#and who can fucking bother to scan sketchbooks

[jackwolfes]

time after time for spin cycle!! maybe like 6 months in the future? 🧇🥰

[questions]

interestingly i already have a draft set 2 and a half years on from spin cycle 👀 so instead of just telling you what i think happens i'll drop this:

On a winter day with snow falling, Wylan sits on the little bay window seat tucked at the edge of his boyfriend’s living room and draws. He sketches out figures in all sorts of shapes, trying to get the flow of their clothes right so he can add them to a design board for a laundry powder brand. They’re the newest client at the Silver Six, and he’s been given this project to lead on — not just shadowing a colleague to see how it’s done. Soon enough Wylan will scan these into his tablet and clean them up, adding colour and shine and all those other good things, but for now he wants to stay analogue. He wants to just sit with his sketchbook and draw.  

That’s what he does. He sits, and he draws. He also listens to his boyfriend patter about in another room and whine like the world is ending.  

“It’s not that there are no apartments I can afford,” he says to the world — to Wylan, vaguely, although he’s yelling from through the door that leads into his kitchen, like he hopes he can hear but can’t be bothered to come and actually check. “It’s that I don’t want to have to deal with the fucking hassle of moving, again.” 

Wylan doesn’t say, you’ve lived here for two and a half years, or you have more than enough friends who will help you, or I’ll move too and we can move in together if you want, do you want? I want. It’s embarrassing, a bit, how much he does want it. 

He stays quiet. 

“You’re being unsympathetic,” he hears. 

Wylan looks up from his sketchbook to see Jesper leaning against the doorway at the far end of the living room. He is, like Wylan, bundled up in chunky knitwear and bright colours, although as usual Jesper’s take on bright colours is a little bit absurd. Bright, clashing, ugly, wonderful. It makes Wylan smile every time he sees it, and now is no exception. 

“I’m not being unsympathetic,” he replies. 

He’s fully aware he could be more sympathetic. He’s just also aware that there’s something brightly ferocious in the core of his being that yearns for a very specific thing, and it’s a thing he’s denying himself. It’s the same way he denied himself a flat chest and a name he liked when he was younger, not because he hated himself or anything like that, but because he didn’t think he deserved the kindness of being honest when he lay in bed and asked himself, what if you aren’t the girl they think you are? He wasn’t punishing himself. He just wasn’t admitting to himself that there were questions he wanted answered. Now — if he doesn’t ask, and doesn’t let himself want, it will all be fine. 

He supposes that it doesn’t matter. He is the man he knows he is, just like he’s a man that would jump at the opportunity to move into a new apartment with the stunning, gorgeous man across the room from him. He’ll just spend a bit of time not thinking too hard about the dream of waking up every morning in the same bed as the man he’s very much in love with. 

If only, if only, Jesper gave any indication of ever wanting it.

[screbelbaziu]

tried some sorta nitw inspired style

[sataniquepanique]

Painkiller - Part One

Hi! I'm a long time lurker of fanfics, but a first time writer! Like the rest of you, I have fallen hopelessly in love with Eddie Munson. He also reminds me of not only myself in high school, but a lot of the people I knew. The freaks, the outcasts. I started this fic with my own high school experiences in mind, so those themes are sprinkled throughout. This will be a multi-part piece, with a lot written already. If it gets enough interest, I'll keep posting! Please be nice, I'm new!

~~~

Summary: You move to Hawkins during your Senior Year, trying to keep your head down and just graduate. You meet Eddie Munson, who tries to help you adjust to life in Hawkins. You're apprehensive but end up falling for him, only to be roped up in some drama when Eddie goes on the run.

Genre: slow burn, angst.

Warnings: cursing, general angst.

Word Count: 1.1k+

~~~

Part One: Cherry Bomb

“This is so fucking ridiculous…” you think to yourself as you walk into the lunchroom. It’s 11:40am, the time you’ve been dreading all day: lunch. High school is hard enough, but moving to a new town for your senior year? That’s pure, sadistic torture. In your head you replay the moment your parents broke the news to you a few weeks ago, 

“You can’t be fucking serious” you said as you deadpan over to your mom’s face. “Watch your mouth…” your dad cautions as he shoots you a glance from across the dinner table. You laugh incredulously, “Mom. I’m starting senior year. All of my friends are here! Why are you doing this to me?” You plead with her, as your eyes start to well with tears. Your dad had gotten a new job in Indiana, some hick town called Hawkins. He couldn’t pass up the offer, so he was forcing the entire family to move halfway across the country from the East Coast. Your mom sighed and looked down at the table as you slammed your chair back and went to your room. There was no stopping this move no matter how hard you tried.

You scan the lunchroom for an empty chair, something preferably away from others. You aren’t very good at talking to new people, and mostly chose to keep to yourself. At your old school, you had a small group of friends who were like you: into art and horror movies and punk music. The lot of you didn’t fit in with any other social clique, but somehow found each other. “Remember…” you think to yourself, “…you’re just here to get through one year and graduate. You’re not here to make friends.” Finally you see it, a seat at the very back at the last empty table. You make a beeline for it, and quickly throw your backpack onto the table and sit down, pulling out your sketchbook and a pencil. You put on your headphones that have been hanging around your neck for the majority of the morning, and escape into Joan Jett’s familiar voice. Art has always been your thing, ever since you were little you were always doodling or sketching something on any blank surface you could find. Your mom had bought you a new sketchbook before the big move, in the hopes that it would stop you from drawing on your arms. Todays project was a space-scape, with a lone figure floating through the abyss. The nothingness of space mirrored your attitude towards this new town. Nothing. You felt nothing. 

Suddenly, your sketchbook is ripped out from under your hand, causing you to accidentally draw a huge dark pencil scratch down the center of the page. “What the fuck dude!” you slam down the pause button on your walkman and look up and see a tall, blonde, smug looking basketball player holding your sketchbook and thumbing through the pages. “Check this out guys, we have a new resident weirdo!” He exclaims as he turns his head to laugh with the rest of his jock friends at the next table over. You remember him from your history class earlier, Jason is his name maybe? He wouldn’t stop ogling the cheerleader that sat in front of you in that class. “Can I please have that back? I wasn’t bothering anyone.” You say quietly, tucking a loose strand of dark auburn hair behind your ear. “Not until I’m done looking at your masterpieces.” Jason smirked, still tearing through the pages. You feel your eyes start to burn, and you try your best to not start crying. “HEY JASON!” You hear a voice boom from across the lunchroom. You look up startled to see a kid you remember from your math class, standing on a lunch table with his fists clenched. His name was Eddie, and you only remember him because he had leaned over in class to ask you for a pen. Not because he needed it to take notes, but because he wanted to etch Slayer into the desk. “Leave her alone, man.” He says more calmly than his previous outburst. “Or what? You want something, freak?” Jason yelled back, tossing the sketchbook back onto your lunch table and clenching his fists. Eddie put his hands up next to his head and stuck his fingers up, mimicking horns, while sticking his tongue out at Jason. You giggled at him, and he shot you a quick wink. One of the other kids at the jock table came up to Jason and grabbed his shoulder, “C’mon man, it’s not worth it.” Jason shot Eddie and you one last piercing glance and went back to his seat. 

Eddie hopped down from his lunch table and slid into the seat next to you. “Hey, sorry about that, he’s a total dickhead. Do you want to come sit with us?” He motioned over to his table, a bunch of misfits wearing the same lame shirt with “Hellfire Club” emblazoned on the front. “No thanks, I’m good.” You said nonchalantly, not even looking at him while you put your sketchbook away. “Oh…uh, my name’s Eddie by the way” he stammered, obviously trying to keep a conversation going with you. “I know” you said matter of factly “you borrowed my pen in math earlier, I’d like that back by the way.” “Oh shit! That was you!” His eyes widened as he remembered. “I saw you drawing in class, you’re pretty talented.” You shot him a look, unsure if he was making fun of you or being sincere. “Listen, we have a club that meets on Tuesdays, Hellfire Club. We play DnD, and tonight is the culmination of a months-long campaign but we’re down a member. Would you want to join? I feel like you might be into it…” he trailed off. “….why? Cause I’m a freak like you guys?” You say, meaner than you had intended. Eddie smiled, the same devilish grin he had used on Jason moments prior, “Precisely.” You threw your bag over your shoulder and made your way towards the door, Eddie following behind. You stop in front of the Hellfire lunch table. “I’ll think about it.” You say, glancing over at the rest of his group, all of which were staring at you. You throw your headphones back on and hit play, blasting Cherry Bomb into your brain. You turned around before Eddie could respond, and made your way out of the lunchroom. 

“Eddie, you seriously didn’t just invite your new girlfriend to Hellfire did you?” Dustin groaned. “Shut up.” Eddie snapped, shooting daggers at him through his eyes. “She’s not my girlfriend. Not yet, anyway.”

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine one-shot “Artistic Differences” (Rated NC17)

Summary: Kurt and Blaine have known each other all their lives. They've loved each other almost as long. But as Blaine uses his love for Kurt as inspiration for his music, Kurt has yet to reciprocate. And since painting is Kurt's entire world, Blaine is worried about what that might mean for the two of them. (2703 words)

Notes: I had been writing this for the @klaineadvent Drabble Challenge 2020 prompt 'opinion'. I finally finished it. Wee! XD

Read on AO3.

Baby, you're not alone...

'Cause you're here with me...

And nothing's ever gonna bring us down...

'Cause nothing can keep me from lovin' you...

And you know it's true...

It don't matter what'll come to be...

Our love is all we need to make it through...

Blaine stops singing when he notices an echo haunting his lyrics, lingering on the high notes for longer than written. He listens with eyes closed, smiling at his keyboard. 

His boyfriend Kurt, humming behind the melody. 

Blaine has been ironing this song out for the past three hours now but Kurt hasn't complained once about the constant stopping and starting.

He never does. 

Blaine peeks over his shoulder as he continues to play with the harmonies and watches Kurt, focused on the canvas in front of him, swaying to the rhythm of the music, happily sandwiched between his two passions - art and music.

It's a mild and sunny Saturday - a whole day devoted to cleaning up commissions and tying loose ends on weekly projects before their one day off together. Blaine and Kurt share a studio space - normally unheard of for an artist and a musician, but they make it work. It helps that they've known one another for so long that being alone together is the same as being alone with themselves. That also means they get the inside scoop on what the other is working on long before the public does.

And what they're not working on, which has begun to bother Blaine.

Blaine adores everything his talented boyfriend comes up with. Even regarding his more controversial works, there isn't a thing Kurt has painted that Blaine finds objectionable. Kurt puts his heart and soul into every painting, no matter who it's for, and no matter the subject. A writer from Artforum once wrote: "Kurt Hummel goes beyond the veil to showcase not just the external, but the core of every subject - their drives and motivations. It pairs nicely with the transparency of his own soul, which shines through the gouache and the gesso to leave the viewer with a tangible piece."

And therein lies the root of Blaine's problem.

A glance at one of Kurt's canvasses and the world knows everything it needs to about what he loves.

But one subject in particular has gone wholly unrepresented.

“How come you've never painted a portrait of me?” Blaine asks.

"Hmm... what's that, love?" Kurt mutters, switching out brushes, then moving from a blob of Titanium White to a smear of Winsor Blue.

"How come you've never painted a portrait of me?" Blaine rises off his piano bench and relocates to the wooden folding chair behind Kurt's easel in the hopes of pulling his attention a bit. "You've been an artist for as long as I've known you, and I've known you your entire life. But not once have you ever painted a portrait of me."

“Why do I need to? I have you right here," Kurt says, pretending to bop the tip of Blaine's nose with his brush. "Besides, these aren’t personal." His gaze bounces between the three canvases set on easels in an arc in front of him. "They’re bought and paid for.”

"But what about your private stuff? You've shown me your sketchbooks and your digital art files. Unless you have some hidden folder marked 'secret boyfriend art' that I've yet to come across, there's not a single piece of me in any of your work."

Kurt doesn't steer his gaze away from the apple he's adding highlights to to acknowledge his pouty boyfriend, but the corner of his mouth hitches. "If you say so, dear."

"I know so," Blaine grumps, crossing his arms over his chest and dropping back in the chair so hard he nearly topples it over.

"That's your opinion."

"You're evading."

"Is it really so important to you?"

"Yes! It would be nice to be immortalized by my artist boyfriend!"

Kurt snickers. "Are you that much of a narcissist?"

"Your art is important to you! More than that - it's your life! You paint everything that you love! You've made dozens of paintings of Finn, your father, your mother, your Navigator... "

"My Navigator is my baby. It deserves love. I don't get to drive it much living in the city," Kurt defends. "Besides, those paintings I posted on Instagram landed me a huge contract with Lincoln, and that paid for our month-long tryst to Bali. You're welcome, by the way."

"I'm not saying I'm not grateful... " Blaine pauses, the smile on his face a souvenir from thirty straight days of overindulgence in sex and alcohol. "I think I more than proved that on that private beach? Under the moonlight?"

"Yeah, you did," Kurt growls, silently hoping that will be the end of this discussion.

"But... " Blaine picks up and Kurt's heart sinks.

No luck.

"... nowhere am I present in your work. Not that I've seen. Not even in the abstract. And that makes me think... " 

"Think what?" Kurt mutters, his playful attitude fading the longer this conversation drags on.

Blaine sighs, realizing how much like a spoiled toddler he sounds. But he's in too deep to stop now. "That you don't expect me to be around long."

Kurt's snicker turns into a full-blown chortle. "We've been together forever! You staked a claim on me in kindergarten! Are you suddenly going somewhere?"

"Can't you take this seriously?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's ridiculous!"

Blaine huffs. "Great. So my feelings are ridiculous."

"No, Blaine, your feelings are valid. This argument is ridiculous. Believe it or don't, you don't know everything about me. Or my work. What does it matter what I put on a canvas? I told you that I love you! That I would always love you! I tell you over and over and over! Those are my words! My truth! Listen to my truth!"

"B-but what if you change your mind?" Blaine grimaces when that toddler inside him begins throwing an all-out tantrum.

"Then I change my mind!" Kurt groans, slamming his free hand down on an open tube of Dandelion Green, sending a thick ribbon of paint a good four feet. "I'm allowed to change my mind! And so are you! But I don't see that happening!"

"Then why won't you marry me?"

Kurt pulls a face, probably without thinking about it. "Because I'm not very fond of marriage."

"Why not? Your parents had a great marriage! And your father has a wonderful second marriage!"

"But your parents don't have a very good marriage, do they? Nor your older brother, who's been divorced twice already! " Kurt argues, frustration causing him to forget himself and clean his stained hand on the untucked hem of his shirt instead of a rag. That should be a huge red-flag for Blaine to back down, yet he doesn't. Common sense? Sorry, don't know her. "And the national average isn't that great, either. Doesn't it mean more that I choose to stay with you instead of feeling obligated to?"

Blaine doesn't have an answer for that, even though the answer is obviously yes. Of course, it does. And in high school, that would have been enough to shut Blaine up. But admitting to that feels too much like conceding, and this one time, this is an argument he wants to win. "Did you hear that song I've been working on?" Blaine asks, switching gears so quickly, it puts Kurt on edge.

"Yes," Kurt replies, his voice becoming tight quickly. "It's lovely."

"I wrote it for you."

"Thank you. It sounds wonderful. Another huge hit in the making."

"It's the 15th song I've written in your honor."

"Wow," Kurt says dryly, predicting the direction this is heading. "That many?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's an incredibly kind and loving gesture, one that I didn't know required reciprocation."

"It doesn't require reciprocation. But it would be nice."

Kurt rolls his eyes at Blaine's agenda. Tit for tat. Is that how this is supposed to work? "From what I remember, those songs made you a pretty penny."

"So?"

"So, it's not like you wrote them for me and kept them between us. Most of those songs are chart-toppers."

"But I didn't release them for the money! I wouldn't care if they didn't make me a dime! I put them on the albums because I'm not afraid to let the world know how I feel about you!"

Kurt's brow furrows as he fights through a blooming headache to decode that declaration. Once he gets it, he gasps. "I'm not hiding you away if that's what you're implying! You go with me EVERYWHERE! Every gallery opening, every art show! There have been articles written about our relationship! You're no dirty little secret!"

"I never said I was."

"No?" Kurt chuckles bitterly. "You're sure implying it a great deal!"

"That's not what this is about."

"You're right. It's not. Blaine!" Kurt tosses his brush into a mug of water and starts pacing the floor. "I am a gay artist walking a very fine line."

"I'm a gay artist, too!" Blaine says, offended.

"But you're a musician. And a songwriter. Musicians are supposed to use love as their muse. Writing about your relationship is expected... unless you're Taylor Swift, apparently."

"Yeah. What's up with that?"

Kurt shrugs. "I don't know. The point is that the second I make a piece of art about our relationship in any way, shape, or form, I'm afraid that's all it will be about, no matter what I intend."

"Isn't art supposed to be subject to interpretation?"

"That's just it! If I hint that my art has anything to do with you, that will become the only interpretation. Because too many straight people see the homosexual experience as solely about the right to fuck who we want to fuck and nothing else. I make a portrait about you or dedicated to you, and after that... " Kurt's eyes leave Blaine's face, scanning the room and his canvasses all around for help making his argument. He finds a painting of a forest they hiked through in Bali and stops there "... a tree that I paint will no longer be just a tree. It will become a symbol. In a forest of evergreens, if one needle is slightly browner than the rest because the paint oxidizes weirdly or whatever, then it'll be about you and me on the skids and nothing else. And I don't want that to happen."

Blaine turns in his chair to find the painting Kurt is staring at. On the surface, it's trees, dirt, and sky, but underneath, it's much more than that. That painting of their beloved paradise is perfection - so much so that he can feel the sun on his face, the breeze kissing his cheek, smell the sunscreen on his skin. "I understand what you're saying, but... "

"But?" Kurt grinds out between his teeth. This is the frustrating thing about arguing with Blaine. Even when he says he sees Kurt's point of view, he doesn't seem to really.

And when he's not winning, he gets dismissive.

"... I think you're overthinking things a little."

"And you're not?"

"Another evade," Blaine says, pointing at him in a way reminiscent of his brother's only acting technique.

Kurt grabs the hair at his temple and pulls to keep from flinging the palette in his hand like a frisbee at Blaine's head. "Isn't it more important that you know how I feel about you? You inspire me every day! Your love, your support, your music - they feed my soul! But do I have to plaster it on a wall to make it real?"

"That's kind of an empty question because you don't! There are no paintings of me! Not even in our apartment! And I'm sorry, but I think that's very telling!"

Kurt nods, his lips pulled taut. "You're right, Blaine. Not one. And it is very telling." He drops his palette on his work table and circles the room, grabbing finished canvases and carrying them over. He positions them purposefully, placing some under UV lights he has mounted to runners on the ceiling. 

