#but to see that criticism casually dropped on your lap by people who are... basically tourists to a situation you fought tooth and nail for

[rawliverandgoronspice]

.

help I'm having a case of "game got out, many complicated feelings, beer in a dingey hotel room by the highway on my own", we'll get through it but I might cry about it a little bit at some point

[asthmark]

❝ comfortable ❞ l.mk

synopsis → “oh, i’m mark. mark lee.” he gives her a lop-sided grin, reminding you of a high school boy. the kind you would have a crush on.

word count → 3k

a/n → instead of admitting to the fact that this has been in my drafts since october what if i just said i was watching superm interviews and got inspired.. would anyone believe that??? anyway superm on the ellen show was a fever dream lol

your leg bounces nervously as your makeup artist touches up your look and you stare at the tv screen in anticipation. you were finally making your television debut. you knew you were blessed for the wonderful opportunity, especially for how new you were to the music industry.

you had started like nearly every other artist; posting covers on youtube. these were well received and gained a good amount of views and likes but your career really took off when you began creating original content. every time you would release a single, it would make it on the trending page thanks to your growing fanbase and exposure to the general public, who seemed to like you. soon enough, requests to interview you whether it be on radio, tv, or magazines were high and, thanks to your managers, you found yourself in los angeles, backstage in a studio, waiting for the ellen degeneres to introduce you to her live audience and thousands of viewers at home.

“don’t move so much, miss l/n,” the woman trying to apply your highlighter comments. “you’re smudging your makeup.”

you force yourself to sit still as you apologize. “sorry. pre-show jitters.”

the woman smiles, emphatically. “i understand, sweetheart. i would be nervous too.”

you’re quiet for a moment, debating if you should continue conversing with her. “can i be honest?”

she hums as she dabs a beauty blender into your cheek. “go ahead.”

“i am so nervous that i’ll mess up or say something stupid. the only thing close to an interview i’ve ever done was a q&a on my youtube channel. and at least i could edit stuff out then.” you huff. “if i make some kind of mistake on my tv debut, my career will be over before it even started.”

“well, think of it this way,” she says. “you went from a moderately popular youtube channel to the ellen show. that doesn’t happen for no reason. there are people out there who really admire you.”

you chuckle in disbelief. “it’s crazy to think about people actually wanting to see me. i still can't believe it.”

she giggles, softly. “they know there's something worth seeing.” at seeing your small smile, almost as if you were barely realizing your own star status, she laughs. “you seriously gotta wake up, girl. you’re famous!”

you smile at her, finding humor in her words. “thanks for the wake up call.”

you both direct your attention to the tv placed backstage that broadcasted what was happening on stage. you listen in to ellen’s monologue as she tells jokes and addresses current topics. before long, there’s a knock on the doorframe. you half expect a staff member to let you know that you’ll be on soon but instead you hear a quiet, “hello?”

you and your makeup artist both turn to the boy standing in the doorway. he's wearing a black jacket paired with dark, ripped jeans held up by a belt. he goes to bow, then remembers that korean etiquette does not apply and decides to wave as a greeting instead. you reciprocate the gesture. he stands with only one foot inside the room, almost as if he’s too polite to enter without being given the okay.

“did they send you to get your makeup done?” the woman who had done yours says.

he nods. “they said something about concealer and bb cream, i think?”

she smiles. “yeah, it’s basic stuff. come on in. what’s your name, dear?”

“oh, i’m mark. mark lee.” he gives her a lop-sided grin, reminding you of a high school boy. the kind you would have a crush on.

“well, mark lee, i’m lily. i’ll be doing your makeup, making sure you look pretty for the cameras.” she motions to you. “i'm just about done here so i’ll be right with you.”

“okay, thank you.” he shuffles in, his eyes glued to you and you hold his stare. he nods, a wordless greeting as he settles in next to you. in return, you throw up a peace sign and he smiles at your casual behavior.

“you know what? somebody used all the setting spray. i’ll be right back, i’m just going to steal some from my co-workers.” with that, lily darts out of the room.

it’s pure silence between the two of you until you spark conversation. “i didn't get to introduce myself but i'm y/n.”

“i know,” he responds, quickly. “i'm kind of a fan, actually. i mean, it’s practically impossible to not be. you’re all over the place. especially with the new single you dropped... which is a bop, by the way.”

you smile at his simply-worded praise. it was a nice switch up from the professional reviews you received from critics. “that’s so cute. i’m honored.” you miss the way mark’s ears turn slightly pink at your words. “but enough about me, what do you do, mark?”

“oh, me? i’m in the k-pop scene.”

you hum. “that’s a good genre to be in. which group?”

“right now i’m promoting with superm, it’s kind of like a side project. but originally, i’m in a band called nct.”

you lean forward at hearing the familiar name. “nct? as in, nct 127?”

mark’s eyes light up. “yeah! you know us?”

you nod, enthusiastically. “oh my god, yes! you collabed with ava, right?”

“we sure did. are you guys close?”

“i help her write lyrics sometimes.” you lower your voice down to a whisper for dramatic effect. “i wrote the chorus to ‘sweet but psycho’.”

the way mark’s jaw drops is almost comedic. “no way! that song got her famous, dude!” his lips curve into a playful smirk. “just because of that i’m gonna have to get you in the studio.”

you return the mischievous look. “is that a promise?”

“i’m back!” lily announces, giving mark no time to respond. she gives no warning as she spritzs you with the bottle she had gone to retrieve.

you cough, choking on the mist. “no heads up?”

“sorry, dear. you’re on in two minutes, no time to waste.”

you feel a chill go up your spine. it was finally time.

mark nudges your arm. “you okay?”

“a little nervous.” that proves to be the biggest understatement of all time because in reality your heart is doing somersaults.

“hey.” you stare at him, his brown eyes boring into you. “you’ll be fine. there’s nothing to worry about. you got this!”

you smile at his words of encouragement. he cared about you and you find that your heart is pounding for an entirely different reason now.

“i'll be here to cheer you on while you’re out there and i’ll be back when you’re done to tell you how amazing you did, okay?”

you nod.

“now get out there!”

“well, we have a great show for y’all today,” ellen says, clasping her hands together, having just finished her monologue. “i mean, it’s always great but the exciting thing is we have two musical guests today.”

the audience that cheered wildly is shown on screen. you almost forget about the knot in your stomach when you see some people in the crowd wearing shirts with the cover art and quoted lyrics of your last single.

“i see you guys are ready so, without further ado... let’s get started. our first guest is a soloist who has made quite a big name for herself in such a short period of time. she currently has three singles on the billboard charts, her most recent music video is number one trending on youtube, and she has a new ep coming out soon. here for her television debut, please welcome y/n l/n.”

you walk out from behind the stage, a huge smile on your face. the crowd screams and you wave to them until your hands become too occupied hugging the hostess who greets you with open arms and a proud smile. once the hype dies down and your entrance music fades out, you take a seat, opposite of ellen.

“how have you been y/n?”

“amazing,” you respond, letting your hands fall neatly in your lap.

“and why is that?”

you sigh, wistfully. “everything has been going so well for me lately. i mean, i feel like all these doors are opening up for me all of a sudden. i think i finally made it.”

“you’re just barely realizing that?” ellen exclaims.

you laugh, along with the audience. “kind of, yeah. it just all happened so fast.”

“is there an experience that comes to mind where you finally realized how famous you are?”

you try to think for a few moments before your eyes light up. “okay so, i was at a mcdonald’s like, last month and i went through the drive thru and ordered some nuggets and fries. so, i pull up to the window to pay and it’s around 2 a.m. so the cashier guy is super out of it, like he’s not even paying attention to me. finally, he goes to grab my card and he gets a good look at me and just freezes. like, full on shuts down. so i ask him if he’s okay and he nods so i try to hand him my card again but he goes, ‘no, you’re famous, you don’t have to pay’. and in that moment i just knew.”

“hold on, pause,” ellen announces, dramatically. “you’re telling me that you have been nominated as artist of the year, gained over ten million followers on social media and made your national television debut but the thing that really made you say ‘wow, i’m famous’ was a couple of chicken nuggets?”

“ellen, c’mon,” you begin, seriously. “it was a twenty piece.”

“oh, well, that changes everything,” she says, playing along with you, as the audience erupts into laughter.

the rest of the interview goes smoothly, running on jokes and sarcastic energy. you discuss your young age (thus resulting in some of your baby pictures finally being revealed to the world), millennial culture (the crowd went wild when you explained terms such as netflix and chill to ellen who claimed she didn’t understand yet her sly smirk said otherwise) and your upcoming ep (that you would be giving a sneak peek of later on in the show).

you continue chatting once the commercial break is announced and ellen showers you with praises, commenting how young talent never failed to amaze her, although it did make her feel old. you get to thank the hostess and tell her how much you appreciated her sweet words and the opportunity she had given you before the crew is dragging you backstage so you can prep for your upcoming performance.

you’re greeted by a “that was awesome!” and a high five one you get backstage.

you flash mark a full smile. “couldn’t have done it without my hype man.”

just then lily walks in to touch up your makeup.

“and my hype woman!”

she just rolls her eyes and chuckles as she reapplies gloss to your lips. 

“seriously though, y/n. why did you have to be so perfect? the bar is all the way up here now.” to emphasize his point, mark raises his arm as high as it will go.

“hey, i only tried hard because you’re up next. you’re a hard act to beat, mark lee. i mean, you’re charismatic, charming, witty; basically every talk show host’s dream.”

he scoffs yet you see how he avoids your gaze, your compliments obviously flattering him to the extreme.

a staff member walks by, cutting your conversation short. “y/n, you’re back on in one. superm is on right after.”

you and mark turn back to each other, speaking the same two words at the same time.

“good luck.”

ellen introduces you again, only this time you hold a guitar and stand in front of a microphone once you’re back on the stage. you perform a never before heard song but judging by the roaring applause and standing ovation you receive by the end of it, it’s another successful hit.

you bask in the amazing response and then you’re ushered backstage for the last time. you catch sight of the staff placing more seats on the stage as you exit and you smile eagerly, knowing exactly what’s to come. you search the hallways for your new friend, hoping you can catch him before the show goes back on air. you’re almost about to give up when you hear your name being called.

you lock eyes with mark who stands a couple feet away, barely hidden from the audience’s view. even from where you stand you can tell he has a nervous smile on his face. you jog towards him and to your surprise, he envelops your figure without a second thought. in return, you tentatively wrap your arms around him.

“great job,” he murmurs, breath fanning your ear. “i really did cheer you on.”

“i’ll make sure to do the same.” you hesitantly pull away from his embrace, holding him at an arm’s length away. “go get ‘em.”

he gives you a determined nod and you watch him rush on stage, the audience’s wild cheering increasing. their energy didn’t fade once throughout the interview and just as you had suspected, mark was doing wonderfully. he clearly thrived in interviews; his awkward, boyish nature enchanting everyone in the studio, yourself included.

ellen crosses her legs and clears her throat. “so, i have to ask you something, you know, for the fans.”

the group leaned forward in anticipation, awaiting her next words.

“are any of you dating?”

the crowd released noises of amusement at hearing the very personal question. you can’t help but feel intrigued although you knew ellen has always been quite the invasive person. you watched as the seven boys looked around at each other, unsure what to say but before their silence can become suspiciously long, mark ends up taking the question.

“why are you always so curious about this, though?” he blurts.

the audience absolutely eats up his response, cheering at his bluntness. even you find it humorous, shoulders shaking with a chuckle. that’s definitely gonna become a meme, you think.

“it’s my job!” counters ellen. “why are you so defensive?”

the crowd is very responsive to ellen’s rebuttal, ‘ooh’ing in amusement.

mark’s silence only pushes the hostess to continue teasing him.

“does it maybe have anything to do with y/n?”

your smile drops. had she seen you two? you’re not sure why you feel so exposed; after all, you had just been talking.

ellen’s lips adorn a sly smile at mark’s stunned reaction. “you seemed to be getting very comfortable with each other backstage.”

the black haired male stumbles over his words before he gets a semi-coherent sentence out. “we just, um—we just met.”

“oh really? you two looked like you had known each other forever.”

mark chuckles breathlessly, eyes glued to his lap, obviously at a loss for words. ellen stares at him expectantly so he mutters, “i like making friends.”

ellen, the audience, and even some of the band members laugh at his response.

“well, i’m sure there’s a lot of fans out there that wish they were your ‘friend’.” her tone makes it clear she doesn’t buy his excuse but she prods him no further, instead turning to stare into the main camera. “when we get back superm will be performing their title track ‘jopping’. during the commercial break, please feel free to place your bets as to how long mark and y/n will remain ‘friends’.”

the camera pans to mark for a couple seconds; his ears are bright red and his cheeks are dusted light pink, his makeup doing nothing to help hide the blush. his eyes dart around, anxiously and then they cut to commercials.

you shake your head, smiling at the entire situation and just how big of a dork mark was.

you attentively watch superm’s two performances, eyes mostly glued to a certain rapper. you sit patiently in the makeup room, waiting for mark to return backstage so you can congratulate him but he never appears. you try to conceal your disappointment, even when lily enters the room, smiling brightly.

“well, the show’s over, doll.” she removes her makeup stained apron and glances at you as she places it on a nearby rack. “hey, why the long face?”

you stare at your reflection in the mirror, no longer bothering to hide your pout now that your frustration had been made known.

“you did great, if that’s what you’re worried about. just ask mark.”

“he left,” you mumble. “i thought i’d be able to catch him before he left and we could… i don’t know, talk a bit more? i just really—” you trail off.

“like him?” lily suggests, too loudly for your liking.

your head snaps towards her, eyes wide, only confirming your feelings.

“don’t worry, dear, you can say it. i won’t tell ellen,” she jokes.

you sigh and slump down in your seat. “yeah. i like him.”

“well, then, i have good news for you.”

you half-heartedly hum, allowing her to continue.

she waves a piece of crumpled paper in front of your face. you grab it from her, staring at it curiously.

