#he gives her shit about it for approximately five minutes before genuinely asking if she's okay

[green-tea-lemonade]

C r o m c h

[criminalmindzjunkie]

I Carry Your Heart With Me (Part One)

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Summary: Spencer and the reader are reunited for the first time in fifteen years. 

A/N: Very excited to get the ball rolling on this one. I hope you all enjoy it! Message me if you would like to be added to the taglist.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Content Warnings: swearing

Word Count: 4.5k

“I cannot believe you talked me into this,” Damien mutters from the passenger seat, his icy blue eyes wide with fright. He pulls his gaze away just long enough to point at a lone cow grazing to the left of the road. “Look! That cow is just like… standing there. No fence around him or anything. What’s stopping him from stampeding into us the second we get out of this car?”

Damien sounds so genuinely horrified that you almost feel bad for laughing. Almost.

“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem, Dee. Besides, that cow didn’t even look up when we drove past. We’re not even on its radar.”

“Oh, yeah? Ever heard of a little thing called mad cow disease?” Damien persists, in typical dramatic flair. You roll your eyes at him and he curses underneath his breath. “You know, when I agreed to go with you to this wedding, I pictured something more akin to a five-star resort with a minibar and a heated pool. Not rogue livestock and shitty cellphone reception.”

“You didn’t agree to anything – you practically begged me to take you with me.”

Damien waves his hand, dismissive, his eyes still roaming over the pasture. “Because I wanted an excuse to take a week off work. This is not the controlled environment I expected.”  

“If you don’t quit complaining, I won’t hesitate to push you out of the car and leave you here with the cow,” you retort. In your periphery you’re able to make out Damien raising his middle finger to you. Rude.

You chuckle and fix your attention back on the dirt road. You’re driving almost painfully slowly, because the very idea of having to pay extra for damages to this already astronomically expensive rental car makes you feel nauseated. Despite your efforts, the car is covered entirely in dust. Its once pristine, white paint job has transformed into a muddy color.

There goes my deposit.

You shake your head at the thought. You had more pressing matters to concern yourself with; i.e., the fact that you were approximately five minutes away from coming face to face with the one person you swore you’d never speak to again. Two months seemed like ample time to prepare yourself in theory, but now that it is no longer some far-off thing, you know that your attempts at preparing yourself were in vain. With each day you crossed off the calendar leading to your departure date, your anxiety grew and grew until you worried your poor heart would give out under the stress. Getting onto the plane bound for Montana felt like the proverbial nail in the coffin, and a hefty dose of Dramamine was the only thing that kept you from spiraling as the plane ascended into the air. You slept through the entirety of the trip and, much to Damien’s chagrin, there is a sizeable puddle of drool on his left shoulder to prove it.

The lengthy nap helped. The tight band constricting your chest had loosened, and you pulled out onto the highway feeling refreshed and rejuvenated. You had Damien by your side and five vacation days to enjoy. Your best friend was getting married to the love of her life, and you were hellbent on standing by her side through it all. Spencer Reid can kiss your ass, as far as you are concerned. No way is he going to ruin this for you.

You are still very much clinging your take-no-shit mentality when you breach a hill and the ranch comes into view, effectively expelling every single positive thought from your head. Aforementioned anxiety reappears in full-force and you stomp down on the breaks.

“Fuck, I don’t think I can do this,” you squeak out, casting a look at Damien, whose eyes are trained on the sprawling expanse of the house ahead of you. “We can still turn around – no, we should turn around. There is no version of this that won’t end in me getting embarrassingly drunk and crying in front of everyone. I’m turning around.”

Damien’s hand on yours, strong and steady, is the only thing that keeps you from whipping the car around and retreating with your tail between your legs. His fingers pry your white knuckled grip off of the wheel slowly, his thumb rubbing reassuring circles across your skin. Its sweet and so overwhelmingly gentle that you’re a bit stunned. You glance at him in a silent question, as if to ask who are you, and what have you done with my friend?

He gets the message loud and clear, because of course he does. Damien fixes you with a smile, grip tightening on your hand.

“I’ve seen you hold your own against some of the biggest names in journalism on an almost daily basis – looking damn sexy while you do it, might I add,” Damien chuckles, and you can’t help but give a weak laugh of your own. Damien’s smile grows at this, and he continues, “If you can handle your business against those conniving pricks, I’ve no doubt that you can tough it out for this. You’re not the type of woman that lets some guy dictate what she does or doesn’t do. And you sure as hell aren’t the type of woman that would let some guy rob her of the opportunity to stand by her best friend on the most important day of her life. As the person who probably knows you better than anyone else on the planet, my opinion of you is pretty rock-solid, if I do say so myself. So, unless I’ve completely overestimated the extent of your badassery, I suggest you rethink that plan. What do you say?”

You avert your eyes and swallow against the lump in your throat.

“Spencer’s not just some guy. For a long time, I was convinced that he was the guy,” you whisper. The car is silent, save for the quiet crooning voice of George Michael flowing through the speakers. Damien squeezes your hand, prompting you to continue. You blink up at him with wet lashes, lips pulled into a sad smile. “Have you ever been in love?”

Damien shakes his head and rubs his thumb along the top of your hand. “I can’t say that I have, babe. Haven’t been that lucky.”

You let out a shaky breath and bring your other hand up to wipe at your eyes.

“Maybe you’re better off. I’ve only been in love once,” you gesture to your pitiful appearance and choke out a wet laugh. “Look where that got me. He fucking crushed me, and fifteen years later I’m still broken up about it. It’s pathetic.”

Damien frowns and shifts in his seat so that he’s fully facing you.

“I don’t want to hear you say that self-deprecating shit again. You were hurt by someone you gave your heart to, and I can only imagine how devastating that must feel. Being upset about seeing him again does not make you pathetic. The fact that you’re here, about to spend a week with the guy just so you can be there for Cassidy, is pretty damn admirable as far as I’m concerned.” Damien ends his monologue by pulling you into a tight hug, and you couldn’t be more thankful that he’d come with you. Not only was he a secret sweetheart, he also gave the very best hugs.

By the time he releases you, the tension in your chest has eased significantly. You nod once, and Damien’s rewards you with a smile.

“I am pretty cool, aren’t I?”

Damien snorts rather unattractively and rolls his eyes.

“I take back everything. You suck, and I don’t know why I bother with you, you narcissist.”

Now that the mood has lifted significantly, you reluctantly press your foot against the gas pedal.

“Too late. No takesies backsies,” you singsong. “You think I’m sexy and badass, and I’m never going to let you forget it.”

Damien mutters something undoubtably snarky underneath his breath, but it’s drowned out by the sound of gravel crunching underneath the tires. That, and the sound of your blood roaring in your ears as you inch further down the driveway.

The house, a beautiful log cabin with stone accents along the underside, is massive. Standing at two stories tall with a large wraparound porch and more than a dozen large windows, it’s a far cry from the modest little cabin in the mountains that Cassidy had made it out to be. Even Damien is slack jawed at the sight of it, sitting pretty against a back drop of rolling mountains, and you can’t help but feel a little smug.

“Still want to complain about that five-star resort?”

Damien shakes his head dazedly, “I retract my earlier complaint.”

All too soon, you roll to a stop and put the car in park. Several other cars are parked haphazardly in the grass around you, and that annoying voice inside your head wonders which one belongs to Spencer. It’s not that you care – you totally don’t – it’s just that you are kind of hoping that he hasn’t arrived yet. A few hours to acclimate to the environment before having to deal with him would be nice.

“You’ve got this, babe,” Damien murmurs. “And I’ll be with you the whole time, just in case you need a reminder.”

You flash Damien a nervous smile.

“You’re a really good friend, Dee. I’m really glad that you’re here,” you say, before narrowing your eyes at him. “If you tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it.”

Damien snorts and pushes open the door.

“Get your sassy ass out of the car. I’m ready to mingle.”

As soon as you set foot on the porch, the front door flies open and a flash of curly red hair precedes a collision that nearly sends you flying back into the railing. Ecstatic squeals rip through the otherwise serene evening air and two boney arms envelop you into a tight hug.

“I cannot believe you’re actually here,” Cassidy laughs as she squeezes you tight. Her enthusiasm has you joining in, the two of you laughing happily and pulling back to examine one another. Cassidy places a sloppy kiss to both of your cheeks before throwing an arm over your shoulder. “I fully expected you to just blow off the whole thing, if I’m being honest.”

You cast at Damien, who’s watching on with an amused grin on his face.

“Believe me, she tried.”

Cassidy turns her attention to Damien and extends her free hand.

“I take it you’re the infamous Damien that I’ve been trading emails with?”

Your eyebrows scrunch together in confusion, “Wait, what? The two of you have been emailing?”

Damien accepts Cassidy’s hand and gives it a firm shake, all while smiling smugly.

“Yep. Me and Ms. Cassidy go way back.”

“I mean, that’s cool, I guess, but why?”

Cassidy and Damien share a look, both of them shrugging.

“Mainly to talk about you,” Cassidy admits, not even bothering to look apologetic. When you frown up at her she waves her hand dismissively at you. “All good things, I promise. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.” Cassidy punctuates her words with a patronizing pat on your shoulder.

“I knew letting you two meet was a bad idea,” you grumble.

Cassidy simply drops her arms from its place on your shoulder in favor of tugging on your hand.

“Come on, sour puss. I want you to meet my husband. He’s a real sweetie – you’re gonna love him.”

A flash of white-hot panic shoots down your spine and you dig your heels into the floor.

“Wait,” you squeak out, eyes wide. “Is… Is he here yet?”

Cassidy’s eyes shine mischievously, briefly flitting up to Damien before returning to you.

“He is. And you’ll be happy to know that pictures do not do the Good Doctor any justice.”

Salt, meet wound.

“Don’t know why you’re telling me that,” you mutter.

“Denial is not just a river in Egypt, my friend,” Cassidy singsongs as she begins tugging you forward. For someone so tiny, she makes easy work of forcing you through the threshold.

The foyer is just as impressive as you expect it to be – beautiful cedar walls and a grand staircase that leads to the second floor. If you weren’t horribly on edge at the current moment, you would definitely comment on the fact that the foyer alone is probably larger than your entire apartment, but you’re too busy scanning the immediate area for tall skinny white guys with stupidly curly brown hair to comment on the grandiosity.

Cassidy leads the two of you to double doors to the right, and just as she’s about to push them open, the shrill ring of your cellphone offers you an out.

You slip your hand from Cassidy’s grip and give her a faux apologetic look.

“I should probably take this – it might be work.”

Damien narrows his eyes at you. “I thought you left your work phone at home.”

You ignore him and begin taking a few steps backwards, “Is there somewhere private I can go?”

An indiscernible look flashes across Cassidy’s face and then her lips pull up into a sugary sweet smile. “Follow the hallway to the very end. Leads to the back porch,” she says. “No need to rush. Take all the time you need!”

Okay, weird, you think to yourself, but the idea of putting off the inevitable for a few extra moments is too tempting to pass up, so you continue your retreat. You make it to the back door in record time and let out a relieved breath as you bring the phone to your ear.

“Hi, mom.”

“Hi, baby. I was just calling to make sure the two of you got there safely.”

You push open the back door and the breathtaking view of the ranch prompts you to take pause; sprawling fields and rolling hills as far as the eye can see, grazing livestock congregating near a lazy stream at the far end of the property, and several horses running across the expanse of the left field. It was wonderfully serene and vastly different from the bustling rat-race that was New York.

You smile to yourself when a loud moo rips through the otherwise quiet ranch. I could get used to this.

“Yeah, we made it,” you murmur into the receiver. “You would love this place, Mom. It’s probably the prettiest place I’ve ever been. I’ll send you a picture when I hang up.”

“How’s Cassidy? Still a little spit-fire, I assume?”

You lean against the railing and let out a snort, “Oh, absolutely. Don’t think that’ll ever change.”

“I’d hope not,” your mother hums. “How does Damien like the ranch?”

“He’s not exactly a fan of the livestock,” you chuckle. “Damien’s never even seen a real cow before. City boy through and through, that one.”

You and your mother share a laugh that dissolves into a comfortable silence. Comfortable, until the telltale clearing of your mother’s throat warns you of the impending inquisition.

“So,” your mother begins. “Are you going to tell me how it went, or are you going to leave an old woman wondering? “

You sigh and run a hand through your hair. “Fortunately, I have yet to run into him. I may or may not be hiding out on the back porch as we speak in an attempt to avoid just that.”

“Y/N,” your mother chastises. “Prolonging the inevitable isn’t going to make this any easier.”

“I know, I know. I’ll go in there soon. It’s just a lot, you know? I needed to take a breather, first.” Just until my hands stop shaking. Or until Cassidy comes hunting for me. Whichever comes first.

“I know, baby,” your mother coos. “I’m proud of you for trying. Just don’t drag things out, okay? You’ll only make yourself sick with nerves.” Unfortunately, that ship has sailed. The rolling in your stomach can attest to that.

           You laugh a humorless laugh, “I don’t know, Mom. You always like to remind me how stubborn I am. I’m sure if I put my mind to it, I can just avoid him for the entire week.”

           A tiny movement at the very corner of your vision and a loud creak makes you whip your head around, and what you see has your heart falling to your ass.

Spencer Reid, looking absolutely stunning in a pair of khaki dress pants and a white cable-knit sweater, sits in a porch swing with wide eyes and a book clutched tightly in his hands. Soft, caramel-colored curls frame his face and a five o’clock shadow runs the length of his jaw, adding a bit of grown-up flare to his otherwise boyish features.

He looks every bit as beautiful as he did on the day he broke your heart.

--

Spencer knows that he should have spoken up as soon as you walked onto the porch. It was immediately obvious that you hadn’t seen him, and he swears he’s one second away from clearing his throat and launching into the introduction he’d been planning for the last sixty days. But the words die on his tongue as he drinks in the sight of you.

You’re so close to him for the first time in years and it’s more than a little bit dizzying. And yeah, he’s used his very limited knowledge of how the internet works to Google you on more than one occasion, but the version of you leaning against the porch railing is a far cry from the pixelized one. A light breeze rolling through the air lifts your hair away from your face, and Spencer’s breath catches in his throat as he surveys every perfect inch, from the curl of your lashes to the smattering of freckles on your nose. He indulges himself, eyes settling on your cherry red lips, fascinated by the way they move as you talk on the phone. Spencer is intimately familiar with those lips – can recall the way they felt pressed against his own. The years spent apart have done nothing to dull the memories. He’s not entirely sure if that’s a good or a bad thing.

It amazes him how you’ve somehow managed to change a lot, but also not at all. You stand before him as an oxymoron personified, and it’s a lot for Spencer’s poor heart to take in. Your hair is a bit lighter than he remembers, as well as a little longer, but it still looks just as soft and he can recall with startling clarity how it felt when he used to run his fingers through it. You have a few more laugh lines than you did, as well as a scar on your left elbow that hadn’t been there before, but everything else about you is so painfully familiar that Spencer could almost pretend that no time had passed – that he still knows your body as well as he once did.

Spencer knows this isn’t true. Every seven years, the body resets; old cells destroyed and replaced with new ones. You’ve both spent enough time apart that your bodies have reset twice over. You’re as much of a stranger to him as he is to you.

Spencer positively abhors the thought.

The sound of your laughter pulls him from the depths of his mind, and while the laugh isn’t warm or inviting in the slightest, he relishes it. What was once one of his favorite sounds has existed in his head as only a memory for far too long. Hearing it in person is jarring in the best of ways.  

The euphoria he feels dies a horrible death when you speak again.

“I don’t know, Mom. You always like to remind me how stubborn I am. I’m sure if I put my mind to it, I can just avoid him for the entire week.”

Fucking ouch.

Spencer cringes hard, too hard, because the porch swing screeches out an angry creak and you whip around and holy shit, have your eyes always been that entrancing?

He watches as your entire body goes rigid, tensed as if you’re about to bolt. You blink hard, eyebrows drawn together to form an adorably bewildered expression as you assess him. Spencer hopes he doesn’t look too disheveled. He hadn’t even thought to freshen up after his trip, an oversight that he’s regretting terribly as your eyes flit over him.

Spencer isn’t sure why, but he stands up. Maybe it has something to do with feeling vulnerable. Maybe he just wants to close the distance. The two steps he takes towards you support the latter. He’s thankful that you don’t move away, but the blank expression on your face worries him.

The two of you stand five feet apart, but you feel worlds away. Spencer refrains from speaking for as long as he can stand, which is only about thirty seconds.

“Hi.”

Your lips part, and Spencer holds his breath.

“Hi.”

More silence. Spencer gulps.

“It’s good to see you,” he says, cautious. The last thing he wants to do is fuck up within the first five minutes. Unfortunately, his brain and his mouth seem to have some sort of disconnect, and Spencer continues against his better judgment. “It’s been a while.”

It’s been a while? That’s seriously the best I can come up with?

Spencer contemplates drowning himself in the nearby stream.

“It certainly has.”

“Five-thousand, five-hundred and seventeen days.” And roughly thirty-six and a half hours, but who’s counting?

Muted noises flow out of your phone speaker and you pull your eyes away from Spencer. He’s both relieved and devastated.

“Yeah, Mom, I’m fine. I just ran into someone. I’ll call you back later, okay?”

Spencer agonizes over the fact that he’s been reduced to someone while you and your mother exchange goodbyes. You’re smiling when you look up at him again, but Spencer’s seen what a genuine smile of yours looks like, and this isn’t it.

“I didn’t see you sitting there. My apologies.” Your formality makes the situation all the more excruciating.

Spencer lets out a nervous laugh, “I suppose avoiding me is out of the question now, huh?”

It’s hard to tell who’s more horrified by the words that tumble from his mouth, you or Spencer. A fierce flush spreads across your cheeks. It’s the first crack in your otherwise calm and collected exterior thus far and Spencer relishes in it. Maybe you’re not as unaffected by him as you seem.

“I… I’m sorry you had to hear that,” you stammer, blinking up at him with guilty eyes. “That wasn’t very kind of me.”

“Don’t worry about it. I can’t say that I’m undeserving of your anger,” Spencer whispers so quietly that he worries you don’t hear him over the gentle flow of the stream. The hardness that returns to your eyes lets him know that you heard every word.

You clear your throat, signaling your unwillingness to discuss that particularly painful topic. “You’re still partial to Cummings, I see.” You gesture to the book clutched tightly against his chest.

Now, it’s Spencer’s turn to blush. The book in his hands, tattered and worn from years of use, is incriminating. The two of you both know what lies just beneath the binding. The fact that Spencer has it with him now makes him think that he might as well be wearing a t-shirt that reads, I’M STILL NOT OVER YOU.

Spencer raises a hand to scratch at the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah. Old habits die hard, I guess.” His eyes scour your face for a sign of anything that might clue him in to you feeling the same way. A flicker of something dances across your face, but it’s gone so quickly that he can’t be sure if he imagined it. He forces a nervous smile. “If I remember correctly, he was your favorite.” It’s a shitty attempt at a joke.

You exhale a shaky breath and to his absolute horror, your lower lip begins to wobble. He wishes he could reach up and pluck his words from where they hang heavy in the air.

“Not anymore,” you murmur, and fuck if that doesn’t absolutely wreck him.

Spencer shouldn’t ask, but he can’t help himself. “Oh. Why not?”

He holds his breath, anxiously anticipating your next words. You seem to be battling with yourself, mouth opening and closing several times. Spencer is content to wait as long as it takes for you to answer, but the universe is much more impatient than he.

The door leading onto the porch swings open and out walks an honest to God Abercrombie and Fitch model. Or at least, a man who meets the qualifications and then some. Long, flowing blonde hair and a crisp white dress shirt makes Spencer’s unruly brown mop and dumpy sweater look pitiful in comparison. Spencer frowns.

“Sweetheart, you’ve been out here for like ten minutes,” the man chastises as he closes the distance between you and him. Spencer watches him wrap his arm around your shoulders and pull you to him like someone might watch a car wreck happen; with equal parts horror and morbid curiosity. “You can’t hide out forever.”

All traces of rigidity leave your body and you melt into the man’s side. It happens in such a way that screams familiarity, as if the pet name hadn’t already driven that point home. The awful, gut-wrenching realization slams home and Spencer has to fight to keep his knees from buckling.

“Uh, sorry,” you mumble, before nodding your head in Spencer’s direction. “Damien, this is Spencer Reid.”

The man’s – Damien’s - eyes go almost comically wide as they settle on Spencer’s dejected frame, before schooling into a cool indifference. He offers him a polite smile that’s a little tight around the edges, but doesn’t outstretch his hand.

“Ah, Spencer. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Spencer swallows hard to keep himself from barking out a crazed laugh. He’s heard of me! That’s certainly something, considering the fact that no one thought it necessary to tell Spencer that you have a –

Spencer’s eyes dart down to your left hand. Thankfully, mercifully, your ring finger is bare.

“Uh, y-yeah. It’s nice to meet you.” The words burn as they roll off his tongue.

Damien nods at him before turning back to you. There’s an unmistakable fondness in the way he looks at you as he speaks. “Cassidy wants everyone back inside. They’re about to serve dinner.”

You smile up at him, not even casting a parting glance at Spencer before Damien leads you back inside. Spencer stands there long after the door closes behind the two of you.

The book feels heavy in his hands.

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[nugnthopkns]

dance me to the end of love (ii)

word count: 3.3k

warnings: fem!oc, alcohol consumption, cursing

series masterpost: here

a/n: part two baby! thanks for all the love on part one, it means the absolute world. i have so much love for this story and i hope people are enjoying it :))

Life is settling into a comfortable rhythm.

After spending a good chunk of her young adult life being incredibly studious, Magdalene can finally have the social life of someone in their mid-twenties. Though she’s still spending a fair amount of time by herself in the basements of the University of Denver’s library, Bette convinces her to go out more. Magdalene tries to fight, citing extra work or a good book as an excuse to stay home, but it doesn’t work very often. The pleas of her friend are how Magdalene finds herself currently lounging poolside at Erik Johnson’s house on a Sunday afternoon.

“How’s the new career treating you?” Tyson asks. “I feel like we haven’t seen you in a while.”

Magdalene laughs. “I’ve seen Bette plenty,” she says, “She thinks I won’t take a lunch break unless she shows up.”

“Would you?” the blonde girl questions with a quirked brow.

“Probably not.”

“I rest my case.”

A small crowd gathers around as Magdalene begins to detail the specifics of her job, but she doesn’t feel as uncomfortable as she once would have. In the month or so since graduating school she’s found herself slowly being incorporated into the Avalanche family. It’s almost certainly because Bette and Tyson championed her case, explaining that she doesn’t have much of a support system beyond the two of them, but she doesn’t mind. A few of the guys ask her questions about her work, curious as to why someone would want to spend their life combing through piles of old things. Everyone stays engaged in the conversation until there’s a shout from the kitchen that dinner is ready.

Magdalene shuffles in line behind André, filling her plate with various pasta salads and a hamburger. Once situated with enough food for two meals she returns to the pool deck, sitting on the edge and dipping her toes into the cool water. Bette comes and finds her a minute later and the two of them begin to eat.

She’s still relatively new to the group’s dynamic, but Magdalene can’t help but notice that Ryan is never around. In fact, Magdalene hasn’t seen him since her graduation party. Taking a casual sip of her wine cooler, she asks her friend about the man’s absence.

“Why is Ryan never at these sorts of things?”

Bette shrugs. “Isn’t a huge one for parties. He was supposed to come today, but I guess something came up.”

“I’m not huge on parties,” Magdalene huffs, “But that doesn’t stop you from dragging me to every single one.”

“Unlike you, Gravy gets enough regular social interaction that his absence is permissible. If Tyson and I didn’t take you out you’d talk to your cat more than normal.”

She wants to fight back, but knows it’s pointless. Bette has a point – if it weren’t for her the only people Magdalene would interact with are her boss and her cat. Instead, she grumbles under her breath and changes the subject to the trip Bette is in the middle of planning. It’s coming up in a few weeks, and Magdalene wants to hear a bit more about it before she commits. Despite what she thought about taking time off so close to starting work, it was encouraged by June, but she's refraining from telling Bette that. If it doesn’t sound like she'll enjoy it, Magdalene is banking on being able to use the excuse.

Bette explains that she’s renting a large lake house that is perfect for a relaxing week away from adult responsibilities. The property has kayaks and a hot tub, which pretty much ensures that Magdalene will want to be in attendance. She’ll hold onto that information for a little while longer though, if for no other reason to make Bette squirm a little. At some point Tyson comes to sweep his girlfriend away and leaves Magdalene at the party alone. She makes polite conversation with some other players for a while before heading home herself. Ryan never shows up, despite how much Magdalene hopes he will. At the very least she wants to properly thank him for doing her a favour, though her hoping to see him is much more selfish. He intrigues her and she wants to know more about the tall man with the dazzling smile and a proclivity for wearing all black.

☼☼☼☼

Barn Owl Book Company is filled to the brim when Magdalene approaches the store from the side street it annexes. She should’ve expected it – it’s the first of the month and their newest books are hitting the shelves. However, Magdalene doesn’t exactly have time to wait in line. June gave her only fifteen minutes to run and grab them coffee before they continue the massive task of digitizing a private collection that has just been donated to the university. She estimates it will take almost a month of extended hours to get everything done, and Magdalene believes it. There’s so much to wade through but she knows the end result will be satisfying.

Luckily the café line is fairly short, and Magdalene reaches the counter in a timely manner. “Hey,” she greets the barista warmly, “Could I just grab two medium iced cappuccinos?”

“Anything else?”

“No, that's everything. It’ll be on debit,” she smiles. Magdalene reaches into her backpack to grab her wallet only to find that it’s missing. Shit. The barista has already left to make the drinks, completely unaware that her customer is unable to pay.

