#i got a headache from nail polish fumes

[skin-slave]

Spent almost 4 hrs on dumbass dragon wings and if they break or get lost I will homicide and property damage.

[soulwillower]

crush culture • richie tozier

(richie tozier x reader)

requested: fic where Richie and reader have been best friends since kindergarten, and have always had feelings for eachother secretly, until one day richie gets a girlfriend (just to take his mind off her), and the reader gets jealous and distances herself from him? he obviously gets upset by this- and things go on from there? sorry if it’s too specific! love u!

warnings: swearing, brief mentions of death, fighting, mentions of an abusive relationship, intentionally pissing off richie, a bit of angst, richie is an oblivious idiot, but reader is MUCH more of an idiot, like dude lmao, but i think that’s it, unedited tho

this isn’t rly based off crush culture, but i took the title from conan gray’s song :)  

[losers + reader are 18+ in this!!!]

3.8k words L O L :))

♡

you swear to god, you’re getting sick. that’s what this was, for sure.

it started about a month ago, when you started to get headaches and terrible hollow feelings in your stomach. it happened everywhere - in the line for coffee, in class, driving home from school, at the dinner table. but it got a hundred times worse at night and then seemed to triple in force every morning when you woke.

and it all came at you some time after richie announced he had a new girlfriend.

you were really sick the few days after that, enough that you stayed home from school and laid in bed, the pit in your stomach sinking. it didnt take long for you to realize how bad richie’s girlfriend was - she treated him like a dog, like he embarrassed her - and he didn’t even seem to mind. he just brushed off every offhand comment, rolled his eyes with a grin when she told him she didn’t want to see his friends or when she told him to stop talking. 

he still seemed to like her, anyways. and that thought made your stomach convulse.

so then you had to distance yourself from richie because it hurt you to see him with her. it hurt you to see him with someone who didn’t treat him like the incredible person he was. 

so yeah.

you say you’re sick, but you know that’s not really true. it’s easier than accepting reality at this point, though, so you spew this nonsense (to yourself, mostly) in order to justify ignoring your best friend of nearly a decade because christ, he is becoming unbearable.

like the other day, at lunch while you were all sitting in the courtyard. it was your first time eating with them again after almost a week and a half, as you’d been eating alone in your car recently to avoid richie. “rich, why’d you take off the nail polish?” bev asked, out of the blue, sounding disappointed as she grabbed his free hand and examined it.

he blew smoke out of his mouth slowly and you had forced yourself to look away, the sight of richie doing nearly anything these days being pretty dangerous for you. it also made you sigh a bit - you knew he only smoked at lunch now, since his girlfriend hated it.

“don’t want my paws to be prettier than y/n’s when we hold hands.” he had joked, wagging an eyebrow at you. you’d shook your head and looked to the ground in lew of a real response, just as you had been doing a lot recently.

you'd missed richie’s frown at your reaction, but you did catch his next statement as it was added on, “nah, actually it’s because the ol’ G-F didn’t like it. thought it looked too girly.”

you, stan, bev, and mike all stopped chewing to look at richie, in varying stages of bewilderment. you'd cleared your throat quickly but decided against speaking up just as richie’s phone started to ring. he’d answered it nearly immediately, the enthusiasm of which made you feel like you’re going to be sick again - because richie never answers your calls until the last possible minute.

god, jealousy is a fucking disease.

“hey, sugar.” he had purred suavely into the phone and for some reason, hearing him call someone else sugar had you abruptly rising, gathering your things and nearly running off to put as much distance between you and four-eyes as you possibly could, because you’re not sure how much more you could take.

after that, you were absolutely sure it was just pure denial on your part.

as far as you could tell, richie wasn't noticing too much. he still phoned your house every day, just to be met with your mother telling him you 'weren't available,' and then he'd call your own phone, which you'd let buzz itself into a dark hole on your bedside table while you stared at it solemnly, guilt heavy on your mind as he left voicemail after voicemail. 

he doesn't deserve it, you think as you open the doors to the school library, backpack on your shoulders. but you can't help it. you're not his girlfriend, and you're not mature enough to accept that with any ounce of elegance so instead you just ignore him all together. at least you're self-aware, right? that ought to count for something.

you shake your head just as a voice catches your attention, “well look who decided to show up!”

richie's sitting at the usual study table in the very back corner of the library, a spot tucked away by rows upon rows of dusty books and an alcove of couches. bill sits at the head of the table, scribbling his chicken scratch handwriting onto graph paper, mike next to richie with a textbook spread out flat. across from mike is stan, writing out his statistics work. 

all three of them wave at you before going back to their work, whereas richie just watches you expectantly. his feet are kicked up on the table, textbook balanced on his lap as he hovers on two leg chairs. his smile is as blinding as always, a dimple faint on his left cheek and full eyebrows raised in jest. his curls frame his face perfectly and you want to scream.

but you take your seat next to stan with a tight lipped smile, not really sure how to respond to richie. are you even allowed to be flirty with him like you used to? he still does it on the rare occasions when you do see each other - but that itself is the issue, you figure. his flirting is just a joke, a tiff from one friend to another. but you can't see him as just a friend, and that’s unfair to him.

so you stay quiet, which makes it infinitely more awkward.

richie clears his throat and you pull out your work with an awkward expression, the minutes slowly churning by in what has to be the quietest hangout with the Losers yet.

you feel the tension building in your body and in the air, and you're not sure what's wrong with you or why you have so much resentment towards richie in this moment, because he's not done one single thing to offend anyone in the last ten minutes.

then richie's phone rings suddenly and mike jumps a bit as he's startled out of the passage he's reading. you all look down to richie's screen, where his girlfriend's name blares up at you and all you can feel is white hot jealousy coursing through your body.

richie looks half way exhausted and annoyed at the call, which you find extremely odd and out of character, not to mention persistently frustrating.

as you all stare at the phone, the tension in the room stretches tighter and tighter, like a rubber band and you can't breathe -

"uh, why is she calling you?" mike asks, as if this was something that was forbidden or shocking in any way, and for some reason, that is finally it.

the rubber band snaps.

"how could you forget, mike? they're in love!" you say with mock enthusiasm. 

bill shoots you an alarmed look that you probably should read into or at least consider for a moment, but instead you're looking directly at richie, as if challenging him.

he blinks at you and clenches his jaw, "she and i haven't really been... talking recently." richie says lightly, shooting a glance to mike.

“well then maybe you’re just not right for each other.” you quip, the blood boiling in your veins. richie's eyes snap to you and you see the fire behind them as he suddenly breaks.

“sorry, did i miss the divine intervention when god floated down on a cloud of marshmallows and deemed you expert in relationships?” he says abruptly, making your eyes widen at his outburst. he continues, “because last time i checked, you’re a bit of a failure in that department. so i don't need some jealous, disappearing-act wannabe criticizing my life when she's barely even in it.” he seethes. it’s near quiet in the library anyways, but his words seem to silence the entire town.

with a quick glance to your right, stan and bill sharing an uncomfortable look, and mike is staring down intently at his work with wide eyes.

you want to die.

does richie know? has he known this whole time that you're just deeply, painfully head over heels for him? 

"i'm so sick of your bullshit. maybe you're jealous because you want what i had, but you’re being really fucking rude."

you nearly cry. or scream.

“criticism doesnt equal jealousy, okay?” you spit without thinking, immediately regretting even opening your mouth. you're so intent on covering for yourself, you don't even take into account the phrasing he'd used when referring to his girlfriend, instead fighting with richie in order to keep your secret from him.  

this is not how you’d intended today to go. he stares at you, eyebrows furrowed in a way that almost makes you keel over in sadness, the guilt of the situation falling too heavily on your shoulders and crushing you.

it’s tranquilizing to see him like this -  he's fuming, but he's also got bright, glistening eyes which you think may be filling up with tears.

“i didn’t really ask for your input, though.” he mutters, cheeks reddening as tears definitely well in his eyes behind his lenses. “you can’t just ignore me at your every whim just to come right back and tell me what's good for me.”

you blink, shaking your head quickly, deciding to back off. now is not the time to fight, especially when you know he’s right. you had no idea it was hurting him like this. "richie, i... i just wanted-" you gape at him, extremely embarrassed.

“-i don’t fucking care what you wanted, y/n.” richie says sharply, causing you to shut your mouth so quick your jaw clicks in the silence. clearly, even the other boys are perturbed by richie’s actions and everyone’s staring down in silence at their homework.

it’s quiet like that for a few minutes, the tension so thick that you’d need a jackhammer just to chip away at it. but stan rummages through his bag suddenly, pulling out two painkillers and dry swallowing them. you don't look at anyone else, your stomach hollow and your heart thumping so hard in your chest you think you may explode.

"d-do you have a headache?" bill asks, looking at stan with concern. the sudden voice causes you to perk up, head flowing with humiliation at the fight you and richie had just had in front of your friends.

“yeah, but it’s not that bad. i guess i’m used to it.” stan says, pen between his teeth.

“just because you’re used to something doesn’t make it any less unhealthy for you.” you say louder than necessary, your mouth suddenly deciding to speak without consulting your brain. 

the glare of pure frustration that richie throws you pierces your lungs and suddenly makes you feel lightheaded. 

your pettiness doesn’t go unresponsive, of course, and mike sighs into his hands, standing up to gather his things. "alright. i can't study when you two are like this. i'll see you guys later."

richie sighs quietly and bill and stan mumble good-bye's. the library goes back to quiet for maybe three more minutes, until you see stanley start to fidget like he usually does when he's anxious. and then you notice it after a few seconds, too.

richie won't stop tapping his foot on the desk.

for everyone's sake, you try to ignore it, because you know richie can't help his compulsions - especially when he's upset (which, your mind painfully reminds you, is all your fault).

but it's driving you crazy.

“-if you keep doing that i’ll throw you out that fucking window rich, i swear.” stan mutters not unkindly, his eyes rolling to meet richie with a concerned gaze as richie stares out the window.

you raise your eyebrows, “what’re you even looking at?” you ask, trying to mend a bit of the open, festering wound you’d created in you and richie’s friendship.

without looking at you, richie shrugs. “checking to see how high the drop is. may be worth it to have schnoz just toss me down. it would certainly do you a favor right? gettin ol’ trashmouth gone for good.”

what was he saying? you look at him, scandalized. stan and bill don’t even say anything about the offensive nickname as you gape at richie. "what the fuck?" is all your brilliant mind can think.

"what, you can dish it but you can't take it?" richie says sharply. he shakes his head, looking upset. "i'm tired of trying to be friends with a fucking brick wall."

then he's gathering his one notebook and swiftly exiting your alcove in the library in a wind of cigarettes and cologne. 

you blink, his words sinking in and making you sigh shakily. your stomach feels hollow as you remember the expression of glee on his face when you'd walked into the library, and how completely different and broken he'd looked as he'd left. you think you're going to cry.

“every minute that you don't follow him digs yourself deeper into this grave, you know.” stan says, giving you a stern but encouraging look.

you let out a shaky sigh and scramble to grab your bag, tripping over your feet as you run out of the library, flying down the staircase faster than you've ever gone and making it to your lifelong best friend just as he reaches his car in the parking lot.

"-a brick wall?" you ask, out of breath. you see richie hold back an eye roll, his arms crossing over each other as he serves you a look of discomposure.

he shrugs helplessly, looking as if he's at his wit's end.

"what do you want me to say, y/n? you've been avoiding me for weeks. i know i'm annoying and obnoxious and whatever, but i'm not blind." he says, making you swallow as guilt pangs through your chest. you have been so fucking selfish, haven't you?

it hurts to hear him say that about himself. 

he sniffles a bit, sounding choked up as he goes on, "i've had a rough couple of days - weeks, even. but every time i'm near, it's like you've had more than enough, and you just leave. am i that repulsive? why do you suddenly hate me?" he asks, looking desperate as his eyes rim red, filling with tears again.

“what did i do?” his voice cracks as he whispers the sentence and your heart breaks in two.

your own vision goes glassy as he continues, "-i've needed you, y/n/n. i'm lost, i'm seriously not okay and you just don't care at all."

you're stunned for a moment, mouth opening and closing silently as your mind races to rush something out, anything,because you aren't sure you can bear to see richie look at you like this for one more second. but your silence comes off wrong to richie, and tears slip out of his eyes.

“don’t you love me?” he asks, voice hoarse and cutting right through you, deeper than any knife ever could. "don't you want me to be happy?" he adds and you take a shaky breath, looking helplessly at him, where you're met with nothing but glassy eyes and tear trails. your heart is slamming in your chest, tears falling from your eyes and you can't breathe.

