it’s all pretty prose and run-on sentences. Flowery language about broad-shouldered men in roaring muscle cars that are going to change your life. She’d kept going while you’d interviewed Maggie Hall. She’d harped on and on about how you couldn’t stop thinking about them.

Of course, you couldn’t stop thinking about them, she wouldn’t shut up about them.

After an entire monologue about the way the paper felt in your hands and could never be replaced by computers—purists are the worst—you finally get to leave. That's when you get some respite. You’re walking out into the late afternoon sun and thanking Maggie for her time and it's bliss. Maggie's story sounds a little off, after years doing this you have this gut instinct for when you should investigate further. Funnily enough, you have drama in your life that you’ll submit a valid claim anyway. Just so you can get this cursed case out of your hair. You might even hurry it through the system before the thing has the chance to kill you.

You’re still not sure how a case could kill you. You’re a pencil pusher at best and the interview with Maggie is an excellent example of the majority of your fieldwork, obviously excluding the criminals at the start. Unless your demise is death by papercut.

For now, you’ve given up trying to fathom out the voice you’re hearing, especially since she's chosen to once again go radio silent. If she won’t say anything useful, like say how not to die, then you were going to have to figure out how to skip ahead on your own. Since she kept talking about the imposters you’d met that day, they seemed to be an excellent place to start.

CNK 80Q3. Ohio plates. That's as much as you know without google.

That evening you set yourself up in the same way you would to work from home. There's a desk in the corner of your dining room with a chair that offers enough lumbar support for the longest of research sessions. Although it’s your personal laptop and there’s not normally a large glass of wine sitting next to you when work.

After it powers on you’re assaulted by the usual pop-ups; windows you forgot to close last time and your emails. Procrastinating is not a new routine, and you’re on a mission, so they all get minimized instead of closed completely. Then you open a new browser window and a stark google homepage stares back at you. A hopeful new beginning.

CNK 80Q3. You’re genuinely surprised that she hasn’t started talking again to describe the change in the air as you type in the plate number. Or some drivel about the way your fingers emphasize each letter and number. It’s all there happening anyway, making the moment foreboding, but your narrator doesn’t seem care.

The first row of results are images. Weirdly its images of the license plate itself. That doesn't strike you as odd at first glance and then you think about it a little more. Why are there so many pictures of this particular license plate? Who is running around taking these pictures? You're pretty sure if you typed in your own plate number there would be no pictures of it. And then you see some shopping results where you can actually buy the plate. While the online shops might explain the images, it only really poses more questions. Why are so many people buying that license plate? What’s so special about it?

You take a sip of your wine before you scroll further, savoring the taste as well as the way it relaxes your shoulders. You don't own any 'fun' novelty coasters that say it but you're inclined to agree with the statement you've heard before. Wine really does make everything better.

You’re not yet into the murky depths of page 2 but you’re far enough down the page now to make it past the sponsored results. These links come thick and fast from websites that all seem to have one word in common. Supernatural.

Then you see your salvation. A page called Supernaturalwiki—the link is simply titled: Impala—and you stop scrolling, a grateful sound slipping past your lips as you do. Wiki, you know that word. Like Wikipedia. Wikipedia has references and moderators', clear and concise explanations. This was the easy way out you were looking for.

That’s what you hope as you click on the link anyway. Your naivety lasts all of twenty seconds before the page loads. With its stock image of a 1967 Chevrolet Impala, and a quote about it being the most important object in the universe.

Or it's the most important object in some books at least.

Further clicking and longer sips of wine reveal it’s a series of books called Supernatural—with the title of the wiki you should have seen that coming. These were story after story of ghosts and demons and angels? There are pages that describe monsters, urban legends, and two men. Sam and Dean Winchester. They each have dedicated pages with their whole lives mapped out.

Sam and Dean are fictional brothers and apparently the heroes. Each of their respective profiles begins with an illustrated image from book covers, and then a series of quotes that contradict those pictures. Then their lives are intricately detailed, or should you say they are chronologically recorded according to each book. You would read their histories in full if it wasn't for how tiny the scroll bar is, indicating that these profile pages are ridiculously long.

You sit back in your chair and take a deep breath in the hopes of it being soothing. Or answering all your questions. It does neither. You have no answers and more stress.

This went beyond two men pretending to do your job now. Those guys were driving around in a car with fictional license plates. What was this? Some weirdly immersive cosplay? Was that something Sam and Dean did in the books?

Even so, those two guys weren’t roleplaying at comic con, they were actually in that woman's home. If you hadn't arrived they could have done anything. They could be doing anything now.

There's a ding from the kitchen which means the frozen meal you’d thrown in the oven is ready. Not that you stop thinking about this while you go and grab it because the more you think the less sense everything makes. Like why is a narrator who, until now, was obsessed with those guys, so very silent all of a sudden?

Back at your desk with hot food, you head back to google to see if you can buy these books anywhere because knowledge is power. Unfortunately, not even Amazon has copies. It’s only when you add the term “ebook” to your search do you find a Tumblr blog with links to download all the files, split into two categories. Published and unpublished. There are a lot of Supernatural books and from the looks of it there’s an equal amount of drama over how the unpublished ones got out.

You start downloading them without consciously making a decision to read them. Downloading kind of happens because your macaroni cheese is too hot for your mouth to handle yet, and your hands still need something to do. Besides you didn’t necessarily need to read all of them, if they were truly terrible you’d delete the files. No harm, no foul. But if this was the only way to get answers then you and your kindle were going to be pretty busy this weekend.

“Morning Laura.” Nobody likes Mondays, yet you have a little bounce in your step having made your usual green tea, got dressed, and driven to work in complete and utter silence. In fact, you’d heard nothing all weekend. The caveat was that, yes, you’d spent all weekend reading those books.

You liked reading and without discrimination. Trashy romance novels at the airport? You betcha. Fantasy books thicker than your mattress? Sure thing, order a pizza. But a mystery? Well, those were your favorite. Of course, the detective needed some sort of sketchy backstory and there had to be a fishy amount of red herrings. Most importantly there had to be something to solve. It was an elevation of your day to day life and you always get sucked in. In your job, you try to solve the most benign mysteries; people faking insurance claims. More often than not there isn’t even a mystery to solve, someone really did slip and break something. So, a mystery that grabs you out of nowhere is like a promotion for you, a challenge.

That had been how those Supernatural books had dragged you in. Ghosts and ghouls you could take or leave, you might have stopped reading if that’s all there was. Then this Carver Edlund went and put in that damn side plot about their missing father. It was too enticing, addicting. From the cryptic disappearance to the indecipherable journal of clues. John Winchester would be the death of you.

Or case 24-01 would be. The jury was still out on that.

And now it’s Monday. You’ve heard nothing more from the voice in your head—it may have been a low-level case of carbon monoxide poisoning—and the boys are so close to figuring everything out you can taste it. Technically they know John is alive by now, you finished Shadow some point yesterday afternoon and felt yourself choke up at the emotional goodbye with a father they just got back. But they still have no clue what he's up to, which is a hideous funhouse mirror reflection of your own life. Hopefully, by the time they figure out John’s game plan, you'll have your life figured out too. And fingers crossed figuring everything out will involve staying alive as well.

“You look like you’re feeling better this morning.” Laura is her perky self, always a little too happy for this side of 9am.

Oh right, you went home sick on Friday. You should remember things like that. “I think it was a bug or something I ate maybe.”

“Sure, sure. One of those convenient Friday bugs.” She winks at you.

If she accused you of that say, last week, you’d have laughed it off given that's a thing everyone has in common; trying to skip out on work. So, that's what you try to do this side of the weekend. You push out something that hopefully resembles a regular person's laugh like you’re in on the joke. You have to fake it because you’re still thinking about Providence. The book you’d finished that morning instead of watching the news. You’re still wondering if Sam is starting to move on after Jessica. 

Needless to say, you understand now. The many fan blogs and the artwork you’d glanced at before you started reading. All those things that you’d disregarded as an unhealthy fascination for a bunch of books. Now you’re one of them, obsessed. Walking into the office with your kindle tucked in your bag and Salvation just begging to be read.

This goes beyond finding John. That plot got its hooks in you but you’ve known John was alive since Home and you’re still reading. You could also blame this on your general love of reading except it goes beyond that too. Honestly, it’s hard to pick one thing. They’re really great books. Sam and Dean have such turbulent lives but they still have each other. They’re snarky, lost, angry, and caring. They’re both so different but the sibling relationship is so real. And the stories go beyond a new monster every book, there are these huge interesting story arcs that you couldn't stop reading if you tried. John Winchester had been the first example of these addictive plot points, but not the only one.

“Y/N?”

You snap your head up, “sorry, sorry.”

“I was only saying you’re going to be here all day then, lunch?”

Even though Laura must see the decision on your face she still pretends to hope until you start speaking. “Actually I have a lot to catch up on so I’ll probably be working through. Tomorrow?”

She smiles brightly and nods, “sure thing.”

As bad as you feel about lying to Laura she has presented you an opportunity. Everyone thinks you were sick on Friday. They even think you're behind on your work and they don’t know you’ve already conducted the initial interview. Which makes your decision to sit at your desk and prop your kindle up next to your screen even easier. Nobody would notice the difference between you concentrating or reading. If you skip lunch you might be able to get to Bloodlust out of the way too.

Continue to Chapter 4.

5eva tags: @divadinag @darthdeziewok @fluentinfiction @witch-of-letters @supernatural-teamfreewillpage @magnitude101999 @alexwinchester23  Dean babes: @thewinchesterchronicles @akshi8278​ @bloodydaydreamer StrangerThanFiction tags: @jaylarkson

[thathopelessromantic]

Reckless Good (1/?)

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia/My Hero Academia

Fic Rating: Explicit

Chapter Rating: Teen+

Pairing: Todoroki Shouto/Midoriya Izuku

Note: Part of the @tododekubigbang for 2021! I'm super excited to share this AU with everyone. And please check out the awesome compaion art from @cryptidcatgod for chapter six!

Todoroki Shouto had accepted his fate as a public figure when he became a pro-hero, but there are some parts of his private life he would like to stay private. When he gets invited to be a speaker in a college lecture series, he goes to the meeting with one goal: to give the coordinator a piece of his mind and finally put an end to people hounding him for information about his family.

The last thing he expects is the curious, and quirkless, hero- and quirk-study professor, Midoriya Izuku, who has no interest in his family's history, and, somehow, even more ties to the hero industry than Shouto. Intrigued by the professor, Shouto tentatively agrees to the lecture series, unknowingly intertwining their futures.

But the more Todoroki sees of Midoriya, the more questions he has. When a villain attack leaves them living together until the culprits are apprehended, maybe he'll finally get some answers.

AO3: (x)

Dear Pro-Hero Entropy,

On behalf of Musutafu University, I would like to cordially invite you to be a speaker in our first annual Hero Talks series. We anticipate university students, as well as members of the public from all walks of life, will be interested in hearing from 10 different pro-heroes, over the course of ten-weeks between September and November, as they discuss their experience in the hero industry, the details of their jobs, and the unique quirks they’ve encountered or that helped them in becoming the heroes of today.

I would be extremely grateful if you were willing to share your expertise and be a part of the series. You would be an excellent addition to our program, and our line-up of great heroes that already includes current number one, Pro-Hero Lemillion, the Permeation Hero, and the well-respected, Youthful Heroine Recovery Girl.

Please do not hesitate to contact me if you have any questions. I look forward to hearing from you!

X 

“I think you should do it.”

Shouto pauses with his cup half-way to his mouth as the silence that had fallen over them is finally broken. Momo primly takes a sip of her tea, pointedly avoiding his astonished look.

“…What?”

Momo clears her throat, placing her teacup back on the table and sitting up, somehow, straighter in her chair. Despite the fact that they are in her home, she looks decidedly more uncomfortable than he feels, even by the bizarre direction of their conversation. “I think you should do it. I think it would be a good opportunity for you, Shouto.”

“Have you met me?” he asks incredulously. “There’s nothing ‘good’ about anything that includes me and talking.”

His phone, with the offending email still pulled up on the darkening screen, sits on the table between them. He doesn’t realize he is glaring at it until Momo plucks it up and away from his line of sight. Waking up the screen, she reads over the email again. He doesn’t know why she bothers – they must have poured over it together at least three or four times when he first arrived, dumbfounded by yet another invitation and nearly laughing over the ridiculous concept of him giving a talk on a college campus.

“It’s not like you would have to wing it, it’s still only April now, so the series won’t be taking place until the second term. You would have time to come up with a topic, write a speech, prepare.”

“No one wants to listen to me read from a piece of paper for an hour,” he replies drolly. “And I don’t have anything to talk about that long, anyways.”

It is her turn to stare at him incredulously from across the table. He resists the urge to squirm under the disbelieving look. Finally, Momo sighs, returning his phone to the table.

“I think you underestimate what people would be willing to listen to,” she clears her throat. “You have a unique perspective on the hero industry that very few have, or get to hear about-”

“Because my dad was a dick?”

“Due to being raised by a hero," she continues on, as if he hadn't spoken. "And not just any hero, but someone who was the number two hero for a very long time, and even briefly the number one hero. Very few heroes nowadays have children, and even fewer have children who go on to follow in their footsteps. You’re a legacy.”

“I’m the only one of any of Endeavor’s kids to become a hero. If they wanted to hear about hero family legacies, they should have contacted Iida.”

Momo sighs, rubbing her temples. He’s noticed her doing that around him with increasing frequency these days. “Well I believe they did, actually. And he agreed.”

Shouto leans back in his seat. “Then he can talk all about being a legacy. What would they need to hear from me for?”

Momo is quiet for a very long time. “…Well-”

“No.”

“You brought it up.”

“Not seriously. I’m not going to talk about that.”

“It was just a suggestion. You, your family, have kept things remarkably quiet after it all went down, and I understand wanting to protect your privacy, considering it really is none of their business, but people are always going to have questions. It’s been years since the trial and the media still asks you every year. At least this way, if you talked about it, you could control the narrative.”

Shouto looks away. The setting sun is just out of sight from the dining room window, but it paints the neighbor’s house and the trees along the road a warm orange. The anniversary of the trial, of his father’s fall from grace in the public eye was just a few weeks away, still looming over him, even years after the fact. He has no interest in ‘controlling the narrative.’ He’d rather not think about it at all, actually. But just like every year before, as the date grew closer, the media got more frantic, more invasive.

You would think after more than ten years of radio silence from the Todoroki family they would finally get discouraged, and yet…

Sensing he wasn’t interested in pursuing this topic of conversation any longer, Momo changes tactics, carefully pulling his thoughts from a dangerous spiral. “Or you could have a meeting with the person who invited you. See what topic they had in mind for you.”

Shouto glances at her. “What are you talking about?”

“Well they didn’t just mass invite heroes, the invitations have only gone out to a select few. I’m assuming the coordinator had some idea of what they thought those particular heroes would talk about.” There is a quiet click of her nails against the glass table top as she picks up his phone once more. “You could set up a meeting with him and see what he had in mind. If the topic is something you’re comfortable talking about, wonderful. If not, you can decline the invitation, and all you’ve wasted is an afternoon.”

Something clicks in his head and Shouto sits up again, an idea brewing. He turns his attention back to her. “I still don’t want to give a talk,”

“Shouto-”

“But you have a point. It wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

Momo smiles, but her brows shoot up, a clear indication of her surprise at – and her suspicion over – his quick surrender. “I’m…a little shocked you agree.”

“Well you’d just keep bothering me about it if I didn’t at least talk to him, wouldn’t you?” She glares at him but doesn’t refute the accusation. “But isn’t it just the dean of the school that sent the emails? He’s probably not the sole coordinator.”

“No,” She shakes her head, handing his phone back over. “It says here he’s a professor.”

 Midoriya Izuku, Ph.D.

Professor of Hero and Quirk Studies

Musutafu University

midoriyaizu@mu.edu

X

It takes two days after his talk with Momo for Shouto to get around to even opening the professor’s response to his request for a meeting.

