#anyway last week was how i learned about crumple zones!!

[whoslaurapalmer]

i feel like bertrand is the kind of guy who would delightedly drive a station wagon, but beatrice refuses to let him. a station wagon is too basic. this is how bertrand winds up with a 1960 chevy nomad wagon, sky blue. meanwhile, beatrice drives a red 1960 ford starliner

additionally kit drives a black 1950 cadillac series 62 coupe deville

[writingsbychlo]

sun in the shadows (03)

word count; 12,706

summary; trying to make some headway on the study leads to an interesting revelation, and progress in your friendship with noah.

notes; if this part is a little sucky, I apologise. it was a last minute addition that I created because I realised I wanted to include some extras.

warnings; brief mentions of panic attacks/anxiety, but it’s very mild.

The weather was improving, the drizzle of the winter and the grey skies overhead were getting lighter, the showers of rain were getting less frequent and the winter was moving on. Spring was making itself known, bulbs of daffodils were finally taking root in the soil, and green was sprouting from the earth that had been frozen over and dead only a couple of weeks ago. The watery floors were drying up, limited ice was fading away, and graduation was sitting right on the horizon for you all.

Your fingers flexed around the strap of your bag, rooting through the contents to find a place to slip your file inside, all your notes for the class you’d be having were inside, and there was a blank page for your next session waiting to be filled out. Once it had its place, albeit getting a little bit crumbled against the other content, you removed your wallet, a few coins jingling in the bottom, and you hoped it was enough for two coffees.

There was a coffee stand not too far away, and you were hoping an extra shot of coffee before you went in might get your brain working a little faster. Only a couple of feet ahead of you was a face you recognised, a dark jumper to match dark denim jeans, a pair of boots for motorbike riding that were beginning to scuff along the edges and the toes. He was hanging over his money, a brown bag holding a pretzel and a tall cup, the tell-tale tag of a teabag hanging over the edge, and he walked away.

Joining the back of the line, you watched him go, sitting not far across the quarter with his headphones on, settling on one of the recently repainted memorial benches. He pulled the tab on eh coffee back, opening it up and a cloud of steam left the drink, curling up into the air that still held a slight chill, drifting away to disappear as he blew against the surface of the drink. In his other hand was his phone, scrolling aimlessly on it as a way to keep himself disconnected from everyone else around him and prompt nobody else to join him. His bag was out on the bench too, pushed a short distance from his body in an attempt to take up the rest of the space to deter company.

Ordering a simple set of black coffees, and finding you had just enough change for a muffin too, you waited patiently for your order, an assortment of condiments and the double-chocolate treat you’d paid for being handed to you first. There was a grinding, the slight screech of the machine as it crushed the beans to create two black coffees for you, plastic lids sealed on and two cardboard jackets fastened around them.

Balancing the load between them all, you headed over to him, using your knee to nudge the bag up the bench until it bumped his leg, and he jerked slightly, looking up to see you. Offering him a beam, his narrowed eyes lightened a little, and he sighed. Putting down his phone and moving his bag to the floor, he lifted the headphones away from his ears, and let them hang around his neck. Sitting yourself down, he slumped back into the wood, and you scooted up to sit closer to him, placing the spare coffee you’d bought for Stiles on the floor away from your feet.

“Hey, Noah!” He gave a short nod, still a little uncomfortable, and he turned to face you more. “So, what’s your schedule looking like this afternoon?”

“How did you know I was here?”

You shrugged, opening up the bag of extras and searching through for a couple of sweetener packets, and a wooden stirrer. “I didn’t. I was just gonna’ grab a coffee before class and head to my hall early, because, y’know, studying at home is distracting.” Your hand waved off the statement, finding the packets you wanted, and clutching your cup between your knees for stability. “So, anyway I was going to text you when I got there, but then I saw you, so I figured I’d come and say ‘hey’!”

“Right.”

“So, hey!” You waved a little before taking the top from your coffee, and leaving it on the bench beside yourself. “I ask once again, what’s your schedule looking like this afternoon?”

“Well, since I am the most popular guy at this college, I’m pretty busy.” He smiled a little at his own joke, particularly when you gave him a laugh, and your brow raised.

“Oh, he’s got jokes today, huh? I like it, I can roll with that.” Tipping the sugar into the cup, you added a couple of packets, before stirring it slowly. “I take it you’re free, then. I was hoping we could squeeze in some study stuff this afternoon. I have a class in a couple of minutes, but I wanted to see if you were free?”

“Well, I’m free all day. I had a six AM class.” His face screwed up at the idea, and you could feel his pain, having spent the entirety of your sophomore year with a teacher who held lectures at six AM so she could avoid her morning sickness before class, and rush home for it afterwards. Professor Anderson going off on her maternity leave was the best thing that had happened to your education that year.

“Great, I’ll sort it with Stiles, and we’ll text you the details.”

“Sounds like a thrill. I can hardly wait.” He smiles, the sarcasm just like his brothers as it came through, and you repaid him for the joke with a chuckle. While the two of you had made progress, you could tell he was still a little unsure around you. You were polar opposites and he didn’t take well to that, the atmosphere that you brought with you could be a little too much for him to handle sometimes, you couldn’t stop the guilt that was eating at you a little. “What’s wrong? You’ve got a look on your face like you want to talk about things. Just warning you, I’m not good at that heart-to-heart stuff.”

“Yeah, I’ve witnessed that.”

“Shut it.” He teased, sticking his tongue out at you childishly, and you grinned cheesily in reply to him. “You can tell me, though. Can’t promise I’ll help, but..”

“It’s nothing weighing me down. I just wanted to apologise. I clearly interrupted your free time. You got yourself a little pretzel to eat in silence, and everything.” He offers you a blank look at your slight dig, and you only winked, waving the muffin in a bag that you’d bought, and taking a sip of your coffee once the lid was sealed back on. “People usually like it when I stop by to see them, I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay, really.” His words were strained, the response bringing you no relief as he forced them out, and your frown remained. “I’m serious, okay? It’s alright.”

You were trying your best but learning the lines with Noah was different to you. Upon starting college you’d been thrown in at the deep end of socialisation and a whole world you’d never quite had access to before. Coming from a smaller town that had always limited your expectations was tough, and you’d taken it differently from the way Noah had. You’d had so many experiences, becoming legal to drink and venturing beyond your comfort zone, truly leaving home and facing the idea of having your life laid out before you, the first time truly having your heartbroken, and being too far to simply collapse into the arms of your mom or dad for support when things got messed up.

“When does your class start?” You jumped, lost in your thoughts as you slumped back into the bench, and you sat up straight again, turning to find that Noah was already looking at you, eyes scanning over you slowly. It was a good reminder, time had been slipping away from you and in the ease of his peaceful and quiet company, you could have sat there for hours.

Checking your watch, you sighed, lifting your bag strap back up onto your shoulder more securely, and packing everything you had with you inside, leaving you to hold a coffee cup in each hand. “In about ten minutes.”

“How about I walk you?” He picked up his bag, swinging it over his shoulder, and you nodded, a warmer feeling at his offer blooming where cold guilt had been. Standing up and making sure not to spill any of the scalding coffee onto your hand. Peering around the busy campus quarters that was more filled now than it had been for months, the lighter weather tempting groups to come out of their dormitories and the cafés to gather outside instead.

He fell into step beside you, toes scuffing occasionally on the slightly uneven stonework of the quad, before it fell away into smooth concrete pathways on the way to your lecture. The grass alongside each path was growing greener, dull colour fading away into something brighter. Paper crinkled beside you, the cup of tea in his hands being finished and the cardboard cup was crushed between string fingers, knuckles even paler than usual as he crumpled it up, and as you approach the closest bin, it was disposed of.

Your fingers flexed around your coffee cup, almost having forgotten that it was there as the heat from the two began to fade away a little. Taking a sip, the refreshing burst of sweetened caffeine was like a spark to your system, and you revelled in it. “How do you take your coffee?”

You lower the cup from your lips, swallowing your mouthful, and you couldn't stop the rise of your brows once you turned to look at him. “Creamer, usually. I like a caramel flavoured one. But, since I’m not big on creamer in packets or from street vendors, this one just has sweeteners.”

“Cool.” He nodded, and your lips pressed together tightly to try and contain the smile you wanted to let free, silence forming between you both for a moment, a further gathering of steps as the two of you went on, your building coming into sight again. “Did you watch the news last night?”

“Is this small talk?”

“It’s an attempt at small talk.” He winced, and you chuckled, a small smile on his features as the fear of judgement or humiliation washed away, and he gave a sigh.

“Okay, let's try this.” Your mind spun, searching for a track of something to talk about, and a thought clicked into space. “If you could watch one genre of movies for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

“Comedy. Like, comedy-action. You know, ones like ‘Jumanji’ or something?” He was quick with it, certain about his answer, and you nodded.

“Yeah? That was quick. How come you’re so sure?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged, one hand coming up to hold his bag strap, swinging it to the side to be able to get inside, and fish out the paper bag with a pretzel inside. “I guess I just think they’re good for you. Good for the soul. They have action and it keeps you a little on the edge of your seat, but it’s funny. It's easy-going, when you’ve got anxiety, or you’re having a bad day, or you just want background noise, they’re perfect.”

“Alright. Fair enough. Okay, tricky one.” his eyes narrowed a little, but an amused look passed over his features while he waited. “If you had to choose specifically between comedy and action, which is it?”

“It’s got to be action. Because comedy usually means Adam Sandler or Seth Rogen, and some of their comedies are good, but some are jus-” He paused, jaw dropping a little, and his hand came out, pausing in front of your to bring you to a halt too. A smile curled on your lips, and he looked shocked. “Holy shit, you’re good!”

“Ask a basic question that people are passionate about, it always leads to more options, and everyone always wants to talk about something fun.” His head shook slowly, as though he was in disbelief, and you took a dramatic bow, trying not to spill the coffees in your hands as you giggled. “Give it a go, I bet you can do it.”

The paper in his hands crinkled, your footsteps taking up again, and the two of you were making your way towards the building once again. Taking a bite from his pretzel, a piece torn away with his teeth, he thought it over. “Does your family have any secret or ‘famous’ recipes?”

“Oh, that’s a good one. Kudos to you, Noah.”

“Thank you. I thought about it for, like, eight whole seconds.” He grinned, the joke moving away from you both as you left it behind, and you thought about his question.

“Maybe it’s not my family recipe, just a personal one, but I’m great at making lasagne.” He scoffed, and you nudged him with your elbow. “I’m serious! I make a great lasagne!”

“You don’t seem like a cook to me, is all! You seem like the sort of person who’d manage to burn a pit of water.”

“You can’t burn water, an.. oh, I just got it. You jerk.” It was a joke, your nose screwing up as you stuck your tongue out at him, thanking him a second later as he held the door open for him. The bright lights of the outside changed to artificial lights in the halls, not as much coming through the windows as trees outside managed to cast shade into the building. “Well, I can cook. I love to cook, and I’m good at it. Especially lasagne. My family are generally the only ones who have ever had it, and thanks to that insult, you’ll never have it.”

“Oh, woah, no! You have to let me try it now. Prove me wrong, or I’ll be forced to believe you’re bluffing.”

“You’re sneaky.” You scoffed, students filling the hall and filtering in from different sides of the building, lectures in different halls all waiting to take place, and you stepped to the side of the corridor once your doorway was within reach. “If you’re lucky.”

“I’m betting on that.”

Glancing back, Stiles was already inside, as expected. Stiles Stilinski had never once been on time, he was either twenty minutes early or twenty minutes late, and since he’d spent the night with Derek, who was an early bird, you’d figured which one today would be. His head was slumped on his hm half-asleep and on the verge of drooling as he sat there, and you chuckled, turning to Noah. “Thanks for walking me. Also, thanks for small-talking with me.”

“Thanks for the advice on small talk.”

“I’m gonna’ head inside, but, I’ll see you later, okay?” He nodded, confirming the times with you, and lingering a moment longer. It was quiet, but not so tense, and he rolled on the balls of his fete, the half-eaten pretzel in his hands was seemingly abandoned as one hand tucked into his jeans pockets, the other hanging limply while holding the delicacy by his side.

“Thanks for sitting with me. This wasn’t so bad. It was almost fun.”

“You know, one day, you’re gonna’ tell me you had fun with me. I look forward to that day.” He smirked, your head tipping to the side at the expression.

“If you’re lucky.” He was repeating your own words back to you, and you beamed at the chance. Backing away from him slightly, you fixed him with the cheekiest glance you could as you walked through the doorway.

“I’m betting on it.”

You could hear his laugh once you were gone, into the classroom and beginning to take the steps up to a seat beside Stiles that he’d reserved for you, his bag sitting on it. He’d already gotten his equipment out, notepads and pencil laid out in a somewhat organised mess on top of the desk.

Placing the two coffees down, you moved Stiles bag to the floor, tucking it behind his chair and a soft snore made itself known from him, the boy not doing well with early mornings but he never had, not once in your years of knowing him had he handled it very well, so it was no surprise.

“Opening up your bag, you dropped your notebook down onto the surface with a loud ‘slapping’ sound, and he jerked upwards, flailing as he did, and almost knocking the coffees over. Blinking quickly and shaking sleep away, he looked around, eyes wide as he finally focused on you.

“Jesus Christ, don’t do that.” He chastised you, leaning back in his seat and holding a hand over his heart. “I was dreaming about high school, I thought you were my lacrosse Coach waking me up for falling asleep in class again.”

“Maybe I am.” You winked, slamming a hand down on the counter. “Drop and give me twenty, Stilinski! Right now!”

“Don’t do that, it’s eerily accurate.” He cringed, shuddering a little, before a wide smile replaced the horrified expression that had morphed, and you pushed a coffee over to him. “You brought me a coffee?”

“Yes, I did. It’s bribery.”

“Oh? What am I being bribed for?” He was curious, rooting through the bag of condiments for it and taking the plastic lid from the cup, steam curling out into the air. Taking an ungodly and certainly unhealthy amount of sweetener and sugar packets to load into his coffee.

“Your free time this afternoon. I’m thinking about getting some of my study done, I can get all the work for the next couple of sessions sorted now, but how do you feel about being asked some later?” He tipped them in, a drop of coffee flying up over the edge and landing on the desk as he stirred his drink with vigour, that same hyper excitement that he always had.

“Can’t I just fill them out now?”

“It’d be better if I could get your responses with Noah.” He sighed, rolling his eyes and making a scene of it, but there was a smile that told you he already agreed.

“You should have brought me two coffees, but fine.”

You let out a victorious ‘aha!’, and shook the little brown paper bag that was still sitting on your half of the desk at him. “I also brought you half of a muffin!”

“Only half of a muffin?”

“Well, it was none, but since I didn’t eat it yet and I’d feel bad eating it in front of you, I decided to share it.” You tore it in half, pushing half across the scratched and vandalised wooden surface to him. Crumbs were left along the surface, and Stiles pressed the pad of his finger along them to gather them all up.

“Oh, right. Well, in that case, what I meant was; wow, a full half of a muffin!” He cheered, much more enthusiasm, and you nodded.

“Much better.” At the front of the classroom, your tutor entered, door slamming behind him as he kicked the wedge out from underneath, and his case was placed down on the desk. The room began a hushed quiet, save for the loud slurping of Stiles with his coffee beside you.

“You know,” Your best friend didn’t understand the concept of a whisper, everything he did was more like a dramatic stage whisper on a Broadway show, and a few dirty looks were sent his way. The professor was used to this, a year of experience and advice from previous tutors guiding him to ignore Stiles’ fidgeting and chatter. “You’re going to have to convince Noah to do this.”

Slumping down in your seat a little more, you turned your head to him, nibbling on your half of the muffin. “I already did.”

“What?” This time he was hushed, the man standing at the front near his desk, trying his best to give extra advice to everyone and answer any common questions that he’d been emailed. You’d have to catch the after-class notes in your emails. “When d’you do that?”

“This morning before class. I saw him while getting coffee for you and we walked over.”

Stiles huffed, his brows being pulled together slightly. “Okay. Damn, he was my last free shot at getting the afternoon off.” You grinned, pinching at your friend’s cheek, and he smacked your hand away. “Quit it, I’ve told you not to do that before.”

“In case I pinch your moles off?”

“That's where my power is. My funny is in my moles.” He hissed, only making you laugh more, and you covered your mouth with your hand over his silly superstitions.

“Whatever, freak.”

“Hoe.” He snarked back, and you grinned, punching at his shoulder as best you could from this angle, and he reached up a hand to rub at it. “So, if we’re doing this, I at least want to do it at my place. I’m going out this evening, I gotta’ be ready. Derek’s sisters are coming up to visit.”

“It won’t take long, don’t worry.” He hummed, pulling out his phone and keeping it ducked from view. He was texting his brother, letting him know to be ready, and at what time your class would be ending, giving him a little time to prepare. Opening your book up and flicking to the page you had marked, it was a journal written about the study of the ways that twins raised in different households could grow up similarly, and you were hoping to adopt some of the content for your study.

“So, what’ve you got done so far?”

Stile sighed, flicking open his notebook, and you were shocked by the fact that he was already at the end of it. There were pieces of paper stuck in, a list of book references on one of the tabs down the side of a page, and only a few blank pages left at the back.

“Oh, wow, okay.” You stared at your notebook, barely reaching a quarter of the way through with the notes you’d been making, and it looked like Stiles was ready to start making progress towards a conclusion for his hypothesis. “So, you’ve got a whole lot done, then.”

“Yeah, well, I want to spend as little time in a prison as I possibly can.” He rubbed a hand over his forehead, the pages crammed full of information as he flicked through to find a blank one. “Plus, I didn’t want to go and interview inmates on my own, so I wait until Derek has free time to go with me, and I get as much done in those sessions as I can.”

“You’re gonna’ be done weeks before I am.” You pouted, your pen twirling at the top corner of a page, drawing a collation of pretty flowers to form a border, and he chuckled.

“I have easier test subjects than you do. They’re already guilty and behind bars, they’re more than happy to open up. You’ve gotta’ deal with Noah.”

“That’s true.” You grinned, thinking back on the conversation you’d had with the other twin that morning. When he was alone, it wasn’t so bad, he talked more and he wasn’t so worried about judgements, but as soon as there was someone else who might hear, he completely closed down.