"a-are you?" you ask, trying to keep your tone even although it comes out just as vulnerable as you feel. “h-happy. with her?”

richie freezes at your words, mouth slightly open and you watch a single tear course over his high cheekbones and down to his bottom lip as it shakes faintly. you curse yourself for the longing to feel those very lips against yours.

"i was." he whispers, voice shaking as he rubs his face with his hand under his glasses, the moisture of his fallen tears clinging from his long dark lashes onto his slender, shaking fingers. "and then - and then i lost you. and y'know, i got my girlfriend so i could distract myself, but she made me feel like absolute shit all the time and so i went and broke up with her, but -" he hiccups through his tears and you blink, biting your lip as tears cascade down your cheek in wet trails.

they broke up?

he broke up with her, and he's going through this breakup and trying to better himself after she tore him down and you've just been ignoring him - he thinks you don't care about him, that you don't love him. you start to cry harder. 

"-i thought she'd distract me from you. i-i'm sorry." he says, his voice muffled by his hands as they cover up his angelic face, his shoulders shaking as more tears fall. "i'm so sorry."he repeats. 

you see double for a second, completely shocked by his words as the breath leaves your lungs. he tried to distract himself from you... and he’s so hurt because of what you did. 

but finally, for the first time this whole damn day, you find the right words. "i-no, richie, i'm sorry, please - fuck." you break, letting out a sob as you rub your eyes furiously in search of any relief from the guilt ripping you in two. "i didn't mean to hurt you. i'm so sorry, i can't believe i did this, i didn't want to hurt you, i'm just so selfish." you babble, his sniffles making you open your eyes.

he looks so alone and so vulnerable as he hugs his arms around himself in search of comfort, tears still falling from his bright eyes and down his rosy cheeks. 

he looks devastatingly beautiful in the golden sunlight of the afternoon, a breeze ruffling his curls lightly. "just please, i can't - i can't deal with you hating me. please, please, please."

he's pleading with you and you think you may be sick from the guilt and sadness that envelopes you, so you spring forward and wrap your arms tightly around him. the force of your body pushes him against the side of his car and the way he clings back to you like you're the last thing holding him to earth just makes you cry even harder.

"i don't hate you, richie. i love you, i love you too much." you say, your body shaking as he just holds you tighter against him. "i'm so sorry, i didn't mean any of it. you're right. i was just jealous... i'm so sorry. i was so jealous of her, i couldn't see you be with her." you mumble. "i'm so sorry."

richie pulls you back gently at your words, his eyes wide and wondering as you look at each other. "what?" he asks so innocently, his eyelashes wet and dark and his lips parted. 

you can count the freckles on his nose and cheeks, you're so close. you can feel his shuddering breath against your face as he huffs in a breath. your hands hold onto his shoulders and you decide to fuck it, you just have to tell him how sorry you are, to explain yourself.

"richie, i'm in love with you. and - and when you and her got together, it hurt so much, and i didn't want to deal with the fact that i couldn't have you, so i just ignored you. i’m sorry, i’m so sorry." you say it quickly and in one breath, looking down at your shoes and how they point straight towards his.

"you're in... love with me?" he says weakly, sounding hopeful as you finally look back into his eyes guiltily. 

you laugh wetly, "of course i am, richie. how could i not fall head over heels for everything about you?"

he tears up again at your words, but this time it's accompanied by a beautiful smile and a light, wet laugh. he shakes his head, his arms circling your waist tighter as he presses his forehead against yours. your butterflies tickle your stomach at your proximity.

"fuck, y/n. i can't believe i spend my time trying to get my mind off you." he says and your breath hitches a bit. "do you have any idea how long i've been in love with you?" he asks quietly, and you let out another small laugh out of shock, but it's wet and gleeful.

"i'm sorry." you whisper, your finger curling around a strand of the dark hair on his head. he shakes his head, your noses rubbing slightly. "it's okay, y/n. i love you so much. please let me forgive you." he says, pulling a smile out of you that you don't think anybody else ever could. you nod shortly, looking into his eyes as one last tear falls. 

he kisses you tenderly then, taking your breath away.

richie fills up your every sense as he clings to you desperately, his lips salty from your combined tears and his arms strong. his tongue is gentle as it runs along your lips and enters your parted mouth, one of his hands sliding up to tilt your head up towards him. you're breathless because of him for the millionth time in your life and you decide kissing richie is the only thing you want to do forever. 

you pull away slowly, and as you lean back he presses a chaste second kiss to your lips, causing you to grin. 

you barely make eye contact as you pull apart and then you greedily pull him back to you, his lips finding yours yet again with a sweet, loving laugh.

"i love you too, rich." you mumble against his lips. he sighs almost dreamily as you pull back, biting your lip and laughing when he opens the passenger door, gesturing to it with a shy grin.

"now can i please buy you a burger?" he asks, almost bashfully, and your heart does somersaults. you nod and kiss him again, his hand falling to the small of your back, palm wide and fingers lower than you'd expected. he pulls away and his grin is loving, his eyes hooded in pride as you caress his cheek softly before you slide into the car seat.

he holds your hand the whole night and refuses to let go until you slip through your front door at near midnight, blushes on both of your cheeks and lips kiss-bruised.

the butterflies you feel as you fall asleep with a grin on your face are the exact same ones richie feels as his head finally hits the pillow, a giddy smile on his own face as he smiles to himself in the dark halfway across town.

tag list: @gabiatthedisco @blisshemmings @stenbrozier @simplesammyx@brxken-heartsclub @clownsloveyou @baby-yoda-a @moon-shine-baby  @daughter-of-the-stars11 @trashedfortozier @oceandog13 @finnskindofwoman @kait-tozier   @upamongthestarss @fiantomartell @beverlyparkerr @beauregard-s  @leighjaenikhowell @cowbellies @deepestofwaters

[seacottons]

steel heart: — [ soulmate au ]

pairing: kang yeosang x reader

wc: 5k

genre: trash

notes: some swearing. set in wave-era. the early 90s? this was supposed be a long, slow-burn kinda fic, but in my defense i suck ass at strangers-to-lovers, so. yes. not proofread bc idc.

summary: yeosang took joy in pickpocketing all of the naive tourists in town, until he realized he stole his soulmate’s wallet.

The pads of your fingers gently brushed along the row of cat food cans, your orbs flickering to each one as you squinted in concentration. Picking a can up, you observed it curiously and failed to notice a shadow loom over your figure from behind. A hand grasping a can above your head startled you, and you swiftly turned to glare at the person invading your personal bubble.

The stranger paid you no mind as he walked away, can in one hand and skateboard in the other. You scoffed, opting to silently glare holes into his back before turning around to continue your search, vehemently spitting out, "Rude jerk."

After filling your cart with all the necessities, you made yourself over to the checkout. You fished for your wallet from your bag, brows furrowing in confusion whilst failing to locate it. You were absolutely certain you didn't leave it at home.

Your felt your stomach practically drop at the memory of the man, head snapping up to glance around your surroundings frantically. Was he still here? Had he taken it? Had you accidentally dropped it somewhere in the store?

With an embarrassed smile, you hastily explained your situation to the unamused cashier and excused yourself to take a look around the store. Half an hour ticked by, and you're sure you've looked through every aisle about three times each, but your wallet was nowhere to be seen.

And to think your new life here was sailing smoothly.

Trudging back home begrudgingly, you made a silent note about the man's appearance. It didn't help that you only caught a glimpse of his backside, but you only had chestnut brown hair and a skateboard to work with. It wasn't much, but it was something at least.

"Don't give me that look," you scolded your cat gently, "I'll bring you tuna another day."

The gray feline gave you a blank stare before curling against the windowsill.

In all the days he's lived, Yeosang thinks today is most likely his worst. He pays no mind to the scrambling and angry Seonghwa, who is trudging around the house with an apron and gloves, grumbling (read: yelling) to himself about how the place looks like 'a disgusting man-cave that even a pig would be ashamed of'. Sure, the coffee table and kitchen were always littered with half-drunk, chipped coffee mugs, used tissues, torn magazines, San's cat treats, and random phone chargers, but in all honesty, it wasn't that bad.

Also, Yeosang had a major headache, and Seonghwa's nagging really didn't do anyone any favor. And quite frankly, he didn't give a rat's ass; He had other important matters to attend to.

"Wow," a loud laugh rings throughout the large living room, "You've royally fucked up this time, haven't you?"

"Who fucked up?" Mingi asks from the kitchen. He carefully stirs a pot of noodles while his blue haired companion stares impatiently from over his shoulder. If the lack of hygiene didn't kill them, it'll be the sodium instead. That, or San's crumb-filled, backwash water bottles.

"Yeosang fucked up," Wooyoung replies in amusement at his friend's dismay. The brunette picks his head up and gives the laughing boy a menacing look.

"Shut up," he grumbles, a hand running through his locks in frustration, "They don't need to know."

"What don't we need to know?"

As if on cue, a redhead plops down onto the sofa beside Wooyoung and a snickering San. There's some suspicion in the tone of his voice, and Yeosang doesn't like it. Hongjoong peers at the two in question, his eyes then studying the look of betrayal on Yeosang's features.

The brunette bristles angrily from his spot, "Don't say it-"

"Yeosang apparently stole a wallet," Jongho mumbles quietly from his spot on the floor. He squints in concentration at the word puzzle below him, not paying the older boys any mind.

Hongjoong quirks a brow, not quite understanding, "Okay? But doesn't he do that daily? What's the problem?"

Yeosang shifts his annoyed glare to the giggling San.

"Apparently, the wallet belongs to his soulmate," San smiles deviously, quickly snatching the brown leather item from the coffee table to showcase to Hongjoong, "See? Same birthmark and all."

Hongjoong's eyes widen as he assesses the identification card within the wallet, his jaw going slack.

Mingi noisily slurps his noodles while entering the living room, Yunho trailing behind him not too long after, "Oh, wow. Yeosang really did fuck up this time," he says with a mouthful of noodles. He and the blue haired male share a look of amusement, before both erupting into fits of laughter.

The brunette dropped his head once more into the safety of his arms, shoulders slumping in defeat at the sound of the other boys' laughter, "Why me?"

Another week and another paycheck later, you finally had enough for a recent trip to the market. You peered down at your work attire, grimacing at the embarrassing sight of red sauce stains. It'll be a quick run, so maybe nobody will take notice.

Grabbing a few cans of cat food and other items, you grimaced at the heavy weight of the hand cart straining your muscles. You sighed gently, turning to walk into another aisle when a blur of man invaded your vision. A heavy weight sent you flying to the floor, the items in your cart spilling and rolling down the aisle as the stranger groaned atop of your frame.

"Shit, I'm sorry-"

Your mind took a few extra seconds to process just exactly what occurred, and when you blearily took note of the flipped skateboard to your left and the mop of brown hair invading your vision.

A pair of wide eyed brown eyes met your own, and you silently gaped at the handsome stranger sprawled on top of you. You gaze at him as if you truly saw the sun for the first time, utterly captivated by the way his eyes widen ever so slightly. Swallowing thickly at the close proximity and the soft puffs of his breath fanning your burning face, you study his features intently, "Oh, wow.. you're.."

You really don't think you've ever seen a man as handsome-

You suddenly gasped.

"You!"

The man hastily sat up, eyes wide and mouth agape as he wordlessly took in your disheveled appearance. Before he had the chance to open his mouth for an apology, you fisted the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer to assert dominance, "You took my wallet, didn't you?"

Instead of replying, he casually brushed the hair from your face and leaned forward to gaze at your left eye, his own widening at the sudden sight. You hastily slapped his hand away with a scoff of disbelief, "What in the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Your birthmark.."

He suddenly snapped out of his train of thought, eyeing you in mild amusement while digging into his back pocket for an item. When you caught sight of the familiar brown leather of your wallet, you released a gasp of disbelief, giving him an accusatory look of anger, "I knew it!"

"I was looking for you actually- to return it," he curtly started, brows quirking up as you quickly snatched it from his hands. He gives you a brief glance, a glint of amusement in his eyes, before he stands and offers you a hand, to which you stubbornly ignore. You hurriedly stand and save the small crumb of dignity you have left. You quickly study the inside of your wallet, brows knitting in confusion at the untouched money.

"Cut the bullshit," you scoffed, dusting your uniform and shooting him an unamused stare, "You stole it—" you blinked down at the skateboard before returning your hard stare at the male, "Who even rides that thing inside- I- nevermind."

You ignored his attempt at helping you pick up your items off the floor, defensively snatching the canned goods from his hands, "I don't need your help! You've done more than enough!"

"I'm Yeosang," he hesitantly offered his hand. He towered over your frame with an awkward smile.

