#cue me posting this and immediately going to bed because I think this is cringe as all hell

[rodolfoparras]

Take care of yourself first, writing can wait! I am just happy to send you my silly little drabbles and ideas because sharing them over anon is much easier.

Also I saw you mention long haired Price and as someone who absolutely adores men with long hair and falls for them always I feel uniquely qualified to offer my insight. Also long haired old metalhead dilfs are my type to the t.

I think we mentioned before on your blog how Price was definitely alternative when he was younger and I can definitely see him being your typical long haired metalhead, and I stand by the fact that he was pierced and he has old tattoos. He obviously had to cut his hair when he enlisted and although he still has same music taste, he isn't really into same style anymore.

He thinks he's too old for that (I know he's supposed to be around 37 canonically but in my head he's like mid to late 40s in main timeline) and he can't see himself growing his hair out again. Cue his boyfriend finding photos of him when John was younger and begging him to grow his hair out again. He's on the fence about it until he realises just how much his boyfriend would be into the idea.

He slowly starts growing his hair out (let's ignore military aspect for this) and maybe to make it even more interesting, either he or his boyfriend have to go on a mission and when they finally reunite, John's hair has grown and while it's not as long as it used to was, it's still kind of long and his boyfriend can't keep his hands off John.

This is also where John realized that he likes having his hair pulled because his boyfriend will just do it whenever they have sex and John melts instantly. But also the intimacy of hair washing and hair braiding??

-🔮

I appreciate you sugar thank you sm for understanding 🥹 also I wanted to say in regards to the idea u sent you should’ve posted it on ur own blog bc it’s genuinely 10/10 if you one day feel comfortable with posting ur fics and you post a price focused fic pls feel free to tag me id genuinely eat it up

*cracks knuckles* price had to cut his hair bc of the army but he also thought he just grew a tad bit old for the look but then there’ a period of time where he’s stationed somewhere for months maybe a whole year and his hair grows long enough to be tied in a bun he hasn’t had the time to cut it because where would you get your hands on scissors in the middle of nowhere and truth be told he missed his long hair he ties it up opts out of wearing buckets hats and let’s it down before bed however once he’s back home and he actually gets a proper look at himself he’s like ….. and immediately wants to cut it off but you don’t let him u beg and plead almost wrestle the scissors from him however the two of you comprise and you settle for a look where his hair is long enough to be tied into a ponytail but short enough to not have him cringing at himself and the next time he looks at himself in the mirror he actually likes what he sees even smiles at himself and you creep up behind him chin resting atop of his head saying “told you that you’re handsome” and he’s just like oh stop it

But imagine him down on his knees his hair wrapped around your wrist while he sucks your cock and he looks absolutely beautiful drool dribbling down his lips tears trickling down his cheeks and with small curls framing his face

And when it’s time to go back to base and cut his hair he discovers that having your blunt nails scratch at his scalp feels just as good as when you pull on his long hair

[shotorozu]

TITLE : hospital stay

PAIRING : bakugou katsuki x reader

SYNOPSIS : you’re in the hospital on your boyfriend’s birthday, and bakugou seems to have no issue with spending it in there.

WARNING(S) : MHA MANGA SPOILERS ‼️ (recent arc)

legend : [Y/N = your name] they/them pronouns used, a quirk similar to the avatar but that’s about it.

note(s) : so, it’s bakugou’s birthday. and i had this idea since march 20 😦 so i’ve been waiting for his birthday to come for literally a month but i didn’t want to post this way too early. alsooo i don’t know if this arc happened near spring but lets pretend it did for the sake of the story

When you woke up, the fluorescent lights were the first to hit your face

Following by the incoming beeping of a monitor, and the sudden throbbing of your head, the dryness of your throat evident.

Blinking slowly (or trying to, your other eye being a bit delayed.) you try recalling what just happened. You’re in a hospital, that’s one thing you know, but the specifics are still unknown to you.

Right. You remember now, you were fighting along side your classmates, and you managed to get blasted away when you thought that shielding Bakugou Katsuki would work. Yeah, you were sure that you were going to get an earful from him, if he—

You jolt when you notice said blond standing right next to your bed, vermillion eyes staring deep into your own, and somewhat— you could feel the weight and intensity in the stare

“S-since when did you get here?” You’re startled, and your voice is hoarse. Bakugou doesn’t formulate a response, and chooses to avoid the question as a whole.

“Finally you’re up.” He rolls his eyes. He looks much better than you remembered, despite having a few bandages on his forehead— he looked well. “It’s been 5 fucking days.”

“Five days?” You question out loud, your sense of time all disorganized. You clench your hand, just to see if your quirk was still working. Seeing air, fire, water, and just.. something, would relieve your worries— but a look from the blond shot you down quickly. You decided that it was wise if you didn’t try.

The blond seems to be done with the conversation, since he immediately walks out of the room. Actually, why was he here? You’d expect him to be laying down in bed, but despite being hit with that beam, he was walking around like everything was fine.

He comes back with a few other nurses, and they’re relieved to see that you’re awake— and even though they’ve bombarded you with questions with how you felt, you couldn’t brush off the feeling of a pair of ruby eyes on you.

Just, glaring. It’s nothing abnormal.

When the nurses finally leave you alone, giving you details of a few injuries— like your injured— well, burned eyelid that honestly stung (it came from the fire aspect of your quirk) you would’ve expected to be alone in your hospital room for the rest of your time there but Bakugou stayed.

“You’re going to tell me why you jumped in front of me?”

You were expecting to be questioned by him, after all— what you did didn’t exactly shield him, since he was also pierced. You didn’t expect the interrogation to be happening this soon

“Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t want to fucking know.” And he suddenly changes his mind, just like that.

You would’ve said impulse as an answer, but you doubt that he would’ve taken that seriously. And besides, you were kind of glad he changed midway that he didn’t want your answer. Your voice feels parched, despite chugging down a glass of water earlier.

“Did you check up on Deku?” You cringe when you hear cracks in your voice, and the dryness is unbearable to your throat, but he nods. “Idiot’s knocked out cold.”

He doesn’t mention the fact that you were one of the last few people that were still rendered unconscious.

“Your throat sounds like the sahara desert. Do me a favor and drink up.”

You blink owlishly at the glass of water that was set on the mini table, and when you drink up— it actually does something to relieve (temporarily) the dryness.

It was a consequence of your quirk after all, using your quirk too much would cause your body to feel sore, and everywhere to feel dry, and he knew that.

Bakugou was acting uncharacteristically, and you just don’t know why. Maybe it’s not so uncharacteristic of him, since he’s been less of an asshole as of recently, but you know that he would probably deviate from the question if you asked, so the both of you sat in silence.

—

It’s the next day, the same as yesterday— except it looked like dawn when you woke up. Bakugou also appeared at the side of your bed once again, almost as if he was there for quite some time.

“Nice to see you too,” You think to yourself, and you’re glad you didn’t actually say that out loud. You try to stand up straight, but Bakugou’s quick to push your back against the pillows.

“Don’t sit up, that’s idiotic.”

“Right, sorry. How did you get here? Isn’t it too early?” The parched throat came back. Though the ‘magical’ baku-water helped, it’s effects were only temporarily, sadly.

“You call 7am early?” Right, because for him— 7am isn’t that early, you even remember seeing him up at 6 sometimes.

“Actually, wait.” You blink, trying to recall what day it was, and what month it was. You recalled it being spring but.. was it March? or was it April already?

“What.. day is it today?”

It was almost like he was hesitant to say, “..April 20.”

“What the— April 20?” You’re appalled, because the last time you remembered, it wasn’t anywhere near April 20, but maybe it’s your 5 day unconsciousness to be blamed. “Isn’t it your birthday?”

“Shut up,” He mumbles, and he shifts around the room in search of something, but it’s too dim to be able to tell.

“Medicine. The nurses said you should take it now.”

You don’t reply.

“It’s for your Sahara desert throat. The other things are for your fucked up eye and injuries.”

That seems to be enough to convince you to take the medicine, and despite wanting to run away screaming from the bitterness, you take the medicine— not wanting to be met with any consequences

“Why are you spending your birthday here?”

“Do idiots like you ask that many questions?” He shoots back, and you’re unfazed by the fact that he just called you an idiot. You wouldn’t blame him.

“No but.. you seem fine.”

“A few days ago I was not, but now I am because I took medicine.” He walks over to untwist a few medicine caps, it appears to be for your eye.

“So, Does my eye look fine?” You bat your eyelashes just to mess with him, and he flicks your forehead with an ointment cap “No.”

“Sorry, sorry,” You laugh, choosing to completely ignore the sudden sharp pain when you laugh.

He bends down to reach eyelevel, “Can you see?”

“Sorta.” Your eye has this thin blur filter to it, that can’t be good— can it? Going blind in one eye, and having to wear an eye patch.

It was almost on cue, because Bakugou says “You’ll be rocking the pirate look if you don’t take your medicine,” Instead of handing the medicine for you to apply, he quickly applies a decent amount around your eyes— not giving you a warning whatsoever.

You wince slightly, but you’re glad it’s over. But why is he playing nurse with you? And why was he brushing off the fact that it’s literally his birthday.

—

Through out the entire day, Bakugou continued to act as if he had some responsibility over you. From helping you put on your medicine, to just monitoring you with eyes of a hawk. The fact that he chose to ignore all your protests was just a part of him.

His behavior was also very.. interesting. It would swing from being his usual self, to being this eerily quiet and calm Bakugou. You would’ve guessed that you were having a fever dream, if it weren’t for the fact that he wore his usual scowl on his face.

What remained consistent, despite it all— was that he stayed. He ate lunch in your room. He only left when the doctors and nurses asked him too, but that was only temporary. He stayed with you the entire day, even when the clock stroke 5pm.

But it’s quite literally his birthday? Why would he spend it in a hospital room with some extra? Or idiot? Let alone, why would he take care of said idiot/extra on his birthday? You don’t know because he refuses to tell you on why he spent it here.

“Did you at least get some cake or something?” You ask for the umpteenth time, Bakugou’s paced back and forth for some medicine bottles and bottles of water, and you could tell that he was scowling, despite the fact that he was facing the other direction, “Why the hell would I want cake? You’ve been asking weird shit all day.”

“Because it’s your birthday? Seriously— have you been brainwashed into thinking that it’s not your birthday?”

“What— fuck no. I haven’t been brainwashed.” He turns over to you, “I know today is my birthday.”

“Okay, so you know. Why aren’t you celebrating then? Did people forget? Or am I finally going insane?”

Bakugou chooses to stay silent. He stands up, and walks over to you— everytime he moves closer, you could feel your heart pound, luckily not at a dangerous rate.

“Birthday, birthday, birthday” He grumbles, quiet, but loud enough for you to hear. “That’s all you’ve been talking about. As if like you weren’t the one in the hospital bed as we speak.”

“Okay, is it wrong to remember your birthday?”

“Shut up, I didn’t say that.” He gets closer once again, almost to the point that your faces weren’t that far away.

“You’ve just been so concerned about my damn birthday, that you haven’t even taken a good look at yourself,” He gestures at you, by looking you up and down

You finally take observation of all of the gauzes, the IV tubes, and bandages, his words forcing you to look at what was reality.

“I don’t know why you did what you did, jumping in front of me like some kind of heroic bastard, it’s dumb. For all I know, I should be screaming at you, and wishing you the worst for that.” He clenches his fist when he recalls, the scene replaying in his head

“But what I am saying is that, you can give me a gift if you’re so fucking concerned about my birthday. It’s the least you can do.” His statement is solid enough for you to take him seriously. You wouldn’t have if he was scowling, but it’s quite.. different. An expression you’ve seen all day, but seeing it up close is a different story.

“And that would be..?” You gulp, anticipation bubbles

And just like that, he presses his lips against yours, the warmth of his lips sending shocks of warmth all around your body— the impact was abrupt, but the kiss as a whole was surprisingly gentle

Yet, it was also similar to his quirk, it sparked up spurs of need and sent goosebumps all over your body.

You place a hand on his shoulder, the tubes around your arms making it too difficult to wrap your arms around him as you deepened the kiss, Bakugou’s touch is cautious when he lays his hand on a spot that was the least affected, aware of your injuries. Pushing the small of your back with his hand quite gently, he kisses you like it’ll be the very last— even though you both know it won’t be.

When you both pull back, you’re taken aback— unable to think of coherent words, and a proper response.

But this damn bastard, he smirks at you knowing that he just sent shocks and explosions of intense feelings all around your body, your lips still tingling from the kiss.

“Wait, that’s unfair!”

“What?”

“I had no idea you even liked me!”

“For the fucking longest time I did, why the hell would I even be in some extras room, if I didn’t care about them?!” He tries not to yell too loudly but, the tone of his voice gets raised

You blink, “And you preferred playing nurse with your crush this entire time, instead of spending it properly like well.. everyone else?”

“Who the hell said— Fucking hell, do I have to kiss you again for you to understand?”

“Enlighten me,” Your mouth quirks up into a smile, which ultimately causes his cheeks to be set ablaze.

“Playing fucking nurse with you isn’t horrible. It’s one way to spend my birthday, even when you give me shit about it” His brows press together, trying to drown out his flustered expressions with a scowl, “There’ll be more birthdays to come, so why would I be ‘wasting’ it here? There, that’s it. You happy now?”

Silence.

“..More than happy. But don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about your thing for playing nur—”

“Don’t you fucking finish that thought,” He says stern. “I’m going to get the nurses to check on you, and then— I’ll go home and come back again, tomorrow.”

He storms off, and when the blond is sure that he’s not in your line of vision anymore— he slumps against the wall

“Fucking hell, they’re driving me crazy.” He mumbles, recalling what he had pulled off earlier.

»»————-　♡　————-««

likes and reblogs are appreciated, thanks for reading!

i do not own bnha/mha and it’s characters. boku no hero academia/my hero academia belongs to horikoshi kohei, i only own the writing and i do not profit off of my hobby

do not plagiarize, reupload, translate, or use my works for audio readings without permission

[uhgood-dooghu]

The Contradiction of the Century [M]

Pairing Dancer!Hoseok x Dancer!Reader

Summary Hobi’s duality is unparalleled, and nowhere does it come out more than in the bedroom. Needless to say, he leaves you sore as much as practice does.

Genre Smut, fluff, crack, dancer!au, gratuitous porn and that’s it

Warnings Unprotected sex, oral (female), face riding, dom!Hobi, edging/orgasm denial, mirrors, dirty talk, lots of begging and (non-serious, sexually frustrated) threatening, everything’s consensual & they’re in love

Word Count 5.2k

Cross-posted to AO3

“Yo, we should have a dance battle!”

You lift your tired head to find your best friend grinning as she hooks up her phone to the sound system. Upbeat music fills the studio, and she rounds on the small crowd, bouncing lightly on her feet.

“Eh?” She prompts, wiggling her eyebrows. “Guys versus girls, losers treat winners to, I don’t know, food?”

A murmur of interest runs through your teammates as they clamber to their feet. You, however, groan and arch your back, cringing when your spine cracks. A familiar chuckle filters down, and you crane your neck, rolling your eyes at Hoseok's cheeky grin.

“Shut up, Hobi,” you mutter, but allow him to pull you to your feet.

His suggestive wink does not go unnoticed as you massage circles into your lower back, still sore from the way he contorted your body in half and buried his head between your thighs barely 8 hours ago. You shudder at the memory, but before he can comment, Jimin has him in an iron grip, dragging him across the room and letting out some sort of high pitched whine about needing to win because he is just shy of broke.

In a matter of moments, the studio is echoing with a chorus of cheers and taunts as Jungkook moves to the center, driving your pain from your mind. You can’t help but grin fondly at the collective enthusiasm. Leave it to your friends to get way too hyped over the prospect of free food.

You wait until most of the girls have danced their part before stepping out. As if on cue, the group falls back slightly, leaving you and Hoseok to face each other in the middle of the studio.

“Finish it off, lovebirds,” Jimin sings, and your lips tug upwards in a smirk directed at your boyfriend.

“Ready to lose, baby?” You taunt, starting to move as the music transitions.

With a grin, he shoves his hands in his pockets and tips his head back. “Do your worst.”

Keeping your eyes level, you run a hand suggestively through your hair and lick your lips. Instantly, all signs of his normal, bright playfulness disappear, replaced by a steady, calculating gaze that follows your movements with a searing intensity. You are known for your intricate footwork, and you temporarily lose yourself in your movements, barely registering the high pitched cheers as your feet fall in sync with the beat.

A moment later, however, you catch sight of Hoseok and smirk. He has a slightly glazed expression on his face as he watches your feet move, looking up with a heated stare only when you begin to move towards him. You wet your lip again as you push into his personal space, dancing around him until you are pressed into his back, and lean up so your breath ghosts over his neck.

You wrap your arms around him and feel him up, your hands finding their way to the waistband of his sweats. Dipping your fingers below the elastic, you snap it against his hips, and a loud “ohhh” rips through the room. He tenses under your touch, making you grin into the back of his shoulder before slinking back around.

You drop and spin your body low to the floor, locking your gaze with his smoldering eyes. As you travel up his front, your fingertips brush over his thighs and taught stomach until they tap a rhythm against his chest. Leaning in, you brush your lips against his.

“Your turn,” you breathe, then you are giving him a rough push and sauntering backwards.

If he is affected, he does an impeccable job of hiding it, because all you get is a twitch of his jaw and the faintest quirk of his eyebrow as you slide smoothly across the floor amidst a chorus of whoops and whistles. When you slow to a stop, you feel your best friend hissing in your ear.

“Damn, girl, he looks like he wants to eat you alive.”

You catch your tongue between your teeth with a grin, but your face quickly turns pensive when you see the darkness in Hoseok’s gaze. As he starts to move, you catch the glint in his eye, and your stomach flips. He only gets that glint when he’s dancing…

Or fucking you senseless.

A shiver runs up your spine. You can’t tear your eyes away even if you wanted to, his stare commanding your attention. And as he twists his body to the beat, you are transfixed.

Sure, you are a good dancer–hell, you all are great dancers–but Hoseok exists on a whole other level of the dancing stratosphere, miles above you. The way his limbs seem to go boneless, feet almost floating above the floor, body conforming seamlessly to the music, divides the room into ecstatic cheers of excitement and groans of defeat.

“Fuck yeah, J-Hope!”

“Goddammit, we should’ve left him out of this.”

“Hell yeah, that’s my boy!”

“We lost.”

Suddenly, the song morphs into something slower and more sensual, and every few beats Hoseok inches closer, keeping his gaze fixed on you. You narrow your eyes, widening your stance and straightening your posture to brace yourself. But then he drops and closes the distance, sliding on his knees until his face is centimeters from the apex of your thighs. A cry rises from the small audience, and you can feel his breath through the thin fabric of your shorts. Your head goes light as you blink down at him, eyes wide and eyebrows raised in a silent “what the fuck are you doing?”

He just smirks and runs his hands up the back of your thighs, groping your butt and nuzzling into the juncture of your hip.

Through the roar in your ears you can hear your girlfriends squeal behind you, but before you can react, Hoseok is standing and pressing his weight into your back, hands digging into your hips. He pulls your bodies flush and grinds his hips to the beat, moving one hand to wrap around your jaw. Forcing your head against his shoulder, he licks at the shell of your ear, and blood rushes to your face as you squeeze your eyes shut, clutching his wrist.

“Hoseok,” you whisper, voice laced with warning, and he hums in your ear.

“Yeah, baby?” He asks, hips still moving against yours.

“Did you forget we have an audience?” You hiss, refusing to look anywhere but at a fixed spot on the ceiling.

His chuckle vibrates against your shoulder blades before he spins you around just as the music fades, his hand firmly pressed on the small of your back.

“Of course not.”

His dark eyes sear into yours, a devilish smirk playing across his lips, and if you weren’t so flustered, you would smack him.

“Oh yeah, we definitely lost,” you hear your best friend breathe, as you clutch Hoseok’s biceps, heart hammering in your chest.

Almost immediately the glint in his eye disappears, and his face melts into that wide trademark smile, eyes crinkling as he loosens his hold on you.

“Looks like we got a free meal, boys,” he calls, prompting a rather insulting cacophony of joyous shouts in response. Leaning down, he catches your lips in a quick kiss, grinning cheekily at your red face.

“I love you.”

“Holy shit, you two, get a room,” Jungkook grunts in annoyance as he passes. You hide your flush with a scoff, pushing away from Hoseok.

He laughs, turning to follow Jungkook, and you hang back for a moment to cool your cheeks on the backs of your hands. Feeling a presence by your side, you turn to find your best friend holding out your bag with a knowing grin.

“What?” You groan, grabbing your belongings and falling into step with her as you walk out of the studio.

“Nothing,” she says simply, earning herself a bruising punch on the arm.

30 minutes later, you are sitting next to Hoseok in a ramen shop amidst the buzz of your friends when you feel his hand drop heavily to your thigh. Dangerously close to the hem of your shorts, his fingers massage your flesh firmly, and you bite your lip, stealing a glance at his bright expression. The contrast makes you shiver.

And when his lips pressed against your ear, you nearly gasp aloud.

“Cancel practice tomorrow. You won’t be able to get out of bed.”

.

.

You barely pass over the threshold and discard your bag and shoes before Hoseok slings you over his shoulder, kicking the door to your shared apartment shut with a frame-rattling bang. You yelp in surprise and clutch at the back of his shirt as he carries you straight into the bedroom, depositing you unceremoniously on the bed. You bounce on the mattress, sitting up and brushing your hair out of your face. He towers over you with his arms crossed, the glint back in his eye and a dark smirk plastered on his face.

“Now that I have the chance to ask,” he begins, eyeing you down, “what the hell was that?”

You let out a loud scoff and cross your arms and legs, half-mirroring his stance. “I don’t think you have the right to ask that question,” you shoot back.

He shrugs. “I was just returning the favor.”

“By dry humping me in front of all of our friends?” You ask through an incredulous laugh.

“I was just dancing.”

“Oh please.” You roll your eyes and lean back on your hands. “That’s your favorite way to fuck me.”

Hoseok throws his head back and laughs loudly. “Maybe…” He drops his arms and steps forward, running his hands over your thighs. “But they don’t know that.”

You roll your eyes again, even as your core twitches involuntarily at his touch. “I’m sure they do now,” you grumble under your breath.

He chuckles, gently uncrossing your legs and leaning down so his lips graze yours. “Good,” he mutters before crashing forward and pushing you into the mattress.

You gasp, and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, making you sigh and briefly debate whether or not to challenge him. A quick test of the waters and a sharp nip to your lip later, you let out a soft whimper, lowering your guard and allowing him to take complete control.

His mouth trails across your jaw and down to your neck, taking your skin between his teeth. A moan slips out when his hand dips beneath your shirt, cool fingers sending shivers down your spine. Pushing the fabric over your ribs, he dives down and leaves open mouthed kisses across your stomach, dipping his tongue into your navel before dragging it up the center of your torso. Pulling back, he yanks his shirt off, and you gaze up at him with hooded eyes, biting your lip as you raked them over his lean form.

Smirking, he reaches out and nearly rips your shirt off your body before making quick work of your sports bra, swearing only slightly when the tight fabric catches around your arms.

“Smooth,” you comment with an airy laugh as he tosses it to the side.

“Fucking hate those,” he growls, descending on your lips once again to suck the air out of your lungs.

His hand trails over your skin, and you whimper when he runs a fingertip softly over your nipple, breaking away from him with a moan. Endless nights of exploration have enlightened him to the ways your body responds to his touch, and by far his favorite is the way you completely lose control at the lightest and most gentle caresses to your chest.

“Hobi,” you sigh, feeling the heat pool between your legs as he rolls your nipple slowly between his thumb and forefinger.

He hums and kisses his way down your sternum, peppering the flesh of your breasts with flicks of his tongue and soft nips of his teeth. Your back arches when he closes his mouth over a sensitive bud, tongue moving in mind numbing circles, his hand never leaving your other breast.

Desire burns in your core, and you rub your legs together, hissing as your shorts tug against your arousal. You let out a needy moan and give his shoulder a light push, trying to get the message across.

His chuckle against your chest makes you bite your lip. “Alright, alright,” he chides, pressing a soft kiss to each of your nipples before locking eyes with you and dragging his tongue down your body to the hem of your shorts.

Your breath hitches as he runs his fingers over the ticklish space just below your stomach. Eyelids fluttering, you watch him grip your shorts and tug them, along with your underwear, off your hips.

Staring between your legs, he bites his lip and runs a finger between your soaked folds, making you whimper.

“Damn, babygirl,” he mutters, licking your slick off his digit. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”

You kick him in the arm none-too-lightly with the side of your foot, and he grins as he dives in, dragging his tongue up the length of your slit. He swallows down your arousal and gives your clit a harsh suck before pulling back in time to watch you let out a moan that twists your face in a way that makes his dick twitch noticeably in his sweats.

Licking his lips, he gazes down at you, holding you steady under the heat of his eyes. Then something registers in his face, and he suddenly pulls you up and off the bed. You shoot him a curious look as he takes your place with his head towards the foot of the bed.

“C’mere,” he says, motioning at you lazily with two fingers.

You comply and allow him to manhandle your legs until you are straddling his stomach. His hands run up your thighs, thumbs massaging circles into the junctures of your hips, before one hand grazes over your stomach, up to your chest, then back down. You yelp when he presses into your clit without warning, rubbing slow circles that have you rocking your hips against his abs as you brace yourself on his chest in a way that pushes your breasts together obscenely.