“what’s this?”

she nods her head at it, encouraging you to find out for yourself. “open it and see.”  

you obey, unfolding the tiny item. your eyes struggle to read the words inside but if you squint, they become clearer.

please call, me i would love to become closer ‘friends’.

(xxx) xxx-xxxx

it’s mark btw :)

you can’t contain your smile at the cute little note.

“he’s adorable,” you say, mostly to yourself but lily audibly agrees.

“he ran into me as he was leaving and begged me to deliver that message to you. which reminds me, i’m supposed to let you know that he wishes he could have stuck around but his schedule is ‘crazy tight’ so he had to ‘dip’. his words not mine.”

you nod, grin widening. “thanks, lily.”

“my pleasure. nothing like young love.”

you give her a glare although it’s all but threatening.

she folds her arms, teasingly. “so, are you going to give him a call or what?”

you’re sure she sees the phone in your hand and the way your fingers press the numbers on the keypad, excitedly but nevertheless, you decide to answer.

“i’d be crazy not to.”

[bunny-bts]

Never Want To Hurt You Pt II

Author: Idk how long or short this part will be to be honest lol

Warnings: same as previous chapter part I , add injury and accident, coma, polygamy?, Cheating

Pairings: I think this has taken a turn for future Jimkook x reader

It had been weeks since you had came back and since your birthday at dinner you and Taeyhung hadn't spoken much. You've known each other for your entire lives so there was nothing of you haven't been through, and yes you have been pissed at each other before but this was different. You had been walking around giving each other cold shoulders, certain everyone noticed. He had tried to speak to you and talk it out once he noticed you had gone out several times with Jimin and JK and was noticing things heat up between the three of you more and more. You shared a bedroom with him, again, something you had done more than enough to be used to and didn't mind. Only now the two of you weren't snuggled up like any other time, you were sleeping back to back and sharing a bed with Taeyhung with him not protectively holding you was not something you liked. You hadn't paid attention but the two makneas didn't like it either, that you weren't sleeping with them, or that they would be relieved to know you slept so distantly.

"I'm going to go potty, I'll meet you out there," you laugh as you walk out of the theater screening room with the maknaes and turn toward the restroom as they buy slices of pizza and drinks at concession then go outside. Today you decided to all match each other and wear print tops that you had found while window shopping, it was fun and so cute you thought.

They go out and find a table up against a fence to sit while you all eat and they wait on you. You weren't there right now so they could drop a facade they had going on as of late. Jimin, with a friendly smile although faker than tits in California as it was, throws a elbow on Jungkook's shoulder, "back off," he forces a chuckle. "Why? Why don't you make me?" Jungkook returns the same smile. "It's been six weeks, it's time one of us made a move, don't you think?" "I agree," the youngest smirks. "We can't just race over and bombard her, she will get nervous. How should we do it?" He adds. "Hmm, good point....it seems little Kookie is growing up," Jimin teases. "I'm a grown man, I assure you," Jungkook growls through gritted teeth and a toothy smile. "Are you now? You have a ponytail-" "she will need something to hang onto," Jungkook winks, "she's coming, be cool." He smiles at you and waves to show you where they are. "Oh it's funny because of irony-," Jimin starts as he waves and smiles at you too. "Yes, I know it is asking a lot Jimin, but please try your best," Jungkook straightens out his jean jacket as you approach. "oh and Jimin..." "Yeah?" "Don't fall" "What?" Jimin asks before being pushed off of the table he sat on top of. Before he is able to retaliate you're there and giggling.

"Jimin, poor thing," you giggle and offer him a hand up. "You're always falling, sit on the seat," you advise as you sit on the seat attached to the table and lean your back on the table itself, grabbing the soda they had gotten you from it and taking a sip.

"Y/N, ya~, sit on my lap. Seat is uncomfortable," Jungkook grabs your waist and sits you on his lap. He wasn't wrong, it was one of the picnic tables you see at playgrounds, metal with bar patterns. "Aww, so sweet thankyou Kook, haha~ people will think we are together" "maybe~," he laughs and sends Jimin a glance as he places a hand on your thigh and starts rubbing your leg. Jimin is still smiling but you can't see or hear him really growl behind his lips, he casually moves Jungkook's hand and places his on your thigh. "We really like you Jagi," he says sweetly, leaning in a bit. "I really like you both too, I have two thighs," you giggle and glance down, the youngest man easily takes the hint and places his hand on your other. "Oh, she is naughty," Jimin laughs as they both with their thumbs. The three of you definitely look really touchy, maybe like a polygamous couple. This was different, you hadn't had anyone fawn over you the way these two did and shit did you like it. It is quiet for some moments, you all just eat and relax. At some point you start playing with their fingers.

"Jagi~, what are you doing Aien?" You feel Jungkook's breath against your ear.

"Do you like our hands?" Jimin's is against your other.

"Yes," you say simply, probably blushing and trying to play it off with a smirk, "you have really pretty fingers," you stop abruptly and stand. "We should go, it's getting late"

"Yeah, hold our hands princess," they both reach out and grab one of your hands and the journey home begins. At some point you all have to cross the street so you have to let go and run but a rogue out of control car spins around and hits you.

"Y/N!!"

The time couldn't pass any slower for the two of them when you're brought to the hospital. You're in critical condition so they aren't allowed to see you and are left waiting on the others to come.

"What. Happened?" They find themselves slammed against the walls with Taeyhung having a firm grip on thier throats and unable to breathe as they are pretty sure that with the way Tae's nose is flaring there may as well be smoke.

"Tae! Let them go! You're going to kill them," Namjoon and Jin rush behind him and fight to pull him off.

"I WANT ANSWERS"

"You're going to get them, let them....regain color...," Namjoon soothes one friend as he looks to the other two. "What happened guys?"

The two youngest explain and Taeyhung excuses everyone else to go after several hours pass. Reluctantly they go and tell Taeyhung, Jimin and Jungkook to keep them updated. Which they do, they find themselves there for three days once you get admitted into the hospital, they all stay by your side and the other guys pop in time to time to visit as well but JK and Jimin weren't allowed to stay overnight. Taeyhung was literally the only thing you had remotely close to family by the hospital's definition since your aunt was no longer around.

"Now may I speak?" He asks you, he was alone with you at the moment and you had been in a coma. "I have been trying to explain....," He pulls a chair by your bed and strokes your baby hairs, "I know that you're mad about our birthday......I know you told me that you liked me and I know I hurt your feelings.....I did it because.....I never want to hurt you....," He leans in and kisses your forehead. "Please wake up soon.....you have changed. So much....," He glances at your fine 'baby hairs', "I remember when you looked like a peach," he giggles.

"You hurt her feelings so you wouldn't hurt her?" Jungkook says from the door.

"You wouldn't understand, Jungkook."

"Try me."

"Why are you back already?" Tae gets up and goes over to the other side of the room. "What's that?" He points with his head to Jungkook's hand. "Squish mellow....," Jungkook replies and takes the seat that his friend had just had.

"I promised I would never hurt her again"

Jungkook simply looks at him with a raised brow, "you know.....you know why she and I get along so well? Everyone treats us like children, and we aren't. Taeyhung, when she wakes up, I am going to ask her to be my girl and I would like your blessing....," He receives no answer, only Taeyhung standing and walking out. Maybe that was his way of avoiding giving a answer, or maybe he was just telling Jungkook to watch you for a while because he hadn't been able to sleep. He goes to the hotel room he had gotten basically across the street from the hospital, the room he had specifically requested was directly across from yours.

Flopping on the bad he closes his eyes.

"Taeyhung, sit down baby. This is Y/N," his mother smiles at him, holding a blanket in her arms with a baby inside it. "Want to hold her baby?" "Yes," he giggles. "Okay, you have to sit down and be very still first," his mom instructs, smiling back over her shoulder at your parents. He hops into a chair and sits as still and motionless as he can and your dad is trying his very best to hold back laughter. You cry before his mom can hand him over to you, only to stop when your aunt steps forward and takes you. He laughs and soon your aunt is handing you to him and showing him how to be gentle and hold your head. He holds you just fine for a moment, then you stretch and he accidentally drops you. His mom dives to the floor just barely catching you. "She's alright," she announces.

Tae shoots up, sitting bolt right again unable to sleep. He realizes that he is pouring sweat then looks around before getting up and walking past the giant window. He stops and moves the blinds, seeing you, in the bed at the hospital across from him and still in a coma. He sighs and takes a shower before trying sleep again.

"Y/N? What are you doing?" He stops short. You were peering around a corner into the kitchen where your dad sat sobbing. He comes up behind you to watch, "why is he crying?" "I don't know.....Oppa...," You step out so your dad can see you. "Y/N.....come here," your dad calls you over. You look to Tae who shrugs before going over to him. It was almost three in the morning, why was your dad like this? "Nae salang...." "Yes?" He watches the man smile at you, holding your waist. "You are twelve now, you're going to be trying many new things in just a few years, listen closely." You nod. "Your mother and I are no more-" "Why?" "Because I don't want to hurt you nae salang, understand?" You shake your head no. "You will be living with your aunty, here, for the time being," he kisses your forehead and gets up, he kisses your aunt on the lips by the door on the way out. Leaving you standing there very confused and Tae who is a little older and more versed on the world wide eyed in shock.

He finds himself tossing around and punches the pillow.

"Tae!! Tae!! Tae!!" He turns to see you running towards him outside of the school grounds. You jump into his arms, and he catches you. You had been gone the last eight months to stay with your mom in the states but it was finally summer which means you had months to be together. "Tae, I heard there is going to be a dance?" "Yeah, tommorow night, why?" "Well~," you swing his hand and bite your lip and he sees that happy twinkle in your eye. "Well?" "Ask me~, fine~, Kim Taeyhung, please go with me to the dance?" ".........No," that was it, that was the moment. "No?" "No, the dance is for a girl that you like and you're my sister basically so no," he lies because he remembers the night your dad was crying and he now being about to graduate understood your dad's reasoning. He didn't want to show feelings for you to someday accidentally hurt you, he had remembered what happened when you were born.

He couldn't do it, sleep was out of the question. He walks to the window to see that you still hadn't woken up. He leans his head on the glass and bangs his fist on it. Jungkook was holding the stuffed animal and leaning in, saying something to you then he smiles and uses the animal like a pillow, lying down next to you. Tae slides to the floor unable to stop the tears, "I....I never want to hurt you!"

Meanwhile in your room, JK was leaning over, "I got you a Squish mellow....ladies like those, right? But I'm going to use it like a pillow first, okay?" He giggles and lays down beside you.

"Still hasn't woken up?" Jimin strolls in, to be answered with the shake of a head. He comes to sit by the bed. "Why did you have to get her one of those?" He responds to Jungkook's confused expression by pulling another Squishmellow from inside his trench coat and tucking it under your arm, kissing your forehead. "I was thinking......you can ask her to be your girl....."

"I was thinking too......." "Yeah?" "Why don't we both ask her?" "Wouldn't that make you and I-" "Not necessarily, it would just mean that we would both protect her. If we had just kept holding her hands, she wouldn't be here....," Jimin nods in agreement. "So, we are going to ask her to be our girl"

"We should ask Taeyhung first"

"I did?"

"and?"

"I don't know, he didn't say anything,....Jimin..."

"Hmm?" Jimin glances over at him, he had been looking to his feet. One was tapping anxiously.

"I miss her...."

"Me too...."

[luniellar]

It’s You: 01 (Eternal Sunshine)

A/N: Meep. Constructive criticism is always welcomed in my inbox.

Summary: Chris, Sebastian, and Julie (Fictional Character) have been friends for a long time… even before Chris and Seb started their acting careers and landed a role in the Marvel Universe. Friendship opened a new path to love and it’s starting to look… complicated.

Pairing: Chris Evans X Julie (Fictional Character), Sebastian Stan X Julie (FC)

Genre: Romance | Drama

Audience: PG-13…? (Jk there are some F-bombs and inappropriate language that might be suitable for the young)

Navigation: Masterlist

Two years ago.

Buzz.

The phone buzzed on my lap and the incoming message lit up my phone.

I’m sorry. Still filming.

I stared back at the steak that had gone cold two hours ago and the sauce that looked like someone had poured glossy nail paint on. The candle had completely gone out and in the darkness, I could still make up the empty seat across from me. When I started to reply, the phone buzzed again.

I don’t think I can make it back tonight. Don’t stay up too late. Lock your doors.

My head dropped in disappointment. And this is why you don’t do anything nice for people, Julie. Also, “lock your doors?” How can I even hate him?

I was starting to get up from my seat when I heard the doorbell. My heart skipped in excitement as my mind raced at the thought of Chris surprising me with a bouquet of flowers. He already knew my favorite. White Gardenias. I still remember when he first bought them for me when we took each other on pity dates to homecoming. Later, we found out that the meaning behind the flowers was secret love and it stuck with us forever.

I tossed my waves for the sexy, volume look and opened the door with a huge grin on my face waiting for his bright blue eyes to greet me. To my surprise, I was captivated by a familiar pair of slate blue eyes.

“Seb?!” I blurted as he made his way through the door with a large duffel bag hung on his shoulder. I followed him in like I was the guest of the house as he threw the bag down on the living room floor and jump on the couch.

“Can you get me a drink? Something strong please darling,” he muttered with his adorable accent he made up. His lean body stretched across my solo small loveseat.

I rolled my eyes at him as I plopped down on the floor facing him. “I’m sorry your highness, but it’s a self-service around here.”

He turned and smirked at me. “Rebellious one, I see.”

I smiled back at him. “What brings you here, Sebby?”

Now, he rolled his eyes at me and I giggled. He always expressed to me how he hates it when I would call him by that in public. In private, he had no excuse to be upset. Well, no valid point to argue why I shouldn't call him Sebby.  “A best friend can’t swing by to visit another best friend?”

“He could, but this best friend knows that her best friend should be across the world filming,” I said back matter-of-factly and he smiled his usual, you-got-me kind of smile.

“We finished up early.”

“Really? How? I thought you were going to be over there at least for another month? How did it go?”