"Yeah? And I don't care," you grumbled, turning away to saunter off to the cashier. The smile instantly vanished from his features, and he reached over to grasp your elbow.

"Wait-" he calls after you, "Give me a minute to explain!" He tugs you back, and you nearly stumble against his chest.

In all fairness, you've just found the thief who stole your wallet, and you quite frankly don't think he deserves any form of respect whatsoever.

You attempt to wrench your arm from his grasp, but he only tightens his grip with a determined expression on his flushed face.

"You have five seconds to let go of me, or else."

The fumes of Hongjoong's nail polish in the air and an obnoxious splutter of laughter greeted him once he stepped foot inside the large home. Why did he ever agree to live with seven other monsters?

His brow twitched in annoyance.

Three heads from the living room turned to gaze questioningly at the frustrated brunette.

"What the hell happened to you?" wheezed an amused Wooyoung from the sofa. Yeosang wanted to wipe that stupid smile off his face and-

"I take it things didn't go well for lover boy," San grinned from the floor, hands occupied with running along his cat's fur.

"Got his ass handed to him by his soulmate, you think?" Jongho added casually whilst adjusting his posture and clicking away at the remote. The other two snorted with amused laughter.

"Aren't soulmates supposed to be infatuated with each other at first sight?"

"I don't know, San. Maybe Yeosang's case is special."

"I mean, he did steal-"

"Can you three please just shut up," he seethes, rummaging through the freezer for a bag of frozen vegetables. He simply walks past Yunho's confused form in the hallway, grumbling about how he doesn't want to talk about it.

You thought you had seen the last of that pest, but the very next day, you practically choked at the sight of the male walking into the coastal cafe you worked at.

"What are you doing here!?"

"Y/n, wait-" he grimaced, hands raising up defensively, "Give me a minute to explain."

He even had the audacity to dodge your question.

"How do you know my-" you gave him a puzzled look, before your expression darkened, "Oh. Right. You stole my wallet, of course you snooped through my ID."

He gave you an awkward smile, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly, "I forgive you for giving me a black eye."

He notices your dumbfounded look.

"Huh. I don't recall ever apologizing to you," you begin, "And I never told you where I work, either. You've been stalking me, haven't you?"

"No. You were wearing the uniform of this place yesterday actually," he points a matter-of-factly. Clearing his throat, he peered around, thankful at the lack of customers this early in the morning, "I uh.. I think- I think you're my soulmate."

You pause your ministrations.

"Come again?"

Rolling his eyes, he sighs, shoulder slumping as he repeats himself whilst pointing to his left eye, "I think we're soulmates. You and I share the same birthmark and-"

A loud laugh escaped your lips, "You are most definitely not my soulmate. Birthmark or not," you turned to assemble utensils and napkins, fully disregarding his presence, "I'm not interested in thieves. Now if you'll leave me alone, I have some work to do."

"But you felt a connection too, didn't you? Yesterday, in the market-" he drawled in amusement, leaning over the countertop in a teasing manner, "I know you feel it when you look at me."

"The only thing I feel when I look at you is a mind-splitting headache," you grumble while adjusting the radio station to your liking.

A minute of silence passes. His face scrunches in distaste.

"What on earth is that insufferable noise?"

"That's called rock music." You roll your eyes, "Now leave me alone."

You take sudden interest in the dirty speckle you find on one spoon, and maybe if you stare hard enough at it, he'll disregard you and leave.

Your head perks at the sound of a chair dragging against the floor.

"Serve me."

"What the hell did you just say?" you spluttered belligerently, turning around with a look of pure disbelief. Your eye twitched at the sight of him taking a seat so casually on one of the booth chairs. "You think you're so funny, don't you?"

"I honestly don't, but—" He studied you with humor in his eyes, his fingers drumming along the wooden countertop, "my friends say that I am."

"I don't know who you think you are, but you-"

"A customer."

"Oh, piss off," you give up and turn to continue wrapping pairs of utensils together, "I'm not serving you."

"Is everything alright there, y/n?" called the tiny, elderly lady from the back, "Do we have a customer already?" Your head turns to eye the small, gray-haired woman exiting the kitchen, "Oh! A handsome fellow. What would you like to drink, young lad?"

Your eyes widen and your heart nearly drops to the floor.

Your orbs turn to slits as Yeosang gives you a sleazy smile, "Coffee for now, actually."

The poor napkin crumples into a wrinkly mess in your fist.

Oh, this bastard. This slimeball. You'll make him pay.

"Y/n! Take the man's order and start brewing the coffee!"

"Yes, Mrs. Lee!" You turned back to give the brunette a sour look, "The faster you order, the faster you'll leave. So what the hell do you want?"

The next day was much busier than the last.

You're particularly disturbed by the way two males stare at you like deer in headlights every time you pass by their table. They're young looking, maybe around your age. Kind of handsome, too- but they really don't know how to be discreet in the slightest.

Tired of the staring, you pause suddenly, giving them a look of concern as they suddenly dart their eyes and find extreme interest in the salt and pepper shakers in between them, "Is everything alright here?"

For a moment, they stay quiet.

"You're fine," the black haired one replies with a delirious smile, his head resting in his palm. He startles as the blonde elbows him in the side with a harsh whisper of Wooyoung!, and he jumps upright, back stiff and voice growing louder, "Uh! I- uh, I mean- it's fine! Everything is fine!"

"Okay.." you slowly draw out with furrowed brows.

The blonde grimaces in embarrassment, shielding his face with his hand as he looks off to the side in shame, "Can you at least try not to embarrass us?"

"In my defense, Yeosang never said his soulmate was that hot in person!? I could've used a warning, y'know?"

The bell on the door jingles and immediately catches your attention. You walk to the front with a smile only for it to instantly fall at the sight of the familiar mop of brown hair.

"Not you.." you sigh, your head in your hand as you stare in dismay out the window, "Why does the universe hate me?"

"Why are you complaining?" He quipped back with a playful bite, "Weren't you the one staring at me all day yesterday?"

"I was making sure you weren't going to steal anything," you narrowed your eyes at his growing smirk. He leans over the flaky, wooden podium and simpers at the sight of your panic stricken face, "Stop, you look like a creep."

"I know a liar when I see one," he sighed with a shake of his head. Reaching over to pluck out a stray fuzz of dust from your hair, he shoots you a determined frown, "The only thing I'm ever going to steal from here is your heart."

"I- that's kind of gross. Flirting is against the law on these premises," you stutter out, brows furrowing and nose flaring. You refuse to give in to his flirtatious remarks. You're also thankful the podium conceals your wobbly legs.

"Who the hell made that stupid rule?"

"Me. Now what do you want?"

"Such welcoming service skills you have there," he mumbles sarcastically with a roll of his eyes.

"Let me guess. You want chicken and a soda, right?"

Across the room, the two boys shared a quick look before one leaned over to whisper in the other's ear. They both nod in unison, before throwing you knowing grins and snorting as they munched quietly on their food.

"Correct," he says with a steady cold voice, "And a body-bag if you have any, please."

Before you processed his words, he sauntered off to the table of the two boys, their complexions paling at the sudden angry demeanor of the brunette. His hands quickly reach forward to tug both of their ears as he quietly berates them.

"I told you not to come here!" he ignores the way Wooyoung laughs and whines in protest as he's practically pulled off his seat by his ear.

"We're not doing anything! We're just eating!"

"Eating my ass, you're-"

"Oh, gross. I'm not gonna do that. Maybe you should ask y/n-"

You and other patrons stop to gaze at the commotion at the back of the cafe, and you roll your eyes at the disturbance, before walking back over to another table to collect the money and bill.

A few minutes pass and kitchen bell rings. You look back to see the fried chicken plate steaming on the countertop, along with a large glass of bubbling soda.

The duo discreetly peek up to stare at your form, only to startle at the unwavering glare from Yeosang.

"Fried chicken and a large coke?"

"Mhm," Yeosang meets your eyes, and you internally pester yourself at the sensation of your cheeks and ears flaming. How absolutely dare he make your stomach churn like this, "Thanks, y/n."

"Say, y/n. Are you new to these parts? I wouldn't forget a pretty face like yours if I saw one," mused the black haired male. Yeosang threw a hard stare at the younger, and the latter shrunk a bit in his seat, the same mischievous smile unwavering on his features.

"I moved here about a month ago," you stated simply. A moment ticks by and the trio argue in a hushed manner.

"Well, we'll take our leave now!"

"Good luck, Yeosang!" the blonde called out suddenly, throwing a thumbs up in the air whilst hastily making their way out of the cafe, the little bell signaling their departure.

His eyes glance at you momentarily, before he clears his throat and looks away.

Your eyes narrow suddenly at the brown haired man.

"You're paying for their lunch, right?"

He chokes on a bite of his chicken.

"Where are you going?"

"Out," Yeosang says hurriedly, fingers stumbling as he attempts to tie his laces.

"Where?" presses Wooyoung with a large smile.

Yeosang doesn't reply and instead throws open the coat cabinet to look around for his ripped, acid-wash jacket.

"Guys! Yeosang's treating us at y/n's cafe!"

Excited jeers come from some of the rooms, and Yeosang can only stare in utter horror and disbelief at his best friend.

Today was definitely going to be the worst day of his life.

A week passes by, and you suddenly catch yourself feeling almost disappointed that Yeosang hadn't come to visit you.

You want to slap yourself for having such thoughts, and take out your frustrations by wiping one of the tables aggressively.

And the bastard was spot on about that stupid feeling you got in the pit of your stomach at the mere thought of him.

But, you were keen on wanting nothing to do with him.

Not after the trouble he put you through.

Soulmate or not.

Besides, he was technically a criminal. Sort of.

He had a charming smile though. And really pretty lips.

And maybe you found him to be the most handsome man you've-

"He's not handsome!" You blurted to your reflection on the wet table. A table of customers feet away pause their conversation and give you a look of bewilderment.

"Uh," a voice pipes from a few feet away, "Table for eight, please?"

Your heart suddenly leaps at the familiar voice and thw corners of your lips perk up in happi-

Pausing, you internally scold yourself for being unable to conceal your excitement.

This stupid attraction you had towards him left your mind scrambling for coherent thoughts- and curse that feeling of your stomach doing back flips. You fight the urge to punch your gut to rid yourself of that disturbing sensation.

You internally groan, not even bothering to turn around to know who had just spoken. You stand up straight, clearing your throat and awkwardly folding the wet towel in your hands. Yeosang stood at the entrance, an unamused expression on his face as the other seven behind him nosily peered over each other's shoulders to spare you a curious glance.

"Uh," you begin, looking back at the empty tables, "You can sit right here. I'll go grab some menus."

As the eight men made their way to the table, you overheard one laugh loudly to the others, "Wooyoung was right! Y/n is pretty cu-"

A jerk underneath the table and loud yelp caught your attention, and you instantly threw Yeosang a look as the other boys timidly settled in their seats. He caught your gaze and rolled his eyes.

Oh, the nerve he had.

And to think you actually missed his presence.

You learned that the seven other boys were a loud bunch, often saying something to fluster and piss off the brunette. Especially when you were in earshot. And, sweet heavens, they can eat.

Your arms were practically sore from the amount of times you walked back and forth carrying their orders.

You watched as Yeosang finished with his meal and leaned against the adjacent wall, arms crossed in annoyance and face turned to the side to stare out of the window. Your eyes study the others before flickering back at him, and you can’t help but feel a small, knowing tug of want in your chest. You instantly straighten up at the thought, shaking your head in dismissal, before walking over to collect some of the empty plates.

"Would any of you like some dessert?"

A blue haired man wiggled his brows.

"Yeosang wants some, isn't that right-"

Another kick and another glare.

"Actually, we'll just have four cheesecakes if you don't mind."

Ah. Finally. A decent, well-mannered being really does exist.

You can immediately discern that the red-headed man, despite being the smallest, held a leader-like aura to himself, given how the other boys suddenly fell quiet when he spoke. They look amongst each other and nod in agreement.

When the boys wrapped up and fought amongst each other about the payment, your shift neared its end. You nodded with a polite smile as they filed out the door with boisterous cries of 'thank you, y/n'!

"Sorry," a voices suddenly says, and you give the brunette a quizzical look, "If they were too loud.. or embarrassing."

"That's okay," you shook your head and shrugged lightly, "It wasn't a big deal. I'm used to loud customers."

"Right. So, uh.." he pursed his lips, words dying out in his throat as he glances around the cafe with nervous eyes, "Thanks- ah, for the food. See you soon!"

Before you had the chance to reply, the bell chimed and you were left alone in the cafe.

"You have a cat!?"