“Damn, what a view,” he remarks, and you can’t hide your flush at his downright predatory grin. With a slight cock of his head, his smile grows wider. “Look up, babygirl.”

You gasp audibly when you catch sight of yourself in the mirror that stretches the length of the bedroom wall, hair mussed, cheeks pink, and eyes hazy with need. He chuckles at your reaction and nudges you up his body until you are hovering over his face. With a touch of uncertainty, you glance down at him, but he just strokes your thigh soothingly.

“Don’t look so stressed. I got it.”

“But Hobi–“

“Just keep yourself up,” he cuts in, a slight edge to his voice.

You swallow and nod, resting your hands backwards on your waist as he shifts your thighs further apart until his nose is touching just above your slit. His breath on your wetness makes you shudder, and you aren’t prepared for the way he darts his tongue into your entrance, gathering your arousal before swiping his way up to your clit and circling it with your juices.

Your stomach clenches and you almost fall forward off the edge of the bed. You have to fight to stay upright as he repeats his actions twice more, leaving you a moaning mess above him.

“Goddamn, you taste so fucking good,” he groans, moving his hands to your ass and massaging the flesh.

You whimper, hands dropping to curl in his hair. His tongue slips over your lips and he nibbles on the flesh, making you keen. It’s almost painful the way he flicks between your folds, dipping into your entrance and kissing everywhere except where you need him. When his fingers come up to spread you so he can drag his tongue flat over your core only to stop just short of your clit, you cry out.

“Fu-uck, please,” you pant, legs shaking furiously, and you desperately want something in front of you to hold yourself up. “Hobi–“ your breath catches your throat when he slips a finger inside you, curling it at just the right angle to have you dropping down an inch.

Almost immediately he removes his hand and stares up at you with raised eyebrows. You protest at the loss of contact, but he merely pinches the back of your thigh firmly. “You better not suffocate me if you wanna come.”

You look down at him, forcing away your frustration, and nod, catching your lip between your teeth as you shift back up. Fighting away the burn in your legs, you fix your gaze on the apex of your thighs in the mirror. With a hum of approval, he pushes two fingers into your folds, and you let out a cry, flexing your stomach as you force yourself to stay upright.

He pumps his fingers at a rapid pace, drawing your clit into his mouth and sucking relentlessly. Moans fall freely from your lips as the coil of heat deep in your core grows to an unbearable ache.

“Hobi, fuck, I’m gonna–“

But just as you prepare to ride out the waves of your release, he drops his hand, and you tumble backwards down the mountain of pleasure. You gasp in frustration, looking down at him helplessly.

“Why,” you whimper, barely refraining from smacking his head and pulling some of his hair out.

He tilts his head to look at you, fingers tracing your thigh and dragging your wetness over your skin. Without responding, he holds your weakening gaze and presses kiss after kiss to your clit, making you pant through short shocks of pleasure. Core clenching around nothing, you run a quivering hand through your dampening hair as your heart pounds and your thighs scream.

“H-Hobi,” you say, voice audibly shaking.

“Yes, babygirl?” You can feel his breath, hot against your inner thigh.

“I n-need to hold o-onto something,” you breathe, the burn in your legs bordering on nauseating.

“You need it?” He inquires, and you let out a whimper of affirmation. “And I need a new sound system for the studio, but you don’t hear me complaining.”

His retort has you whining in protest, but you are cut off by his tongue once again licking into your folds, and your mind flatlines as you fight against the cry of your muscles. His tongue draws figure eights along your entrance, and you can’t help but rock your hips across his face, whimpering every time his nose brushes near your clit.

“Fuck,” you moan, long and drawn out, when he moves north and abuses your nub with quick flicks, pace increasing and decreasing randomly. The pace of your hips quickens, and you bury your hands in his hair, eyes fixed almost unseeingly on your reflection.

He grunts into your folds, and the vibrations sending your eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure builds for a second time. Tightening your grip on his locks, your moans grow louder and more earnest as you chase your high, rutting your core onto his tongue.

But just as you begin to tip, he draws back, and this time you crash down from your almost-climax, slumping forward until you are precariously supporting yourself on the edge of the bed with a shameless whine.

“Hobi!” You wail, shudders wracking your body.

“I’m here,” he shoots back, almost mockingly, but you are too far gone and desperate to attack him with any of the hefty handful of comebacks you have stored away in that special compartment of your brain.

“Look at yourself,” he mutters against your skin, and you force your eyes back on your reflection, taking in how your stomach clenches and your thighs shake around his head. Your eyes look completely gone, and the image makes you dizzy. “You look so fucking gorgeous like this, do you really think I’m just gonna let you come?”

You can only whimper, eyes squeezing shut. “Please, Hobi, please,” you beg, trying to push yourself into his face.

A harsh smack bounces off the walls as his palm comes into contact with your ass, making you cry out loudly. “Nuh-uh,” he growls, gripping your flesh, “Stay. Up.”

Gathering yourself, you try to steady your breathing. “Hobi…”

“Hm?” His tongue licks a stripe over one of your outer lips, and your head spins.

“Hobi, I s-swear to god, I really will suffocate you i-if you don’t let me h-hold onto something.”

You feel his huff of silent laughter against your clit. “Are you threatening me?”

“I’m warning you–“ you break off with a cry as he latches onto the sensitive nub and sends stars across your vision.

Your thighs begin to give out as you grind your hips into his tongue, one hand tangling in your hair, the other grasping at your breasts, desperate to hold onto something, anything. As his tongue continues its onslaught, your stomach tightens. Your breath catches in your throat as you lose control, letting your full weight fall on his face as you chase your high.

Another sharp slap lands against your hip, ripping you from your haze as the pressure disappears, and you sob as the pleasure ebbs to a dull throb, core clenching violently. You quickly shift to the side when he gives you another smack, revealing his highly unamused expression boring into you as he catches his breath.

Equally winded, you fall against the sheets with a broken moan, legs screaming in painful relief. “I warned you.”

In a split second, his sweats and briefs are on the floor. You whimper as he yanks you back onto quivering knees and spins you to face the mirror, forcing your chin up so you can see him hovering behind you. His tongue runs up the side of your neck until he is sucking at the spot behind your ear, making you keen. Taking your lobe into his mouth, he rolls the flesh between his teeth.

“You really want to come that bad?” His grip on your hip tightens.

“Please,” you moan out, fingers bent around his forearm, thighs shaking. There is no way you will be able to keep yourself upright.

He chuckles into your ear, smoothing his palm over your quivering thighs. “I got you,” he whispers before hooking his arm firmly around your waist, supporting you.

Dropping his hand from your chin, he reaches down to dip into your entrance, feeling your wetness between his fingers. He lets out a groan, and you are suddenly aware of his hardened cock pressing into your ass. Normally, you would have given your hips an experimental wiggle, but the cloud in your mind is heavy, and your limbs are too strung out to do anything but submit. Instead, you let your head fall forward, panting as he drags his finger between your folds, circling your clit lightly.

But then his hand is gone, and you cry out. “Fuck. You. Hoseok,” you sob, flinging your head back and digging it into his shoulder, doing your best to glare at his reflection.

“That’s more like it,” he hums, before latching onto your neck and sucking a hickey into the soft skin. His hand dives back down, barely grazing your clit before plunging two fingers into your wetness.

You clench around the digits, moaning when he curls them into your walls. The arm around your waist shifts, and you feel pressure on your nipple as he rolls the bud gently between his fingertips the way you liked it, the way that has your breath leaving you in needy whimpers. The sensation is intense, but it is not enough, and you whine.

“Hm? What is it? What do you want?” His voice is low, taunting.

You can’t formulate a response, eyes rolling back as he removes his fingers to rub tight circles over your clit. A loud moan fills the room as you buck your hips into his hand.

“You want my cock, babygirl?” He breathes, nuzzling into your ear. “Want me to finally fuck you?”

You nod violently against his shoulder, digging your nails into his arm.

“Please.”

With a growl, he grips your hips and guides you down onto his cock in one swift motion, groaning into your ear when his hips meet your ass. The sound you let out is a mixture of satisfaction and discomfort as he stretches you, and you clench around him, making him hiss.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, and you can feel him swallow as he nuzzles into your neck.

“Hobi…” Your voice is ragged, and you meet his eyes in the mirror so he can see the unfiltered need in your own, mustering just enough coherency to push your hips back against his.

He draws back in response before snapping forward roughly, and you let out a long, drawn out moan as he starts a relentless pace. The arm around your waist tightens so he can bounce you on his cock, while his other hand roams your body, slipping over your curves.

“Shit, Hobi,” you gasp and reach up to thread your fingers in his hair, eliciting a pleasured groan from his lips as they find purchase on your shoulder.

Your eyes glaze over as you watch the scene in the mirror, barely recognizing the flushed and completely fucked out person staring back at you. Hair plastered to your forehead, crimson marks painting your neck and shoulders, body trembling from the force of Hoseok’s thrusts, you can only gaze at the image and whimper loudly, eyes inevitably falling shut.

For what feels like the millionth time, the pleasure begins to peak, and your voice cracks with the telltale sign that you are close, his grunts in your ear spurring you on.

“You close?” He growls.

“Yes,” you choke out, tightening your grip in his hair. But then his hips slow a fraction, and your eyes snap open. “No, fuck, god, please, don’t stop, I’m going to kill you,” you sob, voice broken and slurred, your entire body vibrating with the need to find your release.

Grunting, he suddenly pushes you forward until your ear is against the mattress. With your ass in the air, he resumes his punishing pace, his hand traveling up your back to find purchase in your hair and press your head further into the sheets.

The fabric muffles your cries as the new angle allows him to hit the sensitive spot within you, each thrust leaving you breathless and begging as your nails dig into your palms.

“Please, please, please,” you chant, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes as your cheek ruts against the mattress.

Hoseok growls above you, landing a sharp, but not painful, slap on your ass. “Words, babygirl,” he pants, voice low and gravelly.

You can barely form a coherent thought, but you manage to force the words out of your ruined lips. “Please,” you breathe, “please make me come.”

“Good girl.”

You barely registered the pleased smirk on his face in the mirror before his hand is snaking around you and locating your clit.

It is barely ten seconds before you are crashing headlong into your orgasm, convulsing around his cock with a broken moan. The pleasure blinds you, flooding your limbs, and you clutch at the sheet, knuckles white and legs shaking violently. He continues to thrust into you as your body goes limp, chasing his own high, and you sob at the stimulation, prompting him to pull out and finish himself on your back with a strangled groan. You whimper as his release hits your skin, a shiver running up your spine.

Stars dance behind your closed lids as you try to catch your breath, too spent to even pull your legs out from under yourself, though they scream at you. But you feel a palm run soothingly over the side of your thigh, and you let Hoseok stretch you out until you are flat on your stomach, relief surging through your muscles.

“Thank you,” you whisper, and you feel his lips press into to the back of your thigh before his weight lifts off the bed.

You are slowly slipping into unconsciousness when a damp cloth runs over your back. Opening your eyes, you see Hoseok toss the cloth into the hamper before returning to help you roll onto your back. He fixes you with a smile and falls with a thud next to you, shifting so he can hover and press several kisses to your lips. You sigh, wanting to reach up and touch his face, but your arms refuse to cooperate.

“You ok?” He inquires, cradling you against him, trailing a hand up and down your limp arm.

You exhale heavily, eyes flitting shut. “I can’t move.”

He smirks against your shoulder. “I’m sorry…I warned you,” he murmurs, and you roll your eyes behind closed lids.

“Shut up,” you retort, mind slowly starting to clear. Opening your eyes, you come face to face with his huge, cheeky grin, and you can’t fight the weak “fuck you” that leaves your lips. But that just makes his smile grow, and he captures your lips once more before moving to locate his briefs.

“Are you hungry?” He asks, pulling the fabric up his honeyed thighs, and even though you are completely spent, the image still sends a jolt between your legs.

“Not gonna lie, Hobi, I’m not much of anything right now,” you reply in complete deadpan, and he laughs loudly.

“Well, I’m hungry. Do you want me to stay with you?” His question comes with a serious crinkle of his forehead, and you manage to shake your head.

“No, do what you want,” you mutter, closing your eyes once again. You really just want to sleep, even if you knock out completely exposed on top of the comforter.

“Ok.” Hoseok chuckles. “Find me when you can move again?”

You hum, peeking at him through your heavy lids.

His smile paints his face once again, and he pulls his sweats on before bending to cradle your face between his palms, pressing gentle kisses across your face until he reaches your lips, lingering there for a long moment.

“I love you,” he whispers against your mouth, and your own smile tugs at your eyes.

“I love you, too,” you whisper back, and you swear he radiates sunshine as he pecks your forehead and prances out of the room.

A split second later, you hear him belting out a terrible rendition of something you’re sure is a Top 40s track you didn’t recognize as he shuffles around the kitchen.

Letting his chirping voice wash over your lead-like body, you stare up at the ceiling with a weak incredulity, forever unable to process how the man-child outside the room is the same man who can leave you wrecked and unable to move on your own bed.

It is truly the contradiction of the century.

© uhgood-dooghu/moodievitamine, written May 2020. Please do not copy, repost, or translate!

[too-scared-to-do-this]

Of the Devil’s head

Chapter eleven - Hell’s fire couldn’t beat this

Sander’s sides fanfiction

Wordcount: 2851

Ship: prinxiety  (*cracks nuckles* This is going to be fun BJ)

TW: cursing, a bunch of flirting, friendly banter, naked torsos, a lot of flustering and a very shitty-ly described kissing scene. If I’ve missed any, let me know. <3

Summary of the whole story: They say, the one that wears the crown rules all - the living, the dead, the walking, the crawling, the rooted, the sane and the mad. They say, once you own the crown, you become the  most powerful being on Earth and beyond. Roman’s stolen bigger things - a measly little crown won’t present a problem, even if he has to steel it straight off of the devils head!

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

Chapter eleven - Hell’s fire couldn’t beat this

“You know, for being the Devil, you aren’t such a though guy.” Roman grinned, holding Virgil a little tighter to himself subconsciously. He knew that was a lie, but couldn’t help but tease.  

The demon just chuckled and rolled his eyes. “Oh please. Have you seen my fangs?”

Ro smirked. “Yeah. Sharp and pointy. But don’t make you scary.” that was a lie as well. But it did bring him over to his next point. He’s green eyes got darker, eyelids lowering. “They make you look rather hot.”

A shower run up Virgil’s back at the purr. Yap. Nope. This was not happening. He immediately pushed up, away from the Human and darted out of bed. “I’m gonna go take a shower.” he stammered out.

Roman blinked at the red-faced Devil running around franticly, pulling out drawers left and right. He blinked again, as V pulled out a bunch of different pieces of clothes. He watched as he turned towards him, fabric flying through the air, and he couldn’t watch anymore. His sight was obscured by endless darkness - Virgil managed to hit him square in the face with a shirt. (He had a really good aim when stressed or embarrassed.)

“You need a change too. You can wait until I leave if you wanna shower - I’m not sure what Humans do… Is it like cats? Like, do you lick yourself clean? Because, ew, disgusting. But anyways…” that whole thing was rushed out in one nervous breath, deep voice pitched a lot higher. Cheeks a deeper red then before.  “Shower.” he quipped and slammed the door behind him.

And that’s when Roman just… started laughing. “What? The devil can’t handle a little flirting?”

The demon, redder than Hell’s fire at this point, let his forehead fall against dark wood. Oh, almighty Hades, why did this thief have such power over him? This was unhealthy.

Roman was still laughing his ass off. Lucky he hasn’t fallen off the bed yet, from how he was trashing around. Yeah, he was a complete goner. But at least now he knew how to get the devil flustered! Oh damn it, the demon was cute when red!  

And obviously, Virgil could hear it even through the sick lock door. He sighed and threw his close on the closed toilet. “A shower? Really?”

This was getting harder by the shortest passage of time.

What was the point anyways? He didn’t even need to shower! He could just snap his fingers and be done with it! The bathroom was built only because the running water seemed to calm the king down when he was in the midst of a panic attack. Yet he couldn’t think of a better excuse then a dumb shower! He was the Devil for dark’s sake!

“Hades, let’s just get this over with.” he rolled his eyes, and for once, actually got into that shower.

Meanwhile, Roman was still trashing around on the bed, laughing like crazy. It physically hurt at this point.

-

It wasn’t a long shower, but it seemed like forever to both creatures. One laying on bed, still kind of getting over post-laugh giggles and the other wrapping a towel around himself and leaning on the sink. Dark hair dripping purple from the die (he’ll have to touch it up later) and body still glistening from droplets.

Virgil wasn’t really sure what he was going to do now.

there was a man in his bedroom. One he literally slept on top of. A very, very gorgeous man! Infront of who he just completely humiliated himself. How will he now show his face?

The devil glanced into the mirror and bit his lip. Maybe not literally naked - he should really get dressed first. And then worry about facing the liveling.

He grabbed the clothes he threw aside, pulled all the pieces on. Just to find that in his hurry, he threw his own shirt at Roman.

“Shit… This is just great.” he sighed. All his former clothes were long gone, down the laundry drop.

Now. He could just snap his fingers to make a new one appears, or…

The glint was back in all six of the king’s eyes. He grinned to himself, fangs showing. “You mess with me…” he hummed, leaning closer to the mirror fixing his damp hair over his eye. “…I mess with you.”

Roman was on the bed still, trying to get his mind to stop coming back to how cute the demon was with red cheeks when the door creaked open.

He sat up immediately, about to say something snarky to tease the poor Devil, but he didn’t get to that. Mind completely short-circuiting, heart in his throat and words nowhere to find he eyed to exposed torso of the pail demon walking around in front of him. Did this man really not know what effect would this have on Roman?!

Oh, Virgil knew, believe me. He knew very well. Walking out like nothing, half naked with a towel around his neck, hair still wet and droplets of water still glistening on his skin here and there. He didn’t bother to look at the thief. Those holes that were being burned into his torso were enough to go by. And also, the fact he acted oblivious would make Roman even more flustered. That was a bonus.

Don’t get him wrong, it wasn’t like he was so proud of his body. But when you have time on your hands, why not work out, Eliminate at least one of the many insecurities. So yeah, he had a sixpack. Big deal.

Big deal indeed! Roman was dying on that bed! Mouth hanging half open, fully entranced by the beautiful chiseled entity in front of him. And then there was a shirt - again. Muscles moved as the delicious stomach got covered completely, only arms exposed.

The thief shook his head. “Why would you do that?!” he hated how clipped his voice sounded.

Virgil finally looked up at him, fully grinning on the inside. On the outside though, he just bit his lip and blinked innocently. “What?”

“T-that!” Roman moved his hands around rigidly, gesturing at Virgil whole.

“Oh that. I forgot my shirt.”

“Uhm. Yeah, yeah. You just so happen to forget your shirt. And then walk out looking like Michelangelo’s David!”

And that was all Virgil needed. His inner grin reached the poutside, wider and more menacing than ever. He latched onto those words like a lifeline. “Oh, liveling, you think I’m as hot as David?”

Roman’s cheeks grew even redder. “For you, information - I was talking about how pail you look. Not how hot he is.”

“Oh, so you have a thing for statues. Good to know.”

“No! Zeus! You were the one to bring it up!”

“I knew the guy personally; I can say he’s hot. You on the other hand, thiefy, you didn’t. What’s your excuse?”

“Wait, you knew David? How old are you?”

Virgil stopped to think for a second. Well… he didn’t really have an answer to that. “I’m not really sure.”

“Old enough to know him apparently! Man, you’re old!”

“And you apparently have a thing for old folks and stone-carvings.”

Cue offended thief noises. Virgil just snorted, walking towards the Human. “You didn’t deny it. So you admit you have a thing for me?”

“What?! No! You’re too old for me.”

“And you apparently can’t say anything other than old.“

“I’ll let you know! I can do and say a lot of things!”

“But escaping Hell isn’t one of them.”

“Low blow man!” Roman gasped dramatically, hand flying to his chest.

“I’m just saying… I could show you all the good hiding places.” Virgil grinned to himself, fangs showing again. This was way too much fun. The frustrated look the thief wore was priceless. He propped his hands on the mattress, leaning slightly towards Ro. “That way you might actually have a chance to succeed.”

“Hey!” Roman grabbed the first thing he could find and threw it at the crownless king. Hit him perfectly square in the face.

And then Ro remembered that this was still the Devil, he just threw a pillow at.

Oh no…

Virgil blinked. What just happened? He looked down at the pillow that plopped down guiltily between his hands and then back up at the reddening creature. “Did you just… throw a pillow at me?” he frowned in confusion.

The sitting one gulped. “Mayyyyybeee….?” he smiled nervously.

Virgil blinked again with eyes bigger than saucers. He looked back at the pillow.

And he burst out laughing. The low rumbled of baritone climbing under Romans skin like a parasite.

The Human didn’t know what to do! He couldn’t help but watch the creature. Fangs glistening in the dim light, cheeks hiding his already sunken in eyes. He was so adorable.

Virgil looked up just in time to catch Roman averting his eyes. His cheeks were getting pinker than before (which was saying something). And the king couldn’t help but smirk. “Are you blushing, Roman?”

Gods, hearing his name from the devil’s mouth! “What?! No! You must be hallucinating!” Roman turned his face away completely, cheeks getting dark red at this point.

Virgil bit his lip to keep him from grinning (it didn’t help). This was just too funny - watching this helpless human squirm.

“I’m pretty sure you were blushing.” he leaned even closer to Roman, watching him coolly.

“No, I wasn’t!” Ro peeped up, cringing at the sound of his own high-pitched voice.

By now Virgil was a mere breath away from the boiling thief. He bit his lip again, grin loose. Eyes sparkling with a mysterious glit. “Then why are your cheeks red?” he whispered, running his knuckles along Roman’s cheek.

The liveling was speechless. He was pretty sure he swallowed his tongue. “I-I did not notice.”

Virgil’s grin darkened. He could just kiss him right now. Lean in and kiss him right here. No one would know.

He had no idea where this newfound confidence was coming from. Maybe the ages of being alone. Maybe the feeling of this rush. Maybe even the fact that Roman was coming undone under his touch the same way Virgil felt himself fall apart under his.

And maybe it was the whole situation they were in

He didn’t realize he was staring at Romans lips. But Ro did notice. Every time he glanced up from V’s.

Funny how little time these two needed. But Hell was timeless after all. It could have been three days, or even three years Roman was stuck down there. There was no way to tell.

What he could tell though, was that ‘stuck’ was so far off from the way he was feeling down here. With this demon.

Who was looking at him as if he was his last wish.

Roman couldn’t take it anymore. It was now or never.

And suddenly Virgil wasn’t thinking anymore. Instead, he was pulled on top of Roman, pushing him into the pillows. Lips on lips.

Why did it take him so long?

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

Why was this so hard?

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed it :)

I’ll be back as soon as possible. Big ending’s coming up, so get ready!

Tag list:

@romano-hottopic

@vpow

@a-formless-entity

@lovelivingmydreams

@alice-only-me

[jimlingss]

The Colour of Our Voices [10]

Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 10.5 OR Chapter 11

➜ Words: 4.8k

➜ Genres: 98% Fluff, 2% Angst, Slice of Life, Broadway!AU

➜ Summary: He wasn’t supposed to hear. He wasn't supposed to know. But the instant Jimin came into your life and pulled the curtains back, you couldn't hide backstage anymore. You were no longer merely a phantom of the opera.

➜ Warning: Spoilers to the musical Les Mis.

cr.