Magdalene hears a voice from behind her say, “I’ve got it, don’t worry.” She turns around to find Ryan Graves standing there with a book tucked under his right arm.

“You’re a lifesaver,” she mumbles appreciatively. “I don’t know how my boss would take it if I showed up empty handed.”

Ryan laughs shyly as he pulls his card away from the machine. “I get it, everyone needs a little caffeine this time of year.” The barista comes back with Magdalene’s drinks, which she takes with a smile and a wish for a good day. The two of them head towards the exit, and Ryan pauses once they’re on the sidewalk. “Which way are you headed?”

“Back to work,” Magdalene says, nodding her head in the direction of campus. “I’ve got approximately five minutes to get there before June rips me a new one.”

“June?”

“She’s my boss,” she explains.

Ryan nods in understanding. “I’ll see you around Magdalene,” he smiles, turning on his heel and heading the opposite direction.

In a moment of bravery, Magdalene yells at his retreating figure. “Will you? We never seem to cross paths.”

“I’ll be at Bette and Tyson’s this weekend, and I’m counting on your company.”

Magdalene finds it incredibly hard to focus the rest of the afternoon. She keeps thinking about what Ryan said, which makes her a rather lousy archivist. June sends her home just after seven even though they had plans to stay until ten, citing the fact that she’s scanned the same photo three times before noticing. Caligula’s meowing for pets when she gets home isn’t even enough to distract her from the comment. The absentmindedness continues for another day or so, and it’s becoming so bad Magdalene is worried that June is going to fire her for incompetence.

It’s only when Bette calls to invite her over for dinner and drinks that her mind levels out. “I was wondering when I was going to get the call,” she chuckles absentmindedly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” is the response Magdalene receives.

“Well,” she explains, “I ran into Ryan at Barn Owl the other day and he paid for my drinks because I left my wallet on the table at work, and he said he expected to see me at your place this weekend. So if you never invited me I was just going to show up.”

Bette is smiling, that much Magdalene can infer by the lull in conversation. “I haven’t got the time to call you yet,” she concedes, “But consider this the official invitation to our house for a small party.”

“Anything we’re celebrating?”

“Nope. Have you ever needed a reason to party?”

Magdalene laughs. “Yes. Need one almost every time actually.”

The rest of the week passes fairly quickly. To make up for her blundering earlier in the week Magdalene offers to work a full day on Saturday, by herself, to get the project back on track. June accepts the proposition eagerly, and Magdalene lets Bette know she’ll be coming directly from work. Saturday rolls around and she spends most of her time getting lost in the past lives of the artefacts she’s dealing with. If someone were to ask Magdalene what her favourite part of archiving is, that’s the answer she’d give. There’s nothing more satisfying to her than holding a piece of history in her hands and imagining all the stories it would be able to tell if it could speak.

By the time she’s put in a full work day and finishes locking up the basement floor her department occupies, Magdalene is pretty sure they’re ahead of schedule on the project. She genuinely feels terrible about her misperformance and hopes June will be able to forgive her. On the way to Bette and Tyson’s Magdalene listens to the Leonard Cohen greatest hits cd that came with her car. The previous owner was presumably a big fan, and over the years Magdalene has come to appreciate the folk singer. She never got to see him in concert before his death but turns to his music when she needs to relax. Right now is the perfect time to listen to ‘Hallelujah’ on repeat because she’s seriously freaking out about the idea of spending the night talking to Ryan. Though she still wants to properly thank him and possibly become friends, something about him makes Magdalene nervous.

There’s no way for her to tell if Ryan is there when she parks in front of the house. She doesn’t know what kind of car he drives, or if he caught a ride with someone. Magdalene debates texting Bette to see if he’s there already but decides against it, knowing she’s an adult who is more than capable of pushing down nerves.

She doesn’t bother knocking and just steps into the respectably sized home. The music is loud enough that no one would have heard her anyways. It’s much more of a party than Magdalene was expecting – Bette invited her for dinner and drinks, not a gathering that could pass as a frat party. There are bodies everywhere, and she isn’t sure if she’ll ever catch a glimpse of her friend.

“You seem to be dressed for the wrong kind of party,” a voice chuckles from behind her.

Magdalene turns to see Ryan leaning against the wall, eyeing her business casual attire. “I came from work,” she explains, “And didn’t know it was this kind of party to begin with. I would’ve at least brought a change of clothes.”

“You look terribly out of place,” he agrees. “Can I grab you a drink? The hosts are too busy playing beer pong to, you know, be hosts.”

A giggle escapes Magdalene’s lips at the comment. Ryan seems to have a similar sense of humor to her, which will be beneficial for passing the time if Bette is already on her way to being wasted. “A glass of red wine would be nice.”

Ryan pushes off from his perch and heads towards the kitchen. The crowd parts for the six-foot-five hockey player, and Magdalene follows in his wake quite easily. Knowing the space as well as her, Ryan grabs a wine glass from the cupboard Bette keeps them in and pours the dark red liquid into it. He waits until Magdalene has situated herself on the island before handing her the cup. She takes it with an appreciative hum and waits until he’s grabbed a beer for himself before raising her glass in toast. Ryan does the same, and their glasses clink before each of them take a sip.

“What exactly is it that you do? I bet it’s something super cool and studious, but I seriously don’t know what the hell being an archivist means.”

Magdalene explains her job to Ryan, who is extremely interested. He asks nearly a hundred follow-up questions that she answers sincerely, throwing in a few jokes that luckily crack him up. Conversation moves to his career and then life. Magdalene learns that he’s from Nova Scotia, though he stays around Denver these days, and that if he wasn’t playing professional hockey he’d like to have a career in publishing. Ryan doesn’t press too hard when Magdalene refuses to open up about her family, which she appreciates. It’s a delicate subject that she keeps guarded close to her chest, and a friend’s kitchen in the middle of a party isn’t the place for her to divulge her deepest secrets.

The two of them get refills before exiting the room. Even more people seemed to arrive since Magdalene walked through the door, and the kitchen is no longer an empty safe haven. The music is so loud she can feel the bass thumping in her chest, giving the living room a club-like atmosphere, and it’s too much. Magdalene tugs at the hem of Ryan’s sweater to catch his attention. “Want to go somewhere quiet?”

“I doubt there is such a place,” he yells over the crowd going crazy over some early 2000s hip-hop track.

“Follow me,” she says with a smile, pointing over her shoulder in the direction of the staircase to the second floor.

It takes a minute for them to wade through the throngs of people, but it goes much faster once Ryan takes Magdalene’s hand and splits the crowd. A few boys, who don’t look older than twenty-one and almost certainly snuck into the party, notice where the pair are going and shout congratulations. Ryan shoots them a glare so sharp it could cut stone but doesn’t drop Magdalene’s hand. Once safely on the much quieter second floor, Magdalene makes a beeline for the bathroom.

“Are you coming or what?” she asks when there doesn’t seem to be footsteps following her.

Ryan hesitates. “I, uh, can just wait out here while you’re in there,” he stammers.

Magdalene’s laugh rings out through the empty hallway. “I’m not going to the bathroom. We’re going out the window.”

He isn’t sure how that’s any better, but Ryan follows the brown-haired girl into the room. It takes considerably more work for him to fit through the frame, but after some directions from Magdalene he makes it onto the roof. She sits down and pats the space beside her, encouraging Ryan to do the same. They stay out there, discussing anything that comes to their heads, until the party’s numbers dwindle drastically. Magdalene makes sure to properly thank him for both attending her graduation and spotting her coffee money, and she thinks Ryan might blush a little when she offers to get the next round. He asks about her love of The West Wing, and they launch into a long conversation about the show and cast. The sun fades to black and the cold sets in, and Magdalene finds herself wrapped in Ryan’s sweater without asking. It’s only when she notices it’s approaching midnight that Magdalene clues into how tired she is.

“I think I’m going to head out,” she yawns. Ryan nods in agreement and holds the window open for her to slip in through. Once downstairs, Magdalene goes to lift the sweater from her frame but Ryan stops her.

“Keep it for drive home. I’ll get it back next time we see each other.”

Still feeling bold from the alcohol that left her system hours ago, she reaches out to poke him in the chest. “And when will that be, hm? You seem to enjoy leaving our meetings up to chance.”

It’s Ryan’s turn to laugh. “Think you can swing an extended lunch break on Wednesday? I’ll be at Barn Owl all afternoon. Maybe you can join me for a coffee.”

Magdalene likes the sound of that and agrees. She leaves without seeing Bette or Tyson once, but she doesn’t mind. They’d be happy for her blooming friendship – or at least she’s pretty sure they will be once she calls to fill them in on the details.

☼☼☼☼

Wednesday rolls around without incident, and Magdalene is given a full hour to eat instead of thirty minutes. Walking time has to be accounted for, of course, but she should have nearly forty-five minutes to spend with Ryan if she plays her cards right. There’s no crowd this time, and it’s incredibly easy to spot Ryan sitting in the window she loves to claim as her own.

“Hey,” Magdalene greets, “Did Bette tell you to sit here?”

He shakes his head, perplexed at the question. “No, why?”

“It’s just my favourite seat in the store, that’s all. I thought she told you how to gain some extra brownie points.”

“Should I be concerned about the amount of points I have?” Ryan teases, sliding a cup and pastry bag across the table and into her hands.

Magdalene shakes her head, smiling widely. “You’re doing alright so far. Keep up the good work.”

They eat at a comfortable pace, taking breaks to engage in interesting topics of conversation or take sips of their drinks. Ryan insists his life is boring, but Magdalene is enthralled by the stories he tells. It’s completely different from hers and she feels as though she can live vicariously through the tales of walking through the historic downs of the east coast and swimming in the Pacific Ocean on days off in California. After squeezing every story possible from the man Magdalene shifts gears slightly.

“So, are you going on the trip in a couple of weeks?”

“It’s looking that way,” Ryan shrugs with relative indifference, “Nate doesn’t think he’ll be able to come back, something about a development camp he’s running having the dates switched. He’s asked me to take his spot.”

His neutral mood confuses her. When Bette mentioned his probable attendance months ago, it sounded like he was enthusiastic about spending a week with friends doing nothing to swimming and drinking. “You don’t want to go?” Magdalene probes.

“It’s not that I don’t want to, but sometimes the group parties a little harder than I like to,” he sighs, raising a hand and running it through his hair. That’s something she understands completely, having spent a few too many nights being the sober one out.

“I’ll be there.” It’s Magdalene’s turn to shrug, but the comment holds an incredible amount of hope.

“Well then, that changes everything.”

Was Ryan flirting with her? She spends the rest of lunch thinking about the possibility, and truthfully, it occupies her brain for the rest of the day. However, she keeps her focus and June is none the wiser to the butterflies in her stomach. Work finishes without much fanfare, and her dinner is silent save for the few meows of conversation Caligula offers. It’s late by the time Magdalene falls into bed, cat snuggled into the pillow beside her. On a whim she decides to check Instagram and sees a message request from none other than the man who’s smile has been replaying in her mind. A follow request accompanies it.

Thought that maybe we could quit leaving our meetings to chance and plan something next time :)

He has to be flirting. There’s no other explanation for the witty banter they’ve shared this week, or why he’s reaching out to her on social media. The butterflies in her stomach multiply tenfold as Magdalene types out a reply.

I don’t know, it’s kind of fun being shrouded in mystery. However, I now have the opportunity to stalk your profile ;)

Before she can overthink her use of the emoji, Magdalene shoves her phone in the drawer of her nightstand and rolls over. A slight smile can’t help but appear on her features as she falls asleep, already curious about what his reply will be.

☼☼☼☼

taglist: @scrunchmakar @marcoscandellas @toplinetommy @samsteel @lovethepreds (add yourself to the taglist!)

[danny-chase]

The Batfam as Tech Majors

AU where Alfred got tired of watching Bruce slap duct tape on the Batmobile and call it good, so he forced the children into college. He makes each of them complete an internship with Lucius in R and D so they have better knowledge of how the devices that their lives depend on work. Majors/minors/tropes under cut.

Dick:

Mechanical Engineering Major

He was in undeclared engineering for as long as possible

He settled on mechanical because it seemed the most broad

Plus he joined a car club, loved it, and there were a ton of MechE’s there

He ends up taking credit overloads most semesters because he always finds 1-3 random classes that he wants to take

Despite taking everything from advanced computer science classes (he somehow convinces even the most intense professors to let him into their classes) to hyper specific phycology classes, he doesn’t have any minors to show for it

He just gets bored with the subject after a couple classes

This gives him a bunch of random knowledge

When he talks to his younger siblings about classes, somehow he’s always managed to take at least one that they’re in, and offers advice.

He has the best RA stories. He most certainly did not need to be an RA. But the school was hurting for them and he thought it would be fun.

His residents loved him, but that didn’t stop them from playing beer pong in the common spaces at 3am.

He founds a circus arts club after his residents pull up information about his past and get overly excited about it

Specifically, he finds out they know about his past, because one of them decided it was a good idea to try and juggle knives, and because he’d prefer there not to be any additional bloodstains on the carpet he decides to start the club

He nearly graduated late because he forgot he needed to take specific classes for his major

Barbara: 

Computer Science/Math duel Major

She’s a TA for Comp Sci 1, all the students fight to get her help because she’s amazing at spotting bugs and is super patient

Somehow she’s the president of 3 clubs and is on student senate

She’s the curve breaker

She gets homework assignments meant to take a week done the day they’re assigned

She and Dick went to a single party together, stayed for five minutes, decided it was too loud, and went to get ice cream

Along with her club, she’s in professional organizations, and is part of a women in STEM mentoring program

She started a petition to get more wheel chair ramps installed. Half the buildings are protected under some “historical grounds” bs that’s an excuse for not being accommodating

The petition didn’t go anywhere at first, but it was widely shared on social media and made the school look horrible, so they implemented some of her proposals

Jason:

Philosophy/Cognitive Science duel Major

He gets asked “There’s a philosophy major?” every time he has to do one of those stupid what’s your name and major icebreakers

Jason lives in the library

He’s fallen asleep in there at 3am after it gets locked up

He quotes philosophers at his siblings when they’re being annoying, and it effectively shuts them up, because he only quotes the most nonsensical arguments

He gets involved with the college’s community outreach program

He volunteers for a local robotics team

When people find out his majors, they’re genuinely confused, because he understands robotics really well

He lies his ass off about being really interested in it as a child

Dick convinced him to be an RA for a semester, and he almost had a heart attack

Someone choked in front of him on the first day

Despite seeming like a tough RA, he genuinely cared about his residents and had to quit because he was so stressed out that one of them would do something stupid and die

Cass:

Innovation/Design Major

She’s really observant, so she’s great at spotting flaws in infrastructure and coming up with ways to fix them

Spending time with Barbara made her realize the lack of systems designed with wheelchair users in mind

Her experience being illiterate and not knowing English has imprinted on her the need for signage that can be understood by anyone

She focuses on taking project based classes, where she can draw out her designs and build them, rather than figuring out the math behind them

She has patents for the inventions she created at WE

She was exempted from the “Alfred’s mandatory college degree program” but decided to go as a part time student for herself

It took her twice as long to graduate, and a lot of tutoring from her siblings, but she made it!

The family threw her an extra special party when she graduated - everyone else had minor celebratory dinners, but they went all out for Cass

There was not a dry eye at her graduation ceremony

Cass works part time with WE on and off as a designer after her first internship

She comes up with ideas during patrols, draws them and sends them to Lucius

Tim:

Computer Science Major with a minor in game design

He makes it to approximately 20% of his lectures

He nearly didn’t graduate on time because he put off his humanity courses for so long

He missed the actual ceremony, even though the family showed up

He starts all his assignments the day before they’re due

If at all possible he avoids groupwork and offers to do assignments by himself because he gives his teammates heart attacks when he starts his part the project at 3pm the day before it’s due

This leads to extremely frequent all-nighters

He always finds himself rewriting everyone else’s code to make it work more efficiently

This can, of course, cause some people to feel a little upset

Other students specifically seek him out as a teammate so they can half ass their parts

He participates in game jams when he has time, and got super into the hacking club

Against all odds, he joined a fraternity

Dick literally fell off a building when he found out

He makes up stories about partying for the heck of it, when in reality he and the guys just play Smash Bros together until 3am

He hasn’t seen anyone drink more than two beers, and he hasn’t tried alcohol there either

He joined on accident, he had just pulled an all-nighter and stumbled into a recruiting fair, he heard someone shouting about Mario Kart Double Dash, and bada bing bada boom, he agreed to rush because it involved being stuck in a room playing video games all weekend

Steph:

Civil Engineering Major with minors in Sustainability and STSS (Science, Technology, and Social Science) 

She gets constantly shit on for being a civie

Every time she introduces herself someone mumbles “fake mechie” in the background

She and Jason complain about the disrespect together

She was genuinely shocked when Bruce offered to pay for her college tuition

She’d been planning on going and cutting costs any way possible

But Bruce took her aside when she was applying and offered to pay it all

She refused at first, but then money just appeared in her bank account, and what was she supposed to do, give it back?

She also participates in professional groups and is a member of SWE (Society of Women Engineers), and she mentors younger students

She ends up as class president by running a very successful social media meme campaign

She got and email saying she’d won and panicked because she had no idea what she was doing and was just having fun making memes

She ended up staying class president the entire time, and ended up getting really into it, and ended up with a pretty solid approval rating

She joined a sorority and had a blast

They worked with the local animal shelter, and she started bringing Damian along as well

Her sisters think he’s adorable and he secretly enjoys the attention

She gets her revenge on all the civil engineering haters by landing her dream job redesigning the poorer areas of Gotham to include more green spaces, increase affordable housing, and upgrading access to utilities

Duke:

Biochemisty Major with a minor in Neuroscience 

Harper, Tim, Steph, and him are all in the same year

Tim convinces him to join the fraternity with him

He joins a variety of professional groups as well

He mentors other BIPOC, and joins NSBE (National Society of Black Engineers) and runs helps run professional development programs

But he’s also in like million other clubs that he does not put on his resume

He’s runs the college’s meme page club, is part of the Pokémon Go club, is on the competitive Overwatch team, consistently attends the anime club’s Dragon Ball Z watch parties, joins the Dance Dance Revolution club, and the list goes on and on

When Tim is awake, and Harper isn’t busy, they go with him, but both of them have too much inconsistencies in their schedule to join

He ends up meeting like half the campus

He unintentionally has become a god of networking

Unlike his siblings, he goes all the way for a doctorate

He researches Joker venom, determined to figure out a cure for his parents (in my HC, he eventually does)

He wins like every award imaginable for his groundbreaking research into venoms as he comes up with vaccines that save countless lives

He still works on the meme page, even after he graduates

Harper:

She somehow defies all odds and triple majors in Physics, Mechanical Engineering, and Electrical Engineering

She takes credit overload every semester, and gets credit for her internships at WE

She and Steph were roommates freshman year, and Steph swears that Harper never sleeps

She is the most wanted partner for every engineering project

She thrives in college, and lives off of coffee

She’s in the front row in every lecture

She doesn’t leave the lecture halls, she’s gotten locked in more than once after falling asleep

She had a heart attack the first time she saw students using the machine shop

Half the students weren’t wearing safety glasses, she counted three people wearing slides, the machines were rusted over, the soldering irons were all broken, and she nearly watched someone break their wrist using a power drill

She refuses to work there

Her secret to success is prioritizing - she absorbs the material like a sponge so if homework is only worth 5%, it isn’t getting done, and she’ll just cram before the exam

She almost joined Tim and Duke’s frat (it’s co-ed), but she didn’t have the time

They let her in without rushing senior year because Tim ended up as the boss, and he said so

Cullen:

I don’t know a ton about Cullen, but I feel like he would be a comp sci major

He comes in when Harper, Tim, Duke, and Steph are upperclassmen, and he joins all of Duke’s clubs

They have a million inside jokes

To the other siblings, it seems like the two have their own language

He also joins a club that mentors LGTBQ+ students at the local high school, and encourages them to pursue STEM careers if they’re interested

Jason recruits him as a mentor for the robotics team (he’s the lead mentor at this point) after some of the kids in his mentoring program mention him at a meeting and Jason is like O.O

He avoids parties at all costs, and ends up joining the frat as well

It’s all Duke’s fault he’s in a frat

He does however, meet some lovely boys in the frat

Damian: 

Aerospace Engineering/Environmental Engineering dual Major with minors in sustainability and biology

He nearly riots when he’s presented with the college’s idea of a vegetarian/vegan meal

He manages to get out of the meal plan after that, and begins rallying students to push for better options that contain actual protein

He joins a community service club that works with the local animal shelter, and secretly joins the circus arts club (that’s thriving even without Dick there)

He learns how to sew blankets out of old clothes for the animals

He and Barbara are the only siblings to graduate with a 4.0, simply because they were the only one that took the time to actually do all the homework, and remembered to turn things in on time

He refuses to live in the dorms, and instead lives in one of their apartments nearby (once again somehow managing to complain to the college enough to get his housing waived)

He literally walked in once when visiting Duke, and immediately walked out, and resolved never to step near one again

He makes a total of three friends while at the school, both are in the animal shelter club

They exchange vegetarian/vegan recipes, and get together to cook

He decides to move off campus with them his junior year when they needed another roommate, and he won’t admit it to his siblings, but he had a ton of fun

He and his friend group may have joined an animal rights hacktivist group and may have helped orchestrate some major hacks

Poisson Ivy finds out and feeds him targets and information when they’re supposed to be fighting (she just walks back to Arkham if the others aren’t watching, and slips him a list at the end)

Bonus Bruce:

He cries at every graduation

He’s asked to make a speech at every graduation

He never does - it’s about his kids, not him

He single handedly is keeping the school from bankruptcy - not that any of his kids (other than probably Barbara) know

He sobbed for days after Cass graduated

He genuinely didn’t expect Dick or Tim to graduate

After Dick graduated, he wouldn’t let Bruce touch any of the equipment, and the rest of his kids followed suit

He isn’t actually bad at engineering, his education was just super informal, and hey duct tape works 95% of the time in his experience

The real reason Alfred was annoyed was because he refused to take the time to properly fix something if someone was in danger, and then he’d forget that he’d just used duct tape to patch something

But now since no one lets him touch anything, he’s genuinely lost a lot of the knowledge

But in a pinch, he can fix stuff

[kareofbears]

desperate as that sounds

Five times Ryuji ran for Akira (and one time he ran for himself.)

—  

read on ao3 or below the cut :)

It’s 4:45 am with the weather sitting at a brutal -3 degrees when Ryuji really starts wishing that he brought another jacket.

People are lined around Akihabara by the hundreds outside of closed electronic stores, and the sun has yet to even rise. Some people are yawning, some are clutching their rapidly cooling coffee in a death grip, and most have dark, purple bags underneath their eyes—proof of the battle scars that they’ve acquired. Every person here had the same goal in mind: To get what they need and get out as quick as possible.

As it turns out, if everyone has that same mindset, it creates the violent, yearly November tradition that is Black Friday.

Glancing around, he notices that people came in packs, teams. Teenagers and pre-pubescent kids are all scuffling around, hyping themselves up and creating strategies for the war to come. The more seasoned veterans of the yearly massacre came in pairs—the smaller the group, the faster you move, the move land you cover.

At the biggest electronic store in a region that’s already been nicknamed ‘Electronic Town,’ he is fourth in line—an impressive feat, especially for a first-timer. But it came with a heavy toll: he is completely and utterly alone.

”Skull, do you read me?”

Well, physically alone, anyway.

“Loud and clear,” he replies, readjusting the mic in his ear. “Not that I mind, but what’s with the codenames?”

Futaba scoffs. “You think Black Friday is just about the physical aspect? Foolish boy—the psychological aspects are half the battle. If I get you into the mindset that we’re in a Palace, then you’ll get into infiltration mode, and you’ll be OP compared to the nerds out there.”

“Ooo, I like it! Your brain is effin’ galaxy sized!”

“I do what I can for my faithful pack mule.”

“I’ll try not to take that personally.”

His deal with Futaba had been a simple one. She helps Ryuji navigate the horrors of Akihabara during Black Friday in exchange that he acts as what is essentially a drug trafficker sans the drugs. Despite her rigorous societal training she’d undergone with the Thieves, something about entering a borderline stampede still seems somewhat unappealing to her. Besides, he doesn’t mind. He’d always wanted to do something nice for Futaba anyway, and the store that has her computer thing is the same store that holds what he needs.

”Five minutes to go,” her voice crackles into his ear. ”Infiltration route—go!”

Their deal had also come in with an intense tutorial session that ended up lasting until one in the morning. “Floor 4, down 3 aisles, 8 steps in, turn right, second shelf, grab a box that says ‘GTX graphics card.’ Pink, if possible.”

“A+, Skull! You know, if you can memorize that, I seriously don’t get why you’re failing English verbs.”

“Please, this is actually important.”

Futaba cackles. “Now you’re speaking my language. With your legs and my navigation, this’ll basically be a Tuesday afternoon in Leblanc.”

People around him are starting to straighten up, some going as far as to remove the extra layer of clothing and shoving it in backpacks for maximum speed and minimum restrictions. “Damn, people here look more intense than some dudes in my track meets.”

“If you’re throwing out portable chargers with 30-hour battery life for only 800 yen, you’d be a little intense too.”

Ryuji scoffs and begins to stretch, being extra sure to get his right thigh. “I’m plenty intense. Just last Saturday, I almost beat the Big Bang Burger challenge.”

“Pretty sure Akira beat that on his second week in Tokyo. You know, you still haven’t told me why you’re bothering with this whole Black Friday mess. I didn’t peg you for an electronics type of guy, and your phone is as crappy as your posture.”

“Rude! But I can’t argue with that.” He starts to run in place, and for a brief second, he wonders if he should’ve packed a protein shake.

