#for the record the word count is off when you include the emojis

[coffeelouis]

written for @corrodedcoffinfest

Prompt: Wrath | Word Count: 666 | Rating: M | POV: Jeff | Relationships: Steve/Eddie | CW: None | Tags: Corroded Coffin

set somewhat ambigulously in the tuesday's gone with the wind universe, mostly in stealing goodie's name and personality bc like,, that's goodie! thanks @thisapplepielife for him love you 🫶

i also made up the song name, that's not from tuesday's gone, by that point i hadn't gotten far enough to figure out i was writing steve as their tour manager and basically set it in the universe. also i had eddie as the lead singer in this, so maybe this is an au of tuesday's gone

🎸😈

“Gareth, I really think this is a bad idea, man,” Jeff warned, hovering in the doorway. Gareth and Goodie were both crouched next to the sound equipment, Goodie observing as Gareth tinkered.

“It’s precisely what they deserve.”

“Exactly, we’ve warned them multiple times,” Goodie added, ever the pot-stirrer.

“We haven’t, in any way, indicated we’d go this far. We’ve just ribbed Eddie.”

“Nagged,” Gareth corrected.

“Relentlessly. And, would you quit it with the hand-wringing, man? You’re in or you’re out of this,” Goodie said decisively.

“And it’s not as if it’s anything new!” Gareth argued, **It’s just.. a different approach.”

“It’s completely different circumstances, though! And it digs at Steve, not Eddie.”

“Digging at Steve is how to you get to Eddie.”

At the same time, Goodie countered, “Steve will be fine—he’s fine about everything.”

“He’s used to us,” Gareth agreed, reaching up to test his work.

As the sound rang out in the empty theatre, Gareth let out a crow of victory, and Jeff felt his stomach sour.

“I really don’t feel good about this.”

“You don’t have to take credit then,” Gareth smirked, dusting his knees off and walking off in triumph to get ready for the show.

Goodie followed behind him, looking similarly smug—despite having contributed absolutely nothing.

🎸😈

Eddie had fought to play “The Harvest” towards the end of the setlist. It was a hard-fought battle when they’d begun this leg of the tour, Gareth argued it should be the opener. But, it was third to last, so Eddie was dripping in sweat and probably a little delirious by the time Jeff went in with the opening chords. He could see the man swaying around his microphone, his long hair falling into his eyes.

He figured that’s why it took him until the end of the second chorus to look up in confusion. Jeff quickly began watching his chords—as if they weren’t muscle memory by this point.

Gareth’s smirk gave the game away—that the backing track was not the pre-recorded moans that accompanied the song on it’s studio version; instead, Steve’s high-pitched moans that had leaked through the hotel walls nights earlier filled the venue.

Fury erupted across Eddie’s face. He stomped across the stage towards Gareth—guitar still in hand, and somehow still playing.

Jeff glanced behind him for backup from the crew, the stagehands, anyone. Instead, he saw Steve, a bright laugh inaudible, but clearly dancing across his face. His eyes were glittering with the creative wrath of the band.

Jeff, who’d seen him sternly lecture stagehands for incorrectly setting up equipment or tell off venue staff for stupid production mistakes, was surprised, but relieved at the reaction. It was an interruption to their planned schedule, and more than that an airing of an intimate moment; but, he supposed when it came to Eddie—or really, any of the band—he really did hold a soft spot.

Eddie was now standing at Gareth’s side, uselessly telling him off. Gareth certainly couldn’t hear him over his drum set, let alone the music the rest of them (Eddie included) were still playing. But Eddie continued on at it, over singing the next verse.

Jeff kicked his leg out at him, hoping to get this show back on the road—literally. They were approaching the next chorus and the moans coming in again; without Eddie to sing over them, they would be even more pronounced.

Eddie finally noticed, and abandoned Gareth to kick back at him, fighting before realizing that he was in fact signaling him to look off-stage at Steve, now waving and smiling at him. Eddie lost all fight, smiling back.

Jeff felt like he was invading on a moment to be watching as Steve rolled his eyes and jerked his head to the mic, telling Eddie to keep going. Eddie laughed too, and ducked bashfully back towards the front of the stage, chastened. He blew a kiss, Steve caught it.

Yeah, his bandmates were silly and vengeful, but they put on a damn good show.

[cherryredstars]

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara, Simon "Ghost" Riley, Mike Schmidt, Hobie Brown, Miles-42 x gn!reader

Warnings: Fluff, Suggestive Content with Miguel, A Little Bit of Angst with Miles

Summary: How would the boys treat you on your birthday?

A/N: In honor of my birthday (WOO)!

Word Count: 1.7K (Unedited)

Miguel O'Hara

You hang out with him in his office at HQ all day. He has your favorite food delivered to base, and you spend the whole day talking his ear off as he works. Today is the only day he doesn't mind people coming in and out of his office, as long as they do so to wish you a happy birthday.

He has LYLA keep you company, finding her only a tad bit less annoying, even as she randomly breaks out into happy birthday and makes birthday memes pop up on his screen like a virus. He only wants to strangle her when she keeps making birthday sex jokes and hinting a little too much at the gifts waiting for you at home.

When the two of you do make it home, you're excited to see the pile of gifts overflowing in the living room. Some of them are from the spiders in HQ, but more than one is from Miguel. You guys get take out, and spend the rest of the night opening gifts. You guys laugh at the ones from the younger spider-people, and try not to cringe at the more questionable ones (a difference in universe maybe?).

When the two of you finish going through the gifts and ate all the food, Miguel pulls you up off the floor. He gives you a cheeky smile, leading you towards the bedroom for one last birthday present. Huh, I guess LYLA was right about the birthday sex.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

As much as he wants to, he can't ask to go on leave in advance. Even if he did send in the request, it would be hastily denied. Going on leave because of a singular day and for a non-emergency cause? The higher ups would laugh in his face. So, his only hope is to not be deployed during that time.

If he is deployed during that time, he'll keep his eye on the clock, counting down the seconds until it hits midnight in your timezone. Then, at exactly zero hundred hours, your phone will light up with a message from Simon. It's a simple "Happy birthday. Miss you." text, but it makes you smile nonetheless. If you're lucky, you might get a voice message from all of 141 wishing you a happy birthday, horrible, off-key singing from Soap included! And if you're really lucky, you might even get a call if Simon's in a good, secure location where he knows his cellular usage can't be tracked or intercepted.

He already got a gift for you in advance. He'll tell you where he hid it, or tell you to keep an ear out for the doorbell. If he hid it, you rush over to the hiding spot, setting your phone up to record a video for him. You make a big show of it to keep him entertained, and at the end of the video you thank him repeatedly for the gift, adding in that you miss him and you'll see him when he comes back home. When he gets gifts delivered to you, it's usually flowers and maybe something extra like an Amazon package. You put your new flowers in the nicest vase you have, sending Simon a picture and heart emojis.

If-by the grace of god- he's home on your birthday, you get spoiled silly. Today is all about you and what you want to do. Breakfast in bed? Okay, waffles or pancakes? Movie night? Okay, it's your pick. Drinks at the pub? Let's stop to get a pack first. Simon does prefer to stay in with you on your birthday, but again, if you want to have a night out on the town, he's happy to follow along. Though, if you do stay home, don't look in the fridge! You don't want to risk taking a peak at the cake he bought, do you?

Mike Schmidt

Called out of work the day before. He wakes up super early, slipping out of bed to wake up Abby. She complains a little, and you have to pretend you weren't awake the second Mike got out of bed and you have to stifle your laughter at her grumbling out in the hall. The smell of breakfast is strong, and you wait a good 11 minutes (it would be too perfect if it was an even number), before slipping out of bed. You act all surprised when you walk into the kitchen, catching them making you breakfast. They instantly drag you into a chair, making you sit as they plate your food and slide over your coffee. You have to fight your tears when Abby gives you a hand drawn birthday card. Just for that, she can steal a bit of your bacon.

The three of you just spend the day at home. You draw with Abby, thanking her for all the birthday drawings. The three of you make a mess in the kitchen as you make the birthday cake, and somehow frosting gets stuck in all of your hair. You sing happy birthday after dinner, which of course is your favorite meal, and the three of you settle onto the couch to watch TV. You allow Abby to stay up until she falls asleep on the sofa.

Once she's gone to bed, Mike pulls you close to his side, pressing a kiss to your lips and muttering another happy birthday. You smile at him, and it grows wider when he pulls your gift from his pocket. The two of you are silent as you open it, and you gasp when you see what's inside. You thank him with a million smooches on his face, that makes him chuckle. Then, when it gets too late and the both of you remember he has work tomorrow, you retreat back to the bedroom for some much needed rest. Clean up is for another day.

Hobie Brown

Is it really a surprise that he forgets it's your birthday? Hey, in his defense, time and dates are just a social construct made to control the natural world!

He only remembers when one of his (current) band mates or a Spider in the society ask him what he has planned for your birthday. He knows he's fucked the second they ask him. He has nothing planned, he has yet to say happy birthday to you despite talking to you just this morning, and to top it all off, he has only just realized you were hinting about it throughout your morning conversation. And do you want to know what he said in response to your, Hobie, baby, do you think something important is happening today? Trust me, you don't because his answer may or may not have been, Unless 10 Downing is fist bumping a wrecking ball today, then no. Yeah, did he mention he was fucked?

So, in true Hobie fashion, he's gonna think quick and get himself out of trouble. What could he use as the perfect excuse for completely forgetting your birthday? Make it seem intentional! And how do you make it seem intentional? Throwing a totally killer surprise party that would give the PM a heart attack! He recruits the help of his band mates and Gwen, setting up your favorite venue that the band played in for a previous gig. He gets you a cake, a funny card, and some random trinkets he sees along the way. He'll have the band play anything you request or the night. Oh, don't forget your own friends! He'll let them know before he picks you up.

He's totally casual when he returns to the flat, all nonchalant as he tells you to get dressed up. When you ask why, he just shrugs and says riot. You stare at him like you expect him to say something extra, but you sigh when he doesn't. With your back turned to him, he allows himself to briefly flicker red. When he gets you to the venue, you're happily surprised, bumping into him and teasing that you thought he forgot. He chuckles nervously in response, finally wishing you a happy birthday. At the end of the night, after you got the celebration you deserved and the two of you lay at home in a half-awake state, he admits the truth to you when you're too sleepy to get mad at him. Hey, real men admit to their mistakes and fear the wrath of their partners.

Miles 42

He does the thing. You know, the obnoxious thing where you show up to school, and then suddenly you have a brightly colored birthday stash over your shoulder and a gift bag attached to 50 different HAPPY BIRTHDAY balloons? Yeah, he does that shit, and he does it with PRIDE. He will be damned if you aren't walking the halls and a stranger randomly yells out a birthday greeting to you in passing. You better hope you don't have any classes with him, because every class you guys share, he's making them sing happy birthday. Even if you get embarrassed and melt into your chair. At lunch, he's already got a birthday cupcake waiting for you and he did, in fact, skip the last period just so he could go get your favorite takeout to make sure it's still hot.

Rio definitely invited you over for dinner, and he spends the whole meal telling his Ma all about the things he did for you today. It makes her laugh, and she playfully swats the back of his head when you whine about how embarrassed you were all day.

When dinner is done, Miles drags you out of his house and walks you down to the familiar streets to the car lot. He helps you in, and you gasp when you see the inside of the car. He has candles placed carefully around, and a cake sits in the back seat with plastic forks and more gifts. Your smile is goofy as he quietly sings happy birthday to you, and you blow out the candle as he whoops and hollers playfully. The two of you dig into the cake, having quiet conversation until you feel like you'll throw up from all the sugar.

But as you're about to open the last of your gifts, his phone begins to ring. Looks like your birthday wish didn’t come true after all.

[jeonstellate]

flashpoint: forward

junhui’s post-9 pm overthinking led him to you, ten years into the future.

๑༄ wen junhui x gender neutral!reader

๑༄ time travel!au — little fluff(?), mostly neutral

๑༄ bulleted list format — 3K words

masterlist | flashpoint: backward

[gif’s full credit belongs solely to its owner]

๑༄ wrote this almost a year ago && decided to wait until i made significant progress on the second part, but i kinda— anw. long story short, here’s the first part even tho the second one isn’t done yet *insert dancer emoji here*

๑༄ personally loved this, if you can’t tell by the word count lol, so i sincerely hope y’all do too <3

for this specific universe, the world lives in whichever time they wish

however, the ability to jump through time isn’t a common ability

nor it is a well-studied area of science

it isn’t necessarily a regulated movement(?), either — time travelers don’t carry passports or any documents that record their movement from one time to another

to top if off, no one knows exactly how one gets the ability to jump through time as well; it just appears randomly once the blessed individual comes of age

what people do know, however, is the fact that there is a set of rules every time traveler is strongly advised to abide by

first & foremost, every time traveler mustn’t mess with the flow of events — specifically those that concern an entire population

which means they can’t prevent any public figure from crossing onto the other side of veil — political or otherwise

they can’t introduce a current technology to the people of the past, either — especially since inventions have the power to drive social advancement

basically everything that can impact how history is told is forbidden

saving endangered animals through time travel is included in that btw

tragically

&& also bringing forward obsolete stuff to the present

[that means no bringing forward quality web-based flash games or the psp. sigh]

second, every time traveler cannot reveal to the people of time periods prior to time travel becoming "common" knowledge that they are, in fact, time travelers

that sounds like a trippy sentence to comprehend completely, so let’s paraphrase

time travelers can’t change when time traveling became something that people just know to exist

if they travel to some time in the BCE, they can’t mention anything abt time traveling to the ppl there — bc time travel isn’t heard of yet during that time period

same thing if they travel to any CE period when time travel is basically "non-existent" still

truth be told, no one can exactly pin point when time travel became a common knowledge

so it’s a little tricky

that’s why it’s advisable to keep quiet abt it when going to the past

unless it’s recent past, then that should be fine

but not so much when going forward in time

since yk, they fs already know that time travel exist if people of the present already know abt it

the third advice for time travelers is to not stay too long in the past or the future

the unofficial handbook for time travelers didn’t really specify how long is too long, so everyone interprets it differently

some think it means a few days max, while some think it’s a few weeks

some even think it means a few years

but anw

the point is, according to the handbook, if one stays too long in the time they don’t belong in, changes will occur in their present

which will domino effect

to not only their future, but potentially to everyone else’s lives as well

[write that down—]

in a way, that connects advice three to advice one

thankfully, you aren’t blessed to be a time traveler

sure, you don’t get to experience the perks that comes w time traveling

but at least you don’t have to remember all those rules

&& wtv unmentioned precautionary tales there are abt time traveling

unfortunately for wen junhui, though, he is a time traveler

which means he has to keep all those rules in mind whenever he enjoys the perks of time traveling

sigh

.

.

.

.

.

junhui doesn’t have a favorite era to travel to

he, quite honestly, just travels on a whim

remember that "end of the world" talk bc of the mayan calendar?

yea

junhui didn’t believe in it either

but, nevertheless, he still time traveled to the day after the supposed end date just to prove to himself that he was right not to believe it

&& that there was definitely still tomorrow after the so-called "end of the world" day

ngl that extremely brief stay in that particular date was for his post-9 pm self — the one that worries abt every little thing that has ever happened in his life & that he has ever heard of in passing

basically his post-9 pm self has some sort of heightened anxiety or smth, that’s why he never trusts anything he thinks of from 9 pm onwards

[i personally believe this btw. this belief has saved me multiple times. i highly recommend :D]

still, whenever his post-9 pm self gets too worked up worrying abt nothing, it’s difficult for him to sleep

so it’s best to quell anything that can be a source of anxiety asap

esp since he needs — wants — all the sleep he can get

junhui has also traveled into the year 3000

solely bc he heard his friend hansol play a song abt it

&& the lyrics mentioned smth abt ppl in that year living underwater

now, that lyric could’ve been entirely fictional, a result of merely observing the trend of global climate change

but, considering the world they all live in, it’s also plausible that at least one of the songwriters for that song is a time traveler

so, naturally, junhui wants to confirm it for himself

to his surprise (not really), they do live underwater by then

&& remember the flying cars ppl of the past collectively envisioned for the future?

they’re apparently floating vehicles instead, like submarines, which can give the impression that they’re flying

it’s actually pretty cool to see

almost like the future in meet the robinsons, but like . . . underwater

anw

junhui doesn’t just fact-checks the future or any future-related things, he also has a similar habit for the past

aside from making sure wtv he read abt in books are accurate, he also fancies seeing tourist spots in their young state — before the effect of time & tourists took a toll

just to name a few . . .

he went to see the great wall at its peak condition: complete & still intact

he had admired the taj mahal as a recently completed building

same goes for the eiffel tower & the entirety of intramuros

not to mention the not-yet-green statue of liberty

& disneyland, back when there were merely 20 attractions in the entire park

suffice to say, junhui enjoys his time traveling abilities to the fullest

despite not actually using it often

in fact, by this point in time, he hasn’t time traveled in a while: his last time jump being more than half a year ago

it was, if he remembers correctly, to visit the cats in ancient egypt

sure, he could’ve looked around for the pyramids too & the other wonders of ancient egypt, but he was literally just there for the cats

cause, yk, he just thought of them & how dissimilar they might be to modern-day cats

to no one’s surprise, there wasn’t any notable differences

so, yea

no other escapades followed after that trip

that is, until his post-9 pm self got better of him

wen junhui, like any other night prior, just wants to sleep

well, at least his body does

his mind, though . . . it seems like it has other plans

bc it just . . . wouldn’t . . . shut off

[i fcking hate it when that happens]

his brain, for wtv reason, just decided that it was the best time to think abt the future

not just any future, though: his future, specifically

sure, he has traveled to the future countless of times, but those trips were never to catch a glimpse of his own future life

partly bc he was never actually interested in knowing beforehand

but mostly bc he knew that the future isn’t exactly set in stone

sure, the near future might not change drastically when he decides not to eat his usual breakfast, but there’s no telling how much each choice dominos into the distant future

thus, it’s reasonable to assume that, just bc he sees it when he time travels, it doesn’t automatically mean that that’s how his future will play out exactly

really, a part of him just wants to stay cautious abt accidentally changing his future

‘cause he can totally see that happening:

after seeing how his life is in the future, he might potentially develop a conscious preference towards things that he thinks will build into the future he saw

not knowing that the decisions he made due to his hyperawareness actually altered how his future will eventually play out

wen junhui doesn’t want to experience that

like, at all

bc it’s def a recipe for disappointment & heartbreak

but, apparently, his brain begs to differ

bc it’s still trying to convince him that it wouldn’t hurt

to know how his life will going exactly 10 years from now

if anything, it might even provide some comfort . . . to know that, yk, he’ll be just fine 10 years from now

but at the same time,

what if he gets so obsessed w making sure he doesn’t change his future after he goes back to the present??

he would be so stressed for the next 10 years until his present finally catches up to the moment he time traveled to

oh heavens

junhui of the present just — quite literally — want to fcking sleep

so he tossed

and turned

blanket off

blanket on

one foot out

foot back in bc he remembered abt the monsters that might try to pull him by his leg

lie down on his stomach

lie down on his back

put one arm under his pillow

and—

nothing

absolutely nothing

he’s still wide awake

tragically

once he sees a semblance of sun rays through the window curtain, he defeatedly decided to compromise

and finally time traveled 10 years forward

truthfully, time traveling for wen junhui is v easy

at least after he mastered it

which took a bit ngl

he just has to think of time & place he wants to travel to, mean them, close his eyes, & let the magic do its thing

normally, he would open his eyes as soon as he feels like it was safe to do so

just to confirm that he did end up in the time & place he intended

but for this one specifically, he didn’t even want to bother confirming that he arrived at his destination

instead, he settled for accepting the different feeling of the sheets under him as such

contrast to how uncomfortable & hot his own bedsheets and blanket felt to him tonight,

the ones currently touching his skin felt comfortable & cool

aka literally the perfect recipe for sleep

junhui personally has been begging his body to sleep for hours now at this point

so after processing the sweet relief of comfortability, he basically knocked out cold almost instantly

[he was getting so frustrated—]

[i’m so happy for him *wipes tear*]

now, don’t get him wrong

he’s normally cautious whenever he time travels, esp if it’s within his lifetime

given that it’s a "special" circumstance of sorts

that shall be explained later . . . after he wakes up

he’s just really tired, okay?

let him be

let him discover how much he fcked up once he wakes up

from a deep sleep he so deserved

.

.

.

once junhui finally wakes up from his slumber, it took him a moment to remember what he did before he slept

still unaware of his night shenanigans & barely awake, he makes a beeline to the bathroom

except the path that normally takes him to the bathroom didn’t actually take him there

but rather to a closet that he doesn’t even recognize

undeterred, he turns & tries the second doorknob he grasps

thankfully, that door opens to reveal what he’s looking for: a bathroom

the harsh lighting essentially forces him to fully open his eyes

and he finally notices that there are two toothbrushes by the sink

he could’ve sworn he only has one toothbrush out of the box

so he absolutely has no idea which one he should use

much less why there are suddenly two in the first place

junhui decides to not think too much of it

and just takes the safest option: only using a mouthwash & moving onto the rest of his morning routine

he’s not abt to take a risk abt that yk

who knows what he uses the other toothbrush for that he just can’t remember atm

now refreshed & completely awake, he finally finally remembers what he did last night before he drifted off to sleep

he has time traveled 10 years forward

which means he’s currently in his body 10 years into the future

alright, guess this is the right second for a quick rundown of how time traveling works in this universe

if the time he wants to travel to is within his lifetime, his consciousness will enter his body during that time

which means he’s inside the time flow & whatever he does may impact the succeeding events

which also means he has to be extremely mindful

if the time he wants to travel to is outside his lifetime, may that be before or after, then he’s just . . . an entity with no actual form

like an invisible ghost

which means he’s outside the time flow & he’s free to say wtv & move whichever way he wants without bothering ppl

or even worrying abt accidentally altering the timeline

however, if he’s not skilled enough, he might accidentally manifest as a person that didn’t/doesn’t rlly exist during that particular time

which means that, once again, he’ll be inside the time flow when he shouldn’t be

actually, if he’s a seasoned enough traveler, anything is possible: he may still touch things without necessarily being inside the time flow, he may potentially alter the timeline without having a vessel, etc.

but anw

now, with all that knowledge in mind, wen junhui looks around with purpose

first he turns to the mirror to intently observe how he physically changed over the years

then, once satisfied, turns his attention to the bathroom itself: how he recognizes some of the brands but not exactly the packaging

and how painfully obvious it is that his future self shares the place with one other person

has inflation gotten so bad that he had to share his apartment w someone?

truthfully, he doesn’t rlly mind that

but it means his chances of getting caught are higher

esp if his flatmate happens to be home atm & he has no idea who they are

junhui takes it upon himself to explore his bedroom too

& look for clues abt who he might be living w

assuming that they are close enough, that is

it doesn’t take him that long to find what he’s seeking, thankfully

bc there are two framed decorations on his bedroom walls that basically answered all his current questions

one of which is an intimate wedding photograph of him and someone else

which means . . .

wen junhui of the future is fcking married

and his flatmate can only be his spouse

!!!!!!!!!!!!!

alright

now

it’d be a complete lie to say that wen junhui of the past anticipated that

bc he totally didn’t

and honestly, who can blame him?

dude doesn’t even have a significant other in his present

and, judging who he ends up marrying,

he hasn’t even met the person he ends up w yet

nor has he heard of them

bc he has yet to hear the name that he can only assume is theirs next to his on the other framed decoration

which has his name & [first name] in large print — surrounded by small handwritten messages

all of a sudden, junhui has more questions than what he started w prior to discovering the identity of his flatmate

how did they meet?

how long were they a couple before they wed?

how long have they been married at this point?

when did they marry?

when did they me—

and as if on cue, a soft knock resonated from the door,

instantly freezing junhui in place

followed by a: "jun, are you awake yet?"

thinking on his feet, junhui quickly busied himself w making the bed

so when the person who knocked inevitably opens the door, he can use it as an excuse

"oh, good. you’re up."

junhui immediately thought the picture has done you no justice as soon as you appeared by the doorway

he swears he even stops breathing for a sec after seeing you

"yea . . . i was just fixing the bed . . ."

he has no idea how he’s able to act like he didn’t just fall in love at first sight

but perhaps his fear of giving himself away is the one to thank

hopefully, his acting was convincing enough to foul you

not that he wants to lie to you or anything

he’s just being cautious bc he doesn’t know if his future self has let you onto his secret

and he certainly don’t wanna be the one responsible for that talk

"once you’re done, come join me for breakfast, yea?"

phew

it seems like you’re none the wiser

that’s good for him

now, all he has to do is to play along & not blow his cover

sounds easy enough

right?

right?

"ofc. lemme just grab my phone & we can head out tgt"

.

.

.

wrong!

bc, for one, he has no idea who you are

besides being his spouse, and your name,

and perhaps also how you physically look like,

junhui doesn’t know you

and what kind of husband doesn’t know anything abt his spouse???

not a good one, for starters

sigh

all of a sudden, he was so glad he bothered to take acting classes when he was younger

to be fair, he did take them to help him blend in whenever he wants to travel w a body rather than as a ghost

which is exactly what this situation is

except this one’s a bit different . . . in a way

‘cause now he gets to use it to keep his marriage intact

and for the sake of his future, he needs to not mess it up

no pressure at all ammirite

[jackfrombaskinrobbins]

matt murdock as your legal guardian headcanons :)

type of writing: headcanons / scenario

word count: 1.15k

request: yes / no

dynamic: matt murdock x teen!reader

characters: reader, matt murdock, foggy nelson, karen page

a/n: ik this isn't a request, but it's something i think about a lot!! i had to get it out lol. i was originally gonna use a more aesthetic picture but then i found this & it was too cute not to include lol <3 also requests are still open! just send in an ask :)

taglist: @nutellani (fill out this form if you'd like to be included!)

-----------------------✰----------------------

first i’m gonna explain how matt murdock actually became your legal guardian.

because i just want to establish that lol

so your parents were involved with wilson fisk.

you had no idea about this of course, since you were very young when they were still involved in his business.

and btw when i say business i mean like his shady dealings

you were kind of left on your own a lot as a kid. you didn’t really mind it, and figured out how to entertain yourself.

however, when you were five years old, you returned home to find a truly awful crime scene.

you would learn much later in life that your parents had decided to report fisk, but before they were able to do so, he had them killed.

the perp was still there, and almost got you. however, a man with a black mask over his eyes was able to stop him for a second, yelling at you to run.

so you did. 

you ended up at an orphanage, but one day, a blind man came in looking to adopt.

you felt an immediate connection, and he adopted you when you were six. 

you’ve been inseparable ever since!!!

he told you all about your parents when you were older btw

anyways so now onto the fun stuff!!

one perk of living with matt is that your room is bomb.

bc his apartment is lowkey the coolest

if you like to visualise like i do, i imagine that your room is like next to the closet where he keeps the daredevil stuff

RANDOM LITTLE DETAIL LOL

anyways it’s super cosy

and you also can basically see in the dark because even though it doesn’t matter if the lights are on, matt tells you to keep them off because then the electric bill will stay low 

you called him a cheapskate but he said that was rude :(

you still did it though #rebel 🥶🥶🥶

you guys bully each other all the time

it’s the way you bond :)

you go to the nelson & murdock offices after school or during the summers.

you have your own little desk there!

one time you said it was too distracting and so foggy bought a privacy folder for you LMAO

needless to say it didn’t help at all

most of the clients are really nice and they’ll ask you about school and life and stuff

you kind of put them at ease

you tried to talk to matt about him being kind of intimidating but he didn’t want to hear it.

and then foggy kept asking why you didn’t think HE was intimidating.

“i mean come on y/n! have you SEEN this face? matt has a little baby face compared to mine!!”

you laughed so hard omg

matt calls you if he needs anything or if you need to tell him something, but you mostly just text foggy to keep them both updated

in my mind, foggy texts like five texts for one sentence

he uses every emoji twice

and every time he uses an abbreviation he always capitalizes it and puts the real meaning in parentheses next to it

here is an example

“hi y/n. hope your day is going well 😃😃 matt and i just won our case 😎😎 so we are going to go to josie’s tonight to celebrate!!!!!!! yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 🥳🥳 let me know if you need anything from the store 🏬🏬 ok TTYL (TALK TO YOU LATER) OMG (OH MY GOSH) matt just fell LOL (LAUGH OUT LOUD) 😱😱 gotta go ☹️☹️”

he’s so silly i love him

also matt collects records and cds.

he used to go with you to buy them and let you choose whatever you thought looked good

which is why you have everything from no doubt to frank sinatra to obscure french music

you always have music on at the apartment

like all the time

which brings me to my next point

matt never wanted you to have to see him as daredevil

but it wasn’t like the topic could be avoided.

so when he comes home with awful wounds and stuff, you help clean him up, just like he used to do for his father

and you’re damn good at it too. you have a very steady hand and no squeamish attitude at all. 

but similar to how the scotch used to help matt steady himself when he helped his father, music helps you steady yourself.

you’ll listen to soft & acoustic songs, and it helps ease you AND him.

usually you don’t talk about the things he does. but if he mentions something, you will

but usually it goes without any mention

in my mind, you and matt have a tradition of listening to baseball games on the radio together

you don’t really have a team you alaays root for, it changes year to year

but the two of you get really invested.

like you left the office early every time there’s a game so you can listen together.

or one time he and foggy were prepping a case and there was a game on so he wasn’t even focused HAH

i also think that even though josie’s is a bar, you’re allowed in

not only that, josie will let you behind the bar to make yourself a drink.

ok not like an alcoholic one but still

you have this one mixture of cranberry juice and ginger ale with a lime that you call the “y/n special” and foggy tried it and spit it out :(

josie and some of the regulars almost kicked him out LMAO it was so funny

ok also i have this very clear vision of something foggy does

so to preface this

it’s a rainy day

or just a generally gloomy day

and you and matt are home.

karen is over too.

maybe you’re reading a book and matt and karen are prepping a case or something

and then the door suddenly bursts open

matt isn’t surprised because he heard it coming obvi 

but it caught you off guard

you look over to the kitchen, where the perpetrator is completely covered by the GIGANTIC grocery bags he’s holding.

“oh no.” 

you say, and matt shakes his head. karen is already laughing

foggy drops the bags and exhales, a huge grin overtaking his face.

“WHO’S READY FOR FOGGY’S FAMOUS CHICKEN SOUP????!!!”

���we are” you and karen and matt say in unison, trying to hold back laughter

basically every time the littlest bit of winter rolls around, foggy will bring every ingredient known to man over to your and matt’s apartment and make chicken soup

you make fun of this tradition but it’s been going on since foggy and matt were in law school

and the soup is actually so good

you four always eat it together and it makes you so happy

your family, all together at one table :)

-----------------------✰----------------------

[silent-sentinels]

Plural Asking 100 Questions: Part 3!

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9

21. How many System members do you have? 24 and a Core! <3

22. Which word / words do you prefer to use for members of your System? We prefer facets, but parts also works. Sysmates is also cool! though headmates and alters seem a little too solid for us, and fragments feel too incomplete (though that is Core). we used to think skills was fun!! but ultimately the term doesn't describe us anymore. and recently we've been referring to ourselves as scabbards/scabbardmates!!

23. Which age group seems to be the most common in your System? We're all mostly in the 20s range, which makes sense considering how old the body is. Outliers include the Oldies, Oath (42), Harlowe (39) and Chrysanthemum (38), and little Lili who is 1-6, and Sharps who jUST TOLD US IT WAS 7. HONEY? SWEETHEART?? SINCE WHEN?? nooo darling nooo, who gave all the pain to the 7 year old to hold, oh sweetheart... okay hey LISTEN when we fake kin assigned ourselves fictional characters i thought giving it "The Kid from Omelas" WAS A FUCKING JOKE. HELLO??? sharps darling come here, why are you holding that...

24. Which gender seems to be the most common in your System? we're all so fucked up genderwise lmao... hey are any of us cis?? what counts as cis when you don't consign with conventional portrayals of gender? we're intangible!! this question is very difficult to answer since all of our genders are Incredibly Fucked hkjgh but i think it's. transmasc? genderfluid? genderqueer!

25. Are there any talents / hobbies you picked up because of a Member? Songbird's why we did choir and art we're pretty sure hgkjh we're thinking of learning more french for her too, but who knows? theseus loves languages too, so that'd be fun for him, theseus is also why we like writing and linguistics! <3 and expertise likes cIasspecting (if that wasn't clear hkjhg).

26. Do you have any in-system relationships? OATH AND MOM ARE MARRIED!!!! <3333 they're our system power couple fr. and Chamomile and Songbird are. uh. i think they're lovers now right??? yes. okay yes they're lovers!

27. Do you label roles within your System (and if yes, which ones?) yeah! on our intro post, we labeled Oath (Protector), Mom and Burden (Caretakers), and Ceres (our Main), but otherwise all of our roles are here! maestro's still working on it though hkgjh <33

28. Are most of your Members introjected, brainmade or something else? we're all brainmade!! :]

29. Do you use names, emojis or something similar to sign off messages (and if yes, which ones and why?) WE USE EMOJIS!! but only when we know for sure who's typing AND if we want to sign off on something! if we don't THEN WE DON'T!!! this is an important rule for us because we feel like shit when we're forced to differentiate. like? we dont know who that was either bro hkjhg

ANYWAY, our emojis! this'll take a bit lmao

Core/Ceres is 🧭 because he's our center! we're all connected and everything leads back to him :]

Maestro is 🍱 because he's all neat and organized and compartmentalized. Sorting everything into its proper place. The bento box was a joke at first but I'm not sure what would fit me better, and it's otherwise grown on me.

Rationale is 🏹 because he's our guy who adds nuance (<- and this extra info often takes the form of these funny little arrows)

Songbird is 🕊️ mostly due to the name. If the bluebird emoji wasn't so fickle, we would use that, but the dove is also very pretty~

Eloquence is 🪶 because it's like writing with a feather and ink!

