#but i remember writing it on my desk with a pencil (easy to smudge after done and avoid accusations for cheating)

[the-chibi-sempai]

I can't describe how mad the ppl commenting "just study" make me. Do you even realise how much you need to memorise (memorise, not learn) for tests? Which you're gonna forget after the test cause that's how memorization works.

As someone who has done their own cheat sheets, preparing one got me better studying than just trying to cram knowledge into my brain, more than what just reading would do. The reason why a cheat sheet can help is because you can use not just your visual but muscle memory too.

Confiscated pens containing cheat notes intricately carved by a student at the University of Malaga, Spain. (2022)

[highqueenofelfhame]

I’m not posting a tag list for this part because it’s late and I’m exhausted and wanna get it out for you guys. If it does poorly I’ll go back and tag but right now I’m just very over tag lists. Follow the “#hqoe f&f” tag or “falsehoods & fistfights” or “Hqoe writes” tags to more closely follow my work. You can also follow @highqueenofelfhamewrites and turn on post notifications if you want to be notified of my writing! I’m not doing this to be mean, I’m doing it to save time and frustration when the tagging system fails (as it often does)

Hugest shoutout in the world to @punkassbookjockey26 for being the best beta in the entire world. She helped so much with this update!! Give her a pat on the back.

Part One // Masterlist

Rowaelin // 5681 words

~*~

For the last several hours, the clatter of her clicking keyboard and the flipping of pages had been on a continuous loop. At some point, Aelin had opened Spotify and forgotten to turn on any music, clearly content to keep to her rigorous work pace in near-silence. The door to her office was closed, and no one had stopped by to bother her since she’d arrived. Only a handful of phone calls had disrupted her this morning, which meant she had gotten plenty of work done.

Except that it wasn’t morning at all— it was two in the afternoon, and she couldn’t quite figure out how the hell that had happened. She was still squinting at the time on her computer screen when a firm knock sounded at the door, and she called out, “Yes?”

“Have you eaten today?” At the sound of Rowan’s voice, Aelin’s head whipped toward the door. She was unable to stop the smile that spread wide across her face or stop herself rising from her chair to meet him. Aelin perched against her desk, accepting the brown paper bag he held in his hands. No, she hadn’t eaten, not since her half a bagel and cup of coffee before she arrived at work. She’d left a banana in her car for a snack but hadn’t wanted to run back down for it.

“Barely. I didn’t even realize it was past lunch,” Aelin sighed, looking back up at his face. Rowan was grinning down at her as she tore a bite of croissant off and popped it into her mouth. The man looked criminally good, wearing jeans that hugged his legs in all the right places and a white button-up shirt. He rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and her eyes lingered on his tattoo that swirled down to his fingertips.

“Can I kiss you in here?” His question caught her off guard, a laugh bursting from her lips. “Because this whole…” Rowan gestured to her outfit. “It’s really doing it for me.”

“You like librarian Aelin?”

“Yes,” he said, leaning down to press his lips to hers. The get-up he referred to was a pinstriped pencil skirt that hit just above her knees and patent black stiletto heels that had her only a few inches shorter than him. She had a red tank top tucked into the skirt and, at some point, had discarded her white cardigan over the back of her office chair. Her lips matched her shirt in a bright, matte, red lipstick that she’d neglected to touch up throughout the day. Still, when Rowan pulled away, his mouth was tinged with the outline of hers. “I like this a lot. Fuck.”

“For the record, you can kiss me anywhere you want to,” she told him. “Especially in my office, especially when the door is closed.”

“Noted.” Rowan tugged on her high ponytail before sinking into one of the leather armchairs in front of her. Aelin continued to munch on the variety of pastries he’d brought for her while his eyes seemed to be glued to her legs. Aelin wondered if he was thinking about laying her out on this desk and having his way with her here, but she also knew he wouldn’t let that be their first time. No matter how badly she wanted it to be.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Whitethorn?” She asked, nudging his thigh with the toe of her shoe. The way he raked his teeth over his bottom lip before looking up at her told her that, yes, he was thinking what she was thinking. The way he quirked his brow at her also told her that, no, it wasn’t going to happen.

They were kind of dating, in the sense that they had been on a handful of dates. They had shared many heated kisses against the door to her apartment when he dropped her off, but he was being such a godsdamn gentleman about all of it that they hadn’t had sex yet. Aelin would have fucked him in the bathroom of the bar that first night, and they both knew it. But something was holding him back. To be fair, she couldn’t place all of the blame on him. She was holding back as well. Whatever this was between them felt like something that could be extraordinary, and she didn’t want to be the one that fucked it all up because she couldn’t keep it in her pants.

“I have a fight on Saturday, and I was really hoping you would want to come. Obviously, I would give you tickets, plus however many extra you want to bring whoever.”

“Just Aedion, I think.” Her cousin would likely die to be personally invited to one of Rowan Whitethorn’s fights, the same way Aelin knew he’d been having a bit of a mental breakdown when he found Aelin with him at the bar.

“Not your friends’ cup of tea?” He teased with a grin.

“Not even really mine, but you get like, almost naked for these things, yeah?” Rowan’s head tilted back as he laughed, reaching out to catch her fingers between his own. He squeezed them, shaking his head at her. “I’m just saying, any female fans you have are not because they want to watch you fight. I Googled you.”

“Of course you did.”

“And if coming on Saturday,” she paused, fighting the twitch of her lips at the innuendo, “is what gets me to see you sweaty and naked, I will be there.”

“Apparently, you can find that on Google also.” Aelin started to jerk her hand from his, but he laughed again and tugged forcefully enough that she dropped into his lap, his arms settling around her hips.

They didn’t have sex on her desk by the time he left, but he did have a trail of lipstick down his neck and red smudges on his collar.

~*~

There had only been a few times where Aelin had seen Aedion this excited. He was practically jumping out of his skin, trying and failing to keep his wide grin at bay. The whole way there, he’d talked about Rowan’s stats and how likely it was for him to win this fight. Apparently, it was very likely, and according to Aedion, if anyone bet against Rowan in the gambling pools, they were going to lose a lot of money.

This version of Aedion was almost completely opposite the one that had shown up an hour late to the bar a few weeks ago, only to find Aelin perched in his personal hero’s lap.

By the time Aelin spotted a familiar head of golden blonde hair making his way through the crowd, Rowan had stayed true to his promise. He’d bought her not one but two drinks, and she had a very happy buzz flowing through her.

“Aedion!” She hadn’t bothered to get out of Rowan’s lap; she liked the way his hand felt on her thigh, the other twirling a piece of hair around his finger while he talked to the tall, broody one— Lorcan.

“I’m sorry I’m late.”

“It’s okay; I made friends! And a fiancé!” Rowan laughed then, sticking his hand out for Aedion to shake.

“I’m the fiancé. Rowan Whitethorn. You must be the cousin she’s been waiting on.”

“I got held up at work. Aedion Ashryver, nice to meet you.” Despite the cool and collected exterior Aedion was giving off, Aelin knew without a doubt that he was dying inside. She spent several nights curled up on his couch while Aedion and his friends watched Rowan’s fights, though she’d never cared enough to pay attention. Usually, she disappeared to his guest room to read a book or snuck out after an acceptable amount of time to hang out with her own friends.

Aelin had heard about Rowan’s victories time and time again. When Aedion showed her different self-defense moves, he would say that Rowan Whitethorn took someone down with the same simple maneuver. To say that he admired Rowan would be an understatement. He damn near idolized him.

“Nice to meet you? That’s what you’re going with?” Aelin asked, mouth dropping open as everything Aedion had ever said about the man beneath her flooded her memory. Aelin looked at Rowan, shaking her head and pointing at her cousin. “All I ever hear about when you have a fight coming up is ‘Rowan Whitethorn this’ and ‘Rowan Whitethorn that.’ Yet now he’s here, and all he says is nice to meet you. Unbelievable.”

“Rowan doesn’t look like someone who particularly cares for fan service. Though if I’m wrong, correct me, and I will rectify that immediately. On my knees even, if he decides he’s interested in men at all.”

Aelin’s lips dipped into a drunk pout as she said, “I saw him first.”

“Technically, I saw you first,” Rowan interjected, a teasing tone in his voice. “And you rejected me.” A wrinkle appeared between her brows as she looked up at Rowan’s handsome face, disliking that she was already being ganged up on.

“I’m sorry— you rejected him?” Aedion sputtered in disbelief. Aelin flicked Rowan’s nose, and just like that, they settled into an easy banter that tugged on Aelin’s heart entirely too much.

Now, though, Aedion seemed to be nearly vibrating out of his skin with excitement. At will-call, they’d learned Rowan had set aside special floor seating just for them. When they walked into the arena, Aelin was pleased to see Rowan’s group of friends from the bar. She’d spent the most time with Fenrys than anyone else, and he welcomed her with a big hug, insisting she sit beside him instead of Lorcan. Aelin was more than happy to oblige, as Lorcan didn’t seem to have a taste for her. He didn’t even bother saying hello.

They settled into their seats, Aelin sitting between Fenrys and Aedion, both of whom had skipped the pleasantries and moved right into a conversation about the upcoming fight. Aelin leaned back into her chair and took in the surroundings. There were bits and pieces she remembered from her time barely watching matches with Aedion, but it was still different than what she expected. There was a large octagonal ring in the center of the room surrounded by black fencing that had to be about six feet tall. She wondered briefly if the fence was to keep people out or to keep the fighters in.

People were milling about, but Aelin realized that the arena itself was three levels high, and seats were piled around the room from floor to ceiling. There had to be thousands of them, and from the look of the crowds filing in, there wasn’t going to be an empty spot in the house. She hadn’t realized that MMA had such a following.

After about twenty minutes, the lights dimmed and the booming voice of the announcer filled the arena. People cheered wildly as the introductions for the fight were made and the sponsors were thanked. And finally, Aeling knew it was time. The announcer over-dramaticized the entrance for the first fighter and Aelin watched as a lean-muscled man walked up to the ring. He entered through a gate on the side, and people cheered as he made his rounds. Aelin sat on the edge of her seat for the announcer to start his next introduction, ready to see Rowan walking through the tunnel, when a different name was announced and a different man came strolling out. The confusion must have been all over her face when she looked at Aedion because he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

“Rowan is the main event,” he said. “Which means there are a few fights before his.”

“Seriously? You mean I have to wait?” Aedion nodded and her scowl deepened. “How long?”

“Looking at the schedule, Rowan’s fight is slated to start in about two hours.”

“Two hours?! I have to wait two hours!?”

“Come on, Ace. It won’t be that bad. Just try to enjoy it.” Aedion turned away and was immediately drawn into the fight that had begun in the ring just a few feet in front of her. Aelin pouted, remembering all the reasons why she never stuck around to watch these matches with Aedion previously.

“All I wanted was to see Rowan sweaty and half-naked. I literally don’t care about anyone else,” she grumbled, mostly to herself. Beside her, Fenrys chuckled and threw his arm around the back of her seat as she settled back. Aelin frowned down at her phone, opening Snapchat to get a quick photo of her expression, which she promptly sent to Rowan.

It took him a good ten minutes to reply back to her, and it seemed he knew why she was pouting because the text across his photo simply said be patient.

After that, she didn’t want to bother him, and whatever pre-match rituals he may have, so she settled for scrolling through various social media apps to bide her time. When she found herself restless, she gave in and opened her book app to continue reading a romance novel she’d started the day before. The male love interest may have been a boxer and may have been incredibly sexy, and she may have downloaded it after searching for fighting-related books.

She had just reached a particularly steamy part of the book when she felt Aedion nudge her arm. Godsdamn him, the leading male was just about to give the girl the orgasm of her life when he’d interrupted. Aelin scowled up at her cousin, but the expression morphed into one of incredulity and excitement when she heard Rowan’s name announced, and he walked out into the arena.

