#i have been working saturdays even though it is against my beliefs but god will forgive me

[michaelganaha]

I got screened for a cancer and found a plethora of health issues that have taken up essentially all my time outside of my current commissions.

I'm real sorry the GTA and new SR art has been delayed this long, but it is for a good cause! I am applying for surgery and more scans to assess treatment options to recover my health as soon as possible!

It has been very scary, but I wish to heal and return to art very soon so I am not giving up! But I do need a little bit more time before I set up some fun stuff.

[topioswords]

Technicalities

It’s a weird place to have a gallery, an old church, but Noir doesn’t feel up to digging around to find out what turn of events lead to this. And there is a certain kind of familiarity that eases his mind as he slips in through an unseemly back door with a very lax security system.

It’s old though, Noir isn’t gonna hold that against it too hard. He has a pretty good idea what kind of budget they’re working with. Local contemporary art doesn't exactly get a lot of recognition.

The office is pretty bare, and far enough up he should have some chance of slipping out in case anybody shows up unexpectedly. Judging by the dust and smudgy windows it isn’t exactly the most frequented place by whatever cleaning firm they may or may not have employed. And there’s a functional power outlet, colored scrap paper and a chair by a table so really, what more can he ask for? It should be a safe spot for the afternoon. Thank whatever scrap god for everything closing early on Saturdays here.

The light’s shifted when he slogs out of the stupid system reboot he’s been putting off for an uncomfortable amount of time, but at least it’s cleared up some of the error messages. It isn’t just the about half an hour of absent time that accounts for the change though. Somebody’s standing in the doorway, blocking the dusky light from the hallway window.

He knows that build.

“These really would be lovely in patterned paper,” the floaty jerk from the spaceport says, holding a folded green dinosaur he’d made earlier between two pointy fingers.

“Yeah, well,” Noir answers, letting the annoyance slip through the filter “you’re welcome to make them that way, but I’m not doing that.”

“Lux models weren’t coded for crafts,” they say, tilting their triangle screen towards him. The blue glow reflects off the table, making it look vast and cold. The orange tinted mirror lenses in the mask would make for a murky mix if he wasn’t used to cutting it out. His white balancing is pretty solid. “It’s called a hobby, it’s something people do if they’re not working or being creepy.” Noir says.

“I am working”

“Of course you are,” he grumbles. 

The silence stretches on for a couple of long seconds. “What’s your angle, why not just report me and get it over with?” Noir adds, eyeing the open door more than the stupid too-tall black bot in front of it. He could make a run for it, but with his power level tethering on the wrong side of 50 and the leg… he knows he wouldn’t get far, realistically speaking. He doesn’t need the danger assessment merrily suggesting likely scenarios for that action. Not that that’s stopping it.

“I told you before, you’re worth more to me free than captured,” they answer, with a slight thrill to the voice like it’s somehow funny. Noir can’t spot the joke.

“Ok so what’re you getting out of not just letting me go?” he asks, not really willing to do this conversation but knowing full well it’ll happen whether he wants it or not.

“Watching you is interesting” the black bot says, those stupidly finely crafted hover fingers of theirs doing a small flick that has no right looking so elegant. “And my human hasn’t shown up at the appointed time.”

“And what am I getting out of going along with this?”

“The security system maintaining its belief you’re nothing but a slightly eccentric human not a rogue recalled model that’s probably up to no good.”

“You know I’m not up to anything” Noir grumbles, annoyed.

“I do, but it doesn’t” the matte black bot answers and Noir swears it sounds cheerful even though the tone is bland.

“Damn it,” Noir says, and if he could sigh for real he’d have done so.

“Also, staff and some guests have already arrived, so all the exits are either manned or blocked off. Basically you’re stuck here till you’re found or you can help me help you.”

Noir groans, the sound rattling in his speaker. “Fine,” he hisses and folds his arms, refusing to face them.

Being escorted by somebody who’s made creepy comments at you is weird, but Noir has got to admit they were right about the place being hard to get out of on his own. Private events, damn it, he forgot how renting out is one of the ways to earn some much needed money. The mix of contemporary art sculptures and what looks like designer-types would be curious, if Noir hadn’t been in attendance for similar events enough times for the novelty to wear off.

>>Stay nearby, a message pings him, and he doesn’t need to wonder who this time.

>>I stand out, he writes back, skimming the attendance

>>Not too much, there will be presentations in 17 minutes, people will be too distracted to notice. May I help you blend in more?

Noir does turn his head at that, looking at the bot with its hover arms folded at its back, a nice low key pixel face in place. They’ve toned down the blue light to a soothing subtle dark blue. Showoff.

It’s a long moment of wondering what they have in mind before he answers.

>>Ok.

There’s only so much they can do with Noir’s clothes, but somehow the black bot still manages to straighten things out just so, and even though Noir resents them getting so close, it’s better. Nobody seems to pay any mind to the fuzzing, there’s several others who have bots tagging along once he starts looking for it. Right. Rich people and borrowed or plain mandated company models. 

“Sir, what refreshment can I get you?” They ask after quietly greenlighting Noir’s look. He tilts his mask, like he’s thinking.

“Coffee,” he says out loud

>>What’re you really doing here? He asks quietly, in text, safe from prying ears.

>>Officially, accompanying a representative from my current employment

>>and unofficially?

>> something else.

>> So you’re lying

>> Not really, I’m accompanying a representative, and I’m here on behalf of my current employment.

>> Pretty sure that’s called lying.

>> I prefer subterfuge.

>> Riiight, Noir writes, and takes the cup he’s handed. Even through the mask he can pick up on the rich notes from it, hanging in the air. It’s not your standard low grade substitution. He strangles the small huh, but not fast enough for his companion to tilt its screen a little.

“Good quality,” he says out loud, because that’s the more human reaction than getting into base readings.

“I’m glad to hear the accommodations are to your liking Sir,” they answer in voice.

>> That’s interesting, they write, but don't add more to it. Noir wonders what that’s about, but doesn’t ask.

The presentations are pretty varied, Noir listens without putting much attention to it, recording them for future perusal and-or trade. It’s nice he gets to sit at least, in a shadowy back row section to the side. 

>> Here, his unrequested escort writes, gently prodding his shoulder with a small square.

Noir stifles the shudder as he takes it, he’s not interested in that kind of unwarranted rattling around. His wiring is twisted up plenty already.

>> What’re you up to, he writes back

>> Spare power cell, you can borrow it, they answer, and Noir twists his mask to see them stand by the side, the matte black and blue-green glow standing out among the shadows where most of the attending bots are lingering. They’ve folded their arms at their back again, the screen blank.

He should say thanks, probably, but he doesn’t like that they know.

>> What’s your name, he asks instead, to distract himself from the thought.

>> You can read my ID from the user logs

>> No, your name stupid. I don’t call myself Lux Industries model 3.7 production number 130947-900315909 alga. I’m Noir, get it? Try again, what’s your name.

>> They call me BB

 Even though there’s no reason to, he still shakes his head at it. He could look, see when they were made, Noir has a suspicion. But that feels rude at this point and he has no real desire to see if he’s right.

>> Ok, I guess a nickname is a step up at least, I’m not calling you by serial number. Please tell me it doesn’t stand for something dumb.

>> Black Beauty

>> I regret asking, he writes, and he isn’t sure why that feels so funny to him, but he’s glad he can cut the sound of the laughing he wants to do.

“Urgh, these evening events are hell on my back,” the guy on his left complains and Noir nods as BB quietly fills him in on who it is in the background. “Food’s good though, they finally sprung for some decent catering, about time,” 

They’ve been hanging around for 143 minutes and Noir’s given up asking if he can just go already. Looks like these humans aren’t planning to pack up anytime soon, Noir pities whatever cleaning company has to deal with the aftermath, but at least they’ve all been shuffled away from the art.

“I need some fresh air,” Noir says to the small group of people, and they laugh at the not particularly subtle smoking break code and let him slip off.

Nobody’s remarked on him not actually eating or drinking, his black shadow just slips in and spirits things away when he drifts off for a new group. Noir is tired, his energy level has dropped noticeably, and he can feel himself running hotter from having to keep up the charade.  

A woman approaches and Noir wishes something would break his cover just so he can avoid more small talk at the same time as he’s terrified this time he’ll slip up.

“Sir,” BB slips in, gently catching Noir’s elbow and he realizes that something in his leg has probably given out. He was swaying. He turns his head and sees the way several faces in various stages of masked turn to face him. Shit.

“Excuse us, Sir is feeling unwell,” BB says, all calm and efficient. No heart in it, Noir thinks to himself, but the nearby people nod, or shrug, and turn away again.

Too much to drink gossip. Noir’s tense joints loosen up and he’s very nearly grateful as BB leads him towards the exit, finally.

>> You can let go of my arm now, Noir writes

>> We’re outside, you’ll run

>> You literally just made sure my face didn’t get acquainted with the floor. My legs aren’t up to running, and you know it.

>> I wanted to thank you.

Noir would blink, if he had the ability. He twists in the grip, enough to watch that annoying hover triangle face. BB is using the improved Lux pixel smile again, and Noir doesn’t know if he should take it as an insult or a really badly implemented compliment.

>> You can thank me by letting me go, you’re done with me, aren’t you?

>> You’ve been very helpful, they write, that blue-lit smile mirroring in his scruffy lenses.

>> I just wanted to get out, Noir writes, feeling like he should definitely not ask how being talked at by humans is helpful.

>> I wouldn’t actually have turned you in, you’re too interesting BB writes, then adds

>> Don’t get yourself caught by somebody else.

Noir doesn’t linger to answer that, he scampers off when their grip loosens. Before he gets out of range and puts up some stronger walls, one last message manages to trickle in.

>> You can return that power cell next time we meet. You need it more than I do.

He can feel its weight in his pocket, cold and snug, and he hates knowing they’re right about needing it.

He hates knowing they probably will meet again at some point even more.

[crmsnmth-journal]

7

12/28/2023

10:54

I'm going to see my dad for the last time tomorrow. He's not going to live much longer and has decided against fighting for life anymore. I really don't blame him. First, he lost his guns and freedom with the felonies, and yeah that was his own stupid fault. But then came the stroke which robbed him of his ability to swallow and knocked him down. Then came this last car accident, which I still don't know if it was on purpose or not. So tomorrow, Alex and I say goodbye to our father. I think I'm okay right now. It doesn't feel okay, and I know I should really be upset and depressed but I'm not. Not yet. Tomorrow is going to be very rough. I'm not going to work. I won't be worth a damn. I'll see about Saturday. And no matter what, I'll be back Sunday. Unless Dad crosses over while I'm here. I don't think I could really leave Sherry alone to deal with that blowback. But I get it, I get where Dad's heads at. I've been there so many times. The difference now is Dad has the option to do this the right way. There's no pain. I mean, there's none below his waistline period, but the doctors are keeping him pretty lifted. Which is good. He can go out with no pain and with a last high to ride out on. I'm scared for him as it is. I mean, I believe in nothing. When we die, there is no afterlife, there's nothing. And with that belief, my father is about to be nothing. Just an empty broken down and beaten vessel. I hate the fact that tomorrow is how I'm always going to remember him. It won't be when we went camping out at Wildcat, or when he let me try DMT, or the time we took shrooms and fished the dock in Delafield. Or even the last time I went to see him and stayed a couple days down in Waukesha with him and Sherry. That's how I want to remember my dad. I'm sorry it took us so long, but in the end, I'm glad we had the relationship we did. And I'll always have those memories, but it won't be how I remember him. I'll remember him lying in a hospital bed, with nothing left of him, not even able to move much. And that sucks. That's the bitterness in life. The ending fucking blows for everyone involved. From the dying to the family and loved ones. It's bitter. It's life's constant reminder of something that is always true. None of us escape death. There's no possible way. Not yet, anyway. And I don't think we should escape it. It's natural. We all have to face it. I'm terrified of it, but I know it's inevitable. God this sucks. I've dealt with people dying before, but never someone this close to me. I mean, this is my dad. This is the guy who instilled most of the morals and rights I have now into me. This is the guy who gave me my eternal love for music. I'm never gonna get a text about some song he thought I'd like. I'll never get a text from him again. Period. The few I have on my phone are all I'll have left. I'll never hear his voice again, wether is was giving me some kind of advice, or just babbling on about some random topic he picked up and taught himself. That's honestly what hurts the most out of this. The definite end of not just a human being, but a human being who raised me. Sure, we may not have been as close as I would've liked for years. Hell, he straight up told me he loved me but he didn't like me then. And it's another thing I can't really blame him. I was not a good son, and he was not a good dad. Even when I lived with him. But the last couple years were different. We were starting to get close again. We talked or texted quite often. He's going to be gone. I guess he's already dead now that I think about it. He's just waiting to see us now, I think. I wish the hospital he's at could get him outside though. Or let him see his dog, Radar. I know they can't, but still, it's all he really wants right now. How do you say goodbye to your father? I'm serious. How do you do that? I really want to know.

[wakaoujisenhime]

May I please request some angst with Kise being busy with basketball and modelling career neglecting his s/o? Additionally his s/o thinks he's cheating on them and just a big misunderstanding. Thank you very much 😊❤️

A/N: Even though I am quite late, happy Valentine’s Day! This actually got longer than I planned it to be, but I hope you’ll like it nonetheless! (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

Tags: Kise x reader ✅  angst ✅  fluff ✅

━━━━☆ ━━━━☆ ━━━━☆

Misunderstanding - Kise x reader

If someone had told you that you’d become the Kise Ryouta’s girlfriend some time ago, then you wouldn’t have believed it.

Kise was a young face everyone would’ve recognized if they had seen it somewhere in public. His blond hair was partially at fault for that as well, but the main reason for his immense popularity was his side job as a young model for different fashion and makeup brands. On top of that, he had been a part of the legendary Generation of Miracles, a group of six young and talented basketball players who each had an extraordinary and never-seen-before skill that could turn every game around. He was very fond of this sport and wished to steadily improve himself at every possible opportunity so of course, it was a given that he’d continue his training even after middle school.

Thinking about this handsome man and all of his achievements made you wonder just how lucky you were for being able to call him your boyfriend. You still couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that the two of you went to the same school and were in the same grade, but never mind that, what surprised you the most was the moment he’d asked to meet you and then sheepishly confessed his interest in you and the wish to be by your side as your boyfriend. It was such a surreal situation that you couldn’t help but nod throughout the entirety of it.

The two of you didn’t know each other that well at first so the process of finding out everything possible about the other was quite fun and really made both of you forget about the stressful part of your daily lives. At first, you had expected that Kise was your typical playboy who’d just confess to anyone who met his preferences, but as time went on you actually saw past those prejudices of yours and were pleasantly surprised at how different he was than what you had imagined. He was a very caring, gentle, and nice guy who’d do anything to see you smile and hear you laugh or giggle. He made you feel like you were the only person in the entire world and that there was no one else he’d rather spent his time with than you. The surprises he prepared for you on special days such as Valentine’s Day or your own birthday were mind-blowing as well.

You of course made sure to always return that amount of love you’d received and his adorable reactions were the reason you felt like you’d fallen in love with him yet another time.

Everything was working out perfectly and the two of you were as happy as can be, but life, unfortunately, likes to ruin perfect moments like these...

The two of you were now third-years and Kise was slowly starting to think about his future plans, so he began taking on more modeling gigs during his free days, some of these even overlapped with the days on which you had planned a date. You were pretty understanding at first and even told him that you didn’t mind, but as these date reschedulings began occurring every single time it really made you sad. In fact, you were so sad that as soon as Kise mentioned having an upcoming free day you simply nodded and whispered a silent ‘I see.’

Nevertheless, you kept on visiting him during his basketball club’s training sessions and watched him steadily improve his performance with each passing day. His bright smile after every basket made your heart throb and a couple of weeks ago you would’ve interpreted it as a positive feeling but now? It simply pained you. Negative thoughts flooded your mind and is if that wasn’t enough, a group of his fangirls stormed the field moments after the referee had blown his whistle three times.

“Kise-kun, please look this way!!“

“Kise! Can you please sign my t-shirt?“

“C-Can I have your number please!“

Sights like these weren’t uncommon and you were used to ignoring them, knowing that Kise wouldn’t do anything that might upset you or his fans, but as of late situations such as these annoyed you. You sighed, stood up, and left the gym.

“(Y/N)! Wait up!“

At the sound of the familiar voice of your best friend, you obeyed his plea, turning back to the young man who was running up to you.

“Yukio! What’s wrong?”

He stopped right before you, greeting you with a small smile as he rubbed the back of his neck in slight discomfort.

“Is...Is something bothering you? Or more like...has everything been alright as of late? N-No that’s not it...Do you-”

“There’s no need to beat around the bush Yukio and you know it,” you say with a small smile as you gently bump your fist against his arm, “just tell me what’s been bugging you.”

He sighs in relief and you see how some tension leaves his shoulders as he asks you a rather surprising question: “I’ve noticed the tension between Kise and you, so tell me...what’s up with that? Do I need to step in and help you out with something?”

Yukio was quite perceptive, especially when it came to your and Kise’s relationship, he always made sure to keep up with your well-being since he knew how carried away your blond boyfriend could get. If it were any other occasion, you would’ve told your best friend what had bothered you so much, but now that you reflected on it, it seemed a rather meaningless reason for you to be upset over so you just shook your head lightly and brushed it off. Your counterpart on the other hand just squinted his eyes in suspicion but decided to let it go for now.

“Just make sure to tell him if something is worrying you, ok? Remember, communication is the key to every relationship.”

And with those wise words, he bid you farewell and jogged back to the gym...

“Hey...(Y/N)-cchi? Would you like to go on a date next Saturday?”

“..? Excuse me?”

The two of you looked into each other’s eyes with equally surprised expressions and not short after you both burst out laughing.

“I’m sorry Kise, I just didn’t expect you to invite me on a date, that’s all.“

Your boyfriend sat down next to you and took your hand in his own, gently caressing each of your fingers as he let his eyes roam around your facial features. Looking at him being that deeply lost in thought made you wonder just what was going through his mind. Usually, he’d try and avoid dating you in public or when it was still daytime because of the potential rumors and scandals it might start, so you couldn’t help but wonder just what brought this sudden change. With a rather sad-looking smile, he brought your hands to his lips and gently kissed your knuckles, his action causing your cheeks to redden ever so slightly.

“Hehe, sorry (Y/N)-cchi, it’s just...we haven’t been able to spend much time together and I need to tell you something important as well, so I thought that a date might be the best solution for this...”

Nothing he’d just said sounded good to you. Kise was rarely a person who’d organize something according to things he’d like to tell or discuss with you so the idea alone was a massive red flag for you. And yet, you couldn’t ignore the seriousness with which he’d approached you, so despite the uneasy feeling that was building up within you, you put on your best fake smile and nodded.

——

“Oh my god did you read today’s news?“

Stop it...

“I just can’t believe it and here I thought that he was a down-to-earth type of guy!“

But he is, I swear!

“You guys are exaggerating! He’s a playboy, you can see that from a mile away!“

N-No, you’re wrong!

“Did you guys actually know that these were actually some long-term fans of his from way back when he first debuted?“

So what...? I’m sure there must be some backstory to this...

“They could’ve at least picked a better and more hidden-away location than a love hotel right at the center of Shinjuku...“

Maybe they had a photo shoot around that area!

“Ugh, he makes me sick...and to think that I shared my book with him once.”

Please don’t say that...

“I feel sorry for his managers and teammates. Who knows what these poor souls have to go through because of this.“

T-That’s一

No matter how many corners you turned, stairs you climbed, or rooms you entered, everyone was talking about the same thing: Kise. The moment you had woken up, your phone was full of notifications, questions, and missed calls, but before you could even comprehend what was going on, one particular message had caught your attention.

♡ : I’m sorry (Y/N)-cchi but I won’t be coming to school today. This is all just a big misunderstanding...trust me

It was then that you had noticed the big headline of your phone’s news app:

MODEL KISE RYOUTA CAUGHT RED-HANDED! IS ONE NOT ENOUGH? Steamy adventures in front of Shinjuku’s most famous love hotel!

It had been such a massive slap to the face, that the entire morning was foggy to you, reality hit you the moment you had stepped on school grounds.

Gossip. Rumors. Lies. Disgust. Aggression. Madness. Sadness.

No matter how hard you tried to avoid any ill-meant word from your classmates, you just couldn’t escape. Your belief in the man whom you called your beloved, the one who promised you that you’d always be the one in his eyes, the same one who swore that this endeavor was nothing but a misunderstanding, was starting to waver.

Suddenly everything started to make sense.

His distant behavior towards you, the increasing amount of modeling gigs he took on, your surprise visits during his training that he’d loved so much went unnoticed and that important topic he wanted to discuss with you on your next date. Everything.

You felt how all those negative feelings you had accumulated during these past few months started to come forth. Just as you were on the verge of tears and wanted to do nothing but fall to your knees, scream and cry you came across Moriyama and Yukio.

“(Y/N)! There you are! How long do you think I’ve been looking for you?!”

The tall man alongside your best friend was quick to notice that you were quite distraught and immediately took a hold of his captain’s shoulder and squeezed it slightly. You truly appreciated that these two were looking for you and intended to calm you down or encourage you to think positively and rationally about this, but right now you couldn’t manage to listen to their kind and caring words, so you apologized, thanked them, and headed straight towards the rooftop, the place where Kise had confessed to you.

As if on cue, your phone began vibrating and as you looked at the screen you saw that the incoming call was from no other than the man who’d been on your mind since the early morning.

“K-Kise...?”

“(Y/N)-cchi! Thank god, you picked up! I’m sorry for the short and sinister message this morning, but I had to clear some things with my managers first bef-“

“So your image was once again more important, huh?”

“W-What...?”

Before you could stop yourself from saying something you’d regret later, your mouth was unfortunately quicker.

“Lately I hardly recognize you, Kise, it’s as if you’ve become an entirely different person. First, you confess your love to me all sheepishly, blushing from head to toe, then you treat me like I’m the center of the world and the only reason you live for, but as of late you’ve been prioritizing your work more than our joint time. I tried to be understanding, I really did, but if you asked me out just so that you could fulfill some kind of goal and boast to whoever with it, then I’m really the wrong person for this.”

Nothing but silence came from the other end of the line, so you took this as a sign to continue.

“Listen, Kise, I don’t need nor expect you to adore me as if I’m some kind of deity, but I at least would like to know what the backstory to today’s tabloid news meant...and I sincerely hope that you aren’t going to trot out some lame excuse because I wouldn’t be able to handle it.“

“...(Y/N)“

“I’ll see you this Saturday Kise.“ you whispered as you ended the call without waiting for his answer.

——

You looked at yourself in the mirror, dreading what this date would mean for your future with the blond young man. The entire week-long you had deliberately avoided him in order to keep your thoughts as rational as you could and not let them get influenced by neither your feelings for him nor the supporting words of your friends. It was hard to ignore the guilty and worried stares he sent your way and whenever you saw the vicious glares others gave him, it really tugged at your heartstrings, but somehow you managed to withstand any possible temptation.

During the bus drive to the city center, you once again looked at the screenshot you took of the article that had caused you so much despair over the past few days. The blurry photo showed a tall blond man who was without a doubt Kise, trapping some girl whose face was covered by pixels between himself and the wall of the love hotel while the second one was pulling on his dark blue jacket, the same one which you had given him as his last year’s birthday present. Judging by the image alone it did look like Kise and the two girls were on their way to the rather flashy establishment, but your boyfriend couldn’t quite hold himself back and decided to start on the fun beforehand.