Kyouka watches him suspiciously from where she’s draped over his office chair as he paces in front of his desk. “What’s wrong with you?”

She takes an obnoxious sip of her coffee. The smell has permeated the entire room and it makes something in his stomach curl with longing, but his doctor made it explicitly clear that he was to take an extended break from the drink after letting it serve as breakfast, lunch, and dinner a few too many days in a row. Something more painful than longing – perhaps an ulcer he may or may not have given himself from his liquid diet – twists his stomach.

“Why are you even here?”

Kyouka sighs at his question, her head lolling back as she sinks deeper into the chair. He’s not totally sure what she’s doing. He knows for a fact those chairs aren’t comfortable. His best attempt to keep people from staying in his office longer than absolutely necessary.

“Kyouka?”

She takes another sip of her coffee. He has absolutely no idea how she doesn’t spill it all over herself in that position.

“Momo asked me to talk to you.”

He stops pacing long enough to determine that she’s telling the truth. “…Why?”

“Because she doesn’t think you’ve emailed the professor back about that hero series yet.”

He glances at his computer. At the unread email blinking at the top of his inbox, taunting him. “I’m not saying she’s right…but why does she want you to talk to me about it?”

She swings her legs off the arm of the chair to sit up right and glare at him. “I resent the insinuation that I am not a great candidate for making you get your shit together. But,” she stands up, dropping her cup onto his desk and crossing her arms. Her expression is fierce, but he recognizes the barely-there flush high on her cheeks and the nervous twitch of her earphone jacks. “I was also invited to be a part of the series.”

Shouto stops, sinking into his desk chair. Invitations like this were usually a pain for him. For one, he hated public speaking – or even extended conversations. As one of the top students at U.A., however, and as the son of a well-known hero, he had been getting requests for talks and interviews and special features for years. Most of which he usually ignored, knowing what it was they wanted him to talk about. But he knows an invitation like this can be special. Especially for someone like Kyouka, who doesn’t have particularly strong connections with the hero industry, even after graduating U.A. Her parents’ reputation and her internship with Present Mic made her more of a celebrity in the music industry than a well-known hero, despite all the great work she did.

“Kyouka,” he says quietly, earnestly, so that she pays attention to him. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” she replies with a small smile, before her expression changes again. “But shut up, Todoroki. That’s not the point. Momo thinks you’ll be dragging your feet over getting back to the professor. But when she told me about how quickly you agreed, I got a feeling there was something else going on.” She braces her hands on his desk and leans into his personal space, jacks floating threateningly close to his throat. “You were gonna set up that meeting, and then just give him a hard time, weren’t you?”

Shouto freezes, caught. “Uh…”

It’s not exactly an admission, but Kyouka throws her head back and laughs, anyways. “I knew it. We’ve all been waiting for when you finally got fed up and picked a victim. I’m honestly surprised it’s taken this long.”

Shouto doesn’t mean for the quiet, astonished chuckle to slip out, but he supposes if it’s Kyouka, it’s alright. There’s a devilish glint in her eyes as she drops back into her chair.

“So,” she asks. “What are you waiting for?”

“You’re really not going to stop me?”

“We’re public figures, the media has never been interested in respecting our privacy, but we’ve all spent years watching you get hounded over your parents’ divorce and your father’s trial. If this is just another asshole trying to get a scoop, or recognition for finally getting you to spill, he deserves it. Everyone would agree. Well…Tenya and Momo might frown at your approach, but I still think they’d support the general idea. And well,” she shrugs. “If he is just an asshole, all the better for the rest of us to know now so we don’t support what he’s trying to do.”

He hesitates, mouse hovering over the professor’s email. “Are you sure?”

She scowls, though there isn’t any heat behind it. “If I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t say it.” She comes around the desk to stand behind him. “Now hurry up, I have a patrol to get to.”

Reaching down, she opens the email before he can react.

Thank you so much for your interest! Of course we can meet to discuss the details of the series more. Below are my office hours when I will be on the Musutafu University campus. If you are not available for any of those times, please let me know when would work best for you and we can plan a meeting then.

Kyouka leans over his shoulder to read the email.

“Tuesday’s your day off next week, right?”

Shouto rolls his eyes but opens a new draft to reply.

Kyouka grins. “Good boy. I will report your excellent behavior to Momo.” She ruffles his hair before heading for the door, grabbing her coffee cup off his desk as she goes.

“Fuck off.”

She tosses her head back and laughs again. “Give ‘em hell.”

X

They make plans to meet in a few days, when Shouto has some time off, and the professor forwards his office room number and three different maps of campus “just in case.” Which Shouto found ridiculous….at the time.

Now he’s here, and has been wandering around for God knows how long. It takes approximately ten minutes for Shouto to admit he’s lost, and another five minutes for him to get frustrated over still being lost. He wasn’t sure what to expect of the university campus, but, clearly, he did not prepare enough in advance. The large, sprawling buildings remind him of U.A.’s campus, but rather than extra training grounds, the spaces between are grassy plots filled with students relaxing under the shade of trees or soaking up the sun on blankets. Instead of practicing hand-to-hand, the students sit in clusters pouring over textbooks or typing away on laptops. And they, of course, all appear perfectly at home amongst the labyrinth of lecture halls.

The paved plaza in the middle of all the activity hosts a large fountain and a statue of a man with large, curling horns coming from his temples that Shouto assumes has some kind of importance to the school, but that he doesn’t recognize.

He forwent his hero-suit for jeans, a button-up, and a leather jacket – in addition to sunglasses, a mask, and a baseball cap. The clothing seemed to blend in well enough with the other students, if not a tad understated, but his distinct hair and scar are not so easily hidden and soon enough he notices students staring, following his movements back and forth across campus or whispering amongst themselves.

Eventually, a few brave students manage to catch him as he is trying to reorient himself. Again.

“Um, excuse me, are you pro-hero Entropy?” a girl asks. Two friends flank her, staring with wide eyes.

Caught, he pulls down his mask. “Ah, yes. Hello.”

“Oh my gosh! Hi-Hello, I’m wow…I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s really great to meet you!”

“Are you here about the Hero Talks series!?” one of her friends asks suddenly, quickly slapping a hand over her mouth after the loud outburst.

Well…they aren’t wrong, and maybe they can help him. “It’s…something like that.” He agrees carefully.

The three light up with smiles, two of them jumping up and down in excitement.

“Dr. Midoriya is going to be so excited, oh my gosh!”

“You know the professor?”

All three nod excitedly. “We’re all in his Intro to Combat Analysis lecture! He’s been gushing about this series since he got permission last semester!” the third student finally chimes in.

Perfect. “Do you know where I could find his office? I’m supposed to be meeting with him, but I’ve gotten a little turned around.”

The three jump to help direct him to the right building, gushing all the while over the professor and his classes. By the time they finally part ways, Shouto feels a little guilty about his plan to give the professor a piece of his mind over the whole thing and misleading them about his intention to join the series. They were nice girls after all.

Someone bumps into him before he reaches the building, sending him stumbling off the sidewalk.

“I’m so sorry,” a bright voice calls, gently pulling Shouto back onto the pavement. “I wasn’t watching where I was going. Are you alright?”

Large, bright green eyes behind thin, wire-framed glasses give him a quick once-over, as if looking for injuries. The man meets his gaze through his sunglasses for a moment before glancing down at his wrist watch again. Somehow, he feels even more dazed meeting the man’s eyes than simply being booted off the sidewalk.

“…yes I’m fine, thank you.”

The man gives him a dazzling smile, flashing one dimple and further accentuating the smattering of freckles over his cheeks. “Good, good. Sorry again.” With a quick bow, the man is on his way again and headed into the building before them. The same building Shouto was headed.

Shaking off the strange feeling left behind, he waits a few moments, so as not to appear as if he was following the bright-eyed man, and goes inside. Along the wall there are signs directing visitors to particular room numbers or restrooms, and a bulletin board nearly as long as the wall is tall, full of posters advertising events happening around campus, and Musutafu, as well as ads looking for roommates or a reminder about signing up for a study abroad program. Right in the corner, as if attached as an after-thought, or a secret, there’s a small, handwritten flyer declaring the First Annual Hero Talks series could be counted as credits for Quirk or Hero Study students looking for an independent study if they met with Dr. Mirdoriya before the end of the term. Shouto almost takes the flyer before he realizes, realistically, that the students who might be interested in such a thing would probably benefit from it more than his brief curiosity needed to be sated.

Turning from the wall, he sets out for the stairs. The students instructed him to take the staircase on the far end of the east hall (the closest to the professor’s office, supposedly), to the third floor, where the professor’s office would be the third door on the left.

Midoriya Izuku is written clearly on a small sign hanging outside of the office. A small box sits under it, stuffed full of papers and folders that Shouto assumes are from students. The professor’s half-open door is covered in colorful posters and stickers – including, Shouto realizes, another copy of the flyer about the series and a poster of him, Pro-Hero Entropy, from his debut year. He looks away from his younger self and knocks on the door.

“Dr. Midoriya?” he calls, poking his head into the office.

The first thing he notices is that the hero-memorabilia on the door has absolutely nothing on what’s inside the office. More posters cover the entire front of the professor’s desk, and from the looks of it the top of his computer. Mixed between dozens of books on the shelves and filing cabinets filling two of the four walls are hero-figurines and framed pictures of heroes or preserved comic books. Even more posters and framed pictures cover the rest of the walls.

The second thing he notices, is that the broad-shouldered man dropping a beat-up, leather satchel to the ground besides the desk, is the same man who ran into him outside.

Dr. Midoriya whirls around, greeting him with another 100-watt smile. “Ah yes! Hello- oh! It’s you.”

“Ah, yes.” Shouto shuffles a little further into the office, he pulls his mask down under his chin and takes his sunglasses off, tucking them into the collar of his shirt. After a second's thought, he pulls off his cap as well, shoving the bill into his back pocket.

Dr. Midoriya’s jaw drops, his eyes comically wide, for approximately three seconds, before he comes back into himself, steeling his expression. His hands flutter nervously around his head for a moment and then he smiles again.

“Entropy! Welcome! I’m so sorry I did not recognize you before. Please, come in. Take a seat. Did you find your way through campus alright?”

Shouto gives a small bow, mumbling a thank you, as he comes further into the office to sit in one of the two small chairs before the desk. A poster of some of his old classmates is hung at knee-level, and even on paper, Momo's serious expression is judging him. Kyouka is egging him on.

Dr. Midoriya still stands behind his desk, staring at Shouto like he’s not sure what to make of him sitting in his office.

“Uh…Dr. Midoriya?”

The professor snaps back to life. “Yes! Sorry, sorry,” he sits down finally, pulling off his glasses and putting them to the side. “Welcome, again, to Musutafu University. And thank you for taking some time out of your busy schedule to consider our series! I really can’t tell you how thrilled I was to get your email.”

Shouto shifts in his seat. The professor talks with his hands, and every movement seems to pull the beige-colored cardigan he’s wearing even tighter around his biceps. Shouto isn’t usually one to speculate about others’ quirks unless in a fight, but he wonders now if the professor has some kind of strength-augmenting quirk – and if he does, how adept is he at using it if Shouto pisses him off? The potential of getting his ass kicked has never stopped Shouto before, but he can already hear the lecture he’d get from Momo, and probably Fuyumi, if he made the news for destroying a college building in a fight with a civilian professor.

Honestly, the property damage would probably be the least of their worries if he starts fighting with civilians.

“I know you don’t normally work with the media or make non-heroic work public appearances so I figured it was a long shot for you to even consider being a part of the series, but I really think you would make an amazing feature.”

Shouto shifts in his seat. Here it comes, he thinks. He really should have prepared what exactly he was going to say more, but he figured it would just come to him in the moment. Now, for some reason, he’s nervous. As if he would accidentally agree or something else equally absurd.

How this sweater had contained the man’s arms so far was a miracle, honestly.  

“…but quirks are mutating, or rather evolving, at an astonishing rate. Every generation we see quirks getting stronger than those of previous generations but more and more we are now seeing children with quirks that have little to no relation to their parent’s quirks, or a manifestation of some kind of combination of quirks. You gained attention early on for being one of the first heroes, or even hero-in-training, to have multiple quirks.

“Now that it’s becoming more common, hearing first hand from someone who has had to learn how to control and gain mastery over two separate quirks would be invaluable information, especially for many quirk-study students who will be working with parents and children who are going through this for the first time, and for those who may have some form of a combination quirk but did not have the benefit of a hero-course education that could teach them proper control.”

Wait…what?

“What?”

Dr. Midoriya startles, glancing between Shouto and something unseen in the air around him. “Oh…” he winces. “I’m sorry. Was I mumbling again? I apologize, sometimes my brain works faster than my mouth and I get carried away, where did I…never mind, I’ll start again…slower. So, when quirks first appeared-”

Shouto holds up a hand to stop the professor and his jaw snaps shut with an audible click. “You want me to talk about my quirk?”

“…Yes?”

“Not…my family?”

Dr. Midoriya lowers his arms to the top of his desk, folding his hands together. Shouto thinks it might be the first time he has seen him completely still since they first ran into each other outside.

Now that they’re closer, and his hands aren’t moving, Shouto can also see surprisingly large scars running over the professor’s fingers and onto the backs of his hands. Those definitely don’t look like something you would get as a teacher. At least not as a normal, non-hero course teacher.

“Do you want to talk about your family?”

He shifts awkwardly in his seat. The professor’s serious attention directed all at him is suddenly unnerving somehow. “Well, no, I don’t.”

Dr. Midoriya nods, once. “Okay.” A pause. “Honestly, I was surprised to even hear you ask, I hadn’t considered broaching the topic for something like this.”

“You didn’t?” he asks incredulously.

Dr. Midoriya pins him with an expression he can’t interpret but inexplicably reminds him of Aizawa back in high school when he was frustrated with students or a lesson or even a fellow teacher. Especially All Might.

“Entropy, you have made it very clear in the past that you have no interest in talking about what happened to your family publicly. And that is your right. No one is owed anything about your personal life. If you suddenly decided you wanted to talk about what happened, and you wanted to use the Hero Talks series as your platform, you would be more than welcome to do so. Honestly, the publicity from that one lecture alone would probably be enough to guarantee the university allowing this series again in the future. But that is not why I asked you to be a part of it. You want to keep your private affairs private, and I respect that. I picked heroes who I knew the public would be interested in hearing from, but also who would have the most helpful information to offer to the students who are studying these topics, and, frankly, they would learn far more hearing about your quirk than your…homelife.”

“I…I wouldn’t know what to talk about.” Shouto admits awkwardly.

Dr. Midoriya smiles softly. “That’s okay. I can give you some general topics to consider, or more specific questions to think about as main points if that would be more helpful. Let me see…” he turns around in his chair, shifting to the side, and Shouto can see the shelves just under the view of the desk are stuffed full of identical notebooks, each with a carefully penned number on the binding. The professor pulls one out and flips through it. Almost every page is crammed with scrawling handwriting, some written sideways or upside down, squeezed into every blank space he could find. The slightly-less busy pages have drawings of heroes or costumes or diagrams Shouto can’t interpret from the quick, upside-down glance he gets of them.

From his seat Shouto could see there were, at least, two shelves of these notebooks. Were they all like that?

Finally, the professor finds what he’s looking for with a satisfied hum. He sets the notebook on the desk, turning it so Shouto can see. The page is marginally less chaotic than others he saw. At the top, in surprisingly neat handwriting and underlined three times, it reads: Questions for Multiple-Quirk Usage (Entropy).

The rest of the page is made up of dozens of questions about his quirk. Some, Shouto imagines, are just general questions for anyone with multiple quirks to consider (Do you activate both quirks the same way?  Can you use them both simultaneously?) and get progressively tailored to questions about his quirk, like if there are places he can’t use one quirk or the other and the temperature ranges of his fire and ice, if particular environmental factors affect his ability to use either of them.

“Uh…”

Dr. Midoriya scratches the back of his head sheepishly. He hides a nervous laugh with a cough before taking the notebook back and closing it. The light isn’t strong in the office, but Shouto is positive the professor is blushing.