Aelin immediately perked up in her seat, sliding her phone between her thigh and the chair. Rowan strolled out like a king surveying his kingdom, and the cheers were deafening. He wore absolutely nothing but a pair of forest green athletic shorts that left little to the imagination and some sort of fist guards over his hands. A wicked grin formed on his lips as he jogged up to the ring and hoisted himself up over the side with practiced ease. There was a very dramatic introduction, one that had the entire crowd screaming and getting to their feet. Aelin couldn’t help but join them, giving a standing ovation to the man she’d spent so many stolen hours with lately. Beside her, Aedion was absolutely losing it. It only made her smile more.

Even as the arena quieted while the referee explained the rules, nobody returned to their seats. Everyone stayed on their feet, and Aelin could understand why. Once the fight started and the hits and kicks started to get thrown around, she found herself filled with a restless energy that she couldn’t push down. Every time his opponent’s fist swung toward him, her heart began to beat frantically in her chest.

But Rowan ducked and dipped out of reach almost every time. The way the muscles of his arms and legs rippled every time he took a swing at the other man, Cairn, her mouth went dry. She hadn’t walked into the arena tonight expecting to find anything about the fight beautiful, but it was. The way that Rowan’s body moved was like watching a dance unfold before her. Every swing of his arm or swift kick of his leg sending her heart racing just like it had when she’d watched ballets growing up. It felt like such a bizarre comparison to make, but Rowan Whitethorn’s body was nothing short of a work of art.

But there was also a ferocity in it. Where ballet was soft and demure, Rowan was a force of nature. His face was hewn from stone, each strike with his hands or legs precise and controlled, but with an element of chaos surrounding it. He unleashed himself on Cairn, throwing punches and kicks swiftly, so quick that Aelin could not keep up with where the next one was going to land. With brutal efficiency, Rowan managed to get past Cairn’s guard to deliver several painful-looking blows in quick succession that had the crowd collectively wincing. It seemed that Aedion’s idolization hadn’t been misplaced.

Rowan breathed heavily, sweat dripping down every inch of his torso. His abdominals flexed with every exhale, showing off every hard line and sharp curve. The tattoo that swirled down his left side glistened under the bright lights of the arena. He looked like a god, and Aelin discovered that she found it quite difficult to keep her mind from falling off into the gutter when he looked like that.

When he made the final blow, a hit to Cairn’s face that had him unconscious before he even hit the floor, Aelin was surprised by how wholly turned on she was. He dominated the fight and looked damn good while doing it. Rowan was announced as the winner, fierce triumph written all over his face as the crowd completely lost their minds. Pride swelled in her stomach, and she couldn’t help her wide smile as she cheered along with the thousands of people in the arena. Even though it was televised, it felt special when he made eye contact with her and grinned before exiting the ring and heading her way.

Of course, he was intercepted about a dozen different times by dozens of different people offering their congratulations. When he finally got to her, he dipped down and hugged her tightly to his chest, pulling her feet off the ground. She could feel the heat of his body through the thin layers of her clothing, scorching her skin. The smell of him, a musky scent of sweat and the pine body wash she had come to associate with him assaulted her nose and she breathed him in deep. She felt the want ratcheting up in the most delicious way and knew that she would no longer be content with a night of only being pressed against her apartment door. Their kisses, no matter how desperate they had been, wouldn’t be enough to sate the need she felt for him. She needed all of him, and she needed him as raw and unrestrained as he had been during that fight. He pressed a kiss to her cheek as her feet met the floor, and he stepped back.

“Sorry, I’m sweaty.”

“You were amazing.” Amazing didn’t quite cover it, but it was the only word she could think of that came anywhere close.

“Does that mean you’ll come out with me tonight? To celebrate?” She wanted to say yes immediately. But with him in front of her, covered in sweat and looking like the only thing she wanted her mouth to touch for the foreseeable future, Aelin shook her head as her bottom lip tucked between her teeth. The disappointment began to cloud his handsome face, but she shook her head faster as though it would dispel his negative thoughts.

“I was kind of hoping I could steal you away. Celebrate with you alone.” Her voice was low and sultry, and she almost laughed because she could see him calculating just what that meant. The two of them. A celebration. Entirely alone, with no one else around.

“I— yeah. Yes. We can— yes. I have to wrap up here and then we can go to my place?” At all of his stuttering, she couldn’t help the bright laughter that bubbled out of her as the usually confident man in front of her stumbled a bit. His attention was drawn away temporarily when Aedion clapped Rowan on the shoulder and began to spew his admiration and congratulations. Rowan took it with grace, thanking him for coming while trying to keep his eyes off Aelin’s face. The way she bit her lip clearly wasn’t helping because his eyes kept dropping down to her mouth.

When a member of his team told him he needed to hurry— he had a short press conference post-fight and still wanted to shower before— Rowan dropped a chaste kiss to her lips and headed back to the locker room.

Aelin waited not-so-patiently, standing on the outside of Rowan’s group of friends in the parking lot while they talked. Aedion fit right in, pointing out the highlights of the fight with renewed vigor. He still seemed to be riding the adrenaline high from watching Rowan fight , and Aelin was sure he would implement something of what they saw into her self defense training.

When Rowan finally came out, they all cheered and shoved him around their little circle in celebration. He was grinning from ear to ear as he reached for Aelin and pulled her into his side, dropping a kiss to her hair. It was impossible to stop the tug she felt in her stomach, something between excitement and nerves. Everything inside seemed to be tied up in delicious knots as she leaned into him, enveloped by the scent of his body wash, the smell of pine equal parts comforting and arousing. “Where are we going tonight?” Fenrys drawled, throwing his arm around Vaughan. The quiet, dark-haired man tried to shrug out of it, but it only ended with him in a headlock.

“I will actually be stealing him away,” Aelin said before Rowan could even get a word in. Rowan’s hold on her shoulder tightened as he squeezed, and she squeezed him back where she had her arm around his waist, secretly thrilled that he was as on board with this plan as she was. His friends groaned in protest but Aelin and Rowan laughed. Lorcan looked particularly displaced about the revelation and was the first to step backward out of the circle and bid farewell. It didn’t take long for the others to follow and for Aelin to lace her fingers through Rowan’s and tug him toward his car.

While their pace could be described as leisurely, Aelin felt anything but. Now alone, she felt that want from earlier return with a vengeance. Rowan squeezed her hand, and her mind immediately wandered to those strong hands touching elsewhere, all over. A quick glance up at him left her reeling when she caught his gaze on her, and swore she saw every dirty thought that crossed his mind. It excited her, knowing that despite his cool, calm exterior wrapped around all of that cockiness, Rowan Whitethorn was just as affected as she was by what was to come.

When they arrived at his car, a sleek, black sports car that was perfectly him, Rowan opened the passenger door for her, ushering her in. Aelin turned her head towards him, and under the parking lot lights, she could see where Rowan had taken a bit of a beating.

Ducking inside the car, Aelin turned to look at Rowan, her thumb coming to brush over a bruise that was forming on his cheek. It was already a blue-purple color, indicating that it would only look worse over the next few days. Luckily he hadn’t taken too many hits, so this seemed to be the worst of his injuries. There was one other place near his temple that had drawn a little bit of blood but it was already on the mend, cleaned by the medics backstage.

“I’m okay,” he reassured her, his hand coming over to rest on her thigh. Aelin pulled hers away, startled by the softness in his voice. Her eyes searched Rowan’s for the lie that he was more hurt than he let on, but she saw nothing. She supposed it should have comforted her that Rowan knew what his limits were, but still, it seemed crazy that this man before her was the same one that had attacked Cairn in the ring and ended the fight in the first round.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said, her voice echoing the softness of his own.

“You just saw me get pummeled a few times and you’re worried about hurting me?” His voice dripped with disbelief, remnants of a laugh bubbling out. Aelin shrugged, cheeks stained a rosy blush.

“I don’t want to accidentally push on places that hurt.”

“I can assure you that anything you inflict upon me will be the sweetest kind of pain,” he promised, lacing his fingers with hers and bringing them to his mouth to press a kiss to her knuckles as he started the car and drove out of the dimly lit parking lot. Those knots in her stomach unspooled themselves into liquid heat as her bottom lip slipped between her teeth. “Don’t do that.”

His voice was rough with want, and it scraped over her, leaving small goosebumps on her skin. She shivered in anticipation, and ached to hear more in that deep, rumbling timbre. Reaching out a hand, she coyly ran her fingers slowly, softly up the taut skin of his arm. “Do what?”

“Bite your lip like that when I can’t kiss you.”

“If you drove faster, you would be able to kiss me,” Aelin teased, leaning over the center console to press a lingering kiss to his shoulder. Rowan’s knuckles turned white where he gripped the steering wheel, glancing over at her as the car rolled to a stop at a red light. Soaking up the opportunity they’d graciously been given by the gods, he deftly captured her chin and crushed his lips against hers, kissing her in a way that stoked the smoldering want inside her into an inferno. She felt the sinful slide of his tongue brushing against hers, of his teeth tugging over her bottom lip like he wanted to take a bite out of her. Aelin hoped that he would.

When he pulled away, Aelin’s eyes stayed closed, her lips stayed parted. A shaky breath tumbled from them, filling the tense silence in the car. It took everything in her to sit back in her seat and let him drive. If she were to do what she truly wanted to do, she would have him pull over and climb with him into the backseat, his apartment and privacy be damned.

Aelin wasn’t so sure that Rowan would stop her if she tried to coax him into it. How they had managed to go this long without tearing each other’s clothes off was a mystery to her. As she looked over at him, her eyes lingered on those strong hands gripping the steering wheel, hands that she wanted gripping her in the same way. She desperately wanted to have his fingerprints bruised into her thighs, to see the imprints of his teeth all over her chest. The idea of his back being covered with the marks of her nails only fed that growing fire within her.

The drive seemed to take an eternity, consisting of stolen kisses at stop signs and longing looks. It was hard to keep her hands to herself, and that seemed to be the case for Rowan, too. By the time they reached his apartment, his hand had drifted so high up her thigh that it was burning a hole straight through her jeans.

Rowan held her hand loosely while they walked inside the building and to the elevator. As soon as the metal doors slid shut, however, he was tugging her toward him and pressing her back against the wall. His hands slid from her hands to her waist, dropping down to her thighs to lift her up on the railing. Aelin couldn’t help the moan that she breathed into his mouth, her fingers twining into his hair while he tugged at her lip.

When the elevator dinged on his floor, Rowan was dragging hot kisses down her throat. It seemed to be too much for him because he had to take a moment before he pulled away. Rowan’s mouth stayed against her neck while he caught his breath causing goosebumps to rise all over her skin. The doors were beginning to close again when he finally pulled away and shoved his hand out to stop them.

Aelin laughed then, sliding down from the railing and tugging him down the hall toward his apartment. At the door Rowan fumbled with his keys, pressing kisses to the side of her neck as the lock tumbled and gained them entrance.

Any restraint he had left seemed to dissipate as soon as the door was shut and locked. Once again her feet left the floor as he carried her to his room and laid her down on his bed. Their kisses were hungry, starving as he lifted her shirt and tossed it onto the floor. His hands made quick work of the rest of her clothing, and before long they were just skin on skin, his mouth drifting lower and lower down her body.

All of it was pure ecstasy, almost too much for her to handle. It didn’t take long before she fractured beneath his mouth, her nails digging into his back, scratching desperately over his skin as he moved back up her torso to press his lips against hers.