“Hey, seriously, we have ages left. You’re gonna’ be just fine.”

“I’m just freaking out a little bit, because this is the last hurdle, y’know?” He nodded, and you could see whatever it was he was thinking practically swirling in his eyes, because Stiles’ emotions were open to read like a book.

“It’s terrifying. It’s, like, what the hell are we supposed to do when we finish?”

“I don’t know.” Your head dropped to your hands, fingers soothingly rubbing at your temples. A large hand landed on your back, rubbing in comforting circles. “What I do know, though, is that if I don’t get on with coming up with some more content, I’m never gonna’ finish this study in time.”

“Well, put your headphones on and come up with some questions.”

You did as told, plugging your earbuds in and choosing some classical music that would make it easier to concentrate. Opening one of your survey works back up to the page you’d left off at, your eyes began to flicker over the pages, picking out the useful information. Once you had a list built, you had a foundation to work from, questions to create and organise into groups, different sessions being able to come together.

Beside you, Stiles’ hand never seemed to stop rising, a constant dialogue with your tutor as he checked his work and ironed out any kinks in his study. He was also full of chatter and laughter, getting along with everyone around him and asking about their works, making you turn your music up several times just to be able to concentrate. But, by the end of the session, when Stiles was tugging your earbud out and telling you your class was over, you had a solid three pages worth of questions that had been split up into sessions, and ready to be worked through.

“Pack up and get ready to go. I have plans to get ready for.”

Stiles already had his bag in his arms, notebook tucked inside and pens and pencils put away, two empty coffee cups and a muffin wrapper sitting out, which he quickly gathered up, once his bag was on his shoulder. He was gone, walking past you and down to the waste bin at the front of the hall to dispose of them, his fingers tapping idly on his thigh once he was done.

You gathered your belongings, packing them away and curling the wire of your headphones back up neatly, making sure everything had its correct place in your bag, before following him down and out of the steps.

The halls were filled once again, the two of you navigating through crowds to the outside of the building, and you followed him in his diversion across the pathway, all the way to his car. Some students had already left, spaces beginning to empty out as a bottleneck effect took place at the only entrance and exit to this carpark.

“Where’s your car?” The dirty blue jeep was one of the only ones left in the parking lot, Stiles looking around for your vehicle, and you sighed.

“Don’t get me started on that hunk of junk.” You growled, stomping a foot on the floor as Stiles laughed. Opening the driver’s side door, he hopped up inside of it, legs dangling from the chair. “I’m trying not to use it as much. It splutters when it starts up and I have to try it a whole bunch of times, so the less I use it, the closer to graduation we can get before it eventually taps out.”

“You ever think about just getting it fixed?”

“Oh, big words from the man whose engine is held together with duct tape.” Your hand rubbed over the hood of the car, a slightly dusty layer that made you cringe, and you wiped your hand off on your jacket to stop it.

“Touché.” Stiles only smirked. “C’mon, I’ll give you a ride to my place. I’ll be waiting for hours if you walk.”

He slammed his car door once his legs were inside, leaning over the centre console to pop open the passenger side door as you rounded the car, and he was sparking up the car before you were even fully inside. Slamming it shut, he was reversing from his spot as you clipped in your safety belt, swinging his car around, and you gripped onto the edge of the door. “Easy there, fast and furious.”

“Oh, relax. Nobody is around.”

“Except for me, and I’d like to live until graduation.” His eyes rolled, hitting the brakes and flicking on the indicators as he was leaving the parking lot, moving out onto the main roads. There weren’t so many other cars, the mid-afternoon meaning the other students were mostly in class, in bed, or eating their lunch. College was a weird time, and while you’d loved it, you couldn't wait to regain some kind of normality. “Can we swing by my place? I need to swap out my books. I don’t want to carry all these around.”

“Okay, but be quick! I have to be ready by six and out the door by six-thirty. Derek will kill me if I’m late for this.” His fingers were tapping on the steering wheel as he changed direction to head to your place instead of his own. The space between you both was filled with the radio, the simple tunes of classic 70s anthems, the songs Stiles had grown up with, his dad’s favourite records and he played them constantly. He knew all the words, mouthing along and banging his head, pausing occasionally to check the mirrors and the roads between dancing in his seat.

Rolling the window down as he slowed in his approach to the building, afresh air swept into the carbon of the car, the slightly musty smell of the older car was something you’d miss when it was gone. The shade of the concrete cover overhead was chillier than the sunny roads, and he swung himself haphazardly into a parking space.

“I’ll turn the car around and wait here, cool?”

“I won’t take long, promise!” Hopping from the car and closing the door, you leant on the open door frame, and Stiles slouched in his seat, as he usually did. “Lydia and Ally should both be out, so there’s nobody for me to even talk to.”

“Good, because you’re chatty.” He teased, and you flipped him off, a quick walk as you headed away from him to the stairs. Once you were there, you were taking a quick jog up the sets of stairs, headed for your floor, and balancing your books in your arms carefully. Rooting through your bag to find your keys, they were at the bottom, jingling tantalisingly for you to find.

Leaving your books on the countertop of the kitchen, you shifted through them, taking the notebook you needed and leaving the rest, piling them back up and taking them to your bedroom Abandoned on the desk, you rushed to change, throwing on a bigger and warmer jumper to get through the rest of the day, phone in your pocket and a bag on your arm. Passing back through the kitchen, you were ready to grab the notebook and bag you’d left there, keys hanging in the back of the door, and you eyed the freezer.

You’d made a bet, a point to prove, and you were certain that buried somewhere deep in the bottom, you had a frozen lasagne from the last time you’d made it for Allison and Lydia. You had a few spare moments, and so you moved over to the freezer, opening the door and crouching to scan over all the shelves.

Running your fingers over frozen plastic, you searched for the right one. Tinfoil crinkling in the back, behind a bag of dinosaur chicken nuggets and a tray of alcoholic ice cubes, was a tray of lasagne. Pulling it out, the cold chilled your arm, even through the layers of your hoodie, and you used your foot to close the freezer while wrapping the tray in the nearest tea towel for an extra layer.

Placing your notebook over it and holding it in both arms for security, you clicked the latch onto the door, keys in your pocket and bag on your shoulder to let it swing closed behind you.

Stiles saw you coming, his head snapping over to the metal door between the stairwell and the parking lot when it fell open, backing through it and his brows raised. Opening up the passenger side door, he took the lasagne from you when you handed it over, climbing back into the vehicle.

“This is cold. What is it?”

“Lasagne.” You settled it onto your lap once your safety belt was on, folding the towel underneath to keep your lap from getting chilled and painful, and he nodded. The engine was still running, and taking off the brakes, he was pulling out of the space again.

“So, not that I don’t love a home-cooked meal, but I’m going out for dinner. Why the traybake?”

“I have a point to prove to Noah.” You were looking out of the window, but you could feel his gaze on you, making you a little uncomfortable, and you turned to face him. His eyes were flicking between you and the road, brows furrowed, a stare like he was trying to figure you out, before he let it go. “He told me I looked like I couldn't cook, and it’s a battle I’m going to win.”

“Well, alright then. Save me leftovers?”

“We’ll see.” You winked, and he grinned, eyes flicking to the tray in your lap, before back to the road.

It was only a short journey, the distance between your place and Stiles’ building was short for a walk and even shorter in a car, on the edges of campus and conveniently placed, and it had been one of the building blocks of your friendship with him An easily accessible study partner, somewhere to hang out with, someone to walk home with you after a night out, someone to share a cab with, or simply knowing there was a friend so close to you.

“It’s going to be weird not living around the corner from you in just a few months.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He sighed, pulling into his one building sparking area and it didn’t have the luxury of being covered or underground, it was exposed each flat having allocated parking spaces, and Noah’s bike was parked underneath the shelter, you could see it from here, with a clamp around the wheel and covered from the impending and risky weather of the early months. “I have a feeling that you’ll end up living next door to me someday.”

“You do?��

He parked the car, arm behind your head as he reversed into it, ready to make a quick getaway on the next morning, or this evening, when he would invariably be late. In true Stiles Stilinski style. “Yeah. Especially after I rock whatever gown you want me to wear for being your maid of honour, someday.”

“Lydia is going to fight you for that role.”

“I will fistfight her for it.” He challenged, and you grinned, clambering down from the car as Stiles had parked a little too close to someone else on your side. With your bag on your shoulder and lasagne in one hand, you tried to squeeze around the door without scratching someone else’s paintwork.

Stiles’ arm was slung over your shoulder as you set off toward the building, the elevator being fully functional, and it was a refreshing change not need to take the stairs up to your place, or risk your life in a rickety elevator.

Throwing his keys down on the kitchen counter, they slid all the way across and to the other side, hitting the floor, and he grimaced when you turned to stare at him. “I’ll pick those up later.”

“Uh-huh.” The sounds of video games and music were coming from behind Noah’s door, though it wasn’t fully closed, only pushed halfway, and you hoped that was a sign that he was still in a good mood. Leaving your bag on the edge of the couch that was facing away from you, your hands rubbed together, glancing around at the environment you were still getting used to. “You should put this lasagne in now, so that it’s ready for after the study. Medium heat, leave the full-on tight.”

“Where are you going?”

“To say ‘hey’ to your brother.” Stiles’ face scrunched up, a mumble of ‘good luck’ as he picked up the tray, lifting it over his head to look in at it from underneath. Wandering toward the sounds coming from the hall, you knocked on the edge of the door, pushing it open a second later when you heard the game pause, and the music following it. Leaning on the doorframe, Noah turned to face you, brows raising slightly, and he shifted in his chair. “Hey.”

“Hi. It’s, uh, time for the study stuff, then?”

“Yeah. You okay?” He shrugged, turning back to his game and closing it off, leaning forwards from where he was sat on his bed enough to turn the console off.

“I didn’t realise we’d be doing it here. It feels more personal, somehow.” He had a large hoodie on, comfortable in his own clothes as he wore a baggy and warm outfit, the same way you often had when everything started to feel overwhelming.

“Well, this study is going to get pretty personal.”

“I know that. It’s just that right now, it feels a bit like I’m naked, y’know?” You chuckled, a momentary smile on his face flashing past, and you were glad to see it. “I just feel exposed.”

“This study is gonna’ do that, but I promise that I’ll try and make it as easy as I can. I’ll break it up, I’ll make it comfortable for you, and we’ll stop whenever you’re getting overwhelmed.”

“That’d be great, actually.” His hands rubbed together, sleeves hanging slightly down over his palms, and he looked a whole lot less terrifying right now than he did with the armour of a bike and a leather jacket. “Okay, I’m ready.”

“Good, because I need you in high spirits. I brought a lasagne and I have a point to prove.”

You backed out of the room as he advanced toward you, the door closing and leaving you both standing in the hall, and he smirked down at you a little, a disbelieving expression. “You really brought that?”

“You bet I did. It’ll be ready by the time we finish.”

“Then I guess we’d better get started, huh?” He hopped over the back of the couch, settling in beside his brother, who scowled at him as his drink spilt down his shirt from the impact. Taking a seat on the other side of them both, your legs folded underneath yourself in the armchair, finding a glass of water laid out for yourself on the table, courtesy of Stiles.

They looked so different and yet so similar in this moment. You could understand how people may have confused the two of them before their styles became so radically different. In the beginning, before Noah turned to leather and a sleeve tattoo, when they both wore hoodies and band tees and had clean pale skin. With the sleeve of tattoos covered, and the pair both wearing hoodies, one with an etching across the front and the other with a faded logo from being washed one too many times,

Laying out your books, it was more of a note you’d keep to yourself, and following from that was your recorder, coated in the front pocket of your bag so as not to get crushed. Switching it on at the side, the red light flashed on to green blinking once to let you know it was active. “Can you guys do your confirmations for me while I get set up?”

“Surely can.” Stiles sat forwards, leaning down a little with his forearms braced across his knees, as opposed to Noah, who slumped back into the cushion. “Stiles Stilinski, happy to be recorded.”

“Noah Stilinski, aware of being recorded.” Stiles rolled his eyes at his brother’s dead tone, clearly not having as much fun as Stiles was, but you didn’t blame him.

“Okay, so, why don’t you guys tell me what it’s like to live together at college.” There was a beat of silence, and then a set of matching laughs from both of them, the two starting at one another. There was a look between them, one you didn’t quite understand, and it seemed like some kind of twin-telepathy communication.

“It’s, like, exactly the same as when we were in high school.”

“Uh, what?” Stiles interjected, and Noah turned to look at him. “It’s nothing like high school!”

“Yes, it is!” Noah insisted, and you smirked, picking up your water and taking a sip as the two stared in shock at one another. “We lived together in high school, we played video games, I did all the cooking and you did all the cleaning while dad was at work. The only thing that is different is that we can’t cheat from one another’s homework anymore.”

“We don’t drive to school together anymore, we’re on opposite sides of campus!”

“That so doesn’t count.” Noah scoffed, and Stiles twisted on the couch, his hand gestures much more emphasised than that of his brother’s and you watched the debate go down. “You can’t name any more than that.”

“I take that as a challenge.” Stiles’ head rolled side to side. “Our schedules don’t match up anymore, and we haven’t had our usual movie nights in almost six months now. I can’t bring Derek over because your room is right across from mine-”

“My room was across the hall from you at home. You just didn’t date in high school or have anyone to bring home.”

“Low-blow. Unlike some people, I didn’t want to traumatise my brother in high school by bringing someone home, for that.” Stiles reached out mid-sentence, swatting at his brother’s shoulder, before continuing; “Uh, let's see. Oh! We don’t talk anymore, you didn’t ride your motorbike so much at home, you used to ride in the jeep with me. It’s like a totally different world now.”

“I didn’t know you felt like that.” There was a palpable kind of feeling in the air, something between them that was sizzling with electricity, before Stiles sighed.

“It’s no big deal. The difference is just that we’re both so busy now.”

“That was really good, actually. Thanks.” The two seemed to have forgotten you were there, both flinching and turning to face you again, matching sets of honey-coloured eyes in varying shades were fixing on you again. “Speaking of what you said, though, does it ever make it hard for you guys when your class times are so different?”

“Hard to do what?” Stiles squinted at you, face set in a frown that his twin normally wore.

“Hard to hang out, talk, have that whole brotherly bond going on.” Your clarification did little for Stiles, his brows still pulled tight and frown never moving, but Noah’s face smoothed out.

“Oh.. well, I g-”

“Totally.” Noah pressed, and once again, Stiles’ head whipped around to look at his brother. “Don’t look at me like that. You basically said it, anyway. We don’t talk so much anymore. We barely know each other. You don’t even tell me about your podcast, anymore.”

“You never listened!”

“You used to tell me your problems, not broadcast them to the world with jokes and humour! I missed two episodes, and you just stopped keeping me updated on it.” The moodier twin crossed his arms over his chest, and you swallowed thickly at the environment you had unwittingly created. “I don’t know. Just feels like we used to talk a lot more.”

They both went silent, and Noah shot you a pleading look, but there was something darker behind it. It almost felt venomous, angry or defensive, as though to say ‘I told you so’ about it being more personal now that they were home. Stiles was occupying himself with pulling a loose thread on their couch cushion out and making it that much worse, distracting himself from it all. “Well, how about something a little bit lighter. Just some questions about hobbies. Stiles, what inspired you to first start a podcast?”

“Well, as you know, I never stop talking.” He smirked, Noah laughing beside him, and just like that, the awkward air between them both was completely evaporated. “I had a lot to say, I had a lot to get off of my mind. At first, it was just to get my thoughts out there. It was kind of like a recorded journey for myself, and to share with my friends from back home. But, then other people started listening. I thought it was going to be the end of my college social life, a social life that I was developing for the first time ever, and they liked it. I was just talking into a mic and getting things off of my chest, making no sense while telling stories and bitching about my homework and suddenly I had friends. It got a whole lot of followers and I made new friends,”

He paused, offering you a wink for the comment, and you beamed.

“-and I was going to parties, I met my boyfriend at a pep rally, and everything just kinda.. blossomed. The more I got out of it, the more inspired I was to keep going. I ended up making multiple videos a week, all differently themed. Sometimes movie reviews, sometimes songs, sometimes just talking. That’s how ‘Mischief Mic’ was born.”

“Alright. That was awesome.” Stiles bowed as best he could from sitting on the couch, and reached over to take a sip of his drink. “Okay, Noah, have you got any hobbies that you didn’t have in high school that you found when you came to college.”

“Not really.”

“Not even one?” You pushed, and the arms folded over his chest tightened, his gaze going to the floor, socked toes pushing into the twist cable rug. He took his glass, swigging all of it, the water draining from the glass in nervousness, and you could hear the crickets inside your mind chirping to fill the silence that had formed.

“No. Not really. I’m going to get more water, feel free to continue.”

“Uh, okay.” You pressed your pen down into your paper, drawing a line through the question on your paper as you realised you’d have no answer to that question when you listened back on the tape at a later time. “Stiles, back to you, then.”

Your next question came, and went, and Stiles was more than happy to answer them. Occasionally, Noah would answer a question, you’d be able to pin him down long enough to get a straight answer out of him, but there seemed to always be something that he needed to mess with, or fix. Almost half of your questions for him had a line drawn through, and you would have to ask them another time, and get a whole extra session in without Stiles, dragging the study out.

It was going to take you twice as long to get through it all if every time you had to ask them separately, and had to spend your time trying to force him to sit and answer. You were missing half of the information that you needed to be able to compare to Stiles’ answers, you couldn’t answer without them.

The clock ticked by, leaving you with all of your questions for Stiles answered. On a blank page, while Noah had once again been tinkering with something in the kitchen, you’d rewritten up all over the crossed out questions that would still need answers. You had doodled on the corner again, waiting for him to come and sit back down, a collection of hearts and flowers, the occasional bee or ladybug, even a couple of misshaped stars, forming a banner across the top of the page.

When he finally came to sit back down, he huffed, eyes moving to the clock as though he was waiting for this to end just as much as Stiles was, and you gave up.

“Okay, how about we just finish this up?” You had reached the end of your tether, not even bothering with the rest of the questions that were written down for him. “We got almost two hours in, that’s perfect.”