Self-Awareness is 🔭 because she's usually observing us from a distance and viewing us through a specific lens.

Memorandum is 📜 because he's our memory keeper, and it's like keeping track of records.

Expertise is 🪡! this is somewhat because we know how to sew because of him, but also it's a sort of a "thread the needle" "to pin point something" oh god whats the phrase... idk bro it's just like. a tiny niche that you can fill perfectly? a small but tricky skill that takes finesse? that's expertise hkjhg

Oath is ☔ because he shields and protects us from things that try to hurt us. also he does carry an umbrella hkjgh

Chrysanthemum is 🌺 because it was the best flower emoji we had hkgjh mom goes by so many flower names that it's truly like yeah alright that'll work jlkjg

Lili is ☄️ AND WE DONT KNOW WHY HKJHG we were trying to pick one they liked and the kiddo seemed happy about this one and so i was like yeah sure buddy go for it!! you can be a pretty lil comet! hkjgh i guess its fitting, our favorite stuffed animal is a blue teddy bear and this is a similar blue to that? (<- and she sees whimsy as an older brother so she wanted a star like him) WAIT FOR REAL OH MY GODDD THATS SO CUTE WHATTTT!!! lili my LIL GUY!!!! :']

Juliet is 💓 because duh, heart thrum. heart beat one specifically because of hyper empathy, feelings resonate strongly for us, especially for him.

Ryan is 💫 because that's the most whimsy ass emoji ive ever seen. just stars/a star swirling around in circles like yeah okay that's him alright

Hackles is 💥 because he's always angry and pissed about something. as a note, he was almost 🪚 because Hackles -> hacksaw, and another name of his is Serration.

Jaded is 🍂 because there's no fucking good jade plant emojis, and i didn't want one anyway so who cares. the dead leaves work fine. (<- he refuses to call them fall leaves or autumn leaves. always "dead leaves) if it were up to me i wouldnt have an emoji at all but maestro's a real stickler about it so whatever.

Yearning is 🌻 which is VERY AMUSING, he wrote a post about it here thats mostly silly hkjh but the sunflower chases the sun, and yearning chases joy. lmao, if oath's like our volition, yearning's like our echem.

Faucet is 🌫️ because [ ] keeps everything about us obscured. fun fact, [ ] form was one of the first one we thought up because [ ] literally is just a hazy figure peeking out from behind a curtain of fog. ANOTHER FUN FACT [ ]'S EMOJI WAS ALMOST 🚱 ARE YOU SEEING THIS SHIT THIS IS THE MOST FAUCET ASS EMOJI LMAO!!!! [oh, shut up]

Distance is 🪟 because distance is why we keep distancing ourselves from people, like looking in through a thick pane of glass.

Blender is 👥 because he helps us mask and blend in with the crowd! :> <33

Sharps Box is 🩹 because it's our pain holder, pain = bandaid!

Debonaire is 🎇 because he's got that flare B) lmao, he's like our cool guy. sparkle on or whatever hkjhg

Chamomile is 🍵 because. chamomile hkjgh?? sleepy time tea!

Lookout is 🕯️ because it helps us notice more things, and is kinda like a "leave a light on" keeping vigil for the late watch.

Deadsprint is 💨 boy goes fast, what more can i say hkjgh

Burden is 🌐 because he's got the weight of the world on his shoulders :']

30. Do any of your System members use Xenogenders? not as of right now, but we may consider it when we have time!! ryan's been getting into some kind of bunny gender, or silly time gender. who knows with that guy. mom found that uhhh Floradeeric flag which is sick as hell, and the Grownostatua which is also her!!

[thatmultifandomhoe]

It’s You

Pairing: Changkyun and Reader

Group: Monsta X

Word Count: 7,433

Genre/Rating: Valentine’s Day AU - Quarantine AU - Friends to Lovers AU - Fluff - Angst - PG-13

Overview: The last thing you planned to do was celebrate Valentine’s Day. Being single on a holiday that glorified love, especially during a pandemic, was the perfect sign to stay at home to guarantee avoiding having a broken heart. Especially when Changkyun, the one who held it, seemed to have plans of his own.

Warning: Mention of past unrequited love and having a broken heart - swearing -

A/N: Happy - early - Valentine’s Day sweet peas! And yes, Changkyun from Monsta X was the winner of the “Who Do You Want to Spend Valentine’s day With,” and I had so much fun working on this piece. I’m personally not a fan of the holiday - for reasons you’ll read below - but I hope that those of y’all who do celebrate have a happy Valentine’s day, and I hope that y’all enjoy this piece and get all the chocolate that you want this year!

Tagging: @srvdyv​​  @skyys-universe​​ @kpophoneybunny​​ @wheein-whanders​​ @ezralia-writes​

Music Playlist:

Main Master List:

Pinterest Mood Board:

The First Installment of the Hoe Catalog.

©thatmultifandomhoe 2021. Do not repost, translate, or use my stories without permission.

“Are you okay?”

Glancing over at the cell phone that was propped up on the dresser, you raised an eyebrow at the black screen. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You do know what day it is, right?”

Fingers pausing, you pressed your lips together, staring down at the button of the black jeans you had been in the middle of putting on. You had known what day it was when you went to turn off the alarm that had set for that morning. It had been painfully obvious, and as the pre-recorded song of birds chirping increased in volume, you had stared at the date for longer than you normally do.

February fourteenth.

Valentine’s Day.

“I’ve only been awake for an hour,” you said, stepping towards the closet for a shirt. It had been a miracle that Changkyun had called instead of his preferred method of randomly video calling. While it was true, you had been up for an hour, you had only started moving about to get on with the day about five minutes ago. And currently you were only wearing pants and a black lacy bra. Although, knowing him, he wouldn’t have complained.

There was rustling on his end and the clinking of a spoon hitting a glass. “I know, but I just wanted to make sure. You seemed pretty upset the other day.”

“It’s not that I’m upset…” You slipped your head through the hole of a black smocked square blouse with red flowers printed on it, adjusting the top so it sat properly. “I just...don’t like the holiday.”

Which was putting it mildly. It was more than a dislike, but as you went to look in the mirror to make sure there weren’t any tags sticking out, you silently thanked him for calling. You never hated Valentine’s Day. At its core, it was rather a sweet concept, one that year after year, a part of you hoped that maybe you’d be able to have someone to enjoy the holiday with. But after years of being single on the most romantic day, and having it ruined by dates turned sour, more often than not a dark cloud hovered overhead while you tried to simply get through the day.

You tried to find some spin on it to turn it around. Starting tomorrow and for the next week, chocolate was going to be anywhere from fifty to seventy-percent off. Sales were always fantastic no matter what the reason was. There were only so many chocolate hearts that you were capable of eating though.

“Why are you calling so early?” You said, turning the conversation back to him. It made sense why you were up – even on a Sunday there was always work to be done – for him to be awake before noon, that caused a bit of worry.

“Ah,” there was a thump that echoed on the call like he had dropped his phone, his voice sounding distant. “I have some things to get done today.”

“Yeah, but it’s nine in the morning. I thought you weren’t even coherent before noon.”

Changkyun forced out a laugh and you lightly smiled, gathering your hair into a bun before carrying him into the kitchen. Even though it was a simple phone call and was a bit distorted, it did nothing to dull the fluttering going on by the butterflies in your stomach. His lazy grin came to mind, and only ten minutes into the hour and you were smiling like a fool while stirring your coffee.

That was another reason why you weren’t entirely fond of the holiday. The entire day was dedicated to love, to telling someone that you love them, and here you were, having fallen for your friend and yet you refused to tell him. It was hard to pinpoint when these feelings began, but it was possible that they had been growing since the day you two met.

There was no doubt that you were a workaholic, always feeling weird if you bummed around for more than a few hours, so it made sense that on the rare day off that you took, something had to crash it. You had been indulging in some binge watching of your precious Inuyasha when your phone lit up with an incoming video call from Messenger. Immediately you had been hesitant. None of your friends ever video messaged you since unlike them, your cell was an android.

You hadn’t planned to answer him. Not only did you not recognize the name, or his picture - despite how attractive he appeared - but you didn’t normally answer requests from strangers. With that in mind and mildly annoyed in having to pause the episode, you were ready to hit decline and be on with the day. Except, you were a dumb ass, and hit accept by accident.

Turns out he had meant to call someone else and had been equally shocked when you answered. In fact, he had been less than classy upon seeing you in instead of his friend, the words, ‘oh, fuck me,’ slipping out before he could stop himself.

In normal circumstances, you might have rolled your eyes, or told him to go fuck himself, but it had been six months into the pandemic and he was the first new person that you had met in a while.

“I don’t usually fuck strangers,” you had said instead, not missing the way his eyebrow rose and how his mouth curled upwards in a smile. “But if you wanna buy me a grinder and have it delivered to my place; I might eventually be persuaded.”

There had been a tense moment, but when he let out a breathless chuckle, somehow you knew that you were in the safe zone. Turns out, the two of you had a friend in common who he had meant to call, but he hadn’t been paying attention to what he was doing and accidentally clicked on your profile. The call only lasted for a few more minutes before Changkyun apologized and with an awkward wave, ended it. You stared at his profile picture and next thing you knew, you were scrolling through his pictures, oohing upon finding an old one of him with silver hair and an eyebrow piercing.

A couple hours later, there was a knock at your door and after slipping on a mask, you were greeted with a delivery man that looked no older than sixteen, announcing that he had a grinder for you. Before you could say that you hadn’t ordered anything, he promised that it had already been paid for, tip included. Not one to turn down free food, you accepted it, and saw the note that was taped to the paper bag.

I’m not a weirdo I promise. Jooheon passed along your address, and I’m not about to let someone go hungry. From, a friendly stranger who hit the wrong button.

There was no second guessing on your part. You pulled his profile back up and hit the video button, only having to wait a few seconds before his face filled the screen, locks of black hair falling across his forehead as he ruffled it up.

“Did you seriously send me a grinder?”

“You sounded hungry.”

There was a brief pause, and suddenly you were giggling, shoulders shaking as you sat down on a chair, his own deep chuckles joining in not long after. It was odd, but after that – and after confirming with Jooheon to make sure he wasn’t a creep, which you were assured he wasn’t – the two of you fell into the habit of video chatting. Some days there was nothing to say. With the pandemic raging on and everything closed, it was nice to have someone simply be there after all this time.

Fast forward five months later, the pandemic had only grown worse, and not only had Changkyun proven to be a good friend, but he managed to worm his way into your heart.

“What about you,” Changkyun suddenly asked. “You’re not actually working today, are you? Forget the holiday, it’s Sunday.”

Rolling your eyes, you went back to the bedroom with the black coffee in one hand, and him in the other. “Not all day. I have a few graphics that I want to finish up or it’ll bug me. Should only take a few hours to do.”

“Only a few hours,” he teased. “I’m willing to bet you’ll still be working tonight.”

“Will not.”

“Will too.”

“Not.”

His end grew silent, and he suddenly cleared his throat. “We’ll see about that.”

There was something about that sentence that stopped you from entering the password to your computer. Glancing away from the screen, you stared at Changkyun’s picture, wondering why his voice had softened when he had said that, as if he knew something that you didn’t.

“What is it that you have to do?” You found yourself asking him again, not looking at the keys as you logged into your laptop, the bleeding hearts screensaver appearing as the icons loaded one by one.

“Just some…stuff. I’ll probably be off my phone most of the day.”

“Oh.”

With the amount of phone calls and video chats the two of you had, it had become normal to hear from him a couple times throughout the day. The text chat was filled with various memes, emojis, and conversations that ranged from how much is too much fabric softener? - all the way to late night conversations involving stories about crazy exes, to insecurities, dreams you’ve always wanted to do, and whether or not the world would ever go back to the normal that you both had known prior to March 2020.

Wetting your lips, you leaned back against the desk chair and cradled the mug in both hands. “Well, have fun with whatever you’re doing,” you said, keeping your voice light so he wouldn’t notice the shift in your mood.

It was suddenly so obvious why he wasn’t saying what he had to do. With the holiday approaching, Changkyun had asked if you had any plans for how to spend the day, and with that came your explanation for why you weren’t overly fond of this particular day. The blind dates that ended terribly and being single had been part of the reason why, but there was one particular instance from the past that was determined to ruin Valentines every year for you.

In all the years, there was one person that you had confessed to on Valentines. Jungkook was someone you considered a friend, but you had only told him the truth to get him to shut up about his girlfriend. Up until that afternoon she had been the ex that, from your understanding, despised being in the same room as him anymore. According to him, she showed up at his place with the usual, ‘I miss you,’ and ‘let’s try again,’ and somehow that all managed to lead to wild and hot passionate sex that was, ‘insanely good.’

If only that had been it.

Whether Jungkook got caught up in reliving the moment and forgot who he was talking to, he gave you a play by play of their reunion. From the way she arrived at his door, to the way she felt around him, he told every detail all while you were on the other end of the phone, fingers twisted and tugging at your hair as you sat on the floor of your childhood bedroom. On all the days, the last thing you wanted to hear was your crush talking about having to move to the living room because his bedroom reeked from all their fucking.

The conversation didn’t last much longer, thank god, but you hadn’t been able to grieve because in the other room mom’s voice could be heard as she talked about her day at work. Instead, you forced back the tears and it took everything to not break down when she smiled and handed you an orange teddy bear holding a red heart that said I love you, along with a bag of Lindt chocolates. She was unaware, and while everyone slept, you buried your face into a couple pillows to muffle the sounds of your crying. You were only eighteen and yet you swore your heart collapsed in on itself before exploding into a million glass shards.

“That fucking dick,” Changkyun had said when you told him.

The screen had been bright as the two of you video chatted, and you rubbed your eyes, tired but not ready to go to sleep. He had been doing the rounds of locking up and shutting off the lights while you spoke, only wearing a thin pair black and blue flannel pants. At least he held the phone pretty leveled so you weren’t forced to stare at his torso, but there had been several times where you found your gaze lingering on his muscular body.

“I mean,” you ran a hand through your hair, shrugging as he looked back at you. “It happens to everyone.”

Changkyun frowned though. “No,” he said, his voice gentle but firm at the same time. “No, it doesn’t. And that shouldn’t have happened to you.”

Blinking, you forced the memory away, shifting in your seat to get comfortable once again. Just because you didn’t enjoy the holiday, or didn’t have anyone to spend it with, didn’t mean that was the case with Changkyun. Why else would he be reluctant to say what his plans were? He was probably just being nice and didn’t want to appear like he was rubbing salt into an old wound that refused to heal.

“Hey,” Changkyun’s voice softened again, and as much as you knew you shouldn’t, you wished that he was here, in the apartment with you for him to hold you. “It’s still early in the morning. For all you know, there’s a Mr. Right, who’s going to stumble into your path today.”

You scoffed, the clicking of your mouse echoing in the bedroom. “I mean, I don’t have plans to go out.”

“Surprises can happen you know.”

“Alright Changkyun,” now that the internet was up, you glanced back at the phone. “I gotta get to work. Stay safe out there.”

“Always am. Talk to you later.”

“Bye.”

There was a pause, and when you looked back over, the call was still going. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for either of you to leave it going while doing work, the silence was never awkward, it was more comforting than anything, but this time there was a sense of something being left un–

“You look pretty today,” Changkyun said suddenly.

Blinking, your fingers tightened around the mouse as your heart raced. “What? You can’t even see me Changkyun.”

“So?”

“I could be wearing my pajamas for all you know,” your voice faltered, and despite the constriction of wearing jeans, you pulled your legs up on to the chair to hug them to your chest.

“I’ve already seen you in your pajamas,” he joked. “You’re still pretty though.”

He was smiling. You knew for certain that he was, and that made your palms turn clammy, forcing you to wipe them against the pant leg.

“Maybe I’m not, wearing clothes?” Internally you slapped yourself, instantly regretting those words, and perhaps your entire existence at this point. It was still early. Instead of work, maybe you could possibly bury yourself under all the blankets and never answer his phone calls again.

Hearing shuffling coming from the phone, you pressed your lips together, not entirely sure if you wanted to hear what he had to say.

“Are you trying to keep me from my plans today?” His voice deepened and if it weren’t for the fact that you were already sitting down, you were certain that you’d be on the floor.

“No, I’m just stupid,” you blurted out, slamming your hand over your mouth.

Changkyun chuckled, and suddenly the phone seemed closer to him because his voice became clearer. “I think you’re trying to seduce me.”

Oh god. No. It was absolutely the other way around. He was the one who had the advantage on his side, between the lip bites and the selfies he sent that captured his jawline that was perfect to cut glass with. Whether it was his godly features, or when the two of you were video chatting and he rolled onto his stomach and face planted himself into the pillow, you fell for him every time.

“Know what?” You rushed to say, ignoring his laughter. “I have work and you have things to do. Stay safe, and I’ll talk to you later. Bye!”

There was no hesitation. This time you slammed your finger on the end call button and for extra measure, tossed it away and on the bed, letting it disappear among the sea of messy blankets.

Shakily sighing, you slid further down in the chair as the edge of the desk pinned your legs to your chest to keep from falling to the ground. He had never said anything like that before. Sure, there were times where he’d see you do something or when you’d ramble on about a show or work, he’d might say cute, but that always felt like an afterthought.

“Damn it Changkyun,” you said, glaring at where you had thrown the phone and hating the fact that his words kept circling around your mind, making you feel incredibly warmer than you had been ten minutes earlier. Hating that while he was probably going to be on a date with some pretty girl who was worth his time, you were at home, working on a Sunday, wishing that the guy you hadn’t even met in person was here and telling you that in-between kisses.

You ran a hand over your face with a groan, fingers of course getting caught in the bun briefly as you sat up. There was work to be done, and with a click of the mouse, the programs you needed quickly opened up. It was fairly easy, and if you focused, would only take an hour, maybe even less to get done. But with Changkyun on the brain, all you wanted to do was curl back up under the messy blankets and daydream about him. About what it would be like to hug him, to hear his voice in person, and perhaps, spend a Valentine’s day with someone who wouldn’t let you down.

That wasn’t going to happen though. It was a daydream and nothing more.

Lacing your fingers together, you quickly turned them inward, groaning in satisfaction at the loud crack that emitted from the joints. Outside the window that the desk was placed in front of, the sun had already begun its descent for the night. The sky was painted in splashes of orange with lazy clouds slipping in, the remaining bits of blue falling steadily behind.

Despite what Changkyun had predicted, he was only partially correct. With him swimming freely in your mind, you had been distracted, lost in a hazy daydream that made it impossible to focus on the graphics that you were trying to finish up. More often than not you stepped away from the desk, feet guiding you to the other room or in small twirls with the faintest lovesick smile. It was impossible to get anything done. So, you said fuck it. It was Sunday after all, and you weren’t expected to have those scheduled to be posted for a few days. Where was the harm in having one day to yourself? One with no work whatsoever to stress you out?

With work out of the way and having no other plans, another cup of coffee had been made and in the spirit of the holiday, your gaze had lingered on the makeup that sat on the dresser. Most of it had gone unused as the weeks melted into months. Tubes of lipstick and eye shadow palettes once loved had been forgotten about, and as you recalled, the brushes that you typically forgot to clean had been washed out of pure boredom. It was with new motivation that you grabbed a majority of the collection and hopped onto the counter in the bathroom, music playing from a playlist filled with songs from your younger years that held nostalgia, and simply played around with the colors.

By the time you were done, an hour had gone by, and you gained two cut creases with glitter, contoured cheeks, painted your lips, and looked like you were ready to go out for a date out in the city to be wined and dined. Instead, you slipped on a pair of fuzzy socks and slid into the kitchen with plans to see what frozen meal the freezer had to offer. If anything, it had the bare bones of a date. The location? Your couch. The hot leading man? Most likely the main character from whatever show you finally decided on after you gave a good scroll through Netflix. All you needed was utter disappointment and it could be considered a success.

You were torn between making the decision for frozen lasagna or chicken Alfredo, but a sudden and loud knock at the door stopped you. Eyebrows pulling in confusion, you carefully set the food on the counter, taking a moment to slip on the mask that you left hanging on the doorknob for situations like this. Not that they occurred often. With the exception of having food delivered, once the world realized that this pandemic wasn’t just a simple flu and doctors encouraged people to stay home, you hadn’t invited anyone over. It was lonely, and you missed your friends and family greatly, but this wasn’t a situation to take lightly.

“I’m sorry,” you said, opening the door once the fabric mask was securely on. “I think you might have the wrong…”

And you stopped. Stopped talking and stared. Stared at the man leaning against your door frame, wearing a black as ink suit jacket, a pristine white button up shirt was tucked into matching black pants, with the top several buttons undone to reveal a tanned and toned chest that you knew he took pride in considering all the gym selfies he sent. The black fabric mask he wore hid most of his face, but the corners of his eyes were crinkled together.

“I think I’m right where I’m supposed to be,” Changkyun said, his deep voice sounding better in real life than you had expected, and dreamed of.

He pushed off of the frame and it was then that you noticed the things in his hands. In the left, was a plastic bag stuffed with packaged containers, and in the right…in his right wrapped in pink tissue paper was a bouquet of red and pink carnations with babies’ breath mixed in. There had to be at least a dozen, perhaps a baker’s dozen, if not a few extra.

There were no words. After all the books you consumed to pass the time, articles you searched for work, and even countless texts sent to friends, everything escaped you at that very moment because he was here. He was actually here and standing in front of you.

“I know you said you haven’t had anyone over since this started. But I got tested a couple days ago, came back negative, and we’ve both been working from home this entire time so if you want…” Changkyun lifted the bag he held into view and this time, you could see that even though it was triple bagged, you were able to make a red dragon printed on the cartons. “I have Chinese food, and I’m willing to bet that Netflix has something for us to watch. If you’re not comfortable though that’s fine. I have plenty of food that we can—”

Except he didn’t get to finish what he was saying before you tugged him into the apartment by his arm. Immediately, your arms wound their way around his waist and you pressed your face into his chest, tightly hugging him.

“It’s you,” you said, feeling his right arm carefully rest on your back to hold you close, all while being mindful of the flowers that he was carrying.

There was a soft chuckle from above as he laid his head on top of yours. “It’s good to finally see you too.”

Smiling, your arms tightened around him once more before you stepped backwards, letting him enter the apartment completely. “You didn’t have to bring flowers you know.”

“And show up empty handed?”

You gestured towards the table for him to set the food down, taking the flowers and going to the sink. “You bought Chinese food. That more than would have made up for no flowers.” But while the vase filled with water and you trimmed the stems, gently adding them in one by one, there was a warmth spreading within your chest that came right from the heart, even more so when he chuckled. The only people to ever buy you flowers on Valentine’s day were your parents.

Like always, the silence that followed felt natural. The only difference was that you were aware that Changkyun was moving around in the kitchen with you, getting plates and silverware out without having to ask where things were because he had seen you do the same thing countless times before while video chatting. You just never thought he was actually paying attention.

When they were all in the vase, you tossed the ends in the trash and turned around, only to see that once again, he was watching you.

“Why are you staring?”

Changkyun shrugged, running a hand through his hair as the black locks fell right back into his eyes. “I was right.”

Tilting your head, you walked over to the table and set the vase in the center. You were already so close to him, but he leaned his head down, the black fabric of his mask brushing against the top of your ear.

“That you look pretty,” he said softly. “And it’s not because of the makeup. I had a feeling you might dress up today; you look beautiful.”

The air that you had been breathing was instantly stolen, and when you made the mistake of looking up at him, you realized just how close the two of you were. If it weren’t for the masks you both wore…

“You don’t look half bad yourself,” you teased, trying to not glance at where his lips would be. “You’re a lot taller than messenger video makes you out to be.”

He rolled his eyes and scoffed. Straightening up, Changkyun slipped his suit jacket off and set it on the back of a chair to undo the buttons on his cuffs, taking the time to roll each sleeve up to his elbows. “You’re meaner in person.”

Good god. You knew that he worked out, but damn. Maybe not for the first couple weeks, eventually Changkyun fell into the habit of sending selfies while he was working out at the gym. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, but seeing his tanned arms and the white sleeve making its way up to his elbow, it sparked the butterflies and gave them a newfound fluttering energy.

“Do you wanna eat or not?” Not thinking of it, you reached up to unhook the elastic from around your ears, removing the mask and setting it back on the counter. With a glance up at him, you saw him raise an eyebrow before he mimicked your movements to take off his own mask, revealing the jaw that tempted your daydreams in more ways than you wished.

He smiled, and you handed him his plate and together, the two of you fixed up heaping plates of Chinese food, using the concept of needing to eat to distract yourself. Everything was still hot and as you settled on the couch, steam curled its way up into the air.

“Were you able to get your secret plans done today?” You asked, glancing over at him while Netflix loaded up on the TV screen.

“Why are you so interested in what I had to do?” He was focused on the dumpling that he held with the chopsticks, not meeting your gaze at all.

It wasn’t that you meant to be focused on that. But he had acted so suspicious on the phone earlier, and now he was here, having dinner in your apartment with enough Chinese food to cost a small fortune, along with sixteen carnations – yes, you counted while cutting them – on Valentine’s Day. There had been no warning, and as much as you wanted to believe that he was here for more than a friendly drop in, the idea of him having been on a date earlier in the day and was here to talk about it, about the possible other girl, killed the butterflies. You had already been through this once, you didn’t want to go through it again. Not with him.

Scrolling through the list of suggestions, you didn’t notice Changkyun looking over at you, or the way his face softened. His fingers tightened around the chopsticks and he leaned back against the cushion.

“What’s that one about?” He nodded towards one of the movies that was in the watch again section.

You raised an eyebrow, scrolling over to it. “Please don’t tell me that you’ve never seen Love Actually?”

“If I did, would I have asked what it’s about?”

Unable to stop yourself, an undignified sound escaped you as you wildly gestured with the remote. “How? It’s like the sweetest romance, Christmas movie ever. They play it every year. It even has Liam Neeson, the man promising to find and kill everyone, as a sweet dad who doesn’t kill anyone! That alone is a true Christmas miracle by itself.”

The thought of him being with someone else dissipated at the sound of his laughter. Even caught up in the excitement of this particular movie, you couldn’t stop the smile that grew. No matter what, even in real life or over video, you always found yourself grinning the second he laughed or smiled. He was without a doubt contagious, in the best way possible.

“What are you waiting for?” He said, gesturing towards the screen with the chopsticks, shoulders relaxing at the sight of your smile and apparent joy for the film. One that he had in fact, seen a few times over the years. “Press play.”

There was no hesitation. You were determined to culture him in what you deemed to be a classic in romance films. So, as you comfortably settled in, belly growing full of warm and delicious food, you once again missed Changkyun’s wide smile. It was the kind of grin that no matter what he did, or how serious he tried to be, simply wouldn’t go away.

The empty dinner plates sat long forgotten about on the coffee table as another movie played, this one involving an action pack fight scene with aliens in New York City. Hours had passed since Changkyun arrived at your door, and despite it growing late and Valentine’s Day was nearing its end, his polished shoes were unlaced and tossed on the floor. A wine bottle had been opened up, and you sat much closer to him to share a blanket with him. You were blaming it on the wine for being so bold because when he stretched an arm on the back of the couch, you didn’t think twice about gently leaning your head against it.

You couldn’t even really blame it on the wine. It was the first glass for both of you, and you were a slow drinker, so you were as sober as a newborn lamb at the moment.

It was just like when the two of you would video chat with the same movie on, but so much better. Having him here, you were noticing the smallest things that you’d miss when on the phone.  At the base of his neck was a small mole that you never realized he had, or that he was wearing two thin silver chains – a pair that, now that you thought about it, he never went without. Behind you, he’d occasionally rub his fingers together and the metal of his bracelet would lightly clink against itself. With the few glances that you stole, his attention was solely on the movie and his jaw appeared to be pressed together.

Feeling a sudden weight, you turned to see him settling his arm around your shoulders. His wrist was now hanging over your arm, and it took all your willpower to not reach up with a free hand to lace your fingers loosely with his. When you glanced back up at him, he was in mid sip of his wine, throat bobbing with each swallow.

Shit. This was not helping the butterflies that seemed to have multiplied since his arrival.

Changkyun raised an eyebrow when he lowered his glass, softly humming in question, but you only shook your head and focused back on the movie. Except, now you were hyper aware that he was looking at you this time.

“What’s wrong?” He murmured, his thumb and fingers lightly rubbing against your arm.

That was another thing. His voice was deep. In the calls, the phone occasionally cracked and had made it seem lighter, but it appeared to be just the opposite. He was blessed with a voice that was able to drop lower than a bass, sending your insides to mush when he spoke. It was the type of voice that was destined to recite poetry and old sonnets, to hold three in the morning conversations that went wherever and everywhere. When he called your name, it never failed to send tingles running the length of your body. It was his voice, and you knew that you’d never grow tired of hearing him talk.

“Nothing. I was just thinking,” you said, leaning your head back, his arm comfortable and warm as you looked up at the ceiling, trying to avoid his gaze for a few seconds.

His fingers didn’t stop. The gentle caress, a small reassurance that he was in fact here and this wasn’t your imagination, made it harder to stay where you sat instead of curling into his side like you wanted.

“Thinking about what?”

Letting out a breathless scoff, you tilted your head towards him. Changkyun was a sight to see and you knew that if this was the only time you got to spend with him in person, you were never going to forget this moment.

Your smile softened. “That you’re actually here, after all these months of texts and video calls. You actually came here, and you’re real.”

“Did you think I was a robot or something?” Changkyun teased, but his fingers stopped moving, and that lock of hair fell back into his eyes again.

“Well, you did accidentally call me instead of Jooheon and last time I checked, we look nothing alike.” There was no thinking as you reached up and mimicked his movements to push that damn lock back, feeling how soft his hair was. It brought you a little bit closer to him and in that second, the world suddenly felt like it was no longer moving when you glanced down at his lips. Those pink lips that you wondered and dreamt about night after night, too curious for your own good on what it would be like to kiss him. Now was your chance to find out, especially when he didn’t lean back and appeared to be getting closer.

“Cookies?” You suddenly asked, leaning back to see his eyebrows start to pull together in confusion. Heart racing, you set your wine glass on the coffee table and walked around the couch to step into the kitchen. With only your back to him, you quietly let out a shaky breath. “I know I have some for us to munch on…”

Opening up a cabinet, you stretched on to your toes to search for the package of cookies that you knew were in there, mentally slapping yourself at having done that. He hadn’t backed away, hadn’t tried to stop you, in fact, if you allowed yourself to believe it, you would have recalled that he had started to lean in when you randomly brought up cookies. As much as you wanted to, the last thing you wanted was to lose your friendship.

You were pushing aside a box of crackers when his hand captured your wrist, halting your search. It felt like your heart was about to leap out of its cage when his fingers gently wrapped around your hand, and when his palm settled on a hip, it was equally as comforting as it lit a spark inside you. There was nothing you wanted to do more than to melt into his embrace.

“Sweetheart, do you really think I’m here to just hang out?” He asked, his voice low as he spoke into your ear, his body stepping closer to yours.

“You’re…you’re not?” You weakly asked, nervous because you didn’t want this all to be a joke.

The idea of this being a one night only thing thanks to the holiday left an ache in your bones. You wanted more nights like this with him, wanted to hear him call out your name with that gentle smile of his over and over again. Dammit, you wanted to wake up and have the blankets be stifling hot but not care as you crawled over to his side of the bed, searching for morning cuddles because fuck the person who decided that the workday would start at eight in the morning. The only person you wanted to spend this quarantine with, to be able to touch, to be worried and even scared about all this with, was Changkyun.

Changkyun’s breath hit the back of your neck as he softly chuckled, sending a shiver down your spine. “God, I thought I was being obvious. Let me try this differently.”

Still holding on to your wrist, he turned you around and once you were facing him, let go of your hand to step closer until your back was against the counter. With each breath your chest brushed against his, and when he pushed the hair that had fallen in your face behind your ear, fingers brushing against your cheek, you almost forgot to breathe.

“I know you’ve always had a pretty crappy Valentine’s day,” Changkyun softly spoke. His gaze was steady with yours, and even though he was being serious, there was a softness to his features that had the corner of his mouth curling upwards. “And I thought that the best way to keep that from repeating this year, would be if you spent it with someone, who loves you.”

Who loves…oh.

It suddenly all made sense. Why he didn’t want to say what he was doing to celebrate, him calling you pretty, the food and flowers, the coaxing touches, he could have rented a billboard and put up a neon flashing sign and you probably still would have been blind.

“Changkyun,” you whispered, reaching up to cup his cheek.

He softly smiled as he closed the remaining space between you to rest his forehead against yours, his palms sliding along your body until he had you wrapped in a hug. “There you go, now you get it.”

Giggling, you rolled your eyes out of habit. It was like him to be a smart ass during a moment like this. With that being said, the butterflies fluttered their way up to your heart, and all the daydreams that you entertained and thought nothing would come of them, now had the possibility of becoming reality.

“I love you too,” you said, running your thumb along his cheek as you watched his smile widen.

There was no hesitation, or smart ass comments this time. Instead, when his lips met yours in a kiss, your heart stopped racing. The butterflies finally calmed down and the world around you went out of focus as your fingers slid through his hair. His lips were soft, and thanks to the red wine, there was a lingering tangy sweetness that reminded you of raspberries. You found yourself becoming addicted to his taste, the kisses melting together until you lost track of how long the two of you stood there, content with doing nothing but being wrapped up in each other’s embrace.

A clock chimed out in the apartment, breaking the kiss which only served to make you pout at the loss of his lips. The gesture didn’t go unnoticed by Changkyun, who smirked before leaning down to give one more kiss, which quickly turned into two, then three.

“Don’t you have work in the morning?” He murmured, resting his forehead once more against yours.

“You trying to kiss and dash?”