When he pulled back to look at her, something had shifted. Gone were the frantic kisses, replaced by deeper ones that stole her breath from her lungs. An impossible feeling was tugging at her heart as their bodies moved together beneath the sheets. This time when she fell over the edge, Rowan went with her. Their bodies were so tangled it was hard for her to think clearly enough about where he started and she ended. Their gasping moans were a harmony she wouldn’t soon forget as he collapsed on top of her.

Aelin’s heel pushed down the strong muscles of his thigh, his calves, silently begging him not to move. His lips ignited sparks over her collarbones as he settled atop her while her fingers ran softly up and down his sides.

Eventually Rowan rolled off of her, and she would have frowned had he not tugged her into his side a heartbeat later. Aelin draped her leg over his waist and nuzzled her face against his chest, pressing a single kiss over his heart.

The last thing she remembered was the feeling of his hands in her hair and his low humming of a forgotten melody as she drifted off into a blissful sleep.

~*~

Soft kisses were being dropped over her bare back, leaving a trail up and down her spine. Aelin hummed in approval as a grin spread across her face. Her eyes were still closed, ignoring the rays of sunshine that were likely illuminating her face, when Rowan pressed a kiss to her cheek and the corner of her mouth.

“Good morning,” she said hoarsely, her lack of voice another reminder of everything that had transpired last night. She had woken Rowan a handful of hours after their first time, rolling on top of him and placing teasing kisses over his neck and chest until his calloused hands guided her into position. That time, Aelin had been control, her hands gripping the headboard through wave after wave of pleasure. There was an ache between her legs that made her want to beg Rowan to touch her despite how exhausted she was.

“Hi, baby.”

Aelin’s smile widened as she rolled onto his back and looped her arms loosely around his neck. Rowan kissed her properly then, long and slow until she was sure they were going to go for a third round in under twelve hours.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, fingers brushing her hair back from her face. Aelin wanted to snort in response, knowing last nights makeup was likely smeared around her eyes and she reeked of sex and sweat. But there was such reverence in his tone that she couldn’t bring herself to disagree, his green eyes bright in the morning sun as they traced over every feature of her face. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Her hand moved from his neck to the side of his face, thumb brushing lightly over the bruise that marred his skin.

“You saw me fight. You watched me beat the hell out of someone and you didn’t turn and run. You didn’t balk. You still wanted me.”

Aelin was positive the confusion was written all over her face from the downturn of her lips to her furrowed brow, but still she said, “Has that been a problem before?”

“Yes.” Rowan pressed a series of kisses over her face starting at her temple and ending at her jaw.

“It’s not a problem for me,” she promised, voice barely a whisper against his cheek. Rowan was quiet for a moment, turning his face to look at her. “You’re a fighter. That’s what you are. I wouldn’t want you to be anything but what you are.”

A mix of emotions fluttered across his face, whatever he felt being a catalyst for kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, nose, and finally her lips. When he pulled back, he looked hesitant and unsure. It was the first time Aelin had ever seen him like that and it felt raw. Like he was exposing a part of himself he seldom did. She was ready to ask him what was going on when he kissed her so thoroughly she’d nearly forgotten the conversation at hand.

“What if I wanted to be something else?” Rowan gazed down at her, teeth grazing over his bottom lip. Again, she swore she saw uncertainty on his face and in his tone as the question rushed out in a single breath.

“Like what?”

“Like your boyfriend.”

She couldn’t help the joyful laughter that bubbled up and out like champagne. Rowan grinned too, so widely that his dimples were deep in his cheeks. Her thumbs ran over them as she kissed him, both of their smiles making it almost difficult. It was too cute, the way he’d seemed almost nervous and bashful in his delivery. It felt like high school all over again in the most innocent way.

“You can be that, too.”

[sukkasupremacy]

Secretary Suki—-A One Shot excerpt from “Fan & Sword”-

(Very Mild Smut warning :) )

Suki had just come home from dropping Yukari and Yumie off at school and was now ready to enjoy her day off from work.

Sokka was talking pretty seriously on the phone, “Yeah she should stay home if she’s not feeling well. I can manage my own schedule…yes that’s fine. Okay? Bye.” Sokka hung up.

“Hey love, you good?”

Sokka stuffed his notebook into his bag and gave her a thumbs up, “Yeah. My secretary is really sick today so I told them to send her home. Do you have work today?”

“Oh, that’s awful. I hope she gets well and no I’m off today.”

“That’s good, you should rest. I have to leave in like an hour so you wanna have some tea together? I made some before you got back.” Sokka got up and poured some tea for them to have together.

“Thank you,” Suki accepted the cup and drank from it, “Will you be able to manage without your secretary? I know it’s a lot to keep up with.”

“Pfft, yeah I’ll be fine. I’m Sokka!” He flashed her a smile and she rolled her eyes.

“Mmhmm. Well you can be pretty forgetful at times!” She teased taking another sip.

“Hey!”

Suki put her hand on his shoulder and chuckled, “Just kidding councilman. I’m sure you can manage.”

“Hmmm well...I do tend to forget things a lot,” Sokka took a sip and then an idea dawned on him, “Hey Suki, you should come to work with me! And like my secretary for today! It would be fun!”

Suki chuckled, “That sounds like a good idea in theory but will you even be able to concentrate with me around?” She raised her eyebrow and leaned forward to smirk at him.

Sokka frowned, “Hey! I can totally do work even with my amazing, beautiful, awesome, powerful, smart…,” Sokka trailed off and she covered her mouth to muffle her laughter, “Okay. You have a point.”

Suki picked up the tea cups and started to wash them in the sink, “Well the girls are going over at Katara and Aang’s later so I’m free all day. I would love to be your secretary.”

“ALRIGHT! BRING YOUR GIRLFRIEND TO WORK DAY!” Sokka got up and ran into their room and came back with an outfit, “Here! Wear this so you look like a person who works at city hall.”

Suki chuckled and took the clothes, “Well this should be fun.” She went to their room and changed into the white dress shirt and black tie, a black pencil skirt, and an emerald green blazer. Suki put her hair half up and applied a layer of her favorite lipstick. “So, do I look like secretary Suki?” Suki chuckled and grabbed a notebook and clipboard to put into her “secretary bag.”

Sokka blushed, “Wow, you look really beautiful!”

“Hehe, thanks councilman,” She gave him a hug and pecked his cheek, “Let’s go?”

Sokka exhaled the breath he was holding and smiled sheepishly, “Yes! Let’s go-to work-hehe.”

Suki rolled her eyes and took his hand.They made their way down the stairs of their apartment complex to walk to city hall. It was only a thirty minute walk and they had time.

Suki clutched his arm and looked at the beautiful cherry blossom trees around Republic City, “So when I get there, what do I do?”

“Well basically you follow me around and remind me of meetings and make my schedule. At meetings you take notes for me.”

“Sounds easy enough!”

Sokka smiled, “Ooo! Since you’re my secretary today then maybe...I could take you out for lunch?”

Suki raised her eyebrow, “Hmmm but this is a professional environment councilman so I think I’ll have to pass on that one. I don’t wanna get fired for going on non platonic lunch dates with my boss!” Sokka shook his head and rolled his eyes causing her to laugh, “Kidding. Lunch sounds fun.”

Sokka poked her cheek, “You are having way too much fun with this….It’s kind of cute.”

Suki giggled and kissed his cheek, “I’m just excited to spend the day with you.”

Sokka smiled and then they arrived, “Okay we’re here!” He opened the door and led her up the stairs to his office, “This is city hall! Here’s a big library with government books and stuff, here’s all the offices, council room, a meeting room, another one, another one...oh and here’s my office!” He opened the door, “Ladies first!”

Suki chuckled and entered the room, “What a gentleman.” He closed the door and followed her, “So where do I go?”

Sokka ran over to his secretary’s desk and pushed it next to his desk, “Here!”

She crossed her arms and smirked, “Will you even be able to concentrate, Councilman Sokka.”

“Yes Secretary Suki I believe in my will power!” He pulled the chair out for her because chivalry isn’t dead, “Let’s start work!”

Suki chuckled and sat down on the comfy office chair and watched him sit down and get settled. He made himself comfy, lit a candle for light, and pulled out his paperwork and notebook. He pulled out a schedule from Suki’s desk and gave it to her, “Here, that’s my schedule. When’s my next meeting babe?”

Suki read the schedule, “Uhhh, today at 12pm and that’s it. You have lunch at 1:00pm and go home at 6pm. Oh I missed this one you need to have whatever you’re doing done by 11pm.”

“Thanks Secretary Suki,” he chuckled and smiled at her, “Okay I have to work now. I’ll tell you if you need to write anything down. Oh and thanks Suki.” He leaned over to give her a quick kiss and got right to work.

Suki smiled and nodded. She watched him write and read for about thirty minutes, “So, love, what’s this meeting for?”

Sokka continued to write, “It’s for funding for the elementary schools. Toph said we’ll be taking some money from the police budget since they don’t need it and education is important but we still need this many pieces,” Sokka pointed to the balance, “So I’m trying to figure out who would wanna invest. Cabbage Corp is way too big so we need to go smaller and…”

“What about Future Industries? Hiro has a kid in the schools so he would probably wanna invest and they’re pretty successful but not too up there.”

Sokka grabbed her face between his hands, “You are a genius!” He smacked a kiss on her lips, “So smart Suki! That’s a great idea!”

She smiled and wrote down the idea, “So you don’t forget!” She scribbled the idea down and sat up straight in her chair like the ‘professional’ she was. Sokka made a call to Future Industries and they agreed in exchange for a sponsorship from the council which he could make happen. Suki wrote down the details of the call and Sokka got back to work. After awhile, she got bored and decided to watch Sokka again. She rested her chin on her hand and smiled, “Hey Sokka,”

“Hmm?” He hummed still focused.

Suki blushed, “You’re really cute when you’re working.”

“Thanks,” he said still focused

She got up and gave the side of his head a kiss, then his cheek, and then his lips. Sokka gave her that, ‘stop that’ look and she chuckled and sat back down.

“Suki, you’re making it so hard right focused right now!” He chuckled and flipped the page.

She twirled the quill in her hand and put her feet up on her desk, “Sorry you’re just so hardworking and I’m proud of you.”

Sokka blushed and turned back to his paperwork and whatnot, “Thanks.” After hour he glanced over at her and his heart stopped. “Suki you look so hot. Can I kiss you?”

She bursted out into laughter and got up as he did the same, “Hey before we make out, are you at least almost done with your work?”

“Yeah, I’m done,” he gripped her under her skirt and lifted her onto the desk. Suki chuckled and sealed the gap between them. Sokka pulled away and kissed her neck.

“Sokka.” She exhaled, “What if someone walks in.”

“My next meeting isn’t for ten minutes so,” he kissed down to her collarbone,”I think we can do it.”

“Hmmm,” Suki hummed. She pushed his face away and gave him a look, “Hmm well I don’t think you can do anything to me in ten minutes.”

“What? Yes I can!” He pouted.

Suki chuckled and hopped off the desk and went down on her knees, “No babe. Ten minutes won’t do me any good and you know that but,” she played with the zipper of his pants and looked up at his face which was tense, wide eyed, and red faced, “I could maybe finish you in ten minutes?”

Sokka nodded quickly, “Yes. Yes please do that.”

Suki chuckled and undid his pants and belt. She gently poked him and he jerked, “Wow, councilman, you’re rock solid.”

Suki kissed him through his briefs and he swallowed the lump in his throat, “Suki,” he exhaled.

Suki chuckled and pulled his briefs down and took him into her hands to stroked him and looked up at him, “You like?” She giggled and kissed the top and swirled her tongue around him and pulled off with a gentle pop.

Sokka groaned brought his hand to hair and massaged it, “Gah, yes Suki. Good. Like that.” He stuttered.