You show up in sweats.   If you could, you’d take a swig of the rosette right about now. But you’ve long run out and decided not to buy more after the other day’s embarrassing stunt at Jimin’s doorstep.   You still cringe when you think about it.   So instead, you eat chocolate. You gnaw on the king sized bar like it’s Halloween and you’re indulging in the post-trick-or-treat spirit.    Your hair is also unwashed, a spectacular three day record now. It’s itchy at some parts and when you scratch, white fluff comes dusting from your scalp. You haven’t showered in general for a while. There’s no point, really. Not when you don’t have any arrangements, responsibilities, no job to go to.   The unemployed life isn’t actually a bad one — as long as you don’t think about the inevitable doom of your bank account and having to go into debt to pay off bills.   Your life sort of feels like that picture of that dog that’s sipping on coffee while thinking ‘this is fine’ and the room is on fire. But what can you do?   “Is she…”   “...yeah…”   “....it’s true then?”   There are whispers that you’re not unaccustomed to, stares behind your back that you can feel and sense in your peripheral vision. “...the ghost singer…”   You turn around to look and the girls immediately seal their lips, looking away. They pretend to be discussing other things, but still, you hear it all around you.   “So is she really the Phantom? How is that possible?”   “Don’t ask me.”   “Do you think she can really sing?”   “Probably not. She’s only here because it would bring in publicity. We all know that.”   Your efforts are fruitless. They’re right. You’re not going to get a role. You’re only here to satisfy people’s curiosity.    “L/N Y/N?” The girl reads off her list. “Is there a L/N Y/N here?”   Fuck it.   What do you have to lose? You’ve lost it all anyways.   “Here!”   You raise your hand, voice loud and clear. The murmuring of the girls cease once they confirm that it is you. But you pay them any mind, finishing the chocolate bar in the awkward silence. You chew your mouthful and smear your stained hand on your grey sweatpants, leaving a streak of brown on your thigh.   You toss the wrapper in the garbage.   “Uh...right this way,” the girl says as she gestures past the curtain.   Many auditions take place in closed off rooms, but it’s an open stage this time. A modest size with the pianist tucked in the corner. There are five people sitting before the front row, a panel of them — some producers, directors, writers — you don’t know and you don’t care much for their titles either.   It feels like you’re on some TV show, ready for their judgment.    Your nose runs with snot and you wipe it away with the back of your hand. “Hi.”   “You’re L/N Y/N?” There’s a shuffle of papers, people peering up at you past their glasses.   “Yes.” You swallow the last bit of chocolate in your mouth, clearing your throat. You hope your teeth aren’t stained. Well….if they are, it wouldn’t be the biggest deal.   “You worked at the Phantom of the Opera production?”   You should probably head to the supermarket after this and get some ice-cream. You’d definitely feel better with it, curled on your couch with a warm blanket and some television to drown out the silence of your apartment.   “Y/N?”   The call of your name has you focusing again. “Pardon?”   The woman is dressed cleanly in a blazer with her hair pulled back into a bun like yours. But hers is undoubtedly neater, probably holding a bunch of pins, maybe even hair-sprayed. Yours was bunched up carelessly with a stretched elastic you found on the floor of your closet.   “You worked at the Phantom production?” she repeats.   You give her a bland answer, but one that’s unfortunately the entire truth. “As an intern.”   One of them pipes up, “Can you tell us any details about your previous work at the Phantom production?”   “I did coffee runs.”   “Umm….” The younger female in the middle gestures with her hand. “Did you do anything else?”   “I swept the floor. I did a lot of paperwork and printed things out for the director there,” you list out and shrug. “I don’t know. Things like that.”   They exchange looks with one another, probably not expecting such a boring response. “Did you...contribute to the performance in any way?”   Your eyes dim. Of course — this is what they wanted to know all along. It’s the reason you’re here in the first place. But they shouldn’t have beaten around the bush. If they asked over the phone, you would’ve told them. They didn’t need to waste their time like this.   But unfortunately, the honest truth isn’t as glamorous as they think it is. “The actor couldn’t sing, so I did. Behind the curtain.”   “And how did that come about?” someone asks with a frown, and you can see the girls peeking out from the curtain to your left, listening in.   “They needed someone,” you deadpan. “I volunteered.”   “Well...alright then.” He clears his throat and the others shift uncomfortably in their seats. You wonder what it is that they wanted to hear from you, what kind of gossip they were anticipating. “What are you singing for us today?”   “Do you have a preference?”   “Uh…” They look at one another and some shake their heads. “No, not really.”   You approach the pianist with a sigh. You didn’t prepare, but after countless auditions, you know all the basic audition pieces inside out. Every lyric is embedded into your mind. Pathetically enough. But they’re all the same — they gave you the same outcome of failure.    “Do you have any sheet music?”   The pianist blinks at you and timidly points to the top of the upright piano. “You can look in the binder.”   You flip it open and grab for the first paper-clipped set, passing it to him. “Here.” Then you step up to the middle of the stage again, cueing the pianist with a lifeless hand and the notes start, light and optimistic much to your displeasure.    Usually, you’d begin to feel your palms become clammy. But instead, your fingertips are sticky from melted chocolate. “There’s been a change in me.” Your voice draws from your chest hastily without much care. “A kind of moving on.”   Typically, your heart would be pumping fast to the point where you could feel it all the way in your throat. Your mouth would go dry. A cold sweat would wash down your body. But you don’t feel any of these things.    “Though what I used to be, I still depend upon.”   Your knees don’t quake. You don’t need to hide any tremors in your hands.    It’s not a real audition after all. This is a joke.   And if anything, you feel pissed. No matter where you go, you’re strung along by people for their own entertainment.   “For now I realize. That good can come from bad.”   It’s supposed to be a touching song sung by Belle in Beauty and the Beast. It’s supposed to be gentle. Hopeful. But every word is filled with your aggression. It’s hostile and indignant. You’re exhausted at being humiliated and you wail out the lyrics in grief. It tears from your throat.    If they wanted to hear you sing, they were going to hear alright.   “That may not make me wise. But fuck,” you ad lib, “it makes me glad.”   “And I—” you belt the note in a kind of bitterness reserved for a resentful villain, and a kind of sadness bleeds into it. It’s not at all like a kind protagonist that’s meant to be a delicate princess. Your voice even warbles against your will, cracks at the top, but you don’t care. You embrace it. “I never thought I’d leave behind my childhood dreams. But I don’t mind.”   You look off to the top of the stairs in the small auditorium. You’re reminded of how you once sang on a stage like this, how a brunette boy appeared from thin air and began clapping for you.   “For now I love the world I see.” You shut your eyes to savour the memory. “No change of heart, a change in me.”   You stop. The piano slows and ends. It goes completely silent.   One of the men open their mouth and then closes it. “Um….”   You spare them from having to sugar coat it and tell you how awful you are. “Thanks for the opportunity.”   You step off the stage, grab your bag, and brush past the crowd of males and females preparing to audition. They all stare at you — but for reasons you’re wrong about. Though you don’t dwell long enough to find that their expressions aren’t of detest. You hop down the stairs and take the emergency exit out.   //   You don’t know where to begin with your belongings.   For one, you’re going to need cardboard boxes bigger than those containing your instant noodles. If you’re going to go home, you need to pack up your furniture somehow. But in the meantime, you haul out your dusty luggage from the back of your closet. You kick the busted wheel to roll it a few meters before hurling it on your bed with a sigh.   You’re not sure what clothes to leave behind and which to take with you.   The mattress dips underneath your added weight and you look over to the hanging dresses that you never go to wear, blazers and pencil skirts that are unwrinkled and were only pulled out for the occasional audition��.   You stand on your feet after a prolonged moment, not yet feeling the urge to dump all the hangers onto your bed and fold up the clothes into neat squares. Instead, you put it off by heading to the kitchen for more ice-cream.   But as you grab for a spoon, you pass by that counter. The one with the abandoned ticket pushed to the side. It catches your eye and you’re suspended in your spot, feet rooted to the ground. You almost forgot — it’s tonight.   You hold the ticket up to the light. It’s a dark blue with a streak of red, a young girl on it facing the horizon. Les Misérables, a front mezzanine middle row seat.   It wouldn’t hurt to do one more thing before you begin packing to go home…   Right?   //   You’re startled when the bell at the top of the door jingles to signal your entrance.   “Welcome to the Bloom Room!” A female in a green apron turns around with a bouquet of flowers and shears in the other hand. All around her are fancy floral arrangements, from wreaths to overflowing vases. The fresh scent overwhelms your senses, vibrant hues that render you even more uncertain. “How may I help you?”   “Umm..”   She smiles softly at you. “What kind of flowers are you looking for? Anything specific at all?”   You glance at the surroundings, still unsure. Maybe you should get something that’ll convey how sorry you are, for showing up drunk at his doorstep, for saying all those mean things to him. Something that’ll make amends, to tell him you really miss him, his presence, friendship.   You should get something that’ll communicate how thankful you are for him — for always being there even when you pushed him away, for always supporting you, for being your backbone when you needed it.   “Just….something nice, please,” you end up telling her with a modest smile.   “Certainly.” She leads the way, through the shelves and cases of flowers and bouquets. The florist glances at you, sincere in her gaze. “What’s the special occasion?”   “Oh no, there’s not a special occasion.” You shake your head and your hands, and the volume of your voice quiets as you try to explain. “Well, not really. I’m just bringing it with me to a show tonight. Someone I know is performing for the first time on stage.”   “How exciting! What’s your relationship with this person?” She stops at a station that has jars filled with single flowers, an array of brown paper and ribbons on the side. “Friends? Family member? Boyfriend or girlfriend?”   “Umm…..” You don’t know why it’s taking you so long to think about it. “Friends…?”   And you certainly don’t know why there’s a hint of doubt in your voice either.   The florist’s pupils flicker up to you, a hint of a knowing smile gracing her features. “How about peonies? They’re very delicate and I think it’ll be perfect to bring with you to a show. Seven of them and some baby’s breath and lilacs.”   “That sounds nice.” You nod and she begins to choose them. But you wonder if it’s strange to bring flowers to him. You clear your throat. “Is it…” The woman turns to look at you. “Is it weird to give flowers to a guy?”   “Not at all,” she assures you. “Trust me, everyone loves to get flowers.”   “Do you…..think I should deliver it or give it to him?” You’re unsure of what protocol is. You’ve never bought flowers for anyone before.   “Oh, you should give it to him,” she tells you without a trace of doubt. “That’s just me, but I think it’s much more personal to hand-deliver.”   You nod and there’s a moment of quiet before you remember something. It flickers into your mind, a memory hitting you in the face. And your eyes light up.   “C-Can I get them in purple?”   //   The show starts at seven thirty, so you arrive twenty minutes beforehand.    Your ticket gets scanned and you shuffle into the auditorium. There are lots of people, a sea of glamour, couples going on dates to musical fanatics eager to watch their favourite theater performance to critics ready to analyze the show. You tug on your little black number that ends at your knees — it’s modest and simple, but one of the many dresses that you never got to wear. But there's not a lot of time to be self-conscious or to second guess yourself. The people are a tide that rushes in, and you’re overwhelmed, pushed forward by their force and unable to escape.   The theater is grand, brightly lit with the red curtains pulled down. You find your seat and hug the small bouquet of flowers in your lap.   When the show finally begins, the lights dim down completely and it’s glorious. Music begins to play, thundering through the auditorium, and men march onto the stage holding sledgehammers. “Look down, look down. Don't look 'em in the eye.”   Your eyes search for Jimin, but he’s not here.   If you remember the details of his role correctly, you have a feeling he won’t show up for a while. So you sit back and try to relax and watch. But the anticipation and excitement of seeing him keeps you on alert. Any time there are characters entering the stage, your eyes always scan across.   It’s not until an hour later that you finally see the familiar boy at the very corner of the scene, catching the edges of the spotlight. Immediately, a smile tugs into your cheeks.    Jimin’s singing with the others, wearing a long brown coat with disoriented hair. He plays the part of a young man from a rich family well. You can practically see the fire in his eyes.   “Look down and show some mercy if you can! Look down, look down, upon your fellow man!”    The song is similar to an anthem, riling up the crowd for a revolution. “It'll come, it'll come, it'll come... It'll come, it'll come, it'll come…”   Jimin doesn’t have a main role, but he’s still on the stage of Broadway, singing with many others. You’re happy to see him, elated that you know the boy that’s actually performing, and you have to hold back from giving a sudden standing ovation.    “Before the barricades arise?”   The crowd breaks up as the police enter the stage and just like that he disappears again. But ten minutes later, it’s his time to shine again. Jimin’s one of the nine men — the main character, Marius, and the supporting character, Enjolras, taking the limelight, but he’s one of the many students sitting around a table, at a supposed bar.   “Red!” one of them sings.   The male playing Marius faces the audience. “I feel my soul on fire!”    “Black!”   “My world if she's not there!” the main actor responds with vigor.   “Red!” Jimin belts with others.    “The colour of desire!”   “Black!” he sings again, and you can pick up his voice between the timbre of others.    “The colour of despair!”   Jimin sings with the actors and it echoes throughout the theater. While he never sings a line by himself, you can still hear his tone ever so slightly before it melts away. “The dark of ages past! Red — a world about to dawn! Black — the night that ends at last!”   His appearance is sweet albeit short. You see him one more time right before the intermission when the cast comes onto the stage and sings for the hope of the future in ‘One Day More’.    Afterwards, it’s a fifteen minute break. It’s an hour and a half through the show, but the intermission allows people to relieve themselves at the restrooms or grab a drink at the bar. In your case, you stick around, grasping the bouquet. The brown paper crinkles under your grip and you peer at the curtain as if hoping he’ll run out.   Instead, you catch Jimin coming out from the left door as the other people are spilling out of the auditorium.   But it’s bad timing.   He doesn’t come to where you are, but towards the orchestra section, right by one of the closest rows to the stage. An older woman and man stand, clapping and jumping. He runs into the woman’s arms and squeezes him.   It’s his parents, and you smile before turning around to walk away, not wanting to interrupt the intimate moment with your presence. His parents must be proud.   You’re happy for him.   //   The show continues afterwards. Jimin makes a few more cameos here and there without singing any lyrics, simply in the crowd at the barricades. Although, he does say a few lines.   “See! The people unite!” — “So what are we going to do with this snake in the grass?” — “You wear an army uniform.” And when Éponine dies, he comforts Marius. “She will not die in vain…”   But Jimin does sing one line by himself in the song ‘Drink With Me’. His eyes sweep across the audience floor as he steps forward, pretending to take a swig of the empty beer bottle. “Here’s to pretty girls who went to our heads!”    And you swear he looks right at you.   As if he had memorized where you would be seated.   But Jimin looks away right after, his eyes passing your spot. You release your held breath, realizing it was your imagination. There was no way he could actually see you.   The show lasts another forty minutes, filled with the spectacular performances of the leads, their beautiful voices that captivate your attention and everyone else’s. During the finale when the storyline has wrapped up, everyone comes onto the stage again. You see him one last time there.   Jimin is singing, smiling wide, looking out at the audience.    It could not be a better Broadway debut.   You muse that he truly belongs on the stage — there’s no place else he should be. Along with the rest of the audience, you give a standing ovation. The applause roars throughout the auditorium, actors and actresses bowing and waving goodbye.    When it dies down, the bright lights come on again. People begin trickling out and you’d leave as well, if not for the bouquet of flowers you’re still holding onto.   You look around. “U...Um excuse me…”   You stop someone who looks like a worker and they blink at you, confused. You swallow hard and hand over the flowers. “C-Can you give this to Park Jimin? He was an actor in the production.”   “Sorry.” The teenager awkwardly points to a family that’s gathering their belongings to show he’s with them and he offers a kind smile. “I don’t work here.”   “O-Oh. Sorry.” You bow your head and they say it’s no problem. But you’re still cringing from embarrassment, and now you don’t know what to do, how to give it to him without having to face him. You should’ve thought about this better.   But before you can contemplate any solution, you hear a sudden—   “Y/N?!”   Jimin’s sweaty. Like he sprinted here as fast as he could the second the curtains fell. His parents are nowhere in sight, probably in the lobby, but he's here with you. Still in costume. The nineteenth century french clothing — blue trench coat, puffy white shirt underneath, brown slacks.   His hair is riled up with what looks like soot pressed to his cheeks, makeup of some sort that makes him appear even more disoriented and soiled. But he doesn’t care. You don’t either.   His chest rises and falls as he tries to catch his breath. The two of you stare at each other, pupils locked into one another’s, holding the other’s attention. Captivated. Then after a beat, the biggest and goofiest grin spreads into his face. It’s enormous, causing his eyes to crinkle into half-moons.    “You came! You...actually came!”   “Y-Yeah…” You’re stunned and you tear your eyes away, the intensity becoming too much for you to handle. Your arm extends. “These are for you.”   “Flowers?!” He breathlessly giggles and takes them. Jimin doesn’t fail to notice that they’re all shades of purple, from lilac to violet. Because of you, purple has become his new favourite colour. “I love them. Thank you!”   “C-Congratulations on your debut, Jimin.”   He grins, so much that his rosy cheeks look like they’re about to burst. His teeth peek out, eyes crescent moons. “Thank you. I’m glad you could make it.”   “S-Same here…..” You don’t know why he’s gazing at you so intently at you. It makes it hard to keep eye contact. “You were really amazing.”   “I didn’t have that many lines,” the boy giggles, still giddy and hyperactive. It makes you smile.   “But you were still good.” There’s a lot of things you’ve been wanting to tell him, a million versions of an apology that you’ve practiced in the mirror. And now that he’s here and you’re no longer staring at a reflection of yourself, you gather your courage to face your regrets. “You deserve it, Jimin. I’m...sorry for everything that I said. I’m sorry for being resentful towards you. I’m sorry for being jealous. It wasn’t your fault. And all those things I said to you, I didn’t mean it. A-at the time I did, but now I don’t...I don’t know if that makes it any better but...yeah….I just…..you were great, you worked hard, so…”   It’s the shittiest apology. Worse than the first one you practiced. But you can’t get it out right.    You feel nervous for the first time in Jimin’s presence. A kind of anxiousness that doesn’t make you feel sick. Rather, you feel something else in your stomach — it’s fluttery. Something uncertain brewing there, stirring at its pits.   It feels similar in your chest. It isn’t a foreign sensation, but one you had ignored for a long time now.    Jimin suddenly laughs, noisy and hearty. It squeaks, a higher pitched giggle. It makes you look at him, eyes hesitantly lifting off the floor. And then you yelp.   Jimin picks you up right off the ground, arms locked around your waist. He spins you in a circle, squeezing ticklish laughter out of you. Your hands immediately come to grab his shoulders. The boy is unable to contain the adrenaline pumping through his veins and the overwhelming joy of you being here.   “Jimin!” you squeal.   He laughs. “God, I’m so happy that you’re here!”   “Did you think I’d miss it?” you quip and it feels like forever since you’ve been able to joke around like this. “Not for the world, Park!”   He sets you down to your feet again. His swelling smile might just break his face. He nuzzles into you, hair tickling your forehead. Jimin hugs you tight. He’s so happy, you can practically feel it radiate off of his skin. And your chest blooms with pride instead of envy. “Your Broadway debut was amazing. It only gets better from—”   “Can I please kiss you?”   Your heart stutters.   Jimin pulls himself apart from you. The sudden question has you blinking twice. But the temptation for Jimin has gotten too much. If there’s one thing that could make tonight even more perfect, it would be him kissing you…   You glance at his plush lips before your pupils flicker back to his eyes.   “You don’t need to ask.”   Just like that, he roughly tugs you in by the small of your back. The flowers lose a few petals from the harsh motion. But Jimin doesn’t care. He kisses you like he’s been waiting to do it for months now. He kisses you like he wants you. He’s hungry for it and savours your whimper that’s muffled between his soft lips. He’s been wanting to hear your voice like this.   Jimin’s half-lidded eyes soak up your pleasured expression before he gives in, shutting them to succumb to your scent. He breathes you in and you become helpless in his arms, the pad of your fingers pressing against the nape of his neck. You’re unsure if you want to part just to gasp for air, or if you want to push him even closer.   But your thoughts turn to mush as his hot tongue licks inside your mouth, eager. The pair of you don’t care that other people might be watching, that you’re placed in the middle of the auditorium, that you’ve stolen the spotlight.   When the both of you break apart, you stumble back from each other, mouths swollen. You wipe away his saliva that’s made your lips shiny with the back of your hand. The both of you are dazed and embarrassed, catching your breaths, his own cheeks reddened.    You divert your eyes from one another. But then infectious giggles spill over.    God, you might’ve been in love with Park Jimin for a long time now.

Director Lee sits at his desk with a sigh.   He shuffles his papers before sitting back in his swivel chair, unsure. Right at that moment, a blonde, lean man enters with a hot brewing cup of coffee. The assistant sets it on his desk.   “Are you sure you should be taking in caffeine this late at night?”   “Not like I’ll be able to sleep anyway.” He brings the cup up for a small sip. “I’m still deciding on the main cast.”   “Who do you have?”   “The casting director narrowed it down to these people.” He lays out the applicants of possible options and sighs. “Now I just have to decide who’s going to be part of this and who’s who. You should’ve been there today, Kim. If you weren’t late, you might be able to help me right now.”   “Sorry.” Taehyung sheepishly grins. “My alarm clock didn’t ring.”   The director is disgruntled, but still playful. “Same excuse every time, Kim.”   Taehyung laughs, but still tries his best to assist. He scans over the applications haphazardly, but then his breath hitches. He turns his body to get a better look and his eyes grow wide, recognizing you. “Oh. What about her?”   The director follows to where his assistant is pointing and hums a low note. “Oh. Her. We called her since we heard she was the ghost singer of Phantom.”   “Oh yeah.” The blonde nods. “I heard about that.”   “I was thinking about tossing her papers.”   “Why?” Taehyung looks at his mentor, genuinely curious.   “Well, her audition was….” He struggles to find the right words. “Impactful. It was really something. She stood out, that’s for sure.”   “Then….?”   “I just don’t know if we could find the right place for her.” He shrugs and taps his finger against the armrest of his chair. “She might outperform the other actors and actresses.”   Taehyung makes a noncommittal sound at the back of his throat. “I don’t know. But I think she should be considered for a role. That’s just me, but I have a good feeling about her. You said it was impactful, right? Isn’t that what we should be going for?”   Director Lee glances at his assistant, but Taehyung simply smiles and waltzes out the room.

[oddeyecadia]

what if it’s us? (ch. 4)

a/n: no one prolly cares abt this fic anymore but lol still gonna continue

also posted on ao3 | ch. 1 ch. 2 ch. 3

"I think Allura's my soulmate."

Just like that, everything stopped. Time, the beating of her heart, the universe itself. All the little scars and bruises on her body tingled in a strange, unpleasant way. He was the only one smiling now. The clear excitement on his face made her feel harder to breathe.

Of course.

Pidge gritted her teeth.

Of fucking course.

"I saw her left foot earlier. It was bandaged the same way as my left foot. Do you know when she got that?"

"Yeah, uh..." She had it even before you had yours, dumbass. "Just this morning, I think." Pidge internally slapped herself. She didn't want to lie, she really didn't. But she also didn't want to erase the pure joy he was clearly feeling.

Though, her decision was going to make a lot of mess was it? She took a deep breath and as she was about to change her mind, Lance's gaze fell to the floor with a look that took every breath of her away and spoke softly. "I finally found her."

Out of all of his smiles, the one he wore right then was probably the most beautiful. She could see the relief and love he was ready to give attached to it.

Something about the fact that someone else was the reason for this smile bothered her a lot. It could be just the guilt for lying, making him smile for the wrong person, that creeped up her back.

Yeah. She hoped it was just that.

"Your turn." Said Lance, interrupting her thoughts.

"Huh?"

"What were you gonna say earlier?"

"Oh. Just that I- I noticed how you and Allura have the same injury too."

There was no turning back.

___

"Stop glaring, Hunk." Pidge said quietly, feeling the intense look he was giving her.

Brown eyes kept staring at her as she continued to type on her laptop. She felt uneasy but not to the point where she couldn't focus on the email that she was writing to her professor. A letter to inform her about the extremely unfair division of tasks in her group and how her two group mates barely did anything for their project.

Somewhere in the library, she could hear Lance being absentmindedly loud again. That and Hunk's glare growing more intense was enough to make her take a deep breath and finally look at the guy across her.

"Look what you've done." He said.

"I didn't do anything."

"Exactly. You didn't do anything to stop him from thinking Allura was his soulmate! Look at him!" He whisper shouted, pointing at the main desk. There, was Allura, staring blankly at Lance who was leaning an elbow on the desk and smirking at her like an idiot.

Pidge rolled her eyes, trying her hardest to keep her blood boiling at the sight. "He looks happy."

"He looks stupid, Pidge. You know what he said to me that night? 'Would it be more romantic if I make her realize rather than just telling her?'" She fought a grin at Hunk's accurate impression of Lance's slightly high pitched voice. "And just a few weeks ago you were like 'Never. Let him find out on his own.' You two just love miscommunication and complicating things more huh?"

"It'd be more complicated if I told him while he was so stoked about the idea of another person being his soulmate. It would ruin his mood, make things awkward, and possibly ruin our friendship too." Besides, she didn't want to mess things up after they just had their deep conversation and learned to really open up to each other for the first time.

It had been a couple of days since that whole thing happened. Finals was next week, everyone had been pretty busy with their own thing. Allura had to take care of some important stuff these past couple of days that Pidge had to work at the library on her own again. Meaning, Lance didn't immediately got the chance to start his wooing.

"She's not here?" He asked the night after their "hangout friday"- as Hunk would call it.

"She has a checkup. Sorry,  loverboy ."

"Aww man." The boy looked down at his feet. "I must've hurt her real bad."

Pidge's frown deepened as she only hummed in response. It was too early for her to casually talk about soulmates after what just happened .

"Well, guess I'll just study then. Hey, Pidge."

She looked at him, he raised a brow. "You're taking care of yourself, right?"

Snorting, she couldn't fight a grin. Why was he like this? Could he stop being so nice for a second? "Yeah, don't worry. I remember your advice by heart."

Pidge cringed internally, remembering what she said.

"Fix this, Pidge."

"I will, Hunk. Just– let him have his fun for a little while." Ignoring the slight pain in her chest and Hunk's disappointed look, she finally finished the email and pressed send.

___

Shoe squeaks and loud pop music filled the gym.

The highest bleacher was cold against the palm of her hands. Pidge could see everything from up here. It was nice. Plus, she was far from everyone, far from the volleyball team playing and from the dance team which she found out was just like a bunch of Lance put in one group. Everyone was just as loud and boisterous.

"Why am I here again?"

Lance looked up at her from where he stood, one bleacher below, and flashed a smile. "Because Hunk isn't available and I'm used to having a friend watch me practice. You don't have a choice."

She let out a deep breath. At least Hunk wasn't available for real this time. Unlike the last time he left the two where he tried to play wingman.

"Ugh. Don't you have like a hobby that's a little more... quiet?"

"Oh come on, Pidge. Don't you think a bunch of college kids dancing and doing dangerous stunts is cool?"