“Of course, if a list of topics or questions is something you would be interested in, I can provide you with a neater – and shorter – list. This was just a-a demonstration that there is a lot to consider when it comes to multiple quirks. Of course, not all of that would be relevant for a lecture, and admittedly some are just personal curiosities, but…anyways,” he clears his throat. “I’m assuming if you came here thinking I was going to ask about your family…you don’t actually want to be a part of the series.”

Shouto crosses his arms over his chest, sitting back in his chair. Does he want to be a part of a public lecture series? No. But now he is undeniably curious about this professor and how the hell his brain works.

“Do you have a notebook page like that for every hero?”

“Every hero? That would be impossible…well maybe not impossible-” Shouto raises a brow and the professor bites his tongue. “Maybe…most Japanese heroes since…early Silver Age and well-known international heroes? And any American heroes who would have overlapped with All Might’s time either learning or working in America.”

“How long have you been making those?”

He looks down a little wistfully at the question, thumbing gently at the corner of the page. “I was probably four or five when I started my first one,” he admits with a quiet laugh. “None that are here are quite that old, though.”

Shouto has…so many questions.

There’s a quiet buzz of the professor’s phone going off. He excuses himself for a moment and pulls the cell out of his pocket. His case has the design of All Might’s Golden Age costume.

“I’m sorry, Entropy, I have another meeting and I teach a class after so I can’t talk much longer today.”

“I should be getting going anyways.” Shouto says, standing up and Dr. Midoriya shoots out of his chair.

“Right, yes, of course. I’m sorry we probably took up more of your time than you meant to. Thank you for coming in, it was an honor to speak with you.”

Shouto feels like “honor” is a bit much, he didn’t really even say much at all, and he came here with rather rude intentions but, he doesn’t really know how to argue with the professor’s enthusiasm.

His brain and his good sense, and the small bit of self-preservation he has left, all tell him to keep going, to accept the professor’s gracious dismissal and move on, but he finds himself hesitating in the doorway anyways.

“Uh…Entropy? Is everything alright?” Dr. Midoriya asks, looking at him curiously.

Oh hell.

“If you send me the list, of topics…I’ll think about it.”

Dr. Midoriya’s entire being lights up. “Really?”

Oh, he was really going to regret this.

“…Yes.”

“Thank you! I will forward it to you right away!” He drops into a bow so deep, so quickly, he slams his head into the top of the desk.

Both of them freeze at the resounding crack that echoes in the small room. Shouto takes a step back into the office, already reaching for the professor.

“Are you alright?”

Dr. Midoriya straightens, looking a little dazed but mostly just embarrassed. There’s a bright red mark on his forehead. “Oh my God.” He whispers.

Shouto is surprised, and a little ashamed, by how hard it is to keep himself from laughing at the horrified expression. “Dr. Midoriya, are you-”

The desk gives a sudden, heaving creak and tips sideways. The two watch helplessly as the desk collapses, sending the clutter on top flying across the floor.

Dr. Midoriya makes a strangled noise, covering his face with his hands. “Not again.”

Again?

There are rushed footsteps outside and a young woman with six eyes and lavender hair piled in a high bun peeks her head in through the half-open door. “Dr. Midoriya, did you break something again?”

“I’m sorry Kobayashi.” He bows his head again, though not nearly as low this time, and keeps his face covered.

Kobayashi tuts disapprovingly. “I’ll call for another,” she says, already turning on her heel to leave.

“Thank you, Kobayashi.”

Shouto bends down to gather some of the papers that scattered around his feet. Dr. Midoriya lowers his hands, immediately stumbling over the mess when he sees Shouto cleaning.

“Please Entropy, thank you, but that’s not necessary.”

“It’s fine,” he waves off the worries. “Where would you like these things?”

“Uh,” Dr. Midoriya looks around the office for a moment. “Here, thank you.” Taking the papers from him he makes a neat pile on his un-damaged desk chair.

It’s quick work for the two of them to straighten up the rest of the room, though the professor takes a moment to mourn his cracked eyeglasses, and then again when he realizes some of the posters were damaged by the desk’s fall.

“Thank you again, Entropy. I’m so sorry about all the trouble.”

“It’s…fine.” Shouto says dumbly. “Well I should…go, now.”

“Yes, of course! I’m sorry about taking up even more of your time. Thank you for coming in.”

Before Shouto can reply, two new people arrive, knocking once before they shuffle into the office. Shouto moves further into the room, out of the way, as they collect the broken desk and carry it out of the room.

For a moment, they stand in silence, Shouto coming up with about a hundred more questions about the professor, while Dr. Midoriya stands nearby, twisting his hands together in embarrassment. Finally, his common-sense kicks in enough that after another short good-bye, Shouto manages to walk himself out of the office and down the stairs without doing anything else stupid or impulsive.

He passes someone on his way to the doors, so focused on getting out of the building that he doesn’t notice until they call his name.

He recognizes the wild purple hair and slouched stance of the man approaching him, but nearly dismisses the similarities on principle.

“Shinso? Since when do you come out while the sun’s still up?” He asks.

Ignoring the jab, Shinso pulls off a pair of sunglasses and looks him up and down. Despite also being a part of U.A.’s hero course in high school, Shinso promptly went underground after graduation and has been working in the shadows long enough that only some other pros and hardcore hero-fans are able to recognize him out of costume. “What are you doing here?”

“I was…I had a meeting with a professor,” he admits.

Shouto doesn’t know Shinso well, but he swears he looks surprised by the admission.

And then he laughs. “I can’t believe he actually did it. Good for him.”

Shouto isn’t totally sure he heard him correctly, but when he asks, Shinso makes an expression he can’t figure out and changes the subject.

“I’ll see you later, Todoroki.” He says with a wave.                                                                         

Shouto waves back, unsure of what to make of the interaction, and watches as Shinso disappears up the same stairs he just descended.

Shoving the strange interaction out of his head, he pushes open the doors and steps outside.

Then he calls Kyouka.

She picks up after two rings. “Did you make him cry?”

He can hear Momo scold her from the background.

“No, but I think I fucked up.”

Kyouka is quiet for a moment but based on the noise he hears in the background, he thinks she’s moving further away from Momo. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter. “Fucked up how? Like news crews are coming to report the damage and you might be going to jail for beating up an old, civilian professor-fucked up?”

Faintly, Shouto wonders what it says about him that both he and Kyouka assumed the worst-case scenario for this meeting was him fighting with a civilian.

“No, fucked up like…I didn’t tell him ‘no’?”

[mxstyassasxin]

Take Me Home, Country Roads (G, 930)

on AO3

Hermione had finally heard back from Evan, the P.I she’d hired from a firm in Sydney, about the whereabouts of her parents. She had waited a few years before starting her attempts to find them, making sure that the aftermath of the war had calmed down enough for her to bring them back to London.

Initially, she’d contacted a company in Perth but, after six months of disappointments with them, they’d told her it was unfair to keep charging her for their time. They had given up on finding Monica and Wendell Wilkins, and she should too. But she was not giving up on her parents that easily, so emailed the Sydney firm after finding a positive review of their work from someone who had also been disappointed by the team in Perth.

Suddenly, five years after the war, she had been given a location and had booked the next available portkey out of London, arriving at the Australian Ministry in Melbourne in the dead of night, alone. Ron, after all was still terrified of spiders and, well, everyone knows that one thing about Australia. As for Harry, she couldn’t blame him for wanting to stay with his wife in the final trimester of their first pregnancy. Ginny herself had practically pushed Hermione into the floo when she went to apologise for skipping town without much notice.

From the Ministry, situated beneath Fitzroy Gardens, she’d wandered the city in the warm early morning, the coat she’d worn leaving a cool, springtime London slung over her arm. As businesses began to open their doors for the day, she had come across a car hire company, deciding to make use of her driver’s licence for once, rather than taking the train.

The information Evan had emailed to her informed Hermione that Monica and Wendell Wilkins lived in a northern suburb of Adelaide called Elizabeth. It was almost a nine-hour drive, navigating the web of roads that connected the small towns of Victoria before reaching the endless, straight highway that cut through the irrigated land of South Australia.

She had stared at the unassuming house from where she parked across the street, until the car clock read 18:20, hoping that her parents had kept their habitual dining hours despite the change in country. Knowing them, she hoped, they would have made enough food for leftovers and would be setting the table for dinner at 18:30. The sky was still blue and it was still warm, Adelaide receiving a full twelve hours of sunshine that time of year.

The reunion went exactly as Hermione had planned initially. They had opened the door, believed her story about being a long-lost relative following genealogical links to Australia, and invited her in for dinner. They chatted about London, British politics, the weather back home, and then the conversation had turned to family.

Hermione had researched how it was supposed to work, there was no way she’d attempt this without knowing how or whether there was any hope. Yet when, after dropping each piece of lost information, she wordlessly conducted the restorative spell with her wand under the table, nothing happened. She carried on with it all evening, but each attempt, no matter what fact about herself or their lives back home she used, failed to elicit a response, only serving to make herself more upset.

When Monica and Wendell began to drop hints about the late hour and contact details, Hermione made her way reluctantly to the front door and out to her car, only making it around the corner before she dissolved into tears.

After a while she set off again and just drove. Drove in a random direction beneath the unfamiliar stars of the southern sky, leaving the city and its suburbs behind, entering arid plains where the moonlight illuminated the dry, red soil passing by her windows, blurring with her tears and the speed of the car.

She had cranked the radio up on her way out of the city, the station she’d chosen earlier that day now playing a late-night mix of old rock and country music. The raw, emotional lyrics accompanied Hermione until her fuel light pinged on the dashboard, at which point she realised that she had no idea where she was, let alone where the nearest petrol station might be.

She pulled off the highway onto the red dirt, and banged her forehead on the steering wheel, music still blaring, almost too loud now in the silence of the night. A familiar song began playing, an American song about country roads and going home to where they belonged. Hermione wiped her eyes, shocked by the sudden fierce longing she had to feel her husband’s strong arms around her, to hear his voice trying to cheer her up, making her laugh, and bringing her some of Molly’s beef stew to make her feel better.

This endless driving and crying was not going to dislodge the feeling of painful failure and loss that had lodged itself within her chest. Only home could do that and all the comforts that she knew her friends and family would provide. They were her constants now and she loved them as they loved her.

Switching off the engine, she grabbed her belongings and stepped out of the car, breathing in the dry, night’s air as she pictured the lobby of the Australian Ministry in her mind’s eye, preparing to turn on the spot.

She would have to leave the car, but the Ministry could send someone to sort that. She was going home.

[ohwhatamessiam]

Self Control - Chapter 11

Summary: Thanksgiving break comes and goes. And it leaves you angry, wondering how much Chris really cares about you. Will he prove that he wants this, or will he let your spark burn out?

Pairing: Professor!Chris Evans X TA!Reader

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: Language, angst, lots of pain (the tweets from Brandon outlined this turn of events), I’m really sorry but y’all are gonna hate me for this one.

A/N: Hi everyone! I made it back for an update under 9 months this time (barely lol). There’s only 2 more chapters left in Self Control, and you guys will probably hate me for them, but this is the path we’re on together! Thank you all for your patience, and thank you to @fangirlisms-22. I have started on the next chapter but knowing me, it’ll be a while before it’s done. I’m going to ask y’all to be patient again. I tried to tag everyone, but some blogs have deactivated, changed urls, or won’t let me tag them. Let me know if you need me to change your url on my list. Here’s the Spotify playlist for the entire fic.

I love feedback, so send me your thoughts, feelings, wishes, etc!

Tags are still barely open for this story, so send me an ask here to be added to it or my permanent list!

Self Control | Masterlist

A week of radio silence goes by and you’re left alone with your thoughts. And lonely, desperate thoughts are not your friends. 

You try to stay in for the weekend, telling yourself that the distance is for the best. It’s giving you time to work on your story. You tear that piece to shreds and stitch it back together 10 times over. Your heart is starting to feel that same way.

Wednesday afternoon you realize you’ve run completely out of your grad student food staples: mac and cheese, tortillas, shredded cheese, peanut butter, and milk. And there’s only one box of cereal left on top of your fridge. Corn flakes. The bland cereal Chris loved so much. 

You can’t bring yourself to touch it. 

Forcing your body into a pair of sweatpants and shoes, you leave the apartment. The sun feels too bright for your sensitized eyes, and the temperature is much colder than you planned for, but you know better than to turn back. If you go back, you won’t come out until you have to see him after break.

As you pull into the grocery store it finally hits you. It’s already Thanksgiving eve. That much time had slipped away from you.

You trudge through the throngs of people scrambling for last minute items. No one pays any attention to your state of disarray.

Luckily, your basic needs are in stock and you’re able to get what you need without too much difficulty. You’re about to head to the registers when you stop at the liquor aisle. The thought only has to enter your mind before your feet immediately pivot toward the wine section.

You find 3 of the cheapest, most tolerable bottles and are stuffing them in your cart when you hear glass clanking behind you. You turn to find two of the last people you wanted to see.

Sebastian and Dr. Mackie.

“Oh shit,” Sebastian yelps as he tries to balance three separate bottles of liquor in one arm. Dr. Mackie snickers at him as he adds another bottle to their collection. 

You shift quickly, trying to keep your back to them. There’s no need for a conversation on a day like today.

“(Y/N),” Sebastian calls out. 

Your whole body tenses, fingers clenching the cart handle. How did he even know it was you in your chaotic state?

Footsteps approach you and you try to muster the strength to face them. At your best, you gather a forced smile.

“Hi (Y/N),” he grins as he slides up to your cart, Dr. Mackie in tow. 

“Hi guys,” you manage. You catch how Dr. Mackie’s eyes flash to your hair, and then your clothes. You try not to get caught up on how that makes you want to crawl home, with or without groceries. 

“What are you doing in town? It’s Thanksgiving,” Sebastian asks as he tries to pay more attention to his assortment of alcohol instead of your appearance.

“I’m staying here for break. My family’s a little spread out, so it’s hard to pick a side.” You glance over at Dr. Mackie, hoping that answer seems somewhat believable. 

He seems to buy it as he nods, “I get that.”

You’d never seen these men outside of an academic environment, and when you finally notice their current clothing, you feel the tiniest bit better about running into them. Dr. Mackie’s wearing a navy polo and a pair of gray chinos, while Sebastian’s in a pair of black jeans and a red henley.  

Something about seeing even your colleagues out of business casual, made you feel a little special. Like you were welcomed into Chris’s friend group with open arms. Like the relationship you and Chris have could exist both inside and outside of school safely.

Or had.

“If you’re staying in town, why didn’t you answer our email?” Sebastian asks.

“What email?” Your mind is already trying to remember the last time you glanced at your school account. It must have been nearly a week. But why would you check it when clearly staring at your text messages and voicemails from Chris had been filling your weaker moments?

“The one where we reached out to every grad student and faculty member whom had nowhere to go for Thanksgiving, and invited them to a potluck in the Webster hall student lounge?”

Your eyes shift between the men nervously, “Oh, uh, I must have missed that one.”

“That’s okay,” Dr. Mackie answers.

“Well look,” Sebastian continues, “we’re going to have a lot of food, and just need people to eat it now.”

“You could absolutely just bring a bottle of wine and load up a plate.” Dr. Mackie adds as he notices the bottles in your cart. Unfortunately, he doesn’t realize you already have plans to finish those bottles by yourself, and maybe even before Thanksgiving.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to make it.” More like you really hope you never have to leave your apartment again.

“Ah, you already have plans.”

You don’t, but you nod like you do in hopes they’ll back off. 

“Well I’m sure we’ll have leftovers,” Sebastian’s eyes become too sharp as the words leave his mouth, “so if you wanna stop by after you’re done doing whatever you have to do, you’re welcome to.” His tone of voice leaves you surprised he didn’t just outright wink at you.

But apparently he didn’t know yet. Chris hadn’t told him about your “distance.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to, but I’ll try.”

“Good,” Dr. Mackie nods, his eyes cutting to Sebastian, clearly trying to get his friend to leave you alone. You know the only time you’ve spent with him was at the faculty dinner, but inside you quietly thank him.