“You know, I literally got off the plane an hour ago and raced here. You should be jumping with joy, not harassing me with 21 questions.”

“No one asked you to race here, you know.”

“But,” he started to say and after what felt like a long minute pause, he finished his sentence. “I was hungry.” I watched as his tense face relax.

“Hold on,” I exhaled loudly as I got up and made my way to the dining room. Well, calling it a dining room was giving it too much credit. It was the random space next to the kitchen that people put their dining table in. I turned on the small light on in the room that shed the light to the failed dinner date I was planning for Chris. I completely forgot that this was here and I didn’t realize Seb also followed me until I heard his voice behind me causing me to jump.

“Huh,” he muttered glancing around. “Did you get stood up?”

Feeling my face heating up, I quickly rushed over and started grabbing the plates to clear them. It wasn’t entirely false. He was already a step ahead taking the plate from my hands.

“Who’s the guy?” he asked and I grabbed the plate from his hands. “Are you using that app kids are using nowadays? Pinder? Was that what they called it?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said back as I attempted to head into the kitchen. The keyword was attempted. Sebastian was already in front of me.

“Who’s the guy?” he pressed again.

“Why do you need to know?”

“So I can beat his ass. Did he stood you up?”

“No,” I said back as I basically pushed him out of the way. I dropped the plates on the countertop and turned around to grab the rest when he stood in front of me again.

“Julie,” his velvety voice whispered. He never called me Julie unless it was serious. “Are you okay?”

I looked up at him, met his clear slate eyes and smiled. “I’m fine. You don’t need to make a deal out of Seb. It was just a small thing.”

“You cooked. You never cook.”

That was also true. There was a reason why I moved to the city. The takeout options were endless. My father left my mom when I was two and mother passed away when I was young and I was raised by my grandparents. I didn’t have a family recipe to pass down, we were all busy trying to get food on the table.

Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to tell him. I hated keeping secrets from him. Chris and I had been seeing each other for about six months and it was his idea to keep it away from Seb for now. We were still figuring things out in our relationship and Seb had a new project he was taking a lead on. I wasn’t sure how he was going to take it and the last thing I needed to bother him and his work.

To be honest, I just thought I was going to be some booty call for about two months, but I couldn’t believe that it had already been six months since we started… dating.

Seb grabbed the plates from my hands and placed them on the countertop for me. “Fine, you don’t have to tell me. But, I’m eating this.”

“No, let me order you something.”

He shook his head and made his way back to the table. I watched as he grabbed the box of matches next to the misshapen candle. With a small flame on his match, he lit the dying candle. “Bring me your best creation, Jules Ramsey.”

I sighed in defeat as went back to reheat the steak and glossy sauce.

To my surprise, he finished everything on the plate I prepared for him. But, he also didn’t say a word during the whole meal so I couldn’t tell if he was eating because he was hungry or because he felt bad. After his last bite, he placed his utensils down and wiped his mouth with the napkin.

“So?” I urgently asked.

“Good,” he said back.

“Good?”

He nodded.

“Nothing else to add?” I asked.

He leaned back on the chair. “Well, you said it was supposed to be medium rare, it definitely tasted borderline overcooked.”

Of course, that’s the Seb I knew. “Thanks,��� I sarcastically muttered as I grabbed the plate from him. But, at the same time, he grabbed the plate as well and his hand was over mine.

“I’m just kidding. It was surprisingly good,” he said with his eyes glittering in the candlelight. Seb was born to be on the screen. His solid jawline and sculpted features did everything. His acting skill only confirmed his birthright.

“Uh huh, surprisingly,” I repeated back and he sighed.

“I give you a compliment and you’re still sulking.”

“Was that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “It was the best meal I had. And that’s saying a lot. You should really cook more because I think you have a talent for it.”

I immediately felt my face heating up and coughed to clear my throat. I could see why candlelight dinners were popular date ideas. I had weird butterflies in my stomach that didn’t exist there before.

“Thank you,” I managed to say out. “I’m glad that you were the first to try my masterpiece.”

There was a long period of silence as we sat there with his hand over mine both clutching to the plate.

“Go relax Seb, I should start cleaning up,” I said as I grabbed the plate and maneuvered my hand from his.

I should have run away when I had the chance because his next words had me glued to my seat for what felt like an eternity.

“I like you, Jules. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

The only thing that broke the silence was the clear clicking sound followed by a loud thud. That was the door. Seconds later, I heard his voice.

“Jules!”

Chris. Shit, I completely forgot to text him that Seb was over. Frantically I got up, but it was too late. He was already in the living room and looking at us both.

“Seb?” Chris asked looking at Seb.

“Chris?” Seb looked at Chris and then back at me. Those brilliant blue I craved so many hours ago was here,, but I was speechless. I didn’t know what to say. I just wanted to hide.

- - - - - - - - - - { Sebastian’s POV }

Shit. I couldn’t believe I said it.

My last words echoed over and over in head. “I like you, Jules. I can’t stop thinking about you.” Fuck.

Her warm brown eyes locked with mine. But, I couldn’t read her expression. Her full lips pressed shut and she looked down at the table. Her waves fell across her face as she looked concerned… no, confused. The silence carried on and a wave of regret washed over me. This wasn’t how I wanted to say it. No, not like this.

As I opened my mouth to say something to fill the space, there was a loud thud followed by a familiar voice.

“Jules!”

There was only one other person who called her by Jules. Before he turned the corner, I knew that Chris was here too. I glanced over at Jules who looked pale and sick to her stomach.

“Seb?” Chris asked and we made eye contact. He was wearing a plain black baseball cap that covered his messy head. His beard was at full force from his role as Captain America on the run. He had a bouquet of white flowers in his right hand.

“Chris?” I asked back as I looked over at her drained face. Something was going on.

Chris walked over to the table and casually placed the flowers down in front of Julie. “What are you doing here man? Aren’t you supposed to be filming?”

I smiled. “I didn’t know that you guys were that interested in me. Funny thing too, because that’s exactly what she said to me when I barged in.”

I watched as Chris and Jules looked at each other. When they made eye contact, I felt like I was the guest walking in the room. This was new.

“Huh, I didn’t know Jules would be the one to say something like that,” he laughed trying to lighten the tense mood in the room.

“My schedule finished up early and I came by to surprise her, but it looks like I surprised you too.”

“It’s my lucky day,” he smiled. “We missed you.”

We? When did he start speaking for her? “What about you?”

Chris looked around the room. “Oh you know, I just finished up filming and I was hoping to kick in the guest bed before the next shoot.”

“Your 5-star trailer wasn’t good enough,” I joked sarcastically and he laughed. “Well, it looks like it’s you and me on that twin bed tonight unless Jules wants to give up hers for us.”

Jules looked at me with determination in her eyes that was completely 180 from a few minutes ago.

“Seb,” she paused. “Chris and I are dating.”

[iliketowrite1996]

Suits and Secret Moments part 5

TRIGGER WARNING- HEARTACHE, MENTIONS OF CASUAL RELATIONSHIPS, BREAK UPS, INSECURTIEIES, MENTIONS OF ILLNESSES, MENTIONS OF ABANDONMENT

again, thanks to @wakanda-inspired, @chaneajoyyy and @syreanne for helping me, and letting me bounce idea off of them!

Also  I’ve never written a  story like this but I am trying new things, so thanks for all who read it. Feedback is welcome, just imbox me  constructive criticism!

     T’Challa

All that glitters is not gold. It’s a saying he’s heard a million times in the past, but one that he didn’t fully understand until the events of the last month transpired.

Because he loves Nakia. He truly does.

They’ve been dating for… a month and a half? Two months? He’s not really sure.

Anyway, he loves this woman. She is smart and funny and kind and sultry and beautiful. Basically, she’s his ideal type. He won’t lie and say that he didn't’ see the same qualities in you, but he saw them in Nakia first. He used to be in love with her and she used to be in love with him.

Check that.

Used to.

Past tense.

Not anymore.

Because he is not the same person that he was before college and neither is she. The woman that he’s currently holding in his laps and pressing kisses to the beck of is not the same woman who broke hi heart when he was seventeen years old. She’s lived and experienced things and traveled and she has a different idea of what love is now. T’Challa found his comfort in other women, she found ehrs in other places.

This is where they differ- she prefers new places to appease her wanderlust.

He prefers new people to ease his mind and aches.

Not better or worse, just different.

. She’s no longer content with hand holding and quick kisses.

She wants commitment and trust and things that T’Challa never thought he could give to any other woman after they broke up.

‘’What’s wrong,’’ Nakias pulls back, shifting so she’s facing him, ‘’You seem distracted.’’

   The glow from the fireplace bashes her dark features in warm light, and T‘Challa feels his stomach drop all over again.

   Are these those butterflies gian?

   Or something else?

   ‘’Nothing, everything is fine.’’

   He doesn't give her time to question him further, instead bringing her full lips back to his own and delighting in the small moan that escapes her mouth at the contact.

   They both grew up and he knows that . They have to let go of what they remember about each other form the past and embrace who they both are in the present. For Nakia, he will. He will change and bend, push and pull, give and take. He’ll become the man she wants, the man he couldn’t be for you. And he won’t tell you that burns something inside of him, just like it did for you.

   Where yours was jealousy, his was an emotion he couldn’t quite figure out.

   ‘’You don’t know what you have until you let it go’’.

   T’Challa has heard this phrase a million times.

   But the upcoming events will let him the true meaning of the words, spearing nothing in making him learn a life lesson.

‘’Girl, how?’’

       ‘’I slept with him, Deena. That’s how.’’

       Your best friend since college glares at you, brown eyes focusing on you as she kisses her teeth in irritation, ‘’You slept with your boss. I know I’ve asked this before, but: How? Why? When?’’

       ‘’We snuck around, because he’s hot and I am too, and a lot. In that order.’’

       ‘’Now you got a whole bun in the oven,’’ ehs looks at your stomach, where the baby you just found out about yesterday is growing.

   ‘’If you came to say that you told me so, please leave,’’ your voice cracks as you look away, the lines in the wallpaper of her apartment suddenly becoming more interesting.

   ‘’Hey. I wouldn't do that to you,’’ Deena reminds you, ‘’I just… how are you feeling?’’

   ‘’Tired. Nervous. Dumb,’’ you roll your eyes, ‘’I actually thought he cared about me.’’    

   And maybe he truthfully did, at a point. But you’re not Nakia, and you could never be Nakia.

   That sends another wave of nausea through you, and you try your best to blink back the tears.

   ‘’If he had just told me,’’ your voice cracks, revealing true sorrow, ‘’That he was moving on, I would’ve been fine. I’m more hurt that he lied to me.’’

   He cared about you, as in he didn’t want to see you hurt. Or, like, s you thought. But he still never had feelings for you. Not if he was going to do this to you.

   You messed around and caught up with him, and he hurt you. Just like Deena said he would, just like you denied so many times before.

   ‘’So…,’’ Deena clears her throat, tossing her curls over her shoulder, ‘’What are you going to to do?’’

   ‘’Go to my doctor’s appointment tomorrow,’’ you shrug, monotone voice matching the way that you currently feel.

   You have a doctor’s appointment at noon tomorrow, to either confirm or deny the answer that the test gave to you.

   ‘’No, I mean…,’’ she gestures with her hands, trying to find the right words, as if she can pull them out of thin air, ‘’What about the baby?’’

   Your mind is reeling. There may actually be a real baby growing inside of you. You don’t even know how far along you may be, and that complicates things even more. Because is the baby T’Challa’s? Is it this new guy’s?

   And how will you tell whoever it is?

   ‘’Hey,’’ Deena waves her hand in front of your face, the flash of cinnamon colored skin bring you back to the real world, ‘’You okay?’’

   You shrug, ‘’I don’t know what I’m going t do, Deena. But, let’s just wait and see what the doctor says. For all I know, that could’ve just been a false positive.’’

   It turns out to be positive. You sit on that for three weeks, feeling that if you don’t speak it out loud, it will somehow all turn out to be a dream, something that i can wake up from.

   But this maybe is as real as your stomach that will soon be growing. And based on how far along you are, you know exactly who the dad of the is.

You have a pretty good idea, but can’t confirm or deny anything until later appointments.

   You’ve been avoiding him for three weeks now, and he’s fed up.

   So when T’Challa stops by your office, tapping on the glass door and addressing you by your surname, you feel a fresh wave of nausea crashing through your stomach and another fine layer of sweat forming on your skin, ‘’Can I speak with you for a moment.’’

   ‘’Of course,’’ you speak, swallowing thickly and feeling like sand dust is in your mouth, ‘’What can I help you with?’’

   T’Challa closes the door behind him, and you feel little fires popping up all over your skin as e strolls closer, grey suit fitting him just perfectly.

   You can’t read the flood of emotions filling his eyes- anger, sadness, and… is that desire?

   Or are you reading too far into this?

   ‘’I have noticed that you haven’t really… looked at me lately,’’ he says slowly, choosing his words carefully, ‘’Not that I blame you. But… I believe we need to talk.’’

   ‘’So go ahead and talk,’’ you drop the professional act, leaning back in your black chair and folding your arms over your chest.

   ‘’Tell me what I can to fix it,’’ he replies, stuffing his hand in his pockets and rocking backwards on his heels.

   He’s nervous.

   ‘’There’s really nothing you can do,’’ you reply simply, ‘’The damage is done, T’Challa.’’

   Because what’s the point in sugar coating this?

   ‘’I know. But… we could still be friends, right?’’

   You’re not sure if you’re more offended by that suggestion, or the fact that he is one hundred percent serious when he asks you about it.

   ‘’We have never been friends, T’Challa,’’ you state cooly, ‘’Even when we were fooling around, we weren’t friends. I can’t ever will be your friend now. I don't trust you.’’

   ‘’Because I got into a serious relationship with woman that isn’t you,’’ he quirked an eyebrow.

   ‘’Because you're a liar and I new it. Because all you do is mess around and i thought I was different. But it’s fine. It’s cool,’’you stand, grabbing your coat,’’Now, I’m going for my lunch break. Is there anything else that you need, Me. Udaku, or may I take my lunch break?’’