"What... what are you doing?" Blaine asks with worry, wondering if Kurt is about to do something hasty, something that will ruin his paintings, waste all those hours of work, jeopardize the money he has yet to collect for them. 

Kurt doesn't answer. 

He doesn't even look at him. 

He works silently, his shoulders rigid, his footsteps heavy as he collects paintings Blaine forgot about, paintings that had made Blaine bristle because they were of places they had been to together, things they had made a point to see only with each other, but not a one included him. Those Kurt flips upside down.

He swipes a squeeze bottle of clear liquid from his army of supplies. It could be water. It could be paint thinner. Blaine doesn't know, but he's not certain he wants to find out. He's about to leap off his seat to stop him, but Kurt switches off the overhead lights, turns on the UVs, and Blaine stops. He watches in horror as Kurt douses the flipped canvases in fluid, but the paint doesn't run. Whatever is in that bottle, it sticks, but only in certain areas, and before it dries completely, Kurt dusts the paintings with a fine powder, one that brings hidden images to life beneath the lights.

“Oh my God,” Blaine mutters, stepping back to get a better look.

Every painting, in one way or another, is of him. Of them. And not just recently. There are images of them from college, high school... middle school. There are profiles of Blaine in the negative space between flowers of one painting, and in the clouds of another. A fluorescent image of teenaged him playing guitar to a silhouette of Kurt sitting beside him. There are shadows of them dancing, singing, even a daring one of them making love up against a wall. 

And the flipped landscapes? Their vacation pictures, as it were? The glowing dust reveals portraits hiding in plain sight, painted upside down and invisible to the naked eye. All of these images, Kurt painted in ways where no one would detect them if they weren't looking for them. If they didn't know they were there.

And they are in every. single. one.

Now that he's seen this, it's safe to assume all of Kurt's works carry similar Easter eggs, even paintings long gone.

"Why... why didn't you tell me about this?" Blaine asks, too stuck on stupid to move, walk from painting to painting and examine them properly.

"Why did I need to? I love you. I've told you. What else did I need to prove?"

Blaine shakes his head slowly, ashamed of himself. What an imbecile he is! Kurt is absolutely right. He loves him! He didn't need to prove it! The hurt Blaine felt - that was on him. It wasn't Kurt's responsibility to fix it. There isn't a day that goes by where Kurt doesn't show his love to Blaine in one way or another. Blaine didn't need this. He really didn't.

And right now, he doesn't feel he deserves it.

On a side note, how wrapped up in his own crap has he been that here, in this space that they share, where proximity has forced Kurt to memorize every song Blaine has been writing for his latest album while he paints, that he never realized just how frickin' talented his boyfriend is!?

"Kurt... " Blaine finally finds the strength to take a step forward, drawn to that ghostly image of them making love. It's a simple shadow of the moment, but it evokes a powerful memory "... these are incredible. How did you... ?" Blaine expects an answer before he can finish. Kurt is rarely shy about discussing his work.

Though Blaine should use this opening to his advantage - apologize since those should have been the first words out of his mouth.

But he gets nothing.

"Kurt?" Blaine looks over his shoulder in search of his boyfriend, ready to make amends. 

But Kurt is gone.

[scary-lasagna]

ThanksKilling [Pt. III]

___ New guests arrive at the manor!~ ___

"Greetings, Tobias." 

"Hi." Toby adverted his gaze from the tall demon and tried not to focus on the paling blood supply to his head. "C-fucking bastard-Come in. Sorry for the tic." Toby mentally cringed. His medicine usually worked just fine for his tics, but alas one has to slip through in the fit of nerves at the worst possible moment. The king’s dense red cape rustled behind him when entering the threshold to the manor. Somewhere he's never set foot in before. 

"Exquisite foyer," Zalgo noted, trying to dismiss the feeling of his height shrinking from the protective magic surrounding the manor.  The once 10-foot tall being shrunk to an alarming 7 foot, and he hated being so close in height to these humans.

 Toby was leading the demon up the stairs and to the library but had to stop in aggravation every time the king stopped to inspect something, one of the objects happened to be a picture of the proxies, with Toby sporting a small medal on his chest. "Tobias, did you know your name means 'God is Good' in Hebrew?"

"Yes, you told me that before you put me in the sensory assault chamber." "Ah, yes, I remember that." 

Toby caught himself before he turned to glare. 'I remember that' echoed in Toby's head. He said it like he was recalling a fond memory. Not only did that dive Toby's PTSD, but he's also now sensitive to loud music, screaming, and strong scents. Slender's been working with him for gradual exposure, thankfully.  "Slender is this way." 

Everyone in the room silenced, and all heads turned towards the horned demon and poor Toby at the entrance of the dining hall. 

"Good Evening husband killer!" Mother announced her presence, crossing her skinny arms over her laced corset.

"For the last time, Madame Slender, that wasn't personally me. Everyone has a part of their bloodline they aren't...particularly proud of."

Toby excused himself before he could get dragged into another argument and retreated to the kitchen to find comfort in his friends. But upon arriving, holy shit, a lot of people were in here. 

"Toby! Come here!" A motherly voice called out to him, and he was engulfed by expensive smelling perfume and black fabric.  "Don't you guys start fucking asking him shit!" Even if Jane titled the group as 'you guys', her sharp gaze was directed at Jeff's nosey appearance.

"Well how else are we gonna know what's gonna happen with that fucko here?! We need information, JANET." 

"Jeffery, don't fucking call me that when we're both surrounded by sharp kitchen utensils." Jane lowered her hand with a sigh. "I'm keeping it together for the sake of everyone else, but I will not hesitate to skin you for a new rug."  Jane straightened her bare shoulders and crossed her arms. 

There was silence for a few moments, and Jeff decided to pipe up "Is there a reason why you hate me?"

Jane slowly looked at this dumb fuck, holding a wide-eyed expression. "Jeff, run." Helen stated, walking past and balancing a pile of glitter on his sketchbook. He didn't wait to see what happened next and frankly didn't care. The glitter puffed in a cloud of sparkling smoke, and Helen casually ripped off the page and pinned it on the fridge at the request of Sally. 

Sally, however, was busy nudging her way through the crowd of manor residents, nicking food and snacks to appease her growing appetite.

"Sally!"

She walked faster and soon broke into a run, but her escape was deterred by a black suit and pale hand already scooping her up to settle on his hip. "Why do I see beings in the kitchen who aren't on kitchen duty?"

"Because despite the lack of eyes, you can see pretty well for an old guy."   Even expressionless, everyone could feel the shiver of second-hand embarrassment when Slender didn't respond. 

Sally, however, was focused on more important matters, "So when are we eating?" Her leg kicked back and forth as it dangled in front of the tall man's torso, and the crinkling of her (BEN's) fruit gummies did nothing to satisfy Slender's depleting mood. 

"We'll be eating in an hour, so please, everyone wash up and put on some decent clothes for dinner. And for God's Sake, get out of the kitchen and leave the cooks be. The last thing we need is inedible turkey." A tendril protracted to aid Slender's busy hands with the door, and Sally was taken to her main caretaker, Splendor, to get ready.

Scanning the room for any imperfections before sitting down, Slender realized he couldn't. The black and red blob considering himself a king sat his unattractive bottom in Slender's prized dining seat.

The tall man approached, as politely as possible, to make him aware of the situation. "I hate to be a bother, King, but that's my seat."

"I know."

Slender stared at Zalgo, doubting if he should pass it off as a crude form of comedy. 

"So get up."

"...No, no...I don't think I will."

"Are you going to be a bastard all evening?"

"Oh, Slender darling! You know me too well!" A clawed hand patted Slender's velvety cheek before returning to holding Zalgo's chin up.

"Christ this is going to be a long night.." Jeff said from the opposite end of the table. His long hair was decently brushed for once, and pulled back in a neat ponytail that way too long to achieve.

A hiss next to Jeff responded in agreement and it took all of this boy's common sense not to scream in the face of all five talons of The Rake.

[thiswasinevitableid]

For the meet ugly prompts: #27? I feel like it has a lot of potential to be really funny for the OT4 :)

27: we have one night stands with roommates and sneak out of the house at the same time.

I interpreted “sneak out” kinda broadly. This is right on the line between SFW and NSFW: No sex, but it gets hot and heavy at the end.

Duck wakes up under moth-patterned covers, rubs his forehead as he grabs his phone from his pants on the floor. Shit, he didn’t mean to sleep this late, that could make things awkward if the guy from last night wanted him gone.

The bedroom door open and closes and Indrid, his hookup, enters in a yellow and pink bathrobe, holding a silver packet. 

“Good morning.”

“Mornin’. Uh, sorry, guess I was real tired.”

“We did do rather a lot last night.” Indrid grins, sitting down on the bed next to him, “here, my roommate is making breakfast sandwiches. I had him make you one. Do not take the pack as a sign you must leave, I just asked him to wrap it in case you were in a hurry.”

“Thanks. I should be gettin goin’, Winnie’s probably missin’ breakfast.” 

“One musn’t keep such a noble creature waiting.” Indrid hands him the sandwich. He’d shown the taller man photos of his cat last night both because he dotes on the flufflball and because it got Indrid to scoot closer to him. 

“Yeah, she can get in a mood....uh, you seen my underwear?”

Indrid scans the room, red glasses sitting on his forehead and giving Duck a perfect look at his brown eyes. 

“Ah, here we are.” He reaches under the small desk covered in art supplies, “my, those got some distance.”

“You were naked, I was in a hurry.” Duck mumbles, making Indrid bark a laugh as he brings him the rest of his clothes. 

When he steps out of the bedroom, he spots a tall man with a short, coppery beard standing at the kitchen stove. That must be the roommate, but Duck’s eye is drawn to the man exiting the other bedroom. His short black hair is mussed, there’s a pillowmark beneath his high cheekbone on one side, and his dress shirt is rumpled. 

The other man does not seem pleased to be seeing three people in front of him instead of one.

“Oh hey babe, you’re up.” The roommate turns, beaming, “made you breakfast, do you want some coffee? I can put it in a to-go up if, uh, if you need to leave.”

“Yes, thank you. I, um, I should be going.” 

The roommate smiles, quickly puts together a sandwich and coffee cup, complete with cream and sugar. The other man sips it and sighs, “you remembered.”

“‘How do you like your coffee’ isn’t just a cheesy line for me, babe. Gotta make sure you enjoy yourself start to finish.”

“Damn, that was smooth” Duck whispers as Indrid walks him to the door.

“Agreed. Though I rather enjoyed your one about pollination last night. By far the most creative response to these I’ve received” he points to the tattooed moth just visible on his shoulder. His wide grin goes shy, “I did really have a wonderful time, Duck.”

“Me too. Lemme, uh, lemme know if you wanna meet up again?”

Indrid nods, waves goodbye as Duck heads off the porch and down onto the sidewalk. He eats as he walks, decides Indrid has good taste in roommates because that one makes a mean breakfast sandwich. 

He gets to the bus stop, late September morning still crisp with the coming fall. Pulling out his phone, he discovers it’s dead. He did use it a lot last night, on their date, but only because Indrid was so clearly interested in what he had to show him. Why a guy who does tattoos for a living thinks a fella who’s a nerd for plants is interesting, Duck will never know. He’s just glad he does. 

Music out of reach, he sits and listens to the cardinals and kinglets calling in the trees. Someone sits down next to him, aluminum foil reflecting the sun off their hand and into his face. 

It’s the guy. The one from Indrid’s apartment. 

Should Duck tell him he has a big bruise on his neck? He probably knows, right? Then again, he was in a hurry?

“Hey, uh, don’t mean to be weird or nothin’, but you got a little uh-” He taps his neck and the man whacks his hand over the mark. 

“Shit” 

“Someone you’re worried’ll notice?”

“What exactly are you implying?” The man glares at him, blues eyes going from charmingly flustered to suspicious in an instant.

“Nothin, just seem real worried for somethin that happens to almost everyone some time or another.”

“I like keeping my private life private. I don’t want random people knowing what I like in bed.” He snaps

“Okay, okay, jeez man, sorry I mentioned it.”

They fall silent as Duck’s bus approaches, and both stand to board it. Just his luck, this is route to the capitol square with the massive farmer’s market, so he and the mister touchy end up squished in next to each other. 

Two stops in, the man murmurs, “ I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been so rude. I’m, uh, I don’t usually do things like, well, like hooking up with someone I meet on Grindr.”

Something about the way he says it, like he’s afraid he’ll get in trouble, brushes away Duck’s annoyance.

“No shame in havin a good time with someone. Wait, shit, was it a good time? Did somethin happen?”

“Oh no, nono,” the man hurriedly shakes his head, “it was just what I needed. Barclay is a great guy. I just feel like it was too easy, that getting that lucky on my first try is a sign something will go wrong.” He gives Duck a resigned smile, “in case you havent noticed, I’m an overthinker. Are you, damn it what’s his name, Indrid’s boyfriend?”

“Nah. He comes to draw in the arboretum where I work, we been kinda flirtin the last few weeks, and yesterday I finally said fuck it and asked if he wanted to get a drink later.”

“He’s certainly...distinct looking. In a good way, I mean.”

“Yeah, he is.” Duck smiles, thoughts drifting off to the memory kissing him gently as they finally fell asleep, his face captivating in the dim of the room, “probably see him again. Assumin’ he wants to see me, I guess.”

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

“I am supposed to wait until he arrives home to text him, correct?” Indrid pushes his phone as far away as possible to remove temptation.

“Maybe? I dunno man, all those rules about texting and shit are designed to sell books and bad youtube channels.”

“But I don’t want to come off as possessive or clingy.”

“Believe me bud, I know.” Barclay turns his phone around so Indrid can see the two lines sitting in the “draft” section, “I’ve been writing and re-writing this for five minutes because I want Joseph to know I’d for sure be down to see him again but there’s no pressure.” He sets Indrid’s refilled coffee down on the table. They trade a look, then burst out laughing. 

“Fuck, guess we both had a good time last night huh?”

“Very. Duck remains as wonderful as I hoped and I have not enjoyed sex that much since, hmmm, well, since the last time you and I were together.”

“That poor desk.”

“May it rest in peace.” Indrid sips from his mug, “Joseph is quite charming. You have excellent taste in men.”

“That a compliment to him or to you?” Barclay fluffs Indrid’s hair as he passes by him. 

“Mostly him.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, little moth.” A kiss on the head this time before Barclay heads to the shower. Indrid gets his sketchbook, turns on some mindless cooking show and settles on the couch.

Eventually Barclay calls from his room, “Indrid? Been about forty-five minutes, bet he’s home by now.” 

Indrid springs up, grinning, and grabs his phone. 

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

Duck was out downtown when the rain started, which is why he’s now hunkered down in the cafe by the capitol in hopes of waiting out the storm. He’s not the only one with this idea, and he’s made sure to make the chair across from him obviously empty in case someone needs a spot. 

“Hello again. Do you mind?” It’s the blued-eyed guy again, dressed for work in a suit and dress shoes. Duck hasn’t seen him since that first morning, in spite of going back to Indrid’s place multiple times over the last three weeks. 

“Go for it.” Duck scoots his coffee to the side so the man can set his mug down. He pulls out his phone, but can’t quite focus; he keeps wanting to look across the table. 

“How are things going with Indrid?”

“Real good--wait, how did you know he an I were still-”

“Barclay’s mentioned you once or twice. And your name is pretty memorable.”

‘It’s a nickname.” 

“That makes a bit more sense. Mines on the other end of things; there are a lot of Josephs in the world.” He sips his cinnamon-scented drink, sets it down again, “so, what do you do?”

“I’m a ranger over in the arboretum. You?”

“I work for an organization that checks up on businesses to be sure they’re meeting worker health and safety laws.”

Duck watches the rain out the windows, wondering if Joseph wants to keep talking or is just being polite. 

“Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Did Indrid tell you about him and Barclay?”

“Yeah, ‘bout a week ago. He said he was hopin’ he and I could get more serious, but that he wanted me to know the two of them had a sorta, uh, fuckbuddies thing goin’ so I could make an informed choice.”

“That’s more or less where Barclay and I are at. Um, how do you feel about it?”

“I’m okay with it. I ain’t interested in anyone else right now, but when I thought about it, Indrid havin a thing with Barclay ain’t stopped him from bein’ amazin’ to me and I’m fallin’ hard for him. I don’t feel like some kind of side piece or whatever. I just feel like I’m headin for somethin good with a guy who has a casual partner. Did it bug you?”

“No” Joseph shakes his head, “which confuses me. I, um, I have trouble releasing control in much of my life. I assumed it would freak me out to learn I wasn’t the only partner in someone’s life. But when Barclay told me it didn’t really bother me. He even offered to talk to Indrid about being only friends if that was what I needed. It’s been awhile since someone was so quick to think about my wants and feelings when dropping unexpected news on me. Plus, I’ve spent a little time with Indrid when we’ve been over there, and I like him. He clearly cares about Barclay, just like I do, and in some way that makes me happy. Is that weird?”

“Not really an expert on weird. But I think you’re overthinkin’ things again.”

A small laugh, “True. Help me think about something else. Tell me...tell me what your favorite part of work is.”

Duck’s surprised at the interest, but gets glimpse of pleading hope, og someone a little hungrier for connection than he’s letting on, and finds no desire to refuse.

“Prairie restoration, it’s fascinatin….”

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

Duck’s not surprised to see Joe’s name come up on screen; the two of them have been hanging out more, both as friends and on double dates with Barclay and Indrid. He’s learned that his friend is a stealth-nerd beneath his professional veneer, that he likes game nights as much as Duck does, and that he makes a certain sound when he cums (that last one he learned on accident; he was snuggled up with an under-the-weather Indrid in the living room when Joe and Barclay got home from a date).

Joe: Are you busy tonight?

Duck: Nope. 

Joe: Do you want to go to the “Adult Swim” at the children’s science museum? I got tickets a week ago, but Barclay got called in to work tonight.

Duck: Sure, sounds lie a good time. 

Joe: See you at the museum at 7?

Duck replies in the affirmative, goes to pick out something less grubby than his crossfit clothes to wear. Maybe the short-sleeve button up with the whales; Joe mentioned he like it. 

His phone buzzes.

Sugar: Busy tonight?

Duck: Yeah, going to the museum with Joe since Barclay has to work. 

He realizes how this might sound, begins rapidly typing several explanations or offers to not if Indrid doesn’t want him too, but his boyfriend beats him to it. 

Sugar: Oh yes, I remember him mentioning that. Good, I’m glad the tickets won’t go to waste. Have fun, my sweet, please take picture of any interesting bugs for me if there is an entomology section <3

Duck: Will do, sugar.

He signs with a kissy face, gets two black hearts and a kissy face back. 

The Adult Swim is wonderful; the museum is artfully lit, there’s snacks everywhere, and even a fancy cocktail included with admission. He and Joe clink glasses, wander through the exhibits, laughing and playing with the interactive exhibits. There are no bugs, but Duck takes pictures of the light exhibit, which feature interesting color patterns he might like for tattoo inspiration. 