Your nearly jump out of your skin at the loud remark in your ear, and you immediately spin around threateningly.

Hovering behind you were those same two boys from the other week. You mentally make a note to find an ENT doctor soon. And perhaps a cardiologist.

"Yeah-" you squint in confusion as the black haired male leans forward to study your features. You gently push his face away with an uncomfortable grimace, "What are you doing?"

"You really do have the same birthmark as Yeosang, I can't believe it."

"Yeah, neither can I," you hum sarcastically, "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a cat to feed."

"What's your cat's name?" The blonde practically bounces in his step as he follows you into another aisle. You want to ask why he's filming the rows of snacks with a small video camera, but you decide to save yourself the headache and not bring it up.

You peer back at the duo with a look of disbelief, "Why are you following me?"

"You're interesting."

"Right."

"We should really have a cat play-date. Is your cat a boy or a girl?"

You sigh as you place a bag of chips into your cart, deciding to amuse them for a brief moment, "Pepper is a male."

"Great! Byeol needs a man," the blonde, San- you think, nods in excitement.

"What kind of a friend are you? Set up your friend before you set up your cat," scoffs Wooyoung with an amused snort. His hands grab at the large bags of barbecue flavored chips, and you contemplate giving the back of his head a whack when he sets them into your cart.

They continue to follow you through the aisles, and while a small part of you wants to tell them off, another part of you can't help but laugh in amusement and endearment at their antics and bickering.

Once you've finished shopping, you bid them a farewell, handing Wooyoung his chips and strolling over to the cashier. Your head suddenly perks up at the commotion over by the fruit section, and you only can stare in bewilderment at the ruckus the other boys create whilst shopping for necessities. A store employee stares nervously as one of the boys juggles a bundle of bananas and oranges, while another nearly stumbles back from the other two dancing aggressively in the aisles. You wonder if this was a regular occurrence, and judging by the way the manager walks by without a care in the world, you conclude it indeed is.

You step outside afterwards, placing the bags into your bicycle's basket, before mounting it and debating whether to look back into the market at the rowdy bunch.

Your eyes catch Yeosang staring at you, and bite your cheek to prevent yourself from smiling. He's riding that damned thing again, and he pauses for the briefest moment to give you a wave.

You find yourself mindlessly waving back, and you abruptly stop once you realize your actions. You hastily throw your arm down to your side and attempt to glare in his direction, but he's already looked away with a large smile plastered on his features.

Most days working at the cafe were fine. People ate, some lingered longer to catch up with friends and play round of card games, and others came to take advantage of the happy hour specials.

But then there were some days you wanted to throw all your dignity in the nearest disposable bin, and wrestle down obnoxious patrons.

You huffed in anger at the sight of an empty table.

What kind of grown up decides to dine and ditch?

Isn't that what... children do?

It's when you stack their empty plates in your hands and turn towards the kitchen do you spot Yeosang walking towards you.

"Now is not the time," you start, hoping your annoyance isn't that obvious.

He silently hands you a wallet.

You quirk a brow, setting the plates down onto the table, "That's not mine?"

"Open it," he says with a roll of his eyes.

You swear if he does that again, you'll roll his head.

You furrow your brows and snatch it out of his hands. Your eyes widen at the picture of the very same man who left without paying, and you instantly shifted your attention to the brunette, "You did not just.."

"I'm sure all that cash is triple the amount his lunch costs," he replies with a wink, "It's no big deal."

"I can't," you swallow, shaking your head and handing him back the wallet, "I can't take this. It's considered stealing."

He gives you an unimpressed look.

"So?" he reaches over to flick your forehead, earning him a glare, "Stop being such a goody two shoes. He stole your service, so you steal his money. It's only fair, right?"

"I'll just take the amount he owes.." you speak unsurely, brows knitting in contemplation. He hands you a few bills, and you nod, "Yeah. This is just enough to-"

"And a tip."

He shoves the remaining money into your apron and your hand flies to smack his arm in shock, "No! I said-"

"Yeah, well I said you deserve a tip!"

"It's not my money!" you scold him.

"I stole it, so it's considered mine now, and I want to tip you! Stop being so stubborn, and just accept it!"

It's when you stop struggling do you notice the extreme proximity of the disgruntled male. He's so unbelievably close that you can make out the borders of the birthmark that mirrors your own. You don't waver as you stare back him with widened eyes.

"Y'know, you're kind of cute when you're mad," he begins sheepishly, eyes narrowing in thought as he inspects your features, "Uh. Since you're new to town, maybe I can show you around whenever you're free?"

Stepping back, you brush out the wrinkles of your apron and straighten your back.

"I'm not going on a date with you," you counter simply. You turn your face to glare out the window, but he stares knowingly at your burning face.

"Whoa, hold on," he smiles in amusement, "Date? Who said anything about it being a date?" You flush at his words, eyes narrowing. He laughs at your lack of amusement, "It's not a date, okay? Just think of it as a.. friendly welcoming gift. And an apology for, y'know. The whole stealing your wallet thing. Besides, my friends want to come anyway."

You cross your arms defensively and ponder for a while.

"Fine, but I expect an ice cream cone as a welcoming gift as well," you try and ignore that absurd feeling of butterflies fluttering in the pit of your stomach. You want to roll your eyes as his features suddenly brighten at your agreement, but you don't. Unable to breathe within the awkward atmosphere, you turn to clear the remaining utensils and plates off the table, "So, uh. I'm free tomorrow, I think. I guess you need my number, right?"

"Oh, no need. I already saved it." You swivel around to see him quirking his brow at your phone.

Oh, he didn't.

You instantly slap your hands onto your back pockets, your heart nearly dropping at the lack of the device, "Y'know, you really should put a passcode on this thing. Also, nice background picture you got there."

This obnoxious little-

He laughs out loud as you swipe the phone angrily from his hold and snap the dry towel onto his chest in retaliation, "Stop pickpocketing me!"

"I can't! Not until I have your heart," he leaves with an amused wave of his hand and a soft laugh, "Besides, you make it too easy. See you tomorrow!"

"Who was that?" asks Mrs. Lee as she waddles out of the kitchen with a large tray of pastries. Her eyes are wide behind her wide-brimmed glasses, and she attempts to tip-toe over the countertop to catch a glimpse of the retreating figure outside.

You contemplate your next words for a moment and bite your cheek to keep a smile at bay, "My stupid soulmate."

[lovelylogans]

honey, you’re familiar (like my mirror)

see other chapters, notes, and warnings here!

chapter four: symbiosis

symbiosis: interaction between two different organisms living in close physical association, typically to the advantage of both.

VIRGIL

“Uh,” Virgil says, scrambling in the face of his mother—hair wrapped for the night, blinking the sleep out of her eyes, her arms crossed, “My—myself?”

Technically true, he guesses, according to some of the sensate’s personal beliefs about the connections they share with their clusters, according to Logan according to Dot. Like having other selves scattered across the world.

Andisiwe frowns. “At this time of night?”

Virgil shrugs weakly.

She frowns deeper. Then:

“You know,” she says, looking at him very intently, “your grandmother used to talk to herself at all times of day, too.”

Virgil stays silent. His mother crouches to sit with him on the floor, settling with a long sigh.

“About anything at all,” she continues. “She’d talk about the snow when this country hadn’t seen snow for ten years. She’d laugh when no one told a joke, cried when nothing sad had happened. She’d make recipes I’d never heard of before. You remember her pitha?”

Virgil nods, confused. Of course he remembers her pitha. They’d have it at every large family gathering.

“That’s an Indian dessert. She’d never left South Africa in all her life, but she knew how to make pitha and speak Tamil like she was born in Bangalore. Just like you were speaking a language other than Xhosa or English just now.”

Oh, Virgil thinks, then, oh.

“So unless you started taking language lessons while studying for your doctorate,” she says, staring at him.

Virgil chews at the inside of his cheek.

“No,” he says hoarsely. “No, I didn’t.”

She nods, accepting this. “How long…?”

“I don’t know,” Virgil admits. “A week and a half? Two weeks?”

“Not long at all,” she murmurs. “ I suppose it might skip a generation. She told me once it started when she was a child. A horrible headache struck her, and once it let up she had seven new friends all around the world. When they were all ten, maybe.”

Ten, Virgil thinks, mind whirling. God, to deal with all this at the age of ten?

“Sensates,” Virgil croaks. “We’re called sensates.”

His mother offers him a smile. 

“I know,” she says. “Tell me about them.”

“One’s here,” Virgil says, and he looks at the big, tall, tattooed man. “I don’t think I got your name last time.”

The man walks from his plush apartment rug to sit on the hardwood floor. 

“Patton Taumata,” he says with Virgil’s mouth, offering a bright smile to Virgil’s mother, sitting beside him. “Māori, New Zealander.”

And then Virgil feels what Patton does next—pull seems too strong a word, but it’s the closest he has.

Sitting across from him, looking vaguely disgruntled to find himself on the ground, yet still sitting at his desk in his home office.

“Janus Slange,” he says. “London.”

He slides out of Virgil’s body to find a spot to sit that’s a bit more refined.

Patton turns his head, and Virgil turns his gaze to follow.

“Roman Regio,” the actor says, looking up from his script to gesture beside him. “And my brother, Remus. Who is currently on his way to Mexico City, which he should have done as soon as he got accused.”

“This is such a dumb plan,” Remus groans, resting his head simultaneously against the bus window and Virgil’s bed. “I want all of you batshit hallucinations to know that I don’t come up with plans this stupid. My plans are refined in the way they cause utter chaos.”

Sitting in his bed in the barracks and beside Virgil, so close their thighs almost touch, giving Virgil a thrill that shoots all the way to his fingertips—

“Logan Zieliński,” he says to Virgil’s mother, careful to sound respectful. “I was just here. I’m Polish, but I’m currently studying in Antarctica. Space research.”

They’re here. All of them here. But Virgil sees Patton reach again—

EMILE

—and Emile beams at the sight before him. Patton turns to grin at him.

“Well done!” Emile says, filled to bursting with pride. 

Patton! Reliably being able to pull them all in to visit together! That kind of skill—coupled with the fact that Patton, back in his apartment in Auckland, is peaceably planning lessons with a sitcom in the background—can take other sensates months of practice to truly achieve. 

“Is this your mother?” He asks Virgil.

Virgil says, “Um, Mom, my—cluster parent?”

Emile makes an eh handwavey gesture followed by a thumbs-up. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, I’m comfortable with!”

“—is here right now. His name’s—”

He speaks at the same time as Emile does.

“Dr. Emile Picani, hi there—!”

“—and he’s American.”

Virgil’s mother’s brow wrinkles in distaste, but she does a good show of trying to hide it.

“That’s fair,” Emile says. “Americans are—well, y’know. You’ve seen the news.”

“This is my mother, Dr. Andisiwe Nkosi. My grandmother was a sensate too, apparently.”

“Oh, that’s lovely!” Emile exclaims. “There are sensates within biological families, of course—” he gestures to Roman and Remus, “—but things are still up in the air about if and how being homo sensorium passes down.”

“Dot said the number of sensates is rising due to epigenetic factors,” Logan says.

“Oh, you’ve met Dot!” Emile says delightedly. 

“She answered many of the questions I have,” Logan says, and for a blip, they’re all sitting in the barracks in Antarctica as Logan reaches for a notebook and pen. “But I still have many questions.”

“Entirely understandable,” Emile says.

“Wait, you got your questions answered?” Roman demands, and they’re all sitting on Roman’s apartment’s massive balcony overlooking Mexico City. “I just got this one—” he points accusingly at Janus, “telling me hey, surprise, you’re not actually losing your shit!”

Janus shrugs, and they’re all surrounded by monitors, blinking with so many different points of data it makes Emile a little dizzy. “He just showed up in the mirror while I was shaving.”

“Well,” Emile says, and they’re all in Emile’s apartment at home. Emile puts a kettle on the stove. “I’m here now. So what questions can I help you answer? Or, at least, activate the Archipelago to get some kind of answer for you. If you can think of some kind of subject, there’s probably a sensate that knows something about it, but I suppose we should probably start with the sensate-specific questions.”

Remus puts up a hand and asks, loudly, “Can I use the psychic connection with other sensates to have some kind of insane worldwide orgy?”

ROMAN

Sasha is out for a key art photoshoot, so Roman has the whole apartment to himself. Which is good, because he got a bit busy last night with the whole explanation of what exactly it is that’s been happening to him, and then yelling in disgust when Remus asked gross questions about it.

Roman’s considering if he wants to paint his nails—it’s not like he can keep it, if solely for movie continuity—just to have something to do with his hands when the door cracks open.