“Well, too late now. If your thing sells out because you didn’t want to give your Navi information, that’s on you.”

“Gimme some credit, Futaba,” an employee who looks equal parts sleep-deprived and terrified approaches the glass doors. “Ain’t no way in hell I’m failing either of us this morning.”

The glass slides open, and as if sunlight was released from the captivity of the clouds, or perhaps a meteor just broke through the earth’s atmosphere, the people start pushing, shoving, and flooding inside. The crowd looked both impenetrable and unwavering; an unstoppable force and an immovable object rolled into one giant stream of desperate shoppers.

Ryuji spares a split-second to crack his neck. Mission Start.

The moment he breaks through the initial threshold, people who were only one step behind him suddenly became ten, twenty, thirty. Weaving through crowds and aisles with the precision of a seamstress, Ryuji evades it all with ease.

”Skull, status report.”

“Smooth sailing, Oracle!” He ducks as an overly buff businessman turns around with a 3-metre pole used for studio lighting threatens to bash his head in. “You’re totally right about the codenames, by the way. It’s almost like I’ve got Captain with me.”

“Right?” She laughs. “It’s all about the mindset.”

Ryuji turns, and finally gets to the stairs—the most brutal section and the biggest gamble. It’s the reason why it was essential that he’s one of the first in line. Once the stairs get jammed with people, it’s game over. Making a mad dash up four flights of stars, he thanks any God that may be that Palaces are fantastic for rehab.

He makes it to the top, panting. It’s empty, save for a few nervous-looking employees. He hopes the smile he throws their way came off as ‘pleasant and grateful for their service’ rather than ‘a delinquent asshole who might steal loads of shit.’

“Down 3 aisles, 8 steps,” he mutters to himself as he quickly scans the fourth floor. “Turn right, second shelf,” eyes landing on his target, he grins. “I effin’ rock.”

”You got it?”

“Of course I did!” He fist pumps before swiping the box. In his excitement, he nearly runs over to give a random employee a high-five. “Alright Oracle, you’re up.”

”I love you so much in a non-weird way. Okay,” he hears the clacking of keys on the other side of the mic. “What do you need?”

“Two words: game console.”

The clacking stops. “You’re joking.”

Ryuji snorts. “I ain’t waking up at 3 in the morning for a joke.”

”Those are hard enough to get as is, and on a day like this—”

“So you can’t do it?”

In the same way every one of the thieves know they could bait Ryuji with a few choice words, it’s a lesser-known fact that Futaba is quite nearly as bad when it comes to open defiance. “Jerk. Of course I can.”

“Then let’s do it!”

“Ugh, fine!” The clacking resumes, more vigorously. “Yikes, only 3 left. Make it quick!”

“Got it,” he replies. He turns around and his stomach drops as he sees people rushing in. “What floor?”

“Third.”

Ryuji groans. The stairs, with people packed in like sardines, are a circus. It would take at least two minutes to try and go down a single flight of stairs. The elevator is even worse, and he honestly wouldn’t be surprised if it had already started to malfunction. Only one choice, then.

He takes a deep breath. “Pray for me.”

”Godspeed, soldier.”

Ryuji, like a wild animal on the loose in the streets of Tokyo, jumps on the handrails and begins his descent that way, begging to the skies that he doesn’t slip and create a domino effect that knocks down a dozen people.

In thirty seconds flat (with no small amount of cursing from both the customers and himself) he jumps off and lands (tumbles) onto the third floor, grinning triumphantly. Eat your heart out, Sumire.

“Oracle, I’m here. Almost broke my ankles. Where to?”

”Straight ahead,” she replies. ”Only one left, though. Better make it quick.”

His eyes land on the last game console, and he sees someone making their way towards it. “Not a problem.”

Ryuji sprints.

Throwing every societal rule and common courtesy into the air, he makes a mad dash and, somehow, miraculously does not bump into anyone or knock down any huge shelves.

In approximately 3 seconds, he grabs his treasure and yells a very loud but completely genuine “sorry!” over his shoulder as he half runs back to the stairs, face red for multiple reasons.

Delving back into the sea of the crowd, trying to navigate himself to the cash register, he sighs. “I’m going to hell.”

”Mission success, then?”

“I had to steal it from some guy! I feel so bad. What if he’s like, buying it for his long lost son or something?”

”Whatever! That’s just part of the Black Friday spirit. Congrats! At least you finally got a game console.”

“Huh? Oh, I already had one.”

Static crinkles in his ear, before, ”WHAT!?”

“Ow! Don’t yell!”

”You already had one and you still did this shopping run?”

“Yeah…?”

”Why?! Are you gonna sell it? Are you one of those sleazy men who take advantage of the good will of gamers, Sakamoto?”

“Hell no!”

”So—“

“Oops, almost at the front of the cash register. I’ll drop off the goods at Akira’s. Talk to you later, shortie.”

Click.

”Wha— Hey! Ryuji!” Silence. “Ugh!”

————

After a much-deserved nap, Futaba climbs up the stairs to Akira’s attic.

“The star has arrived!” she says in lieu of a greeting. “Where’s Ryuji?”

“He left,” Akira answers. He’s looking at something on his worktable. “Your stuff is on the bed.”

Futaba whoops and snatches up the little plastic bag. Peering inside, she sees an adorable GTX hot pink graphics card, and a note. In a horrific scrawl, it writes: dont tell him plz ;)))

She looks up quizzically when her eyes land on Akira’s desk: A shiny new game console.

“Um…”

“Hmm?” he looks up. “Oh, Ryuji dropped it off. Said his mom won it at work, and since he already had one, he gave it to me. Nice, right?”

She opens her mouth, before closing it with a clack. Just two weeks ago, Ryuji had asked Akira in the group chat if they could play video games at his place. Sometimes, it’s easy to forget about Akira’s situation: false accusation, an attic for a room, no definitive meals, not even a proper bathroom in the building, but Akira plays it off like it’s easy. He answered by making a joke that he’s too poor for something like that when you can buy faux battle axes and realistic shotguns instead. Everyone had forgotten about that interaction.

But apparently, Ryuji hadn’t.

He’s an idiot, Futaba thinks. To which boy she’s referring to, she’s not sure.

“Yeah,” is what she says instead. “It’s nice.”

====

The dust motes flying around the attic of Leblanc are lovely. Swirling in senseless formations, floating through the still air like snow. The way none of them collide with each other, as if they have some sort of motion detector that tells them to move out of the way. It’s pleasing to look at.

It’s a shame Ryuji doesn’t give a single shit about them at this moment.

He’s sitting on Akira’s bed, back pressed against the window sill with his hair tipped up, staring unfocused at the wooden beams, eyes glazed over. He’s been like this for the better part of the day, and now the evening is slipping by him. Time continues ticking on like a rigged bomb; an ongoing reminder of how many seconds he’s losing, and how much more he can lose.

He’s considered moving. To walk around the room, shift the dust that’s surely settled on him. Getting up, stretching his legs, outwardly expelling some of his trapped, balled up energy is a good idea. Healthy, even, if those shitty YouTube videos he’s watched on his phone about anger management were on to something. But he can’t. He shouldn’t.

Amidst all the uncertainty and the wound-up anxiety that has currently made permanent residence deep inside his core, he knows that if lets his joints unlock, he’s going to fucking lose it.

Slam a fist inside the dry wood, tear up a blanket, throw the adorable ramen bowl he gave Akira against the wall until it shatters into a hundred pieces. He’s so terrified of ruining this room that he won’t even give himself the option. And Ryuji would rather let hell freeze over than scare Futaba again in his fit of fucked-up rage that comes with the package that is Sakamoto Ryuji.

So he’s stuck on the bed for God knows how long.

Footsteps come up, and he doesn’t need to look down to know who’s going to chew him out. If it’s not Akira that’s going to chide him out of his stupor (which it isn’t, even though Ryuji would do anything if it means that Akira’s back here with them), then they’d send in someone who’d drag him out of it with her nails perfectly manicured.

“You look terrible.”

“Screw off,” Ryuji spits automatically, and he cringes inwardly. Ann doesn’t deserve the sharp end of his horrible mood. It’s not her fault that it feels like his insides feel like they’re trying to eat their way out.

She ignores him and moves to hop on top of the old work desk. The wood creaks underneath her. “You’ve been here all day.”

“I know.”

“Did you sleep last night?”

“Yes. No.” He feels Ann’s stare burn into the side of his face—a ghost of Carmen’s presence. “I don’t know.”

“He wouldn’t want to see you like this.”

Irritation swells in him. She’s never learned to take a hint in her life. “Really? Are you seriously saying that?”

“Are you saying he would?”

“I’m saying he’s too busy having the living shit beat out of him to see me like this.”

His body twitches, and that’s all he needed for his resolve to break down. He jumps from the bed, feet landing heavily enough that he’s sure they can all hear him from the floor below. Unconsciously, his feet pace around the small room; quick with agitation but heavy with dread. Anything to distract from doing something stupid.

“You’re worried about me, what, not sleeping? For lying down on this damn bed for too long? Screw that. Akira’s being grilled like cheap meat for the past couple of days and you’re expecting me to act normal about it? That’s bullshit.”

Bad. This is bad. His fingers are already curling in his fists, eager and all too willing to be used. He settles for balling the edge of his shirt instead.

“He isn’t here. That’s the fact, isn’t it? And what the fuck am I doing about it? Freaking out? Trying not to throw a tantrum about it like some kind of stupid kid? Am I really this messed in the head that everyone on the team is—-is hiding from me like I’m some kind of—” he cuts himself off.

Delinquent.

Ryuji takes a deep breath, fully inhaling and slowly exhaling. He focuses on the dust motes again. In and out. Countdown from ten. He can do this. He can get a grip on himself. Thank God it was Ann that came up—if it had been anyone else, he doesn’t think he can put his pride aside as easily. (Unless it was Futaba. God, he loves her so much.)

For a while, it was silent except for his breathing; it stuttered occasionally, but eventually it evens out. Ann only watches from her perch.

When he feels stable enough, Ryuji drops to sit on the hardwood.

“Okay?” she asks. Ann never babies him when he gets like this—she’s good that way.

“Okay.” And he really is. Not completely, of course not. His nerves weren’t strung as tight, but he still feels a heavy weight right in his stomach.

She hops off the desk and goes to sit in front of him on the floor. Crossing her legs, Ann waits. They regard each other for a long minute.

“He’s the toughest guy I’ve ever met,” he says. It feels weird saying this out loud, instead of repeating the mantra in his head like a broken record. “If anyone can handle this, it’s Akira.”

She rolls her eyes. “Duh.”

“He’s going to be okay.”

“I know that.”

“Sooner than later, his dumb ass is going to be walking through the door downstairs.”

“You bet he is.”

“And I get to yell at him as much as I want.”

“Get in line.”

“I’m not going to lose him tonight.”

Ann reaches over—slowly, giving him plenty of room to shift away—and places a hand on his knee. “You’re not going to lose him tonight.”

Ryuji laughs, a little breathy but still genuine. He prods at her hand. “When’d you get so good with me, Takamaki?”

“I do the Lord’s work around here, free of charge.” She grins, before her tone drops again. “Can you do something for me, though?”

“Lay it on me.”

Ann pulls back and leans on a propped hand, her blue eyes piercing. “When Akira comes back, and he will—”

“And he will. No doubt about it.”

“Obviously. He’s the best person for this. But when Akira comes back, he’s…” Ann gnaws on the inside of her cheek. “He’s not going to be okay, Ryuji.”

Somewhere in his mind, he already knew what she was going to say. While the biggest of his worries is that he’d never see Akira walk through the doors of Leblanc again, there was a quieter fear. A very specific fear, one that Ryuji knows all too well. Because stories don’t just end at the climax of a single event—they keep going. It’s the fear of what happens once he does see Akira.

The aftermath.

The bell chimes downstairs.

His heart lurches, and he makes the briefest of eye contact with Ann before he’s gone.

He’s the toughest guy I’ve ever met.

It’s like his feet have a mind of their own.

If anyone can handle this, it’s Akira.

In an instant, he’s scrambling towards the stairs on all fours before pushing himself up.

Sooner than later, his dumbass is going to be walking through the door downstairs.

His hand finds its hold on the old wooden railing as he sprints his way down. More than once, he almost trips and bangs his head into the wall.

And I get to yell at him as much as I want.

Rounding the corner, he jumps on the landing, ignoring the sharp pain that shoots up his thigh. He ignores the stares from everyone else. Looking up his breath catches in his throat. Gray eyes meet his brown ones. He takes one step forward, and then another. And then he sprints the rest.

He’s going to be okay.

Ryuji stops himself right in front of him, an arms-length away. Akira’s face looked like it’s been through hell and back. Split lip, black eye, bruised cheekbone. An intense fury flares up his spine when he sees the grime and dirt up along his temple.

He hesitates.

As much as he wants to reach forward, close the gap, to make sure that this boy that he can’t afford to lose is real… he can’t do it.

Because he knows what would happen if he tries to cross a boundary that isn’t ready to be crossed—he might not be ready. Ryuji could hurt him by touching any injuries he doesn’t know about (God, how much more is he hiding in there? He’s this close to either throwing up or throwing a punch). But what he’s most scared about, what he’s terrified of doing, is touching Akira in the state of mind he’s in right now. For someone to grip him, grab him, even just brush past him right now, it might be too much. Judging by how beat up he looks just from his face? That does shit to people. That changes you.

Ryuji would know. So he keeps his distance.

Akira’s eyes turn dark, and for a second, Ryuji is terrified that he must’ve overstepped a boundary.

Then he throws his arms around Ryuji, the force knocking them both back by a couple of steps.

“Akira?” he asks, bewildered. Never in their friendship has he seen Akira act like this. It sends alarm bells ringing through his head. “What—”

“Don’t,” Akira cuts off, voice hoarse and quiet, so quiet that even this close, Ryuji is straining to hear him. The arms around him tighten. “Don’t be like that. Please. I can’t. Not right now, Ryuji.”

It hits him all at once. And in his sixteen years of living, Ryuji doesn’t think he’s ever been stupider.

Akira’s been trapped in an interrogation room with nothing but a bunch of make-believe police officers. He got the shit beat out of him, had to stage his own suicide.

And Ryuji just tried to push him away.

He lets his arms wrap around Akira tightly; not too tight, but enough to make sure he won’t slip away from him again. (Never again. Not if he can help it.)

“I’m glad you’re back,” he whispers. Tilting his head up, he stares at the soft lighting of Leblanc, forcing his lungs to breathe evenly—not for fear of losing his temper, but for fear of exposing the tears silently streaming down his face. “So fucking glad.”

Akira doesn’t answer. He only buries his face deeper into Ryuji’s shoulder.

Ann was right—Akira isn’t okay. Not for now, not for awhile. It’s up to Ryuji and everyone else in their group of friends to fix that. That’s fine. They’ll all take as long as they need. He isn’t okay right now, but he will be. They can work on that.

But one thing was clear.

I’m not going to lose him tonight.

====

Summer in Mementos is pretty gross.

Granted, it’s always nasty in here—there’s a perpetual air of moisture, like the inside of a whale, if Ryuji had ever been in one (he’s basing that off of an American movie Ann showed them last week; he didn’t even know it was possible for a fish to get lost in the ocean). There’s also the ongoing sound of trains passing by them on loop, and to him, trains are just inherently cramped and humid and always too sticky for his liking.

Of course, there’s the disgusting, weird amalgamated Shadows that litter every level of Mementos. At least in Palaces they sort of resemble something from the real world, but he guesses they didn’t even bother with these ones. The worst part of all this is that right now, it’s hot, but not hot enough for the Shadows to process a heat wave.

So essentially, they’re fighting with additional bucket loads of sweat, but with none of the usual reward that comes with it.

Well, not that they needed it.

“Fox.”

“As you wish.”

Yusuke’s boots skid to a halt as he points his katana at the fast-moving Shadow, the tip perfectly still. “Your assistance, Goemon.”

They’re on their weekly Mementos grind, the list Mishima keeps updating finally too long to ignore. (Akira hates it when things pile up. It’s a big reason why Ryuji hastily cleaned up every time he wanted to come over. Now though, he doesn’t even bother.)

The current All-Star team includes Yusuke, Makoto, Ryuji, and Akira, with the rest of them keeping a close eye in case they need a quick shift in strategy.

From his katana, black ice crawls in the ground beneath rusted train tracks, the air suddenly chilly despite the humidity that was there a moment ago. Frost shoots forward, encasing the legs of the Shadow only to shatter with a strong jerk forward. It roars, the ear-piercing sound causing the scattered debris around them to vibrate. Akira clicks his tongue.

Strong against ice. Easy fix. Ryuji mouths the words along with Akira when he says, “Panther, you’re up.”

“Finally!”

Ann darts in, high-fiving Yusuke as he rushes out. Ryuji can see Makoto pat Yusuke on the back, sympathy etched on her expression and Futaba mussing his hair. He always took it the hardest when he had to be switched out.

Akira’s gloved fingers brush the edge of his monochrome mask. “Come, Principality.”

As if a human version of justice has been summoned down to earth, the winged statue floats for a moment, eyes filled with scorn as she casts a simple, yet effective memory loss spell. The Shadow shakes its head aggressively. It works, but it won’t hold for long.

“Skull.”

“Don’t mind if I do!”

He grins and sprints right, squeezing into the Shadow’s blindside. It tries to twist around to take a swipe at him, but Ryuji is too fast—he slides right between its legs to confuse and disorient it. Once it seems like it completely lost sight of him, he raises his hand to grip the edge of his black mask. “Come on out, Captain!”

It’s a classic tactic; make the enemy lose focus, stun it, and stop it.

A pirate straight out of the Caribbean materializes from the embers of his mask—Captain Kidd in all of his glory regards the Shadow with a look of disdain before sparks fly from the hull of his ship, and an intense streak of lightning bursts forth, shocking its target like something from a regrettable movie about torture, knocking it down to the ground, a buzz perceptible even from here. He might have overdone it.

Ann whistles. “You didn’t even let me get a chance with it.”

“You can have the next million Shadows we bump into, I promise.” He calls Captain back into his mask, fragmented pieces forming together impossibly quick. “We good, Leader?”

Akira nods. “Just let me get the loot,” he smiles at Ryuji. “Awesome voltage on that last one, Skull.”

A grin stretches over his face before he can stop himself. He won’t deny it—getting a compliment from Joker was always something he filed away for later.

He’s too busy feeling pride surge through him that he can’t even bother to get ticked off when he hears Morgana scoff. “It doesn’t matter how good that attack was; he got in the way of Lady Panther’s finishing blow. That’s a crime in my eyes.”

“But doesn’t that just mean he saved her from doing anything?” Makoto raises an eyebrow. “Technically, he prevented any danger from befalling her, right?”

“Queen, as a gentleman, I have an obligation to tell you that that is a sexist notion.”

“You did not just say that.”

Something makes Ryuji pause. Immediately, his eyes flicker around them automatically. He tunes their chattering out, and finds himself tapping his foot, a slight jitter overcoming him. His nerves are trying to tell him something. Or maybe he’s imagining it? Is it just an aftershock from the intense lightning he cast out? No. It’s been too long since he’s had any problem with electric moves, and he’s never had problems from ones that he threw out himself.

Something was wrong, and he can’t put his finger on it.

He rattles his brain trying to figure out what it is. No one’s hurt, everyone’s safe and together. Well, mostly together, since Akira’s still approaching the Shadow—

A cold sweat drapes the back of his neck. Akira is still approaching the Shadow.

The Shadow hasn’t disintegrated yet.

“Akira—!”

The name slips past his lips, codenames forgotten. In slow motion, Ryuji sees Shadow’s body tense, its mouth frothing with what looks like liquid magma made from pits of hell—specializes in curse, and a strong one at that; Ryuji can feel the potency of its malignancy from where he’s standing. He watches as Akira stiffens, fingers twitching towards his mask, ready to retaliate, or at the very least, defend. And like a domino effect of bad luck, Ryuji feels bile rise to his throat.

Akira is good at what he does. Infuriatingly good. Took the whole Metaverse bullshit like a fish to water. But even he can’t switch Personas the same moment he summons them.

Principality would crumple like tissue paper against the Shadow. And Akira along with it.

You’re too late, a voice whispers in his head. You wouldn’t make it.

A heartbeat passes. And then Ryuji is flying.

It’s never too late, screams back something stronger, something unshakeable. Not ever. Especially not for him.

His boots hit the ground like the first strike of lightning amidst a storm—impossibly fast and unexpected. Lungs wheezing and legs throbbing, he crossed the distance in the span of a breath.

The Shadow throws the curse at Akira, red and black and filled to the brim with intensity, and Akira’s eyes can only widen, pupils dilated wildly to the point where there’s only black—a mirror of what’s about to hit him if Ryuji isn’t fast enough.

He doesn’t hesitate.

Ryuji shoves Akira, hard enough that he crashes onto the ground and he can hear the breath forcefully leave his lungs, and suddenly Ryuji can’t hear anything at all. His fingertips are fire and ice, his sense of surroundings have completely dissipated. Any energy in his body is being drained, like a dam cracked into millions of pieces—and all he’s left with is air. Vaguely, he can hear a choking noise, a broken sort of sound.

The blow is not just a violent one—it never is, with curse attacks. Instead of just feeling his skin bruised or blood running down his temple, he also feels himself get weaker, his mind growing heavier. An attack on the mind and body; a perfect cocktail of fucked up.

The last thing he sees before he loses consciousness is the glint from Akira’s knife slicing through the Shadow’s throat.

====

Tokyo is currently at a wicked thirty two degrees.

The sun radiates scorching temperatures down from the sky, the concrete eagerly absorbing every bit of its heat, making something akin to walking across hot coals. It’s hot enough that a mirage is visible to the naked eye. It’s hot enough that every ice cream store has a forty-minute line-up. It’s hot enough that no birds were flying, in fear that they may truly be fried by the sun above them.

Basically, it’s hot as hell.

“Ryuji-chan, pick up the pace!”

But Haru is more vicious than any conceivable temperature.

Looking like a survivor who was lost in the desert for several days, Ryuji lets out a half-garbled battle cry and sprints the last dozen meters. Haru clicks her stopwatch.

Sitting on a lovely lilac blanket, she tsks from underneath the shade. “Three seconds slower.”

“Ugh!” he collapses beside her on the cool grass. If she looks at him from a certain angle, she can see the steam positively radiating off of him. “I’m going to beat the living shit out of the sun.”

“You know I’d support you in anything you do, Ryuji-chan, but I don’t think you’d be fast enough to catch it,” Haru says. She hands him a cold water bottle. “Drink slowly.”

He rolls over so that he can squint up at her. “You’re mean.”

“I’m harsh,” she corrects, shaking the bottle in her hand. “There’s a difference.”

He takes it. “Have you done this before?”

“Helped someone train in running? No. But,” she rummages through her pastel pink tote bag, and proudly shows him a handful of books. He squints at them. “Since I’m so new to the group and everyone has such broad interests, I decided to try reading up on them! Did you know that drinking cold water after running results in less dehydration than drinking warm water?”

Ryuji stares at her. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For saying you’re mean. You’re not mean. You’re real nice, Haru.”

She smiles at him and pats his head, despite the overflowing heat and moisture settled on top. “You’re very sweet Ryuji-chan, but that’s not going to make me go easy on you.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re the tough-love kind of coach.” Ryuji sits up, cracking open the seal. Chugging down the water, he makes eye contact with Haru before slowing down substantially.

He dumps the rest of it on his head, sighing and shivering in relief. “That’s the good shit.”

“Why not wait for the sun to go down a bit?” she suggests. “The heat is really scorching, and there’s still plenty of time to keep training later.”

“Nah,” he stretches his arms behind his head before he stands again. “I gotta keep going while I still can.”

Haru frowns. “Overexertion isn’t going to help anyone.”

“Don’t you worry your fluffy head! I may be stupid, but I know when to stop when I gotta.”

“I really think you should rest for a bit.”

“I will when I’m done, I promise.”

“You looked rough in that last lap—”

“Haru,” Ryuji is grinning, but his tone leaves no room for argument. “I’m going to keep training.”

They stare at each other for a few moments, before Haru’s shoulder sags slightly. “Alright.” He’s about to say something when she cuts him off. “But only if you tell me why you’re so insistent.”

Ryuji shrugs. “If that’s what it’ll take to prove it to you, then sure. It’s kinda stupid, though.”

“I’m sure it’s not.”

“Oh, wait till you hear it,” he laughs, a little shy. “So you know how Mona and Futaba are, like, the Metaverse experts? And Makoto is the big brain? And Yusuke does the whole calling card part?” Haru nods, and he continues. “Well, I’m not really… anything. Ann already took the role of moral support and there’s no way in hell I’m the ‘brain’ in anything. Jeez, last time I picked up a paintbrush was in kindergarten. So I figured, I’d be the fast one, you know? The one that can get to someone fast enough to help them out.” Ryuji’s grin turns into something softer; less edge and more fond. It does something to her heart. “And if it’d help ‘Kira down the line, then it’d be worth it, right?”

Haru stays silent.

“Anyway! That’s enough of that cheesy shit.” He moves back to the track, running shoes scuffing at the concrete. “Wish me luck, maybe I can actually catch up to the sun this time. Teach it a lesson.”

“Ryuji.“

Looking back, he gives her a curious look. “Yeah?”

Haru hesitates.

I never once thought you were stupid. You’ve given so much more to the team than you can imagine. You have no idea how many times you’ve helped Akira without even lifting a finger.

“I have a cooler full of water behind me, so… please try your best out there.”

Ryuji gives her an enthusiastic salute. “Yes ma'am!”

He runs off, the sun continuing to beat down him relentlessly.