Noah sighed, something like an apology in his look as your eyes met his and he shrugged lightly. Stiles only nodded, eyes flicking up to the clock on the wall, and he was grinning when he came back. Tearing a page out of your notebook for each of them, you passed it over, blank paper sitting before them, and you searched for a pen or pencil in the bottom of your bag for each of them. Placing your pen down before Stiles and a pencil in front of Noah, they both leaned forwards, picking them up. Switching off your recorder and packing it away, you were left with the two staring at you expectantly.

“Okay, Stiles, come fill yours out in the kitchen. You can’t discuss these ones.”

“Oh, some mystery. I like that.” He picked up his paper and pencil, heading over to the kitchen counter, folding the sheet in half as he did, and you nodded. Standing from your place behind the coffee table, your bag slumped a little more from where it had been propped against your leg.

“Okay, I want you both to try self-diagnosing yourself.” Stiles gasped, a little excitement lacing it, and his pencil was already moving over the paper. Noah, however, looked a little lost, looking to you for guidance. “Don’t worry, you don’t need to use professional terms, just, describe what you think, I’ll be able to figure it out, and if I can’t, I’ll ask you about it at some point.”

He nodded, pausing, not quite as eager to get into the activity as Stiles was, before the pencil finally met the paper, and the slow scratching of graphite over paper filled the silence.

Moving away to the kitchen, you searched for plates, and a dish, laying them out on the counter before moving to the oven. A wave of hot air into your face once you pulled the door open, and when it cleared, you search for the kitchen towel you’d brought with you. Wrapping it carefully around the edges of the tray inside, you pulled it out, resting it atop the oven and closing the door back up.

Flicking off the handles, the light inside went dead, and Stiles loomed up behind you. “Smells good!” He presented a piece of paper to you, your eyes flicking over what he’d written once you’d taken it from him, and everything that he’d written about himself seemed completely accurate. It wasn’t a surprising self-evaluation, Stiles had spent almost four years studying this, just like you had, and so it was bound to be accurate and professional. Even if his handwriting looked a little bit like chicken-scratch.

Noah was still working on his, and Stiles was picking at the edges of the tinfoil, trying not to touch the glass of the casserole dish and burn himself, and as soon as he had some foil pinched between his fingers, he was pulling it back. “Wait, Stiles, watch out for the-”

“Fucking steam! Oh, my God, that’s so fucking hot!”

His hand snapped back, half unpeeled as all the steam from inside clouded in the air, and his hand was clutched to his chest. He was glaring at the pot, before moving away and running his hands underneath the cold tap at the sink, his thumb rubbing over wet skin to soothe it.

A second later, Noah was appearing, placing his paper face down on top of Stiles, which now lay on the kitchen counter. “Well, now that I’ve been scalded by pasta, I’m going to go shower and get ready.”

“M’kay.” He backed away, and Noah leaned on the counter beside you.

“Looks good, but does it taste any good, is the question.” The twin you were left with was teasing you, your eyes finding him, and you raised a brow.

“Yeah, yeah. Just get me something to serve it up with, alright?”

He smirked, pulling open the drawer behind him and searching for a serving spoon. Slicing it into pieces, you dished it up for him, a large slab on a plate, still steaming with cheese that had only just stopped bubbling. He grabbed a fork, and one for you too, waiting patiently as you served yourself, and put whatever was left into a dish for Stiles, covering it back up and leaving it to cool.

“Okay, prepare for the best lasagne of your life.”

Picking up the papers and your plate, the two of you moved back to the couch, sitting opposite one another, and you waited with excitement. Taking a piece off of his plate with the edge of his fork, he raised it, blowing cold air over it for a few moments, before taking the bite. There was a tense few moments, while he chewed, face unreadable, before he was swallowing the mouthful.

“Well?”

You couldn’t take the anticipation any longer, a smile on his face at the desperation you showed for his answer, and he gave in. “Alright, alright. This may actually be the best lasagne I have ever had.”

“Yes!” Your hands went up in the air, cheering excitedly and he laughed at your reaction, holding his hand up when you forced him to, palms slamming together in a high-five. He was tucking in again, and you reached for your plate, excited for the meal you had made, Taking a large piece on the tip of your fork, you tucked in.

The sound of Stiles’ shower was running in the background, and he was singing loudly, a song that you were certain was a TV show intro but you’d never seen the show, and there was a chance it was something from Disney Channel. Picking up the pieces of paper again, you turned Noah’s around to face you.

You’d had an expectation, you knew what you thought he was going to write down, and yet you were somehow surprised and entirely not surprised at the same time. It was what you expected but with a twist. He had confidence in what he’d written about himself he was sure of it, and while there were definitely elements that you’d disagree with, there was a lot of truth to it, and you frowned, reading it again.

Noah was watching you do so, the scrape of forks over plates as the lull in chatter came back, and you place the two pieces of paper into the front of your notebook, making sure that it was all sealed tightly away. “Is it alright?”

“It’s just not what I expected from you. But, it’s perfect.”

“That feels like a backhanded compliment.” He smiled softly, but he looked nervous, and you shook your head.

“Not at all, it just means that you have a better grasp on this whole thing than I thought you did.” It was the truth, and while you didn’t want to reveal so much to him about it all without compromising your work, but it made sense. “It just feels like with the way today went, like you weren’t really so interested in it, so I didn’t expect such an accurate self-diagnosis from you.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” He sighed, pushing what was left of his food around the plate, and you copied him, appetite dwindling. “It’s just that when you’re here, in my apartment, and you’re asking questions about what changed and making me confront everything, it feels like real therapy. You said it was going to be casual, and this didn’t feel casual.”

“I get it. I really do, and it’s okay. I can just email you the questions you didn’t answer, and you can get around to them whenever you feel up to it, alright?” He nodded, shaking off the evening’s stress. He continued to eat, polishing off the meal that was laid out before him and settling his hands over his stomach once he was finished. There was a satisfied smile on his face, and your empty plate was soon stacking on top of his own. Leaning forwards a little, you caught Noah’s eye, and one of his brows arched up. “I can try to make it more informal, in the future.”

“That would be great, actually.”

You smiled, the consolidation made between the two of you, and your ears picked up on another sound. “Hold on, is Stiles blow-drying his hair?”

“Oh, yeah.” He laughed, head turning to the closed bathroom door where his brother resided. “He thinks it makes his hair fluffy.”

“He gels his hair, though! Why does it matter if it’s fluffy?”

“He’s insane. Don’t you know this, yet?” Noah scoffed, and your giggles carried you back into the rest of the chair as you settled back into it. The evening was still waiting to come in fully. Comfortable quiet fell between you both again, and Noah moved away to take the plates to the kitchen. He left them in the sink, water running to wash them up, before storing Stiles’ lasagne in the fridge.

The aforementioned boy moved from the bathroom to his bedroom, skidding on the floors a little and clutching the towel to his waist as he hurried, making himself late with the extra-long shower and the blowdrying of his hair. Noah was washing up the plates, leaving them to dry on the draining rack, and you took that as your cue. The night was over, that much was clear, and you’d be willing to bet that he was more than eager to get back to his alone time.

Taking your bag and double-checking that you had everything, you swung it up onto your shoulder, and made your way toward the door. Hearing the shuffling of your feet, Noah turned, drying his hands on the towel beside him. “Are you going?”

“Feels like I should. Stiles will be going soon, anyway. I’m sure you have things to do, too.”

“I don’t have anything to do, if I’m being honest.” He cringed at his own words, pulling down the rolled-up sleeves of his hoodie and making his way over to you. Undoing the catch on the door, he pulled it open, leaning against it and you linseed in the doorway.

“Since you’re not doing anything, do you wanna’ get a coffee with me?”

His eyes narrowed, just for a second, and his fingers tapped anxiously on the wood of the door. “As a study subject, or..?”

“As friends.” You confirmed, his lips a thin line for only a second, before pulling up at the sides in a smile.

“Then, yeah. I’d like that.” He looked down, sweatpants and mismatching socks on his lower half, and there was a tint on his cheeks when he looked up. “Just give me two seconds to go change, alright?”

He darted away before you had a chance to reply leaving you there with the words frozen in your throat. Stiles was clattering around behind his own door, and Noah’s door slammed shut, leaving you alone in the doorway. Your hands tapped against your thighs as you waited, bag swinging on your shoulder, and only a second later, one of the doors was opening.

To your surprise, it was Stiles, flapping the flannel on his body to shake out any creases, and he stood before you. Doing a little twirl from where he stood, he began to button it up down his front, looking somewhat smart. It was a nice black and white one, no rips or tears or stains like most of his other ones, and the black stood out prominently against the white, thick patterns with flecks of grey within it.

“How do I look, then?”

“You look great, Sti. I’ve never seen you wear anything so plain before. There’s no colour.”

“Yeah, well, this is a new flannel. It’s my best one, and the skinny jeans are Noah’s. All my skinny jeans are blue or red, it was this or khakis.” He was nervous, resisting the urge to mess with his freshly-styled hair. “The place we’re going to is kinda fancy, but I don’t feel fancy enough for it. I’m gonna’ do something stupid like drop my glass and smash it or make a joke about something dumb.”

“Haven’t you met his family before?” You teased, and he huffed, searching for his keys, and finding them under the counter where he’d never bothered to pick them up from.

“No, not really. I’ve met his mom because she comes to visit a lot, and of course, his little sister, because she’s a sophomore here. But, he has a lot of family. His extended family are coming to graduation, but this is his older sister and his dad, and his uncle, and I’ve never met them before.” His keys were tucked into his back pocket, and his phone followed, your gaze moving over him.

“You got a blazer, Stiles?”

“Uh, yeah. One that my dad made me promise to bring, I wore it to my senior prom.” He shrugged, hands smoothing over his front. “You think I should wear it?”

“Go get it, show me.” He nodded, moving back to his bedroom, and you were waiting for something with orange and blue stripes to come back out, which wouldn’t surprise you. In fact, you’d always imagined Stiles going to his senior prom in a Beetlejuice suit. Noah emerged from the other side of the hall, hangers scraping over their post in a wardrobe as Stiles searched for them. “Did Stiles go to prom in a Beetlejuice suit?”

Noah paused, rolling the edges of his hoodie up, charcoal grey skinny jeans that were only a  few shades lighter than the ones Stiles had stolen from him on his legs, and a pair of his usual scuffled boots. “What?”

He was laughing, loudly, shaking his head to hide his grin. “It’s a legitimate question! I have this mental image of it!”

“Unfortunately, he did not. My dad made us both go in three-piece formal suits. He saved up to have them custom made. Said that every man should have a smart suit.” He shrugged, crouching to start tying the laces on his shoes and Stiles reappeared. Over his shoulders was a dark black suit, crisp collar and pressed edges, and it was a beautiful piece of tailoring.

“You look good, Sti. Very smart, but casual. Like a polished version of your usual self.”

“Yeah? Good enough to meet Derek’s family?” His voice shook, and you wished you could ease him more.

“Totally. You look great.” He thanked you both, and Noah grabbed his wallet from the side, and his house keys, letting them both hang in the front pocket of an oversized hoodie.

“You ready to go?” He offered, hand on the top of the door, and Stiles’ head snapped up again from where he’d been checking his phone, presumably looking for texts from Derek.

“Where are you two going?”

“We’re getting coffee!” You beamed, and Noah nodded, stepping a little further out of the door with you.

“Oh, well, have fun. I’ll text you updates about how it goes. I might need bathroom-break pep-talk during the night.” You waved to him as you went, wishing him ‘good luck’, before the two of you were wandering down the halls. Thumbing the button for the elevator, the doors popped open, and you were stepping inside along with Noah.

“So, you wanna’ show off those new small talk skills to me, then?”

“Okay, okay. Let me think of something.” He hummed under his breath, glancing up to the top of the elevator and looking around at the posters on the walls for inspiration, and he seemed to find one. Turning his attention quickly back to you, you prepared for what he’d found. “Have you listened to any of the student bands? There’s been a lot of them growing, lately.”

“I’ve noticed that, actually.” There were several posters up around the inside of the elevator, different coloured flyers, some on shiny paper and some on smooth matte, varying fonts and designs, it was dizzying. “I haven’t, I’ve never been to see a student band. I should do that before I graduate, though. Have you?”

“I’ve been to a couple.” The door clicked open, the two of you stepping through it. Out into the setting chill of the evening that was threatening to break its way in. He chose the direction you’d be going in, heading toward the coffee shop on the side of campus that had been the first the two of you had met at when beginning the study. “Some of them are good, some of them are kinda’ average. They usually play at the bars on the edges of campus or in the places in the city, the less well-known, kinda’ alternative places. They can be fun.”

“You going out optionally to a night on the town? I’m shocked.”

“Uh, no!” He protested, grinning at you. “I’ve never been for a ‘night on the town’, and I never will. However, going to one of the few small bars around here that aren’t practically a nightclub, to listen to covers of good songs and get a pint without worrying about anyone bothering me or mistaking me for my brother, that’s nice.”

“Okay, well, maybe I’ll go to one sometime.”

“You should, I think you’d have fun.” The two of you weaved between other students, the small talk keeping up between you both as he did his best, and while it was sometimes a little stuttered and stalled, it wasn’t nearly as bad as you had expected. It wasn’t until the two of you had entered the coffee shop that he fell into tight silence again. The crowds, the rush of chatter from other groups gathered around the tables, and the friendly greetings of baristas whose chit-chat diverted to him due to his allegiance with you.

“What are you drinking? My treat.”

“Uh, just a black coffee.” He choked out, eyes flicking over all the boards, so many options up there, and you chuckled.

“Really, just a black coffee?”

“I’ve never really experimented. I just ordered whatever was the quickest and the easiest.” He confessed, already glancing back over his shoulder at the queue that was forming behind you both. “What would you recommend?”

“Hm, well, do you have a sweet tooth?” He only nodded, scratching around his cuticles on one hand and staring down at the flesh growing red, and you took his hand. Lowering it back down to his side, the hand formed a fist, flexed nervously, and you let it go, squeezing comfortingly first. Turning to the barista, she was still waiting patiently, and your eyes moved over the boards overhead. “Two mint and dark chocolate hot cocoas.”

“That sounds really good, actually.” He leaned down, mumbling the words into your ear to make sure you heard the quiet tone over the talk in the small coffee house.

“And, two croissants, too.” She rang it up on the machine, and you leaned in a little closer to her. “Do you have any of the warm and fresh ones straight from the oven?”

“We made a fresh batch about twenty minutes ago, they’re cooling. I’ll get them from the back for you.” She finished it with a wink, passing the card machine over to you once you’d produced your card from your wallet. Swiping it across the reader, you moved to the end of the line, and she moved away to begin preparing your order as someone else took over at the counter.

She was working, creating two beautifully constructed hot chocolates for you both. Placing them down on the counter before you, once they were garnished with chocolate sauce and whipped cream, she disappeared into the back room. Taking one of the ceramic plates with her, you were happy to see her bypass the glass cabinet with the older ones in, and only a moment later, she was coming back. Two fresh croissants on a plate, still warm and soft to the touch, and she handed those over as well.

Noah had been scouting for a place to sit, choosing which was the best one, and he carried both of the drinks while you carried the pastries, guiding you to the seat he’d chosen. It was tucked away in the back, a small loveseat sofa with a low sitting coffee table in front of it, and as soon as the paper cups were down on the surface of the table, he was dropping down into the seat.

“It feels like rush hour on the highway, but with coffee.” He mumbled, and you settled onto the couch beside him passing him his drink over, and he stared at it curiously. “What about the whipped cream. Do I eat that first? Scrape it off? Mix it in?”

“Any of the above.” You grinned, taking a wooden stirrer from the condiments tray in the middle and beginning to stir the cream into your hot chocolate. He placed it down, copying your actions, stirring slowly and trying not to spill any over the edges, but it was an impossible feat to achieve. Sticky droplets left over the edges of your cups and his, creating rings on the table that you had to mop up with tissues. “Okay, try it. This is one of my favourite orders here. It’s bitter because of the dark chocolate, but also sweet. Reminds me of you.”

“Now, that one is a backhanded compliment.” He muttered, taking a sip of the drink, and your lips rubbed together.

“Not everything is a backhanded statement, you know. I didn’t intend for it to be mean, it’s just the truth. You’re all dark and moody, but I can already tell you’re sweet on the inside.” You sipped your drink to finish your statement, and he filled the time where he didn’t know what else to say by pulling a chunk off of his croissant. Chewing on it idly, he settled back into the cushions, and you lifted your legs up to fold underneath yourself as you turned to face him. “Can I ask you a question?”

“You’ve already asked me a lot of questions today.”

“You didn’t answer many, though. You kinda’ have to give me this one.” He scowled falsely, but nodded, licking a flake of pastry from his lower lip. “Not that I think you need it, because personally, I think you’re just fine, but why are you so scared about therapy? The idea of it, anything to do with it, it makes you so closed off. Even more than usual.”

His eyes moved over the room, nervously, before scanning both you and the table, and you put your drink down, holding open palms up to him.

“No recorder, no study. I’m just curious.”

“Okay.” He sighed shakily, and slumped back. “Well, after my mom died, my dad made me and Stiles have therapy when we started acting out. We had a therapist who came to the house, and she was great, don’t get me wrong, but I hated it. I didn’t want her to tell me how to grieve or mourn, and I didn’t want her to tell me how to move on. Stiles needed all the advice he could get, but I didn’t want it. I wanted to do it my own way. Now, the idea of therapy, brings back all those feelings of sadness and pressure and stress.”

“I’m sorry, Noah.” You reached out, rubbing a hand over his shoulder, and his gaze fell to the contact. “Genuine sympathy and sorrow, not just that thing girls do that you hate.”

“Stop hanging things I’ve said over me, I don’t remember half of them. I blackout in social situations.” He grinned, moving past the moment, and you withdrew your touch.

“You know, if it makes you feel any better, I understand the nervousness of being in a study.”

“Yeah?” He picked up the rest of his croissant, a large chunk of it being eaten, as he waited for you.

“Yeah. When I moved here, I was so nervous. I was beginning to take my course and I didn’t really have any friends, and there was a senior who needed freshmen for her study.” Noah grinned, settling in for the story and sipping his drink. “She was doing a study about the difference between kids who travelled far from home for college alone as opposed to those who were still close to home, and whether it impacted social clubs, grades, all that. To be fair, it was an awesome study.”

“It sounds like it.”

