#i never paid enough attention on the pause menu i guess

[solidssnakeass]

intended to check something in the sunnycam but accidentally found out she actually has a schedule she adheres to and is sleeping (the time is accurate too, it was 1:55 AM when i took this)

[spicycreativity]

Flufftober Day 1 - Winning a Tedddy Bear for the Other

This is the only October prompt fic I was able to write, so uh. Hopefully you enjoy it!

2.5k words, pairings are pre-Logince, Dukexiety, and pre-Moceit

Nobody actually wins a teddy bear for anyone, despite their best efforts

Truly have no idea if this is solely an American hick town thing or not, but where I'm from, all the summer drama took place at the county fair; the hook-ups and break-ups and all the stuff that people would gossip about at the beginning of the school year. Except! The crew have just graduated and this is kind of their last hurrah before college and work and what have you.

Roman closed his eyes and tried to focus. He turned the basketball over in his hands, privately grossed out by the weird, sticky texture beneath his fingertips. He let the ambient noise of the county fair fade into the background. Focus. He just had to focus.

Then Virgil's voice shattered his concentration: "You know this game is rigged, right?"

Roman opened his eyes and, catching an annoyed glance from the carnival worker, sighed and hurled the ball at the hoop. It soared a neat arc and fell neatly through the center of the hoop. Ha. "I'll have you know I played basketball in middle school." He puffed out his chest a little and raised his arms so Virgil could admire his killer delts. 

"And how old are you now?" Virgil leaned into Remus, who was lurking over his shoulder like some kind of lanky cathedral goblin. How Remus had landed a boyfriend before he did, Roman would never know.

The worker handed Roman another ball, which Roman accepted with a half-hearted "Thanks."

"It's true, though," Remus said, placing his chin on Virgil's shoulder. "The hoops are ovals."

"Everybody knows that," Roman huffed, and threw the ball.

"Yeet!" said Remus. Idiot.

The ball bounced off the rim. "You distracted me!" Roman huffed. The carnival worker held out another ball, but Roman dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "Oh, forget it!" Two baskets would only get him a stupid Minions keychain, and he definitely didn't want something that cursed in his possession. He turned and walked away, half-hoping Remus and Virgil wouldn't follow him. 

"Dude, you paid for three tries," Virgil said.

Roman stopped and turned around and nearly got trampled by a herd of excited pre-teens. "You don't get it!" He gestured at Virgil and Remus' intertwined fingers, even now unable to fight back the wave of jealousy and longing that rose up inside him. "You guys already have your fairy--" He paused, corrected himself. "Your weird, creepy, Tim Burton fairytale dream. I have one shot to impress Logan tonight and I need to make the most of it!"

"Hold on, hold on, hold on!" Remus grabbed Roman by the wrist (ewww, Roman, just try not to think about where his hands have been) and dragged him over to a bench. "Your grand plan is to win Logan some lame carnival prize before he even gets here?"

"Oh, buddy." The mocking pity on Virgil's face was enough to make Roman blush. Jerk. All he'd had to do was sit around and wait for Remus to make the first move. "What makes you think that's even going to work?"

Roman stood up again, motioning for Virgil and Remus to stay seated. He'd had enough. "Because it's a grand, romantic gesture and I am a grand, romantic prince. Now leave me alone! You're wrecking my concentration and I'm supposed to meet Logan in an hour!" And he stalked off, soon getting lost in the crowd.

Virgil looked at Remus, who was wearing a look of undisguised masochistic glee. Still, Virgil ventured, more to soothe his own conscience than anything, "Should we try to help him?" 

"Look!" Remus shot to his feet, pointing off into the distance. "Deep fried pickles!" He took off, nearly jerking Virgil's shoulder out of socket.

Virgil dodged an elderly woman and nearly tripped over his boots. "Roman?"

"No, I'm Remus."

"No, I mean, should we try-- Oh, forget it." Virgil wrapped his free hand around the back of Remus' and let Remus yank him through the crowd. There was a long line for the cart selling deep fried monstrosities because this was the county fair and people lost their humanity upon stepping through the gates. Not Virgil. He would sooner lick the door of the horse barn than consume anything from this horrorshow of a food cart. That was one thing Virgil and Roman could agree on: fair food was disgusting. Ah, poor Roman. "You do have to feel a little sorry for him, though," Virgil said, admiring the shiny piercings decorating the shell of Remus' ear.

"Who?" said Remus, standing on tiptoe and examining the crowd. 

"Ro--"

"Oh, Roman?" Remus landed hard on his heels and nudged Virgil with his hip. "No I don't. A little heartbreak might take Sir Brags-a-Lot down a peg." Something caught his eye and he jerked his head away with a smile. "Hey. V. I'd like to dip my pickle in your deep fryer."

Virgil made a face, but soldiered on. "But he's had a crush on Logan since, what? As long as I've known him."

"Longer." Remus stuck out his tongue. "He and Logan were lab partners Freshman year. And I had to hear about him every single night." He lowered his voice into a passable imitation of Roman's, gesticulating with abandon. "'Ugh, Remus, this boy in my science class is so annoying; he knows about dumb shit like protons and covalent bonds. Who even cares about that? I don't. So I'm gonna keep talking about it for the entire bus ride home.' Nightmare."

"Exactly!" said Virgil, though he had kind of forgotten what he was getting at. What had he been getting at? He shuffled forward as the line moved and turned his fractured attention to the menu.

"Hey," said Remus, now drumming on Virgil's shoulder with his fingertips. "When was the last time you saw Pat and the Hat?"

"Who?"

"Come on, that was clever."

Virgil tapped his lower lip. "You mean Patton and Janus?" Remus just blinked at him. "I dunno, didn't they say they were buying tickets?"

"Yeah, like, 30 minutes ago.

The line moved forward again. Remus ordered his horrifying hell-pickle. Virgil ordered a lemonade, knowing full well that Remus would insist on paying anyway.

"Maybe," said Virgil, side-stepping away from the order window and deliberately ignoring the way Remus was running his tongue all up and down his deep-fried pickle, "they went to the petting zoo."

"Well, let's go get 'em," Remus said. "They don't get to ditch us just because Patton wanted to see the bunny rabbits."

The setting sun painted the clouds a brilliant orange. Patton sighed and stared out at the expanse of the fairgrounds beneath him. One by one, rides were starting to turn their lights on. It was exactly the most romantic time of evening, exactly how he'd wanted things to go when he suggested they take a quick ride on the Ferris wheel before tracking down the others.

Well.

Almost exactly.

"I should sue," Janus said. Again. He looked over the edge of their basket where it dangled almost exactly at the top of the Ferris wheel. "How long would you say we've been stuck up here?"

"Um," said Patton, trying to wiggle his phone out of his pocket.

"What if I was diabetic, hm? What if one of us needed to take life-saving medication and couldn't because we were stuck at the top of this death trap?"

"But Janus." Patton waited for Janus to meet his eyes, then smiled. "We don't."

The magic didn't last. "It's the principle of the thing!" Janus said explosively, looking away in obvious agitation.

Patton rallied and tried again. "You don't think it's kinda romantic? I mean, look out there." He gestured at the lit-up fairgrounds and the golden haloes of clouds.

Janus huffed and didn't look. "I don't see what's so romantic about a potential reckless endangerment lawsuit." And he was off again, ranting about confusing legal concepts and other things Patton wouldn't care about, except that they were important to Janus.

Oh, well. He sighed and watched the blinking lights of El Niño. If they got down soon, maybe he could win Janus a teddy bear or something and make his confession then.

"What color?"

Roman ran a hand through his hair. Of all the games to have a knack for, he hadn't expected darts. "Pink, I guess-- No, wait, the blue one."

The attendant nodded and handed Roman a flimsy acoustic guitar. "Congrats, man."

"Thanks." Roman turned to go. He had to meet Logan at the gates soon. At least he wasn't doing it empty-handed, not that a barely-playable guitar was a particularly romantic gift. Realy, who was he kidding? Logan didn't want the guitar and Logan didn't want him.

The fairground lights lit everything up a sickly green. Roman scanned the crowd at the midway, trying to determine the best way through, when his gaze fell on a familiar pair of glasses.

He was still trying to decide how to react when Logan reached him, his arms full of brightly-colored stuffed lemurs. "Hello, Roman."

"How long have you been here?" Roman demanded. The idea that Logan had been sneaking around, avoiding him, sat heavy in his stomach.

But to Roman's surprise, Logan blushed. "Not long," he said, shifting his weight. "I wanted-- Well, it seems foolish now."

Roman forgot his anger in an instant. "What? C'mon, Lo, I don't think you're even capable of being foolish."

"I had thought," Logan dropped his gaze to the stuffed lemurs in his arms, "I had thought that if I came early, I might be able to win something big and--" He cleared his throat. "And give it to you."

"Why?" Roman demanded. Why would Logan copy his plan? 

"Well, Roman," Logan said in such a clipped, professional voice that he might have been delivering the weather report, "traditionally, winning a large prize for your sweetheart at the county fair is a romantic gesture."

"But I'm not your sw-- Oh." Roman's jaw dropped. The guitar's strings dug into his fingers. Then he started to laugh. Logan's expression hardened, but he stayed put, staring intently at Roman. "I'm sorry!" Roman choked out, brandishing the guitar at Logan as some sort of peace offering, though Logan didn't have a free hand to take it. "I was--" Tears streamed hot and ticklish down Roman's cheeks, his entire body still spasming with stifled laughs. "I was trying to do the same thing! That's how I got this stupid guitar."

"Oh," said Logan. "Oh, dear."

"Come on, let's sort this out." Roman stood on his tiptoes, spotted an empty bench, and led Logan to it.

"This is terribly awkward," Logan said, adjusting the lemurs in his arms. "Do you even want these?"

"Not really," Roman said. He held up the guitar. "Do you want this?"

"I don't."

They smiled at each other. "You know," said Roman, hurriedly counting Logan's stuffed lemurs. "You can trade six of those in for a kiss."

"Piercings!" Remus tugged on Virgil's sleeve and gestured at the booth. 

"I thought we were looking for Patton and Janus," Virgil said, already trying to think of a way to keep Remus from getting an ill-advised piercing.

"Forget them! I wanna get my tongue done."

"Here?" Virgil asked as Remus tugged him closer and closer to the piercing booth. "We're, like, six feet away from a horse barn. You're gonna get an infection."

"Damn, V, it's not like I'm gonna French kiss the horses."

Virgil bit his lip and made a second attempt. "Don't you have enough holes punched in yourself?"

"Nope!" They reached the booth and Remus bounced on his toes while he studied the laminated photographs pinned to one of the tent walls.

"Fine, but don't expect any kisses until that piercing is fully healed," Virgil said, struck by an eleventh-hour moment of genius.

"Hold up." Remus turned around and stared at Virgil. "What?"

"You heard me." Advantage secured, Virgil relaxed a little and even managed a sneer. "No kisses until I'm 100% sure you're not gonna get blood or anything else in my mouth."

"Baaaabe." Remus wrapped his arms around Virgil's shoulders and let Virgil take some of his weight. "You're killing me! What about my self-expression?"

"You can get your tongue pierced," Virgil said, "just not at some shady horse barn-adjacent piercing booth run by a bunch of traveling randos."

"I'm an American," Remus mumbled into Virg's collarbone. "It's my God-given right to die of a horse infection because I got my tongue pierced at a-- Whatever you said."

"C'mon." Virgil stood Remus upright and took him by the hand. "I'll pay for you to get your tongue pierced at that nice place downtown. Or I'll get Janus to pay for it. Next birthday. I promise."

"Thanks, I guess," Remus muttered. He was obviously trying to pout, but his face kept cracking into a smile.

"And as for your self-expression…" Face-painting booths were a dime a dozen at the fair; you practically couldn't turn a corner without running into some kid with their face painted to look like Spider-Man. Virgil pointed to the closest one and continued to lead Remus toward it. "I'm thinking spider eyes for me, kraken for you?" Remus took a breath, but Virgil knew better. "There's no way anyone is going to paint a photorealistic dick on your face."

"Alriiiiight," Remus said. "Kraken it is."

The sun was now nearly gone over the horizon, only visible as a faint golden line. Janus had finally worn himself out and gone silent, though even in the darkness, Patton could see the annoyance smoldering in his eyes.

Oh, he was so cute. Even when he was annoyed. Which, granted, seemed to be most of them time, although some of it had to be an act. He smiled sometimes, when he thought Patton wasn't looking.

It was those secret smiles that had given Patton the courage to make this plan. He jiggled his leg and swallowed as nerves sent flutters of nausea through his belly. "Um, Janus?"

"Hm?"

"I mean," Patton started, "since we're stuck up here and everything."

"Don't remind me."

"I mean, you know, It's not all bad. If I have to be stuck at the top of a Ferris wheel, I'm glad it's with you. I… I'm glad it's us."

For a moment, Janus was silent. Then he said, in a tone of suspicion: "You're trying to cheer me up."

Patton sighed. As smart as Janus was, he just didn't seem to be putting the pieces together. Although, that was as much Patton's fault as it was Janus'. Well, it was mostly Patton's fault. He just had to be brave. "Look, Janus, I had this whole plan where we were gonna ride the Ferris wheel together and it was gonna pause at the top and while we were looking out over the fairground, I--" His breath hitched.

"...Was going to push me over the edge?" Janus asked.

"I was gonna do this." Rainbow lights from the Ferris wheel spokes danced across Janus' face. Patton leaned over and took his hands. "Janus, I really like you. And I want--"

"Yes," said Janus. "Whatever you're about to say, yes."

So Patton kissed him. 

[karasuno-chaos]

Choosing His Tie (Osamu x Reader)

I feel like Osamu is one of those people that doesn’t dress up often, but when he does, he only serves quality looks.👔  -Giz

Word Count:  1,470

Fluffvember masterlist

“Y/N!” your husband shouts from the bedroom.

“What?” you holler back, not moving from your position on the couch watching Vine compilations.

“Come here!”

“Why?”

“I want your opinion!”

You sigh but pause the current video.  Osamu doesn’t ask for your opinion very often.  He’s pretty decisive, and even when you tell him what you think, he usually sticks with his own opinion.  If he’s proactively seeking your input, he’s a bit desperate.  You haul yourself off of the couch and head to the bedroom.

“What is it?” you ask, leaning in the doorway.  He’s standing in front of the dresser mirror wearing a black suit with a white button-up.  The jacket is unbuttoned, and he’s popped the collar on his shirt.  You take a moment to admire how he looks.  Osamu is much more comfortable in a t-shirt and jeans or sweatpants, but his natural confidence makes him look effortlessly suave in the simple black suit.  You’d insisted he get it tailored to fit his figure, and you’re so glad you did when the effect is so beautiful.

“Stop ogling,” he says, glancing at your reflection.  While his twin is quite obviously an attention hog, Osamu enjoys getting attention, too, especially from you.  The fact that he isn’t allowing you to stare means something is bothering him.

“I’ll try to keep it under control,” you say with a teasing smirk.  “If you didn’t call me over to flaunt your looks, what do you need?”

“Help me pick a tie.”

“Seriously?”  You pretend to complain.  “I was in the middle of a really funny video.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to pull you away from such an important activity.  It’s not like I’m trying to prepare to meet with the bank to secure a loan so we can open another branch of our restaurant chain.”

His words are a bit harsh, but you’re used to his bluntness.  You also know how much this next step in his business means to him.  With the additional brand exposure from sponsoring volleyball events, there’s been a significant increase in sales at every Onigiri Miya location.  Eager to ride the wave of steady popularity, Osamu’s decided now is the perfect time to extend that success to the nation’s capital.  He has his eye on a location near the Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium, but to move forward with his plan, he needs another loan from the bank.

“It’s just a tie, Samu,” you say soothingly.  “It won’t make or break their decision.”

“You don’t know that.”

You frown.  Your husband is stubborn, but he also doesn’t bother with trivialities unless he’s being intentionally petty.  A tie shouldn’t worry him this much.

“Are you feeling okay?” you ask, walking to him and placing the back of your hand on his forehead.  He looks annoyed for a second, but you move your hand to his cheek and he sighs.  Osamu closes his eyes, allowing your touch to temporarily soothe his mind.

“I’m fine,” he promises.  When he opens his eyes, they’re serious but not manic.  You think he’s a little more focused, which means he’s better prepared to get the job done.

“Good,” you say, dropping your hand.  “For a moment, I definitely thought you were freaking out, which would have been totally uncool.”

“Huh?”  His eyes narrow in a challenge.  You do love to push his buttons, but only because you can take the heat.

“You’ve had this meeting how many times now?”

“Twice I guess.”

“Exactly,” you hum, turning your attention to the pile of ties he’s laid out on the dresser.  You begin selecting options and draping them over his shoulders to see how they look with his outfit.  “You’ve already opened two very successful locations and paid back those loans in good time with good faith.  You’ve given the bank no reason to doubt your reliability.  You’re a solid investment.  The way I see it, this meeting’s more of a formality than anything.  You’ve got this in the bag.”

“Do you know how impractical you sound?  Thank goodness I’m in charge of our business,” he sighs.

“Yes of course dear.  I’ll just stick to our branding and menu design and visual advertising and picking out your ties.  Unless you can do that last one yourself now?”

Osamu rolls his eyes, neither apologizing nor thanking you.  A less secure person would never survive his hot and cold nature, but you know him well enough to see how much he appreciates you.  It’s why you’re such good partners in both business and life.

You also know that the back and forth banter is helping him to focus.  You’ve heard numerous stories about the rambunctious exchanges he and his twin would have before volleyball games.  Somehow the snide remarks and sense of competition make him perform better, and you’re happy to rile him up a bit if it helps.

“Okay, I’ve got it down to three options,” you announce.  “First up-”

“No,” your husband says immediately, pulling a frown from your lips.

“Come on,” you whine.  “This is my favorite.”

“It’s childish.”

“It’s whimsical and fun,” you counter.  “Just look at the happy little onigiri!”

He looks at the tie with the cartoon food dancing across a deep blue background.  It had been a joke gift from Atsumu a few years ago, but you love it so he wears it sometimes.  Today, however, won’t be one of those days.

“No,” he insists.  “I need them to take me seriously.”

“Buzzkill.”  You put the tie on the dresser and grab the other options.  “Okay boring businessman, which one screams ‘give me money’ more?”

One tie is an eye-catching abstract swirl of greens and blues.  The other is a shimmery silver with a subtle pattern that catches the light.  You have a favorite, but you want to let him choose.

After a moment of contemplation, he picks the silver one and starts putting it on without a word.  You were secretly rooting for that one.  The silver brings out some of the lighter grey in his eyes, and it looks really sharp paired with that suit.

You put away his other ties while he finishes primping.  He has plenty of time before the meeting, but you know he’ll arrive at the bank early and take a few minutes to look over his business plan again.  After hanging up the last tie, you turn to watch him.  Now that his outfit is complete, he seems much more at ease, as he should be.  You have no doubt he is ready for this meeting.

“You’re ogling again,” he says.

“I can’t help it,” you reply with a grin.  You wrap your arms around his waist, and he smirks at you.  “You look like a billion yen.”

“Let’s hope so.”  He kisses the top of your head and rubs your back.  It’s the most thanks you’re likely to get from him, but you don’t mind.  You feel his appreciation in the way he holds you.

“Need me for anything else?” you ask, looking up at him.

“The rest of my life,” he says smoothly.

“Only if you make dinner tonight.”

Osamu quirks an eyebrow.

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“Really?  I feel like dinner is a small price to pay for my eternal love and support,” you hum.  “You should definitely accept before I rethink the terms of this contract.”

“It’s a deal.”  He smiles as he kisses you.

“Good negotiation.  Now go do it again with the bank people.”

“And what are you going to do?” he asks as he follows you out of the bedroom.

“I was in the middle of a really funny video, remember?  And I have a few more queued up after that.”

“Sounds thrilling.”

“You know me.  I live a life of adrenaline and excitement.”

“Just as long as you don’t waste your time at work like this.”

“Feed me a good dinner tonight and I promise to be on my game all day tomorrow.”

“There you go negotiating again.  Maybe I should send you to this meeting instead.”

“No way, not after you got all dressed up for it.  You can’t deprive the world of this rare sighting of Suave Businessman Samu.”  You straighten his tie when you reach the front door.  “You’re going to kill it, okay?  Like service ace, blockout, wicked spike kill it.”

“Volleyball metaphors?  That’s so three years ago.”

“Whatever.”  You capture his lips in a quick kiss.  “See you later.”

“Yeah.”

His goodbye isn’t overly heartfelt, but it’s perfectly him.  Osamu grins at you before he leaves, and you get a second to admire this confident, well-dressed man that you’ve married before you’re staring at the back of the door.  You sigh and settle onto the couch to distract yourself with videos until he’s back to tell you how it went.

[everybodyscupoftea]

won’t hold back

college isaac x reader

i’m back besties with the immediate follow up of born to run!

(warnings: cursing, light editing)

He finished his run first, of course he did, and by the time you got back to your car, huffing and puffing, a text was waiting on your phone. You pulled it out, hands shaking a bit and your face split into a smile as you read it.

I’m in parking lot west, meet me there?

Climbing into your car, you cranked it up, turning the heat up as high as you could stand, breaking out into a slight sweat despite still being cold as your thumbs hovered over the keyboard.

I’m in east, just got finished so I’ll drive over

You backed out, heart pounding, and drove the few minutes to the adjacent parking lot. He was leaning against his car and waved at you when you turned in, not that he needed to because he was the only car in the lot. Parking next to him, you took one last deep breath and grabbed your hoodie off the back seat.

“Hey,” he murmured with a smile when you climbed out.

Waving shyly, you responded, “Hey.”

“Hungry?”

You nodded eagerly, “Starving.”

Isaac grinned, “I know a place if you trust me enough.”

Thinking back to the coffee shop he picked when you were first getting to know each other, you nodded, “Yeah, absolutely.”

After a pause and a speculative glance, he jogged around the car and opened his passenger door for you to climb in. When you hesitated, his eyebrows furrowed and he started to look uncertain, which you definitely didn’t want, he spoke, slowly, “Or did you want to follow me there?”

“No,” you reassured quickly, sliding in without any further concerns, “sorry, I was just caught off guard for a second.”

Isaac didn’t respond, shutting the door softly for you before heading back over to the drivers side, finally answering when he buckled in and cranked it up, “Why caught off guard?”

“Well,” you paused, unsure how much you wanted to admit. But then you heard your sister’s voice in your head go get your man and decided on complete honesty, “I was going to ask you out today, but I wasn’t really expecting you to say yes.”

He blinked a few times, hand freezing on the gear shift, “Why the hell wouldn’t I say yes?”

Ears heating up, you shrugged, “I don’t know, it just seemed like you were out of my league. You didn’t text me.”

“You didn’t text me!” he countered. Which you supposed was fair, but you’d been nervous. He was so attractive and outgoing and unattainable. He was so clever and good with words and you were just. Good at math.

“That’s fair,” you answered, “but I thought you might would have other, better options.”

“Well, you’re wrong, just ask my roommates.”

It was oddly reassuring, that his roommates had been putting up with the same thing your sister apparently had, and you couldn’t stop the wide smile crossing your face. Heart stuttering again, your palms got clammy as he pulled out of the parking lot finally, heading down the road toward the downtown area. 

Isaac parked outside a brunch place you’d passed a few times before but he’d gotten to check out yet, so you were excited. When he turned the car off, you waited for him to open the door for you again after catching his attempted discrete look in your direction.

“M’lady,” he spoke, pulling the door open and bowing slightly.

Giggling, you took his outstretched hand and stepped out, responding with an exaggerated accent, “Thank you, sir.”

“Anytime.”

He kept your hand, not that you wanted to let go, but your heart kicked up again, and you hoped that he couldn’t feel the sweat on your palm. If he did, he thankfully didn’t mention it, just swung your hands between the two of you, humming, as he led both you toward the door.

The brunch place was pretty busy, and the hostess smiled at the two of you, “Good morning, table for two?”

“Yep,” Isaac responded cheerfully.

“Inside or out?”

He looked at you, content to let you answer, and you shrugged, “Doesn’t matter to me,” you turned to the hostess, “do you have a suggestion?”

“It’s more private outside, and we have heaters.”

“Outside,” Isaac confirmed without further pause.

She raised her eyebrows, lips twitching a bit at his hasty answer, and she marked something down, before speaking again, “Follow me.”

“Private, huh?” you teased when she was gone, menus spread out in front of each of you.

He shrugged, grinning, “Yeah, I want to get to know you well, not just eat together.”

And you didn’t really have anything to say to that, throat tightening at his honest words. It was quiet at first, both of you focused on picking something to eat and ordering before he finally took a sip of the tea he ordered, clutching the cup with both hands. Isaac leaned forward, foot nudging yours under the table, and you spoke up, “So, how are your classes this semester?”

He grinned, “You really want to talk about school right now?”

“No,” you admitted, smiling sheepishly, “but I thought it could be a good ice breaker.”

“Okay, I’ll humor you. They’re good, but I miss studying with you.”

Your jaw dropped slightly, and you played with a string on the sleeve of your hoodie, “I miss studying with you too.”

“Have you been back to the coffee shop?” he asked.

Shaking your head, you reluctantly answered, “No, it felt like your space and I didn’t want to invade it.”

“I’ve been looking for you there,” he admitted, “I thought you liked it and might come back.”

 “I did,” you shrugged, “like it, at least. But the library and engineering building have become my home as of late.”

“Do you like the quiet?”

“Something like that. Less things for me to look at.”

Isaac hummed, “I get that. I like coffee shops because I feel like people are watching me and if I’m not productive, they’ll judge me.”

You snorted, “Well, that’s a way to pressure yourself into it, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” he nudged your foot with his again, “I normally like to be alone, but I wouldn’t mind some company every so often. If you can drag yourself out of your academic buildings to hang out with me sometimes.”

“No one I’d rather drag myself out of academic buildings for,” you teased.

Even though your tone was teasing, you were serious, and his smile confirmed that he realized that. You really liked that he picked up on your underlying meanings, it was something that lacked in your last relationship. That boyfriend needed things explicitly stated, which was fine, but a lot of your jokes were taken the wrong way or went over his head, and it caused a few fights.

Isaac took another sip of tea and leaned back in his chair, “So, tell me about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?”

He shrugged, eyes not leaving your face once, and you almost wanted to balk at the steady attention, “You decide.”

“Well, I’m not that interesting,” you started, only pausing when he made a noise in protest.

“I assure you,” he interrupted, “I’ll be interested in whatever you have to say.”

Squeezing your eyes shut for a second, pushing back against the sappy look desperately fighting to show on your face, you answered, “Okay, um, I’m from New York, but not any of the cities, more in the countryside. I have one sister and she’s pretty much my best friend.”

Isaac nodded, “Older?”

“Younger.”

“I had a brother, older,” Isaac told you, “but he died overseas.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, “I’m so sorry, Isaac.”

He smiled sadly, “Thank you. We weren’t really close, but it was still tough. Especially for my dad.”

“Are you close?”

Isaac snorted, “No, not even a little bit.”

It didn’t seem like he wanted to elaborate, so you decided to change the subject, “What about friends?”

His smile was small but pleased, “Stiles and Scott are my two closest. I grew up with them and they came here too.”

“Oh, that’s great,” you responded enthusiastically, “they sound like good friends.”

“They are most of the time. But sometimes they bully me. Like when I kept going on early morning runs to see this girl I liked instead of just texting her.”

You snorted, “Sounds like my sister.”

“I’m sure they’d get along then.”

“Sounds like,” you agreed, “we should never introduce them.”

“Amen,” he answered just as the waiter came over with your food. The rest of the meal was lighter, more focused on small talk than any heavy topics. You learned about his interest in drama and hatred of poetry. 

He ranted about the true villain in Hamlet for a solid five minutes, using his hands excitedly, emphasizing certain points by pointing his fork, and you were enthralled. Sure, you didn’t particularly care about Hamlet versus his stepdad, but by the end of his speech, you were more intrigued than before.

“I’ve never really understood poetry,” you admitted.

He nodded enthusiastically, “It’s so subjective. English teachers often teach it wrong. I want to change that. I want to help science brains like yours not hate English as much.”

“A very noble cause,” you joked, “but perhaps more difficult than you may think.”

“I don’t think so,” he mused, “because when we started eating, you didn’t know anything about Hamlet but now you have an opinion.”

You nodded, “That’s true, I suppose. Anyone who claims Hamlet is the true villain is incorrect.”

Isaac grinned, “Fuck yes.”

And then it was your turn to rant about physics and how the professors on campus made it ten times worse than it should’ve been. Isaac asked about some of the topics physics entailed, and to his credit, he seemed interested despite the boring subject.

“It could just be so much more pleasant, but the professors are so old and refuse to adapt.”

“A problem in English too sometimes,” he agreed, “but I’m hoping once I get to higher level courses, things will get more interesting.”

By the time he’d paid and the plates had cleared away, there were a few other tables of people around the two of you, and you knew it was about time to leave. You really didn’t want to, and it looked like he felt the same way.

“Ready?” you finally asked.

“I guess so.”

The walk to the car was quiet, and he didn’t hold your hand again, but your knuckles brushed his every so often. When you looked over, his ears were red and he was pointedly staring straight ahead. You reveled in the fact that a guy like him actually seemed flustered by your presence.