“Yeah, great. And you can bring anyone if you want. Thanksgiving is about sharing.” Sebastian’s eyes stay on yours, still unsubtly trying to communicate that Chris is welcome. Under his gaze, you feel a bubble of tension build in your chest, the precursor to more tears. 

“I won’t bring anyone, but thank you for offering.” You need to get out of here. You will not cry in front of Chris’s friends and colleagues. You drop your focus back onto your grocery cart, trying to stave off the warmth behind your eyes.

“You are very welcome. Seb, we should probably get going now,” Dr. Mackie swoops in for the save. “Whether we see you or not, have a good Thanksgiving (Y/N).” And he’s already guiding Sebastian away from you.

“Thanks, you too,” you call out. They don’t answer, and fortunately they round the corner before the first tear drops.

_______________________________________________________________________

You finish your last bottle of wine late on Thanksgiving. You pick up your phone and nearly dial his number, but just as you reach his name in your contact list, you picture it in your mind.

Him, sitting at a large table covered in all the traditional Thanksgiving dishes. On his right is Jennifer, and she’s beaming. This is her in her element. She’s getting what she wants because Chris won’t tell his family yet that they’re getting divorced. But your mind focuses on the space between them, their joined hands sitting on the table.

You can’t help but throw your phone across the room.

You don’t need confirmation that you’re right, that your fear isn’t imaginary. But you also don’t need to sit around calling him, embarrassing yourself with desperate voice messages that ultimately won’t help your relationship.

You know there has to be something else to fill this void.

And then pull out your laptop and start writing. And it’s a very different story than the one you’ve been working on.

_______________________________________________________________________

The rest of break comes and goes, and somehow you manage to honor the “distance.” Maybe it’s that your sadness has started becoming little pockets of anger, or maybe it’s that you’ve already cried and moped enough. 

But the first day back to classes, you go in with your head held high.

You made it this long without caving and calling, or going to see him. It’ll hurt, but you’ll make it through a class together. You end up being one of the first people in a seat, the students seem to have gotten slower since Thanksgiving break. Lethargic and ready for winter break already.

Winter break was supposed to be when you and Chris could end your distance, your weird work power dynamics would be over and neither of you could lose their job. But what used to feel like a hopeful promise felt like a drawn out execution now. If Thanksgiving had gone even vaguely how you imagined it had for him, you were sure the end was coming. 

Part of what made you love Chris was his heart, his empathy, his willingness to try to see the best in people. And while those traits hadn’t been applied to Jennifer in a while, you were nearly positive they could be again.

Tom comes in at his usual time, but sits at the end of the row behind you. You find that odd, but barely have a moment to dwell on it before Chris arrives. And his face is clean shaven.

A piece of your heart sinks, and you slip further into your chair. 

He avoids eye contact with you until after he has the presentation pulled up on the projector and the rest of the class has filed in. He takes a deep breath, his hands gripping the sides of the podium, and he looks out at the room. But his eyes seem to gloss over the break-hungover students and fall on you.

You feel yourself gulp, but you don’t look away. Not yet. His clothes are nicer, less rumpled than before break. His hair is shorter and slicked back, like it had been at the beginning of the semester. And his wedding ring seems to just catch the fluorescent lights perfectly. 

Everything but his gaze feels foreign. Almost too different than your Chris.

And that’s when you drop your gaze back to your laptop. Of course he’d been home long enough to do laundry and look like his old self again. Maybe it was for his family over break, but maybe it was for Jennifer. 

He watches you for one more moment, and then focuses back on the students. “Good afternoon, class. I hope everyone had a good break.”

Hearing his voice hurts worse than seeing him, but you straighten your spine and get through class. He does not hang his attention on you again, and the only one who seems to notice besides you, is Tom.

_______________________________________________________________________

Your office hours feel like slow torture since you’re left alone with your thoughts about Chris again. And how he looked. And how he barely looked at you.

You wish for a distraction. A student, Robert to come in, or even Tom to show up even though he’d been icy towards you recently. But you get nothing.

So instead, you work on the new piece you started over break. That piece about cycles, and circumstances. About love given, and love lost. About power dynamics and the risks you take when you ignore them. 

Office hours nearly end before you look up. 

And Chris is standing on the other side of your open door, not knocking, but not walking away. You’re not sure what to make of that. 

Is he stopping himself from rushing up to you? Or is he forcing himself to stay there until you say something, until you force him to admit what’s really happening here?

He finally meets your eyes and your heart drops. Just like it had during that awful phone call. And you knew what that meant then, and what that says now.

But you try to fight it. You tell yourself it is just paranoia.

“Hi,” you say, your voice coming out short, trying to hide its shakiness.

“Hi.” Just one word from his lips and your very marrow wants to crawl to him, pleading to forget Thanksgiving break. Forget whatever transpired then. Remember what you had before. What you could have next.

But you stay in your seat and watch him step into your office gingerly. His eyes take in the room, either looking for new evidence in support of your relationship, or looking for a distraction so he doesn’t have to say it. Or at least that’s what it looks like. 

His hands are shoved in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. And it makes this feel even sadder.  He’s resigned to this. Whatever’s coming, he doesn’t really want it. Not fully. 

You can’t take it anymore, you have to end this pointless staring. His at your office, yours waiting for him.

“So, what do you need?”

His face changes, the slightest furrow of his brows, the gentlest sigh. As if you wounded him, rushing him through this moment. A moment you were starting to want over.

He closes your office door, leaving you two alone in a room with so many memories. A room that just a couple weeks ago held what you hoped was the promise of a future.

“We need to talk,” he says, sitting on the edge of the seat across from you. You nod, but don’t say anything. Not until you know what kind of talk this is.

He stares at you for a moment, watching your face, waiting for it to change, shift into something else. But you keep your emotions away from the surface. You’ve had enough time to think about this during your distance.

He finally continues, “This Thanksgiving was tense. A lot happened. A lot was said. But the time apart helped me figure somethings out.”

“Like what?” You watch as his fingers twitch, his eyes roaming you for clues on what you want to hear.

“Like, I’m not the only one who’s been seeing someone else. She wouldn’t tell me who, but I can’t help but feel like it was her way of throwing us in my face.” He pauses, but you don’t break, don’t reach for his hand or tell him he’s right. You wait for the rest.

“And I learned that our families aren’t ready for a divorce yet.” His eyes focus on the edge of your desk. He still won’t stand up to them yet. 

He knows this isn’t fair to you. And he won’t even look you in the eye as he admits it.

“So, where does that leave me?” A fire fuels in your belly, you want to scream at him. You can’t keep living in this state of distance. That he needs to figure out whether he wants you more than he wants to avoid conflict with her and his family.

“As someone I want a future with.” He’s watching your chest now, the way your breath fills your lungs, and you hold it in, praying that he’ll just drop the other shoe. “As someone I could see myself growing old with, living a full, creative life together.”

“But?” 

He hesitates and you try to keep the air moving in and out of your body. You do not have any new breath-held wishes, everything you could ever hope for from this moment has already found a home in your mind. And it is accompanied by all your fears about this relationship, and its end. 

But the way his shoulders slump, and his elbows dig into his knees as he leans on them. The way his head now hangs in his hands. You feel that your fears are unfortunately, closer to this reality.

“But not someone I can have a now with.” 

Your heart felt it coming, and it hurts worse than you ever would have expected.

That fire is in your chest now, beating your lungs, eating the oxygen from them. Like a hit to the gut. There’s no more breath to hold. 

Was this relationship always going to be a waiting game? Or just a dalliance to fill the time?

“This time apart, this distance has already been painful enough, Chris. But I was doing it to protect both of us.”

He raises his head, and his watery eyes catch on your own, “It’s been terrible not seeing you, not talking to you. It’s been painful for me too. But it’s been for the best.”

“Best as in it protects us for our future? Or best as in it allows you to give your marriage another shot?” Will he stop trying to dance his way around this, stop softening this? You need a clear answer on where you stand, and where you are going to be moving forward.

“I- I’m afraid to say both.”

And that hits you with an overwhelming force. Your heart has sunk so far, you are not even sure you have one anymore. You just want to curl into a ball and cry. But instead, you let that fire from before crawl its way into your mouth. “So do you want me to wait around for you? Let you test the waters with Jennifer again until you're sure you want to be with me? Because that’s not what I signed up for with us.”

“I know that, and that’s not what I wanted for us either.” 

“And if I wait any longer, I’m not protecting us anymore. I’m protecting you, and your life, while mine gets boxed away. But what I want should matter too.”

“Y/N, it does,” he whispers, but it doesn’t slow you down.

“Should we still even try to be together? If you’re not sure that this is it, that I am who you should be with, what’s the point? What are we holding out for?”

All the air from the room feels like it has been sucked out. Chris is staring at you like you’ve wrecked his whole world. And inside, it absolutely feels like you’ve just ripped apart your own. But you know it had to be said. 

“Because I love you. And you love me.”

“Is that enough Chris? Because it’s starting to seem like it isn’t anymore.”

He looks at you, eyes wide as his lower lip trembles softly, but you remind yourself to hold your ground. He was the one who’d come in there to tell you he might go back to his wife. He was the one who had already planned on doing this.

“It was, it is. We just need to wait it out. See if Jennifer and Robert will leave us alone.”

“They already know, and so does probably half of the department.” You hope your words aren’t actually true, but between all the conversations you had before break, it sure as hell feels like it. “I’m not staying your secret affair. I’m not your office hours hook up because you can’t tolerate your wife. You either tell me right now that you will fully work on what we have, or you tell me it’s over.”

His eyes are searching your office again, looking for courage, or maybe an excuse. He doesn’t seem to find it, and his focus settles on your joined hands. You clench them together, a silent prayer for the truth. 

“I can’t do either of those things.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You just want a straight goddamn answer. “Chris…”

“I can’t. Because I don’t want to lose you, it hurts so much to be apart from you. But I can’t gamble with the rest of my life, my job, my family. I can’t just ignore them and run away again. It’s not working out for any of us that way.”

You want to snap that it was working out fine for you, but you try not to be more selfish than you already feel. And as well as you were making out, he is right, these last few months hadn’t been perfect. Except you don’t want perfect, you just want a promise to try. A whole-hearted attempt. 

Instead, you stay quiet for a moment, watching him, taking him in. His clearly upset features, his body perched on the edge of his seat. His words are telling you that the one fear you had grown so very close to this entire break, is real. His already established, semi-comfortable life is more important than you, or your happiness. And you had really wanted to be wrong.

“That is my answer.” Your mouth finally moves, saying what you were thinking all along. “Your inability to make a decision is everything I need to know.”

“I didn’t want this to happen (Y/N). I don’t want this to be over.” His hands reach out for yours, searching for a physical connection, a spark. Something that will help him soften this, or make you change your mind.

But it won’t. And you pull your fingers from your desk.

“Then you should have thought about that earlier, Chris. You should have considered whether kissing me in this hallway could ruin your life. That sleeping with me in your office could demolish everything. You should have decided then, if this last 3 months was worth it, to risk it all? Because I decided that then. I decided I wanted you, and this, but I knew I might regret it one day. And you’ve probably proven me right.”

Chris’s eyes latch onto your own, shock lifting his brows so gently. Like you’ve landed the final blow, you knocked him out. But this wasn’t a match for you to win. No, this was a mercy kill. You know now this relationship had to end before it sacrificed what was left of your control, and your sanity.

“I always wanted this. There’s not a single second I’ve regretted it.” His tone comes out rough, as if the anger you’ve let out finally reaches his own gut. And you hope it burns as much for him as it does for you.

“Good for you. But if you really wanted this, why didn’t you tell me about Jennifer’s sudden interest in getting back together earlier? Why didn’t you tell your family that you guys are over? That there’s no hope for your marriage, and that you’re ready to move on? Would you rather have a second chance with her instead of a first, real chance with me?”

You look down at your own hands in your lap, your fingers twisted together. And for a moment you second guess this whole conversation. Is this really how this has to go? “Or at least that’s what I asked myself over and over again during break.”

He stays quiet, his eyes shifting down, settling on his knees. They bounce as his heels tap the floor. His nerves are so raw, that he might just be finally admitting to himself, that this has reached its conclusion. That maybe this was never going to end any differently.

The words leave his mouth so quietly, you almost miss them. “So this is the end then?” 

As much as this already feels like slicing a part of yourself off, you were staying strong. But his tone, its soft resignation, it builds a heat behind your eyes. And your tears threaten to let loose.

“I’ll finish the semester as your TA, but yes. I-” the crack in your voice gives away more than you’ve shown this entire conversation. And his baby blues latch on to it, to you. A final, silent pleading. But you gulp, “I think it is.” 

Inside you are begging for him to say no, it’s not. That he won’t let this be the end. That you are more important than Jennifer, than his family, than anyone’s opinion.

He nods to himself, his eyes squeezing shut. He takes a moment to make himself accept it, and then he pushes himself up.

“I’m sorry this is how we’re ending, (Y/N). I never meant to compromise your feelings or your wants. I didn’t mean to hurt you. But I understand how my intentions have gotten lost in our situation.” He moves to your door, turning his back to you. 

You feel your bottom lip quiver as the tears in your eyes start to bleed out.

“I’m sorry too, Chris.” He hesitates, looking back at you as his hand reaches the door knob. “Goodbye.”

One more quick nod as his gaze drops, attempting to ignore your quiet sob. His fingers push open the door and he whispers, “Goodbye.”

And then he’s gone, and your office hours are over, and you want to be anywhere but here. But as you try to stand, you can’t move yet. This loss feels paralyzing. Your limbs lock in denial, your mind wants to bargain now. But you know it’s too late.

So you sit there, and cry every tear out you can, waiting for the pain to subside. Waiting for your breath to stop shaking. Waiting for you to feel confident in your choices.

And eventually, it does. And you do.

_______________________________________________________________________

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Slashed through names couldn’t be tagged 

[dancetheficaway]

[University AU] Professor Dahyun didn't realise that when Professor Sana invited her out for dinner she meant it as a date, until Sana kissed her goodnight.

Dahyun is excited at the prospect of meeting up with Sana. Over the first few weeks of the semester, she had been incredibly helpful and patient, lending Dahyun a hand whenever she was lost around campus, confused at her email, frowning at her schedule.

So when Sana had asked her if she wanted to get dinner with her on Friday night, Dahyun agreed with enthusiasm. She looked at herself in the mirror once more, strangely nervous about the whole ordeal.

It was probably because Sana is still a new colleague, Dahyun thought. A cute colleague, who I may have a small crush on, she added as an afterthought.

She put on her sweater, only the collar of her white button-up shirt peaking over the thick dark red tissue. Quickly, Dahyun looked at her watch and hurried over to her shoes, throwing on her trusty pair of white sneakers. Just as she put the last finishing touch of makeup on her face, her doorbell rang. Dahyun threw her bag over her shoulder, and went to open the door, stepping out of her home as soon as she spotted Sana waiting for her on the side of the road.

She smiled and waved, before walking closer to the car and sitting inside.

-Hi!

-Good evening, Dahyun!

-How are you?

-Great! What about you?

Dahyun and Sana’s conversation went on until Sana parked the car near a restaurant, in the centre of the city.

-We’re here!

Dahyun smiled at Sana when they entered the restaurant: it was beautiful.

-Wow.

-I know! It’s one of my favourite places.

They sat, mindlessly exchanging stories about university before someone came to get their order.

When their food arrived, Dahyun chuckled as Sana’s eyes betrayed how hungry she was, widening slightly at the sight of the tasty plates.

They ate at their own pace, talking about their younger years, their hobbies, everything that came up on the table.

Dahyun shyly admitted to playing the piano, instantly regretting when Sana asked her to play something for her in the music room of the campus. But then again, when Sana was looking at her with her big, beautiful eyes, Dahyun couldn’t find it in herself to say no…

She learned that Sana had moved to Korea for her studies, and that she was an only child. Sana was very curious to learn that Dahyun had an older brother, wanting to know what having siblings was like. Dahyun also learned that Sana was in fact very clumsy, as she let her fork fall in her pasta no less than three times, nervous laughter escaping her every time. Dahyun felt her heart speed up as she heard the sweet sound of Sana’s chuckles.