And in steps Remus—absolutely filthy, staring at Roman incredulously, a fake mustache plastered above his real mustache that he immediately rips off.

“It worked,” Roman says gleefully. “It worked!”

“First of all, cops ain’t shit, I probably should have expected literally every police officer to sleep on the job when seeing someone suspicious board a bus, but Jesus fuckin’ Christ, your security munches ass,” Remus declares, “They let a murderer get into your apartment.” 

Roman bursts out laughing.

“It’s not funny!” Remus says, pulling off the fake beard he’d donned. “It took five pesos of stolen fake beard and mustache to fool everyone, are you fucking kidding me—?!”

Roman slides off the couch, gripping his stomach, he’s laughing so hard.

“What?!” Remus demands, throwing off the overly large trench coat he’d been huddling under.

“You,” Roman wheezes, then, “you said the plan was stupid and it wouldn’t work—!”

“It is stupid! I come up with way better plans than this, you’re telling me that you came up with the stupid kid movie plan and I didn’t?! And it shouldn’t have worked—Roman, stop laughing, your fangirls are fucking batshit crazy, could you imagine what kind of weird Wattpad shit they’d get up to if they knew how easy it was to break in here?!”

Roman is screaming with laughter, because literally all they needed was a fake mustache and beard, and ooh Roman can tell that Remus is pissed that Roman came up with this plan first because it’s such a perfectly Remus plan. He isn’t sure how much of it is a sensate thing versus a twin brother thing, but all the same, Roman knows that Remus is absolutely fuming, which makes it even funnier.

Remus storms off, shouting, “Just for this, I’m going to use up all your fancy shampoo! I’m going to take the biggest, nastiest shit in your bathroom! I’m—I’m going to eat all your soap! I will! I’ll do it! I’m eating all your soap!”

LOGAN

It’s still a little startling to look over at his notebook and suddenly find himself in South Africa, but he’s gotten a little more accustomed to it since the night before. He’s been feeling a pull to South Africa all day, like an ache deep in his chest. He isn’t entirely sure why.

Virgil glances over at him and smiles, just a little. Logan smiles back. Virgil clears his throat and returns his attention to the textbook before him.

“Roman’s plan worked,” he says. 

Logan huffs, shaking his head. Honestly. It’s like those American movies when three children stack on top of each other and wear a large trenchcoat and a fake beard to gain access to the movies, but it actually worked. 

In retrospect, Logan’s sure that Remus would have foregone his escape into the wilderness if he’d known that donning a disguise and having his rich brother pay away the arrest troubles and their psychically connected lawyer argue before the court would have worked so neatly.

However, considering that nearly every aspect of that plan is absolutely off the rails ridiculous, the escape into the wilderness must have seemed like a prudent measure to take at the time.

“How’s your research?” Logan asks, sitting down on Virgil’s bed. 

“Pretty good,” Virgil says, his tone very casual. “I think the fact that abrus precatorius—”

“The scientific name for rosary peas,” Logan assumes. He is rewarded by a nod from Virgil.

“—isn’t native to Mexico and the fact that Remus hasn’t traveled for years on end is a pretty good basis for Janus to go on. Plus, abrin—”

“The toxin?” Logan clarifies and receives a nod.

“—is incredibly toxic, to the point where anyone ordering rosary peas would probably get pinged under some kind of monitoring system. So there wouldn’t really be a way for Remus himself to get them. Miguel Contreras, on the other hand—”

“The murder victim?” Logan says, startled.

“Yes—on the other hand, he went to Florida very recently. He got back three days before his death, in fact.”

“I thought they were native to Asia and Australia?”

“Yeah, they are, but rosary peas are an invasive species, and they’ve been clocked in the pine rocklands there,” Virgil says. “Symptoms usually occur pretty quick, but it can take up to five days to show up, depending on the method of ingestion. And considering the seed of just one pea could be fatal…”

“Then the cause of death could very well be found in Florida!” Logan says. “And the only thing they have on Remus—”

“—Are threats, exactly,” Virgil says enthusiastically. “And considering the way Remus is as a person, Janus could probably get those hand-waved away as being under jest, rather than an actual threat to kill him.”

They smile at each other again, Virgil’s lips twisting wryly. 

“I’ve been wanting to visit you all day,” he says abruptly, and Logan feels that flutter in his stomach again, the one he’s been feeling since they first met; he’s willing to admit to himself that it most certainly isn’t unease, now. It is a near antonym of unease.

“I have too,” Logan admits, trying his very best to keep his voice informal.

Virgil’s smile softens, a little. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Logan affirms, and the flutter in his stomach intensifies.

They stare at each other. Virgil’s eyes, Logan notices abruptly, are objectively beautiful. Framed by long lashes, his eyes are so dark a shade of brown they’re practically black, so easy to stare at, admiring the way a sudden shift in the lighting would illuminate the subtle honeyed depths of them. 

For a moment, Logan gets a flicker; he’s looking at his own eyes, blue and framed by his glasses, but the emotion in him doesn’t change, the fleeting thought of look how gorgeous, and suddenly he is back to looking at Virgil, and, as one, they look away.

Virgil coughs awkwardly. “This sensate thing—weird, huh?”

For the first time, Logan wonders if the feeling in his stomach is not entirely his own. If it is something shared.

But, Logan thinks, sneaking a look at Virgil taking notes, twirling his pen idly over the backs of his long fingers, he supposes that neither of them would be able to tell that, anyways.

REMUS

Remus is bouncing his leg so much that the cop near him is giving him a disdainful look.

Or maybe the look is because the cop thinks he’s a murderer. Whatever.

“Are you sure this is gonna work,” Remus mutters out of the corner of his mouth because he hasn’t gotten the hang of visiting someone in his cluster and going about day-to-day life like a normal person, the way more experienced sensates can. 

“Positive,” Janus says. He’s sitting crossed-legged beside Remus in his holding cell, where they’re waiting to be transported to the courtroom. Remus is pretty sure most lawyers shouldn’t turn up to court in pajamas, but considering that to the rest of the courtroom Remus is going to play at being his own lawyer, it’s all fine. 

“All they have on you is proximity and threats,” Janus continues. “And considering the voice in your novels, along with the parts in your dust jackets’ where you literally threaten your readers, I can get that set aside no problem.”

Remus inhales heavily and exhales just as noisily.

“Right,” he says. “Right.”

Roman flickers into sight just long enough to shoot Remus a thumbs up, and as Janus resumes spitting legal jargon, Remus feels his shoulders relax.

PATTON

“Be careful with our bezzie Buzzy Bee!” Patton says brightly. He’s crouched before Sophie, having helped untangle the string. “Let’s make sure we don’t tangle him up again, eh?”

“I will, Mr. T!” Sophie shouts, already on the run with the toy, and Patton huffs ruefully. It’ll probably be tangled up again by the end of the day.

A brief chill across his skin, and Patton shivers before he refocuses on the sunny afternoon, here, in Auckland.

By the time he’s stood upright, Logan’s beside him, in a white lab coat.

“Do you really need that much air conditioning down there?” Patton says. “Seems a bit overkill, mate.”

Logan shrugs, closing a door, hiding away some kind of equipment that looks very finicky and complex. “I’m not the one in charge of the facility.”

“Fair enough,” Patton says. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be asked to join in on some kind of game, soon. You like rugby?”

“It’s not exactly popular in Poland.”

“Hm. Guess not,” Patton says. “Probably should’ve known that already.”

“The whole sharing knowledge aspect of this does seem to be rather dependent on a variety of factors,” Logan says thoughtfully. “I don’t think I automatically know the minutiae of New Zealand history and culture just because you might; I think we have to be doing something to trigger that sharing of knowledge.” 

Patton huhs thoughtfully.

“If you didn’t know how to drive a car, for instance,” Logan theorizes, “and I did, and you sat behind a wheel and needed to drive somewhere, I would probably be able to impart that knowledge to you.”

“I can ask Emile,” Patton says, ready to turn and look in on Florida, but he’s stopped by Logan’s frustrated, “how do you do that?”

“Hm?” Patton says, turning to look at him.

“This seems to come so effortlessly to you,” Logan says. “You drop in and seem totally at ease, you could control if we all came to see Virgil a couple nights ago, and by the reactions of those around you, you don’t seem to be talking to thin air—”

“Well, we’re mostly, surrounded by five-year-olds, they wouldn’t be too phased by the concept of me having an imaginary friend,” Patton points out. Logan doesn’t seem particularly amused by this.

“I don’t know,” Patton admits. “Emile thought I was just very communicative, for a sensate. That might be it; I’ve always been pretty chatty. It also might be because Māori have beliefs about how we are all connected—people, nature, all living things—so maybe I was a little more prepared to accept that I was literally connected to other people because I grew up with that as a sacred ideal.”

They watch children run and play for a few minutes; Manaia, diving to catch a football in the game of rugby that had assembled; Sophie, racing between everyone with her Buzzy Bee clack-clack-clacking behind her; Oliver, shyly joining in on a game of hopscotch.

The grass sways in the light breeze, the sun had peeked out from behind its clouds, leaving the entire playground awash in light and warmth. The laughter of children carries on the wind. Patton’s coworkers occasionally look up from their tiny charges to smile and wish him a good day.

“It’s really rather nice here,” Logan says quietly. “I’ve never been remotely near this continent. Coming to research in Antarctica is the most travel I’ve ever really done.”

“Do you miss home?” Patton asks.

Logan considers this.

“Some things,” he says. “Kluski, makowiec, honey mead. Newspapers written in my native language. The coffee shop I studied in throughout all of university. Proper herbata góralska. My mentors. The ability to go to a grocery store. My mother.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“But I love the research I do here,” Logan says firmly. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be able to study down here.”

“It sure seems like it,” Patton says, his admiration clear in his voice. 

“This whole situation threw a bit of a wrench in the works,” he says.

“I think it did for all of us,” Patton says. “Not all bad, though. Remus would probably still be on the run if he hadn’t connected with Janus.”

“No,” Logan muses, a soft flush touching his cheeks. “Certainly not all bad.”

Unbidden, images flash in his mind; black coffee, an expanse of wide sunny road, the sensation of dirt under his fingernails, purple jacaranda blossoms.

Patton tries his hardest not to grin. But—

“What,” Logan says defensively.

“Nothing,” Patton says, not hiding his smile, and Logan huffs irritably.

“You know,” Patton says, “Emile’s been dating someone in-cluster for, like, nine years? They were the first people that they saw, of the people in-cluster. In-cluster relationships are apparently pretty common, which I guess makes sense. Sharing feelings, knowledge, everything—it sure can bond two people together.”

Logan’s flush deepens. 

“Just sayin’,” Patton offers cheerfully, and he goes off to join a game of hopscotch, leaving Logan with his thoughts.

JANUS

The language is different. The procedure is different. The situation is, most definitely, different. 

He’s used to English, English law, English crimes. He’s been a barrister for years, jumping from one firm to another because the latter had seen partner potential in him; it paid much better, too, which certainly hadn’t been a negative. Janus had become a well-polished lawyer, a viper in the courtroom, a boomslang to his rivals. 

He’s good at it, is his point. He’s always been good at it.

He stands, surveying the judge. A different uniform, but a similar dime-a-dozen judge. He’s seen this type dozens of times. He could debate them in his sleep.

But as he looks to the side—Remus sitting, Roman beside him, the rest of the cluster in a line past them, just peeks of their profiles past the twins—he remembers why he started to study law, too.

Because he wanted to be able to get himself and his brother out of any and every sticky situation they could ever stumble into.

Janus stands when he is bid to. He takes the oath, Remus’s mother language tripping off his tongue like it’s his own. It is now, Janus supposes. 

Roman reaches over and grips Remus’s hand. Remus pinches Roman as hard as he possibly can, but Roman doesn’t flinch.

Janus begins smoothly, “Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the court...”

[thegreatestofheck]

Simple Melancholy pt. 1 ❣ Kelce ❣

word count - 2.7 warnings - Nothing in this chapter synopsis - Jemma “Little J” Maybank finds herself a little over her head when she accidentally falls for a boy from Figure Eight. Between her overly protective brother and Kelce’s incredibly rude friends, neither of them are sure how they’re going to make it, but they’re determined to.  a/n - So, this was a request I had from someone on AO3! I’m not sure if I’ll put the entire series on here, but I wanted to at least put the first chapter! After that, if you guys want it on here, I’ll keep updating or I can just put a link to the story on AO3! Thank you all! Stay safe, stay healthy, and stay groovy!

***

Jemma spat up a mouth full of water before flopping on her back, her body shaking with hysterical laughter. 

“Jemma!” A voice called from the shore. “What the hell?”