He dropped you off at your car and grabbed your wrist before you could get out, “Can we do this again sometime?”

You smiled at the slight shake in his voice, “Yeah, I’d love that.”

“Cool,” he beamed, “I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah. Text me sometime?” you asked, teasing him a bit even though both of you were guilty of not texting.

His lips twitched, “Or I’ll just see you in the morning.”

“Yeah, I guess you will.”

Suddenly, morning runs didn’t seem all that daunting.

[kyuuppi]

(Un)planned (requested)

Pairing: Orihara Izaya x Pregnant!Reader

Genre: fluff, a lil crack-y

Word Count: 4.9k

As you walk out of the hospital you can’t help but to feel as if you’re in a dream, as if nothing is real. The only thing tying you to reality are the freshly printed documents verifying your pregnancy that feel unnaturally heavy in your purse. The reality of the situation was easier to accept than you expected, really. You have been married for a while and you can recall several instances in which you two hadn’t been exactly safe with your escapades. Being pregnant is not something that bothers you either—you have always wanted to have children at some point in your life. The only problem, the only thing keeping you from feeling properly excited by the news is the father of the child itself—Orihara Izaya. It is not something the two of you had ever discussed and, knowing first hand just how dangerous his field of work as one of Japan’s best information brokers...well, you aren’t sure if you two could create a healthy environment for a child to grow up in. Providing love and food on the table was one thing, providing safety and security was another.

At the thought of food your stomach involuntarily grumbles. You didn’t realize just how hungry you are until now. You hadn’t eaten all day, the nervousness about the doctor’s visit having ruined your appetite. It is by sheer coincidence that you notice a familiar face only a few meters ahead entering the infamous sushi bar. You follow after him without hesitation.

“Welcome to Russia Sushi,” Simon greets with a grin.

You smile in return before sidling into the booth next to the blond man you had followed in.

“Hi, Shizuo,” you greet shyly. The man nods in acknowledgement, already looking over the menu.“Y/n,” he returns coolly, “how have you been?” His gaze suddenly darkens as his grip on the laminated menu tightens and you can already tell what he’s about to ask next.

“Has...the flea been treating you well?”

You have no doubt one word of complaint about Izaya would have Shizuo tearing the city apart to kill him. Shizuo was one of the first people in Ikebukuro you had met who you could call a “friend.” Although he wasn’t the type to frequent brunch dates and sleepovers to watch anime and gossip, he always made sure to greet you with a small smile, regardless of how his day was going, and had promised to protect you if you ever needed it.

It was already several months into your friendship when you had started dating Izaya and at first Shizuo had...not been happy, to say the least. To the blond, Izaya was incapable of genuinely caring about anyone but himself. There was always an interior motive and the people around him would always be in danger. After several long, long months of persuasive speaking on your part (naturally Izaya just got a kick out of teasing the man about your relationship rather than seeking approval), an official marriage to the man, and Shizuo seeing you still remaining unharmed through it all, Shizuo finally seems to accept your relationship—or at least tolerate it. However, you know one bad word about Izaya and Shizuo would be ready to kick his ass to Hong Kong on your behalf.

‘I wonder what he’d think about me not telling Izaya about the pregnancy.’ You mentally sour at the thought and physically shake your head to get rid of it.

“He’s been an angel,” you joke. Shizuo scoffs and you end up giggling as well. Regardless of disagreeing on just how bad Izaya is, you both know he’s far from an angel.

He had always been more curved horns and pointy tail than halo and wings...but you love him all the same.

Before Shizuo can verbally respond (likely with an insult about ‘the flea’), Simon appears behind the bar before you two, ready to take your orders. As usual, Shizuo places his order first so that you have a little longer to decide.

“I’ll take the natto sushi—” you can’t help but to shiver in disgust at the sound. “—and today’s special.”

You perk up at that.

“Special?”

Simon grins at your interest.

“Yes, today’s special is yummy drink, tastes just like Russian seaweed farms! Special is very good.”

The idea of a Rusian seaweed farm drink is moderately concerning but between Simon’s excitement and Shizuo’s unbothered look you decide to order it against your better judgement, along with some fatty tuna.

Izaya must really be rubbing off on you.

You and Shizuo share a few minutes of idle talk while you wait for your orders. He tells you of the most ridiculous people he has had to collect debts or protect Tom Tanaka from this month and your laughter has you forgetting about all of your pregnancy worries. You’ve completely relaxed by the time drinks arrive and you take a sip without hesitation.

“Mmm,” your eyes widen as you regard Shizuo, “this is actually really good!”

Shizuo offers a rare boyish grin before he sips his own pale green drink, watching you go in for more.

“Right? You can hardly even tell there’s any vodka in it.”

 ‘Vodka!?’

You gasp, accidentally inhaling extra liquid before you begin spluttering in panic. Shizuo quickly jumps into action, harshly patting your back but careful not to use too much strength. Half of the restaurant is looking your way in concern and even Simon looks like he’s just about to catapult himself over the bar to help you when you finally calm down and your choking is reduced to harsh pants while you try to catch your breath. You think most of the drink had been expelled in your coughing fit but you still feel queasy and anxious. What if it hurts the baby?

“Y/n, are you okay?’ Shizuo asks, hand awkwardly rubbing your back in an attempt to be comforting. “Are you allergic or something.”

“N-no, it’s not that I’m allergic but...I can’t have alcohol for a while.”

Shizuo raises a brow at that and you feel grateful that everyone seems to have returned to their own work by now, no longer staring at you. Simon has left the bar to attend to a customer in one of the private dining rooms, leaving you and Shizuo essentially alone in your corner of the sushi restaurant.

“Why can’t you have alcohol for a while? You used to love sake.”

He sends a teasing smirk with the last part, referring to an embarrassingly drunken moment you’d had a few weeks into living in the city. Shizuo had sworn to never bring it up again but clearly he paid that particular oath no mind.

“Well, um…”

You begin to fidget nervously. Originally you had no intentions of telling anyone about the baby but...Shizuo was a good friend, maybe your closest friend in Ikebukuro aside from Celty. You have no doubts he would be nothing but supportive and kind to you in a time when you need it most—that is, after he gets over the idea of another person sharing Izaya’s DNA being brought into the world, of course.

“Promise me you won’t tell anyone—not even Izaya. Especially not Izaya.”

Shizuo perks up at that, seeming interested in the prospect of you having something not even Izaya, your husband and the greatest information broker in all of Japan, knows about. Perhaps a small part of him would even relish in having something to keep from Izaya, some sort of “one-up” on the man.

“Of course,” he replies immediately, nodding.

You take a deep breath, bracing yourself.

“I’m pregnant.”

Everything seems to pause at your confession. Shizuo sits stock still and as the silence stretches on you begin to fear he didn’t hear and you’ll have to repeat it. However, before you can open your mouth to repeat those incriminating words, you’re startled by a sharp snap and look down to find the wooden chopsticks in Shizuo’s right hand broken in half. You trust him and know he would never hurt you but your heart rate still spikes and you tense in your seat, hand subconsciously resting over your stomach protectively. Shizuo's wide eyes follow the movement.

“Y-you're…" He finally stutters out. "...whose is it?"

You gawk, suddenly offended.

"Wh-who!? It’s Izaya's, you dumbass, who else!"

"I didn't want to make any assumptions!"

Your anger quickly dissolves into giggles at Shizuo's panicked expression and he visibly relaxes at the sound. There are a few moments of moderately comfortable silence between the two of you before Shizuo sighs and speaks again.

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised, you've been married for a while now." His expression sours once he mentions marriage and you can tell he's internally reliving some of his worst encounters with your husband.

"I just can't believe there's going to be two of them now," he pouts. "That annoying piece of—"

"Hey," you interrupt, a teasing smirk on your face. "That's my baby daddy you're talking about."

Shizuo’s pales, looking like he'll throw up in disgust at any moment and you can't help but to laugh.

Maybe this whole pregnancy thing isn’t so bad.

. . .

You had been wrong—very wrong.

After your impromptu lunch with Shizuo, as you were walking out with your extra bag of fatty tuna to-go, it suddenly hit that you were about to go to the home you shared with Orihara Izaya pregnant with the unplanned child he knows nothing about. You nearly had a panic attack several times on the walk there as you mentally played through a multitude of scenarios of how to tell him and what his reaction might be. Izaya is involved in dangerous, illegal work—you can’t imagine a family and kids fits anywhere in that. You were lucky enough to have been asked to marry the man—there’s no way he would be ready for children as well.

‘Would he tell me to get rid of it?’

You had worked yourself so much on the way that by the time you arrived to the apartment you were mentally exhausted and barely managed to place the sushi in the fridge before you collapsed on the couch and turned on the television to zone out until Izaya came home.

A few hours later a sound at the front door jolted you to attention.

“I’m home~!” a man’s voice cheerfully booms from the entrance.

You silently pray to every god in existence that you can pull an Oscar-worthy act before plastering a smile on your face and standing to greet your husband.

“Welcome home, Izaya! I bought fatty tuna, it’s in the fridge.”

Izaya’s vermillion eyes seem to sparkle at that and he immediately makes his way to the kitchen after shedding his trademark faux fur-trimmed coat. That buys you enough time to contemplate your next course of action and how you will break the news to him. You know that, despite the fact he enjoys games and toying with others for as long as he deems entertaining, he expects direct answers from the people who work for him like Namie or Celty. But how could you possibly just outright say you’re pregnant right now? The man is humming to himself while stuffing his face with sushi right now for god’s sake—the mood is totally off!

“—Y/n?”

Your own name startles you out of your thoughts and as you blink to tune back into the outside world you find Izaya learning against the counter directly across from you, eying you with mirth as he holds the plastic container of sushi, nearly half empty by now.

“My, my. Someone seems a bit distracted today,” he taunts lowly. You tense at that, fearing he’s about to ask you what you’re thinking about.

Luckily, he seems to be feeling merciful today as he simply repeats what he was saying while you were zoned out, his tone back to almost childish glee.

“I was saying I met with Goto-chan today—y’know the one who was on ‘vacation’ for while—” he uses air quotes with the free hand not holding up the sushi and you can’t help but to smile at that, unhealthily endeared by this odd, dangerous man.

“—well turns out he has a kid now. He even brought her to our meeting with his gang; what terrible parenting~! Right, Y/n-chan?”

You gulp before barely managing a nod of agreement, suddenly extremely uncomfortable with the topic of conversation.

“I would never take my own young offspring to a place like that. Sometimes meetings end very badly, y’know~,” he continues on. You’re suddenly aware of the sweat collecting at your brow despite the moderate temperature in the apartment and you wonder if the panic is showing on your face.

 ‘He...he doesn’t know anything yet...right?’

There’s a beat of silence in which you two just stare at each other. Your face feels clammy and hot but you try your best to maintain a neutral expression while Izaya’s lips are curved into their usual smirk with a playful glint in his deep red eyes—along with something else you can’t quite read but somehow evokes a ball of dread to form deep within your gut.

A few seconds later and the moment is gone as Izaya turns away to dispose of the empty sushi contained and is rambling on about something else you don’t have the energy to even pretend to listen to as relief washes over your body.

The rest of the night is spent curled up on the couch watching cartoons while Izaya works, not bringing up the topic of children again for the rest of the night. You decide waiting a little longer to tell him wouldn’t hurt—you just need some time to gather your thoughts and plan exactly how to tell him.

. . .

Somehow “a little longer” becomes “a lot longer” as every time you approach Izaya with a speech already planned, you look into his eyes and immediately chicken out. To make matters worse, you aren’t sure if you’re just being hyper-aware of all things related to children now or if the whole world is really out to get you but it seems babies are everywhere. A few days after that night you turned on the TV to watch something with Izaya only to find a pregnancy documentary of all things on which Izaya insisted you two watch because he wanted to “learn more about the development of his precious humans.” Another few days after that the two of you were on a rare evening walk together when a small, crying child approached the two of you claiming to have lost his mother while chasing a dog. Izaya unexpectedly took over the situation and handled it exceptionally well, diligently looking for the boy’s mother with you while keeping him entertained to the point he didn’t even want to say goodbye to Izaya when you two finally found his mother.

External factors like that made things a little more difficult for you as you attempted not to let your secret slip out but other factors were a lot more difficult to hide—such as your slowly but steadily growing belly and strange new mood swings. The former was easily remedied by electing to wear your looser more comfortable clothing. Izaya had never been a physically affectionate partner so you didn’t have to worry about him noticing your stomach in a hug or anything like that and he never pushed when you turned down his occasional sexual advances at night citing that you were too tired or had a stomach ache. Your mood swings and other hormonal changes, however, were not so avoidable.

The first time you had raised your voice at him—and over something so small as coming home half an hour later than he said he would—came as a surprise to both of you. After a moment of wide eyed staring from both sides he seemed to recover quickly though and teased you about missing him too much. A few times you had also spontaneously burst into tears for no apparent reason, to which he simply pulled you into his side and started telling you a random funny story about his adventures at work until your tears stopped.

But even with Izaya being so unintentionally helpful in keeping your secret, the pressure and guilt of constantly lying to your own husband and the man famed for knowing everything gradually eats at you day-by-day, hour-by-hour, and minute-by-minute until you are constantly seeking a relief from the stress. Sometimes that comes in form of finishing a whole box of chocolates, sometimes via napping for six hours straight, and sometimes through social media and chatrooms.

One Thursday afternoon you log in to the chat for the first time since finding out you’re pregnant, pleasantly surprised to see your two favorite members already online.

▶▶ [USER01] has entered the chat.

[Tarō Tanaka] Hello, User-san. Long time no see.

[Setton] we missed u User-chan.

You smile, instantly feeling better with the online presence of your friends.

[USER01] hey, guys. whats up?

[Setton] Tanaka-san was just talking about volunteering at the daycare.

[Tarō Tanaka] Ah, I just had some freetime…

[Setton] don’t be modest. ur really amazing Tanaka-san.

[Tarō Tanaka] Ahaha, really it’s nothing! I just played with some babies for a few hours...

[Setton] nonsense. don’t u think Tanaka-san is cool, User-chan?

You take a second too long to answer, suddenly feeling anxious by the reminder of daycares and babies. You wonder if you and Izaya will leave your own child at a daycare some day...if he even accepts the child.

[USER01] ah, yeah..very cool

[Tarō Tanaka] User-san are you alright? You seem a little off today, you’re usually more talkative...

[Setton] u know u can tell us anything. we’re friends.

You hesitate to type, your trembling hands hovering over the keyboard as you consider your options. On one hand, you feel guilty at the prospect of telling more people who are not your husband before actually telling Izaya himself. As the father, regardless of his reaction, he deserved to be the first to know. On the other hand, keeping these overwhelming feelings to yourself makes you feel as if you’ll burst at the seams. So much stress can’t be good for the baby.

  [USER01] well, to be honest I’m….

▶▶ [Kanra] has entered the chat.

[Kanra] Yahoo~! (≧∇≦)/

[Kanra] What is everyone talking about today?? owo

[USER01] nothing much!! just the weather..it has been so hot lately!

[Tarō Tanaka] But it’s September…

[Setton] ???

[Setton] ah yeah, nothing much i guess...how are u Kanra?

[Kanra] Ehh~ What’s with this weird atmosphere!? I feel like everyone is keeping secrets from Kanra-chan! (●´^｀●)

[USER01] no way!! not at all! ah, its already this late? I have to get dinner soon, bye-bye!!

[Tarō Tanaka] It’s only 2 o’clock though...

▶▶ [USER01] has left the chat.

Your laptop closes with a resounding tap and you release the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Izaya seems to have impeccably awful timing. You hate to think you were moments away from confessing your secret right in front of him and two mutual friends in a public chat room. You’re fairly certain that must be among the top ten worst ways to announce a pregnancy.

Frazzled, you head to the kitchen to make a snack.

After shuffling through the refrigerator for a few minutes, pushing aside suddenly unappetizing leftovers of Chinese take-out and pizza, you settle on sliced pineapple, kimchi, and a pack of microwaveable rice from the cabinet. Even you knew the combination was abhorrent in normal circumstances, but for the past few weeks you found yourself craving obscure combinations of food from ice cream drizzled with honey mustard to canned tuna and chocolate.

You are only a few bites in when you hear the familiar sounds of the front door opening and your husband announcing his arrival. The lanky man immediately slips into the kitchen to greet you with a small peck on the top of your head.

“I see my favorite little human is enjoying one of her...creations again,” Izaya comments.

When you look up you catch the split second of disgust on his features as he eyes your bowl before he quickly schools his expression back into something more neutral. You almost laugh.

“Do you want me to make you some?” You can’t help but to tease, trying your best to feign a serious expression as you ask.

Izaya looks mildly horrified before playing it off with a dismissive laugh.

“No thanks, I already ate.”

He gracefully breezes past you to make his way through the living room and to his personal office in the back where he make quick work of logging into his desktop. It is a usual occurrence—despite being home his work is never truly finished. He has to be flexible in his field, ready to gather new intel the moment it becomes available. It is strange to compare Izaya to anyone with a regular job but you often find yourself thinking he must really love his career if he invests so much of himself into it. You’re sure that by now he has done enough odd jobs to no longer need the money to live the rest of his life worry-free and yet he continues to work relentlessly, never taking a vacation day once in the years you’ve known him.

“By the way,” Izaya calls out, interrupting your thoughts.

“I have some things to take care of in Ōsaka this weekend. I’ll be back Sunday night.”

He glances up from his computer to send you a teasing smirk.

“Try not to get too lonely without me~”

You nearly choke on a piece of pineapple as you fluster, immediately denying his claim despite his obnoxious laughter drowning out your protests.

It is not until you lie in bed that night, trying to fall asleep, that you recognize this could be the moment you’ve been waiting for.

. . .

The next morning, after seeing Izaya off for the weekend, you grab your laptop and log into your nearly forgotten Pinterest account to look for cute pregnancy announcement ideas. With Izaya physically out of the house for more than 24 hours you feel the pressure of constantly hiding all clues lifted off your shoulders and you feel free to properly put something together that you hope will result in a more positive reaction from him than just blurting it out of the blue. You have to periodically remind yourself that this is his child as much as it is yours and he is just as responsible for creating it so that you don’t psych yourself out imagining him blaming you for potentially ruining his life.

A majority of the pins you scroll through are immediate no’s. They’re either way too corny or tacky and you highly doubt Izaya would appreciate the humor in a “thx for knocking me up!” sticker.

...Okay well maybe he would but you certainly wouldn’t.

By the twelfth page you feel exasperated. You’re almost tempted to just send him an “I’m pregnant” text right now to get it over with—at least you won’t be there to see his expression in realtime. That’s when you stumble upon the pin. You immediately click the little square before it loads into an image that takes up your full screen. On the image is a white marble background, likely a kitchen countertop, with a round white cake in the center with the words “we’re having a baby!” sprawled on top in purple icing.

It is simple, to the point, cute, and most importantly—cake.

Who doesn’t love cake?

 ‘Well, Izaya doesn’t really like sweet things that much…’

You mentally tell your self-conscious to shut up. A cake would be perfect.

With your mind made up, slam your laptop shut and get dressed to go to your nearest bakery and place your order.

. . .

On Sunday afternoon you pick up your cake from the bakery, only mildly embarrassed by the amount of times the owner bids you a “congratulations” and “your husband is lucky man!” When you make it back to the apartment and open up the blue pastry box on the counter everything suddenly feels very real. The cake itself is perfect—exactly like the picture you saw that day on Pinterest. A white buttercream base with beautiful purple letters spelling out “we’re having a baby!” in cursive. There are even small yellow flowers surrounding the edges, as suggested by the shop owner.

It looks absolutely delicious but you feel like you’re going to throw up.

According to Izaya’s text that morning he’ll be back within three hours from now and that’s when you’ll have to wordlessly hand him this cake and watch as his expression morphs into something you’ve likely never seen before.

‘What if he just abandons us?’

Your right hand unconsciously wraps over the now noticeable little bulge on your stomach. It’s too late to have second-thoughts, you reason with yourself, the longer you draw this out the worse it will be. You decide a quick nap would do some good to ease your nerves. You’ll set your alarm for half an hour from now then clean the apartment and put on some soothing cartoons until Izaya gets home. After gingerly placing the cake box in the refrigerator you shuffle up the stairs to the bedroom. You’re unconscious almost as soon as your head hits the pillow.

. . .

When you peel your eyelids open you find yourself feeling more calm than you remember feeling after a nap. You stretch each of your limbs and wriggle your toes as you allow your foggy brain to properly wake up.The rays of light streaming through the blinds seem to radiate a comforting warmth to fight of the chill of the bedroom.

 ‘Wait...light!?’

A rush of panic overtakes your system and you scramble to find your phone on the bedside table, nearly screaming when you read the blaring white digits on the screen.

 9:07AM

You didn’t just take a nap, you slept through the night.

Your head whips around to find the other side of the bed neatly made, just as it was when you climbed in bed yesterday. Maybe you still had a chance—maybe some unforeseen thing happened and Izaya had to spend an extra night in Ōsaka. You nearly trip and faceplant several times in your haste to rush downstairs and into the kitchen where you’d hid the cake.

Placing the cold box on the counter, your hands tremble lightly as they slowly lift the lid.

You heart skips a beat.

One perfectly sized slice was missing, leaving only a few crumbs in its wake.

You don’t even have time to have a proper mental breakdown before a door slams shut. “Ah, I see you’re finally awake~!”

Almost in slow motion your eyes slide from the cake to the tall black haired man holding a bag of what some distant part of your brain recognizes as breakfast from your favorite café. Izaya looks unbothered, irritatingly so, as if he had no idea of the inner turmoil you are currently experiencing.

“You must have been exhausted—you didn’t even stir when I came in last night.”

He has the audacity to exaggerate a pout as he whines, “it made me feel unwelcome, y’know~”

“Th-the...cake...” you barely manage to stutter out, struggling to make sense of the current situation.

“Hmm?” he hums, the smirk of his lips making it apparent he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“Ah, yes, thank you for the treat~ I don't usually like sweets but this one was surprisingly delicious~!”

He begins to casually place his bags on the counter across from you and pull out the breakfast items, explaining nothing more and even humming a bit to himself as he works to sort the food.

God you want to punch him.

You swallow thickly to steady yourself before trying again.

“S-so what do you think about...it” you ask, awkwardly gesturing to your stomach..

"Hmm? Ah, the vanilla was good but there was a little too much icing—"

"NO DUMBASS, I WAS TALKING ABOUT THE BABY!” You finally snap, face bright red in anger.

Izaya only guffaws, laughing as if you had just cracked the joke of the century. You’re only split seconds from throwing the whole cake at him when his laughter finally dies down and he slides around the counter and to your side. He wraps his arms around your waist, hands gently resting on either side of your belly and you feel your heart flutter unexpectedly at the tenderness of the action.

“You’re so cute when you think you’re hiding something from me.”

Your breath hitches.

“Wh-what? What do you mean by that—” you desperately attempt to turn to face him but his hold keeps you firmly in place.

“I’ve known since day one~” he sing-songs, sounding annoyingly proud of himself. “I’m surprised you finally decided to tell me though. I was starting to think you’d wait until you went into labor and needed a ride to the hospital,” Izaya jokes. “No way,” you protest, “that’s literally impossible—there’s no way you could have known already.”

He moves one arm from your body to swipe at some frosting on the forgotten cake, bringing it over to your lips in an offering you accept without thinking, taste buds tingling at the sweetness.

“Silly Y/n—I’m an expert at planning, y’know? All those times we ‘forgot’ to use protection weren’t an accident~”

Your whole body seems to erupt in flames as a blush takes over your face. This time, you really do hit him.

“I-idiot!!”

[ikingsley]

Ina x MC: The Dance

Ina x MC: The Dance

Chapter 1 of my own series loosely based on chapter 1 of Queen B. 

Summary: Ina and Luna have their first night out together.

Warnings: Fluff!

Author’s Notes: Pretty new around here, this is my first published fanfic ever! Also introducing my own MC, Luna! A special thanks to @kulaykape for helping me get the courage to publish.

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Ina was already in awe; the younger woman was clever, witty and attractive. Even more than that, Ina was mesmerized by the woman’s attentiveness. Ina had droned on about the purse and jeans industry and the woman had actually paid attention. Or at least it seemed that way. Oh well, Ina thought to herself. I’ll give her points for pretending to listen. She just hoped she hadn’t scared off yet another woman with her seemingly endless tangents. The two stared into each other’s eyes just as the song changed to an upbeat reggaeton song. 

“Come on Ina! We’ve gotta dance! I love this song,” the pretty woman said through a smile. 

Ina snapped back into reality as she felt a tug on her hand.

“I, uh, I’m not much of a dancer,” Ina replied quickly. “Okay, fine Ms. Bore,” the woman said as she hopped off the bar stool and stepped onto the dance floor.

Ina watched the woman she had just met dance happily to the beat. She sighed and took a swig of her drink, reminiscing on the few times she had danced. All of them involved a certain younger sister: one that was slightly less stuffy, slightly more outgoing, but just as intelligent. Lilian always asked her older sister to dance. It only took incessant begging on Lilian’s part and numerous groans on Ina’s part to get Ina to dance. 

The truth was that Ina did in fact enjoy dancing. But as sibling rivalries went, she could never tell Lilian, nor did Lilian know. 

The young woman made eye contact with Ina and nodded towards the dance floor, only to be met with Ina shaking her head. She shrugged, turned around and continued to dance. 

Ina sighed again. Should she go dance? Should she reveal her hidden talent? Ina looked around and made sure Lilian was nowhere in sight. She set her drink down and proceeded to head towards the dance floor.

The woman felt something on her shoulder. She was about to call someone out for bumping into her, but luckily, she turned around to find Ina on the other side. 

“I see you’ve taken up my offer, Ina,” she said smugly. “I suppose I’m more into dance than I had let on,” Ina replied.

And as fate would have it, as the two faced each other to dance, the song changed. The booming beat and unintelligible words of the previous songs were replaced by a slow song, one that couples would dance to at their wedding. 

“Are you any good at dancing slow songs?” Ina quipped. “Keep dancing and you’ll find out soon enough,” the woman smirked in reply. Ina sighed. “I’m not a patient woman,” Ina grumbled back.

Can I go where you go?

Can we always be this close forever and ever?

When the first slow song had ended, Ina thought it was an opportune time to find out more about the mysterious woman.

“So,” Ina began. “So,” the woman replied back. “Well, I indulged in your dance. Do I get to know your name?” Ina asked inquisitively. “Hmm. Not yet. I’m kinda liking this inscrutable dynamic I have going on now,” she smirked.

And Ina, as a woman of mystery herself, didn’t pry any further. They held each other tightly as they swayed back and forth to the music, lost in their own thoughts. Little did they know that they were both thinking about their first day at Belvoire.

~

“We’re closing in 10 minutes folks!” the DJ announced through the speaker.

“Huh. It’s almost 4 AM,” Ina said checking her watch. “Somehow I’m not tired,” the woman chuckled. “Me neither,” Ina replied as she dipped the woman while the song ended. “Woah! Anyways, you wanna get out of here?” the woman smiled with a question in her eyes. “Come on. I know a place,” Ina answered as she led the young woman out of the bar and out onto the busy streets of New York.

~

Ina and the woman entered the 24-hour diner together hand-in-hand. They only separated when they slid into opposite sides of a bright red booth. 

Ina carefully put on her glasses as the waiter handed her a menu. She was halfway through the menu when she looked up at the woman. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Ina asked. The woman blushed as she realized she was staring. “Huh? Oh. You look cute with glasses.” Ina said nothing in reply, but smiled behind her menu. 

~

The waiter returned with their orders and the woman broke the comfortable silence. “So what exactly do you do?” she asked. “I’m an anthropologist,” Ina replied proudly. “I guess a famous one in that case. That is, if you bring every woman you meet at the bar to eat at 4 AM,” the woman laughed. Her laughter was joined by Ina’s. “Only the ones I find special on first impression,” Ina jested. “And you? What brings you to New York City?” Ina asked as she munched on her burger. “Wait- how’d you know?” the woman asked. “You’re different from all the other people in the city,” Ina said. “In a good way or bad way,” the woman replied playfully. “A good way,” Ina smiled back.

Ina noticed that the two had almost finished their food and she called over the waiter. “One large chocolate milkshake please. Two straws,” Ina asked.

Ina indulged as soon as the waiter placed the milkshake on the table. The woman, however, took her time. “What? You don’t have a sweet too-” Ina began to ask before she was cut off. 

The woman had taken a dollop of whipped cream from the top of the milkshake and tapped it onto Ina’s nose. “Oh no. This means war. You’re in trouble now,” Ina said competitively. 

Ina took out her straw and began to blow whipped cream straight at the young woman, so she’d have speckles of it all over her face. “Wait no-” she pleaded. “It’s too late,” Ina remarked. “What if I make it up to you!” the woman blurted out desperately. 

Ina paused slightly. “And how do you propose you do that?” Ina said slyly. The woman leaned in slowly and licked off the whipped cream she had put on Ina’s nose. Her tongue wandered lower, dancing over Ina’s lips. 

Ina couldn’t stand it any longer. She pulled the woman close and sealed her lips to the woman’s. The two kissed passionately, unaware of any of their surroundings. When they finally pulled away, the two giggled like little girls, happy and satisfied.