Suki moaned and licked a long stripe from his bass to the top and went down on him.

“Nngh! Fuck Suki!” He groaned out, whisper yelling because the walls in city hall weren’t that thick.

Suki moaned and continued as he rubbed her hair.

She pulled off of him for a brief moment to catch her breath, “Does,” she cleared her throat, “Sorry, it’s bigger than I remember.”

Sokka caressed her face and his face turned an embarassing shade of red, “Spirits, you’re unreal.”

Suki smirked and put him back into her mouth and hallowed her cheeks. She ran her hands up his thigh, leaving a burning sensation of pleasure where she touched.

Sokka gently pulled her in further and groaned, “Gah, Suki!” And moaned, “I’m close baby-“

KNOCK KNOCK!

Suki pulled off of him, “Shit.” She muttered. Suki pulled his briefs up and he flinched, still sensitive and shocked, and pulled his pants up and did them.

“Yes?!” Sokka called our still breathless.

“Meeting in five Councilmen Sokka.”

“Got it!” Suki chuckled and stood up to pat his shoulder, “You are something else Suki.” He kissed her cheek and blushed, “Can you see it still?”

She shrugged, “Just a little.” She smiled, “Does my mouth look okay?”

Sokka licked his thumb and wiped below her bottom lip, “You had some lipstick smudging but you should be good.”

Suki grabbed her clipboard and looped her arm in his, “Alright, let’s go Councilman.”

———

“In conclusion we will partially defund our city police since we have already implemented crime prevention programs and rehabilitation centers to prevent crime and we will reallocate those funds to fund education to make better citizens of the world. We will also strike an investment with Future Industries in exchange for advertisement of their company which we can do. Thank you.” Sokka sat down the the meeting clapped at his idea.

Suki rested her hand on his knee and smiled, “Amazing job babe.”

Sokka smiled at her and turned back to the meeting orator, “Okay everyone. That concludes our meeting today. Thank you!”

All the council people bowed their heads and got up to leave.

“Councilman Sokka!”

Sokka turned, “Oh! Hey Councilwoman Hisoka! How’s your day going!”

Hisoka gave him a side hug and smiled and Suki crossed her arms awkwardly, “Great! Good idea at the meeting Councilman Sokka!”

Sokka chuckled and she let go, “Actually, it was this awesome lady’s idea.”

Hisoka looked at Suki and asked, “Did you get a new secretary?”

Suki shook her head and offered her hand for a handshake, “Nope, I’m Councilman Sokka’s girlfriend nice to meet you.” Suki forced a smile and shook her hand.

“Nice to meet you, my name is Hisoka. Sokka’s like my best buddy here at work! Great guy!” She smiled, “You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend?”

“He has children too. Two girls.”

Hisoka gasped, “Really? You gotta bring them on bring your kids to work day!”

Sokka felt the tension and put his arm around Suki, “Yeah, this my girlfriend, Suki, and we’ve been together for ten years? I think so? Yeah.”

“Cute.” Hisoka said with that weird smile of hers, “Well I’m going to go back to my office to finish up some paperwork. Catch ya later! And nice to meet you Suki” and then she was gone.

Sokka and Suki made their way back to his office and Sokka noticed her expression, “Babe.”

“Yes?” She said in an annoyed tone.

“I know what you’re thinking. Me and Hisoka are just friends.”

Suki sat down at her desk and rested her chin on her hand, “Hmmm she was awfully excited to see you and give you a hug.”

Sokka sat down and chuckled, “You are so cute Suki,” he poked her cheek and smiled, “Don’t worry. I only got eyes for you.”

Suki pursed her lip and blew a stray hair out of her face, “Okay fine. I trust you.” She turned her annoyed expression to him, “BUT if that girl tries to flirt with you again-“

Sokka laughed and looked at her sweetly, “You’ll kick her ass. I know. Calm down you fire ferret!” Sokka leaned his face close to hers and smiled, “ You won because you’re the one who stole my heart,” and pinched her cheek playfully, “Okay?”

Suki looked at the desk and pouted for a second then returned her eyes to him, “Okayyyyyy.”

Sokka rolled his chair over to her and gave her a kiss, “I love you. Okay?”

Suki tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear and smiled, “Okay.” Then she got an idea, “But how do I know that your secretary isn’t as pretty as me Sokka?”

“What? Since when do you get jealous?” Sokka saw what she was doing and he liked it.

Suki sighed and pushed her chair to roll it to the nearby wall, “How do I know that she’s not flirting with you? I mean every girl and some of the boys on this council seem to have heart eyes for you. So how do I know that you can resist them. I mean they are all pretty people.”

Sokka got up and chuckled, “Babe,” he got down on his knees to be at her level, “Only you.” Sokka rubbed her knees and she sighed

“Hmm...prove it.” Suki smirked and Sokka’s eyes widened.

“Right now?” He whispered loudly.

“If you want.” She teased tussling his hair.

“Well...I’ve always imagined fucking my secretary on a desk at work.” He teased, as a joke of course and Suki knew that.

“Ah Ha! So you do think your secretary is pretty?!”

Sokka laughed and slid his hands under her skirt to lift her off the chair and onto his desk, “Yeah, my secretary is really pretty,” Sokka winked and kissed her cheek, “She’s got a great smile, a beautiful body no matter what, clever fingers, a smart mind, pretty eyes, dark auburn hair, and a golden heart.” Sokka leaned into kiss her and Suki smiled out of the kiss, “And she’s from Kyoshi Island and was the incredible leader of the Kyoshi Warriors.”

Suki chuckled and brought her arms around his neck to pull him in, “Hmm I think I know her.”

“You think so?” Sokka chuckled and sealed her lips with a kiss and Suki leaned down with her back flat on the desk and Sokka hovering over her.

Sokka trailed his hands down her side and tickled it slightly causing Suki to pull away and giggle breathlessly, “S-Sokka,” She squirmed as he attacked her neck, “W-what if,SOK-,” she giggled and nudged his head, “What if we get caught?”

Sokka pulled out of her neck and tapped her nose with his finger, “That’s why I locked the door, silly.”

Suki raised her eyebrow, “Oh, so you were planning this?” She smiled and he leaned down to kiss her again.

“I got the idea while you were reading with your feet up on the desk,” he squeezed her hip and smiled, “So what do ya say, Secretary Suki?”

“Well don’t just stand there!”

Sokka chuckled and started to take her skirt off when the doorknob rattled.

KNOCK KNOCK!

Sokka groaned and Suki chuckled, “Yes?” He replied in a frustrated tone.

Suki got up and sat back down at her desk, “Councilman Sokka! There’s an emergency meeting in regards to the bender and no bender conflict in ten minutes. We will eat lunch during the meeting.”

“Okay!” Sokka frowned and Suki chuckled.

“Aww, no lunch date?” She teased while getting up to write the meeting down on the schedule.

Sokka slumped back into his chair, “And no making love on the office desk to my girlfriend!” He whined.

Suki snorted and glanced up at him, “Maybe when we get home.” She smiled and returned to organizing the notes from the last meeting.

Sokka looked at her wide-eyed, “Really?!”

“Yeah,” Suki said nonchalantly, “Just make sure to bring me on that lunch date sometime soon. I was actually looking forward to that!”

——-

[nebris]

How the Ballpoint Pen Killed Cursive

In 2015, Bic launched a campaign to “save handwriting.” Named “Fight for Your Write,” it includes a pledge to “encourage the act of handwriting” in the pledge-taker’s home and community, and emphasizes putting more of the company’s ballpoints into classrooms.

As a teacher, I couldn’t help but wonder how anyone could think there’s a shortage. I find ballpoint pens all over the place: on classroom floors, behind desks. Dozens of castaways collect in cups on every teacher’s desk. They’re so ubiquitous that the word “ballpoint” is rarely used; they’re just “pens.” But despite its popularity, the ballpoint pen is relatively new in the history of handwriting, and its influence on popular handwriting is more complicated than the Bic campaign would imply.

The creation story of the ballpoint pen tends to highlight a few key individuals, most notably the Hungarian journalist László Bíró, who is credited with inventing it. But as with most stories of individual genius, this take obscures a much longer history of iterative engineering and marketing successes. In fact, Bíró wasn’t the first to develop the idea: The ballpoint pen was originally patented in 1888 by an American leather tanner named John Loud, but his idea never went any further. Over the next few decades, dozens of other patents were issued for pens that used a ballpoint tip of some kind, but none of them made it to market.

These early pens failed not in their mechanical design, but in their choice of ink. The ink used in a fountain pen, the ballpoint’s predecessor, is thinner to facilitate better flow through the nib—but put that thinner ink inside a ballpoint pen, and you’ll end up with a leaky mess. Ink is where László Bíró, working with his chemist brother György, made the crucial changes: They experimented with thicker, quick-drying inks, starting with the ink used in newsprint presses. Eventually, they refined both the ink and the ball-tip design to create a pen that didn’t leak badly. (This was an era in which a pen could be a huge hit because it only leaked ink sometimes.)

The Bírós lived in a troubled time, however. The Hungarian author Gyoergy Moldova writes in his book Ballpoint about László’s flight from Europe to Argentina to avoid Nazi persecution. While his business deals in Europe were in disarray, he patented the design in Argentina in 1943 and began production. His big break came later that year, when the British Air Force, in search of a pen that would work at high altitudes, purchased 30,000 of them. Soon, patents were filed and sold to various companies in Europe and North America, and the ballpoint pen began to spread across the world.

Businessmen made significant fortunes by purchasing the rights to manufacture the ballpoint pen in their country, but one is especially noteworthy: Marcel Bich, the man who bought the patent rights in France. Bich didn’t just profit from the ballpoint; he won the race to make it cheap. When it first hit the market in 1946, a ballpoint pen sold for around $10, roughly equivalent to $100 today. Competition brought that price steadily down, but Bich’s design drove it into the ground. When the Bic Cristal hit American markets in 1959, the price was down to 19 cents a pen. Today the Cristal sells for about the same amount, despite inflation.

The ballpoint’s universal success has changed how most people experience ink. Its thicker ink was less likely to leak than that of its predecessors. For most purposes, this was a win—no more ink-stained shirts, no need for those stereotypically geeky pocket protectors. However, thicker ink also changes the physical experience of writing, not necessarily all for the better.

I wouldn’t have noticed the difference if it weren’t for my affection for unusual pens, which brought me to my first good fountain pen. A lifetime writing with the ballpoint and minor variations on the concept (gel pens, rollerballs) left me unprepared for how completely different a fountain pen would feel. Its thin ink immediately leaves a mark on paper with even the slightest, pressure-free touch to the surface. My writing suddenly grew extra lines, appearing between what used to be separate pen strokes. My hand, trained by the ballpoint, expected that lessening the pressure from the pen was enough to stop writing, but I found I had to lift it clear off the paper entirely. Once I started to adjust to this change, however, it felt like a godsend; a less-firm press on the page also meant less strain on my hand.

My fountain pen is a modern one, and probably not a great representation of the typical pens of the 1940s—but it still has some of the troubles that plagued the fountain pens and quills of old. I have to be careful where I rest my hand on the paper, or risk smudging my last still-wet line into an illegible blur. And since the thin ink flows more quickly, I have to refill the pen frequently. The ballpoint solved these problems, giving writers a long-lasting pen and a smudge-free paper for the low cost of some extra hand pressure.

As a teacher whose kids are usually working with numbers and computers, handwriting isn’t as immediate a concern to me as it is to many of my colleagues. But every so often I come across another story about the decline of handwriting. Inevitably, these articles focus on how writing has been supplanted by newer, digital forms of communication—typing, texting, Facebook, Snapchat. They discuss the loss of class time for handwriting practice that is instead devoted to typing lessons. Last year, a New York Times article—one that’s since been highlighted by the Bic’s “Fight for your Write” campaign—brought up an fMRI study suggesting that writing by hand may be better for kids’ learning than using a computer.