When the meal was done, they shared a big ice cream, digging in it hungrily with their spoons. Sana told her about her time when she started teaching, praising Dahyun’s skills so far. Dahyun could only answer by blushing bright red. Conversation flowed easily, and before they knew it, it was time to get back home. They split the meal’s price after Dahyun had begged Sana to not pay for it herself. After all, she had a salary too! Sana caved in, but not without the promise that next time, ice cream was on her.

As they made their way to the car, a comfortable silence settled between them. Sana let out a tiny sigh as she sat behind the wheel, rubbing her stomach.

-I’m so full.

Dahyun laughed, and agreed. The food was amazing there, she could definitely understand why this was one of Sana’s favourite places.

As Sana was driving her home, radio playing softly in the background, Dahyun couldn’t help but to look at her discreetly, stealing glances every now and then. Sana looked beautiful; her features enhanced with the moon’s light filtering through the car’s windows. Dahyun shook her head. Now was not the time to make Sana uncomfortable by looking like a creep, she thought.

When Sana pulled over to Dahyun’s flat, Dahyun’s heart started beating faster. Sana turned off the engine and looked at her.

-I had a really great time tonight, Dahyun.

-Me too, we could, hum, do this again sometime if you’d like?

Dahyun knew her face was the equivalent of a tomato.

Sana smiled at her, placing her hand on Dahyun’s thigh.

-Of course, that would be lovely! Come on, I’m accompanying you to your door.

Dahyun stayed still a few seconds after Sana exited the car; she felt like the skin Sana had touched was burning through her clothes, and her blush became even more prominent.

Great, Dahyun thought, now your crush is going to be even more obvious… Ugh!

When they reached the door, Sana turned to face Dahyun, and suddenly Dahyun felt like Sana was very close. Half of her wanted Sana to get even closer, half of her was in gay panic mode.

-Thank you for coming.

Dahyun blurted out:

-Thanks… Thanks for inviting me! And, and helping me out at university!

Sana smiled again, and Dahyun felt the butterflies in her stomach.

-It’s nothing. Call me this weekend, would you?

And with that, Sana quickly pressed a kiss to Dahyun’s lips, shooting a surge of electricity through the younger woman. Dahyun didn’t even have the mind to answer, only nodding weakly, before Sana walked away and drove off with a chuckle.

When she was alone, Dahyun entered her apartment and pressed a finger against her lips.

Sana just kissed her.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, extracting her from her reverie. She saw it was a text from Sana, and opened it hurriedly, a smile already on her face.

“Next time, you’re choosing where we go for our date. Good night Dahyun!”

Date.

Sana wants to go on a date with her.

Dahyun did a little victory dance in her living room, happiness seeping through her.

[nullominous-q]

This is not a warning.

I’m going to share a story with you. One, that I’m sure I don’t want to. Don’t really have a say in the matter here, something is bearing down on me. Making me sit down here in my room, making my fingers fly across the keyboard. I haven’t paused once since starting, which is odd for me.

It’s like I can barely control myself anymore, like I’m a puppet on strings. And I’m not sure I want to try and struggle, because I’m sure whatever is in control, wouldn’t be too happy with me. But strangely enough, I don’t feel like it’d hurt me.

It needs me. That’s for certain.

But what scares me, is how much it doesn’t need my family, my friends. So, here’s my story.

My life up until this week had always been normal, boring even. I’ve got two older sisters, my dad. My oldest sister, Len lives with her girlfriend and her parents. But Willow, dad and I all live in the same single floor house we’ve had for at least twelve years.

My family supports one another, but dad has always pushed us to be as independent as possible. He always calls the world a “dog eat dog” kinda place, and he’s right of course. But sometimes, his resolve to make us independent was a pain.

Like he did with my sisters when they went off to college, dad paid for only half of my tuition, and left the rest to me. He’d also end up taking care of my textbooks, but either way. I spent most summers writing countless essays for scholarship money, doing one-shot commissions, anything to get the cash.

But in the end, the most surefire way of getting money, was always getting a job. So I also spent time flooding open jobs with my resume. And that’s what eventually led to me being here, typing up something I don’t want to. Typing up something I’d rather just forget and consign to oblivion.

I got a call from one of the countless jobs I’d applied for, saying they were impressed by my many hours of community service and prior work in a TV station, and wanted to conduct an interview in person at their own station.

I, eager to start a job, and it being already two weeks into the summer, agreed. The interview would take place the following Tuesday, and after asking my dad, he smiled proudly at the news, but couldn’t drive me there due to work.

The tv station was nearly two hours away by train, but I was feeling exceptionally lazy before the day of the interview had even arrived. So I asked Willow, and ran into the same response. And then I asked Len, and she was free to take me. Or would have been, had her girlfriend not needed the car they shared to attend a funeral.

Running low on patience and people with working or available vehicles, I was starting to wonder if it was really worth the trouble of bothering anyone else about it. But just as I was about to resign myself to a crowded, uncomfortable two hour train ride, I got a text from a friend.

Steven, nice, funny, prankster, had a painfully obvious crush on me, licensed driver…

I debated in my head for a while on my own capacity for cruelty, before shaking my head. I wasn’t being cruel, nor had I ever been. I knew Steven had a crush on me, but I never led him on. I even mentioned a few times out loud how I really wasn’t ever getting into a relationship with anyone. Romantically, sexually, I’d never had any desire for any of that stuff and seriously doubted that I ever would. The only thing that sustained the guy’s crush at this point, was his own stubbornness. And that was not on me.

Plus, if he said no, that’d be the end of it. I wouldn’t try to tempt him or make any promises. I was asking him for a favor, that was it.

And in the end I didn’t even need to do that. After exchanging pleasantries and being asked “what’s going on?”, I told him of my plight and he immediately offered his help. I asked him if he was really sure about it, feeling slightly uncomfortable at his willingness.

He was sure.

He was always sure when it came to me, and frankly, I hated it.

I just hoped someday soon he’d realize how hopeless a relationship between us was, and he’d quit being such a yes-man for me. I felt like I’d done as much as possible, short of screaming “I’m aromantic and don’t like you like that!” in his face. And well, I may not have loved him like that, but he was a good friend. I trusted him, he was always there for me even before he liked me… I didn’t want to fuck that up.

It was only a few days before I was throwing my backpack into the backseat of Steven’s car. Inside the bag was only a few things, a change of clothes for when my interview was done, my tablet, phone charger, and an assortment of other such things.

Steven gave me a two fingered salute as I joined him in the front and strapped in, “Looking sharp Morgan!” He fished his phone out of his pocket and buckled it into the holder on the dash. “You already texted me the address right?”

I nodded with a smile, “Yep. How’s college treating you? Or should I say, how are you treating college?”

Steven opened the address on his phone and grinned, “Wonderfully, and wonderfully. How dare you suggest any different?”

“Because you’re full of shit,” I shot back with a chuckle as I watched him start up the car.

“I’m filled to the brim with sweetness and charm. I am delightful, all my professors say so,” he shifted out of neutral and pulled away from the curb.

I looked forward and nodded slowly, “Uh huh, name one. I’ll email them to make sure.”

“Aw, you will?”

“Drive Steven.”

We spent most of the drive talking over the radio music we weren’t really listening to, catching up on anything we hadn’t covered in our last text conversation. It was nice, something I truly missed about being back home. The serenity of the drive almost distracted me from Steven’s occasional long stares, almost.

Maybe there was no way to settle this infatuation he had for me, peacefully at this point. Not to say that Steven was a violent guy! No way, he’d always been a pacifist, it wasn’t in his nature to hurt people. One time he broke down bawling all because he’d tripped and accidentally headbutted a guy in high school.

But sometimes I had to wonder if anyone else had been in my exact position, and gotten out of it with their friendship intact. Maybe the friendship falling apart was just something that happened when there were unreciprocated feelings. I hoped not.

Anyways, at this point, nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

I got to my interview on time, got out on time, and then I changed out of my formal clothes in a McDonald’s. Steven and I ate, and by the time we were back in the car, it was near 6pm.

I was tired, but not dead tired. And somehow, I think Steven knew it, because he suggested we go to an arcade for an hour or two. As a “reward for always working so hard”, as he put it. It took a bit of nagging, but he eventually convinced me.

I wasn’t tired enough to refuse gaming, but I was tired in a different way. The stress of finding my own tuition money and job alone was starting to wear me down, as Steven so tactfully implied in our game of skeeball. As he dubbed me “cash zombie” after my tenth loss, searching the land for money to devour.

Props to him, it fit how I felt to a T. However, the new nickname inspired me to challenge him to pool. Which I promptly kicked his ass in.

I was having fun until he walked up to me and asked me to show him how to hold the pool stick, with a smirk I gladly showed him. It wasn’t until I glanced up that I realized it wasn’t my technique he was observing.

I stood and then said I wanted to go home. He seemed taken aback but didn’t protest. With the tickets won from all the skeeball, he bought himself a little grumpy dog charm, and bought me a light up pen.

I accepted it with a smile, trying to shake off the deep discomfort that rested heavily in my chest. I was starting to remember why I ended up not going to my first choice college.

We hit the road at 8pm. Steven and I talked for a bit before he realized my eyes were drooping. With a soft laugh, he said I could go to sleep if I wanted to.

I gladly did…

And then woke up only minutes later, for some reason I still don’t understand. But I woke up, and it was dark out. The radio in the car played softly, I watched absently as the dark road was illuminated by Steven’s headlights and nothing else.

I looked over to Steven, his eyes were on the road, a small smile on his face as he hummed to the music. God I never understood how he could smile so much.

He glanced at me, “Couldn’t sleep? Sorry, the radio’s probably too loud.” Without waiting for me to say anything he reached for the volume and turned it lower. It was nearly inaudible now, I sighed.

“The music was fine Steven. Dunno why I woke up really…” I trailed off as I looked out into the near black of night.

“Bad dream maybe?”

“Those usually don’t wake you up a few minutes into sleeping right?”

“I dunno. All I know is that when you’re asleep, your brain doesn’t give a shit if you’ve been asleep for 12 hours or 1, it can still make you have a dream that feels like an entire day has gone by.”

“Yeah those are weird ones,” I muttered to myself, “Well, doesn’t matter. Even if I did have a nightmare I don’t remember it. I was asleep and then I wasn’t.”

We lapsed into silence. I listened to the calm breaths of my friend, the radio’s quiet  voices, I watched small reflectors pass us by, making sure the car kept on the road in the darkness.

Steven sighed, “Don’t even know what song they’re playing anymore, mind if I turn the radio back up?”

“I already said the radio was fine as it was,” I muttered in response, unable to keep a little annoyance from slipping into my voice.

With a soft laugh Steven reached for the volume and turned the knob. A voice could now clearly be heard. “There we…” Steven started but then trailed off as the voice continued speaking.

I looked over to the radio and blinked as I listened to what was coming out from it. “You’re deaf. You’re blind. You’re mute. You’re deaf. You’re blind. You’re mute,” I recognized the voice as the woman that usually did commercial breaks and announced what song was up next. I listened to the station often, so I knew it was definitely her.

Steven and I exchanged a few unsure glances, and I felt a confused smile pull at my face, I saw the same almost appear on Steven’s face as well. But then she said it again. “You’re deaf. You’re blind. You’re mute. You’re deaf. You’re blind. You’re mute. You’re deaf. You’re blind. You’re mute. You’re deaf. You’re blind. You’re mute.”

She continued the monotonous chant in a hollow voice, and the longer Steven and I just sat there listening, the more tightly my chest clenched in discomfort. I opened my mouth and swallowed to try and get rid of the dry feeling that had settled in my throat, “Wh…why isn’t her crew stopping her…”

Steven let out a soft laugh that sounded forced in every way, his voice was tinged in fear, “Maybe it’s uh…a prank? Hell of a good one I’d say!”

Meanwhile the chant had begun to make me antsy, I glanced around us, we were alone on the road and there were still no streetlights in sight. “You’re deaf. You’re blind. You’re mute,” what the hell did it mean?

I looked back at the radio to see Steven reaching out to hit something, maybe the change station button, the power button, but his hand just hovered in midair shaking ever so slightly, like he was scared to interrupt the incessant chant.

I quickly raised a hand to grab his wrist, “H-hold up.” There was something off about the woman’s voice. I placed my fingers on the volume, and looked at Steven. He was trying to keep his eyes on the road, but his eyes kept going from me to the radio. I frowned and took both of my hands away, “Stop the car.”

Steven gave me a look that was somehow both relieved and wary, but slowed us to a halt and put the emergency lights on. I nodded to him, “Thanks. I…I just want to check something.” Steeling myself, I reached for the volume again, and turned it up ever so slightly.

After a moment of not hearing any change, I turned it up again, more this time. The car was now filled with the woman’s chanting, making it louder hadn’t helped my nerves, but it did help me pick out one more disturbing aspect.

“Is…is that her crew?” I looked to see if Steven heard it too. There was an overlap, like they were all around the microphone chanting, but one or more of them couldn’t say it at the exact same pacing. Judging by Steven’s expression, he heard exactly what I had. His face was pale, his hands were clenching and unclenching in his lap.

He gave me a nervous smile, “Uh, h-hey Morgan, c-c-can we switch stations now? This prank has uh, outlived itself.”

I felt my head move to nod numbly before I could really think about it. As opposed to before, Steven’s hand jumped to hit the change station button.

Music.

There was normal, calming music. Well, as calming as country could be, but opposed to the chanting? It was a nice change of atmosphere. The relief in the car was palpable, Steven sighed and I sunk into my seat. I laughed a bit, “Holy shit!”

Steven chuckled nervously, obviously not understanding why I was so tickled. And to be honest, I wasn’t. It felt more like a reflex to counter how unnerving the situation had been. “Yeah they uh, they got us good. Weird though, it’s the beginning of summer, not Halloween, not April Fools. Why would they…”, Steven started before shaking his head with a huff.

He was rattled, and I understood, I was too. It had only been two minutes or so, but being out on country roads in near complete dark, and hearing a whole radio station chanting for seemingly no reason, was just downright creepy.

Steven took a deep breath before smiling over at me, “Well that does give me a hell of an idea for a party prank, so I’ll consider this a learning experience!” He put his hands back on the wheel and turned his emergency lights off.

The music cut out to static, I looked at the radio in confusion. And went cold when a different chorus of voices began to chant. “Hear the words, perceive their worth, speak their truth.”

I just stared as the words continued to resound through the car, and in an attempt to make sense of the situation, I went for my phone.

“Wh-what are you doing calling the cops?” Steven asked me in a voice tinged with fear.

I wasn’t, “I’m finding out if there’s a blog post or something about this, maybe it’s a secret event or something. Like, you scan across all the stations working together to uh, y’know figure out a secret message first and get a free cruise or some shit. I don’t know! Something!” I was grasping at straws but it was all I had.

Steven just nodded and seemed to jump onboard with my theory, “I-I’ll check the other stations.” He hit the next station button while my browser took forever to load up Google.

It was only silent for a moment before the car was filled with voices again, different voices, but the same chant as before. “Hear the words, perceive their worth, speak their truth. Hear the words, perceive their worth, speak their truth. Hear the words, perceive their worth, speak their truth.”

There hadn’t even been any music. Steven hit the next button, no change and my browser still hadn’t loaded up. Same chant, different voices.

“Hear the words, perceive their worth, speak their truth. Hear the words, perceive their worth, speak their truth. Hear the words, perceive their worth, speak their truth.”

He hit next again, and my browser quit loading giving me the timeout page. As the exact same chant surfaced from the silence again, I let out a shuddering breath and hit the reload button and silently begged for it to work.

Even if this was some sort of elaborate, fucked up prank, there’d be no way that so many stations would be saying the same message.

“Hear the words, perceive their worth, speak their truth.”