You smiled, swirling the cup in your hands to gather any loose powder that may have begun to separate and gather at the bottom. “Well, I got drawn into it. She was a senior, and she was nice. I had no friends yet, I was in a flat-share with Allison and Lydia and three other girls who were all too busy getting adjusted to college themselves. So, this senior, she invited me to a party, and then another one, and suddenly people started wanting to be my friend because I was the freshman who hung out with seniors. I figured it would all drop away when her study ended and she didn’t need me anymore, but by then the whole social hierarchy had done its thing, and there I was.”

You shrugged, and Noah was hiding a shit-eating grin behind his mug. “So, you were just a little freshman lab rat, then?”

You scoffed, your laughter mixing with his, and the two of you were left in subtle amusement. His laughter was cut short, though, brought a rapid halt when a set of legs bumped against your table on the other side, followed by two more behind them.

“Hey, girl!” One of the girls on the cheer team, a lacrosse player behind her and a girl who you recognised from your psychology class texting on her phone. “Saw you over here, wanted to know what your plans for the evening were. We’re going to do some karaoke and get some food, you wanna’ come?”

Your eyes moved to Noah, whose attention was fixed on the floor again, as though the splintering wood was of utmost interest. “Maybe another time. I think we’re good here for now.”

“Oh, you sure? I think it could be super fun, you should both come.” The invitation was now extended to you both, and you shook your head at her despite it.

“Seriously, you should go, if you want to,” Noah whispered, and when you turned back to him now, he’d dared to look up, chewing on a lower lip that would go raw, but he met your gaze.

“No, I’m sure. I’m having fun here.” You held his gaze for a second longer, before turning to her, and confirming your denial, and she smiled, promising to make plans with you soon, before she was walking away. Noah was fidgeting beside you, shuffling in his seat, and you could practically feel the nerves rolling off of him in waves. “I’m serious, Noah. I’m having fun, and I’m perfectly happy here with you, right now.”

He was trying not to grin, a smile that was being bitten back on the inside of his cheek. “Well, for the record, I’m having fun too.”

“What was that?” You cupped your ear, challenging him to repeat it, even though you had heard it perfectly, and by the look on his face, he knew the game you were playing.

“I said I’m having fun. I won’t deny it.”

“Two victories in one day, for this gal. I’m breaking down all your walls, Noah Stilinski.” You poked at his cheek, and he swatted your hand away, taking a bite from your croissant as punishment, and you tried to snatch it back from him.

“Two victories, one loss. You’re not getting this croissant back, now.”

[ttttaehyungie]

masked | myg x reader

masked | min yoongi x reader oneshot

☘  pairing | min yoongi x vigilante superhero!reader ☘  genre | college au, superhero au, humor, romance ☘  rating | NC-17 ☘  word count | 5.2k ☘  warnings | swear words, major violence/fight scenes, some childhood trauma, sexual humor (it’s like,,, one word but i’ll just tag it anyway) ☘  summary | Between academics in the day and crime-fighting at night, and your dumb rivalry with that one pain-in-the-ass, fellow vigilante Vulture, you simply don’t have time for dating. But, damn, is it hard when your partner for project work is as cute as he is. ☘  a/n | y’aaallllll this was so enjoyable to write :’) I hope you all have as much fun reading as I did writing this!

Submitted as part of BWC’s 1st Anniversary Contest.

A fist flies towards your face. You dodge leftwards. You grab the hooligan’s arm where it lingers in the air from the failed punch. Twist. He yelps. But you show no mercy. You hold tight to his arm and spin sharply on your feet. Using the momentum from your movement, you throw him over your shoulder. Thud.

He’s dazed. You seize the chance to kick him over onto his front. Locking his arms behind him, you pin him down with a knee as you fumble around in your backpack for the ropes to bind him.

A giddy excitement bubbles up, effervescent in your chest. Finally! After weeks of failed attempts, you’re so close to a solid capture. It’s just a pickpocket; small fry, really. But it’s a capture nonetheless.

Just as long as- you peek upwards to check- ok. It seems you’re in the clear. Vulture isn’t here. Wait-

Something rustles to your right. You jump in shock.

The thug takes advantage of the shift in your weight. He wrestles his arms free and pushes himself up, and you go tumbling off him. Before you can recover, he’s already sprinting off into the distance. No! He’s getting away!

In panicked desperation, you raise a hand and shoot out a force field. Dumb move. It only boosts him forward, aiding his escape. Ugh. Your victory slips like sand through your fingers.

Crack. A flash of blue pops into the middle of the street.

You roll your eyes. Part of you is relieved that the thief is not getting away. But for the most part? Unbridled annoyance.

You slump back on the ground to watch Vulture teleport in, capture the thief that you’d spent the last twenty minutes pursuing, and teleport out. All under two minutes.

Just as he’s been doing for the last few weeks. Damn. When will you ever catch a break?

“Rough night?”

Seems like your stifled yawn was not concealed well enough. Feeling slightly self-conscious, you shoot him a sheepish smile.

“Yeah. Busy fighting those assignments, y’know.”

He hums in understanding. “Let’s take a five minute break. I’m getting tired too.”

You nod. Yoongi stretches his arms out above his head and leans to the side to get in a good side stretch. Meanwhile, you avert your eyes. The sliver of skin that peeks out from where his shirt rides up has your cheeks growing warm.

“I’m gonna fill my bottle,” you announce, getting up from your shared table. “Do you want anything?”

“I’m good. Thanks.”

The water fountain is just outside the library, but the short walk from the discussion pod and back is enough for you to shake off the drowsy haze you were in. By the time you return to the tiny room- they really weren’t kidding when they called it a pod- the spring is back in your step.

Yoongi looks up as you step back into the room and flashes you a smile. It’s small, but disarming as hell. Your heartbeat picks up.

“Recharged and ready to fight this project?” he jibes.

Right. The project. The project that you’re paired up for, literally for no other reason than sheer convenience. You just happened to be sitting next to each other when it was announced. But it’s fine. You’re chill, Yoongi’s chill. And that’s why you knew it was ok to just turn to him and ask, “Wanna pair up?”

The project is the only reason the two of you are talking. It’s not that you didn’t have any other opportunity to. Not at all. You’re both in the same course and you live in the same dorm.

And it’s not that you dislike the guy. In fact, far from it. If you’re being totally honest, Yoongi is 100% your type. Chill, and a laidback sense of humor with his light jokes. And not to mention, real easy on the eyes. With his platinum blonde hair- his dark roots just beginning to peek through- and striking eyes, all topped off with that heartstopping smirk of his, there is only one conclusion to be drawn. Yoongi is objectively attractive.

You’ve acknowledged this the moment you set your eyes on him at your dorm orientation tour. His blonde hair was freshly bleached at that point and pulled back in a snapback, showing off the bold, black brows that complemented his sharp, feline eyes.

It was uncontrollable. He’s just the kind of attractive that exerts a magnetic pull on your gaze, drawing you in relentlessly no matter how many times you avert your eyes.

And the kind of attractive that makes you lose track of what’s happening. You realized belatedly that you’d zoned out from the tour.

“-survival tips. Make sure you collect your laundry from the dryer promptly. One, because people who hog the machines are inconsiderate assholes. Two, because the dorm cat has a habit of stealing socks and underwear. So unless you like the idea of your unmentionables as surprise gifts for your neighbors- in which case, you’re a psychopath-, please just collect your laundry on time.”

A quick glance at the group around you confirmed that you’re not the only one bewildered by Jin’s words.

“Oh!” Jin’s voice cut through the buzz of confusion. “Just one last thing. There’s a strict no dating rule between the RA and students. I know, I know. It’s hard resisting this gorgeous face. But let’s all give it our best attempt, alright?”

You remember scoffing internally at Jin’s words. There’s just one simple rule you have for yourself in college. No dating.

Between your studies in the day and crime-fighting at night, you simply don’t have the time for it.

And it’s this same rule you have to remind yourself of as you tear your eyes away from the sight of Yoongi casually running his hand through his hair as he contemplates the project.

Just one last loop and- fuck. Did the loser call for backup? You drop the ropes to throw up a force field. The aluminum bat gets flung off into the distance, careening off your invisible force field. Thank god you heard the heavy footsteps approaching. You’ve been on the receiving end of baseball bat attacks, and let’s just say you’ve come to empathize greatly with baseballs after that experience.

You swivel to face him. Block his hook. Uppercut. The thug staggers backwards, clutching his jaw.

There’s movement in your periphery. The first guy has disentangled himself from the ropes. You spot him just as he breaks into a run. Shit. He’s escaping.

A kick lands itself in your side, sending you to the ground. Snap. A cold sense of dread fills the pit of your stomach as the visual of your wrist bent at an awkward angle registers in your mind. The tingling pain blooms as you shake it out.

But you don’t have time to take care of that right now. You’ll have to rely on the adrenaline to keep you going.

You take a second to check if your mask is still in place- alright, you’re good. Turning your attention back to the asshole that attacked you, you fix him with a glare. Before this, it was just a moral obligation to stand against lawlessness. Now, it’s personal.

You recover into a squat. Swipe a kick at his feet. He lands heavily. From his crumpled position on the ground, he makes a grab for you. But you shoot out a force field. The wind’s knocked out of him with the way he’s sandwiched between your blow and the hard asphalt.

Your kick is unnecessarily hard as you roll him onto his front. But an eye for an eye, y’know.

Learning from your earlier mistakes, you tie this one up swiftly.

“Ooh, kinky,” he mutters.

Your sharp retort sits tantalizingly on the tip of your tongue. But it’s too risky to speak. It’s far easier to get recognized by your voice than one would think. You would know. Even after over a decade, the memory of that gravelly voice still haunts you.

“I guess we’re doing this the hard way.” Smash! “I repeat. Where’s the safe?!”

No, you’ll never be able to forget it.

The thug beneath you grunts as you tug the knot extra tight. He deserves it anyway.

Now here’s the only part you hate about successful captures- lugging the offenders to the police station. It’s times like this you really wish you had a different superpower; superstrength, or superspeed, or, dare you say it, teleportation. You’ve considered using your force fields to lob the criminals forward, but all superpowers have their limits. It takes too much out of you to do that and you’ll be too drained to get back to the dorm by the end of it.

And so, with little care for how unglamorous it looks, you drag the thug all the way to the police station two blocks down.

It’s as you’re nearing the station, tasting the sweet relief of your task finally coming to an end, that you hear it- crack. The flash of blue pops up right before the station.

If it weren’t for the flash of blue and prominent crack sound, you wouldn’t have noticed him. Dressed head to toe in black- much like your own get-up-, Vulture manifests out of nowhere, together with a burly, scar-faced man. The other thug from earlier.

This is the closest you’ve been to Vulture. Before this, you’ve only ever seen him in the distance as he pops in to pick up your thugs and pops back out. But now, you’re close enough to pick up on the narrow gold trim that subtly lines his otherwise midnight black mask.

The thug in your hands groans at the sight of his accomplice having been caught. Vulture’s head whips towards you, finally alerted to your presence. Hurriedly, he drops ol’ scarface at the doorstep of the station and teleports out.

Damn, looks like you’ll be playing ding dong ditch by yourself again tonight.

Depositing the thug next to his accomplice, you thump on the door of the station twice and sprint back into the cover of the night.

The pain is truly setting in now. The adrenaline from earlier is all gone and there’s nothing sedating the pain. As if indignant from being ignored, the gnawing pain in your wrist comes biting back now with a vengeance.

But you’re already on campus grounds, so it’s just one more dash across the green, skirt stealthily around the building, up the tree to your second-storey dorm room, and you’ll be home free.

Your wrist throbs. At this point, you crave nothing more than to be showered and tucked into your bed in your jammies. Exhaustion from the entire ordeal laces your bones as you sneak your way back to the dorm.

Ok, it’s just round the corner now and- your heart leaps in your chest when you spot the shadow. Shit. In your impatience you’ve become complacent. You spin to identify the source and oh, thank god. It’s just the dorm cat skulking around in the quiet of the night.

Climbing the tree into your room has never been the easiest thing, but it’s made ten times harder with your wrist out of commission. But somehow, you manage it.

After a quick shower, you head to the shared kitchen to grab some ice for your wrist. You opt to leave the kitchen lights off, the shroud of darkness like a comforting blanket.

“Fancy seeing you awake.”

You jolt. Oh. Yoongi. You weren’t really banking on anyone else being awake.

“I could say the same to you,” you say, hand over your heart. “What are you doing up? It’s three am.”

He raises his water jug in reply. “What about you?”

“Lost track of time doing assignments,” you make up on the fly. “And then I tripped over my books in my sleepy state and busted my wrist.”

“Oh damn,” he says, hoisting himself off where he was leaning against the counter. “Can I take a look?”

His fingers are gentle as they turn your wrist to examine the damage. You try not to stare at how long and pretty they are. How is this even fair? How is it that even his fingers are attractive?

“It’s pretty swollen.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “Let me get you an ice pack.”

You don’t trust your voice, so you just nod, and move to sit.

He digs out someone’s bag of frozen peas and places it gently over your wrist where it lays on the table. The next fifteen minutes is spent in quiet conversation. Despite his quiet exterior, you discover that Yoongi is surprisingly easy to talk to. Of course, you’ve talked to him during your project meetings. But the content of your conversations then are largely restricted to the task at hand.

But here, in the midnight darkness, you find that the hushed words and laughter flow with such easy chemistry, and you desperately try not to fall any harder for him.

You take the peas- half-melted and dripping now- and dump it on the table. Wiping your wrist off on your shirt, you retrieve your bandage from your pocket and attempt to tie it yourself as Yoongi watches.

“Need help?” he offers.

“M’fine,” you reply distractedly.

“Really?”

Your family’s always lamented your obstinate nature, and you guess it’s not baseless.

Yoongi’s hand grasps yours. “Let me.”

Before your hand starts shaking from the nervous energy that’s growing in you, you let go of the bandage resignedly.

His expression is plain as he binds your wrist, as if this is a daily occurrence for him. Maybe it is. His movements look practiced, and the bandage is just tight enough that it restricts movement without cutting off blood circulation.

“You’re good at this,” you say. “Is there some secret side to you that you’re not revealing?”

He laughs a little. “I used to play basketball, and injuries were really common.”

You watch in fascination at the expert movements of his hands. Tucking the end of the bandage in, he pats your newly bandaged wrist lightly.

“All done.”

“Thanks, Yoongi.”

“Take care of yourself. I still need you alive for our project.”

Accompanying the usual morning bleariness that plagues you whenever you have just woken up, this morning it’s coupled with a dull ache in your wrist. Right. Your sprained wrist.

Shifting carefully to avoid placing any weight on your injured arm, you sit up to inspect the dressing. It’s a little mussed up, but its structural integrity is largely intact. Good, you won’t have to redo the bandaging then.

Or worse still, ask Yoongi to patch you up again.

Memories of the dimly lit kitchen come back to you, the faint glow of the corridor lights falling on the contours of his face, the high planes illuminated in an orange luminescence.

In the low light, the way his hands moved as they wrapped your wrist up wasn’t any less elegant and entrancing. The pressure that it exerted on your tender flesh was gentle, taking care not to aggravate the swollen injury.

Fuck. As if you weren’t already having a hard time holding off your feelings for him. Feelings had been bubbling up in you ever since orientation and they grew ever more persistent with each project meeting.

Why did he have to be attractive and nice? It would have been much simpler if he were just an asshole. But no, his personality just had to be as attractive as his appearance, didn’t it?

You stretch to work out the residual sleepiness, but your right rib aches in protest. Lifting your shirt and inspecting it in the mirror, a purplish bruise greets you. That sidekick really did a number on you.

Mornings like this really make you think twice about your decision to walk down the vigilante path. Mornings when the twinging pain of injuries sustained and the fatigue from having spent half the night patrolling the streets is just a little too much to bear. Mornings like this really have you wondering if you should just give it up for a normal college student’s life.

It’s truly tempting. The prospect of getting more than three hours of sleep per night is so delicious. Cuts and bruises would be a rarity. And the fluttery feeling of having a crush on a cute guy wouldn’t have to be marked as a distraction and suppressed into oblivion anymore. You want it. So much. Mornings like this, you really want to call it quits.

But your memory prevents you from doing so.

The way your mum’s hand trembled around yours as she urgently pulled you to the backroom is seared into your mind forever. Even now, your hand quivers.

Her eyes are wide with fear as she whispers, “Stay quiet.”

“The supers will be here soon, right, mum?” you ask.

“That’s right, ____.” She tucks your hair behind your ear with a shaky hand. “We just have to wait for the supers to get here.”

With that, she closes the door and the darkness envelops you. The padlock clicks just outside the door.

“Where’s the safe?” A gruff voice asks. Shivers trail down your spine.

“The cops are on their way,” you can hear your dad respond. Pride fills you at his bravery. “Look, you don’t have to do this. You can walk away right now and-”

“I guess we’re doing this the hard way.” Smash! “I repeat. Where’s the safe?!”

You can hear your mum’s pleas between hiccuped sobs.

“Well if you’re not going to tell me,” the voice continues, “I’ll just have to use brute force.”

More destruction ensues. You wince with every crash, keeping a lid on the whimpers that threaten to escape you. Where are the cops?! Where are the supers?!

“A locked door. Is that an indication of something?” The voice is close now; only the door stands between you.

Bam! The door before you rattles violently. You, too, shake in fear.

“I’ll tell you where it is!” Your dad panickedly relents. “The safe. I’ll tell you where the safe is.”

“Glad you changed your mind, old man.” The footsteps retreat.

And as you emerged from the room later that night, your nine-year-old eyes taking in the wreckage and the distinct absence of help from the police or from the supers that supposedly kept your city safe, your dreams shattered just like the glass shards that laid scattered across your parents’ store.

Ever since you discovered your powers at age five, it became your ambition to become a super. With a flashy power like yours, the chances of it happening were reasonably high.

But all that changed when your parents’ store was mugged. The supers you so admired were nowhere to be found. They were simply too busy fighting other bigger fish out there. And the police? It was a known fact that they’d gotten complacent ever since the advent of the supers.

And that left smaller stores- stores like your family’s- unprotected and susceptible to attacks by ruffian gangs that reigned in the streets. No one cares for petty crime. Not when there are bigger battles to fight out there. It was a flaw in the system.