They’ve just finished fucking around in the paleontology exhibit, and Joe is looking through a viewfinder that shows him how a triceratops saw the world. Duck sneaks up behind him, growls in his ear, “didn’t spot the t-rex in time.” 

“If you plan on eating me, we should at least head into the bathroom.” Joe winks as he turns, heading out onto the balcony to look out on the city. Duck knows that if he follows him out there right now, he’ll kiss him. 

“Be right out, gonna go grab some more of those mini-pies.”

Joe nods to show he heard him as he pushes open the door. Duck hopes he doesn’t see him take several deep breaths to get his imagination under control before he goes off in search of an edible distraction. 

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

“Doors open!”

“Oh, hey man, Indrid home yet?”

“No, it’s Thursday the 12th, so the studio is prepping like crazy for tomorrow.”

“Shit, that’s right.”

“Cookie? I just made them.”

“Thanks--holy shit that’s good.”

“Thanks, I’ve been trying to nail the chocolate chip and potatoe chip recipe.”

“Think you might--aw fuck, ‘Drid just texted, he’s gonna be another hour.”

“You can chill here if you want. Uh, I’ve got Super-Smash Bros, if you wanna play.”

“Aw hell yeah.”

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

“Good morning, Joseph.”

“Gahoh, hi Indrid. I’ll be out of your way in a few minutes.”

“There’s no rush. I certainly don’t mind your company. I believe there are left over cinnamon rolls in the fridge, if you would like.”

Joseph gathers a coffee cup and a roll on a plate, sits down on the couch, and finds his pocket buzzing. 

“Here” Indrid takes the plate.

“Thank you. Looks like it’s my sister...oh, she got a new dog, do you want..” He stops as Indrid holds out a piece of the cinnamon roll on the fork. Hesitates, then opens his mouth and lets Indrid feed him. He starts showing him pictures as he does, Indrid commenting and laughing and, every so often, murmuring, “good boy” when he takes a bite.

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

“Ohfuck, shit, sorry!” Duck covers his eyes as Indrid quickly closes the front door. 

“Nono, fuck, sorry, that’s on us, thought you guys weren’t home until later.” Barclay’s apology is underscored by the sound of a zipper closing. 

“It’s quite alright, no harm done, Joseph you look very nice like that, carry on.” Indrid pulls Duck into his room, both of them snickering and blushing as Duck pushes him down onto the bed.

“My my, someone’s wound up.”

“Makes two of us.” Duck grinds down on him, Indrid gasping and grinning as he arches his back. 

“Indeed. Now get that handsome face down here. I have some things I wish to do to it.”

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

The giant stop motion monster continues rampaging on the screen as Duck loops his arm over Indrid’s shoulder. The first snowstorm of the year has come early, so they opted to switch their double date to a monster movie double feature (curated by Joe) in the apartment. Beneath their shared blanket, Indrid’s hand strokes his belly, skating down to the front of his jeans in teasing bursts. 

On the other side of the couch, Barclay has started kissing Joe’s cheek, the blue-eyed man sighing and turning to kiss him back. 

This is not a new situation for them. The last few weeks they’ve gotten more comfortable cuddling and making out in the same space as each other. Duck’s not complaining; hearing both Indrid and Joe gasping and sighing near him makes him hotter than a July afternoon. 

Indrid bumps his cheek with his nose, and Duck turns for a kiss. He gets one, but he also gets a firmer stroke down his cock, making him moan. Indrid smirks into the kiss, does it again, then a third time, Duck gripping the front of his white tank top with a groan. 

“Maybe we, uh, should dip out on the movie.” He murmurs. 

“We can” Indrid purrs, kissing him again, “but Joseph seems to be enjoying the show.”

Duck whips his head around; Joe is looking at the two of them as he leans against Barclay’s chest, between his legs, expression moving from desire to surprise to hope over and over again. Barclay, unbothered, continues kissing his neck and murmuring in his ear, the blush on his cheeks rising each time the larger man does so. 

“Or perhaps he’s envious?” Indrid cocks his head, “would you like your hand to be here instead of mine, Joseph?”

Joe’s normal eloquence is nowhere to be found, his eyes flicking between the three other men so quickly Duck worries he’ll sprain something. 

“I asked you a question, pet.” Indrid sharpens his tone on the last word and Joe whimpers. Duck has zero interest in Indrid ever calling him that name; but hearing it in his lilting, gently demanding tone directed at Joe sends desire zinging through him. 

“C’mon, babe, be a good boy and answer.” Barclay nips his boyfriend’s ear.

“Yes. Or, or, more accurately, I’d trade places with either of you. If that’s, would it be, do either of you?” He looks back at Barclay, who smiles tenderly and runs a thumb up his cheek. 

“Okay with me if it’s okay with them.”

“Do you want it as well, my sweet?” Indrid tilts up his glasses so he can look Duck in the eye. The affection in those brown eyes makes the T.V, the moon, the stars look dim. 

“Hell yeah.”

Indrid crooks his finger and Joe clambers the short distance on the couch to kneel by Duck.

“How shouldMMmmmmm!”

Duck gets a whiff of aftershave as Indrid yanks Joe forward by his shirt, kissing him and squishing Duck between them. The angle is awful but he doesn’t give fuck, buries his face into Joe’s neck, kissing the point where he feels his pulse moving like mothwings, mouthing and nipping at the skin as he slides one hand up the front of his shirt and the other down the back of his pants. When he squeezes his ass Joe squeaks and Indrid breaks the kissing, laughing. 

“I didn’t know you had such noises in you, pet. It’s quite endearing.”

“Indrid, Duck, please, I want, I want to, oh fuck it.” He pulls back just enough to not jab his knee into Duck’s belly as he falls on him, kissing him so hard and so long Duck’s chest tightens and his vision narrows. The taller pulls away long enough to breathily moan his name before feasting on his mouth again. 

“Yes, he does elicit such feelings, oh, hello.” Indrid giggles, and Duck can just see that Barclay is now on the floor, kneeling before the pale-haired man, kissing the skin exposed by his shirt before rubbing his beard across it, making Indrid laugh harder. 

“Can’t let you have all the fun, little moth.” Barclay rumbles

“I can think of many things you can let me haveAH, oh, oh goodness, I forgot how much you like to bite.” 

Barclay growls, reminding Duck of something important. He pushes Joe backwards, clambering atop him and pulling his shirt up as he does, stuffing the hem of it between those perfect lips. 

“Christ lookit you” he runs his palms up Joe’s body, the man arching and writhing beneath him, “you look like a goddamn fuckin centerfold, you’re so fuckin perfect.”

Joe’s moan is loud even through the shirt, and much needier than before. He grins, crawling onto him , “guess I ain’t the only one who likes praise in bed.”

Joe shakes his head, whining eagerly through the make-shift gag. Duck growls again, attacks his chest with bites, leaving an especially hard one when Indrid grabs his ass without warning. 

While Joe clearly enjoys the increase in pain, his responding thrash is sudden enough to send him and Duck rolling off the couch in a jumble. Someone’s foot catches Barclay in the shoulder, knocking him back onto the rug. 

“Whoops.” Duck says to the ceiling, laugh bubbling up from his chest and bounding about the room. 

“Sorry.” Joe says to the floor, chuckling as he sits up.

“That was very graceful.” Indrid teases from his spot on the couch, only for Barclay to rear up and pull him down on top of him, the thinner man squawking indignantly. As they all disentangle and sit up, Duck looks around their little circle of flushed skin and mussed clothes.

“So, uh, that happened.”

“Indeed.” Indrid scoots next to him, resting his head on his shoulder. 

“Is everyone, like, okay that it did? I mean, we seemed okay and said yes and shit but is okay in like a bigger sense?” Barclay holds out his hand and Joe takes it. 

“Yeah.”

“Yes.”

“Yep.”

“Do we, uh, wanna talk about what this is gonna look like?”

They all nod, and spend the next two hours hashing out the details of their newly forming polycule. Duck and Barclay agree they’d rather be metamours, everyone else will be partners, and that everyone should probably get some sleep before diving into the do’s and don’ts of what they each want from sex. 

Barclay and Indrid build a makeshift bed on the floor by the T.V, Joe and Duck on the inside with Barclay and Indrid on the outside. 

Duck drifts off to sleep with his head on Joe’s chest and Indrid’s arms around him. He knows they still have things to work out, that there will be hiccups. But for now, he’s happy to lay here, safe and loved, with his boyfriends. 

[the-navistar-carol]