   He presses his lips into a firm line before releasing, letting his plump lips that i used to spend hour just tasting show, ‘’No. I think we’re done here.’

   Done with the conversation.

   And done with each other.

   That doble meaning is heavily implied in his deep voice, and the tension in the room is nearly tangible. It couldn't even be cut with a knife it is so thick. So you bundle your coat up, pullin on your hat and scarf before grabbing your bag and exiting your office, leaving T’Challa standing there with a perplexing mixture of emotions swirling up inside of him

   ‘’Hey,’’ you look over to see who disrupted your thoughts as you make your way outside the cold, New York WInd still warmer than your feelings towards T’Challa.

   And lo and behold, who is standing there? The man you’ve been avoiding to the past three weeks. The one you’ve been afraid to tell about the pregnancy, the one who has begged you to commit.

   Here’s something you know: his past was once like T’Challa. Different girl every night. No real relationships. Casual flings and one night stands where his only interactions, nothing romantic on the horizon for this bachelor.

   But he had change of heart after graduating college. He ended up having a child, a beautiful little boy, with the woman who he fell in love with.

   Said woman ditched him.

   Thus, he got a taste of his own medicine, and decide she didn’t like the feeling every much. While you’re usually wary about the way people change, he seems to really have. It’s why you gave him a chance. It’s why you strongly considered committing him.

   Well, until a certain pregnancy test proved what you kind of knew all along.

   ‘’Him,’’ you speak out, turning to face him completely, ‘’What… what are you doing here?’’

   ‘’I came to visit someone, but I’m glad I get to see you. You’ve been avoiding me. I just… if I did some stupid crap that hurt you or something, I wanna know. I waa fix it.’’

   ‘’You can’t,’’ you shake your head, ‘’I just… I’ve been dealing with sme stuff. Didn't wanna bring you into it.’’

   ‘’Hey,’’ he says softly, a stark contrast form his rough demeanor, ‘’I ain’t gonna just bow it. We haven’t known each other for long, but I’ve got real feelings for you. Tell me what’s going on. Plese. I can help you with it.’’

   Maybe it’s the fact that you've been keeping such a huge secret between Deena, your doctor and yourself for nearly a month now.

   Maybe it’s that he’s a ray of sunshine on this cold, blustery fall day.

   Maybe it’s that you’re tired of holding back and want to be honest with him, the way that he is.

   ‘’I’m pregnant,’’ you say, blinking up at the sky as levels continue to fall down around you, the right color a stark contrast from the tone of this conversation, ‘’And I’m not sure if the dad is you or that guy I was seeing before you.’’

   He knows you were seeing someone. He doesn’t need to know that you had a very… vibrant and active love affair with the freaking CEO of the company you work for.

   ‘’I see,’’ he nods.

   That’s it.

   No further elaboration.

   ‘’Well,’’ you begin to turn, ‘’I’ve only got fifteen minutes left on my lunch break. So, if you’ll excuse me.’’

   ‘’I mean,’’ he takes your hand, something that you can tell is still foreign to him on the way he does it,

   Where T’Challa was familiar with intimacy and affection but tried to act like he wasn’t, this man is used to the opposite. He’s getting used to affectionate glances and warm touches from a lover, removing traces of flings and hookups from his mind because he feels that’s the best way for him to do so.

   ‘’If it is my baby… I’m goanna step up. It take care of Darion, you know. I’d… I take care of this baby. And you, too. If we ever get there.’’

   He’s a good man. He really is. And while you still have to wait a while to figure out who the baby belongs to…

   Why shouldn’t you give yourself a chance to move on? TO be with someone that tells you the truth, even when it’s hard?

   ‘’We got a lot to talk about, don’t we,’’ he laughs to try to lighten up the mood.

   And it works.

   Just a bit.

   But it does.

   ‘’Yeah. Erik Stevens, we definitely have a lot to talk about.’’

So… yeah. Switched Erik and T’Challa’s personalities a bit.

Sorry! It was an idea and this may not be good but I had to run with it and try something new.

DISCLAIMER-I OWN NO MARVEL CHARACTERS OR THEIR FICTIONAL WORLDS.

@ashanti-notthesinger​ @destinio1​ @afraiddreamingandloving​ @starsshines-blog​ @airis-paris14​ @syreanne​ @chaneajoyyy​ @90sinspiredgirl​ @shemiahsmelanin @zillmonger @skysynclair19 @bidibidibombaclaat @marvelpotterlove

[tertiovitae-blog]

— TASK 001. STATISTICS

BASIC INFORMATION.

Full Name: Simon Chun, as far as federal documentation says.

Nickname(s): Sy, if he has any beyond that, he doesn’t know about them.

Age: 32

Date of Birth: September 22nd, 1986

Hometown: New York, NY

Current Location: Dertosa, CA

Ethnicity: Korean

Nationality: American

Gender: Cismale

Pronouns: He/him

Orientation: Purposefully emotionally unavailable tbqh

Religion: Raised under a Presbyterian mother and an apathetic father. Currently swings between atheism and agnosticism: he’d like to believe there’s some higher power but fails to see much evidence for the presence of one - at least in the form most modern religions teach. There’s no proof in Simon’s eyes of a God that’s both powerful and benevolent. 

Political Affiliation: Independent. Mixed liberal and conservative attitudes. 

Occupation: Former assistant district attorney in Suffolk County, MA, current owner of Pulp Kitchen and Pulp Vintage, his side business in the rare book & documents. PV specializes in early editions, maps, signatures from significant persons predating the 21st century, and the ever-popular vintage movie posters, as well as a few specialized items (architectural blueprints, maps, letters) from Dertosa’s history. Only a handful of these precious items he actually displays: in the very back of the store, close to his office and locked behind a delicate metal gate. Walk-in purchases are not welcome, though interested customers may contact Simon through PV’s website or by phone to make an appointment to examine the collection in person.   

Living Arrangements: The second floor of Pulp Kitchen is dedicated to Simon’s living space, accessed through the stairwell connected to his backroom office, which also empties out into the alley behind PK. He likes the simplicity of an all-in-one building (as well as the feeling of security afforded by elevation and insulation from other people and structures). He’s managed a mish-mash aesthetic of spare industrialism and coziness: exposed brick walls and steel beams, a dark floor but the living room popping with a deep goldrod-yellow carpet and anchored on a large, buttery, reddish leather sofa. There’s a knit throw blanket tossed over the back of just about every seating surface that isn’t the chairs at the kitchen island. All doors are sliding and usually left open for the feeling of greater space. The apartment is blessed with the same wall-to-wall windows of the cafe downstairs and Simon enjoys having his morning coffee with a chair pulled up to them to soak in a little sun and watch the street wake up below. There’s a surprising lack of bookshelves considering the man himself, but less surprising considering the abundance of them downstairs. 

Language(s) Spoken: English, Korean (less frequently than he knows he should). 

Accent: Fairly neutral American, a very clear, well-enunciated way of speaking.

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE.

Face Claim: Steven Yeun

Hair Colour: Black, slightly wavy, usually brushed back or curling over one side of his temple, just a little too short to tuck behind his ears. It tends to not bother him enough that he lets it do what it wants

Eye Colour: Dark brown - call it coffee. 

Height: 5′9

Weight: 145-150 lbs

Build: Closer to slim than wiry or bulked, he pushes himself to stay in shape but he ain’t out to get buff.

Tattoos: N/A

Piercings: N/A

Clothing Style: Man’s got a big spectrum. Take your normal urban book-keep stereotype and add a few more colors and much nicer shoes. Almost always in a collared shirt of some kind, sleeves rolled up above the elbows and leather bracelets on his wrist, or maybe under a well-cut blazer with a discreet watch. You’ll never see Simon in a simple t-shirt if he’s got any choice about it, but at work he’ll range anywhere from this level of fancy jacket to this level of relaxed everything. If he’s going to go casual, it’s definitely in a hoodie with a some kind of weird reference plastered on the front. 

Usual Expression: Neutral and a bit removed, he tends to look ten levels deep in daydreaming even when he’s just sorting shelves or making a cappuccino. There’s pretty clear tells as to whether was he’s thinking is upsetting or pleasant: pinched brows or the smallest upward quirk to his lips.

Distinguishing Characteristics: A rigid scar above his left hip from the struggle three years ago that nearly cost him his life. Simon thanks the bullet scraping his side for giving him the panic-adrenaline to even survive it. A single dimple in his left cheek. Oh -- and we can’t forget the goddamn glasses. He felt like a jackass at first with fake lenses in, but over time he’s learned that they generously contribute to his fulfilling a certain stereotype within this new identity, and he’s now happy to hide behind the thin extra layer of protection granted by longer hair and a useless pair of wire frames. 

HEALTH.

Physical Ailments: None.

Neurological Conditions: His move to Dertosa came with a government-recommended psychologist, though Simon only met with her for a month before dropping out of his appointments with the stubborn belief it was better to take care of himself. There’s a bit of a self-stigma in Simon’s mind regarding mental health: depression and paranoia are emotions from his point of view, not conditions, and he expects himself to manage them like an adult, regardless of whether or not that’s a realistic goal. 

Allergies: Lower level lactose intolerant, but the kind who just pops a lactose pill, says ‘fuck it’, and has his latte anyways.

Sleeping Habits: A pretty solid seven to eight hours a night, in bed before midnight and out before eight 90% of the time. Structure is something Simon actively works for, in the hopes it’ll encourage stability. 

Eating Habits: Somewhat of an accidental vegetarian, his typical diet skirts close, but he lacks the moral rigidity on that particular stance. He’s weak once a really good smell hits his nose, meat be damned. Tries to keep his eating habits as regular as sleep, breakfast is a cup of coffee and any fruit he can grab and take downstairs, lunch is grazed from whatever’s on the menu at PK, dinner thrown together before after seven and before nine, always with some sort of fresh green veg involved. It’s tempting sometimes to revert to old college ramen-and-microwaveables habits, but he’s grudgingly taking care of his body with the full knowledge that the work of cooking is worth pushing him for.

Exercise Habits: Swims laps for an hour and half at the YMCA three times a week and tends to bike or walk for groceries, errands, ect. 

Emotional Stability: Mmmmm, let’s say 6, 7? There’s plenty of emotions tugging at Simon’s sleeve, but he’s simmered down to a more stable center as time has passed and he’s proven to be good for better or for worse at systematically approaching, sorting, and stuffing down what he thinks is useful to acknowledge or not. He purposefully tries to keep away from situations of high emotion, he knows himself well enough to know once he is propelled to extremes, it’s hard to get himself down from them.

Sociability: Simon definitely needs his alone time to refuel and recenter, but he also needs the stimulation of other people or he’d go stircrazy. He keeps an arm’s length, but he’s also too curious about what’s rattling around in other people’s heads to be a true isolationist and can be very warm with the right crowd. It’s a pleasure to have social connections, as long as he can keep the frame of mind that they can only go so far as PK’s front door. 

Body Temperature: Cool-natured, there’s a reason he can get away with wearing suit jackets in summer.

Addictions: Lil bit of a hoarder of sentimental objects. Does not matter is the memory is positive or negative and he doesn’t need to be able to lay eyes on it, just to know it’s within his care.

Drug Use: None.

Alcohol Use: Strictly self-enforced as social. He doesn’t bring booze into his house unless it’s for cooking or a guest. No point in tempting a bad habit.

PERSONALITY.

Label: The Advocate, The Enduring, The Cynical

Positive Traits: driven, educated, perceptive, disciplined, curious, conscientious, discrete, generous, steered by an inner moral code

Negative Traits: dogmatic, detached, stubborn, overly self-reliant, impulsive and bold in matters of principle, deeply buried vulnerability to self-criticism, and the capacity to be truly venomous

Goals/Desires: Stay in his own damn lane while making a life for himself he can actually enjoy. 

Fears: Having to start over again, any form of his past biting him in the ass, having an opportunity to do something just but being rendered unable to because of his situation, forgetting the past.

Hobbies: Cultivating Pulp Vintage’s collection is as much hobby as work, swimming, snapping up new posters for the wall of the cafe, listening to podcasts, reading, handheld puzzles, volunteer work. He hasn’t been back to his self-defense course since his first year in Dertosa but his teacher is slowly attempting to wheedle him back into other classes at the gym. Monthly trips back to Dertosa’s legal indoor gun range to keep himself sharp.

Habits: Cleaning those useless glasses as a way to stall a conversation or action, drumming his fingers, the two-handed mug hold, reading behind the cash register, skimming the paper every day from front to back and impulsively checking the news bar on his phone, covering his mouth with his hand while laughing, doing the lazy half-tuck with a shirt, tapping his foot when he’s jazzed up. 

FAVOURITES.

Weather: Daytime summer rain, that perfect crisp winter day when the air is frosty in his lungs and the ground is coated in snow. Real winter is one of the big things he misses about the Northeast.

Colour(s): Green, blue

Music: He started playing classic jazz/oldies in PK for the sake of that bookshop aesthetic, but he’s gotten genuinely into a lot of it. Nina Simone, Cab Calloway. Longtime listener to The Black Keys, Red Hot Chili Peppers. Vivaldi, Andrés Segovia.

Movies: Clever comedies or character studies, psychological thrillers, old Hollywood experimental movies, all the campiest of 80s horror. ‘Nightcrawler’, ‘the Exorcist’, ‘Metropolis’, ‘In the Mood for Love’. 

Sport: Basketball & fencing. He was a pretty damn good at the latter in high school and he’s entirely self-aware of just how pretentious a thing a boarding school fencing team is to be an alumni of.  

Beverage: Water with a few lime slices, sue him for being boring. Guilty pleasure is those stupidly sweet matcha green tea lattes from Starbucks.

Food: Hit him with that spicy shit. Fuck it up with savory flavors. Finish it with good n’ sweet. There’s definitely love for Korean, but he’s big on Thai and Southwestern cuisine as well. 

Animal: Panther. Just about any big cat, tbh.