A flaw that you aim to address through your vigilantism. What use were your flashy powers and lofty ambitions when you just remained frozen in inaction when the time calls for it? The gnawing guilt morphed into a thirst for redemption. You would become the defender of the streets.

So as lonely and draining as it is to live this life of masked identities, you can’t possibly give it up. Your conscience won’t let you.

Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to come out to the streets just days after sustaining your injury. But after icing and resting it for a day, you swear your wrist is feeling much better. Plus, you skipped your usual nightly patrols last night, but the guilt and worry had left you restlessly tossing and turning in bed. So here you are, mask on and back out on the streets.

The thug takes a swing at you. Normally you would have countered it with a block to follow quickly with a punch of your own. But with your wrist out of commission, you choose to duck down. Even your force fields would cause your wrists to absorb some impact, so the moves at your disposal are severely limited today.

You land a roundhouse kick to his side. He sputters. But he responds swiftly with a counterattack.

You’ve tried to attack mainly from your legs. Even so, your wrist feels the effects of the fight. Wrapped in its bandage, albeit sloppier than Yoongi’s expert dressing the other night but still secure enough, your sprained wrist throbs dully from the exertion.

In an attempt to soothe the ache, you roll it out- ah, the pain flares up your arm. You take deep breaths to work through the pain. You have to keep moving.

But it seems the thug has noticed your weakness. He moves quickly. Grabs your wrist and twists.

“AHHH!” The shrill scream of agony that escapes you is reflexive.

Somewhere in the midst of the white hot pain, you manage to scrape together enough sense of mind to shoot out a force field. It’s weak, and it adds yet another layer to your pain, but it’ll suffice. The thug stumbles back off-kilter.

You cradle your aggravated injury to your chest and blink back the tears. This was a bad idea. Maybe you should just give it up for tonight. It won’t be the first time a thug has gotten away, after all.

But it seems that he hasn’t had enough. He storms towards you, his face curled into a sneer.

You clench your fists. It protests in pain, but you ignore it and lower yourself into a fighting stance. You’re not sure what you can do now with the state that you’re in, but you have no choice.

Just as he picks up into a run, he’s yanked back. The immensity of the relief that washes through you as you hear that crack is so overwhelming, your legs go slightly jelly.

Vulture materializes, in his usual all-black attire, from beanie to combat boots. The gold trim of his mask glints ominously under the moonlight.

The thug takes a knee to the stomach. Vulture’s movements are so quick and sharp, the thug retches slightly. A right hook follows, without missing a beat. The thug veers to his right from its impact. But Vulture doesn’t give him an inch. He throws a left uppercut. A solid kick to the chest seamlessly completes the combo. The thug collapses in a heap on the ground.

Vulture moves like a predator on the hunt. The pace at which he stalks forward is completely unhurried. The lowlife attempts to crawl away, but he’s jerked back by the collar.

Still clutching your wrist, you watch dumbly as Vulture teleports away with the thug before you can get a word of gratitude in.

When you finally rouse from slumber the next morning, it’s from being jolted awake by the unmuffled blare of a car horn. The soundproofing in your room is shitty, but not normally this shitty. Turning to the window through which you slipped into your room last night, you realize it’s open. You were probably too tired to remember to shut it last night.

You pad over to the window, meaning to close it, when you step on something cool and smooth, but very unfamiliar. You retract your foot and look down.

Icy fear grips you. The sensation of it under your foot may have been unfamiliar, but the sight of it is definitely not. Laying on your floor is a black mask lined with gold trim.

What does this mean? Is it supposed to be a sign? Is it some sick joke? Has Vulture figured out who you are? What does he want from you?

Picking it up in your hands and skimming your thumb over the textured leather, you recall the way Vulture defended you last night. Sure, you get frustrated when he swipes your captures. But you can’t deny that, ultimately, you’re on the same side.

But having operated wordlessly all this while, and only coming in for the kill, Vulture remains an enigma. You can’t be sure of his real agenda when you’ve never fought side by side with him, let alone exchanged a word. But you can’t blame him either. You haven’t been one to break the silence either.

Perhaps you will have to now.

As it turns out, you don’t get the chance to. Break the silence, that is. For the third night in a row now, Vulture is a no show.

And for the third night in a row, the criminal gets away.

You’re tempted to blame it on your sprained wrist. But you can’t help but recall all the times thugs have slipped out of your grasp, only to be picked off by Vulture. Honestly, these last three days have you reluctantly acknowledging that your job is much harder without your silent partner.

You strain your ears in anticipation of a crack sound. But for the third night in a row, you’re left disappointed.

What’s up with all these no-shows lately?

You groan as the call gets diverted to voicemail yet again. It’s the seventh call you’ve dialled to Yoongi. Checking the time, it’s now half an hour past your agreed upon meeting time.

You slam your laptop shut. This is ridiculous. Does he think that his cute face will let him get away with everything? Just because he’s produced nothing but quality work in your pairwork so far doesn’t excuse anything.

Ok. Maybe you’re being a little harsh on him. Maybe.

But can you be blamed for being in such a crappy mood? After the shit show that was the last few nights of crime-fighting, you’re already in a foul mood. And now, hauling your sleep-deprived self out of bed and to the library at eight in the morning on a Saturday morning, only to have your partner pull a no-show? Who wouldn’t be pissed?

You shove your things into your bag and trudge back to the dorm. If you get to his room and he’s still in bed… No one can hold you responsible for what you’ll do next.

But you spot him, squatting by the shrubs that line the dorm, as you’re making your way across the green, and he’s very much awake.

You march up to him, intending to tap him on the shoulder and give him a piece of your mind.

“That damn cat,” you hear him mutter. You pause, curiosity piqued. “THIS is why dogs are man’s best friend, not cats. Holly would NEVER.”

“Looking for something?” you ask. He jumps, and turns around.

“Oh, ____,” he says, standing up from his crouched position. “Yeah, I lost something.”

“Funny, because I was looking for something too for the past-” you check your watch dramatically “- half an hour now.”

He gasps. You can pinpoint the exact moment the realization hits him. “I’m so sorry! It totally slipped my mind.”

You sigh. He’s honestly too cute. As it turns out, the answer is yes. His cute face will indeed let him get away with everything; your anger is completely diffused.

“Let’s just take a break this week,” you say.

“You don’t have to do that on my account. Just give me five minutes to grab my stuff.”

“Nah, we’ve made sufficient progress on this assignment that we’ve earned it. And you look like you’re too troubled by whatever you’ve lost anyway,” you say with a wave of your hand.

You pause, weighing your next words. But damn your soft spot for him. “Hey, do you want an extra pair of eyes to help you look?”

He considers your offer for a second. Then, hesitantly, he says, “Ok. Yeah. That’d be great actually.”

“So what are you looking for?”

He purses his lips. Did the cat really steal his underwear? Whatever he’s lost must be pretty embarrassing if it’s this hard to tell you.

Finally, he sighs and spits it out. “I know it sounds weird but I’m looking for a mask.”

You feel your jaw go slack.

“A mask?” you echo hollowly. “Like a ski mask?”

“No, um.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Y’know what, forget I said anything. I’m sure I’ll find it myself.”

He turns back to inspecting the bush. But now you have to know.

“Is it a black mask? With gold trim?”

Yoongi freezes for a second. It’s all the answer you need.

He laughs, and you can tell it’s forced. “Have you seen it?”

“No way.” It’s a mumble at first, then it all comes tumbling out of your mouth. “No way. No way! YOU’RE Vulture?!”

“Vult- What?!”

“Right. Sorry. That’s just the name I gave you because you keep swiping my thugs. And yes, I’ve seen it. Seen it every night you pop in and steal my captures.”

“Wait,” he says, his eyes growing wide as he comprehends what you’re saying. “YOU’RE that hot vigilante with the cool force fields? The one who can’t keep the thugs restrained for nuts?”

“Is that what you think of me?”

“Hey. You have no grounds to complain. Not when you call me Vulture.”

“I’m so tired,” you manage to whine through a whisper. “We bagged three criminals tonight. Can’t you just teleport us back to the dorm?”

“You know we can’t do that, love,” he whispers, rubbing your back. “My powers aren’t the most stealthy. And c’mon, we’re almost there.”

Behind your own mask, you smile contentedly. The lonely nights of crime-fighting have become not so lonely after all.

As it turns out, your synergy with Yoongi is not limited to academic work. It’s been a month now and your teamwork functions like a well-oiled machine, your force fields weakening the thugs and directing them to where Yoongi waits in the shadows to teleport them off to jail where they belong.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, barely maintaining your hushed tone. The dorm cat slinks round the corner, yanking you out of your thoughts.

“That damn cat,” Yoongi mutters.

You pinch his ear, one of the few exposed parts of his body in this attire. “If not for ‘that damn cat’, we wouldn’t have gotten together. You have much to thank this cat for.”

You can’t see it but you know that he’s rolling his eyes.

“You have no defence because you know I’m right,” you taunt.

“Fine, you are,” he says and begins to lift his mask to lean in for a kiss.

You pull it back down. “Don’t get distracted now. We can cuddle later when we’re back safe, ok?”

He huffs, but there’s a spring in his step that was not there before.

And as the two of you round the corner to clamber back up to the safety of your room, the dorm cat watches with eyes aglow in the moonlight.

Your window clicks shut. It’s safe now. Jin shape-shifts out of his cat form and smirks to himself. He still remembers the mutually stolen side glances from orientation. How could he not ship your two dorky asses?

And all the sneaking around that both of you were doing every night, unaware that you both had a masked companion in each other?

But ah, it seems that you’ve finally got your shit together. All he did was nudge you in the right direction. Looks like it worked. Mission accomplished.

[tiredb0igivemesugars]

Remus Lupin is good

Summary: y/n is a student at Hogwarts and is now returning for the new semester. A lot has changed during the summer, including but not limited to: the school uniform and name. You were pleased to find that your friends Harry, Ron and Hermione were more than understanding and supportive. Not everyone would be supportive, but you didn’t expect for it to hit you so hard, but luckily the new professor Remus Lupin is there to help you.

Paring: none💚 (platonic/friends Remus Lupin and trans!male reader)

⚠️Warnings⚠️: transphobia, homophobia, slurs, mild swearing and some angst

words: 2.1K

note: I know that the timeline doesn’t add up but just roll with it... also no proof read 

Happy holidays if I don’t post again before the new year <3

The second to last year of your journey at Hogwarts was about to begin, you had gone to Diagon Alley accompanied by the Weasleys and Harry, of course. A lot had changed that summer, the name you had gone by before had been replaced by a masculine name, it was in the process of being changed legally, you had gotten the boys uniform delivered to your doorstep that morning and you were more than excited for the new year. You had gotten enormous support from the Weasleys and all of your friends, but it didn’t stop that small voice in the back of your head kept talking about how hard everything was going to be once you got into Hogwarts, the constant deadnaming until corrected. You didn’t look forward to that. You knew that it was normal, of course, people will question but it didn’t stop you from feeling bad about it. There was even a voice that said ”Why did you have to do this to everyone around you? You’re complicating everyone’s lives. Why can’t you just be normal?” That voice was mean and the loudest. 

”Y/n! Y/n come on we need to get moving?” Molly yelled, everyone had already entered the platform 9¾ and you had fallen behind, gotten lost in your thoughts. You quickly shook yourself awake and gathered the strength to push the big trolley through the brick wall. Molly followed suit. ”It’s going to be alright, you have Harry and Ron with you, Hermione will take it very well I’m sure,” Molly whispered to you as she patted your back as a sign of support. You nodded determinedly. You hadn’t told Hermione yet, hell, you hadn’t even seen her all summer. You knew she’d take the news well, it was Hermione after all. 

Your hand got grabbed by Harry, he was leading you towards the train, the platform was packed with people and it was hard to move in any direction. There was a lot of whistling, yelling and things falling over, you felt relieved when the door to your carriage was closed. Hermione was already there, she loved to be on time. ”Harry! Ron! -” she greeted excitedly, but didn’t say your name. She stared you up and down. ”I’m sorry I don’t recognise you,” she said, somewhat embarrassed. ”This is our new, old friend y/n,” Ron said as he threw his arm on your shoulders, although he struggled a bit due to the height difference. Hermione sat back down on the seat. ”Of course, I should’ve known it was y/n,” she said and smiled. ”Want to sit next to me?” She continued with a question, patting the seat next to her. ”I’d love to,” you said and sat down next to her, only now noticing the man on the side opposite of you, sleeping against the window. Harry and Ron only now seemed to notice the same strange man, too. The two boys sat down. ”That’s Professor Lupin, our new defence against the dark arts professor,” Hermione informed. You sighed as you leaned back on your seat. ”I’ve missed you knowing the answer to everything. These two boys, I swear to Merlin they and I included would be so lost without you,” you said as you pointed at Harry and Ron who were tying professor Lupin’s shoelaces together. Hermione giggled. 

The train let out a loud sound to signal the departure. You had now time to go through all of the latest happenings with your friends. You loved Hogwarts. It was your home, of course, the aspect of learning was sometimes hard and stress-inducing, but it was home, most of the professors were people you knew you could count on. The people there, although they could be annoying, they still were close to you and you liked almost everyone. Well, tolerated anyways. It was getting dark, you should be arriving any minute now. ”How’s your place?” Hermione asked, causing you to tense up. Harry and Ron glanced at Hermione. You didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say, the same old, yet so much more worse. ”Not good I take,” Hermione finally said, placing a hand on your shoulder. You sighed. It wasn’t great, it was a long way of the horrors Harry had to face, but it was still bad. ”They’re angry, so angry with me for trying to be me, on top of the usual disappointment. But that’s nothing new,” you said, offering Hermione a smile, even if it was far from genuine. 

You saw how the lights of your home, came closer into view, soon you’d be home, away from the craziness of ”reality”. Hagrid greeted you all welcome and gave you a thumbs up, you smiled. The night went by, as usual, the 1st years got sorted into their houses, professor Dumbledore kept his speech and introduced the adding in the faculty. Professor Remus Lupin, the new teacher of the defence against the dark arts. He seemed very kind and like a good teacher. It took a couple days for things to start rolling like usual in Hogwarts, Harry was away at Quidditch after school, Hermione in the library along with Ron. You weren’t on the team and didn’t want to be on it, you weren’t that confident with the broom and preferred both of your feet on the ground. ”Not one to trust a broom, are you?” The now-familiar voice of professor Lupin asked you, startling you. You had zoned out while watching the Quidditch practise from the comforts of a bench in the courtyard, not noticing how the professor crept up behind you. ”Professor Lupin, I didn’t hear you coming,” you said, trying to sound apologetic. Remus smiled, ”It’s alright. I’m quite the trickster when others aren’t looking.” You laughed a little, the laugh warmed up your chest. ”But to answer your question, I do prefer soil to air,” you said, now a little more serious. 

”I know I seem like a bad teacher but I have to ask, what was your name again?” Remus asked, quite embarrassed. ”I haven’t been around this many people in a while so catching up with the new names is quite difficult,” he went on to explain as he sat down next to you.

”Y/n,” you answered, a little thrilled to be able to introduce yourself with your name, but also a little anxious. ”That’s a fine name for a young gentleman like you,” he said, enthusiastic. You giggled, feeling happy due to the compliments and overall acceptance. ”What has it been like to come back to Hogwarts after so many years?” You asked, wanting to continue the conversation with Remus. He seemed to be extremely kind and accepting and you needed that in your life. ”It has been nice so far, it feels odd to be here without my friends though. But I’m adjusting just well. I love teaching the new students, fills me with excitement, you know.” he went on, almost rambling. ”Where are your friends?” You continued to ask, knowing that you were about to overstep a boundary. ”They’re kind of all over the place, some have gone on the other side,” he said, more quietly as if others weren’t allowed to hear him. You weren’t sure if ”going on the other side” meant joining the dark lord or dying, but you didn’t ask. 

The conversation slowly died down, leaving you both to just bask in the evening sun as it settled behind the mountains. 

The following weeks and months went by as normally as they possibly could. Some students still gave you snarky looks and shot mean words at you, but your friends were luckily there to stand up for you. When you walked into your defence against the dark arts lecture, you were surprised to find their places empty. Where had they gone? You looked around you, trying to not look as scared as you in reality were. You heard the familiar thudding of professor Lupin’s shoes hit the rock floor, it was best to sit down and just try to get through the lecture. As Lupin greeted the class, you heard snickering from behind you, Draco and his friends, they had moved to sit behind you. 

”Look the weirdo is all alone now. Her friends left her, couldn’t stand her freakiness,” Draco laughed to his friends, just quietly enough for you and his friends to hear. This was going to be one hell of an hour. Lupin went on to talk about some spell and you swore that you were trying to concentrate on the teaching, but Draco and his friends kept throwing paper balls at you. Distracting you very badly. You made the mistake of opening the first ball that hit you, it had landed on your table. The terrible slur was scribbled all over it. You assumed they all had the same word on it, one wasn’t nearly as crumpled up like the others, so you were able to read it without touching it ”poof”.

You were holding back tears, sweating, your breathing as irregular as they come. ”Draco Malfoy,” Professor Lupin said, tone slightly raised. You didn’t dare to look up, the tears would’ve fallen if you did that. ”What did I do professor?” Draco asked, clearly pleased with himself since he knew that the teachers never actually punished him, only gave a bad word. ”Detention, Hagrid will have some tasks for you for at least a week with the seasons changing and all,” the professor said, voice stern but calm. You heard Draco scoff. ”Do you not know who I am?” He asked, clearly in disbelief. ”Yes, I just said it. Were you not paying attention?” Lupin said, drawing out a laugh from the other pupils. The bell rang before Draco had the chance to shoot something back, not that he had anything to say, maybe just the usual ”wait until my father hears about this.”

”Y/n, stay after class would you?” Lupin requested as you began gathering your stuff, still not lifting your gaze. You plopped back on your seat as a sign of protest. You just wanted to run into a bathroom stall and cry. The two of you waited until the classroom had been drained of the noisy students. ”I saw what he was doing to you,” Lupin said as he pulled a chair to sit in front of you. You didn’t answer, you tried to distract yourself with your cuticles. ”It’s okay if you’re upset. You’re allowed to cry,” he said, and that was it. One tear after another ran down your cheeks, falling on your desk. Your body slightly shook as you cried there. Remus handed you a napkin after you began crying, he waited there as you cried, not once telling you to stop crying. Only once your cries died down did he speak. ”Do you wish to talk about it?” He asked.