Her attention was caught by a flyer being thrown in the air. The guy landed too quickly and it was obvious by the shocked look on their faces that his spotters weren't ready, they caught him immediately anyways.

"Fun." Her hands started sweating, seeing the team practice that same stunt again. "Is this a requirement? I mean does this boost up your grades in any way?"

"Not really. Clubs and stuff like this doesn't really add that much to my GPA." He said as he took out his water bottle.

"Why didn't you just take performing arts then?"

He took a sip. "I was going to. I wanted to study and make money out of dancing but... let's be honest, the money part would be kinda hard to achieve. So I went with my second favorite thing to do, taking care of people. I took nursing."

Pidge was about to ask another question when one of his teammates suddenly shouted. "Lance! You ready?"

"Yup! Just a sec!" Lance put down his bottle before giving her another proud smile. "Just enjoy the show, Katarina. We have like fifteen minutes left of practice. It'll be quick."

She watched as he carefully walked down the bleachers and towards his team. She bit her lip when her injured foot throbbed slightly as she saw Lance unintentionally take a hard step.

A member then approached him and said something she couldn't obviously hear.

Nodding his head, he smiled at said member before getting into position.

There was something off about that smile, though. How he went from being all jumpy to stiff right after said teammate talked to him was not a good sign too.

Pidge pushed her glasses up her nose.

The same pop music that was on repeat for minutes played again as the dance team started their routine. They did some incredible stunts and moves that could make anyone jump from their seat yet she couldn't take her eyes away from a single dancer.

Ocean waves.

That was the only thing she could think of as she watched him sway, turn, pop and glide. Lance danced so swiftly yet every move had a hint of snap. His hips didn't lie, his whole body moved so in sync with the beat.

He didn't look like he was having as much fun, though, and one time he looked as if he wasn't sure if he was in the right position which was concerning.

But still.

That was hot.

___

"I have eight papers due tomorrow and I haven't started any of them." Said Keith after taking a big gulp of milk straight from the carton as he sat by the kitchen counter.

He was lactose intolerant.

"And why's that?"

"I don't know, Shiro. Everytime I begin typing I just burst into tears."

Even through the phone, his brother's disappointed sigh was still upsetting to hear. "College's tough huh?"

Keith chuckled. "That's an understatement."

"I know but you have to be more responsible. Be more like Katie but without the overworking part." Keith frowned at the second statement, remembering all those nights he had to drag an exhausted Pidge to bed and how he hated seeing her all stressed up. He took another sip. "Speaking of, how is she? Her finals is coming up right? I hope she's not over studying again."

"Strangely but fortunately, no. She hasn't overworked herself in days."

"That's good. Matt's visiting you guys today so–"

Keith chocked on his milk before Shiro could even finish his sentence.

He totally forgot about that.

"You okay there?" Shiro asked. Keith could already see his brother's teasing smirk and it caused his ears to burn up.

"Yeah, just– Just remembered I'm lactose intolerant." He cleared his throat. "Anyway, yeah. Pidge mentioned that."

Meanwhile, Shiro couldn't help but chuckle at his little brother's clear nervousness. "Don't worry, you have my permission to say yes when he asks you out on a date. Again."

Keith went silent for a moment.

That was when Shiro spoke again, his voice softer and Keith could almost see him wearing his comforting smile. "It's okay, Keith."

Something in his chest loosened and he took a deep breath. Keith already knew what it meant for he had heard it from him a million times. It was the first time he heard Shiro say it like that, though. It felt and sounded like real reassurance this time, like not only the situation was okay, but also himself.

As if on cue, a couple of loud knocks were heard from Keith and Pidge's apartment door and he tensed up.

"Thanks, Shiro. I'll call you again later?"

"After you finish your papers first. Now go, entertain your guest."

Keith ignored Shiro's teasing tone, said goodbye and hanged up before walking towards the door.

He already had a guess of who the person on the other side was. And if he was right, said guest was a little bit early for his sister wasn't even home yet.

Here goes nothing. Keith finally opened the door and lo and behold, he was right. He hated that he was right.

Matthew Holt stood in front of him with a warm smile, the familiar scar still clear and present across the bridge of his nose. "Hey, Keith."

[nancywheelxr]

Batfam Week: Day 2 - Trapped

through different colored glasses

The Justice League, Hal Jordan and Oliver Queen in particular, love to say that Bruce is too serious.

They say he needs to lighten up. They say he is too anal about things. They say he is too strict. They say a whole lot of things.

But Hal Jordan and Oliver Queen do not have to deal with things like this.

“Bruce, I’m telling you,” Tim says, frantically, “this is in no way my fault. If I had to blame anyone, it would be Dick anyway!”

“Me?” Dick cries, scandalized that his brother would throw him under the bus like this, and almost lets the ice pack slip from his black eye, “why is it my fault?”

“I don’t know,” Jason drawls, sounding utterly bored by the whole situation, “I think I agree with Replacement on this.”

or, alternatively, Bruce confiscates Jason's rocket launcher and sets off a chain reaction, Dick somehow gets dragged into Jason's mess, Tim wishes his brothers weren't maniacs, and maybe it's really a matter of points of view

The Justice League, Hal Jordan and Oliver Queen in particular, love to say that Bruce is too serious.

They say he needs to lighten up. They say he is too anal about things. They say he is too strict. They say a whole lot of things.

But Hal Jordan and Oliver Queen do not have to deal with things like this.

“Bruce, I’m telling you,” Tim says, frantically, “this is in no way my fault. If I had to blame anyone, it would be Dick anyway!”

“Me?” Dick cries, scandalized that his brother would throw him under the bus like this, and almost lets the ice pack slip from his face, “why is it my fault?”

“I don’t know,” Jason drawls, sounding utterly bored by the whole situation, “I think I agree with Replacement on this.”

Bruce should intervene before it escalates further, he really should. Even if it’s nearing four in the morning and he has a board meeting at 8 am. Alfred wouldn’t be happy if Bruce just went back to bed and left them to resolve this on their own. He sighs, rubbing his eyes, “keep your voices down, Alfred is sleeping. Good. Now, start from the beginning.”

Dick and Tim immediately begin talking over each other. He doesn’t know what else he expected, really. “One at a time.”

“Fine,” Jason says, leaning against his rocket launcher, “I’ll start.”

*

All Jason wants is to get Roxy back.

Honest.

She is an integral part of his arsenal and she has so many memories attached to her. The emotional value is priceless. Like, remember that time he tried to blow up an entire building with Black Mask inside? Good times, he knows.

So yeah, Jason wants Roxy, his beloved rocket launcher, back.

And in all fairness, Bruce had no business confiscating it this time. He hadn’t been planning on firing her against Penguin’s stupid warehouse. It was just for intimidating purposes, mostly.

But getting her back, it’s not gonna be easy, Jason knows. Since the last time, he bets Bruce won’t simply lock her in the armory.

Since asking is not an option, and apologizing is entirely too unfair on his part, Jason does what he has to do. He waits until everyone is out on patrol and Alfred is down in the Cave, and sneaks into the Manor.

It’s quite easy, in fact. Less than fifteen minutes and he’s silently roaming the empty hallways.

You’d expect more, it being Batman’s house and all.

The tracker says it’s not downstairs. Jason walks around aimlessly, watching the tiny red dot blinking on his phone as it grows and shrinks with each turn.

Not in any of the bedrooms, not in the living room, not in the pantry. The second floor, past the music room, past another row of unused bedrooms, past Bruce’s study, past–

Finally. In one of the old ass broom closets.

Jason opens it slowly, cringing at how loud it creaks in the otherwise silent house.

Peering inside, he sighs in relief. There she is. Cue in shitty cliche music. Roxy, in all her rocket glory, stands in the corner of the room, the only shiny object among all the dust-coated, forgotten things.

Ah, how long have they stood there? Forsaken by mankind, refused by society. Sitting in a shrine of dust and cobwebs, never to see sunlight again–

*

“Oh for the love of god, Jason,” Tim kicks him in the shin, wincing when the movement jostles his sprained wrist, “quit bullshitting, your prose sucks.”

Bruce feels the beginning of a headache growing at the back of his head. Stress then. “Jason, please,” he sighs, “just cut to the chase.”

“Fine, fine. Jeez, talk about a tough crowd.”

*

Anyway. Where was he?

Oh, right.

So, Jason steps inside. And promptly dies a little more inside. Cobwebs stick to his everything. They get in his hair, on his clothes, even on his damn shoes. Of all the days to leave his helmet behind.

But he powers through. All for Roxy, do it for Roxy, he tells himself.

Finally, after crossing miles of disgusting cobwebs, Jason is reunited with his baby. She looks as gorgeous as the day he bought her, shiny and cool and deadly.

With his mission accomplished, he steels himself for the trek back.

In a totally unrelated note chain of events, a vase is knocked out by something– that may or may not have been Roxy as Jason turned around, but no one can prove that, so– and ends up falling to its side, knocking out a row of boxes that had been beside it on the highest shelf in the process, and then, as it topples down, one of the boxes falls open, letting a bowling ball roll away.

And, in a true feat of the Universe deciding to fuck over Jason, the ball hits the door. Or, more specifically, it hits the doorknob. Breaking it right off.

“Fuck no,” says Jason, with feeling. He hugs Roxy closer, cursing every god in existence and a few fake ones too, just because. If this was anyone else’s house, he wouldn’t think twice before kicking the door down.

But, as previously stated, this story is set on Batman’s house. Jason doesn’t trust an of the doors not to have some freaky sensor thing that’ll alert the big, bad Bat of any disturbance. He’s half convinced it already might have. For all he knows, Bruce could be a second away to breaking it down himself and yelling at Jason.

Even ignoring that particularly upsetting prospect, there’s a lot of ways he could open that door. He could pick the lock, he could unscrew the hinges, he could blow it off with Roxy. The only problem is that all of them are way too noisy for this way too silent place. At this hour Alfred is probably back upstairs, making post-patrol snacks. He would most definitely hear any attempt of messing with the door, Alfred has superhearing when it comes to the Manor, everybody knows that.

And Alfred Pennyworth’s wrath is way worse than Batman’s.

Jason checks the time. While breaking in had taken no time at all, wandering around certainly did. If tonight was slow, and it sounds like it was, they will all be back soon. He turns on his comm, just to check. Tuning in the frequency, he listens as Dick babbles about his stupid day job. Jason turns it off, cursing. If the idiot is babbling that much already, they must on their way back.

Now there really is no way out. Nothing that Jason knows would be fast enough to get him out before they all arrived. You can’t outrace the Batmobile. He is trapped.

Sliding down the dusty, moldy wall, Jason wallows in well-earned, very justified, self-pity, and waits.

Time seems to slow down to spite him further, a way for the Universe to fuck you in big, bold, neon letters. Well, fuck you too, buddy. He waits and waits and waits and waits, but nobody comes his way, because Bruce lives in this unnecessarily, ridiculously giant ass Manor with an unreasonable number of empty ass rooms.

Fed up with the whole situation, Jason ponders his options. On one hand, he could stay there forever, trapped in this tiny, disgusting broom closet, which by the way, has no brooms whatsoever, and waste away into eternity. Maybe he could live off the spiders for a bit, rats if he’s lucky. His arm too, he won’t need two to live in a closet. It might buy him a few months. Or, on the other hand, he could swallow his pride and call someone to come let him out of the damn closet.

He eyes the cobwebs on the upper right corner. Yeah, no, too disgusting. He can’t eat spiders, too creepy, too many legs, too many eyes. Nope, not gonna do it.

Calling someone it is.

Bruce is a no-go, obviously. The Brat, too. He would lord it over his head forever. Alfred? Nah, he would give Jason his disappointed look and shake his head in that sad way, and Jason would be left feeling like the worst person ever. Cass? Fuck, no, she’s still in Hong Kong. Tim, then? Maybe. The kid would definitely be the less annoying option. But he would also be a little shit about it, Jason would never hear the end of it. So that leaves… Dick? Really? Is he that desperate yet?

Let’s be real, he is.

But then again, Dick can be persuaded not to tell on him. If Jason uses the brother card right, maybe he can convince the idiot to keep quiet.

Yeah, he can do this. He survived being exploded, he can survive this.

So he sends him a text, help pls.

To which, Dick answers with a call. Jason declines, they’re operating in stealth mode here. Cant talk, u at the manor?

Yeah where are u? Whats going on? Are u hurt? His phone is thankfully on silent, buzzing with the new messages.

fine, he sends. Then, come to the broom closet next door to the next study after Bruce’s.

what?

quick no time for questions

Sighing deeply, Jason buries his hand on his hands. This is a nightmare. This is all his bad karma kicking his ass. This is hell, this is purgatory– in fact, this is the lovechild of hell and purgatory.

Then, just as he was about to despair, there’s a soft knock on the door. “Jason?”

“Shhh,” he winces at the loud voice, “in here.”

Dick opens the door unceremoniously, not bothered by the creaking hinges. He stands in the doorway, disheveled in his stupid pajama and looking confused like a stupid, lost duckling, “Jason, what do you think you’re doing? At this hour?” He asks, hands on his hips, sounding just as stupidly confused.

“This is an ongoing rescue mission,” Jason explains slowly, because it’s important not to rush Dick, best to let him process things on his own time, “and I needed you to bust me out.”

“What.”

“I’m bringing Roxy home, but the doorknob fell off on my side.”

“Oh,” Dick steps inside, examining the other side of the door to confirm that, in fact, the doorknob had indeed fallen off and Jason hadn’t hallucinated the whole thing, “it really fell off,” he says dumbly.

“Yeah, well, thanks for opening up the door,” Jason gets up, dusting himself off and then picking up Roxy, “and I’d appreciate if you would keep this, you know, between brothers? Great, now it’s time to scram.”

“Uh, Jason,” the idiot stammers out, looking panicked at Jason and pointing, “don’t freak out, but there’s a huge spider on your shoulder.” He takes a step back, totally freaking out, and bumps on the door. Slamming it shut. “Uh, this is bad.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Jason glares at him, easily flicking the small spider from off his shoulder, “congratulations, now we’re both stuck.”

Then, Dick wails in despair.

*

“Jason, that is not what happened!” Dick launches himself across the bed, trying to reach his brother but only managing in scaring Tim into climbing up the headboard, “stop telling everyone I’m dumb!”

“To be fair,” Jason says, watching amused, “you make it real easy.”

“Stop jostling the bed!” Tim complains from where he’s perched, cradling his injured wrist. He is going to fall, and it’s going to hurt, mattress or not, but Bruce doesn’t have the energy to get him down himself.

“Tim,” he warns, “if you fall and aggravate your injuries, you are going to tell Alfred yourself tomorrow.”

The teenager grumbles, sending Bruce a betrayed look, but slowly climbs down, scooting as far back as possible.

“Fine,” says Dick, frowning. He and Jason hadn’t stopped bickering yet, but Bruce hadn't expected them to. “here’s what really happened.”

*

Staring at the door, Dick can’t fathom what the hell Jason could be doing inside an unused broom closet. True, his brother can be a unpredictable at times, but this a new level of random.

He knocks at the door, just to be sure. Prank wars aren’t that rare around the Manor.

“In here,” Jason calls quietly. That’s never a good sign.

The door opens with noisy hinges that would probably make Alfred cringe. Dick takes in the scene. Jason is sprawled in one corner, hugging a rocket launcher. Near his feet, a bowling ball sways. Weird, he didn’t know Bruce used to go bowling.

Right. To more important things, “Jason, what the hell?”

“I’m rescuing Roxy,” Jason says unhappily, as if offended that how come Dick didn’t immediately jump to that totally reasonable conclusion, “and I needed you to bust me out.”

There are so many things to address, Dick isn’t sure where to begin. What even. Okay, first things first, “you named your rocket launcher Roxy?”

“That’s what you got from what I said?”

“Would you rather I focus on the fact you were trapped in a broom closet?” Dick rolls his eyes. Tonight patrol had been almost dull, suspiciously so. He should’ve known better.  Clearly, Gotham seen Jason hiding in there and had taken pity on Dick, knowing the kind of wravoc Jason is undoubtedly going to bring down. On that note, “how did you manage that, by the way?”

Jason makes a non-committal noise, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the door as he gets to his feet with dramatic groans. Dick steps inside to take a better look at the thing, almost tripping on the bowling ball and sending it rolling to the other side of the room. The doorknob is missing and the metal is dented around where it should be. Really? How the hell did he break the whole thing clean off? “It fell off? How?”

“Sometimes,” Jason says, “it be like that. Now, if you could keep this just between us, I’d really appreciate it.”

Dick snorts, already expecting that, and shakes his head, turning around in time to see his brother dusting himself off and grimacing at the cobwebs sticking to his fingers. Gross. But then, something catches his eyes. Crawling its way up Jason’s shoulders, a black spider is quickly reaching his neck. Dick shudders, resisting the strong urge to check himself for any insect, “hm, Jason?” His brother looks up. “Don’t freak out, but there’s a spider on your shoulder.”

And, of course, Jason loses it.

“Shit, I said don’t freak out,” he rushes to stop him from tripping over anything or knocking any of the shelves down. Jason keeps trying to bat the thing off, but the cobwebs stick to his hand, leaving the spider dangling in the air, almost landing on his leg. “Hold still, stop squirming, you’re gonna– jesus christ.” In his frantic flailing, Jason manages to hit him with a painful elbow to the eye, causing Dick to stumble back and almost lose his balance.

Unfortunately, backing away means bumping right into the door. It closes with a loud thud.

“Okay,” Dick sighs, “this is bad.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Jason says, having stopped his ridiculous flailing around, “congratulations, now we’re both stuck.”

They watch in silence as the tiny black spider crawls across the room and up the wall. She’s surprisingly fast, and it makes him think of Wally, even if his friend would probably disagree with the comparison. Well, Wally isn’t here to see the little eight-legged speedster himself, therefore, he has no base for opinions, agreeable or not.

“I’m not eating spiders,” says Jason, out of nowhere and with no context whatsoever, “or my arm.”

“That’s good, I suppose,” Dick shrugs, because what else is he supposed to say to that, “cannibalism is generally frowned upon in most societies. And spiders are generally gross, even when they’re like Wally.”

“I really don’t wanna know,” he frowns, sitting back down where Dick first found him and beginning to check his rocket launcher for any damage, “but anyways, you wouldn’t know if Bruce boob-trapped the door, would you?”

Dick wants to say no, he does, but after spending his teenage years in the Manor, he can’t honestly say that’s not something he wondered in more than one occasion. Bruce’s absolute perfect timing used to border omniscience. It was almost supernatural. Every attempt at sneaking out after curfew was foiled before he could even make it to the gates. “I mean, I don’t think it’s going to blow up on our faces if we try to pick the lock.”

“But it might trigger a silent alarm,” Jason concludes, sounding resigned.

“How pissed do you think he’s gonna be?”

“With you? Very. With me, though? Astronomically.” He sighs, rubbing his eyes, “I don’t really feel like being lectured at three in the morning, how ‘bout you?”

“Think I’ll pass, too.” Dick should’ve been sleeping now. On his bed. Getting some rest before his shift tomorrow. He should’ve been sleeping, not sitting on a hard, dusty floor.

“Guess there’s no other way then, uh?” Jason says, like Dick is somehow supposed to know what the shit is going on in his head. Dick stares blankly at him until he huffs, annoyed, “we gotta call the Replacement, he’s the only one left.”

“No, wait, don’t wake him up.”If Dick remembers it right, Tim should be fast asleep by now, safely tucked in his room. No need to drag him into this disaster in the making. “God knows it’s an uphill battle to get him to actually sleep.”

Jason snorts. “Too late. He’s on his way.”

“What?” Son of a– ,“he was already awake, wasn’t he? Damn it. I really thought Alfred put something on his coffee.”

“Sounds healthy.”

A knock on the door echoes loudly on the small room, startling Dick. He glares at Jason snickering at his side, and calls, “we’re in here!”

The door swings open silently for once, revealing Tim still on the frankly way too coffee-stained sweatpants he found earlier in the cave and a baggy NASA shirt. Specifically, a NASA shirt that belongs to Dick. A NASA shirt he distinctly remembers going missing years ago. And when he says years, he means before Tim had even stepped inside the Manor. Which means–

“Oh my god, you little shit,” Jason is saying accusingly to Tim, “that shirt is mine!”

Dick hadn’t been doing anything at the moment, but he screeches to a halt all the same. In spirit, if you will.

“No way,” Tim crosses his arms, “I’ve had this shirt since forever.”

“Fuck off, Replacement,” Jason points a threatening finger, “I remember tearing that hole trying to climb down the window.”

“How dare you,” Dick finally gets his voice back, whirls on Jason, “how dare you, you hypocrite lying liar who lies.”

Jason gapes. “What the fuck.”

“That shirt was mine and you know it,” he can’t believe this. No, no, actually, he can. Easily. “I distinctly remember asking you if you’ve seen it, and then you looked me in the eyes and said I don’t know, I ain’t your housekeeper. And then you flipped me off.”

To be fair, Dick mostly remembered that day because it had been one of the few times he had been visiting the Manor before Jason, you know. Passed away. So yeah, he remembered it.

Now, though, seeing his shirt going from thief to thief, Dick isn’t feeling too charitable, death or no death.

He realizes Jason had gone quiet, looking as if trying to recall the incident. “I don’t really remember,” his brother finally says, “but it does sound like something I would do.”

“Oh my god, I hate you.”

“I mean,” Jason raises one of his hands up in a placating gesture, the other still cradling his stupid rocket launcher, “it’s not like you’re my favorite person either, Dickhead. ‘Sides, I wasn’t the only asshole back then.”

Shame and guilt rise in tandem, swallowing his gut in acid. Jason’s right. Dick has no right to sit here and call him out on being a jerk, not when he’d been just as guilty. He had been so caught up–

“Can we please skip the guilt trips?” Tim asks tiredly, “it’s almost four in the morning and your argument is moot anyway. The shirt is mine.”

It’s a testament for how tired he is that Dick doesn’t immediately restrains Jason when he goes silent. And, to be perfectly honest, that shirt is not freaking his.

“Jason, put the rocket launcher down,” Tim continues, unfazed, or maybe reaching the apathetic stages of lack of sleep, “you know how Alfred feels about weapons upstairs.”

*

“Why does everyone think I don’t sleep!” Tim glares at the ceiling, shifting so he can stretch on the bed more comfortably and kick Dick on the side, “I do sleep! All the time!”

“I don’t know,” Jason shrugs, wincing. He hides it well, but now that Bruce is paying more attention, Jason is leaning rather stiffly against his rocket launcher, standing as still as possible without being too obvious about it. Bruce sighs, he should’ve suspected; Jason has always been one to hide injuries. “Never seen it. Methinks the lady doth bullshits too much.”

“Jason,” Bruce begins cautiously, he doesn’t want to spook him. “Why didn’t you say you were hurt?”

It’s the wrong choice of words, it comes out more accusing than he intended, and Bruce can see Jason shutting down, face going blank. “I’m not hurt. And it wouldn’t be any of your business if I were anyway.”

Dick is giving him a sad, disappointed look. Completely unnecessary, Bruce knows he screwed this up. It seems to be a pattern when it comes to Jason. “If you sprained your ankle, there’s a perfectly good bed for you to sit.”

“Oh yeah? Good thing I ain’t hurt then.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Bruce sees Dick burying his head in his hands, ice pack forgotten beside him on the bed, already melting and soaking the covers.

“Jason,” Bruce tries again, taking a moment to find a better way to phrase it.

Before he can say anything else, Tim kicks the rocket launcher, forcing Jason to put his weight on both legs to regain his balance. He curses loudly, clutching the bedside table to stay upright, and glares at his brother. Dick still refuses to look up.

“Get on the damn bed, idiot,” Tim scoots over, making space, and pushes Dick further down to the foot of the bed, “you know Alfred will have our heads if he finds out you were standing on that ankle.”

Jason grumbles and huffs, but climbs on the bed, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re such an asshole, Replacement. This entire fucking family, I swear to god. All assholes. Except Cass. And Duke. Probably because it hasn’t been long enough for them yet. Fucking assholes.”

“Language,” Tim elbows him, “now all of you, shush. It’s my turn.”

*

Tim watches them argue with little interest. This shirt had been down in the Cave when he found it and thus, by the unspoken laws of the Manor, had been fair play.

It’s his now and Jason and Dick can both cry him a river.

Honestly, it’s just a shirt. A remarkably comfortable one, sure, but just a shirt. Besides, NASA shirts are all the rage now. Walmart probably sells them at a reasonable price.

Tuning back in the conversation, Tim catches the tail end of Jason’s retort and the beginning of Dick’s knee-jerk reaction to all things before. Crushing guilty and vitriolic regret. And it’s always worse in times like these, when Jason isn’t trying to kill anyone, when it almost feels like family.

Either way, Tim should stop them before it inevitably spirals into a real fight. Which would be so not good in such a tiny room and with Jason holding a rocket launcher. “Can we please skip the guilt trips?” He pauses, resigned. “It’s nearly four in the morning. And it doesn’t even matter anyway. This shirt,” he points down at his own chest, “is mine.”

Jason falls silent, and that’s not a good thing, but Jason is also thankfully very, very predictable, so Tim simply raises one eyebrow, “Jason, put that damn thing away,” he yawns, unimpressed by the rocket launcher aimed at his face, “you know how Alfred feels about weapons upstairs.”