Cheating, huh...?

You bit your lip and thought about it. A famous and perky guy like him already had a stable fangirl club that followed him at each step so him feeling tempted during your time as a couple wouldn’t have surprised you in the slightest and yet it pained you so much that you could’ve started crying right then and there in front of all the other people that were sitting in the bus with you.

The city was brimming with people left and right, exiting and entering shops and restaurants. Today should’ve marked a happy occasion since it was the first public date the two of you had ever planned while the streetlights were still off. You had agreed to meet right in front of a small cafe that was close to the station and wasn’t one of the popular hangout spots so that you could at least have some sense of privacy. Each step you took fueled your anxiety of what was about to come and no matter how many deep breaths you took, you just couldn’t calm your raging heart down.

You finally saw a blond head sticking out among the crowd and just as you were about to raise your hand and wave to him, you halted. Kise was apparently not alone and had come alongside yet another girl who was constantly clinging to his arm, trying to get him to move.

“What did I even expect...?”

The crowd before you started to disappear and the two of them finally came into full view, but so did you. His yellow eyes met with your glassy ones and you could immediately see how regret and sorrow distorted his already distressed face.

“(Y/N)-cchi, wait...i-it’s not what it looks like..!”

You felt something warm fall down your cheeks and without paying it any mind you simply turned around and began walking back where you came from. Kise’s desperate calls for you to wait up were ignored and whenever his voice seemed too close to you, you sped up but he was too persistent. Despite the dense crowd you constantly walked amongst he never lost track of you.

(Y/N)-cchi! Please wait!

It’s all a misunderstanding, I promise you!

Listen to me, please!

(Y/N)!

You were trying to isolate his desperate pleas to such an extent that you hadn’t noticed the park you had just walked in. There were barely any people who strolled around this small yet beautiful piece of nature. The thought of elderly people walking their pets here, children running around and couples occupying the benches made you imagine just what excellent spot this would’ve been for a proper first date...

The young man behind you had used the time you were lost in thoughts to close the distance between you, but as soon as had returned from your small daydream and noticed how close he was to you, your body involuntarily urged you to run. And you did.

N-No, wait...!

You were fully aware of what you were doing, and you felt terrible for it. Kise’s leg had been injured for quite some time and he was told to not overdo it, which meant that he had to renounce running for most of the time so that he had enough energy and leg power left for his basketball matches.

And yet why..?

Why was he running after you as if his life depended on it? As if it was the last point his team needed for victory? Why?

You stopped sprinting and swiftly turned around. The man who had been an arm’s reach from you didn’t expect your sudden halt and collided with you, but luckily he caught you just before you lost your footing and pulled you towards his heaving chest. His trembling arms wrapped around your body and tightened their grip.

“Finally...”

The way he hugged you made all the wonderful and sweet memories of your life with him came up, leaving you with no other option but to return his embrace with the same amount of love.

“Kise...are you crazy? Why did you start running after me with your injured leg?” you asked after a short while and even though your question was intended to sound like a lecture, it ended up having a worrisome tone instead.

“This small amount of pain is nothing compared to the pain I made you feel these past few weeks.”

A small smile adorned your lips, but at the same time, you had to continuously think about all the things that had happened in this week alone, causing your smile to vanish almost immediately. You wanted answers and you needed them now.

“Kise, please...I want you to-“

“Explain. Yes, I know.” he interrupted and slowly backed up, looking you directly into your eyes.

After he’d taken hold of your hands, he began by defusing the situation that had transpired some mere seconds ago. The girl that was tugging on him was apparently a fan of his who’d drunk one too many beers. She’d unintentionally run into him and had almost lost her balance, but as caring as he was he held onto her and that’s when she had found out his true identity. Kise tried to keep her as silent and calm as possible, but that was easier said than done. The moment you had arrived was when she had started pulling his clothes, pleading him to come to her house and sign all of her merch.

“So about that article...on that day we had a photo shooting in Shinjuku and I was asked to take a break so I wandered about and that’s when two girls came from the love hotel. I wasn’t disguised so they immediately recognized me and tried to ask me out and whatnot. They were so persistent that I told them about you...they thought I was lying and then...”

You saw his sudden change in demeanor, his jaw muscles had tensed up and his grip on your hands was harder than earlier. Kise was rarely mad at something or someone, but what you saw before you, that anger and unspoken hatred were a first for the normally cheerful young man.

“They began insulting you, saying how you were together with me just because of my looks and nothing more. How dare they talk you down to their level? Just who do they think they are?!”

You expected any random excuse but seeing him get so worked up for your sake made your heart ache and now that you knew the backstory, the pictures made more sense. Your lover explained that he’d lost his temper and had pushed the girl who’d trash-talked you against the wall, warning her to keep her mouth shut before he really lost it. Meanwhile, her friend had tried to get him away from her by pulling on his jacket, and apparently, that’s when one of the passersby shot the photo. He took a short break after telling you that and then out of nowhere he brought his face closer to your own.

“(Y/N)-cchi...that’s not all. Do you remember our phone call when you told me that I’ve changed?“ he asked and waited for your confirmation before continuing, “...well the reason I didn’t call you first and had to deal with my manager is that we considered making my relationship with you public.”

“Wh-What...?“

“I’ve had enough of people trying to flirt with me and not believing when I say that I’ve found the perfect partner already. You see...graduation is just a few months away and after that I wanted to concentrate more on our relationship, hoping that maybe you’d like to...to live together with me.“

If you weren’t shocked enough before then his proposal just know had given you the finishing blow. Your heart was beating so fast and so loud that you feared he could’ve heard it.

“Was...was this the reason you took on so many jobs?”

He noded in embarrassment. “I wouldn’t feel confident enough to propose such an idea when it seems so far away and unrealistic, so I wanted to gain some sense of stability and independence before I asked you.”

Kise continued his explanation, but you didn’t catch most of it since you were so lost in your thoughts. The man before you had taken so many overtime shifts, had sacrificed so many of your dates, had gotten himself in a scandal for your sake, and yet here you were doubting him and doing something so childish like running away from him. You bit your lower lip and jumped into his arms, silently apologizing to your lover for your presumptuous behavior. He simply returned your embrace and kissed your temple.

Sometimes, misunderstandings such as these do have their benefits...

[sisterspooky1013]

Only One Choice, Chapter 11

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

Spark.

She watches Ethan from the couch as he pulls a tin of muffins out of the oven, arranging a few on a plate. She’s been thinking a lot about what Mulder said about not having a spark with his ex. She wonders if she and Ethan have a spark, or if they did at one point. When she thinks about her relationship with Ethan, what stands out to her is commitment, dedication, stability. And love, of course, she does love him.

When they first met through mutual friends, she wasn’t particularly interested. He was perfectly nice, and good looking enough, but struck her more as a potential friend than a boyfriend. He was steadfast, kept showing up, kept gently working to get to know her, and eventually she started to grow fond of him. They’ve joked that while his attraction to her was immediate, hers to him was more of a slow burn. This is what mature, adult relationships are like, right? Measured, practical, logical. When you’re young, wild, and free, you date whoever you have the most fun with, chasing the next exciting experience and the rush of a first kiss. But the person you marry should be someone who you know will be a dependable partner, a good parent, and a lifelong support. That has always been her belief.

Ethan returns to sit with her on the couch, setting the muffins on the coffee table to cool. He picks up her feet and puts them in his lap, casting her a brief smile before he goes to work pressing his thumbs into her arches as he watches TV.

Spark.

Is that what she feels when she’s with Mulder? A spark? Is that why her stomach goes into knots when he looks at her? Why she feels the overwhelming urge to touch him? The sensation that there is an electrical current passing between them is not one she’s ever felt with Ethan, that’s for sure. There was no adrenaline in their first kiss, only contentment. Comfort, safety, security. These are good feelings, ones you can build a life on. Can you build a life on a spark?

“You still going to try on dresses tomorrow with Missy?” he asks, his eyes glued to the TV screen.

“Mhmm,” she answers over her book, which she hasn’t gotten through a page of in over thirty minutes.

“Are you gonna let me see what you pick?” he asks, glancing at her from the corner of his eye with a surreptitious smirk.

She sets the book on her stomach and gives him a chastising smile. “Of course not, Ethan. That’s against the rules.”

“Who made that rule, anyway? I’ve already seen you naked, I should be able to see you in a fancy dress before the big day,” he says with a pointed look.

She swats him with the book.

“The fact that you’ve already seen me naked is also against the rules, so I guess we’re 0 for 2. Don’t tell my mother that,” she lectures playfully.

“I’m sure she has her suspicions, given that we live together,” he says dryly.

“Leave the woman to her ignorant bliss,” she retorts, and they hold eye contact for a moment, exchanging affectionate smiles.

Not a spark, but maybe an ember. Burning steady, carrying them through the dark nights. Sparks die out quickly. She only hopes her spark with Mulder fades soon, because right now it’s burning so bright it’s distracting her from the ember sitting right at her feet.

———

She frowns at herself in the mirror.

“This one is really pretty, Sis, you don’t like it?” Missy asks, tugging at the train to straighten it out.

“I don’t know. Maybe. No.”

She looks forlornly at the rack of dresses she’s already tried on. Every length and cut, style of bodice and neckline. They all seemed wrong.

“I mean, I know you’re generally hard to please, Dana, but this is getting ridiculous,” Missy laments.

“I know, I’m sorry,” she replies, casting Missy an apologetic look.

“Which one do you think Ethan would like? Would that help you decide?” Missy offers helpfully.

Ethan. Right. She realizes that she’s been thinking about what Mulder would make of her in a white dress. She suspects he’d go for the mermaid fit.

“Can we just try again another day, maybe? I think I’m just not in the right headspace for this,” she pleads with her big sister.

“Sure, whatever you want. Let’s go get coffee or something,” Missy says as she ushers Dana back into the changing room.

They go to her favorite local spot, finding two open armchairs near the fireplace, which is off for the summer. Dana tucks her legs under her torso, sipping at an indulgent white chocolate mocha; she feels the need for small pleasures right now. Missy eyes her appraisingly, and she can feel the third degree that is about to commence.

“So what’s up with you?” she finally asks, her tone inquisitive but not abrasive.

“What do you mean?” Dana asks in reply, avoiding her eyes.

Missy’s head drops to the side in exasperation. “Are you really going to make me spell it out for you, Dana? I’m trying to be supportive of your decision to marry Ethan, but you’re making it really hard being so openly miserable all the time.”

Dana looks at her with surprise and indignation. “I am not miserable.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Missy says sarcastically.

Dana shakes her head. “I’m just...I don’t know, I have a lot on my mind.”

“Care to elaborate?” Missy asks with an expectant look.

She sighs and sets her shoulders. She needs to talk to someone about this, and Missy is literally her only option.

“Okay, but first I need you to promise me you’re not going to make a big deal about this, because it’s really not a big deal,” she prefaces with a stern look.

“You know me, I don’t do big deals,” Missy replies, working hard to hide her anticipation for whatever her little sister is about to reveal.

“Okay. So, I met this man at work,” she starts, and Missy’s eyes go as round as oranges. “Missy, don’t look at me like that.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Missy defends, “go on.” She’s leaning forward in her chair, creating less space between them.

“He’s an agent, he was just picking something up for a case he’s working on, but he asked me out, and we’ve kind of been...we’ve become friends,” she says hesitantly, glancing at Missy to gage her reaction. Missy is forcing a blank expression.

“So...you’re dating him?” she asks flatly.

“No! Oh god, no. I mean, he asked me out and I told him that I have a boyfriend, but now we’re just kind of friends, and….Jesus Christ.” She drops her forehead into her palm. Even describing what’s going on with Mulder is apparently impossible. “We are just friends, but...but I’m having a hard time reconciling how I feel about him.”

“How do you feel about him?” Missy asks.

Dana shakes her head. “I don’t know how to describe it, Missy. I love Ethan, I’m not having doubts about him, but this man...I feel so drawn to him. Being around him feels...almost electric.”

“Like you have a spark?” Missy asks, and Dana’s head snaps to look at her. She’s open, curious.

“Yeah...exactly like that,” she replies regretfully.

Missy nods in understanding, and it somehow makes Dana feel a little better, like she’s not totally crazy. “Tell me about him,” she requests, and Dana can’t help but smile.

“Um, he’s a criminal behavioral analyst, in the Behavioral Science Unit. Oxford educated. He’s funny, but in a dry, intellectual way. He has some pretty outlandish ideas, but he’s so passionate about what he believes in, it’s impossible not to take him seriously. He’s kind of intense, but really alluring.” She pauses, knowing she can’t go on much further without veering into gushing.

“Is he cute?” Missy asks, and Dana closes her eyes.

“SO good looking. Painfully so.” She opens them and Missy is smiling knowingly at her.

“Sounds like a real catch, Sis.”

“Yeah, but I’m engaged to someone who is also a great catch in his own right. I feel like I’m in a romcom.”

“So what are you gonna do?” Missy asks earnestly.

Dana looks at her with surprise. “What do you mean? I’m not going to do anything. It’s just distracting, but obviously nothing can or will come of it.”

Missy gives her a doubtful expression, but then raises her eyes to meet with someone over Dana’s shoulder, giving them a questioning look. Dana turns to see Mulder standing beside her, a cup in his hand and that damn boyish smile on his mouth.

“Hey, Scully, we meet again,” he says, glancing between her and Missy.

“Mulder, hi,” she stumbles, bringing her feet to the floor and squirming around as though he’d caught her in a compromised position. “Um, Mulder, this is my sister, Melissa. Missy, this is Fox Mulder.”

He steps forward and extends his hand to Missy, and she shakes it with a flirtatious smile. “Nice to meet you, Fox.”

“Oh, please call me Mulder,” he replies.

“Alright, Mulder, would you like to join us?” Missy asks, and Dana shoots her a look.

“Um, yeah, I can hang out for a minute,” he replies cautiously, pulling up a chair between the two of theirs.

“So, how do you and Dana know each other?” she asks, and Dana isn’t sure if she’s asking because she realizes who he is, or because she doesn’t.

“We work together, technically speaking. I’m a criminal behavioral analyst in the Behavioral Science Unit.” Missy gives Dana a look that tells her it was the latter. “What are you two up to today?” he asks, running his palm over a stubbled cheek. She can hear the scratch of the short hairs against his skin and it sets off a tingle at the back of her neck.

“We were just doing some wedding dress shopping,” Missy offers, watching his reaction closely.

“Ah,” he says, only moderately concealing his dissatisfaction, “sounds like a good time.” His tone is dry and not at all genuine. “So, Scully,” he says, directing his words to Dana, “Priscilla was wondering if you could stop by next weekend. She has something to show you.”

She smiles coyly. “Does she? Not a hairball, I hope?”

Mulder chuckles. “No, it’s a file, actually. Her personal favorite, she’d love to share it with you.”

“I think I might be free on Saturday,” she replies, “I just need to check, um…”

“Check with Ethan, right,” he finishes, his smile fading a bit.

“Right,” she confirms, her own smile quickly extinguishing.

Mulder stands. “I’ll email you, to confirm.” He turns to Missy, “It was nice to meet you, Melissa.”

Missy beams at him. “Likewise.”

Mulder turns to Scully and gives her a longing glance, then leaves. They watch him go, waiting until the door has closed behind him to speak.

Missy slaps Dana’s arm. “Oh. My. GOD, Sis!” she exclaims with wide eyes and an open mouth.

“What?” Dana returns.

“Spark? That is a goddamn bonfire. Even I could feel it,” she says with a look of wonder.

Dana gives her a pained expression then drops her head into her hands with a groan.

“Why does he call you Scully? And who the hell is Priscilla?” Missy adds.

Dana lifts her head, looking at her sister regretfully with a shrug.

“He said I don’t look like a Dana. Priscilla is his cat.”

Missy closes her eyes for a moment and gently shakes her head, her eyebrows furrowing like she’s trying to reconcile all this information in her brain.

“Whoa, so you’ve been to his place?” Missy asks incredulously.

Dana nods hesitantly.

“Sis, what are you doing? If you were to tell me that you’re going to break it off with Ethan and run away with that beautiful man I would honestly support you. But if you’re trying to keep things on the up and up here, a private rendezvous at his apartment seems like a really bad idea.” Missy is deeply confused, not used to being in the position to tell her sister what decisions are unwise. That is typically Dana’s role in their relationship.

Dana glares at her sister defensively. “We’re just friends, Missy. Men and women can be just friends.”

Missy shoots her a ‘do you think I was born yesterday?’ look.

“Sure they can, if they aren’t insanely attracted to each other. That man practically devoured you with his eyes, Dana. He wants to be more than your friend,” she says emphatically.

“Well, he’s not going to be. I’m with Ethan. And I’m an adult who can control myself enough to maintain boundaries with a platonic friend who happens to be an attractive man. I’m not a Neanderthal, Missy.” She’s using her professor voice, presenting the topic with supporting evidence. Only the facts, folks.

“Okay,” Missy says, acquiescing. “If you trust yourself then great, have fun with your friend. Does Ethan know you’re gallivanting around with a sexy behavioral analyst?”

The guilty look that overtakes Dana’s face is answer enough.

“Well,” Missy continues, “just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she brings levity back to the conversation with a little smirk.

“That leaves me with a lot of options, Missy,” Dana retorts, and Missy slaps her arm again.

[theimmaterialplace]

i’ll give you all you want if you just ask | spencer reid x f!reader | ch. 1 of 2: all i need

Summary: It doesn’t take a profiler to notice that Spencer Reid is nervous around you. Half of the team finds it funny and the other half just ignores it. What you don’t know is why. Well, you have an idea but you’d rather not be wrong in your deduction and make a fool of yourself and make him just avoid you completely.

See, it’s not that you just make him nervous, it’s that you make him excited. He perks up every time you enter a room and shoots you a shy smile, never making eye contact. He shivers any time you accidentally, or purposefully because you can’t help yourself, brush against him. He follows your lead eagerly and without complaint, able to connect the pieces you’ve put together. Perhaps the most damning piece of evidence is the way he reacts to your praise.

Oh, how his reactions always excite you.  

Contains: hints of light dom/sub undertones, teasing, praise kink. no actual smut yet, just a bit of kissing and allusions to sex. enabler!hotch. 

Word Count: 1.7k

Comments: hello im back this very self indulgent fic! i just love sub!spencer to pieces and there aren't enough fics with him featuring that so i'm here to remedy that! also just assume rossi had a date or something and couldn't make it! i'd say this takes place before a bit before the reaper arc! also i fucking adore hotch and HAD to make him an enabler because he just wants his team to be happy!! he cares for them!! if you’d rather read this on ao3, here’s the link! finally, leave a comment/review so ik how yall feel! reblogs are also highly appreciated! :)

It doesn’t take a profiler to notice that Spencer Reid is nervous around you. Half of the team finds it funny and the other half just ignores it. What you don’t know is why . Well, you have an idea but you’d rather not be wrong in your deduction and make a fool of yourself and make him just avoid you completely.

See, it’s not that you just make him nervous, it’s that you make him excited . He perks up every time you enter a room and shoots you a shy smile, never making eye contact. He shivers any time you accidentally, or purposefully because you can’t help yourself, brush against him. He follows your lead eagerly and without complaint, able to connect the pieces you’ve put together. Perhaps the most damning piece of evidence is the way he reacts to your praise.

Oh, how his reactions always excite you.  

You’d conducted an experiment over the past few months. At first, you had given him compliments such as “I like your outfit today” or “good work on today’s case”, harmless things. He had reacted as well as you expected, blushing the tiniest bit and muttering a thank you in response.

Next, you decided to take a page out of Morgan’s book and call him pretty boy which eventually turned into a whole slew of nicknames revolving around praising him. The first time you had called him pretty boy, he had burned his mouth because he gulped his coffee too quickly. His face was a bright red and he was incapable of meeting your eyes for the rest of the day. As it was, that was a great reaction but your favorite had to be the time you called him a good boy. He had looked up at you with wide eyes and his pupils had dilated so much that you barely saw his original eye color. Now that should’ve been enough to confirm your beliefs but you decided to take it a step farther.

The most recent trial had you calling him your boy, a possessive indicator. There was no hiding your intentions with this one so you made sure to only call him that in private; no need for the team to know. It seemed like no matter how many times you called him yours, one way or another, it still had the same effect on him.

With this information, you had no doubt that Spencer was interested in you and seemed to lean on the sub side of things. It was cute. He was cute. He was just your type in men. You loved nothing more than a man who was intellectual and would let you take control, which you had no doubt Spencer would allow.

It’s on a Saturday night when everyone decides to get drinks, a rare occasion, that you decide to make a move. Well, you’re actually encouraged to by someone you would least expect.

“So, when do you plan on making a move on Spencer?” It takes everything in you not to choke on the fruity drink you were sipping on when Hotch speaks up. You turn your head to look at him and find him staring at you with a smug, knowing look on his face.

“I’d say I have no idea what you’re talking about, but that’d be a lie and also an insult to you.” A small grin creeps onto his face with your response. It’s nice to see him so relaxed because god only knows how much your boss deserves to let loose every once in a while.

“Hm, you’re avoiding the question. Don’t tell me that all those pet names and touches were for nothing.” It’s a good thing you’re lightly buzzed because otherwise you’d feel completely mortified over the revelation that your boss had picked up on your actions. As you are now though, you can only let out a laugh and smile sharply at his remark.

“Course not, Hotch. As for an answer to your question,” you pause and look across the bar to where he’s laughing at something Penelope said, “I think it won’t be too long now. He’s just so… receptive .” He only hums, taking another sip of what you think is whiskey.

“Well don’t take too long.” And perhaps it’s his encouragement or just the liquid courage but you decide that now is a good time to get your boy. You excuse yourself quietly and give Hotch a small wave which he returns with a small smirk on his face.

When you finally reach Spencer, it’s to him saying goodbye to the rest of the team.

“Come on, stay for a bit longer. We’ll have a fun time. We always do.” Derek might be able to convince him if he keeps going on like this so you decide to interrupt.

“Hey, guys!” Everyone turns to look at you and they all clammer to ask you how you’ve been, giving Spencer the out he needed.

“So, what were you talking about with the boss man? I saw some very interesting expressions over there, babe.” Penelope has a sly grin on her face as the rest of the team “oohs” at her statement.

“Oh, just a little bit of this, little bit of that. Don’t tell me you thought I was flirting with him…” at this, their shoulders drop a little, “Oh my god, come on, you guys! As if I’d flirt with Hotch. You guys though…. You’re all free real estate.” You wink at them in good fun.

“You’re almost as bad as Derek with your flirting, you know that?” Emily takes a sip of her drink and JJ nods, agreeing with her completely.

“Now, there’s no need to insult me like that, ladies. At least I take my flirting seriously. When was the last time you even got laid?” You can feel Spencer’s eyes on you so you decide not to answer.

“I plead the fifth!” This gets you a round of laughs and you decide now is a good time to tell them you’re leaving and start your plan.

“Well, I’m glad everyone is having a good time but I really gotta go,” this earns you a round of “boos”, “I know. I know. Sure it may be old lady behavior but I have plans tomorrow morning. You guys have fun for me though!”

JJ speaks up, “Oh, since you’re leaving right now, would you mind taking Spencer home? I was going to give him a ride since the metro is closed tonight but you’re already leaving so I figured why not?” You only nod while internally you can’t help but think this is going even more perfectly than you originally thought.

You look over to Spencer who’s already looking at you. “You okay with that, pretty boy?” He nods and even with the lighting of the club, you can recognize his cheeks flushing.