FAMILY.

Father: Jeong Yung-sik, aka Howard Jeong. Incarcerated since 2003, age 67. Eligible for release 2249. 

Mother: Jeong Su-jin, aka Sujin Jeong. Deceased as of 2015, aged 56. Official cause of death: craniocerebral ballistic trauma aka a gunshot to the head. 

Sibling(s): Jeong Min-chul, aka Erik Jeong. Deceased as of 2002, aged 16. Official cause of death: exsanguination aka prolonged and fatal blood loss.

Children: None, despite liking kids he doesn’t realistically see a future where it’d be wise to have them. 

Pet(s): His cats Darlene and Mister Meowgi have the run of Pulp Kitchen, the first named after a character from Mr. Robot, the second by an ex-girlfriend. The pun stuck; Simon still can’t bring himself to rename him. He had to give up his boxer, Odin, when he moved to Dertosa and he misses that damn dog every day. 

Family’s Financial Status: Raised very upper class, currently a comfortable upper-middle. Technically, he has none of the money left over from his family’s generous supply, but some of his earnings from his work as an ADA came with him to start him off in Dertosa and fund the opening of Pulp Kitchen.

EXTRA.

Zodiac Sign: Virgo - reliable, practical, critical, seeking goodness while expecting disappointment, prone to overthinking

MBTI: INFJ, ‘The Advocate’ - creative, decisive, perfectionistic, incredibly private, “INFJs have strong beliefs and take the actions that they do not because they are trying to advance themselves, but because they are trying to advance an idea that they truly believe will make the world a better place”.

Enneagram: The heart of Enneagram 8 (the Protector) under a strong shield of Enneagram 5 traits (the Observer) - a conflict between the desire to be confrontational and assertive in issues of justice and protecting the weak and the knowledge that oneself is the person who must be protected first, as well as tendencies towards hoarding and intellectual pursuits. 

Temperament: Melancholic - thoughtful, schedule oriented, economical and perceptive, interested in the philosophical and poetic 

Moral Alignment: Neutral Good - belief in the intrinsic rights of all beings, drive to help the innocent, desire for justice but a willingness to defy the law and do usually immoral things in order to see that justice happens

Primary Vice: Wrath

Primary Virtue: Charity

Element: Water - evolving, inward, empathetic

[felinehypocritical]

could you write a modern stan/bill fic as teenagers? maybe them just hanging out alone on a weekend or something? thx!

Stan Uris had no idea how he did it.

Yes, friends and neighbors, Stanley Uris had no idea how he managed to constantly put himself in such completely hopeless situations.

It had sort of started, he had explained to Richie on the phone a night or so ago, when Bill had said that he was all on his lonesome on Saturday, those were his words, all on his lonesome, and he didn’t like the feeling much, so Stan had been unable to resist, and he’d asked if Bill was, um, on his lonesome all DAY Saturday. And Bill had said yeah, that’s what that turn of phrase means, Stuh-Stuh-Stuh-Stan, and Stan had almost died, you know that feeling you get when you see a big drop that you know you won’t ever take, but your stomach sinks down farther than the center of the earth? Well that’s what it was like, Richie, and so anyways Stan had asked Bill over for the day, from around twelve to whenever Bill wanted, and Bill had smiled and oh Richie you know Stan can’t resist that smile Bill uses sometimes, he knows the one, and said that the plan sounded fine, Stan, he’d just take a few laps in the pool before he headed over and come straight to Stan’s. And Stan had been a dumbass and not heard anything and just agreed, and long story short Stan was now spending what looked like over five hours with Bill over at his house doing absolutely nothing.

The explanation had been met by peals of laughter from the Tozier phone, before Richie said, “yowza, boss, sounds like you need some… I don’t even know what!” And then Richie had laughed some more and there had been a click and he was gone.

It was a day later, and Stan was obsessively cleaning his room to get ready. His parents weren’t home, as they usually weren’t on Saturdays, since Andrea had bridge at the synagogue and Donald had whatever Donald did in his spare time, thank God above, so that was one thing out of the way.

Stan placed the last pillow where it was meant to go, tongue sticking slightly out between his lips as it always did when he was deep in thought, before he stood back to look at his room. Good… well, acceptable, at least, for now. He started to sit down on his bed when he heard a knock on the door, at which he jumped up and ran to the door as quickly as possible.

“Hey, Bill, hi!” Stan smiled, his energy suddenly amped at the anticipation the rest of the day are starting to give him. “How’re you doing!”

Bill looked down at the short boy, the way he was slightly hanging on the door, in interest, before he stepped past Stan and inside at Stan’s invitation. “I’m guh-guh-good,” he began, putting his swimming duffel bag down before Stan immediately picked it back up again and slung it over the coat hooks. “The p-p-hool was nuh-nice. Very nice for luh-l-laps.”

Stan blinked at Bill for a moment, collecting himself from his internal monologue of ‘oh, my God, Stan, Bill Denbrough is in your house and he’s going to be here for a long time forward and you’re all alone together, what’re you going to do?’ to say, “oh, good! I’m glad.”

“Y-yes.”

They both stood in silence for a bit, before Bill started up to Stan’s room with the owner trailing behind in an attempt to keep up at an appropriate distance.

“Whaddya want to do?” Stan asked as loud as he could muster- which was, at the moment, not very loud, but still- in order to be heard over Bill running up the wood stairs in his shoes. Why didn’t Bill take off his shoes? He should have taken off his shoes-

“I duh-dunno, pruh-p-pruh

(promise)

probably juh-hust hang out and chuh-ch-chill with y-you, Stan.”

Stan’s heart skipped a beat after Bill shot his sideways smile at him, and he coughed into his hands as he opened to door to his room.

“Yeah, uh, sounds good,” he said huskily, sitting down next to the taller boy and gesturing at his charger so that Bill could plug his phone in. Bill gave him a grateful look, before leaning over him to reach the cord.

Stan’s stomach flipped when Bill leaned over him, the redhead’s shoulder brushing his torso and his other hand on Stan’s knee to keep himself balanced while he plugged in his phone. It was all over before Stan had gotten a chance to fully freak out over it, but his heart rate had still skyrocketed.

“Thuh-uh-anks.”

“No problem, Big Bill.”

“Yeah.”

The two boys sat side by side in a somewhat awkward silence, Stan sitting stick straight with his hand resting absently on the knee Bill had touched.

Fumbling for a way to save the moment, Stan said, “H-How was your swimming? The, uh, the swimming season starts soon, right?” Bill nodded, running a hand through his damp hair.

“Uh-huh,” he replied casually. “I’m trying tuh-to make s-s-suh-sure I’m ready enough. I’ve g-g-got a feeling I-I’ll really have to w-wuh-work hard this year.” He frowned apologetically at Stan. “I pruh-hobably won’t h-have so m-muh-much free t-time.”

Stan sucked in a sharp breath, tittering a bit nervously and trying not to seem disappointed his few precious moments alone with Bill would be cut down even more. A thought raced across the front of his mind for a moment, and he shivered. What if this is it? What if this is when you finally break apart? Friends don’t last forever, you gotta move on eventually, this might be it, Stan. The nail in the coffin.

“B-Bummer,” the smaller boy said. “Maybe you overwork yourself, Bill. With all these advanced classes and- and going to parties, and now swimming… How’re you gonna keep up with all that?”

“I could ask you the same question, Stanley,” Bill quipped, his lips growing into a smirk, and Stan rolled his eyes, his default response to most things.

“That’s different,” he huffed, and Bill just chuckled, looking fondly at Stan and putting his chin in his hands.

“Nuh-not very,” he answered. “You d-do a lot, too. Wuh-hith your all AP cluh-hasses and your duh-d-debate club and b-birdwatching and ruh-ruh-r-running and-”

“Okay, we get it,” Stan broke in. And then, quieter, “and anyways, debate club isn’t that time-consuming.”

Bill chuckled and rolled his eyes back at Stan, saying, “I thuh-th-think it is.. I cuh-could never do it.”

Stan huffed again, saying, “well, maybe not, but you don’t need debate. Everyone already believes you automatically. And listens to you… also automatically.” Stan felt another rush of envy at his own proclamation, knowing that it was true and hating that he knew it. He wished people listened to and respected him like they did Bill.

“I guh-g-guess thats truh-hue, but it’s b-buh-b-better to deh-hebate than to have p-p-p-people blindly follow y-you. ‘T’s not fuh-hun.” Bill patted Stan’s knee twice more, before laying backwards on the bed wrong-ways and continuing to look at his phone.

Stan felt his cheeks flare up again, and he weakly followed suit, nervously tapping at his phone as he stole glances at Bill every once and awhile.

Stan liked Bill better like this- when they were with the others, Bill put on the face of the fearless leader who knew everything and never needed help. He was suddenly wonderful in every way and perfect, without any faults, absolutely amazing… and also very stubborn and arrogant, in some ways. He didn’t listen to Stan when he criticized, telling him “not to be so negative” or letting Richie go off on him for it, although he usually did put a stop to it eventually. Stan was definitely the pessimist of the group, Mike being the realist, and the rest of them being what Stan jokingly referred to as “filthy optimists” sometimes. They were all grim and wary in their personal ways from their encounters with It, that was for certain, but Stan’s pessimism and sadness were more deeply-rooted, if it was even possible for it to be so- after all, are there roots lower down than the roots of the fear they all carried in each other and themselves? Stan didn’t think so. So Stan liked Bill better when they could ignore the roots of their fears and just have a little down time.

He didn’t want to make them sound like superheroes, but truly, Stan thought that teenagers go through quite a lot nowadays and between school and extracurriculars and, well, what they did after basically saving their world, hanging out with a good friend or two really fell off of the to-do list.

Stan saw a text pop up from Bill, and he swiped it away without reading it, nudging Bill playfully. “We’re right next to eachother, Bill,” Stan said. “What’s up with that?”

“I just- I duh-d-dunno. Suh-sometimes I d-d-hon’t want to deal wuh-w-with my stuh-stuh-st-”

“Stutter,” Stan finished, smiling warmly at Bill’s sheepish face. “Well, that’s okay, but… I don’t mind, Bill.” That was far from the truth- Stan thought, had always thought, Bill’s stammer was extremely hypnotizing. The way his brow furrowed when he focused, how Stan could somehow predict whenever Bill would trip or make it through a sentence, the fashion in which Bill bit his lip when he listened to someone speak in order to try to mimic their rhythm.

Stan saw the way Bill looked at Richie and him when they were talking- Richie and Stan tended to talk quickly to eachother, often overlapping their voices in their speed to get words out and speaking just fast enough to make out the words. He saw how jealous he looked. Stan figured it was because Bill wanted to be able to communicate as seamlessly and as fast as the two black-haired boys could, but maybe that wasn’t the case; another, deeper part of Stan wanted Bill to be looking because he was pay attention to Stan, how he moved and talked, how he acted. How Stan looked. But Stan always knew, Bill looked because he was amused with how fast Richie could talk to the only person who could understand him when he did and talk back in kind. It couldn’t ever be another way.

Bill raised an eyebrow. “I muh-mean, I c-cuh- mind, so…” He trailed off, the silence letting Stan’s words dawn on him.

“Of- of course, yeah, dude, you do whatever’s comfortable for you, I…” Stan ruffled the hair on the back of his neck and sat up. “I mean, I didn’t want to say like, you know, you have to make people who don’t stammer comfortable, it’s just-”

A hand came up to Stan’s chest, pushing him backwards so he was laying down. “Chuh-ch-chill, Stan.” Bill’s low, somehow sure voice reverberated down his arm and onto Stan’s chest, sending a shiver up his spine. “I guh-get it. Just l-l-leave it.”

The smaller boy clutched his phone to his chest, over Bill’s hand. “Uh, yeah. Sorry, I…”

“Got wuh-w-worked up again,” Bill finished, tapping a rhythm out on it an continuing to text. “You d-duh-do it a lot, Stan. Espuh-sp-specially around me.” There was a smile in his voice, and Stan felt his heart melt at the hold Bill’s happiness over him, over all the kosers, really.

“What do you mean, especially?” Stan tried to sound annoyed, and he looked up from his Instagram, which he’d been formatting.

“Nuh-nuh-nevermind.” The smile was still clear in Bill’s voice.

Stan huffed, for what felt like the millionth time that day, and tried to seem serious as he leaned over the redhead. “Bill, seriously, tell me.” He put a hand on Bill’s phone, ready to take it away for leverage. Stan always seemed desperate for some kind of leverage over something, didn’t he? Always tired of being the little guy. Even Richie, who was renowned for being tiny, was taller than him. He, of course, as he did most things, hated it.

Bill kept his mouth shut, however, and shook his head. “It’s nuh-not important, Stuh-Stanley.” Stan didn’t reply, just took Bill’s phone and started to lift it up. That’d show him, Stan thought drily, since he clearly can’t just reach up and get it. You’re a genius, Stanley Uris.

Quickly as Stan’s heart sped up, Bill tucked an arm around Stan’s waist and pulled him down. With their bodies pressed flush, Bill laughed at Stan’s look of disbelief.

“Wuh-what?”

“Nothing!” Stan sounded so affronted Bill had to laugh. “I don’t care, do I look like I care? ‘Cause I don’t.”

Bill cocked an eyebrow. “Suh-so you don’t care if I do�� this?” He tipped upward, putting a hand on the back of Stan’s head to get him closer, and pressed a short, sweet kiss onto the boy’s pouty lips.

Stan jerked back, sitting back and putting his fingers over his mouth.

“Did you do that?” He asked, the disbelief clear in his voice. “No, seriously, did you just do that?”

Bill nodded once, twice, and showed his perfectly white teeth as he smile. “I did.”

“And… to me?”

“Mhm.”

Bill started laughing at Stan’s somehow offended expression and he covered his mouth as best he could and Stan couldn’t help but join in.

The text still lay unread.

It read, ‘i really wanna kiss you right now’, and Stan would read it later and feel his chest bubble up in laughter and sheer love and lay back on his bed, and he’d text back, ‘i did too.’