She pushed herself up onto her elbows, turning her head ever so slightly to glance over her shoulder. Running toward her was her brother, JJ, and all of his friends. Jemma sighed and flopped back against the warm sand as they neared. 

“That was a sick dive, Little J,” John B said with a laugh and a smile as they slowed to a stop around her. Jemma pushed herself to her feet, her legs shaking underneath her. 

“Are you okay?” Kie asked, putting hands on her friend’s arms in an attempt to steady her. Jemma’s grin never once wobbled. 

“Never better,” Jemma reassured her. 

“What the hell?” JJ asked again, shoving his sister backward and away from Kie. She laughed and brushed wet hair out of her face. 

“What’s got your panties in a twist, J?” Jemma laughed. “It’s just cliff diving.” 

“I told you never to go without someone there to watch you,” JJ said, grabbing Jemma by her arm. 

“Jeez.” Jemma pulled her arm away, smile dropping and a scowl forming on her face. “I was just having some fun before you guys got here. Is that a crime?” 

“Jemma-” 

“God, JJ, just let me breathe for once.” 

Jemma wrapped her arms around her stomach and pushed past him, knocking into his shoulder as she stormed off. 

“Little J, wait!” Kie called after her, but Jemma didn’t turn back around. 

“She’s right, bro,” Jemma heard Pope say. “You are really tough on her.”

“She does stupid shit.”

“You do stupid shit.” 

“Yeah, I know,” JJ snapped. “But I don’t want her to be me. I want her to be better.” 

Jemma rolled her eyes as she walked toward her car. She heard the speech before. ‘Be better, Jemma’, ‘Do better, Jemma’, ‘What would Mom have wanted, Jemma?’ Frankly, she was sick of it. She just wanted to be Jemma, and not have all the other stuff tacked on with it. 

Being a Maybank wasn’t easy. It never had been. Mom died, Dad was an asshole, JJ wanted to keep her in a box, and everyone else already had a picture painted of her that she was some lowlife daughter of a mechanic who wasn’t going anywhere in life. 

Even as she shoved her front door open, Jemma was still fuming. Dripping wet and angry head to toe, she made her way to the back of the house where her room was. She wrapped her hair in a towel before changing and flopping onto her bed. She sat there, wallowing in her irritation with her face against her pillow until there was a ding on the family computer. 

Jemma was the only one who ever really used it for anything other than porn and Instagram, so she knew it was for her. Rolling out of bed with a groan, she shuffled over to Luke’s room. She plopped herself down at the computer and opened the email browser. 

As she read the email, a smile started to spread across her face. 

There were two ways that Jemma could get a job. The first; dress like a skank and smile at old, rich men until they threw money at her for some meager task. The second; lie about where she lived and who her dad was for a good first impression. She had tried to get a decent job going the official route, but no one wanted her. And she was tired of having men peering down her shirt or at her ass while she worked. 

A few weeks ago, Jemma had put up an add as a tutor. Believe it or not, she was smarter than she let on. Her grades weren’t perfect by a long shot, but that was because she didn’t really turn in assignments. She aced almost every test and essay that a teacher could drop down in front of her. When Jemma was younger, it was a source of pride to both of her parents (and a reason for JJ to pick fun at her). But now her dad didn’t care and her mom was gone, so she saw no reason to keep her grades up. 

However, Pope told her that it was a great asset to have, that most of the kids on this island were lacking in their grades. And he knew a couple of kids with parents who would pay big bucks to get A’s on report cards. So, Jemma offered her services. She promised to keep it on the down low, no one else would have to know. As long as she got paid, she wouldn’t say a word to anyone. 

And today was the first response to her ad. Jemma’s smile pulled wider. 

***

“Will you help me out with this?” JJ asked, trying to push something in the backyard. 

“Sorry,” Jemma said as she blew against her fingernails. “Can’t. Just did my nails.”

JJ dropped the metal object, whatever it was, and looked up at his sister with narrowed eyes. He squinted against the sunlight, putting his hands on his hips. 

“Since when did you care about your nails?” He asked. Jemma shrugging, continuing to blow against her nails. 

“Since now.” 

JJ dropped his hands and walked inside with a huff. Jemma let out a sigh, knowing full well that she would have to follow him. He could be like a pouty child when he wanted to be, especially when he was upset with her. Jemma pushed herself out of her chair and followed after her brother. 

“What?” She asked, crossing her arms. 

“You’re wasting your money on nail polish?” JJ asked, turning around to face her. Jemma was taken aback, a scowl settling onto her face. 

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me.” 

Jemma let out a bitter laugh. 

“Wasting my money? What, like how you spend all of yours on booze and weed?” JJ scowled at her. “I bought $2 nail polish from the General Store, JJ. Where’s the crime in that?” 

“What do you need nail polish for anyway?” JJ asked. Jemma’s scowl dropped and she leaned back against the wall, looking to the floor. It didn’t matter how much Jemma and JJ fought, they had a rule. Never lie to each other, no matter how small it seemed, they never lied. So, Jemma couldn’t just tell him that she wanted to buy to nail polish to look pretty because he would know she wasn’t telling the truth. 

“I have my first tutoring gig later today,” she said, refusing to look up at him. “I wanted...I wanted to look nice. The family doesn’t know I’m from the cut.” 

JJ’s face softened as he let out a sigh. 

“I didn’t know-”

“No, you didn’t. Maybe next time you won’t get on my ass about two dollars worth of nail polish.” Jemma turned around and started for her room. 

“Jemma, wait.” JJ followed after her, grabbing her by the wrist. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have been on your ass and I’m sorry. You’re going to do a great job today.” 

Jemma nodded her head slowly. 

“Thanks, J.” He let go of her wrist. “I have to finish getting ready.” 

***

Jemma let out a heavy sigh as she stepped up to the front door. She’d been on Figure Eight before, stood on the doorstep of a Kook house. But it had always been with someone she trusted, going into Kie’s house usually or helping Pope run deliveries. Now she was alone and she had no idea whether or not she could trust them. 

Knocking on the door, Jemma plastered a smile on her face. Her smile fell instantly as soon as the door was opened. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

Jemma resisted the urge to roll her eyes when she saw Kelce standing in the doorway. From the look on his face, she could tell he felt the same way. 

“You’re the tutor my parents hired?” He asked, accusation heavy in his voice. 

“Apparently. Um, where are they? I’d like to talk to them,” Jemma said, forcing a smile back onto her lips. 

“They’re not here.” Kelce crossed his arms. Jemma sighed and rubbed a headache out of her forehead with her fingers. 

“Can I come in?” 

Kelce narrowed his eyes. 

“Your brother beat me up last Friday at that kegger on the Boneyard,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. Jemma lifted her shoulders, pressing her lips into a thin line. 

“What my brother does is none of my business.” 

“You were there. You laughed.” 

“I guess it was funny then.” When Kelce didn’t laugh or even smile, Jemma let out a sigh and pinched her eyes together. “Look, your parents already paid me. Can I come in or not?” 

Jemma watched as Kelce’s eyes dropped to scan her body with his eyes. She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. 

“Don’t want to waste my loving parents’ charity money, do I?” Kelce gave Jemma a sarcastic smile. Jemma reciprocated it and pushed past him into the house. “You clean up good, Maybank.” 

“That’s why you’re failing English, Kelce,” Jemma said, admiring the cleanness of his house. “I clean up well, not good.” 

Kelce’s smirk dropped and he shut the door, slamming it a little harder than it needed. 

“How the hell did you manage to be a tutor?” Kelce asked, walking past Jemma and sitting at the island. He had a bowl of cereal in front of him, but he pushed it away toward the sink. 

“However little you think of me, Kelce,” Jemma said. “My grades are better than yours and that’s all that matters. Should we get to studying?” 

“I think I want to get to know my tutor a little bit better,” Kelce said, looking her up and down again. Jemma glared at him. 

“I know you know my brother and believe me when I tell you this-” Jemma slid into a chair beside Kelce. “If he doesn’t kill you, I will.” 

Kelce watched her for a few moments before laughing. 

“Your brother’s a real son of a bitch, you know.” Kelce pointed a spoon at her. “But you’re not half bad.” 

“My brother and I are almost exactly the same,” Jemma told him, trying not to take offense at the comment about her brother. If she fought every person who talked bad about him, she’d spend all of her time fighting the entire island. “Only reason you like me any better is because I haven’t punched you in the face yet.” 

Kelce stood and walked over to the fridge. He pulled out two beers and offered one to Jemma, which she took gratefully. 

“Rafe’s told me all about your uppercut,” Kelce said as he popped open his beer. Jemma shrugged. 

“What can I say? My daddy taught me well.” 

She laughed as Kelce choked on his beer. 

“I’ll, uh, I’ll go grab my homework,” Kelce said. Jemma popped open her beer and took a long swig. She waited at the island until Kelce came back with his backpack. Kicking off the kitten heels that Kie had lent her, Jemma turned toward Kelce as he plopped his bag onto the countertop. 

“I’ve got two overdue essays that I have to turn in by the end of this week,” he said, not sitting back down. “And a math test on Thursday. You get those done and I’ll maybe tell my parents you weren’t a complete waste of their money.” 

Jemma watched at him with a look of disbelief, her lips parted ever so slightly. 

“Um, no,” she said, grabbing hold of his wrist before he could walk away. “I’m not here to do your homework for you. I’m here to help you do your homework yourself.” 

Kelce looked down at her hand as if she was actively giving him the plague. 

“I could just call the police and get you booted out of here if that’s what you want,” he said. Jemma let his wrist go and sat up straighter, tension building in her jaw. 

“Here I thought you weren’t the conceited prick everyone says you are,” Jemma said. She stood from the stool, shoving her feet back into the too small heels. 

“And by everyone, you mean your psycho brother and his band of misfit toys, right?” 

She hadn’t meant to shove him backward, but it came out of her so quickly she couldn’t help it. He almost looked insulted. 

“Fail your English class for all I care, Kelce,” she seethed, plucking her beer off of the counter. “Flunk that math test and then go crying to Mommy and Daddy about it. But don’t talk bad about my brother and think that will get you anywhere.”

“Jemma, I’m sorry,” he tried as she made for the door. “I shouldn’t have said that-”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” She side stepped him before he could grab her wrist and keep her from leaving. “But you did. So, I’m leaving.” 

She threw the door open, ready to go home and take a long shower. 

“Wait!” There was desperation in Kelce’s voice. Against her better judgment, she actually froze where she was. With her hand still on the doorknob, Jemma turned her head partially, just so she could barely see him standing there in the corner of her eyes. “I need to pass these classes. I can’t do it by myself.” 

Jemma tilted her head even farther and flicked her ear to tell him that there was something else she still wanted to hear. 

“I’m sorry I called your brother a son of a bitch and a psycho,” Kecle said with a heavy sigh. “But I need your help.” 

Jemma whirled around, placing a smile back on her face. She shut the door and set her beer on the counter. 

“Great! Well, there’s gonna have to be a few rules around here,” she said, walking toward him and flicking the heels off once again. “First, we don’t talk about my brother. This is a brother free zone, got it?” 

“Fine by me,” Kelce agreed, watching her carefully as she got closer. 

“Second, I will not be doing a single assignment for you. Everything is done by your own hand. I won’t even pick up a pencil.” 

“Fine.” Kelce’s voice tightened when she stopped just inches away from him. She crossed her arms slowly. 

“Lastly, whatever happens in this house, stays in this house. I don’t need people on my side of the island knowing that I’m helping a Kook out and I heavily doubt you want any of your friends knowing that JJ Maybank’s little sister is helping you pass your classes. Agreed?” 

She offered out her hand for him to shake. He took it. 

“Agreed.” 

“Good. Let’s get to work.” 

Jemma sat back down in her chair, spinning it back and forth. She didn’t have any of those swivel chairs at home and she liked the way it moved. It was going to be a blast working here as long as she got to sit in one of these all the time. 

“Two follow up questions,” Kelce said slowly as he made his way into his own seat. “You’re younger than JJ by how much?” 

“I thought we agreed on not talking about my brother?” 

“Well, I’m asking about you, technically.” 

Jemma thought about it for a moment, chewing on her lip. She supposed he was right. 

“We’re twins actually, but he acts like an annoyingly protective big brother so everyone just assumes he’s older, but I was born first.” 

“Interesting.” Kelce took a drink of his beer. “And when you say what happens in this house stays in this house, that means anything could happen, right?” 

Jemma felt herself smiling despite herself. She knew precisely what he had been implying. She was sure he had been thinking about it since his parents told him he was getting a tutor. If she had a guy come into her house to tutor her, she would be all over him in seconds. But this was strictly professional. 