You turn back to the rest of them to address them,“Well, goodnight guys! Be safe and I’ll see you Monday if everything goes well! Love you!”

After receiving the mandatory goodbye hugs and kisses, you grab Spencer’s hand and lead him out of the club. It’s a good thing you parked far away because now you have time to set the mood.

“How many drinks have you had tonight? You look moderately red, Spence.” It’s a good starter because you need to know he’s not drunk and that this is fully consensual but also to call him out on his blushing.

“I didn’t drink tonight. Didn’t really feel like it so I just nursed a coke and I think the team thought it was a mixed drink.” His voice is heavenly and you personally can’t wait to hear what he sounds like moaning your name or any other name you both decide on.

You stop for a moment and place the back of your hand on his forehead before you announce, “Good news, you don’t have a fever! Bad news, I can’t place why else you’d be so red.” He splutters for a moment and your red only turns him more red.

“Yeah,” his voice cracks and you feel his palm become sweaty despite the cool temperature, “I don’t know why either.”

He’s so adorable if he thinks you’re gonna let him off the hook so easily. You lean in closer to him and whisper, “You know, my darling… I think I do know why you’re so red right now and it’s the same reason you’re always blushing around me,” you can hear him audibly gulp but he doesn't display any signals for you to stop so you continue, “The team used to think it was because I made you nervous and while that is partially correct, I think it’s because I made you excited, right?”

You stop in your tracks and you’re grateful you timed this correctly because you’re able to back him onto your car.

He’s looking down at you, eyes wide and pupils dilated, and you can’t help the smirk that graces your face. He looks so good like this but you think he’d look better looking up at you from his knees.

You reach up to cradle his face in your hands and say,“Tell me if you want this, Spencer. If you say no, I’ll stop and we’ll never have to speak of this again but… If you do want this, say please and I’ll take you home.”

He’s looking at you with something close to adoration and his admission is so quiet that if you hadn’t been staring so intently at him, you wouldn’t have heard him or read the plea that fell from his lips.

“Please.”

Oh, how that one little word sounded like music to your ears.

You take the last leap and lean forward to kiss him. His lips are exactly how you pictured and he tastes like the chapstick you gave him on that case to Alaska. This makes you feel unbearably smug because if he’s been using this chapstick rather than his usual one, it means you’ve affected even more than you thought.

When you finally pull away, Spencer looks confused and very rumpled.

“As much as I would love to continue this, I’d rather we didn’t do this in a parking lot for our first time.” He perks up at “first time” and you smile at him, “and there will be plenty of times to do this later. You’re not getting rid of me now that you’ve finally succumbed to my advances.”

“I agree.” He smiles at you and you take his hand into your own, giving it a light squeeze.

“Now, let’s get to my apartment so we can continue this."

[melatovnik]

ok ur top faves wangxian fics go

hey yati! 🥰️

alright, so first things first, here’s a big wangxian fic rec list i made a while ago, if you wanna check that one out too! consider the list below part 2. these are all my faves so far since my last rec list (as you'll quickly see, i have a LOT of faves).

and just a fyi/psa/disclaimer for anyone reading this: some of these fics have disturbing themes and/or kinky/freaky sex! make sure to check the authors’ tags and notes before reading. also, much like my first rec list, there’s going to be a mix of mdzs and cql canon, characterizations, dynamics, etc., so bear that in mind.

....ok GO

live from new york by varnes | rated E | 87K words | THE snl au fic!!!! yes, by snl i mean saturday night live. this is perhaps the best and funniest story i've ever read, period. varnes is a fucking genius. read this fic.

Wei Ying lets out a long, ugly groan. “I am fine, Lan Zhan. Everybody is overreacting, it’s so embarrassing for all of you.”

“You had undiagnosed pneumonia, which you walked around with for weeks until you passed out during dress,” Lan Wangji corrects him. “It got a big laugh, until everyone thought you were dead.”

He keeps his voice even and does not tell Wei Ying that it had been Lan Wangji who caught him, who called the ambulance, and who rode with him to the hospital, where he was yelled at by nurses who wanted to know why he hadn’t noticed that Wei Ying couldn’t stop shivering or string proper sentences together.

“Rumors of my demise have been vastly overstated,” Wei Ying says. “Anyway, I’m already feeling much better. Basically fine. Really almost completely back to normal, so stop babying me and tell me why the fuck you let your stupid brother hire the worst man in the world to host our show.”

-

OR: the one where they all work at SNL, Yanli's ex-boyfriend is hosting, and that's just the beginning of everybody's problems.

swiss cheese theory by varnes | rated M | 19K words | sequel to snl au fic!!!!!! another must-read.

The Swiss Cheese model of accident causation likens human system defences to a series of slices of randomly-holed Swiss Cheese arranged vertically and parallel to each other with gaps in-between each slice. Defences against failure are modelled as a series of barriers, represented as slices of the cheese. The holes in the cheese slices represent individual weaknesses in individual parts of the system. The system as a whole produces failures when holes in all of the slices momentarily align, permitting "a trajectory of accident opportunity," so that a hazard passes through holes in all of the defences, leading to an accident.

OR: Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian go to the courthouse.

OR: “Sweethearts,” the city clerk had said, very gently, “you’re already married.”

best friends forever by varnes | rated T | 17K words | alright, so like, strictly speaking, wangxian isn't the focus of this fic, BUT. this fic is so good!! it is seriously so good, and it made me fall in love with jin ling/lan jingyi. also, it's varnes, so read it!

It happened like this: Jin Ling was a sect leader now, which was, and Jingyi really meant this, fucking hilarious. There were few things funnier, in his honest opinion.

Because he was young, and inexperienced, and also — it had to be said — a real shithead, there was apparently some belief amongst his advisors that the best way forward, to promote the picture of a stable, mature sect leader who absolutely did not cry at the drop of a hat, was for Jin Ling to get married.

-

OR: Jin Ling and Jingyi get engaged.

Things spiral from there.

For a Good Time, Call by ScarlettStorm | rated E | 171K words

The picture is of Wei Ying, that much is clear. It’s of a lot more of Wei Ying than Lan Zhan is used to seeing. He supposes that, technically, Wei Ying is dressed. It’s a bare technicality, since one of Wei Ying’s hands has rucked up his black tank top practically to his collarbone, showing a long expanse of abdomen and one nipple. Sweat beads on his sternum, catching the light like jewels. His other hand is--Lan Zhan feels his eyes widen, as though unable to look away from a train wreck--on his hip, one thumb tugging down the waistband of a pair of red briefs. Wei Ying is biting his lower lip and looking directly into the camera, sultry, his eyes dark and inviting. His erection is obvious, outlined against the red of the briefs and framed carefully with the hand on his hip. Lan Zhan’s brain goes wildly, screamingly blank.

Or: Lan Zhan accidentally finds his best friend's OnlyFans account and has an ongoing emotional crisis.

love, in fire and blood by cicer | rated E | 360K words | i actually haven't finished this one since i was reading it when it was a WIP, i need to reread it and catch up fjdskl;fjsd, but i love it very much!!!!!! oh my god he wanted to look nice for his husband..... 🙃 [screams with mouth closed]

"You want Wen Ruohan dead," the Patriarch continued idly. "You want his corpse puppets eliminated. You want his halls burned to the ground and his soldiers disemboweled and begging for mercy. Have I about covered it?"

He gave another knife-edged smile.

"But what will you give me in return?"

"We would be willing to offer quite a bit in return for Wen Ruohan's defeat," Lan Xichen admitted. "But I'm afraid we don't know what an immortal such as yourself desires. Please advise us."

The Patriarch waved at hand at the front of the tent. "I want Second Young Master Lan."

(In which the Sunshot Campaign ends through an arranged marriage to the Yiling Patriarch, and Lan Wangji suffers the mortifying ordeal of falling in love with his own husband.)

how to fall in love with a catfish: a guide by wei wuxian (disaster rat) by bwyn & Yuisaki | rated T | 55K words

A new plan hatches in Wei Wuxian’s head. If this nocturnal, bottom-feeding, slimy, invasive mudcat posing as a beautiful actor thinks he can sway Wei Wuxian with animal pictures and a sob story and an unbelievably stilted way of texting with still no dick pictures in the first five minutes of conversation, he has another thing coming. Wei Wuxian’s got it, alright, he has this in the fucking bag.

~

Wei Wuxian plots to expose a catfish using strategic memes and turtle pictures while wiggling his way out of family dinner. Lan Wangji just wants companions.

there’s no promised goodbye here by Yuisaki | rated T | 54K words

Jiang Cheng stares at him. “Didn’t you say you broke up five months ago?”

“Yeah.”

“So why do you have a picture of you two kissing taped to your fridge?”

“Because we’re too broke for magnets,” Wei Wuxian explains, then considers that statement. “Well, I’m too broke for magnets. Lan Zhan probably refuses to buy them because he’s trying to have lofty ideas about the moral failings of materialism.”

~

Wei Wuxian navigates the trials of living with his ex-boyfriend in apartment 1301.

paint smears on sunny days by SnowshadowAO3 | rated E | 54K words

To say that he runs to his car would be incorrect, as he is a Lan, and running is both undignified and unnecessary unless in immediate danger. Nor does he slam his key into the ignition, or aggressively swerve around the cars on the freeway, or have a mild panic attack at the fact he is picking A-Yuan up late from school for the first time ever.

He comes close, though.

By the time he arrives, it’s 4:35PM, and he has imagined about fifty different worse-case scenarios. The door is partly open when he gets to it, a messy label of 104B—Art Room scrawled with chalk on a placard next to the faded wood. As he opens it fully, he expects to see a wailing, terrified child, or perhaps a scene of utter misery and betrayal.

What he finds is his son, hands covered in paint, being sung to by a beautiful, dark-haired stranger.

“Ducks live in the pond, yellow ducks, happy ducks!”

Lan Wangji stops in his tracks.

(Or: Falling in love with your son’s art teacher, in five parts)

a paper friend by sunzu | rated G | 5K words

Lan Wangji finds a paperman far from its body and helps get it home.

-Or-

Lan Wangji unknowingly meets Wei Wuxian for the first time.

All Caught Up by brooklinegirl | rated E | 37K words

"Betrothed," Wei Ying says indignantly.

Lan Wangji can't stop his gaze from darting up to him. Wei Ying understands. Wei Ying is looking at him, wide-eyed and upset on his behalf.

"And you don't even like her," Wei Ying says.

"I don't even know her," Lan Wangji says quietly.

"But even if you did—" Wei Ying starts.

"I wouldn't want this," Lan Wangji finishes.

Lead Me On Through by mrsronweasley | rated E | 55K words | oh look another canon-era practice kissing fic fjdskfl;ds

"Who do you think your betrothed is?" Wei Wuxian asks, sprawling out in front of Lan Zhan and enjoying the prim thinning of his lips at the question. He shouldn't be sprawling—they're in the library, for one, and Lan Zhan is studying, for another—but he can't help himself. Wei Wuxian is a sprawler.

"I do not believe this to be of importance," Lan Zhan responds, without turning his gaze away from his book.

"What!" Wei Wuxian sits up. "How can you say that? Of course it's important! This is the person you'll be with for the rest of your life, Lan Zhan."

I Started From the Bottom/And Now I'm Rich by x_los | rated E | 58K words | ok so i know that in my spiel above i said to mind the tags, etc., but actually pay no mind to the first two relationship tags for this fic. i PROMISE that this isn't that sort of dead dove fic fjdksl;fjs;lifkj. i. it. it's wangxian. don't sweat it. don't even trip. just—this fic fucking rules. it's completely insane and it slaps. wei ying is a girlboss and a bitch and i like her So Much

“First, you get the money. Then you get the power, respect - hos come last.”

Wen Qing traps Wei Wuxian in the Demon Slaughtering Cave, but Wei Wuxian isn’t interested in being the beneficiary of the Wen Remnants’ noble sacrifice. His efforts to free himself accidentally send him back to the beginning of the Sunshot Campaign. Coreless but armed with demonic cultivation, knowledge of the future and his wits, Wei Wuxian takes advantage of this opportunity to come out on top of both the war and its aftermath—before either has a chance to happen—by marrying and swiftly burying the cultivation world’s worst men.

Lan Wangji is confused, hurt, and uncomfortably aroused by Wei Wuxian’s improbably elaborate series of Sect-themed bridal negligees.

rather cruelly used and rather reserved by x_los | rated M | 14K words

In the month between Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian leaving Yi City and their attending the cultivation conference in Lanling, Wei Wuxian discovers a locked room in the Jingshi. It is a mystery that clever and curious Wei Wuxian is doing everything in his power to avoid solving.

But the rose was awake all night for your sake/Knowing your promise to me by x_los | rated E | 8K words | resentment tenties~

The resentful energy occupying Wei Wuxian's body like an enemy army is very interested in giving him Lan Wangji, tied up with a bow.

Wei Wuxian is hoping that Lan Wangji (who is far too noble and very keen to save Wei Wuxian's misguided soul) doesn't find out about any aspect of that.

Mo Money, Mo Problems by x_los | rated M | 3K words

After the Mo family perishes in distressing and mysterious circumstances, Wei Wuxian, still reeling from his reincarnation, tries to dip back into their manor for a little travelling money. (Forward planning! What a concept!) Lan Wangji catches him immediately, and is highly unimpressed (read: furious) with Wei Wuxian’s decision to run away from him in the first place.

Standing Engagement by x_los | rated M | 18K words

Lan Wangji believes he and Wei Wuxian are essentially engaged. While they search for his missing betrothed, he accidentally reveals as much to Jiang Wanyin. Now everyone in the cultivation world knows about the imminent marriage, except for Wei Wuxian himself.

Coming Back to Yourself by acernor | rated E | 22K words | genital swapping for fun and nonprofit!

Lan Wangji gets cursed with a ~woman's body~ and has to orgasm to go back. Since he's 1) a virgin 2) super repressed and 3) SUPER gay, he has no idea what to do.

If only he had a super nosy friend who's read lots of erotic novels who could help him figure out what to do... hm...

Save a Sword by etymologyplayground | rated E | 5K words | a fic inspired by the above fic!

Lan WangJi presses a kiss into his throat, which draws a shivering whine from him. "Like this," he agrees, his voice so low. Then he slides one warm elegant hand down Wei WuXian's chest to his belly, and then to his — to his —

--

fan ending for acernor's fabulous masterpiece "coming back to yourself" because i'm a huge goofball and that fic fucks

Our Eyes on the Road by etymologyplayground | rated E | 23K words | brought to you by lore (the author) and Orville Peck's hit song Drive Me, Crazy

Lan Zhan is silent for a long moment, and the van's speakers quietly pipe the second song on the album into the empty space between them. Then Lan Zhan shifts his hand a little on Wei Ying's leg, presses his fingers once into the meat of his thigh. "Alright," he says.

"Alright," Wei Ying echoes in a wheeze.

"Is that better?" Lan Zhan checks, because he is a good boy. Then he spreads his fingers out a little wider, because he is evil and must be stopped.

-

Lan Zhan is driving to Chicago. Wei Ying tags along.

Worship you till morning comes by feyburner | rated E | 7K words

A meet-cute, a first date, a sleepover.

Let's take a ride round the curves of desire by feyburner | rated E | 6K words | yeah........... uhh, yeah.

Wei Ying was sprawled on the floor in front of the oscillating fan when Lan Zhan got home from work.

The Roots Grow Riotous by hansbekhart | rated E | 105K words | a beautifully crafted, emotionally harrowing fic. i should warn you (since it's not quite tagged as such) that while wangxian is endgame, the overall story doesn't have the sort of happily-ever-after ending you might expect. i’ve seen it described as open-ended but hopeful and cathartic, which i find to be a pretty accurate assessment

Sometimes Lan Zhan doesn’t work through lunch. Sometimes he makes conversation with coworkers in the halls. Sometimes he goes home instead of spending the last hour trawling through Grindr. But mostly, that’s exactly what he does. The sameness is comforting. His life spools out in easily measured increments: capsule collections, yards of hand dyed textiles, ninety day lead times, sell through figures, cost of goods sold.

Every date in manufacturing can be calculated backwards and forward from a single horizon point: the date that the goods must arrive into the country where they'll be sold. Other than that, nothing else really matters.

总有一天; a place to hide (can’t find one near) by yiqie | rated E | 76K words | i can't recall a fic ever affecting me as much as this one did. one of the best stories i've ever read. so, so, so crushingly beautiful. it's viscerally distressing/upsetting at times, especially at the start, so please heed the tags and author's note (they provide a way to skip the beginning scene if needed)!

That’s just the thing, isn’t it? Wei Ying feels nothing. He doesn’t feel anything, and this emptiness should scare him. He knows he should be scared. He wants to be scared. He isn’t. Fear itself is never scary; fear is just a response. It means that your body wants you alive. It’s the absence of terror that scares him.

请兔子吃晚饭; treating a bunny to dinner by yiqie | rated T | 3K words | read this one to recover from the above fic

It’s not really about the food. Being able to share it in the same space is its own kind of magic.

爱不释手; never let me go by yiqie | rated E | 69K words | and then read this one to feel harrowed again, this time in canon-verse!

Wei Wuxian has certainly hoped so ardently in his two lifetimes, for so many different things, in so many different ways, that he could have summoned the demon to his front door with his bare hands. His eyes wander to Lan Zhan, settle on the back of his head, the blue-black curtain of his hair. Oh, how he has hoped.

在此恭迎夷陵老祖; to yiling laozu, the great and venerable by yiqie | rated M | 7K words | read this one to recover from the above fic (this time in canon-verse)

“You don’t know? In Yiling, there’s a tree at the edge of town, one that stands at the fringes of where the city ends and the Burial Mounds begin, called the Lover’s Tree. They say if you write a letter and nail it to its branches, Yiling Laozu will receive it, and he’ll reply.”

你的阳光下; wanna hide in your light by yiqie | rated T | 2K words | :')

Lan Zhan shuts off the water before it can start getting cold, because Wei Ying still needs to take one. Any other day, Wei Ying would have slunk in, pretending to be annoyed that Lan Zhan started without him, and neither of them would have want for hot water, but Wei Ying is still asleep.

From my heart's ground. by orange_crushed | rated E | 38K words | get (orange) CRUSHED!!!!!!!

After a while he can feel a palm against his face, gentle fingers soft and soothing. It’s not real, not exactly: he can tell the difference between a ghost’s touch and a living person’s, between a spirit-vision and an overactive imagination. His education has been thorough. But the beating has also been thorough, so for now he forgets what he knows and leans into it, into the hand cupping his cheek. It’s soft and dry as those forgotten petals, as the touch of a pillow. He can smell wildflowers, can taste blood and dirt. My baby, his mother says, and he closes his eyes. My treasure. He barely remembers the sound of her voice, but the feeling of it is just the same. Just the same as ever.

[In which Lan Wangji loses almost everything, plants a garden, and grows a second chance.]

Pentimento. by orange_crushed | rated E | 73K words | this fic briefly gave me a serious case of career envy :/ ......but seriously, this is an absolute must-read!!!

When Wangji was eighteen he’d walked into the first class of his fall semester painting module and there’d been a boy in a hilariously ugly floppy knit hat sitting cross-legged on the floor at the front of the room. He’d had a sheet of canvas paper taped to his board and his board clamped between his legs and a tackle box of brushes and tubes—a real fishing tackle box, with a fish-shaped logo on it that said BASS, not one of the nice art supply storage boxes they sold in the campus bookstore, like the one Wangji was carrying—open beside him. Everyone else had settled into the rows of stools and easels, but that boy had stayed on the floor for the whole two hour and thirty minute studio. Wangji had looked at him and thought, that idiot’s back is going to hurt.

[Former best friends Lan Wangji, paintings conservator, and Wei Wuxian, art handler, meet again and realize... neither of them were actually in unrequited love.]

Many happy returns. by orange_crushed | rated E | 25K words

His fingers are still clasped between Wangji's. In the mirror Wangji watches him tuck his coat between his thighs so that he can fuss with the tucked-in hem of his shirt, tousle up the side of his hair, all one-handed. "I hope what I'm wearing is okay."

"It's good," Wangji says. "You look good."

"I guess I must," Wei Ying says, and then he smiles and bites his teeth into his bottom lip for a second, devastatingly, and before Wangji can drop dead the doors to the elevator slide open, and the hostess station appears.

[In which lonely businessman Lan Wangji meets the right wrong person and changes the course of his life.]

The dreamers. by orange_crushed | rated E | 17K words

“Stop mothering me,” Wei Ying protests. “Why don’t you ever listen?” He scowls at Wangji, but then the lure of the clean water is too much; he sits grumbling and strips off his vambraces and loosens the collar of his robes and wipes himself down in the steam. Wangji sits on a stool and watches him, and after a while Wei Ying slaps the rag into the bowl and glares back. “Are you going to sit and stare the whole time?” he demands. “You want to see me strip naked and give my filthy evil self a good scrubbing, huh?”

Yes, Wangji thinks.

[This is a story about a horrible war and a beautiful dream; about grabbing happiness where you can find it, and not letting go.]

mercy, tear it down. by orange_crushed | rated E | 31K words

“You want me to call you good?” Wangji says. “To make you feel good?” Wei Ying makes a wretched, soft, surprised sound in the back of his throat. “Then will you be good?”

“Uh,” Wei Ying says. His lashes flick down again, nervously. “Good how?”

Wangji hasn’t quite thought that far ahead.

Kingfisher Feathers by Anonymous | rated E | 83K words | WIP (7/10 chapters, last updated 4/13/21) | omg omegaverse!!!! @/ this anon author... keep up the great work! also i have feelings for u

With an almost trance-like detachment, Wei Wuxian touched his own neck, his fingers skimming over the fresh mark. The bite wound had stopped bleeding, although he had no doubts it would open again if agitated.

Bonded.

He was bonded for life.

"Shit," he whispered. He looked over at the sleeping form of Lan Wangji—the Second Prince of Gusu and, until his brother was found, the sole heir to the throne. "Oh, shit. Lan Qiren is going to kill me."

----------

Lan Wangji goes into a fevered rut and accidentally bonds with Wei Wuxian. When they next meet, he remembers none of it, and Wei Wuxian is determined to keep the bond a secret—even when he's sent to the Cloud Recesses to be a consort in Lan Wangji's harem.

(tl;dr concubine!wwx is already married to emperor!lwj, who has no idea. drama ensues.)

Pull out game weak by 74243 | rated E | 23K words | featuring the hottest meanest dom top lesbian lwj of your wildest dreams. i hope ao3 user 74243 is having an amazing day

Wei Ying swipes right.

Extra Time by Anonymous | rated E | 28K words | fic inspired by the above fic! seriously good

How Wei Ying learned to stop worrying and love the strap (an AU of 74243's Pull out game weak)

Superfan by 74243 | rated E | 19K words | ao3 user 74243 writing banger after banger as per usual

“I’m not going to apologize for my job,” Wei Ying said, “so if you want to give me some kind of lecture--”

“No,” Lan Zhan said. “You misunderstood. I am...” she paused, as if considering the best way to put it. “I’m a fan.”

Spit in my mouth, look in my eyes by 74243 | rated E | 7K works | i'm just going to list all of ao3 user 74243's fics, ok? that's what's gonna happen here

Wei Wuxian was a little surprised herself, although she felt bad for being surprised. Of course it didn’t really mean anything about you, how you presented, Wei Wuxian knew that better than anyone, but all the same it was hard to reconcile Lan Zhan as an omega.