Correction: Stanley Uris had no idea how he managed to constantly put himself in such completely wonderful, beautiful, compromising situations.

[lightanddarklove]

Connverse Week Day 6: Sword

Talin the Hexblade

Day 1 prompt | Day 2 prompt |  Day 3 prompt | Day 4 prompt | Day 5 prompt | Day 7 prompt 

This could really take place any time in the SU: Future Timeline. I started this back in February, but could easily fit before Together Forever, or between I Am My Monster and The Future or after The Future. I don't even mention anything about Greg's hair so this could even fit before Bluebird.

Thanks again for all the likes and reblogs! Check out my masterpost for my other writing links if you've been enjoying my writing.

Each of the characters created in this oneshot have their own character sheet I made in D&D Beyond. I'll also be linking here the drawings once I get them scanned and on my art blog of each of their portrait drawings.

Connie’s character Talin the Warlock Amethyst’s Character Wiivai the Barbarian Steven’s Character Larks Song the Bard

Gen | 4478 words | Tw: Discussions of Death, Undead creatures and Drinking in a fantasy context

Greg, Connie, Steven and Amethyst are trying out some collaborative storytelling through characters of Faerun. Or, Greg tries to tell a story through D&D and it's like herding cats. Mostly platonic, and not to be taken seriously.

“Okay,” Greg started, setting down a bag of dice and his DM screen that looked older than his son on the folding table. He looked to the other three surrounding him: Connie, Steven and Amethyst, seated around the small table, piles of dice near each player. Amethyst and Steven sat with blank character sheets in front of them and Connie’s section of the table was conspicuously free of paper. “So who knows what they want to play?” Almost immediately, Connie retrieved what looked like a nearly completed character sheet from a folder she had previously set in her lap. “Teifling Warlock, Hexblade Subclass, Hermit Background,” she declared proudly. Greg nodded sagely. “Out of the four basic roles Steven explained to me, Beatstick is the one I’m most interested in.” Amethyst answered casually. “But… I don’t want to be super reliant on armor, so the best choices are Fighter and Barbarian, right?” “Yeah,” Greg replied. “Both of them can use shields, but you can sacrifice a bit of your Armor Class, meaning how often you get hit, to wield two-handed weapons, which are stronger than those that only use one hand. Out of the two classes, Barbarian has the most HP, but some of the subclasses may draw you to one over the other.” Greg opened the 5th Edition Players Handbook and stuck a blank index card in the opening page of both classes, sliding the book over to Amethyst. “See what strikes your fancy. If you don’t love those subclasses, I got a few more for you to look at in this bad boy,” he said, patting Xanathar’s Guide to Everything on top of his stack of books. Greg turned his attention to his son. “And how about you, Steven?” “I was thinking a caster, but we need a healer, right?” Steven asked. “Well,” Greg answered, “if you didn’t want to play a healer or half-caster with healing spells, like Ranger or Paladin, I can cook up a NPC to keep you from blowing yourself up.”

“Um, the thing is, I was kind more leaning to a specific race than a class, but it’s from Volo’s Guide. Is that acceptable?” “If that’s what you want, I’m fine with it. Just show me.” Greg said. Steven presented Greg his phone to show the screenshots of the class. Greg quickly scanned the page. “Tabaxi. Dex +2 and Charisma +1. Ok, darkvision, sprint ability, climbing speed 20, 1D4 unarmed melee damage, and Perception and Stealth. I don’t see anything here that seems to be too overpowered. We’ll wanna order a copy of the book to make it easier to reference when we start playing, though.” “Ok. So for my class, if we need another caster I could do Sorcerer, or for a healer Bard is cool.” “Yeah, if you have the plus to Charisma, Bard fills the healing role fine and has a lot of fun spells when you don’t need to heal. If you change your mind, let me know.” “Yeah,” Steven said. “Tabaxi also have a quirk, so I’m gonna roll for that now while Amethyst looks over her class options.” Steven plucked the D10 from his dice pile and gave it a light toss. It tumbled across the table and landed on 0. “Oh dad, I’m sorry.” “What?” Greg answered.

“‘You can’t help but pocket interesting objects you come across.’” Steven recited. “That’s going to make things annoying for you, probably.”

“It’ll be fine as long as you don’t roll bad when stealing. Otherwise the guards will be after ya.”

“Noted,” Steven answered. “I’ll be taking the ‘Sleight of Hand’ skill then.”

“So Amethyst, you made up your mind?” Greg turned his attention to the gem sitting across from him.

“Yeah, unarmored defense and rage sounds rad.” Amethyst replied. “The totem warrior thing I get at level 3 sounds cool, but you said there were other options in the book with the eyeball creep?”

“Oh yeah, you might like Path of the Storm Herald.” Greg flipped the book open and searched for Barbarian subclasses. “The ‘eyeball creep’ is a Beholder, they’re really powerful magic creatures that have a lot of knowledge and are known to be dangerous to anybody who isn’t high level.” Greg located the page and set the book down in front of Amethyst.

“Do you think you know what race you want?” Connie asked, having been quiet since she had revealed her almost complete character.

“Well, Barbarians are strong, right?” Amethyst replied. “What’s a race that has higher strength?”

“There’s a subrace of dwarf that has Strength, and they naturally have Constitution, which is the other important stat for Barbarians.” Greg answered. “The other common race for Barbarian is Half-Orc, they’ve got plusses to Strength and Con as well. They also do more damage when they critically hit.”

“Oh Amethyst,” Steven interjected, “I got one you might like.” He scrolled on his phone and presented it to her. “How would you like to be a Lizardfolk? They’ve got a bite attack and a swim speed.”

“I can bite people?” Amethyst exclaimed. “I’m gonna chomp my way to victory!”

“I see your biting people,” Greg replied in a more measured tone, “And raise you breathing fire or spitting acid. Check Dragonborn out, they increase Strength and have a breath weapon.”

“Ooooh…” Amethyst said with a grin. “I like spitting acid.” Greg took back the Players Handbook and flipped to Dragonborn, handing the book back over.

“So, look that over, jot down your notes on your features, and then we’ll roll your stats.” Greg instructed. “Gonna give you a bit of a buff over the stats in the PH since besides the damage resistance and breath weapon they don’t have a lot of other features like some of the races do. But we can go over that once you roll.” He turned his attention back to his son. “Now Steven, did you have any ideas on what subclass you wanted? I know you don’t get your Bardic College till level 3, but knowing what you’re building towards may help you pick out what spells you want and your playstyle.”

“Valor’s cool, and when I looked into Xanathar’s I also liked College of Swords, but is there any subclasses that are like Sheppard from Druid? Where I can make friends with animals or stuff like that?”

“Oh Steven!” Connie interjected. “There’s a new subclass that they just released, College of Eloquence, which lets you talk with all kinds of creatures for 10 minutes at a time as a bonus action for one of your bardic inspirations. It’s in the newest Unearthed Arcana, I’ll look it up right now.”

“Unearthed Arcana, huh?” Greg pondered. “I haven’t heard that name in ages, but that’s just the way they describe playtest material nowadays, right?”

“Yeah,” Connie replied, pulling out her phone and searching in her recent history. “If you’re fine with stuff that hasn’t been made official yet.”

“Back in 2nd edition and 3.0 days, before you two were born, we used homebrew stuff all the time,” Greg said. “So having playtest material isn’t a bad thing, especially since people making the game are the ones putting it out. Trying out this new subclass to make yourself the role of animal tamer, if that’s what you think you want, Schtu-ball.”

“I’ll check it out,” Steven replied. Connie handed Steven her phone, and he took it graciously.

“So while they’re checking out their classes,” Greg said, “Connie, are you ready to roll your stats?”

“Yes, sir.” Connie said, picking up her set of blue and green D6s.

“Four of those, drop the lowest of each set of four to get your total,” Greg instructed. “Write ‘em down as you go and roll that seven times. Drop the lowest of the seven and place your six stats where you like.” He handed her an index card and she took it, nodding. She tossed the dice into her short dice tower and began totaling her stats.

“So,” Amethyst interjected, “I’m a black Dragoborn Barbarian and I’m thinking I like that Storm herald for when we get to level 3. What else do I gotta do?”

“Just check out the backgrounds in Chapter 4 of the Player’s Handbook,” Greg replied. “There’s more in Sword Coast Adventurer’s Guide, which I can pull up on my phone, if you don’t like these. After that, we’ll roll up your stats.”

“Ok, I’m done,” Connie said. “I got 15, 11, 14, 17, 12, 10. I dropped a 7.”

“If you put that 17 in Charisma and add your racial trait, you end up with 19 and that’s a +4 bonus to start with. Not bad at all. Where you placing the other ones?”

“10 Strength, 14 Dexterity, 15 Constitution, 11 plus 1 racial Intelligence, 12 Wisdom.” Connie tallied.

“Quite respectable.” Greg replied. “Now I wanted to start everyone at level 2, so you’ll be getting your evocations now and another spell. If you haven’t picked your proficiencies, do that now.”

“since I’m a teifling,” Connie said, “I’m going to take advantage of getting the darkness spell once per day for free, so my best evocations for now are Devil’s Sight and Agonizing Blast.”

“You’ve sure done your research, Connie.” Greg said.

“I’m excited to play!” She replied eagerly. “I’ve always wanted to get into a group ever since my dad and I played Baldur’s Gate when I was 11. I was only allowed to play it with the gore settings off though, when I was younger. The only time I got to play D&D was a one-shot with a few school friends but the DM that ran it moved away, and no one else wanted to try.”

“Yeah, DMing isn’t for everyone,” Greg said, nodding.

“Ok Greg,” Amethyst interjected, “I’m gonna go with the Sailor background, so am I good to roll?”

Steven grabbed the Players Handbook from in front of Amethyst since she was done with it.

“Yup. Here ya go!” Greg said, handing over the 4 six-sided dice.

“Go over the math on this one more time, would ya?” Amethyst asked.

“Roll those four dice seven times total.” Greg answered. “Each time you roll, add the three highest numbers together and write it down. Out of those seven rolls, you drop the lowest number and take those to place in whatever stat you like. Con and Strength are the most important for Barbarians, but Dex can be handy too. The dump stat for you will likely be Intelligence, like how Connie put her lowest in Strength.”

“OK,” Amethyst replied. She gave the dice a shake, before cupping her hands in front of Steven. “Blow on ‘em, for luck Steven!”

“The statistics on your dice won’t change just because somebody blows on them, Amethyst.” Connie teased as Steven puffed out a breath onto the dice. Amethyst shook her hands few more times.

“Just cause that’s true for humans, doesn’t mean is true for gems.” Amethyst countered. “Steven’s got magic spit, maybe it’ll magically make my rolls better.” With a gentle throw of her wrist the dice bounced and spread across the table. “6, 5, 6, 2. That’s a 17. And if I don’t botch the next few throws I can be the powerhouse of the group!”

“Don’t count your dragons before they hatch, Amethyst.” Greg chided with a smile. “You never want to tempt fate on the dice gods, or your campaign can be doomed before it starts.”

Amethyst scooped the borrowed dice into her hands again and with a shake rolled them again. “Aw dunk, 4, 3, 4, 2. That’s 11. Not great.”

“Keep rolling, Amethyst. Just give me the totals when you’re done.” Greg instructed. He turned to Connie with a smile. “Now Connie, unlike the other two, Warlocks often have more perspective on theism than martial or arcane caster classes. So tell me,” he leaned on his hand, “what is your character’s relationship like with her deity?”

“My character goes by Talin.” Connie replied, tone serious. “She came across her arcane focus left for her by the Raven Queen while she was exiled from her hometown. She was drawn to it from a message in a dream. If my patron contacts me it’s either with just a few words, or in my dreams. If I’m commanded, I can meditate and she can send me short messages.”

“Are you one of an order, or are you working alone?” Greg asked.

“Alone. If there are others who work for Lady Death, I don’t know it. All I know is I was chosen.”

“So what does Lady Death expect of her chosen?” Greg probed. “What is your calling, and why have you returned to the civilized world?”

“The Raven Queen wants the souls of the undead who have been wrongfully brought back or kept from peacefully passing to the afterlife in the first place. So she wants me to send back to the world of the dead ghosts, skeletons, scarecrows, vampires, and most importantly Liches. Plus I need to stop any necromancers or other magic users that create these things.” Connie replied.

“Scarecrows are undead?” Amethyst asked, rolling her dice again.

“Yeah, they’re animated by souls of vengeful spirits, whether humanoid or demons.” Connie replied.

“You didn’t say zombies, is the Raven Queen ok with zombies?” Steven asked, looking up from the Players Handbook chapter on Backgrounds.

“Zombies aren’t animated by souls, they’re just bodies.” She answered. “Like an animated armor, so if it’s not a returned soul, it’s not a problem. Skeletons are controlled by souls, despite not having free will.”

“So I’m done rolling stats, Greg,” Amethyst cut in. “17, 11, 8, 11, 17, 16.”

“We got a power player here,” Greg replied approvingly. “So by putting the 17 in Strength, you’ll end up with a 19, giving you a +4 to hit and damage. Set the other big numbers in Constitution and Dexterity. And I’ll give you an extra +1 to Con since Dragonborn are a little underpowered. So, if you make Dex 16, put the 17 in Con, you’ll end up with a +3 and +4 as your modifers, meaning your starting AC will be 17 with no shield and 19 with a shield. Pretty respectable.”

“So if I wanna take intimidation as a class skill, I wanna give an 11 to my Charisma, making that racial bonus hit 12, right?” Amethyst asked.

“You’re picking it up, Amethyst. That just leaves wisdom and intelligence left.” Greg answered.

“Kay, I’ll put the 11 in Wisdom and 8 in Int,” Amethyst replied. “Connie’s the smart one in this crew, no surprise there,” she teased, and Connie smiled as her cheeks flushed.

“So why are you rolling into town, Connie?” Greg posited.