Marinette Self-Care Songfic: Why Should I Worry? from Oliver & Company

AKA: my fix-it fic to the ML angst and salt plus Chloé redemption

AKA^2: Marinette has run out of fucks to give about the Miracu-class

Note: halfway through writing this, I realized it had more Chlonette than I expected it to have. whatever. mild cursing.

~~~

One minute I'm in Central Park

Then I'm down on Delancey Street

Marinette’s heart was soaring for the first time in weeks. Or had it been months? Either way, she was floating on cloud nine, and couldn’t bring herself to concern herself with the new sob story Lila spun that morning about how she couldn’t possibly take her own tray, God forbid, by herself.

Audrey Bourgeois had taken her designs and was going to put them in her newest fashion show! Her designs and ideas would be put on TV, for people across the world!!

She practically skipped downstairs, giddy.

From the Bowery to St Mark’s

There's a syncopated beat

She was up early, much to her parent’s welcome surprise, and bouncing off the walls as her amused Maman handed her a fresh croissant.

The Adrien pictures had been long coming to be gone, now that she thought about it. As he became closer and closer to Lila, she shunned him. That promise of being a team had fallen as soon as it was put under any strain.

Whatever.

I'm street-wise

I can improvise

For once, Marinette wasn’t in a rush. She skipped to school, her sketchbook safely in her room. Any designing inspiration she had, well, there were notebooks for that.

Chloé, surprisingly, had edged her way closer to her side. It really looked like there was change. Redemption, even.

The two of them had transferred to Ms. Mendeleiev’s class as soon as Lila’s grip on the class had been a stranglehold, and it was perhaps the best decision she had made in the past few months.

I'm street-smart

I've got New York City heart

She bumped shoulders with the now-familiar blonde, lips curving up into a brilliant grin. “I forgot to tell you! Your mom is taking my designs to her stage! If you don’t already know, y’know, since you’re her daughter...” And there she went rambling. Shit.

Chloé glanced her way, still somewhat surprised that Marinette would even bother to make friends with her in the first place. After a beat, she nodded. “Of course. She has standards, after all. God forbid she goes and wears Gabriel.”

The snotty tone was harder to lose than her attitude toward her, Marinette reflected, but it was better than nothing. She grinned even wider at the dig at the boy who had once taken up so much of her life.

Why should I worry?

Why should I care?

“How’s your mom’s fashion show coming up?”

That made a smile tug at the blonde’s lips. “She’s doing well. Everything’s going smoothly. She’s even letting me model.”

“You deserve it,” Marinette smiled. None of it was fake. If there was one thing she and Chloé got along with, it was that lies would not be tolerated.

The compliment made her perfectly plucked eyebrows shoot up for a second, sky-blue eyes flicking over at her as a faint tint of pink colored her cheeks. “Of - of course I do,” she returned quickly, at an attempt to return to her normal haughty mask.

Marinette merely grinned at her in response.

I may not have a dime

But I got street savoir faire

Afterschool, she could feel Alya’s eyes boring into the back of her skull as she and Chloé entered her chauffeur's car and drove away.

The blonde in question smirked out the window, making Marinette huff a laugh. “I don’t think that’s necessary, Chloé.”

“Who says it’s necessary?” she crowed, and held her phone up to the noirette’s face. “You’re coming to my mother’s fashion show, since you’re the talent behind her production. And we’re going to model.”

Waitwaitwait—what?

“Sorry?”

“You heard me. We’re modeling in your fashion show.” Chloé’s smug grin stretched from ear to ear. “Who cares about Lila’s lies when you could be walking the catwalk?”

Why should I worry?

Why should I care?

After homework, her brain was still buzzing. We’re modeling. In Audrey Bourgeois’s—my—fashion show. Together.

“How did you get your mom to agree?”

A shrug, and Chloé sprawled back on her larger-than-necessary bed, scrolling through Instagram. “She loves your designs, it wasn’t hard. Besides. You’re the reason she’s even putting this thing on.”

But the split-second glance she took in Marinette’s direction said more.

“Thank you,” Marinette smiled. “I’m glad we could model together.”

Chloé choked on her spit, sitting bolt upright. “Who said anything about together?”

“You did,” she pointed out. “You said we’re going to model. We, Chloé. Not you and I, we.”

“I… I guess I did. Yeah. We’re modeling together.” She flopped back on her bed, almost hiding behind her phone case.

It's just bebop-ulation

And I got street savoir faire

The original plan had been for Marinette to sit on the sidelines next to Audrey, and watch her ideas get paraded on live TV to millions.

But that had gone sideways, and now Marinette was going to be modeling her own designs.

And she was going down the catwalk hand-in-hand with Chloé Bourgeois. That, in of itself, was something she would have scoffed at mere months ago. Now, she looked forward to it with a smile.

“Hey, Marinette.” Chloé threw her a glance, which she returned, looking up from her new sketchbook. “Do you actually know how to walk a catwalk?”

…No.

The rhythm of the city

But once you get it down

The next few hours consisted of Chloé stuffing her in high heels and parading her down the hotel hallways and stairs, a good number of times causing her to fall.

“Chlo, I don’t think I’ll be in six-inch heels!”

“Ridiculous,” her friend huffed. “If you can walk in six-inch heels, you’ll be fine in kitten heels. I don’t think you’ll be in stilettos anyway.”

“Chlooooo…”

The blonde rolled her eyes, Marinette’s hand clutching at hers whenever she stumbled. “You’ll do fine. If you can do a back handspring, you can walk in heels.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

A cheeky grin flashed its way onto Chloé’s face. “You know I’m right, Marinette.”

“…Hrmph.”

Then you can own this town

You can wear the crown

The fashion show was way more extravagant than she’d expected.

“Shit,” she’d breathed, eyes flying open wide. “Your mom is extra.”

Chloé merely grinned in response, scanning the crowd. “Whoa, Beyoncé!”

“What?! No way!!”

“She’s talking to my mom. Let’s go say hi.”

And with that, she snatched Marinette’s hand and practically dragged her over to her mother’s side. “Hello, Mommy. Hi, Ms. Beyoncé!”

“Hi,” Marinette squeaked, now very aware that she was wearing nothing as dazzling as the queen Beyoncé.

But the infamous woman merely grinned and held out a hand dripping in diamonds. “Pleasure. You’re miss Dupain-Cheng? Audrey tells me you’re the brains behind all this.”

She knew her name. Beyoncé knew her name.

Why should I worry?

Why should I care?

The show had gone off without a hitch. She and Chloé had paraded the final two (the best, actually) outfits she had designed side-by-side and arm-in arm, posing back-to-back to the cameras. Almost like siblings.

Chloé had been proud to flaunt the fact that she had been interviewed for multiple magazines and fashion shows, and they were going on Teen Vogue.

“Who needs Lila?” she crowed when they left the building, throwing her hands up in the air. “Who needs her when we’re the real deal?!”

Then she sobered, and turned her head to face Marinette. “Actually, I take it back.” She bumped shoulders with the noirette. “You’re the real deal.”

Marinette flushed, blinking rapidly. “Oh. Oh! Thanks, Chloé. Really, I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“Ridiculous,” Chloé snorted. “I just made it easier. Your designs would have made it up there anyway.” But there was a faint dusting of pink at her cheeks that could not be denied.

I may not have a dime

But I got street savoir faire

The next day, they’d planned their outfits with care, Chloé snickering. “Just wait for the look on Lie-la’s face. We’re famous and she’s not.”

“I don’t think that argument’s going to work every time,” Marinette laughed, aware of the fact she was dressed in top-of-the-line fashion, looking fresh off the runway. “But this time, I’m not stopping you.”

Her best friend smirked. “Good. Then we’re definitely wreaking havoc.”

“Look out world,” Marinette grinned, “we’re here to take it by storm.”

Why should I worry?

Why should I care?

As the bell was close to ringing, they practically strutted into school with all eyes on them, arm-in-arm. They were already trending on Instagram, as Chloé had told her at least ten times.

Marinette inwardly smirked at the sheer looks on her former classmates’ faces.

Alya looked like someone had smacked her in the face with a rotting fish. Adrien’s jaw was hanging just an inch off the floor.

And Lila. Lila looked positively furious, eyebrows drawn together and face in a positive snarl.

Sucks to be you, she sang inwardly. ‘Cause I’ve just blown your whole grand plan to bits.

And the fact that it was Chloé at her side just blew them away more.

Who cared? People changed.

It's just bebop-ulation

And I got street savoir faire

They were sure to discuss the details of the show in loud overtones whenever anyone was near, biting back positively evil grins when eyes were on them (which was always).

Of course, it didn’t necessarily help Lila that Marinette had outed her for trying to destroy her sketchbook’s designs and for bullying on live TV.

She was not above being petty.

They could crawl back if they wished.

Everything goes

Everything fits

With Chloé at her side, the world suddenly seemed less hard. She wasn’t alone. She had a girl who was at her side through thick and thin, and wasn’t afraid to yell at people who would oppose her.

Who needed a plethora of friends when she had one good one at her side?

Nibbling on a croissant, she watched in idle glee as students exploded at Lila, one by one. She watched as the daughter of a diplomat cowered beneath their glares and fury, and never lifted a finger to help her.

She was done being a welcome mat for people to wipe their feet on to have a better day.

Let them wipe their own feet on the stones.

They love me at the Chelsea

They adore me at the Ritz

Now she was known across France, across the world. And with her head held high, she would go even further. This was just the beginning.

People would be wearing her designs. People would be wearing MDC, people would be wearing Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

As the months sped by, she allowed a select few of the old class to trickle back into her circle. Nathanaël, for one. He, Alix, and Marc had never joined in on the drama, instead stuck to themselves. He was a great help in designing, and she would admit it wholeheartedly.

Her friendship with Kitty Section didn’t diminish in the slightest, despite her becoming distant from the rest of the school.

Was she becoming colder? Or had the world pushed her to become so?

Why should I worry?

Why should I care?

At the end of the day, she was much happier than she had been. She had true friends to support her through no matter what. She had a design career waiting for her as soon as she finished université, or even lyceé.

And maybe she would have people who meant more than best friends.

The future was uncertain, but one thing was.

She was going to come out of every setback better than before.

And even when I cross that line

I got street savoir faire

[squeeneyart]

Breathe in the Salt - Chapter 9

AO3

Beta reader as always is @thesnadger

Filing systems are discussed.

Someone has been poking around.

“These locks haven’t been replaced in years,” Sasha mumbled. She was on her knees, gently poking and prodding the old padlock that secured the storage house’s back door. “Should be easy work, but it may take some time to avoid breaking it.” Unrolling a bag, Martin could see thin, metal tools with different heads and lengths.

Jon and Martin kept themselves pressed low against the wall. Every once in a while, Jon would check his phone for any warnings from Tim, careful to keep the light covered with his hand. Martin kept his eyes and ears trained on the woods nearby.

It was largely useless, as Martin couldn’t see shit. There was security to that, in a ‘he couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see him’ sort of way. The others hadn’t been concerned about things like night vision goggles or cameras. Something about wealthy families being tightfisted and how Martin’s salary was a miracle. In the dark they would be secure, unless a bear chose to join the party.

With every second that ticked by, tension grew in Martin’s stomach. The tiny clicks of Sasha’s instruments were an alarm in his ears with nothing to cover them. His eyes wouldn’t adjust in the thick dark surrounding them, and eventually he screwed his eyes shut to stop his vision from shifting and swirling.

“Ha!” Sasha said, setting the lock beside her and stowing away her tools. “Okay, careful now.” With a gentle pressure, she turned the handle and pushed open the door. The three waited, listening for any disturbances in the darkness of the storage house. When nothing happened, Sasha motioned for the others to follow inside.

“All right,” Jon said, his voice low. “Based on the outside, we should head to that side area. The far door should go into that room connecting to the front entrance.”

“Should? Didn’t you check this place out before?” Martin asked, his voice jumping up a register.

“Of course we did! But as mentioned previously, getting inside was-”

Sasha said with gritted teeth, “We can go over our planning abilities later. We need to get moving!”

Martin continued forward but added quietly, “Wow, very reassuring.”

From both of his companions, he earned a resounding “Shut up” that would’ve hurt if it weren’t for their perfectly matching inflections.

Keeping their torches off, they let the wall lead them to the entryway. Through it, a few windows to their left were just visible by the small amount of light that periodically entered with the turning of the lighthouse beam. With this small illumination, Martin could make out the edges of large shelving units.

Sasha and Jon set themselves to work, taking thick blankets out of their packs and hanging them over the window frames. “Don’t worry, we tested these with our phone lights.” Sasha said, covering the last window. She hesitated, then added, “Well, probably best not to point your torch directly at them, but otherwise they should be fine.”

With their torches (mostly) safe to use, Martin could now see the room in full. Tall bookshelves sat in several rows facing the entryway. In the nearby corner was a small set of drawers. The wall was lined with filing cabinets, and all the way in the back right corner sat a small number of wooden crates.

Martin pointed in the direction of the crates. “I’ll check those out, unless either of you want crowbar duty?” In response, Jon slipped between the bookshelves. Sasha smiled and waved her tools toward the cabinets. He sighed. “Right. My fault for volunteering.”

Before heading over, Martin went to the drawers up front and found some nails of different sizes, perfect for covering his tracks. Pushing them into the wood with a crowbar would be slow going, but it was better than risking the pounding of a hammer in the middle of the night.

Sasha swore as he walked by. “Some of these are locked. It’ll take some time if I try to open them all.”

“Do what you can with the unlocked ones for now. I’ll look for some sort of catalogue,” Jon said, and Martin heard what he judged to be the most academic sniffle. “If these people bother with a proper filing system.”

Sasha snickered. “Don’t worry, I’m sure the Lukases have thrown everything around willy-nilly just to vex you.”

“And yet it would still be better than our own archive. If you ask me, Elias prefers the mess of it, as if it helps us any for him to know where everything is.”

“God, you’re bringing this up now.”

On his way to the crates, Martin peeked at Jon who was scowling at the shelves. “So, what, you just have to ask him where anything is? What happens if you can’t reach him?”

Jon grimaced. “You spend several hours getting stabbed with the edges of old, misfiled reports on haunted petunias.”

Sasha laughed, and Martin continued to the back corner, accepting that he must’ve missed some inside joke. Bending over the first crate, Martin braced himself on the side of its lid and checked for labels. All he found was a small series of letters and numbers.

“Fuck.” He straightened and went for the bookshelves, walking back and forth along them to scan for anything obvious. What would a file directory look like? A bound book? A file folder?

After a couple of frustrating minutes, he heard from the other side, “Try looking for a binder. Easy to remove and change organizational data. I haven’t found anything on my end yet.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Martin replied, his face burning. “Not exactly familiar with this sort of thing.”

With new direction, he located a low shelf with several binders, and tucked between two dusty tomes was his target: page after page of a coded file system with labels and descriptions, split into different storage types. He let the others know, and Sasha looked through them until she found something of interest in the cabinets.

Flipping through the pages, Martin located the proper entry and walked back over to the crates.

It was some personal belongings of an N. Lukas, some long dead relative. Nothing jumped out as important, so he dismissed it and went to the other crates. He had to climb on one to get a proper look at the one sitting on top of it. Checking the entry, he huffed out a small sound of curiosity and slid the crowbar out of his bag.

“Found something?” Jon said, peeking from behind the shelf.

“Yeah, I think so. Time to learn about my predecessor.”

With as little sound as he could muster, Martin slid the crowbar under the wood and used his weight as leverage. It was difficult from where he stood on the other crate, but eventually there was a sharp crack. Everyone froze, but after a moment of nothing they returned to work. Carefully pushing the top, Martin peered inside.

The contents were sparse considering the size of the crate. A sturdy leather jacket was neatly folded in a corner. A stack of documents in a file folder were held together with a red rubber band. Finally, in a small plastic bag, he could see a worn wallet and a mobile phone.

“There we go.” Opening the bag, he took the phone to examine. Dead, of course. He turned it over to check the charging port. “Does anyone have a charger for this? It uses one of the older universal ones.”

“Check in my bag. I’ve almost got this,” Sasha said, hands still busy with their lockpicking.

Digging through the pack, Martin found the charger and plugged it into a nearby outlet. It would be a few minutes before Martin could learn its usability, so he started flipping through the banded-together papers. There were some school transcripts, job and school applications, and other documents that felt strange for a family to be holding onto, but Martin couldn’t judge sentimentality.

Tucked in the back of the file was a newspaper clipping from the date of Evan’s death. It was as Martin had heard before: cause of death was an “unspecified congenital heart problem”; died on his way home from work; found by his mother on the day of; vague mention of a nameless fiancée.

He checked the phone again, which seemed to be charging at a slow but steady rate. Another crate would have to do in the meantime. With its lightweight cargo, Martin managed to move it to the floor and check the one underneath. Nothing of interest, same with the one stacked on top in the corner. He enlisted Jon in lifting it up off the one below, then checked for the latter’s entry in the book.

“Oh thank goodness,” Martin breathed, feeling a weight lift off of his shoulders. “It has to be in here.” Removing the lid, he found himself staring at a treasure trove of what the entry had referred to as Peter’s “personal collection”, a vague term for a disorganized mess.

The items varied wildly, thrown across each other with no care or preservation. Some of them were, to Martin’s untrained eye, seemingly precious artifacts belonging on display in a museum, not rotting away in an old crate in the middle of nowhere. Many were books bound in different styles. He tried to be gentle with the older ones as he looked across the covers and set them aside one-by-one. If any of these items were lost in a bet like Simon’s, the person involved must still be kicking themselves.

He almost missed it. In the corner of a book, Simon’s neat, tiny signature was etched into the leather. The urge to open it made Martin’s hands tingle. He took off his scarf and wrapped it around the sketchbook, placing it carefully inside his bag. Curiosity had pushed him far enough that night. Whatever might’ve been going on with that book, Simon was threatening enough for Martin to use extra caution.

Using his crowbar, he lightly tapped a nail into the already-made hole. It wouldn’t be strong under scrutiny with the splintered wood, but from the outside, it looked good as new.

A small hum came from between the shelves. “Anything interesting?” Martin asked.

Jon coughed. “Possibly. Information on some of the industries the Lukas family are involved in. The list is… extensive. I think they might’ve also destroyed the local fishing economy, but that’s just conjecture on my part.”

Sasha sighed from the cabinets. “I’ve found a little on the lighthouse, but nothing on its origins. I can’t even find where the Lukas family would’ve purchased it from. However-” She waved a sheet of paper. “Turns out, Simon Fairchild made an attempt at a joint ownership of the place years ago. Rejected, of course, but I wonder what he wanted from it, besides another nice view.” She took a quick photo of it and replaced it in its file.

Martin enlisted in Jon’s help once more to re-cover the crate of Peter’s collection with the other crate. As they finished, the phone beeped from the floor, and the two swung around at the noise. “Okay, okay,” Martin jogged over and swiped at the screen. “Shit, of course.”

While it hadn’t been wiped completely, all email, phone, and text messages had been erased, along with any photos or videos. No record of Evan’s days at the lighthouse, or why he had come back in the first place. Shaking off the disappointment, Martin looked through Evan’s contacts.

His many, many contacts.

Sure, he had been a popular guy in school, but he’d spread himself out in the years away from the little town. It took all of Martin’s will not to scroll quickly through the myriad of names. With the sheer number, it seemed Evan had resorted to leaving notes on them. To avoid mixing people up? Most likely, considering he had at least four Daves listed.

Evan had kept track of a lot of people. Many had clearly been his friends from his little notes about them. Where he met them, or who he knew them through, or little things that Martin could only assume were inscrutable inside jokes.

The mere thought of talking to Evan had sent a younger Martin running. The intimidation factor had been so strong in the moment. It felt stupid now, and Martin sat for a moment to take in the volume of people who hadn’t let something like fear stop them from talking to a genuinely nice person.

It was no time to regret dumb social decisions from his teen years. He continued scrolling until a contact jumped out at him. Cheesy little hearts trailed after the name.

Naomi Herne.

He looked up at Sasha, who was thumbing through the binder. “Sasha, could you check something for me? A name, Naomi Herne. I think it might be Evan’s mystery fiancée.” He noted down her number along with Evan’s just in case.

“Sure thing,” Sasha said.

Martin finished scrolling and failed to find any other pertinent names. The fact they hadn’t been erased felt odd, but when no explanation came to him, he turned the phone off and placed it back inside the plastic bag. Along with the stack of documents, he dropped the bag back into the crate, sealed it shut and climbed back down to the floor.

From behind him, he could hear Jon back between the shelves, mumbling to himself. His phone camera’s flash reflected off the finished wood of the bookshelves. Martin was about to ask Jon about his findings, but Sasha made a noise of recognition.