The two continued to flirt and laugh with each other until they had finished their milkshake. Ina held open the door and the women filed out of the diner.

“Well, this was certainly not how I saw my evening going,” Ina said fondly. “Well, me neither,” the woman replied. Their laughter filled the dark and now-empty New York side street. “I’d love to do this again,” Ina said contentedly. “Me too,” the woman smiled. 

As the two exchanged information, Ina decided to poke fun at the woman again. “You know, as lovely as you are and as lovely as this evening was, I don’t think we can see each other anymore,” Ina said with a small smile. “What! But I thought we just decided-” the woman said all flustered. “How are we supposed to do this again if I don’t know your name?” Ina replied complacently.

“Oh, right. It’s Luna. Luna Garcia.”

[downwiththeficness]

In the Bond-Chapter 16

Summary: Lilah often wished she’d never said yes to working with the Gecko brothers—usually while dodging gunfire. At no time was she regretting that decision more than when she’s hanging upside down from the ceiling, staring down a group of hungry culebras and one (1) extremely powerful sun god.

Word Count: ~6,100

Warnings: Smut

A/N: This is an AU of my Story In the Blood, which can be read here. Basically, this fic explores what would have happened if Lilah had met up with Geckos before she met Brasa.

Taglist: @symbiont13

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Lilah woke unwillingly. Rolling over, she scrubbed at her eyes, still swollen from crying herself to sleep. Brasa had held her closely as they drove away from a home Lilah wasn’t sure she would ever return to. She’d managed to hold her tears for about ten minutes, and then her will had given out.

In her state, Lilah could be forgiven for how long it had taken her to notice that they weren’t on course for Brasa’s bar. When she’d asked where they were going, Brasa had simply said, ‘home’.

‘Home’ was quite literally carved into solid stone. Accessible through an elevator hidden cleverly in a low rock formation. It opened into a completely dark corridor. Lilah let Brasa lead her by the hand into the darkness, looking back only once to catch Javier reaching down to close the doors to the elevator carriage, shutting out the only light.

Blind, Lilah’s step had faltered. Brasa took it in stride, wrapping an arm around her and acting as her guide. They reached a door, which opened to… ‘home’. It was, she supposed, average in size, though she hadn’t paid much attention to the architecture. Brasa had cosetted her in yet another deliciously comfortable bed and she had spent the rest of the afternoon and evening putting off Brasa’s questions regarding her well being.

To be fair, Lilah hadn’t known how she felt the night previous. She still wasn’t sure how she felt. Her emotions wavered between indignation and deep depression, both of which made her head ache. She pushed the covers back and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

Padding quietly to the bathroom by the illumination of a small nightlight shining near the door of the bedroom, Lilah went through the motions of cleaning herself up. No stranger to a rough night, she was unsurprised to find shadows beneath her eyes and her hair in disarray. A quick look in the vanity drawers found a comb that the used to gingerly comb out the tangles.

After washing her face, Lilah made her way to the bedroom door, peering out into the hallway. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, she tip toed towards the living room. In the few moments that she’d spent standing at the threshold, waiting for Brasa to shrug off his coat and hang it up, she’d noticed how sumptuous the furniture was—an overstuffed couch, soft carpets, dark and heavy woods. Everything was all rich fabric and soft textures. And yet, it was strangely bare. No pictures, no art, no...personality.

As she made her way deeper into the house, Lilah came upon Brasa sitting in the plush chair, a book in his hand. Head bent over the pages, he looked...so completely normal that she had to blink a few times to make sure that it was, indeed, him.

Sensing her approach, he looked up, eyes assessing, “How did you sleep?”

Lilah watched as he closed the book, setting it aside, She watched as he stood and approached. She watched as he became more concerned as she failed to respond. He grasped her above the elbows, head dipping to catch her eyes. Lilah couldn’t hold the gaze, and felt ridiculous for it.

“You should eat,” he pronounced, turning her and leading her gently through a set of double doors to a small, intimate dining room.

He bade her to sit, moving past the room and through to the kitchen. Lilah leaned her elbows on the table, resting her head in her palms as she waited. Drowsy from too much sleep, she blinked lazily into the middle distance, until movement in her periphery caught her attention.

Brasa approached, a plate in one hand, a glass of water in the other. He placed both before her, nudging the plate when she hesitated. Lilah looked down at what he made, a small chuckle sounding from low in her throat. Eggs in a basket. Toads in a hole. He’d remembered.

Charmed, and more than a little grateful, Lilah picked up the fork and cut into the edge of the toast, nicking the egg yolk. As she chewed,  she glanced over at Brasa, who was watching her. Though his posture was relaxed, there was a sharp light in his eyes that signaled he was studying her carefully.

“He will change his mind,” he said casually, gesturing smoothly with one hand.

Lilah paused, swallowing, “What?”

Brasa smiled, “Seth. He will change his mind.”

Eyes falling to her plate, Lilah busied herself with cutting into the second piece of toast, “You know that?”

“I do,” he answered.

“How?”

He shrugged, “I’m old.”

“You’ve mentioned.”

With a smile, he countered, “Old enough to know how men like Seth think. He’ll be mad for a while, but if he cares for you—and I think he does—he will come around.”

Lilah sighed and leaned back into her chair, “I’m so mad at him.”

Brasa nodded, saying nothing, waiting for her to continue. She looked to the ceiling, trying to gather her thoughts, to sort her emotions in a way that made any kind of sense.

“I know he’s struggling to accept…” she gestured broadly, “All of this. I mean, I’m still trying to accept it. But...the way he treated me, like a…”

Lilah stopped, ‘kid sister’ sitting like lead on her tongue. Her eyes closed as the implications of her own thoughts sunk in. He’d treated her just like a kid sister, an annoying kid sister that didn’t know what they were doing. And, somehow, that made her feel worse.

Sensing her unease, Brasa leaned forward and touched her hand, brushing his fingers over the back, “As I said. He will get over it.”

Casting him a sorrowful look, she murmured, “I hope so. We’re friends, you know?”

“I know.”

“And,” she continued, turning her hand over to thread her fingers through his, “I still want to be friends.”

He nodded, giving her hand a squeeze before picking up her plate and taking it to the kitchen. Lilah fiddled with her glass in a kind of soft resignation. This would have to play out however it was going to. Pushing the issue wasn’t going to make things better. Neither was dwelling on it. Still, she gave herself permission to feel sad for a while. That seemed fair.

Brasa returned and held out a hand to her, which she took. They walked amiably back to the living room where he sat her down on the couch and handed her the remote.

“I have some work to do,” he explained, leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of her head, “It’ll take a few hours. Then, we’ll decide what to do for the evening.”

Lilah spent maybe half an hour scrolling through the many streaming services that were on the top menu of the TV, amazed that Brasa had gotten so fully up to speed on modern entertainment. Furtively, she glanced through some of his watch history, smiling when she noted that he’d made it all the way through every season of House and, oddly enough, had recently watched The Princess Bride.

Eventually, she settled on restarting Drunk History from the beginning. Prior to signing on with the Gecko brothers, she’d watched a few episodes a month in her down time. There were always TVs on in the bar, so she’d never thought to purchase one for her room. Now seemed a good time for some comfort.

Brasa had been right when he’d said that his work would take a few hours. Lunchtime came and went, Lilah making her way to the kitchen and finding that he’d stocked it with some basic staples. They were going to have to take a shopping trip, though. The man had eggs, bread, a bag of various fruits, and a jug of milk. Her guess was that he’d googled basic foodstuffs and had run with it.

After eating her meal perched over the sink, Lilah washed her dishes and returned to the couch to start the next season. That was where Brasa found her, half asleep, stretched out over the cushions. He smiled as he approached, reaching down to lift her legs and sit, draping her feet over his lap.

“Done for the day?”

He shrugged, “In one manner of speaking.”

“What does that mean?”

Another shrug, “Benny’s following has grown again. We think he’s turning a few humans a week.”

Her brows came together, “What does that mean for you?”

Brasa took a few seconds to think about it, his fingers drawing little circles over the sensitive skin of her ankle, “It means that he is likely going to resort to violence, and soon.”

Lilah felt her muscles tense, a kind of latent anxiety rolling along her body, “How do we prevent it?”

Looking at her, his expression was soft, but sure, “I don’t think we can.”

She sat up, disbelieving, “Why not?”

Turning a little bit so that he could prop his arm up on the back of the couch, Brasa explained, “Men like this…there is only one thing that checks them, and I promised you that I would look at other options. He wants blood, will be satisfied by nothing else.”

Lilah pulled her legs up and under her body, folding her hands in her lap, “We can talk to him, right?”

“We tried that.”

“For like two seconds,” she countered, her anxiety melting into frustration, “There has to be a way. Nobody has to die for this.”

Head tilting to the side, he said, “When has, essentially, a coup, ever not resulted in bloodshed?”

Lilah rolled her eyes, “This isn’t a coup. Its...an administrative change.”

Brasa shot her a look that very clearly said that she was bullshitting, “In their eyes, I have taken away their way of life. You know this.”

She shook her head, “You’re giving them a better life. A life where they’re not hiding in the dark, picking off humans, and running from local hunters.”

“Some don’t see it that way.”

There was a kind of finality in his tone, a tension borne of having had this argument over and over with different people. Lilah sighed and wriggled deeper into the couch, feeling not a little bit petulant.

Brasa reached over and took her hand in a loose grasp, “This is not the first time I’ve brokered peace—did so just recently with the most stubborn people I’ve ever met, if you’ll recall.”

She laughed, “Yeah. There were a couple times I almost threw something at one or all of you during those meetings.”

One side of his mouth quirked up, “I could tell. You do not hide your feelings well.”

“Um, excuse me, I think I do,” Lilah shot back.

The little quirk in his mouth widened to a smile, “You do not. At least, not from me.”

Again, she rolled her eyes, “That’s because of the bond.”

He hummed in the negative, “You have a very expressive face.”

Lilah scoffed, “I have an excellent poker face.”

This earn her a low chuckle, “You do not.”

“I was able to keep the bond a secret for months.”

Brasa leaned into her space, his hand running up the length of her arm to settle behind her neck, “Richie knew within seconds of seeing you the night we met. And Seth’s powers of perception are mediocre, at best.”

Lilah was not too proud to admit that she was a little dazed at how close they were, coffee and caramel filling her senses. He’d given her a lot of space over the last twenty four hours—she wasn’t even sure where he’d slept. She found herself yearning to crawl right into his lap and stay there for the rest of the night, and some part of her figured that he’d probably let her.

But, while he’d been working, she’d been thinking. And, the first order of business was to get some food that would make more than one kind of meal in the house.

“We need to go shopping,” she said, smiling when he tilted his head to the side in confusion, “Groceries. We need them—well, I need them.”

Brasa gave a curt nod, rising and pulling her to standing, “Do you want to go now?”

Knowing that she looked pretty fucking bad, Lilah shook her head, “Let me get cleaned up. I’ll be out in about forty minutes.”

She took her time with getting ready, making sure that she washed every inch of skin, shampooed and conditioned her hair, covered her dark circles, and put on some fresh, clean clothes. As she dug into her bag for socks, her phone and the case for her comm fell out. She touched them gingerly, noting that there was no service and that the comm was redundant, given that she didn’t have anyone to connect with. She tucked both away.

In the end, it took a little longer than forty minutes, but Brasa didn’t seem to mind. When she emerged from the bedroom, he was lounging on the couch, CSPAN playing on the TV.

Lilah’s eyes narrowed, “Why are you watching this?”

His eyes scanned her lazily, taking her in, “You didn’t think my entire business was in medical supplies, did you?”

She shrugged, “We never discussed it in detail.”

Reaching for the remote, he turned off the TV and stood, “I like a diverse portfolio. Keeps things stable  across the board.”

Lilah knew nothing about stocks, and even less about portfolios, “I’m sure that’s a good strategy.”

“It can be, though some people prefer a more adventurous technique.”

She moved towards the door, looking over her shoulder at him, “But, not you.”

He followed, “No.”

That tracked. Every decision Lilah had ever seen him make was calculated with brutal efficiency. Brasa did nothing by halves, nor did he make impulsive decisions. It was one of the things that Lilah liked most about him.

The hall was dark as it had been the day before, a chilling lack of light—except for a small triangle in the distance, the illumination so dull that it almost didn’t look real. As before, Brasa took her hand, leading her. As before, she went willingly. Unlike before, Lilah was alert enough to ask questions.

“What is this place?”

Brasa’s voice sounded next to her, “I’ve already told you.”

“Yeah, but what is it?”

They neared the light, and it was cast in shadow for a moment as Brasa pressed the button, “I needed a more secure place, a place to allow myself true rest. A place where I could keep you safe, when the time came.”

Leaning into his side, she asked, “Because of Benny?”

Though she couldn’t see him, Lilah felt him shake his head, “I have lived a life of nearly total violence. That comes with a cost.”

And, here they were, back to the same conversation they’d had at least twice before. Her safety. Her weakness. Her humanity—though, not her mortality.

“You think I’m safer underground?”

The doors opened and Brasa ushered her inside, “Only Javier and I—and now, you—know about it. It is secret.”

She smirked at him, “I’ve always wanted a secret hideout.”

He returned her mirth, “I live to serve.”

They held hands all the way to the surface and up until Brasa helped her up and into an SUV that was hidden in what basically amounted to a hollowed out rock. Lilah had to hand it to them. If she hadn’t known that this was here, she would have never guessed. There was literally no indication that the formations were anything but rocks, once all the entrances were closed.

She looked up a local store and they headed out, guided by the navigation in the dash. As they drove, Lilah drew up a list on her phone, having memorized her standard grocery order long ago. To it, she added a few items that she might not otherwise pick up, telling herself that she deserved a treat or two after the emotional fallout of her confrontation with Seth. She also decided that she was going to pick up a few bottles of wine.

Lilah had to admit that she never once thought about what it would be like to see Brasa in such a mundane setting. She doubted that he did his own shopping, what with Javier taking care of most menial tasks. Now, she was watching him step through the automatic doors of a local supermarket, his head turning to glance at her for direction.

It was surreal. Truly surreal. Lilah had the insane urge to laugh as she looked from him to the milling crowd that parted around him. She caught a few curious glances from them, even further amused that Brasa seemed to take no notice.

Shaking herself from her thoughts, Lilah took his arm and led him to the shopping carts, pulling one from the long line and taking a moment to study the layout of the store. Tall shelves were lined one after another, stocked full with wares.  Veering to the left, she headed for the bins of fresh fruits and vegetables.

Lilah was intimately aware of the way Brasa observed her going from bin to bin, picking out one or two and setting in the cart. He gave her space, but paid attention to how she chose her wares. Lilah mostly ignored him, focusing on trying to get enough to last her at least a few days.

As they passed the dairy aisle, Brasa finally said, “Things have moved...so quickly in the last few hundred years.”

She was leaning down to pick up an extra carton of eggs when he spoke, her head turning awkwardly to look at him, “What does that mean?”

He pushed his hands into his pockets, giving a shrug, “Advancements that would have taken a millennia several thousand years ago now happen in a hundred.”

Putting the eggs in the cart, Lilah thought about it for a moment, moving slowly towards the canned food, “I suppose you’re right.”

“I am,” he pronounced, smug.

She scoffed, pulling cans off the shelf to stock the small pantry behind the kitchen. Her voice, when it came, was tinged with a tease, “I’m an ancient vampire, I’m so smart, and I’ve seen everything.”

His laugh was soft, but genuinely amused, his chin dipping down towards his chest in a movement that was nothing short of demure. If Lilah were just some anonymous person in this store, if she were looking at him for the first time in that moment, her breath would have caught—as it was now—and she would have scurried away feeling so completely embarrassed at finding a total stranger so endearing.

As it was, she wasn’t anonymous. He very much knew her, a thought that would have been no less than frightening a year ago. Lilah felt no such fear now, only warmth that unfurled comfortably in her chest.

Brasa steered her down an aisle, gesturing at a shelf full of Gatorade, “Javier has sent me four texts reminding me that you will need this.”

Mouth open, Lilah stared at him in confusion for several seconds, “I will?”

He nodded, “Javier is adamant that I keep this in stock. He says you prefer the red color.”

Agog, Lilah asked, “How the fuck does he know that?”

Brasa cast her a look that said she should know the answer to that question. Javier might be quiet and unassuming, but he was better than the FBI at finding out the minutiae of people’s lives.

“Okay,” Lilah relented, “He’s right, but I don’t know why you would need to keep it on hand. Its not like I’ll need to constantly replenish my—oh.”

Without another word, Lilah leaned down and picked up two packs, setting them in the cart. She lost her battle to keep the nervous laugh at bay when she glanced at Brasa’s smirking face. He wasn’t even trying to hide the satisfaction in his expression. To give herself something to do other than smile stupidly, she turned her attention to navigating to the check out.

Brasa was quietly helpful in loading the groceries onto the conveyor, and Lilah didn’t miss how he maneuvered around her to pay before she could get her card out of her pocket. Casting him a knowing smile, Lilah moved past him, hands briefly touching his hips so that she could slide out from between the partitions to load the cart.

A few minutes later, she was pushing it out into the warm, humid night, and towards where he’d parked the SUV. A few more minutes, and they were making their way back to what she was going to continually call the ‘secret hideout’. The title brought a small, ‘secret smile’ to her lips.

As they pulled to a stop, that small smile turned into a grin. She looked to Brasa, “You’re about to be witness to an ancient human custom, going back at least a century.”

Head cocked to the side, Brasa looked at her in confusion, “I believe I am aware of most human customs, ancient or otherwise.”

Rolling her eyes, Lilah hopped out of the car and made her away around to the trunk, pushing the button to initiate the automatic open. She’d only picked out enough food to last for the week she promised him when he’d been negotiating her stay. Lilah was not going to think about how she likely would have to extend her stay indefinitely.

Lilah reached down and looped a few bags over her arm, “So it goes like this: No matter how much you buy, you never, ever, take more than one trip to get it in the house.”

Brasa looked at her arm, laden with bags, and back to the rest, his brow rising, “I...was not aware of this custom.”

She fixed him with a serious look, “Its a very important tradition.”

A little crease formed between his brows as he studied the bags they had left. Lilah swallowed the laugh that threatened to break the whole act apart, and hefted a few more onto her free arm. Brasa looked at what she carried, then leaned in and snagged the rest, hoisting them effortlessly in one arm.

She stared at him, chastising herself for forgetting how powerful he really was. She chastised herself further when she stayed right where she was as he reached up, closed the trunk, and tugged one of her arms free of the bags. It wasn’t until she was looking at his back as he opened the door to the elevator that she was able to make her feet move.

As they made the descent, Brasa shifted the bags to one arm and took her hand, turning it over to see how the bags had made little creases in her skin in the short time before he’d taken the load.

“I don’t understand this tradition,” he muttered, thumb rubbing at her palm.

Lilah smirked, “You don’t have to understand it to be a part of it.”

His eyes lifted from where they were studying her skin, “You are right. Some things just are.”

She had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t talking about defeating the grocery bag challenge. The weight behind his gaze made that place in the back of her mind flare up, the bond almost stinging her. Reflexively, her fingers curled, wrapping around his thumb.

There was a clinical ‘ding’ and the doors opened. Adjusting his grip, Brasa led her into the hall and to the door. A few taps, and the door opened. They carried the bags into the kitchen and Lilah took her time figuring out where to put everything.

As she was standing in the middle of the kitchen with a small bag of potatoes, Brasa’s phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket, held up a finger, and stepped from the room. She looked at the place where he’d been for a few seconds before shaking herself to attention. The potatoes could stay on the counter.

It was then that her stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten in several hours. With new food to choose from, she found herself a little bit at a loss as to what to make. In his kitchen, bare save for the food and the tools she needed to cook it with, she again longed for comfort. Broccoli cheese soup, it was.

With renewed purpose, Lilah began assembling the ingredients and putting a pot on the burner. She hadn’t made this particular recipe since high school, when she was still living with a family that she hadn’t talked to in years. Her hand on the knife paused as she took that in.

When she was running dangerous jobs for shady people, she had deliberately cut them off in fear for their safety. Now, she knew she could definitely never rekindle that relationship. What would happen in ten years, twenty, fifty, when she didn’t age, when she didn’t die?

Sniffing, she set her mind to cutting the broccoli florets into one inch pieces. There was no need to deepen the emotional anguish she’d experienced this week. She could do that at another time. Just to be safe, she opened a bottle of wine and left it and the glass on the counter to breathe.

As she was preparing to stir in the cheese to thicken the broth, Brasa returned. He leaned against the counter to watch her cook, arms crossed.

“Work?” she questioned lightly.

He gave a nod, “Javier worries.”

She hummed, glancing over her shoulder at him, “And?”

Pushing from the counter, he touched the small of her back. His hand traveled around her waist to rest just below her belly button. Lilah leaned into him, her head tilting to the side so that he could lay his chin on her shoulder. She relaxed into his hold, stirring slowly, in no hurry to move. Eventually, the soup thickened up as it was supposed to, and she reached up to turn the burner off.

Brasa already had a bowl ready for her, a spoon in his other hand. Lilah took it with a grateful nod and ladled a serving for herself. Rather than sit at the dining room table, Lilah hopped up onto the counter and spooned some into her mouth.

“You going to answer my question?”

His eyes dropped, though his mouth quirked in amusement, “He thinks we should be more aggressive with Benny.”

Lilah waved her spoon at him, indicating that he should continue.

“I find myself wondering if I should follow that advice.”

“Why?”

He sighed, his shoulders slumping, “His numbers grow along with the recklessness of his actions. He attacked a hotel last night, slaughtered the guests and staff. The police are investigating.”

Swinging one leg, Lilah asked, “You can’t buy them, bribe them to close the investigation?”

“We are working on that. The police chief is...remarkably stubborn about policy. Javier wants to eat him.”

She should not have laughed, but the thought of the prim and dapper Javier ripping the throat out of a police officer did not mesh together. He’d be too worried that he’d get blood on his suit.

When she finished, Lilah slipped down from the counter and rinsed out the bowl, setting it in the sink to clean later, “You want to watch a movie?”

“I could do that.”

“Cool,” she replied, already heading for the living room, grabbing the bottle of wine she’d opened along with the glass, “Where do you keep your extra blankets?”

She picked the softest, fluffiest one of the bunch and threw it over them both as they sat next to each other on the couch. Wine glass in hand, Lilah flicked through the streaming channels, already knowing which selection she was going to make.

His hand on her thigh, Brasa settled deeper into the cushion, letting out a light chuckle as she hit play, “I like this one.”

“Me, too,” she said, shifting so that she could lay her head on his shoulder.

Warm, full, and comfortable, Lilah found herself drifting even as Princess Buttercup argued with the Dread Pirate Roberts. The familiarity of Brasa’s scent wrapped around her and the story on the screen made everything inside her loosen for the first time since she’d left behind an angry Seth—well, that and two glasses of excellent wine.

By the time the credits rolled, Brasa had leaned back into the arm of the couch, pulling Lilah down to lay atop him. Her body pressed against his, Lilah soaked up his unnatural warmth. His arms held her loosely, but his hands were firm on her back and hip.

Lilah pushed up on her hands, looking down at him, “Thanks for bringing me here.”

“Of course,” he said, a little too quickly, “Of course.”

She smiled, dropping to an elbow and kissing him. Intending it to be a sort of ‘thank you’, Lilah started to pull away only to feel Brasa cup the back of her neck and hold her in place as he twined his tongue with hers. He warmed beneath her, burning hot, body arching. Lilah pulled her knees up underneath her, balancing on one hand so that she could run the other down the front of his shirt to pull it from where he had it tucked into his slacks.

He lifted his hips when she moved around to the back, his own hands roaming over her jean clad legs, pulling on each so that she sat astride him. And then, in a move she could have never accomplished on her own, he swung his legs over the edge of the couch and stood. Her ankles crossed to anchor her body on his hips, her hands grasping frantically to clasp the back of his neck. Lilah laughed as he kissed her cheek, her neck, her shoulder, all the while moving towards the bedroom.

He laid her carefully on the bed and systematically undressed her. Shoes, socks, jeans, underwear, shirt, bra—everything was peeled off without ceremony, without patience. Lilah was stripped bare before her brain caught up to the fact that this was actually going to happen. And then he was crawling over her, his mouth sealing over hers.

He kissed her like he was starved, as if he might never kiss her again. Deep, unrelenting kisses that left her gasping beneath him. She reached up to to get at the buttons of his shirt, managing to get one or two free before he was moving down her body, nuzzling the skin between her breasts. Thumbs circling her nipples, he drew one into his mouth, releasing it with a wet sound. He licked at her biting down gently, and laving the spot with his tongue.

Shifting a little to the side, Brasa pulled her knee up and around his waist, fingers drifting so that he could run them up the length of her slit. She keened, spine arching up so far that her shoulders lifted off the mattress. Her skin was seared where they touched, sizzling with sensation that only seemed to grow. He massaged her in wide circles, the pad of his forefinger brushing over her opening.

Rubbing his cheek against her, Brasa moved steadily downwards, kissing and sucking and nipping until he rested between her spread thighs. If Lilah had any thought that he would ease into it, those thoughts were shattered by one long, enthusiastic lick. Sighing into the motion, he sucked at her folds, emitting a contented growl when her legs tightened around his shoulders.

He held her open, wedging his massive body into her hips until her inner thighs ached with the strain. Lilah was beyond caring, her fingers digging into the pillow beneath her as she rose higher and higher towards orgasm. There was no teasing, no drawing this out. Brasa worked with a singular purpose, tongue swirling around her clit, hands holding her up to his mouth.

She grit her teeth, the need so vast and deep that it became a vibrant pain, soothed only by his touch. It tunneled down deep into her bones, sticking in her throat when she cried out, the spasms raking over her voice so that it came out hoarse and rasping.

Lilah breathed forcefully, eyes squeezed shut as he worked her through it, easing up when she shook, too sensitive. When she was able to look down at him, he was rolling his tongue over his lips, eyes focused on where she was still fluttering sporadically. Her mouth went dry at the sight, the hunger that he wasn’t even attempting to veil.

The hand on her hip rotated, and she felt him push two fingers inside her, the motion sending little frissons of electricity over the nerve endings. She shivered. He smiled, fangs peeking out. Then, he brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, black gaze watching her reaction. Lilah bit her lip, giving up totally on controlling her breathing.

He kissed his way up her body, settling atop her. Lilah pulled him even closer, yanking at the buttons of his shirt. It was nearly impossible to focus when he was kissing her, hands turning her head so that he could nuzzle against her neck, inhaling. She gave herself some credit. She got his shirt unbuttoned and halfway down his arms before she got distracted by a particularly hard nip just above her collarbone.

Hissing, she pulled him up, trying to gain a little leverage to push him over onto his back. Lilah was not successful. He held her down, smirking when she made a small sound of frustration.

“I want,” she started, a whine cutting off the rest of the words.

Brasa caught her hands, holding them down onto the mattress with almost his full weight, “What is it?”  

Oh, now he wants to tease, she thought.

“Is this what you want?” His hips swiveled in a slow, firm grind, “I’ll give it to you, if its what you want, querida.”

Lilah moaned, writhing beneath him, desperate to get the friction she needed. She was close, close enough that she was willing to forgo any sense of pride to get there.

“Yes, yes,” she breathed, head thrown back as he rolled his hips against her.

He let go of one of her wrists, and she felt him reach down and open the fly of his slacks. Lifting off just enough to kick off the offending material, Brasa laid back down, gathering her to him. The next kiss was venom soaked, sweet and hot. Lilah groaned, pushing her hips into him, needing to feel him inside her.

Brasa slid in to the hilt in one strong, fluid motion that filled the emptiness inside Lilah completely. Her breath stuttered in her lungs, her legs lifting to accommodate him. He was so fucking hot—his mouth, his body, his cock. Sweat pooled in the hollows and bend of her limbs, darkening the hair at her temple. She gripped his shoulders, pulled on the shirt he still wore, caught by the buttons on his cuffs.

And then he was moving. The sound of his cock pushing into her wet body, the feeling of him both easing and stirring the blooming ache of her arousal, the way he ground out a helpless sound against her neck. It all meshed together, overwhelming her until she could do nothing but hold on as he fucked her.

The pleasure grew inside her, reaching into every inch of her body. She wailed, head thrown back, fingers fisted in his hair. Spurred on, his pace picked up, breath punching out of him when she raked her nails up his back. It took very little to push her the rest of the way over the edge, the feeling spiraling through her.

Brasa’s grip on her tightened as he thrust into her one last time, his spine arched, lips pulled back from his fangs. She could feel him pulsing, could feel every reflexive spasm as he came.

When his strength returned, Brasa rolled gingerly off her, his large hand tracing down the center of her body to rest heavily on her belly. She grasped it, holding him by the wrist as she caught her breath. Lilah looked over at him, smiling at the fact that he was still wearing that shirt, though she’d torn the collar and it was wrinkled beyond nearly all recognition.

Her fingers touched the tear, “That’s going to be a difficult one to explain to the dry cleaner.”

Brasa smirked as he unbuttoned the cuffs around each wrist, “I may keep it like this.”

Lilah’s brows lifted, “Like a memento?”

He hummed in confirmation.

“I didn’t realize you were so sentimental.”