(wwx makes an error of judgment)

If the shoe fits by 74243 | rated E | 8K words

Wei Ying loses a bet.

the And they were roommates series by 74243 | rated E | 19K words total

That was the other thing, when Wei Ying had moved in. She’d scented Lan Zhan immediately, the sandalwood and smoke rising off her, almost before she’d taken in Lan Zhan’s straight posture, her narrowed eyes. She’d known that Lan Zhan could tell, too. At the end, when they’d talked about the rent and Lan Zhan’s nearly finished PhD and Wei Ying’s working hours, Wei Ying had said, casual and effortless, “And you don’t mind that I’m an omega.”

“No,” Lan Zhan said.

Chef's kiss by 74243 | rated E | 7K words

Wei Ying said, “You know, in some ways I’m kind of depressed. I took your biggest dick on my first try. Now I don’t have anything to build up to.”

“There are bigger ones available,” Lan Zhan said lazily. “I can pay for express shipping.”

(Lan Zhan works the late shift.)

Gold-palmed Warrior Quest! by 74243 | rated E | 13K words

When Lan Wangji suggested that they camp along the way to the Unclean Realm, rather than staying at inns, Wei Wuxian had been sceptical.

Dway! by 74243 | rated E | 6K words

“Hm,” Wei Ying said. “You like it rough, though, right? You seem like that kind of alpha.” When she saw Lan Zhan’s expression she raised an eyebrow. “What? Was I wrong? Are you tender and sweet? Do you cry?”

“You were not wrong,” Lan Zhan said. “I do not cry. Do you?”

tgif by 74243 | rated E | 17K words

Today Lan Zhan says that if Wei Ying cannot control her mouth then she will have to tape it shut.

On the ground by 74243 | rated E | 5K words

“I think you will like it,” Lan Zhan said.

Does your mother know by 74243 | rated E | 5K words | editing this rec list on a monday morning to add this brand new fic fresh off the presses. thank u ao3 user 74243 for feeding us so well 🙏

“Lan Zhan is such a well-behaved girl,” Madam Yu said.

all that and more by Euphorion | rated E | 20K words

Wei Wuxian locks his phone and puts it down, blinks at his ceiling, and picks it up again. The pictures are still there.

His first thought is that Lan Zhan meant them for someone else. That he just woke up at—he checks the timestamp—6:30 am on a Sunday and decided to go absolute full nuclear seduction option on some poor boy he met on Grindr, who would now be missing out on the best thing to ever happen to him because Wei Wuxian had a bad habit of distracting—of—oh.

Pieces of last night start to resurface and paste themselves together in his head. He winces.

The Golden Cutsleeve by syrus_jones | rated E | 77K words | of my faves, this is one of my favorite... faves. top faves. incredibly fun and silly and hot. just... oh my GOD, wei YING!

“I know! Why don’t you try it? Let me go and I’ll lend it to you!” Wei Wuxian bribed hysterically, desperate to escape from this encounter by any means necessary. And then, his eyes blew wide, realizing what he just said. ‘Wait— just what am I offering Lan Zhan?!’ he thought. How was he so stupid, how did he just offer that without thinking—

“You want me...to use it… after you?” Lan Zhan asked, his voice unusually faint.

~*~

Wei Wuxian's test of mysterious, literally magical sex toy goes awry when Lan Wangji finds him in the woods 'experimenting' with it and it ends up in Lan Wangji's possession.

Unfortunately, neither of them is aware that the toy is anchored to Wei Wuxian's body. Too bad Wei Wuxian invited him to try it.

Boy Trouble, We've Got Double by saltyfeathers | rated E | 60K words | !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! this is a really good fic

Lan Zhan stands there in his immaculate, cloud-patterned Lan robes, watching him calmly, one fist tucked up against his back. “I am betrothed.”

Wei Wuxian blinks. “Are you…” He tries to laugh. Again, it sounds inhuman. “Is this about last night? Are you mad at me? I only remember some of it, Lan Zhan. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I’m sure whatever I did I was just—” He gestures uselessly. He remembers being warm in Lan Zhan’s lap. He remembers fitting snugly in Lan Zhan’s lap. Wrapping his arms around Lan Zhan’s neck. Nosing at his jaw. “…playing around.”

“This has nothing to do with you, Wei Wuxian.”

none in the forest so bright as these by saltyfeathers | rated E | 6K words

Wei Wuxian puts a hand to his head, brain lost in fog. “Lan Zhan,” he pants. “Why are we here? Are we on a hunt?”

As Lan Zhan tries to remember, his brow furrows. He shakes his head slightly. “I don’t know.”

“This is bad,” Wei Wuxian says. When Lan Zhan cups his cheek again, sparks burst behind Wei Wuxian’s eyes. “Or maybe it’s not,” he says unthinkingly. Sighs, almost. Lan Zhan looks at his own arm like it's betrayed him. Wei Wuxian closes his eyes and presses his face into Lan Zhan’s palm. “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” he murmurs. “What’s happening to us?”

out in the garden, there’s things you hid away by saltyfeathers | rated E | 121K words | oww oww oww 😣😣😣💘

There is a man with empty eye sockets and tears of fire in Wei Wuxian’s dreams. Tendrils of smoke curl around him in sleep, pressing at his most vulnerable spots, seeking entrance, slipping between his ribs.

When he ignores Lan Zhan's offers of help, he declines rapidly. He will die. Or, he should. Anyone else would.

Instead, he flees. And transforms.

crawling through your door by saltyfeathers | rated E | 12K words

Lan Wangji kisses him. When he pulls away, he speaks into the silence between them, because when he is with Wei Ying, he so rarely considers. “Why don’t you touch me anymore?”

Lan Zhan Works for the Historical Society by saltyfeathers | rated E | 7K words | some real real good lesbian action up in here

Pretty Lan Zhan. Beautiful Lan Zhan. Ice queen Lan Zhan. So intimidating and femme and coldly polite in public, yet meaner than a man in the bedroom. Wei Ying has slept with men before and none of them were mean-nice to her like Lan Zhan.

threadfic by saltyfeathers | not rated (each chapter rated/tagged individually) | 34K+ words | WIP (11/? chapters, last updated 3/15/21), but it’s a collection of stand-alone oneshots

semi cleaned-up wangxian twitter threadfic.

【已經打動我的心】So Sing To Me All Night by aroceu | rated T | 10K words | arrow writes wei ying so exquisitely well. i was weepy the whole time read this fic. for the best experience, i recommend following along with the accompanying spotify playlist.

No one listens to the radio in this day and age, but somehow from a bunch of left clicking and right clicking, through Facebook and Twitter and Youtube, Wei Ying finds himself on the WQHS homepage—the UPenn student radio station, promising eclectic tastes from a variety of hosts. Wei Ying can't remember giving a shit about his old college's student radio before he dropped out, but it's eleven at night and he has nothing else better to do. He clicks on the button that says Listen Here! and waits to be impressed.

get wild by aroceu | rated E | 24K words | 🔥🏀🔥 BASKETBALL FIC 🔥🏀🔥

He was looking for a specific reaction—to get Lan Zhan to lash out. All hard edges and demanding, the same way during the first scrim, Lan Zhan's dark voice had made him loose and obedient, itching to both rebel and obey at the same time.

It's them, whatever it is, but it doesn't belong on the basketball court.

~

Wei Ying didn't expect to enter a weird... something-with-benefits-plus-power-play with the captain of the Gusu basketball team. He's not sure if it's worth it.

without a warning by aroceu | rated T | 10K words | 🥺️🥺️🥺️

“Blegh,” Wei Ying says. “I hate being sick, Lan Zhan… my throat is so sore… why do I talk so much?”

“Stop talking then,” Lan Zhan says.

“You don’t mean that,” Wei Ying says, in his half-asleep daze. “I know you’ll never admit it, Lan Zhan, but you like it when I talk.”

your honor i’m a freak bitch by aroceu | rated E | 6K words

Wei Ying gestures to his outfit. His hands are buried deep within the hoodie; he’s mostly gesturing with the sleeves. “Well, it works with the whole get up, you see?”

“The…” Lan Zhan looks down at where his fingers are toying with the top of Wei Ying’s thigh highs. Wei Ying pretends he is not shivering. “…skirt. And these stockings.”

“Thigh highs, Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying says, batting at him with the end of a sleeve.

Play It By Ear by aroceu | rated T | 7K words | MY HEART !!!

In the virtual airplane flying over the island, appropriately called Yiling, Lan Zhan watches as bits and pieces of the island load in. There are many Statues of David, a gothic teacup ride, and, from what Lan Zhan can see, an entire field of spoiled turnips.

hanguang-jun @/hanguangjun Do you need turnips to sell?

timmy and tommy in a trenchcoat @/yilinglaozu oh! no haha! 😅 those are from a while ago but my brother insists i keep them there

for the ~aesthetic~

the key that our souls were singing by aroceu | rated M | 5K words

“I haven’t seen you since—Gusu, was it?” Wei Ying says. “Oh my god, it’s been so long. I didn’t even know you were LGBT! Unless you’re here as an ally, which is also totally cool—”

“No, I.” Lan Zhan coughs. Her throat feels dry. “I am a lesbian.”

abort retry fail by aroceu | rated E | 21K words

Lan Wangji must miss his husband over this amnesiac of a man Wei Wuxian has turned into. Well, Wei Wuxian will show him! He'll be even better—or at least, try to be just as good of a husband as he would be, without his memory loss.

Blackout If You Were Mine by aroceu | rated E | 9K words

Wei Ying likes to wear chokers a lot. So Lan Zhan buys some for him. Then, testing their limits, collars.

Wei Ying wears those, too.

-

Or, the one where Wei Ying and Lan Zhan accidentally stumble into a BDSM relationship.

eleven thousand meters & airborne by aroceu | rated E | 5K words | 😎✈️😎

Lan Zhan and Wei Ying join the mile high club.

many fox given by defractum | rated E | 24K words | can't go wrong with foxxian and dragonji content 🦊🐉

Lan Zhan is glaring at him. That's probably fair.

The last time they'd seen each other, Wei Ying had been digging through Lan Zhan's garbage. They'd made eye contact over the shredded bags, the week's trash scattered around him like stinky, oversized Lego.

Lan Zhan's eyes had been wide with horror, and Wei Ying's had been equally wide with feigned innocence. He'd reached out slowly, maintaining the eye contact, and then flipped over the food waste bin full of onion peel and carrot skin as a distraction and slunk off into the night. Probably not his finest moment.

-

Modern AU dragon!LWJ meets fox!WWX.

the tamed by defractum | rated E | 12K words

If the Second Jade of Lan insists on bringing the Yiling Patriarch as his guest to the next Cultivation Conference, he must first demonstrate a control over the Yiling Patriarch and his unnatural abilities.

The letter lies on their desk for days.

-

Post-canon, Wei Ying is invited, sort of, to a Discussion Conference.

us in a king-size, keep it a secret (say i'm your queen, i don't wanna leave this) by matcha_ado | rated E | 3K words

People always said Wei Ying was a royal pain in the ass. They were absolutely right, of course, just not in the way they thought.

it is wednesday my dudes by jelenedra | rated M | 4K words

Wednesday nights at Cloud Recesses strip club are always a little weird, but usually they're not this horny. Whatever Wei Ying and Lan Zhan get up to, Mianmian is not going to be the one to clean it up.

i'm the one for your fire by occultings | rated E | 43K words | cherry magic au! love it

Wei Ying, virgin and noted heterosexual, gets hit with a curse of an unusual nature on his 30th birthday — through physical contact, he can read the minds of others around him.

Enter Lan Zhan, hot former rival and current coworker, whose true thoughts about Wei Ying are nothing like he expects. (A loose Cherry Magic AU)

a thousand teeth, yours among them by darkredloveknot | rated E | 11K words

A one night stand in the time of zombies.

hoe to housewife pipeline by lanzhancore | rated E | 5K words

“You type fast,” Wei Ying murmurs, making a futile attempt at conversation while he waits for him to be done with… whatever. “Not to be pushy, but do you plan on fucking my ass anytime soon?”

or: wei ying has been thirsting after lan zhan for three slutty slutty years

can you feel it by lanzhancore | rated E | an instant classic

“What’s wrong?” Wei Ying asks finally, eyebrows drawn together. “Is everything okay?”

Thumbs stroking circles into his skin as if to comfort him, Lan Zhan says, “Don’t panic.”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, sitting up on his elbows. “What did you do to my ass?”

“Nothing,” Lan Zhan says, convincing nobody. “But we need to go to the hospital.”

or: wei ying really should have sprung for the model with the flared base. he learns this lesson the hard way.

because you're mine (i walk the line) by lanzhancore | rated E | 8K words

Wei Ying is freshly cream-pied and still trying to remember where his legs are when Lan Zhan outlaws masturbation.

or: wei ying fucks around and finds out

payload by lanzhancore | rated M | 3K words | babysitter wwx + dilfji, what more could you need

Wei Ying has a whole five hours and thirty-six minutes to calm down but when he hears Lan Zhan’s key turning in the front door lock later that evening he has to cling to the couch cushions to keep from marching into the laundry room to retrieve the briefs so he can wave them in Lan Zhan’s face and demand to know who owns them.

or: lan zhan's self-restraint is not limitless

the to the brim series by verseau | rated E | 14K words total

Wei Ying wants to rob him, but it wouldn’t even be satisfying, since this guy is just—giving away money. With his nice fingers. Maybe Wei Ying will just bite his fingers, and that will give the same endorphin rush as robbing him. / a day told across five parts.

get that message home by verseau | rated G | 2K words | ohhhhhhhhh myyyyy godddddd 😭

Sizhui's father cannot haggle. It is a shame on Sizhui’s honor to have such an honest father.

Author's note [i'm including it here because it's golden]:

there is a scene in arrested development where lucille, who is on the opposite spectrum of humanity as lan zhan, asks, "it's a banana, michael. how much could one cost? ten dollars?" there are no bananas in this story.

dreaming and getting a glimmer by verseau | rated E | 27K words | a particular favorite of mine 🔥🍆💦🕳🔥

Wei Ying discovers himself.

trust your fingertips by plonk | not rated (but really rated E) | 15K word | 🥵️🥵️🥵️🥵️🥵️ plonk you’ve done it again!

Lan Wangji must suppress a shiver at every brush and press of Wei Wuxian’s fingers.

Under different circumstances - less public ones - he would welcome touch, given that his body is in such an aroused state.

Alas, his circumstances are these: sitting quietly while Wei Wuxian, the famous (infamous) Doctor of Yunmeng, digs his fingertips into Lan Wangji’s shoulders and chest and sides and hums thoughtfully.

Doctor, Doctor by YunmengLotus | rated E | 4K words | mmmmhmm!

Wei Ying needs to get a prostate exam. How ever will he deal when the world's hottest doctor walks through the exam room door and tells him to bend over?

TAKOYAKI by ariskamalt | rated E | 3K words | lan zhan gets jealous of his own damn appendages. meanwhile, wei ying is just having a good time.

Lan Zhan…cannot always feel or tell what his tentacles will do.

His free hand curls into a fist. Underneath his skin, the tentacles give a little squirm, as if aware of the challenge he has just issued them. No touching Wei Ying unless he says so, because he wants to touch Wei Ying first. They squirm again, as if to say, Tentacles: 1, Lan Zhan: 0.

That will just have to be remedied.

Or, as phnelt first described: Tentacle-ji with the semi autonomous tentacles getting jealous of his tenties for touching Wei Ying in places he hasn't yet

Outage by SugarMilkTea | rated E | 3K words | [cough] 😳😳😳

The power goes out in Lan Zhan and Wei Ying's rural home in the countryside. Lan Zhan takes advantage of the darkness to give in to one of his baser urges, and Wei Ying's first rural power outage experience is about to get a lot more interesting.

big hands (i know you’re the one) by martyrsdaughter | rated E | 8K words | NICE. 🔥🔥🔥

“Not a big talker, hm?” Wei Ying tilts his head to one side. “That’s okay, I’ve been told I’m a good enough conversationalist for three. My tongue is multi-talented and—”

He has just enough time to feel her palm on the back of his neck and think, oh, her hands are so big, before his words are being stolen into her mouth.

darling, am i a chore? by martyrsdaughter | rated E | 7K words

“Are you done playing around?”

Knowing that’s not what either of them actually wants, Wei Wuxian reaches up to tickle under Lan Wangji’s chin. Soft little scritches, coaxing motions—Lan Wangji is weak to all of them.

“You know what I want,” Wei Wuxian purrs, reaching up on his tiptoes to throw his arms over Lan Wangji’s shoulders. “Call me gege, won’t you? Call me and I’ll stop.”

(or: five times Lan Wangji paid special attention to Wei Wuxian’s interest in being his gege.)

put him on his knees, give him something to believe in by dustyloves | rated E | 2K words | if the title is quoting WAP, then you should know by now it’s gonna be some of that good filth

The next time Wei Ying kisses him, Lan Zhan is careful again. Wei Ying seems determined to make it very difficult.

the hard way by dustyloves | rated E | 9K words

"Anyway, you make it sound like something lewd is going on," Wei Ying complains. "It's all totally above board. She's just being a nice person. It's just one kind alpha grad student offering one room of her huge house to one beta undergrad in need, what could be more appropriate than that?"

// Wei Ying makes a mistake and finds out the hard way.

Exhibition by sevenless | rated E | 5K words

“Oh?” Wei Wuxian raises an eyebrow. “The forbidden section, Lan Zhan?”

“Mn.”

“You’re not afraid of being heard?” Wei Wuxian thinks aloud. A smirk creeps onto his face, eyes glinting. “Or could it be that Lan-er-gongzi actually wants to be heard? Seen? Caught?” He skips in front of him, blocking his way. "Disciplined?”

Lan Wangji’s ears, as always, betray him.

a history of the body by northofallmusic | rated E | 14K words

Wei Ying's body hurts sometimes; she lets Lan Zhan help her.

A fic about the complicated nature of having a body, and also the versatility of sex toys.

(our friendship) up against the ropes by daltoneering | rated E | 36K words

The reboot completes, and Wei Ying’s brain smashes this information together into two mind-shattering thoughts. Number one, he knew very well already, and is now further seared by defined muscles and a mouth-watering tattoo into his every waking moment: Lan Zhan is the hottest fucking person on the planet.

Number two: that guy wasn’t visiting Lan Zhan’s neighbour, he was visiting Lan Zhan, which means:

Lan Zhan fucks. Lan Zhan fucks. Lan Zhan fucks.

;

Lan Zhan has been Wei Ying's best friend for years. Literally, years. How did he not already know? How has he missed this most important of facts? And more importantly, how is he ever going to get over it?

watching my heart go round by typefortydeductions | rated E | 38K+ words | WIP (2/4 chapters, last updated 5/2/21) | lan zhan i love you baby 💞

Lan Zhan falls apart. As it turns out, that's not the end.

~

oh man this list is so long sd;jfkdsjfhhh

yati, i hope you find some stuff in this pile here that you’ll enjoy! it's not an exhaustive list, so check out the authors’ other works and bookmarks for more goods, if you feel so inclined 😙💕

[joonkorre]

@drarrymicrofic prompt: remake

not gonna say much on this. yall should find out what's going on yourselves :D. ao3

“What do you think, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco doesn’t need to think; he’s done enough of that in the past two months, since the day he opened his front door to see the strange woman’s sharp smile. But he thinks anyway, one last time before he answers.

He’d have to leave the wizarding world behind. Of course, it doesn’t have to be that drastic. However, if he doesn’t want his frequent disappearances to catch the Ministry’s attention, then it’s best to withdraw into the Muggle world altogether, as far from its control as possible. Mother has Aunt Andy, Teddy, and friends from her book club now, she’ll be fine with him visiting only a few days each year.

Other than that, there are no downsides. He has nothing to lose except maybe his life somewhere down the line, but everybody dies at some point, don’t they?

He lifts his gaze to the buzzing light on the ceiling, its shine cold and apathetic. To the mahogany bookcase, filled with tomes upon tomes full of ancient rites and rituals, of creatures considered ‘cryptid’ even to wizardkind. To the bookend that is shaped like a crow, which flaps its wings when its beak is tapped five times, unlocking the hidden safe behind the bookcase. The safe that stores all the actual research and data he’s collected, jealously and fearfully hoarded.

He doesn’t know everything, but he knows enough. He knows enough to be aware that the lore Pansy snorted at when he first mentioned them, the creatures Mother dismissed as another of her bored rich son’s new obsessions, are the same ones Unspeakable Granger narrowed her eyes at when she walked past his table in the canteen and caught a glimpse of his notes. He had a feeling then that he shouldn’t even make any indication that he was interested in these things, which was proven to be correct when Ministry personnel started loitering outside his office more after that day.

He doesn’t know everything, but he knows his findings are not safe in anyone’s hands but his. The Ministry still repeats its tendency to care more about itself than the common people. The Department of Mystery, practically its own entity due to how even the Minister is forbidden from accessing most of its files, has motivations he can’t comprehend, which means motivations he can’t predict. There is no way to know if his colleagues are truly interested in “that old wife’s tale, that Bigfoot, Cthulhu shite Malfoy’s into” or will report him to those who know how to deal with him, to Unspeakable Granger, to the Department of Mysteries. His findings are not safe in anyone’s hand but his.

But if he says ‘yes,’ they are.

Draco dips his quill in the ink bottle the woman—“Dr. Stewart,” she’s introduced, calm and sure—provided him and signs his name on the contract and its related documents. No hint of anything other than indifference is shown on her face, and he wonders how many others before him has she recruited.

Once his thumbprint has been collected, the last step of the process, he Vanishes the ink on his finger. Dr. Stewart raises a brow but says nothing more. She stands up, holding out a hand.

“Welcome, Dr. Malfoy. The SCP Foundation is glad to have you with us.”

Shaking her hand, Draco feels something slide into place at his new title. He smiles politely, heart thundering in his chest.

“Have you worked with wizards before, Dr. Stewart?” Draco asks as he starts packing the valuables at his work desk into his briefcase. Dr. Steward has come to the Ministry by Floo, and though she seemed a bit disconcerted after stepping out of the Ministry Public Floo #13, she didn’t hesitate to follow him to his office. Thus, seeing her reaction to a simple Vanishing spell has certainly been a bit strange.

Dr. Steward gathers the documents to secure in a folder.

“My colleagues have—some of them have Muggleborn and Halfblood relatives—but not me personally,” she answers. “My apologies, I still need to get used to seeing magic in… this way. Ironically, we have more luck with magic users from other dimensions than from our own, especially with what happened in recent history.”

The Second Wizarding War ended barely a decade ago. Its victims, both people and nature, still bleed. “I can see why you aren’t very keen on interacting with us up-close these days,” Draco nods, careful.

“Precisely,” Dr. Stewart says. “So, believe it when I say you’re the exception.”

Draco stiffens. “Thank you. I’m sorry, it’s still a bit hard to, ah, believe that.”

“You are the exception,” she says. “We need professionals in the occult, especially those who dabbled in the Dark Arts along with other types of magic. Not many wizards of your kind in Great Britain remember the Original Gods and Old Magic, but you have that link, whether it be through honest religious belief or just intensive research.”

She crosses her legs. “We’ve had our eyes on you for a while, Dr. Malfoy. We need someone who’s willing to look for the oddity in the mundane, and when our people heard rumours of the infamous Malfoy heir having a—highly accurate, by the way—fixation on conspiracy theories and cryptozoology, visiting various parts of the world in pursuit of those ‘tall tales,’ we knew we need your intellect.”

Draco doesn’t quite know what to say. He was sure everybody thought him unhinged; even Luna seemed off around him these days instead of enthusiastically rallying after his theories like she usually would, gradually gravitating toward Granger whenever they’re in the same room.