His fingers gently pressed into your sides and you squirmed at his touch, giggling at his antics. However, he leaned his head back and sighed. “Like hell I’d do that. But you usually wake up earlier for work, and trust me, I’ll end up keeping you awake if I stay the night.”

There was no doubt about that, and to be truthful, you’d have no issue if that was the case. He was right, but as ideas turned in your mind, you shrugged. “You can’t go out driving though,” you said softly. “You were drinking.”

Changkyun frowned, head tilting as he removed a hand from your back to run through his hair. “Not even a whole glass.”

You raised an eyebrow. It took him having to say he loved you for you to understand how he felt about you despite his dine and wine attempt, and here he was, completely missing what you were suggesting. Either you were absolutely perfect for each other, or equally dense.

“Well, we also broke quarantine,” you said slowly, slipping a finger through his belt loop at the same time to bring him closer. “Isn’t the recommendation to stay at home for what, at least three days?”

He started to tilt his head, mouth opening to question what you were saying until he saw the smile growing on your face. Closing his eyes, he pressed his lips together before looking back at you.

“That was horrible,” Changkyun said. He slipped his arms back around you, pulling you away from the counter. His grin said otherwise. “At least I tried being romantic.”

“Well, I mean, if you really want to go back to your place by yourself…”

He didn’t let you say another word, his lips reclaiming yours again, because there was absolutely nothing that felt better than kissing you after months of dreaming what it would be like.

“Don’t go,” you softly murmured against his lips. “Not when you just got here.”

Maybe it was selfish. But you didn’t want to be alone again. Not when he had gone through so much trouble to make this night special, not when you finally knew that he felt the same way about you. After almost a year of staying inside the apartment whenever you could, of going without hugs or get togethers, being able to touch and kiss Changkyun felt like you were relearning what those were all over again. All you wanted was a few days with him.

Changkyun hummed, his arms tightening around you. “Sweetheart, I wasn’t planning on going anywhere,” he said, gazing down at you as if he had considered the same thing.

The clock that had rang out to announce the hour of a new day and that Valentine’s day was over, continued to quietly tick in the other room. The Earth continued to spin, and outside, the world was exactly how it had been this morning, full of fear, what ifs, and the unknown of a pandemic that didn’t seem to be going anywhere any time soon.

But inside that small apartment, wrapped in Changkyun’s arms, giggles and laughter filled the walls when he pulled you to the middle of the kitchen and spun you around for a late-night dance. It might not be the thing that changes the world, but for the first time, in a long time, hope began to blossom alongside the butterflies in your stomach. The memories of past Valentine’s days melted away at his kiss, until only the memory of him at your door remained.

Even when it hadn’t felt like it, love and hope had always been there. And now it was here promising lovelier days to come.

[marveltrumpshate]

As we said in our closing message at the end of this year’s auction, 2020 has been a year of tremendous change—change that we had no control over and change that we made with our own hands. Many times this year—and the past four years under the Trump administration for those of us in the U.S.—we’ve felt helpless in the face of terrible upheaval. But rather than forcing us to give up, the calamities we’ve witnessed and experienced galvanized us. We’ve seen people volunteer to drop off groceries for immunocompromised neighbors during the pandemic. We’ve seen people donate generously during the worst global economic crisis in modern history. We’ve seen people become more politically active, taking to the streets to protest and voting in record numbers like they are tonight.

And we’ve seen that same passion, that same desire to make change and help people, fuel all the MTH participants this year.

We weren’t sure what the turnout would be like. Would people have the time or energy to sign up as creators? Would people be willing to donate, and would they have the means to do so?

Our worries proved to be baseless.

This year, 273 “Marvel”-ous creators came forward to offer 416 auctions.

And this year, we raised…

That’s just over $11,000 more than the MTH 2019 total. 😮💖🎉

We’re going to channel Beast here and exclaim, “Oh my stars and garters!”

The race started off with a bang, with bids racking up quickly on the first day. Even so, we were shocked when we matched last year’s total, which we weren’t sure we could do ($27,193.91 was beyond our wildest expectations), and then just ran right past it before the auction even ended!

It’s been an incredible journey, with the mod chat pinging at all hours with excited gifs, effusive heart emojis, and inarticulate keyboard smashes as we expressed our love for the wonderful people in our fandom. It’s been very hard not blurting out the milestones as we reached them when we desperately wanted to share these amazing results with you all.

Creators, we couldn’t have started this auction without you. We loved seeing so many veteran creators sign up again and were pleasantly surprised by how many new faces showed up to the party.

Bidders, as crazy as it sounds, most donations were small ones (including some of those crazily high winning bids—several were the result of people pooling their five dollars together!). This has been consistently the case since MTH began. It just goes to show how much of an impact you can have when you’re part of something bigger than yourself. Each donation has a ripple effect, and enough ripples can cause a wave. You matter, and you can make a difference.

We also owe our success to our amazing signal boosters. There can’t be an auction without any participants, so to every fandom community Tumblr that agreed to reblog our posts, every Discord server mod who let us post announcements, and every person who shared our posts and encouraged their fandom friends to sign up and/or bid, thank you so much! Together, we reached hundreds of fantastic creators and bidders from all corners of the Marvel fandom, many of whom we didn’t know and some who were hearing about us for the first time.

Thank you all. We’re so touched by the massive number of people who donated above and beyond their pledged amount, creators who took on multiple auctions and offered multiple winner slots, and bidders who accepted their second-place wins with such eagerness! We also had people make donations in the spirit of MTH even though they didn’t win an auction, which was beyond generous.

We’ve already seen how our donations are changing the world for the better. To name a few examples:

Partners In Health is on the ground testing, providing care, assisting local government response, and mobilizing community health workers in countries where the mortality rate for COVID-19 is expected to be much more severe than those with well-resourced health systems

The Southern Poverty Law Center raised $10 million to fight voter suppression in the South, with some great successes in Florida

World Central Kitchen has purchased over 10 million meals from small, independent restaurants in 400 cities, putting $105 million and counting directly back into the economy and helping both struggling businesses and people who need food the most during the pandemic

We’re sure that in the months and years to come, we’ll see even more wonderful results.

In addition to the astounding amount of money we were able to raise for charity, MTH was successful in other ways. We strove to be as inclusive as possible, determined to make this event a fandom-wide effort. Considering that the auctions covered over 369 unique platonic and romantic relationships (if we include “all ships/gen”-inclusive relationships, this number is even higher) across 31 universes within the Marvel multiverse, we can safely say that we accomplished our goal.

This spirit of inclusion also applies to our auctions and charities. Every one of 416 auctions was bid on, and every one of our 30 supported charities received donations. We’re in awe of your commitment to supporting all our creators and charities and thrilled that you spread all the love around, bidders!

Here’s our breakdown of the donations (click to enlarge the image and hover to see the donation amount per charity):

We’ve also listed the amount raised per charity on our 2020 auction results page.

From the bottom of our hearts, we thank you for helping us turn our third Marvel Trumps Hate auction into such a fantastic experience. We cherish every single message of love and support that we received and continue to receive on our Discord server and through DMs, Tumblr messages, emails, tweets, etc. THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH!

To remember or learn why we created this auction in the first place, please check out our 2018 “thank you” post to all of our creators, bidders, signal boosters, and supporters.

If you’d like to stay updated on all of the 2020 Marvel Trumps Hate fills, follow us and/or check out the “mth 2020” tag on our Tumblr. You’ll also be able to find works posted on AO3 in our Marvel Trumps Hate 2020 collection and links to fills in our Discord server, which you can join to brainstorm prompts, chat about fills, and find out about other fandom events.

Thank you once again to everyone who volunteered their services, time, money, and platforms to spread the word. Though we may sometimes wonder how much of a difference we can make, it’s moments like this that show that every bit helps, no matter the size of our contribution. With that in mind, we’d like everyone to keep the following quote close to their hearts as we move forward and find ways to make the world a better place, to remember these words when they’re feeling lost or small.

“Purpose is the essential element of you. It is the reason you are on the planet at this particular time in history. Your very existence is wrapped up in the things you are here to fulfill.” — Chadwick Boseman

Think about your purpose. Think about what you can do while you’re here. Know that you matter.

And with that, MTH 2020 has officially come to a close. We’re so beyond grateful to you all, and we can’t wait to see all of your fanworks over the coming year!

Lots of love and gratitude, Your 2020 MTH mods

[kaen-ace-of-diamonds]

Walking Space Heater

Word Count: 2700+ (oneshot) 

[AO3]

Genre: Fluff/Hurt/Comfort

Characters: Cinder Fall, Neopolitan, Emerald Sustrai, Mercury Black

Pairing: Cinder Fall/Neopolitan

Summary: Written (late) for Day 4 of @spice-cream-week 2021, “There Was Only One Bed.”

With the heat of both her Semblance and the Maiden powers, Cinder's body is much warmer than the average person's. So long as she's still by her side, Neo intends to take full advantage of that.

~0~

This is definitely a step down from the Haven dorms. Neo’s thumbs moved lightning-fast over the keyboard of her Scroll. Don’t they have ANY concept of personal space here? 

She could say something about Roman’s excessive use of emojis. But looking at his messages, she could hear his laughter clearly in her head, and she had no problem with that.

wtm? you got stuck with a shitty roommate? I’ll come and get her for you idgaf

That elicited the breathy noises that were the closest Neo got to laughter. Truthfully, she probably wouldn’t have minded sharing a room much in and of itself. It might even have been fun to mess with Emerald and Mercury in their own space. 

But no, she’d ended up with the only one that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

Cinder Fall was calm, collected, and incredibly competent. Neo didn’t necessarily dislike her. She thought that they got along fairly well, in fact. But that didn’t mean that she trusted her.

Roman was content to stay in the dark about what exactly her ultimate design was beyond Beacon’s destruction, having already accepted the fact that they would be overwhelmed by it. It still gnawed at Neo, though. Thus far her only clues had been the couple private calls that Cinder had taken, and the way Haven’s headmaster cringed like a kicked puppy whenever he caught sight of her. 

Sure, the man was jumpy enough in general, but Cinder — or, more accurately, whatever force had moved Cinder to the Academies — made him cower. Even Neo’s most devilish smile couldn’t do that.

She’s...not bad. She definitely likes me more than she likes you.

Now, did that really require five laughing emojis after I can live with that lol?

And

Neo’s thumb hovered over the screen. For the first time in several minutes, she glanced up from where she was curled up tightly on the covers of her bed. 

Cinder was perfectly at ease on her own bed, leaning back against a stack of pillows with her Scroll open in front of her face. Still rifling through the records of all the Academy students, no doubt. Casting her great and bloody show, for which every little thing had to be perfect. It wasn’t enough that she was sending Emerald and Mercury out to run recon and collect as many relevant details about their players as possible. No, she had to study up herself for hours on end.

Neo was willing to play her own part, but it all seemed very boring to her. Certainly her interim leader could use a break. She returned her attention for one moment more to her Scroll:

I think she would be fun to play with.

Ignoring the several question marks sent in reply, Neo pocketed her Scroll and slipped off her bed. Moving soundlessly was one of the first skills she had ever had to master, and she still considered it her most important. 

Cinder was still too engrossed in her research to notice as she crept across the carpet and climbed onto the other bed. Or maybe she just didn’t care enough to acknowledge her. She certainly didn’t look surprised when Neo’s head poked through the hole between her arms and her Scroll.

“Oh,” she said, smirking, in a tone that she might use with a stray cat that had come up to her in the street. “Hello there. Looking for some entertainment?”

Neo gave her her best strawberry-ice-cream smile, and scooted closer. From the meager rations of physical contact she meted out to Emerald, she wasn’t sure how much Cinder liked being touched, so she proceeded with care, little by little. It seemed to be acceptable: she stayed very still, but allowed Neo to settle down on her chest, resting her head against her shoulder.

“Or are you just lonely?”

Neo hummed thoughtfully, letting herself relax: not all the way, but just enough. This was nicer than she had expected, she had to admit. Cinder was dressed like she had been in the first round of the Vytal Festival: sleeveless jacket, long pants, and sarashi. Neo’s cheek rested mostly on bare skin, and though of course she had seen Cinder’s Semblance before (as well as the flames that didn’t quite seem to fit with it), it was much warmer than she had thought it would feel. Softer, too, with the scents of wood smoke and spicy perfume clinging to it.

“Well?”

Neo rolled lazily over onto her back, looking up at Cinder’s Scroll to see what she had been so busy scrutinizing. Hm. Several pictures of that Mistrali girl from the cereal commercials, accompanied by a passage about her Semblance which had been highlighted in a few places. There was one more tab open with an acronym on it, but that was it. 

Nothing that could tell Neo anything about their situation that she hadn’t already guessed at. And what was more, absolutely nothing that could be more interesting to her temporary partner than her.

Clearly, Cinder could use a lesson on how to properly spend an evening. Dastardly planning, which seemed to be her only form of recreation, just wasn’t going to cut it. 

So Neo helpfully reached up, laid her hands over Cinder’s, and pushed the Scroll shut for her. She put her pointer finger to the outside of her nose; her new teammates might not be picking up Valerian Sign Language particularly well, but she hoped the long, exaggerated twist away from her face coupled with a dramatic sigh got the message across equally well: Cinder, I am bored to tears.

Cinder tilted her head, puzzled but smiling. She slipped her Scroll into her pocket and wrapped an arm around Neo’s waist. 

“Well, in that case, I’d be happy to give you some attention.”

Neo made as pleased a sound as she could muster up, and snuggled up to Cinder, as close as she could get. It might have been dark and cool outside, but she felt as if she were napping on a sunbeam. Rolling over to lay her head on Cinder’s chest, she could imagine that there was a powerfully burning fire inside it in place of a beating heart, whose heat was palpable, just beneath the skin. 

She tried to look more sweetly smug than actually impressed, but gods, she had never felt anything like this. 

Cinder held her tightly in both arms now, fingertips scratching lightly between her shoulder blades, and Neo nearly purred. Years of pulling back bowstrings had turned those arms wiry and oh so strong. All at once, she completely understood why Emerald was always trying to earn one of these rare hugs.

And speaking of which...

Neo wasn’t sure how long she spent in the lap of luxury, only that she felt like she might actually fall asleep in it, as toasty warm as it was. Cinder had switched from rubbing her back to stroking and playing with her hair, which, in her experience with other people, was a welcome first. But she was jolted back to full awareness when their dorm room door slammed angrily open.

Blinking, Neo lifted her head. She caught the lingering scents of jungle juice and sweat incoming, before she saw Emerald stalking inside, barely hanging onto her last scrap of patience. Mercury stumbled in after her, wearing a huge grin and mirrored shades that Neo was fairly certain did not belong to him.

Cinder smirked. “I was wondering when you two would be back. How did it go?”

Emerald forced a halfway convincing smile for her leader. “It was...interesting. Though not quite as informative as I was h—”

The smile froze on her face when she turned to look directly at Cinder, and saw Neo lounging in her lap like a spoiled cat. 

Neo smirked, and signed, Party fun? With the reputation Vytal Festival house parties had, hopefully Emerald had gotten some attention as well.

“Oh, it was great!” Mercury shrugged off his jacket and pitched it into his and Emerald’s room, littering their carpet with brownie crumbs. “We saw a lot of everybody, didn’t we, Emmy?”

While Emerald tried to take a cue from Cinder and set him on fire with her eyes, Cinder herself just closed her Scroll with a soft laugh. 

“Well, you can tell us all about it in the morning. We should all get some rest now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You got it, boss...”

Neo watched them slink into their room, where muffled bickering started up as soon as the door closed, but did not move until she felt a gentle pat on her thigh. 

“You too, dear. Go on.”

Though she made a show of huffing about it, Neo got up off Cinder’s bed and went back across the room. 

Her own bed felt cold and uninviting now. Catching up on the several missed texts from Roman (including but not limited to what do you mean by that lmao, hey Neo dont leave me out of the loop :), Neo tf are you doing to her O_o, NEO) did make her smile, but as she drifted off to sleep, she couldn’t help but wish that she didn’t have to return to being alone just yet.

~0~

This was not at all the solution to that problem that she had envisioned, but Neo knew very well how to deal with whatever life threw at her.

She had never been to Atlas, and while she had to roll her eyes at its decadence, she couldn’t say she hated the place. Cinder, on the other hand, never answered outright when Neo tried to ask if she had ever been here before, but every bitter hiss from her about Atlas elites that had not been asked for gave her a general idea. It had taken them a while to find a vacant apartment to squat in, especially considering that there was an entire chunk of the city that Cinder refused to even go near. 

But now here they were, and it was empty around them and quiet outside. The blackout curtains shielded them from the city lights. In pitch darkness the two of them were curled up together in the place’s one bed.

Cinder had initially balked at the idea of sharing it, insisting that Neo take an extra blanket and find somewhere else to curl up. So barky with her orders these days, and so on edge, too. Neo was beginning to wonder how she had ever thought of this woman as calm and collected.

In any case, she didn’t see what her once-again partner’s problem was. She had invited Neo into her bed with her before, hadn’t she? Maybe not to sleep, but still. And she was far from squeamish; she wouldn’t make a fuss about the scarring and empty eye socket on full display. As such, she ignored the demand, and simply undressed, got under the covers, and gestured for Cinder to join her. 

After some indignant spluttering, Cinder threw up her hands and stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. She didn’t come out until Neo had turned the lights off and laid there long enough that she might reasonably have fallen asleep. Even then, she slipped in quietly, gingerly, and stuck close to the edge of the bed. 

Now, that just would not do. Atlas was much too cold for that kind of nonsense. 

Neo rolled over under the blankets, feeling just as bold as last time, but exercising even more care, Cinder being so volatile lately. She went out of her way to be heard, so it wouldn’t startle Cinder to be touched. She knew her bedmate was awake: though she lay very still, her breathing was nowhere near relaxed enough for her to be asleep. 

Cinder didn’t jump when she felt Neo wrap her arms around her waist, but she did go still as a statue.

“Neo,” she growled, low in her throat, “what are you doing? I’m not in the mood for—”

Neo nuzzled her bare shoulder in a way she hoped was reassuring, as she pressed up against her back. Fortunately for her, Cinder’s new arm was tightly bandaged up for the night, so she didn’t have to risk touching the awful thing. Only human skin, just as fiery warm as before. Even the wood smoke smell remained. 

As had happened so often since the Fall of Beacon, Neo caught herself writing a text to Roman in her head, wryly telling him that he was right, she shouldn’t have thought so hard about where Cinder’s flames came from, because she would never in a million years have hit on the right answer.

She gave her head a shake, and resisted the urge to glance back at the bowler hat perched neatly on a bedpost. If she started thinking too hard about that, she would never get to sleep either. There would be time, when the sun came up, to consider some more whether the woman in her arms was the key to her revenge, or its target all along. 

Right now, the darkness was peaceful and the blankets thick and soft around them, and the heat of their bodies grew more soporific every moment. Comfort was a rarity in both of their lives. They ought to savor it whenever it came their way. 

Cinder let out a long, exasperated huff, clearly not sharing the opinion. 

“Couldn’t you just hug a pillow?” she grumbled. But there was no bite in her voice. 

Neo smiled against her skin, entwining her legs with Cinder’s. Now, she would have said, were her hands not occupied, where would be the fun in that?

“...Fine. Just don’t think you’re going to make this a regular thing.”

Oh, she absolutely was, so long as they were staying in the coldest part of the world and she was in the company of a walking space heater. 

As such, Neo ignored the question and snuggled closer. She was trying her best to communicate “calm down and go to sleep” through body language alone, so to feel Cinder slowly but surely relaxing in her arms, eventually going limp, was deeply gratifying. Almost fascinating.

From nights spent in the Beacon dorm room and Mistrali inns, Neo already knew that Cinder talked in her sleep. Most of what she said was sluggish and toneless as well as nonsensical, but sometimes it was a series of fierce snaps or pained moans. It came as no surprise to Neo that when, just as she was starting to doze off herself, she was woken back up by her partner’s twitching and yelping. 

“No...don’t take...I’m...!”

Neo sighed drowsily, and tightened her embrace, humming as soothingly as she could. Her inability to speak never really bothered her, but there were times like this when it didn’t exactly help her, either. At least she could keep Cinder from thrashing around and hurting one of them: if that arm decided to act up while its host was in distress, she had zero faith in the bandages to hold those claws back.

It’s okay, she thought, hoping that somehow it would get across, just relax, you’re all right...

Nightmares never lasted forever. Neo had woken with her stomach still in free fall from enough dreams of plummeting wildly through a Grimm-infested sky to know that. Still, she hoped that her attempts at calming had helped this one pass quickly. Cinder’s mumbling devolved into moans, then to frantic whimpers, then finally to something close to the restful breathing that Neo had almost fallen asleep to before.

Neo took a deep breath of her own. She was too tired to smile, but leaned in to press a kiss to the back of Cinder’s neck, the ends of her short hair tickling her nose. To her surprise, she felt a burn scar here, too: thin and faded, but winding around her neck like garrote wire. Somehow she didn't think that Ruby had done this. But she certainly wasn't going to ask who had. They weren't going to discuss any part of this in the morning.

So she kissed her neck once more, soft and just a bit more sincere, before closing her eyes again.

Good night.

[cheeriecherry]

Birds Of A Feather [4/7]

Hawks x Fem!Reader

Warnings: some swearing, a kiss

Part 4/7

By the end of the week, you’re walking into Hawks’ penthouse with nothing but a duffel bag of clothes. Most of your stuff had been moved to storage, but you’d told him you’d bring your own sheets, blankets, and pillows for the couch. He’d stared at you like you’d grown a second head.

He’d then gone on a tangent about how he had guest rooms, obviously, and how his sheets would be softer than yours. He’s probably not wrong, with his 1200 thread count egyptian cotton, but the way he says it ruffles you a bit. You don’t mention it, though. You don’t want to give him any kind of reason to kick you out.

“Hey chickadee, you gonna stand in the entrance all night, or are you gonna come in?”

You snap out of your stupor when Hawks calls to you, and continue lugging your things through the door.

The inside of the penthouse is beautiful; tastefully decorated (probably professionally), and it’s spacious rough that you could spread your wings out fully. The doorways are wider than average, likely catering to your boss’ specific needs. The entire place is gorgeous, immaculate even, and any person in their right mind would kill to live here.

You kind of detest it.

“I had some people come in this afternoon and set up the guest suite for you,” he says, kicking off his boots and flopping onto the couch. “They also brought some of your uniforms in from the agency, so you can change here. You won’t have to go in so early.”

“Thank you,” you tell him, and you mean it. Personal opinions aside, he’s let you into his home out of kindness. You’ll not soon disrespect that.

“Ah, you’re standing and staring again. Are you that impressed with the place?”

You snap back to attention for a second time, and hike your bag further up your shoulder. “I-it’s not that!” you try to explain, “I was just expecting something...different?”

Hawks sits up on the couch. “Whadya mean?”

“I dunno.” You shrug. “More lived in, I guess? Don’t get me wrong, it’s wonderful here, especially the balcony, but it’s also very...what’s the word…”

“Mature and charming?” he tries, but you shake your head.

He offers a few more suggestions, things like ‘perfect’ and ‘homey’ and ‘colourful’, each word hitting further and further from your mark.

Then it comes to you. “Monotone and sterile!” you nearly shout, your success momentarily quieting your desire to be polite. “It’s like it’s fresh out of a magazine, or a model home. Don’t take it the wrong way, Boss, I’m not hating on your tastes, but if I’m gonna be staying here indefinitely, I’m gonna have to add some personal touches.” You remember your manners. “If that’s okay…”

You worry that you may have offended him, with the way he’s looking at you, but a smile slowly spreads across his face, his eyes sparkling.

“Finally,” he sighs, “someone who speaks their damn mind.”

“Eh?”

“Do you know how many of the people I’ve invited here tell me ‘how beautiful’ it is?” He adjusts his wings and settles comfortably back into the couch. “All of them. Every single one. And look, I’m grateful that I’ve got this place, but it’s just a house. No sentimentality, no memories...just a space.”

“Well...it’s polite to not insult someone’s home when they invite you over…” you mumble, the severity of your outburst making your face heat up.

“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe they’re all schmoozing and hoping to get on my good side.”

The bitterness in his tone doesn’t go unnoticed by you, but you decide to leave it be. He should be free to be himself in his own home, and not have to put up any kind of front. You hoped he’d supply you the same courtesy, when you inevitably would wake up on the wrong side of the bed some mornings.

“Anyways,” he flips the TV on and tosses the remote to the side, “it’s late. You should probably unpack your stuff before you’re too tired.”

“Yeah…” you realize how wiped out you are as the weariness starts to settle in. “I’ve got tomorrow off though, so...if I wake up on time, I’ll bring you curry.”

You can hear him cheering as you walk down the hall to the guest room, and you smile. You’ll never understand his love for chicken, even though his enthusiasm boosted your confidence.

The room is spacious and airy, and has a beautiful view of the city. The bed itself is probably big enough to hold three people, and you’re silently grateful that your wings won’t be hanging on the floor while you sleep anymore. 

You set your bag down by the door, and flop face first onto the mattress. God, it was the most plush thing you’d ever had the pleasure to lay on.

“I’ll unpack tomorrow,” you mumble, sinking further into the sheets and, eventually, sleep.

In the distance, you hear Hawks snoring.

----

You wake up the next day to sunlight hitting your face. It’s bright, and annoying, and too warm, and your bed really wants you to keep sleeping but you don’t think you can.

You sit up.

You can feel that your hair is a disheveled mess, and your tongue feels gummy and sour.

“Blegh.”

You (regrettably) roll out of bed and make your way to the bathroom to fix your morning vibes, checking the time along the way. Ten is later than you would have liked to wake up, but you suppose you really needed the sleep. And you did, surprisingly, feel more rested than you had in months.

It’s ten thirty by the time you’re done in the washroom, overall energy more put together and presentable, and you waste no time heading for the kitchen.

The kitchen which is...painfully under-stocked. A couple of condiments and wilting vegetables in the fridge...some frozen meat in the freezer...a bag of rice under the sink, for some reason, and...a completely full spice rack, every bottle unopened.

You knew your boss didn’t spend a lot of time at home, but this was just sad. 

You make a mental note to go shopping later.

Thankfully he seems to have the necessary ingredients for chicken curry, which you’re happy about. It means you won’t have to brave the store just yet.

Bit by bit, you pull out what you need in order to cook, only sitting down when you have a moment to spare as the rice cooks.

‘Hey Boss, I’m making curry for lunch. Want me to bring you some?’

You send him a text. It’s still fairly early, and you know he has his meetings in the morning, so you doubt that he’ll get back to you before-

Your phone buzzes.

‘Chickadee, you sure know the way to my heart. I’ll leave my office window open.’

You send him a thumbs up emoji.

----

Once the food is finished, you pack it up into two containers, opting to leave the rest in the pot for now. You made lots, enough to get several meals out of it, just in case Hawks pulled his ‘too busy to cook’ excuse when trying to convince you to order take-out.

It doesn’t take long to fly to the agency, the skies much clearer than the roads. The city itself seems relatively calm, no sounds of explosions or screaming. There is a distant plume of dark smoke on the horizon, though…

But there were other heroes in the area. You wouldn’t be missed if you didn’t show up for one disaster...right?

But then you land in the window of your boss’ office, and your worry spikes. The room is empty, door closed, lights off, paperwork strewn about on the desk...like he’d run off in a hurry.

You pull your phone out and send him a text.

‘Lemme know if something came up. I brought lunch, but I can put it away for later. Stay safe!

-Chickadee’

He doesn’t reply, but that’s expected if he’s dealing with some kind of crisis. Maybe you should have headed to whatever disaster you’d seen earlier...if it was bad enough to call on your boss, it must be a pretty dire situation. Maybe he could use an extra pair of wings?

You sigh and take a seat beside the window, staring out at the city skyline. The black smoke across the way has turned to a dusty grey colour, a much less threatening hue, and one that bode well for any possible fires.

He’ll be fine, you decide, with other heroes undoubtedly on the scene. By the time you’d get there, whatever was happening would be dealt with.

You pull out your phone to scroll through the news while you eat.

Nothing urgent appears on the screen, nothing to incline that you were needed somewhere, nothing to say extra help was needed. Just day-old stories, gossip columns, the occasional media review. You do startle a little when a new article pops up that’s focused around your boss. You click on it, expecting to see some kind of haggard scene...but you only laugh.

“Hawks, most eligible bachelor in Japan, off the market?” You scroll further into the article to see what kind of nonsense the reporters have come up with this time.

What you don’t expect, is to find pictures of yourself littering the page. Pictures of you and Hawks together. On patrol, talking over lunch at a cafe he took you to one time, walking into his agency side by side, and -most recently- the two of you landing on his balcony.

You’re slightly panicked, and very, very flustered. Had he seen the column? God, he was probably used to it, though, being as popular as he was. All he had to do was look at someone and the media would start crying wolf, which in your opinion, was stupid.

Still, the more you read the article, the more you find it has some good points. You two did spend a lot of time together, more than he did with any of his other friends. But that’s all you are. Friends. Friends, and completely platonic roommates.

You weren’t sure why that made your heart sink so much.

So you copied the link to the article and sent it to him, typing a quick ‘lol’ afterwards. At the very least, he might get a laugh out of it.

----

You finish eating in record time, scarfing down a portion and a half of curry. It was lonely, sitting in Hawks’ office by yourself. You wondered if he ever felt like that when he was up here on his own. He was too busy for most things, too fast for his own good. Did that include friendships? He made time for you when he could, but you understood the busy and demanding life of a hero...other people might not.

You...understood.

The dull ache that you’ve felt in your chest for the past year returns, suddenly. The sadness and grief, the emptiness and all-encompassing tiredness, the big overhanging question of ‘what’s even the point?’. The point of being a hero, the point of suffering for the people who love you and hate you and who don’t even know you.

“Shit,” you sigh, your head and shoulders hanging low, wing dragging against the floor.

Hawks had brightened your life up so much these last few months. He’d brought the smile back to your face, the joy back to flying. You missed him when he was gone, worried for him when he was off on missions, fuck, you even cooked him lunch of your day off just so you could spend time together.

You were head over heels for him, and so totally screwed.

----

Hawks doesn’t return home until late that night. Far past your usual bedtime, but you’re far too distressed to sleep. If you hadn’t had your earlier revelation, you’d have chalked it up to ‘being worried’. But now?

Now that you knew you had feelings for him, all your thoughts were clouded. You were concerned because you liked him. You hung out with him because you liked him. Everything was because you liked him!

It was fucking with you a bit.

“What are you still doing up?” his voice sounds from the front entryway, startling you bad enough that you almost fall off the couch.

Your wide eyes snap to him, immediately taking him in. He’s worse for wear, that’s for sure. His uniform is singed in places, and you’re pretty sure the scuff on his neck is a burn. Most notably are his wings. Or lack thereof. 

Featherless red nubs is a more accurate description.

“You look like shit,” you say, keeping the air about you casual.

He makes his way over to you and finds a seat on the couch adjacent, wincing as he sits a little too quickly.

“Thanks, chickadee. You always know what to say to make me feel better.”

Your face heats up. “I-I just mean! Long day?”

He groans, letting his head fall back against the cushions. You’re vaguely aware that he’s started talking, but the only thing you can pay attention to is the narrow column of his exposed throat, and how badly you wanted to lean over and press your lips against it.

You snap out of your daze when he nudges you with his foot.

“I feel like I’m talking to a wall,” you quips, devoid of any malice.

“Sorry,” you mumble, “what were you saying?”

“I was saying that we should hang out now that I’ve got a few days off. Kick our feet up, instead of culminating in a stuffy office.”

You shake your head. “As much as I’d love to, I still have work. Remember? I was already off today, I can’t miss more days.”

He whines, looking at you with sad puppy eyes. “It’ll be boring here by myself. You make the day more fun.”

“Hawks, I can’t-”

“Keigo.”

You perk up. “Huh?”

He rearranges himself on the couch so he can look at you more comfortably. “My name is Takami Keigo. Call me Keigo when it’s just us, okay?”

You consider it. “Why not Takami? That’s polite here, right? To use the surname?”

He nods. “Unless you’re close with the person. Family, good friends, the like.”

Your wings puff up, fully betraying the fact that you’re pleased he considers you a ‘good friend’. It doesn’t go unnoticed, and a teasing grin spreads across Haw-Keigo’s face.

“See? You waaaaant to. Say it with me: Kei-”

“Keigo.”

You don’t miss the way his cheeks tinge pink.

“You got it. And now, since we’re on a first name basis, I’m asking you to take a few days off to hang out with me.”

You’re exasperated.

“C’mon chickadee.”

“No.”

“Pleeeeease?”

“No!”

“Y/N…”

“No, Keigo.”

“Alright then. Now, as your boss, I’m officially giving you three days off.”

“You can’t just do that!”

“I can!”

“Hawks!”

“Keigo.”

“Sorry. Keigo!”

His expression is cheeky as you go back and forth for a while, and he’s unrelenting even as you gently beat him with a couch pillow.

It eventually morphs into a small war, the two of you chasing each other around the apartment, wielding whatever cushions you can get your hands on. You eventually end up tripping over the coffee table, shouting as you smack your foot and fall into an ungraceful heap on your back. Keigo wastes no time pouncing on you and pinning your arms beside your head.

Your wings are splayed out on either side of you, and he’s careful not to kneel on them. Even with your foot throbbing the way it is, he knows you could easily get away if you tried. But you don’t struggle. Instead you lay there quietly, out of breath, eyes locked on his. He can feel the warmth creeping up his neck, and you can see the redness returning to his cheeks.

“I...saw the article you sent to me today,” he begins, voice low. “I’m sorry they brought you into it.”

“I don’t mind,” you admit, “I just worry it might be detrimental to you. Some of your fans will be pissed.”

“Seriously?” He sits up on your chest, releasing your wrists. “You’re not online much, are you. Most of my fans ship us.”