Steven with a frustrated growl hit the steering wheel, “This is so fucked up! What the hell are they thinking! It-i-it…! It’s not even funny anymore, it stopped being funny like six stations ago!”

I took a deep breath and looked to Steven as the voices kept on, his eyes were wide, fixed to the radio as the voices kept on and on. His breathing was quick and shallow, he was panicking. I understood, I felt the same way. In fact the only thing keeping me from joining him in his panic, was how worried I was for him.

He was the one behind the wheel, he couldn’t be shaken like this, it was a bad idea to let him spiral.

“Hear the words, perceive their worth, speak their truth. Hear the words, perceive their worth, speak their truth.”

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP! FUCKING STOP!” Steven shouted at the radio. I knew I needed to intervene, this was driving us both mad, but someone had to take control of the situation. I threw my unresponsive phone down.

Taking one of Steven’s hands brought his attention away from the radio and to me, his eyes were tearing up and he was breathing far too erratically, I could see his chest spasming. It hurt to see him like this even though I could feel tears just behind my eyes as well.

I took a deep breath to calm myself and hopefully calm him as well, “Steven, watch me. Do what I do.” I took a deep breath for five seconds, held it for seven seconds, released it for ten, and repeated. It took Steven a bit to catch on, his eyes kept darting to the radio and the speakers around him, but I kept reminding him to keep his eyes on me, and block out the radio.

I could have turned it off, but that would have distracted Steven and just sent him further into his panic. A part of me just thought if we learned to push it out of our minds when we could hear it, we’d be better off than just sitting in silence.

It was hard with the chanting, but having a reason to appear calm made it easier to pretend like it was easy. Steven seemed to buy that the chanting didn’t bother me anymore, and was able to breathe with me and stop his tears. After a while, I didn’t need to hold Steven’s hand anymore, he didn’t need to watch my breathing. He numbly turned in his seat, and sunk back into it.

I sighed in relief, I was still freaked out by all of the shit happening on the radio, but I felt better since we had managed calmed down.

“Hear the words, perceive their worth, speak their truth,” the chant kept going. You’d think the people’s voices would get tired after going for so long, didn’t sound like it.

I sighed, “I’m turning this shit off.”

Steven mumbled in response still focusing on staying calm, “Be my fucking guest.”

I hit the power button without hesitation.

And there was silence.

After the silence continued for a while, I ran my hands over my face. I didn’t even notice I’d been left sweating from all that.

I looked over at Steven, “A…are you alright? Stupid question, I know but…”

He just shook his head tiredly, closing his eyes and covering his face. “That was…so uncool…so fucked. Like…” he put his hands down into his lap, “That was without a doubt, the most fucked up thing I have ever gone through Morgan.”

I nodded in agreement, “Ditto.”

I didn’t even know what to do, and I doubted Steven did either. He needed to focus on calming down, though his breathing had slowed to a normal pace, he was too shaken to drive and I didn’t know how to drive. And despite everything that had just happened, the silence was hardly comforting.

There were no crickets, cicadas, there wasn’t anything besides the low humming of the car and our own breathing. It was a quiet that was suffocating.

Desperate to fill the silence and figure out what to do next I started searching for my phone that I’d thrown earlier. “I’ll uh, see if I can get a signal. Maybe someone can tow us to a gas station or something… Just to…be near people y’know? Maybe someone else there will be as freaked out as us,” I suggested with a pathetic attempt at a laugh.

Steven gave a weak smile that disappeared as soon as it had appeared, and nodded without a word.

After some blind searching I bent down to reach under my seat, and grabbed my phone.

“Are you afraid?”

I came up from my hunched over position to look at Steven, “Uh, well I…” I stopped as I took in his expression.

Steven looked horrified and his shaking had come back full force, his wide eyes were glued on the radio. What had happened?

“Steven, did you hear something? What’s wrong?” I asked reaching for his shoulder.

“You’re afraid.”

My heart seized in my chest and began beating far too loudly in my ears as my body broke into a cold sweat.

There was a voice coming from the radio.

I turned my head over slowly, and saw the display that usually showed the station number, just said “Hi”. I had…I had turned it off, and yet…

“Steven and Morgan, how are you doing this evening?”

“No no nono no!” Steven whimpered before I could even register what had just been said, “How? How the fuck! Who the fuck are you!” Tears were coming to his eyes again as he clung at the back of his head.

The voice on the radio was new, different from all the stations we’d changed through, and in fact sounded much too young to be someone that worked anywhere, let alone a radio station. A little girl, was speaking through the radio, and she somehow knew our goddamn names.

I shook my head dismissing every other thought besides finding out the answers to the questions that had been gnawing away at me, “I…I turned this fucking thing off! How are you…? How are you even speaking through this!” I checked the status of the power button just to be sure, the radio was definitely off.

There was silence before a strange sound broke through the speakers of the car, it took me a bit to realize the girl was giggling. “Please, a stranger talking to you through a powered-off car radio? Not the strangest thing that’s happened to you tonight. All that chanting, scary stuff.”

“This is scary stuff too you little shit!” Steven burst out. I placed a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to calm him. It was already prevalent in my mind, but I somehow already knew that all of this couldn’t be the work of any little girl. Her voice was too calm, and carried much intelligence with it. I just didn’t like the idea of insulting her recklessly.

“Why are you doing this? Who are you? And…and how are you connecting to our radio?” I tried keeping my voice level but I could feel myself trembling.

“I need a mouthpiece. Angel. And this is the only way I can speak to you. Let’s leave it at that.”

I shook my head, not because I wasn’t retaining what she was trying to say, but because everything she said sounded like the ramblings of a psychopath. “A-uhm…a mouthpiece? You mean us?”

“Yes.”

“If radios are the only thing you can…talk through, just use that! Why do you need to-to fucking terrify a couple of college kids and make them think they’re going crazy, when you can just use fucking radios?!” I argued my voice cracking in stress and anger.

“It was fun.”

I stared at the display still displaying the word “Hi” and blinked hard in disbelief, “Fun? Us being scared out of our wits was fun for you?”

“Immensely. I admire your ability to take control of difficult situations Morgan, not many have your tact.”

“You’re fucking insane!” Steven spat out, “A-and you can only speak through radios? Then wh-what the fuck was that with the radio hosts, a-and their crew! You controlled them! Made them say shit!”

I looked over to him, he was panicking less, but getting more angry. He had someone to actually answer his questions, maybe that gave him some semblance of comfort.

There was silence for a moment, and then the girl spoke again. “I did no such thing,” but the voice that came from the radio had changed. Altered and distorted. “I just listened to them, and copied,” Steven’s voice clearly resounded through the car radio.

Steven’s panic was back, and I was starting to feel the urge to get out of the car and run. She continued on, Steven’s voice shifting and distorting back to the thing’s original voice.

“I speak through radios, and just like a radio’s frequency, I can be altered. But my power only stretches so far. I have no ability to touch…computers. More specifically, I cannot touch the internet how you two can. That is why I need a mouthpiece.”

I shook my head, this was crazy, “And…and if we say no?”

“I will embrace you,” the sound of the doors around us locking was startling and final.

Steven and I glanced at each other before checking our doors and trying to unlock them with no success. It was like the locks were bolted in place. Steven unbuckled his seatbelt to slide into the backseat and try the back doors while I too, unbuckled and instead, started kicking at the window on the driver’s side of the car.

“Now now, before you two try getting out. Maybe you should check to see where you’re safer?”

That gave me pause and I almost ignored the voice before remembering, if this girl, thing wasn’t lying, it wanted us alive to be its mouthpiece. So maybe, it’d be best to take a look around the car.

I didn’t need to look very far or very hard, to find what made the voice say what it did. “Steven…Steven stop!” I yelled back at him as he had also started kicking the windows. And when he leaned forward to see what was there, I pointed down the road.

Right over the dip in the road ahead, stood something. The headlights of the car just barely reached its legs but illuminated just enough of the thing to make me feel all at once, much safer in the car.

Glinting in the headlights, thin metal legs, seemingly made out of wire stood supporting the body of a humanoid monster. A white dress, tattered and worn covered the thing’s torso, and perhaps its arms too, but it was impossible to tell. The arms made out of the same material as the legs, hung by its sides, and the long hands reached near the ground. Upon closer inspection, what I thought at first to be wire, may have actually been…needles. The thing’s body was made out of fucking needles, I could see it clearly. They connected impossibly to one another, twisting around each other to form the thing’s limbs. Two red, perfectly circular lights seemingly floated in the darkness above its body, they glowed dimly.

A girl, made of needles, watched us like cowering animals in a trap.

I brought my legs up to my mouth and tried not to cry, just hoping it would stay where it was and not come any closer. “I…i-is that…you?”

“Yes. Would you like me to embrace you?” the voice wasn’t teasing or threatening. It asked like it was expecting us to say yes, then I thought if this was only the hundredth time this thing had attacked someone like this. If someone in our position had been so scared they just wanted it over with, and actually said yes.

I shook my head, “N-no…no! I-I just-!” A sob ripped its way out of my throat, “Pl-please let us go!” I blinked and heard myself scream as I saw that the monster on the road was closer than before, like in the short second my eyes weren’t on it, it had teleported a few feet forwards.

Whimpering I backed up to try and sit in the backseat, Steven put his hand on my shoulder to help me. Once I was huddled in the back with him, I tried not to cry lest I need to blink, allowing this demon on the road ahead of us to come any closer.

“Pl-please, A-Angel right? You want us to be mouthpieces for you right? We can do that! Th-there’s no need for this!” Steven shouted into the tense air of the car.

I watched as the thing on the road, tilted its head in a jittering clockwork-like movement, and teleported closer. I screamed and backed into Steven more, he held my hand and I could feel him shaking. There wasn’t any trick to keep it from coming closer, even if we somehow escaped the car in time, it would just hunt us down.

Now the monster was completely bathing in the headlights of the car, I could see its face. Pitch black and completely featureless, completely contour-less, flat with the red lights just embedded into what must have passed as the thing’s skin. And what framed the face, was pure white hair. Chopped short in the back, and two long lengths of hair that hung down on both sides, it even had bangs, not that they covered its “eyes” in any way.

“I need a mouthpiece,” the thing’s voice chimed like a reminder through the car.

“A” she had said, “a mouthpiece”. I looked to Steven, my fear was gone, but it was replaced with horror.

“It…it only wants one of us,” I felt myself talking and Steven looked at me in confusion. His face turned shocked and horrified.

“She…she can’t mean…” he muttered before looking back to the monster standing in the road. The monster trying to make us throw one another to the wolf that it was.

It was only twenty feet away now, every time Angel would need to remind us of what it wanted, five feet between us and it would disappear as it came closer.

Steven looked at me, “You have to do it. Morgan please, you…you just have to!”

I just shook my head, this was bullshit, I knew I was being childish, thinking there was any way we’d both be getting out of this alive. But there was no way I could do that to Steven!

He gave a frustrated sigh and took me by the shoulders, “Morgan listen to me, I could never live with myself if you died here and–”

“You think I could?” I screamed, “You’re my best friend you idiot!”

With a quick glance, we both noted that the monster was barely ten feet away from us, its long needle fingers twitching erratically as it stood.

“I need a mouthpiece.”

At that moment, I couldn’t take it anymore, Steven was willing to die for me, but I wasn’t willing to let him.

“Steven will be your mouthpiece! He’ll do it! I-I’m a dunce when it comes to the internet! E-embrace me!”

A window shattered, and all at once, I regretted everything I’d just said. Even if I hadn’t said a word, it would have likely turned out the same way.

Steven, in a desperate attempt to throw off my self sacrifice, turned and with two kicks,  finished kicking out the window. It shattered, and he dragged himself out. I grabbed at his hand to stop him, but he just pulled away.

It was the last I saw of him, his back running out into the darkness, and being impaled through his stomach by Angel as it appeared in front of him. The five long needle fingers poked through him like tissue paper, and closed before pulling back, ripping out everything in its grasp. I heard a choked and pained scream, only I’m not sure which one of us it came from.

Steven’s body fell, I screamed in despair. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. My eyes were glued to his twitching form on the ground before Angel stepped on top of it, her needle feet making more gashes on his back and head. My gaze traveled upwards to meet its eyes, round red solid orbs that pierced my soul and made me fall silent.

A crackling noise resonated through the car, “Looks like you win…lose? Either way, you’re alive. He was quite the brave fool.” The red orbs slimmed at an angle, as if it was smiling. “This will be a wonderful story.”

I shuddered and blinked away my tears, and Angel was gone.

The cold night air blew on my face, drying my tears as more fell, Steven’s body no longer twitched, dark blood leaked out from under him, staining his yellow shirt. I could see him, all of him with his insides strewn around his torso. My vision swam.

I felt my body move like lead towards the open window, towards Steven, but my arms didn’t carry me very far. They gave out and I felt the wind get knocked out of me as my torso hit the seat, I wasn’t breathing evenly, I was still sobbing and scared. It felt like something vaguely reminiscent of two hands were pressing down on me, forcing what air I had inside, out.

All I could see before I passed out was the back of the driver’s seat in front of me becoming blurry and dark.

The next days became a blur of high emotions and questions, none of which I knew how to deal with. I was sat in a hospital bed for three days, not to take care of my physical injuries, which were no worse than a few scrapes from broken glass, but to assess my mental state.

Everyone was convinced I had emotional trauma and truly couldn’t remember what had happened on the road that night, apparently I never could get past the arcade without suddenly being unable to speak. I’d start crying as I just stared off into space until someone snapped me out of it, which would throw me into an all too unpleasant panic attack. People learned to stop trying that, and would instead wait for me to eventually notice they were still there.

It was the strangest thing though, I always remembered telling them everything. I guess I wanted to tell them, but my body wouldn’t cooperate, and it was on the very day I was about to be released from the hospital, that I figured out why.

The police had once again tried to get what they could out of me without upsetting me. My dad had finally had enough, nearly chasing them from my room calling them vultures and the like. In my mind, I had been in the middle of telling my story as best I could. I was recalling the very moment I had seen Angel, its red solid orbs of light that stared into Steven and I, its needle-like limbs capable of piercing flesh and bone, the pitch black skin of its face and pure white of its hair. As I watched the police get rushed out, it became apparent that I had stopped speaking quite a while ago.

I blinked away the tears that I hadn’t noticed welling in my eyes and gave a frustrated and pitiful groan. When the door to my hospital door opened, I turned to ask whoever had entered for some water.

Then I stopped.

I found myself looking at a little girl dressed in black, she had to be no older than twelve. She stared at me with a blank gaze that made me feel like shifting to sit up so I could place more space between us. I forced a polite smile on my face, “Hey. What are you doing here sweetheart?”

The girl blinked a few times and looked around the room curiously, I figured her parents must’ve given her some freedom with her hair, considering the long blades of black hair framing her face didn’t match the cropped hair nearer to the back of her head. It looked nice on her.

But still, something about her made my skin crawl. I forced the feeling down, “My name is Morgan, what’s your name?”

The girl began making her way over to the foot of my bed which gave me a better look at her appearance. She reminded me of some international students that had gone to my high school once, she was definitely Asian, but I wouldn’t try and place any specific nationality on her. Though unlike any of the classmates I’d had, her eyes that just peered from behind her bangs were a startling sky blue. She mumbled something indecipherable, her voice was soft and low so I had to strain my ears to hear her.

I shook my head a bit, “Sorry sweetie, I didn’t hear you.”

“Angel.”

It took a moment, only one moment for my mind to register three things.

The fact that a familiar voice was speaking, and not from the girl’s mouth, no. Her mouth hadn’t even moved to speak.

The familiar and foreboding voice had come from behind me, out of the bedside phone speaker.

The girl had just called herself Angel.

This girl, wasn’t actually a girl, it was the fucking demon from the road. I wanted to scream, but all I could do was stare at the human-shaped demon in front of me and fight off the rising bile. Flashes of Steven’s intestines strewn about outside of his body ran through my mind as those sky blue eyes pierced my very mind. I swallowed, hoping to make my throat feel less like sandpaper to no avail.