”It usually doesn’t get to me. My friends are usually here, but they weren’t today and Draco just took an advantage of that. It just proves that I can’t stand up for myself. I shouldn’t have come to class today,” you stated, so so incredibly upset. Remus sighed, you saw how his hands moved to grab yours but they quickly retreated. ”You shouldn’t think that. You can stand for yourself, you wouldn’t have gotten this far if you weren’t able to stand up for yourself. No one carried you here, you walked here. You are such a strong young man and you shouldn’t let kids like Draco bring you down,” Remus said. You lifted your head to look at your Professor. He was encouragingly smiling at you, his legs crossed, hands rested on his lap.

”Kids like him have a silver spoon so far up their arse even the dentist can see it,” he added, whispering with a smile on his face. His speech left you without words, you knew he was right and you were heavily entertained by the silver spoon thing. 

"Believe it or not, I know what I'm talking about. I too was very different from others my age," Lupin added. You saw how his eyes changed as he said it, you knew he wasn't different in the same way as you, but you knew his struggle was just as real as yours. 

"How did you get past it?" you sniffled, voice still raw from the crying. He smiled at you, "there's no "moving past" a thing as big as yours or mine. You need to embrace it, accept that part more or less," he said, voice now melancholy. "It's good that you have Harry, Hermione and Ron as your friends, they're great friends. I too had a friend who helped me, rely on them and trust them. Be honest," Remus instructed. 

You smiled at his words, you knew that Remus Lupin was good.

[yoosungisbabie]

it kills me to think of you (with another man) - day one

@mysme-events​

jumin x mc

rating: T

prompt: {jealousy} / nightmares / manipulation 

warnings: none♡

word count: 2,838

ao3 link

[ ko-fi | paypal ]

Jumin hears something he shouldn't have and assumes the worst.

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。

“I’m so sorry!” Yoosung cried over the phone, making her snicker as she glanced up at Zen. She’d put the call on speaker about halfway through, so he was able to hear every apology that came out of Yoosung’s mouth.

“It’s okay, really,” she replied with a warm laugh, smiling at the thought of his blonde hair sticking up and his eyes wide with panic. “We can meet up another day. For now, just make sure you get a good meal and don’t stress too much,” she told him, glancing down at the pavement as she heard a defeated sigh from his end.

“Get going already!” Zen whined, flashing her a playful smile when they both heard Yoosung groan in protest.

“Whatever. I’ll talk to you later,” he sighed, hanging up quickly. She glared a little at Zen, watching him chuckle as she returned her phone to her back pocket.

“Poor thing,” she said, mostly to herself. Yoosung had slept through his alarm, missing his early morning class and running late to their lunch meetup.

Zen scoffed, turning to walk in the direction of the cafe they’d agreed on. She followed, hearing the annoyance in just that small sound but knowing that he was just as worried about Yoosung.

“He needs to learn how to wake up on time or he’ll never grow up,” he grumbled, pulling his sunglasses down from resting on his head as the sun peeked out from behind the clouds. She smirked to herself, tilting her head to watch his face as they walked.

“Says the guy who drinks so much beer that he’s practically made of it,” she teased, watching his jaw drop in mock offense.

“Alcohol is for adults. That boy is not an adult,” he replied, keeping the scowl on his face for a few seconds more until he broke down into a smile. She nudged him a little as they walked, laughing happily to herself. She was glad that everyone in the RFA cared for each other so much, even if they didn’t always show it.

Just as they arrived at the small cafe, she caught a glimpse of a nearby newspaper stand. Her fiancé’s face was on the cover of all the magazines, and she was sure they were all talking about the big business deal that was going on behind the scenes at C&R. She’d been trying to put all of it out of her mind, and lunch with Yoosung and Zen had been another effort to do so.

As the two of them ate, they talked about Zen’s upcoming musical role and about the work she was doing to prepare for the next scheduled RFA party. Lunch was delicious and filling, but she couldn’t stop worrying about Jumin. He’d been buried in work for weeks, and she knew that day would be no different. His energy was completely gone by the time he returned home, and she knew it was wearing on him more and more as the days passed.

“You know,” Zen spoke up, pulling her from her thoughts while her chin rested in her hand. She blinked at him quickly, embarrassed to have zoned out during their conversation.

“I’ve found that acting helps you forget what’s going on in real life,” he said, raising an eyebrow at her like he was proposing something. She narrowed her eyes in response, sitting back in her chair. Zen had always been able to easily read her, but she was sure anyone would have been able to tell that her mind was miles away.

“What are you trying to say?” she teased, watching as he crumpled the napkin resting on his thigh and tossed it onto his empty plate.

“I’m saying,” he started, his expression shifting into one she was more familiar with. “That coming back to my place to help me rehearse my lines would probably help get your mind off of it,” he offered, clasping his hands together when she sighed and rolled her eyes. He was always ready to beg for her help, even if he was joking most of the time. But she could tell that he was really worried about her, so she considered it.

“The CEO-in-line won’t be home for hours. Just a few scenes?” he pleaded. She weighed his statement, knowing it was true. He probably wouldn’t return home until the later hours of the evening, and it was only early afternoon. Zen sighed, giving her an overdramatic pout that broke her facade and made her laugh.

“Fine,” she agreed, seeing him happily fist pump at his side which made her roll her eyes again.

They walked back to his house from the cafe and enjoyed the nice, spring day, all while Zen filled her in on the finer details of his show. She’d heard a lot about it already, but he also focused on informing her about the character she would be playing. She couldn’t see herself getting too into it, but if it would help him, she was willing to give it a shot.

Her mind continually drifted back to her fiancé, worrying about his stamina and state of mind. She also debated about mentioning her change of plans to him. She’d never said how long she would be out with Yoosung and Zen, but she figured Jumin would want to know if she was going to be somewhere other than where she’d originally planned.

But it was Zen’s house. She knew he would be opposed to it, whether he vocalized it or not, and bothering him when he was busy with such important work was the last thing she wanted to do. It all made the phone in her back pocket feel heavier, but she tried to calm herself by reasoning that she wouldn’t be there for very long.

She’d only been to Zen’s apartment on a few rare occasions, but it felt homey and comfortable every time. She sat down on the couch, and Zen went to freshen up, leaving her to research a few acting tips on her phone while she waited. She knew he didn’t expect her to be naturally talented, but she didn’t want to embarrass herself either.

The door to the bathroom opened behind her, making her jump a little and shove her phone into her back pocket without thinking to turn the screen off.

“Ready?” Zen asked, chuckling a little as he moved to sit next to her and saw the panic in her eyes. He handed her the script, waiting expectantly for her answer.

“I guess,” she nervously laughed, completely unaware of the number she’d accidentally dialed in her back pocket.

~~~~~

Jumin’s phone vibrated irritatingly against the wood of his desk, disrupting his thoughts completely. He pinched the bridge of his nose, dimming the brightness of his computer monitor as he reached across his desk to retrieve his phone.

When he saw her caller ID, the tension in his shoulders and neck released, and he was left with a warm, excited feeling. Everything would be alright if he could just hear her voice.

“My love,” he greeted, leaning into the hand that held his phone to his ear as his tired eyes fluttered closed. But he was met with silence, making his eyebrows furrow on his forehead.

“Hello?” he called, listening carefully and hearing what sounded like rustling paper.

“Go ahead,” he heard suddenly. The voice was muffled, but when he remembered her lunch plans with Yoosung and Zen, he placed the voice as belonging to the latter of the two.

“This marriage...this arrangement,” she spoke, making him sit up a little straighter and listen harder. What was she talking about? Why wasn’t she answering him?

“Hello?” he tried again, listening intently for a reply.

“It’s not what I want!” she exclaimed, her voice pained and awkward. Jumin tried to think clearly even as his heart started to race, wondering if she’d called him without knowing.

“Then why are you doing it?” Zen asked. He tried to focus on being rational, but when he realized they were talking about their engagement, his blood ran cold.

“I have no choice! I feel so...trapped,” she responded. Jumin felt a wave of nausea crash over him, the weight of her words hitting him unexpectedly hard. He couldn’t help the anguished, shaky sigh that left his lips, his mind aching to know more even though he wished to have never picked up the phone.

“You’re the one I love. It’s always been you,” she spoke passionately. He could have sworn he felt his heart tear itself into pieces, a trembling hand reaching up to press against his chest.

“I hoped that you felt the same, but...what about him?” Zen asked, prompting the hand that held Jumin’s phone to his ear to slowly fall to his desk. He ended the call, knowing that he’d heard enough.

Jumin stared at the pile of work in front of him, absently wondering if he’d ever felt such a tight, strangling feeling in his throat before. And when a tear rolled down his cheek, he almost laughed at how ridiculous he felt.

For a few moments, he was furious with himself. He’d known better than to follow in his father’s footsteps, but he’d been blind. She’d blinded him. His heart had become hers so quickly, so completely, because he’d thought she would be different.

After those moments passed, his anger was redirected, and his hand found his phone again. He burst out of his office, knowing that things needed to be dealt with swiftly for the sake of the company. He couldn’t waste any more time.

Driver Kim asked no questions as he drove to Zen’s apartment complex, and Jumin ignored every call from Jaehee, declining them as they came. His teeth were grinding together so harshly that part of him feared his teeth would shatter. The tension in his clenched fists only grew as he imagined what the two of them were saying, or doing, as he grew nearer.

Jumin silently got out of the car once they’d arrived in front of the apartment building. He hadn’t anticipated the trembling in his legs or his hands, but he worked to make his stride purposeful and swift. He felt as if he would fall apart at any moment, but there was no time for that.

Four swift raps on Zen’s door sent his heart into a frenzy once more, and he realized only then that he would see her within seconds. Her face, her lips, her eyes, her smile. But he’d already chosen to give all of her up. She didn’t truly care for him anyway.

Zen had no smile for him as the door swung open, only an expression of confusion. Seeing the man in front of him sparked something that he’d never felt before, but he tried to contain it because he could easily see himself barreling his fist into Zen’s face.

And he might have gone through with doing so if she hadn’t popped out from behind him with the brightest smile he’d seen all day.

“Jumin!” she exclaimed, pushing past Zen and rushing to his side. She gazed up at him happily, but the look he met her with stopped her in her tracks.

“Jumin?” she asked, her voice small. His eyes returned to Zen as he felt the tips of his ears burn with anger.

“I know what’s going on,” he growled, his voice coming out much lower than he’d anticipated. Zen glared in response, looking irritatingly clueless.

“You do?” she asked beside him, her hands pressing against his upper arm and distracting him. But that only made him angrier, so he stepped away from her, trying not to acknowledge the pang of guilt that shot through him when her face fell.

“You still don’t realize you called me while you two were confessing your feelings,” he said lowly, seeing her eyes widen and shift to Zen.

“Wait--” she started, quickly being cut off.

“What are you talking about?” he asked loudly, taking a step towards Jumin. The fact that they were both trying to deny it filled him with rage, making a short, loud breath rush from his nose.

“I understand your dislike of me, but this is a level of disrespect I didn’t expect, even from you,” he spoke firmly, seeing Zen’s expression twist into anger to match his own.

“Disrespect? I have no idea what you’re even talking about!” Zen yelled, making Jumin stop and take a deep breath before he lost his control completely.

“I heard you,” he began, taking another breath before looking at his fianceé. “I heard you telling him that you love him.” Her lips pressed into a trembling pout, and tears gathered in her eyes. He looked away quickly, unable to contain the emotions surging within himself at the sight of her.

“And I heard you say you felt the same way,” Jumin seethed, returning his hard gaze to Zen. The actor flinched, stopping to think for a moment before raising his eyebrows.

“Hold on,” he scoffed, a brief laugh coming from him. The sound infuriated Jumin further, the impropriety in his crimson eyes finally pushing him over the edge.

Jumin grabbed the collar of his shirt, shoving him back against the wall next to his apartment door. Zen gasped, his eyes blowing wide open in fury and shock.

“Tell me right now,” Jumin growled, twisting his grip against the fabric of Zen’s shirt. “How long has this been going on?” His ears were ringing to the point that he couldn’t hear his fianceé begin to cry behind him, his senses completely honed in on the man he’d pinned to the wall.

“No, you listen!” Zen yelled, gripping his wrist forcefully. “If you’re talking about the lines we were practicing for my show, congratulations! You look like a complete idiot,” Zen spat, making Jumin narrow his eyes.

“Excuse me?” he spoke lowly, feeling another wave of nausea hit him but not wanting to believe he’d misunderstood so severely.

“I-I must have accidentally c-called you,” she spoke up, rushing to their sides with tears on her rosy cheeks. Jumin eyed her, glancing back at Zen for confirmation.

“She was helping me practice for my upcoming rehearsal,” the actor offered, his eyes still wide and his expression still one of disbelief. “I’ll show you the script if you still don’t believe me. Will you let go?” he hissed, yanking on Jumin’s wrist as he hesitantly let Zen away from the wall.

His eyes wandered back to her as she trembled just beside the two of them, her hands over her heart. What he’d perceived as guilt now became worry in her shining eyes, his shattered heart plummeting into the pit in his stomach. He’d never felt so childish and ashamed.

Zen smoothed out his shirt, huffing in exasperation when Jumin met his eyes for a moment. He could feel the bile rising in his throat, his knees weakening underneath himself and threatening to give out. What had he done?

“I...I’m sorry,” he choked out, not daring to meet her eyes even though her watery gaze was glued to him. He turned quickly, keeping his eyes on the ground as he quietly excused himself.

Jumin began walking back to the car, willing himself to become numb instead of dealing with the whirlwind of emotions inside of him.

He heard footsteps rushing after him, his eyes falling closed when his own steps faltered involuntarily.

“Jumin,” she whimpered, moving to stand in front of him. It took him a moment to meet her eyes, cursing himself for all of the horrible things he’d assumed about her in just the past half hour.

But in that moment, all of her attention was on him like Zen had never existed, and he wished he was worthy of falling into her arms and hiding from the rest of the world and all his sins.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, bidding more tears to fall from her reddened eyes. He shook his head weakly, clenching his fists at his sides.

“I made assumptions and didn’t think to talk with you first. I’m the one who’s should be apologizing,” he said, sounding pathetic and small. She sighed heavily, shaking her head and moving closer into a hug that he didn’t have the strength to resist.

“It’s always been you, Jumin,” she breathed, holding him tightly. He longed to find comfort in her words, but couldn’t help but find the resemblance to the ones he’d heard over the phone, line from a script or not.

He let her hold him, feeling his hands continue to tremble as he pressed them against her lower back. The way she embraced him spoke volumes to him about her sincerity, but he couldn’t remove the seed of doubt that had been planted in his heart.

So he tightened his arms around her, swearing to himself to make sure she’d remain by his side even if she’d been lying.

~~~~~

aaaah thank you for reading, and welcome to mysme angst week 2020! 

writing like this is definitely a little new to me, but i had a lot of fun preparing these pieces for this week! i hope you all enjoy, and thank you for all your support and love! <3 

[eternalstereksecretsanta]

love letters straight from your heart

For the lovely @poetry-protest-pornography, who listed one of their favorite tropes as “doing something nice for the other and getting caught.” although this didn’t quite turn out to be that, I hope you enjoy anyway ♥

It seemed like a good idea at the time. How much of Stiles’ life was shaped by those words? But this? This was probably one of the worst decisions he had ever made.

After two years of living in the dorms, Stiles was faced with a choice. Either find some people to get a shitty apartment with, or move back home. Between nightmares and training with Deaton, moving back to Beacon Hills made the most sense. The commute was only an hour and he had managed to schedule his on-campus classes to meet only on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Everything else he could take online.

But he just had to go complaining about moving back in with his dad to Derek over the summer. In his defense, he never expected Derek to offer his spare room. Because Derek had a house now. A very nice house. And a job.

Honestly, the idea of living somewhere he could be independent, yet still see his dad whenever he wanted was too good to pass up. But now, standing in the fancy kitchen and staring at the yellow sticky note on the coffee maker, he couldn’t help but feel that he’d made a mistake.

DO YOUR OWN DISHES, spelled out in Derek’s blocky hand writing stared back at him. Stiles sighed, scrunching up the yellow square and setting it beside his mug. It was the fifth note he’d found in as many days. One in the bathroom (PICK UP YOUR TOWELS), one on the refrigerator (DON’T DRINK MY BEER), and several others scattered across the house.

It was infuriating. This was the reason Stiles had wanted to sit down and draw up a roommate contract, but Derek’s only stipulation was ‘pay the rent on time.’ Stiles rinsed his mug and dropped it into the dishwasher. It hadn’t even been a week and he was already worrying about making this work.

—

Stiles was stubborn. He told his dad this was for the best, so he was going to stick it out. And Derek wasn’t a bad roommate, really. He worked odd hours because he was the newest deputy on the force, but he was always quiet and neat. Sometimes Stiles didn’t even know he was home.

After the first month, Derek convinced him to take the Toyota to class. It had much better gas mileage, plus meant less wear and tear on the Jeep. So Stiles parked Roscoe in the garage with the Camaro and hung the new set of keys off of his keyring.

All in all, Stiles though they were doing well. Even if they rarely saw each other. (Which, considering the massive crush he had on Derek, was probably for the best. No need to make it weird.)

It had been two weeks without a damn sticky note, so Stiles figured he’d cleaned up his act enough to make Derek happy. Until one morning he came down to a note reading PICK UP YOUR SHIT. It was stuck to the wall above the pile of shoes and sweatshirts and textbooks that had accumulated in the living room.

Stiles sighed heavily before gathering up the mess to take to his room. “This is why we need the expectations outlined,” he grumbled, not even caring if he woke Derek up.

He dumped everything on the floor, grabbed his backpack, and shut the door a tad bit harder than necessary. KEEP YOUR DOOR CLOSED OR CLEAN YOUR ROOM had been the last message and Stiles tried hard to comply. But hell, it was exhausting trying to remember all of the rules. Maybe he should have kept the notes instead of crumpling each one and throwing it away.

—

For the first two months living together, Stiles could count on one hand the number of times he’d actually spoken to Derek. Part of it was his crazy schedule, with classes and training with Deaton and hanging out with his dad. And the rest was Derek’s apparent preference for night shifts. In fact, it wasn’t until mid-October that Derek finally confronted Stiles about his sleeping habits.