“Our goals are different; the SCP Foundation wants to keep humanity safe and alive, you want knowledge and just knowledge. But I hope you find yourself in your element while working with us, finally having access to all the information you’ve been working so hard to find out.”

She tilts her head just so, and Draco can tell she knows he likes what he’s hearing. His thirst consumes him, makes him risk, makes him sin. He has to go insane to stay sane. Despite the small price of most likely dying from working with dangerous anomalies at the Foundation no matter how pretty Dr. Stewart advertises it, every cell in his body sings at the chance to know what is lurking beyond the folds of reality.

He thinks of Mother, of Aunt Andy, of little Teddy, of Pansy, of Blaise. The vision of them killed, maimed, snapped from existence because he didn’t do anything to help makes his gut twist, his throat parched. He’d kill himself from the guilt, a well-casted Sectumsempra. He decides.

His goal is no different than the Foundation’s from now on, and he has no qualms about that. With this opportunity, he is free at last, free to do the work he knows is important, to help and change without outside interference.

He is reborn.

Draco’s back straightens, and he moves his wand this way and that, orchestrating a cacophony of tomes and devices to levitate from the heavy bookshelves to the duffle bag he brought along.

“Dr. Malfoy, did I not tell you where you’ll be stationed?”

Draco halts the objects’ action mid-air, staring at Dr. Stewart.

“I was under the impression that I am to be working at Site-91,” he says, “in Yorkshire?”

“As I thought, I forgot something,” Dr. Stewart sighs, the first sign of human imperfection leaking through. She searches through her briefcase, long nails clicking through the files. “Sit down, please, and there’s no need to pack up your belongings.”

Sending the objects back to their original places, Draco takes his seat, brows furrowed. He toys with his wand, a tick he hasn’t been able to be rid of ever since Potter’s returned his wand after years of what seemed to be perpetual emptiness without it.

“There we go,” Dr. Stewart says and flips open a thick, stapled stack of paper. “You are to stay here for the duration of your first assignment. Count yourself lucky, starting work right away.”

“Stay here? But—”

“There is an anomalous individual working here,” she says, hard lines etched on her face. “You will act like you’ve not changed your career and continue to ‘work’ in the Ministry. Because of your proximity, we expect you to gather as much information as possible about him. You can use any method, as long as you stay alive and well to report back to us and receive your salary. Not to worry, we will assist you as this individual is, like most of what we deal with, deadly when pushed.”

She slides the file toward him and settles back against her chair. Draco is admittedly no less surprised than before.

“Wake up and get ready by 6 AM this Saturday, for we’ll come to get you at your house and go to Site-91. There are other information and protocols you need to know, and you’ll also get the equipment suited for this assignment,” Dr. Stewart adds.

Draco has a few questions, but from the way she ends with a close-mouthed smile, he reckons any at all would be regarded as idiotic. Well, at least she told him something.

With a slight sigh, he opens the file. The peculiar layouts and code words fly past him—he’d have to ask for a manual of some kind, Muggle science-y terminology has never been his best suit. However.

“What,” he breathes, leaning close to the file, eyes wide, “what is he—what is—”

However, there are two words he can’t mistake, no matter how sleep-deprived he is or how blind. A name, in fact.

“What is Harry Potter doing in this file?”

“Isn't it obvious?” Dr. Stewart asks, lacing her fingers on her lap. “Think. His lifelong exposure with the Dark Arts and artifacts, how volatile and explosive his power is, and most importantly, how dangerous he is even to the brightest magic users. There’s a reason why we don’t meddle with your kind. You already have the means available to contain certain anomalies, but Potter is different, and we have to step in this time.”

Draco stares at her, then at the name in the file, at the picture attached, slack-jawed.

“The oddity in the mundane, Dr. Malfoy,” Dr. Stewart leans forward, a knowing look on her face. Draco's legs feel like wooden trunks, sunken into the ground. "Get used to it, and get focused. Because if left unchecked, Harry Potter might very well get powerful enough to become a reality bender."

[starkerforlife6969]

Summer lovin’ - Starker

break up make up fluff, some possessive/jealous tony, and some healthy relationships over here! 

It feels damn good to be back for Senior year.

Summer settles neatly onto the past of Tony’s shoulders, and he steps through the main entrance with a smile on his face.

Immediately, his crew flock to him. Abandoning their lockers- newly painted after summer- and eagerly inquiring after lunch plans and new timetables.

“I heard about Pete,” Steve says quietly, bumping Tony’s shoulder in solidarity. “That sucks man, I’m sorry.” 

“I’ve had all summer to get over it,” Tony sighs. He’d hoped it would be old news by the time school started. They’d had over two months for the gossip to die down. He should’ve known it was a long shot. “It was amicable. Mutual.” 

“Doesn’t have to be,” Natasha grins slyly, “we can say you dumped his sorry ass.”

He knows she’s teasing, but he trips her up just in case she’s not.

*

It only takes a week to settle back into old routines. 

He cruises by in classes like always, relying on his natural flair and intelligence to get him by, and football season starts up again. The freshmen learn their place quickly, check the rungs of the social ladder and know where to sit in the cafeteria. Tony’s at the top, of course, and it’s all pretty great. He likes seeing new faces of admiration to add to his narcissism bank. 

He’s walking down the hall on a Tuesday morning, when he looks up and by chance, catches a glimpse of Peter Parker setting books into his locker.

It’s the first time he’s seen him in a long time. Summer’s done him good. His freckles are all pronounced, hair longer and curlier than Tony remembers, in a cream sweater and tight green pants that should awful but just look good. 

“Tony,” Peter smiles, voice soft, and Tony had thought he was over it, but his heart jerks and flips like he was punched in the chest.

“Pete,” he manages, coming to a staggered stop by the boy’s locker. “How was your summer?”

Peter bounces on his heels the way he always does when he’s excited. “Math camp was awesome!” and he barrels into an enthusiastic regaling of the few weeks away. “I haven’t- haven’t seen you since we’ve been back.”

Tony nods. “Big year.”

Peter meets his eyes. “I’ve missed you. We could…hang out, if it’s not…I mean, it’s probably weird-“

“Not weird.” Tony murmurs, even though it is weird. “We could get milkshakes sometime when you’re free.” 

Steve and Natasha are sending him curious looks from across the hall. 

“That’d be great,” Peter beams, “I’ll text you?”

*

He’s over it, he says to himself, watching Peter suck down a strawberry milkshake with extra whipped cream. 

He’s over it, even as Peter manages to pry him open the way even his own mother can’t. 

He’s over it, even when Peter touches his wrist and says that he doesn’t have to play football if he doesn’t want to. And that MIT will definitely accept his college application. 

“I was thinking,” Peter’s cheeks blush, a lovelier shade than the milkshake, “I might apply to MIT too. That could be kinda fun, right? Imagine if we both got in?” 

Totally not over it, Tony thinks to himself, as he imagines four years of college with Peter B. Parker. 

*

“So, what’s the 411?” Nat asks in the cafeteria, squinting at her pudding cup.

“The what?”

“The lowdown, c’mon, Tony, you and Peter broke up right after the semester finished. No one saw you all summer. And now you’re friends? I want details.” Her eyes light up with possibilities, “was he cheating with that guy from Harrison college like you thought?”

He has to close his eyes, shame rushing through his system, “no, he wasn’t. We’re- we’re in a good place. It’s good.”

“Where were you all summer?”

“I was working on myself, that’s all. A little fine tuning, here and there. It wasn’t too hard. Can’t really improve on perfection.”

She throws her pudding cup at him.

*

Contrary to popular belief, Tony’s never actually started a fight before. Never thrown a punch. 

He has now though. There are bruises on his knuckles. 

“We have to break up,” he says to Peter, on the last day of school, tucked away under the bleachers near an empty field. Everyone’s pulling pranks inside as per tradition. 

Peter nibbles on his bottom lip, and his lashes are long and his eyes are huge. “We love each other,” he points out, but he doesn’t sound beseeching. He’s nodding, like he thinks they should too. 

That gives Tony the final push. He’s making the right decision. “I love you so much, Pete.”

“I love you too, Tony. But I think you’re right.”

“Is Harry okay?”

Peter looks away and Tony feels ashamed. “He’s fine. He’s not- he’s not angry with you or anything.”

“Tell him I’m sorry again, anyway,” he swallows hard, ducks his head. “And are you…are you okay?”

“I can’t believe you thought I’d-“

“I didn’t, really-“

“I would never do that to you, Tony.”

“I know, I know.” Tony takes a breath. “I know you wouldn’t. I’m sorry. I’m- I’m gonna change. But I think we should…”

“Be apart.”

“Yeah.”

Peter nods, and he smiles, tiptoeing up to kiss Tony right on the mouth. Sensual and full of longing. Tony groans against him. “Just something to remember you by this summer,” Peter sighs, winking, and Tony laughs.

He moves out of his parents house that summer and in with his aunt.

His dad is a bitch to get out of his head but every day it becomes easier and easier to ignore him. 

*

They tread carefully around each other. There’s a new friendship on top of an old foundation and they want to make sure everything’s solid before moving too far. 

“Separate timetables,” Peter confirms, sliding his back into his pristine notebook. “But we’re still on for Karaoke this Saturday? You can bring your friends.”

“Not a date,” Tony chuckles, “just friends hanging out.”

“Just friends.” Peter beams, “but…we should bring people. A lot of people.” Tony quirks an eyebrow and Peter sighs: bashful. “To resist temptation.” He explains. 

Tony laughs at that, loud and delighted.

*

“Maybe take another route to class.” Steve mutters, hands warning on Tony’s arm, trying to tug him back. “Let’s go around the west block-“

But now Tony has to see. He rounds the corner and- and-

There’s Peter, his hair ridiculously, adorably mussed from the wind outside and he’s in a flannel shirt with fucking dungarees, but more important than any of that- there’s a letterman jacket on his shoulders. 

The name B A R N E S - 12 embellished on the brilliant blue.

And that must be the name of the guy leaning against Peter’s locker, and looking down at him with interest. The guy’s built, with slicked back hair and dark combat boots and a weird sort of brooding intensity. 

“Who the fuck is that?” Tony asks, voice level, tone quiet.

“New guy.” Steve winces, “James, I think? Peter’s his assigned tour buddy.”

His knuckles ache with the memory of Harry, and he turns away.

*

Peter gets a new profile picture on facebook. It interrupts Tony’s flow of memes to see Peter balancing on a hay bale against the sunset looking like a country child. He smiles, before noticing-

It’s a video pic.

Tony plays it. 

“I’m king of the world!” Peter yells in delight, nearly losing his balance, arms flailing. 

“You’re a moron!” Someone behind the camera hollers fondly and Tony recognises the voice. The low, brooding timbre.

*

“So, you and James, huh?” He asks, going for nonchalant as he catches up to Peter as they walk to the parking lot after school.

Peter quirks an eyebrow in surprise. “Who?”

“James, new guy, very built, very tall.”

“Oh, Bucky,” Peter laughs, “I’m his assigned tour guide, I think he wants to try out for football so you could have another player on your team!”

Tony gets to his car and feels like everything’s slipping away. “How your MIT application going?” He asks desperately, and Peter hums.

“Sent it off yesterday, how about you?”

Relief courses through Tony’s system. “Sending it off tomorrow.” He promises and Peter gives him a ludicrously adorable thumbs up. 

*

The next morning, Peter is wrapped up in a leather jacket three sizes too big, and Bucky Barnes is  at his side.

Tony’s knuckles ache. He tries to pretend to be interested in the contents of his locker, but his ears are straining-

“Dinner, tonight?” Bucky says, voice low and inviting.

“I promised Ned we’d finish the Lego death star. You can join us if you like.”

“A movie on Friday.”

“Buck…”

“Think about it. Please.”

The bell rings. 

“Wait, take your jacket-“

“Keep it. I like seeing you in my clothes.”

Tony slams his locker shut. 

*

With blood pouring from his nose, Harry still manages to gargle out: “I’m straight, you dick!”

“Tony!” Peter cries in horror, rushing back to the booth. “What’s going on? Oh my god, Harry-“

Tony feels the world slipping out from under him. “I thought you were-“

“Oh fuck, it hurts! I think he broke my nose!”

“I don’t understand- someone call an ambulance! Tony, why are you even here?”

The words sound disgusting as he spits them out. “I followed you.”

Peter eyes are huge and astonished. “Why?”

“I thought…” He can’t say it. 

Peter gasps.

Tony doesn’t have to. 

*

Peter’s still in the band room after school, and Tony slips in silently, and just watches for a moment. Then he clears his throat. Peter jumps, before beaming at him. It’s a smile that makes you feel like the centre of the universe. 

“Why aren’t you going out with Barnes?”

Peter gapes, looking stunned, before scoffing. “Don’t be ridiculous, Tony, I couldn’t-“

“Why not?” He presses. “He’s handsome. He cares about you. You like each other.”

“Tony…”

“Pete.” Tony shakes his head. “Please, for the love of god, don’t think about me. Think about you. Do what makes you happy.”

Peter’s hazel eyes are swimming. “I don’t want to hurt you.” He admits after a long moment, and it stings Tony more than he’ll ever admit. 

“I have nothing to be hurt about. You’re my friend, Peter, and I only want you to be happy, okay? Do what makes you happy.”

Peter gives him a long look, before sniffling. “That’s really cool of you, Tony,” he whispers gratefully. 

Tony lets out a wet laugh, but has to admit that though it hurts- it feels a little good too. 

* 

“Alert, alert,” Nat whispers frantically, “incoming!”

Tony turns in his seat in the cafeteria, only to feel warm lips press against his own. 

Someone whoops.

“What makes me happy,” Peter whispers, once Tony’s returned to reality, “is you.”

Tony could fly. He gets up, cups Peter’s face in his, and grins. “Well then, I can only oblige. As a friend.”

“As a friend.” Peter giggles, and they kiss again. 

*

“Don’t be too upset about it,” Steve consoles Bucky in the corner of the cafeteria watching the couple kiss. “They’re kind of endgame.”

Bucky gives him an unimpressed look. “And who are you?”

“Steve Rogers. I play football.”

Bucky scoffs, but can’t stop himself from admiring the way Steve’s shirt clings to his chest. 

[tiesandtea]

SUEDE: Style & Substances

Alternative Press, May 1997 (no. 106). Mag cover. Written by Dave Thompson. Archived here.

Suede Give Us A Glimmer...

Bleeding through the debate about vocalist Brett Anderson's sexuality and rumored drug intake, the overall glamour with which society equates a fucked-up lifestyle drapes Suede like a second skin. Dave Thompson travels to London to discover why Suede are one of the few bands that matter in an age of stars who are "just like you."

Brett Anderson leans against an amplifier, hands in pocket, shoulders hunched. To his left, the rest of Suede are playing Fleetwood Mac's "Albatross"; to his right, a television crew is fiddling with camera angles. He wants a cigarette, but he never smokes this close to showtime. Instead, he swings a keychain and glowers into the monitors. It's rehearsal time in Studio Four, a theater-sized room as the BBC, and the only person who's enjoying himself is an increasingly rotund-looking Jools Holland. He's the host of this evening's show, and he's away in another room entirely. 

Later...With Jools Holland is a British TV institution. Less than three years old, it has nevertheless sewn up a comfortable niche somewhere between the chart-conscious grooviness of Top of the Pops and the more indulgent pastures of MTV Unplugged. It's a showcase for bands to run through a handful of new songs, play a favorite or two and give a taste of their live prowess without boring the unconverted senseless. Boring themselves senseless, of course, is another matter entirely, and as Suede are counted into the third rehearsal of their opening song "Trash," you can almost sense the desperation in Anderson's face. Then the action starts, and he's utterly transformed. Though he's barely moving and scarcely singing, he's conveying an intensity that explodes from his very presence, drawing the most disinterested eyes in his direction. Even the soundmen look up from their meters, and the camera crew compete for his undying attention. If Anderson weren't a rock star, he'd make a great lunatic. But because he is a rock star...well, he's probably a lunatic anyway. You would be, too, in his shoes. If the 1990s have given us anything, it's the demystification of the rock star. From the boy-next-door Weezers to the angst-ridden whiners, the message is the same: I'm no different from you; I'm no better than you; and, of course, I'm just as screwed up as you. Enter, or more properly, re-enter Suede, with their third album, Coming Up (Columbia). And all that hard work reducing idols to idiots counts for nothing. Because Suede couldn't be "just like you" even if they wanted to. Bleeding through the "is he?/isn't he?" debate about vocalist Brett Anderson's sexuality and the "does he?/doesn't he?" of his rumored drug intake, the overall glamour with which society equates a fucked-up lifestyle drapes Suede like a second skin. The scent of teen spirit clings to them, the doomed romanticism of consumptive youth which peaked on their last album, 1994's Dog Man Star, and peeks through the stunning Coming Up. Suede deal in emotional extremes, from the A Clockwork Orange apocalypse of their "We Are The Pigs" video in which armed hooligans howl through a burning industrial landscape while Suede gaze down from giant video screens, to the incandescent loneliness of the current "Saturday Night" video, in which a London subway station is transformed into a rave to which the band have not been invited. The band's junkie chic is as apparent in the stoned immaculate presentation of their latest wasted-youth album-cover artwork, as it is in the gorgeously gaunt frame which Anderson angles for the television cameras. Add a live show that oozes subversive glamour; couple that with the fearless decadence of Anderson's greatest lyrics, and whether it's all an act or not, Suede are a walking advertisement for the joyful sins of sleaze. Backstage in the bowels of the BBC, Anderson sighs. He's heard all this before. "Yeah, you can look at it like that, but that's other people's interpretation of it, and that's their problem. You can't look at yourself through other people's eyes, then worry about what you say through their ears; you've got to have some self-belief in what you are." Which is, right now, the biggest thing on 10 legs. Across Europe and the Far East, Coming Up charted at No.1 and has already outsold both its predecessors. Three singles have kept the pot boiling ever since, and the current Suede line-up (their fifth on record since their 1990 "Be My God" 7-inch single debut) is their strongest yet. Like Brian Eno's departure from Roxy Music, founding guitarist Bernard Butler's exit did not so much rid the band of one creative spark, as open the door for the flowering of another. Anderson's unequivocal grasping of the reins, only partly aided by the recruitment of guitarist Richard Oakes, may have diluted Suede's overall sound, but it has sharpened their vision to a razor's edge. The further addition of keyboardist Neil Codling fills the gaps that teen maestro Oakes couldn't plug; the Simon Gilbert/Mat Osman rhythm section is a thunderous roar that never lets up; and Coming Up is unmistakably the sound of the same great band that recorded Dog Man Star. The difference is, Anderson affirms, they've stopped pissing around. "After Dog Man Star, everyone thought we were going to do an operetta or something like that. But you get things out of your system. We wanted to refocus the band, the fact that we were virtually starting again; we wanted to readjust the basics." And did it work? "You can't completely divorce yourself from your past. I haven't got the memory of a goldfish; I was aware that I'd made two albums before it. But it felt fresh, and it felt as though we were making the record away from a lot of the crap you have to deal with, away from the spotlight, which was great. Plus...", and here he gestures to new arrivals Codling and Oakes, "... there's less of an obsession with self-importance, which was definitely a change in the band. The last two albums were quite precious and self-important, and that can be good and that can be bad." Ah, preciousness. Plough through five years of Suede press and the buzzwords leap out: "superficial", "fake", "David Bowie" - three hollow sides to the same soulless coin. But most of the people who call Suede "pretentious" are the same ones who fancy the Spice Girls. And the closest those cynics get to class is the corridor outside the school room. "It does bother us a bit," says Anderson. "People always want to polarize bands into camps, and what I always find objectionable, even with journalists who are pro-Suede, is, they always want to write about us as an alternative to this good, honest musicianship going on elsewhere, which kind of implies that there isn't any good, honest musicianship going on within Suede." Anderson resents that implication, just as he resents the accusations of vanity that are flung at him with equal frequency - the two go hand in hand, after all. "People ask, 'Are you vain?' Hang on, let me turn the question around. If you were going to appear on television in front of five million people, you'd probably look in a mirror to see what you look like. You'll brush your hair and put a bit of make-up on because you don't want to look like a pig. Does that mean you're vain? I don't think it does. "Ninety-nine percent of my career thought is dedicated to thinking about music; a very tiny percentage is spent on image. I may go shopping once a month; but while I don't think we're the honest blokes down the pub, we're not kooky weirdos either. We're just what we are." A decent image, though, is still worth a thousand songs (ask Marilyn Manson), and if it's not their Englishness that holds Suede back in the U.S., then it has to be their appearance. They look weird. Catch the "Beautiful Ones" video: Codling apes the same abstracted pose of diffidence and boredom that once made a star of Sparks' Ron Mael; and Osman and Oakes look like they're trying to extinguish a particularly persistent cigarette end. Their singer is fey. Imagine Bryan Ferry if a stick insect stole his trousers. Their music is arty. And they come on like they're somehow special, so special that America poses little interest or challenge to Suede. Other bands make no secret of their desire to crack the country, nor do they hide their disgust when they fail. Suede, though, never seemed bothered. Past U.S. tours (three so far) have been languid affairs, barely publicized flirtations which almost gratefully acknowledge that as far as most people are concerned, Suede might as well be a lesbian performing artist. Anderson dictates the band's Stateside manifesto: "I don't give a shit." "Don't get me wrong: please don't portray us as some sort of anti-American thing, because we're not. But as far as America is concerned, you can talk about airplay and videos, but all it really boils down to is the fact that America doesn't like Suede. And I'm not going to knock it, if they don't like it, they don't like it." And what don't they like? Kurt Cobain had a tummy ache, and a nation felt his pain. Trent Reznor's dog died, and a nation held his hand. Brett Anderson wrote songs about holes in your arm ("The Living Dead") and pantomime horses ("Pantomime Horse"); he equates love with flyaway litter ("Trash"), and he's never been in rehab. "I hate that rehab shit! That's one place where America get really suckered, with those rehab rock bands. Let me explain what going into rehab means. It means you're cool because you used to do drugs, but now you're a good lad, and you're really '90s, so you want to give them up. But it's a complete excuse, and anybody who says it or does it is a complete careerist. I don't think the public shoulg go out and buy records by people whose record companies have told them to say they're going into rehab. You want to talk about fakes and falseness in the music business; I think this rehab rock thing is such a lot of dog shit." So you don't just say no? "I can't sit here and honestly say that drugs are bad for you, because I don't believe that, and I don't think anybody with a brain believes that." He elaborates: "Smoking a bit of pot and taking a bit of LSD can open a few barriers in your mind, although I certainly don't think taking smack, taking coke or taking crack does anything. I know I've taken drugs before and looked back on it and said, 'That's fucking crap; you should have got your act together and stopped taking them.' They just numb you and turn you into a wrong-thinking fucking idiot. "But that's the whole problem with drugs, isn't it? You can't say 'drugs' because there's so many different factes to it. 'It's an aid to creativity.' Well, some of it is, and some of it isn't. You can't paint everything with one brush." As for the veneer of glamour which Suede's own observations convey, the danger that, to quote the new album's "The Chemistry Between Us," "we are young and easily led," Anderson remains equally adamant. "There's no point in trying to filter things like 'Don't talk about this, don't talk about that.' Lots of times when I'm talking about drugs, I'm talking in a pedestrian context. I'm not trying to make it into a big deal; I talk about it like I'd talk about anything else that's in this room." And though he agrees there is a moral question, he also believes it's impossible to do much about it. "The only way you can set yourself up as something moral is in the broader sense, by not treating music as this completely throwaway, meaningless thing, and not treating the sentiments expressed in the music as completely throwaway, meaningless things. "That's where I see my position morally, someone who can write a love song and actually bring a degree of warmth to someone else. You can't act as censor in your words; you just have to be positive about what you're doing and see that making records that people love, that people cling to, and that help people through sticky patches in their lives is, at the end of the day, a positive thing to do. There's very few things I think that are positive in the world, but music is one of them." And that is that. In an age when a star is only as big as his last three videos, and most stars are as interesting as a line at the post office, Suede are three albums into a career that means more to more people than any of the bickering of Suede's petty, wormwood competitors; and certainly far more than the bitter, twisted harping of their detractors. Stars shine, shit stinks, and the lowest common denominator is nothing to be proud of. No one really wants to watch Hootie feed his blowfish, but Brett Anderson spends "Saturday Night" moping around on a subway train, and it's the best thing on MTV this year. Who cares what else he gets up to? Turning as he heads for the soundstage, Anderson won't be drawn. "My drugs of choice are ginseng and chamomile tea, but don't worry. I'm going into rehab soon."