“No, Kelce, that doesn’t mean anything could happen,” she told him, giving his hand a little pat. “Let’s start on those essays, yeah?” 

[koenna99]

Remembered why I don't wear nail polish normally, this looks kinda meh but it took forever and I got a headache from the polish fumes!

I was going for a ship theme in the color choices.

Its meant to be Idia x Kotori.

Went with the main color on each hand to match the character whose dominant hand was the same. (Left Idia and Right Kotori)

[emybain]

After Archenemies 3/?

In honor of not getting on Tumblr tomorrow, here is part 3 of whatever this is to anyone who liked the first two parts. In all honesty idk what this part is, and it might be a little soon for what follows, but I wasn't planning on making this fic long anyways so...yeah. Here is part 1 and here is part 2 if you care. feel free to check out my other works also! enjoy! warning: I dont really edit these that much, so please be kind if you see errors! this is also shorter than what I usually write, just fyi.

Edit: heck i forgot to post the links to the previous parts...ill do it later lmao

Nova’s communicator band had gone off three times in the past hour. She had taken it off and set it on her mattress after it first went off. She didn't need the distraction, especially if that distraction was Adrian Everhart.

“Why are you still staring at that thing?” Nova looked up to see Honey in the doorway of their shared room, leaning against the cracked door frame. She was examining her polished nails. “If you look at it any longer, the filthy Renegade will be able to turn back to normal.”

Nova pushed back the chair she was sitting on in front of Honey’s vanity where Danna’s butterfly was currently trapped. It remained immobile for the most part. When Nova would start to worry if it had died, it would crawl around its little prison. “Just thinking.” About her uncle. About how they would be able to free him from the Renegades. About Nightmare. About a certain Renegade boy.

She closed her eyes, feeling a headache forming at the base of her neck.

“Well, you can think and answer your little Renegade buddies.” Honey gestured towards the communicator band resting on top of a jewelry box. “That ringing is driving me nuts. I can hear it all the way downstairs.”

Nova rolled her eyes, but picked up the band nonetheless. “It’s only gone off three times, Honey. Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Me? Not dramatic?” Honey laughed, the sound like bells. “In your dreams, sweet girl.” She strutted into the room, reached over Nova, grabbed a magazine that was open on her vanity, and sauntered back out. Her perfume lingered, stronger than ever. Nova waved her hand in front of her face. Vintage fumes were the last thing she needed for her aching head.

Her communicator band went off again, and she heard Honey yelling from the first floor to shut it off before she did. Nova looked down at the device, scrolling through her notifications. The first one, nearly an hour ago, was from Adrian.

This is last minute, but we’re meeting in the HQ library in about 30 minutes, Let me know when you get here. It’s about Nightmare.

Nova froze. That couldn’t be good. This was it, she thought. They figured her out, and this was Adrian trying to lure her into a trap to arrest her.

Taking a deep breath, she checked the next message, which was sent twenty minutes after the first.

Nova? Are you busy? If not, please respond.

The third one was five minutes after the first.

Of course you’re busy. You would’ve responded by now. Ignore my last message.

The most recent text was sent two minutes ago.

Nova? We’re all here. You’re not dead or something, are you? Please tell me you aren’t because I would be really upset.

Nova snorted, shoulders relaxing in relief. She believed she was safe, for the time being. She bit her lip, thinking of a response.

Hey. Sorry. Turns out I’m pretty sick, and my uncle took anything that could distract me so I could rest.

Nova thought back to a few days before, when she had pretended to feel under the weather in order to have an excuse to leave the visit to Max. She couldn’t stand to be there any longer without being weighed down by the guilt. It was a believable lie. Besides, she didn’t have time to do detective work with Adrian on her secret identity, nor did she have the patience for it. The quicker she and the rest of the Anarchists figured out a way to free Ace, the sooner she could drop the ridiculous Renegade charade.

Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Do you want me to come by later to give you some company?

The smile that grew on Nova’s face was inevitable, along with the giddy spark in her stomach. She suppressed it though, and denied his offer, pushing away all thoughts of being able to curl up against Adrian while they did something as mundane as watching a movie.

No, thank you though. My uncle is pretty strict whenever I get sick and doesn’t like visitors. Maybe another time?

She received a response almost immediately.

Definitely! I hope you get to feeling better, Nova.

It was so sweet. Nova’s heart ached. Even though she wasn’t sick, she had a feeling she would feel better soon anyways.    

Thanks, Adrian.

Nova sent the text. She debated on whether or not to send something else. Something came to mind, and she immediately cringed. Then Ace’s words floated through her mind. Earn his affection.

Well.

With a defeated sigh, Nova reluctantly sent a text with a heart.

Sweet rot, her IQ just dropped by 20.

Downstairs, Honey started singing. Nova suspected she was cleaning; she tended to sing when fixing up the old house. Nova groaned. Honey wasn’t a terrible singer, but it did not mix well with Nova’s pounding head. Maybe she was actually getting sick.

Standing from the vanity, Nova brushed off her leggings. The butterfly was moving in its prison, crawling lazily along the side of the glass. Nova bent down to eye level with it. She could’ve sworn it made eye contact with her.

“I’m sorry it has to be this way,” she murmured. “Maybe in a different reality we’d be friends.” She meant it, much as she hated to admit it to herself. Danna was a lot like her; it was a shame they were too alike, for that’s what got Danna trapped in the first place.

Nova sighed and rose back up. She took off her communicator band, then reached for her coat lying on the bed and headed downstairs. Honey’s trilling voice grew louder. She was singing some song about the beauty of the southern countryside.

Leroy was seated in the dimly lit kitchen, surrounded by lab equipment. Nova saw the samples of Agent N she had snatched in the past few weeks. He nodded in Nova’s direction as form of greeting, too engulfed in his work. As Nova suspected, Honey was cleaning. She was standing on a towel on top of the counter, wiping a wet rag across the higher cabinets.

Nova cleared her throat. “I’m going for a walk. You guys need anything while I’m out?”

They both chorused a “No.” Nova nodded.

“I’ll be back, then.”

“Hey, Adrian...um… come check this out,” Ruby whispered hesitantly from the computer across his. Adrien looked up from his communicator band, the faint trace of a smile on his lips from Nova’s last text. The heart was unexpected, and frankly, not like Nova at all, but it radiated Adrien’s body in warmth. The concentrated set in Ruby’s eyes made the smile fade, however.

They were in the Renegade library and archives, doing research on Nightmare. Adrian had about five open tabs about her most recent sightings and activity. One of the tabs was an article discussing the identity of the Anarchist, but the information was of no use to Adrian.

He got out of his chair and walked around the table to stand behind Ruby. Next to her, Oscar leaned over, craning his neck to see the screen. There was an unopened file in front of Ruby.

“So I was thinking about what you told us, about Nightmare being Ace Anarchy’s niece?” Adrian nodded, and Ruby continued. “Well, his last name is Artino, correct?” Adrian nodded again. “I looked up the name, and well, I guess you should see for yourself.” She clicked on the file. It was a report from about ten years ago filed by his own dad, Hugh Everhart.

Four people found dead. David Artino: age 31. Tala Artino: age 30. Evie Artino: age 11 months. One unnamed man: age unknown. Suspected Anarchist or Roach affiliation.

Forensics confirm all deaths were a result of direct trauma from bullet wounds, without prodigy interference. Prints found on the gun matched both those of the unnamed man and also those of Alec Artino (alias: Ace Anarchy).

There is reason to suspect the deaths of the three family members were done as a killing for hire. The motive for the homicide remain under investigation. See the full report as filed by Hugh Everhart (Captain Chromium) here.

Additional notes: The eldest child, a six year old girl, was not found at the scene. Neighbors have reported no knowledge of her whereabouts. A report has been made to the Renegades missing persons unit.

Oscar whistled lowly. Ruby had highlighted the last paragraph. She was watching the two boys, lips pursed. Adrian read the report, over and over again. Something about it wasn’t right.

“Was the girl ever found?” Oscar asked. Ruby answered his question by opening another file. This one was a missing persons form, dated ten years ago. 

Name: Nova Jean Artino

Age: Six (6) years old

Height: Unknown

Weight: Unknown

Description: Black hair, blue eyes, parents were Italian and Filipino.

Status: Not found

If any information is known, contact the Renegades Missing Persons Unit.

Below the information was a fuzzy picture of a girl, taken by an outdated camera probably. She grinned at the person behind the camera, a wide gap below her upper lip where two front teeth should have been. In her arms was a newborn baby, fast asleep in her sister’s arms. Adrian let out a small gasp. He took the mouse from Ruby and zoomed in on the girl’s face. Her features were chubby, but the hard set of her jaw was unmistakable.

“Great skies,” Oscar breathed. “That’s not...it can’t be..”

“It is,” Ruby confirmed, disbelief in her voice. “That’s our Nova.”

[so-rel-art-able]

Winter Soldier Jacket Tutorial

All right y’all, 

So Leonardo has encouraged me to share with everyone the process I used to paint a faux leather jacket to look like Bucky Barnes’ sweet metal arm from Captain America: Winter Soldier. I mean, let’s face it, who doesn’t want to know how to make their own Winter Soldier jacket? Seriously. 

Anyway, here goes.

First, head out to your local first or second-hand retailer and find a nice pleather jacket that fits you well. Here’s the one I found at my local Savers’. What I loved about it was that the knit wrist caps down at the ends of the sleeves could roll down all the way over my fingertips, adding to the illusion of a totally wicked metal arm. Plus, when zipped up fully, the knit collar goes all the way up and over my nose, making it look like Bucky’s mask. Bonus!

Second, prep the LEFT (trust me, the specification here is needed. I nearly started in on the wrong sleeve a few times with this) sleeve by dipping a cotton ball in acetone nail polish remover. I just used straight-up acetone, which I have on hand for other art applications. Basically, you want something that will rough up the surface of the pleather so that paint will adhere to it better.

Oh yeah, on a side note, be sure to do this either outside or somewhere with really great ventilation. Acetone stinks to high Heaven, and will give you a headache from the fumes. Also, don’t do this process on any surface with paint, varnish, or fabric on it. Trust me on this one, acetone will wreck paint and varnished surfaces. Maybe just do this step over the tub with the fans running. Yeah, that’s a better idea.

Once you’ve got the left sleeve prepped, put painter’s tape along the edges of where you want the paint to go. Again, trust me on this. You will wish you had protected those edges and such from excess paint once there’s an accident. 

As you can see from this picture, I have taped a bag around the shoulder of the left sleeve to prevent silver paint from getting on it. Likewise, the knit sleeve end is also taped off to prevent me from getting too paint happy with things. Now that you’re all taped up, grab your silver fabric paint, and apply a thin even coat with a foam brush. It’s best to do one side at a time, or work it in thirds of a side, so you can lay it down to dry in between. The fabric paint I used takes four hours to set enough to do anything with adding a second layer, so use your patience skills.

Actually, now is a GREAT time to go grab some popcorn and watch your favorite Marvel movie and mine, Captain America: Winter Soldier. Go ahead, you’ve got paint drying anyway.

So, once your paint is COMPLETELY dry and you have all sides of the sleeve evenly silvered, take out a sharpie marker and some diagrams of the metal plates on Bucky’s arm. Here’s some helpful diagrams for ya, pulled from Pinterest. Take your time with this one and measure everything out. This step will take you the longest to get right. Took me nearly six hours. Of course, I was watching Marvel movies at the time...

So, here’s some images of my sharpied lines. Again, use your patience with this step. You’ll need it.

You get the point, now let’s move on so you can start adding all that wicked awesome shading and lines that make this Winter Solder jacket so cool!

Once you have your lines drawn on, take some black fabric paint and a super fine-point brush and trace all your sharpie lines. Let them dry as you go, you don’t want any smearing with this step.

Once you have all your lines traced, go back and mix silver fabric paint with black, and paint over everything except the black paint lines. The idea is to cover up any and all “oops” sharpie marks. Trust me, there will be “oops” marks...

So now we move on to that bright splotch of color that is the red star. If you’ve done this right, you should have a nice fabric paint outline around where the star goes. Excellent. Take your red fabric paint and put a nice even coat inside the star, making sure to fill all the way out to the edges.

See how pretty that is? Now you’ve got just the darker gray and the black lines, so go back and mix more silver with the leftover silver/black combo to lighten it up. We’re gonna use this lighter mix to go back in to put some highlights on that metal. This is a great time to google images of the Winter Soldier from the films and study his arm intently to see where it catches the light. That’s what I did.

When you’ve got all those sweet highlights done, take the silver fabric paint again and put a nice thin line just above the black lines. This is the final highlight mark. Take your time and make this one tidy, it really makes the overall effect look fantastic.