====

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Ryuji knew they were all going to die someday. It’s inevitable. The circle of life, the winds of time, la vie en rose, etc.

He just didn’t expect it to happen at the age of 16, on the sinking cognitive ship of their next Prime Minister, wearing a wack-ass leather outfit surrounded by his panicking friends.

“We’re going to die!” Futaba wails, knees shaking uncontrollably to the point where she can hardly keep standing. “I don’t know how to swim!”

“It’ll be fine,” Akira spits through gritted teeth. He’s far tenser than anyone else, red gloves formed into fists and eyes constantly darting around to see what can save their lives. “We just need to focus.”

Makoto points to something on their right and shouts, “There! A lifeboat!”

Sprinting down the slowly escalating ramp, their eyes widen at the single lifeboat propped at the very top of the bow—which is slowly approaching a ninety degree angle. They all had one thought in their minds.

“We’re not going to make it in time,” Yusuke says, quietly.

Akira bangs his fist into a nearby column. “To hell with that. There’s no way I’m letting us die here.”

A heavy silence falls over them. The air is practically crackling with electricity and pure agitation, but there’s also a determination between all of that. Everyone’s overcome with a need to protect their friends and teammates, but they were at a loss of what to do. A quiet realization overcomes the group—there wasn’t going to be a miracle to save them.

Ryuji’s eyes land on Akira. He’s scanning the area, Third Eye activated but unable to pick up anything that isn’t the lifeboat. There’s no panic in his clear, gray eyes, but the terror in it is the most prevalent out of anyone present.

It hits Ryuji, all at once. The boy in front of him may be his age, and even younger than some members of their group, but he is undoubtedly the leader of the infamous Phantom Thieves. Every decision he made had led them here, in this moment, in their imminent death. And if he lets them all get taken, whether it’s through the ocean or the approaching explosions behind him, the truth of the matter is Akira feels that he would be responsible. That it’s his fault that a cognitive boat would take the lives of his friends.

Yeah. That’s not happening.

Ryuji clenches his eyes shut for a few seconds and slowly opens them. He begins to jump in place, hyping himself up.

“Skull…?” Haru asks, brows furrowing.

“Hang tight, guys,” he says, taking quick breaths. He can do this. “I’ll nab the boat.”

A chorus of gasps and heated objections rang through the air, and Akira steps forward, more shaken than Ryuji’s ever seen him. “No. Skull, please—”

Ryuji throws him a wobbly grin, more for Akira than himself. In one smooth motion, he jumps down and hits the ground running.

“No!”

Immediately, he feels his knees and thighs begin to protest, only intensifying the further he sprints up. For a minute, if Ryuji closes his eyes, he can imagine that he’s in a meet. A race. That the screams he hears behind him are his track mates, and not teammates, friends, best friends that would die if he failed to get to the boat fast enough.

He pushes himself even more.

It’s a miracle that he gets to the raft before his legs give out, and he feels a satisfying crank underneath his palms when he rotates the lever. As he throws a thumbs up at his friends, seeing them safe, healthy, alive, he feels relieved beyond words.

He makes eye contact with Akira, and he really should’ve expected the explosion that comes next.

====

His ceiling has seventy-nine plastic stars.

Ryuji stares up at it from his bed, arms crossed behind his head; they’d long since lost their cheap light. It was raining hard outside, enough to rattle against his window like pebbles calling for his attention. He ignores them.

It’s been years since he got those stars—dating all the way back in middle school. He got into a bad habit of sneaking out in the middle of the night to look at the sky from the roof of their apartment building. It scared the shit out of his ma when she finally caught him, scolded him to hell and back. By the end, they found a compromise: she’d buy him a crap ton from the hundred yen store, and they’d stick it up together. When they did, it kept falling down, so she went back and bought him a bottle of superglue. Now you can’t take them off, even if you tried to use a little scraper.

It bothered him, for a while. Young boys were cruel, and anyone who came to visit always poked fun of him for it. It wasn’t until he visited Akira’s room one day, saw how pleased he was that Yusuke bought them for him that he couldn’t help but revel at his own stars again, after all this time.

Ryuji twists his body sideways, ripping his eyes away from the plastic figures. Enough of that.

His eyes have long adjusted to the darkness that surrounds him, allowing a clear view of his room in the limited moonlight. Laundry splayed around his tatami mat from his sprints training today, gaming controllers scattered on the center table from when Akira came over a few days ago. That was a blast. He helped him beat a boss he’s been stuck on for weeks, and Akira beat it like it was nothing, it was the coolest shit ever—

Ryuji forces himself to flip over to glare at the wall. Sleep. That’s a better idea.

He takes a deep breath, forcing his breathing to go steady. There’s lots to do tomorrow—school is a drag, but they plan on meeting up at Leblanc afterwards. The thought allows his muscles to relax. Really, the atmosphere of Leblanc is just so pleasing to him. The warm lighting, the run-down booths, even the smell is a welcome presence. Well, that’s mostly because Akira drags it with him wherever he—

Slowly, his eyes open.

It always comes back to him, doesn’t it?

He rolls onto his back, in a position to stare at the stars again. The rain hammers on.

Ryuji’s a dumb kid.

It’s not a self jab, it wasn’t manifested by some sort of long-standing insecurity. It’s a fact. He’s never been good with a book, never done anything half-decent by picking up a pencil, his mind was never programmed to listen and retain information in long classes. It’s definitely not like he’s the brains of the Thieves, never a strategist of some kind. His ma encouraged him to take on a tutor in the past, and he’d rather bite a finger off than spend her money on wasted potential, so he found himself wandering the streets of Central Street as a way to pass time.

Ryuji’s a dumb kid, but even he knows he’s irrevocably, completely, stupidly in love with Kurusu Akira.

He sits up and ruffles his hair, frustrated. There are too many things wrong with that sentence, too many things that can go wrong because of that sentence. Of course, he finds the one thing that can mess up the unshakeable foundation that he and Akira built for each other. He must’ve really pissed off some God upstairs for him to have a hell-bent queer awakening with his best friend.

No, that’s wrong. It was the furthest thing from hell-bent—it was soft, it was gray, it was raining, and most importantly, it took its time.

They were halfway through Kamoshida’s Palace when Ryuji realized it; the sheer amount of power that hindsight gave him made him pause long enough to get clocked out by a Shadow.

Doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It can’t matter, because he would never, ever do anything to fuck up what he has. Not again.

Wait, no, that’s not true. Even before Kamoshida, he’s never had something like this. He’s never had someone like him. He’s never had someone who’s so entirely on the same wavelength as him, who’d have his back even when his was against a wall. Kurusu Akira is…ethereal. Out of this world. Cool as fuck. (Hot as fuck, too.) If you lined up the entirety of Tokyo and told him he could pick one. One person out of the whole lineup to be his friend, he’d have his answer in a heartbeat.

See, now that isn’t something that changed with hindsight—Ryuji’s known that he’s been in love with Akira since before they completed Kamoshida’s Palace. And when he figured it out, he didn’t feel shock. His eyes didn’t widen, his heart didn’t start thumping like crazy. It’s more like he just scratched his head in a huh kind of way. It felt like his life had been waiting for that day in April, like everything was at a standstill until he finally met Kurusu Akira. It made sense. Everything just makes sense when Akira’s involved.

Which just makes this all the more fucked up.

He knocks his head back against the wall, eyes stuck on the raindrops’ rapidly moving shadows on his bedroom floor. Karma. That’s probably what’s happening. The world still hasn’t forgiven him for losing his shit, so they decided to make him pine for the only person that he can’t afford to lose.

He can’t even stomach the idea of trying to get over it, to try and put distance between himself and Akira. He spent a lifetime waiting for a miracle, for someone who didn’t know existed. He’s not giving up a single second of time with him. That’s probably why the world relentlessly shits on him; he’s selfish enough to keep the feelings that he has. But he can’t bring himself to regret that decision. Not with the way his breath hitches in his throat whenever Akira walks into the room.

Ryuji’s in love with his best friend, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it. He’s accepted it. Just like how the sky is blue, or that he well and truly hates Calculus. It’s a factor of life.

The rain seemed to fall harder, droplets sounding like rigorous hail against the windowpane. He lets out a long yawn.

Ryuji’s in love with his best friend, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it.

That’s not the reason why he can’t sleep at night.

Akira is a quiet guy. He gets his point across with as few words as possible, as if each letter costs him fifty yen to say out loud. So he speaks through his expression; a quirk of his brow, a tilt of his head, a certain smile is enough to carry half of the conversation.

And, every once in a while, Akira gets a look.

It comes up at the weirdest times—when the two of them baton pass in the Metaverse, when Ryuji eats ramen too fast and gets sick, when he helps an old lady cross the street. Plenty of times it’s because Ryuji is doing something incredibly stupid (like when he said that the square root of sixteen is six, because if you just get rid of the one, then that makes sense, right?), or when they’re laughing so hard neither of them can breathe. But sometimes it comes up in quieter moments, too. The two of them talking quietly in the attic at Leblanc, or when Akira confesses that he’s relieved Ryuji’s always there for him. (As if there would ever be a time where he won’t be.)

The look is subtle enough to miss but easy to find if someone knows what they’re looking for. The usual attentiveness that resides in Akira’s eyes disappears, in its place a softer gaze; his pupils get dilated, and the edge of his eyes get all crinkled like Valentine’s tissue paper. A half-smile rests on his lips, never quite turning into a full-blown grin, but that’s okay. For some reason, it all reminds Ryuji of the moon. Of soft moonlight. Of streetlamps on empty roads.

Ryuji’s in love with his best friend, and there’s a small, tiny, infinitesimal chance that his best friend might love him back.

His eyelids slide shut, though he knows that it won’t be enough to let him rest.

Realistically, he’s probably wrong. Akira isn’t in love with him, and he’s only seeing what he wants to see. With every eligible person seeming to fall in love with him at some point in time, how would it even be possible that Akira would love him?

He rubs his eyes, desperate to get rid of the unending fatigue that’s plagued him for months on end. It doesn’t work.

Bad excuse. Akira does love him, just like he loves everyone he encounters and befriends and ends up risking his life for. Ryuji’s surprised Akira hasn’t passed out yet, given his bleeding heart for the entire population of Tokyo.

Lightning flashes and thunder rumbles as he rubs his eyes harder.

But what if he wasn’t wrong? What if the signals he’s seeing aren’t based on misunderstood yearning?

When his eyes start to burn, his fingers move up to his hair.

There’s no way in hell he’d ever risk losing his best friend. His partner. His Akira. It’s not something he can gamble. It’s not worth it.

He begins to tug, hands shaking, and he can barely feel the sting of pain from nearly pulling his hair out his scalp.

It’s not worth it. He decided that in the very beginning.

Ryuji buries his face into his palms.

But he is so, so exhausted of being tired.

Lightning flashes, and for a split-second, his room is bright.

Fuck it.

By the time thunder rumbles through his apartment, he’s already out the front door.

His sneakers squelch against the wet concrete, soaking his unsocked feet. He’s sprinting fast enough that the street lights around him blur, and he can feel quick breaths getting pulled out of him. It takes him a few seconds to realize that he forgot to wear a raincoat, but he doesn’t care.

Akira is his best friend. Akira accepted him, flaws and all. Akira loves him, one way or another. That’s what held him back. He can’t risk losing that.

Ryuji quickly checks both sides before running across the street, wiping the rain off his brow, and keeps going.

But that’s what should’ve pushed him into confessing sooner. Because if that’s all true, then that can only ever mean that Akira would accept this part of him too, right?

He jerks out of the way as he almost barrels over a fire hydrant, making him step into a deep puddle. It doesn’t slow him down.

Maybe he would’ve realized it sooner if he wasn’t too fucking tired to think straight.

His lungs begin to complain, his breaths turning to wheezes, but he ignores it in favor of going faster.

Too late for that now. All the matters now is to talk to—

He skids to a halt.

In front of him—eyes wide, hair drenched, no shoes—stands Kurusu Akira.

Ryuji’s mouth falls open, and for a minute, he almost laughs. Of course. He should’ve known. Just as he’s willing to sprint to Akira at an unholy hour in the night…

He smiles sheepishly at him, and Ryuji feels his chest constrict in the loveliest way possible.

…Akira would do the exact same thing for him.

The rain slows, and the thunder ceases for a moment. The world pauses long enough for both of them to speak in the same breath, the same heartbeat:

“I’m in love with you.”

[lochrannn]

AU_gust: Let me play among the stars

Read on AO3

Prompt no 17: Wings

Relationships: Lila Pitts & Allison Hargreeves, minor Lila Pitts/Diego Hargreeves

Characters: Lila Pitts, Allison Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves, Klaus Hargreeves

-

AN: So, you may have noticed that David Castañeda can’t wink and I’ve checked, canonically neither can Diego, so this comes up.

-

It’s half eleven in the morning at the Schiphol Hilton hotel bar and the staff have apparently taken pity on Lila and Allison and have not queried why they decided to drink Scotch before midday.

Lila took on her very first flight as first officer to Captain Allison Chestnut only about eleven hours ago and yet she feels like it has been a life altering experience. Or at the very least, after hundreds of hours of flight training, this trip has been the weirdest thing that has ever happened to her and in hindsight she thinks she was desperately ill prepared to contend with either members of the public or the fucking airline crew itself.

 Roughly 11 hours earlier

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Allison Chestnut, I’ll be your captain for our overnight flight. With us today is First Officer Lila Pitts. We’re expecting clear skies ahead and with some tail winds we are hoping to arrive in Amsterdam about thirty minutes ahead of schedule. Once we’ve fully ascended, our cruising altitude will be approximately thirty five thousand feet. I wish you a very pleasant flight on board our plane and now I’d ask you to pay close attention to our cabin crew, headed up by chief flight attendant, Klaus Hargreeves, for the safety announcement.”

Allison clicks off the com and turns down the volume of the cabin announcement, and Lila can just about make out the cheerful voice of Klaus, who she only met while they were doing the final checks of the aircraft but took an instant liking to.

Lila is extremely nervous and doing everything in her power not to show that she’s intimidated by the fact that her first flight in a position of actual authority is with one of the most senior captains in the airline.

Even the relief crew seem significantly more experienced than Lila herself. At least that’s her impression with how Allison greeted the relief first officer, Vanya Cooper. The other pilot completely slipped by her, but Lila could have sworn she heard Vanya and Allison refer to him as Five. Must be some kind of nickname.

Despite her rank, Allison spends a lot of time chatting to Lila, as they don’t have that much going on once they are cruising. The other pilot tells Lila about her kid, her husband, who is apparently a professor, about her recent trips, and how much she loves the job.

She asks Lila how she came by her accent and they talk about how Lila ended up working for an American airline after effectively fleeing the UK and from a bad break-up.

Eventually Lila decides to ask about the thing that surprised her the first time she read the flight roster. “So, do you often fly with a crew where so many of the pilots are women compared to an all male cabin crew?”

“Huh, I hadn’t even thought about that,” Allison muses, then goes on, “It’s a hell of a combination of stewards, though, some of the nuttiest people working for this airline, I don’t think I’ve ever seen them all fly together. I’m sure it’s absolute mayhem back there.”

“How d’you mean?” Lila asks.

“Well, there’s Klaus, who is very good at his job, but an awful flirt and, well, he’s garnered a bit of a reputation. Then there’s Luther. Genuinely lovely guy, everybody loves working with him, but he’s just really not very good with passengers. Diego’s the complete opposite. Passengers love him, he makes a new best friend on every flight. Most people who work with him, though, think he’s kind of an asshole. Except maybe for Klaus and Ben, they seem to get on with him. Ben is actually the only one out there who I’d say is unquestionably competent, very snarky, but charming nevertheless. I’ve not flown much with Elliott, so can’t tell you much about him and I’ve never met the other guy. Axel was it?”

Lila checks the roster, nods and says, “Yupp.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll get plenty of opportunities to make up your own mind about these guys. I will say this though, I’ve seen them all in bigger and smaller crisis situations and they really do all step up then.”

Lila is grateful for the amount of information Allison is willing to share with her. She wonders if this is considered gossipy or if it’s just a necessary exchange of intel with a coworker. Either way, she thinks it’s really useful.

About three quarters into their flight time, Allison and Lila are relieved by Vanya and “Five” and when they step into the cabin the light is already dimmed in an attempt to get the passengers to settle down in a hope that they will sleep.

Just after herself and Allison get comfortable in their seats Klaus turns up in the aisle and says in a low voice to Allison, “Uh, skip, it seems we have a bit of a situation in coach and we were wondering if maybe someone with a bit more authority is just the thing we need to nip this in the bud.”

Allison pulls her sleep mask off her eyes, turns to glare at Klaus and then turns to Lila with a glint in her eyes that definitely juxtaposes the pleasant smile she directs at her and says, “Oh, I think this would be a great learning experience for our new first officer, don’t you think, Klaus?”

“Sure,” Lila says with all the confidence she doesn’t feel, gets up out of her seat and follows Klaus into the back section of the plane.

 Back at the hotel bar

“So, was this one of the weirder things to happen on a flight, or would you consider shit like this to be normal?” Lila asks Allison in a congenial tone.

“I’ve definitely seen shit that was way more crazy than this,” a far more gruff voice than she expected, answers Lila’s question, before Diego sits down on the barstool next to her.

Lila looks over at him and he does a thing with his eyes…. if she had to describe it she’d say he’d blinked at her with... intent… is that supposed to be a wink? Lila’s almost embarrassed for him, but somehow he pulls it off. If he was any less handsome, he most definitely wouldn’t have, so Lila decides simply not to dignify that nonsense with a response.

Instead she turns around to Klaus, who’s just sat down on Allison’s other side, is pushing his hair back dramatically and drawls, “Oh Schätzchen, you’ve not seen weird until you start dealing with dead bodies at forty thousand feet above sea level.”

Lila snorts into the drink she’s just brought to her lips.

 About 6 hours earlier

On their short walk Klaus gives her the cliffnotes of the issue. “This weirdo English guy keeps demanding to go into the hold because he has some apparently precious cargo to check on and we’ve been trying to keep him calm, but he’s starting to wake up the passengers around him. Diego’s talking to him now, but I don’t think they’re getting on very well.”

Up ahead Lila sees a man about Klaus’s height, with dark hair and a tight fade, leaning into one of the rows of seats and it seems like he’s talking to one of the passengers intently.

She probably shouldn’t, seeing as their coworkers, but she does notice right away that he fills his uniform out very nicely and that he’s clearly got some deliberate designer stubble going on to enhance the sharp cut of his jaw.

But Lila pulls her thoughts back to the situation at hand and the fact that she probably has never had a situation where she needed to be as professional as now.

“I don’t know what to tell you, man… Even if you have the queen of England in a crate down in the hold, we just can’t let you go down there mid flight!” the steward, who Lila assumes must be Diego, explains to a man with grey hair, a tidy Van Dyke mustache, and… Christ, how pretentious can one guy be? … a monocle, sitting in the seat by the window.

She takes a deep breath and walks up to the commotion.

“What seems to be the problem here, gentlemen?” Lila asks as calmly as possible.

Diego opens his mouth, presumably to explain what’s going on, but he’s interrupted by monocle guy, who says in a clipped accent that reminds Lila uncomfortably of one of her old headmasters, “Ah, finally someone with some seniority. I am entirely exhausted trying to explain to this imbecile that I have important scientific business to take care of in the hull of this aeroplane. Young lady, would you do me the favour of providing me with access to my work?”

Lila ignores the scowl that comes across Diego’s face and instead says, again calmly, though she’s quickly understanding why the stewards have reached the end of their patience, “First officer Pitts, please.”

“Apologies, madame!” the pushy passenger shoots back, and Lila is annoyed by his lack of sincere contrition, but at least Diego sniggered next to her as she pulled rank, so that’s something.

“I am really sorry, Sir, we just cannot let you go down there, but may I ask what’s so important, you’d risk decompression in the cabin, endangering all of your fellow passengers?” Lila uses her poshest voice, hoping that she’ll appeal to this guy that way, and she really hopes she’s not veered into parody. At least her fellow stewards wouldn’t be able to tell.

“Says he’s got a sedated monkey in a crate,” Diego drawls before the passenger can answer and earns himself a withering stare by the grey-haired man.

“It’s a chimpanzee, you nimrod!” monocle guy spits at him and Lila ignores the way Klaus’s hand lands on Diego’s shoulder as he twitches forward.

Instead she addresses the passenger again, “I’m sure all the necessary precautions were taken to keep your chimpanzee comfortable and safe on this flight and I have to urge you to calm down. There is absolutely no way we can allow for you to go into the hold and I must point out that you’re beginning to upset the other passenger.”

“This is ridiculous!” the man exclaims and then completely surprises Lila by getting up abruptly, pushing past her and Klaus and making his way swiftly along the aisle towards the front of the plane.

That’s when things go bananas, because before either herself or Klaus can respond, Diego has launched himself past them and after the monocle guy, rugby tackles him to the ground, and to Lila’s complete horror, a huge, blond man in a steward’s uniform appears at the other end of the aisle to help Diego wrestle the unruly passenger into the middle section of the plane, where they swiftly draw the curtains so the passengers near them, who’ve been roused by the commotion, can’t see what’s going on.

 After two more rounds at the Schiphol Hilton hotel bar

“... so we had to get the fire crew to bring on a wheelchair so we could weekend-at-bernie’s that mofo and get his corpse off the plane before the other passengers even found out that anyone had died.” Klaus finishes his tale.

“Jesus,” Lila breathes. Allison just shrugs her shoulders.

“Right, Tom Bradey over there and I have to get going. You see, Lila, cabin crew don’t get the same amount of rest time during turnaround as the VIP do. That’s what I call the Very Important Pilots, ya know,” Klaus says and winks at her, then gives Allison a quick hug before he walks away.

The two women turn to Diego and he suddenly hesitates. Then he says, “See you around, I guess,” and taps the bar top with his fingers before he also heads away.

“Huh,” Allison says, a bit bemused, but then Lila notices that Diego wasn’t tapping just the surface of the bar but had actually shoved his cocktail napkin towards her. She picks it up and realises that he’s scribbled something on it. It reads ‘come say hi’ and then what she presumes must be a room number underneath.

“I thought you said Klaus was the one with the reputation,” Lila says, her mouth’s gone a bit dry as she turns around to Allison to show her the napkin.

“Huh! Never thought that grumpy asshole had it in him.” Allison intones almost more to herself. “You must have really impressed him,” she says to Lila then, with a bit of a laugh in her voice.

“Mmmh, but I mean, obviously I can’t go up there... right?” Lila says hesitantly, not quite sure she knows how she wants Allison to respond.

“I mean, obviously I’m a married woman, so maybe I’m the wrong person to ask, but I can only tell you it happens all the time, so I’d say go for it,” Allison offers with a shrug.

“Nah, I really shouldn’t, but I do think I'll also head to bed now. It was really nice flying with you Allison, even if things got a bit weird.” Lila says to Allison with a smile and a wave.

“Yeah, was great flying with you, too. I’m sure we’ll have many more opportunities to do so!” Allison responds as Lila starts walking away.

Then Lila stops, pivots on her heels, picks up the napkin and then whines a “shut uuuup!” at Allison when the other woman bursts out laughing.

[peachyteabuck]

eye on the prize

summary: commission for astrid, who asked for chris evans x reader interview fluff.

pairing: chris evans x reader

words: 3,006

trigger warnings: RPF, slow burn, heavy flirtation, idiots in love, nondescript mentions of misogyny in the media as a business, a likely poorly reconstructed timeline (time fake and reality is a construct!)

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

The hotel bed is large, big enough for four of you. The blankets are thick and the soft, the pillows a perfect balance of structured but plush. Sunbeams stream onto the mused sheets, warming your face. It’s nice, but only as nice as the calm before a major tropical storm can be. As your phone alarm blares next to you, you start to wonder if being caught in a category five hurricane would be better than press junkets.

A whole day talking to people about a movie you made months ago that you know jack shit about. Sometimes you have nightmares about giving a book report on a novel you’ve never even opened (you’re how old? And high school is still haunting you? Jesus, you need to go back to therapy) that cause you to break out in a cold sweat and kick all the covers from your bed and buy a bunch of stuff online to distract yourself from your racing heart and shaking hands.

Still, those are never as bad as interviewers asking about character arcs and plotlines and your relationship with actors you’ve barely (if ever) met and whatever else a normal interviewer would ask a normal interviewee when all you know is your character, the fact that she does shit with magic, and she’s Dr. Strange’s daughter. Anything other than that is anyone’s guess.

Your stylist and makeup artists are the ones to eventually drag you out of bed and plop you into hair and makeup after squeezing you into an incredibly tight pair of jeans and a non-controversial sweater. The forty-five minutes are a complete blur, but then again, nothing feels real until Sebastian hands you a large coffee in a travel cup that bares no logo or other kind of copywritten signifier – your knight in shining…cardboard? What are travel coffee cups even made of? Paper? Can paper even “shine?”

You’re nearly purring when the taste of caramel macchiato burns your tongue. “Ah. Thanks, Seb. I appreciate it.”

Sebastian shrugs, sipping at his own drink masquerading as generic brand. “No problem. I didn’t want you to bite an interviewer’s head off this morning. Or worse, mine.”

You play-hit him in the face and laugh with him, making small talk and trying to kill the time before the mind-numbingly long day really begins. You’re halfway through a rant about the woes of make up artists trying to put you in a full face of makeup to a man who barely has to put on concealer, the fucking asshat, when Chris makes an appearance.

“Hey, guys,” he’s is also drinking coffee from the unmarked travel cups. He looks you up and down before taking another sip. “You look really nice today.”

You blush, smoothing out your sweater – one of the color-blocked ones that sits at the intersection of casual, feminine, and not-intimidating. “Thanks, you too.”

Sebastian’s about to say something snarky when someone wearing a headset calls upon the three of you.