He grumbles, muttering under his breath, but lowers the ridiculous thing back on his lap. Dick looks vaguely ill, scooting away from the rocket launcher. Tim supposes that’s fair, although he doubts it’s loaded. For a brief moment he entertains the idea of calling Jason’s bluff, but dismisses it in the end. Dick would probably have a stroke.

On that note, “how did you get a black eye?”

“Oh shit,” he raises a hand to gingerly touch the rapidly bruising skin, wincing, “is it that bad?”

“Yup.” Tim pauses, decides he doesn’t want to know, “now, are you two getting out today or…”

Dick and Jason scramble up, dusting themselves off. Cobwebs stick to their clothes, and something runs from where they had been sitting– Tim wrinkles his nose, figures it’s better not to mention it.

“How the two of you managed to break the doorknob is beyond me,” he comments as they pass him, “but somehow, I’m not surprised.”

“Whatever you say, Replacement,” Jason waves him off, stretching, “but damn, it’s good to be free.”

“You know what’s gonna be even better?” Dick asks, his question trailing off in a yawn, “sleeping in a real bed.”

“Shit, did you hear that?” Jason stops mid stretch, frowning, “shit, shit, someone’s coming.”

They all look at each other panicked. Tim doesn’t even know why he’s panicking, he’s done nothing wrong here besides letting himself be talked into helping these two morons out. Which he now sees was a terrible mistake, worse even, a rookie mistake. But maybe it’s being awake at 4am wandering an empty hallway that gives off this feeling, like he’s doing something he’s not supposed to do. It reminds him a little of the times he snuck out of his parent’s house after lights out to shadow Batman and Robin around.

Or maybe it’s the fact Jason is still carrying around the damn rocket launcher like a newborn baby. That definitely would count as a bad thing on Bruce’s point of view. And no matter what they might say, the man would certainly write Tim and Dick off as accessories to the crime. Well, they did learn of the crime after it was committed and they are kind of aiding the criminal in scaping.

Sighing, Tim lets himself be dragged back to the broom closet by a frantic Dick. He adds helping the criminal conceal the crime to the list. The door closes with a soft click just as the footsteps get closer. Whoever it is, probably Bruce by the heavy steps, turns the corner, and then walks past them. Somewhere still uncomfortably near, a door opens, then closes.

“He’s in the study,” Dick sobs, “and we’re stuck here again.”

“We’re never getting out of here,” Jason says, sitting down again, “one day Alfred will finally come clean here and find our decomposed bodies.”

“Gross,” Tim wrinkles his nose at the mental image, “come on. Let’s just pick the lock.”

“No!” They whisper-shout at the same time.

“What the fuck.”

“It’s booby-trapped,” says Jason.

“There’s silent alarms,” says Dick.

Oh right, all of his brothers are paranoid lunatics at heart, how could Tim have ever forgotten that. “This place looks like nobody used it since before either of us were born. Why, oh why, would B put it under surveillance?”

Silence. Jason hugs his rocket launcher closer, sharing a look with Dick. Great, and they’re a united front now. “Listen, fine. You don’t wanna pick the lock. Fine.” It’s always best not to contradict a crazy person, let alone two. “What do you suggest, then?”

“Living off spiders.”

“Call Damian.”

“One, gross. Two, I’d literally rather die.” He begins, “three, you all are useless to me.”

They need a plan, and they need it fast. Before one of those two finish spiraling into cabin fever. Looking around, Tim tries to think of it as any other mission. There’s a small window in the on the right wall, probably connecting to the adjacent room, which Tim thinks might be a bedroom. It was probably a leftover of some old renovation, it might’ve led outside once upon a time, but now it’s likely their only way out. It’s very small, Tim might go through it with little problem, Dick too, but Jason is too broad shouldered, he might get stuck. If only they could remove all the bars, it could give them just enough space.

Okay. They have an exit. All they need is way to get up there and the tools to deal with the bars. He turns to his brothers, “I think I can get us out. There’s a window behind that shelf.” He points at the glass visible between two boxes, “but I need some sort of ladder and a tool box.”

Apparently the prospect of a real plan is enough to shake them out of their stupor. Jason jumps to his feet, begins rummaging through the scattered boxes. Dick busies himself with pushing the shelf out of the way, clearing the path to the window. Satisfied, Tim begins digging inside the nearest box in search of anything useful.

By the time Dick manages to push the shelf out of the way, Jason has found a hammer and a phillips screwdriver. He did find a crowbar too, but that was quickly discarded and buried under a pile of old books. Deciding the boxes are sturdy enough, hopefully, to hold their weight, Tim piles them up in the best makeshift stairs he can make.

Is it wobbly? Yes. Are they going to fall and break their necks? Probably. But better be dead than ask Damian for help. The little demon would never let him live it down for the rest of their lives and probably in the afterlife too.

Once again tuning out his brothers, Tim begins the quickly climbing up the boxes. It’s more stable than he expected, so he starts unscrewing the metal bars–

*

“Of course it was stable!” Dick exclaims, throwing his hands up and then falling down on the bed, “we were holding it in place!”

“You weren’t even listening to us, you ungrateful–”

“I got us out, didn’t I?” Tim snaps, “god, everyone’s a critic. Can I go back to the story, please? I’d like to finish telling it before sunrise.”

“God, yes, please.”

*

Anyway.

The metal bars and the stained glass panels fall apart easily, as expected from such old, unused things. The space left looks wide enough to let them through, maybe. If they’re lucky. “Okay, I’m already up here, so let me go first.”

“Wait–”

Tim doesn’t wait. He hoists himself up, diving face first through the window. It gets him a mouthful of dust and sand, and then he’s free falling–

There’s a second of panic, in between falling and landing, where Tim recognizes waiting might’ve been a wiser course of action and that maybe he should have looked before jumping.

–right into a bed.

He had been right. It did lead to an old bedroom. The bed was covered in sheets, just like the rest of the furnitures, but it works to break the fall, even if a cloud of dust rises in the air when he lands, coating his lungs with filth.

Laughter bubbles up, a little hysterical, a little relieved.

“Are you okay?” Dick’s head appears through the hole, “are you hurt?”

“My wrist hurts a little, I think I sprained it when I tried to break the fall,” Tim shrugs, rolling off the bed, “but I’m fine, really.”

“Hold on, I’m coming through.”

Dick falls with a huff, his breath knocked out of him in the landing. He groans, “shit, that’s gonna bruise.”

“Cool, you’ll get a matching set,” Tim gestures his black eye, “but you might wanna make space, it sounds like Jason is on his way.”

And true enough, as soon as he had forced himself out of the bed and limped away towards Tim, a rocket launcher lands on the bed with a heavy thud, and then Jason appears. Although only half of him makes it through. He dangles, arms swinging uselessly, stuck in the window. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Seriously?”

“Oh my god,” Tim wheezes, “tell me someone has a camera.”

“I feel so much better already,” Dick giggles.

“Oh come on,” Jason snaps, flipping them off with both hands, “a little help here? Assholes.”

To be fair, it only takes a little wiggling and a little pulling to get him out of there and into the dusty bed. By now the air is more dust bunnies and promises of allergies.

“Tell me it’s over now,” Jason says, then changes his mind, “no, no, no. No one say anything, it might jinx it.”

“Please leave,” Tim tells him, “you have an apartment, I know you do. Please.”

“Are you kicking me out, Replacement? Really?”

“You just put me through the most traumatic hour of my life and I don’t even know why. So yes, please.”

“What he means,” Dick intervenes, “is that–”

“All of you have a lot of explaining to do.” In the now open doorway, Bruce stands, looking like your regular angry father if your regular angry father was the Batman.

“Oh crap,” Jason says, and Tim wholeheartedly agrees.

*

“And the rest is history,” Tim says, yawning, and then turning to Jason, “I can’t believe all of this was because of your stupid rocket launcher.”

“Excuse me,” Jason sounds affronted, “Roxy has emotional value.”

“Your unhealthy attachment to that thing gave me a sprained wrist so excuse me for being a little salty.”

“Can you guys not fight for ten seconds, please,” Dick, in turn, sounds tired.

“I don’t think I need to say in how much trouble all of you are, do I?” Bruce finally says, gathering the attention of the three. He glances at his watch, it’s nearing five in the morning, then back up at the bed. Jason is laying with his leg propped up in a pillow, looking harried and tired and less antagonistic than before, Tim is at his side, curled up around a pillow and his injured wrist carefully cradled on his chest, and the story seems to have drained the last of his energy, as his eyes close for longer and longer periods of time. Dick is sprawled at the foot of the bed, laying sideways and currently wrestling a pillow out Jason’s grip.

Bruce looks at the scene in front of him, three of his children together at peace, or the closest thing to it they’ll ever get, and something inside him softens. Seeing them like this, getting along, no trace of masks or capes, it feels almost like a normal family.

It feels warm and golden.

Unwilling to disturb the fragile peace, he gets up from the armchair, heading for the door.

“Where are you going?” Dick, the more awake of them, asks, “aren’t you gonna yell at us?”

“As I said, you all know you are in trouble,” Bruce answers calmly, “but there’s going to be time for that tomorrow, at a more reasonable hour.” He suppresses a smile, “I am going to retrieve some blankets. It looks like you’re not going back to your rooms tonight.”

Dick looks around him, finding Tim already asleep and Jason yawning. He smiles, “you might be right. Thanks, B.”

Bruce nods, but as he leaves the room, a thought suddenly occurs to him, “oh, and Dick?”

A sleepy noise comes from the bed.

“You were all wrong.” Another inquisitive muttering, a little more awake now. “That shirt? It used to be mine. It was a special edition, confectioned after the moon-landing. You stole it from me.”

Shaking his head, Bruce prepares to leave, but a voice stops him just before the door closes, “I know, but you know the rules. If it’s down the Cave, it’s fair play.”

Laughter echoes quietly in the hallways at the Manor, bouncing off the walls and filling all the empty spaces.

*

[generallynerdy]

All I Ask of You (Bucky Barnes X Reader, TBT Special, Part 1)

Summary:  A Marvel High AU! Because that’s original! You, reader, have had a huge crush on Tony Stark, billionaire, playboy, jock, since the day you met him. Your best friends, Natasha and Bucky, have tried to convince you, since that very day, that he isn’t who you think he is. In a stroke of luck, your crush, your best friend, and yourself end up cast as one of the most historic theater love triangles; Christine, The Phantom, and Raoul. Dealing with a bad past, living with your best friend, having to share a bed with said best friend, and also finding out a secret about the same friend that has to do with you were not on your list of ideal events this year.

Key: (Y/N)-your name

Today’s Playlist: Literally the entire Phantom of the Opera Soundtrack. But mostly the main theme, All I Ask of You, and Past the Point of No Return.

Cast: YOU! Bucky (James) Buchanan Barnes, Tony Stark, and basically every other MCU Avengers Character. (Note: I wrote this a long time ago, so some characters weren’t in the MCU at the time)

Warnings: Language, Extreme Overload of Theater Kid-ness, Bad Poetry

Status: Complete

Note: *Cringe* Okay so this was one of the first one-shots I EVER wrote, so I decided to post it as a Throwback Thursday type thing and I’m sort of regretting that. Screw it! Imma post it anyway.

    As a theater kid with singing abilities, it was my sworn duty to audition for my high school’s rendition of The Phantom of the Opera. What I didn’t expect was for both my crush and my best friend to audition as well. What was even more surprising was when we all landed the main roles.

    James was Raoul, Tony was Erik, and I landed Christine.

    This should be fun.

    I gasped as Nat pulled the cast list away from my face, smirking. “Congrats, (Y/N). Should be an interesting show.” I ripped the cast list from her hand and reread the list of characters multiple times as Nat’s expression only became smugger.

    “There is no way!” I looked at her for confirmation.

    “Yes, way.” Nat nodded. “You, the biggest playboy known to Marvel High, and your childhood best friend, who swore he couldn’t sing, by the way, landed the most historic love triangle in theater history.”

    “I wouldn’t say the most historic,” I mumbled under my breath.

    Nat ignored my comment, “Not to mention that the playboy just happens to be your crush of a few years, though I have no idea why.”

    “Natasha Romanoff,” I chided, “You have no right to judge my choice of men.”

    She gave me another smug look and raised her eyebrows, “No, but I can judge your choice of boy.”

    I found James right after school. He had been avoiding me all day, but I had my ways. Steve was quick to take my bribe.

    Steve blocked James from exiting out the back door of the school, where we usually left school together. I smirked to myself, knowing that if Nat were here she’d slap the back of James’ head for such a stupid move.

    “C’mon, Steve, please just let me out.” James groaned, begging.

    Steve shook his head loyally, arms crossed. “Sorry, Buck, you know I can’t do that.”

    James sighed, “What’s she giving you this time?”

    Steve glanced at his feet but didn’t reply. I took this as my cue and turned the corner into the hall. “Brownies.”

    James turned, frowning in defeat. Steve regained his confidence and relaxed a little, “You still need me, (Y/N)?”

    I smiled at him. “Nope. He should stick around now. Thanks for your help, Cap.” I used his schoolwide nickname and gave a little salute. As captain of the football (American, sadly), it was appropriate. He rolled his eyes and walked out.

    “So, Bucky-” I said dramatically, walking slowly toward my best friend. “Raoul, huh?”

    He sighed, “Uh huh…”

    I paused and we sat in silence. Then I burst out, ignoring my earlier decorum, “You should’ve told me!”

    He smiled, knowing that I wouldn’t be angry for long. “I’m not sorry. I don’t think I’m that great, anyway.”

    I scoffed, “Said every talented person ever.” He rubbed his neck self consciously until I grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him. Well, as best I could his strength. “SHOW ME!!”

    Bucky smiled devilishly, “You’ll have to wait ‘til practice.” He started toward the door.

    I frowned at the sing-song way he said it and followed him out the door, intending to continue bugging him about it. Unfortunately, the moment we stepped outside, Bucky broke into a run. I sighed and chased after him.

    We did this often as our sort of daily exercise, though Buck and I still ran with Steve and Sam sometimes. As football players, it was their duty. And me? I just don’t like being left behind.

    I was practically hopping up and down in my chair when the first practice began. I stopped when Tony walked in, though, because I didn’t want to make a fool of myself.

    Our director split us up into three groups. About one-third of the cast, including Tony, hadn’t seen the movie and were sent to watch it. Another third had seen the movie but needed to refresh their memory of the songs. Bucky surprised me by being in the final group with me.

    Since our group was ready to begin practice, our director assigned us songs to work on. She wanted us to work on duet or group members since we had the whole cast today. Tony and the others I had numbers with hadn’t watched the movie yet, so I could only work with Bucky. I didn’t mind, though. In fact, I was ecstatic.

    “Sing! Sing! Sing!” I chanted, waltzing circles around Bucky in the practice room.

    He chuckled, “(Y/N), I don’t even know what to sing.”

    I scoffed, “Raoul only has a couple big numbers with Christine.” I pointed to myself. “How about we try All I Ask of You?”

    He blushed a little, “Really? The romantic one?”

    I rolled my eyes, “Wow, Buck. Can’t even pretend to be in love with your best friend.” I taunted his acting abilities, hoping that he would give in.

    “Fine.”

    I cheered and hugged him around the neck. After setting up our music on my phone (Bucky had a flip phone, the old soul), we prepared to sing.

    Bucky took a deep breath from where he stood, opposite me. “No more talk of darkness-” He blushed when he noticed my jaw drop. With that silky smooth voice, he should’ve been on Broadway by now. It took him a moment to get the right key and he didn’t sing very loudly, but it was still impressive.

    “Forget these wide-eyed fears-” I zoned out a little, listening to his voice and his verse passed quickly. “I’m here with you, beside you, to guard you and to guide you.”

    I cleared my throat and began to sing. “Say you love me every waking moment-” Bucky smiled brightly at hearing my voice and I blushed deeply. He really knew had to make a girl feel great about herself.

    The song was over much faster than I wanted and Bucky had to go work on another number.

    I heard slow clapping behind me and turned to find Tony there. “Damn.”

    “H-How long have you-”

    He smiled, “Just caught the last verse. You have a pretty voice, (Y/N), is it?”

    I nodded, blushing. “T-Thanks.”

    “Actually, I’ve had my eye on you for a while now, weird as it sounds.” He said, causing my heart to skip a beat. “I was wondering if you want to hang out sometime?”

    My heart caught in my chest, “S-Sure!”

    Tony’s smile brightened, “Great!” He handed me a slip of paper with some digits on it. “Call me.”

    With that, he was gone. And I was dead.

    “HE WHAT?!”

    I giggled at Nat as she tripped in her ballet shoes after hearing my news. “He invited me to hang out with him.”

    “(Y/N), you can’t!” She exclaimed, standing once again.

    I put my hands on my hips, “And why not?”

    “Well for one,” Nat counted on her hand, “He’s sexist, a jerk, a playboy, and the only good things about him are his looks and money.”

    “You forgot the genius part, Nat,” I added, frustrated.

    She snorted, “Maybe in the classroom. He isn’t very street smart.”

    I sighed, “Nat, could you please be a little supportive?”

    “No! You’re going to get hurt, (Y/N), and as your friend, it’s my job to prevent that!”

    I clenched my fists. “I know what I’m doing, Nat! Stop trying to replace my mother!” I suddenly grew furious with her. Any other day I wouldn’t have been so upset.

    Nat’s expression immediately formed into sorrow and regret. “Shit, it’s today, isn’t it-? (Y/N)!”

    My vision grew clouded with angry tears as I stormed off, heaving my backpack onto my shoulder.

    I had stopped by the ballet/dance room to tell Nat what had happened and was now forced to walk the entire length of the school before leaving. This subjected me to inevitably pass every one of my friends.

    I first passed two of my teachers, Mr. Fury and Miss Hill. I noticed the latter look at me sympathetically while Fury kept a stoic expression.

    I then almost ran into Vision, who looked on confused. No one knew his real name. We just called him Vision because of his, and I quote, “insight into the vast world around us”.

    I stormed past the art room, barely giving Wanda any time to realize I was there. Bruce was too caught up in his work to notice me enter and leave the lab, where Tony would be if we hadn’t had practice today.

    Most of the guys were outside, in the exact direction I was leaving.

    Thor was on his way to football practice. “(Y/N)!” I ignored him. “Perhaps now is not a good time…” He mumbled to himself.

    Once outside, I passed T’challa and Scott Lang, who both looked confused, but decided not to pry.

    Pietro was running around the track before he noticed me and ran alongside me. “(Y/N), are you-?” He was cut off by a field goal who decided to sneak up on him.

    “(Y/N)!” I heard three voices call me. They had to be Bucky, Steve, and Sam. I was just as fast as them if I pushed myself, so I burst into a full-on sprint.

    I ignored Clint’s protest, then worry and confusion when he almost shot me with an arrow as I ran in front of his targets.

    I finally reached the school’s front gate and, instead of opening it like a normal person, hopped over it with little effort. Sam couldn’t jump the gate, so he would probably stop there while Buck and Steve continued. I continued my mad dash into the city and started to cross the street. Unfortunately, idiots weren’t rare on the roads.

    I stood like a deer in headlights as a black truck sped toward me. I thought for sure it was over until I was knocked to the side and the air from my lungs escaped me entirely. I felt myself land hard on the concrete. My ears rang and my head throbbed, but I managed to stand. Steve was rubbing his temples, kneeling near the ground where I had just been. I saw him and immediately began to run again. They couldn’t help me.

    I kept running as the noises and pain overwhelmed me. My ears rang, my head throbbed, and my entire right side cried out in pain. The engines and honking of the cars, the roar of voice, and basic sounds of the city contained my mind.

    I needed quiet. I need to think and I needed to breathe. I needed my mother.

    He found me under the cherry tree by the lake about 5 miles from the city. The plot of land belonged to my father. I hadn’t seen him for years and I didn’t care to either. I had always been afraid that he would come back to find me and haunt me. The last time he had been in the city was to bury my mother under the same cherry tree I sat below, 8 years ago to the day.

    Since then, I had been living in Bucky’s apartment. As long as he could remember, it had just been him. He had always survived on his own. My mother and I were some of the few people to help him along and Bucky felt it was his duty to return the favor.

    He approached silently and sat down next to me, criss-cross style. The only noise I heard from him was a quiet sigh as we gazed silently at the dead roses that drooped near the cherry tree’s trunk. They were the only marker of my mother’s existence besides myself and a couple old pictures. I had never changed out the roses. To be honest, it was a miracle they hadn’t blown away yet.

    We sat in silence for a few moments before Bucky put his hand on my knee calmly, which I could tell meant that he was there for me and he wanted to help. I gave in and hugged him, sniffling.

    “She’s just being careful, you know?” He sighed, “She’s just trying to take care of you.”

    I grunted.

    “Yeah, she could be more supportive, I agree, but you can’t blame her too much for taking care of you.”

    I sighed, exasperated.

    “She couldn’t have known it was today.”

    I was silent.

    “I know you’re sorry, (Y/N), but she doesn’t. Can you apologize to her? Please? That’s all I’m asking.”

    I whined a little, mumbling something.

    Bucky laughed, “Fine, home first. Nat second.”

    I smiled a little and he stood. Bucky always understood what I was trying to say, even if it wasn’t with words. He reached for my hand to help me up and I gladly took it.

    “C’mon, (Y/N). Let’s go home.”

    “Bucky?” I mumbled, turning from my side of the bed to face him.

    “Hm?” He murmured, eyes still closed and ignoring me from his side of the bed. Yes, we shared a bed. No, it was not romantic. It was completely platonic and friendly. As orphans, and two teens who couldn’t land great jobs because of our age, we didn’t have a lot of money for anything other than necessities.

We were working on getting two separate beds, but things had been slow since Bucky lost his job at Baskin Robbins when it closed down. I hadn’t held a job for months thanks to Bucky’s insisting he could handle the bills by himself, which was utterly ridiculous. So, I planned on putting out a job application to a couple places soon.

“Is Tony a jerk?” I asked, nervous about our ‘date’ the next day.

Bucky opened one eye, sighing. “(Y/N), do you think he’s a jerk?”

“No..?”

“Does he make you happy?”

“B-Buck!” I got a little embarrassed talking about it.

He rolled his now open eyes, “I’m not asking much, (Y/N), just that. Does he make you happy?”

“I-I guess so..I haven’t had enough interaction with him to tell, I think.” I answered slowly, trying to decipher my feelings.

“That’s all that matters,” Bucky said simply before sighing and closing his eyes again. “Now I want to sleep, (Y/N), so leave me alone.”

I scoffed, “You are such a grouch, Bucky.”

He grunted like an old man, “Yeah, you meddling kid, now get off my property!”

I burst into giggles and closed my eyes, too. “‘Night, Buck.”

“Sleep tight, (Y/N).”

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” I teased.

“That doesn’t work on me anymore. I’m not eight.”

“Aww, dang it.”

So Tony and I went on our date and had an amazing time- beyond amazing. We went out a couple times after that, thus becoming what we teens like to call ‘a thing’. At least I think that’s what we’re calling it still? I dunno, it changes all the time. I guess you could say he was my bae if you really want to call your significant other crap in Danish.

Natasha tried to convince me that he was an asshole, constantly piling recordings and quotes onto my desk at school. Bucky, however much he despised Tony Stark, was respectful and gave me my own space.

“How can you just sit while she gets hurt?!” Nat yelled at him furiously.

Bucky put a hand on her shoulder to stop her pacing and freaking out, “Nat, chill. He hasn’t hurt her yet.”

“Yet!” Nat exclaimed, “But we both know he will, James Buchanan Barnes!”

He rolled his eyes, “She’s capable of taking care of herself, Nat. If things get bad, she’ll get herself out. As friends, we’ll get her out of trouble when she needs it, but it isn’t our place to tell her who she should and shouldn’t date. Besides, we shouldn’t assume he’s going to hurt her just because he’s... imperfect. No one is perfect, you know.”

Nat scoffed, “You really want to bring him down, don’t you.”

Bucky glanced around the room as if looking for someone, then sighed. “Fine, yes.”

Nat smiled devilishly, “Got a plan, lover boy?”

“L-Lover boy?” He stammered, “Where did that come from?”

“I think you know.” She said, before clearing her throat. “Anyway, plan?”

Bucky sighed, “Just gather all the evidence you’ve got and wait awhile until he...makes a dumb move. Then I’ll tell you what to do.”

“So in other words, wait ‘til she catches him making out with some other girl?”

Note:

I’m not sure when I’ll post Part 2, probably the next time I get a Thursday post. If everything turns out right, that should be not next week, but the week after. Anyway, thanks for reading!

Part 2 is here!!

Requests are always open!

[letspretendfictionpressworks]

body language 13

I’m not the sort to be full of energy. It’s like I have a defective battery operating me, and instead of lasting a full day, every action I do saps up ten percent of its total charge. Taking an order from a customer at work takes up ten percent, going to the convenience store uses ten percent, holding a lengthy conversation takes ten percent. The only way to recharge that battery once it’s depleted is to sleep.

  That’s the only reason I can figure why I took a nap naked and without a shower in Trevor’s bed. I ran through my battery talking to Trevor, playing board games, and our sexual activities. I needed a recharge.

  I yawn as I sit up and then I cringe. I can feel the sheet sticking to the backs of my legs, and I know I am going to need a shower immediately.

  Trevor is also sleeping, his dark brown hair tangled in his eyelashes and splayed over his pillow. He looks peaceful, and I hate to bother him.

  But I want a shower.