“What do you want?” I found myself asking, half hoping that it was there to kill me.

The demon moved just a step closer and laid a hand over one of my covered legs, I flinched violently but it didn’t seem to care. Crackling came from the bedside phone once again, “You’ll get to work soon.”

I felt my eyes well with tears and weakly shook my head, “Just end this…please.”

It tilted its head, a confused expression forming on its face. “Embrace you?”

I hesitated before my body moved of its own accord and gave a tired nod, I just wanted this to be over. “Please,” I whispered looking for any sign of mercy in the unsettling sky blue eyes across from me.

The confusion melted and was replaced with something dark, “I will embrace them.” Its body nodded towards a picture frame by my bed, with me and my family smiling on a beach. I felt my stomach knot in fear.

“No. No, no don’t!” I shouted reaching for its hand.

My father burst into the room with concern etched on his face, “Morgan?”

I just stared at him, wide eyed and crying before looking to the foot of my bed. Angel was gone. There was no evidence of the demon ever having set foot in the room, yet where its hand had grabbed my leg felt uncomfortably warm like the weight was still there.

I breathed in shakily before looking to my father, knowing what needed to be done. I gave a weak smile, “I had a nightmare. I’ll feel better when I get home, and get to work.”

The warmth on my leg faded, and with that warmth, something else was taken.

I knew then, that Angel and I, had come to an understanding. My father was confused and assured me that it would be fine if I took time to relax and take care of myself, I just sat there, unresponsive.

I haven’t seen Angel since, and I know that’s a good thing. My family is still worried about me, and I’m sure they’re going to keep worrying. After all I haven’t spoken a word since the hospital room, and not because I don’t want to. They try to speak to me and all I can do is stare at them. I’m sure they think it’s trauma, again. Perhaps it would be best if they continue to believe that.

But I understand now. Angel is like a parasite, yet it needed my permission to use me, invade my mind, tell me what to write. Its hold on me is strong, heavy and overbearing, keeping me rooted here, keeping me isolated, keeping me mute with no other way to talk besides using the words you’re reading now. That’s why it robbed me of my ability to talk about Steven until now, and then even my voice.

I can hear it sometimes when I cry into my pillow at night, “A trapped mind will simply prance when given freedom.” It’s like letting it use me, let it into my head too.

Just be aware, this is not a survival guide, a warning, anything of the sort. If you meet Angel, you’re either dead, or you’re like me. That’s what it wants. More people hearing its voice, more people writing about it. I can’t escape, I won’t ever be able to as long as I love my family. And now that you’ve read my story, Angel has reached out. My words, acting as its fucking conduits to reach you on the other side of the screen. Hopefully you didn’t think about it too hard, hopefully my story didn’t strike a chord with you, hopefully you kept your mind walled off and distant. But this is out of my hands now, I just have to keep on living, waiting for it to tell me what story I’ll write next.

A thought just occurred to me.

I might be writing with you soon. Hope not.

- Morgan

[artificialqueens]

Sensory Overload (Branjie) - SnowBun

A/N: Well… this took about a week to write, and a lot of feigning ignorance about finals. But, WHO CARES? This was so draining to write, but it was tons of fun to do. Hope you guys enjoy! xoxo

His eyes glaze over as he drinks in the faded orange of the Los Angeles skyline. He feels the warm summer air against the bare skin of his arms, and even if he never really left, everything somehow looks different. It looks so much bigger, so much more free than he remembers.

He doesn’t remember much from the first two days home from the show. All he can recall is that he’d curled up and cried about not making it to the finale the first night, and that he’d slept the whole day for the second.

By the third, he’s awake enough to realize that the exhaustion has seeped into his muscles. He can still feel his back aching from every comment Michelle threw at her, every attempt to do better only to fall flat on her face weighing it down for weeks.

For now, no one knows, and she returns to being the gay community’s favorite meme.

He doubts he’ll be able to shake off the memories clinging to his clothes like the smoke of menthol cigarettes, however long it’s been since filming ended.

Menthol cigarettes.

He remembers the way her lips, painted a bright shade of pink like the filling of Pop Tarts that she used to eat as a kid, wrap around the end of what she’d once jokingly called ‘a white death stick.’ Brooke had laughed and confided that she’d tried to quit many times before.

In the heat of the competition, he knew better than to push the topic.

Looking across the horizon again, he remembers how the same orange hue would paint the gravel of parking lots on smoke breaks. It brings him back to toned arms snaking their way around her corset-trained waist.

“Fuck it.”

He’s reckless, and he knows it. He knows that he’s getting into a sports car, and slamming his foot on the damned pedal like he’s inviting the fucking car crash to come at him. He misses him enough to not really care.

He types out the message on his phone, tentative fingers making up empty words that he fills with all the hope he has. Sure, they’d agreed to give whatever was going on between them a shot, but outside the four pink walls of the werkroom, it all seems like a fever dream.

Without even going over the message, he presses send and immediately texts Silky to invite her out for a drink or ten before rushing right out the door.

When he returns home to Nashville, the first thing he does is cuddle Henry and Riley. He showers their tiny furry faces with kisses, and completely forgets his suitcases by the door. His heart swells at their affectionate meows before they rest lazily at his feet.

He doesn’t even bother to change out of his sweatshirt and shorts when he sprawls his long limbs out on the couch, his feet hanging off one of the armrests. He relaxes for once after numerous sleepless nights spent practicing a magic show or finishing dresses made of denim and dried oranges.

He blinks and all of a sudden, the light streaming in through the window is gone. As Henry curls up on his chest, he realizes that he’d drifted off to a deep, comfortable sleep. He scratches at the dark grey fur, and reaches for his phone on the coffee table.

A quick sense of dread flashes over him before he opens it. He expects a hundred different emails about future gigs, but he knows that any mention of work will only remind him even more about how tired he is.

What he doesn’t expect to see is Vanessa’s name at the top of all the notifications.

The smell of strong, musky cologne and artificial vanilla from liquid lipsticks cloud his senses. His brain is suddenly addled by the fusion of reality with the almost fantastical world that he’d just left behind.

He opens the chat, and quickly glances at their brief exchange from ages ago. He’d messaged her after she’d been eliminated on season 10, and he almost feels a sense of pride at knowing he was right in saying that she would move on to bigger things.

V: Hey, you back yet lol

He smiles to himself, in spite of how dazed he is.

B: Yeah, why?

It only takes a moment before three gray dots start flashing. He can’t say he’s not amazed that he wants to talk to him, not after how the show had ended. They’d said it wasn’t personal, but he still feels bad about pulling her away from her dream.

V: Nothing, just checking on you lol

It doesn’t take long before his phone starts to ring with Vanessa Vanjie Mateo’s name drawn out in big white letters right on the screen.

“Hey.”

He knows it’s ridiculous for him to miss his voice, he really does. What had happened between them was supposed to be light and easy; but when he feels the pang in his chest when he picks up the phone, he knows he wants more.

“Hey yourself.”

“How you been?”

“I just got back earlier. You?”

“Bitch, I’m tired as shit.”

Tired tastes like cocktail kisses in Untucked. Tired sounds like the rumbling of the van engine after a long day of filming. Tired looks like gold glitter shimmering on tan skin. Tired feels like a warm embrace when everything feels like too much. Tired smells like coconut shampoo.

He knows that he’s not tired because he wants to be.

“I miss you.”

The words are a shot in the dark, and all he can hear is the quiet chatter of the TV on the other end. He wonders what he looks like, what he’s wearing, what he’s doing. He doesn’t have to wonder how he’s feeling. His heart’s always on display.

“I miss you too.”

There’s a silence that washes over them, but neither of them hangs up. He knows his phone bill is probably going to be fucked if this keeps happening, but he doesn’t care. He thinks that he hears Julia Roberts’ voice come from the TV, and he can’t help himself from smiling.

“I’ll be in Chicago a couple of days,” He feels for the words in his mouth, trying his best not to think too much. “Want to meet me?”

“As long as you’re paying the hotel, bitch.”

The next two months pass by in a hazy, busy bliss. Chicago, Los Angeles, Nashville and just about every city where they hole up in hotel rooms all day turn into pictures that they post on Instagram because right now, they have the luxury of not giving a fuck.

Jose waved off any bad flood from their lipsync and Vanjie’s subsequent elimination. He could practically hear the thoughts running through Brock’s head, and quickly kissed them away, stating that “it was just drag.”

It still doesn’t stop Brock from holding him closer and pressing featherlight kisses to his temple on nights when he fears the statement’s half-hearted.

The reality that they’ve built for themselves is safe. He’s so utterly content that he thinks his heart might explode in his chest, and bitch, Allie and Noah better watch out.

He nuzzles his face into Brock’s neck as he basks in the afterglow. His hand splays out on the planes of his toned stomach, fingertips lightly tickling the skin there, and he hears a contented sigh.

“Boo.”

“Mmm.”

He nips at his skin, fully intending to leave a mark. Anything that would scream that in some far-flung country, state or city, there was a man that wanted to see flowers bloom on skin because he wanted him, craved him, longed for him.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

His body shakes in his arms as he chuckles. He takes a deep breath, and he knows that he’s never going to forget this. The zing of deodorant. The sex in the air. The smell that is just so completely Brock that he wants it to fill his lungs and destroy them the way he knew cigarettes destroyed his.

Brock slaps his ass, and he groans at the loss of contact when he rolls out of bed. “I’m going to get a snack, you want anything?”

He props himself up on his elbow, and raises his eyebrows at her. “You got the munchies?”

There’s a wordless shrug, and he leaves the room. He lays in silence for a moment, cocooning himself in the sheets the way he imagines Asia’s cursed little butterflies did. It’s warm and perfect and just oh so safe.

When Brock returns with leftover chicken and two sets of utensils, even though he’d never answered him when he asked if he wanted anything, he feels it like a punch to the gut that knocks the wind straight out of him.

He’s truly, totally, utterly fucked.

Neither of them is quite sure how they did it, but they’d successfully spent the whole month apart. Brock feels like he’s 16, pining over a boy and letting his heart leap out of his chest at the sound of Jose’s voice on every Facetime call.

They go to a bar to meet Detox the night he arrives in LA. Her eyes dart from queen to queen when Jose presses a kiss to his lips before excusing himself to go to the restroom. The look on her face is so quizzical that he has to laugh.

“Sooo,” Detox draws out the word, swirling the bright pink straw in her drink. “You won more than just challenges I guess.”

He laughs, and blushes as he’s teased until Jose returns to practically sit on his lap for the rest of the night.

By midnight, the two of them are standing at the curb outside. He feels a forehead press against his back with arms wrapped around his waist as he tries to book an Uber. He brings a knuckle up to his lips, and feels the hold on him tighten.

“It’s almost here, boo.”

There’s a sigh when he pulls away from him, and a silver car pulls up in front of them shortly. They climb into the back, and he shoots a glare at Jose when he cackles at how his legs fold in the small backseat.

The ride is initially silent, apart from the Christian music playing on the radio. There’s a hand spread out on his thigh, and he turns to him with raised eyebrows. He’s still looking out the window, but the teasing smile on his face gives him away.

The driver starts to hum along to the music, and the hand drifts to the front of his pants, right out of the driver’s purview. He lets out an almost inhuman squeak, and fuck, his brain has stopped working.

The palm starts to work gently, applying extra pressure, and he has to bite back a moan. The world has started to turn dark with lust, and he knows that the ten-minute ride to the apartment is going to feel like hours.

They pass a gay club that he knows Vanjie frequently performs at, and hears the driver grumble about queens being too loud, but his brain is too far gone to really process the words properly.

“I’m never quiet, am I?” There’s a low whisper against the curve of his ear, and he feels a shiver run through his body. He plays back the sound of his scream as he pushes him off the precipice of ecstasy, and he almost faints.

The driver turns the corner on to the street of the apartment, and the palm works harder. He tries to focus on the song playing, something about a king, as they get closer. The hand stills on his half-hard dick, and he sighs in relief as the car stops.

He doesn’t remember rushing up to the apartment, but he knows he gets there in record time. He backs him up against the door, and kisses him like it’s too much. He is too much, and he wants all of it.

When his jacket falls to the ground, he feels his skin burn as hands claw at him. He whispers his name against his lips, over and over again, trying to say all the words he knows he cannot say because his brain is a clusterfuck.

He holds his breath as the other man falls to his knees, fully intending to worship everything that he is. There’s only one thought that he can muster before everything gets reduced into sound and feeling.

He’s completely fucked.

“This is my boyfriend, Jose.”

It feels good.

No, it feels right.

The smile on Brock’s face is so full of pride. It is the universe deciding to invent itself at some point, or no point, in time. It is everything that is real, but should not be because nothing should be so perfect.

He repeats the words to his mother, his sister, his drag mother, everyone he cares about. This is the birthday gift he never knew he wanted, all tied up with string. He thinks it’s almost as good as winning the crown.

Almost.

“Shit, I think your mom tried to kill me.”

He feels like he’s eaten his body weight in food when he crashes onto the couch, and hears Brock laugh as he pours out two glasses of wine for them in the kitchen. With each little movement, he whines at the slight discomfort.

“That just means she likes you.” He looks to the kitchen, and sees Brock’s head buried in the fridge, trying to find the Chalet sauce that he’d purposely saved from lunch earlier in the day.

“Bitch, how can you still eat?”

“It’s Swiss Chalet.” He answers matter-of-factly, and drinks the sauce.

He watches him saunter over to the couch, and set the wine in front of them. He turns the TV on, returning to the part of The Notebook where they’d stopped earlier in the day because he’d complained that “tear markings ain’t a good look when meeting someone’s mom.”

They end up cuddling on the couch as they watch the movie, his legs thrown over Brock’s lap and their fingers intertwined. The credits start to play, but they don’t move. No, it’s too peaceful for either of them to try.

“I love you.”

The words are muffled into his hair, but he’s never heard anything so clearly in his life. In hindsight, it doesn’t really change anything. He knows that the words started to blossom like wildflowers without either of them being aware of it.

But he sees the bright colors of the petals in Brock’s hands, holding them so gently as to not crush them. He hands him the words, and he can feel how delicate they are, how easy it is to let them fly in the cold air of Toronto.

“I love you too.”

He hears the chime signaling midnight come from Brock’s phone, and feels a kiss at the top of his head.

“Happy birthday, boo.”

J: Help me pick a bed frame

J: sent 2 photos

B: The first one

B: Want me to head over to LA next weekend

J: I have a show in NYC, sorry

B: That’s okay, love u

J: Love u 2

B: Mom says she misses you!!!

J: Awe she’s sweet, tell her I miss her 2!

J: Want me to come over for NYE

B: Hosting a party, sorry

J: Alright

B: Love u

J: Love u 2

“I think we need to take a break.”

The words are a joke, and he knows it. It’s easy to break glass bottles and KitKats and highlighters that cost a hundred dollars, but breaking what they have? He thinks it may need years and years to tear it all down. Words don’t seem to suffice.

There’s a quiver to the bottom of his boyfriend’s lip, and he instantly regrets what he’s done, even though he’s convinced himself a million times that this is what would be best for them. For him.

He’s not sure he’ll be able to survive it.

The expression on his face cycles between a handful of emotions. Anger, sorrow, confusion, and a mix of all three in different parts. His heart is still out on his sleeve, and he’s slicing it open and pouring salt on the wound.

“Why?”

The answer to his question is gone. He doesn’t know why. He only knows that before that moment, there was a reason so important that he took a flight just to say it. He deserves better than a sorry excuse on a Facetime call.

His voice is stuck in his throat, and he can barely breathe, and the words are all tangled up in his brain like the yarn he tossed at his cats before he left for LA, and—Jesus, he didn’t think it would hurt this bad.

“I’m just not sure I can handle this right now.”

His answer is honest, but not completely. He doesn’t tell him that he can’t handle his own thoughts. He doesn’t tell him he can’t handle one night when he wants so much more. He doesn’t tell him he can’t handle feeling something so strongly that it threatens to destroy him.