[mrlnsfrt]

A Storm is Coming

Robertson asks the significant question: “Does the world hate us? If not, why not? Has the world become more Christian or Christians more worldly?” - Nichol, F. D. (Ed.). (1980). The Seventh-day Adventist Bible Commentary (Vol. 5, p. 1044). Review and Herald Publishing Association.

This is an interesting question and one that I will discuss further in this post. This is my third post on John 15, the first one was The One Thing (John 15:1-8), my second post was Love and Joy (John 15:9-17), and on this post, I will be focusing on John 15:18-25.

Hate

“If the world hates you, you know that it hated Me before it hated you. - John 15:18 NKJV

So far in John 15, we have read Jesus’ words about us remaining in Him and bearing fruit, and how as we do that we experience joy, and how remaining and loving God and one another is also deeply connected with keeping God’s commandments. Now, in that context of love, joy, and obedience we discover we will experience hate.

Jesus loves us as the Father loves Him, we are to love Him and one another, yet this will cause the world to hate us. How? Why? Because it hated Jesus, even though that is exactly how He lived. Jesus loved and obeyed the Father perfectly, Jesus also loved those around Him with a greater and more perfect love than anyone ever did, and yet they killed Him. Jesus lived the perfect life, He is our perfect example, yet He was hated and killed!? This is difficult to accept, and challenging to understand. But let us keep reading to see what else Jesus has to say.

Aliens?

If you were of the world, the world would love its own. Yet because you are not of the world, but I chose you out of the world, therefore the world hates you. John 15:19NKJV

As followers of Jesus, we are not of this world. We live according to different values, we have different goals, we serve a different authority. All these differences cause us to stand apart from everyone else. Many of you may already know this but I was born in Brazil and moved to the US when I was about 12 years old. At this point in my life, I have lived in the US longer than I lived in Brazil, however, people I interact with can still tell that I am not originally from here. The way I talk and interact signals to others that I am a little different. I have an accent, my sentence structure is sometimes awkward, and even in social interactions I sometimes behave differently from those around me.

The interesting thing is that even when I visit my home country, I don’t quite fit in. I have become too “Americanized.” So I am too Brazilian to completely fit in where I currently live in the United States, and I am too American to fit in in Brazil where I was born. It does not matter where I go I am always a little different, different enough to people to wonder where I am from. This feeling is what comes to mind when I read Jesus’ statement that we are not of this world. There should be something about us that causes others to wonder where we are from.

What should be strange about us needs to be shaped by our love for God and those around us. It should be because of our faithfulness to God and sacrificial love for others. (for more on this see Love and Joy)

Persecuted

Remember the word that I said to you, ‘A servant is not greater than his master.’ If they persecuted Me, they will also persecute you. If they kept My word, they will keep yours also. - John 15:20 NKJV

Jesus is our perfect example, we are called to live as He lived and as a result, we should also expect to suffer persecution as He did. However, I have witnessed a misinterpretation of this text that leads some to believe that persecution is a sign of faithfulness to God. Meaning that if you’re not being persecuted it must mean that you’re not being faithful to God. I can see the appeal of this interpretation, but I also see a danger. Would such an interpretation cause me to go out of my way to make enemies because persecution would validate the faithfulness of my approach?

What about what Jesus said in the Conclusion of the Sermon on the Mount?

Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, For theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are you when they revile and persecute you, and say all kinds of evil against you falsely for My sake. Rejoice and be exceedingly glad, for great is your reward in heaven, for so they persecuted the prophets who were before you. - Matthew 5:11-12 NKJV

Jesus said we are blessed when we are persecuted for righteousness’ sake! Jesus says that you are blessed when the evil they say against you is false and it happens for His sake. This means that when you are not doing anything evil but are being falsely accused. When you are doing nothing wrong and being persecuted, there is a special blessing there. But there is no blessing when you are harassing people in the name of Jesus. When you make Jesus and the gospel your weapon of choice to attack those who disagree with you I feel like you’re not going to get the promised blessing.

Remember that John 15:20 is found in the context of John 15, of abiding in Jesus and bearing fruit. The persecution here is to be understood in that context. I understand this to mean people persecuting you for being honest, kind, loving, and faithful to God. This does not mean you go out looking for a fight or instigating persecution, but rather that you lovingly and firmly stand unmovable on the teachings of the word of God. You don’t go out of your way to look for trouble, but should trouble (persecution) find you, may it be because of your faithfulness to God, and may you stand firm for your beliefs.

Personal Story

Here’s a personal story that I believe illustrates this,

When I was in high school I worked at a fast-food restaurant. I had explained to them about my religious beliefs and how I would not work from sunset on Friday evening until sunset on Saturday evening since I kept the biblical seventh-day Sabbath. The manager never made an issue of it the whole time I worked there. A friend of mine also worked there. He also kept the biblical seventh-day Sabbath as I did, however, he was fired after a few months. He told everyone at church that he was fired because of religious persecution. I, however, never experienced this persecution he spoke of. I believe that his firing might have been connected to his work ethic. I noticed him coming in late, asking to leave early, calling in sick on Sundays when he went to the beach, etc. Interestingly among our Brazilian friends, he would say he was fired because the manager was racist against Brazilians, something that I also never experienced.

I say this just to say if we want others to respect our religious beliefs we should also make an effort to live up to those beliefs, to be an example among others. I have found that employers are willing to make accommodations for their best employees. When you are honest, dependable, dedicated, motivated, you are preaching the gospel to those at work, even if you don’t stand up to read your Bible out loud at work.

But the persecution can also come when you are behaving the best way possible. When you insist on being honest when everyone else wants you to be a little dishonest. Sometimes the boss wants you to turn a blind eye, or do something that goes against your biblical principles. When you stand up while those around you or above you want to be dishonest it can bring persecution. When you refuse to laugh at a joke that is racist or sexist, you may lose some friends. When you stand up for someone who is being picked on unfairly when you make your voice heard in the defense of those who cannot speak for themselves it may make you less popular or even cause you to be persecuted. I believe that this is what Jesus was talking about.

Whenever I feel persecuted, I stop and think about what could possibly be causing it. Am I doing something wrong or am I being persecuted for doing what is right?

I don’t know all the cases, I am not always sure of the answer, so I believe that prayer and Bible study are essential along with a sincere desire to do the will of God.

For Jesus’ Sake

But all these things they will do to you for My name’s sake, because they do not know Him who sent Me. - John 15:21 NKJV

Ultimately I must understand that those who do not know God will not see things the way I see them. They have a different worldview, different values, and to be honest that even limits the activities I can be involved in. But if I ever find myself persecuted, I want it to be because of Jesus, for His name’s sake, and not because of my personal failures.

Judgment

If I had not come and spoken to them, they would have no sin, but now they have no excuse for their sin. - John 15:22 NKJV

Every time you preach the gospel you bring judgment to someone. When they hear the good news and reject it, they bring judgment on themselves. The good news about salvation in Jesus is an opportunity for someone to gain not only eternal life in the future but also a more abundant life right now. However, it is also an opportunity for them to reject God and His salvation and harden their hearts. The gospel demands a decision, a choice, you don’t get to hear it and continue to live life as usual. The gospel not only reveals God’s love it also reveals sin and removes any excuse from the sinner. That’s why reading the Bible is so dangerous, it brings judgment upon the reader by causing her to make a decision for or against God.

Without Cause

He who hates Me hates My Father also. If I had not done among them the works which no one else did, they would have no sin; but now they have seen and also hated both Me and My Father. But this happened that the word might be fulfilled which is written in their law, ‘They hated Me without a cause.’ - John 15:23-25 NKJV

So here is the breakdown of this message. Jesus was hated without cause, and as His faithful followers, we can expect the same. I just really want to stress the importance of the hate and persecution to be without a legitimate cause. It should not be because you’re rude, lazy, dishonest, unreliable. In those cases, the hate would be justified. You must aim to live a life as Jesus lived. A life shaped by love for God and for others, and if people still hate and persecute you, well, they persecuted Jesus also.

How Do I Face Life’s Challenges?

“But when the Helper comes, whom I shall send to you from the Father, the Spirit of truth who proceeds from the Father, He will testify of Me. And you also will bear witness, because you have been with Me from the beginning. - John 15:26-27 NKJV

I face life’s challenges by God’s grace and with the power of the Holy Spirit. I just continue to live a life that bears witness to Jesus. I invite Jesus into my heart, I accept Him as Lord and Savior. I remain in Him and allow Him to cause me to bear fruit for Him even if I am being persecuted.

Regardless of what is happening around me, I am called to remain in Jesus. I can leave the final consequences in His hands. God provided Manna for the Israelites when they were in the wilderness (Exodus 16) and caused ravens to bring food for Elijah (1 Kings 17) and I know that He can take care of my needs, after all, God has been providing for me since the day I was born.

I am not saying that following God is easy, I am saying it is worth it. My part is also simple, remain in Jesus, and allow Him to do for me and in me what needs to be done to cause me to bear fruit.

[talltales]

            —EVIL, I'VE COME TO TELL YOU THAT SHE'S EVIL, MOST DEFINITELY              EVIL, ORNERY, SCANDALOUS AND EVIL, MOST DEFINITELY              THE TENSION, IT'S GETTING HOTTER. I'D LIKE TO HOLD HER HEAD UNDERWATER                                                            anonymous request!!

the slip of paper is worth its weight in gold.

“make sure to come out of there alive, alright?”

she turns it over in her hand, reading the scrawled address on one side for what feels like the thousandth time. on the other, a bolded warning is underlined twice—for extra emphasis, she supposes.

come alone.

“i will,” she affirms and jackson, torn between tired and a little drunk, cuffs her on the shoulder before tilting dangerously toward the edge of the couch. absently, she pats the thick cast covering the majority of his left leg before she rises to her feet, “worry about yourself. i don’t want to find you laying in a pool of your own vomit.”

unruffled, jackson shifts onto his back and throws his leg over the arm of the couch. any other time, she might’ve welcomed this sight: the perilously cocky man getting his just desserts for baiting the wrong idiot, left hobbling on a broken leg for his troubles. but any humor to be found in the situation comes more sour than sweet.

your timing is horrible, she almost says. but if she gives him a taste of guilt, jackson will drown himself in it.

“o ye,” his voice is low, exhausted in a way that she tries not to let herself feel. he rests his temple against a half-fluffed pillow and closes his eyes, “of little faith.”

her tongue flicks over her teeth before she huffs; a sound that might’ve passed for a laugh any other day. instead, it is a wispy and hollow thing that sinks into the walls.

though her back is turned when he breaks the soft, uncertain silence, she can hear his fear—caught in his throat, “we’ll find him, alright? just be careful.”

she nods, makes her way to the door and slips her boots on—pretends she doesn’t hear him say anything more.

i can’t lose you, too.

the paper disappears into her pocket as she closes the door behind her.

—

“so what brings a pretty lady like you to a place like this, hmm?” her latest tail—burly, heavily tattooed and smelling of gunpowder—whispers somewhere over her shoulder, bending at the waist until she feels his breath fan across her nape. too warm, too close, too loud even over the cacophony of curses and laughter. “surely you’re not here for a drink.”

he isn’t wrong. most people didn’t make a habit of walking into a bar notorious for housing the most dangerous gang in the country for a cocktail. the man laughs, as if enjoying his own private joke and the sound is punctuated with a distant wolf-whistle.

fresh meat in the lion’s den.

“i’m not, really.” she calls back to him, her voice soft but steady. the slip of paper is cradled between her fingertips, folded in half twice over in her unease. the crowd, to their credit, shifts to grant her movement through to the half-cracked door in the back of the building, “i’m here to meet someone.”

“and who would that be?”

“your boss, i’m guessing.” casting a significant look at the marking stamped to the inside of his wrist, she remains all-too-aware of the odd assortment of criminals and outcasts circling the perimeter. they’ve made a home of the bar. most laze about on leather armchairs, shouting at the tv. the more suspicious ones follow her with their eyes.

out of place doesn’t begin to describe the feeling. it is more and less than a physical sensation; than the belief that she is, in many ways, descending to the underworld to make a deal with hades himself.

“can’t say that’s a wise move, lass.” the pressure of his hand settles on her shoulder—sweaty palms and fat fingertips—and she bites back a soft curse. for the love of god.

and like a talisman, she presents the scrawled note to him, poised for him to inspect until his grip lightens and his hand falls away.

“well, you could’ve just said so.”

only an unnerving awareness of her surroundings keeps her from rolling her eyes, “now i have.”

“let’s go.”

before her, the crowd parts like the red sea.

—

youngjae goes missing on a wednesday.

her first thought it is that of course, he would choose the night right before her latest deadline to skip town. the anger gets caught beneath her collarbones any time she tries to talk, so jackson alternates between balancing on his crutches and giving the bored officer all of the necessary information.

it isn’t until the gambling holes in the neighboring towns come up empty that she starts to worry.

his rap sheet, they find, reads like a checklist for every petty crime a person can be arrested for. and that’s that. the police stop looking after a day—the sun is barely over the horizon when they turn in; squad cars making wide turns back onto the highway and disappearing out of sight.

from the passenger seat, jackson swears.

they comb the streets until dawn, though she isn’t sure what they’re looking for—

doesn’t want to think about what they might find.

by friday, she’s spending her evenings thumbing through old cases with retired journalists; old fogies she’d dreamed of working with, once upon a time. when they stop laughing at her—what advice columnist goes sniffing around for underground contacts—they provide mountains of paperwork and few promises.

saturday morning, she has a name and a number.

an address, when she bargains with the woman that picks up the phone.

a slip of paper worth its weight in gold.

—

the first thing she notices is him—a quiet figure clad in nothing but jeans and a t-shirt; young, with shoulder-length hair tied back into a loose ponytail. he’s as unassuming as the average college student, but the glint in his eyes holds nothing but vicious intelligence.

i can’t lose you, too.

“a guest?” he intonates, more statement than question. the way that the room settles around him speaks volumes; the tension held in the stillness says even more as the remaining men in the room either line the walls or make for the exit. it feels like a movie scene, but the dread settling low in her stomach serves as a brutal reminder of how real it is.

“sir. she was poking around out front, had an invitation.” says the gruff fellow, with none of the casual mockery she’d endured from the front door onward. it would’ve been funny if it wasn’t terrifying, “i can take her out.“

before she can argue, the stranger clears his throat—exhales—and focuses his attention on her as he addresses the man behind her, “i’ve told you not to call me sir. you’re not speaking to my uncle, you’re speaking to me. leave her here and go.”

“right, jaebeom.”

he stumbles over the name, hesitates from the first syllable to the last before he backs out of the room and closes the door behind him. her fingers curl ever-tighter around the paper, dig deeper into her pocket to ease her own nerves. because jaebeom, the man she’s looking to ask a favor of, takes perverse pleasure in making his men trip over their own feet.

the humored tilt of his lips is a cruel thing, emphasized only by the idle tapping of his fingers against the table top, “so to what do i owe this pleasure?”

when she opens her mouth, she finds all of her carefully-chosen words gone, “i—“

fuck.

“money? men?” jaebeom turns to wave away the stragglers; men who look all too eager to remove themselves from the room, “women? i don’t judge.” his head tilts then, hair falling in pieces to cover his eyes. he sweeps the stray strands aside and folds his hands together in front of his chin, steepled—“or do you have a problem you want to get rid of?”

the amused gleam in his eyes never quite fades, but he is patient.

she crumples the paper in her fist and bites back the urge to retreat under the intensity of his attention. no matter how harmless he appears to be—im jaebeom has a reputation for brutality that he simultaneously confirms and contradicts.

her tongue feels heavy; weighted by dread, “i heard that you were good at finding people.”

we’ll find him, alright?

“my friend is missing.”

there’s a long moment of silence; she watches as jaebeom leans back in his seat, regarding her with a raised brow and reignited interest. he clicks his tongue, tone wry when he finally speaks, “so call the police.”

“they won’t look. he has history.”

desperation creeps into her words before she can check herself—this, she thinks, is why jackson was supposed to be here. to handle the messy parts and keep her from spilling her fury like lava down a mountain side.

jaebeom is unaffected; unmoving as she swallows her fear and closes the distance between herself and the opposite edge of the table. her palms press into the wood, hard enough to obscure the way her hands shake, “if you can put a hit out on a man, surely you can find one.”

“i’m not search and rescue.”

it’s a true enough sentence, though the way that he says it leaves room for question. an opening. by now, it’s clear that a trap is being laid at her feet—that she can either leave empty-handed, or be ensnared by a vicious man with a penchant for psychological warfare. he isn’t smiling, but he is positively thrumming. pleased.

knowing she won’t get another chance, she takes it, “what do you want?”

somewhere in the back of her mind, she imagines the sound of a shackle snapping shut.

jaebeom merely hums, rising from his seat in a smooth motion. any retreat she can make is halted by the pressure of his thumb and forefinger cradling her jaw. she remains still as he leans in, inspecting her changing expressions with bemusement and something unnamed.

something darker.

“we’ll worry about that later. what’s your friend’s name?”

—

when they find youngjae the next wednesday, outrunning loan sharks on the west coast, she barely refrains from drowning him in the tub he’s washing his clothes in.

[beca-mitchell]

a twist, a tale, a rip through my sail (1/1)

Summary: Beca goes to visit Chloe in Atlanta.

Word Count: 2,266

Part of now i see daylight—an au series that was created alongside @asimplefavors​ and explores beca and chloe’s lives together as if they had been childhood friends.

Warnings for references to sex. And angst, unfortunately.

Read below or on AO3.

Age: 19 Atlanta, GA August

  * * * * *

 “Hey Bec, I think I must have just missed you...call me back when you can.”

*

 “Hi Beca, I just wanted to call to say that I missed you. And I love you. Hope we can talk soon.”

 *

 “You just got back on the plane, but I miss you already, Chloe.”

 *

 “Bec, I don’t think I can swing coming to L.A. this weekend...it’s a lot of money. Call me back?”

 *

 “I’m trying not to be jealous of dumb tabloid stuff, I really am, but...just call me back, Beca.”

 *

 “Chlo, I know you said you were busy with school, but please let me know if you can give this song a listen. I think you’ll really like it. Love you.”

 *

 “I had a dream about you. Felt like you were right there. I miss you so much.”

  * * * * *

 What do endings feel like?

Beca feels it in the air between them the moment she comes face to face with Chloe at the airport. All the usual happiness upon seeing her girlfriend is still there, but God, it’s all the other things she feels—the intense foreboding, the anxiety, the dread—that make her slow her steps as she nears Chloe who is leaning against a pole, evidently watching something on her phone.

She had felt it while she had been on the plane, but now, standing on the ground next to her girlfriend of three and a half years, she knows it is real.

“Hi,” Beca greets quietly, smiling nonetheless when she sees Chloe’s eyes lift and brighten upon catching sight of her.

Chloe immediately wraps her in a hug, nothing new. Beca squeezes back, sighing happily at the warmth Chloe brings to her immediately. She feels Chloe tighten her hold similarly.

Everything is so familiar.

Chloe pulls back. “Hi,” she greets back, finally. She cups Beca’s cheek, leaning in to kiss her gently. “I missed you.”

Beca smiles despite the sensation in her stomach. “I missed you too,” she mumbles, eagerly leaning up to ignite another kiss.

Everything is fine.

  * * * * *

 It had started with a few missed dates. Many missed dates. Angry voice mails.

Beca recalls each one now that she sits next to Chloe in the passenger seat of her car—a familiar car with many memories—and with each memory, anxiety gnaws at the back of her mind.

She resists the urge to reach across the console to place her hand on Chloe’s thigh even though she longs desperately for that closeness.

Chloe doesn’t look at her once the whole drive home.

  * * * * *

 It feels so routine—everything is routine, right down to Beca dropping her bag just inside the door to Chloe’s room, kicking the door closed with her heel, and immediately being pulled into Chloe’s arms for a deep, messy kiss. The kind of kiss that still makes Beca’s stomach twist in anticipation even after so many similar kisses.

Sex is routine now, especially with how little they see each other. Beca barely gets her shirt off before Chloe is pulling her jeans down, pulling her underwear down and licking through her folds like no tomorrow. It makes Beca gasp and moan and make every sound imaginable. That is a skill only Chloe possesses, the skill to be able to draw those sounds out of Beca like art.

Beca grasps Chloe’s hair forcefully, keeping her girlfriend’s face between her legs as she rides out her orgasm, grunting as she does so. Vaguely she realizes that Chloe’s clothes are still on, even as Chloe carries her to the bed and spreads her legs once more, her fingers doing the work this time.

“I missed you so much,” Chloe rasps into Beca’s ear. Beca’s hands grab at the fabric of Chloe’s shirt. “I missed you,” Chloe repeats, breath hot against Beca’s ear.

Eyes falling shut at the sensation of Chloe’s lips trailing along her ear and her fingers curling into her aching cunt, Beca tells herself that it means I love you. Beca tries to tell herself that all of this means I love you. I want to be with you. I love you.

I love you.

“I missed you too,” she mumbles, eyes slipping shut at the sensation of Chloe adding another finger.

She feels full.

Almost complete.

  * * * * *

 Chloe’s arm curls over her waist in the middle of the night. They sleep, pressed closely together. Like two peas in a pod, Chloe used to joke.

Beca breathes in deeply, holding Chloe’s arm against her in fear that she might let go. She wonders if Chloe has already let go, somehow. In the same ways Beca feels herself floundering.

But being in Chloe’s arms feels so right—feels like everything that Beca has ever been missing is right…there.

She presses Chloe’s arm tighter against herself, maneuvering it so she can clutch Chloe’s hand close to her chest.

Chloe mumbles in her sleep and presses closer, bare skin sticking to Beca’s. It is not uncomfortable. Rather, it is quite the opposite. It makes her feel whole, like a reminder that Chloe is there—that Chloe has always been there.

Emotion swells in Beca’s chest as her mind betrays her once more, playing back every last argument and fight they’ve had over the past little while.

To Beca, it had seemed like they recovered each time, but the scars would always remain.

Don’t let go, Beca thinks. Please.

To her credit, Chloe doesn’t. Not immediately, at least. She holds Beca close like she always has, lips pressed loosely against Beca’s shoulder, her neck. Breath hot against her neck. Even in sleep, Chloe had always managed to make Beca feel whole.

Don’t let go, she thinks again. Nearly begging.

Chloe does eventually. She lets go, early in the morning as Beca blinks awake, wondering if she got any sleep at all. She yawns, stretches, turning onto her back.