“The hell does that mean?”

He laughs, soft of melodious. “It means that they like the idea of us. As a couple.”

“And it doesn’t bother you?” you wonder.

“No? Why would it?”

You avert your gaze from him, your insecurities and doubts creeping in under the scrutiny of his golden eyes. “I...guess you could just...do better, is all.”

“Chickadee...Y/N, look at me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head. You feel very exposed laid out on the carpet, and you wish you’d never said anything.

A warm hand cups your cheek. “C’mon, sweetheart. Let me see those pretty eyes.”

You’re so flustered you don’t know what to do with yourself. Your heart is beating rapidly against your ribcage, and you’re positive he can see your embarrassment when you finally do as he asks.

But he only smiles gently at you, leaning down to rest his forehead against yours.

“Listen to me, and listen well. You’re the best I can do. You bring out everything good in me, and make me forget the bad. You make me happy.”

“Keigo-”

He shushes you by bringing your lips together.

[sunlightdances]

Public Relations (Bucky x Reader Oneshot)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader Prompt: “I’m a woman with a brain and reasonable ability” Author’s Note: Written for @captain-kelli​’s 500 Fam Writing Challenge! Congrats, Kelli, and thank you for hosting! Takes place post-Endgame, but with some adjustments to canon (Tony and Nat are alive, Steve stayed). This has a lot more dialogue than I initially planned! Hope it’s not too choppy. My love of commas is also evident in this piece. *shrug emoji* Disclaimer: I don’t own Bucky, Marvel, or any other related characters or events. The other details of the plot are mine, including the characterization of the “reader”. Please don’t post my work on any other sites without my permission! If you liked what you read, please consider reblogging to help my work be seen. I would love you forever!

Let’s clear one thing up straight away: Bucky Barnes is not an asshole. He has a chip on his shoulder, sure, and it’s also true that he can be grumpy from time to time.

But can you blame him, really?

His life after age 26 has been one giant shit show that he’s just starting to get back on track, so he thinks the world at large could forgive him if he’s not super nice to the reporter hanging around outside the coffee shop or if his resting face sometimes looks like he wants to punch someone.

Still - he’s working on it. Trying to appear a little softer around the edges, trying to remember how to be the person he once was, not because he thinks it’s healthy to try to go back to that time, but because that’s the last time he actually remembers liking himself.

But, again, he’s not an asshole. Or, he tries really hard not to be. A fact he has to keep reminding his friends of (and he uses that word loosely, sometimes), especially when you’re around.

Everything just comes out of his mouth wrong when you’re there.

Probably because you’re around all the time, and you’re smart, and funny, and pretty, and-- nope. He’s not going there. Because reminding himself all the reasons why he likes you just makes him feel more guilty about the way he acts around you. He’s just too chickenshit to admit that he likes you, and ends up being a dick.

As soon as he walks into the Tower, you’re there.

After Thanos, the Avengers returned to New York City. There’s not much left of the Compound upstate to live in right now until the rebuild is done, and he’d been thinking about Brooklyn anyway. Manhattan is different, but he feels better in the city. He thinks the rest of the team likes it here too - it reminds them of the old days, or whatever.

“Sergeant Barnes,” you greet him coolly, matching his stride as he heads towards the elevator. “There’s a meeting in fifteen minutes in the main conference room.”

Bucky makes a noise of acknowledgement, stepping into the elevator and hitting the button for the tenth floor. “Do I have a choice to attend?”

“No you do not.”

“Great.”

He thinks you’re trying not to smile. He grinds his teeth.

“Good afternoon, Sergeant Barnes,” FRIDAY’s voice comes through the overhead speaker. “Captain Rogers requests that you, and I quote, don’t even think about it.”

You snort, and Bucky rolls his eyes. “Punk,” he whispers. “Thanks, FRIDAY. Tell Captain Rogers I said, and I quote, to shove it--”

“Thanks, FRIDAY,” you interrupt, “Thank you so much.”

The few remaining minutes in the elevator are in silence, and you push your way out of the elevator before he can even take a step when it stops. Bucky follows you reluctantly to the conference room where some of the rest of the team is waiting.

Nat looks barely awake (she has trouble sleeping after literally coming back from the dead when Steve returned the stones, what a shocker), Sam is spinning in his chair, and Steve is patiently listening to Peter prattle on about some project he’s working on for biology.

“We’re just waiting on Tony, Bruce, and Scott,” you say, heading towards the head of the table. “Wanda is on a mission with Clint, and Thor is off world. No word from Carol in a few days, either.”

Steve waves you off. “Don’t worry about it. We can fill them in later.”

Bucky’s brow furrows. “Wait, this is your meeting?” He asks you. “What was the point of the AI-assisted lecture from you--” he pointedly glares at Steve.

“Because I knew you’d try to get out of it, so I asked for some help.” You smile sweetly at him.

The rest of the team files in over the next few minutes, and Bucky watches as you shuffle through a few papers before turning on the overhead projector. He has to admit, while he absolutely despises public relations, he has a lot of respect for what you do.

He knows it’s not easy wrangling Tony’s ambitions plus whatever manic situations the team get themselves in on a daily basis. Trying to do press for the Avengers is probably akin to wrangling cats, he supposes.

“So,” you clap your hands together, “the event at Children’s Hospital is in two weeks. Can we please, please avoid any earth-threatening situations that might take precedence over this? We missed it the last few years, obviously, so we need to get out there and make some kids happy.”

A murmured agreement goes throughout the room, and Bucky tips back in his chair, counting down the minutes until he can go literally anywhere else. It’s not you, really. It’s the idea of public appearances. He hates them. People still think of him based on who he was, not who he is now. Despite the fact that Steve and the rest of the team have publicly vouched for him and are working on clearing his name, he sees how people look at him.

You’re tied to that feeling, even though he knows that isn’t fair. He has a hard time separating you from your job.

“The next thing -- and I don’t want to hear about it --” You look around, eyes landing on him meaningfully, “-- there’s a magazine feature for the anniversary of the Battle of New York.”

“Well, that’s me off the hook,” Bucky says flippantly, grinning smugly at Sam, who high fives him.

“No, it absolutely doesn’t,” you argue.

“I wasn’t there, in case you forgot.”

You glare. “Thank you for the reminder.”

“Guys--” Steve tries to interrupt.

“You have to participate, because this article is about the team and how it’s grown since the inception of the Avengers.” You say, almost sounding bored. Probably because you and Bucky have this argument at least once a week.

“Bucky, it’s an hour.” Steve says gently, trying to barter.

“Whatever.” Bucky grumbles, “You know what they’re going to ask,” he says, suddenly angry. “Where was the elusive Winter Soldier during the Battle of New York? Do I remember it happening, or was I in the middle of being frozen or wiped for the thousandth time?”

You shift your weight, looking down at the floor. He feels guilty for a half second. “I won’t let them ask.”

His heart thuds weirdly in his chest at how earnest you sound, but he just can’t help himself, apparently. “Because you’re so sure they’re going to listen to you.”

Hurt flashes across your face so quickly he thinks he’s imagined it, but he knows he hasn’t. Again - he’s not usually an asshole. He still hates himself for it, though.

“Alright, we’re done here.” You say quietly, gathering your paperwork. “I’ll email you all the details.”

Sam elbows him, and across the table, Steve is giving Bucky a look that he’s come to associate with a lecture.

He sighs and rolls his eyes before getting up and heading out of the room, his friends at his heels.

“Wow, a five minute meeting,” Sam is saying, sarcastically. “Gotta be a new record, don’t you think, Rogers?”

Bucky’s new plan is to ignore Sam at all costs. It’s not a plan he thinks is going to work out in his favor, but it’s what he’s sticking with.

“You can’t ignore me forever.”

“Are you a mind reader?” Bucky asks, hitting the button in the elevator for the residential floors.

“It’s two events, Buck.” Steve sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You can handle it.”

“Yeah? Why don’t I let you field the questions I normally get, and we’ll see how you like it.”

“I’m not doubting you. I just don’t understand why you always have to take it out on her.” Steve’s voice is so disappointed, Bucky almost wants to laugh. When his best friend turned into such a mother hen, he’ll never know.

“Don’t be late!” Sam calls as Bucky gets off on his floor, leaving the other men in the elevator.

Flipping him off over his shoulder, he hears Sam’s chuckle and Steve’s sigh before the doors close, and finally he’s alone with his thoughts.

.

.

.

Turns out the interview happens before the hospital visit.

Bucky is in an uncomfortable chair, a reporter across from him, and you behind the reporter, fidgeting slightly. He feels almost relieved that you seem to be as nervous as he is.

“Mr. Barnes,” the reporter begins, a smile Bucky already hates on his face.

“It’s Sergeant.” You say quietly from behind him, and Bucky meets your eyes briefly, seeing the resolve there.

“Of course.” The reporter says smoothly, offering another smile to Bucky. “Sergeant Barnes, you weren’t in New York for the Chitauri invasion, were you.”

“No.”

If the reporter thought he’d elaborate, he doesn’t let on. Bucky saw these questions coming a mile away, and isn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction of saying something he’ll regret. Well, he won’t regret it. But it’ll be a pain in the ass for everyone if he can’t keep his cool.

“This was the first official Avengers event. Do you remember hearing about it?”

Bucky wants to laugh. “Do I remember-- no. I don’t think I was awake for much of 2012.” You fidget again, shifting your weight, and Bucky sighs, grinding his teeth. “I’ve been fully briefed on the invasion and know that what the Avengers did that day saved the world.”

The reporter looks at him for a long moment before shifting the papers on his lap around a bit. “The Avengers have changed a lot in all those years since that first mission. Can you tell me a bit more about your role with the team?”

Bucky relaxes a bit. This is the part he prepped for, the part he could recite in his sleep if he had to. Whatever instinct he had back in the day that allowed him to lead a unit and report to his CO is still there, especially for questions like this. “I work mainly with Captain Rogers and Sam Wilson to coordinate missions and do strategic planning. Recon and research are my main areas of focus, but I go on missions too if needed as backup, or if it’s an all hands on deck situation.”

“So you’re not handling any weapons?”

Bucky blinks. Over the reporter’s shoulder, you frown.

“All Avengers team members undergo weapons training.”

“During the War, you were a sniper with the 107th, correct?”

“Yes.”

“So you’d say that you’re pretty proficient with a gun?”

Your eyes are flashing now. “I’m sorry - none of this was on the list of pre-approved questions.” You interrupt, and the reporter holds up a hand to stop you, causing you to make an affronted face.

Bucky would laugh if he wasn’t feeling so sick at this turn of questioning. Every time. No matter who they vet, no matter how many times reporters insist they aren’t trying to catch him in a question he can’t or doesn’t want to answer… this is why he hates interviews.

“I’m just saying -- you’re one of the world’s most accomplished assassins. I guess I wanted to know why you’re doing research and recon when you could be on the front lines with the team? Are they worried you’ll have a setback?”

Bucky barks out a laugh.

You start, taking a few steps forward. “That’s enough. We’re done here.”

Bucky’s already standing, pulling out the chair from behind him as you come around to follow him out, until the reporter stops you, a hand firm on your elbow. You freeze, and Bucky’s eyes narrow on the point of contact, an unfamiliar feeling surging through him.

“Do you know who I work for?” The reporter hisses. “You told me I’d have a half hour.”

“That was before I knew you were going to ask questions that have nothing to do with your article.” You reply, face darkening when he still hasn’t let go.

Bucky waits, waits for one more sign that you’re uncomfortable before he steps in.

“If you ever want to get another high profile piece done on your team you’ll let me finish here.” He threatens, hand tightening.

You sigh, almost looking bored, and in one swift move, you’ve shifted enough of your weight to turn, pulled the elbow he was holding out of his grasp, and driven it into his ribs, simultaneously kneeing him in the groin.

Bucky’s eyebrows raise, and you look at him, rolling your eyes. “What?”

“Didn’t know you had it in you,” he says, letting a smile slip out so you know he’s kidding.

The reporter is doubled over, still making threats, but neither of you pay him much attention as you walk out the double doors of the conference room in the unfamiliar magazine office, heading towards the lobby.

In the car that’s waiting for you outside, Bucky watches you carefully as you roll your shoulders a bit, clearly smarting from the move you pulled back there.

“If I would have known you could do that, I would have been a little nicer,” he teases, but there’s an undercurrent of truth to his words. Not that he thought he’d ever piss you off enough for you to hurt him, but that he wishes he was nicer to you in general.

You glance at him, face neutral. “It wasn’t that hard. Everyone who works for the Avengers goes through basic self defense training, and I’m a woman with a brain and reasonable ability.”

Bucky nods. “Still. Thank you, by the way, for putting an end to that.”

You sigh, sitting back in your seat, all the fight leaving you. “It’s nothing.” You dig your phone out of your pocket and he watches as your thumbs fly across the screen before you hold it to your ear. “Hi, Steve.” A pause, “No, that’s cancelled. You’re not doing it. Tell Tony I’m cancelling the rest of the interviews. We’ll find some other place to get it published.”

He knows he’s staring and he knows he should stop before you notice, but he just… can’t take his eyes off you. The way you stood up for him, the way you promised him you would even when he was being a total asshole… he has no idea what he did to deserve it, but he’s damn grateful.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You ask, your tone softer than he’s ever heard it.”

He shakes his head, looking down at his feet. “No reason. Just-- sorry I’m such a dick sometimes.”

You laugh, and he immediately wants to hear it again.

“I mean it,” he continues, “I don’t mean to be. You don’t deserve it.”

“Bucky.” Your voice is even softer, quiet, and he struggles to think if you’ve ever called him by his name before. You wait until he meets your eyes. “It’s fine. We’re all-- just trying to get through this.” You shrug. “I know it’s not easy for you. Just… Trust me sometimes, will you?”

“I do trust you.” He replies immediately, absolutely sure of himself for once.

It’s your turn to be a little surprised.

He rubs his hands together, a nervous tick he’s never gotten rid of. “I’ve been trying to distance myself because I like you. And that honestly scares the shit out of me. I don’t know--” He stops, frustrated. “I don’t know how to do this anymore. And all I keep thinking about is what could go wrong.” He takes a chance and glances up at you, and the look in your eyes… it’s more than he expected. He feels his heart take off in his chest.

“We’re both so stupid, Bucky.” You tell him, but your words are light. “You should have said something.”

He rolls his eyes. “People always say that. But when has a conversation like this one ever been one that someone wants to have?”

“Maybe when the other person feels the same way?”

Bucky can’t breathe. He never even considered it. It was always a forgone conclusion in his mind. He thinks you’re beautiful, and you never think about him at all. That was always the truth that he thought he knew. “Go out with me.” He blurts, and then feels his face redden. “I mean-- let me-- will you let me take you to dinner?”

The car stops in front of the tower and you’re opening the door before you say anything, making him panic a little. A look over your shoulder, “I’ll see if I can pencil you in somewhere.” You say, and then with a wink, you’re gone, leaving him scrambling to get out of the car to catch up to you.

Before you can, Steve is there, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Not now--”

“Can’t help it. She called a meeting.”

Bucky stops in his tracks, and laughs. “Did she.”

“She must know how much you love them. Come on.”

Upstairs he finds his usual seat next to Sam and across from Steve, but when you gather your notes and meet his eyes, yours absolutely sparkling, he finds he’s not dreading this one at all. He still wants to take you to dinner though, so he might have to try to break his own record.

A 5 minute meeting so he can convince you to go on a date with him? He thinks he can swing it.

End

[dragonslaved]

Raise Your Glass

fandom: the magnus archives chapters: 1/? word count:   2238 language: english

summary:  tim is a streamer and jon is his moderator do not look at me

read on ao3

“Don’t forget to like and subscribe!”

There is a tasteful five seconds of music jingle before the video cuts. Jon sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose where his glasses sit. It’s one thing to moderate the streams, but there is a different kind of hell to editing them for a youtube VOD upload. Tim, thankfully, always makes sure to record a bit of additional off-stream footage to have at the beginning and end of each video for Jon to patch in, but it’s still a pain. Cutting out footage is easy enough, particularly for highlight cuts. But the four to five hours of raw recording is hard to edit, particularly when those watching the VODs can’t see the commentary made of the chat.

How he got talked into this is beyond himself. Something about Martin already working multiple jobs so he can only moderate a few nights a week. Tim, of course, has other things going on handling his own promotions and PR. Sasha took one look at what Tim was doing and decided she wanted nothing to do with it. It may have been smart on her part, if not for the fact he knows she’s doing some occasional tech work for Melanie’s crew.

Jon goes through these same mental conversations with himself every week when he’s collecting all the ‘Best Of’ clips together and splicing them into something resembling a coherent narrative.

But in Tim’s defense, the man is very good at reacting. Perhaps that was why his channel was doing well. Tim’s got the natural charisma and personality to draw in an audience, he’s interactive with the viewers, highly reactive to whatever’s happening in the game. It works. And Jon is, for better or worse, not a bad moderator for the chat.

No, the arrangement sadly, unfortunately, worked out very well for them both. A good following on the streams, and a moderate viewership on the video uploads later. And Jon did take some joy in adding a few personal editing touches to surprise even those who had been present for the stream watching playbacks. An occasional bit of text highlighting something, or an artful zoom in on something Tim missed that made the game harder for him for having looked it over.

Jon thinks fondly back to that half year Tim had considered being an influencer instead. It was a different kind of long-term work, but then again photos did not exactly get Tim’s personality through. No, video was best. And unscripted video was the purest, most distilled Tim an audience could want.

“-on?”

Tim pulled one earphone off, and Jon nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Jon. Been calling for a couple minutes now. You’re really in the zone, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he stammers, pulling the headphones off completely and resting them around his neck. “S-sorry, what is it?”

“Just checking how it’s going. Brought some coffee if you need it. I know it was a longer one, but I appreciate the work.”

Jon looks from him, to the mug in his hand and takes it with a quiet, “Ah.” A test sip and it’s still much too hot. “Thank you, it, um. Just about finished. Should be ready to upload in the morning at the usual time.”

“Thanks, mate.” Tim’s smile down at him could brighten the world. Maybe just Jon’s; he has to avert his eyes back to the program before his face heats up as much as the coffee in his hands. “You aren’t putting in snarky commentary in the text again, are you?”

“Would you be mad if I was?” Maybe a little too-hot-coffee is worth hiding the sly grin on his own face.

“I’d say go for it. Just be a little kind this time?”

“Maybe you should play something that isn’t a horror game next time.”

“I can’t help it. People love it, it’s what they vote for.”

“Oh, they do. But imagine the shock they’d have seeing you play something competently. Like a strategy puzzle game.”

Tim leans over his shoulder to look at the editing so far, hand on his other shoulder. “It’s not as engaging for the viewers though. People like watching someone be bad at a game.”

“Perhaps.” Tim’s always been one for casual contact, but it still makes Jon a little nervous. Not in a bad way, but in that way he hopes Tim never feels how hot his face gets. “But sometimes watching someone be exceptional at a game is worth a lot too.”

“Maybe… Wait.” Jon watches Tim slide the preview cursor back over a section, then over it forward again. “Are you kidding me?! I missed that key?”

So maybe Jon does see some joy in watching Tim be bad at things. He doesn’t try to hide the smile this time.

“You did.”

“You could have at least SAID something at the time! I wandered for an hour before moving on!”

“I take a more hands off backstage approach to moderating. It’s why you like me doing it.”

“God- Of all the-” Tim cuts himself off, watching the twenty seconds of footage again a few more times. It’s clear to anyone that knows him that Tim is memorizing the spot. Likely to do it again on his own time and do it properly.

That was something to be admired about Tim. Sure, he’ll put on an act and goof a bit for streams. But when he really cared about doing something well, he always put in the effort. The man could be determinedly serious about anything he really put his mind to. He usually succeeded.

But for the sake of Tim’s pride… “Would you like me to cut this bit out?” It’s tentative, an offer if Tim would rather Jon not include some of his more egregious mistakes. Tim only sighs.

“No. No… Leave it in. It’s fair to point out, and it’ll be funny in a few days.”

“So you’re saying it’s not funny yet.” “No. Not yet,” but even Tim can’t hide the smile in his tone. At least the man’s always had a good humor about himself. “Hey, Jon.”

He’d been distracted watching Timothy’s eyes and the way the monitor light hits those dark warm brown hues just so. “Hm?”

“I think we just hit a milestone last stream. What, something like two years now? What do you say we go out tonight and celebrate?”

“Oh. Um. I mean, we can, sure. I can meet you. The usual place?”

“Yeah. Bring your group while you’re at it.”

Jon stops the instinctive jolt. “Sure. I can. Bring them when we’re finished.” He forgets Tim knows about that.

“Great!” Tim gives a firm clap on the shoulder of Jon’s he’d been leaning on. “Can’t wait.”

The next morning comes with a loud and unignorable hangover. The curtains have, by some blessing, been pulled closed around the flat. Tim no doubt having some sympathy. Jon doesn’t always drink quite that heavily, but it was celebration and after a show. His group had only encouraged it, that much he remembered.

Well. His friends were likely assholes to his waking mind right now. No, the only friend Jon has right now is a hot cup of coffee at this hour of the morning. The warm bed calls to him, but he had made promises.

“Oh, coffee,” he coos over a sip as he sits at the table. “If I hadn’t promised Tim I’d work, we would not be meeting at this time. Just you and me and the algorithm this morning.”

The number of emails is alarming. All new subscribers or followers to the channel itself. There shouldn’t be such a surge after an off day. Had someone promo’d him while they were out last night? Well. This was part of Jon’s half of the job, figuring out where all this came from and determining if it was worth it to pursue further or not. A sip of coffee down and he gets to work.

“What… Is this.”

He adjusts his glasses, squinting at the screen and through the migraine. “Tim didn’t stream last night, we were at the pub…”

Contrary to what Jon knew, there was a history showing Tim had streamed for at least an hour last night with a fair amount of viewers at the time. Right around the time they were at the pub…

“What did you do.”

A couple quick clicks into the video history and there is absolutely a video from last night. The preview image alone has Tim in the pub, the camera facing a small crowd and some lights. His finger hesitates. What happened last night. What did they do.

Play.

The camera is shaky and trying to focus on Tim’s face. He was always a little - no, a lot - excitable when he drinks out. It eventually finds his face and settles in a steady shot, a crowd behind him and the lights are stage lights. “Hey, guys! So a surprise stream while we’re out. See, me and Jon came out to celebrate two years of the channel! They’re about to start, hold on.”

He moves his face out of the frame to show a small indoor stage with the lights focusing down and Jon can feel a sense of dread creeping up from his gut.

“Tell me we didn’t….”

The video keeps going, the chat wondering what’s going on, Tim almost never streams outdoors or anything like this. Question mark emojis fill the chat as Jon watches his drunken self climb on stage, flannel shirt and hair loose, guitar being strapped around him.

“Oh god.”

His last-night-self greets the crowd and thanks them for the short notice allowance of his group to play. Oh god, he must have been so drunk to agree to this. His band mates clambering up behind him and setting up. It’s only a few minutes before they start playing. Jon thinks for just a moment that maybe the chat doesn’t realize. Maybe they think Tim is just sharing a local band or something. The question marks continue until someone figures it out.

“Holy shit is that jsmod???”

It fills up. The whole chat fills up with shock and confused emojis. It goes so fast Jon can’t quite catch all the comments. And then it’s genuine support and excitement. No one had any idea Jon, the strict, quiet moderator, was the lead in a band.

Oh god, it was one of their more boisterous songs.

“That’s Jon! That’s his band! Haha, god it’s good to hear him sing again. Think we can keep them going for a bit, I’ll keep the stream going for now!”

Tim sounds entirely too giddy with this turn of events. And true to his word, the crowd somehow kept them on stage performing for a little under an hour. The video ends with Tim brightly thanking chat for joining on the surprise stream, and Jon has his head in his arms, tugging at his hair.

He may not recover his dignity from this.

“Go~od morning, boss!” Tim’s voice carries through the haze of irritation and fogginess with the tone of someone who committed crimes the night before and absolutely does not care.

Jon’s own voice comes through his pile of arms and oversized hoodie and hair, “I’m not your boss.” He can just faintly hear the sound of another cup of coffee being poured behind him, and then the quiet steps of Tim coming to sit next to him.

“You may as well be my manager with all the work you do behind the scenes handling my things.”

“If I were your manager, I’d fire you.”

The beat of silence falls between them heavy and expectant.

“Why-”

“The stream, last night, Tim!” Jon nearly explodes with it, his head shooting up and arms out, nearly hitting Tim in the face. “Why did you do that!”

For his benefit, Tim almost looks sorry.

“I… You said I could.”

“... What.”

“I asked if you were going to go play, and you said yes since the gang was there. I asked if I could stream it and you said yes.”

“I never would have agreed to that.”

“You did, though.”

The worst part about it is Jon cannot remember it. Jon, drunk, is a bit unpredictable at best. He may very well have agreed and he would never remember. God damn him.

“Fine. Fine, then this is me, sober, telling you now. If I, any time in the future, try to say it’s all right to film me playing: do not listen to me then. I am saying now do not film me.”

Tim’s eyes are focused intently on him. Really taking that in before nodding and voice gentle, “All right, Jon. Whatever you like.”

“Thank you, Tim. This isn’t going in the compilation by the way.”

“Nope, of course not! Not if you don’t want it.”

Jon runs a hand through his hair, looking at the analytics. “...That said. It did get you quite a record viewers for a surprise stream.”

“Oh yeah?” Tim finally gets up to lean in and look. Gives a low whistle. “Didn’t realize we’d done that well.”

“Hit a new milestone of subs as well.”

Tim gives his shoulder a gentle nudge with a crooked grin. “Sure I can’t talk you into letting your sets become a regular spot?”

“Tim.”

“All right! It was just a question.”

[cyb3r-s1ut]

Hotline Bling • Zion Kuwonu

Summary • To be honest, I don’t even know yet.

WC • Circa 1,600

Genre • Mild Angst, nothing too bad.

You used to call me on my cellphone

Late-night when you need my love

Call me on my cellphone

Late-night when you need my love

And I know when that hotline bling

That can only mean one thing

I know when that hotline bling

That can only mean one thing

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

3 months, 1 week, and 4 days. That’s how long it had been since Zion last saw you. But, hey, who's counting? If he had been, he would have succumbed to that void feeling in his chest by now. The one created by you but ultimately worsened by his actions. His actions ruined the best thing he ever had. But it was your fault too, right?

If you didn't have such an illuminating smile, such a feather-light yet addicting touch, such an effervescent personality, such a radiant aura then the both of you he wouldn't be in this situation. No. If you hadn't wanted something more and Zion hadn't been too scared of ruining a good thing even though he knew you deserved more— deserved better. He knew you deserved the world and the stars along with it, but he was so afraid he couldn't give it to you. So he cowered behind his thoughts; he dismissed the relationship you had, shutting you out in the process.

He was expecting you to dismiss the fact that he couldn't come to terms with himself you and continue with the late-night phone calls. The sneaking out of the house at 1 and 2 in the morning — when he thought everyone was asleep — to spend hours at your place. Half naked smoke sessions with deeply thought out conversations lingering in the air with every puff. Or hot nights in your room that always seemed to end with clothes scattered here and there, fluffy comforter somehow still clinging to a corner of the bed, and the sheets tangled around only you because he was never there when you woke up. ’He had better, more important things.’ you would convince yourself. But when you finally stopped gaslighting yourself with that excuse, you found out he couldn't face his own music.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Ever since I left the city, you

Got a reputation for yourself now

Everybody knows and I feel left out

Girl, you got me down, you got me stressed out

'Cause ever since I left the city, you

Started wearing less and goin' out more

Glasses of champagne out on the dance floor

Hangin' with some girls I've never seen before

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Guilt. Jealousy. Anger. Sadness. Utter outrage. One of these emotions— maybe even a mixture— was grasping at his heart and yanking at the strings right now. Even so, he couldn’t stop rewatching the clip on his phone in front of him. It wasn’t like he was meaning to find you. He just happened to be scrolling through the explore page on Instagram and much to his sudden disbelief you were the thumbnail on some video. Against his better judgment (of course) he clicks the video, watching you hold a cup of God-knows-what in the air as your body hazily sways in a sea of people inside of what looks to be a club. Zion’s face is still one of shock as the girl recording yells something cringey about all of her friends being ‘baddies’ and ‘hot girls’ and continues to survey each of her friends, including you, while everyone gets more excited with the new song’s change of pace.

It could’ve been all in his head but that video seemed way longer than the allotted one minute. He doesn’t know how many times he watches the video before he decides to click on the girl’s profile (a bad decision on behalf of his 2 functioning brain cells). His thumbs seemed to move on their own as he scrolled down her page and searched through countless posts of herself, her with her family, and her with her friends. Zion couldn’t pry his eyes from the screen as he clicked on a picture with you in it, hoping you would be tagged. You were, of course, so he clicked. Another mistake on his part.

Your username and bio were both different. Even though he hadn’t visited your profile in a while, he did remember the main details of it. Zion repeated his earlier actions, examining your page this time. There were posts of yourself. You and your dog. You and your family. You and this new group of friends he had never seen until now. You and some MAN? You and this man hugging, holding hands, kissing, traveling, eating out together? You and Zion used to tell each other about everything, and you had certainly never mentioned him before. You People aren’t supposed to move on this fast. Hell, Zion hadn’t even moved on. He still listened to the playlist you two had created together. He still dreamed about you. He still woke up with the lingering touches of you on his body as if you had been beside him moments before. He still had late-night venting sessions with Nick as he sniffled and wiped his teary face after genuinely expressing what he was never able to tell you face-to-face.

But now, here you were. You had completely evolved from the person Zion knew almost four months ago. You weren’t the same girl who posted simple photos of herself in cute, comfortable outfits captioned with inspirational quotes, or wholesome reviews of the new Greek mythology book you had bought at your favorite Barnes and Noble. This was some girl who had grown to almost a million followers in just three months. This was some girl who posted pointless photos of her newest bottle of wine or Hennessey; some girl whose wardrobe would alternate between Burberry pantsuits and Louboutin heels, to Adidas tracksuits and air force ones, to what could very well be some bundle of strings Fashion Nova tries to pass off as a dress. This new girl — this new you — was copacetic, thriving, and glowing. You were happy with this seemingly very outgoing of people who the old you would’ve never thought about fraternizing with. Worse of all, the new you appeared to be enjoying life with some new guy, a guy that wasn’t Zion. He’s a complete mess without you laying next to him at 2 in the morning and you were supposed to be the same. Zion was supposed to have the same crippling effect on you as you did on him.

Apparently, Zion had been sitting in his whirlwind of thoughts long enough for his phone to lock. He pulled himself out of his trance and made his only decent decision of the day. He went to find Nick, knowing he would still be awake and available to examine whatever emotional baggage Zion had this time. He told Nick about his earlier revelations (leaving out the part about your apparent love interest). “Why don't you just talk to her, bro? Tell her how you actually feel.” weren't the words he expected to hear. He didn't know what to expect, honestly.

As Zion laid in his bed he picked up his phone with shaky hands. When he unlocked it, he felt another tug at his heartstrings, forgetting that his phone had locked on a gorgeous post of your beaming smile while he was in a daze earlier. The time I'm his phone read 1:46 A.M. He didn't want to call you. You might not pick up. But he wanted an immediate response. Zion needed validation right now. He silently prayed that your number hadn't changed along with everything else during your productive time period. He opened his messages and clicked on your name; ’y/n💛’. Zion smiled to himself as he looked at the last messages sent between the two of you. You had been sending memes back and forth, with the last message before the hiatus being three emojis expressing your enjoyment.

Zion pondered for a few moments on what to type. ’Yo y/n it's me.’ ’Hey it's me, Zion.’ ’Hey y/n we haven't talked in a while.’ He wasted a good twenty minutes overthinking, typing, and erasing potential conversation starters. Then he just decided to pour out what was left of his heart. Fuck it.

He didn't expect you to reply quickly, but he wanted you to, so Zion kept his phone unlocked and open to your messages as he waited. He had peeked two minutes after hitting send, but he didn't notice it then. Zion let five more anxious minutes pass before checking again. He almost didn't notice it that time, but somehow he managed to spot it.

The small subscript under his message. ’Read’

Zion didn't know if it was him being delirious with fatigue or the actual fact of you acknowledging but ignoring him, but his breathing got short and shaky and his tears started to roll. It was finally happening. That void feeling in his chest — in his heart —, that place where special memories of you were kept, had finally drawn him in and suffocated him with the realization that you didn't want him anymore. You no longer needed Zion to bring you the pleasures of life. For all he knows now, you never really did.

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Supercorp SAO AU, Pt 3

Kara hasn't ever met Lena's husband. Honestly, she isn't entirely sure Lena has either. He's never home, Lena's apartment very much her own from the art to the books to the furniture. If not for the occasional tabloid photo, the wedding portrait on Lena's mantel, and the rings on her left hand, Kara might have assumed the husband to be a specter to dissuade would-be suitors. Even so, she can't help but notice the way Lena's smile dims when she sees his number on her phone during movie night. "It's nothing," Lena says, when Kara works up enough nerve to mention it. "He likes to pick fights. I used to enjoy the debates we'd have, but lately... I don't know. It doesn't feel like debate anymore. And at the end of the day I don't have the energy for it." Over the weeks and months, Kara learns about him in bits and pieces. That he was a friend of Lex's, and that they fell in love over the course of several summers. That he had his own tech company, who had just migrated to a new market on another continent, hence his absence. One time, Kara arrives to movie night to hear Lena almost shouting into her phone. Her tone is the kind Kara only heard once in all their time in Aincrad-- when she'd been on the verge of committing murder, against a player who had nearly poisoned Kara to death. Dark, menacing, and inhumanly cold. 