“Let’s get going, people!” she calls, ushering you into three barely-comfortable seats. You’re between Chris and Sebastian, the sheer mass of them making you feel approximately three feet tall. It doesn’t take much to forget how large they both are – even if Sebastian doesn’t weight two hundred pounds anymore and Chris was able to tone down his exercise regime since finishing Infinity War, you still feel like you’re sitting at the big-kid table for the first time.

The first interviewer is from some YouTube channel you only know because your fourteen-year-old niece gushes about them every family dinner. The woman who sits in front of you is young, cute. Dresses trendy, dark eye makeup and red lips.

She’s nice, too, along with being knowledgeable about the projects of each of you. She banters with Sebastian about his seven million movies before turning to you.  

The interviewer turns to you. “And you! You’re nominated for some pretty major awards!”

You smile wide, unable to help yourself. “Yeah, best actress and best original score.”

“That’s so cool,” Chris mumbles. You blush and pretend not to hear him as you speak again.

“It’s just super crazy,” you tell the interviewer. “Not even gonna lie. When I was younger, I would look at stars who like, cried when they found out they were nominated. Not even winning, just their name shows up on the ballot. But now I’m like, it’s me, two-time Grammy nominee! I was nominated for a Grammy, twice!”

Sebastian chimes in, laughing. “When we were at bunch together, I got there early and the caterer showed up and they were like, we’re here for the two-time Grammy nominee?”

“You had a brunch?” The interviewer asks.

You nod. “Yeah, I bunch of the Avengers cast and the cast from my last movie were in my hometown, which is super rare, so I hosted this giant brunch-”

“As one does,” Sebastian chimes in with a crooked smile.

You nearly hit him. “Yes! As I do! I wanted to see all my friends, whom I love, so I host a brunch. Sue me! Anyway…I hosted this brunch and invited a bunch of people over. Just a bunch of my favorite food from my favorite restaurants. Everyone I’d wanted to see for such a long time was there. It was amazing.”

The interviewer paints a faux frown across her face, looking at the man on your right. “Chris, you look very sad.”

“I didn’t get invited to the brunch,” Chris frowns. Unlike the woman in front of you, he looks genuinely sad. A twinge of pain bounces in your ribcage, and you rub his cardigan-clad back

“You were out doing Broadway shit!” you laugh. “You were halfway across the country!”

Chris continues to frown, staring at the printed-out pictures from the social medias of various guests. A few are from yours – you in a flowy sundress with your head thrown back laughing, a shot of you and a few of your friends from college drinking alcohol in the bright mid-afternoon sun. One you recognize from Sebastian’s Instagram, another from Hemsworth’s. A few from Twitter of a few of your non-movie-star friends. You look so happy in all of them, so beautiful in each shot. “I still wanted to be invited.”

You just roll your eyes. “Okay, call me when you’re in my region of the country and I’ll host a brunch,” You touch your forefinger to his nose. Chris blushes, profusely, in his cheeks and his ears. “just for you and me.”

You don’t hear much after that, too focused on Chris’ eyes meeting yours and his small smile. You’re taken aback by how sweet, tender he looks, and before you know it the interviewer is saying goodbye and the next one is taking her place.

It’s a man this time, a little older than the last one with artsy facial hair and a button hip. He mostly pays attention to the two men and soon your brain goes on battery-saver and you’re lost in your own thoughts.

Are hipsters still a thing? Is that what this guy is trying to be? Do hipsters even like Marvel? Is that too “mainstream for them?”

Eventually he asks a question about you, your recent entry into the Marvel Cinematic Universe, your music, your composing. You’d be happy to talk about your passions, of course you are, but the first genuine question of the interview is positing towards…not you. You’re about to tune everything out again, but then Chris speaks and you snap back to attention.

“It’s always interesting to meet people who bring something new to the art form, ya know? A huge part of acting is learning and evolving and all that, especially from other actors,” Chris avoids your gaze, and the gaze of everyone else, as he speaks. “If you stop learning, if you stop growing, what’s the point? Why would I do this job if I didn’t think it could change me for the better?”

There’s a moment of thick silence, the heavy weight of Chris’ introspective answer settling over the people in the room. It’s one of the things you lo-

It’s one of the things you enjoy most about Chris, how dedicated he is to acting as more than a job. It’s amazing, truly, how much he adores what he does. You could spend the rest of time with him, a plate of cheese, and a bottle of wine; listening to him talk about how he thinks of acting as an art, how that art can impact people and society, how actors have a responsibility to that art (that is, of course, after you mock him endlessly for Not Another Teen Movie and Fantastic Four).

You feel like a high schooler again, doodling your first and his last name in hearts in your math notebook with your favorite pink glitter pen. You’re an adult, why are you blushing red as a raspberry every time he says something smarter than a fast food order?!

The rest of the day goes down in a blur, the only time you start to care again when someone on the production staff calls for dinner (yeah, no lunch on press junket day. You can ask for a light snack, but you learned the hard way a full meal is “bad for your figure” and “makes you likely to burp on camera” and a bunch of other stuff you care very little about).

All three of you groan in happiness when you enter the room designated as craft, the thick smell of barbeque hitting you like a baseball bat. But a good baseball bat, though, like…one you ask to be hit with. Honestly, you have no idea what you’re talking about because you’re so hungry.

When you finally manage to scavenge food, Sebastian’s right behind you as you stare at a very delicious looking tray of pulled pork. Your plate is already full, but what if they take the food away? And then what if you get hungry later?

“You know he’s flirting with you, right?” he whispers as you watch the man in question scroll through Twitter on his phone. Chris is eating about the same thing you are, plus celery. You almost make a quip about it being “nature’s floss,” but then you realize that would be dumb because Sebastian definitely wouldn’t find it as funny as Chris would.  

You shrug, picking up a French fry from your plate. “Yeah, but you were, too.”

He scoffs into his second Americano of the morning. “Nah. Not like that. He likes you! He like likes you!”

“He does not-“

“And you like-like him!” He boops you on the nose and pinches your cheek like some sort of grandmother who hadn’t seen her fifteen-year-old son since he was five. “My little baby has a cruuuush!” he coos while making small kissy noises.

You’re about to bite back about how you’re not that much younger than him, but then the sound guy on the other side of the meat tray glares at the both of you. Looks like, while Chris couldn’t hear your bickering from the across the room, this dude definitely could – and he’s not very happy about it.

“Sorry,” you both mumble, shrinking away from the persecuting techie and his judgmental eyes.

Sebastian only talks again when you find an unpopulated corner, devoid of prying eyes and anyone who could be annoyed with the two of you gossiping like high schoolers.

“You know I’m not wrong, right?” he says around a bite of crisp apple. What is up with this guy and fruit?  Sure, he’s on a restrictive diet for a role to keep him from bulking up (something at the intersect of keto and vegetarian but able to eat lean meats) but he’s can’t eat like, the vegan stuff? Why must he always eat like rabbit in your presence? “Have you not seen what he says on Twitter?”

You scoff. “No, because I don’t have a Twitter. And neither do you!” You narrow your eyes accusingly. “How do you know what he posts?” Sebastian rolls his eyes. “I see screenshots on Instagram, first of all. Second, he could be complimenting your music on the inside of a cave. It’s about the principle.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” you hiss. “Also, I’m done arguing with you about this. Let me find a cheeseburger and eat in peace. Is that too much a woman to ask, Sebastian!?”

He just laughs you off and lets you eat in peace, eventually getting his own food. Though, you suppose the meal was specially timed, because then Chris Evans is sitting next to you.

He’s about to say something, too, and you’re about to listen, but then you get called for an individual interview for a women’s health magazine and you have to leave him and you plate of food and fuck…you hate this job. A lot.

The interview is boring, once again, and the next time you have another coherent thought you’re taking the elevator back up to your hotel room and waving off your manager, who is telling you to be downstairs by seven tomorrow to catch your flight back home.

You’re just kicking off your heels when you hear a faint knock at the door. When you look through the peephole, you see a very sad-looking Christopher Evans. With his small frown and hunched shoulders, he looks like a kicked puppy; and even though all you want to do is take your bra off, you let him in.

He’s quiet for a moment before speaking as if he was a child preparing to be scolded.

“I lost my hotel key. And my backup got demagnetized.”

You bite back a laugh, trying to seem sympathetic. “Do you want to chill in here until security brings you another one?”

Chris nods solemnly as he steps through the threshold. “Thanks.”

Neither of you speak for a while, instead Chris looks around your quite messy (or “homey,” as you call it when you FaceTime your best friend and she scoffs at how easy you can make a room look like a hurricane tore through it) room and you…find an outfit for tomorrow?

You’re the first one to speak, only breaking the quiet after changing into fuzzy socks and sneakily taking off your lacey bra (and tucking it under the covers of the bed for you put away later).

“Well, that was excruciating,” you mumble. All you want to do is change into your biggest, most comfortable hoodie and your cotton panties and order room service and ignore humanity until you leave for a flight the next morning, but a man you’ve had a crush on since he appeared as Johnny Storm is right in front of you and after that talk with Sebastian your world is kind of shaken to its core and should you make a move? Is he the kind of guy to not like that? Would you want to be with a guy that doesn’t like that? What if he-

“Always are, I guess.” Chris interrupts your train of thought, saving it from going off the rails. When you at him he looks just as, if not more than, exhausted than you are. “That’s one of the things that you forget, I think. How hard it is to talk about these movies.”

You snort. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Chris smile a little wider as you laugh. “Yeah. Other movies I can talk about like, characters and plots and shit. With these I live in constant fear I’m gonna pull a fucking Ruffalo and get my ass fired from the best paying gig I’ve ever had.”

Chris laughs with you, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Word.”

An awkward silence fills the room and you find something, anything to do to avoid his heavy gaze under those thick eyelashes and his thick beard that you just want to run your fingers through or his even softer hair that you want to mess up while you-

“Do you want to get dinner together sometime?” you blurt. You’re ready to take back the words as soon as you say them, wanting to backtrack or say “just friends” or “ha-ha, just kidding!” or something else that absolves you of non-platonic commitment.

By a long stretch of luck that you can’t even begin to thanks a long number of deities for, Chris doesn’t laugh at you or turn you down or even walk out of the room. He meets your gaze with excitement in his eyes and a smile wider than your home state. “I’d love to,” is all he says. It’s all either of you get to say before his phone rings loudly, and the name of the head of security flashes on his screen. He sighs loudly, apologizing as he takes it. Somehow, you feel more awkward as he turns away and answers the call. You fidget with your hands, with a loose thread on the sweater you’ve come to hate more than anything else in the world, with your phone. Nothing makes it easier to face Chris again once he hangs up.

“That was…,” he laughs lightly. Not laughing at you, maybe at life or how weird his life is, but never at you. “You know. They fixed my key and want to give it to me in person.”

You swallow and nod. “Yeah, understandable. I’ll, uh,” you clear your throat. “I’ll see you…”

Chris finishes for you. “How about we find a good restaurant near here after I’m confirmed to actually be me by the private security detail our employers hired to make sure no one kills us? We can have that second dinner I’ve heard you always eat late at night.”

Holy shit…he remembered that time you vaguely mentioned how much you enjoy staying up late and eating lots of food. It makes you blush as you respond.

“Yeah that sounds,” you sigh happily, smile just as big as his is. “That sounds great.”

[takaraphoenix]

Review: 03x13 Beati Bellicosi

So @kimmycup and I finished the episode!

Let’s start with the wolves and vampires - and my favorite line of this episode:

Wolves don’t just attack without a cause. Not in New York.

Bitch, that is the opposite of the New York pack. They literally do that. They do that. Bat Velasquez is one of the living breathing proofs for that because he got attacked and turned without a cause and consent by members of the New York pack. They went and attacked Simon while he was peacefully living on their territory, without any cause just because they were bothered by his presence. Maia tried to fucking murder Jace the first time she met him just because he didn’t have time to help her in that instance and, without actual hard proof, she assumed he murdered Gretel so let’s attack him without legitimate cause. Maia, again, also tried to straight-up murder Clary so she wouldn’t be able to activate the Soul Sword in season 2. Attacking without a cause is the New York pack’s MO, literally.

How do multiple praetors fail to catch one newbie vampire? She is not very trained, she is all alone, how did those trained praetors, not even just normal wolves, not manage to capture that bitch yet? How is that a thing? What even are praetors because they sure as shit seem rather useless. I thought they were a specially trained force. But they, in a group, can’t even take down one vampire, huh.

And then Griffin thinks it’s legitimate to slaughter the pack... because the praetors accused them of hiding Heidi, which honestly while wrong in that moment was right in the next when Heidi was welcomed back in and was also right in the scene before Jordan arrived when Heidi was in the Hotel and talking to Griffin already. Not to mention the whole fact that Raphael turned her without telling anyone and kept her hidden in the basement so like... not believing the New York clan about anything involving Heidi is really not much of a “You don’t trust us because we are vampires!” issue, you do not get to play the racist card there because you, your clan, literally did all of that not even a month ago. And it by no means justifies slaughtering nearly the entire damn pack.

I mean, yes, it was in fact not “good authority” that brought Jordan to the hotel. Like, boy needs to fact check shit, but it still stands that Heidi had been there prior to it and after and that the New York clan hiding Heidi in the basement is literally how this whole shit-show started so Griffin’s gotta get off his high horse.

Now let’s talk about family.

One aspect of the addiction plotline that I hated was how Alec so irrationally got angry with Magnus for not immediately telling him Isabelle was addicted... but no one even thought about telling Jace, who supposedly is also her brother, until the whole thing was already over. And we’re going to do this again, huh? We’re going to do this Alec and Izzy style again and not tell Jace until it’s over.

Same for the whole Downworlders getting tortured part - I mean, I still stand by how Izzy’s reaction to this is fucking ridiculous because this is not news. Like, yes Downworlders getting tortured is bad and shouldn’t happen, but they already know this happens. This isn’t news? So why you acting all high and mighty and morally superior? And like “this isn’t how [Maryse] raised us” - bitch, it is. It is exactly how she raised you because it is how y’all have been doing business from the get-go. You, dearest Alec, literally had an outfall with Izzy over Meliorn being taken in to be tortured in season 1. That was kind of a big deal, so don’t act like this was never the case.

Look, you can have character development and growth. You can have Alec and Isabelle growing as characters and now being against torture. But you don’t get to sell them as completely oblivious idiots who didn’t know this has been going on the whole time, that’s bullshit.

Now, the Lightwood family is not the only one I take issue with.

How do we not get any Luke and Clary bonding at all? This show so desperately tries to sell Luke as Clary’s father figure, but let’s take a step back from how much we want that and look at the actual canon facts. Luke didn’t take Clary in after her mom died; she lived with strangers at the Institute. Luke wasn’t there to mourn Jocelyn with Clary, he went on a run to mourn alone. We never got any shared mourning between Clary and Jocelyn. And now? Now that she is back from the dead? He doesn’t even spend one single day just... being with his daughter? To, I don’t know, be there for her, catch up with each other? Instead he goes and investigates with... Maryse. This could have been a good bonding moment for Luke and Clary. They could have investigated the Morning Star sword together, as father and daughter.

But the show oh-so desperately had to sell its ships. So let’s talk about ships.

It’s not even been two months since Jocelyn died. Not even two months. The woman Luke has loved for two decades. Dead for approximately like six weeks. But... he’s kissing Maryse, a woman he supposedly had bad blood and history with through the Circle and the treatment after the Circle ended. But sure, the exactly three (3) interactions they had since Maryse was deruned totally qualify for Luke moving on from the woman he loved for two decades to... her, of all people. I’m not saying you gotta be a mourning widower for the rest of your life, but two months are a pathetic mourning period if you loved someone for this long and it is majorly cringeworthy that they are forcing romance to happen there, instead of spending Luke’s screentime on the above mentioned potential bonding with his daughter. This is a ridiculous decision, writing-wise.

Maia and Simon acting like they had some epic, all rules defying romance is ridiculous. They were dating for literally three weeks. Literally three weeks. That’s... most people wouldn’t even define that as a relationship. Look. I liked them, I actually did like Maia and Simon together so this isn’t meant as “I hate this ship, it ain’t epic!!!”, but as “You really can not define a two weeks relationship as epic”. Because, quite frankly, you didn’t manage to defy the stereotype that a wolf and a vampire can’t date - because in the end, the wolf chose her pack over her vampire boyfriend so like... What you said made no sense, is my point. And it’s also so insanely forced. I mean, this breakup has been coming for the past two episodes now and them now going “Maia needs to put the pack first so she breaks up with Simon so we can finally make S*zzy happen1!!” is... once again, a ridiculous decision.

I genuinely don’t even wanna talk about Jace and Clary. It’s been less than two weeks that they’re together. Jace has expressed how he wants to take it slow. But sure. Let’s have sex right now, once again without anything emotional tying them together. They will never bother with writing this as an actual relationship, will they? Like? There is no interest in their emotional state of mind, no concern “So, Jace, now that I just returned, how are you doing post possession?”, nope it’s immediately “Can we fuck now?” and they do. How is beyond me though. Like, how can Clary legit be horny enough that “So I’m emotionally linked to my brother. Let’s fuck and give him a good orgasm then, huh” isn’t enough to put her off?? This is just... insanity.

Other random observations:

I feel like what best summarizes this season, if not the entire show, is the fact that Simon literally just met a Biblical figure who is very much alive, and it is just legitimately used as a throwaway line. Like. That’s the pacing and cramming of this series. We have so much going on that we can’t even take five minutes to have this Jewish character sit down and digest that he met the Cain and to like deal with that and his faith. No, it’s just one throwaway line that that’s a thing that happened and then we gotta move on.

So Silent Brothers illustrate novels now, huh. That’s a thing Silent Brothers do now, yeah. I mean, if this were... like... an actual copy of a Bible or something. But Paradise Lost is just... it’s a story. Sure, sure, sure, we treat it as A Real Thing, apparently, but it’s still just a book. And the Silent Brothers just... illustrate those now. With enough accuracy that you can make out the super rare rune that binds Lucy and Mike, yeah? That’s a thing. Of course. Because they were “special seer Silent Brothers”, so we’re... implying they actually witnessed this fight between Lucy and Mike and got a good enough look at their bare shoulders to illustrate the rune, yeah? That’s what we’re going with, huh?

Also, hot damn. They are doubling down hard on the “metaphor” - I don’t think you can, in good faith, call it a metaphor anymore because those always do need a little translating. They literally called Jonathan Morgenstern and made him the demon-blooded one. While Clary is the super pure mega special angelic angel girl. And now they share the runes of Lucifer, aka the actual Morgenstern/Morning Star, and Michael, the super mega special angel. That ain’t even a metaphor anymore.

Do Shadowhunter doctors even exist? When Jace nearly died, well one of those times anyway, he got healed by Clary, aka the most untrained Shadowhunter at the time. When Izzy was badly injured and wanted to go to the Iron Sisters, she did not go to any actual doctor in the Institute, she got her special vamp-drugs directly from the head of the Instistute and did not ask any doctors for second opinion either. Clary, in her infinitey stupidity, decides to just go with it and try to derune that magic special rune that the mother of all demons put on her, and it’s not done by a specialist with training, it’s just done by Jace. Do they have anyone with special medical training anywhere in that Institute, is what I’m asking.

I don’t know. I’m just so tired at this point.

TL;DR:

This show is 100% driven by ships. Characters make decisions only based on what ship the show really needs to sell, be that Luke suddenly asking Maryse for help instead of bonding with his daughter, or Clary and Jace just randomly having sex despite all the trauma Jace has been through since the last time he said he isn’t ready yet and wants to take things slow, or how Maia breaks up with Simon so the show can make S*zzy happen. It’s insane. Please stop being horny, show-writers, I beg you

Wolves are dumb. There is no other way to phrase that

Vampires though? Also not the brightest. How do you let Heidi manipulate you like that, Griffin? Raphael needs to come back

Stop pretending like the Lightwood sibling bond is a special thing applied to Alec-Isabelle-Jace if you keep excluding Jace

Silent Brothers like illustrating novels in their free time, who’d have thought

If they try to hit us over the head any harder with the Jonathan MORGENSTERN = Lucifer and Clary = oh so pure good angel metaphor, I’ma get a concussion from it

[sunflowersandink]

Seasons

Part 1

Read on Ao3

Pairing: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson

Summary: In spring, the swallows come. Two days after Peter sees the first swallow of the year, he finds a plastic Easter egg on the ground. Inside is a grenade. 

Or: Peter and Wade, and the development of their relationship between one spring and the next.

Words: 2251

In spring, the swallows come.

The swallows, out of all the birds, are his favorites. Peter sees a lot of birds in his line of work, probably more than almost anyone else in the city. Even the bird watchers see them most often when they’re still.

But Peter gets to see them fly, and the swallows fly like they know exactly what a gift it is.

As far as he’s concerned, spring in New York City doesn’t really start until he’s seen one.

Two days after Peter sees the first swallow of the year, he finds an egg on the ground.

This is probably unrelated to the appearance of the swallow, as the hot-pink plastic-ness of the egg seems to indicate that a person, and neither bird nor reptile nor weird experimental mammal placed it there.

He picks it up tentatively, and isn’t it sad that his lifestyle has made him so suspicious of an innocent plastic Easter egg?

He cracks it open to find a grenade.

In the next instant he’s off the civilian-riddled street and on the roof of a nearby building, heart thudding furiously in his chest. He fumbles with the device, hands shaking slightly, and finds, to his great relief and slight confusion, that the grenade doesn’t appear to have been activated in any way. He webs it five times to a structurally unimportant part of the roof just in case.

He swings back down to land on a lightpost next to where he found it. To his dawning horror, he spots pastel colors dotted all down the street, stuck in the windshields of cars, balanced in the windows of businesses, and lying on the ground beneath trees and street lamps.

“Mommy, Mommy, look! The Easter Bunny came early! See? There’s an egg!”

Peter freezes, then twists on his perch, honing in on the voice. There’s a little girl with red pigtails bouncing up and down excitedly beside her mother, a yellow egg clutched in her small hand.

“No!” Peter yelps, flinging himself off the post and towards the girl. “No, no no no no, don’t touch that!” He yanks it out of her hand, backing away quickly. She stares up at him in shock. Tears fill her eyes, and her face scrunches up. “Oh, no no, don’t cry, it’s okay,” he says hastily, cupping his hands between her and the egg. “You just don’t want this egg is all, it’s full of…” he cracks it open, and stares. “...vegetables. It’s full of vegetables.” He does his best to hide the packet of M&M’s within his hand.

Her face lights up. “I like vegetables!” she chirps.

“Of course you do,” Peter mumbles. “I mean.. of course you do! Vegetables are awesome and you should eat them all the time, but, uh, not these ones, okay? They’re all...uh, mushy and gross.”

He spots a blue egg in the window of the salon behind them, and he lunges over to snatch it. This one appears to contain a AAA battery. He looks back up at the girl and her mother, who are watching him in confusion and alarm, respectively. “Just...uh, don’t pick up anymore Easter eggs, okay? Ask your mom to buy you some broccoli or something,” he backs away down the sidewalk, pointing at the mom. “Buy your kid some veggies! Don’t let her touch any strange eggs!”

He fashions himself a web bag, and sets off on an egg hunt.

Within a few minutes, he has a collection of twenty-three plastic Easter eggs of various sizes and colors in the bag. Their contents range from candy, to coins, to what seems to be the entire contents of someone’s junk drawer. Several contain five and ten dollar bills. One has a hundred dollar bill, and he takes careful note of every one that has money in it, just on the off chance that they aren’t somehow rigged to explode or poison him or turn into a robot that will cut his nose off while he sleeps.

The trail stops at the opening of an alley. In the middle of the alley is a black-and-red-clad figure with pink bunny ears, skipping cheerfully away.

“Here comes Pe-ter Cotton-Tail,” he sings brightly, a large basket swinging from his arm.

“Hey!” Peter calls after him.

Without missing a beat, he spins gracefully on his toes, and Peter abruptly has a gun pointed at his forehead. “Shoo-ting you in the fuck-ing skull!” He finishes to the same tune.

Peter yanks the gun out of his hand with a strand of webbing before the last note has even died off. The other man barely seems to notice. He claps gloved hands against his cheeks, staring at him with the comically large white eyes on his mask.

“Oh Em Gee, you’re Spider-Man!” He squeals.

Peter looks at the gun now in his hand, wrinkling his nose in distaste, and then back up at the other red-and-black suited person in the alley, a growing suspicion as to his identity forming. “You wouldn’t happen to be Deadpool by any chance, would you?”

Deadpool makes a sound like a tea kettle with some sort of factory error, and bounces up and down on the balls of his feet. “He knows our name!” he squeaks. He freezes. “Wait. Did you just happen to know it, or do you have psychic powers in this universe? Did you see it in my mind?”

Peter blinks. “No. I saw it in an Avengers briefing.”

Deadpool nods thoughtfully. “That’s not as cool, but still, adorable that they talk about me when I’m not around.”

“They said you’re an unstable menace and I should ‘take extreme caution and not approach unless absolutely necessary’,” he says, mimicking the Captain’s lecture voice.

“Ooh, a menace, huh?” Deadpool repeats in a high-pitched voice. “So what exactly brings you to approach lil ol’ menacing me today?”

Peter raises an eyebrow under his mask. “Seriously?” he holds up a plastic egg. “I’ve got like fifty of these. Easter isn’t even for another two weeks, man.”

“Aw, someone doesn’t have much Easter spirit!”

“You could’ve blown someone up!”

He cocks his head, looking genuinely bemused. “Sounds fun, but that’s really more of a Valentines’ Day sort of celebration, Baby Boy.”

“Then why leave an egg with a grenade in it lying in the street?”