Beca immediately follows, rolling over to face Chloe to surprise her with a morning kiss.

Silently, Chloe responds, pulling Beca closer in the warmth of her dorm-sanctioned bed. Chloe’s lips part. Hot, wanting breath against Beca’s mouth.

She could say it, Beca thinks. Either of them could.

It just feels so much easier to pull Chloe on top of her. It just feels easier to have Chloe want her like this.

Simple.

  * * * * *

 It feels like a normal weekend. In fact, it should be a normal weekend. Beca is free from the confines of Los Angeles and happy to face relative anonymity in the sprawling spaces of Atlanta and Barden University. But the heavy weight of the turmoil clouding their relationship becomes near unbearable to Beca even as she nestles comfortably into Chloe’s side.

Chloe says nothing—it occurs to Beca that Chloe has said very little all weekend—and simply wraps her arm around Beca, like it is so natural.

Like it’s a habit.

“Are we okay?” Beca finally asks when her heart and mind can no longer take it. It is late on Saturday night and she is pressed closely to Chloe while they quietly watch a random Netflix show.

Watch is a loose term. Beca feels like she has been gazing despondently at the screen for the better part of the hour and based on the stiffness of Chloe’s arm around her, she figures Chloe is more or less the same.

She regrets asking immediately. She almost wishes she had kept her mouth shut just to pretend a few moments longer. She could just take it back, she could just let it all go. Just clamp her mouth shut and forget it all. But the regret is so heavy because now she knows. It is so different from mere belief or mere speculation. Knowledge, ever powerful, is her undoing.

She regrets it because Chloe hesitates. Chloe has never hesitated or been less than forthcoming in her responses to Beca. Beca cannot recall a time when Chloe’s blunt honesty hadn’t played a role in some part of their interactions with each other.

But now, Chloe hesitates and her body seems to stiffen even more. There is pain in that hesitation, enough pain for the both of them.

That hesitation is enough. It is enough to make the anvil finally sink in Beca’s stomach.

And finally, because Chloe has always been honest with her no matter the circumstance, she opens her mouth and breathes out the simple syllables of Beca’s name. Like it might be the last time ever.

This is the end. This is what it feels like.

  * * * * *

 The end goes something like this:

“Stop,” Beca says immediately, regretting everything from the beginning to the end. “Wait, I didn’t—”

“Beca,” Chloe repeats, sounding even more pained than before. “This isn’t working, you know it isn’t.”

“It is,” Beca insists. She refuses to cry. “I’m just tired, I just—I didn’t mean it—”

“Beca, stop,” Chloe murmurs.

“You stop,” Beca mumbles back, losing some of the fight in her when Chloe reaches for her hands. She marvels at how soft and warm Chloe’s hands are, wondering when the last time was that she had felt—really, truly felt—the warmth of Chloe’s hands wrapped around her own. “Stop,” she repeats quietly.

“I’m not doing anything,” Chloe promises.

“You’re breaking up with me,” Beca says, finally putting the words out there in the open. “You’ve been breaking up with me for a while.”

At that, Chloe flinches and draws back. Beca forces her body to remain still. “I haven’t been doing that. That’s not fair. We both know this hasn’t been working for a while, but we both tried, Beca. I know we did.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are we...doing this?” The 'we' slips out. Beca doesn't even correct herself because she recognizes the lack of fight in her own emotions. 

“It hurts so much being apart from you,” Chloe whispers. “And even having you here, it’s not like you’re here at all." Chloe is quiet for a moment. "...and I think we just need some space to—”

Beca squeezes her eyes shut and barely refrains from putting her hands over her ears to block out the sounds Chloe is making. It sounds like a distant roaring in her ears, but she knows better: it is the sound of her world crumbling down around her.

To her credit, Chloe doesn’t finish her sentence. Beca doesn't know what to do. Chloe is crying, but so gently and softly that Beca's arms feel too leaden to be worthy of reaching up to brush her tears away. The truth of the situation is that Chloe likely has no idea what to say either; she likely is hurting as much as Beca is, but she has always been the strong one.

It feels like a disservice to Chloe if Beca didn’t begrudgingly admit that Chloe is probably right for initiating this conversation now. It doesn’t hurt any less—it doesn’t make Beca feel any less of a failure despite Chloe’s reassurance that it was both of them who needed space.

It hurts the most that Chloe is right.

Chloe is still speaking, a quiet, gentle tone for Beca’s benefit. Beca simply nods, too numb to do much else. Chloe speaks of Beca's immeasurable talent, her growing fame, all the ways Beca needs to grow without Chloe. 

A part of Beca wants to laugh at that because she has spent her entire life growing with Chloe. It seems kind of a waste to just...not do that anymore.

The other part thinks maybe there is some truth in the things Chloe is saying (and maybe in the things Chloe isn't explicitly saying). That's the part that had seen this coming. Beca should have listened.

Somewhere along the line, she reaches out to hold Chloe’s hand for what she’s sure will be her last time.

Somewhere along the line, Chloe tells her she loves her. That she’s in love with her.

Beca finds it in her to speak, forcing away the memories of her own parents’ divorce. Of the pain and loneliness. “I love you too,” she murmurs.

It is still the easiest and most honest thing to say.

  * * * * *

 Ultimately, it wasn’t the end that crept up on Beca. Not entirely.

It is the loneliness that sneaks up on her. It had crept up on her, unbidden, then latched itself somewhere in the back of her mind without her knowledge. Somewhere between Chloe saying “I think we should break up” and the airport and the car ride home, loneliness had crept into every available space in her body.

She doesn’t realize it until she reaches home and drops her bag heavily by the door in an almost exact mirror of how she had dropped her bag in Chloe’s room a mere three days ago. Or had it been two?

Beca supposes that it doesn’t matter.

Her apartment air feels stale. She takes in a deep breath, wondering if it had always been like that or if she had only thought nothing of it because she had lived in a world where she had a Chloe Beale to eventually return to.

Now, there’s just this.

With a shaking hand, she reaches for her phone and presses her mother’s contact on impulse. It feels like something she ought to do—something that a child should do when she’s been devastated by incomparable heartbreak.

Her mother will know what to do, her mother can help, her mother can—

“Hi, you’ve reached Diane. Unfortunately I can’t—”

She isn’t sure what she expected, but she isn’t even surprised.

Beca finally lets herself cry.

fin.

*see more of this universe—now i see daylight.*

[calpalirwin]

High

Summary: Anon request- I wish you would write a fic where: the reader and cal would be good together but they for some reason (anxiety, money insecurity, commitment to the lifestyle, one's good for the other but the other isn't good for the one, etc.) can't date each other. So when Cal asks her out it's a really teary eyed no and then High gets written.

A/N: Gave it a slight tweak, but the premise is still more or less the same.

Content: Greaser!Cal and Soc!OC

Word Count: 2.1k

And away and away we go!

__

“For our poetry unit, you will be paired up and tasked with making your own poetry,” Mrs. Donovan told the class.

Elizabeth’s eyes flickered over to Sarah and they shared a smile. In the back, Calum and Michael were sharing a similar look.

“Now, before you get too excited, I will be picking your partners,” Mrs. Donovan continued as the class groaned in disappointment. She began to rattle off the names, alphabetically, and Elizabeth let out a sigh of relief. Her and Sarah’s names were close together on the call sheet. Surely they wo- “Harper and Hood.” Elizabeth’s heart sank. She had forgotten about Calum’s last name being smack dab in between her’s and Sarah’s. Elizabeth turned in her seat to look back at the boy, who was already rolling his brown eyes. Keep going, Elizabeth thought, maybe you’ll find a brain back there. She looked disdainfully over at her friend who was already whispering excitedly with her own partner. At least one of them would get out of this project with their dignity…

~~~

When the bell rang, signalling the end of the day, Elizabeth expected Calum to bolt for the door like he always did, making it near impossible for her to make contact with him to discuss their project. Which is why she was staying behind to ask if there was any way for her to do the project on her own. So when Calum approached the teacher’s desk before she could, she stilled by her desk, before willing her feet to move her to stand beside her apparent partner. “Mrs. Donovan,” Calum’s voice was a low hiss as he started to protest.

Mrs. Donovan looked at the pair over the rim of her glasses: the boy’s anger apparent in the way his entire body was rigid, like a coil ready to spring, the girl trying to match his coldness with her own lifeless stare. “Did you have a question regarding the project?”

“With all due respect, Mrs. Donovan, but I would like to do the project myself,” Elizabeth spoke up.

“Mr. Hood, do you share Miss Harper’s sentiments?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Well, much like the world of writing, the world of poetry is meant to challenge. It’s very design is to push the boundaries of what we think and what we feel. So, consider yourselves challenged.”

Elizabeth bit her tongue. “Yes ma’am.”

“How poetic…” Calum muttered sarcastically under his breath.

“Did you say something, Mr. Hood?” Mrs. Donovan asked, daring him to repeat himself.

“No, ma’am,” Calum was quick to reply, flashing a grin. “Can’t wait for you to see what we come up with. Miss Harper?” Elizabeth’s name was laced with sardonic respect as he held the door to the classroom for her.

Elizabeth busied herself with ripping a piece of paper out of her notebook while Calum debated ramming his fist into the row of lockers. He settled for giving it one good, angry kick. “How mature,” Elizabeth noted with an eye roll before stuffing the scrap of paper in his hand.

“What’s this?” he asked, smoothing out the creases to look at the address written in a calligraphic loop.

“My address, you dimwit. We can work on the weekends. Share that with anyone and I’ll…” she paused to think of a worthy enough threat that would make him think twice before he dared double-cross her. Instead she found herself trying not to drown in his hypnotizing gaze. Her tongue poked out to wet at her lips.

“You’ll what, princess? Call Daddy? Gimme a break…”

His tone snapped her out of her admiration. “I don’t like this anymore than you do, Hood. So just shut up, and do what I say.” She tapped on her address. “3 o’ clock. Saturday. Bring ideas. Don’t you dare be late.”

“You think I’m stupid enough to come to your side of town? Nuh-uh. Fat chance of that happening, sweetheart. I ain’t got a death wish.”

“And what’s your proposal on where we work? Your side of town?”

“Matter of fact, yes.”

“Pfft! Are you insane, or just stupid?”

“Look, it makes the most sense. Any mutual part of town, and we’ll both catch heat. I end up in your part of town, and I’m a dead man walking. I can handle myself in a fight, but I don’t much fancy the idea of getting jumped by the gang of pretty boys every day for the next month. Because, contrary to popular belief, it’s you Socs who instigate shit. Us greasers just fight to protect our own. So nobody on my side of town is gonna so much as breathe on ya. Ergo, the safest place for us both is my place.”

She hated that his logic made sense. The greaser girls would sneer at her in the streets of town and in the hallways at school for being spotted with Calum, but it would be no more than the way they had always sneered at her. Calum, on the other hand, had a target on his back every time he crossed the imaginary line running through town, a target only more apparent if he was spotted with her, school assignment be damned. And as much as she wanted to do this project on her own, she didn’t want the reason to be because her partner was constantly busted up. Because even though she had seen Calum fight, and the type of damage he could deal out, she knew the Socs wouldn’t fight fair. And as much disdain as she held for the boy, she didn’t wish him harm. “Fine. Write your address on the back of mine then.”

Instead of pulling out a pen, he turned and started walking down the hall. “You comin’?” he called over his shoulder.

She muttered a few unladylike words under her breath before stalking after him. The sooner she got this project done, the better.

~~~

Elizabeth wasn’t sure what she expected as she stepped over the imaginary boundary line that ran through town, maybe for the air to change and a gang of greasers to come creeping out of the nonexistent shadows. “Expecting the boogeyman to come out and get ya?” Calum scoffed, noting the way she drew her light jacket tighter around herself. “Relax. Remember what I said earlier? No one’s gonna so much as breathe on ya.”

She rolled her eyes, but let her sweater fall open. “Because I’m a girl?”

He blinked, uncertain what her being a girl had to do with any of this greaser/soc war. “No. Because I’m not gonna let anybody lay a hand on you.”

“And why would you do a stupid thing like that?”

“Because all this,” he gestured around them, “is in your head.” His fingers tapped against his temple in an all-knowing manner, like he was above the arbitrary societal norms that plagued their lives.

“If it’s all in my head, then why are you going through such lengths to protect us both? Why not do this at my home, or in the library?”

“I may not buy into this crap, but I ain’t got a death wish neither. I’ll stick to my side until I can blow this deadbeat town that looks at me sideways because my address says South before it ‘stead o’ North.”

“Then say that then. Admit you’re just doing this to look after yourself. Don’t hide behind the fake nobility that you’re doing this for me, because that doesn’t make you the hero.”

“Who said I wanted to be your hero anyway?”

“Who said I wanted to be protected?” she shot back.

He chuckled, a throaty rumble of approval of the chip on her shoulder.

~~~

For the next few weeks, when Elizabeth left her English class, she found Calum waiting for her. Together, they would make their trek across the school yard to his side of town, which she was quick to realize was no different than hers. 

His home may have been a modest one, but it wasn’t run down by any means. And there was always a snack waiting on the kitchen counter, before his mother, a sweet lady who’s disposition matched her name perfectly, whisked into view with the promise of dinner in the fridge that Calum just needed to heat up before she was dashing out the door to her night shift as a nurse.

For the most part, they passed the time they worked together in silence, the only sounds being the scratch of a pen on paper, or the rustling of a notebook as they shared their ideas with the other. 

On more than one occasion, Elizabeth would glance over at Calum, watching the way his eyebrows pulled together and his tongue poked out of his mouth as he scribbled in concentration. The pen would tap irritatingly at the rings on his notebook before the piece of paper got ripped and he crumpled it up in his fist, sighing in aggravation.

One such piece flew into her face, startling her. “You’re staring,” Calum chuckled.

“Was not,” she muttered, ducking her head down as her cheeks flushed. 

He chuckled louder, crossing his hands behind his head. “S’okay. I know I’m hot.”

“Yeah, your temper maybe…”

“Right, cuz what could a girl like you ever see in a boy like me, huh? Your mama would faint, and dear ole daddy would have me arrested for corrupting his lil girl, right?” The words left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“I thought you didn’t buy into this… crap, was it?”

“I don’t.”

“Could’ve fooled me…”

“Hey!” he snapped darkly, his hands slamming down on the table. “Let’s get one thing straight, me being smart enough to play by this town’s rules doesn’t mean for one second that I don’t see them for what they are: a load of shit. So go ahead, and think of me as a coward. Or that I’m just some lowlife who’s no good for you. Cuz I don’t give a damn what you, or what anyone else thinks of me, alright?! Cuz God knows when the tables are turned I don’t waste a single thought on any of you!”

A few weeks ago the angry storm in his eyes, the flare of his nostrils, and the way the muscles in his arms flexed dangerously would have her scared and shaking. But it was hard to be intimidated by the boy who smiled warmly at his mother before kissing the woman’s cheek hello, like it was his favorite part of his day. She knew she should be afraid of him, of everything he represented. She was supposed to. That’s what her world had taught her to think. But sitting in his kitchen, he was just another boy. A boy with the rotten luck of living on the wrong side of town, but a boy all the same. “I’m not afraid of you, Calum.”

“You should be.”

“Playing by their rules only reinforces to them that they won.”

“Then let me take you out to the movies.”

“What?!”

“Yeah… that’s what I thought.”

~~~

“Alright, Miss Harper, Mr. Hood, which one of you will be presenting your poem?”

“Elizabeth is,” Calum answered, thrusting a paper towards the girl. Calum had decided that for her on a scoffed reasoning of “Yeah, so I can look like a girl? No thanks, sweetheart. You do it.” The problem was, the poem in Elizabeth’s shaking hands wasn’t one she remembered them writing. 