She focused on an entry, then walked over to one of the cabinets. “Huh. Guess not everything is locked.” She sifted through the folders and slid one out to browse its contents. It was heftier than Martin had expected.

Sasha’s eyes grew wide. “Oh. Ms. Herne was very busy.”

“What?” Martin walked across the room to read over her shoulder. Sasha’s current focus was… a restraining order?

“What the hell?” Sasha said. She flipped through some more papers. “There’s… there’s location info. Looks like they’ve been keeping tabs on her. And here, some kind of documentation of her movements in town months back.”

The wheels turned in Martin’s head. “They didn’t want her in town. Maybe she-”

There was a small thump from the bookshelves, and Jon ran toward the windows. “We need to go. Now!” Jon hissed, pulling down a hanging blanket.

“Shit.” Sasha looked at Naomi’s file and placed it in the drawer, shutting it tight. The three of them grabbed the blankets and stuffed them into their bags, and through the window, Martin could see the smallest hint of light near the street. Sasha slipped toward the exit. “Quick, out the back door!”

Doing their best without light, the three snuck down the hall and out from where they had come. Martin heard the door across the hall being opened just as they slipped outside. Jon was quick to slap on the padlock, and the three bolted into the dark wood.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Martin gasped, refusing to look behind him. He heard footsteps close by, and from near his shoulder he could hear Jon’s hoarse, quiet breath. “If we go this way, I-I think I can keep us off the road.”

“As long as they didn’t see the blankets get torn down, there won’t be any other signs we were there,” Jon said, managing to get a bit ahead of Martin despite his shorter stature.

“You’d better be right. Sasha, was there another meeting point?” Martin asked.

No one answered, and Martin’s blood went cold. The only steps around him were Jon’s. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Should we go back?”

Jon hesitated, then said through his own panting, “If something happened, w-we can’t stop now. It’s possible she ran in another direction. Going back wouldn’t be of any help. We need- we need somewhere to wait and hide. Once we have that, I-I’ll text Tim something innocuous in case something happened outside.”

Martin felt sweat running down his neck under his many layers of clothing. From where they were, he charted a course in his head. “Okay. I think I know a way to avoid town altogether.”

Using the distant beacon of the lighthouse as a reference point, the two ran through the forest. Every once in a while Martin would make a sharp turn, causing Jon to stumble after him. Trees jumped into their path, slowing the pace considerably, and after a few minutes the ground began to dip downward.

There was no running on the slope without risk, and Martin slowed them both down to stop and listen for the sound of pursuers. As they waited in silence, holding back gasps for air, Martin could feel tiny scratches on his cheeks from branches that had caught him unawares. The only sounds were the screeching of insects and the beating of his own heart.

“Okay. No more running, but keep moving down,” Martin said, willing the blood in his ears to be still.

--

The sun still had some time before properly rising, but exhaustion slapped Martin in the face as he stood on his front porch, fiddling with his keys.

“...You really think this is a good idea?” Jon said, straining to keep his voice low while still maintaining an appropriate level of incredulity. A yawn crept in at the end, lessening the effect.

Martin shushed him, unlocking the front door. “They have no reason to look down here. The woods are thick, and the path I took us through is weird enough that we could’ve gone in any direction. If anyone ever was following us.”

Jon grumbled and checked his phone again. He had texted Tim once they touched the stone-covered beach with no response, and grew visibly more worried with each passing minute.

“You all have plans for this sort of thing, right?” Martin asked, one hand on the door. “Covered your bases?”

Swallowing hard, Jon said, “Y-yes. I’m sure Tim and Sasha are fine. They’re resourceful people.” He checked his phone one more time, then stuffed the phone in his pocket. “I have full confidence in them.”

Tim had been right. Jon was a terrible actor, avoiding eye contact and letting his voice falter when he should’ve kept strong. Of course Jon was worried about his friends.

Martin cleared his throat. “Good. I’m sure we’ll hear from them soon. If we managed to escape, there’s no way Sasha got caught.”

It took a moment, but Jon took in a deep breath and nodded. “Right. We’ll hear from them soon.”

Martin ushered him inside and toward the stairs. “Mum is a heavy sleeper, but still, be quiet please. We’re heading to the attic. She can't get up the stairs on her own, so there's no risk of her finding you.”

They walked up the steps and kept a slow pace across the upstairs hall. Martin pulled a rope at the end, releasing a ladder he just barely caught and set against the ground. Jon crawled up and into the small space.

“I’ll be right back,” Martin whispered. “Gonna stuff some things back where they’re supposed to be.” He left to replace his supplies into their proper drawers and boxes.

After most of his things were put away, he took the sketchbook, still wrapped in a scarf, and slid it into the drawer of his nightstand, underneath his small notebook of poetry. He would have to figure out a good delivery method another time, when he wasn’t exhausted and filled with dread.

Before returning to the attic, he checked his own phone. He had also received Tim’s warning text, a simple “Time to go!”. It didn’t look like a message sent under duress. If Sasha had gotten into trouble, Tiim would’ve been around to help, and vice versa. Chances were they had all made it out okay, and the other two were being careful on their way back to their hotel.

Martin climbed up the ladder to the attic. “Any news?” he asked, pulling the ladder up behind him.

From the other side of the room, Jon faced away from him and knelt in the corner. “They’re fine. She took a different route and met up with Tim. They’re at the hotel now.” There was a tremor in his voice.

Martin’s heart squeezed in his chest, and he shut the small trap door. “That’s good. Are you doing okay? I know it got bad at the end there, and-”

Jon stood and turned. His face was contorted with confusion and fury, and clasped in his grip was the limp, dusty skin of a seal.

Every muscle tensed in Martin’s body as all but the thing in Jon’s hands faded from sight. Martin barely choked out, “Why-”

“You’re going to explain what this is doing here. Now.”

[stellar-imagines]

SCENARIO REQUEST: ❝buried in art.❞

[ Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia ] [ Characters: Class 1-A ]

「You developed a habit of drawing in your sketchbook and often drew in the middle of the class. Aizawa catches you drawing in class and make you go up and share it with everyone.」

You didn't know when it started but before you realized it, you've completely turned into someone who's obsessed with drawing. At the very start, it was supposed to be a method to relieve stress but it soon changed into a hobby. When you're free, you would sit on your desk, drawing something. On the day your friends decided to go for a picnic, you were dragged to a spacious field with a huge carpet of grass and a few trees providing shade. The sky was blue and the weather was just right, the girls had decided to play some game while you sat under the shade, watching your friends run around while drawing the landscape.

You loved your classmates. They were all amazing people you came to appreciate, and they each had a special place in your heart. Maybe not Mineta that much, but it’s not like you wished the guy was dead, he just seriously needed to respect women and keep his fantasies to himself. You've been drawing a bit too much of landscape that you wanted a change of pace. It started with doodles of the girls since you have a lot of pictures taken together with them but you would just change up the style a bit. They had great style and dressed up in cute clothes. Slowly, you decided to draw some of the boys. 

By now, you had at least drawn half of your classmates, your sketchbook was packed with various landscape drawings in the first half of your sketchbook and in the other half, there were doodles of your classmates. It wasn't that you're too shy to share it with your friends but they never seem to be bothered by the fact that you're always carrying around that book with you. Some managed to get a peek of what you're drawing from time to time but have never seen the end product.

As Aizawa went on and on about something during homeroom, you found yourself daydreaming a bit. The day before you were training your quirk and exercising in the gym, with everyone improving so vastly, you wanted to change to and decided to train all on your own. You looked down to see your sketchbook opened, a half-empty page greeting you. The occasional on taps from Todoroki who sat behind you kept you awake and you seriously have to thank him once class is over.

"[Last Name]."

The moment your teacher called your name, you were wide awake and alert, wondering why he suddenly called out to you. Maybe it was because you almost fell asleep 10 times? It has to be. Despite the anxiety swelling in your chest, you swallowed the saliva that pooled beneath your tongue and nervously gazed at your teacher.

"Yes, sir?" For a moment, you felt his gaze on you and you instinctively blinked, hoping that you were just imagining things. Aizawa's eyes were focused entirely on you and you couldn't help but think that you're in trouble now. You hoped that he would just tell you to go and wash your face to stay awake or remind you not to fall asleep and stay awake or something. By now, everyone had their attention on you.

"Is there something you want to share with us? Your face was practically buried in that sketchbook of yours."

"N-No! It's not like that, sensei!" you tried to wave it off with a smile, hoping that he would let you off.

"Get up here and share it with the class, maybe that way you won't be sleepy for the rest of my class." Aizawa said. With an exasperated groan and the realization that you can never win against your teacher, your grabbed your book and sauntered to the front of the class.

"Now that I think about it, what kind of stuff does [Last Name] draw anyway? She's always drawing something in her sketchbook." Kirishima muttered out loud.

"I've seen her draw some landscape, kero. But I've never seen the end product." Asui answered.

"Isn't it a bit exciting!?" Ashido quipped with a bright smile.

"It feels like we're back in elementary school doing show and tell." Sero said.

"It's nothing special, guys....." you mumbled with a small smile. Aizawa picked up the book you placed on the desk and flipped through the pages, his tired eyes quickly scanning over your sketches

"She says nothing special but I can't tell if she's being humble or not." he raised your book and showed everyone one of your most recent drawings. There was a moment of silence when your friends eyed your drawing closely.

"Amazing, [First Name]-chan! You drew all that!?" Ashido broke the silence, rising from her seat and skipping over to the front, leaning closer to the book being presented. Aizawa handed it over to the eccentric girl who shifted her gaze to you. One by one, your classmates began crowding you, flipping through the pages to find a drawing of themselves in different parts of your book. Aizawa stepped aside, muttering something about waking him up once this whole ordeal was over. In the midst of the chaos, you stood in the middle next to Ashido, overwhelmed by the attention. Even the ever so stoic Todoroki was next to you, eyes showing surprise when he stumbled over a drawing of himself.

"Ah, I'm there."

"You have the face of an ikemen! This is truly one of my favorite drawings of you! I hope I'm not creeping you out but you have such finessed features, and it felt like I'm redrawing a masterpiece by Van Gogh......" you muttered.

"I'm not that good looking." he replied casually.

"Please apologize to all the guys in UA." you pouted.

"Oh! I'm there too! You're a great artist, [Last Name]!" Kirishima pointed excitedly, slinging an arm around your shoulders.

"A-Ah, thank you!" 

"I'm a bit embarrassed, you drew me in such pretty clothes that I can never afford.....!" Uraraka said, turning to you with a teary expression. Just how broke is she?

"You're a natural artist [Last Name], I find myself drawn to you." Kaminari wiggled his eyebrows while you laughed nervously, unsure of how to respond to that.

"Stop embarrassing yourself." Jirou huffed.

"How do I look? Did you get my charm point?" Aoyama peeked over Kirishima and Kaminari's shoulder to examine the drawings. They all had different reactions but none of them said anything negative which made you relieved. Midoriya was in tears, saying things about how he doesn't deserve that much respect from you but when you told him that he was an amazing person and that you admire his hardworking nature, his face turned red and he cried even harder. 

"The detail in all the drawings are amazing! Not to mention, 

"Yo, Bakugou, you should have a look!" Kirishima called over to the ash blonde who remained seated the entire time.

"Why should I?" Bakugou barked back, narrowing his eyes at the red-haired teen who just beamed back at him. Kaminari nudged Sero and whispered something into his ear. The black-haired male nodded and turned to Kirishima who was given instruction on whatever plan they were hatching. The red-haired male had nodded enthusiastically, a sign that he's in.

"Well then, suit yourself! I guess you don't want to see how [Last Name] draws you." Kirishima replied.

"Hah, just look at that. I can't believe you drew him like this, [Last Name]." Kaminari turned to you. Still unsure why they were talking like this, all you could do was tilt your head in confusion.

"Is this how you perceive Bakugou, [Last Name]? I guess it's a very accurate image." Sero turned towards you with a smirk on his face.

"Eh? Um, thanks?" you mumbled.

Bakugou rose from his seat, the sound startling you. He began making his way towards you and everyone immediately made way for the angry boy who was marching over with an irritated look on his face. They all dispersed, including the ones who deliberately provoked Bakugou into coming. You stood there dumbfound, stepping back when the ash-blonde moved closer to you. When your back hit the board, you gasped. The loud slam of his hand hitting the board beside your head made you squeak. Without saying a word, he snatched the book from your hands to see a drawing of himself. The guys had made it sound like you drew a monster but it was the complete opposite.

He looked so fucking cool.

"It's just okay." he told you before returning to his seat. He tried to play it off by acting like he doesn't care but he's actually pretty happy to see your drawing.

"Bakugou, are you perhaps blushing?" Sero teased.

"Shut your mouth, you extras!"

Total: 1458 words Published: 17.09.2019

We’re now open to requests for Kimetsu no Yaiba! Please have a look before requesting!

Thank you for requesting! *｡٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و*｡ This happened to me uwu It was suuuuper embarrassing and back then I was super awkward with people can’t barely had any friends. It was just public humiliation. ― author Hibiki/Lou

Thank you for requesting! Lou loves drawing and owns like three sketchbooks. True art nerd. We hope you’re okay with this scenario, anon. ― author Natsuki

Please do not mind the grammar mistakes and typos.

[existing-on-cloral]

Brooklyn’s Night Terrors

Chapter Twelve: French Girls

Steve comes home from the hospital. He takes his scientist with him, planning for some domestic bliss, but the Reaper has other ideas.

You drove Steve home from the hospital in Bucky’s car. Of course, due to his healing factor, he had been able to get back to work sooner, and you were thankful for it. More heroes on the streets fighting against the Reaper, the better. 

Steve was silent the whole car ride, and your thoughts drifted to the last time you’d seen him, when Peggy had interrupted the two of you. Was he thinking of her?  

You quickly shook off the thought. Jealous would get you nowhere, and besides, you knew better. Still, you couldn’t resist asking as you pulled into the apartment complex’s parking lot.  

“Steve?”  

He turned his head ever so slightly to looked at you. “Yeah, doll?”  

“What happened with Peggy?”  

A quiet laugh escaped his lips. “Someone’s jealous.”  

“I... It’s not like that.” You gripped the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. “I promise, I just want to know.”  

Steve turned away again. “We talked. I explained that it had been years since I last saw her, even though for her, it was just days. I can’t explain how that made me feel... Not guilt, since I moved on, but something else. I just... I don’t know.”  

You set a hand on his shoulder. “Steve, it’s okay to be confused. The last time you saw her was in a casket, and now she’s alive and well.”  

“I know, but... It’s nice to see her.” He moved a hand to hold yours. “You don’t feel threatened?”  

“God, no.” Your lips broke into a smile. “Stevie...”  

“Bucky used to call me that,” Steve said, and pulled you into a kiss.  

His apartment door crashed open and the two of you spilled inside, giggling like teenagers. Steve slammed the door shut and locked his arms around your waist, kissing you again and lifting you up. You kissed him back, biting at his lower lip until it swelled into your mouth, red and plump. He almost literally threw you onto the counter, kissing down your neck and collarbone.  

“Wait, shit,” you cursed. “Steve, I’m not... You always had a condom...”  

Steve withdrew reluctantly. “Shit.” He ran a hand through his hair and pulled you back to your feet. “Right. I think I need to run to the drugstore. You gonna be okay here?”  

You reached up and tugged on his hair, pulling his lips back to yours. “I love that you still say drugstore, you old man.”  

Steve smiled against your lips and he broke away, holding your face in his hands. “What did I do to deserve you, baby?”  

“Something good,” you said dreamily, grabbing his hands and taking them from your face.  

“Fifteen minutes.” He grabbed his keys off the hook and turned to the door. Before he opened it, he turned back to you and added, “That’s how long you’ve got to be on my bed, no clothes. Got it, doll?”  

You swallowed. Oh, you could get used to this Steve. “Yes, Captain,” you teased, then filed the nickname away when Steve tensed. “Kinky.”  

“I’ll show you kinky when I get back.” Steve walked out of the apartment, locking the door behind him.  

Wow.  

You turned away from the door and took in your surroundings. You’d been here a few times, but every single visit brought something new. He had old photographs littering every possible surface, a coffee pot with a dent he swore looked like a heart (it didn’t), and a throw pillow with the words There’s No Place Like Home stitched across it. The apartment was a mishmash of everything Steve, and you loved it.  

Remembering Steve’s order, you walked into the bedroom, breathing in his scent deeply. Then, since you still had a little time, you went to the bedside table and ran your fingers over the items on it. The discovery of the day was a small round capsule, probably something to hold jewelry in. Why would Steve need-  

The capsule popped open in your hand, revealing a compass on one side and a picture of Peggy Carter carefully attached to the other. The side of the picture was slightly torn, as if someone had tried to pry it up but failed. You set it down, pushing the jealousy away, and scanned the other items on the stand.  

Next to where the compass had been was a pair of scissors and a picture of three people.  

Your breath caught.  

It was you and Sam and Bucky.  

You remembered that day. It was the first day you’d been in the training room, about four months ago, and you’d tried to use too much weight. Bucky had run over to help you and Sam had followed reluctantly, complaining about wasting time. Sharon, who was supposed to be your training partner, had quickly snapped a picture, knowing she could blackmail you for almost dropping the weight at the sight of Bucky and Sam, dripping with sweat. Sharon must have sent it to Sam and Bucky. You picked up the picture, shaking your head at the memory. A circle was drawn around your faces, the exact size that was perfect for the little compass.  

Trying to keep your head from bursting, you set down the picture and went for the last item, a  leather-bound  book with a thin ribbon page marker. You flipped the book open to the ribbon and gasped out loud.  

The unfinished sketch on the page was beautiful and terrifying at the same time. It was a drawing of Bucky, eyes narrowed, head cocked, both arms tense as his hands curled around the gun in his hands. Both hands were flesh.  

Steve had drawn this. His initials were scribbled at the bottom.  

You turned the page and almost dropped the book. The next sketch was of you. You were lying down on a bed, one eye closed, the other eye wide open as you looked up off the page. A thin sheet made you just barely decent, hinting at debauchery. You carefully touched the drawing, just to make sure that it wasn’t a photograph.  

“I thought I told you to be on the bed,” Steve’s voice rumbled from the doorway. You whirled around, clutching his sketchbook in your hands.  

“Did you draw these?” you asked, holding up the book.  

Steve nodded, tossing a small bag onto the bed. “I did. All of them.”  

“They’re amazing. When this is all over, you could be an artist,” you said, showing him the drawing of Bucky.  

“Is that all you saw?”  

You flinched. “I...” You turned the book around and turned back to the drawing of you. “Was this from memory?”  

He nodded. “Yes.”  

You giggled, and whispered, “Draw me like one of your French girls, Jack.”  

“Sorry?”  

“Nothing, it’s from a...”  

He cut you off. “I know what it’s from. I’m 105, I’m not dead.” Steve drew closer until his eyes were glinting down into yours. “Do you want me to draw you again?”  

“Yes.” You didn’t hesitate to set down the book and draw off your shirt. “Wearing these.”  

Steve looked down at your breasts, which were covered delicately by a baby blue lace bra. “Oh, doll.”  

You sat on the bed and let Steve rid you of your shoes, socks, and pants. Steve’s breath hitched at the sight of your matching panties, which happened to be missing a key part. “They don’t have a...” He trailed off, but no flush came over his face. Well, of course. He was in the army.  

“You can fuck me all you want with these on,” you said, hooking a leg around his neck and making him look up. “After you draw me.”  

Steve took a deep breath, grabbed his sketchbook, dug out a charcoal pencil, and set them down on his desk. Slowly, he approached you and positioned you on the bed, legs closed, one arm over your head, the other hand resting on your stomach. He turned your head to face him, then stepped back. “Perfect,” he said, almost to himself. He returned to his desk and swung the chair around, kicking an ankle up to his other knee and propping the sketchbook on his calf.  

He lifted his pencil and began to sketch.  

You were both silent the entire time, Steve taking labored breaths as he focused on each aspect of your form. Listening to the pencil scratch calmed your beating heart, and you recalled what Rose had said in the movie Titanic about having Jack sketch her, about how intimate it was. This felt more intimate than any way Steve had taken you, any kiss, any moment in his or your bed. Your heartbeat was so loud, you were sure he could hear it.  

“Done.” He broke the silence without warning, blowing eraser chunks off the page. “Do you want to...”  

“Please.” You sat up, stretching out your stiff muscles, and joined Steve at the desk. The sketch was beautiful, perfect. It captured everything, from the way one corner of your mouth turned up slightly to your feet, folded in on each other. “Oh, Steve...”  

“Do you like it?” He looked up at you, blue eyes staring into your soul.  

You cupped his cheeks in your hands, lifting his head and leaning down to kiss him. “Yes. I love it, baby.”  