  I bite my lip as I contemplate the problem. It’s awkward to use someone’s shower without permission, especially since I don’t have any supplies. I’ll have to use his shampoo, his body wash. But it’s also awkward to wake him up. It feels personal, and I don’t know that we really have that sort of intimacy with one another.

  But I want a shower.

  I lean over to gently nudge Trevor’s shoulder.

  “Mmwha?” he mumbles, not even opening his eyes.

  “Can I use your bathroom?”

  “Yeah,” he mutters.

  I decide I should clarify. “To shower?”

  “Yeah,” he mutters again.

  I slip out of the bed and gather up my rumpled clothes from the living room floor. I find his bathroom and drop the clothes on the closed toilet seat and turn on the tap, let the water warm, and step into it.

  I’m trying to use my hands to scrub off the slime from my legs when I hear the door open. I’m not having a lot of luck getting it off, but I don’t have anything other than my fingers to use. I’m not using Trevor’s pouf.

  The sound causes me to pause. “Trevor?”

  He opens the shower curtain enough to peek in at me. “Mind if I join you?”

  I blink. “Um. I’m…”

  He waits for an answer patiently.

  “I’m almost done,” I hedge. “Just a minute.”

  “I’m fine with just a minute,” he presses.

  I’m not. I’m still frustrated from how hard it is to clean myself with nothing but soap and my own hands that I almost snap that at him. “I’ll get cleaner without a distraction.”

  He looks hurt, but this time, I don’t retract my words. I like personal space, and the shower is one place where I definitely want it.

  “Okay,” he says. “I’ll just wait until you’re done.”

  He looks like he’s hoping I’ll change my mind. When I don’t, he backs away and leaves the bathroom.

  It takes me more than a minute, like I told Trevor. I think it takes me close to ten to completely scrub myself that I no longer feel so miserably disgusting.

  I dry myself and put on my clothes. They’re rumpled, but it doesn’t bother me, and I don’t exactly have any other options. I used a finger and some of Trevor’s toothpaste to clean out my mouth as best as I can.

  When I finally return to Trevor’s bedroom, it’s to an odd sight.

  Trevor is standing on his bed, his feet sinking into the plush of the mattress, and he’s fiddling with what looks like a corkboard. I don’t think I remember there being a corkboard over the bed before I left for my shower, so this must be some sort of project he took on in the past few minutes.

  I creep closer, curious. And then my curiosity seeps into morbid fascination.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  He jumps, startled. He glances at me before pushing another pushpin into the board, straight through the center of a packaged condom. Trevor is hanging condoms up over his bed like a teenager might plaster band posters or selfies.

  He gestures for me to hand him another from the box on his bedside table. Bemused, I do. I watch as he tacks it up. Then, he answers, “Figured it’d be easier if I could just reach up and grab one.”

  I nod, but it’s more a bewildered gesture than one of understand—but then, I do understand.

  “Are you—”

  My morbid fascination bleeds into horror.

  I try again, “Are you planning on using those?”

  Trevor gestures for me to hand him yet another. Warily, I do. Then, he says, “Well, yeah. Like I said, figured it’d be easier if they were within easy reach.”

  “But…” I drift off, unsure how to even begin to vocalize my thoughts. “But what’s the point?”

  It’s Trevor who looks bemused now. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re… Well, they’re useless now. The ones you pinned,” I clarify, gesturing towards his corkboard.

  He looks between it and me, clearly not understanding what I’m saying.

  I can’t believe I need to say it at all.

  “If you puncture them,” I say slowly, trying to figure out if Trevor is playing stupid, “they’re pointless to use.”

  Trevor again looks between the pinned condoms and me. After several head swivels, he looks at me and asks, “What’s the point anyway?”

  I’m not sure I know what he means.

  “Of condoms,” he clarifies.

  Now, I’m really not sure I know what he means.

  “For gay sex,” he clarifies further. “Pregnancy isn’t an issue, right? So…”

  He drifts off so I can answer, but I am marveling at him. He seems good at that—I’ve marveled at him more times than perhaps anyone else. Again, I briefly wonder if he’s playing stupid. When he continues to look at me, expectantly, awaiting an answer, I decide that no, he’s not playing stupid.

  “Um,” I say eloquently. And then, just as articulate: “Well.”

  I pause and think about how to answer him. He takes that as cue to continue, “I mean, if two guys don’t have a chance of an unwanted pregnancy, do we actually need these?”

  He gestures at the pinned condoms, and I automatically say, “No.”

  He nods, satisfied, and I realize he’s once more misunderstood me.

  I try to rectify this. “Not those. Those are useless now. But they do have a purpose, even in gay sex. I mean, STDs exist in gay couples. That’s why AIDs was so rampant years ago.”

  Or so I’ve heard. Who the hell am I to give a sexual history lesson?

  Trevor looks baffled and I am exasperated by it. I feel that defective battery draining. I’m going to need another nap by the end of this conversation.

  “I don’t have any STDs,” he tells me. “I’m clean.”

  I debate how to answer. My sexual history is something I’m not sure I have the energy to bring up right now. Or ever.

  “It’s just… safer,” I tell him, weary.

  Trevor looks at the condoms he’s tacked up. “So these are basically trash now?”

  “Yeah.”

  He looks disappointed. “I thought it would save us time. And that way, they wouldn’t get lost.”

  I’m not sure I want to know how someone can lose a condom. A brief image of the dark underside of his couch flashes into my mind, and I push it away and correct myself—I never want to know how Trevor can lose a condom.

  “Alright, well.” He heaves an aggrieved sigh. “I suppose I can find another use for this.”

  He stares at the corkboard for another long moment before hopping off his bed. “I’m going to shower.”

  I nod, he leaves, and I try to figure out what to do with myself. I am not sitting on the bed, when the sheets are filthy from our unwashed, post-coital bodies. I decide to move to the living room and hesitantly sit on the couch. It’s only then that I realize that there are still half empty take out containers, bowls of snacks, and our Scrabble game scattered across the floor. The tiles are no longer neatly placed on the board, but a jumbled mess.

  I decide to do something useful and start to tidy up. I put the game back into its box. I open the containers of take out and try to guess if the food is still alright after roughly half a day without refrigeration. I almost place the bowls of popcorn and pretzels on the living room table before I remember how filthy it is—I’m sure there’s sweat from Trevor’s naked body all over it—and wipe it down thoroughly.

  “I didn’t mean for you to clean.”

  I look up at Trevor, hair wet and tousled, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.

  I feel awkward, like I’ve been caught doing something illicit. “I didn’t want to put food on it.”

  Trevor’s eyebrows furrow. “Why not?”

  “Well, because…” I gesture towards him, but that merely confuses him more. So I say, “I’d say it’s pretty dirty after you sat on it, naked.”

  Trevor shrugs. “I suppose.”

  “So it should be cleaned,” I press.

  Trevor shrugs again. “Well, I mean… does it matter if it’s dirty?”

  I stare at him.

  And he continues, “It’s not like I lick the table or anything.”

  “But you put food on it that you intend to put in your mouth.”

  “Yes,” Trevor agrees. “But it’s on a plate or whatever. The plate is sort of like a protective barrier. Why worry about a dirty table if the plate is clean?”

  I think I feel myself slowly working towards a stroke. “Have you ever cleaned your coffee table?”

  “No,” he says. I feel my face spasm against my will, and he hurries to say, “It’s been cleaned before. Just not by me.”

  I take a moment to concentrate on my breathing—in, out, in, out—to avoid having a meltdown. I never put a lot of thought into it, but I suppose I appreciate cleanliness. Tidiness is not always required, but I need spaces to be regularly disinfected.

  When I feel calm enough to do so, I say, “Do you have any intentions to clean your bed clothes? The sheets, especially?”

  Trevor looks at me with the level of confusion I would expect him to if I had just spewed out an extremely long tongue twister in Swahili. He sounds equal parts puzzled and offended when he asks, “Is there something wrong with my sheets?”

  “They’re— We— I—”

  I stop and focus again on breathing—in, out, in, out—while I try to organize my visceral reaction into a more cohesive reply.

  “They’re going to be pretty dirty,” I say, “after having sex on them. The lubrication, especially, will have gotten all over everything. We took a nap, afterwards, too. When I woke up, the sheets were sticking to me.”

  “Sticking to you?” Trevor repeats. “Why would they— Ohhhh.”

  Finally, he gets it.

  “Yeah,” he admits, “I guess we should have washed up afterwards. Next time, we’ll shower before our nap?”

  He poses it as a question. I shrug. “Sure.”

  And so, I wipe down the table as Trevor gathers up his bed clothes and sets to washing them.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks when we’ve both finished. “I’m starving.”

  I shrug.

  “I’ll get more takeout,” he tells me. “How about some pizza? I’ll pay.”

  “Sure.”

  Trevor looks at me suspiciously. “You’re okay with me paying?”

  “Yeah.”

  Trevor eyes me, as though waiting for me to change my mind. I won’t, though. I don’t know how to have friendships, not really. It’s with an exhausted sort of relief that I accept whatever sort of relationship we have, it’s stepped over a line into something sexual. Those sorts of relationships, I know what to expect.

  I was a prostitute. I am used to being paid for sex. While I don’t expect Trevor to hand me a wad of cash, it feels more natural to allow him to pay for things for me.

  I don’t know how to explain that to Trevor. I don’t know if I should explain that to Trevor. I don’t like thinking about things I’ve done or that have happened to me in the past, and I’m not ready to bring them up now, simply because Trevor is curious why I’m okay with his paying for our pizza.

  But he doesn’t push. He takes out his cellphone and orders pizza, tells me it’ll be here in twenty minutes.

  “We could do something else,” he tells me. I watch in confusion as he lowers himself to the ground.

  “Um,” I say. “Like what?”

  “Well,” Trevor says, as he starts to do pushups, “anything, really. Could play more games if you want. Watch a movie. Would you rather go out?”

  I hate going out if I don’t have to. I may complain about how I have no social life and spend my time off of work playing the role of hermit, but I actually glean a sick pleasure from it most days.

  It’s the fact that I have no other option than act the part of hermit that made me feel bitter about it, I suppose. Although Trevor is helping to soothe that kernel of bitterness, in a way. At least I have options for how I spend my free time now.

  “I’d rather stay in,” I tell him, watching as he continues to do pushups.

  “Well,” he says, “I have a few other board games we can break out.”

  “It doesn’t…” I wasn’t going to ask, but as I drift off, distracted by him, I cannot stop myself. “What are you doing?”

  “Pushups.” He says it matter-of-fact, as though it were obvious. And yes, literally, I understand what he’s doing. It’s more the part about—

  “Why?”

  He pauses mid-motion, his chin barely an inch from the ground, his back and legs straight, arms at a perfect angle. He tilts his head to look at me. “Why not?”

  I’m not actually sure how to answer that, so I say nothing.

  “Don’t you ever just get the itch to move?” he asks, resuming his pushups. “Besides, these are easier than burpees.”

  I can’t say I have, and I can’t argue what is or is not easier than a burpee when I don’t even know what it is. So, I watch quietly. Trevor continues his spontaneous exercising until the doorbell buzzes. Only then does he jump to his feet.

  He lays the pizza down on the living room table and fetches us plates.

  “I have Monopoly,” Trevor tells me.

  I’ve never played, so I decide there’s no harm in trying.

  ***

  I decide I hate Monopoly.

  I have not been trying. I have not been doing anything other than the bare minimum required of me—purchase landmarks I land on, pay for ones I land on that are not mine, collect $200 to pass “go.”

  It has been three hours.

  And I think it will be another three before this game ends.

  My eyes are glazing over. Trevor is some sort of super trooper, and he’s still enthusiastically playing. I’m not sure why I haven’t tapped out yet. I still have several thousand dollars, Trevor has just as much, and I didn’t previously think it was possible, but I think this game is going to sap my sanity from me. It’s already drained me of all my energy.

  But on and on we play, the minutes ticking by. I place the metal cat in “jail” and sigh, resting my head on the back of the couch. This time, Trevor didn’t insist we spread across the floor to play. I’m glad. The couch, despite the terrors under its cushions, is quite comfortable and…

  Trevor nudges me, and I jerk awake.

  “Tired?” he asks me.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep. I…”

  “It’s late,” Trevor says, glancing at his cellphone to check the time. “Almost midnight. Stay the night?”

  He asks it so casually, like someone asking what my favorite color is.

  “Oh, sure.”

  He turns to me then and places a kiss on my neck. “I really liked having sex with you,” he admits against my skin. “I was almost afraid it would hurt or something.”

  “It hurts if you don’t know how to do it,” I tell him.

  “Good thing you know what you’re doing.” He kisses my neck again. “I especially liked… well… I’m surprised how much I liked the first part.”

  I’m not sure why. Is he surprised because it was the first time another guy went down on him? I want to tell him that a blowjob is a blowjob—a mouth is the same regardless of whose it is—but I curb the comment.

  Besides, I think he’s telling me this for a reason.

  I don’t want to ask, but a quick glance at the boardgame makes plain my choices: sex or more Monopoly.

  I will never choose Monopoly.

  “Do you want me to do it again?” I ask.

  “Please,” Trevor breathes against my ear.

  I pull back, and so does Trevor.

  “Are you going to punch me this time?” I ask warily.

  “That was— No, of course not,” Trevor says quickly. “You just… took me by surprise. I’m sorry I did that.”

  “Condom,” I say.

  Trevor blinks at me.

  I sigh. “Did you leave the rest of the box in your bedside table?”

  He confirms and goes to fetch a condom. I decide to follow him to make sure he’s actually grabbing an undamaged one from the box, and not one of the ones that are still pinned above his bed. He takes a seat on the edge of his bed. I wait a second to see if Trevor will undress himself, and quietly sigh when it’s clear he wants me to do it.

  I am tired, so I merely unbutton his jeans, pull down the zipper, and reach into the opening of his boxers to pull free an already-hardening erection. I make a point of pinching the tip of the condom as I put it on. And then, I get to work.

  It isn’t long before I feel his muscles spasming with an orgasm and pull back.

  “One sec,” I say, stumbling to my feet and going to his bathroom to use my finger again as a makeshift toothbrush and clean out my mouth.

  When I return, I take a seat next to him on the bed. And then, I allow myself to fall back onto it, my legs still dangling over the edge.

  “You didn’t punch me this time,” I mumble.

  Trevor ducks his head as he tosses the tied off, used condom into a small trash bin near his bed.

  “It felt different with the condom,” he tells me. “A little less intense. Still good, though,” he tacks on hastily, as though he feels he’s insulted my performance.

  I make a noncommittal noise, my eyes drifting shut.

  I think Trevor tells me something about sleepwear, but I don’t know what the question was.

  Then, Trevor nudges me. I wake with a start and sit up.

  “What?” I mumble, rubbing my eyes. The bedroom light seems suddenly so blindingly bright.

  Trevor is standing next to the bed in a sleeveless shirt and shorts. I peer at him.

  “I’m going for my daily run,” he tells me. “Wanna come with?”

  “You…” I am still half asleep, too muddled to process what he’s telling me. “You do a daily run at midnight?”

  “No, at four-thirty.”

  Four-thirty. The numbers don’t make any sense to me.

  “In… the morning?” I clarify.

  “Of course, sleepyhead. You wanna come with?”

  I’m still trying to figure out where four hours of my life went. But then I finally take note of the fact that I’m under a blanket. I’m laying fully on Trevor’s bed, no longer dangling off the edge.

  “You moved me while I was sleeping,” I realize aloud.

  “A little, yeah. Just moved you so I could cover you up,” Trevor tells me.

  I suppose I was more tired than I thought if I didn’t wake up at all.

  “So what about it?” Trevor asks.

  “I… guess so,” I say. “But I don’t have anything to wear.”

  Trevor is already moving to his dresser, pulling out another pair of shorts and a sleeveless top. He chucks them at me. “You can borrow some of mine.”

  Well… okay.

  I yawn as I stumble out of bed and fumble into the new change of clothing. They’re a little large on me. I’m not exactly short for a guy, but I’m also not tall. Average, I suppose. Maybe on the shorter side of average. Regardless, Trevor’s clothes are a little long on me, and a little loose, but they stay on alright.

  “Ready?” Trevor asks, overly enthusiastic.

  “Yeah,” I mumble. I follow him through the living room. He grabs a bottle of water and straps it to his leg, on some sort of holster under his shorts.

  I marvel at the contraption.

  He smiles that soft smile. “We can finish our game when we get back.”

  I’m baffled. Then, he gestures at the living room table where Monopoly still sits, undisturbed from last night.

  “Right,” I say, and he leads the way to the door. I make sure to accidentally stumble and bump the table to make the game go sprawling all across the floor.

  “Oh, sorry,” I say.

  “Just how tired are you?” Trevor asks, laughing. “Ah, well. We can start a new game or something.”

  I will do everything in my power to make sure it’s that “or something.”

  When we step out of Trevor’s apartment building, he halts. “Alright, so now we need to stretch.”

  He starts swinging his arms. I’m not sure why his arms need to be stretched out if he’s running.

  “Like this,” he instructs, likely assuming that I have yet to follow his lead because I don’t know how to do the stretch.

  I half-heartedly move my arms. Trevor guides us through twenty minutes of stretches. After three, I realize how chilly it is outside and start shivering.

  “You won’t even feel the cold once we get going,” Trevor promises. “You’ll be sweating buckets.”

  I am unconvinced.

  When he’s done with his stretch regime, he finally says, “Alright, time to go.”

  Perhaps I am an idiot. Perhaps I am used to seeing casual joggers on the sidewalk. Perhaps I assumed when Trevor said “run” he meant something close to what those joggers did.

  Regardless, I am startled when Trevor tears off at high-speed. I almost expect to see a dust cloud trailing in his wake.

  I’m finally awake and thinking clearly, and I am definitely regretting this decision.

[angeleyesgilly]

↬ Normal.

●Setting: Lola's Foster Home, July 2014.

●❝It's too cold outside, for angels to fly.❞

●Trigger Warnings: Abandonmnet, mentions of death.

Gillian was getting used to her angelic powers powers, slowly but surely, enough so she was capable of getting a hang of the tactic where she could remain unseen by a person. That was the one she used as she waited outside the house her little sister was in. After checking through the windows for the accommodations of her sister, she settled for waiting outside the bedroom window of Lola. She was watching carefully, waiting for the right moment to take her sister back. She knew her time was short. Any time the asylum could use their spell to call them back, and she’d have to get her sister before then.

She watched carefully as Lola walked into the room, and Gillian’s form immediately perked up. Her sister didn’t look bad. She wasn’t starved, her hair was brushed and she was dressed, in pajamas at least. That made sense. It was getting dark and it was more than late enough for the child to be in bed. She watched carefully as the foster mom they’d provided her with tucked Lola into bed. Lola didn’t seem as warm with the woman as she did Gillian, but she smiled at her all the same.

Gillian tried to imagine Lola in the room with her and Leo, the demon she was bunking with. She pictured the bright sunshine that was Lola tucked in the dank white walls of the asylum, curled up on a bed with Gillian because she surely wouldn’t have her own, and deprived of the normal human interaction, of anything that she’d need.

The image was not a kind one. She tried to picture her adjusting to a life of creatures, ones who weren’t all friendly, ones who’d love the aspect of an innocent human child. She cringed a little. Her gaze shifted around the room Lola was in, it was normal. She had her own bed. A dresser decorated with princess stickers, a few books on a shelf. It wasn’t perfect. But it was normal.

Normal.

The words played over and over in her head. And she realized she would never have this again, not until she was freed. She would be deprived of that in the asylum, she’d never see places like this again. No humans, no normal interactions, no more normal life. She wouldn’t go to school, wouldn’t see her two jobs again. Normal wasn’t real for her anymore.

But it was for Lola.That truth was more painful than the blade that had pressed into her gut. Thinking about it, as usual brought on the mannerism that had her lifting her hand to her stomach. She’d gotten better, she didn’t cringe away from the thoughts anymore. Sometimes, when she’d wake up, she’d still hold her stomach and check for bloody hands, but she quickly realize the warmth of crimson no longer stained her hands.

However she was certain that this pain was a different one. It was one where her heart seemed to twist in her ribs. She knew it wasn’t real, but she knew that the realization meant she was going to have to feel the painful throbbing in her chest a little more. Finally, she noticed the lights go off in the home and gave one more perimeter sweep that told her the foster parents were in bed. She rounded back to her watching post, and closed her eyes, summoning on another power, materialization.

In a moment, she was no longer outside, bearing weather that no longer affected her. Now, she was inside. The house was warmer. That was good. It was comforting Lola was keeping warm. Slowly, she lifted the invisibility, just so that Lola could see her. She wasn’t betting on the woman coming back, or the man she lived with, but she had to be careful. Her appearance could spark questions.

Her steps were careful, quiet. She could walk like that now, like a cat, without making a sound, at least until she reached the bed, which she gently sat upon. After taking a breath, she reached down and gently brushed Lola’s shoulder. “Pumpkin,” she mumbled the affection nickname she had for her. She wanted to stir her, but not in a way that would completely clue her in.

“Gilly,” a sleepy murmur, one alone that made Gillian’s heart leap. There was a sudden alarm on the girl’s face that seemed to take place of the sleepy impression on it, and the familiar eyes flew open not long after it set in. “Gilly!” She exclaimed, and in a split second, Lola’s arms were wrapped tightly around her. Another painful assault of feelings took her. But she didn’t take time at all to wrap her arms around the child and gently place a kiss on her head.

“Is this a dream?” Lola’s familiar voice had a lot of glee in it.

“Perhaps,” Gillian said softly, not quite ready to let go of the child she’d longed to hold.

“Where have you been Gilly? Are you an angel? This really nice lady says you’re an angel now,” Lola chattered on curiously. A pang in her chest. She knew what it meant. Whoever it was that had said that Gillian was an angel because she was dead. She imagined that Lola didn’t quite grasp the concept of death. But the truth was Gillian was an angel, a real one. “Have you seen Katie?”

That pulled another heartstring. Kate, affectionately nicknamed Katie by those who loved her. Of course that’d been what they’d said about Kate too. That she was an angel now. But Gillian hadn’t seen her about anywhere. That was the most heartbreaking part of it. Of all the people she’d want to see in death Kate was one of them.“Nevermind that,” she said softly, smiling a little. “How are you, are they treating you nicely?” Gillian asked, though by the looks of it, she could tell that they did.

“They treat me really nicely, and Sharon is a really good cook. And I made a friend at preschool,” Lola spiraled on about her life now, about the normality that Gillian knew she would have in this world, and it only made Gillian’s decision that much more final.

“That’s really good, I’m happy pumpkin, I really am,” Gillian said, looking away from the child for a moment to hide the fact that her eyes were watering, and there was a lump forming in her throat.

“Will you read to me?” Lola asked softly, ignorant to the pain Gillian kept so well concealed from her. Gillian to a moment, swallowing the pain and nodded a little.

“What shall we be reading?” Gillian asked, though she was certain she already knew the answer. It was an easy one to figure out, knowing Lola as she did.

“Cinderella, Gilly,” Lola was off the bed, away from Gillian’s side and over to the shelf. In a few moment, she had the book off of it and was handing it over to Gillian. The same copy she’d read to her so many times before. She’d kept it. Another little piece of her broke as she thought of all the memories that came with it.

“Of course, how foolish of me to even ask such a question,” her voice was lighthearted, far more than it’d been in the last few weeks of her life. It was a lighthearted carefree-ness that only existed around Lola.

Gillian took the book and let Lola get situated, tucked under the crook of her arm with the book outstretched in front of them. Gillian started into the story, going over the familiar words one more time. She almost had them memorized as she read them to the child, speaking softly and looking over at Lola every now and then to see the happiness on her face. Just like old times, it was what Gillian needed so badly, all this time.

They were nearing the end of the story, but Gillian had taken her time and she couldn’t help but know that it wasn’t just the story was ending, it was this simple time with Lola, the time she’d needed so badly. And before she could fully grasp her emotions, she knew she was crying. She felt the warmth of salted tears brushing down over her face. She was no stranger to tears. Especially not in the last while. It seemed a lot of what she did was cry.“Why are you crying Gilly?” Lola’s attention turned from the book to look up at Gillian. Gillian reached up and brushed a tear from her face.

“The ending of this story is just getting to me more than usual today,” Gillian lied. She didn’t lie much to Lola, but this was a blatant one, but the child seemed to accept it just fine.

“But you told me that most stories don’t really end Gilly,” Lola’s voice was chipper as she spoke the words to Gillian. Gillian nodded a little, a wide grin resting on her lips despite the tears that seemed to fall a little faster down her face.

“That’s right,” Gillian confirmed. “They keep going on, because the characters and the lessons they share live inside of us,” she informed her, ignoring the tears as she pressed another kiss to Lola’s forehead before she finally had enough clarity of vision to continue reading. Once she had been able to relax herself enough, she kept reading through the story, eventually closing the book with a shaky breath as she set it on the nightstand.

“Do I have to go to sleep now?” Lola asked softly, her attention back on Gillian again.

“Are you tired?” Gillian asked softly.

“A little,” Lola said, and right on cue a yawn escaped the young girl. Gillian smiled weakly, brushing away a few more lingering tears.

“That’s alright, lay down,” Gillian told her softly. As per her instructions, Lola laid down beside her on the bed, curling into her side, her small head resting gently on one of Gillian’s legs. “Close your eyes.”

“Will you be here when I wake up?” Lola asked quietly. And Gillian brushed her hand through the fine hair of the child.