The humorless laugh that comes from his mouth is cruel, and he knows he deserves it. He deserves the pain that comes with giving up. He deserves to watch the flowers they’ve planted wither away in the cold of winter.

He wants him to say something, anything else that will hurt. Anything that will convince him that this isn’t a mistake; but he knows that he won’t. He knows that he’s too good for him, too amazingly kind for him, and he will never kill that longing for him because it’s what he deserves.

“Alright bitch,” The tone of his voice has no malice, and his heart breaks in half. “If that’s what you want.”

He nods, even if it isn’t.

The second night of promo week is full of screaming and laughter. Some of the girls like Nina and Soju have changed out of drag, but she can’t be bothered. She’s spent too much money on her outfit that she ignores the discomfort of the pink feathers tickling at her neck.

“Yeeess!”

The girls are yelling as Silky and her take shots of tequila. She feels it burn as it travels down her throat, into her stomach, and settling in the open wounds she hasn’t quite allowed to heal yet.

Everyone starts to diffuse about the hotel bar into their own little groups, but she doesn’t move. She wants to convince herself that she doesn’t want to go around because of the fact that her heels are squishing her toes together, but she’s never been very good at acting.

The world hasn’t ended. Not really. The earth has continued turning on its axis, and rotating about the sun. It doesn’t give a fuck about the broken heart in her chest that can’t quite understand how to heal.

New York is the epitome of it all. It feels like a large, open space that has a place for just about everyone; but she doesn’t feel like she belongs anywhere. At least not tonight.

“Hey.”

There’s a smile on Brooke’s face as if there’s nothing wrong, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She looks absolutely gorgeous, and she wants to fucking yell at her for it. Or maybe she just wants to fuck her. Either works, really.

“Hey yourself.”

Brooke orders them two more shots of tequila, and she cocks an eyebrow at her.

“You trying to get me drunk, Miss Brooke Lynn?” She throws the hair of her pink wig over one shoulder. This isn’t what she was expecting. She thought they’d spend the next week only talking for interviews, and ignoring each other beyond that.

But she doesn’t complain.

“I,” Brooke raises her glass, and she sees the color of diluted amber swish in it. “Just wanna hang out with a friend.”

The word friend burns more than the tequila does, but hell, if it isn’t the best that she’s felt in two weeks.

“So, you been getting your bookings?” She tries her best to make small-talk, even if she’s always been way too loud for that kind of thing.

“Yeah,” She leans against the bar, and she notices that she looks drained. No amount of makeup can hide the lack of a smile that she’s become accustomed to. “I’ve been here and there lately. I just wanna go home to the cats, though.”

“Oooh, bitch,” She throws her hands up. “You really love them pussies, don’t you?”

Brooke’s laugh is priceless, and when she hears it, she feels like they might be alright. This isn’t what she’d expected or wanted, but it’s a start. The realization is enough, for now.

They’re okay.

“Hey, where you at?”

The volume on his phone is low, but it sounds like she’s on speaker. Even over the thumping bass of the club, Vanjie’s voice rings true and—well, the word isn’t clear exactly. It’s just loud.

“We’re outside already, hold on.”

“Y’all better hurry over here, or I’m whoppin’ your asses!”

She hangs up on him, and he turns to Nina, as if to ask if he looks alright. She gives him a thumbs up, and he feels a flash of gratitude. Of all the queens he wants to be with him tonight, it’s Nina.

They’ve been texting and Facetiming for the past month. On his birthday, he’d called him after three shots, saying happy birthday in the back of a bar somewhere across the country. His voice was soft and sweet, and he made his birthday wish to have him in his arms the next morning.

As they make a beeline for the back, he can’t hear anything but the pounding of his heart in his ears. Everything fades away when the door opens, and he sees her standing in her glittering upside-down jersey and short pink wig.

He thinks she’s never looked better.

“Heeey!”

When her arms wrap around his neck, he thinks he might burst into tears. She’s so close, and he feels how warm she is, smells her signature cologne, hears her whisper that she’s happy to see him. It’s sensory overload.

Too quickly, she lets go and moves on to Nina. She begins to copy Vanjie’s voice, and the room fills with laughter. His sides start to hurt, and it feels so damn good to laugh like this again.

Vanjie’s in the middle of telling her manager something when Nina starts a conversation with him without words. She widens her eyes at him, and he lets out a shaky breath. It takes a moment, but he relents with a nod.

“Hey Vanjie,” She whips her head to look at him, expression so soft and kind that he almost loses the courage to speak. “Can we talk? Like alone?”

“Uhm,” She looks around the room, and apologetically throws a look at her manager. “Can we get a minute?

Nina ushers Vanjie’s manager and the bar’s owner outside, and before she leaves, she flashes him a smile for luck. The door clicks shut, and the room is filled with the vibration of the music and the air conditioner, but in the silence, he isn’t sure what to say.

She’s standing at least eight feet away, but he feels like it’s farther than LA to Nashville. He wants to pull her close, wants her to understand. He has to breathe deeply to keep himself from passing out.

“So,” She clicks her tongue as she runs a hand through her wig. “What did you wanna talk about?”

“I’m sorry.”

The words tumble straight out of his mouth. The look on her face is puzzled, so he musters up the courage to continue what he’s started, even if it means tearing down the walls that keep him safe.

“I don’t want to be away from you.” He says, tears threatening to spill out his eyes. “I was so scared of wanting something so bad that I started to overthink, and I just want you to know that I love you and—”

She pulls him down to cut off his rambling. He thinks she tastes like alcohol, vodka perhaps, and it’s all so fitting because he’s drunk on her again. She tangles her way into every fiber of his being, and the world turns into shades of wine-red and pink.

He doesn’t believe that the universe falls into a place when he kisses Jose, but the feeling of his lips shows him what it feels like. It isn’t quite the stars aligning, but it’s good enough for him.

“I’m sorry.”

He whispers the words against her lips, and she shushes him. He knows that there’s probably lipstick on his face, but he doesn’t care. He kisses her again, softer this time, savoring the way she feels.

“Hey, baby?”

“Yeah?”

“They got a camera up in here.”

He looks up to the corner of the room, and proudly kisses his boyfriend with fervor.

“Let them see.”

J: Reunion airing this week

B: They’re finally gonna know

J: How much I love that fine ass of yours

B: Haha

B: Okay, I’m about to board

J: C u in two hours

J: Love u

B: Love u 2

[keeroo92]

True North Part 3

This practically write itself. Thanks again @clevermentalitybeliever for your support! I kinda have to apologize for the giant pile of angst I’m leaving you, but the payout’s gonna be so good...This has turned into quite a project and I’m loving every minute!

Link to Part 1

Link to Part 2

Trigger/content warning - mentions of physical abuse.

____________________

V rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn, putting the car in park. He was half an hour early for work, but this was when you normally arrived. Your car wasn’t there yet, not a good sign. He took a gulp of his coffee, the strongest the barista could manage. So far, it hadn’t helped much. Six shots only to not lose consciousness.

He occupied his mind by thinking of new jokes, new ways to make you smile. Did you like pranks? Dante played enough on him as a child, he had plenty of ideas. Some would need to be toned down, Dante wasn’t exactly gentle.

He checked his phone. Ten minutes since he arrived.

How long should he wait before texting you? There hadn’t been any more messages since last night, but even in his current state he knew he was being paranoid. He couldn’t stop worrying, it was eating him alive and he didn’t understand why. You were his boss and his friend, yes, but so was Nero and he didn’t have this reaction to him being in danger.

Well, Nero is a fighter. He can take care of himself. She can’t.

That I know of.

He took another sip of coffee. The trouble was how much he simply didn’t know. His mind filled in the blanks with the worst case scenarios on repeat, merciless in its torment. It made him want to scream.

Another sip.

Was that an engine? He scanned the portion of road he could see in the rearview mirror, spotting a sedan on approach. It was the wrong color and he sat back with a huff. How long now? He checked his phone.

It’s only been fifteen minutes.

He sighed. Truly, this was driving him mad. All he wanted was to see you safe, make sure he hadn’t fucked up again. Why was that so exhausting, just to want one person to be safe?

Another sip.

His phone dinged.

Srry for late request, can U pick me up? Caleb not home.

V frowned. Was something wrong with your car? Did Caleb damage it somehow? It didn’t matter – he’d find out soon enough. He tapped out a quick response that he was on the way and started the car.

---Reader---

You smiled at his response. It was a relief to know that despite the disaster last night, V would still be there for you. He was a good man, a good friend. Honorable. Funny. Attractive.

And there I go again, thinking about how wonderful my employee is…

You distracted yourself by checking your email, catching up on your inbox as you waited by the window. There he was, pulling in right out front. You tapped the screen and hit send, telling him you were headed out to meet him.

You checked your reflection one more time, lifting the hem of your shirt to eye the angry bruise covering the lowest rib on the left side. It hurt like a bitch, but you didn’t think anything was broken. Cracked, at worst. You could get it looked at after work. All you had to do was not breathe deeply or twist and it should be fine.

Goddamnit, Caleb…

He was so kind growing up. Only over the last few years had he turned sour and angry. Sometimes he showed glimpses of who he used to be, and you weren’t quite ready to give up on him yet. Besides, he’d only hurt you a few times. Things would get better. He would get better. You just had to have faith.

He’s my brother and he loves me. He’s just going through a tough time.

You sighed and grabbed your purse. A twinge of pain in your side reminded you not to do that and you grimaced. It was going to be a long day.

Outside, V already had the door open for you. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes and a dull sheen replacing the usual glint of energy within them. It was obvious he’d barely slept. You tried to move the same way you always did, hiding the pain under a mask of normalcy. Pain was temporary, family was forever.

“Thanks for coming,” you said. V smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Anytime.”

As if I didn’t feel bad enough already…

You buckled your seatbelt and realized this was the first time you’d ridden with him. He didn’t seem like he’d be a reckless driver, but you crossed your fingers anyway.

“So, where’s your car?” he asked.

“Caleb borrowed it.”

He frowned and pulled onto the main road. So far, so good. He was silent for a long time, eyes focused on the road. The silence was deafening, and you were tempted to try the radio when his lips parted.

“What happened after I left?”

There it was. The question you had no idea how to answer. You hated lying, and V deserved better. The truth was on the tip of your tongue, begging to be spoken. You swallowed and looked at your lap, watching your fingers fidget.

“He calmed down and went to bed. No big deal.”

His eyes stole a glance at your face as he stopped for a red light. He didn’t look away until the car in front of him moved, not even blinking as he watched you. It was unnerving and you hoped he’d go back to his normal self by the time you got to work.

Maybe a little less funny for a few days, just till I’m better…

He sighed. “You know, I don’t just think of you as my boss. You’re my friend. If Caleb ever crosses the line, I hope you trust me enough to tell me.”

Fuck, how do I respond to that?

The truth welled up in your throat again, threatening to force its way into the open. You closed your eyes and clenched your jaw until it subsided. The desire to tell V everything was strong, but you were stronger. You had to be.

“I do trust you. There’s nothing to worry about. He’s all bark, no bite.”

Your voice sounded tremulous to your ears, but V nodded. His easy acceptance of your lie left you feeling sick as he pulled into the parking lot. Bile rose in your throat and you shoved it back as you got out of the car, moving slowly to favor your rib.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” V asked.

Damnit.

“Just a stomachache, I’ll be fine once I get some pepto.”

Once inside, you took stock. It wasn’t usually a problem if you left the shop in Peter’s hands, it rarely got busy enough to warrant more than two people working at a time. Nothing looked too far behind, so yesterday was more of the same.

“Can you start the sorting? I’ll do some appraisals until we open,” you said. Though he didn’t look happy to be assigned work on the other side of the building, V did as you asked. You breathed a careful sigh of relief and got to work, praying you’d make it through the day.

---V---

It was over a week before you seemed normal again, moving with ease and confidence throughout the shop. He hated keeping his mouth shut, hated that he was at least eighty percent certain of why you favored your left side. It stung that you didn’t trust him enough to tell him the truth, but he understood and did his best to respect the boundary.

He swore if it ever happened again, he would unleash all his fury on Caleb.

The time he shared with you was precious and rare as the holidays approached, one of the two busy seasons. You hired a few seasonal employees and sent V to handle their training. It was either a compliment to his growing skill or an attempt to maintain some distance, and his mixed feelings left him confused and annoyed.

He wished every day that the easy, joking nature of your friendship would return, and every day he was disappointed. It hurt, far more than he would’ve guessed. You were the first friend he’d made in his new life after the Qlipoth. He was friendly with all his coworkers, but none of them made him smile the way you did.

He missed his familiars, too. Their companionship was worth more than he knew, and every time he felt the threads of connection that once flowed to them it broke his heart a little bit more.

By the week of Thanksgiving, he was the opposite of thankful.

He didn’t have any plans for the evening itself, and found himself going to work just to keep his mind occupied. He had a key now. You trusted him more with your business than your friendship.

Stop thinking about it. It never helps. Focus on the task in front of you.

A massive pile of new arrivals arrived just yesterday. It needed to be sorted and appraised, then he’d see how much he could fit on the sales floor before Black Friday. A daunting task, perfect to use as a distraction. He lost himself in it easily.

Hours passed. He didn’t notice how late it was until his phone buzzed angrily on the counter by his elbow. Nero was calling.

We’ve barely spoken in months, why is he calling me now?

He tapped the green button, then put it on speaker. “Hello.”

“V! Where the fuck are you? Turkey’s almost ready!”

His brows furrowed. Not once had Nero mentioned he was welcome for the feast, and Fortuna was a seven hour drive away. He picked up the phone and switched off speaker, already pacing. He could barely hear the young man with the cacophony in the background. Quite a party he was missing.

“What are you talking about? I wasn’t told I was welcome.”

“Dude. We didn’t think you were so dense you needed to hear it out loud. You’re always welcome.”

His lips twitched. A simple miscommunication, then. How absurd, to have wasted so much energy and time feeling lonely. Relationships were far too complicated; he wasn’t a mind reader, how was he supposed to know?

“Next time, I’d appreciate more direct communication.”

“Yeah, no problem. Guessing you can’t make it, then? Still in Red Grave?”

“Yes, I have to work tomorrow.”

“All right, well I’m putting you on speaker. Everybody say hi to Uncle V!”

What sounded like at least fifty people shouted out various iterations of the greeting and V’s heart warmed at the sheer number of voices on the other end. Only one was missing.

Yours.

He sighed. “Thank you, everyone. I’ll visit soon, I promise.”

“You better!”

The line cut out for a moment as Nero took him off speaker. The background noise faded and V could almost hear Nero’s heavy footsteps as he left behind the bulk of the group.

“What’s up, brother? You seem weird. Well, weirder than usual.”

What should he say? Was any of it even worth mentioning? Nero was at a party, he had better things to do than listen to his complaints.

“I don’t want to trouble you.”

“Tell me or I start driving.”

And suddenly he couldn’t hold it in anymore. The stress, the guilt, the loneliness. His joy at finding a friend and his sorrow at the chasm that now separated you. How much it hurt to be held at arms distance. The pain that despite the victory over Urizen, he felt like he’d lost. By the time he fell silent, he was utterly drained.

“Jeez, dude… That’s a lot. I’m sorry you’re dealing with so much shit. I mean, the way you talk about Y/N sounds like how I talk about Kyrie.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Damn, you really are dense sometimes. I mean you want more than friendship from her. That’s why it hurts so much. You got feelings.”

V sighed. He could hardly believe he was actually listening to Nero. But he was the only person he knew in a successful relationship, so maybe he had a point.

“I can’t deny I’ve entertained the thought. More than once. I’ve almost paid her back, but she’s still my boss.”

“Then quit. Find a new job.”

He shook his head. “I like working here, though. Working with her.”

“You need to figure out what’s more important, then. The job, or the lady. Ah, shit, someone started a food fight. I gotta go, but call me soon. Or I’ll call you, whatever.”

“Thanks, Nero. Talk to you soon.”

He lowered the phone and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had a lot of thinking to do, but there was one thing he had to do first. With a few taps of the touch screen, he hit send before he could think too much. Three words.

I miss you.

Part 4