"Come anywhere near my company again, and I will slap you with enough lawsuits to keep you and your pathetic excuse for a firm underwater for the next thirty years. Do you understand me?" She barely pauses long enough for her victim to open their mouth before interrupting, her voice pitching even lower. "I said-- do. you. understand. I want to hear you say it."

Lena hasn't registered Kara's arrival yet, and so Kara shifts awkwardly as she waits, trying not to watch as Lena's lips twist into a cruel smirk. "Good boy." She ends the call shortly thereafter, and starts in surprise when she turns to find Kara standing in her foyer. "Kara! Gosh, you startled me!" She sounds like herself again, but Kara eyes her warily. "Is tonight a bad time? I can come back--" "Don't be ridiculous!" Lena beams, rolling her eyes. "Marital squabbles might be a bitch, but it'll take a lot more than that to keep us from movie night. What's on for tonight? Die Hard?" Before long, Kara is curled up against Lena's side on the couch, sharing a blanket as Bruce Willis yippee-ki-yays across the screen. The call lingers at the back of her mind, and she decides right then and there that if Lena's husband is someone who brings out that side of her.... he doesn't know Lena at all. Perhaps Kara's favorite part of their friendship is their party. It happens by accident-- Kara stumbles across her during a trial period of a new VR. She's an elf this time, and her username is Kieran, but her avatar still looks mostly like herself. "I didn't know you played," Kara says, scuffed her dwarven boot against the ground. She's a little hurt that Lena hasn't ever mentioned it. "I should have told you," Lena admits. "I'm sorry I didn't, but after what you told me about your time in SAO, I was worried if we connected in a game, I... I guess I worried I wouldn't measure up to her. It sounds really silly to say it out loud. I really cherish our friendship, Kara, and I was scared I might lose it if you spotted too many differences between us. Between me and her." Kara smiles, and throws her short, but strong arms around Lena and squeezes right. "Not possible." After that, they're inseperable in the VR world. They try new games together, and the nature of Lena's position grants Kara beta access to countless games still in development. They explore entire worlds together, and Kara finds that Lena needn't be worried at all. She is Lena. The Lena Kara loved in Aincrad didn't stray far from the template of her creator's personality and fighting style, and in VR Lena comes alive in a way she doesn't in the real world-- as though anything could top that. In VR Kara watches Lena lead raid parties with expert precision, sharp and intense but also warm and inviting. More than once Lena helps inexperienced players level up, and shares the secret spawn points for creatures that drop rare items. Kara misses Lena-in-Aincrad, misses what they shared together, but she loves this Lena, the whole of Lena, with her entire being. Eventually, they beta test ALO together, by virtue of the fact that Lena's husband headed the development team that produced the matrix for it. It's a world that rivals Aincrad in beauty and scale. Better yet, it allows magic use, and every race has the ability to fly. One day, they spend an afternoon simply flying through a rainstorm, dodging lightning bolts and collecting thunderbells to smith armor with. Somewhere between the rain on her skin and laughter that gets swallowed by thunder, Kara simply stops and watches as Lena loops into a tight corkscrew to snag an escaping ingot. Her grin is as bright as the lightning, and when their eyes meet Kara's chest tightens at the heated expectance that opens Lena's features into something intimately familiar. Before either of them can speak, the in-game alarm alerts them to the end of their scheduled session, Kara immediately wakes and rolls to her phone. I love you. She almost hits send, but the phone buzzes in her hand before her finger can tap the button. Not a bad way to spend the last day of beta, Lena texts, with pulsing dots following to warn of an incoming note. I think that might be my favorite quest so far. Catch you next rainstorm? Kara deletes her previous message. Launch Day is marked on my calendar. Can't wait. The pulsing dots appear and disappear several times before Lena's next message finally comes through. You're my favorite. Kara rolls over, clasping her phone to her pounding chest. As she drifts off to sleep, those three words sear themselves across the back of her eyelids. You're my favorite. --- "So when will you be back online?" Kara asks over the phone almost a month later. The ALO launch is coming up, and their standing date (it's not a date) looms in the back of Kara's mind. Across the line, Lena sighs. "I'm not sure." Lena's work has kept her busy since their night chasing lightning. They've barely spoken, let alone lunched or gamed. "Were still on for the ALO launch, though, right?" Silence answers her. In a rare moment of petulance, Kara pouts. "Lena, you promised." "Yeah," Lena breathes. "Yeah, you're right, I did. At this point it looks like I might be traveling that day, but I'll try to reschedule some things. I don't know how much time I can spare though." "That's okay!" Kara chirps, grabbing at the compromise with both hands. "I just want to see you. I miss you." "I miss you too, you have no idea." A rumble of voices on the other end cuts their time short. "Sorry, I have to go," Lena says. "But I'll do what I can, I promise." "Okay. See you then." From that night on, Kara counts down the days. When Launch Day dawns, Kara logs in immediately. She waits for hours, selecting an avatar that looks almost like herself. In fact it's  a dead ringer except for the white feathered wings that fold up snugly against her back, and unfurl between the slats of her armor. As she waits for Lena to log in, she experiments with her new wings (during beta, she'd chosen fairy wings), and revels in the power of every stroke. She feels the most like she did in Aincrad, and it feels like coming home. But as she waits, the faces who greet her aren't Lena's. She passes on joining other survivors for a commemorative hunt, even as the sun dips below the horizon, and in her heart she knows Lena won't make it. Still she waits. Just in case. When she finally logs out, Kara texts Lena, but sends only a frowning emoji. Then she turns it off and goes to sleep, determined to let whatever apology Lena sends sit unopened until she wakes. But no response is waiting for her when she gets up the next morning, and none comes for the entire week that follows. That week spreads to two, and then three. Kara's disappointment shifts to irritation when she assumes Lena is trying to avoid her after missing the launch, but then snaps to concern when even her calls go unanswered until her voicemail is too full to record any more. Something is wrong. She calls Lena's office, her assistant, sends countless emails, but gets nothing except a cagey brush off from Lena's assistant. When Kara goes to L-Corp herself, she's rebuffed at the door. "Orders came down from the top, Miss Danvers. You're no longer permitted in the building." "What? That's ridiculous! Lena wouldn't--" "You'll have to take that up with her, ma'am." "I'm TRYING." But to no avail. Kara gets nowhere, and is left bewildered and hurt and afraid for Lena who she can't quite believe would cut her out so abruptly. Alex doesn't have any advice to give her, except to be patient and keep trying. So all Kara can do is log in to ALO every night, and watch her friend list, praying that Lena will log in. She never does. Then, one night, Kara receives an anonymous message in her inbox. She doesn't know how a player could send an anonymous message, as the privacy on her inbox is set to friends only. Nevertheless, she opens it. "Meet me tomorrow night at 1am." It includes a National City address. She doesn't need Alex to tell her it's a bad idea. But her gut tells her it's about Lena-- maybe even Lena herself-- and so she goes to the location at the designated time with her heart in her throat. It's not Lena. Rather, it's her assistant, Jess. "Come with me," Jess tells her. Kara obeys, and after a furtive drive through the city, Jess leads her into a nondescript building that has more locked doors than Fort Knox. Finally, Jess swipes her security pass over the final sensor, and pushes into a room filled with medical equipment. For a moment, Kara sees her own hospital room, when she woke up from her SAO coma, filled with the same equipment. She's had this dream before. But the figure lying prone in the sterile bed isn't herself. It's Lena. "Oh my god." "She logged in the morning of the ALO launch," Jess informs her, her voice quiet. "She cleared her schedule for it. But she never woke up, and when we reviewed the game data, it never showed her syncing up to the game." Lena's features are slack inside the visor of the NervGear. When Kara takes her hand, her skin is cool, and waxy, like it isn't even human. But it is. Kara recognizes the scar on Lena's wrist, from a soldering accident when she was twelve. "I don't believe them," Jess murmurs. Kara blinks. "What?" "The new Nerv models are designed with multiple redundancies after the SAO incident. If she didn't connect, Lena would have woken up instantly." "Is it possible it could have been tampered with?" Jess shrugs. "Maybe. But the logistics of doing so without Lena noticing just aren't feasible." Kara regards her solemnly. "It sounds like you have an alternate theory." "It would be easier to alter the game data than tamper with the gear. Someone involved with the game's development would have easy access and ample opportunity." Someone involved in the game's development? Like... "Her husband?" "He's already assumed her seat on the board as interim chair. And he's already proposing changes Lena vetoed earlier this year. There enough members who agreed with Lena's veto that they've resisted him so far, but it won't be long before he wears them down." Rage burns low in Kara's belly. Bastard. Gritting her teeth, she meets Jess' gaze. The woman's face is well past angry-- she's exhausted, and at the end of her rope. It's clear that Kara is her last hail mary. "I'm going to lose my job the moment they find out I brought you here," Jess warns. "After that, I won't have any access. But I can't help her from here anyway." "You think she's trapped in the game," Kara surmises. Jess nods. "My guess is there's a backdoor that lets them control a small area of the game. To avoid detection by the moderating algorithms, they've probably built it into the context of the game-- an uncharted area that only becomes available after completing a legendary quest." Or clearing the final floor boss, Kara thinks bitterly. Her hand tightens on Lena's limp fingers. This is SAO all over again, except this time... This time, Lena is alone. "I've been searching every second I spend at home, but haven't found anything," Jess continues. "But I'm certain the answer to waking Lena up is in the game itself. That's why I reached out to you." Kara's head lifts sharply, surprised by the admission. Jess returns her gaze solemnly, her features hard. "If anyone can beat a broken game from the inside, it's you."

previous / next

[accidentalharrie]

Harry Styles: A Crush for the Zeitgeist

At Harry Styles’s “SOLD OUT ONE NIGHT ONLY” celebration in Los Angeles for his new album, Fine Line, a black Lab puppy with a big soft face and chubby paws is the official security dog. As I wait in line and stare at him, he’s staring at his chaperone, pure love in his eyes. The puppy’s training kicks in when the well-manicured probable model ahead of me drops a bag of gourmet cupcakes. The puppy tries to run toward the cupcakes and is eventually taken on a walk to cool off. He could be a mascot here. The demographic of the Harry Styles’s tour kickoff is urgent, excitable sweet tooth.

At the Forum, approximately 17,000 chirpy fans, mostly femme and seemingly circa Styles’s age (25), prance into the stadium with birthday-girl energy and new shirts. The shirt with an impressive plurality here is sold at the merch table outside. (“Where are your regular shirts?” I ask two friends who’ve been on tour with Harry and they laugh and tell me, “In a bag under our seat.” Obviously.) Fifteen minutes before his set time, the merch booths have been picked almost clean. Another probable model is wearing eight gold rings across her fingers that spell F I N E L I N E like brass knuckles.

Instead of wearing Styles concert T-shirts, some of his fans are just dressed like him. If you were wondering where all the bright, high-waisted trousers disappeared to on Friday night, they were with me at the Forum. Like the most consuming of crushes, there is a dual impulse to both be and be with. I count at least five imitations of his Gucci huge-leg sailor-pants look from his album cover. A leopard suit from his last tour; the “Sex” shirt he wore on SNL. For the life of me I can’t keep a Styles song in my head, but the outfits are emblazoned on my cortex. I was at that SNL taping actually, a fact I forgot until I wrote that down. I am a receptive sieve when it comes to this handsome scamp.

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To decode Harry Styles to my date (their cultural interests run more to Björk, 1997–2004, plus 2015), I tell them Styles describes Fine Line as “all about having sex and feeling sad.” My date looks at sea for a second and then asks: “At the same time?”

I can’t wait to know the answer. I’ve heard that Fine Line is testing: Can Styles make soulful and patient ’70s psych-rock and still make fan hearts’ skip a beat in 2019? Styles’s fans have flocked tightly around him since his days in confection-pop band One Direction and they stuck close through his eponymous first solo album two years ago: a moody work in the genre of “nonthreatening bad boy.” This year, things got freakier. In a Rolling Stone profile, he told a story about biting his tongue while recording and high on mushrooms, so blood came out of his mouth as he sang. Intense, animal, and daring. In honor of Styles’s new artistic voyage, my date and I split a mushroom.

The lights shoot up, Styles emerges onto the stage, and there’s a collective intake of breath. Actually, the person next to me gasp-shouts “HIS CHEST!” the millisecond before the screams avalanche.

Styles frisks around the stage singing about sex and candy, “Watermelon Sugar,” and a mandate of radical softness and euphoria. He moves like a tickle: intended to make you feel giddy and impulsive. And it’s felt. Being inside the stadium is like being inside the radiating pink heat of a crush feeling. There’s no hesitancy. Fans have come from Brazil and North Carolina. I meet a coven of teens sneaking vodka out of a water bottle in the bathroom, and they tell me they saw him in 2013 with One Direction: “It’s full circle.” Someone at the front of the pit keeps hoisting flowers up toward Styles, little white, sad carnations. The devotion here is as uncomplicated as I have ever seen devotion. I envy that. The Forum, the entire venue, changes its Instagram bio to “Harry Styles stan account [multiple stars emoji]” in an instant.

The metabolism is also immeasurably fast. As my date put it: “Everyone knows everything in here.” His fans know every song in their bones, from an album that was released that day. They shout the words to prove it. On Instagram, I saw a clip of a fan outside saying she hadn’t listened yet [AUDIBLE GASPS], and then she explains this will be a special opportunity to hear the album for the first time live [DIFFERENT GASPS, ADMIRING GASPS]. It’s a sentimentalist’s scene.

People scream the whole time, in addition to bobbling on command and filming. Until Styles, I tacitly agreed that it was a confusing irony that fans screamed over music they wanted to hear. I realize now that he’s made music to scream over. This is a universe of their mutual creation, the soundtrack is just the mood cue.

It can be alienating: This is the music that launched a million zillion hearts? But I realize that a crush should not be judged on talent. And Styles is a perfect crush. Slinking around in the drama of big pants and a Mick Jagger femme blouse. He looks like a rascal androgyne, he acts like a romantic, he’s all chin scruff and nonthreatening sex appeal.

Because of the pants, he dances in a way that Katharine Hepburn might. There’s a feline backward skip that seems to accentuate the knee caps. And other times, in louche-adjacent but ultimately weightless seduction, it seems as if there are string held to the stop of his hip bones. I was thrilled when I read an interview with one of Styles’s favored designers, Harris Reed, who said some clothes were specifically flared so Styles could “dance and do his pelvic thrusting, which he loves to do.” The creature is a perfect crush.

There’s a photo opportunity to stand in Styles’s place: a dark-green screen that will become the Tim Walker–photographed Fine Line album cover (floating hand included). People try to imitate Styles’s stance, but it’s surprisingly tough. I think most people don’t put their hips forward enough. No one quite achieves the lightness of the hand on his waist. And the casual point is rendered as finger gun. Styles is a master craftsman of the fluid choreography.

Can you forgive me for waiting until now to tell you that Stevie Nicks descended onto the stage like an archangel? They Landslid together. (Brief history: Harry Styles paid official tribute to Nicks at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame Ceremony by saying, “She’s always there for you. She knows what you need: advice, a little wisdom, a blouse, a shawl”; Nicks mistakenly referred to Styles’s former band as “’N Sync.”) Nicks — dusky voice even duskier, in high beige boots — sways in front of a mic stand with a thousand sparkling scarves on it. Styles approaches his half of the duet with clarity and practice and he does a worshipful dance at her. This whole place is a devotional practice. I remember that I’m on mushrooms and feel religious about it. When they sing, “I’ve been afraid of changing because I’ve built my life around you,” I think about Styles and the fans and their adoring fealty.

So the night’s heating up. Glitter drops from the ceiling (metaphorically “snow” as Styles is singing “Wonderful Christmas Time”). This is nice. Styles says, “The album is yours; I am yours,” so I think it’s a Christmas present. I should write a thank-you note.

The Fine Line’s tour comes with a take-home message: “Treat People With Kindness,” which is incidentally the name of a bombastic choral-influenced song on Fine Line. It’s inscribed on shirts and on handwritten signs, helpfully summarized as “TPWK,” which is incidentally the sound of someone being punched in the stomach.

With three minutes left of the night, Styles launches into “Kiwi,” a song from his first solo album that’s famous for making big floors shake. Before the song breaks, I see a pack of girls in sneakers and skirts and jumpsuits carefully clear a wide circle in the pit and then hurtle into it. Will they be able to thrash with kindness and consideration? Of course, they’ve been studying Fine Line and how to walk it. And when Styles asks them, “Will you dance with me like you’ve never danced before?” I’ve never seen such obedience.

[thelioncourts]

title: beyond the pale author: marrieddorks fandom: captive prince pairing: damen/laurent word count: 22204

Laurent DeVere was off limits. There were no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

A lot of that — 43% — was because of Laurent himself. Despite only being nineteen years old, Laurent seemed to have long mastered the art of appearing as aloof and cold as humanly possible. Displays of emotion were limited to disdain and boredom, but even those were better to be on the receiving end of than the craftily cultivated blank stare he spent most of his time wearing as he wandered campus.

But Laurent was beautiful. There were no ifs, ands, or buts about that either. Though he tended to dress somewhat severely with high collars and covered wrists and ankles, his outfits were form fitting and it was quite a form that they fit. And while it would have been nice to see him in something not darker than the heart lying in his chest, the contrast of his muted clothing compared to the porcelain quality of his skin, the flaxen shine of his hair, and the unclouded blue of his eyes only garnered him more stares of longing and desire from classmates, professors, and passerbys alike.

So, while Laurent was dubbed as the cast-iron bitch of Arles University, he was also beautiful and that meant most of the student body wasn’t controlled enough to take the warning of his temperament to heart.

But Laurent DeVere was off limits and the reason that was obeyed — the other 57% of the reason — was because he was Auguste DeVere’s little brother and Auguste said so.

Auguste DeVere, unlike his brother, was loved and adored by all. Everyone wanted to be Auguste’s friend. And, in a way, everyone was Auguste’s friend. Auguste was the kind of guy that always had something nice to say about somebody else. He went out of his way to help those around him, whether it was the cliché of helping an old lady load her groceries into her car, insisting that his apartment was a space where anyone could come and crash if they needed it, or volunteering to tutor the undergrads that were struggling in their classes. There was no person better than Auguste, really.

But Auguste was fiercely protective of Laurent. That fact had been established long before Laurent got to Arles University. Since Auguste’s freshman year, he had talked nonstop of the love held for his little brother. With the loss of both their parents at such young ages, the two boys had grown up with nothing but one another. It had built an unbreakable and sacred bond, one untouched by anyone on the outside.

When Laurent had finally hit college age, Auguste had sat down his friend group calmly and respectfully. He had informed them that Laurent would be moving to campus, would be living in the other bedroom in Auguste’s home, and that Auguste wanted everyone in the room to continue to be part of his life but that meant Laurent would be part of theirs too; the brothers were a two-for-one deal after all. Of course, everyone had agreed vehemently. Then Auguste, just as calmly but with warning in his smile, had told them that Laurent was off limits romantically, sexually, and even emotionally. Off course, everyone had agreed again, this time with a lot of confusion to accompany their nods.

When they had finally met Laurent for the first time several weeks after Auguste’s preliminary meeting, they understood.

For that first year, everyone had obeyed diligently. They had needed to get a feel for Laurent’s personality anyway and upon discovering it and finding it less than amorous, leaving the beautiful and forbidden younger DeVere was an easy task to follow. Well, for all them but Lazar.

With summer come and gone far too fast, however, everyone was making their way back to campus. A few of them were starting their first year of grad school. Auguste was in his final already. And Laurent was a sophomore and even more beautiful than he had been the year before. It was now that things started to change. People noticed.

[Continue on AO3]

    1. Nik

The entire team was close. Practically blood-oath close. They were the equal of a fraternity, but without the out-of-pocket money for Greek life fees. Instead they paid for their bonds with their blood, sweat, and tears. It was well spent too. They were the division champions for the third year in a row as of last year. This year they were trying to make it a record four.

The first week on campus was spent mapping out schedules and routes, stocking up on food for their dorms, apartments, and houses, and catching up with all the guys like no time had passed at all. The first text, sent out in the obnoxious group text they had set up, said a simple “7 @ Kesus?” and had been followed by almost a dozen accounts of “Yes,” “Hell yeah!” and a few emojis that all signified the same, including the Ferris wheel emoji for unexplainable reasons.

Kesus was a pub downtown. It became their go-to spot when the convenience of its placement in comparison to their favorite drunken food run, a food truck located right on Barbin Avenue, managed to filter through their eventually sober minds. It was made even better by the fact that it had a table in the back large enough to seat their whole motley crew, even when a few extras managed to tag along.

As it was, by seven o’clock less than half of them were seated at their table, but that didn’t mean they were any less loud than normal. Rowdiness was in their nature.

“How do classes start next week already?” Orlant groaned.

“Time moves forward and tasks and events fall on a timeline, thus —”

“Shut up!” Orlant groaned again.

“But time is a construct.”

“This is why God abandoned us, you know,” Rochert pointed out.

“Okay, I’m leaving,” Jord chimed in.

“No!”

“Who are we missing?” Nik asked.

“Lazar, Pallas —”

“That’s no coincidence,” Damen snorted.

“Huet, Berenger, Auguste, and Alexon. I think that’s it though.”

“Huet won’t be here until Thursday.”

“Do you think Auguste is going to bring Laurent with him?”

“Let’s hope so.”

“Let’s hope not. If I wanted to deal with that level of bitchiness today, I would’ve watched some god-awful reality T.V. before coming here.”

“He’s not that bad,” Damen said, smiling.

“Neither is the common cold, but I still don’t want it hanging around me,” said Nik.

“At least he’s good to look at.”

“Yeah, but if Auguste catches us looking at him, we’re dead men walking.”

“If Auguste catches us looking at what?” came Lazar’s voice. Most of them had to turn to watch Lazar saunter in, eyes bright and hair mussed, with a pink-faced Pallas under his arm.

“At Laurent.”

“I don’t know how he expects us not to stare,” Lazar continued, pulling out a chair and tugging Pallas into it with him. “Has anyone else seen Laurent’s ass in the pants he wears? Magnificent.”

“It’d be hard to see his ass when I do my best to stay at least fifty yards away from him at all times,” Nik mumbled.

“God, just get a restraining order, it’d be more efficient for you.”

“Don’t think I haven’t looked into it,” said Nik all too seriously.

“And how are you planning on doing that?” Damen laughed.

“Simple. Get a temporary protection order, get everything filed within the court, and, eventually, convince the judge to grant me a permanent restraining order.”

“What evidence are you going to show?” Lazar asked with a grin. “How he makes your cock involuntarily hard?”

Nik flushed, though whether it was from the truth or the implication no one could be quite certain.

“Yeah, I don’t think things will work out in your favor if you try to get a restraining order on him that way,” Jord said.

“Who’s getting a restraining order on who?” came Auguste’s question.

“What is with you all and sneaking up on everyone at the wrong time?”

“Nik,” Damen emphasized, “doesn’t want a restraining order on anyone.”

“I want it against your brother. Oh, hi, Laurent,” Nik said, this time with an accompanied eye roll.

Sure enough, Laurent was standing at Auguste’s side, posture relaxed and almost bored, his right hand tucked in one of the back pockets of his dark pants. If it was possible, Laurent had gotten more beautiful over the summer spent away from Arles University. Everyone noticed. They let Lazar speak it for them, however, which was a grave mistake on their part.

“Laurent,” Lazar practically growled in greeting. “My lap is able to fit two beauties if you’d care to join.” He patted at his left thigh, the one Pallas wasn’t currently putting most of his body weight on and waggled his eyebrows all too suggestively.

“As wonderful as that sounds,” Laurent started, his voice clear like a bell and doubly as sweet, “I fear that since you only think with that poor excuse that you call a dick, you definitely lack the capacity to pay proper attention to one person right in your vicinity, let alone two. I’d also like to avoid being entirely disappointed before the school year starts at the very least.” It was impossible to miss the judgmental flick of those pellucid blue eyes to Lazar’s jean-covered crotch.

Despite Laurent not being on the team and despite him being the youngest of the group altogether, it didn’t feel like he was tagging along. Sure, some of the guys liked to tease that Laurent was the equivalent of some of the guys’ clingy girlfriends, but it wasn’t true. Laurent had his own place with them, and he fell right back into it without any effort, taking a seat between Auguste and Jord for the remaining unruliness of the evening.

Sadly, the unruly night passed by too quickly as did the following days. Before anyone knew it, they were back in classes and clutching to whatever free time they could find.

For Damen and Nik, best friends long before the college years hit them, that meant finding at least one day a week to grab lunch together. It was a tradition they started their very first semester. Being in different majors, they didn’t see much of each other throughout the week and this was a guaranteed way to spend a good hour together not quietly sitting across from each other in the library or partying with the rest of the boys.

One semester they had been lucky enough to have time for three days of meeting up for lunch.

This semester they were only able to squeeze in one day. Thus, every Tuesday at eleven-thirty it was impossible to miss the two guys trying to shoulder by each other through the doorway of Belloy’s Bagels, the bagel deli that made the biggest and best bagel sandwiches within fifty miles of Arles.

“I’m just saying,” Nik started as they made their way to the window seats, hands warmed by the tin foil hiding their sandwiches, “that I’ve only been in this class for a single day, but I’m inclined to believe that this professor is going to spend more time mentally fucking over half of the first row than teaching at all.”

“Maybe it’s for the best. You said that this class was going to be a waste of a semester anyway,” Damen pointed out to him. The window seat was one of the draws to Belloy’s Bagels. They were thinking long term, after all, and come October they were going to need some give from the incoming cold. But for now, in the hot air of August, this also gave them plenty of sunlight to bask in.

“That’s true, but that doesn’t mean that I want to deal with that kind of incompetence for fifteen weeks.”

Their mouths were already full but that didn’t stop them from getting to talking as they always did, falling into it like it was the most natural thing because it was, and the first half hour went by way too fast for either of their liking.

Damen opened his mouth to voice such a feeling, but it was then that a flash of blond caught his eye. Laurent DeVere walked by the front of Belloy’s Bagels, two books under one arm and a messenger bag slung over the other. He didn’t seem to see Damen and Nik, or if he did, he didn’t acknowledge them which wouldn’t be surprising, and he was there and gone in seconds. The last of him that remained was the shine of his hair in the sunlight as it caught in Damen’s sight.

Damen was staring after him.

“Please don’t.”

Damen turned to Nik.

“What?”

“Well, to start, you have bean sprouts hanging out of your mouth. But what’s worse is that you stared after Laurent like we’ve seen Lazar do.”

“Lazar leers. I wanted to make sure it was him, that’s all,” Damen said.

Nik hummed thoughtfully. “Yes, I do suppose you had to lean out of your seat and press your face against the window to make sure it was. Perfectly understandable.”

“Cut it out, Nik!” Damen was laughing. “You’re being dramatic. As per usual. He’s our friend.”

“Maybe you consider him a friend.”

But the next week was one in the same. Their food was long devoured, the tin foil that once held their sandwiches balled up into shiny spheres, and Laurent walked by right at noon. There was a pair of headphones peeking out from his hair this time.

“You stared again.”

“I didn’t!”

“You did. What’s with that?”

Damen waited a beat, then two. Then he exhaled loudly, head falling forward. “Come on, Nik. Auguste is going to graduate at the end of this year. He won’t have anyone but us. Least we could do is keep an eye on him.”

“I knew the second that blond-haired-blue-eyed snake was brought here that you were doomed,” Nik moaned.

“I told you that’s not what this is about!”

“But you are attracted to him.” It wasn’t a question. They both knew that.

“I’m not going to do anything about it.”

The next week, however, Damen still stared with the kind of quiet longing that wasn’t so quiet when he didn’t have to be aware of Auguste’s eyes on him. Or even Laurent’s.

The week after that Nik was talking, telling Damen a story about his law and society course, when he noticed Damen was zoned out, brown eyes all too focused on the world outside as though he was waiting for something.

“...and then a bear walked in wearing a hat and said, “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I can’t seem to find the bathroom anywhere.”

Damen nodded.

“Damen.” Nik snapped his fingers in front of Damen’s face three times and Damen came back to himself with the slightest shake of his head, eyes finding Nik’s in startled confusion.

“What?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m right here, I’m just —” Damen stopped suddenly, sentence still hanging in the air around them, and Nik rolled his eyes and opened his own mouth to ask what was wrong when Damen jumped out of his seat and ran to the front door of Belloy’s Bagels, one large hand pushing and holding the door open.

Nik watched as Laurent came walking by and didn’t give Damen the satisfaction of jumping at the sudden intrusion on his otherwise silent trek across campus. Nik watched as Damen did all the talking, hands moving a bit animatedly with his words. Nik watched as Laurent raised one delicate eyebrow before shaking his head and continuing.

Damen was back inside in seconds.

“What,” Nik began, and Damen wouldn’t meet his eyes, “was that?”

“I invited him in for lunch,” Damen told him honestly.

“Why would you do that?”

“Because it’s lunch time and he always looks so alone when he walks by here.” Nik kept staring and Damen could read the expression.

“Yes, I’m sure you’re being entirely selfless here.”

“Auguste wouldn’t want us to see him and not talk to him,” Damen argued.

“Auguste also wouldn’t want you pursuing Laurent either, but that want of his doesn’t seem to be stopping you from doing it anyway. And, besides, Laurent is grown. If he wants to hide away, that’s on him.”

“Asking someone to lunch is hardly pursuing them.”

Nik didn’t argue anymore, and he didn’t have to. The next week was like clockwork and Damen once again ran to the door and asked Laurent inside. This time Laurent at least said something. His blue eyes fell toward the direction he was walking in and then flicked to Nik before he said something along the lines of, “I have class in a few minutes,” before he was off again.

The next week, Nik was shocked to walk in to Belloy’s Bagels and see that Damen wasn’t already seated, but had his lunch, Nik’s lunch, and a latte from the cafe next door with him.

“What’s this?” Nik asked as he pulled out his chair and slid in. The sandwich was still steaming hot, indicating Damen hadn’t been there all too long.

“Thought I’d surprise you,” Damen said. He was smiling and had his hands on his drink. Like all the weeks before, they started talking, and after a while Nik asked around a mouthful of food about the latte.

“Since when do you drink lattes from Chastillon?”

“I’ve never tried it, but since it’s right there,” Damen jutted a thumb in the general direction behind them, “I thought I’d stop in and see what was going on.”

Nik wiped his hands with a napkin. “Then why haven’t you drank any of it?” Grabbing the cup quickly, Nik was able to garner from the steam still rising from the cup what flavor it was. “Could it be because it’s a vanilla cinnamon latte and I’ve never known you to order that in your life?”

Damen didn’t answer. He didn’t have to either. A flash of blond walked by and Damen was out of his seat, the latte precariously sloshing up the sides of the cup a bit as he ran out the door. Nik heard him call out Laurent’s name and had first row seats to watch Laurent turn around and look at the drink as though it could bite him. Damen was talking animatedly again, and Laurent finally gave a curt nod after Damen stopped. With elegance not befitting the situation, Laurent crossed the distance between them and reached for the latte, cradling the warmth of it to his chest. Nik saw him say thank you and turn without another word or look.

The next week played out the same, except Nik did his very best to ignore the latte on Damen’s left. When he paused their conversation to run outside and give it to Laurent, Nik continued to act like nothing happened. It was easier, especially when it happened again the next week.

They were now halfway through the fall semester, over seven weeks in, and Nik prayed that next semester he and Damen would choose a lunch spot Laurent didn’t wander anywhere near. He was praying for such a thing as Damen handed Laurent the latte in his hands when Laurent didn’t immediately walk away. Damen had retreated inside, but Laurent was following.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Laurent told Damen just as Damen was grabbing his seat again.

“Doing what?”

“Don’t be daft. These things are at least four dollars now.”

“There’s a perfectly good reason to buy them. It’s starting to get chilly outside,” Damen said as though that made everything fine.

Laurent said nothing. Instead he stood there with an unreadable expression, chin high and hair wind mussed. His messenger bag strap was twisted below his shoulder.

“What are you usually doing around eleven?” Damen asked, filling the silence.

“Waiting until it’s time to go to class.”

“You could meet me at Chastillon. I’ll even let you buy your own latte if you’d like.”

Nik knew not to be surprised the next week, but he still was when he was just feet away from Chastillon and saw Damen and Laurent through the window. They were sitting across from one another at a table by the far wall. Laurent had his laptop and a series of books spread out in front of him and Damen had a notebook and a pen. Damen looked up at Laurent once. Twice. Three times.

The next week Nik watched as Laurent did the same.

    2. Jord

The relationship Jord shared with the DeVere brothers was odd. Okay, odd was perhaps not the right word; the relationship Jord shared with Laurent DeVere was odd. The relationship he shared with Auguste was simple and easy. It was a friendship full of mutual respect and camaraderie.

Jord had known Auguste since their freshman year of school. Despite having the money to afford a place of his own, Auguste spent his first two years in the dorms and threw himself into the roommate pool. Jord and him were randomly assigned and Jord silently thanked the fates for it because Auguste really was a great friend.

Because of Jord’s past with Auguste he also was the only one of the group to have known Laurent just as long.

It was impossible to forget meeting Laurent. When Jord had, Laurent had only been fourteen years old. Even then he was smart as a whip and twice as pretty as anyone else. One year Jord even spent part of the holidays with both DeVeres. His avoidance of his own family made him susceptible to Auguste’s suggestion he come back home to The Manor with him where Laurent’s judgmental gaze waited.

Though their start was a rocky one – to keep a long story short, Laurent left Jord lying in the dirt right outside the stables – years of keeping Auguste’s friendship had cemented Jord’s relationship with Laurent.

As the years progressed, Jord came to a frightening realization that he felt protective of Laurent. He wasn’t at the level Auguste was, and he never would be, but it was impossible to not feel protective after witnessing the comments thrown Laurent’s way as he aged.

Despite the odd and brother-esque relationship Jord shared with Laurent, there was no other person he would rather have in his class this year.