Stiles was neck deep in practice tests when the door to the garage swung open. Derek dropped his work bag on the kitchen floor and slipped into the chair across from him. There were notecards, loose leaf papers, and multiple notebooks spread across the table between them.

Derek took in the chaos and sighed. “Why are you still up?”

“Stupid exam tomorrow.” Stiles didn’t even look away from his screen. The words stopped making sense an hour ago, but there was no way he could remember this many conjugations.

“Go to bed.” Derek gently slid the laptop out of range. “You can’t learn anything when you’re this tired.”

“But…” Stiles’ protest died as Derek fixed him with a look. It clearly conveyed that he wasn’t listening to arguments. Defeated, Stiles leaned back in his chair and yawned widely. Ugh. It was almost four in the morning.

The next day was brutal. Stiles rolled out of bed at eight o’clock to an alarm that he didn’t remember setting. He stumbled down the stairs, trying not to wake Derek with his heavy footfalls. But when he went to pull the milk out of the refrigerator, the sight of a yellow sticky note on the door made him freeze.

In neat capital letters, it said: GOOD LUCK TODAY. There was even a smiley face. Was this the Twilight Zone?

Stiles stared, then blinked several times. But the words didn’t disappear.

He smiled the entire duration of his morning routine, stopping to stick the note to the inside cover of his Latin textbook before he left. Then he hopped into Derek’s Toyota and drove to school.

He aced the exam.

—

Several weeks passed and Derek was already out on his night shift when Stiles shuffled in from school. He’d had an incredibly long day, filled with lectures and labs and finishing a stupid group project. Finding a familiar yellow note hanging from the microwave didn’t fill him with dread anymore. Especially not when it said: DINNER’S IN THE FRIDGE.

Stiles heated up the leftovers, feeling exhausted and content. Derek had even made his absolute favorite because he knew today was going to suck.

It was difficult not to read into Derek’s little acts of kindness, and Stiles was crushing harder with every note. The newest one was going to hang alongside DON’T FORGET YOUR LUNCH, and SCOTT SAYS HELLO, and DON’T WORRY I’LL BUY MORE COFFEE TONIGHT, and HAVE A GOOD DAY. That last note had Stiles grinning like a lunatic, to the point where Deaton asked if everything was alright.

So all in all, life with Derek was good. Stiles just had to keep reminding himself that Derek was a friend and not his co-lead in some rom-com about a werewolf and a spark who live together and fight crime. Although that would probably be an awesome idea for a TV show.

Shaking his head at the thought, Stiles loaded his dishes into the dishwasher and headed up to bed.

—

Halfway through the semester, Stiles’ three accelerated online classes had finals. He was super excited because that meant he’d be down to only two classes. His work load was about to be so much easier, and he might even have time to catch up on Netflix

The only problem was that the exams had to be scheduled at the proctoring center on campus. And because he was an idiot, he scheduled them all back to back. How he was going to survive six hours of testing was a mystery.

But Derek stayed up with him every night for a week, flipping through notecards and quizzing him on what he knew. Plus, he promised to take the night off and have a movie marathon once Stiles got home. Because Derek’s house was ‘home’ now and Derek was one of his best friends.

Sure enough, a yellow square saying: YOU’VE GOT THIS was already in his spot on the kitchen table. Stiles grinned at the note, peeling it away so he could add it to his collection.

—

On a typical Thursday night, Derek tapped at the door and stepped into Stiles’ room. Which he had never actually been in before. It seemed kind of weird, now that Stiles thought about it. He glanced over at the mountain of three week old laundry in the corner that was offensive to even his human nose and, well maybe not.

Marking his page, he set the textbook on his desk. “Hey, what’s up?”

Derek didn’t respond. He was staring at the bed with a slightly dazed expression. Then Stiles remembered the little yellow squares affixed to the headboard in neat rows.

He flushed, not really sure what to say. “Was there something that you wanted?”

Derek tore his eyes away. “I just wanted to make sure you were ready.”

Right. This morning’s note read WE’RE HAVING DINNER WITH YOUR DAD. It was a nice reminder of the fact that Derek was taking fewer night shifts. Sometimes he was even around to hang out with.

“Give me a second.” Stiles glanced down at his ratty sweatpants and stained t-shirt. Man did he need to do laundry.

He emerged from his room in more appropriate clothes and followed Derek out to the Camaro.

They were halfway to his house when Derek broke the silence. “You kept the notes.”

“Yup.” Because, obviously.

—

Stiles rushed home from school. It was the last day of the semester and normally he’d be ecstatic to have his freedom back. But this time, he was too nervous. Honestly he had no idea what he was thinking that morning. Maybe he could still get back in time to take that idiotic note off of the counter.

He parked in the driveway and sprinted to the door, hands shaking as he unlocked it. When the door finally clicked open, he crashed into the kitchen. The shower upstairs was running. Fuck. Maybe he could call it a friend dinner? People probably made reservations at the fanciest restaurant in town for friend dinners all the time. Right?

Stiles’ panicked eyes landed on the note. His hurried scrawl: Dinner at Luka’s? 6pm was followed by Derek’s blocky print spelling out: IT’S A DATE and underlined three times.

Sagging against the counter, Stiles took a deep breath. He knew he hadn’t imagined the last few weeks. Derek was home all the time now, only taking shifts while Stiles was training or at school. Which meant they spent most of their day bickering over recipes and watching crappy television.

It was awesome and domestic and Stiles couldn’t wait to date the hell out of Derek Hale.

—

(And five years later, they visited Luca’s again. But this time, Stiles’ drink came with a sticky note asking WILL YOU MARRY ME?)

[cksmart-world]

SMART BOMB

The completely unnecessary news analysis

by Christopher Smart

July 13, 2021

GOODBYE GREAT SALT LAKE — HELLO BABYLON

How can you have a Salt Lake City without a Great Salt Lake? Here's the honest truth: The Great Salt Lake is drying up — FAST. Soon it will just be a dusty depression where crazy people drive ATVs around in circles kicking up toxic dust. But it was just three decades ago that Gov. Norm Bangerter installed gigantic pumps on the lake's western shores to drain the rising waters before they flooded the airport. Back then our mountains got 600 inches of snow each winter. But we're faced with another problem now: It would be like having a Bonneville City without Lake Bonneville. Dumb. There is a lot of denial, but if history is any guide we could end up like Babylon, Carthage and Angkor Watt. People would say, what is Salt Lake City? as though it were Palenque. No surprise, Mayor Erin Mendenhall is having none of it. She commissioned a new city flag and pressed the City Council to pass an ordinance forbidding the lake from drying up. Not least, SLOC is seeking the 2034 Winter Olympics like there will be a Great Salt Lake and other stuff, like snow. We need a new name that will reflect more aptly where we live. How about something like New Egypt. We could import camels and the Utah Travel Council would just love it: “Greatest Humps on Earth.”

HATE CRIME IN PANGUICH? SHUT UP!

There are certain places you shouldn't go if you have a Biden or Obama bumper sticker on your Subaru. Blanding, Utah, comes to mind. And if you have one disparaging Trump, you should never leave Salt Lake County. But this latest bit of news actually scared the hell out of Wilson and the band: A 19-year-old woman was charged with a hate crime after allegedly stomping on a sign at a gas station in Panguitch — population 1,712. (We aren't making this up.) The sign read “Back the Blue,” referring, of course, to law enforcement. Ever since Black Lives Matter, others want to matter, too — Blue Lives Matter, White Lives Matter, Red Necks Matter... Anyway, you might add Garfield County to the “don't go zone” if you aren't white and conservative — a  MAGA hat wouldn't hurt. According to Tribune ace Jordan Miller, the arresting officer's statement said: The woman “crumpled the sign up in a destructive manner and threw it into a trash can all while smirking in an intimidating manner towards me.” There is this little matter of the First Amendment. Stomping on a sign falls under freedom of expression, as does burning Old Glory. Still, the woman faces up to one year in the slammer — Bill of Rights be damned — and Panguitch is a much safer place.

GOP HAS GONE NEO-FASCIST — BUT DON'T TELL UTAHNS

One-time Republican strategist Susan Del Percio shuns the term, “Trumpism,” because the M.O. of the present-day Republican Party goes much deeper. “Neo-fascism, that's what the grassroots of the Republican Party is right now,” she said. Well, neo-fascism can't be so bad — Trump once said, “Well, Hitler did a lot of good things, too.” But don't tell Utah Republicans they are neo-fascists. They could get even more confused. Lately they've been convinced their kids could be indoctrinated by Marxists, vis-à-vis  critical race theory. And, of course, they think Trump won the election, despite 60 court rulings that say otherwise. The question for people like Del Percio is how to get the GOP back from QAnon Zombies, the Jan. 6 mob and evangelicals who think Trump is the Savior (seriously). The Swiss and Danes found that fighting Neo-Nazis on their own terms was fruitless, but providing a positive vision of the future without them was like throwing water on the Wicked Witch of the West. The staff here at Smart Bomb had a brainstorm: why not create a hologram of a brown Jesus washing the feet of Nancy Pelosi. It's far fetched, we know, but bringing the GOP back from Zombieland will take more than cutting off their heads with chainsaws.

Post script — OK, sun-worshipers that's a wrap for another week here in paradise, where we keep track of Mike Lee's drivel so you don't have to. Critical race theory will “weaponize diversity,” Mikey ranted last week as he launched a fund-raiser to ensure that kids will not learn this is a racist country. The senator, who grew up in an all-white neighborhood, went to a white college (BYU) and white law school (at BYU) knows a lot about diversity because every evening black and brown people come to clean his office. Lee rode into the Senate on the Tea Party wave of 2010, adding to his street cred on civil rights. Fun Fact: Mikey clerked for Supreme Court Justice Samuel Alito — who is a bit to the right of Sarah Palin — when he sat on the U.S. Court of Appeals. So why all the hoo-ha about critical race theory? Columnist Leonard Pitts says this: “It is this year’s War on Christmas. It’s Sharia law, gay wedding cake and new Black Panthers... so white people feel resentful, frightened and besieged — and vote accordingly.” But fear not, the GOP has never used racism as a political strategy, except for Nixon's “southern strategy,” Reagan's “Welfare moms driving Cadillacs,” Bush Sr.'s Willy Horton and Trump's Mexican rapists. Racist Country? Nah.

Well, Wilson, it's hot and smokey and the band is going to need a lot of beer to survive. So, lets raise a mug of grog to Mike Lee and maybe you and the guys can play a little something Sen. White Bread might appreciate:

We skipped the light fandango turned cartwheels 'cross the floor I was feeling kinda seasick but the crowd called out for more The room was humming harder as the ceiling flew away When we called out for another drink the waiter brought a tray And so it was that later as the miller told his tale that her face, at first just ghostly, turned a whiter shade of pale

(Whiter Shade of Pale — Procol Harum)

[sadrien]

prince of cats

chapter six: good pilgrim

on ao3 || on ffnet 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

kind of forgot it was an update day because i have something i need to finish for a friend and i'm stressed

enjoy!!!

“It wasn’t a date,” Marinette says, holding the phone to her ear with her shoulder as she unfolds fabric. “We sat on the couch and watched a bad Hallmark movie.”

Nino scoffs on the other end. “Mari, I hate to break it to you, but that’s basically what mine and Alya’s last date was.”

Marinette rolls her eyes. “This is the difference: you two are dating. Adrien and I are not.”

“Sure, sure,” Nino drawls.

“The intention is different,” she insists. “Anything can be a date if there are romantic intentions.”

“How do you know there weren’t any?”

Marinette puts down the fabric. “Why are we friends again?”

“Because you love me,” Nino says with a smile in his voice. “And because I gave you crackers on our first day of school.”

She hums and goes back to her fabric. “I’m still pretty sure you’re seeing things that aren’t there.”

“And I think you aren’t letting yourself consider the possibility that Adrien likes you back because you like him so much.”

She scoffs. “If you say that I’m afraid of getting hurt—”

“Isn’t everyone a little afraid of getting hurt?” Nino asks. “I feel like that’s a very human thing to be afraid of, you know?”

Marinette raises her eyebrows. “That’s very deep, Mr. Lahiffe.”

“I can be deep if I try.”

“Yeah I remember our three in the morning sleepover talks.”

Nino laughs. “Aw man, yeah those were great. We should do that again.”

“We’re grown adults,” she reminds him.

“And? Who cares. Let’s have a sleepover, Mar. Just like old times. You, me, Alya— hell, we can even invite Adrien to the fun.”

“Oh god no.” Marinette steps away from her kitchen table. “If you really loved me, you would never do that. I do not want Adrien witnessing the disaster that is me after one it the morning.”

“But after one in the morning Mari is the best Mari!” Nino protests.

Marinette collapses onto the couch. “Hard no.”

“We could play spin the bottle. Seven minutes in heaven.”

She snorts. “Okay, are we in uni again? I remind you that you have a very serious girlfriend who you love very much. Spin the bottle is very hard to rig.”

She can almost see Nino shrugging. “If some of the kisses don’t match up exactly it’s not the end of the world. It’s not like we’ve never kissed before.”

“True,” Marinette murmurs, checking her nails.

“Same with Alya. So really…to complete the square, we all have to kiss Adrien.”

“Is that what counts as initiation into our friend group?” Marinette asks. “Kissing?”

“Yes.”

She shakes her head. “If you didn’t scare him away before, you’d definitely scare him away now.”

“We were plenty nice!” Nino says. “It’s been two weeks since we exchanged names, you sure we can’t get his number or something? Alya is going to have a cow.”

Marinette huffs. “Don’t tell, Al but… I don’t even have his number.” She makes a face at the long silence.  

“Goddamn, Mari. Why not?”

She shrugs. “We live next to each other. I’ve never…needed it? I mean, would it be nice to have? Sure. But I don’t want to push him and he’s never offered so…”

“Do you need me to take on the Alya role because she’s working?”

Marinette sighs. “Is saying no going to stop you?”

“Get his number, girl!”

She clicks her tongue. “So many demands. Last names, universities, phone numbers— do you need his blood type too?”

“I’m sure Alya could find some use for that.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. We’re lucky she didn’t go into like, espionage or something. She’d be scary.”

“Are you saying she isn’t scary now?”

“No,” Marinette admits. “Alya is still very scary now. She’d just be way more terrifying in covert operations.”   

“She really would be,” Nino muses.

Marinette smiles to herself. “You love her a lot.”

Nino sighs happily. “Yeah I do. It’s a good thing I’m such a dumbass. Probably wouldn’t have gotten her attention otherwise.”

Marinette raises her eyebrows. “I’m sorry, weren’t Alya and I friends before you two started dating?”

“Yeah, but nothing really gets someone’s attention like chugging a Monster-coffee combo ten minutes before class.”

“Hm, I suppose that’s true. How did you survive lycée again?”

“A good question, my dude. A really good one.”

Marinette looks up as there’s a knock at her door.

“Is that the boyfriend?” Nino asks.

“Shut up,” she mutters. “I’m not sure, but I’ll call you back later, okay?”

“Sure thing, man. Remember all the details for, Al.”

“I always do. Bye.”

“Peace, dude.”

Marinette pulls open the door and Adrien holds out a book. She stares at it — the book, not the hand holding it out to her, definitely not — for a long moment before looking up at him. “Hi?”

“I totally stole this from you the other day,” he apologizes.

Marinette takes the book and flips it over to skim the summary on the back. “Honestly, I didn’t even know I had this book. I’m not sure if I ever read it. Was it good?”

Adrien shrugs. “It was okay. Kind of predictable ending, but it passed the time.”

“Hm. Not sure if I’ll ever read it, but I’ll keep your indepth review in mind.”

He smiles. “Thanks for letting me borrow it, even if you didn’t notice.”

“Of course, what’s mine is yours,” Marinette says before realizing that may be a little too revealing. “I really like your ring by the way.” She gestures to the silver ring on his right hand. She’s noticed him wearing it before, but she’s never really gotten a good look at it before. Plus she needs to change the subject as fast as humanly possible.

“This old thing?” Adrien asks, holding up his hand. “Thanks, it’s an old family heirloom. It’s sentimental, but it’s not really worth anything.”

Marinette shrugs. “Sometimes sentimentality is all that you need.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, examining the ring. He shakes his head. “Anyway, I have to get back to work, but I’ll see you later?”

She nods and tries not to smile too widely. “Yeah, that sounds great. Have fun at your kitchen table.”

“Always do,” he says with a crooked smile as he turns to his door.

Marinette closes the door and cleans against it, clutching her book to her chest.

She’s so gone.

✦ ✦ ✦

Marinette skips dinner.

She’s been working on an idea for a new line all afternoon and her mind feels like jello. It’d probably be a good idea to take a break and let her mind rest, but she’s kind of in the zone, and she doesn’t want to risk losing it.

It takes Alya sending thirty two texts about something that happened at work for Marinette to finally put down the pencil and grab a quick sandwich and a drink while she reads through Alya’s rant.

And then she goes right back to work.

Page after page of failed design and scribbled out notes. She resists the urge to scratch things out and rip pages out of her sketchbook so she can crumple them up and throw them away. She tries to keep everything she designs, even things that she doesn’t like that much. It’s good for learning.

But when she’s low on patience, she scribbles them out anyway.

She almost breaks her pencil crossing out a pantsuit that makes her want to quit her job and return her degree.

“I hate this,” she grumbles to herself, hitting her sketchbook against her forehead.

She stands up with a sigh, doing a quick stretch and pacing around the apartment for a few minutes. Then she turns on her laptop and finds some music to listen to it and plugs in her headphones because it’s too late to blast music aloud.

She starts a dress and gets halfway through the skirt before she realizes she’s already designed this dress.

Back to the drawing board.

✦ ✦ ✦

Marinette drags her hands down her face and glances over at the clock. Half an hour after midnight.

Time to give up.

She packs up her laptop and tablet and puts them into her bag by the door. She thinks about her plan for tomorrow before adding her current sketchbook and some markers to it as well.

She wanders around the apartment for a few minutes, drinking a glass of water and trying to calm her anxiety. A little bit of artblock never killed anyone. She’ll get past this hurdle and be back to designing things she’s proud of in no time.

She’s looking forward to work in the morning. She’s looking forward to having some direction. Any direction.