Throwing the shirt off the side of the bed, Brasa laid on his side, observing her from where he’d perched his head on his palm, “I am not, generally. But, with you…” He trailed off as he leaned down and kissed her softly.

[ramblings-of-a-cavill-lover]

Good Looking Stranger

Summary: A handsome stranger finally stops by the café where you work after weeks just walking by.

Warnings: Language

Word count: 1,6k+

A/N: This is my submission to @browngirlmagic 1k Writing Challenge, congratulations Ayesha!

Thank you always @shellbilee for helping me, and making sure I didn’t write anything unintelligible. I love you girl!

☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕

It was a quiet night, and with finals behind your lucky regulars, it would probably remain like that for the rest of the month.

Your hope for better tips rested on the increasing temperature and tourists seeking refuge and refreshments in the small café where you worked.

You had the evening shift and it was almost time for the handsome stranger to cross the street and pass by the window.

Tall, dark haired, and if there was any more light, you’d have been able to see the color of his eyes, but your bet was on blue.

Like clockwork, he exited the subway station, crossed the street and, to your amazement and slight panic, entered the café.

You held your smile as best as you could while you served a steaming cup of cappuccino and a slice of carrot cake to an old man sitting at the table closest to the window.

As if drawing your eyes like a magnet, his figure strutting through the room made you slowly turn. He chose the very last stool by the counter, sitting sideways with his back to the wall and facing the door.

Before his eyes could reach yours on his sweep of the room, you swiftly turned back.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” you asked the older gentleman, and his full-mouthed ‘no’ was enough to get you moving.

“Good evening and welcome!” you greeted the newcomer with what you hoped was a warm smile, doing your best to hide your anxiety. “What can I get you?”

His head, buried in his phone until you spoke, snapped up. His eyes met yours, their surprising shade, a steely, deep sky blue in the dim lights, took your breath away.

After a moment of mutual gawking, he blinked and cleared his throat.

“Uhm, I’ll have a…” he paused, frowning at the menu written on the wall. “Uh, a latte.”

Uncertainty clear in his tone, his eyes swiveled back to yours and a frown mirrored the one you unwittingly displayed.

“Sure thing. It’ll only take a sec.” you replied, shaking off the odd impression you had, and moved away to prepare his order, making sure to always keep an eye on him.

He didn’t look back at you. His eyes were again glued to the screen and undiluted tension colored his features.  

Between preparing coffee and evaporating the milk, he had started typing.

You couldn’t help noticing he was wearing gloves when you were almost in summer, and weirder still, that he’d wear them inside.

You finished making his latte, and stood opposite the oddly mysterious man who apparently was in another galaxy.

“Here you go!” you announced, and once more his attention was seized abruptly. “Would you like anything to eat?” you insisted to his clear annoyance.

“No, thanks.” he answered, turning his focus immediately back to the device in his hands.

“Trouble in paradise?” you tried to get his attention, and rolled your eyes internally at your lame choice of words.

He sighed and put the phone in the pocket of his jeans.

“Kinda.” he started, with visible reluctance. “Are you like the bartender of this coffee shop?”

The tilt of his head was really cute, and it was your turn to hold back a sigh for an entirely different reason.

“Kinda.” you threw back at him, quirking your brow.

The smile he rewarded you with was something to die for. Never had you seen something so spontaneous and genuine from a complete stranger. It disarmed you of any annoyance you may have harbored.

“Tell me all about it. I promise it dies with me.” you prodded.

Crossing your arms over the counter, you settled in a somewhat comfortable position and gave him your undivided attention.

“Well, there’s this woman…” he began.

“Oooh!” you interrupted smiling, and earning another heart-stopping smile in return.

“She works for a company that…” he paused, looking away for a second and brought his beautiful eyes back to yours. “Well, her company competes with mine, kinda. Like industrial espionage, you know?”

“Oh, the plot thickens. And you like her?” you half asked, half guessed.

“She’s gorgeous, but I haven’t really had a chance. A chance to get to know her better, I mean.” he looked at his full glass of latte and took a sip.

“And is it impossible to do that?” you asked, more engrossed in the story than you had intended.

“Not impossible. But it would go against a lot of rules and…”

“Do you believe she is worth it?” you interrupted him.

“I believe she can be, yeah. I want to get her out of trouble. That company of hers… it’s bad news.” he shook his head and his jaw twitched. “I would have to make sure my moves were well planned, and that I didn’t screw up.” he replied, lost in his thoughts.

“You know, the Second Law of Thermodynamics states that everything goes from order to disorder.” you said, casually. “If you think you can control chaos, you’re setting yourself up for failure. And whenever you think you have control, that’s when things blow in your face.”

He studied you for a second longer than you were comfortable with, and as soon as you busied yourself with the over polished counter surface, he opened his mouth.

“You studied Physics?” he asked quietly.

You looked at him from the corner of your eye.

“I read a lot.” you replied matter-of-factly. “Don’t sleep much.”

Your shrug dismissing it caused him to squint minutely. You pretended not to see, moving instead closer to the client who had just come in and sat much closer to the door and the other man.

You held a finger, signaling you’d be back in a minute.

While you took the order you saw the gloved fingers back at their previous activity.

A chai latte and a blueberry banana muffin later, you were in front of blue eyes again.

“I changed my mind. Do you have turnovers?” he asked.

“Made this afternoon. Apple, cranberry and walnuts.” you replied with a smile.

“I’ll take twelve of those.” he said, eyeing you expectantly. “To go, please.”

“I’m sorry. Twelve?” you exclaimed, baffled.

“Sweet tooth.” he explained with a shrug. “Thank you for the talk. It helped a lot!”

You nodded, taking the money he owed you and feeling very confused about the whole exchange.

“Do come back!” you called after him when he was a few stools away from you.

“If these taste as good as they smell, you bet I will!” he replied with a smirk, lifting the bag with the turnovers.

After he left, the older gentleman paid for his cake and drink and left as well, but not before winking at you and fake whispering “If you don’t pounce on that hunk the next time, I will!”.

As he disappeared from sight, the man sitting closer to the door got up and locked it.

“Finally alone.” he declared in a heavy accent. “So, no useful intel from this first contact?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” you replied patiently. “Do not rush me. I haven’t been busting my ass here for the past six months for you to just show up and undermine my entire operation.”

“They sent me. They want a report.” he told you. “Do not shoot the messenger.”

His chuckling was grating, and much like your shift, your patience with him was coming to an end.

“I have to lock up. Pay up and make your way out. Please.”

“I’ll be around. Don’t look at me like that! Orders!” he barked at you upon seeing your scowl. “I’m redundancy!”

“Fine!” you said through your teeth. “Now leave. I’ve got shit to do.”

“Hail Hydra!” he whispered, not waiting for you to reciprocate. Spinning on his heels he left hurriedly.

“Yeah, yeah.” you grumbled.

So now you had a guard dog to watch your every step. Now, that he had finally entered the café.

You had a bad feeling about that.

Whatever you were expecting from Sargent James B. Barnes, former Hydra operative known as Winter Soldier, was not what you found.

Bringing him back in would be a task much more complicated than you had anticipated.

***

Two blocks away.

“Seriously? No coffee for me?” Sam asked outraged, rubbing his hands together while eyeing the bag in Bucky’s hand while he was still getting into the car. “So, what’s she like?”

“She’s been very well trained.” Bucky replied, his lips pursing in the familiar way that told Sam he wasn’t telling the whole story.

“Spit it out tinman, it’ll do you good.” he said,  while gesturing to the bag which Bucky still clutched.

“I think I trained her.” he confessed, handing an agape Sam the bag. “Close your mouth bird boy.” Bucky continued, serious.

“You mean the soldier trained her.” Sam replied, already expecting the old-timer to talk back.

“What’s the difference?” he countered, morose. “Back in Siberia I may have spent most of the time as the Soldier, but there were moments of consciousness.”

Sam chose not to reply. The bitterness was still there, despite all the work with Shuri.

He was beginning to regret accepting a Hydra linked mission from Hill, so soon after Bucky got his head back in shape. It would be devastating to watch the organization take all that progress away from him; to watch him be a prisoner of his own mind again.

“Those moments weren’t enough for Sargent Barnes to train anyone.” Sam told him, opening the bag, taking a turnover with a napkin and humming in appreciation before continuing. “She’ll be waiting for the Soldier, you’ll show her Bucky.”

Bucky looked at him baffled at his speech, and shook his head at the sizable bite Sam took out of the pastry.

“Steve was so much better at pep talks than you are.”

[rookie-ramsey]

Baby Blues, Chapter 10 (Bryce X MC)

Description: Bryce and MC can handle just about anything. Hopefully, pregnancy and parenting fall into the “just about anything” category.

Preview: Immediately, Emily noticed that her locker was slightly ajar. She opened it, finding herself greeted by a large bouquet of pink and red roses. “Oh…” She held them to her nose. “They smell so fresh! How did you get them here?”

“That’s a secret.” Bryce pulled her in for a kiss. “We met in this locker room, you know.”

“We did.” Emily leaned into his kiss, holding the bouquet in one hand and  her free hand on his hip. “It’s actually pretty romantic.”

Previous Chapter

“Honey, I’m home!”

Bryce sang playfully as he walked into the apartment, closing the door behind him.

“Hi,” Emily greeted, leaning into the kiss he gave her as he sat down. “How was your first day back, Doctor Dad?”

“I assisted on a pretty awesome surgery, but honestly? It felt a little weird being away from you two.” Bryce held his arms out. “Gimme.”

Grinning in amusement, Emily carefully transferred Ava into his arms. “I got her back to sleep at five, then she slept until nine. After that, she ate breakfast, pooped her pants, and went to sleep. Then she repeated the cycle every few hours.”

“Sounds like a fun day.” Bryce cuddled the  baby close. “I showed everyone… and I mean everyone who didn’t run away from me… pictures of her.”

“How dare they run away?”

“Right?” Suddenly, a mischievous grin spread across his face. “Someone has a birthday coming up.”

Emily arched a brow. “Bryce, my birthday is six weeks away.”

“And?”

“No surprise parties.”

“Did I say anything about a surprise party?”

She eyed him suspiciously. “I know you’re up to something.”

“I never denied that.” He smirked teasingly. “You’ll just have to wait to see what that something is.”

Emily rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t deny her curiosity. “I told my parents I’d bring Ava to visit them at their hotel while they’re in for the week. You wanna come?”

“Sounds fun, but I’ll stay here. I need to talk to Keiki about something.”

“And I’m sure that something is not a surprise party.”

Bryce grinned. “No guessing.” He kissed her goodbye, then surrendered Ava to her. Emily carried Ava out of the apartment, leaving Bryce alone in the living room. He made his way down the hall and knocked on Keiki’s door. When she called for him to come in, he walked in and plopped down in a chair.

“I need your help.”

Keiki looked up from her homework, surprised to see the desperation in her brother’s eyes. “With what?”

“I want to propose to Emily.”

The teen’s eyes widened. “Are you serious? It’s about time!”

“I know. We’ve discussed it before, and we both like the idea of getting married. I want to propose on her birthday.”

“Who knew you could be romantic?” Keiki smirked. “What do you need help with?”

“Help me come up with ideas. I want it to be perfect for her. I need to plan the setup, the location, what I’ll say…”

“And a ring.”

“That, too.”

“Hang on.” Opening her laptop, Keiki typed something. A few moments later, she grinned and showed him something. “You could include Ava.”

Bryce’s eyes widened. “I’m buying that right now.” He left the room long enough to grab his wallet, then ordered the suggested item. “I can start the night with a nice dinner, take her somewhere nice… then show her that.”

“She’ll love it.”

For the next twenty minutes, they came up with ideas until the front door opened. “Guess we have to pause the plans for now.”

A few moments later, Emily stuck her head in the room. “What are you two gossiping about?”

Bryce smirked. “Secrets.”

“Sure.”

“How did Ava like visiting your old apartment?��

“Well, she definitely liked the attention from everyone. I don’t think she completely understood Elijah’s explanation of how to play Red Dead Redemption 2, but she liked the performance.”

“Nice.” Bryce stood up and kissed her cheek. “I have to run an errand. I’ll be right back.”

“I could’ve done it on my way home.”

He shook his head, trying not to laugh. “Not this.”

XXXXXXX

“Where are we going?” Emily asked, eying Bryce and their surroundings as they walked hand in hand to some undisclosed location in the heart of one of Boston’s nicest districts.

“It’s a birthday surprise.” Bryce grinned. “And not what you’re expecting.”

“If it’s a party, we can’t stay out really late.”

“Ava will be fine with Keiki for a couple of hours. Besides, what we’re doing won’t take all night.” He squeezed her hand and stopped abruptly. “Here we are.”

“You’re acting weird.” Emily eyed him suspiciously.

“Am not.” Bryce linked his arm through hers and walked her into the restaurant. He led the way to the front desk. “Reservation for two under the name Lahela.”

“Right this way, sir.” The server led them to a cozy booth in the corner of the restaurant. Once they were seated, she handed them their menus and took their drink orders.

“I haven’t been to a fancy restaurant since the conception of our child. This looks nice.”

“It’s your birthday. I thought we could take a one-night break from takeout or suffering through our bad cooking.”

“I agree.” Emily took a sip of her drink. “I approve any restaurant that gives you a complimentary glass of wine.” She scanned the menu. “I may have to order dessert.”

“It’s your night, gorgeous. Order anything you want.” He reached over and squeezed her hand, lifting it to his lips and kissing her fingertips.

“You’re incredibly sweet. I love you for it.”

“You’re telling me you don’t just love me for my magic hands?” He grinned. “Love you, too. Happy birthday.”

“You’ve said that at least five times today.”

“Cause it’s important. I’m trying to work up some suspense for your surprise. Is it working?”

“Maybe a little,” she teased.

After dinner and dessert, Bryce paid their bill and stood up. “Come on. There’s a couple of things I want to do.”

“What’s that?”

“A surprise.” Taking her hand, Bryce led her out of the restaurant. For several minutes, they walked in comfortable silence.

“Why are we going to work?”

“You’ll see.” He gave her hand a squeeze as they approached Edenbrook. When they entered the building, he led the way through the atrium and into the locker room.

Immediately, Emily noticed that her locker was slightly ajar. She opened it, finding herself greeted by a large bouquet of pink and red roses. “Oh…” She held them to her nose. “They smell so fresh! How did you get them here?”

“That’s a secret.” Bryce pulled her in for a kiss. “We met in this locker room, you know.”

“We did.” Emily leaned into his kiss, holding the bouquet in one hand and  her free hand on his hip. “It’s actually pretty romantic.”

“Just one of my talents.” Bryce squeezed her arm. “The fancy dinner and flowers aren’t your only presents. We have to go home for one of them.”

“We’re going back to our apartment?”

“Yep.” Smirking, he pulled her against his side as they left the locker room. “But let’s make a pit stop.” Easily navigating the halls, he found a supply closet.

“The first supply closet we made out in.” Emily grinned. “And Zaid walked in on us.”

“I remember.” He grinned and opened it. “Oops. How clumsy of me.”

“And how not smooth at all.” Emily tried to contain her laughter as she followed him into the closet. “Hopefully, nobody walks in this time.”

“I dunno. It may be kinda romantic to completely reenact the first time we made out.” Bryce slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. She set her flowers down and wrapped her arms around his neck, meeting his warm eyes in the dim light.

“You’re just full of surprises tonight.”

“Who said I was done? The night’s still young.” Bryce pressed his lips to hers, moving one hand up to cradle her cheek. She closed her eyes and deepened his kiss hungrily, burying a hand in his soft hair.

After several long moments, their lips parted. Emily smiled up at him, inches from his face. “I think that was even more romantic than the first time we made out here.”

“Me too, even if we didn’t get walked in on.” Bryce pushed open the door. “As much as I hate to put an end to this, your next surprise awaits. I need to stop at the apartment first.”

By the time they made it to the apartment complex, stars twinkled in the clear evening sky.  Emily stopped at their apartment entrance.

“Why exactly are we here?”

“Just to get something we need for our walk. Wait here. It’s a surprise.” Grinning, Bryce darted into the building. He returned a few minutes later, pushing Ava in her stroller. She blinked drowsily as Emily touched her nose.

“Hi, sleepy. Did Daddy wake you up from a nap to drag you into his shenanigans?”

“Possibly, but tonight’s shenanigans will be worth it.” Gripping the handles of the stroller, Bryce resumed walking down the sidewalk. “I thought she would enjoy our walk through the park.”

“I think so, too.” She linked her arm through Bryce’s as they approached the closest park. This late, the park’s pathways were empty. Bryce pushed the stroller down the path until they came to a stop at the pond, its water reflecting the soft moonlight.

He applied the stroller’s brakes, then wrapped an arm around his girlfriend. “What do you think?”

“I think it looks nice and peaceful.” She leaned into him and smiled when he kissed her head. “This has been a really nice birthday. What’s my last surprise?”

“You have to unbutton Ava’s sweater to find out.”

“Huh?” Curious, she reached into the crib and unbuttoned the baby’s sweater. She read the print out loud. “Mommy, will you  marry Daddy?” Her eyes widened as the words dawned on her. “Bryce!”

Taking her hand, Bryce lowered to one knee. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a little velvet box, opening it to reveal a rose gold ring. “Emily Samantha Harmon… a lot has changed in the past two and a half years. When we met, I knew there could be something between you and me. I never expected we would end up having a baby, but I regret nothing.”

Emily’s breath hitched in her throat. She tightened her grip on Bryce’s hand, urging him to continue.

“Even if we can only have one Dr. Lahela on the surgical floor, I’d love for you to become the Dr. Lahela of diagnostics.” As Emily tried to stifle a giggle, he continued. “More than that, I love you and Ava more than anything. I want to take on whatever challenges we face together. Will you marry me?”

“Yes…” She smiled tearfully and threw her arms around him. “I will, Bryce.”

“Whew. I thought I’d have to bring out the puppy dog eyes.” Bryce slipped the ring onto her finger, then pulled her close for a long kiss. His arms wrapped tightly around her waist. When their lips parted, Emily rested her head on his shoulder.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you had a big surprise for me.”

“Told ya.” Bryce rested his chin on top of her head. “Happy birthday, babe.”

Next Chapter

Note: A nice long chapter to make up for the short ones recently and to commemorate my first OH fanfic to reach 10 chapters! I am getting so damn attached to this story.

Tags: @elephant9998 / @mvalentine / @fortunatelywaywardsandwich / @whatchique / @achalantspitfire / @lahellacute / @virtuallytakenby / @oofchoices / @dang-lahela / @misswhit12 / @drakeismyweakness / @sitsoncornflake / @a-tragical-tale / @bitchloveskcbaseball / @laceandlula / @paulfwesley / @bloomingsivan / @anotherbeingsworld / @vamped99 / @malvolari-take-my-soul / @doctorsurferbro / @loveellamae / @drethanfreakingramsey / @trappedinfandoms / @elladines / @macy-ray85 / @mrsdrlahela / @lucy-268 / @swimmingauthordreamerbonk / @drakewalker04  

[hermadnessmacwrites]

A Game of Puzzles (Making the Pieces Fit) Chapter 4

Summary: With the war over and Sasuke home again, Sakura is more hopeful for Team 7’s future than she has been in a long time. She’s quickly disappointed to find that nothing in the Village fits quite like it used to—not her old bedroom, not her clothes, and definitely not Team 7. Join Sakura as she scrambles to understand her place in this new team dynamic.

If she has a place there at all.

-OR-

It takes three dorks a painfully long time after moving in together to realize that they all belong together.

It’s the first time Sakura remembers October 10th ever being this...jovial.

The streets are always crowded this time of year, but the laughter seems oddly out of place. Gone are the mournful monochromatic clothes she’s used to. Everything she looks at—the clothes, the storefronts, the people—is so bright she has to work to avoid squinting.

“Oooh, Sakura, look, there’s a dango stand!”

Brightest of all is Naruto. He’s actually wearing less orange than usual, having been convinced into a pair of dark tan pants, but his expression more than makes up for the loss. Each street vendor and colored lantern is taken in with equal amounts of awe. He looks like a kid at his first birthday party, which…

...it’s a painfully accurate description. Sakura tries not to think about it.

“Didn’t you just eat like five bowls of ramen?” she teases. Naruto opens his mouth and closes it, looking for an excuse, but Sakura elbows him lightly in the side. “Just kidding, let’s go grab some. I heard they were going to add a new flavor today, too.”

Naruto’s eyes widen comically. “For me? Really?”

“Of course it’s for you,” Sasuke cuts in from behind them. Walking three across really isn’t possible in these crowds, but, like most genin teams, Team 7 feels most comfortable navigating public spaces in a loose triangle formation. “It’s not like Konoha has anything else to celebrate today, right?”

The pointed question isn’t lost on Naruto, who visibly deflates. Sakura spins to glare at Sasuke and catches a flash of a frown as his gaze drops to the pavement. It’s not Naruto that Sasuke is annoyed with, but that’s exactly who he’s hurting with his bitterness. It doesn’t take much for Naruto to swing to extreme sadness when he’s this happy, which Sasuke knows. She had hoped he would mind his temper today.

“Hey.” Sakura draws Naruto’s hand into hers and gives him her best smile. “Why don’t you take Mr. Killjoy and find a spot to sit for a bit. I’ll bring the dango over, okay?”

Naruto’s smile starts small, but quickly grows as she holds his hand.

“Yeah, I’ll keep him out of trouble,” he agrees, “Could you grab a couple different flavors?”

“As many as I can carry,” she assures him. Sakura sends one last pleading look at Sasuke before they disappear. She’s pretty sure he rolls his eyes at her, which isn’t exactly a promise to behave, but it does mean that he got the message. Probably. Hopefully.

Once Naruto is out of view, Sakura takes a quick second to get her emotions back in check. Sasuke’s right. The Village’s abrupt one eighty in its treatment of Naruto grates her nerves if she lets herself think about it for too long. They’d gone from disdain to reverence in the span of six months. Technically this is a festival celebrating the end of the war, but there’s been a fair amount of Uzumaki branded treats and well-wishes from strangers as well.

At least she had apologized.

A couple deep breaths later, Sakura’s pushing through the crowds towards the stand. There’s a line forming, but the vendor calls Sakura forward as soon as he sees her. Embarrassed, Sakura ducks her head in a small apology to the people in line as she moves past them. She doesn’t want to make more of a scene than she already is, and she really wants to get back to her team as soon as she can.

“Could I get two Hanami dango, a mitarashi dango, and a”—she cranes her neck to get a better look at the name of the new flavor from the poster on the side of the cart—“and one Uzumaki dango, please?”

“Absolutely! Would you like a Team 7 dango as well?”

“Oh!” There’s nothing about a Team 7 dango on the sign. Is that actually a thing? Did he make that up when he saw her? “Um, yes, please. Thank you.”

By the time Sakura’s done counting out her coins, the dango are being shoved towards her. She scrambles to put her money pouch away and grab her sweets without holding up the line any longer. Four of the dango end up in one hand while a white, pink, and orange dango ends up in the other. It takes her a second to realize that this is supposed to be the Team 7 dango. The anger kicks in a second later.

To be fair to the vendor, she’s never actually seen blue dango before. Then again, she’s never seen a red habanero dango before today, and that’s definitely one of the flavors on the Uzumaki stick. Choosing the white dango for Kakashi feels like a dig at Sasuke. Sakura bites the orange dumpling off the stick and chews furiously. There. Now it just looks like a partially eaten Hanami dumpling.

That “Team 7” roll better not be on the actual menu. For the vendor’s sake.

Sakura finds Naruto and Sasuke sitting on top of one of the tables in an eating area, of all places. She has no idea who’s idea that was. It’s an extremely rude thing to do with so many people looking for seats, but Sakura doesn’t really want to be joined by the type of people who are deterred by her teammates’ antics right now.

Naruto spots her first and starts waving wildly—as if she could have missed the pair of them. Sasuke turns to see who has caught Naruto’s attention. When he recognizes her, he pulls one of his legs off the bench and onto the table so she’ll have a place to sit. Naruto follows his lead, pulling both his feet off the bench and into a criss-cross position. So they were trying to deter people from sitting with them.

She’s not even mad.

“One mitarashi dango, one hanami dango, and one Uzumaki dango,” she declares, handing over her loot. Naruto cheers, promptly digging into the hanami stick as soon as it’s in his hand. He’s two dumplings deep before Sakura’s even fully seated.

Sasuke’s eyebrow raises as she nibbles on her own dango. “You got two hanami dango for yourself?”

Busted.

“Uh, one of them is for you?” she tries. At Sasuke’s unimpressed expression, she relents, “Fine. Yes, I got two hanami for myself.” He still looks skeptical for some reason, so she tries for classic misdirection, “You might actually want to try the red dumpling from the Uzumaki dango, though, I’m pretty sure it’s spicy.”

“It is?” Naruto pauses his munching on the mitarashi stick to take a bite of the red dumpling before recoiling immediately. “Ack—it is! Why is it spicy?”

Sakura laughs. “I think the colors represent your family. The orange and yellow are pretty self-explanatory, so the red is probably for your mom. For the Uzumaki hair, I’m guessing. I don’t know why they didn’t choose cherry or something, though—that would have gone better with the rest of the flavors.”

“Her nickname was the ‘Red-hot Habanero,’ so that’s probably it,” Naruto explains, his smile dimming. It’s Sasuke’s turn to glare at her, and she winces, appropriately abashed. She always manages to stick her foot in her mouth when the conversation turns to parents. “Anyway, you should try it, Sasuke. It’s not sweet, like, at all, so I bet you’ll like it.”

Sakura figures the odds are skewed sixty/fourty in favor of Sasuke rejecting the offer, but Sasuke doesn’t actually say anything at all. Instead he bends down and bites the rest of the dumpling right off the stick that Naruto’s holding. Some of the drizzling sauce clings to his lower lip, and his tongue darts out quickly to wipe it clean.

She’s not even the one holding the stick, but Sakura is absolutely certain her heart fucking stutters to a stop at the sight. Poor Naruto looks appropriately shocked. His lips are parted in a gentle “o” of surprise, and his eyes are, dare she say it, looking a little glazed over. He rallies quickly, though, shoving the rest of the Uzumaki stick right under Sasuke’s nose.

“Try the orange one next!”

“Ugh, no.” It’s Sasuke’s turn to recoil. “That one probably is sweet, dumbass.”

"Come on," Naruto wheedles,"Just take a little—wait. Wait, are you saying my mom tastes better than I do?"

"Why do you have to phrase it like that!"

The words are different, but the cadence of her teammates bickering is familiar enough that it quickly fades to the background of her attention. She works through the rest of her "hanami" roll at a leisurely pace, scanning the crowds as she does. There's so much laughter. Even actual festivals haven't been this boisterous for years.

Most of these people weren't on the war front. It's easy to resent them for that—for celebrating the anniversary of such a trying day. Victory is not a reward granted, but a luxury paid for in blood and flesh by the pound. She understands the relief, but is this much pomp and circumstance acceptable? Does a life saved by a black market kidney still deserve celebration?

Sakura doesn't know.

A child screams, high and piercing, shattering through the joyful murmur of the crowd. Her teammates' argument grinds to a halt. Sakura swivels to locate the source, and, in her periphery, she notices the majority of the adults around her do the same. Chakra flares around her as ninja spread their senses in search of a threat.

"Kenta!" a petite woman scolds, bending down, "What did I say about screaming?"

"Not to," the child mumbles. He's small enough that a picnic table nearby obscures him from Sakura's view.

"Unless?" the woman prompts. If Kenta answers, it's too quiet for her to hear.

Everyone in the vicinity, ninja and civilians alike, visibly relaxes. It's sobering to realize how on-edge they all are despite the upbeat atmosphere. Life has not been kind to Konoha's residents.

How self-absorbed of her.

No, the civilians around her didn't watch Neji die. They didn't despair as the Ten-tailed beast appeared in the battle-ground. To say they didn't know fear—didn't know suffering—is terribly short-sighted.

Konoha is a thriving militaristic society. Has been for decades. But having the pointiest sick doesn't ensure safety. Often the wielder becomes a target of others struggling to create their own rags to riches stories.

Or revenge. Pointy sticks are great at poking avengers into action.

Point is, Konoha has been leveled three times in Sakura's short time on this earth. If the civilians don't get to celebrate the peace she fought for, maybe she doesn't get to celebrate the Village they rebuilt.

Food for thought.

Sakura lays her finished dango stick on the table. The untouched dango stick sags in her hand with her increasing disinterest. Her recent train of thought is more than enough to derail her appetite entirely despite the fact that dango is one of her favorite treats.

"You okay?" Naruto asks immediately. He glances at the dango dangling in her grasp pointedly.

Sakura doesn't even have to force the smile. His concern forces its way through the heavy stormcloud of her thoughts like the sunbeam he is. Sweet. Naruto's just so sweet.

"I'm fine.” She fans herself with her free hand. "Just kinda hot, yeah? It's killing my appetite."

Naruto's expression clears immediately. "In that case, let's go get some shaved ice soon! I think I saw a vendor on our way in."

"I did not sign up to wrangle the two of you on a sugar high," Sasuke interjects sourly. Sweet sauce is smeared across his cheekbone, and there might be a crumb of fried dough occluding one nostril. Sakura chokes on a giggle which clearly earns no points from Sasuke. "No more sweets."