Jord was TA’ing for a Roman military history course this semester. Dr. Paschal was Jord’s advisor, mentor, and favorite professor at Arles University. He’d been in the doctor’s class his freshman year and it was his guidance and passion that allowed Jord to conclude what he wanted to major in.

When Laurent had walked in on the first day a few weeks ago, he had looked at Jord with that cool stare of his and said nothing as he elegantly sat down at the end of the first row, just in front of Jord’s own desk.

Jord had been nervous. Dr. Paschal was a no-nonsense kind of guy. And while Laurent wasn’t the kind to disrupt the class for attention or for the simple purpose of being disruptive, Laurent was the kind to tell the professor they were wrong and, should the professor try to argue, eviscerate them with words alone.

By the third day, Laurent was Dr. Paschal favorite student by far. The doctor tried not to show it during class, but in private with Jord he sang countless praises of the intelligence Laurent showcased with every question, comment, and argument he made.

After several weeks, Jord lessened in his tension and, instead, joined the doctor in his amusement and even pride at Laurent’s analytical nature taking the front seat of most lectures.

“He’s a handful,” Dr. Paschal laughed one day, handing Jord some lesson plans for the following week.

Though he should have, Jord never considered that Laurent was watching. Laurent was always watching though and after class one day he had let Jord know that fact.

“If you keep laughing every time I prove someone wrong you may be accused of playing favorites.”

The cool-toned observation had startled Jord who had still been at his own desk, gathering up the four-week essays all the students in the class had written and turned in.

“I don’t think it’s me who needs to be worried about that kind of accusation. Just the doctor.”

Laurent’s lips had upturned, so slightly, and Jord still couldn’t tell you how it happened or why, but he had suddenly found them both on their way to the library in a comfortable silence.

Ever since that day, Jord and Laurent had gone to the library after their shared class. It made sense, Jord had told himself after the third time; Laurent spent most of his free time in the library anyway and going right after class was the only guaranteed way Jord would get his TA’ing duties out of the way on time.

Their studying was done in silence. Jord had learned quickly that Laurent was not to be talked to, messed with, or anything of the sort while he was studying. By the time they would grab a table (always on the fourth floor) and spread their papers, laptops, and notebooks out, Laurent would have his headphones in and his eyes on the tasks in front of him.

It went on like that for several weeks, a routine created in quiet comfortability. On occasion, Auguste even joined them, bringing along five-inch-thick textbooks that Laurent glared at when they took up too much of his own space on the table.

Though their sessions were quiet, Jord came to appreciate not only the productivity of the almost two-hours-long spent studying, but also the way they shifted his relationship with the youngest DeVere. Auguste had long lamented Laurent’s introversion. It wasn’t that Auguste had any problems with his little brother being quiet, bookish, standoffish, and even albeit shy, but he did have problems with the fact that those factors often meant one thing: that Laurent’s friend group was limited. While Jord recognized that these hours spent with Laurent would never lead to a best-friends-forever kind of situation, it did give him hope that Laurent would allow Jord to be part of his life after Auguste graduated this coming spring.

Midterms came and went and Jord and Laurent’s study sessions seemed to drag on longer than normal. Laurent, ever the perfectionist, wouldn’t leave until every line even semi-related to whatever he was working on at the time had been read, reviewed, noted, and read once more. Jord, dealing with his own personal midterms as well as his grading for Dr. Paschal’s class, was drowning in a flood of mediocre to superb sophomore papers all relating to the social reforms that shifted Rome from its republic to its time of the mid-Roman empire, couldn’t seem to catch up at all.

A particularly tense Roman military class went by in a blur the week after midterms. The doctor wasn’t happy with several of the students’ assignments and Jord found himself on the receiving end of several dirty looks from those who knew he himself did a large chunk of the grading. Jord blamed the tension on how he missed the approaching figure throwing a bout of shade on the library door.

“Let me grab that for you guys,” a deep and warm voice said from behind and to the right. Both Jord, and appearingly Laurent, had been too in their own heads that they had missed Damen of all people joining them on the front steps of the library.

“Damen,” Jord started with a smile, moving to the side so Damen could pull open the first door, “what are you doing here right now?”

Damen was a hard to miss kind of guy with his height, muscles, and large personality and heart to match, and Jord mentally sped through the last several weeks in his head, trying to place if he’d seen Damen here. It wasn’t that it was an unexpected thought for Damen to be at the library, but the group was close enough that if even one person was present somewhere, it would be odd to miss another.

“I’ve got a group project for my physiology class,” Damen made a face. “I usually go to the gym around this time, but it was the best time for everyone else to meet. I can always do the gym later.”

Jord hummed in agreement, only to remember Laurent was beside him. Quiet as always, Laurent seemed unfazed at running into Damen here. Instead he was looking at the door handle still in Damen’s hand before commenting in a monotonic voice, “Are we going to stand here and blockade everyone inside or are we actually going to walk through the doors? I’d hate for you to be late.” He said the last part while pointedly moving his eyes up to Damen’s face, but Damen only smiled. There was a dimple indented in his left cheek.

With an ever-so-slight flourish, Damen pulled the door wide open and Jord followed Laurent’s determined footsteps, pausing to tell Damen a quick thanks.

The fourth floor was relatively empty, a fairly usual sight at one o’clock on a Thursday, and by the time Jord caught up with Laurent he was already spreading out two notebooks, a textbook, and his laptop. Before long they were both taking up most of the table with all their things and studying like normal. It was hard to keep focused, however, when a group – large and loud – came up the staircase and onto the fourth floor, assumingly looking for some tables. The vibration of plasticky wood across thin library carpeting a few minutes later indicated they had found those tables.

When Jord looked up from his own laptop, he immediately was met with seeing Damen again. He was with the other five people that had wandered up the stairs and he waved at both Jord and Laurent upon seeing them again. Jord waved back and sighed in silent relief when the group got much quieter upon settling down.

The six had pushed three tables together and fished a thick packet of papers out of each of their bags. For a while, the only sounds were the hushed whispers of one of them reading over, what Jord could only assume were, the requirements for their project and the familiar sound of papers being flipped and turned as they continued along.

It was only after a few minutes of that that Jord realized there was another familiar sound missing. Looking up curiously, Jord found that Laurent wasn’t touching his laptop as per usual. Instead he was staring unblinkingly at the page of notes lying on the table in front of him. His face was too close and, upon watching him for a moment, Jord realized that was so he could look over to his left without being too obvious.

Unsure of what to do or what was going on, Jord forced his gaze back into his own papers and soon found himself caught in the rhythm of it all. By the time Jord looked up again, Laurent seemed back to his normal self. The keys of his keyboard sunk down with the fast pace of his fingers and the pages of his book turned with purpose.

It wasn’t until the next week that Jord managed to put two and two together.

Damen met them at the front door again, holding it open with another flourish and a smile, and Laurent seemed to pay no mind to it until Damen was settled in with his group. Confused by Laurent’s distractedness, Jord did his best to keep working diligently. He succeeded for some time, but when he felt Laurent jolt beside him, he found his desire to understand what the hell was going on takeover.

It didn’t take a genius to realize the only thing that could have caused Laurent to jolt was Damen’s laugh. It was a loud laugh, one that came from the chest and lit up Damen’s whole face, and it wasn’t library quiet. But it wasn’t that the sound scared him, Jord knew that much, because they had endured much louder in the university library. Staring at the blond, Jord found him not hiding how he looked to his left now. Following his line of vision, Jord watched as Damen talked animatedly to the woman next to him. She must have been the cause of his laughter and Jord was captivated by her long dark hair. It curled at the ends.

It was the woman’s turn to laugh this time and her laugh was quieter than Damen’s own. It did get louder when Damen playfully plucked the stack of papers out of her hand and held them high above his head, an area far too high for her to reach. Jord knew Laurent heard her too as she loudly whispered, “Damen, stop! Give it back!” before putting her right hand on Damen’s left shoulder so she could try to get some leverage.

It made sense. Laurent had a crush.

For a few minutes, Jord couldn’t put a finger on why this all bothered him. Laurent had a crush, so what? But then it dawned on him in one exact moment, the terrifying way in which this could all go alarmingly wrong and it panicked Jord so much that he almost reached for his phone so he could tell someone about it all and get them on his side.

There’s too much fragility here, he thought with his eyes still on Laurent. Damen was a great guy, he was, but he was also a bit of a heartbreaker. And he had an affinity for blonds. Meanwhile Laurent had never been interested in anyone and, with another grim thought, Jord played with the notion of Laurent’s feelings becoming known. There were several things that could happen and none of them were good.

Jord grabbed his pen, tilted his notebook, and made a quick list.

If Laurent’s feelings were ever known:

    1. Damen would think with his dick and not his head and Laurent would be another blond at Arles University left alone after a few fun nights. It would strain, at the very least, Auguste’s relationship with all of them.

    2. Damen would think with his head and not his dick and Laurent’s first (known to Jord) crush would be unrequited and would leave him heartbroken. It would strain, at the very least, Auguste’s relationship with all of them.

    3. Damen would think with his dick and not his head, but try for an actual relationship with Laurent, only for one of them to do something that would lead to a – probably – messy breakup soon. It would strain, at the very least, Auguste’s relationship with all of them.

    4. Damen would think with his dick and not his head, but try for an actual relationship with Laurent, only for Damen to graduate and move on with his life plans, ultimately leading to a breakup because of the different points they would both be at in their lives. It would strain, at the very least, Auguste’s relationship with all of them.

Jord lamented as he looked down at his messy scrawl. This wasn’t good.

The next week played out much the same. Neither Jord nor Laurent seemed to get much work done. Laurent kept looking to his left, expression unreadable, as Damen worked and joked around with his project partners. Jord kept looking up at Laurent, wishing he had a superpower where he could change people’s thoughts. While he looked at Laurent, he tried his best to look on the bright side of things. Damen was a great guy and would never go out of his way to intentionally hurt Laurent. And Laurent was smart and practical and wouldn’t be petty should Damen, rightfully, turn him down.

Laurent was so quiet that there was a chance that no one outside of Jord would ever know anyway. Jord found himself asking within his own head, When was the last time Laurent shared his feelings with the group? The answer was an obvious “never.”

Jord also found his shoulders easing with the knowledge of how dense Damen could be. For a guy that hooked up as often as Damen did and had an endless line of people interested in him, Damen oftentimes missed that people were into him. Jord thought of Jokaste – or as the group fondly referred to her, Lady Macbeth – and how she had to walk up to Damen and declare “We should fuck” before he got the message.

There was hope.

The following Thursday went by about the same, only Jord thought he could feel Laurent’s heart beating all the way from his own seat. Damen, as always, was focused most of the time, only getting distracted when everyone else needed a break from thinking. Recognizing Laurent’s look meant he could recognize the look the girl with the beautiful dark hair was giving Damen as well.

The next week went by a bit different. For one, Damen was chattier, and he even went on to join Jord and Laurent as they made their way to the fourth floor of the library. Jord noted how good Laurent was at controlling himself. He looked unbothered by Damen’s presence, as though he could be doing any mundane task and would be more entertained, and Damen merely talked amicably to the both of them like he didn’t notice.

When they went their separate ways, Damen to his group and Jord and Laurent to their two tables, Jord awaited the settling that occurred before Laurent felt unwatched enough. But Damen’s group didn’t settle this time. They were rowdy, reminiscent of the way they were the first day they came to work on the project, and Jord quickly found out why; he could hear them talking, could hear one of the other guts say “Let’s look over everything one more time and call it.”

Soon (far too soon for an entire readthrough of the project) there was a too loud shriek of happiness from the beautiful dark-haired girl and Damen was clapping everyone on the shoulder. Goodbyes and “See you all on Wednesday!” and “Dress like you’re not hungover for once, Hendric!” were exchanged. Jord switched his view from the group to Laurent, in front of him as usual.

Laurent was outwardly engaged in whatever was on his laptop screen. He had the eraser-end of his pencil pressed against his mouth and one of his feet was tapping ever-so-quietly under the table. Jord had to hand it to him, Laurent could act out almost anything convincingly. He could act almost anything so that he didn’t look nervous or anticipatory as Damen walked over to them after giving one last wave to the project group.

“Hey,” Damen started, his voice much quieter than that of what he had left and Jord looked up only to realize Damen wasn’t addressing him. “We’re finally done with that awful project, but I’ve gotten used to coming to the library around this time. I was wondering if I could join you for the rest of the semester?” He looked earnest with his genuine smile and his bag swinging at his feet.

“I thought you went to the gym around this time,” Laurent simply said, no question or heat behind his words.

“I’ve actually been getting up early so I can work out before any of my classes.”

“Prioritizing studying and your health above your sleep? I’m shocked.”

“It’s a new semester, new me,” Damen laughed. “Well, sort of. A new half of a semester, a new me. So, what do you say?”

Laurent said nothing but went to busying his hands with moving around his laptop and notebooks. Damen didn’t repeat himself. Instead he turned to Jord and Jord shrugged. He wasn’t about to get involved in this now that they’d ignored him anyway.

“Oh, do sit down. I was merely making room for all your giantness to have a place.”

Damen’s grin was brilliant, and he pulled out the free chair to Laurent’s right and Jord’s left.

“If you’d like, I can bring you one of those lattes you love,” Damen said. Laurent hummed.

“We have a perfectly fine school café here on the second floor. I’ll have you fetch Jord and I something from there sometime.”

“I’m fetching now, am I?”

“Why else would I agree to you being here?”

Once the ribbing had gotten out of their systems, things got quiet. The next week, Damen beat the both of them there and had their table all ready. It was now that Jord realized, when Damen wasn’t working on a project he spent as much time, if not more, as Laurent when it came to staring at the other. Sometimes Jord would glance up only to find Damen completely enthralled in Laurent’s studious face. Sometimes Jord would glance up only to find Laurent scanning from the top of Damen’s head to the tips of his fingers. Jord felt intrusive.

Gently pulling his notebook out of his bag, Jord flipped to the page where had made his “If Laurent’s feelings were ever known” list. Some of the pencil had smudged from being jostled around while Jord walked about, but it was still plenty readable. Eyes down for the first time that day, Jord found himself adding to the list and laughing at himself for how stupid he was for making the list in the first place.

    5. Damen and Laurent would both think with their dicks and not their heads but would ultimately beat the odds stacked up against them. Auguste would be happy Laurent was happy.

    3. Jokaste

Even though she was a head-turning beauty, Jokaste wasn’t exactly the most popular person. There was a list of things that could be blamed for such a fact, and whilst Jokaste herself would list other peoples’ intimidation of a woman making her way in this world with no attention given to what others thought, the main reason was simply because she wasn’t kind.

Her pregnancy hadn’t changed that. Kastor had made a joke once that maybe she would lighten up a little when the baby decided to play with her hormones. She was six months into the ordeal now and not a thing was different. People still went out of their way to stay clear of her bad side, and her bad side still made appearances as often as she saw fit to keep things on track.

Though there was no softness about her, there was something the pregnancy had changed. She would never admit such a thing, of course, as it would be too vulnerable to say out loud, but as the baby kicked and shifted within her, she found herself wanting more and more to raise this child in a family.

It was obviously hormones putting a nasty toll on her body and mind, but it didn’t make it feel any less real. And the realness of it always hit her in the dead of night as Kastor slept soundly beside her.

There were some nights that her mind wandered to the time she was able to be part of something. The boys had been just that – boys. But they had been kind and funny and had gone out of their way for her more times than she could count. Sure, Nik only came to change her tire and Berenger only gave her his umbrella on a rainy Wednesday and Alexon only gave her his notes from their once-shared philosophy class for a day she had missed because she was Damen’s girlfriend and Damen’s girlfriend alone, but it had been something.

Inevitably, with a hand on her stomach and her head next to Kastor’s, her mind would wander to Damen and she would force it to cease its thinking immediately. But sometimes her wandering won, and she thought of him anyway.

There were a lot of things to think about when it came to Damen. Jokaste most often found herself thinking of the weight of his arm around her shoulder or the warmth of his laugh. Lately, the latter made her think of him laughing with his child – their child – and she would make herself face Kastor’s sleeping form and accept her decision to have his child instead.

It didn’t make it any easier.

The realistic part of her knew that even if this child was Damen’s (and it wasn’t, that had been made certain by Kastor), her relationship with Damen was unsalvageable. Fucking someone’s brother behind their back made trust impossible to rebuild. And even if Damen and his big heart wanted to give her another chance, she had witnessed the way Nik and Auguste and the rest of that group looked at her now. They were like bodyguards of Damen’s heart-covered sleeves.

The few times she had ran into any of them since The Incident had been brief, nothing but passings-by from people living in the same city. There was one time she had seen Nik in town and momentarily wondered if he had snipped the brakes in her car. Other than that, her run-ins with them were cold-shouldered and uneventful...until tonight, anyway.

She was grocery shopping. It was a mundane but necessary task, and Jokaste preferred to do it late into the evening. There were less people, less screaming children, and it gave her more time away from Kastor’s watchful eyes. She hadn’t been in the store long when she heard them. They were loud as ever and one indecipherable screech, from Orlant or Lazar, surely, almost made her drop the mango she was inspecting.

“Listen up,” came Auguste’s unmistakable leader voice, “we don’t have all night. Mostly because I have class at eight tomorrow morning. New Year’s is in three days. Our best way to do this is to assign sections and split up.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” That was Lazar.

“Orlant, Rochert, and Huet are in charge of chips and the like. Nik, Berenger, and Alexon are in charge of mixers. Jord, Pallas, and Lazar are with me to get the alcohol. Damen, you can go grab some ice and meet up with Nik, Berenger, and Alexon after. All clear?”

“What about me?”

“Laurent, you can go wherever you want. But you have to be out of here before we buy everything.”

There was a lot of laughing and Jokaste could imagine the elbows being shoved in rib cages at this exact moment.

“It’s because he’s a baby,” someone cooed.

“He’s going to get our drinks confiscated,” someone else teased.

“You’re all laughing, but he could kill you and make it look like an accident,” Auguste said all too seriously. “So, are we all clear?”

“Crystal, captain,” Orlant said, joining in on Lazar’s fun.

The shuffling of their feet as they split up was too loud in the otherwise quiet store. By the time Jokaste made it into her first aisle, they were long gone to their designated areas. As she wove in and out of the aisles, she caught glimpses of some of them. She saw the back of Orlant’s head across the way as she walked by the breads. She barely missed on running into Nik as she went to grab her juice. It wasn’t until she was almost done shopping, finishing up in the frozen foods’ aisle, that she first heard him.

It wasn’t just his voice, but the way he was speaking. There was a fondness to his tone, a softness in his approach, and when he laughed at something that was said back to him it was that laugh. Jokaste knew what that laugh was, what it meant. Finding herself in a moment of weakness, she peered around the corner.

There stood Damen and next to him a lithe blond. Jokaste almost laughed. They were in front of the ice creams and frozen juice concentrates and they were pressed shoulder to shoulder as though the aisle was swarmed with more people than just them.

“Okay, but consider,” Damen started. The blond didn’t seem to want to consider, however. He was talking too quietly, too lowly, for Jokaste to hear from where she stood, but he was making good of the argument he was voicing.

“I guess, but what about afterward?” Damen asked, but he was already decided to do whatever the blond wanted. Jokaste could see it in the way he was angled, nearly drowning the blond in his presence alone.

“Fine!” Damen was laughing that laugh again. “Since you clearly know what’s best, you get it all, Laurent.”

Laurent. Jokaste knew the name and not from the brief conversation she accidentally eavesdropped on when they all first arrived. It had been the only name she couldn’t put a face to, the only name that was new. But there was still something about the name that lit a memory in her mind.

Laurent threw open one of the freezer doors before nearly crawling in to grab at things. Instead of juggling it all, he shoved them all in Damen’s awaiting arms. He moved to the next freezer door and pulled another three things out of there as well. By the time he was done, Damen’s arms were loaded with items, and Laurent was shivering ever so slightly.

“I would offer you my jacket, but my hands are a little full,” Damen told Laurent and he was all too serious about the jacket.

They had moved close enough for Jokaste to hear Laurent say, “I appreciate the offer, but I refuse to walk around smelling like Axe body spray.”

Damen scoffed, shifting the grocery load precariously stacked in his hold.

“This is Creed, Laurent. Pierce Brosnan wears it.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“He was James Bond!”

“And?”

“James. Bond. I feel like this isn’t something I should have to repeat.”

“If I say that I think that’s really, truly something spectacular, will you refrain from doing a James Bond impression?”

“No, because I know you’ll be lying.”

“What will it cost for you to not do a James Bond impression then?” Laurent deadpanned.

They continued to playfully bicker back and forth and Jokaste nearly couldn’t stomach it. Knowing they were going to see her sooner or later, she turned the corner with the intent of getting it over with. They didn’t notice her at first and it was only when she was facing them fully that she saw how close they were standing now. It wasn’t just shoulder to shoulder; it might as well have been chest to chest.

Damen, expectedly, noticed her first. She felt her heart go off its rhythm once. His eyes fell to her stomach and she had to turn away. She looked at Laurent instead.

He was a head-turning beauty also. His hair was white-blond, and it complimented the pellucid blue of his eyes and the flawless expanse of his skin. His lips, drawn tighter at her interruption, were full and a contrasting warmth in his otherwise cool-toned appearance. He had piano fingers, long boned and elegant, and they went along so well with the hold of his spine and the elegance of his frame. Yes, he was exactly Damen’s type, even moreso than she was.

“Hi, Jokaste,” Damen greeted her after the pause in conversation. Jokaste turned back to him.

“Hello, Damen,” she started. “I must say, this is one of the last places I would expect to run into you.”

“Likewise,” he agreed. “Is Kastor’s child keeping you up?”

She couldn’t help but let her eyes look down at her own protruding stomach and her right hand soon followed. The baby shifted.

“I suppose you could say that.” Her eyes turned to Laurent who was watching her with an unreadable expression. “Oh, Damen, do introduce me. We’re being quite rude to your,” she drew it out, “friend.”

“Right, of course. Jokaste this is Laurent DeVere.”

“Laurent DeVere? As in the little brother Auguste DeVere used to rave so much about?”

“He still raves as much,” Damen confirmed, and his eyes were on Laurent.

“Yes, I fear my brother has no self-control when it comes to even my smallest accomplishments.” The blond’s voice was like honey, soothing in the cold of winter and so smooth that viciousness would sound almost complimentary. He was dangerous for Damen, that she was certain of.

“Well, I’ve heard of many of them and they didn’t seem that small then and certainly not now.” Jokaste’s own voice couldn’t quite match.

Damen was still looking at Laurent and Jokaste realized what that look in Laurent’s eyes was. It wasn’t a surprise he would know about the past she shared with Damen and, upon further inspection, he very much could imagine strangling her. She almost giggled at how very Nik the look was.

Sighing too loudly, she put both of her hands back on the handle of her cart. Jokaste knew a lost cause when it was right in front of her and whatever was once there between her and Damen was long lost. It took her pushing the cart a few inches for Damen’s gaze to leave Laurent and come back to her.

“Your arms are going to freeze off if you don't take that armful to the registers soon. And your brother will be calling me soon if I don’t get home.” She took another deep breath before saying her most risky thing yet. “You should call him sometime, Damen. He does miss you.”

Once, such a suggestion would have been impossible. She hadn’t ever said it to him and, as far as she could assume, no one close to Damen would have made the same suggestion. She and Kastor were as good as dead in all their eyes. And it was easy to guess how Damen three years ago would have reacted. His anger at Kastor’s betrayal had been palpable then, physical in the way it took over him.

“I probably should,” Damen agreed now with ease. “Drive home safe.”

“You as well. It was nice meeting you, Laurent. Goodbye, Damen.”

With a bit more force, she kept on walking. She passed directly by them on Laurent’s right and when she got to the end of the aisle, she took one last look over her shoulder. Where once Damen would have stared after her with longing, he now didn’t look back, his eyes preoccupied with the one by his side.

It was almost bittersweet and as she turned into her final aisle for the night, she found herself hoping Laurent was less like her than he appeared.

    4. Lazar

The DeVere house was the unofficial-official meeting spot for the group. Auguste had made it clear from the day he moved to campus that his house was intended for anyone and everyone. It was a safe space if you needed a place to crash or needed a meal that wasn’t ramen, and that’s why it also became the unofficial-official party house. Lazar couldn’t count on both hands the number of times he had woken up from a drunken stupor at some odd place in Auguste’s house.

When Laurent had been about to start college and move in with his brother, many in the group quietly wondered if the DeVere house would stay the same. They hadn’t met Laurent at that point yet, but they had heard enough from Auguste to deduce that Laurent wasn’t quite the people person Auguste was. But when Laurent finally did move in nothing changed. If Laurent wanted privacy he simply went to his bedroom, but otherwise he was out and about the house with all the others that made their way in and out the DeVere front door.

The parties had continued too. Last night’s New Year’s party was no exception. After their grocery run three days earlier, putting things together had been easy and by seven o’clock yesterday, the thirty-first of December, the house had been packed with the usual suspects.

Music had blared from a handful of speakers and the kitchen counters had been cleared to make way for all the pizza boxes and drinks alike. The television in the living room had Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve playing, but no one had given it much attention until the last minute of the year. Instead they had all made themselves busy by talking and laughing the rest of the year away.

When Lazar finally woke up, it was at least ten in the morning on the first day of the new year. His eyes didn’t open at first, too tired and hungover and all-around disoriented from the night, and he started to feel around to get an idea at where he was. It was always a fun game for Lazar on these types of mornings. Once he had felt around and proceeded to fall down the stairs that led to the front porch. Another time he had woken up only to immediately hit his head on a pipe and he swore then and there that he would never fall asleep underneath the kitchen sink again. Today was less dramatic than either of those events. With one hand he grabbed at, what he found to be, a dresser. Groaning as he forced himself to sit up, he opened his eyes and immediately squinted at the doomful shine of the sun. A blurry look around the room confirmed several things. The first was that this was Auguste’s bedroom and Auguste was quite present, passed out soundly on his own bed with his right arm thrown over his face. The second was that the reason Lazar couldn’t feel his leg was because Pallas had made it his pillow at some point during the evening. The third thing was that his other hand was stuck underneath the dresser, somehow having slotted its way in a too tight space.

It took longer than he’d ever admit to free his arm and he almost knocked over the entire dresser while he did it. Nevertheless, he gingerly – he was a gentleman after all – moved Pallas’ sleeping head to one of Auguste’s discarded sweatshirts and hoisted himself off the ground. Everything around him swam and his hand found its way back to the dresser, this time to the top of it, to balance himself.

“Oh, god,” he groaned, and he pressed his lips tightly together to stop himself from vomiting.

Finding his way to the bathroom reminded him of that stupid game where you put your head on a baseball bat or pole of some sort and spin round and round and round until you can’t move in a straight line. The hallway was an ocean and Lazar was a mere sailor trying to survive a dreadful trip. Orlant and Rochert were already gone to the waves, leaning against one another on the left side of the hallway, a picture frame precariously hanging loose above them.

Being in the bathroom made Lazar feel better. He threw up once, twice, and then found the coordination to relieve himself. Jord was passed out in the bathtub. When Lazar flushed the toilet, Jord jerked in his sleep but was otherwise unaffected. Lazar’s hands went for his pocket, looking for his phone, and came back empty.

“Do you know how funny it would be to turn the shower on right now?” he asked Jord as though Jord could hear him. Before that kind of fun, however, he needed coffee or water or bacon covered in all its grease. Or all that.

His journey to the kitchen was much better. Getting some of the alcohol sitting stagnant in his stomach cleared his head and he was able to laugh at Nik who was sleeping upside down in a recliner. Wanting his phone even more now, he was practically running to the kitchen when he heard two voices.

They were far too sober sounding. In fact, they were talking at normal speaking levels which meant, to hungover people, they were screaming. Lazar smelled coffee too.

“Question, do you actually like the taste of coffee or do you just like having a drink you can put four cups of sugar in if you like?”

It was Damen talking, his voice warm and bright and not at all hungover sounding.

“I like coffee just fine, but why not sweeten it up? It’s no different than people eating cinnamon rolls doused in a pound of icing for breakfast.”

Laurent?

Never the posterchild for self-control, Lazar peeked around the corner. Laurent was sitting on the turn of the countertop. A steaming cup of coffee was held between both his hands and his legs were swaying back and forth ever so slightly. Damen was leaning against the counter, back pressed to it and arms crossed over his bare chest.

“Besides,” Laurent continued, “if my morning vice is putting more sugar than you deem necessary in a cup of coffee, than yours is walking around here with no decency.”

“No decency?”

“Did you forget your shirt? Did it magically fall off sometime last night? It’s absolutely freezing outside. One might think you’re trying to show off.” Laurent took a long drink.

“How dare you imply such a thing?” Damen grinned and he made an obvious flex of his muscles, his arms bulging and his abs defining even more than usual.

Lazar would have fallen out of his seat if he was sitting in one. Damen was flirting – no, scratch that – Damen and Laurent were flirting with one another.

“I never sleep with a shirt on. I’m hot-blooded. I’d kill over if I slept with that many clothes on.” Damen had moved closer as he spoke and now his left arm was tight against the outside of one of Laurent’s swaying legs.

“So, you often wake up in strange houses and decide not to put your shirt on before wandering, I take it?”

“It’s your house so it’s hardly strange. Are you really that put out about my lack of shirt?”

“Put out isn’t the term I’d use,” Laurent said.

“Flustered then?”

“You’re walking a thin line, Damen.”

The line appeared thinner, Lazar thought, as Damen invaded what space was left and settled between Laurent’s legs. His hands weighted him on either side of Laurent’s waist and Laurent didn’t even put his coffee down. It was quiet for a moment, nothing but eye contact, and Lazar couldn’t be certain with as far away as he was, but he swore Laurent’s eyes flicked down to Damen’s mouth.

“My brother will be up soon. Hungover or not, he’s nothing but punctual.”

Even leaning and even with Laurent sitting on the countertop, Damen was almost at equal height with him. It made Lazar’s stomach hot. Of course, that reminded him how nauseous he was from last night.

Yawning louder than any human ever needed to and purposefully hit the wall as he stretched. Damen jumped back like he’d been shot.

“Is that coffee I smell?” Lazar asked all too innocently.

“It is, but I’m afraid there’s none for you. I made a pourover,” Laurent told him. He looked unfazed by Lazar’s interruption and merely acknowledged Lazar with a hint of amusement at his disheveled state.

“You’re saying words that I don’t understand. Is there coffee, yes or no?”

“Not at the moment, but I can get some on. Auguste will want some when he gets up anyway.”

“You want any, Damen?” Lazar asked. Damen lifted a coffee cup from the other end of the counter and tilted it.

“Pourover.”

“Both of you keep saying that word like I know what it means.”

“It’s a brewing method, Lazar.”

Laurent got off the counter more elegantly than anyone had any right to and grabbed at the coffee pot, filling it up with water and filling the basket with grounds. Sitting in one of the kitchen chairs with his feet on the table, Lazar had a perfect view of Laurent at work and had to give a silent round of kudos to Damen; the guy might get murdered by Auguste by the end of the year, but it would be way worth it if Laurent’s ass was anything to go by.

The smell of coffee permeated the whole house almost immediately after and it’s like it was an alarm. They could all three hear Auguste’s feet hit the floor, could hear him almost trip over Pallas still lying somewhere at the foot of his bed, and could hear him grumble at other sleeping bodies he walked by. Entering the kitchen, Auguste was a sight for sore eyes. His sandy blond hair was all on the right side of his head only, the left side being completely plastered to his face, and his eyes were bloodshot.

“You’ve looked better,” Laurent commented without missing a beat.

Auguste grunted, swiping none-too-gently at his eyes, before he managed to garble out “Coffee. Ibuprofen.”

Not even bothering to hide his eye roll, Laurent went about fetching both things. The coffee was kept black and the four small white pills were a miniscule weight in his hands as he carried everything and a glass of water over to Auguste.

Pretty soon after that, all the others seemed to follow suit and Laurent, Damen, and Lazar found themselves passing out pills like they were candy and brewing their third pot of coffee for the morning. The kitchen was overflowing with hungover boys. Nik, silent in his pain, had shuffled in and immediately pulled out one of the three stools at the breakfast bar. He was joined by the now-walking duo of Orlant and Rochert. Berenger and his boy toy (Lazar still wasn’t certain what that situation was) pulled out two of the chairs next to Auguste and Lazar himself. Pallas copied Laurent and hopped up on the counter at the other end right next to the refrigerator. Lazar briefly got lost in the idea of copying Damen and slithering his way between those muscular thighs.

Shaking himself out of that too-good daydream led to Lazar searching out the two that had put it there in the first place. Laurent had resumed his position on the countertop, legs still swaying. Damen was over at the breakfast bar with a gentle hand on Nik’s back. Everyone else was too miserable to notice how Laurent’s eyes never wavered from staring at Damen across his way. Lazar couldn’t tell if he was staring at Damen’s face, at the cut of his arms, or the expanse of bare skin left on display, but all were certainly tempting. Everyone else was too miserable to notice how Damen’s gaze fell on Laurent the moment Nik quit giving him much mind. They were all too miserable to notice his none-too-subtle head-nod in the direction of the front door.

Pulling a Lazar, Laurent fake yawned as he once again hopped off the counter more elegantly than he had any right to. The stretch of his arms lifted his shirt at the expense of exposing his hipbones.

“If I don’t get moving now, I fear I’m going to go back to sleep and waste my entire day.” The reasoning was good enough and no one truly cared anyway, not with how close they all were to collectively throwing up.

That’s why they didn’t notice, or seem suspicious of, Damen doing the exact same thing almost word-for-word not five minutes later. Within the next half hour, the front door opened and closed only one time and Lazar found himself hoping they were smart enough to at least travel separately on Laurent’s way home.