I can’t recall the last time I saw students passing actual paper notes in class, but I clearly remember students checking their phones (recently and often). In his history of handwriting, The Missing Ink, the author Philip Hensher recalls the moment he realized that he had no idea what his good friend’s handwriting looked like. “It never struck me as strange before… We could have gone on like this forever, hardly noticing that we had no need of handwriting anymore.”

No need of handwriting? Surely there must be some reason I keep finding pens everywhere.

Of course, the meaning of “handwriting” can vary. Handwriting romantics aren’t usually referring to any crude letterform created from pen and ink. They’re picturing the fluid, joined-up letters of the Palmer method, which dominated first- and second-grade pedagogy for much of the 20th century. (Or perhaps they’re longing for a past they never actually experienced, envisioning the sharply angled Spencerian script of the 1800s.) Despite the proliferation of handwriting eulogies, it seems that no one is really arguing against the fact that everyone still writes—we just tend to use unjoined print rather than a fluid Palmerian style, and we use it less often.

I have mixed feelings about this state of affairs. It pained me when I came across a student who was unable to read script handwriting at all. But my own writing morphed from Palmerian script into mostly print shortly after starting college. Like most gradual changes of habit, I can’t recall exactly why this happened, although I remember the change occurred at a time when I regularly had to copy down reams of notes for mathematics and engineering lectures.

In her book Teach Yourself Better Handwriting, the handwriting expert and type designer Rosemary Sassoon notes that “most of us need a flexible way of writing—fast, almost a scribble for ourselves to read, and progressively slower and more legible for other purposes.” Comparing unjoined print to joined writing, she points out that “separate letters can seldom be as fast as joined ones.” So if joined handwriting is supposed to be faster, why would I switch away from it at a time when I most needed to write quickly? Given the amount of time I spend on computers, it would be easy for an opinionated observer to count my handwriting as another victim of computer technology. But I knew script, I used it throughout high school, and I shifted away from it during the time when I was writing most.

My experience with fountain pens suggests a new answer. Perhaps it’s not digital technology that hindered my handwriting, but the technology that I was holding as I put pen to paper. Fountain pens want to connect letters. Ballpoint pens need to be convinced to write, need to be pushed into the paper rather than merely touch it. The No.2 pencils I used for math notes weren’t much of a break either, requiring pressure similar to that of a ballpoint pen.

Moreover, digital technology didn’t really take off until the fountain pen had already begin its decline, and the ballpoint its rise. The ballpoint became popular at roughly the same time as mainframe computers. Articles about the decline of handwriting date back to at least the 1960s—long after the typewriter, but a full decade before the rise of the home computer.

Sassoon’s analysis of how we’re taught to hold pens makes a much stronger case for the role of the ballpoint in the decline of cursive. She explains that the type of pen grip taught in contemporary grade school is the same grip that’s been used for generations, long before everyone wrote with ballpoints. However, writing with ballpoints and other modern pens requires that they be placed at a greater, more upright angle to the paper—a position that’s generally uncomfortable with a traditional pen hold. Even before computer keyboards turned so many people into carpal-tunnel sufferers, the ballpoint pen was already straining hands and wrists. Here’s Sassoon:

We must find ways of holding modern pens that will enable us to write without pain. …We also need to encourage efficient letters suited to modern pens. Unless we begin to do something sensible about both letters and penholds we will contribute more to the demise of handwriting than the coming of the computer has done.

I wonder how many other mundane skills, shaped to accommodate outmoded objects, persist beyond their utility. It’s not news to anyone that students used to write with fountain pens, but knowing this isn’t the same as the tactile experience of writing with one. Without that experience, it’s easy to continue past practice without stopping to notice that the action no longer fits the tool. Perhaps “saving handwriting” is less a matter of invoking blind nostalgia and more a process of examining the historical use of ordinary technologies as a way to understand contemporary ones. Otherwise we may not realize which habits are worth passing on, and which are vestiges of circumstances long since past.

Josh Giesbrecht is a writer, artist, programmer, and public-school teacher based in British Columbia, Canada.

https://getpocket.com/explore/item/how-the-ballpoint-pen-killed-cursive?utm_source=pocket-newtab

[lolainslackss]

Numbers 2 or 8 feat high school Andriel au bc I cant get enough of my two sons 😫

02. i sit at the rental booth at our local ice rink and watch you teach children how to skate

Neil lines up the three pairs of skates so that the blades clack metallically against the countertop. The tallest kid hands him a note to cover the rental charges and then passes the skates to his friends as Neil counts out his change with shivering fingers.

Abby and Wymack have given him this tiny electric heater that he keeps under the counter but even if he keeps it on for his entire shift, he never manages to thaw. That said, the rental booth isn’t the worst place he’s ever worked. Despite the cold (and the cheery looping of the same holiday songs), it’s easygoing. He enjoys the sounds - the echoey voices and the soft scratching of skates against the rink - and he enjoys the steaming mugs of tea Abby brings him every hour. He likes that Wymack isn’t too strict, which means he can spend his shifts catching up on homework. He also likes the decades-old decorations they excavate from some dark basement room every year; he can remember the crooked, artificial tree and the dimly-glowing rainbow of lights strung around it from when he came ice skating as a kid. Of all the jobs he could have taken at the rink, the rental booth is fine. He would have rather taken on an assistant instructor role, but even though he’s nimble on his feet when he’s on dry land, he’s an accident-prone nightmare on the ice. So that was that ruled out.

“Enjoy,” he murmurs half-heartedly as he hands the kid a stack of loose change. The boy looks at the two girls and they all grin, clearly amused by some private joke or other.

“We always do,” one of the girls says. They’ve already changed into their skates and now their snow boots are wet and drippy on Neil’s counter.

“Mr. Minyard is the best,” the other girl adds.

“So funny,” the boy agrees.

Minyard, Neil thinks, as they totter towards the rink. Surely not that Minyard.

He shrugs and puts their boots away, but he’s still preoccupied by that name. He sits next to a Minyard in school: Andrew. They have calculus together but they’ve never said a word to each other. Andrew sits in stony silence throughout their class, not doing much at all, while Neil furiously scribbles away. He doesn’t seem to do badly, though. In fact, his scores are nearly as good as Neil’s own (Neil takes a peek every now and then, when he’s sure Andrew isn’t looking). He can’t imagine Andrew teaching kids how to skate. From what Neil knows firsthand, and from what he’s heard from other kids at school, Andrew isn’t very friendly or patient. In fact, some of the kids at school are deathly afraid of him.

Neil frowns and tries to focus on his homework, but he’s too distracted. He checks to see if there are any more customers around and hops over the booth counter when he sees there aren’t. The sounds of skates swishing against the ice gets louder as he approaches the rink. He’s not sure what’s really driving his curiosity, but he can’t shake away the need to know. He peers through the plexiglass and sure enough, there he is: Andrew Minyard. Five feet flat and perfectly balanced on the ice. There are around twelve kids congregating around him, laughing hysterically. Andrew, straight-faced, folds his arms across his chest and says something. They all laugh again. Neil tilts his head to the side and watches. Andrew sends away the more confident skaters to practice travelling backwards around the perimeter of the rink and stays in the centre to teach the more wobbly skaters to do figures-of-eight on the ice. He looks calm as he instructs them, gentle in his guidance. It’s a strange image to apply to the disinterested and cold-looking Andrew Minyard he knows from class.

“Wesninski,” Wymack barks, yanking him back to the real world. “You’ve got customers. I don’t pay you to stand around.”

Andrew looks over when he hears Wymack yelling and his and Neil’s eyes meet briefly. Aside from a glimmer of recognition, Andrew doesn’t give anything else away. Neil makes a mental note to ask him about it on Monday, and then jogs back to the rental booth - and the disgruntled customers waiting for him - with a forced and cheery smile plastered on his face.

…

Monday morning. Calculus. Andrew Minyard comes in just before the bell rings and plonks down into his seat without sparing Neil a glance. Their teacher immediately starts droning on, so Neil doesn’t get a chance to talk to Andrew until they’re given their exercises.

“So, how long have you worked at the rink?” Neil asks, tapping his pencil against his notepad.

“Couple of weeks,” Andrew says with a shrug, doodling a fat cat in the margins of his own notebook.

“I work there too,” Neil tells him uselessly.

“I noticed,” Andrew says with a small snort. “You were spying on me.”

“I wasn’t- I just-” Neil returns his mocking look with a glare. Andrew looks so different from when he was helping the kids at the rink. He looks harder at the edges. “I was just curious to see who the new instructor was.”

“Well, now you’ve found out. Hope you’re thrilled.”

“You don’t seem like the type.”

Andrew looks amused. “That’s presumptuous.”

“Yeah, well,” Neil mumbles, shrugging. “Maybe you should put as much effort into your calculus as you do at the rink.”

“You’re very bold this morning.”

“You’re a confusing person,” Neil admits.

“Don’t hurt yourself trying to figure it out,” Andrew says. “I can make it simple for you.”

Neil looks at him questioningly.

“At the rink, I get free blue raspberry slushies. You know, because I work there,” Andrew says, conspiratorially, as if he’s telling Neil a secret. “In calculus, though? Not so much.”

Neil blinks, nonplussed. “You’re messing with me.”

“Who knew you were so easy to mess with.”

“So, what’s the real reason?”

“I like it,” Andrew says plainly. “Is that the answer you were hoping for?”

Neil just shrugs. He feels annoyed. Like the conversation is a game that he’s somehow lost. He flips the page vigorously and somehow ends up gouging a papercut into the side of his finger. A blob of red blood beads, quivers and then spills.

He instinctively blots the cut with a sheet of paper from his notebook before noticing that Andrew is pulling a pack of wet wipes and a beat-up box of band-aids out of his bag.

“It’s just a papercut,” Neil protests.

“Just a papercut,” Andrew parrots darkly. “Even tiny cuts can get infected.”

“Fine,” Neil concedes, placing his hand on the desk in between them.

He watches as Andrew carefully dabs the cut before firmly wrapping the band-aid around it. His touch causes Neil’s heart to trip up in his chest. He brings his free hand to his forehead; he hopes he’s not coming down with something.

After Andrew’s done, he drops Neil’s hand as if it’s a pebble of coal burning hot from a fire. Neil mutters a thank you and the rest of the class passes by without incident or, indeed, another word.

…

Saturday. Very early afternoon. Stark white daylight washes over the town, but it’s ephemeral. Soon, the sky will purple and brood. It’s the busiest time at the ice rink and Neil’s been dealing with a constant queue of customers all day.

Eventually, he’s left alone long enough to sit down and take a look at his English essay. He writes exactly one sentence before the commotion begins. A cluster of kids waddle toward him, teetering on their skates. They look worried.

“Mr. Minyard fell on the ice,” one of them announces.

“His knee just like, started spurting blood everywhere!”

“Don’t exaggerate, Tommy!”

“What? It did!”

Neil swears under his breath and bends down to retrieve the first aid kit. Wymack had made him take a first aid course after he’d been offered the job. He’d said he liked everyone at the rink to know how to take care of someone who took a spill on the ice. Luckily, he has never had to use it. Until now.

Neil follows the kids to the edge of the rink. Andrew is trying to undo his laces, but keeps needing to stop in order to press down on his bleeding knee. His pale fingers are smudged red. When Neil looks across the rink, he sees the splatter of crimson where he must have fallen.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have worn your trendy, ripped jeans to work today,” Neil deadpans, crouching down to take a look at Andrew’s cut.