“Don’t worry about that, just don’t be too scared when you wake up,” Gillian told her softly, offering a small smile as she brushed her hands through Lola’s hair to soothe her. It was an action that more than often worked. When Lola was sick, Gillian would often take the day off work and stay home to pay attention to her.

“Okay Gilly,” Lola said quietly as she got as comfortable as she could. They stayed like that for a few moments, quiet. Gillian listened carefully to the sound of her breathing. For a while, it clearly showed that Lola was still awake, but soon enough, she was asleep, her breathing evening out.

Gillian found more tears coming to her eyes as she looked down at the child. One hand gently brushed over her cheek as she breathed out quietly, looking upon the peaceful features of the child. The tears were coming once more, and she knew that she’d regret her decision if she didn’t act quickly. After gently pressing her lips to Lola’s forehead, she closed her own eyes, forcing more tears down over her cheeks, taking a few moments to focus.

In a matter of seconds, she was outside again, back into the cold temperatures.

“Gillian,” Qhuinn’s voice caught her attention and she looked up at him carefully. 

“Where’s Lola?” He noticed the absence of the child of course.

“She’s inside,” Gillian said, the emotion in her voice more than evident.

“Well, we should get going soon, you should get her quickly,” he prompted.

“I’m not getting her, Qhuinn,” the words brought on more tears, and she quickly tried to hide her emotion by looking down.

“Why not?” There was clear confusion in his voice, of course he was confused, all she wanted was to find her sister.

“Because I think the biggest part, of being a parent that I learned was that, the child’s needs come before yours. I took on two jobs to make sure she had everything she needed to have a normal life. A good life. I gave up everything so she could have that. And this past while, all I’ve wanted was to get back to her, to find her again. To bring her back to me. But…it’s selfish. Because she can’t have normal in the asylum, she can’t have a life,” she whispered solemnly, the truth hurt so much more when it was being spoke out loud. “The best thing I can do, to protect that little girl right now is to let her go. I have to let her go,” with those words, the harshest of all truths, she was practically sobbing.

“Gill…” he trailed off, though she knew he couldn’t argue with her. She was right.

Gillian took a few steps towards him, a little unsure of her actions herself. She’d touched him before, was no longer terrified and filled with the dreaded anxiety each time her skin met his. There was still that base fear, the instinctive, subconscious fear, but she could overcome it with the select few people she’d grown to trust. But this was different, completely different. And there was no holding back when she reached out and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her head against his chest. It took a second, what she assumed was a stunned one for his arms to wrap around her, but when they did, they held her quivering form as she sobbed as quietly as she could manage.

[captusmomentum]

A Mirror Darkly Chapter 2 (redux)

I’d been unhappy with a section of this chapter for months so I finally sat down, did some editting and removed it. 

I’d consider this a rough draft of this new version of it frankly since I still need to go through and read it over but I’m not in the mood to do that today so I’m posting this here now and when I’ve done my read through I’ll swap it out with the old version on ao3 and maybe here depending on how different it ends up being from this iteration. 

chapter 1 | AMD masterpost

Getting to her apartment had been interesting. Solas had been keenly interested in her rental car, he'd apparently seen cars in the Fade and was deeply interested how they worked. She wasn't much help on that but did her best and informed him that they could look up a better explanation later and they could teach him how to drive if he wanted. She'd attempted to explain the basics of a radio then asked what he'd like to listen to, music or talk radio. He'd picked talk radio instantly (to her dismay) and she'd flipped from her aux cord to FPR. She was beginning to think Solas was probably as insatiable about learning as Curiosity was, which meant she'd be giving more awful explanations in the future. Hopely not in elvhen, it was difficult enough as it is to explain this shit without doing it in a language that hadn't had any new vocabulary in a few thousand years.  

The ride had been uneventful, Solas had asked a few small questions here or there but mainly listened to the radio intensely. He seemed to be able to understand at least some of it, or at least get the jist which was heartening. It got things moving faster when they had at least some familiarity with common from the Fade. Before long they were parking and getting out of the car.

And her anxiety immediately kicked in the second she realized all the shit they'd have to navigate to get from the parking lot to her apartment and she'd reached out and snatched his hand without thinking. It had been immediately mortifying and she still wanted to punch herself in the face for it, but she'd kept holding on since the only thing worse than that would have been if she'd let go right after grabbing it like an asshole. She wasn't trying to be patronizing and she was sure he was more than capable of walking without being lead along by the hand. It was just--

You could never be too safe, it was dark and while there wasn't a lot traffic it was still there. There were a lot things that could go wrong when you lacked the kind of background cues gained from living in the time period. Besides, she always held hands for safety with her friends when they crossed the street because she wasn't a bad friend. He'd started slightly, looking down at her in surprise and she'd just tried to play it off as totally natural. Just you know, what the young folk do these days.

When they'd made it inside he'd done his best to be unobtrusive and polite but she could see he was analyzing her sorry little shoebox. Self-consciousness overtook her instantly and compelled her to explain this was temporary living and not her real home like that would help somehow. Then she'd set up the couch bed (deeply embarrassing to do with an audience), quickly explained the bathroom, asked if he'd like a change of clothes before realizing there was no way she had anything even near his size, gave up on life, turned to her room and remembered the doors to it where glass orlesian doors so he'd be able to see her have a meltdown and just went to bed praying she’d be kidnapped or killed in the night.

Sadly, she had not been, it was now morning and they were heading off to the office to get him sorted out. Inanallas had woken up before her alarms which she supposed, bleakly, was better than sleeping through all of them even if that was more fun. She'd gotten dressed in a blindspot of her room and then quietly slipped out into the living room. Solas had been still asleep, partially sprawled and very clearly shirtless which had several sirens screeching in her head so she rocketed into the bathroom then woke him when she got out which had been it's own harrowing experience.

He'd woken up like an ideal guest, a little muffled and politely mild but it meant she'd had to touch a stranger's bare shoulder and make them not asleep and that was just too much.  She'd then retreated to the tiny kitchen and busied herself making breakfast to give him his privacy. They'd then eaten said breakfast and gotten in the car again all with just minor conversation. He seemed like he was still groggy and more than content to just watch her every move like a panther writing their thesis as she ran around the apartment getting ready from his place eating cereal at the table.

The offices they were renting were in a building that was maybe 15 minutes away from her place. They were small and very basic, her group never put much time into decorating since they'd only be in one location for as long as that project took. Unless Thenvunin was on the team then he made a valiant effort to make things look less drab. She did not take his hand this time as they walked in, took the elevator up to the 3rd floor and made their way into the rented suite of rooms.

The walls were bare of decoration but chock full of haphazardly pinned up maps, papers, pictures, notes and a single calendar. Desks were pushed up against walls with mountains of papers next to or on them along with small attempts at personalization, the center was dominated by a series of tables they used for pretty much everything which also had things on it. There were a few people in milling about, only a handful of people worked here every day, the rest of them tended to split their time between here and the site. In the back was a small kitchenette in another room next to the only two real offices there. Professors Hightower and Rousseau's office was still dark which was a relief, she didn't want to be victim to her Disapproving Stare or lectured by his pompous ass this early in the morning. The other office's door was open and the lights on, her heart sank a little. Yes, she had to talk to at least one of the project managers about this but she'd hoped for maybe a little more time.  

She greeted people as they went through to the open office, trying to ignore the looks at Solas who was just a step behind her like a studious shadow and prayed it wasn't Merrill who in there.

Merrill was in there.  

Along with Curiosity, Their boss, a tall, dark haired ancient elven woman who was usually pretty reasonable and hopefully hadn’t decided to not be reasonable today.

They look up from the documents on Curiosity's desk at her at unison.  

Two pairs of owlish eyes locked with another pair of owlish eyes and their 12 menacing brethren.

Merrill expression shifts to confusion at the two of them while, to her surprise, Curiosity is zeroed in on Solas, face contorting with increasing alarm. The older woman is the first to act, shooting up from her chair and walking straight over to Solas. The two say nothing for a moment, just staring intensely at each other like they’re trying to memorize each others face or something. The air becomes more and more charged as Curiosity becomes more and more furious. Suddenly she smacks his shoulder, then smacks it again, and again, he flinches each time as the blows get harder.  

"Where have you— Why did you— Why couldn't you—! I was worried! I looked—! I am going to— You stupid idiot! Why didn’t you tell me were you went!"

The two younger elves just awkwardly stand there watching them and catching each other’s eyes to shoot nervous looks, totally lost at sea. Solas looks positively heartbroken, doing nothing to defend himself against her while Curiosity looks like she might cry at any moment. Solas finally seems to work up the strength to try and reply to her fury.

“Curiosity, I am so sor—"

He doesn't get a chance to finish as Curiosity pulls him into a crushing hug, burying her face in his shoulder. He looks about as shocked as if she'd stabbed him instead and after a long moment he hesitantly hugs her back.

Curiosity's voice escapes from the fabric of his shirt muffled. "It's fine now. We'll talk later."

Inanallas can see his throat bob as finally, his arms tighten around her as his hold become more desperate.  

It all feels very private and Inanallas suddenly feels very intrusive standing so closely to them and looks away. Merrill shuffles awkwardly near Curiosity's desk not sure whether to be happy or concerned or what. After a long moment Curiosity finally releases him and pulls back enough to look at him and then Inanallas.

She flips back into common with ease. "So where did you find him?"

She blinks, she’d forgotten about all that for a second.

"Ah, the ruins?"

"Just now?"

"No... Um, last night..."

"You were in the ruins in the middle of the night?!" Merrill snaps in her First Voice.

Inanallas cringes and folds into herself. "Yes."

Curiosity crosses her arms. "Why?"

Inanallas grimaces. "I dunno? Seemed like a good idea at the time?"  

“It seemed like a—!” Merrill exclaims. "You could have been hurt! Or arrested or a hundred other things!"

“Apparently their warnings about her weren’t just for the Fade," Curiosity sighes. "Don't do it again. Or-- do but bring me with you."

"Or me!" Merrill interjects abandoning her spot at the desk completely and joining them at the doorway. “Or both of us! You should never go somewhere like that alone! What were you thinking!"

“She just said she wasn’t so there’s no reason to ask that. But she’s not dead or anything so let’s not worry about it too much for right now. We can think of a good punishment later, Patience and Action will have some ideas I think. For now let’s focus on Solas."  

Her heart sinks at the mention of her spirit friends. Shit. They’re going to flay her alive for wandering off , this is exactly the sort of thing they’ve been telling her not to indulge in since she was like, 6. But this is not the complete annihilation she was dreading— though she suspects that she’s getting off relatively easy because of the older elves' familiarity.

"So did you find anything else interesting or just him?"  

"Just him."  

"Sleeping?"

“No. We met in the main hall."

Curiosity hums, Inan can see the thoughts sliding around in her head but cannot for the life of her guess what they are.

“Right— Inanallas, Merrill, why don't you start getting all his paperwork in order? I'm going to talk to Pride for a while.” Curiosity addresses them but her gaze, while far off, is fixed on Solas.

Inanallas lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding, she’s safe and the worst of this mess is off her plate for now. “Right. Sure. No problem."

She makes to leave, Merrill falling in step with her, when Curiosity seems to come back to the real world and places a hand on her shoulder.  

"Thank you, for finding him. He's a pain in the neck but he's my pain in the neck."

Inanallas can’t help but smile weakly up at the taller woman before turning away and looking at the floor, suddenly deeply self conscious. Curiosity is nice, she’s one of the few ancient elves that doesn’t keep treating them all like children and she’s always been a good friend to her. She’s glad she could do something for her, even if it was unintentional.  

“Don’t mention it.” She mutters to a carpet tile.  

Curiosity gives her a squeeze then releases her and the two younger elves leave the room. There’s a click as the door closes behind them and Inanallas can’t help but look back, just for a moment.

Once they’re maybe 15 minutes into the relocation process Merrill’s anger finally gives way to her curiosity.  

“So... he was very tall. And bald."

Inan looks up from the spreadsheet of apartment info she’d been glaring at. “I know! That’s what I thought when I saw him!"

“And how do they know each other?! They’re obviously close, do you think they’re friends? Or Siblings!—Oh but that’s not possible Curiosity was a spirit. She doesn’t have siblings least not the way we think of them, I suppose other spirits of Curiosity would be her relatives wouldn’t they? But if they are siblings I should introduce myself properly, since I’m dating his sister. I should probably do that even if they’re just friends, it’s just rude not to."

“I don’t know!” Inan replies in a rush. “You’ll have to ask them— He’s a former spirit too so maybe that’s part of it. I didn’t want to pry too much, I was already really suspicious and I didn’t want to get blown up so I just sort of kept to myself. Frankly I’m not sure how family trees work for spirits, I don’t know if they even really have anything like that— it’s never really come up."

Merrill gasps excitedly. “He’s dreaming born too?! How interesting! I didn’t know that— well of course I didn’t I just met him, but he didn’t give off that air you know, of spirityness. Like Curiosity and the others do."

“Well he didn’t really talk much earlier did he? I didn’t notice anything too spirity last night but we basically went back to my place and right to bed."

Merrill puts a hand to her chest and smiles cheekily. “Oooo Inanallas~!"

she smacks her arm. “What was I going to do? Make him sleep in my car?"

Merrill giggles. “Oh no you couldn’t do that. He’s much too tall, he’d never fit! He’d get all mushed in there."

Inan nods like this is all very serious. “Exactly. I put him on the sofa bed and that seemed to work out fine— at least he didn’t complain about it."

Merrill pouts a little. “Oh that’s not as fun."

“What? Were you really hoping for something different?"

“Well, I thought it’d be interesting if it was more like Varric’s books. The whole ‘meeting a mysterious stranger at night’ thing you know, it’s just like how all his stories start. It’s good though that it’s not I suppose, otherwise it’d be dirty or half the town would die. Or both. Poor Aveline, her life has been so hard."

Inan laughs. “Merrill, I don’t think we need anyone’s help fucking things up, we manage it pretty well as is between the 3 of us."

“I don’t know, we’re not as good at is as Hawke."

They laugh and get back to work, occasionally chatting as they do now that the air between them has cleared. There’s a lot to do to get an Elvhen’an elf squared away, lots of forms to file mainly, most of which are shoddily put together and a headache to get handled properly. The system for how to deal with them is new and in most countries barely any of it works half the time and no one knows how to process it. The two of them are rarely involved with the entire process, that’s the job of the social services branch of Vhenas’aravas, but they have helped with the intake process often since they are frequently there when the dreamers wake up.

Getting him housing is easy, he’s the only person who needs it right now and there’s plenty of open places, but the paperwork for citizenships, IDs, healthcare and all that kind of shit takes longer and are the worst.

They’re both glaring over a particularly incomprehensible form from Nevarra when Inan’s phone goes off. Quickly she snatches it up from where she’d dumped it on the table, curses and answers.

A positively livid aristocratic voice starts up the second she takes the call.

“—Where in the Blazes are you? It’s 11am, you should have been here 2 hours ago.”

She cringes. “I’m sorry Dorian, I had to come into the office first thing and things are all hectic and weird—"

“And why, pray tell, is this?”

“Well, I sort of stayed out after we left the bar last night—"

“—And ended up drunk in an alley? Or did you get another, uglier, tattoo than the rest and are now being flayed by Curiosity for it? I’d say coming back from a one night stand but frankly I’d consider that one a miracle at this point.” There’s a bit of a chuckle at the end there at his own wit.

Ass.  

“—I went to explore the site on my own and ending up running into an ancient elf.” she grits out.

“What? You—! I cannot believe this, you went and committed a minor crime without me? I’m hurt, I thought were we friends."

“Dorian you were throughly sloshed when I left there’s no way I’d take you anywhere."

He sniffs imperiously. “I’ll have you know I’m a high functioning alcoholic and I will not stand for this slander."

“Dorian.” She groans out in a impressively bad impression of his own accent.

“Ugh. Fine, but next time you break and enter you are bringing me. So tell me about this elf, I assume you abandoned me the morning to get them all squared away?"

“Yes. His name is Solas and he’s apparently a friend of Curiosity’s or something like that."

“Oh now that is interesting, I think I’m even more upset you left me behind now. Is that all you have?"

“Pretty much, everything else I know about him is that he’s tall, bald and seems pretty smart."

“Bald?” He sounds like the very thought of the idea is offensive. “He can’t be that smart if he thought that was a good look."

“I dunno, I thought it looked okay..."

She can hear the shit eating grin in his voice as a chuckle bubbles out from the speaker.

“Oh? Is he handsome? A paragon of ancient elven beauty? I can’t imagine he’s more attractive than Thenvunin…"

This is not really something she’d considered, nor planned to talk about, if/when she had. Ever.

“Well, he’s certainly got a face so he’s got that going for him. Look— I don’t know Dorian, attractiveness is subjective and I didn’t take notes for an interrogation you’d have to make this call yourself."

He laughs. “Alright, Alright. I would’ve anyway, then judged you for your answer after I did. I suppose I will let you off the hook for now since you’ve at least abandoned me for a respectable reason.”

There’s a change in the vibe coming from his side of the line, more gentle and serious.

“Clever banter aside, you are okay right? That was a very dangerous thing to do. I was worried sick when you didn’t show up, you’re never that late without letting me know.”

Bless Dorian, he was an insufferably good person sometimes. She relaxes to match his own change, a twinge of guilt in her chest.

“I know and I’m sorry about that. I should have let you know what was up but I’m fine I swear. I’ll catch up with you about work and all this shenanigans later today okay?”

He hums warmly. “Alright. But! You’re going to have to buy me dinner to apologize."

“Dorian I will buy you all the dinners a very poor elf can afford for the rest of your beautiful life just because you deserve it.”

“Oh Inanallas~! You’re such a charmer! Sh, don’t say anymore or I think I may swoon.”

She can’t help but laugh at that. The dork.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Me? Ridiculous? This coming from the elf who looks like a cartoon villain and is scared of her own shadow?”

“Goodbye, Dorian.” She all but cries to the heavens.

“Goodbye, Innie."

She makes a face and hangs up. Maker, how did he make ‘Innie’ sound exponentially more embarrassing than it was. His very existence was like a perfect, charming, delightful curse against all livingkind. She puts her phone back down and turns back to Merrill.

She sighs with the weigh of ages. “So where were we?"

Merrill giggles. “So I take it Dorian’s not mad then? We did sort of leave him in the lurch."

“He’s fine. I’m sure he’s enjoying his unmitigated abuse of power with all of us gone."

Merrill looks dreamily at the ceiling. “I hope he’s making an intern fan him with a great big leaf."

It’s a long time before the door to Curiosity’s office opens and the two older elves come out looking like… Something. Inan doesn’t know it’s not really her specialty. Solas looked, bland? Vague? Stoic????? While Curiosity just looked like her normal determined self. She walked over to their little war zone of papers Solas trailing along a bit behind.

“How’s it going?”

“About as well as you’d expect.”

Curiosity takes a moment to look over what they have so far, leaning over their shoulders and sifting through piles like a very nosy bird.

“Well, the immediate things are done, so good enough for now.”

She straightens up again. “First things first, we should get him settled in own place with his own things so he’s not stuck on your sofa in the same outfit again.”

Inan looks awkwardly over Solas who seems just as uncomfortable.

“Okay sure.”

Curiosity pulls out her wallet and then takes out the company credit card. She hands it to Inan who takes it with much more reverence then with which it was given.

“Here, go get him into his apartment and then get him some supplies and things. Merrill and I will take what we have of his paperwork and send it to Antiva for them to work on then talk to Dorian and Agnes and see if they need one of us to cover for you.”

She got up and put her things away in her bag.

“Okay I’ll give you a call when if we have a question or something I guess then.”

“Alright, be safe you two.”

Inanallas turned to face Solas and gave her best attempt at a non awkward smile.

“Shall we go?”

[amethyst-lightsphere]

Stranger to most, well known to few - chapter three

Note: I had originally intended to post this on April’s Fool. But then, people may think it’s a cruel joke and purposely miss it. On the other hand, the length of this chapter bursted to a new level of long compared to the previous two.

Chapter 3: Nicholas Marian – He who of the gray

The color was neither white nor black.

Nicholas had said he wanted lodging and food, but the first place he led both of them to was a clothing store.

“Why the fuck are we here?” Kanda said from his spot by the cash register, watching the red head flitting around the racks.

Nicholas’s grin was annoyingly smug as he replied while picking up a dress shirt, “Are those eyes of yours for decoration only? I have blood all over myself.” He raised one hand to gesture at his clothes, which had a large red stain at the abdomen and smaller splotches at the knees.

“So? Your fussy ass won’t get dissolved by mere blood.”

“It’s not dissolving I’m thinking about, mister Kanda, but the troubles that may come. Such a sight often draws unfavorable attention, which I would like to avoid.” Nicholas disappeared into one changing booth with a bunch of clothes in his arms. “Not to mention, your demeanor alone has already made us stand out like a bald head. See our dear cashier for demonstration, if you want one.”

The cashier Nicholas mentioned was checking the goods with unnatural fervor, the like of which Kanda knew was to hide stolen glances. He glared at the man, satisfied when he scurried as far out of Kanda’s earshot as permitted by the limited space of the store.

Nosy man problem averted, but then Kanda’s mind had to rewind what had happened at the Campbell’s mansion. He knew it was a colossally bad idea, but Allen had insisted on going. To know the truth, he had said. And the result had been Nea’s violent awakening forcing the beansprout to invoke his Innocence. Whether that worked or not, Kanda didn’t know.

What he did know, however, was that Allen had vomited blood and fainted right in front of him. Kanda had panicked at that, slitting his own wrist and forcing his blood into Allen’s mouth. It was counterproductive since the idiot was throwing up the same kind of liquid, but at that moment, he couldn’t think of anything else. Internal organ damage was a bitch seconded only to karma. And then there was the cursed ritual, too. If it was something too severe for Kanda’s blood to fix-

Suddenly a cream-colored coat was shoved in Kanda’s face. He had to lean back from the offending article.

“What the hell, four-eyes?” Kanda fixed the red head with an incredulous glare.

Nicholas just smiled. “We didn’t get to pick up whatever luggage you and your Walker have. That means no coins for me.” He then retracted the clothes to put it on himself; meanwhile, his gaze went down to one gold button on Kanda’s uniform for a moment before moving back up. “So be generous this time, will you? It’s not like money is a problem for a General of the Black Order.”

The red head being clueless about Allen’s clothes was a surprise. “You didn’t know?”

Kanda’s cue was the inclination of the other’s head.

Kanda allowed a smirk to appear on his face. “Check those bloody clothes you changed out of.” He pointed at the pile of clothing the red head had dropped on one of the seats lining the wall. “And learn to stop being a smartass while you’re at it.”

Nicholas immediately started searching. Within two minutes, he dug out a treasure trove of cash from various hidden pockets in every items. Once done, he gave the amount of money an appraisal look.

“Your Walker is something, I must say. I didn’t even feel any differences in weight with the new clothes.” Nicholas commented with a refreshing lack of either haughtiness or mockery.

Kanda too was not scathing for once. “The beansprout is creative. Now hurry your ass up.”

In a minute, they were done with the shopping. From there they went to find lodging as previously intended. Nicholas, now pleased, took the lead with longer strides and a slightly looser mouth. Kanda got to know that the man was a scientist and sorcerer, but his reputation – the one in the past – was that of a physician. The town wasn’t his birthplace, but he had visited it many times. Kanda helped Nicholas confirm that the last time he saw the world was thirty five years ago. He was physically well, meaning whatever injuries his body sustained when Allen was in control had gone.

The man shared nothing further than those, which was fine with Kanda. They were on the street after all and God knew if some Akuma were lurking around eavesdropping things for the Noah.

One thing, though. Nicholas had been adamant about the body being his to begin with. The conviction behind made it hard for Kanda to think of it as a joke. Unfortunately, the man had refused to further elaborate on the matter, saying that they should leave it for another time.

That brought a new problem about Allen Walker: if that body wasn’t his, then what had happened to his original one?

They stopped in front of a hotel named Poppy. It was a giant three-story building with vintage feel in its architecture. From the wrought iron fence, big front yard to the decorated arches of doors and windows. Expensiveness oozing from every corner and its bright color paint made it stick out in the middle of other common housing.

“Hell no.” Kanda was exasperated.

“Heaven yes.” Nicholas quickly entered, not giving Kanda time to do anything.

He followed. “I’m not selling my things.” He had to say that. This hotel looked like one room could eat up all the money they had and the last time Kanda sold the ornament of his uniform, he got a headache from the science department’s yelling.  

But four-eyes ignored him for the favor of talking with the receptionist. For some reason, they chatted in a language unknown to Kanda.

“Are you listening, four-eyes?” Kanda wanted to draw Mugen so badly.

“Always, mister Kanda.” He dryly replied. Before Kanda could touch his blade, the man added. “I’m making one of the best arrangements you ever have in your life here. So kindly shut up, please~?” He purposely drawled.

“Make it one room with two single beds. I’m not letting you out of my sight.” If it wasn’t for Allen’s body, he would try to stab the bastard. Also, Kanda had to admit, he was curious – blamed the beansprout for rubbing off on him -  as to what four-eyes’ plan was.

Nicholas flashed Kanda a toothy grin before turning back to the conversation with the other man.

The two must have been talking about other things as well. Shady things, to be precise. Because, faced it, there was no way a simple check-in had to be done in something other than English. And the look on the receptionist’s face was speaking volumes.