Marinette flops on her bed and stares at the ceiling for a long time.

Tomorrow will be better. It has to be.

✦ ✦ ✦

Marinette jerks awake as a loud beeping pierces through her dreams. She didn’t know what it was in her dream, she just knew it was annoying, but now her heart is pounding and she feels like she’s about to be sick.

Fire alarm.

For a moment, she wonders if it’s a drill (do they even have those anywhere other than school?) or was pulled on accident, before the alarms in her mind start going off because that doesn’t matter.  

She snatches her phone from her charger as she runs out the door, nearly tripping as she slips on a pair of flip flops she always has by the door and grabbing her work bag because her entire life is in that bag and she knows you’re not supposed to take anything in an emergency but it’s right there.

As soon as she throws open the door, she can smell the smoke and she doesn’t know how she didn’t notice it before now. She blames the adrenaline.

People are rushing out of their apartments. Someone’s child is crying and heavy footsteps echo through the stairway.

This is actually happening.

Marinette can’t move.

She gasps as someone grabs her arm and drags her along. She finds herself looking at Adrien with terrified eyes.

“We have to go,” Adrien says, running a hand through his hair. He has his phone in his hand and his long black trench coat on, but he’s barefoot and each time he drags a hand over his hair it gets messier.

She probably shouldn’t be focusing so much on him as they follow the crowd out of the building, but he’s strangely grounding. Him, his face, the pressure of his hand on his arm.

They always say to be calm and quiet if there’s a fire in school, but everyone is running and pushing. People are screaming and crying and yelling out to others.

The smoke gets thinner as they go down, but it’s still starting to burn Marinette’s eyes. A mother next to her covers her child’s mouth with her sleeve.

Marinette gasps as they step out into the humid night air. She feels like she’s about to start crying; there’s a lump in her throat and a pressure in the back of her head.

Adrien freezes next to her. He lets go of her arm and shoves her forward. “Go!”

“A-Adrien?” she asks, twisting around to look at him.

“Just go!” he shouts.

He turns and pushes back inside of the building.

Back into the smoke.

Back into the fire.

“Adrien!” Marinette screams, her voice breaking.

The crowd drags her forward. Someone crashes into her. She can hear sirens down the street above the screaming.

Adrien is gone.

[angeltriestoblog]

Sophomore year recap, vol. 1

Funny how I only ever go on this blog to give sporadic life updates, which are honestly just lengthier versions of what goes on my Instagram dump. But, I'd hate to let this practice die—plus, I love to write, so it continues for another year. I recently wrapped up my first semester of sophomore year—yet another testament to how fast time flies by—and it's safe to presume that it was the most rewarding chapter of my stay in Ateneo, thus far. I admit I did spend most of my freshman year in my comfort zone (while still managing to make my fair share of rookie mistakes, go me!). Although I don't completely blame myself for not being able to adjust from the get-go, I do admit that my life would have been much easier if I didn't take so long to warm up to the idea of embracing change and taking risks. Upon realizing this, there was a certain pressure that came with it to make up for lost time and try to do as much I could before my body eventually gives out.

For starters, I became more active in the three organizations I am a member of, all of which demanded so much of my energy, and pushed my brain power and time management skills to the test, but were very fulfilling to be in nonetheless. (A little note from Editing Angel: This is where this post starts to look a little bit like a LinkedIn profile.)

I signed up to be a part of the Sanggunian, the student government of the University, under the Commission on Mental Health, since I am an advocate for challenging the stigma that surrounds this issue, as well as providing the proper support to those who need it. I was eventually put under Secretariat, where I was in charge of the databases and documents, taking minutes of the meeting, and updating attendance and post trackers. Although it wasn't the department I had originally planned on getting into, I did enjoy learning about the more technical side of the team and took pride in the fact that I was able to put some of the lessons I learned in ITM over intersession to good use. And by that I mean conditional formatting, but whatever ok!

But, at some point the forces of the universe decided to pull some strings and bring me to my first choice: Humans of Ateneo (HOA), a page that aims to share stories of those within the Ateneo community with the hopes of inspiring others. To this day, I work there as a literary editor, who is basically in charge of transcribing recordings of interviews and turning them into the text posts our audience sees on their Facebook timelines. I love what I do right now, because not only do I feel endlessly inspired by each story of resilience I encounter, but also fulfilled since I am partly responsible for getting that story out there for the rest of the world to see. But, I guess it wouldn't be entirely wrong to say that my favorite story so far has to be Mayor Vico Sotto's, especially because HOA Core (minus Marice, and plus Yanna) and I travelled all the way to Pasig City Hall to hear it from him in the flesh. I can confirm that he is definitely more good-looking in person, that he establishes eye contact when he speaks, and that he is one of the most insightful and substantial human beings I've ever met.

Since being a part of the team, I have also had access to opportunities both within the sub-commission and Sanggu, as a whole. I've been given leadership positions that allowed me to step up to the plate, one of which was directing a video we launched in celebration of World Mental Health Day. My co-project head Bel and I had to conceptualize it from scratch based solely on a spoken word poem given to us, and plan and plot its shooting over the course of one week—definitely a feat given our conflicts in schedule, and the unpredictable weather. Next year, I'll be pretty hands-on when it comes to manning the Peer Support Group of our commission, as I have been assigned as a member of the core team, so that's definitely something to watch out for.

I've attended active listening workshops to help me be better in tending to the needs of others: by either providing them with a newfound support system, or sharing sound advice. I was a part of the sub-core team behind Humans of Ateneo: IRL, where prestigious alumni were invited to speak on their journeys, much like three HOA posts come to life. I also ended up emceeing a freshman drug talk all by myself, because I was only informed at the very last minute that my co-host had other commitments to attend to. I remember practically shaking from the nerves and squealing right in front of the speakers that day, but I managed to pull through with more confidence and less awkward finger guns than I thought possible.

I think this is the org where I took the most initiative and was therefore the busiest, but I didn't mind at all because I was surrounded by such wonderful people. I met most of my team over intersession during a workshop that I wasn't even wholeheartedly willing to attend (because it coincided with what was my last chance to catch Ben&Ben live on their Limasawa Street tour), and thus wasn't expecting much out of. But, we meshed so well together almost instantly as we opened up to one another about experiences and secrets we only would have shared to our closest friends. The acceptance and belongingness was palpable from that point on, and it continues to manifest in how strong our bond is right now.

Aside from that, I got in The GUIDON, the University's student publication, as a Features writer. This is going to sound like such a humble brag, but I honestly didn't expect to be accepted. I'm well aware of how rigorous the week-long application process is, I got the news from friends who failed to make the cut and even saw it for myself during the general assembly they held specifically for applicants. I remember checking my e-mail and being greeted by a list of requirements I needed to accomplish for both of the staffs I applied for: mock articles, interviews, live tweets that all needed to show my unique writing style and authentic take on issues both in and outside the four walls of the campus, that were so overwhelming in scope that I had to call up a friend just to yell in her ear for 10 straight minutes. For the next few days after, tears were shed, friends were ghosted, drafts were created then scrapped, fished out of the Recently Deleted folder, and revised in an endless and vicious cycle—I don't think I had ever written as eloquently, gone as long without checking my phone, or listened to only one playlist on loop for literal days prior to those moments, and yet I was still very unsure of my chances because I knew I was up against some tough competition: veteran staffers of high school publications, and liberal arts majors who looked like they had more personality in their thumbs than I did in my entire body. I remember beating myself up for backing out of my second choice (hi Vantage), which would significantly decrease my chances of getting in. It's just that I knew I was incapable of submitting anything that wasn't half-assed at that point, and I couldn't bear to show them anything that I myself could not give an Angel Seal of Approval.

Thankfully, all of my hard work paid off eventually. Only two days after I had submitted the folder containing my requirements to the respective editor, I was working on a paper in a cafe (the table adjacent to the door of Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, Robinsons Galleria, to be very exact) when I received the acceptance letter in my inbox. I burst into tears, crumpled to the floor, and replied with the most articulate response I could muster: “SKLDFJSDLKFJSDLKFJSDLFJSLFSDKJ THANK YOU SO MUCH I am literally crying in the middle of this coffee shop.... thank you.... so much....”

As of this writing, I've published two articles under Features: one about the ghosting phenomenon that remains prevalent in romantic relationships, and another about the experiences of Ateneans with autism spectrum disorder. My job honestly feels like both work and a vacation at the same time, because it allows me to talk about a diverse set of topics with interesting people who are experts in the field, while doing what I feel like I'm best at. But, since a part of me will always consider Vantage my TOTGA, I took on some extra work for them and wrote a film review on "G!", a movie that came out as part of the Pista ng Pelikulang Pilipino earlier this year, which has proven itself to be the worst I've seen in my entire life for reasons I cannot even begin to explain. I didn't necessarily have high expectations of it upon seeing the trailer, but I hyped myself up for it nevertheless. I even bought tickets for me and my friend Christine online because I was afraid that they would be sold out, and we dashed out of our MSYS classroom as soon as our professor said goodbye to book a Grab and hurry to SM North EDSA to make it to our screening... only to barge in the theater and see that we were the only two people in the cinema. I mean, there was one couple in the far corner, but they didn't look very present. In addition to that, I did a food review on a JSEC stall called Chopsticks. I honestly think that food is the most challenging topic to write about, because it's hard to convey how something tastes. When someone asks me to describe the viand I'm eating, I often end up just giving them a spoonful so they can see for themselves. But, I hopped on it anyway, because how could I even say no to sampling an entire menu of Chinese food for free? Several plates of dimsum and chicken later, I gave them a well-deserved five star rating and consider myself as a frequent diner. The experience was made extra fun since I was able to chat with the owner of the business, and my photographer who turned out to be someone I followed on Instagram way back in 2015 and admired for how clean and curated her feed was! (Hi, Kim and Alexis hehe)

As if all of the things mentioned above weren't already enough, I also covered a talk on the future of scientists in the Philippines (which I also have an article on—this goes to show just how diverse the scope of my work can get), attended workshops on feature writing and the relation of journalism and mental health, participated in a rally against professors involved in sexual harassment cases in the Ateneo (pretty badass behavior, if you ask me!), and became a facilitator for a high school publication in this event called Point One. I guess I have The GUIDON to thank for my lack of writer's block: they've managed to keep my brain running on hyperdrive, and my creative juices flowing more than they ever have before.

Last but not the least, of course I chose to stay in my home organization, ACTM. Although I didn’t run for any position or apply to be a part of the Leaders Core (yet), I did my best to make myself visible and show my support in any of the events we participated in or projects that we spearheaded. I signed up as a part of the logistics subcore for the annual Prepcourse, where I helped out with set design and ran some errands for officers in the different booths they manned throughout that day. I honestly have a soft spot for the project, since I remember that the first time I felt genuinely happy during freshman year was during my own Prepcourse (Orsem didn't really do it for me, sorry friends) so even though I missed the chance to be a facilitator, I still wanted to be a part of the event in some way. I also hung out with blockmates and friends all throughout Tambay Week, supported our candidates for Mr. and Ms. SOM, as well as our dance team for RIB eliminations, and dressed up as Kim Possible for the annual Halloween party we held—I was even able to go with Ron Stoppable, thanks to my friend Iverson, who dressed up as him as a surprise.

Although the obvious highlight of my stay in ACTM so far has to be attending LEAP, a three-day leadership training seminar in Iba, Zambales. I remember this particular moment where I was wandering around the beachfront, lowkey frolicking in the water, while my groupmates were playing capture the flag. (In my defense, I was never the physically adept type of person, and knew I'd be helping my team out more if I stayed out of the playing area and cheered on them from the sidelines. But, anyway, I digress.) I could see the golden flecks of sunlight glistening on the waves, and the froth from the seawater hitting my toes, and when I looked back beyond the shore, I saw my friends having fun, running back and forth across the sand. As cliche as it sounds, I couldn't help but mutter to myself, "Wow."

Because at that time last year, I clearly remember being slumped on my couch, scrolling through one LEAP-related IG story after another, feeling this sense of FOMO that I didn't know how to deal with. On one hand, I hated that I wasn't part of something that looked equal parts fun and value-adding, but at the same time, I knew that if I were there, I'd be sticking out like a sore thumb and suffering all the more because I was at the point where social interaction had become physically painful for me. Maybe that's why this LEAP was extra special to me: besides all of the great people I met and the insights I picked up along the way, it served as a reminder of how far I've come, and how much farther I have to go during the rest of my stay in college.

(That honestly would have been the perfect way to end this post, but I have so much more I have to cover. How anti-climactic.)

Aside from my newfound love for organization life, I gained a lot of new friends and strengthened the ties I have with old ones. Back then, I was very selective of those I talked to and let in my circle: I let first impressions get the best of me, or allowed shyness to take center stage every time there was a chance to meet new people. Now, I'm close to both blockmates and batchmates: I go to their birthday celebrations, support events that they're a part of, hang out in their condo units to binge on fastfood, or sometimes just sit on the Matteo Steps with them in the middle of doing requirements to vent for 10 minutes before begrudgingly returning to our tables.

I miraculously also had time to sneak in some pretty fun stuff in my schedule despite my workload. Although I wasn’t able to prioritize making content for this blog, I got my writing on the national paper! It was in the first semester of my freshman year when I heard about Inquirer Youngblood from my English professor. Apparently, they accept essays about any topic under the sun from anyone aged 29 and below. Since I felt there would be no harm in trying, I crafted this little piece that aimed to show a different side of being an only child, as opposed to the “spoiled and entitled” stereotype that is usually stuck on us. I didn’t get my hopes up so as to not be disappointed, so when a couple of days had passed and my article wasn’t showing up on print, I gave up and moved on. Good thing my friend Bea sent me a photo of the September 8 issue of the newspaper (coincidentally the same day I got accepted into The GUIDON!), or else I wouldn’t have seen that I got published. I admit that even though writing is all I’ve ever really known since I was young, I’m not a hundred percent confident in my skill, nor do I always see the purpose behind what I do. But, it’s instances like that, that remind me of why I keep at it.

Another capital-G Great thing that happened was getting tickets to the UAAP men’s basketball championship game! As someone who made Ateneo her dream school at age five because of how much she loved the Blue Eagles, witnessing them end the season with a sweep and a championship was everything to me. And getting to do so with my closest friends in my block just made the experience even better than it was. Also, seeing Renzo Subido play in person—all my friends can attest to the fact that I was facing a huge moral dilemma mid-game, because every time he made a basket, I would end up cheering for him. (With a face like that, how could I not though)

I even found my way back in the gig scene after a long hiatus, with no less than Ang Bandang Shirley, Over October, and Munimuni welcoming me back with open arms. I had got tickets on a whim with my friend from my days as a full-on K-Pop stan, Reanna, even though it was the weekend before a big Accounting exam, if I remember correctly. But, I have no regrets: I have a feeling that very few moments in life can make me feel the way I did when Umaapaw (one of my favorite songs in the world) was being played right in front of me. Surprisingly, I didn't cry when that happened—same for Wait and Sa Hindi Pag-alala, but then again maybe I was too dazed to process what was going on.

I saw Ben&Ben just a week ago, which served as the perfect way to cap off this stressful semester. The last time I saw them was way back in October 2018: conflicts in schedule due to prior commitments, or location issues kept getting in the way that it's like they had to take matters into their own hands and head on over to Ateneo just so I could see them again. Although they didn't perform my favorite song, I can't exactly say that I was disappointed because nothing really beats the feeling of seeing them and singing along to tracks that have served as the soundtrack of my life, and are practically etched on my heart. (I am actually tearing up just writing this paragraph god am I emo! I miss them already, wow! Just wanna hear Araw-Araw live, what do I do about this!)

I also managed to finish all 10 seasons of Friends despite my irregular viewing patterns—I started it during our trip to the States before the school year began, and constantly teetered between watching one or two episodes as a reward for finishing a reading due the next day and binging one season during rare weekends that do not require working on deliverables but honestly could have been used to get ahead in lessons. This is a pretty big deal, considering that I have the attention span of a sleep-deprived cockroach and haven't finished a single White People Show since... well, Austin & Ally back in 2017 (which I actually marathoned on Dailymotion, but that's a story for another day). But, I guess there's just something special about this group of pals going through the motions of their everyday lives in the eccentric, sometimes borderline stupid ways that only they can, because I admit: the emotional investment was and is very, very real! I personally identify myself as a Chandler-Rachel hybrid now (thank you, Iverson), try to see which character the people I meet are like most out of fun, and argue to no end with anyone who ever claims that Ross and Rachel (1) were on a break, and (2) are endgame.

Most importantly, I was able to do all of this and still clinch a spot on the Dean's List. I started this semester on an optimistic note: I found all of my subjects interesting, and the professors who taught them, engaging. I'd even make notes on the readings the day before they were to be discussed in class, complete with pops of color here and there courtesy of my fineliner pens and Stabilo highlighters. But, once I reached the halfway point, my motivation started waning. Papers and quizzes, oral exams and video projects were thrown in my direction at breakneck speed: I often found myself cramming output for the sake of having something to submit, and not even having the time to look at readings due for discussion the following day. It came to a point where I thought of shifting out, because I felt I wasn't doing well enough in my majors to justify my stay. Sounds pretty stupid when I look back at it, I guess I simply mistook extreme stress and fatigue with falling out of love with the only program that I ever wanted to get in when I was applying for Ateneo. Thank God I didn't give up though, or else I wouldn't be able to enjoy the fruits of my labor right now. I honestly wasn't expecting stellar grades, considering the number of extracurricular commitments I took on, but now that they're there, I'm not complaining at all! Shoutout to my favorite professors of the semester: Mam Vaswani, who taught me that there is always room for improvement even in my own area of expertise; Sir Atienza, who made lectures feel like casual kwentuhans (or sometimes even chillnumans); and Sir Rebato, who broke the world record for longest patience in the world.

I guess it's safe to say that I am the happiest and most content I have been in a while, and although I am afraid of jinxing it, I feel like it's only gonna go upward from here. I am beyond excited to see where the new year and semester take me, because I know I'll do my part in making sure it's even better and brighter than this one. If you read up to this point, you deserve a pat on the back! Maybe you only scrolled to this point to see if there were any pictures with your face on them, but who cares! It adds to my website traffic, so thank you, happy holidays, and I wish you nothing but love and light always!