“Today I called to tell you that I’m changing, but I don’t think you have enough respect to see me try,” she started to speak the foreign words aloud. “I need to stop letting me down.” The more she read, the more she was certain that this was an open-letter from Calum to herself. When she forced herself to say “I know I’ll never meet your expectations, but the picture you paint of me looks better in your mind,” she could almost hate him for making her present something so personal. “I hope you think of me highly, when you’re with someone else.”

~~~

“Calum!” she yelled out after him as he swiftly crossed the schoolyard, his poem clutched in her fist as she waved it in his direction. 

“Hmm?” he asked, thumbs going under his backpack straps as he turned to face her.

“What the hell is this?!” she demanded, pushing the paper into his chest. 

“Our assignment,” he told her. 

“Don’t play dumb with me, Hood. This wasn’t any of the ideas we worked on.”

“I know.”

“Well?!”

“Poetry is meant to challenge, remember?” His breath was hot on her skin as he leaned down to whisper the words in her ear. 

“Oh, what a load of crap! So you challenged yourself to write about how the world’s never gonna give you a fair shot? Please, you could do that in your sleep!”

“I wasn’t challenging myself, sweetheart.”

“Oh, I get it now. You’re insane and stupid!”

“3 o’ clock. Saturday. Movies. Don’t you dare be late.”

__

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[alarawriting]

52 Project #4: Rand Mart

All I wanted to do was buy a gallon of milk, a loaf of bread, and ham. But I’d been to four cash registers already, and no one had been willing to ring me up yet.

The first cashier – a girl with dyed black hair, a tattoo of a dove on her cheek, and nose and tongue piercings – informed me that she’d ring up my bread, but she was morally opposed to the consumption of animal products, so the conscience clause permitted her to refuse to ring up my milk and ham. The dark-skinned woman with a red dot on her forehead, at the next cash register, would ring up my ham and bread, but told me that the American milk industry was unconscionably cruel to cows, who were beloved in the eyes of Brahma. The woman with the light blue scarf around her mouth, nose and hair, at the third register, was willing to ring up the bread and milk, but thought that pigs were unclean and their meat banned by the Prophet. And the fourth cashier, a bearded man with a yarmulke, wouldn’t ring up any of my goods, because it was Saturday.

There was a self-service lane, of course, but it wrapped around the entire cash register area with about forty people queued up in it because no one wanted to go to a cashier-operated register. I’d thought that the fact that so few people were lined up at the registers meant that I’d get through the line quickly. I should have known better.

There were two other cash registers open. On one, a painfully thin woman was haranguing a slightly overweight woman over her choice of sodas. “High fructose corn syrup is pure poison!” she was shouting. “It’s murder! If I let you buy those Sprites I might as well be putting a gun to your head!” At the last cashier-operated register, the clean-cut young man behind the counter was ringing everyone up for all their products… as long as they accepted Christ as their personal lord and savior.

Screw this. I abandoned my groceries in one of the many, many baskets set outside the cash registers for exactly that purpose. The baskets were overflowing. I wondered how the supermarkets made any money anymore.

And then I did what I’d sworn I’d never do again. I got in my car, and I drove to Rand Mart.

***

Rand Mart was infamous for being a terrible employer. It abused its employees, forcing them to work unpaid overtime, failing to give them health care coverage, busted any attempt to unionize, and fired them for absenteeism if they were ever sick at all. I wouldn’t have been caught dead there under any other circumstances. But I wasn’t willing to lie my way into the Christian-only grocery stores, and the service at the secular grocery store was getting steadily worse.

Ever since the Conscience Clause Laws, created originally to allow pharmacists to get out of filling prescriptions for drugs whose purposes their religions disapproved of, were expanded by Supreme Court decision to allow any person to refuse any duty in the course of their work, provided that they had a “heartfelt moral objection” to performing it… more and more people were discovering the joys of sticking it to their employers (and customers) by developing heartfelt moral objections to any number of things. Their employers weren’t allowed to fire them for it, either.

Originally it had been based on religion, until the vegans sued, claiming that just because their belief that meat was murder was not based on the teachings of a god, it was no less heartfelt or moral. The Supremes bought that, deciding that when the Founding Fathers said that Congress should establish no religion, which had been extended to Congress not infringing on any religion, that any heartfelt moral belief counted as a religion for the purposes of not being infringed on, because it wasn’t the business of the law to decide what was and was not a religion.

Corporations weren’t allowed to practice religious discrimination in hiring unless their own heartfelt moral beliefs would be compromised. So the Christian-only stores could get away with hiring only Christians – which had made them very, very popular lately, even though they’d only let Christians shop there, because most Americans are Christian at least in name and most Christians didn’t have a religious objection to selling anyone anything, as long as it couldn’t be used to allow women to enjoy sex without guilt. But a secular store couldn’t demand that its employees actually do their jobs, because no one had a heartfelt moral belief that employees should do work, apparently.

Except for Rand Mart.

Rand Mart had successfully won the right to discriminate against any employee of any religion who wouldn’t do their job on the grounds that their heartfelt moral belief was Objectivism. They believed (heartfeltedly and morally, it seemed) that the government should not interfere in contractual matters between employee and employer, or consumer and vendor, and that therefore they had the right to sign their employees to contracts that stated that they accepted the inability to raise a religious objection to anything as a condition of employment, and make it stick. They used the Hobby Lobby case as precedent along with the Conscience Clause decision to prove that a corporation had the rights to adhere to the heartfelt moral beliefs of its owners even if doing so trampled on the rights of its employees.

As a result, you could get absolutely anything at Rand Mart that they felt they’d make money on selling to you, and no one could raise any sort of objection. Guns? Sure! The Second Amendment and the Conscience Clause meant that they didn’t have to do background checks, because that was government interference with their relationship with their customer, and they believed they shouldn’t have to abide by that rule. Abortifacients? You betcha! They weren’t the only ones – sex shops frequently invoked their heartfelt belief in the right of all humans to sexual pleasure and control over their own bodies to sell things like birth control, Plan B, and actual abortion drugs, without prescriptions, and no one could really stop them because they had the names of everyone who’d ever used a credit card to buy sex merchandise, which included most of the fine, upstanding citizens who tended to protest abortion clinics. But Rand Mart was the one you would go to if you didn’t want to walk through displays of lingerie and dildos to get the pill. Marijuana? Rand Mart didn’t believe in anti-drug laws, and while they were sane enough not to provoke the government on stuff like meth and heroin, they sold weed quite openly, and the Feds were more likely to bust a legal California grower of the medical grade stuff than Rand Mart.

Obviously, given their willingness to sell such culturally controversial stuff, you could get any of the basics at Rand-Mart as well, and none of their employees were allowed to refuse to sell to you. So I drove over there, because I really, really wanted my bread, ham and milk.

As usual, Rand Mart’s parking lot was a zoo. True confession time: this wasn’t the first time I’d been driven to have to go to the place. Every time I went here I swore I’d never do it again, and while my abhorrence of their treatment of employees was one reason, the behavior of the other customers was another. Pedestrians were everywhere, because why should they have to follow rules like the presence of crosswalk markings to make life convenient for drivers? They had the right to walk and they were going to walk, dammit. This, of course, made the drivers of the other cars frustrated, and when you considered how tiny the parking spots were and how quickly they got snapped up, you had frustrated, angry drivers rapidly turning into slavering, starving beasts who’d savage each other for a parking spot. Road rage deaths were not unheard of in Rand Mart parking lots, including incidents where folks used their brand new Rand Mart guns to put a hole in a fellow shopper for fender bender accidents caused by overeagerness to take a parking spot. I parked all the way out at the end of the lot and walked, careful to avoid the cars who were taking out their aggression against the thick clouds of pedestrians in front of the store by nearly running down the ones walking to or from their cars.

The way Rand Mart is laid out, you have to walk through an entire aisle of really cheap impulse buys and sales items before you can even get into the store proper. Then the groceries are all the way on the other side. Shoppers inside Rand Mart are every bit as considerate as the ones outside, which is to say, I had to dodge a lot of folks who were walking straight at me as if I wasn’t even there, or as if they wanted to play Store Aisle Chicken. I was really, really glad I needed so few things and didn’t need to push a cart, because there were so many endcaps and stands of merchandise and random pallets of restock that I couldn’t see how a cart could get through half the aisles.

I plugged my metaphorical ears to the siren song of really cheap electronics, and really cheap DVDs, and really cheap winter jackets, and really cheap kitchen appliances. (I’m a bachelor. I don’t really cook. I do, however, make a lot of use of rice cookers, and toaster ovens, and single-serve coffee machines, and I own lots and lots of other kitchen appliances that promise to pretty much make my food for me, despite which I still never use the damned things.) In what seemed like a long and peril-fraught journey, but was actually probably about three or four minutes, I got to the grocery aisles and started looking for the stuff I’d come for.

And then I ran into Emily. Wearing a Rand Mart uniform, and stocking yogurt cups onto the shelves.

Emily used to be my manager. I work in IT, where the controversies are few; as long as we don’t hire any Amish dudes, we’re not likely to get saddled with deadweight. However, the hours are long, and Emily decided she wanted a new career that would let her spend more time with her young son, so last I’d heard, she’d opened a day care. Considering that this was Saturday, I supposed it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that this was her second job, but Rand Mart was infamous for giving their front line employees really egregiously varying schedules with totally inconsistent amounts and times for hours, so they weren’t generally compatible with having, or being, a second job. “Hey, Emily!” I said. “How’s life been treating you?”

“Oh, hey, Brad. You’re looking pretty stressed. They giving you a hard time at work?”

“Oh, no, no, I’m just stressed because I had to come to this place,” I said. “Six cashiers at the Allfood, and none of them willing to ring up a simple purchase of ham, milk and bread.”

“Don’t I know it,” Emily said. “The other day I was in Curtains and More with my son, just trying to get him some new bedsheets, and they practically threw me out of the store because I wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. I told them I don’t wear it because my circulation’s not great and my fingers swell up, but they didn’t believe me. I had to show them my wedding picture in my wallet before I could buy a damned thing, because they thought I was an unwed mother, and that’s sinful. Do you know every single employee in that place is a pregnant woman?”

“What, do they fire them if they’re not pregnant?”

“The owner’s into some odd Christian sect where you’re supposed to have as many babies for the Lord as possible. So I guess they’re not always pregnant, but they’re always either pregnant, on maternity leave, or they’ve got a little baby. It’s crazy.”

Her story reminded me that I needed to get cups for my coffee machine, and that as far as I knew coffee wasn’t against anyone’s religion. Maybe I’d drop by Curtains and More myself. I was a single guy without any kids, so I figured I wouldn’t run into the problems Emily had. “Are they one of those places where you have to be Christian to get in?”

“Oh, no, no. That’s what tripped me up; I was completely not expecting to run into an issue like that. They looked secular.”

“So why’re you working here at Rand Mart anyway? Still doing the daycare thing?”

She shook her head sadly. “No… I couldn’t keep it going. I hired a couple of extra workers, trying to expand – you know, the state’s very strict about how many children you can have per working adult. Well, it turned out that one of them had a strong Christian belief in ‘spare the rod, spoil the child.’ Apparently it’s a central tenet of her religion that you have to beat kids.”

“Oh my god. Really?”

“Yup. Obviously I couldn’t let her anywhere near the kids – she made it clear that if she saw them engaging in bad behavior, she had to follow her moral beliefs on how to ‘train them up’, rather than my instructions. Well, I could have lost my license for allowing any corporal punishment at all on my premises, so I couldn’t let her anywhere near the kids, but I couldn’t fire her, because Conscience Clause. So I had her running errands, but what I really had needed was someone to watch kids. Without being able to take on the extra kids that her watching them would have allowed me to take, I couldn’t afford her salary.”

I shook my head. “Unreal.”

“I managed to eventually fire her for taking too long to run her errands, but I had to document it for months so she couldn’t claim it was an illegal termination on religious grounds. By then it was too late – I was too far into the red to recover. I had to declare bankruptcy. I couldn’t get hired back into IT management because I guess making a sudden shift into running a day care made me look flaky? Or out of touch, anyway. So, you know, I’m still looking, but I’ve got to pay the bills, so…” She shrugged. “Here I am.”

“That sucks. I’ll check the internal postings, see if there are any openings at the company. I’m sure they’d love to have you back.”

“That’d be great,” she said. “But listen, I gotta finish this and clock my task completion time so they don’t dock me for excessive inefficiency.”

“Oh, yeah, I understand. I gotta find my groceries, myself. See you around!”

“Sure, see you,” she said, and went back to unpacking yogurts, this time pulling them out of the box in stacks of three and shoving them onto the shelf as fast as she could go.

Once I had my groceries and I was checking out, I ran into my old friend Ryan, who was working the cash register. “Ryan! You’re working at Rand Mart too?”

“Sad but true,” he said.

“Thought you were working at that hipster coffee place.”

“Went out of business last month,” Ryan said regretfully. “We hired this one guy who would not stop aggressively proselytizing to the customers, and people just felt really uncomfortable ordering coffee from someone who kept insisting that they embrace the Lord. The owner tried to keep him in the back, but you know, small coffee joint. There’s not much to do that isn’t in the front, customer facing… he’d do unloading and garbage runs but the rest of the time there was nothing for him to do but work out front.”

“Yeah, I just heard about my old manager’s day care folding because she hired the wrong person.”

“It’s bad, all right,” Ryan said. “The small businesses can’t take it, and even the bigger ones are starting to feel it. That’ll be $15.99.”

For a pound of deli ham, a loaf of bread, and a gallon of milk? I goggled at the receipt, glad I hadn’t tried to get the coffee single-serving cups here. Well, Rand Mart never pretended to have the lowest prices on groceries; they’ll just sell you anything you want without a hassle, and that’s enough of a draw that they can charge out the wazoo. That and all the cheap impulse buy stuff creating the illusion that the store’s prices were overall low. “You guys are definitely cleaning up on it though,” I said as I swiped my credit card.

Ryan snorted. “I’m out of here first chance I get. There’s a new burger joint down the road, Charley’s. I put in an application there and we’ll see where it goes.”

“Is that one of those places where you have to wear flair?”

“Naah, flair is corporate now. They do have all the kitschy plastic toys all over the ceiling though.”

“I’ll have to check them out.” Maybe today. A burger sounded good. I was getting kind of hungry.

As I walked out of Rand Mart, I swore to myself that this time, this time, I wasn’t coming back.

***

Charley’s was a low-key kind of place, dark wooden beams and light brown wallpaper showing great sports stars from the entire 20th and 21st centuries, despite which it was actually not a sports bar. It was rare to find a burger joint that was neither excessively corporate, nor did it have 25 television screens showing different subchannels of ESPN. Their menu said they were all about the social experience, implying to me that one lone dude like me was probably not their target customer. On the other hand I’ll do a lot to avoid the black attention sucking hole that is large television screens with no sound. I’m not into sports nearly enough to want to see Ukrainian men’s field hockey or whatever ridiculous crap they show on ESPN17, and especially not enough to want to see it with the sound off and no captions.

I was pleasantly surprised by how fast my server collected my drink order and came back with my Coke. She was a cute brunette with curly hair. “I’d like to get a Works Cheeseburger, hold the spinach,” I said.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t do that.”

I blinked at her. “Are you out? I don’t have to have all the toppings—“

“No, I mean, a cheeseburger isn’t kosher, so I can’t put that order in for you. Sorry.”

Oh, not this again. “Come on. You’re working on Saturday. You can put in a cheeseburger order.”

“No, I really can’t. I have to work on Saturday because I need the hours, but I do keep kosher.”

I sighed. “Can you get me a different server, then? I came here to get a cheeseburger.”

“I could get you a cheese veggieburger… the tofu ones taste really authentic.”

“No. I want a cheeseburger. Made of beef, and cheese. Are there any other servers who’ll take my order?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t refer you to any of my colleagues,” she said. “If it was just a matter of you preferring a different server, that’d be one thing, but I can’t get a different server for you when I know that I’m enabling you to get a cheeseburger.”

“Okay, I’m not going to order a cheeseburger, but I don’t like you and your sanctimonious attitude, so just go get me a different server because I don’t like you.”

“No, sir, I know you’re lying and you really are going to order a cheeseburger if I do that.”

I glared at her. “Look, I know enough about Judaism to know that you don’t need to enforce the kosher laws on non-Jews, so what justification do you have for not letting me order a cheeseburger? Don’t the kosher laws just apply to Jews?”

“Yes, but I can tell you’re actually Jewish.”

I blinked. “No, I’m not.”

“Well, of course you’d say that, sir, since you don’t keep kosher and you don’t keep the Sabbath, but I know a Jewish man when I see one.”

I had a roommate who was Jewish once, and that was the full extent of my connection to Judaism. “Look, I’m not. Really. I’m allowed to eat a cheeseburger.”

“I sincerely believe that you probably are, and you’re lying to me because you want a cheeseburger.”

So I gave her two bucks for the Coke, which was $1.99, and told her to keep the change. If she was hungry enough to take Saturday hours despite being dedicated enough to her faith to enforce kosher on non-Jewish customers, maybe a spate of 1 cent tips would persuade her to let customers order a cheeseburger in a goddamn burger joint. Or maybe they’d cause her to quit. What the heck was someone with a religious objection to cheeseburgers doing working in a burger joint anyway? I bet she wouldn’t have let me get a bacon burger either.

To be honest, I was pretty sure she was enforcing kosher laws on a non-Jew because she could. Used to be that every store treated its employees more or less the same way Rand Mart does. Long hours, low wages, and if you didn’t take the customer’s abuse with a big smile, you could lose your job, no matter how unreasonable the demands. Nowadays, the hours were longer and the wages were lower – businesses couldn’t stay in business with all the deadweight they were forced to carry if they didn’t exploit the hell out of their workers – but employees could get away with nearly anything if they expressed a heartfelt belief. In fact, I’d read an advice article online that suggested that as soon as you got a job in retail, you should come up with some religious reason to deny a customer something, because then if they tried to fire you for anything else, you could sue them on the grounds that it was retaliation against you exercising your First Amendment rights.

Dammit, I was really, really not in the mood for McDonalds’ or something. The last time I’d tried to go through a drive-thru, I’d found out that the fry cook on shift that day disapproved of the high carbon footprint left by cars, and was refusing to allow any of the fries to go out via the drive-thru. Plus, I’d really wanted a good burger. Rand-Mart had one of those snack bars that they have at places like Target, but I was pretty sure their burgers were at best a single step in quality above McDonald’s, if not the same or worse.

I decided to go to Anomie. Their food wasn’t the best, but the good thing was, you put in your order through an electronic kiosk, swiped your card, and people you never saw in the back, who never saw you, would take whatever orders they felt they could morally accept. Then the food would be slid to you through a numbered slot, kind of like the idea behind the old Automat. You never had to see a single person that worked there.

***

After a mediocre cheeseburger I managed to obtain without interacting with a single human being, I felt somewhat up to going and getting my coffee. It’d be cheapest at the grocery store, but I wasn’t going to go back there if I could help it – even though I was pretty sure none of the cashiers I’d run into would actually prevent me from getting coffee, except maybe the Sprite Is Poison lady, I still didn’t feel like paying any of those people’s wages. So I decided to try Curtains and More. If they weren’t the kind of store that would try to check my religion before letting me in, what was the worst that could happen?

Ten minutes later I was standing in front of a security guard who was saying “I’m sorry, sir,” while blocking my entrance to the store. “You can’t go in there.”

I stared at him. “Why not?”

“Well, you’re a man, sir. Men aren’t allowed in Curtains and More.”

“…My friend just was here and she never told me men aren’t allowed. She brought in her son.”

“Boys under the age of 10 are allowed, but men aren’t. Our corporate policy at Curtains and More is that men and women shouldn’t mingle socially, so they shouldn’t shop at the same stores.”

“So is there another curtains store that just sells to men?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir. I don’t make the rule.”

“But you’re a man.”

“Yeah, I have to stand out here all day. I’m not actually allowed in the building.”

“So how do you punch your time card?”

“There’s an app for that. I have to do it with my cell phone.” He sighed. “Kind of dumb, if you ask me, but what’re you going to do?”

“Shop somewhere else, I guess.” I shook my head. “I thought these folks were Christians.”

“They are, but they’re some weird sect that thinks men and women shouldn’t see each other unless they’re family.”

“And that women should be pregnant all the time?”

“Didn’t know that, but I’ve seen employees go in through the side door, and yeah, most of them are pregnant. Is that why?”

“That’s what I heard,” I said glumly. “Why do they let women in and not men, I wonder? Most of these kinds of places discriminate against women, not men.”

“I don’t know, but I don’t have to turn too many guys away. I guess men don’t shop for curtains as much.”

“Guess not.” It was as good an explanation as any. “I’m gonna have to go back to Rand Mart, aren’t I?”

“I hear they’ve got a pretty good selection,” the security guard said.

***

I figured I’d probably end up back at Rand Mart, but I had to at least try to avoid it, so I tried a few other coffee places; most coffee places sell pods for coffee machines, after all.

I tried Starbucks, and walked right back out as I heard the cashier refusing to serve unbelievers. I didn’t even know what they were unbelieving in, and I didn’t care. The Dunkin Donuts was run by someone who professed a sincere and heartfelt belief that children should work in the family business, and I didn’t want to be served by an eight-year-old again. There was a hipster coffee joint, but they wouldn’t let me in because my belt looked like it might be made of real leather, and they believed strongly in veganism. I considered leaving my belt in the car, but then my pants might fall down in the coffee shop, and I wasn’t risking that. Besides, people like that might give me some song and dance about single-serve coffee pods being terrible for the environment, or something.

And that was how I found myself going back to Rand Mart, about an hour after declaring I was never going back again.

I passed a group of employees on smoke break on my way in. They were holding “HOMELESS AND HUNGRY – PLEASE HELP” signs. I gave one of them a five. For all I knew my friends might be there next month.

Then I dodged around an excessively aggressive cart return guy pushing a conga line of wheeled death, and slipped into the store. I was beginning to come to the conclusion that no matter how many times I vowed I’d never come back here, I’d never be able to keep that promise.

[florenceandthemachine]

and finally, because i’m a basic bitch and i love a classic cliche trope, stackson and fake dating (◕‿◕✿)

I’m making this a Part One. Why? Because I’m a messy bitch. 

If I ever wrote anything on AO3, this would be the first chapter, but I don’t because that’s too much responsibility. 

SO.

Fake Boyfriends. Lets go. 

“My parents are taking me to England for Christmas.”

Jackson was never great with hellos. 

“What?”

Stiles, on the other hand, wasn’t always that great with comprehension. 

To his credit, though, he had been eyes-deep in several books about the history of Quetzalcoatl, a feathered, snake-like, flying deity of Mesoamerican culture that he was writing a history report on. He was also about 80% sure that was the thing that Scott had been in a fight with last week, so… well. It was just a wonderful way to double dip, get twice the work done and get graded for doing the research that he would have to do to save their own skin in the first place. 

So, his eyes were a little crossed and his head was probably spinning a little bit as he looked up to see Jackson, standing there, his hair messy (that was red flag number one) and his eyes bright blue (that was red flag number two) and—

“Stiles, pay attention. My parents are taking me to England for Christmas.”

—and Jackson was using his first name, which was red flag number three.

Shaking his head clear of thoughts of feathered snakes, Stiles rubbed his eyes with one hand, sweeping aside some of the books and papers he had laid about the table with the other, effectively making room for Jackson to sit. 

And sit Jackson did, looking like an angry, deflated puppy. Stiles had to quash that mental train of thought—yet again—about how cute Jackson could look while he was angry. He knew better than to speak when those thoughts were swimming around in his head, but that was okay, because he knew that there was no amount of prodding that would be successful when Jackson was in A Mood. 

But seriously—what the fuck was wrong with England? It seemed like a very Whittemore trip, and even then, it—

“I don’t think we’re coming back.”

Feeling his heart skip a beat as panic quickly focuses him on the task at hand, Stiles gapes for a half second before forcing his mouth shut, Quetzalcoatl long since forgotten as he took on this new… threat. At least, it felt like a threat. Jackson was pack, after all. “Jackson, that’s… insane. They can’t do that.”

Jackson’s eyes flick over to him, his eyes hard and unforgiving, and Stiles pales. 

“Can they?”

Jackson spends the next half hour going over everything (and honestly, if the situation weren’t so apparently dire, Stiles would have been on cloud nine, knowing that they apparently had long since moved past enemies)—how his fathers law firm had opened up a branch in London almost three years ago, how they had been dogging Jackson’s father to basically run the joint. Apparently, it escalated over the past year (“after Lydia and I broke up, which apparently means that I’m fine to go and have no other fucking attachments”) and Jackson had stumbled upon an entire itinerary, moving quotes, property listings, the whole nine yards. 

Stiles let his angle loop around Jacksons as the other started to wind down, pulling from some old Scott knowledge, giving Jackson some physical contact to ground himself with—even unconsciously.

“…and now I think that we’re going to go up there for our little fucking vacation, and suddenly I’m going to wake up and there’s going to be a moving truck outside with all my shit.” Jackson is out of breath when he finishes, his head in his hands in frustration, voice muffled through what Stiles can only imagine is a mouth full of fangs and his own deep breathing exercises. 

The silence between the two lingers in the air for the moment as Jackson works to get his breathing under control, and Stiles squares his jaw as he nods his head. 

“When do you leave?”

“Stilinski, you can’t just fix this, you—“

“I’m not fucking with you, Jackson. When do you leave.”

Jackson turns his head, his eyes shockingly human.

“…after finals. Saturday evening.”

“Good. I have some time then.”

And with that, Stiles stood and walked out of the room, leaving Jackson overall confused—and, weirdly, missing the weight against his ankle that he didn’t even notice was there. He only had a moment to miss it, though, before his attention was taken over by the stacks of shit left behind on the table.

“….wait! Stilinski! What about all of your shit?!”

~

Jackson may not have had the strongest belief in Stiles fixing this, but once they had completed their final exams, that small flicker of hope had basically been doused in water. He was positively miserable by Saturday morning, more or less moping around his house, and he would have been almost angry to hear Stiles’ jeep pull up if he wasn’t so fucking resigned to it all.

Hauling himself down the stairs, he throws the door open before Stiles even has a chance to knock, and he’s… carrying a suitcase. 

“…Stilinski, what the fuck.”

Because Stiles is beaming at him like the sun, like he had just solved all of Jackson’s problems, and that is a concerting look. He flips his suitcase around with a grand flourish, backpack slung over his shoulder, the Jeep parked off to the side of the driveway. 

“I’m coming with you.”

“The fuck you are.”

“Yes, the fuck I am.”

“Stilinski—“

“You said it yourself, Jackson. Lydia acted as the perfect buffer. So I’ll take that position. And I’ll have to come home at some point, so I’ll just make sure I bring you with me.”

God, he was making it sound so easy—but Jackson wouldn’t let himself hope, for an instant, that it would be so simple. 

“Stilinski, you can’t just leave your dad alone for the holidays.” Jackson snapped, slightly concerned as Stiles just shrugged that off. “He won’t be alone. He has Scott, and Melissa, and the pack. And the pack includes you too, asshole. So, I’m going.”

Jackson felt his scowl deepen as he tried again, worry sparking in his stomach. “This isn’t a simple day trip, you idiot. You don’t have a ticket, you don’t even have—“

“I have my passport, dumbass.” Stiles snarked as he pulled it out of his backpack, smacking it against Jackson’s chest. “And you’re a Whittemore. Do you really mean to tell me you can’t get another ticket last minute? Are your connections really that useless?”

Jackson gaped at him, his irritation spiking again. Of course they could get another ticket, that wasn’t the fucking point.

“That isn’t the fucking point.” So maybe his eloquence was lacking in his current state, sue him. “It won’t work. Lydia wasn’t a buffer just because she was there, she was a buffer because she was—“

“Jackson, who was at the do… oh, hello, uh… what’s going on?”

Stiles and Jackson both looked up in near perfect sync as Jackson’s mother descended the stairs, his hand still pressed against Jackson’s chest, suitcase still lingering in the doorway.

Jackson snapped his eyes back to Stiles with a glare, brow moving in a truly impressive (and vaguely Hale-esque way, Derek would be so proud). 

Stiles, the bastard, only smiled, watching Jackson’s jaw tic as his mind moved a thousand miles an hour. After what felt like an eternity, Jackson nodded curtly, pulling Stiles’ arm as he turned back to the stairs. His other hand slid around Stiles waist, tugging him close, and Stiles only had half a moment to go into shock before Jackson was speaking. 

“Uh, you remember Stiles, right? I invited him along for Christmas this year.” Jackson started, his press-polite-fake smile plastered on his face, and… wait, when did Stiles learn the difference between his real and fake smiles?

“I’m sorry I didn’t clear it with you, I spaced it out. But it would mean a lot to me if he could come with us.”

Stiles felt his heart sink a little, guilt weighing on him in the slightest way—he couldn’t put into words how uncomfortable he was with Jackson apologizing for his own lie. Jackson could smell it on him, and he squeezed Stiles a little tighter, already accepting the unspoken apology.

“Can you see if Dennis can add another ticket and room, last minute? It would mean a lot to me to be able to spend Christmas with my boyfriend.”

…

Wait, what?

Stiles must have been as shocked as Jackson’s mother looked, but thankfully, she recovered far before Stiles could even process what was going on. She was off in moments, talking about how lovely it would be to have company with them, her smile seemingly genuine as she went back upstairs.

Stiles, on the other hand, was stuck in place, gaping at Jackson like a fish out of water, and Jackson, the asshole, was watching, a smirk slowly spreading on his lips. 

“I was saying that it wouldn’t work, you fuckhead, because Lydia wasn’t just a buffer due to proximity. She was the perfect buffer because she was my girlfriend.” Jackson’s smile was sweet but his words were pure poison, and Stiles closed and opened his mouth a few more times before he found his voice again. 

“Who the fuck is Dennis?”

Jackson actually did laugh at that, a curious expression on his face, explaining the wonders of being on a first-name basis with a travel agent as he snatched Stiles passport, took a picture of all of the relevant information on it, and sent it to… well, Dennis, Stiles assumed.

His gape turned into a grimace, though, when Jackson turned fully to him, already starting to shutter himself. 

“Look, I know this wasn’t what you had in mind, at all, and don’t even lie to me and say you’re fine with it. So if you want to back out, this is your… only chance, Stilinski.“

“Stiles.”

“What?”

“Dude, if I’m your boyfriend now, it’s Stiles. No last name crap.”

“….fake boyfriend, if anything, and what I’m saying is—“

“Jackson, shut up and listen to me.” Stiles said, grabbing Jackson’s hand and putting it directly onto his heart. Jackson, blessedly, shut up as requested. His tongue suddenly heavy in his mouth—he swallowed, all too aware that he probably wasn’t going to be a huge fan of whatever came out of Stiles mouth next. He was never a fan of people forcing him to hear what they said as truth, but something in his gut told him that it wouldn’t be quite the sucker punch coming from Stiles. 

“You are pack.” No lie detected. 

“You’re important to the pack.” …no lie detected.

“And I am never, ever, letting anyone take you from the pack.”

Jackson didn’t even need to feel Stiles heartbeat to know he was telling the truth. 

Hearing it so blatantly laid out before him wasn’t the sucker punch to the stomach that Jackson was expecting, it was so, so much worse. Jackson would have preferred the sucker punch to the sudden feeling of butterflies.