“You called me baby.” He chuckled into your mouth, grabbing the back of your neck. “Though I think I prefer Captain.” He stood, picked you up, and tossed you onto the bed like you weighed nothing.  

You let out a breath as he stalked towards you, unbuttoning his button-down and reaching for the bag from the drugstore. “Yes, Captain,” you whispered.

  Sunlight woke Steve from a peaceful slumber. He smiled, remembering his dream, the one where you’d taken him on a picnic and fed him little cakes. Then you’d grown wings and flown into the sky, taking him with you...  

“ So, I see you’re awake?”  

Steve stiffened. The voice was familiar, but it wasn’t yours. He opened his eyes and felt his chest clench.  

Sam stood in front of him, arms crossed, every muscle in his body tense. “Where am I?” Steve asked. “What did you do to me? What did you do  to...?”  

“We didn’t hurt your girlfriend.” Sam bit his lip. “But she’s not supposed to be yours, is she?”  

Steve tried to move his hands and found that they were cuffed to the chair he was on. A tug of his legs revealed the same. He pulled as hard as he could, but they wouldn’t budge. Vibranium , surely.  

“Don’t bother.” Sam pulled up another chair and sat down, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re not going anywhere.”  

“Don’t do this, Sam.” Steve switched tactics quickly, like Natasha used to tell him to. “You’re a good person.”  

Sam laughed. “So was Bucky, huh?”  

Steve tensed, then winced. Wanda had been right. Any mention of Bucky and he was instantly frozen.  

“What’s stopping her from going back and taking him?” he asked. “She wants the Winter Soldier, what’s keeping her back?”  

“The fact that Bucky Barnes is in this world. Going back to a time when you existed, or getting pulled into a time where you do, is dangerous. You ever seen Mr. Peabody and Sherman?” Sam was toying with him, Steve knew it. He’d watched that movie a few years ago, but any and all time travel facts had been thrown out the window when they had gone back to get the stones.  

“Yes, I have, but I touched myself when we went back. I kicked his ass, in fact.” Steve could remember the event vividly, since he had almost been choked out by his past self.  

Sam shrugged. “The Reaper doesn’t know that, but I’m sure she’d be glad to learn. Simply put, she wants this time’s Bucky out of the way before she brings in another.”  

The pieces fell into place all at once. “She’s gonna kill him.”  

“Now, Sam, don’t reveal the entire evil plan,” a female voice teased. The same metallic voice that Steve had heard under the streets of New York City. The Blue Reaper slinked her way into the room, touching Sam’s shoulder gently. Sam stood immediately and left, closing the door behind him.  

The Reaper regarded Steve with little care as she dropped into the chair Sam had recently vacated. “So. Captain Rogers.” Steve shivered, remembering the way you had so seductively used his title last night. Or was it two nights ago? He had no idea what day it was. “I must say,  it  was hard to find you.”  

“What did you do with her?” Steve spit, on the offensive once again.  

“Relax, we left her alone. Better to let her stew than to keep her in the same place as you, don’t you think?” She kicked one leg over the other, her mask contorting as she smirked. “Sorry.”  

Steve struggled against his bonds with every intent to tear out the Reaper’s throat. “Stay away from her, you bitch.”  

“Language, Captain.” She stood and planted one heeled boot on his thigh. “Or I might have to gag you, too. That would be fun, wouldn’t it?” She grabbed his chin and covered his mouth with her hand. “Play nice, Captain.”  

He struggled against her grip, but she was much too strong. Her other hand came up and blew a powder Steve was all-too-familiar with into his face. Steve coughed, trying to hold his breath, but the powder went straight into his airways. 

“Interesting, isn’t it? The powder is effective, but the liquid form of the aphrodisiac is much worse.” She gestured to the cuffs binding Steve’s hands and feet. “The cuffs are a little more painful than they would be, since they’ve got needles in them. I wouldn’t struggle.”  

Steve could feel the aphrodisiac working through his bloodstream already and he took deep breaths, forcing his heart to slow so he could think of a plan. “Why are you doing this?”  

The Reaper smirked. “Because your little scientist will never be yours. When this is all over, I’m going to let Sam have her. Then maybe I’ll keep you around as a plaything.” She tilted his chin up, forcing him to look at her. “You’re pretty enough, aren’t you?”  

Steve used the last of his resolve to spit in her face. She gritted her teeth and slapped him across the face, hard, then she dropped to her feet and took off one set of cuffs. To his surprise, she twisted them around her own wrist and squeezed, tensing as the needles pierced her skin. She threw them to the side, blood seeping down her hand, and trembled as the drug worked through her body too. Steve couldn’t even struggle when she leaned down and kissed him.  

[scarofthewind]

Michael x (fem) reader who finds Michael injured and decides to help heal him? Resulting him to become her silent ( stalking) protector? Bonus points if she is an artist or something and he leaves little messages in her sketchbook lol

A/N: Hope you enjoy! This is G for the masterlist under MichaelWarnings: None

You were walking your dog down the street the night you found him. A tall, silent, masked man, covered in blood and hurt very badly. You didn’t even think before you ran over to him, asking if he was okay. Michael was startled to see you, a young woman with her dog that was sniffing him, concerned with his well being. 

“My name is (Y/N), my house is just around the corner, do you think you can make it there? Do I need to call an ambulance?” You asked, watching as he shook his head quickly at the end of your sentence. Taking in a breath, you nodded. “No hospital then. C’mon, before you bleed out.”

Michael walked behind you while you lead him to your house, your dog happily marching in front of you. He memorized the number on your house, as well as the street name and what the outside looked like. As you let your dog off its leash and walked inside, Michael immediately noticed your dozens of canvas’ some painted and some not. 

“Here, come sit down.” You said in the kitchen, pulling out a chair and setting an aid kit on the table. Michael shut your front door and walked over, careful not to touch any of the paintings. 

You sprawled all the contents of the aid kit on the table and put some latex gloves on. “Could you maybe, remove the top half of your uniform? The wound is there.” You pointed to the multiple slits in the fabric. 

Michael stared at you blankly, not moving a muscle. “I won’t be able to stop the bleeding if I can’t get to the wound.” You said. Michael didn’t say anything, but unbuttoned the first few buttons on the uniform top, gritting his teeth when he moved. 

“Thank goodness it’s not that bad.” Quickly, you started dabbing at the two large stab wounds in his chest and side. “So how did you get these exactly? And why the mask?” 

The silence was what you received. “Can you at least tell me your name?” More silence was all you needed before you stopped asking questions. You focused on stitching up the wounds and disinfecting them, before letting him button his uniform up. 

“Well, take it easy out there. If you need anything, just stop…by.” You paused, having only turned away for a moment but when you went to face him, he was gone. Your front door was open and you walked over to close it, locking it as well. 

Your dog barked behind you and you looked at it, your eyes locking onto the painting across the room with a name: Michael Myers.

*

It didn’t take you long to realize that you’d helped a serial killer; not that it bothered you. He didn’t kill you or even try to after all. However, you didn’t have time to worry about Michael right now because you were busy trying to shake off a co-worker from work who’d been pestering you lately. 

“My house is just a few blocks away, I’m fine walking by myself.” You insisted, shaking off his perverted gaze. 

“There’s a killer about. I can’t let you go home alone.” He smiled and you laughed bitterly. A sudden blow of air from behind you made you have the urge to turn around. “What is it?” He asked.

Your eyes scanned the sidewalk and you caught a glimpse of a white mask, moving behind a tree not too far from you. “Nothing.” You said, continuing to walk home.

“So when can I take you out? We could go eat, then go to a hotel.” Your co-worker smirked, trying to grab your ass. 

His fingertips didn’t even come close to touching your jeans as a large hand grabbed his wrist. “Back off.” 

“Excuse me? Who the hell are you?” He growled staring up at the unmasked man you could only assume was Michael. 

“Someone who doesn’t like seeing other’s anywhere near his interests. Now fuck off.” You smiled, waving bye to your perverted co-worker as he practically ran down the street. 

“You give off a scary vibe, Michael. It’s almost killer-like.” You said, looking him in the eyes and watching as he rolled his eyes. “Thank you for protecting me though. I was afraid he’d try something before I even made it to the front porch.” 

“I watch you.” Michael blurted out when you both started waling to your house. 

“I figured. You shrugged, spotting your house a few yards down. “You can come over sometime if you want. Its just me, my dog and my artwork.” 

Michael watched you out of the corner of his eyes, silently taking you up on your offer. For some reason he found you amazing and he often found himself outside your home, watching you paint. He wanted to know you more, be with you, and he’d do everything in his power to get what he wanted. 

[infinitesimal-grey]

Prince Starved

Prinxiety G/t College AU

Online friends Roman (Giant) and Virgil (Human) meet for the first time when they find they've been going to the same college. They're both nervous gay wrecks.

Story Warnings: Swearing, bullying, Roman, feeling of helplessness mention of blood, bruises, fighting, violence, mention of abusive parents, abuse scars, attempted murder, maybe more

Chapter Warnings: Swearing, bullying, violence, choking (not the kinky kind)

Word Count: 2,514

.

Prologue

Roman Knight and Virgil Rivers have been best friends for two years now, but they’ve never met in person.

In fact, they lived on opposite coasts, Roman from California and Virgil from Rhode Island. They both were mutuals on Discord for the longest time before a mutual friend, Talyn, put them in the same group chat together with a few other people. At first they seemed as if they would never get along, at least that was what it seemed to everyone else. Roman and Virgil would argue constantly, filling almost all interaction with insults and banter. That just brought them closer together, and soon they were video calling outside of the group chat. One hour calls turned into two hours turned into twelve… The two were inseparable on any social media. It came as a surprise to their friends who witnessed their interactions that they were so close, but the insults and arguments were quickly known just as proof of how close they are that even the biggest of arguments would be resolved within hours or a day at most. Underneath all that banter both friends were quickly falling in love despite the distance. It was pretty obvious to everyone; except for the two clueless morons involved.

Virgil had lived in a completely segregated human neighborhood with his mom all his life before college, that is. His mom hates giants so she never let Virgil go to any non segregated towns or schools, as a way of rebelling Virgil chose an integrated college. Even so, he was still scared. He spent most of his time avoiding the giant side of campus at all costs. So he had never really seen giants up close before. Virgil lets slip which college he's at during one of their 12 hour facetime sessions and Roman was elated because he also went to that college.

But because of everything around them being to their scale, they never found out the other’s species.

He asked if Virgil wants to meet up and Virgil managed to stutter a yes.

Roman suggested an integrated coffee shop on the border of the giant side of campus. Virgil, in his flustered mind, doesn't even consider the possibility that Romans a giant. Virgil didn't want Roman to think he's afraid of, or hates giants so he said yes. Then they awkwardly both said goodbye while trying not to blush on camera.

Roman, in his excitement, forgot to mention that they're a giant. Virgil didn't mention his species either. And they don't bother to wonder why they've never seen each other around campus at all. They were so busy freaking out because they were meeting each other that neither of them even thought about species.

Virgil gets there early and bites his nails as he went up the human elevator entrance to the cafe. There's human walkways lining inside and outside of the walls so they could walk around the cafe without needing help. Periodically around the room there would be platforms against the wall with tables humans could sit at.

There were also human sized tables built into the giant wooden round tables of varying sizes around the room. The only way to get to those was by being carried by a giant. If the human arrives first when meeting a human, they can wait at a designated platform near the door.

Virgil sat close to the human pickup platform knowing giants would walk by. Specifically so that he could prove to Roman he wasn’t a pussy.

.

Chapter 1

Roman smiled brightly as he approached the coffeeshop, confidently straightening his white button down top with his free hand. He'd been waiting since forever to meet Virgil; he damn near screamed when he heard Virgil mention his college. The beautiful emo was his best friend in the world and the news had prompted him to invite him out for coffee without even thinking. Roman hadn't thought about his hopeless crush at all, only the fact that he had to see that goofy smile in person as soon as he could. He twirled the black rose he had in his hand, staring at it in debate. He bought it as he had made his invitation, that is to say without thinking. Roman ran his thumb up and down the stem in indecision, popping off a thorn. He watched it fall to the pavement and sighed. No, Virgil was still just a friend, he didn't want to risk it. Roman wouldn't want to make their first meeting uncomfortable.Instead, Roman sadly the rose down on an abandoned iron bench outside the cafe.

Virgil had gotten there a bit too early; but who was he kidding, you could never be too early. After all, the other person could easily decide to arrive early, and then you'd seem late getting there on time, so the obvious solution was to get there even earlier. He'd already finished a first cup of coffee, humming to himself as he messed around with various designs in a small sketchbook while he waited for Roman to arrive. Virgil wasn't too much of an artist, but doodles never failed to help distract from the worries his mind threw at him. Roman’ll actually show up, right? Of course he would, we’ve known each other for ages... But you never know…

The bell above the door dinged.

Roman pushed open the door of the coffee shop, eyes scanning the tables and bar seats for any sign of Virgil. He walked in to avoid blocking the door, now towering right over the human pick up platform to his right. Roman looked over the students in the busy shop again. Maybe he was late...? Roman quickly pushed down the thought that he was stood up. Virgil would never do that to him.

Virgil was still humming to himself, making the unavoidable glance up toward the door as a Giant walked in. The door was right there and Virgil just couldn't ignore the movement. He had sat himself down at the platform nearest the human pickup platform to impress Roman. Only slight regret, he lied to himself. So, as usual when a giant or a human came in, Virgil glanced over, went back to his sketchbook... And only then did a double take. "Wait what??" The humanspoke under his breath, feeling his heart skip a beat as he scanned the features of this giant... He couldn't believe his eyes... could it be him? No way. "...Ro?"

Roman jumped when he heard his nickname called to his right. He whipped around to where he heard it and locked eyes with a familiar face sitting at a human table. "...Virgil?" Roman crouched down, hooking a hand onto the side of the platform to keep his balance. His eyes widened as the miniscule, unmistakable features of his best friend came into focus,black eyeshadow and all. A blush dusted his cheeks, Gods Virgil was even more beautiful in person…

Virgil felt conflicting feelings wash over himself. His heart was skipping beats, and thank god for his foundation hiding the blush he felt forming on his face. But Virgil’s stomach was doing flips, and not just the usual kind for a crush. Roman was a giant. No wonder they'd never seen each other before, despite living on the same campus. Jesus... Virgil didn't move, just sitting there with his mouth slightly open and eyes wide with awe, pencil still in his hand but forgotten.

Roman got concerned when Virgil went silent. He hooked his hand behind Virgil’s chair supportively, "Are- are you alright Virgil?" Roman’s arched brows knit together. Oh no nono did he already screw up? Was Virgil scared of him? Was Virgil having regrets about meeting already??

Virgil's mind followed the hand that was now behind him, but his gaze didn't move from Roman's face "Er--" Virgil swallowed, looking to his sketchbook and closing it up, tucking it into his messenger bag. "Um.. Yeah. I'm good. I'm good." Virgil nodded, seeming to reassure himself more than Roman, slowly putting the bag over his shoulder and standing up. "So, uh.. I guess... To a table..?" The human gave a sheepish grin in a somewhat faulty attempt to hide the swirling emotions that his eyes still betrayed. Damnit Virge, Calm down!

Roman grinned, scooping up his friend into his palm without thinking and holding him close to his chest. He gazed over the cafe, "Any preference, Emo Nightmare?"

Virgil felt his voice catch in his throat as he suddenly found himself in the grip of a Giant-well, his best friend, but they'd never met in person before. "Uh--Wherever there's not people as close." As Virgil stared forward with wide eyes, he thanked fuck for his bangs making it hard to see them anyways. He'd always acted really confident about, well, everything in his calls with Roman. How had their sizes never come up? That was, like, an important thing???

A secluded high top bar style table in the corner caught Roman's eye and he made his way towards it. It was set up like a breakfast bar with a series of five stools, a smaller version with more stools was installed onto the surface; he went straight to the one furthest in the corner. Roman used his ankle to hook the leg of his chair and sat down, resting his hand on the countertop in front of him. Roman found he was once again cursing himself for being 6 foot 5; he had to hunch down to be more level with Virgil due to his height.

As Roman was distracted with the whole 'sitting down' ordeal, Virgil took a deep breath to calm his fluttering heart., Though the fact that he'd just been carried over with no effort at all by his best friend was... something. He got off Roman's hand, forcing himself to ignore how weak his legs felt as he stood there.

For once in his life, Romane found himself at a slight loss for words. Words kept slipping through his grasp. Roman went with "So, how's my handsome stormcloud?" and grinned down at Virgil.

"Uh--Surprised, I guess. But it’s Chill." It was not Chill.

"Me too, haha,I didn't expect all that sass to fit into a human body." Roman joked, playfully poking the emo's side. Once Virgil was safely standing he rested his arms on the table, propping his head up on an elbow and gazing down at Virgil. He tucked his left hand into a fist so Virgil couldn't see it shake. "I always pictured you as shorter than me but I hadn't considered this much. It's cute though, it fits you."

Virgil set his messenger bag down, but jumped out of his seat and turned up toward Roman as the giant spoke. "Hey!" Even the (probably too much) makeup Virgil had put on today couldn't entirely hide his flushing face, but he hoped that the foundation toned it down. Emphasis on hoped. "Yeah, n' I didn't expect ya' to be tall but I Wasn't gunna' make comments on it!" Why did you say that, Virgil? Now he's gonna think you're mad at him or something.

Roman narrowed his eyes and smirked. "Of course I'm gonna comment on it, you're adorable~" -What are you doing stop flirting you useless gay paperclip-"Why not comment on it? Besides, I expected you to sass me even if you weren't a giant.I'm obnoxiously tall even to my own species." Roman kicked back gesturing to his long, muscled torso.

Virgil snorted at that. Oh fuck he's ripped. "I am not adorable! You've seen me just fine from our cameras, and you know I work very hard on this look." Virgil gave a half-offended, half just playful look as he sat down with a quiet huff. Damnit Virge stop BLUSHING oh my God.

"I can tell." Roman winked. He looked up and glanced towards the coffee bar. "We should order, do you want me to order for you or would you like to come up?" He asked, with Virgil's social anxiety in mind.

Virgil hummed quietly, glancing toward the bar as well. He'd ordered earlier, and even then it had been a bit... terrifying. "I would appreciate it if you could, yeah." Virgil smiled softly. Roman might've been way taller than he was expecting, but ,well, at least Roman still acted the same.

"What would you like? My treat of course, I dragged you here after all," A charming smile painted Roman’s chiseled features, dimples shining as beautifully as his pearl teeth.

Oh fuck. He's hot. Virgil took a breath to calm himself down, hesitating a moment before speaking. "I think ah, hot chocolate with cinnamon sounds good." Virgil normally got coffee, but since he'd had the one while waiting, might as well get something sweeter.

Roman nodded, sliding off the bar seat and standing, not noticing how even with the higher table he still towered over Virgil. He pushed in the chair and made his way over to the counter.

Virgil felt his heart flutter as Roman stood, watching as he walked to order with wide eyes. He quickly shook himself, lightly hitting his cheeks a few times.

The barista with a name tag reading Camden greeted Roman with a friendly smile. "What can I get for you?"

"Two large hot chocolates with cinnamon, one human and one giant." Roman returned the smile; it noticeably was absent of the flirtatious warmth it held with Virgil on the receiving end.

Camden pressed a few buttons on the register. "Nine dollars, name?"

"Roman." Roman handed over the exact change and was informed brightly the order would be right up. He waited anxiously for the hot chocolate to be ready, he didn't like leaving Virgil alone for so long. He should've insisted on him at least coming along.

As the seconds ticked by, Virgil felt himself growing a bit more anxious, being alone in the middle of a giant's table. Back at the human tables with Giants walking through it was admittedly more bearable, but this... wasn't quite as manageable. Virgil bounced his leg anxiously, eyes fixed on Roman and praying the drinks would just get done already so that Roman would come back again.

The cafe was fairly packed and a small group of what looked like juniors and seniors came in scanning for a table like vultures. By that time, several of the tables were filled.

Virgil's eyes snapped to the group as they approached. Please go to another table please go--ugh. They walked straight up to the table Virgil occupied and the leader with red hair planted his hands on either side of the human, purposefully looming over and creating a shadow by blocking the rustic exposed bulb above. "These seats taken?" He asked, no intent to care in his voice. An ugly sneer crept over his triangular face.

Virgil took a breath, putting on a brave face. His heart was racing, and he was absolutely terrified to look up at the Giant, but the human wasn't going to let him know that. But he locked his jaw leaned back. "Yes, actually. You'll have to sit somewhere else."

...

A/N: Run.

Thank you to the wonderful R who tolerates my trash mammal mind and co wrote this with me. And of course the lovely @hiddendreamer67 for doing some amazing beta reading!