“Shut up,” Andrew says, shooting him an unimpressed look.

“I will,” Neil says, “but only if you let me take a look at that.”

He nods at Andrew’s hands, which are clasped tightly over his knee. Andrew’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his body language shifts as he slowly undoes his hands and lets them fall to his sides.

“Just there,” he says, pointing to his knee. He leans back against the plexiglass wall and closes his eyes.

Neil nods, not really understanding. He makes sure to clean and dress the wound without touching Andrew anywhere but his knee. It’s a relatively shallow cut so it’s easy enough to patch up, even when there are a bunch of kids watching him work, holding their breath.

When he’s done, Andrew’s eyes flutter open. Some colour has returned to his cheeks. Neil smiles at him encouragingly.

“Go get Andrew a blue raspberry slushie,” Neil instructs one of the kids.

“I’m not in shock,” Andrew grumbles, annoyed.

“Didn’t say you were,” Neil replies. “This is just, I don’t know, my treat.”

“What a treat,” Andrew says sarcastically, getting to his feet. “A freebie from the cafeteria.”

“How’d you fall?” Neil asks, just as Andrew is about to get back on the rink and skate away from him.

“Wasn’t paying attention,” Andrew says, looking annoyed at himself.

“Oh well,” Neil says. “Could have been worse, right?”

Andrew just holds his gaze for a second or two and then glides away.

…

Neil slams his locker and startles when he sees Andrew standing right next to him, sucking the remnants of a slushie, his lips tinted blue.

“What?” Neil asks.

“Nothing,” Andrew replies, tossing the plastic cup in the trash.

“Okay,” Neil replies, confused. “You’re finished too?”

Andrew just nods, sitting down on the bench across from Neil and studying him carefully. His look makes Neil feel twitchy and at the same time makes his insides lurch as if he’s on a rollercoaster.

“Uh, are you heading home then?” Neil goes on.

Andrew shrugs. “You?”

“Kind of have to,” Neil replies, tugging on his parka and switching his fingerless gloves for mittens. “It’s Hanukkah. If I’m not there when the candle’s lit, my mom will kill me.”

“Okay,” Andrew says, considering this. “And what will she do if you sneak out after?”

Neil huffs a laugh out of his nose and shakes his head. “Then she’ll turn me over to my dad to kill me.”

“Is there any situation where you meet up with me tonight and don’t end up dead?”

“I- Well- Why do you want to meet up with me?”

Andrew looks at him as if to say, are you serious? Neil tugs at his scarf, feeling warmth for the first time in weeks.

“You,” he starts, not sure how to finish. “You’re nothing like how they say you are, are you?”

“Who’s that?”

“The kids at school. They think you’re scary.”

But he’s not, Neil thinks, his mind flooding with images of Andrew on the ice, reaching for some little girl’s hand as she’s about to stumble. Of Andrew taking care of his stupid papercut even though he didn’t have to.

“I don’t care what they think,” Andrew says.

“Where will you be?” Neil asks, changing the subject. “Tonight?”

“Around.”

“Your parents won’t mind?”

“Bee is a very lenient guardian.”

Neil doesn’t waste his time trying to untangle his thoughts. He knows what he wants to do.

“I can sneak out,” Neil tells Andrew, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

“Good,” Andrew says.

They walk down the corridor in silence, eventually passing the empty rink and a suspicious-looking Wymack. Neil waves goodbye to him and then he and Andrew are outside, surrounded by a deeply black night-time that’s being interrupted by the orange glow of the streetlamps. Andrew walks him to his car and then leaves without saying another word, merely tugging on the strap of his backpack and shooting him another one of his looks.

Neil drives home with a grin on his face he can’t get rid of. He can’t wait to see how the rest of the night will turn out.

winter prompts

[dnp-and-blankets]

Love Lessons

TW: Abuse mention, Suicide mention, Abandoned, if theres any more pls let me know

3,441 words

Soulmate AU where you don’t realise who your soulmate is until they leave, and then you cry whenever they cry OR Phil is a sunflower happy new kid with a fascination for soulmates, Dan is an angsty, angry, artist who hate soulmates with a passion, ft Patrick Stump 

 "We can't take him" "Why not" "You can barely look after yourself, and are you forgetting we already have a child?" "He has no one!" "Chloe I swear to fuck" "You'd want Daniel to have somewhere to stay wouldn't you?" "It's not my fault the boy wasn't wanted!" "Would you want Daniel to be treated like this?" "He never will be in foster care" "What if something happens to us?" "My sister's ex bought us that house remember? Already furnished, for when Daniel wants to live on his own." "Philip never had that" I don't know what's going on. All I know is that Chloe equals food. And I really wants food. "He's only 4 years old!" "Pwease can I has some toast?" "Philip go to your room." "Chloe, you're not fit enough for this" "Miss Chloe, I'm really hungry" "Philip!" I go upstairs sniffling, and catch a glimpse of a little boy my age. He growls at me and throws a fox teddy. I pick the teddy up and name him Thomas.

                                                          ~*~

                  I'm very excited today. Today I start at a college that teaches soulmate lessons weekly. Today I start at a college in the town I'll hopefully spend more than a few weeks in. Today, I can finally start figuring out who my soulmate is.  I take a deep breath and look in the mirror. My quiff is being pressed down ever so slightly by a sunflower flower crown. My glasses hang lazily off my nose. I smile brightly at myself and glance at my outfit one more time- a yellow shirt, with the sleeves rolled up halfway up my arms, black jeans, odd socks, white trainers, and a light blue denim jacket- and went through my bedroom door. "Good luck at school Philip!" Stephanie's chirpy voice sang as I walked passed the kitchen. Me and Stephanie moved here to celebrate her second year of adopting me, and we decided homeschool just wasn't going to cut it anymore. I thanked her, grabbed my lunch money, college I.D, shoved Thomas into my pocket, and begun the walk to school. I kick leaves as I walk, and talk to birds that fly passed me. "Bords," I mutter under my breath as a flock flies over my head. I hear a snort behind me and turn to see someone with glasses similar to mine, and strawberry blonde hair. "Not typical behaviour for 17 year olds but carry on." He had an american accent. I was mesmerised, and he seemed to notice this, "I'm a transfer from Chicago, my 'rents moved here a couple months ago, but I'm just starting college now."

"I moved here last week." He smiled at this and hurried to walk the same pace as me. He was much shorter than me. "I'm Phil!"

"Patrick!" another voice yelled. It was an ever so slightly tanned boy, with brown hair that curls, and deep brown eyes surrounded in quite a bit of smudged eyeliner. He definitely slept in his makeup last night, and just reapplied this morning. "Big mood." He twirls to face me and sneers, "What?"

"Sorry, I was just-"

"This is Dan. He's angry. At everything, always. Don't take it personally," Patrick laughs, "want to walk with us?"

            We step into college laughing and wheezing, Dan had been talking about how useless giraffes were, and it was so surreal to see someone harbour so much rage for an animal they've never even seen. "I have English resit lessons first, what about you guys?" Patrick asks. "Love lessons," Dan rolls his eyes, the words laced with hatred, "yay." "Same!" I smile and follow him to the classroom. We stand outside the classroom door and he looks me up and down. I blush ever so slightly, feeling a bit too exposed for some reason. He nods to himself gently and then makes eye contact. "What are you taking?" "Soulmate Theory and Art," I declare, happy that I have a chance to show my enthusiasm, "what about yourself?" "Acting, and Art," he forces the words, seemingly biting his tongue, "why on Earth would you take Soulmate Theory? We're all literally forced to learn the basics once a week, why would you want to dedicate a years worth of college just to get a level 2 BTEC in something fake?" I ignore the fact that he just said soulmates were fake, and decide instead to question him on his logic, "You literally take acting," he smiles at this and we enter the classroom as the tutor greets us.

        "Good Morning everyone! We have a new student joining us today, would you like to like to introduce yourself?" The tutor had wavy blonde hair, and looking at her I.D, her name was Sharon. She seems very perky. "I'm Phil." Is all I manage to say before I notice Dan pulling stupid faces at me and I snort, breaking into laughter. Sharon looks at me in confusion and just lets me sit down. "Today we'll be touching on how much you need to know your soulmate before it counts when they leave," She says, writing a big question mark on the whiteboard, "and the answer is, to put it simply, not at all! They just need to enter your life, be it an accidental brush of the foot, they cough and it catches your attention, or even someone yells their name and you notice." "Sounds like this bullshit theory is grasping for straws. How many people actually find their soulmates after they've suposedly been crying for years?" I look up in shock at Dan's language towards a tutor. Sharon glares at him before answering, "It's not a large statistic, but sometimes people get lucky, and they witness someone crying at the same time as them multiple times, and then-" "Is there actual proof for this?" "Well, of course there's not lots, but we do know that people who never cry have reported crying just as their wife starts crying, and-" "This is such bullshit!" He yells, standing up and kicking his chair for dramatic effect. "As if you idiots teach a mandatory class on something you can't actually prove," the boy mutters before storming out.

       I sit down in my art class, still not fully over Dan's outburst from over an hour ago. He never returned to the classroom, and I didn't have much hope of seeing him in my art class either. "Phil?" The art tutor had sat himself next to me for some reason. My eyes flickered to his I.D, which said, "Mx Quinn" which confused me to an unknown extent. "I'm non-binary," they explained without missing a beat. They hand me a tissue and I take it slowly. I aimed to say, "What's this for?" but it came out in a sorrowful sob, and I realise with a shock that my soulmate must be crying somewhere. "I don't even know his name" I say sadly. Quinn's eyebrow raises but they seem to accept my queerness pretty quickly, not even questioning it. "When did you meet him?" "Steph says my social worker told her that I've been crying randomly since I was put into foster care, so it must have been pretty early on. And trust me when I say I've been in a lot of different foster homes, so I have no idea how to even begin tracking him down." "My soulmate is my wife, but she wasn't my wife until last year, so I wouldn't give up hope just yet" They pat my shoulder before turning and walking to their whiteboard. "Students!" They say with a clap. "Quinn!" A chorus of students clap in response.

     "Now that first term is over, and we've finished our Christmas break, I've decided to actually assign you work, instead of letting your imaginations run free. But don't worry, I won't be telling you what to draw, just hopefully giving you some inspiring prompts." The door swings open and Dan walks in, looking angry as per usual. He sits down next to me. "Today’s prompt, is Beauty, take it as you wish." Quinn claps once more and everyone begins moving. I take out my sketch book and my pencil, and start drawing a circle. I cover the remainder of the page in easy-to-remove sellotape, and then get my water paints out. Dark navys mix with  deep purples, and they both mix with magentas, and then are left to dry. Whilst waiting for it to dry, I remove the tape, and then look over at Dan's page. He's using white chalk on black paper. He's drawn the lines of multiple people, with one person in particular being coloured in white, whilst the rest are left uncoloured. This person is now being shaded around, to give them the appearance of glowing. "Is that your soulmate?" "No, they're even better" "Why?" "Because they exist" I raise my eyebrows at him, but don't question it. "Who is it?" "Does it matter?" "No, but-" "Then drop it."

         At the end of the class I have fully painted a little circle of galaxy, that's surrounded by vines and flowers and various other plants. "Plants killing the universe? Irony is beauty to you?" Quinn was stood over my desk "Nope," I smile, "I just really like plants and space!" "Stop," Dan chimes in, "we get it, you're a soft person." He sounds angry but he's smiling as he says it. I pack up my bags and leave the classroom. Why is he so angry all the time? I think about what could be upsetting him when Patrick grabs my arm. "Soulmate Thoery right?" I nod and we begin walking to class together.