Deadpool does a double take, feeling for his belt. “I did no such - oh.” he pulls a half-melted Hershey’s chocolate belt and two grenades out of a pouch. “Well that’s not right.”

“Okay. I’m confiscating your basket. Hand it over.”

He narrows his eyes, clutching his basket tighter. “You know I can just buy more Easter eggs.”

“And I can just confiscate those too. I’ve got a collection going.”

“Fine!” Deadpool huffs, shoving the basket at him.

Peter takes it gingerly, wary of more explosives. “Appreciate the cooperation.”

“So is Easter Grinch your usual job, or is this just a night job? Because the outfit definitely screams ‘night job’, and that is not an insult, baby boy.”

“First of all, it’s day, as you can tell from the giant ball of fire in the sky. Second, I don’t get paid for this, and third, this is the first time I’ve ever had to steal Easter eggs from anyone, so congrats on being unique,” Peter says, busy checking the eggs in the basket. Deciding that there’s nothing rigged to explode, he attaches a line of web to the roof above them, landing neatly on the edge.

“Hey, you know if you ever need money, I’ve got some ideas for things I could pay you for!” Deadpool shouts up at him.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that!” Peter calls back. “Besides, you couldn’t afford me!”

He’s gone before he hears if there’s a response.

…

The next time he sees Deadpool is in the beginning of May, and this time it’s not even Deadpool’s fault. It’s the guy’s who thought it would be funny to release approximately fifty bajillion weird fuzzy caterpillar things the size of cats around the city.

As far as supervillain schemes goes, it’s really more on the ‘inconvenience’ side of things, rather than the ‘what kind of person does this shit’, so that makes it a pretty good day in Peter’s book. The Avengers are even here! Which probably just means they happened to have nothing better to do, but still.

Peter has three of the squirmy bundles of white fluff in his arms, and is busy trying to fish a fourth out from under a car when a pair of red-and-black booted feet appear in front of him. He looks up from where he’s laying on his stomach to see the merc watching him, head cocked, stroking a large caterpillar that’s curled comfortably in his arms.

“That looks uncomfortable,” he says cheerilly.

“How observant,” Peter snaps. “Want to help me out here?”

“Ooo, Baby Boy, there’s all sorts of things I’d be willing to help you out with,” he wiggles his eyebrows meaningfully.

“Like getting a giant bug out from under this car?” he asks, deciding the best way to deal with the innuendo was just to ignore it.

“Mm. Kinky.” Deadpool kneels down beside him. “Why don’t you just use your webbing to pull it out?”

Peter readjusts his grip on the three he’s holding, tugging one back from where it’s trying to crawl over his shoulder. He shuffles around to the other side of the car. “It sticks to their fur. Hair? I don’t know. Anyway, I don’t have time to cut it free and I don’t want to hurt them by just yanking it off.” With a quick lunge, he finally manages to grab the bug before it can inch away from him. “Nevermind, got it.” He stands, tucking the new addition into his armful of fluff. He nods with his chin towards the one in Deadpool’s arms. “Here, give me that one, I’ll take them to where we’re rounding the others up.”

Deadpool narrows his eyes, hugging it protectively to his chest. “Excuse you, ‘that one’ has a name. Her name is Beatrice, and I’ll have you know she is a purebred!” He says haughtily.

Peter raises an eyebrow. “A purebred what?”

Deadpool looks at Beatrice in silence for a second. “Bug,” he declares, with a confident nod.

Peter firmly resists the urge to be at all amused. “I mean. You’re probably right.”

“Hey, Spidey!” a voice calls behind him. He turns to find Hawkeye, staring warily past him at Deadpool, one hand on his bow. “You okay?”

Peter stares at him, puzzled. “What else would I be? They’re caterpillars, Clint, they don’t even bite.”

Clint’s eyes dart to Peter with that look he always gives him, which means ‘now is not the time for your bullshit, kid’, which is just plain insulting. Seriously, he’s fought with the Avengers before, are they really going to get all fussy about some harmless little bugs? He’s Spider-Man, for God’s sake. They should be his specialty.

He’s just beginning to work himself into serious irritation when Deadpool speaks up cheerfully behind him. “Nah, I don’t think it’s the fuzzy-wuzzy bugs he’s worried about. Or at least, not the miniature ones.”

Peter turns back to ask what he’s talking about, and finally picks up on the edge under his cheerful tone.

Ah. Right. The deadly merc with a mouth. Who he was warned not to interact with. Clint steps forward, hand tightening slightly on his bow, and beckons Peter forward, as though he’s a small child who’s wandered too close to the tiger cage at the zoo. “Come on, SHIELD’s pretty much got this under control.”

Peter looks at Deadpool, who’s standing stiffly, still clutching Beatrice. The moment he notices Peter watching him, he appears to relax. Appears. Peter knows what calculated relaxation looks like.

“Aw man, I would love to come with you guys, but my evening is completely booked right now.” He saunters casually backwards, towards the entrance of a nearby alley. “But you fellas enjoy the after party! I know, I know, it’s not as much fun without me, but you’ll survive.” And with that, he’s gone, without giving either Peter or Clint a chance to respond.

Clint sets off down the street towards the containment cage SHIELD set up, and Peter hurriedly falls into step beside him. “He wasn’t actually doing anything, just being...weird,” he tells Clint, not entirely sure why he’s defending Deadpool to him, for some reason feeling he should.

Clint stops abruptly, and Peter almost stumbles in surprise. He looks Peter in the eye, as best he can through the mask. “Look kid, you’ve got a good heart, it’s what makes you a good hero. But Deadpool? He doesn’t. He’ll kill you the second someone pays him enough to cover the cost of the bullet, and he won’t think twice about it. He might not be a villain you need to fight, but he’s damn well not someone you should be spending time with,” he says firmly.

Peter fidgets, adjusting the caterpillars in his arms. “What are you, my dad?” he mumbles.

Clint grins, the tension broken. “Don’t let Stark hear you say that.”

Peter laughs, and they start off again, their conversation reverting back to its usual casual chatter.

But something keeps niggling at the back of his mind.

For all the warnings people keep giving him, his spidey sense never so much as hummed around the merc, not once.

[thedistrictsleepsalonetonight]

How to fall in love the wrong way

Chapter 6: The rage and love, the story of my life

Toni is hiding in a closet.

That fact alone should be inspiring so many laughs right now, considering she hasn’t ever really been in a closet at any period of her life, but laughter isn’t the first thing on her mind currently. It’s not even the second. Or the third. She has been sitting here since the morning, since she decided to skip school and play hooky, surrounded by old, dusty books and an old mop, a bucket, and a packet of wafers.

There’s a knock on the door, and then Sweet Pea pokes his head in.

“Care to entertain visitors, Toots?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, squeezes his huge frame inside the door somehow, shuts it again, and then plonks down beside her.

“How did you even manage that?” she asks him, still a little surprised.

“I’m flexible, bitch,” he deadpans, and usually, something like him calling her bitch would have her in fits of laughter, but she just smiles tiredly, and the expression on his face changes. It’s more serious now, a little concerned.

“What’s wrong, buddy?”

“Nothing,” she says, automatically.

“Sure, and I totally didn’t hook up with that hot chick we met serving coffee at that fancy place, at the party last Saturday.”

“Sweets, I……wait, really?” she raises her hand, formed into a fist and he lightly bumps it with his “You going to see her again?”

“Date this Friday,” he informs her, solemnly, and she smiles more effortlessly this time, genuinely happy for her idiot of a friend.

“Yeah, you gotta try harder there,” he continues, gesturing to her face “That grin ain’t fooling anyone.”

“It’s just a bad day,” she sighs “That’s okay. It’ll be better tomorrow.”

“But why is it a bad day?”

“I don’t…..I’m too tired to explain it all,” she says, and goes on when he opens his mouth in protest “It’s okay, really, Sweets. I’m really okay.”

He gives her an awkward side-hug from his scrunched up position, and she leans into him, grateful for the fact that he doesn’t push anymore.

“Now tell me more about this girl of yours.”

“Ah, the girl,” he starts “The girl, this girl…..”

                                                                          *****************

Fangs doesn’t even bother knocking. Just opens the door and squashes himself into the tiny space beside her. Drops down and grabs the wafers bag from her hand, immediately stuffing three into his mouth.

“Hey, Fangs, great to see you. I’m fine, how are you doing?” she mutters, with no heat behind her words. This is just the way he is. He ignores her, just keeps stuffing until his mouth is completely full. Then he takes another five minutes to chew his mouth free. He turns to her, and raises his eyebrows.

“What?” she asks.

“Let me guess, you’ve been listening to Green Day. More specifically, the American Idiot album. More specifically,” he pauses now, in deep thought “Are we the waiting? So, am I right?”

She gapes at him, jaw open, eyes wide “Fangs. How did you?”

“Guessed,” he shrugs, but after a moment, grins “Okay, I’m lying. I saw the song when you shut off your phone as I came in. But seriously, that’d have been pretty awesome, right?”

She punches his arms, but he’s made her laugh, and she thinks maybe that was the point of it all.

“Also, I totally knew about the American Idiot album. That’s your go-to album when you’re pissed or sad. So, spill. And I don’t mean the wafers, because I kind of already did some of that.”

“I don’t know, man. Don’t really want to talk about it.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, instead switching topics in a heartbeat “So spill about your girl.”

“What, I don’t, she’s,” she sputters.

He doesn’t deign to reply to that, just raises an eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” she admits “Haven’t talked to her since day before yesterday.”

“Oh, my, God,” he exclaims, in his best approximation of a Valley Girl accent, palms on cheeks “Two whole days. However did you survive?”

“Shut up, Fangs. I just, have been feeling, well, not the best, and I don’t want her to be here during that.”

“Aren’t girlfriends supposed to help you through that shit?�� he looks confused.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” she reminds him.

“Right. I keep forgetting because of how whipped you’ve been acting lately.”

Toni makes a face, and he ignores it.

“Seriously,” he says “Why not just ask her out?”

“Because, Fangs, problems. Northside-Southside rivalry? Her mother? I’m not sure if she likes me back?”

“That’s all?”

“No, it’s…..I don’t know if I want to. I don’t know if she’s ready, or whatever. This thing between us, it seems, different,” she pauses then continues when he looks more confused than ever “Like, pure somehow. I don’t want to call her my girlfriend or whatever, I mean, I wouldn’t mind, obviously, but it’s more like, I want to be there for her. I want to make her smile, I want her to not be sad. I’m fine just being friends as long as I get to be there for her.”

She looks at him to makes sure he understands. He’s got the most serious expression on his face, all solemn and pensive. It’s quiet in there for a minute. Then

“That’s so gay,” comes out of his mouth, and they’re both laughing so hard it hurts, they’re laughing so hard that they’d literally be rolling on the floor if there was any space, instead they’re just crashing into each other, and while Fangs’s knee hurts against her head, it also makes her feel a tiny bit better.

                                                                          *****************

Toni should’ve known Cheryl would come.

(Or maybe not. The girl’s bloody unpredictable.)

But it honestly seems like a foregone conclusion when Toni hears a bunch of noises outside, like someone’s arguing, and then suddenly Cheryl’s cuts through the rest “Toni? I’m coming in.”

And for the first time that day, Toni gets to see someone not bludgeon their way inside. Inside Cheryl gently opens the door, gets in, closes it behind her, and looks down at her.

And if Toni hadn’t already been floored by hearing her voice after two whole days (Seriously, Fangs can laugh, but not being able to hear the girl’s voice was pure torture), she now looks up at Cheryl’s face, at her perfect face with her beautiful eyes, and her cute nose, and her sunset red hair, and she swears she can feel her eyes exiting their sockets and molding themselves into little red hearts.

(Okay, she’s a cliché)

“Hey,” she says, a little dazed.

“Hey yourself,” Cheryl replies, and sets her bag down “I brought supplies.”

Then she proceeds to take out two burgers, a takeaway packet of fries, four chocolate bars, and a can of Coke from it.

“What’s all this?” Toni asks her.

“Food?”

“No, I mean, I see that but…….why?”

“Fangs and Sweet Pea told me you weren’t feeling well, so I thought I’d……wait, do you not like this?” she looks worried now, biting her bottom lip, and God, this girl is so fucking precious Toni can’t even.

“No, its,” Too much of an effort for me. Cheryl, it’s too much of an effort for me, I can’t, nobody has ever taken this much of an effort for me, and I cannot believe how head over heels I am for you right now “Perfect.”

They eat and talk for the next fifteen minutes. Cheryl obviously has a lot of gossip to share, and her stream of conversation never dries up, jumping from Archie to Betty to Veronica to Reggie, and Toni, for her part, does her best to follow along. Mostly, she’s just content to stare at the other girl.

“You want to tell me what’s wrong with you?” she asks, when they’re done eating, and there’s a lull in the discussion.

“It’s not, really something I want to bother you with,” Toni tells her, honestly.

“And if it had been something that bothered me, I wouldn’t have asked,” Cheryl replies.

There’s silence, again, and then it all comes out. There’s obviously the fight with the Ghoulies, which is how it started, and then it segues onto how she came back to the trailer when her uncle was drunk, and still awake, and how it resulted in one of the worst arguments she had ever had in her life, and how scared she was for a moment, of how, even if she had two knives hidden in her jacket, she’s never felt more like a defenseless child than then, and that….

“I don’t want to feel like that again, okay?” Toni blurts out, her voice cracking, and wow, when had she even started crying? “I am part of a gang, and I have my brothers and sisters to back me up, but it sometimes, it sometimes sucks that I never had a real family of my own. It…..it sucks that I can’t call someone up in the middle of the night when I’m scared or tired or angry or just fucking lonely. I am tired of being so angry and scared and sad and lonely, I’m tired, I’m so tired.”

Cheryl reaches out for her, and suddenly Toni’s in her arms, her head buried in Cheryl’s soft neck. There are hands running through her hair, and she’s sobbing really, really, hard and she would be embarrassed except it’s Cheryl, and Toni doesn’t want to hide from her. At all.

“Darling,” Cheryl whispers to her, and her voice sounds pained somehow. She doesn’t say anything else after that, doesn’t tell her it’s going to be alright, doesn’t tell her that it’s fine. She just holds her, and Toni wonders if Cheryl will keep holding her forever, because she thinks she’s already falling.

Chapter title and song mentioned in the chapter: Are we the waiting by Green Day

[thekrazykeke]

Black women deserve better, just keeping it 100%. Also, this chapter is packed with feelings so beware, beware, beware.

I wish I could believe you, then I'll be all right But now everything you told me really don't apply To the way I feel inside

"--By. Baby, did you hear me!?” 

The sound of an annoyed male voice jolted you out of the trance you’d fallen into. “What?” Glancing to the left, you smile halfheartedly up at your boyfriend. “Hey, baby.” You belatedly took note of his attire. “Going out?”

He muttered something indistinct underneath his breath that vaguely sounded like, ‘that’s what I just said, damn, pay attention,’ and more unflattering things that you chose to be deaf to. “It’s just my usual five mile run. I’ve got my iPod with me, so I probably won’t be checking my messages.”

“Are you really just going for a run, Andrew?” Although you’d warned yourself over and over to keep the accusing tone out of your voice, it still snuck in there without permission. 

He pointed a finger in your face. “Don’t start. Remember what the therapist said.” Andrew felt the need to point out. “Stop looking for reasons to be suspicious.”

Loving you was easy once upon a time But now my suspicions of you have multiplied And it's all because you lied

“Maybe if you’d have kept your dick in your pants, I wouldn’t need to be suspicious.” You muttered. 

He had heard you but pretended like he didn’t. 

“What was that?” Andrew raised an eyebrow. 

“I said if you goin’ out, I’m leaving too.” You state in a normal tone of voice. “Can you take Buddy?”

“Nah, that dog too hyperactive and he don’t like me.” 

I only give you a hard time 'Cause I can't go on and pretend like I haven't tried to forget this But I'm much too full of resentment

“Remember what the therapist said?” You couldn’t resist throwing his words back at him. “Compromise with your partner. Tailor your needs and wants to suit their schedule sometimes too. So take the damn dog! I need, want, and deserve, some quality time by my damn self!!” 

“Alright!” He shouted. “...Alright, I’ll take the dog.” Andrew raised his hands near his head, not touching the sides of his face. Then he lowered them, reaching out to take your hands. You let him, grip limp in his. “We gon get through this, baby. It’s just a rough patch.”

Just can't seem to get over the way you hurt me Don't know how you gave another who didn't mean a thing, no The very thing you gave to me I thought I could forgive you, and I know you've changed As much as I wanna trust you, I know it ain't the same

Lips pursing, slipping into a frown, “Just go.” You request.

“Baby...”

Irritation flooded your body before exploding outward. “I didn’t stutter! Leave me the fuck alone, muthafucka!”

Andrew dropped your hand and backed away, eyeing you warily. Walking backwards, he didn’t take his eyes off of you until he bumped into the bedroom door, feeling around for the handle, and then twisted it, slipping out the cracked opening. 

Feeling tears stinging at the back of your eyes, wanting to be shed, you blink rapidly. Refusing to cry today. You’d cried enough tears to fill a river, lake, and ocean after discovering that your potential husband to be, your high school sweetheart and lover for just under half a decade had been actively cheating on you. With his secretary. 

It was such a cliche. 

You hadn’t wanted to believe it when you found out four months ago. Or actually, you’d been told, by the homewrecker herself. Claiming Andrew was the father of her unborn child. Of course, you wanted proof, needed it, because so much time and energy had been put into the relationship, you weren’t just letting some random thirsty ho ruin it. And she had proof: text messages, receipts for the gifts he’d bought, pictures, the whole nine yards. 

When you’d confronted Andrew, he denied at first. He kept denying it for a solid hour. Then he guiltily admitted the truth, fake crying and trying to play the victim. Flip it on you, saying that you were cold and inattentive. 

You didn’t love or fuck him enough. 

For that reason alone, you popped his ass in the face. The neighbors called the police. Ms. Wayne likely thought you were about to kill his bitch ass self in this house. And with how livid you were, it could have happened. 

Truthfully, you were done with him when you found out a whole four months ago, but your mom talked you into couple’s counselling (she always favored him more, you knew it in your heart) and against your better judgement, you’d went. Listened to this Zen bullshit, control your temper, ease up, don’t give up. 

Blah blah blah.  

That shit was for the birds! 

Once a cheater, always a cheater. You was only waiting for the minute you caught him slipping, then you would be gone without a second thought. 

Hell, maybe before that.

‘Lord, bless me with a wholesome, genuine man. With his own car, his own job and about his business. I don’t care how he look, Lord, just send him my way.’ Prayer is not for silly reasons like this, your mother would scold you, but in your eyes, this is an emergency. 

Crystal Cove Gardens 10:28 AM

Dressed in a cute but simple outfit, you watched the families enjoy the warm weather. How the dogs chased after thrown sticks or toys, and regretted not bringing Buddy out here. He’d been such a good doggy in the past few months, growling at Andrew’s trifling ass, cheering you up with his antics, and letting you run your fingers through his fur while struggling with the on and off bouts of tears and fury. 

‘I hope he bites him on the butt. He would deserve it.’ 

There were gasps and you looked for the source of distress. Only to feel something wet plop against your forehead. 

‘Oh, no.’

More raindrops fell from the sky. The sunny expanse becoming gray quickly and the light rain changed to a downpour. Everybody started running for cover, you did too, futilely trying to shield your hair but gave up on that five minutes in. Slipping and sliding on the cobblestone while running for your car, you fell a few feet away from the place you’d parked. 

“Oww! Shit...” Embarrassment filled your body, though no one was around to see you take that L. Sitting up, you pressed your fingers to the back of your head, pulling them away and grateful not to see blood. 

‘That’s karma for you.’

Knees stinging, back aching, you tried to get up again. This time you managed to raise up onto your knees. Only to startle when you didn’t feel your brown skin being pelted with rain anymore. Glancing up, you saw an umbrella overhead, shielding you.

“Are you alright, miss?” An accented male voice met your ears. The owner of that voice reached an umber skinned hand down and you took it. He helped you to your feet easily, no complaints forthcoming or irritated huffs, but that little action caused your heart to skip a beat. 

“I’m good. Thank you.” You didn’t want to be rude but you were embarrassed as all hell. Someone had witnessed you make a fool of yourself, shit. ‘And he’s handsome! Lord, thank you, but why you have to send him right now?!’ 

“Really, thank...” You take a step back and he lets you go. 

Only you nearly bit it. Again.

And this time, he shifted his umbrella to his left hand, reaching out with his free hand. Catching you around the waist and bringing you close. You were left blinking up at him like an idiot and the faint thought of ‘so this is how those white girls in Harlequin novels get caught up.’ 

“May I escort you the rest of the way to your vehicle? This is twice you’ve nearly seriously hurt yourself in my presence and I am worried.” Faint amusement coats his tone but you’re not offended, somehow realizing that he’s not making fun of you like anyone else would in this predicament.

‘He has kind eyes...’ Wordless, you nodded. 

Smoothly, he offered an arm in your direction after you straightened up (again) and this time, you take it. Trying not to inhale too deeply even though he smelled good. Trying not to grope him even though you could feel how muscled he is through his shirt. You try to listen to the angel on your shoulder as he raised the umbrella overhead, offering protection for you and himself as he carefully walked with you towards your car. 

Two wrongs don’t make it right, a voice at the back of your head that sounded distantly like your disapproving mother, as you opened the car door and got inside. 

“Drive safely.” 

Aww, how sweet! “I will.” You promise. “Thank you again, stranger.” After the words left your mouth, you could have smacked yourself. It wasn’t a smooth delivery at all, more awkward and fumbling. Such a dumbass, you’re such a dumbass. 

His lips twitched into a faint smile, unfazed by the bumbling delivery. “My name is T’Challa. Not ‘stranger’.”

“Y/N.” Habit has you offering your hand for a shake, but he lifted the back of your hand to his mouth, kissing the knuckles. Sending your heart into overdrive and as his dark eyes flicked to yours for a brief, heated moment, there’s no way he missed that. 

“Drive safely, Y/N.”

The way that he caressed the syllables of your name has you thinking about climbing out of this car and doing something very very crazy. You entertain the notion for approximately ten seconds, but T’Challa maybe senses the turmoil occurring in your heart and head, because he makes the choice for the both of you. Gently closing the car door, then waved and walked in the opposite direction.

You sit in that car for close to half an hour before driving home. 

Home to a man you don’t love nor want. Home to a man who doesn’t love or even like, let alone respect you. Regret coats the back of your throat as Andrew kisses your cheek, asking if you wanted to eat some leftover pizza and watch movies.

[myspookysunshine]

Moonlight Drive 1/1

Summary : It’s Steve’s birthday. What should be a celebration turns into hell, then recovery, then something approximating Jonathan’s idea of heaven.

Pairing : Steve Harrington/Jonathan Byers (pre-slash)

Rating : Teen

Warnings : Hurt/comfort, blood, injury, aftermath of a fight, language, not being at all nice to Billy Hargrove

Reposted on AO3 as  dustyirish

Author’s notes : Written for Stonathan Week - badly written, I’m afraid to say. This is the sappiest mess I’ve ever ended up with, and that’s saying something, but this is (no exaggeration) the SIXTH version of Stonathan birthday fics I have started over the last three days, and the only one I was able to completely finish in time. I have no damned idea what to do with the other five. I’m lucky I can still see straight at this point. Anyway, bless you if you take time to read.

Come on, baby, gonna take a little ride Down, down by the ocean side Gonna get real close Get real tight Baby, gonna drown tonight

~ The Doors

Jonathan drove towards Linda Shane's house. He didn't know who the hell Linda Shane was, or how Steve knew her, or why she had been chosen to host his birthday bash. But Steve had invited him, and that meant that Jonathan had to make the effort to show up, even if he would most likely park in the woods across from the house, debating with himself for half an hour or so before promptly returning home.

He looked down, fiddling with the radio dial, then glanced back up only to see a blood-covered Steve Harrington standing in the middle of the road, waving his arms wildly over his head.

Jonathan slammed on the brakes, screeching to a stop about two feet in front of him. His heart was threatening to pound out of his chest as Steve ran to the passenger door, wrenched it open and flopped inside.

"Step on it, Byers!" he was screaming, even before the door was closed. "Go go go!!"

Jonathan stomped the accelerator and obeyed, hands shaking on the wheel.

He drove like a madman for a couple of miles until they hit the edge of town, then dropped to a safer speed, finally daring to take his attention off of the road long enough to look at Steve. His stomach sank. When he had first spotted Steve in front of the car he had thought - if he had time to think anything - that Steve had maybe done something to someone and needed to escape. It was clear now, that whatever had taken place, it had all been done to Steve.

His face was a bloody mess of scrapes and cuts, his nose was bleeding freely down the front of his shirt, there was even a horizontal gash across his neck that looked so much like an attempted throat-slashing that Jonathan had to choke back bile.

"Jesus! What happened?!"

"Fucking Hargrove happened!"

"Are you all right?" It was an idiotic question, but Jonathan was still in shock from nearly turning the man he secretly loved into roadkill.

"I wouldn't go that far," Steve muttered, and lay his head back against the seat, groaning.

Jonathan reached a hand out, not retracting it even when it landed on Steve's thigh. He was too worried to stick to his usual avoidance plan. "Do you need the E.R.?"

"No, it was only six or seven punches as opposed to the usual dozen."

Fury swept through Jonathan, rapid and intense, and he jerked the steering wheel hard to the left.

Steve shot back up in his seat, "Where are you going?!"

"Back there to kick Hargrove's ass," he growled. "He's not going to keep doing this shit to you!"

Steve was staring at him, open-mouthed. "Fuck, Byers, that was unexpected. And almost disturbingly hot." He lay a hand on Jonathan's arm and gave him a gentle pat. "Turn back around, man. It is so not worth it. Besides, he'll already have bailed. He got what he came for."