    5. Nicaise

When Auguste was thirteen years old, he had volunteered in an after-school program called Big Brothers for a Big Future. The program placed eighth graders with fourth graders in need of some guidance. After school, the eighth grade Big Brothers would head over to the elementary building alongside their teacher and they would do a range of activities with their fourth-grade companion. Most of the time that activity was academically focused. But sometimes it was something fun, like heading down to the ice cream shop on the corner or playing a few rounds of kickball on the otherwise-empty playground. The program was a benefit to all parties involved. The fourth graders got the attention and role models they needed, and the eighth graders got to leave feeling accomplished.

When Auguste had first signed up, Laurent had been eight and he had cried the day Auguste told him.

With pleading eyes, Auguste had followed the sounds of Laurent’s sobs all the way up to the boy’s white bright bedroom with chapter books scattered all over the floor. It had taken a while for Laurent’s crying to subside to coherent sentences. When it finally had he had broken Auguste’s heart.

“But you’re my big brother!” the then eight-year-old Laurent said, the words muffled by the wet pillow under his face. It had taken a few more minutes for Auguste to coax Laurent to sit up, but when he had he made certain the first thing he had done was hug him.

“Laurent, I’m always going to be your big brother,” he had begun explaining to the eight-year-old. “But don’t you think other little kids should get to see what it’s like having a big brother too? Some kids don’t have any brothers or even any sisters.”

It hadn’t taken much more explaining for Laurent to understand. From day one he had been bright and the drop of his shoulders when Auguste had told him other kids didn’t get to have what he had had been all the sympathy Auguste needed to see to know Laurent had gotten it.

Over the years, Auguste had stayed with Big Brothers for a Big Future. He had always been great at connecting to younger kids, something he attributed to being such a large part of Laurent’s life, and connecting to these kids had not only been second nature but had been rewarding in ways he had never imagined.

Then there was Nicaise.

Nicaise wasn’t a Big Brothers for a Big Future kid, though he might as well have been given his past. Instead, Nicaise was closer to the DeVere’s than anyone else...well, by blood anyway. To explain it simply, Nicaise was Hennike’s cousin’s child.

Depending on the family and depending on the relevance of distance, these types of cousins may or may not be close family members. But in the instance of Auguste and Laurent, Nicaise was their closest family member and had been for the last decade. After all, when there are only three of you left living, it’s hard to be picky.

Despite everything though – the lack of remaining family, how good Auguste had always been with kids, Nicaise’s short relationship with his now-dead mother – Auguste never managed to get through to Nicaise.

Auguste blamed himself for most of it. Laurent had told him repeatedly over the years that it wasn’t his fault. But Auguste would read off his failures as though he had them on a bulleted list somewhere: how he didn’t take action after Nicaise’s mother died, how he didn’t fight for Nicaise when Nicaise ended up in the system, how he didn’t seek Nicaise out for a long time afterward, etc. And every time there was a perfectly justifiable reason to every “failure” and Laurent would read off his own list:

“Perhaps you didn’t take action after Nicaise’s mother died because you were fifteen years old, Auguste. And perhaps you didn’t fight for Nicaise when Nicaise ended up in the system because you were, again, fifteen years old and by the time you were old enough to fight, you were fighting for me as we had just lost our own parents and uncle was pleading with the courts to take me home with him. And perhaps you didn’t seek Nicaise out for some time afterward because you could worry about yourself and your own future for once in your life.”

No matter how logical everything Laurent always said was, it didn’t soothe Auguste’s heart in any way. The only thing that did was that, out of all the people in the world, Nicaise did seem to seek out a (somewhat convoluted) kind of approval from was Laurent himself.

The two had an odd relationship. If somebody were to ask what each thought about the other, Laurent would no doubt shrug as though he couldn’t care less about the boy and Nicaise would probably spit on the ground to showcase his distaste. But sometimes they held hands as they walked, acting as though Nicaise didn’t try to sabotage Laurent’s entire day in some diabolical way. And sometimes Laurent read Nicaise to sleep out of children’s books Auguste and Laurent’s own mother had read to both.

Now that Nicaise was a little older and a teenaged hellion, he had more freedom to go about as he pleased. The thought terrified Auguste and, frankly, Laurent wasn’t all too thrilled with it either. But his freedom allowed him to spend his spring breaks at Arles University with his dear cousins.

“I feel like we should be putting baby gates up or something,” Auguste lamented while Laurent made up his own futon as a makeshift bed.

“I’m just guessing, but I think he can climb over those now,” Laurent said. He was finishing tucking the corners of the comforter around the edges.

“He tell you about what he wants to do while he’s here?”

“Not really.” Laurent placed the last bit of decoration on the bed, a hand embroidered pillow Nicaise made in his home-ec class that was full of flowers and a lovingly stitched scrawl that said, “Fuck You.” “He called last week and said something along the lines of ‘Since I’m not allowed out of the country for legal purposes and I refuse to stay in this god-fucking-awful place a second longer than I have to, you should go ahead and get a bed ready for me. And not on that fucking excuse of a thing you call a futon.’ So honestly everything is all set as far as I’m concerned.”

About half an hour later there was a knock on the front door that made Auguste jump. Rolling his eyes, though whether it was at the door or Auguste’s jumpiness Auguste wasn’t quite sure, Laurent opened the door wide, revealing an already-disgruntled Nicaise.

Nicaise was a pretty thing, just on the cusp of leaving boyhood and entering that fun stage between boyhood and manhood. He had a mess of auburn curls atop his head that always seemed to look artfully tousled and his blue eyes were almost an exact match to Laurent’s, bright and clear and the color of the sea in the iciest places.

“You were supposed to call when you got to town,” Laurent told him, not bothering with a hello. Nicaise shouldered his way inside.

“What’s the fucking point of calling when I’m in town if I’m already here?” He dropped his bags with a resounding thud right in front of the door and kicked off his shoes like he belonged.

“How was your trip?” Auguste tried.

“Just peachy. I adore taking busses that stop every three minutes along the way and are full of passengers consisting of screaming babies and creepy old men. It’s truly my favorite thing.”

The first two days Nicaise spent with the DeVere brothers were uneventful, to say the least. Laurent woke Nicaise up at seven sharp every morning (“He needs to not wreck his entire schedule while he’s here. It will take him weeks to function normally again.”) and Nicaise, like a drowned tiger, growled and groaned at Laurent any time Laurent took a breath even a little louder than the last. After mostly sleeping, rifling through Auguste and Laurent’s belongings as though they were his own, and eating them out of Poptarts, waffles, and bags of chocolate chips, Nicaise felt as though he was sufficiently caught up on sleep and sweets and was ready to explore.

“Am I ever allowed to leave this dump, or am I being held prisoner until I am inevitably sent off to where I came from?” he asked after running and jumping on Laurent’s bed.

“I suppose that depends on you. You’re not seven, plan something and I’ll see if I can make it happen.”

“Oh, you’re impossible. I don’t know what’s here, so I don’t know how to plan anything. Take me exploring. I can work from there.”

Auguste, off in his classes for the moment, wasn’t privy to watch the two moan and groan as they got ready. Laurent didn’t find Nicaise’s first outfit appropriate and Nicaise thought Laurent looked like a Mennonite in his high necklines and wrist-covering shirts. It was going to rain so Laurent tossed a pair of closed-toed shoes for Nicaise to wear, but Nicaise found them ugly and tossed them right back. After a good twenty minutes of that they were both finally dressed and out the door. Other than Laurent’s black umbrella in hand and blond hair partially tucked out of his jacket collar, he and Nicaise could have been brothers.

“Where’s your car?” Nicaise asked after they walked to the end of the street.

“You wanted to explore so we’re exploring. You can’t explore in a car, Nicaise.”

“Fuck off. I’m not walking miles in this.”

“Then we can turn around.”

The rain wasn’t even bad. The raindrops that were falling were large and sparse in between, and the saturated sidewalks had hardly any puddles in their cracks and crevices. Laurent’s black boots still looked immaculate and, sure, they had only walked fifty yards or so, but it was enough to make Nicaise grunt and keep walking.

They walked a few blocks, bypassing some larger puddles and the few wandering students that were braving the rainy day, before they came across their first stop, Chastillon. It was March, and still chilly, and the inside of the coffee shop smelled of cinnamon, espresso, and raspberry danishes.

“Hi, Laurent!” the barista behind the counter said cheerily. His hair was sandy like Auguste’s, but he was tiny in stature and width and his smile was almost childlike in its purity. Laurent gave a nod in the barista’s direction.

“Isander,” Laurent greeted back with familiarity.

“Do you want your usual?”

“That would be wonderful. Can you also get me one of those disgusting large caramel blended things with all the whipped cream on top?”

“Sure thing,” Isander giggled. “You know you don’t have to pay.”

Laurent sighed, but it was accompanied with a small smile of fond exasperation. “Yes, I know.”

Isander got busy on the drinks, pressing and pulling espresso through the portafilters and putting vanilla and cinnamon in a medium hot cup and what seemed like a half pound of caramel in a blender, and Nicaise was done looking around so he turned to Laurent instead.

“Why don’t you have to pay?” Laurent’s eyes flicked down toward him. “Are you sleeping with the owner?”

“Don’t tell Auguste,” Laurent hummed.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” The screech of the milk being steamed rang out before it quickly died into a muffled bubbling sound and Laurent continued. “I have what you could call a tab here. Only as I’m not the one picking it up, I can’t answer how much I owe.”

“Is he your boyfriend?” Nicaise asked, indicating at Isander.

“No.” Laurent’s smile was real this time though.

“But you do have a boyfriend then.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Isander waved them off as they exited back outside. It was raining a little harder and Nicaise had to huddle closer to Laurent under the umbrella to avoid his jacket from being soaked.

“Where are we going now?” Nicaise asked. By the next block his drink was halfway consumed, and Laurent was sipping at his.

“I thought we could do something educational. Perhaps stop by the historical library downtown. We could even read all the plaques on the buildings and learn their stories.”

“I can’t tell if you have a stick up your ass or if you’re fucking with me,” Nicaise grumbled loudly, earning a share of dirty looks from older passerbys.

“I’m always fucking with you. If you haven’t picked up on that yet, I fear for the other obvious things in life you’ve missed.”

It was a ways away, but their next stop was a small shopping district located in Arles. There was a strip mall further down the road, but Laurent and the others preferred the convenience and experience of staying in town. It was also nice to support local business owners as often as possible.

First was a shop called Treasure Chest. Treasure Chest was true to its name and had an array of items all created by local people. Some pieces were hanging art, some clothing items, and others were knick-knacks and creations that could change on a whim. Nicaise kept going back to a ring made of kyanite. Laurent made certain to place it on the counter to buy before they left. The next stop was a bookshop, unsurprisingly one of Laurent’s favorite places in town. The bookshop owner also recognized the blond and smiled cheerily at him. Nicaise didn’t know what to make of Laurent’s seemingly wanted presence by people. Nicaise perused the shelves silently behind Laurent until he got tired of doing so and voiced such a thing. Ignoring him, Laurent continued to look, eyes scanning high and low, until he plucked a red sleeved book from one of the bottom shelves. When he went to pay, Nicaise threw down a handful of bookmarks and pens.

“For school,” he said with an eye roll.

Their next several stops were all clothing stores. Laurent picked himself out a scarf from a post-winter sale at the haberdashery on Main and suggested that the closer they got to the next school year approaching Nicaise should come visit and get fitted for a suit. “It’s never a bad idea to have one nice suit in your closet,” Laurent pointed out. A tiny boutique next to it was geared for the younger crowd and Nicaise had an armful of shirts, jackets, and colorful socks that Laurent bought without even needing asked. Across the street was a shoe store where Laurent already had an order on hold that he picked up, telling Nicaise how the winter weather destroyed his favorite pair of brown-laced boots.

Though they had nowhere to be, they made a hurried few drop-ins at small shops as they made their way to the most important part of the day, a stop for food.

“You’re going to let me order for you at Mellos,” Laurent told Nicaise. The crinkle of their shopping bags matched in rhythm with the steps of Laurent’s boots.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I know what you would like best.”

As it was only a Wednesday, Mellos wasn’t too packed at all. Laurent and Nicaise were seated right away at a little table by the window and Nicaise browsed the menu, pretending disdain. After a moment, he tossed the menu with a flick of his wrist.

“Something wrong?” Laurent asked, not looking up from his own menu.

“Well as you’re ordering for me, I don’t see the point in wasting my time looking,” Nicaise said. The waiter brought out coffee and water for the both of them and Nicaise made certain to bark a request for a raspberry lemonade instead.

“You need to ask nicely,” Laurent told him after the waiter walked away.

“Eat me,” Nicaise spat.

“You’re not better than him or any other person, Nicaise. Even if you don’t want to be kind, be polite.”

“Are we here to improve on my lacking personality traits?”

“I thought we were getting lunch,” Laurent said. He finally put his menu down and looked straight at Nicaise.

“Stop looking at me,” Nicaise said after a moment. Laurent smiled a bit but didn’t look away. The waiter was back and dropped off Nicaise’s raspberry lemonade. “Thank you.” Laurent’s smile quirked at the corners a bit more.

“Now that you’ve seen some of the town, is there anything you’d like to do before you go back to school?” Laurent asked him.

“There’s not much here. I don’t know how you and Auguste stand it here, it’s very boring.” Nicaise was slumped now, arms crossed over his chest.

Laurent made a noise of understanding and adjusted the placement of his silverware on the table. “I suppose it is boring here for a fourteen-year-old. When you’re here at school, it becomes much more important to find these places for life’s simple pleasures. Like a place to find a good book or a hole in the wall with warm food.”

“Auguste says it’s important to make good friends,” Nicaise said.

“I suppose that’s true as well. Auguste is very good at making friends. He has so many that he met through the university.”

“You don’t have many friends, do you?” Nicaise asked. Laurent looked more closely at him and, for once, could see this wasn’t an attempt at maliciousness. There was an innocence in Nicaise’s curiosity here, something he didn’t often show since hitting double-digits.

“No, I don’t.” With a delicate hand, Laurent gently mixed the sugar and cream into his coffee. “I’ve never been very good at making friends. If it wasn’t for Auguste’s love of me, I often wonder if I would have any here. I’m sure it’s no secret that all of my friends are Auguste’s own. They’ve taken me in.”

“Like a stray cat.”

“That’s a good analogy for it.”

The waiter came by once more and this time Laurent placed their orders. For himself he ordered lemon mascarpone crepes with a bowl of fresh fruit salad. And for Nicaise he ordered Mellos’ specialty, a banana foster French toast bake.

“So, you don’t have any friends of your own then?” Nicaise asked, clearly still interested.

“Not really,” Laurent said honestly. “Everyone I talk to knew Auguste first.”

“What about the barista at the coffee shop we went to today? He seemed to like you. Or the boy at the bookstore?”

“The boy at the bookstore is simply used to seeing me. I’m in there quite often, unsurprisingly I’m sure. As for the coffee shop, I believe Erasmus looks forward to me coming in solely because of my usual coffee shop companion. You should see how red his face gets.”

“He does seem like the type to fall all over Auguste,” Nicaise said.

“Surprisingly, Auguste doesn’t have much effect on the poor boy. I thought he would as well, but Erasmus is usually preoccupied with watching one of Auguste’s friends instead,” Laurent explained. If Nicaise would have been a dog, his ears would have perked up noticeably.

“Do you often go to the coffee shop with one of Auguste’s friends? Or is Auguste usually with you?”

“It depends, I suppose,” Laurent answered flippantly.

“Maybe I’ll ask Auguste what his favorite drink at that shop is. The caramel drink you got me was fine, but maybe I’d like what he gets instead. It was called Chastillon, yes?” Nicaise asked, pulling his phone out from his back pocket. Laurent’s stare was full of warning.

“Auguste doesn’t attend Chastillon with me often, actually,” Laurent said. His voice was clear as crystal.

“Interesting.”

“I’m not quite sure what is interesting about it. But by all means, I can fish around and get other recommendations for drinks at Chastillon if you’d like.”

“We’ll see how your food taste compares to my own first,” Nicaise said, calculating.

Laurent and Nicaise must have inherited the same sweet tooth gene from their mothers’ side, which was something Laurent had been betting on anyway. Both of their plates came out dripping in syrups and berry compotes and both were eaten clean within twenty minutes. They didn’t get much talking done with their faces full, but Nicaise was quick to speak when he was done.

“I suppose that was...” he trailed off, right hand over his too-full stomach.

“Adequate?”

Nicaise hummed in agreement and wiped a dreg of syrup from his face. His hands were childlike-sticky, and he glared at the spring of unread notifications on his phone.

“I’m going to go wash my hands,” Nicaise said, pushing back from the table.

“Perfect. I’m going to run out the door and leave you with the bill,” Laurent said. He was already pulling his wallet out and rifling through his cash.

After paying and strolling out the door, Laurent repeated his most asked question once more.

“Alright, if you don’t have any places you want to go right now, I say we head back home. We can wait until Auguste gets back and go to the movies tonight,” Laurent suggested as they waited to cross the street.

Nicaise didn’t say anything at first, fine with whatever Laurent wanted to do next, but as they continued walking a bright pink and yellow sign caught Nicaise’s eye and he subconsciously slowed down. He could see inside and there wasn’t a line present to hold him back from immediate gratification.

“We could go there first,” he said, trying for a casual thumb-jab in the direction of the still-holding-his-eyesight pink and yellow sign.

“An ice cream shop?” Laurent asked, eyebrow raised. “Didn’t you get enough sugar at lunch?”

“I’m fourteen. There’s no such thing as too much sugar,” Nicaise said matter-of-fact.

“Fine, but the moment you start bouncing off the wall I’m handing you over to Auguste.”

The cold temperature of the ice cream shop hit them in a wave the moment they opened the door and the cute bell above rang out. They were greeted kindly by a young woman in a white hat and Nicaise immediately beelined to the counter so he could look up at the wide menu.

“Look,” Nicaise started, tugging on Laurent’s sleeve. “They have eight different kinds of strawberry ice cream.”

“There are over twenty different kinds of toppings you can get on them all, too.”

“Hello,” Nicaise said to the girl at the front. “On a scale of one to ten, how good is the strawberry cheesecake ice cream?”

Laurent was having too good a time watching Nicaise interact passionately about ice cream that he didn’t pay any mind to the bell above the door jingling. Instead he stepped up and made his own order and moved down to the register to pay.

“Actually, can you add a scoop of sea salt and honey ice cream to that order? I’ll get it.”

Nicaise wouldn’t have thought much of the voice, wouldn’t have noticed the man was adding something to his and Laurent’s order, but Laurent’s head actually whipped to the side in surprise and that was enough to turn Nicaise’s attention from the smooth push and scoop of the strawberry cheesecake ice cream into the cone.

When Nicaise turned around, he was met with the biggest man he’d ever seen this up close. The man had waves of dark brown hair that were slightly damp, no doubt from the earlier rain, two bulging biceps that were threatening to tear the thin material of his t-shirt, a wide and bright smile that only didn’t show when he was speaking with his warm voice, and a pair of kind brown eyes that hadn’t left Laurent’s face. It wasn’t odd for men to look at Laurent like that. It wasn’t even odd for men to look at Nicaise like that. But there was a softness in the gaze that Nicaise didn’t know how to read and the way Laurent’s ears matched the pink of the strawberry ice cream at the counter was even more unexpected.

“Did he get the affogato?” the man asked Nicaise. “He really likes those, but sometimes he’ll go for a chocolate heart attack, a disgusting display of chocolate ice cream, hot fudge, chocolate chips, and crushed Oreos.”

“Here’s your affogato!” the girl behind the counter said with a big smile, answering the man’s question. Laurent took it from her gently, ears still pink. The man handed the girl a twenty and when she handed him his almost seven dollars in change, he stuffed it all in the tip jar.

“Damen,” Laurent started, reaching for his own wallet, “let me at least pay for mine and Nicaise’s. And give you back money for the tip.” The man – Damen – made a face and took his own ice cream from the girl.

“I’ve got it.”

Laurent sighed and started out the door. Nicaise watched with interest as Damen followed and held the door open for Nicaise to exit out of first. The rain had long let up and the few tables outside of the ice cream shop were under an awning that had kept it all dry.

“Damen, this is Nicaise. He’s my cousin. Nicaise, this is Damen. He’s one of Auguste’s friends.”

“One of Auguste’s friends!” Damen exclaimed. His free hand went to his chest in mock-shock. “That hurts, Laurent. It hurts right here.”

“Oh, do stop,” Laurent said. It was as close to begging as Nicaise had ever heard from him

“Are you Laurent’s coffee shop companion as well as his ice cream shop companion then?” Nicaise asked. Damen turned to him. Nicaise’s stomach flipped a little.

“Coffee shop companion? Yes, I suppose that’s a fitting title,” Damen laughed. Laurent huffed. “That’s actually how I convinced him to get the affogato for the first time. He had been in an exam that day, so he didn’t get his morning coffee.”

“He’s dreadful without his coffee in the morning,” Nicaise commented.

“So, you know why it was so important to get him a sufficient amount of caffeine then?”

“I am not unbearable without coffee,” Lauren defended himself.

“But he still wanted something sweet,” Damen continued. He nodded once at Nicaise’s own ice cream cone, three scoops of strawberry cheesecake ice cream starting to drip down the sides, all of it covered in crushed graham crackers and chocolate drizzle. “It seems to run in the family. The affogato seemed to cover both of those wants, but I fear it’s made him an espresso monster instead.”

“Will you two stop talking about me as though I’m not here?” Laurent asked, but his almost smile was hidden behind his spoon.

“How are you?” Damen asked as he immediately gave in to Laurent’s request. His voice was low in his chest, smooth like the honey dripping down his own ice cream cone.

“I’m fine. I’ve been busy watching this one,” Laurent said.

“I don’t need babysat,” Nicaise protested.

“How are you?” Laurent asked back, ignoring Nicaise.

“I’m fine. Just had lunch with Nik. I’ve got my comparative history midterm in about thirty minutes.”

“Comparative history...is that the course with the professor who wears flip flops with his suit?”

Damen laughed.

“It is. He said there’s a surprise question at the end that isn’t not having to act out a speech given by a historical figure. So,” Damen said, eyebrows raised as though it was now dawning on him how terrible this midterm could be, “keep me in your thoughts so I survive the day.”

“I doubt me thinking about your poor life choices to be a history teacher will help ease your pain,” Laurent pointed out.

“Maybe not, but at least I know you’ll be thinking of me.”

Laurent said nothing, but the flush from his ears had conveniently moved to his face and that expression Nicaise was confused about earlier made a lot of sense. The intense shared eye contact was making him uncomfortable now though. He coughed once to regain their attention. It was granted.

“How long are you visiting your cousins, Nicaise?” Damen asked him.

“I’m leaving on Saturday.”

“Maybe we’ll run into one another again then,” Damen said.

“I have a feeling we will,” Nicaise told him. Damen grinned.

“Well, until then,” he trailed. “I’m off for what will be one of my weirder tests. Bye, Nicaise. It was wonderful to meet more of the DeVere family.”

“I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow?” Laurent asked, trying to sound indifferent and almost succeeding.

“I suppose you will. Goodbye, Laurent.”

“Bye. Until tomorrow.”

Damen had been smiling since the second Nicaise first turned around and saw him, but his smile at this moment rivaled the shine of the sun.

“Until tomorrow.”

With his ice cream still in hand, Damen turned and started back toward the university buildings. His bag was hitting at the back of his thigh as he walked and Nicaise and Laurent both watched as he waved to a few people he clearly knew down the road. Nicaise stopped watching Damen and instead watched Laurent once more. His eyes didn’t leave Damen until Damen disappeared behind a building further away. It seemed only then that he noticed Nicaise’s stare.

“What?”

“I thought you didn’t have a boyfriend.”

Laurent stood up and walked over to the trashcan near the entrance to the ice cream shop and dumped his empty cup into it. Silent, he grabbed the bags he had gathered along their trip and had sat on the table. Nicaise followed, still licking at his ice cream cone.

“I never said that either.”

    +1. Auguste

Auguste wasn’t a crier. None of the DeVere family were criers. Auguste could count the number of times he had seen both of his parents cry on one hand. Auguste could count the number of times he and Laurent had cried on his other, unused hand. It was a shock, then, that Auguste found himself tearing up on his graduation day.

Yes, graduation day had arrived in an unexpected fashion. It snuck up on everyone, eating up all their time and patience with long nights stuck in their books, and suddenly it was here. For most of them, it meant being one year closer to completing the seemingly impossible task of graduating. For Auguste and Jord, it meant moving on from Arles University and into the world around them.

Some people are fearful of what lies ahead after graduation. But Auguste wasn’t afraid of the path he’d made for himself. Seven years of hard work had made him confident in his field and he had a wonderful opportunity lined up for himself. His future was bright and clear.

But his future was also sending him off to Alier, a whole five hours from Arles. Most shakingly, a whole five hours from Laurent.

Five hours may not seem like an eternity of time, but it did put limitations on how often Auguste could come visit and how often Laurent could come visit him. The thought made his chest ache. Given their past and their lack of family to rely on, the two brothers had been inseparable as long as they could remember. Now Auguste was doing the separating and a small part of him worried that Laurent would never forgive him.

“Are you going to walk across stage like a normal human being, or are you going to do something inevitably embarrassing, like trying to backflip and falling on your face?”

Laurent had gone to fetch a proper tie for Auguste’s suit and Auguste turned and tried to wipe at his eyes before he was found out.

“I’m more worried about Lazar or someone trying to humiliate Jord and I by screaming an awful amount or doing that thing they did at the final match of the year,” Auguste confessed.

“You mean when Lazar moaned every time you scored?”

“Yeah, that thing.”

The conversation had Auguste thinking he was in the clear, but he should have known better. The moment he turned, Laurent saw. Auguste watched as his always-with-a-plan baby brother took an uncharacteristic pause to assess the situation and he watched as Laurent’s face dropped in confusion and, what almost appeared to be, fear.

“What’s wrong, Auguste?” he asked. His voice was quiet, unsure, and Auguste smiled true and wide to ease that away the best he could.

“Nothing.” He took a few steps forward and took the tie – blue – from Laurent’s hands. He looped it once around his neck and let it lie there undone and with another gentle movement, he pulled Laurent in close for a hug.

It took a moment for Laurent to catch up, but when he did his arms wrapped around Auguste with a strong grip. It was quiet except for their shared breathing and Auguste was taken back to the first time he held Laurent. That early spring morning twenty years ago was so vivid in Auguste’s mind. He had felt so big then, at the wonderful age of six, and Laurent had been handed to him to hold, one of his tiny little hands wrapped around Auguste’s own. And Auguste knew at that moment he would do anything to keep his little brother safe.

“I feel as though I’m abandoning you,” he admitted. Laurent pulled back, eyes searching, and then he smiled brilliantly.

“How on earth are you abandoning me?” Laurent sounded genuinely taken aback, and a bit amused, and Auguste took another step, this one backwards, to let them both breathe.

“I don’t know,” Auguste started. He began attempting to tie his tie, crossing the two ends and looping one of them around the other. “We’re all we’ve got, you know? We’re all we’ve ever had. I fought so hard to keep you from uncle after we lost mom and dad. I watched you work so hard on your own to be the best person you can be. And suddenly I’m leaving for Alier. I’m leaving you here on your own.”

The tears were starting to come back and Auguste was frustrated at their reappearance. He wiped his hand at them again and laughed at the ridiculousness of it all.

“Look at me crying and worrying as though I don’t know you’re not capable of taking care of yourself.”

“I am,” Laurent said. “But that’s only because of you.”

“You would have been more than fine on your own. You’re the strongest person I know, Laurent.” The tie was still hanging limp against Auguste’s dress shirt. Laurent stepped forward once more, reaching for the ends of the tie and beginning to loop it in a perfect Kelvin knot.

“That’s still because of you. And it is also because of you that I am going to be perfectly fine here. You’ve paid off this house so I have a place to live while I continue my education here. You’ve done nothing but encourage my career pursuits and ensured I was on the best path to see to those here at Arles.” Turning, Laurent plucked Auguste’s matching suit jacket from where it was resting on the chair. The tie was impeccably tied. “Don’t repeat this, either, but you’ve also introduced me to some pretty wonderful people.”

Auguste looked at him, eyebrows raised, as he shrugged into the jacket. Laurent smoothed down the lapels himself and rolled his eyes when he caught Auguste staring.

“Oh, don’t act surprised. You’ve befriended some nice people here. While I trust my own capabilities, I also believe that if something were to happen, I could go to any of them and they would help me,” Laurent said.

“They are all pretty great,” Auguste agreed with a wide smile. It was amazing how his shoulders had untensed with Laurent’s honesty and he found himself smiling even wider. If he smiled anymore his cheeks were going to ache. “So, you like my friends? You’ve never said that.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t know that already,” Laurent said. He walked over to the mirror and smoothed out his own clothes. “I wouldn’t be around them all the time if I didn’t somewhat enjoy their presence.”

“It’s still good to hear it.”

The graduation ceremony went by in perfect form. And perfect form meant it went the way everyone expected. It was long, speeches were given that put people to sleep, and the line of graduates was so extensive that people could hardly keep their focus for when their graduate was finally crossing the stage. That didn’t stop Lazar from doing what he’d said he’d do and, sure enough, when both Auguste and Jord crossed that stage, Lazar had the cowbell ready to clang as loudly as possible.

“You look very smart with your diploma,” Laurent said in greeting as Auguste and Jord managed to stumble out of the wild crowd of graduates and their families blocking at the convocation entrances following the ceremony.

“And you look far too pleased at Lazar’s antics,” Auguste laughed. He accepted the barrage of hugs from the entire group and continued to laugh as Jord was pulled from where he was a step behind Auguste and crushed by them all as well.

“Well it wasn’t all that funny until you tried to wave off the sound and that poor group of girls thought you were waving at them and they all swooned.”

“I thought I brought a well-needed amount of life to graduation,” Lazar defended, not sounding at all chastised.

“You brought a not-needed amount of obnoxiousness,” Nik said.

“You keep saying stuff like that, Nik, but before we graduate, we’re going to end up in bed together in a drunken tumble. We both know it.”

Nik made a face, and everyone elbowed at him suggestively. No one commented on the fact that Lazar’s arm hadn’t left from around Pallas’ shoulders for the last several months. Lazar would always be Lazar after all.

“Speaking of drunken stumbling and tumbling,” Auguste said, shaking his hair from its greased down look from underneath his grad cap, “let’s go back to my place and party one last time.”

As it was an expected thing, Auguste had long had the house prepared for a large party. The others had added their own personal touches to make it feel like a true graduation party. Laurent had ordered a graduation cake from Fortaine, a bakery on Main, with both Auguste and Jord’s names on it. Alexon was a bartender and could get alcohol at wholesale prices, so he had the kitchen counters well stocked and in need of a ton of mixers. Damen and Nik had provided those mixers along with food from a friend who wanted to try his hand at providing catering. Berenger, unintentionally, provided entertainment with his boy toy, Ancel, who still had everyone scratching their heads. Lazar had only provided his graduation gift to Auguste and Jord, a crude hand drawn picture of the three of them in bed, cuddling, that they had to share as it was such a masterpiece Lazar couldn’t have been expected to recreate greatness. And everyone else provided more and more guests to fill up the house with laughter and party-appropriate ruckus.

“I can’t believe this is our last party,” Orlant lamented. Though there were a good thirty other people in the house, the group was sitting together in the living room, drinks in their hands.

“It won’t be the last,” Auguste assured him. He was sitting on the arm of the couch, legs outstretched, and Laurent was sitting on the floor beside him, pressed between him and Damen. Lazar, boldly, had his head on Laurent’s own outstretched thigh and Damen took it as a prime opportunity to make Lazar’s stomach his footrest. Nik, on Damen’s other side on the couch, kept “accidently” swinging his feet and kicking Lazar in the crotch.

“But it won’t be the same,” Pallas agreed with Orlant. He was lying between Lazar’s legs, hand swatting playfully at Berenger’s untied shoelaces.

“Maybe not,” said Auguste, “but you’ll all still be here harassing Laurent and Laurent will put up with it. You can’t rule out that Jord and I won’t make visits here either.”

“Don’t give them permission to harass me,” Laurent said.

They fell into inane conversation. When Rochert and Huet got drunk, they tended to make up songs, and they made at least three in twenty minutes. By the third one they had at least half of everybody else singing along, off pitch and out of rhythm.

“Don’t yell at me for being cheesy, but the friendships I’ve made with all of you is what is making this place so hard to leave.”

Though there was music blaring and people walking all around them, it was impossible to not spend a moment quietly reminiscing. It got to them all though and a moment later a few of them were standing, dusting off their pants, clearing their throats, and it was Jord who said, “God, I need more alcohol. You all keep singing “Kumbaya” though.”

There were chuckles and affirmative agreements and the group all got up and wandered into the kitchen. All except Auguste and Laurent. From his place still in front of the couch, Laurent tilted his head back to look up at Auguste.

“You should try to enjoy yourself,” he told Auguste over the roar of the music.

“I am enjoying myself,” Auguste said, smiling softly. “But it’s a bit bittersweet at the moment.”

“Well then you’re clearly not drinking enough.” Laurent pulled himself up to stand and then extended his hands to help Auguste up. “Go have fun. Drink like you’re a freshman again and don’t focus on the bitter part.”

“And what are you going to do?” Auguste asked, shaking at the melting ice cubes in his glass to unstick them from one another.

“Supervise,” Laurent commented drily. As if cued, a crash of glass sounded out, making both Auguste and Laurent whip their heads toward the back porch. “It seems very needed right now.”

Hugging Laurent briefly with one arm around his shoulders, Auguste muttered a quick “Thank you,” and set forth into the cacophony of sound and the flood of people all in the kitchen. With smiles and exclamations of congratulations, Auguste was swarmed with love from acquaintances and casual friends who admired him as much as everybody else. He poured himself another drink, this one a bit stiffer, and fell into a pleasant conversation with Kyrina. After a few minutes he began to wonder if tonight would end as a lot of his and Kyrina’s past nights did, with them tumbling into bed after a different kind of pleasant conversation.