“My Lady Death thinks I can get stronger faster with a group. There’s only so much I can do on my own, but as long as I can eventually get strong enough to be a lich hunter, whatever I have to do with my time to get there she’s in favor of.” She shrugged a bit. “I can fight a couple skeletons on my own as a level 1, but I’m sure I didn’t see a lot of them all the time. I bet I got most of my XP from beasts or bandits.”

“Sounds like someone’s playing an edgy character…” Amethyst teased.

“I just loved the potential for what Hexblade can do in combat.” She said, twirling her pencil. “So I did a lot of research and figured out what made the most sense for my ideal playstyle.” Greg set his hands together and leaned towards Connie, eyes glinting with feigned apprehension.

“So Connie, this sounds like you’re not playing a good character. Are you going the evil or neutral route? What’s your alignment?” She hesitated a moment, setting her pencil down and spinning it on the table.

“… If you really think about it, I’m fighting mostly evil undead, and Raven Queen’s an unaligned deity…” Connie’s voice came out high and nervous, the least confident she had been all afternoon. “So the case can easily be made for her followers to be neutral, right? After all, it doesn’t matter if you’re good or evil, just about everything will die eventually.” She hesitated, glancing back to Steven and Amethyst. “I just don’t want to make the team weaker if we have conflicting alignments. If I have an evil character, and one of you is playing a good character, I’ll have to trick you into thinking I’m not evil so we don’t end up constantly bickering.” Amethyst shrugged.

“My character’s not much of a free thinker.” She replied nonchalantly. “She probably wouldn’t be into slaughtering innocent people, but I don’t really think she’d have any reservations about smashing up some skeletons or necromancers. I say, if you wanna go bad, go for it.” Greg, Connie and Amethyst all turned to Steven, who had been quiet for a little while. He looked at them confusedly for a moment.

“What?” He asked.

“Are you into playing the bad boy, Stee-man?” Amethyst purred, spinning a d8 on the table.

“I-“ He froze for a second. “I could play an evil character if that’s what everyone else wants to do,” his voice tight. “I mean Amethyst and I were heels when we did Purple Puma and Tiger Millionaire…”

“If you want to play a good guy, that’s fine,” Connie interjected. “I’ll play Talin as neutral.”

“Connie, I want you to have fun, so I can play a neutral character if that’s better for the group.” Steven replied. “I think I found a background that will work for that anyway, just gimmie a sec…”

“Ok, Steven.” Greg said. “Amethyst, what’s your motivation for your character? You said she’s a sailor, right? So what brings her to port, and what reason would she have for finding an adventuring group?”

“Oh, that’s easy: revenge.” Amethyst replied with a sneer.

“Did you get kicked off your ship?” Connie asked. “And what’s her name?

“Not just that. My ship was stolen by pirates.” She answered roguishly. “I was one of the few survivors of the Silver Swordfish. I want to group up and get stronger so I can take the ship back. There’s two people that need to go down for their place in this folly. The captain of the ship that boarded my vessel, and the cad who’s heading it now both need to find an axe in their heads. My axe, specifically. And her name is Wiivai Norixius.”

“You came up with that fast, Amethyst,” Greg replied.

“Guess I’m just a natural improviser,” she said coyly.

“With what you just said, that sounds like you have a pretty specific goal in mind.” Greg replied, and Amethyst nodded. “We’ll workshop your remaining crew and your adversaries on our own time.”

“Sounds good, Greg. Oh, and when you were talking about alignment stuff, I think I’m feeling the Chaotic Neutral vibe.” Amethyst said. “Outside of my goal to take back my old ship, I’m down for whatever. Drinks, fighting, gambling, flirting. It’s all on the table.”

“Oh boy.” Greg replied, running a hand through his hair. “Well, we’ll make it work.”

“Dad,” Steven said, “I wanted to know if you were open to the Background Variants. There’s one I like if I can play around with it a bit.”

“Lay it on me,” Greg replied.

“Okay, so noble makes it easier to talk to other nobles and get common people to accommodate me, right? But I’m a Tabaxi, which is from the southern isle of Chult, so likely there wouldn’t be many noble-born families on the main part of Faerun.”

“Well, that’s true, but I can make exceptions if you’d want to play it that way. In that case, it will probably make you the face of the party. You’ll probably be doing most of the talking for the group.” Greg interjected. “All of you are playing uncommon races, so the idea that the cat-man is the most approachable of this trio makes the most sense.”

“Ok, so here’s the alternative option. Noble has a variant for knight, which gives three retainers instead of having a position of privilege, which makes less sense for a foreign noble. But I’m a bard, so instead of having knightly retainers, I could have them be my back-up band! I’m the second son of noble family, an eccentric musician who wants to get out and see the world. I’m still well-spoken and have a bit of money to throw around, but I’ve got a little crew, instead of having to worry about the names of local nobility.”

“So what’s the catch?” Greg asked.

“I would just want my retainers, or band, to be proficient in one skill,” Steven replied. “Performance with a different instrument than me.”

“I don’t see a problem with that.” Greg answered. “I still think based on your college of eloquence, and noble background you’d probably end up leading most conversations with NPCs. Connie and Amethyst will likely be pulling their weight more in combat.” Steven smiled and shrugged. “Ok, your turn to roll, Schtu-ball.”

“Okay.” He picked up his dice and gave them a toss.

“Connie, do you have your spell list finished?” Greg asked.

“Yes sir.” She answered. “But I had a question about equipment. Warlocks only start with simple weapons and light armor, and I won’t be as well equipped for the role my character is filling without some more gold. Are we only working with the starting equipment?”

“Well, ya’ll are level two, so I think we can make you guys a little richer than you started with.” Greg answered, flipping to the chart and setting it in front of her. “So in addition, we can do the table on the wealth by class but halved. I think most of you getting a hundred extra gold would be too much in the opposite direction.”

“So, I would roll the 4d4 but multiply it by 5 instead of 10?” Connie asked.

“You got it,” Greg answered, shooting her a finger gun, and dropping two d4s in front of her.

“Hook a gem up, Greg.” Amethyst said. “How many d4 do I roll?”

“2 d4, multiplied by 5. That would be a minimum of 10 and a max of 40.” Greg replied. Connie gave her 4 dice a shake and dropped them into her dice tower.

“Oh good. 11. So that makes 55 gold on top of my 5 from hermit and starting equipment.” Connie said.

“I’m open to letting you sell what you’re not using before all your characters meet.” Greg interjected. Amethyst dice clicked lightly on the table.

“I got 5. So 25 extra gold for me.” Amethyst said.

“Pick yourself up an extra weapon or two, and probably a shield, Amethyst. It’ll come in handy.” Greg replied.

“Okay so I got 17,14,12,8,12,14.” Steven jumps in.

“That’s a little low, but with your racial bonuses and placement in the right stats you’ll be fine.”

“So 12 Strength, 14 in Dex and Con, Intelligence of 8, Wisdom 12 and 17 Charisma. Tabaxi’s bonus makes Charisma 18 and Dexterity 16.”

“It’s a solid array your party has.” Greg replies. “Now roll your 5d4 for your extra money.” Greg hands the teen the pyramid shaped dice he retrieved from Connie and Amethyst earlier, and turns to Connie. “Have you decided your alignment, Connie?”

“Yeah, I still think True Neutral fits best.” She answers. “I have most of my character traits nailed down, and I think that’s what makes the most sense.”

“You know your character best,” Greg replies. “Your turn to measure your wealth, Schtu-ball,” With a quick toss, the dice lay out Steven’s fortune.

“Dad, I made out like a bandit,” Steven preened with a smile. “14 times 5 which is 70. I wanna buy a pony.”

“Hold your horses there, kiddo.” Greg replied. “Some of that money’s gotta go toward outfitting your band.”

“Huh?” Steven said, face puzzled.

“I never said that you were going to get your trio’s instruments for free, did I?” Greg asked, smiling slyly.

“Aw…” Steven mumbled. “Maybe only two of them should play and the other should be our roadie.” Greg chuckled.

“You’ll have to pick out your spells kiddo, but I think we’ve got a solid party here.” Greg replied. “Are there any other burning questions for the group?”

“Nah,” Amethyst answered. Connie shook her head.

“How do you feel about character voices?” Steven asked.

“I’ll probably do some for the important NPCs but you can expect your Joe Schmos to sound like I usually do,” Greg said with a laugh. “As for you three, you’re allowed, just don’t strain yourself or make it sonically unpleasant for everyone else at the table.”

“Anybody seen where they pahked the boat? I was jus in the gahden tryin to chahm a lady afta I hopped off the bow,” Amethyst rattled off in her Bostonian accent, and the teens at the table giggled.

“I hope you can keep that up, Amethyst.” Greg replied. “Afta all, you got do a lotta tawkin’ when ya ain’t brawlin’,” he added, slipping into an Empire city accent.

“Good ‘eavens, das quite enouf-“ Steven started before Connie cut him off.

“No Magic Brian.” She said leaning into him with a smirk.

“Aww…” he replied. “What are you gonna do?”

“Svedish.” She answered. “If my Lady Death vills it.”

“My, my, I do see a fine lookin’ miss with those horns across the bar,” Steven drawled sweetly. “I do declare I must ask for her name and buy the lady a drink,” he continued, southern accent giving him a coy air.

“Vat manner of cveature is ze cat man approaching me?” She asked shyly.

“Ok kids, save it for when we get started.” Greg interrupted.

“Aww man,” Amethyt said, “it was just about to get good, Greg!”

“I know how busy y’all are, but I want to try and make this happen once a month at least.” Greg interjected. “So if we can squeeze a session in next week or the following week, we’ll move forward a few weeks from there.”

“Most of my classes are weekday mornings or afternoons,” Amethyst replied. “So weekends or school nights after 6 are good for me. Thursdays are the only days I’m booked.”

“It depends on the projects I got going on,” Connie added. “Some weeknights I’ve got 3 or 4 nights with open hours, and other weeks I’m so swamped I have to eat at my desk most of the time. I’ll keep you posted once the weekend hits and I bang out my schedule.”

“Whatever day works for you guys, I’ll clear my schedule.” Steven said. “Just give me a couple days’ notice.”

“Ok,” Greg replied. “Good session folks. If anybody has questions about spells or rules, just text me. I got some fun stuff planned…”

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

Busts of the Trio:

If you want to see these in fullview, I’ll be posting more on my art blog in the next day or so. Thanks for reading!

[ravenvsfox]

I can't believe you're taking prompts, i'm shaking, i love your writing more than life. 41 + andreil??

41: “Is this seat taken?” (you’re so cute wth, i love u?? Hope this is okay, I went the alternate meeting route xoxo)

“Is this seat taken?”

Andrew looks up over his smudged lenses and finds Neil Josten looming over him, looking out of place. He’s lankier in person, a stretch of taffy stuffed in oversized cotton and denim.

Andrew knows him, of course, from viral interview clips and game footage. He was curious enough to flip the page in Neil’s file when he was cataloguing players from other teams. He’s a smart-mouthed starting striker with fast feet and a pentient for self destruction. 

Andrew knows the brand and heft of his racquet and the shape of his scars, but he’s never played him, never even met him before now.

“Yes,” Andrew replies coolly. He was curious enough to read a few pages about Neil, but not curious enough to buy the book.

Neil’s face doesn’t change but he hitches his bag up further on his shoulder. His eyes sweep the compartment, the 3 empty seats, Andrew barely filling his own. “What about those two?”

Andrew shrugs. Neil drops his obnoxious red duffel across the bench opposite Andrew and follows it down, hiking his legs immediately up under him.

The train rumbles around them, a dull scream of kicked up dirt and friction. Andrew’s grateful for the noise, the way it cuts everything else out like music with a reckless beat.

“You’re Andrew Minyard.”

Andrew’s eyes jerk to Neil, and he already hates how casual he looks, gaze fixed somewhere in the eye of the storm of colour whipping past the window.

Andrew looks at him blankly, waiting for Neil to wilt at being stared at like everyone else does. Neil meets his eyes and doesn’t react.

“I mean. You could be Aaron,” Neil says. “But I don’t think so.”

Their eye contact is beginning to feel like an arrow pinned in place by another arrow. A weapon beating a weapon.

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” Andrew asks, running a thumb down the length of his armband slowly enough that it shouldn’t register as the nervous gesture that it is. Neil’s eyes drop to Andrew’s hands anyway.

“Just wanted to make it clear that I’ve done my homework.” Neil looks at Andrew like he’s taking inventory. “I’m Neil J—“

“Don’t patronize me,” Andrew says simply. The winter sun is just starting to rise properly, bleaching the train car white. “You’re not special for being capable of basic recall.”

Neil’s eyes narrow, and Andrew recognizes the expression from video footage starring invasive reporters and Neil’s blatant impatience. “You’re awfully opinionated for someone who can’t express an emotion without the say so of a wonder drug,” Neil says.

That’s interesting. Andrew lets the silence stretch on and dry out. “I don’t think you’re in any position to criticize someone for being opinionated.”

Neil stops, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve seen the clips.”

“Unfortunately.”

His eyes are uncomfortably blue. Empty blue. Someone walks through the aisle next to them, and Andrew’s concentration wobbles. He’s half aware that their voices are still low and even, but the antagonism underpinning them is lethal. This is what exy players do, Andrew knows. Insult and undermine and target. Usually it’s behind backs, or disguised on court, a petty and useless secondary game that Andrew is uninterested in.

Neil’s obviously as unimpressed with sportsmanship as Andrew is, which grates on him a little. He hates common ground. He upends shared experience before anyone can try to share it like a raft.

“I don’t sugarcoat truth that people need to hear.”

Andrew looks away, feeling even further off balance. “People only hear what they want to hear.”

“Not if you say something loud enough,” Neil says, drumming his fingers idly on his armrest.

Andrew can’t stop noticing all the complications of his face, the things that need decoding. He’s running at full volume and colour, more than anyone else on the train. Andrew can practically see his thoughts gathering like rain-heavy clouds.

His chest throbs in warning.

“Why didn’t you fly to Toronto?” Neil asks. “The rest of your team is probably there by now.”

Andrew looks up. “Why didn’t you?”