Jonathan knew Steve was right, but he also knew he himself had meant what he said. It was going to stop, one way or another. He sighed and made another U-turn, this time at normal speed.

After another minute Steve reached around, groaning, and plucked something off of the back seat. "Can I use this?" he asked in a strange, muffled voice.

Jonathan looked over. "If you don't mind smelling like wet dog. It's Chester's blanket."

Steve pulled it into his lap, ducked his head, and spit a mouthful of blood into the cloth. "Sorry. Don't want to swallow it or I'll wind up puking, and we don't need to add that to the festivities."

Jonathan was sure the concern was plain on his face.

Steve tried to smile and it was ghastly. "Tell Chester I'll wash it before I give it back."

Jonathan pulled off the road into a gas station parking lot. "I'll be right back," he told Steve. "Just take it easy."

He was in the store for five minutes, gathering paper towels and water and a bag of frozen peas in lieu of an ice pack.

When he got back outside, he found Steve leaning out of the car, spitting more blood onto the pavement.

He climbed into in the driver's seat, flipped on the dome light and lined up his purchases on the dash, waiting for Steve to finish. Once he'd settled, Jonathan passed him a wad of paper towels for his nose and got to work.

"I'll try not to hurt you any more than I have to." He reached out and brushed back the side of Steve's hair, exposing his cheek. "There's a pretty bad cut along here." He gently cleaned the blood away as well as he could manage with a bottle of Evian and a swatch of Bounty.

Steve winced at the touch. "Fucker's ring probably caught me."

Jonathan worked silently, trying to tamp down the rage he was feeling. It wasn't going to help the situation any at the moment. Right now he needed to focus on tending to Steve, making sure he wasn't more injured than he'd let on. He gently turned Steve's head so he could start on the other side.

Steve met his eyes and grinned. "Would you really kick his ass for me, Byers?"

"I kicked yours, didn't I? And I didn't even get any pleasure out of that. With him it would be nothing but." His eye landed on the neck wound again and he brushed his thumb over it, careful not to press too hard. "Just tell me that wasn't a knife," he grated out.

"What?" Steve looked down, startled at Jonathan's tone. "God no. I don't know what did that; I remember slamming against a table at one point. Hargrove doesn't want to actually kill me - that'd be like taking away his favorite chew toy."

Steve's eyes darkened suddenly and he startled the hell out of Jonathan by screaming "Goddammit!!!" at the roof, pounding both fists on the seat and drumming his heels on the floorboard. It reminded Jonathan of the tantrums Will used to throw when he was two and denied extra pudding.

"Stop that!"

"I'm fucking pissed! I'm sick and fucking tired of that asshole jumping me around every corner!"

"You're also bleeding all over my seat and hurting yourself more!" Jonathan yelled back, then lay his hand on Steve's shoulder, voice softening. "We'll figure it out. Just please let me take care of you." He'd meant to say 'take care of this', honest to Christ he had, and he blushed scarlet at the realization of what had come out of his mouth.

Steve was still silently fuming, and if he had heard the slip-up he didn't give any indication.

Jonathan mopped up the left side of Steve's face and went to work on his neck, having to dodge around Steve's Polo shirt to reach the errant streaks of blood.

"This thing's had it anyway," Steve grumbled, pulled the shirt over his head and, in a final fit of pique, tossed it out the window into the parking lot.

Jonathan tried not to react audibly to the suddenly bare chest next to him, but he couldn't stop himself from admiring as he wiped the cloth over skin. Admiration, however, turned to more worry - and a re-firing of anger - as he noticed the smattering of darkening knuckle marks along Steve's side. "You're already bruising." He lightly touched an area on Steve's rib cage with a finger, then quickly pulled back.

"Yeah. It'll be really spectacular tomorrow." Steve spit one last time into a paper towel and made a face. "Is there any water left?"

Jonathan pulled a Pepsi out of the bag and handed it over.

Steve sighed happily. "Have I ever told you how much I love you?"

Jonathan froze. Of course it was a joke; with Steve Harrington it could hardly be anything else. But Jonathan's imagination had always been too rampant for his own good, and at the sound of those words it threatened to lead him places he had no business going. He put the remainders of the clean-up items back into the bag, trying to compose himself. "I'm all finished," he finally said, voice only a little shaky.

Steve rolled his head to look at Jonathan. "Take me somewhere, Byers."

"You mean the hospital?"

Steve snorted. "No, not the hospital. Take me somewhere you'd take me on our first date."

Jonathan blinked. "Do you have a concussion?"

"No, I don't have a concussion. It's my goddamn birthday, and I want to get a surprise that isn't Billy Hargrove's fist." His voice softened, almost murmuring. "So take me somewhere special. Special to you."

Jonathan's mouth went dry. "Okay?" It came out more as a croak, but Steve just plopped the bag of frozen peas onto his forehead, whimpered slightly, closed his eyes and didn't seem to notice.

Jonathan sneaked peeks at him the entire drive to the pond. The way his hair curled around the shell of his ear; his bare chest rising and falling with each breath; the long line of his body as he sprawled in the seat. Jonathan ached to take Steve's picture.

He ached for a lot of things.

He sighed as he pulled up to their destination. He reached out with a hand to touch Steve's shoulder, then snatched it back, afraid to touch, not trusting himself at that moment. He settled for a low "Hey. We're here."

Steve's eyes fluttered open. "Awesome. Where's 'here'?"

Jonathan shrugged. "It doesn't really have a name. There's just the pond and some grassland."

"Why this place? What do you like about it?" Steve sounded genuinely curious.

"In the daytime, the sunlight flares off of the water in these incredible arcs; it's great for photography. And this is the best place for the sky at night. There's no city lights to dim the stars." Jonathan realized how utterly boring that must sound to someone like Steve. "I'm sure this isn't what you'd call 'special'."

"No, I'd say this is just about perfect," Steve rebutted, looking out the window. "Is this a strictly-from-the-vehicle viewing spot, or can we get out?"

Jonathan smiled. "We can get out. It's hard to see stars through the roof."

Steve hoisted himself from the car, slowly and painfully, and Jonathan followed, grabbing something from the backseat before shutting the door.

They were about a third of the way into the field when Steve spoke. "Hey, so I thought this was a date. Aren't you even gonna hold my hand?"

Jonathan had no idea if he was kidding or not, and before he could figure it out Steve decided things for him, grabbing hold and lacing his fingers with Jonathan's.

"You okay?"

Jonathan realized he had stopped dead in his tracks. "I ... yeah. Fine." He resumed walking, but his entire focus was on the warmth of Steve's skin against his palm.

"Here good?" Steve asked, and Jonathan saw they had somehow arrived at the edge of the pond.

He nodded and Steve plopped into the grass, letting go of Jonathan's hand. He missed the touch immediately. He sat a couple of feet from Steve, took a steadying breath, and handed over the photo album tucked under his right arm.

Steve squinted down at it. "What's this?"

"A present." The moonlight was bright enough that Steve should be able to see with no problem. Jonathan, however, almost hoped that it would prove too dark. This could go very badly. He had spent months taking the pictures and arranging them, but he hadn't decided whether or not to actually give the album to Steve until the moment he stepped from the car. He could only pray that his instincts were right.

Jonathan wasn't worried about the photos of Steve with the kids. He absolutely loved the one with Dustin. He had caught Steve coming up behind him, tackling and lifting him in a bear hug, growling something against the top of Dustin's head, and Steve's face was a complicated and beautiful dichotomy of 'God, this kid drives me batshit insane and I would lay down and die to protect him'. Jonathan honestly and with no bias thought it was the best photograph he had ever taken.

The ones that concerned him were the more candid shots; Steve sitting by the pool, the sunlight bouncing in his hair; Steve hiding a laugh behind his hand; Steve catching a nap on a bench outside of school. Photos that left absolutely no doubt as to Jonathan's feelings. He had handed Steve his heart right along with the album and all he could do was wait to see if it would be broken.

Steve flipped through the book silently, eyes widening a little more with every page. He finally closed it and turned. "Jesus, Jonathan. That's ..."

Jonathan cringed internally. "Creepy."

"I was going to say 'fucking amazing'. When did you take all of these?"

"Just ... whenever."

Steve picked Jonathan's hand back up and squeezed. "You're really good. Like professional-level good. I can't wait to get these into the light and look at them." Steve's fingers twined with his easily, and god help him, it was starting to feel like they belonged there. "This is seriously the best present I got this year. Maybe any year. I mean it."

Shockingly, Jonathan believed him.

Steve moved his head and winced. "Shit, everything on me hurts. Are you gonna freak if I lay in your lap?"

Jonathan swallowed, his heart racing. "Probably. But you can do it anyway."

Steve stretched out on the grass, head nestled on Jonathan's thigh.

Jonathan's hand automatically migrated towards Steve's hair, fingers wanting to feather through the strands. This time, he found the courage to let them.

Steve was looking up at the stars. He sighed contentedly. "You're right, Byers. Great view."

Jonathan was looking down at Steve, and, cuts and bruises or not, he couldn't agree more. "Happy birthday."

"You know, I think it's actually getting there," Steve said and smiled.

[thetravellingvagrant]

Day 7: Iasi/Cluj-Napoca : Training Day

Flash update number 2:

I managed once again to get something near to a decent night's sleep for the second day in a row and for the second time on this trip- I could get used to it- and thus had plenty of time for a right good morning bibble, before undertaking the leisurely ten minute walk to the train station, at the equally leisurely time of around 10:30am.

Iasi station operates on a similar bi-platform basis to Chisinau, so it didn't take me long to spot what I thought was probably my train, though crucially, I wasn't sure. There weren't any signs indicating to where it was heading and even the train's number was oddly concealed, considering the information was displayed so prominently on the ticket. Still, I clambered aboard and found the approximate location of my seat. I decided to be double sure, though. I accosted a nearby man and showed him my ticket.

“To Cluj?” I asked

he looked at the ticket, then back to me, smiled and lead my back to my seat. He must have thought I was asking where I was supposed to sit. That was probably confirmation enough. I was due to sit in a six person cabin, full with four other well dressed, elderly Romanian women and one hyperactive child. I was not pleased. As I was about to pour myself into my seat, I was tapped on the shoulder. It was the man I had asked.

“Is fine” he said, motioning for me to come with him.

Not quite sure what I was getting myself into, I followed, considering that if I ignored him and he WAS trying to tell me that I was on the wrong train, I would be, at best, embarrassed and at worse, homeless.

He was not trying to tell me that, though. Apparently deigning to take me under his wing, he was instead showing me to the cabin in which he was to sit, along with one other man. It was much less full than my previous one, so decided to take him up on the offer, despite how weird the whole thing was.

I literally had to choke back two of the four sandwiches I had made, the previous night for my breakfast and decided to just...not eat the final pair and had a brief, bumbling conversation with my Romanian train mentor, once the other chap had departed.

“You from?”

“Oh, uh, Scotland.”

“Ah! Glasgow rangers!”

“...Yes, that's right.”

“...” he paused.

“...” I said nothing, though could tell he was about to say something spectacular.

“...Dundee united”

spot on.

“uh, yep. They exist too. I'm from Glasgow though” I spoke as clearly as I could.

“Ah, yes, Glasgow. Glasgow Rangers!”

“...Yep, they...are still a thing.”

“Glasgow Rangers and...?” he cocked his head

“...Celtic?” I replied with narrowed eyes

“Ah, yes! Celtic! Very good!”

and with that he turned away. The conversation was jarring and genuinely quite baffling, though not at all unpleasant, though apparently, he was now done with it. I pushed my headphones into my ears and set about writing blog updates and watching shit on my phone for a few hours, interrupted only once, by the train mentor departing and wishing me safe travels, which was lovely of him, though again, slightly bewildering, and the occasional trainbound tat-peddler who would board at one stop, come into the cabin and lay out a selection of six or so truly horrible pieces of shitty, arbitrarily chosen knick-knackery and then leave, in order to sprinkle his unwanted bullshit over all of the other cabins too, like some awful trash-fairy. He would then, operating on what I can only describe as the  'Romanian Honour System', which I thought was an oxymoron, come back and if you wanted some of his shit, show him what you took and give him an appropriate amount of cash. Given that the second chap that came aboard laid out a USB device that was supposed to spin when plugged into a PC, three loose pencils, an old-school nudie pen and an illuminated and badly malformed knock-off minion doll, it should come as no surprise to learn that I did not partake of their services.

I progressed for the next few hours, now alone in my cabin

Balla

through the increasingly snowy and sporadically very pleasant terrain

I mean, it’s okay...

just fucking around and not doing much of interest- in fairness, there really wasn't much of interest that I could do- until my little nest of solitude was breached by an old Romanian woman, some five or six hours into my nine hour hell-ride. When I say “Romanian gypsy grandmother”; take the image you have in your head. Whatever you're thinking, that is what this woman looked like. Portly, missing teeth, with a scarf wrapped around her head and with a bag of quickly decaying fruit in her grasp. She sat down and squawked something at me, smiling a toothless grin at me as she did, so I assumed she wasn't being threatening. I told her I didn't speak Romanian. I don't think she spoke enough English to understand so she just smiled again and squawked something else. I did a comedy shrug and returned to my podcast and she returned to peeling an orange, because of course she fucking did. What journey, couped up in a clammy, sweaty, ventilation free box would be complete without unleashing the most pungent fruit stench you possibly could upon your hapless cabinmates. Top notch.

Soon, though, even she left me, and I was once more left to enjoy the quiet and intensely boring solitude of my happy little box on wheels.

Probably moments before I went stir crazy, the train mercifully pulled into Cluj-Napoca's station. I stood up, each of my joints noisily popping several times as I did, exited the train, hoping to never again see it in my life, and set about the forty or so minute walk to my new apartment.

I planned to call my new host about twenty minutes away from my arrival, in order to give him ample time to come and meet me. Twenty minutes away from my arrival, I pulled my phone out and...oh. No phone number in the messages. No worries, I saw it on his profile this morning. I checked his profile. The AirBnB app apparently thought that hosts telephone numbers didn't constitute important enough information to keep on the profiles of the mobile version of their site. Perfect. Well, I couldn't use my laptop, so I was stumped. I searched for a while longer on my phone. Finding nothing I began to get anxious. I sent several messages to friends asking them to locate his number on the desktop version of the site for me, and even braved an international call to my mother, to ask for her help, but they were all- and they would agree with this, I'm sure- crap and useless.

Eventually, as I was on the verge of giving up and seconds after I had sent Paul, my host, a message saying I couldn't find his mobile number, I found his mobile number. On the “messages” tab of the site, behind a tiny little button that didn't look like a button reading “details” was his number. Slightly embarrassed, I called him, now nearing full exhaustion. He answered and told me he'd be at the flat in around ten minutes. Perfect.

I ambled along to google map's guess of where the address I was supposed to head to was and found...nothing. I waited another ten minutes, before I received a phone call from Paul. He told me he'd be there soon and tried to give me more specific directions to the apartment, telling me he'd even sent me a google maps pinpoint (which, incidentally, I didn't actually receive until 4am the following morning), but I had no idea where he was trying to tell me to go, so he had to come and find me.

And he did. Bedraggled, exhausted and by now quite thoroughly irritated, he found me and led me back to the nearby apartment. Though I felt Paul hadn't been particularly helpful or communicative in our correspondence thus far, in person he was entirely pleasant and gave me some genuinely quite good tips for what to see while I was in town, some of which, I actually even did, which is frankly astonishing. He then left me alone to to survey the flat.

This may be one of my favourite places I have found on ABNB. The place is fully stocked with kitchen equipment and even some basic ingredients, bathroom stuff, towels, extra bed-sheets and so it. It's exceptionally clean, quite tastefully decorated, if a little sparse and has, for some wildly inexplicable reason a Terminator 2 themed pinball machine situated about a foot away from the bed.

...Fuck outta here...

To this day, I'm still not totally sure if it's functional, but I certainly plan to find out, before I leave.

Not quite being awake enough to take any of this in though, I made myself a bowl of literally just pasta; my desire for a hot meal winning out over the crushing reality that I had no real ingredients and went straight to bed. Never again.

[lukeysgirl]

The Note Tree ❋ L.H. Pt.1

Part O N E 

Summary: A cherry blossom tree, residing at the farthest part of the schools courtyard. Nobody dwelled there, and you didn’t care much for it. Until you kept hearing one song played over and over, with lyrics changed to touch at your curiosity. They knew you were listening, and one day you gave in and made your way to the pink tree. Waiting for you, a series of notes tied to a single strand of string. 

Word Count: 3.5k (on the dot)

AN: Hi guys, I’m alive and back! So here’s a new series (meaning requests are closed). This one is an original idea of mine, so this should be exciting. Anyhow, the regular rule stands at 100 notes for next parts. But my updates will be coming more slowly as I genuinely wanna develop this story so please be patient and I hope you enjoy. Lemme know if ya’ll enjoy, how it feels n what not. 

Parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.

I M A G I N E 

Monday

“…So class, what could be a potential motif that is continuously being brought up in…” Tuning out…. Tuning out… Tuning out…

Click! Tuning out complete.

Sun poured itself into the left side of the classroom, it’s warmth licking all the students by the window (one being yourself). The professor with the typical monotonous voice pondered out loud to the minds who couldn’t shed a single drop of care. The fern chalkboard was ornate with several literature terms, part of an assignment that you didn’t bother to know just yet. Standard wooden desks with cheap metallic chairs were forced in rows, pure uncertainty in the germ quantity or the origin of zombie drawings scratched into the desks. 

On your desk resided your hands, clammy and still. Below your hands was a black, spiral notebook. To your right sat a mechanical pencil, red with size 0.5 lead. Next to that was a Bic pen you found in another classroom. Surely, it wasn’t yours, but you were too tempted to leave it alone. 

There it is again, you thought. Guitar boy is back. Every day in your English Literature class, there was this mysterious singer who sung nearby. He was never in sight from the classroom, impossible to find him even when you changed angles. As much as you wished to ignore it, it was impossible. 

After all, this voice picked on you every time. 

The same tune would be played, using the same chords every single week day. He has yet to make a mistake. It was an average 4-chord beat, who could mess that up? The voice type was a baritenor, the intriguing combination of tenor and baritone. He always sniffles right before beginning his tune. 

“Go to the pink tree, 

eat before three. 

Take my notes before the wind, 

don’t let my words go unpinned. 

Hung by a single thread,

don’t let my words go unread, 

Bic Pen Taker”

And there he goes. The guitar playing slowly fades away, all pairs of eyes still diverted to the front of the classroom. They had known this routine, too, and no longer thought anything of it. Even the teacher, Mr. Murphy, self-concluded that this was some sort of brief music session. It barely lasted a minute, and completely dissolved right after the tune. 

You paid no mind to it as well, refusing to interrupt your course of life. But, surely, your best friends wouldn’t dare let it leave your life. 

“‘Bic Pen Taker?’“ Savannah exclaimed, slamming her petite hand down onto the circular lunch table. She was a lovely thing when her mouth was shut. Perfect blonde locks danced down to the middle of her spine, loose curls at the end. She was very pale, very slim, and extremely preppy when it came to her clothing. Usually skirts and dresses with 3-inch heels to make her feel like an adult. “Y/N, you cannot ignore this!” 

“It really is big to pretend like it’s nothing,” Odessa, poking at the rim of her forest-green glasses. She was the loveliest shade of hot chocolate, her skin smooth and noticeable. Curvy one, she is, with braids that went down to her bum. Surely, your eyes diverted down to her curves, but what can you do? You concluded yourself to be a ‘bi-curious fuck’ when you first saw Halsey. Anyway, Odessa, or Des, was shorter than the rest of the group, but that just made her more endearing. 

“‘Eat before three?’ What’s that supposed to mean?” Alexis began, holding up a pink post-it note up to her face. Probably the cutest brunette, Lexi had freckles decorated all over her nose and cheeks. You were always tempted to take a Sharpie and create constellations. With a button nose and a kind smile, Alexis was definitely someone who stole peoples’ focus every time. 

“Don’t waste your time attempting to decipher it,” you groaned, resting your head in your arms as you looked down at the grey lunch table below you. It was cool, giving you a pleasant sensation. It was very in contrast from the muggy feeling provided by the crowded lunch room. “It’s a stupid song.” 

“It’s not stupid!” Savannah hissed, holding up her own post-it with the lyrics. “This is a secret admirer, Y/N! Straight-out-the-movies secret admirer!” 

“And I give a shit because?” You murmured, looking distantly at the entrance door where students pooled inside the room. Odessa shoved you playfully, sticking the note on the table before resting her elbows on the table. She hangs her head upon her fists, her cheeks pooling up her face as she studied the note. 

“Because he won’t stop pestering you indirectly until you do what he asks,” Alexis pipes. Shit. Good point. “It’ll never end if you keep putting it off.” 

“You’re right,” you respond calmly, closing your eyes to allow your weary body to refuel. Exhaustion always taunted you at school, but once you were home, some odd energy gets released and you’re wide awake until 2 in the morning. “Still don’t care enough.” 

“This has been going on since the beginning of the year, and it’s only been 2 months, Y/N,” Alexis points out, having you still shrug off her good points. 

“If we made sense of the song, you’d surely care then, wouldn’t you?” Odessa mumbled, turning over to you. You opened your eyes once more, slivers of your eyes being revealed to your friend group. They all stared with some odd frustration that you couldn’t really comprehend. 

“Ya’ll are acting like this song is complex,” you mumbled, having them stare back at their notes worth of the lyrics. You loved these girls dearly, but their brilliance put together and averaged out would be ‘meh.’ 

“So what does it mean?” Savannah hummed, tossing her post-it over to you. It hovered and indirectly glided to you, one of its corners hitting your elbow. Groggily, you forced yourself to sit up. You used one hand to weave your fingers into your hair to fix it up a bit. “The only part we got to is the ‘pink tree,’ which is that cherry tree in the courtyard.” 

“Oh wow, I’m so proud,” you sarcastically spewed, having Savannah roll her eyes as you picked up the thin sheet of paper. You held the paper, one hand holding it between your middle, index, and thumb as the other tapped at one of the pointy corners. “Yes, the ‘pink tree’ in this case would be the cherry tree that nobody gives a shit about.” 

“Why don’t people go there again?” Odessa asked, genuine wander sliding off her tongue. 

“Because it’s far as fuck,” Alexis breathed as the girls resumed to stare at you. The pairs of blue, brown, and green eyes frightened you as you kept yours diverted to the paper. 

“‘Eat before three...’ that’s probably another way of saying go there after lunch or before we get out of class,” you said with a shrug. It was your best guess, honestly. That line was just a bit tricky. “‘Take my notes before the wind, don’t let my words go unpinned.’“ 

“So you do care!” Savannah exclaimed, slamming her hands upon the table once more. Odessa’s milk carton jumped a bit as Alexis’ leaning position had been ruined by the sudden vibration. “You know the tune!” 

“That’s because it’s sung literally every day,” you groaned. “It was just like the ‘Call Me Maybe’ apocalypse where nobody could shut up about it.” Odessa snorted from your remark as you resumed with your analysis. “Anyways, that means that this kid would want me to go and read those notes and let them not be wasted.” 

“Cuuute,” Alexis moaned, having you shrug in complete oblivion to her definition of ‘cute.’ 

Sigh. “And then it’s ‘hung by a single thread,’ so string probably tied around a branch,” you said monotonously. “And again, he doesn’t want his words to be wasted so he wants me to read them. And then the ‘Bic Pen Taker,’ so obviously he knows that pen wasn’t mine.” 

“So he’s got his eye on ya,” Alexis teased, her smirk trying to indicate some sort of romantic reference. 

“More like he’s stalking me,” you groaned, tossing the paper back to Savannah as you rest your head once more into your arms. “No offense, but I don’t really like stalkers.” 

“He’s not stalking you,” Savannah tries to mellow the situation, but that definitely won’t do. Guitar dude is definitely stalking if he watched you while you were alone in a classroom stealing a pen. Creepy if you asked anybody. “He’s just interested but doesn’t know how to approach?” 

“Does that make him shy or what?” You mumbled, extremely bored with the conversation. 

“That makes you aloof,” Odessa brings up, having you frown at the chocolate girl beside you. 

“I’m not unfriendly,” you began with a touch of attitude. “I just don’t dedicate enough energy to make any more friends than I have to. If I don’t have to do it, I won’t.” 

“You’re colder than Antarctica, Y/N,” Alexis pouts, having you roll your eyes as you slowly closed them. You enjoyed napping, it was one of your favorite pastimes. It was overall easier, and required approximately no energy. But, as much as you wanted to sink into the bliss that is slumber, you were still in school with others far more... bombastic than yourself. 

“Oh shit, they’ve got pizza today!” Exclaimed the typically loud and annoying Michael Clifford. Eyebrow pierced, dyed blue hair, and immensely pale Michael had broken you from your attempts of a nap. You open your eyes in annoyance, seeing as the regular quad entered the cafeteria. 

Michael Clifford, the energy of the group. Calum Hood, Mr. I’m So Suave Because I Serenade Girls With My Guitar. And then Ashton Irwin, probably the friendliest person in heart and looks. Although they weren’t fawned over by all the girls like in the movies, they definitely weren’t ignored. Being the only legit band of the school, they were fairly known to get booked into the popular peoples’ parties and become the lives of the party. But it seems like they lacked something today. 

“Ash!” Alexis called the boys over, having you sink your head deeper into your arms until your nose touched the cold table. Fuck obligated interaction. It’s not that you hate people or anything. You just don’t want to spend so much energy on them. Odessa rubbed your back as you groaned quietly. 

“Hey Alex,” Ashton came, greeting her with his usual kind voice and lovely eyes. You tilted your head slightly to see, seeing one simple pleasure that was Ashton’s dimples when he smiled. “Savannah, Des. Hey, Y/N.” Of course he says your name in a separate sentence.