Eventually he got sidetracked into a different kind of conversation with Hendric. They were both going to Alier and exchanged phone numbers in hopes of having at least one familiar face. Hendric was in the middle of telling Auguste about the firm he was starting at when Ancel decided it was an opportune time to give Berenger a lap dance. All fifty-something people in the house wolf-whistled and hollered as Berenger’s normally stoic face went as red as Ancel’s waving hair.

Auguste was pouring himself his third drink when the subject of Berenger and Ancel came up from the welcome source of Kyrina and her hand on Auguste’s arm then down to his thigh made him smile.

“Laurent told me to celebrate tonight like I was a freshman again.” He covered her hand with his own, reveling in the softness of the back of her palm under his own rougher one.

“I remember when you were a freshman,” Kyrina commented lowly. “Do you remember finals week that spring?”

“You mean when you had me wear your panties to my introduction into poetry final?” Auguste asked back even lower.

“They were my prettiest blue pair. Matched your eyes,” she practically purred, hand cupping his chin.

“Coincidentally,” Auguste started, “I did make sure that my tie and boxers both matched my eyes today.”

“Boxers? How scandalous, Auguste.”

“Did you do anything as scandalous, Ky?” Auguste asked.

“Today or just in general?” Kyrina asked back.

“Oh, I know what you’ve done in general,” Auguste laughed. “But how about today?”

Kyrina put a finger to her mouth in a mock thinking pose, scrunching her eyebrows up for fun too, and Auguste wanted to kiss her.

“My underwear matches my lipstick,” she told him, smile bright. “I know it lacks creativity, but it was the best I could do on such a short notice.”

The room seemed too hot suddenly and Auguste found that the bottom of his glass was empty again. Forcing himself to pull back, to think, he maneuvered to the counter where all the mixers were long drained. He refilled his glass with ice and topped it over with cheap bourbon. Kyrina was behind him, fingers dancing over his shoulder blades.

“We still have time to make up something more fun, if you’d like.”

Auguste took a deep drink and it felt warm going down. “I very much would like that.”

“Then I tell you what,” she said, fingers still dancing. “I’m going to head upstairs to your room and you’re going to wait fifteen minutes before you follow me.”

“And then what?” Auguste turned, smile teasing. Kyrina’s lips grazed his jaw in answer and she did her own turn, winking at him as she sauntered up the staircase. The clock on the oven read 1:04. With a happy sigh and another long drink of his bourbon, Auguste began his countdown to 1:19.

It was only then that he noticed how empty the house had become. Somewhere between Kyrina and Hendric and Ancel and Berenger and Kyrina once more, the party had died down significantly to a small trickle of people consisting of his friends.

Nik and Alexon were muttering to one another in the living room, sitting across from each other in the chairs they had scooted across the floor. Huet was using Nik’s calf as a pillow and Auguste swore he could see Huet drooling from all the way across the room. On the couch was the cuddliest pile Auguste had ever seen in his life; Orlant, Rochert, Lazar, and Pallas were squished onto the worn gray cushions, each pillowed on various body parts of the other. It was sentimentality that kept Auguste at the threshold, watching his friends sleep and ramble drunkenly. They’re all so odd, he mused.

Berenger was nowhere in sight and Auguste took that as a good sign, for him and for the soon-to-be veterinarian. There was no doubt he was off with his redhead somewhere and Auguste felt a welcome flush of relief that he didn’t have to see them going at it...again...like they had during their St. Patrick’s Day party...in Auguste’s bedroom.

He knew Jord had left some hours ago with one of his own old flames. As Auguste slowly stepped about the house, he almost laughed out loud to himself at his and Jord’s luck. His laughter was only subdued by the too-sober hope that this would let Jord get over Aimeric.

The clock on the wall said 1:11. Anticipation rolled pleasantly in his gut. He set about looking for Laurent. It wasn’t in the need to overshare or posture that Auguste gave Laurent warning before he hooked up with a girl. It was more because of the time Laurent had visited over the holidays, years before he was set to start at Arles, and Auguste had hooked up with a girl one night. That following morning had been quiet, and Auguste hadn’t given it any thought after he walked the girl out to her car. But when Laurent had said calmly, over the rim of his coffee cup, “I never wanted to know that your voice range covers four separate octaves when you come,” Auguste had sworn then and there he would always give Laurent proper warning before hooking up in the bedroom next door.

“Little brother,” Auguste sing-songed, side stepping a pile of shoes. “Laurent! I know you’re not drunk because there are too many not broken things left in the house.”

He wasn’t in the living room, Auguste knew, and he couldn’t have been in the kitchen because Auguste had just been there. It took a moment for Auguste to get his bearings about him, but when he did, he started his sweep of the house. The laundry room was empty, as was the study. The lights were on in the bathroom, but the only evidence of a person in there was in the soap bubbles still sitting on the sink drain.

“Laurent, if you’re up in your room already...I’m sorry in advance,” Auguste called out loudly. It was 1:16. He was about to drag himself up the stairs, knowing full and well it would take him three minutes in his current state, when a flash of gold from outside the front door caught his eye.

Squinting, Auguste walked over and peered out the glass of the door. The gold must have been the watch on Damen’s wrist because it was still glinting softly in the dim lighting from the porch. It matched the glint coming from Laurent’s hair. It took Auguste a moment to process what he was seeing out there.

Laurent was talking away. It wasn’t the type of talking he did when he was giving someone the correct answer or eviscerating them with words alone. Auguste had seen that enough times to recognize it for what it was. No, Laurent was talking away, hands moving with some of his words and eyes swimming with exposed emotion. Auguste had seen that enough times to recognize it for what it was as well, but he couldn’t recall in that moment if he had ever seen Laurent speak that way to anyone other than himself.

Damen was listening raptly, eyes never straying from Laurent’s face. Damen’s always open emotions, these ones of concern and something Auguste couldn’t place yet, were worn out on his sleeve. He seemed utterly captivated in whatever Laurent was talking about.

Auguste watched as Laurent sighed. His shoulders heaved then dropped and his head fell forward, hair covering everything that had been so exposed. He must have said something else from underneath his curtain of hair because Auguste saw Damen smile. It was such a fond smile and it made Auguste’s eyebrows furrow together. Damen’s hand, the one free of his watch, moved forward suddenly and, with his smile still in place, he brushed that curtain of hair from the right side of Laurent’s face. His touch looked soft as he tucked the hair behind Laurent’s ear.

If Auguste had been totally sober, he probably would have raised his eyebrows in his shock. But as he was about three-quarters drunk, he physically took a step backward in the entryway, almost knocking over the table he and Laurent always threw their keys on.

His brain was so busy trying to process what he was seeing that he almost missed the way Laurent leaned into the touch, his cheek squishing adorably against Damen’s palm. Damen must have said something then because Laurent’s face was once again exposed, and his smile was a mirror of Damen’s own. His head came back up and he retucked a few stray strands behind his ear again. He said something else and looked directly at Damen, eyes dancing.

Auguste hadn’t given much thought to the way Laurent would kiss. It didn’t seem particularly important or brotherly to think about such a thing. But in those moments that he had contemplated Laurent in relationships, he didn’t expect Laurent to initiate a kiss. So, when he did, hands fisting in the front of Damen’s white tee to haul him forward, Auguste did, in fact, stumble backward and knock over the table. It was enough to garner the attention of a mostly sober Nik and Alexon. Lazar, always in tune to things with drama surrounding them, snuffled as he awoke. He excavated himself from his cuddly pile of bodies to run to the door as well.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Nik mumbled as soon as he helped Auguste off the ground. If Auguste wouldn’t have just knocked the table over, Lazar would have done so in his own play of shock.

“Is he a dead man? Absolutely. Does it look worth it? Ab-so-lute-ly,” he whistled.

Auguste’s mouth was gaping. It seemed like an eternity, though in actuality it was one minute, that the two stayed pressed together. In his head, Auguste knew he should stop; stop watching, stop the others from watching, or stop both things, but he couldn’t quite comprehend what he was seeing.

Laurent must have sensed the audience. Auguste watched as he gently, softly, pulled back, lingering for only a moment. Then his eyes opened and found the door. He didn’t turn red like Auguste thought he would, but his jaw clenched. It seemed to take Damen a second longer to gather his wits, but when he turned around, he was the one flushing red instead.

There were about twenty seconds of awkward staring between Damen and Laurent and everyone else. Then Laurent leaned forward again, this time to tell Damen something, and he stood. Auguste couldn’t not watch the way their fingertips slid apart with such reluctance.

“Not a word,” Laurent said as soon as the door opened. Damen was behind him, hand that was just holding Laurent’s own rubbing sheepishly at the back of his neck.

There was a lot going on at that exact moment. Nik was glaring daggers and it wasn’t obvious if Damen was avoiding eye contact with him or Auguste the hardest. Lazar was beginning to sing “Damen and Laurent, sitting in a tree, K-I” and was silenced by Alexon slapping a hand over his mouth. Auguste was apparently still open-mouthed like a fish.

“Come on.” Laurent was talking to him. And he was following Laurent up the stairs.

Climbing the stairs felt like doing a trail run. He could feel his quads straining and heart racing, but whether the latter was because of the stair climb, his current blood-alcohol level, or his brain repeating the phrase “What the fuck?” over and over again, he couldn’t be certain.

“Is something the matter?”

Kyrina was standing in Auguste’s bedroom doorway with a sheet wrapped around her and nothing more. Auguste wanted to slap himself for forgetting her. He was grateful Laurent was still sober.

“Auguste will join you momentarily,” he told her calmly, and he ushered Auguste into his bedroom. He shut the door.

“Laurent –”

“No, you are going to let me speak before you say anything,” Laurent said, demanded. “I love you, Auguste. You know that I do. There is no one on this planet that I seek the approval of more. I am aware of the sacrifices you’ve made for me ever since we lost mom and dad. And I hope I’m, at the very least, on the right path to making you proud. But you had no right intervening in my personal relationships before I even got the chance to make them.”

Auguste was sitting on Laurent’s bed. It was meticulously made, as Laurent made it every morning, and the comforter was soft underneath Auguste’s hands. He scratched at the textured surface.

“I understand the protectiveness. Given my past, it was, and is, welcome. But if you trusted these people as your friends than it should have been a welcome thought that I would, perhaps,” Laurent paused, “engage in consensual relations with one of them. If they were your friends, you should have trusted them to treat me with kindness as they have treated you. And I should have said something earlier than now, I know that. But I am saying it now and I need you to take it to heart.”

It was a sobering conversation. Auguste took in the way Laurent was pacing, walking from his bookshelf to the edge of his desk. His copy of The Emerald Peacock was lying face down on the floor, opened to about halfway through. Auguste’s eyebrows furrowed together again, this time at the genuine worry Laurent was radiating, and he sank back further onto the mattress.

“Laurent,” Auguste tried.

“No, I need you to understand.”

“I do.” Auguste was standing now, and the room wasn’t spinning. His hands were on Laurent’s shoulders so Laurent had no choice but to look at him. “You really like him, don’t you?”

It wasn’t a question. It was enough, however, to make Laurent flush bright. Auguste smiled brilliantly. Laurent’s eyes, downcast, flicked down to avoid that smile. But when they came back up, they were accompanied by an almost reluctant head nod.

“Don’t make it a thing,” he begged.

“I’m not,” Auguste lied.

“You definitely are. I can already see the evil thoughts swirling in your brain,” Laurent said.

“Am I allowed to ask questions?”

“No.” Laurent stepped back, sighing, and Auguste followed him as he walked out the door. Kyrina was still standing in Auguste’s doorway.

“When did it start? How did it start? Have you been sneaking around like illicit lovers in the night? I never knew you were that romantic, Laurent.”

“Oh, fuck off. Go join Kyrina,” Laurent said, but he was laughing beautifully. He started down the staircase and Auguste held a finger up to Kyrina, indicating he’d be with her in a minute.

All those awake were back in the kitchen. Lazar was sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, feet up on the table, and Alexon was in another chair, his feet also on the table and kicking at Lazar’s, trying to shove them off. Damen and Nik were leaning against the countertop and stopped talking abruptly when Laurent and Auguste entered.

“Friends,” Auguste began, doing his best not to laugh when Laurent pulled out another of the chairs and slumped in it, “thank you for a great graduation party. I could ramble about my gratefulness for you all being there for me during these years, but that would take too long and we’re all far too tired to deal with that tonight. I’m off to bed with a beautiful girl I’m probably going to disappoint when I fall asleep immediately. I’m letting you all know that I want breakfast at Toutaine’s tomorrow, so you better have your asses up at a decent time.”

He rubbed his knuckles hard against Laurent’s head, reminiscent of how they roughhoused when they were children, and started back for the staircase after a few bids of goodnight from the others.

“Damen?” Auguste had one foot on the first step, and he could see Damen’s eyes leave Laurent and find him. “We’re talking before breakfast.”

“Auguste!”

Morning came too quickly for everyone’s liking. Auguste woke up bleary-eyed and with a sleeping Kyrina drooling against his shoulder. Maneuvering out of bed without waking her was more difficult than it should have been, but he managed. Looking at her, he laughed quietly at his luck and hoped that they could make up for last night’s loss at another point in time. He couldn’t hear anything going on downstairs and Laurent’s bedroom door was still closed. It wouldn’t hurt to make a pot of coffee while he rounded up the group, he thought.

The stairs were a whole different kind of daunting this morning. Instead of spinning underneath his feet they felt like riding the rock of the ocean’s waves which could be comforting when he wasn’t nauseous. The smell of brewing coffee calmed the nausea down some.

Damen was leaning against the same countertop he had been leaning against last night. The coffee pot was three-quarters of the way full and steaming. There were two cups next to Damen. One was almost empty, but the other one full.

“For you,” Damen told him, handing him the almost full cup. “With a splash of cream.”

“Thanks.”

The coffee was a welcome warmth and the two spent a few moments in silence. Auguste noted that it was a comfortable kind of silence.

“I always laugh when I go get coffee with Laurent,” Auguste started. “I typically end up ordering first and I get a coffee with some room for cream. Those poor, overworked baristas always look thrilled. Then Laurent goes up and orders his honey-cinnamon-vanilla or whatever with oat milk and three shots of espresso and you see their shoulders drop.”

Damen smiled.

“Yeah, you can almost guarantee that Laurent will order the most complicated thing anywhere you go.”

They both took a drink of their coffee and fell back into silence. There were a lot of things Auguste wanted to say, but his mouth didn’t want to move, it wanted to keep drinking his coffee. Luckily for Auguste, Damen wanted to talk instead.

“I can’t apologize,” Damen said. His free arm was crossed over his chest and Auguste could see the muscle in his forearm twitch. “A part of me knows I should, but I can’t.”

“Why should you apologize?” Auguste asked genuinely.

“Because you asked us all to do one thing and I couldn’t do that for you. I went behind your back in pursuing Laurent.” Damen took a deep breath. “I don’t feel like it’s necessary for me to make you promises. All the promises I need to make, all the ones I’ve already made, need to be to Laurent.”

Auguste brought his coffee cup up to hide his smile.

“But I need you to have some faith in me,” Damen pleaded.

“Damen, if anyone should apologize, it’s me,” Auguste said. “Moreso to Laurent than anyone else, but to you as well.”

Damen swallowed once, the sound audible with the click of his throat, and he shifted his shoulders as though he was preparing for a blow.

“Laurent’s always been the smartest one out of all of us. And last night he gave me a well-deserved lecture about controlling parts of his life before he ever got the chance to live first.

You see, I’ve felt such a need to protect Laurent my whole life. And, overall, I feel like I’ve done a good job at balancing protection with encouragement to live. But then I think about the things I’ve done – guilting him into coming here to Arles because I conveniently bought a house for the two of us to live in and controlling his love life before he ever got a chance to start a relationship – and I realize how unfair I’ve been. Then, not only was I unfair, I missed out on watching,” Auguste gestured with his hands at Damen and then vaguely at the ceiling, “this.”

“Given Laurent’s past, and your own, I can’t blame you for doing the things you’ve done,” Damen said quietly.

“Still…”

The coffee cup in his hand was almost empty. Somehow, even with the talking, he had drained the whole thing. Auguste pushed off from where he was leaning and placed the cup in the sink. He was right by Damen then.

“Take care of him next year,” Auguste said with as much sincerity in his voice as he could muster. “I know he can take care of himself, but I feel immensely comforted knowing you’ll be here for him.”

“I will be,” Damen made one promise to Auguste. “You know I will be.”

“Am I interrupting?”

Laurent was standing at the bottom of the stairs, hair sleep-mussed and shirt rumpled. Auguste was close enough to see Damen’s eyes soften with his smile. He cleared his throat and stepped back, a step closer to the living room.

“Not at all. I’m off to wake up the troupe. Let’s say be ready to leave in half an hour?” Auguste asked. Laurent raised an eyebrow and his eyes flicked between Auguste and Damen once.

“Sure. I’ll give Jord and Berenger a call. But I’m telling Berenger to leave his entertainment at home.”

Thirty minutes turned into forty-five minutes. Over half of them looked worse for wear and it took two cars and some illegal seating arrangements to get everyone in two cars. Toutaine’s seating was fairly open when they arrived, and they were immediately seated at a long party table.

“What a surprise you order a mimosa,” Laurent said to Ancel after drinks were ordered.

“If I have to deal with you all morning, I’ll need six just to get through the day,” Ancel snapped back.

The table was cramped. Everyone was bumping elbows with everyone around them and there wasn’t enough room for all the food and drinks ordered. They were so loud, too. Auguste was more than aware of the looks some of the other customers were throwing them and he couldn’t bring himself to care.

There was so much laughter. Auguste’s cheeks hurt from smiling and he knew everyone else’s had to be hurting too. When Huet threw a whole handful of grapes at Pallas, the bittersweet knowledge that he was going to miss this hit him hard.

“Are you feeling what I’m feeling?” Jord asked him over the noise.

“I think so,” Auguste said.

Across the table, Laurent was leaning into Damen ever so slightly. They also were talking over the noise, but Auguste couldn’t make out what they were saying. Instead he watched them for a moment, trying to see what he had missed this year. He watched Laurent take a drink of his coffee and he watched Damen kiss the taste of it away.

He watched as Laurent smiled. He looked free.

Auguste had a strong feeling next year at Arles University would be Laurent’s best.

[dvp95]

quiet on widow’s peak (1)

pairing: dan howell/phil lester, pj liguori/sophie newton/chris kendall rating: teen & up  tags: paranormal investigator, youtuber phil lester, dan howell is not a youtuber, online friendship, slow burn, strangers to lovers, nonbinary character, background poly, phil does some buzzfeed unsolved shit and dan is a fan word count: 3.2k (this chapter & total) summary: Phil's got a list of paranormal experiences a mile long that he likes to share with the world. Abandoned buildings, cemeteries, and ghost stories have always called his name, and a particular fan of his has a really, really good ghost story. Bingo squares: met on tumblr

new wip? NEW WIP.

read this chapter on ao3 or here!

The wind is loud in this one. That's frustrating, and it makes Phil's job a lot harder, but he can't control the weather. Be cool if he could. He does his best to level out his voice and the background noise of Mother Nature before he settles in with his good headphones and really cranks the volume.

It's even more annoying to listen to the alternating crackle and whistle right in his ears. Phil has dealt with worse during this whole process, though, so he finds the strength to power through it. He listens to the full thing three times, scribbling a few timestamps down on a Post-It pad as he does. He takes a break after that, does some stretches around his tiny bedroom and tiptoes out to get a snack without waking the whole damn house, and then he's right back in his apparently ergonomic office chair to subject his ears to more of this nonsense.

Wind, wind, and more wind. And sometimes just Phil's own voice. Nothing of note.

Phil is about to give this video up as a loss altogether when he hits one of the final timestamps and... can't figure out what that noise is.

For the first time since he opened this file, Phil grins. He exports the clip and plays around with it in Audacity. Some videos are always more fun than others, and Phil had felt like he was slogging through this one until now.

"Do you hear that, Theodore?" Phil murmurs. The tiny cactus on his desk, thankfully, does not respond.

It sounds like a person. It sounds like a person, whispering, and it definitely isn't the wind, and it isn't Phil's own voice, because he's in the middle of a question in this clip.

Phil might just be going crazy from sleep deprivation or wishful thinking, though. He pulls out his phone and texts the only group chat that doesn't cause him anxiety, which is comprised of the housemates that he actually gets along with. Anyone up? he asks, adding a single eye emoji for good measure.

Even though it's gone two in the morning, he gets immediate responses from all of them. A string of vaguely dirty emojis from Chris, a simple yeah from Sophie, and a cheerfully morbid did you know that insomnia leads to an early death? from PJ.

Wanna listen to a noise for me?

Within three minutes, Phil's bedroom is full of people in various states of sleepiness. All of them are in ridiculous pyjamas - including Phil - and PJ's hair in particular has taken on a mind of its own. Phil's room isn't really big enough for all of them, so there's some awkward shuffling before PJ claims the office chair. Phil sits at the foot of his bed with Sophie and Chris on either side of him, pressed close against each other's shoulders. It's a good thing he likes these people.

"I mean, it isn't the wind," is PJ's confident opinion. "Did you have anyone with you?"

"No, it's just me and my camera against the world," says Phil.

"No need to be a twat," Chris informs him. He taps at PJ's upper arm, impatient. "Let me have a go, then, if there's something there."

Chris is famously bad at hearing things in white noise, but PJ acquiesces the seat easily enough. Phil laughs, watching them do a weird step dance around each other in the small space between Phil's bed and desk.

"I can't hear any specific words," PJ says as he flops down across Phil's pillows, making himself comfortable. Phil just nods, because neither can he.

"How d'you know it's a person, then?" Sophie asks. Her voice is probably the only one soft enough for the hour. Their other housemates hate them for their frequent all-nighters, but Sophie is kind and quiet enough that she slips under the radar.

"You'll see for yourself."

When Sophie goes to respond, Chris interrupts in a hilariously loud voice, as if he's forgotten that having headphones on doesn't mean they can't hear him. "It's some kind of ghoulie or ghostie! I can barely fucking hear it, Philly, why didn't you mic it?"

"Why didn't I mic the ghost?" Phil asks, bewildered. Naturally, Chris doesn't hear him.

Sophie taps Chris on the shoulder and stands, leaning over his shoulder as she takes her turn listening to the sound clip over and over. Chris spins in the chair a few times and gives Phil an unhinged sort of grin.

"You got something this time," says Chris. He sounds like he's having just as much fun as Phil is, now that there's actually a thing to listen to besides his own voice and the loud, loud wind.

"I think so," says Phil. "Why didn't I mic the ghost?"

"I'm saying it would make your job a lot easier if you mic the ghost, yes."

"If I could mic a ghost, I'd be a millionaire."

"Then you better get on it, eh?" Chris laughs, spinning a bit faster. Phil has never seen the man sleep. It's a little bit worrying.

"Sure," Phil says, giving up on trying to teach any logic to someone who's clearly long lost their hold on it. "Next time I spend all night in a graveyard, I'll mic any spirits that might be hanging out."

"Shut up," Sophie tells them, mild.

Chris mimes zipping his lips, wrapping an easy arm around her waist, and PJ laughs.

For the first few months they all lived together, Phil had struggled to keep up with whatever dynamics were going on between the three of them, but he's long since given it up as something he's not going to understand.

After a moment of quiet, Sophie nods. "I hear it," she tells them. Even with the headphones on, she's quiet. "It's not words, I wouldn't put any subtitles over it."

"Yeah," PJ agrees. "Just let your audience duke it out in the comments like they always do."

"Thanks, guys," Phil says, feeling a sort of warmth sink into his shoulders. He notices that Chris is pulling up another application and half-heartedly protests. "Chris, you don't need to edit this one for me. I still haven't paid you for the last video." Or the one before that. Or the three or four previous. Phil has it written down somewhere.

"Don't be stupid," Chris hums, already clicking around erratically. It makes the editor in Phil want to scream, but he has to admit that Chris manages to find more weird visual stuff to isolate than he could on his own.

"I feel bad," says Phil, chewing his lip.

"I've told you," says Chris, "you can pay me back in chores and sexual favours."

PJ's slippered foot knocks against Phil's hip, and he grins brightly when Phil turns to him. "You know, I do have a bit of a laundry backlog."

"Funny thing, that," says Sophie.

Biting back a laugh, Phil shakes his head. "Alright, alright. Everybody leave their laundry in front of my door tomorrow."

"That's a no on the beej, then?" Chris asks, raising a single eyebrow and pointing dramatically at Phil. It has been near two years of this, and Phil is still too afraid to ask if it's a joke.

It's not as if Phil's answer would change if it wasn't a joke, because he's not interested in Chris, and he's especially not interested in becoming entangled in whatever nonsense his housemates have gotten themselves into. But, still, he might be kinder about letting Chris down if he were being genuine.

"That is a no," Phil confirms. "But I will wash your pants."

"Kinky," says Chris. He turns back to the screen and makes an incomprehensible hand gesture. "This is pretty shit. You know that, right?"

Yeah. Phil does know that. It's getting harder and harder to have the same optimism in every video that he'd had when he first started recording his wanderings around the supposedly-haunted places of Rossendale. He'd brought the camera with him when he left, but might have left that optimism behind. Phil only kind of believes in supernatural things - the way he only kind of believes in giraffes or true love - but it's been more fun than anything else to pick up a camera and try to find some evidence.

He's been doing this since he was nineteen, though, and he's getting a little bored by the formula of it all. Go into a haunted place, try to communicate with the spirits, pick up some garbled words or creepy noises, highlight visual oddities like orbs, and let the internet tear it all to shreds. Honestly, he'd have more fun making proper horror at this point in his life.

Phil shrugs and pulls his knees up to his chest. He wants to hide away from the sympathy in Sophie's eyes, from Chris' blunt words. "Yeah. I'm getting kind of... I don't know. Restless."

"Maybe you should ask people to submit things again," PJ suggests. "That went well last time."

It had, actually. Phil had needed to sort through a lot more ridiculous stories and obvious hoaxes than usual, but he'd found some nuggets of gold in all that hay. Or however that saying goes.

"People did like having their stories read out," Phil says slowly. "I'd just need to be extra sure that nobody's, like..."

"Ripping off r/NoSleep," says PJ.

"Yeah, exactly."

"We can help," Sophie says, and Phil could cry at how easily PJ and Chris agree with her.

He really doesn't deserve to have such great people around him. They've got work and lives of their own, but they're always happy to spend time crowded around Phil's computer listening to weird noises together. Phil sometimes wonders what they get out of it. Do they just like helping him, the way he has fun holding the boom for PJ's films or testing Sophie's concoctions? Or are they just as fascinated as Phil by the weirdness of it all? Do they want to see the cool instances of paranormal activity, too? At this point it feels nearly impossible to ask.

"That's going to be a lot of washing pants for me," Phil sighs. He doesn't know how to thank them, not when they always just wave it off.

"Sure is," says PJ. "But you should... ask the audience!"

"Your Chris Tarrant is pretty good," says Phil, only a little surprised by it. PJ's voice is as much of a tool to him as the rest of his body, and it's one he's always been skilled with. The impressions still tend to catch Phil off guard sometimes.

PJ tips an invisible hat. "Thank you, thank you, I'll be here all week."

At his friends' not so gentle encouragement, Phil makes a few posts on his socials to ask his followers for new creepy things to explore. It might be the middle of the night in Brighton, but he has a feeling that Chris isn't leaving his desk until he's found every instance of an orb or strange shadow in the fifty minutes of currently uncut footage.

It seems like Sophie is on the same page, because she excuses herself to make tea for everyone. PJ leans over Chris' shoulder and watches the clips without sound, his lips moving as if he's murmuring to himself.

Sometimes this feels more like a group effort than Phil is comfortable with. He's never been very good at asking for help. As grateful as he is, he still itches with the need to take back control of the situation. He uses the slow trickle of fan submissions to distract him from that feeling, because all three of them do make his videos better when he stops being so possessive over his footage. Phil flops onto his back and scrolls through the incoming emails, tweets, and Tumblr messages to see if there's anything promising.

For the most part, the answer is a resounding no. Some things are blatant lies - there are countless ripoffs of films or novels that Phil happens to be familiar with, a few things swiped from creepypasta or subreddits, and his usual amount of conspiracy theorist fans insisting that some high profile person or other is a lizard - but most of it, to Phil's dismay, just doesn't grab his attention the way he wants it to.

Sophie comes back with tea and snacks. She leans her head against Phil's shoulder and watches him cycle through his apps, fact-checking idly and sighing every time something easily proves to be a hoax. Her hair smells like coconut and she makes a soft humming noise every time she lifts the mug to her lips. Her presence alone, small and warm and supportive, is enough to keep Phil from throwing his phone across the room and having a right sulk about how his career is in a tailspin because nobody makes ghosts like they used to. At some point in the night, Sophie's breathing evens out to the point that Phil thinks she's asleep, but then she reaches out to tap a tiny finger to his screen.

"What's this, then?" she murmurs.

Phil has been zoned out entirely for at least fifteen, and he blinks back into reality. There's a new message in his Tumblr inbox, one that seems like it must be over the character limit for asks. He must have submissions turned on or something, that's the only possible explanation for an actual essay being sent to him. It's barely broken into paragraphs with very little punctuation and no capitalization, and Phil has been staring at screens for far too long to try and parse this on his own.

"Can you please make sure this isn't, like, the entire Bee Movie," Phil asks, handing Sophie his phone with only a slight twinge of anxiety. He trusts her not to go snooping, but. Still. "I need to pee."

"Mhm," Sophie hums, already apparently lost in whatever stream-of-consciousness has been dropped into Phil's inbox.

The floorboards in this old Brighton house creak, and Phil has always envied some of his housemates for being able to sidestep the noises. It doesn't seem to matter how long he lives here, how much he tries to avoid making any noise, it's like the floorboards are determined to creak under Phil's weight. He winces as he passes two bedrooms whose occupants surely don't appreciate creaking outside their doors at such an ungodly hour.

At least he doesn't run into any walls this time. The nightlight in the bathroom at the end of the hall is the only thing lighting Phil's way, and he tends to stub his toes on absolutely nothing in this kind of semi-darkness.

When he makes his - very, very creaky - way back to his own room, he's bewildered by the scene that greets him. PJ and Chris have joined Sophie on his bed, and all three of them are poring over Phil's phone as though they're looking at a map to the Holy Grail.

"Hello," Phil says slowly, closing the door behind him. It creaks, too. "You aren't going through my pictures, are you?"

"No," Sophie and PJ chorus without looking up.

"You got nudes on here or something?" Chris asks with a mild sort of interest, clearly also too engaged in Phil's phone to put his all into the flirting.

"I don't," says Phil. It doesn't sound convincing, even though it's true, and he waits for Chris to tease him about it some more. When he doesn't, Phil has to admit that he's curious. "So I guess it isn't a meme or something?"

That makes them look up, in almost comedic synchronicity. Sophie blinks a few times, as if she's coming back to herself. She holds out Phil's phone and shakes her head.

"It's not a meme," she says. "And near as we can tell, it's genuine."

Phil joins them and takes his phone back, adjusting his glasses. His bed really wasn't made for four people, but his housemates have never had any personal space amongst themselves, and Phil isn't one to say no to human contact when he isn't getting it anywhere else.

The message is just as hard to read as it was at first glance, but Phil puts his brain to work. If his friends are reacting like this, it usually means he's in for something good.

hi ok so the thing is that this is completely ridiculous and i dont think its what youre looking for at all but theres a building near my uni thats got a ton of stories around it and it only started happening like this year like it isnt an old obviously haunted type of place but theres a lot of weird shit that goes down there so i found all the references to it online that i could and ive summarized them here (w/ sources ofc im not a dick) and its all just this side of strange so it seems like the sort of thing you might be interested in ok here we go SO

And it goes on like that. Phil feels his eyebrows raising as he clicks the provided links in the following walls of text, which are exactly what they're advertised as. Not a single rickroll in there. Just a handful of posts on Reddit and Facebook and independent blogs about various experiences people have had with a particular abandoned building in -

"I know this place," Phil says, surprised. He looks up at PJ's grin, Sophie's wide eyes, Chris' palms rubbing together in exaggerated interest. "I've been to parties here. Well, okay," he corrects himself before his friends can do it for him, "I've gone with Martyn to parties here and left early."

"Yeah, it isn't far out of Manchester," PJ hums. He bounces in place a bit, like he's suddenly energized enough to go jump on the soonest train up north.

"It didn't seem that weird," says Phil. "It's been a few years, I guess, but it wasn't even that scary."

"Sounds like it's only just started, though," Chris pipes up.

Phil isn't sure how much he likes that. The idea of a place he's been a few times, half an hour from his childhood home, being so suddenly full of haunted activity feels... weird. Still, it's catching his interest in a way that nothing else has in months, so.

"I'll look into it some more tomorrow," he decides, glancing at the time. His brother is probably still awake, to be honest, but Phil doesn't want to be that guy asking 'hey, do you remember the Wilkins place?' before dawn has even broken. Again. He has definitely done that sort of thing in the past. "I'll have plenty of time while I do, what, seventeen loads of laundry?"

"Something like that," PJ laughs. "Want us to clear out?"

As nice as the company and help has been, Phil still feels a rush of relief at the concept of being left alone again. He nods, still scrolling idly through the Wilkins place submission.

It hits him, very literally, too close to home to ignore. He wonders if his fan knows that, if this is somehow an elaborate prank that will end up just wasting Phil's time, but he's too curious to leave it alone. He'll just have to ask around, see if anyone else has heard these murmurings.

Til then, maybe he ought to try and get some sleep. Phil's computer, still open on the editing software, tempts him.

Well. What's another couple hours at this point?