Sakura raises her hands in surrender, but Naruto isn't as quick to acquiesce. They start bickering, again, and as Sakura watches a dango skewer slides dangerously close to Sasuke's eye. Idiots. That does explain the out-of-place dough and sticky sauce, though.

The reprimand on her tongue withers at the enthusiastic sparkle in Naruto’s eyes as he advances further and further into Sasuke’s personal space. And Sasuke—brooding, angsty Sasuke—has a smile playing at his lips as he avoids the sticky dessert. He’s making a good show of being annoyed by his teammate’s antics, but if he was really done he’d be slapping the blond away. Angry Sasuke wouldn’t lean back unconcernedly on his only hand like that, and he certainly wouldn’t let Naruto rest his stump on his shoulder as he pesters him.

Bright. It’s so, so bright out today—ridiculously sunny for October—but no amount of sunblock would protect her from their megawatt smiles.

If the fight gets enthusiastic enough to disturb the table, she'll step in, Sakura decides, turning her head to give them a little privacy.

Or the illusion of it, anyway.

Sakura’s not sure how her teammates are able to ignore all the attention they’re attracting. The picnic table they have selected is on the outskirts of the eating area, but they might as well be on center stage. Her skin prickles under the weight of the public’s stares.

Logically, she knows the curious civilians don’t mean any harm. It’s rare that Team 7 is out in the public eye for such an extended period of time. That doesn’t stop the shinobi buried deep beneath her medic persona from sharpening her kunai warily. Sakura doesn't resent the instinct exactly—that's what keeps her alive—but she does try to shake it. The eyes on her aren't dangerous.

Just oppressive.

It’s in pretending to look out across the crowd—and ignoring the alarming number of heads that whip away from her that she does—that she notices them.

A trio of girls sit at two tables away from them at a diagonal. Four older women share the table, but there's enough space between the two to make it clear that they're separate parties. And anyway, the women are laughing, with clenched eyes and wide smiles. The younger ones, though, they're tittering. The sound is sharper than the murmuring of the crowd around them, which is probably why they stood out to her in the first place.

In their mirth, they haven’t noticed Sakura’s attention. One of the girls has a blush dark enough to match the hair of the girl digging an elbow playfully into her side. She can’t see the face of the final member of the trio, but her shoulders shake in obvious laughter under long, black hair. Suddenly the girl’s arms come up in an exaggerated stretch before dropping to her hips so she can make a show of twisting and stretching her back. Not bad for a civilian. Sakura would have almost believed her if not for how quickly she turned back to her friends after a less than sneaky peek at Team 7’s table.

Any amusement she might have held for the girls’ antics slip away immediately. Clearly the trio isn’t looking at Sakura, or they would have noticed her attention. The number of times they’ve all slid glances her direction is too high to be a coincidence, however, which only leaves one option.

The boys.

Now it’s abundantly clear what the brunette is being teased about. It’s been a while since the Academy, but Sakura has sent her share of moonstruck looks a certain Uchiha’s way. She knows what it feels like—what it looks like—to laugh and tease over crushes. Her eyebrows narrow fiercely for all that she tries to keep her expression neutral. The only real question left is: which boy are they looking at?

Four years ago, the answer would have been Sasuke hands down. His sharp features and aloof personality are easily misread as the mysterious persona of at least fifty percent of the love interests in romance novels. Barely dodged war crimes have tamped down the general enthusiasm for Sasuke, though there is always the chance the girl thinks she has a thing for “bad boys.”

Sakura hopes not, for her sake. Sasuke’s particular brand of “rebel with a cause” needs at least three years of serious training and an instruction manual the size of one of her medical textbooks to have any chance of walking away unscathed. Even then nightmares and traumatic events are pretty much a given.

Naruto laughs, loudly, and throws his head back enough to give a clear view of the syrup that drips down his chin. The brunette’s expression softens, and Sakura can hear the lovesick sigh she heaves from twenty feet away. So Naruto is the object of her affection. The realization makes her stomach twist.

There’s a sharp crack, and Sakura’s dango drops to the grass beneath them. She blinks, confused. The bottom half of the stick is still clenched tightly in her fist. It takes longer than it should to notice the splintered edge of the stick and piece together what happened.

“Are you alright?” It’s Sasuke that asks this time.

“Yeah, I’m—I’m fine.” Sakura bends down to grab her dango from the ground. She hadn’t planned on eating it anyway, but the grass coating the dumplings means that’s not an option for later anymore. “I just, ah—”

Before Sakura can come up with an excuse for her ill-timed use of super strength, the tittering behind them grows in volume enough to catch Sasuke’s attention this time. Sakura’s eyes flit to the trio of girls automatically, and they are looking at her now. Great. Even the blushing brunette has joined in the action, so Sakura knows that the laughs are meant for her. She grinds her teeth together. They’re civilians. Sakura can’t go around just laying civilians out because she feels like it.

“That’s enough time in the sun,” Sasuke declares, sliding off of the table top. He shoots a viscous glare over his shoulder. Sakura shouldn’t find so much satisfaction in how rapidly the giggles grind to a halt, but she does. The knots her intestines have tied themselves into loosen enough that she can take aim with a sharp smile of her own.

“Guys…?” Naruto asks. He can tell that something is going on, but doesn’t have enough information to piece the story together as Sasuke did. Blonde eyebrows furrow lightly as he glances from his teammates to the girls’ table.

The brunette has the audacity to sigh again. Every muscle in Sakura’s body tenses for a fight, and she doesn’t even pause to think about how ridiculous her reaction is. It’s not like she has any sort of claim over Naruto. Sasuke is the one who has been messily sharing finger food with him this whole afternoon. If anyone has any right to feel the sudden rage coursing through their body, it’s him. How dare that girl assume she has a chance when Naruto is clearly taken?

Sure enough, Sasuke’s expression has doubled in intensity. Disgust and possessiveness mix in equal measure on his face as his lip curls up and over his teeth. He probably doesn’t even realize what an overprotective boyfriend he looks like, and Sakura can only watch smugly as the girls wilt under his glare. Serves them right.

“We’re getting out of here,” Sasuke declares, firmly. He turns away from the trio before hefting Naruto off the table and over his shoulder in one fluid motion. Naruto squawks in surprise, understandably, but Sasuke’s malice is clearly not directed at him, so he allows himself to be carted away with only token protests. “Let’s go, Sakura.”

The urge to gloat is irresistible. Sakura tosses a taunting wink that the girls are too shell-shocked to react to before falling into her place at her boys’ backs. The rage and, okay, she’ll admit it, jealousy that bubbled up so unexpectedly earlier washes away in the face of her contentment. Maybe neither Sasuke or Naruto are hers in the romantic sense, but they’re hers in all the other ways that matter.

Sakura will guard their backs for as long as they let her with a smile in her heart.

Read the rest of the chapter on ao3

[arckook]

around and around - six

pairing: cho seungyoun x reader, kim wooseok x reader

au: idolverse

warnings: none

wordcount: 5.4k

description: you’ve had a one-sided crush on your close friend seungyoun for who knows how long, but things don’t stay so black and white when he introduces you to his new groupmate kim wooseok.

next

The air is especially cold today.

It whips through your hair, and bites at your cheeks, turning them pink. You stuff your hands deeper into the pockets of your long padded jacket, curling up your fingers. A harsh, hot breath slips past your lips, showing up in front of you like smoke.

You sit by the river, watching people walk over that familiar bridge, watching the doors of shops and restaurants open and close on the other side, watching lights blink off through apartment windows as time passes. You sit in silence and watch.

You think a group of young teenagers recognize you at one point. The girls giggle and point at you, and make comments about how pretty you are just loud enough that you think they must be hoping you’ll notice and come to greet them. The boys remark that you’re not as pretty without makeup on. 

Earlier, you called your mom. You had the intention to tell her about how heavy your heart has been lately, how you don’t know what to do, that you need advice. But she spilled her worries to you instead, about money and debt and your dad’s health. So you just told her you’d send her money next time you get paid, and wished her well, and hung up. Without saying a word about your problems.

It’s not that they’re bottled up, or that nobody knows but you. Because Jiseo, Eunmi, and Soohyun all know. They’ve been watching over you carefully, despite all their personal things going on too. Even your managers, who don’t know the specifics, have been tiptoeing around you.

It’s not just the air that’s cold.

You feel cold inside, too.

You pull your phone out after a while, turning it on to check the time. It’s a little past midnight. You’ve been here for a couple of hours.

After some thought, you unlock your phone and open your text messages, two names at the top. 

You changed Seungyoun’s contact name from Youn to Cho Seungyoun, as per Jiseo’s request. You’re trying to distance yourself from him, in the smallest ways. When you open his messages, there are probably around fifteen different texts, all asking for you to answer him, or telling you he’s sorry in some way. 

The other one says Wooseok-oppa. You didn’t change that one. When you open his, there is only one message from his side. 

Y/N-ah. I want to talk. Meet me at the first restaurant we went to at ten, tonight. The budae-jjigae place.

He sent it this morning. You never answered.

You sigh, turning your phone off and tucking it away again as you stand up. 

You don’t want to think about these things, but they won’t leave you alone. 

You know it’s not brave, and it’s not the right thing to do, but these days, you don’t care.

You ignore them.

-

L/N F/N, fatigue obvious even with a mask on

1. [+560, -105] Ah… can’t an idol control their expressions? You’re making money off of your fans and you can’t even smile at the airport? Y/N-ah, let’s work harder...

2. [+555, -42] Looking at her expression pisses me off

3. [+463, -23] What the… did she dress herself??? Someone fire her coordi

4. [+40, -4] Soohyun is the pretty one in this group

5. [+29, -12] Yah, everyone leaving hate comments… do you not feel tired at the airport??? We don’t know what’s going on in her life.

                 > Brainless fan

You scroll down the article, reading the comments people have left about you. The four of you just arrived back in Korea from a concert abroad, and the photos from the airport yesterday have already been posted. 

Your teeth latch onto your lower lip, chewing and pulling the top layer of skin off, blood pooling up in tiny spots. It’s a metallic, bitter taste when you run your tongue over it. 

“Don’t look at those kind of things,”

You look up, a nervous smile tugging at the corners of your mouth when Wooseok sits down in front of you, his fingers gently pushing your phone down onto the table. 

It took a lot of worked up courage to finally text him back a few weeks later, apologizing for the long time between his first message and your response, and asking if he still wanted to meet up when you return to Korea. But he said yes regardless.

“I shouldn’t,” you admit, turning your phone off. “It’s hard, though. I get curious.”

Wooseok nods, settling into his chair. “I know the feeling.”

“Do you ever look?” you ask, that curiosity making an appearance. He has been an idol a lot longer than you. “Or did you, if you don’t now?”

He glances away, a somewhat burdened half-smile painting his face. “I always do, even if I tell myself not to. People had a lot to say about me at one point. I guess I like seeing positive things, since they’re more common nowadays.”

You rest your chin on your hand, watching him despite the way he avoids meeting your eyes. “You deserve that. It must have been hard.”

Wooseok sighs deeply, shaking his head like he’s shaking off memories. “It was. I have different problems now.”

“What can I get for the two of you today?” you look up to find a middle-aged woman with an apron on, no pen and paper in sight. Her accent is obvious, but it kind of calms you. You’re far away from Seoul, in a small town about a twenty-minute drive from Busan. The beach is nearby; you could smell the salty breeze when you walked up to this diner. 

“I’ll have a bowl of kalguksu,” you tell her, having looked at the menu while waiting for Wooseok.

“Pork rice soup, please,” Wooseok says without missing a beat. You think he’s just assuming they make that here. “And a seafood pancake to share.”

“It’ll be out soon,” the waitress tells you with a kind smile, walking back to the kitchen.

The place is fairly busy, but it’s mostly fishermen and other elderly, who don’t care to pay attention to a couple of young people sitting in the back corner. 

It feels good. It feels like you don’t have to hide here.

“How was the concert?” Wooseok asks, bringing you back from your thoughts.

You shrug, tugging at your fingers to crack the knuckles. “It was good. Fun.”

“You seem tired,” he comments, and you let out a somewhat bitter chuckle.

“Doesn’t everyone think so?”

Wooseok frowns. “Are you talking about that article? Y/N-ah, I told you, it’s not worth it to look at those.”

You sigh. “Oppa, I’m feeling really burnt out lately,” you slump over onto the table like a kid who’s about to fall asleep, avoiding looking directly at him. “And I don’t know what to do about anything.”

“Is that why you ignored me?” he asks, with a direct tone that you weren’t expecting. You look up, eyes wide. “Because you don’t know what to do about anything?”

You sit up, frowning. “I don’t… that was…”

Wooseok’s expression is vague, like it tends to be. “I can tell that something happened with Seungyoun. You never shut yourself off like that, and he went from moping about and constantly doing all these deep sighs to acting completely normal again- and yet he wouldn’t say anything about his personal life to me. When he was sneaking out, it wasn’t to see you, was it?”

“He was sneaking out to see someone?” you question, the words weak and tight in your throat.

“That’s what you think is important about this?” Wooseok replies, his eyebrows drawing together in a clear show of frustration. 

You look away, turning your head to watch the patrons mingle in the diner.

The air feels heavy.

“…I’m not upset,” Wooseok finally says after a moment of thick silence. You glance over at him without moving your head, tugging on your fingers in your lap. He stares to the side. “I just don’t understand why you want to run from me.” his eyes flash to you for just a second. “I’m not Seungyoun.”

You nearly flinch at his name. “…I know you’re not,” you respond, your voice airy and quiet. 

“Then what do I have to do with your conflicts with him?” Wooseok questions, the volume of his voice rising a little with each word. “You and I exist outside of you and I and him.” he really looks at you this time. “Do we not?” 

“...I’m sorry,” you say after a moment, your voice cracking. “I know I’m a shitty friend. You do so much more for me than I ever do for you. I shouldn’t have ignored you. I just… I feel really lost, and that’s all I can think about right now.”

It’s quiet again. 

“Y/N-ah,” Wooseok says hesitantly, and you meet his gaze.

It surprises you, how tender he looks in that moment. His eyes aren’t sharp like they were a moment ago, the dim light strikes his cheekbones and makes him even handsomer than he already is. He has no makeup, nothing in his hair. He looks plain, and yet Wooseok is anything but plain to you.

“You have to be a stronger person than this,” he says, as a statement. “I know how hard this life is. We chose a hard life-” he stops himself, swallows, takes a deep breath. “It’s hard, but-”

“Wooseok-oppa,” you cut him off, something pulling at your heartstrings. “You already told me that we’re the same. You said you keep things to yourself, too.” you pause, reaching over and placing your hand on the fist he has knotted up atop the table. “You don’t have to solve my problems. Let’s just be a little lost together.”

He tilts his head to the left, a doubtful smirk appearing for a moment along with a chuckle of disbelief. “Is that so?”

“Uh-huh,” you respond simply, at which he laughs. “Let’s eat some food, and walk on the beach. We can just pretend all the stuff that’s bothering us doesn’t exist.”

Wooseok opens his hand up under yours, so that you can hold it. “If that’s what you want.”

-

“No, like this,” you tell Jiseo, pulling your foot behind you in a quick rond-de-jambe and leaving your upper body facing front as long as you can before turning along with your foot in a quick, swift movement.

“Fucking fuck!” Jiseo groans, dropping down into a squat and looking at you through the mirror. “My stiff, old body doesn’t move like that, Y/N.”

You give her an unimpressed look, hands on your hips. “You’re only two years older than me, unnie.”

“Whatever,” she sighs, slumping over onto the ground. “I don’t wanna have a comeback yet. I’m tired. And they rejected my song for the title track. So now we have to do this shit instead.”

“What, you don’t like the song?” you ask, sitting down next to her. “I do. It’s fun!”

“You think it’s fun because you actually like it when we have hard choreography,” Jiseo grumbles. 

You reach over and pat her stomach, laughing when she lets out a dramatic cough. “I’m sorry your song didn’t get picked. I really liked that one too.”

Jiseo sighs. “Maybe next time.”

Ding!

“Is that yours or mine?” Jiseo asks, not looking like she’d get up either way.

“I’ll check,” you say, getting up with some effort since your legs are pretty tired from dancing all day. 

You walk over to the couch at the back of the studio, taking out your phone from your bag first and turning it on. Lo and behold, it was yours.

Wooseok-oppa

*sent image*

Yah, did you get locked up again? 

You chuckle, opening the text to see a screenshot of your instagram story, where you’d posted a picture of you in the dance studio. It’s the same one where Wooseok hung out with you that day, so you can see why he might think that way.

You

not this time hahaha

“What are you giggling about over there?” Jiseo calls out. You glance at her over your shoulder with a grin, and hold up your phone. 

“Unnie, smile!” 

“Huh-”

Click!

You laugh maniacally as Jiseo groans about not being ready for a photo, and repeatedly questioning why you took it and who you’re sending it to.

You

*sent image*

with my bestie

Wooseok-oppa

Make sure to eat. 

You

you too, oppa~~~~

“Just start dating already,”

You nearly jump out of your skin, not having noticed that Jiseo got up and started reading off your phone over your shoulder. You groan, shoving her away.

“Leave me alone.”

She sticks out her tongue. “You sent him a shitty, ugly picture of me so I’ll take all the revenge I want.”

“That’s just what you look like all the time, though.”

“Yah!”

Ding!

“Hold on,” you mutter as Jiseo begins whining about you being a brat again. You check to see if Wooseok replied, but it wasn’t him who texted you.

Jamiezzz

yo 

ik things are kinda weird between you and seungyoun

but 

we are all gathering tonight at that one restaurant with the all you can eat barbeque 

just come a little later and he’ll be wasted so you don’t even have to talk  

You sigh as you read your friend’s texts, wondering how she can even tell that you and Seungyoun haven’t been on good terms. Or any terms at all, basically. 

You set your phone back in your bag, stretching out your neck and shoulders. You’ll respond to that later.

“Unnie,” you call out. “Let’s start from the top again.”

-

Hours later, you’re staring at Jimin’s texts while lying on your bed, holding your phone up above your face. Your nose is in extreme danger because of this position, but that’s part of the fun of it.

You chuck your phone to the end of your bed, roll over, and stuff your face in your pillow, groaning.

You are very, very scared at the idea of seeing Seungyoun face-to-face. How does Jimin even know that he’ll get drunk tonight? If he’s totally sober, which he tends to be, you can’t even imagine how awkward things will get as soon as you arrive. But if you text and ask if he is, then that seems weird too.

But damn, does all you can eat BBQ sound really good right now. You’re going to have to sneak, and probably walk off some of the weight afterwards so it doesn’t seem like you ate a lot to your manager, but whatever.

In a sudden movement, you spring off of your bed and walk over to your handheld mirror, holding it up to your face.

“Fuck,” you say under your breath. Your makeup looks so crusty right now. Do you really want to redo that, and fix your hair, and make a whole outfit, and risk and embarrassment and shame and anxiety… just for a good deal on dinner?

Well, yeah. You were raised right.

And that place was some of the best beef you’ve had in your young adult life.

You sit down at your desk, fixing up your makeup with some rosewater spray, fresh concealer and lipstick, then pulling your hair up into one of those purposefully messy buns in an attempt to make it look good.

You throw on a haphazard outfit, only caring that it’s warm and you have a hat, and head out, glad to see that nobody is out in the living room to question where you’re going. 

You take the car, promising yourself that you won’t drink tonight.

And when you finally park on the street in front of the restaurant, you feel sick to your stomach.

Ding!

Jamiezzz

y/nnnnn are you coming? 

say yes

“Oh my god,” you mutter to yourself as you sit in the car, realizing what exactly you’ve done. You’re already here now, and you’re too proud to drive all the way back without even eating with your friends…

You 

im coming in now :)

Quickly, you check your hair and makeup in the mirror on the sun visor, trying to keep your hands from shaking. 

Then you grab your bag, and exit the car, putting a few coins into the meter on the backstreet you parked in. 

You walk into the restaurant, keeping your head down as you walk past the open area to the hallway with the private rooms. Last time, everyone was in Room 2, so you go there again, peeking in before sliding open the door.

“Y/N!” Jimin calls as soon as she sees you, a blush already prominent on her cheeks. She hauls herself up from the floor, holding a glass of beer as she comes over to greet you.

You laugh nervously, grabbing her hand to keep the drink from pouring all over you and the floor. “Hi.”

“Come on, come sit down,” Jimin tugs you to the table, and as you’re sitting down, you notice that Seungyoun isn’t even here.

“How’s your comeback stuff going, Y/N?” Vernon asks once you’re situated, Jimin getting some meat off the grill for you to start eating. 

You pick up a pair of chopsticks, thanking Jimin quietly before you answer. “Pretty good. It’s not gonna be a huge, full-scale thing anyway. Our promotion period will only be a week, because we’re doing some stuff in Japan afterwards.”

“Don’t you love when they schedule activities back to back like that?” Hyunggu adds sarcastically.

“Cheers to that.” you clink the glass in front of you with some kind of alcohol in it with his.

“When’s Seungyoun coming back?” Vernon asks after a few minutes of casual conversation.

“I don’t know, when he gets back from picking up Kim Wooseok and Sahee.”

You freeze.

“Oh, right,” Vernon hums, going back to munching on a ssam. 

“You never mentioned that to me, unnie,” you tell Jimin through a tight smile, hoping nobody will notice how grim you suddenly look because they’re all a little wasted. The beer here is super cheap.

She gives you a bright smile, like what you’ve just said barely even ran through her mind. “I didn’t?”

You sigh, putting your head in your hands, not bothering to try and make it look like you’re not stressed out by this turn of events. Of course. Of fucking course. Of fucking course this happens.

“I think I’m gonna leave,” you announce, standing up, to which Jimin immediately grabs onto your ankle and starts whining, and Vernon and Hyunggu question why.

“Y/N,” Jimin drags out your name in a sing-song way, rubbing her cheek onto your leg. “You always ditch us. Do you not love me anymore?”

You sigh sharply. “That’s not it-”

“We’re back!”

The door slides open with force, and as you turn your head instinctively, you meet eyes with Seungyoun, who looks significantly more drunk than you think you’ve ever seen him before. 

“Cho Seungyoun!” Jimin calls from the floor, letting go of you to stand up. “Where the heck were you?”

“Taxis are a rough business,” he replies vaguely, walking forward, then turning to you and ruffling your hair unexpectedly. Your eyes are wide when he grins at you. “Y/N-ie, it’s been a while.”

“...Huh?” the noise of surprise barely passes your lips.

“Ah, looks good,”

You look past Seungyoun, who moves to sit down next to Vernon on the other side of the table, and see Sahee stretching her arms out in front of her, following Seungyoun and sitting next to him. 

And lastly, Wooseok, hands tucked into his coat-pockets, looking like the only other sober person here. You see him let out a soft sigh, and sit down on your left. 

You sit back down once Jimin does too.

How are you ever going to get out of this one?

“Since when were you coming?” Wooseok says quietly from your side as the conversation picks up between everyone else.

You pick at your food, the nerves now coursing through you making you lose your appetite. “Since Jimin texted me and made me feel bad for not coming.”

“I would’ve warned you, had I known you’d be here,” he responds, setting a ssam on your plate. You mumble a thanks.

“It’s okay.” you glance at Seungyoun, who is laughing hard, a blush struck across his cheeks. Sahee smiles over at him. And you know what kind of smile that is. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Just stick it out for a few minutes and we can get out of here,” Wooseok ducks his head to whisper that to you, the corner of his lip lifting when you turn towards him. “Promise.”

“Let’s just go to Busan again,” you say, a smile rising on your face as you remember kicking sand at him a few days ago. “That lady at the restaurant will probably remember our orders.”

He chuckles. “A few too many ladies at restaurants remember us at this point.”

“Hey, not that many!”

“The budae-jjigae place, the place we got chicken, the dessert cafe-”

“Yah yah yah!”

Jimin practically shouts, making you cringe and turn to look at her. She has a devilish smirk, but it’s pretty lopsided, and the blush on her face is only getting darker. She is straight up drunk at this point.

“These two look a little suspicious!” she slaps a hand on your shoulder. “Whatcha talkin’ about over there?”

You point to yourself with a frown. “Who? Me and Wooseok-oppa?”

“Oppa?!” Jimin repeats wildly.

Oh, fuck.

“I didn’t know you two were that close,” Hyunggu comments from the other end of the table, looking mischievous.

Panicking, you look to Wooseok, hoping he understands that you don’t know what to do in this situation. He opens his mouth to presumably clear things up in some smart, Wooseok way, but Sahee interrupts before he can start talking.

“Hey, are you two dating?” she points a chopstick at you, grinning. “You’d look cute together!”

Stunned into silence by this whole predicament, you can’t even respond to say no, and Wooseok doesn’t seem to prepared to reply either.

“Woah, they’re definitely dating, look at them-” Jimin starts with a laugh, but gets sharply cut off.

“No they aren’t,” Seungyoun practically snaps at her, pushing something around on his plate, avoiding anyone’s eyes. 

“How do you know?” Sahee questions, seemingly not fazed by Seungyoun’s sudden dark demeanor. You frown, trying to make out his expression, but there’s little there on his face to read. 

“He’s right, we’re not,” Wooseok finally answers, quietly. 

“Well, you should consider it,” Sahee responds, plopping a piece of meat into her mouth. “Y/N is so cute, and Wooseok-ssi, you’re good-looking too!”

“Is that the only thing that matters?” Wooseok says coolly. “How people look? How they look next to each other?”

Sahee seems taken aback, frowning slightly. “...I mean, it matters a little bit-”

“I’m going to the bathroom,” you interrupt, feeling tension rise between the two of them. “Anyone need to come along?”

Nobody says yes, so you stand with your bag, patting Jimin on the head and saying you’ll be right back, hoping the atmosphere will be better when you return.

You make your way through the restaurant with the turtleneck of your sweater pulled up over half your face, checking to see if there’s a bathroom inside the place. But there isn’t, so you opt to just step outside, walking over to where you parked instead, and just leaning against your car, hands tucked under your arms to keep warm.

You sigh, tipping your head back and looking up at the night sky. Why did you come? Sometimes you think your brain self-sabotages on purpose. Forces you to do things with poor excuses, that it builds up as being much stronger reasons than they are. Forces you into bad places. Maybe to try and make you learn, or make you change. 

The stars aren’t super visible tonight. Maybe there’s more pollution in the air, or maybe the lights around are too bright. It’s what you notice, as you try to clear your head. 

You pull your phone out of your bag and turn it on.

Jiseo-unnie

Come back soon, we have practice tomorrow morning.

Manager Dowoon

Y/N, make sure you don’t stay out late, and don’t let anyone take pictures of you. 

Don’t ruin the comeback.

Remember the other members

Dowoon tends to do that. Despite Jiseo’s image- short, roughly cut dyed green hair, dark eyeliner, black clothes- you’re really the “troublemaker” of the group. And your manager loves to remind you of that. He loves to make you feel guilty for going out when your members stay home, even if they’ve never voiced complaints about it to you. He loves to criticize you for holding the group back. He loves to suggest that you’ll be the one to cause your group’s first big scandal someday.

You sigh again.

You

don’t worry, i’ll be back soon

this is boring anyway

You try to make sure Jiseo never feels bad for asking you to give up your free time. Truthfully, if you were a better idol, a better group member, maybe even a better person, you’d give it all up without question. You’d give up your other friends, and your romantic interests. You’d forget all about it to focus on work.

But you never seem to be able to do that. 

Maybe all those comments people write about you are right.

“L/N F/N,” 

Your head whips to the left, eyes wide as they match Seungyoun’s. He saunters up with a lack of balance evident in his steps, and nearly falls after tripping on the crack in the sidewalk. You grab his arm to stabilize him, letting go like you’ve touched fire as soon as you think he’s okay on his own.

“This isn’t the bathroom,” Seungyoun says, leaning on the car next to you. You’re thankful he does that, so you don’t have to look directly at him. You can almost pretend he’s someone else. 

Only he has Seungyoun’s voice, and Seungyoun’s air, and Seungyoun’s touch as he just barely brushes against you when he adjusts how he’s standing. 

You can’t ignore it.

It still makes your heart race.

“...I know,” you respond, your voice a breath in the breeze. “I couldn’t find it.”

That’s a lie. But you do that a lot around him, don’t you?

“Jimin didn’t tell me you were coming,” Seungyoun continues, like the comment about the bathroom was just to make sure you’re listening to him. “Did she tell you I’d be here?”

Your breath catches in your throat. Something is pulling at you, telling you to look at him. But you can’t. You can’t. “Uh-huh.”

Seungyoun hums in response, but doesn’t say anything else.

You tug on your fingers, feeling the bones pop. 

“...But she didn’t mention Sahee, or Wooseok.” you add, still quiet. “So that was a surprise.”

“Kim Sahee,” Seungyoun says, with the tone of someone deeply pondering something. Like her name came out of The Republic, a philosophical thought. “She comes around a lot lately.”

“Oh?” you say, although it’s tight in your throat.

You see him nod out of your peripheral vision. “Yeah.”

You glance over- just for a fleeting moment. He’s wavering, hands splayed against the hood of the car to keep him stable, his cheeks are red.

You’d forgotten for a moment. That you’re the only sober one between you two.