“Hey boys,” Savannah said, seeing as she smiled when Michael came over. It was rather strange with these 6. It was immensely obvious that Lex liked Ash, Sav liked Mike, and Des liked Cal. And vice versa, of course. But it’s the usual yucky high school love story where they all have to face complications before their happy ever after. Also, you hated the last member of the boys’ group. 

He was energy consuming, for sure. 

“Ladies,” Calum cooed, revealing a cheeky smile as Des leaned her cheek against her fist to ogle the Maori boy before her. You looked away, snapping your neck to face the other way to not see this gross love connections these 6 were having. You looked distantly through the cloudy windows, seeing the other students outside at the courtyard where more tables resided. You subconscious tried to find the cherry tree, but it was immensely far and there were too many oak trees in the way. 

“When do you wanna work on our English project, Lex?” Ashton asked, having those two discuss about whatever the hell project they’re doing. You could hear the other four discuss about some performance they’re having at some venue that you couldn’t even care less about. Along with their conversation, several others came into play as extremely loud background sound. 

“Hey, Y/N!” Michael called your name, having you sigh before sitting up and turning back to the rest of the group. All pairs of eyes were now on you, having you blink twice before staring up at the pale boy. “What’re you doing here?” 

“What do you mean?” You asked, pure confusion erupting in your mind. “I’m in school, trying to enjoy my lunch break.” Calum was quick to go and give Michael a slap behind his head, having him rub it while glaring at Calum. 

“He’s being stupid, as usual,” Calum suggested, having you barely smirk as Michael hissed at the Maori boy. “He just means that we always see you asleep or being lazy when you’re in school, so it’s odd to see you here.” 

“It’s not that I’m lazy,” you began with a shrug. You rubbed under your eye, cautious not to ruin the light makeup on your eyelids. “I just conserve my energy is all. Speaking of which, where’s the other one?” 

“Oh, you mean Luke?” Ashton asked, having you nod in confirmation. The other girls looked at him as well, just as curious about the missing blonde. “Lunch detention.” 

“What did cool boy Luke Hemmings do this time?” Savannah giggled, mocking the position that boy somehow held. But, of course he held the cool boy title. Blonde, blue eyes, devilishly handsome and lead singer of his band. Can we get any more cliche than this? 

“He drew a dick on the chalkboard over there for Ms. Lee’s class,” Calum said quickly, having you analyze his face as he spoke. Such a quick response. “Since it’s anatomy anyways, he claimed it’s for ‘educational purposes.’” 

“I see.” The conversation derailed quickly to the boy’s performance coming up this weekend. 

“Here’s the invites,” Michael began, smiling contently as he handed out the small flyers. There was a coffee stain in the right hand corner of each, having you roll your eyes at the boy. “All the info you might ask for is on there, trust me.” Savannah giggled, the two locking eyes quickly. 

“Oi, what are those notes you got there?” Calum began, pointing at the girls holding the lyrics in their spare hands. They were quick to press it against their chests with their faces losing it’s calm color. 

“Nothing,” you spoke for all 3, having the boys look strangely at all of you before headed off for their food. As they did, a few girls walked up to them and joined their stroll over for the pizza Michael long desires. Once they were no long in sight, the girls sighed in relief and put the notes back down. 

“That... was close,” Savannah said calmly. 

“Why the hell are you hiding them?” You asked all the girls. “Wouldn’t you think that they could help us decipher it? Being musicians and shit.” 

“Nah, we’re doing this ourselves,” Des began with a wide smile. “I want us to solve it. I’m trying to be an accomplished bitch, you know.” 

“Mm, I see,” you hummed before residing your head in your arms again. “Still not gonna go.” 

“Then I’ll go!” Des offered. “I have a free period after lunch so I can definitely check it out and share the note with ya’ll.” The other girls nodded in excitement, having you shrug simply at her choice. The girls had a few more discussions with you attentively listening, wasting the minutes before lunch had sadly reached an end. 

“...Okay class, take your seats, please.” Ms. Lee’s voice struggled over the sound of the students shuffling and finding their seats. You were always the first one in the room, already seated with your required materials out. You picked at your nails, enjoying the brief moment of being alone at your seat before the annoyance came. 

“I’m here, Ms. Lee!” And there is the nuisance. 

Luke Hemmings announced his arrival, stirring the class with laughter as he grinned giddily at your teacher. She kept her face stern, amused by his stupidity. He was leaning against the door frame, one arm straight up and holding the frame with the other resting on his hip. He stood with one leg, the other bent slightly in front of it. The usual skinny black jeans, a Nirvana shirt, and completely black converse, Luke looked of a punkrock try hard. 

“I see,” Ms. Lee murmured, agitation evident on her face as Luke strutted over to the seat beside yours. You clapped your hands together, shutting your eyes to pray briefly as the blonde boy adjusted himself on the wooden stool. You then began to wonder why the teacher hadn’t used his lunch detention as leverage for a clever remark. 

“Hey, Y/N,” Luke greeted, having you look over to see both hands weaved and under his chin as he stared at you. As annoyed as you got from seeing his face, you couldn’t help but adore his eyes. They were this ocean color, the one where the sky is perfectly blue and the sun was licking the beach. 

“Luke.” You turned away, no longer bothering to stare as you prepared for the lecture that proceeded. Luke always sighed in disappointment, always having you glance to see his eyes dim. You didn’t understand why, seeing as you two hardly knew each other and you had incredible doubt that Luke actually gave a shit about you. 

After the lecture, Ms. Lee had begun to pass out the tests. The assignment was already up and ready, having you the only student to jot suffice notes and begin a sketch of what you were to do. As you doodled, you notice Ms. Lee place Luke’s graded test. He grabbed it, holding it up as he smirked. 

“Yikes,” he uttered, having you shake your head at how careless he was. A 62 percent. That’s one of many reasons that you found Luke so infuriating. He didn’t care a single cent about his grades, taking them as a joke almost all the time. “Looky!” He turned around and showed it to the students behind you two, having them laugh with him as he passed it around. 

“You’re such a dope, Luke!” One of his friends said with a chuckle, having Luke laugh even more. Others laughed at him, fueling his idiotic antics and ways. Even though you didn’t care at all for Luke, you suddenly found yourself annoyed at his carelessness. 

“Luke, cut it out,” you said simply, having his group of friends silence themselves as he turned over to you. You felt his eyes, refusing to lock yours with them as you continued your sketch. “You need this class-- quit being such a dolt.” 

“Woah,” Luke said with awe, having goosebumps rise on your arms from his breathless word. You didn’t know what to think, with the way his clean, hoarse voice uttered the word in pure disbelief. “I didn’t think you’d care about it, Y/N, let alone anything I do.” 

“Correction: I don’t care,” you pointed, getting over your momentary mental ogle from his voice. “I just don’t want you expressing your stupidity around me.” Luke blinked, having you indirectly stare as he leaned closer to you. You leaned away, somewhat revolted by his antics. “What?” 

“I have an idea,” Luke began, having you already try to tune him out. “How about the 3.8-GPA student tutor me about anatomy?” 

“No,” you immediately shot him down. 

“C’mon now!” Luke kept trying, leaning closer to you as you found yourself flustered from his sudden closeness. “We can get real in-depth about the body... talking intimately about my anatomy and--” 

Suddenly, the dismissal bell rang. 

“In your damn dreams, Hemmings,” you announced, slamming your notebook close as you poured your items into your backpack and fled the room. Luke was wise not to call you back or chase you, having relief wash over you as you exit the school. 

You managed to catch up with Savannah and Alexis, listening to their heavy projects and paper homework. And you agreed: homework is a serious no-no. But how else could you retain your intelligence? It was the only thing you actually put energy into anyways. 

“Sav, Alex, Y/N!” Suddenly, Des’s voice called to all of you, having you halt and turn around to see the girl hurry to you guys. Cliques all around walked past as Des stopped running and gave herself a moment to breathe. “Goddamn... ya’ll walk damn fast, Jesus...” She panted, standing up straight with her chest heaving. 

“You alright?” Alexis asked, concern painting all of your faces as you stared at the short girl. Des nodded, waving it off as she adjusted her bookbag. “What is it? Everything okay?” 

“No...” She said breathlessly. 

“Why? What’s wrong?” Savannah allowed pure concern to roll off her tongue as you three stared at Des’s surprised face. She then turned to you, having you blink a few times until you listened to the words that left her plump lips. 

“I went to the tree,” Des said simply, weaving her fingers together, somewhat nervously. “But the notes weren’t there.” 

aha please do lemme know whatcha think right here, thank you x

[notproudofanyofthis]

Maggie May

Maggie May has a mullet. Yellow blonde that comes from a bottle. In fact, sometimes she wears a wig, which is to say, on a daily basis, she chooses to have a mullet. She once got kicked out of the American Legion for getting in a fight when another woman tried to pull off her wig. Her skin has been long sun-weathered, crinkly and creased, caked in thick foundation. She wears bright pink lipstick across her thin lips which she pulls back almost to her ears when she smiles, and blue eye-shadow to accentuate her intensely wide open, watery blue eyes. In her skin-tight denim jeans and denim jacket, she seems not to realize the rest of the world has moved on from the 80s, although she fits in with this town, where people have missed the memo about a great number of things.

How old is Maggie May? When my mother visits, Maggie May corners her and asks, “How old do you think I am?” My mom guesses, low-balling it as one must when one is cornered into guessing a woman’s age. “Nope!” Maggie May says, exultant. Leaning in, her eyes widen, as if she has a big secret to tell, and stage-whispers, “I’m 67.” My mother pretends to be shocked. “Now let me guess your age,” Maggie May says, and promptly over-estimates my mom’s age by five years.

Before I ever met her, I was warned not to talk to Maggie May. Joleen warned me first. “Becca,” she says, pinning me with her eyes, “do NOT be nice to Maggie May.” When I ask why, she simply responds, “Oh, you’ll see.”

One evening my friend Milo joins me at karaoke, and we sit next to each other at the bar. Maggie May comes up and does to Milo what she does to anyone who will listen: corners them, leans into their face, talks and talks with her wide crazy eyes, then barks a high-pitched laugh at whatever the last thing was that she said, and walks away just as suddenly as she had arrived, a petite blonde tornado. After she walks away, Milo turns to me and says, “Rebecca, you’ve gotta help me. That woman frightens me.”

The second warning to stay away from Maggie May comes from Sunny, a bar-tender whom I dated for two stupidly tumultuous months. Sunny is ten years younger than me. I was insecure about our age difference, felt like an old, unattractive, used-up, un-lovable person at the time, and Sunny said simply, “I don’t mind your age. I have a thing for older women.” In what seems to be a protective gesture, he warns me, “Stay away from Maggie May. She’s crazy.” I would dismiss his opinion as misogynist but for Joleen’s corroboration. How does Sunny know Maggie May? Maggie May dated Sunny’s brother Adam, an on-again off-again relationship Sunny’s and Adam’s step-mother has forbidden. 

The first time I chat with her (or rather, the first time she chats at me), all she talks about is Adam, who is approximately 30 years younger than her. “He’s my soul-mate,” she says. The second time she corners me at karaoke, she talks about Adam. “He’s my soul-mate,” she tells me again, always forgetting that she has told me this before. The third time we talk, she obsesses over Adam. “He’s my soul-mate,” she says, although they are not currently together. “His mom won’t let me see him,” she laments, week after week. But isn’t Adam an adult who can make his own choices? Yes, but everyone, including probably Adam himself, knows Maggie May is trouble for him. Adam has previously spent some time in jail, related to some trouble he got into, possibly with Maggie May’s assistance, possibly involving drugs.

Maggie May brings a jar of horse-radish to karaoke every week, and eats it with a spoon. At some point a mutual karaoke acquaintance sidles up to me and mutters through the side of his mouth, “Do you ever wonder if maybe there’s something else in that horse-radish?”

I am staying out at the river, on the out-skirts of town, just below the dam, at “the hatchery,” as everyone calls it, even though the hatchery has been closed for years, its doors boarded up, its windows smashed. It’s quiet here, the occasional fisherman driving in, but otherwise I have the place almost completely to myself. I am dry-docking, so I ride my bike over to the park bathroom to take a shower. I open the stall door and there, scrawled on the wall of the shower in thick black Sharpie, is a large scrolling note in girl-ish, strangely juvenile letters. The graffiti reads, “I heart Adam.”

I laugh. “Fuckin’ Maggie May,” I say to myself, shaking my head.

At karaoke, Maggie May has never not sung Loretta Lynn’s “Coal-Miner’s Daughter.” When required to sing more than one song, she starts with “Coal-Miner’s Daughter” and then moves on to another Loretta Lynn song about a phone-call break-up. Maggie May’s voice is not bad. In fact I believe she could sing more than just her favorites, but when I encourage her to take a risk and sing something new, she becomes visibly distressed, so I ease off, and we all continue listening to her repeat “Coal-Miner’s Daughter” every Tuesday and sometimes also Thursdays and Saturdays.

“Look!” she tells me, turning her back to me. She lowers her jean jacket and points to a large tattoo scrolling across her sun-weathered leathery shoulders. The tattoo says “COAL-MINER’S DAUGHTER.” I briefly wonder if she is an actual coal-miner’s daughter, but I don’t ask, because one of the things I learned early on about Maggie May is, if you show the slightest interest in her, she latches on, sometimes literally, and never lets go, basking in the sun-light of your attention like a blooming skunk cabbage.

One week Maggie May comes to karaoke and announces that she won’t be back for a month. “I’m going to Nashville,” she tells me proudly. “I’ve got a recording deal. A record producer saw me singing ‘Coal-Miner’s Daughter’ on YouTube and he wants to record me.” When she returns two weeks later, never again is there any mention of any record deal.

One night at karaoke Maggie May is distraught. She is sitting with an old, dirty-looking man. She comes over to me, her eyes wide. “That man is stalking me!” she says, almost seeming on the verge of tears.

She has told me before that various men are stalking her. This being not the first time she has a stalker, I express the right kind of empathy she’s looking for, so she continues. The story is, she has been living with this dirty old man. He bought her a car. Now, she wants to break up with him, but when she tried to do so, he threatened to take away the car. When she argues with him that he can’t take the car back because her job depends upon it, he reaches out across the bar and takes her keys. “And then he left!” she tells me. “So now I don’t have a ride home from karaoke! Do you think I should call the police? They never do anything. Can you give me a ride home? It’s only five minutes from here.”

I have gotten sucked into Maggie May’s drama, just as Joleen predicted. I already have a carpool buddy I need to take home. But reluctantly I tell her yes, I can drive her home. “Do NOT be nice to Maggie May,” Joleen’s voice nags in the back of my mind, and now I understand the portent of her warning.

Karaoke ends. Ariel and I head to my car. Maggie May runs after us and tells me, “I left my phone inside, I’ll be right back. Don’t leave without me!” Then she goes inside, and disappears. Two minutes becomes five minutes. Five minutes becomes ten minutes. Ariel wants to leave. So we leave.

The next week, she is angry with me for “abandoning” her. I tell her I didn’t know where she had gone. “It’s fine,” she says, in that voice that says it’s not really fine. “I got a ride from Mandy.”

Mandy comes over to me later, while Maggie May is elsewhere, and whisperingly fills me in on how that car ride went. Apparently, instead of a five-minute drive, Mandy ended up driving Maggie May all the way out to Caballo, a 20-minute ride at least, along a dark winding county road. “She had that Adam guy with her,” Mandy tells me, “and they made out in my rear-view mirror the entire time I drove. It was so awkward. They were practically having sex in my back seat.” When they get out to their destination in Caballo, Maggie May announces to Mandy that she just needs to go in and get something from Adam’s place real quick. Then she and Adam disappear inside the house and she doesn’t come back out for a long time. Mandy waits, and waits, and finally leaves.

After Sunny and I break apart, the subject of Sunny comes up some night at karaoke. “Weren’t you dating Adam’s brother Sunny?” Maggie May asks me pointedly.

“Unfortunately, yes,” I tell her.

“I dated Sunny too,” she says. “He’s got a thing for older women,” she says, winking at me, her cake-y blue eyeshadow sparkling.

I realize, horrified, that I am in the same category as 67-year-old Maggie May. I am An Older Woman. I feel disgusted with myself. I slept with a guy who slept with Maggie May? Ugh! And he never told me! He talked shit about Maggie May so many times, but always in the context of the crazy relationship she had with his brother Adam—never did he once mention he himself had slept with her.

(Later I find out Sunny also slept with Ashley’s mom, Susan, a 50-something meth addict with crooked teeth. When I learn this, I wonder just how much lower I can possibly sink. Bitterly, I have learned the true meaning of a joke several people have told me, which goes something like, “In this town, you don’t break up with your boyfriend, you just lose your turn.”)

But for all that, Maggie May never frightened me. Perhaps it was because I had already been inoculated by Joleen against getting sucked into Maggie May’s various dramas, but I always just gave Maggie May the one thing she wanted most, which was attention, the belief that she had a friend, someone to listen to her fast-talk. I hold my own with Maggie May, because sometimes I am able to get a word in edge-wise and surprise her with genuinely curious follow-up questions to her rapid-fire stories. One day as she swoons about Adam, her soul-mate, I ask her, “Maggie May, do you think you and Adam are *good* for each other?” And in a moment of honesty she looks at me with those watery blue eyes and says, “No, probably not,” and laughs her high laugh and flits away to chat with somebody else.

[reivenesque]

Shadowhunters Fic: Like a Lady Gaga Discography (Raj-centric)

Title: Like a Lady Gaga Discography Words: 1650 words. Summary: Raj only wanted three things in life: to do his job, to mind his business and to not get caught up in other people’s shit. Unfortunately he’s on the fast track to failing all three and in no way is it of his own doing. Why can’t these people just leave him in peace?

[ao3]

Aldertree was decent enough looking guy.

For a pompous, pretentious, British dickwad.

Get some tea, Raj. Get Fairchild a change of clothes, Raj. Fetch the vampire, Raj. Make me a cucumber sandwich, Raj. Shine my cordovans, Raj.

The last one isn’t actually true; Aldertree doesn’t wear cordovans. Not that he does either but that’s the difference between the upper echelon guys like Aldertree and the little minnows in the field like him. People underestimate how hard it is to get demon blood out of leather.

If Raj thought the Lightwoods were annoying when they were in charge, boy was he wrong. At least they didn’t pretend to be pleasant; Maryse didn’t anyway and Raj had to respect that, the way you’d respect a creature that was half protective mama bear fresh out of hibernation and other half blood-sucking, face chomping piranha.

Alec though was pretty enough and a pretty swell enough guy.

For a moody, party-pooping asshole.

That’s more than he can say for Senorita Lightwood, lover of Seelies and defender of Downworlders. Shame that such a pretty face and such a hot body is wasted on such an annoying know-it-all. He isn’t the grudge holding type. After all it takes way more effort to keep a grudge against someone then it is to amble on unconcerned and minding his own set of problems, but he hasn’t forgotten or forgiven her for that utterly dishonourable ambush after the whole hoo-ha with the Seelie, Wayland and Fray ménage à troublemakers. The lot of them always causing a ruckus; he expects it from the redhead what with being raised by mundies in the wild for however long, but they were Shadowhunters and they really should know better. Plus it was a fucking blow to his ego, not like he’d ever admit it to anyone—Branwell didn’t count. The only family Raj hated more than the Lightwoods were the Branwells. Sure they invented the portal or whatever yadda-yadda, but he thinks that a hundred or so years is more than overkill to keep harping on about something.

Plus who always ends up pulling the short stick in situations where someone inevitably gets fucked over?

Raj of course.

It’s always fucking Raj. He doesn’t recall where exactly on his file did it say ‘Institute’s go-to babysitter.’

Watch the Lightwoods, Raj. Watch the Frayed girl, Raj. Watch Branwell, Raj. Watch the Seelie, Raj. Watch the warlock, Raj.

But who’s watching out for Raj?

No one. That’s fucking who.

That’s why Raj looked out for numero uno.

If that meant other people thought he was an asshole, then tough. He was there to kill some fucking demons and get a lot of sex. But not too many demons. Not more demons then sex though, wouldn’t want the bosses to get ideas in their heads and heap on another responsibility on top of everything else he’s already pretending to suck at. For now Raj is completely happy with batting in at mediocre and letting Wayland take all the glory—not in some misguided sense of self-sacrifice like Alec though; he wasn’t the do-gooder martyr type and he didn’t have a pathetic and completely undeserving crush on the blond dick like Alec. Seriously what is it with these Lightwoods and their bad taste in men? First the floppy haired egomaniac Wayland who’s about as sharp as the blunt end of a Seraph blade, then the poufy haired, glitter lathered warlock.

Alec seriously needed sex and a lot of it then maybe he wouldn’t be such a stick in the mud.

But then again, it might explain his obsession with the warlock.

Besides Magnus was decent enough looking fellow.

For a fucking warlock.

He probably likes the warlock more than Wayland at this point but that’s no real surprise. He hates fucking Wayland and his carrot top girlfriend—or is she his sister now? He doesn’t fucking know, not like he cares enough to keep up. They’re demon killing hunter of shadows not some dysfunctional reality show like Sister Wives or some creepy shit like that. Either way they’re both annoying and it makes his current predicament, which is staring at a drawer full of—well, drawers, a slightly more complicated situation. At least they were Fraychild’s instead of Waylands’.

He could have closed his eyes and pointed to whatever and just been done with it, but just because he didn’t go out of his way to stand out, it didn’t mean that he didn’t do the job he’s assigned to pretty fucking well. And this is no exception. Besides they were Shadowhunters (even her) and they had a long honoured tradition to uphold.

Which is to look sexy as shit at all times.

It isn’t enough that she had to traipse across half of New York looking like a drowned redheaded chipmunk, then she has to go track no doubt polluted water all across the polished floors. Judging by his luck or lack thereof so far, three guesses as to who was going to be the lucky sod who was going to have to mop the fucking floor by the end of the day. Only that it’s a trick guess and you had three choices between just one person and no lifelines.

Yes. It’s definitely going to be him.

Sometimes Raj wonders if he was the only competent Shadowhunter in the institute or if he was the only one who got any sort of notable screen time. They needed to get like a janitor or something. Maybe Frayedchild’s dorky vampire third wheel. He was always good for a laugh.

Speaking of laugh, it was something Raj was definitely not doing right now.

Do women get asked the age old question, boxers or briefs? But instead of boxers the choice was between briefs and thongs or something? Cause he’s pretty sure he used to ask that question to himself and Raj from approximately five minutes ago would have been more than happy to have an up-close and personal demonstration. That is up until the moment the pulled open the dresser and his mind mentally projected Wayland’s face onto every undergarment in the drawer and two on the bra cups with little flags of Switzerland fluttering around like little white and red cherubs, mocking him.

Wayland is as much Switzerland as Valentine is about flowers and overpriced boxes of chocolates.

Fact is, the only person in the institute who is actually Switzerland is Raj because unlike Valentine and the Clave, Raj hated everyone equally.

Except Wayland. He abhors the git—now that’s a word he picked up from Aldertree and really the only notable thing he’s actually contributed since he goose stepped into the institute. That and prat. He thinks it’s high time for Wayland to get a new nickname, that way he can insult him to his face incognito. Maybe Spencer Prat, or Chris Prat. Nah, he didn’t deserve Chris Prat. Spencer it is.

Freudchild has way too many clothes for someone who’s just been at the institute for—what, two weeks? How many different versions of the same black jeans did a girl really need?

Eventually he settles for the ripped black ones because it showed a little skin and girls always looked cute in those, with an off-white muscle tee. But then with the muscle tee he needed to get a little tank top or something because there were occasions that called for side-boobs, and there were occasions that didn’t. This was the latter occasion, what with Alec like dying or something down the hall.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t sympathetic; he was pretty much the only person Raj genuinely liked (on occasion and to an extent) but Alec is an adult and he’s just got to deal with the repercussions of his own decisions like the rest of them. And really Alec had no one but himself to blame. He really should know better than to use magic stones obtained under suspicious circumstances from less than reputable sources. Sure Fairchild Senior was supposedly once a great Shadowhunter, but one might argue that she’s been making one terrible choice after another since then.

He grabs a nice simple choker on the way out. After all, it was Venus Williams that said ‘accessorize, accessorize, accessorize.’

He squeezes a slice of lemon into the tea too before he leaves the kitchen.

Freudenbergchild really owes him a giant thank you after this.

He’s mopping the mess on the floor when the perpetually disgruntled redhead stomps by from the direction of Aldertree’s office. Lots of shady shit seems to take place behind those closed doors and everyone always seems to be stomping out angrily which Raj thinks says a lot about Aldertree’s default personality, i.e. the aforementioned pompous, pretentious British dickwad-ness. But in a way maybe the guy is actually growing on him a little. Not that he’d admit to anyone.

But one thing is definitely for sure; Clary looked great.

Alec is still expiring. Spencer Prat is still a wanted fugitive and an inconsequential entity in any medium, especially in Raj’s own shit list. Valentine is still at large, orchestrating the uprising no doubt from some overly dramatic location like fucking Chernobyl or some national monument like under the Titanic Memorial or something melodramatic like that.

He can still smell the musky whiff of sandalwood in the air from when Magnus came angry sashaying through the institute doors earlier. The angel help the poor soul who stumbles into his iridescent path today.

But Raj did what Aldertree asked him to do and it did it pretty fucking well thank you very much. He gives himself a proverbial pat on the back because no one else was going to.

All in all, Raj thinks his day is off to a pretty good start.

Raj from approximately two hours later thinks that he want that phrase forever engraved on his headstone.

The end.

Really no logical explanation for the title outside the song, Fashion. That’s pretty much how my brain works.