He looks caught off guard at having his question received and hammered back so quickly. Andrew wonders detachedly if he’ll look that way when Andrew shuts him out of goal tonight. Neil’s eyes move before his mouth, tracking people and movement before coming back to Andrew. “I wasn’t in a hurry,” Neil says, like it’s a grand old joke. “Your turn.”

“I don’t like heights,” Andrew replies. Neil stares, distrust always in his eyes like a repeated bass note. He seems to decide all at once that Andrew’s joking.

“Really,” he says. “I’ve heard that nothing gets to you. Like you’re untouchable.” Their eyes meet on the last word, and Andrew becomes painfully aware that Neil is going to be a problem for him. He realizes it with quicksand already slurping around him, a fall already in progress.

“You put too much stock in rumour,” Andrew says mildly.

“This isn’t just a rumour. I’ve seen you in goal. You’re amazing.” Neil is so earnest that he’s leaned all the way forward in his seat, close enough to graze Andrew’s personal space.

His pulse lifts and takes off, and he has the same sickly feeling he gets when he’s flying. “Then you know you’re going to lose.”

He doesn’t know what makes him say it. Neil is making him want to win at a game that can barely keep his pulse up on a good day. It’s because he’s so aggravating, Andrew tells himself. It’s because he presumes to talk as if we’re both fighting the same fight.

“Maybe,” Neil hums. “A team is only as good as its worst players, and your offence is laughable.”

“Kevin’s better than you,” Andrew says, a bland statement of fact.

Neil shrugs. “At his best. But he hasn’t been close to his best in years.” A flicker of something passes over his face, haunted and far away. His hand twitches in his lap. “We’re the better team.”

“Arrogant,” Andrew says.

“Did you forget what I said about not sugarcoating?”

“I don’t forget.”

“Eidetic memory.” Neil half smiles. “That was in your file too.”

Andrew watches the train jostle Neil against the window, and something takes proper form in Andrew’s head, moving air and debris tightening into a tornado. “You’re not sitting here by accident.” It comes out flinty, irrefutable.

Neil juts his chin, caught. “I’m just trying to figure you out. Tapes don’t do you justice.” Andrew doesn’t reply, and Neil’s shoulders crook, a crossbow set to fire. “You seem to be indifferent some days—”

“All days,” Andrew interrupts, but Neil ignores him.

“You’re indifferent some days and completely focused others. You break records like they’re made of tissue paper. When you’re on the court you’re the best and least predictable athlete in the room.”

“You’ve been talking to Kevin.”

Neil swallows and doesn’t deny it. He rakes a hand abruptly through his own hair, and drops it just as suddenly. “I’m thinking of switching to your team.”

Andrew doesn’t let the surprise find a place on his face, and he pushes away the brush of something more dangerous, something anticipatory and wanting.

“I thought you had the better team,” Andrew points out.

“A better team, yeah. But you have potential. And talent. You just need something to bind you together.”

“And you think that something is you?”

Neil smiles properly for the first time; it pulls his scars and brightens his eyes. “I’ve been told I’m persistent.”

[cait-writes-stuff]

The Campaign - Batmom POTUS

Warning: This fic is highly politicized and deals with a lot of political issues that currently plague the United States. That being said, this chapter includes mention of blatant racism, sexism, and Islamophobia. 

Part 1

AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9579392/chapters/21659414

When you announced your candidacy to the country is kicked up a storm and for the briefest moment you had the satisfaction of stealing the spotlight from the rhetoric spewing mad man. But soon enough the real work had to begin. You had an election to win.

You started by hiring a campaign manager and spent a lot of the next few week in and out of interviews with news outlets and politicians alike, talking about your policies and the direction you wanted to take the country in. Naturally you had people who liked your progressive ideas but you also faced a lot of people who didn’t agree with you. You took their criticisms with grace and poise, you knew you wouldn’t be able to get everyone on your side but there were just some issues that you would never sway your stance on.

After the first wave of interviews you went on a tour around the country to give speeches in some of the contested states. You were admittedly a bit exhausted from the non stop traveling but your last stop was in Gotham and the crowd was more than welcoming to you. You shook off your eagerness to see your family again to give your home city the best presentation you could muster.

“Ummi!” A voice called from the crowd. Your heart lept thinking it was your youngest son calling out to you but was admitted a little disappointed to see that it was a young boy calling out excitedly to his hijab clad mother, pointing in your direction as your body guards led you through the crowd. You gave the boy a warm smile when you approached him and waved at him.

“Salam, how are you today young man?” You greeted kindly. He waved shyly back but his mother gently prompted him to respond to you.

“Wa Alaikumussalam wa Rahmatullah.” He greeted kindly in return. “Ummi says that you’re going to be the President someday. Is that true?” He asked innocently.

“That’s the hope.” You laughed warmly.

“Mrs. Wayne, might I ask you a question” The mother said capturing your attention.

“Of course.” You said.

“Luthor and his followers are speaking of banning groups of people from entering the country and deporting others. My husband is still trying to immigrate from Afghanistan. Please Mrs. Wayne, I’m worried for the future of my family.” The woman fretted, visibly upset over the uncertainty of the future for her family.

“I promise you if I’m elected I will never ban any people from seeking asylum in this country. Banning entry for any group of people due to religion, country origin, or any other excuse they can come up with is against the ideals of this nation. In the words of Lady Liberty herself: Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. As president I will protect that ideal.” You promised. She smiled a watery smile and enveloped you in a tight hug. Your body guards lurched forward to separate her from you but you waved them off. She cried her thanks and the older woman stepped back and framed your cheeks with both of her hands.

“I will be proud to call you my President, Mrs. Wayne.” She said.

“Thank you, ma’am. It is my duty to protect all peoples of this great nation from oppression.” You said.

“What about the wall?” A hispanic man asked who was watching the exchange between you and the Muslim mother.

“There will be no wall. Ever.” You responded firmly. It was almost laughable that Lex would even consider making that a campaign point but fearful isolationists ate up the idea of a physical barrier between our neighbor and close trade partner.

“Ma’am. It’s time to go.” Your campaign manager said ushering you to the stage. You nodded and waved to the crowd and thanked them graciously for their support.

The speech went off without a hitch and you walked away feeling you had the majority of the city on your side. You didn’t show it but you were chomping at the bit to go home and spend time with your family for the first time in weeks.

“Lunch?” Your campaign manager asked when you safely in the car again and driving away from the venue.

“Unless I’m meeting with someone, I’d much rather go home.” You answered kicking off your heels.

“You’re the boss, ma’am.” She said and relayed the instructions the driver. The rest of the drive she got you all caught up on the latest polls and talking points. Luthor was still ahead of you in the polls but your campaign was starting to build steam around the country. There was still a lot of work to do in the traditionally conservative states though. For now though, you had the weekend off recharge before you went on another press tour.

For most of the campaign you and Luthor were neck and neck in the polls. Your campaign manager was out of her mind trying to come up with a way to get the upperhand.

“Well what’s your social media presence like?” Tim asked her one day.

“We’ve been pushing her events and issues on Facebook and Twitter. That’s not our problem.” She argued. Tim raised a skeptical eyebrow and laughed.

“Seriously? I’m no expert here but I think the campaign could benefit from a more human media presence. Post a selfie or two on Instagram, answer questions one on one on Twitter, become a meme on Tumblr. Right now she looks like one of those lifeless robot politicians. You need to let her natural people charm shine. Just sayin’.” Tim rebutted with a shrug.

Your campaign manager didn’t respond but you noticed your social media team revamped itself and your various social media accounts became more normalized and approachable. Your numbers started to rise again but it was Dick and the rest of your boys that you had to thank for sending you into a comfortable lead.

A week or two after Tim discussed the social media issue with your campaign manager a photo was leaked on Twitter and started to trend. You came across it yourself when you were surfing the internet yourself.

It was a photo taken backstage at your latest event. No one on your team took this picture and it certainly wasn’t staged. Bruce was on his phone, talking over some business. Jason and Tim were arguing over something. Well, Jason was arguing. Tim was bent over his handheld game system ignoring him. You were sitting in the background on the couch reading notes on a speech you had been given while Damian napped across your lap. Dick was bent over facing away from the camera to pick up a pen that you had accidently dropped. It was basically a perfect representation of your family and the internet ate it up.

Dick’s butt was quickly trending on twitter. You read a ridiculous tweet that said ‘A vote for Wayne is a vote for this butt in the oval office #firstbutt’. On tumblr your family photo inspired a popular ‘draw the squad’ meme. The publicity generated from the leaked photograph shot your approval rating up in the polls. It would seem Tim was right in that seeing your ridiculous but lovable family in their natural habitat humanized you.

“Did you see it?” Dick came into the room with a giant grin on his face.

“Hmmm. Yes. ‘#Firstbutt’ is trending on twitter.” You commented casually, continuing on the paperwork you were.

“Sally says you’re up in the polls for women between 18 and 35.” He grinned with pride, plopping himself down beside you on the couch. You rolled your eyes and gave him a motherly kiss on the cheek.

“I’m not touching that comment with a ten foot pole.” You said. Secretly you were a little bit proud of your family and all the positivity that drummed up around the country. No one could claim that you didn’t care for your family, or so you thought.

When you started to have a comfortable lead in the polls, Luthor’s supporters started showing up to your speeches in protest. With their new presence your body guards stopped letting you stop to talk to people like the Muslim mother you had met or a polite group of feminists that had serious questions about your various policies.

“A woman’s place is in the kitchen not running the country.” One red faced balding man shouted at you. He got various looks of disgust from the people surrounding him. You kept your head held up high and continued walking to your destination.

“Terrorist whore!” Another shouted waving a sign that said ‘send your husband’s bastard back where he came from’. Your heart clenched at the sight and your vision went red. Your step hesitated and you wanted nothing more than to break away from your guards and deck this disgusting creature. That was your son. Criticize you, call you slurs, sure. You had a thick skin and could take it but you weren’t about to let anyone attack your family. In your rage you were about to approach the man but Sally, your campaign manager, rooted her hand on your shoulder and stopped you from doing anything that might look bad.

“People are watching ma’am.” She reminded you.

“I want him out of here.” You hissed. “The other protesters can stay, I don’t fucking care. But I will not stand by and let them drag my child through the mud. My family, especially my children, are off limits. Do I make myself clear?” You snarled. Sally nodded and did not attempt to argue with you about how you would get heat from the opposition for kicking out a protester. You made it clear that this one instance was non negotiable. You would take the heat later if you had to.

“Yes Ma’am. I’ll take care of it immediately.” She responded dutifully. She scurried off to pass on the message to the security guards on hand who would take care of the situation. You took a few calming breaths before stepping onto the stage like nothing had ever happened.

After all these months of campaigning, you had gotten used to remaining composed under pressure.

You didn’t have a lot of contact with Luthor until the televised national debates. It had come down to just you and him. That was choice that America had to choose from. You or him.

You hoped to god that after all this work they would choose you.

“Ah, Mrs. Wayne it’s good see you again. How are the kids?” He asked with a cold sneer. It was just you and him meeting before the first debate but you didn’t trust that no one wasn’t listening.

“They’re fine.” You answered curtly.

“Aw, why so cold [Y/N]?” He asked, taunting you by using your informal first name. You wanted to slap him across his grinning face. “Surely there’s something you’d like to say to me?” He prompted with a sickeningly sweet lilt to his voice.

“Oh I have many things I would like to say to you, Luthor.” You said, your voice lowering dangerously. “But I won’t give you the satisfaction.”

“Politics aside, we both want what’s best for the country.” He said, playing up a look of innocence. You didn’t buy what that grinning snake was trying to feed you. Some people might eat up all of his bullshit but you saw right through it. “I’m going to make America great again, after all.” He grinned trying to provoke you. Your eyes narrowed to an intense glare that would combust most men into flames.

You wanted to scream at him, call him out on his bullshit, expose him for the lying poisonous snake he was but you restrained yourself. Tonight was about staying composed under pressure, showing the country that you were presidential in poise and speech. You weren’t going to let him get under your skin like this.

He chuckled once and frowned when he didn’t elicit the response he was hoping for.

“May the best man win.” He said holding out his hand. You didn’t take it.

“Woman.” You corrected before turning on your heel and walking gracefully away from him to take your place off stage for the debate to begin.

As you participated in the series of debates your support only seemed to grow. While some remained vigilant in their support for Luthor’s poisonous rhetoric refusing to acknowledge any opinions other than their own based on their own bias’ and prejudices, many saw your poise and composure during the debates and saw a woman that they wanted to represent them on the international stage.

You knew you couldn’t get everyone on your side, and a lot of your proposed policies were more liberal than some would be comfortable with, you were confident going into the election night. Your family was with you in the campaign’s headquarters in Gotham and you were prepared for whatever might come out of this night.

One way or another, the people’s voice would be heard.

“What do we do if you don’t win, Mom.?” Damian asked, looking up at you.

“I-I don’t know.” You answered honestly. You didn’t want to think of what would happen if, god forbid, Luthor won.  

“If she doesn’t win this country is full of idiots and this country is fucked anyway.” Jason said crossing his arms over his chest.

“We need to respect the public’s opinion, Jason.” You reminded him gently, but on the inside you were dying. What if all your hard work, all the care and passion you put into this campaign was all for naught?

“Fuck them.” He shrugged. You gave him a look of motherly disapproval before Sally rushed into the room telling you to turn on the TV. You took the remote off the table and turned on the television to one of the news outlets. You felt Bruce slip beside you and intertwine his fingers with yours.

“With ninety eight percent of the precincts reporting, [Y/N] Wayne is the projected winner of this hard fought campaign. Wayne will be making history as America’s very first fem-” You watched wide eyed at the TV coverage. This was happening. This was actually fucking happening. You won. You did hear the rest of what the reporter was saying because you were enveloped in hugs from all sides by your family. Your election team and supporters erupted in celebratory cheers but you were focused on your family.

“Congrats Madam President.” Bruce whispered, lifting your chin and pressing a soft kiss to you lips.

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