                                                          ~*~

"Phil, stop crying, please" Kat begs, "David will be home soon. You mustn't be crying so much on your first day here." I sob in response. I'm not even sad. I don't know why I'm crying so much. "You don't want to end up back in the orphanage do you?" "I'm not sad," I plead, tears still streaming down my face, "I'm very happy I'm here!" "Then stop crying before David arrives." The front door swings open just as she says this, and a tall, dark eyed man enters the room. "Why does he cry?" He has a Russian accent. "Why does the small one cry? What happens to 9 year old that make them cry so much?" He seems to be getting angrier and angrier. "Phil please stop" Kat begs me. David raises his hand and yells, "Why do you cry?" "I don't know sir" "Bullshit!" He bellows, his hand coming down rapidly. I don't stop crying for a week. They send me back to the orphanage after two days. The crying doesn't stop. I go about my life, eating, playing games, reading, but for a week straight, my body is wracked with sobs.                                                               

                                                          ~*~

             I was 4 years old when I found myself in my first foster home. They kept me for two weeks, and then I was moved to a different home, because the mum was getting sad, or somet, and she could only handle one child, so naturally she kept her own, and not the foster kid. According to my social worker, I've been crying randomly ever since leaving the orphanage in that town. So that's the first place I decide to check. Soulmate Theory is a class dedicated to finding logic in soulmates, and the only reason I decided to take it is because it will provide resources for me to locate my own soulmate. "So, what do you think she will look like?" Patrick asks, hyped for me, as he already found his soulmate, sadly it was after he had moved to the UK, and Pete was still in Chicago. "Well, I hope he has curly hair, because curls are the cutest, and maybe he'll have glasses like me? I want him to have darker eyes than me, so maybe green," I pause for a second in thought, "Brown would be nice too" "tanned?" "kind of? I don't expect them to always be tanned but it'll be nice to have someone who can tan, unlike me." "what colour hair" "I'm naturally ginger, so not ginger or black, maybe blonde, or brown" "brown eyes, brown curly hair, can tan?" "Yeh?" "You mean, Dan Howell?" I choke and look away from my computer screen, eyes wide and aimed directly at Patrick. "No"

         I open a new tab and search for the orphanage I was sent to after my first foster home. I type in the year I was sent there. Patrick notices the town's name and asks if I'm for real. "Yes, why?" "That's Dan's home town," He winks, "Maybe he is your soulmate" "Dan could be my soulmate? Should I tell him?" "No, he doesn't believe in soulmates." "That's good, because I don't think I could spend the rest of my life with someone so negative." Patrick snorts and continues tapping away on his phone. I write down a list of people that were in the orphanage at the same time as me, and make a checklist. I'll message a different one every time I cry. I start stalking each of them online. Stephen, Karla, Bridge, Lucy- Bridge? "Trick, is Bridge a boy or a girl name?" "It's architecture" "It's someone on the list" "Just message them and see." Tears begin falling down my face. "Hey I didn't mean it like that, I'm sorry-" "This isn't me!" I smile widely and message someone called Chris, I read the message out loud as I type it, "Hey, I have reason to believe that you're my soulmate, are you crying right now?" They mustn't have any privacy settings on, because the response I receive is immediate, "nope, I'm not crying, and I got my soulmate pregnant last month, so unless this is Keighleigh messing with me, you're not my soulmate," I read it out to Patrick. "Who spells Kaylee like that?" "I know, it's supposed to be K a y l e i g h" "Incorrect" "We'll ask Dan on the walk home?" "Absolutely."

          I message four other people, but none of them are my soulmate. I finally stop crying around ten minutes before the tutor dismisses us, and I feel strange. This time it didn't feel full of emotion. It felt empty. "Hi nerds" "You look like a mess," Patrick chirps. And he's right. Dan's face is paler than usual, and his hair is messy. "No duh, I just did the final scene of the drama I've been writing, the scene where my dog dies and I scream and cry in the rain. Someone's been dumping water on me as I've forced tears, I'm obviously not gonna be looking glamorous." "You've been crying? That's so weird, because-" I glare at Patrick and he stops talking. "Phil's soulmate search hasn't been going too well" "That's cause she doesn't exist." "He," Patrick corrects him, and Dan's eyes widen a little bit. We start walking home and me and Patrick exchange worried glances at each other. "Dan, you never talk about your childhood" "What's there to talk about? My mum's gone, as is my dad, and I've been living on my own since I was 15" "What happened to your parents?" "Phil," Patrick warned me, clearly Dan doesn't talk about this very often. I apologise and we carry on walking. Patrick turns a corner and waves goodbye. Steph apparently lives pretty close to Dan. "Come over?" Dan asks. I smile and nod, maybe a little too eagerly.

                                                               ~*~

         "He's been crying since he was 4 years old, are you prepared to take on this child who has in fact lost contact with their, seemingly very emotional, soulmate?" "Of course. He needs stability. I've always been a fan of stability." I start crying. "Sweetie, I know you don't believe me, but-" "It's not me," I sniffle. She wraps her arms around me in a hug. "He needs someone who has dealt with soulmates." "As you wish. Although, He's 15, and met his soulmate over 10 years ago, so instead of helping him find her, I suggest you book him into a support group for lost soulmates" "I'll do as I please with my child." "Foster child" "Only for a few months. And then he's my child" "Whatever. Sign here." "Go and adventure, Philip, your room is top left." I hear muffled conversation as I close the front door. I finally have a forever home. Someone finally wants me. I could cry, but as per usual, I don't. I never cry. My soulmate cries enough without my tears adding to it. I've been bottling it up for years now. Instead, I smile. I wipe my mirroring tears and try desperately to let him know I care about him. But soulmates don't work like that.

                                                             ~*~

        "You live here?" My jaw drops, "It's awesome!" "My aunt's gave it to me when I was little. I didn't need to use it until a couple of years ago though." "why not?" "Because soulmates aren't real" He says with a shrug. "Who did you draw today?" "You" I splutter, "Me? Why?" "Isn't it obvious? You're beautiful Phil" "But- I mean, thank you- but you don't- soulmates- and-" "Just because love isn't real doesn't mean beauty isn't" My mouth forms an 'O' and that's all I manage to respond. "Why don't you like soulmates?" "Because they ruin people's lives" "Elaborate?" "When I was little, my mum would never shut up about soulmates, she would even tell the little kids we'd foster occasionally" I shot him a quizzical look,  "My mum was bipolar, so she'd foster whilst my dad was at work, and they'd get sent back as soon as my dad would come home. She obsessed over it ever since we tried to foster someone when I was little and my dad had decided it wasn't best for mum's health. Anyways, my mum was obsessed with soulmates. It's all she'd ever talk about, it's all she'd ever research, for days on end. But she killed herself when I was nine. And dad didn't get that warm feeling my mum always spoke about when you lost your soulmate. He didn't love her once he found out that they weren't soulmates. He didn't love me once he realised I was a mistake "He started hitting me, ranting about how he wasted his life with the wrong person. But he had loved her when she was alive, so clearly his love was false, because of the bullshit soulmate theory. My dad killed himself when I was 14, and I spent around 6 months in foster care before my Aunt Stephy contacted me and reminded me of the house she bought me when I was 4. So many people waste their lives looking for soulmates and 'true love' that they don't even look twice at anyone until they're crying. It's fucked up. And plus, I've never cried without meaning it. Ever. Everyone my age has met their soulmate by now. So what? Mine just doesn't exist? Mine doesn't have emotions?" He laughs pitifully.

            "Or maybe they just love you enough to hold back their tears." "What kind of bullshit excuse is that?" "Love isn't just somet you see on TV, Dan" "Yes it is," He yells, suddenly stood up and bearing his teeth, "Soulmates aren't real, relationships aren't real, none of it is fucking real!" "Dan-" "Get out of my house" "Dan, no, please just-" "I said get the fuck out!" "But," I whisper softly. "But what?" "I think you're my soulmate" And for the first time in over 13 years, I start crying, because of my emotions. As I look up, so is Dan. His face is of pure shock, and he doesn't seem to be properly crying, his tears are instead mirroring mine. My hand in my pocket squeezes Thomas ever so slightly. "What's in your pocket?" He tries to say, choking on my sobs, wiping his eyes furiously. I pull the stuffed fox out of my pocket and this time it's Dan's jaw that Drops. "It was you?" "Wait- you were-" "I knew I remembered those eyes" "Wait" "Philip!" "Daniel?" He launches himself at me and captures my lips in a kiss.

        Dan doesn't get over his fears of soulmates immediately. But he starts paying attention in Love Lessons, he starts asking more serious questions, he runs to me whenever he starts second guessing himself, he paints me in art, and most importantly, he doesn't cry as much anymore. I love Dan, I always have, and although he may not ever love me 100%, I know he'll always be with me.

[imhereforbvcky]

My Favorite What If - Part 1

Masterlist  -  Part 2

Summary: You run into your childhood friend Steve and wonder if you’ve missed out on a good thing.

Prompt(s): for @tatortot2701 ’s AU Writing Challenge!: “Please don’t tell me you got arrested again.”

Warnings: couple of swear words because it’s me, that’s all. :)

Word Count: 3078

Author’s Note: italics are memories/flashbacks. I loved this when I started then I’m not so sure about it… I’m mostly nervous to be back after such a long time away from writing. Oh well, nothing to it but to do it, so here it is. Some angst and floof. Also thanks to @denialanderror, that b who points out my typos. :) Thanks for your help on this one.

The courthouse is a flurry of activity at this hour. Soon it’ll settle into the quiet drone of transcripts hammered out on antiquated technology, heavy doors groaning open and thundering shut as accused and accusers alike rotate in and out of courtrooms. There’s almost a peace to it for you, the steady rhythm of it all feels familiar and… normal.

You’d learned long ago that courthouses are far more mundane than Law & Order would have everyone believe. The truth is people filter in and out, arguing over traffic stops and staring each other down over divorce proceedings, sentences and decisions moving across the desks of bored judges faster than the papers can move, and all of it so incredibly commonplace. So incredibly boring.

But boring is good. It is for you, at least. Having spent time on more than one side of a courtroom, it’s a familiar place, and a safe one. Clutching today’s case file you ease back until your shoulders and head reach the marble wall behind you and you let your eyes drift closed, waiting to be called.

The tension just begins to slip from your shoulders when a booming happy voice echoes off the stone all around you, drawing your attention. You know it’s calling for you because it’s a familiar voice, so very familiar you’d never forget it. Your eyes nearly pop out of your head in surprise, your jaw falling open when you turn to finally look at him.

“Please don’t tell me you got arrested again,” he teases, approaching you with arms outstretched and a broad grin. “My caseload is full, and you know my mom’ll kill me if I post your bail again.”

“Steve?!” you query, finally managing to get your slack-jawed face under control, rising slowly in disbelief. He holds his hands out again, looking to his sides with a mock-confused expression arching his brow, as if there’s no one else in the world it could be. As if no time had passed. As if he’d been there all along.

Without even thinking about where you are, you run at him. The sharp click of your heels on the tile and the resistance of your sleek pencil skirt remind you that you’re not in a place or position to throw your arms around his neck and wind your legs around his waist like you normally would. But you can, and do, hop a little when your arms reach his shoulders, letting him hold you tight, letting him lift your feet just off the ground while he twists around with you. You giggle, burying your face in the familiar warmth of his neck. The soft scratch of his beard on your cheek is new, but you don’t mind it, it looks good on him, actually.

He’s a lot bigger than you remember too, broad and muscular. You feel small surrounded by his truly enormous embrace. As he eases you back to the ground, you tug your skirt and blouse back into place but his hands don’t leave your shoulders while he surveys you from arm’s length.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you demand excitedly smacking his arm. That was a mistake. He’s solid and strong under that suit and now you’re painfully aware. Damn, he looks really good. You’d never thought of Steve that way; not your Steve. You definitely shouldn’t start now, right?