“I think… I’m gonna go home now,” you say after a moment’s hesitation. There’s a rock in your chest, the kind that makes it hard to swallow, hard to breathe. It’s weighing you down, making your hands shake. You need to drive in the night, and sleep for hours. You need to get away from Seungyoun.

“Y/N-ah,” Seungyoun says, a trace of desperation in his voice. He turns his whole body towards you, drawing your attention. When you look at him, he’s frowning. “Why don’t you like me anymore?”

For a moment, you just stare at him, mouth dropped open in shock.

And then a cold wave of panic hits you like a riptide.

The rock is a boulder now.

“...Huh?” you manage, gripping onto the handle of your bag so hard that your knuckles change colors. 

Seungyoun grabs your shoulders, leaning in close to your face. You pull away, but that seems to make him more fervent. “Why did you tell me that Sahee loves me? I didn’t need to know that. That’s not something I was waiting to hear from you.”

“What?” you say, frozen in place. “What are you-”

“Why did you call me oblivious? Was it really just that? Was it just about Sahee? Y/N-ah, you have to tell me,” he shakes you. “Please. Just tell me that. Just tell me that.”

“I don’t know what you want from me,” you whisper, hands shaking so fiercely you’re afraid you’ll drop your bag. 

“Just answer me,” Seungyoun says, his voice shuddering with every word. His face is inches from yours, and his hold on you is so tight you don’t think you could pull away even if you tried.

You stare at him, at his watery, unfocused eyes. At the slope of his nose, tinged pink. At the way his hair falls over the sides of his face, as he hasn’t done anything to it recently. 

His eyes. 

Can they even see you right now?

“...I don’t have an answer,” you tell him, each word striking pain into your chest. 

And then he kisses you.

You think you remember- the first time you thought about what it would be like to kiss Seungyoun. It was not long after you first met him. He looked really handsome, that night. It was before he cut his hair. You didn’t like him, yet. You were extremely busy and barely had time to see your friends, so you didn’t know him that well. But you remember that for the first time, you thought he was handsomer than Vernon. It seemed huge to you, because despite never seeing Vernon in that sort of way, you always agreed with the young-Leo diCaprio thing. You always thought he was one of the best-looking guys you knew personally.

But Seungyoun that night, at some cheap side-of-the-road place selling makgeolli to ajusshis... he became the best-looking guy you knew personally.

He smiled at you then, with his eyes tucked up into his cheeks, and when his face relaxed out of the smile, you thought about if he would be the type to smile into a kiss. You always thought he would. That he would be the type to laugh and tease you and bump teeth while kissing you because he couldn’t wipe the smile away long enough to do it properly. You thought that would become his properly. 

He’s not smiling now. And neither are you.

You always thought kissing Seungyoun would be electric. Sparks would fly, and the room would spin around you. You thought it would be the precursor to him asking you to be his girlfriend. That it would be the happiest moment of your life so far.

Instead, it’s sloppy. His lips don’t land exactly on top of yours, and the hand that finds its way to your face pushes up too far, too close to your eye. His teeth bump into your mouth, but it just feels awkward and uncomfortable. And he pulls away quickly, opening his eyes back up to stare at yours, which never closed in the first place.

Seungyoun looks at you expectantly. 

His eyes are unfocused. He wobbles.

“You’re drunk,” you whisper, swallowing. He doesn’t answer.

You pull Seungyoun’s hands off of you, to little resistance. 

“Goodnight,” you tell him, looking away.

You walk around the back of your car and step down onto the road, pulling out your keys. You unlock it, and get in the driver’s side, sitting down and shutting the door behind you. You lock all four doors instinctively. 

Seungyoun tries to pull on the handle of the passenger side once. 

You put the key in the ignition, and start the engine. You don’t turn on music. You put the gear into drive. 

And you leave.

And you leave behind a part of you with Seungyoun, standing on the side of a one-way road in a side street, alone.

[keen2meecha]

Coffee in Limbo

One day, you die

You die, and when you die, you hear the ringing of a bell.

"Teacher says, every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings!"

The warm memory of black and white movies and soft blankets and sweet chocolate and even sweeter childhood envelops you, and then you frown. You frown, because you just died, and you didn't think you would hear anything when you died. You open your eyes, and then are surprised because you weren't expecting to have eyes to open, either.

You're standing in a coffee shop. The cozy, non-Starbucks kind. The kind you rarely had time to visit when you were alive, but you used to close your eyes and picture it, sometimes. 

Is this the afterlife? Were those religions right?

Then again, those religions never mentioned that heaven is a coffeeshop. Maybe this is hell.

"Oh. Hey. You're new."

There's a demon standing behind the counter, wearing a barista uniform. 

Not a proper demon, the way you imagine. His skin's fleshy and pale, and his eyes are brown or green or hazel, and his hair is strawberry blonde. But he's also got big horns like a bull's, and that pale flesh is marred by black markings that could be thin tattoos or eyeliner, you're not sure. He's also wearing barbed wire as a necklace, which is an interesting choice. He also spoke with a British accent, but you're pretty sure British people are just like that.

"I’m dead, right?" You ask, stepping up to the counter because there's not much else you can do. 

"Yeah. Sorry about that."

"Did you kill me?"

"Er. No?"

"Then why are you sorry?"

The demon raises a pencil-thin eyebrow, but otherwise doesn't seem to have a reply to that.

"So, where am I?"

"Limbo."

"What?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. For some reason, souls aren't moving on to heaven or hell or what have you. They're just... getting stuck here. Seemed like a good place to set up shop."

"A coffee shop?" 

"You got a problem with my coffee shop?" His eyes flash, although it's not nearly as intimidating as he seems to think it is. 

"Oh, no, it's very nice." You lean forward so you can better see what's behind the counter. "You could use a menu, though. Don't know what to order otherwise."

"We're not on earth. You can order whatever you want."

"Hm. Like. What about a grande hot cinnamon dolce latte in a venti cup five pumps of cinnamon dolce 4 pumps of vanilla three pumps of toffee nut one pump of hazelnut no foam," A pause to inhale, "Extra whip extra cinnamon dolce topping extra caramel drizzle light mocha drizzle vanilla topping salt topping. And nutmeg topping."

The demon, who has grown increasingly more irate the longer you talk, snaps, "No."

"But-"

"If you order that, you're getting a water, because I don't know what the fuck you just said."

"Not a very good barista, then, are you?"

The demon's scowl goes deeper, and this time he looks more intimidating. But really, what is he going to do? Kill you?

"Chill," You say nonetheless because an eternity with the only person around hating your guts because you can't control your impulses hardly sounds like fun. "I wouldn't do that to you. How about just a cup of hot chocolate?"

"Really? You're going to order a hot chocolate in a coffee shop?"

"I mean, if you'd like I can order a grande hot cinnamon dolce latte with-"

"Don't you dare."

You stick your tongue out at him, but don't push. Silence settles over the coffeeshop like a particularly heavy blanket. You watch him work, doing your best to be patient. You last long enough to recognize that the machines that he's using definitely shouldn't work like that, and also that making a cup of hot chocolate was not this complicated when you were alive. Patience has never been your thing, though.

"So, are you really a demon?"

He looks up from the machine spurting water into the mug. His expression is guarded.

"No."

"You just look like one?"

"Yes." You stare at each other, and then he sighs and says. "If it unsettles you, I can-"

He goes up on his toes for a moment, and when he lands back on his heels the horns and markings are gone. He looks like a regular guy. You're not a fan.

"Nah, I think the demon thing is cool. Living out our emo dreams and all of that."

"I'm not emo," He says, rolling his eyes. He hesitates a beat, and then does the same motion again, settling back into the demon thing. "So. Fuck you."

"You're awfully rude for someone who works in customer service."

"Customer implies that you're paying me - or that I'm getting paid. Best part of being dead? The customer is never right."

You can get behind that.

"So does that mean I'm not paying for this hot chocolate?"

"Certainly not with money."

"Oh? Then what?"

He turns to face you fully, crossing his arms as he looks you up and down. The machine continues to sputter, even though the mug should probably be full by now.

"How about a name?"

You scoff and say, "I am not dumb enough to give you my name."

"I told you I'm not a demon."

"Neither are fairies, but I'm not about to give them my name."

"Well, then, give me a name."

You open your mouth to protest again, and then it clicks. 

Oh.

Fair enough.

"...Pluto."

Pluto smiles wide for the first time, and you add 'fangs' to his list of demon traits.

"Not bad, kid."

He returns to the drink, and you get the sense this is going to take a while. Feeling fully dismissed, you drift away from the counter and to one of the edge tables, by the big windows that you're just now realizing make up the walls of the coffee shop. Not that there's much to see. It's like a heavy fog has settled over the world outside - and maybe that's not too far off. Pluto said that he'd set up shop - maybe there was something out there. Something to explore.

You sit down at one of the tables. The fog outside swirls steadily, just enough to make patterns that catch your attention. You don't even realize how long you've been staring until Pluto puts a steaming mug on your table.

"Thanks."

He hums in acknowledgment and turns to leave, and then hesitates. You watch him as you wrap your hands around the mug. The heat of it makes you realize that you went numb from the cold a while ago. You let your hands rest there far longer than you might have before you died, because the heat feels a little like being alive.

"You know." He turns back around, his lips tucked down in a frown that feels a little bitter, a little sad. "The door opens both ways."

"That's impressively cryptic, Pluto."

"You can go back to the, er, living world. If you like. You won't... come back to life, but." He's facing you, but he's not looking at you. He seems to have gained a fascination with his hands - which are also marked with those odd tattoos or eyeliner. "You can stir up some mischief, or see your loved ones again, or whatever spirits like to do."

"Ah. I'm okay, but thanks for telling me."

He looks up at you, his eyes - definitely hazel - startled and wide. Maybe that's why he's not a demon - too emotionally vulnerable.

"You don't want to go back?"

"Nope." You shrug. "I didn't leave behind anyone worth seeing."

"I- I see. Well, I'll be here if you need me."

"Thanks, Pluto."

He stares at you for another moment, then seems to realize what he's doing and abruptly walks away. You look down at your hot chocolate and find a sprinkling of cinnamon on top. 

You smile and settle in for a long wait.

There are worse places to go after death than Limbo.

[alchemicalterror]

Self-implemented Parole

[ Below is a transcript of an RP between @askanarky​ and ol’ Jonny boy, involving Anarky’s breakout and aftermath. WIth special guest @riddlesandqueries​ and @echoandquery​

Trigger warnings: Adolescent Homelessness, swearing. ]

Fuck. Shit. God dammit. Fuck, Lonnie swears to himself, couldn’t stay hidden for two days, could he?

Here he is, leaning against the wall of the dentist’s-office-turned-failed-comedy-club-turned-pirate-radio-station-slash-hideout he’d been spending the day at. Beside him’s a wooden baseball bat, blood-red paint dripping down the business end, three posters, and an overfilled olive drab backpack absolutely covered in patches and safety pins. In his hands, a box of old clothes and records.

Bitterly, Lonnie wonders how much weight he’d lost. Six and a half months was a lot longer- or maybe shorter?- than he’d fully realized.

God, why’s he even humoring the old man? Ten bucks and he could already be gone. He’d find another shitty landlord to blackmail for an equally shitty studio apartment, and life’d go on like he never left.

...But then again, that wasn’t him. And plus, he owes Jon a lot and did kinda call him ‘dad,' and plus, he couldn’t feasibly cut him out entirely unless he left Gotham for good, and why would he do that, he’s got work to continue-

”Fuck.” Lonnie mutters under his breath, shifting his weight to his other leg.

"Fuck." Jon mutters, pulling his coat in tighter. He doesn't know jack shit about hijacked radio towers, and while his car is an unremarkable, beat-up old junker that he's had for years - it runs fine, there's no noises or weird smells, but the body has seen better days - why run into a headache with traffic, gas mileage, potentially being seen at an intersection with a recently escaped convict...?

'Course, nothing could hide how tall he is. And god damn it, it's April, it's supposed to be warm....

Jonathan mutters against the cold in vague irritation, gravitating towards the next set of charity drop-off boxes in vain hopes of actually tracking down the runt. Jesus, he should've asked for directions. At least he's in good shape.

"Me an' my motherfuckin' ide--" Pause. Squint, at someone who fits the stature in a beat up black hoodie, with a box.

"....Kid?"

The good thing about oversized hoodies is that, if you’re drowning in them enough, it can almost conceal how high you jump when something calls an epithet that can apply to you. Immediately, Lonnie crouches to quickly, but gently place his box down and grab his baseball bat in his place, then raises himself up into half of a batter’s stance at the source of the-

Wait. Tall man, absolutely orange hair, in a thrift-store jacket and blue jeans. Of fucking course.

”Jesus Christ,” he half-mouths. He lets his stance relax and his arms hang limply down in an exaggerated 'I-don’t-wanna-be-here' stance. “‘Ay.” Lonnie’s stage voice is remarkable, if a bit higher than his normal growl.

Jonathan grins, a bit, despite himself. Baseball bat? Good lad.

He lifts a hand in a wave, chuckling. "Nice to see you ain't without means, boy." Jon murmurs, nodding at the weapon. "Half kickin' myself I didn't get directions when abouts I could, I been walking around back alleys all afternoon."

"Legs could use a break, and I saw a beaten-down dive up the block some, folks don't glance at your face even when you're ordering in places like that. You wanna coffee or somethin' before we ship out?"

“....” Lonnie turns away for half a second, letting a puff of air escape his clenched teeth. “Hey, you said you didn’t need them.”

Hypocritical, coming from him. He’s at least trying to be a little friendly, through the obvious voice crack and the constantly-correcting tone. “...Fine, I guess? I mean, I’ve got what...” He backs away and unzips the front pocket of the backpack on the ground. A cheap leather wallet spills out (along with six separate embroidered circle-As in various shades of crimson.) He unfolds it and squints between the pockets, “....twelve...? Dollars on me? That’s enough for, like, a sandwich.”

"Come off it kid, I got paid yesterday, you ain't gotta spend what little you got on a sandwich. Save it, s'good to have bus money." And with that Jon turns, and waves Lonnie follow him. Tall as he is, he's long ago adopted a sort of ambling gait to make it easier for other people to keep up with his long stride.

The diner is, as estimated, utterly apathetic to the arrival of both Jonathan and Lonnie, save for the motions of seating them both. No odd looks are given to Lonnie's box of things, nor -- if he brought it along -- his bat. He was half-heartedly offered the opportunity to drop it in the umbrella rack, if he wanted to.

Jon takes a booth with a high back, and turns his attention toward the menu.

Lonnie, in fact, does put his baseball bat in the umbrella rack (only in Gotham,) and swings himself up onto the booth, squishing himself into the corner and placing his box under the table. His backpack’s placed right beside him.

He’s already small- especially compared to Jonathan- but he seems determined to make himself even smaller. Lonnie hunches over the table and scrutinizes the menu with one exposed eye, rapping his free hand on the table. Jonathan receives the occasional upwards glance from him.

Coffee. And a sandwich. Jon picks both, mentally placing his order, and sets the menu down.

"...After we order, I got some things to ask, arright?" He murmurs, keeping his voice low; the staff might not care, but patrons could. Best keep mumbly.

"Dinner's on me whatever you got to say, upfront. Ain't contingent on you givin' me answers you think I'm gonna wanna hear."

(The waitress does drift by, uninterested and unimpressed, to take their orders.)

Watching the waitress approach means Lonnie didn’t have the space to answer Jon in full; Instead, he flashes a thumbs up his way.

BLT, cherry Coke. Lonnie deserved something sweet, he thought. His menu comes down after Jon’s, and he doesn’t fully turn to place his order. He does, however, have the common sense for manners; “I’d like an egg BLT and a cherry Coke, please.”

"And I'd like a tuna sub and a black coffee, please, miss. Thank you kindly."

Their orders are noted down, and she drifts on to her next engagement - and Jon leans on the table, looking Lonnie over. Where to start. "....You got a place to stay?"

“I’ll get one.” Lonnie murmurs, implying that the answer’s actually no. “Old landlord probably won’t let me back in, not like I was actually paying for my old apartment anyway...” He murmurs as he passes the saltshaker between his hands. "...Right." Jonathan says, nodding slowly. "...If you need a place to crash a li'l while while you work him over, y'know - I got a guest room. Ain't got much more than a bed and a couple boxes and a desk, but it's dry an' the door locks." "...And like, if puttin' out on your own for a place don't work, I don't mind if you stay, right?" .... Hm. The saltshaker rests in his left hand.

“...You’re serious? C’mon, your job’s probably already batter-fried as is, if anyone finds out-”

Lonnie doesn’t trail off, per se, more than he just lets his throat close a little. “...Really? You really don’t-“

He’d be an absolute idiot to decline, but there had to be some kind of catch - ? - but Jon’s not that much of a jerkass.... "Kid, much as I'm sure you could find someone whose arm you could twist for a place, it don't sit right with me to just leave you in an alley to do that. I got the room, and - well, Arkham can just deal." Jonathan’s tone is flat.

"What they don't know ain't gonna hurt my career." Lonnie puts a fist to his rapidly-splitting mouth and exhales sharply. “‘Guess that is true,” he answers, then shakes two fingers at Jon. 

“...Shit, thanks, I guess? I didn’t... really expect you to show real concern, holy shit...” "What, you think it was just for appearances?"  Jon chuckles, genial. "Naw, son, I try to actually care 'bout the folks I work with, didn't get into this business on accounta I don't care about people."

"Look, after Dinner I'll help you carry shit, since I left the car at home." “Okay.” Lonnie doesn’t particularly feel like pushing it any more, so he doesn’t. 

“...How’d I not notice this place before?” He asks, mostly to himself. Or maybe he had, and he’d forgotten about it. Was it even worth forgetting?  Ech, everything was so overwhelming. As their food and coffee comes around, Jonathan turns his attention to the rogue chat, securing something, before starting to eat. Tuna melts are truly the mac and cheese of the sandwich world, and hard to get wrong.

[ Dr_J_C ] - Hey, Eddie, you on. [ E?Nygma ] - Yes? [ Dr_J_C ]  - You got a cab company you trust to keep their yaps shut [ E?Nygma ] - My henchwomen. [ Dr_J_C ]  - ...Think they'd be willing to come pick up me and a runaway? Wound up cross town and the kid's got luggage [ E?Nygma ] - Only one way to find out, really.

[ DM: E?Nygma to E&Q: Ladies? ] [ DM  E&Q to E?Nygma: [Q] You need something, Ed? ] [ DM: E?Nygma to E&Q: Yes, if you have the time tonight. Dr Crane is asking me about securing private transit that doesn't talk too much, if you catch my drift. Since you're both the pair I trust most on the matter, I thought I'd ask if you'd be willing to go fetch him and cart him wherever he needs to go. He's not in a stabbing mood, so it shouldn't be risky. ] [ DM  E&Q to E?Nygma: [Q] Not in a stabbing mood? Color me surprised.. but sure thing, Boss! [E] Dr. Crane requires transit? We aren’t busy, so we’ll be glad to pick him up, when needed. Anything that’s said will stay in the car, don’t you worry. ] [ DM: E?Nygma to E&Q: Peachy. Make him buy you dinner, huh? I'll forward the address: you know what to do if he starts giving you trouble, and where to send the bill. Thanks so much. ]

[ E?Nygma ] - Good news, Jonny, they'll do it. Have an address? [ Dr_J_C ]  - Yeah, hangon.... Down town, Eighth and Tuppence. The shitty diner.

[ DM: E?Nygma to E&Q: : Eighth and Tuppence, the "shitty diner", as he put it. ]

[ E?Nygma ] - I told them to make you buy them dinner. 

[ Dr_J_C ]  -  Yeah, sure, doesn't have to be from here. We just got our food, so - give it an hour? [ DM: E?Nygma to E&Q: He's asked for you to come in an hour, so you have time to get ready. ]

[ E?Nygma ] - Done and done, don't leave them waiting.

Before eating, Lonnie removes the top slice of bread from each sandwich half and salts the (perfectly over-medium) egg on top, then slides the salt to the other side of the table. He almost chokes on his first bite. God, he missed real food. "...Arkham food, huh." Jonathan chuckles, humorlessly. "Shit, every time I've gotten outta there, pizza boxes have looked appetizing."

"Eddie's henches are gonna be givin' us a ride. They ain't snitches, and I fancy our chances in one'a their cars than on foot."

“...Tall punk one n’ a short one?” Lonnie clarifies through a mouthful of BLT. Gulp. “Nice.”

“...Spent his ketchup money on Walgreens eyeliner and a burger. Should probably get online and tell ‘im once I get home, huh.” He pauses, putting down his sandwich for a second. “I told you the ketchup thing, right?”

Jonathan grins, lifting his coffee in a weird sort of salute. "Sure did. Bet you made with Eddie, right? Eyeliner and a bite's a good cause, then. He chomps down half his sandwich before turning his attention properly to coffee.

"...Good-ish news, the Asylum is pretty sure I didn't help you break out." "So they prob'ly ain't gonna assume I came got you, neither."

“Thank god,” Lonnie comments. “Like, not just ‘cuz your job’s still safe, that’s great, but god, I didn’t spend three weeks figuring out like, 80 million people’s schedules for a friend in a high place to get the stick, it’s my damn credit.” He pauses for a sip of soda. “...Is that the right metaphor? Doesn’t matter. ‘S.... nice y’aint in that deep shit.”

Another pause. “Jesus Christ, I just said ‘y’ain’t’ in complete earnest, what the fuck are you doing to me?” Lonnie laughs, leaning his head back and pulling down one eyelid. Jonathan barks a cheerful laugh, and even that is ignored by the utter apathy that is a back-street diner in Gotham. He shakes his head until it trickles down to a snicker and, grinning, drains the rest of his coffee before his attention returns to the perfectly adequate tuna melt.

"Naww, they had me doin' damage control, after talkin' to me a bit and nosing some at my notes. Shit, I didn't know a damn thing about your plans, and it showed, son, so oughta be fine."

"New's being shitty about it anyways, though, m'sorry about that." “I~’m aware,” Lonnie chimes rather sardonically, waiting to swallow this time. “Eh, GCN’s a bunch of corporatist bullcrap anyway. They don’t think I’m a real dude, I know they aren’t a real news station, cancels out.” It really doesn’t cancel out, but the shrug indicates either he’s actually fine or he doesn’t particularly want to talk about it.

Jonathan slowly nods, and makes a mental tick to get a tee-shirt made inviting people to physically fight him if they want to call Lonnie a girl. That's a dadly thing to do, right?

"...So,” Jon starts, slowly, “Y'all called me dad."

Groan. “Uh, I’m sorry?” Lonnie shrugs to accompany the nonapology— not like it was worth applogizing for. “Slip of the tongue, like callin’ a teacher ‘mom,’ y’know?”

He sucks the rest of his Coke down and sets the tall plastic glass back on the table. Jon laughs, sitting back himself and uncrossing his arms. "Dunno where all I said I was upset about it, son." His grin is lazy and easy, and he just shrugs.

"Y'all see me as a father figure?" ... Does he? ... “I mean— you’re what, two and a half times my age n I’ve seen more of you  in the, what, three-ish months since you took my case than anyone else, not to mention you’re like...” Lonnie cycles through various expressions as he speaks, apparently directing his explanation at his fingernails. (Note the lack of a solid answer.) 

He doesn’t mention what Jon’s like. Soon, he throws his forehead into one hand, rubbing his temples.

“I mean—- no, but also not no?” "...So, solid maybe." Jon suggests, wiping crumbs off his hands with a chuckle. "Right, well that ain't somethin' you gotta come up with an answer to today, son. Right now, priority's makin' sure you don't get picked up by the cops two days after a breakout."

"And,” he adds, “Not leavin' you to find a half-comfortable Alley to try an' make a sleeping spot from."

“Mmh,” Lonnie affirms through his last bite of BLT (emphasis on the L.) “In my defense, I spent like... the first third’a my sophomore year doin’ that, I’ve got practice.” He jokes, sending finger-guns Jon’s way. “But yeah, let’s leave that for later, ‘kay?”

"Sounds good." Jonathan pulls out his wallet, leafing through it and leaving the bill in cash, with a generous tip. No, the bill hasn't actually arrived yet, but he's pretty good at math. Something about being a Chemist, maybe. 

"Ed's girls oughta be here in a nother couple minutes, so - you wanna hit the washroom or anything 'fore we head outside?"

[everwizard]

Back to the Present

Summary: After arriving back on Earth, Hera and Minkowski try to return Eiffel's memories through movie nights. Tonight's movie is Back to the Future.

Words: 1,374

Warnings: Spoilers for Back to the Future

AO3 Link

Eiffel sits down on the sofa. He looks at the blank screen in front of him. He doesn’t know what he will be watching today. It’s a surprise. It’s always a surprise.

They had gotten off of the Urania seven months ago and ever since, Hera and Minkowski, or Renée, or whatever he was supposed to call her, had been trying to return his memories to him. He started with the tapes but finished them quickly. He couldn’t understand half of what the previous Eiffel was talking about at the time and so his friends decided to bring him up to speed on over thirty years of pop culture.

Movie nights like this were frequent. Sometimes Lovelace and Jacobi would join if they were interested in the film and/or in the area but tonight it was just the three of them.

“I’ve got popcorn!” Minkowski announces as she moves into the room. She sits down next to Eiffel, handing him a bucket of the salty snack. “Hera, will you turn on the TV, please?”

“Of course, lieutenant,” the sentient AI replies. The television flickers to life, displaying the brand logo before switching to a DVD menu screen.

Eiffel reads the title. “Back to the Future, huh? Some sort of time travel movie?”

“Yes!” Hera proclaims. “I chose this one this time.”

The group had long since finished Star Wars, Star Trek, Indiana Jones, and several other action-filled franchises of various genres. Today they were starting the 1980’s time-travel trilogy that, as always, Eiffel knew nothing about.

Minkowski presses play on the menu and the movie begins.

The movie opens with the ticking of dozens of clocks and Eiffel settles into the sofa with his popcorn.

The characters seemed interesting enough to Eiffel. Marty, the teenager with a knack for music, was the run of the mill high schooler. Eiffel wondered what high school was like. Where was he on the social ladder at that age? And Doc Brown, the eccentric scientist of unknown origins whose mind was on a totally different level than his peers. Was that what this Hilbert guy was like? Probably not. The Doc never killed anyone. Probably.

Eiffel watched with attention as, through a series of mishaps, Marty ends up in 1955 with no way back.

The mentions of aliens brought Eiffel's thoughts to Lovelace.

"'It's mutated into human form', huh? Remind you of anyone?" he says.

"Eiffel, do you have to make a Lovelace joke every time we watch a sci-fi movie?" Minkowski asks, pausing the movie.

"What? Come on, they're funny!" Eiffel exclames.

“No they’re not, Eiffel,” Hera chimes in. “Now shut up, I’m trying to watch.”

Eiffel scoffs, “Can’t you know this whole movie instantly?”

“Well yeah, but that goes against the whole point of movie night,” Hera sighs. “So I set my television processing power down to your human brain levels.”

“Alright, fine. Let’s keep watching then.”

Minkowski rolls her eyes and resumes the movie.

The trio sit in comfortable silence as the film continues. Well, Eiffel and Minkowski sit. Hera exists as a large house.

As the movie progresses, George gets beaten by Biff, George gets beaten by Biff again, and, you guessed it, George gets beaten by Biff a third time. Eiffel dedicates his full attention to the movie, determined to learn the secrets of his past.

His attention returns to the world around him when he hears Minkowski snicker to his left. He glances over. “What’s so funny?”

Minkowski hides her face. “What? Nothing.”

“Hang on, wait. You’re actually enjoying this?”

“Of course not. I would never enjoy something as cheesy as this.” Minkowski scoffs.

“Come on,” Eiffel prods, “what was it? The Darth Vader reference?”

“What? No.”

“The Vulcan reference then.”

“Absolutely not.”

“She’s lying,” Hera chimes in. “It's definitely the Vulcan joke. Her Command Authentication Code was literally Vulcan.”

Minkowski flushes. “Hera! Who’s side are you on?”

Hera laughs. “I’m on my own side.”

Minkowski sighs. “Fine, it was the Vulcan joke.”

“Wait a minute,” Eiffel starts. “Is this why we watched Star Trek first? Are you that big of a Spock fan?”

“No…”

“Lieutenant,” Hera warns.

“Fine!” Minkowski bursts. “Fine! I'm a Spock fan. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Minkowski! That’s so cool! Why didn’t you say something before?”

“Eiffel,” Minkowski sighs, “the last time I brought up one of my interests, you laughed at me.”

Eiffel’s face falls. “Oh,” was all that he could say. Did he really laugh at her? At his friend? What had she confided in him that he just blew off like that? Mocked her for? His past self must have been a real asshole.

Minkowski notices Eiffel’s change in demeanor. “Eiffel…” she starts. “Doug. You were a different person back then. You’ve more than made up for it by now. If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t even be here right now. On Earth. You made the biggest sacrifice of us all and I’m…” she hesitates, “I’m sorry for hiding this from you.”

“No Renée, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything I did to you. Back then. I was a real dick, wasn’t I?”

“Doug, you don't have to apologize. You were a different person. You don’t have to apologize for things you don’t even remember.”