Then Nicholas traced a pattern into the other man’s right palm. The act got the receptionist to stare at said palm for a minute before opening the check-in logbook and writing down.

“All done, mister Kanda. We have a room and the lunch is being prepared.” Four-eyes announced triumphantly as he turned to Kanda.

“If you mess up, I’m not saving your ass.” Kanda crossed his arms, his eyes catching the previously exchanged symbol drawn next to their name in the logbook.

Nicholas just shrugged. “The most you might have to do is working here for three years for me trying to have a free stay in this hotel.”

“What?” Kanda’s roar startled several guests in the lobby, but like he cared. It wasn’t the first time he saw something possibly lawless, but Allen’s card tricks never brought any sorts of harm to his companions. This, on the other hand, was blatantly selling him out.

And Kanda thought getting people to clean up after was a Cross’s thing only.

As if it wasn’t enough, Nicholas had to throw in a reply. “You can calm down, mister Kanda. It’s just a form of insurance in case my words are proven false, which can never be done.” His tone was like he was scolding a child.

No retort came as Kanda was trying to regulate his breathing. To calm down, he reasoned with himself that Nicholas was a human and Allen wasn’t quite dead. The former wasn’t very convincing, though.

“You must be very hungry to be that irate, mister Kanda. What do you say if we get some food inside that stomach of yours?” Nicholas turned on his heel and strode to the dining hall.

Kanda was right behind him. “Don’t you dare think you can dump your messes on me!” The way his statement sounded so much like a last-ditch effort made him to cringe internally.

Nicholas said no more, but his lips curled into a complacent smile that further irritated Kanda. Smart-ass.

They sat down at a table in the back corner of the dining hall where no one would notice. The food was brought shortly after, the amount forming a mountain on the surface. Nicholas dug in right away, not one bit shy from displaying his humongous appetite while Kanda’s sullenly stabbed the content of his dish.

Now that Kanda thought about it, there was another mystery: Nicholas could invoke Innocence at full rate. Together with the fact that he didn’t look like someone who just discovered his sudden and mysterious change in diet, he must have been with the weapon for a long time. Could two people be compatible to one Innocence at the same time? Innocence were known to be picky; the files of Second Exorcist Program had explicitly stated that despite having the same brains, only one Exorcist – Kanda – was successfully created while the rest were rejected. And now, there was Nicholas Marian, wielding Innocence as easily as breathing.

Somewhere in Kanda’s mind, he doubted this was the last mystery.

“You got what you want. Now spill. What happened to Allen Walker?” He started first. Allen’s status was, naturally, the first in his priority list.

“Regarding your Walker, I have a theory.” spoke Nicholas after swallowing a mouthful.

That wasn’t what Kanda wanted to hear. “You said you could tell how he was, four-eyes. Do you really know?”

Nicholas wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Of course I do, mister Kanda. For your information, I am the one who devised the ritual in the first place.” His displeased expression was quickly replaced by a sardonic smirk when he saw Kanda’s astonishment. “Or, at least, the prototype of the one you saw. That alone is enough for theorizing. And surprise! A theory is the closest you can have for now, mister Kanda, unless you can provide me with the developed diagram.”

The frown once again appeared on Kanda’s face. Nicholas was right. And having the original creator was better than none at all. That didn’t mean he liked it.

“So,” Nicholas continued. “How much do you know about alchemy?”

The question brought up images of one Komui Lee and his many nasty concoctions. “Enough. What about it?”

“You see, the ritual employs both magic and alchemy. It-” The man abruptly paused. With his lower lip jutted out, he looked thoughtful for a moment before resuming his speech. “It has two primary functions. First, it creates an exact copy of my body. Then, Nea and your Walker are transferred to the duplicate. That way, I can regain this body while my friend consume Walker, which will be a piece of cake since Walker’s energy is drained to supply the whole ritual. But, as we all know-”

Nicholas had yet to finish, but Kanda had stood up and drawn Mugen. The metal sang as the blade left its sheath, gleaming dangerously with the tip pointed at the red head.

“Friend?” Kanda hissed. “You are a Noah follower?”

The smile on Nicholas’ lips became full of arrogance. “Your assumption wounded me, mister Kanda. I’m not that lowly. I simply have a friend who happens to be a Noah.”

It didn’t make Kanda lower his sword. “It’s still the same! Did you forget what the Noah are? What you are? Or what they do?”

“Oh mister Kanda, how wrong you are~” Nicholas said with a sing-song voice, clearly not the slightest perturbed. “Let me repeat it for you. I’m no servant to the Noah clan. My loyalty to Nea is from our friendship only. As for the fact that the Noah want to destroy humanity, so what? As long as I’m not hurted, I don’t care if the man next to me drops dead.”

Kanda couldn’t quite believe in his ears. “You think the Noah won’t kill you just because one of them acts friendly?” He gave a withering glare. In both the past and present, Tyki Mikk had been a prime example, killing people at the drop of a hat while being twistedly amiable.

“Ahaha!” The man fucking laughed. “I don’t think so. I believe so. But for a different reason.” He raised his hand up in a mock salute “That is, humanity needs me.”

This fucker had very strange idea. “Like hell it is! You are just one man.” Kanda spat, his sword arm not wavering.

The look on Nicholas’ face said that he was enjoying this. “One man, true. But tell me, mister Kanda, how did humanity grow? The Noah seek its destruction. You Exorcists fight to preserve it. But what else? Nothing. It’s just a stagnating tug of war.”    

“No, to be this advanced, humanity has to depend on someone else. Someone who brings advancement. Someone like tinkerers, discoverers, inventors. Great minds that seek to understand the world. Great minds like me. We scientists are the progress, the evolution, the transformation. The gray in the midst of the white of you Exorcists and the black of the Noah.”

“Progress my ass! Your disgusting thing was going to sacrifice Walker! Which part of it is ‘progress’?” The speech only made Kanda more furious than ever.

Nicholas’s grin never ceased. “The sacrifice, of course. Humanity is one big ouroboros that eats itself as the price to crawl forward. Your Walker is but a tiny part in its grand scheme, meant to die for another’s sake. Though, should you be so shocked? I’m sure there are scientists on your side who committed similar or greater atrocities.”

There were. There were the Epstain, the Chang, and probably more. They had made monsters like those Third Exorcists. Like Kanda. All the while claiming that their creations were for the sake of the world. They would never stop.

Death had been the reward for their acts.

Kanda lunged for Nicholas, leaping over the large table. Mugen could kill, he could kill. Maybe taking a human’s life was taboo to an Exorcist, but his hate was making him see red and Nicholas was an exception. A dangerous, twisted exception.

Food was sent flying. With a foot, Nicholas pushed himself together with the chair skidding backward and away from the slash. The distance was short, however, only took Kanda a step to get the man in reach again. There was no escaping the next strike.

Except, Kanda found himself literally frozen. He searched with his eyes and saw a bright glow coming from Nicholas’ right hand.

Magic. Kanda wanted to curse himself for forgetting that the man was also a sorcerer.

“Murderous, aren’t you?” Nicholas’ bright smile only stirred Kanda’s hatred. “Sadly, I’m no easy meat. Besides, don’t you want your Walker alive?”

“I come back to kill him.” snarled Kanda. “If the Fourteenth wins, I kill him. Finish you now will do that just fine.”

And Allen would not feel any pain. The world would be cleansed of one rotten man and the Noah wouldn’t reincarnate. Therefore, in a way, Kanda’s debt to him would be paid in full.

“Ha! Such a lying brute! Then, why didn’t you strike me down when I first appeared? Why now?” Nicholas kept talking while Kanda struggled to move. “What is your real intention, mister Exorcist?”

Kanda said nothing. He was done with talking and his intention wasn’t something to show just anybody, let alone this fucker before him.

Nicholas kept talking. “Now now, you honestly believe I will buy your mercy killing reason? That is no different from saying the Innocence are not monsters. They are like the Noah-”

Nicholas left hand abruptly flew to his chest, grasping the lapel while a gasp escaped his lips. Feathers sprouted from his left arm, lightly swaying in the air:  Crown Clown had activated by itself. Kanda felt the paralysis leave his body and he thrusted his sword without a second wasted.

However, when Mugen was an inch from the man’s face, Kanda was paralyzed again. Though in pain by virtue of the Innocence, Nicholas still managed to recast his spell.

No easy meat, indeed.

“You will kill if it’s Nea, but what if Walker lives?” Nicholas’ shaky smile was  fading away. “Will you still chop him up?”

Kanda blinked once. He wouldn’t. His target was the Noah, not him. Not even if he was filled with rage like now. But Nicholas-

The man continued with a serious look on. “Walker still has his chance, I can confirm. Will you deprive him of that?”

No, he would not.

“You have come so far, and you will go even further for him, no?”

Yes.

“What is your real intention, mister Kanda?”

Helping Allen Walker. Assisting him until he reached an ending.

Realization hit Kanda, pulling him back to sanity. This was not an ending. Rather, this was a little breather from the long thorny road. Allen would walk again soon. He would. He was a resilient soul, the most Kanda had ever known in his life.

That meant Kanda couldn’t just kill off Nicholas where he sat.

Nicholas spoke up after those few minutes of Kanda coming down from his homicidal fury. “I will release you, then we talk. This time, we do it properly. What do you say?”

With a snap of fingers, the paralysis was dispelled as promised. Kanda lightly rolled his shoulder, testing muscles. Next, he raised his sword. And slashed.

A scratch was made on the left lense of Nicholas’ glasses. The man simply swiped a finger along it and with a muted glow, it disappeared. Kanda sheathed his sword.

“Mister Kanda had made his choice. Now your turn, little holy parasite.” At Nicholas’ words, Crown Clown slowly went back to being an arm.

Kanda glared hard at the man. “I only tell things that worth the same with yours.” By no means had he completely calmed down, but he had to do this.

“Fair enough.” A truce had been reached.

Nicholas then gestured to Kanda’s chair. Kanda went around the table, carefully avoided the food scattering on the floor.

“Where were we?” said the red head. “Was I explaining how without me, Walker wouldn’t exist at all? Or was I going to say that Walker actually swapped place with me and is sleeping deep within-”

[onlycags]

Movie Night 4 | Çağlar Söyüncü

March: Vardy Alternate Title: Suit & Tie (courtesy of @chilly-me-softly)

Enjoy! xx

- - -

You spent the next few weeks fighting with James via text. Well, it wasn’t so much ‘fighting’ as it was ‘him telling you one thing and you telling him another.’

It had all started the morning after movie night in February. You texted James asking if he would return Çağlar’s hoodie, which had launched a slew of questions from your best mate.

Madders: HOLD ON

Madders: HOW DO YOU HAVE CAGS’S HOODIE?!?!?

Madders: DID SOMETHING HAPPEN LAST NIGHT THAT I WASN’T AWARE OF

Madders: DID YOU SLEEP WITH HIM

Madders: I AM THE MATCHMAKING KING - ALL HAIL ME

Madders: SORRY NOT SORRY I AM TYPING IN ALL CAPS I *clap emoji* AM *clap emoji* SO *clap emoji* EXCITED *clap emoji*

You laughed and shook your head, preparing to type out a response when another text came through.

Madders: I have calmed down now and am available for rational conversation…I think

You: I have Cags’s hoodie because he gave it to me as we were leaving last night. I got cold and he practically put it on me. I forgot about it until I got home - ALONE - and then I fell asleep in it and I am just now waking up and I would like to get it to him somehow

You: No you are not yet the matchmaking king and I will not nail you

You: *HAIL I MEANT HAIL OMFG

You: ANYWAY, hold your excited horses until I can reign in my own! *horse emoji*

Before you could wait for a response, your phone was vibrating with a call from Mads.

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN YOU WANT TO RETURN HIS HOODIE?!” He shouted in lieu of a greeting.

“Mate, it is way too early in the morning for you to be shouting at me. Calm down.” You grimaced, bringing the phone back to your ear.

“Sorry, my bad,” you could practically see him waving his hand dismissively and part of you wondered why he wasn’t FaceTiming you. “But seriously, why on earth do you want to return Cags’s hoodie?”

You rolled your eyes at his seemingly idiotic question. “Because it belongs to him and he should have it back,” you huffed out, annoyed.

“Are you daft?!”

“Apparently I am, Madders!” You growled, trying to figure out what his problem was.

“If you give him his hoodie back, it could send him the wrong message.”

“What’s the wrong message? That I care about his things and I want him to have them?”

“No! That you don’t like wearing his clothes and by proxy don’t like him.”

“OH. My. God. That is utterly ridiculous! You give me your clothes to wear all the time and I return them freshly laundered and you don’t care!”

“Yes, but I’m not trying to get into your pants, am I?” Madders shot back snarkily.

You paused, thinking over his logic. “I’m going to give it some thought and get back to you. If I do decide to give him back his hoodie before March, will you give it to him for me?”

“Absolutely not,” James stated matter-of-factly. “I will not play a part in breaking my teammate’s heart.” He paused and giggled to himself. “Ooh, that rhymed.”

“Yes, yes, you’re a poet and you didn’t know it, blah blah blah. Why won’t you give him his hoodie back for me?”

“Did you not just hear me rhyme?” James protested. “Let me repeat: I will not play a part in breaking my teammate’s heart. We have some very important matches coming up in the next few weeks and I can’t have him all up in his feelings over some bird.”

“Some bird - are you fucking serious, James Daniel Maddison?!” You shouted, losing your temper. In your fury, you hung up on him, throwing your phone on your bed and walking into your kitchen to bake and relieve stress.

***

Over the next few weeks, you exchanged a few texts with Madders. You made him grovel for a few days, ultimately forgiving him when he told you he had secured you tickets to the next five home matches - you would normally have forgiven him without him giving you anything, but his words had cut you up inside and you gleefully accepted the tickets as his penance.

The matches came and went, but the first one had been memorable for you. You left the house wearing Çağlar’s hoodie over the jersey he had given you. The secret thrilled you, knowing you were the only one who knew what was underneath the hoodie - and who said hoodie belonged to - turned you on more than you cared to admit.

Unfortunately, the first of the home matches you attended was the first loss at home for the Foxes that season. The atmosphere was somber as you made your way to the pitch to hug your lads. Madders’s hug held no joy - he had missed a crucial free kick that would have put the Foxes in the lead - and you could see tears in his eyes as he pulled away. Ben was the same, sniffling a little as you hugged him.

Finally, you made your way to Çağlar, your heart breaking at the tortured expression on his face. “I’m so sorry,” you whispered as you wrapped your arms around his neck and held him. You clung to him longer than the others, hoping to comfort him somehow.

“You are wearing my hoodie,” he commented as he released you, fingering the sleeves that were a little too big for you.

You nodded, silently thanking James for convincing you not to give it back to him. “Yeah. Do you want to know a secret?” You whispered conspiratorially, leaning in to him.

“Yes, please.”

You looked him in the eye as you said, “I’m also wearing your jersey,” shivering as heat flooded his gaze turning his deep blue eyes darker with desire.

He murmured something in Turkish that gave you goosebumps. This man - he was so irresistible it was hard to refrain from kissing him right there on the pitch.

Once again, Madders saved you from doing something so utterly stupid - you wanted your first kiss with Çağlar to be between the two of you, not in front of a bunch of people - calling the Turk’s name. “See you at movie night,” Çağlar promised. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear again, whispering, “Keep the hoodie - it looks better on you than on me, anyway.”

That night, you slept in his jersey, screaming his name as a powerful orgasm ripped through you as you touched yourself.

***

A week later, it was finally time for movie night at the Vardys. Earlier in the week, Jamie had posted to the chat that he and Rebekah had been able to send the kids to Rebekah’s parents’ for the night so that they could host ‘a proper movie night’.

You arrived with your usual six-pack, this time with Madders and Chilly in tow. The mood was significantly lighter, the lads having won their away match on Wednesday against the Wolves.  Unfortunately, you hadn’t been able to watch it, as you were working, but you caught the highlights the next morning, excitedly texting Madders a ‘congrats on the assist!’ while waiting for the bus to take you to work.

“Are we missing anyone?” You asked, looking around the room for the third time to confirm that you didn’t see Çağlar.

“No. Cags is almost here,” Madders confirmed, not making eye contact with you. You felt like there was more to it but you didn’t want to press in front of everyone.

“Something about a dinner date he couldn’t get out of, right?” Evans supplied, unaware of how those words affected you.

As if on cue, the man in question entered, looking unbelievably delicious in his dress pants and pressed white shirt, the top two buttons undone to show a hint of the tattoo you were desperate to see. His eyes immediately found yours, but he didn’t make his way over to you just yet. Instead, he placed the bottle of champagne he was carrying on the countertop and greeted the lads.

“How was it?” Schmeichel asked. You waited for an answer, holding your breath.

Çağlar shrugged. When he answered Schmeichel, he looked directly at you. “The reporter just wanted to know more about me. I answered everything, but my brain hurts.”

Plates were made and drinks were poured, everyone settling in as Vardy readied the telly. Once again, you found yourself next to Çağlar, his arm around you. You really wanted to ask him about the interview and press for details but the movie was starting and you were intrigued. You hadn’t seen Grown Ups since it had first come out and you forgot how funny it was.

The lads were in stitches; Barnes had taken it upon himself to assign characters to everyone once the movie was over, which made everyone start laughing all over again.

The movie ended and the goodbyes ensued. You and Çağlar made the now-routine walk to your closest bus stop, as you tried to figure out how to ask him about the interview. “I forgot to tell you - you look nice.” You chose to open with, cringing at how lame you sounded.

The smile he gave you warmed you from the inside out. “Thank you.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a tie. “I took this off before I walked in because I did not want to be too formal.”

Seeing the tie in his hands, your brain flipped through a series of naughty thoughts. Apparently, you brain especially liked the one where you grabbed him by the tie and kissed him senseless. His hand on your cheek brought you back to reality. “What are you thinking about?” He asked, eyes searching yours.

Kissing you. “Nothing,” you lied, licking your suddenly-dry lips. His gaze fell from your eyes to your mouth.

“Sikme,” he cursed, the heat in his eyes making you want to do something dumb, like beg him to take you back to his place and let him do whatever he wanted to do to you.

The bus screeched to a stop, making the two of you jump and separate. You hugged him before you got on the bus, savouring the feeling of his hands on your body.

It was going to be a long month of sleepless nights until the next movie night.

[smallchou]

60 Months as Dad

E turned 60 months old today. We celebrated with her favorite dinner of Mac-and-cheese, peas, and carrots. Ivy and I made a terrible mess of some beef short ribs that we subjected my parents to as well; they’re in town for a few weeks. We had a couple of local NYC beers (still struggling to find a decent local IPA). We each had our choice of ice cream for dessert, which E stuck candles into to inspire us to the Nth rendition of Happy Birthday today. It was clear most of the day, temperature hovering within a crisp range of 35-45 degrees F all day long.

Two nights ago I popped awake at 3:30am to the murmuring cries of E next door. Ivy and I did the usual parent silent negotiation of who could pretend to still be asleep for longer. But by the time I started stumbling towards the kids’ room, I was moving pretty quickly because I was actually worried about something.

Gabba and I have been pretty ill over the past week. I spent 36 hours in bed with a triple-digit fever earlier in the week, but he probably would have traded places with me. And what I was worried about was this: E’s birthday party was “two sleeps” away, and if she was really ill… and we had to cancel or postpone it… she would be devastated. DEVASTATED, really. At 37, I’ve only been as emotionally distraught two or three times as a cancellation-worthy illness would’ve made E. All of this ran through my head in the course of just a few steps.

That’s the best explanation of what being a dad of 5- and 3-year olds is like to me.

First, you know so much more than these kids. That birthday parties come and go. That E barely remembers that her fourth birthday party was canceled due to California wildfire smoke. That every other parent attending the party is secretly (or not so secretly) happy to have one less obligation for the weekend. That it will all be FINE. No, really E, it’s OK. I’m sorry this happened, and yes it is the worst, but let’s reschedule and maybe get some ice cream and you’ll feel better. Oh hey, Frozen 2 AND the Nutcracker are this month? High five!

Second, at the same time, you just want these things to be perfect for them. I can’t remember the last time I had as elaborate of a birthday party as every one we’ve planned for E. When I was 10, my parents rented out the arcade venue Aladdin’s Castle. That may have been it. And that’s truly, completely fine by me. But when I think about how devastated E would be… it really hurts with a unique helplessness of parenthood. Because you don’t want to tell her not to care; what is a life, a young life, without that caring. So you can’t also tell her she shouldn’t have cared.

And then third… what the fuck am I doing up at 3:30am in the morning and how much longer does this happen?

It has been a whole year since I’ve written one of these. I didn’t stop trying until several months into this past year. But I found it hard to distinguish the notable differences from month to month. They were 4 and 2 by then basically, and so each month brought fewer leaps forward.

We’ve changed so many things since a year ago. Basically same family, new lives. East coast. Real fall. Real winter. Own a coat, carry an umbrella. NYC. Walk to school. Walk to the office. New work. No car. High-rise living. No idea where we will be a year from now. And fully understand why McCaffrey and Luck never won the Heisman. One thing we were right about: this is the PERFECT age for two kids to have a family adventure.

A few years from now, E’s memory will be so vivid and long, and her thoughts so fast-paced, that who knows how she would take a move. Those are the two personality characteristics that pop out most: vivid memory and linear thinking. She is so observational and pensive, remembering tiny little things and noodling on them silently for days. A few weeks ago, we were walking on a weekend and she suddenly asked why I didn’t wear the parents’ security badge for her school on a lanyard like the other parents. A tiny little thing she observed, bouncing around in her head for days, as she watched parent after parent carry a little plastic badge differently from me. There’s rarely anything that she hasn’t mentally processed to no end.

She loves art, which is why her birthday party was at an art studio. You’ll know this when you see her, because she will tell you very directly, “I am an artist.” I remember being amazed when she was two or three and able to sit and color by herself for an hour on end. And now, sometimes she will just stop mid-play, tell us she is going to go make some art, pull out the supplies herself, and get to it for hours on end, signing each piece with impeccably written all-caps “E T O I V Y” or “T O J A C K”.

This past week she turned to me and asked, “Daddy? This weekend, if it’s nice out, can we go have a picnic in Central Park?” A pretty innocuous and sweet ask by any child. But for E, it’s a really precise question because she both knows that her dad loves to cook, eat, and relax outdoors… and she asked it because she knew that just asking it would make me happy. She does this often now, choosing to do things to make Ivy or me feel better. It is as sweet as it sounds.

Sometimes one piece of her daily prolific art even reads, “E T O G A B B A”, which he diligently appreciates for a few seconds before he races off. He adores her, he just doesn’t have the patience to be held still for quite that amount of time. In the grand scheme of sibling relationships, theirs is one of playfulness, fun, and contrast. He is so sweet and thoughtful, always remembering to get an extra of anything for her. And she knows him so deeply, skillfully convincing him to do dumb shit for her entertainment. And of course, he knows how to get on her nerves when he needs to.

He’s at an age where his emotions will regularly overrun his own logic. “Gabba, can you please help clean up.” “No.” “OK, but no dessert then after dinner. Do you want dessert?” “No.” “But Gabba, don’t you -“ “ No.” The first row of his Responsibility Chart just reads ‘No Whining’, which he has yet to ever earn a star for.

But when he isn’t in a mood… it’s hard to say there’s ever been a sweeter child who ever walked the earth. Snuggles, hugs, giant smiles, total enthusiasm, constant enjoyment of life, clockwork thoughtfulness, wholly inclusive of everyone, wants to try everything, no grudge kept, and oh so friendly. At the doctor’s office yesterday, he eagerly listened to every ask and took part just to try it out. Cotton swab jammed all the way to the back of my throat? Yes please! Three different temperature readings from three different places? Can we do a fourth? I wish that I had the good-natured, positive openness that both he and Ivy have. I’m sure E does as well.

A few weeks ago, putting them to bed, E sat quietly on her bed while I helped Gabba, shifting around in an odd way. I looked at her funny, she froze up, and immediately we were both jumping to her pillow to see what she’d hidden under there. When I pulled it up, 5 Paw Patrol action figures sat there while E plaintively explained that she and Gabba have been plotting and playing Paw Patrol together after bedtime. It’s one of the rare times as a Dad when I’ve felt like I have no idea what’s the “right” thing to do. Honor bedtime or love their friendship?

A running theme of these posts used to be a general regret (paranoia?) about feeling like each thing was happening too fast and then ending too fast. I think in the past year, my mindset has shifted to now just being present in enjoying the moment as it happens and not grasping at last occasions too plaintively. That’s to say that I’ve come to peace with how our lives will turn. All that matters is that I’m still ready if Gabba turns to me tomorrow and requests Sit on your shoulders? while we walk somewhere.

When I burst into their room the other night, E’s birthday party flashing by in front of my eyes, she was luckily *just* cringing from a nightmare and a slight nosebleed. Whew, devastation averted! And right on cue, wide-awake sitting in his bed, was Gabba holding up his pillow, wide-eyed with a huge smile. “Look, daddy! No poo-poo on my pillow!” He was legitimately proud (really, don’t ask), but also hopeful that he would get some of my attention too.

Of course, when I got E all back ready for bed, Gabba asked me to “Daddy, sit in the middle” of their room, as I often do on a small circular rug, talking to them while they go to sleep. And who could refuse these angels. I sat, at 3:57am, listening to their breathing slow and quiet, knowing this could always be the last night they need me this much.