It’s funny, you still think of him as your Steve. He’s not yours, never has been. Not exactly. You haven’t so much as talked in years, but he’d been your best friend, and those were the same kind eyes, and that was the same teasing smile, and that was definitely the same warm hug. The one you had absolutely craved sometimes when you were on your own here in the city starting a new life, trying to forget everything you could about the one you’d left behind. The one he was part of. The best part of, if you were honest.

If someone held a gun to your head and asked you how Steve had answered your question, you wouldn’t be able to answer, but you do know that you can’t stop grinning while you twirl his business card in your fingers, and you know that you’ve just made plans to grab lunch later this week to catch up.

After he finally disappeared down the hall, you lean your head back on the marble wall again, letting your mind wander. God, he looks so different, but somehow exactly the same.

The first time you saw Steve Rogers you were just a kid, watching with interest while his family unpacked their moving truck. You were cleaning the windows. You cleaned them every day because it was one of the arbitrary but thoroughly enforced rules of your house.

Steve was lanky and awkward then, nearly dropping the box he carried when he’d spotted you and waved. You had giggled and waved back. You were shocked when there was a knock on the door and there in front of you was your new neighbor. He introduced himself and leaned his arm on the door frame, his fingers sliding over the long glass pane, to your horror. Without thinking you shoved his hand off, immediately wiping at the smudges he’d left.

“Don’t… um…” you stammered, embarrassed and unsure how to explain your reaction. He’d know soon enough. You were sure the whole street had heard the chaos from within your house at some point. “Here, let’s um… do you want to sit on the porch?” you volunteered, quickly shutting the door behind you, locking the dark inside and away from the bright warmth that seemed to radiate from this boy.

Steve was the kind of awkward that just said the first thing that came into his head, that explained the things he was excited about past the point that anyone was interested anymore, and whose loyalty knew no bounds. Those were the things you loved about Steve. Your world was one of uncertainty and volatility, but he was honest and gentle. He cared about things, deeply, while you flitted from interest to interest, always pushing limits. He was the lighthouse while the sea raged around you. Or were you the sea?

“I’m so sorry,” Steve sighs into the phone, “I’ve gotta take a rain check on lunch.”

You pull the phone from your ear to check the time. Really? Twenty minutes before the reservation time? Luckily, you catch yourself before the depleted sigh can pass your lips, instead forcing a bright lilt to your voice. “That’s alright, you’re a big shot lawyer now, Stevie, I get it.”

The pause that follows tells you that your tone may have brightened but your words hadn’t and Steve still knows you better than anybody, even after all this time. You rub your forehead grimacing at your own oversensitivity. Why are you so irritated? It’s just lunch with an old friend. You hadn’t seen Steve in years anyway, what’s another day?

“Really, Steve, it’s fine.” You let your hand drop from your face while you glance back over your shoulder. The internal struggle of whether to head back in the direction you’d just come or to keep the reservation and have lunch on your own keeps you frozen in place. “Next time.”

“There will be a next time!” he insists, “What are you doing on Friday? Got time for a drink? Maybe dinner?”

“Steven Rogers!” you laugh, feigning indignation, “Are you trying to pull the ‘sorry I’ve gotta cancel this casual non-threatening thing you agreed to so I can swap it for a date’ trick on me?”

“No! I-I just want to apologize for missing lunch,” he stumbles, still your Steve: just hint that his morals are clouded and he has a meltdown. “I feel bad. Let me buy you dinner.”

“Alright, but no funny business, mister!” you tease, “Your mom will have my head.”

Hanging up with a lighter feeling in your chest and an untamable grin on your lips you turn back towards the restaurant, deciding you'll treat yourself to lunch after all

Mrs. Rogers had just about lost it the first time she caught you dead asleep in Steve's bed. It was the summer after they'd moved in and you'd tapped so lightly with your fingernail on his window you were sure it’d go unanswered, but to your surprise, Steve had opened the window.  You’d stood there tapping on the windowsill without saying a word, just watching Steve’s face while he listened to the angry ruckus from your house and saw the fearful way you glanced behind you and chewed at your lip. He'd helped you climb in and had slept on top of the blankets beside you while you curled up beneath them.

Sarah had found you, the reckless teenager next door, curled into her golden boy and had been incensed. You'd scrambled away without a word fearing the worst but the next time you snuck out, Steve's window was open and there was an extra pillow and blanket on the desk in his room.

Nobody ever talked about it again. It was just understood that the Rogers home was safe, and you were welcome as long as you kept out of trouble. Steve quickly became a lifeline. Just being around him felt like home. Or what home should feel like. You weren't willing to sacrifice that feeling for anything.

So you pretended not to see the way he looked at you over the years, or how he waited for you on everything, or how irritable he became whenever you started up with a new boyfriend. You needed him so badly that you just couldn't take the risk of anything more. Even if you knew it wasn’t fair.

Walking proudly down the street, an easy confidence lifts your chin while your mind drifts over how your unexpected encounter with Steve had developed so far. It’s been a while since you were genuinely excited, especially over a guy. They always let you down, but not Steve, so you let yourself ride the impulse for the first time in a long time.

The restaurant’s crisp linen and polished glasses are way above your pay grade but you decide to treat yourself to something small anyway and step through to the hostess stand, offering Steve's name, since he'd made the initial reservation. It's not until she calls another employee over with a confused expression that it dawns on you what's happened and your eyes quickly scan the restaurant as you back away toward the door, muttering some awkward excuse about changing your mind.

When your gaze finally reaches those familiar, smiling eyes and the warm grin you’d always selfishly thought was yours, now turned on her, you feel a tightening in your gut and a numbness in your body. It really doesn’t matter who she is; she’s beautiful and confident, and he’s happy with her, and it sends you stumbling straight into a server. The clattering plates and the sound of your apologies draw Steve's attention and it's worse than you could have imagined when he calls your name, confused and surprised.

You can feel your cheeks burning while your head is screaming how unbelievably stupid you are to do this to yourself. Stupid for getting so excited in the first place. Stupid for coming to this ludicrous restaurant where you feel so desperately out of place. Stupid for stumbling. Over Steve. Your Steve! The only thing you can think to do is to get away.

Thanking shoe designers for finally making sensible and attractive flats, you dart quickly through the busy sidewalk, grateful, too, for the crowd as you hear Steve calling your name again from the restaurant entrance. You push your hair back anxiously but power forward. You escape, ignoring the call and the text from Steve until you're home again.

After slamming your door shut, you slink down on the couch and cross an arm over your eyes, trying desperately to figure out exactly when you had become so hopeless.

The late afternoon sun beat down on your shoulders as you raced through the hot sand, tossing your towel and letting your cheap, well worn flip-flops slide off your feet, entombed in the sand where you stepped. All you could do was laugh, the sound bubbling from your chest easily when Steve hit the water first and immediately flopped into it, half floating like a fallen log.

The small local beach had emptied by now so you carelessly trudged into the water after him and dropped on top of him, dipping his head under the murky lake water. You squealed when he gripped your arms and kicked you both further from the beach, deeper into the water until you were sinking with him.

When his grip loosened, you rolled away from him and lazily pushed deeper into the water towards the small raft anchored a little ways out. Steve sputtered to the surface, a huge grin on his face, and made large swift strokes after you, beating you to the raft. He helped to haul you up onto the warm sun-dried surface.

This was your favorite spot, when it was warm enough; lazing side by side on this raft after the beach had gone quiet, with your feet dangling in the water, cooling down from the sticky heat of early summer. You’d lay there until you were warm and dry again, sometimes talking about nothing, sometimes about everything, sometimes not talking at all.

“So did you really get into a fight with Natasha Romanoff yesterday during fourth?”

“No! Are you kidding me? She’d kick my ass,” you insisted, annoyed that he’d even give the slightest consideration to the rumor. “No. All day she was telling everyone that I like Brock Rumlow! BROCK! Can you believe that?” Steve rolled his eyes, fearing he should believe it, that Brock was exactly your type: nothing but trouble. “So I pretended to kick her right when Mr. Duvall walked in. She was laughing, it was nothing, but he flipped out and sent me to the Dean’s office.”

“So when’s detention?” he asked dryly.

“Tuesday: graffiti duty.”

“That’s pretty harsh for a misunderstanding,” he conceded, “Lockers or bleachers?”

“Bleachers,” you groaned. Bleachers were the worst. Lockers could just be re-painted. Bleachers had to be scrubbed.

“Alright, I’ll help,” he sighed, turning to glare at you seriously, “but this is the last time I’m helping on bleachers.”

“Fair enough!” you agreed quickly. It really was hell by yourself, but time with Steve was always good time. “God your mom is going to kill me. What will you tell her this time?”

“Oh no! I’m already doing you a favor. You have to tell her yourself.”

“Steve!”

“You think I’m going to do half your work AND be the one to tell her? You’re out of your mind, squid,” he teased, “In fact, it seems like you owe me!”

“Alright fine. Then let’s just run away,” you turned to him then, head resting on your bent elbow, a lazy smile behind your eyes, serious, but ready to play it off if he laughed at you. “Let’s run away and you can have my CD collection for the trip, and we’ll just go! Just you and me. Together.”

“Um… I was thinking like prom but…”

“No, c’mon, let’s get out of here!” you pressed, “There’s nothing holding us here. We’re almost done with school--”

“Yeah almost being the operative word,” he reasoned, “my mom will kill us both.”

With a long pause and a heavy sigh you buried your wish to escape, replacing it with a bright smile and an even brighter lilt to your voice. “Yeah, you’re right. Prom it is.” You turned to rest on your back again beside your best friend, “But no fancy car, no big show of pictures… it’s just us.”

Slightly bewildered by your sudden swing in demeanor, Steve reluctantly fell into the new trajectory of your conversation, too eager to hold onto your plans to notice how you’d drifted just slightly. “You know my mom’s going to need photographic evidence of you dressed like a lady for once.”

“Well then I’ll just have to be sure I don’t dress like a lady!” you countered, a little too quickly.

“Lucky me,” Steve muttered with a grin, earning him a quick and playful smack in the arm.

“Excuse you; I was very ladylike at my dad’s funeral last year, thank you very much!”

“Yeah, in my mom’s dress!”

Out of arguments and thinking Steve needed a shock for all his sass, you shot up, reaching over the edge of the raft and flinging a slimy string of seaweed square onto his face.

He gasped at the cold, and the shock lingered at the gross dark green muck smeared across his cheek. You couldn’t bite back the giggles that burst out of you as he peeled the seaweed away and tossed it back into the water, muttering how “very unladylike” you truly were.

“You’re in for it now, kid” he grinned, lunging to grip you securely as he tipped you both over the side of the raft. The cold water was a shock after so long in the warm evening sun and you erupted to the surface gasping and giggling, pushing each others’ heads under water, grasping at ankles and arms as you made your way back to the beach laughing in the ease of your friendship.

These were the moments you lived for. Time with Steve was the best time, it was easy and clear and you never wanted it to end or become complicated. You waved goodbye as he rode his bike into his garage and disappeared for the night while you lingered on your porch, legs swinging over the railing, mimicking the way they’d hung over the raft earlier, lake water still dripping from your hair, hoping to hold onto that time for just a little longer before the rest of the world took it away.

That was the only picture you’d bothered to keep from your childhood. One summer afternoon with you and Steve with arms over shoulders, sopping with lake water, barely holding back the laughter long enough for Sarah to snap the photo. She had boxes full of them, full of memories, but you only allowed yourself the one. The one where you looked happy still. One before everything got complicated.

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