“But that doesn’t excuse what I did. I was—”

“But you’re not anymore. You are a new person now. You’re my friend and nothing is going to change that.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Minkowski smiles. “Are you ready to keep watching?”

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

The movie resumes and everyone continues watching in silence.

Everytime Doc brings up not wanting to know his future, Eiffel cannot help but to think of his past. Who was he, really? The tapes only covered the last three or so years. He was never going to be able to get the rest back. All he knew from before the Hephaestus was what he said in the tapes. Besides his daughter, there wasn't much else there. He didn't even know how he ended up on a space station to begin with. He somehow got out of his prison sentence and that was all he knew.

His train of thought is interrupted when Lorraine begins trying to make out with Marty. “Woah, woah, woah! That's his mom. Is this guy really kissing his mom?”

“Technically, his mom is kissing him,” Hera answers. “But it doesn’t really make it that much better.”

“It really doesn’t,” Minkowski agrees.

Eiffel nods. “This is weird, even for me.”

Hera laughs in agreement. It was indeed weird, even by Eiffel’s standards.

“Hey, you picked it,” Eiffel points out.

“I’ve never seen it before!” Hera argues.

“Well that's fair, I guess,” he says, returning his attention to the screen.

Marty was fading from existence. His actions were causing him to be erased from history. Eiffel begins to think how that is going to affect Marty going forward. To almost die. To almost lose yourself forever.

Well, for Eiffel, it wasn’t an almost. The old Eiffel did die. The new Eiffel did lose himself forever. There was nothing left for him to remember, no matter how badly he wanted to.

Eiffel returned his attention to the movie once again. If he missed parts then he’d have to watch it again, which would slow the whole process down. So he paid attention again.

Marty safely arrived back to the future. He and all his friends were alright. The Doc survived. His family was happy. His girlfriend loved him.

Eiffel had arrived back on Earth in much the same fashion. His crew was alright. Almost everyone had survived. His friends were happy. And he had people who loved him. Everything was going to be alright.

He would never get all his memories back and that’s okay. He had his friends and they were going to help him. They would do what they could but ultimately there were always going to be blanks.

This was his chance to start over. To be better. For Hera. For Minkowski. For himself. For Anne.

He would fix his past for a better future. Just like Marty McFly.

The credits began to roll and Eiffel sighs, "So when are we gonna watch the next one?"

[indiaalphawhiskey]

SD Drabble #1

Note: Another prompt I thought of long ago, that I’m still so in love with. I don’t know if I’ll ever get the time to write it, but here it is anyway. Posting under the tag “Sugar Daddy AU”. Please excuse my self-indulgence. xx ---

“Have you got that?” the woman asked. The tone of her voice, coupled with the patronizing pinch of her newly ‘refreshed’ lips, screamed condescension.

Harry offered her a soft, subdued smile. “I have, ma’am,” he said, calmly.

She sniffed and her nose, already two and a half inches in the air to begin with, titled higher in doubt. “Repeat it, then.”

Harry let out a slow exhale through his teeth.

“Of course.” His smile never left his face as he ran through the list in his head. “For the table’s appetizers, the Rockefeller oyster platter, baked garlic lemon butter scallops, lemon butter sauce separated into individual sauce dishes, garlic to the side, and a Caesar salad, with no dressing, no bacon, no chicken, and no croutons, to be served twenty minutes before the main dishes. For his entree,” Harry said, turning to offer the gentleman – who had been scanning him from head-to-toe with a rather lascivious smirk – a quick nod. “Sir will have the cherry-glazed rack of lamb, with marble potatoes instead of garlic rice pilaf, potatoes pre-cut into quarters, and a whiskey double.” He turned back to the woman, a challenge in his tone. “Madam will have the Chilean sea bass and braised asparagus, asparagus to the side and blanched instead of braised, with the pesto and lemon sauce on a separate dish, and a glass of Semillon. Dessert will be two pieces of the dairy and gluten-free chocolate truffle cake, and two glasses of our best sherry.”

The woman’s gaze remained unimpressed.

“Fine,” she breathed. She flicked her fingers away once, the sheen of her opulent diamond ring reflected on the white tablecloth – a dismissal.

Harry bowed politely, face impeccably calm as he gathered the menus from the table and began to walk away.

Oyster platter and scallops baked in nothing, he recited in his head as he weaved his way around the tables. Plain lettuce masquerading as Caesar salad. Lamb with an entirely different side dish than the one on the menu – Chef will be pleased as fuck, by the way––

Snap! Harry startled at the sound. What the f–– Snap! Snap! Snap!

He leaned back reflexively to avoid the hand aggressively snapping right in front of his nose, before turning to find it was attached to a portly man in his mid-fifties. His face was tinged red with impatience, his breath laboured as he heaved himself back onto his chair now that he had Harry’s attention.

Harry took a deep breath before facing the table.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Sir,” he began politely. “But my colleague will be with you in just a mo –”

“Oh, you’ll do, sweetheart,” the man crooned, licking his lips as he surveyed Harry. “You’ll do just fine.”

His impatience had faded completely, Harry noticed, though Harry much preferred irritation to… whatever this new expression was. Having only had this job for three days, it took all of Harry’s willpower to swallow the cutting remark that was already resting on his tongue. He managed, but unfortunately, the way his skin was crawling with discomfort was not as easily dealt with.

He exhaled slowly, reminding himself why he needed this job. Unbidden, the events of the last week flashed before his eyes.

Finding unrecognizable lingerie under his pillow. Being told by his fiance that he was being left for a nineteen-year-old pilates instructor slash aspiring male model. Discovering three months’ worth of unpaid rent bills hidden in their (now his, he supposed) bread box, and a discarded bill for a ‘12-carat gold-plated necklace with ‘MY BABY’ engraving, cursive’ (Gross.) in his trash (already paid, thank God for small favours). Combing coffee shop bulletin boards for part-time jobs that fit his tedious grad school schedule. Chicken-flavored ramen for the three straight dinners.

He tried not to sigh.

Relax, he told himself. Be professional, get your check, and get out of here.

“How may I help you, Sir?” Harry said, miraculously polite.

“Well, handsome,” Lecherous Restaurant Patron purred, drawing out the pregnant pause as Harry quelled a rising gag.

“Come off it, George,” his companion cut in. He tacked on a chuckle at the end like an afterthought, though it couldn’t mask the slight edge embedded in the words. It made Harry think of the way a cheeky thief smiles as he runs his finger back and forth against a switchblade – just a hint of a threat. “Just order, mate. The kid’s busy.”

It was hardly a white knight stepping in to defend his honour, but after the week Harry had, it was close. He had barely glanced in his saviour’s direcion before George spoke again.

“I own the place, Tomlinson. He can spare a couple more minutes, can’t you, darling?” He punctuated the question with two hefty slaps to Harry’s arse cheek. The first made Harry freeze in shock. The second made his vision go red.

Lingerie.

‘He’s… amazing, Harry. I love him.’

Rent.

‘MY BABY’ engraving, cursive.

Wanted: Part-time Wait Staff.

‘Repeat it, then.’

Slap! Slap!

The punch flew out of Harry, the crisp sound of knuckles against cheekbone ringing satisfyingly in his ears, loud and clear over the scuffle, over the yelling, over the firing. It was all Harry could hear until the harsh slam of the restaurant’s back door, and the biting whip of the winter wind.

Cheated on, left, in debt, harassed, fired, tossed out on my arse, Harry thought to himself, raising his fist in a sarcastic cheer. B-I-N-G-fucking-O. What he wouldn’t do for a joint right now.

He let out a deep, bone-tired sigh, winter’s icy fingers creeping around his open coat and up his too-thin undershirt (they had taken his uniform straight off his back, the bastards), before making his way out of the tiny back alley. He hunched his shoulders automatically, the wind somehow stronger out on the dimly lit main street, and began his long trudge to the tube stop, large hands stuffed awkwardly into his coat’s faux pockets because he had also lost his favorite gloves to bloody Neverwhere this morning.

“Mind the gap, indeed,” he mumbled to himself sadly, taking a little solace in the fact that he had remembered to bring his earphones with him today. He was convinced the morose opening chords of Landslide would manage soothe his broken heart, if he played it enough times. (Hey, if Stevie made it through, so could Harry.)

Lost in thought (and in the gargantuan task of untangling the aforementioned earphones), the barely audible crunch of gravel next to him didn’t register at all.

“ – genuinely feel like you’re ignoring me on purpose now but, once more, with feeling – Do. You. Need. A. Ride?”

Harry jumped, clutching at his heart and dropping his earphones in surprise. “What the bloody –”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” the man said. He offered Harry a sheepish smile, his elbow resting on the window of his cheesily predictable top down. “But I’d been here for like seven minutes –”

“You’ve been stalking me for seven minutes,” Harry deadpanned, so done with these absolute shits. “Yeah, not a great line to lead with.”

“Not stalking,” he tried to chuckle confidently, but the tone came out slightly uncertain. “But like, offering you a ride. You know, to make up for…” He tipped his head backward, motioning to the restaurant. “My partner. Business partner,” he clarified seriously, and ––

Oh, Harry thought. The other guy. Tomlinson, he remembered. No wonder his voice was familiar.

“No, thank you,” Harry said curtly as he began to walk again, his face resolutely blank, eyes trained stubbornly on his destination.

A huff of disbelief weaved itself between the sound of slow-rolling wheels.

“C’mon, kid,” Tomlinson tried. “It’s cold as shit.”

“Then maybe get a car with a roof,” Harry said, quietly.

Tomlinson chuckled in answer, wheels still painfully in time with Harry’s steps.

“Fair point. C’mon,” he repeated. “You’ve had a shit night. You’re cold and tired. Let me give you a ride.” When Harry stayed silent, he continued. “You’ll be home quicker. Home, and clean,” he needled. “And warm.”

At that, Harry let himself steal a glance, and was greeted with Tomlinson’s smirking profile, his eyes on the road. High cheekbones, a sharp jaw, the lovely peak of a small nose – everything was slim and pointed. Pixie-like, Harry caught himself thinking, though the delicate quality of his face was offset by just a hint of handsome stubble. A healthy amount of silver decorated his temples, but the hair on his head was still a touch more pepper than salt. Not quite a silver fox just yet.

Fifty, Harry guessed. Fifty-five at most.

“Is this your M.O., or something?” Harry asked, trying to keep the raking irritation from bleeding into his voice. The calmer he was, the less Tomlinson would think he was getting somewhere. “Is that how this works? You go to a restaurant, find a target, get your wingman to act like an arsehole, and then swoop in for the kill?”

A startled laugh broke through the hush of the street.

“Just a wee bit paranoid, aren’t you?” Tomlinson teased.

“Evasive, aren’t you?” Harry shot back.

“Okay, calm down, Sherlock.” Harry could still hear the amusement in his voice. “I do have killer flirting skills, but not serial killer flirting skills.”

Harry sighed then, so, so exhausted. “Right. Well again, no thank you on the ride. In case my little demonstration at the restaurant was somehow unclear, I don’t date men who are old enough to be my father.”

He tipped his chin up higher, because while Harry may not have any money (or a job, or a fiance), he still had his dignity.

Or at least part of it, he corrected, pushing away the curdle of humiliation as he remembered finding those awful panties.

“So you only date cheap men,” Tomlinson said, decisively.

“God,” Harry whispered under his breath, his annoyance now too hard to ignore. Louder he said, “Fuck off.”

“Cheap,” he continued confidently over Harry’s insult. “Young, handsome bastards who get one big paycheck and think that makes them Drake or whoever the fuck –” The cool-dad rap reference, plus the well-timed dig at his stupid, necklace-engraving ex, made Harry’s lip twitch upward against his will. “ – and then fuck off with some barely-legal twit who sucks dick like a champ but can’t name a single city outside of London.”

Harry snorted.

“Know him, or something?” he asked sarcastically, eyes trained on the tiny Underground sign that was still about three blocks away.

“Know him? Oh love,” The way he said it – ‘Luhv’ – made Harry finally turn to him. It was a mistake. His eyes were sharp – a searing blue even in the orange cast of the street lamps – and his smile devastating. “I am him,” he admitted freely, the skin around his eyes crinkling as his smirk widened. “Only, you know,” he shrugged. “With a few more checks, and slightly higher standards. I mean,” he blinked, almost sweetly. “You can name at least three cities outside London... can’t you?”

Harry could feel a gentle heat settle at the tops of his cheeks, the insinuation about his blowjob skills decidedly not lost on him. He felt his stomach do a sudden somersault. He pushed it away, convincing himself it was just the rush of attention, the electricity of an unexpected ego boost and that quick, first moment of feeling pretty again after getting horribly, horribly dumped.

His brief silence must’ve signaled a chink in his armour, because Tomlinson then took it as an opportunity to say, “I’m Louis.”

“I didn’t ask,” Harry said, tongue fast, though the fact that he hadn’t yet ducked into a not-suitable-for-sports-cars-sized alleyway probably softened the blow.

Louis only nodded, still smiling. “Right, okay. As much fun as this has been, I really doubt the lovely heated seating of my car will dull our banter. Or...” he dragged out the ‘r’, eyes mischievous.  “Are you really going to let a…” he assessed Harry. “Twenty? Twenty year gap be the reason you get hypothermia? Is that really the hill you want to freeze on, Mr. Principled?”

“Closer to twenty-six,” Harry corrected stubbornly. “Which is an entire fully grown adult between us. You could have kids as old – nay, older – than our age gap.” Did he just say ‘nay?’

“Did you just say ‘nay’, Shakespeare?” Louis teased. “So definitely at least three cities outside London, then.” Harry didn’t smile but it was a close thing. “And I promise you,” Louis continued. “I haven’t put myself in the position to bear children since you were – nay, before you were born. Been in a lot of other positions since then, though.”

He had the audacity to punctuate it with a wink. It was annoyingly charming, and Harry had never been angrier at himself.

“Besides,” Louis said, with the kind of smile that knew victory was close. “It’s just a ride, love, no strings attached. Unless of course, getting tied up is what you’re into,” he added, so incredibly pleased with himself. Harry wanted to smack him. But he could also feel the blessedly comfortable heat radiating from the car’s vents.

“Fine.”

[agentmarymargaretskitz]

I Know, You Know

Happy birthday to @areyouscarletcold!!!!! For your gift, I brought our IT AU to life in the form of the first of the Yang trilogy! Hope you enjoy it!

AO3

              A rare sunny day in Derry was something to be enjoyed. After three days of fog and rain, it seemed that everyone wanted to do the same thing. People were walking around on the streets and on the beach. Getting a table in the restaurant was just as hard, but Richie had managed to secure him and Ben one in the end.

“Any idea of what you’re going to get?” Ben asked him a few minutes after they’d picked up their menus.

Richie grinned, having known since he arrived at the table. “Breakfast.”

“It’s 12:30, Richie.”

“Yes, but I didn’t have breakfast, the most important meal of the day. Aren’t you one of the people always telling me to eat breakfast?”

“Yes, except you eat it in the morning!”

“So why do people eat breakfast for dinner? You’ve done that, Benny Boy. Are you telling me that you’re wrong eating breakfast for dinner?”

Anyone else might have been pissed off at Richie for that, but Ben was one of the people who’d known him long enough to understand it was all in jest.

“You two decided what to eat yet?” a waiter asked them as he came over to the table.

              Richie smiled at the handsome man and looked him over. His hair was gelled up enough so his blond hair would look stylish. There was the barest hint of black eyeliner gracing his lids. No ring on his finger, slight limp as he shuffled a little closer in his work boots with a smear of grease on the outer right sole. Calloused hands and green eyes that definitely lingered on Ben ever so briefly, not that Richie could blame him.

Ben sighed and handed over his menu. “The eggs benedict with fruit. I’ll be right back.”

The waiter scribbled down the order as Ben headed off in the direction of the bathroom. “Great. How about you?”

“Let me see…” Richie leaned back in his seat and grinned. “Oh, and don’t mind my friend. He’s been cranky the last few days. Please, tell me what you would recommend?”

“All the sandwiches are really great-”

“I have to stop you, I’m so sorry,” Richie held up a finger for emphasis. “But I have not eaten breakfast yet, my best friend claimed it was the most important meal of the day, and I think it’s vital I should have that. Also, because he’s my best friend, I want to needle him just a little bit with some part of it.”

“How about…chocolate banana pancakes with a side of smoked salmon?”

“He’d hate that,” Richie grinned. “That’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

“Not sure about that.”

“You’re a man who clearly has a passion for cars, probably classic? What are you working on, a Chevy and listening to Queen?”

“A Volkswagen actually,” the waiter corrected. “Not wrong about Queen.”

“You can never go wrong with Queen.”

“Has he ordered yet?” Ben asked as he returned to his seat. “And please tell me you weren’t gross.”

“I ordered things normal people get for breakfast,” Richie promised, which wasn’t a complete lie. “He can vouch for me.”

“I’ll get these orders going, but he did.”

As their waiter left, Ben turned back to Richie. “You flirted with him, didn’t you?”

“Noooo.”

“You turn on the Tozier charm every time you meet a gay man, Trashmouth.”

“He’s gay? I had no idea! How did you know?”

“Richie, I saw how he looked at you and me, he’s gay,” Ben screwed up his face and put a hand to his temple. “Did you do this?”

Richie knew Ben was baiting him, but he was Trashmouth supreme and would make this game his. “Take a shit in the chair? That’s unsanitary, Ben!”

As predicted, Ben dropped the act immediately. “I meant being psychic.”

“No, you know that is for the police department and cases,” Richie lectured. “And for getting free drinks in the bar.”

“That was once.”

“Still worked out well for us. And it’s because of this that we get paid by Stan.”

“I have a job, Richie,” Ben reminded him. “But I know he’s going to leave you his phone number on the bill, right? And you’ll leave him hanging because you struggle with commitment.”

“I struggle with commitment?” Richie laughed, even though Ben had struck dead on. But it did give him pause…and made him think about a certain someone from his high school reunion. “Then watch this.”

Richie pulled his phone out of his pocket, selected a number, and showed the screen to Ben.

“If he says yes, you have to go on the date,” Ben told him.

“And I will!” Richie hissed. “Commitment issues? Nope. I just took a leap of faith while you still pine for the lovely Detective Marsh.”

Ben raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything else as the call connected.  

~~~

“Bill, you want me to order the-” Mike stopped as his husband strode past him, white as a sheet. “Bill, what’s wrong?”

              Bill didn’t stop walking, heading right for Stan’s office. Mike followed his husband to the chief’s office, noticing an evidence bag with a manila envelope inside in his hand. When they entered, Stan was on the phone with Patty. Once he saw Bill’s face, he told his wife he had to go and hung up.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

Bill set the bag on Stan’s desk. “This just got dropped off at the desk.”

Mike leaned over his shoulder to get a better look at it. On the back was the decal of a clown with a sinister smile. His heart sank as he remembered how he’d seen it on the news when he was younger. Stan swallowed, looking a lot more concerned than he had a moment ago. The chief of police had recognized the decal too.

“Who did he choose this time?”

~~~

“Could this not be a more perfect day?” Richie announced as they walked up the stairs to the precinct. “The sun is shining, I’ve eaten a breakfast, I have a date, and Stan the Man has just called us about a case.”

“You still have to actually go on the date,” Ben reminded him. “So what do you think this is going to be about?”

“No clue, but I will definitely be using this?” Richie made his psychic face at Ben. “My moneymaker is going to be in action.”

“Whatever you say,” Ben shrugged as they saw almost everyone in the precinct assembled in the bullpen. “This looks serious though.”

“You made it.”

              Both men turned around to see Detective Beverly Marsh walking towards them. Richie didn’t miss the way that Ben’s face lit up when he saw her. Ever since they’d started Psych and started working with the police department, his best friend had been pining hard for the detective. Richie approved of Bev not just because she believed he was psychic, but because she was tough, smart, and had laughed at his jokes a few times. Also, she tended to be with-

“Edster!” Richie waved at Bev’s partner as she led them over to the rest of the crowd. “How are you?”

“Not the time, Tozier,” Detective Edward Kaspbrak snapped. “This is serious shit happening.”

“Ooookay, duly noted. I’ve missed you too.”

Eddie rolled his eyes but didn’t get a chance to say anything else before Stanley Uris, chief of the Derry Police, called everyone’s attention to a message made of magazine clippings on the projector.

“This letter was delivered to us about an hour ago,” Stan announced. “It’s confirmed to be from the Clown Killer. Detective Kaspbrak, if you will?”

Eddie stepped up. “Hey everybody, I’m back and back for one night only. I’m going to kill somebody tonight? Guess who? Guess where? Guess how? We’re going to have so much fun. Signed, the Clown.”

“The Clown Killer always demands a challenger when he commits his crimes,” Stan continued. “It’s what he does- makes someone follow clues to figure out what his plan is and see if they can stop it in time. The Clown Killer has made it clear who he wants his opponent to be already. Denbrough?”

Officer Bill Denbrough clicked to the next slide. Richie felt like someone had put an ice cube down his back as he read the next magazine letter message.

“P.S…Bring your psychic along,” Bev read aloud as everyone turned towards Richie.

Richie grinned at the crowd. “Okay, but I’m not the first psychic who’s worked with the police. Remember that FBI guy who had a psychic with him?”

“She was in on a counterfeiting scheme,” Ben mumbled next to him.

Stan looked sympathetic. “Mr. Tozier, I’m sorry but he’s made it clear that he wants it to be you.”

“How could he-”

Stan clicked to the next slide. The ice cube now felt like a bucked of ice water going down his shirt when he saw his picture on the screen. It had been the one from when he and Ben had discovered the dinosaur (even though Ben said they had technically re-discovered it after finding the dead paleontologist). There was a stamp of a clown at the bottom of the picture.

“Oh fuck,” he said softly. Someone actually wanted to play a game with him.

Ben stepped forward to stand at his side. “Do you have description on him? Something we can use to track him down?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Stan shook his head. “There’s never been anything to indicate age or ethnicity. Not even a physical description.”

“There isn’t even consistency with the manner in which he kills,” Mike Hanlon, the coroner and medical examiner, added. “I’ve reviewed the files. Neither Bill nor I have been able to find a pattern.”

“He’s right,” Stan nodded. “We’re pawns in his game and we just have to play along with it.”

“Because it’s worked out so well in the past?” Richie countered, his eye catching someone in the corner of the room. “Wait, wait, wait, I’m getting something. I am having a vision of the killer!”

Bev went rigid. “What? Already?”

“Yes, Detective, I am.”

Richie marched across the room, Ben shadowing him, and pointed to a man with a ballcap sitting at a desk. He seemed tuned out to the whole ordeal. “Him. Right here. This is the Clown Killer.”

The man didn’t even pay attention to him, but Bev let out a small groan and Eddie ran a hand down his face. Stan was looking pissed off, then even more so when Bill whispered something in his ear and they retreated to his office.

“Tozier, this is…” Eddie pressed his lips together briefly, barely holding back frustration. “Belch Huggins. He’s a profiler who’s come in because he has identified patterns in the Clown Killer’s murders and is an expert on him. Even more so than Bill and Mike, which is saying something.”

“Are you sure he’s not the killer?”

Ben elbowed him from behind. “Play nice.”

Bev had caught up them now. “Uh, Belch, this is-”

“Richard Tozier, in the flesh,” Belch finished, rising from the chair and adjusting his ballcap.

Richie turned to Ben and raised his eyebrow. Ben gave him a subtle headshake. He was right. Pissing off a potential serial killer was a bad idea, even for him.

“Hold on, you know Tozier?”

“I’ve done my research, Detective Kaspbrak. Not to mention he’s in the papers frequently for the work he’s done for you. No doubt the Clown Killer saw him and decided to select him to be the next player.”

“I’m more of a Street Fighter guy, but beggars can’t be choosers,” Richie told him, stepping aside for Ben. “This is my partner, Leonard Snuffleupagus.”

Belch held out a limp hand that Ben shook politely. “Hello.”

“So you are Benjamin Hanscom,” Belch smiled. “It was harder to find stuff on you with all the names your partner’s given-”

“So why Belch?” Richie interrupted. “You have a gas problem or something.”

“Tozier, please,” Eddie practically begged. “We’re all introduced now. Mr. Huggins, can you tell us more about what’s going on?”

“But answer the Belch question too.”

Belch took a deep breath. “The Clown Killer is the most notorious and mysterious killer in all of Derry. He first started in 1988 with five kills and has resurfaced three times with a single victim in each of those instances. This is his fourth appearance since the 1988 spree. The only times he comes out of hiding are when he feels there is a worthy opponent, Richie in this case. He challenges his opponents to save the victim in a set amount of time by solving riddles he creates.”

Richie raised his hand. “I have a question.”

“My given name is Reginald, my father was named Reginald, his father before him was named Reginald, and his father before him was named Mary. I find the name stuffy; I refuse to go by Reggie because of Archie Comics, and Belch was a childhood nickname.”

Richie lowered his hand. Mystery solved, at least the easy one.

“Okay, you said there are riddles we have to solve?” Ben asked. “Has anything come in yet?”

Bev nodded. “One got delivered with the note announcing his return. Belch?”

Belch walked over to the projector and moved to the next slide. A picture of a telegram message was on the screen, a nice change of pace from the creepy magazine letters.

“He serves the general well today, whose soldiers wait to die. In a white river they shall pay, for them he will not cry. Who is he?”

Richie studied the riddle as Belch pulled a stopwatch out of his jacket. “This stopwatch was also inside the envelope, already running. This is typical of the Clown Killer and we only have an hour and ten minutes left on it."

"Generals and soldiers...could it be military?” Eddie asked, scratching his head.

“Perhaps,” Belch shrugged. “But he wants to play with the psychic. The riddle will be something personally connected to him.”

Richie closed his eyes for a moment. Eddie’s question on the military was still hanging onto him. Generals, soldiers, ranking. Private. Corporal. Lieutenant. Captain. Colonel. But white rivers…a battle? Mike knew some military history, could he know of any battles? But this was for him, this was his clue…

“Any thoughts so far?” Eddie asked.

“He’s been planning this a while or he’s just a lazy poet,” Richie suggested, trying to remember high school history class.

“Richard!”

Fuck, his dad had arrived. Ben was giving him a deer in the headlights look. Richie could tell by the look on the old man’s face that he was not pleased.

“A moment, please,” he said to his friends and Belch before running over to where his father was standing. “What are you doing here?”

“You can’t work with this case, Richard,” Wentworth Tozier scolded his son. “I forbid you to be a part of this.”

“Forbid me…what? No, I am a grown ass adult, Dad. I’m taking the case.”

“Don’t. I was around the last time this sick bastard challenged a cop. Your mother can tell you all about his psychological evaluation. Not only does he know about you, but also about everyone you care about. If you don’t catch him…Richie, you’ll never sleep again.”

His father rarely called him by his nickname. That meant he really wanted Richie to listen to him.

“Dad, I can handle this. I promise you. Just go home, and I’ll give you a call tomorrow, relive the greatest hits. Besides, that clock is counting down so I kinda gotta go and save someone’s life.”

Wentworth didn’t look pleased. “Don’t fuck this up.”

“And I shall try my hardest not to,” Richie snarked back before turning around and heading back to the others.

Eddie was arguing about past cases with Mike and Belch when Richie made it back to the group. Bev and Ben were watching and whispering to each other. Richie looked at the riddle again. He still couldn’t think of anything. What was the Clown Killer trying to tell him?

“The first one is always a gimme,” Belch was telling them. “Richie, you need to think about the last twenty-four hours.”

Staying inside with the rain. Watching Netflix. Arranging a meal with Ben. Breakfast for lunch at the restaurant. He’d run out of cereal so that’s why he’d…

“Oh!” he shouted. “Ben, I know! I got it! It’s Mills!”

His best friend looked at him with confusion. Bev and Eddie exchanged a similar expression. Belch looked intrigued.

“General Mills,” Richie said. “Cereal. The white river is milk, soldiers are the little bits of cereal, and he’s talking about breakfast.”

“Great, we have the general, but who is he?”