Tag list in reblog, please ask to be added/removed in a comment or reblog

[originalhybridloverfics]

Misunderstandings and Confessions

A/N: I'm sorry I haven't been updating. I have a lot going on. Both my parents had surgery and I've been taking care of them and helping them with the rehab, plus in July I fell and hurt my hand, so I typed this up with one hand. I hope to get back to updating next month but it may be a little longer because I'm moving in Two weeks. Anyway, this idea kept bugging me and I had to get it down. I'm not sure if anyone is really going to like it but I like how it came out and that's enough for me, still, I hope you like it, too.I apologize for any mistakes.

Summary: Oliver has been in love with Felicity Smoak from the moment he met, a moment of misunderstandings has him confessing his true feelings for her.

Felicity walked into the local gym just off campus, eyes scanning around for her friend. She found him, encouraging a young girl, showing her how to accurately throw a punch without breaking her thumb in the process or injuring her wrist. 

“Hey, John, do you got a minute?”

John looked up. “Felicity, I meant to get a hold of you, but I’ve been busy.” John turned and said something to the girl before moving to her. 

“That’s why I’m here," said Felicity. "Lyla called said you needed to talk to me, I tried calling, but you never picked up.”

“Yeah, I broke my phone earlier in the day.” John grimaced. 

“Oh, the poor baby.” Felicity put a hand to her heart. 

John smiled. “Speaking of babies, that’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

“Your phone?”

“No,” John shook his head. “My baby. It’s my and Lyla’s anniversary next a week, and I was going to take her away for a romantic weekend, but I need someone to watch Sara, and there’s not really anyone else I would trust her that long with other than you." 

“Oh, of course, I can watch her.” Honestly, John didn’t really need to ask she loved spending time with her Goddaughter. 

“Great, you can stay in our guest room, and we will just be gone for three days,” John said. “Oh, don’t mention this to Lyla yet, I want to surprise her.”

“You got it, now I got to go, I have a paper due I need to work on, I’ll see you later.”

Felicity headed out just as a familiar face walked in, she felt that flutter she always got in his presence but did what she usually did and ignored it. “Oliver, hey.” 

“Felicity, are you working out today?” Oliver asked, carrying his duffle bag over his shoulder. 

Felicity watched his muscles shift beneath the fabric of his grey t-shirt as he tugs the bag higher. 

“Felicity?”

Felicity snapped her gaze back up to him, face flushing. “No working out once a week is more than enough for me besides there are much better ways to work off energy than the gym.” she watched Oliver’s eyes darkened, and her eyes widened as she realized the implications behind her words. 

Oh my God, she did not just say that she might as well as have said she instead her work out be hours of hot, sweaty sex. 

And to say it to Oliver of all people? Somebody kill her now. 

“I gotta go,” Felicity said, quickly brushing past him out the door. 

She heard footsteps behind her telling her Oliver followed her out. “Hey, we’re still on for tonight, right?”

Felicity turned back around. “Yeah, of course, unless your not free tonight then I’m sure I can get someone -”

“No, don’t” Oliver shook his head quickly, his body jerking with the movement. “I’ll be there. I just wanted to be sure we were still on. I thought we could get some food after.”

The flutters in her stomach got stronger. “Yeah, I love that, I’ll see you tonight but I really gotta get to the library now, my paper is due in a couple days, and I need to start working on it.”

Felicity felt Oliver’s eyes on her as she left, making her skin feel heated, it wasn’t till she was back in her car and driving back to campus that Felicity felt like she could breathe again.

Having a crush on your friend and trying not to be so fucking obvious about it was exhausting. 

                                                  ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Oliver rapped his knuckles against the door and waited. 

He smiled and held up the brown bag. “Hey, I brought Mint Chip.”

Felicity smiled, taking the bag from him. “You need to stop being so good to me, Oliver. At this rate, once I finish my art project, I’m never going to let you out of my life.” 

“Maybe that’s the plan.” Oliver shut the door behind him and shucked off his jacket. “Where’s your roommate?”

“Caitlin is staying with her boyfriend, it’s a milestone in their relationship or something. She’s going to be gone for the whole weekend.” Felicity walked to the mini freezer putting the ice cream away for now. Besides, she was going to need something cold to eat by the time Oliver left. 

She always felt hot whenever Oliver left, being alone with him was dangerous for her ovaries, especially when most days she just wanted to climb him like a tree. 

It wasn’t her fault though it was his. Who gave him the legal right to look that good? He was the image of what the perfect man was supposed to look like, and to be around him every day, fighting back feelings that had no hope of being returned was just unfair. 

“Where do you want me?” Oliver asked, looking around the room. 

That was a loaded question if she ever heard one.

Felicity grabbed her sketchbook and settled on her roommate's bed. “The bed, against the wall, and I don’t know, try and look like your seducing someone.”

Oliver gave her an arch look. “And this is for an assignment?” 

“Yes, I think the next assignment is going to be nude art, and God help me if that’s the case.” Because if she had to sketch Oliver naked, there was no way she could stop herself from throwing herself at him and embarrassing herself with his inevitable rejection.  

Oliver tried to hide the hurt he felt at her words as he settled on her bed, stretching out his long limbs. 

Oliver knew what he felt for Felicity was hopeless that was evident from the day he met her. A meeting she didn’t even remember. 

Being forgettable was just what you wanted to be to the girl you were in love with. 

                                                    ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ 

“Oh shit,” Oliver muttered as he watched the blonde, he had noticed in class a few weeks ago, slipped on the hallway floor. 

He rushes to her side. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Just peachy.” Felicity pushed to her feet and reach back and rubbed her ass. “Having a broken tail bone should not affect my day at all.”

Oliver opened his mouth to reply but found himself distracted by her baby blue blouse that was soaked through and clinging to her like a second skin. Clearly, she had been caught in the storm in her efforts to get to class. 

Her soaked shirt left nothing to the imagination. 

Look away, jackass, look away, he told himself, forcing himself to drag his eyes back up to hers. 

He swallowed when he saw her already staring back at him. It was clear she noticed his staring if her glare that she was staring a hole through him with were anything to go by. “I’m sorry for staring.” he rummaged through his duffel bag he had with him because he was on his way to the on-campus gym. “Here.” he pulled out one of his short sleeve shirts. 

He watches as her glare was replaced with a look of surprise, she reached out accepting the shirt, her fingers brushing his. “Thank you, um..?” 

“Oliver,” he supplied. 

“Oliver, thank you,” she said quietly. “It was nice meeting you. I have to go.”

Oliver turned and watch her disappear, clutching the fabric of his shirt and suddenly wanted to punch himself in the face. He finally got the chance to talk to Felicity Smoak, and now she probably thought he was some kind of creep. 

She couldn’t get away from him fast enough.

Any chance with her was obviously gone. 

                                                    ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

He wasn’t sure if he was relieved that she didn’t remember how they really met or extremely disappointed on the one hand, she didn’t remember him staring at her like she was just an object when she was more than just her body. She was beautiful, kind, strong, and so fucking brilliant. 

But on the other hand, he obviously left zero impression on her. She didn’t remember him. That had never happened to him before and made him feel guilty for all the girls he slept with and then forgot their names or pretended he didn’t know them. 

It wasn’t easy feeling like you weren’t memorable enough, it hurt knowing you were so quickly forgotten by someone you wanted to be a part of your life. 

Oliver watched as Felicity got to work, sometimes she got so focused on her sketches that everything around her would fall away until it was just her and her art. 

He didn’t mind it. Actually, it was something he loved because he got the chance to be there with her in the moment. He got the opportunity just to look at her with all the affection he had for her without worrying she would see how he felt about her written all over his face. 

“That new art gallery on Troost and 63rd will be having its grand opening next Friday. I thought we could go together.” Oliver said. He had actually already got their invites. Sometimes being the heir to a multi-billion-dollar company had its benefits.

“I can’t, I’m gonna be busy all weekend,” Felicity answered glancing at him then back at her sketch, missing the way he frowned deeply. 

“I didn’t know you were seeing someone.” Oliver’s heart dropped to his stomach, and he swung his legs to the side, moving to sit on the edge of her bed. 

“I’m not,” Felicity answered as Oliver stood. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Oliver stood. “Look, I have to go.”

Felicity put down her sketchbook and stood. “Don’t lie to me, something’s bothering you. The veins in your neck are throbbing, and that usually happens when your agitated or annoyed. Plus you’re doing that rubbing your fingers together thing that you do.” 

“I just thought we were closer than you feeling you need to lie to me about spending the weekend with some guy you couldn’t even be bothered to tell me about.”

“For the last time, I’m not seeing anyone, I have exactly two guys in my life. You and Digg.”

Oliver paused, he had assumed, she was going to spend the weekend with someone else because she never turned down the opportunity for them to spend time together before and her earlier comments at the gym that had alluded sex. 

He jumped right to the thought of some guy lucky enough to be with her, and it made him upset because he knew without a shadow of a doubt that no one was going to love her as much as he did. He would do anything she asked of him. 

“I know I probably don’t have a right to ask but what are your plans for this weekend?” Oliver asked. 

“It’s John and Lyla’s wedding anniversary, and he planned a three-day romantic trip that he wants to surprise her with and he asked me to watch baby Sara for the weekend.”

“Oh,” Oliver bit the inside of his cheek, feeling embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just tell me what that was about. Why did you freak out?’

Oliver shook his head and took a step back. “Felicity, can we just forget-”

“No, we can’t. Tell me why the thought of me spending my weekend with someone  else bother you so much?”

“Felicity..”

“Don’t Felicity me, Oliver. What’s so terrible about me seeing someone?” 

Oliver opened and closed his mouth and then surged forward, grasping Felicity's face, and pressing his mouth to hers. 

Felicity's body jolted at the touch of his lips on hers, shocked, she stared at him wide-eyed when he pulled back, her heart thudding in her chest. 

“It bothers me because I don’t want to be with anyone else. It bothers me because you’ve become the most important person in my life, and I want to be just as important to you as you are to me. It bothers me because I am in love with you.” 

Felicity felt her heart stop before restarting with a vengeance, and she surged forward cupping back of his neck as she pressed her mouth over his kissing him with everything she had. 

Oliver felt relief flow through him and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him.

Felicity arched into him, wanting even closer to him, when his tongue slid along hers, she moaned from the back of her throat. 

Oliver felt his blood rushing south at the sound, and he lifted her carrying her to bed, laying her down and covering her with his body. 

Felicity arched up into his hands as they explored her body, his mouth skimming down her neck and sucking at that spot that had her blood heating. She pushed her hands at his chest. 

Oliver pulled back immediately. “Is something wrong? Do you want me to stop?” 

“God, no.” She grabbed the hem of his shirt. “What I want is for you to remove your shirt." 

Oliver grinned and rose up on his knees and pulled his shirt over his head.

Felicity's eyes widened, and she lifted her hands, trialing them slowly across his perfectly sculpted abs. “You can’t be my nude model for my next project.”

Oliver frowned. “What? Why not?” 

“Because there is no way I will be able to focus on anything but touching you,” she leaned up and press a kiss to his abs. 

Oliver groaned as her tongue traced his abs, he grasped her face and pulled her mouth to his, falling back on the bed with her. 

Felicity moaned as his hand slipped beneath her shirt and she hooked her legs around his waist and flipped them, Oliver looked up at her surprised, and she laughed, pulling off her shirt. 

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” Oliver sat up, cupping her jaw, his thumb brushing her cheek. 

“You have no idea.” Felicity bit down on her lip. 

Oliver tugged her lip out from her teeth. “I look forward to finding out.” he covered her mouth with his, soothing her lip with his tongue. 

Felicity wrapped her arms around him, falling into him. 

Oliver and Felicity touched, kissed, explored, and lost themselves in each other. 

                                                ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ 

Oliver reached out with his hand and found the spot beside him empty. He couldn’t have imagined having the best sex of his life with the girl he loved. His eyes snapped open, and he saw the familiar sight of Felicity’s room. 

He frowned, okay so last night wasn’t one of his many dreams but then where was Felicity?

He was just about to toss the covers off when her door opened, and Felicity walked in, with a coffee tray and a brown to-go bag. “Hey, you’re awake.” she greeted, setting the bag and coffee tray on her desk. 

However, Oliver found himself distracted by the grey henley she wore. “Is that my shirt?”

“No,” Felicity's cheeks flushed as she pushed the yoga pants she had thrown on past her hips and down her legs. “Okay, fine, yes, it’s the shirt you gave me when we first met.”

“I thought you didn’t remember the first day we spoke,” Oliver said, confused. “Why would you pretend all this time that you didn’t remember how we first met?”

Felicity stared at him, caught. “I, ugh..”

“You what?” Oliver prodded. 

“Okay, fine.” Felicity’s look turned sheepish, and she tugged at the hem of the shirt. “I really like this shirt, it’s comfortable and roomy and when we officially met I pretended not to remember so I can keep my shirt.”

“You mean my shirt?”

“No, I mean my shirt. It’s been mine from the moment I first put it on. You never should have given to me if you wanted to keep it.” 

Oliver felt a sense of warmth spread through his chest, and he laughed. “You’re unbelievable in the best way. Do you have any idea the hit my self-confidence took thinking you didn’t remember me?”

Felicity grinned and pulled back the covers of her bed, climbing in next to him. “You’re Oliver Queen, you’re ego needed some readjusting.” 

Oliver snorted and wrapped his arm around her, pressing a kiss to her mouth. 

Felicity ran her fingers along his stubble jaw and down his chest. “Did you ever think we end up here?”

“Honestly?” Oliver said, pushing her hair back. “I was hoping for it. I only volunteered to model for you because I thought it was the only chance I had to know you and for you to get to know me. I thought it was the only chance I had with you and I had to take it.” 

“Oh, wow,” Felicity had never felt more flattered. She never had anyone feel that way about her, and it was a fantastic feeling. 

“There’s something else you should know," he placed his hand against her neck, feeling her pulse thrumming. 

“What?” Felicity breathed the intensity in his eyes, making her heart pound faster in her chest. 

“I plan on falling even more in love with than I already am, which shouldn’t be a problem when I fall more in love with you every passing day.” 

Felicity’s heart pounded in her chest for an entirely different reason. She pressed forward her lips connected with his, her hand curling around his shoulder as she pressed her body against his.

Felicity chest rose and fell when she broke away a few minutes later. “I love you too.”

Oliver grinned and tugged at the hem of her shirt. “I know you really love our shirt, but it has to go.” 

Felicity laughed as she let Oliver pull the shirt from her body and soon she found herself pinned beneath him as he kissed and touch her like she was the only thing that mattered and she was soaring above the clouds. She was more than ready to make sure he felt the same.

Oliver never expected Felicity to love him back, but she did, and it was the best feeling in the world have the person you love, love you back. 

He couldn’t imagine anything better. 

A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you liked it.  

 Tags: @cainc3 @msbeccieboo @epj27 @gabriellamarie97 @mariestark

[georgecostanzaatemysoup]

CRACK FIC

This is my attempt at writing a CRACK fic. I’ve never actually written one so apologies if this isn’t what crack is supposed to be (I’m new here). Thank you for sending me this :)

Caleb stares at his book in frustration. He bats at the page with his little kitty paw, trying to get the stupid page to turn, but it stays stubbornly on the current one.

He looks up at his actual body, sprawled out in the sun, and telepathically says, “A little help.”

“Shh, shh, I’m busy,” Frumpkin replies, tilting his head back. “Maybe in an hour or two.”

Caleb narrows his eyes at him before looking towards his friends. It’s been six hours since he accidentally switched bodies with Frumpkin and none of them seem to have noticed. He’s more than a little disappointed in them; especially Caduceus and Beau.

Where is that high perception when you need it, Caleb thinks to himself, his eyes settling on his friends.

Is he really this weird that they don’t notice his body laying in the sun like a cat? He knew his idiosyncrasies would come back to bite him in the ass eventually.

He looks forlornly at his book. He just wants someone to turn the pages. He can’t very well fix this mess if he can’t read up on the subject, and Frumpkin has steadfastly refused to open a book.

“I like being human,” Frumpkin tells him. “I probably won’t get yelled at for sitting on the counter.”

“Fjord did not mean it.”

“Lies.” Frumpkin pushes himself closer to Caleb, nudging him with his head. “Pet me.”

“I am trying to read.”

“But I want to be petted. Come on,” he nudges Caleb again, “pet me.”

“You like being human so much, go bother someone else for pets.” Caleb loves his cat to pieces, but right now he’s getting on his nerves.

“Fine.” Frumpkin pushes himself to his knees. He reaches out, shutting the cover of Caleb’s book, and he stands up. He flashes Caleb a grin and heads over to the group.

“I created a spell with you in mind.”

“And I am flattered.”

Caleb meows, annoyed, and follows Frumpkin. He watches as his cat surveys the group for a few seconds before plopping down next to Nott. He pats her hand twice, like he usually does in his cat form when he wants her attention.

She’s talking to Jester but she looks away from her for a few seconds, giving Frumpkin a curious smile. He smiles back and lays down, resting his head in her lap. She shakes her head, gently running her fingers through his hair, and continues her conversation.

This isn’t fair. Frumpkin knows he’s closest to Nott; he knows he can get away with this because of their friendship. Caleb’s cat is a devious little shit. 

He stalks over to Caduceus and sits next to him, staring at him with his large, blue kitty eyes, hoping he sees something human in them. He’s disappointed when Caduceus just smiles at him and pats his head.

He will not admit the pats feel good.

***

They conclude their short rest around eleven, the cart rolling back down the dirt road towards the next town. Caleb is sitting next to Frumpkin, trying to convince him to at least open his book, but his cat is too busy watching Jester’s tail.

“Leave her tail alone.”

Frumpkin doesn’t respond, his eyes tracking the movement. She’s doodling in her sketchbook, her feet dangling off the back of the cart, her tail twitching lazily back and forth.

“Don’t.”

Frumpkin reaches out, swatting her tail, and Jester jumps. She turns, looking around curiously. He hoped she would see through his cat’s innocent facade, the book he picked up held upside down in front of his face, but she looks past them.

She grins suddenly, looking at the sky.

“I felt that, you dick,” she says jovially and returns to her sketch, humming under her breath.

Frumpkin waits until she’s distracted again before swatting her tail a second time. She giggles, swishing her tail back and forth, and Caleb sighs. She thinks the Traveler is messing with her; this is not helping.

He hops up into the front of the cart, perching next to Beau. He meows at her, trying to convey to her that he is not really Frumpkin, but she absentmindedly reaches out and scratches between his ears.

He hates that he purrs a little.

Dammit.

***

Caleb manages to convince Frumpkin to open his book once they settle into a tavern. He’s sitting in the middle of the table, his eyes scanning the words, trying to figure out how to fix this problem. Fjord sits across from him, his hands curled around his mug of coffee, fighting to keep his eyes open.

It’s been a rough few days. Caleb doesn’t blame him.

He’s not even aware he’s called Frumpkin to Fjord’s side until his body falls gracefully into the chair next to him; a relaxed smile on his face. He puts his arm over the back of Fjord’s chair and says, “I have arrived.”

“What?” Fjord looks over at Frumpkin, startled by his sudden arrival. “Oh, hey Caleb.”

“Something got you down in the dumps, big guy?” Frumpkin asks playing with the straps on Fjrod’s armor. “Need to talk about it? May I interest you in a few biscuits.”

Fjord furrows his brow. “Are you okay?”

“Ecstatic, big guy. Simply ecstatic. I have thumbs.” He holds up his hand, wiggling his thumb. “I can open doors and turn pages in books.” He spares a mocking glace at Caleb who hisses softly.

“Are you high?”

“High? Me? Why yes. High on this human life I am living.” Frumpkin lounges in his chair, his arm still around Fjord’s shoulder. “Are you high as well?”

Fjord snorts, shaking his head. “I wish. Why don’t you go and sleep that shit off before you do something stupid.”

“I am all for doing something stupid.” Frumpkin stands, excited. “Where is the blue one? She will do something stupid with me.”

“Caleb, I don’t...” Fjord trails off, watching as Frumpkin hurries away to find Jester. He sighs, shaking his head. “I ain’t bailing them out of jail.”

He looks over at Caleb, tilting his head to the side. “You not hanging with Caleb?” He reaches out, running his hand down his back, and Caleb’s back arches in pleasure.

He fights the urge to nudge his head against Fjord’s hand, returning his attention to the book. He keeps reading, hoping to find some answers before he gets to the end of the page, but he’s disappointed.

He needs someone to turn the page.

He looks up at Fjord, half asleep, his head dipping too close to his coffee. Caleb reaches out, batting his hand with his paw, and startles Fjord awake. He looks down at Caleb again, yawning wide.

“I don’t wanna play right now, Frumpkin,” he says propping his head up with his fist.

Frustrated, Caleb bats him again.

“Why d’ya keep doing that?”