Don’t forget to highlight the star, too.

See how nice that looks? 

Let everything dry overnight to ensure it won’t smudge, smear, or stick. This is the hardest part.

BOOM so it’s finally the big day where you get to put on your brand new Winter Soldier jacket and go around town like you’re on a mission to assassinate Captain America. 

Go get coffee or something, you’ve earned it. 

And do a photoshoot with your new jacket mod. It looks awesome!

- Michelangelo

[kaikamahine]

hiii, oh gosh, for once online when you reblog one of these

SALV MY DARLING THE LIGHT OF MY LIFE. You are always welcome to leave me prompts even if we’re not online simultaneously!!

Also, did anyone ask for a witch!AU? Because here u go.

*

5: Nail polish, silver rings, boots made for jumping in puddles

When Peridot was younger, and hadn’t yet learned that her perfect, reasonable, logical, brilliant mother could be wrong, they had a square patch of dirt between their front porch and the fence where their neighbors – with their identical patches – all grew scrappy blue fescue and tried to squeeze in Fisher Price playsets.

“What are we going to do with it?” she asks, clinging to the arm of her mother’s chair and holding very still, both wanting attention and terrified of it, too.

Slowly, her mother pulls her head up. Everything she does is deliberate, precise, no movement wasted. “We’ll make it a weapon,” she decides.

And that’s how Peridot grows up with a garden.

(”Dude, how is a garden a weapon?” Amethyst goes.

“Ugh! Against the bourgeoise, Ames, don’t you know anything? Refusing to have a lawn and commit to the expense of its noisy, unproductive upkeep fights the capitalist agenda!”

“Wow, I didn’t know tomatoes were that powerful,” Steven says. “That adds a whole new meaning to the word ‘superfood’!”)

*

Monitoring the garden’s growth became Peridot’s job, year after year. She snipped buds, staked tomatoes when they got leggy, collected seeds into folding sachets to restart next spring, canvassed the neighborhood after heavy rain to collect earthworms to smash up in the compost, smeared the fence with rancid garlic and chilies to keep the rabbits and raccoons and opportunistic teenagers out.

“Are you a greenwitch?” the neighbor’s girl asks her, peering through the chainlink gate. She’s got a bicycle helmet with flames painted on the sides and two Power Rangers band-aids protecting a scrape on her elbow, and Peridot is painfully jealous of how cool both those things are.

She sits back on her heels. “No, I just work hard,” she says, and then, because it’s that time of year when everything happens at once, “Hey, does your mom want any zucchini?”

*

Her mother gets news from Blue’s coven the week of Peridot’s fourteenth birthday, two months into the new school year. She uproots them and moves them north that same week, a heaving disruption in Peridot’s life like it’s rolling over and sloughing its skin.

“But - “ she tries, and her mother’s knuckles whiten over a rune, eyes coming up to cut at Peridot in that familiar way; why can’t I whittle you to a convenient size.

She says, “Do you have something to say?”

“No, ma’am,” Peridot ducks.

She doesn’t know anything about the north. She doesn’t even own winter gear - just her worm-hunting galoshes, with the ladybugs on them. And her mother won’t let her take those.

There’s no room in the car for sentimentality, so don’t waste our time. Only take what can’t be repurchased.

The spellbooks go into boxes, the rowan rings into bins with the maps the other covens lent them, and the warded topaz bottles get wrapped in cheesecloth to keep their contents calm during the car ride. Her mother hires Jasper to pack the car; she’s the starting quarterback whose trophies are behind glass in the hall where Peridot has - had - her locker. She’s more Arizona-colored than Peridot imagines the entire state of Arizona to be, and whenever her mother has to touch her, she immediately wipes her fingers on the pleats of her pants after.

“I hate it when witches bury themselves in someone else’s grave,” is all she says, inspecting her fingertips like she expects them to still be slimy, like Jasper’s gone-off, rotten all the way through. “Such a waste.”

The night before they leave, Peridot sneaks out the front door.

She starts with a pair of pruners, but those aren’t fast enough, so she resorts to her bare hands; the beans come up first, then the peppers, and the tomatoes as tall as their house, the sunflowers as big as satellite dishes shedding seeds for the birds. It’s the end of September, and Peridot had been looking forward to the weeks of canning ahead of her, pickling everything that could conceivably be pickled and adding them to the neat rows of salsa she made the month before.

When she’s done, the cement is littered with clumps of soil, naked roots, stems jackknifed out of their plots, and she breathes hard, looks at her hands, thinks: gravedirt, and, more accurately: grief.

In the morning, her mother walks over the carnage and doesn’t once look up from her phone.

*

(“LEAVE ME ALONE,” she shouts through the door, then scrabbles across the tile and pulls the shower curtain closed. “GO. AWAY.”

A hasty discussion happens in the hallway.

“- and that makes her just like us,” Steven’s voice comes out the loudest. “Come on!”

More muttering, and then Steven’s back, politely rapping his knuckles on the bathroom door.

“Okay, Peridot, you can stay there,” he calls. “There’s towels in the cabinet over the toilet. They’re pretty fluffy to sleep on, it’ll be fun! Oh! And can you water the plant, maybe?”

“The plant?” Peridot blinks, and looks around, and blinks again.

A pot sits on a ledge over the sink, sprouting tendrils in every direction that trail green, arrowhead leaves half-way to the floor. Curious, Peridot crawls over to inspect it, keeping her one remaining boot tucked possessively under her arm.

“What’s its function?” she asks, caught despite her best efforts.

“Uhh, I don’t … know?” Steven tries. “We don’t use it for spells, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Peridot’s brows come down. “Then what’s the point?”

A pause.

“There doesn’t have to be a point, Peridot,” Steven tells her, treading very carefully. “It just likes it in there. The low light and the humidity from the shower are good for it, and in return, it recycles our air. That’s a function, I guess.”

“You need to be more productive than just recycling air.”

“I don’t know, I’m pretty good at it,” and then Steven laughs, and Peridot touches a fingertip to one soft, green leaf. Her stomach knots itself up so complicated it probably deserves a boy scout badge: homesickness, earned.)

*

(”You know what this means, right!” Steven flings himself bodily down on top of her, somehow managing to squeeze her in a hug despite her greatest attempts to dead weight him into letting her go. “You’re one of us! You’re a Crystal Gem now!”

“Whether you like it or not,” Garnet adds, and her smile somehow even manages to reach her third eye, faintly illuminated over the skin between her eyebrows.)

*

(Amethyst props her hands on her hips. Hanging from her neck, the deep-cut pendant from which she got her name still glows from use, nestled against her breastbone.

”Okay, what’s really wrong with it?” she demands.

“I can’t do it,” Peridot says flatly.

Steven and Amethyst exchange a look. Peridot can feel it, the nonverbal discussion happening. She hunches her shoulders.

Her feet are sandy from the boardwalk, the toes bright green. Amethyst and Pearl had been painting their nails while waiting for the witch hazel to steep, and Peridot wanted in - she’d never done it before, since the fumes always gave her mother a headache. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. With runny eyes, she scrunches up her toes and starts dragging them on the cement, trying to get the paint to chip.

“You can’t - “

“Do magic,” Peridot snaps. “I can’t. I’m not a witch at all. Not in any way that matters.”)

*

She can’t do charms and wards like Steven, or transfiguration like Amethyst, and she definitely can’t do that elite-class elemental spellwork Lapis fires off without giving a shit. She’s not a (renegade) white-witch like Pearl, or a battle-witch like Garnet. She can’t even do necromancy like Jasper, and any idiot with half a brain can do necromancy - Jasper went and swore an oath to some coven leader Peridot never met, then never bothered to sever that bond when she went and got her throat cut. Honestly, and you wonder why the Diamond covens want to control all magic.

*

She’s seventeen, living in the north. She sleeps under the window in the barn, and it’s the best place she has ever lived. 

There aren’t any herbs drying from racks suspended from the ceiling (honestly, she’d like to see you try to avoid banging your head into those when you’re returning several day’s worth of dishes to the kitchen at three in the morning) and no jars of fermenting spells on the shelves, no crystals recharging and no chalk lines to worry about accidentally scuffing and ruining when making that aforementioned shame-trip to the kitchen. The plastic bins aren’t full of rotten ingredients or misbehaving charms winding down their half-life, but perfectly reasonable things, like wrenches, toilet bowl cleaner, and Lapis’s twelve different pairs of the same black jeans. (Although not in the same bin.)

It’s not like anywhere Peridot’s ever been before.

It’s wonderful.

“You’re not a very witchy witch,” she says to Lapis.

Lapis lifts one cobalt-blue headphone off her ear, and from where she’s standing Peridot can hear the tinny feedback. She can’t make out the melody, but she’ll bet three dollars and half a donut that it’s Hybrid Theory. Theoretically, there’s a limit on how many times a person can listen to “Crawling,” but Peridot feels that if she pointed that out, Lapis would just take it as a challenge. She’s twice Peridot’s age and walks around with a near-permanent expression that says I have seen some shit, just try me.

“If I got a familiar,” Lapis says dryly. “Would that make you feel better?”

Peridot perks up.

*

She teaches herself how to play the recorder by watching YouTube, and the look on Amethyst’s face the first time she demonstrates convinces her she probably should have tried the harmonica instead. The look on Steven’s face tells her she probably shouldn’t have used his roaming data to do it.

“Here,” he says sympathetically, and plants his ukelele in her lap. “Do you think you can name the notes if we play a scale?”

“Of course I can,” Peridot responds haughtily, and touches her fingertips to the spellwork etched into the wood.

(Everything Steven owns comes steeped in generations’ worth of magic and love, all patiently waiting for Steven to grow into them.)

(She wonders if this is what having a family is like: a place you go where the love is already in your size, just waiting for you to pick it up and put it on: I am a person Steven loves. She wonders if they know she has it waiting for them, too, whenever they want to wear it: I am a person Peridot loves.)

She keeps herself busy - with music, with the barn, with the unusual breathless hitch in her chest at the way the heavy silver of Lapis’s thumb ring looks against her dark skin, with coming up with solutions to things that aren’t really problems. Steven and his dad take her to the mall to get her a phone, which turns out to be like her mother’s scry stone but with faster Internet connection. The common misconception about magic is that it’s somehow cheating, the lazy way out, but Peridot grew up in a witch’s house and knows exactly how much hard work it takes.

Furtively, she takes cuttings from Steven’s bathroom plant, and then from a monstrous leathery green thing in the laundromat, and an aloe plant sitting in a grocery store display with sunscreen and Solarcaine, and before long has several small pots lining the windowsill as the cuttings take root. The sight of them makes her feel better instantly.

“I still don’t feel like I’m doing anything productive,” she tells Amethyst, who’s got her tongue stuck between her teeth in concentration, picking at the stenciling of the tiny spaceships she’s painting on Peridot’s nails.

Amethyst snorts derisively. “You’re living, P-dot. Life is here to be consumed.”

“Easy for you to say,” Peridot fires back. “I saw you put mayo on your cereal the other day!”

“Exactly! And if I wasn’t here to do that, who would have done it? If you weren’t here, who would tell me everything there is to know about Camp Pining Hearts?”

Peridot swells up. “OKAY BUT - “

*

Here’s the thing about magic.

No wait.

*

Here’s the thing about love:

It comes up like a garden grown out of heartstrings and ribs, and you can spend so much time cultivating it, caring for it, but you’ll never really know if you’ll suddenly have to uproot it, or if you can trust its care to anyone else because so many people come in with good intentions but black thumbs.

But to try -

It’s so brave, just trying; the hope that you’ll get sunflowers as big as satellites turning their faces to the sun, and you’ll have enough love left over that you’ll have to go door to door just to share it all. Peridot grew up in a house with no room for waste. She never knew she had this capacity.

Her mother was wrong.

The earth was never a weapon.

*

Silence lands on them with deafening force.

Steven’s jaw hangs open, and Lapis’s eyes make shocked smears of blue in her face. Peridot trembles.

Amethyst recovers first, her voice revving up, “Perrrrrrr-i-doooooooooot!”

She whoops and pumps the air with her fist.

“LOOK! Look at what you did!”

Peridot tilts her phone towards her, disbelieving.

Spell charged, the screen reads. Would you like to share on Facebook? A minute vibration travels through the phone case into Peridot’s hand. 

Magic, she thinks. My magic.

“I did it,” she says softly, in wonder. Then, louder, “I did it! Wait, what did I do?”

“I think,” and that’s Garnet, materializing behind them in that premonitory way she has. She’s smiling. “You made something entirely new.”

*