Eddie’s question made Richie think back again. The riddle had referred to someone serving the General. Someone serving breakfast…

“Shit.”

~~~

              Eddie made remarkable time getting them all back to where Richie had been eating breakfast with Ben. Once they were there, Richie didn’t even wait for the car to park before tumbling out while Eddie shrieked at him to wait. There was no time to wait though with the timer counting down. The hostess told them when they all barreled in that the waiter had gone on break in the back. Richie barely even let her show them the way, running off in the direction she pointed with Eddie and Ben on his heels.

Outside of the restaurant, there was no waiter in sight. Unfortunately, there was a clown decal plastered on a locker below a stopwatch. The cold feeling he’d gotten earlier was back.

“How well did you all know this guy?” Bev asked, but her voice sounded fuzzy.

“He just served us lunch.”

“Breakfast…for lunch,” Richie corrected. “It was barely anything.”

“Doesn’t matter with the Clown Killer,” Belch said simply, like he was telling a child the sun went down at night. “He’ll find anyone you interact with.”

Bev was yanking on a pair of gloves and opening the locker. No dead body fell out thankfully. There was another message inside, except it was made with glued on cereal.

“Oh rats, Richie,” Bev read. “Oh, so close! Shame he has to die, but how? And when and where? Don’t ask me why.”

“That’s not a riddle,” commented Belch. “He owes us one still.”

“Richie, think you can sense anything from it?” Bev asked him.

Richie tried to look for something, but the waiter was still on his mind. “Clearly he went to a lot of work to pick out the letters from the cereal. For a guy who rhymes like a sixth grader, he had to be planning this. Like he was waiting for me for breakfast. He should have used those little alphabet letters that people put in soup. Why do they call it alphabet soup anyways? There’s fucking numbers in that stuff! Why don’t you calling it fucking letters and numbers soup? It makes more sense!”

Ben nudged him. “I have to go show you something over there.”

“You can just tell me.”

“I want to show you something,” Ben jerked his head towards a flower box. “This will be a quick second.”

Eddie nodded in understanding before going back to checking over the locker with Bev. Richie groaned and ran his hands down his face. “What?”

“Richie, what are you doing?”

“Trying to solve a case, like we always do.

“There’s a man’s life at stake and you’re making jokes?” Ben whispered. “Richie, you are my best friend, I love you, and I support you. But you have to take this one seriously. It’s a serial killer who is going after you!”

“You think I don’t know that? Ben, I’m scared out of my mind. We heard about those cases growing up, my dad knew people who faced this guy, my mother did their psych evals. I have to work like this because if this clown gets into my head, then it’s all over. I’ll lose it. I have to do my thing and make jokes to diffuse the tension of this situation or I’m going to actually start freaking out more. I can’t show weakness by stopping and showing that this weirdo has gotten into my head!”

Ben stared at him for a long minute. “What if I made the jokes?”

“Come again?”

“You have to focus on these riddles, not creating jokes,” Ben told him. “Let me try and be the funny guy. I’m no you, but…I can try.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“I said I’d try. That clock’s running out though. Let’s do this, Trashmouth.”

Richie grinned. “You’re the Trashmouth now.”

“Guess, I am.”

“If you’re both done with your powwow now, I found the other poem,” Eddie shouted, holding up a receipt.

Richie walked over, peering over Eddie’s shoulder. “Little League is over, you just became a pro. Score a run, we’ll have some fun. Make sure you beat the throw.”

Ben peeked over Eddie’s other shoulder. “Wow, and he didn’t leave a tip. What a jackass.”

“He wants you to go to the next location,” Belch said before letting out a burp.

“And we have seventeen minutes,” Eddie held up the watch. “Tozier, would you please get off my shoulder? Where do we need to go?”

Richie cringed and started to think. Oh god, where did this guy want him now?

Ben glanced over at him and nodded. He picked up a soda can and started playing hacky sack with it. After a while, he started to whistle Happy Birthday. Belch looked fascinated. Bev raised an eyebrow at his antics. Then she clapped her hands together.

“Make sure you beat the throw is a close play! I had a coach once who told us that constantly. You have to get to one of the bases or home plate.”

“Yes!” Richie saw where she was going. “He said score a run. I sucked at Little League, but I know you have to touch home plate to score. Home plate is the police station, it’s where this started.”

“Good, good, good,” Eddie said quickly, fumbling a little as he pulled out his keys. “Now let’s go!”

~~~

              When they got back to the police station, Maggie Tozier was waiting there. Eddie watched as Richie went off to go and talk to her. He thought about shouting at him briefly to just come along, but he knew about Richie’s relationship with his parents. It had been the total opposite of him and his mother. They’d buried themselves in their work and weren’t there for Richie when he needed them. When Maggie had evaluated him a few months ago, she’d mentioned it was a regret of hers that she was actively trying to fix.

“Kaspbrak, Marsh!” Stan came out of the conference room. “In here!”

“Is it a surprise party?” Ben asked.

Bev frowned at him. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Cool as a cucumber.”

Eddie rolled his eyes as they walked inside. Mike and Bill were with Stan, staring at a massive box on the table.

“Again, is it a surprise party?”

Mike shook his head. “I found this outside the file room. Checked in with Bill to see who’d brought it in. He told me no one signed for it.”

“It was inside the precinct?!” Stan stared at the two of them. “Are you kidding me? That is the last place someone should be dropping clues. Both of you, go tell everyone to keep their eyes open, not until they catch this guy. I’ve let you people watch my child, come on!”

“Sorry about that,” Richie made his way into the conference room, looking more determined than he had a few moments ago. “And Chief, I was told to tell you there was a reporter on the phone in your office. Something about a statement.”

“Oh, he’s getting a statement,” Stan sighed. “Please solve this, Mr. Tozier. Please.”

Eddie watched him leave, not envious of the position his boss was in. Belch began to unwrap the package on the table now that Richie was there. The guy gave Eddie the creeps, but he seemed to know what he was doing. Richie hand his arms crossed, but his fingers were dancing out a melody on his elbows. More than even, Eddie hoped he’d crack this case. He’d heard others broke before after failing and he didn’t want that to happen to Richie.

“What the fuck is that?” he screeched when the wrapping paper came off to reveal a cage with vermin and a time hanging from the wire.

“It’s a mouse, Edster,” Richie deadpanned. “I had one as a kid for a while.”

“He’s taped the clue on top,” Belch interrupted, pulling off a laminated sheet. “Another riddle for you, Richie.”

“Is he using alphabet noodles?” Ben asked.

Belch showed them the paper. “Mouse food. It’s a photograph. Meet my little buddy Gus. Pitter patter is your hint. If you can’t remember when, just read the fine print.”

“How much time do I have for this one?”

Eddie looked at the dangling watch, scrunching up his nose at the mouth. “Fifty-nine minutes.”

“Richie, is there a way you can speak to it?” Bev asked.

Eddie scoffed. Three years and she was still buying he was psychic. Yes, it was freaky but there had to be some explanation for how Tozier did his thing. “He can’t.”

“Yes, he can,” Ben countered. “He’s the psychic.”

“He is standing right here and all of you are bringing in a lot of negative energy,” Richie yawned. “Just give me a minute.”

“Whatever, Doctor Doolittle,” Eddie muttered.

Richie smirked. “Eddie, I know you can do better than that.”

~~~

              Richie stared at the mouse, trying to figure out what the clue meant. It was hard with everyone staring at him again and the beeping of the timer. Thankfully, Ben came to his aide and started doing his best audition for the Ministry of Silly Walks. While they were watching him make a fool of himself, it gave Richie the time to think. Still, nothing was coming to him.

“Pitter patter is the clue,” Belch said, leaning down on the other side of the table to meet Richie’s face. “Maybe you’re not supposed to speak to the mouse. What if it’s supposed to speak to you?”

Weird advice, but then again, he was working with a man called Belch. Richie sighed and watched Gus the mouse scurry around. His feet dislodged the little flakes, exposing part of a newspaper and its text.

Fine print.

“Oh, this little fucker,” Richie chuckled, pulling the top of the cage off. “Eddie, take the mouse.”

“Do you know how many diseases that thing could be carrying?”

“I got him,” Belch scooped up Gus. “Hello there, my little furry friend.”

Richie let Belch keep cooing to the mouse as he pulled up the newspaper liner. “He was walking on the fine print.”

“Then the next clue is there,” Bev stopped when she saw the page Richie had pulled out. “In the Classifieds. This could be a while.”

“But you have a psychic to read the energy of the printed names and find the important ones,” Richie countered, holding the paper up and putting a hand to his head. “Oh hey, Ben! Betty Ripsom seeks Lenjamin Handsome to love her tender. Your ex made it!”

“Not going down that road again.”

“Don Hagarty selling black snake, will go fast…”

“Those are people from your past cases,” Belch said, the mouse running along his shoulder now. “I did tell you I did my research.”

“I will not doubt you again, my good man,” Richie nodded and then looked back through the paper, scanning all the ads. “Snarky psychic seeks ferroequinologist for help with killer smile. Really? Of all the words to call me, he’s picking snarky? Lame.”

“Ferroequinologist,” Eddie murmured. “A ferroquinologist is a train enthusiast.”

Ben whipped his head towards him. “How do you know that?”

“I happen to be one actually.”

“No kidding,” Ben pointed to himself. “Same.”

“And I as well,” Belch added.

Richie had no idea what was going on, but these three clearly knew what was going on. At least he and Bev were both confused as hell with these two.

“The ‘love her tender’…tender is a small fuel car.”

Belch nodded. “Black snake is slang for coal train.”

“And there is a coal train that runs through Derry,” Ben finished.

They had their next location.

~~~

“You should have told me that we were running!” Richie shouted as he and Ben chased the coal train.

“We ran out of the station before I remembered!” Ben shouted back. “I forgot it was a pull through.”

“Dammit, Ben! But hey, look at us. We get to live out a hobo fantasy!”

Ben laughed a little. “Hey, your phone is ringing!”

              Richie pulled it out, slowing his run a little so he didn’t drop the phone. It was Carter calling about their date tonight. He was thrilled about it even though it was bad timing. Unfortunately, Carter still hadn’t forgotten how Richie had chickened out of taking him to homecoming and was suspecting he was being stood up. He was right about them chasing a serial killer, even if it did come out sarcastic.

“Ben can vouch for me! Ben, tell Carter what’s happening!”

Ben grabbed the phone Richie held out. “Hey, Carter. It’s Ben. We’re chasing a train like hobos.”

They gained a little more ground on the train before he pushed the phone back to Richie. “He wants to talk to you.”

              Carter thought it was another excuse that Richie was doing. He confessed that he was worried about high school happening again. Richie promised to call him back, and that it wasn’t a repeat of the past just as they reached an open car. Ben managed to hoist himself up first, then outstretched a hand to help Richie on.

“Your hobo fantasy sucks,” Ben coughed as they crawled inside and found the envelope and timer. “What does this dick want us to do now?”

Richie cracked open the yellow envelope and pulled out a piece of paper. The letters were white and blue this time. There were some red smears on the paper as well that made his stomach turn.

“A moving picture is worth a thousand words, so read the story and follow the birds? Once you’re there, you’ll hear a phone. You have eight rings to pick up or the girl is dead. Shame on me, that didn’t even rhyme.”

“I hope that’s just jam,” Ben groaned as he pulled out a packet of pictures from inside the envelope. “He’s given you these this time too. We have twenty-seven minutes to get this one right.”

“Great, no pressure,” he muttered, placing out all the photos to try and find a pattern. But nothing stood out.

“Anything?”

“No…wait,” Richie crawled over and peeked out the open door. “Actually, yes. Come see this.”

Ben peered his head out and saw Belch jogging beside the train, sweaty and panting. “I can’t believe this.”

~~~

              Richie figured out that the clue was leading them to the pier. The Clown Killer had taken a picture of Ben throwing away a wrapper just after lunch right by it. They had been walking to Ben’s car and this fuckwad had been watching them. So they all loaded in Eddie’s car again once they all hopped off the train to get there. The man must have broken half a dozen laws to get them there. Richie had never loved him more.

              Again, he bolted out of the car before Eddie had even parked and was running with Ben towards the pier. People were all about, enjoying the sunshine. The timer had seven minutes left on it by the time they reached the midpoint. A phone had started to ring then, which Richie finally located to be under a bench. He nearly answered it on the fifth ring but stopped.

Why had it started ringing as soon as he got there?

So he threw the damn thing into the water, drawing horrified looks out of everyone.

“You better hope that man is still alive or you’re an accessory to murder,” Eddie said blankly.

Richie could barely hear him over the pounding of his heart. He really hoped he hadn’t fucked this up. But he was getting tired of this game, especially if someone was watching him.

“Richie?” Bev’s voice was filled with quiet anger. “Why the hell would you do that?”

“Because he’s watching us, Bev!” he snapped. “This thing wasn’t even ringing until I was five fucking feet away from…”

He could see the Psych office all the way from where he stood. It was far, but not too far away that he could miss the movement behind the glass.

“It,” he finished. “Ben, he’s in the office.”

“Richie- what?”

              He didn’t even wait for his best friend or try to explain before he started running again. Richie only looked back once to make sure that they were on his tail. His mother had told him earlier that the Clown Killer knew how to push someone’s buttons and hit people and things close to him. Up until now, it had been aggravating. Breaking and entering into Psych was making it more personal.

              Bev and Eddie caught up to him and kicked in the door. Guns out, they swept the place in search of the Clown Killer. However, he had slipped away from them. The binoculars by the window Richie had been looking at earlier were enough confirmation that he had been there. He had been watching and waiting so he could make that damn call.

“Richie, don’t touch a thing! He could have left prints!” Eddie called out after he slammed the binoculars in the trash.

“You won’t find any,” Belch murmured dreamily. “He’s too good for prints. But he probably touched everything in here to get to you.”

“You have way too much admiration for this psycho,” Bev snapped at him.

“You haven’t seen anything yet. He’s just getting warmed up.”

Richie covered his face, pushing his glasses up. He hated this, he hated this, he hated-

Ben patted his shoulder. Then Richie heard “Hey, everyone. Look how huge I am compared to this little Stormtrooper. He’s so tiny!”

“Will you get your shit together!” Eddie yelled. “What the hell, Hanscom?

Richie winked at him. “You gotta pull yourself together, man.”

Ben winked back.

“Oh, god,” Bev pulled down a photo above the one of him and Ben as children. “He was here. Is this the guy who served you this morning?”

Richie nodded as he saw the man who had served this morning tied to a chair with a gag in his mouth.

“Thank you,” Belch grabbed the frame and smashed it on Ben’s desk.

              Ben was about to shout at him, but a timer started beeping. Bev, who was closest to his desk, started owning up drawers and digging through them. Ben started helping her and Richie felt like he should help too. But it was like his feet were rooted to the ground. He just stood there, watching as Bev finally pulled it out and shut it off.

“He’s left another clue,” Belch turned the picture over, showing Richie the gagged waiter as he read. “You are a naught naughty boy. Since when did you decide to play coy? But back to the station, you get another shot. But mess with me again and-”

“STOP!” Richie shouted. “Just…stop it. I’m done.”

“Richie-” Bev tried.

“Don’t. I’m sick and tired of him running us all around. I’m out. I did all this shit for him, and I’m done. Finished. Finito.”

“Because no one has ever gotten this far with him. He’s keeping the game going a sign of respect.”

“Then you can tell him to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine, Belch! After all, it’s not like we can win. You were the one who said he’s too good!”

Richie dropped into one of the chairs by the window. “We never had a shot, did we? He’s just going to kill that guy, isn’t he?”

“Tozier…” Eddie started, then paused. “Richie, you don’t just give up.”

“He’s not calling you out personally,” Richie hissed. “He is not coming into your life and picking up all these little pieces of things you thought were in the past and taunting you with them. He’s coming for me. So just…don’t right now. I’m done. Get out.”

“What?”

“I said get out!” Richie screamed. “You three! Ben stays, but all of you get out! Now!”

Bev glared at him. “Screw you, Tozier. You want to quit now, fine! We’ll still find him.”

“And good luck with that!” he shouted as she marched out with Belch, leaving Eddie staring at him with sad eyes.

“Maybe I don’t believe you’re psychic, but I believed you could solve this,” Eddie told him. “Guess I was wrong about believing in you.”

With that, he headed out the door. Richie sank back into his seat. He was exhausted.

“So now what?” Ben asked. “Are we really out?”

Richie shrugged. “I don’t know. I just…he’s the one in control right now. Everyone who plays by his rules loses. The only chance we have now is to change the rules on him, and I tried to do that. He could have killed the waiter, but he didn’t. He still wants to play and he gave us another try. If we’re out, then he’s not watching us anymore.”

Ben grinned. “Smart. I thought you were really pissed off at them.”

“I kinda was. This psycho is awful, but he’s not watching us. So let’s do what we do- go off the book to investigate.”

“Sounds like a plan. Hey, was I too much with the Stormtrooper?”

Richie cackled for what felt like the first time in hours. “Your best work ever. Now let’s go. We’ve gotten through the hard part. It can’t get any worse.”

~~~

It could, in fact, get worse.

              An hour after he’d ‘quit’ the game, Richie got a phone call from Bev telling them to come to the Derry Inn. Apparently, they’d found the waiter’s car parked outside just as Richie talked with the staff and found out the car was missing. Eddie, Bev, and Belch were already waiting by the time Ben drove him there. Richie was barely able to ask what had happened before they started leading him upstairs. Bev explained on the way that the next clue had been directed towards Eddie and he’d managed to figure it out the location and room number of the next clue.

Inside the room was the waiter, tied to a chair with his head slack.

Bev rushed over and placed her fingers on his neck. “Still breathing. Get that gag out of his mouth.”

“It’s paper,” Eddie grimaced as he extracted it. “It’s the next clue. Richie no longer wants to play. Are my stakes too low to make you stay?”

Richie was confused and he started looking around the room. There was a creepy clown portrait on a closet door made with items that probably came from a woman’s purse. Said purse was lying on the table next to the television. The cold ice feeling was back as Richie remembered seeing that bag with his mother when she came to try and talk him out of the case.

The Clown Killer had upped the stakes and taken his mom.

“No,” he uttered. “He took my mom, Ben.”

Ben covered his mouth for a moment before dropping his hand down to his side. “That son of a bitch.”

“He took my mom,” Richie repeated, sinking into a chair. He’d spend most of his life resenting her for being so absorbed in her work. She’d been making the steps to be better, actually have a relationship with him. And now this son of a bitch had taken her.

Stan was now entering the room. “I just checked down at the front desk, where’s Mr. Tozier?”

“He knows already,” Eddie spoke up. “The killer took his mother.”

The other man’s face sank. “Richie, we’re going to find her.”

“We have to,” Richie ran his hands down his face. “He upped the game to bring me back in.”

“Richie,” Bev stuck her head out of the bathroom. “You need to get in here.”

“Coming.”

Stan patted Richie on the shoulder. “I’m sending some officers to keep an eye on your father. Anyone else we should know about who could be in danger?”

“Everyone I care about is here,” Richie mumbled as Eddie walked past him. “But…Carter Han. I have a date with him tonight. If the Clown Killer goes for him-”

“We won’t let him.”

“Yeah,” Richie nodded, entering the bathroom to find Eddie, Ben, Bev, and Belch already inside. “Thought it was only girls who traveled to the bathroom in packs, guys?”

“Richie,” Ben began, pointing to the mirror with a message written on it in red.

Oh no…

“It’s lipstick,” Eddie said quickly beside him. “Your mother’s fine. He just decided to get creative.”

“You should be moving, as most people do,” Belch read. “But instead you sit and enjoy the Vu. P.S. Mommy says hi and bye. Just in case.”

Eddie was shaking, holding a clenched fist. Richie half suspected he’d smash the mirror. Bad luck could suck it.

“Any of you happen to know what V-U would be?” Stan asked them.

“We solved a case for a spelling bee once after a kid with that surname passed out,” Ben told him. “But he’s from Michigan.”

              Richie inhaled and closed his eyes, thinking back over the day. The clown stickers on all the envelopes. Gus the mouse. The classifieds. There had been an ad for a drive-in movie place. Cinema Vue, but the e had been crossed out.

“Well, thank god he’s not going to ruin the arcade for me,” Richie sighed. “But I know where he is. Was there a timer anywhere?”

Bev and Eddie shook their heads.

“Then we need to hurry,” Belch said. “He set no timer. The sun’s going down. I think he’s ready for the endgame.”

~~~

              It was dark by the time the group arrived at the drive-in lot. Mike and Bill had joined the party, along with Richie’s father. Richie had managed to remember the keys from his mother’s purse when he spoke to earlier to identify the car, so they at least had that. But that was their only clue.

              He must have spent five minutes running through the rows and jumping on cars before he finally found the car. Slowly, Richie approached it, spotting his mother in the side mirror. There was tape over Maggie Tozier’s mouth and she looked remarkably calm. As he approached the open window, he saw a sign around her neck.

“Mama says pretty please, don’t squeeze!”

Richie stepped back and got a better look. The back headrest was gone and there was a red dot on the back of her neck.

“Richard?”

“Dad,” Richie didn’t take his eyes off his mom. “Be quiet and get down.”

For once in his life, his father actually seemed to listen and not argue with the instruction. “What’s going on?”

Bev and Eddie were hurrying towards them along the row, but Richie pointed to the red dot. It traced all the way back to the house where the movie was rolling. The two detectives set off in search of that, but this felt too easy for the Clown Killer. But he needed to talk to his mother to see if there was more.

“Mom, I’m going to take the tape off now,” he told her. “Hold still.”

Once it was off, she didn’t look at him. “That one’s a decoy.”

“I figured, but-” Richie processed her words. “What do you mean that one?”

Her eyes trailed down to the box of popcorn on her lap. Richie followed her gaze. Buried in the kernels was something blinking and red.

“Richard!” his father hissed. “What’s happening?”

Richie exhaled slowly. “She’s strapped to a bomb.”

Wentworth’s shoulders sank. “Oh god, no, Richie.”

“I’m going to fix this,” he promised, then looked back to his mother. “Mom, is he here?”

She nodded, her eyes moving to the left. Richie stood up and looked in that direction. There was a space for cars to drive up, but just past that was a car with open windows and a man with a mullet seated in the driver’s seat. As if he could feel Richie watching him, he turned and smiled. He waved a small remote back and forth tauntingly, then beckoned Richie towards the car.

~~~

The car was cleaner than Richie has expected from a serial killer once he got inside.

“Hello, Richie,” the Clown Killer greeted. “I see you finally solved all of my clues.”

Richie didn’t show any expression, even though he wanted to throttle the shit out of him for putting him through that all day. “I won. I beat you. Now let my mother go.”

The man chuckled. “Most people introduce themselves first. I’m Henry Bowers. Nice to meet you.”

Richie glared at him.

“You’ve really been something,” Bowers told him. “I think you might be my most admirable foe. Then again, I knew you would be. I’ve been reading the papers, Mr. Psychic.”

“Great, glad to know I set a record in the most fucked up game ever,” Richie fired back. “But this is your last game, dipshit. This whole place is surrounded with SWAT. There is no way you’re making an escape.”

Bowers snorted. “I’ll admit the game is at an end. But I’m not done yet.”

“Why not? You about to give me some Hannibal Lecter bullshit?”

“I can try and drop something,” Bowers pointed at the movie. “You know what’s great about this movie? It has a solid resolution. These days, everyone always wants a sequel, always wants to know more. But the best movies are the ones that tie up all the loose ends. I’m like that.”

“You’re a serial killer. What does that have to do with movies?”

“Maybe I am a killer. But I also complete things. That’s what everyone wants- completion. Now the story we’ve made, you versus me, is going to end. The question is how.”

Richie spotted Eddie in the mirror. He wanted so bad for this all to end, but Bowers still had the remote that could kill his mother. He gave the barest shake of his head and hoped Eddie could see it. Thankfully, he did and motioned for SWAT to stand down.

“I know how it ends,” Richie told Bowers. “You in a cell with white walls. Or out in a blaze of glory. A serial killer cliché either way.”

Bowers laughed. “You do realize I could have killed Mommy Dearest hours ago, Richie. This switch has such a light touch. It’s like a house of cards. One touch and BOOM!”

Richie jerked back, making the killer laugh.

“Now how much fun would that be to see? It’s been so hard not to flick it, I just want to see it so badly. But then you would have been furious with me. And I can’t have that because we’ll see each other again.”

“No fucking way,” Richie shook his head. “Enjoy your last breaths of fresh air because you and your ugly-ass mullet are going right into a padded cell after all this. That’s the end.”

“Of the beginning,” Bowers grinned. “I think I’ll write a book about this. It’ll be a bestseller. You want to write a foreword.”

“Fuck no.”

Bowers shrugged. “Too bad. But keep it in mind on your date later. If you can still do it after me.”

He passed the switch to Richie. Game over.

              Richie wasted no time in bolting out of the car and shouting for them to take the Clown Killer. Henry Bowers smiled calmly as the police and SWAT came rushing in. Richie watched his father pull his mother out of the car and handed the switch over. He handed the switch over to Stan before Ben came running over.

“Richie, I-oof!”

Ben stumbled back at the force of the hug Richie tackled with before hugging him back. “Hey, man. You did it.”

“I did it,” Richie repeated. “He had a fucking mullet.”

“A mullet? Really? I saw a guy with one of those earlier today. It’s the twenty-first century.”

              As the police lead Henry to a car, Richie thought back on the day. He had seen him before. Behind a newspaper at the restaurant. Sitting behind a desk in the precinct. Walking past them in the Derry Inn’s lobby. Taking pictures as they’d been walking past the pier. All day long, he’d been following them.

“He was watching us all day…”

Richie staggered a little, but Ben grabbed hold of his shoulders.

“Richie, breathe. You got him. He’s going away. We’re okay now.”

“Congratulations, Richie,” Belch said, strolling up beside them. “You outsmarted the Clown Killer.”

“Go me,” he muttered.

“I’ve spent the last thirteen years of my life with this person. He was my whole purpose. Now I need to find a new one.”

Ben looked over at him. “Have you considered squash?”

Belch shook his head.

“Give it a shot. I’ll pay a game with you sometime.”

“Thank you, Ben. I’ll see you around.”

“Until next time then,” he said, offering them a limp handshake and adjusted his baseball cap before walking off.

“I hope he’s wrong,” Richie shuddered. “I don’t want to touch this case again.”

“Me neither. But you got through it. You’re stronger than you think, man.”

~~~

“So do I get an explanation for why you were acting like a jackass today?”

Ben snorted as he approached Bev sitting on the hood of Eddie’s car. “I was kind of a jackass, huh?”

“Big time.”

Ben chuckled as he walked over to her. “I don’t know if this will do any good, but I was doing it to help Richie. Be the humor so he could focus on the case.”

“Ahhhh,” Bev nodded, smiling in understanding. “You were being a good friend.”

“A good best friend, and I try to be.”

“Well, you were there for him today. He really needed someone. I can’t imagine going through that…having a serial killer taunt me. Dangling the life of someone I love right in front of me.”

A horrific scenario that would never happen flashed before Ben’s eyes. “Me neither.”

“But the Clown Killer’s gone now,” Bev sighed, sliding off the hood and grinding a cigarette butt under her heel.

“He is. Hey, can I get a ride back with you and Eddie?”

“What about your car?”

“Richie has a date and he intends to see it through.”

Bev gaped. “He has a date?”

“Yup.”

“Well, you can absolutely ride back with us,” Bev told him. “Eddie’s just inside. Said something about having to go to the bathroom, but I bet he’s talking to Richie. He hates bathrooms in movie theaters.”

“It’s a drive-in.”

“Which counts as a movie theater.”

“Ooo and there’s where we have to disagree, Detective Marsh.”

“Oh really?” Bev grinned. “Now I have to hear your reasons for why a drive-in is different than a move theater.”

~~~

“Richie?”

Richie looked up from the tray of goodies he’d gotten for his and Carter’s date. He had been worried that Carter was going to not come, but apparently the Clown Killer story had broken the news and Carter had called to see that he was okay. He also apologized for thinking Richie was trying to cancel on him, so that helped. It would be another few minutes before he was set to arrive, but Richie wanted things to be perfect.

And now Eddie was here, dressed in civilian clothes and looked nervous.

“Eddie?” Richie nearly speared his hand with a straw. “Hey, what are you doing here? Thought you and Bev were going to go Hannibal Lecter his ass. Straightjacket? Grilled face mask? Rent of one of those dollies for transport and all.”

Eddie snorted. “There’s an entire precinct fighting for that job. I’ll take the next one.”

“Cool, cool, cool. So…you’re here because…?”

Eddie walked a little closer. “I wanted to tell you that you were…really great today. Incredible, actually. I couldn’t even imagine functioning like that, especially with your mom’s life on the line like that. I know things are rocky with you too and I’m proud of you for that.”

“Probably a good thing he didn’t go after your mom,” Richie shrugged. “Or your ex.”

“Ha ha,” Eddie laughed sarcastically. “Look, I know this is probably the worst timing that I can have for this. But I was thinking after Bowers got taken away about how I could have lost you if we didn’t win. That scared me a lot. I know we butt heads and banter, but I really like spending time with you. Both on the clock and off it. Like when you tried to help Bev throw me a birthday party.”

“That was still your fault for keeping that book.”

“A lot of cops keep books like that,” Eddie shot back. “But you’re getting me off track. You still showed you cared about me in a way that I’m not used to. A really healthy way. Thinking about losing that and you tonight made me think a lot. Because I am scared about losing you. I know you and Ben are probably about to see a movie, but…can I take you to dinner instead?”

Richie felt his heart sink. “Detective Kaspbrak, are you asking me out on a date?”

“That was the intention.”

“Oh, Eddie,” Richie sighed. “I cannot believe this. You really do have the worst timing.”

Eddie looked freaked out. “What?”

“I can’t go on a date with you…because I’m about to go on one.”

“You’re-what?”

As if on cue, Carter walked into the lobby. Richie and Eddie turned to look at him, then back at each other.

“Then- then you can forget everything I just said,” Eddie backed up. “I had no idea, I’m sorry. I’ll…I’ll see you tomorrow, Tozier.”

“See you…” Richie tried to say, but Eddie was already speed walking out of the lobby, nearly running into Carter on the way.

“Whoa, he is in a hurry!” Carter remarked as he reached Richie. “Hey, how are you?”

Richie watched Eddie run out of the doors and towards his car. Ben and Bev were standing by it, and Richie could imagine Eddie yelling at Bev to get off the hood.

“Richie?” Carter asked. “Are you okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I thought I was going to be the one stood up this time.”