He lifts his paw up, pointing at the book, and mines turning the page. Fjord’s eyes widen and Caleb actually thinks he has finally convinced someone he is not Frumpkin, but his hopes are dashed when Fjord whispers, “How the fuck smart are you?”

He needs new friends.

***

Yasha is the one who finally catches on, and Caleb will forever be grateful to her. She’s sitting outside on the tavern’s porch, flipping through her book, the sun slowly dipping below the horizon.

Caleb is next to her, having given up trying to read, and together they watch as Jester and Frumpkin come running around the corner. Behind them, a tiny, wizened half-elf chases them, brandishing his cane.

“That is a sacred temple,” he yells in his croaky voice. “How dare you?”

Frumpkin turns, sticking his tongue out at the man, and Jester giggles, doing the same thing. The man eventually runs out of steam, waving his hand at them, and hobbles his way home.

Still laughing, Frumpkin and Jester sink onto the steps on either side of Yasha. Caleb knows his cat better than anyone, and he always soaks up Yasha’s undivided attention.

This time is no different. He plops his head onto her shoulder, nuzzling against her neck, and Yasha freezes.

“What are you doing?” she asks carefully, one hand curling around her book.

“Getting comfortable,” Frumpkin answers with a satisfied sigh.

“You’ve never done this before.”

Frumpkin stills, realizing his mistake, and swears softly under his breath. He sits up, looking between Yasha and Jester, and sighs.

“Alright, you caught me. I’m a shapeshifter.”

Caleb chirps at him, the equivalent to a kitty snort, and both Jester and Yasha look down at him; Yasha’s eyes widening.

“Caleb?” she says softly.

He nods his tiny kitty head.

“Holy shitballs!” Jester exclaims covering her mouth with her hands. “If he’s Caleb does that mean...?” she turns to Frumpkin, frowning. “Oh come on, you were so much fun today!” She crosses her arms, pouting.

“Jester, we have to switch them back,” Yasha tells her kindly.

“I know, but it’s just...” Jester sighs, uncrossing her arms and hanging her head. “I know.”

They stand up, Yasha catching Frumpkin by the arm when he tries to run away. Jester scoops Caleb up and carries him inside, cooing at him; it’s almost nice.

It’s actually really nice.

He’ll never tell her.

[imagine-loki]

Wedded Bliss

TITLE: Wedded Bliss CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 42 AUTHOR: MaliceManaged ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Odin determined to find Loki a wife in a misguided, though somewhat well-intentioned attempt to ‘mellow him’. … RATING: T NOTES/WARNINGS: I LIVE!!! Sorry about the delay; ADHD had me hopping through interests like it was my job. At least I have a new laptop now. That’s nice.

_______________________

    “How did I let you talk me into this?” Loki asked as he shifted his grip on the handle of the shopping basket to accommodate the large package of glittery gel pens she dumped into it.

    “You’re a sucker,” Edith replied simply, not bothering to look at him as she continued down the aisle and thus missing his unamused look.

    “What is all of this even for?”

    “The pencils and sketchbook are for Steve, he’s running low,” Edith replied, picking up a packet of neon gel pens and eyeing it critically before putting it back and picking up another brand, “The pens are for me, because reasons.”

    “And you needed me here, why?”

    “Because Nat’s working.”

    “Ah, so I am a substitute.”

    “Exactly!”

    “You might have let me know beforehand; I would have dressed accordingly. Though I am not certain how I would look in red, I have never tried.”

    Edith laughed then decided on a package and dropped it into the basket. As they wandered past the brushes aisle, she noticed Loki had stopped to look at them and backtracked to his side. “You paint?”

    “I have… dabbled,” he replied somewhat guardedly.

    “Would you like to dabble some more, then?”

    He opened his mouth to retort as he looked down at her, then noted the faintly amused expression on her face and breathed a laugh instead. “Sorry,” he said a bit self-consciously, “I have explored many interests in my life; some garnered more positive reactions than others. I have learned to keep such things to myself.”

    She smiled sympathetically, taking his hand and squeezing it. “Well, you definitely don’t have to do that with me. I want to know all about your interests, no matter how silly or pointless anyone else might think them.”

    He smiled a bit and squeezed her hand back gratefully then they turned back to the brushes, grabbing a few sets before moving on. They spent a good while at the paint section and Edith couldn’t help but smile as he talked to an employee about all the different kinds available, clearly enjoying not being scoffed at for his interest in the craft. After getting an easel and some canvas to paint on, as well as some other things Edith wanted, they paid for their purchases and he sent them back to the tower with a wave of his hand (to the cashier’s shock and Loki’s obvious amusement), then went on to have lunch at a nearby cafe.

    As they ate, Edith noticed Loki was subtly looking around them. “What’s up?”

    “We are being watched.”

    “Well, yeah, of course we are; we’re Avengers and I’m Tony Stark’s goddaughter.”

    He shook his head. “This is not idle observation from the populace; we are being studied.”

    “Can you tell from where?”

    “Not yet.”

    “How do we handle it?”

    “For the moment, it is probably best we do not let on that we know anything is amiss.”

    “Okay. It’s your lead.”

    They finished their meal then continued on as normal, taking a casual walk through Central Park like they typically did when they had free time and the weather permitted. They were about halfway back to the tower when Loki abruptly cut off what he was saying and pushed Edith back, shielding her with his body just in time to take the bullet meant for her head, grunting lightly as it hit his back. Around them people who realised what happened ran away, not wanting to be caught in any crossfire.

    “Loki!”

    “I’m fine,” he said through slightly gritted teeth. He turned and scanned the buildings, trying to determine where the shot came from.

    “Fine?? You’re bleeding!”

    “I will live.”

    A faint glint from inside a window caught his attention and he cast an impenetrable bubble-like shield around Edith and ran towards the building, ignoring her protests. He rushed up the building’s stairs until he reached the floor he was after, turning down the hall and counting the doors he passed before bursting through what he hoped was the right one. No sooner had he done that, he dodged aside as the sole occupant of the room shot at him, throwing the dagger he’d conjured at them and hearing a pained grunt then a thud as the shooter fell.

    Loki went over, waving a hand to rip the gun from the man’s hand as he tried to take another shot before planting his boot just under the dagger and pressing down, causing the man to yell out. “Now that we understand each other,” he said coolly, “Why are you targeting Edith?”

    “I won’t be the last,” the man spat instead, “That bitch is as good as dead.”

    Loki frowned, pressing on the wound again, earning another scream. “I will not ask again.”

    “Fuck you.” The man bit down hard on something, beginning to convulse before long.

    Loki cursed, realising he’d poisoned himself, and stepped back as he died. He looked through the equipment in the room, but there was nothing useful, and he cursed again his decision to waste time interrogating the man instead of just pulling the answers straight from his mind. He summoned his phone and called it in, sealing the room with seidr to prevent anyone from coming in before heading back out to a very displeased Edith.

    “What the actual fuck, Loki!” she ranted as he dispelled the shield, “How could you just put me in a bubble and leave? What the fuck!”

    “Well, I could hardly risk leaving you exposed; there might have been a second shooter.”

    “So we go together! We’re a team!”

    “No; you were the target. I had to keep you safe!”

    “I’m not some helpless little damsel!”

    “I know that!”

    “Then fucking act like it!”

    Loki closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath, exhaling slowly before opening them again. “It was a time-sensitive situation,” he said calmly, “I acted on instinct, as I have been trained to do. I will not apologise for that.”

    Edith took a moment to force herself to calm down at least some, not wanting to argue in the middle of the street. “There’s a fine line between protecting and suffocating. We work together and there needs to be communication between us. You can’t just decide what’s best and do it without so much as a head’s up.”

    He made to reply then looked around them, noticing the few people beginning to return now the danger seemed to be over. “Perhaps it is best we continue this discussion later.”

    “Oh, believe me, we will,” she replied coolly. “Did you get anything from the shooter?”

    “No; he took his own life before I could,” he frowned, still very much displeased at his failure. If only that spell were less risky to use… “He did confirm his failure will not be the end of it.”

    “Well, it’s not the first time there’s a target on my head,” Edith commented, watching as a van stopped near them and SHIELD agents got out and went into the building, “Come on; we better get back and tell the guys what happened.”

    Loki hummed in agreement, dispelling the seal he’d placed on the room so the agents could go in. Half-consciously he brushed Edith’s hand with the back of his with the aim of taking it, but she pulled it away and walked towards another van that would take them the rest of the way to the tower, leaving him behind to follow.

    Pepper was in the tower when they arrived, and she spent a good half hour worrying over Edith before the younger woman could reassure her that she was perfectly fine. Tony was, understandably, very pissed, essentially drilling Loki for a full report; the god, knowing Tony was scared under the anger, took it in stride, answering all his questions with as much detail as he could.

    Afterwards, he took the man aside. “You know what this attempt was about.”

    “I have a theory,” Tony replied, “Steve and I have been digging into SHIELD’s leak. It’s interesting timing.”

    “If the point is to dissuade you; Miss Potts might also become a target.”

    “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking. I’ll up her security; you keep doing what you’re doing, keep an eye on Edith. No point telling either of them to stay put; might as well keep them safe while they do their thing.”

    “Indeed,” Loki said somewhat tightly as he looked towards the women in question.

    Tony raised an eyebrow. “Alright; what’d you do?”

    Loki looked back at him. “I beg your pardon?”

    “Don’t think I didn’t notice the cold shoulder back there.”

    “That is between her and I.”

    Tony rolled his eyes. “Suit yourself, but you really need to stop pissing her off. Plenty of people here willing to help her hide a body.”

[hartlessfiction]

Title: Fantasy Football Rating: Explicit Fandom: Teen Wolf Relationship: Sterek Tags: College AU, Human AU, Quarterback Derek, Quidditch Chaser Stiles, pinning Derek, Artist Derek, Alive Hales, past Derek/Kate, side pairing Boyd/Erica, Rich Hales, Stiles plays Club Quidditch, Fluff, Smut,  Art: @benaya-trash Updates: Every Friday, follow tumblr tag: SterekFF

Summary: Derek Hale, first-string quarterback for the U.C Berkeley football team is an All-American, red-blooded male, straight as an arrow. Well, at least, that’s what everyone around him believes. What they don't know is that he’s crushing hard on the school's Quidditch Club star player. When his coach forces him to recruit said Quidditch player, Derek’s life becomes a lot more complicated.

Read on A03

“Hey, man,” Boyd calls as he strides up the bleachers towards where Derek’s sitting.

As casually as he dares, Derek closes the sketchpad he has balanced on his knees and drops his forearms over it, sandwiching it against his thighs. Boyd doesn’t know he draws and he’d like to keep it that way.

“What’s up, Boyd?” He asks, tugging the brim of his U.C. Berkeley baseball cap lower over his eyes.

“Not much,” Boyd says, as he flops down on the bleachers next to Derek. “What are you doing back here?” He sits forward and scans the crowd, his eyes skimming over the strangely dressed players on the field.

There are about twenty kids sprawled across the stands; some doing homework, a few just hanging out, one girl who’s smoking. Derek curls his lip every time the light breeze drags the smoke in his direction. There is also, however, a small group down in front carrying posters, banging on cowbells and singing songs. They’re all dressed in robes and scarves, despite it being late spring.

“What the hell is going on down there?” Boyd asks, his brows arched as the two teams move around each other.

“Uh, I have no idea...” Derek lies, tugging on the brim of his cap again. He knows exactly what’s going on here, and has for months.

He stumbled upon the university’s Quidditch Club two semesters ago but had only really started following its progress once Gryffindor got their new chaser. Derek’s eyes flick towards the players, finding number 24 easily and watching him streak down the field in the strange little hop-run all the players have to do, the long dark handle of his broom clutched snugly between his lean, muscular thighs. Derek presses his sketchbook down onto his lap, letting the bottom edge dig, almost painfully, into his crotch, successfully quelling his burdening arousal.

He and Boyd watch in silence for a while--well, Derek watches number 24, his fingers itching to reopen his sketchbook and get back to drawing the player. He isn’t exactly sure what Boyd is watching. Currently, Gryffindor is up by over thirty points, with number 24 sprinting down the field in an impressive display of agility to fake out the keeper and throw the quaffle in for another five. Derek resists doing the little fist bump and whispered woohoo he normally does when 24 scores.

“This is going to sound strange, but don’t you think 24 would make a good receiver?” Boyd asks, his sneaker tapping against the metal floor of the bleachers as he thinks.

Internally, Derek groans. He’d love to have 24 receiving for him. He’d love to have 24 laid out flushed and sweating, chest heaving, catching everything Derek could throw at him. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Derek draws a slow even breath before he responds, pushing the image of number 24’s flushed, smiling face out of his mind.

“I guess... I haven’t really been paying attention.”

“Maybe you should?” Boyd points his chin down at the field expectantly.

Derek clears his throat as 24 high fives a pretty brunette girl. His face is flushed, the dark spots of his moles standing out against the red blush that's layered over his normally pale skin. He’s sweating, and Derek can see the way his fluffy brown hair is darker at his temples and the nape of his neck. Derek swallows and almost chokes as his mouth floods with saliva, wanting to taste the chaser’s salted skin.

The game sets up again and the referee tosses the quaffle into the air. The moment the ball leaves the refs hands 24 is already leaping for it, his reflexes and timing impeccable, snatching it easily. Derek grits his teeth as the guy's thighs flex, well-defined muscles twitching in an effort to keep the broom snugly tucked into the vee of his thighs. He hits the ground and does a beautiful fake out; twirling, spinning around the other chaser and deftly dodging a squishball batted at him from one of the opposing beaters. 24 barrels down the field with long elegant strides and Derek has to drag his eyes away as his temperature rises from what is, quite frankly, an obscene display.

“Well?” Boyd pushes, his brows arched.

“I mean, I guess.”

“You know Liam is graduating right?”  

“Of course I know. I have to know. I’m the quarterback.” Derek rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, but do you also know Coach is putting out feelers at local high schools to recruit a new receiver as it is, so….”

“So why not bring him someone with some talent instead of a freshman who has something to prove?” Derek fills in with a sigh.

“Yeah, well, think about it, the kid has some skills. And we need the talent.” Boyd smacks Derek on the shoulder as he gets up. “See you at practice.”

“Yeah man, see you.”

Derek sits in a daze as Boyd disappears back towards campus. He loses track of time and the score of the game, he’s so consumed with the idea of having to talk to number 24, let alone playing football with him. The whistle on the field blows harshly and Derek jumps, eyes lifting in time to watch the Gryffindor team swarm his boy, number 24 enveloped in bodies, shouting and cheering.

Absently, he flips open his sketchbook, sighing over the half-finished drawing of number 24 mid-sprint, face cracked into a smirk as he throws the quaffle. Derek snaps the book closed–just one of many half-finished sketches he’ll never get a chance to complete. Quietly, he slinks from the stands and slips off back towards the gym. It’s a hike from the forgotten, forlorn backfield the Quidditch Club plays on, but Derek needs the distraction. The back of his neck still burns with embarrassment at being caught out there by Boyd, but at least he didn’t catch on that Derek was there for number 24 more than he was for the game.

He trots up one of the sloping hills, sketchbook tucked under his arm. He’ll get an upper body workout in before football practice this afternoon, and maybe exhaustion will help keep his mind off number 24’s long legs and perky backside.

Yanking the helmet from his head, Derek snarls, “That's the third fucking interception today, Greenberg!” He turns his attention to Coach. “You’ve got to be kidding with this! Put him back at tight-end!”

“What do you want from me, Hale? He's the best we’ve got right now,” Finstock snaps back, slapping his clipboard down onto the bench. “You think I like this? You think I want Greenberg! GREENBERG, THREE LAPS FOR BEING, WELL… YOU!” Coach shouts and then runs his palm over his forehead and into his hair.

“Hale’s got someone,” Boyd offers and Derek's eyes go wide with panic before he can school his expression.

Flinstock turns narrowed eyes on Derek as the rest of the team comes off the field for water.

“No. I don’t,” Derek grits out around his clenched teeth. This cannot be happening.

“You do…?” Flinstock says, eyes wide for a moment. “Hale, I don’t care who it is, if they’re a better wide receiver than Greenberg I want them, yesterday!”

“Coach, I don't have anyone!” Derek says as firmly as he can manage but Boyd once again calls his bluff.

“Number 24, dude,” Boyd says like he’s being fucking helpful, like Derek didn’t immediately think of number 24. Like Derek isn’t constantly thinking of number fucking 24. “You know, from last week, that strange shit with the brooms.”

“Are you talking about Stilinski… from the Quidditch club?” Jackson says, his face pinched, streaks of sweat and dirt smeared over his temples.

“No.” Derek grunts.

“Yeah,” Boyd says at the same time. “Do you know him?”

Derek groans, dropping his head back and closing his eyes.

“I mean, I guess I do. We went to Beacon Hills together, he was on the lacrosse team. I heard he was ok until he hurt his shoulder.” Jackson lifts his water bottle and squeezes it a few inches from his mouth like the tool he is, instead of just drinking from it. “I was a starter before I transitioned to football, so I didn’t really pay attention to who was warming the bench or why,” he says dismissively.

Derek sees his window and jumps for it. “Bum shoulder? That sucks, guess I don’t have someone after all.” He grabs a towel and his water bottle ready to make his escape.

“Lacrosse and football use a completely different set of muscles, he might be open to playing for us,” Flinstock says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Talk to him, Hale. I don’t care what you have to do to get him out here, but I want to see him next practice. Put him through his paces.”

“Coach,” Derek grunts.

“Do it, Hale, anything it takes or I’m starting Jackson against UCLA.”

“‘Bout time,” Jacksons interjects, a smug grin on his face.

“You wouldn’t,” Derek snarls, tossing his towel down.

“I would, I will. We’re dead in the water without a receiver who can catch what you throw and you know Greenberg… GREENBERG, GET UP!” Flinstock charges out onto the field, shouting at Greenberg about his stamina. The poor kid’s on his knees tipped forward, his helmet to the turf, arms spread out to his sides. Derek can almost hear his wheezing from here. He looks like a stiff breeze could knock him over and sure enough, as coach gets to his side it only takes a small boot to his butt to have Greenberg flopping flat and starfishing out in the middle of the field.

“Don’t bother with Stilinski, Hale,” Jackson says, smirking around his water bottle. “Just forget about him, you know I was made for first string anyway. It's time you learned your place.”

“You fucking…”

“Derek.” Boyd slaps a hand on Derek's chest stopping him from engaging Jackson. “Don’t listen to Whittemore, he’s an idiot. Isaac and I will come down to the back field when you talk to this Stilinski kid. We’ll have your back.”

Having support is not what Derek is afraid of–if anything he’d prefer if Boyd and Isaac weren’t there to see him embarrass himself in front of number 24… Stilinski. Even just knowing his name sends butterflies swooping through Derek’s stomach.

“Fine, whatever,” Derek snarls, because fuck his life. He couldn’t just make it two more years watching 24–Stilinski–from the safety of the bleachers, could he? No, of course he couldn’t. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he curses under his breath, storming after the rest of his team towards the locker room.

“Okay!” Isaac says a while later as he flops down on the bench next to Derek. He’s got a towel wrapped around his hips and he smells like coconut shampoo. “I hear we’re going on a recon mission?”

“We are not going on a recon mission,” Derek states, tossing his jersey in the footwell of his locker with more force than necessary.

“But Boyd said…”

“I don’t fucking care what Boyd said. I’m the quarterback of this team, you guys listen to me.”

“Yeah, but we aren’t on the field right now so… what’s going on? Are we getting you a new receiver or what?”

“We are,” Boyd chimes in as he rounds the end of the lockers, pulling his shirt over his head. He’s already in his boxers, freshly cleaned from the showers, and if they weren’t such good friends Derek would take a moment to admire the thick muscles of his thighs. But they are, so he doesn’t, turning back to his locker and trying not to bang his head against the low shelf in frustration. “Just gotta figure out when they play next,” Boyd finishes, coming to stand on Derek’s other side.

“Tuesday,” Derek says without thinking, then grimaces, internally groaning.

“Ooookay….” Isaac stretches out the word and Derek sighs.

He’s got their whole season memorized, he knows the days they practice, who they’re playing and when their games are. Derek also knows that number 24, the brunette chaser (number 11), and one of their beaters, a blonde girl (number 69), had to petition the student council twice to keep their practice time on the backfield. Derek didn’t understand why the school was giving them such a hard time–that field’s crap anyway, and no-one uses it, not even the D3 soccer team.

“So, tomorrow then?” Isaac pushes, leaning back to catch Derek’s eye as he tries to hide his head in his locker again.

“Yeah, I guess. I saw a flyer earlier…. In, uh, the quad.” Derek scrambles to cover his blunder. Gryffindor plays Hufflepuff tomorrow and those are Derek's favorite games. Hufflepuff always has such good strategies, and their plays are complicated, but their stamina is low. Number 24–Stilinski–always runs circles around them.

“Riiight…” Isaac says, again, drawing out the word. Derek can feel him and Boyd exchanging looks behind his back.

“Right.” Derek grunts, grabbing his towel and stepping over the bench. “Guess we’re on for then.” He bites out, stomping off towards the showers.

He tries very hard for the rest of the day to no think about Stilinski.

A/n: this fic will update every Friday under the tag SterekFF, and my writing tag Hartless writes, you can also subscribe on A03